SILENT GUNS (24 page)

His hands wedged behind his head, he let his eyes
slip shut. As hard as he tried, his mind flatly refused to shut
down. Vague doubts, possibilities and fears of what was yet to come
tormented him. The odds heavily favored events going wrong; it was
only a matter of time before his good luck ran out. And, he knew
it. So far he had both dealt and played the cards his way. He had
taunted others to play, but they were unaware the game was on.

Hot sweat coursed down his back as he castigated
himself for ordering the
Helga
out; it was a stupid,
unwarranted risk. But, his luck held. Those odds, again! He
conjured up the faces of Farr, Denton, Proust, Kindler, and Burns.
Where were they? What were they doing? Men who had derailed not
just his career, but also his life. It was in sadistic
anticipation, a glorious joy in turning the tables, getting even,
getting back that he fell into a deep sleep. The
Helga
,
nudging the side of the
Missouri
lulled him into a deeper
sleep, by gently falling off, repeating the soothing rhythm.

Newby startled him, his hand roughly shaking his
shoulder. He had set down a tray of steaming coffee and sandwiches.
“You better eat something,” he said. Trent hadn’t bothered with
meals, eating was not on his mind. Maybe, it was just nerves. He
rubbed his head vigorously; but, it did not dispel the fuzziness
nor placate his sour, empty stomach. The tantalizing smell of fresh
coffee brought back pleasant recollections of Lisa standing in the
doorway, her shapely body, and her warmness. His brain begged for
more time. Shaking out the cobwebs, he shot a quick glance at the
clock on the bulkhead. The hands had not moved, yet it was bright
daylight. “Good God! I’ve slept twelve hours!”

Newby stepped back, his face twisted. He hesitated,
then cleared his throat,

“
Tony, I know I can pull my
weight, I…”

Trent cut him short, “I know that, Newby.”

“
I was sure you didn’t want me
aboard…”

It was an awkward moment. “That’s true, Newby. We
each have a role to play: you played yours. I admit I did
underestimate you. I do need you now.” Newby’s face brightened
appreciably. Trent steamed under his breath, “Damn, Newby,
incompetent dreamer. He could foul up the whole caper. But, here he
was,
fait accomplie
.”

“
How’re our guests?” Trent’s
caffeine-ignited brain cells fired off an effort to change the
subject.

“
On their best behavior. Camp is
over and they know it. They get to go home,” Newby laughed.
“Maxie’s standing watch. He’s got the .45 and an itchy finger for
Schiller. If he makes one false move...”

“
An itchy finger. That’s all I
need,” Trent pulled on a boot, “is for Maxie to pull that trigger.
And, all my careful planning will go down the tube.” Trent jammed
his foot down with a start.

“
Commander Conover showed up this
morning.”

“
What did he want?”

“
Madden spotted him coming and
stalled him while Graves ducked into the barbette, cut the lights
and hid below.”

“
What did he want?” Trent
repeated, impatiently.

“
Not sure. He snooped around,
inspected the turret, and looked down into the black hole of the
handling hatch.”

“
Did he appear
suspicious?”

“
Hard to tell. There’s a
contractor’s meeting at 1200. We told him we didn’t know where you
were. Madden is covering it, then he walked aft and disappeared
below decks.”

Trent stood up. His feet took him short steps across
the sea cabin. He paused before the hand-basin. Newby eyed him,
picked up and left. Trent followed him in the bulkhead mirror and
grimaced. He plucked at the puffiness under his eyes, the shadows
and the deep lines in his cheeks. A mouth turned down at the
corners he hadn’t noticed before. Unkempt hair played in all
directions. Turning on the hot water tap, he lathered up for
shaving, nicking himself. “Damn.”

“
Serves me right,” he said. “First
try.”

As he placed the razor to his cheek, feelings of
doubt again gripped him. He wondered: could he lose his hold over
the men? He dared not relax his grip. Five men each different,
different strengths and weakness, none must be wasted, even Newby.
Under pressure, who would break first? Graves? No! Not Graves. He
was too basic, he thought. Harper? Maybe. He was unpredictable,
bordering on volatile. Maxie, no! But, Maxie was hurting, tired.
Madden? Something inside was eating at him, but he was loyal, a
known quantity, predictable. Newby? Most likely. His abilities
dwarfed his ambitions. What steps could he take? The mirror stared
back--no answer was forthcoming.

