Remember that ‘No’ yesterday about the contest where I didn’t make it to Round 3? Yeah…well…scratch that. I did. Found out late last night and didn’t get to sleep until 4 a.m.

Round 3 is where agents read the entries and determine if they would like to request the manuscript, or at least a query. The better you do, the better your chances of getting your work in front of someone you want to see it.

The trick is, tonight’s the deadline for the revisions. Yikes!

So I’ve been working on them all day and then, right when the input is rolling in and I’m getting in a flow…Comcast goes out. It came back, but experience teaches that it will go out again. So, I went with what I hand and crossed my fingers. You’ll find my heavily revised entry below.

However, something I thought I would be mentioning today as another ‘No’ is still in the ‘Maybe’ category, so I missed that one, too.

Okay, without me blabbering further:


When Nick Angriff’s family is slaughtered in a terrorist attack, leaving no loved ones to miss or mourn him, he agrees to command Operation Overtime, an elite military unit stored in suspended animation against the possibility of national collapse.
He awakens sixty years later to find the United States government destroyed and a bizarre religious sect enslaving the survivors. He commands an elite and diverse military unit stored in suspended animation, and resurrecting America becomes Angriff’s sacred duty.

To save others, however, he must first stay alive. Angriff discovers two extremist factions of the dead U.S.A. infesting his brigade, and he’s in the crosshairs of both.
His choice is stark: dig out threats within Operation Overtime first, risking the death of innocents, or face assassination to fulfill his mission and end the slavery and slaughter. 
First 250 words (from The Prologue)

Lake Tahoe sparkled under a high sun in a cloudless sky. From the warmth of the tour boat’s passenger lounge, Mary Buffer watched her chubby husband, Winslow, brace against the railings and turn his face into the wind. So far, day one of their first vacation ever with Emily had been magical. The red-haired toddler stood on tiptoes and waved at her father, then knocked on the window to get his attention. Her warm breath frosted the glass. Winslow grinned at her, despite the cold spray, and waved back.
Out of the chill and sipping hot chocolate from a foam cup, Mary giggled watching Winslow strike a captain’s pose, feet apart, head titled back. He often shared his fantasy of sailing the sapphire waves of the Caribbean, warm breezes tossing his sparse hair, as he stood at the helm of his sailing sloop. He painted that image for their retirement, and Mary loved the idea. She liked seeing him happy more, though. Starting a solo practice as a new CPA required long, hard hours, and he deserved time to dream and play.

The muffled buzz of a speedboat, growing louder as it drew near, caught Mary’s attention and she glanced left. Milling people blocked her view as the smaller boat throttled down near the port bow. She glanced back at Winslow as something metallic hit the deck and bounced, stopping between his feet. The object seemed vaguely familiar, but she did not recognize it before the blast of the grenade ripped him apart.