“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
“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.”