As so often is the case, Sir Winston Churchill said it best. “Now, this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.”
Eight books ago, we began the saga of a young boot ensign from a well-connected family who chose to run off and join the Navy. Her folks were sure there was no need for heroes in their day and age, thus no need for soldiers or sailors or Marines.
Boy, were they wrong!
But with this book, Kris Longknife: Daring, everything changes.
And at a time like this in Kris’s life, it’s appropriate that her writer acknowledge a few important things as well.
Without the support of an editor like Ginjer Buchanan, these stories would have never been told. A writer couldn’t ask for a better editor than I have with Ginjer. Few writers get as long a run with the same editor as I have gotten with Ginjer, and I treasure every minute of it.
Jenn Jackson is the best sort of agent that a writer could hope for. She’s always there when I need her and kind enough to keep out of my way when I have a head of steam up and just want to run with it. Thanks to her and the Donald Maass Literary Agency, Kris’s story is now being translated into Japanese and Spanish as well as available at www.audible.com.
The list of other folks who’ve been a part of bringing Kris to life for the readers goes long and includes way too many for me to name. However, I’d like to highlight the gang at the Historic Anchor Inn in Lincoln City, Oregon. I twisted my back during one of my writing weeks at the coast. For four days I was in a drug fog as my back did horrible things to the rest of me. They were the home away from home that I could only hope for, bringing food up to my room and finding ice for my back. Thank you, Kip, Candi, Misty, and all.
Special thanks go to Edee Lemonier, one of those people born with an eagle’s eye for spotting typos and nits that escape me. After all, once I’ve written the story, I know what’s supposed to be there. Seeing what’s not there is a special blessing Edee gives me.
Last, but hardly least, I’d like to thank my wife, who has held my hand and encouraged me from the first day to find the writer inside me I was afraid to let loose. Thanks, Love.
1
Lieutenant Commander Kris Longknife fought the shot-up controls of the Greenfeld Ground Assault Craft. It seemed bent on smashing itself into the rocky ground below. She would much rather stay in the air, putting more miles between her and the whoever it was who’d put so many holes so quickly in her borrowed air vehicle.
“Jack, get me some more controls.”
“I’ve already flipped on the backup stabilization and directional controls, Kris.”
“Then find the backup to the backup!”
“I don’t think Greenfeld puts more than one in any craft.”
“What kind of cheapskate, death-happy crazies only put one backup system in a fighting vehicle?” cried Nelly, Kris’s personal computer and no help at the moment.
“Our newest ally,” Jack muttered.
The air vehicle fought Kris, flipping right, then left, but it put more rock-strewn ground between Kris and the apparent mining concern that had been the target of what was supposed to be a quick snatch-and-grab raid.
“Where did all that firepower come from?” Kris asked no one in particular.
“I think who- or whatever we’re dealing with is very, very trigger-happy. And really paranoid, to boot,” Jack answered.
“You can say that again,” Nelly said.
A flash came from behind Kris. Her air rig chose to zig at that moment, giving her a fairly good view out of the left corner of her eye at the target they were now fleeing. A laser beam winked out, to be replaced by several more.
“Oh, oh,” Kris muttered. “Admiral Krätz just got tired of messing with the problem and lased it from orbit.”
“God help us,” Jack said. And very likely meant it for a prayer. The shock waves coming off the target were only seconds away from ripping their damaged ride to pieces.
“There’s a swamp up ahead,” Nelly said.
“I see it,” Kris said. “I’m aiming for it.” As much as she could aim that riddled bucket of lowest-bid bolts.
She managed to pancake the craft into what looked like the softest mud bank in sight. They bounced, settled again,