By the time the ship had completed its turn their Knighthawk was already in the air, Monica talking with ATC and a squadmate on the stick. Any nearby ships from the strike group were probably on their way to assist, and RHIB teams with their inflatable boats would be on standby as a backup measure—but in a search-and-rescue op like this the Knighthawks were the ship’s first line of defense.
“Defense” in this case against the twin enemies of time and exposure.
The clock was ticking.
So far no one had any idea when the man went over, which made the operation immensely more difficult. The bridge would be working right now with the Combat Information Center to plot their search parameters. There was a tremendous amount of math involved, and Monica understood and appreciated all of it. Wind speed and current. Available manpower, helos and boats, both on the Lincoln and other nearby vessels from the strike group, plus each vessel’s distance and rendezvous ETA. Time window of when the officer most likely went over, which in this case would be quite a large window indeed. Number of daylight hours available for the search. All that and more went into plotting the search grid. Then they would skew the resulting grid into a diamond pattern to account for drift. Which could be considerable.
All of which, given the uncertainties in this case, meant they would be combing an extremely large quadrant. If they didn’t locate him quickly, they would keep searching. It could take days, but they’d find him. They had to.
Monica’s thoughts turned to Schofield himself, his situation and his odds, bobbing out there in the water.
The fall itself was not trivial—as much as a sixty-foot drop, and the water’s surface didn’t compress like a foam mattress or air bag—but it was survivable. The threat magnified once you were in the water. You could easily be pulled under by ocean currents, or worse, pulled under by the ship itself as it passed. Overboards had been known to get sucked into the propeller vortex. No one survived an encounter with four pickup-truck-sized brass propellers in full spin.
On the other hand, Schofield was experienced. If he had fallen in, his body would have flooded with adrenaline. He would have focused instantly on putting some distance between himself and the ship to avoid getting dragged under, then waited for rescue. There was no significant sea state this morning, which would work in his favor. The water was far from freezing, though not as warm as it would be later in the day; probably a surface temperature of 75°F or so. Not frigid. Still, enough to induce mild hypothermia.
Time would be the big factor here.
Each flight suit came equipped with strobe light and whistle. If he were wearing a float coat it would inflate and his strobe would start flashing immediately upon contact with salt water. He would have blown the whistle, if he were able.
Unless of course he had gone over the rail intentionally.
In which case float coats and strobe lights would pretty well defeat the purpose, wouldn’t they.
Which meant all four crew in that Knighthawk were thinking the same question, though none would voice it out loud.
Did he fall, or did he jump?
He’s out there right now, Monica told herself. He’s out there floating, waiting for us. We’ll find him.
They’d been circling for nearly three hours when they got word: someone had found a note in his stateroom. Schofield jumped.