This was Tomio Ishimaru’s personal hell, and he knew he deserved to be here.
He’d tried to make his escape when the ship began to capsize. Remembered the briefcase and returned to his hiding place to retrieve it. Tried again to climb the passage to safety but lost his balance, his grip. He slipped and slid and crashed against steel, feeling his leg crack and break underneath him as he landed, dazed and disoriented, in a long transverse passage without any windows.
He had no idea where he was. He knew he’d fallen, but the impact of his collision had knocked the sense out of him, probably left him concussed, and he lay half on the floor and half against the wall, the briefcase beside him, the ship steadily and inexorably tipping over.
He’d heard Okura call to him, somewhere, the second officer’s voice resonating against the steel, echoing from all angles. It was impossible to tell where it was coming from.
Ishimaru had tried to pull himself to his feet. Tried to respond. The pain was agonizing, so bad it had nearly knocked him unconscious. He crawled, instead, in the direction he’d landed. Couldn’t map the ship in his head because he’d never left his little locker until now. How could he know where to go?
He’d dragged the briefcase behind him as he crawled. Reached a doorway just as the generators failed, taking the lights with them. The passage was suddenly very quiet. No throb of the engines, no voices. Even the ocean was barely audible. It was pitch-black, and Ishimaru was in pain. He had no idea where he was.
It was impossible that the ship would survive. Sooner or later, the water would rush in, dragging the ship down and Ishimaru with it, drowning him in the darkness. He reached for the door, fumbled with it and pulled it open, hoping that it led to the outside world.
It didn’t. It led to more darkness, a gaping, yawning maw. Blinded and crippled, he gripped the briefcase and crawled across the threshold, realizing too late that he’d found a staircase skewed crazily by the list of the ship, the walls and the floors not where they should have been.
He fell. Tumbled through darkness, too surprised even to call out, his body battered against unforgiving steel walls and railings, against the stairs themselves. He came to land again, a heap of broken bones and sprains, lay there for a while, vomiting and passing out and waking to vomit again.
He gradually came to realize he’d landed near another door. A hatch. It could lead to daylight. It could lead to a flooded compartment and certain death. It could lead to nothing at all, to more darkness. But there was nothing else that Ishimaru could do.
He struggled to open the hatch. Propped himself up and wrenched at the lever and, finally, pushed the hatch open. It swung down into nothingness. Ishimaru took the briefcase and crawled through, more carefully this time. Searched with his hands for a suitable landing spot.
There was a wall to his left. It met the listing deck so as to form a triangle. Ishimaru crawled into its cradle, intending to follow the wall to wherever it led. He was thirsty and hungry and in constant pain. He must have spent a day on the wreck by now, maybe more, and he realized with a surprising aloofness that he would probably die in the darkness. But he took the briefcase anyway, dragged it behind him through the hatchway until it came to its end, a few feet beyond.
There was nothing after it. There was a hole. It might have been six feet deep, or sixty feet; there was no way to tell. Ishimaru was exhausted, and his whole body was sore. He’d lain against the wall and the deck of the ship and listened to the monstrous, primeval noises around him. He closed his eyes and waited to die. Waited to be released from the memory of what he’d done.
Naoko. Saburo. Akio.
He’d killed them all.
* * *
• • •
EXCEPT NOW, HERE WAS LIGHT, and a man’s voice calling his name. “The briefcase, Tomio,” the man was saying in Japanese. “Where is your briefcase?”
Ishimaru struggled to straighten himself. Failed to move his head more than a few inches. He blinked in the sudden brightness, surveying the platform in the light of the man’s headlamp. It was narrow, an ugly yellow, hard steel. Beyond it were the ghostly forms of cars hanging in rows to oblivion. And where was the briefcase?
The briefcase was not on the platform. Ishimaru remembered dragging it through the hatchway, remembered setting it down as he lay his head against the wall. He remembered now the sudden shudder of a large wave, jolting him awake from his delirious state. He remembered feeling the briefcase at his feet, kicking at it reflexively, then not feeling the briefcase anymore. He realized what he must have done.
