Cross The Ocean Commander

1. Auflage 2017
ISBN: 978-1-5439-1090-2
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet/DL/kein Kopierschutz

E-Book, Englisch, 244 Seiten

Ocean Commander By Jonathan Cross. A ghostly tale of survival, courage, the Spirit of the sea, and the adventures of the Ocean Commander. As the sun rises over the now calm ocean, the only sound is that of the waves as they lap gently on the hull of the ship. The Commander stands alone on the bridge looking out to sea, wondering how all this happened. Why did he survive when others did not, what is that Spirit on that desolate island? His thoughts are brought to a stop, as the smell of fresh coffee wafts up from the galley. The very special, and talented crew is starting to stir, four women, two men and, The Commander.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Cross, Jonathan

Leseproben

Chapter One.
The Crash
Rolling his suit case down the drive, the cab pulled up alongside the house, he picked up the case, dropping it in the open trunk. Turning for one last look, the foreclosure sign in the front yard said it all. His heart sank. Entering the cab, the stale smell of people filled his nose. “Airport please” he told the driver, not wanting to look back, but he had to. His house, his home, his life, leaving here had never been in his plans. The taxi sped toward the end of the road, Porter wanted him to turn around, but knew it would be no use. The ride to the airport was excruciating, like tearing a part of him away. The bumps and the spring form broken seat, dug into his behind. The short and curt conversation with the driver who did not speak English, did not help. He had to break out of this mood, putting his head in his hands, he had to think of something good. Arriving at the airport, the driver swung the car with a final jolting stop, pointing his fat finger at the red glowing sign, $32.56. Porter went through his wallet, trying to find enough to pay the man. Scrapping the last few coins together, he shoved the money into the drives outstretched hand. His days of flashing an American Express were long gone. Getting out of the cab, hauling his suit case from the trunk, and stepping on the pavement, the taxi was already pulling away, just as he realized, he was in the wrong place. “Barstard,” he swore under his breath, watching taxi drive off. Dragging his suite case, dread washed over him at leaving his life behind, and yet at the same time, he felt relief at escaping from the collapse of his financial existence. He just wanted to get on the plane. Arriving at his terminal, and scanning the area, he found his check in line, thank god there were only a few people in front of him, he thought, lifting and shaking his right leg, still aching from a bad parachute landing. Checking in only took a minute or two. “London, Mr. Porter?” the lady behind the counter asked, her broad smile softening his bad mood. “Thank you,” Porter said, his mood was lifting, finding a smile creeping across his face, “have a nice day”, he winked at her as he left. Shuffling along in the security line, people taking off their shoes, bags being emptied, he dreaded the whole senseless body scanning. Not that anyone would want to look at his scan, but the metal plate in his leg, set it off every time. He could not believe the TSA were chasing their tails with a ninety-year-old suspect. Where did these idiots get trained, he thought? Everyone stood watching, not wanting to stir their already fried tempers, as the mayhem went on. “Boarding pass please,” said the TSA agent, his hand already reaching for pass. The agent mused over the boarding pass. “Going to London”, Mr. Porter, fumbling the pass in his hand as if it were false. “Yes” he replied, trying not to show his frustration, but inside, he just wanted to punch him on the nose, for being such an idiot. The agent, as if he had not heard the first time, repeated himself. “London Mr. Jonathan Porter?” Porter wanted to say, no Paris, ‘you dipshit,’ instead he just gave him a look, that said it all, and then smiling he said “yes”, thank you. The agent shoving his pass back into his hand, waved him through. Finally, he reached the gate. Time for a coffee, or maybe a beer, and a read of his paper? But how would he pay for it? Maybe a nap? He had two hours until boarding anyway. Laying his head on the back of the seat, his mind drifted back. Mental pictures of war still haunted him. The pain in his right leg as it snapped like a dry twig. His right femur, broke into little pieces after missing a landing zone, still hurts like hell. Old wounds, too much alcohol, and just getting older did not help. And then there was the mental stress of losing it all. Even having to sell his car, that old clunker had done him well, like an old friend, but as temperamental as his ex-wife. His mind, longed for the old days; his job at Scotland yard, the comradery of his fellow officers, the time spent hunting terrorists, time with the British very special forces. Checking the time on his watch, only minuets had gone by, putting his head back down, he thought of his youth. He