“Shot out!” Reef yelled over the comms. “Bullseye! Falcon’s securing the anchor.”
“Haul away!” Picasso shouted.
Swinging the pilot line, the team on the West Ridge hauled the heavy static rope across the gap. Within minutes, a taut line spanned the roaring river, anchored securely to sturdy trees on both sides.
Picasso immediately began barking instructions, his hands moving with practiced speed. “Alright, Firecracker, let’s rig the Z-drag. We need mechanical advantage on this main line. Grab the large double pulley first, then the two singles.”
Gabriella, though quick-witted, blinked. "Alright, Picasso, slow your roll, Chief. Speak English, not…whatever languagethat was." She rummaged through the gear bag, searching for whatever fit the description since the intricate rope work was clearly outside her usual remit. "You mean the ones with two wheels, then the ones with one?"
"Exactly," Picasso confirmed, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips, though his focus stayed sharp. "The double one first. It’s got two wheels for maximum leverage. Then we need that small loop of cord called the prusik. It grips the main line when we pull, locking off our progress." He demonstrated with a quick hand gesture. "And make sure the carabiners, the oval metal clips, are locked once they're clipped on."
Gabriella found the double pulley, its metal cool against her gloved hands. "Okay, so this clips here?" she asked, holding it up, brows furrowed in concentration.
"Yes. Now thread the main line through it. Good. This first pulley goes at the anchor. Then we’ll run the main line through the double pulley, back to a prusik on the main line itself. Remember, three-to-one advantage. You’re doing fine. Now, pass me that second single pulley."
Working swiftly under Picasso’s clear direction, Gabriella quickly found her rhythm. He showed her the correct knot for the prusik, how to thread the rope for the haul system, and emphasized the crucial points of tension. Her initial uncertainty gave way to sharp focus as she absorbed each step, her movements growing more confident with every piece of gear she handled.
"Rigging secure!" Gabriella called out, locking the final carabiner with a decisive click. Picasso gave a quick, approving nod over her shoulder. "System’s ready. Send the first traveler!"
Picasso grabbed the radio. “Reef, send the gear bag first. We need to test the tension before we put Elias or Martha on this thing.”
“Copy that. Sending a test load. Don’t let it drop in the drink.”
The bag zipped across the line, sagging slightly in the middle but staying well above the raging floodwaters. Picasso caught it, unclipped it and sent the pulley back.
“System is green,” Picasso hollered over the wind. “Send Martha. Put her in the rescue harness with ‘Cane as escort.”
On the far bank, Martha’s wide eyes locked onto Hurricane as he gently secured her into the harness. He moved with calm assurance, clipping himself to the line behind her to control her speed and offer silent comfort. She trembled, clutching her blanket tightly as if it could shield her from the rushing void below.
“Ma’am, just keep your eyes on me,” Hurricane’s voice came through the radio, steady and soothing. “You’re going to fly for a minute, okay?”
Martha’s fingers dug into the fabric, her breath shallow and ragged, but she forced a nod. Her gaze didn’t waver from Hurricane’s face as they pushed off into the churning air.
The pulley whined as they slid out over the void. Below them, the river roared like a freight train, crashing against boulders and sending spray high into the air. Picasso and Gabriella hauled on the control line, hand over hand, battling the friction and gravity to bring them across the sagging midpoint.
"Almost there, Martha!"Gabriella shouted as Picasso leaned over the edge to grab the harness. "We’ve got you!"
With one final heave, Picasso pulled them onto the muddy bank of the lodge. Gabriella immediately unclipped Martha and wrapped her in a dry wool blanket from the porch.
"I’ve got her," Gabriella said, checking the woman’s vitals. "She’s freezing but responsive. Let’s get Elias."
The process repeated, the tension even higher as the wind picked up. Falcon accompanied Elias, the elderly man’s face pale and drawn. He shivered violently, his grip on the harness weak.
“He’s fading, Picasso!” Falcon yelled, their figures dangling forty feet above the raging water. “Hypothermia’s coming on fast!”
“Heave!” Picasso gritted his teeth, digging his boots into the mud as his muscles burned hauling the line. Hurricane joined him on the rope, doubling their strength. Together, they dragged the pair through the air, battling slack until Falcon’s boots finally hit solid ground.
They scrambled to unclasp Elias from the harness.
“Reef, Grizzly, get your asses over here!” Picasso commanded. “Collapse the anchor and come across!”
Once the last two SEALs zipped across the line and landed safely, Picasso finally exhaled. The team was reunited. They hurried the elderly couple inside the lodge.
It was dry. It was safe.
Grizzly and Reef immediately set to work building a fire in the massive stone hearth, while Gabriella laid Elias and Martha on the rug in front of it.
“Martha,” Gabriella said softly, kneeling beside her with the medical kit, “I need to check your blood sugar. I have your insulin ready.”
