Pilot Error

by T. C. Ravenscraft

  Shipping the oars, he picked up the phone for a closer look. He was right; they had just passed the small, J-shaped peninsula he remembered seeing from the air.

  Lifting his head, Luke squinted past where Micki stood, struggling to maintain her balance in the rocking bow, across a gray sea under a gray sky. There, a mile or so ahead, was the island that heralded the helicopter crash site. Solemnly, he glanced down at the red digital map pin marking the location where Razor McNally had died.

  Pilot error, they said. Pilot error, be damned.

  "Are you going to trade places or not?" Micki demanded, drawing him out of himself.

  Silent a long moment, Luke considered her. Even sunburned, and tousled by wind and saltwater, Micki Jacinto was a breathtaking, passionate creature... but he could not let that sway him. Not now. He needed a look at that helicopter and he needed to do it before a storm swept away the evidence he hoped to find, or the bastards who were covering their dirty tracks destroyed it.

  "Well, Hardigan?"

  Fizz lifted his head to regard him quizzically, and Luke reached a decision. He took the oars back into his hands.

  "You're right, we're never going to make it back to Marathon before that hits." He jerked his head upward to indicate the approaching thunderheads. "We've got to pick our place and burrow in before it gets here."

  Resolutely, he began to row toward the island before them. Finally agreeing with him about something, Micki resumed her seat in the bow. "Any port in a storm," she said with resignation. "I guess that's how the saying goes."

  Luke found he could not meet her eyes. "Yep, any port in a storm." Thunder rumbled in the distance. "And it looks like this one is going to have to do."

  In the twenty minutes it took to reach the shore, the wind picked up, with gusts from ten to thirty knots, and the temperature dropped twenty degrees. A mammoth wall of angry dark clouds bore down on them, simultaneously growing higher and more threatening. By the time their jon boat's hull finally grated on the coral beach, Micki's grip on its sides had become white-knuckled.

  She hesitated, looking out over the tiny key before moving to get out. "I don't know... this isn't much of an island. More like a sandbar with a couple of palm trees. A bigger one would be a better choice."

  "True." It wouldn't hurt to be agreeable, not now. Climbing out, Luke encouraged Fizz forward with a beckoning gesture. "But since we're here, let's look around. Maybe there's a fishing shanty here, too, that we could use for shelter."

  Micki threw him a withering glance. "I hate to tell you but those aren't exactly a dime a dozen."

  "So it doesn't hurt to look, right?" He reached to take her backpack, but she pulled it to her and stood up to cut off his assistance. Giving in, he took a step back to give her room to climb out on her own. "Besides," he said, rolling his shoulders with a theatrical groan, "I need a little time to rest."

  Micki moved past him onto the sand. "I told you I'd take over for a while."

  Luke drew a silent sigh of relief. Maybe this would be relatively painless after all. In a swift move, before she turned to see, he pushed the boat back into the chop of waves.

  "I mean, you don't have to do all the work just because—" Micki stopped suddenly, her jaw dropping open when she saw him using the momentum from his run to haul himself into the boat as it headed back to sea. "Where are you going?"

  Luke caught up the oars again and set a course for the J-shaped peninsula. "I'll be back, I promise."

  Micki looked as if she was about to dive into the ocean after him. "Oh sure, Hardigan." She took two steps into the lapping waves despite the widening distance between them. "I can tell you're a man of your word. I'll expect you back, real soon."

  The contempt in her tone stung. "I'll be back." A chill wave drenched him, rocking the small craft. "I just have to take a look at that Coast Guard helo first."

  Her face was an incredible mix of anger and disbelief. "The helo? Why?"

  Why. He couldn't tell her that for the same reason he couldn't take her with him. Instead, he settled for shouting his promise yet again. "I'll be back in an hour. No longer."

  Luke thought he was far enough away that hearing her would be impossible and, at her shouted words, wished it had been so. The shaking rage in Micki's voice, desperate and defiant even in the face of being abandoned in an overcast world of rising water and wind, would stay with him forever.

  "Go to hell, Hardigan! I hope the damn ocean swallows you!"

