SILENT GUNS (3 page)

* * *

The collision should never have happened,
theoretically, no collision should. A tragedy. A collection of
small, unnoticed errors, insignificant cumulating events
unmistakably added up to disaster. And, those involved lied to
cover up their own misfeasance.

The cedar roof shakes clattered to a rising wind as
a storm broke over the cove. The gale warning flag was hurriedly
sent aloft. Small boats obeyed and quickly turned for Harry’s
Cove.

“
I apologize if I bore you as I
recount, but I could never get the officers involved in my demise
out of my mind.” Trent poked the stove’s ashes and aimlessly,
tossing in a log.

“
You still haven’t explained what
triggered you? You were in a collision, so what?”

“
Admiral Farr played square with
me,” he added, tapping the stove door closed. “The Board of inquiry
treated me fairly, but at my court-martial, things happened that
made my blood boil.”

“
I think I understand. Admiral
Farr described a meeting in Denton’s office that might shed some
light, you know, on one of those jigsaw pieces,” Simons
mused.

“
Go ahead, I’m all
ears.”

* * *

Cmdr. James M. Denton, USN, Judge Advocate, Atlantic
Fleet sat uneasily in his nattily, varnished wooden chair. His
cheek marked by an angry looking, red fencing scar exaggerated
sharp facial features and piercing eyes. His broad shoulders and
large frame carried an air of authority beneath an immaculately
tailored uniform. His demeanor left the impression of a coiled
snake. Denton served as a Navy criminal trial lawyer; he had not
known civilian life. His father and grandfather had served as line
officers. A Navy career followed as naturally as combing his hair.
He quickly progressed up the ladder. He confided in Farr that he
could not recall a case that disturbed him more. To make matters
worse, Admiral Harley T. Kindler, in a foul mood, sat across from
him.

The Board of inquiry’s report lay on Denton’s desk.
A thick, tan folder with the word
Duluth
scrawled across it
in wide, black felt pen strokes in a hurried effort to label its
contents. Admiral Kindler sat comfortably in an easy chair ordered
in for the occasion. Tall and spare with movie-star perfectly
formed white teeth, Kindler sported a ruddy complexion and a full
head of hair. He was picture-perfect for a stint on the tennis
court or cover of a Navy magazine. He looked considerably younger
than his fifty-eight years. Kindler rose to carry his coffee cup to
the coffee maker. Sensing Denton’s eyes across his back, he turned
quickly to catch him off guard.

“
Well, Jim. What do you
think?”

Denton flinched. He dreaded the meeting, but could
not avoid it. Kindler had the final say. Before Kindler could
render his decision to convene a court-martial, the Judge
Advocate’s endorsement was required. The Admiral smirked at
Denton’s discomfort. Slowly, he ambled to his chair and eased down
his bulk.

“
I’ve gone over the Board’s report
with a fine tooth comb, Admiral. It seems no one is to blame, but
everyone is to blame,” Denton reported as he riffled the folder,
obviously hoping to impress the Admiral with his thoroughness.
“Unfortunately, the further the Board probed, the more confused
matters became. The Board concluded the accident was the result of
an unusual and unfortunate chain of circumstances.” Denton let his
body sag as he settled back off the edge of his chair. “Sir, these
same facts will come out again in a court- martial, only in greater
detail. In my opinion, the conclusion will be the same – no clear
cut cause, poor communication, a series of mis-events.”

Kindler’s face flared for a moment, but he turned
away.

Pressing his position, Denton concluded with, “And,
in keeping with Navy tradition, Captain Proust will be held
responsible for his ship and subject to severe disciplinary action.
The formula has worked well for the Navy for over two-hundred
years. It serves as a purgative and reaffirmation. The media will
have their goat to flog, the guilty found out and duly punished,
the public will be assuaged and life in the Navy will go on…except
for Captain Proust. Sir, you do want closure, don’t you?” Denton
added.

“
Don’t tell me what I want,”
Kindler’s face turned beet red, then quieted in thought.

There was a knock on the door.

“
Admiral Farr is here,
sir,”

Farr entered.

