Chapter 31 Picasso
THIRTY-ONE
PICASSO
The Blue Ridge Mountains were dissolving under the assault of the storm.
From the makeshift command center established on a plateau on the East Ridge, Picasso stared through high-powered binoculars at the chaos below.
Two miles away, on the opposing West Ridge, the rest of his team was battling the elements.
Between them lay the gorge which was usually a scenic ravine with a babbling brook, now a violent gash in the earth filled by a raging torrent of brown water, churning with uprooted trees and debris.
Picasso keyed his radio. “Grizzly, sitrep.”
Grizzly’s voice crackled through the static, sounding breathless.
“We’ve got the package. Elias and Martha are secured, but the terrain is giving way.
We’re cut off. The creek is impassable, Chief.
It’s a Class V washing machine down there.
With all the debris in the water, there is no way to swim across with them. ”
Picasso scanned the map spread out on the hood of the command truck. The team was trapped on the West Ridge. There was a stone hunting lodge on the East Ridge, directly across the gorge from where the team was stranded.
“Hold your position,” Picasso ordered, his mind racing. “Don’t enter the water.”
Gabriella was already looking at the topo map, tracing a finger along a muddy logging road. “Picasso, look. This trail runs from here to that lodge on the cliff edge. It’s about two miles. If we take the ATV, we can get there.”
Picasso leaned over her shoulder, studying the contours. “It puts us right across the gorge from them. Good catch. But that doesn’t solve the gap. We can’t fly a bridge over to them.”
Just as he made the joke, a thought came to him. Do we have the equipment needed?
Gabriella looked up at him, her brow furrowed in concentration. “We just need to get the couple across without putting them in that water. Can the guys carry them if we find a shallower crossing upstream?”
“No time,” Picasso said, shaking his head. He walked to the back of the truck, mumbling under his breath about carabiners and pulleys, his eyes scanning the equipment loadout. “And upstream looks worse. We need to go over the water.”
He grabbed a heavy black duffel bag and a pneumatic line gun case from the truck bed.
His voice dropped into the familiar, focused tone he used when a plan locked into place.
“We’re going to shoot a line. I’ll rig a highline system, anchor on our side, anchor on theirs.
We can pulley them across the gorge, straight to the lodge. ”
Gabriella’s eyes widened slightly as she understood. “Like a zip line?”
“Basically,” Picasso said, checking the pressure gauge on the line gun. “But controlled. We haul them across. It’s the only way to keep them dry and stable.”
Picasso keyed his comms, “Hang tight Grizzly, looks like we are flying a bridge over to you.”
“Okay,” Gabriella said, grabbing the medical bag and strapping it to the ATV rack. “I’ll navigate. You drive. Let’s go.”
Picasso grinned, the tension in his chest loosening just a fraction as the plan solidified. He grabbed his phone and put a quick call through to Tex. before he could say anything, Tex’s voice rumbled, “Y’all out playin’ in the rain and makin’ mudpies?”
“I will never understand how you always know exactly what’s going on when we call you. But, no time now to figure it out. I called to get some weather details.” Picasso explained briefly what they were attempting.
Tex’s voice cut through the clatter of typing.
“Picasso, this ain’t just some system acting up, this here’s Hurricane Peggy givin’ us her farewell hootenanny, and she’s mighty determined to go out with a bang you won’t forget.
My models show wind speeds doubling in twenty minutes, localized microburst potential.
If you’re going to rig a line across that gorge, you need to do it now before the crosswinds turn your guys into kites. ”
“Copy that, Tex!” Picasso snapped as he grabbed the gear and jumped on the ATV. “Twenty minutes. We’re moving.”
Picasso and Gabriella wasted no time. The ATV was loaded with heavy static ropes, harnesses, a line gun, and a breakdown litter. Picasso straddled the driver’s seat, Gabriella hopping on behind him, her arms locking tight around his waist.
“Hang on, Firecracker,” he yelled over the roar of the engine. “This is going to get dirty.”
Gabriella grinned against the wind and shot back, “Dirty’s my middle name. just try to keep up, Picasso!”
He gunned the throttle, and the ATV tore off into the mud.
The ride was a bone-jarring sprint against time.
Mud rooster-tailed behind them as Picasso wrestled the machine through washouts and over slick rock faces.
Branches whipped against their helmets. the rain came down in blinding sheets, but they didn’t slow down.
Fifteen minutes later, they skidded to a halt in front of the lodge, a sturdy timber and stone structure perched on the edge of the ravine.
Picasso jumped off and ran to the cliff edge, peering through the rain. Across the churning white water, about sixty yards away, six people huddled together on the opposite bank.
He keyed his radio. “Grizzly, look up. East Ridge. Twelve o’clock high.”
On the other side, Falcon waved a glow stick. “We see you, Chief. Looks like a nice dry hotel you got there. We’re a little jealous.”
“Room service is coming,” Picasso yelled back. “Stand by for line deployment. Keep your heads down.”
Gabriella handed him the pneumatic line gun. Picasso braced himself against a sturdy oak tree, aimed for a thick trunk high on the bank above the team, and pulled the trigger. With a sharp crack, the projectile soared across the ravine, trailing a thin pilot line behind it.
“Shot out!” Reef yelled over the comms. “Bullseye! Falcon’s securing the anchor.”
“Haul away!” Picasso shouted.
Swinging the pilot line, the team on the West Ridge hauled the heavy static rope across the gap. Within minutes, a taut line spanned the roaring river, anchored securely to sturdy trees on both sides.
