JACK NANUQ currently makes his living as a Private Investigator; hence the nom de guere (and no profile photo). Prior this occupation he lived the nine lives of a cat. He has been a teacher, police officer, park ranger, equipment operator, freight handler and even a ranch hand.
He has lived and worked in Egypt, Alaska, Oregon and New York (the State, not the City). He has snorkeled in the Red Sea. Slept on the Nile River and under the Northern Lights (but not at the same time). Walked among grizzlies, ridden his bike under the midnight sun, climbed Mt St Helens, and even jumped out of a perfectly good airplane.
He and his wife currently live on a small farm near Albany, NY. They share this property with three dogs, three cats, a handful of chickens and two peacocks. He enjoys, outdoor activities, writing, Tae Kwon Do and teaching self-defense.
How does a POW become a spy? And why? And what the hell is a GALCO? These are only a few of the questions Carson Nowak needs answers to.
Carson Nowak is a CIA contractor like none you’ve ever met before. Shortly after George W Bush is elected president Carson is tasked with retrieving a trunk load of documents. The order comes not from the Agency or even the President; but a higher authority, his Nana. In addition to the documents the trunk contains a war relic that is tied to a mysterious death just before D-Day. Tracing the provenance behind this relic triggers a chain of events that not only unlocks Carson’s family history but garners the interest of a South American hit squad. Carson must navigate the challenges of protecting his family, maintaining his business, ensuring the safety of a refugee developing a revolutionary weapons system, and deal with an infuriating curmudgeon. Along the way he falls in love. To navigate these challenges he must enlist the help of a pencil-thin code breaker, a claustrophobic corpsman and a Haitian nurse.
Snippet:
The 15-year old newcomer struggled out of her bed and stepped onto the stone floor. The surface was cold but not unbearable. She would leave in a few minutes and there was no reason to light the coal stove. No need to waste a precious resource for a few minutes of comfort. She crouched next to the bed and retrieved her diary and pencil.
1st April 1915 - Today is my birthday and I have been a widow for seven days. I have yet to tell his parents. What should I say? I know what I want to say? But what words should I use? Should I tell them he was a weakling? A sniveling whiner unfit for adulthood or responsibility. He got a blister his first day of real work and it got infected. Who dies from a blister? Should I say I hate him, even in death I hate him. I hate the entire family! If it hadn’t been for him and his father I’d be home right now! I’d be safe and warm, not in this foreign land.
This is what I want to say. But how can I? The censors would never let it get to the Motherland. They would think me deranged and evil. How could she talk ill of the dead, they would ask? Would they think I’m mad? They might lock me up and life will be even harder. No, I must hide my true feelings. I will not lie to them but I will not be entirely honest either. Tonight I will write the in-laws and tell them of his departure. Let them grieve for him for I will not.
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