Gale Force

by Owen Laukkanen

  You’d get divorced, McKenna thought. Like my parents did. Randall Rhodes had tried to get his wife aboard the Gale Force, when he first bought the tug. Come along for an adventure, he’d told her. You won’t even have to cook. But Justine Rhodes loved the city, loved her home, the proximity of the grocery store and the coffee shop and the park. Try as her father might, McKenna’s mom had never budged. And there was surely no way Randall Rhodes was coming in from the sea, so the marriage had wilted, fallen apart, leaving bitterness, hurt feelings, and a lonely, landlocked daughter, passing time in Spokane and dreaming about the ocean. Some romantic idea of what being a salvage master looked like.

  It looks like this, McKenna thought. A beautiful sunny morning, a fresh wind off the water, a pod of porpoises leaping and splashing off the starboard rail. And a thousand gnawing worries. A lonely life lived in suspense, waiting for the moment the whole operation falls apart.

  Stacey picked up on the look on her face. Wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “Smile, kiddo,” she said. “You’re living the dream. People pay big money for this view.”

  McKenna laughed. “I’m paying big money, too,” she said. “Didn’t Ridley tell you the tricks I had to pull at the bank just to get us out of Seattle? I don’t know what I’m going to do if we don’t—”

  “We will,” Stacey said. “You will. You think hubby and I would fly all the way up here if we didn’t think you had the chops? It isn’t cheap buying fuel for Matt’s little plane, you know.”

  McKenna said nothing. Stared out over the water, the blue sky. The low, purple mountains on the horizon. Wished she shared Stacey’s confidence.

  The diver punched her on the shoulder. “Your dad raised a tug captain, girl. We’re going to kick this thing’s ass.”

  “Hell,” McKenna said, turning back to the wheelhouse as the porpoises fell astern. “Just find me a decent architect and I’ll feel a lot better.”

  At that moment, the rear wheelhouse door swung open above them, and Jason Parent poked his head out on deck. “Phone call for you, skipper,” he called down. “Sounds like Court.”

  Stacey raised an eyebrow. “Good things to those who ask?”

  “Apparently,” McKenna replied, starting up toward the wheelhouse. “Whatever you did just there? Keep that around. We’re going to need more when we get to the wreck.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “SOME OLD BOY CRACKED MY ACES,” Harrington told McKenna. “I’m out.”

  McKenna frowned at the handset. The satellite phone’s connection was a little spotty; she wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly.

  “Out,” she said. “Like, for good?”

  “Didn’t even make my buy-in back.” Harrington sighed. “I swear, two days ago I was doing great. I just ran like crap yesterday, is all. And then today, with the aces.”

  “Bad beat, huh?” McKenna hoped he couldn’t hear her grin. Wondered if grinning made her a bad person.

  “Anyway,” Harrington continued, “my loss is your gain, if you still have that job open. I can catch a cab to the airport in a couple of days, meet you by the time you get up to the wreck.”

  “How about you catch that cab now?” McKenna replied. “Meet us in Ketchikan tomorrow morning.”

  “What, and ride the boat all the way up there? I was thinking I’d just take some time here in Vegas, you know, regroup and relax.”

  Typical Court, McKenna thought. “You want the job, I need you up here,” she told him. “You wait around in Vegas, you might find another game. And where does that leave me and my crew?”

  “Our crew,” Harrington said. “I know the score, McKenna. You don’t have to treat me like—”

  “Ketchikan,” she said. “Tomorrow morning.”

  Harrington went quiet. “Geez,” he said finally. “Okay, McKenna. I’m in.”

  McKenna hung up the phone and crossed back to the wheel. Couldn’t hide the fresh bounce in her step. With Harrington on board, the Gale Force had a weapon that no other salvage outfit could top, not even the big guys. The whiz kid and his computer models could raise ships from the depths of the ocean. McKenna was certain he could figure out a way to save the Pacific Lion.

