by Karen Rock
That meant he would damn well get this bird in the air and put the mission first.
When the ground control conversation ended, he slowed his breathing. “St. Pete ground, Coast Guard 6039, IFR Clearance on request.”
The controller’s voice sounded through his headset. “Roger, Coast Guard 6039. Stand by.”
While Mark waited for final verification of his international flight plan, he continued down his checklist, the clipboard balanced on his knees.
After a minute, his headphones crackled. “Coast Guard 6039, St. Pete ground. Cleared to the Nassau MYNN Airport as filed. On departure fly heading three-five-zero, climb and maintain sixteen hundred feet, expect three thousand ten minutes after departure. Departure frequency 121.5. Squawk 0105.”
Mark nodded to Rob, who jotted down the information as Mark repeated it verbatim to the controller.
“Read back correct. Advise when ready for taxi,” the controller replied then tuned out.
After ticking off the last item on his checklist, Mark returned to the top and verified it all again. This liftoff would be textbook; Cassie wouldn’t rattle him.
Rob pointed at the timer, moved his finger in a clockwise motion and raised an eyebrow. Right. Too much delay. Mark slipped the board by the side of his seat and called on the designated frequency.
“St. Pete ground, Coast Guard 6039 at the Coast Guard ramp with information Alpha, IFR to Nassau, ready to taxi.”
Rain streaked down the helicopter’s windshield and the air inside the narrow cockpit was humid. Despite his turning up the ventilation, sweat pooled at the base of his neck and trickled down his back.
“Roger, Coast Guard 6039. Taxi through the back door to Runway 36L, hold short at Alpha.”
Mark pulled up the collective and pushed forward on the cyclic. When they reached five miles per hour, he pressed on the brake and the helicopter jerked to a quick, satisfying halt.
He accelerated again, hoping he hadn’t scared anyone with the brake check. Hadn’t flustered Cassie. “Everyone all set in back?” he asked into his mic through the ICS. An image of Cassie buckled into one of the seats twisted his gut. Jeff had sat back there once, too, secure and certain of his safety, a brother of the fin—as the air and sea rescuers called themselves—family, yet Mark had let him down.
Technically, a weakened cable and low fuel had been blamed for the accident, but Mark knew better. Most nights when he closed his eyes the fatal incident played out in vivid detail, making sleep impossible. It was why he’d been at the bar last night. Why he’d told Cassie he wouldn’t make for good company.
A year ago he’d been at the peak of his career. An aircraft commander, instructor pilot, flight examiner, and decorated search and rescue pilot with a spotless record. A man who embodied his profession’s motto: “So others may live.” After he’d been forced to make a decision that had cost a crew member’s life, however, his faith in himself had been shattered.
For most of his life, he’d strived to differentiate himself from his incarcerated father. To prove that he could be one of the good guys. He’d joined the Coast Guard to become that hero, to save others. Some hero he’d turned out to be. Losing a member of his crew had wrecked him.
He’d come back to justify the military’s faith in him. To prove himself again.
“Roger, Commander.” Larry’s response sounded in his ear after some static, the loud whirring snuffing out every other sound.
The Jayhawk’s wheels rolled smoothly as he taxied to the runway, halted on the hold short line and tuned into the designated channel.
“St. Pete tower, Coast Guard 6039, hold short Alpha.”
“Coast Guard 6039, position and hold. Waiting for traffic to clear.”
Mark watched a Herc roll ahead of him, the long-range surveillance plane’s four propellers whirling. The HC-130H was the oldest model in the fleet, but rescue ready and part of the massive response Clearwater mounted for the storm’s aftermath now that it was safe to approach. Would it perform as expected? Would he?
“Position and hold Runway 36L,” Mark barked into the mic. “Coast Guard copter 6039. Request for hover check.”
“Roger, 6039. Cleared for hover check. Advise when ready for takeoff.”
