The other guy, Okura, was still on the ship somewhere. Refused to leave, the maniac. Magnusson studied the Lion’s stern, figured the guy would probably wind up dead, decided he was glad he’d asked for that twenty-five thousand up front.
Behind the Salvation, the Lion dragged at the towline, the wind catching the freighter’s hull and shoving it off course, threatening to pull the smaller boat with it. Bill Carew had the Salvation’s engines revving high, almost at their limits, but the force of the wind was nearly overpowering the ship, and that, Magnusson knew, was a very bad sign.
Bill Carew met his eyes. “You want to have your men slacken off that winch and we’ll release the tow?”
Magnusson didn’t answer. The correct thing to do in this circumstance—the seas getting bigger, the wind moaning through the rigging, foam and salt spray everywhere, an underpowered boat, and a heavy, wallowing tow—was as Carew suggested: slacken off the towline, untether the Salvation from the wreck, and turn around, with tail between legs, head back to home base.
But Magnusson hadn’t built his career on giving up early. If that woman on the Gale Force wanted to take the Lion from him, she was damn well going to earn it.
“Slacken the winch?” Magnusson said. “What the hell for?”
Carew opened his mouth to answer. Magnusson cut him off. “Give me more power,” he told the captain. “Damned if we’re giving up without a fight.”
* * *
• • •
THE BRIEFCASE, at last.
Okura’s muscles screamed as he balanced on the windshield of the sports car, clutching the briefcase like a trophy. The ship swayed and rolled. The cars groaned against their fastenings.
Okura didn’t care. He was fifty million dollars richer.
He timed his movements carefully. Clambered off the Nissan and onto its neighbor, aiming his headlamp in the direction he’d come. Four cars away, his rope dangled in space. All that remained was to reach that rope and to climb it to safety.
Fifty million dollars. Okura crawled across the front end of the next Nissan. Thank you, Tomio.
* * *
• • •
ABOARD THE MUNRO, Captain Geoffries watched the Pacific Lion swing on the end of the Salvation’s towline, waves crashing against her exposed hull. He checked the GPS screen in front of him: forty-five nautical miles to landfall, the south shore of Umnak Island. Despite the Salvation’s efforts, the freighter continued to drift north.
“Raise the Salvation,” Geoffries told his radio operator. “Ask them what the hell they’re doing over there.”
* * *
• • •
THE SALVATION’S RADIO CRACKLED to life. The Munro. “Requesting an update on the status of your operation,” the radio operator told Magnusson. “It looks like you’re into some difficulty over there.”
Magnusson studied the Munro. It jogged in the swell, steady and silent and ever-present. Behind the cutter, a half mile away, the Gale Force waited her turn.
Magnusson picked up the radio. “No difficulty,” he told the Munro. He motioned to Carew, who pushed the Salvation’s throttles, the twin Caterpillars roaring with the strain. “Everything is proceeding as planned.”
37
McKenna stared out at the Salvation through her binoculars. “My god,” she said as another thick plume of smoke erupted from the little boat’s stack. “They still think they can tow that thing.”
Beside McKenna, Nelson Ridley shook his head. “They’re nuts, skipper. They’ll blow their bloody engines.”
Through McKenna’s binoculars, the Salvation struggled forward, white water roiling from beneath her stern.
“The old girl has heart, anyway,” she said. “Even if her master’s a maniac.”
The wind gusted harder. The Lion began to yaw sideways on her towline again, fighting the Salvation’s efforts to keep her true. The Salvation bucked on the end of the line, straining and pulling for all she was worth. McKenna could almost hear the engines howling, knew the noise must have been tremendous, the exertion, as the plucky little boat put fifty-five thousand tons of ship on her back.
At first, she thought her eyes were playing tricks on her. But Ridley noticed the same. “Geez,” the engineer exhaled. “Who’s towing who, skipper?”
