Adventure -- Dragons of the Neverland

By James Hood

The ultra-clandestine Open Water Exploration Company realized it possessed the means to conduct viable space travel in 1973, without spaceships or having to travel into outer space!

They created a machine-generated, macro-electromagnetic door into an
accidently-discovered parallel reality and sent an expedition to see what is on the other side!

A macro-electromagnetic field generated in open ocean allowed Expedition ships to literally float from our reality to a parallel, Alternate World, separated from ours by master macro-electromagnetic frequencies. The ships behaved like TV characters walking from one channel to another!

AdventureDragons of the Neverland picks up the exciting story of the ultra-clandestine Open Water Exploration Companys first Expedition into the Alternate World, as and even just before the first book, AdventureInto The Neverland ends

while preparing and launching Expedition 2
continuing the environment of suspense and adventure, triumphs and
tragedies experienced by readers of Adventure--Volume 1.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524612603

Book preview

Prologue

4 November 1972, Whitehorse House South, Brisbane, Australia

From the memoirs of Frederick Munro IV, Ph.D., Corporate Historian, Open Water Exploration Company

Shock to my poor body caused by Transfer-back from the Alternate World dissipated after four wretched days, praise Divine Providence. Physical and mental experiences of transiting between cosmic television channels, together with one’s ship and comrades is horrific, unforgettable.

Realisation of what we began over there continues its unrelenting, undiminished assault on mind and soul.

Just over six months ago this writer enjoyed a placid life as history professor in sedate Oxfordshire, England. Subsequent experiences make that man all but a stranger to me.

My grande life-adventure began when friend and some-years-ago flat-mate, Christopher Archer, showed up unannounced with a most quizzical request. Christopher queried…might I be interested in a job, …writing history, as it happens.

Oh, really? Christopher announced his partnership in a corporation which, unbelievably but true, made science-fiction theory…into science-reality. Said company discovered a parallel world, …separated from ours by master macro electromagnetic master frequency. Not only had said corporation discovered existence of this parallel reality…they developed a device allowing transit between this and the Alternate World.

Much as a television’s channel changer enables one’s switching between parallel transmissions.

This mysterious company was preparing an ultra-clandestine expedition into the Alternate World, using World War II-built ships. Enticed to write of a world-history-forever-changing magnitude event…not to mention, participate in, I signed on. My…our adventure began.

On 1 August, 1972, the Alternate World Exploration Expedition’s three ships Transferred into the Alternate World.

Which is, thank Heaven, physically much like ours. Excepting its lavender-coloured sky, dark purple water…

…and two moons…

…and being spatially upside-down and perceptibly rotating backwards relative to our world.

Neither radio nor radar function over there due to natural interference in the Alternate World’s atmosphere. The macro electromagnetic Transfer field burns solid state electronics into slag. We explorers were limited to line-of-sight communication.

Shortly after recovery from post-Transfer shock allowed beginning exploration, a local almost-hurricane punished us, lasting nigh on a week. When its furies abated, one vessel, Endeavour, was nowhere to be found.

Had the ex-US Navy LST-Landing Ship Tank, our cargo ship, sunk in the storm, or was Endeavour with sixty comrades somewhere, out there? Stranded in the Alternate World?

Damage repair allowed exploration’s resumption and incoming flow of wonders. Alternate World plants produce blue-coloured chlorophyll. Independently-evolved animals and vegetables encountered are remarkably similar to ones back home.

Mere weeks thereafter, Surveyor, (former US Navy WW II-built destroyer) was grounded, holed and abandoned.

Days later we came upon evidence of pre-dark ages human inhabitants in the Alternate World. People with a bluish hue to their skin. All were a year dead, apparent victims of ghoulish inter-tribal warfare.

A mutiny led by Conrad Baxter-Pierce, executive officer of Surveyor, resulted in forty-odd of us being abandoned on a desolate beach. Pierce and his cronies returned to Venture, presenting a concoction of lies; the tragedy of Capt. Archer and many others dying in a quickmud swamp.

We maroon-ees trekked to, then managed to refloat Surveyor and made our way to the Transfer-back rendezvous.

Of 360 people who Transferred into the Alternate World, forty returned to ours.

From his sickbed, all but mortally injured from wounds and exhaustion, Expedition Commander, Capt. Archer obsessed, murmured, growling even in semi-consciousness and sleep, to anyone within earshot. "Get me a ship, rot you, any ship! A battleship, a tramp steamer, a garbage scow! I must go back for our people…!"

Rodney Stephens, the Open Water Exploration Company’s Business Manager, sighed, patting Christopher’s shoulder. Dang! Y’all the stubbornest cuss I ever seen for a non-Texan. Jus’ recuperate, son; ah’m hearin’ y’all loud an’ clear. Y’all get yoreself strong, an’ y’all will get a ship. Son, you can hang your hat on that."

