Serial: V-Trooper—First Mission

As a former Special Forces Soldier, when reading about the frustrations faced by today’s troops deployed in the Middle East, I vividly recalled similar frustrations when I served in Vietnam.  My unit, MACV-SOG, was engaged “across the fence,” operating in Laos, Cambodia and North Vietnam, on TOP SECRET missions.  SOG was engaged in Unconventional Warfare.

What if a man who was able to perform in unconventional ways and was available to create havoc within enemy ranks and remain anonymous? Superman?  No.  What if, because the man had been changed by vampiric means, had superhuman powers?

You’ll meet Vic Russell, a Special Forces major, who has been assigned the command of a supply and services battalion in Afghanistan because he lost part of one leg. He’s a frustrated warrior, serving necessary but boring duty.

When Wil Boyd, a sergeant attached to Russell’s command declares that he’s a vampire, the major sees a possible way to terrorize the terrorists.

The novella, V-Trooper — First Mission is a novella, the first of three. It’s filled with action from the first page, but there are light moments and even romance.  Two love stories are entwined in the book.

Following is the prologue.  I plan to publish a chapter each day.  Enjoy, and leave comments as you will.




      Mustafa Muhammad was cold. Night in the mountains near Bamiyan, Afghanistan, chilled the Afghan Guard. His robes were not enough to block mountain winds that slithered beneath him as he squatted, watching the trails that led to his master’s encampment at the top of the hill.

  No enemy will come, not even the infidel’s Special Forces, but the Sheikh would have my head removed if I left this post. Eight of us guard his tent. If I have to piss, I can only go three meters away to a tin bucket, and I have to smell it until my relief comes at four in the morning. Then I have to take away the bucket, empty it, and bring it back for the next man. My sergeant is sleeping in a comfortable bag inside a big, warm tent while I freeze.

     A sound, like great wings above him, made Mustafa look to the stars and lift the barrel of his AK-47. Nothing. Then he was there, coming up the hill. A slim man in a black uniform, an American.  He approached Mustafa without speaking. In the bare light of the sickle moon, the man seemed to smile. Before the Taliban guard could bring his weapon around, the stranger had grabbed the gun barrel. He was smiling, though there was a strange look to his mouth.  The intruder wore curved sunglasses and pulled them aside as he came ever closer. The eyes were red and glowed as fiery as the burning coals they mimicked.  Mustafa released his grip on the weapon and turned to run. He opened his mouth to yell an alarm, but a hand, cold and unyielding as a knife’s blade, covered his mouth and and spun him around, drawing him against a body hard as dragon’s scales. The mouth the Taliban soldier thought was eerie, opened. Fangs, like those of a viper, glittered in the moonlight.

Then, the only sound at the guard post was a slight drumming as the dead guard’s feet trembled in the dirt.

(c) Thomas Rowe Drinkard


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