Bill grew up in West Tennessee, riding his bike on narrow rural roads lined with wild blackberry bushes, in the days before urban sprawl. He spent those long rides dreaming of new worlds of adventure. Childhood for him was one interesting activity after another, from front yard football to naval miniatures, but from the very beginning reading was the central pillar of his life.

Still living in West Tennessee with his wife of 42 years and 8 dogs, four of which are Search and Rescue certified police dogs, life has turned out better than he could ever have dreamed. Yet Bill never forgets that it is you, his readers, who make this possible. There is a covenant between writer and reader that is always uppermost in his mind. Readers who spend their time and money to read an author's works, deserve the best that author has to offer, and he never forgets that.

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High Mountain Hunters by William Alan Webb

Their enemies on Earth feared it's the Galactic Union's turn!

Until the coming of the Galactic Union put them out of business, the Gurkhas were among Earth's fiercest and most successful mercenaries. Now one man—Ganju Limbu—wants to use their heritage of courage and loyalty to bring prosperity to Nepal, and he is one of two men selected to head Mercenary Guild-sanctioned Ghurka mercenary companies.

Nothing is ever easy, though, and there are forces—both Human and alien—who don't want to see the Ghurkas succeed, and they will go to great lengths to stop the Ghurka Rifles from ever getting off planet. Other forces hope they do get off planet…so they can take advantage of them.

When Limbu and the Rifles take their first contract, everything seems easy—too easy for what they're being paid to do—leaving Limbu to wonder what he isn't being told. Treachery abounds, and the Rifles are on a collision force with an alien army that outnumbers them ten to one, leaving them with only their courage and guile to stave off defeat.

For the Ghurkas, though, it's better to die than be defeated, so they will have to come up with a strategy that turns the tables on the enemy, or the Gurkha Rifles' first contract will also be their last!



  • "The characters are believable, the pace is excellent and the idea is gripping. Very hard to put the book down."

    – Thomas Lee
  • "Seeing the Gurkhas go into space as marks was awesome. I can't wait for the next one. You really don't wanna miss this one."

    – Marcus Ramirez
  • "A great story with characters that you get invested in it from page 1."

    – Christopher J. Kadish



Near the Interplanetary Convention Center, Kathmandu, Nepal, Earth

"We're being followed, Father."

Ganju Limbu glanced over his left shoulder to see three or four figures fifty feet behind his youngest. Outlined against the sunlight at the far end of the alley, he couldn't make out details, but that didn't matter; they could only have one purpose in the alley. Their appearance at that moment was no coincidence. He and his two sons had reached the mid-point of the narrow canyon sandwiched between high, empty buildings, far enough so they no longer heard the beeps of scooters and cars on the streets at either end.

"Well spotted, Rambahadur. We can expect more to our front, then. Be on the alert, Devance."

His older son reached inside his western style business jacket and drew a 9mm Sig Sauer P226 that his grandfather carried during his final years of service in the British Army. He held it as he'd been trained to do, using both hands and letting his eyes search the way ahead so the gun would naturally follow. But Limbu waved a hand even though his son couldn't see him.

"No guns, not if we can help it."

"But Father, they are many."

"There is too great a risk of a stray shot hitting an innocent passerby."

"I do not miss, Father."

"Everyone misses. And have I not taught you that numbers alone are not a force multiplier, my son? We are Gurkhas…we are a force multiplier."

In response Devance holstered his pistol and drew two long, curved blades from their wood and buffalo hide sheaths crisscrossed on his chest. Limbu heard another metallic scrape behind him and knew that Rambahadur had done the same. Almost at the instant he expected it, Devance once again brought up the day's chief topic, although this time there was an I-told-you-so tone to the words.

"When this is over, Father, you must explain to me again why we are walking and did not drive. It is madness, and now it may get us killed."

They had continued without changing their pace, while the four men pursuing them hastened to catch up and now were within thirty feet. Even in the shaded street, a reflected sunbeam glinted from steel in their hands to show they were armed. Limbu didn't seem the least bit concerned.

"Ah, Devance, you are always so impetuous. Rambahadur, you understand the need for this, do you not?"


Three years younger than his brother, Limbu was curious what his youngest son would say. Would he agree with Father, or the older brother he idolized? Whatever his choice he needed to make it quick. Four men had just blocked their way forward, about one hundred feet away.

When his son didn't answer he prompted him. "Hō?" Yes?

"No Father, I do not."

"And yet I have explained it to you both several times…so let us deal with these miscreants and then you may understand. Turn on your body cameras."

