SILENT GUNS (36 page)

“
Circle her,” CPO Wilson shouted
to the helmsman over the noise of the spray and roar of the twin
diesels. The sailor spun the wheel.

“
Man in the foremast,” Wingate
called out.

“
Don’t get too close!” Wilson
ordered.

Wingate lifted a pair of binoculars. A second pair
of eyes stared back. “Chubby, round faced guy. Must be Newby.”

“
No danger,” Sam Simons
advised.

“
Slow speed,” CPO Wilson ordered.
NPB#41 fell off into her own wake to circle the
battleship.

“
See Chief, the lines are still
dangling fore and aft and the turret hatch is hanging open.”
Charlie said his elbows held tight to his sides. “I think it will
work,” said Simons, scanning the hull. “Does Conover know about
your idea?”

“
I’m persona non grata with that
guy. Mr. Obnoxious made it clear, I was not to volunteer
opinions.”

“
Where are the Mayor and
Chitterman?”

“
They’ll be there at 1000: they’re
driving around by Tacoma.”

“
Let’s head back. I’ve seen
enough.”

CPO Wilson overheard and ordered, “back to the
dock.”

The gap of water narrowed, they jumped across and
hurried to Wingate’s car and sped off. A temporary pass, a cursory
check and a snappy salute from a Marine sentry cleared them onto
the Navy Base where Wingate drove directly to the Headquarters
building. At five-of-ten they were seated inside the Base
Commander’s waiting room; a small, sparsely furnished room just
outside a closed, dark-stained, solid wood door where they waited
with mounting curiosity. Through the door a loud voice boomed
causing a yeoman, seated outside the door, to lift his eyes, then
re-bury his head in a file. Gruff voices and the sounds of
shuffling furniture wafted down a hallway.

The Mayor and Chitterman arrived just as an officer
with one stripe on his sleeve came out the solid wood door. “The
Admiral’s apologies for keeping you waiting, gentlemen. The Staff
is assembling, please follow me!” His tone was insincere. The Mayor
looked at Simons, “Everything as we left it?”

“
Yep!” Simons tamped out the hot
end of his cigar in a white painted sand bucket and carefully
positioned the dry end standing tall. They followed, aware of the
soft carpet beneath their shoes and an air of quiet well-being.
Commander Wilbur Maxwell, tall and gaunt, sat at the end of the
large, rectangular mahogany table. He slowly rose to his feet,
twirled the end of his mustache, nodding his head. Next to him,
Major Alden Hartwell, USMC, put out a heavy, meaty hand all-around,
but his face remained stoic.

The one-striper seated the Mayor and Chitterman; Sam
Simons was motioned to the Mayor’s left. Charlie Wingate, was
dismissed with a curt nod, and relegated to the side of the room.
The Admiral entered followed by his Chief of Staff, a white-haired
Captain Tronquet and Commander Conover. The assembled officers
arose, as did the guests out of courtesy. Sam Simons attracted
curious stares, one where the head turns away but the eyes lag. The
room drew quiet.

Rear-Admiral Burns was curt, only the briefest hint
of a smile, “be seated, gentlemen.” A chilly greeting, stiff and
formal. Conover took an unoccupied chair. “This is your meeting,
Mayor; but I fail to see what useful purpose it can serve.”

“
It was time the City and the Navy
met face to face.” the Mayor countered. “The City intends to pay
Trent the thirty million dollars.” The Admiral replied, brusquely,
“I had no doubt you would; but, it’s of little concern to the
Navy.”

Clearing his throat, Grille spoke deliberately,
“Until the City delivers the money, Trent wants a cease-fire.”

“
I’m not surprised,” the Admiral
stated, flatly.

“
I ask your assurances the Navy
will refrain from further attacks. If not, Trent threatened to fire
a second shell. He refused to identify the target. So far, he has
done what he says.”

“
Mayor, Trent has made a fool of
us, and I take that personally,” Burns interrupted. Grille
ventured, “When he gets his money, we expect him to abandon the
Missouri
.”

“
I am under orders to retake the
Missouri
.”

“
And Trent and his
men.”

“
I will have them…dead or
alive.”

“
It is possible we can assist,”
Grille interjected. “Chief Simons feels Trent can be neutralized
and the ship retaken without any loss of life.”

