SILENT GUNS

by Bob Neir

  “Madden worked two days: one over at the Port docks, the other at Todd. Then…”

  Simons tugged his chin, and then said, almost to himself, Trent hesitated…then he asked for the latest papers before he set the pickup time. “Damn. Jim. Get me a list of the ships at both those places for those two days. And copies of the latest newspapers.” He drove a fresh cigar stub into his mouth and stared blankly ahead.

  Jim Frances threw a strange look at his boss.

  “I mean hurry. Now!” The chief snapped, waving his arm.

  “They carry Seattle papers across the street,” Lt. Elston called out. Dropping the cigar, Simons heeled it angrily until it crunched to dust. A throbbing vein on his forehead stood out clearly.

  * * *

  Turbulence buffeted the over laden helicopter as it broke away from a craggy shoreline. It dropped through low-lying cloud cover, banked and scudded along over white-capped water. Trent sensed, for a brief moment, the fragility of the ‘copter. Peering over the pilot’s shoulder, he noted the course heading at 356. Hugging the surface of the Straits, they crept towards Victoria, British Columbia, with a frustrating slowness.

  “We have a timetable to adhere to,” he said with agitation. “See anything behind us?” Trent spoke into the intercom.

  “Nothing.” Graves answered.

  “Nothing on this side, either.” Harper added.

  “Good. Keep a sharp eye out.”

  “We’ve cleared the Straits. Victoria is ten miles ahead,” the pilot reported as he switched to weather service frequency 162.55 MHz. “Low cloud cover, ceiling 200 feet, winds from the southwest 15 knots,” a soothing, almost mechanical voice reported.

  Trent ordered, “Switch on 161.87Mhz.”

  The co-pilot reset the frequency. “Fox 2 to Den Mother. We have Rabbit in sight,” came over the radio. “Position 10 miles south of Victoria.”

  “Den Mother to Fox 2, stay on his tail. We are tracking you: Fox 1 is moving in to intercept.”

  Trent ordered, “Two of them. Climb to 500 feet, heading 295.” He felt the tremor of the winds as he watched the altimeter. The ‘copter climbed, the heading director swing over as broke it through the fringes of low-lying clouds into squalling rain. The pilot reached over and turned on the windshield wipers. Airspeed hit 110 knots as he leveled off at 500 feet. Less than a mile ahead laid the southern coast of Vancouver Island, with its lush green, heavily forested terrain. Beneath, steady winds blew whitewashed waves against the rugged, rock-strewn coast.

  Trent ordered, “Hold this heading for 50 miles. We pass over River Jordan en route to Port Renfrew.” He looked at his watch.

  “Fox 1 to little Foxes. I have radar locked on Rabbit. He’s at 500 feet; heading 295, airspeed 95 knots.”

  “Fox 3 to Fox 1, where are you?”

  Trent exclaimed, “Three of them.”

  “Fox 1 to Foxes, ten miles due east Port Renfrew.”

  “Roger. Fox 2 on intercept course. Watch for me.”

  “Den Mother, to Navy 1 and Navy 2, move west and sweep coast both sides of Straits. Fox 2, Rabbit is at nine miles, passing over Port Renfrew, altitude 500 feet, airspeed 95 knots. You are clear to track. Fox 1 take 750 feet. Fox 3 stay south, course 300.”

  “Fox 3 to Den Mother, where am I?”

  “Clallam Bay.”

  Trent ordered, “Down to 50 feet.”

  The pilot froze, “You’re crazy. I don’t know what’s down there. We’re over land.” Madden pressed the cold muzzle of a .45 against the side of his head. “Down.” He ordered, his forefinger eased onto the trigger.

  Trent said, “You just fly. I’ll tell you what to do – understand?” The pilot bit his lip, choking back his fears. The ‘copter dropped until it broke free of the mist at 50 feet. The pilot came to the edge of a lake where he pulled up and over the tops of tall firs lining the bank. He was so low; he clipped at a few treetops on the way up. Breaking out into a cold sweat, the pilot screamed, “This is suicidal.” Weaving this way and that, he dodged tall firs and cedars until the ‘copter broke out over Port San Juan, an inlet that leads south to the Strait.

  Trent ordered, “Hold course ten minutes, then head 210.”

  “Fox 2 to Den Mother, I’ve lost contact. He fell out of the sky.”

  “Fox 1 to Fox 2, son-of-a-bitch must have landed. I can’t see a damned thing.”

