The 14th Colony
Cotton Malone Series Book 11
Barnes & Noble
What happens if both the president and vice-president-elect die before taking the oath of office? The answer is far from certain—in fact, what follows would be nothing short of total political chaos.
Shot down over Siberia, ex-Justice Department agent Cotton Malone is forced into a fight for survival against Aleksandr Zorin, a man whose loyalty to the former Soviet Union has festered for decades into an intense hatred of the United States.
Before escaping, Malone learns that Zorin and another ex-KGB officer, this one a sleeper still embedded in the West, are headed overseas to Washington D.C. Inauguration Day—noon on January 20th—is only hours away. A flaw in the Constitution, and an even more flawed presidential succession act, have opened the door to disaster and Zorin intends to exploit both weaknesses to their fullest.
Armed with a weapon leftover from the Cold War, one long thought to be just a myth, Zorin plans to attack. He’s aided by a shocking secret hidden in the archives of America’s oldest fraternal organization—the Society of Cincinnati—a group that once lent out its military savvy to presidents, including helping to formulate three invasion plans of what was intended to be America’s 14th colony—Canada.
In a race against the clock that starts in the frozen extremes of Russia and ultimately ends at the White House itself, Malone must not only battle Zorin, he must also confront a crippling fear that he’s long denied, but which now jeopardizes everything. Steve Berry’s trademark mix of history and speculation is all here in this provocative new thriller.
“Berry’s modus operandi is always all-action.”
— Kirkus Reviews
“Bestseller Berry’s 11th Cotton Malone thriller offers a clever variation on the theme of racing against a clock to avert a national disaster. Richer characterizations and more thoughtful suspense elevate this above similar 24-like stories."
— Publisher’s Weekly
"[Berry] always delivers the goods: a resourceful hero, a modern-day story involving historical secrets and plenty of action.”
"The chunks of secret history, featuring America's past plans to invade Canada, are fascinating."
— The London Sunday Times
“Cerebral daring-do adventure at its best.”
— Irish Independent
“If you haven’t read [a Cotton Malone] novel, this would be a good place to start.”
— The Chronicle Herald (Canada)
"As always, bestselling St. Augustine author Steve Berry had a lot of fun writing his 11th Cotton Malone adventure, The 14th Colony. In this latest entertaining and educating thriller, he explores flaws in our Constitution and the presidential succession act, the secrets (both real and made-up) of America’s oldest fraternal organization, and our sometimes contentious relationship with our northern neighbor.”
— Florida Times-Union
"Berry’s scenario is eerily apropos for these highly charged times, helping to make The 14th Colony a political thriller extraordinaire that blends Ludlum with le Carré. A masterpiece of form as well as function, culled as much from fact as fiction. Brilliant in all respects.”
"Once again, Berry mixes history and suspense in a high-energy, action-packed thriller. Fans will not be disappointed as he delivers another complex story highlighted by Malone's superhuman ability to survive anything and chase the bad guys to the ends of the earth.”
— Library Journal
“The 14th Colony is a gripping novel. Steve Berry makes history exciting, and he has written another winner.”
— Associated Press
"Steve Berry, who has a handful of bestselling thrillers on his resume, has quite an imagination . . . [He] has a successful formula for his contemporary thrillers. They’re entertaining, to be sure, and . . . he has a knack for conjuring very readable stories out of a handful of miscellaneous bits of information.”
— The Mercury (Kansas)
“Facts plus fiction equals thriller for author Steve Berry.”
— Tulsa World
"What sets Malone apart from his fictional peers is the nature of the perilous situations [Steve Berry] creates. The thriller genre is rife with plots drawn from current events and geopolitical tensions. [Berry’s] books stand out by virtue of a penchant for unearthing strange, arcane and forgotten elements of American history."
— Pittsburgh Tribune-Review
"Berry has once again done what he does so well: The 14th Colony is a thriller steeped in action and history with a dose of speculation. His arsenal this time includes suitcase nukes, secret organizations, and surprising historical battle plans unknown to the general public."
— The Oklahoman
"Berry’s trademark is taking an incident in past history and letting it have an impact on a present day situation. . . . For those who like a gripping plot, this is a book you will savor.”
— Huffington Post
“The research and truths behind this novel are enough to blow your mind. Add that to Steve Berry’s incredible writing and the perfect cast of characters, and you end up with the recipe for a nail-biting, political time bomb. In a series that continually ups the ante, Steve Berry has outdone himself. The 14th Colony is the best political thriller to come along in a long time. Savor the experience!”
— Suspense Magazine
"Steve Berry may be the best in the business at writing historical thrillers, and no one captures the spirit of American history better than he does. The seamless way in which he blends both fact and fiction to continually produce superb thrillers is something readers should marvel at. . . . Berry's novels always make you think and will leave you walking away with several “what if” scenarios playing around in your head.”
“Cotton Malone, our favorite pilot-turned-secret-operative, is back to fight an old enemy: a resurgent KGB. A race against the clock, speculative history, good old-fashioned shootouts, and non-stop action kept us dialed in from start to finish of this fantastic thriller.”