“The briefcase, Tomio. Where is it?”
The man’s light was blinding. Still, Ishimaru recognized the voice. “Hiroki?”
“Yes,” Okura said. “It’s me, Tomio. All is safe now. But where is your briefcase?”
Ishimaru rolled his eyes to look over the edge of the platform. Okura followed his gaze with the light. There was no sign of the briefcase amid the cars and the darkness, but Ishimaru knew it must be down there somewhere. Okura grabbed him, rough. Shook him. “Talk to me, Tomio.” His voice desperate, urgent, unhinged.
Ishimaru lifted his chin and gestured over the edge. “Down.”
Okura peered over the edge of the platform. He swore. He looked at Ishimaru and swore again.
32
Okura stared down at Ishimaru. The stowaway was filthy and bruised and broken, a pitiful creature. The sight of him filled Okura with hot, sudden anger.
All you had to do was hold on to the briefcase, he thought. You could have made us rich. Well, me, anyway.
Ishimaru clawed at him, weak as a baby bird. “Water,” he rasped out. “Please.”
Okura ignored him. Shined his headlamp into the gloom again. Searched for any sign of the case, couldn’t see it. He kicked Ishimaru’s hand aside. Inched across the bulkhead to stand over him on the platform. Stared down at him for a long time—the stowaway feeble, blinking, near blinded by the light—and felt his anger only worsen.
Before Okura realized what he was doing, he’d put his foot down on his old classmate’s throat, stepped down hard.
It would be impossible to bring Ishimaru to the surface. The stowaway’s presence would bring more complications. It would raise questions that would stand in the way of Okura’s freedom.
This is the only way.
Ishimaru was too weak to fight. He clawed ineffectually at Okura’s boot. Gasping, his eyes bulging. Okura maintained the pressure, watched the desperation in Ishimaru’s eyes turn to surrender. And then those eyes went vacant and his old classmate was finally dead.
33
McKenna watched through her binoculars as the man emerged from the bridge of the Lion, climbed into a skiff tied to the freighter’s railing, and navigated it, slowly and perilously, back to the Salvation. Beside her, Court Harrington shifted his weight.
“What’s that about?” he asked. “Who’s that guy?”
McKenna shrugged. “One of Christer’s guys, I guess. Could be his architect. You recognize him?”
She handed Harrington the glasses, and the whiz kid studied the man in the skiff. “Nobody I know,” he said. “Whoever he is, he’s got guts to be running that dinghy through those waves.”
“Or he’s just crazy.” McKenna took the glasses back. The man had reached the Salvation, which rode the waves at the stern of the Lion, tethered to the bigger ship like a terrier on a leash, black plumes of smoke belching out of her stack.
Cripes, even the towline seemed thin for the job. The winch looked underpowered, too, and the Salvation herself was dirty, in need of a fresh coat of paint. She was doubtless a good ship—hell, she’d survived since World War II—but she wasn’t a salvage tug, and with the weather set to turn, McKenna wasn’t about to stand around waiting for Christer Magnusson to prove it.
She picked up the radio. “Coast Guard cutter Munro, this is the Gale Force.
”
A pause. Then: “Gale Force, Munro. We were just about to hail you, sir—er, ma’am. Can you tell me your intentions in these waters?”
“Sure,” McKenna said. “I’m here to salvage the Lion.”
A longer pause. “Ma’am, it’s our understanding that Commodore Towing is handling salvage duties at this time. Have you been in touch with the Salvation?”
“I have,” McKenna said. “I told them they’re wasting your time. That little boat over there is pouring its heart out and it can’t move the Lion. What’s going to happen when this gale hits?”
“As far as we’re aware, Commodore’s operations are proceeding as planned,” the radio operator replied. “If you wish to assist, I’d suggest you try to negotiate something with the Salvation herself. We’re not in a position to be settling disputes of this nature.”
