Gale Force

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.”

The radio operator wished them luck, and signed off. Overhead, the big Hercules waggled its wings. Magnusson hung up the headset. “There,” he said. “The ship is ours.”