"Operation Frostbite: Aleutian Shadows"!

We are thrilled to announce the official preview of our eagerly anticipated new book, "Operation Frostbite: Aleutian Shadows"! Prepare to be captivated by a thrilling narrative filled with suspense, intrigue, and unexpected twists. Dive into a world where history and the present collide, where ancient secrets are unearthed, and where the line between reality and illusion blurs. This is a story that will keep you on the edge of your seat from the very first page to the breathtaking conclusion. Get your copy now and embark on an unforgettable journey!

Interested in getting a sneak peek into the world of "Operation Frostbite: Aleutian Shadows"? Read an excerpt from Chapter 7, "Ruins of the Forgotten," right here to experience a thrilling glimpse into this suspenseful story.

The Aleutian Shadow: Book One

Logline: In a world of fragile alliances and buried betrayals, a steely investigator's pursuit of a diplomat's killer unearths a conspiracy that strikes at her core—forcing her to choose between the oaths that define her and the bloodline that could destroy her.

Plot Twists: Amelia's long-dead father resurfaces as the shadowy puppetmaster of the enemy network, but is he a ruthless architect or a desperate double agent luring her into his web? Her reluctant ally, Agent Liam, harbors a secret allegiance to a rogue faction hungry for Aleutian nuclear secrets, transforming their partnership into a powder keg of mistrust. And the chilling truth: as a child, Amelia was implanted with a tracking microchip on a "family vacation" to a nuclear test site, rewriting her life as one long, unwitting game.

Full Synopsis: Act I: Amelia Johnson's world of precision and protocol at the Pacific International Council in Seattle shatters like glass under a assassin's blade when a diplomat's body turns up in Discovery Park, a single enigmatic family crest etched into his skin. Drawn into the shadows, Amelia uncovers threads linking the kill to "The Aleutian Shadow"—a clandestine cabal pulling strings across global powers. Enter Agent Liam Harrison, a brooding operative dispatched to rein her in, his warnings laced with unspoken urgency. Defying her superiors' lockdown, Amelia plunges rogue, her ironclad loyalty to order cracking as family ghosts claw their way to the surface—each clue a razor, slicing between duty and the devastating pull of blood secrets that could topple empires.

Act II: Forging a volatile alliance with Liam, Amelia races through the rain-slicked underbelly of the West Coast—from Vancouver's neon-veiled harbors to Alaska's frozen fringes—chasing whispers of blackmail, forged alliances, and a ticking plot to destabilize the world. The midpoint detonates in a gut-wrenching revelation: her father lives, and Liam's loyalties fracture under the weight of his own shadows, leaving Amelia to wonder if justice demands she become the very monster she's hunting. Solo now, she infiltrates Michael Thompson's fortified lair to seize the Aleutian Codex—a digital vault of doomsday leverage—only to learn it demands a cipher from her estranged mother, Teresa, hidden in Vancouver's fog. Their fraught reunion tests Amelia's soul: sabotage a fragile peace deal to expose the rot, or let the lie fester? Decryption unleashes the horror—Operation Aleutian, a surgical strike of assassinations poised to ignite the G20 Summit. The chase spirals into a heart-pounding gauntlet of narrow escapes and moral quagmires, culminating in capture: bound and broken, Amelia plants a desperate digital worm for Liam, her final gambit blurring the line between savior and saboteur as the noose of betrayal tightens.

Act III: Interrogated in a glass aerie overlooking Anchorage's storm-lashed G20 fortress, Amelia faces the ghosts of her lineage—Thompson's oily menace and her father's haunted gaze, his ideology a venomous gospel of "necessary shadows" to forge global order. Engineering a pulse-pounding escape via her hidden code, she confronts the man who shaped her scars, while Liam storms the summit under siege, his fractured loyalties exploding into a bid for forbidden Aleutian nukes. The climax erupts in a maelstrom of fire and code: Liam thwarts the killers in labyrinthine tunnels, but at a blood price that haunts his code; Amelia corners her father, his self-sacrifice—a cataclysmic purge of the Shadow's heart—leaving her reeling in the wreckage, Codex revelations shattering her identity with the microchip's cold truth. As alarms wail and delegates scatter, Amelia and Liam vanish into the chaos—rogue specters bound by scars and suspicion, their "victory" a fragile veil over deeper voids, vowing to hunt the remnants in a world where every alliance hides a blade.

