Jeffery and the others returned to the staging area where their military vehicles were parked. Scott immediately began assigning duties that would stand until further notice. He paced the perimeter, driving stakes into the ground to mark their boundaries. Tents went up quickly. Personal gear was laid out. Weapons were accounted for. By nightfall, the area looked less like a convoy stop and more like a forward operating site.
In final formation, Scott made it clear just how busy they were about to be. “This isn’t temporary,” he told them. “This is home. Get used to it.”
After formation, he started making calls. Wildlife and Fisheries. Police departments. County offices. Anyone within range who might have boats. He secured five. It wasn’t enough — not even close — but it was a start. Eventually, he would need enough for two-man teams to sweep entire submerged neighborhoods.
It sat heavy on him, knowing he would sleep somewhat comfortably while thousands were not.
His alarm went off at 0445. Every part of him wanted to shut it off and roll back over. Instead, he swung his legs out of his cot and stood up. There would be enough work here to last for months. Scott walked through the tent line and flipped on the lights.
“Nobody loves you, Scott,” Scayes muttered from under his blanket. “Remember that every time you wake us up like this.”
“Scayes,” Scott shot back, “you came outta your mama’s butthole. Shut up.”
A few groans. A few chuckles.
By 0500, Scott had pushed the platoon leaders out to wake their soldiers and begin minimal tasks. Hygiene. Accountability. Gear checks. After first formation, he loaded everyone onto three LMTVs and rolled out to retrieve the boats.
Because they had staged far enough from the flood line, they were already near local agencies. Pickup was efficient. Scott signed for each boat personally. Authorities handed him updated maps and offered continued support.
He showed them exactly where they had been set up. Explained their mission. Outlined their projected search grids. The locals appreciated the organization. His soldiers secured the boats properly, hooked them up, and reformed the convoy order. Then they rolled back.
With the five boats staged, Scott selected a squad leader to man the fifth vessel alongside another NCO. They launched again.This time, they pushed much farther. Scott wanted complete situational awareness. He needed to understand the terrain personally. He refused to lead blind.
As they moved deeper, the damage intensified. Buildings he hadn’t passed before now appeared — half-submerged. Telephone poles leaned sideways. Some held bodies tangled in wires. No one spoke. Suburbs met swamp.
The farther they went, the fewer rooftops remained visible. Just endless murky water. It was surreal. Otherworldly. Scott keyed his radio.
“Diving gear,” he said quietly. “We’re going to need a lot of diving gear.”
Static answered.
“Scott,” Long replied, “why do we need dive suits?”
“If there’s any chance survivors are trapped in air pockets,” Scott answered, “we’re going to find them.”
Silence followed. They eventually reached a point where pushing farther made no sense. If California existed beneath them, it was crushed. If drowning hadn’t taken people, pressure likely had.
They turned back. As they rode the current toward camp, Scott muttered under his breath, “This is exactly why I didn’t want this. This is too much. I’m just a sergeant.”
Scayes passed him, steady as ever. “You’re the only one I can think of that can pull this off, Top.”
Scott didn’t answer. But he heard him.
Back at camp, the boats were secured and prepped for rapid launch. Scott and the other NCOs immediately began planning.The attached company, however, seemed sluggish — dragging their feet. Scott didn’t have time to babysit another unit.
He made more calls — large facilities, community centers, churches, outreach centers within ten miles. To his surprise, several answered. Some had stayed behind. Some had regrouped. He laid out his mission statement clearly: Search. Rescue. Stabilize. Move survivors to safe shelter.
Every entity agreed to operate within its scope. Support was promised. Search operations would begin at first light. Until then, leaders studied maps and familiarized themselves with the terrain to enable possible night ops later.
At 0400 the next morning, Scott was already awake. He couldn’t sleep. He tore open an MRE coffee packet, dumped the grounds into his mouth, and chased it with water from his CamelBak.
An hour later, he was fully geared. Platoon leaders were waking their soldiers when shouting erupted near the tent line. Two soldiers who had never liked each other were swinging. Scayes stormed in, grabbed one by his vest, and hurled him backward.
“ALRIGHT!” Scayes roared. “Y’all got your panties twisted, huh? You wanna fight? Cool. We’ll fight. But we got work first!”
Nobody crossed Scayes. Not if they wanted to keep their teeth.The two soldiers backed off — for now. After breakfast and final prep, Scott nodded to Scayes.
“Handle it.”
Scayes called both men forward.
“Fight it out,” he growled. “But when you’re done, I don’t care how wounded you are — we’ve got work.”
They went at each other instantly. Blow for blow. Fist after fist.One dropped hard. The other pounced, landing five brutal punches before the man on the ground rolled and reversed position. They traded until one stopped moving.
The victor stood, breathing heavy, wiped blood from his knuckles with a towel, and walked back to his platoon. Scayes knelt beside the unconscious soldier and slapped him.
“Get up, lazy.”
The private jolted awake, dazed.
“Wipe your face, soldier.”
He staggered back to formation.
Scott watched the whole thing without interference. There was too much coming to allow festering resentment.
The trucks loaded. They drove toward the flood. At the dismount point, soldiers stepped into chest-deep water and began clearing homes still standing. Street after street. Door after door.
No one enjoyed it. They searched all day. They saw bodies.They left them.
Scott’s mission was clear: Saving the living. Recovering the dead was not in his scope. By late evening, they returned soaked and exhausted. Orders were simple: Strip down. Bird bath. Dry off. Sleep.
Tomorrow would be the same.
Day One:
No survivors found. Scott lay on his cot that night staring at the tent ceiling. After everything they saw … Nothing. Grief weighed heavier than exhaustion. Eventually, fatigue won.
But even in sleep, California followed him.