Sundown at Dawn...Iraq...Sniper Duel

Sundown at Dawn is a five hundred page novel that is a war story, a love story and a mystery-thriller. It has been described as a "Gone With the Wind of the North".  Readers insist that it should be made into a TV series, others into a movie. Most often heard "Best book I have ever read" and "I couldn't put it down".

Check out the Blog Archives at left for more excerpts.

My last blog, described the beginning of a running battle during Operation Iraqi Freedom. As we pick up the story, Starr's team is being pursued and they turn to fight...

"Driscoll  had cycled the bolt of the Barrett and was looking for the next high-value target. The .338 Lapua magnum was zeroed in at 500 yards and he would not need a spotter. He had estimated his likely range should a battle develop with enemy  on the highway at 500 yards in horizontal distance. Driscoll knew that contrary to those who believed that shots downhill required a hold under and steep shots made uphill required hold over, the only adjustment needed would be to compensate for the horizontal distance over which gravity had a chance to do its work. Therefore, his 500 yard zero would allow him to take direct aim to point of impact without a new firing solution.
For Driscoll, this was ideal. In a situation like this, with enemy scurrying in all directions, his fire would soon evolve into snap shooting.  Not having to compensate or adjust for varying distances would make for more hits and faster fire.

“Another officer,” muttered Driscoll to himself.  As the last man out of the APC bent to exit, he put his shoulder boards and pips on good display. The Barrett fired of its own volition and the frightened officer would never savor his first taste of combat. The 250 grain round entered his crouching form on the right side of his neck, coursed downward through his entire body and exited through his right buttock. Several vital organs were totally destroyed  in the process.

A granite boulder exploded in a shower of gritty powder directly behind and above him. 

“Where did that come from?” he wondered out loud. He traversed to the left and washed his telescopic sights across the truck that had been following the armored personal carrier (APC).

“Well, well, now this gets interesting,” he said to himself.

Starr faintly registered the booming rounds of Driscoll’s magnum in the heat of battle and gave them little thought. He knew that for every loud report an enemy would fall and he had other concerns.

With most of the troops who had spilled out of the APC, and the truck gone to ground due to Singer’s sustained fire, Driscoll had a moment to look closely at the shooter who nearly scored on him. He had moved to take shelter behind the hood of the truck but  still held his rifle where it could be seen. Not for long, but long enough for Driscoll to identify his weapon.  There was nothing else that looked quite like it and his heart rate went up another notch, adrenaline coursing.

“A Dragunov!” he exclaimed, referring to the Soviet Block sniper rifle made famous in many hot spots around the world since Viet Nam. Actually, he was looking at an Iraqi version of the Dragunov called the Al-Qadissiya. With a long and elegant barrel and laminated thumb hole skeleton stock, there was nothing else that resembled it. Carrying it marked this man as an honored individual.

The rifle fired the Moisin-Nagant 7.62x54R(rimmed) cartridge. The muzzle velocity at 2,723 FPS was inferior to the Lapua. Effective range was 800 meters  with maximum range of 1300 meters. So the team was within its range.

For optics, it carried a PSO-1 four-power electrically illuminated scope with an odd-ranging setup providing chevrons for bullet drop and stadia for windage.        

But still, a Dragunov! He felt as if his vision sharpened and his heart rate dropped to zero, as he welded into the stock and waited. The sniper had disappeared behind the truck after his near miss and Driscoll could feel him preparing to set up for another shot. He knew that with a man like this, he would have time. The shooter would not rush this shot as he may have done with the first. He was preparing once again to do battle, and Driscoll was ready.

“Patience,” said Driscoll to himself.

He knew where the sniper was. He could  see the barrel protruding vertically from behind the hood of the truck. Driscoll would take advantage of that mistake. He knew exactly where the sniper would appear. The man would have to rise up slightly to shoot over the hood. The rifle, scope and his head would be visible and that was all that Driscoll needed.

“They have us in a box. We need to move or we’ll eventually be over-run.” Starr looked over at Driscoll and realized that he had not heard. He was in his zone.

Driscoll waited for what seemed to be an eternity. Singer continued to fire at targets of opportunity and a few sporadic poorly-aimed rounds pinged off rocks nearby, but he remained still.

