by Bob Neir
“Maxie, did he have to boot Hauser that way, did he?” Graves implored, a tone of concern. “I think he screwed up his sex life.”
“What took you guys so long on the barge? Trent asked.
“Man. We had couldn’t find the right shells. The slate colored ones weren’t where Newby said they would be,” Harper answered. “Slate-colored, what?” Graves exclaimed, “You mean we were screwin’ around in there pickin’ colors? Christ! I woulda grabbed anythin’ just to get off that creepy barge. It gave me the willies.”
Harper explained, “Slate is Common shell. It’s the same shell as armor-piercing, except no soft steel cap and the metal shell is thinner.”
“It does make a difference,” Madden counseled.
“Graves grinned, “Who cares? After one round, the City will be scared shitless no matter what we lob at ‘em. We could throw ‘em a rock.” Madden shook his head, “Don’t be a callous bastard, Graves.” Graves shifted awkwardly, “Those shells came off the Missouri in ‘53. Do you suppose…?”
“Don’t worry, they last forever,” Harper shot back.
“Even if it didn’t blow up, I guess a ton of metal sitting in anybody’s back yard is scary enough,” Graves playfully tugged at his chin.
Harper said, “I found a box of primers, but had I no luck on the firelock. We can’t fire without one. Newby said he had checked the manifest, they have to be on board, somewhere.” Graves added, “Too late, now. Suppose we don’t find one.” Graves eyed him gravely. “Maybe we can come up with something that’ll work?”
“I doubt it,” Harper said frankly. “Manually or electrically, a firelock is a complicated, tricky device.”
Graves lurched heavily to his feet, his legs adjusting to the slow, prolonged rolls. The hull structure protested and the deck vibrated more insistently as the thrust to the screw was increased. “The dolly worked out real good,” he said, straightening up, and flexing his back. “Almost like a shopping cart in a grocery store.” He looked up, steadying himself against the canted bulkhead. “What the hell is Maxie doin’ up there? He’s gonna get me seasick.”
“You had too much to drink. This caper is so damned crazy, we just might just get away with it,” Harper’s voice was edged with excitement. Suddenly, laughing eyes were staring at him.
“Whoa! Whoa! Listen to Mr. Downer, himself.”
“We’re a long way from home, Harper.” Trent grunted, chilling his ardor. “But for Hauser and one unshipped hatch cover, we wouldn’t be here celebrating.”
Graves added, “And if Maxie hadn’t shorted out the ship-to-shore set and cut the line to the whistle, Captain Larsen woulda spilled the beans on the spot! Hey! Commander. How about a weekend pass? Eh! Maybe? I ran into this…”
“Not on your life,” Trent replied harshly, “not with the Captain confined aboard.”
“So, what do we do with him?” Harper asked, fingering a slice of salami. “Or the Helga for that matter?”
Trent paused, and then rapped his knuckles on the wooden table. “We guard the Captain around the clock. Confined to quarters. Make sure he doesn’t get off the Helga. Madden, make up a duty roster.” Suddenly, Trent stood up and threw on his jacket. “It’s time for a serious talk with the Captain.” As he left the cabin, Trent said, “Graves, you better relieve Maxie.”
On deck, the salt air invigorated him. The rush of waves tumbling aft in a pell-mell splash of white soothed him. A peaceful, luminescent glow of green and blue hues radiated from the surface. Distant Seattle city lights winked through a low-lying haze. Low hanging clouds, bleak, wet, and inhospitable, scudded before a weather front bullying its way across the Sound. The Helga moved gracefully, a real lady, praised Trent. Lisa intruded on his thoughts, he recalled how she looked, how they made love.
“Tony,” It was Maxie.
“What do I say to the NARDO people?”
“Lisa knows we’re due in tonight. She will be waiting.”
“The money’s hidden. Only I know where. Flora doesn’t know anything. I stashed it in ‘Frisco. I didn’t want to gamble it away. It’s for Flora when I’m gone.”
“Are you thinking of making a break for it?”
“I don’t know! I could get past them but—there’s Flora.”
“They won’t let you skip town unless they think you will lead them to the money.”
“I can’t make it alone.”
“Are you well enough?”
“The pills work good, but I can’t keep on running.”
“The pills?”
“Heart.”