In his semi-comatose state, Capt. Archer smiled. What now?

~~~~~~~~~~

1

LUNATIC ASYLUM ON THE ROCKS…

…UNDER TWO MOONS

11 October 1972, OWECS Endeavour, The Alternate World

From the memoirs of Pvt. Albert St. Valentine, OWEC Marines

Two moons gently lit a still-unbelievable deep lavender twilit sky. A dragon growled, audible a half mile distant. As always at this stimulus, my skin crawls.

With river air taste-smell and clammy warmth, the dragon’s unearthly voice keeps my senses quite alert. Ten weeks in the surreal, still shocking Alternate World hasn’t diminished their nightly impact.

As lunatic asylums go, this one’s too insignificant to make the map…too hopelessly isolated. Three hundred twenty-eight feet long, fifty wide, thirty-something high.

ISOLATED. No radio, no television, telephones, newspapers, or magazines. No neighbors. Nothing outside but water and air.

Electricity’s on only a couple of hours per day; even that ends soon. Every book, magazine, cereal box, got saturated in that evil, vicious storm, over a month ago. We dried some books, rescuing them from mildew and disintegration.

Our pittance of food comes from cans and random fish caught from the river. Pittance, for sure. To conserve diesel fuel, there’s little cooking. Coffee for one cup each is brewed once per week.

‘Same storm flooded the music locker. Wood instruments came unglued. Brass corroded. Steel rusted. Record album jackets disintegrated.

No staff in this asylum; not even guards. The Alcatraz of nuthouses. Escape-proof, surrounded by a running river…a half-mile plus to either shore. If one of the thirty of us chooses escape and survives the river…

…this asylum’s off-site guards, who keep us too frightened to try escaping…will eat those who do.

Oh, and this asylum we dwell in wasn’t designed as such. We residents…or inmates did not even become crazy until at most about six months ago.

Did I mention our insane asylum is made of steel? And much of it is a warehouse? In the warehouse are bizarre things like a bulldozer and two disassembled airplanes and tank with a cannon. Why? Because this asylum is really a grounded ship. A twenty-eight year-old, World War II-built former US Navy Landing Ship Tank. Simply, an LST is a powered, ocean-going barge meant to beach itself, allowing vehicles to drive directly ashore through big doors in the bow.

One may speculate a mess of this sort would bring people together. Uh-uh. Everybody’s shrunk into him or herself, solo acts in private worlds of neuroses in this steel box. We really are crazy. How did our pathetic situation come about? It happened kind of like this….

"Once upon a time, seeking to escape life’s humdrum, a young man and his twin sister accepted their cousin’s offer of travel and adventure."

‘Shoulda minded our own flippin’ business. The reality of travel and adventure was transit to a parallel reality, a world of purple seas, lavender skies with…two moons. My private television metaphor places us One Step Beyond The Outer Limits of the Twilight Zone.

Tonight, cloud and seeming eternal drizzle obscure the smaller lunar body. Creaking in light breeze, the ship continues dying…

…stranded on an island…a sandbar, not much larger than the hull. A mental blackboard diagramming physics of the ship’s placement returned me to reality…as did realizing I just recited my planned journal entry aloud. Talking to myself.

‘Mind slipped again, fantasy of the bike trail, sandwich and cans of pop in my saddlebag, maybe the latest Scientific American. No Bert. ‘Can’t have it. You’re trapped here. No Mom, Dad, dog, bicycle, path, books, magazines, bread, peanut butter or jelly. No chocolate or beer or blueberries or cheeseburgers.

Ever. Sobbing again…muffled so the other sentries can’t hear me. I am…everyone is…going…insane…trapped in this steel lunatic asylum beneath two lunas…

…waiting for the cavalry to ride over the hill to our rescue. Looking around again, ever a dutiful sentry, I pondered…we are SO screwed, so marooned. SO marooned.

Much more marooned than any dictionary definition…by a dozen decimal points. By comparison, Robinson Crusoe’s desert island was a suburb of London.

What happens when we run out of toilet paper? Saved from the storm by its plastic wrap…soon to be depleted. Noise on shore? Lift binoculars….

In two-moons-light, it erupted from the water with insane speed, ambushing five hapless mammals munching river grass.

It was a crocodile ‘long as a city bus. The mammals, the size of small bison, bore some rodent-like features. Thank Heaven…the grisly scene is a half-mile of water and air distant. In nature only the quickest survive. The monster’s five-foot jaws nabbed the slowest mammal.

Back home in our world, Phoberomys pattersoni, the largest rodent which ever lived is thousands of years extinct. In this world, upon Phoberomys or something similar, the mega-crocs pursue that same goal.

A being-eaten-alive animal scream, the rodent’s horror echoed over the river, mega-croc doing what crocodilia have for a hundred-fifty million years. Eating the still-warm flesh of its victim. Having witnessed this scene before ain’t sufficient hardening…I all but puked in the binocular case.

Revulsion whelming my mind, muscles clutched the rifle, all but useless against a dragon. Across the water, a hundred ice cream cone-size teeth savaged the carcass. A second mega—croc emerged from the river, rumbling growl claiming the night. Guts clenched. Croc Two joined One for midnight mega-rodent tartare’.

Anatomically, proportionally, they’re crocodiles…only bigger. Their tail extremities sport four, two foot-plus long spikes. Think Stegosaurus…further enhancing the mega-crocs’ pre-dinosaur ancestry. In daylight the reptiles’ scaly hides half-shine deep grey-red, enhancing their dragon-ly-ness.

Responding to a stray evening gust, the ship moaned, settling another few microns onto the sand. A ship oxidizing to a mound of rust…and atop that mound of rust our bones will bleach. No…our corpses will rot because the drizzle never seems to end. Or the wretched humidity. Mildew and rust smells. Even a breeze doesn’t cleanse my nostrils.