He saw the Iraqi sniper begin to rise slowly, with great deliberation. He slid the Al-Qadissiya up onto the hood of the truck and settled his face to the adjustable cheek pad.  Driscoll waited until he believed the sniper could see him through his scope.They were rifle-to-rifle, scope-to-scope, eye-to-eye. Each man could see the means of his demise as Driscoll fired. His cross-hairs had been centered on the sniper’s scope, but with slight drift caused by a gentle intermittent crosswind, the round had taken the sniper through the left eye. The impact and energy imparted by the large and heavy round had taken away more than half of his head. The sniper was thrown back from the truck far enough so that Driscoll, from his slightly higher position, could see the body flopping about, a head-shot phenomenon that snipers and few others were witness to.

Starr spoke again, “More work for you, Driscoll. We need to leave a few surprises for these folks as we move out. I want you to set out a few Claymore mines with trip wires.” 


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Sundown at Dawn...Iraq...First Contact

Sundown at Dawn is a five hundred page novel. Please keep in mind that I am just selecting excerpts to offer a flavor of the book.

As John Starr lay beside his camp fire, in the Canadian wilderness,  he flashed back to his time in Iraq. Captain Starr and his Special Forces team had been inserted at night by means of a Halo (high altitude low opening) night jump from thirty thousand feet. Their mission was to remain undetected and to observe and report on troop and armor movements. Several days into their mission, they had been detected and forced to move. We pick up the story at that point.

First Contact:

“Captain, you need to see this,” said Cooper who had been scanning the valley with 20 power binoculars since dawn. It was now mid-morning and the sun had crested the ridge behind them. The team was still in the shade and until the sun bore down upon them, drying out the excavated soil deposited from their new dig, the team felt exposed.  Cooper handed the powerful binoculars across to Starr in his nearby hole.

“Check out the spot that we left last night, Sir.” Starr pivoted the glasses to that location and frowned. Far away and below them, he could clearly see six green-clad soldiers. They were gesturing to the spot where their holes had been, but which were no longer there.

As Starr continued to watch, several of the soldiers began to walk along the ridge, looking for any sign of the passage of men. After twenty minutes, it became evident that they had picked up sign of their passage. The soldiers were slowly coming their way.

They were still more than four miles away, but as the morning wore on, they would slowly but surely, draw closer. There had been no way during a night traverse of the ridge to completely obliterate signs of their passing. Starr had counted on the wind and weather to erase all signs of their movement, but it was not to be.

The enemy patrol had disappeared into one of the many large folds in the earth which bisected the path his team had taken and Starr knew it would be an hour before they reappeared, now three miles distant.

Gathered together in the command hole, Starr spoke.

“We’re still above them and they haven’t seen us yet. With their noses to the ground, they may not see any sign of our hide until they’re within range. I see no radio and I don’t think  they are in contact with anyone else. That’s one bit of good news. They’re all carrying AKs, nothing long range. No mortars and no RPGs, so in the short term, we have the advantage. Concealment, surprise and long range capabilities.”

With this last comment, he glanced at Driscoll who nodded in agreement.

“I want Driscoll set up in the hole with the best line of sight to a point a thousand yards in front of us. Cooper, take the binoculars. You’ll be his spotter.”

All eyes were fixed on Starr.

“Singer, set up the SAW where you have the best field of fire. I don’t plan to allow them to get close enough for you to do your work, but we need to cover every possibility.”

The excitement in Lieutenant Zarkowi was growing with the rising sun. How far can they have traveled? he wondered. The path they were following appeared to be flat, but in reality, had many undulations which caused great exertion for his men.

Zarkowi could see nothing but the barren hillside in front of him, with a little scrub brush and a few scattered rocks here and there to break the monotony. Over every rise he expected to see the enemy ahead, running from his men. “We will kill them all,” he thought. Several miles ahead of the patrol lay a jumble of large boulders, but nothing there appeared to be unusual or out of place.
“So we go on.” he thought.

"Be alert,” said Zarkowi and shook his head at the sorry condition of his young recruits. They hadn't been well-trained: there had been no time for training and they were not in good physical condition for this kind of work. Except for one, they were conscripts, all called up to prepare for the American attack. None wanted to be here including his one experienced Sergeant.

“Driscoll,” said Starr, now speaking softly, “I want to wait until they’re a thousand yards out, heading down into that shallow draw. Take the officer who's leading first, the one with the sidearm. They won’t know where we are and will likely just mill around like sheep. They’ll have no cover there and if they turn back, their progress back out of the draw will be slow. Next, take anyone who begins to shout orders. That will be the NCO.”

“I don’t want any of them to get away. Without a radio and if we get them all, it'll give us  time.”

