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First pages

This tale is based upon actual events…


To Everything There is a Season

Chapter One

Autumn 1979

Hoquiam, Washington


Being sophomore class president was not really as bad as he thought it would be when he was elected into the position at the end of his freshman year. Nearly all August he dreaded coming back to school. By Labor Day those feeling had turned to anxiety. He knew he had to stand in front of the entire student body, almost six hundred kids, and say something into a microphone about his fellow tenth-graders. As a painfully shy, introverted bookworm, that was not his proverbial cup of tea. The odd thing about time was that it continued to pass at the same incremental rate whether you wanted it to go faster, slower, jump ahead, or just stop. It was like waiting for what seemed like forever for a desired holiday with presents, or how quickly the last days of summer dwindled away if you didn’t want to go back to school. Time was a fickle concept at best.

Tuesday, September fourth, brought the inevitable welcome back-to-school assembly to Drake Fraser. He had prepared a speech that merged the message of Abraham Lincoln at Gettysburg, with the logical ramblings of Mr. Spock. It was a page and a half long. He practiced reading it, twice. He dressed in his hooded basketball sweatshirt from the year before, crisp new blue jeans, and his new Converse All-Star tennis shoes. Both the jeans and the shoes were his new school clothes for the year.

Drake had grown over the summer he stood an imposing six foot, four and one-half inches tall, but still lacked much girth. His straight black hair was now past his ears in length, in a rough bowl style. His Spanish, dark olive complexion had darkened over the summer as it always did from his time spent outside. He stood nervously next to the other class presidents, silently fidgeting, along the wall of the gym. He took the moment to review his speech one last time.

“My fellow sophomores, in the course of human events,” Drake mumbled to himself as he began to read his handwritten monologue. The time slipped away, and the Associated Student Body advisor, Mr. Dawson, took over the microphone from the varsity cheerleaders.

“Thank you varsity cheerleaders,” Mr. Dawson stated with his mouth a bit too close to the microphone. “And now, here are your three returning presidents to welcome each class back, sophomore Drake Fraser, junior Daphne Young, and senior Steve Hanson. Please give them a round of applause.”

“Psst… Fraser,” interrupted Steve. Drake had been reading his speech so intently that he didn’t hear the introduction. “Let’s go.”

Drake and Steve followed Daphne to the center of the gym floor and they stood awaiting Mr. Dawson. Steve and Daphne waved to some of their friends and classmates to an increased amount of noise. Drake stood holding his speech. A noticeable tremor had started in his hands, and panic was welling up in him.

“First let’s hear from your sophomore class president, Drake Fraser,” Mr. Dawson’s voice echoed through the gym. He turned and handed the microphone to Drake, who looked at it like it was an alien device. Time seemed to freeze. He noticed the gym full of students and staff, their eyes upon him. Even the kids who normally didn’t pay attention, like his brother Mark, were looking at him, waiting.

“Drake,” Daphne quietly encouraged him. “You have your speech, read it, they’re waiting.”

“Come on, man,” Steve added with a slight nudge. “You can do it.”

Drake had to react. He looked at his paper, and it was blank. His heart beat so violently he was sure it would rip through his chest. He decided in that moment to improvise. He thought of something calming from the past year, raised the microphone, and opened his mouth.

“I'm very good at integral and differential calculus,” he began in a low voice, barely audible through the sound system. The gym quieted and his voice grew stronger and louder. “I know the scientific names of beings animalculous.”

The students in the gym were hanging on his words, trying to figure out the cryptic yet lyrical message he was delivering. The message was not lost on the choir, band, drama, and most of the art kids, and a particular blonde girl who caught Drake’s eyes, who all started to sing with Drake as he finished his speech.

“In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,” Drake stated as he held the microphone very close to his mouth, his voice now echoing through the large space. “I am the very model of a modern Major-General. May this year be awesome for you. Thank you”

The students singing along with his spoken words stood and clapped loudly, bringing his brother Mark to his feet, along with a quickly rising contingent of other students. Drake handed the microphone to Daphne, and he felt the heat of his body temperature radiate from him. He remembered very little of the rest of the assembly, or the first day of school, for that matter.


