Page 60 of The Captain
26
JACOB
The Coast Guard helicopter was waiting in a park a short walk from Camille’s bungalow, its rotors still, the orange and white paint glinting under the late morning sun. The Dane revelation was still humming under my skin. My confidence was climbing, a steady burn that felt like slipping back into my old self, the Marine who could lock on a target and not blink.
Camille walked beside me, her braid tight, her eyes sharp despite the exhaustion still clinging to her. We were headed for answers, and I was ready to tear them out of the ocean, if I had to.
The park was a grassy patch near the marina, the Ashley River glinting in the distance. A few gawkers—tourists with phones, a jogger slowing to stare—lingered at the edges, but Coast Guard choppers were a familiar sight in Charleston. Nobody got too excited.
The crew chief—same grizzled guy who’d pulled me from the deep twice now—leaned against the helo, his arms crossed, a smirk already forming. The diver stood nearby, mask danglingfrom his belt, his grin just as sharp. The female pilot, with short-cropped hair and aviators, was checking something over the shoulder of her co-pilot on the cockpit panel but glanced up as we approached.
“Fellas,” I said, nodding to them. “This is Dr. Camille Allard. Camille, meet the crew who keep dragging me out of trouble.”
The chief snorted, spitting a stream of tobacco juice into a bottle.
“Bad company you’re keeping, Doc,” he said, eyeing me. “This jarhead’s more trouble than he’s worth.”
The diver laughed, clapping my shoulder. “Yeah, but he’s buying us a night out, so we tolerate him.”
Camille raised a brow, her lips twitching. “He’s good for something, then.”
I grinned, the banter grounding me, my confidence spiking higher. “Speaking of that night out,” I said, leaning in like I was letting them in on a secret. “How’s a yacht sound instead? Big enough for the whole crew and then some.”
That got their attention. The chief’s smirk froze, the diver’s jaw dropped, and the pilot poked her head out of the cockpit, aviators sliding down her nose.
“A yacht?” she said, her voice all business but her eyes glinting. “You still owe us for hauling your ass out of the water, Captain. Don’t think you can bribe your way out of it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, my grin widening. “Consider it a bonus.”
The chief shook his head, chuckling. “Good call dragging you out of the deep, jarhead. You’re starting to grow on me.”
We climbed aboard, Camille settling beside me, her knee brushing mine as we strapped in. The crew handed us headsets, the familiar hum of the helo’s systems kicking in.
As the rotors spun up, the pilot’s voice crackled through. “Don’t forget, Captain, you’re buying the top-shelf stuff. None of that cheap swill you Marines love.”
I laughed, the sound swallowed by the roar as we lifted off. I glanced at Camille, her face set, her eyes scanning the horizon through the window. She was all in, and so was I.
Once we were airborne, the chief leaned forward, his voice clear through the headsets.
“All right, Doc, here’s the deal. We see funny shit out here sometimes. Usually it’s nothing—rare school of fish, some biker gang tearing down the coast on jet skis, acting like they own the ocean. But lately, we’ve been putting pieces together. Stuff that don’t add up.”
The diver nodded, his face serious now. “Heard about the Navy getting their panties in a wad over you, Doc. Word’s out you’re sniffing around their business. Sonar, anomalies, that kind of thing. Then we heard about the beachings piling up.”
Camille’s eyes sharpened, her body leaning forward. “What do you know?” she asked, her voice steady but hungry, like she could already smell the truth.
The chief shrugged, his grin fading. “Not enough to go up our chain of command. Not yet. But when we heard your boy here was linking up with you, we figured we’d take a swing. Show you something.”
“Show me?” Camille said, her tone all business. “What do you think’s going on?”
The chief shook his head. “Better to see it than guess. Water’s clear as it gets today. Perfect conditions.”
The pilot chimed in, her voice cutting through the static. “Doc, you got a hunch where these anomalies are hitting? Specific stretch of coast?”
Camille didn’t hesitate. “The Charleston Harbor Approach Channel, between the jetties and the outer sandbars. Data shows traffic there, but no clear pattern on the source.”
The crew exchanged looks, nods passing between them like they’d just confirmed something. The chief’s grin returned, sharp and knowing. “Knew you’d have it dialed in, Doc.”
The helo banked, the coastline unspooling below us, a patchwork of marsh and sandbars guarding the Lowcountry. We flew over the Charleston Harbor Approach Channel, the narrow stretch where ships funneled in and out. The water was clear—not Bali clear, but as good as the East Coast gets, the sandbars and channels sharp against the blue-green depths. My confidence surged, a familiar edge from ops where every detail mattered. I was locked in, ready to see whatever they were about to show us.
