Timing is Everything

By Greyson Hawke

Jace Bostick faces the choice of a lifetime, and timing is of the essence. Transported inexplicably from a combat mission in the Hindu Kush of Afghanistan to a series of curiously linked locations, he unravels mysteries from his past and finds love along the way. Keenly aware that each turn of events brings unimaginable consequences, he is driven by a deep personal code and will stop at nothing in order to get home and protect the ones he loves.

Jace embarks on a breathtaking journey, jumping across the globe and the calendar in a mysterious turn of events that defies logic and leaves him struggling to stay one step ahead of danger. Thrust into an uncertain future, his choices will determine his fate and that of a mysterious and beautiful stranger. Each decision he makes introduces new twists as he meddles with forces of space and time that are beyond his comprehension.

How can he get back home, and what assurance is there that home will still exist as he knows it? A highly skilled special operator and outdoorsman, Jace faces challenges that no amount of training could have possibly prepared him for. He must boldly face extraordinary perils with uncanny street savvy, quick thinking, and the assistance of some advanced technological gadgets he picks up along the way. Trying to get a grip on what is happening and how, he finds himself questioning fate as he engineers his own personal mission to save the ones he loves. This adventure will take you to the most exotic corners of the globe in vivid detail on an unforgiving pathway through both time and space that will keep you anxiously guessing until the last page.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781644249314

Book preview

Chapter 1

Having leapt with all his strength, Jace half expected to miss his mark, and he winced as he made contact with the ground. Sweating profusely, the warm breeze suddenly became a sharp icy wind.

Sprawling violently onto his back in a deep bed of snow, the pain quickly gave way to gripping cold as Jace rose to his feet. His athletic six-foot-four frame cast a shadow on the snow under a bright moon. He looked in disbelief at the view before him. Steep snow-covered mountains sprang from the earth in every direction, reflecting the light of the moon. They offered the most majestic winter landscape that Jace had ever seen. A kaleidoscope of light sparkled from the myriad stars above. Even his beloved Idaho wilderness seemed insignificant in scope and beauty.

Where in the hell am I? Jace knew he did not belong here and had never been here before.

The wind was bitter against his face but far easier to bear than the loss of the woman he had just left. Turning slowly, his heart sank with the realization that she was nowhere to be found. Cursing the recent turn of events, Jace closed his eyes beneath scrunched eyebrows. He could picture her slender figure under the warm summer sun, pleading him to come back…begging him to change his mind.

What have I done? Jace had not changed his mind, and now he would likely never see her again.

Turning from the direction he had come, Jace saw the outline of a human body in the snow, traced by a purple line. Again, he felt the sinking pain of his loss. How could he have been such a fool…everything about her had enchanted him, and every fiber of his being had wanted to cling to her forever. Still, he had let her go. Worse yet, he had left against her wishes.

Jace’s eyes welled up as he looked beyond the severe slope to the lights of a distant village. His high cheekbones reflected the ambient light of the stars, bringing out tiny specks of green in his hazel eyes. Weathered skin pulled taut over his face reflected weeks without proper nourishment but did not diminish his rugged and capable demeanor. A narrow crease of concern formed above the bridge of his nose as Jace transitioned his attention from the beauty surrounding him to the problem at hand. Shifting to an analytical mindset, he was already formulating possible plans for action in his head.

Though disoriented, years of focused training had bolstered the natural confidence of a childhood spent on outdoor adventures. A creative problem-solver, Jace was sure of himself, and his eyebrows knitted together with focus and urgency as he contemplated his predicament.

Chapter 2

2001

Afghanistan

Jace Bostick’s cheeks burned from the biting December wind of the Hindu Kush. Turning toward the west to protect his face from the gusts, the thick cloud of his exhalation swirled in front of his face and fogged his goggles.

Son of a… he muttered as a loose rock shifted beneath his right foot, bringing him crashing to his knee.

Wincing, Jace grasped his knee and pressed up. Nearly two hundred pounds of radios, targeting equipment, and batteries turned this simple act into a painful ordeal. Turning reluctantly back into the wind, he decidedly preferred the stabbing icy wind to the pain of lifting his tired body from the ground again. Adjusting his shemagh, the Afghan scarf that swung across his chin and looped back to cover his head, Jace attempted to trap the warmth of his breath to warm his cheeks. The black-and-white checkered pattern on the fabric was stained with sand and dirt and smelled horribly. Too lazy to tighten it, he trudged on as the scarf immediately sagged back down below his chin to let the icy burn back in.

