Cover, 'Of Demons and Blue Moons', the first in the series

Sanju Nivangune is about to begin the second books cover. Alas, Amazon refused to advertise the first book, despite strategically placed hair bra and parapet.

'Shaw' excerpt:

The wind was howling through the cabin, drowning out the baby’s cries, and without his seat straps Mike had freer movement to turn and check but communicating was difficult. Passengers were a rarity and he had no headset for the observer’s position

Mother and baby were physically unharmed, as was Henry, so only Mike had any injuries, the flying glass had opened the left side of his face, which was bleeding heavily. He had also been hit in the left side of his chest, but try as he may, he could not detect an entry or exit wound, nor any trace of bleeding, but the pain was slowly taking hold. It was puzzling, the bullet had all but driven the breath from him, and so there should be an obvious wound in evidence.

Mike explained briefly, but adding that he was not currently experiencing any light headedness or weakness.

Barfight Zero Nine checked out the battered Bird Dog, top, bottom and rear.

“Rodeo, Barfight?”

“Go ahead?”

“You have a few holes, an antennae that appears to have been shot away… and as well as some oil leaking from the engine cowlings underside, you are losing either coolant or fuel in a slight vapour trail.”

The Continental O-470 engine was air-cooled so it would not be glycol that he was losing. Mike checked his gauges, the engine temperature was okay, so too was oil, at the moment, but he certainly seemed a little light on fuel. The Bird Dog had a maximum range of 530 miles and he had been half full when he was on the ground at LZ Audrey, so that equated to 265 miles, plenty of reserve for him to reach Quang Tri, 136 miles distant, the nearest airfield.

After some quick calculations he knew that with the current loss rate he had barely enough to make it.

Quang Tri’s single runway ran NW/SE and he was flying into the headwind from the east, which was not helping his predicament whilst he still had fuel. However, once the propeller shuddered to a halt he could well need that easterly, at least until he turned onto finals and lost its benefits.

 He was currently flying at 5,000ft and declared his intention to climb to 10,000ft. He would have preferred to fly higher but he was not a paediatrician and did not know how the baby’s little lungs would cope in an unpressurised cabin.

The Bird Dog had a 9:1 glide ratio, meaning that it could cover 9 kilometres for every thousand metres of altitude lost. In theory at least, that gave him 90 kilometres, a shade under 56 miles, to play with once the fuel ran out. That was always assuming that the fuel outlasted the oil. His oil pressure was reducing and the engine temperature had climbed a couple of degrees. If the oil ran out first he would have to shut the engine down in order to avoid a fire.

The sky was a deep blue and only out at sea could he see the first clouds forming.

Time passed as clouds and the Cessna closed on each other, the small flat six ran smoothly and it was, Mike decided, the kind of day to be chilling beside a beach with cold beer at hand in the Keys, not shot up in a SE Asian war.

He tapped each gauge in turn, seeking an accurate indication of the fuel and oil that still remained. The oil pressure gauge was hovering over empty but the fuel was already in the red. His engine temperature was high, but not dangerously so, but that could alter pretty damn quickly.

The faint outline of the Thach Han River appeared, glistening in the sun, 30 miles distant. Beside the river lay the airfield, not yet identifiable in the heat haze.

Barfight Zero Nine stayed with them but the other five Barfighters and Jupiter’s T-28s peeled off, entering the circuit and landing to refuel and rearm.

There was no warning, no dramatic moment with the engine coughing and spluttering, the 213hp Continental simply stopped as the last drop of fuel was consumed. The propeller, its blade angle design the result of mathematical equations and skilful engineering to ensure the efficient conversion of brake horse power from the engine into useful thrust, was now as useful as a dead stick, hence the term.

It was not silent in the small cabin without the engine noise, the wind still whistled through the shattered windows and bullet holes but at a greatly reduced rate. The air speed indicator wound down from 130 to a mere 45MPH.

It was still busy on the ground with the constant arrival of aircraft requiring rearming and refuelling, but that came to abrupt end as Barfight informed the tower that Rodeo Zero Seven was ‘dead stick’, no engine. In Flight Ops they chalked ‘WOB’ on the board next to Mikes call sign and sortie number as Barfight declared ‘07’ had wounded on board. The ambulance and fire truck had scrambled and were sat a safe distance from the end of the runway with motors idling, waiting to follow the aircraft as it touched down, or indeed if it ploughed into the trees short of the runway threshold. There was an unmarked route through the wire entanglements and mines beyond the perimeter which the drivers had memorised for such eventualities.

