“Whoa there, Mrs. Belling!” Vance Bimbaugh exclaimed refusing to show respect by using her title, after she answered a question about the environment. “Do you know how much your crazy proposal is going to cost average Americans? Where is your compassion? We already have too many unemployed because of your failed economic policies.”
“Gas prices are at a record low because of my leadership,” she began to respond pointing her finger at the dais. “Caring for the environment is not crazy. For cleaner air and water, everyone can pitch in, Vance, including you, to fight climate change. You do believe in climate change, right? Or are you a denier despite all of the scientific data staring you in your fah- uh – face.”
“Climate change is shi-, uh, baloney. This is an example of masked politics dressed up as a scientific issue. Pure partisan politics. What you care about is making the central government more powerful to interfere in the lives of Americans who get up every day and work hard to feed their families. As your next president my fellow Americans, I will work day and night to stop making life so difficult –"
“Mr. Bimbaugh,” interrupted Miss Candy Raddish, the official debate moderator, wearing a fake red wig, yellow triangular earrings, with dark horn-rimmed glasses down her snout for a nose looking up to the overweight opponent of President Belling. Smacking her mauve-colored lips, she said, “Your time has expired.”
“I’m going to finish my thought. This is too important for the American people. You have a political party dedicated to pseudo-science which is aiming to –”
“Mr. Bimbaugh, this is not your radio show. Please follow the rules.” She blinked her small eyes at him in total disgust.
“Candy, I’m paying for this microphone. So, please show respect.”
“Vance, calm down,” Belling butted into the spectacle with a deer-in-headlights look. _____
“Listen to me folks. Look at them trying to shut me up. Climate change is an attack on your freedom. To limit your income, the environmental agenda…” “Ok, Mr. Bimbaugh. We got it,” said the moderator. “Mr. Bimbaugh, we must move on. What is your proposal for free education in America?”
“I’m not your Santa Claus,” he snorted. “Work for your own damn education.”
“Oh really,” Belling sighed raising her left eyebrow. Keep digging a deeper hole for yourself.
“Really. This country faces over a $100 trillion unfunded debt liabilities. Who’s going to pay for it – you, Mrs. Belling? You Miss Raddish? Our economy is only about $17 trillion a year, and barely growing because of Belling’s failures. We need to work harder, stronger, and faster to recover from the complete mismanagement by her economic- illiterate crew. We need more startups, more economic freedom, and less know-it-all micromanagement from Washington!”
“My word, Vance. You’re so neurotic. We sure don’t need a shock jock as president.” That’ll tell’em!
“Mrs. Belling, you have not leveled with the American people about the dire danger our country faces from enemies abroad. You have presided over draconian cuts to the defense budget, while playing nice with Cuba, China, Russia – ”
“Mr. Bimbaugh…our topic tonight is domestic politics,” Candy again disrupted Vance’s tirade.
“Candy, Mrs. Belling...the American people..…the #1 job of president, as stated in Article 1 of the Constitution, is to defend that sacred document and the American people. Not free education. No overregulation by the EPA. Mrs. Belling, why are you killing the Zeptran-A Laser which can protect us from an enemy missile attack?”
“Madame President, you don’t have to answer that,” Candy sniffed looking toward the visibly nervous leader of the free world.
Havana Dawn Trailer
Check out a quick clip on the total scenario of the gripping spy thriller!
Read below installments 5 and 6 of our series of the first chapter of Havana Dawn, my debut international spy thriller, serialized right here every two days.
By sampling all of Chapter 1, you get a good feel for the rest of the novel.