Having traveling on foot for nearly eight days, he had been completely out of water and food for more than twenty-four hours. Pangs of hunger elicited a limp to his right. Swinging his rifle to the side on the single-point harness, his left hand would reach across his belly to clutch his right side. His guess was that he had lost nearly twenty pounds in barely two months. Accustomed to a strict and healthy diet at home, he was reeling with symptoms of extreme hunger. This was the first time in his life he had literally gone without basic nourishment.

Likewise, Jace’s exercise regimen was completely out the window. An avid distance runner and triathlete, he relied heavily upon basic calisthenics—push-ups, sit-ups, dips… In this frozen world without workout clothes and showers, he now relied upon the daily treks under the weight of his supplies to balance all his fitness needs. It wasn’t the same. He was simply too tired and focused to think about anything but his mission. Water was scarce, and food more so. On the occasion that he was lucky enough to enjoy a local meal of mystery meat, rice, and pan bread, Jace was inevitably rewarded with the need to relieve his bowels every half hour and the dehydration that followed. He had suffered chronically from what he affectionately referred to as the Hershey squirts, requiring regular stops, where he would expose himself to harsh temperatures. Decidedly, the only thing worse than having the squirts was having them without toilet paper or running water. Jace could feel his body deteriorating each day, and he struggled to produce the energy needed simply to crest the next hill on his search.

He knelt low in the snow, shoveling several handfuls into a clear plastic bag hanging from his shoulder inside his parka while he scanned the horizon watchfully. Despite the bitter cold, his long fingers deftly scooped the white powder, funneling it neatly into the bag. His eyes suddenly gleamed as the bright green of vegetation caught his peripherals. His eyebrows jolted at the sight of the colorful tuft poking through the snow four feet away. He recognized the leafy stem and yellow flowers of the Gheghu, commonly used as winter sustenance for livestock in the winter months. Scrambling on all fours and plucking the green sprigs in his hand, Jace stuffed them into his mouth. The dirt that didn’t make it in his mouth dribbled down and into his thick beard, blending into the grime and sweat that covered his face. He smiled intently, knowing that any lack of taste and nutrition was a small price for his first bite in hours. He had stopped being choosy days ago.

Zipping his parka back up, Jace glanced at his watch, calculating the twenty minutes, or so it would take for his body heat to melt his snow bag and produce a refreshing clean drink. Over the recent weeks, Jace had operated in a world of bottled water that tasted bitter and tangy. The labels bragged of fresh mountain springs and distant glaciers, but everyone knew they had been refilled and sealed with contaminated water from nearby cities. Even the seemingly pure bottles of glacier goodness could wreak havoc on his bowels. One of the upsides of these mountainous missions was the prospect of pure water provided by recent snowfall and mountain brooks. He relished the bulge of his snow bag as it began to warm beneath his parka and stepped with a renewed sense of purpose and urgency. With any luck, he would reach the summit ahead and finally be able to hail the ops center on his AN/PRC-117 Wideband Tactical Radio. A celebratory drink of ice-cold snow water would go nicely with friendly voices.

It had been days since Jace had heard any voices beyond the distant murmurs in the Southern Pashto dialect of his enemy. Unlike his teammates, Jace never received mail from home, and the thought of reaching his team leader on a headset was orders of magnitude more appealing. He had only encountered three small groups of men over the past week, and none of them would have communicated with him, except through the sharp popping of their Kalash, the bastardized version of the Russian Kalashnikov, or AK-47, they prized more than wealth or land in these parts. Understandably, he planned to avoid these booger-eating, goat-humping bastards unless his mission required it.

Jace eagerly stretched his legs forward with each stride as he crested the peak. Admittedly, it was but another depressing false summit as the mighty zenith of the mountain came into view ahead. Nonetheless, it offered a superb vantage point for communications, provided that atmospherics and a little luck cooperated. A magnificent view of the Khyber Pass lay to the distant east, reminding him of his hunting days as a teenager in Idaho and Montana. The mountain pass ahead was the spitting image of Trapper Peak, where he used to explore and hike for days. Though more than seven thousand feet lower, the landscape shared the same majesty and rugged beauty he had always associated with his adventurous childhood.

