Gale Force

48

By sunrise, McKenna could almost feel the ship righting itself. The water level in the hold had dropped noticeably, and the pumps were still working hard. Up the stairway, the skipper could see the little patch of gray sky, hear the wind roaring. The ship rocked even harder now, the swell more pronounced, and between checks of the pumps, McKenna climbed to the access hatch at deck seven to survey the weather.

It was a grim sight. The wind had intensified overnight, and it was tearing the tops of the waves to foamy shreds. It blasted into McKenna’s face, rocked the ship hard, and, far below, she could hear the waves crashing against the ship’s keel. The ocean itself was a mess of white water and confused seas, the waves gunmetal gray and haphazard. They built seemingly at random, crashed and died and disappeared again, reappearing as big rumbling masses that steamrolled across the water to collide with the Lion. The gale was in full force, the Lion in its direct path, the waves reaching for the vents every time the wreck plunged into the swell. McKenna stared across the water and cursed Christer Magnusson. Knew he’d wasted good time, and she and her crew would pay for it.

Harrington awoke shortly after dawn. He wiped his eyes, sat up, groggy. “Is it my watch yet?”

McKenna didn’t answer right away. She’d stayed awake all night, watching the pump, watching Harrington sleep, dreading the moment she’d have to wake him up and rehash the night’s conversation.

So she’d let him sleep, avoided the issue.

“I figured you’re the brains of the operation, you could use the rest,” McKenna told him. “Anyway, it’s still early. You can spell me for a while.”

Harrington looked at her. Looked ready to ask a question, but didn’t. “It feels like it’s getting rougher out there,” he said instead.

“Supposed to blow forty knots,” McKenna said.

“Are you tired?”

“No more than usual.”

“I was thinking, I could start surveying the ship. Check the levels in the ballast tanks, start plugging in numbers. If you don’t mind watching the pump a little longer.”

McKenna considered it. The way the storm was building, the earlier they could get started, the better. And it would be nice to get some distance from Harrington for a while. But she shook her head. “I can’t let you wander around this wreck by yourself, it’s too risky. Give it an hour or so, then we’ll go together.”

Harrington hesitated. Then he nodded. “Sure, McKenna,” he said. “Okay.”

THE COAST GUARD SENT a helicopter over just after seven in the morning. McKenna and Ridley met topside and guided the basket down—supplies from the Gale Force. Fresh sandwiches, hot coffee, fuel for the pumps. Then McKenna left Ridley with the amidships pump and took Harrington to the Jonases, who’d built their own nest to babysit their pump.

“How’s she looking?” McKenna asked the divers.

“Still sucking water,” Stacey told her. “And the noise almost drowns out Matt’s snoring.”

“Just thought you might be homesick for those big Gale Force diesels,” Matt replied, laughing. “You love me, don’t lie.”

He moved in for a kiss that Stacey pretended to deny, and then she gave in, and it was gooey and romantic and awkward as all hell, given the conversation McKenna and Harrington had endured the night before. From the expression on Court’s face, he must have felt the same.

Stacey caught them looking. Caught on immediately. “Oh, geez,” she said, blushing. “I’m sorry, guys. We get carried away.”

Harrington made to answer. McKenna did, too. They talked over each other, and accomplished nothing but prolonging the agony.

“Forget about it,” McKenna said finally. “I’m going to take Court on a tour of the ballast tanks. See if we can fill in the blanks on that computer of his. You guys babysit this pump until we get back, or that hold empties, whichever comes first. By then, hopefully, Court will have a plan for us.”

Matt looked at Court. “I could go with Court,” he said quickly. “If you, you know, need a rest or something.”

Good god. This is why you never hook up with your coworkers.

“I’m going,” McKenna said firmly. “You guys stay here.”

“O-ka-ay.” Matt looked dubious. “You two be careful down there. It’s bound to be a death trap.”

“We’ll take it easy,” Court said. He’d lost that cocky smile of his, and McKenna wondered if the whiz kid was actually nervous, or just dreading the thought of spending more time with her.

He had a right to be nervous, if that’s what it was. The Pacific Lion’s ballast and fuel tanks were located at the very bottom of the ship, close to the keel, to keep the center of gravity as low as possible. That meant venturing under the cargo decks, all the way down to deck one, which, on the portside, rested more than seventy feet under water. It would be pitch-dark and cramped and disorienting, and if anything went wrong, there wouldn’t be much hope of survival.

At this point, I’ll take my chances, McKenna thought. Anything’s better than staying up here and pretending not to talk about me and Court.

Matt and Stacey’s stairwell ended at deck four, but there was a watertight hatch at the base of the stairs, and beyond it another narrow passageway down to the bowels of the ship. McKenna and Court struggled to unlock and lift the hatch open, then tied off a single line and dropped it into the gloom.

McKenna met Stacey’s eyes as she lowered herself through the hatchway. “Be careful, you guys,” Stacey said. “I mean it.”

“Didn’t you hear what Court said?” McKenna replied. “We’ll be fine.”

