Chapter 8 - The Call to Duty
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The drive toward Route 17 was a violent baptism of mud, wind, and torrential darkness.
Bull’s heavy-duty diesel truck led the convoy, its massive all-terrain tires chewing through the rising sheets of water.
Pete followed directly behind in his flatbed truck, with me riding shotgun and monitoring the tactical radio scanner.
The radio chatter between the local county dispatchers was a chorus of sheer, unadulterated chaos.
"Dispatch, this is Unit Four, we are turned around at the junction!" a frantic voice crackled over the speaker.
"A five-hundred-year-old oak tree has severed both lanes of traffic and brought down three high-voltage power poles."
"We cannot pass with the rescue boat!"
"Repeat, we cannot reach the bridge from the south!"
I snatched the civilian CB mic mounted on Pete's dashboard.
"Dispatch, this is a volunteer rescue element approaching from the south end of Old Mill Creek," I broadcasted firmly.
"We have nine active-duty personnel on scene with heavy winches and rigging gear."
"We are moving to effect immediate extraction."
"Unit... unit claiming rescue, who is this?" the dispatcher responded, her voice trembling with relief and confusion.
"Valkyrie-Actual," I answered coldly.
"Clear the channel and coordinate emergency medical units to stage at the north intersection."
We crested the hill, and the full horror of the disaster unfolded before our headlights.
The ancient concrete culvert on Route 17 had completely collapsed under the sheer pressure of the flash flood.
A raging torrent of chocolate-brown, debris-strewn water was roaring through the canyon at thirty miles per hour.
The small transit bus was pinned against the remaining concrete pillar at a sickening forty-five-degree angle.
The front windshield was completely smashed inward by a floating telephone pole.
Water was pouring through the passenger cabin, and the rear wheels were suspended precariously over the deep main river channel.
Inside the bus, a middle-aged woman was holding two small children up against the emergency roof hatch.
Downstream, a silver sedan was already submerged to its roofline, its hazard lights blinking dimly beneath the churning current.
"Holy Mother of God," Pete breathed, slamming the truck into park.
Bull leaped out of his pickup before the tires had even stopped spinning, his combat boots hitting the flooded asphalt.
His Marines formed up around him instantly, ignoring the freezing rain that was drenching them to the bone.
"Miller! Hook our front winch directly to that reinforced steel guardrail anchor!" Bull commanded over the roar of the river.
"Sanchez, secure Pete's flatbed to that ancient pine tree as our secondary deadman's brake!"
"Commander Kaine, what is your plan?" Bull asked, turning to me for immediate orders.
I evaluated the structural integrity of the wreckage in five seconds of calculated tactical appraisal.
"The bus will roll into the main river channel the moment the retaining pillar fractures," I told him.
"We have less than eight minutes before the concrete foundation shears completely."
"I am going into the water with the primary extraction harness."
"Bull, you are my primary anchor."
Bull looked at me, a profound mixture of terror and determination blazing in his chest.
May you like
"I won't let you fall, Commander," Bull said with fierce conviction.
"I swear it on my life."
