Page 97 of Pull Me Under

‘Shite,’ Cal says flatly. ‘Maybe fifty metres. We’ll be running on radar until we’re on top of them.’

Fifty metres. In conditions like this, that’s nothing. That’s a single wave between seeing them and missing them entirely.

‘There.’ Bill’s voice, sharp. ‘Two o’clock. I’ve got a light.’

I strain to see through the spray. Nothing. Nothing. And then – a flash. Weak, wavering, but unmistakable against the black.

‘Visual confirmed,’ Cal calls. ‘All hands, prepare for approach. This is going to be rough.’

Rough.

That’s one word for it.

The yacht appears out of the darkness like a ghost – white hull stark against the water, listing badly to port, waves breaking over the deck. Three figures are huddled near the mast, their emergency light swinging wildly with each swell.

‘Jesus,’ Tom breathes.

The yacht is taking on water. I can see it in the way she sits, the sluggish resistance when the waves hit. She’s not going to last much longer.

‘Deploying Y-boat,’ Cal orders. ‘Jude, Tom – you’re in. Bill manage the tether. Brynn, you’re on deck recovery. The second they bring someone to the rail, you get them aboard. Clear?’

‘Clear,’ I say, and my voice doesn’t shake.

Small victories.

The next twenty minutes are chaos and precision in equal measure.

The Y-boat – the small inflatable we use for close-quarters rescue – launches into the swell with Jude and Tom aboard. I watch them disappear into the spray, my heart lodged somewhere in my throat, and force myself to focus on what I can control.

The rail. The recovery line. The space where casualties will appear, God willing, alive and whole.

The first one comes over the side gasping and crying – a woman, maybe fifty, her life jacket askew and her eyes wild with terror. I grab her under the arms, haul her onto the deck, and guide her toward the cabin where it’s marginally warmer.

‘You’re safe,’ I tell her. ‘You’re on the lifeboat. You’re safe now.’

She clutches my arm like I’m the only solid thing in the universe. Maybe, to her, I am.

The second casualty is a man – her husband, I think, from the way he keeps calling her name. He’s heavier, harder to manage, but Bill’s there to help, and together we get him aboard and settled.

‘One more,’ Cal shouts over the wind. ‘Jude’s going back for the last one.’

I look toward the yacht. The Y-boat is alongside, Jude leaning over the rail, reaching for a figure still clinging to the mast. The yacht’s listing worse now – twenty degrees, maybe more. The mast is almost touching the water.

‘She’s going over,’ Bill shouts. ‘Bloody hell, she’s going over⁠—’

And that’s when I see it.

The Y-boat’s tether line. It’s fouled – tangled with debris from the yacht, a trailing rope that’s wrapped itself around the connection point. The current is pulling, tightening, and the line is going taut in a way that’s wrong, wrong, wrong⁠—

‘JUDE!’ The scream tears out of me, raw and feral. ‘THE LINE⁠—’

He looks up. Sees it. Reaches for his knife⁠—

Too late.

The current surges. The fouled line snaps tight with a sound like a gunshot. The Y-boat jerks violently sideways, and Jude – Jude who was leaning over the rail, off-balance, reaching for the last casualty – goes over.

Into the black.