They rose ten feet and Mark scrutinized the instruments: 88 percent torque, 100 percent Nr, 2–3 degrees nose up altitude, 4–5 degrees left wing down and all other systems in the green. So far so good. Once stabilized, he checked for proper flight control response and verified his power setting. Nothing was wrong, yet he felt off.
Rob opened a bag of Jolly Ranchers and held it out. “Want some?”
“Nah.” Mark lowered the helicopter. His eyes fixed on the ground, mind focused on a precise landing position. Not on Cassie. Not Jeff. He brushed at the moisture beading his forehead.
“You okay?”
“Fine,” he said, his voice firm.
And he was. Had to be. He shook some of the pieces into his hand after all and tossed back a couple.
He’d worried this first large-scale disaster response since Jeff’s loss would shake loose old insecurities. Challenge his hard-won equilibrium. But he’d arrived on the flight line clearheaded for the first time in months. What an irony that Cassie Rowe had been responsible for that. She’d leveled him out better than any of the mandatory visits with a base shrink—had made him feel normal again. Until she’d sent him straight back to hell.
When the Herc disappeared from view, Mark cleared his throat. “Coast Guard 6039, ready for takeoff.”
He gave Rob a thumbs-up. Simultaneously, he pulled the collective to 98 percent torque, adjusted the tail rotor pedals to maintain heading and maneuvered the cyclic to stay centerline. As they rose slowly, he transitioned to forward flight.
“6039 airborne.” As they gained altitude, Mark turned to heading three hundred fifty and continued with his departure procedures, the helicopter shuddering slightly before smoothing out. The Sikorsky shuffle.
A normal takeoff, just like always. Nothing wrong. And nothing would go wrong on this mission, he vowed, then loosened his white-knuckle grip on the stick. The gray sprawl of ocean appeared below as Mark’s gaze drifted to the MFD screen. Current weather images of the hurricane continuously updated in the newly installed test weather radar. Although the hurricane had jogged east, a few bands still streaked across southern Florida.
He verified the correct course set for the Nassau, where they’d refuel before going on to the mission’s staging area in the Virgin Islands, and slumped back in his seat, his joints stiff. He had to get over this jittery sense that something wasn’t right.
Cassie’s accusing expression swam into view. She had every right to hate him. It’d been a long time before he’d been able to face himself in the mirror.
So why had she joined such a treacherous mission? This was her first disaster operation. At least Jeff had been trained for what he faced. Cassie had little preparation for this scale of an emergency and his protective instincts rose. He’d failed her brother and wouldn’t let another Rowe family member come to harm on his watch. He owed Jeff that much and more.
But aside from that obligation, he would put Cassie Rowe out of his head. He’d fought too hard to get back in the cockpit after the weeks he’d been grounded following Jeff’s death. No way would he let a woman get to him, undermine all he’d devoted his life to achieve.
Fat splats of rain peppered the glass and he glanced down at his radar. The last vestiges of the hurricane brewed their mischief up ahead. The final salvo in a storm that had inflicted devastating damage...yet a certain blonde on board his aircraft felt like the greater threat.
He would not be with her again, even if she’d had any inclination to come near him a second time. Getting close to Cassie would jeopardize the mission. His career. Possibly his sanity.
&n
bsp; The problem with playing with this particular fire, however, was already knowing how sweet the burn would be.
4
“GOOD WORK, NURSE ROWE.” The Red Cross’s chief nurse, Marjorie Little, nodded briskly as she strode down the long row of cots lining the temporary aid station’s sides.
They’d erected the house-size tent this morning since the inflatable field hospital units wouldn’t be operational for a couple of days. Minimum.
“Thanks.” Cassie peeled her damp collar from her neck and hoped for sooner than later. She secured an ACE wrap around her latest patient’s swollen ankle and turned, striving not to sway on her feet. It’d been a long ten-hour shift, but damned if she’d let it show. In fact, strange as it sounded, she’d enjoyed the frenetic pace. It was so different than the usual crawl of taking blood pressure and giving flu vaccinations at her father’s general practice. Best of all, she’d been too busy to think of a certain pilot...
