Chapter 18 #3
“Hey,” Anthony greeted him. “Glad you made it.”
The warmth of the cabin enveloped Tate and offered sweet relief from the storm raging outside. He hadn’t realized how numb his cheeks were until they started to sting.
“Thanks. Me too.” Tate rubbed at his sore hip. “Let’s go home.”
Anthony and Philip exchanged glances.
“What? What’s wrong? Don’t tell me there’s another vessel with a call in. Nobody needs to be out in these treacherous waters today.”
“You haven’t heard?” Philip asked.
“What are you talking about?” Tate settled onto the leather stool near the window. The boat lifted and dropped. The stool creaked. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
“Terrible accident.” Anthony paused, then spun the wheel, guiding the boat through a massive swell. The wave broke over the bow, spray splashing across the windows. Tate clutched the handle mounted overhead.
“Commercial fishing vessel. Crew members overboard.” Philip shook his head. “Vessel reportedly sinking.”
No. Cold flooded him faster than the wind had. “Are we responding? We’ve got to respond.”
“We’re typically not involved in search-and-rescue missions. You know that,” Anthony said.
“Can we respond as good Samaritans? Where’s this at?”
“Just south of Galena Bay,” Philip said.
“We could be there in half an hour,” Tate insisted.
“You just said yourself nobody should be out in this.”
“But that was before I knew there’d been a crisis.”
“Coast Guard’s on it.” Philip handed him an insulated mug with a tight-fitting lid. Coffee, probably, judging by the rich aroma. Tate took it, but he did not want to drink. “Wait. Is this…It’s the Ultimate Alaskan people, isn’t it?”
Anthony looked away, rubbed his hand along his jaw as they rode the low trough of another wave.
“We heard it was the Tenacious Hope.” Anthony adjusted the volume on the radio. “Rumor has it the Esmeralda J rammed into it.”
“No way. That’s unreal.” Spots peppered Tate’s vision. “What kind of a captain made that decision?”
“I wish it weren’t true.” Philip shook his head and pulled his phone from his shirt pocket, probably checking for updates that weren’t coming fast enough.
“Have you heard anything else? Is it Scottie or Damian?”
“I’m sorry, Tate.” Philip winced. “I wish I knew more.”
“Let’s go.” Tate clutched the coffee mug tighter. His knee bounced. He couldn’t stop it. He didn’t want to stop it. Movement felt as necessary as breathing.
“I think the best thing we can do is get back to Redemption and wait and pray.”
“No. We have to look.” He unzipped his jacket a few inches. It was getting way too warm in here. Heat and fear mixed until he felt sick.
Empathy filled Philip’s eyes. “How are we going to find anybody or do anything that’s helpful in weather like this?”
“How will we sleep at night knowing we could’ve helped but didn’t?
” Tate pushed back. “I’ll pay for the fuel myself.
We can function as good Samaritans. We can run search patterns, relay comms, be another set of eyes.
We can’t just go back to Redemption or Shelter Cove and sit this out.
If there are other vessels nearby that have responded… ”
Anthony’s mouth tightened.
“Anthony, hop on channel sixteen.”
“I’m already there.” Anthony turned up the volume on the radio. At first it was just static, a wet hiss. Then voices cut through—broken, urgent.
“Four crew members still overboard. Vessel listing. Taking on water. Only its cabin is still visible.”
“What?” Tate wanted to throw up. “Are you telling me the commercial fishing boat just sank? Maybe with people on board? And there’s bodies in the water? And you just want to go home?”
His hands shook. He fought to keep his voice even.
There was no way he would yell at Anthony or Philip.
He respected them too much. But they were out of their minds if they thought he was just going to go home, sit quietly, and wait.
Scottie was probably involved in this, and he wasn’t going to rest until he saw with his own eyes that she was safe.
Another voice bled through the speaker. “CG cutter…underway. ETA twenty-eight…Any vessels in vicinity, report POB and capabilities.”
Tate leaned toward the mic, pulse thundering in his ears. “We’re twenty-eight feet, fast and maneuverable. Local knowledge. We can search. Give us a sector.”
Anthony caught his eye. A long second. Then the smallest nod.
Philip was already dragging out the orange Gumby suits. “Put this on. We won’t add to the body count.”
Wind and rain smacked the hull. The pilot boat shuddered. Tate unzipped the immersion suit and whispered a prayer he didn’t have time to make fancy. Keep them alive, help us find them, keep her breathing.
“I’m headed for Galena Bay,” Anthony said. “We’ll coordinate with CG on scene.”
Tate exhaled. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Anthony said, throttling up. “Hang on.”
The bow lifted into the next slate wall of water. Tate listened to the radio as he prepared to search, shoving aside the mental image of Scottie in the water.
He had one mission. Find her. Bring her home.