Point of Honor

by Maurice Medland

  “Count on it,” he said.

  Jorge walked into the refrigerated air of the Command Center and adjusted his eyes to the dim light. The air stank of stale cigarette smoke. The American pilot was slumped across a leather sofa against one wall, smoking a cigarette, while one of Enrique Lopez’s goons stood over him with a machine gun. The acting director of security was standing next to the radar scopes staring down at a small television screen.

  Jorge walked up and stood beside him without speaking. A white, circular, rotating mass was inching its way across the eastern Pacific in a northeasterly direction.

  The director of security glanced up at Jorge and answered the question that was in his eyes. “Weather satellite courtesy of the Norte Americano’s National Weather Service,” he said. “They feed it to about forty countries around the world, including Peru, who provides it to the Peruvian Navy, who provides it to Colonel Suarez, who provides it to us.”

  “How does it look?” Jorge said.

  “Bad,” Lopez said. His pitted face looked ghoulish under the green glow of the radar scopes. He nodded to the commercial television set mounted on the wall. “CNN’s doing an update every hour. Tropical cyclones don’t usually get this far east in the Pacific. They’re worried that it might hit the coast of Peru. Major disaster if it comes ashore.”

  “What chance do you give the ship?”

  Lopez shook his head. “Not much. It’s doubtful anything could survive that.” He nodded at the white spinning mass moving almost imperceptibly across the blue background of the Pacific.

  “Where are our planes?”

  “I’ve got three jets circling in a fifty-mile radius above the storm. The minute it clears, we’ll be in a position to know what happened to the ship.”

  Jorge felt Lopez staring at him while Jorge studied the screen.

  “What happened in Punta Arenas?”

  Jorge’s stomach tightened. “The usual.” He concentrated on keeping his voice relaxed. “They wanted more money.”

  “That’s all?” Lopez asked.

  “Sure,” Jorge said. “Why do you ask?”

  “I’ve heard rumors of a raid.”

  Jorge felt a tinge of red flush his face. He shook his head, grateful for the semi-darkened room. “Not likely. Not while we’re under the protection of Colonel Suarez. There’s too much at stake for him to allow that to happen.”

  “You’d better be right.”

  “Trust me,” Jorge said in a calm voice. It was critical to keep Lopez from suspecting anything until the storm had passed and they knew the status of the ship. After that, the Peruvians could have him. The lie came easily, but the question had shaken him. He decided to leave lest he give anything away with his tone of voice or body language. He knew it wouldn’t take much to spook the wily assassin, who had evaded police in a dozen countries. “Call me at once if there’s any change in the weather,” Jorge said. “I’ll be in my bungalow.”

  Jorge walked back to the VIP bungalow, clearly worried now. Was Lopez wise to the raid? Who planted that seed? It had to be the flight attendant. If he suspects he’s being set up, will he run? He knows his way around here, he’s a Peruvian national and he’s no fool, he must have an escape plan. Yes, he would run. He’d be a fool not to, and that would leave Jorge standing here alone to take the fall. If Lopez got away, Jorge was the only other officer of Don Gallardo’s organization at Campanilla. And if he was the only choice, Jorge knew the kindly-looking colonel would order his arrest in a heartbeat, devotion to Don Gallardo or not. Lopez’s availability as the pigeon was the only thing standing between Jorge and a life sentence in a Peruvian military prison.

  Lopez’s suspicion changed everything. That bitch of a flight attendant. He stood on the path to the bungalow and stared at the windows. The shades were all drawn. He imagined her standing inside the door, nude, with a cold Brahma in her hand, or lying back on the couch with her legs spread, a soft light coming from the bathroom. He wanted to kill her for her treachery but knew that if he did, Lopez would suspect something for sure. He decided he could wait, and in the meantime, he would use her as she had used him.

  Blake stood in front of the engine room console with Frank Kozlewski, going over the cold-start checklist. Looking up, he saw Maria come flying down the ladder, wild-eyed, sobbing, awkwardly clutching the stainless-steel revolver he’d given Kelly. A wave of fear passed through him. He passed the clipboard off to the chief and ran to meet her.

