SILENT GUNS

by Bob Neir

  “A payoff off still rubs me wrong,” Mitchell said, his lips tightened as he shifted uneasily.

  “Paying isn’t all that bad,” Simons interjected.

  “How’s that?” Grille leaned in tossing his letter opener to the desk. It landed with a thunk.

  Mitchell’s expression remained impassive.

  “It’s quite simple,” Simons lectured. “Nine times out of ten the payoff money is recovered. And, think about it: how will they escape? Where will they run? Picture six men lugging around thirty million dollars in cash. They might as well be wearing a ball and chains.” Simons feared he might understate Trent’s options; but escape did seem impractical.

  Mitchell snapped back, “Sam has a point. I’m sure my Board and the business community would support the City paying off Trent.” Mayor Joe Grille rolled his eyes up into his forehead and shrugged.

  “Bud, the city’s message is simple. The city doesn’t have thirty-million in cash just lying around waiting for some wacko extortionist to show up.” Grille popped forward in his chair. “I’ve been through this with the Council. They threw the whole mess back in my face. Why hasn’t the Police Department caught the terrorists? Or, what else are you doing. Blah! The meeting was an absolute disaster. Ask Hiram.” Mayor Joe Grille pleaded, vehemently and then paused for effect.

  A faint grin touched Simons’ face: a goddamn Academy Award performance.

  Mitchell nodded, “a bit of an exaggeration, Mayor, but you make your point. Suppose I was able to arrange a loan to the City.” He turned to Chitterman. “Hiram. What are the chances of City Council coughing up some money? Or, at least, guaranteeing the safe return of a loan?”

  “None, either way,” Chitterman squirmed, shifting his bulk uncomfortably. “My council adamantly feels Trent is the Navy’s problem since he’s on Navy property. Councilmember Emerson suggests the Navy blow up the Missouri. Councilmember Kantor says the Navy should fork over the thirty million. If they don’t, he wants the City Attorney to sue the Navy for the money plus damages.” Chitterman paused to wipe his forehead with his handkerchief.

  The Mayor laughed. “See the crap I have to put with, Bud!”

  The phone rang. The Mayor let it ring. It stopped. Murial buzzed, “Call for the Chief from the Navy Base.” The Mayor selected a button: Charlie Wingate’s voice blared over the speaker.

  “Chief. Charlie, here!

  “It’s O.K. to talk, Charlie. What’s the latest?”

  “The Marines tried to get aboard the Missouri, but got caught in a wicked crossfire and backed off. Trent had his defenses well set up. Major Hartwell vetoed another frontal assault. He said those guys are dug in and a frontal assault wasn’t going to dig’em out.” Charlie’s voice faded slightly, “Hartwell feared a high death toll with no payoff, except to make Trent madder. The Admiral’s staff agreed,” Charlie went on,” something interesting, though, two Marines were wounded, three captured and, get this, Trent released them all.”

  “What’s the Navy’s plan now, Charlie?” the Mayor asked.

  “Shove her away from the pier,” Charlie answered.

  “Do what?” the Mayor exclaimed.

  “Yeah! Conover came up with the idea. Back the Missouri out and hold her bows to the west, seems the battle mast limits the forward turret’s training arc to 300 degrees, which prevents Trent from firing on the center of the City. The Pentagon got their nose in this and they O.K.’d the plan. Admiral Burns ordered Conover to commandeer tugs and get on with it. He’s shooting for 0200, tomorrow Saturday.” Charlie concluded, “I’d better get back. Any orders?”

  “No. Just keep us informed.”

  “Let’s pray for them,” Chitterman said under a whisper. Grille stared at Hiram’s rotund frame as he pushed the off button. Instinctively, all eyes glanced up at the clock on the wall; it was 1110 and still Friday. Simons fantasized pinning down the clock’s hands.

  “I have coffee and sandwiches coming up,” Murial said, cracking open the office door and peering in.

  “That’s the best news I’ve had all day,” Grille said, dourly.

  “Do you agree, Chief?” Mitchell asked.

  Sam Simons’ smile was gone, his face set and sullen.

  “I think coffee and sandwiches are a great idea.”

  Mitchell’s face crinkled, “You know what I mean!”

  Sam Simons sat scrutinizing the men out of habit. He lightened up, lit up a cigar and then heard himself say, “I’d still bet on Trent. I’d get the money together and do it fast.”