Through my binocs, two sated monsters lounged atop their prey’s offal. Gorged, torpid. Never mind folks, it’s okay. Crocodiles being true to their kind…reptilian genre pre-dating dinosaurs. Can’t get used to them. Choke back a sob…why bother? My face already hurt from crying.

Seventy-five days ago we transited through a macro electromagnetic gate…mental fireworks courtesy of Dante’s Pit…into the Alternate World, three ships and three hundred sixty people. Sixty were aboard this ship.

We amateur explorers transited into the Neverland separated from our world as are two television stations; occupying the same space, at the same time…on different macro-electromagnetic frequencies.

After two wretched days recovering from post-Transfer macro-migraines we began haphazard exploration of the Alternate World. No denying the surreal experience, weird and real as if we travelled to another planet by spaceship. Rather than rusty old ship.

There we were, exploring a world with purple sea, lavender sky, bright blue foliage…two moons. Very cool. Exciting beyond words.

Forty days into the mission, our ship separated from the others in a hellacious week-long storm, an other-worldly hurricane. Psychopathic seas tried ripping Endeavour apart. Captain Shahinian made a guess where the weather pattern of this world’s safe corner would be. Getting clear of the storm’s worst fury represented our only chance of survival.

Everyone was seasick, food could not be prepared, the second in command was swept overboard. ‘Buncha people broke bones. Endeavour leaked everywhere and everything was ruined or water-damaged.

Capt. Shahinian found the storm’s safe corner; the seas calmed, we thought, whew, it’s over. Wrong. A sudden tidal bore carried the ship, far into an ever-narrowing inlet. Endeavour became a 4,000-ton surfboard riding a wave for a many, many terrifying miles.

Our journey ended when the bore ran out of juice and the ship grounded on a sandbar way up the mouth of a huge river.

Nineteen days from now the Expedition’s three ships are supposed to rendezvous at the macro electromagnetic gate…. Where? How many hundred miles away?

To Transfer back…to go home.

Grounded…Endeavour will miss Transfer-back. Another tortured metal moan. Get it over with already, came out as a choking plea. Spare us your eternal groaning. It’s too unpleasant a reminder of reality. As if there was any way of forgetting even for a few seconds….

Muggy air delivered sound more hideous than a dying ship. Across the enormous river, in endless forest, brilliant blue foliage not discernible in the dark, another wretched creature bellowed its death cry. Some poor BIG creature. Unwritten obit; Eaten by dragons. A shiver flashed through me despite 85° Fahrenheit temp.

Bow watch, duty station forward, ship’s most remote post. Two hours, twenty-two minutes until relief. Stand in the dark in drizzle with a useless rifle. ‘Be like shooting a B-B gun at a T-Rex if one of those monsters climbs the ship’s sides. Oh well, at least the forward gun tub serves as a huge umbrella.

Despite being stranded and marooned, Capt. Shahinian insisted on maintaining strict ship’s routine. Actually he ordered the acting commanding officer to maintain protocol…when he left to seek rescue or a place to live…a month ago. He and thirty others haven’t returned. Yet. Will they ever?

Duty demands my maintaining watch on a grounded ship in the Alternate World in endless drizzle. Paramilitary Open Water Exploration Company protocol must be upheld you know. No more breeze, only river sounds. And smells. Water, forest, fish, vegetation…and dragon excrement.

A despairing sigh benefited only me. SO alone. Except for local fauna. Particularly the carnivorous variety. Enormous carnivorous wildlife.

Half the crew remained aboard. Another tear ran down my cheek, then another. Stranded here, never ever to return home, frustrated to insanity.

Right after we grounded, the captain attempted to kedge the ship off the sandbar. LSTs traditionally use a huge stern anchor and winch to unbeach. He applied procedure.

From my point of view the captain acted in error, fighting the greater physics equation of a grounded ship’s mass and moving water’s direction and winch’s power…but he was not interested in the opinion of a marine private and assistant cook.

So what if I have a university degree in physics and my sister one in math? We were supposed to have science jobs.

Right. The captain’s efforts resulted in loss of the stern anchor, snapping the cable and wrecking the winch. Traumatic event. Trying again, he burned up the bow winch and lost one of the forward anchors.

As self-inflicted Penance, Capt. Shahinian took a group in boats to look for either the Expedition’s other ships or a place to live ashore. My sister and I and several others thought the idea stupid. However the officers made it clear; not caring what the lowest ranks aboard with no previous experience with ships…thought.

Even if Berta and I (if SAT and ACT scores and university GPA mean anything) in all likelihood possess the highest intellects aboard this no-longer-floating asylum. Several remaining crew are wandering dangerously close to the city limits of Stark Raving Bonkers from our hopeless situation. Morale sucks pus from a rotting skunk’s bag…and is declining.

Craziness from being marooned caused even shipboard friendships to crumble. For almost a month now my once-pal, Vartan hasn’t spoken with me. Neither has Rhiannon, who I used to think was kind of becoming my girlfriend.

Both stopped befriending me about the time the search party left. Even got snippy. What’d I do? They stopped talking with Berta, too. Rhiannon and Berta used to be buds.

What happens when the food runs out? The diesel oil? Toothpaste? Toilet paper? My ration today is a frigging can of frigging beets, cold. I hate and have always hated beets.

Can we live aboard forever on raw fish and kelp from the river? Who wants to? If I was back in the real world, tonight I’d be at the Joni Mitchell concert.

This time the sobs were too big to choke back.

