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Lieutenant Junior Grade Benjamin “Ben” Wyporek wearily climbed the ladder leading to Kauai’s Bridge. Every muscle ached from fatigue after the hours-long fight through wind and seas to reach the stricken sailboat, followed by the harrowing ordeal on the main deck during the recovery of the survivors. Ben and the two others in the deck crew had nearly gone overboard in that last wave when the cascading water had swept their legs from under them. All three men would be dead now if it had not been for the safety belts connecting them to the deck railing. He looked aft through the port bridge door window—the cutter’s Rigid Hull Inflatable Boat, known as “the rib” for its acronym RHIB, was still there, snugged into the side with tie-downs on every available fitting. His internal mariner objected to the situation, but the risks of injury while cradling the RHIB were too high with a thirty-knot tailwind and these seas. The RHIB was replaceable, the crewmembers were not, and they had already pressed their luck too far on this trip.
They had sortied three days ago from their Port Canaveral homeport when it looked like Jacob might impact Florida’s east coast. While the last place on Earth you wanted to be in a patrol boat when a major hurricane hit was in the open sea, being moored to a pier subject to storm surge was a close second. Better to get some sea room and scurry out of the way. When the storm had finally settled on a northerly course through the Bahamas, they turned back for home in relief. Then came the call from the Rescue Coordination Center in Miami.
One satellite in the Copas-Sarsat constellation had picked up an emergency signal from an EPIRB registered to the sailing vessel Aurora Mist. The signal was localized to a spot about eleven nautical miles south of Freeport in the Bahamas, thirty miles from their position. The owner-operator had filed a sail plan listing four people on board, two of them children. The risks of responding to the distress call were considerable for Kauai and her crew. If they lost control in those seas and narrow waters, whether from the storm’s effects or some mechanical problem, their only achievement would be adding the names of sixteen Coast Guard men and women to Jacob’s death toll. Even if they could get to the scene and find the boat, odds were long against the successful launch and recovery of the RHIB. But when you knew there were lives at stake, particularly children, you went if there was any chance of rescue. This time, luck was on their side.
Ben was the Executive Officer, referred to as XO, the second in command of Kauai. A lean five-foot-ten, with close-cropped sandy brown hair surrounding a lightly tanned, chiseled face and startlingly blue eyes, he was among the younger members of the crew at twenty-five years of age. Kauai was his second tour of duty after graduating from the Coast Guard Academy in Connecticut three years previously.
Ben made his way to the captain’s chair in the Bridge’s center, moving from handhold to handhold as the deck rolled and pitched beneath him. He stopped beside the chair, fired off a crisp salute, and said, “Survivors are secured in the Port Non-rate Berthing Area, Captain. Doc says they’re OK, and he’s treating them for dehydration and seasickness.”
Lieutenant Samuel “Sam” Powell, commanding officer of Kauai, returned Ben’s salute. By tradition, he was addressed as “Captain” on board his ship, despite his nominal rank. About an inch taller than Ben but equally lean and tanned, Sam had dark hair, a friendly round face, and soft brown eyes. At thirty-six, he was the second-oldest member of the crew. Unlike Ben, he had been commissioned from the enlisted ranks after attending officer candidate school as a chief petty officer. Despite the differences in background and age and their positions, the two men had become best friends since their arrival on board Kauai nearly two years previously. “Thanks, XO. That was a hell of a job on the main deck in that mess. If I had known it would be this bad, I think I might have turned it down.”
Ben smiled in return. “I don’t think you would, sir. And if you have any lingering doubts about whether it was worth it, I suggest you peek in on that family we picked up when you get a chance.”
“I’ll do that once things calm down. Now, for real: how are you? I about had a heart attack when I saw you guys go down in that wave.”
“No worries, Captain. Just another bruise or two.”
“Just the same; I want you to have Doc give you a head check as soon as we’re done here.”
Ben’s smile vanished, and his stomach flipped at the reminder that he was still under scrutiny for his injury during a secret mission six months previously. Ben had been shot in the head by a crazed drug cartel assailant, and though his helmet kept the bullet out, the impact caused a hematoma that nearly killed him. His continued service in the Coast Guard was contingent on special neurological evaluations in each annual physical and checkups after any mishaps that could have caused head trauma. “Captain, I didn’t hit my head, so there’s no....”