By the first Friday of school, many of the routines of the prior year had returned. Drake sat in the lunchroom at a table occupied by fringe kids, outsiders, invisibles, or socially awkward brains. He received more recognition from students passing by, but no invitation to join another table, though he never sought one out either.

He waited and hoped Rachel Finnegan would rejoin him for lunches, like she did for most of last year. But through the first week he didn’t see her at lunchtime. He’d thought a lot about her, how she infuriated him by nominating him for class president, how she always pestered him about his artwork, how she hung out with him at the Hoquiam Public Library for most of last year, and how she gave him the medallion which he still wore on her birthday two summers ago. She was in his mind, and despite the words of his deceased uncle Wally, ‘girls have cooties,’ still haunting him, he’d come to realize that he liked her. He liked her long blonde hair, her cheery attitude, her infectious smile, and her endearing support she’d demonstrated for him and his family.

He sat quietly and ate his somewhat warm ‘hot’ lunch.

“Hullo Drake,” rang the familiar tone of Rachel as she appeared before him on the opposite side of the table. She stood there, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, wearing a green V-necked sweater and a knee-length black skirt. She looked down at him and he smiled, forcing his dimples to pop out. Rachel felt the temperature rise in the room. “Are you just gonna look at me, or are you gonna invite me to sit down?”

“Please,” Drake said as he began to rise. He couldn’t recall ever seeing her in a dress before, or wearing green, despite his insistence that she was Irish. “Join me.”

“Thanks,” she cooed as she tucked her skirt behind her, and sat down. “By the way, using the Major-General’s song from the Pirates of Penzance was simply brilliant as your welcome back speech. The high school did that show last year. Very topical, Mister President, most of the kids still know that song. Didya like how we all sang the last part with you?”

“I didn’t sing,” Drake responded as he set down his fork. “I’m not a singer, you’re the singer, remember?”

“Oh, that’s right,” she toyed with him as she opened her brown paper lunch bag. “You’re an artist and all around genius, not a singer.”

“I never said that,” Drake interjected as he watched her.

“I know,” Rachel said with a sly smile, “but that doesn’t mean you aren’t. Besides, that’s my opinion.”

Drake sat and forced himself to eat since he didn’t like to eat while others watched him. Fortunately, Rachel was also occupied eating so it wasn’t like she was staring at him like she did the first few times she sat with him last year. He thought of tangents and angles to try and broach the subject of liking her. Every one of them sounded completely lame in his head.

“Whatcha thinking?” Rachel queried as she studied his face doing what appeared to be mental gymnastics.

“Nothing,” he quickly retorted.

“Oh, okay,” she replied as she twirled a loose part of her hair with the index finger of her left hand. “How was your summer?”

“Well,” Drake began as he pondered how to tell her all of the events of the summer, “you know Miss Furfur never came back to the library, right?”

“Yeah, good riddance,” she responded with a wrinkled face. “I didn’t like her Drake, she’s a daemon and she threatened me. Didya know that?”

“Uh uh,” he answered. “She isn’t a daemon.”

“Whatever,” Rachel immediately rebutted. “What about your grandparents and the lawsuit? And that nasty Spirit Board game your brother had?”

“I don’t remember you being that interested in all of that, Rachel,” he replied as he ate, taking careful precaution to avoid talking with food in his mouth.

“Duh,” she said with a giggle. “Don’t you remember me hanging out in the library doing all that research with you? Of course I’m interested.”

“Well,” he began to explain, using his hands more to describe what he was saying, “the Spirit Board turned evil. It attacked us, or at least whatever was using it attacked us. It wrecked both of my brother’s cars with a black tornado of death.”

“Wow,” she interrupted. “Really?”

“Yes,” Drake continued intently, “and then we had to go into my grandparent’s house to get the Spirit Board and burn it, but it was like haunted, and I had to fight mordgeists with my staff. My brother Dennis almost got pulled straight to Hell by a nasty purple tentacle and we all nearly died. But the board wouldn’t burn because we’d forgotten some of it in the house.”

