SILENT GUNS (20 page)

* * *

The morning sunrise was hazy and the approaching
locks were half hidden by a sea mist. Trent stood on the upper
deck, his cap tilted over his eyes as he watched Graves readying
lines. Madden spun the wheel. The lock-tender signaled green, the
Helga
cleared into the larger of the two locks. Heaving
lines flew up to be caught in midair, hauled in, looped around
cleats and then passed back. The lock gates swung closed. From deep
beneath, valves opened and water surged in raising the
Helga
. The valves slammed shut and lock gates swept open. A
parade of smaller vessels preceded the
Helga
. Overhead a
puff, then a steady plume of smoke billowed from the funnel. The
Helga
moved very deliberately as would a cautious fox
returning to its lair. The tang of salt air gave way to the sweet
smell of fresh as the dock was raised. Harper stepped over the
gunwale, threw a line around a bollard as Madden cut the engine.
The
Helga
lay at rest for the weekend. At the far end of the
pier, a yellow Corvette with a black hardtop sat with its engine
idling. There was a nip in the morning air.

~ * * * ~

CHAPTER 14

It was one of those rare, dazzling sunny days in
Seattle. The brightness had roused Trent out of four hours of
desperately needed sleep. Lying there, he let the yellow rays
pleasure his bare back. The phone jangled, stopped, and then
jangled again. Irritated, he swung his arm out in a half-sleep and
knocked the offending sound off its cradle. Clearing the rasp in
his throat, he croaked, “Yeah!” His voice fell out fuzzy-like, a
mouth full of soft, mushy cotton balls.

“
You didn’t drop by the car.” It
was Lisa.

“
You and Maxie had a lot to talk
about.”

“
Not even to say, ‘hello.’ I
waited in the cold from two in the morning,” she purred,
un-mollified.

“
It was a long day and we were all
beat.”

“
Still going back Sunday
night?”

“
That’s the plan.”

“
Were you going to call me?” she
asked, coyly

“
I was going to call you,” he
lied, dusting sleepers out of one eye. Righting himself, he vainly
tried to focus on the radio clock, moving closer to squint through
still gummed eyelids.

“
You weren’t, were you, really?
For a date?”

“
Tonight,” Trent replied. Somehow,
she always seemed to get the better of him when it came to verbal
knife throwing. In truth, he wondered who was doing the
asking.

“
Why, how nice of you to ask. I
accept,” she went on, more spirit in her voice. “I’ll pick you up
at eight.” She hung up before he could take a breath. He fell back
and lay there naked, soaking up the warm sun. Shielding his eyes,
he visualized sunning on a tropical beach on his own private
island, remote and far away. He would not admit it, but visions of
a big payoff were getting to him, too. Lisa and their tantalizing
moments together, her radiant looks, soft words relaxed him. He
yearned for a deeper involvement, but knew it would be a luxury he
could not yet afford. His first loyalty must lay with the task
ahead. Just a few more days and it would be over, he thought. With
a sense of disquiet, he knew he could never ask her to wait for
him. That they were destined not to meet again was pre-ordained.
And that left not seeing her again unbearable.

The clock-alarm buzzed: Haury’s at 0900.

* * *

Madden sat, elbows on the table, leaning over a
newspaper. Trent signaled a sleepy-eyed waiter, ordered a drink and
carefully selected a large breakfast. He had skimped the past two
days; his growling stomach reminded him of the oversight. Haurys
regular Friday night crowd partied late and slept late. Human
activity attempted before noon on a Saturday was a total bust.
Witness, the place was empty, sleeping off a hangover. Haury, the
man himself, the patron, deigned it sinful to be seen before four
in the afternoon. A Bloody Mary arrived; Trent tasted it, found it
adequate and chided Madden.

“
Pass me the paper.”

Madden looked up. “Please!” he said.

“
My! Aren’t we cheery? Where is
it?”

Madden folded the paper and tossed it.

“
Under your nose. Page sixteen,”
Madden leaned back.

Trent unfolded the paper. “Please, no
histrionics.”

“
No, what?”