“
Oh! He does, does he?” the
Admiral retorted, in a disdainful tone, leaning back as a cynical
smile slashed across Conover’s face. The Admiral shot him a
scathing look. The Mayor moved to the edge of his chair and
stiffened as he moved to speak; Chitterman interrupted, haltingly,
at first, then his voice rose as his hands steadied, “Admiral,
we’re concerned for the safety of our citizens. It’s near anarchy
on the City streets. We only ask that you listen!”

“
I am listening and don’t tell me
what to do!” Burns lashed out, half rising out of his chair, cheeks
turning beet-red, as if his collar had been cinched too tight.
Twisting, he ranted for a full minute, pounding the table
repeatedly. “You’re a bunch of damned civilians. What the hell do
you know about Navy affairs?” A wheeze signaled Burn’s climax, the
stern look settled upon his face. Embarrassed officers shifted
uneasily.

The Mayor turned away, his eyes livid.

Chitterman continued firmly, “If you persist, you’re
going to look like an ass when this is all over.” Grille’s jaw
dropped. Simons bit clean through the butt of his unlit cigar. The
Chief of Staff coughed amiably. The Admiral’s face turned crimson
as he snarled. Chitterman didn’t flinch and was more astute than I
had given him credit. He wasn’t subtle, but, one doesn’t rise to
position of President of the Seattle City council without facing
issues.

“
You get five minutes, Chief. And
it damn well better be good,” Flustered, the Admiral eased off. Sam
Simons stood up, he felt light-headed and suddenly reckless.
Unaccustomed to such antics, he felt vaguely intimidated. Disliking
the Admiral for his pig-headedness, he perceived with unexpected
clarity that Admiral Burns was fearful. He sheltered a deeper
meaning to his behavior.

“
One man can do it,” Simons began
in a most matter-of-fact way. From the corner of his eye, he caught
Conover, barely stifling a guffaw and eyeing him like poised
vulture.

The Admiral’s stern face peeled back just a
crack.

“
How?”

“
While moored alongside the pier,
Trent knew he was vulnerable; anchored, he feels safe. Three tries
and the Navy failed to dislodge him. Now, he’s getting
overconfident, careless: he leaves the turret entry hatch hanging
open. Wilson says the hatch has hung open since the last
attack.”

“
A hatch is left open, so what?”
Conover grunted.

Captain Tronquet’s eyebrows lifted slightly. He
exchanged awkward glances with Conover.

Simons took note, then continued, “Grappling lines
are still dangling from the bow and stern. Trent hasn’t risked
exposing his men to disengage them. A single man can climb one of
those lines and get aboard.”

“
And if he gets aboard
undetected…” Tronquet urged. “It’ll be dark; then there are
shadows. He could reach the hatch. And, if they’re holed up in the
turret, the second he is spotted, he’s dead meat,” Tronquet
observed. Simons face remained impassive.

“
Trent has avoided killing when he
could have killed.” Simons cringed at the sound of his own words,
clinical, so cold, that they frightened him.

The Admiral’s Staff nodded in assent.

“
If he doesn’t get killed or
captured and gets into the turret, what’s he going to do, blow it
up?” Commander Maxwell smiled tightly. “I hear only one gun is
operative.” Simons unrolled a drawing of the breech layout of a
16-inch gun, an itemized equipment list and the gun’s firing
instructions. “If the gas-check valve or the firelock, for example,
or the primers are thrown overboard, the gun cannot be fired. One
man can disable the gun; but it’s risky. Only one man.” Simons
paused for effect, “Fail, and Trent will react
violently.”

Commander Maxwell sat up stiff-backed, his face
blank. Major Hartwell showed disappointment, he had calculated
correctly that his men would not be needed. Simons looked at
Admiral Burns. The chill had gone out of the man, but his mind
seemed active, but elsewhere. Of this, he made a mental note. “I
think it’s a risk worth taking, Admiral. The Vice-Admiral’s orders
are to retake the
Missouri
,” Captain Tronquet implored,
“without risking the ship and personnel. Just one man, sir - a
volunteer…”

“
Seems plausible,” the Admiral
said, grudgingly, composing him; pulling at his chin. He spoke so
softly, his lips barely moved. The Mayor short stopped the
Admiral’s next thought and said, “The Navy would be credited with
ending the threat to the City. Just think of the public relations
effect. The Navy, ready to defend our country…saves the City of
Seattle from destruction.”

Simons winced…and the Mayor saves the City thirty
million dollars.

