The Hostage

       Santiago de Cuba, August 24, 0935 local time, Nigel Davenport was satisfied his repainted and modified yacht will pass any U.S. customs inspection. The secret compartment hiding the MAK-74s, RPGs and LAN rockets was so carefully concealed, he needed a blueprint to find it. At fifty, Davenport was a tall, fair haired man, as Caucasian as they come. No one would suspect he was piloting a stolen yacht crewed by FARC killers from Colombia. Their papers were forged by experts and everyone spoke passable English, and Commandante Rico was a well educated and debonair, First Mate.

       The yacht’s paperwork documented a leisurely trip down the U.S. east coast with stops in Fort Lauderdale and Nassau. Davenport planned to slip around the eastern tip of Cuba and blend in with boat traffic heading west into the Florida Strait. He’d stop in Key West to take on fuel and get the required U.S. Customs inspection. Once that was taken care of, he was free to move up the west coast of Florida. The Heaven Sent was eight years old, her twin Detroit Diesel 12V92TA engines were overhauled in 2001. Equipped with stabilizers, a bow thruster and two Northern Lights generators, she’d easily make 20 knots in 6 foot seas. She had a full width main salon, three guest state rooms, plus crews quarters.

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       Jack Creighton was encouraged by Felicia’s seeming warmth. He postponed his next overnight guest’s visit, believing he was getting closer to Felicia. It was apparent their relationship was developing into something more than author and editor. He felt things were moving ahead, and work on the book was going very well. They were ahead of schedule, his story was candid and matter of fact. They were almost half way through and coming to his first venture into local politics in Kansas. Those early days, traveling on the stump across the wheat fields of his native state, served to whet his appetite for grander things. Someday, he planned to run for Governor and maybe even President.

      Jack worked from 8:00AM until noon, even on Saturdays. This was an easy pace for a man used to sixteen hour days and late nights in Washington. His schedule was manageable and the demands on his time, other than writing, were few. He looked forward to playing tennis and his daily swim with Felicia. She was the consummate professional during their afternoon editorial reviews. Her criticism was softened by years of experience working with high strung authors. She made the needed editorial changes but it never stung as she made them. Jack found himself wondering, where was this woman when I really needed her?

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