Storm Surge by J.D. Rhoades Page A

Seaman
Recruit?” in a deceptively mild voice that would have warned off a saner young
man. But Alvarez had been young and dumb and full of come at the time, so he
forged ahead. “Sir,” he said, “if we don’t come back, doesn’t that mean the
people we went after don’t come back either?” The reaction to
that one still brought a smile to Alvarez’ face. The CC had come down on
him like a ton of bricks, of course, just as Alvarez would if any young
smart-ass pulled that shit on him. But in this modern age, the thinking had
come around a bit closer to Alvarez’ jibe. Now they talked about “risk vs.
reward matrices” and held hastily called meetings with the station CO, the
aircraft commanders, and the flight crew to hash out the question of whether
the chance of rescue outweighed the danger to multi-million dollar aircraft and
even more valuable trained crew. In the end, though, the result was almost
always the same. They went out.
    A particularly
savage gust of wind slammed the chopper sideways. Alvarez’ helmeted head
rebounded off the steel wall of the cabin. He shook his head to clear the
ringing in his ears, then keyed his intercom again to
check it. “Pilot, swimmer. Everyone
okay up there?”
    The answer
came back through gritted teeth. “Swimmer, pilot. We’re fine. You?”
    Alvarez
glanced over at the hoist operator, a wiry kid from Kansas with the improbable
last name of Formyduval . The kid raised a single
thumb in affirmation. Alvarez looked to the rear of the chopper at their
passengers. The sheriff’s deputy was looking a little green, but the FBI guy’s
face was impassive.
    “Pilot,
swimmer. All okay
back here.”
    *** 
    The interior
was about the size of a minivan, and it smelled of metal and machine oil. Bohler hung on to the bench seat with a grip so tight that
he imagined his aching fingers leaving dents in the metal. He took deep
breaths, trying to keep his stomach in its accustomed place. He felt the
chopper drop sickeningly out from under him, leaving him in midair for a split
second before all 15,000 pounds of machine slammed back upwards and met him on
the drop. The impact felt harsh enough to crack his spine. He groaned out loud,
but the sound was lost in a crack of thunder that overrode even the unholy din
of the helicopter’s engines. He glanced over at McMurphy .
The FBI man’s face was set, but from where he sat, Bohler could see the rivulets of sweat running down his neck. He felt a little
reassured that somebody else was feeling at least as tense as he was.
    McMurphy hadn’t wanted him along, and for a
brief moment, Bohler had considered letting himself be barred. He’d never cared much for helicopters,
even on clear days. The prospect of going aloft in the teeth of this gale made
his knees tremble. But the evacuation of the island had been his
responsibility, and he felt the failure to get everyone off personally. It was
irrational, he knew; the idiot ferry captain was the one who had taken off
without all of his people on board, and part of the blame had to be laid at
Coyne’s feet for the cockeyed plan in the first place. But in the end, seeing
everyone off safe was Bohler’s job, and he was going
to see it finished. In the end it had been the diminutive curly-haired female
pilot who had made the final call. She had walked up to where Bohler and McMurphy were standing
there bickering and snapped, “both of you shut up and get on board.” They had
stopped and looked at her, startled. She stared back at them with a ‘what are
you lookin ’ at’ expression. “Do everything Chief
Alvarez tells you,” she went on, “Or I’ve authorized
him to throw you to the damn sharks.” They had looked into the open door of the
chopper. A dark-skinned, grinning man with a crew cut was sitting in the door,
his feet hanging out. He was holding out a pair of crash helmets.
    Bohler was glad for the helmet as another
lurch slammed his head around. He fumbled for the button of