SILENT GUNS

by Bob Neir

  It was Sunday, but the day didn’t matter. Commander. Conover would show up at precisely 0730 every day, without fail, and he always sat alone. His routine: read a newspaper while nursing an early morning coffee. He lived alone, his life orderly and totally dedicated to the Navy. Wingate selected a cold breakfast cereal, filled a cup with coffee and paid. The cook, wiping his greasy hands on a badly soiled apron, took his money and made change. Wingate, his headache pounding, forced a smile and turned to his quarry.

  “Care if I join you?” He set his cereal down.

  Conover looked up, “Seems you just did…”

  “Thanks. Any hot news in the Base paper?”

  “Nothing a civilian would be interested in.”

  “Mate Scarese pulled it off, I hear.”

  “That was your plan, wasn’t it?”

  “Well,‘er. The Chief pulled it together.” He slid into the booth and sipped at his coffee.

  “Don’t bullshit me, Wingate,” Conover’s voice was suddenly old and tired, “I don’t cotton to buttinskies.” Wingate recalled Conover’s face when the plan’s simplicity dawned on him. He counted to five, very slowly as he remembered Simon’s edict: kiss his ass if you have to.

  “Come on Conover, we both got bosses and they both want Trent off the Missouri. That’s the only reason I’m over here. Why give each other a bad time?”

  “I didn’t make you look bad,” Conover sulked.

  Wingate glanced at his watch. Patience. Patience, he chided himself. He bent forward, his face close Conover’s and said, “This isn’t Navy work, Conover, it’s police work; but we can work together, you and me. My boss, Simons, is a real prick and I know Burns is a real bastard.”

  “How come you didn’t come to me first? That big deal show Simons put on in front of the Admiral’s Staff. That pissed me off,” Conover persisted. Wingate bit his lip as he calculated his next remark, “Simons labeled it a quick-burn operation, and they always look good on paper. He wanted to try it out on the Admiral’s Staff. No hard feelings, Conover. Hey! How about a truce? No secrets between us; we square with each other from here on.” Conover looked wary. “I don’t know…” Conover started to speak. Wingate cut him off.

  “What do you have to lose? My ass is in a sling with Simons. One more screw-up and I’m on a night beat down the Rainier Valley.”

  “Burns is all over me, too!”

  “Did I get you into trouble?”

  “No worse than it was. Admiral Ambler is climbing all over Burns’ butt. Burns was into the sauce before Ambler got here, now it’s even worse, he swills the stuff for meals. This Base must be a last stop for him. He dumps on me for everything, no matter what. And, he’s paranoid about this Trent guy. Seems he knows him from somewhere. He mumbled like Trent was after him, trying to get even or something like that. I don’t get it. Hey! Are you leading me on?”

  “Truce, remember, we’re partners. We found out Burns lied about Trent at his court-martial. Trent got busted, banished and eventually kicked out of the Navy. The Chief thinks Trent has it in for Burns.” Conover whistled, “Man, that’s heavy stuff. Does Burns know?”

  “He will. Simons meets with him at 1000.”

  Conover burst out laughing, “Arrogant bastard. Burns threw a wingding celebration over at the Officer’s Club last night. The Staff toasted Scarese’s score. That place should burn down with him in it. Burns pointedly dis-invited me. Mate Scarese’s his man, now that Trent is done for.”

  Wingate asked, “You mean, no more Navy moves?”

  “Hell! No firelock - no cannon fire. Isn’t that what you cops wanted. The Admiral plans to let Trent rot out there.”

  “Simons had a chat with Trent about an hour ago,” Wingate confided, “Trent is real pissed off. He’s laid down some new conditions. The Chief agreed to deliver on them: he expects Burns to go bazonkers.”

  “Trent doesn’t hold any cards. What kind of conditions?”

  “The Chief didn’t tell me,”

  “Burns is as unstable as nitro.”

  “Truce.”

  “Truce.”