had left home and gone to work at fifteen, disliking school, he had worked his way to his current job, even teaching the legal profession forensics. Restless in his seat, his mind went back again to his youth. Long hours working on a farm for very little pay, he knew tough times. He had been there before. When he was younger he craved the physical work. His study of martial arts, combined with the physical demands of the farm work, had made him strong. Long hours built stamina, and yes, even the pint of beer in the local English pub at the end of the hard day’s work, had made his character. Disturbing his rest, a lady banged her bags into his leg, as she came to sit on the seat next to him. Looking around he could see at least thirty seats available, but she had to sit next to him. A dark-skinned lady, brown hair with deep brown eyes, he noticed as they exchanged glances. Expensive dress, nice shoes, and the bag was worth a small fortune. More money in that bag than Porter owned. He shuffled in his seat to make more room for her, she looked him up and down. Porter was a no bulshit, get it done kind of a guy, 5 feet 10 inches tall and 3 feet across his shoulders. His twenty years with the British Police took him from a young green officer, to a case hardened, special forces operator, he had seen it all. The lady smiled at him, as if she could see right through this tough guy, little did she know. The economic crash in the USA had taken his life savings, taken the very house he built with his own hands, and left him sitting at the airport broke. Sitting up, he fumbled in his pockets trying to find enough for a beer, the lady watched him intently, and then he remembered, his secret stash. Taking off his right shoe he removed the inner soul, there were his six hundred-dollar bills, a life line, and a beer. Putting his shoe back on, he left this stranger, this lady, whoever she was, and went to the bar. A collection of travelers where seated. Three ladies, dressed well, with nice clothes, lots of bags, with sun hats, “going on vacation” he thought. At the far end a group of six men, his experience told him they were Columbian, they looked nervously across the bar. “Something not right with these guys” he made a mental note. Arriving at an empty stool, he pulled himself aboard, the barman was looking at him. “What can I get you” the barman was wiping the bar in front of him. “Cold draft something light” Porter replied pointing to the nearest tap. “One cold beer coming up” the barman was obviously in a better mood than Porter was. “Tab, or just the one today sir” the barman was pushing his pint toward him. “Just the one thanks” Porter replied reaching into his wallet for one of the hundred-dollar bills. The barman fetched his change, as Porter was taking long slow slug of the cold liquid. “Just what I needed” he mumbled to himself, picking up his change. Taking his time, he enjoyed every sip of his cold beer, draining the glass to the very last suds. Thanking the barman, and heading toward the gate. Looking at his watch again, the time at the bar, had used up much of his wait time, now he could board, and finally, get out of here. Shuffling along with the rest of his fellow travelers, as they inched aboard. His seat was way in the back, gone were the days of going first class, he had no class. Squashing in between two rather large people, the steward seeing his discomfort said she would move him as soon as she could. It seemed like a lifetime, stewards busy trying to get people seated, closing overstuffed bins, his annoyance grew inside, but they finally closed the doors, and he felt the plane push back. Leaning back in his seat, he tried to use some misdirection of his mind, to ease his discomfort. Directing his thoughts to England. His son and daughter in law, and of course his grandsons. He just wanted to be there. He wanted to see his grandsons playing with their toys. Wearing the new coats, he had sent them before the money ran out, but most of all just to spend time with them. Allowing his mind to drift to the better times, he thought of being back in England. The land of green pastures, Scottish hills and valleys, London with its culture and history. And his favorite, the English cream tea in Devon. Hot freshly backed scones, butter, homemade strawberry jam, and lashings of Devonshire clotted cream, he could almost taste it. A firm tap on his shoulder, he opened his eyes, the stewardess was waving him to follow her. Getting out from between his fellow passengers was not easy, as neither of them would move. Making his way along the plane, the stewardess showed him to an empty exit row. As he took a seat, the stewardess, quickly showing him the emergency card, she asked him if he was capable of opening the emergency door. Porter nodded that he could, she went on to tell him, the old lady that had been there, could not manage the emergency door, and that is why she had been moved. “How lucky was that” he thought to himself, as he spread himself out. Ding Dong, this is your captain welcome aboard from the flight deck. We will be next in line for takeoff, so...