Deluge Reviewed at jackboston.com

A First-Order Disaster Story About an Atmospheric River

It’s to his credit that he focuses his attention on the human element of the deluge, rather than going all technical on the reader. We read as citizens, law enforcement, academia, politicians and outlaw gangs deal with the deluge. In the process, Best makes this a compelling—indeed frightening—story. Again and again I was impressed with Best’s characterizations and grasp of how profoundly a storm such as this can disrupt life. The potential power of water stayed with me for days. This is a highly recommended natural disaster thriller, written with acute attention to reality and little, if any, needless melodramatics.

Read the full review here.

Storms, politics and street gangs pummel California ... and that's not the scary part.

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No Peace, A Steve Dancy Tale

Now Available for Pre-Order at Amazon

Publication Date, September 9, 2019

After marriage, Steve Dancy has quietly settled in San Diego. He can hardly remember his days of wanderlust, and he’s grateful to have left behind the violence of a raw frontier. In a celebratory mood, Steve invites his mother to a meet her new grandchild in a chic resort in Monterey, California. With the delivery of a handwritten note, his world suddenly reverts to the savagery of his bygone days.

There will be no peace.

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Honest westerns filled with dishonest characters.

No Peace, A Steve Dancy Tale

Honest westerns filled with dishonest people.

Progress Report

The latest Steve Dancy Tale has been returned from my editor and I have completed my review of her recommended changes. Again, she has done an excellent job of smoothing out my writing and catching errors. I have transmitted the manuscript to my book interior designer, who will prepare print and eBook formats for publication. As always, we're still flailing a bit with the cover design.

Selfish San Francisco

Water Source for San Francisco

San Francisco supports denying water to the Central Valley so a tiny fish called the Delta Smelt has a pristine habitat. Except San Francisco gets its drinking water from the other side of the Central Valley. If the O'Shaughnessy Dam below Yosemite was demolished, the Sierra runoff would flow naturally into the Central Valley.

To further explain the source of San Francisco water, here is an excerpt from Deluge.

“The TV.” She pointed to a television mounted high on the wall. The sound had been muted, but the agitation of the newscasters was obvious. The chyron read, “O’Shaughnessy Dam collapse harms San Francisco.”  In smaller letters below, it read “Water and power at risk.

Smith grabbed the bottles and said “Come on. Let’s get back.”

When they entered the flat downstairs, Wilson and Ashley were chuckling like a couple of teenagers. Baldwin had the impression that if they hadn’t returned when they did, they might have found the flat locked, with a man’s tie hanging from the door handle.

Smith immediately went to the remote and turned on the television.

The newscaster was saying, “San Francisco receives eighty-five percent of its water from the Hetch Hetchy Reservoir, which sits behind the O’Shaughnessy Dam. A dam that no longer exists. This dam also produced over seven hundred million kilowatt-hours of electricity per year for the city. The mayor has declared an emergency, and water as of this moment is severely rationed. It appears that for the first time in a century, San Francisco will be forced to pump and filter its water. The question on the minds of nearly three million people in the Bay Area is, how long it will take to replace the water supply for the city? Our sources said months. The irony, of course, is that after over a week of nonstop rain, how can the city be out of fresh water … and potentially short of electricity?”

“Oh, crap,” Smith said. “The Restore Hetch Hetchy activists got their wish. They’ve hated that dam since John Muir fought its construction early in the last century. Now we’ll see how Sierra Club members with a 94123 zip code like rustic living.”

“Don’t fool yourself,” Wilson said. “The rich always live comfortably. It’s the peons who’ll suffer. If need be, the rich will have Perrier home-delivered in quantities large enough to shower whenever they want.”

Ashley pointed at the faucet. “This water comes from the Sierras? That’s hard to believe. Why? The Delta always has water.”

“It’s pure mountain water,” Wilson said. “We’re one of the few major cities in the world that doesn’t filter its tap water. It’s uncontaminated … and delivery is gravity fed. The city moves it from the mountains to that tap without fossil fuels.” She stroked the faucet spout. “Our pristine mountain water is a matter of civic pride.”

“As well as the pee on the sidewalks,” Smith said. “Gravity fed, pure, and one hundred percent organic.”

“Guys, quit squabbling,” Baldwin said, pointing at the television. “The Don Pedro Dam just below Hetch Hetchy also failed. Modesto and outlying areas are in the flood path. People are dying, and you’re worried about showering.”