“Uh-uh,” Sam interrupted, shaking his head. “You know the deal. You go down, you get checked. End of story.” He reached over and gave Ben’s shoulder a friendly shake. “Don’t worry. It will be strictly routine if you haven’t cracked your bean again. Now, how’s everything else holding up?”
“I went from stem to stern on the inside, sir: no leaks or engineering issues. I’m sure the lifelines are trashed, and I don’t want to even think about the gun right now,” Ben replied. Seawater weighs nearly sixty-three pounds per cubic foot and is almost incompressible. Waves impacting at over thirty miles per hour would wreak havoc on anything exposed topside. Lifelines, the wires strung along stanchions on the periphery of the deck to prevent personnel from falling overboard, and the main gun on the foredeck were the usual casualties when any cutter, particularly a small one like a patrol boat, encountered heavy seas.
Sam said, “Yes, I suppose I’ll have some ‘splaining to do when we get back. They can’t ding me too hard with four lives saved.”
“God, I would hope not, sir. I’ll start the RHIB’s crew’s writeups if you don’t object. Can’t let a good rescue go to waste.”
“Thank you, XO. That will be after your head exam, of course.”
“Yes, sir,” Ben replied.
“Buck up, son! Remember, we could all be dead now.”
“Yes, sir, there is that. By your leave, sir?”
“Carry on, XO.”
Ben turned and stepped over to Chief Operations Specialist Emilia Hopkins, scanning the horizon with binoculars in her role as the officer of the deck. Hopkins was the best shiphandler on board and was the go-to person for OOD in a sticky situation like the recent rescue. The tall and fit thirty-four-year-old widowed mother of twelve- and ten-year-old sons, Hopkins shared a house with her mother, who looked after the boys when she was at sea. While not friends in the strictest sense, as the Coast Guard did not permit such relationships between officers and enlisted members, Ben respected and admired her professionally and as an individual. He knew Sam felt the same. Hopkins was one of those most trusted voices who would give it to you straight in private, but had your back at all times. “How goes it, Chief? Do you need some relief here?”
Hopkins, who overheard Ben and Sam’s conversation, returned a grin. “Sorry, XO, I can’t help you. Now that I’m not puking my guts out every five minutes, I’ve found my second wind.”
“Right. You know I am always here for you,” Ben said with a mock huff, drawing a chuckle from the chief petty officer. Ben’s bonhomie concealed a genuine worry that nagged at him as he departed the Bridge to find Bryant. He had hit the deck hard after that wave—he was sure he would have a substantial bruise on his right hip from the impact. An event like that, even one not involving a direct blow to the head, could bring the career he loved to a close.
He found Bryant in the ship’s dispensary, monitoring the Murray family as they slept in the adjacent compartment. Health Services Technician Michael Bryant, known as “Doc” among the crew, cut an unimposing figure at a thin five-foot-seven with round wire-rimmed glasses. Ben knew this concealed a calm dedication to his shipmates’ well-being, his courage proven with the Silver Star and Purple Heart medals he earned as an army combat medic before his transfer to the Coast Guard and his service aboard Kauai. He had received special training and equipment to conduct neurological assessments in the field to monitor Ben’s recovery. “I need a quick check under the hood, Doc,” Ben said in greeting.
“On it, XO,” Bryant replied.
The assessment comprised inspections of his ear canals, pupillary responses, and general balance, not a simple task on a pitching and rolling patrol boat. He followed up with a check of Ben’s right side. Ben exhaled in relief when Bryant finished and said, “Neurologics are normal, sir. You’ll have a helluva bruise by tomorrow, but nothing’s broken.”
“Good to hear. How are our passengers doing?”
“Fine, sir. They’ll be sleeping for a while between the exhaustion and anti-nausea drugs I gave them. I was a little concerned about the kids at first—they were both close to passing out from dehydration. But they took the Pedialyte well.”
“Good. Let me know when they wake up, please.”
“Will do, sir.”
