Captain Goodheart - Against The Power of R.I.M.: Captain Goodheart, #1

By Aaron H. Oliver

The legendary Captain Adam Goodheart embarks on his greatest adventure yet! When mysterious cargo ships start going missing, Goodheart follows a trail that leads him to a remote island in the Pacific. But what he finds there is far more sinister than he expected - a powerful evil master, Polar, and his diabolical Researchers in Magnetism. With the help of a Marine Biologist, Goodheart must brave the dense jungle and take the fight to the air in a pulse-pounding battle for the fate of the world. If you enjoyed the thrilling action of Indiana Jones or the swashbuckling suspense of Pirates of the Caribbean, you'll love Captain Goodheart's daring quest for justice. Buy now before the price changes!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aaron H. Oliver
• Release date: Feb 19, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393234043

Aaron H. Oliver

I've had characters and stories swirling around in my head for years.  I'm no stranger to writing, having had a 30+ year career in radio, television, and public education creating commercial copy, press releases, and countless scripts for news and talk programs. Regardless of the type of writing I am always researching, exploring, and conceptualizing. I think like many who write, I'm most inspired by other writers. With regard to inspirational writers, I'm all over the map. Screenwriters, tv commercial writers, bloggers, radio dramatists, playwrights, cartoonists, novelists (old & new) in some way serve as inspiration.  As a kid growing up my love of Stan Lee's writing for Marvel Comics, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Daniel Defoe's castaway adventure all stirred me in different directions. It was my discovery of pulp fiction of the 1930s & 40s that really stirred me to some of my biggest writing heroes.  Men and women who (unlike me) could draft an idea on Monday, and finish the novel on Saturday. What's more, most of those penny-a-worders banged out stories that were thrilling reads that entertained until the last line.

Book preview

Chapter 1 - Goodheart Arrives

The halls of the hospital were quiet as the town clock struck eleven. This institution and its staff had seen a full day of work. Now as most respectable citizens were preparing to watch the late news or settle down to sleep, the medical facility still churned along. True it was at a much slower pace, but the sick always need tending. On the ground floor, maintenance crews rattled their buckets and mops. While in the vacant administrative offices, the sound of whining vacuum cleaners resonated. To reduce expenses, the institution had modernized various mechanical components with money-saving features. One such feature was automatic timers, which dimmed lights during low peak periods. During extremely slow periods, it even shut down non-essential systems in sections of the medical center. This created an ominous atmosphere in the hospital’s main floor and lobby. It was this mysterious aura that gave the long-time housekeeper Ida May Davis the heebie-jeebies whenever she cleaned the reception area.

Ida May had dull nondescript tangled hair and she stooped with age. She wore thick lens bifocals that sat low on her nose under knitted eyebrows. For twenty-two years, she had cleaned with devotedness every corner of the hospital, even the morgue. It was funny that after such a long stretch, it was something as simple as the current cost-saving measures that had aroused her latent superstitious fears.

With great haste, Ida May dusted the tables and emptied the waste cans. When she mopped the floors from the main door back around to the elevators, she got a real scare. In the gloom of the alcove a man stood. Ida May flinched giving out a short gasp as she caught sight of the unexpected figure.

I'm sorry sir, she rasped. I expected no more visitors this time of night. You know visiting hours are over?

The fellow smiled with a reply, Didn't mean to scare you. I’m just in from out of town. I have a colleague who is ill and has been asking for me.

The tenor of the man’s voice put Ida May at ease. He was tall and wore a navy-colored outer coat. The poor illumination made it hard to see his facial features, but a flat-topped seaman’s cap with a small visor rested on his head. Ida May’s focus locked on the man’s eyes that radiated for her a sense of familiarity. They were a light aqua color she had seen in the shallow waters on her cruise to the Caribbean. The elevator bell pinged, and light filled the lobby as the doors glided open.

Here is my ride, the gentleman stated.

I hope the patient gets better soon, answered Ida May.

Thank you.

After the unforgettable figure had entered the lift, and the luminescence faded Ida May was alone once more. Only now, as she mopped, she felt no fear. Instead, knowing this person was in the building gave her new inner strength. For her it was a strange state of physical ease that tonight, she or anyone had a friend nearby should trouble arise.

On the sixth floor, elevator doors parted, as that same individual stepped out, advancing to the nurse’s station. In the brighter light, the man’s appearance was better defined. He stood a full six-one, with broad shoulders, that seemed even thicker under the pads of his navy pea-coat. His face was tan and weathered from years on the open seas. Yet boyish good looks remained, which attracted the nurse on duty.

Yes, may I help you? The young caregiver asked.

