The Commander Asked the Homeless Veteran's Rank as a Joke — Then 'Major General' Made Him Freeze
Chapter 8
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He watched the satellite feed, watched the helicopter icon merge with Mitchell's position. "Now, Torres! Drop your rescue swimmer now!"There was a splash. The rescue swimmer, Petty Officer Drake, hit the water and swam toward Mitchell with powerful strokes.Forty seconds later:"I've got him! He's conscious! Pulling him to the basket!"One down. Two to go. And the storm was 30 minutes out.Marcus switched channels. "Rodriguez, I'm sending you coordinates for Pilot Two, Lieutenant Sarah Grant. Last known position indicates she drifted northeast; current is stronger there, you'll need to search a wider radius."He pulled up drift calculations based on ocean models; numbers flooded his screen. He filtered through them with the speed of someone who'd done this so many times it was muscle memory. "Coordinates: 33° 25' North, 120° 48' West. Begin search pattern Delta. Fly low, use thermal imaging; she might be hypothermic already."Rodriguez acknowledged and banked his Seahawk toward the new coordinates.In the hangar, Winters was monitoring fuel levels; Chen was coordinating with medical teams back at base; Foster was recording everything for the post-mission report. And Callahan stood alone in the corner, watching the man he'd humiliated orchestrate a mission that would be studied in naval academies for years.Fifteen minutes passed. Rodriguez's helicopter circled the search area. Thermal cameras scanned the water. Nothing.Marcus felt the familiar cold dread creeping into his chest. This was Helmand Province again. This was the moment when everything went wrong, when his calculations failed and people died. He fought the panic. Forced himself to breathe."Rodriguez, expand search radius by 200 meters. She might have drifted faster than the model predicted.""Copy. Expanding search."Another five minutes. The storm was 15 minutes out now; they were running out of time.Marcus stared at the screen, at the currents, at the wind data. Something was wrong with his calculations—some variable he'd missed. Then he saw it: a shipping lane. Automated cargo ships had passed through this area six hours ago; their wake would have created secondary currents.He recalculated. "Rodriguez, new coordinates: 33° 27' North, 120° 51' West. She drifted farther east than expected."Rodriguez's helicopter banked hard. Thirty seconds later:"I've got something! Thermal hit! Moving to investigate!"A pause that felt like an eternity. Then:"It's her! She's alive! Deploying rescue swimmer!"Two down. One to go.And the storm arrived.Rain began hammering the helicopters; wind gusts hit 40 knots; visibility dropped to near zero. The third pilot, Lieutenant Commander James Park, was still missing. His last radio transmission had been 23 minutes ago: garbled and weak.Marcus pulled up Park's service record: 51 years old, 28 years of service, veteran of three wars. And now probably dead in the Pacific Ocean because Marcus wasn't fast enough. He couldn't let it happen—not again, not ever again."All birds, this is Reaper. Weather is critical. I'm calling Birds Three and Four into the search. Park's last transmission suggests equipment failure; he might not have a functioning beacon. We're going to have to find him the old way."