Ben nodded and then made his way to the messdeck, where Chief Machinery Technician James Drake shared coffee with two of Kauai’s boatswain’s mates. Drake was the senior enlisted and oldest member of the crew at forty-three. He was also the tallest at six-foot-four and had a muscular build and graying hair, cut short like all the other males on board. Drake was the senior engineer aboard Kauai when Ben and Sam arrived. He remained with the unit even after her conversion to a diesel-electric powerplant called for a change in the senior enlisted to the Electrician’s Mate rating. Drake was an old-time chief in the sense of resolving problems before they came to the officers’ attention. He operated a network of “connections” from fellow chiefs to senior officers for scrounging and “intel.” Ben and Sam had learned quickly not to dig too deeply into how some of the seemingly intractable problems were being handled; they just had to sit back and enjoy the results.
Boatswain’s Mate First Class John Bondurant sat across the table from Drake. Bondurant was almost as tall as Drake at six-foot-three, but even more powerfully built. His great strength came in handy, particularly today—he was the large crewman in the RHIB who manhandled the passengers aboard and seized and hooked up the chaotically whirling hoist block. He was a quiet and even-tempered man, with a wife and two sons in high school.
Bondurant’s subordinate, Boatswain’s Mate Second Class Shelley Lee, sat to his right. Lee was a full foot shorter than Bondurant, but had the athletic build of a gymnast. She was the most skillful small boat operator Ben had ever known and was the coxswain of the RHIB during today’s rescue. Lee and Ben were close in age, temperament, and interests, and they shared the same mutual admiration and respect Ben had with Hopkins. Lee was the most courageous individual Ben had ever known, as evidenced in her jumping on today’s rescue sortie and the mission in which Ben was injured six months ago. In that action, a towline was hit and broken, and she ventured into the open in an environment alive with automatic weapons and rocket fire to single-handedly cut away the wreckage and save the boat.
Drake turned on Ben’s arrival and said, “Pull up a seat, XO.” After Ben was seated, he added, “So, I presume the head exam went OK?”
Ben’s mouth dropped open, then he replied, “Shit, Chief, is there anything you don’t know about?”
“Oh, sir. There are so many things. For instance, how much longer will we be buttoned up?”
“The center has already passed us to the east, and things should calm down in a couple of hours. Not sure if we will open up before we hit PC, though, if the lifelines are as chewed up as I expect them to be.”
Lee piped up immediately. “Hey, sir, I don’t like leaving my boat hanging off the side like that. It was bad enough to leave her there to begin with.”
Ben smiled. My boat. “Well, Shelley, if nothing has happened to her yet, I don’t think anything will. However, I will present your protests to the skipper—I’m sure he wouldn’t want to let anything happen to your boat.”
“Damn straight. What’s the point of being the Boatswain Diva if you can’t get your way!” Even the taciturn Bondurant joined in the chuckles on that one.
Ben excused himself after some more light banter, but as he stood, a sharp pain from his injured hip made him pause with a grimace. A look of genuine concern instantly replaced Lee’s smile. “Are you OK, sir?”
Ben waved in dismissal. “Just a reminder of the need to set your feet properly when in swift water. I may not be sleeping on my right side for a few days, that’s all. Please, don’t worry about it.”
“OK, sir. Take it easy, will ya?”
“Roger that,” Ben replied as he made his way forward. He was surprised and embarrassed by Lee’s reaction. Have to be a little more poker-faced from now on. Ben’s stateroom was a short walk from the messdeck. The officers and chiefs each had their own room aboard Kauai, but they were tiny, and Ben’s was just big enough for his bunk, desk, locker, and file cabinet. The other crew shared rooms like the one currently occupied by the Murray family. As Ben sat down and opened his laptop to jot down his notes of today’s action while they were fresh in his mind, he glanced up and then fixed on the pictures of Victoria mounted on the wall above his desk.