“You will be,” McKenna said. “When the operation fails and the Lion wrecks on a rock somewhere, you’ll have a mess on your hands, I assure you.”
She slammed the radio handset back into its cradle. Stared out at the Lion, now visibly rocking as the waves crashed against her hull.
“Well, we can’t just sit around and wait,” Court Harrington said. “I need to get aboard before this weather turns nasty.”
At the Lion’s stern, the Salvation bobbed, no sign of life from the afterdeck or the wheelhouse. McKenna studied the smaller vessel, felt Harrington’s eyes on her, knew he was growing impatient, probably doubting her ability to bump Christer Magnusson out of the way.
If your dad was here—
Shut up. McKenna reached for the radio. “Hell, no, we’re not waiting,” she told Court. “Hello, Munro,” she said into the handset. “This is the Gale Force. I’d like to talk to your commanding officer, please.”
* * *
• • •
THE MUNRO’S CAPTAIN WAS A MAN named Tom Geoffries. He listened as McKenna laid out her argument. But McKenna couldn’t convince him.
“The Salvation assures me they have the situation under control,” Geoffries told her. “Frankly, Captain, this sounds like a load of sour grapes from an outfit who gambled and lost.”
McKenna gritted her teeth. “I appreciate how it might sound that way, Captain Geoffries,” she replied. “From my angle, I have a high-horsepower, deep-sea tug stocked with the best salvage experts, divers, and naval architects in the business, and none of us can do our jobs because a group of pretenders are standing in our way.”
Geoffries came back harsh. “I think you’re out of line, Captain Rhodes.”
“Sir, you know as well as I do that this weather is only going to get worse,” McKenna said. “That ship’s rate of drift is going to increase, and assuming she doesn’t sink, she’s going to hit land sooner or later. And I’m telling you, in this gale we’ve got coming, that little navy tender over there isn’t going to be anything more than a speed bump.”
Geoffries didn’t respond. McKenna waited. If the Coast Guard captain cut her out, the Gale Force would have no choice but to stand down, watch the Lion drift toward land, and pray there was still time to act when the call finally came.
The radio crackled. “I’m sorry, Captain Rhodes,” Geoffries said at last. “Until they prove they’re not up to it, this is Commodore’s wreck. I just can’t break their contract without cause.”
34
This was a nightmare zone.
Okura dangled in darkness, lowering himself slowly down a line of rope, his feet pressed tight to the deck as he walked himself backward, searching the long line of Nissans for the briefcase. The cars hung around him, rocking with the ship’s motion. They reminded Okura of an uncut sheet of dollar bills, one single unit moving in unison, rising and falling and rising again.
The weather outside must have worsened considerably. The creaks and moans had become more pronounced, the sway of the ship heavier. A couple times, Okura was thrust up and away from the deck with the force of the swell, tossed into the air and then down again, his grip on the rope slipping, his feet nearly giving out.
Somewhere below him was water. Okura could hear it sloshing in the darkness, something dripping. The decks were slick with oil. It leaked from the cars’ engines and drained steadily down the listing deck. Okura imagined the dark frothy mixture at the bottom of the cargo hold, imagined falling into the cold water, drowning in it, coughing up oil and freezing salt water in pitch-black surroundings.
Somewhere below, too, was Tomio Ishimaru. Okura had wrestled the stowaway’s body off of its little platform, sent it plunging down to the darkness, heard it collide with something, a car probably, then another. Then he’d heard the splash, and the stowaway was gone.
Fifty million dollars. Now it’s all mine.
* * *
• • •
THERE WAS STILL NO SIGN of the briefcase when he’d reached the end of his rope. Okura wrapped it around his glove, found another bulkhead wall to rest against, then stretched and drank water from the canteen he’d stuffed in his pack. Surveyed the situation.
There were cars everywhere. The darkness seemed to close in around them, bringing with them a lingering, primal fear. This was a madhouse.
