Sector Hampton Roads radioed the Station Kiptohanock watchstander the following afternoon. A few miles offshore one of the barrier islands, an engine room fire had erupted onboard a cargo ship. The watch duty crew headed for the fast boat tied to the station dock. Sawyer was halfway out the door when Braeden stopped him.
“Do not under any circumstances set foot on that vessel, XPO.”
“But twelve souls are listed on the crew list.” Sawyer scanned the information sheet he’d been handed. “The Cartagena is carrying almost 20,000 tons of flammable chemicals. Mainly methyl tertiary...” Sawyer squinted at the words. “Butyl ether and iso...buta...nol.”
Braeden crossed his arms over his chest. “We don’t have the proper protective gear, nor do you have the training to deal with that kind of ‘tetra-methyl-kill-you’ cargo, Sawyer.”
“Chief—”
Braeden’s jaw tightened. “The Atlantic Strike Team helo out of Elizabeth City will be en route to the burning ship. Fires are what they do. They’ve got the specialized equipment and training. Let the AST do what they do best.”
Sawyer bristled. “We’ve got the makings of an ecological disaster. Suppose—”
“With that type of cargo, if you set one foot on that tanker you’ll be court-martialed per regulation.” Braeden jabbed a finger in Sawyer’s chest. “You just need to do your job. And your job is to bring the crew—the tanker’s and ours—back to Kiptohanock.”
Sawyer scowled.
Braeden got in his face. “You roger that, Petty Officer Kole?”
Sawyer went into a rigid salute, feet clamped together. “Roger that, Chief.”
On board the response boat, Sawyer shouldered aside the bos’n mate and took the wheel himself. He needed to do something with his hands. Anything to keep his mind busy.
It’d been a restless night, replaying the image of Honey’s face over and over again in his head. In two days, Kiptohanock would celebrate Harbor Fest. In four, he’d be pointing the nose of his truck toward Highway 13, the Bay Bridge Tunnel and the Outer Banks of North Carolina.
Sawyer maneuvered past the other watercraft bobbing in the harbor until he cleared the marina. Shifting into higher gear, he spared one last look over his shoulder at the shoreline where the white steeple of the church pierced the azure blue of the November sky.
Going full throttle in the inlet, he steered the boat past the barrier islands and out toward the open sea. When he gunned it, Wiggins grinned at Sawyer and widened his stance to accommodate the roll and swell of the waves.
His heart heavy, Sawyer nonetheless smiled in return. “You know the only difference between a buccaneer and a Coastie, BMC First Class Wiggins?” he repeated in an echo of Braeden Scott’s words to him once upon a time.
Wiggins’s brow furrowed. “No, Boats, I don’t. What is the difference between buccaneers and Coasties?”
Sawyer’s lips curved into a smile. Boats—the Coastie term of affection for boat-driving guardsmen.
“Nothing, Wiggins.” He inhaled a hearty draught of sea air. “There is no difference at all between a buccaneer and a Coastie.”
Wiggins’s chest rumbled. The other guardsmen barked with laughter.
Sawyer’s shoulders lifted and fell. “Old joke, Coasties. An old joke.”
The laughter died when they spotted the cargo ship. Crew members waved from the tilted deck. None of them wore lifejackets. Several of the men’s faces were burned.
Listing starboard, the stern lay submerged in water. Smoke billowed from below deck. Flames licked midship. Gusty winds and choppy waves rocked the tanker, hampering Sawyer’s effort to bring the response boat alongside.
“We’ve got to transfer those men off the ship.” Sawyer edged the boat as close as he dared and cut back the engine. “But one spark and we could be blown to kingdom come.”
Seaman Apprentice Marshall nodded. “Watchstander reports the Strike Team’s inbound, XPO.”
“Affirmative.” Sawyer glanced around at the men and women. “Now, let’s do our thing.”
His crew knew their jobs. Handing the controls over to the bosun’s mate, Sawyer helped transfer the men off the tanker’s deck to the fast boat. Utilizing the Spanish he’d learned with the Latin American task force, he quickly ascertained all crew members were present and accounted for. Except the captain.
