Timothy Lawrence, also known as Tough Tim around Dutch Harbor, sat across from Logan and John. He was a deckhand and engineer on one of the local crab boats, and his endurance was legendary, even at the young—but veteran in crabbing years—age of twenty-seven.
“I did several trips on Jack Dawson’s boat over the past few years. My current job is almost up, and even though I like the captain and the crew, I never made more than I did as the engineer on the Glide when they were testing her up here last year.” He took a sip of the half-finished dark ale in his mug and studied the former Marines.
“When I saw Dawson’s boat come back and dock in the main bay after the storm two days ago, I went to see him. There was some tough-looking guy working on the deck. I asked him where Jack was, and he told me—and I quote—‘Something got him in the back of the head during the storm. He’s fine, but he’s resting down below.’ I didn’t think anything about it. Shit like that happens all the time out here. The guy didn’t give me his name. He just told me he’d been hired on last-minute out of Anchorage and asked if he could take a message. There was something about him—an edge, kind of what you have,” he said, nodding at Logan. “So I let it go and didn’t think twice, until you two showed up.”
Logan pulled out a tourist map of Dutch Harbor. He’d grabbed it from the hotel as they’d left. “Where’s the Glide docked?”
Tough Tim straightened the map out and pointed at a thin, mile-long piece of land jutting out into the middle of Iliuk Bay. “In the last slip here,” he said, gesturing to the west side of the land. “The guy on deck told me they broke a prop and were waiting for the replacement. He said they’d hopefully be back out on the water sometime today, I think.”
“You see what I see?” John asked. Logan nodded. “If they’re still here,” John went on, “they’ve got a clear line of sight in all directions. They’ll see us coming.”
“Which is why we approach as casually as possible, as if we belong there. The more obvious, the better, and I have just the idea how,” Logan said, smiling at John.
“Logan,” John said, shaking his head, “I really, really hate it when you get ideas. People seem to die and things usually explode, often right next to me.”
“There might be a bit of truth to that, but usually they’re bad guys,” Logan responded wryly.
“Exactly!” John almost shouted. “Usually . . .”
Tough Tim sat quietly at the table and listened to the exchange. Who the hell are these guys?
———
Logan and John left the bar. The afternoon was growing colder, seemingly by the minute. The skies had darkened to a dull gray. “Looks like snow,” Logan said.
“I agree. But hey! We’re cold-weather warriors, hombre. We can put all that cold-weather survival training from MWTC to good use,” John said, referring to the Marine Corps’s Mountain Warfare Training Center in Bridgeport, California. “We like this shit.”
Logan pulled out his cell phone. He dialed the police chief’s personal number. When Captain Phoenix answered the call, he said, “Chief, we think our boat is the Arctic Glide. It’s docked in the main part of the bay in the last slip at the edge of that thin peninsula.”
John heard a voice reply, and Logan nodded.
“I understand. No worries. We should be able to handle this ourselves. Just meet us there when you can. Hopefully, we’ll know more by the time you get there. Hope everything turns out okay on your end. See you in a bit.”
John looked at Logan quizzically. “What’s up with our local law enforcement?”
“There was an accident at one of the World War Two bunkers on the main island a few miles south of here. They’re evacuating a man who fell from the top of the bunker. Spinal injury. It’s going to take some time to get him out due to the rocky terrain. He said he’d get there as soon as he could.”
“Great,” John exclaimed. “So once again, we’re on our own.”
“Would you have it any other way?” Logan asked.
“Actually, no,” John answered.
“That’s what I thought. So let’s get moving before these assholes get a chance to leave. We’re burning daylight,” Logan said, and hopped into the driver’s side of the pickup truck.
“Always in a hurry,” John said, as he opened the passenger door. “You know you’re gonna give yourself a heart attack one of these days. You’re getting old. You need to slow down.”
Logan looked at John grinning at him through the cab of the truck. “Just get the fuck in the truck.”