The Port Havannah Paradox , livre ebook

Outskirts Press - Rod Lewin

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

147 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

Mitch Blaine, aviator extraordinaire, returns! In this third much-awaited novel in the series, Mitch Blaine and his learned sidekick Beyer have returned to their isolated retreat on Apache Lake in the Arizona desert, where a young Mexican girl has been ruthlessly tossed out of a low-flying aircraft. After saving her life, they are drawn into a battle of retribution with the same gang of thugs who attempted to slay her. Severely wounded in the ensuing fray, Beyer has unilaterally determined that it is time to go home. Now the intrepid duo has decided to fly back to Australia in their vintage PBY flying boat, the Wayward Wind. They plan a fuel stop in Vanuatu in the South Pacific to visit some old friends at Havannah Harbor-a repair base for the U.S. Navy's Pacific Fleet just prior to the Battle of the Coral Sea-on the island of Efate. Only thing is, it's cyclone season down there, and one of the most devastating storms that part of the world has ever known is heading right toward Vanuatu. When Blaine and Beyer arrive at the exact moment that the cyclone is battering the islands, they inadvertently fly into one of the most bizarre adventures they have yet encountered-and literally right into history!

Sujets

Adventure

Fiction

Action

Informations

Publié par	Outskirts Press
Date de parution	13 juin 2017
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781478790211
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0500€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

The Port Havannah Paradox
All Rights Reserved.
Copyright © 2017 Rod Lewin
v3.0

This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Outskirts Press, Inc.
http://www.outskirtspress.com

ISBN: 978-1-4787-9021-1

Cover Photo © 2017 thinkstockphotos.com. All rights reserved - used with permission.

Outskirts Press and the “OP” logo are trademarks belonging to Outskirts Press, Inc.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

