Page 107 of Wild Oblivion

The pilot dumped the collective, entering autorotation. The helicopter nosed hard.

My stomach twisted and was in my throat. This was a situation you never wanted to be in.

Mike flared hard at the last moment, pulling the nose up. The helicopter pancaked against the water, shearing the skids. We tumbled on spin cycle, plexiglass shattering, bodies bouncing from bulkhead to bulkhead. A nauseating spin of sea and sky and sea and sky. The air left my lungs as I slammed the sidewall. Water rushed in about the time I needed a breath.

The rotors disintegrated as they smacked the surface, scattering shards.

Flotation bags auto-inflated with a hiss, but something was wrong. They didn’t keep us at the surface. Pockets of air, along with half-inflated bags, slowed our descent, but it couldn’t stop the inevitable. Our ultimate fate was at the bottom of the ocean if we didn’t move fast.

It took a second to get my wits and figure out which way was up.

Mike was out cold, with a compound fracture to his arm. The white bone protruded, and wisps of crimson mixed with salt water.

I reached into the cockpit and released his safety harness, then Jack helped me pull him out of his seat.

We were all bruised and scraped up, but Erickson and Faulkner had survived and were still conscious. They swam out of the fuselage, and JD and I followed with Mike in tow. We managed to clear the wreckage just as it plummeted to the depths below.

We still had 20 feet to the surface, and my lungs burned.

We both kicked and paddled, but Mike was deadweight.

Somehow, we broke through the surface. I sucked in a breath of air and filled my lungs. We pulled the pilot up and kept his head above water.

Mike wasn’t breathing, and this wasn’t the optimal situation for CPR.

I hooked my arms under his and locked around his chest, then squeezed like a modified Heimlich—a bastardized version of chest compressions. Mike’s body jerked with each squeeze until he finally coughed up a lungful of seawater. I kept at the compressions as he hacked and gagged, finally taking a breath.

A massive swell was inbound from the explosion. A small tsunami, heading right in our direction.

The glow of the blast had faded.

The wall of water approached.

The only thing we could do was hold our breath and hang on.

Dread twisted my stomach as the wall of doom approached. It towered over us.

The wave slammed like a freight train, tossing us around, the current sucking us under in a sea of bubbles.

I lost my grip on Mike.

Underwater for what seemed like an eternity, I finally made it to the surface. I filled my lungs and flung the water from my face. My eyes scanned the horizon, and I spotted JD.

He gave me the thumbs up.

Erickson surfaced, followed by Faulkner.

“Mike!” I shouted as I treaded water. “Mike!”

I plunged below the surface and spotted him sinking toward the bottom. My arms pulled hard as I swam for him. He was barely conscious before the wave hit.

He kept sinking lower, his lungs likely full of water.

The swirling wave hadn’t done his dangling, ragged arm any favors.

I kept pulling hard, the pressure squeezing my ears. With an outstretched hand, I grabbed his collar and pulled him toward the surface.

The setting sun shimmered the water above.