  ***

  Micki's words rang hauntingly in Luke's ears, as he shed his khaki cargo shorts for the dive and pulled his snorkel mask from his bag. As he settled it on his face against the coming sting of saltwater, the jon boat rocked precariously in the chop and made him survey the threatening sky. The same lousy weather that had kept the Coast Guard from dredging the helo for a full investigation now hindered those responsible for the crash from clearing out of the area. From the clues he'd gathered so far, Luke guessed they would be gone in another few hours.

  Determined, he took the last item he would need from his bag—a waterproof pocket camera—and slipped its nylon lanyard around his neck. Waiting for the storm to pass wasn't an option, not even with nature's visual warning that diving in such conditions was insane, if not suicidal. Sure, it would have been simpler, and safer, to wait for the official accident report, but simpler wasn't necessarily better in this case. Luke wanted the truth, and while he was pretty sure the main operation that had ultimately led to the helicopter crash was civilian run, he didn't know how deep the corruption went or who could be trusted. If the rot had somehow crossed the civilian line and crept into military ranks, then an 'official report' would be next to worthless.

  In the back of his mind, he also knew he was breaking every rule in the book. Although it seemed unlikely, given the weather, he knew that if he got caught poking around an 'open investigation' crash site, it would land him in a fat lot of trouble with his superiors, the Coast Guard, and possibly even the NTSB.

  With a quick tug on the anchor rope to ensure that it was still firmly wedged on some part of the submerged helo, Luke accepted all the risks and slipped over the side. Holding onto the rope, he took a deep breath and flipped downward. The truth waited beneath him, untouched on a sand and coral seabed, submerged in less than fifteen feet of water.

  He followed the line down toward the Dolphin helicopter, the normally serene underwater realm now ruled by churning turbulence, which somehow seemed to bring substance to Micki's condemning words. As the iron gray ocean closed silently above him, swallowing him like a giant watery maw, Luke spared a thought for her, left on the beach and thinking the worst of him, and wondered uneasily if her curse hadn't just come true.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  'I'll be back.' Hah!

  Micki paced back and forth in the sand, and glowered at the wide expanse of whitecaps on an ocean that had remained empty ever since Luke disappeared around the nearby peninsula. He would be halfway toward the next island by now—a good distance closer to Marathon, a hot shower, and some dry clothes. There was no way he was coming back, and she was just wasting time standing there hoping that he would.

  But—the thought made her catch her bottom lip with her teeth as a strong feeling of abandonment quivered through her—what else can I do?

  'Plenty.' It was her father's voice in her head, and his memory that filled her with a renewed sense of determination. For starters, she could activate the emergency transmitter she had in her backpack. At least Hardigan hadn't taken that.

  Fizz lay silently beside the camel-colored backpack, faithfully guarding what was currently her most treasured possession. When Micki dropped to her knees in the sand and reached for the bag, he looked up at her with trusting brown eyes.

  "It's okay, boy," she said. "We don't need Luke Hardigan anyway. It's better that he's out of our hair."

  Good old Fizz, he was one male she could always count on—him and the guys back at Marathon.

  She checked
her watch for the gazillionth time. It was 4:30pm. By 5:00pm, the guys would all be at The Sandpiper for a drink on the way home from work. Tex would probably stay there to eat too, doing his usual complaining about not having a significant other to make him a decent home-cooked meal. Padre and Tim might end up joining him, if they didn't have other plans. And Dirk—Dirk would be off home to spiff himself up for their dinner date at the mystery spot he promised. When he called by her trailer and found she wasn't there, he would immediately suspect something was wrong. Knowing Dirk, he would drive all the way back into town to check the hangar and see her Cessna was missing.

  That would get his boxers in a bunch! Dirk would raise the alarm, and Tex and Padre and Tim would be out looking for her in force, despite the pending storm. The two Coast Guard pilots would lift off in a Dolphin rescue helicopter, putting their training to the test, and Tim would brave the waves in his deep sea fishing boat just because it was her. Then, when they found her, maybe Tex would haul her up into that helo of his with a cheerful, 'Howdy, Ma'am, need a lift?'

