Adventure -- Dragons of The Neverland

Adventure -- Dragons of The Neverland

by James Hood
Adventure -- Dragons of The Neverland

Adventure -- Dragons of The Neverland

by James Hood

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Overview

The ultra-clandestine Open Water Exploration Company realized it possessed the means to conduct viable space travel in 1973, without spaceships or having to travel into outer space!

They created a machine-generated, macro-electromagnetic “door” into an
accidently-discovered parallel reality and sent an expedition to see “what is on the other side!”

A macro-electromagnetic field generated in open ocean allowed Expedition ships to literally float from our reality to a parallel, Alternate World, separated from ours by master macro-electromagnetic frequencies. The ships behaved like TV characters “walking” from one channel to another!

Adventure—Dragons of the Neverland picks up the exciting story of the ultra-clandestine Open Water Exploration Company’s first Expedition into the Alternate World, as and even just before the first book, Adventure—Into The Neverland ends…

…while preparing and launching Expedition 2…
…continuing the environment of suspense and adventure, triumphs and
tragedies experienced by readers of Adventure--Volume 1.


Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781524612597
Publisher: AuthorHouse
Publication date: 10/19/2016
Pages: 486
Product dimensions: 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 1.08(d)

Read an Excerpt

Adventure -- Dragons of The Neverland


By James Hood

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2016 James Hood
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5246-1259-7


CHAPTER 1

Lunatic Asylum On The Rocks ... ... Under Two Moons


11 October 1972, OWECS Endeavour, The Alternate World From the memoirs of Pvt. Albert St. Valentine, OWEC Marines

Two moons gently lit a still-unbelievable deep lavender twilit sky. A dragon growled, audible a half mile distant. As always at this stimulus, my skin crawls.

With river air taste-smell and clammy warmth, the dragon's unearthly voice keeps my senses "quite" alert. Ten weeks in the surreal, still shocking Alternate World hasn't diminished their nightly impact.

As lunatic asylums go, this one's too insignificant to make the map ... too hopelessly isolated. Three hundred twenty-eight feet long, fifty wide, thirty-something high.

ISOLATED. No radio, no television, telephones, newspapers, or magazines. No neighbors. Nothing outside but water and air.

Electricity's on only a couple of hours per day; even that ends soon. Every book, magazine, cereal box, got saturated in that evil, vicious storm, over a month ago. We dried some books, rescuing them from mildew and disintegration.

Our pittance of food comes from cans and random fish caught from the river. Pittance, for sure. To conserve diesel fuel, there's little cooking. Coffee for one cup each is brewed once per week.

'Same storm flooded the music locker. Wood instruments came unglued. Brass corroded. Steel rusted. Record album jackets disintegrated.

No staff in this asylum; not even guards. The Alcatraz of nuthouses. Escape-proof, surrounded by a running river ... a half-mile plus to either shore. If one of the thirty of us chooses escape and survives the river ...

... this asylum's "off-site guards," who keep us too frightened to try escaping ... will eat those who do.

Oh, and this asylum we dwell in wasn't designed as such. We residents ... or inmates did not even become crazy until at most about six months ago.

Did I mention our insane asylum is made of steel? And much of it is a warehouse? In the warehouse are bizarre things like a bulldozer and two disassembled airplanes and tank with a cannon. Why? Because this asylum is really a grounded ship. A twenty-eight year-old, World War II-built former US Navy Landing Ship Tank. Simply, an LST is a powered, ocean-going barge meant to beach itself, allowing vehicles to drive directly ashore through big doors in the bow.

One may speculate a mess of this sort would bring people together. Uh-uh. Everybody's shrunk into him or herself, solo acts in private worlds of neuroses in this steel box. We really are crazy. How did our pathetic situation come about? It happened kind of like this. ...

"Once upon a time, seeking to escape life's humdrum, a young man and his twin sister accepted their cousin's offer of travel and adventure."

'Shoulda minded our own flippin' business. The reality of "travel and adventure" was transit to a parallel reality, a world of purple seas, lavender skies with ... two moons. My private television metaphor places us One Step Beyond The Outer Limits of the Twilight Zone.

