His To Protect

Exhaust fuel permeated the waterlogged air when more engines fired to life around them. His gaze swept over her as she huddled in the group, her arms crossed, shoulders folding in. The thin, dirty light revealed the purple shadows under her eyes. Shadows he was responsible for.

Did she regret last night? She’d seemed as satisfied as him when they’d parted. Still, the pain he’d noticed in the bar shimmered around her now. Gone was the passionate woman who’d rocked his world.

The redhead beside her finished her introduction and turned, giving the floor to Cassie.

“I’m Cassie Rowe, RN American Red Cross, Greater Idaho,” she said, voice ragged. She hit him with a stare like a threat.

“First timer!” proclaimed the woman next to Cassie and a smattering of cheers and claps rose.

“Getting her dollar ride,” one of his crew put in.

Rowe. The name backhanded him like a slap from his old man.

Jeff’s last name. And hadn’t he been from the Midwest? Mark’s brain buzzed, his nervous system flashing warnings brighter than any heads-up display on a flight screen. He tried recalling the names he’d written on the card to Jeff’s family.

There was definitely a sister.

Outside, the light shower turned into thick, clammy rain. When the group turned his way, he automatically waved them on board, a buzzing in his ears. Time to leave. He had less than five minutes before takeoff. But he had to know.

He tipped his hat to each of the members when they clambered on board, then pulled Cassie aside. She jerked her elbow free and examined him with flat eyes that sucked in everything and emitted nothing.

“Cassie—”

The rain blew against them, shifting, and an engine whined loud as another plane took off.

She put up a hand and backed away, her eyes overbright. “No. I can’t—” She stared around her, dazed, then tossed her duffel bag into the cabin, bounded by him and hauled herself inside the helicopter.

Damn.

“Yo! Time’s up, Commander,” called Robert through the open cockpit door.

“Got it.”

He climbed into his seat, donned his helmet and strapped himself in. Robert shot Mark a questioning look, which he ignored as he compartmentalized and began the familiar start-up routines. Didn’t Cassie’s last name trip a signal in anyone else’s mind from his crew? His hand fisted in his lap while Robert moved the battery switch to On, flipped on the APU and checked through the hydraulic systems. Mark fired up the engines and the rotors whirred to life, the blades slicing through the fog rolling in off the bay.

After cross-checking his engine and system instruments against his start checklist, he tuned up the ground frequency and waited for a break in the chatter to request taxi clearance.

Something skimmed across Mark’s mind. Cassie’s eyes. Same color as Jeff’s. Then there was his old crewmate’s leave request for a sister graduating nursing school.

Cold sweat popped on his brow.

Shit.

“She’s Jeff’s sister,” he murmured under his breath, his voice ragged.

His shoulders tightened. Not the right time to dwell on this. But holy hell. Given her reaction, she’d realized who he was, too.

Her parents blamed him for Jeff’s death. No doubt Cassie did, as well.

And how could he fault her? He hadn’t stopped blaming himself.

He squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out the riot of thought and focused, drawing on his training. He was supposed to be putting this shit behind him. He’d sworn up and down to the military docs that he could handle flying.

That meant he would damn well get this bird in the air and put the mission first.

When the ground control conversation ended, he slowed his breathing. “St. Pete ground, Coast Guard 6039, IFR Clearance on request.”

The controller’s voice sounded through his headset. “Roger, Coast Guard 6039. Stand by.”

While Mark waited for final verification of his international flight plan, he continued down his checklist, the clipboard balanced on his knees.

After a minute, his headphones crackled. “Coast Guard 6039, St. Pete ground. Cleared to the Nassau MYNN Airport as filed. On departure fly heading three-five-zero, climb and maintain sixteen hundred feet, expect three thousand ten minutes after departure. Departure frequency 121.5. Squawk 0105.”

Mark nodded to Rob, who jotted down the information as Mark repeated it verbatim to the controller.

“Read back correct. Advise when ready for taxi,” the controller replied then tuned out.

After ticking off the last item on his checklist, Mark returned to the top and verified it all again. This liftoff would be textbook; Cassie wouldn’t rattle him.

Rob pointed at the timer, moved his finger in a clockwise motion and raised an eyebrow. Right. Too much delay. Mark slipped the board by the side of his seat and called on the designated frequency.

“St. Pete ground, Coast Guard 6039 at the Coast Guard ramp with information Alpha, IFR to Nassau, ready to taxi.”

Rain streaked down the helicopter’s windshield and the air inside the narrow cockpit was humid. Despite his turning up the ventilation, sweat pooled at the base of his neck and trickled down his back.

“Roger, Coast Guard 6039. Taxi through the back door to Runway 36L, hold short at Alpha.”

Mark pulled up the collective and pushed forward on the cyclic. When they reached five miles per hour, he pressed on the brake and the helicopter jerked to a quick, satisfying halt.

He accelerated again, hoping he hadn’t scared anyone with the brake check. Hadn’t flustered Cassie. “Everyone all set in back?” he asked into his mic through the ICS. An image of Cassie buckled into one of the seats twisted his gut. Jeff had sat back there once, too, secure and certain of his safety, a brother of the fin—as the air and sea rescuers called themselves—family, yet Mark had let him down.

Technically, a weakened cable and low fuel had been blamed for the accident, but Mark knew better. Most nights when he closed his eyes the fatal incident played out in vivid detail, making sleep impossible. It was why he’d been at the bar last night. Why he’d told Cassie he wouldn’t make for good company.

A year ago he’d been at the peak of his career. An aircraft commander, instructor pilot, flight examiner, and decorated search and rescue pilot with a spotless record. A man who embodied his profession’s motto: “So others may live.” After he’d been forced to make a decision that had cost a crew member’s life, however, his faith in himself had been shattered.

For most of his life, he’d strived to differentiate himself from his incarcerated father. To prove that he could be one of the good guys. He’d joined the Coast Guard to become that hero, to save others. Some hero he’d turned out to be. Losing a member of his crew had wrecked him.

He’d come back to justify the military’s faith in him. To prove himself again.

“Roger, Commander.” Larry’s response sounded in his ear after some static, the loud whirring snuffing out every other sound.

The Jayhawk’s wheels rolled smoothly as he taxied to the runway, halted on the hold short line and tuned into the designated channel.

“St. Pete tower, Coast Guard 6039, hold short Alpha.”

“Coast Guard 6039, position and hold. Waiting for traffic to clear.”

Mark watched a Herc roll ahead of him, the long-range surveillance plane’s four propellers whirling. The HC-130H was the oldest model in the fleet, but rescue ready and part of the massive response Clearwater mounted for the storm’s aftermath now that it was safe to approach. Would it perform as expected? Would he?