Point of Honor

by Maurice Medland

  Jorge had heard the stories before but nodded.

  “You nod as though you understand, Jorge, but I don’t think you do. I’ve tried to teach you, but I can see that I’ve failed. Perhaps it’s my fault. I’ve spoiled you just as I’ve spoiled my natural children.” He looked at Jorge’s blank expression and slammed his fist on the desk. “We’re in a war, damn it. The Norte Americanos wish to destroy us. The lessons of the past are clear; in the long term, there is only one defense. I have studied history, Jorge, and I know. Gold is the one constant, the one thing on earth with inherent, intrinsic value, the one true form of wealth. Possessing it is the only way we can ever be free of foreign tyranny. And we have a plan to achieve our freedom, a plan brilliant in its simplicity, a plan based on the systematic conversion of the world’s lowest-level commodity into the highest.” Don Gallardo launched into his well-worn litany, ticking off each point on a thick finger. “We will convert the leaf of the humble coca plant into paste, the paste into white powder, the white powder into paper, and the paper into gold. And with the gold will come the power to bring the yanquis to their knees.”

  “I understand-”

  “Even assuming you do, awareness is not enough,” Don Gallardo said, standing up. “Execution is everything, and you, quite simply, have failed.” He walked around the desk and stood, looking down on Jorge.

  Jorge stiffened at the word “execution.” Used with the word “failed,” it had an ominous ring. He decided that now was not the time for moralizing. He sat motionless and carefully chose his words.

  “All right, I have to admit that everything you’ve said is true. I’m not going to make any more excuses. But given all that you concede I’ve done for the organization, I think I should have a chance to redeem myself.” Jorge glanced up to test the reaction and noticed a slight softening of the steel-blue eyes.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Let me do it. Let me recover the ship.”

  “You?” A smile crossed Don Gallardo’s face.

  “Why not? I see it as a management problem, like any other.”

  “You wouldn’t know where to begin.” Don Gallardo looked at him like an amused father watching his child try for something over his head.

  “It isn’t brain surgery. The first step is to find out the status, where it is, whether it’s still afloat or not.”

  “And how would you do that?

  “We’ve got more than a dozen planes. We’ll begin a search immediately, a systematic sweep of the entire route of the ship if necessary.”

  “The route of the ship covers the area from Buenaventura to Montevideo. It would take days, weeks, to sweep such a territory.”

  “We can narrow it down. We can estimate the position of the ship, based on the length of time it’s been at sea, its approximate speed.”

  Don Gallardo shook his head. “We only know the time of the last radio contact. We don’t know if the ship has stopped or is still under way. If the mudo has disabled the ship’s officers, it could be steaming unmanned in circles or in any direction. Even a slow cargo vessel could steam hundreds of miles in forty-eight hours. It could be anywhere. No, we would have to have at least an approximate location if we are to have any chance of finding it.”

  “Do you remember that admiral from Bogotá? You introduced Isabella and me to him and his wife at a party, right here on the estate. His name started with a C.”

  “Cuartas.”

  “That’s right, Admiral Cuartas. From the amount of gold on him, he can get us the information we need.”

  Don Gallardo stood rubbing his chin. He looked down at Jorge and smiled. “Perhaps your stay in North America did you some good, after all. It must have been all those Rambo movies. He leaned across his desk and held down the button on his intercom. “Get me Admiral Cuartas in Bogotá.”

  “Good morning, Admiral,” Don Gallardo said into the telephone. He swiveled around to face Jorge. “I apologize for calling at so early an hour.”

  Jorge watched anxiously as Don Gallardo leaned back in his chair, and spent a full five minutes smoothly engaging in the polite chitchat necessary before any business can be discussed in Colombia. The status and health of wives and children were covered in great detail on both sides before he got down to business.

  “Admiral, I’m sorry to trouble you with something so trivial,” Don Gallardo said, switching on the speaker phone, “but an awkward situation has developed within one of my shipping companies. It seems that one of our cargo ships has ceased radio contact.”

