SILENT GUNS (25 page)

* * *

Captain Larsen briskly walked the deck of the
Helga
, a free man. Hauser hugged his side. Trent said to
Schiller, “You’re going back with the Captain.”

“
The Captain told me,” Schiller
snapped.

“
I have a message I want you to
deliver.”

“
The extortion demand?” Schiller
remarked, sarcastically. “You got nothing to sell.”

“
Deliver it to the Mayor. His
name’s written on the envelope.”

“
That’s all?”

“
Just make sure you do it. And
right away.”

“
What’s it say?”

“
None of your
business.”

“
Suppose I open it. Better yet,
suppose I don’t deliver it.”

“
You will,” Trent was sure
Schiller was pissed off enough to go out of his way to screw things
up. “The Mayor will hang on your every word, Schiller. Besides, if
you don’t carry the message, the Captain will. You’d rather be the
hero, wouldn’t you?”

Schiller glowered as Trent cut his bonds free.

By mid-afternoon, wisps of cirrus formations high in
the sky reflected the glow of the hidden sun. A moist breeze swept
through Sinclair Inlet, leaving thin bands of misty-white vapors.
The wind stopped and the inlet calmed. One by one, the men gathered
at the rail of the
Missouri
and fell silent. They watched
the
Helga
draw astern. Schiller, legs astride, stood on the
fantail. His usual flow of obscenities had dried up like a spring
in drought. Hauser, barking noisily, padded about confused. The men
laughed at the dog’s antics, but their laughter was empty and
sad.

“
Think Hauser knows?”

No one said anything.

The men stood silent. As their lifeline sailed away,
they understood they faced simple choices - prevail, surrender or
die. Then, too, there remained that unspoken tomorrow, or the next
day; a time all too soon that the Navy must rise to strike them
from the
Missouri
. And, offer no quarter short of immediate
surrender.

“
That scumbag, Schiller.” Graves
broke the silence. “Five bucks says the
Helga
don’t make it
out of the Yard.”

“
You’re on, “Harper
sniffed.

Newby bit, “What makes you so sure?”

Harper said, “Why should Schiller cop out to the
Navy? There’s nothing in it for him. With his evil mind, he’d wait
‘til they got back to Seattle, grab the Captain’s dough, and take
off.”

“
He has to take the Captain out
first, dummy.”

Newby hinted, “I’d like to be there. Schiller will
have his hands full.” They laughed. “Suppose he succeeds, where
would that leave us? We sit here and rot?”

“
The Captain will turn us in, for
sure,” Madden looked up slowly. “Beside, Schiller already knows the
Captain’s gonna pay him off. So, what’s your point?”

Harper added, “Maybe, Schiller doesn’t know the
Commander paid him the $55,000?”

Madden replied, “You can bet he does.”

“
No bet,” Maxie cut in. “Schiller
can smell money.”

“
Who’s covering my original bet?”
Graves asked.

“
I said, I would,” Harper chimed
in.

“
If you’re wrong,” Madden
observed, casting his eyes skyward. “The Navy’ll be all over us in
minutes.”

“
Prepare to repel boarders,” Newby
said as he climbed to the top of the turret. “Good bet, Harper,”
Newby reported. “The
Helga
is steaming out the
inlet.”

“
Schiller’s in no hurry,” Trent
remarked. “He’ll deliver the message. The world will soon know of
our mission.” Trent turned to Madden, “How’s the coverage from the
gun tubs?”

“
Graves and I agree,” Madden
reported. “There’s a blind spot we need to cover. We should station
somebody up top with a rifle.” Trent looked at his watch. “It’ll be
dark in two hours. The City offices will be closed. Not much risk
tonight. At best, if Schiller gets anyone’s attention, I expect the
City will alert the Navy to check out the message. One man on watch
for tonight should do: Newby, take first turn. The first sign of
movement anywhere we go on full alert.” Newby grinned and puffed
out his chest.

“
Madden, as I expect they’ll cut
our power, we better rotate the turret tonight.” “Can do!” Madden
replied, rubbing his chin and frowning. “We could go manual, if we
had too, but it’s easier using the juice.”

“
How about manual loading,
Harper?”

“
The shell is ready to ram home.
Four power bags on the ready. On automatic, we could do two shells
a minute.”

“
Maxie, about those hand-held
radios?” Maxie lit up a cigarette, inhaled, and coughed harshly.
“Sorry, Tony,” he apologized, and then answered. “They don’t work
inside all this metal, but if we stick the antennas out, they work
great. We can use the turret as a command post. Either Newby or I
can run it.”

