SILENT GUNS (31 page)

“
No. Just keep us
informed.”

“
Let’s pray for them,” Chitterman
said under a whisper. Grille stared at Hiram’s rotund frame as he
pushed the off button. Instinctively, all eyes glanced up at the
clock on the wall; it was 1110 and still Friday. Simons fantasized
pinning down the clock’s hands.

“
I have coffee and sandwiches
coming up,” Murial said, cracking open the office door and peering
in.

“
That’s the best news I’ve had all
day,” Grille said, dourly.

“
Do you agree, Chief?” Mitchell
asked.

Sam Simons’ smile was gone, his face set and
sullen.

“
I think coffee and sandwiches are
a great idea.”

Mitchell’s face crinkled, “You know what I
mean!”

Sam Simons sat scrutinizing the men out of habit. He
lightened up, lit up a cigar and then heard himself say, “I’d still
bet on Trent. I’d get the money together and do it fast.”

Mitchell looked at him like a sad-eyed hound-dog
shoulders hunched, head held low. “You mean, if all else
fails.”

Simons replied, “I mean get the cash.”

Simons felt disconsolate. Trent remained a puzzle,
but every puzzle had its solution, even the Rubik’s Cube;
otherwise, it wouldn’t be a puzzle—convoluted reasoning, maybe, he
thought. His jaw tightened, he had to be overlooking something. The
Achilles heel; everyone has one, just a matter of sleuthing. The
German High Command uncovered the French Achilles heel. They swept
across the Low Countries, swung south into France, flanking the
vaunted Maginot Line. Found out, the French were so demoralized
they lay down their arms. Simons tugged his chin and questioned if
he had his history straight. He was sure Major Hartwell’s decision
was the correct one. A frontal assault was suicidal! Could Trent’s
tight security cause him to become overconfident? Careless? And why
does he persist in taunting the city with short, impossible
deadlines? His tactics are peculiar, he mused. He throws haymakers,
retreats, and then forces others to pursue and weary in the chase.
To what end? General Robert E. Lee, a great proponent of the
wear-down tactic of the weaker opponent. The feint goes on
until…well, he recalled, Joe Louis, the Brown Bomber, finally
catching up with Jersey Joe Walcott, the challenger, and it was
curtains for Walcott. Walcott got cocky and Louis rang his bell.
Sam Simons felt as excited as a bloodhound on the scent. He vaguely
heard the voice…

“
I better get going, I can’t do
any good here,” Bud Mitchell said, his tone cool, detached, as he
rose.

Chitterman jabbed, “It’ll be tough raising
thirty-million by 0500, Bud.” Mitchell scowled. Chitterman pricked
at the core of Mitchell’s well-known vanity. Grille missed the
exchange, remarking, “with the Navy on top of the problem. Maybe
you’d rather wait.” Mitchell bit back, “Maybe, you can live with
that, but I can’t.” Mitchell left.

“
What did I say?” the Mayor acted
querulous.

Chitterman, dubious, shook his head. “Mitchell can’t
raise that kind of money. Period! I asked him, he got terribly
offended - he’s sincere enough, and he knows the right people, but
getting those bankers...”

“
Miracles do happen! I have to
admire the guy. At least, he’s going to give it a shot,” Simons
pulled out a cigar, unwrapped the cellophane and bit off the end.
He struck a wooden match on the sole of his shoe.

“
I don’t think I can take another
day like this,” Grille said.

“
I’ll be down in my office,”
Chitterman shuffled away.

“
The shell is loaded this time and
we can’t do a damn thing about it,” the Mayor rambled on. “Am I
dreaming this nightmare, Sam?”

“
You’re not dreaming,
Joe.”

Mayor Joe Grille spun his chair to the window and
stared vacantly over his city. The Mayor’s job wasn’t forever: that
was a fact he could accept. But, win, lose or draw, he was trapped,
a victim. A classic: a man in the right job at the wrong time. His
fate: cannon fodder, ad nauseam, for the media gristmill. The
public fall guy for this whole, stinking affair: a human sacrifice.
He foretold history would deal with him unkindly. He sighed and
slouched moodily.

~ * * * ~

CHAPTER 21

Blustery winds staggered across the Naval Base
ruffling sheltered waters into tiny whitecaps. Blown off the water,
resident waterfowl circled high overhead, tiny specks against gray
skies. Rear-Admiral Brian Burns sat behind his desk. It was set off
to one side, a window peeked over his left shoulder, with just
enough space behind the desk to fit a chair.

