Stealth: WWII Novel
I’d like to share some great news. I will be launching a fundraising campaign for my WWII novel, Stealth. The campaign, slated to start on May 1st, 2021, will be hosted through the Indiegogo platform. Stay tuned for more exciting details.
The following is a snippet from the prologue.
Germany-The Third Reich, 1943
Hermann Wilhelm Göring, once Nazi Germany’s second in command and the Reichsführer’s trusted confidant, found himself suddenly out of favor with the country’s volatile dictator, Adolf Hitler.
Göring, a WWI veteran and decorated flying ace, wasn’t about to let matters slide further down the proverbial Nazi pecking order, least of all having to bow down to that bootlicker Martin Bormann, now ingratiated into Hitler’s inner circle.
Although the thought was an irritant, much like a burr underneath a saddle, Göring pushed it aside, choosing instead to focus on what was directly in front of him: a painting. An exquisite painting.
He was reclining in a plush armchair in the study of his opulent hunting lodge, dubbed Karinhall. Located a mere fifty kilometers from Berlin, it was named after his first wife, Karin Göring, who had succumbed to cancer in 1931.
Göring had good reason to smile. He was appraising – drooling would be more accurate – his most recent acquisition: Henri Matisse’s Still Life with Sleeping Woman. Göring was well-known to have a penchant for obtaining beautiful things, including quality art works. That desire, however, had often crossed the line in procuring them, often at the expense of desperate families trying to escape the clutches of Nazi Germany.
The Reichsmarschall’s hardened countenance began to soften, the firm lines on his pudgy face replaced with the beginnings of a smile. Göring intertwined his large, meaty hands behind his head and leaned back, the arm chair groaning in protest under its master’s bulk. His gaze took in every detail of the artist’s strokes, the bright, vibrant colors, and the lively compositions displayed on the canvass, invoking a host of emotions generated by the impressionist’s hand. The visual appeal of the exquisite painting was stunning, truly a masterpiece.
Göring’s hand reached out for the riding crop on his desk, and with a swirl, he allowed his imagination to envision the artist’s strokes.
The all too familiar shrill ring of the telephone interrupted his revelry. His momentary lapse into Matisse’s make-believe world was about to be rudely replaced by real-life matters that usually couldn’t wait. He cursed out loud, his genial appearance quickly retreating from the phone’s unintended reproach. Although he had left explicit instructions with his secretary not to be disturbed, the phone’s insistent ringing clearly ruined his interlude.
“My sincere apology for interrupting you, Herr Reichsmarschall,” his secretary announced, “but it’s urgent.”