The Inside Passage (Ted Higuera Series Book 1) Read online

  Also by Pendelton C. Wallace

  Christmas Inc.

  Amazon.com #1 Political Humor Best Seller

  Warning: This is not a children’s book. Exposure to children under 12-years old may cause child to stop believing in Santa Claus or take a cynical view of Christmas.

  What would happen if Santa decided to go public and sell shares of Christmas on the NASDAQ?

  Blue Water & Me, Tall Tales of Adventures With My Father

  Blue Water & Me is a high-adventure true story of author Penn Wallace's magical first summer fishing with his father, Blue Water Charlie, at age eleven.

  The Inside Passage

  By

  Pendelton C. Wallace

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

  Copyright © 2014 Pendelton C. Wallace

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For permission, contact Victory Press at www.pennwallace.com.

  www.pennwallace.com

  Cover Picture: Samuel Gaffney

  Acknowledgements

  Most writers start out by thanking their family for the support and understanding to write a book. I’m no exception. During the period when I was writing The Inside Passage, my wife, Connie, was fighting valiantly against ovarian cancer.

  I got up at 4:30 every morning and wrote for two hours before I went to work. When I got home, despite her illness, Connie always had wonderful meal ready. She never once questioned the time that I spent writing and always encouraged my work.

  A lot of water has passed under the bridge since then. Connie, sadly, is no longer with us. But I owe her much. As do I my daughters Katie and Libby.

  I must thank my writers group, The Legion of the Plume, for helping me advance my art. They sat through endless iterations of this story. They made suggestions, they found errors. What I liked best is that they got to know my characters better than I did. “Harry would never do that,” they would say. Or “Meagan needs to change during the course of the book. Where’s her character arc?” I am deeply indebted.

  Susan Aaron Moller has been my best friend and editor since grad school. She proof-read all of my papers in school and willingly subjected herself to all of my writing since then. She has the patience of a saint.

  I have to thank Mama. She has been in my corner from the beginning. She encouraged me when the night seemed the darkest. I would not be publishing my third book without her. Muchas gracias.

  I need to send a special shout out to my sister-and brother-in-law, Marti and Sam Gaffney. They were our sailing buddies as we explored the Inside Passage. At the time, we didn’t know that this would be material for a book, but they were with us every step of the way. I even used one of Sam’s photographs for the book cover.

  And finally, I have to thank you, the reader. Without patrons, artists don’t last very long. The fact that you read and enjoy what I write drives me onward. Like Thomas Jefferson, I believe that a free society must read to maintain its freedom. You are all freedom fighters.

  Pendelton C. Wallace

  12/20/2013

  On board the sailing vessel Victory

  La Paz, Mexico

  Author’s Note

  Two important things happened to me in the summer of 2006.

  First of all, I took my sailboat, the Audacious, north to the Broughton Islands on Canada’s Inside Passage. The Inside Passage is the protected waterway that runs behind Vancouver Island and a myriad of other islands to allow deep-water ships to make the trip from Seattle to Alaska without venturing out into the harsh North Pacific Ocean.

  I was enchanted by the Broughtons. This was the forest primeval. We went for three days at one stretch without seeing another human being or any signs of civilization. The little settlements up there (I can’t really call them towns.) are floating in the water. The government prohibits construction on the islands, so people have built communities of houseboats complete with fuel docks, restaurants and little stores.

  I knew I had to write a book about the Broughtons.

  When I returned to civilization, I noticed an article hidden in the back pages of the Seattle Times. Seventeen young Canadian men connected with al-Qaeda had been arrested for plotting to blow up the Parliament building. Then they planned to capture the Prime Minister, take over a television station and behead him on live TV.

  The RCMP (The Royal Canadian Mounted Police) did a masterful job of infiltrating the group and setting up a sting. The attack was stopped, but what if the Mounties hadn’t acted in time?

  I continued to follow it in the Canadian Press. What would make a group of Canadian citizens turn against their country? These young men were all born in Canada to parents of Arabian and Persian heritage. They all had college degrees, some of them graduate degrees. What sort of religious beliefs or discrimination could have been bad enough for them to take up arms against their home country?

  The story intrigued me. I wanted to explore the minds of the terrorists. To figure out what made them turn against their home land.

  After 911 I brooded on what would be al-Qaeda’s next target. It occurred to me that the cruise ship industry was particularly vulnerable. There are thousands of innocent people aboard and virtually no security from outside attacks.

  These events came together in the pages of The Inside Passage. Taking poetic license, I moved the terrorists from Ottawa to the west coast. Of course, I had to add sympathetic heroes and stretch the truth enough to fit my story line.