He pressed a hot, steaming rag to his face, taking
peculiar pleasure in the searing pain. Throwing a wet, cold towel
around his neck, he moved to an open porthole and took in the
warmth of the sunlight. A few seagulls hovered, swooped and whirled
about noisily. He stared impassively at the anchored ships off in
the distance lined up dress-right-dress, gray and streaked with
rust. The sound of voices, the racing auxiliaries and the thud of
an object being set down on the deck, jolted him. He had a sudden
yearning to climb the nearby hillside, go over the top and keep
right on going. He laughed as he finished drying. He pulled on a
clean shirt and tugged the comb thru his hair in a losing effort.
He appeared clean-shaven and neatly dressed.

“
Well, Commander Trent, let’s see
what today holds.” He put his cap square on his head and left the
cabin.

* * *

A single, hanging light bulb cast its dull yellow
glow illuminating two squatting figures. Graves kneeling, carefully
unwrapped two waterproof oilskins. Maxie stood by in awe of the
subterranean world of the No. 2 turret upper projectile deck. He
took in the empty cradles, arrayed in a ring to hold 2700 pound,
5’7” shells. One shell capable of destroying an area of one square
mile, fired from a range of 23 miles. His aching body rebelled in
the frigid cold and penetrating dampness. He cursed the Yard
workers for shutting down the dehumidification system. Chilled,
moist Puget Sound air freely condensed on solid, steel plates to
puddle on the deck. Graves was not distracted as he cradled the
weapons.

“
Two M16 rifles! Where did you get
those?”

“
Don’t make no difference. I got
‘em, didn’t I?” Graves bragged, stripping away the oilskins. “I
told ya. I belong to the NRA. Neat, ain’t they?” Graves held one up
to the light bulb and peered up the barrel. He fingered the trigger
and operated the breech mechanism several times.

Graves added, “That M16 is just a pea-shooter
compared to those shipboard 40- and 20-millimeters cuttin’ loose,
eh, Maxie? I’d stick my fingers in my ears at the racket they’d set
up. I’d watch the Kingfishers tow sleeves back and forth until the
sleeves were all shot up. On a good day, the sky would be peppered,
the sleeves in shreds.”

Maxie fingered the instruction manual and holding it
up to the light, read off the cover, “Guess we’ll have to settle
for a 5.56-mm, magazine-fed, gas operated shoulder weapon. Semi or
automatic fire with a flash suppressor.”

“
Yeah! Suppressors. The Commander
made a point of wantin’ suppressors. He must figure we’re goin’ to
get some night work.” Graves carefully stripped cosmoline from a
lethal looking pipe. “30-round magazines and bullets that range
2700 meters. And a grenade launcher.” Graves held it up: Maxie
acted impressed.

“
What’s in the other
oilskins?”

“
Ah! Like the French say, the
piece-de-resistence,” Graves guffawed. “Two 7.62-mm,
shoulder-firing a free hand M60 belt-fed machine guns.”

“
That’s more like it!” Maxie
said.

“
With a split-link belt these
babies can spray 550 rounds a minute.” Graves hefted the weapon
lovingly. “Terrific range, too, 3700 meters. With these, nobody’s
gonna get close.” He drew the oilskin off the second weapon. “I’d
rather have the 40-millimeters, though. You don’t have to hit
nothin’ to be lethal, just get close. When the big War ended, we
had 40’s on every ship and they were sprinkled all over the deck.
We’d fill the sky with lead and wait for somethin’ to run into the
stuff.”

Maxie laughed as he stripped open a leather side
kit, spreading the contents on the oilskin. “A tourist could haul
this around. A spare barrel, sling, pintle assembly, asbestos
mitten…yeah! Everything needed to keep her going. Where’d you stow
the bandoleers?”

“
Over there, in the shadows,”
Graves pointed. Maxie got up. “I’d rather have the 20’s, explodin’
and tracer rounds, super for close in point defense. My gut says
that’s the kinda fight we got comin’.” Maxie dragged a bandoleer
back. “One-hundred rounds to a belt, you say. Seems like enough to
hold off a Russian Division. Are you sure you brought enough
ammo?”

“
Smart ass.”

“
Think the Navy will try to rout
us out?”

