SILENT GUNS (28 page)

“
Did you really expect they
would?”

“
No,” Trent said
softly.

“
They were counting on the Navy to
flush us out, weren’t they?”

“
Without a doubt,” Trent added.
“And, the Navy will try again.”

“
Will the City try to wait us
out?”

“
Yes. And, we have seven reasons
they will fail.”

“
Hip! Hip! Hooray! For Errol Flynn
and his merry band of pirates.” Graves broke the spell.

“
You mean for the seven dwarfs,”
Harper cut in.

“
I’m with you, Commander,” Hirsch
said solemnly.

“
Me, too!” said Graves.

Madden’s stood quietly, his face had gone white.

Trent cracked a tired smile.

“
All set, Commander,” Harper
reported. “She’s zeroed in. Since we ain’t moving and neither is
the City, it’s like shooting a sitting duck.” Harper stepped
forward and inserted the primer.

“
Good thing Maxie found a
firelock,” Graves remarked. “And of all places, in an ice cream
carton under the soda fountain,” Maxie added, “For want of a horse,
thirty mil was nearly lost.” The men laughed, but it was short
lived.

“
Tony. I fear for you,” Madden
blurted out.

“
I’m listening, Peter.”

“
I never thought we’d get this
far. You’ve lost your moral senses and let your vindictiveness take
over. One day you’ll commit murder.”

“
Like Harper said, the Smith Tower
is sure to be vacated. If we sat here and just threatened, in short
order, we’d all be dead.”

“
It’s 0457, Commander,” Harper
pointed to the luminous clock. Madden hung his head and shuffled
his foot.

“
It’s O500.” Trent did not
waver.

“
Fire!”

Harper viciously yanked at the lanyard. The
explosion ripped through the turret as the huge gun lurched back in
a savage recoil. A thunderous blast a millisecond later exploded in
fire and dirty yellow smoke, its flash lit up the inlet. The sound
echoed and re-echoed sounding like a pitched bombardment. The men
winced, and then slapped their hands to their eardrums, conscious
of the tremendous pressure. The turret rattled and shook, awakened
from years of silence, the Navy’s Rip-Van-Winkle. Dust, dirt, and
paint chips filled the chamber with clouds of fine particles. The
men choked and gasped at the enormity of the backpressure, the
acrid smell of burning powder. The 16-inch armor-piercing shell
rose out of a fiery globe of yellow, greasy light on trajectory to
the East against the lightening sky. Newby coughed loudly into his
handkerchief. Madden eased down on the deck, as though his legs had
failed and hung his head.

Trent smothered his swelling sense of well-being and
satisfaction quietly. He had triumphed. His makeshift crew had
pulled together and accomplished what others would deem impossible.
He watched Madden’s brooding face and wondered. Newby was ecstatic.
Harper stared fixedly at the hot breech, his eyes empty and
unfocused, his mind traveling with the shell. Maxie slipped to the
deck and lay in a restless bundle, his head between his knees.
Graves said, “I need a drink.”

Trent added, “Let’s go below, men. I have a
something for just such a special occasion.” Graves licked his
lips. Together, they dropped from the turret.

* * *

“
What the hell was that?” the
Mayor jumped.

“
Trent fired the gun,” the Chief
said, glancing at his watch. “It’s 0500. He did just as he said he
would.”

“
My God!” the Mayor swooned. “I
warned the Council this could happen. And, they didn’t believe me.
That idiot, Chitterman, he under cut me the whole way. No guts!”
The phone on the Mayor’s desk rang once. Simons seized it, “What’s
the damages, Dave?” Simons wheeled his body, and clapping his hand
over the mouthpiece, reported, “No deaths, Mayor. Thank God.
There’s a hole in the side of the building as big as a
truck.”

“
Damn Trent!” the Mayor slammed
his fist on his desk. “My political career is finished.”

“
The shell passed to the back of
the Tower and lodged against a building column,” the Chief said
slowly. “It didn’t explode.” He hung up.

The Mayor fainted,

Simons rolled an unlit cigar in his thick fingers
and snapped, “The way the Navy tried to rout him off the
Missouri
- they might as well have taken a stick to a bee’s
nest.” Simons swallowed hard. “I’ll admit, Trent had me fooled,
firing without so much as an - are you sure?”