“Wow,” she responded again as she ate her orange, slice by slice. She struggled not to smile, that was like the most words Drake had ever said to her at one time. She was very happy, yet tried her best to remain serious. “That sounds incredible and really scary too.”

“Well, we eventually got it to burn,” Drake added as he moved his hands with an enthusiasm Rachel had never seen. “And when it did, I think it broke the cycle of evil. A few weeks later, in fact, the lawyers told my grandparents that the truck driver’s family had dropped their lawsuit against them.”

“Cool,” she added as she watched him talk, carefully observing his body language. “Well, I’m glad you’re okay, you and your whole family, right?”

“Yeah my family’s okay now,” Drake pondered about his family, his four brothers, his parents, his aunts and uncles, and his grandparents, as he replied to her question. “And you know what else is cool?”

“What’s that Drake?” Rachel asked a question to his question.

“Well,” he began with a spark in his eyes, “before we went into the haunted house I made us into a team, like heroes or something.”

“Like the Superfriends?” she asked.

“No,” he quickly answered. “Not like superheroes. Although that’d be really cool, too. We’re like Knights of the Round Table, you know, we became the Brotherhood of Olympus.”

“Oh, that is awesome Drake. I get the brotherhood thing, cause you’re all brothers and all,” she stated a bit confused by his gushing information to her. “But why Olympus? Why not the Brotherhood of Fraser? Or the Brotherhood of Aberdeen? Or the Brotherhood of Grays Harbor? Or…”

“Hmmm…” Drake interrupted her before she took that tangent any further and then he responded thoughtfully. “I’m not sure, except that I recall being told that is what we should be called in a weird dream I had a couple years ago. Some god, I think he might’ve been Odin, you know, the chief god of the Norse pantheon. He told me all of that, and gave me a magical staff.”

“Okay,” she responded as she peered at him with doubtful eyes. She knew there were some very sinister forces at play last year around Drake and his family, Miss Furfur the daemon librarian was one, but getting magical weapons from ancient Norse gods was a bit of a stretch. “Drake Fraser, you’re still a very weird boy.”

Drake blushed. People around them began to clean up and get ready to go to fifth period.

“What do you think of my necklace?” she questioned, tactfully changing the subject as she raised it out from her pale skin above her cleavage. “It’s a four leaf clover, and I put it under polished glass and made a charm out of it. I also made this bracelet the same way. Do you like ‘em?”

Drake looked at both of the pieces of jewelry with admiration of her workmanship.

“Those are cool. You’re very good at charm making,” he said as he thought of his own medallion he wore that she had made. “But, Rachel, I do have another question for you. I noticed you’re wearing a green shirt.”

“Sweater,” she interrupted.

“A green sweater,” he continued, “and you have new jewelry made of four leaf clovers. Did your dad finally admit to being a leprechaun?”

“Drake Fraser, you take that back!” she snapped. He wasn’t sure if she was being playful, or angry.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“It’s time to go back to class,” Rachel said as she rolled up her lunch sack with a simple smile. “And Drake, you really need to get a clue about how girls work. Maybe you can look that up in the encyclopedia.”

Drake wished there were such entries in the encyclopedia to help him better understand people, especially girls. Unfortunately, he never got to tell her that he liked her that day.


By late September, Drake had been having lunch with Rachel every day. He still couldn’t muster the courage to talk to her about his feelings. He was getting comfortable talking with her during lunch though, and even began to forget about his inability to eat while someone watched him.

He also spent more time with some of the kids in his art class. He was by far the most accomplished at drawing in the entire school. Two of the guys in his class, who sat at his table of four, actually recruited him to come over after school and try playing bass guitar for their band. Bill Thompson and Pete Mason had both long admired Drake’s artwork. They played guitar and drums and needed a bass player for their garage band, so they thought they would see if Drake could play.

Two or three times a week the guys would gather in Bill’s garage. They had a trap set in one corner, and some amplifiers in another with a few twenty-five foot cables running out to guitar stands and microphones. Drake didn’t like the look of the microphone, since it conjured up images of being made to talk in front of the whole school. But over time he learned a few bass progressions, could read a bass line on sheet music, and, most importantly, could keep a steady rhythm to blend the drums into the guitar.

