Huge work in progress

deerslayer

Milforum Swamp Dweller
Here's the plot for a novel I'm working on:

Two disaffected and discharged soldiers back from Chechnya grow increasingly disenchanted with the failing Russian government, and seek to overthrow it.
Through the sale of narcotics, they scrape together over a couple of years the funds to appropriate a revolution during prime time- a German re-election and military movement.
An assassin is contacted with plans to carry out a hit on a high ranking German official and set up the Russians for the hit. However, the leader of this little coup is imprisoned for his activities.
Meanwhile, the Germans, sporting a PM with a previously unknown neo-Nazi-agenda, are remilitarizing for the purpose of reclaiming lands lost east of the Rhine.

In the middle of this, the U.S. is trying to get to the bottom of the German remilitarization as tensions mount between Germany and Russia, and ultimately a detatchment of US SFOD-D operators and Russian Spetznas working in unison get caught up in the race to uncover the German conspiracy. From there, things go pretty far south, not saying anything more.

Does this sound any good to anyone here, out of curiosity? I have about 300 pages written so far, just wanted to get some input from the military-oriented community. If you like the brotherhood-of-arms mixeed with a high emphasis on devotion and honor, you'd probably enjoy this.
 
think everything from prison breaks to political security.

snippet:

The sky was dark with the promise of approaching rain. Already the first drops of an afternoon shower had fallen upon the heads of the four men as they moved quietly through the rubble of a settlement without a name. Captain Alexei Petrov, the marksman, was moving quickly at the point, stopping behind cover to examine the next area of ruins through his field glasses for any hint of danger. Ten yards behind him and to the right, two men waited for an all clear signal from Petrov. The fourth man in the squad, Lieutenant Nikolai Kulikov, was another twenty feet back, examining the position from which they had just moved for a hint of an envelopment or ambush from the rear.
The other two men in the squad were sergeants, old hands at their jobs, and were all to ready to get out of the area before the rain came down.
They all carried AKS-74 assault rifles, with the exception of Petrov, equipped with a Dragunov SVD precision rifle. Their eyes stood out upon their faces, gleaming white disruptions amidst a sea of tans, blacks, and greens, streaks of camouflage paint upon their visages.
Petrov raised his hand. All was clear. The rain began to fall, picking up in intensity till it concealed the sound of their footsteps upon the bare earth. Here and there a few pockets of grass may poke their way to the surface, but development and construction, not to mention fighting from insurgents, had reduced the village to something akin to a semipermeable hardscrabble pockmarked by the small crater or abandoned, half finished slit trench here and there.
Now, with the noise of their movements concealed by the afternoon shower, was the time to begin moving. Halfway across the village, another team of four men was moving, performing a support role for the other squad, and doing reconnaissance likewise. They were here to scout the area, then the armor and infantry could come and secure any refugees, and help them on their way to a displaced persons camp. They had seen clusters of women and children running from them upon their approach, and old men watching them intuitively from the few buildings that remained standing. The task of scouting an area where every scarred facade of a building, every pile of rubble, could hide a man’s killer, was a process of constant fear.
In combat, fear is a specter over the heads of men. The Angel of Death does not care whether you are sitting in a rear area, caught in a firefight, or mounting point toward a hostile combat zone. Fear is a contagion which every man must control. In combat, very few men will break. Those that do can often be assured of a quick death, if not rout. The professional soldier knows that it is the sheer terror of combat, just as much as bullets or shrapnel, that can be the end of a man’s life in battle.

