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    Persuaded
    Persuaded
    Persuaded
    Ebook289 pages4 hours

    Persuaded

    By Anthony Van

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Flynn Stonehouse was a successful geologist. Shrewd and hard-nosed, his commitment to his business came at a cost to his family. A rushed trip to Nigeria to set things aright becomes a deadly struggle for survival. If it wasn’t for a missionary who he joined as a hostage he may never have awakened to a different way of looking at life. Adam’s arguments were coherent and informed but it was his actions that convinced Flynn that the missionary’s faith was real.
    After more than two years presumed dead by the authorities and those he knew, he resurfaced. A lot can happen in two years, and a marriage that had already been on shaky ground looked destined for ruin. Without a business, with his house sold and with his family reluctant to resume a relationship that had been filled with conflict, all looked hopeless for the emaciated, repatriated geologist.
    If ever he needed consolation and hope in the future it was now. Could this nascent faith, which had begun with an awareness of a presence in his darkest hours, bring restoration? He remembered Adam had told him that it didn’t always work that way. Sometimes suffering continued to the end. Flynn marshalled his fragile emotions, preparing to ‘start again’ while making reparations to the many people he had hurt long the way.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAnthony Van
    Release dateMay 27, 2020
    ISBN9780463545157
    Persuaded
    Author

    Anthony Van

    What does a retired teacher do? Especially a teacher with a hyperactive imagination and ingrained work habits. Well this one writes. And being a Christian, each novel I have written necessarily is pieced together from a Christian perspective.I have a broad range of interests which include science and technology, mathematics, travel, sports and the interrelationship of people. Much of what intrigues me about people is that some pursue truth with the determination of a bloodhound while others almost ignore existential ideas and while away their short time spent on earth being distracted by people or pleasures or possessions or power.Writing is a hobby. It allows me to research and self educate, and it also permits me to refine my perspectives of concepts existential and theological.

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      Book preview

      Persuaded - Anthony Van

      Persuaded

      Published by Anthony Van at Smashwords

      Anthony Van copyright 2017

      2nd Edition 2021

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes

      Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favourite authorised retailer. Thank you for your support.

      Chapter 1

      Unresolved. Disconcerting, like a wisp of fog evaporating in the sunlight. At times more real than tangible reality, his dream fled away from his growing wakefulness. It was a cruel tease. An incomplete jigsaw that always beckoned but was never able to be completed. Now awake, he thought of the half-written email that began with reconciliation in mind but had deteriorated into accusations and indignant justification. Had that triggered his alternate-mind based reality? It was impossible, in retrospect, to weave some sort of sense, some conscious rationality into the fading images of that incorporeal narrative.

      Flynn lay on the uncomfortable, polypropylene mesh camp bed. His musings on the functions of synapses in constructing thought quickly vanished with the barrage of issues describing his actual immediate problematic circumstances.

      His anger was a festering sore. Everything crowded his mind with the chant of the injustice of life. He didn’t deserve this. Laying in this tent hearing snores from the two ‘earth scientists’ in the next tent, he started by blaming them. They had missed the test site out here in the Nigerian wilderness by several kilometres. Neither had consulted their instructions and so the transposition of the latitude coordinate decimals went undetected. From their incorrect campsite they had communicated that his survey must have been in error because the geology of the area gave no obvious ore body indications.

      He had fumed when, after travelling two days to get to this remote site, he had discovered their error. Flynn had waited all day for them to pack and trek over to the correct survey point. He wasn’t able to send the helicopter and that had added to his frustrations. He had vented even though his initial resolution was to deal calmly and clinically with their incompetence. What was all the more galling was that, at this site, the traces of the ore body were plain to see to the expert eye.

      It was their fault, he reasoned. Everything was their fault. 10.237777 compared with 10.327777 meant they were considerably south of where they should’ve been.

