Then he collapsed to the floor.
Instantly, there was a nurse beside him.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” she asked Harrington, scooping him back up and helping him into bed. “How long have you been awake?”
“Damage report,” Harrington replied, his mouth dry. “I needed to— What the hell happened to me, anyway?”
“You had a fall,” the nurse said. “You broke a couple of ribs, and you have a serious concussion, and with it, a fair bit of memory loss. But frankly, Mr. Harrington, it’s a miracle you aren’t paralyzed.”
Harrington lay back on the bed. “I fell on the Lion?”
“Is that a ship? Because you fell on a ship.”
“Yeah, the Pacific Lion. What happened after I fell? Where am I now?”
“You’re in Dutch Harbor,” the nurse said. “You were airlifted here by the Coast Guard. They’re going to send you on to Anchorage now that you’re awake.”
“Yeah, but the ship,” Harrington said. “What happened to the ship?”
The nurse shook her head. “No idea. I just take care of you, Mr. Harrington.”
Harrington stared up at the ceiling. Couldn’t remember his fall, couldn’t remember anything after he and McKenna had found the engine room locked.
“I need a telephone,” he told the nurse. “I need to make a phone call, right away.”
THE PHONE in the wheelhouse was ringing.
McKenna sat at the chart table with Court Harrington’s laptop, trying to decipher the whiz kid’s models—or, barring that, find a list of genius friends Harrington may have had, classmates, anyone who could help her crack the code. They’d have the Lion anchored down in Inanudak Bay within a few hours, and McKenna wanted to have a salvage plan set by dawn.
Matt Jonas answered the phone, and McKenna only half listened, focusing her attention on Harrington’s screen. But then Matt was holding the phone out, telling her that the call was for her.
“Who is it?” McKenna asked. “I’m a little busy, Matt.”
But Matt was unswayed. “You want to take this, skipper,” he said. “I promise.”
McKenna looked at him. Matt shrugged. Held out the handset, and, after one more look at Harrington’s models, McKenna sighed and took the phone. “Captain Rhodes,” she said. “This had better be good.”
“Define ‘good.’”
A man’s voice. A Carolina drawl. McKenna recognized it, felt the breath sucked from her lungs. “Court?”
“You gotta get me out of here, skipper,” Harrington said. “They took all my clothes.”
McKenna didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
“McKenna?”
McKenna blinked. Felt tears, and for once in her life, didn’t mind. “Yeah, I’m here,” she said. “It’s good to hear your voice, Court.”
“Yeah, I know it is. But you gotta fly me back.”
McKenna stared out the dark wheelhouse and over the Gale Force’s bow. Could see nothing but night, and the odd whitecap on the water ahead. She pictured Harrington in a hospital bed, banged-up and bruised but awake. Alive.
“Fly you where?” she replied. “Here?”
“I know you can’t save that ship without me,” Harrington said. “And you know there’s no one else who can do it. The way I see it, you have no choice.”
“You’re hurt, Court,” McKenna said. “They said you might never walk again.”
“Yeah, well. They were wrong about that. I broke some ribs and busted an ankle pretty good, got some new brain damage, that’s all. I’m fine, McKenna. I can walk, and if you tell them to wrap up these ribs real tight, I can sure as hell help you rescue that ship.”
McKenna shook her head. “I appreciate the enthusiasm, Court, but—”
“Who else are you going to get? Don’t tell me you’re going to try to work through my models yourself.” Harrington paused. “Look, I’m telling you, I’m fine. I want to help. Let’s get this ship right, and then I swear I’ll check back into the hospital, first thing. Just let me do this, please.”
McKenna closed her eyes. Tried to imagine what her dad would have done. Figured if her dad were Harrington, he’d have fought off the nurse and bought his own ticket back.
“You swear you’re okay?” she asked the architect.
“I’m fine, McKenna. It hurts to breathe a little, and I’m going to limp for a while. But I’m still the best architect that you know.”
Crap.
Somewhere behind the Gale Force, the Lion wallowed on the end of its tow, waiting for someone to plot a way to save her. McKenna figured she didn’t really have a choice.
“Damn it, fine,” she told Harrington. “But as soon as we’re done here, I’m taking you back to the hospital myself.”
60
There was a Coast Guard petty officer waiting for Court Harrington when the nurse wheeled him out through the lobby of the Iliuliuk Family and Health Services clinic in Dutch Harbor. She was a young woman with a short, clipped haircut, who looked him over, skeptical, as he struggled up from the wheelchair.
“Good morning, Mr. Harrington,” she said, handing him a cup of coffee. “Are you sure you’re up for this?”
“Pretty sure,” Harrington replied. That might have been a stretch. He ached all over, his head swam, and every breath felt like a stab wound. Walking, too, wasn’t the most fun in the world. But this petty officer probably jumped out of helicopters for a living, Harrington figured. She wasn’t going to sympathize with a couple bumps and scrapes.
He shook his head. Winced. “I mean, definitely. Once we get going, I’ll be fine.”
The petty officer didn’t look convinced. Behind Harrington, the nurse grumbled her protest, handed Harrington a couple of forms to sign. He did, and then he was free, and the petty officer was leading him out through the parking lot to a waiting van. She helped him into the passenger seat and closed the door for him, waited until he was settled before driving away from the building.
It was a ten-minute drive to the airport. Harrington focused on trying to breathe without hurting, on trying to remember the fall. Wondered, briefly, if he was making a mistake, but he knew that the crew of the Gale Force couldn’t do this without him.
The petty officer pulled into the airport, parked the van at the far end of the runway. Directly ahead was a Coast Guard helicopter, low slung and military-looking, like some kind of robot bug.
“Jayhawk,” the petty officer said. “You’re riding in style this morning.”
THE HELICOPTER didn’t do much to help Harrington’s pain threshold. The engines roared and rattled, and the whole machine shook as it sped westward, jarring Harrington’s brain inside his skull, the seat belt digging tight into his bandaged midsection, the broken ribs wrapped tight under his brand-new UNALASKA! tourist T-shirt. Outside, the view was nothing but gray clouds; the pilot must have been navigating by computer alone.
Two technicians joined Harrington in the back of the helicopter, both young, friendly looking guys in orange jumpsuits and helmets. They’d given Harrington a helmet to wear, too, with ear protection but no radio, so he couldn’t hear what the crew members were saying. He sat and looked out the window, found a grab bar to steady himself, hoped he wouldn’t be sick or pass out in front of these tough guys.