The visitor removed his cap to unleash a stock of tight curly black hair.

My name is Goodheart. Arch Powell has been calling for me.

Is that the patient they rescued on the raft this morning? 

Goodheart gave a positive move of his head.

He is in the Intensive Care Unit, she said, stepping from behind her station to point down the hall. It’s on the left. The door with the flag.

Thank you, Goodheart answered. He replaced his cap moving in the direction shown.

He found Arch Powell a crumpled mass under a thin sheet of white. His skin was peeling, and raw red spots blistered from prolonged exposure to the elements on the ocean. Powell's eyes were still swollen shut, so Goodheart laid a hand on the seaman's shoulder as he spoke to him.

Arch, it’s me, Goodheart. How are you doing, mate? The voice resonated with genuine care.

Cap, Powell's tone was gravelly. Captain Goodheart, is that you? He extended his fingers to touch the welcome visitor. 

The Captain took a firm hold of Powell's arm. It's me you old sea-goat. What's happened to you?

That's why I told them to get you, the sick sailor's speech quivered with each word. The devil is at work, Captain, and someone has to stop him.

Now relax Arch and do your best to explain what occurred on the Corondo.  We've got plenty of time so don't feel rushed.

Powell released the Captain's hand struggling to reach for his water. Goodheart intervened getting the cup and placing it against the feeble seaman's lips. The cold drink eased the pain in Powell's throat, and he began his story.

I was aboard the Corondo, a three hundred-thousand-gallon oil tanker under the watchful eye of Josh Miller. You know him, Captain, he is a reliable skipper.

Goodheart rested his hand on Powell's shoulder.

Anyhow, the sailor continued. We had gotten outside of New Zealand when we entered a section of the ocean the chart showed was Marconi's Graveyard. Our radioman, Todd Darden, said they named it that because all wireless signals die there.

Powell gestured for another sip of water, which Goodheart brought to the seaman's mouth. When he'd had his fill, he pressed the container away.

Sure enough, we couldn't send or receive messages, Powell started again. Then for no reason, our compass went haywire. The tanker fought the helm. Captain, I swear it was if the ship had a mind of its own.

Powell reached over grabbing Goodheart's arm, pulling himself up close to the Captain's face. He shook hard as he coughed out the words. The devil possessed that vessel there is no other answer.

Relax, Arch. Lay back down. Goodheart's trustworthy and reliable voice brought reassurance to the sick man. Everything will be all right. Finish the story.

The seaman twisted in discomfort. His eyes were milky and tears formed in the corners.

We tried everything to stop, to drop anchor. The Chief Engineer under Miller's orders shut down the engines. Powell licked his blistered lips. But it didn't do no good. We kept moving.

Was Miller able to figure out what direction you were heading? Goodheart asked.

Powell frowned. When we figured our bearings, the headaches came on us.

Headaches?

They started small at first, Powell put his hand to his forehead. The pressure grew so great. Dear God! I saw Darden's skull crack apart as he twisted the radio dials in desperation to reach someone, anyone for help.

Goodheart once more spoke reassuring words to Powell, which again relaxed the seaman.

It became more than we could bear. Our sole desire was to use the lifeboats and flee. Only Captain Miller refused to leave. Once in the water, we all headed out in different directions.

How many men were in your lifeboat?

Four others. Two died from those damn headaches during the day. Lemmons and McGuire well they held on with me until almost the end. Powell’s shoulders slumped as he finished the statement as though releasing a considerable burden.

Captain Goodheart moved away from the bed of the resting sailor. He took a couple of steps toward the exit and shifted to look down at his friend lying limp.

Don't worry, Arch, Goodheart said. Man, or devil, I'll find out what befell you and the crew of the Corondo.

The elevator doors slid ajar, and Captain Adam Goodheart entered. His mind was busy with Arch's story. This was not the primary disappearance in the last year that revolved around unexplained circumstances. It was the first time there had been a survivor. Someone knowledgeable enough to map out the details of the vanishing of a megaton supertanker.

Goodheart's mind raced across the open ocean of the Pacific. A master seaman he had navigated every square inch of the world. So detailed was his knowledge of the world's oceans that his need to refer to charts was rare. Many times, shipping companies would come to him for help when routes needed adjusting, or problems arose. Even the Navy had engaged Captain Adam Goodheart during a crisis.

With the quiet whir of the descending transport and the story of the Corondo churning in his thoughts, Goodheart failed to notice the ceiling panel above him inch open. From the narrow crack, petite dark feet emerged, followed by long spaghetti-like limbs that dangled down behind the Captain. When the hips of the intruder slid through the slot, the legs darted out seizing Goodheart around the waist.

