Love Island.

By Bertram Ellis

This is the story of the survivors of TPA flight 211, Tokyo to Los Angeles. The jet crashes on the coral reef of a remote Pacific island during a typhoon.Eleven young women and a young man are the only survivors. For 18 months they learn to live on the island. They eat fish, wild fruits and coconuts. They escape from shark attacks, live through fierce storms, get trapped in quicksand. A volcanic eruption warns them of a tsunami and the young women now pregnant struggle to escape to high ground.
When a cabin cruiser is blown to the island by a storm, they think they have been saved.But now they face the greatest threat to their survival. They must fight for their lives. Murderous pirates have landed and are hunting them down

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bertram Ellis
• Release date: Mar 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301332335

Bertram Ellis

Bertram Ellis had a successful career with the de Havilland aircraft company of Canada. He was a pilot until he lost his licence due to deteriorating vision. He has traveled the world, Europe, Africa, the Middle East the far East and South America.Among his adventures he has been blown up, shot at and imprisoned briefly in Saudi Arabia. Lost in the Sudanese desert south of Omdurman,fished the Mighty Zambezi. During all his adventures he has kept his belief in the essential goodness of ordinary people. He is a published author of short stories. A handbook on how to write your memoirs. Since retirement he has presented seminars on how to write your memoirs, at no charge, for many years. He lives in St. Catharines, Ontario, Canada with his artist wife Karen. He has three children and ten hgrandchildren

Book preview

Love Island.

by

Bertram Ellis.

Published by Bertram Ellis at Smashwords.

Copyright 2013 Bertram Ellis

Cover artist ‘Karen’

Discover other titles by Bertram Ellis

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Those men from the Purple Roadhouse.

The GINA Mirage

Love Island.

Chapter 1.

The news flashed around the world on major news networks: Survivors of Trans Pacific Airlines flight 211 have been found 19 months after the aircraft was lost somewhere in the south Pacific in the worst typhoon of the century.

Newspapers headlined the news. Radio newscaster's commented on it. Talk show hosts invited public comment and their switchboards lit up.

The survivors, eight schoolgirls, a female flight attendant and one man, had been rescued by a ship of the U.S. Navy. Curiosity grew to a fever pitch when it was reported that during the time they were missing all the girls had given birth. The male survivor was believed to have been responsible. What had happened on that island? Had the schoolgirls been raped? The question was on every ones lips.

It was rumored that the girls, students of an exclusive college, were the daughters of some of America's wealthiest politically powerful families.

Relatives of passengers who had been on the ill-fated flight besieged T.P.A. offices hoping to learn that their loved ones were among the survivors.

Trans Pacific airlines, on the advice of their legal counsel, reacting to the tremendous media interest, refused to release the survivors' names to the general public and advised close relatives only after they had proved their relationship to the passengers.

Someone leaked the girls' names and the next morning the front pages of paper's across the nation carried school photographs of ten beautiful young girls smiling at the world with innocent expectations.

The girl's plight was hotly debated on talk shows.

He must have raped them, an angry woman shouted on the Opra Winfrey show. No decent girls are going to allow a man to treat them like chickens in a farm yard, another added, Maybe he drugged them, or made them pay for their food with favors, Another woman suggested.

No one knew what had happened, but this didn't stop people from speculating what might have happened.

Young women can be very passionate, one old man said, wistfully, Maybe they overpowered him and made him their love slave.

He was hooted down.

You're dreaming, an overweight woman shouted. I'd never do that.

Thank God, he muttered.

Everyone wanted to know what had happened on that remote island.

TV news announcers told their audiences, in breathless tones, that the survivors had been rescued from pirates by the U.S. Navy ship, Athens. A naval spokesman, speaking via satellite phone, reported that the passengers had survived their ordeal without serious injury. They appeared to have lived like natives, however, they and the babies were healthy.The navy had flown them to Australia.

TV news coverage of the survivors' arrival in Australia was promised live via satellite link and in view of the great public interest would interrupt all regular programs.

Later that day people across the country paused from their routine to watch the TV live news coverage of the girls arriving at Sydney airport. They were wearing grass skirts and looked like Polynesian beauties. Security guards escorted them through crowds of people and media who had come to see them. The video clip of the scantily clad girls entering the arrival's lounge, raised CNN ratings to an all-time high. Facebook featured the clip and was hit thousands of times.

Newspapers, Magazines and TV news featured pictures of THE MAN. A bearded, debonair figure, tanned and robust. Men's toiletry ads were played immediately after the video clip as advertising agencies recognized the value of the surreal connection.

It was hinted that he was over-sexed and had raped the girls. That he had subjected them to a tyrannical rule as he repeatedly abused them.

When a clip showed the girls clinging to him with obvious affection it was suggested that he had used hallucinogenic plants that grew wild in the south-seas to make a love potion.Herbalists were flooded with calls asking did they know what the love potion was . . . and did they stock it?

