A Creed of Saints

After a Herculean effort, Scott and I eventually finished writing a ‘A Creed of Saints’ this past weekend. The end product has been well worth the effort.   

While the job is far from over—editing, finalizing cover, pre-publication planning and so on—the bulk of the work is finally done. It has been an intense few months; each of us pushing and encouraging the other along the way. We will be launching on May 28, 2026—a little over two weeks from now.

Talk about incorporating current affairs.

A little over a month ago, a U.S. Air Force F-15E was shot down over Iran.

Here’s an excerpt from the book—a fictionalized account of the dramatic two-day rescue that followed the downing of the aircraft.

The door slid open before the helicopter’s wheels had even touched the scree. Like fortified shadows, four men emerged: three of them immediately fanning out in a defensive formation.

     Remembering his training drills, Talon spread his arms and waited for his rescuer to approach.

     “State your name, rank and number,” shouted Brekkie over the sound of scything blades.  

     Talon complied.

     “He looks like shite, but I can confirm it’s him,” said the team leader, speaking into his helmet mic.

     A mountain of a man with a beard to match, the former British SAS operator was the anchor amongst a team of raging alphas. Claiming life was pointless without a hearty breakfast, Brekkie’s nickname was self-evident. 

     “I can smell him from here,” joked Switch, eyeing the ridgeline through his thermal optics.

     Named for his ability to switch it on and switch it off as the situation demanded, Switch was lean, wiry, and terrifyingly quick with his hands.

     “C’mon boss,” said Gimbal, crouching down at the eastern perimeter. “Let’s get Mr. Precious onboard … I’m getting cold.”

     Shorter than the others and built like a fire hydrant, the former corpsman was incapable of feeling anything: his fellow PJs knew he was joking. Always smiling, Gimbal claimed to be the only stable one on the team.

     “Is he bleeding?” asked Zephyr. “I don’t want any more blood on my boots.”

     Two days earlier, the same four men had rescued Buff from a craggy ravine in the Zagros mountains. Sustaining a deep laceration during his parachute landing, Buff’s leaking wound had been attended to by Zee on the flight back to safety.

     “Let’s wrap it up, ladies,” said Brekkie, hurrying their rescuee towards the Pave Hawk. “Eye-in-the-Sky tells us there’s a horde of angry bandits heading our way.”