SILENT GUNS (39 page)

“
Any ideas?”

“
None. Conover says Scarese’s a
crazy enough dude to do anything. And, if the Admiral backs him,
he’s apt to go off like a skyrocket. I’d bet it has something to do
with Trent. And, Trent is out on the
Missouri
.” Wingate
listened intently. “OK,” he replied. “If Scarese stays on the Base,
I have Conover tracking him. Noonan has the gate. There’s a knoll
overlooking the anchorage: I’m on my way, pronto! It’ll be dark in
an hour. Whatever Burns is up to, he’s running short on time; it
has to be tonight. If they are moving against the ship, I should be
able to pick up the action: a fuller moon tonight. Conover is still
on the outs with the Admiral. Yeah! I’ll let Bremerton know.
Everything is covered, but the ship: I’d better get
moving.”

Wingate hung up and grabbed his holster. Slipping it
over his shoulder, he cinched it up tight under his left armpit. He
eased the gun out twice, jacked back the bolt and locked it to the
rear. He checked the chamber and the oily barrel. Unsnapping the
lock to the apartment, he holstered the gun, slipped on his heavy
jacket and left.

A reputation as a calm, capable detective, Wingate
knew his job and his experience served him well. Hadn’t he proven
himself? Hadn’t he cleared up a murder case, unsolved for fifteen
years? Hadn’t he broken up a South American drug ring that defied
capture? He disliked his previous superior as too old, too
reticent, avoided needed derring-do. Simons let him step out,
believed in him: that was all he needed.

A cool, inshore saltwater breeze wafted over the
knoll as Wingate lifted his binoculars and scanned the Inlet. The
Missouri
lay stilled, showing no sign of life. Baring his
teeth in a mock grin, he stiffed a smile in spite of his weariness.
The surface of the Inlet lay flat, nary a ripple. Nothing could
move without being detected, of that he was certain. It was dusk.
Could be he was already too late, he thought. He could also be
wrong. After all, he was only surmising, if so, did he miss?
Conover had Scarese calibrated, knew his talents, what else could
he be up too? And, if Scarese had to get out to the
Missouri
: he lifted his binoculars and squinted. He
searched, half expecting a periscope to rise up from the depths and
fire a torpedo at the unsuspecting
Missouri
. A seabird
cried, a dog barked off in the distance, and the smell of wood
smoke, smoldering fir, came from a nearby shack. The woods behind
him stood pitch black. It came as a woosh! A mashing sound. The
last thing he remembered was the taste of dirt. His body trembled,
as would a live, naked body on a cold, marble slab. A warm, wet
object daubed his face; but his eyes stayed glued shut, refused to
open. Pain! Flashes of brilliance, an Aurora Borealis of sharp,
distinct painful lights shot across his skull and danced behind
closed eyelids. He tried to stir, raised his head, grabbed the back
of his neck only to fall back.

A dog barked.

“
Over here!” he heard.

“
God! His head’s all
bloody.”

“
Is he alive?”

“
He’s breathing.”

“
Better get some help.”

Charlie Wingate forced himself to his elbow, cursed
the weakness in his body and collapsed.

* * *

Graves hefted the strange object, turning it over
and over in his hand Trent looked at it, his eyes calculating, he
felt a rush of excitement. “It’s a Rube Goldberg, if you ask me.”
Graves said.

“
Where did you find it?” Madden
asked, taking it in hand.

“
It was in Maxie’s stuff, wrapped
up in an oily rag. It ain’t like no tool I’ve ever seen. See, you
tug here and this thing snaps; but, watchit, it’ll clip off your
fingertips.” As Madden turned over the device, a small plunger shot
out.

“
What the hell is this?” Graves
demanded, his eyes wide.

Newby was unimpressed, “a stupid toy, if you ask
me?”

Trent smiled. “Ask Harper.”

They climbed up the ladder into the turret. Soon
mumbled voices, and then Harper shouted, “Eureka! That
son-of-a-bitch, Maxie, jury-rigged a goddamn firelock. See, it fits
right here in the fire hole. How the hell did he manage?”

“
Who cares? Does it
work?”

“
You bet your sweet ass, it does.
Watch.” Harper exercised the crude device. “Hot damn! Get me a
primer.” Graves shot back down the ladder, muttering to himself,
brushing Trent with his shoulder. Rummaging about, he nimbly
climbed back up the ladder. “Gimme that,” said Harper, snatching
it.

