SILENT GUNS (18 page)

Footfalls charged up the ladder. Newby gave him
“thumbs-up” and together they rushed into the wheelhouse.

“
Lay alongside the barge,
Captain,” Trent ordered.

Captain Larsen looked startled. “Shift the wheel
over,” Trent commanded. Captain Larsen hesitated, not
comprehending, and then eased the wheel over. The
Helga
was
set on a collision course with the ammo barge. With the tide
changing, they barely made headway. When Trent ordered more
throttle, the distance closed rapidly. The Captain shifted
uneasily. The engine stopped and way fell off. “Now, bring her up,”
Trent ordered, curtly. The
Helga
thudded against the barge,
then scraped down its steel side. “Now, hold her there.” Three
dark, shadowy figures sprang across the watery gap onto the
barge.

An auxiliary engine sputtered into life. A winch
clattered and whined as a shell-dolly spun up out of the hold to be
set down on the barge and immediately unhooked. Madden waved off
the
Helga
. The barge loading doors were slid open, the dolly
shipped inside and the doors slammed shut. Newby was right: they
were left unlocked. The engine kicked-in, jarring the
Helga
as her propeller bit the water and drove her 200 yards beyond the
barge. The engine stopped. Way slowly petered out until she lay
cradled in the drift of the outgoing tide. She was a dead ship,
belied in the brilliance of her glow; like a cut rose, beautiful to
see, but quite dead.

“
What the hell…?” Captain Larsen
spun to face Trent. “Steady, Captain, keep both hands on the
wheel.”

“
I am not to be played with!”
Captain Larsen exploded.

“
Newby is armed.” The Captain’s
body arched, then stiffened as a cold, hard object nuzzled the
small of his back.

“
Don’t get any funny ideas, the
whistle and radio are out,” Trent warned. His watch alarm sounded.
He dashed out, his lips pressed into a hard line as he lifted the
night glasses. NPB#22 bore down on them…a moth attracted to a
flame. “Come to me, my pretty,” Trent whispered under his
breath.

“
Ahoy,
Helga
. Any
trouble?”

“
Yeah! Engine quit,” Trent shouted
back.

“
Need any help?”

“
We’ll be O.K. It’ll take about an
hour and we’ll be on our way,” He answered, casually.

“
Right! If you change your mind,
signal. We’re heading in.” The patrol boat backed off and hurried
away. Trent checked them off: It was Friday night and NPB#22 was
headed in for a midnight crew change. And, weekend passes to
Seattle for the off-duty crew, he mused. Now that the Navy knows
about us, he thought, they won’t come snooping around – the ruse
bought an hour. Trent was elated as he ambled back to the
wheelhouse. “It’s the little things, Newby,” he chuckled. “Just
those few extra minutes—it was all we needed.”

“
Guess we were just lucky, Eh!”
Newby said.

“
Yes! Just luck!” Trent felt no
need to say more. He crossed to the other bridge wing.

Pinpricks of light dotted the shore and set off the
gray ghosts and the ominous ammo barge. Trent fixed on the barge
doors; he waited anxiously, no sign yet. Tension ran rampant
throughout his body, the part of his makeup that rarely left him.
As youth growing up, he could barely remember feeling free,
relaxing, enjoying the trivial. Trivia never interested him,
details did. He checked and caught NPB#22 as she reached her berth.
Once tied-up, her crew would depart ship and then make a dash for
the Seattle ferry. He checked his watch: fifteen minutes had
elapsed since NPB#22 had departed. He raised his glasses again and
looked at the ferry dock. But it was already hidden by the mist and
shielded by the glowing glare of Bremerton on the water. Trent
sensed a slight shift in the tide. The outbound drift had stopped.
The
Helga
was slowly turning, the current sending her back
up the inlet. Trent felt on edge with the drift. The drift was
wrong: she would close with the ammo barge, but on the wrong
side.

He watched Maxie inch up the ladder to upper deck.
His clothes smelled, the stale aroma of sweat from nervous
exhaustion mixed with oil. He gasped for breath, and then slumped
to the deck. He lay in the shadow of wheelhouse. The pain in his
side made him tremble, feel faint. “Maxie, get up forward. Take
lookout.” Trent was unsympathetic. “Watch for the signal.”

“
No signal yet, Commander! We’re
getting a bad drift,” Newby reported.

