After their mother is killed by a stray bullet, twin Chilean brothers Benjamin and JC Piñera are swept up in their country’s infamous Cold War-era crisis, which culminates in a coup and a dead president. The boys and their embittered father flee to California, only for the twins to see their refugee life jettison them into another civil war, as naturalized citizens drafted and sent to Vietnam. The boys become Special Ops soldiers, mercenaries stalking the Viet Cong through the dark-hearted jungles of Southeast Asia, until they must escape to save themselves and their best friend. Told through Benjamin’s eyes—now an immigrant grandpa living in the California hills, yet haunted by ghosts from the past—our poignant narrator finally returns to Chile to search for any signs of the family, and the woman he loved, that were left behind. Ian Randall wrote the first draft of The Northern Winds while traveling in Chile, Vietnam and Cambodia, and conducting primary research for the novel. Sundry drafts (and years) later, he is publishing this debut novel. Ian's previous publications include peer-reviewed research articles, white papers, Op-Eds, and essays, including a piece exploring how mass protests in Chile are linked to the country's violent political history. Ian holds a PhD in Health Economics from and teaches at the University of Washington in Seattle. The Northern Winds By Ian Anthony Randall AuthorHouse Copyright © 2018 Ian Anthony Randall All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-5462-3966-6 Contents Part I: Shell Beach, California: Present Day, 1, Part II: Vietnam: 1971, 11, Part III: Shell Beach, California: Present Day, 57, Part IV: Chile: 1973, 67, Part V: Shell Beach, California: Present Day, 145, CHAPTER 1 PART I Shell Beach, California: Present Day "We know so much of wanting, and so little of having." The priest looks out over a quiet ocean as he speaks. We're standing on the back portico of this seaside chapel and admiring the swirling pastels of dusk. The sun is setting in the distance, a crimson thread lining a placid sky. "How do you overcome it?" I ask. "You've given up so much for this life. How do you keep from wanting more?" He hesitates for a moment, then answers softly. "I don't. I want what I don't have, too." "We have so much, but it's never enough," he continues. "We're all such predictable fools." The young priest is too wise, and too sad, for his age. He reminds me of myself when I was a young man. "I need to be on my way. Thank you, Father." I pick up my briefcase and walk toward the front gates. As I cross the vestibule and step into the dusk, his voice carries over the empty pews. "God bless you." I arrive home to a silent house. My wife, Hope, is visiting our oldest son's family and won't be back until late. I pour myself a drink — Dewar's on the rocks, my usual — and step onto the back porch. The night is dim and murky, and I can't help but think back to other lonely nights in my life: The wide-open emptiness of Patagonia, where the stars were a million fireflies that illuminated the sky. The slothful nights of Vietnam, where the jungle's creaks and whines drove you insane with fear, and made you realize there was good reason to be afraid. A cold and violent night in Santiago, when a city was attacked from within, and the echoing gunfire nearly drowned out the cries of children. And now, these languid nights on the California coast, part of this picturesque life that Hope and I have built. These nights are spent surveying an endless sea and seeing the faces of those left behind in the expansive darkness. There is no darkness like the open sea, where there are no beginnings and no endings. Only the steady lapping of the waves, forever. * * * I am sleeping, I think, but then I am thrashing, fighting an invisible enemy that is attacking me. I'm fighting for my life as Charlie's rough hands squeeze my throat, his cold feline eyes looking straight into mine. I open my eyes. I feel the soft linen of bed sheets. I hear the gentle rustle of the waves. And then I see Hope's terrified eyes, consumed with fear. Somehow, my hands have encircled her throat. She is crying and gagging. She is praying to God that I wake up. I let go of her neck and wrap my arms around her. " Mi amor, I'm so sorry," I say, frantically hugging her, trying to undo what I've just done. "I'm so sorry. Te amo tanto. Te amo tanto. " I'm saying it over and over again, chanting it like a mantra. "Please forgive me," I finally say. Then I am quiet. We embrace like that for a while, rocking and holding each other tightly, knowing that words won't suffice. After a while she rests my head on her lap and strokes my thinning hair. I am crying softly, embarrassed but unable to hold back the tears. When we finally lie down, we settle into contoured sides of the bed that have been molded after so many years together. We close our eyes. And then we reach out in the middle of the bed for the other's han