This guy. I mean, does he writes books based on my preferences? I had him and two of his titles here before and as far as what I love in a book goes, he was spot on. He is again. Big time.
This time the book is Ragnarok (Worlds Collide Book 1) by Michael Smorenburg, a Fantasy, Romantic Suspense.
A secret NASA experiment gone wrong, the chaos that erupts, and one reporter seeking the truth who chases leads where she shouldn’t.
On a flight from Paris to Los Angeles Tegan Mulholland is intrigued & charmed by Pete, the mysterious stranger sitting beside her. But when their plane almost falls from the sky and other jets in her vicinity wink from the radar, the official explanations that follow reek to Tegan’s retired investigative journalist mind of cover up.
What is not declared:
A secret NASA experiment has warped a column of time instead of space, plucking with it the planes out of our era, and a band of Norse warriors from the Vinland colony millennia ago into our epoch.
Rowing eastward and back to Iceland, the contrail of Tegan’s plane appearing after the strange aurora and moving westward high above, the Norsemen conclude are Odin’s order to return to Vinland and unknowingly toward the modern day Canadian coast, where, just days–yet a thousand years before–the skraeling Indians had driven them out.
As news reports flood Tegan’s living room of bloodshed and massacre, speculating about which gang of roughly dressed bearded marauders are responsible for mass-murder around the quiet Canadian coast, Tegan develops a hunch that there is more to the story than it seems. She quits her Hollywood Exec job and embarks on an odyssey that leads inexorably ever closer toward the Norsemen’s hidden lair.
Only Pete, the Lockheed consultant she had steadily fallen in love with during the harrowing flight and since, has any hope of saving her.
If you enjoy intrigue, conspiracy and romantic suspense, Ragnarok will grip your imagination and not let go.
Viking Longboat, East of Vinland,
9th May 1027
Ráðúlfr Júrgson shrugged his leather cape off and stood a moment at the stjornborði, the tiller oar in his hand.
He arched his aging back, and a lifetime at the oar rattled down his spine with that wash of relief that always made a magnificent day feel even better.
He’d been at the stjornborði, starboard side, on the oar conning the vessel for most of the morning.
“Gansi…” he called to his son. “Ok vagn er flýgr,” he said and the men laughed heartily.
Roughly translated from his native Norse, it suggested that this was supposed to be a chariot on the sea, not a plodding cart. He indicated to his son to replace him at the tiller oar, and stepped to the lad’s rowing seat.
“We pull this clinker home,” his voice rumbled out through his greying beard and the men at the oars raised their energy to match his vigor.
Raol was now in his sunset years, a man of vast experience and respect. He’d led this group out so many lives ago; so many lives lost to the skræling… the savages in the new lands.
The last skirmish when the moon was full was a final straw. They had sat in negotiations for two days straight, deciding the course.
It was a decision taken at a hastily assembled outdoor meeting called a thing in the Norse tongue, held on the plains under an open sky. It harkened back to the original plains of Þingvellir, or “Thing Fields” incepted in 930 AD, almost a century ago.
Two larger boats holding the women and children had been with them until sunset the night before, when Thor had brought the storm upon them.
Dawn found them all alone on a sea still angry, running confused and lumpy with small waves formed by the wind. The prow of their longboat, taller than a tall man, bit deeply into the onrushing swell as each rolled by relentlessly toward the shore, two days rowing behind them, where the sun would set.
It had been six winters since he and his men had seen other men of his tribe. His sentence had been three winters, so that he would be welcomed when they made landfall in Iceland again in the coming months.
He was not a particularly violent man. He had killed in anger, yes, he reminisced. But it was only an ending of trouble, not a making of it.
About the Author
Michael Smorenburg (b. 1964) grew up in Cape Town, South Africa. An entrepreneur with a passion for marketing, in 1995 Michael moved to California where he founded a business consultancy and online media and marketing engine in the burgeoning internet. In 2003 he returned to South Africa where he launched a security company. In 2015 he divested of the business to write full time. Michael’s greatest love is the ocean, keeping up with the latest breakthroughs in science, understanding the cosmos and sharing all he learns.
- $25 Amazon
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