Читать книгу Permafrost - M. Schwartz - Страница 9

2

Baron

“Coast Guard Boat 255022…Coast Guard Boat 255022, this is Coast Guard Station Frankfort on channel two-three over.” The radioman at Coast Guard Station Frankfort, Michigan, piped over channel 16. Boatswain’s Mate Third Class Jeremy Baron sat in the driver’s seat of the twenty-five-foot rescue boat enjoying the early cool summer air of northern Michigan. The sun was high; the breeze was soft; and the young petty officer was fully content with his life on the water. The boat crew of the 022 were on an area of responsibility north run to the Manitou Islands for their area familiarization training. The purpose of the run was to identify any hazards to boating, get time underway, and help new people at the station see in person what they studied on nautical charts to have a better understanding of where they would be operating. It also helped seeing things in person before a search-and-rescue mission so the crew could use landmarks to describe an area to a person in distress if they didn’t know their exact coordinates.

Baron loved the northern Michigan waters. They were cold freshwater lakes that happened to house some world-class shipwrecks. Thanks to his Advanced Open Water diving license, Baron and some other local divers were able to take advantage of the pristine shipwrecks from time to time.

The Great Lake Michigan was vast enough that if you went sufficiently far out, you would not be able to see land in any direction even on a clear, cloudless day. Sometimes he and the rest of the crew would come out in the evening to do some night training, and once they had finished it, the crew would enjoy the full sky of stars unmolested by the light pollution emanated from the cities. During the day, the water shimmered like an endless sea of gleaming diamonds from the sun reflecting off the clear water. Baron cleared his mind and keyed up the handheld mic.

“Station Frankfort, this is the 022, go ahead, over,” He replied with trained muscle memory.

“Zero-two-two, station. Requesting ops and position.”

Had it been thirty minutes already? he thought. Coast guard regulations dictated every thirty minutes, unless during a rescue or inclement weather when it became fifteen minutes, all assets had to check in with what they were doing and where they were. Helicopters, boats, crews doing training—it didn’t matter. Baron had been a certified coxswain for almost two years now, and the rules and regulations were automatic. It had been a tough few months getting certified as, what is basically, a captain of a small boat. Coxswains are responsible for all navigation, operations, and people onboard their boat while underway.

“Station, 022. Ops are normal, conducting north AOR familiarization run, position is as follows: 44.80 degrees North, 86.23 degrees west. Over,” Baron replied coolly, reading off the coordinates from the digital Furuno display. Due to the ever-changing of the waters, coastal areas, and consistent changing out of crew members due to people getting new orders and moving, the coast guard had mandated everyone be up-to-date on what their AOR or area of responsibility looked like in person and not just on a map. The coast guard had mandated each crew go on a certain amount of AOR runs so everyone was familiar with their rescue station’s specific coverage area.

“Zero-two-two, station, roger, good copy. Station out.” The line went quiet, and Baron hooked the mic back on to its small shiny metal carriage on the side panel of the helm. Although Baron liked getting underway, these long AOR runs wore him out. He looked around the boat to see what the other three crewmen were up to since he had not checked on them in a few minutes.

Machinery Technician Second Class Rodriguez was on lookout duty sitting in the seat next to him, keeping a weather eye on the horizon. MK2 Rodriguez was from Tampa, Florida, and like Baron, he detested the bitter cold that Michigan reliably delivered winter after winter. This station became brutal during the cold season, ice storms and snowstorms, high winds, and then, of course, were the ice rescue missions. Due to the station’s location so far north, apart from all the other duties the crew had to be proficient in, once it became winter, they trailered their boat from the docks and stuck it in the large boat shed, and got certified as USCG ice rescue operators. The training wasn’t particularly hard, and the warm Mustang dry suits worked well, but Baron—being from the south—just loathed the cold in general. MK2 had reported in February and caught the end of the winter. He got qualified quickly, but he hated every step of it.

“Hey, MK2,” Baron called out.

“Hey, BM3, what’s up?” Rodriguez replied while checking his charting calculations and plotting on a paper map, then comparing it to the digital readout on the onboard Furuno computer.

“Mind taking the helm for a little? Going to talk to the crew out back.” Although the MK2 wasn’t a qualified coxswain, like Baron, he was a qualified boat crewman. He knew how to drive, read the charts, and navigate as well as the rest of the crew. Being specialized in machinery repair didn’t stop him from learning the other crucial skills needed to be a certified crewman.

