Forged in Honor (1995)

by Leonard B Scott

  Swei showed grief yet resolve in his eyes. "They will be found," he said confidently and walked out. The prime minister's executive aide stood in the anteroom, and Swei motioned for the man to follow him into the hallway. Once there Swei lowered his voice to a whisper. "I told him the nineteenth-that should hold off the minority jackals until we can deal with them."

  The aide whispered back, "We are ready for the word."

  Swei patted the man's shoulder. "It will come sooner than you think. Keep me informed of whom he talks to."

  Minutes later Swei was in the underground tunnel that ran from the Ministry of Defense to his own Directorate complex. He strode past the guards into his underground command center, where General Tan was waiting.

  Tan raised an eyebrow. "Was he satisfied with the date?"

  Swei allowed himself a small smile. "Of course. He trusts us."

  Chapter 8.

  5 June, Washington, D. C.

  "How'd you do today, Josh?" asked the old boathouse custodian.

  Joshua Hawkins placed the scull on the rack and looked back at the river. "I think I'll be ready, Fred. I think maybe this is my year."

  The old man motioned to Josh's eighteen-foot, flat-bottomed bass boat tied to the pier. "I gassed her up for ya. Looks like ya made a good haul on your hunt this morning. By any chance ya see him?"

  Josh strode toward his boat as he put on a dirty khaki shirt.

  "Now, but I've designed a new trap. I'll get him."

  "Sure you will," said the old man with a smile.

  Josh checked the tie-downs over the rectangular wire traps in the front of the boat before climbing in the back. He pulled down the bill of his faded blue ball cap and smirked seeing the old man's disbelieving grin. "Just you wait and see, Fred. You're a disbeliever just like the others. I'm tellin' ya he's out there."

  "Sure he is, Mr. Hawkins. Have a good trip home."

  Josh cast off the line and started the outboard. He pushed his Conway Twitty tape into his old eight-track player that was rigged to the console and gave a last wave as he headed the small boat down the Potomac.

  Fifteen minutes later Joshua tied off at the back pier of the Emporium fish market and rang the service bell. Seconds later a small, Oriental man opened the back door and stepped out. As usual he was wearing his beat-up baseball cap, ragged sweater, low-riding dress slacks and dirty, calf-high rubber boots. Mr. Ky, the owner of the Emporium, scanned the interior of the boat before barking, "How many you got?"

  "Well, hello to you too, ya old goat," Josh said dryly. "Be nice to me. I had to work hard at it today, but I got ya a dozen that'll go at least three pounds apiece." Josh bent over and pulled back the wet tarp at his feet to reveal a writhing jumble of green shells, elongated necks, and clawing feet. He picked up one of the water turtles and held it up. "This one will go four at least."

  Ky's eyes remained impassive as he stepped back inside the door and yelled out. Seconds later two young Vietnamese boys came out and began unloading the catch. Josh followed Ky inside, past mounds of crushed ice, stacks of iced-down fish and crabs, cleaning tables, and plastic buckets brimming with unwanted fish and crustacean parts. Ky entered his small, cluttered office. He motioned to a rusted metal chair stacked with papers. "Sit, sit, sit."

  Josh settled himself on the lip of Ky's desk, knowing the pirate wanted to deal.

  Ky smiled a toothy grin and held up two fingers. "You bring two dozen next time, okay? Chinese cus-ta-mers like.

  They want more."

  Josh wrinkled his face. "Now, a doz a day is all I can handle. They're gettin' smart. I'm having to hunt downriver as far as Fort Belvoir to get ya the dozen."

  Ky kept smiling. "0-kay, o-kay, I give you fifty cent more a pound, you bring more, o-kay?"

  Josh looked casually at his fingernails but spoke with an unmistakable warning tone. "I know you raised your price to your customers, no I expect the fifty-cent increase on this load." He looked into Ky's narrowing eyes. "Or as your only supplier, I might be forced to go to your competition next door. Antonio says he'll beat your price."

