“Roger, one minute. Keep her steady, Dan!”
Sweat stood out on the chief engineer’s face as he tried to maintain his balance and watch the engine gauges, continually adjusting the throttles for each draft or air pocket. “Yes, sir!”
“Fifty feet maintaining,” Aly said, holding on to the handrail position on the starboard fuselage as a gust of wind hit them hard. The P3 shuddered sickeningly. They were skidding! A scream lurched up her throat.
Clay applied left rudder to halt the downward skid. He checked the yoke, bringing it an inch to the left. The P3 steadied.
“Altitude!” he croaked.
“F-forty feet!”
Too low! A hiss of breath came between his clenched teeth as he pulled back fractionally on the column. It was at that moment that the new engine faltered. With the unexpected loss of power, the P3 descended.
“Look out!” Aly screamed. She braced herself as the waves loomed higher.
“Damn!” It was the last expletive heard over the radio. Cantrell reared back on the yoke, asking the P3 to recover from the shallow dive that the engine had placed them in. Ballard feathered the engine, jerking the throttle, stopcocking it. He shoved the other three to the fire wall, asking for all the reserve power they had to give them.
The P3 gallantly tried to respond, the three engines straining. But another powerful gust of wind threw the nose up, creating a stall condition. The aircraft hovered at the angle for what seemed an eternity before sinking, tail first, toward the grasping, greedy fingers of the ocean twenty feet below them. A forty-foot rogue wave caught the P3, slamming into it on the port side, sending the aircraft skimming on its belly across the waves.
Nightmare seconds collided. Aly saw the waves coming up, felt the P3 shudder into a stall. She gripped the handrail, a scream caught in her throat. In those split seconds before they crashed, she felt sorrow, not fear. Sorrow that she and Clay would end their lives enemies, not friends.
The P3 sank downward, the tail boom entering the water first. Ordinarily, because of the Lockheed’s construction, the plane would have disintegrated upon impact. But because the tail took the initial contact, it was torn from the fuselage instead. The P3 skipped sideways across the water like a stone skipping across a pond. Froth and spray shot skyward. Tons of water exploded into the air as the plane sliced through wave after wave. A rending tear could be heard for agonizing moments as the left wing separated from the main body of the aircraft. The starboard wingtip dug into the water at a much slower speed, cartwheeling the craft high into the air before it settled drunkenly on the ocean’s surface, and that was what saved them.
Aly was thinking clearly. The P3 was still afloat, drifting in a trough between huge, stalking waves. Because of their training in emergency survival, she and Clay quickly unstrapped and were relatively unhurt. It was a different matter for their chief engineer.
Clay stepped over the unconscious man, who lay blocking the aisle. He leaned down. The gurgle of water could be heard entering the plane through the broken tail section. In less than a minute, the P3 would go down, slipping into the ocean’s depths.
“Aly!” Clay yelled above the roar of the typhoon, “get to the raft. Get it released!”
Her knees knocking so badly that she fell onto the slippery aisle filling with water, Aly crawled aft in the listing P3. The twelve-man life raft on board was stowed in the rear. In the dimness and poor light, Aly finally reached it. Her breath came in ragged sobs as she fought her way through knee-deep water. Thousands of gallons of water were pouring in from the broken tail section. Leaning upward, she triggered the latch that would enable her to drag the raft forward toward the first hatch.
Cantrell hefted the bleeding and unconscious Ballard across his shoulders. As he turned, he saw to his relief that Aly had reached the life raft. She had thrown open the rear hatch door and put the raft into position for immediate inflation. Staggering under Ballard’s weight, and from the fact the P3 was slowly turning on her side, Clay fought his way through the ankle-deep seawater.
Aly flipped the toggle switch, and the life raft began inflation just outside the hatch. Made of a tough, resilient material with a cover over the top, the raft rose in place as the entire rescue assembly took shape. She gripped the nylon line with both her gloved hands, the ocean tugging hard at it, wanting to pull it out of her grasp. As Clay approached, her eyes widened. Dan Ballard was bleeding heavily from the face and head. She met Clay’s narrowed gaze.
“Hold that raft steady,” he bellowed, positioning Ballard to be dropped forward into it.
