upward and began to vibrate. Caffey crouched, planting his feet for balance, and pointed at a patched area of deck. "The gun mount was here," he called over the rumble of diesels and whistle of wind. "This used to be a PT—a patrol torpedo boat. She operated out of the Coast Guard base on Ocracoke. I've seen pictures, she was quite a looker in those days. Used to have guns, torpedoes, depth-charge racks, the works. Three fifteen-hun dred-horse Packards."
"How did Galloway come by her?"
"They had three of them high and dry over in Pasquotank when they closed down the old base there. They gave him fifty bucks to haul them away. He managed to put one seaworthy boat together out of the three of 'em."
"I see. Where's the anchor?"
"Bow flares too much to see it, but we got a fifty-pound danforth and a hundred fathom of line."
"Good."
They crept back to the cabin, swung around it, and regained the afterdeck. Keyes looked over the side. The water was green now. The boat slid over it smoothly, churning it to foam. Two vees of bow wave accompanied them, rolling out over the surface of the Pamlico, ruffled now by cat's-paws. The sun blazed and shimmered into their eyes. "Belowdecks?" shouted Jack. Keyes nodded, and Galloway moved aside a bit to let them down the companionway.
The noise of the engines was louder in the enclosed space below. It was dim, too, and a stink of oil, mildew, and whiskey met them. They braced themselves and looked around the cabin.
To their left a chart table was bolted to the bulkhead. Above it on a rack was an early model loran set and a marine radio of equal senescence. A tangle of wires disappeared into the overhead. A chart of the Virginia Capes area southward to Cape Lookout was thumb-tacked to the table, covered by a yellowing sheet of plastic. On it quivered a set of dividers, jabbed into the chart by their points. To the right, two chairs were lashed to a fold-down bunk with what looked like clothesline. A binocular case hung from one of the legs.
"Engine room," shouted Caffey, pointing to an open hatch going aft. The explanation was unnecessary; the roar from the compartment beyond became deafening as Keyes bent to pass through the low door.
The Packards were long gone, victims of age and the cost of hundred-octane gasoline. Instead two 200-horsepower Reo truck engines had been bolted to their foundations, and connected to the props through a salvaged tugboat transmission. Keyes coughed. The single bulb swayed through a white haze.
He continued aft, turning to slide between the hammering engines. Waves of heat beat at him. Their casings were cooking-hot. He paused near the transmission and looked down at the packing boxes, where the shafts, blurred by rotation, passed through the hull into the sea. A small spring bubbled around each shaft, running down between hull timbers into the bilges, forming a black pool, scummy with oil.
He turned, to find Caffey watching him from across the compartment. He motioned him back, not smiling.
"How dependable are they?" Keyes shouted.
"They need an overhaul. But they've been getting us out and back." Caffey turned and led the way forward through a second hatch into a space that allowed them to stand upright. He clicked on another naked bulb. "The crew berthed here," he said. "Tiller tore most of the bunks out when he bought her. Now it's a dive locker. That machine in the corner's an air compressor, for charging tanks. That's a cutting-and-welding torch beside it. This rack holds ten bottles of gas and there's room for more in that old ammo locker."
"Anything forward of this?"
"Tiller's bunkroom, then a smaller space—cable locker for the anchor, a whole bunch of crap." Caffey hesitated. "I mean, gear. The boat may not look so hot, she hasn't been kept up since he—since he went away. But we can do a lot with what we have aboard. Any kind of diving, salvage you want done." His voice lowered. "Mr. Keyes, let me say something. Tiller Galloway's top of
"How did Galloway come by her?"
"They had three of them high and dry over in Pasquotank when they closed down the old base there. They gave him fifty bucks to haul them away. He managed to put one seaworthy boat together out of the three of 'em."
"I see. Where's the anchor?"
"Bow flares too much to see it, but we got a fifty-pound danforth and a hundred fathom of line."
"Good."
They crept back to the cabin, swung around it, and regained the afterdeck. Keyes looked over the side. The water was green now. The boat slid over it smoothly, churning it to foam. Two vees of bow wave accompanied them, rolling out over the surface of the Pamlico, ruffled now by cat's-paws. The sun blazed and shimmered into their eyes. "Belowdecks?" shouted Jack. Keyes nodded, and Galloway moved aside a bit to let them down the companionway.
The noise of the engines was louder in the enclosed space below. It was dim, too, and a stink of oil, mildew, and whiskey met them. They braced themselves and looked around the cabin.
To their left a chart table was bolted to the bulkhead. Above it on a rack was an early model loran set and a marine radio of equal senescence. A tangle of wires disappeared into the overhead. A chart of the Virginia Capes area southward to Cape Lookout was thumb-tacked to the table, covered by a yellowing sheet of plastic. On it quivered a set of dividers, jabbed into the chart by their points. To the right, two chairs were lashed to a fold-down bunk with what looked like clothesline. A binocular case hung from one of the legs.
"Engine room," shouted Caffey, pointing to an open hatch going aft. The explanation was unnecessary; the roar from the compartment beyond became deafening as Keyes bent to pass through the low door.
The Packards were long gone, victims of age and the cost of hundred-octane gasoline. Instead two 200-horsepower Reo truck engines had been bolted to their foundations, and connected to the props through a salvaged tugboat transmission. Keyes coughed. The single bulb swayed through a white haze.
He continued aft, turning to slide between the hammering engines. Waves of heat beat at him. Their casings were cooking-hot. He paused near the transmission and looked down at the packing boxes, where the shafts, blurred by rotation, passed through the hull into the sea. A small spring bubbled around each shaft, running down between hull timbers into the bilges, forming a black pool, scummy with oil.
He turned, to find Caffey watching him from across the compartment. He motioned him back, not smiling.
"How dependable are they?" Keyes shouted.
"They need an overhaul. But they've been getting us out and back." Caffey turned and led the way forward through a second hatch into a space that allowed them to stand upright. He clicked on another naked bulb. "The crew berthed here," he said. "Tiller tore most of the bunks out when he bought her. Now it's a dive locker. That machine in the corner's an air compressor, for charging tanks. That's a cutting-and-welding torch beside it. This rack holds ten bottles of gas and there's room for more in that old ammo locker."
"Anything forward of this?"
"Tiller's bunkroom, then a smaller space—cable locker for the anchor, a whole bunch of crap." Caffey hesitated. "I mean, gear. The boat may not look so hot, she hasn't been kept up since he—since he went away. But we can do a lot with what we have aboard. Any kind of diving, salvage you want done." His voice lowered. "Mr. Keyes, let me say something. Tiller Galloway's top of
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