SILENT GUNS

by Bob Neir

  A cool, inshore saltwater breeze wafted over the knoll as Wingate lifted his binoculars and scanned the Inlet. The Missouri lay stilled, showing no sign of life. Baring his teeth in a mock grin, he stiffed a smile in spite of his weariness. The surface of the Inlet lay flat, nary a ripple. Nothing could move without being detected, of that he was certain. It was dusk. Could be he was already too late, he thought. He could also be wrong. After all, he was only surmising, if so, did he miss? Conover had Scarese calibrated, knew his talents, what else could he be up too? And, if Scarese had to get out to the Missouri: he lifted his binoculars and squinted. He searched, half expecting a periscope to rise up from the depths and fire a torpedo at the unsuspecting Missouri. A seabird cried, a dog barked off in the distance, and the smell of wood smoke, smoldering fir, came from a nearby shack. The woods behind him stood pitch black. It came as a woosh! A mashing sound. The last thing he remembered was the taste of dirt. His body trembled, as would a live, naked body on a cold, marble slab. A warm, wet object daubed his face; but his eyes stayed glued shut, refused to open. Pain! Flashes of brilliance, an Aurora Borealis of sharp, distinct painful lights shot across his skull and danced behind closed eyelids. He tried to stir, raised his head, grabbed the back of his neck only to fall back.

  A dog barked.

  “Over here!” he heard.

  “God! His head’s all bloody.”

  “Is he alive?”

  “He’s breathing.”

  “Better get some help.”

  Charlie Wingate forced himself to his elbow, cursed the weakness in his body and collapsed.

  * * *

  Graves hefted the strange object, turning it over and over in his hand Trent looked at it, his eyes calculating, he felt a rush of excitement. “It’s a Rube Goldberg, if you ask me.” Graves said.

  “Where did you find it?” Madden asked, taking it in hand.

  “It was in Maxie’s stuff, wrapped up in an oily rag. It ain’t like no tool I’ve ever seen. See, you tug here and this thing snaps; but, watchit, it’ll clip off your fingertips.” As Madden turned over the device, a small plunger shot out.

  “What the hell is this?” Graves demanded, his eyes wide.

  Newby was unimpressed, “a stupid toy, if you ask me?”

  Trent smiled. “Ask Harper.”

  They climbed up the ladder into the turret. Soon mumbled voices, and then Harper shouted, “Eureka! That son-of-a-bitch, Maxie, jury-rigged a goddamn firelock. See, it fits right here in the fire hole. How the hell did he manage?”

  “Who cares? Does it work?”

  “You bet your sweet ass, it does. Watch.” Harper exercised the crude device. “Hot damn! Get me a primer.” Graves shot back down the ladder, muttering to himself, brushing Trent with his shoulder. Rummaging about, he nimbly climbed back up the ladder. “Gimme that,” said Harper, snatching it.

  “Don’t bust it,” Graves implored.

  A snap and the explosion set off a round of cheers. Trent drew in a deep breath as a smile creased his face.

  “Good ole Maxie,” Madden said, glancing at his boots.

  Graves’ face glistened with eagerness as he leaned towards Trent. “Shall we give the Admiral the news, Commander? Or, maybe send him something to convince him, if you know what I mean,” he guffawed, jerking his thumb at the 16-inch gun.

  A voice woofed over the walkie-talkie, “Hey! Somebody. This is old eagle-eye Newby speaking. Now hear this!” The turret, boisterous a moment before, turned quiet.

  “Cut the commercial, Newby. What’s going on?”

  “I was going to ask you guys. I’m bored. A patrol boat headed our way, altered course to starboard and passed about a hundred yards off,” Newby reported. “I wouldn’t have bothered, but she slowed down and stopped. I heard her lose power, then start up again. It’s probably nothing.” Trent stiffened as he felt hackles on the back of his neck.

  Harper spoke, exuberantly, “Get your butt down here, Newby. Hot coffee and sandwiches in five minutes and the latest news.”

  “You’re my man,” Newby replied. “Tell Madden to get up here and relieve me. And be on time, this time.”

  “O.K. Crybaby. I’m coming up!”

