“I don’t know that either.”

“Well, what do you know?”

Punky wanted to snap at her, I know Rick is dead! But she composed herself and said, “I don’t have much information to go on, but this is time sensitive.”

“What does Rick say?”

Punky felt her throat tightening up again as she thought about Rick and what the Chinese spy had done to him. She was thankful the deputy stopped her before she saw something that would scar her for life, but the wound of his loss was still fresh. She cleared her throat to answer.

“Punky?”

Hearing the nickname brought her anguish roaring back, and she stifled a sob. Rick was the last person she truly cared about, and she would wear his nickname for her as a badge of honor. And a calling card she’d place at TANDY’s feet.

When she answered, her voice was little more than a whisper. “Can you do this for me?”

Margaret sighed again, then reluctantly answered, “Yes. Let me look into it, and I’ll call you back.”

“Thank you, Margaret. I owe you.”

Punky ended the call and selected the intercom to speak with Colt. “I’ve got somebody looking into it.”

“So, where to now?”

“Camarillo,” she replied. “Let’s go see Jug and find out what the hell is going on.”

33

Santa Cruz Island, California

Tiffany tossed her backpack over the side into the pickup truck’s bed, looking west toward the setting sun. It was always peaceful there, but without day-trippers scrambling to and fro over her island paradise, it seemed even more so. Still, she was thankful to have something to do, and she opened the driver’s door and climbed inside, ignoring the aging truck’s squeaking hinges.

Firing up the National Park Service truck, she backed it away from the building, then put it in drive and slowly inched down the hill toward Scorpion Ranch. She couldn’t take the most direct route to Smuggler’s Cove because the trail was too narrow, but she knew the island’s roads intimately and knew the fastest way to get there in the truck.

Smiling and waving at several overnight campers who were walking toward their tents, Tiffany crossed the intersection onto Smuggler’s Road and started ascending the hill in the growing darkness. She had wanted the Coast Guard to send a helicopter to aid in the search, because the island was just too big for one park ranger in a pickup truck, but instead they had sent a cutter from the Ventura Coast Guard station.

Cutters were useful for rescuing lost kayakers and divers with the bends, but she wasn’t sure how they would help her find the missing hikers on land. Still, the added manpower off the coast might eliminate the possibility they had been caught in an undertow and pulled out to sea. That would allow her to focus her search on the island’s interior.

Though the sun was still up, Tiffany knew it wouldn’t be for long. The weather forecast was favorable with clear skies and evening temperatures expected to remain above sixty degrees, so she wasn’t worried about the missing hikers being at risk due to exposure. But that didn’t mean they weren’t in danger.

“Ranger Reid, come in,” squawked the handheld radio resting on the seat next to her.

She picked up the radio, pressed the push-to-talk button, and answered, “Go for Tiffany.”

“Tiffany, this is Chief Romero on Cutter Blacktip.”

Though the pickup truck had four-wheel drive and she felt confident on the island’s roads, she still took care to guide it around the sharp corners as she crested the hill south of Scorpion Ranch. “Hey, Chief, I’m mobile and heading toward Smuggler’s Cove. What’s going on?”

“The Navy has a guided-missile cruiser in the area,” he said. “They are offering to help with the search and rescue.”

First a Coast Guard cutter, now a Navy cruiser?

“No offense, Chief, but what can a guided-missile cruiser do to help us find missing hikers on my island?”

“Well…” Chief Romero paused. “They have an MH-60R Seahawk helicopter with infrared sensors and dedicated search and rescue personnel.”

“Oh!” she replied in surprise. “How soon can they be here?”

Tiffany had grown up in an Army family and knew little of Navy ships or their capabilities. She had always assumed they used their helicopters for ferrying personnel or finding submarines lurking under the waves. She knew they didn’t have attack helicopters like the Apache her Uncle Don had flown, but she should have at least suspected they had some search and rescue capabilities.

“They will launch right around sunset,” the chief replied. “Remain on this channel, and they will contact you once they get airborne.”

“Good copy,” she said.

The chief continued. “You can talk them onto your location and have them search the immediate area. They can direct you to any hot spots they find with their sensors.”