Julian Vance pushed open the wheelhouse door and stepped out onto the forward deck.
The cold salt air of New Marrow Harbor hit him like a wet sack. Low-tide mud, canal sulfur, and diesel exhaust hung thick over the water.
Behind him, Marrow-09’s twin diesels thrummed with a steady eighteen-knot rhythm. Elena held the tugboat right down the center of the navigation channel.
“Two miles to the municipal pier,” Mac said, coming up beside Julian at the bow rail. He rested a heavy boat-hook over his shoulder, his naval brass arm gleaming. “If Elena keeps the screws turning, we’ll bump the pilings at six-fifty-nine.”
“Look at the breakwater gap,” Julian said, pointing ahead.
The New Marrow Harbor breakwater curved into the bay like crab pincers. The gap between the granite pier heads was barely eighty feet wide. It was the only deep-water entrance to the inner commercial docks.
Right in the middle of that gap sat a fifty-foot steel vessel.
The boat was painted slate grey, with crimson diagonal stripes running down its armored wheelhouse. Mounted on its forward deck was a twin water-cannon turret and a high-intensity xenon searchlight.
