His Last Defense. Karen Rock
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several minutes of battling growing swells, more alarms blared on-screen. Failed bilge pumps. Engine power loss.
No.
She blinked at the words and a dark shadow pressed at the base of her skull, rising. The possibility of the ship sinking seeped into her consciousness. Squeezed. Nearly drew blood.
She pressed her eyes shut for a moment. Gathered herself. “Stu, I’m heading out. Keep us afloat.”
“Roger. Will do.”
Grabbing her gloves, she clattered downstairs and donned waterproof gear. She blasted by the remaining hard-faced crew and scowled when they rose to follow her. “Stay put,” she ordered, then listed, side to side, down the short hall to the portal and shoved down the latch.
Instantly, the wind snatched the door, swinging it wide and making her stumble, frigid spray buffeting her, knocking her sideways. Her boots skidded, and she crashed to one knee. Warm, iron-tasting blood washed across her bitten tongue.
She ignored the ache in her leg and pushed on, fighting her way to the engine room. Her breath came in short gasps that misted in the salty, water-logged air. After climbing down the wall ladder, she dropped into knee-deep flooding.
Pete labored over the cracked pipe. She shoved through the brackish swirl toward Everett and spotted three mostly submerged bilge pumps. A dark ring scorched their tops. They’d overheated. Beyond fixing. Her mouth vacuumed itself dry.
“Tell the guys to put on their life jackets if they’re not on already and bucket this out while you replace those.”
Everett frowned fiercely. “We’ve only got the one spare.”
She swore under her breath. Not enough. Not even close.
“Hook it up fast.”
Everett grunted, then clambered topside.
She thought quickly. Without enough operating bilge pumps to stop the rising water, and the pipe still spraying, the engines wouldn’t reboot, leaving the floundering Pacific Sun at the mercy of the relentless sea. Buckets wouldn’t do much.
Still. She wouldn’t quit. If she lost this eight-million-dollar boat on her first time at the wheel, she might never have another shot at captaining one and leading the independent life she’d worked hard to achieve.
But even more important, the safety of her men came first. They counted on her, as did their families. Even as another wave tilted the wet world sideways, sloshing frigid water past her knees, Nolee couldn’t help thinking about them. Everett had a newborn son. Pete had postponed his honeymoon until the opilio crab season, which they’d gotten special permission to fish early, ended. They all needed this run.
She wouldn’t let anything happen to them.
Back in the wheelhouse, she snatched up her radio, her eyes meeting Stu’s. “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. This is the vessel Pacific Sun. We’re taking on water.”
White noise crackled through the speaker. “Roger. Pacific Sun, this is United States Coast Guard, Kodiak, Alaska, communication station. Over.”
She relayed rapid-fire specifics. “The seas are pounding us,” she concluded, her voice hoarse. “Not sure how long before we capsize.”
Speaking the words made it all the more real. She’d never been seasick a day in her life, but right now, she knew a whole lot about heartsick.
“Roger that. Jayhawk is on the way with ETA of twelve minutes. Swimmer and pumps will be deployed.”
Bittersweet relief washed through her as she left Stu at the helm and joined the bucket line. On one hand, she didn’t want to be rescued. Never had. But on her life’s balance sheet, the US Coast Guard owed her big-time for the life-gutting sacrifice she’d made to them nine years ago when she’d given up the person who mattered most to her. They could damn well pay up with some help today.
She passed heavy pails among her crew, fighting a losing battle against water that wouldn’t stop coming. Half the buckets spilled or sloshed most of their contents before making it over the rail, the deck pitching so fiercely below their feet they could barely maintain balance. She worked fiercely, doggedly, and thought she’d weep with relief when she finally glimpsed orange as the Jayhawk passed over the ship. Keeping her head down, she continued to pass slippery, frigid buckets until Tyler pointed out that the rescue swimmer was on his way down.
She stared up at the dangling rescue swimmer descending onto her bucking deck. The mountain-sized man, clad in a bright orange suit, unhooked himself and strode her way, his step sure and nimble despite the heaving boat.
She blinked, suddenly feeling more off-balance than ever, fooled into thinking she knew him. It was just the outfit. Just that cursed Coast Guard swagger. Yet there was something about the broad-shouldered shape, the assured step and the bone-deep confidence visible in the green eyes behind his clear mask as he drew closer.
It couldn’t be.
“Dylan?”
He’d sworn never to come back to Alaska, had left without a goodbye. Her legs and arms went slack, and for a second she thought she might smack the ground.
The worst mistake of her life flipped up his visor. Spoke. “Hello, Nolee.”
* * *
NOTHING IN PO1 Dylan Holt’s military training had come close to preparing him for this.
He peered into Nolee Arnauyq’s fierce brown eyes, recognition firing through him even as another swell sent him teetering sideways. Thick black hair dripped onto cheekbones that jutted so high and sharp her eyes turned to almond slivers. In the arctic air, Nolee’s full lips trembled slightly, pale against tawny skin.
Someone he used to know; someone he damn well should have forgotten.
Right.
Get the job done, idiot. And get the hell out of here.
Kicking his ass into gear, he tore his gaze off her beautiful face and assessed the on-scene conditions. The Pacific Sun listed now to port at thirty degrees in high seas. Without propulsion, they could sink in minutes. No time to lose. He hoisted one of the two dewatering pumps dropped behind him on deck and turned back to Nolee. “Lead the way,” he shouted over the rise and hiss of the sea, cursing his luck at being the swimmer on duty today.
He’d once promised himself he’d never see her again.
She nodded, hefted the other sixty-pound pump, and turned, as economical and tough as ever. Captain of her own ship, apparently, and how impressive was that? But then, he remembered well what it was like to crew with her on a fishing vessel. She never expected anyone to cut her any slack, an attitude that had always won over the crustiest of seadogs.
And it was no different on the Pacific Sun, he could tell, as she led him past a line of life-jacketed men passing buckets from the keel. She’d had the foresight to ensure they’d all geared up in preparation for the deadly waters. She’d protected them, but hadn’t let them quit, either.
He and Nolee handed the carbon-monoxide-emitting pumps over to crew members to secure topside where they wouldn’t endanger lives, and descended down into the engine room, unreeling the hoses to vacuum up the flooding. The whoosh of incoming water filled his ears.
Shit.
This looked worse than reported.
Water sprayed from a pipe that a man, standing in thigh-deep water, was attempting to wrap with rubber. Another fisherman secured what appeared to be a replacement pump, their movements clumsy in the arctic flood, their efforts futile given the size and pressure of the leak. The Pacific Sun was past the point of no return.
“We’ve got to abandon ship,” Dylan shouted to Nolee.
She shoved back her hood and squinted up at him. Her dark eyes flashed, ink. “No!”
Damn that stubborn, reckless streak.