The Mayor roused himself. “My God! Sam, did it
really happen? Say it didn’t!”

“
It happened, Joe.” Simons snapped
a match.

“
We must negotiate. That’s it.
We’ll negotiate!”

“
Negotiate what? Trent made his
point.”

The door burst open.

“
Sorry, Mayor,” the Security Guard
stood breathing heavily, “But, the media is on its way up and
they’re in an ugly mood.”

“
What happened?” Chittereman
rushed in.

“
Trent fired the shell; the
media’s on its way up.”

“
My God! What do we say?” Hiram
trembled. His face was etched with a terrified look, an incredulous
awareness that this was not the end, but just the
beginning.

“
They’ll make things look
bad.”

“
Things are bad, Hiram.” The Mayor
stood up, angrily and shoved his chair back. He pushed his hair
back from his forehead and stalked to the window, slight stiffening
showed in his shoulders. He stood with every nerve tense and waited
for disaster. He looked down at the milling crowds in the streets
below with resigned weariness. “The media. What do they understand,
the crud! I’ll not let them drag my name through the mud.”
Chitterman scowled, “What the hell are you talking about?” A
growing cacophony of voices rumbled out in the hallway.

“
I’m heading over to the Tower,”
Simons cleared his mind to new possibilities. He leaned forward and
pulled himself up with his free hand and moved cat-like across the
carpet to the back stair. Grille and Chitterman, arguing, ignored
him. As he bit hard on his cigar, the office door burst open. Sam
Simons hesitated, looked back, shook his head, and then closed the
door behind him. Treading heavily, he cleared the stairwell and
paused outside City Hall. The early morning breeze invigorated him.
He felt clean again. He flipped the dead cigar stub to the gutter
and watched it tumble away. He became aware of passing fire trucks
and blaring police sirens. He stepped off the sidewalk into the
milling crowd. This was his beat, and he walked it.

Terrorists! Extortionists! Political careerists!
What was this stupid world coming to, he thought. Did he really
give a damn? He pictured the grizzly scene at the Tower splashed
all over the TV screen, even before he got there. The
Post-Intelligencer would print an extra edition - and incite panic.
He did not envy Joe Grille and Hiram Chitterman. The public would
look to him for protection, to capture this lunatic. But, could he?
Could the Navy? If not, he must.

* * *

The red Pontiac lay flatter than a pancake. The
shell, all 2700 pounds of metal, ricocheted square off its roof
leaving it crushed. The car’s body was splayed into two parts. The
shell lost little of its momentum as it plowed on through a Blue
Ford, exiting the right hand door. A furrow two feet deep scarred
the west edge of First Avenue. The shell then rose as it climbed to
second floor height. There, it smashed through the white marble
fascia of the Smith Tower.

Simons, water dripping from the brim of his fedora,
cast his eye up at the second floor hole. He stepped around firemen
hurriedly capping broken lines and clearing debris. The building
looked safe enough. Lt. Dave Harrison, SPD, led Simons to the
second floor. Wind blew unfettered through the huge, gaping hole.
“Punched in, like somebody laid a huge nail-set to it,” he said.
Harrison nodded and pointed ahead. They stepped over shattered
desks and tables, snapped, as if, under a devastating karate chop.
Pulverized concrete and brick noisily crunched under their shoes,
like sugar. Tangled wires and twisted piping displayed grotesque
violence. The shell had exploded debris in all directions, walls
bore imbedded bricks, and metal office partitions had been crushed
like so many tromped on aluminum cans.

Lt. Dave Harrison made a sweeping gesture. “I hear
the Navy claims an armor-piercing, 16-inch shell can penetrate 32
feet of reinforced concrete. Scary, eh! Well, it tore the bejesus
out of this place. Why the hell would anyone want to do this?”
Simons glanced away in disinterest; his mind would simply not
react. “Well, he didn’t do his worst,” Harrison said slowly. Simons
perked up. “Over here, Chief.” Simons followed dutifully. “Look,”
Lt. Harrison pointed. “The shell pierced two concrete hallway walls
passing clean through the ladies restroom.”

Mean and ugly, the shell lay against a steel post
supporting the upper stories of the Tower.

