Dark Shepherd the Novel

By Stephen C Norton

When Kellen is sent to Iraq as part of the Bush / Major War on Terror, he immediately finds himself in constant firefights with insurgents and mujahedeen. Shot in the arm on his first sortie, he finds himself gradually developing a unique ability. By the end of his fifth gun-battle he finds he is bullet-proof. He’s thrilled at his new ability, until the CIA discover it and try to force him to join a black ops team of assassins. Bullet-proof is one thing, but when a suicide bomber sets off a massive explosion bare feet away, Kellen is killed, leaving behind his wife and child.

Already grief-stricken after losing her husband to the war, Anna is devastated when her child is hit by a motorcycle rider. Now her child lies in a coma, while the rider is unknown and running free. Anna searches for months, and finds nothing. No clues, no hope. Seeking some relief from her misery, she visits her aunt in the country. There she finds some peace, and then she finds the rider. Now she has a chance for justice, and she has Kellen’s gun. But at the last minute an ominous figure steps between her and the rider, seemingly protecting him. Who is this Dark Shepherd, and why does he deny her vengeance?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen C Norton
• Release date: Jun 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9781990769016

Stephen C Norton

Stephen started his career as a marine biologist, later switched to managing computer support and development teams, and is now a full time author and artist. He lives on the West Coast of Canada with his wife and one crazy cat. He has sixteen books currently available in both paperback and e-book formats, including four novels, two guides on Soapstone Carving, one on Stained Glass Art, and multiple guides to various self-publishing topics. While currently working on a forth novel he has at least five other books planned for the next few years. An artist for most of his life, he's worked in many mediums, from oil painting to blown glass. For the last 20 years he's focused on carving soapstone sculptures and writing.He can be reached via his web site at www.stephencnorton.comTo purchase any of his books please go to his author pages atwww.amazon.com/author/stephencnorton on Amazon and www.smashwords.com/profile/view/northwind on Smashwords. His books are also available on Apple iBooks, Barnes & Noble, Kobo and other resellers.

Book preview

Introduction

In January 2015 I had a dream. Actually a continuous series of dreams across a single night. I'd dream, wake up, write down the dream and then go back to sleep. As soon as I went to sleep again the dream would pick up right where it had left off. An hour or so later I'd wake up again and write down the next section of the tale. When I woke up the next morning I was dead tired and I had the initial short story of Anna and the Dark Shepherd pretty much complete. I cleaned it up, fixed some minor issues and published the short story.

Over the next year or so I added a few bits and pieces to the story, but nothing felt right, so I ended up just putting it away in a drawer. Over the next couple of years I'd occasionally poke and prod at it, but still nothing seemed to work right. The bits and pieces just never gelled. Other books captured my attention, so Shepherd pretty much sat in the drawer. Until late 2021. I'd just finished publishing Fallen Meteor, the fourth in my series of humans meeting up with alien artificial intelligences, and I wanted something other than hard science fiction to work on.

I dug out Dark Shepherd. Re-read it. Discarded 90% of the bits and pieces I'd added over the years, rearranged the sequence of events, and found myself writing on an almost daily (nightly) basis. The novel Dark Shepherd, the book that you are currently holding in your hands, simply flowed out of my imagination onto the page. (Yes, I do still handwrite my first draft, and then use Dragon NaturallySpeaking to dictate from paper onto the computer. Old-fashioned I guess, but that's the way it works best for me.)

I'd hit the occasional snag. Let it rest for a few days, then find myself waking during the night, or rushing out of the shower to grab pen and paper, with the next chapter pouring out of my head. And so dear reader, I give you Dark Shepherd, the novel. Only seven years in the making. It's amazing what your subconscious will do if you put a story on the back burner while you go on to write other books. And strangely, while I've been writing Dark Shepherd, a fifth book about Jodi and the alien intelligences has developed to a nearly complete storyline.

