Free Jayhawk Down by Sharon Calvin Page B

Caitlyn asked over the intercom.
    “Negative,” Clay said, followed by Joe’s disgusted “Zip-a-dee-doo-dah.”
    Stillman had been quiet the entire flight, which suited her just fine. Confident Joe and Clay would instruct him in proper survivor protocols, Caitlyn scanned
Fly Baby
’s instruments. And made her decision. “Ryan, call it in. We’re heading home unless base has an update.”
    While Ryan gave flight ops their on-scene assessment, she concentrated on the radar display. A storm was building to the southeast. Not a factor for their return to the base to the north. Stillman asked Clay a question over the intercom, and her senses went on immediate point, nerve endings suddenly sensitized as if awaiting a caress.
    Last night she’d gone too far with her silly come-on in front of Stillman’s ex. She scanned the instruments even as she registered the deep voice that made her...want. Did he still love Hilary? She sighed. Hearts were notoriously poor judges of appropriate partnerships. Her attraction to Dr. Butt Head was a perfect example.
    “May... Mayday! M...day!” a garbled, and heavily accented voice transmitted over the VHF radio brought her to full attention. Ryan flipped the radio to their headsets and responded.
    “Mayday caller, give location and nature of emergency.”
    Silence stretched for a full minute and he repeated his request. Another minute before a burst of static then, “Fifty miles... Punta Gorda.”
    Ryan talked the caller through a lat/long fix and punched the numbers into the GPS receiver while Caitlyn split her scan between the blue-green of the Gulf below, the darkening sky outside and her instruments. The sun had settled below the horizon and flashes of lightning warned of intensifying storm cells to the southeast—the direction of the Mayday caller.
    “Base, this is Coast Guard niner seven. We’re in the area and can respond to the distress call.”
    The Mayday caller gave a disjointed report of a collision with another boat. Between his agitation and accent they had a hard time understanding specifics. Apparently, a go-fast had rammed his fishing boat and there were two or three men injured. Twenty tense minutes brought their Jayhawk to the coordinates and closer to the storm.
    “I’ve got something,” Ryan said using night-vision binoculars to scan the water.
    “Fire, fire!” screamed the voice over the radio. A ball of flames shot into the sky a quarter mile in front of them. Ryan swore, tearing the binoculars from his eyes.
    Caitlyn immediately dropped the helo to fifty feet above the water and punched the throttle. “I need a swimmer ready for deployment,” she said over the intercom while Ryan radioed base about the explosion.
    “Swimmer in position,” Joe announced.
    Using the burning boat as the starting point, Caitlyn flew her search grid in ever-widening sweeps while her crew scanned the water for signs of life.
    “Got one!” Clay yelled. “Starboard side ten degrees off the wreckage.”
    Caitlyn dropped lower and flew in the direction Clay indicated, relying on her crew to spot the survivors.
    “Slow. Slower. Down twenty and hover,” Joe called out. A few seconds later he called for her to drop lower and announced swimmer deployment.
    Winds picked up and an odd feeling of déjà vu ruffled the hairs on the back of her neck. She scanned
Fly Baby
’s instruments. Normal. The atmospheric pressure from the storm probably had her nerves primed. Besides, the caller’s voice wasn’t the same as the two men they’d picked up the week before, even if the accent sounded similar.
    She monitored Clay’s transmissions with Joe as he brought the first survivor onboard and confirmed two others were in the water. Doubly glad Stillman was on their flight to help, Caitlyn concentrated on holding the helo steady. It took twenty more minutes and one aborted hoist to bring the remaining two men to safety.
    Joe yelled something cut off by the sharp staccato
pop
of