by Bob Neir
“Oh! He does, does he?” the Admiral retorted, in a disdainful tone, leaning back as a cynical smile slashed across Conover’s face. The Admiral shot him a scathing look. The Mayor moved to the edge of his chair and stiffened as he moved to speak; Chitterman interrupted, haltingly, at first, then his voice rose as his hands steadied, “Admiral, we’re concerned for the safety of our citizens. It’s near anarchy on the City streets. We only ask that you listen!”
“I am listening and don’t tell me what to do!” Burns lashed out, half rising out of his chair, cheeks turning beet-red, as if his collar had been cinched too tight. Twisting, he ranted for a full minute, pounding the table repeatedly. “You’re a bunch of damned civilians. What the hell do you know about Navy affairs?” A wheeze signaled Burn’s climax, the stern look settled upon his face. Embarrassed officers shifted uneasily.
The Mayor turned away, his eyes livid.
Chitterman continued firmly, “If you persist, you’re going to look like an ass when this is all over.” Grille’s jaw dropped. Simons bit clean through the butt of his unlit cigar. The Chief of Staff coughed amiably. The Admiral’s face turned crimson as he snarled. Chitterman didn’t flinch and was more astute than I had given him credit. He wasn’t subtle, but, one doesn’t rise to position of President of the Seattle City council without facing issues.
“You get five minutes, Chief. And it damn well better be good,” Flustered, the Admiral eased off. Sam Simons stood up, he felt light-headed and suddenly reckless. Unaccustomed to such antics, he felt vaguely intimidated. Disliking the Admiral for his pig-headedness, he perceived with unexpected clarity that Admiral Burns was fearful. He sheltered a deeper meaning to his behavior.
“One man can do it,” Simons began in a most matter-of-fact way. From the corner of his eye, he caught Conover, barely stifling a guffaw and eyeing him like poised vulture.
The Admiral’s stern face peeled back just a crack.
“How?”
“While moored alongside the pier, Trent knew he was vulnerable; anchored, he feels safe. Three tries and the Navy failed to dislodge him. Now, he’s getting overconfident, careless: he leaves the turret entry hatch hanging open. Wilson says the hatch has hung open since the last attack.”
“A hatch is left open, so what?” Conover grunted.
Captain Tronquet’s eyebrows lifted slightly. He exchanged awkward glances with Conover.
Simons took note, then continued, “Grappling lines are still dangling from the bow and stern. Trent hasn’t risked exposing his men to disengage them. A single man can climb one of those lines and get aboard.”
“And if he gets aboard undetected…” Tronquet urged. “It’ll be dark; then there are shadows. He could reach the hatch. And, if they’re holed up in the turret, the second he is spotted, he’s dead meat,” Tronquet observed. Simons face remained impassive.
“Trent has avoided killing when he could have killed.” Simons cringed at the sound of his own words, clinical, so cold, that they frightened him.
The Admiral’s Staff nodded in assent.
“If he doesn’t get killed or captured and gets into the turret, what’s he going to do, blow it up?” Commander Maxwell smiled tightly. “I hear only one gun is operative.” Simons unrolled a drawing of the breech layout of a 16-inch gun, an itemized equipment list and the gun’s firing instructions. “If the gas-check valve or the firelock, for example, or the primers are thrown overboard, the gun cannot be fired. One man can disable the gun; but it’s risky. Only one man.” Simons paused for effect, “Fail, and Trent will react violently.”
Commander Maxwell sat up stiff-backed, his face blank. Major Hartwell showed disappointment, he had calculated correctly that his men would not be needed. Simons looked at Admiral Burns. The chill had gone out of the man, but his mind seemed active, but elsewhere. Of this, he made a mental note. “I think it’s a risk worth taking, Admiral. The Vice-Admiral’s orders are to retake the Missouri,” Captain Tronquet implored, “without risking the ship and personnel. Just one man, sir - a volunteer…”
“Seems plausible,” the Admiral said, grudgingly, composing him; pulling at his chin. He spoke so softly, his lips barely moved. The Mayor short stopped the Admiral’s next thought and said, “The Navy would be credited with ending the threat to the City. Just think of the public relations effect. The Navy, ready to defend our country…saves the City of Seattle from destruction.”
Simons winced…and the Mayor saves the City thirty million dollars.
“And if our man fails?” The Admiral asked. “Trent will shell the City within the hour,” Chitterman implored. “The risk, then, is the City’s. The Navy risks nothing…but its reputation,” the Mayor quickly added. The room fell silent, only the hum of the overhead fan intruded. Admiral Burns grinned. The instant change in his expression startled Simons and left him puzzled. Ten years melted away from his appearance. A respectful note crept into Burns’s voice. “If our guests will excuse us, I would like to discuss this with my Staff. Mayor, I will inform you of the Navy’s decision within the hour.”
Wingate drove quickly to the ferry terminal. “Think the Admiral will go along with the idea, Chief?”
“You never know, Charlie.” Simons was bemused. “Tell me, what did you observe at the meeting?”
Charlie turned sideways and said, “You’ve got something up your sleeve, haven’t you, Chief?
“Just answer the question.”
“Like what?” Wingate queried.
“Burns? Maybe, Conover?”
“Burns did a back flip. Cantankerous old bastard, he is. He has to do something, he just doesn’t know what. Conover’s high on his shit list. For that, I could learn to appreciate Burns. I bet he’d buy in on the solo act.”
“Why?” Simons asked.
“I don’t know why. Must be you’re just a super salesman. Is that what I’m supposed to say?”
“The Admiral bought it, but he jumped in awful quick.”
“Maybe he’s a slow thinker.”
“An Admiral???”
“I still don’t see…”
“I want you to make peace with Conover, get on his good side.”
“Impossible!”
“I don’t care how, kiss his ass if you have too. Suck up your ego - this is Police business.”
“What for?”
“He’s on Burn’s shit list and my guess is he has something to say. And, it’s vital I know the Navy’s moves before they make them.” Wingate answered, “Maybe you would like me to raise the Hood, and maybe the Bismarck, too!”
“Charlie, police work is the little things. Odds and ends that add up. In time, you become a smart cop, and smart cops get ahead and even better, smart cops get to stay alive…I repeat. Before the Navy makes any moves.”
“You know something, don’t you, Chief? Are you going to tell me?” Simons liked Charlie. He recalled his own career, first as a patrolman, then as a detective. Young. Brash. Asking probing questions about anything and everything. Ask questions: stick your nose into things until people hate your guts. That’s when you know you are on to something. Follow the trail. Sam Simons shoved a cigar into his face. Charlie knew the lesson was over - whatever that lesson was.
* * *
A quarter-moon softly blanketed Sinclair Inlet in an unearthly, eerie glow. A sole swimmer silently slipped from beneath a little used pier, his black wet suit blending with the darkness. Arms beneath the surface, he swam carefully so that neither arms nor legs would break the surface. As he fought the slight tug of the current, the drift in a receding tide, his bobbing head easily mistaken for a curious Harbor seal. Powerful strokes brought him ever closer to the looming bulk of the battleship, a towering mass of steel that canceled out the night. Treading water, he touched the cold hull and searched with one hand. A faint whipping motion, a line dangling from the taffrail ended his search. Relieved, he listened to faint sounds, the soft wash of water brushing the motionless hull. Grabbing the line, he gently eased
up his full weight. The grapnel held firm. The dreaded screeching sound of bare metal scraping bare metal failed to resonate. In the deathly silence, amplifying itself throughout the hull, the sound would instantly signal something amiss. Gathering his strength, he hoisted himself clear of the water. An athletic, nimble body, bent neatly at the waist held rigid, he reached the deck. Newby, alone, was known to be on watch stationed at the foretop. The man in black gripped the steel edge of the deck and drew himself up. He peered over the edge, adjusting his eyes to the vents, hatches, gun mounts that marked the Missouri a man-of-war. Checking points of reference, he verified his carefully pre-planned movements as he searched for signs of danger. Satisfied that the main deck was clear, he steeled himself and hauled up. Barefoot, he dashed from shadow to shadow, forward towards his target, the #2 turret. Covering a wide expanse of open deck, he dropped behind the fair weather companion. Pressing his back against its cold steel, he closed his eyes and listened: no voices or pinging fire sought him out. Letting the air out of his lungs, he tugged down the zipper of his wet suit.