Terry Pratchett, whom I consider to be one of the great authors of our times, said inspiration comes as particles, pouring out of the sky, much like cosmic rays. When an inspiration particle hits a receptive mind, something amazing is created. According to Terry a duck would have created an utterly amazing piano concerto if only it could have stretched its webbed feet across a keyboard. Inspiration particles obviously don't care what or who they hit. Where do I get my inspirations from? From Terry and his inspiration particles. It's just that sometimes you have to wait for the right particle to hit you. And sometimes you can wait for years. You just have to be ready to write it down when it hits.

Stephen

2022

Dark Shepherd

The Novel

Kellen and the CIA

The first time might well have been the last, but the bullet hit his arm instead of taking him in the chest, and so he lived to see the second time.

Like many of the coalition soldiers in the squad, he was new to actual warfare. He'd been in the UK Armed Forces (Reserves) for several years, moving from private to Corporal and finally to Sergeant, but all of that was based on peacetime exercises and practicing. Having live fire targets shooting back at him was an entirely new and novel experience. Definitely an unwelcome one.

He'd been deployed to Iraq in the first week of 2004. His early patrols had been milk runs, as Command acclimatized the new troops to both the combat environment and the oppressive heat. The situation had been relatively calm until March, which began with multiple bombings in Baghdad and Karbala at the climax of the Shi'a festival of Aashurah. The attacks were eventually attributed to Jama'at al-Tawhid wal-Jihad, a militant Sunni group which viewed Shi’a as heretical. The bombings killed nearly two hundred Shi’a Muslims and was the equivalent of dropping a lit match into a tanker full of high-octane fuel. Militant groups of all types stormed the streets of Baghdad, and over a thousand people, mostly civilians, were killed in the weeks following the initial attacks. The trouble was, coalition forces were seen as a target of choice by both sides and patrols had suddenly gone from milk-runs to heavily armed convoys running a gauntlet of fire.

His patrol had been moving quietly and stealthily through the streets of eastern Baghdad, trying to control the religiously inspired slaughter, when they came under fire from a roof-top sniper. The first shot took out Smitty, just one step in front of Kellen. As everyone dove for cover amid the market stalls and returned fire, a second sniper shot at Kellen. He felt the shock slam through his upper arm. Blood sprayed as he threw himself desperately into a nearby doorway. A fusillade of shots rang out, both the spaced, single shots of the snipers and the chatter of AK-47’s, mixed with the automatic fire of M-16s. There was a cry, and a dull thud as a body fell from the roof and landed in the street across from where Kellen crouched. He scanned the rooftops opposite. A shadow moved and he fired at it. More shots rang out, peppering the bricks along the roof-line, Kellen heard the sound of another body falling and then silence descended.

After a few moments the troopers cautiously left the cover, still scanning the now empty rooftops. An armored troop carrier swung into the street, disgorging several more soldiers. A medic reached Smitty and immediately started working on him. A second medic reached Kellen’s side and after a quick diagnosis slapped a compression pack on his arm and helped him into the ATC. Smitty was loaded in immediately after him, the medic still working frantically on him. The two dead shooters from the roof were tossed in as well, just to get the bodies off the street, and the ATC took off, headed for the base hospital. The back of the ATC was filled with the soft mutterings of the medics and the grunts of pain coming from Smitty. Kellen grit his teeth in pain, and held the pressure bandage against his upper arm. His back and side ached from his precipitous dive into the doorway, but he mentally decided he’d rather be bruised than shot. Looking at the blood covered Smitty he knew he was lucky to have escaped with just an arm wound.

