“Vat is this nonsense about running the main engine, Milam?”
“I need to test it. I figure we leave on the main engine and make up tow outside.”
“Oh, you do? I must remind you that it is not your decision to make.”
Here we go, Blake thought as Milam reddened. By agreement, the Panamanians were responsible for returning the ship to service, including the return to the builder’s yard in San Diego for repairs. They had in turn contracted a Dutch salvage company, relegating Blake and Milam to observers, a part neither liked but which Blake handled better than Milam.
“Actually, Captain Brinkerhoff,” Blake said, “the chief is right. I’m sure you won’t break tow at sea to let us test the engine. This will be our only chance.”
“Nee. This is not my problem. We lock down with tugs and make up tow at Miraflores guide wall and tow straight to sea. This is most efficient, ja?”
“Look, asshole,” Milam said, “no ship I’m chief on leaves port on a rope, so—”
“Ahhh… so this is about saving the pride of the chief engineer, ja? And who is to pay?”
“Pay for what?” Milam asked.
“Extra cost for harbor tugs to stand by, launch to return line handlers to shore, time lost, all costs not in our quoted price,” Brinkerhoff said. “We follow my plan.”
Milam glared as Calderon spoke. “Perhaps I can help, Capitán Brinkerhoff. The ACP will provide the needed services at no charge. Is that satisfactory?”
Brinkerhoff glared at Milam. “Ja,” he said at last before stalking away in disgust.
“Thank you, Señor,” Blake said as Milam nodded.
“It is nothing, Capitán,” Calderon said. “I can at least ensure your departure is dignified.”
Chief Mate Lynda Arnett stood at the main-deck rail, peering straight down as the pilot boat inched closer to the ship’s side. The pilot stepped off the boat onto the rope ladder and began his climb toward her, showing her only the top of his head as he concentrated on the swaying ladder and the task at hand. As he neared the deck, Arnett stepped back to give him room to come aboard.
“Captain McCluskey,” Arnett said as a smiling face appeared.
“You didn’t think I’d let anyone else take you out, did you?” Roy McCluskey asked as he ignored Arnett’s outstretched hand to fold her in a hug.
“I have to say, this is the first time I’ve ever hugged a second mate,” McCluskey said, releasing her.
“Chief mate,” Arnett corrected him.
His smile widened. “Fantastic. And well deserved.”
Arnett tried not to glance at McCluskey’s feet and failed.
“How’s the… how are you?” she asked, her eyes back on his face.
“Right as rain.” McCluskey stamped his prosthetic foot on the deck for emphasis. “They were able to save the knee, and that made a huge difference.”
Arnett nodded, smiling back, and they stood for a moment in awkward silence.
“Lynda. If it wasn’t for you—”
“Just doing my job, Captain,” Arnett cut him off.
“Well, thank you just the same,” McCluskey said.
Arnett nodded again, thankful he’d sensed her discomfort and cut his thanks short.
“Now,” McCluskey said, “let’s go see Captain Blake and start you on your way.”
No event save the opening of the canal itself had impacted Panama like the attack of July 4. It was named by consensus, but unlike 9/11, date alone was unsuitable, the people instinctively rejecting a name that relegated their tragedy to second place behind the birthday of their huge northern neighbor. Instead, it became simply “Pedro Miguel,” a division in time. Things occurred “before Pedro Miguel” or “a week after Pedro Miguel,” spoken with sadness and growing pride as the story unfolded.
Many stories, actually: the pilot who delayed the flames, quick-thinking tug captains who herded burning gasoline with their propeller wash, firefighters who abandoned traffic-snarled vehicles to run kilometers in the heat in a heroic but unsuccessful bid to save children at Miraflores; the list was long. But in a visual age, none was quite like the plunge of the Luther Hurd.
The video was viewed globally, but as the Bosphorus, then Iran and a dozen fresh stories dominated the news, it faded. But not in Panama, where it was shown repeatedly, and the yanqui ship with the strange name became, regardless of her flag, a Panamanian icon. Her repair progress was widely reported, unnoticed by the four Americans, lacking the time to watch the news and the Spanish to understand it if they had. But the people of Panama had no intention of letting Luther Hurd slip away quietly.
Manuel Reyes stood on the walkway, peering through the chain-link barrier, a hand on the shoulder of each of his boys. His sons held flags, Panamanian in one hand and American in the other. He’d been uneasy with the gringo flag, but the old plea of “But Papa, all the other kids…” had stolen his resolve. And, he thought, the yanquis helped him avenge Maria. He gave each shoulder a gentle squeeze. They were beginning to show signs of their old spirit.
“Look, Papa.” Miguelito pointed. “There. Where the little boat is shooting water.”
“Hah. A lot you know, Miguel,” scoffed Paco, irritated his twin had spotted the ship first. “That is a fireboat. You should use the right name.”
Reyes smiled. Much improved. “You are both right. Yes, Paco, that is a fireboat, and yes, Miguelito, I do believe the ship is Luther Hurd.”
His words were drowned out as the people of Panama bid farewell to Luther Hurd.
Blake paced the bridge as McCluskey conned the ship. Arnett was at the console, and the ACP had provided a helmsman, leaving Blake no real duties and edgy. And, he admitted, gazing down at his filthy, rust-streaked ship, embarrassed. It was like walking around with your fly open, hoping no one noticed. He wished again they’d departed at night.
McCluskey smiled. “Don’t worry, Captain Blake. I won’t run into anything.”
Probably wouldn’t matter much, Blake thought as Balboa docks loomed to port. “What the hell’s that?” he asked as berthed ships all began to sound their horns.
“Ships in port wishing Luther Hurd Godspeed,” said McCluskey, puzzled at the reaction.
Blake gave a tight-lipped nod. So much for slipping away, he thought as they negotiated the waters of the port and turned south. “What the hell—”
“Dead slow ahead,” McCluskey ordered.
“Dead slow ahead, aye,” Arnett confirmed.
McCluskey grinned. “This may be a bit tricky, Captain, but I think we’ll get through OK.”
“Slowing down,” said the first engineer. “Wonder what’s up?”
Milam shrugged. “Who knows? We gave up sightseeing when we decided to push her rather than point her.” The phone buzzed before the first could reply.
“Engine Room. Chief.”
“Jim. Come up. You've got to see this.”
“I’ve seen Balboa before, Cap. I need—”
“Just come, Chief! Now.” Blake hung up.
“Shit,” Milam said. “You got it, First? The Old Man has a bug up his ass.”
The first engineer nodded, and Milam started the long climb, muttering about rope chokers with no regard for people who worked for a living.