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Tilda Pederson, the captain of Ocean Treasure, was on the bridge when she heard Orion’s initial mayday broadcast on 22 Alpha, the communications channel with Seattle VTS. The luxury cruise ship was returning from a twenty-five-day round-trip cruise to Hawaii. She was making twenty-four knots in order to pick up her pilot near Port Angeles and make her berthing time of 0700.
She put a pair of blue marine binoculars to her eyes and looked at the orange glow on the water ahead. “Man overboard,” she repeated, half to herself.
“Captain,” Alberto said. “The radar shows what appear to be multiple small craft suddenly in the water.”
Pederson lowered the binoculars. “Small craft? How many?”
“At least thirty by my count. They completely surround the Orion. I would guess she’s losing containers overboard.”
“A fair assessment.” Pederson studied the multiple blips on the radar. They looked like a swarm of silver dots around the much larger vessel. An orange glow now filled the horizon ahead. Pederson’s binoculars went back up to her eyes. “Alberto,” she said, “keep a weather eye for floating containers, but bring us up to best speed. That ship is on fire.”
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Fourteen miles to the east of Ocean Treasure, Slaznik and Crumb flipped up their NVGs at the sudden brightness in front of their helicopter.
“Holy shit!” Kitchen said, surveying the conflagration in the water ahead.
“Man overboard my ass,” the flight mech said, nose pressed to the helicopter’s window as they made a tight circle over the carnage. The bulbous bow of the container ship pointed upward while the stern was completely submerged, like an enormous whale slipping backward into the water. The ship itself was on fire, but if that weren’t bad enough, floating oil and diesel surrounded the rear portion in a wall of flames.
JHOC comms center squawked over the radio. “Rescue 6521, we’re getting reports of a vessel fire off Pillar Point . . .”
Slaznik swung wide, flying slowly around the burning ship, assessing the situation.
Crumb craned her neck as they went around. “I count eleven souls up on the forepeak,” she said.
“At least three in the water,” the flight mech said. “Thirty yards off the bow. I don’t think they’re in Gumby suits.”
Slaznik brought the Dolphin around for another pass, burning a few more pounds of fuel to give him more hover time, while he briefed JHOC and requested more assets.
Slaznik keyed the intercom. “The 47 is still twenty-two minutes out. Lots of fire down there, Kitchen. How do you feel about going down in flames?”
The swimmer strained at his harness, wanting to get out of the helicopter. “Looks good around the bow, boss,” he said. “I say we kick out our crew raft to give the survivors something to hang on to while I get started.”
Lieutenant Crumb’s voice came over the intercom. “That ship’s going down fast. Two more just did a Peter Pan off the bow.”
The helicopter was finally light enough to hover within regs, so Slaznik reduced power, utilizing the wind as he descended toward the waves. Rain pelted the windscreen. The gale roared in as the flight mechanic slid open the side door. The RAT OUT—radar altimeter alarm—sounded at forty feet above the water. Twelve-to-sixteen-foot waves and unpredictable winds kept him hovering there. The radios were blowing up with chatter from JHOC, Whidbey Island, and an assortment of responding surface vessels.
Slaznik had chosen a lone survivor floundering a good thirty meters from the others on the port side of the vessel, reasoning that this one was alone and had probably been in the water longer than those who were grouped together.
Ninety seconds later, the flight mechanic lowered Kitchen down toward the surface on the hoist. The basket went down next and came up with a survivor, dazed and shaking but very much alive. Kitchen sent up five more, one after the other.
The 47 arrived but was soon busy at the wallowing stern, picking its way through floating containers and pools of fire. The Coast Guard boat crew had already pulled in two survivors and were heading toward a pocket of at least two more who appeared to be stuck behind a wall of flaming diesel.
Lieutenant Crump tapped the console. “Commander, we’re nearing bingo fuel.”
The MH-65 had a flight window of about two hours and twenty minutes—and a requirement that she come back with at least twenty minutes of reserve fuel. Pillar Point was slightly closer to Neah Bay to the west than it was to Port Angeles. Landing in Neah Bay for fuel would get the survivors on the ground for treatment sooner, extend Slaznik’s available flight time by a precious few minutes, and get him back into action.
He raised the rescue swimmer on the radio.
“We’re packed to the gills up here,” Slaznik said, looking out his window at Kitchen, who rode the frothy waves in the seventy-mile-per-hour prop wash. The swimmer worked steadily to try to keep ten survivors together around the small six-person flight-crew raft they’d kicked out of the helicopter. None of the survivors spoke English, and Slaznik was sure it was a lot like herding cats down there. “You good to hold down the fort? We have to go and offload these survivors.”
Kitchen didn’t hesitate. “Roger that. We’ll be here when you get back.”
Slaznik spoke into the radio as he added power, gaining altitude.
“Coast Guard Neah Bay, Rescue 6521 heading to you with six survivors. The flight mech will fill you in on their condition. Break. Kitchen, you hold tight. We’ll be back in a flash.”
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Petty Officer Kitchen used the stiff jet fins to kick through the chop, directing the panicked seamen toward the crew raft he’d dropped out of the helicopter. The raft was meant for only six passengers, but Kitchen would stack them in like cordwood to await rescue from either the 47 boat from Neah Bay or 6521 when they returned. The bright yellow raft riding the waves should have been self-explanatory, but if Kitchen had learned anything about rescue operations, it was that cold and drowning men were unpredictable. He used hand signals and, when needed, physical force to direct the seamen. He’d already elbowed a particularly aggressive one in the solar plexus when the guy had tried to climb on top of him and use him as a human ladder to board the bobbing life raft. A couple of the men—one looked as if he was still a teenager—had the sense to hang on to the outer rings and direct their shipmates, calling out amid the wind and spray.