SILENT GUNS

by Bob Neir

  “It’s the media,” A frazzled Murial spoke.

  Grille winced…sharks make better friends. Chief Simons leaned back in a chair, one leg crossed over the other. Simons pleaded he’d needed to be elsewhere, but the plea was quashed at the Grille’s insistence.

  Bud Mitchell set the phone down and promptly sat down. He slipped a pencil from his pocket and made a note in a pocket spiral. “Well, do we have the $30 million, Bud?” Grille demanded, anxiously glancing up at the wall clock. “It’s after 0300…two more hours…”

  “Relax. The money is pledged. Rounding up the cash isn’t so easy,” Mitchell sighed. “It’ll take a day or so.”

  “What do you mean - ‘a day or so?’” Grille blanched.

  “Just what I said! Tell Trent he’ll get his money. Has he said how he wants it delivered?” Mitchell asked, not turning his head, and in the same breath, “Any chance the Navy…?”

  “None,” Grille snapped, settling uneasily in his chair.

  “Trent should have surrendered by now,” Mitchell offered.

  “But he hasn’t,” Simons cut in dryly, looking sternly at Mitchell. “In case you’re curious, Bud, the Navy blew it again!”

  A door opened. Hiram entered by the back stair, red-faced, and breathless. The Mayor waved him to the sofa and said, “Hiram, you’re in crappy shape.”

  “Has the Navy caught them yet?” Chitterman wheezed. Simons chortled, “Not yet, but they’re wearing them out.” The Mayor exhorted, “Catch! Who wants to catch them? If I could get close enough, I’d shoot the bastards, myself.”

  “What about Trent? Aren’t we going to call him?” Hiram interrupted, nervously glancing at his wristwatch. “It’s three-fifteen.”

  “I doubt he’ll call us,” Simons’ tone carried a snap. He rose and walked to the window.

  Mitchell pulled out a handkerchief and daubed his forehead, “Let’s get this over with. I had to move my family into a hotel this morning. People kept coming to my house. They harassed my family, screamed and shouted, people I have known all my life. It was frightening.”

  “Lucky you. Hiram and I haven’t left City Hall, have we Hiram?” Grille said; Hiram nodded assent.

  “Pay or it’s another shell, is it? Yuk!” Chitterman looked at him and around the room. All at once he seemed very tired, the lines around his eyes more deeply etched.

  “Read it as you will, Hiram,” Simons’ wiry eyebrows cocked themselves. “Trent doesn’t bend like a reed with every wind that blows…I’d give an arm for a peek into his head,” He mumbled, and then stood, hands stretched behind his back. Ships below bustled about in the harbor, seemingly oblivious to the ongoing drama, pursuing their daily chores; life goes on, no matter what, he thought.

  “Pay! Yes, yes, of course. The City Council agreed. We’d pay.” Hiram gave an impatient snort followed by a nervous glance at his watch again, “don’t you think we better get down to the radio room?”

  Mitchell jumped up and pointed at Simons, “Chief, you’re a witness. The City has agreed to guarantee the return of the $30 million. That’s the deal. Understood. Agreed!”

  Grille sighed, waved his arms and spun his chair away, “Of course, Bud.” The Mayor turned and thrust his face towards Simons.

  “Shall we call Trent, Chief? Tell him we have the money?” Simons picked up the phone, “Frank, any message from Trent? None. O.K. We’re coming down. The Mayor wants to talk with him. Yeah! About ten minutes.”

  They rose and exited the back stairway.

  The Mayor muttered as he closed the door behind him, “A great idea, this stair. Until now, I hated it, never knew when Hiram was going to ‘pop up’.”

  * * *

  Loud voices jumbled into a cacophony of unintelligible sounds. Overworked Police Dispatchers sat dutifully at telephones and radio consoles taking calls and busily dispatching units. Dispatching was a twenty-four hour a day, three shift job. The clock spun; it was 0355. Normally, early mornings were a quiet time, but this day was different. The late-night robberies, the drunks, or the peeping toms, no longer merited a response.

  The public had panicked.

  “Yes ma’am, the TV news report is correct. Just stay out of the downtown, ma’am,” a dispatcher advised. “No, sir. We’re not being invaded by Martians,” a second dispatcher replied. “Sorry. We’re only dispatching police for emergencies.” a third said, wearily for the umpteenth time.

