by Bob Neir
“Might we talk in private?” Trent asked. Captain Larsen hesitated, then stood erect, stretching himself to his full height, and replied, “Up forward, my cabin.”
The aft-most lower deckhouse door opened into a small, compact galley, two portholes were hinged up to view aft over the lower working deck. The galley was shut down. A pass-through pantry hatch cut through the forward bulkhead into a second cabin, a good way to listen to all the gossip as the second cabin contained six stacked bunks and a mess table. A brass oil lamp hung motionless draped from a swivel. The smell of fresh paint penetrated everywhere.
Captain Larsen stepped over the coaming of the forward door. We followed. Trent let his eyes move about the Captain’s cabin and he was taken aback. Dark, Honduran mahogany paneling and white enamel gloss trim set off the cabin’s fine features. Forward, a sofa, with underneath stowage drawers, graced the port side. Aft, a wardrobe and a small, highly polished mahogany desk were rigidly mounted to the aft bulkhead. The swivel chair appeared an original antique. The cabin had been done to suit the Captain’s personal tastes. On the starboard side was a large, outsized single bunk: aft the bunk, a head and shower. Overhead lockers were suspended over the bunk and secured to the washroom partition. Two easy chairs, a small Oriental carpet and a well-polished table nestled against the curve of the deckhouse directly below the wheelhouse. No pictures, awards, certificates, no personal items hung in view. Cut through the aft bulkhead was an inside door, latched open, that lead directly into the crew’s quarters. The Helga was Captain Larsen’s home.
“Sit down.” They settled into the easy chairs. “Whiskey?” The Captain set three glasses on the table. He did not wait for a reply but reached into an overhead locker, extracted a bottle, uncorked it and filled the glasses. The lines on his face were taut. The Captain drank but said nothing.
“Is your boat for charter?” Trent asked at length.
“Maybe!” He snapped.
“You are in business, aren’t you?”
“Depends…” The Captain stared at the bottom of his empty glass.
“The job involves some risk,” Trent said flatly.
“Risk! That’s why I got troubles now.” Captain Larsen eyed Trent warily and said, “And you want to bring me more. What is it? Drugs? Illegal aliens? Smuggling?”
Trent cleared his throat. “We bid a government job and need a ship equipped as the Helga,” his tone was carefully controlled. “We expect a contract within the next three weeks. In the meantime, we need to make a quick trip to Canada.”
“Humph!” Captain Larsen refilled his glass.
“We pay well.”
Captain Larsen dragged his pipe from his pocket and stuffed it into a tobacco pouch. He held a match above the bowl, sucked in the flame and watched the smoke curl upward.
“We’re wasting the Captain’s time, Peter.” Trent offered, heaving to his feet. Captain Larsen lowered his pipe, uncertain; he searched for words, his voice quivered as he spoke.
“There has been no work for the Helga for a long time. It was better when a man could just fish for a living and if that didn’t work out, crab.” Captain Larsen’s shoulders slumped. “Fishing is a risky business. I fitted out for crab, tried Alaskan waters and had three bad seasons. We didn’t even make wages. I borrowed big against the Helga…I was so sure…” The Captain’s tone faded, cut with a bitter mixture of hurt pride and resentment. “The banks wanted their money, but I couldn’t pay, I didn’t have it so I went to Schiller. I didn’t want too, but I had too. Now, that bloodsucker wants his money, but it’s my Helga he really wants.”
“The Helga’s valuable, Captain Larsen,” Trent said immediately. There was a deep sadness in this large, tall man. “Maybe, you won’t have to lose her.”
“I would do almost anything…” Captain Larsen replied.
“How about a look about?” Trent suggested.
The Captain hesitated, then led, pausing at the break in the deck where they entered the hull through a door to the engine room. A six hundred-horse slow speed diesel engine, which turned at four hundred RPM, sat in a cradle bolted to the keel beam and supporting frames. A single shaft ran aft through a bulkhead seal and disappeared. Two auxiliaries for electrical power sat aside the diesel engine; a hydraulic take-off ran the deck winch and drove the boom. The engine could be operated directly from the wheelhouse or by signals rung down. The Captain unhesitatingly disclosed the Helga’s secrets, taking great pains to answer questions. He was proud of his boat: she was his family.
