Chapter 74 - The Sinking at Minot’s Ledge
Even with the bomb neutralized, the yacht was going down. The mechanical valves Amanda had manually opened before abandoning the vessel were flooding the lower stateroom with hundreds of gallons of freezing North Atlantic seawater every minute.
"Coast Guard Jayhawk chopper is five minutes out!" Harris yelled over the howling wind outside Hanscom. "We're launching the tactical birds from Boston Harbor, but hypothermia will take Jason in less than ten if he goes under."
I looked at Emily. She nodded without hesitation, tucking Leo tightly into his thermal blanket. "Go. End this. Take our family's name back from the mud."
I sprinted toward the tarmac where a black Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk bearing federal insignia was already spinning its dual turbine engines into an ear-splitting howl. Harris climbed into the passenger cabin right behind me, racking the slide of his sidearm.
"You're not federal, Brian," Harris shouted over the deafening rotor wash as we lifted vertically off the wet tarmac, the lights of Boston tilting sharply beneath us. "Technically, you shouldn't be within three miles of this operation."
"Jason is my blood," I shouted back, gripping the heavy nylon webbing of the cabin seat. "He spent his life calling me a failure. If he’s going to survive tonight, I want him to look me in the eye while I pull him out of the grave he dug for himself."
The flight across Massachusetts Bay took seven grueling minutes. Beneath the belly of the helicopter, the Atlantic was a churning cauldron of black, white-capped froth under a driving winter gale. Minot’s Ledge Light swept its rhythmic, lonely beam across the raging breakers.
In the churning trough between two massive swells, the silhouette of an eighty-foot luxury yacht was canted violently to the starboard side. Its bow was pointed straight into the air like a sinking spear, the stern already completely submerged beneath frothing white water.
"There!" the crew chief yelled, pointing a three-million-candlepower searchlight through the open cabin door.
The blinding beam sliced through the freezing spray, pinning the sinking wheelhouse. Inside the safety glass, a man’s face was pressed desperately against the pane—banging his bare, bloody fists against the glass as water surged past his chest.
Jason.
He had managed to slip one arm free from the nylon zip-ties, but his legs were still lashed to the bolted deck chair. The Atlantic was inches away from swallowing his mouth.
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"Lower the hoist!" Harris ordered, but the rescue swimmer was already strapping into his harness.
"The cabin is compromised!" the crew chief shouted back over the intercom. "The rotor wash will capsize the hull if we hover too close! We’ve got one pass before the hull rolls completely!"