The first mate’s eyes darted toward the bulkheads. The crew had managed to seal the containers in number three and four holds, he told Sawyer. They’d attempted to smother the blaze with carbon dioxide. But the captain remained behind to seal off the most combustive of the containers in hold five.
Sawyer imagined the barrier islands and the wildlife coated in petroleum and worse. He envisioned the leaking chemicals ebbing toward Kiptohanock, destroying the seaside beauty of the Eastern Shore and killing its marine life. He grimaced, helpless to prevent the larger tragedy.
The captain lurched onto the main deck. The deck roiled beneath his feet. A ripple effect brought the response boat within inches of the cargo ship. There was a collective gasp from the tanker’s shivering crew. The bosun’s mate barely managed to avoid colliding into the side of the burning tanker and into disaster.
“The captain’s going to have to jump for it.” Sawyer exchanged a glance with Wiggins. “Then you get us away from this ship ASAP.”
“We’re too far for him to make it. I can’t get the boat any closer, XPO, not in these conditions.”
Sawyer took stock of the worsening weather. “Steady as she goes, BMC. Try to maintain a distance of at least two or three feet. Hold her as steady as you can for as long as you can.”
“Affirmative.”
Sawyer bellowed through the horn and explained to the captain what needed to happen next.
But resisting Sawyer’s attempts to hurry him off the sinking vessel, the captain warned in broken English of fire and of the chemical cargo that must be secured.
Waiting on the rail, the CG crew members urged the man to jump. Sawyer kept an eye on the timing of the swells. “Uno...” he yelled. He held up his hand and ticked off his fingers for the captain’s benefit. “Dos...”
The tanker shuddered. The panicked captain didn’t wait for the count to reach three. He leaped. With a splash, the captain went into the water. He disappeared from sight.
“Where is he?” Marshall shouted. “I can’t find him.”
Life ring ready to throw, Perez paced the deck. “Keep looking.”
“How long can we search, XPO?” Wiggins gripped the wheel. “The ship’s going to blow any moment.”
Sawyer kept his eyes trained on the spot where he’d last seen the captain. “Take the boat out of harm’s way, Wiggins. I’m not giving up on him.”
“With all due respect—”
“That’s an order, BMC. Do it now.”
Sawyer dived over the side. He plunged beneath the swells and swam the distance separating him from the captain’s last location. But when he came up for air, he found no one. The oily film on the water stung his eyes. He swiped his hand across his burning eyes.
Then from the interior of the ship came a deafening boom. The echoing shock wave resounded across the water. Sawyer jolted. Searing heat blasted his face.
Flinching, he ducked as the detonation spewed jagged shards of twisted metal. Underwater, he dodged the flying debris and waited for the fiery hailstorm to abate. Below, he watched in horror as the red hot fragments ignited the water around him. He scanned the surface above for an open space in which to emerge. A place free of the flames. A place where he could find breathable oxygen. He couldn’t wait much longer...
Rocketing upward, his body shot out of the water, his lungs heaving. Coughing and hacking the vile brew out of his lungs, he erupted into a world aflame. Fire engulfed the water around him in all directions.
Scissoring, he dove again. The circle of fire tightened like a noose in his wake. But there was nowhere left to return to.
And he knew in that instant he’d never make it. Time was up. No more second chances.
It seemed to him he’d been fighting, one way or the other, to survive his whole life. And he was tired. So tired.
Sawyer couldn’t hold his breath forever. He could choose to drown. Or to burn.
He prayed Wiggins had gotten the boat away in time. And in that instant, Sawyer was overwhelmed with gratitude for being reassigned to Kiptohanock. For one last opportunity to make things right. Despite his best efforts, bubbles of oxygen escaped his mouth and nostrils.
Sawyer’s chest deflated. He was losing oxygen too rapidly. He squeezed his eyes shut.
In his memories, he experienced again the eight-second thrill of riding an equine tornado. He felt once more the spray of the surf on his face. He beheld from long ago, his five-year-old sister torn out of his arms. He basked in the pride he felt every time he donned the Coastie blue uniform.
He envisioned the Duer home glowing with light. The sound of an old-fashioned melody. The white steeple piercing the sky above Kiptohanock.
Something exploded somewhere close by. Churning the water—along with Sawyer—like the wringer on a washing machine. And his last coherent thought?
Of brown-eyed Susans.