About the Book
“I love the name of honor, more than I fear death.” Julius Caesar
Jim Hayes lives a quiet life in Wisconsin, training in martial arts and studying the warrior ethos. Unable to prevent the murder of his wife six years earlier, Jim is determined that the next time he is called upon to act, things will be different, and he can restore the sense of honor he believes he has lost.
His estranged brother Mark, an Army colonel commanding a firebase in the mountains of Afghanistan, sees his career winding down and wonders what lies in store when he comes home. After years of dedicated service to his country, he fears nothing else will measure up when he removes the uniform for the last time.
In lawless Somalia, al Qaeda chieftain Yusuf Shalita, tired of endless jihad, has decided to defect, in one last attempt at redemption. But Shalita has only met one American he has ever trusted, so he tells the CIA he will surrender himself to Jim Hayes, his old friend from their college days in Wisconsin. That demand will bring the Hayes brothers back together in a way they never imagined, as they fight to prevent a new and devastating terror attack on the very heart of America.
They came for him sometime mid-morning, the same two men who had brought him breakfast a few hours ago, some sort of broth with a few vegetables, hard dark bread and a bottle of water with an Arabic label. They were Middle Eastern in appearance, early twenties, dressed in nondescript shirts and fatigue pants, with one guy incongruously wearing a Boston Red Sox cap. Jim got to his feet and stood with his hands raised. The Red Sox fan came in first, leveling his AK-47 at Jim. Another armed man appeared behind the first in the doorway. The first guy said something to Jim, motioning with the gun to the door. Jim took some cautious steps toward the doorway, keeping his hands visible. He forced himself to smile, and the second guy’s eyes narrowed.
There was a hallway with two more doors on the right, the same side as Jim’s cell, and three on the left. At the end was a larger door. When they opened it the sun blazed in. He shaded his eyes with his left hand, making sure to keep the right held shoulder high, palm facing outward.
They were facing what appeared to be a central square, with low, one-story buildings around the perimeter. Behind them was a wall about ten feet high, looking like it had been built with the same material as the buildings, probably some kind of bricks made out of mud. There were men walking here and there, some standing and watching them. Every one of them had an AK, some held casually, others loosely from the shoulder by a strap. They didn’t look nearly as tough as the troops Jim had seen at Camp Lemonnier, but Jim knew it would be dangerous to make that assumption.
Everyone in motion stopped when they got sight of the tall American, and they stared. Some looked curious, most hostile. There were a few dark-skinned Africans, but most were Middle Eastern, all with beards. Some looked to still be in their teens, while a few showed some gray. How to deal with those stares? Show no fear, Jim told himself, but that wasn’t easy, because he was starting to feel the first tendrils of something stark and cold reaching into him. It was worse than what he’d felt the night before in Mogadishu while being hustled at gunpoint through rubble-strewn buildings with artillery shells crashing nearby, then shoved roughly into the back of a truck, blindfolded and tied to his seat.
He was led to a long building and pushed inside. It appeared to be some sort of conference room, maybe a chow hall, as it had some rickety-looking metal tables and chairs, now moved to the sides along the walls. At one end hung a black flag featuring a yellow circle in the middle and Arabic writing above it. Jim recognized it from news broadcasts: the banner of al-Qaeda. The writing was the shahada, referring to Allah as the only God and Muhammad as his prophet. Beneath it were three men, sitting in chairs. A dozen feet away were three empty chairs facing them. Jim was shoved roughly down into the chair at the right end.
Where to purchase Quest for Honor
David Tindell was born in Germany and grew up in southern Wisconsin. Today he lives up in the northwestern corner of the state, in a log home on a lake with his wife Sue, their Yorkie and two cats. After a career in radio broadcasting, Tindell went to work for the US Government and resumed the writing career he’d started in college.
His first novel, “Revived”, was published in 2000, but after that he put the pen aside for a time to train in the martial arts, earning a black belt in the Korean art of Taekwondo and instructor status in the Russian art of Systema. He currently trains in ryukudo kobujutsu, an art that combines karate with Okinawan weaponry. Like his protagonist in “The White Vixen”, Tindell is a linguist, although not as accomplished as Jo Ann Geary; he’s conversational in German and has also studied Italian and Russian.
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