Ridley was right. Little by little, the Lion was dragging the Salvation around as the big freighter herself turned abeam to the sea, her whole flank now exposed, increasing the wind’s hold on her, blowing her back.
The Salvation fought valiantly. It was losing. Slowly, inexorably, the wind and the sea took control of the Lion.
“Thundering Jonas,” Ridley said. “They’re going to lose that ship if they’re not careful.”
McKenna put down the glasses. “Forget the ship,” she said. “If they don’t change something fast, they’re going down with it.”
* * *
• • •
MAGNUSSON LOOKED OUT the aft window of the Salvation’s wheelhouse. The towline was stretched taut, the propellers churning up a mighty white wash. Carew had the throttle pegged at the max, the engines howling. But behind them, the Lion continued to pull, dragging them into the trough, the waves hitting hard, broadside.
Magnusson swore. Threw open the aft door and hollered down to Robbie, who worked the winch from the afterdeck, paying out line to gain distance from the Lion.
“Don’t you dare drop that line,” Magnusson shouted down. “You don’t do a damn thing unless I say so.”
Magnusson ducked back inside the wheelhouse, his adrenaline running now. The Salvation’s engines seemed to take hold, the propeller biting into green water, arresting the Lion’s momentum—for the moment.
We’re not giving this ship up, Magnusson thought. I’ll be goddamned if that woman takes this job from me.
It sounded good in his head. But then he looked out the portside window and saw the wave coming, bigger than any other, looming large and closing fast, headed for the Salvation and her prize.
* * *
• • •
RIDLEY STIFFENED. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, Lord, no.”
McKenna glanced over at him. Looked back at the Salvation, binoculars down, and saw what her engineer was seeing.
A wave, the biggest of the day, a freak, maybe thirty feet high—kid’s stuff for the Gale Force, and even the Salvation, but not with this tow behind her. Not like this.
The wave scudded toward the Salvation, toward the Lion and the towline stretched between them. McKenna watched it come, knew she should feel vindicated. There was no way the Salvation could survive with her tow intact. As soon as this wave hit, the Lion would be hers.
Instead, she felt emptiness, fear, as if she were watching the wave that had stolen her father all over again. The Salvation dropped into the trough. The wave loomed. McKenna braced herself, though she was a half mile away.
38
The wave snapped the towline like the crack of a rifle. Magnusson lunged for the door, called out for the deckhand, watched the line snap back like a whip, heard—felt—the loose end hit the wheelhouse like a freight train.
Then the boat was surging forward, down into the trough, the engines at full bore, the load suddenly eased, the propellers churning and driving the Salvation into the sea. Carew had fallen over backward, was stumbling to his feet, nobody at the controls. Magnusson hurried over, throttled down the engines, three-quarters power. Turned her bow into the waves.
“Hey,” he called down to the galley, where Foss and Ogilvy had damn well better be awake. “Get your asses up here, right now!”
* * *
• • •
OKURA WAS HALFWAY UP the climbing line, the briefcase tucked under his arm, when the wave hit. He felt the Lion drop into the swell, knew instinctively what was coming, knew it was a bigger wave than any he’d felt so far. The cars lurched on their mounts,
steel screaming in protest. Okura braced himself. Then the wave hit.
It seemed to hit twice. Broadsided the Lion with a hard, thudding crash, and then another jolt, not as forceful, but somehow more sudden. And Okura felt the briefcase slip from beneath his arm, felt it falling away.
He loosened his grip on the rope for an instant, reaching down for the briefcase, and then he was slipping. The rope seemed to slide through his fingers, and then it was gone, and he was falling backward, down through the darkness, his headlamp giving brief, photo-flash glimpses of the ceiling, the deck, the cars on their mounts.
No, he thought, time seeming to slow. Damn it, no. I was so close.
Then he hit something hard, unyielding and painful, and the impact knocked out his headlamp, and everything was dark and suddenly very quiet.