  “It’s been like this, Chief, since the media ran that story about the second shell,” Gonzales reported. “We’ve been inundated, all our lines are overloaded. All roster qualified radio operators and a couple of retiree volunteers we can contact are coming in. The bridges are jammed with vehicles piled high leaving the City. We haven’t blocked off any roads yet, but we are getting reports of frightened people and short tempers. People want to know if we are going to evacuate the City. The Country Sheriff and neighboring Departments are sending in extra help. What about it, Chief? Shall I call in the Guard?”

  “Sure, why not? Call the Governor’s Office and get them on standby,” he mumbled vaguely as he tried to correlate events in his mind. “Raise Trent, will you?”

  Officer Gonzales led the group into his office, tapped a dispatcher on the shoulder, waved him out, and closed the door. He sat down in front of a mike and activated a switch to transmit. He deftly moved fingers over dials until the crackle disappeared and the set hummed smoothly. Gonzales listened, nodded, and then handed the mike to the Mayor.

  “Trent. Come in, Trent,” Grille repeated and waited.

  A seemingly, disembodied voice came across with a start, “Trent here. Got the money?”

  “We will have it.”

  “When?”

  The Mayor turned to Mitchell. He purposely left the mike uncovered. “Bud, what time did you say you’d have the cash?” Mitchell replied, “I didn’t, but the best we can do is right after the banks close Monday.”

  “It’s now 0430, Saturday,” Trent said, “I want the money in three leather, bound, belted suitcases. Big bills, and what doesn’t fit, in one hundred thousand dollar bearer bonds. Understand. The money is to be packaged and sealed in waterproof wrappers. I’ll call Monday noon with delivery instructions.”

  “Yes. We understand,” Mayor Joe Grille said.

  “You said Monday, O.K. five o’clock. You call off the Navy and we’ll send no more shells,” Trent offered. “Deal?”

  “Deal. I’ll speak with the Navy, I’m sure they will buy in.” The Mayor’s shoulders sagged. “The Pentagon is madder than hell over this.”

  “That’s good news. You tell the Navy if they show their faces within a mile, you’ll get a shell within one hour. I can’t guarantee where,” Trent added.

  Grille turned beet red, he twisted his head to glare down at the inert, gray-metal mike. “You’re crazy, no one has been killed, but to shell us again and not tell us where…you can’t be that cold-blooded! That’s murder. Is that the way you want it?” Trent did not answer right off.

  “One more thing,” Trent came on. “I insist Admiral Burns come aboard the Missouri, alone. Please extend my invitation.”

  “Do we still have a deal, Mayor?”

  “Yes, we do,” Grille’s voiced faded into resignation.

  “Good.” The radio cut off.

  Grilles’ knees shook, he appeared dazed. Hiram promptly threw up: Mitchell stepped aside just in time.

  “Nice sort of a chap, isn’t he?’ said Simons. “Have you noticed how he avoids killing? A gangway shot to splinters. A team that later boarded; one wounded, accidentally, all released; no shots fired at the Oriskany, yet snipers fired on the Missouri. Grenades high over the tugs and no one hurt. Look at the Hammann, they could have blown her right out of the water. One 16-inch shell would have done the trick.”

  “I don’t get it, Chief?” Mitchell was puzzled.

  Simons looked over at him, “It’s simple, Bud. Trent and his crew, they’re Navy right down to their shoe-tops. Probably, wil
ling to sacrifice their own lives first, if it came down to that.”

  “That’s strange!” Grille looked at them both in bewilderment. “Weird, if you ask me.” Hiram twitched in disbelief. Sam Simons replied, “They are not murderers. After Trent was court-martialed, his character changed, he became a different man. He’s bitter, he seeks revenge; not his own death.”

  “You’re guessing!” Mitchell challenged him. Simons dared not say more, but he wondered what Trent had in mind for Burns? Was this his plan all along? Wring a confession out of him? What good would that do? His own men wouldn’t be credible witnesses. Broadcast Burn’s confession over the radio. Confess to what? Burns is no fool. Trent all but admitted he lacked evidence. Simons wondered if Trent even knew what was behind his conviction. Damn. Simons thought. Trent is shooting from the hip.

  “You’re not making sense,” Hiram said chagrined, interrupting Simon’s thoughts. “If it’s revenge he’s after, why doesn’t he go after the people who screwed him? Why shell innocent people?”