~~~~~~~~~

2

THE MOONS OF JUPITER

12 October 1972, OWECS Endeavour, The Alternate World

From the memoirs of Pvt. Bert St. Valentine, OWEC Marines

The night after Capt. Shahinian’s search party left with our boats, I got drunk. Half a pint of gin cost an irreplaceable pair of dungarees in trade but it was either get tanked or my frigging head explode.

When the booze took mind-control, I ranted; screaming at the top of my lungs, it didn’t take effing rocket science to know our only chance for survival was get the effing ship off the effing sandbar and make effing Transfer-back rendezvous.

Acting-Captain Ensign Itohei threw me in the brig…in irons, in solitary, bread and water for a week.

Interesting…kinda mystical in a sick way. Not allowed to speak or be spoken to or have visitors. ‘Gave me time to think…and read a rescued, severely damaged book on navigation.

One passage haunted. In 1714, the King of England offered a £20,000 prize…many lifetimes’ wages for anyone to develop a reliable way of navigating open ocean.

Winner John Harrison presented his marine chronometer, a super-accurate clock. Runner up used a telescope through which the moons of the planet Jupiter could be seen. By measuring the distance between them and the giant planet, then indulging in a flurry of complex mathematics, one could determine longitude.

Calculating latitude’s simple as long as either the Pole Star or Southern Cross is visible.

Longitude’s the bugger; Endeavour’s chronometers were either lost or destroyed in the storm. During my week in solitary, I re-invented what I believe is the mathematical process used by the nameless runner-up based on movement of the moons of the planet Jupiter.

The night my imprisonment ended, I used the ship’s 8-inch reflector telescope to observe this world’s(?) Jupiter, with sister Berta taking notes and verifying my sightings.

To my infinite delight, though the formulas required tweaking, as far as I could tell, they worked! To my joy, Berta agreed. So freaking what, it turned out. Nobody cared what our position was; we were aground on a freaking sandbar!

I cared; in off hours, I sat with a wrinkled World Atlas, gluing together a 12-inch globe which had fallen apart from storm water-soaking. In my solitude I taught myself to understand not only marine navigation, but also our place, the ship’s position, in the Alternate World.

But nobody would approach or talk with me.

Ensign Itohei took obvious, unspoken delight in my having become a pariah. Farking sociopath…and that S O B is Acting-Captain Itohei.

Only my sister speaks with me…and she’s sullen too. ‘Must be familial, because Vartan and Rhiannon don’t hang with Berta either. We four used to be pals. Used to be….

‘Also used to be two people at each night guard post, but Itohei did not like our playing games to stay awake. Games like, What do you miss most about The World?

Nightly, we’d answer; mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, grandparents, dogs, cats, homes, hot water, family gatherings, Mass, church, your own bedroom, synagogues, friends, ice cream, cars, telephones, makeup, clean clothes, a real bed, uncles, aunts, cousins, sidewalks, restaurants, fresh fruit, taverns, radio, electricity, flowers, pizza, kids playing, football, movie theatres, jazz, college, mail, bicycles, milk, butterflies, newspapers, tennis, picnics, art store, mountains, plastic models, sidewalk sales, noisy neighbors, hobby shops, coffee houses, gardening, shopping malls, people on the street, libraries, hiking, store catalogues, ice skating, fast food, concerts, bookstores, baseball, beauty shops, the bus, barbecues, magazines, surfing, garage sales, basketball, drive-in movies, barns, sidewalks, museums, corner delis, driving the car, the city, record stores, the country, Sunday dinner, television…even jobs.

Traffic lights, carnivals, trains, lawns, ice cream parlors, carpeting, lava lights, blue-haired ladies, fences, waterbeds, coffee-klatsching, porch lights, taxis, roller skating, hockey, your own bedroom, junk mail, incense, screen doors, pop machines, escalators, parades, bridges, post offices, jaywalking, church bells, snow, nail polish, the zoo.

No games though, since I’m alone. If we were in charge of this ship, I said aloud to my sister’s and my Guardian Angels, hoping they were listening, we would get the ship off this stinking sandbar, afloat…and to the Transfer-back rendezvous. For that matter, Itohei does not like anything which provides anyone pleasure. Sociopath.

The ship quivered. Long way from Illinois for both of us, eh, old girl? I asked the Open Water Exploration Company’s Ship, Endeavour, one of many LSTs constructed in The Prairie Shipyard, town of Seneca, along the Illinois River.

My family lives near Chicago, a hundred miles northeast of the no-longer shipyard. This LST served the US Navy in World War II and then the Philippine Navy. Six months ago, the rusty old ship became the Open Water Exploration Company’s property…a steady retrograde status in my sardonic pondering.

Y’ know, Old Ship, we can’t both of us die, not this far from home. Another tear down a cheek. You’re 28; I’m 26, we’re too young to die.

Faintly wafting from the aft superstructure, Rhiannon sang a Celtic ballad.

