Prologue
Under the dim glow of flickering fluorescents, Seaman Apprentice Jones manned the radios in the communications center at Coast Guard Station Port Aransas, just up the Gulf Coast from Corpus Christi, Texas. The relentless hum of machines and the occasional crackle of static were her sole companions during the monotonous twenty to twenty-four-hour watch. She shivered in the chilled room, a necessity to keep the computers from overheating but a constant battle for her to stay alert and warm.
She didn’t like to be alone. Her nerves were always on edge during the night shift. Perhaps it was the way the shadows danced just out of reach of the station’s lights, or the eerie scraping of palm fronds on the building when the wind blew a certain way. Whatever it was, Jones felt pleased as Petty Officer Hackman entered the room, breaking the monotony of the late shift and her introspective thoughts.
“Anything to report?” Hackman asked, surveying the room.
“Quiet night, Boats,” Jones said, using the informal title for a boatswain’s mate. She gestured to the radios with a flick of her wrist. “The usual idiots arguing on the radio.”
Hackman smiled. “Yeah, they’ll do that. Remind them about proper radio etiquette, if you want.”
“I’ll keep that in my back pocket,” Jones said. “Especially if it becomes an issue.”
“So, apart from idiots, nothing I should know about, then?”
Jones shook her head and stretched, glancing at the clock on the wall and holding back a yawn.
“Good. Let’s keep it that way,” Hackman said. He rapped his knuckles on a wooden desk out of superstition and picked up the weather report. “Did you check this out?”
Jones nodded. “Yes, Boats. It’s calm near shore, but the further out you go, the worse it gets. There’s a pretty big storm brewing. Looks like it’ll be ten-to-twelve-foot seas. Pretty nasty until tomorrow.”
Hackman scanned the report, confirming what Jones had said, and placed it back on the desk. “Right, I’m going to hit the rack. Gonna be a busy day tomorrow. Need anything before I leave?”
“No, I’m good, Boats, thanks. Have a good night,” Jones said.
Hackman had his hand on the door handle, about to yank it open when the radio crackled to life.
“Mayday. Mayday. Mayday. Come in, Coast Guard…”
“Well, shit,” Hackman muttered to himself. “I was so close. Should have tapped the desk harder.” He let go of the door, walked back into the room and leaned on the communications console in front of Jones. “All right, let’s get to work, Jones.”
Jones stared blankly at Hackman and jumped as the radio squawked again.
“The radio, Jones. Answer the radio,” Hackman said.
Jones blinked, then nodded, snapping out of it. This was her first ever mayday call, but she’d been trained well and keyed the radio’s microphone, saying, “Vessel in distress, vessel in distress, this is Coast Guard Station Port Aransas, Coast Guard Station Port Aransas, channel one six. What is your position and nature of distress, over?”
Hackman nodded, giving her encouragement, and the two Coast Guardsmen waited for an answer. Jones stared at the radio’s speaker, willing whoever was on the other end to say something. This was the awkward part of being on watch. You couldn’t help anyone if you didn’t know what the problem was or where they were.
As the silence grew, Hackman paced in the cramped room, tapping his fingers on his pants. As the Officer of the Day, he was hoping this was another crank call, or maybe they’d picked up a transmission from outside their area of responsibility.
Seventy miles away, on board a fishing vessel far out in the Gulf of Mexico, wave after wave slammed against the hull as the boat steamed through the turbulent water, seawater roaring over the bow, splattering against the bridge. A nearby lightning strike lit up a lone fisherman standing on the bridge, his reflection a ghostly image painted in the windows, mirroring his terrified white face. He gripped the overhead tighter as the fishing boat pitched and rolled.
A soft incantation came from the fisherman’s lips, muttering over and over, “I hope we make it. I hope we make it.” The red bridge lights cast an eerie glow as he fumbled with the radio again. Raindrops fell from his slickers onto the bridge floor.
“Coast Guard! Oh, thank God!” he said. “This is the commercial fishing vessel Reel Lady, channel sixteen.” The fisherman braced himself in a corner of the bridge, repositioning his grip on the overhead with one hand as he used the radio with the other. Squinting at the GPS in the dull illumination, he said, “We are an eighty-seven-foot trawler about seventy miles off the coast of Aransas. Coast Guard, our captain—”
Lightning struck again, and thunder rolled, drowning out the fisherman. He glanced out the stern windows and gulped, his fingers turning white as he held on tighter. Powerful floodlights on the vessel’s superstructure shone bright beacons through the sea spray. The back deck was awash, and the surrounding ocean was awake, churning in time with his stomach. He could see the rest of the crew hanging on.