Suddenly three ageing BTR-60 armored personnel carriers (APCs) careened into the popular Parque Central rolling over book kiosks and firing their 12.7mm machine guns into the air scattering the meandering tourists and locals alike in all directions. Four olive-green trucks came screeching into the square as two MiG-29 (NATO Codename – Fulcrum) ground attack-fighters screamed overhead. A company of the elite Avispas Negras (“black wasps” in Spanish) troops donning their signature red berets spilled into the park and took up positions at its four corners brimming with their PKM machine guns and ASG-17 grenade launchers. Cade scurried along the broken sidewalk keeping his distance from the military units and dashed to the Gran Teatro de La Habana. He took cover hidden by one of the many stolid stone support columns. The historical theater was an ideal spot to witness the unfolding events. His smooth fingers flicked the switch on the right-side of the glasses to activate the satellite camera of his Ray Bans to transmit the live images to his bosses and colleagues back in Langley, Virginia. “3-2-1 Action!” he spoke into the tiny receiver-recorder in the nose of his glasses. “The Avispas Negras are ready for attack.” One of the MiGs swooped down thundering low over the plaza and fired two Kornet anti-tank missiles. The pilot guided the two lethal missiles with a laser to kill two T-72 tanks just entering a street near the Parque. Then two T-62 tanks burst onto the scene firing their 115mm main guns and mowing down a number of the elite soldiers and obliterating three coffee cafés. Four camouflaged trucks rolled into another side of the Parque and deposited members of the 45th Infantry Division bearing AK-47s, RPG-7s, and 160mm mortars. Cade panned to the heavy armament brought up by the rebel troops. A knot of troops unloaded belt-fed machine guns shooting from behind cover at a distance of fifteen or twenty feet from loyalist forces. Another MiG smashed the T-62 tanks with more rockets as easy as taking candy from a baby. Cade stared awestruck at the destruction wrought by the missiles from the jets, and felt a pain deep in his heart of a lost loved one to a similar circumstance. He tried to shake off the bitter memory, and regain focus of the mission at hand. The molten metal of the crumpled tanks created a stench that began to pervade the Parque as thick choking black clouds of burning oil clouded the natural vision of all. Rapid crossfire and projectiles lit up the advancing dusk and struck almost every building in the square. Cade’s spy glasses allowed him to record and show the whole spectacle to CIA headquarters. The crackle of rifle fire, the thud of mortars, and the roar of grenades plus the booms and flashing lights throughout the park and surrounding streets looked like lightning and sounded like thunder to the untrained ear. A loyalist T-72 and 130mm cannon joined the BTRs and Avispas Negras in a deafening barrage of suppressive fire on the rebel positions, resulting in a huge fireball that swept the part of the square in front of the Teatro.
Chapter 1, Havana Dawn, Excerpt 6
_____ Cade ducked from the heat field that charred nearby book kiosks and fruit stands. “I think that’s it.” Windows crumpled and glass rained down from the ear-shattering explosion. The commandos abandoned their cover positions and brazenly charged emptying their AKMS assault rifles to round up the remaining opposition soldiers. “A source says another puny rebellion outside the capital at the Cienfuegos Army base fizzled as well,” Belinda Cooper chimed in, a veteran manager of Cuban affairs from a conference room on the second floor of the sprawling CIA campus. “Any sign of the Comandante?” asked the owlish CIA Deputy Director of Operations, Brandon Musgrave, tuning into the video feed from his library-like office, reflecting his stuffy professorial days lecturing at Tufts. Cheers and bone-chilling howling rang out from adoring comrades as a medium-build, swarthy, athletic figure in fatigues and red beret with the black, red, and yellow emblem of the Avispas Negras proudly hopped atop one of the APCs. Cade focused his eyes squarely on the forty-ish medium height bearded man emerging from the black smoke from the burning debris and firing his Makarov 9mm sidearm into the air. “I can report that the one-eyed Comandante Julio Fernando Arroyo is still alive and well. That guy has more lives than a stray cat in Brooklyn.” Cade turned off the cam, bent his head down and clenched his right fist in anger. Murdering bastard!
Let's continue with the third and fourth installments of our series of the first chapter of Havana Dawn, my debut international spy thriller, serialized right here every two days.
By sampling all of Chapter 1, you get a good feel for the rest of the novel.
Check out the second scene below. President Emily Belling is preparing backstage for the first debate with her opponent, Vance Bimbaugh.
Belling's re-election is another thread of the plot leading to an exciting finish.
Chapter 1, Havana Dawn, Excerpt 3
“You’re on in five, Emily,” Al Luziano reminded her, another fixture in “Emily World, stuffing his face with double bologna and brie on a hoagie roll, washed down with gulps of diet soda. Few opponents came away unbruised from campaigns he orchestrated.
She repositioned the gold broach on her kelly-green suit from the right to left side and adjusted her black knee-high skirt while tossing her platinum flocks in her mirror. “You look stunning. Go get’em, babe.” Besides Syd, only Al could ever call her “babe.” Not even John tried that. “Madame President,” Camila Ortiz entered the room, her Colombia-born leggy valet with flowing auburn shoulder-length hair with long bangs, a hold-over from the Senate staff. Men turned and watched when Camila passed them in her tight, low-cut fitted dresses that were just business-y enough yet accentuated her boobs. Al checked out her curves without end as embers of lust burned in his eyes.
Everyone knew Emily Belling was headed for the White House. It was just a matter of timing like everything in life. Camila like many twenty-something groupies in Washington could not resist the opium of power and thus served her boss slavishly. “President Lizette Espada of the Philippines on the line.” “Who?” Belling flashed a twisted expression and glazed eyes. “Camila, take a fucking message! Can’t you see I’m busy?” She continued prepping for the TV cameras. The debate TV director appeared in the doorway clutching a clipboard with a pencil behind his ear and gave her the 1-minute warning. The president appeared all smiles – just like a pro who had been at the game of politics ever since becoming sophomore class president at Township High in Evanston, Illinois.