“
Don’t bust it,” Graves
implored.

A snap and the explosion set off a round of cheers.
Trent drew in a deep breath as a smile creased his face.

“
Good ole Maxie,” Madden said,
glancing at his boots.

Graves’ face glistened with eagerness as he leaned
towards Trent. “Shall we give the Admiral the news, Commander? Or,
maybe send him something to convince him, if you know what I mean,”
he guffawed, jerking his thumb at the 16-inch gun.

A voice woofed over the walkie-talkie, “Hey!
Somebody. This is old eagle-eye Newby speaking. Now hear this!” The
turret, boisterous a moment before, turned quiet.

“
Cut the commercial, Newby. What’s
going on?”

“
I was going to ask you guys. I’m
bored. A patrol boat headed our way, altered course to starboard
and passed about a hundred yards off,” Newby reported. “I wouldn’t
have bothered, but she slowed down and stopped. I heard her lose
power, then start up again. It’s probably nothing.” Trent stiffened
as he felt hackles on the back of his neck.

Harper spoke, exuberantly, “Get your butt down here,
Newby. Hot coffee and sandwiches in five minutes and the latest
news.”

“
You’re my man,” Newby replied.
“Tell Madden to get up here and relieve me. And be on time, this
time.”

“
O.K. Crybaby. I’m coming
up!”

Sam Simons’ face crystallized in Trent’s mind. He
had not radioed. No news was not necessarily good news. But, had
Simons followed through with Burns? If so, did Simons convey his
conditions? Was confronting Burns more difficult than Simons had
bargained for? Had he failed? Trent momentarily faulted his own
judgment in leveling with Simons. Were he a cop, would he risk his
own career to intervene? Of course, Seattle was at stake. Simons
was his only link and he trusted he judged correctly. Since Burns
had been wary, or too gutless to come aboard, greater pressure was
needed on all parties. Fire the gun? He didn’t want too, but…he
felt the adventure had become a continuous, wakeful ordeal and he
was starting to doubt the men’s staying power.

“
Anything wrong, Commander?”
Graves approached.

“
No. Nothing. Just
thinking.”

“
It must be about all that money,”
Graves grinned.

“
I can hardly wait,” Harper
said.

“
Christ! Harper, you’d just throw
it away on booze and women.”

“
So!” Harper exclaimed.

“
Commander! Commander!”

“
Newby, what is it?” Trent spoke,
clicking the mike.

“
Not sure, maybe just shadows
playing tricks,” Newby replied. “Forget it. Madden is here and I’m
on my way down.” Trent struggled to control his anxiety. “What was
it?” He questioned a second time. The turret fell
silent.

Newby was the epitome of watch-keepers. He looked up
into the night sky and grimaced. A threatening low, heavy bank of
rain clouds drifted across his vision obscuring parts of the ship.
Untrusting of his own judgment, he unfailingly reported the
minutest of happenings, an enormous asset to Trent’s peace of mind.
However, the men had grown weary of Newby’s frequent incident
reports, not to mention, floating logs, abandoned life jackets, and
a paper carton. Yet, Newby’s senses served as a harbinger of
crisis. Trent felt that tingling sensation return, a trigger pulled
somewhere in his brain.

“
Again! Dammit!” Harper and Graves
looked up, startled as Trent slammed his fist against the bulkhead.
The quiet had lulled him into a false sense of security. “Madden,
what’s going on out there? Has anyone come aboard?” He yelled into
the mike. “I can’t see a damn thing, the deck is blacker’n the
inside of a coal mine,” Madden barked back. “I’ll head down for a
look around.”

“
Stay alert,” Trent said, his
anxiety increasing. The dark of night was a curse, the best friend
of those who practiced stealth. The quiet was in its own way more
unnerving than the din of battle.

Harper caught Trent’s troubled face, arched his
eyebrows, then quickly slipped below decks and disappeared. Graves
grimaced, and then drew his .45 and dropped out the turret hatch.
His knee buckled, tumbling his full weight to the teak deck. He got
up, limping, and then disappeared aft into the blackness.

