For those who don’t know us, we’re Evan Trevane and Shawn M. Casey, the writing team of T. C. Archer. Today, we’re here to talk 
about the first in our Phenom League series, Chain Reaction. These alternate history, paranormal romances are set during WWII. In our version of history, you’ll find out who has quietly been protecting us behind the scenes.
These are the stories you won't find in the history books.
Former Chicago Detective Jordan Pierce put his life on hold in order to protect America's secret weapon against the Nazis; The Manhattan Project. But he can't protect himself against the disease eating away at his humanity. Jordan discovers how much of his soul this infection has devoured when he falls in love with the woman who could destroy America. Choosing her, means choosing the monster he's becoming, making him the most powerful man he's ever known.
A peek at what’s being said about Chain Reaction
If you love to read Paranormal and History your going to love this book! Brandy’s Reviews
The Phenom League reminds me of the X-Men and Avengers—only better, and we have only just gotten started here. Booked Up Reviews
This was a very fast read for me because I could not put it down. This story is full of twists and turns, suspense and a who done it mystery all wrapped up in a paranormal/historical element. Rachel at the Jeep Diva
The author has combined the espionage intrigue of World War II with the intrigue of the supernatural world in a unique way- by not only tapping into the idea others have done over the years regarding super secret agencies creating "superhumans", but also interweaving that concept based on actual events that took place. Midala Ballinger’s Reviews
CHAPTER ONE
October, 1942
Tension fermented in the air like a sour mash whiskey. By chance, skill, stealth, and deceit I had kept my secret. But tonight I strode down the halls of Chicago University's Eckhart Hall with a feeling my time had run out.
Every evening I reported for duty as The Manhattan Project's head of nightshift security not knowing what I missed during those midday hours when I lay dead to the world. Along with the bizarre sleep that immobilized me, the strange infection raging through my body made me dislike food and drink, stopped my smoking habit cold turkey, and switched me into permanent high gear. The worst part was the dread I barely kept at bay, knowing the people I worked for would turn me into a lab rat if they discovered the truth.
My gut coiled tighter as I entered Security Chief Lopez's office at six o'clock sharp. Lopez stood in front of his desk, hat in hand, while rifling through a stack of files. He looked over his shoulder and our eyes met.
I halted. His bloodshot eyes told me something was wrong even without the uncharacteristic loose tie and rumpled black suit. He straightened and raked strands of greased hair over the bald spot in the back of his head.
"Pierce," he said, "there's been a security breach."
Relief washed over me. This had to be a repeat of the one and only security breach we'd had a couple of weeks ago. In a fit of depression, Miss Therese Hance, a mathematics major here at Chicago University, had written a poem. I still recalled the verse verbatim:
Dear little neutronian who lives on a nucleus in an atom of my knee, if you do not stop jumping around, you are going to cause an atomic blast and blow up the universe.
With the top-secret race to beat the Germans to the first nuclear chain reaction going on at Chicago University, the poem hit too close to home. When Miss Hance's professor, Dr Albert, found the poem on her desk here in Eckhart Hall—Dr Albert had some vague awareness of the research going on—he passed the poem along to Oppenheimer, and Oppenheimer panicked. Lopez and I barely prevented the scientists from having a collective nervous breakdown.
I gave Lopez a not this again look. "Which student wrote another poem? Miss Hance didn't know a thing. It'll be the same this time." Then I added before he could reply, "Don't tell me you bought into the story about how her studies in group theory gave her a subconscious knowledge of the scientific research being conducted here."
Lopez shifted and I caught sight of the bright red, Eyes Only, top-secret folder beside the pile of folders he had been thumbing through. I started. An Eyes Only report could only have originated with General Groves, head of The Manhattan Project. This was no student poem.
"We intercepted a radio message north of the Ontario border last night." Lopez grabbed the folder and extended it toward me. "The code-breakers say the message contains the correct amount of Uranium 235 needed to sustain a chain reaction."
"The true U-235 amounts?" I blurted, mechanically reaching for the folder.
