Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 55171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 276(@200wpm)___ 221(@250wpm)___ 184(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 276(@200wpm)___ 221(@250wpm)___ 184(@300wpm)
Me: See you tomorrow. Keep the bed warm for me. I’m leaving as soon as we’re done here.
I hit the send button, drop my phone in my dry bag we keep on the helicopter, and get to work. No sooner we’re up in the sky, my eyes are on the water and the first race is under way. Things have been going smoothly with the boats and races, almost too smoothly. There’s never not been an incident each time I work on a race, and I know it’s still too early to have a quiet day. I watch the second race; this one has my hackles raised. The boat in the left lane is choppier, not under control compared to the boat on the right side. I’m ready to rock and roll when I see one boat hit a wave at the right angle and go airborne, hitting the other.
“It’s go-time,” I hear Smith say in my ear. I block him out unless it’s necessary to communicate. Hopefully fucking never again after this weekend. I’m ignoring him. Its’ me and the rescue mission. Not the dumb fuck who thinks he’s got everything under control.
“Damn it,” I mutter under my breath, watching as the racer is ejected into the water. “Get up,” I tell him silently, hoping he’s able to recover without needing a rescue. He’s not, and that means it’s time for me to go.
“Hawk, you’re up,” Smith says in the comm we have in our ears. He’s shortened my last name from Hawkins to Hawk, and while it doesn’t bother me, the fucker acts like we’ve been friends when that’s the last thing he is to me. I heard the snickers and the bullshit talking about me being locked in my room. Biting my tongue and not knocking him off his ass was hard. The dumb fuck probably has nothing waiting for him at home with that mentality.
“10-4.” I get myself locked in, ready for them to lower me down in the water. Matt has already been lowered to work on a patient, and now I’m being sent to work on the other. The guy is face first in the water, not moving, which isn’t the greatest situation, but it could be worse. Him not wearing a life jacket is one of those. Some of these guys think they’re invincible, which they’d have to, going over one hundred sixty miles per hour. Goddamn these crazy bastards.
Smith lowers me. My hands stay clear of the trail tine. The cable that comes down from the helicopter is charged with static electricity, and I’m not trying to get injured. I’m hovering above the water, ready to disconnect at a moment’s notice. Adrenaline is pumping through my veins, worried about an explosion that could and will happen. The fuel running in race boats is high octane and highly flammable. My feet hit the water, and it’s time for me to get to work. I disconnect from my line, leaving it swinging in the wind.
My arms pull and push through the water, legs kicking to move as swiftly without using too much of my energy while swimming toward the patient. The ocean isn’t for the weak, that’s for sure. I’m a few feet away when I notice the man is still face down, completely unconscious. The lack of oxygen has me kicking into high gear until I get to him, immediately flipping him onto his back while treading water.
“If you can hear me, this is Griff Hawkins,” I tell the racer even though I know he’s down for the count. Blood is gushing from his face. My hand goes to his neck, feeling for a pulse while I wait for Smith to bring the basket down. That’s how it goes—you lower the medic, disconnect, bring the line back up, and hook the basket in, and then the racer is lifted. Another boat will come around and pick me up while they assess the patient in whether he can be taken care of by the crew or needs to be flown to a hospital. What feels like a lifetime later, I see the basket being lowered from the helicopter. Too fucking long, which means these asshats aren’t on their A-game.
“I’m going to lift you in the basket,” I tell my patient, who has a thready heart rate and shallow breathing. Most of the time, there’d be another guy in the water with me, but since there’s another racer who needed help, it meant going solo. I swim the short distance to the basket, one arm around the patient, my lightweight life jacket allowing me to work easily.
“We’re going to take good care of you, buddy,” I tell him. His eyes still aren’t open, and it doesn’t take me long to hoist him into the basket before lifting myself up. Only things don’t go as planned. I’m almost in when the helicopter dips. I look up, unable to use my comm at the moment. I wouldn’t be able to hear them, and they wouldn’t be able to hear me over the blades. Another dip occurs, and the grasp I have on the basket is lost. I’m a tangle of limbs trying to keep the patient steady while maintaining my own balance, but it’s too fucking late. A tailspin happens, I’m falling backwards, and instead of holding on, I let go, unwilling to let the patient feel anything more than he already has. Karma or luck, whatever the fickle bitch wants to be, is not on my side. The basket comes charging back at me, and I’ve got barely enough time to get my face out of the way. My shoulder takes the brunt of the weight, and then I’m going down.