“Captain,” she said, facing him and going unconsciously into a brace that mimicked PO Barnette’s, shoulders squared, feet spread for balance, hands clasped at the small of her back. “We’ve got a longliner fishing pacific cod approximately forty miles north-northeast of our present location.”
The door to the bridge opened and she looked over the captain’s shoulder to see Doc Jewell enter the bridge. She waited until he was standing next to her to continue. “They’ve got a crew member with a three-inch J-hook in his eye. Their skipper says he’s got the hook stabilized with gauze and tape.”
“Is he conscious?” Doc said.
“Yes, and his skipper says he’s mobile, which I guess means he can walk.”
“Can he climb into a basket?”
“The skipper also says he’s not set up for a hoist by helo.”
“Why not?”
“He says he’s got wires and… stuff all over the deck.”
The captain looked at Doc. “You feel comfortable taking an EMT over in a small boat and bringing the guy back here?”
Even in the dim light of the bridge Sara could see that Doc was less than thrilled at the prospect. “Even with the hook stabilized, Captain, we’d have to get him down the side of his ship and up the side of ours. And then the action in the boat coming over. A hook in the eye…” Doc shook his head. “I don’t like the odds of getting him on board without doing more damage.”
“How long is the longliner?” a new voice said, and Sara turned to see the two aviators standing behind her.
“A hundred and seventy feet,” she replied.
The aviators exchanged a look. “In a hundred and seventy feet,” Lieutenant Laird said, “we can hoist from somewhere.”
Lieutenant Sams nodded.
The longliner skipper was not happy. “I’m not set up for a hoist,” he repeated, his apprehension coming through loud and clear. “I’ve got two masts and a guy wire running from the bow to both masts to the stern, and trash and crap all over the deck.”
“How long will it take us to get into range for the small boat?” the captain said.
“Two and a half hours, sir,” Tommy said.
“Devil’s advocate, Captain?” Sara said. “If we slow down to come onto a flight course to launch the helo and they can’t get the guy off, it’ll take that much longer for us to go get him by small boat.”
Harry Sams’s lower lip pushed out into something perilously close to a pout, and Roger Laird opened his mouth, but before either aviator could start whining the captain called it. “Let’s try it by helo first, night vision goggles.”
Doc looked immensely relieved. “Agreed,” he said.
“Aye aye, Captain,” the aviators said in unison and then left the bridge in a hurry, like they were afraid the captain might change his mind.
The operations officer showed up, in gym shorts, sweaty and out of breath. “I’m sorry, Captain, I was working out, I didn’t hear the pipe.”
The captain jerked his chin at Sara, who said, “We’ve got a hundred-and-seventy-foot longliner forty miles off our starboard bow. He’s got a deckhand with a three-inch J-hook in his eye.”
Ops, Clifford Skulstad, a slim, intense lieutenant in his late twenties, whistled. “That’s gotta smart,” he said. “The aviators tell me we’re trying an NVG hoist?”
“Roger that,” Sara said, and Ops went to the nav station to coax the sat phone into operation, which he alone on board seemed to be able to do.
“Flight quarters,” the captain said, and everyone on what was now a very crowded bridge pulled off their caps and stuffed them into their belts or hung them on bulkheads or wedged them behind handrails. Ensign Hank Ryan, the helo communications officer, donned mike and earphones and started turning things on. As the closed-circuit television overhead warmed up, they saw the hangar telescoping back and the helmeted and vested hangar deck crew scurrying around. On the sat phone Ops called Anchorage to arrange a Life Flight to meet the helo in Dutch Harbor, and then got the name of the ship’s agent and called her, too.
“I relieve you, Chief,” Sara told Mark.
“XO’s got the conn,” he said, followed by a chorus of ayes acknowledging the handover.
“Helm, steer three-four-zero, all ahead full,” Sara said.
“Three-four-zero, all ahead, aye,” Charlie said.
Sara took up station in front of the control console and watched the bow pull to port. The Sojourner Truth was a joy to handle, quick to respond, a Cadillac of a ride. There wasn’t five knots of a prevailing breeze, and most of the wind now coming across the port bow was created by their own forward motion. There was no pitch and no roll to speak of. Conditions could not be better for a helo launch. If it was daylight, they would, in Coastie vernacular, be riding the seagull’s ass. “Maintain course and speed,” she said.
“Maintaining course and speed, aye,” the helm responded, and everyone turned to watch the television screen as the helo was rolled out onto the hangar deck, its rotors unfolded, and the flight crew climbed in. The rotors began to turn, slowly at first, accelerating into a blur.
“Black out the ship,” the captain said, and everything except for the nav screens was turned off, including the running lights, because any light no matter how small could white out the night vision goggles. It wasn’t exactly legal but it was an acceptable alternative to crashing the helo.
“Go for launch, Captain?” Ryan said.
“Go,” the captain said. Ryan spoke into the microphone and almost instantaneously the whine of the helo ratcheted up to where it drowned out the Sojourner’s engines. A dark shape rose into the air off their stern, nosed into the wind, and roared past their port bow.
“Secure from flight quarters,” the captain said, and everyone put their caps back on.
“Resume course zero-three-zero, all ahead full,” Sara said.
“Zero-three-zero, all ahead full,” the helm replied.
Everyone strained their eyes at the distant masthead light on the northeastern horizon. Sara couldn’t get the image of the fisherman with the three-inch J-hook in his eye out of her mind, and she knew she wasn’t alone.
Five minutes later Laird’s voice crackled over the radio. “Longliner Arctic Wind, this is Coast Guard Rescue six five two seven.”
“Coast Guard, Arctic Wind, go ahead.” The skipper sounded unenthusiastic but resigned.
“Yeah, Arctic Wind, Coast Guard, could we get you to turn out some of your lights? We’re operating with night vision goggles and light kinda gets in the way.”
“Roger that, Coast Guard.” There was about five more very long minutes’ worth of conversation as the helo and the longliner identified which lights should be turned out.