The Alaskan Sting

By John Herold

The Alaskan Sting is the story of a young man from San Francisco who has two vices: drinking and women. His adventure starts when his cousin gives him a ten-day vacation to Alaska, but, on the way, he experiences several misfortunes. Find out what happens as this young man earns a mo

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lime Press LLC
• Release date: Aug 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781953584175

John Herold

After serving in the Navy the author relocated from Pennsylvania to Silicon Valley, California. As a senior designer, he developed various components For the Navy, Army, and Air Force. In his free time, he spent his days on the beach. Observing nature and the huge waves that pounded the rocky shoreline. When he retired, he decided to move back to Pennsylvania to see his family and friends. Now he had extra time to explore old ideas. He received a patent for a collapsible Kayak, took cruises to different Caribbean islands, did several oils and watercolor paintings, And led an art class for three years. Writing, however, became his prime focus. He Tries to incorporate some of his experiences into each novel.

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THE

ALASKAN

STING

John Herold

The Alaskan Sting by John Herold

This is a work of fiction. All names of characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2020 by John Herold

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or distributed in any form by any means, including, but not limited to, recording, photocopying, or taking screenshots of parts of the book, without prior written permission from the author or the publisher. Brief quotations for noncommercial purposes, such as book reviews, permitted by Fair Use of the U.S. Copyright Law, are allowed without written permissions, as long as such quotations do not cause damage to the book’s commercial value. For permissions, write to the publisher, whose address is stated below.

ISBN: 978-1-953584-17-5 (Paperback)

ISBN: 978-1-953584-18-2 (eBook)

Printed in the United States of America.

Lime Press LLC

425 West Washington Street

Suffolk VA, 23434 Suite 4

https://www.lime-press.com/

Table of Contents

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

About the Author

About the Book

In loving memory of Susan and Sandy

who were most gracious to me

Chapter One

Hurrah! Hurrah!

The chubby female traffic cop was finally raising her arm and waving us on.

At last, the damn commuter traffic was starting to move once again. I was perturbed, to say the least. It had become a stop-and-go ride all the way across the San Francisco Bay Bridge. What had started out as a joyful ride to the airport was now turning into a snail’s race.

Twenty minutes earlier, I had been sitting in my cousin Scott’s SUV. We were cruisin’ along and about to cross the bridge. That’s when the traffic started to slow down, and Scott decided to switch lanes. He steered his Explorer into the fast lane and came up behind an old stake- body truck loaded with farm produce. The driver was breaking the speed limit by ten miles an hour, so Scott decided to stay on his tail. Then, for no apparent reason, the driver lost control of the truck, and it jackknifed, hurling its load of watermelons and cantaloupes in all directions. Scott squeezed the steering wheel and jumped on the brakes, causing us to swerve sideways and skid backward into the middle lane, uninjured. The drivers behind us were fighting to keep their cars from veering off the bridge. The whole scene settled down quickly, and it turned out nobody was hurt.

I watched the young driver crawl out the side window of the truck. He must have been dazed, because he had forgotten to turn off the ignition. I could still hear the diesel engine running. I also could see a trickle of fuel wetting the pavement, while one rear wheel was still rotating.

The young man smiled and appeared unharmed as he waved to a gathering crowd. A petite woman lowered her window and handed him a bottle of Evian water, which he raised in triumph. Was I crazy? Was this guy the winner of the Indianapolis 500? I needed to get to the airport fast or I would miss my plane. I did not want to watch a careless driver— besides, nobody seemed concerned about the fumes from the leaking fuel. Couldn’t it cause a fire or an explosion?

I was ready to exit our SUV when men in orange outfits seemed to pop up out of nowhere, and they saved the day. Some started sweeping the lanes clean of all debris while the cops, who had just arrived, were supposedly supervising the operation. One of the orange men climbed up on the truck’s running board, reached inside, and turned off the truck’s ignition, while another one mopped up up the spilled fuel. I could see one lane was now free of watermelon debris, but, damn it, the cops would not allow a single car to pass by. In my mind, I couldn’t figure out which was worse—the ignorant police force trying to direct this traffic, or the last of the smelly diesel fumes coming through our ventilator system.

