Untamed Coast

Chapter 1

Pelican, AK
2017—­Marconi Franco

There it was again.

A haunting murmur fighting its way through the roaring sea of static, a fragile appeal adrift in the din. Marconi Franco, his practiced grip firm on the tuning knob, spun it delicately, peeling back the layers of interference, slowing his scan for the elusive voice.

Radio Flyer, tethered by mooring lines, danced with the whim of the winds that roared through the boat’s rigging, rain beating a relentless cadence on the pilothouse windows. The vessel seemed a living thing, a creature entangled in the tempest’s fierce embrace, a warm refuge from the storm outside.

A strong low-­pressure system had moved in from the Gulf of Alaska, bringing gale-­force winds, torrential rains, and foreboding seas, along with a rare thunderstorm. This was the worst weather Marco had seen in the two years he’d been cruising Southeast Alaska. He’d barely reached Pelican in time to get the boat secured in the harbor, cutting it much closer than he liked.

There it was.

A whispered plea, “Swam to.” Hiss. Crackle. A tremulous voice, unmistakably female, undeniably urgent. “Come get me. I’m—­” She succumbed once more to the interference.

Come get me.

His heart caught in his throat.

“Come get me, Marco. I don’t want to die in this hospital.” Michelle’s plea reverberated in the dark chambers of his mind.

“Come get me” echoing from the worst day of his life.

If only. If only they’d caught it sooner. If only he’d . . .

Marco delicately inched the tuner backward, zeroing in on the elusive signal.

There.

“—­with a red metal roof?” She became clearer. “—­island.” A crescendo of whistling wind swallowed the remainder of her words.

A second, fainter voice, male, drifted above the din, fading in and out. “—­you in sight. Seas are rough.”

Storm and static blended together in a murky melee of noise. Marco grabbed his headphones and plugged them in, squelching the sounds of the storm on the pilothouse roof and immersing himself in the swirling stream of radio signals.

He inched the knob forward again a hair at a time, a dance of precision as he clung to the thread of her voice, assembling sounds from the chaos into syllables, syllables into words. Wind and waves crashed, an eerie backdrop to her fading transmission.

“Boat out of sight. Turn on my strobe?”

“Not yet—­risky,” the male voice again. “I’ll find you.”

Marco grabbed the mic and pressed the talk button, muting the insistent hiss of radio static. “This is AK7MF MV Radio Flyer responding to distress call. Where are you?” His voice wavered, the microphone a lifeline trembling in his grip. “I need your location.”

The dim amber glow of the SSB radio signal meter cast a velvety candlelight over the pilothouse, gently flickering as the needle tracked the strength of invisible electromagnetic waves gracing the boat’s antenna.

“The shore—­” Her voice was hardly audible, the needle barely moving as she spoke. “—­big rock.”

Marco pressed the cold vinyl ear pads of his headphones hard against his head, as if the pressure could draw her closer. “I need your location,” he urged.

“Can you come get—­?” Her voice weakened, the connection slipping away. “—­off the boat. Cold.”

“I will find you,” Marco vowed.

The male voice interrupted. “Stay off this frequency.”

Marco dropped the microphone, picked it up, pressed and released the mic key. Couldn’t he transmit on any frequency in an emergency? He pressed again. “Can you hear me? Please, if you can give me your location . . .”

Static hummed and popped, voices lurking within the white noise like the distant murmur of a river’s melody. He was losing her.

There was something in her voice, her helpless tone, the desperation. It was Michelle, right before the end, brittle and weak, the awful hospital machines beeping and clicking, counting down her final breaths.

“Are you still there, honey? Are you with me?”

A familiar weight of hopelessness settled in his chest. He exhaled slowly through pursed lips, a silent prayer carried away by the gusts of wind and rain that rocked Radio Flyer against the dock.

Most boats didn’t even have an SSB radio. Marco’s was a holdover from his ham radio days, a way to pass the time in the evening at anchor. Single sideband, or SSB, allowed him to talk to other radio enthusiasts much farther away than conventional marine VHF radio. She could be hundreds or thousands of miles away, the radio signal bouncing off the ionosphere, an electronic echo from far beyond the horizon. Marco scribbled the frequency on a scrap of paper.

Removing his headphones and switching radios, he tuned his marine VHF to channel sixteen, the Coast Guard emergency channel. “Coast Guard Sector Juneau, Coast Guard Sector Juneau—­motor vessel Radio Flyer on channel one-­six.”

He recounted the distress call to the Coast Guard radio operator.

“Radio Flyer,” the operator replied, the words distorted. “You are broken. Can you call on a landline?”

“Negative landline,” Marco insisted. “No cell service. I’m in Pelican. Repeat. Pelican.”

The SSB radio hissed softly, offering no sign of life beyond the wall of static. How had he heard her? Thousands of channels buzzed in the radio band he’d searched. She had said “off the boat,” but if she had fallen overboard, how did she have a radio?

The wind howled, the boat jerking against the dock. Mooring lines creaked, straining angrily against their cleats. At the top of the ramp, a solitary light illuminated the waterside window of Pelican’s library.

“Understood, Radio Flyer,” the Coast Guard responded. “We have no report of anyone in distress or missing in the area. We’ll monitor all frequencies and let you know if we hear anything.”

“Sounded urgent,” Marco replied. “And someone else on the frequency was trying to rescue her, but this weather is terrible.”

“Understood,” the operator replied. “Could have been skip from a distant transmission. Keep us posted if you hear anything more.”

“Will do,” Marco answered. “Radio Flyer standing by one-­six.”

Marco powered on the electronic chartplotter, stark white light washing out his night vision. He zoomed in on the digital map to an area about the size of his normal radio range. Dozens of islands stretched along the uninhabited rugged shore of the Gulf of Alaska.

Low power.

Marco double-­checked the power setting on his SSB radio. He had accidentally transmitted on low power, and she had still heard him. She probably had some kind of handheld walkie-­talkie, and they’d heard each other. She had to be nearby. He zoomed the map in closer, shrinking his search area by half.

If he was right, she was out there somewhere, in the cold water, terrified, perhaps injured, but alive. Even if she made it to shore, she’d be soaked and in danger from hypothermia, bears, and dehydration. Whoever was trying to rescue her was in danger themselves in these conditions.

Marco lifted the snow globe he kept at the helm, the cool glass dome a grounding presence in his hands. Sparkling snowflakes twirled calming circuits through a liquid sky. His fingers traced the rough lines of the inscription on the underside of the resin base: Michelle Franco 1961–­2015.

“Come get me.”

Wherever she was, this woman was in danger.