The seaplane rocked gently on the open water, its engines humming low as it drifted under power. Noah stared out at the horizon, sweat cold on his neck. Two long boats had appeared—dark silhouettes cutting fast across the waves. “Heck,” he muttered, “they’re not supposed to be here.”
Jamie leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Could be the Coast Guard,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction. Noah shook his head. “They’re too early.” The boats didn’t answer their hails. No radio call. No flag. Just speeding closer, too straight, too silent. His stomach dropped. “They’re not here to help us.”
They watched helplessly as the boats approached, closer with every second. Spray burst around their hulls. Figures stood upright—faces obscured, arms raised, shouting words neither pilot could understand. Noah’s fingers tightened around the controls. Jamie whispered, “What do we do now?” But they both knew. This was no rescue. This was survival.