FROM THE BLOG WORLD
"When it comes to historical fiction, nobody is better than Steve Berry – who once again shows why he’s one of the best in the thriller genre with his latest Cotton Malone thriller, The 14th Colony. There’s a reason why this series has lasted eleven books, and it’s not hard to figure out. Each novel is really good, and each of them offers something different. I don’t know how long Steve Berry can keep churning them out, but I hope he keeps writing Cotton Malone thrillers for many years to come."
"I thought, with all the real-life drama playing out in the world today, there would be less room for novels that mirror this conflict. However, this book proves that you just can’t beat a good story. The 14th Colony mixes good action, a good narrative, and a great ending that will leave you eager for the next offering from the pen of Mr. Berry.”
"The book is definitely an all-nighter keeping the reader mesmerized, following the rapid action and events. The ending leaves us with the grateful sense that there will be more books featuring Cotton Malone, most likely allied with his love Cassiopeia.”
"Steve Berry’s The 14th Colony, the new Cotton Malone thriller, is intriguing from beginning to end. . . . I found myself turning each page with anticipation, awestruck as Berry’s array of fascinating characters work to beat the clock in order to find the answers to the puzzle and ultimately save the country a former KGB agent with a personal vendetta. You won’t want to miss reading Berry’s latest addition to an already impressive body of work.”
"Great fun, full of interesting facts and history, lots of action, and a totally satisfying resolution to all plot threads.”
"The 14th Colony is a fine thriller, and a page-turner in the truest sense, blending history, speculation and rip-roaring action.”
— writtenbysime.com (England)
"There’s an incredible amount of history in this novel, starting with the American Revolution and continuing up to today. The story line contains not only the plot to annex Canada but nuclear weapons, the 20th amendment to the Constitution, and a secret agreement between the president of the United States and the head of the Roman Catholic Church. The plot and the writing will hold you in a tight grip until the very end.”
Click here to listen to an excerpt from the audiobook, or read Chapter One below.
LAKE BAIKAL, SIBERIA
FRIDAY, JANUARY 18
Bitter experience had taught Cotton Malone that the middle of nowhere usually signaled trouble.
And today was no exception.
He banked the plane 180 degrees for another peek downward before he landed. The pale orb of a brassy sun hung low to the west. Lake Baikal lay sheathed in winter ice thick enough to drive across. He’d already spotted transport trucks, buses, and passenger cars speeding in all directions atop milky-white fracture lines, their wheel marks defining temporary highways. Other cars sat parked around fishing holes. He recalled from history that in the early 20th century rail lines had been laid across the ice to move supplies east during the Russo-Japanese War.
The lake’s statistics seemed otherworldly. Formed from an ancient rift valley thirty million years old, it reigned as the world’s oldest reservoir and contained one-fifth of the planet’s freshwater. Three hundred rivers fed into it but only one drained out. Nearly four hundred miles long and up to fifty miles wide, its deepest point lay five thousand feet down. Twelve hundred miles of shoreline stretched in every direction and thirty islands dotted its crystalline surface. On maps it was a crescent-shaped arc in southern Siberia, 2,000 miles west from the Pacific and 3,200 miles east of Moscow, part of Russia’s great empty quarter near the Mongolian border. A World Heritage Site. Which likewise gave him pause, as those usually meant trouble, too.
Winter had claimed a tight hold on both water and land. The temperature hovered right at zero, snow lay everywhere, but thankfully none was currently falling. He worked the controls and leveled off at 700 feet. Warm air blasted his feet from the cabin heater. The plane had been supplied by the Russian air force from a small airport outside Irkutsk. Why there was so much Russian–American cooperation he did not know, but Stephanie Nelle had told him to take advantage of it. Usually visas were required for entry into Russia. He’d used fake ones many times in his day as a Magellan Billet agent. Customs could also be a problem. But this time there was no paperwork, nor had any officials impeded his arrival. Instead, he’d flown into the country on a Russian Sukhoi/HAL fighter, a new version with two seats, to an air base north of Irkutsk where twenty-five Tupolev Tu-22M medium-range bombers lined the tarmac. An Ilyushin II-78 tanker had provided refueling along the way. A helicopter had been waiting at the air base, which ferried him south to where the plane waited.
The An-2 came with a single engine, two pairs of wings, an enclosed cockpit, and a rear cabin large enough to hold twelve passengers. Its thin aluminum fuselage constantly shook from a four-blade propeller that bit a choppy path through the frigid air. He knew little about this World War II Soviet work horse, which flew slow and steady with barely any zip to its controls, this one equipped with skis that had allowed him to take off from a snowy field.