A falling star, a meteor flashed in the sky, falling to Earth. Falling to Alternate Earth.

~~~~~~~~~~

3

BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR

13 October 1972, OWECS Endeavour, The Alternate World

From the memoirs of Pvt. Bert St. Valentine, OWEC Marines

Four double tones from the ship’s bell. Eight bells, midnight. Another day. At least one other person’s awake. Columbus Day…nineteen days until supposed Transfer back.

And we’re grounded, how many hundreds of miles from the rendezvous? Sobs came…from frustration, grief, loneliness.

Sometimes at night, during the two hours the ship’s diesel generator produces electricity, someone played records on a phonograph.

Rhiannon stopped singing. Every note must make her realize how far she is from Scotland. I fantasise Rhiannon sings for me…but no reason to. Right about now, romance is the furthest thing from anybody’s mind. ‘Cept maybe mine. At Melita Island, OWEC headquarters in the South Pacific, teeming with folks from literally all over the world, a Scottish girl, especially with Chinese features, struck my eyes as really exotic stuff.

If she wasn’t my sister’s friend, ‘betcha she wouldn’t even know my name. Rhiannon used to be Berta’s pal; they have not spoken in weeks. Pausing a minute to listen carefully and look around, being dutiful sentry. Nothing happening, ‘returned to my mental wanderings.

Hard to believe…ten weeks ago, we were safely in our home world. This expedition sounded romantic, bouku-exciting. Signing on with a mysterious company promised adventure and possibility of fortune. We flew to a South Pacific island, the stuff of dreams, then trained aboard a ship to become part of a super-clandestine exploration project. Wowsers.

‘Did not hear even a morsel ‘bout the Expedition’s actual nature until the day before we were to leave.

Leave, meaning Transfer through a machine-created macro electromagnetic gate…into a parallel, Alternate World.

Science fiction not only came true, but got smushed in our faces. What did Fate serve? Big time science fiction come true. "Ladies and gentlemen, preee-senting, the incredible, the stupendous, the unbelievable, Alternate World! Step right up and see purple seas, lavender skies, blue plants, every transistor fried by Transfer, no radio, no radar…a week of terrifying storm…

…stark, empty horror of being stranded here forever. Aboard a grounded ship, isolated, alone. Alone.

‘Might not be so bad if we were on a tropical island or anywhere nice. Someplace to farm and live, even if we had to stay here. Someplace without forty-foot crocodiles. Except for other sentries, I’m likely the only one awake.

No. I am not. My heart rate instantly doubled.

Feeling through my boots, footsteps reverberated faintly through steel deck. Someone coming. Syncopated footsteps; multiple someones. Straighten up to proper sentry stance, wipe the tears.

Moonlight silhouetted four people walking the 200-plus feet from the superstructure toward the bow. What the…?

Ens. Itohei, the Engineer and acting-captain, stopped three feet away, unflatteringly lit by double-moonlight. Snap to attention in the presence of an officer as required by the Manual Of Arms.

Especially this officer. As acting-captain of a grounded ship, Ens. Itohei is a bastard-tyrant. Three people accompanied Itohei, ex-pal Vartan Minassian, ex-not-girlfriend Rhiannon Uist…and my sister Berta. Obediently heeling at Rhiannon’s left, Lothar the pig, brought along to observe animals surviving Transfer to the Alternate World.

Lothar did okay physically but maintained a touchy disposition in a 350-pound piggy way. He assigned himself as Doc Uist’s watchdog. Watch-pig? ‘Makes y’ wonder what piggy Transfer-nightmares are like? Somehow a cosmic balance; Doc, is a veterinary school dropout. At any rate, Lothar guards Rhiannon, her porcine sumo Doberman.

Rhiannon hails from an island in west Scotland. Her pop soldiered in the East, married a Chinese girl. Their union’s product is Eurasian, unique, thoroughly Scottish, mysterious. Her unofficial nickname among the crew is The Witch. I fantasise about Rhiannon and until several weeks ago thought she liked me, before she adopted the attitude of Berta’s and my not even existing.

Vartan of the robust physique, is Purser, keeper of ship’s records. Insanely intelligent and brutally honest…he was my pal until we stopped speaking, or rather, he started ignoring me last month.

Ick. Nervousness projected from Berta; twin-communicating without words. Everyone’s face lacked expression except as usual, Ens. Itohei looks unhappy. Tonight, VERY, VERY unhappy.

But in the middle of the night, Itohei’s appearance with Vartan, Rhiannon and Berta is a huge surprise. These thoughts took a half-second to process.

Itohei glared at me, then Berta; as best he could in dim light. So…ship records tampered with, he snarled in broken English, followed by a grunt. Not Mr. Joviality-san.

You… he glared at me, teeth bared, and you… at Berta. Another grunt. Fear flashed. What is he talking about?

A man approached, armed as a sentry. Itohei grunted, jabbed me with an accusing finger. "You relieved. Come!" We treaded 200 feet of wet steel plate aft to the boxy superstructure. Vartan opened the door, held it for Itohei, motioned me to follow.

A flashlight flicked on in the passageway, hurting my eyes. Rhiannon and Berta entered a few steps behind.

Stopping at the Purser’s compartment, Itohei unlocked the door and entered. Vartan held it, motioning me to go. Five chairs ringed a table. Three closed books lay atop. Ship’s records? We waited while Itohei sat, then did likewise. Vartan lit an oil lamp.

Itohei’s coarse, middle-aged features are nastier in dim. Am I about to be accused of tampering with ship’s records? Why has no one taken my rifle?

So, he snarled, opening a ledger to a pre-marked page. Itohei fixed his gaze on Berta and me, grunting. Huuh. What you told when you sign on ship?

My sister answered, using the exact words I would have.

Acting-Captain Sir, duty station and rank would be assigned after my qualifications were evaluated, Acting-Captain Sir.

Itohei grunted, evil-eyeing me, You?

Acting-Captain Sir, the same thing, Acting-Captain Sir.

Itohei urnk-ed. Hmmm, you feel you assigned proper station and rank? Growl-speak.

