She's been underway maybe ten minutes when it happens.
A flash of light. Bright and sharp against the morning water. Then sound, rolling across the distance like thunder. The boat's stern erupts in flame and debris, the explosion tearing through the engine housing with enough force to lift the bow out of the water.
Time slows. Conditioning kicks in.
I'm already moving before conscious thought catches up, sprinting down the beach toward the point closest to where Fallon's boat is sinking. My phone is in my hand. Emergency call to base security goes through as my feet hit the sand.
"This is Lieutenant Commander Lange. Explosion on civilian research vessel, approximately half-mile offshore from survey point delta. Single operator in water. Dispatching rescue now."
The response crackles through but I'm not listening. Already dropping the phone on dry sand, stripping off my shirt, kicking away my running shoes. The boat is going down fast, stern first, orange flames licking up from what's left of the engine. Black smoke billows across the water.
No sign of Fallon.
The water hits me as I run, full sprint and dive under the first wave. Cold shock slams my system but I push through it, stroking hard toward the sinking boat. My body knows what to do before my mind catches up. SEALs drill water rescue until it's muscle memory.
But muscle memory doesn't account for the visceral urgency of watching someone disappear beneath the surface.
The distance closes with each stroke. Fifty yards. Forty. Thirty. The boat's stern is underwater now, bow pointing almost vertical as the ocean claims it. Debris floats everywhere. Pieces of fiberglass, equipment, papers scattering across the waves. A fuel slick spreads across the surface, rainbow-sheened and reeking of gasoline.
Still no Fallon.
My lungs burn from the sprint and the cold water shock, but I push harder. Twenty yards out, I see her. A flash of orange vest, there and gone beneath a swell. Not moving on her own. Either unconscious or tangled.
I dive.
The water off Virginia in January is cold enough to kill in minutes if you're not prepared. I am prepared. Conditioned for it, ready for it, trained for it. What I'm not prepared for is the jolt of fear that goes through me when I can't immediately locate Fallon in the murky water.
Visibility is maybe six feet. Sediment churned up by the explosion turns everything brown and hazy. I sweep my gaze left, right, down. There. Below me and to the left, sinking slowly. She's caught in a tangle of netting or rope, the orange vest bright against the murk.
I stroke down hard, equalizing pressure in my ears as I descend. Fifteen feet. Twenty. My chest is already tight from the cold and exertion, but I've done this a hundred times in training. Control the breathing. Focus on the target. Execute.
Except training never included watching auburn hair drift in the current like seaweed. Never included the way her body hangs limp and wrong in the water, arms floating loose, head tilted back.
Twenty-five feet. I reach her and immediately assess the situation. She's caught in a cargo net that must have been stored on the boat, the weighted edges pulling her down while the vest tries to bring her up. The result is slow descent toward the bottom. She'll drown long before she reaches it.
The net is wrapped around her torso and right arm, tangled tight enough that I can see it cutting into her skin through the thin fabric of her tank top. Her face is pale, lips already taking on a blue tinge. How long has she been under? Two minutes? Three?
My dive knife comes free from its ankle sheath. I grab the net with my left hand and start cutting with my right, working fast but careful. The rope is thick, industrial-grade, designed to hold hundreds of pounds. Each strand requires multiple sawing motions to sever.
First section falls away. She doesn't move.
Second section. Still nothing.
My lungs are screaming now. Forty-five seconds since I submerged. Maybe a minute. I need to surface soon or I'll be no good to her. But I can't leave her tangled. Can't let her sink deeper.
Third section. The net loosens enough that I can pull it over her head. She starts to drift upward, the vest finally doing its job.
I grab her around the waist and kick hard for the surface, one arm locked around her torso while the other strokes upward. Deadweight in my arms. Completely unresponsive. The vest helps but she's heavier than she looks, all that muscle under soft curves making her dense in the water.
My vision is starting to tunnel when we break the surface. I gasp air, shake water from my eyes, and immediately tilt her head back to clear her airway. No breathing. No coughing. Nothing.
Wade's face flashes through my mind. Eyes open and empty when they pulled him from the kelp. Too long. Too late.
Not this time.
I position Fallon so her head stays above water, pinch her nose, seal my mouth over hers, and deliver two quick breaths. Her chest rises. Good seal. But she still doesn't respond.
Shore is too far. At least two hundred yards. I need to get air into her now.
