He grew up in the Seattle area, spent time with the Navy and Marine Corps as a medic, graduated from the University of Washington, lived in Africa for half a year, and has traveled to six continents. He has been employed as a surgical technician, college instructor, news writer, television producer and Director of Public Relations and Marketing for an international telephone company.
Dietz is a member of the Writer’s Guild and the International Association of Media Tie-In Writers. He and his wife live near Gig Harbor in Washington State where they enjoy traveling, kayaking, and reading books.
Dietz applied the Page 69 Test to his new novel, Into the Guns, and reported the following:
From page 69:Visit William C. Dietz's website, Facebook page, and Twitter perch.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, night surrendered to day—and Sloan spotted a smudge of land. The United States? Yes, he thought so, and felt a renewed sense of hope. After going ashore, the authorities would free him. With that out of the way, he’d contact his staff. Would the president want to speak with him? Probably ... Then he’d call the assisted-care facility to check on his mother.Washington D.C. was a casualty of the meteor onslaught that decimated the nation’s leadership--and left the surviving elements of the armed forces to try and restore order as American society fell apart. As refugees across America band together and engage in open warfare with the military over scarce resources, a select group of individuals representing the surviving corporate structure makes a power play to rebuild the country in a free market image as The New Confederacy… They know that the President of the United States is dead, and that the mantle of leadership has fallen to Samuel T. Sloan, the Secretary of Energy. And if they can find Sloan, and control him, the country will be theirs.
That’s what Sloan was thinking as the gunboat rounded the south end of Padre Island. Sloan had been there numerous times and knew the area well. The boat slowed as they neared the Coast Guard station.
Once the gunboat was moored, Sloan was escorted up a ramp to a one-story building. A woman with two children stared at him. That was when Sloan remembered his bushy beard, ripped clothes, and bare feet. None of which would add to his credibility.
After being led through the scrupulously clean lobby, and past a reception desk, Sloan was escorted down a hallway to the holding cells located in the back of the building. The civilian clerk laughed when Sloan said he was the Secretary of Energy but wrote it down anyway. Then it was time to answer questions pertaining to his criminal record, health, and identifying marks if any.
Once the booking process was complete, and mug shots had been taken, an officer placed Sloan in cell 002. The six-foot-by-six-foot enclosure was equipped with metal bunk beds, a freestanding toilet, and a small sink. What light there was came from the single fixture located over his head—and a narrow gun-slit-style window. He heard a clang as the door closed. “Hey, dude,” the man in the next cell called out. “You got a smoke?”
“No,” Sloan replied. “I don’t.”
“Then fuck you,” the man said. “I hope you die.” Sloan was home.
But Sloan, who was in Mexico when the meteors struck doesn’t know, and is arrested while trying to reenter the United States.