Driscoll  nodded from his nest and settled in. The Barrett MRAD firing the Finnish .338 Lapua magnum   shot with laser-like trajectory and had a recorded kill at 2,450 yards scored by a Brit sniper in Afghanistan.

Driscoll relaxed and took a weld with cheek-to- stock as he watched the Iraqis approach the killing zone. He began the process of becoming one with the rifle and controlling his breathing until he appeared to be in suspended animation. He lay at a fifteen degree angle to his target, bipod set, forearms and elbows fixed beneath the stock. The rifle would fire itself without conscious effort.

Lieutenant Zarkowi continued to struggle onward, followed by Sergeant Abdallah. The four young soldiers grumbling and straggling along behind. Their objective of locating the enemy was long since forgotten in their struggle.to keep up. The terrain, which at first glance appeared to be an easy walk, could now be seen to contain endless folds and draws. At each draw they  slid down the face and struggled up the opposite slope, only to be confronted with another identical obstacle. 

Finally, a shallow draw which would give them all a break. The Lieutenant called a halt and they all sat down, pulling out canteens containing tepid water in the mid-day heat.

As Zarkowi who remained standing, lifted the canteen to his lips, his head exploded with the sound of a ripe melon being struck. A shower of pink spray washed over all the others, followed by the soft report of a rifle. In shock they looked at each other and at their unfortunate commander, stunned for a moment into paralysis.

After seconds which seemed like minutes, Sergeant  Abdallah reacted. He jumped to his feet, “Up, Up! Take cover, we are being fired upon!” As he began to turn to look for the source of the shot, Abdallah was blown backward, off  his feet, his chest turning red, his eyes rolling to the sky, Another distant report followed. The remaining soldiers had no idea where the shots were coming from nor where to go to avoid them. They were shouting, whimpering and crying.

Beside the boulders, a thousand yards away, Driscoll was working the bolt rapidly as Cooper fed him reports of his hits, since his view was lost to recoil.

"Two are down. Wait for a moment until they settle a bit. Slight wind drift, one click left, one click up,” advised Cooper. Driscoll dialed it in.

With no more fire being taken, the recruits squatted, huddled together hoping they were out of sight at the bottom of the shallow draw, trying to decide what to do. “Which way do we go? Where are they?”

Their indecision was interrupted by the smallest of them simply crumpling to the ground where he sat followed by yet a third report.

Now they all ran madly, two retreating back the way they had come, both taking shots in the center of their backs as they attempted to climb out of the draw. The last stood motionless and wet his pants as he sobbed, knowing his fate. He decided to meet Allah here. The last shot tore the left side of his chest open, spinning him around and slamming him face first into the ground.

“Good job Driscoll, Cooper…. We have no time to lose, we bury everything and move again.”

 

 

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Sundown at Dawn...Letters and Love

John Starr has returned to his family home. He's met a woman with whom he  had a brief college romance. As their new relationship deepened into love, Starr has begun a week of written seduction. One letter per day.

 

 

"John and Maddy had known each other for two months of this new life, when a letter arrived at Maddy’s shop. It was from John.  Puzzled by receiving a letter when she now saw him nearly every day, she closed her office door and opened the envelope.

"Dearest Maddy,

Our life and our relationship began many years ago with the written word. Those words and our time together now, have given me more than I could ever have imagined and poorly deserve.

There are so many things that I want to say when we are together, yet spoken words fail me. I hope to do better in the future, but for now I want to speak of my feelings with the written word which served us  well  so long ago.

When first I saw you in this new life, your beauty stunned me. Your gaze held me motionless. The room emptied of all others. Only you remained.

When first we met, you stood framed by a spray of brilliant flowers. Their colors faded to insignificance in your presence.
 
You took my breath away.
 
When first we spoke, your voice sparkled, shaming singing angels. I said little. A silence had fallen upon me like that imparted by the Aurora Borealis rippling silently across the summer sky, the silence that follows a summer thunderstorm. You simply said my name and I was struck dumb.

We hardly touched. I hoped that would come later.

We parted with a gentle kiss.

When next we met at the Aerie, we acknowledged the electricity between us. You said we needed to take things slowly. We drank in the pleasure of Lilly’s happy laughter. We touched, we shared newly-discovered innocent  delights.

We parted with a tender kiss.

Days passed and we next met at the café on the hill. We learned more of each other during our lives apart, our triumphs and our disappointments. I was mesmerized by a wisp of hair that had fallen across one eye. I wanted to reach out to brush it back, but it suited you and enhanced your allure.