“How fast is she?”
“She’s not too fast; cruises at nine knots, maybe, ten.”
“What can the boom lift,” asked Madden.
“Three ton over forty feet.”
“How about crew?”
“It takes four to work her; three if it’s light work. I keep my engineer on call; I don’t know where the rest are, they’ve probably found other work by now.”
“I’ll provide the extra crew, Captain. Peter will run north with you and your engineer,” Trent advised.
The Captain nodded as they climbed to the wheelhouse. A radar unit and a sounder were mounted to either side of a small door that dropped two steps and opened into the sea cabin. The sea cabin was smaller than Trent had imagined. A bunk, locker and small chart table graced one wall. Charts were filed in slots above the chart table; one lay spread out and taped to the desktop. A chronometer hung on the wall. With the tour ended, they returned to the Captain’s cabin. Glasses were refilled and they sat down.
“I don’t expect a tea party,” Captain Larsen remarked, slowly, “but the Helga is all I have.” Trent nodded but held his silence. Trent knew the Captain would inevitably uncover the Helga’s true mission. He wondered how he would react - exactly what kind of man was this Captain Larsen?
“This fellow, Schiller. How much do you owe him?”
The Captain looked up in anger. “Three back payments plus interest, a lot of interest, that bastard.”
“How much to set things right?”
“Fourteen grand.”
Trent smiled; sure the amount poised on the Captain’s tongue had a few extra dollars added. So be it, he thought, a small price to pay for tying up the Helga.
Trent withdrew a leather pouch and fingered the correct amount onto the table. “This should cover it.” Captain Larsen’s eyes brightened, his hands trembled as he raked in the bills. “I’ll call when we are ready to go north. Say nothing to anyone. Our bid must be competitive, you know. If you change your mind, I’ll expect my money back within ten days. After Canada, we’ll firm up the rest of the schedule.” They shook hands. Hauser sat on his haunches just outside the door. He wagged his tail, sensing Trent a friend meaning no harm to his master. The mist lifted. The air grew colder. Madden started the car and backed away from the gate.
“I told you Schiller was into him.”
“The Captain doesn’t look very far ahead,” Trent ventured. “Does Schiller have any other hold on him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, you better find out. We don’t need this Schiller messing around.”
* * *
From his apartment window, Trent traced the myriad of ships idly criss-crossing Elliot Bay. A pilot boat shot out from shore to nudge alongside a just underway-northbound trans-Pacific container-ship. A small figure jumped across a rapidly closing water gap, a well-practiced move. A Jacob’s ladder joggled against the hull as the figure sure-footedly clambered up to the wheelhouse. Would it be as easy to get aboard the Missouri, Trent wondered? He had his crew, an operations base and a boat. The pieces of the operation were falling into place. He felt rejuvenated, alive again.
A sharp knock on the door disturbed his serenity. Trent glanced at his watch; Madden was punctual. Madden barged in waving a newspaper. “Here, read this.” Trent grabbed the paper and headed for the couch. “Have you heard from Newby, yet?” Then, without taking a breath Madden jabbered, “I don’t get it. No police action. No w
ar. Peace is breaking out all over like hives, so the Navy is just going to up and spend $450 million fixing up an obsolete battlewagon with Harpoons and Tomahawks. Just a Jonah, if you ask me, it doesn’t make sense.”
“Preparedness is a virtue.” Trent sank into the couch and flicked open the newspaper. “Better back up tough talk with muscle. Old Teddy had it right, ‘speak quietly, but carry a big stick.’”
“Suppose you’re right, you can’t help but respect those Harpoons and Tomahawks. Along with the 16-inchers, they could complicate anybody’s life,” Madden voiced.
“And, I expect to do just that.” Trent put down the paper down.
“How much time did Newby say we’d get?”
“Thirty days and no more. The Navy’s putting a Commander Conover in charge to make sure she’s ready in time. I suppose he’ll be climbing all over our butts.”