  The first reaction I got from most of my early readers was “This is pretty farfetched. This really couldn’t happen.”

  Well it did, all of the terrorist acts depicted in this book actually happened. They were culled from hundreds of stories in newspapers and magazines. Terrorists really did attack Fort Dix, New Jersey. They really tried to blow up the jet fuel lines to JFK airport that run under thousands of homes.

  Enjoy my fiction, but remember: this stuff is real and it happens every day. I fear the Patriot Act, but am grateful to the men and women who protect us.

  Pendelton C. Wallace

  12/20/2013

  On board the sailing vessel Victory

  La Paz, Mexico

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapt
er 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Post Script

  Coming Soon . . .

  Chapter 1

  The Johnstone Straits, Canada,

  August 14, 2006

  They edged into the mouth of the funnel. Once committed, there was no turning around.

  “I hate this part of the trip.” The stocky helmsman sat in the starboard captain’s chair, his right hand on the joystick that controlled the ship’s direction. Buttons, knobs and switches covered the armrest of the chair, everything within easy reach.

  Outside the windows, mist swirled across the water. “I don’t know why the company insists we take the Inside Passage. It’d be much safer, standing out to sea.”

  Standing next to him Tom Paget, in his officer’s uniform, scanned the water with a pair of binoculars. “The passengers are paying for scenery. If we stood offshore, all they’d see is water.”

  This trip wasn’t new for Tom. The ship was. The Star of the Northwest was the largest cruise ship in the world. Taking her through the narrow Johnstone Straits was like forcing a basketball through a garden hose.

  To port, the snow-capped peaks of Vancouver Island floated above the morning mist. To starboard, heavily wooded West Cracroft Island dropped rapidly to the water. In front of them Hanson Island blocked their way, a narrow channel a couple of hundred yards wide the only safe, deep water.

  “Cut our speed to one half.” Paget lowered his binoculars and gazed at the almost mystic view below him. From the bridge deck of The Star he was high above the water. While the morning fog rapidly dissipated, it still obscured his view of the pass.

  “Hey, Mr. Paget.” The radar man looked up from his screen. “I got something.”

  “What is it?”

  “Looks like a small boat. Port bow. Crossing our course.”

  Paget scanned the swirling mist to port. Maybe he did see something. “Cut speed to one fourth. They probably don’t see us yet.” How could they not see a floating city?

  “I got ‘em.” The helmsman pointed. “Damn, they’re cutting it close.”

  What’s wrong with those idiots? The faded blue sailboat was running under power. They were cutting across The Star’s bow. It was going to be close.

  Paget reached up and pulled five long blasts on the ship’s whistle. “They’re not responding.”

  “Shit, Mr. P. They don’t see us.” The helmsman’s fingers tightened on the joy stick.

  “I got another one.” The radar man looked up again. “Bigger, must be a fishing boat or somethin’. Comin’ out from behind Hanson Island.”

  Paget looked to starboard. A large green fishing boat emerged from the fog. Without a moment’s hesitation, the sailboat spun on its keel and headed towards the fishing boat.

  “At least the stupid bastard’s getting out of our way,” Paget said.

  The sailboat continued on a collision course with the fishing boat. They were out of the cruise ship’s way, but still of mild interest to the officer. Paget watched the arrow of water between the two boats narrow.

  “Holy Christ.”

  Someone on the fishing boat opened fire on the sailboat.

  Paget pasted the binoculars to his eyes. On the foredeck of the fishing boat, two dark, swarthy men kneeled behind the bulwark and fired with automatic rifles.

  The first shots flew wide of their target. Bits and pieces of fiberglass and wood flew from the sailboat on the second burst. The third burst hit its mark. The forward part of the sailboat’s cabin dissolved in the hail of gun fire.

  Paget stood frozen to the deck. What in the hell is going on?

  A gray-headed old man popped up from behind what remained of the sailboat’s cabin and returned fire. Chunks of the fishing boat’s bulwarks flew in the air. The two men with rifles ducked down.

  “Mr. Paget, what’re we gonna do?” The helmsman followed the scene below them with as much horror as his officer.

  “Ah. . . get on the horn. We better call the Coast Guard.”

  Things were happening too fast. A third man appeared on the deck of the fishing boat. He opened fire. The firing from the sailboat stopped. The two boats closed rapidly. The sailboat was going to ram the fishing boat.

  “Jesus God. You got the Coast Guard yet?”

  “I got ‘em now. Just reportin’ the shootin’.”

