He knows theyâre plotting to alter the end of World War II. But heâs already too late to stop themâŠ
Miami, 1993. Jack Dunham doesnât know if heâs gone insane or not. His best friend has assured him the Nine Old Men at their country club are planning to change history by giving Hitler the details of Operation: Overlord. But before he can think what to do, Jack awakens in a Nazi-occupied America.
Unaware at first that anything is wrong, his memories come flooding back. Realizing the âresettlementâ of Blacks and Jews is a sham and that LGBTQ folks are next, Jack joins the resistance and falls hard for its beautiful, charismatic leader. But when their headquarters is raided by the Gestapo, theyâre forced on the run⊠not just from their home, but through time itself.
Can the brave couple return to 1944 and reset the past before theyâre wiped from existence?
The Normandy Club is a romantic World War II time travel thriller. If you like fast-paced action, rich period detail, and the eternal battle of good versus evil, then youâll love Bill Walkerâs nightmare tale.
Buy The Normandy Club to confront the face of darkness today!
He knows theyâre plotting to alter the end of World War II. But heâs already too late to stop themâŠ
Miami, 1993. Jack Dunham doesnât know if heâs gone insane or not. His best friend has assured him the Nine Old Men at their country club are planning to change history by giving Hitler the details of Operation: Overlord. But before he can think what to do, Jack awakens in a Nazi-occupied America.
Unaware at first that anything is wrong, his memories come flooding back. Realizing the âresettlementâ of Blacks and Jews is a sham and that LGBTQ folks are next, Jack joins the resistance and falls hard for its beautiful, charismatic leader. But when their headquarters is raided by the Gestapo, theyâre forced on the run⊠not just from their home, but through time itself.
Can the brave couple return to 1944 and reset the past before theyâre wiped from existence?
The Normandy Club is a romantic World War II time travel thriller. If you like fast-paced action, rich period detail, and the eternal battle of good versus evil, then youâll love Bill Walkerâs nightmare tale.
Buy The Normandy Club to confront the face of darkness today!
Miami, Florida
3 August 1993
Jack Dunham banged his head against the tinted, plate-glass window and wondered how long it would be before he killed the son of a bitch. He could see it now, playing in his mind like a lurid, direct-to-video movie: Heâd put on his jacket, reach into the bottom drawer of his desk, and pull out the .45âthe one heâd kept handy ever since the riots a few years back. Slapping a round into the chamber, heâd shove it into his belt, leave his office, and stroll down the hallway, nodding and smiling to all the secretaries, letting his innocent-looking brown eyes and the âcuteâ dimples heâd always despised lull them into a false sense of security. Heâd even stop a minute and joke with one of the art directors, never letting on, never letting any of them suspect a thing. Then heâd stride into the conference room, smile sweetly, and put a Black Talon hollow-point right through Reeceâs fat, sweaty head.Â
It would be so simple, so unexpected, so final...
So much for cherished fantasies.
Jack returned to his desk and switched off the computer, consigning his latest rewrite to oblivion. He couldnât stand to look at that drivel another minute. Squeezing his eyes shut, he leaned back in his chair and blotted out everything but the soft hiss of the air conditioning.Â
It had been a thankless day, a day of countless meetings with intractable clients who sat and listened to his presentations, eyeing all his hard work with the blank, shining orbs of mannequins. Sometimes he wondered what really went on behind those eyes. Were they thinking about what heâd just told them, or were they thinking about the great sex they had the night before, or the fight with their wives or lovers that morning, or the wonderful turd they just made? Sometimes he wondered if their minds were as blank as their eyes.Â
And then there was Reece.Â
Crude, profane, and totally without an ounce of creativity in that corpulent lump he called a body, Bryant Worthington Reece IV lumbered through life in wrinkled, ill- fitting Armani suits, acting as if everyone and everything owed him their obeisance. The man took perverse pleasure in taunting underlings about their inadequacies and toadying up to those who could pave the way to greater glories. Jack cracked a weary grin. âToadâ was the perfect word for Reeceâhis protruding eyes, fleshy face, and blubbery mouth, the perfect mask.