  “Oh? I’m sorry to hear that,” Admiral Cuartas’s aristocratic voice came through the speaker, reviving Jorge’s memory of their meeting. Jorge had been introduced to the admiral and his wife at one of Don Gallardo’s weekend extravaganzas. He remembered him as an impressive man, a patrician with the elegant manners of one born to wealth and privilege, but Jorge thought he now detected a note of caution in his voice.

  “I’m sure there’s a logical explanation,” Don Gallardo went on, “but we hesitate to announce that it’s missing; a public search for it would be a source of embarrassment for our company. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Of course. What is the name of the ship?”

  “The Latin Star, a cargo freighter registered in Panama.”

  “Its route?”

  “Buenaventura to Montevideo, with scheduled stops at ports in Peru and Argentina.”

  “And its cargo?”

  “The usual commerce between countries; truck batteries, grain, machinery, the usual things.”

  “Then, of course, it’s fully insured.”

  “For the most part,” Don Gallardo said. “However, the ship does contain some special cargo - I won’t bore you with the details - for which we were unable to obtain insurance.”

  “I see,” Admiral Cuartas said. “How can I help you?”

  “I wondered if you could provide us with any information that may have come across your desk as to its status and position.”

  The pause that followed stopped just short of being impolite. “Just a minute,” Admiral Cuartas said. “We received a dispatch this morning from the Pacific Command Headquarters in Buenaventura about an incident involving a freighter.” The sound of muffled commands came through the speaker.

  Don Gallardo tapped his cigar against a lead crystal ashtray. Jorge stared at him, amazed at his calm demeanor.

  “Yes,” Admiral Cuartas said over the rustle of paper. “The Pacific Command relayed a radio transmission from a U.S. Navy destroyer early this morning. Here it is. An unidentified cargo freighter of the C-2 class, found dead in the water 250 miles off the coast of Peru. Picked up by radar at 0430 hours this morning.”

  Jorge felt a film of cold sweat on his forehead. If the Americans had impounded the freighter, the game was over. Processing plants throughout Latin America would be shut down for lack of chemicals to process coca paste. Trade routes supplying the finished product to Europe would be disrupted. Much needed cash flow would dry up. The short-term commitments he’d made in Uruguay and Argentina to finance Don Gallardo’s aggressive plan would be in default, placing holdings worth billions at risk. The future viability of the confederation would be in serious doubt, and so would his own existence.

  “Did the American ship take the freighter into custody?” Don Gallardo’s voice was as calm as if he were inquiring about the weather.

  “No. Apparently they dispatched a boarding party - the ship’s engineering officer and a small group of support people - to lend assistance.”

  “And?”

  “The destroyer became disabled shortly after - an explosion of unknown origin in the engine room. They’ve requested a tow from the Colombian Navy.”

  “And the U.S. Navy people?”

  “Still aboard, apparently. ‘Unable to recover due to high seas,’ according to the dispatch.”

  “Do you have a location?”

  There was another long pause. “Approximately ten degrees thirty-fiv
e minutes south latitude and eighty-two degrees fourteen minutes west longitude,” Admiral Cuartas said. “We’re preparing to dispatch the frigate Padilla.”

  “To what end?”

  “To take the destroyer under tow.”

  “And the freighter?”

  “The captain of the frigate is under orders to impound the freighter and return it to Buenaventura if he can do so safely.”

  “And if not?”

  “If he deems it a hazard to navigation, he is cleared to sink it, at his discretion.”

  Jorge felt his stomach tighten.

  “Obviously, neither event would be in our best interests,” Don Gallardo said, making notes.

  “I’m sorry, my friend,” Admiral Cuartas said. “I hope your loss is not too severe, but there is really nothing I can do.”

  “The frigate could be delayed.”

