“Navy’s coming up blank,” the Osprey pilot said. “We’re going to start crisscrossing northwest of the area where they think the signal came from.”
“Sounds good,” Danny told him. He told his guys what was happening, got them up looking out the windows.
“Tradition has it,” Danny told them, “that a downed pilot owes every member of the rescue team a case of beer. I’ll double that for the man who spots them first.”
“Kick ass, Captain,” said Powder.
Danny turned in shock toward the back of the Osprey. He’d heard Powder’s voice—absolutely heard Powder’s voice.
“Who said that?”
No one spoke.
“I’m sorry,” said Danny. “Was there a question?”
They were looking at him as if he’d seen—or heard—a ghost.
“All right then, let’s put our eyes to good use,” he said, struggling to raise his voice over the hum of the engines.
The South China Sea
Date and time unknown
They had two bottles of water between the three of them, four “nutrition” bars, a working flare gun, and a radio. Chris Ferris had managed to save his pistol, but had inexplicably lost one of his boots. Breanna Stockard had her knife. Stoner had his compass.
Injury-wise, they were in decent shape, considering what they’d been through. Ferris probably had broken a rib, but otherwise claimed he was fine. Breanna had torn muscles in her back and shoulder, and had possibly broken her left tibia. Stoner had sprained both wrists and could only partially close his numb finders. All three of them had black eyes and various cuts and bruises on the heads. Their memories of what had happened since they ejected were mostly blank and in any event, irrelevant.
As were the fates of the rest of the crew, though Breanna insisted on scanning the water for them.
“Glare’s going to kill your eyes,” Stoner told her.
“Yeah,” she said, then kept on looking. He admired that kind of stubbornness. He also admired her toughness—not a hint of a whimper.
Their water would be gone in twenty-four hours, maybe less. They’d agreed to rationing a sip apiece on the hour, but the sun was climbing and Stoner knew that the sips would become gulps within a few hours.
Making it though the day and into the night was a realistic goal. They’d shoot for that. Twelve, fourteen hours of search time—that was the best they could hope for anyway. What they needed was something to do, something to keep them sharp.
“I think we should paddle,” he said.
Breanna turned toward him. Something happened with her eyes—she blinked as if reaching into his brain, then nodded.
She understood.
She was beautiful, wasn’t she? Her raven hair and soft lips, her blue-white skin—if he squinted she could be a mermaid, singing to a drowning sailor.
“We don’t have paddles,” she said.
“We can use our hands.”
“We can kick,” said Chris Ferris, the copilot. “Like we’re swimming.”
“Tire us out,” said Stoner.
“We’ll take shifts. I’ll take the first.” He pulled up his legs and untied his boot.
“What do you think happened to your other boot, Chris?” Breanna asked.
“I think I ate it,” said the copilot. He started to undo his vest to take off his flight suit.
“Want strip-tease music?” asked Breanna.
”How does that go?” Chris asked, then immediately began humming, or trying to hum, appropriate music. He kept it up as he got down to his underwear, which he kept on in the water. His right leg and arm were almost entirely black with bruises.
“That direction,” said Stoner, pointing west. “We’ll head toward the Chinese and Indians. More people to look for us.”
Ferris eased himself into the water. He claimed it felt good, though it was obviously colder than he’d expected. He began doing a scissor kick. “I used to be on the swim team,” he told them.
This was going to get old very quickly.
“I have a question,” said Stoner after Ferris grew silent. “Why Rap?”
“Short for Rapture,” said Breanna. “My mom was a hippie. It was either that or Acid Girl.”
“Really?”
“No. Mom’s pretty straight actually. She’s a doctor. Long story.
“That’s good,” said Stoner. “Maybe they’ll come looking for us.”
“They’ll definitely come looking for us,” said Ferris from the watter.
“A hotshot F-15 jock called me ‘Rapture’ a million years ago, right after I waxed his family in a Red Flag exercise. I was flying a B-52 at the time.”
“That’s a good thing, right?”
“Flying the B-52 or waxing his fanny?”
“Both.”
“Both.” She laughed. “HE was trying to pick me up, I think. So I shot him down twice. How about you?”
“I’m not trying to pick you up.”