Berta answered, Acting-Captain Sir, being assigned as a marine private and cook’s assistant surprised us, Acting-Captain Sir.

Itohei uttered another guttural Hmmm, fingers tapping the ledger. Hmmm, you think you deserve better?

‘Sounded accusing. Again Berta spoke, "Acting-Captain Sir, our cousin who recruited us said the Expedition needed people with scientific background. My brother has a degree in physics and mine is in mathematics. When our assignments came as marine private and cook’s mate, yes, Acting-Captain, Sir, we were surprised to be assigned duty which was not scientific, Acting-Captain Sir.

We joined at the very last, though and figured our positions had been filled and took what we were given. We never had opportunity to question our cousin, Acting-Captain Sir.

One can never show enough respect to Ensign Itohei and I have no desire of another week in shackles for insolence. Itohei grunted, fingering all three ledgers. Ship’s and company records. You not question Captain Shahinian?

Sir no Sir Acting-Captain, Sir. Captain Shahinian was always busy and we performed our assigned duties, Acting-Captain Sir, Berta said. I nodded, wondering about adding platitudes to Itohei for head movements.

Itohei squinted long at us, accusing in his frown. Hmmm. You have enemies?

I blurted, Sir Acting-Captain Sir, not to my knowledge, Acting-Captain Sir. Just former friends who no longer speak to us and are in this compartment….

Hmmm. Growl. You have secret enemies. Your duty and rank changed in ship records. Itohei grunted, jabbing the ledger, NOT a happy man.

Through thick glasses Itohei examined the books, turned them around, slid all three open volumes across the table to Berta and me. You rated ship officers, he growled. Someone change records…before you report to duty.

Shock! What? I wanted to check with Berta but fought it. Itohei sneered at me, You… are Ensign officer rank and science duty." My mind flashed to Star Trek’s Mr. Spock, the half-alien Science Officer of the TV series starship.

Hmmm, Itohei grumbled at Berta. You rate Lieutenant Junior Grade. Before I could process the revelation Itohei all but spat the words, glaring at my twin.

By ship records, in absence Captain Shahinian, you senior officer, Lieutenant Junior Grade. Sir, he said, all but choking on the word, apparently not sure how to address a female senior officer. Vartan and Rhiannon maintained statue-face. Berta twin-signalled relief. My psyche took a high-voltage jolt.

Whatever happened, however the changes were discovered, apparently, Vartan and Rhiannon were in on their verification. ‘Must burn Itohei’s pride…and arse, turning command over to Berta. He will not let it show.

Hmmm, grunted Itohei, bringing me back to the present. This guy called in sick the day emotions were passed out. Itohei nodded miniscually to Berta. I await orders, Acting-Captain…Sir.

‘Bet he’d rather have his fingernails pulled off with pliers than voice that sentence. Itohei neither stood nor bowed. Sociopathic, egocentric, rude…but seemingly honest. Interesting mix. When Itohei was made aware of Berta’s and my actual ranks, he did not hide from reality. His interpretation of honor?

I only want to hear Berta issue one order, LET’S GET THIS EFFING SHIP OFF THIS EFFING SANDBAR AND GET TO THE EFFING RENDEZVOUS FOR EFFING TRANSFER-BACK!

Rhiannon read my mind or had the same thought because her almond-ish eyes widened and mouth moved. Permission to speak, Acting-Captain Ma’am?

Yes, Doc? Berta said, using her honorary title.

Rhiannon considered her words before speaking. Normally, no one speaks in Itohei’s company unless he orders them. Acting-Captain Ma’am, this ship has been stuck on the sandbar since the tenth of September. ‘Been more than a month since Capt. Shahinian left to seek rescue, Acting-Captain, Ma’am.

Vartan chimed in without asking permission. Yeah, and they took our freaking boats, he snorted in unveiled disgust, Acting-captain Ma’am. My mind drifted across six weeks, wrecking the winch and losing anchors trying to kedge the ship off the sandbar….

Berta closed the books, locking eyes with each of us, Triple-long for Itohei. First of all, cut the ‘Acting-Captain Ma’am’ crap. My ego does not need masturbating every five seconds.

Precious expression on Itohei’s face. Proper address for a junior officer is ‘Miss,’ but go light, okay? Itohei fought shock equal to a dragon bursting from a toilet.

Schedule is to Transfer back in nineteen days. But being hard aground…and our captain not here…we must do something on our own.

"You are captain, now," said Vartan.

"Yes, you are," reinforced Rhiannon.

Itohei jumped up, perplexed, shocked, but did not speak. Berta glared at him like she did me when we were little and I broke her crayons. Itohei slunk in his chair, whipped. A moment’s pondering on the Expedition’s ships; we haven’t seen the carrier or frigate in a month-plus.

Berta, you got the brains in our family. Show your stuff. Let’s do it.

Brother dear, you mean get refloat the ship and see if we can find the Transfer-back rendezvous? Berta touched her glasses, peering over the frames. Be at Transfer-back rendezvous in seventeen days?

Itohei bolted to his feet, We ordered wait captain return! He did not say, ma’am or sir.

Berta’s expression changed enough for only me to read. Payback time? Ensign, You address me as ‘Ma’am,’ or ‘Miss St. Valentine,’ but not both, and only one time per address.

Hai…Miss…St. Valentine. Jerk. He did not add san, the honorarium denoting respect. Does it apply to women?

Berta spoke, "Ensign, if Captain Shahinian returns to find his orders disobeyed and this ship afloat, if he is unhappy, I will take the blame. For now, I see the landing party missing in a hostile environment. My duty is to the Company, the ship and remaining crew."

Hai, he sounded grudging.

Still playing games, eh? Don’t mess with my sister, she’ll chew you up like a mega-croc. Berta caught it. Ensign, the proper response is, ‘Aye aye Ma’am’.

Aye aye…Ma’am, Itohei replied, fighting a snort.

Berta did decision-making face. Oh-six hundred, everyone gather in the crew’s mess. See to it, Mr. Itohei.

Visions of Jupiter’s moons and physics vectors danced in my head as Berta spoke. We need their buy-in.