  Mitchell looked at him like a sad-eyed hound-dog shoulders hunched, head held low. “You mean, if all else fails.”

  Simons replied, “I mean get the cash.”

  Simons felt disconsolate. Trent remained a puzzle, but every puzzle had its solution, even the Rubik’s Cube; otherwise, it wouldn’t be a puzzle—convoluted reasoning, maybe, he thought. His jaw tightened, he had to be overlooking something. The Achilles heel; everyone has one, just a matter of sleuthing. The German High Command uncovered the French Achilles heel. They swept across the Low Countries, swung south into France, flanking the vaunted Maginot Line. Found out, the French were so demoralized they lay down their arms. Simons tugged his chin and questioned if he had his history straight. He was sure Major Hartwell’s decision was the correct one. A frontal assault was suicidal! Could Trent’s tight security cause him to become overconfident? Careless? And why does he persist in taunting the city with short, impossible deadlines? His tactics are peculiar, he mused. He throws haymakers, retreats, and then forces others to pursue and weary in the chase. To what end? General Robert E. Lee, a great proponent of the wear-down tactic of the weaker opponent. The feint goes on until…well, he recalled, Joe Louis, the Brown Bomber, finally catching up with Jersey Joe Walcott, the challenger, and it was curtains for Walcott. Walcott got cocky and Louis rang his bell. Sam Simons felt as excited as a bloodhound on the scent. He vaguely heard the voice…

  “I better get going, I can’t do any good here,” Bud Mitchell said, his tone cool, detached, as he rose.

  Chitterman jabbed, “It’ll be tough raising thirty-million by 0500, Bud.” Mitchell scowled. Chitterman pricked at the core of Mitchell’s well-known vanity. Grille missed the exchange, remarking, “with the Navy on top of the problem. Maybe you’d rather wait.” Mitchell bit back, “Maybe, you can live with that, but I can’t.” Mitchell left.

  “What did I say?” the Mayor acted querulous.

  Chitterman, dubious, shook his head. “Mitchell can’t raise that kind of money. Period! I asked him, he got terribly offended - he’s sincere enough, and he knows the right people, but getting those bankers...”

  “Miracles do happen! I have to admire the guy. At least, he’s going to give it a shot,” Simons pulled out a cigar, unwrapped the cellophane and bit off the end. He struck a wooden match on the sole of his shoe.

  “I don’t think I can take another day like this,” Grille said.

  “I’ll be down in my office,” Chitterman shuffled away.

  “The shell is loaded this time and we can’t do a damn thing about it,” the Mayor rambled on. “Am I dreaming this nightmare, Sam?”

  “You’re not dreaming, Joe.”

  Mayor Joe Grille spun his chair to the window and stared vacantly over his city. The Mayor’s job wasn’t forever: that was a fact he could accept. But, win, lose or draw, he was trapped, a victim. A classic: a man in the right job at the wrong time. His fate: cannon fodder, ad nauseam, for the media gristmill. The public fall guy for this whole, stinking affair: a human sacrifice. He foretold history would deal with him unkindly. He sighed and slouched moodily.

  ~ * * * ~

  CHAPTER 21

  Blustery winds staggered across the Naval Base ruffling sheltered waters into tiny whitecaps. Blown off the water, resident waterfowl circled high overhead, tiny specks against gray skies. Rear-Admiral Brian Burns sat behind his desk. It was set off to one side, a window peeked over his left shoulder, with just
enough space behind the desk to fit a chair.

  Commander Conover stood stiffly at attention before him, his eyes straight ahead, his jaws set tight. Burns regarded him coldly, then said, “Conover, I don’t like you, I never have.” The Admiral pushed back in his chair and scowled, his ill humor imperfectly concealed by self-importance. “I wasn’t sure why, until I reviewed your record.” The Admiral paused and added harshly, “your career is about to get ash-canned.”

  “Mostly bad luck, sir,” Conover bit back his annoyance.

  “Bad luck! Do you call running a destroyer aground in clear weather bad luck? Do you call screwing up both Missouri operations bad luck? Those plans were yours and you blew them.”

  “We’ll sir, I…” The Admiral raised his fist above his head and banged it down.

  “No more excuses! That goddamn Trent and his pirate crew are still out there on the Missouri.” Burns fumbled with his lower desk draw and dragged out a small bottle of pills. He threw four down, chasing them with fast gulps of clear liquid. A single fan suspended over the desk hummed quietly, the blades merely stirred the staleness.

  “That bastard, Ambler, He was just looking for an excuse to get rid of me, assigning me to this armpit.”

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  “Nothing. Nothing, just mulling to myself.”

  “Now, Trent shows up. The coincidence is too great.”

  “Sir?”

  “Nothing!”

  Conover felt his stomach muscles tense. While the Admiral kicked his drawer shut, Conover glanced down. The Admiral sported a flat; thick red nose laced with traces of blue veins. His baldpate was garnished at the fringes with white hair. He rose and carried his glass, his tired face florid. Conover restrained a laugh at his comic bowed legs and rolling swagger as he stepped to the conference table.

  “Let’s get on with this nasty business.” A deep drawn breath caught in the Admiral’s lungs. He belched and grimaced at the sour taste. “May I, sir?” Conover’s hands were clumsy as he spread the charts of Sinclair Inlet across the table.

  The Admiral leaned over, his eyes blazing.

  “Admiral, I’ve got four tugs underway from Seattle plus two on standby at the Yard,”

  “She was to be my ship. Someone has got it in for me. Now, it doesn’t matter. I don’t even care,” the Admiral looked around irritably. “When do you move her?” The Admiral reached for his glass, took a swallow and half choked. Disgruntled, he swept the glass aside; its contents splashed the chart.

  Conover swung round, his eyes almost desperate, “The tugs arrive in three hours, sir: make that 0200. That leaves three hours to shift her onto the mudflats. It’s dicey, sir.”

  The Admiral eyed him for several seconds, “Who says Trent won’t fire as soon as we try to move him?”

  “What can he do, Admiral? We’ve got him pinned down. No! Admiral, we’ll nail them this time,” Conover replied. “You’re damned cocky, Conover. Just like you were the last two times. Answer my question,” the Admiral regarded him coldly.

  “It’s a chance we must take, sir. Wingate says the City refuses to meet the 0500 deadline. Trent doesn’t know that. Wingate knows we plan to move the ship. The City has to be taking precautions.”

  “You have a point there, Conover.”

  “Sir, we will neutralize the Missouri.”

  As he spoke, he detected a shift in the Admiral’s demeanor. Fear, perhaps relief, and then the Admiral guffawed and slammed his fist on the table. He said, “If it weren’t for the Pentagon climbing my butt, I could enjoy this. Trent and I go back a long way.” Conover suddenly felt his own tension easing. Then, catching himself, the Admiral snapped back, angrily. “That bastard Trent is doing this deliberately. He’s after my ass!” Private, deeply suppressed thoughts tumbled out incoherently, his eyes glazed over. He collapsed into his chair mouthing anger and frustration, his hands shaking. Conover regarded him sadly.

  “Admiral, once we shift the Missouri from the pier, the tugs won’t be protected.”

  “What do you want me to do about it?” The Admiral’s voice was cold and uncompromising.

  “Use the Patrol boats for cover. Bring in the Destroyer Hammann, she arrived two days ago for de-activation. I have the crews on standby, sir.”

  The Admiral sagged in his chair, “Maybe I could grow to appreciate you, Conover. How about putting Marines on the tugs? They could sweep the upper decks,” as the Admiral suggested, it was an order.

  “I’ll get Major Hartwell on it, sir.”

  “Any other ideas?”

  “That should do it, sir.”

  “No more failures, Conover! Now, get out of here!”

  The Admiral barely heard the door close when he rose and stood by the window. He felt nothing, only rage. Outside, the sky and water grew darker, the silent ships merged together losing their identity. Not the Missouri, she stood etched out, ghost-like, moored but a quarter-mile away. It should have been his ship. A distant cloud passed over, the moon reappeared and basked her superstructure in a pale glow. For a long time, he stared, bitterness moved in his gut. Trent embarrassed him before his own men, made fun of him behind his back, and took pleasure when Captain Proust criticized his proficiency…but he got even. What Kindler wanted was easy. Farr walked out, but Denton stayed. Kindler insisted. Proust was too stupid to know what was going on: Burns wondered what Kindler ever saw in that man. His own quick promotion - it was worth it! Trent’s court-martial: tough luck; but it was his own damn fault. It was good riddance! But, now, Trent was back. The Admiral turned away and reached into his desk and pulled out a bottle; he slopped gin into an empty glass and drank. What did Trent really want? He re-filled the glass and gulped it down. He stared at his desktop, slopped more gin, held it aloft and drank.