      His mind switched to the underlying irritation. How long had his wife been unhappy? He didn’t know. Had he seen the signs? His wife, Verity, wanted to separate but had acceded to spending time together to sort things out. That was when he got the urgent email that there was no evidence of the ore bearing geology he had predicted. They implied that he must have made a mistake. Whether it was his self-righteous pride or the fact that if they didn’t confirm the ore body within the week his company—he—would lose a substantial bonus from the huge multinational miner that had contracted him. He cancelled the personal time together citing an unforeseen emergency and Verity said it only confirmed his undependable character and the dysfunctional nature of their marriage. Flynn had left shouting abusively not to be so petty and childish.

      Grunting with renewed aggravation at his predicament, he got out of the rickety bed and pulled on his clothes. Unzipping the mosquito netting gave him time to formulate his selection of insults for the other two. He opened their tent aggressively.

      You two lazy, layabouts get moving will you? We’re already way behind schedule.

      Gunter and Allain groaned. The forced march of the previous day, carrying all their survey and sampling gear, had exhausted them. Moving stiff muscles, they tried to comprehend what was being demanded. One was a taller and fair headed, the other wiry with a darker complexion.

      Come on! We need to register the broad extent of this find, categorise samples across a grid for assay and do three core samples.

      Can’t we have breakfast first? complained Allain.

      Have breakfast when you’ve finished, he snarled. If you had followed my directions we wouldn’t be under the hammer from this deadline.

      Minutes later, the two emerged sullen but compliant, aware that they had fouled things up. Flynn was already marking the first sample he had seen right next to the camp site. The digital theodolite was erected—unnecessary but something additional that he liked to do to provide data for the site survey.

      Gunter was assembling the small four stroke borer that they had carted all the way from the valley camp they had mistakenly set up. We should be able to manage with the three of us, he observed as Flynn took a photo of the first sample location.

      Oh, I’m not staying. The chopper is picking me up within the hour. I have to be back to flesh out another contract. He then fixed the two geologists with a cold stare. Just make sure you have the site survey done and the data in the office by the end of the week or you can kiss your jobs goodbye.

      Gunter and Allain looked stunned. Flynn, himself, felt a tinge of regret at the callous way he was threatening his men. ‘Leaders have to be tough,’ he argued in his mind. ‘A bit of discipline and fear will get the job done.’

      Don’t stand gawking. Keep moving, he growled. Allain shuffled away and collected his small pick and some sample bags while Gunter went back to the borer.

      ***

      Progress had been good. Working methodically, Allain had traversed several hundred metres in one direction and reported on the two-way radio that he was gathering the last of the visible quartz seam. Flynn had read out the coordinates for each interval, taken a picture through the theodolite and checked that Allain had taken a close up. The younger prospector suggested that it continued along the anticline and, if the geology was consistent, it would probably extend another few hundred metres at least. So it was highly viable already and if Flynn’s analysis was correct and it was a multi-layer seam with some depth then this could be a bonanza.

      Gunter was well into his first core. Assays on the core would confirm or counter Flynn’s initial prediction of high concentrations in the ore lode. While Allain was returning to the point of origin to process the opposite direction, Flynn watched the German impatiently. He wanted to set his eyes on the core sample. It wasn’t definitive but his visual inspections were seldom wrong when it came to estimations on the invisible precious metal particles. He put it down to seeing so many and recalling the nature and gist of ‘pay-dirt’ as compared to low content samples.

      Although, as the boss, he did the least of the labour, he struggled with the continuous effort because he was soft and unused to field work. Flynn perspired profusely and constantly berated them for putting him in this unwelcome position.

      It was all too soon, for the other two, that the helicopter arrived to pick Flynn up. And his task-oriented personality felt aggrieved that he was abandoning a job that was suited for three people. But he was relieved that he could escape the physical exertion.

      Now that he was leaving, Gunter would have to stop his drilling and the survey would take twice as long. It couldn’t be helped. He had hired the air transport and he had air travel connections to make in Lagos. He grabbed his backpack, gave Gunter a cursory ‘see ya’, waved distractedly once in Allain’s direction and ran for the waiting helicopter.

      The thundering rotors propelled stinging grit and rushing wind which buffeted Flynn as he approached the pulsating machine. Crouching low, he jogged to the open door. Pieter, the South African pilot, awaited with an anxious expression. He was shouting something as Flynn scrambled through the doorway into the cockpit and sat next to him. He shook his head as he slammed the door.

      What? he shouted far too loudly in reply, now that the whooshing rotors were muffled by the sound insulated cocoon.

      We are in for some weather, Flint. We will have to go a little northeast first.

      His words had a distinct Afrikaans flavour—halting and precise and seemingly projected from the back of his throat. Flynn ignored the play on his name. The geological distortion—calling him Flint—was something Pieter and the crew at the airport thought was humorous. It was mildly aggravating to him but not as annoying as the way his university buddies mangled his surname—Stonehouse—; they used to call him Caveman. He was glad the contagion hadn’t spread from the academic environment.

      After buckling himself in, How far north? he asked, at a reduced volume.

      ’bout a hundred k. It’s an active storm cell. I’m not keen to test how active.

      Flynn glanced to the southwest and saw a ragged, heavy grey line of clouds in the distance. The strong African sun accentuated the contrasting darkness of the approaching storm. He knew it wouldn’t be quite so black when the sun disappeared. The front seemed too far away to warrant concern but he wasn’t going to argue. He, basically, wanted to get going. Pieter knew his stuff and their initial flight plan would probably run the risk of intersecting with some of the bad weather.

      The helicopter surged as the rotors dragged them into the air at full throttle. Flynn immediately got onto his satellite phone and informed the mining company that the mineral signs looked promising. He was confident it would provide a rich return but shied away from overstating their findings.

      Then he set about trying to diplomatically smooth things with Verity by composing a text. He began by being contrite but couldn’t stem an injudicious validation of his professional obligations. The self-importance the words conveyed was totally obscured to him by his skewed values—he lived to work. The predominant thought was that his dependents should be grateful for his provision.

      They were heading farther into the hinterland of Nigeria and the land became discernibly flatter and more arid. The dun coloured landscape cried out for rain. With the coming wet season, it would all be transformed but, at present, it looked quite desolate. The helicopter left the road and followed a, mostly dry, river bed. In a few weeks it would be a raging flow but at the moment only occasional, tenacious, deep bedded water holes lingered. Flynn glimpsed a few remnants of the river before a large lake spread out beneath them. He watched a phalanx of water birds rise up and wheel away from their machine. Sweeping away as one yet comprising of two or three species, he pondered if it was some natural allegory.

      Pieter said something and Flynn looked up from the closing remarks of his text. He saw the pilot gesture to the south east. It looked as though the storm was gathering there too.

      A bit further, I think, remarked the South African. The geologist nodded abstractedly.

      How’s the fuel? he queried, more as a matter of information. He didn’t think it would be an issue. Fine. We should have plenty to get around this. He waved an arm in the direction of the storm.

      He sent the text and then closed his eyes and felt the synchronised vibrations of the machine engulf him. He wanted to snooze but the noise was too much. He scanned about them. It was a populous nation but the expanse appeared barren and uninhabited. With any luck he would see some of the small villages that were scattered near the irregular water courses.

      They soon were skimming across rough scrubland. He imagined looking at one tiny pixel of the vast continent screen. Without warning the helicopter shuddered. Loud clattering impacts raked the midsection of the machine. Pings, clangs, thuds vibrated into his body. Flynn clung to a door grip trying to compute what was happening.

      We’re getting automatic gunfire! yelled Pieter while pulling hard to the left and ascending rapidly. They both looked around trying to determine where the shots were coming from. Another burst of shells smashed into the cabin. A trace of spider web tracks spread out from one bullet hole through the acrylic panel. The helicopter lurched downward as Pieter slumped forward. He’d been hit! Flynn grabbed the controls even as the pilot collapsed across him with blood soaking both of them. The craft heeled away from the gunfire, shaking once more as a few more slugs tore into the rear.

