Uncharted Waters (2 page)

“The tanker's coming apart!” He heard the edge in his voice, felt the fear go through his body like a jolt of electricity. “The slick ignited! I'm bringing Mako up
now!
”

“Roger that,” came the pilot's voice.

“Rick!” he shouted into his comm gear.
“Rick!”

“I'm...here.”

Relief swept through Drew with such force that for a moment he couldn't speak. “You okay?”

“Negative! I've got three in the basket. Get me the hell out of here.”

Three was two too many. For the cage. The cable and winch motor. For the chopper. But the people were in danger of burning. And Drew made a snap decision and slapped his fist down to engage the winch and raise the cage.

“What kinds of casualties?” came the medic's voice through the comm gear.

“Burns and hypothermia.” Rick cursed. “We've got fuel everywhere. I'm overloaded as hell.”

“We got you, Mako. Just hang on. We'll jettison some fuel later and compensate for the extra weight. We'll be fine.” Drew looked over his shoulder at the young medic standing ready behind him, then turned his attention to the cage moving steadily toward the hatch and spoke to Rick. “You hurt?”

“That's affirm. Burns... Damn.”

“Hang tight.”

Drew leaned out the hatch, anxious to get a look at his teammate. The cage was halfway up, hovering twenty feet above the blazing water, so close Drew could hear the screams of the people threatened by the
inferno. He did a double take when he realized the cage had somehow snagged a huge piece of debris. Some type of steel pipe that had blown loose from the tanker during the explosion.

“Mako, any way you can lose that debris?”

“Negative... Can't get over there.”

An instant later the cage arrived. Drew snagged it, tried to haul it into the chopper only to realize the debris was too large, preventing the cage from sliding into the fuselage. Damn it!

Three seriously injured subjects huddled inside the cage like frightened children, crying. Because there had been neither the time nor the room for Rick to squeeze into the cage with them, he clung to the outside. It wasn't SOP, or standard operating procedure, but it wasn't the first time Drew had seen a para jumper give up his own seat to save a life.

Drew quickly rigged a safety cable to secure the cage, then reached for the first passenger—a little girl, her clothes and face blackened from the fire. He smelled singed hair. The stink of crude oil. She was no more than ten years old and crying, a keening sound of terror that would haunt him for a very long time.

“Everything's going to be all right,” he told her. “We're going to take care of you, okay?”

“I want my mommy.”

“There's another team standing by, honey. See them over there?” He motioned toward the Coast Guard chopper. “They're just waiting for us to get out of the way.”

Once she'd been relegated to the medic standing by, he reached for the next passenger, a young man who was quite verbal about the pain of what looked to be a broken arm and some minor burns. But Drew was
barely aware of the young man as he hauled him out of the cage. He couldn't take his eyes off Rick. Something was terribly wrong. He could feel the prickle of it on the back of his neck. He could see it in Rick's eyes. “How bad are you hurt?” he asked.

“Bad...”

“Hang tight, partner. I'll be right there.”

Cursing, Rick looped his arm over the mesh and sagged. “Drew... Damn it, I'm in trouble.”

Leaving the last rescue subject in the basket despite his shrill cries of fear and pain, Drew lunged around the cage to help his friend. Even before his fingertips came in contact with Rick's wet suit, he could smell the burnt rubber. A slick, dirty stench strong enough to make his eyes sting.

Aware of the adrenaline cutting through him, Drew looked into Rick's eyes. For the first time since he'd known him, he saw fear. Worse, Rick seemed to be having a difficult time hanging on to the mesh—and there wasn't a damn thing separating him from the inferno blazing forty feet down.

Cursing between clenched teeth, Drew looped one arm around the mesh and reached for Rick with the other. “Grab my hand!”

Rick reached for Drew's hand, but his grip was weak, the contact precarious because of the slippery oil. When Drew tried to pull him into the chopper, Rick's hand slipped.

“Climb in!” he shouted. “Come on! Do it now!”

Rick was one of the most capable para jumpers Drew had ever known. He was strong, with a level head and the heart of a lion. More important, he never panicked. But not even the strongest of men could function when they were injured.