Jace considered himself an accomplished outdoorsman, having spent the majority of his childhood in the historic mining town of Wallace, Idaho. Hunting for deer and bear in the mountain ranges of the northwest, navigation and survival seemed almost second nature even before he had applied to join special operations. Skiing the backcountry on self-discovered trails with his tomboy sister, he had learned to use maps, a compass, and even celestial navigation by the time he was nine. Though two and a half years younger than his sister, Hunter, he had practically taught her the equivalent of the Eagle Scout survival skill sets. Outdoor survival was his bailiwick, and he had honed his tradecraft through various mountaineering handbooks and equipment that he borrowed from their neighbor and dear friend, Cale, a rugged outdoors enthusiast. Together, he and Cale had seized every opportunity to put those concepts into practice.

But unlike the Bitterroot Mountain range of Jace’s youth, these mountains presented a different set of dangers. The name Tora Bora literally means Black Cave in the native Pashto tongue. Rather than a crude lair for bear to hibernate, this was an elaborate complex of caves buried in the White Mountains of Eastern Afghanistan. A feat of engineering, they had been reinforced to withstand the brutal blast of NATO munitions. Inside these crude, cold, and uncomfortable lairs dwelled the slithering and slippery serpents Jace was seeking, the Taliban militias that were hiding their fearless leader in this very cave complex. One of numerous operatives sent to locate the infamous bin Laden, Jace was armed with a radio and laser designator in hopes that he could deal a decisive blow to the Taliban. No, this was nothing like his hunting days in Montana and along the Blackfoot Mountain Range in Idaho. Hunting human prey is a nasty business, and he couldn’t suppress his deep aversion to the unsavory task. He was torn and conflicted by the desire to succeed in his mission and the peace that would come with not having to take human life. The moral contradiction weighed heavily in his heart as he wondered what the coming days would bring.

Having selected a spot that offered both exposure for his radio antennae and rocky cover to hide his silhouette, Jace began unfolding his antennae array while the radio went through its booting-up sequence. Glancing quickly first at his satellite chart and then at his wrist compass, he guestimated the azimuth and angle of the flowering metal antennae as its petals extended to magnify signals.

One-six-zero degrees at forty-two degrees…, he muttered to himself as he eyed the horizon, scanned back to the antennae, and then followed the projection of the thin metal shaft upward toward the sky. Propping the antennae against his leg, he demonstrated great comfort in matching the antennae placement to the satellite trajectory. Getting the correct angle and dangle was a skill he had developed through years of practice. Placing his headset over his ears, Jace raised a hand to his earpiece, activating the power button and noise canceling feature. The sound of static wavered and died as he adjusted the squelch dial. He had cut the index fingers off both his wool gloves, enabling operation of both his weapon and equipment without exposing the rest of his hands to the harsh weather.

Propping his M-4 carbine on the rocks, he peered through the Trijicon ACOG scope to scan the horizon as he spoke. With one index finger covering his trigger guard, the other fumbled across his left chest for the push-to-talk button. The radio emitted a piercing but momentary blast of static.

Kodiak Zero-One, this is Lenox Four-Seven. How copy?

Again he said, Kodiak Zero-One, Kodiak Zero-One, Lenox Four-Seven, over.

Seconds later, scratchy remnants of speech whispered through Jace’s earpiece. Hardly audible, these electronic translations of human speech offered but a smattering of sense. Nonetheless, Jace jolted slightly upright with excitement, instinctively lowering himself again behind the cover of his rocky concealment.

Lenox… ak…return…let…mmmpphh…, then muffled static. A stream of mostly undecipherable jargon sparked from his earpiece. Nonetheless, this was certainly good news, and again, Jace’s eyebrows danced at the sound of his partial call sign.

Kodiak Zero-One, this is Lenox in the blind. Be advised, I have had negative contact. Repeat, negative contact with DRIFTER. Food and water depleted, request resupply, how copy?

Lenox Four-Seven, Kodiak Zero-One, copy all. Be advised, Mustang, base plus four hours and twenty-three minutes. Mustang, base plus four hours and twenty-three minutes. Recommend immediate rally to Tango Four-Two. How copy?