He keyed the microphone again, almost whispering, “Coast Guard, our captain is missing…I repeat, our captain is missing, he’s gone. He’s—”
Back at the station, Jones waited a moment for the transmission to begin again. When it didn’t, she keyed the mike and said, “Reel Lady, Reel Lady, Coast Guard Station Port Aransas, say again your last, your transmission was broken, over.” Hackman had stopped pacing, the fright in the fisherman’s voice making the hairs on the back of his neck rise.
When there was still no reply, Hackman said to Jones, “Try again.”
Jones keyed the mic. “Reel Lady, Reel Lady, this is Coast Guard Station Port Aransas. Coast Guard Station Port Aransas, say again your last, over.”
After a few moments, long enough for someone to answer, Hackman asked, “Did you hear the same thing I did? Their captain is missing? Did you hear that?”
Jones nodded. “Yeah, Boats. I heard the same thing. Weird how he’d say missing and not like it was a man overboard or something. What do you think?”
“I don’t know. It’s a new one on me. If he’s missing, that would mean he’s not on the boat. Until we get clarification, we’ll go with a man overboard. I’d rather go with a worst-case scenario. We can always ramp down if they find he was asleep in his cabin or something.” Hackman stood up straight and rubbed his face, coming to a decision. “Jones, wake up the boat crew and put them on standby. Then alert the air station. We’ll wait to launch our boat. Seventy miles out is too far for our assets, but I want the crew awake in case the vessel is closer than reported. If it is, we may need to assist with search patterns, as we don’t know how far out the Reel Lady was when the captain went over the side. We only know how far they say they are currently. We’re also going to need air support. I think the air station should be able to fly in this weather without problems, but find out.”
Jones nodded and flipped a switch on the control panel. A loud warbling alarm reverberated around the station. It lasted for about fifteen seconds before trailing off. Jones mashed the button on the intercom and said into the mic, “Now, ready boat crew lay to the command center. Man overboard, approximately seventy miles offshore.” Speakers piped her words into all the berthing rooms and common spaces around the station.
“Jones, who’s the RDO?” Hackman said.
“Mr. Frampton’s the response duty officer on tonight.”
“Thanks. Keep trying to get through to that vessel on the radio. We need to know where they are, more than just a vague seventy miles. That doesn’t help much. Give it a few more tries. If you get nothing, issue a PAN-PAN and ask any vessels in the area to be on the lookout for her.”
Hackman picked up the phone on the nearby desk and dialed Frampton’s number. A moment later he said, “Hackman here, sir, Officer of the Day from Station Port A. We’ve received a distress call from a fishing vessel with a possible man overboard situation reportedly seventy miles offshore. We’ve put the ready boat crew on standby, but recommend we launch an air asset, as the distressed vessel is too far offshore for our small boats…Yes, sir, they didn’t specifically say man overboard they said, missing…Yes, sir, it is weird…Yes, of course. I also suggest we divert the cutter Glorious from patrol. She’s the nearest asset…Yes, sir. I’ve plotted their arrival time, and the Glorious can be on scene in a little under two hours. Once the air station has a helicopter up, they should be in the area in less than thirty minutes…Yes, sir. Roger, that.” Hackman hung up the phone. “Jones, anything?”
“Nothing over channel sixteen verbally, but I did pick up a digital distress signal with a lat and long on channel seventy. It came in as the Reel Lady, so we know where they are.”
“Good, that’s good. They must have pressed the emergency button on their radio. The signal can bounce further than voice comms. All right, call the Glorious and divert them from patrol, tell them what’s going on, and give them that position. Also tell them they have tactical control of the air station asset when it gets there, and to coordinate the search. You got that?”
Jones nodded and changed the frequency on the radio to contact the Glorious on a secure channel.
Hackman gazed out the window of the communications room while he listened to Jones on the radio. It was dark outside. He couldn’t see the trawler from here, couldn’t see much of anything except the parking lot and a few palm trees, but he could imagine what they were going through. Ten-to-twelve-foot seas, if the weather report was right, were no picnic. And that fisherman on the radio, he’d sounded downright scared. I hope they find their captain, and he just fell asleep in a locker or something stupid. All smiles in the morning. You called the Coast Guard? Man, now I feel stupid.
Hackman grimaced. It would be a nice turn of events on a night like this, but unlikely. If the captain did go over the side, no telling if they’d ever find him in this weather.
May God have mercy on his soul.
