“A backcountry Geiger counter.”
“One of us is crazy.”
“Wait,” she said.
Quickly she rubbed Temuri’s comb over the cloth on her leg, then touched each foil square. The pieces of foil jumped apart and dangled separately on nearly invisible tethers of human hair.
“Static electricity,” Emma explained. “If we introduce a source of radiation, the squares will lose their charge and fall back together.”
He stared at her in confusion.
“Do you think I went through Temuri’s pocket and yanked some hair for kicks and giggles?” she asked. “We had a field course in nuclear physics at the Farm. A senior scientist from Oak Ridge taught us how to make a radiation counter. I never really thought much about it again until I saw that sandwich.”
Mac shook his head hard, trying to clear it. For a few moments the world came back into something like focus.
“We can look for radiation…with tinfoil, hair, and a comb?” he asked.
“Don’t forget the floss and tape.”
“Judas H. Priest.”
Emma ignored him, put on the ear protectors, and opened the hatch. She fell as much as used the steps to get down, but landed on her feet, head ringing like a fire alarm. She lurched into the engine room. The first pipe she tried to use as a handhold was burning hot. She patted around until she found one that wasn’t.
Crouching low, she moved the makeshift Geiger counter slowly back and forth over the port fuel tank. The foil squares didn’t fall together. She leaned in and ran her crude detector in back of the tank as well as around the sides.
Nothing.
Both engines revved hard.
The detector fell in the bilge.
“You okay?” Mac asked through her headphones.
“Who knew that yachting was a full-contact sport?” she groaned.
“The radio is full of official chatter. Coasties are out. We have to get to the freighter before we show on anyone’s radar.”
She heard the strain in his voice as he wrestled with the wheel, trying to hold his course and still meet the oncoming waves safely.
The engines made a continuous avalanche of sound.
Carefully she fumbled beneath the port fuel tank for the detector. Despite the spinning of the shaft leading to the propeller, she managed to grope around until she found the can. Gently she pulled it toward her. But not gently enough. The two pieces of foil had touched, releasing their charge. They hung limply on their tethers. Useless.
She reached into her belly bag for the comb and began rubbing it fiercely over her clothes.
The engines thundered around her, working harder than ever.
“It’s a Canadian Coastie,” Mac said. “Looking for a yacht that called in with engine failure. At least that’s what they’re putting out for the public. Hang on!”
Mac was yelling into his mic. He knew what an engine room was like, especially at full throttle.
“No,” she said loudly. “Cut power. Cut power! Go out of gear. I might have something, but I have to go beneath the port propeller shaft to be sure. We’ve got to be sure!”
At first she thought that Mac hadn’t heard her. Or was ignoring her. She started to call out to him, to explain.
The port engine’s RPMs fell off fast. The starboard engine revved to the top of its range. Mac was compromising-she could crawl around the port side without being beaten up by moving parts, but the starboard side was working flat out.
Above her, Mac battled the ocean. “Go!” he yelled into his mic. “If
“Copy that.”
Emma clawed her way into position with the newly charged detector in one hand. The propeller shaft leading from the port engine was no longer spinning, but she would be thrown against a burning hot engine if she lost her footing. Completely at the mercy of chance, balance, and Mac’s skill, she bent lower. Breath held, she edged the beer-can device into the space beneath the port fuel tank, careful to avoid touching the metal bottom.
There wasn’t much light beneath the tank and sweat was running in her eyes. Impatiently she swiped her face against her arm. Blood and sweat. She’d hit her head again, but her eyes worked fine. The foil leaves danced on their threads like leaves in a breeze.
Until they collapsed.
Emma stared in horror, not wanting to believe. Deliberately she created more static with the comb, charged the leaves, and held the device beneath the engine again.
The tinfoil squares fell together.
She lunged to her feet and bolted up the machine room steps, slamming the hatch door behind her.
“I’m clear!” she yelled into her mic.
But she wasn’t.
No one was.
77
DAY SIX
WEST OF VANCOUVER ISLAND
9:04 P.M.
Before Emma careened up the stairs and slammed the hatch back down, the port engine had thundered to life again.
One-handed, able to rely on only one leg, Mac fought the wheel. It was better with both engines working together again, but it wasn’t easy. Blood mixed with sweat ran down his face. He glanced at her.
“So it’s hot,” he said.
She grabbed the overhead rail. “Yes.”
The boat shifted as the wave it was climbing dropped. Lights shone through the rain and spray, filling up most of the view.
“Mac, that’s-”
“A big bastard,” he said, looking away from her. “We’re in its radar shadow. Not close enough to worry the captain. Just finding a bit of shelter from the wind, now that it has backed around.”
Mac’s voice sounded like a stranger’s, rough and blurred. He cracked his splint against the wheel, shuddered, and came into focus.
The motion of
“What-”
The static made it almost impossible to understand.
“The Canadian Coasties didn’t spot us,” Mac said mechanically. “In a few minutes they’ll pass between the freighter and shore going north. We’re about half an hour from the border. If there’s anything you have to know