  “Obviously I cannot do that. The destroyer is in the path of a tropical cyclone. The frigate will have to steam at flank speed to reach it in time, as it is.”

  “I see.”

  “I have tried to be helpful in the past with small requests, Don Gallardo, but there are limits.”

  “I understand.”

  “I hope you do. Our friendship goes back many years, but you must understand there are some things I cannot do.”

  “Of course. Forgive me for asking,” Don Gallardo said. “I apologize for imposing on you.”

  “Not at all. I’m glad you appreciate my position.”

  “Certainly.”

  Jorge watched with a sinking feeling as Don Gallardo acquiesced, leaning back in his chair, launching into small talk for the next several minutes, bringing the conversation to a close. Warm goodbyes had been exchanged, when Don Gallardo said, “Oh, by the way. I meant to ask you. How is your youngest daughter?”

  There was a pause. “She’s very well.”

  “She’s now eleven?”

  “Twelve.”

  “Has she given her debut yet?”

  “Yes, with the Philharmonic in Bogotá,” Admiral Cuartas said, warming to the subject. “Mozart’s Piano Concerto Number 22 in E flat major, a very difficult piece.” His voice swelled with pride.

  “She shows much promise for one so young,” Don Gallardo said. “Take good care of her. It would be a tragedy if anything kept her from reaching her full potential.”

  The speakerphone hummed in the corner of the desk for what seemed a full thirty seconds before Admiral Cuartas spoke.

  “Twelve hours.” His voice was dead with contempt.

  “And your son,” Don Gallardo said. “I understand he is in his final year at the Naval Academy in Cartagena. Perhaps he will follow in your footsteps one day. You must be very proud.”

  “Eighteen hours. No more.”

  “I don’t wish to impose.”

  There was another pause. “Not at all.”

  “You’ve been extremely helpful, Admiral. It will not be forgotten.” Don Gallardo switched off the speakerphone and looked at Jorge.

  Jorge felt the blood return to his face. He stared at Don Gallardo with a look of astonishment. “I can’t believe you did that.”

  “Did what?”

  “Threatened the man’s children.”

  “I threatened no one,” Don Gallardo said. “All men have priorities. I merely probed a bit to determine his.”

  Jorge stared at him without speaking.

  Don Gallardo’s face flushed. “Grow up, Jorge. You’ve lived a fairy-tale existence for too long, cavorting around the world in your $4,000 suits, hobnobbing with your investment banker friends, keeping a blind eye to the realities of the business. You can’t be a Boy Scout if you’re going to survive in this world. The lives of a few mean nothing compared with what’s at stake here.” He tore off a sheet of notepaper with the location of the ship and handed it to Jorge. “We have an eighteen-hour lead to locate the ship and retake control before the arrival of the frigate. All operations have been canceled. Our fleet of aircraft is standing by. I’ve named Enrique Lopez acting director of security, replacing Rafael Ayala. He’s in Peru, at the Command Center in Campanilla, waiting for your instructions.”

  Jorge gulped down his cold coffee and stood up. “I’ve got some fires to put out in Montevideo. Quintero’s not cooperating.”

  “Fine. Get down there and handle it, but get Lopez started before you go. I want all our jet aircraft in the air immediately. I want that area screened in a crisscross pattern, grid by grid. When the precise location of the ship is determined, our helicopters will go in; the first wave will land security people aboard to secure the ship, the second will land a replacement crew to get the ship under way and sail it to the nearest friendly port. I want you to board in the second wave and take personal charge of the shipment from that point forward.”

  “What about the destroyer?”

  “A disabled destroyer won’t pose any threat. Our American-made helicopters will provide all the support necessary.”

  Jorge had approved the purchase of the two UH-60 Blackhawk helicopters from Israel, purchased through an Iranian intermediary. He’d thought the expense for the combat-ready helicopters and pilot training was excessive and had tried to dissuade Don Gallardo, but now saw the wisdom of being prepared. The helicopters could prove to be the key to their survival. Don Gallardo was right. He had much to learn about the business.

