Books by Greg Ahlgren

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Science Fiction, Time Travel, Alternative History Thriller. June 2026. The Soviet Union has won the Cold War and occupies most of the former United States, now referred to as Soviet America. A fledgling American insurgency commits acts of random sabotage and sporadic bombing attacks against the Soviet occupiers and their collaborators.

Two MIT professors of astrophysics, Paul deVere and former Special Operations Officer Lewis Ginter, have discovered a subatomic particle that accelerates matter to speeds faster than light, thereby opening wormholes in time. They create an Accelechron, which makes it possible to propel a human through a wormhole. Working with fellow resistance activists from New England, they develop a daring plan to go back to the early 1960s to alter the course of American history.

As the time travelers scheme to avoid the watchful eyes of Soviet intelligence agents Igor Rostov and Natasha Nikitin, they find themselves increasingly distrusted by their fellow resistance leaders. When they finally make their daring attempt, they must confront not only history, but also their own pasts.

311 pages, Available Amazon Kindle or Nook $4.99, Amazon paperback $17.95



Jan Newsome of Five Stars

“This book combines an alternative analysis of post World War II American foreign policy with a darn good cozy mystery - all set in a science fiction genre. Five Stars.

“Part science fiction, part history, this is a fascinating read! Greg Ahlgren has spun an alternative tale of an America which lost the Cold War. But a small band of patriots devise a scheme to travel into the past, in order to change their destiny. Full of twists and turns, this book is fast paced and well written. A must buy.”


The prologue to Prologue is pasted in below as a sample.


The air conditioning was broken again. It wasn’t so much the heat that was bothersome as the stultifying oppressiveness once the circulating pump quit. The lack of airflow made the atmosphere in the Brandigan Applied Sciences Building on the MIT campus thick and clammy. As Campus Security Officer Yolanda Jackson walked down the hall on the 21st floor an unseen hand tightened around her lungs. Her breathing became raspy and shallow. She knew she should have grabbed her inhaler from her patrol car parked around the corner, but who knew that the air conditioning would be out? It was too late now. Her asthma would have to wait.

Without looking, she touched the two-way radio on her duty belt and contemplated reporting the failed air conditioning. But at three in the morning she’d only be able to raise an indifferent dispatcher at Campus Maintenance who would ask all sorts of questions before telling her he’d have an H-VAC guy give her a call in an hour or so. Better to wait until the end of her shift and fill out a maintenance report form that she could leave with her supervisor. Let it be someone else’s problem.

Besides, tomorrow was Sunday and she planned to take Jamal and Lionel to Salisbury Beach. They’d spend more time on the rides than playing in the surf. The rides were so damn expensive, but she had promised. She wished Luther’s check had arrived on time. She had delayed leaving for work in case it was in the afternoon mail. It wasn’t. She was annoyed, because the judge had repeatedly warned Luther that his checks had to arrive by Thursday.

Officer Jackson didn’t mind night shifts. It was quieter, and in the seven years she had held the job, the worst she had encountered was a drunken undergrad intent on taking out his academic frustration on the nearest uniform.

Night shifts were more checking doorways and buildings, and fewer interactions with students. It was not that she disliked students, but the nights passed quickly and she could work while Jamal and Lionel slept. They were now old enough to be left alone.

At night, if she got no calls, she only had to check each building in her patrol area twice, randomly walking two or three floors. This was the second time through Brandigan this shift. She had walked the 8th and 12th floors hours earlier and hadn’t noticed the air conditioning out.

As she passed the Astrophysics Department Office and rounded the corner, she noticed that the door to the faculty lounge was ajar. Even as she instinctively reached down and turned off her two-way radio she smiled. There would be no intruder in the faculty lounge of the Astrophysics Department at 3:00 on a Sunday morning. Someone had obviously left the door open when leaving on Friday.

She pushed open the door, stepped into the lounge and flipped the light switch. She frowned when the room remained dark. The air conditioning and interior room lights must be on the same defective circuit. Maybe she should radio Maintenance after all. Any electrical problem presented a risk of fire. Surprising that the hallway lights were unaffected.

She pulled out her long black flashlight with her right hand and slid the button forward. The beam played across the lounge and caught an orange stepladder open in the middle of the room. The ceiling tile above it had been pushed aside exposing the crawl space with its tangle of wires and piping. A stale stench from the opening assaulted her nostrils. Maintenance must have already started to investigate the problem. Probably they had left it for Monday. She aimed her flashlight around the rest of the room and was about to back out and close the door when she saw what looked like a shoe protruding from behind a leather couch against the side wall.

Without thinking she commanded, “All right, stand up and step out here. Let’s see some identification.”

As soon as the instinctive words were out of her mouth she regretted her decision. Even though it was probably a student playing God-knows-what-prank, she realized that she should have stepped out of the room, closed the door, and radioed for help. If she were a District Police Officer she would have done that. But of course if she were a District Officer she would have had a gun. Her whole body tensed.

The crouching figure slowly rose up and stepped out. Yolanda Jackson relaxed when the figure turned toward her, caught in the flashlight beam.

“I still need some identification,” she rasped, trying to keep her voice stern. “What are you doing here?”

The figure stepped toward Yolanda and smiled. She never felt a thing. As if in slow motion she saw the figure’s right hand reach toward her through her jittering flashlight beam, and she looked down at her left side just above her belt. A dark stain was already spreading over her uniform shirt.She tried to turn the flashlight back on herself but her hand went numb. She heard the flashlight clatter to the floor. The last thing she saw before her vision faded was the light beam stumbling across the far wall as the flashlight rolled away from her. She felt herself losing consciousness and thought she was falling. She tried to reach out with her left hand and was grateful that someone caught her under her arms. She thought of Jamal’s baseball game just four days earlier. She arrived in the second inning after he had already batted and gotten a hit. She thought it pointless to die to cover up some silly prank.She vaguely heard, rather than felt, her black shoes being dragged across the floor and she felt as though she were being lifted up. Then everything faded to oblivion.