Death Echo

exciting.
    Mac opened the fill ports up on the deck, unfolded a telescoping measuring rod, and probed the water tank.
    â€œCan’t you just check it visually down in the hold?” Emma asked.
    â€œTank is opaque.”
    â€œWell, that’s dumb.”
    â€œGotta love tradition. Wipe this down, would you?” he asked, handing the wet rod to her.
    â€œHow clean?”
    â€œJust don’t want it dripping water in the fuel tanks.”
    Emma yanked out her pullover, wrapped the hem around the rod, and began wiping. By the time she finished, he had closed the water fill port and opened one fuel port. She handed over the rod.
    â€œIf you think I’m going to wipe diesel off this, you’re nuts,” she said.
    â€œDid you see where the fuel rags were?”
    â€œIn the back deck locker. But they weren’t rags. They were absorbent white squares, some kind of paper. You used them in Seattle.”
    â€œYou’re more than just a pretty face.”
    She gave him a disgusted look. “If you’re just figuring that out, you’re a lot dumber than I thought.”
    Smiling, Mac probed the starboard fuel tank. The bottom was right where he expected it to be. Same for the port tank.
    â€œNo false bottom,” he said. “Both tanks are the same, but I’d already guessed that from the trim. Fuel tanks are baffled, though, so it’s possible that matching compartments are either equally full or equally empty.”
    â€œTrim? As in fancy bits?”
    â€œTrim is how the boat rides in the water.”
    â€œWe’re still floating.”
    â€œAlways a good sign,” he agreed. “But if the boat is badly loaded or designed—or if one fuel tank is holding something that weighs more or less than diesel—the trim reflects that.”
    â€œConsidering how heavy Blackbird is, you’d have to be smuggling gold to tip it one way or another.”
    â€œOr have a solid gold keel.”
    Her eyes widened. “Do people still do that?”
    â€œNot so much now. Ounce for ounce, diamonds are worth a lot more.”
    â€œThat’s what I thought. Now what?”
    â€œEngine room.”
    Her stomach growled.
    â€œI’ll check out the black-water tank and the tool room while you make something to eat. Sandwiches work for me.”
    â€œAnything edible works for me.” She skirted the open engine hatch, glanced down into the dazzling white tool room, and went to the galley.
    Mac went below, through the nearly empty tool room and into the engine room. The big diesels crowded the space, telling him what he already knew: some idiot had ordered more power than the boat was designed to handle efficiently. As a result, the engine room was unusually cramped. No matter how careful he was, every single time he changed position he bumped his head, elbows, or knees.
    As he worked his way through the mess, he thoroughly cursed the size of the engines.
    Emma stuck her head into the hatch. “Need any help?”
    â€œI’m beating my brains out just fine all by myself, thanks.”
    â€œAll I found was cheese and the hard rolls we brought aboard.”
    â€œBring it on.” He wiped sweat off his face. “I’ll grill it on an engine.”
    â€œWater?”
    â€œIn a minute. Right now I’m on my knees thanking God that I don’t have to change the zincs on this bastard.”
    â€œShould I ask what zincs are?”
    â€œNo.”
    Mac wiped his eyes with his T-shirt, and looked around the engine room. When it came time to change the zincs, frustration would be the order of the day. With those big diesels crowding the space, even something as simple as checking fill levels on various tanks required a contortionist.
    The only good news was that the black-water tank had a clear stripe to let everyone know when it was getting close to time to pump out. He checked the other tanks as best he could, tapping and listening and tapping again.
    The first locator bug was attached to one of the colorful wires snaking from the various subsystems to the breaker board.
    The second beacon was stuck to the back side of the water tank. A third was in a toolbox that held spare fuses.
    A fourth was taped to the bottom side of the duckboards that covered the bilge.
    Talk about redundant systems and overkill, Mac thought as he found a fifth locator bug. Someone really wants to know where this bucket is at all times.
    He pulled out