They christened the name of their band FATE. Drake drew up a stylized logo, with each letter having an arrow-like end. They used their band name to work on a project in art. Each student had to make an album cover, paint it on tag board, and have it graded. The three boys made the self-titled first album, FATE, the second album, The Rising Dead, that featured a skull on the cover, and the third album, Twisted Fate, which had a giant screw going into a thick cluster of arrows all pointing away from each other. Drake drew the titles for each of the albums, along with some of the other more artistic details. He completed and turned in The Rising Dead album and earned an “A” grade on it.

By early October, Drake was writing some lyrical poetry that Bill and Pete were putting to music. Drake still didn’t like to sing, but could be heard on a couple of their cassette tape recordings singing backing vocals. The three of them decided if they were going to be more than just a garage band in Aberdeen they would need a singer. There were many garage bands in the greater Grays Harbor area, and sometimes they would jam with other bands or musicians in the area. Two musicians they spent time with were Kirk Arrington, a classmate of Mark’s, and Duke Erickson, a fellow sophomore, but unfortunately they also played drums and bass and neither of them wanted to be a lead vocalist. Drake enjoyed learning more complex bass riffs from Duke, who had been playing bass for a few years already, and whose nose he accidently broke in PE during eighth grade. Duke had always blamed the other kid next to Drake, and Drake had never felt up to taking the blame for it. He kind of just kept the status quo by remaining quiet about it.

Basketball would be starting up soon and Drake, as the tallest kid in school, would once again be the center. He knew he’d have to balance his time amongst all the things he was doing. He’d met a couple times with his oldest brother Martin when he was home from his duty assignment at Fairchild Air Force Base (AFB) to discuss the emotional high they felt with the whole founding of the Brotherhood of Olympus. They’d often sit and discuss possibilities until early in the morning and dream of a day when they could do something again to make a difference in the world.

Drake didn’t realize it at the time, but he was beginning to blossom as an individual. The future, indeed, looked very bright for young Mr. Fraser.





Project North Star

Chapter Two

November 9, 1979

Portland, Oregon


The summertime at Fairchild AFB was hot, stuffy, and humid on days when the farmers watered their extensive croplands that bordered the lands near the military installation. Martin Fraser had demonstrated responsibility and leadership in his time as a Security Police Officer, and had quickly moved up to the rank of senior airman. Martin enjoyed being left in charge of his squad duties and thought his time in the Air Force was actually getting better. He had come a long way from the crying seventeen year-old that had to join the military or go to jail. He looked forward to his leave for two reasons, first he was re-connecting with his now bigger, little brother Drake, and he had continued to date Beth Scott, who he met in Aberdeen the previous spring. He had made plans to take his relationshipwith Beth to the next levelwhen he bought a ring at a Spokane jewelry store in September.

When he came home in October, he spent part of a weekend talking to Drake about the formation, plans, and goals of the Brotherhood of Olympus. Martin felt that it needed a more military focus or regimentation, since that was his perspective from being in the Air Force. Drake agreed with many of the things Martin suggested.

“Do you think we need ranks?” Drake asked his older brother. Martin turned and looked at Drake. Martin was nearly as tall as his younger brother, standing almost six feet, four inches, and had the same dark hair, although his was dramatically shorter. The major differences between them were skin color. Martin was pale and Drake showed their Hispanic heritage, and of course, their eye color. Martin had blue eyes and Drake had deep brown eyes. “And if we have ranks, what should they be?”

“I’m not sure, little brother,” Martin responded thoughtfully. “But I know we should have something like that.”

“And who’s the leader?” Drake queried, not sure he wanted that responsibility but equally not sure if he could fully trust Martin after the deep fracture that had happened between them because of the whole Spirit Board adventure. As time passed, Drake liked to think of it as an adventure instead of the nightmare made real that it was at the time.

“Well,” Martin responded carefully, “I’m not sure. I mean, any of us could be. Except maybe Dennis and Albert obviously, since they are still so young and have a lot of growing up to do. But they were there, and should be considered. Mark could do it, but I don’t think his heart is in it. So that leaves you and me. As the oldest I should probably do it, but the thing is, I don’t have the time to devote to being the leader of a paramilitary ghost-fighting group. And besides, you are the smartest, and you are a leader at school now, too.”

