Free Assassin's Honor (9781561648207) by Robert N. Macomber Page A

bridge, “Sorry we missed ye, me dear! Next time for sure!”
    Leaning over the rail, I followed his line of sight. Standing at the head of the naval wharf was my daughter Useppa, her hand fluttering a blue scarf in farewell, auburn hair waving around her face in the breeze. I felt my heart stop, for she looked just like her mother did at that age.
    A man, dark haired and thin, stood close to her. Very closeto her. Probably a pastor, I decided. But no, he was standing too close for that. And then they were gone from my sight as we moved away and
Chicago
’s superstructure blocked the view.
    Hopes and worries flooded my mind. My heart always considered Useppa a little girl, but my brain reminded me she was twenty-seven now and alone in the world—a spinster. My son Sean was a naval officer, two years out from the naval academy and recently passed the examination for ensign. He was well started on his career, but what would happen to my daughter?
    The lee helmsman reported to Lieutenant Lambert the shaft revolutions from the engine room. I forced myself back into the present moment.
    â€œWell done, Mr. Lambert,” I said.
    The trace of a smile crossed his face for a second. “Thank you, sir.”
    â€œMy only suggestion is to let go the quarter-forward spring a couple seconds earlier. It almost parted.”
    His stoic mien returned. “Aye, aye, sir.”
    â€œMessage from the admiral, sir,” interrupted the duty signalman. “It reads: ‘Well done. Good luck.’”
    I’ll need it
, I thought, as I noted Gardiner’s expression turning sour.
    As we passed Fort Taylor and altered course to due south, down the outer channel, I saw the German warship’s course. It wasn’t the correct one for Tampico, which would have been due west. The German was heading southwest.
    Yucatán.
    Pocket reported from the port bridge wing, “Mr. Lambert, the pilot boat’s approaching to pass us, close on port bow. She’s returning from picking up the harbor pilot on
Gneisenau
.”
    I noticed the ensign pronounced the name correctly and wondered if he could speak the language. Then I thought of something—U.S. Navy vessels didn’t use a pilot at Key West, but foreign warships were required to use one, and many times theirbridge officers imparted subtle bits of information to the pilot.
    â€œMr. Lambert, have the pilot boat hailed to come alongside,” I said. “I want to speak with the pilot in my cabin. And please send word to my steward to bring some breakfast for two to the cabin.”

    We were well past the reefs when the pilot, an old grizzled salt if ever there was one, entered my quarters and introduced himself. “Captain Rolle, sir, senior harbor pilot. You wanted to see me, Captain?”
    The Rolle family was originally from the Abaco Islands of the northern Bahamas. They had been in Key West for generations as schooner captains and wreckers. Captain Rolle still had a faint trace of a British accent.
    â€œWelcome aboard, Captain Rolle, I’m Commander Wake, captain of
Bennington
. Please sit down and share my breakfast. I wanted to ask you about the shoaling by Whitehead Spit. Is it getting worse?”
    He was wary. This sort of invitation, especially in the outer channel, was unusual from a U.S. navy captain. The sunburned skin around his eyes crinkled in appreciation, as if I’d made a joke.
    â€œWell, thank you, Captain Wake. Don’t mind if I do take a bite, this looks good. Aye, sir, the shoal has been getting worse ever since the storm in June, but you knew that.” His gaze narrowed. “You’ve been in and out of here many times since then.”
    â€œYes, well, I just wanted to make sure. Say, I think I saw you on the German ship up ahead. What’s she like?”
    Rolle never stopped chewing the fried eggs in his mouth as he replied, “Well-handled and in excellent condition. Curious thing,