SILENT GUNS

by Bob Neir

  “Madden explained why you’re here.”

  “Madden told you?”

  “Everything.”

  “I’m safe as long as I stay here in Canada.” He frowned with sudden severity. “If it’s guns, I’m your man.”

  “You’ll have to come back to the States.”

  “How long?”

  “Two months.”

  “Too risky.”

  “I’ll get you across the border.”

  “How much?”

  “Five-million.”

  “Five-million,” Harper eyed him coolly. He leaned back against the wall, and then closed his eyes tightly.

  “It’s a dangerous job. You have to be in top shape…And sober. Or, it’s no deal.”

  Harper wiped his face with his sleeve then reached for the bottle. Trent swept it to the floor. Aghast, Harper watched the bottle shatter, amber fluid pool, then drain into crevices in the dry, wooden floor.

  “Damn your hide,” Harper rose from his chair. Trent didn’t move a muscle, and then calmly lifted his drink to his lips. “Cheers,” Trent said, raising the glass. He held eye contact as he fingered his pocket. He drew out a brown, sealed packet and tossed it on the table. “That should see you through until I come for you. Brush up on how to fire a 16-incher.”

  Harper covered the packet with his hand.

  “You’ll find cash and written instructions inside. Follow them to the letter.” Harper licked his lips as he looked down mournfully at the shattered bottle.

  Trent passed him a pen and paper, “Write down where I can contact you.” He tossed bills on the table, got up and left.

  “From what we learned, your Harper had a bad attitude,” Simons offered with a tight grin. “There must have been plenty of old gunners on the beach?”

  “How many have fired a 16-incher? Try one hand. Had Harper settled to rock bottom, too deep to resurface? Would the chance at five million bring him back? I could only guess. He did prove to be a loner, an odd-man out where I needed teamwork. My sixth sense left me wary; but Madden was sold on him. Did Harper deserve a second chance? Was he worth the effort? In hindsight – no.”

  “I am surprised he didn’t take your cash and run,” Simons gloated.

  “You mean drown himself in booze.”

  “Most likely.”

  “But, he didn’t.”

  ~ * * * ~

  CHAPTER 6

  A steady, cool breeze that blew in off Puget Sound made the day feel spring-like. Behind the wheel of his ‘65 red Mustang, Trent bypassed the press of traffic by avoiding arterials, using shortcuts and ducking down one-way streets. With a squeal of brakes, he pulled into the passenger pickup area at the main entrance to the Olympic Hotel. He shut off the engine, checked his watch and waited, his mind buzzing at the speed of events. A yellow Corvette with a black hardtop pulled up alongside. The driver tried to back into the space behind him – she didn’t make it. Again, she tried and failed. The doorman watched. Trent watched. Everybody standing around turned to watch. She seemed confused behind the wheel. Trent stared in his rearview mirror, a pleasant way to kill time, he thought, yet fearing for his cherished red Mustang. The doorman, in an attempted rescue, jogged over, but too late: she jolted the Mustang. A yellow Corvette door swung open and out stepped a tall, slender, woman outfitted in an eye-catching emerald green outfit. Her blonde hair was drawn straight back and gathered in a knot. She bent over as Trent rolled down his car window.

  “Sorry I bumped you,” she said

  “That’s O.K., you can bump me anytime.”

  “It’s new. I’ve only had it a week. I’m afraid to park it.”

  “No harm done,” Trent stared at her.

  “Do you think it’s alright to leave it there?”

  “It’s not my hotel,” a limp response he quickly regretted. Her laugh was vivacious. “Well, I’d better be on my way,” she walked towards the hotel entrance, but stopped before a small boutique shop, the Holiday Fur Shoppe. Her outfit was clingy with folds appearing where motion captured the material. In one graceful, unexpected turn, her female wiles energized, she caught his eye, waved, and then entered the Shoppe. A young woman seated at a desk near the window raised her head. Their conversation turned lively, then agitated.

  “How long have you been sitting here?” Newby asked.

  “Just got here,” Newby opened the door and got in. Trent caught a glimpse of the blonde waving. Trent was sure it was a missed opportunity, but it made little difference as he had more pressing matters. He started up the engine.