I had to take another look at my wristwatch. It read twenty-one minutes after nine o’clock in the morning, which made my mind only stew more. Would I be late for this dream vacation trip—a first-class flight to Seattle, followed by a cruise-ship tour that would take me to many ports of call in Alaska? Alas, I did feel some sadness for poor Scott, my cousin. This was supposed to be his trip, but, at the last minute, he had to forego it due to health issues. He highly recommended me to replace him. This trip was a special corporate deal offered to only a few select employees each year for their outstanding service to the company. Scott told me Arthur Sheblein, a top-notch accountant, was next in line after him to be awarded the trip, but the corporate heads listened to Scott’s plea. He insisted I should be the one to take his place. The corporation agreed and covered all accommodations and prices. I simply had to show your identification and walk aboard the Nordic Princess, an Italian cruise ship. Your room with your luggage would be waiting for you. Without a second thought, I jumped at the chance. I needed to get away for a while.

My only problem was trying to get a last-minute flight to Seattle. Due to mechanical problems, the original flight had been rescheduled for tomorrow, so I had very little notice. The other people on this flight had already rescheduled theirs. After diligently searching the web, I did find one seat still available, but it was leaving the San Francisco airport at ten o’clock this morning. This meant I would arrive at the ship just in time.

I’m not an early riser, but Scott Durbin, being the gracious cousin that he is, even insisted on driving me to the airport. He said he could get me there one hour sooner than if I had taken BART, and save any parking fees too. Unfortunately, now the overturned produce truck had halted traffic. To complicate matters, the weatherman on the car radio kept informing the public that all flights out of the San Francisco Airport were on time. Normally that would have meant good news to me, but not this time. It simply helped tighten the knots growing in stomach even more. The weatherman had also indicated an unusually low-pressure area would be moving into the bay area, sometime before noon. Would the vacation I so desired be delayed or even cancelled? I really wanted to be on that sea cruise, and I was willing to do almost anything to get it.

I turned the radio off.

Somehow I realized I needed to get a hold of myself and do something to break the extreme anxiety I was experiencing. I tried biting my nails— something I would never do. It didn’t help much; any dirt caught under the fingernails I discovered didn’t taste very good. Instead, I kept right on fretting.

I glanced over at the speedometer. My, oh my, we were going only ten to fifteen miles per hour. We were crawling!

I took a quick peek out the side window and could see another reason for me to be really concerned. Because of that impending low-pressure area, I noticed a huge blanket of low flying clouds starting to roll in off the Pacific Ocean and beginning to engulf the slow traffic that was still ahead of us. It was that dreaded California offshore fog bank. Was it going to play havoc with my planned vacation too? I pondered what could I do. Instead of being the cool cat who usually had everything under control, I was acting more and more like a nervous Nellie about to explode.

Scott’s voice broke the silence.

What do you think of the repair job I did on your luggage? You didn’t give me much time, you know. Just one day. Besides the torn handle, I replaced one of the old plastic zippers with a sturdy metal one. It should last you a lifetime. Thank God you stowed your luggage in our basement. I didn’t have to go to your place to get it, so it saved me a lot of time. I realize you don’t have much room in that tiny studio apartment of yours. I bet you can’t stow more than an deflated rubber raft in that place of yours, it’s so small. His lips formed a perfect O.

Was that Scott’s way of giving me a slap in the face? Or was he just being cute? Sure, I had a small apartment, but that’s all I can afford. Apartments were extremely expensive in San Francisco. People from around the world placed a high demand for them.

I didn’t want to talk to anyone, but I knew I had to answer him to shut him up.

Huh… repair job? I felt myself coming unglued, and I was riding on the horns of hysteria.

Scotty repeated his question a bit louder but in a different way. The zipper? The one you told me that was always getting stuck!