Jack drove Reece from his mind and returned his gaze to the office window. Out on Biscayne Boulevard the crime lights popped on, their harsh, peach-colored rays making the street look wasted and sallow, like an old man sick with jaundice. Rush hour traffic stood stalled for blocks, brake lights glowing, their horns the howls of angry dogs. Â
He smiled again. No doubt a few homicides in the making there. What time was it, anyway? All afternoon heâd tried to come up with ideas, ideas the clients would gush over, ideas Reece wouldnât shit on, ideas that didnât sound like a tired rehash of every other notion heâd already presented. Â
But the well was dry.Â
He stood up, pulled on his gray wool sport jacket and was about to extinguish the desk light when the phone purred. It was one of those modern phones, the kind the manufacturers hailed as ânew and revolutionary,â with lots of confusing functions and presets, guaranteed not to jar the thinking executive. He thought the thing sounded like it had a head cold. Sometimes, like now, he felt like pitching it through the plate-glass. He debated whether or not to let the voice mail take it, but something made him pick it up. Maybe it was Leslie with some last-minute disaster.Â
âHey, Jack. Is that you?â
The warm, nasally voice made him smile.
âWiley! You old shithead!âÂ
âHow are you, buddy?â he said.
âIâm fine, Killer. How about you? You sound close.â
âIâm at the airport. Just got in. It was sort of a last-minute thing. I was hoping we could get together... and talk.â
Typical vintage Wiley. No thought of calling from home, no warning at all, just his deep, friendly voice on the phone announcing his arrival. As always, he assumed Jack would be free as a bird and ready for a night on the town. He should have been used to it by now, but he never got used to anything where Wiley Carpenter was concerned.Â
Jack thought of Leslie. He was torn between his friendship with Wiley and the date he very much wanted to keep. He and Leslie had been going out for two monthsâthey spent nearly every night togetherâand heâd begun to entertain the notion of asking her to move in with him. Wileyâs voice receded to a soft murmur as Jack recalled her soft, voluptuous curves, jet-black hair, and those penetrating emerald-green eyes.Â
âJack! Are you there?â
âIâm sorry, Wiley, what did you say?â
âYou okay?â
âIâm fine. Tough day. Usual crap.â
âI know what you mean,â he said, his voice edged with fatigue. âLook, you probably got something going, but I wonât be in town long. We need to talk. Itâs important, Jack.â
What the hell, Leslie would understand.Â
âSure, Wiley,â he said. âIâm free as a bird.â
âLetâs meet at Mikeâs. Iâll be there by seven.â
âOkay,â Jack said, âthe first roundâs on you.â
Whenever Wiley blew into town, which wasnât as frequent as it used to be, they always ended up at Mike Gordonâs. On the bay, nestled at the foot of the 79th Street bridge, Mikeâs was the only place to go for the serious seafood lover. The portions were huge and the atmosphere convivial. And if Mike happened to be around with time to talk, so much the better.Â
But Wiley was never on time, and Jack was often half in the bag by the time Wiley casually strolled in, acting as if nothing was wrong. By that time, Jack would be ready to wring Wileyâs neck. But one âHey, shithead!â and a slap on the back and all was forgiven.
Jack slid his red Alfa Romeo Spider into the parking lot and pulled up to the front entrance. He nodded to JosĂ©, the attendant, and tossed him the keys.Â
âBuenas noches, Señor Jack.â
âYou too, JosĂ©.â
It was a hair before seven. The night air hung like a wet rag, smelling of salt and rotten fish. Pushing through the front door, Jack felt a blast of cool air hit him, making his nose tingle. He passed the gallery of boat-racing pictures and a small trophy case, making sure to duck under the fish netting he always managed to snag. A short line stood waiting for tables, and an elderly couple were leaving their names with the tall blonde at the reservations desk. Jack noted the crowd looked lighter than usual.Â
âHello, Mr. Dunham, how are you this evening?âÂ
âFine, Marge. Youâre looking great.â
Her face lit up as she smiled. âYou keep that up and youâll have to take me home.â
âAnd have Mike ban me?â he said, feigning horror.
It was a ritual they performed every time he came. Marge was happily married, had been for twenty years. Still, she was a hell of a good-looking woman, and Jack would have jumped at the chance had she been serious.