“More like getting in the way. Want a beer?”
“Sure”
“It’s time to round up the crew,” Trent said, setting down a can. “Can you keep them busy?” Madden sat down and looked over quickly, “That’s the least of my worries.”
Trent’s mouth tightened into a slight pout. He stared at Madden solemnly and wondered whether Peter would have the stomach for what lay ahead. Madden’s way of facing the future was to ignore it, let events overtake him, react and enjoy. He would rescue people from burning buildings or exploding guns, but he had no concept of tomorrow.
“Best you round up the last of the gear.” Trent unlocked his desk drawer and removed a small, spiral notebook. Madden hated that notebook and the countless, “What ifs?” or “How about this?” Questions Trent threw at him. He joined the Navy to get away from school. He hated school. His parents wanted him to get a college education, but he wanted to see and do - not think! “It hurts too much to think.” Madden remembered his father telling him, ‘People who think too much get soft and get hurt easily.’ Trent tossed him the spiral - he caught it.
“There’s a hell-uv-a lot of stuff listed in here,” Madden sighed, scanning the book. “I see you crossed off most items, but not shells for a 16-inch gun and a ton and half of powder. Any word from Graves?”
“No, not yet. I have to call him. I’ll contact Harper and set up the pickup. It’ll be a good run for the Helga and you can check out Larsen. Get the hang of the ship. You’ll need to know as much about her as he does.”
“How much time do I have?” Madden queried.
“I’ll talk to Larsen in the morning and see about going north. How about you?” Trent asked.
“I can take a couple of days off next week,” replied Madden as he got up, yawned and stretched. “Include Friday.” He slipped on his peacoat, tucked the notebook away and left. Trent eased back into his favorite chair and threw a leg over the armrest. Extracting a white slip of paper from his wallet, he unfolded it, picked up the phone and dialed Canada.
“Cremona Apartments,” a voice answered.
“Ben Harper, please.”
“Just a minute,” followed by some mixed background voices. A different voice came on the line.
“This is Harper.”
“Red Ryder here. Is everything O.K.?”
“Just been waiting for your call. I did like you told me.”
“Are you off the stuff?”
“Yeah!”
“You better be! Pack. I’ll call Wednesday at 1900.”
Trent poured a drink and pulled closer to the window. He never ceased to marvel at the spectacular beauty of Puget Sound and the Olympic Mountains. A weather front moved in from the Southwest. Dark clouds sent sheets of sweet rain to mix with the salt water of the Sound. The sky darkened, changing from orange to pink to dark blue and finally black. Specks of lights dotted the darkness. Mother Nature was peace mixed with violence.
* * *
Trent took in the six o’clock weather report, put on his topcoat and left the apartment. The weather was damp and the sky overcast; the storm blowing in had been followed by a deeper low. The Seattle weatherman couldn’t miss. It always rained. He exited the elevator, exchanged pleasantries with Ed, the doorman, passed down into the sub-basement apartment garage, got into the Mustang and drove to the Helga.
Hauser growled.
“Atta boy, Hauser.” The dog quieted down as he came up the gangway. Hauser wagged his tail as he passed the dog a treat. “Never know when a guy might need a friend like you, Hauser,” He whispered as he patted the dog. Hauser let him pass. Light was coming from the Captain’s cabin. Trent headed forward until he heard angry voices coming from inside the deckhouse. He recognized Captain Larsen’s voice, but not the one castigating him.
“You and me got a deal,” an angry voice claimed. “And you ain’t welshing. I’ll see to that.”
“You played me for a sucker, you bastard. Never again.”
“You’re in deep shit, Larsen.” The voice was scathing. “All I gotta do is tip off the Coast Guard you were off the coast pickin’ up grass and you can kiss this piss bucket goodbye!”
“I’ll tell them who hired me.”
“We got a deal and you owe me. No dough. No ship.”
I could hear something hit the table.
“What’s that?”
“Open it and see.”
“Where’d you get this money?”
“I did a job.”
“Hell, you did! This tub has been tied up here for the last month. What kinda job? Who for?”
“You got your damn money, now get off my ship.”