The news gave greater coverage to the survivors being escorted from the airport to a hotel than to a Presidential address on a proposed tax cut. The announcer told viewers that after the survivors had been given a medical examination they would be flown home to America and were expected to arrive at Los Angeles airport within a few days.

When are they coming home? Who is the man? What happened on that island? The questions were repeated across the nation. It was learned that the man's name was Roger Arkwright. A bank messenger. He had spent so much time away from the bank that the other employees couldn't remember him. The bank issued a brief statement that Mr. Arkwright was a trustworthy employee who had delivered many important documents to various parts of the world before he disappeared.

His parents were interviewed by the media and invited to appear as guests on TV talk shows. Roger's mother a staunch church woman and his father an S & L bank loans' officer were bewildered by the sudden notoriety that overwhelmed their lives.

He was always a good boy, she told reporters.

He was never in trouble and never did anything out of the ordinary, but he studied music, the classics, his father replied in response to the question, What kind of son was he?

So Roger Arkwright remained a man of mystery. Is he a man of extraordinary powers? The question was echoed nightly on television talk shows. How did he manage to seduce eight innocent young girls and a flight attendant?

It was reported that The National Enquirer offered him two million dollars for the exclusive rights to his story.

The airline laid on a special flight and flew the girls' parents to Australia to meet them.

A few days later the moment came that people had been waiting for. The survivors were coming home.

The LA police set up crowd control barriers normally used only for much-publicized VIP visits. Thousands of people tried to get into the airport to see the survivors. Passengers were held up by traffic gridlock and police checkpoints. Flight departures were delayed.

Newspaper, magazine, television and radio reporters hounded airport staff trying to find out where the survivors were expected to arrive. Joshua Newforest, a skycap, made several hundred dollars in tips telling them the flight was expected to come in through lounge 4b. He didn't know which lounge they were coming into, but he recognized an opportunity and grabbed it. When it was time for the flight to arrive he left for home.

The TPA flight landed and taxied in. The passenger list included the survivors, their parents and airline management representatives. In the interests of security their arrival lounge wasn't cordoned off until a few minutes before they arrived.

The passengers entered the lounge, tired after their long flight and there were more tearful greetings as other members of their families greeted them.

Public sentiment was hostile to Roger Arkwright and he was taken to an adjacent lounge with his parents. He had shaved and was wearing a suit, shirt and tie and bore little resemblance to the half-naked, bearded, pony tailed, licentious figure first seen on TV. D.A's office lawyers were waiting to question him before he left the airport to determine if any charges could be filed. He was being questioned when the media people discovered where he was and burst into the lounge. They carried bright lights and cameras. Flash bulbs flickered like fireflies as the press took photographs. Reporters crowded around him shouting questions. He was bewildered, his head swung from side to side as they shouted at him. He pushed them away and climbed onto a chair and held up his hands until the clicking cameras and shouting voices subsided.

I will. . . he said and was immediately drowned out by shouted questions.

Did you have intercourse with all of them?

Did you rape them?

Were they your love slaves?

He folded his arms and stood silent, looking down at them.

Someone shouted, Shut up. Let the man speak.

The men and women in the room reluctantly fell silent, glancing at one another like wolves eager to devour a fresh kill.

Everyone please, sit down, he called.

The reporters grudgingly settled onto chairs, table ends and window ledges.

Son of a bitch thinks he can order us around like his women, someone muttered loudly.

When they were silent, cameras, recorders and notebooks ready, he started to speak, I know you want to know what happened on the island . . .

There was an instant hubbub of noise. Impatient reporters shouted their questions again. The more experienced among them sensed this was a dramatic moment. Hopefully, the young man was a talker and had a real-life, gut-wrenching story to tell. A story that would feed jaded public interest and boost circulations and viewing audiences.

Be quiet you people, they shouted.

Let the man speak.

Listen up.

Everyone’s attention was riveted on him. Reporters' eyes flashing with anticipation. This was what the public wanted. Stories about sex, sex and more sex. Some of those present would become rich and famous by retelling the story they were about to hear.

The young man had a boyish smile and the women reporters, even the older and more cynical among them, felt themselves respond to his magnetism. Cameras captured his engaging expression. The picture would later appear on the covers of many magazines.

Okay, he said, speaking quietly.

Everyone craned forward.

I'm very grateful that we survived and made it home to America. I'll tell you what happened to us. . .

Tape recorders and Television cameras recorded his story. A story of adventure more exciting than any of them had expected.

Talking quietly, yet earnestly Roger told them an epic of survival.

No one interrupted.

Chapter 2.

It was raining as our aircraft taxGGied out to the runway of Tokyo’s International airport.

I was in the rear cabin. Many of the seats were empty. The other passengers seemed to be mainly young women.