Storms, politics, and gangs pummel California but that isn't the scary part.

Return to The Scene of My Crime

What happens when a relentless downpour, politics, and street gangs attack California?

I recently arrived back in California, a state that my latest book makes soggier than a wet biscuit. Deluge is my first disaster story. Usually I kill off a villain or two, but not an entire state. Without disclosing a spoiler, Deluge fits nicely in the disaster story genre, which means that the powers-that-be eventually listen to the smarty pants who keep proposing a wild scheme to save the day, or in this case, the state. Not having previously written in the genre, I had to do wide-ranging research. To my wife’s chagrin, I watched every disaster film produced in Tinsel Town.  Well, maybe not all of them, but the ones I watched ran the gamut from the still entertaining Twister, to the classic Andromeda Strain, to the recklessly realistic Sharknado. Needless to say, I had trouble sleeping for months.

Why a disaster story? Steve Dancy and his new wife insisted on being left alone for their honeymoon, so I needed to document other happenings. I always intended to do a follow-up to The Shut Mouth Society, but the sequel I have in mind requires my characters to age a bit, so they needed a transitional adventure. Now that I’ve given them one, they may not speak to me again. It should be okay. Since I’ve returned to Steve, Virginia, et al., they have time to get over being peeved.

I’m staying at my San Diego condo for three weeks. I going to do a little surfing and a lot of writing on the next Steve Dancy Tale. I plan to have the seventh in the series available by Christmas. So far, so good. I like the storyline and it has bad guys—and gals—aplenty. In the meantime, try Deluge. It’s the most adrenaline you’ll can experience while reclining in a Barcalounger.

Here’s a snippet:

Evarts did a quick reverse K-turn to get going in the opposite direction. As he accelerated down the slight incline, a rush of brown water came blowing across the road in front of him. It looked like a dozen fire hoses all sprayed in unison. If he tried to stop, he’d slide into the torrent, maybe sideways because of the slick pavement, so he pushed the gas pedal to the floorboard. Everyone except Evarts yelled as they hit the water. He gritted his teeth as he focused on timing a hard turn into the horizontal waterfall. When the water hit the truck, he had already turned into it as they blasted through the gush, emerging on the other side, the truck’s rear end swinging back and forth. Then he lost control. The truck spun around two full turns and righted itself, pointed down the road in the direction they had been heading. Lucky. He looked at his speedometer. He was rolling downhill at fifteen miles an hour. To hell with that. He punched it and they sped toward town.

The Shut Mouth Society

Deluge

Excerpt from Deluge, A Disaster Novel

Greg Evarts and Patricia Baldwin are back and this time they only need to save the state of California. Here's an excerpt from the first chapter of Deluge.

Baldwin said into the phone, “Mr. Gleason, I understand. I’ll be in Sacramento first thing Tuesday morning.” After a pause, she added, “Of course, sir. Thank you.”

She tapped to end the call, turned off her phone, confirmed that it had gone dark, and then exclaimed, “Shit!”

“The lieutenant governor?” Evarts asked.

She lifted her eyeglasses slightly and let them fall back on her nose. “Yes, damn it. They’re in a panic over this damn rain. Rain, for Pete’s sake.”

“I take it they want you up there Tuesday?”

“I wish,” Baldwin answered. “The commission meets at 8:00 AM on Tuesday, meaning I leave noonish Monday, and they want me to bring a week’s worth of clothes. Damn it, I have classes, committee meetings, office hours, and a speech in Los Angeles on Thursday night.” She threw her phone onto the couch. “I wish I had never accepted the governor’s appointment.”

The governor of California had appointed Baldwin to the Seismic Safety Commission, and she had been on the advisory council for less than a year.

“I thought that commission dealt with earthquakes, tsunamis, and volcanoes.”

“Some idiot evidently believes a few days of rain can trigger one of those. I don’t need some volunteer work to destroy my career. This is stupid.”

“It may hamper your career, but it won’t ruin it. It’s Saturday. This storm will probably pass before you sit down for your meeting. You’ll be back in time to make your speech.”

Suddenly, she asked, “What are you eating?”

He held up the chop by the bone. “Last night’s leftovers. I need protein.” He ripped off a piece of meat with bared teeth like he was ravished, and she laughed at his antics.

“Don’t we make the couple,” she said. “You walk around chewing on a bone like a caveman, and I’ve been talking to the lieutenant governor in pajamas. I’m surprised they don’t deport us back to Oxnard with the riffraff.”