Picasso immediately began barking instructions, his hands moving with practiced speed. “Alright, Firecracker, let’s rig the Z-drag. We need mechanical advantage on this main line. Grab the large double pulley first, then the two singles.”
Gabriella, though quick-witted, blinked.
"Alright, Picasso, slow your roll, Chief.
Speak English, not…whatever language that was.
" She rummaged through the gear bag, searching for whatever fit the description since the intricate rope work was clearly outside her usual remit.
"You mean the ones with two wheels, then the ones with one? "
"Exactly," Picasso confirmed, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips, though his focus stayed sharp.
"The double one first. It’s got two wheels for maximum leverage.
Then we need that small loop of cord called the prusik.
It grips the main line when we pull, locking off our progress.
" He demonstrated with a quick hand gesture.
"And make sure the carabiners, the oval metal clips, are locked once they're clipped on. "
Gabriella found the double pulley, its metal cool against her gloved hands. "Okay, so this clips here?" she asked, holding it up, brows furrowed in concentration.
"Yes. Now thread the main line through it. Good. This first pulley goes at the anchor. Then we’ll run the main line through the double pulley, back to a prusik on the main line itself. Remember, three-to-one advantage. You’re doing fine. Now, pass me that second single pulley."
Working swiftly under Picasso’s clear direction, Gabriella quickly found her rhythm.
He showed her the correct knot for the prusik, how to thread the rope for the haul system, and emphasized the crucial points of tension.
Her initial uncertainty gave way to sharp focus as she absorbed each step, her movements growing more confident with every piece of gear she handled.
"Rigging secure!" Gabriella called out, locking the final carabiner with a decisive click. Picasso gave a quick, approving nod over her shoulder. "System’s ready. Send the first traveler!"
Picasso grabbed the radio. “Reef, send the gear bag first. We need to test the tension before we put Elias or Martha on this thing.”
“Copy that. Sending a test load. Don’t let it drop in the drink.”
The bag zipped across the line, sagging slightly in the middle but staying well above the raging floodwaters. Picasso caught it, unclipped it and sent the pulley back.
“System is green,” Picasso hollered over the wind. “Send Martha. Put her in the rescue harness with ‘Cane as escort.”
On the far bank, Martha’s wide eyes locked onto Hurricane as he gently secured her into the harness.
He moved with calm assurance, clipping himself to the line behind her to control her speed and offer silent comfort.
She trembled, clutching her blanket tightly as if it could shield her from the rushing void below.
“Ma’am, just keep your eyes on me,” Hurricane’s voice came through the radio, steady and soothing. “You’re going to fly for a minute, okay?”
Martha’s fingers dug into the fabric, her breath shallow and ragged, but she forced a nod. Her gaze didn’t waver from Hurricane’s face as they pushed off into the churning air.
The pulley whined as they slid out over the void.
Below them, the river roared like a freight train, crashing against boulders and sending spray high into the air.
Picasso and Gabriella hauled on the control line, hand over hand, battling the friction and gravity to bring them across the sagging midpoint.
"Almost there, Martha!" Gabriella shouted as Picasso leaned over the edge to grab the harness. "We’ve got you!"
With one final heave, Picasso pulled them onto the muddy bank of the lodge. Gabriella immediately unclipped Martha and wrapped her in a dry wool blanket from the porch.
"I’ve got her," Gabriella said, checking the woman’s vitals. "She’s freezing but responsive. Let’s get Elias."
The process repeated, the tension even higher as the wind picked up. Falcon accompanied Elias, the elderly man’s face pale and drawn. He shivered violently, his grip on the harness weak.
“He’s fading, Picasso!” Falcon yelled, their figures dangling forty feet above the raging water. “Hypothermia’s coming on fast!”
“Heave!” Picasso gritted his teeth, digging his boots into the mud as his muscles burned hauling the line. Hurricane joined him on the rope, doubling their strength. Together, they dragged the pair through the air, battling slack until Falcon’s boots finally hit solid ground.
They scrambled to unclasp Elias from the harness.
“Reef, Grizzly, get your asses over here!” Picasso commanded. “Collapse the anchor and come across!”
Once the last two SEALs zipped across the line and landed safely, Picasso finally exhaled. The team was reunited. They hurried the elderly couple inside the lodge.
It was dry. It was safe.
Grizzly and Reef immediately set to work building a fire in the massive stone hearth, while Gabriella laid Elias and Martha on the rug in front of it.
“Martha,” Gabriella said softly, kneeling beside her with the medical kit, “I need to check your blood sugar. I have your insulin ready.”
The woman nodded weakly, her color slowly returning in the warmth of the room. “Thank you,” she whispered, her eyes drifting to Elias, who lay wrapped in three blankets with Falcon rubbing warmth into his cold arms. “Thank you for flying us here.”
Reef, dripping wet but smiling, tossed a log onto the fire. “No trouble at all, ma’am. Though next time, we’d prefer the bridge.”
Picasso stood by the window, watching the rain hammer against the glass. He glanced back at his team: soaked, exhausted, but alive. Then he turned to Gabriella, who administered aid with fierce tenderness and quiet competence.
He made one last phone call. “Tex, this is Picasso. All assets and civilians secure at the lodge. We’re riding out the storm.”
“Copy that, Picasso,” Tex replied. “Good work. Looks like the skies will clear enough for air travel around 7 a.m. tomorrow morning. You’re stuck there for the night—don’t party too hard.”
Picasso chuckled softly, sliding the phone back into his pocket. He walked over to the fire and sat down beside Gabriella, the warmth finally seeping into his own bones.