Point of Honor

by Maurice Medland

  They came sauntering up, trying to keep their balance against the motion of the ship, looking apprehensive.

  “Gather around,” Blake said. “We don’t have a lot of time, so I’m going to give it to you straight. Tropical Storm Bruce is probably going to be upgraded to a tropical cyclone. It’s moving this way. There’s a good chance it’ll hit within the next twelve hours, before the Colombian frigate can get here.”

  “Cyclone?” Tobin said. “Is that anything like a typhoon?”

  Blake nodded. “They go by different names depending on where you are in the world. In the China Sea, they’re called typhoons. East of longitude 160 where we are, they’re called cyclones. But whatever you call it, without power to the main engines and the ability to maneuver, the ship probably won’t survive.”

  “Don’t hold back, Lieutenant,” Tobin said.

  “I know that’s a little cold,” Blake said, “but we’re out of time. That’s the bad news. The good news is, we’re going to get the ship under way.”

  They stared back at Blake without speaking for what seemed a full minute.

  Finally, Robertson spoke up. “A cold-start? Sir, that ain’t no small job, even with a full crew that knows what they’re doing.”

  “Five of us are engineers,” Blake said. “The chief, Sparks, you, Tobin, and myself. It’ll be up to us to teach the others what they need to know.”

  “We may be engineers,” Robertson said, “but this here’s a merchant ship. That’s a whole different power plant than a destroyer.”

  “Not as different as you think,” Blake said. “A steam turbine’s a steam turbine. A boiler’s a boiler. There are more similarities than differences.”

  Sparks raised his hand. “Even if we could get her under way, who’d take the conn?”

  “I will,” Blake said.

  “You don’t just drive one of these things all by yourself, like a car,” Sparks said, looking doubtful.

  “After we get up a head of steam, Doc Jones will man the helm. Dana Kelly will man the engine-order telegraph,” Blake said.

  Doc Jones put a hand against his chest. “Me?” He looked at Dana Kelly. “I’m going to drive this thing? Man, I’m from New York. I don’t even drive a car. You must be joking.”

  “Some joke,” Sparks said under his breath.

  Blake glared at Sparks. “Doc will follow the headings I give at the helm. Kelly will relay the orders for engine speed to the engine room. Chief Kozlewski and his team will answer the bells.”

  “What about the kid?” Kozlewski asked.

  Blake looked over at Maria, sitting on a table shivering, resting her feet on the bench. She looked like a bird that had fallen out of its nest. He hadn’t counted on her when he’d made his plans. He’d have to find a way to keep her safe and out of the way. “She’ll be with us on the bridge.”

  The light had begun to fade in the dining salon. Blake looked at his watch. It would be dark soon. “The thrust of the storm won’t hit for several hours, probably not before morning. We’ll begin the cold-start at 0300 and get under way as soon as we get up a head of steam. In the meantime, I want you all to get some sleep.”

  “Where?” Sparks asked.

  “There are eight passenger staterooms aboard,” Blake said. “Pick one.”

  “Yeah, but there’s nine of us,” Sparks said. “Ten, with the kid.”

  “Some of you will have to double up,” Blake said. “For security reasons, I want us all to stay close together.”

  Sparks took a drag on his cigarette and flashed a yellow smile at Dana Kelly. Smoke streamed out of his nostrils like gray tusks. He leaned over and whispered, “How about you and me? You can bring the kid.”

  “You disgusting jerk,” Kelly said.

  Blake looked at Sparks, wanting to jerk his cigarette out of his mouth and put it out on his forehead. The dumb bastard still hadn’t gotten the message.

  “Why all the security?” Tobin asked. “We turned the ship upside down looking for this El Callado and didn’t find anything.”

  “It’s just that it’ll be easier to communicate if we’re all together,” Blake said. “Any questions?”

  The sailors stared at him.

  “The chief and I will be in the number one stateroom working up an engine-starting procedure,” Blake said. “I want the rest of you to get some sleep. We’ve all had a long day and tomorrow’s going to be even longer. I want you to stay in your staterooms,” he said, remembering the disappearing radio and now the disappearing body. “You’re all critical to getting under way. We can’t afford to lose anyone.”

  “Madre de Dios.” Jorge Cordoba gaped out the side window of the Learjet as it descended through the trees, hovering over its shadow like a hawk over prey. It touched down with a puff of smoke and quickly reversed its engines, pitching him forward. He pulled his seat belt tighter and blew out a long breath. From the air, he hadn’t seen the opening through the trees until the last minute and had thought they were going to crash. He glanced out at the tangled vegetation flashing by and gathered up his coat and briefcase, feeling limp with relief. The scream of the engines subsided, and the jet taxied toward a low building sheltered by overhanging trees. The plane swung around, bright moonlight reflecting on silver wings, and rolled to a stop in front of a row of crude hangars. He peered out through the fogged windows at the pole construction and corrugated tin roofs. He had arrived at Campanilla.

  The door cracked open with a sucking sound, and a rush of air smelling of wet asphalt rolled into the passenger compartment. The copilot pulled the door back, and Jorge stepped out onto the tarmac, happy to be alive. A light rain had transformed the landing strip into a shiny black ribbon. He stood in the rain, breathing deeply, and glanced around at his new surroundings.

  The row of hangars at this end, which housed the fleet of jets, was empty except for a Sabreliner crawling with mechanics in khaki uniforms. At the opposite end of the landing strip, two light green Blackhawk helicopters with the distinctive blue stars on their fuselage crouched under tin roofs like giant grasshoppers. Jorge had tried to dissuade Don Gallardo from displaying the blue-star insignia of the confederation so blatantly, but the Don had insisted, arguing that a visual symbol would help build unity. Jorge thought the real reason was that Don Gallardo took a perverse delight in flashing the confederation’s symbol in the face of the yanquis, who wouldn’t realize its significance until it was too late.

  Adjusting his eyes for distance, he could see the deep green leaves of the Peruvian coca bush on the surrounding hillsides. A detachment of anti-guerrilla forces based in nearby Punta Arenas patrolled the perimeter of the compound. The price for Army protection came high, but it would be impossible to move such vast quantities of crude coca paste to Colombia for refining without it.

  He looked back toward the hangars and saw a squat figure in shirt-sleeves standing in the shadows next to a white Ford pickup truck, staring at him. Sizing up Don Gallardo’s godson - just what he would expect from what he knew of Enrique Lopez. He returned the stare. The man flashed an obsequious smile and started across the asphalt toward him, skirting silver pools of water.

  “Buenas noches, Señor Cordoba. Welcome to Peru. I trust you had a pleasant flight?” The squat man smiled at Jorge and glanced past him, admiring the tall stewardess coming down the steps with her black leather flight bag over her shoulder.

  “Not unpleasant,” Jorge said, turning to glance at the stunning brunette himself. The flight attendant diverted her eyes. She’d done her best to seduce Jorge on the flight and seemed embarrassed that he’d chosen not to take her, but he hadn’t been in the mood. His sleep during the two-hour flight from Montevideo had been interrupted with surreal dreams of lions chasing him through the streets.

  “Permit me to introduce myself. I am-”

  “I know who you are.” Jorge stared at the man. “Congratulations on your appointment as acting security director.” He made no attempt to conceal his lack of enthusiasm.
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  “You honor me,” Enrique Lopez said, nodding slightly, extending his hand.

  Jorge took the swarthy hand reluctantly. It would be hard to imagine an uglier man than Enrique Lopez. He had the body of a troll, with a dark acne-pitted face that looked like the surface of the moon. His black hair receded in a U-shape, exposing a patch of smooth scalp. A ribbon of scar tissue separated the two. He was called Cara de Piña, Pineapple Face, behind his back, but he was treated with respect. He had worked for Don Gallardo since the beginning, and his reputation as an assassin was well-known.

  Jorge distanced himself from people like Lopez, who had made his name by personally disposing of Don Gallardo’s most dangerous challenger in his rise to build the organization. In the process, he had also brutally disposed of the man’s wife and four small children. The Don had expressed outrage over the killing of women and children and had made a show of banning Lopez to the field. But after listening to the phone conversation with Admiral Cuartas, Jorge wondered if the Don hadn’t protested too much. Now that he thought of it, no new challengers had risen to the occasion since. Perhaps Enrique Lopez had been Don Gallardo’s way of sending a message. Jorge had avoided any knowledge of such things, choosing to focus on the financial operations of the business, but now understood that it was sometimes necessary to eliminate opposition when there was no other way. His order to eliminate Fabio Quintero had been the first time he had ever done such a thing, but Quintero had forced his hand, and it couldn’t be avoided. He had found it surprisingly easy to do; still, there were limits.

  Women and children. What made a man like Lopez tick? He glimpsed into his black eyes for a brief second, trying to see inside the man. He saw ruthlessness, which he expected, but he also saw a level of intelligence that surprised him. It was a dangerous combination.

  “This way, Señor Cordoba.” They walked toward the truck. Four armed guards with AK-47s resting between their knees sat in the back of the pickup, hats pulled low, shielding their eyes from the rain. They looked like common street thugs to Jorge. “This man is Señor Cordoba,” Lopez said. “He is Don Gallardo’s godson. While he is here, he is under my protection. What happens to him, happens to you.” The four scrambled out of the truck and formed a circle around Jorge.

  “Get rid of these thugs,” Jorge said, suspecting that Lopez intended them to be more constraint than protection.

  “As you wish.” Lopez nodded, and the men stood back.

  Jorge threw his coat over his shoulder and walked with Lopez past the row of hangars to a footpath carved into the jungle. He followed behind, glancing up at the back of Lopez’s sweat-stained shirt, picking his steps carefully, watching a layer of debris gather over his Gucci slippers. The thrum of diesel generators grew louder, muffling the tropical sounds of the jungle. He wrinkled his nose at the acrid smell of chemicals hanging in the air. The narrow path sloped down and grew darker, gradually becoming a tunnel through thick vegetation. After 100 yards, the path opened up to dusky streams of moonlight and a low building of concrete-block construction. The building was small, perhaps fifty by seventy-five feet. Hidden by overhanging trees, it was invisible from the air. Radar and radio antennae bristled from the red-tiled roof.

  Lopez paused at the steel door and spoke into an intercom while Jorge glanced around at raucous tropical birds competing with the noise of the generators. The door latch snapped, and Lopez pulled the heavy door back. Jorge stepped into an area ringed with small offices separated by glass partitions.

  “You can put your things in there,” Lopez said, nodding to an empty cubicle. Jorge threw his coat over a chair and followed Lopez through a double door. A blast of refrigerated air chilled his shirt. He stopped and adjusted his eyes to the dim light. A bank of technicians glanced up, their faces green from the glow of radar screens. Radio operators at a console looked up with heavy eyelids, then turned back to an array of knobs and dials, making notes on clipboards. The walls were decorated with colored maps. The air was heavy with the smell of stale cigarette smoke.

  “Here it is,” Lopez said, sweeping his hand around the room. “Command and control for our European shipments.” He motioned for Jorge to follow him to a map table. The table was backlit, illuminating a vast field of blue. He tapped a hairy finger against a grease-penciled spot a few inches off the coast of Peru. “This mark is the last known position of the Latin Star. Ten degrees thirty-five minutes south latitude, and eighty-two degrees fourteen minutes west longitude.”

  “How far off the coast?”

  “Two hundred and fifty miles, perhaps less.”

  “Any communication from the ship?”

  Lopez shook his head. “We haven’t expected any. I’m sure the ship’s radio is out of commission.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  Enrique Lopez smiled. “Your pet would have destroyed the radio before he got down to business.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean the business of killing every member of the crew.”

  “No, no. You said ‘your’ pet.” Jorge was glaring at him. “What did you mean by that?”

  Lopez smiled. “It’s not important.”

  That goddamn smile again. “I’ll decide what’s important,” Jorge said. “Answer me.”

  “I did not mean to give offense,” Lopez said. “Rafael Ayala boasted that he had taken the one called El Callado from the Ramirez organization during a raid on their main processing lab. He said he was training him with your approval.”

  “That’s a lie. I gave no such approval.”

  Lopez nodded deferentially. “If you say it, then it is so.”

  Jorge glared at him. If he heard one more word linking him to this mudo, this freak of nature Ayala kept like a pet dog, he was going to explode. He forced himself to concentrate on why he was there. He glanced at his watch. “All right, drop it. We’ve got work to do. In less than six hours, a Colombian Navy frigate will be leaving Buenaventura. We’ve got to locate the ship before they do.”

  “Of course. Please forgive any inference that you were responsible. It was completely unintended.”

  Jorge watched him turn away, smiling. He couldn’t read this ugly troll. He had the distinct feeling he was laughing at him, that he was privy to some great secret Jorge didn’t know. He shook it off. “How many planes do we have in the air?”

  “Twelve. All the jets we have, except for the Sabreliner you saw being worked on,” Lopez said, all business again. “We’re sweeping the area for several hundred miles around the coordinates you gave us.”

  “What’s wrong with the Sabreliner?”

  “Fuel-line problems. It’s common in this humidity. It should be flying within the hour.”

  “What about the weather?”

  “Our meteorologists report that Tropical Storm Bruce has now been upgraded to a tropical cyclone.”

  “Which direction is it heading?”

  “Toward the freighter, but it keeps changing course.”

  “Will it impact the search?”

  “Not for the next several hours. The planes can fly over it, but if it hits, it could sink an unmanned ship.”

  “Why would you assume it’s unmanned?” Jorge asked.

  Lopez gave Jorge a condescending look. “I have seen the mudo in operation, Señor Cordoba. I can assure you, no one is left alive.”

  “Perhaps not the original crew, but you’re forgetting it’s been boarded by the American Navy,” Jorge said.

  Lopez laughed in a high-pitched squeal that startled Jorge. “And you’re forgetting I’ve seen the mudo at work. He will take them one by one. There will be meddling American tongues scattered throughout the ship like leaves from a tree.”

  “It would be a mistake to underestimate an armed boarding party from a U.S. Navy warship,” Jorge said.

  “Perhaps,” Lopez said, flashing his smile.

  “What’s the range on the helicopters?” Jorge asked, wanting to change the subject.

  “
With the added fuel tanks, enough to get there.”

  “You mean a one-way trip?” Jorge asked, incredulous.

  “There is a landing pad on the ship,” Lopez said. “After the first helicopter has landed, we will make room for the second.”

  “How?”

  Lopez shrugged. “When the second wave comes in, we will push the first helicopter over the side.”

  Jorge grimaced at the thought of pushing a $7 million helicopter into the ocean, then caught himself.

  Lopez seemed amused at his reaction. “The helicopters are nothing, Señor Cordoba, compared with what is at stake here.”

  That smile again. Jorge wanted to wipe it off his ugly face. He forced himself to concentrate. “If the cyclone hits full force, could the Latin Star survive such a storm?”

  “The ship is very old,” Lopez said. “It would have a chance, but only if there is power to the main engines and some competent ship handling.”

  “According to the information we have, the American in charge of the boarding party is the destroyer’s engineering officer,” Jorge said.

  Lopez nodded. “So I understand.”

  “What’s the likelihood that such a person could get a ship like the Latin Star under way and maneuver it through a cyclone?” Jorge asked.

  “It might be possible for the American officer to get the ship under way with an experienced crew,” Lopez said, “but it is doubtful that he would have the experience to maneuver the ship in a storm, although he doubtless will try, unless he is a complete fool.”

  “Does it follow then that, if he survived the storm, he would be able to steer the ship to a port somewhere?”

  “I would think it unlikely that an engineer would be able to navigate or conn the ship with any accuracy,” Lopez said. “Keep in mind also, that in all these endeavors, the American officer will no doubt have the added complication of dealing with the silent one.” He smiled.

  Jorge lit a cigarette and leaned back against the table, rubbing his eyes, trying to guess what the American officer would do, how to counter it. So many variables, so little time. A wrong move could be fatal. He told himself to relax and think. The Harvard Business School was famous for its case-study method of analyzing business problems. He had studied complex business situations with the Norte Americanos. He understood the yanqui mentality. The arrogant bastards thought they could do anything. That would be the underlying assumption.