  “Den Mother, we don’t need heroes, guys. Fox 1, stay on 295 and head up the coast; Fox 2, stay in the area, maybe he’ll pop up again. If they have landed, it’s our tough luck. We’ll leave them for the Mounties.”

  Trent smiled. “We lost them.”

  Lt. Elston’s somber eyes turned back to the tracking table. In a flat, unemotional tone he said, “Find Rabbit. I want them found now.” He slammed his fist on the table. Then he lowered himself onto a steel chair and sat pondering. Conover peered down at the concentric circles: Rabbit had disappeared.

  Den Mother, Seattle Center just picked up an IFF 10 miles south of Port Renfrew on 210, altitude 150.”

  Trent forced his way between the pilots and said, “That was stupid, pilot.” He flicked the IFF switch down. “Keep this baby below 100 or your co-pilot will get a permanent promotion. And, while we’re at it,” Trent leaned forward and shattered the recognition lights switches with the butt of his gun.

  “From here on in, no lights.”

  “The pilot asked, “Where are we heading?”

  “Tatoosh.”

  “Goddamned crazy nonsense flying like this. I can’t find that island blind.” Turbulent winds smacked at the big helicopter.

  “You will. Hold this heading for 15 miles and you should see it.” The helicopter flew on into a darkening, forbidding sky.

  Harper shouted, “There’s a ‘copter passing overhead.”

  Madden said, “I see his lights.”

  They flew on. Heavy seas broke against mountainous cliffs below - the coast. Wind tumbled wildly down impossible slopes to churn the air and clip the wave tops.

  “Tatoosh, ahead.” The island rose out of the fog.

  Tatoosh Island, a flat, rocky, outcrop sits a half-mile off the Washington coast at the entrance to the Strait of Juan de Fuca. Located as far northwest as one can go and still have ones feet on the continental United States, the island once housed the Cape Flattery lighthouse. Once a sailor’s beacon, it stood abandoned to modern technology. For millennia, ocean swells clawed at the island’s rocky base, carving out a small, sandy beach. Spreading away from the island, lay a low, thick, impenetrable fog. The top was clear.

  Trent ordered, “Now, land.”

  The machine rocked intermittently, vibrating as if wanting to fly apart. Headsets muted the powerful roar of the SikorskyHH-60J engines. The pilot cowered as rain peppered the Plexiglas cockpit with streamers clawing to blind them. He stabbed and pushed as they settled downward. The big Sikorsky lurched, dropped in and came to rest. Exposed to the elements, the plateau was cruel and perpetually windswept covered with jagged rocks.

  They did not feel welcomed.

  ~ * * * ~

  CHAPTER 31

  Operations Specialist Ona pushed his chair back. He sat hunched, his shoulders sagged. “I lost them,” he said, in a surprisingly calm voice. Pinpricks of data, of Coast Guard and Navy helicopters, punctuated the screen before him. Rabbit’s location remained a mystery. A machine clanked out a printout estimating the fuel endurance of the dispatched helicopters.

  “Den Mother, to Navy 1 and Navy 2. Divert to nearest facility for fueling. Do not report position: I repeat, do not report position. Standby for re-dispatch. Fox 3, conduct search pattern Neah Bay to Cape Flattery. Investigate Tatoosh as possible Rabbit destination. Fox 2, weather reported clear over Port Renfew. Search; then refuel. Fox 1, hold on station.”

  A Coast Guardsman wearing headphones moved the markers. As Simons watched, a brief look of agitation creased his brow then suddenly softened.

  Conover nodded slowly, “What now, Lieutenant?”


  “We wait, “Lt. Elston barked.

  “The fog off the coast is bad,” Conover countered weakly.

  A thin smile crossed Elston’s lips, “Nothing new. Fog or no fog, we dispatch for enforcement. We pick an area, fly over, plot radar targets, then check them out with forward looking radar. Bang! We nail ‘em and vector in a cutter to pick them up. I’ll admit, it’s simpler than pursuing a helicopter; especially, one of your own that can pick up Den Mother.”

  “Just like in the movies, except he can read our mail.” Simons laughed, shattering the tension. “Trent is a rather resilient chap,” Lt. Elston stated the obvious. Simons pictured Trent, a sitting duck on a cruelly distended rock formed in the clash of plates. He demurred, “What can Trent accomplish on Tatoosh? Why would he land there? How does he escape, take his final leap to freedom?”