  “Where’s Kelly?”

  “El Callado,” Maria said, choking back sobs, gasping. “The señorita, she went after him. She fell down the ladder and hit her head. I think she is dead. I could not wake her. I picked up the pistola, and pointed into the darkness, and screamed at him to stay away. Then I ran, ran for my life.”

  “Give me that.” Blake grabbed the revolver away from Maria and cursed himself for leaving them to come down alone. He thought El Callado had gotten the message, would leave them alone while they got under way. He hadn’t bothered Kozlewski or Robertson while they were standing watch over the generator. Why would he attack Kelly? It didn’t make sense.

  “I am so ashamed,” Maria sobbed. “I should not have run, I should have stayed.”

  “No, you did the right thing,” Blake said. “Show me where you left her.”

  “On the main deck, just inside the superstructure.”

  “Chief, let’s go!” Blake shouted over his shoulder and ran for the ladder. He clambered up to the next level, emerged onto the deck and started for the ladder that would take him up to the main deck. A few steps from the engine room shaft he tripped over a fleshy pile of something soft lying in the dark and knew instantly what it was. He flashed his light on the dark form as Chief Kozlewski came puffing up the ladder behind him. Maria shrieked at the sight of Dana Kelly bathed in the white glare of the flashlight, her face covered with streaks of blood, her hair matted to a glistening wound on her forehead.

  Blake let out a gasp and felt a sharp pain in his middle, a body blow as brutal as if he’d been struck in the stomach with a sledgehammer. The massive amounts of blood streaming down Kelly’s face told him she couldn’t possibly be alive. He slumped down beside her and felt something die inside him. He picked her up and cradled her in his arms. Her head lolled to the side. Frank Kozlewski stood over them with a light, shaking his head. Blake softly brushed the matted hair out of her wound and rocked her gently, knowing it was the end of the line. To hell with the damned ship. Let it go down, let that stupid animal go down with it. They would all go down together. His backup plan required seven pairs of hands to get under way. With five men and a child left, there was no way out of here. And somehow with Kelly gone, he no longer cared.

  An almost inaudible moan came out of Kelly’s parted lips.

  A surge of energy shot through him. “She’s alive. Get Doc!”

  “Back in a flash.” Frank Kozlewski went stumbling back down the ladder.

  Blake cradled Kelly’s head in his arms and gently felt for the extent of the wound. He looked at Maria. “I thought you said she was on the main deck.”

  Maria stared back, eyes wide. “She was, that’s where I left her.”

  “How did she get here?” Blake said, knowing the answer before he finished the question. He glanced around in the darkness, knowing El Callado was there, grateful that he had spared Kelly and Maria. The good news was that he knows now that he needs all of them, even the girl, to keep this nightmare afloat. The bad news was that there was no telling what form his pent-up thirst for blood might take after they got through the storm, if they got through, but he’d deal with that when it came.

  Doc Jones came scrambling out of the engine-room shaft, with Chief Kozlewski panting behind him. He knelt beside Kelly and shined the chief’s flashlight on her forehead.

  “Head wounds bleed a lot.” Doc wiped the blood away from the wound. “They usually look a lot worse than they are.”

  Kelly eased open her eyes and jumped, startled
at the scene crowding around her.

  Blake held her tightly. “It’s okay, it’s just us. Relax. Doc will have you fixed up in no time.”

  “How did I get here?” Kelly asked, bewildered. “The last thing I remember was . . .”

  “Don’t think about it,” Blake said. “It’s okay now.”

  “Wait, I remember now. The bastard tripped me. I fell. Then I dreamed you were carrying me.” She smiled at Blake. “I guess it wasn’t a dream after all.”

  Maria started to say something, and Blake stifled her with a look. “Never mind that. Let’s get you back to a stateroom where Doc can get a better look at you.”

  “No, no. I’m okay,” Kelly said. The ship pitched up and sent them sliding across the deck. “We’ve got to get under way.”

  “There’s no way you can handle that,” Blake said.

  “Sure I can,” Kelly said.

  “What do you think, Doc?” Blake asked.

