Cave Rescue Courtship

by M. L. Buchman

  The approach was going to be hard on the boat. The rocks in front of the cave were barely awash in the troughs and were buried in twenty feet of spray and crashing surf when the waves met coming around either side of the mount.

  He rode the curl of the wave, carving a path to the front of the sea cave.

  That’s when he saw the problem.

  “Winch out! Winch out! Emergency!”

  “Paying out cable,” Craig replied, and the high whine of the winch motor sounded in the cabin.

  As it paid out, Ham climbed, but held his turn.

  Just as the surf slapped against itself and died back, he had the RB-S lined up at the front of the cave. With the cable now pressed into the protruding upper lip of the cave, the plan had been for him to descend. That would provide enough slack, as the RB-S used their small motor to power forward, to drive up into the cave.

  “Keep running the cable?” Craig called over the intercom.

  “Uh, yes please.”

  He and Sly were both pressed back as hard as they could be in their seats.

  The long nose of the Dolphin was rested against the rock slope of the top of the sea mount. Beyond that stood a tiny clump of coastal pine: stout, twisted, and wind-blown so their crowns leaned dramatically back toward the land. Their trunks were thick with age and surviving ten thousand storms.

  The rotor blades were spinning an arc mere feet from the miniature grove atop the sea mount.

  13

  Vera spotted three survivors huddled at the very highest point in the back of the small cave. One broken arm. One head wound. One walking on an ankle that twisted sideways, but clearly hadn’t realized it yet. The fourth one and the two parts of kayaks reported by the helo crew must have been washed out to sea.

  The second wave slashed into the boat on the swimmer’s heels as he jumped forward into the cave. Thankfully, the cave’s bottom had been carved so that it rose toward the back. But green water flowed over the rear transom and partially swamped their twenty-three-foot boat.

  Vera managed to loop the bow line over a barnacle-covered boulder and calculated desperately as she held on.

  They already had water aboard: six feet wide, half a foot deep, twenty-three feet long. Sixty cubic feet, approximately five hundred gallons, or…four thousand pounds. The useful payload on the Dolphin HH-65 was under fifteen hundred.

  True to his word, the swimmer had the first survivor aboard before the next wave rushed into the small cave. His arm hung ghoulishly askew. The coxswain came forward and tucked the man’s wrist into the front of his life vest to immobilize it.

  The boat wouldn’t sink when filled with water, not even with great gouges ripped in the hull. But it was a sure bet that the helicopter couldn’t tow them back out through the heavy surf.

  The guy walking on the side of his foot managed to collapse into the boat after wave number three.

  The small boat engine would be no help. The coxswain had run it at full thrust to drive them as far into the cave as possible. As expected, that had meant running it hard over the rocks and it would never function again without a new propeller and drive shaft.

  The third wave washed up and down the length of the boat.

  The rescue swimmer, there hadn’t even been a chance to find out his name, was doing some emergency first aid on the head wound.

  Vera watched, mesmerized for a moment, as he bound the woman’s scalp back onto her head with quick loops of gauze.

  They were relatively safe in the cave for the moment, but they couldn’t leave.

  Removing the rear transom to drain the boat was an option, but not a good one. They’d still have to be dragged through the impossible surf.

  If only they could lift off the top of the cave as neatly as the woman’s scalp had been lifted away.

  Vera looked at the slender winch cable and let out a bark of a laugh.

  14

  Sly thumped his beer mug loudly on the table as he rose to his feet.

  The Workers Tavern was packed and the Coasties had snagged the last table by arriving early. It was clearly the hot spot among local dive bars for getting your lady a steak dinner on Valentine’s Day.

  “Six weeks ago, Petty Officer Chu kicked some serious ass,” he announced in a voice loud enough to get the whole bar’s attention. Or it would have been in any normal bar. At Workers, loud proclamations were no reason to pay any particular attention.

