SILENT GUNS

by Bob Neir

  Chief Simons gave a wry smile, leaned back in his chair and re-lit his cigar. “Mike. Did you contact the Commander of the Navy Yard?”

  “Yes, sir. It came as a complete surprise to the Navy.” Sergeant Mike Halpern stood up. Of medium build, the former Marine cast an authoritative appearance in his sergeants’ uniform. “I spoke with a Commander Ward Conover. At first, he refused to believe me: he said it was impossible. He threatened to hang up; but I cautioned suppose it were true? He simmered down real quick, and then agreed to check it out. Conover and Rear-Admiral Brian Burns, he’s the new Commander of the Navy Base, called back pretty quick. The Admiral had dispatched a shore patrol party to check it out. They’re there all right. The patrol tried to board across the gangway, but they took a warning spray from a machine gun high up, so they backed off. They’ve pulled ships’ power and cutoff all shore-side facilities.”

  Sam Simons feigned listening. He was tired. When his day should be ending, it was just beginning. The confined stuffiness of the room didn’t help. Damn Government, for a few bucks they could have an air conditioner, he cursed. He could have retired last month, and should have, he thought ruefully.

  “Chief, since they’re holed up, what’s the Navy going to do about it? An officer spoke, his voice uneasy.

  “Good question,” the Chief growled, searching for the man’s face -- he found him. “Charlie Wingate has contacted the Navy.” Wingate, a man known to his intimates as Wingy because of a predilection to ‘wing it’ on his own, was credited with solving a number of cases previously filed under “unsolved.” He was very tall and tough looking. He sported a layered hairstyle and a neatly trimmed mustache. He thrived on working outside the system; but most importantly, the Chief liked him. Charlie was certain his career would spiral into a black hole the day Chief Simons retired.

  Charlie reported, “I’m meeting with Admiral Burns and Commander Conover at 2400. I’ll catch the last ferry over and will keep in contact from the Navy Yard.”

  “Is the City going to pay off?” The questioner sported a somber expression. Simons knew what everyone thinking, but afraid to ask. He coughed, self-consciously, and replied, “The City Council and Mayor are meeting in executive session at this moment. Although this looks legit, the City Council might not agree to pay. They might decide to stall, to ask for more time, more proof. Knowing how government works, they will probably want to negotiate. That takes time. Our job is to keep the threat from being carried out. We must assume the threat is real, and that the Smith Tower will be shelled. Don’t assume otherwise. The shelling is set for 0500 tomorrow.”

  “The Missouri is…miles away. Those guys could miss.”

  Another voice. “Let’s hope they don’t.”

  The team shifted uneasily in their chairs, and some cringed, dread in their faces. Sam Simons stood up and glared at them holding their eyes for long seconds. His stare finally fell on Dave Harrison. “What’s the plan, Dave?”

  “Here, Chief. I have a joint team ready to clear the Smith Tower and the surrounding streets. We will move into the area at 0300. Sergeants Mallory and Johnson will cordon off the area.” He continued. “Lt. Mark O’Hara, of the Fire Department, is coordinating assistance. Fire Chief Eddie Marks will have his Fire Department on full alert.”

  Simons warned, “I want no deaths and it’s absolutely critical we avoid a citizen’s panic.” He let his words hang in the air. “I want us to know these terrorists better than they know themselves. Focus on the leader, Anthony Trent. Dig into his background; uncover his motives. Consider his options. Anticipate his moves, so we can move quickly to counter them. Now, get to it.” Simons jutted his chin forward. Chairs pushed back, feet scuffled and quickly the room emptied. Sam Simons sat, too weary to go back to his own office. He had done all he could for the moment, now it was up to the politicians. He shook his head: he was sure they’d fuck-it up somehow. They always did, amateurs all, he convinced himself. A rough shaking stirred his shoulder.

  “What’s up?”

  “Schiller’s talking. They caught up with him in Lynnwood heading for the border,” Gleese reported.

  “Get anything out of him?”

  “He had fifty-five grand on him. Schiller claims the Captain paid him what he owed him, the final payment on the boat. The Captain claims he took it. Schiller really had the old man in a spin.”

  “Yes! Yes! What about the Missouri?” Simons interrupted. “Schiller says he uncovered the gig and was going to turn them in; but they caught him. They locked him up with the Captain then let him go to deliver the extortion note,” Gleese went on, “He said he just wanted to be a good citizen, so he agreed.” Simons exclaimed. “That’s a line of bullshit. Just trying to save his own ass. Ten bucks says he tried to cut in on the action and they told him to go piss up a rope,” he laughed, harshly.

  “Jim Frances figured it that way, too.”

  “You still haven’t told me anything.”

  “I got a rundown on the guys; at least a partial list of names. So far, six are involved, and get this, one guy just retired from the Navy Yard. He’s the one that got them in.”

  “What else?”

  “They’re old farts. Oops! Excuse me, Chief,” Gleese stumbled,” I mean they’re in their late fifties. All Ex-Navy men. Schiller didn’t believe they signed up for just the money.” The Chief sat silent for a few moments as a smile crossed his face.

  Gleese looked at him blankly. “I don’t think you would understand, Annette.” Gleese was left with a puzzled look on her face. She was too young to realize her own life was slipping by; not old enough to look back with regrets on what might have been. He prayed this Trent fellow knew what he was doing. He felt a twinge of sympathy, but he was still a cop. He had a job to do. Slipup’s, and they could end up cold-blooded killers, he thought. He wondered what had shaped Trent. What pulled his trigger?

  Sam Simons threw his jacket over a hook then shut the door to an anteroom just off his office. Small, he could barely move about, but it had privacy. He collapsed on a sofa, laid back and closed his eyes. He pondered Trent, and then sleep overtook him. Angry rings, he reached out to snatch at them. You never get used to the phone, he thought, every time it rings, it twists your gut into a knot. It rang again.

  “Chief. Frank Gonzales, here. The Mayor and Chitterman are here.” He answered, as he peered at his watch and grimaced, “I’ll be right down.” A one-hour snooze was better than nothing. He felt like warmed over death.

  * * *

  “Is the mike on?” the Mayor snapped.

  “Go ahead, Mayor,” Frank said. The Mayor spoke, “Calling Missouri. Calling Missouri.” No response. They waited. The Mayor repeated the call.

  A raspy sound cut him off. “Missouri here. Good work. You located us,” Trent answered.

  “This is Mayor Grille speaking. Is this some sort of a joke?” he asked, his tone rude. He trembled as his rage took hold of him, but he kept a grip on himself.

  “Sorry! It’s no joke, Mayor.”

  The Mayor’s pulse beat wildly as blood rushed madly to his face. Visions of his political career ending ingloriously raced through his head. Chitterman wiped his brow, very likely pursuing similar thoughts. Simons turned and placed his ear next to the loudspeaker.

  “Are you out of you mind?” The Mayor screeched, his anger blew past its flash point. “We’re not paying you thirty million for anything. We don’t have that kind of money.”

  “I didn’t think you did, but raising the money is your problem, not mine. It’s still thirty,” Trent said, calmly. Simons was not surprised. Trent expected the City to stall, and then negotiate.

  “You can’t threaten us,” the Mayor shrilled, his voice more a high-pitched defiant squeak than a snarl. Chitterman glanced at him derisively “Read it anyway you like, Mayor. Take your time. When you have the money, call back.” The Mayor’s face turned livid. “By the way, 0500 does come rather early, but we’ll be up.” The set went dead.

  “
Get him back! Get him back!” the Mayor screamed.

  The Chief broke in, “It won’t do any good, Joe.” Simons taunt muscles relaxed. Chitterman shook his head.

  “He’s mad, I tell you, he’s mad,” the Mayor screamed with vehemence. “Chief, I want a report in one hour on what you are going to do about this madman. Let’s go to my office, Hiram.” The Mayor stalked out. Chitterman exchanged puzzled glances with Simons then dutifully followed.

  “Well, that’s a fine kettle of fish,” Frank Gonzales’s small eyes flickered in desperation. He stared fixedly at his superior. Simons tugged at his chin, “Well, Frank. I doubt we will hear back from Mr. Trent, if at all. We might get lucky, at least pray for it. The City Council and the Mayor have another executive session tonight. No matter what, I’ll have the Mayor and Chitterman here a 0430. You’d better be ready. There must be a way to buy time. In the meantime, let’s trust the Navy can bring an end to this madness,” Simons mumbled quietly.

  ~ * * * ~

  CHAPTER 19

  Maxie held station high up in the forward, starboard Quad 40’s gun tub. His waterproof coat was cinched up tight against a persistent, ice-cold wind. He stomped his feet, hoping to ward off the coldness that numbed his toes. Flicking back his glove, he squinted at the luminous dial on his wrist. It was past 0200. He pressed the mike button. “Where the hell are Madden and Newby? They’re late!”

  Feet were heard clattering up a ladder before two heads appeared. Newby snapped, “Quit your bellyaching, we’re here.” Maxie clicked on the mike, “It’s O.K.; they just got here.” Maxie tossed his gloves to Newby, and said, “You’ll need these.” Newby, puzzled, tugged the still warm gloves over his soft, pink hands. Maxie waited and then flipped him an ice-cold, grey metal, 7.62-mm, M60 machine gun. Startled, Newby grunted as he took its full weight against his chest.

  “Need help holding it, Newby?” Graves chided, coming out of the shadows to a ripple of laughter. Newby gritted his teeth, a knife twisted inside his gut. He tried not to dwell on Graves’ taunting but stepped away and rubbed his eyes to focus on the pier below and the Oriskany. Under a clear sky and thin cloud cover, he imagined unfriendly faces searching him out. The moon played tricks, throwing shadows behind still objects. Newby tightened his grip on the M60; he swore he would not be caught off guard. As he role-played his ego in action, uneasiness startled him. He lifted a pair Zeiss glasses and scanned for movement. His eyes felt raw from peering into the deep darkness around the pier. There it was again, shadows where no shadows were a moment before. More movement; like rats ferreting about searching for food. He snatched up the mike. With a sudden urgency, he rasped,

  “This is Newby. We got trouble.” He remained composed, no time for fear, he told himself. He crouched over and peered down again. “They damn near slipped by me. A dozen of them armed and headed for the gangway.” He jammed a magazine in the M60: the click of engaging, the slam of the bolt, sent a thrill up his spine.

  “Party-time…” Trent’s voice came crackling over the walkie-talkie to be instantly drowned out in a din of stitching fire. “O.K., guys. Here we go.” Newby moved his sights to the gangway and squeezed off a burst. A flock of screeching seagulls wheeled from a warehouse rooftop in protest. He squeezed off a second burst but the trigger held as though his finger had frozen stiff. The M60 jumped against his chest as it spit violently. Bullets splintered the wooden gangway in front of charging, dark shapes. Without missing a beat, he fired again. He shut his eyes at the savage recoil. When he opened them he said, “They’re backing off,” Newby’s face was creased by a satisfied smile. Hastily, murky outlines retreated into protective shadows. A whiplash crack: a sniper’s bullet missed his ear by inches that nearly shattered his eardrum. He went down in a welter of flailing limbs and curses. The crack of rifle fire instantly erupted from along the edge of the Oriskany’s flight deck. Bullets chased flashes, a withering fire, Newby cowered though a hailstorm of pebbles thrown against the metal gun tub. Bullets from a second angle flayed across metal plating like a loose steel cable. Newby hugged the deck, his face pressed flat against cold steel; pulse rate ran sky-high.

  “Jesus!” he cried into the mike, his ears deafened by the crescendo of noises that engulfed him. “Hey! Madden, cover me!” He laughed; he loosed a crazy desire to laugh at his own voice, its clipped coolness, and his baptism under fire. Newby exulted.

  “Newby, keep your butt down. I have you covered,” Madden shouted. A burst swept the gangway from the masthead. The quiet turned deathly. Newby popped up his head to quickly look around. “Newby, keep your damn fool head down.” Another burst screamed in. There was a harsh stammer of automatic fire, the air filled with the sharp crackle of metal fragments. Chipped and pulverized layers of gray paint scattered dust over Newby’s head. He stayed flat, hugging the cold deck as lead searched for soft, fleshy objects. Ricochets howled away dementedly.

  “Hold your fire,” Trent ordered.

  “Starboard is clear,” Graves signaled. “You guys need help?”

  “Not from you, scumbag!” Newby shouted.

  “They’re pulling out. Watch it, Newby,” Madden cautioned. “Two snipers are still on the Oriskany.”

  Newby swallowed hard, words failed him. He had tested danger and it terrified him beyond comprehension. Shocked to realization, he screamed, “So, this is war. It is so clean and simple. Kill or be killed.” His brain relaxed as numbness washed over it. Then, uncertain, he panicked fearing how his own life could end. Caught by a stray bullet? Or, maybe, a Marine’s bayonet shoved into his gut? “But, I’m Navy,” he cried out loud. “I’m one of you. Not me!” Newby let his back fall limp against the side of the steel tub. He knew he could never watch another combat movie and feel exulted. God! People really do get killed. A puddle marked the deck where he had sought shelter. He felt none of the glory of battle he had longed for, only the fear of death. But, Trent stood up for him, hadn’t he posted him as lookout. Hadn’t he said, Newby was alert: thick lenses, yes; and, Newby had the sharpest eyes.

  * * *

  Newby relieved Madden at the masthead. The Marines retreated; dead silence prevailed on the docks below, nothing moved. A nearby bank of early morning fog moved in. Newby gripped the M60 with firmness. He gloried in a new found power, a power he never before experienced. Power over life and death. Power was exhilarating: with power he luxuriated. All those years in the Navy, and he had never fired a weapon. Here, he protected his teammates. He must be alert. Trent had said, “They will come.” It was after 0300.

  The men toiled to free up the barbette. Maxie, with deft fingers, dropped to his knees and examined the rotating ring closely, his patience almost gone. “I can’t find anything wrong, it’s probably rusted solid. Take the grease bucket,” he said, thrusting it into Harper’s outstretched hand.

  “Standby to heave your guts out,” grunted Graves. “Suck in deep. Now, heave.” Muscles quivered, yet nothing moved. Frozen in strain, the men held like Marines gripping the flag on top of Iwo Jima. The barbette should rotate, but it stubbornly refused to budge. Graves stood back, panting, his breath wheezing in his throat, his legs undercut.

  “Splash on some more grease,” Maxie ordered.

  “Goddamn it, heave…”

  “Hit the son-of-a-bitch with a sledge…”

  Madden gauged the distance to the ring, set his balance and then swung hard, putting his shoulders into it. The sledge glanced off the ring, jarring their ears.

  “Again…”

  The sledge hit solid, and suddenly something gave.

  “That’s it…once more.”

  Madden wrapped his hands around the sledge handle, leaned back, and swung again, hitting the ring square on. The sound reverberated inside the ship. “She’s free,” Madden gasped, sucking air.

  The barbette was rotated 90 degrees. Three 16-inch guns swung into position, three deadly daggers aimed squarely at the heart of the City of Seattle. A ton of steel shell, behind seventeen inches of steel armor f
acing, was loaded and rammed home: six-hundred pounds of propellant rolled off the tray into the breech and was butted flush up against the bottom of the shell. Harper pushed the loading tray back out of the way and then swung the massive breechblock shut. He locked it: a smile of intense satisfaction crossed his face. Harper was in his element. Everything was as he remembered it. Everything he had been trained for—to fire a big gun. He anxiously surveyed the dials, wheels and gages of his rangefinder, translating Trent’s range and deflection data to the gun. The hooded lamps threw splotches of yellow light about the turret. Far away, over the hillside, lay the unseen target…the Smith Tower. The trajectory would carry the shell over the Navy Base, the City of Bremerton and the wide expanse of Puget Sound.

  “This baby’s ready.” Harper patted the breech as he stepped down. Maxie looked awkwardly at Harper. Harper regarded him blankly, but regarded his manner strange, strained. Second thoughts? Returning Maxie’s pleading gaze, he felt a chill, as though the weather had suddenly turned colder. Madden avoided eye contact. He stared at the radio set as though commanding it to speak. Graves stared coldly at the breech. Trent stood relaxed, more a spectator than a major player. The bulkhead-mounted, luminous-face clock read 0422.

  “We’re gonna’ fire,” Graves blurted out. “I feel it.”

  “The City will call,” Maxie half-wished out loud.

  “They’re cutting it close,” Madden whispered.

  “Think they got the money?” Harper wondered.

  “If they had, they would have radioed.”

  “There’s not much time left.”

  “They’re calling our bluff.”

  “Who says we’re bluffing?”

  “Guess we’re gonna hafta call them to find out.”

  “So! It don’t cost anything to call.”