Death Echo

“Now?”

“Now.”

38

DAY FOUR

NANAIMO

12:05 P.M.

Mac let the boat idle for a moment, feeling what the tidal currents and the wind were doing to Blackbird. The brisk northwest wind was strong enough that even the yacht felt its push and pull. The customs dock and its claustrophobic modular shed waited for them. It didn’t look like there was anyone in the small office yet, but someone was strolling down the long ramp that went up and away from the water to much larger headquarters.

Mac tapped the battery-operated headset he wore. The microphone was the size of a bumblebee hovering just beyond reach of his lips. Low tech compared to what he’d used in war zones, but it got the job done.

Ate nine-volt batteries, though.

“Ready?” he asked.

“No, but I’m awaiting detailed instructions.”

Though they couldn’t see each other, the headphones they wore made it seem like they were standing side by side.

“You have your PFD cinched tight?” he asked.

Emma fingered the straps of the flat life vest she wore. It wouldn’t inflate unless she hit the water, which she really didn’t want to do.

“I’m good,” she said. “The lines are all coiled and ready to go.”

“This landing is going to be different,” Mac said. “Bowline first, then stern, then forward spring line. Don’t worry about pretty or efficient. Just get it done. Step off onto the dock when I bring her alongside. Ready?”

Frowning, she thought through the steps.

“Unless you want to take the controls?” he invited.

“Pod drive?”

She’d learned to like it in the few minutes he’d let her play with it before they got into real traffic near the harbor. Then he’d made her switch to old-fashioned throttles for control. The pod drive was sexy and easy, but it wasn’t something he really trusted.

“Nope,” Mac said.

“Then it’s all yours,” she said.

After a few moments he heard her counting, “Three, two, one-I’m on the dock.”

He saw the flash of colorful shirt and long legs as Emma took the bowline and brought it partway back on the dock before she went to tie off. Using a wooden bull nose to tie off on rather than a big metal cleat threw off her rhythm, but she secured the line with the double half-hitch knot Mac had taught her.

“I like cleats better,” she said, tugging hard on the line.

“So do I. Easier on the lines. But when in Canada…”

“Do as the Canadians,” she finished.

Despite the headset that kept wanting to fall into the water every time she leaned over, she got the bow tied off.

“Secure, Captain,” she said.

Wind gusted across the dock, catching Emma by surprise.

“Yikes,” she said. “The wind is trying to shove me off the dock. You, too. The boat’s butt-stern-is too far away for me to reach that line.”

“It won’t be.”

The bow came up against the line that was already tied off to the dock. Gently Mac applied the throttle. Despite the wind and tide, the stern swung majestically back in line with the dock. He didn’t even bother to use special thrusters. He wanted to know how Blackbird would act if some of the fancy electronics cut out.

As Emma watched the big boat snuggle against the dock, she had a gut understanding of the multiple forces at work, and the elegance of Mac’s skill. He could have used the pod drives so that he could hold the boat against the dock and handle the lines himself.

But he loved the feel of the currents and wind, weight and momentum, the sound of line creaking as it took Blackbird’s weight and brought the stern back to kiss the dock.

“Beautiful,” she said.

His grin was a flash of white against his dark skin. “Don’t forget the stern line.”

“Oops.” She sprinted to the stern, grabbed the line, and tied it off without losing her headset.

Mac walked back to the stern and looked over the rail. “Good work.”

“I just had a gut insight that Blackbird always lives at the intersection of two huge forces, water and atmosphere, and we hope to control it all with a third force called the engine. Plus momentum, did I mention that?”

He gave her an unnecessary hand getting aboard.

“Kind of like us,” she said, “sliding around between forces we can’t really control, only staying afloat for as long as we can. And docking, coming to stasis with all those forces? Whole other thing entirely.”

He looked at her, traced her mouth with his thumb, and said, “Stay aboard until you’re told otherwise.”

She nodded.

He switched off his headphones, handed them to her, and stepped onto the dock carrying various papers in his big hand. There was a short ramp up to a modular building that had suffered a severe outbreak of official signage. In its earnest desire not to favor the English language over French-which was spoken by a minority of citizens in the eastern provinces-Canada had doubled the paperwork of the government bureaucracy.

Mac wondered if Canada would make the same accommodation for the big, and rapidly growing much bigger, population of Chinese in the western provinces. Somehow he doubted it. Forced parity seemed reserved for those of European descent living along the Atlantic Coast.

The dark-skinned customs clerk walked past Mac and unlocked the door to the cramped modular. He stood behind the counter, looked at Mac with the dispassionate eyes of a loan officer or a hit man, and spoke English oddly mixed with a Bombay lilt and British precision.

“Papers, please.”

Mac presented his passport and Emma’s, along with the newly issued U.S. Coast Guard documentation for Blackbird.

The clerk, whose nameplate said he was Singh, Edward, left the counter and went to a computer, whose screen was angled away from the counter. Singh’s fingers raced over the keyboard. He yanked the mouse across the desk like he was drilling down through a multilevel secured website.

Singh read, then reread the screen message, then deliberately killed it and came back to the counter.

“Where is this boat, exactly?” he asked.

“Right outside, sir, tied to the dock.”

“Superintendent!”

Singh gathered up the documents like he was afraid Mac would snatch them back. The clerk marched stiffly toward an office beyond the end of the counter.

A balding Caucasian male in a uniform shirt with epaulettes and extra patches appeared in the doorway of the office that had seemed empty from the dock. Singh briefed his boss in hushed tones. As he spoke, both men glanced over at Mac from time to time.

Mac kept his game face on and cursed the flag that the FBI had tucked into the border-watch computers.

After a moment, the boss issued a clipped set of orders and turned away. Singh walked back smartly, grabbed