She clipped her harness to the first loop in the line, and dropped herself through, searching with her feet for the slant of the wall. Slowly, she walked herself deeper.

The Lion’s list was easing, she could tell. That meant the portside vents were higher above the water, but it also would complicate maneuvers inside the ship. As the angle of the list moved from sixty-three degrees to fifty-five, the walls would become just upright enough to be difficult to walk on, while the decks remained impossible to traverse. The closer the list got to forty-five degrees, the more difficulty McKenna and her crew would have traversing the interior of the ship.

Moreover, as the team righted the Lion, they would expose still more of the ship’s hull to the wind, making it difficult for Al and Jason Parent to exert any control over the wreck from on board the Gale Force, and with only forty or so nautical miles of open water between the Lion and the Aleutian Islands, no one had much room for error.

We need to get this ship upright so we can tow her somewhere safe, McKenna thought as the force of a heavy wave launched her toward the roof of the stairwell. She gripped the rope tight, hung on for her life. Clipped in with shaky hands, and kept her breathing steady.

Try not to fall, girl, she told herself. Do us all a favor.

McKENNA QUICKLY DISCOVERED the easiest way to traverse the long subterranean corridors under the cargo decks was by crawling. The steel was ice-cold on her hands, and the deck and the walls met at a frustrating angle beneath them, but it was quicker than trying to balance upright against the list and the ever-present swell.

Harrington led them through a maze of unmarked corridors, around blind corners to more of the same, relying on his memory of the ship’s design to lead them to the fuel and ballast tanks. He seemed to know where he was going.

“You really did your homework,” McKenna said, crawling after him.

Harrington glanced back over his shoulder. “Yeah, well,” he said. “I told you there was luck involved. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t take skill.”

The starboard ballast tanks were empty. Bone-dry. Harrington made a note in his notebook. “I guess that explains the whole tipping-over thing. Somehow, I don’t think they planned it that way.”

“Ballast swap,” McKenna said. “Except they screwed up and forgot to replace the Japanese water with the American stuff.”

“That should make it easy to reverse the procedure, then,” Harrington said. “Pump water from the portside tanks to the starboard and hope she levels out.”

Hope.

“When you say you’ll give me odds on our success,” McKenna said, “what exactly does that mean?”

“It means—” Harrington exhaled. “Listen, I’ve been experimenting with the models on my computer, trying to optimize my strategy, but like I told you last night, there’s luck involved, too. Every four or five simulations I’ve run, the ship tilts upright and keeps going over, until she’s all the way down on her starboard side.” He paused. “And then she sinks.”

“Once out of five?”

“Pocket aces.” Harrington twisted back again, grinned at her. “Best starting hand in poker, pocket aces. Gives you an eighty percent chance of winning against any random hand. That’s what we’re dealing with here, McKenna. Pocket aces.”

Pocket aces. “Remind me again how you busted out of that poker tournament?” McKenna said.

Harrington’s smile disappeared. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said. “Let’s keep going.”

THEY WORKED ACROSS the starboard side of the ship, checking ballast tanks, fuel, and bilge water. The Lion had a waste-treatment tank and freshwater reserves, too, and Harrington checked every one, leading McKenna steadily toward the bow of the ship, writing down numbers in his little book every step of the way.

They reached the forward ballast tank, and it was time to descend again, rappelling down another long narrow hallway to the portside of the ship. The ship was dead quiet down here. Wet, too. Water dripped from the ceilings and puddled on the deck—floodwater from the cargo decks above. The Lion’s watertight doors were holding, and Ridley and the Jonases should have nearly been done pumping out the hold, but that was all cold comfort to McKenna. There was water above her, water beside her, and water below.

Harrington shivered. “I guess this is what life on a submarine feels like.”

The portside ballast tanks were all full, which made Harrington even more optimistic. “We can just even them out,” he told McKenna. “This could be way worse. I mean, at least the hull isn’t breached, right?”

“Right,” McKenna agreed. She watched Harrington write something in his little book. “How did you get into this stuff, anyway?”

Harrington looked up. “Pumping ballast?”

“Ships,” McKenna said. “My dad always said you had a one-in-a-million mind. You could be, like, building rockets or something. Why naval architecture?”

“Why not?” Harrington said. “I don’t know, I’ve always had a thing for ships. My dad used to take me walking down by the water when I was a kid, used to tell me all about the cargo ships we saw anchored out in the harbor. I think he secretly wanted to run away on one, you know?” He shrugged. “Anyway, I grew up thinking I would design ships for a living, but it turns out there isn’t much work for shipbuilders in the United States anymore. And anyway, this is more fun.” He laughed. “And more lucrative, if you do it right.”

“That’s a big if.”

“Still better than an office job.” Harrington turned around again. They’d reached another watertight door. “The engine room,” he told McKenna. “Just a couple more ballast tanks, and a few random fluid levels, and we’re set to pump.”

McKenna was ready to breathe fresh air again. “Perfect.”

Harrington tried the door. Jiggled it. The door wouldn’t move. “Only one problem,” he said. “We’re locked out.”