Your delightful mother joined us for lunch and regaled us with ribald stories which made you blush and endeared her to me. I longed to touch you, to feel your physical presence. Instead I caressed you with my eyes, touched you with my soul. We fooled no one that day, we were an open book to your mother, and she approved.

We parted without touching.  I felt cheated.

We spent long and languorous days at the Aerie. We ran, we swam. I learned that I had met my match in both. We talked, we shared.

We lay on our sides in front of the fireplace at night, both facing the fire, closely tucked together from head to toe.
 
Would that we had been naked, but if not that day…When?
 
The warmth of your body flooded my mind with erotic longing. My lips at the nape of your neck. My tongue finding the throbbing pulse at the side of your graceful throat. The fresh scent of your hair invading my senses. The mesmerizing  fire turning your face to a golden glow.

You have been in my heart since our first meeting, but I need  you in my arms, your breath on my skin. I can never get enough, it seems, of the scent, the sight, the sound and the touch of you.

I fall asleep at night thinking of you. I dream erotic dreams of you. I awaken with the imagined sensation of your lips on mine.

My days are consumed with you. I see you wherever I turn.
 
I know that I said, “A life ahead and time enough.”

But now is the time...and it will never be enough.

If not now…When?"

John had stopped writing at that point. She sat staring at the pages, as if willing them to fill with more words. They had transported her to a place where she felt as if she were floating, slipped free of any earthly bonds. She had no idea that written words could affect her so deeply."


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Sundown at Dawn...Tools to survive

As the story continues, Starr knows the pre-requisites to survival are food, water and shelter. In addition, he has wounds to tend to:

 

"

Before going further into his inventory, He needed to tend to his wounds. Infection was a real possibility and needed to be dealt with immediately. He sat at the water’s edge and washed the wounds with clean lake water. He remained there until the sun and UV rays had dried and sanitized the wounds. Starr gritted his teeth against the pain as he squeezed some of the antibiotic  cream   into both entry and exit bullet holes in his shoulder, followed by the same treatment to his head wound. The cream would promote healing and forestall infection. Next, to seal the wounds, he went back to the balsam pine that had been his shelter last night and cut a slash diagonally across the trunk of the tree. Within a few minutes, the cut was weeping clear sap, resembling honey in color and texture. He scooped as much of the sticky substance as he could onto the end of his index finger and smeared it over all three wounds, effectively sealing them. In a short time, the pitch would turn black and would provide a waterproof sterile seal, keeping contaminants out while remaining flexible.

    Then he turned his attention to his broken and throbbing clavicle. In addition to the grip of the Randall wrapped in parachute cord, he had a pigtail of woven parachute cord hanging from the tip of the knife sheath.  He left the grip alone for now and unwrapped the ten feet of cord from the sheath.  He used this cord to fashion a sling for his left arm which needed to remain immobile in order to begin to knit. That done, the pain eased substantially, and he went back to his inventory.

    There was one more necessary item which he hoped had stayed securely in his jacket pocket during his time in the water.  Since his days in the military, Starr had carried a fire starter in the pocket of every jacket that he owned. This was simply a small slab of soft magnesium metal with an inset rod of flint running down one edge. No bigger than a stick of gum, it could help to start a fire under most adverse conditions. The user would simply gather some hopefully dry tinder, small twigs, a little birch bark and whatever else could be found. Next a sharp knife could scrape some magnesium powder from the edge of the starter onto the tinder. Finally, a sharp blow along the flint by the knife blade would send a shower of sparks onto the tinder, and usually after an attempt or two, a spark would catch the mix of tinder and magnesium.  In moments a hot burning fire would result.

    A quick search of his still damp jacket produced the prize right where it had been for months. It never hurts to prepare, particularly when going into the wilderness far from home.

    In a few minutes, Starr had a small fire going as he searched for larger dry wood. The Randall made short work of a small, dead, standing pitch-filled pine. He soon had a roaring fire going. As the fire warmed him to the bone, his spirits rose and he knew that he now had everything needed to survive.

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Sundown at Dawn...Wilderness survival

Todays blog deals with John Starr's survival in the Canadian wilderness.
Future excerpts will follow him throughout Operation Desert Storm, battles, capture, torture, and recovery. His return home leads to romance and a new life. Eventually terror interrupts. But for now Starr must deal with survival.