Oh yeah, I do remember now.

I was trying hard to focus on what Scott was saying.

It does look like a new piece of luggage again. I couldn’t tell where the repair was made. It’s so well hidden. Thanks. I lied just a little. I could care less about a zipper at a time like this. My entire mind was trying to refocus on one thing—catching that damn plane!

Yeah, I’d bet no one else could tell where it’s been repaired either. Scott always had to add a final note of self-praise.

Scott prided himself on being a perfectionist. One of his unique pastimes was making leather vests and belts, and my old luggage bag meant a new challenge to him. He sold woman’s handbags over the Internet. All repairs that were ever needed, however, had to be done just his way. Perfectionism sine qua non.

Putting that aside, I did consider him a dear friend as well as a solid member of our small family clan. He worked hard as a micro photo- engraver at the same aerospace company where I worked. He had a lovely wife and two children both attending Stanford University. His

large home overlooked the San Francisco Bay, and he always offered his friendship to me. During many a barbecue we sat out on his veranda, watching sailboats crossing the bay in front of a gorgeous sunset.

Fortunately, a large pothole in the road jarred my thoughts back to reality. We had crossed the bridge a few minutes ago and were approaching the ramp to the airport. The traffic had slowed down to a trickle. One could see no more than three cars ahead due to the clouds touching the roofs; but Lady Luck smiled on us this time and an airport guard opened up a second lane, allowing Scott to drive past the slower drivers and quickly pull into the off- loading area at the Aurora Airlines terminal.

The knots in my stomach began to ease up. I knew I owed a lot to Scott, for he had been influential in getting me my job, and now he was willing to take time off to drive me to the airport. Living alone in San Francisco, I sometimes felt a touch of melancholy from not seeing my parents back East, but I knew I could call Scott, and he would always offer me his warm hospitality.

Although this was not California’s rainy season, large drops of mist began hitting my face as I jumped out of the SUV. Scott reached under the dashboard and released a safety latch he had installed, and I flung the rear door open.

Scott turned in his seat and waved. See you when you get back. Have a good time in Alaska, and don’t forget to say hello to Manuel, the bartender in the Four Star Lounge. He has been a good friend of mine on the past cruises that I have taken.

I grabbed my carry-on and two bags of luggage, yelled a quick good- bye, slammed the rear door shut, and charged into the terminal. The traffic and the weather had cost me a lot of valuable time. I was so afraid that damn plane would be taking off anytime without me. I had to convince myself over and over that I would get this vacation; I deserved it. I had just completed the grueling task of checking out a new missile- tracking system. The military demands had pushed me extra hard to finish the work and now I needed to simply relax and do absolutely nothing. Lots of R and R. No pressures, just rest and feast on surf and turf with, of course, a few spirits on the side. Then, later, if I was up to it, maybe do a little prowling in the ship’s lounge. Manuel could supply the bait for me to catch my two-legged prey. That was my plan.

Wading through the check-in line and having to give them everything but my empty jeans and underwear—no metal objects or explosives please— made my blood pressure boil, but I was determined to maintain my cool.

Minutes dragged by.

Finally, I felt my thirty-nine-year-old legs carrying me down the hallway to the Gate 37 and the waiting aircraft. The stewardess, or whatever she is called these days, seemed to wear a fake smile as she was announcing the very last call. What a sad lady, I thought to myself as I handed her my ticket. With a body like hers, she could be a Venus De Milo to any red-blooded male, yet I could not help also noticing a rather tall and sinister man with a weather-beaten face and a long, black ponytail standing right behind her. He reminded me of that old cowboy star who played Paladin on television. He looked squarely at me. His squinty brown eyes felt like laser beams trying to drill holes through my retinae. What’s his problem? I wondered, but I could care less. I was on my way to Seattle to board the Nordic Princess and enjoy a fourteen-day Alaskan cruise. Fun under the Aurora Borealis—right!

