SILENT GUNS (37 page)

“
So far so good,” he cautioned. He
loosed his cap and let the water drain to the deck. A quarter moon
illuminated the port side as he crossed to starboard. He furtively
crept forward, hugging the superstructure, until he was abreast the
quarterdeck. It was lighter here and he could see the twinkling
lights of the Yard off in the distance and Bremerton just beyond.
It was dark around the base of the turret as he rose to move across
at the exposed quarterdeck, and then he froze. Two men stood twenty
feet away; neither looking his way.

“
How’s it going,
Newby?”

“
Pretty quiet.”

“
Ready for a break?”

“
You got the next
watch?”

“
Yeah! Trent wants to talk to
you.”

As the two heads disappeared, he sprinted across the
quarterdeck, his feet barely touching the holystoned teak planking.
He braced himself against the base of a gun tub as heaving lungs
drummed in his ears. He observed the entry hatch hanging open; he
listened, but heard nothing. Slithering on his belly, he touched
the edge of a concealing shadow, rose and one last dash into the
dark shadow at the base of the turret.

Steeling himself to act, he patted his side,
checking the tool kit snug against his body. He was unarmed; better
unarmed if they caught him, they said. Crawling forward, by inches,
he hugged the teak deck until he was directly beneath the open
hatch. Someone swinging down out of the hatch would instantly pin
him to the deck. His legs shook; holding his breath, he drew
himself up into the opening and scanned the turret floor.

A single oil lamp hung overhead casting an eerie
yellow glow over the pale gray interior. Three silent 16-inch guns
stood watch; the turret was tomb-like. He felt he had entered
Captain Nemo’s submarine. In one fluid movement, he launched
himself up and landed monkey-like on the balls of his feet. An
inside hatch opening streamed light. He stole to the edge and
peered below - he saw no one. His eye caught a pile of material in
a darkened corner, a safety net to hide under. He turned off the
single lamp and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Water trickled
off his wet suit. He rose and moved to the breech of the center
gun. Unstrapping his tool kit, he removed a wrench and closed his
eyes and felt for a familiar shape. He checked again, until
certain, and then he noiselessly removed the firing lock. Fingered
the lock as would a blind man, he thrust it into the light
streaming up from below and thought, “more precious than the Hope
diamond.”

He spun adroitly as voices and steps came up from
the shell deck. He dashed to the turret hatch and dropped to the
Main deck. He paused. Fresh voices approached from around the side
of the turret. He withdrew into a concealing shadow and waited, the
cold object still clenched tight in his hand. He cocked his arm to
heave the object over the side, but his hiding place restricted his
arm movement. Withdrawing further into the darkness. He collapsed
into a black ball. The voices were close by; he trembled at the
sound of a new voice.

“
What’s this?”

“
I don’t know: what is
it?”

“
It’s water. How did water get in
here? You guys spill it?

“
It’s all over the damn turret
floor.”

“
Somebody has been in here - look!
Footprints.”

“
Yeah! The breech is all
wet.”

“
The deck too! And look here
around the hatch.”

“
The firelock. It’s
gone!!!

“
Shit!”

“
Spread out. Find him. Running
feet and heavy bodies dropped from the hatch.

“
There he is!”

A black shape rose and dashed out into the open,
sprinting rashly for the railing. Halting in mid-stride, with arm
cocked, he hurled the firelock into space. The firelock cast an
arc, splashed and disappeared. The shape made a dash for the upper
railing, gripped it and nearly vaulted over. “I got him.” Two men
tackled him. An arm swung around, a body careened and in one clean
lunge, a man in black vanished over the side.

“
Damn! He got away.”

“
Where’s the firelock?”

“
I think he tossed it.”

“
Well, look for it, damn
it!”

“
It’s nowhere.”

“
Now, what do we do?”

