Sam Quick is a commie killer and proud of it. He's a member of an American group of capitalists who are waging total war on the communists around the world. An undeclared secret war, behind the everyday facade of any everyday world by a devout group of capitalists who have dedicated themselves and their fortunes to the destruction of the communists because the killcrazy communists have promised to destroy capitalism and every capitalist in the world!

If the communist party can wage war on the world, the capitalist party can protect the world and wage war on the bloody communists! After all, that's only fair!

Sam Quick (not his real name) is a well-trained citizen soldier, a fine tuned tool of war, who works for the capitalists when he is needed for a kill mission against the commie killers.

Sam is called to duty. Something is happening in Panama. The Panamanian communists are doing something, just what is unknown. A capitalist agent, Clair Trent, working in Panama watching the Red Panamanians, goes out on her own to check out Gold Hill, the highest hill along the Panama Canal, because she has heard whispers about something going on on Gold Hill. She makes a mistake and doesn't tell her co-workers where she's going. She doesn't come back. Her friends become worried and check up on her and find a few hints that she might have gone out alone to check out Gold Hill, just why is a mystery. Sam and his battle group are called up to check out Gold Hill and to find Claire Trent too if they can.

Sam and his battle group meet, then they go to Panama to a special ship, a specially made secret warship where they mount a rescue mission and drop Sam near Gold Hill, armed to the teeth to check out Gold Hill and find Claire Trent if she is on the hill. Sam's support group monitors his progress from the ship ready to go to his aid at once if he needs help.

Sam is on his own in a savage jungle in the hostile Panama, where red killers may be waiting for him.

Sam has fought the reds for a few years. The reds know of him, but they don't know who he is, other than the fact that he is an American. The reds call him Yank. Sam's opposite number is a commie killer Sam as his people call him Ivan, a top red agent, about the best they have. San has standing orders to kill Ivan on sight no matter what happens afterward. Sam has wounded Ivan, and Ivan has wounded Sam in previous battles. Sam is still recovering from and his last fight with Ivan although he is just about up to strength, and Ivan is recovering from the same previous fight.

What is on Gold Hill? Anything at all or nothing? Sam is going in to find out. What will he find? Claire Trent, or Ivan and some Panamanian red killers!

Robert James Warner was born and raised in Long Beach, California. He went to the local schools. He was drafted in to the Navy on March 9, 1944, during the World War II as soon as he finished his last semester in High School. He was discharged from the Navy on June 16, 1946.

Mr. Warner went back to school at Long Beach City College, on the G.I. Bill, taking Mechanical Engineering before he switched to journalism. After about a year and a half at City College, he quit.

Mr. Warner had always been interested in writing, but he had huge handicaps to overcome: he couldn't spell (he still can't); and grammar was then and is now a mystery to him.

Mr. Warner first began to write when he was about twenty.

During the next few years, he wrote some songs, poetry, and short stories, but his output was quite low.

From 1947, after Mr. Warner left City College, to 1950, he had a number of different inconsequential jobs--the longest, at Douglas Aircraft in Long Beach where he worked in the blueprint department for eight months until he quit and loafed awhile.

In 1950, he enlisted in the Active Naval Reserve as a Weekend Warrior, so that he could learn seamanship and get paid doing it. He has had a life long love affair with boats (building his own) and fishing.

About three months later, the Korean War started and Mr. Warner was called back to active duty in the Navy Aircorp for a year. He was discharged in August 1951, serving on three aircraft carriers, operating off of Korea in the China Sea, bombing and strafing the communists!

After Korea, Mr. Warner went back to City College for awhile, then got a job on a freighter as a deckhand. He then made two trips to the Hawaiian Islands, about thirty days round trip, hauling bulk sugar for C&H Sugar in Crocket California on the Sacramento River.

Leaving the ship in Crocket, he went to Santa Rosa, California, where he washed dishes in a few restaurants and got a poem published in the local newspaper--a big day in his life.

Next, he went to Yosemite and washed some more dishes before going home.

Mr. Warner has cleaned chicken dung from under the pens; he owned and operated his own auto wrecking yard; owned his own 2nd Store; was half owner of a Yacht Landing; speculated in Real Estate; and worked at some other odd jobs, going to work for the Long Beach Fire Department in 1953 for the next twenty-six years, retiring in October, 1979.

Mr. Warner got married in 1961, had his son in 1963, and got divorced in 1973.

In 1974, Mr. Warner and his son, Jeff, drove to Alaska during the summer. On his return, Mr. Warner wrote his first novel.

Since 1974, Mr. Warner has written 15 novels, about 125 short stories, 2 Civil War history books, and 2 poetry collections.

I only hope to hell Yank and his friends don't find out about this one (commie camp). Let's go inside. I want this crummy hill top defended properly starting the first thing in the morning."

