Coming Home at Last

By Mike Holst

Devon Harrington had his world the way he wanted it. He had a great job teaching at the college and the love of his life, Margie, to come home to each evening in their snug home in Suburban Boston. Then a dream trip to the Galapagos for research came along and he jumped at the chance. It was the South Seas adventure he had often dreamed about.

Then out of nowhere his old Navy Seal buddy Arnie came along and offered him a chance to make some fast money. More money then Devon had seen in a while. Take this instrument with you and leave it in the Galapagos he said. Simple as that and no one will be the wiser. The only stipulation is--its our little secret.

But a storm sank the schooner on the way and Devon nearly died before washing ashore weeks later on a radioactive atoll. Nursed back to life by the islands only inhabitant, Devon couldnt wait to be rescued and get back home to Margie. A formable task seeing he had no boat, didnt know where he was and was increasingly torn by his love for his rescuer. Then he found a way, and then he also found out he was a wanted man, without a country and without a wife.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781475992069

Mike Holst

MIKE HOLST is a native Minnesotan who lives and writes in North Central Minnesota. He has Published six novels, over the last ten years, all Minnesota stories. This is his first story that takes place outside of the state, he loves so much. He also writes a weekly column for the local newspaper and has done several articles for area magazines and newspapers.

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Copyright © 2013 MIKE HOLST.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-9205-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-9206-9 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 5/23/2013

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE TRIP HOME

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THE STORM

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY- EIGHT

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ALSO BY MIKE HOLST

An Absence Of Conscience

The Last Trip Down The Mountain

Back From The Ashes

The Magic Book

Justice For Adam

No Clues In the Ashes

Nothing To Lose

A long Way Back

ACKNOWLEDMENTS

To my good friend, wordsmith and editor, Glenda Berndt, goes my heartfelt thanks for her tireless efforts on this book. It simply would not exist without her.

This book is dedicated to Kitty, my soul mate and the love of my life. Heaven now knows the truth about your goodness, sweetheart.

Rest in peace.

PROLOGUE

Devon couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He thought this was just a social visit between two old Navy buddies who, way back then, had been through so much together. He smiled as he remembered the times Arnie and he had taken shore leave together, and cruised the streets of San Diego, looking for the perfect cheap prostitute. Then, both of them getting back to the ship a day late, and having to spend three days in the brig. How much beer and tequila had they drunk that time? It would be a lethal dose for him today.

Arnie had called him on Tuesday, and asked Devon to fly out from Boston to meet with him and talk over old times. He told him that he had an interesting proposition for him that could make him some big money, and he would pay for the plane tickets. Devon had pressed him for details, but all he would say was, You won’t be disappointed, my friend.

Money didn’t come easy for Devon. He had a love for toys like sailboats and new cars, and his appetite far outpaced his salary. But he was an honest man and wanted no part of anything illegal. However, Arnie hadn’t said that this had anything to do with something illegal. Besides, it would be good to see his old buddy again, and the most he had to lose was a few days of his life.

From the airport they had gone right to Arnie’s office at the navel base. The plan was, there would be no business discussed until they had time to renew their friendship, but that didn’t take long.

I have followed your career closely, Arnie said. You seem to be a rising star at the college. I read about your Galapagos trip in a magazine—sounds exciting. The two men were sipping cold beer, and looking out the window at the sprawling naval base.

If Devon had heard his comment about his upcoming trip, he didn’t answer directly. But he did talk about the scientific part of it and his career with the college; his home in Boston and his wife, Margie. Smiling, and touching his friend’s shoulder, he said, I do miss the Navy and the ocean, and I have missed you guys and the camaraderie we had.

Arnie smiled and said, Yes, we had some good times, didn’t we. He hesitated for a second, as if he wanted to say something else about the good old days, and then he got right into the reason for their meeting. Devon, I am going to get right to the point. I have an instrument that I need to have delivered to the Galapagos, and set up. This is a top-secret Navy project, and that’s all I can tell you about it. It’s so secret we can’t risk having a naval ship in the area. I have very few choices available for me, to use civilians, for this job. Being a former Navy Seal, you seem to be the perfect choice, and you’re already going to the Galapagos.

So, what’s in it for me and what happens if I get caught doing this? Devon asked, laughing.

You will be paid four hundred thousand dollars—in cash. Arnie threw an envelope out on the windowsill. Seals don’t get caught, Devon. Seals complete the mission always. Think of it as serving your country once more.

Devon let out a low whistle. Inside, there was two hundred thousand dollars in one hundred dollar bills.

That’s half, right now, today. The other half will be here when you get back.

His head was spinning as he thought, Two hundred thousand dollars—no, four hundred thousand dollars—and what he could do with that.

Why is this so secret? he asked.

I told you, that’s all I can say, Arnie said. You have a lot of instruments down there, Devon. No one is going to question one more. It’s disguised to look like a weather station, and by the way, it can function as one if anybody asks.

We already have a weather station.

So this is a backup, in case that one fails.