~ * * * ~

CHAPTER 25

Trent had a fitful sleep, drifting in and out as his
mind churned. A sizzling sound stirred him. Curious, he raised his
head. Harper was kneeling over the cook stove deftly slicing bacon
from a slab into a hot frying pan: the bacon sizzled. With chopped
onions whipped up with eggs, he poured the concoction into hot
bacon grease. Madden lay propped up on his elbows watching. Harper
looked over at him irritably, then turned back to the cook stove.
Graves, his huge, bare back covered with goosebumps, snored loudly
as a cold draft swept up the open turret hatch and lightly dusted
the hair on his shoulders.

“
Is my clock’s all screwed up?”
Madden asked. “Is it breakfast time? Or, is it my
imagination.”

Harper cut him short. “It’s 0630 and you’re to
relieve Newby. Get your butt up. Do you want hot chow or not?”

“
No need to get snotty,” Madden
croaked.

Trent rolled onto his back to relieve an aching
soreness in his hip and feigned sleep. He chided himself at his own
carelessness. He knew the loss of the firelock had seriously
affected the men’s morale, collapsing the instant the man in black
plunged over the side. Only Newby remained irrepressible. And that
Madden was right in stopping him from firing, saved him from
committing a fatal error. His loss of control at Maxie’s death did
not justify firing on the City. The Mayor had called within minutes
and said the City would pay. And Simons, Trent now felt certain
Simons had not confided in the Mayor. Simons had passed the test.
Acting on his own? Simon’s intercession was critical. And then,
there was his own threat to fire again… his lips parted in a small
smile, regaining his composure. He still held the cards: he was
still in control. He relaxed and dozed.

A cough, then within moments, Graves stirred.

Madden said suddenly, “What do we do now that we
can’t fire the damn thing?”

Harper stopped scrambling eggs.

Trent shifted his weight, sat up and cleared his
throat. “The Navy doesn’t know that for sure.” His stomach muscles
ached; he winced at the sharp pain that shot down his thigh.

“
They’ll wait us out,” Madden
looked up dully.

Graves cast a glance at Madden, then picked up an
M16 and started stripping it down, arraying parts neatly in order
on a blanket. He hefted the barrel and then rammed down a cleaning
rod. He said, “Could be another firelock on board?”

Harper hissed between his teeth, “Newby said there’s
only one on this tub. And, by now the Navy knows it! I bet the
bastards are laughing themselves silly - shit! All on account of a
fucking, dumb hatch.” There was a pause as the words sunk in.

“
Well, we got plenty of grub,”
Graves butted in.

“
Crap. You mean just sit here and
eat. You want to play games,” Madden said, his face contorted. “I’d
rather be in prison.”

Harper said, “Either way, it’s the same thing for
me. I’m gonna be in prison anyway. And I’m gonna have you guys for
company. There’s gotta be a way to fire that mother.”

“
Maxie couldn’t figure out
one.”

“
Suppose the City changes their
mind, refuses to pay?”

They looked to Trent

“
That would be foolish,” Trent
answered, glibly.

Madden asked, “if the City does pay-off, and the
Navy doesn’t come through with a re-trial, Tony, what then?”

Trent thought for a long time and finally said, “We
load the gun and I stay.”

Madden choked. “Stay?”

“
There is no other way,” Trent
said somberly.

Madden grunted. “Then, I stay, too.”

“
No, Madden, I will never leave
here alive.”

“
Never say never,” Madden
laughed.

“
I will surrender only if my terms
are met.”

“
Suppose the Navy will try
again?”

Trent said, “I doubt it.”

“
They’re probably celebrating,
laughing,” added Harper.

“
We have until 1600 tomorrow to
come up with something,” Madden said. “I’m going to relieve Newby.
I bet he’s ready to pee in his pants.”

They laughed.

The radio whistled: “Trent, this is Simons.”

* * *

Charlie Wingate deliberately let the doors bang shut
behind him. Yea Olde Coffee Shoppe, a sailor’s hangout on Base, a
mix of odd chairs, oversized booths and battered tables, mostly
leftovers from the last war. The small man busily wiping tables
ignored him. Off duty sailors sat huddled under clouds of blue
smoke, talking rapidly, re-hashing with glee Saturday night’s
erotic encounters and Navy Base rumors. The place stank of stale
food, tobacco and sweat. Wingate took in the smells in short, quick
breathes. He concluded someone had named the place in a fit of
sarcastic humor.

It was Sunday, but the day didn’t matter. Commander.
Conover would show up at precisely 0730 every day, without fail,
and he always sat alone. His routine: read a newspaper while
nursing an early morning coffee. He lived alone, his life orderly
and totally dedicated to the Navy. Wingate selected a cold
breakfast cereal, filled a cup with coffee and paid. The cook,
wiping his greasy hands on a badly soiled apron, took his money and
made change. Wingate, his headache pounding, forced a smile and
turned to his quarry.

“
Care if I join you?” He set his
cereal down.

Conover looked up, “Seems you just did…”

“
Thanks. Any hot news in the Base
paper?”

“
Nothing a civilian would be
interested in.”

“
Mate Scarese pulled it off, I
hear.”

“
That was your plan, wasn’t
it?”

“
Well,‘er. The Chief pulled it
together.” He slid into the booth and sipped at his
coffee.

“
Don’t bullshit me, Wingate,”
Conover’s voice was suddenly old and tired, “I don’t cotton to
buttinskies.” Wingate recalled Conover’s face when the plan’s
simplicity dawned on him. He counted to five, very slowly as he
remembered Simon’s edict: kiss his ass if you have to.

“
Come on Conover, we both got
bosses and they both want Trent off the
Missouri
. That’s the
only reason I’m over here. Why give each other a bad
time?”

“
I didn’t make you look bad,”
Conover sulked.

Wingate glanced at his watch. Patience. Patience, he
chided himself. He bent forward, his face close Conover’s and said,
“This isn’t Navy work, Conover, it’s police work; but we can work
together, you and me. My boss, Simons, is a real prick and I know
Burns is a real bastard.”

“
How come you didn’t come to me
first? That big deal show Simons put on in front of the Admiral’s
Staff. That pissed me off,” Conover persisted. Wingate bit his lip
as he calculated his next remark, “Simons labeled it a quick-burn
operation, and they always look good on paper. He wanted to try it
out on the Admiral’s Staff. No hard feelings, Conover. Hey! How
about a truce? No secrets between us; we square with each other
from here on.” Conover looked wary. “I don’t know…” Conover started
to speak. Wingate cut him off.

“
What do you have to lose? My ass
is in a sling with Simons. One more screw-up and I’m on a night
beat down the Rainier Valley.”

“
Burns is all over me,
too!”

“
Did I get you into
trouble?”

“
No worse than it was. Admiral
Ambler is climbing all over Burns’ butt. Burns was into the sauce
before Ambler got here, now it’s even worse, he swills the stuff
for meals. This Base must be a last stop for him. He dumps on me
for everything, no matter what. And, he’s paranoid about this Trent
guy. Seems he knows him from somewhere. He mumbled like Trent was
after him, trying to get even or something like that. I don’t get
it. Hey! Are you leading me on?”

“
Truce, remember, we’re partners.
We found out Burns lied about Trent at his court-martial. Trent got
busted, banished and eventually kicked out of the Navy. The Chief
thinks Trent has it in for Burns.” Conover whistled, “Man, that’s
heavy stuff. Does Burns know?”

“
He will. Simons meets with him at
1000.”

Conover burst out laughing, “Arrogant bastard. Burns
threw a wingding celebration over at the Officer’s Club last night.
The Staff toasted Scarese’s score. That place should burn down with
him in it. Burns pointedly dis-invited me. Mate Scarese’s his man,
now that Trent is done for.”

Wingate asked, “You mean, no more Navy moves?”

“
Hell! No firelock - no cannon
fire. Isn’t that what you cops wanted. The Admiral plans to let
Trent rot out there.”

“
Simons had a chat with Trent
about an hour ago,” Wingate confided, “Trent is real pissed off.
He’s laid down some new conditions. The Chief agreed to deliver on
them: he expects Burns to go bazonkers.”

“
Trent doesn’t hold any cards.
What kind of conditions?”