The Blocked Seaplane Dock At Puget Sound And The Harbor Director
CHAPTER 4: THE CRANE OVER THE TRANSOM
The shrill, rhythmic screech of the gas analyzer sliced through the cold harbor air, instantly transforming the standoff from an administrative obstruction into a catastrophic public safety crisis.
“Kill all shore power to the slip!” Diana commanded instantly, her voice cutting through the rising panic with razor-sharp authority. “Jack, deploy foam suppression lines from Cutter One immediately. Nobody touches an electrical switch on that dock! Disconnect all battery banks on that vessel using non-sparking bronze tools!”
Commander Harris snapped orders into his tactical headset. Two patrol officers leaped forward with heavy three-inch canvas hoses, coupling them to the cutter’s onboard Aqueous Film-Forming Foam system. Within seconds, a thick, pressurized blanket of snow-white chemical foam erupted across the racing boat’s stern and bilges, smothering the volatile gasoline vapors and sealing the explosive fumes beneath a heavy aqueous barrier.
Troy Sterling stood shivering in his neoprene wetsuit, his face pale as chalk, his chest heaving with shallow, ragged breaths. “I… I didn’t know the seam was leaking,” he stammered, backing away toward the gangway, his hands shaking so violently he could barely hold them steady. “My mechanics installed those bladders yesterday… we were just trying to avoid extra pit stops during the crossing to Victoria…”
“You bypassed every maritime safety standard in this state to save ten minutes on an illegal recreational boat race,” Diana said, her voice filled with freezing contempt. “You placed the lives of everyone in this marina at risk—and you almost condemned a nine-year-old child to drown in open water.”
Suddenly, the heavy iron security gate at the head of the main marina gangway slammed open with a violent metallic bang.
Rushing down the aluminum ramp came Lyle Higgins, the sixty-year-old municipal dockmaster. He was a portly, red-faced man in a faded blue municipal uniform, breathing heavily, clutching a clip-on radio in his sweaty hand.
“Hold on! Stop everything!” Higgins shouted, waving his arms frantically as he pushed through the cordon of patrol officers. “Commander Harris, stand down! You can’t board that boat! Mr. Sterling has an authorized priority mooring permit issued directly by my office! I gave him permission to use Slip Four for private engine calibration!”
Diana turned slowly to face the dockmaster. Her eyes narrowed into slits of pure, analytical steel.
“You gave him permission, Mr. Higgins?” Diana asked softly. “You issued a priority commercial permit for an emergency medevac flight slip that requires twenty-four-hour sovereign clearance under Title Eighty-Eight of the Maritime Safety Code?”
Higgins stopped dead in his tracks as he recognized Diana Cross standing beside the foam-covered dock. The color washed from his flushed cheeks, leaving his skin a sickly, mottled gray. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing convulsively. “D-Director Cross… I… I didn’t realize you were on-site today, ma’am. Mr. Sterling’s father… the development corporation… they requested temporary access for a promotional video—”
“Save your explanations for the grand jury, Lyle,” Commander Harris interrupted, stepping between Higgins and the dock. He held up a rugged tablet displaying a live forensic feed from the Port Authority’s financial oversight division. “Our automated compliance monitors flagged a twenty-thousand-dollar electronic wire transfer into your personal offshore credit union account twenty minutes before you switched off the radar transponder on Slip Four.”
Higgins’s eyes bulged with terror. He took a stumbling step backward, his back hitting the steel railing of the gangway, his hands trembling violently at his sides.
“You took a bribe to blind the port radar and abandon a child to the sea,” Diana said, her voice a devastating indictment that rang across the silent basin. “Officers, relieve Mr. Higgins of his keys, his radio, and his municipal badge. Place him in administrative custody on Cutter Two.”
Two officers immediately stepped behind the disgraced dockmaster, removing his duty belt and escorting him away in silence.
Diana turned back toward the water. High above the marina basin, the massive steel arm of the Port of Bellingham’s fifty-ton industrial gantry crane swung smoothly into position. The heavy yellow machinery moved with eerie grace, its massive diesel winch whining as the master rigger, Frank Kowalski, guided the heavy steel spreader bar directly over the racing catamaran’s lifting eyes.
“Frank!” Diana called out over the radio harness. “Rig the heavy-lift nylon slings. Hoist that hazard out of the water and set it on the reinforced concrete quarantine pad behind the seawall. We have four minutes before the floatplane touches down!”
“Slings locked, Director!” Frank’s voice boomed back over the harbor frequency. “Lifting now!”
With a low, mechanical groan of steel under tension, the massive crane cables tightened. Slowly, majestically, the forty-two-foot black-and-red offshore racing catamaran rose into the air, seawater cascading from its twin hulls as it was plucked straight out of Slip 4 like an oversized toy, clearing the water runway just as the distant hum of the floatplane’s engine swelled into a deafening roar.