  The radio squawked to life; the Coast Guard coming through with the latest long-range forecast. McKenna listened, but she was only half interested. The forecast was clear across the gulf to Dutch Harbor, and it was too early to think beyond that. Anyway, Harrington was en route, and McKenna was in no mood to worry right now.

  As long as the Pacific Lion stays afloat, we just might have a chance.

  16

  DUTCH HARBOR

  The community center was dark. The rest of the crew slept on cots and blankets provided by the people of the community. But Hiroki Okura lay awake. He couldn’t sleep.

  The fog that had descended over Unalaska Island had granted him a reprieve, however brief. The jet the company had chartered had flown on to Kodiak, and would try again to land tomorrow. Sooner or later, it would succeed, and the crew would be taken home to Japan.

  Okura knew he should be preparing to face his fate with honor. An honorable man would return to Japan and face the consequences of his actions. But however appealing honor may have seemed in the abstract, in practical terms, Okura found the concept lacking.

  He sat up from his cot and surveyed the gymnasium. The American customs officers had posted a guard at the front of the community center, more symbolic than anything. There was a police officer, also, patrolling the grounds. Okura could see the intermittent flash of his light through the windows of the gymnasium. Outside, the night was foggy. A plan slowly formed in his mind.

  Quiet as he could, Okura stood and dressed. He rolled up his bedclothes on his cot, fashioned them into the form of a sleeping man. Then he crept down the row of cots to the rear of the gymnasium, where there was a fire door.

  Someone whispered his name. “Okura-sama.” It was the alcoholic deckhand. “Where are you going?”

  Okura hesitated. “Cigarette,” he said.

  It was the wrong answer. The deckhand propped himself up on his elbow. “Lend me one?”

  “Last one,” Okura told him. “Sorry. Go to sleep.”

  “Damn it.” The deckhand sighed. Looked around the gymnasium and finally lay his head down again. Okura waited in the shadows until the man was breathing heavily, and the police officer’s flashlight had passed outside the window. Then he pushed open the fire door and slipped out into the night.

  17

  Christer Magnusson stood on a Bering Marine barge and watched his men load gear aboard the Salvation in the first light of day. It wasn’t especially early—dawn came to Dutch Harbor around six thirty this time of year—but the men had worked all night to prepare, and Magnusson was eager to set sail. The Lion was drifting toward land, and the weather wouldn’t hold forever. And who knew if Waverly was planning an attempt of their own?

  One of Bill Carew’s men coiled lines on the stern while Carew himself watched from the wheelhouse, hand on the throttle. He gave Magnusson a nod. Ready to go? Magnusson nodded back and bent down to release the spring line, preparing to step aboard.

  There was a noise behind him, and Magnusson turned to see a small Japanese man step onto the barge. He wore the uniform of an officer aboard a Japanese Overseas ship.

  “Good morning,” he said in accented English. “I’ve heard you are going to salvage the Lion.”

  Magnusson said nothing. He would let the man reveal his angle before he made any response.

  “My name is Okura,” the man continued. “I need to get back to that ship.”

  Magnusson glanced back at Carew in the wheelhouse. “What’s your business with the Pacific Lion?” he asked.

  “I was second officer,” Okura replied. “There’s something on board that I would like to retrieve. If you could take me with you, I would
gladly pay.”

  “We intend to bring this ship to harbor,” Magnusson said. “Why not wait?”

  “If I stay on this island, the authorities will send me home. I cannot allow that to happen.”

  “This thing you lost is valuable?”

  “It is to me.”

  Magnusson studied the man. After a moment, he spit. This was unusual, to say the least. The man, Okura, was clearly into something unsavory, something that would no doubt bring trouble on land. Were he approached in the supermarket with a request like this, Magnusson knew he would turn Okura down without a second thought.

  But the high seas weren’t bound by the same laws as land. If you sailed far enough, you could outrun any law—and anyone who wished to enforce it. Magnusson had built his career in that wild, anarchic space. He wasn’t the type to shy away from opportunity.