“
Sorry I’m late, Admiral. It’s the
goddamn media, they just won’t let up. They’re just a pack of wild
animals and we’re raw meat.”

Kindler glowered. “Jim tells me the findings are
muddled.”

Denton recounted his conversation with Kindler.

“
About Captain Rogers’ actions?”
Farr asked.

“
No chance,” Denton fired back.
“He knew the
Missouri
was outbound and he desperately tried
to avoid the collision. The Board quickly exonerated the
Duluth
. Rogers was turning towards shore. An act of
desperation, I suspect, but better in the mud than on the
bottom.”

“
And, Proust?” Kindler’s eyes
shifted in a narrow side glance.

“
Well, Captain Proust was in
command,” Denton parried, staring down at his nails.

“
Was Proust on the bridge?” Farr
asked.

“
No, just the XO. Trent had the
conn on level four. Proust and Burns, the navigator, were on level
eight. All witnesses agreed on that point. Troust told the Board he
turned the ship over to Trent because he was new to the
Missouri
and the XO knew her better.” Kindler’s countenance
remained impassive. “Well, that lets Proust off the hook, doesn’t
it?” Kindler half inquired, half ordered.

“
Technically, no, Admiral,” Denton
cautioned.

“
Technicalities be damned. Are you
recommending charges be brought against Captain Proust?” Kindler
demanded, acidly.

“
The media will never be
satisfied, otherwise,” added Farr, sensing the drift of the
discussion and hoping to reassure Denton that he saw events his
way. Kindler cast an angry look at Farr, but was ignored. He rose
and started pacing, only to stand and stare out the window. Denton
sweated profusely under a dry uniform. He nervously lit a
cigarette.

“
Why the hell didn’t Proust take
the con?” Kindler exclaimed out loud. “Why the hell did he think I
gave him command? He needed just one or two cruises to get the rust
out.”

“
Then, what?” Farr said, musing
under his breath as he drained his coffee cup with a loud slurp.
“Good thing Proust didn’t have the con or both ships would have
sunk,” he whispered and smiled inwardly at his private joke. Denton
caught his expression, bit his lip, and then turned back to Kindler
who demanded, “Then, what do you recommend?”

“
That you order a court-martial to
flush out the facts and let the blame fall where it may.” Denton
stamped out his cigarette, reflecting on the bent and broken
remnant.

Kindler waited and then ordered, “a court-martial
would be best,” then paused and added, “formal charges will be
filed against the XO Commander Anthony Trent.”

Farr bolted out of his chair. Denton stared at
Kindler with the empty puzzlement of a man shaken out of a deep
sleep. The Fleet Admiral, unfazed, remained gazing out the window
and said, “Proust turned over operational command to Trent. Trent
is to be held fully responsible from the time of departure until
the collision.” He turned to face Denton, “Furthermore, Jim I want
you to handle this trial personally. I’m sure some member of your
staff can serve adequately as defense counsel.”

“
I want formal charges drawn and
on my desk first thing in the morning for my signature.” Admiral
Kindler left before either man could rise. Denton exclaimed, “I
don’t get it! Why does he insist on sticking it to Trent?” Farr
shook his head and said, almost under his breath, “It goes back a
long way, Jim.” Farr felt his face turn blank, his mind distant, as
if caught up in a replay of an old movie.

* * *

Trent sat quietly, distinctly recalling the
cobalt-blue skies, the white clouds swirling in the soft east wind.
Hyacinths and sweet alyssum scented the air as the fishing boats
cut white lines across the waters off Norfolk. Inside the
courtroom, he sat looking idly at the rostrum, the leather–backed
chairs, the American flag draped overhead on the wall. The
courtroom clerk took a phone call, nodded his head and then hung
up.

“
Two minutes, please take your
seats.”

As the judges filed in, Trent pretended he was a
stranger who didn’t belong there but was invited to witness justice
administered.

‘
What does the defense
plead?’

“
Not guilty, your honor.” Lt.
Lankford Johnson, appointed as defense attorney, announced as the
trial got underway.