âMr. Carpenter arrived ten minutes ago. Heâs in the bar.â
âWiley? Wiley is early?âÂ
She smiled and shrugged, as if to say, âAinât it a kick,â and took the names of the couple behind him.Â
Mildly surprised, Jack pushed through the bar crowd and spotted his friend nursing a martini, a far-off look in his eye. The martini was the second surprise. Wiley never could hold his liquor, and he always drank a watery highball or, most times, a seltzer with a lime twist.Â
When Jack walked toward him, Wiley gulped the drink and signaled the bartender for another. My God, how heâd aged. His hair, a once luxurious black, had turned gray throughout, and had noticeably thinned. And in spite of a healthy-looking tan, Wileyâs face had a haunted look around the eyes where crowâs feet now spread from the corners, like cracks in a windshield. Seeing this, Jack couldnât help wondering if he looked as old to Wiley.
âHey, Jack, youâre lookinâ goodâ he said, patting him on the back. âCan I get you anything?â
âSam Adams.â
âScotty! A Sammy for my buddy.â
When the bartender returned, Jack waved away the frosted glass and took a long swig from the bottle. Wiley stared at him, his hands drumming on the bar.
âHow are Ellen and the kids?â Jack said.
âOh, fine. Ellenâs taken up ceramics. And Johnâs just starting fifth grade. Can you believe it?â
He toyed with his drink, staring into it as though it held some deep, dark secret. He twisted it around, leaving rings that reminded Jack of the Olympic emblem. He got the distinct feeling that Wiley wasnât here to talk about his family. Something was eating at him, and whatever it was wasnât coming easily.
âWhat is it, Wiley? Is Ellen sick? For Godâs sake, spit it out. I know you didnât come all this way to catch up on old times.â
Wiley looked up at him and, for the first time that evening, made eye contact. There was a drop of sweat that trickled from his right temple and hung poised on his chin, ready to drop. His left eye twitched, as it always did when he was nervous.Â
âI came down here because I discovered something.â
Jack leaned closer.
âI know why the Nine Old Men changed the name of the club,â he said.Â
For the last twenty years Jack and Wiley held memberships in The Anderson Club, an exclusive country club just outside of Ridgefield, Connecticut. Jack thought himself as good a clubman as the average guy, although, as a non-resident member who now lived in Miami, heâd been back only a couple of times. Even after all that time, nothing much had changed about the place. It was still the same comfortable bar with the hunting scenes on the wall, and the immaculate brass rail polished to a high gloss every two hours by old Swithington.Â
The small, green-shaded lamps that sat on the tables gave a soft glow at night, and even in the blistering sun of an August day, the bar retained a cool aloofness. They served big, reasonably priced drinks and a fair roast beef on Fridays. The golf course was the envy of the county, and the tennis courts remained solidly booked until well after the season. The Anderson Clubânow The Normandy Clubâdiffered in an odd sort of way from probably every other club in the country.
There were one hundred members, give or take a couple, most of them in their thirties. It amused Wiley and Jack that all the other members thought of them as the âold menâ of the club, except, that is, for The Nine Old Men. Everyone called them that, though not to their faces. No one could remember whoâd coined the nickname, but it stuck. It made sense because they were nine, they were oldâby everyone elseâs standards, anyway, and because they reminded everyone of the Supreme Court. They kept to themselves most of the time, only mixing with the other members during holidays and the occasional fund-raisers. To everyone they were âThe Nine Old Men.âÂ
And they ran the club.
There were the usual committees, but they were lightweight affairs that planned the parties and the yearly cotillion. The serious decisions were made by the Nine Old Men. If they felt the clubâs name should be changed, it was changed. No member vote, no dissension, no objections. But for the most part, that was okay. The average member came to the club to play golf, tennis, and to drink, maybe covet his neighborâs wife in the process. Â
But the oddest thing about the club was that no one ever had much curiosity about what the Nine Old Men did in âTheir Room,â up on the top floor of the building. It took up most of the floor and lay behind a heavy, steel door that remained locked at all times. Jack and Wiley always figured they played poker or watched dirty movies, but no one really cared what they did. Someone once had the bright idea of bugging the place, just for fun, but nothing ever came of it. The steel door of the Nine Old Menâs room remained inviolate.
