SILENT GUNS (27 page)

* * *

“
Is the mike on?” the Mayor
snapped.

“
Go ahead, Mayor,” Frank said. The
Mayor spoke, “Calling
Missouri
. Calling
Missouri
.” No
response. They waited. The Mayor repeated the call.

A raspy sound cut him off. “
Missouri
here.
Good work. You located us,” Trent answered.

“
This is Mayor Grille speaking. Is
this some sort of a joke?” he asked, his tone rude. He trembled as
his rage took hold of him, but he kept a grip on
himself.

“
Sorry! It’s no joke,
Mayor.”

The Mayor’s pulse beat wildly as blood rushed madly
to his face. Visions of his political career ending ingloriously
raced through his head. Chitterman wiped his brow, very likely
pursuing similar thoughts. Simons turned and placed his ear next to
the loudspeaker.

“
Are you out of you mind?” The
Mayor screeched, his anger blew past its flash point. “We’re not
paying you thirty million for anything. We don’t have that kind of
money.”

“
I didn’t think you did, but
raising the money is your problem, not mine. It’s still thirty,”
Trent said, calmly. Simons was not surprised. Trent expected the
City to stall, and then negotiate.

“
You can’t threaten us,” the Mayor
shrilled, his voice more a high-pitched defiant squeak than a
snarl. Chitterman glanced at him derisively “Read it anyway you
like, Mayor. Take your time. When you have the money, call back.”
The Mayor’s face turned livid. “By the way, 0500 does come rather
early, but we’ll be up.” The set went dead.

“
Get him back! Get him back!” the
Mayor screamed.

The Chief broke in, “It won’t do any good, Joe.”
Simons taunt muscles relaxed. Chitterman shook his head.

“
He’s mad, I tell you, he’s mad,”
the Mayor screamed with vehemence. “Chief, I want a report in one
hour on what you are going to do about this madman. Let’s go to my
office, Hiram.” The Mayor stalked out. Chitterman exchanged puzzled
glances with Simons then dutifully followed.

“
Well, that’s a fine kettle of
fish,” Frank Gonzales’s small eyes flickered in desperation. He
stared fixedly at his superior. Simons tugged at his chin, “Well,
Frank. I doubt we will hear back from Mr. Trent, if at all. We
might get lucky, at least pray for it. The City Council and the
Mayor have another executive session tonight. No matter what, I’ll
have the Mayor and Chitterman here a 0430. You’d better be ready.
There must be a way to buy time. In the meantime, let’s trust the
Navy can bring an end to this madness,” Simons mumbled
quietly.

~ * * * ~

CHAPTER 19

Maxie held station high up in the forward, starboard
Quad 40’s gun tub. His waterproof coat was cinched up tight against
a persistent, ice-cold wind. He stomped his feet, hoping to ward
off the coldness that numbed his toes. Flicking back his glove, he
squinted at the luminous dial on his wrist. It was past 0200. He
pressed the mike button. “Where the hell are Madden and Newby?
They’re late!”

Feet were heard clattering up a ladder before two
heads appeared. Newby snapped, “Quit your bellyaching, we’re here.”
Maxie clicked on the mike, “It’s O.K.; they just got here.” Maxie
tossed his gloves to Newby, and said, “You’ll need these.” Newby,
puzzled, tugged the still warm gloves over his soft, pink hands.
Maxie waited and then flipped him an ice-cold, grey metal, 7.62-mm,
M60 machine gun. Startled, Newby grunted as he took its full weight
against his chest.

“
Need help holding it, Newby?”
Graves chided, coming out of the shadows to a ripple of laughter.
Newby gritted his teeth, a knife twisted inside his gut. He tried
not to dwell on Graves’ taunting but stepped away and rubbed his
eyes to focus on the pier below and the
Oriskany
. Under a
clear sky and thin cloud cover, he imagined unfriendly faces
searching him out. The moon played tricks, throwing shadows behind
still objects. Newby tightened his grip on the M60; he swore he
would not be caught off guard. As he role-played his ego in action,
uneasiness startled him. He lifted a pair Zeiss glasses and scanned
for movement. His eyes felt raw from peering into the deep darkness
around the pier. There it was again, shadows where no shadows were
a moment before. More movement; like rats ferreting about searching
for food. He snatched up the mike. With a sudden urgency, he
rasped,

“
This is Newby. We got trouble.”
He remained composed, no time for fear, he told himself. He
crouched over and peered down again. “They damn near slipped by me.
A dozen of them armed and headed for the gangway.” He jammed a
magazine in the M60: the click of engaging, the slam of the bolt,
sent a thrill up his spine.

