SATURDAY, August 22
Chapter 1
Pensacola Bay
Pensacola, Florida
Elizabeth Bailey didn"t like what she saw. Even now,after theirH-65 helicopter came down into a hover less than two hundredfeetabove the rolling Gulf, the object in the water still lookedlike a containerand certainly not a capsized boat. There were nothrashing arms or legs. Nobobbing heads. No one needing to berescued, as far as she could see. YetLieutenant Commander Wilson,their aircrew pilot, insisted they check it out.What he reallymeant was that Liz would check it out.
A Coast Guard veteran at only twenty-seven years old, AST3 LizBailey knew she had chalked up more rescues in two days overNewOrleans after Hurricane Katrina than Wilson had in his entiretwo-year career.Liz had dropped onto rickety apartment balconies,scraped her knees on wind-batteredroofs, and waded throughdebris-filled water that smelled of raw sewage.
She dared not mention any of this. It didn"t matter how manysearch and rescues she"d performed, because at the moment she wasthenewbie at Air Station Mobile, and she"d need to prove herselfall over again.To add insult to injury, within her first weeksomeone had decorated thewomen"s locker room by plasteringdownloaded photos of her from a 2005 issue ofPeople magazine. Hersuperiors insisted that the feature article would be good PR forthe Coast Guard, especially when other military and governmentagencieswere taking a beating over their response to Katrina. Butin an organizationwhere attention to individual and ego couldjeopardize team missions, herunwanted notoriety threatened to bethe kiss of death for her career. Fouryears later, it stillfollowed her around like a curse.
By comparison, what Wilson was asking probably seemedtame. Sowhat if the floating container might be a fisherman"s cooler washedoverboard? What was the harm in checking it out? Except thatrescue swimmers were trained to risk their lives in order to saveotherlives, not to retrieve inanimate objects. In fact, there wasan unwritten ruleabout it. After several swimmers who were asked tohaul up bales of drugstested positive for drug use, apparently fromtheir intimate contact in thewater, it was decided the risk to therescue team was too great. Wilson musthave missed that memo.
Besides, rescue swimmers could also elect not to deploy.In otherwords, she could tell Lieutenant Commanderless-than-a-thousand-flight-hoursWilson that "hell no," she wasn"tjumping into the rough waters forsome fisherman"s discarded catchof the day.
Wilson turned in his seat to look at her. From the tiltof hissquare chin he reminded her of a boxer daring a punch. The glint inhiseyes pinned her down, his helmet"s visor slid up for greaterimpact. He didn"tneed to say out loud what his body language saidfor him: "So, Bailey, areyou a prima donna or are you a teamplayer?"
Liz wasn"t stupid. She knew that as one of less than adozen womenrescue swimmers, she was a rare breed. She was used to havingtoconstantly prove herself. She recognized the stakes in the wateras well asthose in the helicopter. These were the men she"d have totrust to pull herback up when she dangled by a cable seventy feetbelow, out in the open, overangry seas, sometimes spinning in thewind.
Liz had learned early on that she was expected to performa numberof complicated balancing acts. While it was necessary to befiercelyindependent and capable of working alone, she alsounderstood what thevulnerabilities were. Her life was ultimately inthe hands of the crew above.Today and next week and the week afternext, it would be these guys. And untilthey felt like she had trulyproven herself, she would continue to be "therescue swimmer"instead of "our rescue swimmer."
Liz kept her hesitation to herself, avoided Wilson"s eyes, andpretended to be more interested in checking out the water below.Shesimply listened. Inside her helmet, via the ICS (internalcommunicationsystem), Wilson started relaying their strategy,telling his copilot,Lieutenant Junior Grade Tommy Ellis, and theirflight mechanic, AST3 PeteKesnick, to prepare for a directdeployment using the RS (rescue swimmer) andthe basket. He wasalready reducing their position from two hundred feet toeightyfeet.
"Might just be an empty fishing cooler,"Kesnick said.
Liz watched him out of the corner of her eyes. Kesnick didn"tlikethis, either. The senior member of the aircrew, Kesnick had atannedweathered face with crinkle lines at his eyes and mouth thatnever changed,never telegraphed whether he was angry orpleased.
"Or it might be cocaine," Ellis countered."They found fifty kiloswashed ashore someplace in Texas."
"McFaddin Beach," Wilson filled in."Sealed and wrapped in thickplastic. Someone missed a drop-off orpanicked and tossed it. Couldbe what we have here."
"Then shouldn"t we radio it in and leave it for acutter to pickup?" Kesnick said as he glanced at Liz. She could tell hewas tryingto let her know that he"d back her if she elected not todeploy.
Wilson noticed the glance. "It"s up to you, Bailey.What do youwant to do?"
She still didn"t meet his eyes, didn"t want to give himthesatisfaction of seeing even a hint of her reluctance.
"We should use the medevac board instead of thebasket," she said."It"ll be easier to slide it under the containerand strap itdown."
Knowing he was surprised by her response, she simplyremoved herflight helmet, cutting off communication. If Ellis or Kesnick hadsomething to say about her, she dared them to say it after herattempt atnonchalance.
She fingered strands of her hair back under her surf capandstrapped on her lightweight Seda helmet. She attached the gunner"sbelt to her harness, positioned the quick strop over her shoulders,made sure to keep the friction slide close to the hoist hook.Finished, she moved to the door ofthe helicopter, squatted inposition, and waited for Kesnick"s signal.
She couldn"t avoid looking at him. They had done thisroutine atleast half a dozen times since she started at the air station. Shesuspected that Pete Kesnick treated her no differently than he hadbeentreating rescue swimmers for the last fifteen years of hiscareer as a Coastieflight mechanic and hoist operator. Even now, hedidn"t second-guess her,though his steel-blue eyes studied her asecond longer than usual before heflipped down his visor.
He tapped her on the chest, the signal for"ready"-two glovedfingers practically at her collarbone. Probablynot the same tap heused with male rescue swimmers. Liz didn"t mind. It was a smallthing, done out of respect more than anything else.
She released the gunner"s belt, gave Kesnick a thumbs-upto tellhim she was ready. She maintained control over the quick strop ashehoisted her clear of the deck. Then he stopped. Liz readjustedherself as thecable pulled tight. She turned and gave Kesnickanother thumbs-up and descendedinto the rolling waters.
Without a survivor in the water Liz quickly assessedthesituation. The container was huge. By Liz"s estimates, at leastforty incheslong and twenty inches wide and deep. She recognizedthe battered whitestainless steel as a commercial-grade marinecooler. A frayed tie-down floatedfrom its handle bracket. Frayed,not cut. So maybe its owner hadn"t intended toditch it, after all.She grabbed the tie-down, which was made of brightyellow-and-bluestrands twisted into a half-inch-thick rope, andlooped it through her harnessto keep the cooler from bobbing awayin the rotor wash of the helicopter.
She signaled Kesnick: her left arm raised, her right armcrossingover her head and touching her left elbow. She was ready for themtodeploy the medevac board.
The bobbing container fought against her, pushing andpulling witheach wave, not able to go any farther than the rope attached toherbelt allowed. It took two attempts but within fifteen minutesLiz had thefishing cooler attached to the medevac board. Shecinched the restraints tight,hooked it to the cable, and raised herarm again, giving a thumbs-up.
No records broken, but by the time Kesnick hoisted herback intothe helicopter, she could tell her crew was pleased. Notimpressed,but pleased. It was a small step.
Lieutenant Commander Wilson still looked impatient. Lizbarelycaught her breath, but yanked off her Seda helmet, exchanging itfor herflight helmet with the communications gear inside. Shecaught Wilson in the middle of instructing Kesnick to open thelatch.
"Shouldn"t we wait?" Kesnick tried being thediplomat.
"It"s not locked. Just take a peek."
Liz slid out of the way and to the side of the cabin,unbucklingthe rest of her gear. She didn"t want any part of this. As farasshe was concerned, her job was finished.
Kesnick paused and at first she thought he would refuse.He movedto her side and pushed back his visor, avoiding her eyes. Thechild-safetylatch slid back without effort but he had to use thepalm of his hand to shovethe snap lock free. Liz saw him draw in adeep breath before he flung open thelid.
The first thing Liz noticed was the fish-measuring rulermoldedinto the lid. It seemed an odd thing to notice but later it wouldstickin her mind. A fetid smell escaped but it wasn"t rotten fish.More like openinga Dumpster.
Inside she could see what looked like thick plastic wrapencasingseveral oblong objects, one large and four smaller. Not thesquarebundles that might be cocaine.
"Well?" Wilson asked, trying to glance over his shoulder.
Kesnick poked at one of the smaller bundles with a glovedfinger.It flipped over. The plastic was more transparent on this sideandsuddenly the content was unmistakable.
His eyes met Liz"s and now the ever calm, poker-facedKesnicklooked panicked.
"I think it"s a foot," he said.
"What?"
"I think it"s a goddamn human foot."
From the Hardcover edition.
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