Trent said, “Even if everything works out perfectly, we still need to get off the Missouri.” Trent eyed him sadly, “You can figure the odds.” Maxie was a gambler and he understood odds and he knew they weren’t very good. Yet, Maxie did have choices, none of them good – and, he knew he wasn’t adept at making the right call. Maxie was born a habitual loser.
The door to the Captain’s cabin burst open. Captain Larsen charged out, a buff-coated figure, cursing fluently. Coiled up like a spring his face reflected the anguish of a man about to lose his all...his ship. The Captain’s principles had been tested and not found wanting. He could not be faulted for his reactions. Trent turned and faced him. Larsen stopped abruptly.
“Captain Larsen,” Trent said, calmly. Big, hunched over and menacing, the Captain stood squared off. “Shall we go into your cabin? Maxie, bring us some coffee. Captain, have you eaten?”
“I’m not hungry,” the Captain said, dourly, his voice one tone lower. He re-entered his cabin leaving the door ajar. Maxie, with mouth agape, headed with haste to the galley. The Captain sat uncomfortably on the edge of his chair. Hauser wagged his tail, then curled up at the Captain’s feet. Trent chose to stand.
“Captain. You are confined you to your cabin until we finish unloading.” The Captain had been drinking. Two empty bottles rolled with the ship’s movement. Courage found in a bottle.
“You’re a liar,” the Captain slurred his speech. “If it ain’t you lying, it’s people like Schiller.” His face was set and sullen. “You are all scum!” He poured himself another drink, the liquor missing the glass spilling onto his trouser leg. Hauser shifted to the other side of the cabin.
“I plan on releasing you with the Helga and $55,000. You can tell the authorities whatever you want,” Trent said. “However; give me any trouble - No money! No Helga! Is that clear?” The Captain signed that he had heard. Downing his drink, he shattered the glass against the bulkhead. “Go away and leave me alone!” Hauser pulled his ears back and slinked away behind a chair.
Maxie showed up with coffee and reported, “Locks dead ahead.”
* * *
The morning sunrise was hazy and the approaching locks were half hidden by a sea mist. Trent stood on the upper deck, his cap tilted over his eyes as he watched Graves readying lines. Madden spun the wheel. The lock-tender signaled green, the Helga cleared into the larger of the two locks. Heaving lines flew up to be caught in midair, hauled in, looped around cleats and then passed back. The lock gates swung closed. From deep beneath, valves opened and water surged in raising the Helga. The valves slammed shut and lock gates swept open. A parade of smaller vessels preceded the Helga. Overhead a puff, then a steady plume of smoke billowed from the funnel. The Helga moved very deliberately as would a cautious fox returning to its lair. The tang of salt air gave way to the sweet smell of fresh as the dock was raised. Harper stepped over the gunwale, threw a line around a bollard as Madden cut the engine. The Helga lay at rest for the weekend. At the far end of the pier, a yellow Corvette with a black hardtop sat with its engine idling. There was a nip in the morning air.
~ * * * ~
CHAPTER 14
It was one of those rare, dazzling sunny days in Seattle. The brightness had roused Trent out of four hours of desperately needed sleep. Lying there, he let the yellow rays pleasure his bare back. The phone jangled, stopped, and then jangled again. Irritated, he swung his arm out in a half
-sleep and knocked the offending sound off its cradle. Clearing the rasp in his throat, he croaked, “Yeah!” His voice fell out fuzzy-like, a mouth full of soft, mushy cotton balls.
“You didn’t drop by the car.” It was Lisa.
“You and Maxie had a lot to talk about.”
“Not even to say, ‘hello.’ I waited in the cold from two in the morning,” she purred, un-mollified.
“It was a long day and we were all beat.”
“Still going back Sunday night?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Were you going to call me?” she asked, coyly
“I was going to call you,” he lied, dusting sleepers out of one eye. Righting himself, he vainly tried to focus on the radio clock, moving closer to squint through still gummed eyelids.
“You weren’t, were you, really? For a date?”
“Tonight,” Trent replied. Somehow, she always seemed to get the better of him when it came to verbal knife throwing. In truth, he wondered who was doing the asking.
“Why, how nice of you to ask. I accept,” she went on, more spirit in her voice. “I’ll pick you up at eight.” She hung up before he could take a breath. He fell back and lay there naked, soaking up the warm sun. Shielding his eyes, he visualized sunning on a tropical beach on his own private island, remote and far away. He would not admit it, but visions of a big payoff were getting to him, too. Lisa and their tantalizing moments together, her radiant looks, soft words relaxed him. He yearned for a deeper involvement, but knew it would be a luxury he could not yet afford. His first loyalty must lay with the task ahead. Just a few more days and it would be over, he thought. With a sense of disquiet, he knew he could never ask her to wait for him. That they were destined not to meet again was pre-ordained. And that left not seeing her again unbearable.
The clock-alarm buzzed: Haury’s at 0900.
* * *
Madden sat, elbows on the table, leaning over a newspaper. Trent signaled a sleepy-eyed waiter, ordered a drink and carefully selected a large breakfast. He had skimped the past two days; his growling stomach reminded him of the oversight. Haurys regular Friday night crowd partied late and slept late. Human activity attempted before noon on a Saturday was a total bust. Witness, the place was empty, sleeping off a hangover. Haury, the man himself, the patron, deigned it sinful to be seen before four in the afternoon. A Bloody Mary arrived; Trent tasted it, found it adequate and chided Madden.
“Pass me the paper.”
Madden looked up. “Please!” he said.
“My! Aren’t we cheery? Where is it?”
Madden folded the paper and tossed it.
“Under your nose. Page sixteen,” Madden leaned back.
Trent unfolded the paper. “Please, no histrionics.”
“No, what?”
“Never mind,” Trent scratched his head. “Good. A long list of out-bounds. Let’s see…”
WEEKLY MARITIME SHIP DEPARTURES
DESTINATION NAME TIME AND DAY
SAN FRANCISCO PRISCILLA 1000 WED
HONOLULU AOIKI 1438 THURS
TOKYO BEDFORD 0900THURS
OSAKA VADA 0400FRI
HONG KONG BANDERA 1800 SAT
TAIPEI HESTIA 0600 SAT
“The Priscilla leaves too soon,” Trent observed. “Vada and Bandera are at Todd for repairs. Departure times look good. Any problems with Todd getting the work completed as scheduled?”
“The Vada and Bandera will probably sail as posted, even if they’re not ready. The Medford Line runs on a tight schedule.” Madden replied. “Both ships are being shifted to the Port of Seattle’s docks Monday. The Vada is in dry dock: she’s got a thump in her prop shaft. They’re container-ships.”
“What about the Hestia?”
“She’s small. She takes mixed cargo, sometimes loose, outsized stuff on her main deck, odd containers,” Madden said. “She’s tied up where Port security is real tight. A piece of luck, her agents called Todd for a repair crew: I signed on, but can beg off.”
“What’s her cargo?”
“I won’t know until Thursday or Friday. Great Northern runs in a late train from the East. Hestia’s agents sniff around, they get loads nobody else wants.” Madden explained. “She could be risky. She’s slow, runs at 10 knots; the other two get a respectable 18,” Madden added. “Hestia is a tramp, saw service in WWII, registered in Taiwan and is sailed by a Chinese crew.”
“The timing is better with Vada and Bandera. Besides, there’s less risk. Can you get aboard?”
“By tomorrow afternoon, if not, then by late Monday. Depends.”
“The Helga is in danger here. The sooner we get back aboard the Missouri, the better.” Trent said, severely. “Larsen is too much to handle.”
“If the timing doesn’t work out, I’ll take the ferry. But, don’t start without me. Something bugging you?” Madden prodded.
Breakfast arrived, cutting off serious conversation.
“Bacon and eggs over easy.”
“No. That one is his. Mine is bacon, crisp.”
“Bacon, crisp.” The waiter set down the orders.
“Coffee?” They both nodded.
The waiter mumbled, filled their cups and left.
Trent felt unsettled. Maxie and Lisa were loose ends. Lisa intruded, a distraction, albeit, a pleasurable one; yet, he could not tear her from his thoughts. And Maxie, a man of key skills needed medical care. In the wheelhouse, he suffered a fresh paroxysm of coughing; his towel grew dark red, sodden and he tried to hide the evidence. And Newby, unwanted with no usable skills and badly out of shape. Harper, Madden and Graves, a crew of aged War vets, each going nowhere with little to look forward too. Yet, each was willing to risk his life…for what, money? The weight of responsibility was mounting, crushing. Did failure await them on the Missouri? He feared for Peter. Did he really understand the risk? He turned away from Peter’s gaze.
“Your eggs are getting cold.”
Trent picked up a fork, “How are the men?”
