A Question of Honor (18 page)

Noah took the binoculars and watched the activity aboard the
Sanchez
. The ship listed and wallowed like a pregnant whale, far below the safety waterline. Noah counted three open hatches on her deck. Scowling, he put down the binoculars.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this one, Joe.”

The ensign nodded, skillfully easing the
Osprey
alongside the
Sanchez
. “Three hatches. Not good. The hold must be huge. They could have gunmen hiding down there anywhere.” Edwards passed a quick look to his skipper. “Just be careful…”

Noah was handed an M-16 rifle by a member of the boarding party. A slight grin touched his mouth. “I’ve got everything in the world to live for, Joe. I’m not about to waste my life on a drug runner.” He placed the portable radio on his belt and stepped from the bridge. “I’ll stay in touch once we get aboard,” he promised.

Vaguely Noah heard Edwards’s commanding voice coming over the PA system, ordering the
Sanchez
to heave to and allow them to board. Noah’s mind was on his work, but his heart lingered on Kit. It was true. He did have everything to live for. He’d found Kit. Noah walked down the immaculate deck of the
Osprey
to join his waiting five-man party. Like the crew, Noah was dressed in the one-piece dark blue Coast Guard uniform. They all wore flak jackets.

Petty Officer Jack Formen approached him. “We’re ready, Skipper.”

“Good. Lock and load,” Noah ordered his men quietly. The metallic sound of ammunition magazines being loaded into the lethal weapons was heard. The
Osprey
loomed over the
Sanchez
. Noah saw only two half-naked crewmen in sight. They were dark skinned. Probably Colombian. His jaw clenched as his gaze swept across the vessel. His instincts told him the rest of the motley crew was down in the hold, waiting.

“What do you think?” Noah asked Formen.

The petty officer of forty-five shook his graying head. “Not good, Skipper. This tub’s too big to be run by those two dudes.”

Noah’s mouth quirked as he nodded, bracing himself to compensate for the movement of the
Osprey
. “Yeah…okay, men, let’s watch ourselves very carefully,” he warned the party.

Noah gave Formen a nod, and the six men leaped from one ship deck to the other. The three hatches looked like yawning, cavernous mouths to Noah. He ordered McMorrison, the youngest crewman, to detain and search the two
Sanchez
men standing on the bridge. Noah’s sensitive nostrils detected the sweet odor of marijuana. He motioned Formen to his side.

“You take the first hatch.”

“Yes, sir.”

Noah looked at the other two men. “Dawson and Crinita, you take the second hatch. I’ll take the third.”

“Yes, sir,” Dawson said.

Noah turned to the last man, Sullivan. “You wait up here in case we get into trouble,” he commanded.

“Yes, sir.”

The silence became deafening as Noah walked lightly across the cluttered deck laden with coils of rope. The
Sanchez
was a garbage scow, with rust in evidence everywhere. In the gray light of dusk, everything became indistinguishable. They would have to descend those wooden ladders into either total darkness or dimly lit areas where precious seconds would be lost until their eyes adjusted.

Noah’s heart began a slow pound as he released the M-16's safety, readying the weapon. His hand tightened around the rifle and he slowed his step, trying to discern if anyone was waiting with gun in hand at the bottom of the hold. His eyes couldn’t pierce the gloom. Noah walked cautiously around the hold, lifting his head momentarily to see if Formen or the other team had descended yet. They were getting ready to go down. Sweat trickled down his temples. Gripping the splintered ladder and swinging over the hold entrance, he winced at the powerful odor of marijuana. Grimly Noah glanced around. The feeble light from several electric light bulbs left huge areas of gray shadow throughout the cavernous hold.

Noah descended to the lower deck, turning, his back against the ladder. Silence. He pulled the radio from his belt. Putting his mouth close to it, he pressed the button. “Nothing so far, Joe. Stay alert,” he ordered.

Replacing the radio, Noah allowed his hearing to do the work for him. His eyes were adjusting and he saw his other three men coming down into the hold. Bales of tightly wrapped and freshly dried marijuana were packed everywhere with the exception of a few key aisles.

There was the sound of a metallic click. Cold horror washed over Noah. “Formen!” he yelled, “look out!” and assumed a crouched position.

Before Formen could react, the roar of gunfire shattered the silence. The petty officer was knocked off his feet. He slumped to the deck, wounded. The smell of spent ammunition stung Noah’s flared nostrils as he raced down the central aisle toward his wounded crewman. Screams, curses and more gunfire mingled in earsplitting explosions all around him. Noah saw four
Sanchez
crewmen hiding behind bales, firing away at his men. Everything blanked out in his mind except the imperative to pin down the enemy.

“Crinita, Dawson!” he roared, “four men at eleven o’clock!” He threw himself flat on the hard surface of the deck, rolling over twice as his men fired in that direction. Finding protection against a bale, Noah glanced toward Formen, who lay unconscious only twenty feet away. Blood was pooling rapidly to surround the area where he lay. The bluish haze of gunfire drifted through the poorly lit hold, the vicious red-and-yellow flames from the muzzles of the rifles ripping through the air.

Sweat covered Noah’s face as he gestured for Dawson and Crinita to outflank the
Sanchez
crewmen. Grabbing his radio, Noah shouted orders back to Edwards.

“We need help! Get a medic over here. Formen’s down!” Dammit, Formen was bleeding to death! Noah shouldered the M-16, aiming carefully, firing. Dawson and Crinita were working their way into position to pin down the enemy. If only…Noah flipped the rifle on full automatic, spraying at the
Sanchez
crewmen. He lurched to his feet, laying down a blistering wall of fire that gave him cover as he sprinted to where Formen lay.

Noah looked up as he stood over his petty officer. Sullivan was waiting anxiously at the top of the hold.

“Get ready to take him up!” Noah yelled. “I’ll push him up the ladder!”

Dropping his weapon, Noah pulled Formen into his arms. He had to get him topside or he would die! Grunting from the weight, Noah maneuvered Formen to the ladder and pushed him upward. Helping hands reached downward, hooking beneath Formen’s armpits. With one mighty shove, Noah boosted the unconscious petty officer up and out of the hold to safety. Another spate of gunfire erupted. Wood splintered and exploded all around him. Noah clenched his teeth, dropping to the deck below. In those horrifying seconds, he knew he was the target they were gunning for. Suddenly life became precious as Noah leaned down to grab his rifle. But a bullet found him and he was slammed to the deck. He felt a searing flame of white heat in his left arm as an electric jolt ripped up into his shoulder and neck.

He shook his head to clear the shock of being hit and hung on to his weapon with his right hand. A
Sanchez
crewman suddenly leaped from behind a bale and ran toward him, his revolver lifted. As Noah tried to raise his left arm to steady the wavering barrel of his rifle, he found he couldn’t move his fingers.

The crewman sprinted closer, screaming curses. He waved the revolver wildly in his right hand and bore down on Noah, who stood between him and freedom via the hold ladder. Noah gasped as he forced his left arm to move. He had to lift the rifle or he’d be dead in seconds. Blood flowed heavily from his arm, staining his uniform, as he forced his numbed left fingers to steady the weapon.

The crewman was lowering the revolver. Aiming it directly at Noah’s chest as he leaped the last few feet toward the ladder. Noah heard Dawson scream at the crewman to drop the gun. He didn’t. Noah lifted the M-16. Pain raged through the left side of his body as he squeezed the trigger. The jerk of the rifle tore through him and he cried out, dropping the weapon after firing it, rolling onto his side and grabbing his left shoulder. The
Sanchez
crewman was hurled backward by the impact of the bullet, dead.

“Son of a bitch,” Noah sobbed between clenched teeth. Blood. He was bleeding heavily. His mind was clearing, but he knew he was in shock. One look at his forearm and he knew the bullet had severed a major artery. He would bleed to death right here.
No!
his heart screamed.
Kit. What about Kit? Dammit, you can’t bleed to death!
He was aware of Dawson running down the aisle, kneeling at his side.

“Get me a tourniquet,” Noah gasped. “Anything…for God’s sake, hurry!”

Dawson’s eyes widened as he stared down at his skipper. “Yes, sir!” he breathed, scrambling up the ladder and yelling for the corpsman.

Noah fell back, pressing as hard as he could on the injured area. Closing his eyes, he fought off the first tidal wave of blackness.
I don’t want to die in this lousy hold. I want to live. Kit…Dammit, I want to live! Got to have time for Kit…Isn’t the bleeding going to stop?
Noah groaned as he felt his strength begin to ebb. He’d lost too much blood and his eyesight was dimming. If he lost consciousness, his hand would slip from the wound. Where was help? Where the hell was Dawson with a tourniquet? And Jack…Jack Formen. God, was he still alive?
Kit…I need you…
Anger mingled with despair and Noah felt coldness seeping into his lower extremities. He knew what that meant. He lay sprawled on the splintered wooden deck between huge bales of marijuana, wondering if he was going to die without being able to tell Kit just how much she meant to him….

Kit wrapped her hand around the receiver shakily, then finally jerked it off the cradle. “Hello,” she croaked, trying to steady her voice.

“Kit, this is Cordeman.”

Her knuckles whitened as she tightened her grip on the receiver. “What’s wrong, Chuck?” she gasped.

“There was a firefight involving the
Osprey
. Trayhern and another Coast Guard crewman were wounded in the action. They’re being brought to the trauma unit of the naval hospital in Miami.”

No!
her heart screamed. The trauma unit was reserved for critical cases only. Noah had been involved in a gun incident. “Oh, my God,” she cried.

“They’ll be arriving shortly by Coast Guard helicopter. There’s an emergency team standing by and—”

Kit dropped the phone and raced to her bedroom to grab her purse. She didn’t care if she blew her cover by showing up in a public place. Noah was injured and she wasn’t going to wait patiently at home for further word on him. She took the keys to the silver Toyota, which Noah used as a second car. Using the automatic garage door opener, Kit waited impatiently for the door to lift.
Hurry! Hurry!
Her world was suddenly blown apart. Noah, loving, trusting Noah, who always smiled and looked on the positive side of life, had been shot. How bad was it? What kind of gun? Depending on the type, the bullet could do minimal or maximum damage. She swallowed against the lump in her throat as she backed the Toyota out of the driveway, intent on only one thing: being with Noah.

Kit tore through the trauma unit, almost colliding with Chuck Cordeman as he stood outside the double doors to the restricted area where the critically injured were treated.

Cordeman’s eyes narrowed. “Kit? What the hell are you—”

Anxiously she looked around. “Noah. Where is he, Chuck?” she demanded breathlessly.

Cordeman jerked a thumb toward the doors. “In there.”

Kit started to push by him, but he grabbed her arm and pulled her back.

“Have you lost your mind?” he demanded. “What the hell’s gotten into you? You’re supposed to stay out of sight!”

Kit was sobbing breathlessly. She had run all the way from the parking lot after hearing more details on the radio about the gun battle at sea. “Let me go, Chuck.” She turned, fully intending to go through those doors with or without Cordeman’s consent.

“You’re outa your mind!” Cordeman snarled. “Trayhern’s the least wounded. Just a bullet through his left arm. They’re prepping him for surgery right now. There’s nothing you can do—”

Kit glared at him. “Like hell there isn’t!” Wresting her arm from his hand, she pushed through the doors. Adrenaline poured through her bloodstream, heightening her senses to an incredible degree. In one sweep of the room she spotted a doctor and two nurses working feverishly over a man in a dark blue Coast Guard uniform. Kit immediately walked across the room before an orderly could accost her. She saw Noah’s pale face, the pain pulling at his mouth. Tears jammed into her eyes once more. As she stepped up to the gurney, Noah’s eyes widened slightly.

“Kit…” he rasped thickly.

“I’m sorry,” the blond nurse said, turning to Kit, “you’re going to have to leave.”

“Let her stay,” Noah begged weakly to the doctor on his left.

The physician hesitated, took one look at Kit and decided to let her remain. “You can only stay for a minute or so. We’ve just given him a shot and we’re taking him to surgery. He’ll be unconscious shortly.”

Nodding, Kit swallowed hard. She slipped by the nurse and into the cramped cubicle. Tears slid down her cheeks as she surveyed Noah. Blood was splattered all over the front of his uniform; his left forearm was wrapped in a blood-soaked bandage, indicating the area of the wound. A pint of plasma hung from the IV unit above his head, and the needle was inserted in his right arm.

“Oh, Noah…” she whispered, leaning over, placing her trembling hand on his forehead. His brow was damp with perspiration and she saw the ravages of pain lingering in his dark green eyes. He stared confusedly up at her.

“You came…”

“You knew I would.” Anxiously Kit searched his drawn features. “God, I was so worried, Noah—”

“So was I,” he whispered, closing his eyes momentarily. He reopened them, gazing darkly up at her. “It was bad. Jack Formen’s really hurt, Kit. I don’t want to lose him.” His mouth thinned with pain. “I’ve got to talk to Wanda, Formen’s wife. I’ve got to tell her how he is…”