The Edge of Honor

by P. T. Deutermann

  As Rocky started up the ladder, the chief sat back on his haunches behind the hatch and reached around to release the holdback latch. When Rocky’s hands came off the ladder and rested for a fraction of a second on the lip of the hatch, Martinez slammed the hatch down with all his strength, the knife edge of the round scuttle nearly amputating all of Rocky’s fingers. Even with the noise of the spraying water below, Martinez heard a very satisfactory scream. He popped the hatch back up and saw Rocky drop all the way to the steel deck plates below, his precious bag tumbling open, spilling money all over the pump room, Rocky landing with a crash on the deck plates. With a growl that would have done a grizzly bear proud, Martinez stood up and dropped straight down through the hatch, crashing onto the deck plates with enough force to catapult Rocky over into the bilges below, where he landed on his back with another shout of pain. As he tried to sit up, Martinez was already there, casually stomping him in the face. When Rocky flopped back into the bilgewater, Martinez stepped down and stood with one foot on Rocky’s chest, the other in the calf-deep bilgewater.

  “Yo, kingpin, how they hangin’?” Martinez asked as he saw the shock spreading across Rocky’s face. “What, you havin’ a bad dream, Rocky?

  Things going’ wrong all of a sudden?”

  He pushed hard with his foot and Rocky’s chest and head were forced underwater, where Martinez held him for many seconds before relaxing some of the pressure.

  Rocky’s face burst out of the water, his mouth open, his chest heaving, and his eyes blinking rapidly from the oil in the bilge. He tried to raise his mangled hands to wipe his eyes but screamed again with the pain.

  “What’d you do to the Sheriff here, huh? You hurt my buddy Jackson, did you, you fuck?” He pushed Rocky underwater again, holding him longer this time. When he eased off, Rocky spluttered to the surface, trying to draw breath and talk at the same time, his bloody hands staying underwater this time. It sounded to Martinez as if he was saying the word deal.

  “Deal? You wanna make a deal with me, scumbag?

  Not in your lifetime, Mr. Dealer.”

  “Don’t kill me! Please. I’ll testify,” shouted Rocky, his eyes wild. “I can give you Bullet. You can have the money—I even got more!”

  “Oh yeah? You already gave us Bullet, remember?

  And I don’t give a shit about your money, or Bullet’s money, or Garlic’s fuckin’ money. Garlic’s fuckin’ dead, see? And I ain’t sorry he is. And you’re next.”

  “No, please, no! I can’t breathe … your leg … this oil … Jesus Christ, my fucking hands! Please. There’s thousands here. You can have it all. You can keep it, you want to. I won’t tell. I’ll do anything you want, man. I’ll testify—I can give you the whole thing. But please, please don’t kill me, man!”

  The chief stared down at him as Rocky’s lungs spasmed and he had a choking fit from inhaling oil. When he got his voice back, he said, “Please, man. I don’t wanna die. I can tell you about Garlic, too, but you gotta let me outta here. I don’t want to drown. Oh, God, my hands.

  I’ll take the fall, I don’t care. I’ll testify, say anything you want, just don’t let me drown in this shit—”

  The chief loomed over Rockheart like a gathering storm. “What else you gonna tell me, we don’t already know? Bullet? We got the goods on fucking Bullet, got his ass in the box. We don’t need your ugly ass.”

  “But you think you killed Garlic, don’t you? You beat him up and then he croaked. They’ll find out, they do an autopsy at Da Nang. They’ll find out he got the shit kicked out of him before his so-called heart attack.

  But I can get you off. You didn’t kill him, man—I did.”

  “You?”

  “Yeah. I found him, beat to shit, probably bleeding internally. He could finger me; he was the other guy could finger me, besides Bullet. I … I pressed his carotid artery until he shut down. He was probably finished anyways, okay? So I just did it. You didn’t kill him. I did.”

  Martinez stood up. “Well shit, I don’t think I wanted to hear that. I thought I had killed the slimy fuck, and now you’re telling me you did it? After I counted coup and everything? Son of a bitch!” Martinez took his foot off Rocky’s chest. As Rocky sat up, he kicked him hard in the face, bouncing his head off the fire pump’s foundations and knocking him cold. Rocky’s upper body settled down into the bilgewater. Martinez reached down into the water and pulled him up the sloping deck to the base of the fire pump, propping Rocky’s head up out of the water. He lifted one of Rocky’s eyelids and, satisfied that Rocky was truly out, left him, fighting hard the urge to choke the life out of him.

  He climbed over the bilge strakes to the pocket of water where Jackson lay. He saw the 440 cable sticking down into the pocket of bilgewater and wondered.

  Breaker should have popped, but … Being careful not to touch the water, he checked for signs of life. Jackson was breathing, but he didn’t look right, and he was also out cold. Martinez unholstered his knife and went over to the fire-hose rack next to the eductor pump, looking to make sure Rockheart was still out.

  He sawed through the canvas and rubber-lined fire hose and cut out a ten-foot length. He slipped this around Jackson’s chest and dragged him upright to the base of the ladder. Then, holding the ends of the hose in one hand, he climbed the ladder one step at a time, lifting Jackson by his improvised sling up through the two hatches to the alcove above, where he placed him on his side. Coltrane stared at them from across the passageway, his eyes streaming from the smoke. Jackson groaned but did not come around.

  Martinez checked to make sure the alcove was still relatively free of smoke and that Jackson was still breathing.

  He climbed back down into the vestibule above the pump room. He looked through the hatch. Rocky lay where he had coldcocked him, sitting slumped, with his lower body in the bilges and his chest and head resting against the fire pump. The pump room was wrecked, the fire pump useless, and the bilges were awash with oily water—and greenbacks.

  Dirty water, dirty money, dirty guy. Needs a good bath. He had an urge to go over to the eductor suction pump in the corner and shut the isolation valves, let the fucker just drown. Martinez thought about it for a moment, shook his head, slammed down the hatch, and climbed back up to get his OBA so he could take care of Jackson and Coltrane. He also had to tell Repair Five that they had flooding in the shaft alley.

  Ten minutes later, Rocky started to come around. He tried to move his head, but the resulting pain brought stars to his eyes and he groaned out loud. His body felt pummeled, as if he had been tenderized, and his hands felt as if they were wearing puffy, stinging gloves. He couldn’t quite get his breath as he tried to remember where he was. Then he became aware that someone was with him, someone moving around. He cracked open his eyes but couldn’t move his head for the pain. A dark figure in an OBA mask was standing a few feet away, looking down at him.

  He thought he recognized the guy, but his mind was fuzzed up. I know that guy. He tried to speak but could only croak. God! His head and his hands hurt so bad. Where the fuck am I? What’s that guy doing?

  The helmeted figure had gone over to the pipe racks and had begun to pull down lengths of pipe and sections of steel angle iron. What’s he doing? Hey, man, his mind shouted, but his voice wouldn’t work. He tried to move, tried to lift himself using his hands, but the pain lunged back at him, turning his vision red, and his question became another groan.

  When his eyes cleared again, he saw that the masked figure was pulling sections of angle iron and pipe over to where he lay, dragging them across the room so that they landed on top of Rocky, slowly burying him in a mound of loose steel. What the fuck’s he doing—hey! He tried to move again, but now there was all this metal shit on top of him. When the figure had piled on all the metal he could find, he stepped to the edge of the pile and just stood there, staring down at Rocky. Rocky tried to move, but the pain slammed him back to the edge of consciousness. Rocky tried to protest, to say something
, anything, but his voice still couldn’t form any words. Wherever he was, the ambient light seemed to brighten and dim in time with the waves of pain in his head. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry.

  Who is this guy? Why is he piling metal on me? He tried to move again, but suddenly he realized that he wasn’t going anywhere. He watched as the figure stood up and looked around. Black guy. He’s a black guy.

  Three chevrons on his shirtsleeve, right beneath the OBA straps. Repair Five stenciled on the OBA bag. First class.

  He’s an investigator from Repair Five. He’s a first class, just like me.

  His fractured mind reached for the name.

  Know him, know him sure as shit. It’s … it’s—He closed his eyes for a few seconds, and when he opened them, the guy had the money bag in his hands and was dumping money into the bilges. Then he sloshed over to the corner, where the eductor pump suction inlet was, and stuffed the plastic bag into the suction line. Rocky heard the sucking sounds of the eductor pump choke off.

  He closed his eyes again, trying to think. Have to do something. This guy, this isn’t right. Guy’s dumped my money, all that money, and fucked up the eductor. Rocky tried to concentrate on what that might mean. He knew the eductor was important.

  He was distracted by a sound, glass breaking, and he opened his eyes again. The guy was deliberately smashing in the glass faces of the three battle lanterns with a dogging wrench, plunging the compartment into darkness.

  The only light now was the shaft of yellow-white light streaming down through the hatch. The guy was looking at him again.

  “Adios, motherfucker,” he said, his voice distorted by the OBA mask. He tossed the wrench into the bilge with a splash. Then he was climbing up the ladder, a long, thin figure, struggling through the hatch with the OBA. A moment later, the hatch slammed down, plunging the compartment into total darkness. Rocky focused on the voice. Know that guy, he thought before drifting off again.

  He came to in the humid darkness a few minutes later.

  His ears were ringing and there was the sound of water spraying nearby.

  He could smell the iodine stink of seawater and he could feel and taste a warm, salty mist in the-air around his face, but he could see nothing.

  Gathering his wits, he realized that he was on his back, his head jammed up against a heavy metal object—the fire pump. He remembered now: The fire pump had been knocked off its foundations, its fire-main couplings leaking. It felt as if the lower half of his body was partially submerged. The side of his face hurt like hell. He tried to heave himself upright, but there was a heavy weight of metal pinning him against the fire pump. His left arm was stuck under what felt like a pipe, but his right arm was free. He felt around in the dark, but his hands were numb and clumsy. Pipes. Pipes and angle iron, that’s what this is. Shipfitter gear. That guy.

  He tried to roll over, to get off his back, pushing hard with his right arm, but he could not move. Slowly, he became aware of the ship’s motion, a deep, slow roll, as if she was wallowing in the trough of the sea. It sounded like there was a lot of water sloshing around in the compartment. It was not deep, but he could feel it, swirling around his legs, washing up in small waves on his stomach. He could hear the steel plates of the hull creaking around him in the darkness.

  As the ship took a longer roll, the weight of metal piled up on his chest shifted. He could distinguish between the individual edges of angle iron and the smoother skin of pipe. He shook his head and immediately winced; his whole face hurt. His mind went fuzzy with the pain, and then, in a sudden wave of clarity, he realized where he was, that he was pinned to the deck in the pump room. I can’t fucking move, man. He felt a surge of panic and gave a mighty heave, putting his whole body into it, trying to pull himself out from under the tangle of steel.

  He felt the pile move slightly, but then the ship rolled back the other way. There was a clatter as the pile shifted back, this time pinning both of his shoulders down against the wet foundations of the fire pump, pressing his cheek right up against an oily hose coupling. Another small wave of seawater sloshed up his body, reaching his chest this time. He began to feel real panic.

  He was faintly aware of noises in the compartments above the pump room, or maybe it was in the fire room next door. Somewhere close. It sounded like men up there, shouting in the distance, pulling fire hoses. Right, yeah, that’s what it is: fire hoses. A damage-control team. There should be an investigator coming. Guy the team sent out in advance to see where the damage was.

  They could get him put. Like that guy? Oh God. That guy had done this, piled this shit on him, left him here.

  Have to get all this shit off my chest, get up that ladder.

  Damn pump room was taking on water. He could hear the spray more distinctly now; it sounded as if it was no longer hitting metal, but water instead. The water slopping around his hips and legs sounded heavier, deeper.

  Where the fuck is the eductor pump?

  He gave another great heave, pushing up with all his might. I’m a big guy, goddamn it, ought to be able to move this shit just a little, just enough, get my arm out, get two hands free. But then his heels slipped and the pile sagged back onto his chest. The stink of fuel oil became more pronounced, as if he had stirred something up. Face it, man, shit’s got you pinned down.

  “#E7!” he yelled. “Hey, get me outta here. Hey, man, need a hand down here! HEY!” He was shouting as loudly as he could, the noise breaking his head.

  Goddamn, it hurt. But a part of his mind knew that the spray was masking his shouts for help. Nobody came.

  There was no blaze of light through the hatch in the overhead, no hatch opening up, no guy sticking his head in. Nothing. Just the dark and the water. He yelled again.

  As if in answer, the ship lurched in the trough. There was a distinct metallic crack from the other side of the fire pump. The spraying sound of the leak became more substantial, deeper, and louder. Oh shit, damn fire main’s, busted. I gotta get up, get higher, get my goddamn arms loose or I’m gonna fucking drown in here. He yelled again, then thought he heard a response. Sounded like someone was banging on the overhead, maybe the hatch.

  Adrenaline pumping now, he began to twist and flail in the oily water, trying desperately to get both arms free, his head held rigidly off the cold steel of the fire pump, using his legs, his hands useless. Pull, man, pull! Move something, anything to get out from under this shit. He started to cough and choke on the pungent mix of salt spray, fuel oil, and warm seawater that seemed to be everywhere. It felt as if he was trying to pull a train uphill, all this metal, uphill like in a nightmare, and then he realized, Oh Jesus, the deck’s moving, the deck’s tilting, the ship’s tilting over to one side—and staying there.

  He was crying now, his eyes stinging from the oil and his own fear. He wished he had a light, any kind of goddamn light. There should be battle lanterns in here.

  There had been battle lanterns before—before what? He couldn’t remember why he was down here. The pile of pipes and angle irons moved then, not much, but just enough so that he could roll to the left. He jumped at it, pushing with his legs, tearing his shirt, getting over on his left side, something sharp digging hard into his ribs, breaking the skin even, the cut stinging when the water came sweeping back across the compartment, washing all the way up to his shoulder. But he could move.

  He was moving, pushing with his hips and his one good arm, until he could roll all the way over on his stomach, freeing both arms. Yeah, that’s it. Now you’ve got it, man. Now, just hunch up and do a push-up.

  Oh God, my hands.

  Heave it up; tighten it up. You can make it, man. You can make— But then the ship rolled back the other way and down he went, the pile of steel banging onto deck plates and the pump foundation, flattening him, one big pipe hitting his head hard enough to dazzle him. He felt his mouth pressed down onto cold steel in an oily kiss.

  And then blessedly, the water all drained away, down his back, down pa
st his waist, his thighs, and he could feel air on his legs. Oh thank Christ. He could hear it rushing away. And then it paused, gurgling, gathering, and, to his horror, came rushing back, sweeping all the way over his body an dover his face and head, foaming in his ears like a wave on the beach, the oil stinging his eyes even though they were clamped shut like his teeth. For several terrifying seconds, he couldn’t breathe, and then, miraculously, he could. Gotta get up. Gotta get up.

  Move your face before it comes back. You know it’s coming back. Move, move anything, strain every muscle, kick, break your bones, you have to, but move before the— And then he heard it all withdrawing again, sloshing away like a live thing, the spray from the cracked fire main really loud now, lots of goddamn water gathering in the darkness there, gathering to come back and— Then it came, a rushing swirl of oil and water, some bits of wet paper, submerging his face and eyes and ears, making his hair stream out, stealing all his air. Grimly, he squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath and waited for the wave to recede.

  It’ll go away, and then you can breathe, and then you’ll have to do it again, keep doing it until those guys get down here. They’re coming.

  They’re working on it. Yeah right, that’s what they always say—they’re fucking working on it. But they are. You heard ‘em.

  There, the water’s going back down. There, now breathe, once, twice.

  Don’t try to move. Conserve your energy.

  But breathe deep, get that fucking air, get it all, store it up, and don’t worry about the deck.

  As the water gathered again across the compartment, he felt the ship move, and then he heard a new sound, something big and really heavy shifting, making a deep creaking groan of wounded metal, the voice of a billion crystals of steel deforming, bending, shearing. Oh Jesus, the fire pump, the fire pump was moving, the four hundred-pound fire pump.