SILENT GUNS

by Bob Neir

  “Then, how come they didn’t call?”

  “Let’s call them,” a voice spoke. “It’s almost 0430.”

  “No! We wait.” Trent said, forcefully.

  “Maybe, they got the money and can’t reach us?”

  “The radio circuit is open,” Trent said sharply.

  “Are we really going to fire?” Madden asked.

  “Why’n the hell not?” Harper demanded.

  “We’ll kill somebody, for sure.”

  “Hey! It’s 0500 in the morning. Nobody’s gonna get hurt. The Smith Tower’s gonna be empty. The cops’ll see to that,” Harper argued.

  “You’ll miss!” Madden said.

  “I’ll hit.” Harper exclaimed. “If the powder…”

  “Don’t hand me that garbage,” Graves warned.

  “Knock it off, you guys.” Maxie interceded.

  “Tony, are you going to radio?”

  Trent bit back his anger, then smiled wryly.

  “History says the boldest moves are the most effective. I believe that now more than ever.” He eyed his men calmly; a failing commitment dulled their eyes. And, he knew, once the shell had been fired, there could be no turning back. History is replete with irreversible commitments, he thought. Sarajevo, Pearl Harbor, the first atomic bomb. “The city is calling our bluff. They have the right to make a mistake. I only hope to God this one shell will be enough…” he paused “…They could have radioed.”

  “Did you really expect they would?”

  “No,” Trent said softly.

  “They were counting on the Navy to flush us out, weren’t they?”

  “Without a doubt,” Trent added. “And, the Navy will try again.”

  “Will the City try to wait us out?”

  “Yes. And, we have seven reasons they will fail.”

  “Hip! Hip! Hooray! For Errol Flynn and his merry band of pirates.” Graves broke the spell.

  “You mean for the seven dwarfs,” Harper cut in.

  “I’m with you, Commander,” Hirsch said solemnly.

  “Me, too!” said Graves.

  Madden’s stood quietly, his face had gone white.

  Trent cracked a tired smile.

  “All set, Commander,” Harper reported. “She’s zeroed in. Since we ain’t moving and neither is the City, it’s like shooting a sitting duck.” Harper stepped forward and inserted the primer.

  “Good thing Maxie found a firelock,” Graves remarked. “And of all places, in an ice cream carton under the soda fountain,” Maxie added, “For want of a horse, thirty mil was nearly lost.” The men laughed, but it was short lived.

  “Tony. I fear for you,” Madden blurted out.

  “I’m listening, Peter.”

  “I never thought we’d get this far. You’ve lost your moral senses and let your vindictiveness take over. One day you’ll commit murder.”

  “Like Harper said, the Smith Tower is sure to be vacated. If we sat here and just threatened, in short order, we’d all be dead.”

  “It’s 0457, Commander,” Harper pointed to the luminous clock. Madden hung his head and shuffled his foot.

  “It’s O500.” Trent did not waver.

  “Fire!”

  Harper viciously yanked at the lanyard. The explosion ripped through the turret as the huge gun lurched back in a savage recoil. A thunderous blast a millisecond later exploded in fire and dirty yellow smoke, its flash lit up the inlet. The sound echoed and re-echoed sounding like a pitched bombardment. The men winced, and then slapped their hands to their eardrums, conscious of the tremendous pressure. The turret rattled and shook, awakened from years of silence, the Navy’s Rip-Van-Winkle. Dust, dirt, and paint chips filled the chamber with clouds of fine particles. The men choked and gasped at the enormity of the backpressure, the acrid smell of burning powder. The 16-inch armor-piercing shell rose out of a fiery globe of yellow, greasy light on trajectory to the East against the lightening sky. Newby coughed loudly into his handkerchief. Madden eased down on the deck, as though his legs had failed and hung his head.

  Trent smothered his swelling sense of well-being and satisfaction quietly. He had triumphed. His makeshift crew had pulled together and accomplished what others would deem impossible. He watched Madden’s brooding face and wondered. Newby was ecstatic. Harper stared fixedly at the hot breech, his eyes empty and unfocused, his mind traveling with the shell. Maxie slipped to the deck and lay in a restless bundle, his head between his knees. Graves said, “I need a drink.”

  Trent added, “Let’s go below, men. I have a something for just such a special occasion.” Graves licked his lips. Together, they dropped from the turret.

  * * *

  “What the hell was that?” the Mayor jumped.

  “Trent fired the gun,” the Chief said, glancing at his watch. “It’s 0500. He did just as he said he would.”

  “My God!” the Mayor swooned. “I warned the Council this could happen. And, they didn’t believe me. That idiot, Chitterman, he under cut me the whole way. No guts!” The phone on the Mayor’s desk rang once. Simons seized it, “What’s the damages, Dave?” Simons wheeled his body, and clapping his hand over the mouthpiece, reported, “No deaths, Mayor. Thank God. There’s a hole in the side of the building as big as a truck.”

  “Damn Trent!” the Mayor slammed his fist on his desk. “My political career is finished.”

  “The shell passed to the back of the Tower and lodged against a building column,” the Chief said slowly. “It didn’t explode.” He hung up.

  The Mayor fainted,

  Simons rolled an unlit cigar in his thick fingers and snapped, “The way the Navy tried to rout him off the Missouri - they might as well have taken a stick to a bee’s nest.” Simons swallowed hard. “I’ll admit, Trent had me fooled, firing without so much as an - are you sure?”

  The Mayor roused himself. “My God! Sam, did it really happen? Say it didn’t!”

  “It happened, Joe.” Simons snapped a match.

  “We must negotiate. That’s it. We’ll negotiate!”

  “Negotiate what? Trent made his point.”

  The door burst open.

  “Sorry, Mayor,” the Security Guard stood breathing heavily, “But, the media is on its way up and they’re in an ugly mood.”

  “What happened?” Chittereman rushed in.

  “Trent fired the shell; the media’s on its way up.”

  “My God! What do we say?” Hiram trembled. His face was etched with a terrified look, an incredulous awareness that this was not the end, but just the beginning.

  “They’ll make things look bad.”

  “Things are bad, Hiram.” The Mayor stood up, angrily and shoved his chair back. He pushed his hair back from his forehead and stalked to the window, slight stiffening showed in his shoulders. He stood with every nerve tense and waited for disaster. He looked down at the milling crowds in the streets below with resigned weariness. “The media. What do they understand, the crud! I’ll not let them drag my name through the mud.” Chitterman scowled, “What the hell are you talking about?” A growing cacophony of voices rumbled out in the hallway.

  “I’m heading over to the Tower,” Simons cleared his mind to new possibilities. He leaned forward and pulled himself up with his free hand and moved cat-like across the carpet to the back stair. Grille and Chitterman, arguing, ignored him. As he bit hard on his cigar, the office door burst open. Sam Simons hesitated, looked back, shook his head, and then closed the door behind him. Treading heavily, he cleared the stairwell and paused outside City Hall. The early morning breeze invigorated him. He felt clean again. He flipped the dead cigar stub to the gutter and watched it tumble away. He became aware of passing fire trucks and blaring police sirens. He stepped off the sidewalk into the milling crowd. This was his beat, and he walked it.

  Terrorists! Extortionists! Political careerists! What was this stupid world coming to, he thought. Did he really give a damn? He pictured the grizzly scene at the Tower splashed all over
the TV screen, even before he got there. The Post-Intelligencer would print an extra edition - and incite panic. He did not envy Joe Grille and Hiram Chitterman. The public would look to him for protection, to capture this lunatic. But, could he? Could the Navy? If not, he must.

  * * *

  The red Pontiac lay flatter than a pancake. The shell, all 2700 pounds of metal, ricocheted square off its roof leaving it crushed. The car’s body was splayed into two parts. The shell lost little of its momentum as it plowed on through a Blue Ford, exiting the right hand door. A furrow two feet deep scarred the west edge of First Avenue. The shell then rose as it climbed to second floor height. There, it smashed through the white marble fascia of the Smith Tower.

  Simons, water dripping from the brim of his fedora, cast his eye up at the second floor hole. He stepped around firemen hurriedly capping broken lines and clearing debris. The building looked safe enough. Lt. Dave Harrison, SPD, led Simons to the second floor. Wind blew unfettered through the huge, gaping hole. “Punched in, like somebody laid a huge nail-set to it,” he said. Harrison nodded and pointed ahead. They stepped over shattered desks and tables, snapped, as if, under a devastating karate chop. Pulverized concrete and brick noisily crunched under their shoes, like sugar. Tangled wires and twisted piping displayed grotesque violence. The shell had exploded debris in all directions, walls bore imbedded bricks, and metal office partitions had been crushed like so many tromped on aluminum cans.

  Lt. Dave Harrison made a sweeping gesture. “I hear the Navy claims an armor-piercing, 16-inch shell can penetrate 32 feet of reinforced concrete. Scary, eh! Well, it tore the bejesus out of this place. Why the hell would anyone want to do this?” Simons glanced away in disinterest; his mind would simply not react. “Well, he didn’t do his worst,” Harrison said slowly. Simons perked up. “Over here, Chief.” Simons followed dutifully. “Look,” Lt. Harrison pointed. “The shell pierced two concrete hallway walls passing clean through the ladies restroom.”

  Mean and ugly, the shell lay against a steel post supporting the upper stories of the Tower.

  “They built ‘em good in the old days, Eh! Lieutenant,” Simons patted the post. “Damn lucky it didn’t explode.”

  “It wasn’t supposed to explode.”

  Simons drew back. “What the hell do you mean?”

  “Bomb Disposal says it’s a dummy. No explosives inside.” Lt. Dave Harrison looked puzzled.

  “Are you sure?”

  “No doubt about it, Chief.”

  “Cunning bastard. This one was a freebie. Damn!” Simons yanked up the top of his overcoat and left. Trent both baffled and intrigued him. Calling his threat a bluff backfired. Stonewalling as a strategy didn’t work - thanks to the city council’s stance. Grille’s strategy was the right one, pay up, then chase him. But, the council ignored our advice. Chitterman knew better, clay feet. And, the city paid dearly. And the shelling! Why? The threat should have been enough…Simons bit off the end of his cigar. But, it wasn’t. Trent will fire again or; maybe, he wants us to think that. Questions seem to fly at him like a flight of locusts, swarming from a dozen different directions. He tugged at his chin lightly, the stubble reminded him he hadn’t shaved.

  * * *

  Ike’s Place was a small cafe, tucked in next to the Public Safety Building. Sam Simons usually got six hours sleep and ate light, but with the events of the past few days, he had neglected both. It was almost 0800. The place was hot and stuffy and smelled of coffee and hot greasy food. Egg orders sizzled on a grill behind the counter. As he slid between the stools, reporters Mark Isley and Liz Franklin nailed him.

  “You two should be up in the Mayor’s office. You’re missing the press conference.” He turned away. “Just eggs and toast, Ike.”

  “We made it. The Mayor laid down a line of bull a yard wide,” Isley said. “It was bad, and got worse.”

  “Come on, Chief, what’s really going on?” Liz Franklin implored, her voice intense. Simons liked them both professionally and their reporting was fair to his Department.

  “I just came from the Smith Tower. You two are way ahead of me,” he said. “What did the Mayor say?”

  Simons nodded as Ike refilled his cup.

  “Same cock’n bull story about a crank, extortion demand,” Mark Isley offered, “that turned out to be the real thing. Chitterman babbled about the City Council rejecting their demand. They didn’t believe it was genuine. Grille claimed the Navy had routed out the extortionists. Our editors were ticked off for not being notified.” Simons didn’t flinch, but went on eating. Isley continued, “The Mayor told us you were on top of it and said you’d have them locked up before nightfall.”

  Simons gagged, he shoved aside his half-eaten breakfast and turned to face them, his face beet red. “You two are baiting me. I don’t like that.” They recoiled.

  “Sorry, Chief, we’re not. Then, it’s not true. I don’t blame you for being upset. Chitterman didn’t dispute the Mayor’s statement. He said the shell came from the Missouri. Is the Navy really routing them out? Chief, are you…” Simons reached for the check.

  “How about a statement?” Isley implored.

  “Like I said, you know more than I do!” Simons got up, dropped money on the counter, pushed past Isley and Franklin and left. Using the back door to the Public Safety building, he made his way up to his office. It was 0830; his team was there waiting.

  “Anything on the radio, Frank?”

  “Not a peep!”

  “Got Charlie?”

  “Yeah! He’s waiting on the horn.” He pushed a button.

  “Charlie, what’s the word from the Navy.”

  “Shocked. Admiral Burn’s is pissed off. He wire-brushed Commander Conover, poor son-of-a-bitch. Then he raised hell with Base Security over the carelessness of Navy Patrol boats: he acts more worried about damage control with the Pentagon than Trent. The Admiral ordered another attack tonight. I stuck out my neck and advised him Trent would probably give the City at least another 24 hours.”

  “What’s the plan?”

  “Boarders will grapple and scale the Missouri’s fantail tonight. Seems aft is a blind spot and he figures Trent doesn’t have enough men to cover everything. Sharpshooters on the Oriskany will keep his men pinned down. That will clear a route to the turret. Any word from Trent, yet?”

  “Not a word.” Simons patted his pocket, in need of a cigar. The door partly opened, Sgt. Frank Gonzales stuck in his head. “Your man is on the radio. The Mayor and Chitterman are on their way over.” Simons face tensed.

  “We’ll get back to you, Charlie.” He cut the connection.

  * * *

  “Trent. This is Mayor Joe Grille speaking.”

  “I see by the television that my message arrived.”

  “Yes! We got it. So what’s next?”

  “That’s up to you. Have you got the 30 million?”

  “No. That’s a lot of money. We can’t raise that much overnight.”

  “You’ve already had 30 hours.”

  “We need to talk more.”

  “Nothing to talk about. You got a place called the Bartell Drugstore on Fourth and Pine?”

  “Yes! So what.”

  “We have the coordinates. What time would you like the next message delivered?”

  “You’re not serious!!!!”

  “You haven’t taken me seriously, yet.”

  “People could get hurt.”

  “Now that we both know that, how about the money?”

  “Damn your hide!” the Mayor said, flushed and sweating.

  “Oh! By the way, we ran out of shells like the last one. The only ones we have left go ‘boom’. We’ll send you one. Let’s say 0500 tomorrow.” Trent cut off.

  The Mayor sputtered. Chitterman bit his lip ‘till it bled. Simons hung his head, then straightened up and jutted out his chin. The Navy better do better next time, he half-prayed aloud. No, he, himself, must do better. Trent is obsessed! Why? Why? Why? Something is missing.
What is it? The clock is running: he must find out. He must talk to Trent - alone!

  * * *

  “Frank. I’m coming over. Hook me up with Trent. Yeah! Right now.” He hung up. He snugged up his tie, put on his jacket, switched off the lights and left.

  The Police radio dispatchers were neatly arrayed, six down each wall and one in a private booth, which doubled as an office. The radio room was brightly lit, always busy and smelled of charged electricity. The private booth was Frank Gonzales’ office. Frank wore a shoulder holster and carried a weapon. It made him feel like a real cop, but he had never drawn it in the line of duty. Years ago he quit his weekly visit to the basement firing range, but the weapon still slapped the side of his huge chest.

  He was wholly absorbed in the latest issue of Penthouse when the Chief walked in. He quickly slid the magazine into his top draw and shoved it closed. He lumbered to his feet and waved his arms in a welcoming motion, pushing a chair in the way of the Chief.

  “Something up, Chief?”

  “No. I just want to talk with Trent.”

  “Are we waiting for the Mayor?”

  “Not this time, I want to go it alone.”

  Frank shot a glance at a half-dozen dispatchers who had turned their heads. He scowled, twisted his head a few times, begged them off and closed the door.

  “Coffee, first?”

  “No. Thanks.”

  Frank sat down, then swiveled 180 degrees and foot-dragged his chair to radio set #13. Green and white lights shone steadily, a low, steady hum emanated from an ugly, black box straight out of Buck Rogers. A pewter-colored mike poked up out of a round base that lay flat on the tabletop. He turned a dial and pulled the mike close.

  “She’s warmed up. Here, take my chair, Chief.” Gonzales rose and stepped aside. Sam Simons took his place, inhaling deeply as if forming words deep inside his lungs.

  “Think you can talk Trent out of it?”