  Paget grabbed the microphone from the helmsman’s hand. “Mayday, mayday mayday.” He shouted at the top of his lungs.

  The scene below him had turned from one of mild interest to one of immediate threat. On the stern of the fishing boat, a cloud of white smoke exploded from a long steel box. Paget saw the white missile emerge from the launcher. He traced the trail of smoke in its wake as it arched though the sky towards them.

  “This is the Star of the Northwest. We’re being attacked.”

  ****

  Husky Stadium, Seattle, Washington

  June 2006

  “Graduating Magna Cum Laude, Christopher Hardwick.” The dean’s voice boomed over the loudspeakers.

  Chris Hardwick, Ted Higuera’s best friend and roommate climbed the steps to the stage. Man, that guy has it all, Ted thought. Not only was Chris tall, rich and good looking, he was graduating at the top of the class. Everything came so easy for him. Ted had to fight and claw for everything he got.

  The rain of the past week melted away to bright sunshine for graduation day. Husky Stadium had perhaps the best view of any college stadium in the country. Sunlight danced on the waters of Portage Bay and Lake Washington just beyond the stadium, Mount Rainier towered over the snow-topped Cascade Mountains.

  The docks to the east of Husky Stadium were crowded with the yachts of the rich families coming to watch their pride and joys graduate. Electricity stronger than anything Ted had felt at his four years of home football games tingled in the air.

  “Eduardo Higuera.” The voice boomed again.

  Ted looked out over the sea of caps and gowns seated in folding chairs on the stadium floor, the crowd of families and friends in the grandstand beyond. Mama was somewhere up there. He hadn’t found her yet, but he knew she was beaming with pride.

  He was the first one in his ‘hood to make it out. He scored a football scholarship at the University of Washington when some higher ranked tonto had decided to go to Illinois at the last minute. Graduation from college was not just a source of pride for his family. His whole neighborhood, all of his relatives, in LA and in Mexico, had their hopes pinned on him.

  “Hey man, move it.” The guy in line behind Ted gave him a little nudge.

  “Don’t push man, I’m on my way.” Ted came out of his reverie and climbed the steps. That old I’ve-got-the world-by-the-balls grin spread over Ted’s face. This was the moment he’d been waiting for all of his life.

  ****

  Windsor, Ontario, Canada

  The line was long and the wait dreary. A light mist fell from the gray sky, the windshield wipers made a quick swipe every thirty seconds or so. Ahmad Fazul felt his heartbeat quicken as they approached the front of the line.

  “What’s the purpose of your visit?” the CBP (Customs and Border Patrol) agent asked. The way he looked at the four Muslims in the car made Ahmad’s breath come a little faster, his palms sweaty on the steering wheel.

  “We’re on holiday.” Ahmad tried to appear calm. This guy’s going to make trouble for us. “We’re going to Detroit.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Toronto.”

  �
��Citizenship?”

  “Canada. All of us.”

  The agent stared into Ahmad’s eyes. Ahmad looked away.

  Why am I nervous? We haven’t done anything wrong.

  “May I see your passports please?” the CBP agent asked.

  The agent reminded Ahmad of the Pillsbury Doughboy. Ahmad handed him passports for himself and his three friends.

  The CBP agent took the passports, glanced at them and turned to the computer terminal in his stall. He scanned the bar codes, then stooped to Ahmad’s window again. Ahmad’s fingers drummed on the steering wheel.

  “This will just take a minute, sir. If you’ll just be patient.” The agent stepped out of his booth and walked across to the main building, still studying the passports.

  Now what? What can the problem possibly be?

  “What’s taking so long?” Mohammed asked from the back seat.

  “Racial profiling.” Ahmad was used to “special” treatment. “Four Muslims in a black sedan. You know they’re going to cause us trouble.”

  The agent walked back, his hand resting on his waist, close to the holstered pistol on his belt. “Pull into space six up ahead, please. We need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Why?” Ahmad fought to control his anger. “What have we done?”

  “Just pull forward, sir.”

  Ahmad noticed as the guard’s thumb flipped the restraining strap off of his pistol. “It is because we’re Muslim? I don’t see you pulling any white people over?”

  “Sir, this will only take a minute.” The guard’s hand now rested on the handle of the ugly black automatic.

  Ahmad endured forty-five minutes of questioning in an isolated room while customs agents and dogs searched his Chevy Impala. Finally, Ahmad and his friends were led back to his car.

  “I’m sorry, gentlemen,” the agent told them. “Mr. Said is on our ‘No Entry’ list.”