by Bob Neir
Simons tightened his lips, not yet certain he wanted to hear his own thoughts played out in words. His face hardened as he screened fragments of the past forty-eight hours. He pushed the “talk” button.
“Trent. Come in,” he waited. “Trent. Come in.”
“I hear you. Who are you?”
“Police Chief Sam Simons, City of Seattle,” he halted.
“What can I do for you, Chief?”
“I’m alone,” he glanced at Frank who stepped back and left. “I was hoping you and I might talk, privately.”
“About the money?”
“If the City pays, will that end it? Is there anything else?”
“What makes you think that?”
“Just a hunch.”
“And if there were?”
“If there is, you’re not playing square. Why don’t we talk about it? Maybe I can help.”
“I want my pound of flesh.”
“Whose?”
“The men who sentenced me to a living hell.”
“Who are they?”
“Admiral Brian Burns, for a start…shall I go on?”
There was a long pause.
“You mean, the guy running the Navy Yard?”
“He’s one of them; there are others.”
“You’re going to fire off another shell, aren’t you?”
“If you don’t pay…”
“No. Anyway.”
“How did you guess?”
“I didn’t…” Simons replied.
“I apologize—how did you figure it out?”
“You were good at what you did. So am I.”
“Thanks.”
“Do your men know?”
“I haven’t crossed that bridge yet.”
“They have their gripes, but the money is the end of the rainbow for them, isn’t it? What about your pound of flesh?”
“I want four men: Captain Denton, Admiral Kindler, Captain Proust and Burns to publicly admit to their duplicity in my court-martial. I want to be made whole again and my record purged. I will submit myself to a public re-trial.”
“And all this was to bring this about?”
“Yes.”
“You, of course, have some new evidence?”
“Yes. A letter. “
“What would you have done, otherwise?”
“It wasn’t just the City; but, the Navy, too.”
“And if I can’t deliver?”
“We stay here and keep shelling…”
“The money…”
“I must have it. My commitment to my men.”
“If we pay…”
“I will discharge them.”
“And yourself…?”
“I will remain. The gun will be loaded: the target remains the Bartell Drugstore at Fourth and Pine.”
“There could be deaths?”
“I’m already dead.”
“After the Navy Trial… there will be another.”
“I understand.”
“What assurances do you need?”
“As proof, put Kindler, Denton, Proust and Burns on television.”
“How much time do I have?”
“I’m not sure. If you make progress, I’ll wait; if not, I’ll fire. I hope we can avoid that.”
“You could stop all this right now.”
“It’s too late! I’ll be here. The money first. Call me.”
“Click…”
* * *
“What’s it like on deck?” Harper asked. Newby had climbed the ladder into the turret and hung up his rain slicker.
“The rain has let up, and it’s getting dark.”
He noted the bulkhead clock: it read 1740.
Accepting a cup of hot coffee, Newby continued. “Thanks. It’s quiet, except on the Oriskany. No Marine charges, again: no Patrol boats nosing around.” He put down his cup, sat down and tugged off his wet boots and tossed them to the deck. “I’m beat…beat…beat…there’s a half-moon out there. A guy can get jumpy, start imagining things.”
“Hungry?” Harper asked, stirring a pot.
“Depends. Whatcha got?”
“Franks and beans.”
“My favorite. How did you know?” Newby smiled, taking a plateful. “Beans are O.K. It’s pretty close in here, though,” he exclaimed as he stuffed a forkful into his mouth. Madden got up released the turret hatch, dropped it down and let it hang open. The inflow of fresh, moist air boosted spirits. “Think the Navy will try again tonight?” Newby asked.
“You can bet your sweet bippy,” Graves rose up from the loading tray and stretched his arms. “Wouldn’t you? They’re gettin’ a free ride ‘til tomorrow 0500. I’ll bet the Navy’s catchin’ hell, too!”
Trent looked up, “Burns, I hope.”
Harper handed Graves a mug, “Here, warm your cockles.” Graves jammed on his cap, “How about a shot of whiskey?”
“Ach. Verboten, Heine.”
“Where did ya learn that?”
“The movie: Das Boot.” Graves threw his cap at Harper. “Here! Look at this!” Madden turned up the television set.