“Hurry! We’re sinking!” she screamed over the roar.
The P3 groaned, listing more to port as the water burped and belched into the fuselage. Another wave hit the aircraft. Aly was thrown violently forward on her knees. The line sang through her hands, burning them. With a cry, she looped the rope around her elbow to halt the raft’s movement. She was jerked forward again, and she twisted around, using her feet to throw her sideways, lodging herself behind the hatch. Her entire shoulder exploded in pain. A cry tore from her. She saw Clay make it into the raft after getting Ballard aboard.
This was Clay’s chance to get rid of her, Aly realized, pain making her light-headed. She held the raft steady, using her own body as a wedge against the aircraft to do so. Clay could leave her behind and she’d die.
“Aly! Jump!”
His scream impinged upon her numbed senses. The pain drifting up her shoulder into her neck and head was nearly paralyzing her.
“Aly!” Dammit! Clay moved awkwardly to the rear of the covered raft. Something was wrong! He saw how pale her face was. Her hands were slipping! She was allowing the line to slide through her fingers. What was she doing? Looking up, Cantrell saw the fuselage moving over on top of them. One more wave would bring it smashing down on the raft and they’d all die.
Cursing roundly, Clay made a flailing leap from the raft back to the lip of the wallowing P3. He jerked Aly away from the hatch where she had lodged herself against the interior. In one motion, he literally threw her into the raft and dived headlong into it himself.
Grabbing a paddle, fumbling with it, Clay dug it into the brackish green water. They had to get out from beneath the P3! He looked over at Aly. She lay sprawled on her back, unconscious next to Ballard. This was one time he wasn’t going to have their help. He wasn’t a man to pray, but he did it then. Digging the plastic paddle in quick, deep strokes, he moved the raft sluggishly forward.
The P3 groaned, the scream of metal against metal shearing above the shriek of wind and the roar of the angry ocean. Clay ducked, digging harder, paddling faster, still praying. The raft floated upward, caught on another huge wave. He chanced a look across his shoulder. Gray Lady was going down! A part of him cried because she’d been such a valiant aircraft under the worst of circumstances. The last scream of metal against metal rang through the early evening like the cry of a woman dying.
Ripping pain brought Aly quickly back to consciousness. She was aware of the howling wind whistling through the open flaps, and that she was soaked to the skin, and freezing. She tried to sit up, but pain sheared through her left shoulder. With a cry, she fell back to the floor of the raft, sobbing for breath.
Clay had stopped paddling as soon as they were clear of the sinking P3. With shaking hands, he had located the first-aid kit in one of the raft’s many side compartments, and he placed a battle dressing around Dan’s bleeding head. Finding no other evidence of injury, Clay moved him amidships to the center of the raft. Just as he finished tending Dan, he heard Aly moan. He crawled over to her on his hands and knees. The raft moved like a roller coaster, tipping and sliding at the whim of the ocean’s quixotic current and the direction of the wind.
“Lie still,” Clay gasped, his breath coming in jerky sobs. Aly’s face was waxen, and she was gripping her left shoulder, her mouth stretched in a silent scream. He ran his hand across her life vest, trying to find out if she’d broken her arm or somet
hing. “Where’s it hurt?” he demanded, leaning over her.
“Sh-shoulder. Oh, God, I think I broke it, Clay.” Aly sobbed, biting back a cry.
As quickly as he could, Clay got her turned on her side, facing him, so that she leaned against his knees for support. Sliding his hand under her life vest, he gingerly felt across her wet back. After several moments of examination, he said, “I think it’s dislocated.” He could feel the blade separated from her shoulder. As gently as he could under the circumstances, he laid Aly down on her back. Grimly, he said, “Hold on, this is going to hurt like hell.”
Aly didn’t have time to prepare. She felt his strong hands upon her shoulder, front and back. In the next second, Clay jerked her entire body in one, single movement. A cry clawed up her throat, and the pain was so intense that blackness enveloped her.
It was dark when Aly regained consciousness. She was aware of the rolling motion of the raft, the constant pelt of rain against the roof and the roar of wind all around them. When she realized she was held in someone’s arms, she stirred.