Sam smiled widely at what he had heard Ivan say. "Greetings to you too, %&%%&#$&#%&%&%$," Sam snarled, then he leaped to his feet, squeezing the trigger of his AK-47. He lunged forward, the AK-47 bucking in his fists, the short bursts of gunfire incredibly loud, the muzzle flashes bright red flames of death.

Even as Sam launched himself at Ivan and the red agent's companion, he saw Ivan leap through and down inside the trees and vines a split second before the AK-47 began its staccato dirge of death. Snarling savagely at his bad luck, Sam plunged recklessly toward where Ivan had stood. Sam the red killer saw his hot slugs smash Spanish-voice backward and down. A burst of fire erupted from among the trees and vines of the grove. Sam lunged toward the red flame bursting from the grove, his AK-47 spitting fire. Ivan was firing back at him.

A savage force smashed Sam's radio from its clip on his belt; a stunning blow crashed into his holstered pistol; death laid a hot searing finger across his upper arm; a red hot bar of iron sizzled across the inside of his left thigh, just below his crotch. Ivan's return fire was impossibly accurate, as his slugs searched for a vital spot with hot glee. God! that Ivan could shoot!

Face contorted in a snarling mask of kill or be killed, Sam lunged on, right at the red hell-fire of Ivan's muzzle-blasts until his AK-47 stopped bucking in his powerful fists. Instantly then, he smashed down on the ground, rolled, and came up sprinting to his right, away from Ivan, as fast as he could run through the dark jungle. One last slug from Ivan's pistol sliced through the top of Sam's black helmet, parting the black material with the ease of a razor, as he flopped down on his belly.

Ivan continued to fire at Sam until his pistol was empty, but the red agent must have lost sight of the lunging Yank in the dark foliage.

Sam scrambled to his feet and ran in a wide circle back to his pack. A chorus of loud, excited yelling erupted from inside the grove, then wild bursts of machinegun fire. Sam crouched down a little and tried to run faster although he knew no one could see him now, so whoever was shooting was shooting at shadows.

When Sam reached his pack he picked it up and threw it down the slope of Gold Hill as hard as he could. Stooping down he picked up his canteen and binoculars then ran like hell again for the path he had found the footprint in. The path was full of jungle vegetation, but it was less overgrown than the rest of the jungle and therefore much easier to run through. He had to put a lot of distance between him and Ivan and the yelling men in the grove damn quick or be caught or killed.

Sam's pack crashed loudly down the slope as he raced away in a shallow curve around the perimeter of the crest then downhill on the path which was almost in the opposite direction from the noisy passage of his pack falling down the slope behind him.

More yelling and more machinegun fire erupted at the sounds of Sam's pack crashing downhill.

Sam sprinted down the path for about fifty yards then darted off the path to his left into denser jungle where he hit the dirt on his belly, rolled, came up to a sitting position, swivelled around on his ass, and plopped back down on his belly facing uphill. He dropped his canteen and binoculars, slapped another clip into his AK-47, then tried to pierce the darkness with his fierce, intent eyes.

A moment later he lowered his AK-47, clipped his canteen and binoculars to his belt, then lunged to his feet and ran as fast as he could through the thick vegetation around the hill in the direction of his pack. He had to get that pack back if he could. He needed the equipment inside.

Sam's endless hours of physical training paid off in big dividends on the mad run for his pack. He ran almost blind with a single-mindedness that was awesome. He crashed recklessly through the jungle growth, leaped over, dodged around, and crashed into rocks, trees and brush, still he plunged on, falling, leaping up to run and run! His only hope was his speed and the confusion on top of Gold Hill, otherwise the enemy would reach the pack before he did, but before the enemy would risk death going after whatever had crashed downhill through the jungle, they would move slowly and cautiously.

Not Ivan though! That bastard would be down the slope in pursuit instantly if he thought whoever had shot at him had gone that way, but Sam had a hunch Ivan was temporarily neutralized by the shouting men who had appeared inside the grove. Those trigger-happy, scared bastards would shoot at anything that moved or made a noise, and if Ivan tried to organize them he might be shot before anyone realized who he was.

Ivan was too smart to be caught like that, Sam knew, so Ivan was probably hiding behind some tree until it was safe to come out.

Slowly, as Sam ran, the gunfire and noise on top of Gold Hill eased off then stopped completely. Instantly Sam slowed down to a jog so he wouldn't make so much noise. He could still occasionally hear loud voices above him, but none of the voices came downhill so he jogged on.

It was a long, hard, grueling run in the dark jungle, not so much in distance but in obstacles, and when Sam reached the slope where his pack had crashed downhill he searched desperately for it. Time was running out. Gold Hill was silent above him now, and the enemy could be stealing downhill through the jungle night looking for whatever had made the noise crashing down the slope and the person who had killed one of them.

Sam was coursing back and forth across the slope, desperately working his way upward in search of his pack when he heard soft, excited Spanish above him. He eased down on his belly and squirmed upward, homing in on the voices speaking Spanish. One voice was telling the other voice he had found a backpack. Sam's Spanish was not of the best, but he understood the enemy had found his pack before he did.