  “He needs fuel: he needs land; but above all, he needs time.” Lt. Elston replied, “If he’s there, we can trap him. We’re vectoring in on Tatoosh.” He leaned over the table with its bright markers and clicked off, “We dispatched an Aerospatiale Dolphin and a Sikorsky Pelican to close in. If he has a boat stashed away, we can pick him up easier than an illegal drug runner. And if he slips by us; well, he has 30 nautical miles to the territorial limit; the ‘Dolphins’ can cover out to 150 miles, the ‘Pelican’ out to 300. If we get him airborne and keep him in sight, we can box him in and force him down. If we are lucky, we can nail him on Tatoosh, if that’s where he set down. Our pilots are trained professionals, proficient in bad weather flying and water take-offs and landing…especially, the pilots of Rabbit.”

  Simons glanced up as Jim Frances rushed in. “Chief, I checked with Todd and the Port. Eight ships were in that weekend; five were at the Port’s docks and three over at Todd’s for repairs.

  Simons listened, then held out his hand: “The newspapers.” Shifting towards the tracking table, he tore through the pages. Ripping out a page of the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, he spread it flat with the palm of his hand. He hurriedly drew the tip of his finger down the page until he came to a section labeled WEEKLY MARITIME SHIP DEPARTURES. He lay down the list of eight and three names jumped out at him: Vada, Bandera and Hestia. Simons glanced at the others around him and said, “Jim, write this down: Departure times: 1800 Friday; 0400 Saturday, and 0600 Saturday in that order. Any idea on their cruising speeds?”

  “Fact is, Chief,” Frances answered, “The Vada and Bandera are sister container-ships. Both cruise at 16 knots; the Hestia is old and beat up, they told me she does maybe 10 knots in a following sea.” His levity went unnoticed as Lt. Elston nodded to coastguardsman Mel Yonkers, manning the tracking table. “Yonkers, lay plots from Elliott Bay to the mouth of the Strait.” Yonkers deftly taped out three courses and black-marked estimated arrival times off the mouth of the Strait. The distance measured 140 nautical miles; the ‘now’ day and time was marked as Saturday, 2034. Yonkers did more quick calculations then reported, “Lieutenant, that puts the Vada about 250 miles off the coast. The Bandera would be 100 miles out and, using 10 knots for the Hestia, she’d be at the mouth, just off Tatoosh about now.” He looked up from the table. A silence befell the Operations Center.

  Lt. Elston leaned over the table and grimaced. He sucked in his lower lip and nibbled it reflectively. “It’s possible, very possible.” He looked up at Simons, and then turned away and ordered, “Yonkers, call to Visual Traffic Safety (VTS). Get a precise fix on those three ships.” He turned to Simons, “they radar track everything that floats.” He glanced at Conover, “You may not be aware, Commander Conover, the Coast Guard’s interdiction zones are restricted to no more than twelve-miles from the mainland. Coming this sudden, with no warning, I did not foresee the need for temporary authorization to expand our normal zone. I hate to bother you with details, Commander Conover but you know rules…But if one of those ships is Trent’s target…”

  “And the weather out there?” Conover feigned deafness.

  Lt. Elston nodded; uncertainty crossed his face. A guardsman stripped a sheet of paper from a machine that cranked incessantly. He hurried over and laid it before the Lieutenant. Lt. Elston glanced at it, perfunctorily, and then read out loud, “Low-lying, heavy fog off the mouth out to 45 miles. A heavy weather front is moving southeast from the Aleutians. Winds up to 70 knots reported.”

  “Bad flying weather, eh! Lieutenant,” Conover said.

  “It’s bad weather for anything out there,” Lt. Elston said impatiently. Conover rubbed his Lt. Commander’s insignia. “We must stay out there. We cannot abandon the chase. My gut tells me Rabbit is hiding, conserving fuel.” He grabbed a pointer and tapped in on the chart; it touched Port Renfrew. “I can’t believe they’ve set down anywhere near here. It has to be on the Washington side.”

  Simons stared at the map. Trent’s scent hung in the air; but if Rabbit was hiding, he thought, he must be getting set to spring up out of his hutch. Rabbit was a well-chosen acronym, he mused to himself. And at that precise moment, it occurred to him, that Trent chose a ‘Pelican’ over a ‘Dolphin’ for its superiority in range. If so, why then did Trent play hide-’n-seek? Lt. Elston, he thought, had hit it on the nose. He was overweight. Fuel. Yes, it had to be fuel. And fuel meant range. Yes! Trent needed range, as much as he can get. The Foxes were burning up fuel chasing Rabbit. Rabbit was quietly sitting on the ground, somewhere, saving fuel - or refueling! Then he recalled Madden’s missing two days. Could he have been out to Cape Flattery? A one-day trip. “Yes! It must be,” he said out loud. They turned and looked at him.

