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#1 Bestselling Military Science Fiction author Terry Mixon served as a non-commissioned officer in the United States Army 101st Airborne Division. He later worked alongside the flight controllers in the Mission Control Center at the NASA Johnson Space Center supporting the Space Shuttle, the International Space Station, and other human spaceflight projects.

He now writes full time while living in Texas with his lovely wife and a pounce of cats.

Storm Divers by Terry Mixon

Plunging his tiny ship into the unimaginable maelstroms of Jupiter allows Adam Hale forget the blood-soaked tragedy that ended his military career.

Until a beautiful spy came looking for his missing brother, her partner. And to take her revenge on Adam.

What they find changes everything they thought they knew. And brings foes determined to kill them both before they solve the mystery.

CURATOR'S NOTE

Terry is a superman with spiderman's wit, he's saved my day more than once. That all translates into Storm Divers as non-stop thriller that keeps you turning the pages long into the night. – Daniel Potter

 

REVIEWS

  • "Storm Divers delivers plenty of action, a little bit of intrigue, dodgy corporations, great characters and a little bit of mystery - in other words everything I like in a good sci-fi adventure."

    – Amazon Review
  • "An action packed book with mystery elements worthy of the best detective novels. It is so close to the masterworks of Timothy Zahn that it's uncanny."

    – Amazon Review
  • "All the elements a guy could want, wrapped up in one book. Daring action, space spies, fights, intrigue and action."

    – Amazon Review
  • "This is a good start to the new series. I've enjoyed the Empire of Bones series and this is starting out to be as good. Keep up the good work."

    – Amazon Review
  • "At first sentence I couldn't put it down. Adventure and great storyline keeps you reading till you get to the end and can't wait for the next book in this series to be out."

    – Amazon Review
 

BOOK PREVIEW

Excerpt

"I said no."

Rachel Price plucked her seatmate's hand from her leg for the third time in five minutes. That was enough. She decided she was going to make him regret being a pig in ways most men never even dreamed possible.

The man just smiled smugly. The same as the last two times she'd warned him.

She wanted to rip his genitals off and jettison them out the shuttle's airlock. The frozen remnants of his manhood would eventually enter Jupiter's atmosphere and burn up. That felt fitting.

Alas, she couldn't afford to draw any attention to herself, especially now. Even when provoked like this. She was on a mission, even if it was unsanctioned.

Mister Fingers was an arrogant businessman from one of the Mediterranean Sea domes. He claimed he was sponsoring a team in some sporting event. As if that was supposed to mean something to her.

She knew this because she'd had to listen to his nasal bragging through every meal for the last month. It made her wish she'd taken something other than a slow passenger freighter like Calypso for the trip from Earth to Jupiter.

Oh, well. It was water under the bridge at this point. Time to make the magic happen.

Rachel smiled sweetly at Mister Fingers and made sure to pass her breasts right in front of his face as she got out of her seat. His eyes followed.

Creep.

She floated back to the head quickly. If the pilot called everyone to their seats too soon, he'd ruin her plan.

The real purpose of the trip was to get into her carry-on bag when she got back to her seat without arousing suspicion. She didn't have to go, but washed her hands anyway, just in case anyone was listening.

Rachel opened the bin when she was done, shielding her bag with her body. Under the folded clothes sat her service weapon, safely secured under mesh.

That was only the beginning. The bag had her full kit. All the tools a spy working for the Republican Intelligence Service might need while defending the Republic.

She pulled a pressurized spray can out of her kit. The label indicated it was deodorant—the kind specially made for a woman, of course—but that was a crock. It was something cooked up by the geeks down in the RIS labs.

Something that was going to ruin Mister Fingers's day.

She misted just a bit on his bag before putting the can away and closing her things back up.

Thankfully, they entered the station's landing bay a few minutes later. She only had to endure two more gropes.

Disembarkation generated some well-deserved distance between her and her seatmate. The perceived gravity once they went down to the customs level was about Mars normal. It felt like home.

Not that the corporate reception and customs area was anything to cheer a weary traveler. They were the same all across the solar system, filled with industrial beige walls, crappy furniture, and suspicious customs officials.

The one on Mercury's Shadow Station was almost identical to this one, as a matter of fact. She had no doubt that the ones the recluses on Pluto used to keep the rest of civilization at bay would be substantially similar.

She'd never had a chance to see what things were like in any of the extra-solar colonies, but those were undoubtedly the same. It seemed a universal constant.

Rachel stayed close to Mister Fingers as they lined up for the inevitable customs inspection. No doubt, he thought that was due to his manly charms. In reality, she wanted to be close when things hit the fan.

Each planet was part of the Republic, like it or not, but all guarded their tax bases well. They wanted a cut of anything coming in, so smuggling was something of a system-wide sporting event.

The rules were simple: don't let them catch you, or find someone willing to look the other way for a price. If you failed, you'd get a whopping fine and a court date to explain everything to a stern-faced magistrate.

Getting minor things by wasn't usually a problem. Most customs agents were willing to take cash to look the other way for harmless stuff.

That all changed if they suspected you were a Disruptor. Everyone took those terrorist nutjobs seriously. They blew things up and killed people.

The customs agent in Rachel's line examined her readout as Rachel stepped forward, held her arms out, and let the scanner examine her for weapons or other proscribed items. A similar system checked her bag.

Rachel wasn't worried about the agent spotting her weapons or other gear. A tag in her kit triggered a hidden subroutine in the scanner. It wouldn't have mattered if she'd been carrying a nuke. All the woman saw was a normal bag and its mundane contents.

The only risk was if the woman wanted to perform a closer inspection. If so, it would be embarrassing when customs detained her. Nothing more. She had a RIS get-out-of-jail-free card.

Still, there was her professional reputation to think of. If they caught her, she'd never hear the end of it from Zane Hale, her partner.

That brought back a stab of worry that she quickly suppressed. He'd come to Jove Station to visit his brother. When he'd missed his return flight, she'd sent him a message.

One that had gone unreturned.

She'd contacted security, but their investigation had gone nowhere. Her partner had vanished.

Keeping her worry about Zane under control for the month-long trip out from Earth had been a form of torture. Even though their boss had tacitly authorized this trip, she was still on her own time.

Which was fine. Like most workaholics, she had vacation time to burn.

A low buzz from the machine in the next aisle got the attention of all the customs agents. Rachel heard the man in Mister Fingers's line tell the bastard to move aside for a closer inspection.

That sounded relatively benign, but Rachel saw the agent in her line put her hand onto the grip of her sidearm and partly turn to watch the annoyed businessman. A scanner detecting explosive residue was something everyone took seriously.

"Move along, ma'am," the agent said. "Everyone else, please back up. We might have an equipment glitch."

A convenient story to get innocent bystanders away from a possibly explosive situation.

Rachel had the pleasure of watching the agents subtly herd Mister Fingers into an exam room. Behind the closed doors, she heard muffled shouting, so he was going to get some roaming hands of his own very shortly.

Revenge was sweet.

They wouldn't find anything, of course. The spray wasn't actually explosive, and it evaporated quickly. They'd mark it down as a false positive. But not until they put the bastard through the wringer.

Rachel smiled, grabbed her bag, and walked out of the port.