Chapter Three
“I see something!” Smith called out.
“Wonder if we’ll find the missing cousin first or the missing boat,” Jones muttered as he veered in the direction his co-pilot indicated, watching through the chin bubble, the small window by his feet.
“It’s a boat,” Smith confirmed as they flew closer to the dark object.
Jones moved the helo into a twenty-foot hover above the boat as Matkowski asked, “Ready?”
Purcell unhooked from the gunner’s belt securing him to the helicopter.
Connected to the cable, Purcell rolled his shoulders, the same movement he did before each mission, only this time an echo of pain limited the rotation. It’d hold, he told himself. It had to.
“Ready,” he answered as he leapt forward and Matkowski began to lower him toward the sailboat thrashing about in the angry sea.
“See anything, yet?” Smith’s voice coming over the radio in his vest pocket was routine.
Purcell scanned the topside of the boat looking for any sign of life. “Negative.” The cable lowered him to within ten feet of the boat and he saw something move. “I’ve got a visual. Can you get closer?”
“It’s going to be tight, the way the wind’s whipping the boom around,” Matkowski said. “It’s your call. Any chance you can land on the deck before the boat heels any farther?”
Before Purcell could answer a figure rose from the cockpit and swayed toward the swinging boom. Either the person was drunk, injured or just plain stupid. Didn’t the man realize the boom could swing around, crack him in the head and knock him overboard?
“Sonofabitch,” Purcell swore, tucking the radio back in his equipment vest. The wind was whipping the waves into a frenzy, and the boat was tossing about like a cork. Has the keel been damaged?
Using hand signals, he told Matkowski to set him down in the water off the starboard side of the boat. Having served in the Pacific Northwest, he was used to the varying water temperatures. The cold didn’t faze him. He struck out toward the boat with strong strokes. He’d be sore as hell later, but right now, he focused all of his attention on the mission two strokes ahead of him.
“Ahoy, sailor!” he called out, hauling himself up and over the side of the boat. The figure turned and Purcell’s gut twisted into a monkey’s fist. The sailor was dark-haired, curvy and bleeding from a wound high on her forehead. The blood had the huge knot in his stomach doubling in size, though he knew even minor head wounds bled like crazy.
“What?” she demanded, tugging on the main sheet struggling to wrap it around the main winch.
“Let’s go,” he ordered, walking toward her, mindful of the wind direction and swinging boom.
She stared at him for a few moments and then blurted out, “You’re better looking than I’d have given the devil credit for.”
Obviously delirious. I’ll have to take command now or we’ll be doing this the hard way.
Reaching out to help her secure the main sheet, he looped it around the cleat and grabbed a hold of her arm.
“Let go of me,” she demanded.
“It’s not safe. You’re injured, the weather’s deteriorating, and it’s getting darker by the second.” He’d never had to explain what he was doing before. Given her condition he said, “I’m here to rescue you.” Damn that sounded lame, but he didn’t have time to argue with the injured female.
“I know it’s getting dark,” she snapped. “Why do you think I’m sailing back toward shore?”
Looking out over the horizon, he shook his head. “You’re going nowhere fast.”
“Well then,” she bit out, “that would be my problem, wouldn’t it?”
Purcell reached behind him and took control of the tiller. Incredulous, he ground out, “Are you telling me you don’t want to be rescued?”
“Just when I thought you were going to be difficult,” she said, wiping her forearm across her bloody forehead.
“She’s arguing with him,” Purcell heard Matkowski inform the crew. He’d left his radio in the on position. Tucked into his vest pocket, it was still sensitive enough to transmit both sides of the conversation.
He paused. He’d never come up against this type of a situation before, but protocol was clear. Unless the situation was deemed totally unsafe, he couldn’t force her to come with him.
“It’s your call, Purcell.” Jones said. “But the wind’s picking up and it’s getting hard to hold this hover pattern.”
Purcell watched the unchecked flow of blood from the wound high on her forehead. “You’re hurt.”
She had the audacity to laugh. “Now there’s news.”
Direct hit. Her sarcasm got under his skin like a splinter. Purcell saw red. He’d be damned if he’d be laughed at for doing his duty. Duty and honor above all, part of the Coast Guard’s Creed. Some survivors had no clue what a Coastie faced on a daily basis or what he’d have to do to rescue someone who’d underestimated the weather conditions or overestimated their sailing abilities.
“No,” he said, tying off the tiller so it wouldn’t change direction for the next few minutes. “Here’s the news. You’re bleeding from a head wound and not thinking clearly.” Looking over his shoulder, keeping a sharp eye on the boom and the rolling waves, he signaled the Flight Mech to lower the cage.