Tonight, cloud and seeming eternal drizzle obscure the smaller lunar body. Creaking in light breeze, the ship continues dying ...

... stranded on an island ... a sandbar, not much larger than the hull. A mental blackboard diagramming physics of the ship's placement returned me to reality ... as did realizing I just recited my planned journal entry aloud. Talking to myself.

'Mind slipped again, fantasy of the bike trail, sandwich and cans of pop in my saddlebag, maybe the latest Scientific American. No Bert. 'Can't have it. You're trapped here. No Mom, Dad, dog, bicycle, path, books, magazines, bread, peanut butter or jelly. No chocolate or beer or blueberries or cheeseburgers.

Ever. Sobbing again ... muffled so the other sentries can't hear me. I am ... everyone is ... going ... insane ... trapped in this steel lunatic asylum beneath two lunas ...

... waiting for the cavalry to ride over the hill to our rescue. Looking around again, ever a dutiful sentry, I pondered ... we are SO screwed, so marooned. SO marooned.

Much more marooned than any dictionary definition ... by a dozen decimal points. By comparison, Robinson Crusoe's desert island was a suburb of London.

What happens when we run out of toilet paper? Saved from the storm by its plastic wrap ... soon to be depleted. Noise on shore? Lift binoculars. ...

In two-moons-light, it erupted from the water with insane speed, ambushing five hapless mammals munching river grass.

It was a crocodile 'long as a city bus. The mammals, the size of small bison, bore some rodent-like features. Thank Heaven ... the grisly scene is a half-mile of water and air distant. In nature only the quickest survive. The monster's five-foot jaws nabbed the slowest mammal.

Back home in our world, Phoberomys pattersoni, the largest rodent which ever lived is thousands of years extinct. In this world, upon Phoberomys or something similar, the mega-crocs pursue that same goal.

A being-eaten-alive animal scream, the "rodent's" horror echoed over the river, mega-croc doing what crocodilia have for a hundred-fifty million years. Eating the still-warm flesh of its victim. Having witnessed this scene before ain't sufficient hardening ... I all but puked in the binocular case.

Revulsion whelming my mind, muscles clutched the rifle, all but useless against a dragon. Across the water, a hundred ice cream cone-size teeth savaged the carcass. A second mega — croc emerged from the river, rumbling growl claiming the night. Guts clenched. Croc Two joined One for midnight mega-rodent tartare'.

Anatomically, proportionally, they're crocodiles ... only bigger. Their tail extremities sport four, two foot-plus long spikes. Think Stegosaurus ... further enhancing the mega-crocs' pre-dinosaur ancestry. In daylight the reptiles' scaly hides half-shine deep grey-red, enhancing their "dragon-ly-ness."

Responding to a stray evening gust, the ship moaned, settling another few microns onto the sand. A ship oxidizing to a mound of rust ... and atop that mound of rust our bones will bleach. No ... our corpses will rot because the drizzle never seems to end. Or the wretched humidity. Mildew and rust smells. Even a breeze doesn't cleanse my nostrils.

Through my binocs, two sated monsters lounged atop their prey's offal. Gorged, torpid. Never mind folks, it's okay. Crocodiles being true to their kind ... reptilian genre pre-dating dinosaurs. Can't get used to them. Choke back a sob ... why bother? My face already hurt from crying.

Seventy-five days ago we transited through a macro electromagnetic gate ... mental fireworks courtesy of Dante's Pit ... into the Alternate World, three ships and three hundred sixty people. Sixty were aboard this ship.

We amateur explorers transited into the Neverland separated from our world as are two television stations; occupying the same space, at the same time ... on different macro-electromagnetic frequencies.

After two wretched days recovering from post-Transfer macromigraines we began haphazard exploration of the Alternate World. No denying the surreal experience, weird and real as if we travelled to another planet by spaceship. Rather than rusty old ship.

There we were, exploring a world with purple sea, lavender sky, bright blue foliage ... two moons. Very cool. Exciting beyond words.