      For a brief few moments Flynn thought he was clear. He yelled, Pieter, Pieter, but there was no response from the wounded pilot. The helicopter regained elevation and scudded over the treetops. Fear paralysed him for a few seconds. He was contemplating how far he could fly, how soon he should veer right and how he would land the thing when a juddering vibration rocked the craft. Almost as suddenly the machine resumed its headlong flight away from danger. Unaware that he had been holding his breath, Flynn let out a gasp and eased his white-knuckle grip on the controls.

      Every minute brought him a couple more kilometres to safety. He glanced down and reckoned it was time to change course when a grinding scream wracked the motor. Instantly, he lost lift and speed. He knew the damage was terminal. With his head down and the trees now filling his vision, he braced himself. There was no steering, nothing he could do. The fall accelerated as he anticipated impact.

      A tearing, crashing explosion of sound and a maelstrom of leaves and snapping branches filled the cockpit. Panels shattered and the gyrating rotor shredded greenery before jolting to a halt. The seatbelt tugged violently at his shoulders as his downward plummeting came to an abrupt end. The air was filled with a flurry of leaves, cracking and creaking branches and then an eerie quiet.

      Suspended, leaning forward, centimetres from a large limb of a tree which would have decapitated him had he been sitting up, Flynn tried to take stock. He was still alive. But Pieter wasn’t. He may have survived the shooting, but certainly did not escape the lethal crushing of his body against the exposed drive shaft. The front of the cockpit had been obliterated by the large branch that passed above Flynn’s head. It had torn through the pilot’s seat, ramming it backwards. Through the obliterated shell he could make out his surroundings. Below, there were a few more branches and then a drop of three metres to a sandy creek bed.

      Apart from abrasions and bruising there was no physical injury that he was aware of, but he felt gutted. Pieter’s death and his bleak chance of getting out alive held him immobilised in his seat. The smell of fuel sent an alarm to his brain. He tried to gather his senses. He knew he should do something yet he still didn’t react. The shock of the impact dulled his thinking.

      Flynn couldn’t believe that he had survived. Tracking the river had meant encountering sufficient tree canopy to reduce the brunt of the crash and, looking down, he knew the sand meant his fall would be broken to some degree. The pungency of the flammable liquid kept goading him to move. Danger! His self-preservation warning penetrated. He knew he couldn’t stay long. And the danger was not limited to being caught in this death trap. Another, less imminent, threat flashed through his mind. Whoever had shot at them would try to get to where he was and gloat over their prize.

      He urged himself into action. Undoing the buckle was difficult with his weight on the harness. He had to support his weight by clinging to the upper strap and pulling hard with one hand while releasing the catch with the other. Aching muscles protested. Once it uncoupled, Flynn, took the full weight on his bruised arms and hung on the belt. Stretching and moving from side to side he swung his legs to a lower, sturdy limb.

      His legs trembled with delayed shock and his heart raced. A wave of dizziness and nausea washed over him as he grasped a smaller branch and steadied himself. The acrid odour of the fuel and the crackle of electrics had him hasten his decision to get to ground. Without thinking too much about it, he lowered his body onto the branch on which he stood, wrapped his arms around it and swung down, chafing his arms on the rough bark. From that position, hanging above the sandy river bed, he had little over a metre to drop.

      Suddenly he cursed himself. He had left his bag in the back of the chopper. There was little chance of hauling himself back onto the branch. Even as he dropped a loud whoomp signalled the eruption of flame above him. He rolled away, protectively shielding his face from the blast of heat as the fuel tank ignited. The searing explosion pounded him with a shockwave and a vivid flash of light and heat. Flynn kept rolling as the wreckage was engulfed in yellow-orange flames and black smoke vented pillar-like into the sky.

      Staggering to his feet, shaking the sand out of his hair and clothes, he got his bearings. He would continue to go away from the place where they were attacked. The smoke would be a beacon to whoever had shot at them so he had to hurry. He grabbed a branch and tried to obscure his tracks as he edged off the river course backwards. Once up the bank he skirted the raging inferno that was consuming his former transport and the huge tree.

