I don’t get it.

There’s something about modern liberalism in American that I don’t get. There are many injustices that need to be corrected in our country; that’s pretty obvious. Yet, we have a legal framework within this country to effect these changes, and they’re happening, slowly, even generational. That’s the way it HAS to be. Slow, steady change, else you tear the fabric of society.

What they don’t understand is that what they’re doing, demanding immediate change, runs the risk of upsetting the very fabric of safety that allows them to demand that change. They’re living in a bubble that really has only existed for a few hundred years, and for the most part, only in Western Civilization. The Left has convinced themselves that, if they tear down enough of society, they can reassemble it into some kind of utopia, using systems and methods that have consistently failed, and resulted in the deaths of millions. It has failed. Every. Single. Time.

What we have been doing here in the Great American Experiment, has been working. Slowly, incrementally, legally. The harder they push, the harder the pushback is going to be. They don’t understand the historical forces that they are toying with; nor do they understand human nature. For a group if highly educated people, they are incredibly stupid.

Invasion: “Battle” snippet Chapter 50

I love when I’m staring at a blank screen, and then all the sudden words start to flow.

Chapter 50

The Invy compound lay across a cleared field of fire, a hundred meters from the first houses of the town, with the Greens militia barracks forming a T behind it. The team gathered in the darkness around a corner for a quick review of the plan.

The ODA had spent eight years living in the town, planning, waiting for this day, trying to counter the propaganda being taught at the Invy school. It had been hard, though, because the majority of the town dwellers had all the fight beaten out of them by defeat and starvation, and had traded freedom for security. Blake couldn’t even really blame them, but it didn’t make what they were about to do any easier.

“OK,” said Major Cliff, “let’s go over the plan one more time.”

Each member of the team had a specific job to do, from a machine gun team to several men who were to go from house to house, spreading the word. There were five thousand people in the town; over the years they had carefully felt out who would or wouldn’t support them. It numbered around a hundred, mostly veterans.

“Alpha,” she said, “you have the GM team and the Recoiless. It’s your job to hold the Invy troops in their barracks. Bravo, Charlie, you’re support. We’re going to need a serious base of fire to pin them down while we rally support.” Master Sergeant Cordell would be in charge of that team, making up half of the ODA. The wiry black man nodded; this was his specialty.

“Delta, Echo, house to house of our supporters. Assembly at the warehouse for weapons distribution. Form them into squads and send them back here.” The two team leaders, Staff Sergeants Sanchez and Chu, looked at each other. This had been their part of the plan to create, and the two women were instrumental in identifying the right people. Cliff never asked them how they got their information.

“Let’s do this, Cholo,” said Chu.

Sanchez slapped her gloved hand and answered, “In your face, China doll!” The two gathered their men and hustled off into the darkness, avoiding the streetlights.

“Foxtrot, you’ve got killing to do. Get to it.”

Blake started to speak, but the Major cut him off. “Couldn’t be helped, Erik. Get to work. I want all those bastard Green traitors dead. To work, people.” She looked at her watch, and continued, “We’ve now got eight minutes, based on the average reaction time of the Invy at this time of night. They’ll come out looking for their two missing. I want the ambush set up right as their gate opens.”

The most savage of conflicts is always a civil war, with no quarter given. Erik Blake knew what he and his two companions were about to do, and didn’t like it; but he understood the necessity. He just hoped there was no collateral damage.

Fortunately for them, the humans who had decided to actively work with the Invy, not just go along to get along, all lived in a cluster of houses close by the Invy compound. It took the three men less than a minute to jog to their first target, the captain of the Green Militia.

“You know,” whispered Sergeant Sotelo, “I really wish we didn’t get this job.”

Blake answered, “Just focus on the mission, Tomas.”

“Yeah, but his kids are going to be scarred for life,” said his partner, SSG Carbalo.

“No shit, but it’s better than slavery, which is where it’s all going to end. Now focus,” Blake told his subordinates, “we’ve got five minutes for the first three targets. After that, we just go to work on the list, get as many as we can, and then join the real fight.”

They had made their way to the fence around the back door off the house, and Carbalo, who was tallest, peeked over. Thank God the Invy hated dogs; the former gangbanger could only imagine what this would have been like in his old neighborhood of Tacoma. Half a dozen starving pit bulls waiting to tear your ass.

“Clear!” he whispered, and then boosted Sotelo over the fence. Blake was next, then Carbalo handed over his rifle and vaulted it. They gathered at the back door, each thinking of the layout of the house. They had all, for one reason or another, found a reason to visit the Green Commander. It was the same exact layout as the house next door, the Mayors.