Limbu's entire demeanor changed, as did his face. Gone was the fatherly smile, now become a grim scowl. Quickly, but without undue hurry, he removed his suit coat, folded it, and laid it on a patch of bricks to one side of the alley. Next he removed his black dress shoes, careful not to smudge the mirror-sheen polish, and his socks. The dress shirt, tie and slacks, however, he didn't remove.

Parts of Kathmandu were extremely modern, but the part they were in, north of the Interplanetary Convention Center, was much older, and many of its buildings abandoned. Chinese gangs had recently moved over the border into Nepal and taken over the area, so once they engaged their attackers no one would intervene in what looked like just another street fight, exactly as Limbu had planned it.

Ready now to fight, he took his own khukuris from identical sheaths to his son's. The four men blocking the way forward stopped almost within reach. Each man carried some form of knife, since gunfire was one thing the Nepalese police responded to immediately. Limbu noted they were definitely Chinese, and all bore the tattoos of Chinese prisons.

"Strip to your skin and beg," the tallest of them said in heavily accented Nepali. He was a man of thirty or so, and towered over the Nepalese by at least five inches. "Do that, and we might let you live."

The other Chinese laughed. They all wore western style jeans and basketball shirts.

"Move out of our way," Limbu said. "I have other business today than killing rats."

Without a word from him, Rambahadur spun to face the four men behind them, while his brother stood facing the four in front. Limbu took three paces backward but faced his two sons. Together they formed a pyramid.

"Laḍā'ī ruci!" Fighting stance!

All three of them dropped to a high squat, with one arm forward and the other cocked behind their ears, a khukuri in each hand. The Chinese gave each other a reassuring glance and began to move forward, cautiously, when Limbu barked another word.

"Sanlagna!" Engage!

To Limbu's eye what happened next was in slow motion, even though each movement was a blur. It lasted less than thirty seconds. His sons each threw a khukuri with a three-quarter throwing motion so the blade tumbled through the air much like a boomerang. They each aimed for the neck, as he'd taught them, and neither Chinese even realized what happened before they died with razor sharp Nepalese steel buried in their flesh. Limbu also threw a knife at one of the Chinese facing Rambahadur. It struck the man lower than he'd intended, near the sternum, and while his target fell to the alley floor, he wasn't dead yet.

Pivoting on his left heel, Limbu waited as a Chinese gangster with a pitchfork tattooed on his right cheek charged him wielding a long knife. Balancing on the balls of his feet, he slipped into that state of battle where his brain automatically took action, without the potentially fatal delay of conscious thought. His attacker did not bring his knife down in a stabbing motion, which some part of his mind recognized as a sign of experience. Instead, he leapt forward and slashed at Limbu's waist in a sweeping motion.

He didn't leap backward, which would have left him open to a backhand cut. Instead Limbu dropped nearly prone, keeping his knees bent, and let the knife whistle overhead. Then he sprang forward and brought the khukuri straight up, slicing the man open from groin to belly button. Screaming, the Chinese gangster fell backward and waved the knife in a desperate attempt at retribution. The blade cut Limbu's right arm and left a shallow wound. His blood became indistinguishable from the ropes of the dying man's blood that spurted onto his shirt and tie.

Panting, Limbu saw that Rambahadur had put a third one of his attackers down and had blooded the last man, but Devance was backed against the alley wall by his two assailants. Limbu ran to his son's rescue and neither of the Chinese heard him coming. The khukuri severed the man to his right's spine just above the pelvis. He fell in a heap, twitching and screaming. The other man turned and managed to block Limbu's swipe at his throat. He could not block Devance's stab to his heart, however.

"Are you injured?" Limbu asked.

Devance shook his head. "No, go help Ramba."

"He does not need our help."

As both of them watched, the last gangster lunged at the youngest of the Limbu clan, knife thrust before him. Rambahadur dodged to one side and brought the edge of the Khukuri down on the man's wrist. The blade sliced through muscle, tendon and bone, severing the hand and leaving the man screaming on his knees as blood poured from the wound.

No police sirens could be heard over the crying and moans of the injured gangsters. Nobody stopped to peer down the alley at the sounds of battle, and no heads poked out of the abandoned buildings that were filled with the homeless. In Kathmandu, it was just one more fight to the death among hundreds of such every week.

Limbu's sons stared wide-eyed at the destruction they had wrought, including the four men still writhing in the dirt. He allowed them a minute to regain their breath, and then patted each on the shoulder.

"We must be going, my sons."

"Father," Devance said. "We just killed eight men!"

"No, we killed four. The others are not dead yet. Now come, we have business elsewhere."

After putting his socks and shoes back on, Limbu was careful not to get blood on the outside of his jacket. Then he led his still-shocked sons out of the alley, where a limousine awaited them at the far end. On sighting them the chauffeur got out and opened the back door.

"Good morning, Mr. Speaker," he said.

* * * * *