Drake was mystified that Martin was deferring leadership to him. This was so unlike Martin.

“What do you think, little brother?” Martin asked. “Do you think you want that responsibility, being a leader and all?”

“Maybe,” Drake replied as he flipped open a notebook. “Any idea what our next adventure will be?”

“Hmmmm…” Martin thought about the question, pondering it for a few moments. “There’re a couple things on the horizon that I cannot place. One of them seems really big, like a national security event. I tried to recall all the things on the list we burned in the envelope from Aunt Carmen. But most of those seemed vague.”

“I never got to see what was in the envelope,” Drake responded as he began to doodle in his notebook. Martin was trying desperately to forget the references to the deaths of Drake and himself in 1984, which the Spirit Board foretold.

“There’re some changes coming up too,” Martin said as he looked away forlornly. “But not all of them are bad. Speaking of which, I’ve to go, cause I’ve to go meet Beth.”

“You’re spending a lot of time with her,” Drake stated as he doodled a black obelisk on a desolate plain with dark rolling clouds crashing into it, making its top obscured.

“You need to mind your own business,” Martin responded with a smile. “I may be spending a lot more time with her, if I get my way.”

Drake nodded as he darkened in his doodle, losing focus on what Martin was talking about as he became absorbed by his drawing.

“I’ll see you later Drake,” Martin said as he headed for the door.

“Uh huh,” Drake replied, completely immersed in his drawing.


Martin and Beth went to dinner that night at Danny’s in downtown Aberdeen. As they finished their dessert, Martin fumbled and removed a small object from his pants pocket.

“What are you doing, Marty?” Beth questioned as she watched him. Beth was a slim, eighteen year-old, five foot, seven inch woman. Her oval-shaped face was framed by shoulder length red hair, her wide-set eyes were sparkly green with flecks of brown, and she had very full lips that she always seemed to have the brightest red lipstick on. She was the only person, other than Uncle Wally, to regularly call Martin by the Marty nickname. His brothers had tried it at various times during their lives and had always let it go. Martin was just Martin to them.

“Well, Beth,” Martin stumbled on his words. “I’ve known you for almost seven months. I’ve grown a lot during that time. And, I think I’m maturing and becoming more of a man. I’ve always thought someday, when I got to a certain point in my life I would find someone. Someone I really liked and wanted to be around. Somebody who made me feel special and loved. Somebody who…”

“Marty,” interrupted Beth as she was losing patience with his rambling and thought he should get to the point. “What’re you trying to say to me? Are you asking me to marry you?”

“Beth,” Martin continued, shocked at her perception. She had never fully believed his stories of psychic abilities, nor had he even tried to tell her the whole story about the Spirit Board. “Yes. I mean, Beth, will you marry me?”

Martin pulled a simple gold band with a single petite, diamond mounted upon it from his left hand and held it out to Beth.

“Oh Marty,” Beth began to cry. “Yes. Yes, of course I will marry you.”


The following week back at his duty assignment in Eastern Washington, Martin began to make arrangements to move out of the barracks and into base housing for him and his wife-to-be Beth. The commander had granted his move request, and he was able to begin moving right away since there were a number of base housing units sitting vacant.

Martin stood near the tall, open window of the second floor of the barracks that he had lived in since January. He was lost in thought about how his life was getting better and better every day. Unbeknownst to him, some of his friends had planned on surprising him on his last night in the barracks with them. Quietly John and Louis tiptoed up behind Martin, carrying a couple cold bottles of Rainier beer. Martin, usually perceptive of such things, did not hear them at all.

“Fraser!” shouted John as he touched him in the back of the neck with the cold beer bottle. Martin jumped from the startle and lost his footing as he banged his legs into the window casing below his knees. His arms flailed as he grasped for the sides of the window. In one singular motion he toppled out of the window head first and began a forward roll toward the ground.