Three or four rows down, Okura could see the portside hull of the Lion. There was a pool of oily water immersing the first row of cars completely, and part of the second row. Headlights emerged from the murky depths like shipwrecks. There was still no sign of the briefcase.
It must have fallen all the way to the bottom, was probably lying somewhere in that oily water. Okura hoped the briefcase was watertight, imagined coming all this way to find a case of sodden, pulpy stock certificates, unreadable and utterly useless, the perfect punch line to this entire sick joke.
The rope was too short to continue any farther. Okura suddenly felt exhausted, beaten, and he wondered how many hours he’d spent down here, whether it was still daylight outside.
Magnusson will salvage this ship, he thought, staring down the row of cars toward the icy water at the bottom. He’ll pump out all the water and bring the ship upright, and I’ll intercept the briefcase when the ship has been saved. To hell with staying down here any longer.
He stood and straightened, already feeling the fresh air on his face, tasting the hot food in the Salvation’s galley. But as he turned toward the hatchway and prepared to make the climb, he spied something, a blur as his headlamp passed over it, and then he looked closer and saw it was the briefcase.
It was lying on the windshield of a sports sedan, five or six rows away. Only God could tell how Ishimaru had managed to kick the damn thing so far, but there it lay, dry and unmolested.
Now all that remained was to retrieve it.
35
By morning, the gale was a foregone conclusion.
The waves had grown to ten-foot swells overnight, gloomy gray rollers that rocked the Gale Force fore and aft, coating her decks with salt spray, spilling coffee and ruining sleep. McKenna and Al Parent traded off all night, jogging the tug in the swell, keeping her bow pointed to the waves. McKenna watched the Lion, searching for any sign that she was flooding. Waiting for the moment the big ship finally sank.
Morning was a gray horizon to match the sea, the Lion drifting north at a knot and a half an hour, the Salvation’s efforts to arrest the drift not amounting to much. The wind was gusting to twenty-five, the gale warning all over the forecast. It would arrive in earnest by afternoon, and its heavy winds would push the vast, exposed bulk of the Lion northeast toward the Aleutians at an increasing speed, until there was nothing anyone could do but pray she sank before she made landfall. If she stayed afloat, McKenna knew, she’d be on the beach within a couple of days.
McKenna called the crew to the wheelhouse. They crowded in, Matt and Stacey and Court Harrington around the chart table, Nelson Ridley beside McKenna at the wheel, Al and Jason Parent by the doorway, and Spike on the dash. They
looked out at the Pacific Lion, the Salvation at her stern, her flimsy towline drawing taut, then slackening as the waves battered both vessels, the Salvation’s black exhaust nearly obscuring the Lion’s stern.
“He’s got to get her moving,” Ridley muttered. “What in hell is Magnusson doing, farting around over there?”
“There’s no way he can move that ship,” McKenna replied, “and he’s a fool for even trying. So let’s get our pumps and generators ready to go. Climbing equipment, too. Matt and Stacey, I need you inside the Lion as soon as we get our line on.”
The Jonases nodded. “You know us, boss,” Matt said. “We’ll be ready.”
“Al and Jason, you get the towline ready,” McKenna continued. “We’re going to rig a bridle at the stern, stabilize her, see if we can’t put some distance between us and the Aleutians before this storm takes over. We’re going to need every inch of open water, from the looks of it.”
“Aye-aye,” Al agreed.
“Good. Nelson and I will join Matt and Stacey on the ship. It’s all hands for this job.” She turned to Harrington. “You have that computer of yours fired up?”
“Just waiting on the numbers,” Harrington said.
“Perfect.” McKenna turned back to the window. It was eight in the morning, and today, she knew, would determine the Lion’s fate—and the Gale Force’s. “This is our wreck,” she told the crew. “So let’s be ready to claim her.”
36
The wind howled.
Christer Magnusson stood at the Salvation’s wheel. Bill Carew and his deckhand joined him in the wheelhouse. Foss and Ogilvy were in their bunks, resting. They’d drawn the night watch, and it had been a long night.
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