Citizens are asked to avoid the downtown after midnight tonight. The area around the Bartell Drug Store will be cordoned off. Now, a word from our Mayor, Joe Grille:
“Good Evening. Our wonderful City has been threatened. Today, a shell from the Battleship Missouri damaged the Smith Tower Building. I want you all to know, you are safe so long as you obey our police and firemen. The City and the U.S. Navy are cooperating and will soon have the terrorists under arrest. Please watch for further reports. Thank you!”
“Christ! Look at that!” Graves bellowed. “That red car looks like it’s been through a junkyard press. And, the blue one…” “The side of the building: look at that hole!” Harper whistled. “What are those cops and firemen poking around for?” Graves added, “Probably looking for the shell.”
“Wow! We did all that! Hey! That’s the ladies bathroom.”
“Any ladies in there?” Newby craned his neck.
“Shut up and listen.”
“Chief Simons, What does the City plan to do next? The Chief replied, “We’re in contact with the terrorists. I really can’t say more.” The Chief turned away.
Trent studied Simon’s face. The hairs on the back of his neck stood erect. So that’s him, he thought. Trent detected doggedness, a determination in the way he held himself. A worthy ally, or, a deadly adversary, he wondered.
“It’s getting dark, better take stations,” he ordered impulsively.
The men nodded. Graves tugged up the turret hatch. Harper was gone, his feet rattling on the ladder to the second deck, on his way to seal off the ‘Broadway’ and the lower deck passageway aft. Madden pulled on his rain gear. Trent turned to monitor the radio. Newby bedded down.
* * *
“Maxie, it’s me,” Madden called ahead. “I’m on my way up. Shift to the port side. If I get any trouble, I want you up at the masthead. Newby appreciated your covering his ass.”
“Anytime, ol’ buddy,” Maxie replied.
Maxie had already cleared out when Madden arrived at the starboard Quad 40 gun tub. Over his shoulder, Madden heard him shifting his gear. Madden settled his buttocks against the tub, lifted his binoculars and narrowed his eyes. An unlit cheroot dangled precariously from his lip. He preferred the openness of the gun tub to the feeling of entrapment in the barbette. His mind turned to thoughts of Ingrid and his father. He tried to rationalize life and death and God; subjects he never bothered with before, concepts he couldn’t touch or feel. Words and ideas, he mused, were not reality. But, then what he was doing wasn’t real either. His muscles tightened. A tap on the shoulder: he swung about.
“You scared the hell out of me.” It was Newby.
“Pee break. The Commander figured you needed one.”
“I need a quick smoke.”
“You better go below,” Newby warned.
“I got a good spot. No one can see the glow.”
>
“That cheroot smells good,” Newby beamed. The first few puffs wafted in the air rising to the tub. An ear splitting crack rang out. A single bullet smacked the deck by Madden’s feet. From above, high up, a second sudden, ear-splitting sound ricocheted off the tub. Madden fell away the instant a bullet sped past his shoulder. Fear squeezed his chest.
“It came from the Oriskany,” Newby shouted.
“Damn! That was from high up.”
“There’s a guy in the foretop gaping down our throat,” Newby found himself firing back, the M-16 whistling a high pitch.
Trent appeared in a rush, “What’s up?”
“Sniper,” Newby pointed to a slim figure lashed to a mast. Trent grabbed up the binoculars. A weapon flashed, something whacked above his head. “He’s got us pinned down right enough, and here comes company.” A rubber raft moved out from under the pier and crossed under the fantail. And there’s a raft heading for the bow. Trent pressed the talk button, “Newby get Graves and get aft. Boarding parties!”
“Aye, sir!” Newby was off.
“I didn’t expect them over the bow, it could be a diversion,” Trent shouted. “I’ll cover the foredeck from the wheelhouse.” He slung a rifle across his back, and took off running. He bent low as rifle fire pinged around him.
A grappling hook clunked over the fantail, fixing its grip on the gunwale. Then another. Then two more clanked. Newby stripped off his thick glasses and watched through binoculars.
“Here they come!” he shouted.
“How many?” Graves hollered.
“Four port; four starboard. We got bad angles. Maxie. See if you can pin them down,” Newby called.
