begun to scar over, he had found himself possessed by darker thoughts, thoughts of the randomness of fate. It wasn’t a matter of injustice or unfairnesshe had never thought of life as fair or unfair; it simply was. But fate was capricious. They were not immortal; nothing was forever.
He had become plagued by the emptiness of his life, the lack of focus. He had done many things, but to no purpose.
He had an image of himself as a steel ball on a pinball machine, popping in and out of one hole after another, going nowhere.
The navy had given him the best billet available, a two-year tour in Bermudasunny, comfortable, undemanding and only two hours from the U.S. mainland. Quiet, however, was not what Sharp needed. He needed action, but now action alone wasn’t enough: There had to be a point, a purpose to it.
In Bermuda, he had found nothing much to do except shuffle papers and occasionally fly around in a helicopter and hope that someone needed rescuing.
From time to time, he thought of quitting the navy, but he had no idea what he would do. Civilian life had few slots for helicopter pilots expert in blowing up bridges.
Meanwhile, he volunteered for any task that would keep his mind off himself.
He was heading northwest now, intending to set a search pattern from the northwest to the north to the northeast and then the east, all on the north side of the island. He turned his UHF radio to 243.0 and his VHF to 121.5, the two frequencies over which emergency equipment broadcast. He flew at five hundred feet.
Six miles off the island, where the reefs ended and the water changed from dappled turquoise to deep cerulean, he heard a beepvery faint, very distant, but persistent. He looked at the copilot, tapped his earphones, and the copilot nodded and gave him a thumbs-up sign. Sharp scanned his instruments, turning the helicopter slowly from side to side until he found the direction in which the beeping from his radio direction finder was loudest. He took a bearing from the compass.
Then a voice came over his marine radio.
“Huey One … Huey One … Huey One … this is Privateer … come back.”
“Privateer … Huey One …” Sharp smiled. “Hey, Whip … where you at?”
“Right underneath you, lad. Don’t you keep your eyes on the road?”
“Had my eyes on the future.”
“Going for an outing?”
“B.A. pilot picked up an EPIRB signal a while ago. You hear anything?”
“Not a peep. How far out?”
“Ten, fifteen miles. I’ve got it on one-twenty-one-five now. Whatever it is, northwest wind’s pushing it back this way.”
“Maybe I’ll chase your wake.”
Sharp hesitated, then said, “Okay, do that, Whip. Who knows? Might use your help.”
“Done and done, Marcus. Privateer standing by.”
Good, Sharp thought. If there was a boat sinking out there, Whip would arrive a lot faster than any vessel summoned from the base. If it was an abandoned boat, a lifeboat, say, SOP would call for him to put a diver down to investigate. The weather was decent, but putting a diver down from a helicopter in the open ocean under any conditions involved risk. He wouldn’t hesitate to go himself, but he didn’t relish putting a nineteen-year-old down into the sea all alone. Whip could check it out for him while he went in search of floaters. If they found people, alive or dead, he’d have to put the diver down, and he wanted the boy to be fresh.
Besides, maybe there’d be something worthwhile for Whip if nobody claimed it. A raft. A radio. A flare gun. Something worth selling or using, something to get Whip money or save him money. And Sharp knew Whip needed it.
Besides, Sharp thought, I owe him one.
One? Hell, he owed Whip Darling about a hundred.
Whip had saved Sharp’s sanity, at a time when there was a better-than-even chance of his becoming a blob, an addict of entertainments like Surf Nazis Must Die and Amazon Women on the Moon. His weekends had become unbearable. He had dived with every
He had become plagued by the emptiness of his life, the lack of focus. He had done many things, but to no purpose.
He had an image of himself as a steel ball on a pinball machine, popping in and out of one hole after another, going nowhere.
The navy had given him the best billet available, a two-year tour in Bermudasunny, comfortable, undemanding and only two hours from the U.S. mainland. Quiet, however, was not what Sharp needed. He needed action, but now action alone wasn’t enough: There had to be a point, a purpose to it.
In Bermuda, he had found nothing much to do except shuffle papers and occasionally fly around in a helicopter and hope that someone needed rescuing.
From time to time, he thought of quitting the navy, but he had no idea what he would do. Civilian life had few slots for helicopter pilots expert in blowing up bridges.
Meanwhile, he volunteered for any task that would keep his mind off himself.
He was heading northwest now, intending to set a search pattern from the northwest to the north to the northeast and then the east, all on the north side of the island. He turned his UHF radio to 243.0 and his VHF to 121.5, the two frequencies over which emergency equipment broadcast. He flew at five hundred feet.
Six miles off the island, where the reefs ended and the water changed from dappled turquoise to deep cerulean, he heard a beepvery faint, very distant, but persistent. He looked at the copilot, tapped his earphones, and the copilot nodded and gave him a thumbs-up sign. Sharp scanned his instruments, turning the helicopter slowly from side to side until he found the direction in which the beeping from his radio direction finder was loudest. He took a bearing from the compass.
Then a voice came over his marine radio.
“Huey One … Huey One … Huey One … this is Privateer … come back.”
“Privateer … Huey One …” Sharp smiled. “Hey, Whip … where you at?”
“Right underneath you, lad. Don’t you keep your eyes on the road?”
“Had my eyes on the future.”
“Going for an outing?”
“B.A. pilot picked up an EPIRB signal a while ago. You hear anything?”
“Not a peep. How far out?”
“Ten, fifteen miles. I’ve got it on one-twenty-one-five now. Whatever it is, northwest wind’s pushing it back this way.”
“Maybe I’ll chase your wake.”
Sharp hesitated, then said, “Okay, do that, Whip. Who knows? Might use your help.”
“Done and done, Marcus. Privateer standing by.”
Good, Sharp thought. If there was a boat sinking out there, Whip would arrive a lot faster than any vessel summoned from the base. If it was an abandoned boat, a lifeboat, say, SOP would call for him to put a diver down to investigate. The weather was decent, but putting a diver down from a helicopter in the open ocean under any conditions involved risk. He wouldn’t hesitate to go himself, but he didn’t relish putting a nineteen-year-old down into the sea all alone. Whip could check it out for him while he went in search of floaters. If they found people, alive or dead, he’d have to put the diver down, and he wanted the boy to be fresh.
Besides, maybe there’d be something worthwhile for Whip if nobody claimed it. A raft. A radio. A flare gun. Something worth selling or using, something to get Whip money or save him money. And Sharp knew Whip needed it.
Besides, Sharp thought, I owe him one.
One? Hell, he owed Whip Darling about a hundred.
Whip had saved Sharp’s sanity, at a time when there was a better-than-even chance of his becoming a blob, an addict of entertainments like Surf Nazis Must Die and Amazon Women on the Moon. His weekends had become unbearable. He had dived with every
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