      Flynn ran from the scene. Behind him flames spread through the canopy into nearby trees. His pace quickened as the thought of making his escape consolidated in his mind. One question lodged in his brain: ‘Who were his attackers?’ Apart from pirates and criminal groups in the south, the only real, sizeable threat in Nigeria were the rebel Islamists. Could they be responsible? It was infuriating and terrifying at the same time. Doubts crowded in. This was a long way from the Islamic strongholds and the aggressive strike introduced a frightening complication in assessing Nigeria’s suitability for foreign investment. If the insurgents were sending splinter guerrilla squads this far west then the whole country was a liability from a security viewpoint. Realising the line of thinking was nonsensical for the time, he shook himself. His life was the issue. ‘Concentrate on staying alive,’ he told himself.

      ***

      His breath came in gasps. Sweat soaked his shirt and a laceration on his leg, previously anonymous in the haze of adrenalin and panic, now announced itself with burning consistency. Flynn stumbled on, using the dry water course because it offered fewer obstacles and a more even route. With his lips parched and cracking, his eyes constantly examined the river for signs of water. While they were flying, he had spotted intermittent water holes where impervious rock strata appeared close to the surface. He desperately hoped one was nearby. The midday African sun was merciless, desiccating the land and sucking the moisture from him as well.

      In the distance the storm was rumbling. It appeared unlikely to reach where he was as it looked to be weakening. He was still heading in an approximate northeast direction, almost opposite to where he wanted to be. But his attackers were back there and the known concentration of Boku Haran were more than a hundred kilometres ahead. His first priority was survival. Water was what he desperately needed now. He’d be lucky to see the end of the next day without it.

      ***

      By mid-afternoon Flynn had a pounding headache. His tongue was swelling and lolling in his mouth. He staggered now, trying to make the next corner and the next, hoping for that elusive water hole. It was at this juncture that thoughts of dying echoed dully on the fringes of his awareness. The tenuous grasp he had on life became painfully clear when he regained consciousness with grains of sand in his mouth. He must have passed out, a dizzy spell or something.

      Was he going to die? Was he ready? What did he think about God? He’d never needed Him before. He had considered those who adhered to religious faiths weak. Like a child who had never gained independence—always relying on some benevolent higher power. Now he was afraid—afraid to die, afraid to face what lay beyond without having given it proper thought.

      ‘God help me!’ The cry came from deep within. He hadn’t uttered a sound but the plea resonated within him as if he’d shouted it. Nothing happened. What had he expected? It wasn’t as if he’d been on talking terms with the Almighty. ‘Keep moving,’ an inner voice insisted. He raised himself up. Brushing the sand from his lips he swayed unsteadily to his feet. They would still be after him, he was sure. It wouldn’t take much investigation to find his tracks.

      The scorching afternoon sun was burning into his back. Flynn dragged one foot after the other, aiming for the next bend. His head hung wearily; eyes were focussed on the sand in front as he attempted to maintain an even keel. A loud shuffle and guttural grunt startled him and he gazed up to witness a dozen or so giraffes scatter, with pendulous loping gait, away through the trees.

      A shimmering ahead drew his focus. Water. He had found water. His first move was to dive in and quench his extreme thirst. Near the edge of the muddied pool some vestige of common sense came to the fore. ‘Slowly’ was the initial caution that flashed in his brain. Then the word ‘parasites’ came to mind. Well, he was going to drink, parasites or not. The only strategy that occurred to him was to use his shirt as a filter. It was unlikely that the tight weave would prevent microscopic eggs or larvae from penetrating but it was psychologically reassuring that at least most of the sediment would be filtered out.

      With the shirt material over his mouth Flynn sucked on the water in front of him. The first sip was salty from his dried sweat but subsequent mouthfuls had a mineral, metallic taste. Drawing the water through the fabric served the purpose of restricting the flow so he spent several minutes extracting enough to satisfy his initial need for hydration.

      Resting from the ache that the constant effort of sucking hard caused, he scanned the area. The shore of the water hole showed numerous animal tracks. He realised that this would be a place one had

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