  "Antonio no have Chinese cus-ta-mer! No deal, no deal!" blurted Ky.

  Josh nodded absently and pushed off the desk. "Better have your boys load 'em back in the boat. I'll go over to Antonio's and see what he says."

  Ky exploded into loud, singsong Vietnamese, slapped the desk, kicked the trash can, and stomped in place in his rubber boots.

  Unimpressed, Josh stood by the office door, waiting. Seeing that he wasn't fazing the supplier, Ky threw up his hands.

  "0-kay, o-kay, fifty cent more. You big-time thief, Josh. You take advantage of poor, old refugee, trying to make living."

  "Save it for the customers, ya old goat. Pay me," Josh said with a wry smile.

  Ky's worn face cracked into a small smile. "You deal like Vietnamese." He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a wad of bills. He counted out $120 and handed it over. "Tomorrow I leave buckets of bait for you on back pier as usual."

  Josh stuffed the money into his dirty khaki shorts pocket as he strode through the prep area. Ky followed him back to his boat and patted his back as he got in. "You see him today?"

  Josh started the outboard and spoke over the grumbling engine. "Now, but the bastard ruined another trap. I'll get him.

  I've built a special trap. I'm taking it out tomorrow."

  Ky grinned. "You say same last week. You catch him, I pay hundred dollar."

  "Deal," Josh said, casting the line. He raised his hand in farewell and turned the boat up the channel for the nearby Capital Yacht Club docks and home.

  Stefne Hawkins saw her father leave the distant fish market and could hear Conway Twitty's twangy voice over his rumbling outboard. She strode down the side deck of Lil'

  Darlin' toward the bow. A small, willowy young woman, only two inches over five feet, she tossed her short auburn bangs from her eyes as she stepped over chicken wire and assorted piles of metal rods before finally reaching the prow.

  Her cobalt-blue eyes narrowed as she waited for her father with her hands on her slim hips.

  Josh reduced power and turned into the marina's first row of slips. He saw his daughter and waved but silently braced himself for what was to come. Aiming for the second slip, he pushed the Stop button on his eight-track player, then cut the engine and glided in.

  Stefne threw down a line to him, scowled, and said, "It's six; you're late as usual. You'd know that if you wore your watch. You've got to brief the summer hires at six-thirty.

  Simson called in sick, but I got Postroski to take his place.

  Harry called and says he'd like extra coverage tonight for a group of high rollers. Don't be lookin' at me to help. I've got finals to study for. You're out of milk again; Clifford drove me crazy. You owe Meg half a quart of milk." She took a step to lean over and help him up, but her boat shoe caught in chicken wire. "Damn, Dad, when are you gonna clean up this mess?"

  Josh climbed up to the deck and looked around at the clutter with pride. "It takes time to design the right trap. He's big and mean and-"

  Stefne rolled her eyes and stomped toward the catwalk, barking over her shoulder, "Twenty-eight minutes until your briefing. At least change and take a shower. You smell like rotten fish."

  Josh watched her, but he did not see an attractive, twenty-two-year-old woman. Rather, she was the little girl who had stolen his heart years before.

  Stefne turned around once she reached the cockpit and saw the look in his eyes. She gave him an understanding smile.

  "Tough day, huh? I put a Cutter's in the fridge for you."

  She was looking and sounding more like her mother every day, he thought. He forced the ache out of his heart and put on a smile. "Thanks, hon, I'll be just a sec. I have to stow the traps."

  Stefne nodded with a sigh and stepped down into the hatchway. "Twenty-six minutes until the briefing, Dad!" she said loudly, then disappeared inside the cabin.

  The chairman of the Waterfront Restaurant A
ssociation glanced at his watch and anxiously looked down the sidewalk. He broke into a nervous sweat and mumbled to himself, "Damn Hawkins, damn him, damn him. Why is he always late?" The chairman hurried back up the steps to the covered patio where a young woman was just wrapping up her presentation to new employees on the Waterfront's courtesy policy. The chairman signaled the woman to keep talking and kill time. She understood, having had to do it before.

