by Bob Neir
The Captain looked up.
“Well, Captain,” Trent said. “I appreciate all you did for my men, today. Now, what am I going to do with you?”
“The Helga is still my ship.”
“Tomorrow, I’m releasing you, the Helga and Schiller.”
“Schiller,” the Captain looked up sharply, anguish on his face. “But I thought…”
“You thought, what, Captain.”
“Schiller’s dangerous.”
“To us both. You hoped I would dispose of Schiller?”
“Yes, that came to mind.”
“We are not murderers.”
“I didn’t know.”
“You’ll get your $55,000 and the Helga. Schiller is going back with you.” Trent rose and called to Newby.
The men gathered on the Missouri at the handling hatch.
“Commander Trent, sir,” Madden snapped, coming to attention and saluting, smartly. “All seven shells are on deck, sir. One target-practice; six, common, reporting for duty, sir” Madden said mockingly, dropping his salute. Trent couldn’t help but crack a smile. The men could hardly contain themselves as he snapped back Madden’s salute.
“Get them down to the shell deck, Chief.”
“Aye! Aye! Sir.”
“Yeah! Better snap to. Anybody spotting these crates will know something ain’t copasetic. And, with those Patrol Boats snooping around…” Maxie fumbled in his pocket for chewing tobacco and bit off a wad.
“Nobody would guess there was a shell inside?”
“Chief Wilson didn’t!” A voice. A laugh.
“Are we gonna use the target shell?” Another voice.
“We’ll see,” Trent answered.
“It has no bursting charge; it’ll sure scare the hell out of ‘em, show’em we mean business,” added Graves. “What a joke! Tourists have been looking at that shell for over twenty years, sittin’ right there outside the turret hatch.”
“Got some names and phone numbers on it, too.” Newby grinned. “And one guy writes you what you can do with it!”
“Rig up the block and tackle. Keep it moving, guys,” Madden ordered as he disappeared down the handling hatch. Two hours of back breaking labor followed. Powder bags were stowed in the magazine. Shells were lowered, lined up and chained up on the shell deck. Newby stood watch atop the turret. Maxie and Madden worked all that night below decks, deep in the barbette, with the revolving equipment, in hopes of electrically rotating the turret. Two disassembled emergency diesel (250 KW) generators were lowered to the main engineering spaces; parts lay strewn about.
“Tomorrow, we’ll free up the barbette, pull the tampions, remove the cover plate and rotate the turret. If everything checks out, we release the Helga.” Trent said. “Life will be much easier without Schiller, the Captain and the Helga. “We will be on our own,” Trent paused, letting the significance sink it.
“Great. We get rid of that creep, Schiller,” Graves ventured. “But, I’m goin’ to miss that old geezer, the Captain.”
“Me too,” Maxie said. “And, Hauser. I’ll miss the dog.”
And, it was back down to the Helga, a last night aboard.
~ * * * ~
CHAPTER 17
The Helga’s sea cabin stood no larger than a walk-in closet. Charts, mechanicals and ship’s plans were strewn about the small chart table with no semblance of order. Leaning wearily on his elbows, head in hands, Trent hunched over the table. The past two days had taken their toll. Hammers pounded the back of his head. Easing his body away, he collapsed into a dead heap onto a narrow bunk.
His hands wedged behind his head, he let his eyes slip shut. As hard as he tried, his mind flatly refused to shut down. Vague doubts, possibilities and fears of what was yet to come tormented him. The odds heavily favored events going wrong; it was only a matter of time before his good luck ran out. And, he knew it. So far he had both dealt and played the cards his way. He had taunted others to play, but they were unaware the game was on.
Hot sweat coursed down his back as he castigated himself for ordering the Helga out; it was a stupid, unwarranted risk. But, his luck held. Those odds, again! He conjured up the faces of Farr, Denton, Proust, Kindler, and Burns. Where were they? What were they doing? Men who had derailed not just his career, but also his life. It was in sadistic anticipation, a glorious joy in turning the tables, getting even, getting back that he fell into a deep sleep. The Helga, nudging the side of the Missouri lulled him into a deeper sleep, by gently falling off, repeating the soothing rhythm.
Newby startled him, his hand roughly shaking his shoulder. He had set down a tray of steaming coffee and sandwiches. “You better eat something,” he said. Trent hadn’t bothered with meals, eating was not on his mind. Maybe, it was just nerves. He rubbed his head vigorously; but, it did not dispel the fuzziness nor placate his sour, empty stomach. The tantalizing smell of fresh coffee brought back pleasant recollections of Lisa standing in the doorway, her shapely body, and her warmness. His brain begged for more time. Shaking out the cobwebs, he shot a quick glance at the clock on the bulkhead. The hands had not moved, yet it was bright daylight. “Good God! I’ve slept twelve hours!”
Newby stepped back, his face twisted. He hesitated, then cleared his throat,
“Tony, I know I can pull my weight, I…”
Trent cut him short, “I know that, Newby.”
“I was sure you didn’t want me aboard…”
It was an awkward moment. “That’s true, Newby. We each have a role to play: you played yours. I admit I did underestimate you. I do need you now.” Newby’s face brightened appreciably. Trent steamed under his breath, “Damn, Newby, incompetent dreamer. He could foul up the whole caper. But, here he was, fait accomplie.”
“How’re our guests?” Trent’s caffeine-ignited brain cells fired off an effort to change the subject.
“On their best behavior. Camp is over and they know it. They get to go home,” Newby laughed. “Maxie’s standing watch. He’s got the .45 and an itchy finger for Schiller. If he makes one false move...”
“An itchy finger. That’s all I need,” Trent pulled on a boot, “is for Maxie to pull that trigger. And, all my careful planning will go down the tube.” Trent jammed his foot down with a start.
“Commander Conover showed up this morning.”
“What did he want?”
“Madden spotted him coming and stalled him while Graves ducked into the barbette, cut the lights and hid below.”
“What did he want?” Trent repeated, impatiently.
“Not sure. He snooped around, inspected the turret, and looked down into the black hole of the handling hatch.”
“Did he appear suspicious?”
“Hard to tell. There’s a contractor’s meeting at 1200. We told him we didn’t know where you were. Madden is covering it, then he walked aft and disappeared below decks.”
Trent stood up. His feet took him short steps across the sea cabin. He paused before the hand-basin. Newby eyed him, picked up and left. Trent followed him in the bulkhead mirror and grimaced. He plucked at the puffiness under his eyes, the shadows and the deep lines in his cheeks. A mouth turned down at the corners he hadn’t noticed before. Unkempt hair played in all directions. Turning on the hot water tap, he lathered up for shaving, nicking himself. “Damn.”
“Serves me right,” he said. “First try.”
As he placed the razor to his cheek, feelings of doubt again gripped him. He wondered: could he lose his hold over the men? He dared not relax his grip. Five men each different, different strengths and weakness, none must be wasted, even Newby. Under pressure, who would break first? Graves? No! Not Graves. He was too basic, he thought. Harper? Maybe. He was unpredictable, bordering on volatile. Maxie, no! But, Maxie was hurting, tired. Madden? Something inside was eating at him, but he was loyal, a known quantity, predictable. Newby? Most likely. His abilities dwarfed his ambitions. What steps could he take? The mirror stared back--no answer was forthcoming.<
br />
He pressed a hot, steaming rag to his face, taking peculiar pleasure in the searing pain. Throwing a wet, cold towel around his neck, he moved to an open porthole and took in the warmth of the sunlight. A few seagulls hovered, swooped and whirled about noisily. He stared impassively at the anchored ships off in the distance lined up dress-right-dress, gray and streaked with rust. The sound of voices, the racing auxiliaries and the thud of an object being set down on the deck, jolted him. He had a sudden yearning to climb the nearby hillside, go over the top and keep right on going. He laughed as he finished drying. He pulled on a clean shirt and tugged the comb thru his hair in a losing effort. He appeared clean-shaven and neatly dressed.
“Well, Commander Trent, let’s see what today holds.” He put his cap square on his head and left the cabin.