  The four old graybeards at their usual spot along the back leg of the U-shaped bar were seriously off melody with the Frankie Valli tune Sherry pumping out of the old jukebox. The laughter and chatter at other tables didn’t abate in the least as Sly continued.

  “The US Coast Guard has been right generous with their medals for our little escapades.”

  Ham figured that was why Sly had insisted that they all wear their dress whites, specifically so that he could show off his medal to his fiancée Hailey.

  “And no one deserves it more, well, other than me—”

  Hailey’s snort of laughter should have put him in his place.

  Instead he said, “Excuse me for a second,” and gave her a kiss long enough to leave her looking a little dreamy. “Now, where was I?”

  “Busy congratulating yourself,” Tad and Craig said in unison. They were now permanent fixtures on the crew. Harvey and Vivian had been recruited by Station Maui while they were honeymooning there.

  “No, that’s not it.” He made a show of patting his pockets as if looking for what he’d forgotten, but his grin said that he hadn’t for a moment.

  Ham looked at Vera and they shared a smile. Over the two months since her arrival, she’d come to know Sly’s antics as well as he did. Of course the four of them were rarely apart when the girls were ashore or the helo was aboard the Steadfast.

  “Oh, here it is.” Sly held up an imaginary bit of paper and squinted at it before continuing. “To the, highly decorated I might add, Petty Officer Chu for thinking up and executing a rescue that even my Hailey said was too crazy for her.”

  “You’ve definitely got the ‘Chief Loon’ award on this team,” Hailey announced. In fact, she held up a funky handmade medal that was a fingernail polish-painted duckish bird, dangling from an ocean-blue ribbon. She leaned over and pinned it next to Vera’s Coast Guard Medal.

  Vera actually blushed, which was pretty damn cute.

  “And to Lieutenant Hammond Markson,” Sly paused dramatically, “the only pilot I know good enough to have pulled it off without getting us all killed. Hear! Hear!” Sly called out.

  And at that, the whole bar raised their glasses and repeated the call.

  Now Ham could feel the heat on his own face.

  15

  “You aren’t saying much.” Vera didn’t know why that was making her nervous. She and Hammond had sat with the others for hours, reliving the Silver Cave rescue, among others.

  Unable to remove the top of the cave, and knowing the boat would never leave the cave intact, Vera had the helicopter back off from the cave’s mouth.

  Disconnecting the winch’s cargo hook from the boat, she’d tied a rope line just above the hook. One by one, they attached the survivors to the cable. Then, they’d eased the line until the person swung off the boat and sideways out of the cave, but clear of the heavy surf. Once they were winched aloft, the helo lowered the cargo hook again, and they’d pulled it back into the cave with the line. A right-angle rescue; out then up.

  One by one, everyone had gone aloft until only she and the swimmer had been left in the boat inside the cave.

  “Seriously, lady. Your pilot doesn’t wise up, I call first dibs.” And that’s how she was finally introduced to Tad, waiting for the cable to lower back down to fetch her.

  Tonight, Hammond, who usually let her know his thoughts, was keeping them very firmly to himself.

  The last six weeks had been the best weeks of her life. The captain and Chief Mackey had made it clear that she was welcome to bring any crazy idea to their atten
tion at any time of day or night. And they’d said it enough times that she actually believed them. And when the inevitable publicity had happened, neither had taken any of the credit. Instead, they’d made a point of pushing her, Tad, and Hammond to the fore.

  “We aren’t the ones who did it, Chu. Now take your goddamn bow.” Mackey had grumbled in what she was learning was his especially pleased tone. She’d also taken the promotion that went along with the medal.

  “Vera.”

  Hammond didn’t make it a question as he stopped at the base of the Steadfast’s gangway. All she could do was nod against a dry throat.

  He reached out and took her hand, something he almost never did in public, and rubbed his thumb over the back of her knuckles, leaving a line of warmth that didn’t fade away. But still he didn’t speak.

  “Hammond.”

  He shook his head. “I had all these words. Now I can’t remember any of them.”

  “What were they about?”

  He opened his mouth, closed it again.