Trent stepped into the wheelhouse.

“
Commander, is it?” Captain Larsen
sneered. Trent ignored the distraction. Pulling up his sleeve, the
watch read 2210, NPB#22 would be taking on a new crew.

“
Anything from the barge?” Trent
snapped.

“
Nothing!” Maxie
replied.

“
It’s been twenty-five minutes,
what’s taking them so damn long?” Trent lurched through the door.
The
Helga
had drifted to within 100 feet of the ammo barge,
her stern shifting awkwardly off to starboard. The barge’s brooding
presence threatened to overwhelm the smaller
Helga
. The
close sour smell of mixed powder and paint and the strong taint of
rust taunted the nostrils.

“
There - three quick red flashes.
That’s it!”

“
Cut the lights!”

Maxie dropped below and yanked the circuit breakers.
White turned black as if painted over in a single stroke.

“
Reverse engine!” Trent shouted,
shoving Larsen aside to signal below. The engine coughed twice,
kicked over and grabbed solidly. The
Helga
heeled to the
instant bite of the propeller. Trent spun the wheel, the stern
swung wide to port. The
Helga
backed smartly, ramming the
side of the ammo barge with a solid thump. Eager hands grasped the
lines that sailed through the air and in seconds, the
Helga
was snug down and lined up with the loading doors. Maxie cut the
engine and all fell still.

“
Captain Larsen, keep both hands
on the wheel. Newby! Take charge!” Trent bounded out the
wheelhouse.

The loading doors slid open hitting the doorstops
with a bang. In the darkness, three figures rolled a 16-inch shell
out on a dolly. The auxiliaries belched an excruciatingly loud
raspy, rumble, but Maxie’s huge, ingenious mufflers gobbled up the
sound. The boom swung into action. The pace was furious. In one
graceful motion, each shell rose, swung over the side to plunge
down into the maw of the forward hold.

Satisfied he would not be needed, Trent dashed back
to the wheelhouse where he tripped over a fallen, soft object.
Newby lay sprawled face down on the deck out cold. Larsen had gone,
the wheel spun idly. He whirled and dove back down the ladder to
the Captain’s cabin. Peering in, he spotted a flashlight beam
casting about. Captain Larson was frantically rifling his desk. He
angrily dumped the contents onto the deck. In frustration, he
viciously kicked at the empty draws.

“
It’s no use Captain, I have your
gun. Unlock the door.”

“
You bastard.”

“
I’m not your enemy, Schiller
is!”

“
You’re worse than
Schiller.”

“
What about that fifty-five grand
you owe him? You want to pay him off, don’t you?”

Trent jumped back, startled. “Newby.”

“
Shit! Sorry,
Commander.”

“
Later,” he waved him off. “Hand
me your gun.”

“
I heaved it over the side. He’s
like a cat. Is he in there?”

“
Yeah.”

“
He had a .32 in his desk.” Newby
held it up: “I took it.”

“
Jam the other door,” Trent
whispered. Newby stole off.

“
Captain. Let’s talk,” Trent said
loudly.

“
Criminals, all of you! Shells!
Powder bags!” The voice that filled the cabin was furious. “I
should have known better.”

“
Damn!” Trent muttered under his
breath.

“
Captain, unlock this door” he
pounded with his fist.

“
Go screw yourself!!”

Trent faced a desperate crisis: a darkened ship, a
well-patrolled Navy Base, an ammo barge, shells coming aboard,
powder bags in the hold, and a dangerous, bellicose prisoner ready
to upset his well-laid plans…Good God! No one heard him for he was
talking to himself. A wave of dread flooded over him, his stomach
turned into an ice-cold lump. Newby sneaked back sweating with
exertion and trembling.

“
Guard the Captain…no make
mistakes, this time!”

Newby shriveled, Trent’s voice lashed him like the
hot flame of a welding torch. Trent dashed off for the upper deck.
Flashes of those fateful moments on the bridge of the
Missouri
came storming back. The inevitable collision…the
loss of lives… the similarity shattered his ingrained discipline,
overwhelmed his protective barriers.

“
Commander! Patrol Boat
approaching astern.”

