“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.
Harrington caught McKenna’s expression. “I’m not going to let us sink her, don’t worry,” he said. Then he smiled wryly. “Hey, if this stuff was easy, you wouldn’t have been so desperate to get me back, right?”
“Sure,” McKenna said, and she forced a smile in return.
“How’ve you been, anyway?” Harrington asked, leaning back in his seat. “I have to admit, my heart kind of skipped a beat when I saw your number on my call display. Kind of a blast from the past, right?”
Ah, shit, she thought. Here it comes.
“You’re the best architect I know,” she said. “I figured an eight-figure score was motivation enough for you and me both to put the past behind us.”
“Definitely,” Harrington said. He turned those green eyes on her. “Some things aren’t that easy to forget, though.”
She could feel herself blushing. Hated herself for it. Harrington picked up on it, laughed, and raised his hands. “Sorry, I just— It’s good to see you, McKenna.”
“Yeah,” she said. “You, too.”
“So you took over the boat, huh? Making a run at this captain thing, just like the old man. That’s really cool.”
“And you’re, what—playing poker?”
“Weighing my options,” he said. “Commodore offered me a job again, after I got my second doctorate. I don’t really like their style, though. And, hey, if the Gale Force is back in the game…”
His smile wasn’t going anywhere. He was still cocky as hell, sprawled out in that settee like the prodigal son, like this boat was his birthright.
He has the chops, though, McKenna thought, and that made it even worse. He can handle this work. Everybody on this boat has the chops for this job. But do you? Who’s the imposter here? Harrington? Or daddy’s little girl?
“We’re not back in the game yet,” she said lamely. “I’d wait until we get a line on that wreck before I made any big career decisions.”
20
Okura woke up groggy. He’d spent the first day’s run cooped up in the old tug’s galley, watching Schwarzenegger movies on the tiny TV. Tinny little explosions and staticky one-liners, machine-gun fire everywhere. He’d escape to the back deck for fresh air every now and then, when the swell got too lumpy. Okura was a career sailor, but the Salvation was a lot smaller than the cargo ships he was used to, and it took the waves a little rougher.
He slept poorly. Saw the Lion in his dreams—endless hallways, dark nightmare cargo holds, Ishimaru always in his peripheral vision, gone when he turned to confront him. Ishimaru and that briefcase, fifty million dollars. Okura woke up sweaty, tangled in his bedsheets, didn’t know where he was.
Imagined, for a split second, he was in a Yokohama prison already.
I need that briefcase.
He dressed and splashed cold water on his face, checked the galley and found Magnusson’s men nursing cups of coffee. There were voices upstairs in the wheelhouse and he followed them, climbing the stairs to find Magnusson and Carew deep in conversation.
Magnusson turned to Okura as he entered. “This is where your distress call came in.”
Okura looked out through the boat’s windows. Saw nothing but open ocean, a growing swell, patches of sun through the clouds. There was no sign of the Lion.
“She has drifted,” he said.
“Current’s taking her up toward the Aleutians. We’re going to have to chase her.”
“How much longer?”
“A couple of hours, maybe. Enough time to get a good breakfast, get your gear ready. I’ll give you some notice when we’re closing in.”
Okura looked out the window again, the empty sea. Then he descended the stairs to the galley, poured himself a mug of coffee. Picked out another action movie and tried to get comfortable.
SCHWARZENEGGER HAD JUST ABOUT killed the bad guy when the Salvation’s horn blew, long and loud. Okura paused the movie, and he and the Commodore men climbed back up to the wheelhouse.
Magnusson and Carew stood by the wheel, Carew’s deckhand, Robbie, beside them. They gazed out through the forward windows. Okura followed their eyes. Gaped.
“Iya,” he said. “What a catastrophe.”
They’d found the Pacific Lion. The ship lay on its side, dead ahead, and Okura could see the white of the ship’s superstructure, the blue of its hull, and the red of its naked keel, laid out almost horizontal to the sea. Along the keel, way back at the stern, Okura could see a couple blades of the ship’s propeller. The angle of the list was unsettling. The Lion looked ready to sink beneath the waves at any moment.
Okura shivered. Realized he hadn’t been prepared to see his ship again. To see the damage he’d done.
The radio crackled.
“Vessel approaching the freighter Pacific Lion, this is the United States Coast Guard Marine Patrol aircraft above you. Please state your business in these waters.”
There was momentary silence in the wheelhouse, and Okura could hear the drone of an aircraft engine above the boat. Carew craned his neck out of the starboard window, searched the sky.
“It’s a Hercules,” he said. “HC-130, probably out of Kodiak.”
Christer Magnusson already had hold of the radio. “Coast Guard patrol aircraft, this is Captain Magnusson on the salvage vessel Salvation. We’re here on behalf of Commodore Towing. We intend to salvage this wreck.”
A pause. “Stand by, Salvation.”
Okura caught Magnusson’s eye. “Do you think they’ll let us operate?”
“They have to,” Carew said. “The Coast Guard isn’t equipped to run an operation this big, not in the middle of nowhere like this. Right now, they’re racking their brains trying to figure out how to keep that ship from wrecking on a rock and spilling oil over every duck, whale, and cuddly sea otter in the North Pacific. They need the Salvation. You wait.”
Okura waited. So did the others. The Hercules droned on overhead, circling the wreck.
Then the radio hummed to life again. “Salvation, Coast Guard patrol. Captain, we appreciate your initiative. This ship is drifting deeper into American waters, and it’s starting to scare a few people around here. Are you in touch with the ship’s owners?”
“My office is in the process of negotiating a salvage agreement as we speak,” Magnusson replied.
“Copy. Please advise when you’re ready to commence operations. We’ll continue to monitor the situation from up here, and we’ll have the cutter Munro back on-site shortly to assist as necessary.”