Commander Conover stood stiffly at attention before
him, his eyes straight ahead, his jaws set tight. Burns regarded
him coldly, then said, “Conover, I don’t like you, I never have.”
The Admiral pushed back in his chair and scowled, his ill humor
imperfectly concealed by self-importance. “I wasn’t sure why, until
I reviewed your record.” The Admiral paused and added harshly,
“your career is about to get ash-canned.”

“
Mostly bad luck, sir,” Conover
bit back his annoyance.

“
Bad luck! Do you call running a
destroyer aground in clear weather bad luck? Do you call screwing
up both
Missouri
operations bad luck? Those plans were yours
and you blew them.”

“
We’ll sir, I…” The Admiral raised
his fist above his head and banged it down.

“
No more excuses! That goddamn
Trent and his pirate crew are still out there on the
Missouri
.” Burns fumbled with his lower desk draw and
dragged out a small bottle of pills. He threw four down, chasing
them with fast gulps of clear liquid. A single fan suspended over
the desk hummed quietly, the blades merely stirred the
staleness.

“
That bastard, Ambler, He was just
looking for an excuse to get rid of me, assigning me to this
armpit.”

“
Excuse me, sir?”

“
Nothing. Nothing, just mulling to
myself.”

“
Now, Trent shows up. The
coincidence is too great.”

“
Sir?”

“
Nothing!”

Conover felt his stomach muscles tense. While the
Admiral kicked his drawer shut, Conover glanced down. The Admiral
sported a flat; thick red nose laced with traces of blue veins. His
baldpate was garnished at the fringes with white hair. He rose and
carried his glass, his tired face florid. Conover restrained a
laugh at his comic bowed legs and rolling swagger as he stepped to
the conference table.

“
Let’s get on with this nasty
business.” A deep drawn breath caught in the Admiral’s lungs. He
belched and grimaced at the sour taste. “May I, sir?” Conover’s
hands were clumsy as he spread the charts of Sinclair Inlet across
the table.

The Admiral leaned over, his eyes blazing.

“
Admiral, I’ve got four tugs
underway from Seattle plus two on standby at the Yard,”

“
She was to be my ship. Someone
has got it in for me. Now, it doesn’t matter. I don’t even care,”
the Admiral looked around irritably. “When do you move her?” The
Admiral reached for his glass, took a swallow and half choked.
Disgruntled, he swept the glass aside; its contents splashed the
chart.

Conover swung round, his eyes almost desperate, “The
tugs arrive in three hours, sir: make that 0200. That leaves three
hours to shift her onto the mudflats. It’s dicey, sir.”

The Admiral eyed him for several seconds, “Who says
Trent won’t fire as soon as we try to move him?”

“
What can he do, Admiral? We’ve
got him pinned down. No! Admiral, we’ll nail them this time,”
Conover replied. “You’re damned cocky, Conover. Just like you were
the last two times. Answer my question,” the Admiral regarded him
coldly.

“
It’s a chance we must take, sir.
Wingate says the City refuses to meet the 0500 deadline. Trent
doesn’t know that. Wingate knows we plan to move the ship. The City
has to be taking precautions.”

“
You have a point there,
Conover.”

“
Sir, we will neutralize the
Missouri
.”

As he spoke, he detected a shift in the Admiral’s
demeanor. Fear, perhaps relief, and then the Admiral guffawed and
slammed his fist on the table. He said, “If it weren’t for the
Pentagon climbing my butt, I could enjoy this. Trent and I go back
a long way.” Conover suddenly felt his own tension easing. Then,
catching himself, the Admiral snapped back, angrily. “That bastard
Trent is doing this deliberately. He’s after my ass!” Private,
deeply suppressed thoughts tumbled out incoherently, his eyes
glazed over. He collapsed into his chair mouthing anger and
frustration, his hands shaking. Conover regarded him sadly.

“
Admiral, once we shift the
Missouri
from the pier, the tugs won’t be
protected.”

“
What do you want me to do about
it?” The Admiral’s voice was cold and uncompromising.

“
Use the Patrol boats for cover.
Bring in the Destroyer
Hammann
, she arrived two days ago for
de-activation. I have the crews on standby, sir.”

The Admiral sagged in his chair, “Maybe I could grow
to appreciate you, Conover. How about putting Marines on the tugs?
They could sweep the upper decks,” as the Admiral suggested, it was
an order.