  And there was opportunity here; that was plain.

  “Ten thousand dollars,” he said. “Plus expenses. And you stay out of our way.”

  Okura nodded. “Fine.”

  “Each,” Carew called from the wheelhouse.

  “I have twenty-five thousand dollars in American cash in my stateroom,” Okura told them. “If you bring me to the Lion, you can have it.”

  He held Magnusson’s gaze. Waited.

  “You stay out of our way,” Magnusson said again, turning back to the Salvation. “Hurry up and climb aboard.”

  18

  KETCHIKAN, ALASKA

  By morning, the Gale Force was tied to the dock in Ketchikan. McKenna topped up the tug’s fuel tanks with diesel while Jason Parent and the Jonases headed into town for groceries. In the engine room, Nelson Ridley gave the twin EMDs a look over.

  “Everything seems solid,” he told McKenna, wiping sweat from his brow with a greasy hand as he stepped out onto the afterdeck. “That turbo’s holding up nicely.”

  “Haven’t really tested it yet,” McKenna replied. “The real question is, can she hold up when we have that freighter in tow?”

  “She’ll hold up, skipper. You just worry about getting us to the job site.”

  “I’m working on it.” McKenna watched the fuel gauge. Handed over the company credit card when the tanks were filled. The bank had come through with the hundred-thousand-dollar loan, and she’d paid down Gale Force Marine’s overdrawn credit card, clearing enough breathing room to get up to the Pacific Lion. It was a slim margin, though.

  Ten million dollars, easy. Just get up to that ship and put a line on her.

  They’d arrived a little early. Court Harrington’s plane hadn’t arrived by the time the tug was refueled, and McKenna paced the dock, impatient. Time was a-wasting.

  She was still worried about Harrington. They hadn’t exactly ended things on the most amicable of terms, Randall Rhodes’s untimely demise pretty well killing any spark that had existed between them. Not that they’d been headed for any great romance. Though the whiz kid was older than her, barely, he was still a boy at heart, and she’d been the fool who’d tried to make him grow up.

  They’d been drunk the first time it happened, at some fisherman’s bar in Busan, high on salvage success and an exotic locale. She’d kissed him, spontaneously, shocking the hell out of them both, but he’d taken that first kiss and run with it. They’d spent the rest of that voyage sneaking between each other’s staterooms, hooking up between wheel watches, and trying to keep the old man from catching on.

  Randall hadn’t caught on, and they’d kept hooking up, though there’d been warning signs from the very beginning. Court wasn’t much for hanging out between jobs, preferring to fly home to Carolina and his sailboat, to spring break and poker, no matter how many times she’d tried to pitch him on, say, sticking around Seattle for an actual date. He’d give her that big cocky grin and flash those green eyes, change the subject or move in and kiss her. And, damn it, she’d let him off easy, deluded herself, figured it was only a matter of time.

  To his credit, Court had acted surprised when she’d spilled her heart to him. And maybe he was. The guy was a drifter—he didn’t want a real job, so why had she ever thought he’d want a real relationship?

  They’d been in his stateroom when she’d done it. A rocky trip up the California coast, Randall on wheel watch. She’d freaking told Court she loved him, watched him turn seasick-green, and after a boatload of tears and some stilted conversation, all that remained was one last walk of shame to her own stateroom, and some long, lonely nights.

  Then her dad died and she’d pushed Court away, and away he had drifted and never looked back. He’d done fine for himself, she was sure of it. She, on the other hand, was nearly broke, and hadn’t had a real relationship since high school. Neither figured to change without a fair bit of luck.

  * * *

  • • •

  HARRINGTON HAD TALENT, ANYWAY. The first job she’d worked with him, the architect had refloated a grounded bulk freighter that everyone aboard the tug figured was unsavable. He’d constructed a model of the ship on his laptop—every hold and compartment, measured the water level in each—and told the skipper and his crew where to install every pump, and how much water to pump out and when, and then stood back and watched as the freighter lifted like magic from the rocks.