* * *
• • •
MCKENNA WATCHED THE WAVE HIT. Watched the towline snap like an overstretched elastic, watched the Salvation lunge forward, an explosion of white water breaking over her bow, the towline whipping back, wild, on the tug’s afterdeck.
“Bleeding hell,” Ridley muttered. “I hope nobody’s back there.”
McKenna lifted her field glasses. Couldn’t see a soul on deck, though at this point she wouldn’t be able to see much; the towline had snapped with enough force to cut a man in half.
Christer Magnusson seemed to get the Salvation back under control. He throttled down the engine and turned the salvage boat into the waves. She jogged there, for a minute or two, and McKenna relaxed. Maybe disaster had been averted. Maybe everyone on that little ship was fine, and the Gale Force could set to work saving the Lion.
The radio came to life above her head. “Man overboard, man overboard. Salvation has a man in the water.”
39
“Man overboard!”
Suddenly, she was back there. Out there. That night, her dad, the Argyle Shore. It was happening again. And another man would die if she didn’t act quickly.
McKenna throttled up the Gale Force and got on the hailer. “Salvation lost a man overboard,” she told them. “Everyone on deck. Pike poles and life preservers, whatever you can find. I need eyes on this guy immediately.”
Ridley joined her at the wheel as the tug plowed through the water toward the stern of the Lion. “You see him, lass?”
“Not yet.” Ahead of the Gale Force, the Salvation was making a slow turn. McKenna aimed the tug just past the Lion, figuring she’d meet Magnusson in the middle. Assuming Magnusson’s guy could stay afloat that long, could stay conscious. That water was cold.
“Watch that towline,” Ridley said. “Don’t want to foul a prop.”
The Salvation’s severed towline hung off the stern of the Lion. If it caught up in the Gale Force’s propellers, it could cripple the tug.
McKenna picked her way around the towline as Stacey Jonas appeared at the bow, scanning the water for the Salvation’s lost man. McKenna watched her, watched the waves, watched the Salvation in the distance.
There’s enough wind and wave to make this guy invisible, McKenna thought. If Christer doesn’t have eyes on him, he’s lost.
She picked up the radio. “Salvation, Salvation, do you see your man, Christer?”
Silence. Then: “Negative. I lost him when we went into a trough. He was a couple hundred yards back when I last saw.”
Shit. McKenna put down the radio and motored onward. Felt her heart pounding, fought the negative thoughts. Too late. We’re not going to get him.
He’s gone.
Then Stacey stiffened on the bow. Jumped and pointed forward, a couple degrees to starboard.
“I think she got him,” Ridley said. He hurried to the starboard window, slid it open, and hollered something to Stacey, who called back, never taking her eyes from the water.
“Three boat lengths,” Ridley reported. “You see where she’s pointing, skipper?”
McKenna stared out at the gray water. Rubbed her eyes, kept the tug moving forward. Didn’t see. Then she did. The guy was floating there, his head up, splashing a little to keep his face above water. He looked dulled by the cold already, looked ready to give up.
“We see him,” she told the Salvation over the radio. Then she turned to Ridley. “I’ll bring him up on our starboard side. Make sure the crew’s ready.”
She idled toward the man in the water until he was about a quarter boat length away, keeping the portside to the wind and the sailor in her lee. Stacey gestured back, Cut the engines, and McKenna cut them out of gear and drifted, hoping the poor guy had strength enough to grab a rescue line, or a life preserver, at least.
She went to the starboard window, peered out and back, watched Matt heave a line toward the sailor, Jason hanging down over the rail with a pole.
The first throw missed. Not by much, a few feet, but the sailor was in no shape to swim for it. Quickly, Matt hauled in the line, coiled and threw it again. This time, his throw was true. The line landed on top of the sailor, who took hold with both hands, his movements clumsy and slow.
Hold, McKenna thought as Matt and Jason began to pull the rope back to the tug. Hold on to that line, man. You’re almost there.