âI know why they changed the name of the club,â Wiley repeated.
âSo do I. They told us.â
âThey gave us a dumb-ass reason, Jack. Why the hell should a fifty-year-old club change its name because the Nine Old Men found out that Andersonâs son was killed at Normandy? That should be all the more reason to keep it The Anderson Club.â
âI never thought much about it, but they said something else at the time, about âhow it honored all of the kidâs buddies who died along with him, and thatâs the way he would have wanted it.ââ
Wiley leaned forward, his thin face flushed.
âThatâs a goddamned lie!â
For the first time since walking into Mikeâs, Jack regretted not going on his date. Heâd tried to call Leslie, tried to leave word at the restaurant that heâd be late, but the phone at Luigiâs had been busy right up until the moment heâd left the office. Now, the whole evening was going haywire. And this show of temperâif thatâs what it wasâwasnât like Wiley. If anything, he was always a touch too phlegmatic. But when Jack looked into his face, he saw something else thereâstark-naked fear.
âFor Christâs sake! You came all the way down here to tell me that? You could have told me when you called. What the hell difference does it make if they changed the name? Who the hell cares why they did it?â Â
Wiley leaned back and stared at the bar, as if debating whether to go on or not.
âHave you ever heard of Dr. Morris Chessman?â
âNo, I donât think so,â Jack said, hoping he didnât sound too apathetic.Â
âChessmanâs an expert on parapsychology,â Wiley continued. âHe taught at Duke for twenty years and researched everything from bending spoons to ghosts. But his real passion is telekinesisâmoving objects in space by the power of the mind alone. Heâs the worldâs leading authority. Suddenly after twenty years and guaranteed tenure, he up and leaves on June sixth, nineteen ninety-two. Ring a bell, Jack, June the sixth?â
âNo. Should it?â
âChessman left Duke the day the Nine Old Men changed the name of the club.â
âOkay,â Jack said, âso it was the same day. So what? A million other things happened the same day.â
âGranted. And I didnât think much about it, either... until the next week. I was sitting at the bar in the club waiting for Ellen, and who the hell walks in? Chessman. And, by God, he walks straight to the elevator, without looking around, almost like he was trying not to look around, and he goes right to the top floor. Just like that.â
Wiley was beginning to get his interest. A little, anyway. Why would a college professor out of North Carolina show up at the Normandy Club and sneak up to the third floor?
âMaybe he joined the club,â Jack said.
âWrong.â Wiley leaned close again. âDennis Whitney, who puts out the membership list, never heard of him.â
âAll right, so whatâs the point?â
âI know why he left Duke, and I know why heâs now living in Greenwich. Thatâs the point.â
âWhat, for Christâs sake?â Jack said, ready to strangle him. Â
âThe Nine Old Men hired him.â
âOh, come on! Why would a big-shot professor quit a tenured position at Duke and come to work for a run-down club in Connecticut? Doing what? It doesnât make any sense.â
âHe had the best reason in the worldâmoney. The Nine Old Men paid him a million up front.â
âWhat!â
Wiley nodded. âA million up front, plus a quarter million a year for expenses.â
âYou know this for sure?â
âFor sure.â
âJesus, Christ. Whatâs he supposed to do for it, shoot the president?â
All the humor was gone from Wileyâs expression.
âWorse,â he said. Â
Jack signaled the bartender for another beer.
âAll right, go on.â
âIâll tell you what I found out. But first Iâm going to tell you how I found out. That way youâll believe me.
âDonât count on it.â
âI hired a safecracker.â
âYou did what!â
âJack, I had to find out what was in that room upstairs. The club was closed for a week for some minor renovations and cleaning. It was the perfect opportunity.â
âSo you burglarized the place?â Â
âYeah, basically.â
âBasically? Wiley, are you nuts?âÂ
Wileyâs lips compressed into a thin, angry line.
âShut up and listen, will you?â
âButââ
âJust shut up and listen, Jack,â he said.
Jackâs beer finally arrived, and he took a large gulp.
Wiley calmed himself, but the impassioned glimmer in his eyes belied his excitement. Jack just wanted to go home, crawl into bed, and blot out the world, forget about that idiot Reece and everything else. But what Wiley said next drove all thoughts of sleep from his mind.
