Big Three-Thriller Bundle Box Collection (52 page)

“Sounded like they were trying to talk the kid outa snitching. They talked about drugs, but I don’t think that was it. It was like they were using drugs to cover something up. They accused one another of treason.”

“Did they push him?”

“They were fighting over Nader’s gun. He slipped. The big guy grabbed him, but then let him go.”

The wind howled through the radar mast, an eerie prolonged breath.

“Who do you think it was?” she asked, but before the chief had a chance to answer, he suddenly disappeared, apparently pulled away from view.

Some kind of a struggle ensued. Seconds later his body came back, slamming down halfway over the wall. His head bounced against the top of the steel hatch and Spurs had to duck. Momentarily, he looked back at her, upside down, arms hanging limp, eyes wide with fright, blood leaking from his mouth and forehead.

He was yanked back out of sight like a toy.

Spurs thought of Reeves. He could help.

She stepped back, still holding the grab handle, trying to see what was happening above.

Arms flailed. There was a fight. More arms reaching, heading toward the side. She wouldn’t be able to hear a splash due to the mean sea, but it looked like someone went overboard.

“Help!” she screamed, “Somebody help!”

She’d have to go inside and get Jabrowski, not wishing to confront whoever may be on the side ladders.

Just as she began to pull up on the grab handle to un-dog the door, a pain exploded from the back of her head. She lost balance. Fell. The deck tossed. She felt as though she was being dragged. Couldn’t see by whom. A stinging pain came from her ribs as she was slammed against the short safety wall on the side of the signal deck and she saw stars.

Someone was trying to throw her overboard. She struggled, weakly, her arms not cooperating, the pain from her head shooting through her body, burning now. She hit. Grabbed. Kicked.

The assailant lifted her over the safety wall. Sixty feet from the water. She was going in. Spurs saw flashes of memory. Of her mother trotting out into the water, never to return. Fear locked her body, but then, as she felt herself slipping, she grabbed, caught an arm with one hand, reached and held on with the other. She would take him with her.

THE PLUNGE

SPURS DIDN’T SEE the ocean coming, only felt the icy Atlantic water as she slammed under while still clutching the arm of her assailant.

With her nearly overwhelming fear of deep water and her being only an adequate enough swimmer to make it through Officers’ Candidate School, she was sure she would drown. The waves were too violent—rolling, tumbling, cresting to more than twenty feet.

But this asshole would drown with her.

Finally coming to the surface, she tossed her head and gasped in as much air as she could hold and the waves came down on her. As she went under again, a light showed from the ship while it sped away. They could not save her. The sea was too strong. It would be next to impossible to even sight her.

Again she came up, this time nearly thrown out of the water by the forceful sea, and she felt the man’s arm around her midsection.
He
now had
her
. She fought, struggling, kicking to get away. The sea could kill her but not this bastard.

He held her from behind now. She jerked her head back into his face and felt his nose pop against her skull.

That was good. He released her. She almost smiled. Then someone new bumped in front of her, his head rising from the water, nudging into her chest. The dimming light from the ship showed across his face. Chief Franken, eyes wide and dead.

The man who had held her suddenly went berserk. He obviously hadn’t appreciated getting his nose broken. He pulled her around to face him in the malevolent water. It was North. His backhand came across her face stunning her and they went under again. This time she had not taken a breath and a crashing wave drove her deep. The water churned.

She felt North’s hands again and was sure that he would hold her down, choke or strike her again— but he didn’t.

His arm came under hers and pulled until she saw a white light, running, bleeding through the water. Now air again and she gasped, spitting out salty ocean. The ship was a hundred yards out now and still moving. The sea pushed them away. Searching lights shot from the
Atchison
’s starboard side, occasionally flashing in her eyes, but never finding her.

She heard North’s voice. “Kick, tread water! Fight the ocean, damn it. Not me!”

ABOVE AND BEYOND

LIEUTENANT JORDAN WYCOFF and his crew of three were warming up the engines of their SH-3 Sea King helicopter when the man overboard call came in. Within fifteen seconds they had lifted from the
Enterprise’s
deck and dipped their rotor into the wind. One hundred feet out, Jordy banked the aircraft left and raced toward the
Atchison
.

The Sikorsky model S-61 helicopter they flew was put into service by the Navy in 1961 and designated the SH-3. As an amphibious, all-weather craft, it had served the country well in every conflict from Vietnam to the Persian Gulf and in a number of different roles including antisubmarine warfare (ASW). Until recently, it had been used to transport the President of the United States. In Jordy Wycoff’s hands and in many others like him it served as one of the Sixth Fleet’s search and rescue helicopters.

Jordy gritted his teeth as the wind buffeted the helo, pushing them down, closer than safe from the chopping ocean. He pulled his craft up another ten feet, but kept it as low as possible.

Only thirty seconds earlier, he had aborted a foul weather rescue exercise because of the rough sea. No reason to risk lives for an exercise. But now, it was for real.

He turned on his directional searchlights even before the small frigate came into view. The report was two men overboard.

“Jesus, you copy?” Jordy asked into his microphone.

“Loud and clear, boss,” the crew chief, Jesus Montana answered, standing tethered in the right side door.

“Mac?”

“Roger,” Kyle MacNulty confirmed, peering out of the left side.

Jordy glanced at his copilot. He saw the sweat beading on his partner’s cheeks.

“Gonna be a tough one, Timmy.”

“Just hope it’s worth it—hope we’re not too late,” Ensign Gilbert Timmons said.

Their rotorcraft shuddered. They gripped the controls tighter.

“There’s the
Atchison
, eleven o’clock,” MacNulty’s report crackled in Jordy’s ear.

“We’ll start searching two clicks back.”

A blinding flash pulsed, thunder exploded.

The lighted instruments went dark and the Sea King’s big rotor stuttered. The helicopter hesitated briefly, seeming suspended in mid-air
, and then dropped fifteen feet.

“Holy Christ!” Timmons yelled.

“Restart sequence!” Jordy ordered, grimacing as he wrestled the control stick to go into auto rotation. Timmons reached for the switches on the console, flipped one on and off quickly, then jabbed a black button labeled engine start.

The engines sputtered—came alive. The instruments lit.

Jordy pulled the Sea King up. He looked to Timmons’ relieved eyes.

“Everyone all right back there?” Jordy asked into his mike.

“Still holding on, boss,” Jesus said.

“Damn, Jordy,” MacNulty said, “this is no good! We’ve gotta go back. We’re gonna buy it in this shit.”

“All right,” Jordy said, “everyone calm down. We’ve got a job to do. We’ll be back on
old 65
before you know it.”

For the first time in ten years of flying choppers, Jordy truly wondered if they would return. The controls seemed stiff, vibrating. He gripped them firmer still then looked to Timmons and saw him now gaping back—Timmy was wondering too.

As they banked right and Jordy brought their craft several feet closer to the raging ocean, Jesus called out, “There! Swimmers in the water!”

THE BRAVE AND THE DEAD

IT’D BEEN AN exhausting seven minutes battling the relentless waves that seemed like a full fifteen rounds with Mike Tyson.

Spurs found it necessary to grab North’s arms about every five seconds when the sea would engulf them. She didn’t understand why he hadn’t finished the job he’d started on the ship. The same kind of job that his cohort had done on Franken. She didn’t want to depend on North’s arm, but obviously being the weaker swimmer, she had no other choice.

Though North’s arm had helped, it seemed less helpful with each onslaught. He was tiring, barely able to keep himself afloat now. Without his strength, she would soon drown.

A bright light suddenly danced around them, then held straight into their faces. A chopper.

Within seconds, the helicopter was hovering above them, at one moment fifteen feet away, the next forty, as they rode the ocean swells. A harness attached to a thin tether fell into the sea nearby. Spurs expected North to pass it to her, then assist her in putting it on. He didn’t. She watched him reach into it himself instead. The bastard was saving himself first. This was the way he’d kill her.

“Come here!” he yelled over the roar of the chopper and the raging storm.

Another wave slammed her under. Her body was too weak to fight. His arm wasn’t within reach. She struggled to come to the surface, but couldn’t. She went under, further, deeper into the maelstrom.

