Telepathy, technology, and supernatural evil intertwine in this high-energy thriller. Doctor Owen Orient attempts to locate a crippled nuclear sub somewhere in the Caribbean—and becomes drawn into a soul-chilling battle with Voodoo Lord, whose power ripples from Jamaica to the Pentagon.
Telepathy, technology, and supernatural evil intertwine in this high-energy thriller. Doctor Owen Orient attempts to locate a crippled nuclear sub somewhere in the Caribbean—and becomes drawn into a soul-chilling battle with Voodoo Lord, whose power ripples from Jamaica to the Pentagon.
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Overview
Telepathy, technology, and supernatural evil intertwine in this high-energy thriller. Doctor Owen Orient attempts to locate a crippled nuclear sub somewhere in the Caribbean—and becomes drawn into a soul-chilling battle with Voodoo Lord, whose power ripples from Jamaica to the Pentagon.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781497613126 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Media |
| Publication date: | 04/01/2014 |
| Series: | The Doctor Orient Novels , #7 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 310 |
| File size: | 4 MB |
About the Author
Lauria blogs regularly and publishes installments in his autobiographical journey through the cultural past of the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s.
Lauria is perhaps best known for the seven volumes of the Doctor Orient series. Doctor Orient is a delver into mystery and the arcane, a knowledgeable man on all subjects occult, and a seeker of truth. His adventures take him around the world and into the depths of psychic and spiritual challenge and adventure. The books in the series are Doctor Orient (1971), Raga Six (1972), Lady Sativa (1973), Baron Orgaz (1974), The Priestess (1978), The Seth Papers (1979), and Blue Limbo (1991). An eighth Doctor Orient novel is currently in the works.
Lauria has written a number of tie-in and young adult novelizations of hit movies, including Dark City (1997), Pitch Black (1999), and End of Days (1999), as well as a series of Zorro novelizations.
Frank Lauria was born in Brooklyn, New York, and graduated from Manhattan College. He is a published poet and songwriter and has worked in the publishing industry as a copywriter and editor. He has been writing novels since 1970 and his twenty books include five bestsellers. He has traveled extensively through the Middle East, Morocco, and Europe to research his occult novels. He lived through and participated in the Beat era, reading poetry with Jack Kerouac, Alan Ginsberg, and most of the other well-known artists associated with the movement. He lives in San Francisco, where he teaches creative writing and performs with his rap band.
Lauria blogs regularly and publishes installments in his autobiographical journey through the cultural past of the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s.
Lauria is perhaps best known for the seven volumes of the Doctor Orient series. Doctor Orient is a delver into mystery and the arcane, a knowledgeable man on all subjects occult, and a seeker of truth. His adventures take him around the world and into the depths of psychic and spiritual challenge and adventure. The books in the series are Doctor Orient (1971), Raga Six (1972), Lady Sativa (1973), Baron Orgaz (1974), The Priestess (1978), The Seth Papers (1979), and Blue Limbo (1991). An eighth Doctor Orient novel is currently in the works.
Lauria has written a number of tie-in and young adult novelizations of hit movies, including Dark City (1997), Pitch Black (1999), and End of Days (1999), as well as a series of Zorro novelizations.
Read an Excerpt
Blue Limbo
A Doctor Orient Novel
By Frank Lauria
OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 2001 Frank LauriaAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4976-1312-6
CHAPTER 1
Lucien St. George was a born cook.
In his hands the most ordinary provisions were transmuted into rare delicacies. Eggs blossomed into fluffy omelets, meats luxuriated in aromatic sauces, salads bloomed plump and fresh—even chipped beef on toast exuded the scent of exotic spices. Each dawn, the rich fragrance of his coffee wafted like musky perfume through the stale confines of his submarine.
That was what he'd miss most, Captain McGinn reflected wistfully. St. George brewed the finest coffee on the seven seas. But St. George's tour of duty was nearly over, and McGinn hadn't been able to convince his chief cook to re-up. To make his day complete, two new seamen were reporting for duty.
Sam McGinn hated changes in personnel. It disrupted routine and shifted the fragile balance of personalities that fused his crew into a battle-ready unit. His fondness for order was probably why he enjoyed being a sub commander, McGinn speculated. Cruising beneath the ocean surface for months at a stretch imposed a discipline that remained undisturbed by the passage of sunrise and sunset. Beneath the sea a submarine carried its own time.
A familiar tap at the door interrupted McGinn's thoughts. St. George entered, a wide smile breaking across his usually solemn expression as he set the tray on McGinn's desk.
"Here it be, Cap'n."
