The sirens did not sound like ordinary emergency whistles.
They rose out of the morning haze like the collective scream of twelve jet turbines spinning up inside concrete silos. The sound hit the harbor water in physical waves, vibrating the iron hull of Marrow-09 and rattling the tin coffee mugs on the chart table.
“Six-fifty-nine sharp,” Elena said, her voice cutting through the roar.
She hauled both throttle levers back to neutral, then gave the port screw a quick three-second burst in reverse. The tugboat’s rounded nose swung smoothly toward the black timber pilings of Pier 14, shedding forward momentum until the rub-rail drifted within eighteen inches of the creosote fenders.
“Mac, get the bow-line over!” Julian called out from the foredeck rail.
“Got the loop ready, Chief!” Mac yelled back. “Just waiting on the drift!”
Mac stood poised on the forward bulwark, his boots planted on the non-skid plating. He swung the heavy three-inch hemp hawser in a wide, rhythmic circle with his right hand, balancing his weight with his gleaming naval brass prosthetic arm.
Behind them, the wheelhouse door swung wide.
