by Bob Neir
Stay tuned to this channel. At 6 p.m. this evening, we will bring you a special announcement by Rear-Admiral Brian Burns, Commander of the Puget Sound Naval Shipyard on behalf of the United States Navy regarding the battleship Missouri. At 6:30 Mayor Joe Grille will join us for a briefing on the latest events. Let your friends and neighbors know: All citizens are asked to tune in.
“Money sez the Navy’s gonna run up the white flag.”
“That means payday for us.”
“Better let Trent know.”
“I need the fresh air. I’ll go,” Harper said, starting up.
“Trent. Calling Trent. This is Chief Simons. Come in, please.”
Harper got up and flicked off the TV.
Madden picked up the mike. “We’ll get him, hang on.” Madden pushed the button on the walkie-talkie. “Tony, Simons is on. Better come on down.” Trent pulled up through the turret hatch, his slicker splattering under a constant downpour. He brusquely shook it out and threw it over the open hatch to drip.
“Simons,” Madden whispered, almost as an afterthought, handing Trent the mike. Trent winced at the crackle, the masking of Simons’ voice, giving it an eerie, unreal quality, of fading in and out.
“I thought you should know. The Navy will agree to your terms: Burns will make an announcement tonight at 1800.”
“We heard on TV.” Trent shouted over the irritating clutter.
“The war is over.”
“Glad to hear that.”
“Kindler is dead. Shot himself.”
“There are others to testify.”
“Proust is gone, too. Farr, Johnson and Denton don’t know anything, except they were sure you were screwed. Others agree, but they can’t help your case. No facts. No evidence. No key witnesses. It doesn’t look good for you.”
“I’ve nothing to gain, then, by surrendering, except a prison term. Is that what you’re telling me?” Trent laughed. “What about Burns?”
“I’m working on Burns, but no promises.”
“Maxie Hirsch is dead; heart attack. He’s stashed in the breech of the #1 gun. Newby Hatcher is dead; knifed by Scarese.”
“Forgot to tell you, Flora Hirsch died. Schiller’s in Walla Walla on a drug charge. We let your girlfriend, Lisa, go. She’s pretty broken up,” Simons added. “Are you going with your men?”
“No reason not too, now.”
“Why was I set up?”
“Just a murder, a cover-up, and then a lifetime of blackmail.”
“Who?”
“Kindler did it, Proust covered up in exchange for lifetime security. You were part of Proust’s security package.”
“Is it out in the open?”
“No. And it may never be.”
“Was Burns involved?”
“Only in that he lied at your court-martial. And, I think he’s still lying. He had his own scam going with Kindler. I don’t know what it was. He could have dug up Proust’s sweetheart deal. More likely, Kindler paid him off for his testimony with promotions and a promised command of the Missouri. With Proust and Kindler dead, there’s no trail left. Burns knows that and he won’t flush. Most of what I’m telling you is conjecture on my part. Burns laughed when I faced him off. He knows we can’t pin anything on him. Whatever he did, he may well get away with it. Your re-trial will be a farce: so why sweat it.”
“Good advice. How about the $30 million?”
“We have it: three leather, strapped-bound suitcases. What about delivery?” Simons asked.
“Tomorrow. I’ll let you know tomorrow. I want to enjoy this evening’s performance by Burns and the Mayor.” Trent hesitated an instant. “Just to be on the safe side, drop off tomorrow’s papers; nothing like reading the news first-hand. I will call you.”
“Are you through threatening the City?”
“For the moment, if all goes as agreed.”
“You still must escape.”
“You must still catch me.”
“Don’t spend the money too soon.”
“I’ll see you get an invitation to the party.”
“Tell me, can you fire?”
“Yes. Maxie Hirsch jury-rigged a firelock. It worked.”
“Would you have fired, if we hadn’t met the deadline?”
“You haven’t delivered yet.” Trent laughed.
“Run, but where?” Simons exhaled.
“Over and out,” Trent set down the mike.
The atmosphere in the turret changed instantly, the air charged with static electricity. The men exploded into cheers. Graves, who had slipped in behind Trent, jumped up and down, yelping like an Indian war-brave.
Trent looked at the turret clock, Maxie’s clock, 1733.
* * *
Harper’s stubby fingers tore at the string that bound the waterproof, plastic sack. Copies of three daily papers spilled out; the Seattle Times, the previous evening’s paper; the Seattle-Post Intelligencer, the early morning paper, and the Journal-American, an Eastside paper, but with a more distant, remote flavor, impassioned, unlike the two Seattle papers. NPB#41 delivered the bundle then sailed away sprightly for safety.
“See, what did I tell ya,” Graves thundered. “We made the headlines. See, it says here, the City’s gonna pay up.”
“Give me the P.I.,” Trent said, turning to page 16.
~ * * * ~
CHAPTER 29
A blazing, afternoon sun peeked through clouds to emblazon the Missouri, the Reserve fleet and Yard beyond in warmth. The early morning grayness had dissipated, letting a mixture of blues and patches of billowing white shine through. Oppressive and humid air, meanwhile, settled in overnight across Puget Sound. Inside the turret, it was almost airless. The hatch was left to hang open, swinging lazily to water lapping the hull. The men waited, unknowing of outside happenings, and gorged on sandwiches and countless mugs of coffee. No one stood watch.
“I’m tired of eating this stuff,” Graves said. “I hanker for a 2-pound steak and a dozen bottles of beer.”
“It’s almost 1800,” Madden called out. The men huddled close to the TV set as he fiddled with the volume knob.
“Another beer commercial,” Harper decried.
Graves shrugged, “How did they know?”
“Power of suggestion, my man,” Harper leaned over and whispered, almost conspiratorially. “I’d settle for a bottle of whiskey, my gut is screaming.”
“You should be grateful,” Madden replied. “You’re dried out; almost human again.” Harper shoved his hands out. “Crap! Look at ‘em shake. When I get my cut, it’s booze and women, for me.”
Graves cursed, his voice filled with revulsion. “Harper, you’re a pain in the ass sober. When you’re drunk you’re even a bigger pain in the ass. Who would want you?”
“Hold it,” Madden said, pointing to the TV set. “That’s the conference room at the Navy Yard.”
Good evening. My name is Rear-Admiral Brian D. Burns, Commander of the Puget Sound Naval Shipyard facility. I bring you good news. Tonight, we have reached agreement with the terrorists aboard the Missouri who have held the City of Seattle hostage these past few days. The siege of the City has ended. There will be no more shelling. The United States Navy has agreed to meet the conditions of the terrorists. The City will pay $30 million dollars ransom and the United States Navy will grant a re-trial to Commander Anthony Trent, the head terrorist, who believes he was falsely convicted by the Navy of hazarding his vessel, the Missouri, in a collision with the Duluth, sinking her, seven years ago. We are grateful no civilian has been injured or killed. The United States Navy appreciates the patience of the citizenry. Thank you.
“And now a word from our Mayor, Joe Grille.”
Thank you, Ted. These have been trying times. Your City has cooperated with the United States Navy and placed into action your Police and Fire Department emergency response teams. They responded in an exemplary manner. A great deal of credit for bringing this unpleasant incident to a close belongs with your City Co
uncil and other members of the Mayor’s office, my staff and Department heads. We are making every effort, as a civil matter, to capture and bring them to justice. These criminals shall not go unpunished. You may now safely return to your homes and businesses. You may now sleep secure in the knowledge your lives, and your City is no longer under threat.
“Thank you, Mayor Grille. And now. Back to our regular broadcast.”
“Well, Commander, now what?” Harper asked.
“Tomorrow, we get off this bucket,” Trent said.
“Are you going with us?”
“You bet.”
“What about the re-trial?”
“There won’t be one.”
“I thought that was what this was all about.”
“I’m a dead duck,” Trent said. “Simons is right.”
“How do we get off this thing?”
“Helicopter.”
“I ain’t never been up in one. They scare me,” Graves said.
“Just close your eyes and don’t look down,” Harper offered.
“Don’t make funnies,” Graves warned.
“Where are we heading?” Madden asked.
“A long way away.”
“How far?”
“Out of the country.”
“In a helicopter!!!”
“Canada?”
“Christ. That’s nuts! They’d nab us up there in no time,” Madden exclaimed. “All we’d have to do is put our foot down anywhere. And Bang! The Mounties will come riding out of the woods. No thanks.”
“God! We gotta lug three suitcases.”
“Don’t bitch, they’re full of dough.”
“When do we split up the loot?” Graves asked.
“Not until we get safely out of the country,” Trent said. “Then, we split it up and go our separate ways, all right?”
“So. Where are we going? Alaska???” Graves asked.
“That’s not out of the country, dummy,” Harper said.
“Aboard a ship sailing to the far seas,” Madden laughed.
“Bullshit! An ocean cruise?” Graves demurred. “‘Copter to Vancouver and hop a cruise ship?”
“Don’t be stupid. Horse face,” Harper chided
“Watchit, mash mouth,” Graves warned. “No crap! Where are we goin’?”
“I told you, for a boat ride,” Madden laughed.
“Is that right, Commander?” Graves nodded dumbly.
“Madden’s right,” Trent cleared his throat and stared at the men. “Let’s take a break then I’ll go over the details.”
Trent dropped through the hatch. Shivering at the change in temperature, he trod briskly forward to clear his head. He needed to reassure himself of his escape plan.
* * *
Charlie Wingate lay stretched out flat on his back nursing a bandaged head. The coshing had left his head ringing with pangs of getting even, just to find the culprit. Sam Simons had helicoptered back to Seattle. His boss insisted he stay put for as long as Burns and Conover remained at the Yard. He had a hunch the minute the Chief finished dealing with Burns, the game was over. With Kindler and Scarese dead, and Burns holding a pat hand, he could see himself just putting in time. The thought depressed him. The second Trent left the Missouri, the Yard would revert to the backwater it was. Hartwell and Tronquet had expressed disgust at the way things turned out. Whatever Burns was up to, Tronquet had said Burns was on his own, Conover had informed. He wondered how the City bosses would react. Well, he mused, it wasn’t his problem, anyhow. Simons took his headaches back with him. He wished he could have gone back, too.
His phone rang.
“Conover, here. Is that you Wingate?”
“Yeah! It’s me. What’s up?”
“You’re not going to believe this, but I got a line on Scarese’s bunkmate. Seems Scarese talked a lot, liked to brag: they were close buddies. They had a racket going in the Yard. Why don’t you meet me? We’ll have to do it quietly, it’s really Navy business. Burns is involved,” Conover said.
“Where can I catch you?” Wingate, his battery recharged. “The Green Door. I’ll be there in twenty-minutes.”
He hung up.
* * *
The Green Door was a riot of off-duty sailors seeking escape from tedium. Wingate ducked his head away from a sharp gust of wind, stepped down a flight of stone steps and pushed his way into the dingy, packed bar. Typically Navy clientele, the place reeked of damp and stale cigarette smoke. A small, noisy fan off in a corner labored in a losing cause. The bartender caught Charlie Wingate’s eye; Wingate waved him off. He spotted Conover in civvies in a back booth. A sailor sat next to him. His skin was a sallow, yellowish gray in the dim light. They were talking in subdued voices. At first the sailor seemed calm and untroubled, but tensed at Wingate approach. He sat scrunched, and spoke in an oddly high-pitched, strained voice. He extended a hand, and accompanied it with a narrow, bland smile.
“Antoine Jones, petty officer, 2nd. class,” he said, his eyes searched the tavern. “I’m Scarese’s bunkmate.”
“I’m Detective Charlie Wingate, Seattle Police Department, temporarily assigned to the Yard. Jones’ bland grin disappeared as Wingate slid into the booth, blocking him in.
