Mister Menzies and the computer louts.

Jul 01, 2025

I’ve been spending some time in the 1950s. The other 1950s, of course, which I buggered up jamming a nuclear-powered aircraft carrier into a wormhole and back to the Battle of Midway.

Would you like a peek?

(That’s not really a question, I know).

It looked very much like the Oval Office as Robert Menzies recalled it, and yet it was so very different. The furniture, obviously, changed every couple of years, and he recalled from President Roosevelt's time the inescapable smell of the Camel cigarettes the president had smoked. Reason enough to change the couch and curtains regularly. But sitting next to the British ambassador, waiting for the reporters to leave, Menzies noted the other changes too.
The huge black bakelite telephone that had sat on FDR's desk had been replaced by a much sleeker unit, one of those touchscreen thingies he had so much trouble using. Something about his fingertips, they said. More likely it was something about the ridiculous touchscreen, Menzies thought, but there was no telling those computer louts anything. His fingers had no trouble turning the dial on a proper phone. But no. The problem was his fingertips. Not the phone that didn’t work.
The television, of course, was new, very new, one of those monstrous things as big as a picture window and not much thicker. It was blank at the moment, turned off. And here and there, of course, there were the little things that you couldn't see.
He still wore the simple mechanical watch his father had given him when he was admitted as a barrister. And Lord Templesmith, the British ambassador, he knew, still had the one he’d worn as a destroyer captain in the North Atlantic. But the president liked to flash around one of those uptime sports watch thingies, the ones that spoke to satellites and counted how many steps you took during the day and would probably make you a decent serve of beans on toast if you asked.
He wasn't wearing it now, of course. They had surrendered all of their electronical devices before arriving here. Not that Robert Menzies had many to surrender. The Australian Prime Minister was a traditionalist in that way. Wristwatches were meant to be worn on the wrist and checked occasionally to tell the time, not to encourage one to run a marathon or to cook up a full Scottish breakfast.

There’s a lot of this, and, naturally SPLOSIONS. Barring disaster I reckon we’ll see World War 3.2 released in August and 3.3 before Christmas. If you want to follow along with the writing you can at my Patreon, but, to be honest, they’ll be here pretty soon, so you could save yourself the dollarydoos.

Also here, right now, is the next book in the Agency series, The Bjorn Identity. It’s 30% off at Amazon and the first two titles are free there this week if you’re a little sceptical. Honestly, if you like sex and violence, I think you’ll like these books.

Like my man FozzieBear.

Here’s a little taster from The Bjorn Identity.

This is how I write romance.