“Oh my God!” Louis shouted at John as he quickly looked out the window to the dark ground below. The barracks were surrounded by large, jagged basalt rocks to keep weeds from growing around them. Those same rocks could prove to be fatal to someone falling from the second floor. “Oh my God, John, you killed him, oh my God!”

John panicked and fell to the floor in shock.

“John,” Louis said with a sense of great urgency, “John, get up here and look out this window, now.”

“I can’t look at him down there,” John said as he started to cry. His Air Force career would be over as he’d be prosecuted for the death of his superior.

“John,” Louis commanded as he grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him up to the open window. “Get up here airman, and look!”

John peered out the window and slowly looked down. The ground was about fifteen feet below the window, and he was not expecting what he saw. A couple feet above the sharp basalt rocks, Martin Fraser hung in the air, as if he were suspended by an invisible cushion that slowly jostled him as it deflated under him.

“What the hell!” John remarked with a shock. “How’s he hovering there?”

Martin put his hands out and touched the ground and slowly got his knees to touch the ground before standing up and looking back up at his two friends.

“Are you a freaking witch?” John questioned with disbelief.

“I don’t know what happened,” Martin responded. “It must’ve been a freak air current or something.”

Louis looked at Martin, unsure of what he had just witnessed. He’d seen Martin slow down almost immediately and float like a feather to the ground.

“That dude isn’t right,” John continued his tirade. “I’m going to report him to the C.O. as a freaking witch, or communist spy, or an alien, or something, cause what he just did wasn’t natural.”

“John,” Louis reasoned with a sense of calculation, “you realize you’ll get in more trouble if you report it, because you pushed him out the window.”

“Damn it!” John realized Louis was right. He then leaned back out and pointed at Martin. “Damn it all to hell. You’re not normal, you freak, and you better watch your back from here on out. You got that Fraser?”

“Yeah I got that,” Martin responded as he walked toward the door at the front of the building. “I guess I don’t have to worry about missing this place anymore.”

Sitting in a car across from the barracks that night was an Air Force officer by the name of Captain Larry Spenser. Captain Spenser didn’t intend to witness the event outside the barracks, but he did. That series of events changed many things for Martin Fraser.


On November first Martin received new orders. He was being transferred to the 125th Special Tactics Squadron in Portland, Oregon. It was largely an Air National Guard unit, which perplexed him as an active duty enlisted man. He packed up his belongings, which were never really unpacked from his move out of the barracks a week earlier and moved them in his car to Portland. He was to report to a building called The Greenhouse. During his drive to Portland he thought a greenhouse would be a weird duty assignment. He wasn’t a botanist. He’d trained in security and warfare during his time in the Air Force.

He arrived on the base the afternoon of November ninth. It wasn’t really a base like he had come to know, it was in fact more of an outpost on a small airfield outside downtown Portland. There was a single security police airman at the ‘gate.’

“Welcome, and you are?” the SP questioned, as Martin rolled down his window. Martin noted that the SP was a single chevron airman.

“Senior Airman Fraser, reporting for duty,” Martin snapped to the airman as he handed himhis assignment papers. “Airman, where is The Greenhouse?”

“Senior Airman Fraser, sir, The Greenhouse is on the back side of the airstrip, behind the hangers, sir,” the SP responded, almost like he was afraid of Martin. “You’ll notice that it’s painted green, sir.”

“Thank you airman,” Martin replied as he took his papers back and drove into the base with a wave.

Martin quickly found The Greenhouse beyond the hangers. It was an old World War Two era building, if it were a house it would only have room for maybe three bedrooms. It did look like it had an upstairs though, or at least an attic of some sort because there were small windows up under the roof. The green was a dark, Kelly green, which had seen better days, and was chipping off along the edges of the siding.

“Great,” Martin thought, as he climbed out of his car and began to walk toward the front door of the building, “my new duty station is an old shack in Portland.”

The door opened with a loud metallic squeak.

An Air Force officer came from one of the back rooms into the foyer of the building, which was very sparsely decorated with two simple folding chairs and a small end table holding some old magazines.

“You must be Martin Fraser,” the officer said as he approached with his hand out for a handshake. He was a stout gray-haired man with steely blue eyes and a warm smile. He wore a light blue, Hawaiian print button-up shirt with two silver bars upon his collar, and blue jeans. He was definitely not in a standard uniform.