A gust of wind rocked the aircraft as we made the final turn off the taxiway onto the runway. The chimes sounded. The attendants, after a final quick check of the passengers, strapped themselves into their seats.

With a muted roar the jet accelerated down the runway, gained speed and lifted off. The bright lights of Tokyo below us disappeared almost instantly as we climbed into cloud.

The loudspeakers clicked on: Good evening folks. This is Captain John Cobb. We are expecting some mild turbulence as we climb to our flight level so I’m going to leave the seat belt sign on. We are anticipating an uneventful flight and hope you’ll be comfortable. I’ll get back to you as we progress and let you know how we’re doing. Thank you for flying Trans Pacific Airlines.

So here I was heading home again. Japan hadn’t been as exciting as I’d expected. The crowds, noise and pollution drove me back to my hotel before I completed the sightseeing I’d planned. I found the difference in language and customs, the flashing neon signs and traffic bewildering. In my job as a bank courier carrying important documents to cities all over the world I’m used to being in a strange environment. But I’ve never felt so alien before. My job sounds exciting, but the bland airline food and the repeated disorientation of jet-lag soon takes the pleasure out of going to exotic places.

I wished I could have a cigarette. I’d been waiting in the no-smoking lounge for over an hour before we boarded. I resigned myself to a night without the comfort of a cigarette.

I thumbed through a flight magazine without reading the articles. The seats beside me were empty which was an unexpected bonus. I was ready for a drink and something to eat. Then I’d write my trip report. After I’d finished my report I’d stretch out and go to sleep.

Captain Cobb again, folks, I’m turning the seat belt sign off now, but I suggest you keep it fastened in case we run into unexpected turbulence.

The cabin seemed to come alive with people released from the restraint of their seat belts. The young women were animated, talking excitedly, laughing together at shared adventures. I watched them. They had the fresh complexions and the self-assured air of people who know their place in the world and know it’s a good one. They were obviously well educated daughters of wealthy families. I guessed they would be the wives of future captains of industry and I admired them. Without exception they were beautiful in the first bloom of womanhood. I wished I could find a girl like one of them to be my wife, but in my relatively humble job, always on the move, there seemed little hope for me.

Would you like a drink, sir? The flight attendant wearing a name badge that announced she was ‘Maria’ interrupted my reverie.

Yes please, Maria, Scotch and ginger.

She poured the drink, holding the plastic glass over the trolley. You’re the only man back here. Does it bother you?

No, I laughed. I think I’m lucky. They’re attractive young women.

Maria smiled, Yes, they are, she said with a smile. They’ve been studying Oriental art in Japan and are now returning home.

What are they like? I asked, making conversation. I wasn’t really interested.

They’re nice, polite. Most first class passengers complain when they find they’re in the aft cabin. They said they didn’t mind as long as they were together.

I suppose you meet all sorts in your job.

Yes. Some people are rude and demanding these days, but I’m not complaining, sir. It’s part of the job. I take it in my stride.

You’re doing a great job as far as I’m concerned, Maria. Cheers, I said, holding up my glass.

Cheers, sir, she smiled and moved on to serve the young women.

The airplane hummed through the night. I enjoy long flights. Everyone is relaxed. I unwind, review my life, read, eat, sleep and think about world affairs. I usually develop a world’s eye view of current events and wonder if other people do the same as we fly far above the trials and troubles of the world.

Maria served dinner, a rib eye steak with the trimmings. French red wine followed by an oriental tasting dessert, coffee and Drambuie. I was warm, relaxed and well fed. The hell with my report, I decided to nap for a couple of hours. I had my notes, I could write it later. I leaned back contentedly and closed my eyes.

I came awake slowly from a warm and comfortable dream. The cabin was shuddering. The main cabin lights were out and in the dimness I could see moisture drawing horizontal lines on the cabin windows.

Fasten your seat belts, folks, we are in for some turbulence. The storm we’ve been watching has moved faster than forecast and we may have to fly through the edge of it. I’ll keep you informed.

Maria came down the aisle and checked we had our seat belts fastened. I smiled at her and cinched mine tighter. I always keep it loosely fastened while I’m asleep.

The airplane shuddered, but flew on bravely. I’ve experienced turbulence before so I wasn’t worried.

Marie went back to her seat and strapped in. She sat with her back to the bulkhead facing me, caught my eye and smiled. I raised my hands in an expression of, ‘nothing we can do,’ leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes. I immediately had the sensation we were in a steep dive and quickly opened them again. We were thrumming along, the occasional shudder shaking the cabin, but I started to feel uneasy. Had the noise level dropped? Were we descending? Suddenly the aircraft shook so violently that magazines and papers flew out of the magazine rack. Lightning flared outside the cabin windows. I looked out at a towering mass of angry clouds. They were huge, like mountains. I was fascinated and stared out at them