Leaning dangerously close to the edge of the hatch, vaguely aware that the medic behind him had relieved him of unloading the last passenger, Drew leaned farther out. “Give me your hand and we'll ditch the cage.” He reached for Rick, his hand closing around the other man's arm at the elbow.

“Bend your arm!” Drew shouted. “Loop it around mine! I'll pull you in!”

Grimacing in pain, Rick obeyed. Drew lay belly down, with one arm looped around the mesh netting, the other looped around Rick's arm at the elbow. It was a precarious position, one he couldn't hold for long. But there was no way in hell Drew was going to let him go.

“Put your foot up on the mesh and get your ass in here!” he shouted.

But when Rick tried to move closer, his foot—hampered by the flipper of his wet suit—slipped completely off the mesh.

“Rick!”
The other man's weight nearly yanked Drew out of the chopper.

“Drew! Jesus! Don't drop me, man.”

Sweat and rain streamed into Drew's eyes. He could hear his labored breathing. The drum of a heart beating out of control. The slow-motion
rat-tat-tat
of the rotors cutting through the air. The cries of the passengers waiting to be rescued.

For several long seconds Rick dangled while Drew held on to him, trying desperately to figure out what to do next. He glanced down at the water. And he knew that even if Rick survived a fall, his injuries would seriously impede his chances of survival in such horrendous conditions.

Drew saw terror in the other man's eyes. He saw the
will to live in its rawest form. He saw pain and the knowledge that the situation had slipped out of their control.

“Rick! Damn it! Hold on! Don't let go!” Drew looked behind him where the medic was working frantically to rig a safety line. “Get me a rope!” Drew screamed into his headset. “Damn it! I got a man down! I need help!
Now!
”

Vaguely, he was aware of someone moving behind him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the safety line fall short. He heard savage cursing. The pain in his arm from holding Rick was tremendous, but Drew swore he'd let his arm break before he let go.

The muscles in Drew's arm quivered and cramped. He was vaguely aware of the smoke and wind and rain pummeling him. The roar of the engines punctuated by the
whop-whop-whop
of the rotors overhead. He could feel Rick's wet suit slipping over his skin at his elbow and cursed the oil.

He looked into Rick's eyes. “Don't let go, damn it!”

“Drew! I can't hold on!” Face contorted with the effort of holding on, Rick's tortured eyes met his. “Take care...Alison and Kevin...”

Someone tossed a second safety line. When Rick reached for it, he unlooped his arm from Drew's—and missed the safety line. Rick's body jolted once, then plummeted down.

“Rick!”
Horror and disbelief sent Drew scrambling to his feet. He stood at the hatch and stared down at the black water below. “Man down!” he shouted into his headset communication gear. “Man
down!
”

“Easy, Drew,” came the copilot's voice. “I'm on the horn. There's another chopper standing by. Rick's got priority.”

Drew swallowed equal parts panic and bile that had gathered at the back of his throat. “I'm going down! Give me a damn suit! I'm going down to get him!”

The captain came out of the cockpit. “Lieutenant Evans!”

He looked up, found himself staring into the angry eyes of his captain. Joe “Domino” Saratoga was the size of a warhorse. Older. Experienced. He'd fought in Panama and the Gulf War. He'd paid his dues and Drew had always liked and respected him.

At the moment, he wanted to punch him.

“With all due respect, we can't leave that man behind to die!” Drew flung open the aft cabinet in search of a wet suit and tank. He knew he was losing it. He could feel his control slipping the same way he'd felt Rick slip away just a few seconds earlier. But there was no way in hell he could stand by while they left Rick behind.

“Son, we're following SOP. There's a PJ RTG on the second chopper. He's fresh and suited up.”

Through his communication gear, he heard the pilot receive the order to return to base. Because he couldn't meet the other man's gaze, he turned to lean against the cabinet.

The captain put his hand on his shoulder. “They'll find him and bring him home.”

Drew opened his eyes only to realize his vision was blurred with tears. Tears of anger and frustration, but most of all grief. “
Damn
it!” He slammed his fist through the cabinet door.

Pain sang through his knuckles and up his arm, but Drew barely noticed. He heard Joe speaking to him, but couldn't understand the words. He couldn't believe
what had just happened. Couldn't believe they were going to leave Rick behind. That he could be dead.

