JACK NANUQ currently makes his living as a Private Investigator; hence the nom de guere (and no profile photo). Prior to 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.
Carson Nowak navigated the minefield that was his great-grandmother’s attic; careful to step where the random boards were nailed to the joists. The dry-rotted flooring had the structural integrity of toilet paper. No need to crash through the ceiling; that would really set her off. Moldy boxes, piles of clothes and garish Christmas decorations, all covered in layers of dust and pigeon shit, further complicated the task.
He glanced at the map, drawn on the back of a piece of junk mail. The queen of recycling, Nana never threw anything away without finding at least a second use for it. He spotted the old tarp. The steamer trunk should be under that mess. Carson sighed, “Any farther away and it would have been in the neighbor’s house.”
What the hell am I doing? he thought. Carson had tried to talk her out of this fool’s errand, but she insisted it be brought downstairs. When he showed reluctance, she screamed at him in the four languages she knew best. Then in the one she knew the least; English.