  Then he started to kneel. While it wasn’t raining at the moment, the pavement was wet and muddy.

  “No, Hammond. Your dress whites.” At least those were the words that came out of her mouth. Her thoughts were suddenly very silent as if waiting.

  Hammond stood back upright, but he was now holding open a white box which held a ring with a sapphire-blue diamond.

  “The color of the sea.”

  He just nodded. “Yeah. That was part of the words I had. It’s in your blood and I love that about you.”

  She didn’t need any other words. Instead she held out her hand for him to slip on the ring. Then she wrapped her arms around him and held on.

  That’s what she loved about him too.

  There was a little tune running through the back of her mind as Hammond held her tighter. It took her a moment to identify it; then couldn’t help smiling even more when she did.

  Hailey was going to laugh herself sick.

  It was Little White Church by Little Big Town.

  If you enjoyed this, keep reading for an excerpt from a book you’re going to love.

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  Off the Leash

  If you enjoyed this, you’ll love the White House Protection Force series

  Off the Leash (excerpt)

  White House Protection Force #1

  “You’re joking.”

  “Nope. That’s his name. And he’s yours now.”

  Sergeant Linda Hamlin wondered quite what it would take to wipe that smile off Lieutenant Jurgen’s face. A 120mm round from an M1A1 Abrams Main Battle Tank came to mind.

  The kennel master of the US Secret Service’s Canine Team was clearly a misogynistic jerk from the top of his polished head to the bottoms of his equally polished boots. She wondered if the shoelaces were polished as well.

  Then she looked over at the poor dog sitting hopefully on the concrete kennel floor. His stall had a dog bed three times his size and a water bowl deep enough for him to bathe in. No toys, because toys always came from the handler as a reward. He offered her a sad sigh and a liquid doggy gaze. The kennel even smelled wrong, more of sanitizer than dog. The walls seemed to echo with each bark down the long line of kennels housing the candidate hopefuls for the next addition to the Secret Service’s team.

  Thor—really?—was a brindle-colored mutt, part who-knew and part no-one-cared. He looked like a cross between an oversized, long-haired schnauzer and a dust mop that someone had spilled dark gray paint on. After mixing in streaks of tawny brown, they’d left one white paw just to make him all the more laughable.

  And of course Lieutenant Jerk Jurgen would assign Thor to the first woman on the USSS K-9 team.

  Unable to resist, she leaned over far enough to scruff the dog’s ears. He was the physical opposite of the sleek and powerful Malinois MWDs—military war dogs—that she’d been handling for the 75th Rangers for the last five years. They twitched with eagerness and nerves. A good MWD was seventy pounds of pure drive—every damn second of the day. If the mild-mannered Thor weighed thirty pounds, she’d be surprised. And he looked like a little girl’s best friend who should have a pink bow on his collar.

  Jurgen was clearly ex-Marine and would have no respect for the Army. Of course, having been in the Army’s Special Operations Forces, she knew better than to respect a Marine.

  “We won’t let any old swabbie bother us, will we?”

  Jurgen snarled—definitely Marine Corps. Swabbie was slang for a Navy sailor and a Marine always took offense at being lumped in with them no matter how much they belonged. Of course the swabbies took offense at having the Marines lumped with them. Too bad there weren’t any Navy around so that she could get two for the price of one. Jurgen wouldn’t be her boss, so appeasing him wasn’t high on her to-do list.

  At least she wouldn’t need any of the protective bite gear working with Thor. With his stature, he was an explosives detection dog without also being an attack one.

  “Where was he trained?” She stood back up to face the beast.

  “Private outfit in Montana—some place called Henderson’s Ranch. Didn’t make their MWD program,” his scoff said exactly what he thought the likelihood of any dog outfit in Montana being worthwhile. “They wanted us to try the little runt out.”

  She’d never heard of a training program in Montana. MWDs all came out of Lackland Air Force Base training. The Secret Service mostly trained their own and they all came from Vohne Liche Kennels in Indiana. Unless… Special Operations Forces dogs were trained by private contractors. She’d worked beside a Delta Force dog for a single month—he’d been incredible.

