It is the early 1970s, and the Vietnam War is coming to a close-along with the focus of a generation's rebellion. Colleen Ryan, daughter of the district attorney, heads a group of student protesters called the Volunteers who are adrift with no cause to unite them. As the movement splinters in disagreement and doubt, its members seek reasons to forge a new life. As protests turn violent, returning soldiers are greeted with scorn, while their detractors are hailed as heroes. Relationships become passé, and drugs inspire more faith for some than religion. Ben Gold, a Volunteer and Colleen's love, is on a quest through a dangerous rite of passage, but his best efforts come with a price. As Ben attempts to help Harley Mason-an old friend who has just returned from the Army-he is caught in a web of betrayal where honor is traded for nickel-bags. In the midst of misguided choices, Ben must duel against a conspiracy of vengeance-headed by none other than Colleen's father. Passage is a compelling novel that shares a riveting account of an unforgettable era in American history while paying tribute to those who made their journey from old to new with the best of hopes that they would make it safely to the other side.
Passage
By Vince HurleyiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2010 Vince Hurley
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4502-3435-1Chapter One
Slowly and quietly he crawled through the tall grass to the edge of the bluff where the great lake spread its wide body before him. Firefly flashes danced from nerve to nerve with a feverish chill of sweat pressed against cool turf. He spied the water below. The soft, languid womb in repose, inviolate and constant, stretched north to south to the horizon and back again across his binoculars' field of vision.
The pumping rush of blood drowned all but the sound of the tender boat chugging from boat to boat inside the breakwater down the steep slope and away to the south. The tender worked its way among clanking halyards in the light after sunset, hauling aboard the last sailors from boats that rocked and tugged at their moorings in the north wind. He watched closely as the tender churned its last leg back toward the pale yellow ripples of the yacht club's lights across the water.
He scanned the eastern horizon, still unbroken by the rusted hull of a cargo freighter that should have arrived hours ago. Resting the binoculars on the grass, he wiped his brow. The plan, so carefully conceived, so meticulous and certain, began to break upon him in a succession of insurmountable waves, each dragging him under by the probability of imminent failure.
He picked up the binoculars and once again focused on the tender as two sailors, leaning over the port side, settled the bulbous craft into its slip for the night, while another hopped out and fastened its lines. The tender's old skipper shut off the engine, emptied his pipe against the starboard side, and followed the last of his passengers out over the rail and onto the wooden deck. Through the binoculars, the skipper was on center stage, checking the lines, raising a hand good night, and lurching heavily from side to side as he left the dock. Where the dock met the gate, he looked over his shoulder one last time, struggled with the padlock on the chain-link fence, flipped a switch on the club wall turning off the lone bulb over the gasoline pumps, and turned toward the parking lot, making a silhouette against the light pouring from the club windows.
The lean figure in the tall grass rose to his knees. He stowed the binoculars in his knapsack, flung the knapsack on his back, and swung his body over the edge of the steep bluff, sliding several feet on loose dirt until he regained his balance. Down the forty-foot slope he made his way, grasping at exposed roots for balance, several feet at a time, until he reached the bottom and stopped in a low crouch.
Deep, rolling sand stretched to the lake about forty yards before him. The beach was deserted. Only scattered clumps of scrub and tall grass stood between him and the fenced-in yacht club property about one hundred yards away.
It had all looked so simple from above. From the crest of the bluff, the perfect order of the space below-the white frame clubhouse, the tailored lawn, the boats pointing into the wind-seemed welcome and harmless. But from a crouching position at the foot of the bluff, a fortress loomed before him. The only approach to the club by land was the steep and narrow drive that traversed down the western slope from a guarded gatehouse at the top of the bluff. From each side of the gatehouse, a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire ran several hundred yards in opposite directions until each arm turned ninety degrees toward the lake and plunged down the slope. At the bottom of the bluff, the fence that formed the north and south boundaries leveled out onto ten-foot high concrete piers that ran from the foot of the bluff, across the sand, and out into the lake toward the breakwater, leaving just enough room for two entryways, one from the north and one from the south, into the protected harbor.
After looking up and down the beach one more time, he stepped out into the sand and followed the foot of the bluff toward the yacht club's northern border. Deep pockets of sand swallowed each step, setting him off balance and out of sync. Tingling beads of sweat and doubt dogged him as he made his way closer to the imposing wall that grew larger with each step.
When he reached the concrete wall, he climbed several feet back up the slope to a point where he could hike himself to the top. Bracing his legs against the slope, he raised his arms, laced his fingers in the chain link and hoisted himself off the slope and up onto the wall. He then crept slowly, following the fence out toward the lake to where a vertical opening had been cut in the chain link. When he reached the opening, he crouched down, pulled the lips apart on either side, and pushed his body through headfirst.
His heart beat against his chest as he stole a look toward the yacht club and jumped off the wall. With his fingers plunged deep into the cold sand, he listened closely for several seconds before running to a small maintenance shed twenty yards away. Peeking around the corner of the shed, past rows of naked keels on wooden skids, and beyond the dinghies lying upside down on the dock, he saw the edge of the water.
He darted between the raised boats and around the last keel before crawling out onto the dock between the two dinghies farthest from the club. Lying flat on his stomach, he looked out at the sailboats moored inside the breakwater, focusing on the yellow 210 sailboat thirty yards away. From the corner of his eye, he noticed one boat far off to his right leave its mooring and head toward the southern opening in the breakwater. Another sailboat was coming in through the northern break-too close to where he was hidden. As he waited for it to pass, his stomach twisted into coils of nausea. Gripped by paralysis, he watched the sailboat motor well past him to its mooring to the south.
As the wake of the passing boat pushed up against the dock, he let out a deep breath. The night had begun, and the young man slipped unseen into the cold, dark waters of the great lake. He swam with short, thrashing strokes as he adjusted to the weight of his wet clothes and the knapsack riding high on his neck. Once he had his rhythm, his wide breast strokes took him through the silent black ripples and into the fleet. When he reached the yellow sailboat, he pulled himself up onto the rail, hoisted himself aboard, and peered back at the club into the cross-eyed stare of violated boats glaring at his transgression.
With cold, wet fingers he fumbled with the knapsack to untie the cord and pull out a plastic bag. He removed dry clothes and a denim jacket from the bag and placed them on the bench seat on the port side of the boat. From the pocket of his denim coat he removed a card and turned it over to read the printed numbers of the engine's combination lock.
He mumbled the first three numbers as he held the lock in his numb fingers, turning the dial to the left, and then to the right, but it slipped through his hands. He tried it again, but it would not open. He braced his hands between his knees. Again and again, he fumbled with the dial until the metal hook finally released from the block and fell from the engine with a resounding jolt upon the wooden slats at his feet.
In a cold sweat, and stealing looks from side to side, he set the choke and yanked the cord three times. On the fourth try, the eight-horsepower outboard sputtered and finally kicked in. After crawling forward to release the mooring line, he made his way back to the engine. Holding his breath for a moment, he pushed in the choke, shifted into forward, and...