  The corpsman shrugged. “She knows how she feels better than we do.”

  “No problema.” Kelly touched the wound on her forehead and grimaced. She looked out into the dark. “But first I want my gun back. That bastard’s still out there.”

  “No chance,” Blake said.

  “Bullshit. It wasn’t a fair fight. The bastard tripped me.”

  “He tripped you so he wouldn’t have to kill you,” Blake said.

  Kelly looked at him blankly.

  “You didn’t leave him much choice, going after him with a gun.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “He’s finally figured out that we’re his only hope of keeping this bucket afloat.”

  “And that’s why he didn’t kill me or Maria?”

  “That’s right.”

  Kelly screwed her face up. “Are you saying he carried me here?”

  Blake nodded.

  Kelly shuddered. “I don’t care. If he’s still out there, I want my gun back.”

  Blake looked at her and grinned. “All right, hardhead, but no more chasing this guy.” He handed the revolver back to Kelly, butt first. “The next time you might not be so lucky.”

  Blake raised his arm and motioned for everyone to gather around the engine-room console. The sailors glanced nervously around the machinery space, struggling to maintain their balance against the violent rolling of the ship, their usual banter noticeably absent. Maria looked at all the faces, then at Kelly. “Where are the Sargento and Señor Alvarez?” she whispered.

  Kelly shushed her and put her arm around her. Maria moved in closer, her face grim.

  “All right, listen up,” Blake said, rocking on the balls of his feet. The ship took a steep roll to port and slowly righted itself, groaning. “I don’t have to tell you what the weather’s like. We’ve got to get under way as soon as possible.”

  “How bad’s it going to get, Lieutenant?” Tobin asked.

  “I don’t know anyone who’s ever been through one,” Blake said, “but a Pacific cyclone’s the worst.”

  “I knew this old boy that was in a typhoon once,” Robertson said. “On a tin can. He said you don’t want no part of that.”

  “Your friend was right,” Blake said. “We’re pretty far east of where they normally occur according to the book, but I guess this one didn’t read the book.” He grinned back at the few weak smiles, wanting to prepare them without scaring them to death. He couldn’t erase from his mind the clinical words he’d read in the copy of the American Practical Navigator he’d found on the bridge. The words had chilled him: The rapidity with which the weather can deteriorate with approach of the storm, and the violence of a fully developed tropical cyclone, are difficult to visualize if they have not been experienced.

  “So what are we going to do?” Robertson asked.

  “The chief and I have worked up an engine-starting procedure,” Blake said. “It’s important to listen carefully and follow the instructions we’ll give you. There’s no margin for error here. If we don’t get under way quickly, we’re in serious trouble. We may not get a second chance. Any questions before we start?” His eyes went from person to person. Kozlewski, Robertson, Tobin, Doc, Kelly, Maria. He could see what they were thinking, even little Maria. Could this sleepy-looking bunch really get this enormous ship under way and more importantly, could Blake maneuver it through a storm, the likes of which they could only imagine?

  “I’m game to give it a try,” Doc Jones said, “but with Sparks, and Alvarez, and Sergeant Rivero . . .” He glanced at Maria staring intently at him. “Well, you know, do we really have enough people to do it, sir? I don’t know about Kelly, but I feel kind of worthless. It’s the first time I’ve ever been in an engine room in my life.”

  “We’ll team you up with experienced people,” Blake said. “Tobin and Robertson are old hands. Don’t worry. If everyone does their job, we’ll have enough people.”

  “What happened to your arm, sir?” Robertson said.

  Blake glanced at his shoulder, and the dull pain surged back. He had forgotten about it in the excitement. “An accident. It’s fine now.”

  Another steep roll pushed them back like a wave, then pulled them in again.

  “How about Kelly? What happened to her?” Tobin said, staring at the white bandage around her head.

  “I got my feet tangled up coming down a ladder,” Kelly said. “No big.”

  Blake smiled to himself, proud of her gutsiness. “Some of the preliminary stuff has already been done,” he said, “but let’s run through the checklist to see if we’ve missed anything.” He nodded to Frank Kozlewski.

