The Blue Ridge Mountains were dissolving under the assault of the storm. From the makeshift command center established on a plateau on the East Ridge, Picasso stared through high-powered binoculars at the chaos below. Two miles away, on the opposing West Ridge, the rest of his team was battling the elements.
Between them lay the gorge which was usually a scenic ravine with a babbling brook, now a violent gash in the earth filled by a raging torrent of brown water, churning with uprooted trees and debris.
Picasso keyed his radio. “Grizzly, sitrep.”
Grizzly’s voice crackled through the static, sounding breathless. “We’ve got the package. Elias and Martha are secured, but the terrain is giving way. We’re cut off. The creek is impassable, Chief. It’s a Class V washing machine down there. With all the debris in the water, there is no way to swim across with them.”
Picasso scanned the map spread out on the hood of the command truck. The team was trapped on the West Ridge. There was a stone hunting lodge on the East Ridge, directly across the gorge from where the team was stranded.
“Hold your position,” Picasso ordered, his mind racing. “Don’t enter the water.”
Gabriella was already looking at the topo map, tracing a finger along a muddy logging road. “Picasso, look. This trail runs from here to that lodge on the cliff edge. It’s about two miles. If we take the ATV, we can get there.”
Picasso leaned over her shoulder, studying the contours. “It puts us right across the gorge from them. Good catch. But that doesn’t solve the gap. We can’t fly a bridge over to them.”
Just as he made the joke, a thought came to him.Do we have the equipment needed?
Gabriella looked up at him, her brow furrowed in concentration. “We just need to get the couple across without putting them in that water. Can the guys carry them if we find a shallower crossing upstream?”
“No time,” Picasso said, shaking his head. He walked to the back of the truck, mumbling under his breath about carabiners and pulleys, his eyes scanning the equipment loadout. “And upstream looks worse. We need to gooverthe water.”
He grabbed a heavy black duffel bag and a pneumatic line gun case from the truck bed. His voice dropped into the familiar, focused tone he used when a plan locked into place. “We’re going to shoot a line. I’ll rig a highline system, anchor on our side, anchor on theirs. We can pulley them across the gorge, straight to the lodge.”
Gabriella’s eyes widened slightly as she understood. “Like a zip line?”
“Basically,” Picasso said, checking the pressure gauge on the line gun. “But controlled. We haul them across. It’s the only way to keep them dry and stable.”
Picasso keyed his comms, “Hang tight Grizzly, looks like we are flying a bridge over to you.”
“Okay,” Gabriella said, grabbing the medical bag and strapping it to the ATV rack. “I’ll navigate. You drive. Let’s go.”
Picasso grinned, the tension in his chest loosening just a fraction as the plan solidified. He grabbed his phone and put a quick call through to Tex. before he could say anything, Tex’s voice rumbled, “Y’all out playin’ in the rain and makin’ mudpies?”
“I will never understand how you always know exactly what’s going on when we call you. But, no time now to figure it out. I called to get some weather details.” Picasso explained briefly what they were attempting.
Tex’s voice cut through the clatter of typing. “Picasso, this ain’t just some system acting up, this here’s Hurricane Peggy givin’ us her farewell hootenanny, and she’s mighty determined to go out with a bang you won’t forget. My models show wind speeds doubling in twenty minutes, localized microburst potential. If you’re going to rig a line across that gorge, you need to do it now before the crosswinds turn your guys into kites.”
“Copy that, Tex!” Picasso snapped as he grabbed the gear and jumped on the ATV. “Twenty minutes. We’re moving.”
Picasso and Gabriella wasted no time. The ATV was loaded with heavy static ropes, harnesses, a line gun, and a breakdown litter. Picasso straddled the driver’s seat, Gabriella hopping on behind him, her arms locking tight around his waist.
“Hang on, Firecracker,” he yelled over the roar of the engine. “This is going to get dirty.”
Gabriella grinned against the wind and shot back, “Dirty’s my middle name. just try to keep up, Picasso!”
He gunned the throttle, and the ATV tore off into the mud. The ride was a bone-jarring sprint against time. Mud rooster-tailed behind them as Picasso wrestled the machine through washouts and over slick rock faces. Branches whipped againsttheir helmets. the rain came down in blinding sheets, but they didn’t slow down.
Fifteen minutes later, they skidded to a halt in front of the lodge, a sturdy timber and stone structure perched on the edge of the ravine.
Picasso jumped off and ran to the cliff edge, peering through the rain. Across the churning white water, about sixty yards away, six people huddled together on the opposite bank.
He keyed his radio. “Grizzly, look up. East Ridge. Twelve o’clock high.”
On the other side, Falcon waved a glow stick. “We see you, Chief. Looks like a nice dry hotel you got there. We’re a little jealous.”
“Room service is coming,” Picasso yelled back. “Stand by for line deployment. Keep your heads down.”
Gabriella handed him the pneumatic line gun. Picasso braced himself against a sturdy oak tree, aimed for a thick trunk high on the bank above the team, and pulled the trigger. With a sharp crack, the projectile soared across the ravine, trailing a thin pilot line behind it.