Lenox copies all, Wilco, he uttered with a critical tone. A crease appeared above the bridge of his nose as his brows knitted together, and he uncovered his watch with a sense of urgent desperation.

Jace’s mind quickly recalled his mission brief days earlier. Growing resistance in the area had spurred talk of escalated measures back at the ops center, and Mustang was the pro-word, or code, for launch of the famed BLU-82 bomb. Base plus four hours and twenty-three minutes, referred to a predesignated time, and indicated the time of impact. His watch confirmed his worst fear—that he was within minutes of the projected impact of a munition fondly referred to as the MOAB, or Mother of all Bombs. This was not good…

His mind racing, Jace recollected pieces of the briefing he had received at the Air Operations Center, or AOC, prior to departing. They had made a point of emphasizing the effects of this bomb, even to the extent of bringing in aircrew who had witnessed detonations from the air. The BLU-82 was a beast of a weapon that had achieved more through its psychological effects than the actual blast during the Gulf War of 1991. It produces a concentrated overpressure of more than one thousand pounds per square inch at ground zero. Despite the dramatic explosion, blast ring, and mushroom cloud, the effects dissipate quickly as distance from the impact point increases. This was one baby Jace did not intend to meet on his walkabout. At a minimal standoff distance, it was survivable but near the point of impact it was unimaginable.

Scrambling to disconnect the antenna and collect his belongings, he was on his feet and moving even before his fingers clasped his map and rifle grip. He unclipped his go-bag—the self-contained portion of his ruck containing the bare necessities for survival—leaving the bulk of his weight and supplies on the ground. At a full sprint, he moved with a deliberate urgency as he began to negotiate the rugged slope. His M-4 carbine and the compact go-bag slung over his shoulder weighed only about thirty-five pounds, significantly less than the deer he used to hump out of the Bitterroots back home. His predicament was not altogether unfamiliar, and memories flashed in his head as he embraced the excitement of his situation. Though too old now for this sort of adventure, his friend Cale would have reveled in the chaos. Jace could almost imagine him bounding down the hill beside him with a twisted pleasure…

Paring down his supplies had been necessary for survival. The targeted Tora Bora cave complex was massive, but he could not risk being caught near the impact point. He had to move as far and fast as he could.

Dauntless and determined, Jace bounded down the precipitous slope. For a seasoned special operator, the stress had a cathartic effect, and he was moving with calculated precision despite the unwieldy go-bag strapped to his back. Nonetheless, the precarious slope was laced with loose rocks and unstable ground. He tripped, sliding over the ground like a base runner face-first to beat the tag. Unfortunately, this base was made of sharp rocks and looked much like a freight train screaming toward his head.

Black…

The whine of an aging C-130 Combat Talon cargo aircraft flying overhead is distinct but especially to a soldier accustomed to jumping out of them. Jace’s eyes fluttered as he regained consciousness. The brief respite from danger ended abruptly as his body reeled with the sharp phantom pain of a thousand pins and needles. He had been knocked unconscious before and was all too familiar with this feeling. Sitting up with a puzzled look, he strained to piece together the details of his situation. Like floodlights, his eyes suddenly widened to an impossible size as he struggled to stand. His cursed knee gave again, and he tumbled forward. Blood now colored his muddy face, and he could taste it through the cracked corner of his mouth. Using the rocks as a starting block, he was suddenly off again at a breakneck speed.

Hoping that the fall had not been a harbinger of events to come, Jace scrambled frantically toward safety. Turning sharply to his left for a cutback, he plowed downward. Anticipating each rocky foothold three steps out, Jace approached a rocky crevasse nearly five feet wide.

To his surprise, he saw a figure crumpled on the jagged rocks on the other side of the crevasse. The man wore tan pants, a black fleece jacket, and a faded red baseball hat, the kind of beacon a reporter might wear in the Afghanistan landscape. The man’s face held an odd, vacuous expression.

We have to get out of here! Jace yelled in a panicked voice. This place is about to go up in smoke!

Leave me alone, Bostick! the man yelled with a sudden look of recognition and panic. Stay away from me! His leg was twisted on the rocks, and Jace could see the white sheen of bone protruding from ripped pants amid a splash of blood.

