SILENT GUNS (10 page)

“
I told you Schiller was into
him.”

“
The Captain doesn’t look very far
ahead,” Trent ventured. “Does Schiller have any other hold on
him?”

“
I don’t know.”

“
Well, you better find out. We
don’t need this Schiller messing around.”

* * *

From his apartment window, Trent traced the myriad
of ships idly criss-crossing Elliot Bay. A pilot boat shot out from
shore to nudge alongside a just underway-northbound trans-Pacific
container-ship. A small figure jumped across a rapidly closing
water gap, a well-practiced move. A Jacob’s ladder joggled against
the hull as the figure sure-footedly clambered up to the
wheelhouse. Would it be as easy to get aboard the
Missouri
,
Trent wondered? He had his crew, an operations base and a boat. The
pieces of the operation were falling into place. He felt
rejuvenated, alive again.

A sharp knock on the door disturbed his serenity.
Trent glanced at his watch; Madden was punctual. Madden barged in
waving a newspaper. “Here, read this.” Trent grabbed the paper and
headed for the couch. “Have you heard from Newby, yet?” Then,
without taking a breath Madden jabbered, “I don’t get it. No police
action. No war. Peace is breaking out all over like hives, so the
Navy is just going to up and spend $450 million fixing up an
obsolete battlewagon with Harpoons and Tomahawks. Just a Jonah, if
you ask me, it doesn’t make sense.”

“
Preparedness is a virtue.” Trent
sank into the couch and flicked open the newspaper. “Better back up
tough talk with muscle. Old Teddy had it right, ‘speak quietly, but
carry a big stick.’”

“
Suppose you’re right, you can’t
help but respect those Harpoons and Tomahawks. Along with the
16-inchers, they could complicate anybody’s life,” Madden
voiced.

“
And, I expect to do just that.”
Trent put down the paper down.

“
How much time did Newby say we’d
get?”

“
Thirty days and no more. The
Navy’s putting a Commander Conover in charge to make sure she’s
ready in time. I suppose he’ll be climbing all over our
butts.”

“
More like getting in the way.
Want a beer?”

“
Sure”

“
It’s time to round up the crew,”
Trent said, setting down a can. “Can you keep them busy?” Madden
sat down and looked over quickly, “That’s the least of my
worries.”

Trent’s mouth tightened into a slight pout. He
stared at Madden solemnly and wondered whether Peter would have the
stomach for what lay ahead. Madden’s way of facing the future was
to ignore it, let events overtake him, react and enjoy. He would
rescue people from burning buildings or exploding guns, but he had
no concept of tomorrow.

“
Best you round up the last of the
gear.” Trent unlocked his desk drawer and removed a small, spiral
notebook. Madden hated that notebook and the countless, “What ifs?”
or “How about this?” Questions Trent threw at him. He joined the
Navy to get away from school. He hated school. His parents wanted
him to get a college education, but he wanted to see and do - not
think! “It hurts too much to think.” Madden remembered his father
telling him, ‘People who think too much get soft and get hurt
easily.’ Trent tossed him the spiral - he caught it.

“
There’s a hell-uv-a lot of stuff
listed in here,” Madden sighed, scanning the book. “I see you
crossed off most items, but not shells for a 16-inch gun and a ton
and half of powder. Any word from Graves?”

“
No, not yet. I have to call him.
I’ll contact Harper and set up the pickup. It’ll be a good run for
the
Helga
and you can check out Larsen. Get the hang of the
ship. You’ll need to know as much about her as he does.”

“
How much time do I have?” Madden
queried.

“
I’ll talk to Larsen in the
morning and see about going north. How about you?” Trent
asked.

“
I can take a couple of days off
next week,” replied Madden as he got up, yawned and stretched.
“Include Friday.” He slipped on his peacoat, tucked the notebook
away and left. Trent eased back into his favorite chair and threw a
leg over the armrest. Extracting a white slip of paper from his
wallet, he unfolded it, picked up the phone and dialed
Canada.