That was his first firefight, the first time he’d been shot and the first time he’d shed blood. Over the next few months he survived several more firefights. On several occasions he took hits, but his bullet-proof jacket seemed to catch them all, leaving nothing more than large bruises and a mild feeling of confusion. In the instant he was shot, some hits seemed to have been more than they later turned out to be. Other hits were questionable, and though he thought a couple should have, none had drawn blood again. When he took a major hit on his last patrol, the end result was completely different.

~~~

The sound of several AK-47’s on full automatic hammered down from the roof line above. The first slug took him high in the neck. The rest of the bullets marched down his chest, abdomen, and across his thighs. He was slammed backwards by the impact, falling to the dust of the street, but continued the roll and came back onto his feet. He ended with his M-16 leveled at the roof, centered on the chest of the man standing there, staring down at him in astonishment. He pulled the trigger, held it down, and watched his bullets smash into the man's AK, then into his chest. Blood sprayed. The ambusher fell backwards and dropped from sight. Kellen stopped firing, dove into the nearest doorway, hunkered down and looked around.

Other members of his squad were scattered in various areas of cover along the street. Half the squad scanned the rooftops. The others scanned the road, windows and doorways. Above, the faint sound of running footsteps faded away, and silence settled onto the street for several moments.

The silence was broken by the crackle of a combat radio.

Janssen, call it in. The rest of you sweep the area. Max, you'd better take a look at our Limey over there. See what needs patching, ‘cause I’m pretty sure he got hit bad.

Max headed over to Kellen, though both continued to scan the area for anyone else carrying a weapon.

Hey, Kellen, where's the hole?

Kellen paused, patted himself down, looking for blood. His entire body ached, from neck to chest to groin, but his hand came away clean. No blood.

Seems I'm okay Max, he replied, vaguely surprised. No holes.

Max looked at him in disbelief.

No way, man! You took a full mag in the chest! I saw the slugs hitting you. Let me check. You must be in shock or something and missed it.

Max did a full body check, then sat back on his heels, puzzled.

I don't believe it. What god do you have protecting you, buddy? All I can see is that huge bruise on your neck. What’s with that?

Must've hit something on my way down and into cover. Kellen replied.

He rubbed his hand along the side of his neck. Bruised, badly swollen, but not really that serious, all things considered. Definitely no blood. He looked puzzled, thoughtful. It was strange. He was sure he had felt that first bullet hitting him in the neck, right where that bruise was. But that couldn’t be, because then he’d be dead.

Max ran his fingers down Kellen’s chest, following the damage ripped into the bullet-proof jacket, across his hips and stopped at his thigh.

So what's with this then? Max touched Kellen's upper thigh, pocking a finger through two bullet holes.

Easy there big boy, Kellen muttered. You're getting just a little personal.

Don't shit me, man, those are fresh bullet holes. There should be matching holes in your leg right underneath them.

Kellen reached down, fingered the holes. Rubbed his fingers along his thigh where the bullets had penetrated his pants leg. Like his neck, the leg was badly bruised, even worse than his neck, but again, no blood, so no big deal.

Just the luck of the Irish, I guess. Kellen slapped Max on the shoulder. Come on, the LT is signaling retreat back to base. Let's get the hell out of here, before those buggers come back with their friends.

Max looked at him doubtfully, then shrugged and followed him to join the rest of the squad.

That evening he showed up at Kellen's bunkhouse.

Well, what did the doc say?

What? Kellen looked up from where he sat on his bunk. Oh. Not much.

He hefted his bullet-proof jacket.

Some major bruising from where the jacket took the bullets. Five days R&R to recover.

Max looked skeptical. Really? That’s all. What about your neck? He moved as if to pull Kellen’s shirt away so he could see and Kellen flinched back.

No, really, everything’s OK. Guess I was just damn lucky, my jacket took the brunt of it all.

Hey, what's with that jacket? I've never seen one like that, and what are you doing with it? Max allowed himself to be distracted, though the look on his face remained doubtful.

It's called a Dragonskin. Instead of a single solid ceramic plate front and back like the standard issue, it has a whole series of overlapping polyceramic discs. Each one overlaps those around it.

Kellen held up the disc he’d been holding, about two inches in diameter.

