Buy the Book: Amazon
Release Date: December 28, 2019
Pages: 140


RogueOps Book ZERO



The RogueOps story begins …


Griffin Dunn, Secretary of Defence, Davis MacLand, Director of National Intelligence and Jack Rollins, Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation discover that they, along with President Alistair Scott are on a hit list for assassination. In a secure, secret meeting they discuss their options…

Rollins grabbed a plate of assorted donuts and a large mug of coffee. He took a chair at the conference table and opened a large leather satchel.
“Okay, on point. We bring in USCE. The United States Constitution and Code Enforcement. The Regular and Irregular Militia. The good guys with guns. America’s last line of defense. And, we bring in RogueOps to oversee all this.”

SecDef Dunn stabbed an icy glare at the FBI director and lit a fresh cigar.
“Where did you hear about RogueOps?”

Rollins hunched his shoulders and took a slug of hot coffee. “Look, I know Lachlan Hawke has done special operations for the government since he retired from Navy SEALs and ONI.”

Dunn’s eyes narrowed. His brow wrinkled. “You know his name?”

“What the hell, Griffin. I am director of the FBI for Christ’s sake. I’m the guy still cleaning out bad actors that Kenyan entrenched in the department.”
“So yes, I have heard of RogueOps and Lachlan Hawke. He does black bag stuff for the president. I don’t know specifics and I don’t want to know. It’s above my pay grade by 20,000 feet. Besides, I like my life the way it is. Alive and breathing.”

Dunn leaned back and nodded. “Ah hell, Rollins. It’s good you brought it up. You’re right. RogueOps tracks down and intercepts bad guys for us. Some of your bad actors were on their list.”
“Hawke oversees USCE although they have their own rank and file. A ragtag bunch of ex-military malcontents. Guys and gals not happy with how things took a dive after that Kenyan hijacked the presidency.”

“The damned toughest soldiers and civilians this nation ever produced. Ex- generals and admirals. Officers, noncoms and the best enlisted men and women ever.”

SecDef Dunn grinned, something rare.
“A bunch of damned cowboy vigilantes is what they are. Their only legitimacy is operating under Hawke’s RogueOps umbrella.”


 Middle of the South Atlantic—

Hawke wired a message to his brother. Gary and his family were on a summer adventure. Sailing back to Virginia from New Zealand. His wife, two daughters twelve and fourteen years old and his son. The last family outing might ever have before young Craig went off to university. They arranged for a sailing rendezvous off the coast of Argentina.
Logan McKay sat at Atlantic Storm’s TajTel console monitoring local broadcasts. He yanked the headphones off. “Hey, Hawke! Get over here! You need to take this!”

Hawke pulled on the headset and listened. “Baltic sloop SeaScape. Position 55.37 W, 37.93 S bearing SSW at 18 knots. Mayday Mayday! This is Baltic sloop SeaScape. Position 55.37 W, 37.93 S bearing SSW at 18 knots.”

“Hostiles about to overtake. They fired on us and ordered us to heave to. Cannot outrun them. Repeat! Mayday Mayday! This is Baltic sloop SeaScape. Position 55.37 W, 37.93 S, bearing SSW at 18 knots. Pirates overtaking us.”

“Gary! This is Hawke. This is Hawke! I’m on my way. I’m on my way!”

More mayday calls.
“Gary, do you copy? Come back!”
“Gary, copy back!”


Gary held his mic keyed open.
Gary kept repeating the mayday.

He couldn’t hear Hawke’s incoming calls.

Hawke slammed Atlantic Storm’s MAN Turbo Diesel throttles to red line, set double headsails and a Genoa. TajTel charted an intercept course with SeaScape over one hundred miles from their rendezvous coordinates. Gary Hawke's Maydays escalated to a high pitch and his channel went dead.
Two and a half hours at 40 knots Hawke arrived twenty minutes before the air-sea rescue helicopter out of Buenos Aires. SeaScape floated listless in the hot afternoon sun. Her sails lay in a pile on the deck. The pirate was gone in any one of 360 degrees on the compass.

Atlantic Storm drew closer. Hawke let out a long, blood-curdling scream. Gary and the mangled bodies of his beautiful wife and three children hung from the lower mast spreader. They hung in the bright sun disemboweled. Sliced into bloody strips. Mutilated until death released them from the horrors they endured.

The breeze carried their blood-scent. Gulls flocked in by the hundreds and tore at the raw flesh. Hawke was helpless to do anything but look at the horrifying scene from the deck of Atlantic Storm. Tears streaked down his cheeks. His lips quivered. Muscles tensed to the point of ripping. He lowered his head, collapsed to his knees and prayed.


One Year Later

“TajTel located Magus Sammada northwest of the Madeira Islands headed to the Azores. From Interpol data, I expect then to Venezuela to pick up another weapons shipment.” McChafin took a draw on his pipe and blew out a stream of smoke.

“Why do I need to know this?”

McChafin swiveled his leather chair around.
“Magus Sammada killed your brother.”

Hawke stiffened and looked at him. McChafin pointed to another monitor. “It's right there. The tag came when TajTel downloaded Interpol data and flagged the name Magus Sammada.”

McChafin pointed to another screen. “This data places Sammada, the person Interpol was tracking, in the same area as Gary when…” McChafin didn't finish.
“We have a boat. A place and a time. And a name. He is the only person that could have done it. Scratch that. This guy is sinister piece of work. The only person that would have done it.”


RogueOps is just getting going …