  “A friend of yours?” Newby asked.

  “No.”

  “You mean, not yet,” Newby grinned.

  “Never saw her before and probably won’t again.”

  “Never, say never,” Newby, added with a chuckle as they sped away. “Have you read this morning’s Seattle Post-Intelligencer yet?

  “Only had time for the headlines and ball scores.”

  “Then, you haven’t read the second section.”

  Missouri to sail to Long Beach. “That’s the lead; the article is buried here on page six.” The Navy announced this morning a two-year, $450 million dollar modernization program for the battleship Missouri, now moored at the Puget Sound Naval Shipyard. The ship will be towed December 1st to Long Beach where she will undergo installation of Tomahawk and Harpoon missiles – some with nuclear warheads – replacing 14 of her 20 five-inch guns. Gatling guns will replace the nearly 150 anti-aircraft guns she carried during World War II, and her electronics will be modernized with technology developed since 1953, when she last served on active duty. The Navy said, one thing won’t change: the Missouri’s battery of nine 16-inch guns will stay.

  “The article says she is to be towed.” Newby hummed a gleeful tune.

  “Manna from heaven,” Trent burst out in a big grin. “That doesn’t give the Yard much time. Labor Day is next Monday. Any plans yet?”

  “I’ll know Tuesday: orders should hit my in-basket right after the holiday. The schedule will be tight. The Yard is undermanned. I expect the Admiral will order the work out on contract.”

  “We’ll bid the job, Newby. The turrets need to be made seaworthy.”

  ‘There’s more,” Newby clipped his words.

  “Rear-Admiral Merle F. Zahn, announced his retirement as Commander, Puget Sound Naval Shipyard, effective the end of August. Rear-Admiral Brian D. Burns, who will return from duty in the Philippines, has been named his replacement. Cmdr. Ward E. Conover, lately commanding the destroyer Boardman, is named Officer-in-charge of the Missouri’s readiness.”

  Trent jammed his foot down hard. The Mustang lurched. Tires squealed. His grip on the wheel tightened until his knuckles threatened to crack his skin. The speedometer whipped high on the dial. Buildings flashed by. Streets soon turned into freeways. The Mustang roared on. It wasn’t until they hit the downside of the Cascade Mountains that Trent eased off. Newby shifted in his seat.

  “Jesus! Man. You still got it in for Burns.”

  “He lied.”

  “And the others?” Newby exclaimed.

  “They conspired. They set me up, all of them.”

  “They’re not all to blame.”

  “How the hell do you know? You weren’t there!” Trent grunted in black bad temper.

  “Yeomen Loomis and Nicholson were.” Trent opened his mouth then clamped it shut it. “We yeomen stick together, like you officers,” jabbed Newby. “When they brought the Missouri in, we partied. We drank too much. They spilled it out that they did the paperwork charging you. Bitched that Kindler treated them like furniture. Loomis was saying how Denton and Farr couldn’t see charging you; but Kindler insisted. They figured Kindler wanted Proust protected. Then, Kindler called Burns into his office, and nobody knows for sure what happened, only Burns got moved up to Commander right after the trial. They never liked Burns. They said he was slime.”

  Trent hesitated, and then nodded gravely.

  ~ * * * ~


  CHAPTER 7

  That afternoon, Trent patrolled the Point. Seen from the ground, it looked different, not quite as he remembered it. He walked north until he could go no further. The name South Passage Point conjured up an image of quaint charm, in truth; it was a far cry from that. The Point was a finger of land that jutted out into the Lake Washington Ship Canal. It fell under the shadow of the I-5 Bridge where its southern tower tromped down like a giant’s foot before leaping across the Canal. A red mid-channel buoy marked #16, tugged and pummeled by the swift, outbound rush of water, marked safe depth for boaters. Two hundred feet overhead, rubber tires strummed on serrated iron gratings. Beneath the bridge, abandoned, decrepit structures dotted the Point casting off the sweet odor of dank decay. To the west stood old wooden docks, some long crumbled away, their pilings sticking up like broken teeth. Along the northern shore, across the canal, warehouses, repair yards and working boats jostled each other for elbowroom. The Point was a good location, Trent thought, as he enjoyed a panoramic view of the ship Canal, the Highway 99 bridge and Lake Union.

  Sidestepping puddles left by a recent rain, he headed back to Waters Street. Madden waited in front of warehouse Number 506, a one story, shabby, brick building backed out to the water’s edge to a sturdy wooden dock. He measured the warehouse as sixty feet square, one side of the ground floor windows were bricked up and painted over the same off-white as the rest of the building. Above these were red- painted gutters and a flat, hot tarred roof, a decorative parapet ringed the building. Shattered glass from punched-out windows lay everywhere defying thick, imbedded wire mesh. Steel pry bar gouges left on two, large metal-sheeted doors gave mute testimony to repelled invaders. A metal-shaded light hung askance to illuminate the doors. A second light doused a smaller door in faint light that was barred and padlocked. Graffiti defaced ‘For Rent’ signs draped the front of the building.

  A vintage Cadillac turned sharply off Eastlake and sped down the street to come to an abrupt halt in front of Number 506. A short man, his face beet-red, round and fat appeared from behind the wheel. His dark eyebrows splayed sideways to overhang small, distrustful eyes. Meyer Ellsberg was the Eastwing Investment Company.

  “Ellsberg?”

  “Right!”

  “I’m Trent, this is Peter Madden.”

  Ellsberg nodded. He placed one key in the padlock, freed the iron bar and, with a second key, and opened the door. They entered the warehouse to a gush of stagnant, musty air. Ellsberg flicked on a light switch.

  “I own the building next door, too, you know, depreciation and taxes,” he remarked, fumbling the keys back into his vest pocket. He shrugged his shoulders as he peered through shaded lenses.

  “Is the street always this quiet?” Trent asked.

  “The buildings are empty except for the paint factory across the street.” Madden’s nose twinged at the mention.

  “Anybody else moving in?” asked Madden, glancing about, taking full measure of the details of the building.

  “Not that I know of,” Ellsberg said, pointing to massive overhead roof trusses. “Those beams were built to last. They don’t build them like that anymore.” Block and tackle gear swayed easily to Madden’s touch. A wooden workbench spanned one entire wall; a large vise was bolted at its center. Fluorescent lamps, rigged over the workbench, marched along its entire length. A cold-water tap dripped into a grease-stained sink. Off to the right, a toilet door tilted awkwardly off its lower hinge, the upper hinge lay useless on the deck. A cracked and often patched toilet tank leaked badly.

  Two stained wooden desks and a swivel chair rested forlornly in a glass-enclosed office. Like tongues stuck out in mockery, drawers of dented metal file cabinets hung open. A battered hotplate lay covered with dust. Dirty cups were everywhere. Adjourning the office, a small room held a long, wooden table, but no chairs.

  “Bunkhouse,” Madden whispered.

  All signs pointed to a hurried departure. Trent guessed an auto repair garage, most likely, a chop shop.

  “It’s pretty rundown.” Madden observed, pulling at his ear. “A bit of elbow-grease and it’s back into shape in no time,” Ellsberg countered, reeking with the charm of a used car salesman, smiling an uneven-toothed, guarded smile. Gold caps flashed at the corners of his mouth. He lit a cigar and drew at it awkwardly. His eyes blinked and a nervous twitch crossed his pudgy face. “And the rent’s reasonable for a building this size: $600 plus utilities.” Puffing like a chimney, he crossed the cigar to the other side of his mouth.

  “We’ll take it,” Trent said. “Will two months’ rent in advance be O.K.?” He watched Ellsberg’s fingers twitch as twelve, crisp, one hundred dollar bills changed hands.

  “The PUGET SOUND SHIP MAINTENANCE CO. is now in business, Mr. Ellsberg.” With the lease signed, keys changed hands. Ellsberg’s face radiated relief as he eased back into his Cadillac and drove off.

  “We won’t see him again,” Madden hissed.

  “At least, for sixty days.”

  Trent locked up, tossed Madden a set of keys and slipped a set into his pocket. Behind the warehouse, they tromped down a sloping bank of waist-high brambles and scrub brush onto a dock of solid, heavy fir timbers. The rails of a marine railway disappeared under the surface of Lake Union. “Where is she,” Trent demanded.

  “That’s her, over there,” Madden nodded across the canal. “That’s the Helga.” In the forest of antennas, funnels and masts, it was impossible to pick out the Helga. “I’d like a closer look,” Trent said, hurrying to the Mustang. It was Saturday. Weekend boaters cruised steadily down the Ship Canal into Lake Union, out to the Government Locks and into Puget Sound. The docks and shipyards were shut down for the weekend. Madden shoved aside the gate to the fisherman’s dock. The air was cool; a light breeze swirled the mist around the mastheads of the moored ships creating whirling dervishes in white gossamer.

  “Which one?” Trent searched for painted names.

  “Over there, the well-built one.” Madden led, carefully overstepping fishing gear and drying nets strewn about until they drew up at a short gangplank.

  The Helga’s upper works were a freshly painted white, a dazzling coat that made her shine eerily. A white band encasing a red diamond encircled a solid, black funnel. The lines of a short, stubby bow, typical of Pacific Coast King Crabbers, led to a graceful sweep aft to the fantail creating a wide, roomy aft working deck.

  Madden said, “She’s beamy, with plenty of working space below decks. If she were a broad, I’d bet she’d be terrific in bed.”

  Trent stared down at the squat, stubby hull tracing her gentle lines. A long deckhouse ran forward from a break amidships and stopped fifteen feet short of the stem; three doors were cut into the port side of the deckhouse. Topsides, a tugboat style wheelhouse sat perched on two stub wings; aft the wheelhouse, perched a tiny sea cabin, assumedly the Captain’s. Ladders led from the working deck to the aft edges of the port and starboard stub wings. Topsides, starboard of the funnel, a Boston whaler was cradled, ample enough for six men, covered with canvas and secured for rough weather. At the break amidships, a sturdy cargo mast plunged deep into the hull, its cargo boom snuggled up neatly against the mast. Two square hatches were cut into the working deck: one forward and one aft, each battened down on fifteen-inch coamings. A small hatch just forward the counter, allowed access to the steering gear and the aft hold. A wooden platform lay over the entire surface of a steel working deck leaving the hatch coamings a foot above the platform.

  “Obviously, a crabber, “Madden remarked.

  “I didn’t know you were a fisherman?”

  “I’ve shipped aboard a crabber. Captain Larsen is a rough weather sailor,” Madden observed. “Bet he works his men no matter what the seas. I’ll bet that wooden platform is his own invention. See how the open slats let water drain through into the scuppers. Gives the crew solid footing. Bet there’s not much freeboard when those holds are full. A dangerous trade anyway you look at it, but the way he’
s battened down…he’s a cautious man. He’ll pull those wooden platforms, dry stanchions and net reel and he’s ready for dry cargo. The two holds would be drained and dried; they’re nothing but holding tanks for live crab and fish, anyway. That boom has the height we need.”

  The Helga rose and fell to a slight swell that swept in from a passing boat. Traces of sea life were exposed, clinging at the waterline. She was a steel ship, an old ship, but showed no splotches of either rust, red primer or odd colored paint. The bulwarks and decks were clean. The Helga was cared for, a thing of beauty.

  A harsh growl, deep yet muffled. A German shepherd stood topside, four feet firmly planted, poised to spring. The wheelhouse door stood latched open. Trent moved to board. The dog sprang and charged down the ladder to stand growling at the head of the gangway. A gruff voice emerged from the wheelhouse, followed by a large, angular man of weather-beaten features wearing a crushed Captain’s cap. His teeth clenched tight about the stem of a grotesque-looking pipe.

  “What do you want?”

  “A welcome aboard, Captain Larsen. Call off your dog.”

  “I got him to keep people off.”

  “Even friends?”

  “Like who?”

  “Somebody who wants to charter your boat.”

  “Who sent you? Schiller?”

  “Who’s Schiller?”

  “Never mind,” the Captain said gruffly, waving his pipe. “Come aboard.” He waved off the dog. “Back, Hauser, Back,” he said. The slight motion of the boat served as a welcome mat.

  “Speak your piece,” Captain Larsen commanded as he came down the port ladder. He stood hands on hips, blocking passage forward.