  “Let’s keep each other posted.”

  “You, too.”

  They shook on it.

  * * *

  Admiral Brian Burns vigorously shook Sam Simons’ hand as he jauntily stepped out from behind his desk. His red, blue-veined pudgy face blossomed in obvious relief.

  “Have a chair, Chief?” Simons expected an exercise in wits, a most pleasant undertaking, he thought.

  “What will you have?”

  Simons cocked his head. “Whiskey. Straight. No ice; no soda.”

  “Splendid. You’re my kind of man,” Admiral Burns extolled as he reached down into his desk drawer. “No alcohol allowed on the Base,” he winked. Simons heard the clink of glass. “I keep a bottle for special occasions, like this,” he said, looking up as he set out two glasses, poured, then laughed as he thudded the bottle on the desk. “Here’s to your Charlie Wingate, Chief. A brilliant stroke, if you ask me,” he chortled as he hoisted his glass. “So damned obvious, so damned simple. Imagine, a 16-inch gun without a trigger. What a joke on Trent!”

  “I’d prefer them under lock and key, Admiral.”

  “I’m going to take great pleasure in starving them out.” The Admiral laughed throatily. “They can rot out there in that God-forsaken, iron prison, for all I care.” He leaned back; a smug look filled his face.

  Simons leaned forward and set his glass down. “I’ve talked with Trent. He assures me he can still fire the gun.” The Admiral didn’t flinch; but, carefully re-filled Simon’s glass. “He’s bluffing. No way can that gun be fired.” Burns set down the bottle, his bluster tempered.

  “Could there be another way? A second firelock aboard, perhaps?” Simons touched the glass to his lips and felt the rawness of the whiskey.

  “Not without a firelock,” The Admiral responded in a flat voice. “And, the Missouri’s inventory records says ‘no’ to your second question.” Simons paused, choosing his words carefully, “Can you risk being wrong?” The Admiral’s brow furrowed deeply.

  “Did you know Trent personally?” Simons asked, quietly.

  The Admiral blinked. “What makes you think that?”

  “You forget it’s my business to know things. Weren’t you both aboard the Missouri when she collided with the Duluth? You were the navigator, weren’t you?” Burns grew cold and withdrawn. He reached for the bottle, “Is that a statement or a question?” His voice trailed off.

  The shot hit home.

  “You testified at his court-martial, didn’t you? From the record, I understand your testimony was damaging, crucial to the prosecution’s case. Does Trent hold a grudge against you for your part in his demise?” Burns shifted uneasily, an ache in his leg acted up causing him to wince in pain.

  Burns’s jaw tightened, “What are you asking?”

  Simons clarified, “Trent is convinced his career was ruined for a yet unexplained reason. Do you know what that reason was?” Burns said, “Sour grapes! He was the conning officer in command of the Missouri and he screwed up. Men died on the Duluth because of him. He got what he deserved.” Burns was shouting now, his face thrust forward, trembling with rage. He stood up, gripped the edge of the desk and leaned forward. “Men like Trent are scum to be cleansed from the face of the earth.” His eyes were aflame, but behind the flame, Simons saw fear.

  “You mean there’s nothing to be gained by a further investigation,” Simons said imperturbably.

  Burns replied angrily, “You do get my meaning. It’s ancient history. It happened over seven years ago. Trent was an embarrassment to the Navy. Why reopen old wounds. Trent is sick in the head.”

  “Trent claims to have new evidence.”

  “What new evidence?” Burns looked at him with doubt.

  “Let’s say, Trent has been informed of certain facts.”

  “Balderdash. By whom?”

  “He doesn’t confide in me.” Simons scowled
, “However, he did tell me that after the City pays, he intends to release his men. We’ve agreed to offer them safe conduct out of the country. He will remain on board, with the gun loaded, until the Navy agrees to grant him a re-trial.”

  “Good God! He is mad.”

  Simons sat back and withdrew a cigar from his inside coat pocket, which he slowly unwrapped. He placed the cigar in his mouth, lit it and waited. The Admiral’s face hardened. Simons drew in a breath then said quietly, “Trent is not mad, he’s obsessed. Why, Admiral?”

  “How should I know?” Burns’ eyes narrowed as he fought to regain control of his voice. He gave a sly smile and asked, “Is the City still going to pay him off?” Simons cracked a wry smile. Good try, he mused. Burns waited. Simons replied, “The Mayor and City Council are not aware of these new demands.”

  “You got your neck stuck out pretty far, Simons.”

  “I merely seek to assure the City that Trent either can’t or will not fire, or barring that, the Navy’s agreeing to his terms. He insists on a re-trial. If you had taken up his invitation to visit the Missouri, you would know this, but you didn’t. I am just a humble policeman, not a politician.”

  Burns eyed him threateningly. “I can get your ass in big trouble.”

  “You’re too smart for that, Admiral. True! I’m walking a knife’s edge; but, as you say, ‘can get my ass in big trouble’, is not in the Navy’s, ‘er, pardon me, your best interest. I have a line open to Trent and I have his trust.”

  “He’s bluffing,” Burns strained to regain lost ground. “He’s only after the money and he will do anything to keep the pressure on. Get the money and cut out, that’s it! Otherwise, he’s dead meat, and he knows it.”

  “The Navy’s neck is stuck out. Your neck!”

  “What the hell do you want out of me? A press conference to placate a nut!!” The Admiral blasted.

  “Well, then, what did go on before that court-martial?

  “Call up Denton, he’ll tell you. It’s all in the record.”

  “We’ve read the record. What about the rest of them?”

  “Proust is dead.”

  “Farr and Kindler?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Time is running out, Admiral.”

  “Simons, your tactics don’t scare me.”

  Sam Simons stood up. “Admiral. It’s still the Navy’s nickel.” He shoved his chair back, jammed his cigar in the ashtray and said, “I’ll be at Wingate’s apartment until 1130. I’m catching the 1157 to Seattle. I’ll be in my office at 1400, if you need to contact me. Otherwise, I’m going where this investigation takes me – with or without your help. Good day, sir.” Burns watched Simons leave. He waited for the door to close. The Admiral grabbed his phone and dialed.

  “Harley. Simons suspects. We’re in a hell-uv-a fix.”

  “Are you in your office?”

  “Yes!”

  “Then get off this line. Call from an outside phone.” Admiral Harley T. Kindler, retired, hung up.

  * * *

  Sam Simons hauled himself up the stairs to Charlie Wingate’s apartment nearly out of breath. “Did Burns call anyone?” Simons asked, gulping air. Charlie Wingate explained, “.... then he hung up, Chief.”

  “Did Noonan get anything?” Chief Simons asked.

  “A phone number and a first name - Harley.”

  “Has Noonan run a trace?”

  “He’s on it. Think there is something going on?”

  “I do now.”

  “Any idea what?”

  “None at all. We’d better do a background check on Kindler’s crowd. There has to be a loose thread somewhere.”

  “That will take time,” Wingate admonished.

  “Burns is taking cover under Trent pulling a pressure tactic.” Wingate said, “If he’s right, and the City pays off, it’s all over. Smart bastard, Burns.”

  Simons replied, “And, if Burns is wrong and Trent releases his men and remains aboard…Charlie, get cracking. Get a tail on Burns. If we’re hot, Burns will have to do his own dirty work. Call me on the hour. Chief Milt Inness, Bremerton Police Department, owes me a couple of favors. I’ll see if he can assign a man to cover the main gate. It’s Sunday and only one gate is open.” Simons checked his watch.

  “What am I looking for?”

  “Burns is our only live body until we can track down Kindler and the rest. Judging by his reaction, we may have just set some wheels in motion. Boxed in and set up is just where I’d like to keep our friendly Admiral.” He’s scared; I panicked him, now he’ll run. We’ve flushed one of the birds from the nest. I’m betting on Trent. His senses better be true.”

