by Bob Neir
“The Yard used to be jumping ‘round-the-clock and no weekends off,” Madden said. “I passed through here in ‘44 when the Washington steamed in with her bow stove in clear back from keel to within ten feet of the main deck. He crew rigged her anchor chains to hold on the whole bow. She had collided with the Indiana. In less than 30 days they had on a whole new front end. The Yard Commandant had told his men: The Washington is in, and the Washington is out.” Madden laughed, “And that’s exactly what they did; but there was a war on then. There was no slacking.”
Looking coldly at Madden, Trent said, “And, the Captain of the Indiana was court-martialed for ‘dereliction of duty and needlessly hazarding his ship’. He was found guilty,” he stated bitterly. “Captain Steele, relieved of command, was never promoted, and never again served at sea. He accepted his fate; I do not.”
Innocently cornered, Madden felt relieved when a small Navy bus drove up. They joined other contractors in a low, gray building standing about drinking coffee and waiting. Chief Yeoman Newby and Radarman 1/C Sean Barclay introduced themselves. Moments later, as if on cue, they snapped to attention as an officer entered. A hush fell over the room.
“My name is Ward Conover: Commander Ward Conover, to you,” he said. His hair was cropped short and the color of black coal; the eyebrows were thick and bushy and matted over his nose. He wore a hard expression that oozed sternness: he could be characterized a chief bosun in the Merchant Marine. In a gravelly, husky voice, he proclaimed, “I am in charge of the Missouri. My job is a tough one, thirty days to get her ready to tow. And, she will depart on time. Understood. If you have any doubts, feel free to back out now. If you have any other questions…?”
“What kind of shape is she in?”
Conover frowned as he cleared his throat.
“After this briefing, you will be taken on a tour. You can see for yourselves. The Missouri has been mothballed, sealed up below decks. Dry air is constantly piped into all possible spaces using the ship’s fire mains. Relative humidity has been kept at 30 percent. The Missouri is well preserved internally. Her equipment is in excellent shape.”
‘“When can we start?”
“Contracts will be signed Tuesday and you will be notified of assigned work areas. This job must be done quickly.”
“How extensive is the work?”
“Everything below decks is to be opened up Dehumidification and preservation systems stripped out to remain here at the Yard. Once inside, you will find the ship’s gear stowed everywhere, valves, fittings, every gismo and doodad left aboard. Each was tagged for a future activation team. And, if it’s tagged, don’t touch it. If there are no further questions…”
Hands rose. “Question?” Impressed with his performance, Conover turned back to Newby. “Chief Yeoman Newby and Radarman Barclay will cover additional details.” Conover turned away and strode off.
“Is he always like that?” Madden asked Newby.
“No, only when he’s in a good mood. He’s been here three weeks and already he’s got everyone pissed off.”
“The bus is waiting, gentlemen.”
The bus was painted Navy gray and had bars on the windows. The ride was short; one could steer blind for the Missouri, the largest ship in the Yard. Trent let his eyes move slowly from the outward sheer of the bows towering over them, the formidable 16-inch gun turrets, up the tall superstructure and aft along sweep of the steel main deck. He was saddened, as she appeared resigned to remain on the land.
The group gathered at the foot of the gangway. The rain had stopped, but the wind moaned freely across the open pier.
“She’s in a lot better shape than many active duty ships,” said Barclay. He led the way on board, stepping down onto the main deck. Barclay practiced tour guide as contractors poked and probed the ship’s spaces. “We’ll go up to the eighth level bridge.” The group dutifully followed. Barclay’s hands tapped solid metal, “The conning tower is encased with 17.5-inch thick, solid steel walls. During combat, the ship’s Captain and supporting communications specialists locate here. The armor below is 16-inches thick. Those periscopes are used to see out during battle.”
“After you receive your work assignments,” Chief Yeoman Newby announced looking straight at Trent, “I will clear you on board as quickly as possible. Some of you will also require waterside access clearance. Hands went up.
Trent whispered to Madden, “Make sure Newby gets us cleared to the shell deck and powder magazine. It will help if we can operate the shell hoist, but I expect to load manually.” Madden offered, “Manually? Those High Explosive 16-inch shells weigh over 2000 pounds; even the powder bags come in just under 110 pounds.” Trent ignored him, “Once the turret ring is broken loose, it can be rotated manually. The guns can be manually elevated and fired. The number two turret appears easier to secure. Yes, the number two turret will do nicely,” Trent mulled with satisfaction.
* * *
The note read, “You haven’t called. Why?”
Ed held it up to his nose. “Ah! The aroma of perfume.”
“Just my mother wanting me to call.”
“Your mother dropped it off,” Ed, the doorman, winked, waving the note. Trent would call Lisa. He concluded her business was with Graves, and he had to stall her. Trent recalled his investigator’s report: “…is watched carefully by NARDO and may possess damaging evidence regarding criminal activity…”
Taking the elevator to his apartment, he picked up the phone and dialed. “Please leave a message after the tone…beep!” He spoke then hung up. The number was not the same as Lisa had left with the Holiday Fur Shoppe. He had just stripped down and stepped into the shower when the wall phone rang. It was Lisa.
Trent picked her up on the corner of Second and Madison. He let the clutch in and sent the Mustang bouncing up a steep grade. She laughed as she pressed her hat to her head. Driving north on the I-5 freeway, they exited to Ravenna. Lisa said, “The Scarlet Tree is getting to be our hangout.” He pulled in and parked. Lisa held her hat and handbag and threw her legs out the car door. And, let her skirt climb her thighs. The way her skirt accentuated the perfect shape of her body stirred an old yearning.
Inside, they were seated at a small table for two. Lisa propped her hands under her chin, her favorite pose, and returned his gaze. A gold and green pendent accentuated the white skin of her neck. Her blouse left little to the imagination, accented by small freckles at the ‘V’. The deep red of her blouse set off her natural colors. And those green eyes…
“I’m getting to love this place. I can see why it brought back memories of Myrna…Oh! I’m sorry,” Lisa said. She reached out and touched his hand.
“Don’t be. I’m over it.”
She soon knew his story. Trent was grateful to have someone to talk to other than Madden. She was not aware of his Navy career, and he did not mention resigning. Before Lisa could draw him out further, dinner arrived.
“I’m sorry, here I am doing all the talking,” Trent said.
“Fighting is a hateful thing.” Lisa seemed distressed.
“Now that you’ve heard my life’s history. What about yours? What business are you in?”
“Collections and so forth,” she replied, vaguely.
Trent felt sick, of himself, of the situation, but he needed to know. “Who do you work for?”
She hesitated, evidently not expecting the conversation to turn so quickly in her direction. Her voice was relaxed, but her choice of words was careful.
“I need to contact someone you know.”
Each time they met, Lisa controlled the moment, set the pace; and that, Trent realized, bolstered her confidence. Uncomfortable with being fooled or toyed with, he had little choice but accede until her motives became clear.
“Who? Hank Graves.”
“Maxie Hirsch.” Trent quickly looked down, studying the green surface of his remaining martini olive.
“Why?” Trent looked up.
“He has something som
eone wants.”
“Who’s looking?”
“I can’t divulge my client’s name.”
“Then, what do they want from him?”
“Money!”
Trent recoiled and said nothing, remembering: “...Is suspected of having conspired etc. to rig machines to produce large payoffs.”
“What about money?”
“Rigged slots: Hirsch and two accomplices for a $526,000 payoff. My client has already had, shall I say, an understanding with the other two. He wants the rest back.”
“Why me?”
“You’re hiding him.”
“I swear I didn’t know…”
She cut him short. “Then why did you get Hirsch up here? Are you partners? Did Hirsch promise you a cut?”
Trent was startled, as if struck across the face. “Lisa, you’ve got this all wrong, you really do.”
Her face flashed in disbelief.
The waiter broke in with the dessert menu and to clear the table. From cold to hot, Lisa turned gay and effervescent.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her eyes again warm and her smile radiant. To his surprise, she cupped his hands in hers and warmly kissed them. It was a kiss asking for forgiveness, too light to be mistaken for passion, yet not so light as to deny the promise of more to come. Trent trembled inside–Lisa was one cool lady. The conversation turned to more innocuous subjects, and time passed by quickly.
* * *
The hour was late. The street was half-astir, streetlights cast eerie shadows through lace-fingered trees spaced evenly along the sidewalk. Tall office buildings downtown glittered in the distance. Lisa lived alone in a small, tastefully decorated apartment. Trent looked around and took comfort in what he was seeing. Things were orderly with little clutter; he himself was no neat-nick and doubted he could enjoy the company of someone who was. A fireplace graced a living room wall fronted by two white chairs. A deep blue sofa buttressed the far wall. Knick-knacks were carefully placed about, mementoes of earlier times. A picture propped on the mantle was of a man in uniform; his smile was of happier times. Trent moved to the fireplace and picked up the picture.
When she came back from her bedroom, Lisa had changed into a soft skirt, sweater, and was barefoot.
“My husband,” Lisa said.
“Divorce?”
“Dead. Four years ago.”
“Sorry.”
“The Air Force. He was a pilot. His fighter crashed on a training mission. My heart broke, but I got over his death, time cures all. I no longer feel the hurt.” Trent turned her away from the picture until she faced him. He drew her to him and he kissed her. Her response was reserved, without emotion; her lips received him coolly, yet signaled a desperate need. She, knowing this moment would arrive, yet unprepared to deal with it. “Maybe, it was a mistake to come here with me, Tony,” said Lisa. The scent of her perfume and the freshness of her womanliness inflamed the fire within him. Trent reached out and embraced her again. She drew apart, but the assertiveness, the self-assurance had gone. She looked at him unable to hide the tenderness she felt for him. “I must have more reason than a kiss to go to bed with a man, any man. A kiss is not enough. I am not a nymphet.” She gave a nervous little laugh.
Her lips brushed his cheek. Trent’s hands felt for her body under her dress. Breathing heavily though slightly open lips, Lisa pressed her thighs teasingly against his. She moved them thrilling him more than he had expected. Trent heard himself say, “I want you, Lisa.” It sounded so crude. Her knees were weak and trembling, the sudden abandonment of his reserve aroused her further. Again, she kissed him lightly on the cheek. “I wanted to hear you say it. I felt something the first time we met.” Her voice was almost inaudible. Happiness sparkled her eyes; they were brighter, ever more alive. Trent tenderly touched and stroked her hair. She leaned back in his arms then pressed closer. “I have never met anyone like you,” she dropped her voice. She pressed her mouth harder against his, then her lips parted as if she could no longer help herself. She clung desperately, needing him as he needed her. She slipped out of her skirt and threw it across the sofa. Trent stripped her and kissed her nakedness. He could feel the tension like a living thing. She quivered as his hand moved around her breast, then down to her warmness. They surrendered to each other, their love making both physical and pleasurable. He could accept she did not truly love him, but he did not care. For the moment, tomorrow was a far off cloud drifting towards a distant horizon.
Night passed. Trent stirred and found himself drifting between sleep and consciousness. He lay beside her, awake, not moving. Lisa’s warm body snuggled tightly against his. Her head tilted slightly, her golden hair, bathed by the sun streaming through blinds, flowed freely across the pillow. Lisa looked as natural as she did the first time they met. He felt completely refreshed, elated. He wondered how she had gotten mixed up with the NARDO AGENCY. She stirred drowsily. Slipping off the bed, he stood and stretched and stole into the kitchen. He soon had the smell of fresh brewed coffee filling the apartment.
“Good Morning.” he turned. She stood in the doorway.
“To you, too.”
“You’re good company.”
“Thanks.”
“And, Hirsch?”
~ * * * ~
CHAPTER 10
“We caught up to him at the Redeye,” Graves unceremoniously heaped Harper on his cot. “AWOL and stone, cold drunk, he is. He was suckin’ up the stuff and showin’ off for the dollies, shootin’ off his mouth, he was, about us. Some creepy guy was all ears.”