  “And if the Americans are still aboard the freighter?”

  Don Gallardo’s eyes smiled. “It’s time to use your newfound cojones for something besides pleasure,” he said. “You can preside over their burial at sea.”

  Daniel Blake descended the ladderway to the passenger deck and paused at the door of the captain’s quarters. The smell coming through the louvers of the door confirmed the scrawled entry he’d read in the ship’s log. He sucked in his breath and glanced at Kelly.

  “Brace yourself.”

  “I’m braced.”

  Leaving his side arm holstered, he pushed the door inward and stepped over the coaming. The smell pushed him back. He steadied himself and adjusted his eyes to the light. Fighting back the urge to vomit, he covered his mouth and nose with his hand and made his way across the room. He twisted open the brass dogs over a porthole, swung it open and locked it back. A thin stream of light filtered in through the algae-covered glass.

  His eyes took in the room at a glance: gray metal desk, safe with peeling green paint welded to the bulkhead, wooden bunk, faded green bedspread, small round table. A porterhouse steak and baked potato covered with cheese sauce sat half-eaten on a bamboo tray. A nearly empty beer bottle rolled around the table with an eerie droning sound. The lime green walls were decorated with yellowed posters, curling with age. Over the bunk, a bikini-clad beauty smiled from the swimming pool of a Cartagena beach resort. On the bulkhead over the safe, the St. Pauli Girl served up frothy steins of beer with a gaiety that seemed absurdly out of place.

  The captain of the Latin Star lay near the open safe door, glassy eyes staring up at the buxom redhead. Blake recoiled. Knowing what to expect hadn’t lessened the impact of seeing it. He instinctively turned away and winced at the unfinished meal on the tray. He forced himself to look back and felt his stomach move. The captain’s severed tongue matched the color of the steak; the black blood in his mouth was the consistency of the cheese sauce on the potato. His outstretched hand lay just a few inches from a revolver and box of spilled cartridges near the open safe door. Steeling himself against a feeling of nausea, Blake picked up the revolver and looked at it. It was a .38 caliber Smith & Wesson with a two-inch barrel, a Chief’s Special. The five-cartridge cylinder was loaded, but still open. He snapped the cylinder back in place, hefted the stainless-steel piece and slowly shook his head. “Looks like he lost the race.”

  Kelly didn’t say anything. She was staring down at the body, her face the color of bread dough. Blake noticed her eyelids begin to flutter. He jammed the revolver in his hip pocket, pulled the bedspread from the captain’s
bunk, twirled it over the corpse and edged her toward the bed.

  “Come over here and sit down.”

  “No.” Kelly pulled away, glassy-eyed. “I’m okay.”

  “Just sit for a minute.” Blake eased her down on the edge of the bunk and removed her radio backpack. He stepped into the bathroom and turned the water on full blast. The pipes rattled and hummed, and coughed out water that looked like lemonade. He waited for it to clear and filled a plastic cup. Kelly was sitting in the same position when he returned.

  “Here, drink this water.”

  Blake closed her hands around the cup and thought they felt cold. She stared blankly across the room without saying anything, while he removed her helmet and loosened her life jacket. He opened the porthole above the bunk. Wet, cool air whistled into the stateroom, blowing wisps of her hair around. The organic smell of the sea gradually displaced the smell of death and decay. He knelt down, looking into her face. Neither spoke for a moment.

  Kelly took a deep breath and looked at the cup in her hand. “Sorry. I thought I’d be better at this stuff.”

  “You’re doing fine.”

  “Sure. I see a dead body and nearly faint.”

  “Don’t worry about it. This sort of violence isn’t something we see every day.”

  Kelly looked at him and screwed up her face. “I get the feeling we’re going to see more of it.”

  Blake nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

  “I’ll try to get my act together.” She stared over at the covered body as if to steel herself. “It’s just that . . . that tongue business.”