Point of Honor Read online

  For Karen, my wife, partner and best friend, whose love and encouragement made a dream come true.

  Acta non verba

  - Motto, U.S. Merchant Marine Academy, Kings Point, New York

  Behind every great fortune is a crime.

  - Honoré de Balzac

  “Mr. Blake, sir. The cap’n wants you on the bridge.” The voice behind the flashlight sounded deferential but insistent.

  Daniel Blake rolled over into the beam of light and squinted at his watch. 0445. A long night was about to get longer. He swung out of his bunk and ground a pair of knuckles into his eyes.

  “Evaporator unit again?”

  “I don’t know, sir.” The captain’s messenger, a seaman named Durbin, had an accent that sounded like south Texas. “He just said, ‘Get Mr. Blake up here on the double.’”

  “I’m on my way,” Blake said. The cool steel against his bare feet began to revive him. He ran a hand through his hair and reached for his khakis, still slung across the back of the chair where he’d thrown them.

  Durbin peered into Blake’s bloodshot eyes, which must have looked worse under the red lens of the flashlight, and winced. “You want some coffee or something, sir?”

  “No, thanks,” Blake said, rummaging in his wardrobe. “I’m still wired from that stuff they brew in the engine room.”

  “Yeah, I heard y’all pulled an all-nighter again. This old bucket’s falling apart, ain’t it, sir?”

  Blake nodded. He’d spent most of the night making emergency repairs to the freshwater evaporator unit while the aging destroyer steamed through the perimeter of a tropical storm, and he was in no mood for conversation.

  “Don’t know how y’all stand it down there belowdecks all the time. Makes me glad I’m a deck-ape,” Durbin said, disappearing through the curtain.

  “You chose well,” Blake said to the empty stateroom. He retrieved a seldom-used foul-weather jacket from his wardrobe. “Lt. (jg) Daniel F. Blake, USN” was stamped in gold letters above the pocket. Lieutenant junior grade. His first promotion had come through along with his billet as OIC of engineering. He should have been grateful - it was normally a job for a full lieutenant - but heading up the engineering department was exactly what he didn’t want at this stage of his career.

  He pulled on the new foul-weather jacket with a grimace, knowing he’d look out of place on the bridge. He hadn’t yet qualified to stand deck watches on the destroyer, and it was a sore point. He liked engineering well enough, had majored in marine engineering systems at Kings Point, but after sailing in the merchant fleet for two years after graduation, he’d come to realize what he really wanted. He wanted to command his own ship, a route that was closed to him in the merchant marine if he followed the career path of an engineer. He could be chief engineer someday, but never captain. The Navy was his only shot at command. Vicki had been shocked and a little angry when he gave up a high-paying job with APL and activated his reserve commission. But he’d found that the Navy didn’t want to let him break out of the mold, either. His first two years of active duty had been spent patching up the aging machinery of an obsolete destroyer, and he was getting anxious. At twenty-eight, he couldn’t afford to be stuck belowdecks much longer. Others were passing him by.

  Blake made his way from his stateroom to the weather deck and climbed the starboard ladder to the bridge, grateful for the salt spray that stung his face. He felt a measure of pride in the steady hum of the main engines coming through the steel handrails, but nothing felt like being above deck on the old ship in the cool morning air. He pulled the clean air deep into his lungs and paused on the bridge wing, just to enjoy the sight and feel of her moving beneath his feet. His eyes took in every detail in the predawn glow: the undulating bow, the sweeping radar antenna, the stern light twinkling over the white wake which fanned out behind the destroyer, then dissipated into the sea.

  Blake glanced over the antiquated ship, her once awesome technology now sadly outdated. A gallant old lady. Commissioned after World War II, and named for a Medal of Honor winner, the USS Carlyle was one of the last of her class of destroyers still on active duty. Scuttlebutt had it she’d been headed for the bone yard in Bremerton when the war on drugs heated up, amidst much political posturing between the American and Colombian governments, giving her a new lease on life. The ship was into her third week of patrolling the Pacific Ocean waters off the coast of South America in this highly publicized joint venture, but not much was happening. Nothing like being on the fast track - stuck in the engine room of an obsolete destroyer assigned to fight a nonexistent drug war.

  A light rain began to fall. Blake took a deep breath and stepped through the door leading to the bridge. Dawn was breaking as Captain Hammer and Lieutenant Commander Mayfield, the ship’s executive officer, stared intently through the bridge windows with binoculars.

  “Right standard rudder, all ahead one-third,” Captain Hammer said.

  “Right standard rudder, all ahead one-third, aye, sir,” the helmsman echoed.

  Blake heard the clang of the engine-order telegraph and felt the turbines begin their gradual decline. In his mind’s eye, he could see Chief Kozlewski and his people scrambling into action in the engine room.

  “Morning, Captain,” Blake said.

  “Well, at last, our resident expert on the merchant marine,” Captain Hammer said without lowering his binoculars. “Mr. Harrington, let’s get an expert opinion.” He motioned with his head for the Officer of the Deck to hand his binoculars to Blake. “Take a look at that ship on the horizon, Mr. Blake, and tell me what you see.”

  Blake took the binoculars and tried to blink the fog out of his eyes. The sun was coming up behind the destroyer, and he could just make out the outline of the ship. “Looks like a breakbulk freighter, a stickship,” he said, referring to the sticklike cargo booms emanating from deck. “I would say she’s an older cargo vessel, possibly a C-2.”

  “And what else do you see, Mr. Blake?”

  Blake stiffened at the captain’s condescending tone. It had not gone unnoticed in the wardroom that Captain Hammer had singled out the junior officers who were Kings Point and Annapolis grads - “ring knockers,” the captain called them - for this kind of patronizing treatment. For a while, he tried not wearing the heavy gold class ring that seemed to irritate the captain, but it didn’t seem to help. He wore it openly now, a small fuck-you.

  “She appears to be dead in the water, and I don’t see any running lights, sir,” Blake said, handing the binoculars back to the OOD.

  “Well, Mr. Blake,” the captain said, still staring through his binoculars, “we can’t just let her drift in the middle of the sea lanes without running lights, can we?”

  “No, sir,” Blake said, staring at the back of Captain Hammer’s head. He glanced at the executive officer, then the OOD. Both looked away.

  “Mr. Harrington, you have the conn,” the captain said, returning control of the ship to the Officer of the Deck. He hung his binoculars on a hook and turned to Blake. “I want you to board that freighter and check it out. Take some of your engineering people, you may have to help get her under way. If she’s been abandoned, you’ll need to rig some power to the running lights. Take a corpsman and a supply of medication. There could be illness aboard. We can’t rule out a drug connection, so you’d better draw side arms. Oh, and take that Colombian marine, Sergeant whatever-the-hell-his-name-is.” The captain flashed a wry smile. “We want to be politically correct.”

  Blake grimaced. You wouldn’t know the meaning of the word. He’d caught only an occasional glimpse of the quiet marine who had reported aboard three weeks ago in Buenaventura, courtesy of the Colombian government. He’d been assigned to the ship as a result of the highly publicized, an
d highly political, joint venture between the two countries to bring the influx of drugs into North America under control. Blake could see that the enlisted troops were impressed with him, but the deployment of the lone sergeant from the tiny Colombian Marine Corps was seen in the wardroom as a joke, a token effort done more to ease political pressure from the Americans than any attempt to fight a drug war.

  “Captain, may I have a word with you in private, sir?” Lieutenant Commander Mayfield said, turning his head to one side.

  “Make it quick,” the captain said, stepping a few paces away with the exec.

  The wind buffeting the bridge whistled down to a low howl and Blake could overhear the strained conversation. “Captain,” he heard the exec say, “there’s no telling what they could run into aboard that freighter. We haven’t been able to raise anyone; could be she’s been abandoned, or her crew’s disabled. In either case, it’s risky to put people aboard without knowing why-”

  “Only way to find out why is to put people aboard, Commander.”

  “Yes, sir, but it’s getting a bit rough to be launching small craft. The barometer’s falling and the wind’s picking up. We can get a whaleboat over the side, but it might be tough to recover in a few hours-”

  “Every situation has risks, Commander.”

  “I agree, Captain, but I think we’re out of our league on this one. I’d suggest we contact the Coast Guard station in Panama and ask them to send out a cutter with people trained to handle this kind of thing. We can stand by until they get here.”

  Blake saw a tinge of red creeping up the captain’s neck, into his face. “We’re not standing by for anybody. That ship’s a hazard to navigation. It would take two days to get a cutter out here, and we’re not going to let her drift in the sea lanes another night without running lights. What’s the problem, Commander? Blake’s a qualified engineer. All we’re asking him to do is check it out. It’s a simple assignment. No reason why he can’t handle it.”

  “I don’t think it’s quite that simple, sir-”

  “And I don’t like to give orders twice, Commander.”

  Blake watched, mesmerized, as the executive officer coolly returned the captain’s stare.

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” the exec said finally.

  “With the storm moving this way, time is of the essence,” Captain Hammer said, turning back to Blake. “Muster your party on the boat deck and be ready to shove off at 0600.”

  Blake pitched forward, nearly colliding with the captain, as the forecastle of the destroyer was submerged under a huge wave that appeared out of nowhere. He struggled to regain his footing as the bow of the ship slowly broke through the surface, shedding tons of green water through the scuppers. The old destroyer resumed its familiar creaking roll as though nothing had happened. Blake glanced at the captain, then the exec, then out at the whitecaps being whipped around by the wind. He was grateful to Commander Mayfield for intervening, but the exec had struck out, and Blake knew it would be pointless to object. More to the point, he knew if he crossed the captain on this one, it would be the equivalent of career suicide. He would be stuck in the engine room for as long as Captain Hammer was in command of the Carlyle, and the die would be cast; he would never be seen as a line officer with the potential for command.

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” he heard himself say.

  Jorge Cordoba awoke to the gentle snore of the two girls sleeping beside him. He stretched and yawned and blinked impassively at the crumpled forms, black hair askew on satin pillows. Another gift from Rafael Ayala. The director of security never missed an opportunity to ingratiate himself with Don Gallardo’s godson.

  Ayala had said the girls were twins, but Jorge doubted it, now that he saw them in the morning light. Sisters, perhaps, but not twins. It was hard to tell their ages - Indians tended to age quickly - but the oldest couldn’t have been more than sixteen. He felt guilty, dallying with ones so young. Still, the thought pleased him. At twenty-eight, he could still exhaust two young wildcats such as these.

  He rubbed his face in his hands. Enough self-indulgence. Today would be a busy day. He climbed over the one on his left - he thought her name was Margarita - and padded into the bathroom.

  He stood naked on the cold tile and relieved himself, resisting the impulse to glance over his shoulder at his image in the mirror. Shaking himself off, he drew up straighter and turned sideways, increasing the tension in his stomach muscles. His olive skin took on a golden glow in the soft light. Tall and trim, with square, European features, he stood out from his Colombian associates. He knew what they called him behind his back. El Bicho de Oro. The Golden Cock. Let the jealous bastards talk. Soon they would have a new title to cluck about: El Jeffe de Finanzas - what his classmates at Harvard would call Chief Financial Officer - of one of the richest and most powerful organizations on earth.

  “El Jeffe de Finanzas,” he said aloud, daubing shaving cream under his nose. He liked the way it sounded, echoing around the white marble of the bathroom. It was a goal he had pursued for the past eight years, and Don Gallardo had hinted that the announcement would be made at the next board meeting. It would come as no surprise. Everyone in the organization knew the prize would be his. And why should it not be? He had demonstrated his unique talents well enough. Under Jorge’s management, hundreds of millions of dollars from the world’s slums and barrios had been converted into legitimate investments which continued to grow each year at a prodigious rate.

  The telephone in the bathroom chimed. He picked it up and cradled it against his cheek. “Yes?”

  “Good morning, Señor Cordoba,” the voice of his secretary purred. “I trust you slept well?”

  “Yes, Elena.”

  “And your guests?”

  Jorge pulled the razor down his cheek and smiled. “Still sleeping. They are quite exhausted.”

  “No doubt.”

  Jorge chuckled at the venom in Elena’s voice. The tantrum of a jealous wife was not as interesting as the controlled restraint of a possessive secretary.

  “Surely you have not called to inquire about my guests.”

  All business again, Elena said, “Señor Ayala called.”

  Jorge jerked and nicked his chin. “What does that rana want?”

  Elena giggled. Jorge thought she took a perverse delight in working for the only man in Don Gallardo’s organization who would dare to call the director of security a frog.

  “He won’t say, just that it’s urgent. He’s been calling since I got here at five.”

  Jorge glowered at the tiny red dot welling up in the cleft of his chin. “Everything is urgent with him.”

  “He says he’s coming over if you won’t take his call.”

  “I have no time for that fool and his idiotic schemes.” Jorge dabbed at the cut with a scrap of tissue paper. “We’re closing the deal in Montevideo this morning. Call Rodriguez and remind him to be here for the conference call at six.”

  “As you wish, Señor.”

  Jorge replaced the phone in its wall mount and stepped into the shower, letting the steam take him. The stinging spray was like a baptism, washing the dried residue of the two girls down the drain, releasing him from his sins. He finger-combed his hair in the dripping silence and paused to examine the small bald spot forming on the back of his head. No bigger than a peso, it worried him constantly, though it didn’t seem to be spreading. He fluffed his hair around it and stepped out into the apartment to towel off.

  Jorge loved the solitude of the place, high above the city. He had managed to consolidate his financial operations by expropriating the entire top floor of the Augusto Gallardo Building, a circular tower of glass and steel rising phallic-like in the heart of the financial district. Unmarked, the financial nerve center of the organization was never acknowledged; the only clue to its existence was a key slot in a private elevator.

  He stood at the foot of the bed, buffing his skin with the warm towel, and watched the sun begin its rise over the mountains. A l
one hawk drifted by on air currents.

  “Wake up, little birds. Time to fly away.”

  The girls began to stir. The one called Margarita stretched and spread her legs under the silk sheet, looking coy. “But the cock hasn’t crowed yet. Is the golden one still asleep?”

  “Out, my little chickens.” Jorge whipped the sheet off, exposing the two girls. They lay open before him, gooseflesh rising on coffee-colored skin, little game hens waiting to be stuffed. He tightened his gut against the temptation. “I have work to do.”

  Jorge turned to walk away. The girls scrambled out of bed and tackled his legs, laughing and giggling like small children.

  The door opened and Juan, his valet, entered, carrying a silver tray. In a world where silence and longevity went hand in hand, the sight of three naked people tussling in the center of the room drew not so much as a glance. Jorge stepped toward the bathroom and jerked a thumb toward the door. “Get these puta out of here.” He spoke English, the language of finance, most of the time, but preferred some Spanish words. Whore was too sharp for ones as lovely as these.

  By the time he’d finished drying his hair, the girls were gone. The bed had been made up, and Juan had placed fresh flowers around the room, which now seemed unnaturally quiet and empty. Juan pressed a button on the wall, and the doors on a mirrored wardrobe drew back, exposing a row of dark suits.

  Jorge looked over the array of garments, custom tailored on Fifth Avenue and Savile Row, while Juan laid out a selection of silk ties in muted shades of red and blue. Today would be the completion of a milestone event that could result in a congratulatory call from the Don himself, and Jorge wanted his appearance to reflect the moment. He selected a navy suit, with barely visible pinstripes, and a maroon foulard tie - the international uniform of corporate finance.

  He stepped into the office adjacent to the bedroom and paused, as he did each morning, to admire his collection. The walls were lined with the paintings and drawings of Gregorio Vasquez de Arce y Ceballos, the most famous of Colombia’s colonial artists. He studied his latest acquisition, a painting his agent had picked up last week at auction in Bogotá. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and gently wiped a speck of dust from the frame. He now owned twelve of the most sought-after pieces. Someday it would be known as the Jorge Cordoba collection in one of the great museums of the world. He wouldn’t die and be forgotten the way his parents had.