Speed the Dawn

by Philip Donlay

  Breathing easier, but with watery eyes, Donovan slowed as he spotted flames off to the left. As they passed through the trees, they could see a row of at least four homes, all in various stages of burning to the ground. He could feel the heat from the fire on his face and he turned away and continued to drive. They burst from the dense smoke into a clear area, and Donovan brought the Ford to a stop and rolled down his window to get to the less contaminated air. He used the pillowcase to wipe away his tears, and after several more restorative breaths, he replaced the mask, stepped on the gas, and within minutes, they were again shrouded in smoke.

  The makeshift masks were a godsend. On both sides of the road, trees burned in clusters; ash and flaming sparks drifted down and showered the metal of the truck. Donovan was forced to slow as they reached two burned-out cars, their charred shells billowing thick black smoke.

  “How much longer?” Shannon asked, raising her voice to be heard through the mask.

  They’d passed a blue hospital sign only a few minutes ago. All other landmarks were obscured by smoke until they passed the empty guard shacks that marked the end of 17 Mile Drive. In the distance, flames climbed and danced from the roof and windows of what he guessed was an outlying medical building. On the other side, illuminated by the fire, were the white walls of the hospital.

  “That’s it!” Shannon said as she removed her mask. “We made it!”

  Donovan pulled down his mask and followed the signs toward the emergency room. His hopes dwindled as he spotted empty parking lots. As he wheeled to the emergency room doors, he saw there were no lights coming from inside the building.

  “Oh no,” Shannon said as she slumped at their discovery.

  Donovan silently eyed the building. He put the truck into park, opened the door, and stepped to the ground. He reached into the bed, grabbed the pry bar, and headed toward the door.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “HERE, LOOK AT the image on my phone,” Montero said. “I called in a favor at the Bureau, and they used some advanced computer filtering to eliminate the glare on the truck’s windshield. Facial recognition identified the woman as Shannon, so it follows that the man is Donovan.”

  Lauren examined the computer-enhanced image and the woman was indeed Shannon, her large eyes and bangs clearly visible. “Just because this is Shannon doesn’t mean that the man is Donovan. She could be with anyone, and then there’s William. Where is he?”

  “We don’t have all the answers, but we have a lead we need to pursue,” Montero said.

  “Are there coordinates with the image?” Michael asked. “Channel 10 should know where this was shot.”

  “No, the data stream that broadcasts the latitude and longitude was either malfunctioning or damaged,” Montero said. “Let’s think this through. Donovan’s rental car was stolen from a garage near the aquarium just before the tsunami hit. He found another vehicle and ended up at an unknown beach, post-tsunami, a shoreline with a wrecked yacht, with perhaps a crashed helicopter nearby.”

  “Usually, given the time that’s elapsed, the variables of his current position would be enormous,” Michael said to Lauren. “Except the roads on the Peninsula are a complete mess. His options are limited.”

  “What about the emergency distress beacons?” Montero said, the excitement rising in her voice. “Not just one, but two. A ship that size might have a marine emergency transmitter, as does a helicopter, if it crashed. Can we pinpoint the position from those?”

  Lauren shook her head. “Doubtful. They’re all satellite based. Even if the orbital platform is undamaged, the accuracy is maybe one to three miles. Plus, the number of Maydays in progress has probably overwhelmed the satellite’s receptors. I’ve seen it happen—an earthquake will set off all the aircraft locator beacons along the fault line and the computers can’t process all the data and become unreliable.”

  “So we need to eyeball sections of the coastline where the waves could have deposited a yacht the size of the one in the video,” Montero kept pressing. “We can do that from the helicopter at night. Maybe Donovan would still be close enough to hear us and make himself known.”

  “Even if we could pinpoint the spot, to do that we’d have to risk all of our lives, plus Janie’s, to search via helicopter, violating a no-fly order.” Lauren wiped the last tears from her eyes and balled up the tissue in her hand. “And we would have accomplished what, exactly? All we’ll know is where Donovan was hours ago. It does nothing to tell us where he is now. I think we wait until daylight, unless we know for sure where they are. Otherwise the risks to everyone are just too great.”