Confused, Jace knew they were out of time. He was there because he’d lost contact with his team leader, but this guy should never have been within ten kilometers of Jace’s position. He had to help.

With his eyes, Jace plotted his route across the gap and down to the mysterious and helpless stranger. Winding up to heave his six-foot-four frame and rucksack across the chasm, Jace eyed the triangular jutting rock he had selected as his landing pad. His right leg bent deep in anticipation of hurtling himself across this impossible gap. He heard a deafening whistle…

Designed to detonate a mere thirty-eight inches from the ground, the blast found Jace in midstride, leaping toward the triangular rock platform in a frantic frenzy of fear and excitement. The 12,600 pounds of ammonium nitrate, aluminum powder, and polystyrene exploded, and Jace felt an icy, electric surge of energy passing through his body…

Chapter 3

Blinded by a powdery purple haze and shaken by the vibrations that shot through his body, Jace’s left foot reached in vain for the triangular foothold of the rocky ledge that he had been aiming for. His heart skipped as he realized the rock was no longer there. With a high-pitched yell, he tumbled into a blur of evanescent purple and yellow. Instinctively tucking his elbows and protecting his face with his hands, he executed a curiously graceful roll that his teammates would immediately have recognized as a parachute landing fall, or PLF. His feet firmly together, they bent to his left as the impact of his fall was absorbed first by the balls of his feet and his calf, then by his right thigh and hip as he smoothly rolled onto the side of his back. His feet swinging over his head, he used the momentum of the fall to fluidly transition back to his feet as if the whole display was planned for an audience.

Instinctively assuming an aggressive posture, Jace kept a deep wide stance with his right hand high for a strike while his left hand prepared to parry. His years of practice in the distinctive martial arts technique of Filipino Eskrima could never have prepared him for what he encountered next…flowers?

Jace sneezed violently as a burning sensation filled his nostrils and worked down his throat and into his chest.

Pain…lots of pain…all over. With one hand, Jace touched the right side of his forehead. His frontal sinuses had pressurized and screamed with the threat to explode. His left hand he held in front of him, watching curiously as he extended and contracted his slender fingers repeatedly. The stabbing pain of a thousand needles covered not just his hand but his whole body. It was familiar, the same distinct stabbing of countless needles he had experienced regaining consciousness…the painful tingling sensation that made his skin crawl with discomfort. As he moved his fingers, the needle stabs seemed to lessen. He dropped his right hand, doing the same while he took turns extending and shaking off each leg and arm. Finally, the pain subsided, only to reveal that the pressure in his sinuses had not.

Grasping his forehead again with a wince, Jace reached his left hand to the shoulder height rapeseed stalks and pinched the purple powder in his fingers. Lifting it to his nose, he sniffed gently, feeling the cold powder flow into his nostrils. More pain…burning pain… Sneezing violently, he grasped his nose with both hands as the pain seemed to coat his airways. Groaning, he knelt and massaged his nose and throat. Smacking his dry, cracking lips, a sudden thirst came over him.

Water, Jace gasped as he lunged toward a small wooden shed that was buoyed in his flowery sea. Pushing the tall stalks aside as he approached, he could see a shovel, a fishing pole, and a small tool chest on the ground outside a padlocked door.

Water! he said with urgency as he opened the tool chest and poured the contents on the ground. As fishing supplies spilled onto the dirt, he turned, grasped the shovel, and slammed the digging blade into the padlock with a mighty blow. Sparks emitted as the antique keylock broke open with the first hit, and he pulled the iron door handle. Tipping stacks of fertilizer bags, Jace suddenly froze. Grasping his shoulder, his eyes gleamed as he confirmed the presence of his snow bag. Pulling it out, he peeled open the top and took a long drink. As the remaining snow and ice settled to the bottom, he was not dissuaded by the icy water he was extracting from the bag. Immediately, the pain of his airways and sinuses seemed to subside. Bending over, he placed both hands on his knees, still grasping the snow bag as he peered out the shed door into the yellow sea. His knee throbbed with pain from his fall on the rocky landscape minutes before the blast.

