Anxiously, Rook looked toward the roof. Where was Jim? Both Flyer crewmen had already climbed down and had just joined the group. Their faces were glistening with sweat, hair plastered against their skulls. The clothes they wore clung to their bodies. She made her way to the two weary men.
“Jim—the other man up there. Where is he? Why didn’t he come off the roof with you?”
The older man, his arms and knees burned badly from crawling around on the roof, leaned over, talking loudly enough so that Rook could hear him. “He said he was gonna try for that last ramp. I told him he was crazy, but he said we needed that last cylinder when he saw how many people were left down here.” The crewman lifted his blistered forearms for her to look at. “He’s got more guts than we have. Frank and I couldn’t take the heat up there anymore.”
Tears jammed into Rook’s eyes, and she fought them back. Her voice wavered. “D-did he say he’d come down after releasing the cylinders?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the younger crewman vowed. “Said he’d be down straight away.”
Rook strained to see through the heavy smoke, which was increasing every minute. Torn between a desire to find Jim and stay with her group, Rook looked back toward the fast-approaching Point Countess.
Hurry, oh, God, Noah, hurry.
Noah gave orders to his crew as they approached the tilted deck of the ferry. Ordinarily, no gangplank would be long enough to reach that upper deck from his cutter, but with the degree of list, it would work. His men had been with him for over a year and knew their stations. Sitka cast lines over the rail of the ferry. A couple of Flyer crewmen caught them and quickly wrapped them around the steel-bar rail.
“Ease her in,” Noah ordered Dixon. The ferry was listing badly to starboard. They had to place that gangplank between the cutter and the unstable, slanted deck. Noah ordered that the knots placed in the lines between the cutter and ferry be the type for quick release. If that ferry decided to sink, he didn’t want the Point Countess going down with it. As it was, the gangplank was going to be precarious as hell on the ferry deck. There was no way to secure it. Noah saw Rook waving wildly, her face bloody and swollen from the injury she had received. There was terror in her eyes. He ordered the throttle pulled back to all stop, watching as the cushioning fenders were thrown over the side of the Point Countess to prevent any damage when the two ships moved next to one another.
“Jerry, get Steve to help you maneuver that gangplank onto the Flyer.”
“Yes, sir!”
A ladder with rope handrails and solid oak planking was laid gingerly between the two ships, creating a passable bridge between them. Noah stepped out on deck with the microphone and used the ship’s PA system to direct the Flyer survivors.
“Prepare the injured for transport. My crew will help you across.”
Rook rallied beneath her brother’s calm, authoritative voice, and so did everyone else. Fighting back tears of relief, Rook got down on her hands and knees, and began relieving those who had been giving CPR for far too long. Two more explosions, deep in the belly of the Flyer, shook the deck. The heat was increasing, and so was the wind. Rook noticed a slight wind change.
“No!” she cried, seeing the chlorine cloud begin to turn and twist back across the bow—back across the roof, toward the stern. She felt a hand on her shoulder. Looking up, she saw a Point Countess crewman. He took the man she was working on across the plank to safety.
Dizzy, Rook watched in terrible fascination as the chlorine cloud changed direction. At first, yellow-green wisps mixed with the black column of smoke that crawled across the roof, and then the mixture thickened.
With a cry, Rook turned to Dixon, the nearest Point Countess crewman. “Get help,” she told him. “Jim Barton’s still up there on that roof! I’m going to get him.” She lunged forward, slipping across the deck, falling several times, trying to make it to the upper deck stairs that led to the roof.
“Where the hell is she going?” Noah shouted to Dixon on the Flyer.
Dixon cupped his hands to his mouth. “She’s going after a guy named Barton. He’s still up on that roof!”
“Rook!” Noah shouted, using the PA system. “Don’t go up there!” He called her one more time. Dammit, she either didn’t hear him, or—Noah threw down the microphone, slid down the stair rails and hit the deck of the Point Countess running. As he did so, he slipped the oxygen mask onto his face and twisted the regulator so that cooling air pumped into the mask. He turned to Carter, the second mate. “You have command, Carter. If I’m not back by the time this evacuation is complete, you pull this cutter clear. Understand?”
Carter’s mouth dropped open, but he nodded.
Noah leaped to the unsteady gangplank, making his way across it to the tilted deck of the Flyer. He screamed at Rook to stop as she climbed the stairs. She had no oxygen tank—there was no way she could enter that wall of smoke up on the roof and survive.
Rook gagged, gasping for breath. The smell of chlorine was overwhelming. She wriggled onto the roof and lay there, gasping for breath. The metal beneath her was hot. Hands bloodied, she pulled herself forward.
“Jim! Jim, where are you?” Her cry sounded like a weakened kitten mewing. Coughing violently, Rook felt her consciousness slipping. No! No, she couldn’t faint. Jim! He was in trouble. She knew it. She could feel it. Crawling forward, covered by the clouds of black smoke, she disappeared beneath the thick veil.
Noah lunged forward, making a grab for Rook’s foot. He lay on the roof, gasping for breath, his eyes smarting badly. Pulling on her ankle, muscles straining, he brought her back toward him—back out of the clouds of dark, greasy smoke. Dixon was waiting at the bottom of the stairs as Noah handed his semiconscious sister to him.
“Get her back to the cutter!” Noah ordered, his voice muffled badly by the mask he wore.
Dixon supported Rook, who slumped against him. “Yes, sir!”
“Jim!” Rook cried, weakly raising her hand, pointing toward the roof.
Noah nodded his understanding of Rook’s entreaty and searched the angry smoke, feeling the heat scorch his skin. Crawling quickly up on the roof on his hands and knees,
Noah went to the port edge of the deck, snaking his way along it. The smoke was opaque, and he could see nothing. Every few feet he’d stop, hang on to the edge and move his long legs back toward the center of the roof, trying to locate Barton. If he didn’t have a point of reference, Noah knew he could become disoriented and lost in the viscous clouds. And then he might be like Barton, wandering around on the roof, unable to find the stairs and safety.
Noah kept shouting for Jim, but the mask made it almost useless. The roar of the fire was like a freight train bearing down on him. The closer he inched toward the bow, the hotter the surface became. Noah could feel his skin begin to burn where he touched the metal. By mental calculations, he knew there was one ramp left, and it should be only a few feet ahead. What if the ferry blew? Sweat ran into his eyes, making them sting.
There! Noah froze. Wildly, he searched with his right hand. It was Barton! It had to be. The man was unconscious and slumped over the ramp. Gripping Barton by the left arm, Noah got to his knees, tugging hard. Christ, the man was heavy! Noah had forgotten Jim was six-four and probably weighed at least two hundred and thirty pounds. Urgency thrummed through him. How much time had elapsed?
Saliva drooled from the corners of Noah’s mouth as he gasped for breath, and he dragged Barton toward the stern. A series of new explosions sent an arc of fear through him. His knees were burning and so were his legs. Dear God, get us out of here. Let us live. Let us—
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.
Chapter Twenty-two
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—”
Beginning with You Page 32