Moans and cries, accompanied by murmuring medical volunteers and beeping, generator-fueled machines, comprised the day’s sound track, as relentless as the pelting rain against their canvas roof. The combined scents of sweat and antiseptic hung in the humid air. It coated her mouth, lined her nasal passages. She could smell it on her uniform. Her hair even...
“It’s all gone,” sobbed her patient, Melinda, an island tour guide. She clutched a small framed photo of her family—the only thing she’d managed to grab before her house collapsed, she’d told Cassie earlier.
“I’m so sorry.” She clamped down her own fatigue and smoothed a hand over her charge’s forehead. Good. Cooler. The ibuprofen had kicked in.
Despite her relief, a restless feeling swept through her. For the hundredth time today, she wished she could do more to help. Her patient would regain her health, but what about the rest of her life?
The flattened structures she’d glimpsed before landing on a less damaged coastal section being used for the Coast Guard’s staging area flashed through her mind. Eroded beaches, boats and debris appeared to be shoved ashore by an invisible, monstrous hand. The same one that’d punched out windows and torn the roofs off the few standing buildings. Lives, ripped apart at the seams, crushed and pulverized by powers beyond their control.
Although she had never experienced anything like that, in her own way, she could relate.
Her weary gaze drifted over the large bandage that hid a stitched gash on the woman’s temple.
She stiffened.
Right.
Tetanus shot.
Her patient risked lockjaw.
Adrenaline zipped through Cassie. A buzz. Urgent and fierce.
She moved aside as Raeanne slid by to attend to a writhing man on the cot beside Melinda’s and flagged down a physician.
“Doctor.” Cassie held out her patient’s paperwork. “I need a signature for a tetanus shot order.”
The stooped man scanned the patient’s file, peeked at her bandage and scrawled something fairly illegible on the chart before hurrying on.
“Do you have any allergies?” she asked her charge while consulting the chart. It never hurt to double-check. Melinda shook her head.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes, Taufik.” Raeanne squeezed Cassie’s arm as she passed by again, her faint smile appearing and disappearing as fast as it came.
“Any chance you might be pregnant?” Cassie continued.
“No.”
She snapped the chart closed and gave Melinda a reassuring smile. “I’ll be right back with your shot.”
A moment later, she slipped behind the curtained partition that held their medication and other supplies.
“How’s it going?” asked Raeanne, tapping a couple of oxys into a paper cup.
“Good.” She scanned the syringes, looking for the right size. She selected the correct needle and turned slowly, stabbing pain shooting down her spine.
“Good?” Raeanne dropped the bottle in the med cabinet, locked it and blew a dangling red curl out of her face. Her narrowed green eyes skimmed over Cassie. “That almost sounded like you meant it. You were so quiet on the flight, I thought you were having second thoughts.”
And she had been, she mused, grabbing a vial of Dtap. “I’m glad I came.” Which was mostly true, if not for Mark.
Still, she couldn’t shake the memory of how his arms had made her feel safe, his kisses transporting her away from all the fear of the upcoming mission. Little had she known he was a devil in disguise.
And now she risked seeing him again when she retrieved the bag she’d left on his helicopter. If only she’d taken a moment to remember her things rather than dashing away the second they landed, desperate to avoid Mark.
At her frustrated breath, Raeanne raised her eyebrows. “Now you definitely don’t sound sincere. Spill it, girl. You’re allowed to complain on your first day. After that, I’ll only pretend to listen.”
Cassie’s mood lifted and she smiled, or tried to. Her lips felt too tired to move. “I’m no whiner.”
The curtains parted and a couple of nurses hustled inside. “I need coffee. Stat,” rasped one of them, a woman with thick dark hair done up in a topknot. She yanked off her stained uniform top and grabbed another from the shelf.
“Me, too.” Her companion popped in a piece of gum before grabbing an armload of fresh linens. “When is our relief coming on?”
“Two hours,” Raeanne put in. “A minute over that, we strike.”
