Gale Force

68

Harrington worked on the models through the night. He made coffee in the galley as the light disappeared outside the tug. Brought it up to the wheelhouse and sat with Spike at the chart table and stared at the computer and tried to conjure a way to guarantee the Pacific Lion’s survival.

Tried to chase the fight with McKenna—Captain Rhodes—from his mind.

The night passed quickly. It was only six hours long at this latitude, anyway. At dawn, Nelson Ridley came up into the wheelhouse. “We didn’t give your bunk away, lad,” he said. “You’re allowed to take a nap.”

Harrington rubbed his eyes. “No rest for the wicked. I’m kind of stuck here at the moment.”

Ridley walked to the wheel. Checked the instrument panel, the GPS screen. “You must be beat,” he said. “No sense working all night.”

“This stuff has to get done, one way or the other. The captain led me to believe she wanted to get the pumps going right away.”

“Sure,” Ridley said, shrugging, “but you’re still allowed a couple hours’ shut-eye. Hell, take all day, if you need it. After what you’ve been through, you’ve got to take care of yourself.”

Harrington laughed. “You want to tell her that?” he said. “We’re kind of on the outs at the moment.”

“Who, McKenna?”

“I think she prefers Captain Rhodes.”

Ridley frowned. “Oh,” he said, and he studied Harrington, his brow furrowed. “It was my fault, what happened yesterday, lad,” he said. “I shouldn’t have let you into the ship.”

“No, that’s on me,” Harrington replied. “I dragged you into it, but it was my call. Anyway, I think it goes deeper than that. She doesn’t think I respect her, or something.”

“Do you?”

Harrington looked up, surprised at the engineer’s bluntness. “I mean, yeah, of course. Of course I respect her. Why wouldn’t I?”

Ridley rubbed his chin. “But is she the captain of this vessel, lad? Or is she still your old flame?”

“Can’t she be both?” Harrington replied.

Ridley looked at him. Clucked sympathetically. He disappeared down the stairs, and reappeared a moment later, carrying a fresh mug of coffee.

“You think on it,” he said, setting the coffee down for Harrington. “And don’t kill yourself with this computer work. It’s only a job, after all.”

“Yeah,” Harrington said. “But what a job it is.”

HE WOKE UP GROGGY a few hours later. Lifted his head from the chart table, wiped the drool from his cheek. Downstairs, in the galley, someone else was awake, bashing pots and pans, making breakfast. His computer was dark, fast asleep; the cat, too. Harrington thought of his bunk longingly. Then he shook his head clear.

He sat up, rubbed his eyes, switched the computer back to life. His 3-D model of the Pacific Lion glared out at him, every fluid level rendered in exact detail. Harrington studied the screen for a moment. Then he stood, stretched, and limped down the stairway to rouse Captain Rhodes.

“I THINK THE SIMPLEST way is the best way,” Harrington told McKenna. “The portside ballast tanks are full, and the starboard tanks are empty. If we can ballast the tanks, the ship should regain equilibrium.”

They’d returned to the wheelhouse. The captain sat beside Harrington at the chart table, Harrington’s laptop open in front of them. They hadn’t talked about last night yet, but Harrington knew they would have to.

He needed to be on board that ship.

McKenna looked at the model. “What about the rest of the fluids? Fuel and fresh water, et cetera. Don’t they factor into your thinking?”

“They do,” Harrington said, “but every tank but the ballast is already balanced for ocean sailing. The more we mess around with ancillary fluids, the greater the risk we destabilize the ship even further.”

“And those models?” McKenna said. “Still no way you can really predict what the ship is going to do?”

“Not one hundred percent. But eighty percent, definitely.”

McKenna looked at the computer again. Looked at Harrington, at Spike. “Pocket aces, huh?”

“Best we can do.” Harrington paused. “There’s one more thing,” he said. “I know you’re mad about yesterday, and I’m sorry. But I really need to be on board the Lion if we’re going to make this work.”

McKenna shook her head. “I can’t trust someone who doesn’t respect the chain of command, Court.”

“Look.” Harrington sighed. “It’s not about respect.”

“No?” Her eyes flashed. “You would have disobeyed my dad just the same?”

“I don’t know. Probably not. But your dad was your dad, and you’re—”

“One of your old hookups.”

“My friend.” He looked at her. “I thought we were friends, McKenna— Captain Rhodes, sorry. This whole chain of command thing is hard to get used to, okay?”

McKenna didn’t answer. She stood, and walked to the front of the wheelhouse, looked out through the windows toward the hulk of the Lion. Harrington waited.

“This is a thirty-million-dollar job,” the captain said finally. She hadn’t turned away from the windows. “This isn’t about friends, or old hookups, or anything else. You almost died on that ship, Court. The last time this tug ran an operation this big, my dad drowned. If we don’t have rules—if we don’t have trust, and respect—then we’re putting our lives at risk just being here.”

“I’m sorry,” Harrington said. “You’re right.”

She turned from the window. Met his eyes. “You do what you need to do to get that ship raised. If that means you’re on board, then so be it. But don’t spit in my face and call me your friend, Court. I give an order, you damn well follow it.”

He nodded.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Yeah,” he said. Cleared his throat. “I mean, aye-aye, Captain Rhodes.”