“Something is really bugging you?” Madden twisted his face. When he realized no answer was forthcoming, he added, “Captain Larsen’s a wily bastard. He broke out, again. Graves caught him on the dock. You’re right. It’s a damn good idea to get back to the Missouri.”
“And Maxie? What do I do about him?”
“Hell, he took off with that blonde. What’s with her and Maxie, anyway? With a piece like that, I’d never come back.”
“Maxie’s got troubles,” Trent relaxed slightly.
“You sound serious. Is she the law?”
“No, but we could lose him.”
“We could get by without him.”
“No chance. You underestimate his value.”
Madden flicked a look at his watch. “Have to stop by and make peace with Ingrid,” he said, wiping his hands in his napkin. He looked sadly at Trent, “No telling when I’ll see her again.” He peeled off four singles and let them drop to the table and left. Trent shuddered, Peter had intentionally not added…if ever.
* * *
The Helga lay stilled save for light streaming out of the Captain’s cabin and galley portholes. Peals of raucous laughter rolled down Waters Street from the crowded bars up on Eastlake. The sounds faded out over the Ship Canal. A black cat ambled under the grit-filtered glare of lonely streetlight. A car, with headlights doused, turned down Waters Street and pulled to the curb mid-block. The driver slipped the door open noiselessly. Black skin-tights and a turtleneck sweater covered his slender frame. A navy-blue, wool-knit ski mask darkened his face. Slight of build and wiry, his movements were agile and fox-like. He stared down the cool, deserted street and then furtively slipped into the shadows. Carefully circling back behind empty warehouses, he made straight for the Helga. Stepping over the gunwale, he stole to starboard and peered forward. A figure, head in chest, sat slumped outside the Captain’s door. The dark shape retraced his steps silently and moved to the port side. Reaching the aft hold unobserved, he slipped
below through the aft hold access hatch.
Hauser grew restless, he growled and yapped. The dog scratched at the cabin door, whining and feigning agony. Harper, his chin now up off his chest, sat up, and stirred by the dog’s pleadings called, “Hey, Newby. Get back here and walk Hauser.
“Hell. I ain’t your slave, do it yourself.”
“Send Graves,” Harper called back, gruffly.
“Stick it! I’m busy,” Graves replied, instantaneously.
“Well, I gotta watch this door,” Harper implored. “Hauser’s gotta do his thing.”
“I’ll watch the door,” Newby conceded, coming forward.
“That’s awfully good of you, Newby. Hauser will thank you in his will,” Harper replied sarcastically. He unlocked the Captain’s cabin door. Hauser bounded out knocking him over. “Hey, not that way,” he shouted as he stood up. Hauser, undeterred, headed straight to the aft hold hatch. Harper, chasing him down, noticed the hatch was open.
“Newby. Get Graves back here. Hurry. Bring a light.”
“What’s up?” Newby swallowed hard.
“I left the hatch secured. There’s somebody’s down in the aft hold,” Harper yelled. Graves grabbed a flashlight and rushed aft. They yanked back the ten-by-ten aft hatch cover exposing the black hold to moonlight. Graves flipped the light to Harper and slipped down through the small access hatch. Harper trailed, slamming and securing the hatch behind them.
“Now, where’s the bastard? Show yourself, we know you’re down here.” Graves roared.
Harper stabbed the flashlight beam in all directions. It caught the tarpaulins pulled back exposing the stacked powder bags and the weapons cache. Sensing a slight motion, Harper swung to his left. A black figure, arms upraised, lunged at him, knocked him over and the flashlight out of his hand. Hauser, his fangs snapping, chased the stranger atop the powder bags. The figure deftly vaulted up at the hatch opening, and grabbing the coaming, started to pull up. Heaving up his tree-trunk arms, Graves bear-hugged and stripped the struggling figure of his grip. They crashed to the deck in a sickening thud. The man in black wiggled, slipped loose, drew a knife, and lunged. Graves back peddled, perplexed by the flashing, slashing blade. There was a sharp, abbreviated crack as a pry bar came flying across the hold and ricocheted off the steel hull. With the distraction, Graves leaped, snared the man’s taut wrist, which cracked in a shriek of pain and the knife flew off into the darkness. The man’s voice choked off in an agonizing grunt, his arms flailed wildly at the empty air as Graves lifted him bodily and crashed him to the deck, driving every last ounce of breath from his body. He lay face down, his shoulders heaving convulsively.
