Point of Honor

by Maurice Medland

  “And that’s how they found us,” Blake said, nodding to the radio, “once their search planes got into range.”

  “You’re stalling,” Rivero said, glancing at the helicopter. “Heave to. Now.”

  “What about the Carlyle?” Blake asked, moving closer to the engine-order telegraph. “Did you do that, too?”

  “You give me too much credit, Lieutenant. I suspect you have your own mismanagement to thank for that. No, I came aboard innocently enough. But when I saw the importance of the shipment I knew what I had to do.”

  “Why did you kill Sparks? He couldn’t have done you any harm.”

  “He was a loathsome American pig. I’ve seen his type in every seaport in South America. A drunk, lusting after little girls.”

  “And Alvarez. Why?”

  “I had to send a message to stay away from the money. The Gallardo organization has important work to do. Only if they are successful will the peasants have food and the Ramirez butchers be driven from the face of the earth.”

  “If you’d sent any more messages, we wouldn’t have had enough people to get under way.”

  “I came to that conclusion after your tirade in the engine room. I tried to help you after that, but you came close to exhausting my patience with your foul mouth.”

  “That was you who pulled me back?” Blake said, incredulous.

  “I kept you alive to do what you had to do. I kept you all alive, even that stupid hembra. If I hadn’t tripped her, she would have walked right into El Callado’s arms.”

  Blake stared at him, torn by equal parts of gratitude and hatred.

  Rivero saw the look on Blake’s face and snorted. “Did you wonder why El Callado did not bother you while you were getting the ship under way? Did you think it was his self-interest, perhaps?” His eyes flashed from the hellish makeup. “It is because he was running for his life.” He glanced out at the helicopter, lower now, beginning its descent. “Heave to. They’re almost here.”

  “If they land, they’ll kill us all,” Blake said, glancing aft.

  “Yes, I’m sure they will,” Sergeant Rivero said. “So it makes little difference to me whether I kill you first. Heave to, I said.”

  “You’re not hearing me,” Blake said. “They’ll kill you, too.”

  “I don’t think so,” Rivero said. “Not when they find out I’m the one who has been guiding them in. Heave to, Lieutenant. I won’t ask you again.”

  “Go ahead,” Blake said, waving at the engine-order telegraph. “It won’t do you any good. The throttle valve in the engine room is jammed open.”

  “I’m not such a fool as you think I am, Lieutenant.” Rivero motioned with the M-16. “Do it.”

  Blake moved slowly to the engine-order telegraph under the cautious eye of Sergeant Rivero, intent on dragging it out as long as he could. Looking past Rivero, he saw Kelly ease quietly through the port door of the pilothouse holding the snub-nosed .38 caliber revolver with both hands, pointing it at Sergeant Rivero’s back. He didn’t know how long she’d been standing outside, listening, but she’d obviously heard enough. He tried not to react, tried not to give away her position. Kelly motioned Maria behind her and took a shooter’s stance.

  “Drop it,” Kelly said.

  Rivero froze but held the rifle on Blake, watching his eyes.

  “Do it now,” Kelly said. “I owe you one for that trip down the ladder, but I’ll still blow your head off.”

  Blake tried not to look in her direction, but Rivero caught his line of sight. Quick as a ferret, the Colombian spun around, leading with the butt of the M-16. The butt plate caught Kelly under the chin with a sickening crunch. The revolver went flying across the pilothouse. Rivero spun back around in the same movement and tried to cover Blake, but it was too late.

  Blake went into him headfirst, driving him back. Rivero gasped and doubled over with a whoosh of air. His rifle went clattering to the deck and slid into the corner of the pilothouse. Rivero backed up into the opposite corner with a wild look in his eyes, sucking air like a cornered animal. His hand went down to his right ankle and unsheathed the Ka-Bar combat knife. Blake stared at it. The edge glistened under a light coat of oil, dark stains along the blood groove. He glanced at El Callado’s scrambled brains leaking out onto the deck and felt a chill go through him. The two men circled, feinting, looking for an opening. Maria stood paralyzed, the heels of her hands pressed against her temples, staring back and forth between Kelly’s unconscious body in the corner and Blake dodging Rivero’s lightning-like slashes. Blake saw the Colombian lower his head slightly and knew he was driving in for a gut shot. He twisted to the side, grabbed Rivero by the wrist and chopped the knife out of his hand. It went skittering across the deck and came to rest by the engine-order telegraph. Blake grabbed Rivero by the collar with his left hand and swung for his head with his right. The solid crack of knuckles against jawbone startled Blake, sent Rivero crumpling into the corner where his M-16 lay. Blake lunged for the rifle, too late. Rivero had the muzzle against his chest by the time he got there.

  Rivero came to his feet, shaking off the effects of the blow. Blake backed off with the M-16 in his chest, shaking the pain out of his fingers. He looked at Kelly, crumpled in the corner with blood gushing from her mouth and chin.

  “You lousy bastard.”

  “I didn’t want to kill you, Teniente,” Rivero said, breathing hard, “I admired the way you handled the ship through the storm, how you managed to get us here, but you’re becoming too much trouble to keep alive.” Sergeant Rivero hesitated for a moment, then raised the rifle and pointed it at Blake’s head. “Just know that you died for a good cause.”

  Maria came out of her trance. She scooped up Kelly’s revolver, aimed it with both hands, squinted her eyes and pulled the trigger. The sound of the two shots was almost simultaneous, the revolver a split second first.

  Blake dropped back against the bulkhead with a stunned expression, a deep red stain spreading through the left side of his khaki shirt. Rivero grimaced and slumped to his knees, the rifle clattering to the deck. He clutched the open wound in his right shoulder, then ripped the shirt of his fatigues open and gazed at the river of blood pulsing out. He tried to pinch the wound under his right arm closed, but the blood kept gushing.

  Maria stood staring at the revolver with wide eyes, her fingers turning red from the grip. She looked at Blake and screamed. She spun on Rivero and said something in Spanish, the smoking pistol still locked in her outstretched arms, pointed at him.

  Rivero looked past her at the Blackhawk beginning its descent. He scooped up the M-16 in his left hand and ran out on the port bridge wing, trailing blood, signaling with the rifle. Maria aimed the pistol at him through the door of the pilothouse. Blake tried to say, “No,” and it came out as a moan. She dropped the pistol and flung herself across Blake’s chest and began to cry with loud choking sobs. Rivero came back inside and picked up the pistol. He stood looking down on them for a minute as if deciding whether to use it. He walked out on the bridge wing, threw the pistol over the side, and quickly disappeared down the ladder to the deck.

  Jorge Cordoba squinted into the western sun and looked down on the narrow wake of the freighter. Even to his untrained eye, he could see that the ship was in trouble. It appeared to be barely moving, slow and ponderous, riding low in the water, struggling toward the dark lump of land now visible on the western horizon. His guess had been right. They were trying to run the ship aground in order to save it. He had to find a way to stop it before it got there.

  “Got to take her in pretty quick,” Michael Gaines shouted in Jorge’s ear. “We’re running on fumes.” He pointed to the fuel-indicator warning lights flashing red.

  Jorge glanced at the warning lights, then down to the freighter. A lone figure appeared on deck with a rifle.

  Jorge climbed into the jump seat behind the pilot, slid the door open, and positioned himself behind the starboard machine gun. A belt of cartridges fed into it from
a green ammunition box mounted on the side. He gripped the handles and swiveled it around. “How do you work this thing?”

  “Just release the safety, and let her rip.” Gaines banked for a better shot. “Hey, wait a minute, that guy looks like a military type, maybe a marine. That might be our contact.”

  Jorge elevated the handle and sighted down the barrel. He positioned the ramp sight on the figure in fatigues and lined it up with the inner circle on the after sight. The figure stood there, lifting his rifle.

  “Hold it, he’s signaling with his-”

  Jorge squeezed the trigger, and a stream of 7.62mm rounds ripped across the weather deck in a diagonal pattern. The figure exploded from shoulder to waist in a cloud of wood splinters, cloth fragments and blood.

  “Jesus Christ,” Gaines said, “what did you do that for? He was trying to signal us. You trying to start a war?”

  “Circle again,” Jorge said. “I want to see if there’s anyone else aboard.”

  “Crazy bastard,” Gaines said. He turned in his seat and shouted over his shoulder, “We got enough fuel for about one more pass, then we’re going in. When these crates run out of gas, they got all the aerodynamics of a grand piano.” He banked the helicopter to the left and circled the ship in a tight radius.

  Jorge clenched the machine gun and scanned the superstructure of the ship and the open hatch over the number three cargo hold for any other sign of movement. The ship appeared to be deserted. He motioned for Gaines to land.

  “Take it in nice and slow. Hover over the landing pad and be ready to take off again. Don’t set it down until I tell you to.”

  Gaines approached the wallowing freighter slowly from the stern and hovered over the fantail, the rotors whipping the sea around them. Jorge sat with the machine gun pointed at the superstructure of the ship, poised for any movement. The engine coughed and caught again.

  “We got to land,” Gaines said. “We ain’t got nothing left.”

  Seeing no sign of life, Jorge motioned for Gaines to land. The Blackhawk settled down on the fantail with a heavy sigh.

  Gaines pulled the parking brake on and looked over his shoulder at Jorge. “I don’t much like the way you do business, mister.”

  “Leave it running,” Jorge said.

  “What for? It ain’t going to run much longer. Dry as a boiled possum.” Gaines throttled the big helicopter down to a slow idle and pulled off his helmet.

  “I’m going up to the pilothouse,” Jorge said. “Cover me with the machine gun.”

  “Who are these folks?” Gaines asked. “I like to know who I’m fighting.”

  “A Navy boarding party.”

  “Whose Navy?”

  “Yours.”

  “Mine? You saying that’s a U.S. Marine you cut down?”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t care,” Jorge said.

  Gaines turned and looked at him over his shoulder. “Well, you son of a bitch. You put one over on old Michael Gaines, didn’t you?” He turned back around. “This here is the end of the line for me, Pancho. I’ve done a lot of things in my time, but I don’t fight against my own people.”

  “You have a curious code of ethics,” Jorge said. He pulled the pistol from his waistband, snapped the safety off, and pressed the muzzle against the back of the pilot’s head. “Get out.”

  Gaines left the helicopter idling and stepped out onto the weather deck. He turned and faced Jorge with his hands raised haphazardly. “It don’t have to be this way.”

  “Turn around.”

  Gaines turned and faced the superstructure of the ship.

  “You’re either with me or against me,” Jorge said. “Which is it?”

  Gaines shook his head. “I can’t be with you on this one.”

  Jorge raised the pistol and pointed it at the base of the pilot’s skull. “Very noble of you,” he said and squeezed the trigger. Michael Gaines fell forward on the teak deck and lay still, little pink tufts of brain matter stuck to his face. Jorge stepped around Gaines’s body and walked quickly toward the superstructure.

  Blake felt the warm wetness of tears on his face and a trembling form over him, shaking him.

  “Don’t die, you bastard, don’t you dare die.”

  He opened his eyes a crack and saw two shadowy forms above him.

  “You can’t die now.” A hand was shaking him. “Look, there’s land, we’ve made it.”

  He pushed the form away with his right arm and heard Maria cry out. He tried to move and felt an excruciating pain in his left side. Kelly gasped and rocked back on her heels.

  He opened his eyes and looked at them. Maria snuffled and wiped her eyes on the back of her hand. Kelly stared at him open-mouthed. The dried blood on her chin made her mouth look off center.

  “Help me up,” Blake said. His voice sounded distant to him, the faraway sound of a voice in fog.

  “Lie still, you’ve been shot,” Kelly said.

  Blake forced himself into a sitting position, clutching the red stain on his left side. He pulled the tear in his shirt open wider. He put his hand in the red mush and probed, grimacing.

  “Are you okay?” Kelly said.

  “I think he missed the rib,” Blake said. He felt high from the natural anesthetic his body was producing. He looked at Maria and made an abortive attempt at a smile. “You saved my bacon, little one.”

  “You’ve lost so much blood,” Kelly said.

  “Where’s Rivero?” Blake asked.

  “I don’t know,” Kelly said. “He was gone when I came to. I crawled over to you and heard shooting on deck. It sounded like a machine gun.”

  “Where’s the helicopter?”

  Kelly stood up and looked aft. “On the fantail. The motor’s running, but I don’t see anyone in it.”

  Blake heard the sound of footsteps coming up the starboard ladder to the bridge. He made a motion to Maria with his trigger finger.

  “The sargento, he took it,” Maria whispered.

  A tall Latin man about Blake’s age wearing a wrinkled dark blue business suit appeared on the starboard bridge wing and peered into the pilothouse. He had an automatic pistol in his hand. He stepped in cautiously, stopped abruptly and leveled it at Blake.

  “Who are you?”

  Blake grimaced and pushed himself slowly up with his back against the bulkhead. He came to his feet clutching his side and blinked the darkness out of his eyes. “Lieutenant junior grade Daniel F. Blake, USN,” he said. “Who are you?”

  The man smiled. “One pleasant introduction deserves another. I am Jorge Luis Cordoba. Forgive me if I do not shake hands.”

  Blake pulled his blood-soaked right hand away from the wound in his side and looked at it. He shoved it back against the bloody mess. “No apology necessary.”

  Jorge looked at him and nodded his head. “So you are the brave young American officer who saved the ship.”

  Blake cocked his head and looked at the man. “Am I supposed to know you?”

  “No, compañero, but I know you,” Jorge said. He smiled. “You’re a good man, a better man than I would have expected. Too bad. It was all for nothing.” He looked around. “How do you stop this thing?”

  “I wouldn’t,” Blake said. “The ship is sinking. We’re trying to beach it on that atoll.” He glanced out at the pink-and-brown strip of land coming into view.

  “I thought as much,” the man said, following Blake’s line of sight.

  “I didn’t think we’d get this far,” Blake said. “By rights, it shouldn’t still be afloat. But it’s beginning to look like we just might make it.”

  The man stared at the atoll for a second, then looked back at Blake. “How do you stop it?”

  “Look, friend, whoever you are,” Blake said, “maybe I’m not making myself clear. This ship is sinking.”

  “Cordoba, Jorge Cordoba. Please call me by name. I do not wish to die among strangers.”

  “Now why would you want to do that?” Blake asked.

  The
man stared vacantly at the engine-order telegraph. “Pundonor.” He said the word absently, softly.

  Blake glanced at Kelly, looking for a translation.

  “Point of honor,” Kelly said. She gave Blake a palms-up shrug.

  The man glanced up and smiled at the confusion on their faces. “Something you Norte Americanos wouldn’t understand, Teniente.”

  “There seems to be a lot lately I don’t understand,” Blake said.

  The man seemed to come back from a faraway place. “Now, how do you stop the ship?” He reached for the engine-order telegraph, and Kelly stepped forward. He turned and leveled his automatic at her. “I have no compunction about killing you all, even the chica. We’re all going to die anyway.”

  Blake stared at him. In spite of his disheveled appearance, Cordoba had an aristocratic air about him. But he was clearly insane. “There’s no need to shoot anyone,” Blake said. “If you’re so hot to die, just pull that lever straight up, and we’ll all go down together.” He slumped against the bulkhead with squinted eyes and tried to look vulnerable. It wasn’t difficult. He was afraid he might pass out from the pain in his side.

  Cordoba looked at Blake curiously and fumbled with the telegraph handle, cocking his head to read the indicators on the side. Through slitted eyes, Blake saw the opening and knew he wouldn’t get another. He pushed himself away from the bulkhead, grabbed the man’s right wrist with his left hand and tried to shake the gun loose. He drew back and swung for his head with his right, catching Cordoba behind his left ear with a resounding crack of flesh on bone. The man went down on one knee and shook his head. Blake pried the gun loose from his fingers and staggered back to the far corner. He slumped down between the two bulkheads and let himself slide down on deck. He grimaced and shook his head violently. Kelly started for him, and he waved her away. His left side was on fire. His right hand throbbed. He shifted the automatic to his right hand and could barely grip it. He looked at his hand. The knuckle of his middle finger was pushed back. He was sure he’d broken it. He hadn’t hit this many guys in one day since his intramural boxing days at Kings Point.

  “Now just settle down, my friend, and let’s get this ship beached.” He pointed the gun at Cordoba.