Finn watched as the pair of MAs ushered the helo squadron CO aft onto elevator platform 4 to take him below. He glanced over at West Texas, sitting frozen in the pilot’s seat. She looked like someone who’d just struck and killed the family dog with her car.
“Hey!” A scuffle.
Movie Star had just shoved one of the MAs off his feet. Now he swung his cuffed fists at the other, whacking him in the head, and took off at a run. Where did he think he could run to? Maybe he wasn’t thinking at all. Maybe he was acting out of pure panic.
Or maybe he’d do anything—literally anything—to avoid prison.
Hands still shackled, Movie Star made a dash for the far side of the elevator.
And leapt off.
The helo crew scrambled back into the bird, their plane captain frantically clapping his outspread arms over his head, giving them the “cleared for liftoff” signal.
But Finn saw all this only after he was already in motion.
He took off like a rifle shot—
Ran full tilt across the flight deck—
Accelerated when he reached the edge—
And flew off the ship.
The sea state was now belching up ten- and twelve-foot waves, the water a deep burgundy.
Falling feetfirst, eyes on the horizon for clean entry, Finn pierced the surface like a lance and plunged twenty feet under before the water resistance slowed his momentum. He pinched his nose and blew out to equalize the pressure in his ears—at this depth he was at nearly double normal atmospheric pressure—then executed an instant flip and ripped back toward the surface, searching as he swam, scanning for Movie Star.
There!
Finn had experience swimming in cuffs; not elegant, but doable. And Movie Star knew what he was doing.
First thing you did in this situation was put distance between yourself and the ship to avoid getting sucked into its churn. Every experienced sailor knew this. Finn willed his thoughts to reach the man. Swim away from the ship!
Movie Star swam toward the ship.
Toward—and aft.
Cresting the surface, Finn was vaguely aware of the Knighthawk above and behind him, Stickman leaning out the side door and shouting directions back into the cockpit, helping West Texas navigate the helo to a spot where it could safely hover and drop him.
Don’t do it, Stickman. You’ll only die here, too.
Finn homed in on Movie Star’s trajectory like a heat-seeking missile, closing the gap, churning gallons of the Pacific with the most powerful strokes he could muster—but Movie Star was still a few dozen meters ahead and closing fast with the ship’s stern.
Heading for the propellers.
Behind him Finn heard Harris shout “Go!” and Stickman make the dive.
Movie Star was a determined man. He made it to his destination just a dozen strokes ahead of Finn.
Into the propellers.
One moment he was there and the next he was gone, sucked under and into the blender-blade chop of those massive brass screws.
Commander Nikos Demetrius Papadakis was now a cloud of blood, tissue, and bone fragments.
As Finn would be, too, within seconds.
Being this close to the ship’s wake was like jumping into a black hole’s event horizon. Finn knew this from countless exercises off the San Diego pier. There was a point where you still had enough energy to break free. And a point where you’d be swallowed. He executed an impossible turn and began swimming away from the ship—but he’d gotten too close. Even as he powered forward, away from the ship, he was being sucked backward by the churn.
Event horizon.
Stickman was now six meters away and getting closer. Bad move. Damn him. If he tried to grab Finn’s flight suit they would just get sucked in together.
Stickman grabbed Finn’s flight suit.
For what felt like a span of minutes they seemed to hang motionless, suspended in space between the pull of the ship and the force of their own efforts in the opposite direction.
In this tug-of-war there was no way the ship could lose.
Yet, foot by watery foot, swimming in tandem now, Finn and Stickman pulled steadily away from the carrier’s hull until they finally reached the lip of the furiously bobbing rescue basket. Grabbed at it over and over, snagged it on the fourth try.
Pulled themselves over and in.
Collapsed.
Let the hoist do its work.
As they reached the hovering chopper, Finn looked over and gasped, “Thanks—Stickman—owe you—one.”
The kid’s face flushed with pride—but only for a moment, before being overtaken by the horror of what he’d just witnessed.
West Texas navigated her Knighthawk back over to their landing spot.
When they touched down, a second pair of masters-at-arms stood waiting for them.
With cuffs.