“I gotchu, Boats,” the MK2 said in reply with a slight Hispanic accent. Baron smiled at the nickname. It was only given to qualified coxswains and was a kind of verbal badge of honor or a respected unofficial title. Baron unclipped the dead-man cable from his orange vest, and since the water was smooth and there was nothing immediately in front of the boat, he left the boat at cruising speed and handed it off to Rodriguez. The MK2 clipped himself in and hopped up into the chair.

“MK2 has the helm,” Rodriguez said to Baron.

“Check.” With that, Baron pulled down his six-foot two head and walked out to the small rear of the boat where BM3 Kens and Seaman Withers were sitting across from each other talking about the college football games coming on later this evening. Baron knew he had been blessed with tall height and generous facial features. Although he was on average a fairly shy person and rarely initiated conversations, he never had a problem with women coming up to him. If it was his thick head of hair, toned body from all the swimming he did throughout high school and college, or his height, Baron didn’t know; he just knew he was blessed in the looks department and tried not to let it get to his head. Although Baron was Seaman Withers’s supervisor, he would catch her staring longingly at him even when she knew better and knew nothing would come of it. It made it uncomfortable sometimes, but he did not want to cause drama at the already small station, so he let it go.

“Hey, y’all,” Baron said simply.

“Hey, Boats,” the two women replied in unison.

“Boats, who do you think is going to win tonight, LSU or Michigan State?” Kens asked, as strands from her loose black bun wisped across her face.

“Well, as much as I hate them yellow jackets, I gotta stick with my conference at least and say LSU, by three. Should be a good game, though,” Baron replied with a smile. Although they were all technically lookouts while underway, talking about, well, literally anything else helped ease the tension, keep calm nerves, and keep away the boredom of a four-hour choppy water round-trip boat ride. The way the waves rocked usually ended with everyone having a minor headache from the washer machine effect of waves the Great Lake had a tendency to produce. Instead of like the ocean, where the waves coming from one direction, a large lake such as this, they seem to come from everywhere.

“Oh c’mon, BM3, you knew he was going to say that! Why did you even ask?” Withers chided the BM3. Her blonde hair was too short to slap her across the face, and it was coated thickly with gel to ensure it didn’t go anywhere.

“You never know, maybe the ’Bama boy would let sense prevail over allegiance,” Kens said smiling.

“Kens, the SEC conference against—” Baron was cut off by a loud crackling over the radio. His head instantly jerked around, and he peered inside with intense concentration. They kept a separate radio turned up much louder than the other one, so no matter what they were doing, everyone on the boat would hear it. This radio was always kept on channel 16, the international hailing and distress channel. If there was static on it, someone was either hailing another boat to get their attention or were experiencing some kind of emergency.”

“Mayday! Mayday! We’re sinking! We need help! Mayday!” The panic-stricken male voice shouted over the crackly radio.

“Eyes out! This call may be us!” Baron barked to the crewman on the back of the boat.

“Aye!” they instantly shouted back, snapping into rescue mode, standing up, checking gear, and making sure things they might need were easily accessible and readily available. Baron bounded inside, and MK2 was already standing with the dead-man clip out of the seat ready to hand it off. He clipped it on his vest and sat down waiting for the response. Either the coast guard sector in Chicago would reply or the closest station. Whoever picked up the mic first, won.

“Vessel hailing mayday, vessel hailing mayday, this is Coast Guard Station Frankfort on channel one-six, what is your position, over?”

Good, get your Ps going, Baron thought. The first questions were always the most crucial in any rescue situation, and the coast guard had developed a system simply called the Five Ps. These were the first things any watch-stander manning a radio would spit out their mouths no matter what: Position, People, Problems, Phone, and Personal Flotation Device. First and foremost, you needed to know where the boat was, without that piece of information, there was very little a rescue crew could accomplish to start. Then you needed to know how many people were in danger. You wanted to make sure when you showed up on the scene and three people had previously been reported in danger, you rescued three and did not miss or forget anyone.

Next, you needed to know the problem if they were sinking, on fire, or some other emergency so you could prepare to handle the situation when on the scene, properly. Then, you wanted to get any other form of communication, ideally a cellphone number the person in distress might have onboard. That way if their radio stopped working for any reason, there would still be another form of communication available. Lastly, you wanted to remind them that the rescue crew was coming to help, and they needed to don their personal flotation devices, in the event they had to get in the water, you didn’t want people in distress to rely on their ability to swim to survive.

“Oh, shit we are um… I don’t know, we are from DC. God, please come and help us!” the man pleaded over the radio. Baron brought the boat to an idle so he could hear more clearly; the crew was all ready to go in their seats just in case it was their call.