And what I'm doing is swapping out the ones that took bullet strikes today for fresh discs. It's called a Dragonskin because that's the way it's built, like the scales of a Dragon.

He flipped the disc he held, watched it spin in the air and then caught it.

These slip into pockets all over the vest. When one gets hit you swap it out for a new one. That way, the vest is always in ‘as new’ condition. It's a bit heavier than the regular vests, but the discs allow for full wraparound under the arms while still letting you move with reasonable ease. That’s probably why I survived today.

Hah! Well, after what I just saw happen to you, it looks pretty damn good to me. But how come you don't use the standard Interceptor vest the rest of us got issued?

Well, the US Army rejected the Dragonskin. They claimed it failed all the tests they put it through. In fact they even went so far as to ban the US troops from using them at all.

So how come you have one?

‘Because I'm with the UK forces remember, not the US. I'm your squadron liaison and token Limey. And the other reason is my wife. She did a whole bunch of research and decided this was the absolute best vest available. Studied all the test results and decided the US Army testers were just a little too close to their chosen suppliers. One of them even worked for Interceptor, so she wasn’t too surprised that he picked that company. She decided the Dragonskin was better. She obviously wants me to come home again, because she gave me this as a going away present. Along with about five hundred replacement discs. I thought she was being a bit pessimistic at the time, but after the last few months I'm not so sure. I may have to write to her and get her to send me another pack of replacement disks. Trouble is, that will really freak her out ‘cause I’d have to admit I’ve already used five hundred disks."

Max started to ask another question, but was interrupted by a soft cough from behind him. They both turned and looked at the man standing there. He was in fatigues, but had no insignia or company badges displayed. Early middle aged, he would have been hard to pick out of a crowd, except for his eyes. They were cold, calculating, and made Kellen think of a snake. The look on the man’s rather gaunt face gave the impression he evaluated everyone and found them all lacking. Just standing there in the doorway, he might as well have been wearing a huge sign on his chest reading ‘undercover CIA agent’.

Later dude. Max said, and hurriedly left the bunkhouse.

Sergeant Harrigan?

Yes. What can I do for you?

I'm Special Agent Crosby, with the CIA, and I've just finished talking to some of your squad mates and your company doctor. They all seem to agree that you should be dead.

Oh? How so?

Well, two of them swear they saw you take a bullet in the neck, and the doc swears that the holes in your pants leg should've left matching bullet holes through your thigh. Care to explain?

Kellen hefted the Dragonskin again.

Best damn bulletproof jacket around. he said.

That explains the bullet holes across your chest. What about the neck and the thigh?

Jacket’s got a high neck. Must have torn my pants during the scuffle into cover. All sorts of sharp things laying around on the streets out there. It must've been, mustn't it? It's not like I'm Superman with bulletproof skin, now is it?

Forgive me if I don't play stupid, Crosby replied, anger shading his tone of voice, but there are a number of rumors floating around that claim that's exactly what you do have. I've been watching you for several months now. You've been on quite a few patrols, many of which have ended up in firefights. In some of those fights you've taken hits, but only ever drawn blood once, during your very first firefight. As a UK liaison you've been rotated through three squads now, and they all say the same thing. In fact it seems your nickname is ‘Lucky’. I'm beginning to believe it, and I'd like to know more.

Kellen looked at him. This guy was deadly serious. Or possibly seriously deranged. Or possibly both. Either way, he was damn dangerous.

Okay. I guess you've got me. Yes, I'm from Krypton, and I'm living here in disguise. Man of steel, that's me.

Don't treat me like an idiot, Harrigan. When three different squads all say the same thing there’s likely to be some truth behind what they say.

The anger was stronger now, more menacing. Possibly because he knew he was talking bullshit and madness. Possibly because, even knowing what he said was insane, he actually believed what he was saying.

Okay. So you think I'm bulletproof. I think I've just been damn lucky, and my vest has caught all the bullets. What can I say? I'm Irish. Sometimes we draw the luck. Now I'd appreciate it if you left, before you mess up my luck.

No. I don't think so. In fact, I think we need to test my theory somehow.

