David Hagberg
Joshuas Hammer
“David Hagberg runs in the same fast, high-tech track as Clancy and his gun-no colleagues, with lots of war games, fancy weapons, and much male bonding.”
“David Hagberg is one of the more interesting writers of thrillers in the new millennium. His work rivals that of Clancy, Koontz and Cornwall. With Joshua’s Hammer, he probably surpassed these notable authors. The heart thumping story line is a chilling thriller that gets inside the heart and soul of its cast, humanizing a terrorist and CIA operative. Mister Hagberg turns the genre into his personal playing field with this realistic drama that never eases up on the throttle.”
“Hagberg, a maven of mach speed mayhem, intricately moves pieces around his global chessboard, unit! many bodies, plane crashes, and running sea battles later, action hero McGarvey wipes out the bad guys. Hagberg’s long yarns always muscle their way to the top of the techno intrigue-warfare genre.”
Special thanks to all my friends at I.R.N.B. You guys are awesome!
My Father’s Daughter
I am my father’s daughter… with this armor alone, I am incredible.
Protected in the shadow of wisdom, I grew strong of mind. Guided through the colors of experience, I grew strong of heart.
Inquiring with forensic precision, I grew curious and able. Expounding into understanding, I grew tolerant and open.
All my fears laid out on the table, I grew confident of love. Flaws and foibles brought to light I grew to laugh easily.
I am my father’s daughter… with this armor, I am invincible.
THE OPENING MOVES
SUMMER
Behold a pale horse; and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.
CHAPTER ONE
Weary and worried Alien Trumble got off the elevator on the seventh floor where he had to submit to a third and final security check. There wasn’t a lot of activity in the corridors, but then there usually wasn’t except during shift changes. But from the moment he’d entered the front doors he was struck by the underlying tension here, which did nothing to dispel his gloomy mood. What he was bringing to the deputy director of Operations wasn’t going to help much; not the CIA and certainly not himself.
The civilian security officer handed Trumble’s pass and ID back. “Just down the hall to the right, sir.”
“Yes, thank you, I’ve been here before,” Trumble said. But not often and not lately. Most of his seventeen years on the payroll had been spent in foreign postings, most recently as chief of station Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. But it was time to come home now, maybe. His life was beginning to unravel and he didn’t really know why or what to do about it, except that a change of scenery might help.
He was an unremarkable looking man of medium height with thinning light brown hair, a slightly stoop- shouldered gait, and puffy features from living for too long in the dry desert climates of the Middle East. But he was an Arabic expert and that’s where the work was happening. In fact because he had lived for so long in-country he probably knew more about the region than all but the most senior analysts here. Certainly enough to know that very large trouble was brewing.
But until now he’d also considered himself to be a very lucky man. He had a job that challenged him, a wife who loved him and two children who thought the sun rose and set on their father. All of it going down the toilet. In the past year Gloria had become distant, spending most of her free time watching reruns of American television sitcoms. It was as if she had forgotten what home was like and she was trying to remind herself. Their sixteen- year-old daughter Julie had experimented dying her hair first orange, then pink, but their Saudi neighbors had begun to complain and Trumble had to put his foot down. Julie was still resentful, and she moped around the house speaking only when spoken to, and then in monosyllables. In their twelve-year-old son Daniel’s estimation it was time to go home. Most of the people they’d met over there were okay, but they didn’t really like Americans, and he was getting tired of it. He wanted a Mickey D’s, a real mall, Little League baseball and some new video games. Never mind that he had been born in Baghdad, and had never spent much time in the States. He missed it and he wanted to go home.
The deputy director of Operation’s suite was at the end of the hall from the director’s office. Trumble hurried down the broad, carpeted corridor, and went inside not at all sure exactly what sort of a message he was bringing home with him. He was the Arab expert, but this time he was out of his depth and he knew it.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Trumble,” the DDO’s secretary, Dahlia Swanfeld said pleasantly.
“Hello,” Trumble smiled, trying to hide his nervousness. “I have a two o’clock with the deputy director.” It was one minute before that time now.
“He’s on the phone. Shouldn’t be long. Would you like some coffee?”
“No thanks. We had a late lunch, McDonald’s.”
Ms. Swanfeld smiled and nodded. Though she’d never married — the CIA was her life — she sometimes acted like a kindly grandmother. Trumble could feel genuine interest and good cheer radiating from her like warmth from a wood stove on a cold winter’s day. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so good.
“How is your family? Happy to be on vacation and back home?”
“It’s going to be hard to drag them back to Riyadh. But I mink we might be coming home again for Christmas. My folks are insisting on it, and it’s hard to say no to your mother, wife and kids. I’m sorta outnumbered.”
“I’d like to meet them.” The light on her telephone console blinked out and she picked up the phone. “Mr. Trumble is here.” She looked up. “You may go in now.”
Kirk McGarvey, his jacket off, his tie loose and his shirtsleeves rolled up, was pulling a thick, red-striped file folder from one of the piles on his large desk. Stacks of newspapers and news magazines from a dozen different