Rooney got the word early, of course, and left the mess hall to watch, standing near the runway with crossed fingers.

Seven of the Trojan T-28s, which had been involved in the rescue, landed first and the crews also made their way over. Major Sherman, the 19^th TASS detachment’s CO, sought them out for a first-hand account of what had befallen Phoenix Zero Four and Rodeo Zero Seven.

“Were is he?” asked a voice, and Rooney saw that it was Hector Ortega, wiping his grease and oil covered hands with a kerosene soaked rag, Airman Lynch was at his side, shading his eyes from the sun as he peered up at the sky.

“Probably planning on short finals.”

“Why is that?” asked young Lynch.

“Winds from the east, not the north west, the way the runway is laid out,” Rooney explained. “When he turns in he’ll drop a-ways… hot day like this the air is less dense, it could be like riding a winged brick when he turns onto the approach.”

“Damn, we just got done fixing it only this morning.”

“Well look at it this way, maybe it was your doing such a good job is the reason he is coming back at all, Airman.”

Rooney noticed that Captain Dunstan was stood a little apart from everyone else, and he thought that 19 TASS’s Executive Officer looked exactly like those people who go to watch NASCAR just for the chance to see someone die.

They heard the sound of Rodeo’s shepherding T-28 first; it was circling above a slowly moving speck that had to be the Cessna O-1A Bird Dog.

As the line Mike was taking closed on that of the runway’s approach he began a gentle turn, reluctant to lose a single unnecessary foot in altitude. They had lost 8,000ft in gliding this far, which highlighted the difference between what an engineer’s slide rule says should occur and what actually happens in reality.

Their rate of descent increased as they lost the wind’s air flow over the wings, causing Juiqi to call out in fear. They were indeed descending more rapidly than Mike was happy with. He applied left rudder, yawing 40° into the wind and leeching some of its buoyancy.

Just off the line of approach was a dark area on the ground, a true blot on the landscape, an area which had proven to be a popular mortar baseplate position for hit and run attacks by the Viet Cong. In order to deny to the enemy the cover of trees and foliage, that area had been thoroughly napalmed.

Mike guided the Bird Dog above it and smiled as they were buffeted from below by the small, but welcome, thermal that the dark area produced. Seeking out dark patches on the ground, such as woods, ploughed fields and built-up areas, was a well-known technique used by glider pilots and birds, but unlike lightweight gliders and avians, his aircraft was too heavy to fully capitalise on it, it could not soar upwards in a spiral to greater altitude.

Every little bit helped though, at this point.

Having transited that small area, Mike renewed his former south easterly course.

As the Bird Dog grew larger, and lower, those on the ground gave voice to their feelings, shouting encouragement that Mike could not of course hear.

Ground crews stopped what they were doing to watch the drama unfold and clerks left the air conditioner’s balm to step outside and watch, and then to join in.

Rooney, Hector and Airman Lynch were shouting as loudly as anyone, it was infectious and even the base commander had stepped out of his office to watch. Only Gordon Dunstan wore a veiled look of anticipation.

The voices fell silent as the glide became a dive.

‘Ground Rush’ is a sensation familiar to all parachutists, as well as any air traveller who has stared at the ground as they came into land, that transition of the senses from ‘floating’ to ‘falling’. Henry’s view was a little limited but that sensation arrived as Mike cancelled their yaw to the left and the aircraft’s nose dropped steeply.

Peering awkwardly around the girl’s shoulder he could see that the minefield set before the airfield’s perimeter was looming up, not the runway. 

Mike’s eyes flicked from the altimeter to the air speed indictor and back, picking his moment before cashing in the airspeed that the dive had built up, trading it for lift, pulling back on the column with wings level. They soared above the mine field and cleared the 8 foot high coils of stacked barbed wire, separating it from the runway, with three feet to spare. As the speed bled off and gravity was about to take over he flared, settling the Bird Dog onto the tarmac in a perfect three pointer and rolling to a halt.

He was blocking the runway but in a moment there was no shortage of willing hands to push it clear across to the hangar it had left only a few hours previously.