McGinn made a show of slowly lifting the white napkin covering the tray, but the succulent odor told him what was underneath.
"Your favorite, Cap'n," St. George said proudly. "Honey-fried chicken, Cajun coleslaw, black peas, corn buns, and strawberry shortcake." He leaned closer and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "I fried up three extra birds and stuck 'em in the freeze box—so you got somethin' to remember me by."
"Oh, I'll remember you all right, St. George. Who could forget the best damned cook in the Navy?"
"That's real nice of you to say, sir."
"I also said it in a letter of commendation that's now in your permanent file."
St. George beamed. "Might come in real handy when I'm lookin' for a situation."
"Well, if you ever decide to re-enlist, make sure you contact me before you sign anything," McGinn said gruffly "I don't want to lose you to some chickenshit admiral."
"Don't you worry, Cap'n," St. George assured. "I been teachin' my cousin Harold everythin' he should know. Come a week or so, you won't know I'm gone."
But as McGinn savored a moist slice of chicken, he was far from convinced. From what he'd observed, cousin Harold was a bit of a dolt. Still, if his new Chief Cook Harold Patterson proved to be half as good as St. George, he'd be grateful. Right now he was forced to hurry an excellent lunch because of two blasted seamen who'd been assigned to his command. Some whiz brain in Washington had the brilliant idea of sending two lubbers with no undersea experience to serve on the Navy's most sophisticated, and expensive, submarine.
The U.S.S. Blowgun was a Sea Wolf class attack sub, slightly larger, faster—and much quieter—than the older Los Angeles 688 class submarines. McGinn had commanded the vessel since its shakedown cruise and had grown to love it. In his opinion it was the most dangerous weapon in the armed forces. But for some inane reason the boys in the Pentagon insisted on using it for absurd experiments. Such as the one they were about to undertake within the next forty-eight hours.
McGinn poured himself a fresh coffee and reluctantly called Lieutenant (jg) Craig Early.
"Okay, Early, send up the new guests."
"Not to worry, Commander, they look shipshape."
"I'll be the judge of that, Lieutenant."
"Aye, sir."
Cursing his foolishness, Lieutenant Early replaced the phone and hurried off in search of the new crewmen. He should have known better than to try to buddy-up the old man. Commander McGinn hadn't been exactly pleased with him since he learned the news about the damned experiment. At the moment, Early wished he'd never gotten involved.
Too late now, turkey, he fumed. Just stay cool and make the best of it. The old man could change his mind yet. And maybe this sub would learn how to fly.
As St. George eased his lanky frame along the cramped corridor, he had no regrets. He had accomplished everything he'd set out to do. The Navy had expanded his horizon and now he intended to explore it fully. He had almost finished packing when Harold dropped by to say his farewells. As usual, his cousin had been nipping at the rum bottle. And as usual, he was complaining.
"I still don't feel so good. Maybe I need some more of that sour-sap," he added hopefully.
"You'd do better for yourself if you lay off that overproof. The cap'n'll have you in the brig if he finds out."
"Shee, Lucien, I know what to do. Ain't I always done right by you?"
Normally the whining insinuation in his voice never failed to grate on St. George's nerves. But today he could afford to let it pass. He was about to kiss the Navy—and cousin Harold—good-bye. So he smiled and jerked his thumb toward the nose of the sub. "Look in the back of the freezer. I left a quart of soursap there for you."
Harold beamed appreciatively. Back in Jamaica, where both of them had been born, soursap juice was held in high esteem as an all-purpose tonic. Especially to counteract the wicked hangovers incurred by drinking overproof rum. "I thank you kindly, Lucien."
"You damned well should. You got yourself the coolest berth in this man's Navy. So don't blow it."
Harold ignored the advice and leaned closer. "Say, cuz, could you let me hold a hundred or so? Just until payday."
"What the hell you need money for underneath the water, like you gonna be the whole next ten days?"
"Oh, you know, Luce, boys and me like to roll them dice just to pass the time. I swear I'll send you the bread first thing I get it."
St. George reached into his shirt pocket and extracted a tight wad of bills. He carefully peeled off two fifties and held them just out of Harold's reach. "Now you best remember one thing," he said quietly. "I don't like people that call me Luce."
"Sure, Lucien, sure," Harold said uneasily. He gingerly snatched the bills from St. George's hand and began backing out of the small compartment. "You have a nice trip home, now. And don't you worry. The money be in the mail next week."
St. George wasn't at all worried. He was certain he'd never see that hundred again.
