“Stop,” Henley barked.
Wyatt leaned, muscles braced to intervene before Henley corrected with practiced taps.
“Kid’s gonna give me gray hair.” Henley shook his head. “Simulated cable foul next run. Let’s see if baby swimmer can keep his lunch down.”
Wyatt stayed silent. He tracked the cable angle, the rebound of the swell, the exact moment Rey cleared the rotor wash—the dozens of places things could break, suffer,die.
Henley hauled Rey inside. “Swimmer recovered. No fatalities except the dummy’s pride.”
Rey coughed seawater. “Did you crank the swell up for me?”
“Pacific did.” Bishop grinned. “Try threatening it next time.”
Wyatt didn’t smile. But the kid hadn’t drowned or dropped the mannequin, so he’d take it.
The radio crackled to life.
“Coast Guard, Coast Guard, this is NORPAC-7. We have a medical emergency. Crew member with severe head trauma. Requesting immediate medevac.”
Wyatt didn’t move, but inside him everything snapped into place.
He keyed the mic. “NORPAC-Seven, this is Coast Guard One-Nine-Zero-Nine. We copy. Send coordinates.”
“We’re at?—”
Static chewed up the rest.
“—forty-seven miles west-northwest of Aurora Cove. LZ is clear. Patient is critical.”
Wyatt pulled the mission map and punched in the coordinates. Twenty minutes out. “NORPAC-Seven, Coast Guard One-Nine-Zero-Nine inbound. ETA twenty. Prep your patient for transport.”
“Copy, Coast Guard. Defense grid has you marked as friendly. You’re clear to approach.”
Bishop wrapped his hand around the cyclic and pushed forward, the nose of the Jayhawk dipping into motion. “Let’s move.”
Wyatt tightened his harness, pulse steadying as the rotors bit harder into the air.
Finally.
Something real.
The weapons platformrose from the ocean. Industrial. Brutal in its bones. Gray steel and antennae arrays bristling like spines. NORPAC-7: North Pacific Defense Station Seven. Missile interceptors aimed at the sky, ready for the threat that hopefully would never come.
Bishop brought them in smooth, rotors kicking up spray across the helipad. The skids touched down with barely a shudder.
“Nice,” Wyatt said.
“I know.” Bishop cranked an eyebrow at him.
Henley slid the cabin door open. Cold air blasted in. “Let’s move, kid. They said critical.”
Rey grabbed the med bag and jumped out first. Henley followed. They ran toward a group of station personnel clustered near the tower entrance. An older guy with a graying beard waved them over.
Wyatt stayed in the bird with Bishop. Standard procedure. He scanned the platform. Elevated pad. Railings around the perimeter. Wind cutting sideways. Workers in coveralls moving between units.
His gaze landed on a young tech near the south railing. Mid-twenties. Alone. Frozen.
The kid stood still, eyes down, shoulders tight—the way people stood when attention could get them killed.
