Clans of Atlantis: House of Drake, page 1
Clans of Atlantis
House of Drake
By Scott Dittemore
Copyright © 2021 by Scott Dittemore
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. For permission, contact scottswritings99@gmail.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
ISBN 13: 978-0-9981286-8-9
Dedication
This is the fifth book I’m independently publishing, and, as always, I have to thank my wife, Emily. Not only does she give most of my work a once-over to make sure I’ve used there, their, and they’re correctly, but she has her own professional career, and is a wonderful mother to our little peanut. I even have to thank the peanut, because she’s relatively well behaved (most of the time) and lets Daddy write.
A shout out to Kisa Whipkey from Nightwolf A.D.E. for the proofreading job. It’s always good to have another set of eyes look things over.
Clans of Atlantis started as an experiment to combine the hodgepodge of genres I enjoy: military sci-fi, fantasy, with a speckle of alternative history to keep people on edge, in a slightly more mature setting. I wrote this one very quickly compared to other books. Maybe I’m just getting more skilled as a writer? It has the possibility of being a standalone or part of a series. It all depends on how readers like it.
But that’s enough about me. This is a dedication to my wife, my daughter, the people that made this book possible, and the wonderful home they’ve created that allows my imagination to run wild. Thank you.
—Scott
Table of Contents
Dedication
Table of Contents
Youngling
Boot
MOS
FNG
NCO
A Life of Service
MidLife Crisis
The Man Who Would Be King
About the Author
Youngling
“Fascinating. I’ve been looking at your eyes all night long. I’ve never seen such dark eyes with so much light in them.” He smiled and watched her body for nonverbal hints of attraction.
Her cheeks flushed red, a smile tugged at her lips, and she reached out to touch his forearm. It didn’t matter that it was a line he’d used countless times before. It didn’t even matter that her eyes weren’t particularly intriguing. They were a plain brown. Nothing he hadn’t seen dozens of times in dozens of girls’ eyes. He was more interested in the perky set of Double-D’s refusing to be constrained by the tight dress which served no other purpose than to highlight them.
“Wow…um…yeah,” she stuttered and unconsciously raked her nails across his bronze skin. “But your eyes are so…”
“Blue,” he finished for her with an easy smile and chuckle.
“Yeah.” She chuckled back and leaned in toward him.
It was true. His eyes were his most defining feature. They were such a pure, sky-blue color that it invoked memories of looking up at a perfect spring day, sighing contentedly as a light breeze tickled one’s skin to wipe away the heat of the sun’s gentle kiss. They were his mother’s eyes, and like her, he had no problem using what the Creator gave him.
“What brings you to LA?” he asked when the woman didn’t pull away. Her breasts were practically resting on his arm.
“I’m going to be an actress.” She smiled like it was obvious, and he had to fight back a grimace.
It was 1984, and it seemed like every pretty girl who found her way to the City of Angels was trying to make it in Hollywood. They thought all they needed was a nice rack, a pretty face, and they’d be the sexy female lead in the next Van Dam or Schwarzenegger action-thriller. In reality, they were more likely going to end up in some B-movie, and that was only if they’d do a topless shower scene.
He automatically cued up another line, but then stopped himself. Saying he was a producer and flashing his platinum card for bottle service was a sure panty-dropper, but he’d been instructed in no uncertain terms to stop doing that. He glanced over the woman’s shoulder to where Afu sat two seats down nursing a virgin Shirley Temple. The sight of the two-point-one-meter man—or 6’10” in that Yanks’ outdated Imperial standard—drinking a fruity, vibrantly red drink was comical. But he knew his lifelong bodyguard would never drink on the job. In fact, he’d never seen Afu imbibe any alcohol whatsoever.
Afu looked like he could crush anyone with his bare hands, like he should be playing for the local football team instead of sipping drinks, but he knew his bodyguard’s greatest strength was his sense. The man could hear a pin drop in a crowded room, and sure enough, the actress’s comment had the big man’s eyes swiveling in his direction. Afu might be his bodyguard, but he worked for his parents.
“That’s exciting…” He struggled to remember her name.
“Betty,” she stated, withdrawing her hand from his arm.
Of course it is, he thought. Betty Sue from the heartland, here to make it big. It was the American dream the Yanks were so famous for marketing. Too bad it hardly ever worked out that way.
“Come on, Gus. It’s like you haven’t heard anything I’ve said.” She pouted, but at least she got his name right. He had to give her that.
He debated again about dropping his producer line, or at least his platinum card, but Afu was watching him like a hawk. “I’m sorry, Betty. I’ve just got a lot on my mind. I’m joining the military soon.”
It wasn’t a line, but it had the same effect. “Oh my god.” Her arm immediately shot out to grip his again. “I had no idea. You must be so scared.”
