Red Dust Requisition
A Convoy Novel

About this book:

The desert doesn’t negotiate, and neither does Corporal Finch. When Staff Sergeant Frank Miller’s twenty-four-truck convoy stalls at Depot 9 over four missing crates and a lieutenant’s blue-ink signature, the battle isn’t against an enemy—it’s against a manifest that won’t balance, a clerk who worships the stamp, and a canyon that will melt their transmissions by noon. In *Red Dust Requisition*, the front line is a paperwork war fought with grease guns, carbon copies, and the kind of quiet insubordination that keeps supplies moving when the regulations say stop.

Miller knows the weight of gaskets versus rations, the smell of overheating crankcases, and the exact hour the salt flats turn lethal. Finch knows the microfilm specs in San Antonio and the color of ink that makes a signature legal. Between them sits a convoy idling itself to death, drivers baking in cabs, and four crates of engine parts buried in a dry wash behind the oil drums—salvage, if they live to claim it on the return trip.

This is logistics as combat: gritty, procedural, and sharp as a broken fan belt. For readers who love the machinery of war—the forms, the trucks, the sweat, the stupid rules and the smarter men who bend them—*Red Dust Requisition* delivers a masterclass in the bureaucracy of survival. The manifest is clear. The road is open. The heat is rising. Mount up.