Recovering from a broken marriage, schoolteacher Mike Stanton has decided to abandon his life in California and immigrate to New Zealand. With high hopes, a large backpack, money, and documents in hand, Mike boards a Pan Am flight from San Francisco bound for adventure.

Trouble arises immediately when his flight develops engine trouble and is diverted to Hawaii. During the days of waiting for another flight to take him onward, Mike falls in love with the beaches, surf, and island girls but is still content to leave when the time comes. Upon his arrival in New Zealand, however, he is informed he cannot immigrate after all. With only three months until his visa expires, Mike decides to explore the stunning countryside—and soon finds himself caught up with a gang of passport counterfeiters. He is stalked and mistaken for an FBI agent, and in the serenity of this South Pacific paradise, he is kidnapped, the first in a series of treacherous events that the wayward teacher may not survive. 

In this thriller, one man on an extended vacation in New Zealand finds himself out of his depth, mixed up with international criminals, and facing dangers that could end with his death.

Passport

A Novel of International IntrigueBy Michael R. Häack

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2011 Michael R. Häack
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4567-3370-4

Chapter One

He saw me as soon as he entered the office. With a sigh and a smirk, which offered me precious little of the confidence I so desperately needed, he slammed the door and slapped his imitation alligator file case on the desk. I tried to remain calm, and sat with my legs crossed, and forced a smile.

"I can't believe you came here today anyway." Tall, dark, and arrogant, Mark had a way with words. The way was called control and seemed to go well with his job as a counselor. "I already told you there is little need."

In a disconnected manner, my face continued to smile, while the rest of me fought to overcome the urge to cry out, and I replied, "You said, maybe. You said we should take some time and consider, er, things. You gave me some hope." I wanted to scream now!

He ruffled his perfect long black hair, pushed black rimmed glasses up a Roman nose, and stretched out in his fine leather office chair, black of course, with arms crossed and legs pointed my way. His total body language said, "Crawl insect! You haven't a hope."

"Look, ah, Mike." Had he forgotten me or my name? I was still the same tall skinny blond guy in shorts who had been in his office only two days ago. "We spoke again this morning. She and I spoke. There is nothing more to say on the subject."

Desperation now. "No, but, she said maybe. She said we could take some time and try ..."

"No! That is not what was said."

"But wait, I have tried all the things you suggested ..."

"No," Mark was big on interruptions. "You are compulsive, obsessive, you clean house all the time, always have to work in the yard, you're not spontaneous. Basically, you do nothing to further the life of the marriage. My client has spoken. There will be a divorce!"

I tried once more. All I wanted was to be told maybe, perhaps in time. "She said that if I tried ..."

Mark continued. "The discussion was if she wanted reconciliation, which she does not. The matter is closed. You will be served the papers within a week. Now, are there any questions you have for me? If not I have further needs to attend to; my waiting room, as always, is filled."

Oh, gosh no. No questions at all. I mean, after all, you just slapped the lid on ten years of marriage with a coldhearted and businesslike shrug. No, I have no questions for you.

I mentally surveyed the waiting room. Who was next out there? If I held out long enough, would they all solve their problems, without the interference of dear Mark, and go happily home, together?

"So Mike, what are your plans? Perhaps a girlfriend in the future?" He was such an arrogant rat and his manners always ran to the cheap, sleazy and banal.

I refused him his moment of glory, stood up with what I considered a combination of scared anger, and angry dignity, crossed the room and closed the door carefully behind me. I mentally wished the sad souls in the arm-chaired waiting room good fortune.

Outside the weather was mild, the traffic passed at a brisk five o'clock stampede, and pedestrians charging by were indifferent to a broken heart. I decided to make the move at once. Closing my eyes I dashed into the street. Dead on the paving stones was exactly how I saw myself. That would end it all and I would have no need to face the future. Astonished and intact I touched a parked car across the street.

"Hey, you stupid ... you wanna get killed?"

Well yes, that was the idea.

Dazed, I fished out keys, started the car, and automatically drove to what had been our home. This house during the past three years had been a lovely place, 'til today. Today I arrived at an impersonal box, alien to me. Who would live there now? Perhaps the boyfriend from the south would move in. Name unknown, yet surely he must have been the one to encourage this abrupt end to life, hope and love.

"She" was there, and as much to insult as to isolate, was locked in the spare room. That room, which was to have been a children's room, had fallen far short of that goal as time wandered past, and no giggling brood arrived. I scooped up Adolph the cat, and went to sit in my domain, the garage.

In the soft garage light sat what would become her car, our precious Lotus Élan, and my old German Krobbelwagen. The place was clean, spotless as always, and quiet, way too quiet. I removed the gun from the closet and checked for shells. Now it was time to decide, where and how.

Shooting yourself in the head with a shotgun is never easy. The trigger is too far away for most arms. I was the exception. Six foot one inch tall and weighing the usual 145 pounds I had unusually long arms and would have been a great backstroke swimmer but chose to swim breaststroke in college instead. Still, it helped now as I could easily reach that trigger and planned to, but not here, not in the clean garage. Besides, the mess could get on the spotless white Lotus. Perhaps my compulsion with cleanliness saved my life that bleak evening in February of 1978.

Further plans for self-destruction abated as the door opened and she paraded out, grabbed the gun and remarked, "You can't be trusted with this. I'll take it!" That last night the cat and I slept in the car, not the Lotus of course. No good getting cat hair on the fawn-colored leather.

In the darkness of an early morning I gathered my clothes, the old car, and settled in with my brother.

I would continue to teach school for a while. I worked, without a contract and with very poor pay, at a middle school as a sports instructor.

My few friends, mostly guys I ran with on a cross-country team, lent precious little support for the times.

"Hey we've all been divorced. It's not a big thing. Life goes on." To them it was no big thing and we continued to run daily. I continued to run, ignored their mostly useless advice, and took up sulking and worrying on the side.

As time passed it appeared as if the world would revolve as always with one small exception; I was no longer a partner in a marriage.

Then, without warning, I read the ad in a travel magazine. Within weeks I obtained passport, visa, and money, and gathered possessions into one large backpack. Early one morning, while life went on as usual, I boarded a plane for New Zealand. I planned to emigrate.

Chapter Two

Ok, so I was a little overly excited, but then New Zealand was still wilderness country. Wilderness equaled exploration, which meant adventure. I was desperately in need of a change of life, thus, adventure. With a landmass the size of Colorado and a population of only three million, there was a lot of wide-open space.

New Zealand had some extremes to consider too. The top end of the north island is 'so California,' that a tiny town was even named after our over populated and polluted state. The countryside is fields of green, masses of trees, low hills, and beaches, beaches, beaches. The north island boasts New Zealand's two largest cities: Auckland, population one million, and Wellington, also one million. The remaining one million citizens are spread over the 45,300 square miles of the tiny South Pacific country.

The south island of New Zealand is a mixture of the Sierra Nevada Mountains of California, the fjords of Norway, and the ice fields of nearby Antarctica. Throw in such lovely cities as Christchurch, Queenstown and Dunedin, and such scenic spots as Cape Farewell, Lake Te Anau and the snowfields of Mt. Aspiring, and you have one of the most beautiful places on earth. The peace of a country with a small population and an amazingly low crime rate, the pasturelands of gentle sheep herds, and the musical falling waters of mountain streams, make south island a sylvan pastureland, that flows from snow-capped mountains to the coves, then drops to the casting azure of the Pacific Ocean and the Tasman Sea.

The width of this country of two major islands varies, from two miles to a whopping 130 miles in width, at the waist of the north island. This wide area is located around Waitara on the west coast and Gisborne on the east coast. The very tip of the north island is known as Cape Regina, which is approached by Ninety Mile Beach. This span of countryside, which is actually about 40 miles long, is only about one mile wide. All things considered, to a footloose adventure-driven young man, it sounded like heaven. It was, only things did not work out exactly as planned.

My flight on Pan Am left San Francisco for Auckland, but was diverted to Hawaii.

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please." The voice over the P.A. system on the plane caught our attention from dozing, reading, and relaxing. "We have some smoke in the area of one of the engines." No doubt here as we'd been watching that out the starboard window now for some minutes. "We will be putting down at Honolulu International for a quick check over. The weather is beautiful, 88 degrees with a mild sea breeze. You should not be inconvenienced at all. We expect to be back in the air within the hour."

For several years I had spent Christmas on the islands and knew well what lovely weather surrounded the lush palms, warm casting Pacific, and lovely brown maidens. I was not at all disturbed.

We were quickly and in quiet organization, marched off the plane and into a small waiting room. We anticipated a very short break in our travel and so brought out paperbacks, coffee cups, and sat in the hard crushed polyester and chrome chairs provided without complaint.

Time passed, pages turned, coffee vanished, I shifted in my seat.

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please?" Another P.A. announcement. "Pan Am Flight 462 passengers bound for Auckland, New Zealand should make their way to the Pan Am ticket counter in the main passenger terminal."

Great. We are on our way at last, three hours later.

The agent at the counter did not reveal good news.

"We will be putting you up in the Reef Side Hotel for the night." This Pan Am agent was young, lovely, tan, and met with my idea of a Hawaiian island girl; all smiles. However ... "The plane will be replaced tomorrow with a different craft. Numerous problems have grounded the plane you arrived on. Your luggage will be moved to your rooms for you. Please queue up at the bus stop just outside the main entrance. Thank you for flying the wonderful world of Pan Am. Mahalo."

Blank stares. We were not on our way to New Zealand after all, rather, headed to some island hotel, and I would wager not an overly rated lodging at that.

"Not what I paid for" ... "typical of Pan Am" ... "I want a refund" ... "what in the heck do they think they're doing with my vacation time?" ... voices in the crowd of passengers now offloaded and headed for something other than their planned stay in New Zealand filled the waiting zone around the booking area.

