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The road Tiffany had been following cut back to the west and gave her an unobstructed view across the length of the island. She couldn’t see Smuggler’s Cove yet from where she was, but she was only minutes from descending to the isolated beach. “Thanks, Chief. What’s your current position?”

“We are approaching Scorpion Anchorage now,” he said. “Nothing here but a forty-foot sailboat at anchor. Looks like nobody is aboard.”

Tiffany furrowed her brow. She had met every overnight visitor on the island, and she couldn’t remember anybody coming ashore from a sailboat. But that was a problem for future Tiffany. Present Tiffany was focused on finding the missing hikers. “Copy. Go ahead and circle around to the south side of the island. I’m going to begin my search there.”

She wanted to know if they would send a RHIB ashore with a few Coast Guardsmen to help with the search, but it was too much to ask. So, she kept her mouth shut.

“Blacktip out,” the chief said, ending their communication.

Tiffany reached up and turned on the truck’s headlights, casting a weak beam across the ground before her. Immediately, she saw pairs of glowing orbs hovering over the ground on either side of the road, and she grinned at the critters whose eyes reflected the light back at her. She continued driving onward, and the orbs disappeared as the animals scampered off into the darkness.

Her windows were down, and she enjoyed the cooling ocean air blowing into the stuffy truck’s cab, but she was already looking forward to parking the truck and setting out on foot. With a Navy helicopter offering to help guide her search, she figured she would have the missing hikers in the truck and back at Scorpion Ranch within an hour. Two, tops.

USS Mobile Bay (CG-53)

Even in smooth seas, taking off from a naval vessel while underway was a challenge. As the HAC, Lieutenant Brian Little sat in the right seat and looked to the side at the faint green glow emanating from the thick glass windows of flight deck control, then at the yellow-shirted boatswain’s mate serving as the Landing Signalman Enlisted, or LSE.

He waited until his engines stabilized, then set his external lights to dim flashing while making a circular gesture parallel to the flight deck with a red light in his hand. The LSE responded by rotating a single wand at chest level before the air officer turned on a yellow rotating beacon, authorizing him to engage rotors. Brian did so while completing his final checklist items.

“You guys ready?” he asked, looking to his left at Dillon, who gave him a thumbs-up.

“All set, boss,” AWR1 Rose said over the intercom.

He set his lights to dim steady, then watched as the LSE gave the signal to break him down, directing two blue shirts to approach from either side of the MH-60R and remove the chocks and chains that kept them bound to the flight deck. Once removed, Brian saw a green rotating beacon flash on as the air officer gave the LSE permission to launch.

The yellow wands extended outward and moved in slow arcs above the LSE’s head, and Brian responded by increasing torque and raising the collective to slowly lift his Seahawk into the air over the cruiser’s flight deck. When he had pulled even with the top of the hangar, the LSE gave him a sweeping gesture, and he let the helicopter drift aft over the ship’s wake.

She extended both wands out to the side, giving him the signal to hover, then swung her left arm in an arc over her head while keeping her right arm steady, pointed to the port side of the ship. He gave a little left pedal, keeping his eyes fixed on the LSE as he pivoted his nose to the left. At last, the LSE gestured for him to depart, and he turned to look through the forward windscreen while pushing forward on the cyclic to fly away from the ship.

“Red Crown, Raptor Two Four is airborne and proceeding north for tasking,” Dillon said over the radio, letting the controllers in the Mobile Bay’s CIC know they were departing station.

“Raptor Two Four, copy. Push Cobalt for tasking.”

“Raptor Two Four,” Dillon replied.

Brian glanced down at his kneeboard card to check the frequency that had been assigned as “Cobalt.” Like most things in the Navy, leadership tended to overcomplicate things for the sake of operational security, even when they were just off the coast of California. He watched Dillon change the radio frequency and verified he had entered it correctly, then returned his focus to the steering cue on his display pointing to the shadow rising out of the ocean in front of them.

“Cutter Blacktip, this is Raptor Two Four,” Dillon said, hailing the Coast Guard vessel that had requested assistance for the search and rescue on Santa Cruz Island.

“Raptor Two Four, this is Chief Romero on Blacktip.”

“We are ten mikes out, request SITREP.”