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By Alex Kava

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That was two years ago—just enough time for her father to arrange things so that only he could find them. She’d moved back in temporarily only because the housing she was promised with her transfer wouldn’t be available for two months. Now searching for the toaster she wondered if she’d last that long. She turned up the radio for the local weather report. “Hurricane Isaac is expected to slam into the western side of Cuba today. Last night it bulldozed over Grand Cayman, flooding homes, ripping off roofs, and toppling trees.

Move them inland to the Naval Hospital instead of keeping them here right on the bay. ” Finally they arrived at another door, another security keypad. Ganz went through the same process again, but when the locks clicked this time he pulled the door open just a few inches and stopped, turning back to look Platt in the eyes. “Within a week, four, five days, the blood pressure plunges. The heart starts racing. It’s like the body is struggling to get oxygen. They slip into a coma. Organs rapidly begin to shut down.

She fingered strands of her hair back under her surf cap and strapped on her lightweight Seda helmet. She attached the gunner’s belt to her harness, positioned the quick strop over her shoulders, made sure to keep the friction slide close to the hoist hook. Finished, she moved to the door of the helicopter, squatted in position, and waited for Kesnick’s signal. She couldn’t avoid looking at him. They had done this routine at least half a dozen times since she started at the air station. She suspected that Pete Kesnick treated her no differently than he had been treating rescue swimmers for the last fifteen years of his career as a Coastie flight mechanic and hoist operator.

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