A scream pierced the darkness; then a gurgling sound
was heard, followed by a grating hoarseness. Crackling sounds
filled speaker, then Madden’s voice, “Tony, there’s a guy in a
black wetsuit running forward port-side towards the quarterdeck.
Graves is ten paces behind him.” Trent yanked up on the turret
hatch, slammed it shut and secured it. A series of CRACK! CRACK!
Followed closely by slugs ricocheted off metal. “Damn. I missed
him,” Madden hollered. BAM! BAM! A shattering explosion that
rippled out across the inlet followed two quick bursts. “The
bastard tossed a grenade at Graves,” Madden shouted. CRACK! Another
shot rang out. I got him in the leg, he’s slipping to the deck.”
BAM! Madden cringed as the black form crumpled. “Poor bastard. He
didn’t get the grenade off in time. It went off in his hand. Graves
is down, he must have caught the pattern.” The turret hatch flew
down: Trent rushed out. Graves lay sprawled twenty feet away.
“Graves. You O.K.?”

Graves stirred, pulled himself up, his shirt mussed
with spattered blood. “Yeah! What a mess. The idiot blew himself
up, dumb bastard, whoever he was,” he muttered, breathing heavily,
and wiping his face clean with the back of his hand. Staggering to
his feet, he shoved his foot under the dead man and flipped him
over. “Madden musta nicked him just as he pulled the pin, threw him
off. What the hell was he after?” Graves asked, sucking wind and
shaking his head to rid the pounding in his eardrums.

Trent grabbed a flashlight from the turret. Madden
hustled forward to stare down at the inert form. He turned away
sick. The man in black laid an ugly sight.

“
Who is this guy?” Harper asked,
dropping out the hatch.

“
Looks like our man in black is
back,” Trent said.

“
Good! He’s dead.” Harper
grinned.

“
Is he alone?”

“
Madden figured he was a solo
act.”

Trent frisked pieces of the tattered man and his wet
suit and found what he was looking for. He withdrew the man’s I.D.
from a shredded pocket and flashed it with the light.

“
His name is Scarese. He’s packing
a .32 in his belt and a knife was strapped to his leg, see, it’s
been pulled out of the sheath, maybe he lost it. What’s in the
backpack?” Harper ripped it open dumped its contents on the
deck.

“
Grenades! Three left.”

Trent’s voice was hard. “He was sent to destroy the
insides of the turret or, most likely to kill us all. He had to be
under orders. He’s Navy.”

Harper looked around, anxiously, “Where’s
Newby?”

They dashed aft to the curve in the superstructure.
Newby lay stilled, a knife handle sticking out of his chest, its
blade buried to the hilt. Harper kneeled to pry Newby’s fingers
free of the M60 trigger, but they were locked like iron. A dark,
blood red spot that spread over his chest fed a wet puddle on the
deck. “Damn,” said Madden. Trent’s eyes burned with anger, and then
faded to sadness as he murmured softly, “Newby would have wanted it
this way, in the thick of a fight. At heart, he was a gentle man,
much maligned, but more a fighter than he ever knew. I feel guilty
for underestimating him.” Trent clenched his fist. “Just as much as
I misjudged that bastard Burns and overestimated Simons. I should
have realized, this caper was just too complicated to pull off, and
now Newby…”

“
Hindsight, Commander.”

“
I know, Harper; but the City had
been warned. One hour: we all owe Newby.” Trent stood and faced
Madden squarely, and then angrily strode back to the turret. Madden
did not follow, but stood staring. Inside the turret, Trent twisted
dials, the radio squealed and whistled. Satisfied, he picked up the
mike and said, “Simons. Come in. This is Trent.” He waited. “Do you
read me?” He waited.

“
This is dispatcher Gonzales. Can
you wait, I’ll locate him.”

“
Do that!”

* * *

Sam Simons sat uneasily in the Mayor’s office as
Mayor Joe Grille hovered over his shoulder. Hiram Chitterman and
Bud Mitchell sat by on the couch, fidgeting. Simons twisted the
telephone around his ear and leaned away. He listened intently as
Lt. Cmdr. Ward Conover spoke excitedly. Simons breathed deeply, his
heart racing as he strained to hear. Disbelieving, Simons hung
up.

The Mayor impatient, exploded, “Dammit, Simons!
What’s going on? What did Conover say?” Heat rose around Simons’
collar, little drops of sweat formed on his upper lip. His anger
swelled, anger at people who played with innocent lives to cover up
their misdeeds.