Death Echo

spec sheet said, Blackbird was an untried boat. It took a lot of arrogance, plus a full helping of stupidity, to assume that the spec sheets were the same as the actual boat in the water.
    He pulled the engines out of gear, flipped off the engine synchronizer, and stepped out onto the main deck. Quickly he coiled bow and stern lines and placed them on the gunwale where someone on the dock could reach them. Because he was cautious, he put most of the weight of the lines on the inside half of the gunwale. If something went wrong, the lines would slide to the deck, rather than into the sea, where they could tangle with the props and cripple the boat.
    Caution was also why he tied fenders on the dock side of the boat. He didn’t want sudden wind or current to push him against the dock and mar Blackbird ’s hull. Salt washed off. Scrapes didn’t.
    As he stepped back into the cabin, he heard the radio’s impatient crackle.
    â€œStop wasting our time playing with fenders, Mac,” Lovich said. “That boat can dock herself.”
    Only if the captain knows the drill. Even a pod drive isn’t idiot-proof.
    Yeah, the worst part of his job was the owners.
    Mac knew that Blackbird was equipped with the latest and greatest pod drives, but he didn’t want to rely on a system he’d never used in the close quarters of a marina. He knew what the boat would do if he used the twin throttles for maneuvering. He couldn’t say the same about the joystick for the pod drives.
    Mac glanced around the deck, planning his moves, and then stepped back to the helm station inside and put the engines in gear. Dead-slow, he passed through the slot in the breakwater and enteredthe boat basin at a crawl. Using throttles and helm, he cruised down the outside alley, stopped and pivoted between two docks that were crowded with moored boats.
    The Blue Water dock was flooded with light, more to discourage theft than for safety reasons. Mac saw three men waiting at a gap between a fifty-two-foot sailboat with tall aluminum masts and a smaller pleasure boat with a square stern and long, overhanging bowsprit. He recognized two of the men, Bob Lovich and Stan Amanar, owners of Blue Water Marine Group. The third man was a stranger.
    On the approach, Mac kept going in and out of gear to keep his speed down. The gap awaiting him at the dock left him maybe two feet to spare on bow and stern.
    Hoohah, this should be fun.
    The tide was on a steep ebb. Beneath the glittering dark surface of the water, heavy currents pulled and shoved. He came out of gear and let Blackbird drift to a stop parallel with the gap where the three men stood, impatiently waiting for him.
    Immediately Mac felt currents work on Blackbird, pushing it away from the dock. He stepped out and called to Amanar.
    â€œYou sure you want Blackbird in this spot? I’d hate to put a mark on your new boat.”
    â€œEver play video games?” Amanar asked.
    â€œI’m male, what do you think?”
    Lovich laughed.
    The stranger didn’t change expression. Though he looked about Mac’s age physically, his eyes were older than the first sin. Mac’s instincts started crawling over his neck. He’d seen men like this stranger before, usually on a killing field.
    â€œForget the wheel,” Amanar said. “Use the joystick. It’s just like a video game.”
    Mac didn’t hide his skeptical look.
    â€œGo ahead,” Amanar said. “We won’t charge for scratches.”
    â€œYour boat, your money,” Mac said.
    It’s a good thing I don’t have to like someone to work for him. I’d go broke otherwise.
    He went back to the helm, checked that the joystick was powered up, then cautiously tapped the upright stick toward the nine o’clock position.
    More quickly than he had expected, Blackbird moved sideways toward the dock. The short burst of power cut off the instant he released the joystick, but the boat continued to move slowly sideways.
    Huh. It works.
    He switched the stick toward the three o’clock position for half a second. It was enough to cancel the portside drift and bring the boat to a halt.
    â€œBe damned,” Mac said softly.
    He repeated the sequence, nine, then three. Blackbird edged regally sideways, then stopped. He pushed a little longer toward nine. The boat sucked in toward the dock.
    Mother of all miracles. It really works.
    Some of the pod drives he had used were clumsy. This