When do you have to know?

Before you leave this room today. If you don’t want to do it, that’s okay, and this meeting never happened. If you talk about it, I can’t be responsible for what could happen.

Devon finished the last of his beer. That last statement by Arnie was not setting well with him. In fact, it was downright chilling. But then, his demeanor slowly changed. Arnie had put him in a corner with all of this patriotic Navy Seal talk. He was still a Seal at heart and always would be. Well-played Arnie, he thought. He picked up the envelope and put it in the breast coat pocket of his jacket. He would do it, but he had enough of Arnie for one day. Take me to the airport, he said.

On the way to the airport, Arnie told him the instrument would be delivered in the next few days, to the schooner they had chartered. It would have the name of his research lab stenciled on it.

High above Nebraska, on his flight back to Boston, Devon looked out the window at the ground below. This should be easy enough, he thought. He was in charge of this trip to the Galapagos. No one was going to question him. He felt for the envelope and smiled.

CHAPTER ONE

July 26TH, 1996

The huge waves, which had been crashing down on the boat during the storm, were now just lazy little swells that seemed to gently push the raft in dizzy little circles, rather than move it in any definite direction. The sun’s rays beat down relentlessly from a sky so clear that it was devoid of any other character except that blazing orange orb in the middle of a searing blue sky. As far as you could see, in every direction, there was just water. Water and more water, here in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

For several hours after the boat had sunk the storm had raged on, tossing the tiny raft from the tops of white-tipped foamy peaks, capping giant green waves—down into the depths of a bottomless dark abysses that lurked several stories below. It was the same depths that had sucked down the Anna Rochelle and all the passengers and crew. Why not him? Maybe the sea didn’t want him. Then again, maybe it wanted to torment him some more, before it took him to the same watery grave as his shipmates.

All he remembered was that one minute he had his hand on a hatch door, wanting to get a quick glimpse of the storm, and then he was shot out of the door into the raging black sea and was being sucked down into its depths and certain death. Then, all of a sudden, he was regurgitated and catapulted back to the surface. For a second, he looked around for anything that would give him a ray of hope of surviving.

Devon was a strong swimmer and had spent four years in the Navy, praying that this very thing would never happen, and it had. But for how long? he thought. How long could any man hope to last in this living hell? So what if he managed to stay afloat for an hour—he was surely going to die anyway—why prolong the agony. Just quit struggling and let yourself drift down and get it over with. Margie would miss him for a while, but she was young and pretty and she would find someone else. He’d had a good life—short as it was.

Devon hadn’t found the raft when he was first spit up from the depths—it found him—smacking him in the head from behind. For a second, he didn’t realize what it was, but then his instincts kicked in, and just seconds before it would have been whisked away from him on the next burst of wind, his flailing hand reached out and grabbed the rope that encircled the yellow inflatable. For a few minutes he was just along for the ride, skidding behind the hurtling raft on the surface of the water; being tossed and turned as if the raft was doing everything it could to shake this unwanted hitchhiker free of it; like a wild mustang being broken, trying to rid itself of the rider. Then the wind switched, and the raft quit hurtling away and came back onto him. With the lift of the next swell he landed inside of it, utterly exhausted, his hand still in a death grip on the rope; his head turned awkwardly sideways, trying to avoid the few inches of water in the bottom. He had already swallowed enough seawater.

For the next few hours, he hung onto the raft like a bronco rider on top of El Diablo at the country fair, trying to stay in the saddle for a few more minutes. His arm grew weary and he changed hands until he realized that, if he sat up with his back against the side of the raft, he could hold on with both hands. He could see the next disturbance coming at him, so he was able to rest for a few minutes between attacks and then prepare for the next big one.

It was around dawn that the storm finally relented and moved slowly away. The seas were still high swells, but no longer did they look angry. In the dark, he had found some debris from the ship, but nothing useful, just deck chairs and tables that had floated along in his wake—all seemingly going the same way—like some garage sale parade. Gradually, however, it all went its own way and then there was only water, just endless seas of water.

That first day after the wreck, Devon was so depressed he could barely function. Long after the wind had abated, he was still sitting in the same spot as he had been for hours, despondent and in shock. But gradually, reality set in and he came to grips with his situation. He released his grip on the ropes and started inspecting what he hoped was only his temporary home.

The rubber raft was oblong—about six feet long in all. The sides were about eighteen inches high, and directly across from him on the inside, the words Property of the United States Navy were stenciled on the rubber. The Anna Rochelle had not been a Navy schooner, but had been leased to the Massachusetts School for Oceanic Research from some private party. They wanted to be as ecology-minded as they could be, so they opted for a sailing ship. The Anna Rochelle was about one hundred and fifty feet in length and carried three masts. He had seen several of these yellow rafts tied along the rail that encircled the ship to be used, as needed, for lifeboats. Were there others floating somewhere, just as he was? The Pacific Ocean was a big place and he guessed he would never know.