Mike climbed painfully from his seat after retrieving Ali’s photo and returning it to his wallet. He was favouring his left side, almost hunched over, and drying blood coated the left side of his face from the cheek bone on down, matting into the cotton of his flight suit. He turned back to the runway, raising a hand high in a gesture of thanks as Barfight Zero Nine touched down on the tarmac.

Juiqi and the baby were taken to the ambulance and Henry helped Mike fend off the congratulatory slaps on the back as they followed.

Great cover but banned from kindle advertising

Of Demons and Blue Moons

Fae, aka Crown Princess Aimee Adrianna of the Guardian Rings

Posh, Warrior Princess, Faerie, Witch, Succubus and the worlds worst driver... 

I am, as you may know, attempting to portray 'Of Demons and Blue Moons‘ central character, Fae, as a complex individual.

She is exceedingly old, wise with the years, a walking encyclopaedia, and outstandingly beautiful, appearing to be any age between 19 and 29, depending on her mood and circumstances.

Fae is also the possessor of longevity and extreme libido whilst being unburdened by inhibition. Quite apart from moonlights Achilles heel, Fae is desperately lonely, a feature she hides well. The cause of the loneliness is her longevity and others lack of it. She has been in love five times and five times, she has stood beside a grave as a loved one’s coffin was lowered inside.

Fae is very posh and proper on the surface, a very ladylike young woman styled on the 1920s and 1930s.

As a half Faerie and half Succubus, she can feed off either sexual energy or extremely large meals. She prefers the former as it also goes some way in assuaging the loneliness, seducing strangers in doorways and alleyway, constant one-night stands that do not allow for affection from either her or from her partners.

Combat wise, she would hand any ten Bruce Lees their arse in nought seconds flat. However, her mother, Lilith, has her outmatched and nor can Fae see the Shadow Demons that Lilith and the devil have created.

Fae is destined to be the mother of the Shadow Demon to rule all Shadow Demons, and also the human ruler who will lead mankind to its own destruction, at least if the devil and Lilith have their way.

She is often called ‘Slut’ but I want her to be ‘Hedonist’ in a reader’s opinion

Cerberus is Fae’s father, but he was turned into the hellhound later, as punishment for allowing Lilith to seduce him.

 Dragon's, demons, lusty warriors, both male and female, strippers, supermodels, a satyr dwarf stalker and a former Royal Marine, they are all to be found within the pages.

It will be ready for publication very soon!

Andy Farman

Cover by Sanju Nivangune

Interiors by Piero Vettori
Models: Katya Clover and Tracey Elvik

'Fae' by Vettori

'Cerberus' by Vettori

Fae, the Devil's Advocate dress and the Shisha-no-Ken belly chain.

The 'Inverted Griffin' of 'Cassandra's Spears'

The 'Kraken' of Erik Voldargamar's 'Kraken 100'

Fae's  'Fleur Di Lis with Paw faction' of the Royal House of Ring

Katya Clover as 'Clover' the dragon rider

Interior illustration from my forthcoming supernatural novel 'Of Demons and Blue Moons'
Original interior art by Piero Vettori
Original cover art - Sanju Nivangune
Model - Katya Clover 2Clovers (NSFW)
Dragon - 'Stumble Fish' an absolute softie, really he is.

Stumble Fish followed suit at Fae’s first thought. Female rider's mind
control over male dragons was equal to that of the male riders and
female dragons. Conversely, the female dragons were smaller and mature
male dragons did not take kindly to puny male riders ordering them
about. In another season, Song Singer would begin to resent male
rider's commands. A female rider could never successfully control a
female dragon as the dragon regarded all other females of any species
as rivals. Female dragons were very territorial and more than a few
had sought out their mate’s rider, killed and eaten her.
Their heads were big, but that was due to thick bone, not grey matter.

From two hundred feet up, Fae saw a slight movement in rocks above the
canyon and the dragon swung right so as not to alert it by casting a shadow over its way.
Stumble Fish spread its wings wide and landed lightly, on the far side of an
outcropping.
Fae quickly removed her chaps and boots before releasing the leather
ties securing her hunting bow and quiver of arrows. The heavy oak war
bow and bodkin tipped arrows were overkill for what she now intended
to stalk. She next removed the belly chain, she would not need the
katana but the tinkling of the jewels and sparkle of gold and gems did
not lend itself to clandestineness. The warrior souls entered her with
expectation, as they always did, but she sheathed the long blade and
hung it down her back by its strap, safely out of the way.
Slipping noiselessly to the ground,naked but for her weapons, Fae ran around the side of the
outcrop that was still in shadow, her feet making no sound
despite the silence of the desert. Once she had gone, Stumble Fish
stepped over the canyons lip, gliding down the rest of the way to join
Song Singer and Scott.