“
And if our man fails?” The
Admiral asked. “Trent will shell the City within the hour,”
Chitterman implored. “The risk, then, is the City’s. The Navy risks
nothing…but its reputation,” the Mayor quickly added. The room fell
silent, only the hum of the overhead fan intruded. Admiral Burns
grinned. The instant change in his expression startled Simons and
left him puzzled. Ten years melted away from his appearance. A
respectful note crept into Burns’s voice. “If our guests will
excuse us, I would like to discuss this with my Staff. Mayor, I
will inform you of the Navy’s decision within the hour.”

Wingate drove quickly to the ferry terminal. “Think
the Admiral will go along with the idea, Chief?”

“
You never know, Charlie.” Simons
was bemused. “Tell me, what did you observe at the
meeting?”

Charlie turned sideways and said, “You’ve got
something up your sleeve, haven’t you, Chief?

“
Just answer the
question.”

“
Like what?” Wingate
queried.

“
Burns? Maybe,
Conover?”

“
Burns did a back flip.
Cantankerous old bastard, he is. He has to do something, he just
doesn’t know what. Conover’s high on his shit list. For that, I
could learn to appreciate Burns. I bet he’d buy in on the solo
act.”

“
Why?” Simons asked.

“
I don’t know why. Must be you’re
just a super salesman. Is that what I’m supposed to
say?”

“
The Admiral bought it, but he
jumped in awful quick.”

“
Maybe he’s a slow
thinker.”

“
An Admiral???”

“
I still don’t see…”

“
I want you to make peace with
Conover, get on his good side.”

“
Impossible!”

“
I don’t care how, kiss his ass if
you have too. Suck up your ego - this is Police
business.”

“
What for?”

“
He’s on Burn’s shit list and my
guess is he has something to say. And, it’s vital I know the Navy’s
moves before they make them.” Wingate answered, “Maybe you would
like me to raise the
Hood
, and maybe the
Bismarck
,
too!”

“
Charlie, police work is the
little things. Odds and ends that add up. In time, you become a
smart cop, and smart cops get ahead and even better, smart cops get
to stay alive…I repeat. Before the Navy makes any
moves.”

“
You know something, don’t you,
Chief? Are you going to tell me?” Simons liked Charlie. He recalled
his own career, first as a patrolman, then as a detective. Young.
Brash. Asking probing questions about anything and everything. Ask
questions: stick your nose into things until people hate your guts.
That’s when you know you are on to something. Follow the trail. Sam
Simons shoved a cigar into his face. Charlie knew the lesson was
over - whatever that lesson was.

* * *

A quarter-moon softly blanketed Sinclair Inlet in an
unearthly, eerie glow. A sole swimmer silently slipped from beneath
a little used pier, his black wet suit blending with the darkness.
Arms beneath the surface, he swam carefully so that neither arms
nor legs would break the surface. As he fought the slight tug of
the current, the drift in a receding tide, his bobbing head easily
mistaken for a curious Harbor seal. Powerful strokes brought him
ever closer to the looming bulk of the battleship, a towering mass
of steel that canceled out the night. Treading water, he touched
the cold hull and searched with one hand. A faint whipping motion,
a line dangling from the taffrail ended his search. Relieved, he
listened to faint sounds, the soft wash of water brushing the
motionless hull. Grabbing the line, he gently eased up his full
weight. The grapnel held firm. The dreaded screeching sound of bare
metal scraping bare metal failed to resonate. In the deathly
silence, amplifying itself throughout the hull, the sound would
instantly signal something amiss. Gathering his strength, he
hoisted himself clear of the water. An athletic, nimble body, bent
neatly at the waist held rigid, he reached the deck. Newby, alone,
was known to be on watch stationed at the foretop. The man in black
gripped the steel edge of the deck and drew himself up. He peered
over the edge, adjusting his eyes to the vents, hatches, gun mounts
that marked the
Missouri
a man-of-war. Checking points of
reference, he verified his carefully pre-planned movements as he
searched for signs of danger. Satisfied that the main deck was
clear, he steeled himself and hauled up. Barefoot, he dashed from
shadow to shadow, forward towards his target, the #2 turret.
Covering a wide expanse of open deck, he dropped behind the fair
weather companion. Pressing his back against its cold steel, he
closed his eyes and listened: no voices or pinging fire sought him
out. Letting the air out of his lungs, he tugged down the zipper of
his wet suit.