The flight to Seattle should take about two hours. I found my aisle seat in the center of the aircraft and heaved my carry-on into the overhead bin. A middle-aged woman with striking, cosmopolitan features occupied the middle seat, and a young teenage boy had the window seat. She seemed quite at ease, but he acted like this was his first flight by constantly jabbering about the maintenance crew, who were outside servicing the aircraft.

I stopped an attendant—another attractive female, by the way—and asked her for a Jim Beam with orange juice on the side. She replied, almost in a whisper, that no drinks were allowed until the plane was in the air and the pilot had given his permission. I retorted that I was a Type- One diabetic, and I needed some juice to correct my blood sugar count. As proof I pulled a new cell phone—which I had bought in Korea—out of my shirt pocket and informed her it was a computerized pump that told me I needed the juice right now. I lied, but she got the message.

Two minutes later she returned with my drinks. She warned me not to say anything. I could see she was fearful of her job, so I thanked her and said it would not happen again. She softened up a bit and retreated to the aft of the plane.

Getting what I thought was an okay nod from the lady next to me, I handed the orange juice to the boy hoping to shut him up and proceeded to sip on old Jim. Life was, oh-so-sweet. No white-knuckle flight for me. I was going to chill out—or so I thought.

The plane took off, and, thirty minutes into the flight, we were cruising at thirty thousand feet with no turbulence. Old Jim was doing its thing, so I decided it was time to recline my backrest and drift into a mild torpor. It simply wasn’t going to happen. A soft tap on my shoulder drew my attention.

Excuse me, sir. My grandson needs to use the restroom. I suspect he had a little too much orange juice. I caught the subtle annoyance in her voice. Please let us by.

Sure, ma’am.

I rose from my seat and stood in the aisle. The boy was fidgeting and acting weird as he followed the lady to the restroom. I could see there were several people ahead of them, waiting their turn, so I decided it was an ideal time to order another Jim. I would make sure it was a different attendant so I could over-indulge a bit if I cared to. I could remember when smoking on these flights was deregulated. And then smoking was banned, but thank God drinking wasn’t. What I would give for a puff on a fresh Cuban cigar right out of the humidor. It’s even too expensive to buy a pack of cigarettes these days. I remembered people telling me you could go into a grocery store, and there would be free cigarettes lying on the counter for anyone to try. The tobacco companies were pushing their products. Great marketing!

A raven-haired beauty with ruby-red lips appeared, and she was pushing her beverage cart in my direction. I ordered another Jim Beam with orange juice. In return, she offered me a bag of roasted almonds. I handed her a ten spot, and she gave me a very sensual wink. I felt stiffness in my groin, and I knew I had to get her e-mail address before I exited the airplane.

In the seat ahead of me sat a tall fellow with a combed-over hairstyle. I couldn’t help smiling when a few of his long hairs started floating in the cabin air. His very obese girlfriend occupied the other two seats. I thought to myself that, if they ever decided to recline their bodies, the backrests would fail, and I would be crushed. Reaching for my headset I tried to forget that possibility, and I proceeded to search the radio stations for some good 1940s music. My parents loved the forties era, and I guess I inherited a taste for it.

My dreams of bliss and quietness, however, lasted only ten minutes. Somehow the lady and boy must have moved to the front of the line. I just knew the kid could be a real pain in the ass if he wanted to be.

Excuse us again. They wanted to return to their seats. Once more I graciously rose and allowed them to enter. Whoa, I thought, am I ever going to get the downtime I so desperately want?

As I started to reach again for my seat recliner button, the lady looked me straight in the eye. Her eyes, I noticed, were fascinatingly blue pearls made more captivating by some pink blush. I was enamored, to say the least. She moistened her lips and was about to say something. I could almost sense whatever she had to say would turn into a conversation that would take the remainder of the flight. I knew I could be easily attracted to a woman’s charm, and my suspicions said this conversation would be leading me in that direction.