  "Now I think it would be helpful to know more about where you are working. The famous Waterfront of Washington is where tourists and locals come to enjoy the scenic Potomac River, take a pleasure cruise, see a play, eat in a fine restaurant, buy fish at the Maine Avenue fish market, or just sit back and watch the boats glide by in the Washington Channel. Only blocks away from the bureaucratic bastions of Washington, the Waterfront is a place for locals to get away for a while and for tourists to come and be guaranteed a good meal and friendly service. The Waterfront, bordered by the scenic Washington Channel, offers a relaxing atmosphere without the noise and normal city distractions. Once turning off Maine Avenue onto Water Street, the customer is on what we affectionately call the Front. We have the open fish market, the Channel Inn motel, river cruise, small office complex and the wonderful restaurants where all of you are now employed. Where else can customers come and have a panoramic view of the harbor, the Washington Monument, and the beautiful Jefferson Memorial? Yes, you new employees are indeed fortunate we ..."

  The chairman had returned to the sidewalk, and he sighed in relief when he saw his tardy next briefer step out of the marina's security gate. "About damn time," he muttered and hurried back up the steps. He gave a sign to the woman to wrap it up before taking his place in front of the small audience.

  "Thank you, Miss Evans, for that illuminating presentation. Folks, your next and last orientation speaker is the president and founder of Hawk Security Services, Joshua Hawkins. Mr. Hawkins's company has been employed by the Waterfront Restaurant Association for four years and has been so successful his company has become the model of other associations throughout the United States. Mr. Hawkins, like his company, is unique. He formed his company after retiring from the army as a Special Forces colonel. He served our country for over twenty years. Here, he has eliminated the problems we had with criminal elements and has made our area one of the safest in Washington, D. C. Mr. Hawkins will brief you on his company's responsibilities and what part you play in helping him protect our customers. It is an honor to present Joshua Hawkins, president of Hawk Security Services."

  The young men in the audience were disappointed at the man who walked up the steps and came onto the patio. They had envisioned a tough-looking ex--Green Beret type. The short, blond man didn't fit their image at all. Needing a haircut and dressed in faded khaki work pants and shirt, he looked more like a down-on-his-luck construction foreman.

  The women employees were not disappointed at all. The broad-shouldered, short but good-looking man who appeared to be in his early forties was a stockier and younger version of Paul Newman. His tanned face, grayish-blond windblown hair, flat stomach, and intriguing light blue eyes made him look like a model for an outdoor-clothing catalogue.

  Josh was met by polite applause and leaned over to whisper in the chairman's ear. "What the hell did ya tell 'em, Charlie?"

  Charlie whispered back, "I lied. I said you were hot shit.

  Go get 'em."

  Josh mumbled a sarcastic "thanks a lot," then smiled at his audience of thirty or forty people. As always, they were of all races, colors, and ages, typical summer hires, dressed in the different uniforms of the restaurants. The classy tuxes from the Channel Inn's Pier 7 restaurant and bar, Mexican garb and peasant dresses from the El Torito, sailor-suited Hogate's employees ... Just looking at them made him feel hungry.

  He ignored the podium and stepped closer before casually sitting on the edge of a table.

  "Congratulations for landing jobs on the Front. You're gonna enjoy it and make good money. Don't worry, I'm not gonna take long. I know you warm get to work and start making the big tips you've all heard about."

  He got smiles from the comment and motioned to himself.

  "I'm Josh; that's what everybody calls me and what I prefer.

  `Mr. Hawkins' makes me feel old, and at my age I don't need the reminder. I run a security service for your employers. Since you now work for them, my service extends to you as well. My service is responsible for keeping the Front free of working girls, scam artists, car thieves, derelicts, drunks, drugs, and gang problems. In short, I ensure that your customers have a safe, enjoyable meal without threat of their cars being broken into or stolen and that they can walk the strip without fear of mugging or being offered a snort of coke. I achieve this by employing off-duty, experienced MPD, Metropolitan Police Department officers to patrol the Front in civilian clothes. My crew is made up of men and women who can be recognized by a small gold hawk lapel pin on their sport jacket or blouse. Posted on the walls in your work areas is the company telephone number. If you ever have problems when you're working, you call that number. All of my staff carry handheld Motorola radios, and we can have someone there within minutes."

  Josh scanned the faces of the workers and lowered his voice an octave. "I said I work for you as well. What that means is you could be victims just like our customers. You can be victimized by your fellow employees. The restaurants you work in are successful and profitable because they have a good rep. A few slick employees can ruin that. We've had a few employees who decided to keep the dropped wallet, the forgotten credit card, or the expensive coat in the cloakroom.

  Not smart. Some have provided a rear take-out service of food and equipment to waiting buddies, or they've hidden stuff in their cars. That kind of activity hurts business and hurts you. My people have seen it all and know all the tricks.

  There is no discussion of a second chance when we catch a slicky. It's jail. I'm saying this because we need your help. If you see this kind of activity or know it's happening, call us.

  Those kinds of people are not 'cool.' They are stealing money and business from you as well as your employers.

  Okay, that's it. I said I'd keep it short. You'll be seeing me and the officers making the rounds every night, so we'll see each other again. Enjoy your job and help us make the Front a nice, safe place. Good luck."

  Minutes later Josh was walking back to his boat to change into his work uniform. Ahead of him he saw a cluster of pigeons and timid sparrows gathered around a seated woman on a park bench. He couldn't help but smile. Megan was at it again. She was in her late fifties but age had been kind to her. She'd been a dancer on Broadway and made the big time for a while, but a bad divorce and a bad knee ended her career. She now ran an uptown dance studio off New Hampshire that kept her bills paid. Her hair, dyed flaming red, was tied back with a blue bandanna that matched her sleeveless denim shirt and shorts. She could have passed for normal if it hadn't been for the black leotard she wore beneath the shorts. Meg always looked as if she had just left a long Broadway rehearsal. She never wore makeup, or normal clothes. She was considered weird by many on the Front, but to Josh she was a gem. Meg had come to the Front three years before and within a few months had adopted him and Stefne as family. She was like a mother hen and had become one of his closest friends. Josh could hear her as he closed the distance.

  "Not you, fatty! Let the little one have some. Damn you!

  Stop it! Here, cutie, here's some for you. Get back, leave the sparrow alone. You want some? Forget it. Here, you get some instead, sweetie."

  "Hiya, Meg."

  The woman glanced up. "Hey, I've been lookin' for you, neighbor." She stood, tossed her huge Indian-blanket bag over her shoulder, and kicked at the pigeons, scattering them in a flurry of beating wings. "They're nothing but flying rats--filthy." She took his arm, changing expression. "We gotta talk. First thing I gotta know is, has the marina board already been complaining to you about me?"

  Josh sighed. "Don't
worry about it. A couple temps mentioned a few things, but it's nothing serious."

  Meg snickered as she walked alongside him. "The uppity bastards haven't seen nothin' yet. I'm gonna sunbathe naked soon as it gets a little warmer. That'll make the temps squirm."

  Josh tossed his arm over her shoulder and gave her a gentle squeeze. "Look, you gotta quit declaring war on the temps. We live-ins are outnumbered and can't win. Just accept it. They're only around four months out of the year."

  Meg threw her hand in the direction of the moored yachts and cruisers nestled in the Capital Yacht Club's marina. "It's criminal, Josh. The temps write the damn things off on their taxes as second homes. They come prancing down here all dressed in their Land's End yachting clothes once a month just to show off and throw parties to impress their rich, snobby friends. Dammit, we live here! They've got no right complaining that I city my clothes on the boom and shrouds.