He completed the turn and readjusted his course northeast, skirting heavily timbered ground. Large boulders, like the teeth of an animal, protruded in ragged lines down ridges. Along a distant slope sunlight glinted on phalanxes of high-voltage power lines. Beyond the lakeshore, the terrain varied from flat empty earth, punctuated by small wooden houses clustered together, to forests of birch, fir, and larch, finally to snow-topped mountains. He even spotted some old artillery batteries situated along the crest of a rocky ridge. He’d come to examine a cluster of buildings that hugged close to the eastern shore, just north of where the Selenga River ended its long trek from Mongolia. The river’s mouth, choked with sand, formed an impressive delta of channels, islands, and reed beds, all frozen together in an angular disorder.
“What do you see?” Stephanie Nelle asked him through his headset.
The An-2’s communications system was connected through his cell phone so they could talk. His former boss was monitoring things from DC.
“A lot of ice. It’s incredible that something so large can be frozen so solid.”
Deep-blue vapor seemed embedded in the ice. A swirling mist of powdered snow blew across the surface, its diamond-like dust brilliant in the sun. He made another pass and studied the buildings below. He’d been briefed on the locale with satellite images.
Now he had a bird’s-eye view.
“The main house is away from the village, maybe a quarter mile due north,” he said.
The village with log houses seemed quiet, only fleecy clouds of smoke curling from chimneys indicating occupancy. The settlement rambled with no focal point, a single black road leading in, then out, outlined by snow. A church comprising yellow and pink plank walls and two onion domes dominated the center. It nestled close to the shore, a pebbly beach separating the houses from the lake. He’d been told that the eastern shore was less visited and less populated. Only about 80,000 people lived in fifty or so communities. The lake’s southern rim had developed into a tourist attraction, popular in summer, but the rest of the shoreline, stretching for hundreds of miles, remained remote.
Which was exactly why the place below existed.
Its occupants called the town Chayaniye, which meant “hope.” Their only desire was to be left alone and the Russian government, for over twenty years, had accommodated them. They were the Red Guard. The last bastion of die-hard communists remaining in the new Russia.
He’d been told that the main house was an old dacha. Every respectable Soviet leader back to Lenin had owned a country place, and those who’d administered the far eastern provinces had been no exception. The one below sat atop a whaleback of rock jutting out into the frozen lake, at the end of a twisting black road among a dense entanglement of trailing pines feathered with snow. And it was no small, wooden garden hut, either. Instead, its ocher façade had been constructed from what appeared to be brick and concrete, rising two stories and topped by a slate roof. Two four-wheeled vehicles were parked off to one side. Smoke curled thick from its chimneys and from one of several wooden outbuildings.
No one was in sight.
He completed his pass and banked west back out over the lake for another tight circle. He loved flying and had a talent for controlling machinery in motion. Shortly, he’d make use of the skis and touch down on the ice five miles south near the town of Babushkin, then taxi to its dock—which, he’d been told, handled no water traffic this time of year. Ground transportation should be waiting there so he could head north for an even closer look.
He flew over Chayaniye and the dacha one last time, dipping for a final approach toward Babushkin. He knew about the Great Siberian March during the Russian Civil War. Thirty thousand soldiers had retreated across the frozen Baikal, most dying in the process, their bodies locked in the ice until spring when they finally disappeared down into the deep water. This was a cruel and brutal place. What had one writer once said? Insolent to strangers, vengeful to the unprepared.
And he could believe it.
A flash caught his attention from among the tall pines and larch, whose green branches stood in stark contrast with the white ground beneath them. Something flew from the trees, hurtling toward him, trailing a plume of smoke.
“I’ve got problems,” he said. “Somebody is shooting at me.”
An instinctive reaction from years of experience threw him into autopilot. He banked hard right and dove further, losing altitude. The An-2 handled like an eighteen-wheeler, so he banked steeper to increase the dive. The man who’d turned the plane over earlier had warned him about keeping a tight grip on the controls, and he’d been right about that. The yoke bucked like a bull. Every rivet seemed on the verge of vibrating loose. The missile roared past, clipping both left wings. The fuselage shuddered from the impact and he leveled off out of the dive and assessed the damage. Only fabric had covered the lift surfaces, and many of the struts were now exposed and damaged, ragged edges whipping in the airflow.
Stability immediately became an issue.
The plane rocked and he fought to maintain control. He was now headed straight into a stiff north wind, his airspeed less than 50 knots. The danger of stalling became real.
“What’s happening?” Stephanie asked.
The yoke continued to fight to be free, but he held tight and gained altitude. The engine roared like a rumble of motorcycles, the prop digging in, fighting to keep him airborne.
He heard a sputter.
Then a backfire.
He knew what was happening. Too much stress was being applied to the prop, which the engine resisted.
Power to the controls winked in and out.
“I’ve been hit by a surface-to-air missile,” he told Stephanie. “I’m losing control and going down.”
The engine died.
All of the instruments stopped working.
Windows wrapped the cockpit, front and side, the copilot’s seat empty. He searched below and saw only the blue ice of Lake Baikal. The An-2 rapidly changed from a plane to eight thousand pounds of deadweight.
Dread swept through him, along with one thought.
Was this how he would die?
Also in this series: