Point of Honor

by Maurice Medland

  Sparks came drifting in, rubbing his eyes, followed by Robertson and Tobin a few moments later. Luis Alvarez and Sergeant Rivero were the last ones in. They joined Doc Jones and Kelly at the urn and drew steaming mugs of coffee.

  “All right,” Blake said, motioning, “gather ‘round.” He leaned against the edge of the table and watched them without seeming to, trying to gauge their mood. He motioned for them to stand easy.

  They clustered around the adjacent table, finding corners to sit on or lean against, looking at Blake, sipping coffee, finding comfort in familiar movements.

  “We’ve got some problems we need to talk about,” Blake said. He paused and took a drink of coffee, trying to set a relaxed tone. He could tell by the look in their eyes he hadn’t. “Let’s deal with the most pressing one first.”

  “What’s that, Lieutenant,” Alvarez said, holding on to the edge of the table. “Robertson ain’t gonna cook no more?”

  A few chuckles, then silence.

  Blake smiled. “I wish it were that simple. The truth is, we have reason to believe there’s someone else aboard.” He paused to let it sink in, watching for reactions.

  “Like who?” Sparks said.

  “We’re not sure, but we think there’s a good chance that whoever killed the ship’s officers and crew is still aboard.”

  “I knew it,” Sparks said, glancing over at Kelly.

  Dana Kelly raised her hand. “Wait a minute. Are you saying that’s who took the radio?”

  Blake nodded. “Probably.”

  Kelly blanched. “Are you telling me that I was asleep alone in a cabin with some lunatic murderer running around the ship?”

  “You weren’t alone,” Blake said. “We posted a watch outside your door.” He shot a look at Tobin, who looked down at his shoes.

  Sparks was muttering in the background, “There ain’t nobody aboard. She lost the damn radio. She’s a Jonah. A goddamn Jonah. I knew it the day she came aboard.”

  Blake fixed the electrician with a withering glare. “That’s enough.”

  Sparks breathed out one last “Jonah” and fell silent.

  Blake settled back against the table. “Now there’s no need to be unduly concerned. We’re going to form search parties led by those of us with side arms. We’ll go over the ship with a fine-tooth comb. If someone’s aboard, we’ll find him.” He made it sound matter-of-fact, but it was a confidence he didn’t feel. He’d sailed aboard merchant ships during sea year at the Academy, and for two years after, and knew it would be impossible to find someone on a cargo ship if he didn’t want to be found. He’d heard apocryphal stories of stowaways living aboard freighters for months before finally being caught.

  “Search parties?” Tobin said. “With all due respect, Lieutenant, shouldn’t we stick together? If we find this guy, he isn’t exactly going to welcome us with open arms.”

  “We’ll have a better chance of catching him if we split up,” Blake said. “He’d hear nine people coming if we sweep one deck at a time. All he’d have to do is pop up on the next deck and wait for us to pass below him.”

  “Who is this guy, what does he look like, what are we looking for?” Tobin asked, his voice rising to a reedy pitch.

  “We don’t know much about him,” Blake said. “All we know is he’s a mute.”

  “A Mute?” Alvarez asked. “What the hell is that? Some kind of South American Indian tribe?”

  “Are you for real?” Robertson said.

  “Well, my grandmother was a Ute,” Alvarez said.

  “It means he don’t talk,” Robertson said. “He’s a dummy, like you.”

  That’s not exactly right,” Blake said. “He hears, but he doesn’t speak. And he’s no dummy. Don’t underestimate him.”

  “Does he have a name?” Tobin asked.

  “They call him El Callado,” Sergeant Rivero spoke up.

  “I don’t think I like the sound of that,” Tobin said. He screwed his face up into a painful squint. “What does it mean?”

  “The silent one,” Kelly said.

  “Oh God,” Tobin said.

  “He’ll be silent if he fucks with me,” Alvarez said, fingering his bosun’s knife.”

  “Yeah, you’re a real bad hombre,” Robertson said.

