Chapter 3 - The Rescue That Wasn't a Rescue
Floating bobbing on the swelling surface of the Pacific, the freezing brine soaked through my clothes, but the core-temperature insulation of the marine suit kept the worst of the chill at bay. About a half-mile out, the distant, rhythmic chopping of the helicopter blades echoed faintly across the water.
I tilted my head back, treading water smoothly, watching the EC130 circle lazily overhead twice.
I could picture Richard sitting in the pilot's seat, peering down through the glass bubble, wearing a look of triumphant satisfaction. He would be checking his watch, calculating how long it would take a human body to sink into the deep underwater trenches off Point Dume, rehearsing the grief-stricken phone call he would place to the county sheriff's department in approximately ten minutes.
“Oh, officer... my wife... there was a sudden downdraft, the door latch failed, she slipped... I tried to grab her, I swear I tried...”
Let him rehearse. Let him enjoy the performance while it lasted.
Because less than three miles away, patrolling the Malibu coastal shelf, a California Department of Fish and Wildlife enforcement cutter—which had been quietly tracking our flight path via our corporate security radar uplink since the moment we lifted off from Van Nuys—was already cutting across the swells at forty knots, its twin diesel engines howling a very different tune.
Within four minutes, the gray-and-white hull of the patrol boat surged toward me, throwing up great walls of white foam.
A pair of uniformed marine officers rushed to the starboard rail, throwing out a weighted life ring and dropping a rope ladder down into the water.
“Grab the line! Grab the line, ma'am!” shouted an officer with a weathered face and a high-visibility orange life jacket.
I swam firmly toward the ladder, catching the rungs with hands that had long since stopped shaking. With a surge of adrenaline-fueled strength, I hauled myself up out of the freezing water, tumbling awkwardly over the gunwale and onto the nonskid deck of the cutter.
“Get her wrapped in thermal blankets, now!” the captain ordered, rushing over with a heavy foil emergency blanket and wrapping it securely around my shivering shoulders. “Ma'am, are you injured? Are you alright? We received an automated distress beacon and a priority override from HayesTech security command.”
I spat a mouthful of salt water onto the deck, pulled the wet hair out of my face, and looked up at the captain with eyes that burned with absolute, unyielding coldness.
“I’m not injured, Captain,” I said, my voice steady, ringing clearly over the thrumming diesel engines. “I’m pregnant, cold, and entirely functional. And if you look up at two o'clock right now, you’ll see my loving husband circling back to verify my demise.”
The captain squinted against the glaring afternoon sun, raising a pair of heavy rubberized binoculars to his eyes.
Sure enough, banking gracefully in a wide circle against the blue dome of the sky, the white-and-red chassis of the EC130 helicopter came back into view, drifting lower to inspect the waters where I had supposedly vanished.
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“Well, I’ll be damned,” the captain muttered, lowering the binoculars. He looked back at me, a slow, grim understanding dawning in his eyes. “Shall we go welcome him back to terra firma?”
“Let’s,” I said, pulling the emergency thermal blanket tighter around my shoulders. “And make sure your tactical team has their handcuffs polished. He’s going to need them.”