Forty days into the mission, our ship separated from the others in a hellacious week-long storm, an other-worldly hurricane. Psychopathic seas tried ripping Endeavour apart. Captain Shahinian made a guess where the weather pattern of this world's "safe corner" would be. Getting clear of the storm's worst fury represented our only chance of survival.

Everyone was seasick, food could not be prepared, the second in command was swept overboard. 'Buncha people broke bones. Endeavour leaked everywhere and everything was ruined or water-damaged.

Capt. Shahinian found the storm's safe corner; the seas calmed, we thought, whew, it's over. Wrong. A sudden tidal bore carried the ship, far into an ever-narrowing inlet. Endeavour became a 4,000-ton surfboard riding a wave for a many, many terrifying miles.

Our "journey" ended when the bore ran out of juice and the ship grounded on a sandbar way up the mouth of a huge river.

Nineteen days from now the Expedition's three ships are supposed to rendezvous at the macro electromagnetic gate. ... Where? How many hundred miles away?

To Transfer back ... to go home.

Grounded ... Endeavour will miss Transfer-back. Another tortured metal moan. "Get it over with already," came out as a choking plea. "Spare us your eternal groaning. It's too unpleasant a reminder of reality." As if there was any way of forgetting even for a few seconds. ...

Muggy air delivered sound more hideous than a dying ship. Across the enormous river, in endless forest, brilliant blue foliage not discernible in the dark, another wretched creature bellowed its death cry. Some poor BIG creature. Unwritten obit; "Eaten by dragons." A shiver flashed through me despite 85° Fahrenheit temp.

Bow watch, duty station forward, ship's most remote post. Two hours, twenty-two minutes until relief. Stand in the dark in drizzle with a useless rifle. 'Be like shooting a B-B gun at a T-Rex if one of those monsters climbs the ship's sides. Oh well, at least the forward gun tub serves as a huge umbrella.

Despite being stranded and marooned, Capt. Shahinian insisted on maintaining strict ship's routine. Actually he ordered the acting commanding officer to maintain protocol ... when he left to seek rescue or a place to live ... a month ago. He and thirty others haven't returned. Yet. Will they ever?

Duty demands my maintaining watch on a grounded ship in the Alternate World in endless drizzle. Paramilitary Open Water Exploration Company protocol must be upheld you know. No more breeze, only river sounds. And smells. Water, forest, fish, vegetation ... and dragon excrement.

A despairing sigh benefited only me. SO alone. Except for local fauna. Particularly the carnivorous variety. Enormous carnivorous wildlife.

Half the crew remained aboard. Another tear ran down my cheek, then another. Stranded here, never ever to return home, frustrated to insanity.

Right after we grounded, the captain attempted to kedge the ship off the sandbar. LSTs traditionally use a huge stern anchor and winch to unbeach. He applied procedure.

From my point of view the captain acted in error, fighting the greater physics equation of a grounded ship's mass and moving water's direction and winch's power ... but he was not interested in the opinion of a marine private and assistant cook.

So what if I have a university degree in physics and my sister one in math? We were supposed to have science jobs.

Right. The captain's efforts resulted in loss of the stern anchor, snapping the cable and wrecking the winch. Traumatic event. Trying again, he burned up the bow winch and lost one of the forward anchors.

As self-inflicted Penance, Capt. Shahinian took a group in boats to look for either the Expedition's other ships or a place to live ashore. My sister and I and several others thought the idea stupid. However the officers made it clear; not caring what the lowest ranks aboard with no previous experience with ships ... thought.

Even if Berta and I (if SAT and ACT scores and university GPA mean anything) in all likelihood possess the highest intellects aboard this no-longer-floating asylum. Several remaining crew are wandering dangerously close to the city limits of Stark Raving Bonkers from our hopeless situation. Morale sucks pus from a rotting skunk's bag ... and is declining.

Craziness from being marooned caused even shipboard friendships to crumble. For almost a month now my once-pal, Vartan hasn't spoken with me. Neither has Rhiannon, who I used to think was kind of becoming my girlfriend.

Both stopped befriending me about the time the search party left. Even got snippy. What'd I do? They stopped talking with Berta, too. Rhiannon and Berta used to be buds.