He wasn’t, but he wasn’t going to let her know that. Joining the military at this point in history wasn’t exactly the safest career path. The Soviet Union was in the process of bulldozing their way through Afghanistan, despite covert assistance from the US and the British Commonwealth. It didn’t help that the People’s Liberation Army was sending two divisions of Chinese troops to assist their communist allies. People were just waiting to see what the German Reich’s policy would be, and then all the world’s powers would have weighed in. Gus thought it was a little too much attention to put on such a small country, in the middle of nowhere, with little strategic importance. With the US considering a humanitarian force of their own, it meant the US troops might find themselves halfway across the world sooner rather than later.
Of course, all of this would only apply to Gus if he was joining the US Army, which he wasn’t. But again, Betty didn’t need to know that.
“—you’re so brave.” He missed the first part of her statement, catching only the end.
“Just doing my duty.” It was a Constitutional requirement for him, but that was something he didn’t want to get into with her. “And I’m only here in LA for the night. I ship out tomorrow.”
“Oh no.” She pouted as she leaned forward, showing off an abundance of cleavage. “We’ll just need to make the most of our time together, then.” Her foot worked its way up the inside of his leg.
Jackpot! He waved down the bartender to help seal the deal.
Not that he needed help in that department. He wasn’t as tall or as broad as Afu, but at one-point-nine meters, or 6’3”, he was well on his way to being a large man. While he’d gotten his mother’s memorizing eyes, he’d also received his father’s strong jawline. As was his culture, Gus’s shoulder-length, raven-black hair was tied with a simple leather band. More than one woman had looked with envy across the bar at its sheen and luster. Gus was nothing if not a good-looking man. What Betty didn’t know, and what he had no intention of telling her, was that he was still legally a boy. He didn’t turn eighteen until midnight, which meant that he was way too young for the West Hollywood bar they were sitting in. He needed another three years, two hours and eleven minutes.
Fortunately for him, money talked in this town. The crowded bar was a scene of organized chaos. They ID’d at the door, but a crisp hundred averted the bouncer’s eyes. The trio of bartenders moved with synchronized grace as they served an endless stream of patrons. Gus and Betty had coveted bar seats, so all he had to do was turn and raise his hand to catch the nearest one’s attention. The only woman of the trio saw the motion and stepped over while slipping a small white baggy to the man two seats down and pocketing a twenty.
“What can I get for you?” Her friendly tone went beyond professional. She’d been eyeing Gus up since he sat down, and was letting him know that she was available. Betty might miss a lot of what was going on around her, but she zeroed in on the bartender’s attention like a heat-seeking missile. She placed a protective hand on Gus’s shoulder.
“Two glasses of Dom.” He put down a hundred. “Keep the change.”
Personally, Gus didn’t get the hype about the stuff. He wasn’t particularly fond of the taste, but it signaled wealth and importance, which was exactly what this situation called for. Betty accepted the glass with a giggle and raised it to toast.
“To being all you can be.” She smiled before tipping back the glass.
Gus nodded politely at the US Army’s motto, and downed his glass as well. As the fresh champagne hit his lips, something hit him hard from behind. “Fuck,” he growled as the expensive liquid splashed down the front of his equally expensive suit.
<
Many people would have shrugged off the insult, but Gus was a little hot blooded, a trait common in young men regardless of their culture. “I think we deserve an apology.” He got to his feet, where he hovered a good couple inches above the other man. The other man was too drunk, or high, to care, however. He had two buddies to fuel his bravado.
Gus could already feel Afu rising up behind him, which only emboldened him. “You made me spill on my lovely date. So…apologize,” he repeated.
In truth, very little champagne had splattered on Betty’s dress, and the look on her face said she didn’t want to be involved with male dick measuring.
“I’m really okay. I…” Betty stammered.
“You don’t need to stick up for this cholo.” The drunk man looked from Betty’s contrasting blonde curls and pale skin to Gus’s tan skin and black hair. “He knows he doesn’t belong here.” The way the drunk man’s eyes raked over Gus said he was looking for more ways to insult him.
It was difficult, though. The man only had skin tone to work with. Gus’s suit, shoes, and watch probably cost more than the drunkard made in a year. The bottle of Dom he’d purchased was sitting in a place of prominence on the bar in front of them, and Gus’s bodyguard slowly closing in on the drunk man’s friends clearly showed that Gus was the better man.
He also wasn’t a cholo. He wasn’t Latino, or Hispanic-American, or whatever the Yanks were calling that subgroup this week. He understood where the insult came from, though. LA was only two hundred kilometers from the border with the Junta—the nickname for the military-run government of Mexico. As one of the US’s biggest headaches on the continent, the Junta was a constant source of blame for the locals.
“Look, he even wears his hair like a girl.” The man pointed at Gus’s bound hair. “What are you, a faggot?” While the man took a threatening step forward, one of his pals grabbed Gus’s hair from behind.
What would usually be a simple assault was actually an assault paired with a grievous cultural insult. Like any almost eighteen-year-old would, Gus lashed out at something so offensive. He grabbed the offending man’s arm, wrenched it forward, and snapped it like a twig. Even over the din of conversation, the snap was audible, and shortly followed by the man’s screams. People recoiled, Betty screamed as the man fell to the ground between them, and Afu sprang into action. Before the other two men could get over the sight of their friend’s arm hanging at a physiologically improbable angle, Afu had them both in his hubcap-sized hands. He pushed them away from Gus, better than a defensive lineman during Monday Night Football.
