Hayes nodded. "Then fix it."
Avery did not hesitate.
She started with the fuel rail. She loosened the mounting bolts on the secondary fuel rail and removed it from the bracket. The steel tube was heavy, 30 pounds of precision-machined fuel-delivery hardware.
She held it in both hands, rotating it until the pump outlet flange aligned with the primary mounting holes. The holes Earl had drilled himself 15 years earlier with a tolerancing jig he built from scrap aluminum.
She set the rail back in place, 14 degrees off horizontal. She torqued each bolt to specification, calling out the values as she went.
"Thirty-two foot-pounds. Thirty-two. Thirty-two. Thirty-two."
Each bolt clicked into place with the clean sound of metal accepting its correct position.
The young technician who had brought her the tool cart now stood beside her, handing her sockets before she asked. He had stopped looking at Grant entirely.
Next, the ignition wiring.
Avery pulled the connector block for cylinders nine through 12. She disconnected each wire, labeled them with strips of tape from her pocket, and reconnected them in her father's sequence: 9, 11, 10, 12.
The custom firing order that balanced harmonic vibrations at full power. The sequence that no textbook contained because it existed only in Earl Jackson's mind and in the notebook his daughter carried.
She tested each connection with a multimeter. Resistance within specification. Continuity confirmed. She closed the harness panel and latched it.
Finally, the cam phasing.
She reached into the exposed valve train and adjusted the variable cam timing actuator on cylinder bank one. This was the adjustment that tied everything together. The fuel rail angle determined atomization. The firing sequence determined ignition timing. But the cam phasing determined when the intake and exhaust valves opened relative to the piston position.
Get it wrong by two degrees and the engine would run rough. Get it wrong by five degrees and it would not run at all.
Earl's notebook specified the cam phase angle to the tenth of a degree. Avery set it with a precision gauge, turning the adjustment collar with a socket wrench until the indicator needle settled exactly on the mark her father had drawn with a red pencil 15 years ago.
She tightened the lock nut. She stepped back. She wiped her hands on her jeans.
The bay was silent. Forty people held their breath.
Avery walked to the control panel at the front of the Titan. The panel was covered in dust. Nobody had touched it in 15 years.
She wiped the start button with her sleeve. The button was red, faded to pink at the edges. Below it, a small brass plate read: TITAN V16 - HARGROVE MARINE ENGINEERING.
She placed her finger on the button. She did not press it yet.
She closed her eyes.
She thought about her father's hands, thick fingers, scarred knuckles, calluses on both palms. Hands that could feel a thousandth of an inch of misalignment through a steel housing. Hands that spent their last 13 years holding a mop handle instead of a wrench.
She thought about his voice, low and steady, patient. The same voice that had said every night in the garage, "Machines don't lie, baby girl. You just have to listen."