On a small Caribbean island nation a disgruntled faction plots to overthrow the government. When the government learns of the plot it must do two things, thwart the takeover attempt and push forward its own plans for reform. After a chance meeting, an unlikely pair of Americans is drawn into this complex situation. In a tropical setting that is both sensual and sinister, rising young American author Angela Lundgren and engaging and enigmatic ex-army Ranger Vince Lassiter are quickly and inexorably drawn into a world of adventure, political intrigue, danger - and death. They forge a sometimes contentious relationship that soon deepens beyond friendship. Along the way, each begins to question the goals and the courses of their lives. When events come to a climax on one tumultuous night, the forces of man and nature combine to find Vince putting his life in Angela's hands. Reacting almost instinctively, Angela discovers unexpected things about herself as she must risk her own life and the lives of newfound friends to save the things that have become most important to her. As they struggle to survive the events they have been swept into, Angela and Vince also struggle to make decisions that will affect their lives forever.

The Track of the Sea Turtle

By Mike Pedersen

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2011 Mike Pedersen
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4567-5606-2

Chapter One

From the high-flying jet airliners passing over the Lesser Antilles, the island of Santa Elena looked like a gourd. Its nearly circular bulk surrounded the chimney of a long-dead volcano and its neck gradually curved up and away, first to the northeast, then around toward the northwest. The small fishing village of Georgesport was located along the inside of the neck on the edge of a bay facing the calm Caribbean. The sharp ridge formed by a tumbling line of ancient volcanic flows shaded the village from the early morning sun. A few miles to the west though, the bright morning sunshine already illuminated several small islands surrounded by sugar sand beaches. Tropic breezes gently wafted through the tall palms. The gentle lap of the surf, the heady scent of hibiscus and the sounds of laughing children lent an air of sensuous serenity to the scene. Smiling vendors made their way down the narrow, cobbled roads of the old village hawking their wares – fresh fruit and fish, handmade baskets and jewelry of native coral.

On the flagstone veranda abutting the road in front of the colonial stone building that was the village's only hotel, a young woman sat sipping tea and idly tracing patterns in the warm, aged carved wood of her table. Thirty-something, slim and attractive, she seemed to be in no hurry as she watched colorful birds flitting among the blossom-laden shrubbery. Although she had been on Santa Elena for a little more than a week, she had been in the Caribbean for more than a month, and this was merely the latest of the islands she had visited. This time of year was considered the 'off season' and even though it was a little hotter and more humid than the peak tourist months, she was grateful for the reduced rates that allowed her to stay longer, even though she could write off a good portion of her trip as business expenses.

The plates containing the remains of her breakfast had already been cleared by one of the attentive staff. Across the bay, the vegetation-covered island peaks with their tops in scudding white clouds formed a dark green backdrop to the colorful native sailboats and a couple of visiting yachts. Her rattan armchair creaked as she turned and looked up the road. She noticed a man approaching, purposely striding up the road's center. Obviously not a native, his dress seemed a bit old-fashioned with the Panama hat and the tailored linen jacket, but he carried himself with an air of purpose and authority. Curious, she kept watching as he made his way up the road. He seemed to be known by the natives, as he acknowledged greetings from several as he passed by. As he neared, she noted he was deeply tanned and seemed very trim and fit. He glanced her way. Their eyes briefly met and she quickly averted her gaze. Her pulse increased as she tried to furtively track his progress and noticed that he was keeping his eyes on her. When he got closer, she became a little more nervous as he lightly took the single step up from the road to the veranda and approached her table. "Is this seat taken?" he inquired, his hand on the back of the chair across the table from hers. She looked around. There were no other patrons. Every other table was empty.

She was uneasy – by herself in a foreign country – anything could happen. She looked up at him, staring into his penetrating blue eyes. She also noted his easy smile. His voice told her that he was American and she felt a bit more secure. Something in her mind told her that he would abide by whatever she said, so she made a decision. "Suit yourself," she said with a tight-lipped smile, keeping her eyes locked with his as she purposely picked up her teacup and took a sip.

With a fluid motion, he swiveled the empty chair and lowered himself into it. He looked around, saw the women watching from just inside the arched doorway to the small restaurant on the first floor of the hotel and made a brief motion. One of the ladies quickly came up to the table. She was smiling and seemed eager to greet him and present a menu, but before she could say anything he said, "Coffee, black, please, and two slices of buttered toast and a fruit plate," then, turning, "Would you like more tea, Miss ...?" He indicated the small ceramic pot on the table next to her cup.

"Angela," she replied, feeling her face flush. "Yes, I would, thank you."

"Anything else?"

"No ... no, thank you. I've just finished my breakfast."

As the woman hurried away, he took off his Panama hat and set it on the edge of the table. His hair was sun-bleached straw blond and he had a slightly receding hairline. His face was creased and deeply tanned, obviously someone who spent a great deal of time outdoors. He could have been anywhere from his mid thirties to mid fifties. It was hard to tell with people who kept themselves that fit and active and outdoors. Before she could speak again, he said: "I think a good meal always deserves a follow-up cup of coffee or tea, don't you? Helps it digest and gives you time to plan your next moves."

"Next moves?" she blurted, not expecting this line of conversation, "What do you mean, 'next moves'?"

"The day is young. You don't plan on just sitting here drinking tea all day, do you?"

"Well, no, of course not. But I just don't consider what I'm going to do next a 'move'."

"I guess in my line of work I'm just used to trying to stay one jump ahead of the competition."

"And what is your line of work?"

There was the briefest hesitation before he answered: "Import – export Mostly ... and some other things to fill in the gaps."

One of the ladies approached with a pot of fresh tea that she set next to the woman called Angela, then went back to the kitchen and returned and set a cup and saucer in front of the man, filled the cup with steaming coffee and placed the carafe on the table. As she backed off, the woman who had originally taken his order returned, set a folded linen napkin down and arranged a knife, fork and spoon on it with one hand while expertly balancing the plates with his breakfast on her other forearm. She set the fruit plate down, then the smaller plate with the toast. She asked if there was anything else either of them needed, but they, mostly he, assured her they were all set. She, smiled, and backed off, leaving them with the admonition to just signal if they needed anything.

"So what's an import-export person doing in this backwater place? I thought they hung out in New York or San Fran or Hamburg or places like that."

"Well, the big boys do. I work on a smaller scale, mostly around the islands and along the coast of the mainland. I work on the 'buy low – sell high' principle. I keep my eye out for things that they have a lot of in one place and not so much of in another place, and then I try to equalize the supply and the demand and take my cut for doing it."

"It sounds like a lot of running around. Is it profitable?"

"It keeps me in pin money. How about you?" he said, changing the subject, "This isn't exactly a big tourist destination, is it?"

"I write. I like my solitude, and I like to experience what I'm writing about."

"So what do you write about?" Looking at her with her apparent youth and freshness, he was thinking of those flaccid, feel-good short stories in women's magazines or those titillating summer novels most women seemed to find so engrossing.

"I don't write 'about' anything in particular. I mostly write...