  Yes. Now that she was going to be missed, it was time to activate the transmitter and give them a better idea where to look.

  Micki had both hands inside the backpack and around the ELT, when an eerily cool breeze gusted over her, lifting gooseflesh on her skin. Pivoting, her focus drawn to the sky, she found herself right under the shelf of billowing thunderheads that had been chasing them for hours. The wind that swept before the storm brought the smell of rain and a charge in the air that meant only one thing.

  Lightning.

  It forked toward the ground as she watched, as if her terror of it had conjured it up, slicing the dark clouds to the southeast like a laser knife. Terrified, Micki scrambled backwards in the sand, forgetting her rescue plans as quickly as she had forgotten about being wet, uncomfortable, and abandoned. She counted off the seconds until the thunder came, trying to estimate the storm's proximity.

  She got to fifteen before the low rumble stopped her. That meant the brunt of it was still several miles away, but her concern was for the lightning. There was serious lightning in those clouds; lightning that could kill from miles away. She could not survive on this godforsaken dot of sand—not without the boat and Luke.

  Taking deep breaths that were meant to calm her, Micki vehemently corrected herself. She couldn't survive without the boat; Hardigan could be shark bait for all she cared. Actually, that idea sounded pretty good right now.

  So why was she still waiting there like a faithful idiot, shivering in her wet clothes and peering out across a gray ocean that showed no sign of his return?

  Because you believed him, Micki—you dolt—and the worst thing is, part of you still does.

  "Damn it," she said aloud. Fueled by contempt, she turned her back on the storm and concentrated on survival. She had to set up the ELT while she still could. Several feet of the beach on which she knelt had already disappeared under the swelling tide, and the breeze had started to blow significantly stronger against her damp clothes.

  Carefully extracting the old orange-colored transmitter from her backpack, Micki stood and carried it up toward the scrub, where she hoped it would be safe from the coming storm surge. Trouble was, if she got too close, then the mangrove trees would distort the signal, so she settled for some dry, open sand about fifteen feet from the trees. A few stacked rocks and a piece of driftwood kept the unit and its antenna vertical, hopefully throughout the duration of the coming tempest. With a flick of the switch that would bring deliverance, Micki stood back and watched the red indicator light blink in a steady rhythm.

  The storm made its presence known at her back, and she struggled to overcome the instant terror it brought. The truth was, no one would be out looking for her in the middle of a raging thunderstorm; not Tex, not Padre, not Tim, or even Dirk. But if it just held off long enough, if they just started to look for her, then they might hear the signal before they were forced to return to Marathon.

  And that was a chance she had to take. It felt like her only chance. Fizz came up beside her, and Micki combed her fingers through his salt-matted, black and white fur. "And if they don't come looking for us tonight, boy? What then?"

  Fizz whined.

  Rescue or not, by morning the ELT's battery would be dead, as she might be if she didn't find some shelter. Leaving one final clue to her would-be rescuers, Micki took off her Coast Guard cap and wedged it between the transmitter and the piece of driftwood. Then she picked herself up, reclaimed her backpack, and headed determinedly toward the peninsula that jutted into the waves. The rocks there might provide some meager form of protection, either a ledge high enough to crawl under or a ditch low enough to lie down in.

  The unwanted memory of lying in a ditch with Luke made her draw a sharp breath. The recollection of how his body felt beneath her, damp and warm and hard—

  As she stepped off the loose sand and onto the rocks, she stubbed her bare toe on a crag and almost tripped. Grunting, Micki forced herself to concentrate on survival, not Luke Hardigan, even if, for reasons she could not explain, the two still somehow seemed synonymous.

  Coming to a stop, Micki raised her hand to her eyes and gazed out to sea. The wondrous and unexpected sight of a tiny boat bobbing on the vast expanse of gray, turbulent water filled her with a rush of exhilaration.

  Rescue!

  She was just drawing a breath to call out when she realized the boat was empty. It hit like a splash of cold water on the heat of her euphoria, causing her shout to die unsaid. The battered aluminum craft before her was their commandeered jon boat. With that knowledge, her surroundings suddenly became clear, too; she was on the island marking the helo crash site. More precisely, she was standing on the J-shaped peninsula. So, Luke had told her the truth. He hadn't abandoned her after all.