“
I’ll get Major Hartwell on it,
sir.”

“
Any other ideas?”

“
That should do it,
sir.”

“
No more failures, Conover! Now,
get out of here!”

The Admiral barely heard the door close when he rose
and stood by the window. He felt nothing, only rage. Outside, the
sky and water grew darker, the silent ships merged together losing
their identity. Not the
Missouri
, she stood etched out,
ghost-like, moored but a quarter-mile away. It should have been his
ship. A distant cloud passed over, the moon reappeared and basked
her superstructure in a pale glow. For a long time, he stared,
bitterness moved in his gut. Trent embarrassed him before his own
men, made fun of him behind his back, and took pleasure when
Captain Proust criticized his proficiency…but he got even. What
Kindler wanted was easy. Farr walked out, but Denton stayed.
Kindler insisted. Proust was too stupid to know what was going on:
Burns wondered what Kindler ever saw in that man. His own quick
promotion - it was worth it! Trent’s court-martial: tough luck; but
it was his own damn fault. It was good riddance! But, now, Trent
was back. The Admiral turned away and reached into his desk and
pulled out a bottle; he slopped gin into an empty glass and drank.
What did Trent really want? He re-filled the glass and gulped it
down. He stared at his desktop, slopped more gin, held it aloft and
drank.

“
It’s your last chance, Conover,”
he said aloud, glumly. Suddenly, it occurred to him, he meant
himself, too.

* * *

Commander Conover strode into Base Operations in a
foul mood. His mind still buzzed at the Admiral’s invective…no more
failures, Conover. It wasn’t an order: it was a threat. Pull the
cork out of the bottle, eh! Admiral, and order the Genie to spirit
the
Missouri
away, he hissed as he gritted his teeth.

Conover drew a blank on terrorists. He had no
concept of terrorism. The Navy manuals were devoid of instructions,
not thirty-seconds worth. They trained a man to fight a war, not
how to deal with crazies. He speculated on what Trent might look
like. Or Graves. Or Madden. They were Navy men. What made them do
crazy things? Become terrorists?

Conover glanced at his watch. God. How the time was
flying. He straightened up and entered the conference room where
the men waited. He recoiled at a blast of stifling heat. The men
moved to attention. With an off-hand gesture, he motioned to them
to stay put as he ranged about. Slowly, deliberately, as if for
effect, he crushed out the butt of his cigarette.

Lt. Ed Rankin, who had led the aborted waterborne
attack, hadn’t slept in seventy-two hours. He lolled backwards
against the wall, his chair perfectly balanced on its two hind
legs. He blew a stream of cigarette smoke towards the ceiling. He
made no move at Conover’s entrance. A tall, gangly officer with a
disdainful manner, Rankin was totally dedicated and reliable. Chief
Petty Officers Harry Wilson, NPB#41, and Mauro Martinez, NPB#22,
were in animated conversation. They fell silent, and then drew
back, stirring restlessly. Wilson’s lips twitched. Warrant Officers
Sharkey Hammer and Bennie Lightfoot, commanding the two Navy Tugs,
appeared wary of their first action. Major Alden Hartwell, USMC,
his uniform dirty and wrinkled, yet fitting his massive body like a
glove, sprouted two days growth on his face. He seemed distracted
as he twirled a half empty beer can between his fingertips. Ensign
Miles Mako, pink-cheeked and baby faced, light fuzz grazed his
chin, beamed with excitement. “It can’t be too soon, for me,” he
sputtered. Nervous laughter followed, and then the atmosphere in
the room turned deadly silent, almost strained.

The clock on the wall ticking away read 1023.

Then, Conover remarked offhandedly, “Gather around
the table, men. We’ll get ‘em this time.” The sharp bitterness of
his defeats pounded in Conover’s forehead. Under the light, he
unfolded a chart of Sinclair Inlet. Chair legs scraped across the
wood floor. Conover jabbed his finger. “The
Missouri
is
here.” They crowded around, except for Rankin who brought his chair
back to earth with a clatter, he slumped, his elbows on the table.
“The water shallows here. The
Missouri
is drawing less than
34 feet. We shove her nose into this mud flat and slide her up as
far as we can.” He drew a track with his fingertip and tapped a
spot marked with a large “X”. That’s where I want her, bows
pointing due west.” He leaned on the flat of his hands and looked
to the men, “Any questions?”