“We had fun there. Maybe I can buy back my old house.”

“No, I’m good. Just frustrated that this stupid commission can jump up and disrupt my life.”

“You’ll be back soon. You know bureaucrats, always making a big thing out of nothing.”

She walked over to a sofa table and picked up her coffee. She took a sip while staring out to sea.

“Perhaps not this time. I heard fear in Paul’s voice. They got seven inches of rain in the last week.”

“Seven inches? Our drizzles haven’t added up to squat.” He thought about the implications. “Did he say if any dams were in jeopardy?”

“Yes.” She didn’t turn away from the murky, cloud-enshrouded ocean. “All of them.”

Disaster, gangs and political inertia, but that isn’t the scary part.

Deluge—New Release Now Available

Natural disaster, street gangs and political inertia … but that isn’t the scary part.

Deluge is now available in print and Kindle. This book is a little bit of a departure from my normal fare and fun to write. A traditional disaster story, Deluge will get your adrenaline going while sitting in a barcalounger.

New James D. Best Novel on June 4th!

In 1862, a sixty-five day downpour pummeled the western United States. California suffered the brunt of the storm. Almost a third of the state was under water, roads were impassible, telegraph lines down, rivers overflowed, hundreds of people died, and hundreds of thousands of animals drowned. Sacramento remained under water for six months, forcing the state government to move to San Francisco.

Geological evidence shows that a flood of this magnitude hits California every one to two hundred years.

What if it happens again?

I took a break from Steve and his friends to write a disaster story. This one's a corker. I didn't know I could imagine such mayhem.

For Steve Dancy fans, I have started Coronado, A Steve Dancy Tale and it should be available before the end of the year.

Back to Deluge. Greg Evarts and Patricia Baldwin are back from The Shut Mouth Society. The stories are unrelated, so Deluge is not a sequel. The novels just shares the same cast and locale. The characters have changed, of course. Greg is now chief of police in Santa Barbara. Patricia is still a history professor, but has transferred from UCLA to UCSB. When the sky falls on California, our two heroes must once again save the day. There's rain, inept and ept politicians, murading street gangs, cage fighters, spies, and collapsed dams that send mountains of rolling water toward everything we hold dear.

Deluge will be available in print and Kindle formats on June 4th. Happy reading.

Can a 150-year-old conspiracy be unraveled before it’s too late?

Wow, that was fun!

The 2014 Tucson Festival of Books is over, but thankfully, there will be a TFoB 2015. They expected 240,000 and my guess is that they made their number easily. Workshops and author sessions were pretty much full to capacity and booths had crowds all day long. The culinary and children's tracks were exceptionally popular. If you have never been to one of these events, you really need to try one in your area. You'll meet a lot of great people. Book lovers are a friendly bunch.

I hope you enjoy these photos while I catch my breath and a couple waves in Pacific Beach.

Springtime in the Sonoran Desert

I arrived in Arizona last night with my wife. For the next two days, we’ll be staying with friends in their home surrounded by a stunning desert landscape. There are very few landscapes prettier than the Sonoran desert in the spring. I’ve been all over the world, and except for the dunes of Namibia, I believe the Arizona desert is the most beautiful in the world.

From here, we will drive down to Tucson for the Tucson Festival of Books. I’m a panelist in three sessions: Amazon for Authors, What to Expect With Self-Publishing, and Genre Writing. There will be a lot of great authors at the event and the festival ought to be fun. If you love books, there is no better place to be this weekend.

After the festival, we go to San Diego for two weeks of thawing out. There was little snow in Nebraska this year, but I could answer my wife’s question about the temperature with the fingers of a single hand. We have quests and family visiting us, but I should have plenty of time to catch a few waves.

Before returning home to Omaha, we’ll fly to New York City for 10 ten days to see our other grandchildren. My wife said something about shopping, but I’m sure I can bribe the grandkids to distract her.

When we get home after a month, our new house will be waiting. We’ll have more boxes to unpack, pictures to hang, paraphernalia to buy, and lots of handyman tasks. Maybe we’ll stay away longer, in hope that things will just sort themselves out. Fat chance.

How do you express civic pride when your namesake shot himself in his private parts?

I loved to ski, and my favorite mountain is Mammoth, California. When a friend owned a condo, I also skied the perfectly groomed slopes at Deer Valley. Deer Valley is skiing as life style, while Mammoth Mountain is skiing as sport. As I get older, my preference seems to be sliding toward lifestyle.