The men hauled the sailor toward the Gale Force’s hull, and McKenna returned to the controls, watching her crew on the closed-circuit monitor and keeping an eye on the oncoming waves, ready to engage the propellers or bow thruster if the seas threatened to push her boat down on top of the man in the water.
On deck, Matt and Jason struggled with the pike pole now, their faces tight with exertion as they worked to pull the man to safety. McKenna muttered a silent prayer as Al joined alongside, leaning over the gunwale and reaching toward the waterline.
Careful, she thought. Don’t you guys fall in, too.
Slowly, Matt and Jason lifted the pike pole. Al strained lower, reached with both hands, came back with two fists full of soggy clothing and the man it belonged to. Matt and Jason helped him haul the man aboard, lay him on deck.
Thank god.
McKenna put the boat in gear, turned her nose to the wind. “Bring him inside,” she ordered over the hailer. “Get him warmed up fast.”
* * *
• • •
MATT AND STACEY had the Salvation’s crewman wrapped in a sleeping bag when McKenna came down. The man was shivering, a coffee mug pressed to his lips.
“You guys saved my bacon,” he said. “I thought I was done.”
McKenna nodded, saw the man’s wet clothes lying in a heap on the galley floor. “You got pretty damn lucky you weren’t split in two by that towline.”
“I jumped,” the man replied. “Last second, you know? I saw that cable stretching, and then I heard it snap, and it was all I could do to get out of the way.”
“You know you didn’t have enough power to pull that ship,” McKenna said. “Why risk your life—and waste everyone’s time?”
The man looked down at the table. “I mean, I work for the boat, right? This is Commodore’s job.”
“Was Commodore’s job. We’re taking over.”
“Fine by me. Look, I spent most of my time on the wreck with the other guy, Japanese buddy.”
McKenna swapped glances with Matt Jonas. “Who?”
“Guy from the Lion, Hiroki or something. He paid us twenty-five grand to get him back out to the wreck without telling anybody.” He sipped his coffee, his teeth chattering. “The guy’s still on the ship, to tell you the truth. Last I saw, he was down in the cargo hold.”
McKenna frowned. What the hell was the guy doing in there?
She was about to ask the man to elaborate when Al called down from the wheelhouse. “Salvation’s coming up alongside us now, skipper,” he said. “Better tell the boy to get ready.”
* * *
• • •
MCKENNA JOINED THE REST of the crew on deck a
s the Salvation pulled up beside the Gale Force. Spied Christer Magnusson on the smaller tug’s afterdeck. He met McKenna’s gaze, raised a hand in greeting, looked away.
So be it, McKenna thought. You gambled and lost, now get out of our way.
Al idled the Gale Force close, and Jason Parent stood ready with a long coil of rope as Matt and Stacey Jonas readied the Gale Force’s life raft. The Salvation’s deckhand started to the rail as Matt and Stacey lowered the raft to the water. Then he stopped and turned around, came back to McKenna.
“Robbie Peters,” he said, his hand outstretched. “You guys saved my life.”
McKenna shook the man’s hand. He had a firm grip, though his hand was frigid. “Glad we got to you in time,” she said. “I assume this means you guys are giving up on that freighter.”
The deckhand glanced back at the wounded Lion. “Hell,” he said, “I’ll be happy if I never see that ship again in my life.”
The two boats inched closer, and Jason Parent heaved the line across the narrow chasm to Christer Magnusson, who made it fast on his end. Then Robbie Peters was climbing over the gunwale and into the life raft, and, gripping the rope with one hand and steadying the raft with the other, he pulled himself across the rough seas to the Salvation.
McKenna watched the kid make it home to the Salvation’s scuffed hull. Watched Magnusson pull him to his feet, help him into the house. Tried not to think of her dad in the water, lost and alone.
Christer Magnusson didn’t stop to help you then, she thought. He raced right past and claimed the Argyle Shore as his own. Sent that damn pile of flowers to the old man’s memorial.
Gale Force Page 12