As his eyes adjusted to this new world, Jace sneezed again, not sure if it was from the purple powdery haze that was settling over his head or from the bright yellow field of flowers that stretched endlessly before him. He dropped his arms in bewilderment, slumping his shoulders as he made a slow 360-degree turn to examine the drop zone. The view was the same wherever he looked. A sea of rapeseed flowers stretched in all directions with green trees rising in the distance like mountains out of a yellow ocean. The soft, warm wind produced gentle waves, bringing the fields to life beneath the cloudy sky. The wooden shed stood like a buoy anchored in a giant sea of yellow. Surrounding Jace at his point of impact was a layer of fine ethereal powder, floating atop the rapeseed ocean as if he were aboard a bright purple boat.

Jace could see the gentle curved lines of the rape field where the farmers made wide swaths in their tractors. The landscape that stretched out before him was decidedly disparate from the cold, dry mountain he had been on moments ago. Only feet away, he could make out a rugged dirt road, hidden from most angles by the tall rapeseed crop. Rising, Jace slung the snow bag back under coat and began walking along the road toward the sun. The cold bag was welcome against his torso as he removed his scarf and fingerless gloves in what seemed like the heat of a summer day. Everything about his new environment was incongruous with what he would have anticipated from the blast of the BLU-82 in the wintery landscape of Afghanistan.

Turning onto the dirt road, Jace followed the soft green path of grass in the center, lined on each side by the narrow brown tracks carved into the earth by farm equipment. As he rounded a gentle curve, a part in the trees gave way to a magnificent cathedral spire in the distance. Most certainly Christian, the medieval structure was square and ornate, poking through the distant carpet of green trees nearly three miles away. It must have been enormous.

Where the hell am I? Jace muttered.

It had been three months since the Twin Towers fell, and Jace had spent more than two of those in Afghanistan. Traveling to practically every corner of the war-torn country during that time, he had become intimately familiar with the geography, the diverse landscapes and climates, and the vegetation. Nothing in this moment gave even the slightest hint of familiarity or comfort. On the contrary, every detail of his current environment seemed to challenge his expectations. Something was very wrong here, and he was desperate to quell his growing confusion and fear.

Jace was confident, knowing that years of outdoor adventures had prepared him for anything. He knew how to navigate, triangulate, locate, circumnavigate, and guestimate. He had conducted his own flight planning learning to fly Cale’s crop duster, a Piper PA-36 Pawnee Brave. He had lived for a week in Craters of the Moon National Park…in the winter. Cale had taught him the fundamentals of dead reckoning and the use of a sextant before he started high school, and for a decade, he had developed advanced survival and map skills around the globe under the tutelage of the most elite international military teams. He was very good, and he never got lost.

But still, despite his skills, Jace faced an unfamiliar quandary. Where the hell am I? he muttered the phrase again with a tone of frustration that was rare. Jace prided himself in his calm composure and patience.

Taking a knee in the pathway, Jace gently rolled the small pack from his back. He was already overheating in the warm air, and it was a relief to remove the parka that had so recently repelled icy winds. Unlike so many soldiers, he enjoyed very nontraditional gear. Jace considered it one of the perks for selection into an elite career field. His clothing had all been selected for a combination of quality and functionality. Peeling back his heavy tan parka, he unzipped the front and sides of a black fleece to release some heat. Unzipping the sides of gray trousers, the stained black fabric fell from his legs and waist without the need to remove his boots. His gray cargo pants and a pair of hiking boots were better suited to the warm breeze that pushed across the sea of yellow flowers. Stowing the checkered shemagh from his head and his gloves, he stepped back to revel in this newfound freedom. It had been a long time since he had escaped the heavy gear and clothing selected for survival in the harsh and formidable Hindu Kush. Exhausted from his harrowing escape, the serene field suggested a welcome hiatus.

Removing his fleece, Jace reached under each armpit in turn, pulling the large Velcro tabs of his body armor free with a loud rip. Pulling the small vest over his head, he dropped it in a heap on the ground with a large metallic clang as the plates banged together through the black cotton fabric. He was suddenly and keenly aware of the tremendous weight loss he had experienced during the past few weeks. Looking down, he saw the outline of his legs through the gray utility pants and the long-sleeve high-collar shirt that had served as undergarments. He felt strangely liberated from the constraints and weight of his military gear, and it was quite refreshing.