“Vessel in distress, this is Station Frankfort, do you have GPS onboard? Do you see any landmarks?” the calm, reassuring voice on the radio replied back.

Good, get a position. We can’t do jack if we don’t know where you are! Baron screamed in thought. He kept his calm and steady demeanor on the outside for the crew, but inside, he was a torrent of emotions. Baron was excited to do what he was trained to do, anxious for the next bit of information and what it could mean for him, scared for the people in danger, and hopeful his crew would perform up to the standards demanded of them. That and so much more was racing through Baron’s head and heart, but he sat there quietly listening to the radio, patiently waiting to react appropriately to the case if needed or not at all if the vessel in distress was not in their AOR.

“Um, I don’t know, the electronics are out. We went west from uh…Leland, I think the town is called. Now I think I can see an island to my right and lots of sand to my left. It’s huge like a big sand dune,” the scared voice said.

“Hold on! Coming up, full throttle!” Baron shouted and slammed the dual engine controls to full ahead, turning on the sirens and blue emergency lights as well. From the man’s description over the radio, Baron knew approximately in a few square nautical miles where he was. The vessel was somewhere between South Manitou Island and the Sleeping Bear Dunes just northwest of their position, and Baron was determined to get to them in time before the situation deteriorated. The location the man in distress gave wasn’t that vast, and Baron knew that if he put his boat in between those two landmarks, chances were excellent with current weather conditions, he would be able to see the distressed vessel.

“Rod. Notes!” Baron shouted to the MK2. Although he was higher in ranking, Baron was the coxswain and in charge of the boat and crew, especially during rescue ops, which made his word the ultimate authority at the moment.

“Check, one vessel approximate location marked on the map,” he shouted back while dropping a waypoint on the digital map display.

“Vessel in distress, this is the coast guard. What’s your name, sir? How many people do you have onboard?”

“John, and it’s just me and my family. Two kids, and my wife.”

“Rod, what did he say?” Baron shouted, focusing on the water and driving.

“Zero-four POB!” MK2 shouted back.

Four people on board, got it. We’re coming, bud, Baron thought with gritty resolution.

The rescue boat’s cell phone rang, and Rodriguez answered.

“Zero-two-two! Aye, Chief. Aye, Chief. We will get it done, Chief.” Rodriguez closed the flip phone.

“What did he say?”

“The hell you think he said, Boats? Find ’em, save ’em.”

“Yeah, roger that.”

“John, this is Station Frankfort, a rescue boat is headed in your direction,” the radioman blared. “Just hang on, they are coming as fast as they can. Can you tell me the problem that’s going on?”

“Yeah…shit! Dianne, get life jackets on the kids! Yeah, the engine blew a hole in the deck, and we are sinking, taking on water, whatever. We are sinking! Please help us. We’re going to jump off the boat!” He was losing his cool, turning to pure survival mode.

“John, this is the coast guard, don’t do that, okay? Stay on the boat as long as you can, go to the front of the boat away from the engines. If it does sink, stay together and lock arms. Do you have a phone onboard? Does anyone have any medical problems?”

“No, dammit, no phone! And uh… No, no problems, are people coming? Please help us!” Just then, Baron skipped off a small wave. The boat landed hard, and Baron’s vision was blurred for a moment. When he regained his vision, Baron saw the smoke and sinking boat in the distance.

“John, this is coast guard rescue boat 255022! I am coming to you right now. I see you ahead of me less than one mile. I will be there in a few minutes. Do you see me off your bow, the front of the boat?” Baron said into the mic commandeering the radio conversation, not in a shout but with a reassuring, authoritative voice.

“No, I…yes! Yes, I see you! Hurry please!” John screamed.

“John, I am coming as quick as I can, but I need you to take care of your family until I get to your location, okay, bud? Do they all have their life jackets on?” Baron asked, trying to keep the man focused.

“Yeah yeah, they do!”

“Okay good job, John. I have to stop talking to you for a second to get my crew ready to rescue you and your family okay? I am still here, don’t worry. I will be right back,” Baron assured him.

“Okay, Coast Guard, okay, please hurry!”

“Withers, you’re swimming if it comes to that, otherwise you’re back up to Kens. Rod, you’re going over. As soon as I touch the bow to his port side, you go, kids first,” he ordered.