Chapter 1, Havana Dawn, Excerpt 4
_____ The broiling Havana sun started to slink away leaving a pall of darkness in its wake. Cade Forrester savored the welcoming aroma of bubbly black beans, white rice, and roasted chicken wafting from nearby cafés around the park teeming with people, especially couples walking arm and arm. He filled out his white short-sleeved polo, and knee-length grey textured cotton shorts like a fitness model off the catwalk, the ultimate boy-next-door-type. A well-tuned bod was a priority since running track at Georgia Tech – tall, amply chested, sinewy muscled arms, and legs to round off his rock-solid 29-inch waist. The blue-banded white Panama hat atop his super-cropped cut spiky blond hair helped him beat the Havana heat. However, he was not just another gringo turista looking for fun and adventure, well, not that kind of adventure. He adjusted his specially-crafted Ray Bans stepping down from the Capitolio, with a Nikon slung around his neck, and set off in the direction of the Hotel Inglaterra. How cool to use the 4 gig RAM, voice-responsive CPU, and satellite-linked WiFi shades! he thought. Any advantage was indispensable to counter the highly-effective security forces of the tiny island, especially after replacing his close colleague, Esteban Echeverri, who was betrayed just over a month ago. Reopening embassies in Washington and Havana had promised a new chapter of diplomatic relations between the two countries. After the champagne corks popped, the day-to-day new US policy of engagement with Cuba took shape with increased interest in expanding economic ties between the two nations while soft-pedaling political reform. The dictatorship remained. Hopes soon faded of any material change in relations besides lip service from both sides because the ruling clique in Havana gladly accepted the unilateral US concessions and then steadfastly continued its tight grip on the Cuban people in defiance of Washington. President Belling played her cards early in her term by visiting Comandante Julio Fernando Arroyo in Havana and signing the US-Cuban Friendship Agreement – old wine in new bottles – which left a bitter taste in the mouths of the Cuban people who longed for freedom. The cultural and academic exchanges were nice, but Belling hoped to charm Arroyo to thaw relations further. Personal diplomacy rarely achieves more than cheap public relations points which are forgotten like yesterday’s newspaper. Cade glanced at his watch, and started to cross Avenida San Martin when the whir of heavy machinery and burning diesel filled the air.
Let's continue with the second installment of our series of the first chapter of Havana Dawn, my debut international spy thriller, serialized right here every two days.
By sampling all of Chapter 1, you get a good feel for the rest of the novel.
“I told you to be here before 8 p.m.!” President Emily Belling yelled into her smartphone, sporting the Anytime app to communicate by video (using a secure line) with her daughter, Precious.
Belling’s jaw tightened, her voice became gravely, and sweat droplets formed on her brows underneath the hot lights backstage, just minutes before a very important event in her political career, her life. Anyone could probably hear her conversation given the thin grey walls which together with a sardine-sized area for beauty touchups, spartan chair, and garnet and gold loveseat made up her prep room.
“I told ya, Mom, long ago,” the eighteen year old laying on her stomach spat back at her mom. “I won’t be a piece of furniture for your campaign.” She was still lounging on her hotel bed with her legs crossed and stuck high into the air. “Bobby is texting me.”
“Oh, Precious! What am I going to do with you?” Her clips curled wryly. “Just get the hell here and pipe down your lip. I´ll send a car. Be ready in 15 minutes.” Click.
“Emily, you’ve got to be ready for any topic from Vance Bimbaugh,” Sydney Birch advised, her long-time confident and Chief of Staff, putting down his smart tablet for a moment. “He’s a vulture on the radio, so you know how he’ll be during the debate.”
“Syd, I’m ready for that big fat gas bag. If he gets out of line, all I have to do is play the lil damsel in distress.” Hahahahaha. “Make sure to send a car for Precious and see that she gets here. Where’s John?” She matted her brows with a moist towelette looking into her own compact from her purse. Her cold ability to wall off family affairs from her political life may have earned her a bad reputation, but to hell with the critics. “Oh, he’s scarfing canapés and…well…” The pause told the president all she needed to know.
Emily peered into the studio monitors and there was John, her husband of over 30 years, yapping with a nubile hostess for the debate at Florida State University. It hurt, but no too much. Not any more.
Florida’s 29 electoral votes are always a prize in any presidential contest. Universities compete to be the site for debates between the two candidates. The elegant and cavernous Ruby Diamond Concert Hall at the campus in Tallahassee was the site for the first debate on domestic issues.