âThe guy got us inside in about thirty seconds. All that shit you hear about locks and alarms is true, Jack. It was like nothing to this guy.â
âAnd?â
âItâs a goddamn war room! I mean maps, aerial photos all over the walls, and one of those big tables like you see in the movies where they plot troop movements. And thisâll kill youâa big old Nazi flag on the wall.â
âMaybe thatâs how they get their kicksâplaying army.â
âJesus, if you only knew how close you are. Everything in that room, the photos, maps, the table, it all ties into the Normandy Invasion.â
âSo, theyâre hooked on D-Day? Whatâs all this got to do with Chessman?â
Jack could see a small vein throbbing in Wileyâs forehead and his eye twitched like mad. Wiley took a deep breath.
âThey donât want the Normandy Invasion to happen, Jack.â Â
âWhat are you talking about? It already happened,â he said, his voice rising.
The man sitting next to Wiley turned and stared at Jack, making him feel like an idiot. He lowered his voice.
âIt already happened, Wiley.â
âThey want to change that.â
âWhat do you mean, change it? They canât change it! Look, youâd better tell me what the hell is going on or Iâm going to walk right out of here, so help me.â
Wiley reached inside his jacket and pulled out a wrinkled envelope bulging with photos. He spread them out on the bar, his manner becoming more urgent.
âYou remember that little Minox camera you gave me a few years back? Well, I thought it would come in handy. Boy, did it.â
Jack stared at the photos, trying to take it all in. Wiley began to explain.
âWhat youâre seeing are original German documents detailing the positions of both German and allied forces.â
He pointed to another photo that showed a pile of what looked like currency.
âWhat is this?â Jack asked. âMoney?â
Wiley nodded. âA lot of money, enough to choke a horse. And itâs German, nineteen forty-four issue.â
Wiley flipped to another picture.
âThere were files in the safe too. Three of them. Files on Chessman, a guy named Werner Krugerâwho also lives in Greenwich, by the way, and The Plan. I didnât have time to photograph them, but I looked inside them.â
âAnd...â
And then he told him. Â
âWith Chessmanâs help they are going to send Kruger back in time.â
The beer glass halted halfway to Jackâs mouth.
âWhat? Wiley, tell me youâve come all this way to pull a joke on me. Tell me you havenât flipped.â
Wiley stared at him.
âYouâre not kidding, are you?â
âNo.â
Jack shook his head and decided to humor his friend. Maybe after the joke was over they could get down to some serious drinking.Â
âOkay, pal oâ mine, tell me why the Nine Old Men would want to do this?â Jack said, not bothering to hide his sarcasm.
âTo stop the invasion, stop it dead in its tracks and let Hitler win.â
âWhat the hell for? What do they have to gain?â
âPower, old buddy... power.â
This was all coming too fast and furious. Jack shook his head.Â
âBut wait a minute. The whole reason Hitler lost was because he wouldnât believe his generals. What could Kruger do? Walk up to Adolf and say, âBy the By, the Invasion is coming ashore at Normandy. Be a good chap and move your armies down from Calais?â Itâs crazy, itâll never workâwhat am I talking about? This whole thing is nuts. You canât go back in time and you canât change history!â
Wiley looked at his friend, his gaze level and sober. Â
âTheyâve already changed things.â Â
Jack just stared at Wiley, unable to speak. Wiley leaned forward.
âYou ever wake up and feel somethingâs not right, that somethingâs different?â
âYeah, itâs called a hangover.â
Wiley ignored the crack, his voice hushed.
âWhat if things were different? What if things had changed, only you didnât know it?â
Jack lost his patience. âWhat are you getting at?â
âChessmanâs already sent Kruger back a couple of times. Once to nineteen sixty-three, the other to nineteen fifty-six. It was right there in the files. One of those times he changed something.â
âOh, come on, Wiley, this is getting stale.â
âAll right, Iâll show you.â
Wiley got up from the barstool and steadied himself. Jack decided his friend had been drinking far longer than he had. Reaching down to his trouser cuff, Wiley pulled up the left pant leg, revealing a leg crisscrossed with varicose veins and a very ugly knee. Jack was about to make a nasty crack until he saw the lost, frightened look in his friendâs eyes.