‘What? Are you nuts? What are you going to do? Shoot me here, in the middle of the camp? How will you explain that to your CO.

Crosby looked at Kellen, as if he were calculating odds.

Guess we'll find out, won't we?

With that cryptic remark he pulled out a small handgun, pointed it at Kellen’s shoulder and pulled the trigger. It all happened in an instant, one smooth, rapid flow of motion.

It caught Kellen completely by surprise. He had never thought for a moment that the guy was quite that nuts. He froze for a split second, then threw himself sideways away from the gun. Not fast enough. The slug caught him square in the left shoulder, just to the left of the joint. A stab of pain impacted the shoulder, followed by a hot flush across the area and down into his chest. Kellen hit the floor, rolled slightly to cover his shoulder, and stayed down. Hopefully someone had heard the shot and called the MPs. All he had to do was stall.

Now, Sergeant Harrigan. Kindly roll over onto your back and let me see your shoulder. If you’re hurt, I will apologize profusely and you will never see me again. If you're not hurt, well, we'll see. And if you're waiting for help to come, don't bother. I sent the MPs off on a little wild goose chase to the other side of camp. This little gun is actually one of my favorites.’ He hefted it in his hand. ‘It's a nice little .22. Nice and quiet, doesn’t even really sound like a gun at all, more like a firecracker. And, if I only fire once, usually no one even notices. Now roll over, or I will fire again. Into a leg this time, I think.

He pointed the gun at Kellen’s thigh.

Reluctantly, Kellen rolled over, hand clasped to his shoulder, hand covering the impact point.

Move the hand.

Kellen dropped his hand, climbed slowly to his feet and then dropped back onto his bunk. His shoulder ached. Getting shot still hurt like hell, even when the bullet didn’t penetrate. He looked at Crosby. He was close enough to tackle him but what could he do if he took Crosby down? Kill him? Then what?

Crosby was studying Kellen’s shoulder.

That’s fucking unreal. He exclaimed in amazement. Not even a scratch. Even the bruising is starting to fade already. I didn't really believe it until now. Thought the guys were just putting me on. That is truly amazing! How big a caliber can you withstand?

Kellen glared at him. Remained silent.

Oh, come on now. Let's be friends. We’re going to be working together for a long time to come, whether you like it or not. You need to set your animosity aside or I'll have to punish you.

Work with you? What are you talking about?

Why, Sergeant Harrigan, with an ability like this, you have a great career ahead of you in covert operations. Counter-terrorism. Perhaps the occasional black op, that sort of thing. I'll arrange to have you transferred to my unit as your next rotation, as part of the liaison thing, of course. Then you and I will start to take out some carefully selected opposition targets.

First, I don't think the UK command will go for that. And second, what’s to stop me from killing you the first chance I get.

"‘Sergeant, Sergeant. You disappoint me. I'm afraid you badly underestimate just how much influence we have with the high command. You may not realize it but this entire war is actually a CIA operation. We worked with the White House, supplied the evidence that President Bush so badly wanted. Gave him the justification. We even helped develop the battle plans you’re now enacting. Bush was happy to have his war, make his mark on history, and your boy Major just walked right into it, carried along on the tide of misinformation. We just had to nudge things along here and there. And in your case we’ll just nudge you into a special squad.

And as for killing me. Well. If I die or go missing, a friend of mine will point some other friends, he waved vaguely towards downtown Baghdad, at your lovely wife and your pretty little daughter."

"You may not realize it, but the mujahideen and other insurgents have also taken notice of you. Some call you the ‘protected one’, though others call you a djinn, a demon from the deep deserts. It’s actually rather funny. They've even put a price on your head. I think it's up to ten thousand US so far. They would be quite overjoyed to find out your name, and the name and address of your family.

So. Your shoulder looks completely normal again. Already! Damn, in just those few minutes. Even the bruising is pretty much gone. Truly amazing.

Now, you’ll tell no one of this conversation. When this rotation ends, you'll allow yourself to be transferred to your new squad without making any ripples or causing any problems. We'll begin operations then. And remember. You mess with me, and someone not nearly as nice as me will mess with your wife and daughter."

Kellen glared at him in silence. Did he dare to tackle Crosby right now. Could he have already set up the