She stared at the chortling group before laughing, too, marveling at the nurses’ capacity for humor in the face of grueling work. It was a coping mechanism for sure, and a way to bond. Never before had she felt such camaraderie. She liked it.
Was this what had appealed to Jeff? Tempted him to work such a risky job? She’d always thought he was crazy. Had wished he’d stop giving their anxiety-prone mother reasons to fret. But now she saw it. A glimmer, maybe, of what had motivated him to leave their hometown.
Why he’d urged her to do the same.
“So, who knows something about our hot pilot?” one of the nurses asked. The strong smell of antiseptic soap stung Cassie’s nose as the bubbly brunette lathered suds across her palms and beneath her fingernails.
She pulled in 0.5 ml of Dtap and capped her needle with shaking hands.
“He lost one of his crew members,” Raeanne supplied. Large bubbles glugged from the water dispenser as she pulled its blue lever. “Really broke him up. He was grounded, too. Had to get clearance to fly again. My cousin, Rob, the copilot, said this is the first disaster relief mission LCDR Sampson’s flown since then. They’re all a little worried for him.”
The other RN ripped a couple of paper towels from the dispenser and turned. She arched a brow. “I’ll comfort him.”
“Why are four of my nurses not treating patients?” snapped the chief nurse, breaking up the tableau by thrusting through the curtain, her mouth pressed in a firm line.
“Sorry, Nurse Little,” gasped the brunette.
“Just getting medication.” Raeanne shook one of her cups, making the pills rattle.
“And gossiping,” asserted Nurse Little. “One, we don’t spread rumors.” She ticked her fingers. “Two, we don’t waste precious time doing so when there are patients to treat. Am I clear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” whispered the cowed young women as they scurried back into the main part of the tent.
Cassie, however, didn’t trust her trembling legs to move so she held on to the plastic shelving, hoping the spinning world would stop soon.
Mark had been grounded?
This was his first disaster mission since Jeff’s disappearance?
She pictured his dark expression last night when they’d met. Recalled his assurance that he wasn’t the best company. Had his concern for this trip been the reason?
>
Yet it didn’t match the image she’d formed of the pilot who’d abandoned Jeff. The overconfident, callous man who cared only about following procedures, not saving lives.
The rumors had to be wrong.
“Cassie, you look pale.”
She shook her head, so many thoughts buzzing in her brain she couldn’t speak one out loud.
“Yes, you are. And tired.” A firm hand pressed against her brow and Nurse Little’s eyes bored into hers. “This is your first mission, correct?”
She nodded. Beyond the curtains someone shrieked, a long, agonizing sound that trailed off ominously.
“And you’ve been working...”
“Since we arrived, ma’am,” she murmured, dredging her voice from its hiding spot, somewhere down deep in her throat. She wasn’t about to mention that she hadn’t slept the night before, too busy tangling limbs with the helicopter pilot responsible for her brother’s death.
“Right.” Nurse Little took the tetanus needle from Cassie’s hand. “I’m relieving you tonight. Give me a report on your patients, then shower and bed. I’ll need you back at 0600 hours. That’s an order.”
“But Melinda...” protested Cassie. And it was her turn for a new admit. The screaming patient...that had to be hers. She was needed. Couldn’t quit now.
“I’ll give her the shot. Tetanus?”
“Yes. But really, I can...”
Nurse Little arched an eyebrow. “I believe I’m perfectly capable of giving a shot. And a directive. Is there some other issue I’m unaware of?”
Cassie hung her head. “I left my duffel on the helicopter. I don’t have anything to change into.”
Nurse Little pointed at a bag in the corner. “You can borrow a clean T-shirt and shorts from me. Anything else?”
Cassie backed up. “No, ma’am.”
Her supervisor’s face softened. “Get some rest, dear. Lord knows we’ll need a fresh pair of hands in the morning.”
“Thank you.” After reporting out to her superior, she grabbed the clothes and headed through the back entrance to the hastily built women’s showers—basically a couple of stalls with sheets for curtains and a self-pumping water unit.