Chapter 13 #4
West went under, spluttered, tried to kick to the surface, but the ocean, the current wanted him. And his arms wouldn’t work right. His legs kicked, or he thought so.
The darkness spread.
No. Not like this. Not after surviving the plane. Not before knowing if Britta was alive.
West forced his eyes open. Saltwater blurred them, darkness surrounding him.
Kick. Move. Surface.
His body finally responded. Sluggish. Heavy. But moving.
Kick!
He broke the surface. Gasped. The air burned. His vision was wrong. Double. Blurred.
Blood ran into his eyes. Warm. Thick. Mixing with salt water.
His head throbbed. The hit had concussed him.
West tried to tread water. His left arm wasn’t cooperating either. It hung heavy. Dislocated, maybe. And his shoulder or ribs had taken another hit too. Everything hurt now.
He was bleeding—more than he wanted to think about, a dark bloom spreading in the water.
Stay conscious. Stay afloat. Stay alive.
West repeated the words. Made them a rhythm.
More debris caught up to him, and he pushed it away, then finally found a floating seat and tried to grab it.
His vision kept blurring. The ocean tilted. Or maybe he was tilting.
His hands weren’t working right. He couldn’t make a fist.
Shock. Blood loss. Concussion. The technical part of West’s brain cataloged symptoms even as the rest of him struggled to function.
So, yeah, this was bad.
He needed rescue and soon. Because his body wanted to quit.
But more than that—West needed to know about Britta.
And Alan—what was his play?
The questions circled. Relentless. He closed his eyes. Tried to stop the spinning. That only made it worse, so he opened them.
Forced himself to focus.
The ocean rocked him. Almost peaceful despite the chaos. He lay on his back and floated, arms out, facing the blue sky.
And then all he could do was…“Thank You for getting me this far. For the miracle of Britta. Please let her be okay. Please. I’m asking—no, begging. Let her have survived. Let the parachute have worked. Let her be safe.”
West’s vision blurred. “I love her. So I’m trusting You. I’m letting go. I’m—”
The word stuck. The hardest word West Young had ever spoken.
“I’m surrendering.”
No answer. Just waves and distant engines and West’s ragged breathing.
But something shifted. In his chest. Some weight lifting.
Not physical. Spiritual. And it hit him. It was simple, truly. The only real choice was whether to trust something bigger or die trying to do it alone.
He closed his eyes. Let the ocean hold him.
Whatever happens next, I’m done trying to control it. Done trying to do it alone. I’m Yours. Whatever that means. Whatever comes next. I’m Yours.
He didn’t know how long he lay there watching the night seep in.
West opened his eyes. Tried to focus. The world was still doubled, but he could make out shapes. He righted himself, looked around, and in the twilight, spotted a glorious white-and-red Coast Guard cutter slicing through the water.
Voices shouted. Someone pointed.
West tried to raise his arm. Signal. His left arm wouldn’t lift. His right barely moved.
Didn’t matter. They’d seen him. They were coming.
The boat deployed a tender, and it scooted over the water to him. Hands reached down. Grabbed his arms. His shoulders. Lifted.
Pain exploded. West’s vision went white. Then black.
When he came to, he was out of the water. On a deck. Someone pressing cloth against his head. Someone else cutting away his shirt.
Voices. Medical terminology. Coordinates being radioed.
“Sir. Sir, can you hear me?”
West’s eyes opened. A face above him. Young. Concerned, wearing a Coast Guard uniform.
“Yeah.” West’s voice came out rough.
“You’re safe. We’ve got you. Just stay with me, okay?”
Safe. The word almost made West laugh.
“Where’s Britta?” His voice cracked. “Where’s the woman who jumped?”
The medic blinked. “Sir?”
“From the plane. Before it exploded. A woman jumped. With a parachute. Where is she?”
The medic exchanged looks with someone else. The kind of look that said they had no idea what West was talking about.
No…he couldn’t breathe—“You have to find her. She jumped with Alan Martin. She’s out here somewhere. The First Daughter. President White’s daughter. She was on that plane—”
“Sir, you need to calm down. You have a serious head injury—”
“I don’t care about my head!” West tried to sit up. Hands pushed him back down. “She jumped before it exploded. You have to—”
“Easy. Easy.” The medic’s voice stayed calm. “Let me check with the captain.”
He moved away. Spoke into a radio. West couldn’t hear the conversation over the engine noise and the ringing in his ears. Worse, darkness edged his vision.
No. Not yet. Not before knowing if Britta was alive.
West forced his eyes to stay open. The medic came back, his expression grim.
No, no he didn’t want to hear it—
“Sir, we haven’t located anyone else from the plane. But there are multiple Coast Guard vessels searching. If she’s out there, we’ll find her.”
If.
If she’s out there. If she survived. If the parachute worked.
West’s eyes closed. He couldn’t keep them open anymore.
Please let her be alive.