Storm Force, page 1
Table of Contents
Storm Force
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
About the Author
Also Available
Also Read
Thank You
Storm Force
by
LJ Vickery
Lobster Cove
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Storm Force
COPYRIGHT © 2014 by LJ Vickery
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com
Cover Art by Rae Monet
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewilderroses.com
Publishing History
First Scarlet Rose Edition, 2014
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-739-9
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To my family, always.
Chapter One
Ross Bennson turned the key again, waiting for the ignition to catch and the low thrum of the engine to send comforting vibrations up through the cedar-planked deck into his spread feet. What he got was nothing. Damn! Now was not the time for the old diesel to shit the bed.
He looked at the darkening sky, at the roiling clouds moving in and noted the change in the waves slapping hard against the hull. Ross groaned. The storm was going to be bad, and more than the Miss Lobster Cove could take. He glanced across the open deck at the thirty-seven feet of weathered wood. Everything was lashed down, traps and gear, but it didn’t help to calm his trepidation. If this storm turned out to be anything near what the forecasters had predicted, the low gunwales of his lobster boat would be no match for the high seas. He’d known this trip was a bad idea.
Ross did a three-sixty and scanned the horizon in every direction. His luck. No sign of another craft. No other dumb-asses risking their necks today. He made his way back to the hatch where the Cat diesel mocked him with its silence, the single screw dead in the water. He had no illusions. The block was cracked. He’d been running on borrowed time with the old workhorse, and was now paying the price. There would be no quick fix today. That left one option. He dragged his feet back to the wheelhouse.
Ross eyed the VHF transmitter with a sinking stomach, and picked up the mic as if it were a snake. In all his years lobstering, he’d never once sent out a distress call. It went against every grain in his Down East bred body, but if there was a time to put his ego aside, this was it. The wind now buffeted the wooden hull, and the boat was taking on water. It wouldn’t be long before he and the bilge pump were bailing to save his life. He tuned to channel sixteen.
“Mayday, mayday, mayday. Lobster boat Miss Lobster Cove, one on board, in distress at heading…” Ross gave his call letters and the coordinates for his current position and listened to see if there was anyone nearby. Just his luck. The only return hail came from the Lobster Cove Coast Guard Station.
“Roger that, Miss Lobster Cove. Is that you, Ross?” The incredulous voice coming back at him was from one of the guys he played pool with at the local watering hole. Most of the off-duty guardsmen frequented the hang-out, and Ross knew them all. If he got out of this with his skin, he was in for some heavy razzing.
“Yeah, Jim. The boat’s dead and taking on water pretty fast. There’s no way I can keep her turned into the wind. I’m pretty much screwed.”
“You got your ancillary bilge pump going?”
“That’s next.” The large automatic was just sucking down the last of his battery’s juices. Ross looked at the small generator under the seat and hoped it had gas. “Thought I’d call you first for a tow in.”
“Probably not a tow with this chop,” the voice came back. “We’re on the move.” He could picture them scrambling. “Put on your vest.” The guys at the station knew the locals well. All the lobster boats were equipped with life jackets, but nobody ever wore them.
“Doing it, Jim. See you soon. Switching to channel twenty-two for retrieval. Over and out.”
Substituting the word “retrieval” for “rescue” had been done deliberately. He couldn’t bear to say the latter. It was bad enough having to use the Coast Guard’s services, but everyone there—right down to the captain, whom he’d taken for fifty bucks a couple weeks ago—would be witness to his humiliation. He’d never live this down. Besides that, losing the vessel was not an option. The boat had belonged to his father. After Greg Bennson’s death, Ross had spent many hours on the old hulk, finding a connection with his dad that still held today.
Ross unhooked one of the vests from the starboard bulkhead and slung it on. For fuck’s sake. What was the matter with him? The next time someone asked him to do a favor, he’d use his brains instead of his emotions. This whole situation sucked…and it could only get worse.
****
Petty Officer 1st Class Surfman Calla Hutchins’ brain was firing on all cylinders, and the adrenaline surging through her system had every nerve ending on high alert as she threw foul weather gear over her standard blue operational dress uniform. The ODU was covered in grease from the stern drive she’d been working on, but there was no time to clean up. The coxswain on duty had just sent out a distress page over the loudspeaker.
Within three minutes, she and her crew of four were on board their forty-seven foot Motor Life Boat and headed out to open ocean. She shook her head as she got a load of the seas. Their MLB would have tough going. What idiot would have ventured out today?
“Strap in!” She didn’t have to tell the well-trained crew to secure themselves. It was standard operating procedure, but this was the first time she’d headed this group, and everything would be done by the book. She’d been in Lobster Cove for over a week, filling in for the station captain while he took a late August leave. Up until now it had been a quiet stay. She’d enjoyed the training exercises, and now she was stoked for the real thing.