  “Did you just bring up rules?” Michael said to Lauren. “I mean, look who you’re talking to. Have you never met us?”

  “No, she’s right.” Montero snatched a tissue from the box in Michael’s hand and dabbed at her eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m clutching at straws. It’s so hard to sit here when they’re out there somewhere.”

  “Guys!” Janie called out as she came outside. “I just got off the phone with the Buckley. They’re pulling the crew off a sinking containership and they have an injured sailor who needs immediate medical attention.”

  “Are we going?” Michael asked. “We’re not exactly equipped for trauma patients.”

  “Captain Pittman understands, as does the captain of the sinking vessel, but the Coast Guard has their hands full with tsunami victims. We can get there faster than anyone else, which makes us all this guy has. I’ve been precleared for the flight, but I need someone to go with me in case we have to use the hoist.”

  “That’s me,” Michael said as he leaned in and kissed Lauren on the cheek. “Go do your science thing. He’s out there somewhere and he’ll survive until help arrives.”

  Lauren loved the words, but the rumble of doubt still shook her faith. Michael and Janie headed off toward the helicopter, and Lauren looked at Montero. “Thank you for being here and for caring. You’re exactly who I want trying to figure this out, though right now I need to talk to the Pentagon.”

  “Let’s go see if the office you used earlier is available,” Montero said.

  “How far out is the Buckley?” Lauren said as she stopped short of the door.

  “Janie said they’d be overhead thirty minutes after liftoff. Why?”

  “I’ve changed my mind,” Lauren said as the prospect of being surrounded by friends sounded infinitely better than hanging out at the San Jose airport. “I’ll call the Pentagon from the Buckley. I don’t want to deal with the minute by minute individual concerns of Cal Fire, the Forest Service, or FEMA. I’ll let General Curtis brief me, and then I can relay what I know from the ship.”

  “Let’s go.” Montero put two fingers to her mouth and whistled loudly across the ramp to get Michael’s and Janie’s attention.

  “Can you drop me on the Buckley?” Lauren called out as they drew closer.

  “Sure,” Janie said. “Climb aboard and strap in. We’ll be out of here in a few minutes.”

  Lauren and Montero did as they were instructed, and with practiced ease slipped on their headsets. Michael was outside making sure the rotors were clear, and at his signal, Janie turned on the exterior lights and quickly, but systematically, fired up both turbine engines. Michael gave Janie a thumbs-up and climbed into the cabin. As he positioned his headset and cinched his harness, Janie lifted the helicopter off the ground and hover-taxied out away from the surrounding buildings and parked airplanes. Once clear, she climbed higher, pivoted the helicopter crisply, and banked to a direct heading for the Buckley.

  “I’m going to take us up and over the Santa Cruz Mountains. That’ll give us a straight shot out to the Buckley. Everyone needs to put on a floatation device before we coast out,” Janie announced calmly over the intercom. “We’ll be there in twenty-eight minutes.”

  Lauren watched the carpet of lights from San Jose pass below them as they flew toward the ocean. Once they crossed the mountains, she could see down the coast toward Monterey. At first, ther
e was only darkness, but she finally picked out a sliver of orange. To the untrained eye, the light looked like the glow from a distant city, not a series of raging fires. She compared the size of the glow she was seeing to the infrared images she’d given Ernie and the others. Lauren did the math and realized that an urban section, roughly the same size as the entire District of Columbia, was burning out of control on the Monterey Peninsula. As they roared out to sea, Lauren double-checked her life vest and studied the fires until they receded in the distance.

  “I can see the Buckley,” Michael said. “Wow—and what’s left of the containership.”

  Off the nose of the helicopter, Lauren saw the Buckley. High-intensity lights were trained on the listing superstructure of a far larger ship. She pulled a pair of binoculars from their pouch and trained them on the distant scene. The containership was going down by the bow and listing nearly twenty degrees to port. Scattered in the sea were dozens of containers that must have broken free as the bow sank.