“Lie still,” Clay ordered her, his voice low, “I’ve got you.”
A dull ache throbbed through her left shoulder. Aly found herself huddled against Cantrell, his arm around her. Her right arm was wrapped tightly around his waist. Even in unconsciousness, her terror of being washed overboard had made her cling to him. Relief spread through her.
“We’re alive,” Clay reassured her in an unsteady voice. “How are you feeling?”
Slowly, Aly raised her head. It was so dark she could see nothing at first. Then she realized that there was a blinking red light on the bow of the raft. It would make them visible to rescue searchers. She looked up into Clay’s harshly drawn face, barely visible. The rain had plastered his hair to his skull, and his eyes were dark with concern as he studied her. She noticed that he had positioned himself between the main two seats of the raft. He’d maneuvered Dan and herself on either side of him, one arm around each to keep them from getting tossed around and possibly increasing the severity of their injuries.
“Okay,” she mumbled. Thirst. She was dying of thirst. “Dan?”
Clay’s face softened slightly, some of the lines of tension easing around his mouth. “Concussion, I think. A bad one. We won’t know anything more until daylight comes.”
Aly nodded, her brain seeming spongy and disconnected. She felt so safe and secure under his arm. Trying to think coherently, she croaked, “The radio?”
Clay offered Aly a slight smile to buoy her spirits. She looked like a bedraggled kitten, her face reflecting the faint red glow from the bow. “Up and working. I’m sure the coast guard has received our Mayday signal. It’s just a matter of time until they locate us with one of their Falcon jets. I don’t think they’ll attempt a rescue until this storm dies down, though. Maybe we’ll see them at daybreak.”
Trying to protect her face from the biting, never-ending wind whipping through the flaps, Aly strained to sit up more. She placed her head against Clay’s broad shoulder, her lips near his ear so that he could hear her. “What about the Titania?”
With a snort, Clay said, “If she saw us go down, she didn’t wait around to help rescue us. I think that Red sub scared her off. She’s probably halfway up the Baja peninsula by now.”
Real anger wound through Aly. Tiredly, she rested her head against Clay’s neck and jaw. How good it felt being in his arms. “And you? Any injury?”
“None. Just some bruises from the crash. You had a separated shoulder. How’s it feeling now?”
“Like hell. Where’d you learn to put one back into position like that?”
Chuckling, Clay said. “From my days in football at college. I suffered one myself. When the coach put it back in, I thought I was going to die.”
“I thought I had,” Aly answered. His voice was like balm. She was more afraid than she’d ever been in her life. They were alone on an ocean in the middle of a typhoon.
“Look, there’s nothing else we can do right now. Try and go back to sleep.”
“But what about you? What time is it?” She struggled to look at her watch on her left wrist. When she raised her arm, pain hit her hard, making her gasp.
“Easy with that arm, honey,” he crooned, gently running his hand down her left arm. “You won’t have mobility for a couple of weeks. As soon as I can, I’m going to fashion a sling so you don’t keep aggravating it every time you move.”
Honey. Aly stared up at Clay, her lips parting. His voice was incredibly gentle, his fingers even gentler as he skimmed her injured arm in a protective gesture. She saw him frown and suddenly look away from her. Despite their circumstances, that same old pain shook her heart. It had been a slip on his part—and now he was sorry he’d said it.
“I-it’s almost midnight,” she whispered lamely.
“Yeah. Go back to sleep, Aly. There’s nothing else to be done. The raft’s riding the waves fine. According to the compass, we’re heading in a northeasterly direction, toward Baja.”
Baja. She closed her eyes, snuggling deep beneath Clay’s supportive arm. Savoring his closeness, the warming heat of his hard, masculine body, Aly closed her eyes. Tonight, Clay would hold her. It was more than she’d ever dreamed of. He embraced both her and Dan. There was a heroic side to Clay. He didn’t have to hold either of them, but he must have realized that body heat was depleted in a cold rain like this. It didn’t matter what his reasons were, Aly told herself. Shivering, she placed her hand against the vest he wore. The trauma of the crash, followed by her injury, had left her utterly exhausted. Despite the banshee cry of the wind surrounding them, the pitching of the raft and the unrelenting rain, Aly slept. She was safe.