The door exploded inward with a crash that rattled the glass lamps overhead. The deadbolt sheared clean off, the chair splintering under the force. Two men barrelled in. Broad-shouldered, heavy. Russian.
Ash didn’t hesitate. He moved before Justine could think, his body flowing into action. The first man charged, and Ash met him in a blur, stepping inside the swing, a brutal open-hand strike sending the man reeling back clutching his throat.
But the other man slipped past Ash, heading straight for Justine, reaching out with giant, hairy hands that could snap bone like breadsticks.
She twisted away from the table at the last second, the man’s grab closing on air. His own speed worked against him, he stumbled forward, catching himself against the wall with a curse. He turned, grinning, teeth flashing gold.
“Француженка,” he said, voice low and oily. He had gold teeth and scarred knuckles. Eyes that had seen too much and enjoyed it all. “Pretty little French girl. You dance for me, yes?”
Justine answered without words. She pulled the ceramic knife from her belt and drove it up into his side, under the ribs. Not deep enough to drop him, but deep enough to matter.
His grin faltered, eyes going wide. Still, he swung, a wild, backhanded blow that clipped her temple. Pain flashed, sharp and white. She staggered, blinking stars from her vision, but didn’t fall. She didn’t have time to fall.
The laptop. The tap!
She ducked under another swing and grabbed the laptop.
The Russian lashed out with a kick, catching her on the hip and spinning her around. But she held onto the device, which slowly crept through its intrusion sequence as the power outage counted down.
Nineteen seconds.
Durham’s shout filled the space. Not a word, just a primal roar, fierce and protective. She saw him lift the first Russian, actually lift him with impossible strength born of fury, and drive him headfirst into the doorframe. The crack was definitive and the man crumpled, motionless.
The second Russian ripped the knife free with a grunt, tossing it aside. Blood blossomed dark against his shirt, but he came anyway, slower now, more cautious.
Justine ducked low, heart hammering. The laptop’s progress bar crawled across the screen but not fast enough.
Ash turned, still breathing hard, blood on his knuckles. Before he could attack the surviving Russian from behind, a third man appeared in the doorway, taller, leaner, with a shaved head and a cold, professional look. He took one short, efficient step into the cabin, a short steel baton telescoping from his hand.
Ash didn’t hesitate. He pivoted, barely blocking the first downswing as he closed the distance. He grunted but kept moving forward, crowding the man’s space before the baton could swing again.
Justine’s Russian—he was definitely hers to deal with, bloodied but not finished—staggered upright, his gaze flicking from Ash to Justine, calculating. Blood soaked his shirt, but he pushed off the wall and came again, slower now, wary. She shifted her weight, bracing on one knee, and kicked out low. Hard. A hooking kick swept his advancing foot from under him and he toppled over, hitting the floor with a grunt, and crashing against the side of the bed.
She scrambled backward, shielding the laptop with her body as the progress bar crawled on, twelve seconds now. So close but so agonizingly slow.
Ash was locked in with the third attacker. The man was fast, not brawling like the others, but controlled, every movement tight and measured. The baton was a blur, striking high, low, side to side. Ash dodged what he could, and blocked what he couldn’t, but the fight was brutal, and the small space gave him little room to manoeuvre.
A blow caught Ash’s ribs, the baton making a sick whipping crack. She flinched with every hit he took. She’d faced enemies before, in simulations, in training exercises, but this was different and truly awful. Her body raced away from her mind, her chest tight, blood rushing in her ears. Ash staggered back a step, teeth bared in a grimace, but he used the stumble, dropping low and driving forward, shoulder first like a battering ram. He caught the third man around the middle, slamming him against the wall hard enough to make the wood groan.
They grappled. The baton skittered across the floor, lost.
Justine’s attacker growled and pushed himself up again, slower now, but determined. His blood was everywhere, on his shirt, the carpet, but his eyes were locked on her. She tried not to think of him as a man, so much larger and stronger than her. He was a problem to solve. A series of angles and points of critical failure.
Eight seconds.
He lunged.
She dodged sideways, kicking out his knee. He cursed, grabbing at her as he toppled, and Justine followed it up with a knee to his temple that sent him crashing over the low velvet settee. She kneed him twice more in the side of the head and he seemed to fully collapse at last.
Ash roared and threw the bald man onto the writing desk, slamming his elbow into the man’s gut for good measure. He coughed and wheezed, but kicked Ash away with a leg thrust like a piston.
Five seconds.
Justine hunkered down beside the laptop, shielding it with her body, but it wasn’t the tap she was thinking about. It was Ash, fighting to buy her seconds she couldn’t afford to waste.
The screen flickered. Done!
“I’ll take that.”
It was Ash’s opponent, breathing heavily, blood smeared all over his face, but he was holding a gun.
“No!” Justine cried out as Ash jumped in front of her. The cry tore from her before she could stop it. Ash moved without hesitation, putting himself between her and the bullet as though every step he had taken through life had led him, inevitably to this moment.
She heard the tell-tale thut-thut of two silenced shots and cried out again.
But Ash did not move.
Two blooms of bright red blood spread over the Russian’s ruined white shirt.
He looked down, not believing.
And then he fell, revealing the figure standing behind him.

And then there’s some kissing.

Amazon universal link.

The Bjorn Identity is 30% this week. And the first two books are free on the Beast of Bezos for the next couple of days.

Free books! Huzzah. (But not for long)

The Girl Who Came in From the Cold.

For Her Eyes Only.

But, if you can’t even come at the idea of giving Jeff Bezos a buck (believe me, I get it) the entire series is available as a collected volume, 60% off for the launch of The Bjorn Identity.