He finished packing and headed topside, pausing frequently to shake hands with his shipmates, who seemed genuinely sorry to see him go. During his two-year stint aboard the Blowgun the tall, gaunt-featured cook had gained a modest reputation as a healer. He used native Jamaican herbal remedies to treat minor ailments, and his notable success with the more common social infections had earned him the admiration of half the crew.
St. George was approaching the control room when he spotted Lieutenant Early escorting two strange seamen to the captain's quarters. He'd already heard the scuttlebutt about two men coming aboard for some secret experiment, but he didn't believe the rumors. It didn't make sense to assign a pair of lab sailors to a high-megaton piece of hardware like the Blowgun.
Either the Navy Department was crazy or these men were aboard for another reason, St. George speculated, stepping into an alcove to let the trio go by. He studied the new crewmen as they passed, and decided his doubts were justified. They looked more like SEALS than lab rats. One was a blond surfer type with a goofy smile that didn't fool St. George. There was little goofy about the man's alert blue eyes, or the karate calluses decorating his knuckles like tiny leather patches. The other one was shorter and thick around the chest, like a wrestler. But there was an air of intelligence about his glum, vaguely pugnacious expression.
Whatever they were, it didn't matter anymore, St. George reflected as he ambled toward a narrow shaft of sunlight spearing through an open hatch. By the time the Blowgun pulled out of King's Island, Georgia, he'd be long gone.
Actually, when Commander McGinn finally met his new crewmen, he was forced to agree with Early's brash appraisal. Both Kent and Garin seemed seaworthy enough in their crisp white uniforms. They carried themselves with an air of confidence befitting submarine men. And he was pleasantly surprised to learn they'd qualified in the upper percentiles at computer school. He always needed hands who knew the right buttons to push. However, as far as he was concerned, they had yet to prove themselves where it counted. Under the sea.
"Welcome aboard, men," he said brusquely. "As you'll come to learn, this submarine is a highly sensitive vessel. So until you get used to her, keep your hands in your jeans or you may live to regret it. Am I clear? Good," he added without waiting for an answer. "Now, then. You'll find I'm hard but fair. How hard, how fair, is up to you. Understand? Now, until further notice you're both assigned to the torpedo room." He nodded to a short, amiable figure standing in the doorway. "First Mate Blum will show you the ropes. Any questions?"
Lieutenant Early knew there wouldn't be, but he held his breath until they were outside. Apparently the old man had approved. Otherwise he would have given them his Woe Unto Those Who Screw Up routine. Suddenly feeling much better, he delivered his charges to First Mate Blum and went off in search of a cold beer. In his haste he failed to note the look of smug amusement that passed between Kent and Garin.
"Candyass," Garin muttered, watching him depart. "Stow it," Blum cut in. "The lieutenant's good people." Garin tilted his head and scowled. "I'll let you know." Blum scowled back. "You'll soon know who's who on this ship, mister."
"Don't pay no mind to my bonehead buddy here," Kent said affably. "He's got an attitude about officers."
Blum relaxed a bit and nodded. "Yeah, most of 'em's chickenshit for sure. But McGinn is fair enough. And Early's better than most. In fact, he's got a kind of secret weapon."
"Yeah, that kid?" Garin said, glancing at Kent. "What the hell's he got?"
But Blum caught the look, and since he was still put off by Garin's arrogance, he decided to go by the book.
"I said too much already. Anyway, you'll know all about it by the time this cruise is half over. C'mon with me. I'll show you your berths and get you squared away."
"Uh, any chance we can get some chow?" Kent ventured. "We didn't get but a snack on the damned plane."
Blum's natural dislike for airplanes softened his disposition. "Sure, the crew's mess is open. At worst they'll rustle up some leftovers."
"Good cook?" Garin inquired, hoisting his sea bag.
"Dunno yet. Matter of fact, he just took over today."
"No shit. What's his name?" Kent said. "In case we have to butter him up. It's a joke, get it? Butter up the cook."
"I got it." Blum sighed, moving toward the corridor. He couldn't decide which annoyed him most, Garin's arrogance or Kent's phony good humor.
As it happened, the chief cook wasn't in the best of humor himself that afternoon. Patterson's eyes were red-rimmed and his voice was hoarse. "Goddamn dinner bell ain't for two hours yet," he replied gruffly when Blum requested chow for the new arrivals.
"Hey, look, anything will do," Kent persisted. "Sandwich, leftovers, anything. We're starvin', man. We'll be glad to cover you for the inconvenience," he added, lifting a folded bill into view.
Patterson squinted at the bill, then at Kent. "Keep your damn money, boy. I'll rustle up somethin'. But don't acquire no habit. I run a tight burner."