  Simons stared at him with surprise. Rarely had Chitterman spoke with such clarity. Somewhat flushed, Simons stammered reaching for his own thoughts. “Maybe, because he can’t get at them. He could be using fear is a tactic to flush them out into the open. Fear tears people apart, turns them against each other.” Grille looked distinctly uncomfortable, “What makes you so sure of this theory of yours? It seems damn far-fetched.”

  Simons continued, “Just hear me out. Annette has gone back over the Navy’s court-martial records. Some names keep showing up: Captain Proust, Admiral Farr, Admiral Kindler, Lt. Cmdr Ryder, Lt. Cmdr. Denton, Lt. Denby, and a Lt. Cmdr. Brian Burns. Proust and Denby are dead; Burns and Denton are still in the Navy; Kindler and Farr are retired. Proust, Kindler and Burns did Trent the most damage, at least according to Trent’s lawyer, an ex-Lt. Johnson. He said they lied under oath.”

  “I don’t understand all this.” Hiram grumbled.

  “So why is he shelling the City?” Grille quizzed. Simon’s fended off an answer, but said, “Putting myself in Trent’s place, I would say he needed men to help him. They had to be men like himself who had a grudge, not necessarily against the Navy, but who were angry, running away from something, not desperate, but wanting to salvage something of their lives. Hirsch was in trouble. Graves had to get out of Sparks. Harper has eight years hanging over his head. Newby - I’m not sure, yet. Madden, maybe just blind loyalty. The money was the hook for the men; the money made it worthwhile, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. The money meant reward, proof of their worth. These are men with nothing to lose who sought a safe place. Men who needed support - from each other - and the Missouri.”

  Hiram jumped to his feet. “Ridiculous! Absolute nonsense. Sam, you’re as mad as they are.”

  “What are you driving at, Chief?” Grille asked.

  “I think they can be neutralized.” Hiram huffed,

  “Why bother? If we’re going to pay them off?” Grille stated. “I see. Otherwise, there’s no guarantee we’ll recover the money, right Chief?”

  “Good God, how…?” Mitchell reacted.

  The Chief held a match aside and drew on his cigar. “One man could do it. Charlie Wingate figured out how!”

  Mitchell demurred coldly, “Remember, Trent warned us, one hour after…”

  Simons slumped back in his chair, “I know, but I believe Trent intends to fire another shell, no matter what!!!”

  “Even if we pay off…?”

  “Even if we pay off!”

  ~ * * * ~

  CHAPTER 24

  Spewing black, ugly throat gagging diesel exhaust, NPB#41 sat idling at the Navy Patrol Boat dock. “The Issaquah is late.” Charlie Wingate glanced anxiously at his watch. “If Simons expects to get out to the Missouri and be at the Admiral’s office by 1000, he’d better hurry,” CPO Harry Wilson replied, “We’re cutting it thin as it is.”

  “I couldn’t get him to drive and he hates helicopters.”

  Wilson said, “Burns is in a prick-ugly mood. Vice-Admiral Ambler watched the show this morning. Word has it his face glowed red in the dark. What a fiasco! Burns got his ass chewed up and down something fierce. The Vice slammed the door; but, nobody needed ears, the walls in these old buildings are like paper. The guys are kinda laughing about it. Burns ain’t nobody’s favorite, and Conover don’t rate much better.”

  Wilson pointed, “Here she comes, twenty minutes late.” He made a sucking sound along the back of his teeth. “How come you missed Conover’s de-briefing? It was grim; it got broke up when Burns sent for him. We felt better when he left.” Charlie Wingate wiped his chin; visions of Conover getting reamed caused him to salivate.

  The ferry slowed. Dock pilings groaned and squealed, timbers strained but held for the hundred-thousandth time, as inch thick steel cables stretched violin-string taut and buzzed. An ingenious assortment of mechanical means spread the force of the madly reversing ferry. Heavy hawsers were thrown and drawn up around shiny cleats as the passenger ramp was quickly eased into position. Foot traffic scurried off even before the Issaquah came to a complete stop. Wingate and Wilson caught Sam Simons’ eye.

  “What does he expect to see on the Missouri?” Wilson inquired.

  “Ask him.”

  Simons stepped aboard.