I am so glad we took off on time. Aren’t you? My grandson, Lester, if he has to wait too long can get real nervous; sometimes it is even too much for me. Doctors say he has a rare form of hypertension. But I know he enjoys me taking him to Alaska for a few weeks. He tells me moose are his favorite animals. He can see a pair of moose roaming across my backyard every day and he is thrilled to death. It seems to alleviate his nervousness for a while.

Lester seemed oblivious to whatever his grandmother was saying. He just kept fidgeting in his seat and rummaging through an airline magazine.

Oh, I’m so sorry. I am babbling along, and I did not introduce myself to you. My name is Amanda Lee Jones. I am the district representative for Black Spruce County. That’s the county just south of the city of Ketchikan. I have to cast an important vote this week in the state assembly. It’s on native rights. The tribes want to build a gambling casino, and a lot of people are downright belligerent about it—like those people are trying to pin something on me. All I want to do is help the less fortunate in my state.

Gambling was one of my passions, so I had to reply. Well, I can see some of their concern. I almost lost my shirt playing blackjack at an Indian casino last week. I didn’t know when to quit. Luckily, my girlfriend arrived on the scene and convinced me to have dinner with her. I was trying to downplay the subject matter, but it wasn’t working. Amanda wanted to continue on.

You see, Mr… . She was hesitating waiting for me to introduce myself. I obliged, Thomas Arthur Courier. But most people call me Tom.

Tom, I grew up in Seattle, married a gold prospector, and moved to the remotest part of Alaska. I was young and foolish, but I was determined to get out from under my father’s thumb. Elmer, my husband at the time, had hoped to find his fortune in the Yukon gold fields and return to Seattle a wealthy man. Living in the middle of nowhere in a log cabin without running water soon took its toll on me. After five fierce winters, I took my two boys and my dog, Nugget, and bartered a deal with a bush pilot named Crazy Jones. The deal was, I would clean his house for ten months. Would you believe a year later I married Crazy Jones, and we settled in Ketchikan—yes, you could say I am a female bigamist or a whore, but I knew I could never go back. I never heard from Elmer again. Crazy, oops, I mean Mitchell, told me he flew over the area several times searching for any trace of Elmer. He could find nothing. Even the cabin had disappeared.

I had to ask. Why are you telling me this now? Doesn’t it affect your political career?

Not at all. I am telling you this to show you I have no secrets. It’s those assholes in the state senate that have caused all the dirt to fly. I hate mudslinging, don’t you?

I could see an artery in Amanda’s neck had become taut as she stressed her displeasure. She was getting a little uptight, and I knew it was time for me to really cool it.

Would you like something to drink? This airline just started serving mixed drinks, and I understand the margarita cocktail is very good.

No, thank you. Amanda paused and thought for a moment. I am sorry if I became a little hot under the collar. It must be my Italian blood. My grandfather was a real godfather many years ago. My mother was an Irish immigrant with a flair for life. They fell in love and had me.

As I sipped the last of Jim, I noticed Lester had fallen asleep. Lucky boy, I thought. Somebody was getting his rest. Amanda then said something that really started to pique my interest.

Since we have time let me tell you a story about true love. You see, my oldest son, Seth, wanted to marry Kataleni, a Native American girl. Kataleni, by the way, is an Athna name, which means ‘Open Water in the Winter.’ And she is an open, friendly woman who simply adores my son. However, her tribe had other thoughts. They wanted Kataleni to be the bride of the chief’s son, Sesitu. One day, the chief was found murdered, lying on the floor of his log cabin, with his head bashed in and a white eagle feather stuck in his mouth. No one knew who did it. Seth and Kataleni decided it was the right time to elope. They were married in Seattle and now live in Sitka.

I questioned back. What ever happened to Sesitu?

Sesitu, I was told, married a white girl who was attending college in Anchorage, and they moved to Olympia, Washington.

What does the white eagle feather mean?

It signifies to me the murderer wanted the chief to fly to heaven, not stay here.

Amanda wasn’t about to stop. "Mitchell taught Seth the ways of a bush