  “It’s your last chance, Conover,” he said aloud, glumly. Suddenly, it occurred to him, he meant himself, too.

  * * *

  Commander Conover strode into Base Operations in a foul mood. His mind still buzzed at the Admiral’s invective…no more failures, Conover. It wasn’t an order: it was a threat. Pull the cork out of the bottle, eh! Admiral, and order the Genie to spirit the Missouri away, he hissed as he gritted his teeth.

  Conover drew a blank on terrorists. He had no concept of terrorism. The Navy manuals were devoid of instructions, not thirty-seconds worth. They trained a man to fight a war, not how to deal with crazies. He speculated on what Trent might look like. Or Graves. Or Madden. They were Navy men. What made them do crazy things? Become terrorists?

  Conover glanced at his watch. God. How the time was flying. He straightened up and entered the conference room where the men waited. He recoiled at a blast of stifling heat. The men moved to attention. With an off-hand gesture, he motioned to them to stay put as he ranged about. Slowly, deliberately, as if for effect, he crushed out the butt of his cigarette.

  Lt. Ed Rankin, who had led the aborted waterborne attack, hadn’t slept in seventy-two hours. He lolled backwards against the wall, his chair perfectly balanced on its two hind legs. He blew a stream of cigarette smoke towards the ceiling. He made no move at Conover’s entrance. A tall, gangly officer with a disdainful manner, Rankin was totally dedicated and reliable. Chief Petty Officers Harry Wilson, NPB#41, and Mauro Martinez, NPB#22, were in animated conversation. They fell silent, and then drew back, stirring restlessly. Wilson’s lips twitched. Warrant Officers Sharkey Hammer and Bennie Lightfoot, commanding the two Navy Tugs, appeared wary of their first action. Major Alden Hartwell, USMC, his uniform dirty and wrinkled, yet fitting his massive body like a glove, sprouted two days growth on his face. He seemed distracted as he twirled a half empty beer can between his fingertips. Ensign Miles Mako, pink-cheeked and baby faced, light fuzz grazed his chin, beamed with excitement. “It can’t be too soon, for me,” he sputtered. Nervous laughter followed, and then the atmosphere in the room turned deadly silent, almost strained.

  The clock on the wall ticking away read 1023.

  Then, Conov
er remarked offhandedly, “Gather around the table, men. We’ll get ‘em this time.” The sharp bitterness of his defeats pounded in Conover’s forehead. Under the light, he unfolded a chart of Sinclair Inlet. Chair legs scraped across the wood floor. Conover jabbed his finger. “The Missouri is here.” They crowded around, except for Rankin who brought his chair back to earth with a clatter, he slumped, his elbows on the table. “The water shallows here. The Missouri is drawing less than 34 feet. We shove her nose into this mud flat and slide her up as far as we can.” He drew a track with his fingertip and tapped a spot marked with a large “X”. That’s where I want her, bows pointing due west.” He leaned on the flat of his hands and looked to the men, “Any questions?”

  “I have,” CPO Martinez, who had been crouching over the table, said quietly. “The tidal flow in the Inlet is weak, Commander, but to get around this point, the water speeds up. The stern could carry round. An extra tug on the port side aft should handle it.” CPO Wilson swung on him sharply, a muscle jumped in his throat, “The tide will be incoming; the water will be high…we do deserve a piece of good luck. Don’t we, sir?”

  “After the two fiascos, we deserve a lot,” a voice said. Conover ignored the remark, but placed a scale model of the Missouri on the chart and said, “The Missouri must be positioned, thus, and jammed up tight, or she’ll refloat on the next high tide.”

  They nodded in unison.

  “What about my men?” Major Hartwell grunted as he pushed his way to the table and leaned in.

  “Major, station your men on the tugs and patrol boats. Pin down Trent’s men, keep them from firing.” The Marine major exhaled noisily. “Crap! You want us to shoot at pinheads from a mile off.” Hartwell sucked his teeth. He was tired, drained of physical energy, and overwhelmed. He swiped a dripping bead of sweat from his eye. “Trent gets the height advantage. We can’t pin anybody down unless we get aboard. Then, the tugs can get in closer.”