Beginning with You (30 page)

Rook screamed as a monstrous explosion shattered the bow of the
Flyer
. The
Point Countess
was in the process of backing away when it occurred. She had yelled at the second mate to wait, but Carson had disregarded her order. Rook staggered out of the bridge, clutching at the rail, watching as fire vomited three hundred feet into the sky. The bow steel plates peeled open, massive fireballs belching upward. Metal buckled. Plates were bent and sent hurtling hundreds of feet in all directions. Her second scream was drowned out by the sound of the roof wrenching free of the
Flyer
, erupting skyward into the black smoke.

Rook took a step forward, hand outstretched, a raw cry tearing from her throat. She staggered, blackness engulfing her as she sank to her knees.

The
Point Countess
was far enough away from the explosion to avoid serious damage. Carter, the second mate, was shaken, but kept his presence of mind as he swung the responsive cutter to stem. The ferry was rapidly sinking, the clouds of chlorine and black smoke extinguished in a hissing roar and billowing clouds of steam as it slipped beneath the waters of the straits.

“Look!” Dixon cried, pointing five hundred feet away from where the
Flyer
had sunk. “Two men!”

Carter gawked. He saw his skipper floundering weakly in the water, getting pulled under by the forty pounds of oxygen equipment strapped to his back. The other man was floating facedown in the brackish water not more than five feet away from Lieutenant Caldwell. Throwing the throttles to all stop, Carter screamed at his men to begin recovery procedures immediately to rescue them from the straits.

Blackness. It engulfed Rook, held her in its clutches until she thought she was going to suffocate. She tried to drag in deep breaths of air and choked.

“Easy, Rook, easy….”

Rook frowned, hearing the male voice and feeling something being clapped over her nose and mouth. Cool, fresh air flowed up into her nose and open, gasping mouth.

“Take nice, deep breaths. Nice and deep. That’s it….”

Rook fought the darkness, fought to wake up. She hungrily sucked in the oxygen, feeling the last of the anxiety leave her tightened chest. Forcing her eyes open to bare slits, she looked up. Gil Logan, his face bathed in sweat, was crouched over her. Where was she? Other sounds impinged on her consciousness. She was lying on something hard and unforgiving. She felt Gil’s hand on her shoulder, the other clapped over the mask he held to her face. Jim? Her eyes widened. Noah? She sobbed, lifting her arm, trying to remove the mask.

“No, Rook, don’t. Lie still. You’re going to be flown by helo to Seattle in a minute.” He was breathing hard, kneeling on the concrete of the dock. Everywhere he looked, there were injured people. Most of them were being tended by either Coasties or ambulance personnel. At the hangar, ’60’s from neighboring air stations and the larger helos from Seattle were making flights to area hospitals just as soon as they got enough stabilized victims on board. Gil had just picked up the last survivors from the straits and landed. He had heard Cole’s plea over the loudspeaker at the hangar for all personnel to get to the dock to help with the twenty seriously injured survivors that would be docking in ten minutes. When Gil recognized Rook among the injured, lying as yet unattended on the dock, anger ripped through him. She was damn near gray, indicating a lack of oxygen. Gil had raced over to a nearby ambulance and taken an extra bottle and mask. Her color was coming back.

“Lie still,” he begged, leaning closer, thinking she was in shock. Dammit, why couldn’t they at least get her a blanket? She was shivering and going, it appeared, into deeper shock.

With a moan, Rook clawed at Gil’s hand on the mask.
Jim! Noah! Where were they?
She shut her eyes, tears squeezing out from beneath them.

“Easy, Rook,” Gil soothed unsteadily. He awkwardly stroked her dirty, smoky hair. When he saw her tears, it tore him apart. There was so much carnage around them. Stretcher bearers were running in all directions with gurneys. Nurses with IVs lifted and carryied along the worst cases as they transported them to the awaiting fleet of helos.

“Hey!” he shouted to a passing medic. “I need help over here!”

The doctor hesitated and then turned in Gil’s direction. He was out of breath as he knelt at Rook’s side.

“What’s her condition?” he gasped, immediately feeling for a pulse.

“Critical. Can’t you get her aboard one of those choppers? She needs help. Now.”

Hesitating fractionally, the doctor nodded. “Okay, Lieutenant.” He placed a red triangle, indicating she was a critical case, on her dirtied tank top. “If you can get her over to the big helo at the hangar,” he said, pointing toward the tarmac in the distance, “she can go with us this trip.”

Gil grinned belatedly. “Don’t worry, Doc, she’ll be on board. Thanks.”

Logan left the mask on Rook, placing the small oxygen bottle on her stomach. He slipped his arms beneath her. Her breath was uneven, coming in gasps. “Okay, babe, hang on. You’re going for a ride.”

Rook sobbed for breath, her lungs on fire. It hurt to breathe. She couldn’t find her voice; her throat was raw and felt as if it had been scalded. Once in Gil’s arms, she collapsed against him and fell back into semiconsciousness.