Crossing the tiled lobby and heading outdoors toward waiting rows of taxis and buses, I could not miss the angered voices of a crowd gathered around a short dark man, waving his arms in what could only be sharp displeasure. Speaking in a tongue foreign to my English, the message was nonetheless clearly anger.

"What is the problem?" I whispered the question more to myself than the crowd. Another tourist and I stopped to watch. While no help appeared in the sea of passing travelers I was moved to offer aid to a sobbing young lady, near hysteria by my judgment, standing alone and agonizing over a small handful of bills; foreign bills, not U.S. dollars.

"Don't get involved in foreign affairs. That's none of your business." The voice of an airport official at hand, oblivious to human emotions I would think. However, I forged ahead into unknown waters.

"Ma'am. Can I help you in some way?" I asked gently. What I could do was beyond me; beyond her too it would appear.

"No. Please, no. Go away, quickly," she urged me. She was of student age, Asian, lovely, and rather lost. I was not quick enough.

"You, get out of here now. Now!" Strong accent, possibly Middle Eastern, the man with the fluid arms and sharp voice came my way. "This is not your business. Scat!"

Scat? Scat is what you tell a cat or a small boy. I hesitated just long enough to receive a very hairy-armed shove and a close up look at angry eyes and a monobrow bent in a frown. "Stay out of what does not concern you!" Short, darkly angry, I would know this man in the future if the need arose.

I left then, walked on with a backward glance at his continued stare and angry-eyed surveillance. I was not soon to forget that face. Nor would I forget the lovely young lady in certain distress, isolated it would appear from provisions, both physical and financial.

At the exit, authorities asked me to show my Pan Am ticket, passport, and other photo identification; in this case my California driver's license from my wallet, as proof that I was a passenger transferred from a delayed flight. Soon we were seated on an island bus and bound for the hotel. I was unable to shake off the feeling of fear and isolation I sensed in that harried young lady at the airport. What could have been going on? Had she lost money, maybe her passport? Also, I wondered why that hairy man was so rude, both to her and to me. I may as well have talked to the metal seatback in front of me. My mind refused to give me back any answers, so I looked out the window.

"Hmmmm, so how come a Hawaiian Islands tourist looks so unexcited?" The voice belonged to the middle-aged man dressed in a flashy floral shirt, sporting a well established suntan, and seated beside me. He seemed interested in my dilemma so I shared the drama, including the plight of being grounded in Honolulu for a day or so. About my age, middle 30's, named Tad, and coincidently also staying at the lovely Reef Side Hotel, he was back to the grounded aircraft story; the more important issue of the Asian girl in the airport shouting match soon forgotten.

The trip from airport to hotel lasted far too long for an already impatient "tourist," so we passed the time in general conversation.

"Have you been to Hawaii before? You know, I actually live here." Tad was full of good advice. "I drove taxi on the Big Island, got bored with the grind, so here I am just goofing off and looking for a new job." Tad laughed to himself. I suspect he was considering how likely it was that he would find any form of employment in tourist- jammed Waikiki. I would have offered a suggestion, but he was off again. "You simply must visit Pearl Harbor and see the ships. You do plan to take the harbor tour, right?" I hated to disappoint him, so I pumped his ego a bit instead.

"Well, thanks for the idea," I said. "Actually I was in the Navy and was stationed onboard a submarine. In fact it is currently anchored at the Pearl Harbor museum and it is open for public tour."

He looked surprised. "I thought you were a coo ... er ... a school teacher I mean." He recovered so quickly I had to glance at him and wonder what it was he had almost said about my occupation.

"I was in the Navy." At this point I fell into the usual "Mum's the word," sworn to secrecy phrase. "I worked in communications."

"Hey, but on a sub? Man, that's cool." Tad was excited. "Tell me all about sub duty. Is it cool, scary, do you get sea sick? Where did you go?" Wow, take him to the Navy recruiter and sign him up for a four-year hitch.

I tried to make it interesting without going into details. The history of my years in the U.S. Navy was buried in secrecy, and few if any details from those years of service have crossed my lips in the years since. I tried cat-and-mouse with young Tad.

"Well, of course there was the usual shipboard stuff and time in schools and ashore on liberty. I attended a school in Imperial Beach, California as well as one at the Army Presidio in Monterey. After that I ..."

"Imperial Beach? Wow, I grew up in Imperial Beach. That must have been that really hush hush place on the beach. We used to hear about it from the guys who hung out at the White Spot Laundry. My folks ran it. What was it called; the CTR school? Wow, you must be a spy!"

Nuts! Now just exactly how many casual tourists on buses in Waikiki even know where Imperial Beach is, have ever heard of The White Spot, or know anything about the Navy Communications training facility? Now what?

"Well, the school was for a lot of ..." I began.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Passportby Michael R. Häack Copyright © 2011 by Michael R. Häack. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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