~~~~~~~~~

No sleep. Preparing for the morning gathering, Berta and I traded our dungarees and fatigues for khakis and insignia scrounged by Rhiannon and Vartan. Trousers too big, too long, no time to hem; they’re pinned.

The C Squad gathered in Endeavour’s stark crew mess space. We are, among Expedition people, even among the ship’s crew, the not-popular kids. The Goons, I muttered, thinking back to childhood.

Goons? Rhiannon queried in that Scottish accent. It kinda sounded like guuhnz. I love her accent.

Sorry, ‘thinking out loud, Doc.

Berta leaned, whispering in Rhiannon’s ear. Doc Uist smiled. Aye, we are the goons of the C Squad. Separated, lost, o’groond.

Did that last phrase have a hint of emotion? I answered, At least we lived up to our reputation. Getting lost, grounding the ship, ‘captain’s party not returning.

Doc Uist lit a cigarette, weird for an almost-veterinarian. Sharing with Berta, they smoked in silence.

That’s everybody, Cap’n, said Vartan. I glanced to Itohei, red-faced enough to pop an artery with anger. Good. Twenty-seven faces watched us.

Remembering the prayer to our guardian angels and meteor…the sign? Be careful what you wish for, says the old St. Valentine family proverb, also claimed by the Chinese…or is it a curse?