Victoria Carpenter was the love of Ben’s life. They had met in January when Kauai had been pulled off her regular duties to support a Defense Intelligence Agency team on an operation in the Florida Keys. The mission was so secret that only a handful of people in the world were aware of it. Ben had come ashore to serve as liaison, while Kauai remained offshore in support. Victoria was the protégé of Ben’s DIA teammate, Peter Simmons, who warned him before their meeting that Victoria was mildly autistic and that he should expect some unusual behavior. Expecting to meet some geeky neurotic, Ben was surprised to find a beautiful, extraordinarily charming young woman who made him feel like the most exceptional person in the world during their first conversation. The interest was mutual, and although separated by their duties, Ben’s in South Florida with Kauai and Victoria’s in Washington, DC with the DIA, they shared the details of their lives on the phone each night when Ben was not out on patrol. With each passing day, these conversations became more precious to Ben, and he chafed at the operational pace that kept them apart.
Finally, Kauai was taken offline for a major upgrade, and Ben was assigned to an intense course of special operations training in Quantico, Virginia. During his training, they had the chance to meet for two short dates, resulting in the pictures. The first picture was of Victoria in an elegant pose from their first date, with her auburn hair up rather than pulled back into her usual ponytail. She was wearing a stunning jade green cocktail dress, a perfect match for her large aquamarine-colored eyes. Ben was so stunned at the sight of her that evening that he was speechless at first, then could only stumble through some inanities before she came to his rescue.
The second picture was a candid shot of them in jeans and jackets walking arm-in-arm on the Washington DC Mall, looking at each other happily. Ben followed the man who’d taken the picture and purchased an electronic copy. This one remained his favorite. Ben thought Victoria looked every bit as alluring in these casual clothes as she did in the green dress, and it reminded him of the night they spent together afterward. The night he knew he was in love with her.
Ben kept his feelings to himself for about a month afterward. While he knew Victoria was physically attracted to him and enjoyed their conversations, she had given no sign she was interested in anything beyond friendship. She was a mathematical genius and polymath, and Ben knew her intellect was on an entirely different level from his—although he could keep up to a certain degree on the math thanks to his studies at the Academy. Ben finally shared his feelings via satellite phone on the eve of the mission on which he was wounded and was astounded to find that Victoria felt the same about him.
It was ironic that hours after sharing their feelings, Ben was hit in the battle with the drug cartel. As he fell unconscious in the makeshift surgery on Kauai’s messdeck afterward, his last thoughts were of his first sight of Victoria in her beautiful green dress. A couple of days later, as Ben revived in the intensive care unit of a Miami hospital, he saw what he took to be a hallucination: Victoria asleep, sitting next to him with her head on the bed next to his hand. He reached out tentatively and brushed her lovely auburn hair back—she was real. He continued to stroke her forehead lightly, and she smiled in her sleep at his touch, then suddenly bolted awake.
His mouth was so dry that he could not talk until Victoria got him a drink of ice water from the table by the bed. He wanted to say something clever or romantic under the circumstances. But, still fuzzy-headed from the anesthesia, the only thing he could think of was the greeting he always used at the beginning of their phone calls:
“Hello, Victoria. How was your day?”
From Victoria’s reaction, he could not have made a better choice.
She remained with him through his recovery, driving him to his physical therapy and checkup sessions while he recovered his balance and mobility. As she neared the end of her stay, she expressed regret at leaving behind what she referred to as “Ben’s world” of welcoming and supportive friends, having never experienced such a thing. Ben saw an opening and took it, inviting Victoria to move in with him. She was uncertain—her condition had proven to be a relationship-killer in the past when her eccentricities evolved into annoying tics in the perception of her would-be partners. Ben was undeterred and pressed his case. Victoria was persuaded to try living together and quickly secured a position with a government contractor in Melbourne. They picked out an apartment together and moved in.
Like all couples, they had some collisions that they worked through, easier than most since neither was particularly ego-bound. The quirks associated with Victoria’s condition, which she was convinced would drive Ben away, endeared her even more to him. He was in awe of Victoria’s vast knowledge and intelligence, and the fact she needed help with some fundamental things in life made her more human to him. He loved listening to her talk. She had a surprisingly deep voice for someone so petite. Her precise elocution, even in casual conversations, was an appealing contrast to his previous girlfriends, who all seemed compelled to say “like” at least once in every sentence. Victoria never used contractions or diminutives; even at the most intimate times, he was “Benjamin” to her.