Clay jerked awake at dawn, bathed in a cold sweat of fear. He’d been dreaming of the crash all over again, experiencing a gamut of violent emotions. He lay with his shoulders against the rubber raft amidships. Dan’s head rested on his right shoulder, Aly’s on his left. Sometime during the night, she had crowded close, her body contoured against his. It felt good and right. No longer was she shivering, and neither was he.
Clay needed to rub his burning eyes. He moved slowly, trying not to disturb either of his sleeping crew members. Every bone in his body ached. His muscles were stiff and sore. He heard Dan groan. Instantly, his attention focused on the engineer. Was he finally becoming conscious? God, he hoped so.
Aly heard Dan’s groan and groggily awoke. As she stirred, she immediately felt Clay’s arm tighten about her shoulder.
“Take it easy,” he said, his voice rough from disuse. “It’s Ballard. I think he’s coming around. Can you help me, Aly?”
The rain had stopped. Aly rubbed her eyes, slowly sitting up. Her shoulder ached, but the pain was at a manageable level. Focusing her attention on Dan, she got to her hands and knees, moving awkwardly around Clay and to his side.
Trading a look with him, she wondered how badly hurt Dan was. “Dan?” she called, placing her hand against his shoulder. “Dan? Can you hear me? It’s Aly.”
The engineer groaned again, his lashes fluttering against his pale, drawn face. But he didn’t become conscious.
Aly looked up at Clay. “I think he’s got a serious concussion.”
“Yeah,” Clay agreed grimly. He twisted around, looking for the compartment that held three survival blankets. Glancing out the flaps, his eyes widened. “Look!”
The sudden surprise in Clay’s voice made Aly look up. There, between the flaps, and no more than a mile away, was the Baja desert. Golden yellow hills of sand flowed in a north-south direction for as far as they could see. “Land!” Aly croaked, hope in her voice. That would be even better for rescue!
Moving stiffly, Clay got to his knees. “Aly, can you paddle? I don’t know if this current or wind will hold this direction long enough for us to make land. Can you use your right arm to paddle with?”
Aly nodded, slipping her numbed fingers around the oar. The paddle was placed between the overhead roof and the
raft. “I’ll do it.”
Clay grinned tiredly. “You’re one hell of a woman.”
His unexpected smile sent a shaft of warmth through her. She pushed the damp hair out of her eyes. “Come on, Cantrell, quit the sweet talk and put your money where your mouth is. Let’s go for it.”
Clay wanted to reach over and pull Aly into his arms. He loved her unflagging spirit, her courage under brutal circumstances. And the smile she gave him made him feel hot with longing. “Let’s go for it,” he challenged her huskily.
“Last one to the beach is a rotten egg, Cantrell!” And they began to paddle.
“Prepare to land!” Clay warned Aly nearly an hour later. His arm was numb, and his shoulder hurt from paddling for so long and hard. He knew that Aly must be close to exhaustion. If she was, she wasn’t complaining. Maybe it was that famous Trayhern stamina coming through for them now. Whatever the reason, Clay knew they wouldn’t have reached shore without her superhuman effort. Just as he’d suspected, the current had started moving northward half a mile away from shore. It would have swept them back out to sea. The last half mile had been hellish, but they’d forced the raft through the choppy waves, aiming it for a desert landfall.
The waves were huge from the typhoon. Clay stowed both paddles and then pulled Aly into the center of the raft with him. The darkness beneath her eyes gave away her true state. She was exhausted. “Stay down and hold on to Ballard,” he shouted above the crashing of the waves. “We’re liable to tip over if we don’t stay low and in the center of this thing. Hang on!”
Aly slid her right arm under Dan’s shoulders, holding him next to her body, trying to protect him in case they were approaching a rocky shore, or if the raft should flip over. Her eyes widened when Clay came around to sit behind her, his arms around both of them. He pressed her down until she was almost lying across Dan. When she realized that Clay was protecting both of them with his body, tears leaked into her eyes. Despite his hard facade, Clay was an incredible man. And Aly loved him fiercely for it.
No Surrender Page 11
