Page 42 of Love for Thea

Mace cleared his throat. “Translation: The creek is a mud-trap. If the ground under your boots feels like a wet sponge, it’s about to turn into a landslide. If you aren’t standing on solid granite, you’re on a conveyor belt to the bottom of the ravine. Lead with your walking sticks and keep your weight on the rocks.”

Grizzly stood at the back of the room, leaning against the doorframe. He watched the perfectly timed exchange, noticing the tiny, almost invisible “high-five” look Mace and Thea exchanged when the Pacific team didn’t offer a single follow-up question.

A genuine grin finally broke through the heavy fatigue on Grizzly’s face as he watched their antics. He’d seen Mace and Logan run psyops on neighborhood boys for years, but watching them pull it off with a Coronado SEAL team was something else entirely. What caught his attention even more was how easily Thea interacted with his brother, her confidence undeniable, as if she owned every moment of the performance.

“We start with the north-east grid,” Grizzly said, stepping forward to keep the momentum going. “That’s where the highest concentration of campsites was. Thea will keep reading the mountain and the data, and Mace will relay it to us in a way we can act on. Move out.”

The next three days were a blur of physical agony. The distinction between the Atlantic and Pacific teams vanished, replaced by the universal uniform of the exhausted. Yellowstone had become a silent, muffled world. Footsteps didn’t crunch on the trails anymore; they were swallowed by the gray drifts that coated every branch and boulder like a winter from hell.

With Falcon relegated to the clinic under Marjorie’s watchful eye, the field element, ten active SEALs and three pilots, became known as the “Baker’s Dozen.” They worked through the gray twilight, their worlds narrowed to the glow of thermal HUDs and the weight of rescue litters.

By the second afternoon, the joint element—Grizzly, Wolf, Reef, and Dude—was four miles into the high country. The air was thick with volcanic ash, a gray haze that sifted through the seams of their clothes like fine sandpaper, even as their respirators protected their airways and lungs from the harsh particles.

The Net crackled with Mace’s voice, sounding like he was holding back a laugh. “Atlantic One, Ranch Lead. Thea is reporting that the infrared signatures in Grid Delta-Niner are exhibiting erratic systolic-diastolic variations consistent with mammalian physiology.”

“Speak English, Mace!” Reef rasped, his respirator making him sound like a heavy-breather.

“Translation,” Mace barked back, his tone triumphant. “Stop looking at the perfect circles on your HUDs. Those are steam vents. The Doc says she’s found a heartbeat. Four of them. Grid Delta-Niner, tucked under the limestone lip. They’re alive, Grizz. Go get ‘em.”

“Copy that, Ranch Lead!” Grizzly replied back.

They reached the ravine in six minutes. There, in a shallow cave slowly surrendering to the creeping silt, they found the family: a father holding tightly onto his wife, who was quietly crying, and two children pressed close against them. The father tried to shield his daughter, his face coated in gray dust, eyes wide and bloodshot with exhaustion and fear.

As Grizzly knelt beside the terrified six-year-old girl, she flinched, shrinking back slightly. He pulled off his respirator for a brief moment, revealing a human smile beneath the grime.

“Easy now, sweetheart,” Grizzly said, his voice falling into that low, steady rumble he always reserved for moments like this. “Don’t be scared. We’re the Adams Family. We’re just here to take you home.”

The girl’s wide eyes flickered from suspicion to a hesitant trust, and a small, uncertain curl of a smile tugged at her lips. The father let out a broken, wheezing sob of relief, clutching Reef’s arm as he was pulled upward. “We heard the mountain. We thought it was over,” he cried.

“Not today,” Reef rasped, already checking the harness on the teenage son. He snorted into his mic, the sound a sharp crackle in the team’s ears. “Nice one, Grizzly. Does that make me Lurch?”

“Just keep your eyes on the ridge, Lurch,” Grizzly grunted. “Wyatt, triage!”

Wyatt moved in with clinical speed, wasting no words. He listened carefully to the father’s lungs, hearing the tell-tale rattle of silica inhalation. Slapping an oxygen mask on the man, he turned to the teenage son whose ankle was swollen and purple. “He’s got a Grade 3 sprain,” Wyatt reported. “He can’t walk this slope. We’re hauling.”

The father’s face tightened with frustration. “Can’t we just call a helicopter? This climb’s suicide.”

Grizzly shook his head firmly. “Too dangerous for a chopper to land or hover here. We move on foot, it’s the safest way.”

Reluctantly, the father nodded, watching as the team pulled a compact, fold-up stretcher from their pack With the confidence that comes from rigorous training, they secured the son onto it, strapping him in for the rough ascent and clipped safety ropes to each family member.

Grizzly explained as he hooked everyone up, “If anyone slips, you won’t fall far,” he said. “We keep each other steady.”

What was supposed to be a short rescue quickly became a six-hour battle against gravity and the unstable earth. Grizzly and Wolf took their places as primary anchors at the ravine’s edge, boots digging into the only solid granite rib nearby. Rigging a 4-to-1 mechanical advantage system with ropes from the Wolf-drop, they began the slow, grueling haul. The volcanic ash clung to everything, turning each step and pull into a fight for every inch gained.

Down in the ravine, Reef and Dude were waist-deep in the silt, the dreaded "quicksand" that threatened to swallow them whole. Reef had the six-year-old girl securely strapped to his back, her small arms wrapped tightly around his neck. Together, he and Dude guided the stretcher uphill, carefully supporting the mother while Wyatt helped the father ascend along the safety line.

Every step was a battle. The unstable silt gave way beneath their boots, threatening to drag them back into the kiln’s depths.

“The bank’s failing!” Reef shouted, boots slipping as a secondary tremor shook the ravine. “Wolf, take the strain! Now!”

Wolf and Grizzly dug in as primary anchors, leaning back with muscles taut against the nylon lines. They weren’t just pulling rope: they were dragging a family from the earth’s choking grasp. Grizzly’s gloves wore through, his hands bleeding from the relentless friction, but he held fast.

“Walk it up, Reef!” Wolf roared over the mountain’s groan, his voice a fierce command. “Don’t look down, Ma’am! Eyes on the line!”

They crawled forward, inches at a time. Reef moved steadily, the little girl secure against his back as he fought through chest-high drifts. Beside him, Dude hauled the mother forward, boots finding purchase on the rocks Thea had noted over the comms minutes before. Every handhold counted, every foothold was earned.

By the time they reached the top of the ridge, the sun was a dying ember in the west, turning the ash-cloud into a sea of fire. The "Baker's Dozen" was spent. They were covered in a gray crust of sweat and silica, their breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps.