So, together with Nelson Ridley, her dad’s indefatigable engineer, and a skeleton crew, McKenna had spent the three years since her father’s death working her butt off, bidding on towing contracts, trying to convince herself she was doing the old man proud.
But the tug business was what you’d politely call a boys’ club, and contracts weren’t easy to come by. More than a few potential clients had bailed once they’d heard her voice on the phone. She’d debated getting Ridley, with his thick Irish brogue, to make the calls for her.
She was going to have to do something, anyway. Three years of slim margins and deferred maintenance took tolls, and Gale Force Marine was maxed out, overextended, leveraged to the hilt. And now McKenna found herself down in the engine room, well after midnight, trying to figure out how to scrape up enough cash to get the tug back to sea.
* * *
• • •
THE TROUBLE HAD STARTED midway through the last job, a log tow gone haywire off Cape Disappointment at the mouth of the Columbia River, winds gusting to fifty, seas thirty feet. There’d been no way to cross the Columbia Bar to shelter, not in that weather, so they’d jogged offshore in the brunt of it, waiting for the weather to break and hoping they weren’t losing too many logs off that barge in the meantime.
Of course, even in fine weather, the Columbia Bar was no joke, and when you were dragging a three-hundred-foot barge and bucking six knots of river current, it could get downright hairy. Especially if your starboard turbocharger decided to crap out at the same time you were staring down an outbound oil tanker.
Not that it was the tug’s fault. Randall Rhodes had known what he was getting into when he’d purchased the Gale Force, which was to say a twenty-year-old boat with a lot of big seas under her keel, a couple of decent engines with too many hours on them, good bones beneath her, and a reputation up and down the coast as one heck of a deep-sea tug.
She’d had to be, for what the old man had in mind for her. Spent every last dollar—and a million of the bank’s—on the tug, traded the barge pulls for the treasure hunt, bringing ships back from the dead for seven-figure scores, minimum.
It had worked pretty well, until one night it didn’t. And now the old man was gone, and McKenna kept slogging, trying to do the guy proud.
* * *
• • •
HER PHONE WAS RINGING, somewhere. McKenna wiped the grease off her hands and checked the caller ID. Her engineer—her dad’s engineer—Nelson Ridley, a stubborn son of a bitch who loved the Gale Force so much it blinded him to the writing on the wall. Ridley could have bailed out about the same time McKenna should have, found a gig with one of the big outfits on the coast, Commodore Towing or Westerly Marine, something good paying, steady hours, reliable boats. But he stuck around, poured as much sweat equity—and almost as much cash—as McKenna into the operation, and McKenna had about given up trying to talk him out of sticking around.
She answered the phone. “Ridley.”
“I’ve got something here, boss.” The engineer’s voice sounded too excited for the middle of the night. “Something pretty darn interesting.”
“You should be sleeping,” McKenna replied. “Or you should be down here helping me fix this turbo.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” Ridley said. “I watched a movie with the wife, another ridiculous romance, and then she fell asleep and I didn’t. And, boy, are you going to be glad, lass.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
“It’s better if I tell you in person,” Ridley said. “I’m coming your way.”
3
Hiroki Okura had had just enough time to send out a Mayday before the captain ordered the crew to abandon ship.
The captain was still wearing his dressing gown. He clung precipitously to the chart table at the rear of the bridge, looking more like a bewildered old man than the master of a fifty-thousand-ton cargo vessel. But his voice was strong, and the meaning clear: Time to go.
The Pacific Lion lay at a sixty-degree angle, the portside all but completely submerged. The ship’s bridge ran the width of the ship, and from the portside entrance, Okura could look out the window and see green water just a few feet below. The ship shuddered with every swell, threatening to topple. The crew would have to launch a lifeboat in the frigid Alaskan waters—and the starboard boats were too far from the water. They would have to take their chances and hope the portside of the ship didn’t collapse on top of them.
The rest of the ship’s twenty-six-man crew was already assembled at the forward portside lifeboat. One seaman wore nothing but a towel; none of the others had had time for survival suits. If they couldn’t make it to a lifeboat, they would die in the water within minutes.
Okura muttered a quick prayer. Then he crawled his way aft to assist with the launching of the boat.
The lifeboat was fully enclosed and watertight, equipped with food and water and a GPS beacon. There were four of these boats on the Pacific Lion, and each had enough room and supplies for the entire crew. One by one, the crew climbed aboard as the sea continued to rock the freighter, threatening to push the ship over and kill them all.
But the Lion didn’t capsize. Within minutes, the lifeboat was loaded and ready to be lowered into the ocean, just a few feet below the deck railing. Okura counted the crew and found every man present—all but one.
Tomio Ishimaru. The accountant, and the briefcase. Damn it.
Okura stepped back from the rail and signaled the third officer, who waited at the hatch. “Go. Call the Coast Guard. I’ll make my own way off the ship.”
The third officer stared. Called after Okura as he turned away from the lifeboat, clambering back toward the bridge and the interior of the ship. Whatever the man was saying, Okura couldn’t make it out. The wind was too strong, and the ship’s stance too precarious.
4
“She’s called the Pacific Lion,” Ridley told McKenna. “Six-hundred-and-fifty-foot roll-on/roll-off car carrier out of Yokohama. She screwed something up swapping ballast and nearly capsized at the territorial limit, a couple hundred miles southwest of Dutch Harbor, Alaska.”
McKenna and Ridley were sitting at a table in a bar near the docks. Last call had come and gone, but Ridley seemed to know the bartender and he’d sweet-talked a couple of beers and the private use of the lounge.
“You aren’t really the going-home type, are you?” McKenna asked him. “I send you back to Carly for some family time, and you’re still dragging me to bars in the middle of the night.”
Ridley looked around the empty bar. Leaned across the table, conspiratorial. “This ship is carrying a full load of brand-new Nissans.”
“Happy with my ten-year-old Ford,” McKenna replied. “You’re going to have to do better.”
“Five thousand brand-new Nissans,” Ridley repeated, his eyes alight. “All of them fully insured. That ship must be worth a hundred million clams, easy. And as of an hour ago, skipper, she’s officially up for grabs.”
“An hour ago.” McKenna studied her engineer. “I don’t know why you keep tabs on this stuff, Nelson. We’ve been out of that game for years.”
“Guess I can’t take a hint.” Ridley grinned. “Anyway, I can’t sleep at home without my radio scanner hooked up. Some people have whale noises, thunderstorms? I have distress calls, everywhere from Panama to Siberia. Makes me feel like I’m still on the job, I guess.”
“My god. How does Carly stand it?”
“Earplugs, skipper. Industrial strength. And thirty years of true love.”
McKenna said nothing. The bar was empty, save the bartender polishing glasses and stifling yawns. McKenna yawned, too, didn’t bother to hide it. She suddenly felt pretty damn tired.
“We’re out of commission,” she reminded the engineer. “The turbo, remember? Anyway, the Gale Force doesn’t run salvage anymore.”
“I’ll fix the turbo,” Ridl
ey said. “If I start working tonight, I can have it straight by dawn. We can sail by noon, probably, if we bust our humps.” He arched an eyebrow. “Whoever puts a line on this ship, they’re taking home ten million dollars, minimum.”
McKenna figured her engineer was right. By the rules of salvage, the Pacific Lion had become fair game to any outfit willing to risk the rescue. Of course, the rules of salvage also dictated that the crew wouldn’t be paid one salty dime if they couldn’t save the ship. McKenna had borne witness firsthand to that kind of heartbreak—and worse.
“You’re asking me to sail to Alaska,” she said. “Our first salvage gig since the Argyle Shore. The first job I’ve ever done on my own. A hundred-million-dollar ship. Are you nuts, Nelson?”
“Not in the slightest, lass. You’re cut out for this work. Your dad knew it. I know it. Only thing to do is jump in, get your feet wet.”
“This is a hell of a leap,” she said. “And even if I was interested, Christer Magnusson at Commodore will get the contract. Or Westerly Towing. One of the big boys.”
“The Commodore Titan is laid up in Los Angeles,” Ridley said. “Westerly’s best boat is towing an oil rig to the Persian Gulf. We’ve got a couple days, easy, on anything else they can send.”
Geez, Ridley. The engineer couldn’t hide his enthusiasm, and McKenna felt a pang of something—guilt, maybe, or regret—as she watched him from across the table. McKenna knew, for all of Ridley’s good humor and carefree demeanor, that he missed the days of tearing across the high seas in search of fortune and adventure with her father.
Her dad had found Ridley on some dock in Fiji, the Gale Force in dire straits after Ridley’s predecessor fell in love with an island girl and bailed on the crew. He’d offered Ridley the job, and Ridley had taken it, no questions asked, never looked back. For a while, he’d even brought Carly along on the voyages.
Now Ridley got his adrenaline fix by carving up the Pacific Northwest back roads on his restored ’71 BSA Rocket 3 motorcycle. The rest of the time, he helped McKenna keep the Gale Force running, at the docks or on jobs up the coast. He took a nominal salary, and he paid back more than he earned in parts, tools, and free labor. He’d never asked McKenna for a return on his investment, and McKenna knew he never would.
This pitch, she decided, was probably as close as he would ever come.
So she found herself mulling the question over. Commodore and Westerly were the two biggest operations in the Pacific Northwest. If their big boats were out of the hunt, the Lion was anyone’s for the taking. And assuming that Ridley could rig up a fix for that starboard turbo, the Gale Force should have just enough oomph to handle the job. If everything broke right, it would mean a massive payday. But that was a big if.
“We’d have to call the crew back,” she told Ridley. “Matt and Stacey, at the very least. I don’t know if they’d even be interested. I haven’t talked to them since . . .” She trailed off. But Ridley was unfazed.
“I’ll fix the turbo. You call the crew. Tell them the Gale Force is back.”
* * *
• • •
JUST LIKE THAT, HUH? Despite herself, McKenna could feel the adrenaline. This was the drug, she knew. This was why the old man turned his back on job security and a steady paycheck. This was what kept Nelson Ridley around, what convinced the best crew in the business to set sail on the tug.
Heck, this was why McKenna wasn’t waiting tables in Spokane.
“I guess I kind of owe you this,” she told Ridley, but he waved her off.
“You don’t owe me anything, lass,” Ridley said. “But we can’t keep scraping for tow contracts much longer. Not at the rate we’re going.”
That was true, too. Gale Force Marine was just about out of money. In a year, maybe less, she’d be selling the tug, looking for new work. Her time and effort, Ridley’s time and effort—all of her dad’s energy—sold out from under them, nothing left behind.
“We’d have to leave quickly,” McKenna said. “By morning, every salvage outfit on the coast will have the same information we do. They’ll realize that Commodore and Westerly are out, and they’ll set their own courses for that ship.”
“Aye,” Ridley said. “So we’d better not waste any time.”
Are we doing this? Is this really what’s happening?
“Get that turbo fixed,” she said. “Then we’ll talk.”
“There is one other thing,” Ridley said slyly. “The Coast Guard says the ship’s leaning to port at about sixty degrees. If we want to do this, we’re going to have to turn the thing upright.”
“So we’ll bring pumps,” McKenna said. “Got it.”
“Not just pumps, skipper. We’re going to need Court for this job.”
5
“I’m all in.”
Court Harrington pushed six towers of poker chips into the middle of the table and stared down at the felt through his mirrored sunglasses. Around him, the noise of the casino faded into a dull murmur, replaced, more or less, by the pounding of his heart.
Hope the guy in seat eight can’t see it, Harrington thought, stealing a glance across the table at his opponent, an older man in a LAS VEGAS baseball cap—a tight player who hadn’t shown down a bluff all day. Now, with three clubs on the board, Harrington was really hoping the guy would make him for the flush.
Time slowed as seat eight thought things through. It was day four of the World Series of Poker Main Event, a ten-thousand-dollar buy-in spectacular that, this year, had attracted more than six thousand hopefuls gunning for their shot at fame and fortune. Seven hundred players remained, and all but sixty of them would make a profit for their efforts. Based on seat eight’s tacky ball cap and his careful play, Harrington made him for a tourist and assumed he would prefer to fold his way to the money, avoiding any big risks.
But the guy was sure taking his time, studying Harrington across the table, really staring him down—chatting to him, too, nonchalant, friendly. “You got clubs, do you?” the man said with a good ol’ boy drawl. “Guess I should have raised you on the turn.”
Harrington didn’t reply. No sense giving the guy any tells. He shuffled his chips instead, looked out at the cards on the board, tried to will the guy into making a move.
Finally, seat eight sighed. Leaned back, checked his cards, and threw them into the muck. “Nice hand,” he told Harrington. “Next time, I won’t let you stick around to chase that flush.”
We’ll see about that, Harrington said, checking his own hand, a pair of red sevens, and throwing it into the pile before stacking his chips. I just have to remember to stay out of your way when you actually get a hand.
* * *
• • •
BREAK TIME, TWENTY MINUTES; the last break of the day. Harrington followed the other hopefuls out into the casino hallway. Seven hundred gamblers descending on the restrooms, heading outside for a smoke, whatever. Harrington wandered out to the food tent and checked his phone idly as he waited in line. Saw he’d missed one call, from an out-of-state number. Harrington didn’t recognize the number, not at first.
Then he did, and it stopped him where he stood.
Harrington hit redial as he made the front of the food line. He ordered a cheeseburger and dug out his wallet to pay as the phone rang in his ear. Then the call went through, and there was McKenna Rhodes, exactly the same as she ever was.
“Court. Hey.”
“Hey, you,” Harrington answered, taking his cheeseburger and waving off his change. “Long time, no talk. How long’s it been, anyway?”
McKenna paused. “It’s been a few years, I guess.” There was something strange in her voice. “Listen, this is going to sound weird, but do you have a minute to talk?”
Harrington carried his burger to a table. Sat down, unwrapped it. “I have about five minutes,” he said. “But that’s literally it. I can call you in a couple hours,
though, call you tomorrow?”
“No time,” McKenna answered. “Listen, do you want a job?”
A job.
At thirty-six years old, Court Harrington was still one of the youngest naval architects in the United States—and one of the most accomplished in the world. A graduate of the prestigious Webb Institute on Long Island—and, later, of MIT—he’d fallen into the salvage trade on the advice of an old professor, who’d referred him to Randall Rhodes for a one-off job down in Colombia, a container ship run aground on some undersea rock. The ship’s hull had been breached, and the ocean nearby was considered very environmentally sensitive. Rhodes had hired him to plot a strategy to get the ship off the reef without spilling any fuel oil—though he’d cautioned, when he met Harrington at the airport in Cali, that the local authorities already considered the project a lost cause.
“Nothing’s a lost cause,” Harrington had replied, shaking the captain’s hand and brandishing his laptop. “The models I make on here, we could refloat Atlantis.”
Admittedly, that was something of a stretch, but not by much. Harrington’s proprietary hydrostatics program had earned him his doctorate; with it, he could create accurate, highly detailed models of any vessel, afloat or sunk, in the world, and determine how any environmental change, man-made or natural, would affect the ship’s equilibrium. This was particularly useful when it came to raising wrecked ships for big paydays.
He’d helped Randall Rhodes save the ship in Colombia, and the master of the Gale Force had been so impressed that he’d offered to keep Court on full-time retainer. Harrington—once he’d established that he could still spend the off-time on his sailboat in Myrtle Beach, relaxing and playing video games and flirting with coeds on spring break—had hired on instantly.
Gale Force Page 3