Victoria genuinely and openly appreciated his company and affection and understood the demands and separations that went with his job from her experience with the DIA. Several of Ben’s earlier relationships had foundered on that issue, and her cheerful acceptance provided him with considerable relief. His worry that Victoria might have difficulty fitting into the insular community of the ship’s crew and their families dissipated quickly. Although she knew her intelligence and eidetic memory were well outside the norm, to her, it was not a mark of superiority, just another personal characteristic like the color of her eyes or hair. Victoria was careful not to use her intellect to show up someone she was talking with, and her natural curiosity and openness were quite disarming. His coworkers and their families took to her at once.
Ben shook off his reverie and bent to the task on his laptop. As Kauai’s motion had calmed from the violence they had experienced when driving straight into the wind and seas to a still disconcerting but much more slow and tolerable pitch and roll, his seasickness had passed, and he was starving. He was due on the Bridge to relieve Hopkins for the second dog watch at 17:45 and needed to wolf down a microwave meal before that. He glanced at his laptop’s system clock—17:04—and began typing furiously. After ten minutes, he was satisfied he had captured the basic details of the action and saved and closed the file. As he stood, he pulled and pocketed his Common Access Card, commonly known as a “CAC,” from the computer’s card reader, grabbed his cap, and headed back to the messdeck.
As Ben walked, his thoughts went back to Victoria and how he would describe today’s activities to her when he returned. He knew she worried about him when he was underway, and events like today’s rescue did not help. Ben did not want to add to those worries but could not gloss things over, much less lie to her—she would see right through it. He had sought advice from Sam’s wife Joana on this subject shortly after he and Victoria had moved in together. Joana was a close friend of his in her own right and did not pull any punches.
“Sailor, you’re on your own with that one. You and Victoria have to work out your own system. Sam gives me the details, I ask questions, and we deal with it. She is going to worry about you, that’s the way it is, and nothing you can do short of quitting will change that. But she’s smart enough to know that this is part of the package, and she’s willing to pay the price to have you as you are. All I can say is never bullshit her—if she loses trust in what you’re telling her, it’s all over.”
Ben had found that framing his descriptions in terms of calculated risk helped—Victoria enjoyed quantitative thinking and was comforted by the knowledge that something as amorphous as danger could be rationally bounded. Joana was right: Victoria never stopped worrying, but she seemed to come to terms with it. Ben smiled as he walked. Echoing his captain, Ben would have some ‘splaining to do, particularly with the large bruise forming on his right hip. But the safe outcome and the rescue of a young family would help.
And Ben always looked forward to the aftermath of these “debriefings.”
Murray thought these were the tastiest omelet and home fries he had ever eaten, and it wasn’t just the fact that he had not had a bit of food since their nightmare began over a day ago. Gemma and the girls were also digging in heartily, without conversation. A crewman working the stove in an apron and toque blanche had met and seated them when they arrived on the messdeck and prepared omelets for him and Gemma and banana pancakes for the girls. Ben showed up a couple of minutes later and sat with them to consume some oatmeal and coffee.
“Will we be pulling in soon, Lieutenant?” Gemma asked.
“Yes, ma’am, and you can call me Ben if you like.”
“Thank you. Please call me Gemma. ‘Ma’am’ makes me feel old.”
Ben smiled. “Well, we can’t have that. We will pull into Port Canaveral about nine o’clock, Gemma. I’m sorry, it’s a little off the usual beaten path, but it’s our homeport, and we’ll be nailed to the first dock we tie up to until our lifelines get fixed.”
“Completely understandable. You’ve done so much for us already, and we’re grateful for wherever you put us ashore,” Gemma said.
“Yes, there’s no way I can repay you all for what you’ve done, but I’d like to try,” Murray added.
Ben shook his head firmly. “You can’t do that, sir. For starters, it’s illegal for us to accept any gifts or gratuities, and if you tried, we’d just have to turn it over to the Treasury.” Then he smiled, “Besides, this is the sort of op we all signed up for, and the CO and I will make sure everyone gets recognized.”
Ben was about to add to that when he stood and said, “Attention on deck!”
“As you were, please!” was the reply from another officer entering the room, who smiled and walked over as soon as he saw Ben. This officer was older; Murray guessed the new arrival was around his age and wearing two silver bars. What is the naval rank? Oh yes, lieutenant.
Murray and Gemma both stood as the officer reached the table, and Ben introduced him. “Folks, this is our commanding officer, Lieutenant Powell. Captain, this is Phillip Murray, Gemma Murray, and their daughters Jamie and Lydia.”
“I’m pleased to meet you. Please sit, everybody.” He turned to the cook and said, “Mornin’, Chef. What are the chances of a Western and Homies this day?”
“Pretty near one-hundred percent, Captain.”
“Sweet!” He turned and said, “You folks have everything you need?”
“Captain, your crew is killing us with kindness,” Murray replied. He recognized the voice as the one on the loudspeaker immediately after they were brought aboard. “Not least of which is this meal. Did I hear you say Chef?”
The officer’s face brightened. “That’s our nickname for him. More properly, he is Culinary Specialist Second Class Thomas Hebert, although he was working up to Chef back in Naw’lins when he signed on with us instead.”
“A good deal for you and us today,” Murray said.
“Every day for us.”
“Agreed.” Murray nodded. “Is there a possibility of getting a tour of the ship? We would all be fascinated by a look around.”
The officer shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry, but I can’t permit that while we are underway. Space is tight, and there’s a lot going on everywhere; we can’t risk you being hurt. I’m afraid I have to ask you to remain here on the messdeck until we are moored. It will only be a couple of hours. After we are secure, one of us can take you on a tour if you care to hang around.”
“That would be wonderful, thank you,” Murray said. The light conversation continued until the captain completed his meal.
“Folks, you’ll have to excuse us,” Ben said as he stood. “The captain and I have to complete preparations for entering port. Chef can help you out if you need anything.”
“Thank you, Ben, Captain, for everything,” Gemma said.
“Our pleasure,” the captain said.
***********************
The rest of their stay was uneventful, although rather dull. The girls watched children’s shows on the messdeck television that Hebert had switched to local broadcasting while Murray and Gemma looked out the windows at the passing port sights. Murray longed to be on the Bridge, or at least on deck, to watch the activity as Kauai entered port. Still, as an attorney, he understood completely the liability considerations that kept them quasi-confined.
A few minutes after Murray felt Kauai bump into the pier, the engines below them ceased their rumbling hum, and a voice on the loudspeaker announced, “Secure the Special Sea Detail, set the in-port watch, section three on deck.”
Murray looked over at Hebert, who said. “Give them a couple minutes to square away all the classified gear, folks. Then we can sashay on up to the Bridge—you can see most everything from there. After that, we can get you a ride off base.”
“A ride off base? I thought we pulled into the port,” Murray said.
“No, sir. We have a berth and warehouse in the East Basin. It’s on the Cape Canaveral Space Force Station, so you can’t exactly get a cab. We’ll have someone drive you to Melbourne where you can rent a car, or fly out, or whatever.”
“I see, thank you.”
The phone rang, and Hebert answered. “Messdeck, Hebert. Right. Thanks, Chief.” He hung up the phone and said, “Follow me, please, folks!”
The tour was fascinating. The Bridge was far more modern than he expected, with a three-seat console in the middle equipped with keyboards and joysticks at each station in front of large, single-panel screens, now dark. A single seat was positioned behind and above the console seats. Hebert explained that this was the captain’s chair, placed to have a clear view of all the screens and the rest of the Bridge. Typically, three people were on the Bridge monitoring the operations when the craft was underway, but every station was manned during special evolutions. Murray shook his head. It was no wonder the captain didn’t want him on the Bridge—there would not have been room for them to turn around.
As they were nearing the end of the tour, Gemma nudged him and pointed out the window at the area ashore between the pier and a parking lot. Ben and a pretty, petite young woman with her long red hair pulled back into a ponytail were trotting toward each other. The woman threw her arms around Ben’s neck, and he picked her up off the ground in one of the most passionate kisses Murray had ever seen. He felt Gemma’s arm around his waist and pulled her close while they watched.
Kauai was home from the sea.
