Oh well. Something new to play with.
There was a control panel next to the light switch, protected by a clear plastic door. Opening the door, he located a toggle identified as “CRGO DRS” and flipped it upward. He heard the repetitive clicks of bolts being drawn, then the decking above him began to lift. The whine of electric hydraulic pumps could be heard. The molded plastic doors each served as half of the outer deck and opened initially like the clamshell doors of the space shuttle, then slid downward into recesses between the hull and the cargo bay’s inner lining.
He went back through the corridor and scrambled up onto the dock.
“You’re actually going to do this?”
“Damned right.”
“I’m an unwitting accessory,” the lawyer told him. “Jesus! Grand theft, boat. Boats. Let’s count mine. Classified DOD secrets. Probably traitorous activities. Conspiracy. When the rookie lawyers at Justice get done with me, I won’t have anything left. Won’t need it in maximum security, though.”
“You worry too much,” McCory said.
“I’d worry less if I’d never met you.”
“Go on aboard, and see if you can figure out how we start her.”
While Daimler grimaced and shuffled his way aboard, McCory went to the far corner and moved two dollies out to the edge of the dock. The strange engines were big, about twice the size of a Caterpillar diesel, but flattened, the major component standing about sixteen inches high. They appeared to be complete, with compressor, starter, pumps, tubing, and other accessories already attached. A wiring harness led to a black box resting on top of each engine. That would be the controlling computer. The design was similar to that of the Wankel rotary engine, which McCory expected. They were rotary engines, though they were fueled by diesel. They were also heavy as hell, requiring a great deal of effort to get each dolly underway, then just about as much effort to stop it before it went over the edge of the dock.
Fortunately, he had powered assistance available. An electrically driven block and tackle, suspended from an overhead track, was parked near the wall. McCory grabbed the cable, moved it out from the wall, snapped its hook into a lifting yoke attached to the first engine, then pressed the lift button on the suspended control box. The electric winch whined, the engine lifted clear of the dolly and of the foot-high exposed edge of the cargo door, and he pushed it gently out over the cargo bay.
Daimler emerged into the hold and guided the descent clear of the missile launcher to the far, starboard side of the bay, then disengaged the hook. The boat settled in the water a little, canted to starboard. Six minutes later, they had the second engine loaded and the boat back on an even keel. McCory walked back to the tall metal shelves in the corner, picked up a couple of empty cardboard boxes, and began filling them with odds and ends from the shelves. He didn’t know what he was grabbing, since they were in clear plastic bags identified only with part numbers, but he wanted at least two of each — gaskets, seals, bearings, valves, solenoids, filters, and the like. He had to get another box when he ran into sets of large turbine blades that appeared to have been cast in carbon-impregnated plastic. Then he reboarded to stow the boxes and help Daimler rope the engines in place, tying them down to nylon loops sunken into the deck.
As McCory was closing the cargo hatches, Daimler asked, “You realize, of course, that this son of a bitch is armed? With missiles?”
“Yeah, I saw that.”
Daimler shook his head sadly. “Now we can leave?”
“Now we can leave.”
McCory went back to the pier to release three of the four mooring lines, then walked out to the end of the dock, looking for the switches controlling the roll-up door.
He found them easily enough and was about to try a momentary test, checking on the noise level, when he heard an outboard motor.
He froze in place, listening, but the sound died away, replaced by the whir of an electric motor and the whistle of moving air as Daimler blew the bilges.
Pressing the UP button, McCory raised the door six feet, just enough for clearance, then stopped it. He walked back to the SeaGhost, released the last line, then stepped aboard and closed the hatch.
In the corridor leading forward, he found a small storage compartment, opposite a narrow head that included a shower. Forward of those spaces were two tiny cabins, each with two bunks stacked against the outside bulkhead. Storage drawers were built-in under the lower bunks. A pair of narrow hanging lockers were the only other amenities in each of the cabins.
The main cabin was dimly lit with red light. It contained a small galley and a banquette-type booth on the port side, aft, and a complicated radio console and a desk on the starboard side. Daimler was in the helmsman’s seat, a heavily cushioned, gray Naugahyde, bucket-type seat bolted to the deck. It was located on the starboard side behind an ultra-tech instrument panel with an amazing array of red and blue digital readouts. Opposite the helm side were two more of the bucket seats, situated behind electronic consoles mounted in the forward bulkhead. Vision through the tinted windows was good forward and to the sides but blind toward the stern.
The boat rocked a little, and McCory could see that they were drifting away from the pier. He looked around again at all of the electronics and estimated that there was a couple hundred thousand dollars tied up in the SeaGhost. Hell, he thought, given that it was the Department of Defense, double the dollar estimate.
He began to have doubts about what he was doing but quickly brushed them aside.
“I’m going to try ’em,” Daimler said.
“Go.”
The lawyer hit an ignition switch, but McCory didn’t hear anything.
“That one’s alive,” Daimler said.
“You’re shitting me.” McCory leaned over his shoulder, found a blue readout labeled “PORT RPM,” and saw that it was registering 825.
Daimler started the starboard engine, and the RPM indicator quickly came to life on that one, too. McCory became aware of a minute vibration in the deck, just a shiver under his bare feet.
“They’re jets, Mac.”
“I thought they would be.” The propulsion system sucked water from vents in the lower hull, channeled it through the rotary engine-driven turbines, and streamed it out the transom through steerable nozzles.
Daimler crawled out of the seat and moved to the port side. “I don’t know from jets, Mac. You run it. Besides, you have to remember that I’m a hostage.”
McCory grinned at him and dropped into the seat. He found that the throttles were the two longest of four short levers mounted in the front of the right armrest. The two outboard, short levers were marked for “Forward” and “Neutral.” Beyond those controls were two even shorter levers marked “Reverse.” He suspected that they would drop cuplike devices over the jet nozzles, channeling the thrust forward.
He tried the throttles and ran the RPMs up to 4000. The result was a baritone whine rising from the stern quarters. The power-rumble of a typical V-8 was absent.
Pulling the throttles back, McCory slapped the shift levers into forward, then eased the throttles back in.
The SeaGhost responded immediately and headed for the gap under the overhead door. They slid under the door, into the thin light from shore-based lamps, and McCory felt free.
As soon as he was clear of the pier, he pushed the throttles forward some more. The boat reacted, leaped forward.
“Jesus Christ!” Daimler shouted.
McCory squinted his eyes and saw the rubber boat in the darkness.