Ghost River by Jon Coon (romantic books to read .TXT) 📗

with you,” Gabe said. He jumped from the barge to the bank to help Jim unload the state truck.

Moments later a thirty-foot metal workboat with a blunt nose, small cabin, and large work deck pulled alongside the barge. Gabe and Jim wasted no time setting up a manifold of scuba tanks and a com and safety line umbilical for Gabe.

“I’ll have to belay my way down or get blown off the bridge.” Find me all the line you can,” Gabe told the McFarland men.

“On it,” a stout barge hand replied. He quickly returned with line and shackles. “No carabiners, but these will do. I’m from out west. Used to climb. I can rig for you.”

“Thanks. Let’s do it.” Gabe was dressed by the time the boat reached the span and tied off. His new rigger shackled a line to Gabe’s dive harness in addition to the safety and com line normally part of the gear.

“We need to get up current and keep the lines tight while I go down,” Gabe directed. “I can direct you on the com. Just don’t let the current pull me off the bridge.”

“Got enough weight?” Jim asked.

“Both belts and ankle weights. That’s all we’ve got.”

“Okay, you’re still an idiot, but let’s go. And, by the way, it’s been nice knowing you.”

“Thanks, pal. Same to you.”

Moving the boat against the current and tying it off again was a challenge. But the skipper knew his job, and after a couple of false starts, put them in a good position. The boat was bouncing in the current, and balance was difficult as Gabe made his way to the rail. Jim walked with him holding the lines, and when everything was ready, Jim gave him two taps on his shoulder. Gabe paused, prayed his pre-dive prayer, and as he was stepping off into the swirling water noticed the glare of news camera floodlights from the upper abutment.

“Captain’s going to love this,” he said into the Aga mask’s mic as he slammed into the water.

The raging current grabbed him and spun him on the end of the umbilical. He dumped all the air he could from the dry suit and flared his body like a skydiver, to stabilize his descent. Still sailing like a kite in a storm, he slammed into the bridge railing and landed on his back on the bridge roadbed. He rolled to his knees and grabbed onto the railing. That was fun.

“On the bridge, Jim.”

“Roger that. Current’s a bear. Took two of us to hold you. You going to be okay down there?”

“For the moment. I’m on a railing. As long as I can hang on, I’m okay.”

“What now?”

“Give me slack on both lines. Keep it slow.”

“Roger. Slack on both lines.”

Gabe was lying on the bridge deck, spread eagle, to keep his profile as low as possible. As the lines eased, he raised himself slightly and slid down the railing. Good. Twenty feet down he felt the truck tires with his feet. The big tires were flat on the bridge deck meaning the trailer was on its side. Gabe called for more line and slid another sixty feet down to the cab.

“Jim, the truck cab is off the bridge. More slack, slow and easy. I’m trying to crawl down to it.”

“Slow and easy, roger that.”

Suddenly Gabe felt both the truck and the bridge span shifting beneath him. There was a loud crack and metal screech as the span moved in the current and the truck slid farther down the deck.

“Jim, are you guys okay up there? I’ve got movement down here.”

“Roger that,” Jim answered. “The span is trying to tear free from the approach pier. The crew had to cut the boat lines. We’re live-boating and fighting to hold position. Let’s get you out of there.”

“Can you hold on for a little longer? I’m just about at the truck cab. If anyone’s still alive in there we have to get them out. Let’s give it a shot. Give me more slack.”

“Okay, it’s your funeral. Slacking the lines.”

From Gabe’s leg pocket, he retrieved a coil of half-inch line and secured it to the trailer frame with a figure eight knot. He let the line trail in the current to clear it. On his knees, on the bridge deck, he swept his arm into a piece of concrete with rebar running through it. He picked it up and wedged it into his weight belt harness. Now twenty pounds heavier, he again called for slack and eased over the bridge rail. As best he could tell he was still vertical, not horizontal. Good. He dropped until his feet hit the truck cab on the driver’s side. A dim light was coming from the cab. As Gabe reached the door window, he could see the driver waving frantically. Gabe could see the water level inside the cab was halfway up the window.

Gabe held up a closed fist and hoped the driver would understand the hand signal for stop. The driver got it and stopped. Gabe pointed to the small tank and regulator on his harness, his bailout, and then pointed to the driver. Then he held up a circled thumb and forefinger, the diver’s okay and waited. The panicked driver returned the okay and pointed up. Gabe gave the okay again, held up two fingers, then pointed to the second finger and opened his palms asking about the passenger.

The driver shook his head, pointing only to himself then pointing up again. Gabe put his hand on his chest lifting and dropping it to mimic slow controlled breathing. Another okay. Acknowledged.

With a jolt, the truck slid again.

No more air pocket. Gabe tried to pull open the truck door, but it wouldn’t budge.

From his leg pocket Gabe pulled a spring-loaded window punch. Gabe put the punch against the window and hit the trigger. The window, already under pressure, shattered in a thousand pieces. Gabe shoved the bailout tank and regulator into the cab, found his target, and waited while the man’s breathing