“
Party-time…” Trent’s voice came
crackling over the walkie-talkie to be instantly drowned out in a
din of stitching fire. “O.K., guys. Here we go.” Newby moved his
sights to the gangway and squeezed off a burst. A flock of
screeching seagulls wheeled from a warehouse rooftop in protest. He
squeezed off a second burst but the trigger held as though his
finger had frozen stiff. The M60 jumped against his chest as it
spit violently. Bullets splintered the wooden gangway in front of
charging, dark shapes. Without missing a beat, he fired again. He
shut his eyes at the savage recoil. When he opened them he said,
“They’re backing off,” Newby’s face was creased by a satisfied
smile. Hastily, murky outlines retreated into protective shadows. A
whiplash crack: a sniper’s bullet missed his ear by inches that
nearly shattered his eardrum. He went down in a welter of flailing
limbs and curses. The crack of rifle fire instantly erupted from
along the edge of the
Oriskany
’s flight deck. Bullets chased
flashes, a withering fire, Newby cowered though a hailstorm of
pebbles thrown against the metal gun tub. Bullets from a second
angle flayed across metal plating like a loose steel cable. Newby
hugged the deck, his face pressed flat against cold steel; pulse
rate ran sky-high.

“
Jesus!” he cried into the mike,
his ears deafened by the crescendo of noises that engulfed him.
“Hey! Madden, cover me!” He laughed; he loosed a crazy desire to
laugh at his own voice, its clipped coolness, and his baptism under
fire. Newby exulted.

“
Newby, keep your butt down. I
have you covered,” Madden shouted. A burst swept the gangway from
the masthead. The quiet turned deathly. Newby popped up his head to
quickly look around. “Newby, keep your damn fool head down.”
Another burst screamed in. There was a harsh stammer of automatic
fire, the air filled with the sharp crackle of metal fragments.
Chipped and pulverized layers of gray paint scattered dust over
Newby’s head. He stayed flat, hugging the cold deck as lead
searched for soft, fleshy objects. Ricochets howled away
dementedly.

“
Hold your fire,” Trent
ordered.

“
Starboard is clear,” Graves
signaled. “You guys need help?”

“
Not from you, scumbag!” Newby
shouted.

“
They’re pulling out. Watch it,
Newby,” Madden cautioned. “Two snipers are still on the
Oriskany
.”

Newby swallowed hard, words failed him. He had
tested danger and it terrified him beyond comprehension. Shocked to
realization, he screamed, “So, this is war. It is so clean and
simple. Kill or be killed.” His brain relaxed as numbness washed
over it. Then, uncertain, he panicked fearing how his own life
could end. Caught by a stray bullet? Or, maybe, a Marine’s bayonet
shoved into his gut? “But, I’m Navy,” he cried out loud. “I’m one
of you. Not me!” Newby let his back fall limp against the side of
the steel tub. He knew he could never watch another combat movie
and feel exulted. God! People really do get killed. A puddle marked
the deck where he had sought shelter. He felt none of the glory of
battle he had longed for, only the fear of death. But, Trent stood
up for him, hadn’t he posted him as lookout. Hadn’t he said, Newby
was alert: thick lenses, yes; and, Newby had the sharpest eyes.

* * *

Newby relieved Madden at the masthead. The Marines
retreated; dead silence prevailed on the docks below, nothing
moved. A nearby bank of early morning fog moved in. Newby gripped
the M60 with firmness. He gloried in a new found power, a power he
never before experienced. Power over life and death. Power was
exhilarating: with power he luxuriated. All those years in the
Navy, and he had never fired a weapon. Here, he protected his
teammates. He must be alert. Trent had said, “They will come.” It
was after 0300.

The men toiled to free up the barbette. Maxie, with
deft fingers, dropped to his knees and examined the rotating ring
closely, his patience almost gone. “I can’t find anything wrong,
it’s probably rusted solid. Take the grease bucket,” he said,
thrusting it into Harper’s outstretched hand.