“Now just a minute—”
Purcell didn’t wait for her to finish. “Sorry, no time. Weather’s deteriorating and night’s falling.”
In one swift movement, he had her around the waist and was hauling her toward the side of the boat, waiting for the square cage to come within reach.
“I’m not finished yet.” She looked up, drew in a sharp breath and twisted in his grasp. “I’m not going to sit in that thing.”
Surprised that she would fight him, Purcell paused for a heartbeat, giving her the chance she needed. She slipped free.
“Is she delirious?” Matkowski asked.
Purcell ignored the voice coming from his vest pocket and tried to reason with the victim. “With your injury and the weather conditions, you won’t be able to sail this boat back to shore single-handedly.”
He moved to grab her, but she sidestepped him. Again. Damn.
“Purcell,” the harsh sound of Jones’s voice got his attention.
He depressed the switch on the radio in his vest pocket. “Yes, Sir?” he answered, stalking toward the swaying woman. She had to be freezing, the temperature was dropping and she was dressed in a long-sleeved shirt and jeans.
“We’re low on fuel,” Jones said. “You’ve got about five minutes.”
The woman blinked and swayed, but steadied herself. As he got closer he realized her eyes looked clear, but her head was still bleeding.
“Survivor seems steady, but the gash in her forehead is bleeding profusely. It’s got to be taken care of long before she can sail this boat back to the inlet.”
“Roger that,” Jones answered. “Good call…good luck.”
Purcell muttered another expletive beneath his breath. They were going to have to do this the hard way.
***
“Time to go,” the man announced, moving toward her yet again.
Bronwyn was tired of explaining herself and tired of being pushed around by the testosterone-inflated men in her life. “No.”
It was simple and direct; he should be able to grasp her meaning.
“Look,”—he came and stood right beside her–“you have nothing to be afraid of. The cage is the safest, fastest way to get you to safety.”
“Then why don’t you use it and let me sail my boat back to—”
“I don’t have time to argue,” he interrupted. “The longer we’re out here, the more fuel the helicopter is using given this headwind.”
“But I haven’t finished my research,” she blurted out. She couldn’t leave now, not when she was so close to accomplishing what Matthew assumed she couldn’t.
“Time’s up,” Purcell urged.
“But—” she began, then swallowed the rest of what she planned to say as the boat rode over the crest of a wave then dipped down into the trough that followed.
“Hang on!” he yelled.
The last thing Bronwyn saw was steely blue eyes and the grim set of the man’s mouth before a wave crashed over the bow carrying her overboard.
Pain sliced through her head as cold ravaged her exhausted body, but she fought her way to the surface. Breaking through, she saw the boat and for the first time looked up and noticed the helicopter hovering above it.
She waved her arms and thought the man standing in the open doorway hanging onto the cable looked in her direction. The only thing she didn’t see was the man who had been determined to rescue her.
“Hell.” Bronwyn could use being rescued right about now. Treading water while trying not to shake wasn’t as easy as she’d imagined. She’d read tales of sailors who had managed the feat, but maybe they weren’t as tired. Maybe they were stronger.
Maybe they’d remembered to put on their PFD—personal flotation device.
The cold water sapped her strength and cleared her head. “I’m certifiable.”
“I’m trying not to hold that against you,” a deep voice said from behind her. “Hang on.” He wrapped the rescue strop, a long flotation tube, beneath her arms and secured it to the cleat on his vest.
“I don’t know if I can,” she confessed. “My head hurts and my arms feel like rubber.”
His fierce blue gaze locked with hers. “You can and you will.”
Wrapping her arms around his waist, she laid her head against his broad chest and for the first time in years, did what she was told.
“Once they start to reel us in, you’ll have to let go.” His voice rumbled beneath her cheek, the depth and tonality mesmerizing her.
She pulled back and met his gaze. “Just how strong is the cable?”
Relief flashed across his features. “It’ll hold more than our combined weight,” he reassured her. “Trust me.”
Placing her life in his hands, she swallowed past the lump forming in her throat. “I will.”
He nodded, lifted his arm and signaled to the man in the helicopter.
Slowly they rose out of the water. Her rescuer just slightly above her as she held onto the flotation device he’d clipped around her with a death grip.
“Look up.”
Though tempted to do the opposite, she did and saw how close they were to the belly of the helicopter.
Before she could ask how they could pull them both in, the man standing in the opening reached for her and pulled her to safety.
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