  Micki frowned. Oh yes, he had.

  The jon boat was obviously empty, and there was no sign of anybody in the water, even though Luke had said he was going to dive on the helo. Since he couldn't have concealed air tanks in that catch-all camera bag of his, he would have to come up to breathe sometime. Then she would—

  Then she would what? Yell for him to come back and get her? That had worked real well before. The jerk. He had still rowed off and left her to think she was stranded. Just because he told the truth about diving on the helo didn't mean he would keep his promise to return for her. Maybe she should just swim out to the boat and 'commandeer' it for herself.

  That idea was dismissed the moment it was formed. The jon boat was out a fair way, and she was already tired. Without the life vests, which had been left in the ditch where she and Luke had hidden to avoid detection, Micki wasn't sure she could make it.

  The sight of Luke's dark head bobbing to the surface, just as thunder rumbled again, made her catch her lip between her teeth. He was still out there. He hadn't drowned after all.

  The thought made her angry, and relieved, but she refused to dwell on the implications. Okay, so she was glad he wasn't dead. That was no big deal. It just meant that maybe she wouldn't have to swim out to the stupid boat in heavy seas after all.

  Luke's head disappeared again, drawing a snort of frustration from her. What was he doing out there, anyway? And how much longer was he going to play this insane game?

  Thunder growled, not too many miles behind her. The storm was maybe half an hour off, and the odds of being rescued before it broke dropped steadily with each passing minute.

  If only you'd just come back, Luke!

  As if in answer, she saw him surface again, this time to haul himself back into the boat. His form disappeared from sight for a moment, as if he had collapsed in exhaustion, and Micki held her breath to see what he would do next. After a moment, he struggled upright then moved to the bow to pull in the anchor.

  Stubbornly, she bit down on her joy as he started rowing directly toward her. So he was coming back. Big deal.

  Micki moved off the rocks and back onto the sand. There, arms folded across h
er chest and bare feet firmly planted in the ground coral, she watched his slow, labored progress across the whitecaps. If he thought that she was waiting for him with welcoming arms, then he could damn well think again.

  ***

  Standing on a little-used dock down on 62nd Street Gulf, Dirk Jurgensen fought to light a cigarette in the strengthening gale. Looking up, he pulled it from his lips and exhaled with narrowing eyes, watching the red-hulled speedboat coming across the choppy waters of the Gulf. As he waited for it to draw closer, he cast a thoughtful glance at the storm, and then another worried one at his watch.

  Dinner date or not, Micki should have been in by now; it wasn't like her to be out flying when a line of storms of this magnitude was imminent. When he had checked her hangar, just minutes before going down to the dock, her plane had still been out. She had left before 9:00am, so she should have been back from her scenic flight with Hardigan by 10:00am. It was now nearing 5:00pm, and the Cessna only carried enough fuel to remain aloft for four hours. True, she could have come in and refueled when he wasn't there—and he had been busy that day—but that still didn't explain why she wasn't back now. Even if she flew in this second, she would have to deal with landing in a pretty mean crosswind.

  The lightning sizzled at his back, so fierce it made him turn. Dirk squinted defiantly into the face of the squall. Micki was terrified of lightning. Nowadays, a vicious lightning storm was the only time she ever allowed him to get up close and personal, the only time he got to hold her in his arms.

  Where the hell was she?

  Dirk scowled. Personal pleasures aside, the last thing he needed was to waste time looking for her. Thanks to the helo crash, he had enough to do with supervising the complete relocation of the business and stock. Razor's death was becoming a pain in the butt, especially this close to Dirk's planned 'retirement.' They were headed to Bermuda, and the cargo plane that his boss, Dominic Van Allen, was sending was due in Marathon within the hour. Dirk planned to depart the Florida Keys by 7:00pm, but now it looked like he was going to miss that deadline; a thought that only added to his dour mood. Ever since Luke Hardigan showed up, the entire universe had conspired against his carefully laid plans.