Gil hitched a ride with the closest ambulance, to make damn sure they took first-class care of Rook. Her eyes were glazed and she was having a lot of trouble breathing on her own. He’d heard about her bravery on the deck of the
Flyer
already, from people she had helped save. He patted her hand, holding her tightly in his arms as the ambulance swerved off the road and headed directly to the helo. Gil braced Rook as the vehicle screeched to a halt parallel to the open door of the fuselage. He heard the helos engines whine louder, indicating it was preparing for takeoff.

The driver got out and ran around to the rear of the ambulance, swinging both doors wide. With his help, Gil was able to get Rook on board. He made sure the medical personnel on board knew she was a Coastie, like them. Gil watched as they threw two blankets around Rook and quickly placed an IV into her left arm. He gripped her hand, the wind whipping around them. Raising his voice, he shouted into the cabin, “Rook, we’ll be in touch! Everything will be all right.”

She tried to raise her head to speak but fell back.

Tears squeezed from beneath her tightly shut eyes. Noah…Jim…they were dead. Dead…

Stuart looked around the grimly silent room. The men and women of his station were whipped. The
Flyer
rescue had begun at 1000. It was now 1500. In five hours, they’d rescued and dispatched 240 survivors to different hospitals in the area. Pride for his people welled up through him. At the same time, raw grief serrated his heart. Annie Locke had just found him ten minutes ago and told him that she had seen Kenny on board the
Flyer
. Was he among the survivors? Anguished, Ward had to wait, just like everyone else, to find out. The Red Cross people were doing everything humanly possible to compile a list of victims and survivors. As soon as it was completed, he would be notified. Ward flexed his hand, trying to hold back his fear, his anxiety.

In a monumental effort of will, Ward placed his own personal grief aside and looked at his people. Never had he seen or been part of such a heroic, nonstop effort as this one.

“I want you to know,” Ward began, his voice scratchy with feeling, “that I think you’re the finest group of people I’ve ever had the privilege of serving with.” He saw their exhausted faces, their reddened eyes. His pilots all had that two-thousand-yard stare indicative of battle fatigue. And that’s what this had been. “That was one hell of a war you fought out there today, and we won. So far, we’ve lost sixty people. I’m sure that number will climb. But under the circumstances, you all performed above and beyond the call of duty.”

“I’d like to say something,” Admiral Savage interjected, coming forward. He had flown in from Seattle an hour ago. Savage studied the assembled personnel. “In all my years in the Coast Guard, I’ve never seen anything like this. Air Station Port Angeles has made the headlines of every paper in the nation today. Your bravery has not gone unnoticed. By tonight, every major network will carry this rescue as their lead story. I know that one network is planning a half-hour special on it. Again, I say well done.”

Ward swallowed his nausea over Savage’s little speech. His people didn’t give a damn about the publicity. Many of them had friends or family in that lead story, or were worrying about their comrades who had been hurt during the rescue. A number of Coasties had serious injuries from inhaling chlorine gas. Right now, all Ward wanted to do was call Seattle to find out how his people were doing. Logan and Welsh had flown down to the city with a medevac for Montieth Hospital. He suspected that they would check on the wounded officers there from Port Angeles before they returned to the air station.

Tag Welsh and Gil Logan walked quickly down the halls of the hospital in their flight boots and smelly flight suits. It was nearly five o’clock and they had just unloaded their medevac cases. Gil had deliberately volunteered for the flight, anxious to find out about Rook and Noah. He had grabbed Tag, who eagerly went along, for a copilot.

“What do you think?” Tag asked, walking at Logan’s shoulder.

“About what?”

“About how many of them survived. I heard Dixon from the Point Countess say that they pulled Noah and Jim Barton out of the straits after that ferry blew. I don’t see how anyone could have survived that blast.”

Gil shrugged his aching shoulders. “We’ll know in a minute.” They swung around to the busy nursing station on the operating floor. One of the nurses stared at them briefly.

“May I help you, gentlemen?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Tag said, taking off his garrison cap. “We’re Coast Guard pilots from the Port Angeles Air Station. You’ve got two of our people here. A brother and sister—Lieutenants Rook and Noah Caldwell. And there’s a civilian by the name of Jim Barton here, too. Can you tell us how they are?”

Her mouth thinned in displeasure and she reached over, grabbing a sheaf of papers that needed to be sorted. “I’m sorry, our hospital rules don’t allow us to tell anyone but family members about the condition of our patients.” She gave them both an irritated look, obviously very busy with duties brought on by the Flyer disaster. “If you gentlemen will just—”

Gil stepped forward. “Just tell us how they’re doing, goddammit.”

The nurse stepped back, her mouth falling open. Everyone at the nursing station froze, all eyes on the Coast Guard pilots. The nurse snapped her mouth shut and glared contemptuously at Gil.