Meanwhile, Gus seethed at the violation. He felt his body rise to the challenge as fight overcame flight. He began to itch from head to toe, and his skin grew tight, even as he forced himself to calm down. Not here, not now, he thought as he fought back the anger and concentrated on his breathing.
A thin line of smoke escaped his nostrils as he tried to settle down. Thankfully, Betty was long gone, and people were giving him a wide berth. I need to get out of here. He pushed through the few people in the crowd that didn’t jump out of his way and headed for the kitchen.
The chef and his staff yelled as he plowed through their culinary kingdom and crashed out the back door into the humid night air. There, he let the last of his frustration escape on a billowing puff that made the space smell like someone had pissed on a campfire.
“Rough day?” A voice caught him off guard, and he spun toward its source. “Geez.” The woman took a few quick steps back.
“Sorry.” Gus put his hands up, trying to look innocent as the adrenaline fled his bloodstream. “Just some asshole in there got me riled up.”
“Don’t worry about it. Plenty of assholes in this town.” She waved dismissively and smiled.
Damn. He might have had his eyes set on Betty ninety seconds earlier, but he was a sucker for a cute smile.
“Gus.” He gave her his own award-winning smile and extended his hand.
“Rosemarie,” she replied, in a drawl he hadn’t noticed before.
“Rosemarie?” He couldn’t help but give her a pitying look.
“Yeah, I know.” The woman grimaced like she’d been through this before. “My dear mother was high on Demerol because she just couldn’t tough it out for a natural birth. As a result, I got named after her grandmother, which means I fit in better with the cast of Gone with the Wind than I do in West Hollywood.”
Gus choked on the laugh he tried to hold back. “Don’t worry.” He took her outstretched hand and was surprised by the firm grip. “I’ve got you beat.”
“Doubt it.” She cocked an eyebrow in challenge.
“My full name is Augustus.” He hit her with an onomatological haymaker.
Now it was her turn to laugh. “Augustus? Like Octavian, I’m going to beat out Mark Antony and be emperor of all Rome? That guy?”
“Yeah.” He shrugged, but his smirk was triumphant.
“That’s just the type of egotistical thing someone in this town would pull. That, and naming your kids after natural phenomena, like Tree or Rain.” She didn’t concede what he thought was clearly a win on his part.
“I’m not from around here, and neither are you.” It was his turn to issue the challenge. “You’re a Confed, right?”
“Confed” was slang for citizens of the Confederate States of America (CSA). The sovereign nation that had occupied the southeast portion of the American subcontinent since the Charter of Separation signed by Presidents Lincoln and Davis at the end of the Civil War in 1887. Despite almost a hundred years since the split—and time spent fighting alongside each other in World War II (1939-1947) and the Korean Conflict (1951-1952)—there was still bad blood to be found between the US and the CSA. Finding a beautiful woman from the CSA all the way out in LA was therefore a bit of an oddity.
“We prefer to be called Rebels,” she clarified purposefully, almost pridefully, accented in her Southern drawl. “But yes. I’m from Savannah. Born and bred.”
While the capital of the CSA was Atlanta, Savannah was known to be a popular destination for the higher levels of CSA society.
“So, Rosemarie, what’s a Southern Belle like you doing in a place like this?” Gus inquired, though she looked nothing like the proper Southern women he’d seen in television shows.
Betty was closer to that definition, with her blonde curls and sweet, heart-shaped face. Though the mini-dress she’d worn didn’t fit his mental impression of the Antebellum South’s hoop skirts and bodices. Not that he cared.
Rosemarie, on the other hand, was clad in a pair of Dr. Martens, with black stockings underneath a short pair of ripped jean shorts. She had a leather bomber jacket that did little to emphasize her modest breasts, a spiked choker around her neck, and a ring through her left nostril. Flowing down her back to her waist was the most striking red hair he’d ever seen. That at least fit with his image of someone standing on a plantation balcony, looking out over endless cotton fields. The heavy black eye-liner, though, didn’t. While there was something erotic about her that stirred his lust, it was her eyes that really caught his attention. They were a truly beautiful silver, and for just a moment, he got lost in their sheen.
“Only my mother calls me Rosemarie.” She cringed, ignoring the slightly dumb expression on Gus’s face as he took her in. “Call me Rose. And what brings me to this pinnacle of Yankee materialism is UCLA. The med school.”
At nearly eighteen, and eventually bound for college, Gus should have known something about UCLA’s medical program, but her eyes were all he could focus on right now.
“You okay there?” she asked after a few awkward seconds.
“Yeah.” He coughed and tried to cover up his instant infatuation with the mystery of her eyes. “UCLA medical. That must be nice. What’s your specialty? And that still doesn’t answer my question about why you’re here in this sketchy alley.” He couldn’t help but flirt a little, even if she was in her early to mid-twenties.