The coordinates of the lobster boat were noted and the Dynamic Positioning System, or DPS, was set accordingly. Normally Jim, the coxswain, would take the helm, but as a certified surfman, Calla had rank and was pulling it with the waves rolling in. Asshole lobsterman was five miles out. It would take at least forty minutes in near gale seas to reach him…the waves were cresting sixteen feet.
Fourteen feet up on the open bridge, she and her men had clipped in and were riding some heavy shit. Water pummeled the bow and salt spray made it difficult to see. Instruments confirmed the winds at thirty knots. “Contact?”
Jim didn’t have to ask what Calla meant. He was in charge of communications and had just hailed their mayday on the VHF transceiver. It was thirty seconds before Ross answered back.
“I’m here, Jim, and things look pretty bad. I’m taking on a lot of ocean, and I’ve got waves breaking over my wheelhouse.” Calla could hear the tension in his voice.
“You have your inflatable?” Jim questioned.
“Ready to be deployed in case I start going down.”
“PLB?”
“No built-in personal locater beacon, just a hand-held. You should be able to place me within a couple of miles.”
Great. An old unit they couldn’t pinpoint with their DPS. Calla donned her immersion suit while deftly staying on her feet despite the violent chop. She was going to read this bozo the riot act when they finally plucked him out of the ocean.
“Tell him to get off that tub now.” She’d gotten the specs on the old wooden boat from the crew. Thirty tons of dead anchor. He’d best move his ass, and fast.
“Boss says abandon ship,” Jim squawked into his mic.
“Like hell,” came the growled reply. “ETA?”
“Oh-fifteen hundred.”
Calla could only hope. They’d put the pick-up’s longitude and latitude into the plotter. Twenty-five minutes, and she was being optimistic. How about adding pig-headed to her already long list of adjectives for the stubborn native? Calla took a deep breath and reined in her temper.
“If he insists,” she yelled over the howling wind, “tell him to clip to his raft so he can follow it in.” She listened to Jim relay the request, and heard the terse “affirmative” come back. Now all he could do was ride it out. She motioned the others off the bridge and on-deck. They knew which equipment to have at the ready.
Twenty minutes later, Calla gave the helm to Jim and worked her way back to the starboard bulkhead, battling the gale force winds. Her engineer and two crew members were already manning their binoculars, trying to get a visual.
“Anything?” Her voice was lost as they dropped from the top of a wave into a deep trough. Momentarily weightless, they were engulfed with water and then slammed to the deck. Calla picked herself up, cursing at the pain that cut through one hip.
“Dammit, Jim,” she barked into her headset. “Cut the speed!” She knew he was anxious—they always were—but there was no need to break bones by p ushing the throttle.
“Sorry, boss,” she heard back. “Getting a visual off the starboard bow.”
Calla made her way slowly forward and confirmed. “He’s still got the damned thing afloat, but I don’t know how,” she barked. “Bring us in, but not too close. The last thing we need is to butt heads.”
“Copy that.”
Calla had a bead on him now. The arrogant fool. His stern was almost completely under, but every time the MLB crested, she could make out his large form still grappling with the bilge hose. Enough was enough. Time to commandeer the loudhailer.
“Miss Lobster Cove, this is the United States Coast Guard. Man your life raft and prepare for pick-up!”
Even with the torrential winds, she knew he could hear her. So what was the fool doing now? Calla groaned. He’d unclipped and was going for his bow-line. The son-of-a-bitch still expected a tow!
“Negative! Negative!” Calla yelled. “Abandon ship…that’s an order!” She’d never seen any subject of a rescue act this stubbornly. What the hell was he thinking? The next wave came at him broadside. Calla groaned. This would do it. The boat rode sluggishly to the crest, rolled, and then cartwheeled into the air. The man disappeared beneath the churning sea.
Chapter Two
“Man overboard,” Calla yelled, even though her crew had been watching and were fully aware. Jim would have engaged the “Save MOB” feature on their radar, and they’d be pushing through the relentless waves toward his last known position. Calla kept her spray-drenched eyes peeled. Ross Bennson surfaced. Thank God he’d donned his life vest.
Calla ran to assist her crew with the two hundred foot DBN drogue and grapnel line. The drogue would keep them perpendicular to the waves, while they tried to hook the victim and drag him into one of the pick-up ports. The waves were now cresting at twenty feet and Calla felt full body calmness kick in accompanied by a surge of confidence. This was what she was good at, what she lived for. This would only be her third honest-to-God high seas rescue, but she’d practiced it so many times she could do it in her sleep. Jim was steady at the helm. It should be textbook from here.
The MOB, still conscious, maneuvered in the swells with difficulty, but he looked strong in the water, which would make the pickup easier. Calla, in her immersion suit, grabbed the nearest bridle and signaled to her men that she was going in.
Securely hooked on, she plunged into the black depths, holding her breath until she surfaced. Here was the tricky part. The MOB was no longer in sight, and with a new team directing her movements, she could only hope they knew their signals.
