Point of Honor

by Maurice Medland

  “Yes, Don Gallardo.” Barranca seemed to bow his head, accepting his fate.

  Don Gallardo paused and asked in a gentler tone, “And what is your expert opinion as to why communication has ceased?”

  Barranca seemed to brighten. “I’m sure it’s something simple. Perhaps a storm at sea preventing radio transmission, or perhaps the radio on the ship has failed.”

  Don Gallardo slammed his fist down on the table. “Enough of these guesses. What was the nature of the radio contact before communication ceased; what was the last message?”

  “It was from the first mate,” Barranca said. “Some problems they were having. Something about the security system.”

  Here it comes.

  “What kind of problems?”

  “It wasn’t clear, the transmission was breaking up, some kind of control problems. Yes, that’s it,” he said. “Something was out of control.”

  Jorge shuddered. He knew exactly what was out of control.

  “And you chose not to share this information with us?”

  “I did not think it important enough to bother the senior officers with,” Barranca said, pausing for effect, “but I did report it to the director of security.”

  Jorge’s stomach tightened. He squirmed in his seat as all eyes shifted to Rafael Ayala. Barranca sank back in his chair like a deflated balloon.

  Jorge picked up a pencil and started tapping it against his thumb, dancing his foot under the table, staring at Rafael Ayala. If you so much as mention my name, you fat son of a whore . . .

  Don Gallardo gazed down the long table at Rafael Ayala and snorted. The director of security was seated facing him at the opposite end of the table, as far away from Don Gallardo as he could get. “So. Perhaps our chief security officer can explain this mysterious, final message.”

  Tell him what you’ve done and let’s get on with it. Just leave me out of it.

  Rafael Ayala spread his hands and shrugged. “I am at a loss, Don Gallardo.” His frog lips curled into a weak smile.

  Jorge stiffened. The fool was going to try to bluff his way through.

  “Are you?” Don Gallardo leaned back in his chair and rested his elbow on the table, cradling his chin with his thumb, tapping his cheek with his forefinger, staring across the table at the sweating security director. “Your security system is out of control, and you are at a loss to explain it.” He studied Ayala’s face for a long minute. “Well, then, perhaps we can assist you. Why don’t you begin by enlightening us as to the security system you employed on this shipment?”

  Rafael Ayala shrugged. “All the usual measures.”

  Don Gallardo smiled, tapping his cheek. “The usual measures?”

  He knows. Tell him, you fool.

  “Plus one more . . . well . . . extra precaution because of the nature of the shipment.” Beads of sweat standing on Ayala’s forehead merged together and trickled down the side of his nose.

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, Don Gallardo.” Ayala mopped at his forehead with a paper napkin. “I thought it advisable . . . that is, you, yourself, have said . . . a shipment of this magnitude required extraordinary security measures.”

  “And what were these extraordinary measures that you have taken upon yourself to use?”

  Rafael Ayala swallowed hard. “El Callado.” His voice cracked.

  Augusto Gallardo brought his chair upright, staring across the table at Rafael Ayala. His eyes were the color of blue steel.

  “So. ‘The silent one.’ And now the message becomes clear, does it not?”

  “Please don’t jump to conclusions. We don’t know-”

  “I think we know,” Don Gallardo said, “that you have taken it upon yourself to make a unilateral decision that affects the entire organization and places it at risk.”

  “But this decision was not unilateral. I discussed it with all the senior officers-”

  “Did you? Then let us now hear from the senior officers.” He glanced around the room, looking at everyone but Jorge.

  Jorge Cordoba stared across the table at Rafael Ayala, sending a message with his eyes, holding his breath. No one spoke.

  “Who agreed with this plan?”

  Silence.

  “Rodrigo, I discussed it with you,” Rafael Ayala said.

  Rodrigo Herrera, the director of communications, stared straight ahead.

  “Enrique, we talked. You thought . . .”

  The wall clock ticked loudly, as though timing Ayala’s remaining minutes. The only other sound in the room was the rapid breathing of Rafael Ayala. His eyes darted around the room.

  Jorge shifted in his seat. The son of a whore was staring at him.

