Chapter 7 - The Gathering Storm
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The television broadcast displayed live helicopter footage of the storm raging barely three miles north of the bar.
Torrents of muddy, foaming water were violently ripping through the low-lying ravine beneath Route 17.
A small commercial minibus was lodged precariously against the fractured concrete foundation of the old bridge.
The water was already rushing halfway up the vehicle's windows, and the current was visibly shifting the heavy chassis.
Inside, small hands were desperately beating against the reinforced safety glass.
"That's the community transit shuttle," Pete said, his face draining of color as he gripped the bar counter.
"It runs every evening between the senior center and the children's daycare across the county line."
"There are kids on that bus, Alexis."
The weather outside had deteriorated rapidly while we were talking inside the windowless dive.
Heavy rain was now hammering against the corrugated metal roof like a volley of machine-gun rounds.
High-velocity gusts of wind violently rattled the front doors of the tavern.
"County rescue station twelve is completely cut off by the fallen power lines on highway forty," the news anchor continued frantically.
"Sheriff's deputies report that no first-responder assets can reach the bridge for at least forty-five minutes."
"That bus won't last ten minutes in that current," I said, standing up immediately from the booth.
The military instinct that had governed my entire adult life took control of my mind with crystalline precision.
There was no hesitation, no doubt, and no lingering trace of personal discomfort.
I looked down at Bull Crawford, whose eyes were fixed on the television screen in horrified shock.
"Gunnery Sergeant," I commanded, my voice snapping through the room with the force of a whip.
Bull instantly stood up, his spine straightening instinctively to attention.
"Ma'am!"
"Your pity party is officially over," I stated, staring directly into his soul.
"There are civilians dying three miles from where you are standing."
"Are you and your Marines going to sit here crying over spilled whiskey, or are we going to go save some lives?"
Bull’s entire demeanor shifted in a fraction of a second.
The haunted, hollow expression vanished, replaced instantly by the fierce, focused resolve of an elite combat leader.
"Semper Fi, Commander," Bull barked, turning around to face his squad.
"Marines, fall in on me right now!"
All eight young men bolted out of their booths, their expressions hardened into pure determination.
"Miller, grab every heavy-duty ratchet strap and tie-down cord from the back of my truck," Bull ordered smoothly.
"Rodriguez, clear the bed of the pickup and secure the winch hook."
"The rest of you, strip your civilian jackets and prep for cold-water rescue."
"Move, move, move!"
"Aye, Gunny!" the young Marines shouted in unison, bolting through the front doors into the pouring rain.
Pete vanished into his back storage room and emerged seconds later carrying two massive spools of mountaineering rope.
"Three-hundred-foot static lines, rated for five thousand pounds," Pete said, tossing them onto the counter.
"I’ll bring my four-wheel-drive flatbed," Pete added, grabbing his heavy canvas rain slicker.
May you like
"Let's move out," I said, zipping my leather jacket up to my chin.
"We are on the clock."