“
Cremona Apartments,” a voice
answered.

“
Ben Harper, please.”

“
Just a minute,” followed by some
mixed background voices. A different voice came on the
line.

“
This is Harper.”

“
Red Ryder here. Is everything
O.K.?”

“
Just been waiting for your call.
I did like you told me.”

“
Are you off the
stuff?”

“
Yeah!”

“
You better be! Pack. I’ll call
Wednesday at 1900.”

Trent poured a drink and pulled closer to the
window. He never ceased to marvel at the spectacular beauty of
Puget Sound and the Olympic Mountains. A weather front moved in
from the Southwest. Dark clouds sent sheets of sweet rain to mix
with the salt water of the Sound. The sky darkened, changing from
orange to pink to dark blue and finally black. Specks of lights
dotted the darkness. Mother Nature was peace mixed with
violence.

* * *

Trent took in the six o’clock weather report, put on
his topcoat and left the apartment. The weather was damp and the
sky overcast; the storm blowing in had been followed by a deeper
low. The Seattle weatherman couldn’t miss. It always rained. He
exited the elevator, exchanged pleasantries with Ed, the doorman,
passed down into the sub-basement apartment garage, got into the
Mustang and drove to the
Helga
.

Hauser growled.

“
Atta boy, Hauser.” The dog
quieted down as he came up the gangway. Hauser wagged his tail as
he passed the dog a treat. “Never know when a guy might need a
friend like you, Hauser,” He whispered as he patted the dog. Hauser
let him pass. Light was coming from the Captain’s cabin. Trent
headed forward until he heard angry voices coming from inside the
deckhouse. He recognized Captain Larsen’s voice, but not the one
castigating him.

“
You and me got a deal,” an angry
voice claimed. “And you ain’t welshing. I’ll see to
that.”

“
You played me for a sucker, you
bastard. Never again.”

“
You’re in deep shit, Larsen.” The
voice was scathing. “All I gotta do is tip off the Coast Guard you
were off the coast pickin’ up grass and you can kiss this piss
bucket goodbye!”

“
I’ll tell them who hired
me.”

“
We got a deal and you owe me. No
dough. No ship.”

I could hear something hit the table.

“
What’s that?”

“
Open it and see.”

“
Where’d you get this
money?”

“
I did a job.”

“
Hell, you did! This tub has been
tied up here for the last month. What kinda job? Who
for?”

“
You got your damn money, now get
off my ship.”

“
You’re still on the hook, Larsen.
I’ll be back for the rest.” The door flew open. Trent ducked back
into the shadows. A small, wiry red-faced man stormed by and
stomped off the ship. Hauser growled. Schiller, Trent thought and
trouble for Larsen meant complications. Trent strode forward.
Captain Larsen was startled at his appearance.

“
I didn’t hear you come
aboard.”

“
Hauser and I are good friends;
besides, you and Schiller were making a lot of noise.”

“
So you heard.”

“
Yes. Schiller really has his
hooks into you, doesn’t he?”

“
At least not until the next
payment is due.”

“
There’s another load coming up
next month. Maybe, I make enough to pay him off and end it,”
volunteered the Captain hopefully. Trent knew better. Schiller was
a leech, a scum who spotted a good thing and would drain it until
he killed it.

“
I want you off to Vancouver 2230,
Friday. Madden will go with you.” Captain Larsen stepped out of his
cabin and haltingly made his way up to the wheelhouse. Trent
followed. Bending over his charts, he did a few quick calculations.
“We leave at 0400. I’ll need money for supplies and fuel.” Larsen
straightened up. Trent detected a self-assurance he hadn’t seen
before. Trent extracted ten one hundred dollar bills and tossed
them to the chart table.

“
Give me an accounting later,”
Trent said. He left the wheelhouse, patted Hauser and headed for
the Mustang. He still had an uncertain feeling about Captain
Larsen. And, now there was Schiller.