Graves stood on the fantail. The shrillness in his
voice cleaved the air like a passing bullet from a high-powered
rifle. An animal-like instinct triggered Trent as he spun to face
the threat. He heard metal doors run and slam shut. He watched
shadows leap to the
Helga
. Snake-like objects slithered away
as outstretched arms desperately shoved away a gray, rust stained
wall. A watery gap widened in agonizing slowness. Shapes darted
about appearing as blurred dancing silhouettes. They danced with a
flat, box-like object, and concluded their whirling dervish by
casting the object into the depths. A sizzle marked the surface as
if of magic. Then, everything fell quiet. Dark shapes hugged the
deck and crawled like insects seeking the coolness of the earth, he
mused. Then, the shapes rose, dashed and vanished. A pounding and
smashing sound was heard from below. Sharp words: a dog’s bark: a
thud. Finally, there was only the comforting sound of sloshing
water.

Madden and Harper had jumped the Captain and bound
him hand and foot. Newby jammed a gag in his mouth, nearly choking
him, but he lay subdued, menaced by a .45-cal. gun barrel. The look
he fixed upon his assailants radiated anger, not fear. Newby had
excitedly explained the danger and the men understood instantly.
They acted with frightening quickness. Hauser whimpered in
confusion.

“
Ahoy.
Helga
.” NPB#41
hovered like a hound-dog astern. The muzzle of the .50-cal. gun
drooped, pointed downward. A searchlight beam snapped on deftly
sliced the night. The beam explored the ammo barge, then shifted to
the
Helga
and caught Trent standing alone on the wing. The
Patrol Boat drifted closer.

“
Ahoy,
Helga
. We heard you
reported engine trouble.”

A deep voice carried through the dark.

“
We had to shut down,” it was
Maxie who spoke.

The searchlight swung in search of the voice. Its
brilliance pinned Maxie to the engine room door. He was toweling
his face wiping off grease smudged with perspiration. Wiping his
hands, he raised his arm to shield his eyes from the burning light.
Maxie played it cool. The patrol boat drew nearer until her bow
graced the
Helga
.

“
How’s it coming, Maxie?” Trent
spoke up.

“
Got’er now!”

“
Ready to kick’er in?”

“
Aye!” Maxie turned back into the
engine room. The auxiliary engine gave two coughs and kicked-in. A
flood of light instantaneously bathed the
Helga
. It made a
mockery of their searchlight. The helmsman whispered to his Chief
who stepped out on the foredeck. Muffled orders were passed. NPB#41
came about sharply and hovered inches off the stern. The hound was
stalking, leaving little room to maneuver.

“
Prepare for boarding,” the Chief
ordered.

A line flew over the
Helga
’s fantail; Maxie
grabbed it and hauled it in. Two seamen boarded followed closely by
the Chief. Trent moved quickly down to the working deck to
intercept them. Little drops of sweat trickled down his brow.

“
Where’s your crew?” The Chief
asked.

“
Bunked down. It’s been a tough
day, and, now engine trouble,” Trent shouted, speaking so loudly
the Chief flinched.

“
We’ll look around.” Chief Petty
Officer Waldo Wilson was tall and thin with a disdainful manner.
Trent trailed him forward. Maxie blocked his way, temporarily, by
stepping out from the engine room. “Nothing works aboard this
fuckin’ tub,” Maxie whined, tossing his towel. “That’s the third
time this week the freakin’ engine quit, and the damned auxiliaries
go on strike whenever they take a mind too. You’d think they got
Union cards.” Chief Wilson brushed him aside as he mounted the
short steps to the forward deck. The door to the crews’ quarters
was latched open. He stepped inside. A body lay stony still, humped
up in its bunk, covers pulled over. Newby sat at the table hunched
over a cup of coffee.

“
Newby. What the hell are you
doing here?” The Chief gave him an incredulous look.

Newby turned to the voice. “Shoot! Wilson, my
retirement papers came through last week, didn’t you get the word?
Newby’s eyebrows cocked upward, his mood jocular. “Now, that I’m
unemployed…well, Trent, here, asked me to help out. Get Mighty Mo
ready.” Somewhat confused, Trent nodded in agreement. “These guys
are all old Navy men.
Salt Lake City
,
Chicago
,
Missouri
. Fought WWII, they did, and Korea, too. They just
couldn’t stay away. Hey! Wait ‘til you hang it up, Wilson, seawater
gets in your veins.”