Dead Reckoning

What if McLellan was the mole, as Smitty claimed?

Ignoring the bolt of regret that shot through her, Chris slipped back into the engine room. This place she knew. There was a certainty to it, not like people. A machine either worked or didn’t in predictable ways.

She could do her part and make sure the device she’d discovered—a device that put suspicion on both men—actually was a transponder. Kneeling next to the tool chest, she made two quick slashes with a craft knife through the block of white sealant securing the box to the floor. Her fingernails just fit inside the slash. She pulled up gently. The box rose slightly as the remaining sealant flexed and gave. Perfect. She’d be able to cut the transponder loose later, maybe park it someplace where it’d confuse whoever was following them.

A satisfied smile welled up in her soul. Oh, if it came right down to it, she could cause a helluva lot of confusion—no matter who was lying to her.

Dear Reader,

Yes, I really can change the fuel filter on a 6V53 Detroit diesel engine! When I was advised to “write what you know,” the first thing that came to my mind was to write a story about a woman and her boat. I’m definitely not Chris Hampton—licensed captain, intrepid sailor—though my partner usually asks me to pretend to be “Captain Chris” when a hard-to-reach impeller needs to be pulled off the engine’s backside. That, of course, requires me to lie spread-eagle across the engine with my head stuck down in the hold and a pair of pliers in my hand. Evil man.

Perhaps one day we’ll head out on our beloved thirty-eight-foot motor yacht for our own ocean-going adventure and I’ll write a different kind of book, but in the meantime, I have plenty of other stories to tell.

I hope you enjoy the adventure. Let me know if you do! I love reader feedback. E-mail me at [email protected].

Fair winds,

Sandra K. Moore

moved from Texas to Wyoming to be closer to the mountains. Summer means hiking, and autumn, camping. “During the long cold winters,” she says, “I slide down ski slopes until I have squeezed all the winter out of spring.”

For my wonderful editor, Stacy Boyd,

who believed in this story long after I’d stopped.

And for the crews of Moonstruck,

No Worries, Chances R, Troubadour, Compromise and Salsero. Fair winds.

My sincere gratitude to:

Dave Allen of TNT Yacht Repair, for his matter-of-fact, down-to-earth lessons on boat anatomy (and no, I still haven’t gotten around to cleaning the raw water intake filters);

Lem Powell, retired Galveston police officer and College of the Mainland handgun instructor, for introducing me to the lovely Ruger 9 mm;

and Ann Peake, Sandy Thomas and Dawn Temple, for their unfailing patience and piercing insights, even when reading the same chapter over and over and over….

For further reading on boating adventures and other topics mentioned in this book, a complete bibliography is posted at http://www.sandrakmoore.com/deadreckoning/.

Any factual errors are entirely mine.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

“Fifty bucks says I finish first!”

Chris Hampton squinted against her racing sailboat’s bow spray to eye her nearest competitor.

A few yards away and slightly astern, Dave Mitchell’s identical Laser sailboat clipped through the bay waves, gaining. Sitting sideways, he leaned backward to keep the sail upright and full of wind. He grinned over his broad shoulder at her, his brown ponytail flying like a banner. “You don’t stand a chance!”

A gust of wind snatched her laugh. She adjusted the tiller. “Put your money where your mouth is!”

“Make it a hundred and you’re on!”

“Deal!”

Chris loosened the main sheet to put more curve in the sail. Her Laser had the wind behind her and wallowed a little in the light chop of the inlet feeding into Galveston Bay. Another spray of water leaped up onto her back, soaking her black-and-royal-blue wet suit, chilling her. She blew water droplets from her nose and settled down to her sailing. Dave had beaten her twice this season. Let him win this last race of the series and lose a Ben Franklin? No way.

Just a hundred yards to the final buoy and then the sprint for the finish. Dave was the closest sailor, but a few yards behind him lurked the kid called Ferret. Ferret not only had his namesake’s sharp features and close-set eyes, he had a habit of weaseling between boats. The kid was a born tactician and Chris didn’t underestimate him. Behind them, the rest of the racers jockeyed for better wind. At the buoy she’d just cornered, the committee boat, a twenty-five-foot cabin cruiser, signaled the race course’s ending point.

Chris ducked her head to look under the Laser’s boom at the big orange buoy marking the final leg. Fair running, but she’d have her hands full once she rounded the marker. She’d take the wind almost directly on the nose in a close beat to the finish.