Even in smooth seas, taking off from a naval vessel while underway was a challenge. As the HAC, Lieutenant Brian Little sat in the right seat and looked to the side at the faint green glow emanating from the thick glass windows of flight deck control, then at the yellow-shirted boatswain’s mate serving as the Landing Signalman Enlisted, or LSE.
He waited until his engines stabilized, then set his external lights to dim flashing while making a circular gesture parallel to the flight deck with a red light in his hand. The LSE responded by rotating a single wand at chest level before the air officer turned on a yellow rotating beacon, authorizing him to engage rotors. Brian did so while completing his final checklist items.
“You guys ready?” he asked, looking to his left at Dillon, who gave him a thumbs-up.
“All set, boss,” AWR1 Rose said over the intercom.
He set his lights to dim steady, then watched as the LSE gave the signal to break him down, directing two blue shirts to approach from either side of the MH-60R and remove the chocks and chains that kept them bound to the flight deck. Once removed, Brian saw a green rotating beacon flash on as the air officer gave the LSE permission to launch.
The yellow wands extended outward and moved in slow arcs above the LSE’s head, and Brian responded by increasing torque and raising the collective to slowly lift his Seahawk into the air over the cruiser’s flight deck. When he had pulled even with the top of the hangar, the LSE gave him a sweeping gesture, and he let the helicopter drift aft over the ship’s wake.
She extended both wands out to the side, giving him the signal to hover, then swung her left arm in an arc over her head while keeping her right arm steady, pointed to the port side of the ship. He gave a little left pedal, keeping his eyes fixed on the LSE as he pivoted his nose to the left. At last, the LSE gestured for him to depart, and he turned to look through the forward windscreen while pushing forward on the cyclic to fly away from the ship.
“Red Crown, Raptor Two Four is airborne and proceeding north for tasking,” Dillon said over the radio, letting the controllers in the Mobile Bay’s CIC know they were departing station.
“Raptor Two Four, copy. Push Cobalt for tasking.”
“Raptor Two Four,” Dillon replied.
Brian glanced down at his kneeboard card to check the frequency that had been assigned as “Cobalt.” Like most things in the Navy, leadership tended to overcomplicate things for the sake of operational security, even when they were just off the coast of California. He watched Dillon change the radio frequency and verified he had entered it correctly, then returned his focus to the steering cue on his display pointing to the shadow rising out of the ocean in front of them.
“Cutter Blacktip, this is Raptor Two Four,” Dillon said, hailing the Coast Guard vessel that had requested assistance for the search and rescue on Santa Cruz Island.
“Raptor Two Four, this is Chief Romero on Blacktip.”
“We are ten mikes out, request SITREP.”
Brian grinned, enjoying the younger pilot’s use of military jargon and slang. Dillon was a good stick and would make a fine pilot, but he treated every mission as if he were flying over the beach in hostile territory. Reluctantly, Brian admitted he had once had the same youthful enthusiasm. But the Coast Guard chief understood the lingo and proceeded to give them a Situation Report in plain language.
“Copy. The National Park Service reported two missing hikers, both female in their late twenties. Their last known location was Smuggler’s Cove on the south side at the east end of the island. Do you need the coordinates?”
Dillon referenced their chart before replying. “Negative. We have that location on board.”
We have that location on board? Brian thought with a smile, wondering how much jargon Dillon could squeeze in.
“Copy that, Raptor Two Four. You’ll want to contact Ranger Reid when you get on station, and she will provide further guidance.”
“She’s the ground force commander?”
Brian almost laughed.
“Um, she’s the park ranger who is on the ground conducting the search,” Chief Romero replied, deadpan.
“Raptor Two Four copies,” Dillon said, then turned to Brian. “Sometimes I wonder if the Coast Guard is really even in the military.”
“Just remember you said that when your boat runs out of gas and you’re crying for them to come get you,” Brian replied over the intercom.
“I’m with the LT on this one,” AWR1 Rose said from his station in the back. “They saved my bacon once when my boat’s engine died with weather moving in. I used to give Coasties a hard time, but the shit conditions they do rescues in puts us to shame.”
Dillon snapped his mouth shut and turned forward, looking through his night vision goggles at the rising terrain of Santa Cruz Island in front of them. Brian knew he saw the same thing and was probably focused on the glowing headlights of a lone vehicle near the shoreline on the east end.
“That must be Ranger Reid,” Dillon said with a touch of sarcasm.
“Let’s give her a call,” Brian replied.
34
Tiffany slowed the truck at the bottom of the hill and looked through the dusty windshield at the black abyss of the Pacific Ocean. Putting the vehicle in park, she killed the ignition and listened to the waves lapping gently at the shore, the silence of the night deafening compared to the din of the city only fifty miles east. The silence was one of the reasons she became a park ranger in the first place.
Tiffany had grown up in California’s Central Valley and spent much of her formative years in the national parks that were within driving distance. Sequoia, Kings Canyon, and the granddaddy of them all, Yosemite. When most of her friends were trolling the local mall for boys or a killer sale, she was hiking with her dog, Stella, high up in the Sierras. After graduating from Fresno State University with a degree in accounting and a brief, unsatisfying career chasing the almighty dollar, she quit her job and applied with the National Park Service.
Now here she was, sitting in a government vehicle, alone in the darkness on a mostly deserted island, and she couldn’t have been happier. With a contented sigh, she opened the door and stepped out into the night, looking south across the water at the dim red and green navigation lights inching closer to her island.
“Ranger Reid,” her handheld radio squawked. “This is Raptor Two Four.”
She reached back into the truck and picked up the radio, bringing it to her mouth before keying the microphone. “Go ahead, Raptor Two Four.”
“We’re approaching your position from the south,” the serious-sounding pilot said. “Please advise search grid, over.”
“Well…the hikers’ last known position was here at Smuggler’s Cove. I was hoping you could search the surrounding hillsides for heat signatures and then pass the coordinates to me so I can investigate on foot.” She paused for a beat, then added, “Over.”
“Good copy, Ranger Reid,” the pilot replied. “Will advise when on station. Out.”
“It’s just Tiffany,” she said, then quickly added, “Over and out.”
Brian piloted the MH-60R less than five hundred feet over the water, letting the rising moon illuminate the island’s terrain through his night vision goggles. If he had been pointed west, the orange glow of the sun just below the horizon would have washed out his goggles and made them useless, but there was enough ambient light that he saw each undulation in the terrain as they neared Santa Cruz Island.