“So far so good,” he cautioned. He loosed his cap and let the water drain to the deck. A quarter moon illuminated the port side as he crossed to starboard. He furtively crept forward, hugging the superstructure, until he was abreast the quarterdeck. It was lighter here and he could see the twinkling lights of the Yard off in the distance and Bremerton just beyond. It was dark around the base of the turret as he rose to move across at the exposed quarterdeck, and then he froze. Two men stood twenty feet away; neither looking his way.
“How’s it going, Newby?”
“Pretty quiet.”
“Ready for a break?”
“You got the next watch?”
“Yeah! Trent wants to talk to you.”
As the two heads disappeared, he sprinted across the quarterdeck, his feet barely touching the holystoned teak planking. He braced himself against the base of a gun tub as heaving lungs drummed in his ears. He observed the entry hatch hanging open; he listened, but heard nothing. Slithering on his belly, he touched the edge of a concealing shadow, rose and one last dash into the dark shadow at the base of the turret.
Steeling himself to act, he patted his side, checking the tool kit snug against his body. He was unarmed; better unarmed if they caught him, they said. Crawling forward, by inches, he hugged the teak deck until he was directly beneath the open hatch. Someone swinging down out of the hatch would instantly pin him to the deck. His legs shook; holding his breath, he drew himself up into the opening and scanned the turret floor.
A single oil lamp hung overhead casting an eerie yellow glow over the pale gray interior. Three silent 16-inch guns stood watch; the turret was tomb-like. He felt he had entered Captain Nemo’s submarine. In one fluid movement, he launched himself up and landed monkey-like on the balls of his feet. An inside hatch opening streamed light. He stole to the edge and peered below - he saw no one. His eye caught a pile of material in a darkened corner, a safety net to hide under. He turned off the single lamp and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Water trickled off his wet suit. He rose and moved to the breech of the center gun. Unstrapping his tool kit, he removed a wrench and closed his eyes and felt for a familiar shape. He checked again, until certain, and then he noiselessly removed the firing lock. Fingered the lock as would a blind man, he thrust it into the light streaming up from below and thought, “more precious than the Hope diamond.”
He spun adroitly as voices and steps came up from the shell deck. He dashed to the turret hatch and dropped to the Main deck. He paused. Fresh voices approached from around the side of the turret. He withdrew into a concealing shadow and waited, the cold object still clenched tight in his hand. He cocked his arm to heave the object over the side, but his hiding place restricted his arm movement. Withdrawing further into the darkness. He collapsed into a black ball. The voices were close by; he trembled at the sound of a new voice.
“What’s this?”
“I don’t know: what is it?”
“It’s water. How did water get in here? You guys spill it?
“It’s all over the damn turret floor.”
“Somebody has been in here - look! Footprints.”
“Yeah! The breech is all wet.”
“The deck too! And look here around the hatch.”
“The firelock. It’s gone!!!
“Shit!”
“Spread out. Find him. Running feet and heavy bodies dropped from the hatch.
“There he is!”
A black shape rose and dashed out into the open, sprinting rashly for the railing. Halting in mid-stride, with arm cocked, he hurled the firelock into space. The firelock cast an arc, splashed and disappeared. The shape made a dash for the upper railing, gripped it and nearly vaulted over. “I got him.” Two men tackled him. An arm swung around, a body careened and in one clean lunge, a man in black vanished over the side.
“Damn! He got away.”
“Where’s the firelock?”
“I think he tossed it.”
“Well, look for it, damn it!”
“It’s nowhere.”
“Now, what do we do?”
~ * * * ~
CHAPTER 25
Trent had a fitful sleep, drifting in and out as his mind churned. A sizzling sound stirred him. Curious, he raised his head. Harper was kneeling over the cook stove deftly slicing bacon from a slab into a hot frying pan: the bacon sizzled. With chopped onions whipped up with eggs, he poured the concoction into hot bacon grease. Madden lay propped up on his elbows watching. Harper looked over at him irritably, then turned back to the cook stove. Graves, his huge, bare back covered with goosebumps, snored loudly as a cold draft swept up the open turret hatch and lightly dusted the hair on his shoulders.
“Is my clock’s all screwed up?” Madden asked. “Is it breakfast time? Or, is it my imagination.”
Harper cut him short. “It’s 0630 and you’re to relieve Newby. Get your butt up. Do you want hot chow or not?”
“No need to get snotty,” Madden croaked.
Trent rolled onto his back to relieve an aching soreness in his hip and feigned sleep. He chided himself at his own carelessness. He knew the loss of the firelock had seriously affected the men’s morale, collapsing the instant the man in black plunged over the side. Only Newby remained irrepressible. And that Madden was right in stopping him from firing, saved him from committing a fatal error. His loss of control at Maxie’s death did not justify firing on the City. The Mayor had called within minutes and said the City would pay. And Simons, Trent now felt certain Simons had not confided in the Mayor. Simons had passed the test. Acting on his own? Simon’s intercession was critical. And then, there was his own threat to fire again… his lips parted in a small smile, regaining his composure. He still held the cards: he was still in control. He relaxed and dozed.
A cough, then within moments, Graves stirred.
Madden said suddenly, “What do we do now that we can’t fire the damn thing?”
Harper stopped scrambling eggs.
Trent shifted his weight, sat up and cleared his throat. “The Navy doesn’t know that for sure.” His stomach muscles ached; he winced at the sharp pain that shot down his thigh.
“They’ll wait us out,” Madden looked up dully.
Graves cast a glance at Madden, then picked up an M16 and started stripping it down, arraying parts neatly in order on a blanket. He hefted the barrel and then rammed down a cleaning rod. He said, “Could be another firelock on board?”
Harper hissed between his teeth, “Newby said there’s only one on this tub. And, by now the Navy knows it! I bet the bastards are laughing themselves silly - shit! All on account of a fucking, dumb hatch.” There was a pause as the words sunk in.
“Well, we got plenty of grub,” Graves butted in.
“Crap. You mean just sit here and eat. You want to play games,” Madden said, his face contorted. “I’d rather be in prison.”
Harper said, “Eithe
r way, it’s the same thing for me. I’m gonna be in prison anyway. And I’m gonna have you guys for company. There’s gotta be a way to fire that mother.”
“Maxie couldn’t figure out one.”
“Suppose the City changes their mind, refuses to pay?”
They looked to Trent
“That would be foolish,” Trent answered, glibly.
Madden asked, “if the City does pay-off, and the Navy doesn’t come through with a re-trial, Tony, what then?”
Trent thought for a long time and finally said, “We load the gun and I stay.”
Madden choked. “Stay?”
“There is no other way,” Trent said somberly.
Madden grunted. “Then, I stay, too.”
“No, Madden, I will never leave here alive.”
“Never say never,” Madden laughed.
“I will surrender only if my terms are met.”
“Suppose the Navy will try again?”
Trent said, “I doubt it.”
“They’re probably celebrating, laughing,” added Harper.
“We have until 1600 tomorrow to come up with something,” Madden said. “I’m going to relieve Newby. I bet he’s ready to pee in his pants.”
They laughed.
The radio whistled: “Trent, this is Simons.”
* * *
Charlie Wingate deliberately let the doors bang shut behind him. Yea Olde Coffee Shoppe, a sailor’s hangout on Base, a mix of odd chairs, oversized booths and battered tables, mostly leftovers from the last war. The small man busily wiping tables ignored him. Off duty sailors sat huddled under clouds of blue smoke, talking rapidly, re-hashing with glee Saturday night’s erotic encounters and Navy Base rumors. The place stank of stale food, tobacco and sweat. Wingate took in the smells in short, quick breathes. He concluded someone had named the place in a fit of sarcastic humor.