Graves stood tall. He sprayed a burst of fire, swinging the M60 in a back and forth pattern. RATARATARATA…dark, camouflaged figures froze in place, and then dove for cover. “Where’d they go?” Graves shouted.
“I see them,” Maxie shouted, “Two are headed over the side, slid back down their lines. One guy’s lying behind the hatch cover, another’s behind the winch. Where are the other four?” Graves questioned, “It’s suicidal to cross the deck, it’s too open.” Maxie said, “They gambled we were tucked in for the night.” He surprised himself at how calm he felt, as if suspended in space, distant, remote, and fearless: he exulted in the danger. He opened fire again; a machine gun rattled off somewhere. A dark figure jumped up and started to run, faltered; a limping shadow dove for the rail. Two crouching figures stood up, stark and unreal, and raced for their lines, plunging over the side. “Still three unaccounted for,” Maxie said.
“Portside clear,” Graves reported.
“One guy is dragging his leg, starboard side,” said Madden. Oh. I got twenty or so guys coming at us across the gangway.” Graves said, reassuringly, “Hang on, I’m comin’.”
Trent jumped in. “I’m O.K. here. I’ve got two pinned under the number one turret. They got by me, but I think I can keep them from getting aft.” Two bullets passed so close he stumbled to the rear of the wheelhouse. “Son-of-a-bitch, they must have infrared on the Oriskany,” he said, the bullets burst into fragments. He jumped to the window, jerked his sights down and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. He released the clip and a thirty-round empty magazine crashed to the deck. He jammed in a fresh clip of cartridges.
“I got them in my sights, Tony!” Maxie yelled at two running figures. The long, slender barrel, the tubular flash-suppressor of the M-16 steadied, paused, and then jerked four times. One running figure threw up his arms and dove suddenly for cover as spurts of chipped paint kicked up around him.
“Two guys are down here on the Broadway,” Harper yelled, his first report. “I’m on my way,” Maxie said, slipping down from the foretop. “I’ll cut them off.”
“My two are falling back,” Trent reported.
The sound of renewed firing reverberated from the starboard side. The air quivered with explosions as bullets ripped the gangway timbers to shreds. “Madden, here, mine turned back - twenty men moving off. Thanks, Graves.”
“Mayday! Mayday! I got three men on the Broadway. Where the hell did they come from?” Harper shouted. “Shit! Harper, that’s me you’re shooting at,” Maxie shouted.” Get back in the barbette and shut the goddamn door.”
“We’re coming down,” Newby and Graves reported.
“Don’t let them get settled in,” Trent ordered, hurriedly. He shuddered at the thought of ambush, or face-to-face, close in fighting needed to rout them out. He could not afford to lose a man. “The bow is clear,” Trent radioed. It was a sweet tactical retreat: there’s no war on, can’t say I blame them.
Maxie shouted, “Graves and Newby, you guys I’m at the aft end of the Broadway. Looks like we are gonna have to sweep forward. Two guys are holed up down here somewhere.”
More gunfire heard topside, and then all fell quiet.
“Harper, I’m coming down, hang on,” Trent shouted. Trent scurried below. “O.K. Harper, let’s clear them out.” They un-dogged the barbette door and swept aft, leapfrogging warily, from door to door, checking each compartment. Trent felt the whoosh of a bullet pass his head. Instantly, he rolled away, crashing to the deck. A second shot blurted out loudly and spun off ineffectively down the passageway.
“Graves. Newby. Maxie, watch it, you guys. Harper and I are in the passageway heading your way.” They stepped out. Four compartments had not been cleared. “You Marines. Step out. We have you trapped. You won’t be hurt,” Trent ordered. “Toss out your weapons. Come out with your hands on your head. Do it now! Now, let’s see your weapons.” There was no answer, no reaction. Harper stepped forward when a door swung open in front of him. A gleaming weapon suddenly flamed. Harper felt the heat of the bullets singe his neck. A second shot seared his forehead. Harper cried out and fell forward, his face slack-jawed. The Marine put one foot outside the door, holding it open with his foot, and aimed. Harper, in a rage, fired wildly and charged the Marine. The Marine reeled onto the deck, his arm thrown wide: Trent jabbed a gun to his head.