  Sam Simons’ face crystallized in Trent’s mind. He had not radioed. No news was not necessarily good news. But, had Simons followed through with Burns? If so, did Simons convey his conditions? Was confronting Burns more difficult than Simons had bargained for? Had he failed? Trent momentarily faulted his own judgment in leveling with Simons. Were he a cop, would he risk his own career to intervene? Of course, Seattle was at stake. Simons was his only link and he trusted he judged correctly. Since Burns had been wary, or too gutless to come aboard, greater pressure was needed on all parties. Fire the gun? He didn’t want too, but…he felt the adventure had become a continuous, wakeful ordeal and he was starting to doubt the men’s staying power.

  “Anything wrong, Commander?” Graves approached.

  “No. Nothing. Just thinking.”

  “It must be about all that money,” Graves grinned.

  “I can hardly wait,” Harper said.

  “Christ! Harper, you’d just throw it away on booze and women.”

  “So!” Harper exclaimed.

  “Commander! Commander!”

  “Newby, what is it?” Trent spoke, clicking the mike.

  “Not sure, maybe just shadows playing tricks,” Newby replied. “Forget it. Madden is here and I’m on my way down.” Trent struggled to control his anxiety. “What was it?” He questioned a second time. The turret fell silent.

  Newby was the epitome of watch-keepers. He looked up into the night sky and grimaced. A threatening low, heavy bank of rain clouds drifted across his vision obscuring parts of the ship. Untrusting of his own judgment, he unfailingly reported the minutest of happenings, an enormous asset to Trent’s peace of mind. However, the men had grown weary of Newby’s frequent incident reports, not to mention, floating logs, abandoned life jackets, and a paper carton. Yet, Newby’s senses served as a harbinger of crisis. Trent felt that tingling sensation return, a trigger pulled somewhere in his brain.

  “Again! Dammit!” Harper and Graves looked up, startled as Trent slammed his fist against the bulkhead. The quiet had lulled him into a false sense of security. “Madden, what’s going on out there? Has anyone come aboard?” He yelled into the mike. “I can’t see a damn thing, the deck is blacker’n the inside of a coal mine,” Madden barked back. “I’ll head down for a look around.”

  “Stay alert,” Trent said, his anxiety increasing. The dark of night was a curse, the best friend of those who practiced stealth. The quiet was in its own way more unnerving than the din of battle.

  Harper caught Trent’s troubled face, arched his eyebrows, then quickly slipped below decks and disappeared. Graves grimaced, and then drew his .45 and dropped out the turret hatch. His knee buckled, tumbling his full weight to the teak deck. He got up, limping, and then disappeared aft into the blackness.

  A scream pierced the darkness; then a gurgling sound was heard, followed by a grating hoarseness. Crackling sounds filled speaker, then Madden’s voice, “Tony, there’s a guy in a black wetsuit running forward port-side towards the quarterdeck. Graves is ten paces behind him.” Trent yanked up on the turret hatch, slammed it shut and secured it. A series of CRACK! CRACK! Followed closely by slugs ricocheted off metal. “Damn. I missed him,” Madden hollered. BAM! BAM! A shattering explosion that rippled out across the inlet followed two quick bursts. “The bastard tossed a grenade at Graves,” Madden shouted. CRACK! Another shot rang out. I got him in the leg, he’s slipping to the deck.” BAM! Madden cringed as the black form crumpled. “Poor bastard. He didn’t get the grenade off in time. It went off in his hand. Graves is down, he must have caught the pattern.” The turret hatch flew down: Trent rushed out. Graves lay sprawled twenty feet away. “Graves. You O.K.?”

  Graves stirred, pulled himself up, his shirt mussed with spattered blood. “Yeah! What a mess. Th
e idiot blew himself up, dumb bastard, whoever he was,” he muttered, breathing heavily, and wiping his face clean with the back of his hand. Staggering to his feet, he shoved his foot under the dead man and flipped him over. “Madden musta nicked him just as he pulled the pin, threw him off. What the hell was he after?” Graves asked, sucking wind and shaking his head to rid the pounding in his eardrums.

  Trent grabbed a flashlight from the turret. Madden hustled forward to stare down at the inert form. He turned away sick. The man in black laid an ugly sight.

  “Who is this guy?” Harper asked, dropping out the hatch.

  “Looks like our man in black is back,” Trent said.

  “Good! He’s dead.” Harper grinned.

  “Is he alone?”

  “Madden figured he was a solo act.”

  Trent frisked pieces of the tattered man and his wet suit and found what he was looking for. He withdrew the man’s I.D. from a shredded pocket and flashed it with the light.

  “His name is Scarese. He’s packing a .32 in his belt and a knife was strapped to his leg, see, it’s been pulled out of the sheath, maybe he lost it. What’s in the backpack?” Harper ripped it open dumped its contents on the deck.

  “Grenades! Three left.”

  Trent’s voice was hard. “He was sent to destroy the insides of the turret or, most likely to kill us all. He had to be under orders. He’s Navy.”

  Harper looked around, anxiously, “Where’s Newby?”

  They dashed aft to the curve in the superstructure. Newby lay stilled, a knife handle sticking out of his chest, its blade buried to the hilt. Harper kneeled to pry Newby’s fingers free of the M60 trigger, but they were locked like iron. A dark, blood red spot that spread over his chest fed a wet puddle on the deck. “Damn,” said Madden. Trent’s eyes burned with anger, and then faded to sadness as he murmured softly, “Newby would have wanted it this way, in the thick of a fight. At heart, he was a gentle man, much maligned, but more a fighter than he ever knew. I feel guilty for underestimating him.” Trent clenched his fist. “Just as much as I misjudged that bastard Burns and overestimated Simons. I should have realized, this caper was just too complicated to pull off, and now Newby…”

  “Hindsight, Commander.”

  “I know, Harper; but the City had been warned. One hour: we all owe Newby.” Trent stood and faced Madden squarely, and then angrily strode back to the turret. Madden did not follow, but stood staring. Inside the turret, Trent twisted dials, the radio squealed and whistled. Satisfied, he picked up the mike and said, “Simons. Come in. This is Trent.” He waited. “Do you read me?” He waited.

  “This is dispatcher Gonzales. Can you wait, I’ll locate him.”

  “Do that!”

  * * *

  Sam Simons sat uneasily in the Mayor’s office as Mayor Joe Grille hovered over his shoulder. Hiram Chitterman and Bud Mitchell sat by on the couch, fidgeting. Simons twisted the telephone around his ear and leaned away. He listened intently as Lt. Cmdr. Ward Conover spoke excitedly. Simons breathed deeply, his heart racing as he strained to hear. Disbelieving, Simons hung up.

  The Mayor impatient, exploded, “Dammit, Simons! What’s going on? What did Conover say?” Heat rose around Simons’ collar, little drops of sweat formed on his upper lip. His anger swelled, anger at people who played with innocent lives to cover up their misdeeds.

  “The Navy crossed us up, Mayor,” he said. “They made another attempt on the Missouri. Charlie Wingate is in the hospital with a badly bruised skull. Explosions have been reported aboard the Missouri. It appears Admiral Burns ordered another attempt to disable the turret. Conover hasn’t a clue as to success or failure: although, Mate Scarese failed to return. He was to board the ship, alone. It was strictly the Navy’s idea: Conover was cut out of the action…”

  Mitchell cut in, “What was Scarese up to? Why did he go back? Did he lie about disabling the gun?” Simons replied, “Admiral Burns assured me the gun had been disabled and that Trent was bluffing that the gun could still be fired. Possibly, the Admiral had second thoughts.”

  “But, we sat in Burns’ office and told him we were going to pay. That should have ended it,” Chagrined, Chitterman jumped in. “Quit acting so damn sanctimonious, Hiram. Your recollections come up conveniently short, at times,” the Mayor ranted. “We agreed to let Scarese try for the firelock. Charlie Wingate came up with the idea. We sold it to the Navy. We took the risk. We can’t gamble with the lives of our citizens. Trent had to be stopped. De-activating the gun was the best we could hope for, short of his assassination.”

  Simons gagged, “Ah!...Well!...I had a private talk with Trent.” The Mayor’s jaw dropped. Mitchell and Chitterman sat up and stared, unbelieving. “I needed to find out for sure if it was just the money: I was right, there is something else. Trent confided he has a vendetta going with the Navy. The city is an innocent victims and he is using us for leverage. He gave me his terms and conditions: the thirty million is only one part. The rest concerns the Navy: I have been acting as his go-between. So far, it has been a one-way street with the Navy. I fear it is most likely the city will be shelled a second time.”