She looked back at the crew. Nice job. They gave her twelve meters, twenty-five degrees to port. She kicked in that direction. The heavy sea made progress difficult, but her suit kept her buoyant as she spit brine and managed not to swallow too much ocean. She didn’t bother to try and wipe her eyes, a useless effort as were the goggles she’d left behind which would have been salt encrusted in seconds. Satisfied with her forward momentum, she checked her harness. Secured.
Calla crested a wave and looked toward the MOB. Not in danger of going under. Good. This should be a walk in the park.
Into the next trough, Calla lost sight of her target, seeing only gray churning waters, angry and covered in foam, but felt confident that she’d come upon him soon…as long as he stayed alert in the icy seas. She spotted his head on the next wave.
Calla groaned. His long limbs had already begun to propel through the rough water in her direction. Getting him to roll over and be towed looked like the last thing on his agenda. Well, tough shit. He’d quickly find out who was in charge. It was a plus that her lines were hooked up to a winch. He was a good-sized man.
She met his gaze over the spray and saw that moment of surprise when he recognized she was a woman. Calla got that a lot. Nobody figured they’d be rescued by a five-foot-four female. It was embarrassing to them, especially for a male that looked as fit and ready as Ross Bennson. Dark eyes bored into hers as she closed the distance. No time for niceties.
“Put this on,” she yelled and tossed him the harness and line she’d brought, then stowed the hook that had been unnecessary and got ready to clip him on when he complied. He caught the rig but decided to be difficult.
“No need,” he shouted back, ignoring the vest. “I’ll just hang on.”
“Procedure,” she groused, then blinked incredulously while he wrapped his forearm with the braided nylon. “On, I said!”
He raised an eyebrow at her brook-no-argument tone, and she drew in her breath. The guy should look like a drowned rat, but somehow managed to appear like he was out for an afternoon paddle. Thick, dark hair plastered to his head and couldn’t hide the small curl he had going at his ears and across his forehead. A nose that had been broken more than once stayed easily above the wild, breaking waves. There was a lot of strength in that upper body, and despite his reluctance to obey, Calla felt a twinge of appreciation…and something else shiver through her mid-section. She had high regard for a well-muscled male.
Regardless. This one was going to comply with her rules. Calla was almost ready to bark again when he gave in and looped the harness over his broad shoulders, then worked his arms into the holes. She nearly smiled. Huh. Well-muscled and smart enough not to keep arguing.
When he’d finally clipped in, Calla released a small flare to alert her crew, and the winch did the rest of the work, pulling them both effortlessly to safety.
One small glitch occurred when Neanderthal man insisted she board the boat before him.
“Get up,” he yelled over the sound of the crashing waves and the deep thrum of the boat.
What the fuck? “Get your ass on deck. Now!” Her stubborn jaw set. The pickup port was only big enough for two, and the victim was always first.
With what she imagined was a snort, Ross Bennson was reluctantly hauled aboard before her. Calla followed less than thirty seconds later.
Without waiting to check Ross’s condition, she headed for the open bridge, planting her feet against the rising winds and stripping off her immersion suit as she went.
“What have we got?” she yelled without preamble upon arrival. Jim had been monitoring the weather along with his other duties from topside, and the noise level of the storm was becoming vicious.
“Heading into a force nine gale. It could get hairy,” he bellowed back. It went unsaid that the visibility was drastically reduced due to airborne spray, but the cresting, rolling waves caused the real worry. The boat was good in breaking seas of up to twenty-six feet and they were getting damned close.
“You okay while I stow our passenger?” Calla looked at her coxswain. She liked Jim. He seemed unflappable. Just the kind of coxswain you wanted on your team.
“I got it. You go.” Communication in the wind was heading to near zero, so before Calla left him, she called it quits on the open bridge. Outside control had certainly been easier when picking up their MOB, but now it was safer to get everyone under cover.
“Give me two, Jim. We’re going enclosed. When I’ve got the interior com engaged, shut the outside down.” Calla turned and went below. She’d transfer control of the boat to the enclosed helm and then they’d all be in out of the weather. None of the crew liked the small inside space, but there were times, like now, when it was necessary.
Her crewmen already had Ross in the cockpit. She ignored him while switching power to the protected controls. When she was up and running, she gave Jim the signal, and a minute later, he literally blew in through the door from outside. The small space suddenly grew too crowded.
“Ross,” Jim acknowledged the local before relieving Calla of the wheel. Her coxswain was quick to take over, knowing she wanted to have a word with their pickup and direct him to a space designated for civilians. Once Ross was in the water-tight area below decks and out of the way, Calla would breathe easier. She approached the large, wet male shivering as he stood at the back of the cockpit.
“Survivor’s compartment.” She pointed to the water tight door at the aft of the bridge.
He palmed his dark hair back and rasped, “I’d just as soon stay here.”
The eyes of every crew member widened, and they looked anywhere except at their surfman, which was tough to do packed in like sardines and having trouble staying upright with the pitch and roll of the boat. Calla had a reputation for her short fuse, and she knew none of them wanted to witness fireworks.