“We’re coming out.”
It was over.
~ * * * ~
CHAPTER 20
“Shell Fourth and Pine!!! It will be a goddamned catastrophe!” Bud Mitchell, Seattle Chamber President, bolted out of his chair and angrily pounded his fist on Mayor Joe Grille’s polished mahogany desk. “You want me to tell my Board that at 0500 tomorrow the Bartell’s Drug Store is going to be obliterated. Blown sky-high! That Doomsday is here! That a madman is loose! And, that the City can’t do anything about it? Even the all-powerful United States Navy? Incredible!!! I can’t believe my ears.”
“Calm down, Bud. We are all doing everything we can,” Mayor Grille implored, waving him back. “They’re being routed out right now.” Grille leaned forward. “Give the Navy a chance, Bud. The Marines are on the Missouri. Hell, it’s almost over.”
Mitchell’s florid face reddened as he pressed his knuckles to the desktop. Grille recoiled, slouched back into his high-backed, green leather chair. Casting a wicked look at the Mayor, Mitchell spun away and paced. Chief Simons sat by silently.
Mitchell stopped.
“Sam. Do you believe that crap?” Black, wavy hair combed straight back gave charge to Mitchell’s angry features. His piercing black eyes hardened and fixed on Sam Simons: eyes that demanded the truth. “I can’t say, for sure,” Simons parried, aware the Mayor did not take kindly to contradiction. He caught Grille’s icy stare.
Mitchell was noted as a sharp judge of people.
“You think we should pay them off, don’t you, Chief?” Mitchell cut to the quick. Beads of sweat formed under Simons’ collar.
Grille coughed, a smile curled from the corner of his mouth, “Go ahead, Sam, give Bud your honest opinion.”
“A 16-inch shell is very persuasive, Bud. The city has no defense against one. The Navy tried to rout them out, but so far failed. I’ve been told battleships are impregnable. Trent demonstrated his capabilities and lack of conscience. He fired o
nce, and I have no doubt he will not hesitate to fire again.” Simons shot a snapshot glance at the Mayor, then said, “I suggest we pay.” A tense silence blanketed the room. Grille’s persuasiveness melted away. Simons read no dismay in his eyes.
“Questions?” Without looking, Simons knew it would be Chitterman. Bud Mitchell ignored him, “Pay, you say?” Chitterman rose from his chair, his body wavering, “They’re asking the impossible!” His bloated face set off in alarm.
Simons counseled, “It is the reality of the situation, Hiram. We stop the shelling and buy time.”
Grille sagged back into his chair, “The City Council has refused to pay, said ‘no’. I appealed to the Governor’s office and the Feds for help. No dice, neither will buy in on a payoff. The Feds passed it off as a local problem. The Governor offered Special Forces: the Navy said a payoff wasn’t their concern.”
Mitchell eased off, his taut muscles relaxed ever so slightly. As he stroked his chin, an aura of comprehension swept over his black eyes. The Mayor smiled faintly in the pervasive quiet. A twitch of relief crossed Mitchell’s face when he said with quick vehemence, “Maybe, the Marines have already dug them out.”
Grille snapped, “If they had, we would have heard.”
Mitchell wiped his forehead. Simons fumbled for a cigar, then solemnly mused aloud, “A live shell. I’ve seen pictures after one hits, the devastation. It’s not a pretty sight: the Smith Tower is not a pretty sight. And that was a dud.”
Mitchell blurted out, “Harvey Bassett’s building sits just off the corner of Fourth and Pine. It’s a showpiece; big and all glass and reflects like a mirror. They could hit it blindfolded.” He paused and wrung his hands. “Harvey says pay them off.”
Grille picked at his fingernails with a letter opener. Chitterman looked up, raised his bushy eyebrows and shook his head. Simons made a mental note: never underestimate the back-room boys at the Chamber. The moment was like a tonic. Bud Mitchell: a community leader, had spine, never one to duck a tough issue. Bassett: influential, more so than Mitchell, worked behind the scenes, hated publicity, and had the right contacts. Simons focused on the faces of each man: Grille the manipulator: Mitchell the born again realist.