Our big edge over the Nazis was the knowledge of how little Uranium 235 was needed to start a chain reaction. Of the two isotopes of uranium, U-238 and the rare U-235, the Nazi's head scientist, Werner Heisenberg, believed they needed a uranium concentration of ninety percent U-235 to build an atom bomb. According to our head scientist, Enrico Fermi, only a twenty percent concentration of the rare isotope would reach critical mass. The disparity was enough to keep the Germans busy doing nothing but enriching uranium until we drove them back to Berlin. But we had to attain the first nuclear chain reaction to ensure victory.
I dropped my stare to the folder and forced my fingers to close around it as Lopez's hand fell away. A bona fide breach here at Chicago Pile One? No one in the outside world knew what was really going on in Eckhart Hall's Metallurgical Lab. The real liability lay a block away at Stagg Field. The scientists were building an atomic pile in an abandoned squash court beneath the field's west grandstands. Damn it, I'd warned Lopez someone would get suspicious at seeing scientists constantly running between Eckhart Hall and Stagg Field, briefcases clutched so tightly their knuckles turned white. Suddenly Miss Therese Hance's poem didn't seem so farfetched. Who else had noticed strange activity at Eckhart Hall?
"Who else besides the CP-1 scientists have this information?" I asked.
Lopez's mouth thinned. "You, me, and General Groves."
Groves and Lopez were above suspicion. The transmission had to have come from one of the fifty-two scientists working on the project. They all understood the ramifications of an atomic weapon in the hands of a madman like Hitler. I couldn't believe any of them capable of selling out their country, much less the rest of the world.
I swung my gaze up to Lopez's face. "If the Nazis find out Heisenberg's equations are wrong…"
"And the Nazis get their hands on the correct equations…"
We both let the unsaid words hang: The US could lose the war.
"Any leads?" I asked.
"Nothing. I rang your apartment an hour ago when the report hit my desk, but you must have been out."
I nodded. Here was the reason for the dread I'd experienced tonight. A crisis like this could draw attention to the fact I was always out during the height of daylight hours. My service during the Great War combined with my position as a detective on the Chicago Police Force had gotten me through the security check for this job. Keeping a low profile had kept my secret safe—until now.
"What are our instructions?" I asked.
"Sit tight and observe until the spooks finish their investigation." He nodded at the folder. "It's all there. I've already requested a list of the scientists who have access to the U-235 information, as well as a few other topics so the librarians can't guess who or what we're after."
"When will the report be available?" I asked in a tone I hoped didn't show my disbelief. Waiting for our counter intelligence experts to mull over mounds of information wasn't General Groves's style. Groves was the kick-ass type who single-handedly spearheaded the construction of the Pentagon, the world's largest office building.
"When they're ready," Lopez said. "We've got to catch this guy, but can't chance alerting the scientists to the possibility we have a spy. Any panic, and the university might discover this isn't the harmless metallurgical laboratory our government claims. Those bleeding heart academics will strip us naked and toss us ass first to the media wolves. In the meantime, we go on alert. Our inside network is working to pinpoint where the information originated."
Suddenly, the folder felt like it weighed a ton. I'd never expected to be holding one of these super secret reports. My thirty-nine years of age made me ineligible to fight this war, so I'd consoled myself with the knowledge Chicago cops were needed to keep the streets safe here at home. When I'd been attacked in the alley eight months ago, I'd put my life on hold while I hunted for the fiend who attacked me. Now, I'd set aside my search in order to aid the war effort because I was even more afraid of Hitler's Nazis and Mussolini's fascists gaining control than I was of what I had become. The longer I put off finding out who infected my body with this sickness, the less likely the chances I'd be able to reverse the disease. I hadn't allowed myself to think about what I might become if the disease ate me alive.
"We can't let those bastards win the war," I said.
Lopez's mouth thinned. "I have to fly to Washington. You're in charge while I'm gone."
"Me?" I forced back shock. "What about Banks? He's your dayshift second in command."
"You're head of nightshift. Groves says you're in charge when I'm not here."
My mouth went dry. Lack of seniority enabled me to do this job. I wanted to ask when he would return, grill him on every tiny detail in the red file I gripped, anything, to keep him talking and here at CP-1.
His gaze bored into me. "You got this handled?"
"Yeah," I replied.
Without another word, he donned his hat and disappeared out the door.
I stared at the open doorway and muttered to the empty room, "As long as I can find the leak before sunrise."
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