“
Damn right, they will,” Graves
said, fumbling with the belt. “This stuff weighs a ton. Almost gave
me a hernia loading the truck. Here, clean these 45’s.”

“
I don’t like the idea of shooting
at Sailors and Marines. I’d feel better sticking a muzzle in
Schiller’s ear and scaring the bejesus out of him.”

“
What’s in the box?”

“
Oh, a case of grenades,” Graves
answered. “We might need to heave a couple,” he said laughing.
“They’re good for gettin’ respect.”

“
Think it will come to killin’?”
Graves asked.

“
You mean, them or us? I hope not.
Trent says they can’t get to us. He has had things figured pretty
good, so far.”

“
Even if the City don’t pay up
right away, the Navy’s not gonna take it lyin’ down. The
Missouri
’s their property and they ain’t gonna take kindly
to squatters.”

“
What can the Navy do to us inside
this fortress? We can survive in here for months. There’s no way
they can make us come out.”

“
Blow us up!”

“
The Navy?” Graves rose, “Nah!
You’re crazy”

“
Sink us.”

“
We’re almost on bottom
now.”

“
Then, what?”

“
That’s what we’re payin’ Trent
big money to figure out. Christ! You’re right. It’s like a freezer
down here. Let’s get outta here.”

Up on the main deck, the weather had turned foul,
torrents of rain swept across the inlet, but the wetness put no
damper on the men’s spirits. Harper had hot grub waiting on the
Helga
. He said, “Madden has been looking for you, Graves.
He’s up in the starboard gun tub forward the battle mast.”

“
What’s he doin’ up there?” Graves
chomped down on his food.

“
I can only guess; probably,
sighting for coverage. If we fire those toy guns you’ve been
playing with, it might be useful to know where the bullets are
ending up.”

Harper slammed down the serving hole hatch.

* * *

Madden took station in a quad 40’s gun tub perched
high above the
Missouri
’s main deck. He stared down over an
impressive array of Quad 40’s and twin 5-inchers fore and aft, gun
barrels stuck in like wooden matchsticks. He checked his field of
fire to starboard: clear fore and aft, only blanked out directly
aft in a 15-degree sector where the side of the forward mast and
forward funnel shaded the fantail. He simulated firing a mounted
M60, sketching the angle of fire and field of cover. Madden chomped
down on a Cheroot. There was no reason for him being up there and,
if it were dark, a lit Cheroot would pinpoint him precisely. He
would be dead meat to a sniper. His exposure hit home as the flight
deck of the
Oriskany
was but a mere 200 feet away, a stone’s
throw. Otherwise, he had the catbird’s seat. “The
Missouri
’s
designers couldn’t have prepared better coverage against a boarding
party,” he mused.

“
Stand by to repel boarders,”
Madden decried in hushed tones, almost believing it were true. He
positioned the M60 and squeezed the trigger; his skin stretched
taut across his cheekbones. He pictured the machine gun spitting
hot lead, stitching the pier in a pattern of dancing death.
Swiveling from side to side, he swept the gangway and the deck
forward. A slight elevation, a mere movement of his shoulders and
the lead marched a scythe-like arc along half the flight deck of
the
Oriskany
.

A shocked awareness hit Madden; he broke off, pulled
back the M60 and stood transfixed. He imagined shadows of Marines
crossing his field of fire, pressing their attack with suicidal
courage, their bodies weaving from side to side dodging instant,
violent death. Two seconds, three seconds, then four passed. He
uttered an anguished cry, the physical shock of visions of
shell-ripped, torn bodies in a ghastly travesty. Still they came
on…brave souls. Bodies splayed on the gangway. Death in the sights
of his M60 spitting deadly fire. He dropped his head over the tub
and retched.

“
Do you read me, Madden?” Graves’
voice cracked over the walkie-talkie. Madden did not
answer.

“
Madden, do you hear
me?”

“
Yeah! Over.”

“
Better get down here. Trent is
back.”

Under a rare hot sun, the barbette was freed, the
canvas cover pulled from the rotating ring and the sighting hatch
cover hinged open. Harper and Graves worked the turret, first
elevating, then depressing the center gun. Each turret could be
trained at 4 degrees per second and the guns elevated at 12 degrees
per second, either together or individually, but under power.
Rotation would be slower, if done by hand. Maximum elevation was 45
degrees, a range far greater than needed to reach the City of
Seattle.