Tag put his hand on Gil’s arm. “Sorry, ma’am, but we’re a mite tired. You can understand, can’t you? Rook, Noah and Jim are close friends of ours.” He managed a slight, persuasive smile. “Coasties stick together like family.”

Shaken by the rage in the other officer’s voice and his continued black stare, the nurse dropped the sheaf of papers and reached for a clipboard that contained the names of patients on the floor. “Dr. Marhefka is assigned to their cases. You can see him right now. He’s down there at the end of the hall in the visitors’ lobby. I can’t give you permission to see these people, but he can.”

Tag nodded. “Thank you, ma’am. We’re deeply grateful.”

Gil swung into the lounge first. A short man of about forty-five, with broad shoulders, was talking to…he gawked. That was Howard Barton—Jim Barton’s father! He started forward, but saw the old man sag back down into his chair, a look of devastation written across his features. The doctor reached out, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder.

“Shit,” Logan whispered, gripping Tag and forcing him out of the lounge, back into the hall. Gil lowered his voice. “That’s Howard Barton, Jim’s father,” he explained.

Tag frowned. “Don’t tell me—”

“Jim didn’t make it. Sonofabitch.”

Wrestling with his own feelings, Tag muttered, “Don’t jump to conclusions. Let’s wait and see. Noah Caldwell was up on that roof with him, you know.”

Raking his fingers through his dark hair, Gil muttered, “Yeah, I know. Let’s wait out here. We’ll nail Marhefka when he comes out. I don’t want to disturb Mr. Barton. He looks pretty upset.”

Gil grabbed the doctor the instant he came out of the lounge. “Dr. Marhefka, we’re friends of Lieutenants Rook and Noah Caldwell. Rook’s boyfriend, Jim Barton, is here, too.”

The doctor looked up at both men, his face lined and somber. “I see.”

“How are they?” Gil asked, barely suppressing his anger over the doctor’s hesitation.

Tag gripped Gil’s arm, giving him a warning glance.

“Ms. Caldwell suffered mild chlorine injuries to her respiratory system. She’s sedated, but conscious. Jim Barton has a concussion, multiple rib fractures and second-degree burns over thirty percent of his lower legs and arms. He’s still in the recovery room.”

“Thank God,” Gil muttered, suddenly limp with relief, grateful that they had both survived. He leaned against the wall, fighting off the exhaustion that wanted to claim him.

“Can we see them, sir?” Tag asked.

“You can certainly see Ms. Caldwell. She’s in room 22.”

Fatigue was lapping at Gil. “Hold it. What about Noah? You haven’t said anything about him.” His gut tightened.

“He made it through surgery and is in critical condition. He was just taken to ICU. His sister just regained consciousness. I haven’t told her yet about his status.”

Gil glanced over at Tag. “Go on down to her room.” He turned back to Dr. Marhefka. “I’ll do it, Doctor. Rook and I are good friends.”

The doctor shrugged. “If you’re sure you want to.”

Gil whispered, “I do.” He looked over at Tag. “I’ll be there in a minute.” He wanted to talk to the doctor further, alone.

Tag nodded grimly, his garrison cap crushed in his tightly knotted fist. “You bet.”

Gil waited until Tag had left and then turned to Marhefka. “Look, Rook is one of us, Doctor. She’s a Coast Guard pilot. She and Noah are brother and sister. They’re close. Did Noah say anything before surgery?”

Marhefka studied the pilot’s slack face and saw that his eyes burned with barely leashed emotions. “Yes, he did, just as we prepped him for surgery.” The doctor told Gil what the cutter captain had said. “If Lieutenant Caldwell needs a sedative afterward, just ring the nurse.”

Grateful, Gil’s voice cracked when he spoke. “Thanks, Doctor.” He turned away and began the long walk down the hall, trying to contain his escaping grief. Rook would need their strength now, not their tears.

Rook’s black lashes were beaded with spent tears when Gil quietly entered her room minutes later. Tag was standing by her bed, talking to her quietly. Logan saw the IV going into her left arm and the oxygen bottle on the right. At first, he thought Rook was asleep; her skin matched the white color of the sheets that surrounded her. Her head had been bandaged and the blood cleaned off her face. The bruise on her cheek was purple and had turned puffy. Swallowing hard, Gil approached her bed and Tag moved around to the other side.

“Rook?” Gil called softly, placing his trembling fingers on her hand, which rested across her stomach. Her skin was clammy.

Wearily, Rook lifted her lashes. Blinking, she stared up at Gil, her lips parting.

“Hi, there,” Gil said softly, squeezing her hand. He smiled down at her. “How’s our favorite lady pilot?”

“Gil? Tag?” Her voice was raw, and she could barely make an audible sound.

“Sshh,” Gil soothed, leaning down, resting his arms on the steel tubing that surrounded the bed. “We just wanted to let you know that your friends are here. How do you feel?”

Overwhelmed by their appearance, Rook sobbed once and weakly gripped Gil’s fingers. Images, flashes of the
Flyer
, blipped in front of her groggy memory. “Noah…Jim?”