Then, silence. The seaplane bobbed in place, pitching slightly with each small wave. Noah didn’t let go of the yoke right away. His hands were still locked there, knuckles white. “We’re alive,” Jamie said finally, his voice thin and uncertain. Noah exhaled slowly. “Yeah.”
Jamie checked the radio. “Coast Guard’s acknowledged. Closest cutter’s en route. ETA: three hours.” They looked out across the open sea. Noah glancing sideways, added, “Don’t count this as your hundredth if we don’t make it to Djibouti.”