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Chapter 2: The Bloody Transponder

I stared at the crushed, bloody aviator’s helmet resting on my floorboards.

The tiny, bright red emergency light blinked rhythmically in the pitch-black room. It was the only source of light besides the terrifying, violent flashes of lightning outside the window.

My hands began to shake violently. I slowly lowered the heavy, orange marine flare gun and placed it carefully on top of my steel research desk.

I crept out from behind the desk, keeping my eyes locked on the massive, 130-pound Catahoula dog. The beast did not move. It simply stood there, shivering from the freezing wind, its chest heaving. It watched me with a deep, desperate, intelligent intensity.

I knelt down on the wet floorboards. I picked up the heavy helmet.

The tough, carbon-fiber visor was completely shattered. The protective padding inside was soaked in dark, thick blood. On the back of the helmet, stenciled in bold, reflective white letters, were the words: UNITED STATES COAST GUARD – RESCUE SWIMMER.

The horrifying truth hit my brain like a physical punch to the jaw.

A highly specialized Coast Guard rescue chopper had gone down in the massive storm surge. They must have been flying a lethal, zero-visibility mission trying to evacuate stranded locals from the coastal islands when the hurricane changed its path.

The helicopter had crashed into the swamp.

The handler, trapped in the sinking, destroyed wreckage, had done the only thing he could. He had unclipped his K9 partner. He had sent his loyal, highly trained rescue dog out into the churning, debris-filled hurricane to find high ground and signal for help.

I looked up at the massive dog.

The beast took one slow, painful step toward me. It gently pressed its wet, heavy snout directly against my knee. It let out another sharp, heartbreaking whine. It looked at the door. It was asking me to follow.

“You didn’t run away,” I whispered out loud, my voice cracking. “He told you to go find help, and you actually did it.”

My mind raced. I rushed over to my emergency satellite radio mounted on the wall. I grabbed the heavy radio mic and pressed the transmission button.

“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday! This is Dr. Nolan Hayes at the Pelican Point Research Station! I have a downed Coast Guard K9 and an emergency transponder! We have a downed bird in sector four! Does anyone copy?!”

All I heard was loud, aggressive, harsh static. The hurricane had completely knocked out all atmospheric communications.

I looked out the heavily reinforced glass window.

The storm was absolutely catastrophic. No other rescue teams could possibly navigate the flooded, chaotic labyrinth of the swamp in this weather. The roads were under ten feet of water. The Coast Guard cutters could not cross the shallow, jagged debris fields. The other helicopters were grounded by the 140-mph winds.

The handler was trapped out there in the freezing, rising black water. He was entirely alone.

I looked down at the massive, bleeding dog. The loyal animal had swum through a Category 5 hurricane just to bring a beacon to the only dry building for miles.

I am just a scientist. I study fish and algae. I am not a brave, highly trained soldier. I am not a rescue swimmer.

But I looked into the dog’s mismatched, desperate eyes. I could not let that heroic handler die alone in the dark.

I dropped my machete onto the desk.

“Okay,” I said, my voice hardening with a sudden, reckless resolve. “Let’s go get your partner.”

Chapter 3: The Window of Calm

I had a very specific, highly dangerous plan.

I knew I could not drive my boat into 140-mph winds. The wind would instantly flip the hull and kill us both.

But I am a meteorologist by training. I had been tracking the radar closely before the power failed. I knew the exact structure of a Category 5 hurricane.

The storm is a massive, spinning circle of pure violence. But in the very center of that circle is the “eye.” The eye of a hurricane is a pocket of extreme, terrifying low pressure where the wind completely stops, the clouds break, and the air becomes perfectly, eerily still.

I looked at my waterproof tactical watch. It was 3:15 AM.

The violent shrieking of the wind outside suddenly began to change pitch. The walls of my shack stopped shaking. The terrible popping sound of the nails ceased.

The deafening roar slowly faded away, replaced by an unsettling, absolute silence.

The eye of the storm was passing directly over my research outpost.

“We have thirty minutes,” I said out loud, adrenaline pumping through my veins. “Maybe forty-five before the back wall of the hurricane hits us.”

I moved with frantic, practiced efficiency. I grabbed my heavy, waterproof medical trauma kit from the supply closet. I strapped a thick, highly buoyant Coast Guard-approved life vest tightly over my chest. I grabbed two high-lumen, waterproof tactical flashlights and clipped them to my belt.

I pushed the heavy front door open.

The outside world looked like an apocalyptic nightmare. The water was pitch black and completely filled with massive, floating tree trunks, torn roofs, and dead animals. The air was perfectly, weirdly still. Looking straight up into the night sky, I could actually see a few faint, cold stars shining through the clear hole in the clouds. Surrounding that clear hole was a towering, spinning wall of black clouds stretching miles into the atmosphere.

Tied securely to the heavy wooden pilings beneath my deck was my research boat. It was a reinforced, flat-bottomed airboat. It had a massive, cage-enclosed fan engine on the back, designed to glide smoothly over the shallow, grassy swamps without getting a propeller tangled in the weeds.

I climbed down the wooden ladder. The freezing water was already splashing against my knees.

I jumped into the driver’s seat of the airboat. I primed the engine. I turned the ignition key.

The massive fan engine roared to life, vibrating the entire metal hull.

I looked back up at the deck.

The massive Catahoula dog did not hesitate. Despite his bleeding shoulder and exhausted muscles, the beast took a running leap off the wooden deck. He landed heavily in the center of the metal boat with a loud thud.

The dog immediately walked to the very front of the flat bow. He planted his massive paws firmly on the metal. He pointed his nose forward, smelling the damp, salty air. He looked back at me and barked once. A sharp, commanding sound.

He was the navigator. He knew exactly where the crash site was.

“Hold on, buddy!” I yelled over the roar of the massive fan engine.

I pushed the heavy throttle forward. The airboat surged ahead, gliding out over the dark, churning black water, driving straight into the silent, terrifying eye of the hurricane.

Chapter 4: The Flooded Labyrinth

Navigating the flooded swamp in the dark was a slow, terrifying nightmare.

The beautiful, ancient cypress trees that normally lined the marsh were completely submerged. Only the very tops of the massive, jagged tree trunks stuck out above the black water. They looked like the broken teeth of a giant monster.

The dense trees were actually helping us. They acted as a massive natural wall, breaking the choppy, rolling ocean waves that the storm surge had pushed inland. The water in the swamp was eerily flat and covered in a thick layer of floating debris.

I steered the airboat with one hand on the heavy rudder stick, holding a flashlight in my other hand, shining the bright beam across the water to spot floating logs.

If we hit a submerged tree trunk at full speed, the metal boat would rip open and sink instantly.

But I didn’t need the flashlight. I had the dog.

The Catahoula stood perfectly still at the bow of the boat. His sharp, feral instincts were incredible. Whenever we approached a dangerous, submerged obstacle, the massive dog would let out a low, vibrating growl and physically lean his body to the left or right.

I followed his every movement. I steered the airboat exactly where the dog pointed. We wove through the dark, treacherous labyrinth of the swamp with terrifying speed.

We drove for twenty grueling minutes. My watch read 3:35 AM.

The eerie, beautiful silence of the storm’s eye was beginning to end. In the distance, I could hear a low, rumbling roar returning to the atmosphere. The back wall of the hurricane was approaching fast.

Suddenly, the dog let out a sharp, frantic bark. He paced back and forth on the bow, whining loudly.

I pulled back the heavy throttle. The massive fan engine slowed down, the boat gliding to a gentle stop in the middle of a dense grove of broken cypress trees.

I shined my powerful flashlight beam through the darkness.

My stomach dropped.

Chapter 5: The Downed Bird

Resting against the massive, thick trunk of an ancient oak tree, half-submerged in the freezing black water, was a massive United States Coast Guard Jayhawk helicopter.

It was a devastating, horrific scene. The main rotor blades were completely snapped off. The tail boom was twisted and crushed against the tree. The bright white and orange paint was scarred and torn.

The helicopter had crashed nose-first into the shallow swamp mud. The freezing storm surge was slowly rising, filling the heavy metal cabin with black water.

Before the airboat even touched the wreckage, the massive dog leaped off the bow.

He splashed heavily into the freezing water. He paddled frantically toward the sinking helicopter, whining and clawing at the broken side door.

I grabbed my heavy trauma kit, tied the airboat securely to a sturdy tree branch, and slid into the freezing, chest-deep water. The cold immediately stole my breath, but the adrenaline pumping through my veins kept me moving.

I waded over to the open, crushed side door of the helicopter. I shined my flashlight inside the dark, flooded metal cabin.

“Hello?!” I screamed loudly. “Is anyone alive?!”

A weak, painful cough echoed from the front of the cockpit.

I pulled myself up into the slanted, slippery cabin. The water inside was waist-deep and rising fast. I waded forward, climbing over broken seats and heavy survival gear.

Trapped in the pilot’s seat was a man.

He was wearing a heavy, dark green flight suit. His face was pale and covered in blood. The heavy metal dashboard of the helicopter had buckled inward during the violent crash, pinning his legs securely under the crushed steering column.

“Hey!” I yelled, rushing forward. I grabbed his heavy shoulders.

The man slowly opened his eyes. He looked at me in absolute confusion. “Who… who are you?” he rasped.

“I’m Nolan. I’m a civilian biologist,” I said quickly. “Your dog brought your helmet to my shack. I came to get you out.”

The man’s eyes went wide. He looked past my shoulder.

The massive Catahoula dog had climbed into the cabin. The beast whined loudly, pushing his large, wet head directly against the trapped man’s chest, frantically licking the blood off his face.

The hardened military veteran let out a choked, emotional sob. He wrapped his weak arms around the dog’s thick neck, burying his face in the wet fur.

“Good boy, Titan,” the handler wept. “You did so good, buddy.”

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