  “Knock it off.” Blake glanced at his watch. “I want to get started before it gets dark. Chief Kozlewski will lead the first party, consisting of Sparks and Robertson, through the third deck and below.” He nodded to the Colombian marine. “Sergeant Rivero will lead the second party, consisting of Alvarez and Tobin, through the cargo holds. Doc, Kelly and I will take the second deck and above, including the superstructure. Any questions?”

  “What do we do if we find him?” Frank Kozlewski asked.

  “Try to subdue him without any fireworks,” Blake said. “We’re sitting on a cargo of highly flammable chemicals.”

  “What about the radio, sir?” Tobin asked.

  “We’ll deal with that later,” Blake said. He knew what had to be done next, but it was an ambitious plan, and he wasn’t sure how much they could handle at once. He decided to reveal it one step at a time, on a need-to-know basis. “The first priority is to secure the ship. We’ll start aft and work forward. When you’re finished, muster back here. Remember to stick close to your leader and keep your eyes open.”

  * * *

  Blake paused at the entrance to the narrow compartments under the forecastle and looked at his watch in a thin stream of daylight leaking in from the deck above. The search had taken longer than he’d thought, and he was eager to finish up before it got dark. Doc Jones and Dana Kelly stood behind him, dogging his heels. They had searched every compartment of the second deck, from the fresh water tanks aft to the area just forward of the number one cargo hold, without finding anything. He glanced at their faces to see how they were holding up. Kelly seemed calm, although she stuck close to him, while Doc Jones seemed to get edgier the longer they went without finding anything. Blake wiped the sweat out of his eyes and motioned for Kelly to hold the flashlight while he twisted the dogs open on a watertight door. She handed it back, and he stepped over the shin-buster and stopped, shining the white beam down the murky passageway.

  “How much more, Lieutenant?” Doc Jones asked behind him, his voice a dry whisper.

  “This one is the last,” Blake said. His voice rang hollow in the narrow passageway, louder than he’d intended. Instinctively, he toned it down. “The forwardmost compartment. We’re directly beneath the fo’c’sle.” Blisters of peeling green paint dotted the bulkheads like acne. Black water trickled in from a loose hatch on the main deck above. The weather outside made a muted backdrop for the sounds of heavy breathing and water sloshing across the passageway. Blake took a few cautious steps forward and stopped, aiming the flashlight at the last watertight door going forward at the end of the passageway. The beam of light came spiraling back from a brass nameplate marked BOSN’S STORES.

  Blake began to feel a sense of unease. He didn’t like confining places. He also didn’t like guessing what was on the other side of a door. The ship was rolling heavily now. A film of cool sweat began to form on the nape of his neck. He steadied himself against the bulkhead and approached the door, which was dogged down tight. It was a standard watertight door, with heavy welded hinges on the right and three swivel latches on the left at the top, center, and bottom. The latches, called “dogs,” had long handles for leverage. They were identical on each side of the door, enabling it to be secured from either side. He shoved the top latch upward with the heel of his hand, screeching it open. He could see by the shiny contact points that it had been used recently. The latch in the center easily gave way. As he reached down for the bottom latch, the top latch swiveled back in place with a resounding clang.

  He jumped back as if he’d been shot.

  “Oh my God, he’s in there,” Kelly said.

  Blake felt the hair bristle on his scalp. He fumbled with the flap of his holster, cold sweat bre
aking out on his back.

  “I’ll go get the chief and Sergeant Rivero,” Doc Jones said.

  “No,” Blake said. “It’s too confining in here, somebody’ll get hurt.”

  They stood in the semidarkness, breathing heavily, staring at the steel door as the center dog swiveled smoothly back into place. Blake snapped the safety off the Beretta with a metallic click that echoed down the passageway. He motioned for Doc and Kelly to stand back against the bulkhead. He took a deep breath, shoved the top latch upward and almost simultaneously swiveled the center latch open only to be greeted with the sound of the top latch being snapped back into place. He stepped back, breathing hard. “We’re getting nowhere.”

  He felt Kelly’s hand on his arm.

  “Doc’s right, Lieutenant,” she said. “This way is crazy. Let’s go get the others.”

  Blake stepped back from the door, motioning with his head for them to follow. “I can’t risk letting him get away,” he said. “We might not get another shot at this guy.”