âWhat is it?â
âMy leg, Jack. Itâs okay.â
âOf course itâs okay. Itâs always been okay.â
Wiley slumped onto the barstool, his pant leg sliding back down.
âNo, it hasnât. Iâve had a prosthetic leg since I was fifteen.â
âWhatâ Wait a minuteââ
âListen to me. Think about it. Really think about all those years youâve known me.â
Jack looked at his friend and let the years reel off in his mind: college, those first years at that tiny agency in Detroit, the good times, the bad times, even the times heâd have preferred to forget. After a moment, Jack began to feel hot all over. A sweat broke out and streamed down his face. Suddenly, the world went white as something snapped in his brain, as if a small bomb had exploded. He felt himself reborn, remembering people he never knew existed, moments recaptured, lives relived. He grabbed his head and groaned.Â
Wiley grabbed his shoulder. âHere, take a drink. You need it.â
Jack took the proffered beer and drained it. That quick, knife-like pain heâd felt a moment before subsided into a dull, throbbing ache. He now remembered two Wileys, one with a false leg, one whole. It wasnât that heâd convinced himself. He really remembered. It was as if theyâd lived two infinitesimally different lives.
âOh my God,â Jack said, his heart pounding in his ears.Â
Wiley nodded.Â
âIt happened the same way with me. Almost as soon as I read the Nine Old Menâs plan. I donât know what Kruger and Chessman did, but somehow, during one of his âtrips,â he set something in motion. One thing led to another, led to another, and so on. Like a ripple on a pond. Somehow the man who hit me ended up coming down that street a fraction later than he was supposed to.â
Jack had never believed the old literary clichĂ© about someoneâs blood running cold. But he did now. Wiley spoke in a low, matter-of-fact voice, but to Jackâs heightened senses, Wiley was shouting.
âBut how do we know it, Wiley? How can we?â
Wiley shook his head. âI donât know. I think somethingâs connecting us. Maybe, and this might sound far-fetched, maybe because we know about Chessman, and Kruger. Maybe the fact that we know they are changing things is enough.â
âSo, the Nine Old Men figure they can send Kruger back and prevent the invasion? Convince Hitler to move his armies. That right?â Jack said, gripping Wileyâs arm.Â
âYeah, but thatâs not the worst of it. Itâs a two-pronged plan. Convincing Hitler to change his mind is only the second part.â
Jackâs stomach twisted. âWhatâs the first?â
Wiley grabbed his drink and gulped it down, staring at the pictures laid out on the bar until Jack thought he would scream. Suddenly, Wiley turned, his eyes showing the depth of his fear.
âAssassinating Eisenhower.â
When nine old men change the name of their club, a suspicious member burglarizes the office only to learn the impossible: one man plans to reshape World War II history by traveling into the past. The resultant journey shifts time, achieving horrific results: a German blitz conquers lands beyond Europe and warfare comes to America.
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Years later, a Nazi regime occupies Avalon, formerly known as the United States. Thereâs no hope for minorities in this alternate future, but when Jack recalls the past, a partnership with Denise Malloy ensues and they race through difficult circumstances to correct the wrong. Threatened by SS officers and a man named Krueger, theyâre soon traveling through time. But can they wrestle history into its proper alignment?
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The Normandy Club has a cunning and original premise. Presented through Jack and Denise and Wiley and Chessman, the alternate history delivers a thrilling race through time, reawakening past events in calculated and warlike ways. Although the novel is fictional, the narrative delivers true-to-life historical perspectives through believable characterization and authentic settings.
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I connected with this suspenseful novel in a personal way as Iâve journeyed to Auschwitz and a once German-occupied Poland. Iâve visited an internment camp, and an underground shelter well-depicted in the book. While the novel doesnât delve deeper into atrocities, preferring to name rather than describe, the author fires the imagination with enough words strokes to have effectively hooked this reader early in the story. You'll want to know whether Jack and Denise escape the powers who pursue them.
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The Normandy Club delivers on its promises. Itâs perfect for history buffs and those who love political suspense novels.