“How much did he spill?” Madden demanded of Hirsch.
“Enough. He spotted us right off and clammed up. Wake up, goof-off,” Graves kicked Harper in his ribs. Harper groaned. “He don’t like the idea, much,” Hirsch mused, cracking a smile that instantly faded, in deference to Madden’s sour mood.
“Splash him,” Trent ordered, his face impassive. Graves gleefully dumped a bucket of cold water on the inert form. The affect was startling…Harper sprung up fast with both arms swinging wildly. Graves backed-off, planted his feet and waited as Harper groggily lunged at his huge shape. Graves brushed his arm forward and hurled Harper, his body thudding thickly to the deck like a smashed watermelon. Hirsch winced.
“You didn’t have to do that, Graves,” Madden hissed.
“Get up, shithead!” Graves bellowed, his feet straddling the crumpled form. Madden shoved Graves aside, yanked Harper upright by the collar and pressed him against the wall.
“What does Schiller know? Tell us!”
“Who? How do I know,” Harper mumbled, groggily.
“You shot off your mouth!”
“I doan know. Jus’ havin’ a good time.”
“How much does Schiller know?” Madden shook him violently, slapping him across the face. Harper cowered, his arm rose instinctively.
“Shove it!” Harper bellowed.
“You’re hopeless, Harper,” Madden said, letting him slip to the deck. Graves jumped in, grabbed and twisted Harper’s arm. “Damn nigger. Good for nothing. You ain’t done nothing but screw up since you got here.”
“Go fuck yourself,” Harper spit at him. Graves clenched his teeth and bore down, twisting his arm ever harder. Harper’s body jerked violently as he passed out.
“Let go of his arm, Graves,” Trent shouted. “I said let him go.” Graves’ eyes blazed, then threw his arm aside. Harper lay in a daze, head flipped aside spewing vomit. His stomach convulsed, forcing out sour smells. Madden chastised himself. Having restricted Harper to the warehouse for his own safety, he knew he could no longer be trusted out of sight. Harper dealt himself odd-man out.
Trent exhorted, “Christ! Any leak and we’re done for. I’ll call the whole thing off. Do you all understand that? No money! No five million! Any hint, and the Navy comes down on us like a ton of bricks. And, I do not intend to spend the rest of my life in prison.”
“Damn, Schiller,” shouted Madden.
“Who’s Schiller, a
nyway?” Hirsch asked.
* * *
The Helga impatiently tugged and strained at her lines. She was loaded and fueled, a racehorse primed for the main event. Gun powder, neatly bagged in silk by Graves, was wrapped and sealed against moisture and stowed deep in the bottom of the aft hold. Hoists, generators, welding torches, all types of working equipment and assorted tools were stowed carefully to conceal the deadly cargo underneath. In the forward hold, space was set aside for six shells each weighing over 2000 pounds with pre-fabricated crates to conceal their identity. Graves proved a meticulous cargo-master. Stowing was tough, difficult work; but he had the Helga riding well. While Graves and Madden worked the holds, Maxie manned the boom winch. Harper, under watchful eyes, proved to be a fair cook and was given galley duty. The galley was stocked for five days: the plan was three days at the Yard and back to Seattle for two. Morale was high as the intense activity brought reality to the mission’s purpose.
The pall of evening settled over the Helga, Madden and Graves checked deck gear and battened down hatches. Their work done, they hung up their slicks as a heavy downpour drenched the Helga. Hirsch sat clenching a hot coffee mug. As the men gathered around the mess table, Graves remarked, “The Helga is ready, so let’s go.”
“Tomorrow, maybe?” said Madden. “Just a guess.”
“A fiver says yer off.”
“How about a pool? Ten bucks in for closest to cast off time.”
“I’m in,” said Harper, peering through the serving hole.
“Any bastard I catch whispering in the commander’s ear gets a busted arm,” Graves waved his fist. “Here’s my ten.” They filled out slips and passed them to Madden, who stashed them away.