  “What is it, Chief?” Gleese asked, her manner abrupt.

  “Here.” Simons moved down the table; they crowded around him as he pointed to Cape Flattery. “Somewhere out here,” he circled the area with the tip of the pointer,” Rabbit is re-fueling.”

  Lt. Elston understood instantly, “Ona, order Foxes to close on Tatoosh and Cape Flattery. Rabbit has to be on the Washington side.”

  “Den Mother, Foxes 1, 2, close on Cape Flattery and Tatoosh. Assume Rabbit is fueling. Fox 2, Tatoosh is yours. Fox 3 refuel and standby.”

  “Fox 2, Roger.”

  “Fox 3, Roger.”

  “Fox 1, Roger.”

  Simons stared at the map. Tatoosh, was a desolate wind-swept wet rock; the perfect jumping off spot to the West.

  Lt. Elston stooped over and said, “It’s a gamble.”

  Simons added, “They had better be there.”

  * * *

  “Den Mother, this is Fox 2. Visibility is zero. We are approaching Tatoosh.” The pilot, Lt. Wilbur (Zeke) Zediker, was dark-haired with a full face sporting a natty mustache, hollered into the mike. Co-pilot Lt. Howard Wolak, blonde haired, a linebacker who got lost on his way to the game. A farm boy at heart who couldn’t figure out how he got into helicopters, looked across and nodded in agreement. “I can’t see a damned thing; no visuals gives me the willies.” Wolak checked his instruments: altitude 250; heading 220; speed 80 knots. “Give us eleven minutes.”

  “Fox 2, this is Den Mother. Watch your altitude; you dropped off my screen.” Zeke and Wolak both looked at the altimeter; the co-pilot gave it a sharp rap. The needle fell.

  Wolak panicked, “Christ! Pull up. Zeke. Possible rocky outcroppings quarter-mile ahead.” Zeke gradually increased the ‘copter’s altitude, shying away from rocks and banked away along the water’s edge

  Zeke said, “Right. Anything yet?”

  “Not a damn thing.”

  “Hey! You guys in the back, see anything?”

  Flight Mechanics Craig Floray and Raj Kapur thumbs-upped as they adjusted their headphones and voice-operated mikes drowning out the deafening windblast and engine noise. Eager hands unclamped the locks and slid back the cargo door. The rush of air whistled by and drummed on the hollow, metallic interior. Kapur leaned out.

  “Small islands off to starboard, Captain, at 2 o’clock; breakers are riding high against cliffs at 3 o’clock.” Glimpses of rocky cliffs appeared momentarily t
hrough the lashing rain and then quickly vanished again. Tendrils of fog and low-lying clouds seemed pulled along like cotton candy.

  Zeke announced, nervously, “I’m taking her up to 200.” He slowed airspeed to near hover as he edged up cautiously, yet the higher he rose the thicker the cloud cover became.

  Wolak shouted, “Zeke. No radar, you’re too close.”

  “Roger.”

  “See anything?”

  “A small beach, maybe.” The beach, lapping at the foot of tall black cliffs, was smaller than at first glance. It consisted of a patch of sand surrounded by broken black rocks shed over the centuries to form a treacherous slope. The beach, which shelved precipitously into deep water, was thrashed by an angry maelstrom of short, steep crashing waves. The ‘copter’s world vanished as they punched into a low, dark cloud.

  Floray reported, “Lieutenant. I can’t see the surface…we’re backing down, sir, and very fast.”

  “Goddamn!!!”

  Zeke shouted, “Hold tight, I’m shifting her nose down.”

  Two seconds later, the forward altitude alert blared ‘rapid descent’ through 150 feet.

  “Jesus!!” They heard Wolak’s voice. “We’re gonna hit. Hang on…”

  Zeke shouted, “She’s pulling max power…”

  “Shit.”

  It was a resounding crash; it felt like a cliff had fallen in on them. Fox 2’s blades hit the water hard, immediately rolled over and began to take on water. She stabilized momentarily with only a foot of her undersides showing. Four heads bobbed up nearby.

  “Zeke, I tossed the life raft off,” Floray shouted over the din of crashing waves. He pointed to a yellow, drifting object.

  “I’ll get it,” Kapur said pushing off from the bobbing hull.

  “Everybody, O.K.” Zeke shouted, spitting out a mouthful of icy, salt water and staring at his bloody hand. “Stay together, you clods.”