“
They built ‘em good in the old
days, Eh! Lieutenant,” Simons patted the post. “Damn lucky it
didn’t explode.”

“
It wasn’t supposed to
explode.”

Simons drew back. “What the hell do you mean?”

“
Bomb Disposal says it’s a dummy.
No explosives inside.” Lt. Dave Harrison looked puzzled.

“
Are you sure?”

“
No doubt about it,
Chief.”

“
Cunning bastard. This one was a
freebie. Damn!” Simons yanked up the top of his overcoat and left.
Trent both baffled and intrigued him. Calling his threat a bluff
backfired. Stonewalling as a strategy didn’t work - thanks to the
city council’s stance. Grille’s strategy was the right one, pay up,
then chase him. But, the council ignored our advice. Chitterman
knew better, clay feet. And, the city paid dearly. And the
shelling! Why? The threat should have been enough…Simons bit off
the end of his cigar. But, it wasn’t. Trent will fire again or;
maybe, he wants us to think that. Questions seem to fly at him like
a flight of locusts, swarming from a dozen different directions. He
tugged at his chin lightly, the stubble reminded him he hadn’t
shaved.

* * *

Ike’s Place was a small cafe, tucked in next to the
Public Safety Building. Sam Simons usually got six hours sleep and
ate light, but with the events of the past few days, he had
neglected both. It was almost 0800. The place was hot and stuffy
and smelled of coffee and hot greasy food. Egg orders sizzled on a
grill behind the counter. As he slid between the stools, reporters
Mark Isley and Liz Franklin nailed him.

“
You two should be up in the
Mayor’s office. You’re missing the press conference.” He turned
away. “Just eggs and toast, Ike.”

“
We made it. The Mayor laid down a
line of bull a yard wide,” Isley said. “It was bad, and got
worse.”

“
Come on, Chief, what’s really
going on?” Liz Franklin implored, her voice intense. Simons liked
them both professionally and their reporting was fair to his
Department.

“
I just came from the Smith Tower.
You two are way ahead of me,” he said. “What did the Mayor
say?”

Simons nodded as Ike refilled his cup.

“
Same cock’n bull story about a
crank, extortion demand,” Mark Isley offered, “that turned out to
be the real thing. Chitterman babbled about the City Council
rejecting their demand. They didn’t believe it was genuine. Grille
claimed the Navy had routed out the extortionists. Our editors were
ticked off for not being notified.” Simons didn’t flinch, but went
on eating. Isley continued, “The Mayor told us you were on top of
it and said you’d have them locked up before nightfall.”

Simons gagged, he shoved aside his half-eaten
breakfast and turned to face them, his face beet red. “You two are
baiting me. I don’t like that.” They recoiled.

“
Sorry, Chief, we’re not. Then,
it’s not true. I don’t blame you for being upset. Chitterman didn’t
dispute the Mayor’s statement. He said the shell came from the
Missouri
. Is the Navy really routing them out? Chief, are
you…” Simons reached for the check.

“
How about a statement?” Isley
implored.

“
Like I said, you know more than I
do!” Simons got up, dropped money on the counter, pushed past Isley
and Franklin and left. Using the back door to the Public Safety
building, he made his way up to his office. It was 0830; his team
was there waiting.

“
Anything on the radio,
Frank?”

“
Not a peep!”

“
Got Charlie?”

“
Yeah! He’s waiting on the horn.”
He pushed a button.

“
Charlie, what’s the word from the
Navy.”

“
Shocked. Admiral Burn’s is pissed
off. He wire-brushed Commander Conover, poor son-of-a-bitch. Then
he raised hell with Base Security over the carelessness of Navy
Patrol boats: he acts more worried about damage control with the
Pentagon than Trent. The Admiral ordered another attack tonight. I
stuck out my neck and advised him Trent would probably give the
City at least another 24 hours.”

“
What’s the plan?”

“
Boarders will grapple and scale
the
Missouri
’s fantail tonight. Seems aft is a blind spot
and he figures Trent doesn’t have enough men to cover everything.
Sharpshooters on the
Oriskany
will keep his men pinned down.
That will clear a route to the turret. Any word from Trent,
yet?”