  Mitchell closed his mouth and sat stony still, then said abruptly, “Well, then, can the Navy meet Trent’s demands?”

  Simons’ voice calmed, his rage no less intense. “You mean will…Admiral Burns refused to discuss the matter contending his orders are to re-take the Missouri. He states flatly, the Navy will deal with the matter…without our advice or help…which it seems the Admiral just did.”

  “I don’t like that man; I don’t trust him,” Chitterman exclaimed.

  “Welcome aboard, Hiram,” The Mayor interjected.

  “The city can appeal to the Pentagon?” Mitchell said.

  “No. That takes too much time,” Grille replied.

  “What about Vice-Admiral Ambler?”

  “He’s back in D.C. assured Scarese accomplished his mission,” Simons informed.

  “What are Trent’s conditions?”

  “Nothing relevant to the City,” Simons replied, warily.

  Mayor Joe Grille’ small eyes widened and his voice became shrill, “If Trent can fire, then we can expect a shell within the hour?”

  “Help us! God help us!” pleaded Chitterman, he raised his hands, touching together his fingertips.

  Bud Mitchell spoke, excitedly, “but I have the money.”

  The phone rang. Simons picked it up. “Frank Gonzales here, Chief. Trent is on the radio, holding. He wants to talk to you. He’s mad as hell.”

  “What is it, Sam?” Grille demanded.

  “It’s Frank. Trent is holding.” Together they rushed down the back stair, the Mayor in the lead. Hiram puffing followed up the rear. They entered Gonzales’ office and closed the door. Trent picked up the open mike.

  “Simons here.”

  “You failed.”

  “I tried.”

  “Not good enough.”

  “Burns said ‘no.’”

  “Too bad.”

  “What happened?”

  “Scarese is dead.”

  “What was he doing on board?”

  “He was armed with grenades. You’re the cop, you tell me. Did you have anything to do with this?”

  “No. We knew nothing about it. We just heard. Burns never informed his superiors of your demands. He must have sent Scarese in as his ace-in-the-hole. We are ticked-off as you: the City is appealing to the Pentagon, right now, to back off. We need time.” Simons cajoled, he swallowed his pride and lied. Mayor Grille nodded his head vigorously.

  “Time!! I’ve given you time!!” Trent shouted.

  Simons continued, “I’ve explained what I’ve just told you to the Mayor and City Council President. It’s Sunday and they ask for more time.”

  There was silence.

  “Wednesday at 0500, I fire.” Trent said coldly. “The target is the Bartell Drugstore at Fourth and Pine. You have until then.”

  The speaker went dead
.

  “God help us! Amen.” Chitterman croaked.

  “At least, we bought time,” added Mitchell. “Fifty-six hours, to be precise.” Grille looked up at the clock.

  Sam Simons lay back exhausted. He knew what he had to do, but not how to do it. How to flush out the guilty and cease the threat? With little sleep in the past thirty-six hours, he felt his eyelids droop and his body goes limp. That bastard, he thought, always pressing, never enough time, impossible deadlines; yet, all played out in deadly, orderly seriousness. He had not thought beyond that instant that Trent cut the speaker.

  “The gun is still to our head,” Mitchell warned. “With fifty-six hours before the trigger gets pulled.”

  Simons snapped open his eyes, and spread his arms across Frank Gonzales’ desk. “Trent leaves us with only two choices: Sorry, Mayor. We either get the Pentagon to agree to Trent’s conditions: guilty parties, confessions and a re-trial: Or, we find out what makes Admiral Burns run so hard.”

  They stared at him.

  Simons laid back and shut his eyes. Time! Time! So little time! He thought. It’s like starting all over again, he thought. Where is the beginning? How will it end? First things first: he must order the evacuation of the area around fourth and Pine, immediately. This time he knew the shell would be live.

  ~ * * * ~

  CHAPTER 27

  Deftly sidestepping the clamoring media, Sam Simons managed to slip into his office unobserved. He desperately needed time alone. Brusquely shaking the Seattle dew from his topcoat, he tossed it on a hook to dry. Glancing at the Seattle Times headlines, he shook his head and tossed the newspaper into the wastebasket. Snatching a bottle from his desk draw, he gulped a mouthful letting the heat course through his body. “I needed that,” he muttered as he flicked on the TV.