Operation Frostbite: Aleutian Shadows

Prologue: The Cache

Attu Island, 1943—the fog rolled in like a shroud woven from the ghosts of drowned sailors, thick enough to choke a man before the bullets found him. Japanese bunkers squatted on the volcanic flanks, concrete tombs etched with the desperation of holdouts who'd vanished into the mist, leaving only echoes of artillery and the briny rot of kelp-strewn shores. Unangan families, uprooted by U.S. decree, huddled in internment camps far south, whispering of Chagix̂'s fury: The sea woman stirring swells to claim invaders who dared disturb her deep halls, her sea lion guardians rising from the foam to drag the unworthy under. Raven, the trickster, scattered winds to hide the land's secrets—or reveal them to the cunning.

Cut to October 10, 2025: Rivera knelt in the crevice, gloved hands scraping volcanic grit from a rusted WWII crate half-buried in Attu's black sand. The SBA stamp—Stay Behind Agent—faded but defiant, a Cold War relic shielded against pulses that could fry the world. Inside: Vacuum tubes, coiled wires, a Faraday box etched with declassified scrawls. A memo fragment fluttered free, ink blurred by decades: Frostbite activation—Kiska emplacement. Cache arm for blind spot. Auroras pulsed faint on the horizon, G2 tease from solar lashes, Starshield feeds glitching like Creech's Sept ghosts—Reapers hallucinating UAP shadows in the desert.

Rivera's radio crackled: Guild ping from "PinoyHealer": Raid tonight? Latency fix incoming. The tide stirred.

Chapter 1: Dutch Harbor Drop

The Confidence sliced into Dutch Harbor under a sky bruised purple, October fog delaying 70% of patrols like clockwork—NOAA logs didn't lie. Rivera stepped off the ramp, parka hood whipping in the 40-knot gusts, boots crunching salt-crusted gravel. Unalaska's docks reeked of diesel and fish guts, crab pots stacked like forgotten howitzers, the air thick with the promise of storms that had sunk more ships than wars.

The Norse bar squatted at the harbor's edge, neon sign flickering Open through the mist. Inside, the elder—Unangan lines carved deep as Kiska trenches—nursed tea at the scarred oak, eyes sharp under the TV's drone: CNN ticker on Taiwan's T-Dome rollout, Oct 10 fanfare amid PLA bounty whispers. "$1,400 a head for psyops 'separatists,'" the anchor droned. "Cognitive war or desperation?"

Rivera slid onto a stool, rye burning neat. "Elder—memo fragments from Attu. Frostbite. Bear Claw insertion. Your people's caches—SBA ghosts—still hold?"

The elder's gaze lifted to the window, where auroras ghosted faint—G2 hangover from yesterday's lash. "Caches? Like Raven's winds—scatter secrets, hide the weak. Chagix̂ guards the deep; her sea lions test intruders. Iron hearts like your EMP? She pulls them under if unworthy. But the old ones remember '43—fog hid Japanese, auroras jammed radios. Now your satellites flicker like ancestors' eyes. What tide do you chase?"

First memo burned in Rivera's pocket: Dragon Tide hook—guild whispers flip moles. A Discord ping buzzed—Arctic Vanguard: New raid? Ping fix drop. Amelia's alias, PinoyHealer, online. The web tightened.

Torres burst in, tablet hot. "Shemya's pinging anomalies—subs ghosting the Strait. Creech's Sept glitch all over again: Reapers seeing phantoms. Your call, Rivera—guild or grave?"

The bar door slammed—fishing "militia," GRU cover, eyes cold as Siberian ice. Brawl erupted: Chairs splintered, fists flew. Rivera cracked a bottle over a jaw, elder's cane tripping the last. "Tide's here," Rivera gasped. Liam's shadow text: Defector whisper—subs test blind spot. Claws ready.

Chapter 2: Guild Shadows

Arctic Vanguard raid night hummed in Rivera's headphones, SE Asia ping spikes turning the Discord into a digital typhoon. "PinoyHealer" dropped the link: Latency fix—Microsoft patch for cross-play. Auto-install, no BSODs like CrowdStrike. Amelia's voice, masked, laced the chat: "SEA lag's killer—fixes aurora glitches too."

Rivera lurked as "IceLanceNoob," heart pounding in the Unalaska safehouse—walls papered with NOAA fog charts, elder's sea lion carving watching from the shelf. The add-on zipped through, auto-updating 70% of rigs per complacency stats. Screens flickered—Starshield feeds ghosting subs in the Bering, Creech echo from Sept: Pilots screaming at UAP shadows that weren't there.

