McKenna and Ridley were sitting at a table in a bar near the docks. Last call had come and gone, but Ridley seemed to know the bartender and he’d sweet-talked a couple of beers and the private use of the lounge.
“You aren’t really the going-home type, are you?” McKenna asked him. “I send you back to Carly for some family time, and you’re still dragging me to bars in the middle of the night.”
Ridley looked around the empty bar. Leaned across the table, conspiratorial. “This ship is carrying a full load of brand-new Nissans.”
“Happy with my ten-year-old Ford,” McKenna replied. “You’re going to have to do better.”
“Five thousand brand-new Nissans,” Ridley repeated, his eyes alight. “All of them fully insured. That ship must be worth a hundred million clams, easy. And as of an hour ago, skipper, she’s officially up for grabs.”
“An hour ago.” McKenna studied her engineer. “I don’t know why you keep tabs on this stuff, Nelson. We’ve been out of that game for years.”
“Guess I can’t take a hint.” Ridley grinned. “Anyway, I can’t sleep at home without my radio scanner hooked up. Some people have whale noises, thunderstorms? I have distress calls, everywhere from Panama to Siberia. Makes me feel like I’m still on the job, I guess.”
“My god. How does Carly stand it?”
“Earplugs, skipper. Industrial strength. And thirty years of true love.”
McKenna said nothing. The bar was empty, save the bartender polishing glasses and stifling yawns. McKenna yawned, too, didn’t bother to hide it. She suddenly felt pretty damn tired.
“We’re out of commission,” she reminded the engineer. “The turbo, remember? Anyway, the Gale Force doesn’t run salvage anymore.”
“I’ll fix the turbo,” Ridley said. “If I start working tonight, I can have it straight by dawn. We can sail by noon, probably, if we bust our humps.” He arched an eyebrow. “Whoever puts a line on this ship, they’re taking home ten million dollars, minimum.”
McKenna figured her engineer was right. By the rules of salvage, the Pacific Lion had become fair game to any outfit willing to risk the rescue. Of course, the rules of salvage also dictated that the crew wouldn’t be paid one salty dime if they couldn’t save the ship. McKenna had borne witness firsthand to that kind of heartbreak—and worse.
“You’re asking me to sail to Alaska,” she said. “Our first salvage gig since the Argyle Shore. The first job I’ve ever done on my own. A hundred-million-dollar ship. Are you nuts, Nelson?”
“Not in the slightest, lass. You’re cut out for this work. Your dad knew it. I know it. Only thing to do is jump in, get your feet wet.”
“This is a hell of a leap,” she said. “And even if I was interested, Christer Magnusson at Commodore will get the contract. Or Westerly Towing. One of the big boys.”
“The Commodore Titan is laid up in Los Angeles,” Ridley said. “Westerly’s best boat is towing an oil rig to the Persian Gulf. We’ve got a couple days, easy, on anything else they can send.”
Geez, Ridley. The engineer couldn’t hide his enthusiasm, and McKenna felt a pang of something—guilt, maybe, or regret—as she watched him from across the table. McKenna knew, for all of Ridley’s good humor and carefree demeanor, that he missed the days of tearing across the high seas in search of fortune and adventure with her father.
Her dad had found Ridley on some dock in Fiji, the Gale Force in dire straits after Ridley’s predecessor fell in love with an island girl and bailed on the crew. He’d offered Ridley the job, and Ridley had taken it, no questions asked, never looked back. For a while, he’d even brought Carly along on the voyages.
Now Ridley got his adrenaline fix by carving up the Pacific Northwest back roads on his restored ’71 BSA Rocket 3 motorcycle. The rest of the time, he helped McKenna keep the Gale Force running, at the docks or on jobs up the coast. He took a nominal salary, and he paid back more than he earned in parts, tools, and free labor. He’d never asked McKenna for a return on his investment, and McKenna knew he never would.
This pitch, she decided, was probably as close as he would ever come.
So she found herself mulling the question over. Commodore and Westerly were the two biggest operations in the Pacific Northwest. If their big boats were out of the hunt, the Lion was anyone’s for the taking. And assuming that Ridley could rig up a fix for that starboard turbo, the Gale Force should have just enough oomph to handle the job. If everything broke right, it would mean a massive payday. But that was a big if.
“We’d have to call the crew back,” she told Ridley. “Matt and Stacey, at the very least. I don’t know if they’d even be interested. I haven’t talked to them since…” She trailed off. But Ridley was unfazed.
“I’ll fix the turbo. You call the crew. Tell them the Gale Force is back.”
JUST LIKE THAT, HUH? Despite herself, McKenna could feel the adrenaline. This was the drug, she knew. This was why the old man turned his back on job security and a steady paycheck. This was what kept Nelson Ridley around, what convinced the best crew in the business to set sail on the tug.
Heck, this was why McKenna wasn’t waiting tables in Spokane.
“I guess I kind of owe you this,” she told Ridley, but he waved her off.
“You don’t owe me anything, lass,” Ridley said. “But we can’t keep scraping for tow contracts much longer. Not at the rate we’re going.”
That was true, too. Gale Force Marine was just about out of money. In a year, maybe less, she’d be selling the tug, looking for new work. Her time and effort, Ridley’s time and effort—all of her dad’s energy—sold out from under them, nothing left behind.
“We’d have to leave quickly,” McKenna said. “By morning, every salvage outfit on the coast will have the same information we do. They’ll realize that Commodore and Westerly are out, and they’ll set their own courses for that ship.”
“Aye,” Ridley said. “So we’d better not waste any time.”
Are we doing this? Is this really what’s happening?
“Get that turbo fixed,” she said. “Then we’ll talk.”
“There is one other thing,” Ridley said slyly. “The Coast Guard says the ship’s leaning to port at about sixty degrees. If we want to do this, we’re going to have to turn the thing upright.”
“So we’ll bring pumps,” McKenna said. “Got it.”
“Not just pumps, skipper. We’re going to need Court for this job.”
5
“I’m all in.”
Court Harrington pushed six towers of poker chips into the middle of the table and stared down at the felt through his mirrored sunglasses. Around him, the noise of the casino faded into a dull murmur, replaced, more or less, by the pounding of his heart.
Hope the guy in seat eight can’t see it, Harrington thought, stealing a glance across the table at his opponent, an older man in a LAS VEGAS baseball cap—a tight player who hadn’t shown down a bluff all day. Now, with three clubs on the board, Harrington was really hoping the guy would make him for the flush.
Time slowed as seat eight thought things through. It was day four of the World Series of Poker Main Event, a ten-thousand-dollar buy-in spectacular that, this year, had attracted more than six thousand hopefuls gunning for their shot at fame and fortune. Seven hundred players remained, and all but sixty of them would make a profit for their efforts. Based on seat eight’s tacky ball cap and his careful play, Harrington made him for a tourist and assumed he would prefer to fold his way to the money, avoiding any big risks.