Be careful of what you wish for, because your wish may be granted.

~~~~~~~~~~

4

SHE WORE A YELLOW RIBBON

7 November 1972, Whitehorse House South, Brisbane, Australia

From the memoirs of Dr. Frederick Munro IV, Historian, Open Water Exploration Company

Face glowing scarlet as her designer dress…not only because of the tropical clime, Marchioness Uffington, Anne Tradescant’s…the lady’s visage radiated hate. Exuding seething hate as a blast furnace radiates hot.

Under other circumstances Lady Anne would present herself as a proper, attractive woman of about forty. Seated upon a brocade divan, a British peer on the opposite side of the world from her native Britain tossed back another short gin.

Wild-eyed, Anne’s countenance projected neither marquis’ widow nor mother of a corporation clandestinely changing the course of world history.

We others exchanged surreptitious raised brows and brief glances as Anne loosed her Furies. Ten million in gold for the filthy, murderous pirate Conrad Baxter-Pierce, alive, or the scum’s head in a sack, she droned boozily. But first, the pernicious miscreant must suffer, snarled our gentle CEO, treating us to a seething rant about staking to anthills, flayed alive, roasted over a slow fire, cheery means intended for her estranged husband’s demise.

Ex-husband actually, as Anne secured an annulment the moment she accepted reality of the mutiny over there in the Alternate World. She sneered, vampire-like, downing another gin, …And a small sack, containing his wretched….

Those others listening to Anne’s rant did not look their parts, either. I fought smiling while the thought processed. Sharing company of people who have already, and will continue changing history…we do not look the part.

Rather ordinary, all of us. Perhaps sad. Cannot help but wonder…how many times did Hollywood style heroines and heroes actually enact history?

Rodney Stephens, OWEC’s business manager, shook his head at Anne’s fiery tantrum. Chain-lighting another cigarette, the burly Texan flicked a dust particle from his expensive US-Western styled suit.

Nope, Anne. Ain’t right. ‘Waste a’ time. Lookin’ fer a fly turd in a coalmine. Fer’git it, Anne. All’s important is fetchin’ a big ol’ passle o’ free gold from over in that macro ‘lectromagnetic yonder. Stephens stretched his legs, brushed an imaginary dust speck from a python skin cowboy boot, grunted. "Anne, we got us th’ biggest gol’durned business opportunity in history with this Alternate World. Ain’t no sense tryin’ t’ settle scores. Feudin’s a dang waste.

"‘Nuff gold over yonder on th’ other side fer th’ Open Water Exploration Company t’ buy any country we want. Shoot, with that there motherlode of motherlodes, this company could turn th’ whole world gold standard on its ear, heh, heh…whenever we all want, heh, heh. ’Sides, if’n Archer here happens t’ find Pierce, Y’all kin bet yore’ champeen’ cuttin’ horse he’ll lop th’ head off that viper."

How had the referenced Capt. Christopher Archer accepted Stephens’ compliment? In the kilt, jacket and tie as I, my British-American fiend’s visage did not change. A subject sufficient to freeze brave men rigid did not warrant my friend’s raising a brow.

Dr. Morton Ambrose sat stiff, arms locked, face set in severity uncharacteristic of the placid scientist. Looking the family pharmacist…actually the Alternate World’s discoverer, was clearly agitated. In rumpled three-piece suit rather than omnipresent laboratory coat, Ambrose’s voice lacked its usual controlled demeanour. "My Lady, Mr. Stephens, you fail to grasp the vast importance of our greater situation.

"We have a world at our fingertips, an unknown, unexplored world. A world, promising beyond imagination. We must act beyond petty notions of revenge and material gain…focus upon the grand vision of Alternate World-exploration. Ambrose’s eyes sparkled with true-believer’s fervour. "An entire world…awaits us. Wave of a hand, he continued hiss-whispering, All effort must concentrate upon exploration, charting, sampling, documenting, understanding the Alternate World."

Stephens’ lighter snapped shut as he lit another fag, OWEC’s chief operating officer’s face radiating impatience. "Ambrose, ah’m a businessman; ‘ain’t got no interest in dang hand drawn maps or dead fish in Mason jars.

"Shoot, ‘man can’t use no dang maps or dead fish t’ buy a bottle o’ whiskey or pay rent. Or fer that matter, even buy jars for dead fish or paper for maps. Way I see it, we need a whole passle more o’ thet’ there free gold. Anchor this here company on sound financial footing.

Leastwise ‘fore we ‘spect explorers t’ go gallivanting ‘round puttin’ tom-fool dead lizards in jars. We’re gonna make that goldfield our capitol, sly smile, emphasised by hammered fist on a chair arm. Yep, streets paved with gold ain’t gonna be a figure o’ speech.

Lady Anne seized the pause to launch another tirade, a trifle more lucid, about pirates loose in the Alternate World with modern weapons which they will certainly turn against the Dark Ages locals, to take over.

Stephens countered with frightening but valid fear of sooner or later the secret of the Alternate World leaking out, others learning how to Transfer into it. Breaking our selfish monopoly on access to a parallel reality.

These powers comprising the Open Water Exploration Company continued bickering. Ultimately Dr. Valerie Chandler, Head of Research on the Expedition, adjusted circular gold wire-framed glasses, lifting her gaze to Archer.

Not quite thirty, pretty tho shy of beautiful, Dr. Chandler accepted the role into which Fate cast her. Feelings beyond a working relationship exist between the archaeologist and Christopher Archer. However, neither show evidence thereof.

Dr. Chandler spoke slow, good-school-precise, Captain Archer, you have not contributed nary a syllable and shall command the ship returning to the Alternate World. The assemblage perked up, seemingly unable to decide whom to watch, sailor-explorer or scientist-explorer.

"Dare I query, Captain? Please voice your thoughts?"

Theatrical pall descended, several gasps fed my waggish delight. Kettledrum roll needed. I revel in the discomfort dominating Anne’s, Stephens’ and Ambrose’s countenances. Hasty speculation of their mutual thoughts; how dare this impudent break into their selfish dissertations?

On my left periphery, hesitation by the woman at the tea trolley. Late twenties, accompanied by daughter in child’s version of Mother’s maid garb, sucking a thumb, other hand clutches mother’s dress. Perhaps three years old…? The servant’s hands trembled as she lifted a coffee urn. Glint of moisture in her eyes?

My mind played a song the OWEC Marines sing while marching, accurate for both mother and daughter.

"…’Round her neck, she wore a yellow ribbon!

She wore it in the springtime

And the merry month of May

And if you ask her

Why the hey she wore it

It’s for my OWEC Jarhead

Who is still far away…!"

Mother and daughter wore yellow ribbons.

A fit but otherwise unspectacular man in his mid-thirties watched the goings-on without contribution, so far. Capt. Christopher Archer, recovering from all but death by the sum of injuries heaped upon his body, exuded quiet power. With a trace of sardonic smile, Captain Archer made deliberate eye contact with each of the others before addressing Valerie.

Why thank you, Dr. Chandler. ‘Appeared no one gave a whit about my thoughts. Enjoyable, that peculiar lilt of Archer’s half-British, half-American accent, result of a bicultural upbringing. "Presumably, my part was remaining the honourable Company’s obedient servant while the lot of you determined…

…upon which pretence to send me back to the Neverland.

Three silent faces stared open-mouthed at the expedition commander as though he was a seer. Frightening how Christopher aged in a year. He darted brief gazes to Anne, Stephens and Ambrose. "Entertain no doubt, I shall go back. Had I a ship beneath my feet, I would return, this instant.

"Three hundred of