  “Janie, do we know where the wounded sailor is yet?” Lauren asked as she handed the binoculars to Montero.

  “He’s on the stern of the containership,” Janie said. “Reports are he’s unconscious, but still alive. The Buckley says he’s on a stretcher, and they’ve rigged a harness for us to attach to the hoist.”

  Lauren kept her eyes on the two ships, as Janie sped toward the scene. Michael pulled on a helmet and checked the intercom with Janie. He swung his arms into a sturdy canvas harness, buckled himself in firmly, and then hooked a lifeline to the ceiling that would keep him from falling out of the helicopter if he lost his footing. He uncoiled the hoist control and laid it out so it was ready.

  “I’m secured, hoist checklist complete,” Michael transmitted to Janie. “Let me know when we reach door speed.”

  “Will do. We’re coming in fast, so be ready.”

  Lauren held her breath as both the sinking containership and the Buckley seemed to fill the windshield. Montero was furiously buckling herself into a safety harness identical to Michael’s. Multiple search lights on board the Buckley illuminated the stern of the containership. Janie flew closer, and as they reached a point directly above the Buckley, she made a tight turn overhead and began to bleed off their speed to arrive precisely over the sinking ship. From her vantage point, Lauren saw the name of the ship painted on the stern—it was the Olympia.

  “Cleared to open the door,” Janie said, slowing and adding the helicopter’s bright lights to the scene as she maneuvered the 412 into a hover.

  Cool wind from the open door swirled and buffeted the inside of the cabin. Below them, Lauren spotted the injured man on the stretcher, and on each side were men wearing Eco-Watch wetsuits as well as flotation devices. An Eco-Watch runabout was holding position just off the starboard side, away from several shipping containers bobbing in the gentle swell. Michael, the control box in his hands, began to pay out the cable from the hoist pod mounted above and outside the cabin door.

  Janie inched the helicopter into position directly above the wounded sailor, and Lauren lost sight of what was happening below. Montero, her own harness finally secured, was leaning as far out the door as she could. She signaled Lauren to come and sit next to her. Lauren unbuckled and changed seats while listening through the intercom. Michael, Janie, and the two Eco-Watch crewmen who had boarded the Olympia from one of the Buckley’s runabouts were discussing the situation. From her new vantage point, she could see far more of what was happening below.

  “Ten more feet, hold it steady.” Michael ran the line downward, giving Janie status reports as she held the helicopter’s position. “Six feet. You’re drifting slightly to the left.”

  “Correcting,” Janie replied.

  “Three feet, steady, looking good,” Michael said. “They’ve got the hook. They’re attaching the payload. Stand by.”

  “Roger,” Janie said.

  “The stretcher is secured. We’ve got an all-clear signal from the crew on deck,” Michael said. “Pulling up the slack and commencing hoist.”

  “Michael, what’s happening?” Montero called as she braced herself against the side of the helicopter.

  Lauren watched in disbelief as the deck of the Olympia tilted steeply to port. The stern dropped lower in the water. The Eco-Watch crewmen on deck tumbled aside, and, despite efforts to catch themselves, they both crashed into the railing and were flung overboard. The helicopter staggered as the winch seemed to grind to a halt and jerk the 412 downward.

  “Janie,” Michael yelled. “The cable is fouled!”

  Illuminated by the Buckley’s lights, Lauren tracked the cable from the hoist, down to the deck, where the stretcher was entangled in the railing as the ship began to slip further beneath the waves. She felt Janie pivot the helicopter and descend.

  “Michael, stand clear. I’m cutting the cable,” Janie said through the intercom.

  Severed by explosive squibs, Lauren watched the cable drop from the winch housing. The lifeline to the injured sailor below twisted as it dropped into the ocean.

  “Janie,” Michael radioed as he gripped an overhead handhold and stepped out onto the skid. “I can still reach him before the ship goes under.”