“He was burned,” he heard himself say.

“He's strong.”

“I dropped him.”

“Don't go there, Drew.”

“I let him go—” The next thing Drew knew, he was being spun around and shoved hard against the panel.

“It wasn't your fault,” Joe said. “Now pull yourself together. We've got civilian casualties to tend.”

Giving him a final, hard look, Joe shoved away. Drew leaned against the aft panel for several long seconds, his head reeling, his heart feeling as if it were about to explode. Vaguely, he was aware of the medic getting one of the subjects into a litter and starting an IV drip. The crackle of the VHS radio coming through his headset comm gear. The rank smells of crude oil, singed hair and scorched clothing. The little girl crying for her mommy.

Numb with the remnants of adrenaline and horror and grief, he walked over to the hatch and looked out at the driving wind and rain and the churning, black water below. In the distance the fire lit up the horizon with unnatural yellow light. But it looked small and inconsequential from this far away.

He couldn't believe Rick was still out there. Injured. Maybe dying. Drew closed his eyes against the brutal slice of pain. He thought of Rick's wife and wondered who would tell her. He wondered if she would blame him. If she would hate him.

Responsibility for what had happened settled onto
his shoulders with the weight of a Navy ship. The guilt that followed crushed him.

Sinking to his knees, Drew put his face in his hands and wept.

Four years later

Emerald Cove, Florida

D
rew Evans stepped out of his small office and squinted against the bright morning sunshine, trying hard to ignore the headache grinding his brain into little pieces. The aspirin he'd downed with a cup of yesterday's coffee sat in his stomach like a handful of rocks. He felt as if he'd gotten into a fight with a Mack truck and lost. He didn't even want to think about how he looked.

He had a vague memory of a thatch-roofed bar, a pretty bartender who'd evidently flunked out of bartending school, the sound of reggae mixing with the sound of the surf, and the smooth burn of Puerto Rican rum. He'd been a goner in less than an hour.

That had been two days ago. Forty-eight hours lost and hardly missed. One of these days he was going to learn the slow crawl out of the bottle was a hell of a lot harder than the plunge into it.

Shoving his aviator's glasses onto the bridge of his nose, he started across the gravel lot toward the dock. Around him, the South Florida morning dazzled like a big, gaudy emerald, beckoning him to notice. Because he did—he always noticed how beautiful the mornings
were in the Keys—Drew smiled in spite of the headache. He'd lived in plenty of places in his thirty-five years—San Diego, Hawaii, Germany, Norfolk—but none of those places could compare to the magic of the Florida Keys.

He glanced over at the windsock a few yards from the maintenance hangar near the water and gauged the wind speed and direction. The wind was below ten knots and coming out of the south. Perfect for flying, but he knew there would be storms later. Pilots had radar when it came to predicting weather. In the Keys, the storms came like clockwork every afternoon during the summer. Brief downpours that turned the air to steam. Drew had every intention of being back long before the afternoon thunderstorms started.

Standing at the end of the dock, he looked down the narrow gangway where his seventeen-passenger Grumman Mallard seaplane rocked gently in the surf. The quick swell of pride made him smile. An F-18 she wasn't, but she was a pretty little thing and fun as hell to fly. He'd earned his water landing and takeoff certification right out of the Navy. In the four years since, he'd tried very hard not to look back.

Drew had spent the majority of those years building Water Flight Tours into the small, but lucrative business it was today. He'd turned an idea into a reality and made it work. Pouring his life savings into a charter plane service had been a huge risk. He'd worked weekends and holidays, forfeiting sleep and peace of mind for a stab at success and the American Dream. But it was a risk he'd been willing to take. A risk that, in the end, had paid off.

He liked to think he worked so hard because of his love of flying, his inherent independence, because he
was ambitious. But sometimes his mind strayed a little too close to the past, and he wondered if maybe he worked so hard because he didn't like the taste failure had left at the back of his throat. Maybe his foray into the American Dream was his escape. Maybe he'd spent the last four years running away from a mistake he would never live down. From ghosts he would never forget no matter how hard he tried.