Point of Honor

by Maurice Medland

  He’d told himself he would take care of her when the time came but killing her now would tip off the skittish Enrique Lopez that something was afoot. And if the acting security director fled before he could be offered up as a sacrifice for Colonel Suarez, it might leave Jorge holding the bag. No, he would let the faithless puta live, for now. If he changed his mind later, he could arrange it with a simple phone call. “Go back to sleep.”

  He walked out into the cool night air and headed toward the Command Center, exhilarated with the freshness of the morning. The first pink line of daylight was visible across the eastern horizon. It was in every sense the dawning of a new day. The ship had survived. The weather was clear. He could hear the whine of the Blackhawks warming up. There would be just enough time to get the helicopters launched and be gone before the raid. He was leaving this godforsaken place, and within a matter of hours, he would be aboard the ship, solidly in control of his life again.

  He couldn’t wait to be done with this messy business and get back to his real life in Colombia. As he walked toward the Command Center, Jorge could picture his homecoming in his mind. Don Gallardo warmly greeting him at the mansion. The members of the executive committee standing, applauding as he took his seat near the head of the table. Don Gallardo proudly announcing his promotion to el Jeffe de Finanzas, Chief of Finance of the international operations of La Confederacion Estrella Azul, soon to be one of the most powerful organizations on earth. And all at the age of twenty-eight. He was sorry that his parents hadn’t lived to see it.

  It was a great tragedy that his parents wouldn’t be around to see the fulfillment of his godfather’s dream. Then they would know what he knew, and that he had made the right choice.

  He tried not to blame them for their resistance. They couldn’t have known that Don Gallardo had a plan that would change the world. Only Jorge and a handful of others knew about it and had worked closely with Don Gallardo to put it in motion. What they couldn’t know, what almost no one knew, was that Don Gallardo had succeeded in bringing the major players in Latin America together in a secret confederation that would shift the global balance of power from North to South America.

  It had taken years of individual courtship and one-on-one negotiations to pave the way. When all was ready and the arrogant yanquis had finally gone too far, Don Gallardo invited the heads of the most powerful organizations in Latin America, minus the Ramirez cartel, to attend a conference at his estate where he presented them with a proposal.

  He began by telling them of a dream he had had - a vision, really - in which a massive blue star was shining over Latin America, flooding it in the light of a new dawn. He proceeded to lay out a plan so simple, yet so powerful, that the delegates sat in stunned silence when he was through.

  Jorge would never forget the electric feeling in the room as they all listened, gazing at Don Gallardo, who calmly sat down when he was finished speaking. The delegate from Peru was the first to stand, then Argentina, then Brazil. Slowly the others came to their feet. Suriname, Uruguay, Bolivia, Venezuela, French Guiana, Ecuador, Paraguay. The applause began slowly, deliberately, then grew to a thunderous ovation and La Confederacion Estrella Azul, The Blue Star Confederation, was born. All who had been present at the historic conference had been signatories to what became known after Don Gallardo’s stirring speech as the Blue Star Covenant. They pledged to work together, peacefully, to achieve greatness for Latin America and prosperity for all. Only someone with the vision and magnetic personality of Don Augusto Gallardo could have pulled it off, and Jorge loved him for it, was proud to be the protégé of such a great man.

  And Jorge was proud to be the architect of the long-range financial plan that was the centerpiece of the Blue Star Covenant, a plan that would bring the arrogant yanquis to their knees. His aggressive purchase of gold bullion was the first step in a long-range plan to undermine the currency of the Norte Americanos who were so bent on destroying the Latin countries. It would take decades, of course, but eventually, with the combined purchasing power of all the Latin American signatories to the Covenant, they would see them fall.

  The plan had wide appeal; there was no real cost to anyone, and no risk involved. It was simply a balance-sheet transaction, exchanging one asset for another. They would exchange massive amounts of cash, most of which ironically came from North American cities, for gold. As the world’s gold supplies were removed from the marketplace, the value of the Confederation’s holdings would only increase. At the same time, the Norte Americanos would help with their own destruction by continuing to print money at an ever-increasing rate to finance their insane social programs. Over time, their inflated currency, backed by nothing, would become worthless. A bankrupt nation could not even defend itself, much less be a police force to the world. Everyone had pledged to participate, could see the wisdom of such a long-range plan, a true vision for the future of not only Colombia but all the Latin countries.

  For such a grand scheme, it had gotten off to an ignominious start. The first purchase by the Confederation had very nearly been a disaster of major proportions, but it had not been Jorge’s fault. He pled guilty to being overly aggressive on the first buy, but it had been Rafael Ayala’s idea to plant that cretin aboard to protect the shipment of the Confederation’s cash. Jorge had opposed it. He knew it would take more than a few months of indoctrination and a blue star tattooed on his hand to convert the thug everyone called El Callado to their purposes. He wondered how the Americans had handled the silent one. The mudo may be the only one left alive on the ship if what Jorge had heard about him was true. And Jorge had no reason to doubt that it was.

  But every cloud had a silver lining. Ayala had paid the ultimate price for his disastrous error in judgment, but Jorge had been givenan opportunity to rectify his part in the near disaster. And he was grateful to Don Gallardo for giving him that chance. Perhaps Jorge’s handling of the situation would prove to Don Gallardo once and for all that he was more of a son than his own natural sons. They were lazy playboys who had done nothing, amounted to nothing. He had never verbalized it before, but he loved the man, perhaps even more than his own father. It made him feel guilty to think it, but he knew it was true. Pleasing him was the most important thing in his life.

  He punched in the numbered code, twisted the knob and walked into the chilled air of the Command Center. The usual blue haze of cigarette smoke hung over the room. The security team was clustered together in one corner, talking, smoking, checking weapons, while the licensed merchant marine officers and crew that Lopez had assembled were scattered along the opposite wall, looking pleased with themselves. They were usually well paid, but nothing like what they were being paid for this trip. Enrique Lopez and the loudmouthed American pilot who called himself Michael Gaines were hunched over the backlit map table. A man Jorge had never seen before was talking to one of the radio operators. Jorge assumed he was the pilot for the second Blackhawk.

  “Señor Cordoba,” Enrique Lopez said, nodding, as Jorge walked up to the table. The American pilot stared at him dispassionately. The red mark from Major Portillo’s riding crop was still visible down his left cheek.

  “How soon can we take off?” Jorge asked.

  “As soon as we finish preflight and get a weather update,” Gaines said. “The ground crews are warming up the birds. Fred’s checking the weather.”

  “Fred?”

  “Yeah, Fred Harris.”

  “The other American.” Jorge rolled his eyes.

  “Who else did you think you could get to fly Blackhawks?” Gaines said. “Most of these taco eaters down here’d have a hard time driving a pickup.”

  Jorge looked him hard in the eyes. He would enjoy watching this American pig die. “Keep your arrogant thoughts to yourself.”

  “Chill out, Pancho,” Gaines said, turning back to the map.

  “Picnic weather all the way,” Fred Harris said, walking up with his helmet in his hand.

  Michael Gaines introduced the pi
lot. He was a short, stocky man in his forties with wispy blond hair, small blue, narrow-set eyes, and a broad nose. Jorge nodded but didn’t shake hands.

  “All right, here’s the plan,” Jorge said, looking at Gaines. “You’re flying the lead helicopter with the security team aboard. You will land first and secure the ship. Señor Lopez here will designate a lead man. You’re to follow his orders-”

  “What’s all this lead man stuff about?” Lopez said. “It was my understanding that I would lead the team personally.”

  “I think you should stay here,” Jorge said.

  Lopez narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

  “After I leave, you’re the next senior man,” Jorge said.

  “That’s no reason-”

  “I don’t have time to argue,” Jorge said. “Do as you’re told.”

  Lopez stood staring at Jorge for a moment, then began shifting his eyes around. “What’s going on here?”

  Jorge ignored him and turned to Fred Harris. “I’ll fly in the second helicopter with you and the replacement crew.”

  “Suits me,” Harris said with a shrug.

  Jorge looked back at Michael Gaines. “We will hover out of rifle range in the second helicopter while the security team does its work. When the ship’s been secured, you are to push your helicopter over the side to make room for us to land. Is that clear?”

  “Well, now hold it a minute, Pancho,” Gaines said. He jerked a thumb toward Fred Harris. “If you and him are flying out of rifle range, just where does that leave me? Sitting on the deck of that sucker? Just how much resistance you expecting when we drop in on these folks?”

  “Very little, if any,” Jorge said. “One of our employees has taken control of the ship and is trying to highjack it and hold it for ransom. We don’t even think he’s armed. Securing the ship is just a prudent safety precaution.”

  “Maybe so,” Gaines said. “But let’s you and me just make one other little thing clear, and that is that Michael Gaines don’t do no securing. I’m just the bus driver on this route. I’ll drop your team of cowboys off, but if any shooting starts, I’ll fly away and come back when it stops. Then we’ll scuttle the bird. Your money’s good, but it ain’t good enough for me to get my nuts shot off. That’s why I got out of the Army.”

  Jorge looked at the tall pilot and snorted. If all Americans were this gutless, they would have no trouble retaking the ship. He motioned to the two groups. “Let’s go.”

  The pilots pulled on their helmets, and the security team and replacement crew stubbed out cigarette butts. Jorge looked away from Enrique Lopez’s stare and checked his watch. The little troll knows something’s up, but he won’t have long to wait to find out what it is. A shudder swelled up through him. He turned away to keep Lopez from seeing it.

  Through the quiet shuffle of men assembling weapons and flight gear, Jorge heard something, the faint burst of a machine gun in the distance. His stomach tightened. He cocked his head and listened. Through the concrete block walls of the Command Center, he could hear the deadened sound of voices shouting, men running, then another burst of machine gun fire, closer now. Oh, Madre de Dios, no. Not now. His stomach clenched. He could see Enrique Lopez glancing frantically around the room, but there was only one way out. Another burst of machine-gun fire exploded at the door, and everyone hit the deck. The lock blew into the room amid a cloud of smoke and splinters. Jorge looked up in time to see the door to the Command Center fall in. A flood of soldiers in green camouflage fatigues boiled into the room, brandishing semiautomatic rifles.

  A young Peruvian officer wearing captain’s bars cleared his way through the soldiers, who had leveled their rifles at everyone in the room. “Nobody move,” he said quietly. “You’re all under arrest by order of Colonel Julio Suarez, commander of the Peruvian National Antiterrorist Forces at Punta Arenas. I am Captain Ramon Delgado, and you are my prisoners.”

  “There’s been a mistake,” Jorge said, coming slowly to his knees. He stopped when he felt the cool muzzle of a rifle pressing against the back of his neck.

  “Yes, of course,” Captain Delgado said, looking down on him, smiling. “There usually has.”

  “You don’t understand. I’m a friend of Colonel Suarez.”

  “How interesting. So am I.”

  “You can check it with him.”

  “And who are you?”

  “Jorge Cordoba.”

  Captain Delgado lifted the top sheet of the clipboard he was holding and scanned some notes. He nodded to the soldier holding the rifle against Jorge’s neck, and the muzzle was withdrawn. Jorge came slowly to his feet while the others remained in a prone position.

  “You’re supposed to be gone,” Captain Delgado said.

  “You’re early,” Jorge said, rubbing the spot on his neck where the muzzle had been.

  The captain shrugged. “My orders were first light.”

  “I have clearance for two helicopters and their crews.”

  “Only if you were gone,” Captain Delgado said. “But you are not gone. You are here. I have orders to impound everything I find.”

  “I have specific approval from Colonel Suarez. You can check it with him.”

  “Very well. But in the meantime, you are under house arrest. Do not attempt to leave the compound.” Captain Delgado checked his notes again.

  “Where is Enrique Garcia Lopez?”

  Lopez lay prone without moving.

  “That one,” Jorge said, pointing.

  “Get up,” Captain Delgado said.

  A soldier kicked him in the side and Lopez came slowly to his feet, glaring at Jorge. He looked at the Peruvian Army captain. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “You are the Peruvian national, Enrique Garcia Lopez?”

  The acting director of security smiled. “I wouldn’t advise arresting me for drug trafficking. I have documents that will take all of you with me, from Colonel Suarez all the way down, even as far down as lowly captains.”

  “I know nothing about any drug trafficking,” Captain Delgado said, glancing at his clipboard. “You are charged with treason.” A soldier stepped forward and handcuffed Lopez’s hands behind his back.

  “What are you talking about? You’re crazy.”

  Captain Delgado raised his hand in the air and snapped his fingers. Two soldiers pushed their way through the crowd. One, a private, had an armload of obsolete-looking rifles. The second, a corporal, had a stack of what appeared to be military training manuals. Secreto was stamped across them in big red letters. They threw them down in front of Lopez. “These were found in your room.”

  “You don’t even know where my room is.”

  Captain Delgado flipped to a fresh page in his clipboard and began to read. “I hereby charge you with supplying arms and secret military information to Maoist guerrillas of the Sendero Luminoso, The Shining Path,” he said in a level voice. “Under the terms of the antiterrorist decree issued by the government of Peru, which granted the Army broad powers to investigate, arrest, charge and prosecute such crimes, you are hereby charged with treason against the fatherland, a crime which takes precedence over the crime of drug trafficking. The decree further stipulates trial by a military tribunal and, if convicted, a mandatory penalty of life imprisonment. You will be held incommunicado and tried in a closed courtroom by an anonymous military judge. Under the terms of the decree, if you are convicted, you will be sentenced to serve the rest of your natural life in a military prison designated by the judge advocate in this case.”

  Enrique Lopez looked up at Jorge, his pockmarked face black with rage. “You caused this arrest. You set me up to take the fall. You sacrificed me so that you could fly away in your little helicopters and save the day for your beloved godfather.”

  Jorge stood looking down on the diminutive security director. “It was a small sacrifice to make.”

  Jorge saw something stir in the depths of Lopez’s eyes, something cold, evil, prehistoric. Two soldiers stepped up and took
the acting security director by the arms. He shook himself free and stepped up to within a few inches of Jorge’s face, his eyes constricted into a reptilian stare.

  “There is something you should know before I go.”

  The hiss of Lopez’s voice sent a chill through Jorge, told him he didn’t want to hear what he had to say. Jorge stared coldly at him. “Get him out of here.”

  “Wait, I have some information that will interest you a great deal.” Lopez was beaming now, enjoying himself.

  “There is nothing you could say that would have the slightest interest to me,” Jorge said. “Take him.”

  “I know who murdered your parents.”

  Jorge stiffened. “Get him out of here. My parents were killed in a boating accident when I was twenty years old.”

  “So everyone believes,” Lopez said. His mouth twisted into an icy grin. “My work is good, no?”

  “What are you trying to-”

  “Oh, it wasn’t just me,” Lopez said. “Although I would have done it with greater relish if I had known then what a treacherous son of a whore you would become.”

  Jorge stood rooted to the spot. A feeling of numbness crept over him.

  “No, my friend, not just me,” Lopez said, shaking his head slowly, warming to the message he was about to deliver. “I was simply the instrument at hand. It was your beloved godfather, Don Augusto Gallardo, who ordered your parents murdered.”

  Jorge reeled backward, as though he’d been kicked in the stomach. “You’re insane. Don Gallardo and my father were close friends for thirty years. He worshiped my mother.”

  “Oh, you’re quite right about that. He loved them both. It was their disapproval of your joining forces with him that he objected to. He was afraid they would talk you out of it. He told me about the alliances he wanted to form, the financial expertise he needed. For some reason, he seemed to think you were the only one who could provide it. Shortly after, I fell from favor. I was exiled down here under the pretext that I had indiscriminately killed women and children. I had, of course, but it was under his direct orders. It was simply a ploy to keep us apart. He was afraid that you would read the smile on my face, the look in my eyes, that I would one day make a slip. He wanted to avoid any possibility that you would ever know. He couldn’t have foreseen any of this stuff happening, us being thrown together. But when we were, he trusted to luck that I would remain silent, and I would have, if not for your treachery.”