  It was a tour de force, a masterful performance—and for Harrington, it was just another day’s work. By rights, the architect should have earned himself a long and glorious career with Commodore or Westerly. But Harrington was a slacker genius; he didn’t want a real job, and, anyway, he’d grown fond of McKenna’s dad. Commodore wanted to pay him a salary, keep him in an office most of the time. Harrington told them he’d done most of the work saving the ship, so he should get a percentage of the spoils, like the Gale Force operated—and moreover, he wanted to work on the boats. It hadn’t gone over well with the suits.

  * * *

  • • •

  AROUND THE MIDDLE of the morning, a white minivan pulled up at the foot of the docks. The rear door opened, and Court Harrington climbed out. He cut a striking figure—tall and lean, artfully mussed hair, and that cocky, mischievous smile, his eyes a startling gold-flecked green. He hoisted a duffel bag over his shoulder, paid the driver, and walked down the gangway to the dock.

  “Whiz.” Ridley wrapped him in a bear hug. Took his bag as he climbed over the bulwarks. “Glad you decided to join us.”

  “Had to keep you in suspense, didn’t I?” Harrington replied. “Hello, McKenna.”

  “Court.”

  McKenna held out her hand. Harrington moved in for a hug. They settled on something in between, and it was awkward as hell. McKenna could feel her cheeks burning, and fought the embarrassment and insecurity she could tell were quite obvious.

  You’re the boss here. Act like it.

  She stepped back, fixed Harrington with her most confident smile. “Welcome aboard,” she told him. “Let’s get to work.”

  19

  GULF OF ALASKA

  “So, okay,” McKenna said. “Here’s what we know about the Lion so far.”

  She and Court Harrington were in the Gale Force’s wheelhouse, seated at a table behind the captain’s chair, where Al Parent monitored the autopilot and the radio. Outside, the weather was calm and sunny, the ocean kicking up about a three-foot swell, the wind behaving itself. It was a beautiful day for a boat ride, and the Gale Force was making good time.

  Harrington had his laptop open, entering the Pacific Lion’s dimensions into the complicated drafting program he’d designed himself. It was about a million light-years beyond McKenna’s capabilities; just looking at the screen gave her a headache. If she didn’t look at the screen, though, she would have to look at Harrington. And she still wasn’t sure she could handle much of that yet.

  “Six hundred and fifty-two feet, eleven inches,” Harrington read. “One hundred and five feet, ten inches abeam.”

 
McKenna checked her notes. “That’s right.”

  The Lion was almost as wide as the Gale Force was long. Not that it should matter. As long as the weather cooperated, and the engines didn’t crap out, the tug would be able to tow the freighter to wherever McKenna needed to take her. The only question was how long the tow would take. And whether Court Harrington could figure out how to get her upright first.

  “So,” Harrington said, studying his screen, “it should be pretty easy. I’ll build a model of the ship as it lies, and then we’ll go on board and figure out how much water’s inside the hull, and how much fuel she’s carrying, and whether any of the cargo has shifted and by how much, and that will give us a good idea of the Lion’s weight distribution. From there, we can map out a strategy for pumping out the water that’s causing the list, and pumping in ballast the way the crew should have in the first place.”

  McKenna blinked. “That’s all?”

  “We’re going to need to be precise, though,” Harrington continued. “If we screw up and pump water out of the wrong tanks at the wrong time, we could overcorrect and tip the ship over the wrong way. Or worse, we could sink her.”

  “Yeah,” McKenna said. “Let’s not do that.”

  Losing the ship would be disastrous, and not just for the millions of dollars they would forfeit. In order to obtain the measurements Court Harrington was talking about, the team would have to venture deep inside the Pacific Lion, in cold, dark labyrinthine holds and passageways. If the ship sunk while they were aboard, there wouldn’t be any hope for survival—just miserable, lonely death as the freighter plunged to the ocean bottom. It was a grim thought.