Code of Honor полностью

Captain Winterflood stepped forward and put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I think you’ve got this,” he said. “I’m going to step inside for a cup of Earl Grey. Want anything?”

“I’m good,” the man said, both hands on the wheel. He glanced up at the sails, adjusting course a hair — all without looking at any instrument but the compass mounted on the pedestal at the wheel.

The first officer gasped. “Captain—”

Winterflood waved him off. “He’ll be fine,” he said, and strode aft toward the main saloon in search of his tea.

The first officer took a half-step closer, watching the man in earnest now, ready to spring into action the moment some terrible mistake put the ship in jeopardy. It didn’t take long to realize that though this man glanced periodically at the computer, he was indeed relying on more basic instruments. The arrow windex mounted high on the foremast gave him wind direction. Footlong lengths of light cordage — telltales affixed to the leading edge of the sails — let him know when the ship was trimmed correctly, streaming horizontally if he was in the zone, but sagging or rising if he turned in too tight, or fell too far off the wind.

Mistakes took a while to show up on Torea, but once they happened, events unfolded quickly. She was not a particularly easy vessel to sail if one was not accustomed to her fickle ways, but this guy was, as they said down under, right-as.

“You must spend a good deal of time on the water,” the first officer said, relaxing a notch.

The man tossed a casual glance over his shoulder. “A bit,” he said. “Though rarely on anything this small.”

Winterflood strode up a moment later, a ceramic mug of what was presumably tea in one hand and a Bacardi and Coke in the other. He gave the tumbler to his friend. “Best give us back the helm before young Jaret has a stroke.” The skipper punched a code into the instrument panel to the left of the wheel, engaging the autopilot.

“Jaret,” Winterflood said. “I’d like you to meet Admiral Peter Li of the United States Navy. We sailed together as part of the Joint Antipiracy Task Force 150 off the Somali coast… too many years ago.”

“Admiral,” the first officer said, stepping forward to shake the offered hand.

“Retired,” Li said. “In the private sector now. Please call me Peter.”

Jaret gave a nervous chuckle. “That’s not going to happen… Admiral.”

Li took a sip of his Bacardi and Coke, smelling the sea over the top of his glass. Rum, he thought, was best when consumed near salt water. It put him in mind of sea captains of old, sampling the wares of the rum trade.

Winterflood handed the mug to his first officer. “This is for you.” He turned to Li. “Speaking of your private-sector job, there’s a saucy brunette at the bar who wants to meet you. Says she’s from some online rag I can’t recall. Fiona something. Dundee or Dunford, something like that. I only spoke with her for a moment, but she’s quite engaging. Been around the world so many times, she’s got more culture than a month-old mango. She must have written books, because she’s wearing a silk frock that probably costs more than I make in a month. All the reporters I ever met looked like they got their clothes from the rubbish bin behind a thrift shop.”

Li chuckled. He’d always enjoyed listening to Winterflood’s Aussie accent and colorful turns of phrase.

“I’m not interested in meeting women,” Li said. “Or talking about my work.”

“Too late, mate,” Winterflood said, glancing toward the port-side door to the main saloon.

The skipper had been right. Saucy might have been a sexist term, but it was a good descriptor of this woman. She slinked as much as she walked, giving the impression to anyone looking that she was dancing her way to wherever she happened to be going. The yellow silk sundress clung alluringly to the dips and swells of her body, falling off her right shoulder to expose exquisitely tanned collarbones. The sea breeze had freshened significantly, making the dress not quite enough to keep her warm. Li imagined that would be no problem. Not for long, anyway. Some poor schmuck would offer her a coat. She was the kind of woman that oozed sexuality from every curvaceous pore, the kind who gave the impression she was naked even when fully clothed — the kind who made wives angry.

Her face brightened when she caught Li’s eye.

“Out warning him I’m on the hunt, are you?” she said to Winterflood, the r’s lost in her New Zealand accent. The clingy silk dress left little to the imagination, forcing both men to focus on her eyes or risk getting caught looking somewhere else.

“Not at all, ma’am,” the captain said. “We were, in fact, just talking about you.”

“Yes,” she said, sounding more like yis. She stuck out her hand. There was a gold ring on the thumb, and an AppleWatch with a white leather strap, but no other jewelry that Li could see. “Fiona Dunfee,” she said. “Auckland Mirror. Did the captain tell you what I wanted?”

“We hadn’t gotten there yet,” Li said.