What happens when the food runs out? The diesel oil? Toothpaste? Toilet paper? My ration today is a frigging can of frigging beets, cold. I hate and have always hated beets.

Can we live aboard forever on raw fish and kelp from the river? Who wants to? If I was back in the real world, tonight I'd be at the Joni Mitchell concert.

This time the sobs were too big to choke back.

CHAPTER 2

The Moons Of Jupiter


12 October 1972, OWECS Endeavour, The Alternate World From the memoirs of Pvt. Bert St. Valentine, OWEC Marines

The night after Capt. Shahinian's search party left with our boats, I got drunk. Half a pint of gin cost an irreplaceable pair of dungarees in trade but it was either get tanked or my frigging head explode.

When the booze took mind-control, I ranted; screaming at the top of my lungs, it didn't take effing rocket science to know our only chance for survival was get the effing ship off the effing sandbar and make effing Transfer-back rendezvous.

Acting-Captain Ensign Itohei threw me in the brig ... in irons, in solitary, bread and water for a week.

Interesting ... kinda mystical in a sick way. Not allowed to speak or be spoken to or have visitors. 'Gave me time to think ... and read a rescued, severely damaged book on navigation.

One passage haunted. In 1714, the King of England offered a £20,000 prize ... many lifetimes' wages for anyone to develop a reliable way of navigating open ocean.

Winner John Harrison presented his marine chronometer, a super-accurate clock. Runner up used a telescope through which the moons of the planet Jupiter could be seen. By measuring the "distance" between them and the giant planet, then indulging in a flurry of complex mathematics, one could determine longitude.

Calculating latitude's simple as long as either the Pole Star or Southern Cross is visible.

Longitude's the bugger; Endeavour's chronometers were either lost or destroyed in the storm. During my week in solitary, I re-invented what I believe is the mathematical process used by the nameless runner-up based on movement of the moons of the planet Jupiter.

The night my imprisonment ended, I used the ship's 8-inch reflector telescope to observe this world's(?) "Jupiter," with sister Berta taking notes and verifying my sightings.

To my infinite delight, though the formulas required tweaking, as far as I could tell, they worked! To my joy, Berta agreed. So freaking what, it turned out. Nobody cared what our position was; we were aground on a freaking sandbar!

I cared; in off hours, I sat with a wrinkled World Atlas, gluing together a 12-inch globe which had fallen apart from storm water-soaking. In my solitude I taught myself to understand not only marine navigation, but also our place, the ship's position, in the Alternate World.

But nobody would approach or talk with me.

Ensign Itohei took obvious, unspoken delight in my having become a pariah. Farking sociopath ... and that S O B is Acting-Captain Itohei.

Only my sister speaks with me ... and she's sullen too. 'Must be familial, because Vartan and Rhiannon don't hang with Berta either. We four used to be pals. Used to be. ...

'Also used to be two people at each night guard post, but Itohei did not like our playing games to stay awake. Games like, "What do you miss most about The World?"

Nightly, we'd answer; mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, grandparents, dogs, cats, homes, hot water, family gatherings, Mass, church, your own bedroom, synagogues, friends, ice cream, cars, telephones, makeup, clean clothes, a real bed, uncles, aunts, cousins, sidewalks, restaurants, fresh fruit, taverns, radio, electricity, flowers, pizza, kids playing, football, movie theatres, jazz, college, mail, bicycles, milk, butterflies, newspapers, tennis, picnics, art store, mountains, plastic models, sidewalk sales, noisy neighbors, hobby shops, coffee houses, gardening, shopping malls, people on the street, libraries, hiking, store catalogues, ice skating, fast food, concerts, bookstores, baseball, beauty shops, the bus, barbecues, magazines, surfing, garage sales, basketball, drive-in movies, barns, sidewalks, museums, corner delis, driving the car, the city, record stores, the country, Sunday dinner, television ... even jobs.


(Continues...)

Excerpted from Adventure -- Dragons of The Neverland by James Hood. Copyright © 2016 James Hood. 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.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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