Gale Force

13

The Commodore headquarters had found Christer Magnusson the only working salvage boat in Dutch Harbor. It wasn’t much to look at.

Magnusson had flown up from Los Angeles with a couple of crew, Foss and Ogilvy—young men, strong, more or less interchangeable. They’d caught a connection in Anchorage, a little PenAir turboprop, spent two and a half hours shuddering and bouncing through ragged clouds and harsh turbulence before the plane made its final, merciful descent.

They’d filed off the plane with about a dozen other passengers, walked through the tiny airport, and found a dirty minivan waiting, a decal on the side reading UNALASKA TAXI.

Magnusson dug in his coat for the name Mueller had given him. He leaned in through the cab’s open window.

“Bering Marine,” he’d told the driver. “Do you know it?”

Now Magnusson stood on the Bering Marine dock, surveying a tug called Salvation. She was about a hundred and twenty feet long—a modest white wheelhouse above raised blue bulwarks at the bow, a heavy-duty A-frame crane directly behind it, and then a long expanse of deck. The hull was blue in some places and grimy black in others; not the prettiest boat in the world by a mile, but the owner swore to Magnusson that she ran like a champion.

“Built for the war,” the man said. His name was Carew. “The Second World War, that is. Navy ship. She’s been repowered a couple times, but her bones are the same. There’s nowhere in the Pacific this ship can’t take you.”

Magnusson looked the ship over. The boat’s Caterpillar engines growled somewhere beneath its filthy hull; a greasy plume of exhaust smoke belched from the stake. Beside him, Foss and Ogilvy exchanged glances. Foss raised an eyebrow, an expression that meant I’m not sure about this hulk.

Neither was Magnusson. The Salvation was ancient, underpowered, and ill-equipped for a deep-sea salvage job. But Bering Marine was the only outfit in town, and Magnusson wasn’t ready to give up an eight-figure charter so soon.

“When can you be ready?” he asked Carew.

The captain shrugged. “Take me a day or two, get the gear your boss requested. We weren’t exactly prepared for this kind of operation, you know?”

“One day,” Magnusson said. “We don’t have time to screw around.”

Carew rubbed his chin. Mulled it over.

“One day, fine,” he said finally. Then he grinned. “Listen, when we save that ship, you make sure they know it was the Salvation that done it, all right?”