Memo fragment on the desk: Oct 11 bounties—PLA psyops hits, $1,400 a head. Guild whispers flip Taiwanese moles. Amelia's backstory bled in—Manila debts to triad fronts, PLA coercion via "gaming consults." Her flip: Mid-raid whisper to Rivera: Coerced, but breaking free. Cache on Kiska—SBA's the key.

Chat exploded: "Lag fixed—wait, BSOD?" Torres patched in from AUKUS: "Vector confirmed—WoW as psy bait. Unconventional—guerrilla jams for the deep."

Liam's gravel cut: "Claws sense trap. Jakarta proxy feeding coords. Tides drown the unwary."

Rivera typed: Fix works—thanks, Healer. But the screen glitched—sub bloom on Shemya feeds. The web snapped tight.

Chapter 3: Aurora Jam

G2 storm hit Oct 16 like solar shrapnel—auroras south to the Aleutians, geomagnetic lash frying LEOs, signals crackling like live wires under skin. The Confidence bucked swells, fog cloaking trawlers like '43 Japanese Bettys. Rivera gripped binoculars, heart slamming: Buoy bloom on radar—MITM relay, spoofing sub tracks.

"Drop the RHIB!" Torres yelled, tablet dying in the interference. "Auroras jamming GPS—70% patrol delays, NOAA right again."

Scout invoked Raven: "Winds scatter the weak—trickster tests us." RHIB launched, waves as Chagix̂'s claws—sea woman stirring guardians, froth hissing lion breath. Chase: Trawler veered, spotlight sweeping. Gunfire stitched foam—Torres' MP5 answered, hull pinging.

Liam overwatch: "Claws close—buoy's core hot." Grapple snagged, haul aboard—self-destruct whined 15 seconds. Rivera's override: Sparks, silence. Data spilled: Summer swarm prototypes, EMP micros for blind spots.

Amelia: "Manila MITM style—decoded. But bounties whisper: Oct 11 psyops, guild hits on Taiwanese."

Win: Buoy snagged, feeds clear. But fog lingered—tide's test passed, Chagix̂ watching.

Chapter 4: Cache Whispers

SBA revival in Unalaska ops—elder's trail cams, aurora-synced apps spotting intruders like '43 fog ghosts. Liam with scout: "Siberian blizzards taught endurance; your Raven? Trickster like my ghosts—winds hide, but claws find."

Trawler crew interrogation: Bounties tie psyops—"Guild whispers flip officers, $1,400 a head, Oct 11 drop." Rivera doubts Amelia: "Manila pull too strong? Coercion's chain."

Amelia confesses: "Triad debts owned my family—PLA via consults. Flipping now; cache's the break."

Liam: "Leashes snap; claws endure. Blend—your codes, my shadows."

Chapter 5: Blizzard Veil

Storm peaks—fog/wind delays ops 70%. Guild wipe: Add-on crashes, Starshield ghosts subs. Amelia: "PLA fronts leashed me—WoW the hook. Breaking free."

Liam: "Tides drown alone; claws guard the deep." Memo: T-Dome rollout (Oct 10)—"Blind spot for psy flood."

Chapter 6: Phantom Patrols

Sub transit in jam—Creech parallel: Pilots see phantoms, Sept UAP glitch. Torres: "Unconventional—guerrilla jams for depths." Scout's sea lion talisman: "Chagix̂ guards unworthy." Liam flips Bear Claw: Bounties as psy bait.

Chapter 7: Ruins of the Forgotten

[Full polished draft as provided above—EMP climax with Chagix̂ twist: Waves as guardians, scout's prayer seals mercy. Rig fizzles; partial win, rigger saved.]

Chapter 8: Bounty on the Wind

[Full polished draft as provided above—pacer interrogation: Bounties (Oct 11) as "guild hits," psyops flood tease. Liam's punch cracks jaw; Amelia traces Jakarta. Chagix̂ echo: "Sea claims her due."]

Chapter 9: Guild Reckoning

Discord purge—Amelia exposes PinoyHealer net, Manila debts flashback: Triad threats, PLA coercion. Liam: "Tides drown alone; claws guard." Virtual sting: Moles flip, bounties link Taiwan psyops. Rivera to Creech pilot: "Glitches like ghosts—Sept UAPs tests?"