  “I discussed it with Señor Cordoba. Tell him.” Ayala looked at Jorge, his eyes wide, pleading.

  Jorge glared back, wanting to kill him.

  Don Gallardo turned to Jorge. “You knew about this decision?”

  “I advised against it.”

  “Then you knew,” Don Gallardo said, turning away.

  “But I didn’t think-”

  “No,” Don Gallardo said, coming to his feet. “You didn’t.”

  Jorge felt a red flush creep over him. “But I was opposed-”

  “Success has many fathers,” Don Gallardo said. He started around the table, leaning on his walking stick. “Failure is an orphan.”

  “But you don’t understand . . .”

  Jorge’s voice fell away as he watched Don Gallardo walk slowly down the long table. His limp seemed more pronounced now, perhaps from sitting. He suddenly seemed old and tired.

  “Let me see if I understand this sequence of events,” Don Gallardo said, almost talking to himself, leaning heavily on the silver mallard head, walking slowly. “After I ordered you to get rid of that monstrous pet of yours, you not only disobeyed me, but you placed it on the most important shipment in the history of this organization.” He rounded the far end of the table and stood behind Rafael Ayala, leaning on his walking stick. “Is that correct?”

  “It wasn’t an order. You suggested-”

  “And you think a suggestion from me is not an order?” Don Gallardo snorted with contempt. “You’re even stupider than I thought.”

  Ayala’s mouth hung open, his eyes wide, watery. He started to turn around.

  “No one gave you permission to move.”

  Ayala’s head snapped back around, jowls swinging.

  Don Gallardo stood looking down on Ayala’s bald head. “I asked you a question. Yes or no.”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.”

  Jorge saw his godfather’s face transformed into a dark, seething mask, something out of a Kabuki play. Red beams of light seemed to shoot out of his eyes. Don Gallardo stepped back, raised his walking stick like a batter at the plate and swung it sideways with a sharp whistling sound. The beak of the silver mallard head sunk into Ayala’s right temple with a crushing sound, like a pumpkin being smashed with a hammer.

  Jorge jumped in his chair and gaped as Ayala slumped forward, pulling Don Gallardo with him by the walking stick embedded in his skull. Don Gallardo released the stick and stood leaning on the back of Ayala’s chair, breathing hard, trying to recover his composure. His eyes darted to each of the sphinxlike faces around the table and came to rest on Jorge’s stunned expression. He stared at Jorge for what seemed a full minute. His eyes had narrowed to cold red points of light. Gradually they softened. He straightened himself and managed a faint smile.

  “Wait for me in my study, Jorge. Gentlemen, this meeting is adjourned.”

  Blake stood on the fantail of the freighter, watching black smoke billow up from the Carlyle and fade into cloudy skies. Orange flames darted through the blanket of smoke, licking at the forward stack and superstructure. It was like watching his house burn.

  He glanced at Dana Kelly, kneeling over the radio, frantically trying to get through to the ship.

  “Anything yet?”

  “I can’t raise anyone, sir.”
>
  “The fire’s probably close to the radio shack,” Blake said.

  Gusts of wind buffeted the ship, fanning the flames. Through the smoke, Blake thought he could see fire-fighting crews on deck, tiny specks moving in unison, advancing toward the flames behind thin streams of water, then retreating as the wind turned. Looking through the haze of mist and smoke, the scene was surreal, a grainy World War II newsreel come to life.

  The flames surged higher, whipped by the wind. “If the magazine goes, it’s all over,” he said to Frank Kozlewski, who stood gripping the rail beside him.

  “Mother of God,” the chief said.

  A deep sense of guilt pulled at him, watching safely from his vantage point a mile away while men were fighting for their lives. He wanted to be there, to be doing something. A drop of water slapped against his helmet. He looked up as huge raindrops spattered the deck.

  “Thank you, sweet Jesus,” he heard Tobin say behind him. A dense tropical rain began to fall. Blake held his hands and face up to the sky, and Chief Kozlewski made the sign of the cross. Heavy black clouds ruptured, and rain filled the air, blowing across the ocean in waves. They stood silently in the rain, watching spellbound as thick sheets of water swept over the destroyer, sending up black columns of smoke that faded to gray. From across the water, Blake thought he heard cheers rising from the deck of the Carlyle.

  The flames began to subside, and the tower of smoke dwindled to a wisp. Blake glanced over his shoulder at Kelly. She was still crouched over the radio, skipping through the frequencies in the VHS band, trying to get through to the ship.

  “Thank God,” Kelly said after a few minutes. “Am I glad to hear a friendly voice. What’d you guys do, take the day off? Yeah, I’d say you’ve been a little busy. Sure, we’ll stand by.” Kelly glanced up at Blake. “We’re holding for the exec.” After another minute, she said, “Yes, sir, here’s Lieutenant Blake.” She offered the handset up to Blake. “Commander Mayfield, sir.”

  Blake snugged the telephone-like handset up to his head and stuck his finger in his other ear. “Yes, sir?”

  “Blake, can you hear me?” came the tinny voice of the executive officer through the earpiece.

  “Yes, sir. Go ahead.”

  “I assume you saw the show?”

  “Affirmative, sir. What happened?”

  “We don’t know. Damage-control reports still coming in. All we know for sure is it originated in the engine room. Took out both boilers. Heavy damage to the control-room console. Main distribution switchboard’s down.”

  “Any casualties, sir?”

  “Three dead and counting. Dozen injuries, some bad. Chief McKinnon’s okay, but he’s in over his head. Skipper’s down there now. He wants you back aboard, pronto.”

  “Nothing I’d like better, Commander. But that’s a problem. We lost the whaleboat.”

  There was a pause. “Any small craft on the freighter you can use?”

  “Negative, sir. Lifeboats and rafts are gone. The ship appears to be abandoned. What about the port whaleboat?”

  “Negative,” the exec said. “We can’t risk the last boat with the ship disabled. Listen, Dan. Even if we had a boat, it’s too risky in this weather. Just stay aboard. The engine room looks like a junk yard. You couldn’t do much here anyway. What have you found there?”

  “Nothing yet, sir,” Blake said. “We just got aboard when the show started.”

  “Any hull damage?”

  “No, sir. The hull appears to be sound.”

  “Any other damage?”

  “No, sir, nothing I can see from here.”

  “Anything toxic, any hazardous materials you can see?”

  “Negative, sir. Nothing so far.”

  “Then just stay aboard and secure the ship. I’ll fix it with the captain. We just got through to Colombian National Naval Headquarters in Bogotá. Closest ship is a Colombian frigate off Buenaventura. We’ve asked for a tow. We need to get the hell out of here while we’re still afloat. Tropical cyclone moving this way. Picking up speed.”

  “When do you think it’ll hit, sir?”

  “Hard to say. Twenty-four, forty-eight hours. Keeps changing direction. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  “Yes, sir.” We’d damn well better. Ships the size of the Carlyle and the Latin Star wouldn’t have a chance of surviving a full-blown tropical cyclone without some excellent ship handling and the ability to maneuver, and that required full power to the main engines. “What’s the ETA on the frigate?”

  “Forty-eight hours, hopefully sooner. If the storm hits before then, we’ll just have to ride it out.”

  “That’ll be one hell of a ride, Commander.” Blake had to admire the exec’s cool professionalism, but he was sure they both knew what the odds were of riding out a storm on a dead ship. Destroyers went down in typhoons, even with experienced captains and all the power that twin screws and 30,000 horsepower could bring to bear. With the engines out of commission, the Carlyle wouldn’t have a chance. And neither would the Latin Star.

  After a pause, the executive officer said, “Listen, Dan. This idea is a long shot, but it’s worth mentioning. I know you sailed in the merchant marine. Have you got enough bodies there to get that ship under way?”

  “Negative, sir. These ships run lean, but a crew of nine’s pretty light for a ship this size, even if we knew what we were doing. Only four of these guys are engineers. None of us has ever conned a ship before.”

  “You might want to start thinking about it. At least you’d have a chance if the storm hits before that frigate arrives.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll take that under advisement.” Long shot is the understatement of the year. With a single screw and the 6,000 horsepower that a C-2 could muster, the aging freighter wouldn’t have much chance of surviving a tropical cyclone, even if he could get her under way.

  “That’s the worst-case scenario,” Commander Mayfield said. “Chances are it won’t be necessary. Just something to think about. For now, just secure the ship. Rig some power to the running lights and maintain radio contact. When the frigate arrives, we’ll send a boat for you and your crew.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “Gotta go-”

  “Commander?”

  “Yes?”

  Blake turned his face away from the others. “A boiler couldn’t do that much damage. What happened?”

  “I don’t know, Dan,” the exec said. “It’s too soon to speculate.”

  Blake turned back to the group. His eyes swept the anxious faces, trying to assess how they were coping. Kelly, Tobin, Robertson, Rivero . . . He paused and stared at Sergeant Rivero. The Colombian marine was a wild card he’d been dealt, one he knew absolutely nothing about. The thought crossed his mind that Rivero had been the last man to muster on the boat deck. He stared at him. The Colombian returned the look with a level gaze. Blake told himself to get a grip. If anyone was getting edgy, he was. He tossed the handset back to Kelly. All eyes were focused on him. “All right, everybody, listen up. The ship has sustained considerable damage from an accident in the engine room. Both turbines are down. They’ve sent a request for a tow to the Colombian Navy, and help’s on the way. Our orders are to remain aboard, secure the ship, rig some power to the running lights and maintain radio contact.”

  “I don’t believe it,” John Sparks said. “How long’re we gonna be stuck aboard this tub?”

  Blake shot a hard look at the electrician. “A day or two.”

  “Jesus Christ, Lieutenant, this weather’s going to hell. Blind man could see there’s a storm coming. This piece of junk won’t-”

  “Think of it as a great adventure, Sparky,” Blake said, cutting him off. He could see the fear in the faces of the crew and didn’t want them any more frightened than they already were. “Let’s get started. We’ll split up into three teams. Chief, take Sparky, Tobin, and Robertson and survey the engine room. Check out the propulsion system, fuel supply and see what it’ll take to get some electrical
power to the running lights and living quarters. Sergeant Rivero, take Jones and Alvarez and do a check of the cargo holds. Doc, I want you to look for toxic or hazardous materials. I’ll check out the bridge and pilothouse and try to locate the ship’s log and manifest. Kelly, bring your radio and come with me.”

  Blake made his way forward to the superstructure, rising pagoda-like amidships, and climbed the ladder to the cabin deck. He wiped the water from his eyes and glanced down the narrow passageway at the louvered stateroom doors, four to starboard and four to port. Black and white linoleum tile curling with age ran down the passageway in a checkerboard pattern.

  “Staterooms?” Kelly asked.

  Blake nodded. “International maritime law allows cargo ships to carry up to a dozen passengers without having a doc on board. A lot of shipping companies do it for the added revenue.”

  “A dozen? I count eight.”

  “Four singles and four doubles. Adds up to twelve.”

  “Are they nice?”

  “They probably were once upon a time, but this ship’s pretty old. I doubt if they’ve been used in years.”

  Blake made a note to go through them later and continued up the ladder to the bridge deck, then on up to the bridge wing. He paused on the bridge wing to get his bearings, and Kelly came up behind him, breathing hard.

  A sudden feeling of unease came over him, and he froze at the entrance to the pilothouse, motioning for Kelly to stand fast. He stood quietly for a minute, listening to the wind whistling through the superstructure, glancing around at the green bulkheads dotted with blisters of peeling paint. It was nothing he could see or hear; it was a smell. Subtle at first, a gust of wind hit the pilothouse, and he got the full effect. He stood motionless, apprehensive. Kelly wrinkled her nose and started to say something. Blake held up his hand and motioned for her to stand quietly.

  Blake unbuckled his holster and withdrew the Beretta. He’d never fired one before - it was one subject they didn’t teach at the Merchant Marine Academy - but the heft of the automatic in his hand reassured him. He pulled the slide back and felt the round slide into the chamber. Leading with the muzzle, he twisted the latch and nudged the door inward.