He turned toward the galley, then stopped. "Where you think you're goin'?" he snapped at Kent, who had started to follow.
"Well, uh, I thought you said ..."
"I said I'd rustle somethin' up. I didn't invite you inside. 'Less you want KP, my galley is permanently off limits. That clear?"
"Hey, sure. No problem." Kent's boyish grin was wasted on Patterson's departing back.
Blum didn't say a word, but he had a feeling he was going to get along with Patterson just fine.
Later, while unpacking his gear, Kent was still fuming.
"If you hadn't been so fucking pushy with Blum, he might have told us what's up with Early."
"Who cares?" Garin retorted. "What could he tell us that we don't already know?"
"Now we'll never know, will we?"
"Anyway, we got to meet Patterson."
"Hey, easy," Kent hissed. He looked around at the deserted bunks. "No need for names. Not for what I got for him."
"He really pissed you off back there, didn't he?"
"So what if he did?"
"So remember. We wait until we're at sea. We want a captive audience."
Kent sat on his bunk and studied his nails. "Don't worry. I plan on taking my time on this one. He'll be beg-gin' to tell me long before I'm finished."
"Outstanding," Garin grunted.
"What about ..." Kent lowered his voice, "... the skip?"
"What about him?"
"Well, we do have to tell him his shit-heeled cook is busted, don't we?"
Garin leaned closer. "We're not here to bust him, homeboy. Once we get a full confession, orders are to terminate. Any problem with that?"
Kent eased back in his bunk and cradled his head in his hands. "You know the thing I like best about submarines? The weather's always good."
Harold Patterson hadn't taken a drink for forty-eight hours, but sobriety seemed to disagree with him. Ever since the Blowgun had pulled out of King's Island, he'd been as sick as a swamp hog. He'd guzzled the entire bottle of St. George's soursap juice to no avail. After serving breakfast he'd been forced to check himself into sick bay, well away from his rum supply.
Since then he had dozed fitfully, feverish dreams galloping across his brain and pain twisting his belly. Albano, the pharmacist's mate, had diagnosed the ailment as intestinal flu and administered a combination of antibiotics and mild sedatives. But when he checked later that evening, Patterson's condition had worsened. A pasty gray pallor dulled his dark, sweat-glistened face, making his yellowed pupils seem like distant beacons in a fog. And although he was still conscious, his hoarse responses to Albano's questions were barely audible.
"Where does it hurt?" Albano droned.
Patterson passed his hand from his chest to his groin.
"All down here ... pain keeps movin'."
Albano cursed his Sicilian luck. He didn't relish having to tell Commander McGinn they'd have to scuttle the cruise because he couldn't make a proper diagnosis. Especially if Patterson's complaint proved to be minor. The old man would bust him down to deckhand and send his ass to the Gobi Desert.
"Listen, Harold, there's a couple of buddies waitin' to see you," Albano said hopefully. Perhaps a friendly visit would aid his recovery.
Patterson squinted as if hearing news from another planet.
"You know, the new dude Kent and his pal," Albano prompted.
"Kent says he knows you from the Blue Parrot bar."
Patterson's eyes suddenly went wide. "Water, man ... get me water."
After he drank he seemed calmer, and more alert.
"Tell that boy I'll see him in a few minutes, okay?" the cook whispered, settling back on his pillow.
"Is he feeling better?" Kent asked when Albano came out of sick bay.
"He said he'll see you. But he's real weak. Don't excite him. Maybe only one of you guys should go in."
"Anything you say," Kent assured him. "We're here to cheer up the poor bastard."
Garin put his arm around Albano's shoulder. "You like good scotch, old buddy?"
Albano perked up. "Do boats float?"
"So happens there's a thirty-year-old jug of Ballantine standing at attention in my locker, which happens to be unlocked. So why don't you just help yourself to a snort or three while we bullshit with ol' Harold."
"Well, okay, but don't overdo it. I'll be right back."
"Think the scotch will hold him long enough?" Kent asked when Albano was out of earshot.
"Don't worry, it's jacked up. One drink and he'll still be smiling when we get back. Now let's squeeze this scumbag for some names and numbers."
Patterson stared in wide-eyed fascination as they entered sick bay and approached his bunk.
Kent gave him a mischievous wink. "Hello, Harold. We're here to talk about Blue Parrots. We can do it the fun way"—he lifted his hand to show him the hypodermic—"or the hard way." He smiled and produced a serrated combat knife. "It's up to you."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Blue Limbo by Frank Lauria. Copyright © 2001 Frank Lauria. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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