Chapter 10: Blind Spot Breach

Sub slips residual jam—summer swarm prototype (micro-EMP test). Cutter pursuit in auroral haze, Raven's winds scatter signals. Torres jams; scout offers sea lion rite. Sink decoy, real sub ghosts—Jakarta ping "queen."

Chapter 11: Thaw's Edge

DOD debrief: Partial victory—Frostbite fizzled, blind spot lives. Amelia/Liam call: "Claws and codes unbreakable." Rivera with elder: Unangan resilience—Chagix̂ spared cunning. Memo: T-Dome (Oct 10), bounties cracking alliances.

Chapter 12: Echoes in the Ice

Unalaska bar—auroras faint, G2 hangover static. Rivera toasts elder: "Spirits judged; we passed." Liam/Amelia texts: Jakarta stirs—flood south. Partial close: Shemya holds, psy whispers linger—Oct 11 bounties "next pulse."

Epilogue: Tide's Whisper

Unalaska's wind howled off the Bering like a grudge, whipping snow across the bar's salt-crusted windows. October 20, 2025—five days post-blackout, and the auroras from that G2 storm still ghosted the sky, mocking the jammed Starshield feeds with their ethereal dance. Rivera nursed a rye at the Norse, the elder across the scarred oak—Unangan lines etched deep as Kiska trenches—sipping tea from a chipped mug.

"You pulled the claw from our shore," the elder said, voice gravel over waves. "But the tide? It circles back. Like '43—fog hid the Japanese, auroras jammed the radios. Now your satellites flicker like ancestors' eyes. What tide do you chase?"

Rivera raised their glass, the rye burning like unresolved code. "We rolled back the cache—Frostbite's broken. But yeah... that Creech glitch last month? Reapers ghosting UAPs over the desert. Felt the same here—subs in the fog, bounties on whispers like our guild moles." The elder nodded, Unangan tales of Russian-era resilience unspoken but heavy: Trail cams now aurora-synced, spotting intruders where elders once watched waves.

Outside, Liam's encrypted text buzzed: Jakarta's stirring—summer swarms were prototypes. Tide pulls south. Amelia's followed: Codes hold, but bounties bite. Manila ghosts ready?

Rivera pocketed the phone, toasting the elder. "To blind spots—and the nets that catch them." The wind laughed back, auroras flaring like a promise: Frostbite thawed, but the chill lingered.

Chapter 7: Ruins of the Forgotten

Kiska's volcanic gut clenched in the storm's vise—October 15 gale screaming at 65 knots, snow-laced spray shredding faces like shrapnel. The Confidence clawed through 50-foot walls of black water, hull groaning like a dying beast, every roll threatening to flip them into the abyss. Rivera clung to the rail, knuckles white, bile rising as the deck pitched 45 degrees—Typhoon Halong's bastard child, slamming the Aleutians with hurricane teeth. The island's WWII ruins—deserted Japanese bunkers from the '43 evacuation, eerie concrete husks pocked by 80 years of rust and isolation—faded in and out like ghosts. No one had set foot here since the Allies' phantom assault, when 34,000 troops stormed an empty rock, killing only their own in friendly fire fog. "Starshield's dying!" Torres bellowed, tablet shattering light in her gloved fists—G2 auroras from yesterday's solar lash still frying LEOs, signals crackling like live wires. "Two blooms—Bear Claw's in the east pit! Drop or Shemya blacks out at dawn!" Rivera's gut knotted. Memo fragments clawed memory: *Frostbite live—Kiska pulse. Cache arm.* Liam's rasp in the earpiece: "They're wiring it—EMP backpack, sub-killer. Tides choke us in ten." Amelia's Tokyo ping sliced: "Comms looped—Manila MITM. But storm's a beast; 15 minutes, tops. Snag that SBA box—it's the kill switch. Go!" The RHIB hit the water like a gut punch—four against oblivion: Rivera, Torres, the Unangan scout (elder's blood, eyes like aurora steel), SEAL rigger with the kit. Swells towered, engines roaring defiance as foam buried them alive. A rogue wave smashed broadside—inflatable bucked, scout's shout lost in the roar. They beached hard, black sand sucking boots, ruins lunging from the blizzard like ambush teeth. "East—300 out!" Scout signed, breath fogging, G2 greens pulsing overhead—GPS glitching, every step a gamble in zero-vis white. But his gaze dropped to the crashing surf, waves clawing the shore like living hunger. "The sea stirs angry," he murmured in Unangan, voice low against the gale. "Like the old ones say—Chagix̂, the sea woman, guards the deep with her sea lion kin. She sends these swells to warn: Intruders disturb the balance, their iron pulse affronts the spirits. If we tread wrong, she pulls us under—tides her vengeance." Unangan lore whispered of Chagix̂, the formidable sea guardian who commanded sea lions as her hunters, souls of the deep rising in storms to test the unworthy—rituals once demanded offerings to placate her, lest hunts fail and villages starve. Here, the waves roared as if she listened, froth hissing like sea lion breath, the EMP's shadow an unnatural thunder against her realm. Rivera shivered—not just cold. The scout's words hung, folklore twisting the storm into wrathful will—Chagix̂'s domain violated by the rig's electric heart, her guardians stirring the depths to swallow the fools. "Focus," Rivera hissed, lungs burning, parka sodden weight dragging like chains—Creech's Sept Reaper ghost haunted: Desert glitch, pilots screaming at shadows. Here, fog birthed monsters, and the sea judged. Torres' jammer whined alive. Liam crackled: "Three in the hole—rig humming. Claws drop in five."

