“McFaddin Beach,” Wilson filled in. “Sealed and wrapped in thick plastic. Someone missed a drop-off or panicked and tossed it. Could be what we have here.”
“Then shouldn’t we radio it in and leave it for a cutter to pick up?” Kesnick said as he glanced at Liz. She could tell he was trying to let her know that he’d back her if she elected not to deploy.
Wilson noticed the glance. “It’s up to you, Bailey. What do you want to do?”
She still didn’t meet his eyes, didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing even a hint of her reluctance.
“We should use the medevac board instead of the basket,” she said. “It’ll be easier to slide it under the container and strap it down.”
Knowing he was surprised by her response, she simply removed her flight helmet, cutting off communication. If Ellis or Kesnick had something to say about her, she dared them to say it after her attempt at nonchalance.
She fingered strands of her hair back under her surf cap and strapped on her lightweight Seda helmet. She attached the gunner’s belt to her harness, positioned the quick strop over her shoulders, made sure to keep the friction slide close to the hoist hook. Finished, she moved to the door of the helicopter, squatted in position, and waited for Kesnick’s signal.
She couldn’t avoid looking at him. They had done this routine at least half a dozen times since she started at the air station. She suspected that Pete Kesnick treated her no differently than he had been treating rescue swimmers for the last fifteen years of his career as a Coastie flight mechanic and hoist operator. Even now, he didn’t second-guess her, though his steel-blue eyes studied her a second longer than usual before he flipped down his visor.
He tapped her on the chest, the signal for “ready”—two gloved fingers practically at her collarbone. Probably not the same tap he used with male rescue swimmers. Liz didn’t mind. It was a small thing, done out of respect more than anything else.
She released the gunner’s belt, gave Kesnick a thumbs-up to tell him she was ready. She maintained control over the quick strop as he hoisted her clear of the deck. Then he stopped. Liz readjusted herself as the cable pulled tight. She turned and gave Kesnick another thumbs-up and descended into the rolling waters.
Without a survivor in the water Liz quickly assessed the situation. The container was huge. By Liz’s estimates, at least forty inches long and twenty inches wide and deep. She recognized the battered white stainless steel as a commercial-grade marine cooler. A frayed tie-down floated from its handle bracket. Frayed, not cut. So maybe its owner hadn’t intended to ditch it, after all. She grabbed the tie-down, which was made of bright yellow-and-blue strands twisted into a half-inch-thick rope, and looped it through her harness to keep the cooler from bobbing away in the rotor wash of the helicopter.
She signaled Kesnick: her left arm raised, her right arm crossing over her head and touching her left elbow. She was ready for them to deploy the medevac board.
The bobbing container fought against her, pushing and pulling with each wave, not able to go any farther than the rope attached to her belt allowed. It took two attempts but within fifteen minutes Liz had the fishing cooler attached to the medevac board. She cinched the restraints tight, hooked it to the cable, and raised her arm again, giving a thumbs-up.
No records broken, but by the time Kesnick hoisted her back into the helicopter, she could tell her crew was pleased. Not impressed, but pleased. It was a small step.
Lieutenant Commander Wilson still looked impatient. Liz barely caught her breath, but yanked off her Seda helmet, exchanging it for her flight helmet with the communications gear inside. She caught Wilson in the middle of instructing Kesnick to open the latch.
“Shouldn’t we wait?” Kesnick tried being the diplomat.
“It’s not locked. Just take a peek.”
Liz slid out of the way and to the side of the cabin, unbuckling the rest of her gear. She didn’t want any part of this. As far as she was concerned, her job was finished.
Kesnick paused and at first she thought he would refuse. He moved to her side and pushed back his visor, avoiding her eyes. The child-safety latch slid back without effort but he had to use the palm of his hand to shove the snap lock free. Liz saw him draw in a deep breath before he flung open the lid.
The first thing Liz noticed was the fish-measuring ruler molded into the lid. It seemed an odd thing to notice but later it would stick in her mind. A fetid smell escaped but it wasn’t rotten fish. More like opening a Dumpster.
Inside she could see what looked like thick plastic wrap encasing several oblong objects, one large and four smaller. Not the square bundles that might be cocaine.
“Well?” Wilson asked, trying to glance over his shoulder.
Kesnick poked at one of the smaller bundles with a gloved finger. It flipped over. The plastic was more transparent on this side and suddenly the content was unmistakable.