    "Starr first needed to tend to his wounds which had stopped bleeding. Next would be a fire to dry his clothes, followed by a search for a meal.  The final objective would be a plan which would include making his way home perhaps to discover what this had all been about.  A firm resolve began to take hold of him. They had tried to kill him and he intended to find out why, but they had also tried to kill his dog. For that they would pay.

    "He began to take inventory. All of his packs were gone along with the shredded canoe. The wind had shifted and everything that did not sink, had been blown far away. The only gear that he had left was what he had in his pockets and on his belt.

    The first important tool was the Combat Magnum. It was loaded, and he had two speed loaders in his jacket pocket. Eighteen rounds. They were still there. Whether or not the rounds would fire was another matter, still to be determined. He spread all the ammunition on a rock to let the sun dry and heat the cartridges. He removed the gun from its holster, wiped it off as well as he could manage, though not of much help with all of his clothing still damp. He laid it in the sun and would wipe it clean when he had  a dry cloth.

     Next came his Randall Knife which definitely was indispensable and was still in its place on his belt. This Randall was designated modestly as their Model #18 “Attack Survival.” This was the second Model #18 that he had owned; the first had been lost in Iraq. In John’s opinion, and in the opinion of many others, Randalls were the finest knives made in the world.  The heavy survival knife could make all things in this situation possible. The 7 1/2” long blade, was made of thick 1/4” stainless steel stock. Sharpened on both top and bottom, with a long saw tooth section along the top, the blade could saw through the hardest wood. The blade was nearly indestructible and could handle any job. The hilt was oblong brass with flared holes designed to accommodate a wrist thong and to facilitate placement of a shaft in the hollow grip for conversion to a spear. The grip was knurled stainless steel which John had wrapped with black parachute cord for an even better grip and served as a handy place to carry the extra cord. The handle was fitted with a threaded and knurled butt cap which also had a rubber “O” ring to provide for a waterproof storage compartment. When removed and inverted, the butt cap  displayed a highest quality compass. John had chosen to load the storage compartment with fifty feet of ten pound monofilament line, several hooks and a couple of split shot sinkers. He also had squeezed in a small packet of aspirin and a tube of  Neomycin Sulfate Polymyxcin B Sulfate Pramoxine Hydrochloride, or in simpler words, antibiotic/pain relieving cream under the brand name of Neosporin. The sheath came standard with a second pocket which held a Soft Arkansas sharpening stone. Without the knife and its contents, he would be in serious trouble. With the knife in hand, he might survive. Thank you, “Bo” Randall."

 

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Sundown at Dawn...An amazing review

"I am blown away by what I have read. This is brilliant and I visualize multitudes of people who would be spellbound by your writing. A heart-felt well thought-out, knowledgeable thrilling and sensitive novel.

What a teaching tool for soldiers, campers, scouts, students, veterans and lovers...anyone with a sense of adventure and passion.

I reacted strongly to your expertise with the military experiences, repercussions and lessons applied.

Your portrayal of all of this is mind boggling. I love that you are indeed, applying the gifts given to you on so many levels. You clearly are a renaissance man! Trust me...This is a masterpiece...A beautiful mind!"

FKS Professor of English and Creative Writing. Vermilion Community College and Pima Community College

 

 

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Sundown at Dawn...Attacked

John Starr and his dog Copper are attacked without warning in the wilderness

"It had been a quiet and regenerating trip; he had decided long ago that there was no more peaceful place on earth than the Quetico. It had turned into the blue sky day that the morning promised.

There was a gentle following breeze as Starr paddled the final four miles down the shoreline toward the portage.  Copper suddenly sat up, his ears perked, and as John had come to understand, he was on full alert. Starr stopped paddling and leaned forward to get a better handle on Copper’s instinctive warning. That move saved his life. At that instant Starr felt as if his head had exploded. He tumbled to his left and out of the canoe, capsizing it. Unconscious for a moment, the shock of the cold water quickly brought him back into the world. The glancing blow of a bullet had cut a furrow across the back of his head as he leaned forward. It stunned him and it took a moment to realize that he was still taking fire. Holes began appearing in the upturned hull which was between Starr and the shooter, accompanied by the familiar sound of gunfire. Without hesitation, he ducked under water and came up inside the upturned hull. He made his way as far as possible from the center of the canoe which would be the natural point of aim. Now he could see shafts of light appear as bullets tore through the aluminum. He could hear Copper frantically scratching on the hull in an effort to climb up and out of the water. That would have been sudden death for him as the fusillade continued. Luckily the dog was just outside of his hiding spot and Starr was able to reach out and pull him underneath the canoe.  Just as he thought he was in the clear, a final bullet tore through the hull and into his shoulder breaking his collar bone. Then it was quiet, and he felt himself slipping back into unconsciousness. The cold water kept him from falling into total oblivion. He held the dog close, willing him to be silent and not struggle. Copper seemed to understand and lay still in Starr’s arms."