  “Ain’t there another way out of there?” Doc asked.

  “No,” Blake said. “This compartment is it. It’s shaped like a V. The bulkheads are the hull of the ship, the bow. He can’t be too smart to let himself get trapped in a compartment like that. We won’t have another chance like this one.”

  “How are we going to do it?” Kelly asked. Her golden complexion had paled.

  Blake looked at the door and let out a long breath. “We’ve got more hands than he has.” He motioned them back over by the door. “Doc, you take the top, Kelly you take the center, and I’ll take the bottom. We’ll open on three.” He looked at Doc. “When it opens, pull the door all the way back and shield yourselves with it. I’m going in.”

  “Lieutenant, this idea is crazy,” Kelly said. “If anything happens to you-”

  “I’ll be okay,” Blake said. “Let’s go.”

  They approached the door as if it were electrified. Blake crouched and nodded. They each took a firm grip and waited for the signal.

  Blake looked up from his crouched position, cocked pistol in his right hand, flashlight tucked under his right arm, left hand on the bottom latch. “Okay, on three. One, two, three.” Latches clanged in unison, Doc Jones wrenched the door open and slammed Kelly back against the bulkhead, the steel door shielding him as he shielded her. Blake rolled over the coaming into the compartment. He came to his feet and shifted the flashlight to his left hand. Heart thudding in his chest, he flashed the beam of light around the V-shaped space, straining to see everything at once.

  The steady white beam played over an array of maintenance supplies and equipment jumbled around the compartment, casting moving shadows that made him flinch. He swiveled his head around, expecting to be hit from behind. Stacks of coiled lines, wire rope, tarpaulins, cans of paint, wire brushes, chipping hammers, holystones, mops, and buckets were everywhere. He hesitated, then stepped around a pile of coiled rope. A faint shuffling sound came from the corner. The hair stiffened on the back of his neck. The adrenaline was pumping furiously now. He stood there, wondering if he could really kill someone, knowing he’d probably have to. He took another step. A scrambling sound. More shuffling. His heart hammered, pumping extra blood throughout his system, preparing him to fight or run. Beads of sweat rolled into his eyes, blurring his vision. He took another step around the pile of rope and froze.

  The beam of his flashlight caught a dark huddled form, like a giant bat, crouching close to the deck. The form froze. The sparkle of a pair of eyes was caught in the beam of light, like an animal caught in headlights. Blake raised the automatic and aimed at a spot between the eyes, concentrating on holding his hand steady. He didn’t want to kill it, whatever it was, but if it moved it was dead. They stared at each other, neither blinking, neither moving, for what seemed like a full minute. The pistol grew heavy in his hand. He elevated the flashlight with his other hand and leaned forward, squinting for a better look.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” His knees suddenly felt weak.

  Doc and Kelly came scrambling into the compartment. They stood behind Blake, looking over his shoulder.

  “What is it, Lieutenant?” Kelly asked.

  A laugh came from his core, a release of tension from the deepest part of him, that echoed in the close compartment. He stared down at the form, huddled under a blanket between two coils of rope. “It’s a kid,” he said in a wondrous tone. He said it again as though he didn’t believe it. “A little kid.”

  “You’re lyin’,” Doc said from behind. He raised up and peered over Blake’s shoulder at the dark form. “Well kiss my granny,” he said. “Damned if it ain’t.” He squinted into the shadows. “But what is it?”

  “I don’t know,” Blake said. He raised the flashlight. Stringy black hair cascaded around a smudged face emerging turtlelike from the blanket. “I think it’s a girl.”

  “Well don’t just stand there like idiots,” Kelly said. She shoved her way around the two men and held out her hand. “Come on out, honey. We won’t hurt you.”

  The child didn’t move, eyeing Kelly warily, looking at her uniform.

  Kelly knelt down. “Come on, sweetheart. I promise we won’t hurt you.”

  The child looked past Kelly at Blake and Doc.

  Kelly glanced over her shoulder. “Are you afraid of them? Don’t be. They’re ugly, but they won’t hurt you.”

  A weak, desperate smile crossed the girl’s face.

  Kelly moved closer and held out her arms. “Come on, darling.”