Jace pulled out a satellite phone, cycling through a deliberate and perfunctory sequence of steps. Swinging the giant antennae upward and entering the access code, he dialed the familiar number to his command center. After a brief silence broken only by tinny, electrically generated beeping sounds, a long tone was accompanied by a message that read This phone is not in service. Dialing his parent unit in Tacoma, Washington, he waited again for the call to go through. Once more, a long tone announced his apparent inability to dial out.

Returning to his go-bag, Jace removed his AN/PSN-11 PLUGGER, the precision lightweight military issue GPS that served as his savior in a land where the only available maps were dated Russian atrocities to the survey world. Initializing it, he placed it in the center of the road, returning to his small pack as it searched for satellites in an attempt to geolocate. The next thing Jace reached for was the bulky green rubberized laser range finder that could tell him the distance and direction from faraway objects. Powering it on, he squinted toward the distant cathedral. Knowing it was too far for the Mark VII range finder to pick up, he continued to scour the horizon. Nearly ninety degrees to his right, Jace spotted yet another spire, this one very close. Raising the machine to eye level, he put the crosshairs on the stony surface of the steeple and fired the laser energy. Instantaneously, the beam bounced back to Jace, producing a digital readout that indicated the less than two-kilometer walk he had before him.

Returning to his GPS, Jace laid his map out on the ground and read the coordinates from the display quietly to himself. Running his finger along the top and left hand side of the map, Jace was confused.

What the…

Turning the map over, he found the cover page to do a cursory check.

Series name…sheet number…edition… None of them matched the GPS. What the hell is going on?

Aarrrggh! he exclaimed as he got up and let the map blow across the road as it dropped from his hand. For someone who had spent a decade mastering land navigation and the use of his technological tools, he felt utterly helpless. The data didn’t make sense, and it was orders of magnitude away from what he had expected.

Where am I?

Chapter 4

1972

Montana

The story behind Jace’s move to Wallace was not a happy one, but it shaped his life in many subtle ways. He had been only a year old at the time and wouldn’t learn of the circumstances surrounding the move for many years to come. His parents, Isabella and Mick Bostick, had loved living in Montana and would likely have stayed there had it not been for a series of unfortunate events they wished to bury deep in their past.

Raised in Bozeman, they had grown to love almost everything about the area. Jace’s mother, Bella, grew up with an insatiable passion for horses and fly-fishing, which she quenched at her uncle’s large ranch. Though constantly struggling to make ends meet financially, they found great wealth in the way they lived and the land they owned. Winding aimlessly through acres of farmland, tall marsh grass, and grazing pastures, the East Gallatin River offered miles of open trails and a solitude for fishermen.

Jace’s father had grown up hunting and backpacking in the Bridger Range and the Gallatin National Forest that stretched into Wyoming. Somewhat of a survival savant, he had always been more at home in the wilderness than indoors. Though rugged and strong, Mick had a gentle and unthreatening demeanor that endeared everyone around him. His soft smile and gentle voice were disarming and lent intimacy to any interaction. His eyes rarely drifted far from Bella, and his deep affection for her was apparent to all who saw them together. Without question, it was Bella’s thirst for the outdoors that drew them together, ultimately igniting his own passion for fly-fishing as they shared countless hikes deep into the countryside with nothing but a pack and a fly pole.

Jace had himself never been to the town of Belgrade, where his parents had spent the first few years of their marriage. It wasn’t until his senior year of high school, in fact, that his father had shared the events of 1972 that had culminated in their search for a fresh start. After that, the story served as an object lesson through which Mick emphasized qualities like courage, character, strength, and conviction.

Like so many sunny afternoons before, Bella and Mick had hiked well into the rolling landscape southwest of Sacagawea Peak. The East Gallatin River snaked to and fro like a ball of yarn unraveled across the valley in a chaotic trail that turned on itself and back again a hundred times. It was a warm July day, and they had settled at Bella’s favorite spot under the shade of a twisted redbud oak tree. The circuitous river turned sharply out of sight in both directions, providing a sense of privacy and solitude. After a morning of fishing, they were sharing a blanket with an assortment of feathers, hair, and line as they assembled handmade flies. The late afternoon sun emitted a soft orange hue as it reflected off the water. A soothing ripple rose from the rocky bank of the river as the water wound southward.

Bella considered this her