Sample 'Shaw, Lt - USMC'

On their own, a minefield and barbed wire entanglements would not keep a VC or NVA sapper out of the fire-base lines, it would just slow them down. It took alert men with guns, booby traps and trip flares to achieve that.

Night did not bring any relief from the mortars; it joined forces with them to provide cover to the sappers who may soon attempt to infiltrate the perimeter.

Schermuly, mortar and artillery illumination rounds, plus flares dropped by ‘Spooky’ helped to aid the defenders but the light from the flares was, of course, also of assistance to the enemy, in particular to his snipers.

Earlier in the day, the enemy had mortared the flanks of the fire-base, dropping HE rounds upon the slopes until they noted the lack of secondary explosions. The impossibility of having a mined, cover-free, kill zone in a fertile jungle setting was presenting itself as a problem for security once more.

For the previous four hours, the enemy had largely concentrated his fire between the western and northern sides of the perimeter. The occasional round would land somewhere else but generally the pressed men of the ARVN company elsewhere on the perimeter counted their blessings. The same could not be said of the veterans, those advisors, Montagnards and visiting troops with a previous war, or a fire-fight or ten, under their belts, these men did not get to call themselves veterans by accepting given situations at face value. The enemy was up to something.

The Empire Quartet was waiting at a small gap in the sandbags on the south-east side of the perimeter. It was, in effect, a modern day sally port, a secure entryway through the fortifications. Only wide enough for one man to squeeze through at a time it was near invisible from the outside. A weighted frame, wrapped in barbed wire and bedecked with nails acted as the ‘door’, one that could only be opened from the inside. None of the men wore webbing equipment or carried firearms; they were armed with various edged weapons. WW1 era trench knives served the two sons of ANZAC, these knives incorporated a knuckleduster and a sharp, bone penetrating, stud on the hilt for cracking skulls. The trench knives made Peter’s Fairbairn/Sykes fighting knife and Dip’s Kukri seem positively civilised in comparison.

With all visible skin blacked out with camouflage cream they waited in the darkness next to a fighting position manned by a trio of the largely untrained ARVN troops who had been foisted upon 'Ben' Gunn.

The moon was about to slip below the horizon but by its light Dip could see the nearest ARVN soldier’s eyes, which were wide and fearful. In a way, Dip Rai sympathised with the men who had been dumped here because they expendable and their high command apparently expected the fire-base to fall. It was the unspoken policy of the general staff to follow President Diem’s wish to preserve the best troops and equipment for use against internal coup attempts, not military incursions by hostile external forces.

Most of the ARVN at Fire-base Zara were getting it into their heads that it was sink or swim, time to fight or die, not hide amongst the villagers as a few had attempted before the civilians were evacuated.

Beyond them, over the sandbag wall and wire, lay the dark hillside that sloped away until it met the jungle. The intervening ground was their kill zone, which the manuals stated should be prepared by the clearance of undergrowth and the removal of any natural undulations or folds in the ground that may offer cover to an enemy. Even before mortaring had left shell holes to hide in there had been a foot high growth of grass and plant life taking hold. It was not a lot of cover for attacking infantry but it was ample for a stealthy man to approach the perimeter.

The defenders remained alert and expended schermuly para-illuminators at infrequent intervals but unfortunately the distinctively loud crack of the percussion cap igniting the propellant is then followed by a sky rocket ‘whoosh’, accompanied by a trail of sparks, giving three seconds warning that it is going to get bright for at least forty seconds. By the time the flare is alight beneath its tiny parachute the enemy is already hugging the ground.

Replacing the trip flares and booby-traps that the mortaring had destroyed was the fire-bases best insurance against surprise intrusions.

Armageddon's Song, Volume 6, Artwork

As my map illustrations did not find universal favour in the previous volumes I have stretched my art skills a bit in a couple of instances in order to put a face to some of the aircraft in the prequel that younger readers may never have heard of: