SILENT GUNS (14 page)

As dawn broke, a throbbing under the deck settled
down into a barely perceptible murmur. Maxie adjusted the throttles
as the bows fell off slightly. Underway, the
Helga
headed
cautiously into the Canal, drawing heavy, yet responsive as Madden
shifted the wheel over. Visibility dropped to one-eighth of a mile
under heavy, low-lying cover. Shadows highlighted shoreline
features until the
Helga
locked into the Government Locks.
Crowded in by outbound fishing boats, the
Helga
gave no
cause to suspect her deadly mission. Clearing the Locks, she
steamed steadily west, cutting across the north-south Puget Sound
shipping lanes. The whump! whump! whump! of her propeller sent
dull, rhythmic vibrations along her hull as she surged forward.
Foghorns, blaring mournfully, reverberated across Puget Sound as
the
Helga
probed the thickening mist.

“
Traffic is getting bad,” Captain
Larsen took the wheel. “Madden, take the radar. Graves, you get
forward on lookout.”

Madden moved to the radar unit. His face took on a
pallid, gloomy cast in the emerald glow. The green flicker of the
rotating wand swept across dark glass. Solid pips, then fading
ones, turning bright again as the wand swept by. “Traffic is heavy
to the north.”

Captain Larsen cut the engine to the
Helga
’s
minimum headway speed of three knots. “The tide is on the ebb, a
few points south won’t hurt,” he mumbled, shifting the wheel over.
Madden stared intently at the green scope. “Don’t put too much
faith in them electronic gadgets,” Captain Larsen remarked, leaning
on the wheel. “We were putting into Eagle Harbor up in Alaska once
in a fog, when heavy rains hit so hard we couldn’t see, so we
figured we’d better head back out. Well, sir, the Captain switched
on the heading marker and we plum ran straightaway right up on the
beach. The marker hadn’t locked so the radar was reading opposite
to where we wanted to go. The rain confused the screen and what we
read for open water was a creek. You might say we were up a creek,”
the Captain chuckled, “because that’s where we put the
Willard
Preston
.”

“
Freighter bearing directly abeam
one mile, port side.” A bright pip to port brought a report from
Madden. The Captain adjusted the throttle to clear ahead of the
freighter.

“
Ship passing astern,” Graves
warned from the forepeak.

“
The scope is clear,” Madden
reported.

“
The fog’s lifting,” Graves
yelled.

“
Get on with your other duties,
then,” the Captain ordered. Feet rattled the ladder as Trent
entered the wheelhouse. Harper was close on his heels with coffee
and sandwiches.

“
My
Helga
lives to be at
sea, underway. And, it’s good to have a crew aboard, again,”
Captain Larsen nodded, reaching for a steaming mug. “Have you heard
tell of the
Willard Preston
?”

Trent glanced over at Madden. Madden shook his head
and said, “Another hair-raising sea story, Captain?” The Captain
ignored him and grabbed a sandwich. Harper winced then pulled up a
stool. Trent leaned against the bulkhead, folded his arms and let
his mind drift.

The Captain started, “I was second mate. The Preston
was working the Aleutians and Alaska; less’ee, that was in ‘42. She
was a primitive thing; we navigated with a compass and a Canadian
Marconi. Most times, we got around by the smell of the air and the
feel of the bottom,” he said. “We were haulin’ a Navy barge to
Amchatka. The crew sold off their sleeping bags and parkas for
booze; the stuff was called “Stewart Hill.” It was a cut above
poison, but the Aleuts loved it and the stuff was worth its weight
in gold. Well, sir,” the Captain continued, the uneaten sandwich
held in hand. “The Captain and Chief Engineer broke open a case,
just to celebrate, one bottle, you understand. Well, pretty soon
they were dead drunk. The Captain went out like a light. I had to
shove him into his bunk. He said watch for Seal Rocks and let him
know when we got there. Well, it was dark when the navigation gear
said we were there, so I woke him to tell him. He said I had it
wrong because the boat wasn’t actin’ the way it should and the air
didn’t smell right. I’m scared stiff we was gonna founder on the
rocks. Well, he rolls over and goes back to sleep. I’ll be damned
if he weren’t right.”

The Captain, realizing he held an uneaten sandwich,
finished it off. “The shore is dead ahead a quarter-mile,” he said
as he spun the wheel swinging the
Helga
due south. With the
throttle jammed forward, the increase in engine rpms was
noticeable.

Madden checked the radar. “Darned if he ain’t
right.”

“
You don’t need to look at that
thing,” The Captain observed, dryly, with a twinkle in his eye,
“Can’t yer just smell it!”

Harper shook his head.

The
Helga
ran on due south then steadied up
due west into Rich Passage. By then, the early morning fog was
lifting. Shoreline, high banks of sand and overhanging greenery
appeared as if out of nowhere. Cottages peeked out through forested
glens fronted by steep, rickety wooden stairs leading down to
beachfronts. Small boats lay pulled above the high water mark.
Heavy drift logs scattered along the beaches; strays from log rafts
torn apart by a violent winter storm. Huge Douglas fir logs, the
past wealth of the Pacific Northwest forests, lay half-buried in
the sand.

“
I’m goin’ below. Madden take the
wheel,” said the Captain, sticking his unlit pipe back in his
mouth. “Watch out for them Bremerton ferryboats, they come a
roaring ‘round that point with their eyes closed.” The Captain
pointed with his pipe stem, then left. Hauser lay curled up asleep
under the wheel.

Madden stretched his arms over his head. “If we can
pull this caper off…Hallelujah!” He paused, inhaled deeply, and
grasped the wheel again.

“
Watch for Navy patrol boats. They
should be nosing around soon,” Trent warned. Footfalls were heard
as Captain Larsen reappeared.

“
Madden. Get Graves and check the
gear,” Trent ordered. Madden hesitated, a confused look crossed his
face as he strode out the wheelhouse. The
Helga
heeled to
follow the channel. Trent placed binoculars to his eyes and
searched ahead. Maxie’s entrance startled him: his face pale, his
shirt soaked through. His shoulders slouched. His feet barely
carried his weight as he slumped into a chair.

“
You O.K., Maxie?” Trent asked,
solicitously.

“
Guess I am tired; I’m not a young
kid anymore.”

“
None of us are,” the Captain
volunteered.

“
Guess that means it’s O.K. if I
sit down for awhile. Eh!”

Harper poured him a cup of hot coffee. “Try this.”
Maxie was as close a friend as Harper had on board. Trent prayed it
was only tiredness, but feared it might run deeper, more physical
in nature. Maxie needed rest, but within the hour he would need
him. He dared not order him to crew’s quarters.

The
Helga
swerved. Trent observed the
Captain’s latent power, the way he leaped for the wheel. A man so
large and alert would not be easily subdued. The outbound ferryboat
Issaquah
completed a sharp turn into the narrow channel. The
two ships passed red-to-red with barely a hundred feet of
separation. As the
Helga
rounded the channel marker,
Bremerton appeared off in the distance, and just beyond, the Navy
Yard. Trent motioned to Harper and Maxie to follow him, leaving the
Captain alone. They dropped to the working deck as Madden and
Graves appeared from below.

“
Meet in the galley, now!” The men
drifted forward.

“
If we’re stopped, who does the
talking?” asked Maxie.

“
The Captain is primed,” Trent
answered. “I’m back up. You all know your assignments?” Heads
nodded. “And, stay out of sight. Madden, only you on deck. Now
split up,” Trent sprinted back up the ladder to the
wheelhouse.

Torrents of white water ceased streaming down the
Helga
’s white hull. The propeller slowed, the rhythm of the
engine subsided. Where the stem cut the water of Sinclair inlet,
there appeared only a faint, white trace of foam. They drew closer
to the Navy Yard and restricted waters. Trent crossed over to the
starboard wing and picked up his binoculars. The radio in the
wheelhouse began to sputter; they had attracted the attention of a
Navy patrol boat. Trent patted the packet of official Navy orders
inside his coat pocket, their passport to the
Missouri
.

“
Patrol boat. Coming abeam.
Starboard side,” called Madden from aft the working deck. He busied
himself coiling line warily observing the approaching boat. A
wave-like white spray formed on both sides of the Patrol Boat as it
grew larger; two seamen stood aside a small caliber gun mounted on
the foredeck. NPB41 was emboldened on the bows. Captain Larsen
slowed.

“
More alert than I thought,” Trent
observed, he felt his nerve ends grate together like the jagged
edges of a torn tin can,

“
Not much for them to do, you
know, with no war on, except patrol a graveyard,” the Captain
answered. “We’re a welcome relief.”

“
They don’t seem too concerned,”
Trent added.

“
Why should they be?” the Captain
challenged him. Trent mentally pinched himself.

“
Ahoy!” The
Helga
stopped.
Two seamen jumped the narrowing gap and boarded.

“
These are restricted waters,” the
first seaman warned. “Where are you heading? Are you the Captain?”
The second seaman stood off to one side, a .45 draped to his
hip.

Captain Larsen, stepping to the working deck,
replied, “I am Captain Larsen. This is my boat. We have work aboard
the
Missouri
.” He held out papers for the seaman. The seaman
took them, opened, then read them glancing at the signatures. He
looked up at the Captain. Trent interceded.

“
I chartered the
Helga
. My
name is Anthony Trent.” The seaman held his distance. He was
business-like and alert.

“
You’re the first work crew out
here.”

“
Expecting many more?” Trent
asked.

“
About six. What’s your
duty?”

“
We have the number two
turret.”

“
PUGET SOUND SHIP MAINTENANCE CO.
eh! Guess you’re in the right place.” He smiled, folded the papers,
re-inserted them, and returned the envelope to the
Captain.

“
Are you laying aside till you’re
done?”

“
No. We’ll be here three days.
Friday night we’ll head back to Seattle. Give the boys a weekend in
town, if you know what I mean.” They laughed. “We’ll be back here
late Sunday night. Will you be on duty?”

“
Until midnight Friday, then we
get three days leave.”

“
Are you the only Patrol boat on
watch?” Trent inquired, verifying what he already knew.

“
NPB22 covers the west half of the
Yard. We go down to the ships at anchor and the ammunition barges;
they get the dry side and all the ships tied up,” the first seaman
replied. “Your papers look in order. Good luck.” They saluted,
turned and re-boarded NPB41 and pushed off. They watched them go
and breathed easier. It could have all ended right there without a
shot being fired. Trent had no fallback plan except
surrender.

The
Missouri
stood berthed at the westernmost
pier at the edge of the Navy Base. Two miles of open water stood to
her west. Bow-in to the northern shore, her starboard side nestled
against a barge to buffer her bulk from the pier. A single gangway
controlled access, spanning the barge directly from the pier to the
main deck.

Hard a-starboard, the
Helga
moved slowly
towards the
Missouri
’s port side. Harper and Graves worked
the deck and stood ready with lines. Madden had the wheel, his hand
gripped the engine start lever ready to shift into reverse. Captain
Larsen shouted orders from the starboard wing.

“
Slow to three knots.”

Madden spun the wheel and brought her up
smartly.

“
Reverse.”

Madden pulled the start lever…it clicked…nothing
happened. The
Helga
plunged ahead towards the shore
breakwater as if bent on her own destruction. “God damn!” Madden
shouted, he violently jostled the start lever back and forth. It
refused to engage. The
Helga
, careened off the side of the
Missouri
, her course erratic. A rough hand gripped Madden’s
shoulder and shoved him aside.

“
Get out of the way!” Captain
Larsen shouted gruffly. Grabbing the lever with both hands, he
yanked it back in two quick, vicious movements. The
Helga
shuddered. Gears engaged, the engine reversed causing the propeller
to bite furiously, frothing the water in a mad effort to reverse
her shoreward plunge. She stopped, then slowly backed away, barely
avoiding rocks ready to tear out her vitals. Captain Larsen removed
his cap and wiped the sweat off his brow. His face was ashen;
Madden rubbed his shoulder.

“
What the hell was that all
about?” Madden demanded angrily, rubbing the pain out of his
shoulder.

“
I forgot to tell you,” the
Captain replied, as he sat down, shaking. “The
Helga
has her
quirks. She doesn’t have a clutch. The engine is direct reversing.
When the engine is running, the prop is always turning…” Madden
kept rubbing as he listened. “…The engine forward and reverse
sequences work off offset cams, so the engine reverses itself and
actually runs backwards. Nothing but trouble with the damn thing.”
Trent glared and wondered if the Captain would ever learn how close
he came to blowing up the
Helga
.