They hit the ruins running—wind knifing throats, concrete husks looming skeletal. Sentry ghosted up—white-camo blur, AK rising. Torres' MP5 spat—thwip-thwip—he jerked, snow blooming red, crumpling inches from Rivera's boot. Heart hammered: Too close. A wave crashed nearby, unnaturally fierce, as if Chagix̂'s ire lashed out—sea lions' distant roars in the gale?

Bunker mouth yawned—stale death-blast: Mold, cordite, rot. Inside: Two GRU techs hunched feral over the beast—a backpack nuke shell, capacitors snarling charge, antenna writhing like veins. Pacer barked Russian into the radio: Pulse at 0600—blind the chain! Rivera low-crawled the breach, rigger shadowing. "Freeze—Coast Guard!" Hell broke. Pacer whirled, pistol vomiting lead—rounds chewed concrete inches overhead, dust choking lungs. Torres fired blind—double-tap cratered his chest, gore splattering coils. Tech one lunged trigger-ward; rigger speared him mid-air, bodies crashing in a tangle of grunts and snapping bones. "Amelia—now!" Rivera roared, diving for the cache—a rusted WWII crate, SBA stamps faded under ice, Cold War guts exposed: Radios shielded, tubes EMP-proof. Second tech surged—knife arcing, slashing rigger's forearm in a hot gush. Arterial spray painted the wall; rigger howled, fist cracking jaw. Rivera squeezed the trigger—center hit, tech folding like wet paper, gurgle bubbling. The scout froze mid-cover, eyes on the auroras seeping through cracks—greens twisting wild, waves thundering below like Chagix̂'s drum. "She watches," he breathed, trance edging fear. "Sea woman's kin rise—the lions' souls in the foam, hungry for the iron heart that mocks the deep. Cut it true, or she claims us all." The rig whined higher, as if the spirits recoiled, capacitors popping like affronted cries—Unangan rituals once spilled sea lion blood to calm such rages, offerings to guardians who dragged the unworthy to watery halls. Outside: Storm apocalypse—visibility nil, winds battering bunker like howitzers. Liam's burst: "Ridge tangos—two down, one pinned. Exfil—now!" Rig whine peaked—30 seconds to pulse. Torres tourniqueted the rigger, blood slicking snow. "He's fading—cap's dumping!" Rivera tore the lid—fingers fumbling frozen cutters on wires: Red snip, blue bridge—Amelia's burst code searing memory. Sparks erupted, rig screeching denial—capacitors bled charge in a dying wail, EMP fizzling to nothing. The auroras dimmed, waves receding a breath—as if Chagix̂ relented, her sea lions' roars fading to murmurs. Bunker quaked—Liam's final shot echoing. "Clear—storm's cracking. Move!" They hauled out, rigger slung limp, cutter engines fighting swells. *Confidence* loomed, medevac bird clawing air. Amelia: "Dead—Shemya's breathing. But bounties whisper... Oct 11 psyops, guild-style." Deck collapse: Blizzard spat flurries, auroras fading. Win—barely. Blind spot scarred, but held. Kiska's ghosts sneered: Tides coiled, Chagix̂'s deep waiting to judge again. The scout paused at the rail, hand to the sea, murmuring an Unangan prayer—offering words to Chagix̂, thanking her mercy. Rivera watched the waves settle, folklore's chill lingering like the storm's bite. Frostbite broken, but the spirits—and the tide—remembered.