When I was talking about our winter ski plans with my brother-in-law, we got to talking about Lee Vining, a tiny village of about 200 hardy residents just north of Mammoth. The town is named after a miner who founded the encampment in 1852. By 1857, Vining was the town’s leading citizen, owning the sole sawmill that provided crucial timber for shafts and buildings.

Perhaps Mr. Wayne had not heard this story.

The town wasn’t named after Vining because of his pioneering spirit or philanthropic Last Will and Testament; it was named after him because he shot himself to death in nearby Aurora, Nevada. The story I heard was that he was drunk in a saloon and somehow the pistol tucked in his waistband went off. Everybody jumped because no one knew where the shot had come from or where it went. Vining just stood there a minute and then stumbled outside. There, he fell into the street and bled-out from a fatal wound to his most private parts.

Granted, this is a wretched story with a sad ending, but the silver lining is that in 1953, the town honored their fallen champion by naming the town after him. Actually, Lee Vining Creek and Lee Vining Canyon have served as the eastern gateway to Yosemite National Park for nearly a century.

I’d love to be remembered down through the ages with my name plastered on a town, mountain or post office, but Vining’s price seems steep. Maybe I’ll just try to win the lottery so a grateful UCLA will name a building after me. 

Waist-High Bliss

San Diego

San Diego has a lot going for it. It’s a great city with a world-famous zoo, great museums, fun harbor areas, a vibrant downtown, and the neat and tidy U.S. Navy strutting its stuff.  Like every large city, San Diego has districts with distinct personalities. My preference is Pacific Beach … and not just because I surf. I like the atmosphere. It’s a bit rowdy with college kids, surfers, and beach bums, but it’s a fun crowd. In fact, fun might be their sole objective.

USS Ronald Reagan (CVN-76)

Pacific Beach

The surf is pretty good, as well. I’m at Pacific Beach now and had a good morning surfing. The day was gorgeous. Sunny, warm, with a slight wind that just rippled the surface of the ocean. The waves were small ... knee to waist high, and you had to wait for the waist-high waves. Nice shape, though. I thought I did well, with two really good rides and no embarrassments on my other waves. 

The whole day reminded me of my youth. What my mother thought was my wasted youth. I never believed that. I was having the time of my life, and how could that be a waste. When I see teenagers in the water, I wonder if they know how lucky they are to live the Southern California beach lifestyle. We knew way back then, and I bet they know today. (My favorite tee shirt read, “There’s no Life East of Pacific Coast Highway.)

What does all this have to do with writing? Not a damn thing. I just had a good day in the waves and wanted to blog about it. This is what happens when Steve Dancy is in proofreading. When the character’s away, the writer plays.

Mountain Sanctuary

Yesterday, I visited a high school friend I had not seen for at least thirty years. Before diverting north, the trip started through the Carson Pass in the Sierras. It was a beautiful drive and I thought anyone should feel privileged to view these magnificent mountains. Then I remembered Genoa, a way station for 49ers. I was cruising at 60 MPH in climate controlled comfort, while the early pioneers were lucky to eke out 10 miles in a long, determined day. The view probably wasn't uppermost on their minds.

My friend owns an isolated forty acres next to national forest. Getting there required him to come down the mountain to lead me through trails that would challenge a city-bred sedan. Although he had owned the land since the early seventies, he didn't move there until semi-retirement in the nineties.  Now his wife descends the mountain every day to work, while he struggles to make his home self-sufficient. He may want to be independent, but he’s a distant cousin from the long-gone, mountain men who lived off the land. PG&E provides electricity to supplement his solar panels, propane is delivered to his door, a tractor can carve out roads and plow snow, and cell phones keep civilization a touch screen away. Technology is a wonderful way to make a rustic existence comfortable. I even noticed a Verizon Hot Spot winking away on a book shelf to bring the entire World Wide Web directly to his mountain top. The pioneers could only wish they were so lucky.

We had a great afternoon wallowing in nostalgia for our younger days. We have lived very different lives since high school, but reconnected easily. We had been neighbors in high school and had peddled bikes towing surfboards to the beach nearly every day. We learned to surf with a couple of other friends and spent untold hours lazing about the beach; sunning, talking, playing volleyball, and flirting with girls. Growing up at the beach in the sixties was a singular experience and a great way to meander our way to adulthood.