The first order of business would be to bail out some of the seawater on the bottom, where it now lay some three inches deep. His butt itched from being in the wet water constantly, and his skin was getting all pruney. At first, he just cupped his hands and threw what he could over the side—one scoop after the other. But it was awkward, so he thought if he got up on his knees in the middle of the raft and scooped, it might work better. That was when he saw the zipper.

It was a pocket built into the side of the raft, and he’d been leaning against it with his back all of this time. He thought at the time that it was just a natural bulge in the raft. Carefully, he opened it and looked at the contents that were in two black plastic bags.

The first bag had three tins of water in twelve-ounce cans, and crackers of some sort. Also, a small blue tarp and some yellow manila rope, wrapped in a tight coil about six inches in circumference.

The second bag had a flare gun and three flares, a small first-aid kit with some creams and ointments for burns, and a small bottle of Tincture of Iodine. There was also tape, some gauze and some fishing line and hooks. That was it.

He could use one of the water cans to bail with, but not until he drank the water, which right now he wanted, but knew he had to conserve. For now, he would put up with the water in the raft or go back to what he was doing to get rid of it.

Devon felt in the back pocket of his cutoff jeans, the only clothes he had on. He hadn’t even put on his underwear when he went to peek out the hatch, having been in bed when the storm hit. It had been so hot below deck he had been sleeping naked.

Remarkably, he still had his wallet and a handkerchief. In his front pockets were fifty-seven cents, and the pocketknife he always carried. Also, there were some hard peppermint candies—three in all. He would have one candy right now, for energy, and to get some saliva going. The money would come in handy in case he came across a gift shop, he mused, sarcastically.

Help had to come. They must have gotten a mayday message off, or somewhere there was a beacon, beeping to a satellite that said, Whoops, we had an accident. He felt bad about the other people on board, but hadn’t had time to really make friends with anyone. He had supper last night with a couple from England who made fun of his Boston accent, and they had been so full of themselves he barely got a word in edgewise. Still, they didn’t deserve to die, he thought. The Captain and the crew had stayed to themselves.

He thought of Margie back home and how hard he had pressed her to come along on the trip. It will be like a second honeymoon, he had said. Their first one had been four years ago, but it didn’t seem that long.

No, Dev, she had answered. The school will fire me if I’m gone that long. They both worked in the same building at the college, but he had been there several years longer and had tenure. Margie needed to work one more year to be eligible.

Despite both of them having their own budding careers that differed so much, they had been good for each other. They bought a small Cape Cod cottage on a quiet lake several miles from Boston. They had the better of two worlds, seclusion and privacy at home, and their love for the city they both grew up and worked in.

It had been four years since they tied the knot—one of the social weddings of the year—in uptown Boston, where Margie’s folks had lived. Her father was a doctor and had his own neurological clinic on the city’s south side at that time. Her mother, ever the socialite, made sure her daughter was married off in style. Early in their courtship, her mother had opposed the idea of them getting married. After all, Margie was only twenty-three, and Devon was almost thirty and a very common man.

Despite all of this, however, Margie and Devon remained down-to-earth people and had little time for Boston high society. They seemed to be deeply in love with each other. Margie’s parents had since moved to New York.

The real meaning of the pickle he was in was starting to sink in, and Devon, now over his initial shock of the ordeal he had been through, was starting to show some signs of desperation, but wasn’t entirely without hope. What was it Roosevelt said? he thought. We have nothing to fear but fear itself. But then, Roosevelt wasn’t in the middle of the pacific in a raft all alone, was he, when he thought that little ditty up?

Once again he shielded his eyes from the blazing sun and tried to look hard and long in every direction. Someone would have to come by, he thought. Someone had to know they were out here—no, make that, he was out here—and he just knew rescuers, right now, were getting planes ready for the search and rescue mission. He just had to be patient. One of the things he had to do before long was get out of this sun or he was going to be cooked alive.

Devon looked at the blue tarp once more, and tried to think of a way to use it for shelter. It had metal grommets down the sides—maybe he could weave the rope in and out and around the other rope that was on the raft. It wouldn’t leave much room under it, but it was better than sitting here getting baked.

He was very thirsty and had drunk about half of one can of his meager water supply. Right now, he contemplated drinking the rest, so he could use the can to bail out the rest of the water from the bottom of the raft. It looked like rain again, and the tarp and raft would help catch rainwater—then he could fill the can again.

It had taken him about half an hour to properly fasten the tarp down. It covered about half of the raft, leaving only eighteen inches of space between the tarp and the bottom of the raft, so he had to lie down, but at least he was out of the sun. On one end, he had propped the empty can between the cover and the raft to let some air pass through. The bottom of the can sat in an indentation, almost like a cup holder, so it couldn’t fall out. The rope was tight enough to exert some downward pressure on it. He crawled under it and most of him fit. That is, if he curled up into a fetal position. Soon, between the gentle rolling of the raft and his tired, exhausted mind and body, he fell asleep.

When Devon woke up it was getting dark. He looked at his watch. The