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Sundown at Dawn excerpt

Stepping out of the tent into the cold morning air, he could see that his campsite around him was wet from the morning fog with glistening drops of dew clinging to every pine bough. The light was flat making everything appear to be shrouded and indistinct.

The sounds were coming from two canoes heading toward him, but still easily a mile away. If  he had not heard the Arabic, he would not have seen them for some time. Sounds in the still of the wilderness carried much farther than most people realized. He could see that they intended to pass between the island he was camped on and another not more than a hundred yards to the east.

Clearly, the canoeists were not aware of his presence on the island. His mountain tent was squat and green, tucked into the background of Norway and balsam pines, and his clothing blended in to make him nearly invisible.  A screen of low bushes along the shoreline helped to break up his outline and completed the illusion. The fog extended several hundred feet above the still water and above that was blue sky. It would be a beautiful spring day when it burned off. The canoes would not have been visible to him from that distance, but the early morning light was coming from behind him and reflecting off the silver hulls of the ubiquitous eighteen-foot Grumman canoes which were riding low in the water.

Copper, whose name came from the unusual color of his coat, sat beside him as still as a statue, but his growling, low and menacing, had not ceased.

“Well, what do you think, Copper? Do you know something that I don’t, Boy?”

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An excerpt from "Sundown at Dawn"

Argo...A beautiful crystal clear lake in the Canadian wilderness.


The first hint of dawn was on the horizon. John W. Starr or Sundown, as his team had known him, was in that area of REM sleep just prior to awakening, that world where his subconscious was most active and his dreams were most vivid. Coming up from those pleasant depths, the guttural sounds of Arabic came softly to his ears. Instantly he was fully awake, looking for his weapon and wondering what had happened to the perimeter guard.
    In the dim light he saw Copper, his German Shepherd and constant companion, looking at him expectantly. He realized that it was not 2003 and he was not in Iraq.  It was 2005 and he was in his tent on Argo Lake deep in the Canadian wilderness. Now the only sound was  the mournful call of a loon. He also realized it was not Arabic that had awakened him, but Copper’s deep throated growl.  As he sat in the quiet of his tent trying to make sense of this... a dream? a flashback? ...it came to him again...unmistakable Arabic, followed by more growling from Copper. This was definitely not a sound that the dog liked. The low murmur was followed by a faint laugh and the splash of a paddle poorly applied to its power stroke.
    Copper was now on full alert, growling and again looking to Sundown for his cue.
    “Quiet, Copper, there’s no threat here.” Copper instantly relaxed; his ears went to half-mast as he sat next to his master with his head still cocked toward the strange sound of the voices

    Starr slipped out of his sleeping bag and put on his well-worn jeans and wool shirt. The act of buckling his belt pulled the Smith & Wesson in its pancake holster reassuringly tight to his side. The 60’s era .357 Model 19 Combat Magnum with its mirror-blue finish was more a work of art than a working tool.  It had finger -grooved, beautifully striped Goncalo Alves grips, target trigger, red ramp front and white outline rear target sights. He had carried the Beretta Model 92FS, the standard military issue 9mm auto for years. But the Combat Magnum which had been his father’s, was a comforting connection to him and those halcyon fall days in the nearby Minnesota woods. They had hunted deer and ruffed grouse, which were called partridge, in the North Woods and shared experiences afield which he hoped would never fade from his memory. His Danner mountain boots and multi -cam BDU jacket to ward off the morning chill, completed his outfit. He was a big man, all of 6’2”, narrow of waist and broad of shoulders. His short black hair, pale blue-grey eyes and the hard look of his face gave the promise of no-nonsense, not someone an opponent would take lightly if he planned to live to fight another day. His square jaw and the four inch vertical scar, faint and still healing as it had been for years on the left side of his face, gave him an aura that commanded respect from men and admiring glances from women.

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A reader's review of Sundown at Dawn

“A page turning thriller that combines the history of the beautiful north country with a harrowing and brilliantly conceived story that grabs you and won’t let go. Steve Stepan’s writing is right up there with the likes of Vince Flynn and Clive Cussler. I am looking forward to John Starr’s further adventures.” Tom Mageau…Control Data Corporation.

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