1
“H eard from Brian Smith the other day,” I commented casually to Beyer. We were sprawled by a warm, comforting fire on our isolated, pebbly beach on the south side of Apache Lake in Arizona, which had become our transitory home for the duration of the winter months.
I flipped a round, smooth pebble out into the lake and watched it skip across the moonlit surface towards the dark silhouette anchored there. Our World War Two PBY-5A Catalina flying boat swung gently on her mooring in the light evening breeze.
It was the second week in March, and although the nights were still decidedly chilly at this time of the year, springtime was definitely upon us. The desert was in full and magnificent bloom, and the days were already becoming almost unbearably hot.
Everything was bursting with brilliant, colorful blossoms! The stately saguaros disgorged their splendid white flowers, spilling them out over their towering tops. The purple Lupine and Verbena, red, pink and orange Ocotillo, Globe-mallow and Chuparosa, and yellow and gold Creosote, Chamiso, Palo Verde and Primrose were all showing off their spring splendor.
However, the Desert Five-Spot and the Mexican Cliff Rose, also known as buckbrush or quinine bush, are my personal favorites. The Desert Five-Spot has flowers which are rose-pink to lilac with five petals, each with a bright red spot inside at its base. The petals curve upward, overlapping at their sides, to form a globe, open at the top. When light passes through the delicate petals, the globe resembles a glowing lantern.
Equally exquisite and just as delicate is the white Cliff Rose, with a fragrance like that of orange blossoms. Its shrub, when not in bloom, would hardly merit a second glance. But after the winter snow and a trace of rain in the spring, it bursts out suddenly and gloriously like a swan from an ugly duckling! The shaggy limbs of the shrub disappear behind dense clusters of creamy white or pale yellow flowers, each with five perfect petals and a golden center.
Of course, had it not been for my swarthy friend sitting cross-legged across from me at this very moment, I might never have learned to appreciate the grandeur of these lovely plants. But he, in his incomparable style, insisted on describing each species we stumbled upon by both its common name and its Latin nomenclature. In so doing, he had aroused in me an interest in botany I had not previously known I possessed.
Beyer was contentedly licking his fingers.
“Really?” he finally replied. He wiped the back of a giant, hairy fist across his lips with an uncharacteristic lack of decorum as he finished the last of the superb trout we had caught and grilled on our campfire.
He took another sip of Charlie Wagner’s outstanding Mer Soleil Reserve Chardonnay he had recently discovered, and smiled approvingly.
“How are he and Annie doing?” he asked earnestly. “Didn’t you say they had retired from the rat race of the Queensland Gold Coast to a much quieter and more urbane lifestyle on the beautiful South Pacific isle of Efate in Vanuatu?”
I did not reply at first. I eased my aching spine down onto the cool, hard gravel. Locking my fingers behind the back of my head, I gazed up with unceasing awe for the thousandth time at the billions of stars glittering overhead.
As I lay there lost in thought, I reflected on our last few weeks of peace and quiet; keeping a low profile, fishing, eating, drinking, sleeping, and occasionally working out. At least I was working out. Beyer vociferously proclaimed that regular physical exercise would, contrary to the ostensible benefits, be the death of him. I had also been doing quite a bit of tedious but necessary skin repair work on the plane.
We had flown our PBY, the Wayward Wind , back from Jacumba, California, where we had been involuntarily drawn into avenging the grisly death of a beautiful young Mexican maiden. She had quite literally dropped in on us out of the blue, and in attempting to rescue her, we had barely escaped with our own lives. After yet another almost fatal encounter, this time with an abominable and ruthless gang of drug runners and human traffickers, we finally managed to return to the peace and quiet of our present tranquil locale.
In so doing however, we had invoked the ire of virtually every county, state and federal law enforcement agency based in San Diego County, California. Had it not been for our only ally during the entire debacle, one Sam McNally, of the United States Border Patrol, we might very well be either dead or taking our present leave in a federal prison. And the outcome of the numerous charges of alleged heinous acts of anarchy and terrorism against these same United States would probably not have been pleasant.
Sam had dropped in on us several times since we had returned to our base camp here at Apache Lake, supposedly to check on our deplorable condition. Although he was actually in worse shape than either Beyer or me, having taken three bullets during various phases of the affair. Poor old Beyer had quite by accident also copped one in his left shoulder – from which, he whines, he will never recover. This time, however, I had come off scott-free, without so much as a veritable scratch!
The wings and fuselage of the plane had, on the other hand, also been struck several times by sub-machine gun fire from the thugs on the ground. They apparently had the unmitigated temerity to think that they could shoot my tank-like flying machine out of the sky during the final gunfight of that awful business!
Rousing myself out of my reverie, I finally replied "They're both fine. Said to give you their love, and can't wait to meet you."
“Same goes for me. I should think…. what did you just say, Blaine? What do you mean, they can’t wait to meet me? What dastardly little scheme are you conjuring up now? You promised me you would take me straight back to Sydney – no side trips, and no unexpected encounters with the ungodly.”
“Now you know as well as I do that we are going to have to make two or three fuel stops on the way home, just like we did coming up here. We might as well make Vanuatu one of them. It’s been a long time since we saw all our ex-pat friends, and we may not get another chance. Neither of us is getting any younger – or luckier – as you so often point out.”
“Yes, but damn it, Blaine! I told you that I have been invited to give a vital presentation at the Melbourne Institute of Planetary Sciences on the 24 th of April. I have a veritable mountain of preparation to do both before and after we get home. We cannot afford to go gallivanting off on another one of your save – or as in our last wretched ordeal, avenge – the fair-maiden-in-distress escapades.”
“I am well aware of your schedule, friend Beyer. And I promise you that, apart from necessary fuel and rest stops, we will make no side trips, missions of mercy or revenge – straight home – after our last stop in Vanuatu, that is. I promise !”
“Very well, Blaine. But I am holding you to it this time. I have had quite enough adventure for one lifetime. I am, after all, a mere mortal, who desires nothing so much as to be left alone with my journals, my theses, and my thoughts. On the other hand, you are seemingly never happy unless you are pushing the envelope of risk, skill and daring to the limit. One day, Blaine, your apparent death wish will catch up with you. And when it does, I have no desire to be around to witness – or worse yet, join you – in your demise!”
“I hadn’t quite thought of it as a death wish, Beyer. I just seem to be around at the right – or wrong – time to get us involved in things that sometimes get slightly out of hand.”
“ Slightly out of hand, did you say? Slightly out of hand? Do you call blowing up a mountain full of silver, an entire freight train, three vans, two Border Patrol vehicles – never mind that the poor devils who drove them were already dead – and let’s not forget the private jet…..”
“I did not blow up the jet, and you know it. Don’t exaggerate, Beyer!”
“Well, you might as well have. You tried hard enough. You caused it to crash, anyway.”
“It was overloaded with contraband silver, and couldn’t get off the ground. It wasn’t my fault.”
“Trifling compensation. Those pilots are just as dead.”
“Yeah, you’re right about that. They’re just as dead. And as you mentioned, so are a lot of other people in that fiasco, and I’d just as soon forget it.”
“Not half as much as I wish to forget the entire unpleasant ordeal, I can assure you, old boy.”
“So, when would you like to leave our wonderful haven of tranquility by the lake? Is tomorrow soon enough for you, my hairy friend?”
“Well, I should think…. did you say tomorrow ? How in the name of heaven can we be ready to depart on a ten-thousand-mile trip home with only a few hours’ preparation – not to mention sleep?”
“We did it coming up here, didn’t we