Surface sounds muted—the helicopter, the raging storm. It became silent. Peaceful. And she thought of death. Her exhausted and aching body considered it. Hope seemed distant, leaving her like the lights flashing on the surface. Life above the water drifted away—unreachable, pulling away from her with each second. Her lungs needed air, aching for breath. Maybe sucking in the cold water would be better than fighting it. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as she thought it would be—the end of her life. This
was
the way her mother died. This was the way she would die also.

Neptune’s icy fingers caressed her spent body. She finally welcomed it with relief and the sea seeped into her throat.

But then, hands found her—real, human hands—and pulled her head and shoulders up, out of death’s clutches.

“Damn it, hold on,” North yelled as the crashing waves and helicopter’s roar filled her ears once again.

She coughed out water.

“Can’t,” she said, upset at herself for having to admit it, her arms limp like unfeeling rubber hoses.

“You have no choice!” North hugged her tightly.

He motioned for the crew chief on the helo to take them up.

Spurs felt herself being lifted. It gave her new strength and she clung like a declawed cat as they were pulled from of the water. Now, she could hear only the urgent, beating rhythm of the helo’s big rotor as its tremendous backwash chilled her already cold, soaked body.

A giant fist of ocean suddenly struck them and Spurs slipped down to Lieutenant North’s middle.

How she could find the strength to hold on another second, she didn’t know. Hooking both arms into the safety harness North wore, she prayed to God that they would hurry.

A strange feeling came over her as they inched toward the chopper. The hair on her arms and head, although wet, tingled. She realized it was a buildup of static electricity. A charge that would soon be unleashed.

The open side door of the Sea King was finally within arm’s reach. They were eye-level with a man holding his arms out to them. His helmet said
Jesus
on the front. Spurs’ prayers seemed to be answered, until the lightning struck.

The flash was blinding, the shock stunning, the thunderclap deafening.

For an instant, Spurs didn’t know if she’d been knocked loose and was falling or was still gripping North. Her sight blacked out, then came back with pulsing flashes. She looked at Jesus to see his face strained, eyes bugging abnormally. His safety harness sizzled. As Jesus tumbled from the open doorway, Spurs realized the helicopter was pitching to its side, and about to go into the sea.

She felt her stomach float as the rescue cable spent out quickly. Everything played in slow motion. As they dropped toward the deadly ocean, the cable hoist smoked. Spurs was amazed to see North’s right hand spring out and snatch the lipped edge along the bottom of the doorway as his left arm still held her.

Somehow, the pilot regained control and pulled up. The hoist came to the end of its line which looped from the chopper, down into the water and back up to North’s harness. She looked just below them to see Jesus’ limp body dangling from the end of his much shorter safety tether.

They hung only a few feet from the rolling water and once again the angry ocean lashed out. The attack loosened Spurs’ grip. She slipped, but didn’t fall in as she expected. North had caught the hood of her slicker. She dangled, arms treading air, trying to get a hold. She was surprised by his strong hands. Flailing wildly, she finally caught onto his forearm with her right hand and he released her hood. Her hand slipped down to his wrist and she could feel what little strength that she had left waning.

The helo cut an urgent path through the turbulence, swinging them from underneath. She cursed the pilot in her mind for going so fast, then knowing she could only hold on for a few seconds longer, cursed him for being so slow.

Spurs looked at the boiling water below. She looked up to North seeing his somehow calm yet determined eyes, and became ashamed by what must be a scared, weak-kitten expression that she gave back.

Then came the lights. The
Atchison
rocked in the storm only a couple hundred yards out. The chopper sped toward her. The thunder crackled and lightning ripped the sky and Spurs winced, hoping the old saying that lightning would not strike twice in the same place applied to moving objects, also.

As they approached, the flight seemed irregular, jerky. The previous lightning attack must have affected the aircraft.

Now the flight deck came into view. Spurs saw a group of four or five men standing to the side, holding onto safety lines. Lieutenant Commander Reeves was one. She saw Doc Jolly and Corporal Sanders, another seaman she did not know—and Captain Chardoff.

Chardoff turned and hustled off as they approached.

The ship tossed wildly. Landing would be perilous. Dropping onto it at its nearest point, she might get by without injury, maybe just a sprained ankle. At its furthest point—when it dove deep with the sea—she could easily break her neck. As they came over the bobbing flight deck, averaging twenty feet away, she felt North release her.

“Let go!” he yelled.