They all shouted, “Aye!” at once and Baron knew his crew was ready. Closing the gap to ten yards of the smoldering and sinking vessel, Baron brought the throttle down to ease it to the boat. The water was sloshing loudly on all sides of the boat, and it became slightly harder to control at the slower speeds, waves enforcing their will on the boat. Baron took his hands off the helm and put them both on the dual engine throttles. He preferred controlling the boat that way, manipulating the engines to steer and move around. It always gave him better control than the delay of turning the helm.

“John, you there still bud?” Baron said calmly into the mic.

“Yeah, I’m here! What do you want me to do?”

“Get your family together, kids in front. We are coming on your port, left side of the boat, okay? Your boat’s left side. You got that, John?” he repeated.

“Got it left! We will be ready!” John replied, his voice getting more confident as the rescue crew got closer. Baron pulled alongside the sinking Boston Whaler 370 Outrage. The middle engine had blown just like he’d said, shredding the flanking engines and putting a large hole in the rear deck. The previously pristine white-and-blue hull had been tattered with black char and oil from the explosion. The back ten feet of the boat was underwater, sinking fast. A large sheen of rainbow pigments was forming around the boat, about twenty yards in diameter, as gas and oil poured into the lake. Baron made a mental note of it. Baron could feel the heat from the blaze and could smell the acrid scent of the gas-oil mixture burning, billowing thick black smoke into the air. The family had propped themselves up near the bow just above the anchor. Rodriguez was already in position on the bow of the rescue boat when it touched the port side of the sinking vessel.

“Go!” Baron shouted, and the MK2 instantly hopped onto the boat. The waves gently pushed the boats apart, but Baron kept the throttle neutral ahead to keep them touching. Kens ran to his left, ducking underneath the cuddy-cabin and through the lower hatch to the front of the boat. Rodriguez appeared handing off one of a little kids to her. She grabbed the child and pointed through the hatch she had just come through; Withers was there to hug the child and put her in a seat. Strapping the seatbelt on the child and wrapping her in a blanket, she went back to her position. Rod grabbed the second little girl and passed her off the boat to Kens, and Kens sent the child to Withers, Withers putting the other daughter in the seat next to her sister. Next, the wife appeared and slowly made her way over to the bow of the rescue boat, though as she was about to hop aboard, an unseen wave shifted the boats and separated them by a couple of feet. The wife lost her grip and fell into the cold Lake Michigan waters.

“Dammit!” Baron shouted. Man overboard! Starboard side!” Baron stopped the engines immediately to prevent any potential hazard from the spinning screws. He couldn’t see her and did not want her getting near the turning propellers.

“Boats, I have eyes on, starboard side, drifting ten feet, increasing. Request—” Kens request was cut off by the coxswain.

“Go!” He shouted, and she was immediately in the water headed for the panicked woman desperately slapping at the water, anything, trying to keep her ahead above the ever oppressive waves. Kens swam her way to the woman, all the while trying and failing to keep the gas and oil sheen out of her mouth. The sour taste coupled with sharp order found its way into her mouth and nostrils no matter how she tilted her head while she swam. Kens finally got to the woman who, like her, was coated in an oil sheen. She calmed her down, placed her left arm around the woman’s oil-greased neck and life jacket, then swam her back to the boat where Withers was waiting on the starboard aft side. She gently pulled her onto the deck in one go and set her on deck of the boat. Withers asked the mother if she was okay, tried to wipe the oil off her face, then grabbed her hand and lead her inside the cabin with the girls. The mother hugged her daughters more tightly than she probably ever had previously.

Baron engaged the engines with his nimble and trained hands and came up to the sinking boat once more now that the mother was out of danger and Kens was back aboard. Touching the hull of the boat lightly, John jumped without hesitation and landed hard in the small section available for him. His target was about two feet-wide-by-two-feet, and he came down dead center in a perfect fall. Finally, Rod was back aboard, and Baron backed up from the boat. Once they were clear of the vessel, Baron turned it around, conducted a head count, and headed back toward the station.

Once Baron was clear of the wreck and confirmed all were aboard, he keyed up the mic, “Station Frankfort, Station Frankfort, this is Coast Guard Rescue 255022, we are zero-eight POB, all four rescued and safely aboard. We are RTB. ETA back to station one hour. Have EMS on standby for the treatment of shock, hypothermia, and possible ingestion of gasoline and oil.” Anyone with a radio would be listening to the situation and knew that they just saved a whole family. He thought he could hear cheers over the water, but he shrugged it off as just his imagination. Baron marked the coordinates for the maritime safety units so they could come out and clean up the spilled oil and gas, then hopefully recover the boat and stop it from polluting the waters any further.

“Zero-two-two, Roger, good copy. See you soon, good job. Station out.”