Dana Stabenow - Blindfold Game

“For crissake, Sara,” Hugh had said the first time he’d seen her in what she called her underway ensemble, “where are your breasts?” He’d pulled out the neck of the dark blue polar fleece jacket to check that they were still there, and that had been the end of that conversation.

She drew in a sharp breath. It had been a while since Hugh Rincon had managed to creep into her thoughts unawares, and now there he was again, the second time in five minutes. She wondered how he was, what he was doing, whether he was still in Anchorage or back at his desk in Langley, gathering gossip in the service of his country.

It was with heartfelt relief that she heard the marine band crackle into life. The voice was male and on the ragged edge of panic. “Coast Guard, Coast Guard, this is the fishing vessel Arctic Wind, emergency, emergency, Coast Guard, Coast Guard, this is the fishing vessel Arctic Wind, over.”

In a photo finish Sara beat both Mark and Tommy to the microphone mounted over the plot table. “Fishing vessel Arctic Wind, this is the Coast Guard cutter Sojourner Truth, go up to two-two-alpha.”

“Up to two-two-alpha, roger.”

She reached up and clicked the frequency knob on the radio to twenty-two-alpha, aware of an attentiveness on the bridge that had not been there a moment before. “Arctic Wind, this is cutter Sojourner Truth, how copy?”

The voice came back with distinct relief. “Five-by, Sojourner, good to know you guys are out there.”

“Good to hear, Arctic Wind, what’s the problem?”

“Sojourner, I’ve got a deckhand with three-inch J-hook in his eye.”

“Chief, call the captain,” Sara said to Mark. “Tommy, pipe Doc and the aviators to the bridge.” She keyed the mike. “Arctic Wind, roger that, you’ve got a deckhand with a three-inch J-hook in his eye. Is he conscious?”

“He’s conscious and he’s mobile, Sojourner. It’s still got the bale attached. I’ve got the hook stabilized with a bunch of tape and gauze, but I don’t know where the barb is. I don’t want to mess with it any more than that.”

“Don’t touch it!” Tommy said involuntarily. Sara keyed the mike and said, “Roger that, Arctic Wind, what’s your lat and long?”

She turned to watch Tommy punch the numbers into the radar as the longliner skipper read them off. The screen readjusted itself and the bosun’s mate ran the cursor over a small glowing green X on the screen. “A little over forty miles north-northeast of our present position, XO.”

“Come about to zero-three-zero, all ahead full,” she told the helmsman.

“Zero-three-zero all ahead full, aye,” Seaman Eugene Razo replied. A moment later she felt the vibration in the deck increase as the cutter leaped forward in pursuit of her top speed, fifteen-point-four knots.

“Arctic Wind, this is the Sojourner Truth. We’re on our way. We’ll either be sending a boat over or doing a hoist with our helicopter. We’ll let you know which so you can make ready.”

She waited. They all waited. At last the Arctic Wind came back on, her skipper sounding very tightly wound. “Sojourner, I’m not set up for a hoist by helicopter. I’ve got wires and crap all over the deck.”

She heard the door open behind her and heard Mark say, “Captain on the bridge.”

“Understood, Arctic Wind, stand by,” Sara said, and turned.

USCG Captain David Josephus Lowe was a short, stern-faced man who made up for his lack of height with a determinedly erect carriage. A strict, by-the-book disciplinarian redeemed by an equally rigid sense of fairness and an elusive sense of humor, his command was nothing if not restful. So long as the crew did their jobs when and where he told them to and did them well while they were at it he had no complaint. If they didn’t, he had no difficulty in saying so and, if the problem proved to be repetitive, in meting out swift and sure punishment at mast. There was comfort in knowing always exactly and precisely what was expected of you, and security in knowing the rest of the crew knew it, too. Sara had served in far worse commands.

“XO,” Captain Lowe said, settling into the armchair bolted to a metal pole to the right of the bridge console. He always sat a little forward, the crew speculated, so his legs wouldn’t stick straight out like a little kid’s in a high chair.

“Captain,” she said, facing him and going unconsciously into a brace that mimicked PO Barnette’s, shoulders squared, feet spread for balance, hands clasped at the small of her back. “We’ve got a longliner fishing pacific cod approximately forty miles north-northeast of our present location.”

The door to the bridge opened and she looked over the captain’s shoulder to see Doc Jewell enter the bridge. She waited until he was standing next to her to continue. “They’ve got a crew member with a three-inch J-hook in his eye. Their skipper says he’s got the hook stabilized with gauze and tape.”

“Is he conscious?” Doc said.

“Yes, and his skipper says he’s mobile, which I guess means he can walk.”

“Can he climb into a basket?”

“The skipper also says he’s not set up for a hoist by helo.”

“Why not?”

“He says he’s got wires and… stuff all over the deck.”

The captain looked at Doc. “You feel comfortable taking an EMT over in a small boat and bringing the guy back here?”

Even in the dim light of the bridge Sara could see that Doc was less than thrilled at the prospect. “Even with the hook stabilized, Captain, we’d have to get him down the side of his ship and up the side of ours. And then the action in the boat coming over. A hook in the eye…” Doc shook his head. “I don’t like the odds of getting him on board without doing more damage.”

“How long is the longliner?” a new voice said, and Sara turned to see the two aviators standing behind her.

“A hundred and seventy feet,” she replied.

The aviators exchanged a look. “In a hundred and seventy feet,” Lieutenant Laird said, “we can hoist from somewhere.”

Lieutenant Sams nodded.

The longliner skipper was not happy. “I’m not set up for a hoist,” he repeated, his apprehension coming through loud and clear. “I’ve got two masts and a guy wire running from the bow to both masts to the stern, and trash and crap all over the deck.”

“How long will it take us to get into range for the small boat?” the captain said.

“Two and a half hours, sir,” Tommy said.

“Devil’s advocate, Captain?” Sara said. “If we slow down to come onto a flight course to launch the helo and they can’t get the guy off, it’ll take that much longer for us to go get him by small boat.”

Harry Sams’s lower lip pushed out into something perilously close to a pout, and Roger Laird opened his mouth, but before either aviator could start whining the captain called it. “Let’s try it by helo first, night vision goggles.”

Doc looked immensely relieved. “Agreed,” he said.

“Aye aye, Captain,” the aviators said in unison and then left the bridge in a hurry, like they were afraid the captain might change his mind.

The operations officer showed up, in gym shorts, sweaty and out of breath. “I’m sorry, Captain, I was working out, I didn’t hear the pipe.”

The captain jerked his chin at Sara, who said, “We’ve got a hundred-and-seventy-foot longliner forty miles off our starboard bow. He’s got a deckhand with a three-inch J-hook in his eye.”

Ops, Clifford Skulstad, a slim, intense lieutenant in his late twenties, whistled. “That’s gotta smart,” he said. “The aviators tell me we’re trying an NVG hoist?”