* * *
A single, hanging light bulb cast its dull yellow glow illuminating two squatting figures. Graves kneeling, carefully unwrapped two waterproof oilskins. Maxie stood by in awe of the subterranean world of the No. 2 turret upper projectile deck. He took in the empty cradles, arrayed in a ring to hold 2700 pound, 5’7” shells. One shell capable of destroying an area of one square mile, fired from a range of 23 miles. His aching body rebelled in the frigid cold and penetrating dampness. He cursed the Yard workers for shutting down the dehumidification system. Chilled, moist Puget Sound air freely condensed on solid, steel plates to puddle on the deck. Graves was not distracted as he cradled the weapons.
“Two M16 rifles! Where did you get those?”
“Don’t make no difference. I got ‘em, didn’t I?” Graves bragged, stripping away the oilskins. “I told ya. I belong to the NRA. Neat, ain’t they?” Graves held one up to the light bulb and peered up the barrel. He fingered the trigger and operated the breech mechanism several times.
Graves added, “That M16 is just a pea-shooter compared to those shipboard 40- and 20-millimeters cuttin’ loose, eh, Maxie? I’d stick my fingers in my ears at the racket they’d set up. I’d watch the Kingfishers tow sleeves back and forth until the sleeves were all shot up. On a good day, the sky would be peppered, the sleeves in shreds.”
Maxie fingered the instruction manual and holding it up to the light, read off the cover, “Guess we’ll have to settle for a 5.56-mm, magazine-fed, gas operated shoulder weapon. Semi or automatic fire with a flash suppressor.”
“Yeah! Suppressors. The Commander made a point of wantin’ suppressors. He must figure we’re goin’ to get some night work.” Graves carefully stripped cosmoline from a lethal looking pipe. “30-round magazines and bullets that range 2700 meters. And a grenade launcher.” Graves held it up: Maxie acted impressed.
“What’s in the other oilskins?”
“Ah! Like the French say, the piece-de-resistence,” Graves guffawed. “Two 7.62-mm, shoulder-firing a free hand M60 belt-fed machine guns.”
“That’s more like it!” Maxie said.
“With a split-link belt these babies can spray 550 rounds a minute.” Graves hefted the weapon lovingly. “Terrific range, too, 3700 meters. With these, nobody’s gonna get close.” He drew the oilskin off the second weapon. “I’d rather have the 40-millimeters, though. You don’t have to hit nothin’ to be lethal, just get close. When the big War ended, we had 40’s on every ship and they were sprinkled all over the deck. We’d fill the sky with lead and wait for somethin’ to run into the stuff.”
Maxie laughed as he stripped open a leather side kit, spreading the contents on the oilskin. “A tourist could haul this around. A spare barrel, sling, pintle assembly, asbestos mitten…yeah! Everything needed to keep her going. Where’d you stow the bandoleers?”
“Over there, in the shadows,” Graves pointed. Maxie got up. “I’d rather have the 20’s, explodin’ and tracer rounds, super for close in point defense. My gut says that’s the kinda fight we got comin’.” Maxie dragged a bandoleer back. “One-hundred rounds to a belt, you say. Seems like enough to hold off a Russian Division. Are you sure you brought enough ammo?”
“Smart ass.”
“Think the Navy will try to rout us out?”
“Damn right, they will,” Graves said, fumbling with the belt. “This stuff weighs a ton. Almost gave me a hernia loading the truck. Here, clean these 45’s.”
“I don’t like the idea of shooting at Sailors and Marines. I’d feel better sticking a muzzle in Schiller’s ear and scaring the bejesus out of him.”
“What’s in the box?”
“Oh, a case of grenades,” Graves answered. “We might need to heave a couple,” he said laughing. “They’re good for gettin’ respect.”
“Think it will come to killin’?” Graves asked.
“You mean, them or us? I hope not. Trent says they can’t get to us. He has had things figured pretty good, so far.”
“Even if the City don’t pay up right away, the Navy’s not gonna take it lyin’ down. The Missouri’s their property and they ain’t gonna take kindly to squatters.”
“What can the Navy do to us inside this fortress? We can survive in here for months. There’s no way they can make us come out.”
“Blow us up!”
“The Navy?” Graves rose, “Nah! You’re crazy”
“Sink us.”
“We’re almost on bottom now.”
“Then, what?”
“That’s what we’re payin’ Trent big money to figure out. Christ! You’re right. It’s like a freezer down here. Let’s get outta here.”
Up on the main deck, the weather had turned foul, torrents of rain swept across the inlet, but the wetness put no damper on the men’s spirits. Harper had hot grub waiting on the Helga. He said, “Madden has been looking for you, Graves. He’s up in the starboard gun tub forward the battle mast.”
“What’s he doin’ up there?” Graves chomped down on his food.
“I can only guess; probably, sighting for coverage. If we fire those toy guns you’ve been playing with, it might be useful to know where the bullets are ending up.”
Harper slammed down the serving hole hatch.
* * *
Madden took station in a quad 40’s gun tub perched high above the Missouri’s main deck. He stared down over an impressive array of Quad 40’s and twin 5-inchers fore and aft, gun barrels stuck in like wooden matchsticks. He checked his field of fire to starboard: clear fore and aft, only blanked out directly aft in a 15-degree sector where the side of the forward mast and forward funnel shaded the fantail. He simulated firing a mounted M60, sketching the angle of fire and field of cover. Madden chomped down on a Cheroot. There was no reason for him being up there and, if it were dark, a lit Cheroot would pinpoint him precisely. He would be dead meat to a sniper. His exposure hit home as the flight deck of the Oriskany was but a mere 200 feet away, a stone’s throw. Otherwise, he had the catbird’s seat. “The Missouri’s designers couldn’t have prepared better coverage against a boarding party,” he mused.
“Stand by to repel boarders,” Madden decried in hushed tones, almost believing it were true. He positioned the M60 and squeezed the trigger; his skin stretched taut across his cheekbones. He pictured the machine gun spitting hot lead, stitching the pier in a pattern of dancing death. Swiveling from side to side, he swept the gangway and the deck forward. A slight elevation, a mere movement of his shoulders and the lead marched a scythe-like arc along half the flight deck of the Oriskany.
A shocked awareness hit Madden; he broke off, pulled back the M60 and stood transfixed. He imagined shadows of Marines crossing his field of fire, pressing their attack with suicidal courage, their bodies weaving from side to side dodging instant, violent death. Two seconds, three seconds, then four passed. He uttered an anguished cry, the physical shock of visions of shell-ripped, torn bodies in a ghastly travesty. Still they came on…brave souls. Bodies splayed on the gangway. Death in the sights of his M60 spitting deadly fire. He dropped his head over the tub and retched.
“Do you read me, Madden?” Graves’ voice cracked over the wa
lkie-talkie. Madden did not answer.
“Madden, do you hear me?”
“Yeah! Over.”
“Better get down here. Trent is back.”
Under a rare hot sun, the barbette was freed, the canvas cover pulled from the rotating ring and the sighting hatch cover hinged open. Harper and Graves worked the turret, first elevating, then depressing the center gun. Each turret could be trained at 4 degrees per second and the guns elevated at 12 degrees per second, either together or individually, but under power. Rotation would be slower, if done by hand. Maximum elevation was 45 degrees, a range far greater than needed to reach the City of Seattle.
* * *
Captain Larsen briskly walked the deck of the Helga, a free man. Hauser hugged his side. Trent said to Schiller, “You’re going back with the Captain.”
“The Captain told me,” Schiller snapped.
“I have a message I want you to deliver.”
“The extortion demand?” Schiller remarked, sarcastically. “You got nothing to sell.”
“Deliver it to the Mayor. His name’s written on the envelope.”
“That’s all?”
“Just make sure you do it. And right away.”
“What’s it say?”
“None of your business.”
“Suppose I open it. Better yet, suppose I don’t deliver it.”
“You will,” Trent was sure Schiller was pissed off enough to go out of his way to screw things up. “The Mayor will hang on your every word, Schiller. Besides, if you don’t carry the message, the Captain will. You’d rather be the hero, wouldn’t you?”
Schiller glowered as Trent cut his bonds free.
By mid-afternoon, wisps of cirrus formations high in the sky reflected the glow of the hidden sun. A moist breeze swept through Sinclair Inlet, leaving thin bands of misty-white vapors. The wind stopped and the inlet calmed. One by one, the men gathered at the rail of the Missouri and fell silent. They watched the Helga draw astern. Schiller, legs astride, stood on the fantail. His usual flow of obscenities had dried up like a spring in drought. Hauser, barking noisily, padded about confused. The men laughed at the dog’s antics, but their laughter was empty and sad.