“
Never mind,” Trent scratched his
head. “Good. A long list of out-bounds. Let’s see…”

WEEKLY MARITIME SHIP
DEPARTURES

DESTINATION NAME TIME AND
DAY

SAN FRANCISCO PRISCILLA 1000
WED

HONOLULU AOIKI 1438
THURS

TOKYO BEDFORD 0900THURS

OSAKA VADA 0400FRI

HONG KONG BANDERA 1800
SAT

TAIPEI HESTIA 0600 SAT

“
The
Priscilla
leaves too
soon,” Trent observed. “
Vada
and
Bandera
are at Todd
for repairs. Departure times look good. Any problems with Todd
getting the work completed as scheduled?”

“
The
Vada
and
Bandera
will probably sail as posted, even if they’re not
ready. The Medford Line runs on a tight schedule.” Madden replied.
“Both ships are being shifted to the Port of Seattle’s docks
Monday. The
Vada
is in dry dock: she’s got a thump in her
prop shaft. They’re container-ships.”

“
What about the
Hestia
?”

“
She’s small. She takes mixed
cargo, sometimes loose, outsized stuff on her main deck, odd
containers,” Madden said. “She’s tied up where Port security is
real tight. A piece of luck, her agents called Todd for a repair
crew: I signed on, but can beg off.”

“
What’s her cargo?”

“
I won’t know until Thursday or
Friday. Great Northern runs in a late train from the East.
Hestia
’s agents sniff around, they get loads nobody else
wants.” Madden explained. “She could be risky. She’s slow, runs at
10 knots; the other two get a respectable 18,” Madden added.
“
Hestia
is a tramp, saw service in WWII, registered in
Taiwan and is sailed by a Chinese crew.”

“
The timing is better with
Vada
and
Bandera
. Besides, there’s less risk. Can you
get aboard?”

“
By tomorrow afternoon, if not,
then by late Monday. Depends.”

“
The
Helga
is in danger
here. The sooner we get back aboard the
Missouri
, the
better.” Trent said, severely. “Larsen is too much to
handle.”

“
If the timing doesn’t work out,
I’ll take the ferry. But, don’t start without me. Something bugging
you?” Madden prodded.

Breakfast arrived, cutting off serious
conversation.

“
Bacon and eggs over
easy.”

“
No. That one is his. Mine is
bacon, crisp.”

“
Bacon, crisp.” The waiter set
down the orders.

“
Coffee?” They both
nodded.

The waiter mumbled, filled their cups and left.

Trent felt unsettled. Maxie and Lisa were loose
ends. Lisa intruded, a distraction, albeit, a pleasurable one; yet,
he could not tear her from his thoughts. And Maxie, a man of key
skills needed medical care. In the wheelhouse, he suffered a fresh
paroxysm of coughing; his towel grew dark red, sodden and he tried
to hide the evidence. And Newby, unwanted with no usable skills and
badly out of shape. Harper, Madden and Graves, a crew of aged War
vets, each going nowhere with little to look forward too. Yet, each
was willing to risk his life…for what, money? The weight of
responsibility was mounting, crushing. Did failure await them on
the
Missouri
? He feared for Peter. Did he really understand
the risk? He turned away from Peter’s gaze.

“
Your eggs are getting
cold.”

Trent picked up a fork, “How are the men?”

“
Something is really bugging you?”
Madden twisted his face. When he realized no answer was
forthcoming, he added, “Captain Larsen’s a wily bastard. He broke
out, again. Graves caught him on the dock. You’re right. It’s a
damn good idea to get back to the
Missouri
.”

“
And Maxie? What do I do about
him?”

“
Hell, he took off with that
blonde. What’s with her and Maxie, anyway? With a piece like that,
I’d never come back.”

“
Maxie’s got troubles,” Trent
relaxed slightly.

“
You sound serious. Is she the
law?”

“
No, but we could lose
him.”

“
We could get by without
him.”

“
No chance. You underestimate his
value.”