  The girl fell into Kelly’s arms and began to cry. Softly at first, it became a wailing animal sound, a release of the grief and terror she must have suppressed for the last forty-eight hours.

  Kelly rocked the little girl, stroking her matted hair. “It’s okay, honey. After what you’ve been through, you can cry all you want.” She kissed the top of her head.

  “That’s just great,” Blake said. He holstered his pistol and glanced at the corpsman. “That’s all we need.”

  “Do me a favor, will you Lieutenant?” Kelly said softly. She sat on her knees with her back to Blake and Doc, holding the sobbing child, caressing her gently.

  “What’s that?”

  “Be quiet.”

  Blake carried the child into the dining salon and sat her down on a table. She felt weightless in his arms, but sitting upright she was taller than he had thought, seeing her huddled under the blanket. Also older. He guessed she must be somewhere around eleven or twelve. Under the grime and matted hair, she was a cute little kid, large brown eyes, sculptured face, porcelain skin. It was bizarre, but something about her looked familiar. He tried for a brief second to think where he’d seen her before and shook it off, knowing it was impossible.

  Doc brought his medic kit over to the table and convinced her to open her mouth long enough for him to shove a thermometer under her tongue. She sat precariously on the edge of the table with her sneaker-clad feet dancing nervously on the bench, lolling the thermometer around in her mouth, clutching the blanket around her neck, eyeing Doc suspiciously.

  Kelly emerged from the galley with a steaming mug. “Here you go. Tomato soup. Campbell’s finest. What my grandmother used to give me. Drink it, you’ll be good as new.”

  Doc slid the thermometer out of the child’s magenta-colored lips and studied it in the light. “Ninety-eight point six,” he said, shaking it back down. “She’s a little dehydrated, and she’s probably lost some weight, but she seems healthy enough.”

  “That’s it?” Kelly said. “That’s all you’re going to check? Some doctor you are. She could have a broken bone or something.”

  The corpsman spread his hands. “Look, I don’t know anything about little kids.”

  “Well at least look at her, for God’s sake.”

  Doc shrugged and reached for the blanket.

  The child clutched it tighter around her neck and drew back.

  “It’s okay, honey,” Kelly said. “He’s a doctor.
” She threw a dubious glance at the corpsman and lifted her eyebrows. “Sort of.” She peeled the child’s long thin fingers away from the blanket and lowered it from her shoulders.

  The child was all arms and legs. She was wearing faded blue jeans and a tank top, with red and blue stripes, that hung from her thin torso like a flag. Her collar bones protruded as if she’d been shrink-wrapped in her skin. Smooth round shoulders flowed into thin downy arms that seemed to go on forever. Long thin fingers made her hands seem too big for the arms they were attached to. She hugged herself and danced her toes on the bench, eyeing the hospital corpsman.

  Doc took her left hand and gingerly stretched her arm outright. He looked at her eyes, watching for a reaction as he ran his fingers down her arm, gently applying pressure along the way. He let it drop in her lap and repeated the process with her right arm. “She’s fine,” he said.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Doc,” Kelly said. “You act like she’s a leper. Stand up, honey.” The child allowed Kelly to lead her down from the table. She stood quietly while Kelly looked her over with a critical eye. Kelly ran her hands down her ribs, squeezing gently. Her hands nearly encircled the girl’s torso. The child didn’t flinch.

  “I told you she was fine,” Doc said.

  “What’s your name?” Kelly asked.

  The girl looked at her.

  “Cómo se llama?” Kelly asked again.

  The child swallowed. “Maria,” she said in a soft dry voice.

  Kelly leaned down with her hands on her knees. “Hi. I’m Dana Kelly.” She brushed a finger against the girl’s cheek and smiled, nodding over her shoulder. “These men are Lieutenant Blake and Doc Jones.” Kelly studied her eyes.

  The girl looked past Kelly at Blake and Doc but said nothing.

  “Habla Inglés?” Kelly asked.

  Maria tugged at her tangled hair and shrugged. “Un poco.”

  Kelly smiled at her. “That’s all you need. ‘A little’ is all these guys speak.”

  Maria laughed weakly.