~ * * * ~

CHAPTER 8

“
Hank Graves there?”

“
No. Who’s asking?” Her voice was
soft and pleasant.

“
Tell him Red Ryder
called.”

“
Just a minute,” she paused. “Call
this number.” She hung up.

Trent dialed.

“
Hello.”

“
Red Ryder.”

“
I was beginning to wonder if you
were for real,” Graves said.

“
I’m real alright. Things are
moving. How’s your situation?”

“
I got the stuff, a ton and a
half. It’s not the best; I gotta work it over. Do we gotta be
accurate?”

“
Very. And the guns?”

“
No sweat. Got’em. Hirsch and me
are settin’, waitin’. He keeps calling me up: he bugs me. We got a
truck, too.”

“
I know,” Trent said. “It’s a blue
Dodge and you got it at Hinche’s Used Truck Lot. You guys are
careless.”

“
Shit!”

“
Is this number safe?” Trent
asked.

“
Yeah! Only you, Hirsch and my
roomie got it.”

“
Take down these
directions.”

“
Just a minute.” A pause. “O.K.,
Shoot.”

“…
go past the building and park
the truck under the light at the end of the street and leave it
there. Take a cab to the Fairmont Hotel. I’ll book a double under
Hank Zuckerman. Stay put until I contact you.”

“
How about some dough? I need it
for the roomie.”

“
Get up here first.”

“
I’m hungry already.”

“
The sooner you get here, the
sooner you eat.”

“
We’ll make it by Tuesday
afternoon.”

Trent fed the pay phone and was thanked by a sterile
recording. In the six-block walk back to the warehouse, his gut
said Graves and Hirsch would be tracked. Trent almost warned
Graves, but held off at the last instant. Evasive measures might
raise suspicions, he thought. Two ex-Navy men heading for Alaska,
but sidetracked to get the
Missouri
ready for tow was
believable. Their skills fit the work, nothing odd on that score.
Everything would appear natural, normal. With paint, a paintbrush
and a ladder, you are, obviously, a painter…Do and act like they
expect you to and you will be ignored. No flaws in the plan yet,
nothing obvious, anyway.

Madden was waiting. “Harper’s sleeping it off in
back.”

Trent fired off a look that cut Madden clean
through.

“
You mean he’s drunk,” Trent
exploded.

Gritting his teeth, Trent stormed to where Harper
lay sprawled across a cot. His head was angled over the side, his
face distended. Vomit dribbled off the corner of his mouth. “Open
your eyes, Harper.” He grabbed the cot and viciously heaved it
over. Harper was sent flying. He crashed into a wall and tumbled
into a heap. A groan parted his lips. Trent jammed a foot into
Harper’s ribs; his body instinctively recoiled. Madden jumped in
and bodily wrapped his arms around Trent and pulled him off a
writhing Harper.

“
Stomping won’t do any good. Eight
years in exile screwed him up.”

“
Then, get rid of him!” Trent
ordered.

“
We can’t. He knows too
much.”

“
Then, he’s your
headache.”

Madden righted the cot and hauled Harper up by his
collar. Cleaning him off, he eased him back onto the cot. Harper
clutched his painfully bruised ribs and drifted off in a drunken
stupor.

“
Dammit, Harper,” Madden said, his
face tight, eyeing him sadly. He couldn’t forget Harper in his
prime and what he could do with the big guns. Poor bastard, he
thought, still running. Madden left, closing the door behind
him.

“
Well?”

“
He’ll survive. No thanks to you.”
Madden reached into his pocket and flipped a spiral notebook at
Trent. “Harper went over it. The notes are his. I guess you didn’t
know everything.” Madden walked away.

Trent shouted after him, “Sober him up and get him
up on the roof. Graves and Hirsch are due in. And make sure he
stays out of sight.”

“
The roof?” Madden turned, his
face puzzled. “Why the lookout? We got problems?”

“
Maybe. They might be
followed.”

“
By whom?”

“
You’ll find out when I
do.”