Madden flicked a look at his watch. “Have to stop by
and make peace with Ingrid,” he said, wiping his hands in his
napkin. He looked sadly at Trent, “No telling when I’ll see her
again.” He peeled off four singles and let them drop to the table
and left. Trent shuddered, Peter had intentionally not added…if
ever.

* * *

The
Helga
lay stilled save for light
streaming out of the Captain’s cabin and galley portholes. Peals of
raucous laughter rolled down Waters Street from the crowded bars up
on Eastlake. The sounds faded out over the Ship Canal. A black cat
ambled under the grit-filtered glare of lonely streetlight. A car,
with headlights doused, turned down Waters Street and pulled to the
curb mid-block. The driver slipped the door open noiselessly. Black
skin-tights and a turtleneck sweater covered his slender frame. A
navy-blue, wool-knit ski mask darkened his face. Slight of build
and wiry, his movements were agile and fox-like. He stared down the
cool, deserted street and then furtively slipped into the shadows.
Carefully circling back behind empty warehouses, he made straight
for the
Helga
. Stepping over the gunwale, he stole to
starboard and peered forward. A figure, head in chest, sat slumped
outside the Captain’s door. The dark shape retraced his steps
silently and moved to the port side. Reaching the aft hold
unobserved, he slipped below through the aft hold access hatch.

Hauser grew restless, he growled and yapped. The dog
scratched at the cabin door, whining and feigning agony. Harper,
his chin now up off his chest, sat up, and stirred by the dog’s
pleadings called, “Hey, Newby. Get back here and walk Hauser.

“
Hell. I ain’t your slave, do it
yourself.”

“
Send Graves,” Harper called back,
gruffly.

“
Stick it! I’m busy,” Graves
replied, instantaneously.

“
Well, I gotta watch this door,”
Harper implored. “Hauser’s gotta do his thing.”

“
I’ll watch the door,” Newby
conceded, coming forward.

“
That’s awfully good of you,
Newby. Hauser will thank you in his will,” Harper replied
sarcastically. He unlocked the Captain’s cabin door. Hauser bounded
out knocking him over. “Hey, not that way,” he shouted as he stood
up. Hauser, undeterred, headed straight to the aft hold hatch.
Harper, chasing him down, noticed the hatch was open.

“
Newby. Get Graves back here.
Hurry. Bring a light.”

“
What’s up?” Newby swallowed
hard.

“
I left the hatch secured. There’s
somebody’s down in the aft hold,” Harper yelled. Graves grabbed a
flashlight and rushed aft. They yanked back the ten-by-ten aft
hatch cover exposing the black hold to moonlight. Graves flipped
the light to Harper and slipped down through the small access
hatch. Harper trailed, slamming and securing the hatch behind
them.

“
Now, where’s the bastard? Show
yourself, we know you’re down here.” Graves roared.

Harper stabbed the flashlight beam in all
directions. It caught the tarpaulins pulled back exposing the
stacked powder bags and the weapons cache. Sensing a slight motion,
Harper swung to his left. A black figure, arms upraised, lunged at
him, knocked him over and the flashlight out of his hand. Hauser,
his fangs snapping, chased the stranger atop the powder bags. The
figure deftly vaulted up at the hatch opening, and grabbing the
coaming, started to pull up. Heaving up his tree-trunk arms, Graves
bear-hugged and stripped the struggling figure of his grip. They
crashed to the deck in a sickening thud. The man in black wiggled,
slipped loose, drew a knife, and lunged. Graves back peddled,
perplexed by the flashing, slashing blade. There was a sharp,
abbreviated crack as a pry bar came flying across the hold and
ricocheted off the steel hull. With the distraction, Graves leaped,
snared the man’s taut wrist, which cracked in a shriek of pain and
the knife flew off into the darkness. The man’s voice choked off in
an agonizing grunt, his arms flailed wildly at the empty air as
Graves lifted him bodily and crashed him to the deck, driving every
last ounce of breath from his body. He lay face down, his shoulders
heaving convulsively.

“
Get up,” Graves ordered. “Put a
light on him, Harper.”

Harper swung the flashlight. As the figure roused
himself, Graves tore off his mask.

“
I’ve seen this guy, before,”
Harper exclaimed.