  A deep throated roar, a spray astern and NPB#41 moved away smartly, the dock dropped rapidly away astern. Simons clasped his coat collar tight about his neck. As they rounded the empty pier, where but hours ago the Missouri had been moored, the battleship came into view and grew larger. Sam Simons gawked at her massiveness with the uncomprehending awe of a landsman. Two anchor chains, strung out like strings of pearls, shackled to deep-buried flukes, belied her power.

  “Circle her,” CPO Wilson shouted to the helmsman over the noise of the spray and roar of the twin diesels. The sailor spun the wheel.

  “Man in the foremast,” Wingate called out.

  “Don’t get too close!” Wilson ordered.

  Wingate lifted a pair of binoculars. A second pair of eyes stared back. “Chubby, round faced guy. Must be Newby.”

  “No danger,” Sam Simons advised.

  “Slow speed,” CPO Wilson ordered. NPB#41 fell off into her own wake to circle the battleship.

  “See Chief, the lines are still dangling fore and aft and the turret hatch is hanging open.” Charlie said his elbows held tight to his sides. “I think it will work,” said Simons, scanning the hull. “Does Conover know about your idea?”

  “I’m persona non grata with that guy. Mr. Obnoxious made it clear, I was not to volunteer opinions.”

  “Where are the Mayor and Chitterman?”

  “They’ll be there at 1000: they’re driving around by Tacoma.”

  “Let’s head back. I’ve seen enough.”

  CPO Wilson overheard and ordered, “back to the dock.”

  The gap of water narrowed, they jumped across and hurried to Wingate’s car and sped off. A temporary pass, a cursory check and a snappy salute from a Marine sentry cleared them onto the Navy Base where Wingate drove directly to the Headquarters building. At five-of-ten they were seated inside the Base Commander’s waiting room; a small, sparsely furnished room just outside a closed, dark-stained, solid wood door where they waited with mounting curiosity. Through the door a loud voice boomed causing a yeoman, seated outside the door, to lift his eyes, then re-bury his head in a file. Gruff voices and the sounds of shuffling furniture wafted down a hallway.

  The Mayor and Chitterman arrived just as an officer with one stripe on his sleeve came out the solid wood door. “The Admiral’s apologies for keeping you waiting, gentlemen. The Staff is assembling, please follow me!” His tone was insincere. The Mayor looked at Simons, “Everything as we left it?”

  “Yep!” Simons tamped out the hot end of his cigar in a white painted sand bucket and carefully positioned the dry end standing tall. They followed, aware of the soft carpet beneath their shoes and an air of quiet well-be
ing. Commander Wilbur Maxwell, tall and gaunt, sat at the end of the large, rectangular mahogany table. He slowly rose to his feet, twirled the end of his mustache, nodding his head. Next to him, Major Alden Hartwell, USMC, put out a heavy, meaty hand all-around, but his face remained stoic.

  The one-striper seated the Mayor and Chitterman; Sam Simons was motioned to the Mayor’s left. Charlie Wingate, was dismissed with a curt nod, and relegated to the side of the room. The Admiral entered followed by his Chief of Staff, a white-haired Captain Tronquet and Commander Conover. The assembled officers arose, as did the guests out of courtesy. Sam Simons attracted curious stares, one where the head turns away but the eyes lag. The room drew quiet.

  Rear-Admiral Burns was curt, only the briefest hint of a smile, “be seated, gentlemen.” A chilly greeting, stiff and formal. Conover took an unoccupied chair. “This is your meeting, Mayor; but I fail to see what useful purpose it can serve.”

  “It was time the City and the Navy met face to face.” the Mayor countered. “The City intends to pay Trent the thirty million dollars.” The Admiral replied, brusquely, “I had no doubt you would; but, it’s of little concern to the Navy.”

  Clearing his throat, Grille spoke deliberately, “Until the City delivers the money, Trent wants a cease-fire.”

  “I’m not surprised,” the Admiral stated, flatly.

  “I ask your assurances the Navy will refrain from further attacks. If not, Trent threatened to fire a second shell. He refused to identify the target. So far, he has done what he says.”

  “Mayor, Trent has made a fool of us, and I take that personally,” Burns interrupted. Grille ventured, “When he gets his money, we expect him to abandon the Missouri.”

  “I am under orders to retake the Missouri.”

  “And Trent and his men.”

  “I will have them…dead or alive.”

  “It is possible we can assist,” Grille interjected. “Chief Simons feels Trent can be neutralized and the ship retaken without any loss of life.”