“Commander, you didn’t tell me he was a cop,” Jones blurted. “He’s just after information, Jones,” Conover pleaded, calmly. “I want you to help him out. He’s trying to find out what happened to Scarese out there on the Missouri.”
“I don’t want to get in no trouble, Commander,” Jones flushed to the roots of his blonde crew cut.
You won’t. Just tell Wingate what you told me.”
“Well, Scarese was real pumped up about being asked by the Admiral to get aboard the ship. He was real high. He was trained for that kinda stuff even before he joined the Navy, you know, rope climber, skin diver, swimmer. For a Wop from the Boston, he made it pretty good, but Scarese wanted to make it big. He always had big ideas, big plans. He talked about them all the time. What he was going to do when he got out. Stuff like that. Then, the Admiral gives him this big chance; he was bowled over. He couldn’t believe it could happen in the Navy, especially here in the Yard and in peacetime, no less. The Admiral promised him a big promotion if he pulled it off. Told him he would be a hero, get all kinds of honors for saving the city. Scarese bought it.”
“Pull off what?” Conover asked.
“Blow up the turret.”
“Anything else?”
“Kill Commander Trent.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the Admiral told Scarese either one would be O.K. And, if he got Trent, he’d give him an extra bonus.”
“A bonus? What did the Admiral mean?”
“Well, Scarese said he took it to mean big bucks, some kind of money reward, plus the promotion for blowing up the turret. The Admiral said, either one will stop Trent cold and salvage the Navy’s reputation. That’s what he wanted done.”
“What about the first time out?”
“The Admiral chewed Scarese out something fierce. He accused him of lying about the tossing the firelock over the side. He said he was told Trent could still fire and that he’d better get his ass back out there and do his job or there’d be no promotion, no nothing. Well, Scarese got pissed off. But, you don’t chomp on an Admiral. So he said he’d go again. The Admiral said he wanted proof this time.”
“Then what happened?”
“He and the Admiral took off and he came back with a bag of grenades. He said the Admiral wanted a piece of clothing, identification or something as proof, like Trent’s wallet maybe, or the likes. We’ll, Scarese is pretty scummy, but he got scared. He swore to me the Admiral was asking him to murder Trent without actually asking. He said, it was almost like an order, but it wasn’t.”
“Does anyone else know what you told us?”
“Good God. No. The Admiral swore Scarese to secrecy, to keep his mouth shut; but Scarese always talked too much. At least, he would tell me things he wou
ldn’t tell nobody else. He trusted me. We were partners. We had a scam going in the Yard. Am I going to get in any trouble?”
“Not if I can help it,” Conover volunteered.
“I guess I better get back, now.”
“Would you be willing to testify to the Police on what Scarese told you?”
“Holy shit! The Admiral would fry my buns.”
“Scarese was your friend. And he’s dead, now.”
“Yeah!”
“If you’d be willing to come to Police headquarters and sign a statement, we’d arrest the Admiral.”
“My God! What will happen to me?”
“We’d get you transferred, for one.”
Conover said, taking a deep breath. “I know what you are going through with the Admiral. I’ve been there.”
“I don’t know. I’d have to think about it. Do I have a choice?”
“Yes, you do.”
“There’s more.”
“You say your name is Wingate.”
“Yes.”
“Were you standing on a bluff overlooking the anchorage last Sunday, late afternoon?”
“Yeah! Why?”
“I’m the guy who took you out.”
* * *
Trent toyed with the idea of putting Simons off. Both sides seemed relieved at the truce. But, no one was fooled; it was a cease-fire of convenience, a fact his men chose to ignore. For them, the excitement had dulled. For them, it was over. They did their part and were anxious to be away and paid off. That was the easy part; unfortunately, getting away was not so simple. There was a price to be paid. The other side would extract their pound of flesh. That he too must leave sharpened his concern.
“Simons. I said I’d call you back.”
“I’ve been expecting it. That was quite a TV show last night, wasn’t it? Burns. The Mayor. Was that what you wanted?”