The Captain lurched as the vice lock grip of the peculiar appendages enveloped him. Then the creature's upper body descended before Goodheart had time to calculate a counter-attack. Long wiry arms coiled over the Captain’s throat encompassing his head and cutting off his air.

In the mirror that covered the rear of the compartment, the Captain caught a look at his attacker. Dressed in a loincloth, the assailant was a pencil-thin man, his dark skin adorned in diamond-shaped tattoos. Goodheart seemed to recollect this sort of individual before in his many travels. If he could get a little oxygen to his brain, he might figure out where.

With a ding the elevator stopped, the doors opened, and Goodheart tumbled out with the human constrictor on his back. Captain Goodheart had left Ida May Davis minutes ago content in the knowledge that such a solid man was in residence. Now her eyes ballooned as she watched her hero slam his adversary against the vestibule walls. Her fears returned in the form of a scream. It was a cry that faded down the hallway as Ida May dashed from the lobby.

Goodheart's mind was going black. But to grab a breath, would require him to exhale first, making his ribcage smaller, allowing his enemy to tighten his embrace another notch. Should the human boa constrictor compress his grip anymore, the Captain knew he would die of suffocation. Yet not seeking oxygen would leave him unconscious giving his adversary the freedom to fracture his spinal cord. He had to free himself fast, or death was his fate.

With a jerk, Goodheart flopped down on the floor getting his nemesis on his back. Then he pushed up with his feet and arching his spine, Goodheart pressed his opponent against the rug. His legs drove this odd pairing across the nylon carpet. The face of the Captain's antagonist registered the pain that burned his vertebrae. The effect was close to rolling a hot cannonball on the exposed skin. With more pressure, the persistent burning forced the killer to use his arms to push away.

As the Captain felt his adversary's release, he sprung to his feet, swinging his foe against the wall. Again, and again, he slammed the figure's upper body upon the solid surface. After repeated blows, blood covered the assassin's face, but the serpentlike legs remained clenched tight on Goodheart’s waist.

Then as the Captain wondered if his opponent would die with his limbs locked in place, they released their grip, and Goodheart spun to hammer a hard-right fist into the dark man's jaw. There was little doubt that as the Captain's attacker slumped to the ground, his mind pondered on the vast well of reserve power his victim had commanded. Many other men who had challenged Adam Goodheart had fallen in battle also wonder-struck by the same thing. It was all part and parcel of the legend of Captain Adam Goodheart.

Chapter 2 - Murderous Clue

The report read that Goodheart's attacker had been a Snake Assassin. A member of a mysterious cult that not only worshiped snakes but strived to become serpentine themselves.

It says here they stretch themselves daily on racks from birth, making their limbs limber instruments of death. They become living weapons, capable of embracing and crushing their victims in the manner of the creatures they deemed holy, the reader gasped. It goes on to say they enhance their serpentine appearance with body tattoos in the diamond-shaped marks of the great snakes they wish to embody. Wow, you’re lucky to be alive? 

The speaker was Talmage Laird, in appearance an individual who might play Santa on Christmas Eve at the local orphanage. This was because he was short and round with a broad-moon face and jolly red cheeks. Only today his eyes did not twinkle, they were cold, determined, and full of fire. His company, Globe Maritime Services, had carried the multi-million-dollar policy on the Corondo. G.M.S. had also covered another vessel, the New World, which had disappeared a month earlier. Now with several ships gone, Laird's business faced a financial crisis.

I guess so, Goodheart answered as he paced Laird’s office. Question is who do we think the Snake Assassin was after? Me or Arch?

Good point, Talmage replied, gesturing to the Captain to sit down. But why send such a strange killer into a hospital? San Francisco is a modern city, not some hidden province in the Orient.

Goodheart showed disagreement. They wanted the death to look natural. The method of suffocation used by these viper assassins would have done that.

What knowledge could seaman Powell have that might warrant someone having him killed?

The Captain smiled with satisfaction. Not only do I know, but I guess the assassin overheard him tell me...

Laird jumped in. So, he tried to terminate you before you exited the building.

Goodheart's eyes swirled with the green-cyan of the raging ocean. He leaned back in his chair letting his mind assemble the facts.

The Globe executive waved his hands across the Captain's line of sight trying to break the trance. What did Arch Powell tell you?

Goodheart reoriented his attention to Laird, as he replied, "When the Corondo departed port, it had a traitor aboard. Someone whose purpose was twofold. First, he sent out the Corondo's location to his employer, and second, he had to discourage any ship-to-shore transmissions at a certain point