“
Standby to heave your guts out,”
grunted Graves. “Suck in deep. Now, heave.” Muscles quivered, yet
nothing moved. Frozen in strain, the men held like Marines gripping
the flag on top of Iwo Jima. The barbette should rotate, but it
stubbornly refused to budge. Graves stood back, panting, his breath
wheezing in his throat, his legs undercut.

“
Splash on some more grease,”
Maxie ordered.

“
Goddamn it, heave…”

“
Hit the son-of-a-bitch with a
sledge…”

Madden gauged the distance to the ring, set his
balance and then swung hard, putting his shoulders into it. The
sledge glanced off the ring, jarring their ears.

“
Again…”

The sledge hit solid, and suddenly something
gave.

“
That’s it…once more.”

Madden wrapped his hands around the sledge handle,
leaned back, and swung again, hitting the ring square on. The sound
reverberated inside the ship. “She’s free,” Madden gasped, sucking
air.

The barbette was rotated 90 degrees. Three 16-inch
guns swung into position, three deadly daggers aimed squarely at
the heart of the City of Seattle. A ton of steel shell, behind
seventeen inches of steel armor facing, was loaded and rammed home:
six-hundred pounds of propellant rolled off the tray into the
breech and was butted flush up against the bottom of the shell.
Harper pushed the loading tray back out of the way and then swung
the massive breechblock shut. He locked it: a smile of intense
satisfaction crossed his face. Harper was in his element.
Everything was as he remembered it. Everything he had been trained
for—to fire a big gun. He anxiously surveyed the dials, wheels and
gages of his rangefinder, translating Trent’s range and deflection
data to the gun. The hooded lamps threw splotches of yellow light
about the turret. Far away, over the hillside, lay the unseen
target…the Smith Tower. The trajectory would carry the shell over
the Navy Base, the City of Bremerton and the wide expanse of Puget
Sound.

“
This baby’s ready.” Harper patted
the breech as he stepped down. Maxie looked awkwardly at Harper.
Harper regarded him blankly, but regarded his manner strange,
strained. Second thoughts? Returning Maxie’s pleading gaze, he felt
a chill, as though the weather had suddenly turned colder. Madden
avoided eye contact. He stared at the radio set as though
commanding it to speak. Graves stared coldly at the breech. Trent
stood relaxed, more a spectator than a major player. The
bulkhead-mounted, luminous-face clock read 0422.

“
We’re gonna’ fire,” Graves
blurted out. “I feel it.”

“
The City will call,” Maxie
half-wished out loud.

“
They’re cutting it close,” Madden
whispered.

“
Think they got the money?” Harper
wondered.

“
If they had, they would have
radioed.”

“
There’s not much time
left.”

“
They’re calling our
bluff.”

“
Who says we’re
bluffing?”

“
Guess we’re gonna hafta call them
to find out.”

“
So! It don’t cost anything to
call.”

“
Then, how come they didn’t
call?”

“
Let’s call them,” a voice spoke.
“It’s almost 0430.”

“
No! We wait.” Trent said,
forcefully.

“
Maybe, they got the money and
can’t reach us?”

“
The radio circuit is open,” Trent
said sharply.

“
Are we really going to fire?”
Madden asked.

“
Why’n the hell not?” Harper
demanded.

“
We’ll kill somebody, for
sure.”

“
Hey! It’s 0500 in the morning.
Nobody’s gonna get hurt. The Smith Tower’s gonna be empty. The
cops’ll see to that,” Harper argued.

“
You’ll miss!” Madden
said.

“
I’ll hit.” Harper exclaimed. “If
the powder…”

“
Don’t hand me that garbage,”
Graves warned.

“
Knock it off, you guys.” Maxie
interceded.

“
Tony, are you going to
radio?”

Trent bit back his anger, then smiled wryly.

“
History says the boldest moves
are the most effective. I believe that now more than ever.” He eyed
his men calmly; a failing commitment dulled their eyes. And, he
knew, once the shell had been fired, there could be no turning
back. History is replete with irreversible commitments, he thought.
Sarajevo, Pearl Harbor, the first atomic bomb. “The city is calling
our bluff. They have the right to make a mistake. I only hope to
God this one shell will be enough…” he paused “…They could have
radioed.”