  “Is he trained in English or German?” Most American MWDs were trained in German so that there was no confusion in case a command word happened to be part of a spoken sentence. It also made it harder for any random person on the battlefield to shout something that would confuse the dog.

  “German according to his paperwork, but he won’t listen to me much in either language.”

  Might as well give the diminutive Thor a few basic tests. A snap of her fingers and a slap on her thigh had the dog dropping into a smart “heel” position. No need to call out Fuss—by my foot.

  “Pass auf!” Guard! She made a pistol with her thumb and forefinger and aimed it at Jurgen as she grabbed her forearm with her other hand—the military hand sign for enemy.

  The little dog snarled at Jurgen sharply enough to have him backing out of the kennel. “Goddamn it!”

  “Ruhig.” Quiet. Thor maintained his fierce posture but dropped the snarl.

  “Gute Hund.” Good dog, Linda countered the command.

  Thor looked up at her and wagged his tail happily. She tossed him a doggie treat, which he caught midair and crunched happily.

  She didn’t bother looking up at Jurgen as she knelt once more to check over the little dog. His scruffy fur was so soft that it tickled. Good strength in the jaw, enough to show he’d had bite training despite his size—perfect if she ever needed to take down a three-foot-tall terrorist. Legs said he was a jumper.

  “Take your time, Hamlin. I’ve got nothing else to do with the rest of my goddamn day except babysit you and this mutt.”

  “Is the course set?”

  “Sure. Take him out,” Jurgen’s snarl sounded almost as nasty as Thor’s before he stalked off.

  She stood and slapped a hand on her opposite shoulder.

  Thor sprang aloft as if he was attached to springs and she caught him easily. He’d cleared well over double his own height. Definitely trained…and far easier to catch than seventy pounds of hyperactive Malinois.

  She plopped him back down on the ground. On lead or off? She’d give him the benefit of the doubt and try off first to see what happened.

  Linda zipped up her brand-new USSS jacket against the cold and led the way out of the kennel into the hard sunlight of the January morning. Snow had brushed the higher hills around the US
SS James J. Rowley Training Center—which this close to Washington, DC, wasn’t saying much—but was melting quickly. Scents wouldn’t carry as well on the cool air, making it more of a challenge for Thor to locate the explosives. She didn’t know where they were either. The course was a test for handler as well as dog.

  Jurgen would be up in the observer turret looking for any excuse to mark down his newest team. Perhaps teasing him about being just a Marine hadn’t been her best tactical choice. She sighed. At least she was consistent—she’d always been good at finding ways to piss people off before she could stop herself and consider the wisdom of doing so.

  This test was the culmination of a crazy three months, so she’d forgive herself this time—something she also wasn’t very good at.

  In October she’d been out of the Army and unsure what to do next. Tucked in the packet with her DD 214 honorable discharge form had been a flyer on career opportunities with the US Secret Service dog team: Be all your dog can be! No one else being released from Fort Benning that day had received any kind of a job flyer at all that she’d seen, so she kept quiet about it.

  She had to pass through DC on her way back to Vermont—her parent’s place. Burlington would work for, honestly, not very long at all, but she lacked anywhere else to go after a decade of service. So, she’d stopped off in DC to see what was up with that job flyer. Five interviews and three months to complete a standard six-month training course later—which was mostly a cakewalk after fighting with the US Rangers—she was on-board and this chill January day was her first chance with a dog. First chance to prove that she still had it. First chance to prove that she hadn’t made a mistake in deciding that she’d seen enough bloodshed and war zones for one lifetime and leaving the Army.

  The Start Here sign made it obvious where to begin, but she didn’t dare hesitate to take in her surroundings past a quick glimpse. Jurgen’s score would count a great deal toward where she and Thor were assigned in the future. Mostly likely on some field prep team, clearing the way for presidential visits.