Alexei raised his hand in a signal to move up. He felt the fear tearing away at his innards and sought subconsciously to control it. So far he had been successful. It was the last thing he needed if the operation turned into a bloodbath. For his error, he and seven other men, friends of his, could lose their lives.
Up ahead of Petrov was a demolished one-story building, with two walls standing, joined at a corner. He made a dash for it, his eyes up and scanning, clutching his Dragunov SVD rifle to his chest.
He reached his position, his stomach giving a lurch as he went into a crouch behind the wall, hoping he hadn’t made too much noise getting here. The rain had picked up and was now pouring steadily, a constant drip-drop on the bare hardscrabble. Some spots were turning to mud, other spots, less permeable, chased off the water to form a dusty solution on the ground. A man swore as he loudly put his foot in a puddle. Petrov swore back in frustration. Must he make noise?
Just as this thought was going through his mind, there was a sharp crack. A puddle exploded into a miniature geyser of water, spraying mud into the air. Petrov shoved his back up against a wall. The men in the back separated and went for cover. Kulikov dodged off to the left of Petrov, keeping him in sight.
Another shot, then another, each one high pitched, splitting the air like a bullwhip.
“Oh dammit, here we go again,” thought Alexei as a series of bullets ricocheted off of his makeshift bunker. He wasn’t safe. He was at the point, and he didn’t know what kind of force the enemy was in. But he did have a radio linkup to his headquarters, with whom the soldiers gave on the ground feedback. He called in a contact, and that he was pinned, and left the message at that.
“Roger, contact confirmed.” was the only response. Alexei cursed the brass when he heard it.
He had a small Skorpion submachine gun slung over his back. He reached for it, throwing aside his SVD, probably throwing the scope out of alignment. No matter. This wasn’t a long range engagement. Petrov estimated from the sound of the incoming bullets reflecting off of his cover that the shots were coming from his right, but he couldn’t be sure, so he stuck his head out just to the side just a bit to see what was happening. A flurry of automatic rifle fire, probably an AK, pushed him back before he could see anything.

Kulikov couldn’t see what was going on either. He had taken cover behind a pile of tin. Not good hard cover, but it was the closest thing available to him. He stayed there for several long seconds, the fear taking over him, then his adrenaline took control and his fear was a thing of the past. His heart was pounding; he could feel it through the tight stretched uniform stuck to his chest by sweat. He looked to his right; his two squadmates in front of him had scattered; they were nowhere to be found. He assumed they were in the same predicament as he. Petrov was still at point, pinned behind his wall, unable to defend himself from the rebels.
 
Mate you're writing a novel very close to being fact... not fiction.

And just for reality you might want to make the russian dialogue more believable, they cuss a lot more than that. ;)

Check out the movie Chistilische and the book "Crying Wolf" for a good prep.
 
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You think it's possible?

I started this plot in various shapes or forms when I was around 13. Now I'm 16 and have written 300 pages in about a year, in between school, stress, and work in military theory.

Yeah, I'm not the average teenager.:oops:
 
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Ok, kiniption fit over... yes I think it is possible but not probable.

mod edit: there are better and more respectable ways to say what you said.
 
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Nope. I entertained serious ambitions of attending, but seeing the way the current military has been shaping up lately, and seeing the increasingly massive political agendas inside and out, I have my doubts that there are many of us who would stick to the motto "Duty, Honor, Country".

In short, I am disgusted with the state of the American political machine and can see it imploding upon itself in the future as a result of the popular media, scandals, and increasing disinterest in our own security as a nation (complaining that HomeSec does more pissing off than good). Though I don't see it necessarily within the next election cycle.
 
Point taken Doody.

WP6612, I guess I missed your intro and was quite surprised as I was under the impression you were a West Point cadet already. I guess that, in itself, is a testament to your writing skills.
;)
 
No offense taken. I understand that it's difficult to take a child seriously on international relations and the military. Got sick of all the novels pitting the communist system as a current player, so I decided to add neo-nazism to the mix and started a new communist party:)
 
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"His heart was pounding; he could feel it through the tight stretched uniform stuck to his chest by sweat".

Stick with this down to Earth terminology for your future readers' sake. Never use "clung to his body like..." You may even attract the attention of Clancy fans as your style develops. It's about time someone gave Mr. Clancy some competition by using imagination as well as knowledge.
 
Many people tell me that, missileer. I generally like to be quick and to the point, but there are many points in the novel where the dialogue and text are pretty long-winded, for the of being visually exciting and thickening the plot.

Now, as to your Clancy comment, here's my humble opinion. Clancy's early work was good, up until about maybe Rainbow Six. From thereon, it became mroe and more convoluted with acronyms and the occasional (oh god help the PC people) sexual reference. I love acronyms- they're good for confusing the sophomoric high-schoolers the author has to deal with on a daily basis, and for cutting down on typing:)

Sexual references are good for cutting tension in a story: "Cold, John?"
"'Bout as warm as a penguin's d*ck, captain."

But other than that, Clancy's work seems to have degenerated as he sold more and more into the thriller culture his work now sadly seems to define. I've lost a lot of respect for Tom Acronym as my literary knowledge and skill in writing have developed.
 
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