  Without hesitating, Janie maneuvered the 412 downward to place Michael within reach of the stretcher. Montero stepped out next to Michael, and Lauren held on as her limited view outside filled with the stern of the Olympia. Cable cutters in hand, Michael reached out and began snapping through the tangled metal line as Montero gripped the litter and began pulling.

  “I can’t hold him; the blankets are soaked. Even if you get him free, I’m afraid he’ll sink,” Montero said to Michael as she produced a knife and began slicing the fabric straps securing the wounded man to the rescue basket.

  “You’ve got ten seconds before I have to climb us out of here,” Janie said.

  Lauren saw Montero’s knife flash repeatedly. Michael moved closer and crouched, bracing himself. From how his legs and back flexed, she knew he had the sailor.

  “We have him!” Montero called out to Janie.

  Lauren felt the helicopter rise, and she watched as both Montero and Michael strained against the injured man’s weight as the ship slipped beneath the waves.

  “Is he on board?” Janie asked as she held the 412 in a steady hover, despite the growing froth, bubbles, and debris released from the Olympia.

  “Almost,” Michael said as he and Montero struggled to pull the soaking-wet man up and into the cabin.

  Lauren unbuckled, crouched, and added her strength to the effort. Working in unison, all three of them pulled the unconscious seaman aboard. Michael was about to close the door when a single shipping container, freed from the submerged deck of the Olympia, erupted from the dark water next to them.

  Janie slammed the controls in an effort to try to avoid the freight car–sized object as it bobbed vertically before it began to fall on its side. Lauren felt the impacts and saw the shower of sparks as the helicopter’s rotor blades slashed three-foot-long slices into the metal of the container before it tipped over in an explosion of seawater.

  Severe vibrations instantly racked the helicopter, and Lauren, terrified, braced for the crash. The helicopter banked, and just as quickly banked in the opposite direction as Janie fought to level off. The noise from the vibrations set off by the damaged rotor blades was deafening. The shaking was severe enough that it felt as if the machine was on the verge of tearing itself apart.

  “Buckley, Mayday, Mayday! Severe rotor damage,” Janie radioed as she fought to control the damaged helicopter. “We may have to ditch.”

  Lauren spotted more containers pushing to the surface and crashing into others already floating in the ocean. In the midst of the debris field, the Buckley was coming fast, impacting containers, battering and crushing them with its ice-capable hull before rolling them out of the way. The Buckley steamed straight for them, the helipad bathed in light.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  DONOV
AN PUNCHED THE hardened steel of the pry bar into the lower panel of the glass door. It made a quiet pop, and when he leveraged the bar against the handle, the safety glass cracked into hundreds of pieces and collapsed harmlessly to the floor. He ducked inside the deserted building and spotted the sign pointing to the emergency room.

  “I’m right behind you,” Shannon said as she hurried to catch him.

  Donovan pushed into the emergency room. The only light was coming from the battery-powered emergency lights. He pulled open a partition to a disheveled bay. There was no bed. Wiring from a monitor was tangled on the floor. The next room was clean and ready for business. A waist-high cabinet was pushed against one wall. He saw it was on wheels and pulled it out to position it under a light. He started at the top, and sifted through the drawer and found what he needed most, a penlight. He clicked it on and continued searching.

  When Shannon returned, he was stuffing items into his pockets. “What have you found?”

  “Basic first-aid stuff: gloves, rolls of gauze, scissors, tape, and elastic bandage,” Donovan said. “We may have to redo William’s leg, and this time we’ll have the supplies.”

  “I checked the phones and computers, nothing works,” Shannon said. “You keep searching, I’ll be right back.”

  Donovan continued his search, rifling through more items. He grabbed a packet of intravenous needles. Next to it were clear plastic packages of tubing. He was about to stuff them in his pocket when Shannon reappeared. She snapped open a plastic trash bag and held it toward him. He emptied his pockets into the bag and continued. He collected more gauze and tape, as well as betadine wipes, and threw them in the bag.

  “He needs antibiotics,” Shannon said.