The Sovereign had become his showcase. He knew which brass railings were polished before visitors arrived, which camera angles made the engine room look spacious, and which performance figures impressed owners who rarely studied the underlying reports. The marine division's discretionary spending account had expanded during his tenure, while labor hours for scheduled maintenance had been quietly reduced. He referred to the arrangement as efficiency, a word that sounded admirable until someone asked what was no longer being inspected.
His chief technician, a quiet woman named Elena Ruiz, had raised questions about the port engine's exhaust restrictions during the previous quarter. She had recorded a change in pressure readings and recommended opening a scheduled inspection instead of relying on the software's green status indicators. Thornton postponed the work because the vessel had guests booked, then postponed it again when the quarterly performance report was due. Elena retained a copy of her maintenance note, but after a supervisor warned her about damaging morale, she stopped expecting management to respond.
Now that same engine was going to be the center of a televised competition. Thornton had spent the previous evening walking through the work area with production managers, instructing them where cameras could be placed and which service compartments should remain closed. He wanted an atmosphere of discipline, innovation, and control. He did not want anyone looking at a maintenance file old enough to make him uncomfortable.
At six the following morning, Star Island Marina began assembling itself into a spectacle. White tents rose along the waterfront, extension cables snaked beneath temporary flooring, and catering workers carried trays past men testing wireless microphones. A row of flags fluttered above the dock. The polished Sovereign lay at the center, looking less like a vehicle awaiting repair than a monument prepared for unveiling.
Five teams arrived from universities and service academies whose names attracted sponsors before anybody knew the students' individual skills. Massachusetts Institute of Technology wore crimson, Georgia Tech wore gold, the Naval Academy arrived in dress whites for its formal introduction, Virginia Tech wore maroon, and the University of Florida appeared in blue and orange. Each team had four members, a faculty adviser, and tools selected according to the competition's published restrictions. They had worked hard to be there. Their preparation deserved respect, even if the machinery was about to challenge assumptions none of their coursework had removed.
Professor Harrison Webb occupied the broadcast desk at the edge of the marina. He had spent thirty years teaching and consulting on marine systems and had the habit of listening for a few seconds before answering any question, as though all conversation were a test engine. He disliked television because it encouraged people to confuse confident delivery with proof. Nevertheless, he had agreed to commentate in the hope that viewers would see engineering as a process of careful reasoning rather than a parade of expensive equipment.
The competition director reviewed the safety rules over the speakers. Teams would receive limited diagnostic access, use only approved tools, and work in scheduled turns under the observation of licensed fleet personnel. Physical adjustments would require verification that affected machinery was isolated, cooled where necessary, and secured against unintended movement. The winning team had to restore a controlled engine start and satisfy a brief independent verification that no protective system had been bypassed or defeated.