  The chief retrieved a pencil stub from his shirt pocket. He held up a grease-stained clipboard and ran his eye down the yellow tablet paper scribbled in Blake’s hand. The list spilled over onto several pages. “Okay. We’ve already checked the main boilers, and they were laid up wet. The DC heater is full of water, and the distilled-water tank is full and ready to go. The emergency diesel fuel tank is full enough to get us going. And we’ve checked the stern tube oil-sealing system, which appears to be tight and properly filled.” He ticked each item off the list. “The emergency diesel’s running, and the emergency electrical bus has been energized.” He checked off those items. That brings us up current, Lieutenant.”

  “Okay,” Blake said. He nodded to Tobin. “The next step is to sound the fuel-oil tanks and the water tanks.”

  “I know how to do that,” Maria spoke up, rubbing her eyes. “The chief engineer showed me.”

  “Good,” Blake said. “You can help Tobin.” Tobin walked off and motioned with his head for Maria to follow him.

  “Robertson, prepare to light off the starboard boiler,” Blake said. “Take Doc and show him how to open the steam-drum vent and superheater vent and drain. Kelly can handle the main and desuperheated steam stops at the boiler. Make sure they’re all open.”

  “And make damn sure their drains are open,” the chief said.

  As Blake called out orders and the sailors scrambled to complete each procedure, he could see a sense of excitement begin to build over bringing the dead ship back to life. He could also see fear and uncertainty gradually replaced with a feeling of comfort in the frenzied activity, a sense of doing something, of taking their fate into their own hands. He expected that. What he hadn’t expected was the feeling of ownership in the beat-up old ship he could see developing. He welcomed the transition, knowing that the feeling of ownership would be invaluable when it came time to defend themselves.

  In spite of the gathering storm, Blake began to ease up a little for the first time since they’d been aboard, feeling comfortable in the setting of the engine room, fussing with the aging machinery. He glanced around, certain that El Callado was watching them, and smiled at the raucous howl coming from behind the starboard boiler. Robertson was bellowing something that resembled a country song as Blake came up behind him. Doc Jones was staring at him with an incredulous look.

  “Man, you better stick to tending boilers,” he heard
Doc say. “Hank Williams be turning over in his grave.”

  Robertson narrowed his eyes and looked at Doc. “How you know about Hank Williams?”

  “Black people have radios too, you know.”

  “Yeah, but y’all don’t listen to good music,” Robertson said, turning back to the boiler. “Worked for this cook down in a little place in Mobile. All day long he’d be playing Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf, Screamin’ Jay Hawkins. Great God Almighty. Never heard such noise in all my life.”

  “Modern jazz is more my style,” Doc said.

  “You like that stuff?” Robertson said. “Never know where those guys are going to end up, once they start, wandering all over the place like that. Me, I like music with a tune to it.” He squinted to check the water level in the steam drum. “Starboard boiler ready to light off, sir.”

  “Very well,” Blake said. He nodded to the chief. “Let’s get to it.”

  “Robertson,” the chief said. “Let some diesel fuel out of that gravity tank into the booster pump. Tobin, show Kelly how to turn that forced draft fan. Keep it dampered nice and slow.” Kozlewski wrapped a rag soaked in diesel fuel around the end of a four-foot-long metal pole.

  “Make sure you’ve had the fan on long enough for the furnace to purge itself,” Blake said.

  After a while, Kozlewski sniffed the air. “I think she’s ready, sir,” he said.

  “Very well, Chief. Light her off.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” The chief touched the oblong blue-and-yellow flame from his pipe lighter to the end of the oil-soaked rag. He studied the flaming rag with a practiced eye before injecting it into the depths of the oil-burner assembly. The burner tip ignited with an orange flame.

  “When the steam pressure reaches fifty psi, make sure you close the steam-drum vent,” Blake said. “But leave the superheater vent open.”

  They stood around the boiler, making small talk, struggling to keep their footing, waiting for the pressure to build.

  “Robertson, what’s your line pressure?” Blake said.

  “Coming up on 400 psi, sir.”