chatter to request taxi clearance.
Something skimmed across Mark’s mind. Cassie’s eyes. Same color as Jeff’s. Then there was his old crewmate’s leave request for a sister graduating nursing school.
Cold sweat popped on his brow.
Shit.
“She’s Jeff’s sister,” he murmured under his breath, his voice ragged.
His shoulders tightened. Not the right time to dwell on this. But holy hell. Given her reaction, she’d realized who he was, too.
Her parents blamed him for Jeff’s death. No doubt Cassie did, as well.
And how could he fault her? He hadn’t stopped blaming himself.
He squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out the riot of thought and focused, drawing on his training. He was supposed to be putting this shit behind him. He’d sworn up and down to the military docs that he could handle flying.
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