“You’re still on the hook, Larsen. I’ll be back for the rest.” The door flew open. Trent ducked back into the shadows. A small, wiry red-faced man stormed by and stomped off the ship. Hauser growled. Schiller, Trent thought and trouble for Larsen meant complications. Trent strode forward. Captain Larsen was startled at his appearance.
“I didn’t hear you come aboard.”
“Hauser and I are good friends; besides, you and Schiller were making a lot of noise.”
“So you heard.”
“Yes. Schiller really has his hooks into you, doesn’t he?”
“At least not until the next payment is due.”
“There’s another load coming up next month. Maybe, I make enough to pay him off and end it,” volunteered the Captain hopefully. Trent knew better. Schiller was a leech, a scum who spotted a good thing and would drain it until he killed it.
“I want you off to Vancouver 2230, Friday. Madden will go with you.” Captain Larsen stepped out of his cabin and haltingly made his way up to the wheelhouse. Trent followed. Bending over his charts, he did a few quick calculations. “We leave at 0400. I’ll need money for supplies and fuel.” Larsen straightened up. Trent detected a self-assurance he hadn’t seen before. Trent extracted ten one hundred dollar bills and tossed them to the chart table.
“Give me an accounting later,” Trent said. He left the wheelhouse, patted Hauser and headed for the Mustang. He still had an uncertain feeling about Captain Larsen. And, now there was Schiller.
~ * * * ~
CHAPTER 8
“Hank Graves there?”
“No. Who’s asking?” Her voice was soft and pleasant.
“Tell him Red Ryder called.”
“Just a minute,” she paused. “Call this number.” She hung up.
Trent dialed.
“Hello.”
“Red Ryder.”
“I was beginning to wonder if you were for real,” Graves said.
“I’m real alright. Things are moving. How’s your situation?”
“I got the stuff, a ton and a half. It’s not the best; I gotta work it over. Do we gotta be accurate?”
“Very. And the guns?”
“No sweat. Got’em. Hirsch and me are settin’, waitin’. He keeps calling me up: he bugs me. We got a truck, too.”
“I know,” Trent said. “It’s a blue Dodge and you got it at Hinche’s Used Truck Lot. You guys are careless.”
“Shit!”
�
��Is this number safe?” Trent asked.
“Yeah! Only you, Hirsch and my roomie got it.”
“Take down these directions.”
“Just a minute.” A pause. “O.K., Shoot.”
“…go past the building and park the truck under the light at the end of the street and leave it there. Take a cab to the Fairmont Hotel. I’ll book a double under Hank Zuckerman. Stay put until I contact you.”
“How about some dough? I need it for the roomie.”
“Get up here first.”
“I’m hungry already.”
“The sooner you get here, the sooner you eat.”
“We’ll make it by Tuesday afternoon.”
Trent fed the pay phone and was thanked by a sterile recording. In the six-block walk back to the warehouse, his gut said Graves and Hirsch would be tracked. Trent almost warned Graves, but held off at the last instant. Evasive measures might raise suspicions, he thought. Two ex-Navy men heading for Alaska, but sidetracked to get the Missouri ready for tow was believable. Their skills fit the work, nothing odd on that score. Everything would appear natural, normal. With paint, a paintbrush and a ladder, you are, obviously, a painter…Do and act like they expect you to and you will be ignored. No flaws in the plan yet, nothing obvious, anyway.
Madden was waiting. “Harper’s sleeping it off in back.”
Trent fired off a look that cut Madden clean through.
“You mean he’s drunk,” Trent exploded.
Gritting his teeth, Trent stormed to where Harper lay sprawled across a cot. His head was angled over the side, his face distended. Vomit dribbled off the corner of his mouth. “Open your eyes, Harper.” He grabbed the cot and viciously heaved it over. Harper was sent flying. He crashed into a wall and tumbled into a heap. A groan parted his lips. Trent jammed a foot into Harper’s ribs; his body instinctively recoiled. Madden jumped in and bodily wrapped his arms around Trent and pulled him off a writhing Harper.
“Stomping won’t do any good. Eight years in exile screwed him up.”