  “What can Burns do?” Wingate asked.

  “I don’t know for sure.”

  “Well, your squeeze play did work. He could hardly wait for you to get out of his office to call Kindler,” Wingate snickered.

  “Have Noonan stay on that wiretap,” Simons ordered.

  “Thanks to Conover. It grabs my balls, but we’re palsy-walsy. If Burns tries anything, Conover could be in on it? We have a ‘no-secrets’ pact. He said he’d call: visa-versa with me. We wait, watch and listen, eh! Chief.” Sam Simons glanced at his wristwatch. “I’d better make my call and run or I’ll miss my ferry.” He phoned, slipped out and was gone.

  * * *

  Charlie answered the phone.

  “You Wingate?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Detective Toby Wheeler, Bremerton Police Department, here. I tracked a big, blue Navy sedan out to Dungeness Spit. It left the Yard at 1212. Your Admiral was driving. He was alone and in a hell-uv-a big hurry. Damn near ran down a Marine sentry manning the gate. It’s a small place, way out in the sticks. Your Admiral met with this older guy for over half-an-hour. They stood on the front porch. The older gent was tall with white hair, ramrod straight. The mailbox read H.T. Kindler. I followed the Admiral back, just got here. He’s back in his office. Sorry, I couldn’t call any sooner.”

  “Understand. Stay with him, if he comes out again.”

  “Right!” Detective Wheeler hung up.

  Charlie picked up the phone and dialed.

  “Noonan. Wingate.”

  “Burns put in a call at 1822 to another phone on the Base.”

  “Any idea to whom?”

  “No name: no one answered.”

  “That’s no surprise, it’s a weekend.”

  “Shit!”

  ~ * * * ~

  CHAPTER 26

  Charlie Wingate lay sprawled, half asleep, when the ringing of the phone broke his reverie. Startled, he scattered his half-read Sunday newspaper to the floor, stabbing for the offending phone. A cup of cold coffee got in the way.

  “Wingate? Conover, here!” Clipped tones hushed, as if forced against the mouthpiece. “I’m across from the Headquarters building. Burns is meeting with Tronquet and the Major. And, no, I wasn’t invited. It could be innocent enough.”

  Conover pressed, “That’s odd. Navy business. Sunday. Four in the afternoon?”

  “Urgent? Could Trent be up to something?”

  “Not that I’m aware of; but, get this, Mate Scarese slips into the building about half hour later. Coincidence? I tracked him. He bee-lined it straight for the Admiral’s office. He was in there about an hour, then Tronquet and the Major come out: Mate Scarese is still in there with Burns. It could be nothing, but…”

  “You make a good tail, Conover. Did anyone see you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Be careful. You may think this is a picnic, but I don’t. When Scarese comes out, follow him.”

  Wingate felt a chill as he fumbled for cigarettes, finding them open on the table. He wondered, who’s playing what part in what game? Are the players hiding knowledge from each other, or are they shielding each other? He pondered as he hung up: Either way, I don’t get it. He clicked his lighter, glanced down as if expecting the phone to ring again; then, snapping it up, he dialed. “Noonan, anything going
on?”

  “Not a peep.”

  Wingate rubbed his unshaven, rough-stubble chin.

  “There’s been a pow-wow in the Admiral’s office, and no one used his phone, you say? Does that strike you as strange?” Wingate’s voice tightened.

  “Well, he could have stepped out,” Noonan said.

  “Damn. Outsmarted. Noonan, you better cover the Main gate. Hurry. If the Admiral leaves the Base, tail him.” Wingate slammed down the receiver, then dialed. “Chief, Charlie here. Something weird is going on.” He felt a rush of adrenalin, “Conover reported in. It looks like Burns has Scarese up to something and I’d lay odds he’s wrangled Tronquet’s and the Major’s blessing to cover his ass. It smells bad!”

  “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.