Brian grinned, enjoying the younger pilot’s use of military jargon and slang. Dillon was a good stick and would make a fine pilot, but he treated every mission as if he were flying over the beach in hostile territory. Reluctantly, Brian admitted he had once had the same youthful enthusiasm. But the Coast Guard chief understood the lingo and proceeded to give them a Situation Report in plain language.
“Copy. The National Park Service reported two missing hikers, both female in their late twenties. Their last known location was Smuggler’s Cove on the south side at the east end of the island. Do you need the coordinates?”
Dillon referenced their chart before replying. “Negative. We have that location on board.”
“Copy that, Raptor Two Four. You’ll want to contact Ranger Reid when you get on station, and she will provide further guidance.”
“She’s the ground force commander?”
Brian almost laughed.
“Um, she’s the park ranger who is on the ground conducting the search,” Chief Romero replied, deadpan.
“Raptor Two Four copies,” Dillon said, then turned to Brian. “Sometimes I wonder if the Coast Guard is really even in the military.”
“Just remember you said that when your boat runs out of gas and you’re crying for them to come get you,” Brian replied over the intercom.
“I’m with the LT on this one,” AWR1 Rose said from his station in the back. “They saved my bacon once when my boat’s engine died with weather moving in. I used to give Coasties a hard time, but the shit conditions they do rescues in puts us to shame.”
Dillon snapped his mouth shut and turned forward, looking through his night vision goggles at the rising terrain of Santa Cruz Island in front of them. Brian knew he saw the same thing and was probably focused on the glowing headlights of a lone vehicle near the shoreline on the east end.
“That must be
“Let’s give her a call,” Brian replied.
Tiffany slowed the truck at the bottom of the hill and looked through the dusty windshield at the black abyss of the Pacific Ocean. Putting the vehicle in park, she killed the ignition and listened to the waves lapping gently at the shore, the silence of the night deafening compared to the din of the city only fifty miles east. The silence was one of the reasons she became a park ranger in the first place.
Tiffany had grown up in California’s Central Valley and spent much of her formative years in the national parks that were within driving distance. Sequoia, Kings Canyon, and the granddaddy of them all, Yosemite. When most of her friends were trolling the local mall for boys or a killer sale, she was hiking with her dog, Stella, high up in the Sierras. After graduating from Fresno State University with a degree in accounting and a brief, unsatisfying career chasing the almighty dollar, she quit her job and applied with the National Park Service.
Now here she was, sitting in a government vehicle, alone in the darkness on a mostly deserted island, and she couldn’t have been happier. With a contented sigh, she opened the door and stepped out into the night, looking south across the water at the dim red and green navigation lights inching closer to her island.
“Ranger Reid,” her handheld radio squawked. “This is Raptor Two Four.”
She reached back into the truck and picked up the radio, bringing it to her mouth before keying the microphone. “Go ahead, Raptor Two Four.”
“We’re approaching your position from the south,” the serious-sounding pilot said. “Please advise search grid, over.”
“Well…the hikers’ last known position was here at Smuggler’s Cove. I was hoping you could search the surrounding hillsides for heat signatures and then pass the coordinates to me so I can investigate on foot.” She paused for a beat, then added, “Over.”
“Good copy, Ranger Reid,” the pilot replied. “Will advise when on station. Out.”
“It’s just Tiffany,” she said, then quickly added, “Over and out.”
Brian piloted the MH-60R less than five hundred feet over the water, letting the rising moon illuminate the island’s terrain through his night vision goggles. If he had been pointed west, the orange glow of the sun just below the horizon would have washed out his goggles and made them useless, but there was enough ambient light that he saw each undulation in the terrain as they neared Santa Cruz Island.
“Climbing up,” he told his crew, pulling up on the collective to increase lift and climb higher into the air as they neared the shoreline. The truck’s headlights had been turned off just before they made contact with the park ranger, but he knew precisely where Smuggler’s Cove was located, even without the steering carat on his display.
“Pulling up the FLIR,” AWR1 Rose said.
