The research vessel Halcyon shuddered as a ten foot wave slammed into her bow like a cannon shot, and blue water streamed over her foredeck. The helmsman continued to muscle the big forty-inch wheel, while Mate Thompson held on to the overhead handrail and wondered when the scientific staff would get around to deciding to scratch this cruise. Just then the captain burst onto the bridge from the stairway and struggled across the heaving deck to the mate, who was startled by the captain’s red face and blazing eyes.
Through clenched teeth, Captain Robado uttered the unthinkable: “We have to reverse course and do a man overboard search, IMMEDIATELY. Irv, I want you to take the wheel and do a Williamson Turn to get us exactly onto the reciprocal of our track.
“Will do, Cap, but who went over?” Thompson asked.
“Ron Withers is missing. No one saw anything, but we have to assume he’s in the water back there somewhere. And the word is that Withers and Paul Tyson have been having some kind of a tiff, and until we get all this under control, we need to get Tyson under observation.”
Captain Robado reached overhead for the VHF microphone and called “mayday.” Coast Guard Air Station Traverse City answered and agreed to deploy two helicopter search and rescue units.
“Thanks, Traverse City, replied the captain. “One more thing. We need a marine security officer standing by at the Institute dock to interrogate a ‘person of interest,’ over.”
“Christ, Cap,” said the mate. “They’re just grad students. Come to think of it, I did notice Tyson was a little grumpy this morning. But I can’t believe…”
“It’s about stolen research data or something, but Irv, just get going on the turn. Withers could be anywhere back there. I’m going below to arrange lookout watches.”
The second mate and the chief engineer found Paul Tyson sitting against the lifeboat.
“Ron Withers is missing,” said the second mate. “Cap wants to know if you know anything about that. Wants you in the wardroom ASAP.”
After passing Lighthouse Point, the mate turned Halcyon south, rolling violently in the trough again until reaching the lee of the peninsula. She made her way quietly down the calmer bay toward Traverse City, still searching for Ron Withers. The two Coast Guard helicopters had zig-zagged along Halcyon’s original track countless times, and one of them was now searching eastward downwind of the Grand Traverse Light all the way across the head of the bay, but there was no sign of Withers anywhere. By now the cold front had brought dark clouds in over the bay to match the mood aboard Halcyon.
Paul Tyson was dozing in his seat when the quiet of the wardroom was shattered by a shriek from somewhere below deck.
“OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD. I FOUND HIM. CAPTAIN! SOMEBODY HELP. HE’S NOT MOVING. OH MY GOD,” cried one of the research techs as she rushed up the stairway into the galley.
The captain and the chief engineer followed the frantic student back down to a small storage room. She pointed her shaking hand to the deck hatch at her feet. The mate lifted the hatch and swung it up and over to its fully open position. They stared down and saw Ron Withers sprawled face down in the shallow hold. He was utterly still, and the dim light accentuated his fish belly pallor. Captain Robado stepped down into the hold beside Withers and felt his neck for a pulse. At first there seemed to be none, but then Cap did feel one – feint and rapid as though in a small bird. The captain’s flashlight beam found a dark red stain spreading on the back of Withers’ head.
“He’s alive, but barely. Awful blow to his head. No other injuries, I think. Chief, stay here and keep checking for pulse and breathing. If either one stops, turn him over and start CPR. But be careful chief, the back of his skull is all loose and mushy. I’m going up to get on the radio, and I’ll send someone down with the cardio zapper in case you lose him.”
Back on the bridge, the captain keyed the VHF mike.
“Traverse City search units, this is Halcyon. We have found the missing man aboard ship. Ronald Withers is gravely injured with head trauma. We are monitoring as best we can, but we need professional assistance and a medical evacuation immediately. Over.”
Captain Robado sent the mate down to supervise the transfer, and remained on the bridge to keep Halcyon on station. The clattering chopper hovered into position, and the two Coast Guard swimmers with a rescue basket slowly descended on a cable toward the foredeck. The gale force rotor wash battered the mate and his deck hand, their ball caps blown like November leaves out over the water into the gray gloom.
Fifteen minutes later the chopper hoisted its crew and Ron Withers, heavily bound in the basket, up into its cargo bay. The fat orange bird swiveled around, canted its head down and pounded off southward. Captain Robado watched it through the rattling windows while getting Halcyon back on her southerly course and back up to cruising speed. When Mate Thompson arrived back on the bridge, Cap asked him to go down and inform all hands, both scientific and ship’s crew, that they will be asked for statements by the authorities on arrival.
In the wardroom, Paul Tyson had seen the loaded rescue basket as the crew struggled with it up through the galley and out on deck. He sat waiting while Halcyon steamed the rest of the way down the West Arm to Traverse City, with his elbows on the table, thumbs under his chin, and his heart flopping around in his chest like a rock bass in a rowboat.