“Senior Airman Fraser reporting for duty sir,” Martin retorted with a salute.

“Very well,” the officer responded with a wry smile. “Captain Larry Spenser, I am your new C.O., and you are no longer Senior Airman Fraser anymore, son. With your new assignment comes a promotion. Fraser, you’re now a Staff Sergeant.”

“Thank you sir,” Martin responded, with a smile of his own. The extra money would help with his upcoming wedding. “Sir, about your uniform, sir?”

“Now Sergeant, the men in my unit have come to expect a certain amount of civilian privileges from being assigned here. I hope you aren’t a stickler for those kind of rules, son?” Captain Spenser said as he began to walk back into the room he had previously emerged from. “Come with me, and let’s talk about why you’re here.”

The entered a sparsely decorated room, military chic, Martin thought to himself. A single card table sat in the middle of the room with two folding metal chairs on opposite sides. On the table were two manila file folders, one absurdly overstuffed, and one that didn’t appear to have much in it at all, if anything.

“Have a seat Martin,” Captain Spenser offered as he sat on the far side of the table. Martin obliged and took a seat in the other chair. “First off, Martin, we don’t really go for all that military stuff in this unit like I said about uniforms. We like to be familiar with each other and call each other by our first names. No ranks and no obstacles to our mission, so you can call me Larry. You okay with that, son?”

“Yes sir,” Martin responded out of habit. “I mean yes, sir, Larry.”

“Just Larry,” Captain Spenser replied with a sly chuckle.

“Larry,” Martin said to reassure Captain Spenser he had heard his direction.

“Okay,” Captain Spenser began as he separated the two files and thumbed through the thicker one before opening the thinner one completely before him. Martin could make out the name Fraser on the tab of the file. “Let’s start with why you’ve been assigned to this unit, Martin. Would you like to tell me about the report I have here regarding an incident at the barracks on Fairchild, on the evening of twenty-two October?”

“An incident?” Martin responded a bit shocked, he was sure that neither Louis nor John reported his fall out the window. “I’m not sure what incident you’re referring to, Larry?”

“Well,” Captain Spenser continued with a doubtful look on his face. “I understand not wanting to draw attention to yourself, son, but what’s in this report, this is exactly the kind of soldier we’re looking for.”

“I don’t understand, Larry,” Martin added tactfully.

“It states here that Senior Airman Martin Fraser, that’s you right?” the Captain queried and Martin nodded, “at twenty-one hundred hours, fell from a second story window. But, here’s the kicker—he never hit the ground. This is eyewitness testimony, mind you. It further states that Fraser appeared to be carried aloft by an invisible force, and something about unsubstantiated telekinetic powers.”


About me

Guy T. Simpson, Jr. is the author of the Brotherhood of Olympus Saga. He is an award winning artist and illustrator, possessing a graduate degree in education from The Evergreen State College. He has worked as a middle school science and leadership teacher in rural Washington State, as well as a plethora of other jobs throughout his career. He still resides in the Pacific Northwest with his lovely wife, and three exceptionally tall and brilliant college-student children who refuse to move out.

Q. Where did the idea for this book come from?
The Brotherhood of Olympus Saga is based upon a true story, set in the 1970s-80s. The story has germinated in my mind for a very long time. I wrote parts of later stories in the Saga over the years, but after my wife was diagnosed with cancer in 2009, I realised I needed to start from the beginning.
Q. Is there a message in your book that you want readers to grasp?
There are many themes in the Saga--brotherhood, family, and the huge potential humans have. In this book in particular the message is focused on friendship, loyalty, and the unconditional love that humans possess, or as the Greeks called it--agápe. Your value is based on it, and that is worth a war.
Q. This book is part of a series, tell us about your series.
Long ago knights pushed the pagan gods into the wilderness using the crafts and tactics of their adversaries. A Covenant was signed, the old gods stepped away from humanity, and the Earth, and the knights disbanded. Now, dark gods plot their return, and destiny calls a new Brotherhood to rise up.