Blake reached over and slowly turned the doorknob. Like all houses in Invy towns, it was required to remain unlocked, to allow searches by any Invy, at any time. He slowly pushed the door open, and the three men filed inside, weapons scanning the kitchen, night vision eliminating the darkness. Each had slung their rifle for a suppressed 10mm handgun, and their infrared aiming lasers tracked across the walls.

“OK, let’s go!” said Blake, and they charged through the house and up the stairs. Without gunshots, people next door would just as soon mind their own business this late at night. Carbalo stayed behind to watch the front door, Blake and Sotelo leading with their pistols. Sotelo went right at the top of the stairs, to block any threat from the hallway. Blake turned left, and kicked in the bedroom door with his boot.

Captain Denning was lying half on and half off the bed, eyes open to eternity, pistol lying by his outstretched hand, his throat still pulsing out drips of blood. His wife, Catherine, stood over him, blood on her nightgown. Blake froze, unable to process what he was seeing.

“We heard you come in the back door. It’s tonight, isn’t it?” she said.

Blake answered flatly, “Yes,” and lowered his pistol.

“Good. Kill them all.”

The NCO kicked the pistol away from her reach, and said simply, “Stay here, protect your kids. It may get pretty bad.”

She nodded and sat down on her bed, looking at the body of her husband. Then she spit on the corpse.

Blake turned and called to Solelo, and the two went down the stairs at a run, joined by Carbalo. The three went out the back door again, and headed next door.

“What happened?” asked Carbalo as they repeated the fence climbing into the Mayor’s yard.

“Wife smoked him,” answered Blake, as he approached the back door.

Solelo whispered, “Rough night in the hood, esse!”

The three men entered the Mayors house, and again, stormed up the stairs, or started to. At the top, in the darkness, a form moved, showing the Mayor, a fat man in a world of starvation, just exiting the bathroom. The two Special Forces soldiers fired at the same time, their pistols making several muted coughs each, the man fell backwards against the wall, blood streaks showing red on the white paint. His corpulent body started sliding down the stairs at them, but they had already turned, racing for their next target.

Agenda driven literature is for hacks. Storytelling is for writers.

OK, so now it’s Post- DragonCon. I was astounded, and honored to be nominated for two categories. I didn’t expect to win, and I wasn’t disappointed.

I do want to talk about the politics involved, though. I understand that many people who read military Sci-Fi, or even Sci-Fi in general, tend to fall into one or another camp politically. The vitriol and anger between the two camps is a bit, honestly, ridiculous.

Some of us writers just like to tell a good story. We’re not interested in controversy, no matter how well it might help our sales. We want people to be entertained. I don’t care if my book is read by a Social Justice Warrior or a Right Wing Defender of the Constitution. I want them both to put the book (or Kindle) down and say, “Damn, those characters and their story really touched me.”

So the war between the Right and Left in Sci-Fi doesn’t really concern me. I’m here to write. When a certain author lumps me in with others who have attacked him to generate sales, I’ll call him out on it, once, and move on. When a commentator calls me a “snowflake” because I have a different opinion, and refuse to get dragged into an internet argument, I politely say “Bye”.

What I want is for everyone to keep turning the pages, because they want to KNOW what happens next. I don’t care if what I write fits into a certain agenda they might have, because it’s not going to make me change the story. What happens in the books is what happens in the book, nothing more or less. When fans ask me questions about a chapter from a Work In Progress, my usual answer is, “I don’t make this stuff up, you know!”

Agenda driven literature is for hacks. Storytelling is for writers.

My latest:

And the Dragon Nominees:

And America takes a breath of (wet) air.

As I write, my fellow Americans in South Texas, including some of my fans, friends, and relatives, are getting pounded by Mother Nature. Once again, we’re reminded of a few things.

First, we’re pretty insignificant. Modern communications and modes of travel have seemingly reduced the world to a walking distance on a sunny day. Every now and then, though, something comes up and slaps us in the face, and reminds us of the enormity of space around us, and how small we really are. Never a good thing, because that reminder usually involves destruction and death, and personal tragedy, but it’s inevitable. The world is never, ever going to stop reminding us of this.

Second, all of our differences that have been pounded into us by the news in recent years don’t really exist. Water doesn’t care what gender, skin color, faith, politics, whatever, when it drowns you and wrecks your house. We speak a common language, share a common culture (for the most part), and all desire the same things. Freedom to be ourselves, to see our families grow up in safety, and to prosper. We may disagree with the how, but we don’t disagree with the want.

When a boat pulls up in front of your flooded house, you don’t say, no, I’m not getting on there because the boat driver is whiteblackyellowmalefemaleotherdemocratrepublicanrightleft. You reach for that hand, and they reach for yours, and they help you.

Because we’re Americans, and that’s what we do.

My latest is available here: