SILENT GUNS

by Bob Neir

  “Double-clad armor over the boilers below,” Newby stomped his foot and in a calculated question asked, “How did Madden get you over here?”

  “He didn’t. I wanted to come,” Trent said.

  “Tony. I still say you got screwed.” Newby replied.

  “That’s ancient history.”

  “Don’t believe him, Newby. It’s still stuck in his craw,” Madden pulled his jacket collar up around his neck, “God! It’s freezing in here. But, I suppose that’s no surprise. I slept aboard for three months. Get her steel hull out of the water into a graving dock and she turns as cold as the North Pole. Ever slept in a refrigerator, Newby? Well, I slept under four G.I. blankets, a turtleneck and long johns, and never got warm. But, when she’s alive and underway, she can spoil you easy.”

  “What do you do here for fun, Newby?” Trent raised his eyebrows as they explored the remaining open passageways.

  “Dullsville!” Newby snapped back. “During the war, Bremerton was a sailor’s town, a place to look forward to after weeks at sea. Thousands of sailors crammed the town every night: they would get drunk, swamp the streets and make disturbances, search out the female population; single, married, or otherwise, if you get what I mean. The city fathers forgave their indiscretions; the Navy ignored them. All gone now. Today, the Yard’s manned at rock bottom, we’re just watchmen. And, you saw those kids, never fired a shot in anger. All the old bars on Farragut have shut down. Craven Center is history. For thrills, it’s a ferry ride to Seattle, but Seattle’s not a Navy town anymore. So, we sit around and wait for the next war,” Newby growled. “Just like the Missouri.”

  Newby leaned into a hatch.

  A steep ladder ended at a door marked CIC. Trent glanced to his right as he entered and took in the details of the room. It was exactly as he remembered it: fifteen by thirty feet dominated by now sealed equipment. When underway, the center would be crammed with sailors. It was unnaturally peaceful. Next-door was the firing center for the 16-inch guns. Trent felt a sudden pang of familiarity with the obsolete vacuum-tube equipment: particularly its massiveness. He passed his flashlight across the lifeless panels. Even with all the modern technology of electronics, the ancient equipment remained a testimony to the best-known method for aiming and firing thirty-plus year old guns. A skilled gunner could fire the guns accurately manually. Trent felt an unexpected twinge of excitement.

  They stepped out on the main deck into a gray, drizzly day. Decks of teak, in times past, scrubbed and holystoned every morning until they shone, were now badly weathered and dingy gray in color.

  “The turrets?”

  “Sealed. Just like below decks.”

  “And the bridge?” Trent looked up to the island that jutted forward of the mast. Newby eyed Madden. Madden shrugged. Trent noticed, a Yard work crew had already unsealed the doors and removed the shields protecting the windows of the 4th level bridge. They climbed up. Stepping inside, binnacle, wheel, the Captain’s chair, all were still in place. Antiquated pieces of equipment remained bolted to bulkheads. A yellowed and cracked piece of paper spelling out responsibilities for destroying classified materials fluttered to the deck. Trent pictured a list of special equipment to be detonated, destroyed by smashing, or better yet jettisoned if capture was threatened. He chuckled; capture defied his imagination. He stood pensively: the sensation of the ship heaving under his feet; a powerful, thrusting motion as she rose and plowed into the swells of a North Atlantic storm, a stiff breeze from the north ruffling the surface of the water. Cold air masses colliding with the warmer northward moving ocean current creating vast patches of drifting sea smoke. Then it came back. Trent shuddered, the horror, the slicing through floating bodies, their cries for help, and the carnage. He abruptly left the bridge. Saluting at the gangway, he left the ship and didn’t look back. He didn’t have to. He was satisfied – he knew how he would exact his revenge. He would have the Missouri and her silent guns.

  * * *

  A definite chill had moved in overnight. The smell of hot coffee wafted about the cabin and drove out the mustiness. “The stove burnt itself out about two,” Simons volunteered as he poured out a cup. “I got up and tossed in some wood. This place must be a like a barn in winter. My feet about froze.”

  “Never gets that cold, just uncomfortable,” offered Trent tugging on his socks. “The dampness gets you. When things get wet, they stay wet. The woodpile needs re-stocking. I’d better refill the water tank and pick up some groceries,” Trent added.

  “I guess that leaves me the woodpile,” Simons seated himself at the table. “So after you left the Missouri, there was no turning back,” Simons stated.

  “That’s right. No turning back,” Trent shot Simons a restrained glance. His answer sounded so pointed, so cold he wanted to laugh. He looked at Simon’s face, the face of a policeman, and written all over it he read timely, penetrating questions waiting to be asked.

  “Then, what?” Simons treaded carefully, reaching.

  “I headed to my new office,” Trent parried. “Margo, my secretary, had moved my possessions to the twenty-first floor. Executive Row, she called it, the top floor of the International Traders building. It was a great, big office with luxurious walnut paneling and plush carpeting. Original oil paintings hung on the wall. I had it made.” Trent waved his arms expansively.

  Simons waited a while longer, “And, then you threw it all away,” Simons, not to be denied, shot back, the hound dog back on the trail. Trent stood up. He needed time to reflect. The drift of the questioning no longer interested him. Simons wanted answers and he tired of his probing questions. Wariness pricked at the back of his neck. He recalled sitting at his office desk unconsciously drumming his fingers on the phone while staring out the window. The view of Elliot Bay, the ships riding at anchor, the piers and docks strung out below like piano keys, was breathtaking. A large container-ship slowly sailed into the Bay, heading to the Port of Seattle docks. The Princess Marguerite sounded her whistle and cast off for Victoria on her daily run north. The view was peaceful and comforting. He grumbled, as his reverie was disturbed by a ringing phone. Margo answered and buzzed.

  “Are you ready to down a couple?” Madden’s voice pounded through the earpiece. Trent eased back into his leather chair. “You sound like you’re already a couple up on me.”

  “The hell you say. How can you tell?”

  “Are you at Haury’s?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “I’m just about finished up here.”

  “I ain’t goin’ nowhere,” Madden assured him.

  Trent gave Margo the rest of the afternoon off and left. Fifteen minutes later he barged through Haury’s swinging doors. Madden sat nursing a shot of whiskey, a parade of empty glasses at his elbow. Trent slid into the booth.

  “Sick?”

  “Naw! Ingrid threw me out, again. It’s O.K., we’ll make up.” Madden said as he stared at the bottom of an empty glass.

  “Let’s go,” Trent snapped.

  “Go? Go where?” Madden barked, a glint of annoyance in his eyes.

  “A boat ride. We can just make it.” Trent tossed a bill on the table and hauled Madden down to Western Avenue and the waterfront. The sign over the pier read: ‘Seattle Harbor Tours.’ He bought two tickets.

  “Hell, we live here. Who needs a tour boat ride?” Madden said gruffly.

  Two seats sat vacant on the open-air upper deck as the Harbor Island backed away and headed north. The upper works were warm and the canvas decking dry beneath the sun’s rays. The tour guide started her canned pitch…”On your right, ladies and gentlemen, the Space Needle, constructed for the 1962 World’s Fair. To your rear, the Smith Tower, the oldest skyscraper in Seattle built just after the turn of the century, and in its time, the tallest building west of the Mississippi. The Tower is on the National Historic Register” the voice rested as the boat took a sharp turn starboard…”On your right, the Seafirst Building, 48 stories, now the tallest…” The sigh
tseers gawked at the expanse of Puget Sound as the Harbor Island rounded West Point towards the entrance to the Lake Washington Ship Canal, the waterway connecting Puget Sound with Lake Washington. After waiting its turn, the boat slipped into the Government Locks to be raised twenty-plus feet into the fresh water canal. They passed working ships, tied-up fishing fleets, ships under repair and an array of yacht clubs that cluttered both sides of the waterway.

  With a quickening surge of power, the Harbor Island sailed out from under the old highway 99 bridge into Lake Union. A hurrying police boat cut across its wake. A float plane, its propeller revved up for take-off charged up the lake and broke free of the surface, barely clearing the Harbor Island – passengers ducked as the plane lifted itself sluggishly. Seagulls scattered as their resting place was skirted, a weed encrusted buoy marking the eastern exit to Lake Union and the entrance to the Montlake Cut, the final passageway into Lake Washington. Overhead, vehicular traffic trundled across the I-5 Freeway bridge connecting Portland to the south and Vancouver, B.C. to the north. Under its dark shadow, abandoned docks and ram-shackled sheds hugged the deserted water’s edge.

  “Over there,” Trent pointed. “It’s abandoned, but the location is perfect.”

  ‘Perfect for what?”

  “A base of operations for taking over the Missouri,” Trent replied.

  “You’re out of your gourd,” Madden scowled.

  “Think about it, Peter.”

  Madden eyed him distantly, “I don’t have to. It’s crazy talk. The Missouri is at the Navy Yard. Oh! That explains it! All we’ve done these past two weeks is ride ferryboats, climb over old hulks and now this stupid tour boat. Tony, you are losing it! The Missouri is a dead ship. And, so is your Navy career. So, forget it.”

  “I need the 16-inch turret,” Trent exclaimed, excitedly.

  “You really are crazy. Sail into a Navy Yard and take-over a damn battleship?” Madden slapped his head. “Even if you could get away with it, there are no shells or power aboard. And the ship is mothballed, dead.”

  “We can do it; six of us. Thirty-million from the city – that’s five million each.”

  Madden’s jaw dropped.

  “It’s my chance to clear myself.”

  “You mean, get your revenge, don’t you?”

  “The Navy has to react and we’ll get rich, too.”

  Madden groaned.

  * * *

  Trent picked up Newby at the Ferry Terminal and drove to Patches, over on Alki Point.

  “Cheers,” Newby twirled his glass as he lifted a bourbon and soda. I’m supposed to lay off this stuff, doctor’s orders. Screw him! I’ll be out in three months and I’ll damn well do as I please.” He downed the glass in one gulp.

  “Any plans for retirement?” Trent inquired.

  “Nope. None at all.”

  “Can I swear you to secrecy?”

  Trent’s question didn’t bring an answer as Newby searched his face and said, “If it’s a military secret, maybe you shouldn’t.”

  “It could involve you – us.”

  Newby tugged at his thick glasses, his jaw set tight with curiosity, his eyes querulous. Curiosity won out. Trent disclosed his scheme. Newby chewed his lips and made uncomfortable faces as he listened. Behind those thick bottle glasses, lurked an adventurer, a dreamer. Trent banked on Newby’s suppressed side, a side that sought danger, the unpleasant. He yearned to be respected and feared. In his tight little world, dreams were how he kept his sanity.

  “Madden was right. He said you never did anything without a purpose. That explains all that wandering around the Navy Yard. But, would you really fire on the city of Seattle?”

  “The threat should be enough.”

  “Has Madden bought in?”

  “If you do, he will. Can you clear us into the Yard and aboard the Missouri?”

  “Even if I could find a way, the odds against us would be horrendous.”

  “It’s risky, but you would be in the thick of things,” Trent counseled.

  “What about shells and powder?”

  “They are on the ammo barge.”

  “Only shells, no powder,” Newby clarified. “You are going to start a war, you know,” Newby smiled faintly, and then broke out into a disarming grin. “So, is this how my career was meant to end? Navy life for me is over anyway, after this caper, no regrets. Funny, I never had to think about tomorrow, for twenty-three years someone always did it for me. Thinking for myself scares the hell out of me.” Newby unconsciously rotated an empty glass in his hand, then said,” I’ve never done anything like this before.”

  “Neither have I.”

  * * *

  Trent barely made it across the street from his parked car before the deluge hit. The Friday after-hours crowd jammed Haury’s lounge, blithely ignorant of the forces of nature raging outside. Trent tingled with excitement. Madden and Newby hadn’t said, ‘yes’, but they hadn’t said ‘no’. Trent turned his back to the crowd and set his foot on the bar rail.

  “Been waiting long?” Madden tapped his shoulder.

  “Maybe an hour, no more,”

  “Horse-puckey. I saw you come in. Come on, I got a booth in the back,” Madden said, motioning to a small, bustling waiter with slicked down hair and a handlebar moustache who trailed them. He snappily whipped out menus. “Thanks, Sieg, just another round.” Madden stared at Trent and observed, “You look like you could use another drink. What have you been up to?”

  “Not much.” That knot was back in his stomach again; his all-consuming need to settle the score boiled up inside, the unquenchable fire “Yeah! I’ll bet. Have you got the, eh!…you know, planned yet?

  Trent swallowed hard as his gut did a flip-flop.

  “Newby called. He thought it was a clever scheme, if nothing went wrong. God! The imponderables, Newby said, the plan’s almost guaranteed to get fucked up.” Madden let his words sink in. “Newby and I talked it over, you know, what we had to lose.” Madden hesitated. “Count us in, but only can God help us if we screw this up.”

  Madden drew a list from his pocket. He pointed to where he had checked two names. “These guys are off the Chicago.”

  Trent recognized one. “Ben Harper. I know him. He did a tour on the Missouri as a gunner’s mate, first class, before he was busted.”

  “He could do anything with a big gun, he just couldn’t handle being beached. The Navy caught him helping himself to Uncle Sam’s property and selling the stuff. Got five years in the slammer, but he lit out for Canada before they could throw him in the brig.” Madden said.

  “Where’s he now?”

  “Last I heard; he’s still in Canada. It’s been eight years now. A real boozer, but the best big-gun man in the Navy.”

  “You make him sound like a hero. Who’s this other guy?”

  “Hank Graves. Bosun’s mate. Twenty years in. Lives in Sparks, Nevada where he works for the State blasting out roads. He knows powder. Kinda lives in the past, but he’s in great physical shape, big and strong as an ox. And he’s dependable. He made the reunion,” Madden added.

  “Assuming they check out, that leaves a spot for a Machinist Mate, someone to run the gear. I know just the man, Maxie Hirsch. He lives in Reno. He works for Reno Transit,” Trent added.

  Trent fingered his glass and reflected on Madden and Newby’s trust in him. He feared deceit and recklessness in what he was contemplating. These men were his best friends. The burden weighed heavily.

  “To the adventure.”

  “To the adventure.”

  “Skoal.”

  * * *

  Dried-out, wooden steps squeaked as Trent made his way to the second floor landing of the St. Francis Hotel in downtown Reno. A wizened, fragile man seated in the lobby looked up, tracked him, then turned back to his newspaper. Trent located Apartment #22 and put his ear to the door. He was not sure what to expect. The address was old. Someone inside was moving about. He knocked and stepped back. The doorknob turned, the do
or slowly pulled until jarred by a safety chain. A petite woman peered out through the narrow opening.

  “Yes. What do you want?”

  “I’m looking for Maxie.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “Expect him soon?”

  “You the police?”

  “No, just an old friend. We grew up together. My name is Tony Trent. He might have mentioned me,” Trent said.

  “Oh! The Christmas cards. I had to be sure,” she said, brightly.

  “When do you expect him home?”

  “Depends. When he’s broke, he comes home.”

  “He’s working then?”

  “At the bus barn. The bus company sends me his paycheck: otherwise, I wouldn’t see any money at all.” Trent glanced over her head. The apartment was small, but neat and clean. She was neatly dressed, but in out of date clothes and of poor quality. The aroma of home cooking streamed into the hallway.

  “Could I get a message to Maxie?”