Blake struggled to get to his feet, pulling the girl up with him. She seemed conscious but in a daze. Doc and Kelly managed to pull themselves up before the ship plummeted down again, engulfed in water. Within seconds, the pilothouse was submerged.
Blake held Maria tightly to him, instinctively trying to protect her, as they were tossed violently around in the roaring, churning foam. He became completely disoriented. Then a great darkness grew over him, followed by a feeling of peace that was unlike any sensation he had ever known. His arms loosened their grasp on Maria, and she began to slip away, floating to the top of the pilothouse in his life jacket. He faded from consciousness as the ship pitched sharply up, creating another suction of water from the pilothouse. Water sluiced out with the same intensity it had poured in, pulling them along. His slide toward the open door was blocked by the binnacle. Maria’s body slammed up against his. He gasped for air, coughing up warm salt water as the water receded. He blinked the water out of his eyes and saw Kelly out cold, crumpled in a corner. Another gigantic wave struck the pilothouse, flooding it through the open door. He felt the pull of the water as the ship pitched to starboard. He blinked his eyes open and saw an unconscious Doc Jones sliding toward the open door of the pilothouse.
“No!”
He lunged forward, his strength gone. Maria was like a bag of sand against him. Gathering all his strength, he shoved her away and scrambled across the deck. He grabbed for Doc’s ankle and missed it by an inch. He stared in horror as Doc Jones disappeared through the door, out into the mountainous seas.
The ship pitched to port again, sending him flying against the opposite bulkhead. Blake instinctively raised his arms, tried to break the impact, but felt his head slam against a watertight cabinet. A hazy darkness fell over him. The last sensation he had was of the ship pitching violently upward. In the shadows of his mind, he felt himself slipping, sliding, tumbling toward the open door, a free fall into oblivion. In his dreamlike state, he felt a huge pair of hands under his arms, gripping him, pulling him back with superhuman strength. He felt himself being dragged across the deck, his back being slammed against something hard and cold, a stiff rope being wound around and around, jerking him violently, cutting into his arms, his chest, his neck. His last thought before losing consciousness was the vague realization that El Callado was going to kill him now. Too tired to care, he faded into darkness.
A blast of cold air screamed through the pilothouse, jerking him awake. Blake shook his head and blinked his eyes. The interior of the pilothouse and the surrounding sea blurred into one. Gray water raged around him, stinging his eyes, penetrating his nose and mouth. There was no way to tell how long he’d been out. It seemed like an instant, but the weather pattern was different now. The ship pitched up, down, whirled around in a nightmare of motion and water, but compared with the initial surge of the cyclone, it was an improvement. He looked down at the hemp rope that bound him to the binnacle and flinched. It wasn’t a dream; El Callado had pulled him back from the brink. He could still feel the grip of those steellike hands under his arms. He shuddered at the thought that the silent one had been here, had had him in his grip, had tied him up, could have killed him easily. His gratitude gave way to a feeling of resentment at being used, being kept alive a few hours longer until the storm was past.
He glanced frantically around for Kelly and saw her crumpled body in a corner of the pilothouse. The ship was pitching crazily now, but the water wasn’t reaching the bridge. He worked his way loose from the wet ropes and slogged over to her in the ankle-deep foam and held her head out of the water. He propped her up in a corner, pulled Maria’s body over and leaned them together. Kelly gave out a queer, gagging sound and Blake knew she was alive. He lifted Maria’s head up. It sagged against her chest so limply Blake couldn’t tell if she was dead or alive. He placed her on the deck, cleared her mouth and began to give her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. He heard Kelly say something incoherent. Blake checked Maria’s carotid artery and found a pulse, then opened her life jacket and started pressing rhythmically against her chest. Dribble ran from the child’s mouth, then a geyser of water from her lungs. She hacked and coughed, and then opened her eyes.
They were through the leading edge, but the storm was in control now. It was impossible to tell what direction they were headed. He’d heard some old sailors say that when a storm situation was hopelessly out of control, and the ship became completely unmanageable, it was sometimes best to stop the engines and give the ship her head, let the ship ride along with the storm rather than fight against it. His instincts told him it was the only chance they had.
He scrambled over to the engine-order telegraph, shoved the handle up to “All Stop” and reached for the sound-powered telephone. Before he could pick it up, the horn blared. He grabbed the handset and slumped against the bulkhead, wedging his feet against a cable strap to hold himself in place. “Yes, Chief.”
“What’s going on?” Chief Kozlewski’s worried voice came rasping through the telephone. “Why are we going to ‘All Stop’?”
“We’ve lost it, Chief. We can’t control it. Best to cut the engines and give the ship her head, let her ride it out the best she can.”
“Just as well,” the chief said. “We’re losing the load. Number one boiler’s out and the water’s lapping at the number two.”
“How bad’s the flooding?”
“Worse than before. We’re trying to get some shoring in place. The pumps are staying up with it, but if we lose the load completely, we’ve got a problem.”
“How about the emergency diesel?”
“Underwater.”
“Do you want me to come down?”
“No, sir, we can manage. It would only scare these guys all the worse if they see you’re not on the bridge. You’d never make it anyway, the way this ship is riding.”
“How’s the crew holding up?”
“Knocked around pretty bad. Tobin’s howling about his leg again. Maybe Doc can look at it.”
Blake felt an anguished pain swell up in him. “Chief?”
“Yes, sir?”
His throat tightened. “We lost Doc.”
“Lost Doc? How? Where?”
“Over the side.”
“But how could he-”
“It was like nothing you’ve ever seen,” Blake said. “The entire ship was submerged. He was sucked out the door of the pilothouse.” He choked back a sob, barely able to speak. The lump in his throat felt as big as a baseball. He felt responsible. If only he’d moved a little faster. If only . . .
“Mother of God,” the chief said. After a pause, he said, “Was he wearing a life jacket?”
“Yes. But he was unconscious.” Thank God for that. Blake was glad that Doc had been spared the terror of seeing his own death. He was also glad that he would not know how badly Blake had failed him.
“Well, if he had his life jacket on maybe we can look for him after the storm passes.”
“Sure,” Blake said. But he knew in his heart that Doc was dead. The chief hadn’t seen what he’d seen. No one could survive being buried alive in a tomb of solid water. Even if he’d been able to breathe, he would have been crushed from the concentrated force of that many tons of ocean.
The ship pitched up and spun violently around, trying to find its head. Blake heard the dull thud of flesh and bone against steel, Kelly’s unconscious body slamming against the bulkhead in the opposite corner of the room. Maria was struggling with her, trying to hold her steady, tears running down her cheeks.
“I’ve got to go, Chief. All we can do at this point is shore up the hull, hang on, and ride it out. It’s out of our hands now.” He slammed the phone in its bracket and crawled across the deck to where Kelly and Maria were huddled together. He had to find a way to stabilize them to keep them from flying around the deck. The rope El Callado had used to tie him down with was slithering around the pilothouse like a dying snake. He slid in between them, gathered them up in his arms and tied
them together, then wedged himself between the bulkhead and a row of steel cabinets along the port side of the pilothouse. He pulled them to him and locked his legs into position. Maria buried her face in his chest and sobbed, saying something he couldn’t understand.
“Don’t cry, little one. It’ll be all right.”
He looked at Kelly. Her head rolled back and sagged limply against his shoulder. There was a dark bruise down the left side of her face. On the back of her head, he could see a circle of blood the size of an egg seeping through her matted hair. His mind flashed on Doc; Doc could fix it . . . A wave of anguish tore at him. Doc was gone. He looked at the wound again. The stain was spreading. He choked back a sob, his grief for Doc overshadowed by his fear for Kelly. Head wounds could be fatal, but for now, there was nothing he could do but hang on and protect them the best he could from any further injuries.
In his years at sea, he had never seen anything like this storm. Riding free on the open sea now, the ship roared up, crashed down, spun around crazily, seeking its own position relative to the storm. He struggled to hold on. The missing door to the pilothouse was a constant menace. Even with the rope binding them, Blake used every ounce of strength he had to keep them together while the storm tossed the ship in every direction. He held Maria so tightly she began to whimper.
He heard a sudden wrenching sound, a combination of wind and wave that sent the ship into a steep roll to starboard. It rolled nearly horizontal to the sea and stayed there. Blake looked down through the pilothouse door into the sea and knew it was the end. No cargo ship could roll that far over and recover. He hung there, heart pounding, gradually losing his grip on Kelly and Maria. The rope had worked itself loose. There was no point in hanging on, they were all going to die, but he couldn’t let go, couldn’t watch them plummet to their deaths, was determined they would all go together. He took a last look at Kelly, feeling responsible for all their deaths. Maria looked up at him with wide, questioning eyes, and he felt the pain of tears welling up.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Suddenly the ship lurched up and began to right itself. The power of the storm was working for them now. The venerable Latin Star slowly came upright with an agonized groan. A rush of euphoria swept over him. In that instant, he knew what it was like to be born again.
He felt his hopes begin to rise. After all they’d been through, they were still afloat. And if the stout old ship could recover from a roll like that one, she just might make it.
The last remnants of daylight faded to black. Realizing he’d lost all track of time, he glanced at his watch. Unbelievably, more than four hours had passed since they’d entered the dangerous semicircle of the cyclone.
He wanted to get to the telephone and see how the others were doing in the engine room. He wondered if the shoring was holding, if the boilers were out, if the flooding was worse, but the pitching was too violent to leave Kelly and Maria alone. He imagined that Frank Kozlewski and the others were doing exactly what he was doing. Holding on to whatever they could find and praying like they’d never prayed before.
Clinging to Kelly and Maria, trying desperately to stay awake, he drifted off into a tenuous sleep. He felt the ropes cut into his chest, jerking him awake. It was pitch-black outside. He guessed it was well after midnight. He could feel Kelly and Maria slumped against him, but couldn’t tell if they were asleep or unconscious. He noticed a slight change in the wind. The pitch was lower now, softer. The ship seemed to be riding better. She’d found her head, was being blown along with the storm. He cinched the ropes tighter, then faded into darkness.
Drifting in and out of sleep, Blake felt the night pass in a confused jumble of motion and sound. After what seemed like hours, he felt the sensation of light behind his eyelids. He opened his eyes and squinted into the weak light of daybreak. Through the open door of the pilothouse, he could see the dark wave formations. The mountainous seas had receded. He lay back against the bulkhead and watched the dawn break over a cloudless sky.
Numbed and exhausted, Blake relaxed his grip and shook Kelly by the shoulder.
Kelly moaned and opened her eyes. “When will it hit?”
Blake tried to laugh, but nothing came out. “It’s over. We’re through it. How do you feel?”
“Like I was hit by a truck,” Kelly said, feeling her head, wincing. She looked around the shambles that was the pilothouse. “Where’s Doc?”
Blake didn’t answer, suddenly sobered.
Kelly sat up, holding her head. “Where is he?”
“We lost him.”
“What do you mean, ‘lost him’? What are you talking about?”
“Over the side. In the storm.”
“God, no,” Kelly said and slumped back against the bulkhead. Her eyes filled with tears.
“We’ll try to find him,” Blake said.
Blinking back tears, Kelly pulled the rope over her head and looked at it. “Where did this thing come from?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Blake said.
Kelly stared at him with an incredulous look. “He tied us up?”
“Sort of,” Blake said.
“Hey, I’m beginning to like this guy.”
“I wouldn’t get too attached. Now that the storm is over he’ll be back, maybe any minute now.” Blake glanced over his shoulder.
“God, is it really over?” Kelly said.
Blake nodded. “I think we’re through it.”
Maria jumped from Blake’s side, shouting something in Spanish, dancing around the deck. Turning, she leaped into his lap and threw her arms around him, chattering something Blake couldn’t understand.
“What’s with the kid?” Blake asked, astonished.
“She said she belongs to you now. Her father is dead, and you saved her life. She’s chosen you to be her father.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Not to her, it isn’t. She says she will never leave you.” Kelly was smiling at him. “Congratulations, Dad.”
Blake got to his feet and helped Kelly up. The ship was pitching gently in the relatively calm waters. He cleared his way over to the sound-powered phone. Maria followed him like a shadow.
The horn on the phone blared before he could pick it up.
“Yes, Chief?”
“You’d better get down here, Lieutenant,” Chief Kozlewski said. “We’ve got some serious flooding going on.”
Blake felt his heart start pounding in his chest. “How serious?”
“The pumps can’t keep up with it,” Chief Kozlewski said. “She’s sinking. It’s just a matter of time.”
Jorge Cordoba lay awake with his hands behind his head, staring up at the shadowy ceiling of the bungalow. He counted the dozen beams in the overhead for the hundredth time and glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Ten minutes until 4:00 a.m. Colonel Suarez had said the raid would come just after dawn. It would take at least an hour to get the helicopters launched. He took a deep breath and tried not to think about what would happen if the ship wasn’t found soon.
Throughout the night, he’d called the Command Center every hour, then every half hour to check on the progress of Tropical Cyclone Bruce. He resolved to call again at four. He glanced sideways at the sleeping flight attendant whose leg was draped across him and felt the grittiness and dull ache in his eyes. He closed them, just to rest them for a minute, and drifted off into a thin sleep.
The jarring sound of the telephone brought him upright in bed. He pushed the brunette away and staggered across the room. The window air conditioner cycled, casting an icy breeze across his face and chest, clearing his head. He picked up the phone and blinked into the predawn light creeping in through the window. “Yes?”
“Señor Cordoba? Enrique Lopez here,” the acting director of security said. “You’d better get up here. We’ve found the ship.”
Jorge’s stomach rolled with a wave of excitement and apprehension. He glanced at his watch. A few minutes before 4:00. Sunrise was
at least an hour away. The timing would be tight, but they could make it.
“The storm?”
“Finally dissipated. Headed northeast and blew itself out before it hit the coast.”
“And the ship survived,” Jorge said, releasing a breath. It was more a statement than a question.
“It was still a little dark, but the pilot buzzed the ship. Superficial damage, according to him. It looks like it’s been through a cyclone, but it’s still afloat.”
“Is it under way?”
“Apparently it’s just drifting with the current.”
“Where did you find it?”
“Roughly 250 miles off the coast. One of our jets spotted it when the clouds lifted.”
“What about the range of the helicopters? Can we make it from here?”
“With the auxiliary fuel tanks, we’ve got enough for a one-way trip. We can make it out, but there won’t be much fuel to spare.”
“As long as the ship’s there for us to land on, it won’t matter,” Jorge said. “Any other ships around? Any sign of a Colombian Navy frigate or an American destroyer?”
“Nothing reported.”
“Get the crews assembled and the helicopters warmed up.”
“I’ve already done that.”
“I’ll be right there.” Jorge pulled on his shirt and stepped into his shoes. He shouldered into his coat and reached for the doorknob.
“What’s going on? Where are you going, lover?”
The whine in the flight attendant’s voice stopped Jorge at the door. He glanced over his shoulder. The brunette was sitting up in bed, looking at him. Even in the dark, her silhouette stirred something in him. As if you didn’t know, you treacherous bitch. He’d learned last night her name was Nita. A dark curtain of brown hair shielded her face from the light drifting in through the window, but he could almost see her pouting in the dark. Perhaps she’d been promised a bonus for keeping him occupied until the raid came.
Point of Honor Page 29