Trent stared out the window trying to appear calm,
philosophical about the trial. Yet, he fidgeted, a nervousness that
attacked deep in the viscera. His reputation, his future was on the
line; the court, a jury of peers sitting in judgment. The trial
droned on for three days, but to him it rated a lifetime of agony.
The rows of the courtroom were packed with the media with the
catastrophe rating national headlines. They were there to grab
quotes from opening statements. To fellow Navy officers, Trent was
an anathema. The feeling of aloneness, of abandonment enveloped
him, one man standing before the maw of Naval history and an
underdog.

“
Don’t worry, Tony, you’ll get
off,” was the only signal of encouragement he heard. The scent of
danger hung in the air, but he was unable to account for its
source.

“
Cmdr. Denton, please call your
first witness.”

Lt. Johnson leaned forward and flipped the cover of
his legal pad to take notes.

“
Captain Proust to the stand.”
Proust rose to his mid-height, moved to the witness box and was
sworn in. Broad-shouldered and sallow complexion, his gray hair
bore odd streaks of color. His smile was impish, his voice so
soft-spoken, the court president repeatedly asked him to speak up.
His fatherly demeanor hid a cruel streak. He did not disguise the
little respect he held for officers under his command and his
extreme intolerance for the foibles of the crew. They considered
him a martinet. Denton led Proust through the briefings in the
Captain’s wardroom just before sailing. As his testimony unfolded,
Proust became confused and uncertain; but instead of drawing the
court’s ire, he gained its sympathy. He could not recall
conversations in his own wardroom. He did acknowledge turning
command over to Trent, about which he was most emphatic.

“
He’s not saying anything,” Trent
whispered to Johnson.

“
Denton coached him good, he’s
deliberately play-acting,” Johnson replied under his breath. “It’s
early yet, we’ll let him go by. It’s obvious Denton doesn’t want
him saying too much. Proust is distancing himself from everything.
He should be on trial, not you.”

“
Lt. Johnson?”

“
No questions, your honor. If you
please, I reserve the right to recall Captain Proust.”

“
Lt. Cmdr. Brian Burns to the
stand, please.”

Burns looked like a man anxious for the opportunity
to testify. A smug smile creased his face as he raised his hand and
took the oath. Trent caught his glance, but remained
expressionless. Burns was short, bandy-legged, his arms dangled
over his body. Dark hair, slicked down combed forward to conceal a
spreading bald spot. An aquiline nose protruded beneath eyebrows
dark and bushy. The combination created a comic expression often
mimicked by the crew; particularly, his rolling swagger as he
walked the deck. His surly and condescending disposition matched a
short, vicious temper that caused him to be disliked and avoided by
officers and crew alike. All knew him to be a liar and
untrustworthy.

“
Lt. Cmdr. Burns. The bearing you
provided Lt. Peavey, subsequently ordered by Commander Trent…”
Denton asked.

Burns responded,” the bearing was correct, sir.
There can be no other explanation except Commander Trent’s poor
seamanship for the needed course correction.”

“
As navigator, explain the
presence of the cruiser
Duluth
?” Captain Jeffrey Carter,
president of the court inquired.

“
I informed Captain Proust,
Commander Trent and Lt. Cmdr. Ryder at the pre-departure briefing
of the cruiser’s expected presence.”

Trent tugged Johnson’s sleeve,” He’s lying.”

“
Proust and Ryder said they didn’t
recall the conversation,” Johnson replied. “They must have heard
something,” Trent said, a sickening feeling wrenched the pit of his
stomach. “They won’t swear to anything. Ryder claims he was at the
coffee urn. Proust brushed me off,” Johnson turned his attention
back to the trial.

“
Quartermaster Ward Hopper to the
stand.”

“
I’ve been the
Missouri
’s
helmsman for two years. I know her every trick,” Hopper professed.
“The ship was too close to shoal water. I advised Lt. Peavey of
that fact,” he said indignantly. Trent winced: he had not been so
informed.

“
Did Lt. Peavey advise Commander
Trent?”

“
Not that I heard,
sir.”