“
Can we pick up any local
newscasts?”

“
You bet., T.V. too! “

“
So, we wait.” Trent looked at his
watch. It was 1847, “The
Helga
should be docking by 2000.
Good time to get some shut-eye.”

* * *

Harry’s Cove lay quiet. The Cove had cleared of
small boats, sailed to get a jump on the next blow. Sam Simons sat
by the stove warming his hands. The light through the glass door
reflected across his features, a rather somber look etched his
face. He turned to Trent and said, “I never met a luckier man. How
you got that far without a foul-up is beyond me? A clever scheme,
sure, maybe, too damn clever.” Trent watched a small muscle moving
busily at the corner of Simons’ mouth. “Ah! But, the imponderables,
the mines, and the sand traps yet to come. The law of averages will
have its pound of flesh, somewhere; something will go wrong. Count
on it. It always does, it never fails, and when this one goes
wrong, more than fat will be in the fire.”

“
I saw my mission as justified,
God must have ordained that I succeed,” Trent smiled, tongue in
cheek.

“
Fat chance. Just dumb luck, if
you ask me. I can just see you typing that note. Mayor Grille
jumped on me right off, as if I’m supposed to have answers for
every damn thing that goes wrong in town, even before it
happens.”

“
I would have given my eye teeth
to see Grille’s face,” Trent added, laughing.

“
It wasn’t funny then,” Simons
chuckled.

“
So, you got involved?” Trent
inquired.

“
You’re telling me it’s my turn
for true confessions,” asked Simons, a smile cracked his face.
“Yep! From the minute you walked into the Mayor’s
office.”

~ * * * ~

CHAPTER 18

“
What the hell is this?” Mayor Joe
Grille, Mayor of Seattle, stared at a neat, type written note. His
leather chair squeaked harshly as he abruptly leaned forward. He
re-read the message then brusquely tossed it to the
floor.

“
Heddy brought it in,” Murial, his
secretary, said matter-of-factly, picking up the note and slipping
it back under his nose. “She said some character dropped it off at
the reception desk. The seal was broken, so Heddy read
it.”

“
Another crackpot. This damn job
gets more aggravating…”

“
Did you read it?”

“
Of course, I did! That’s only the
fifth screwball message this week.” The Mayor ranted, snatching at
the note. “I’d rather get hate mail, stuff I can round-file and
forget. Let people get it off their chest, but this…”

“
The guy said it was for real then
he took off.”

“
Damn it! Get Sam up here.” Just
then, a medium height, somewhat stocky, and not unpleasant looking
man, with brown hair flecked with gray, stormed unannounced through
the doorway. He had a business-like air about him.

“
Sorry for busting in, Murial,”
Chief of Police, Sam Simons apologized.

“
You must read minds. The Mayor’s
pretty upset.”

“
I heard about the note,” the
Chief replied.

“
How did you…?” her expression
quizzical.

“
Spies are everywhere…” He pressed
his finger to his lip. She laughed and left.

“
Sam,” the Mayor bellowed, “get in
here and shut that door. Look at this.” The Chief took the note and
read it aloud.

Dear Mayor;

We want $30,000,000 in cash by 0500 Friday morning
or the City of Seattle will be shelled. If you raise the funds
before that time, contact us on radio frequency 1245 for further
instructions. Otherwise, we suggest you clear the area around the
Smith Tower.

Sam Simons exhaled slowly, and then eased back into
a leather chair. Its coolness chilled him as he silently read the
note. The loonies, zanies, and crackpots he had dealt with over his
thirty-year police career usually meant no harm: ninety-nine out of
a hundred threats came to naught. But this, he lifted his head
slowly, alarm bells jangled in his head.

“
Sam. For Christ’s sake, say
something!”

“
Push the button and get Murial in
here,” Simons ordered, his voice quiet, but firm. The Mayor
complied and Murial appeared. “Murial, have Heddy come up here,
please.”

A short, nervous elderly woman soon appeared. Her
eyes were fearful, had she done something wrong, she wondered?

“
What did he look like Heddy?” the
Chief asked soothingly. Heddy replied, “Grungy, I’d say, and he had
a small, wiry, weasel-like face. He looked like he had been in a
fight and lost. Very nervous, he kept licking his lips.”

“
May I?” the Chief whispered,
picked up the Mayor’s phone, and dialed. “Don, get up here. Yeah!
The Mayor’s office.” A tall, thin man with an unkempt shock of
brown hair entered. With pad and pencil, the tools of his trade,
Heddy repeated her description. His pencil moved in rapid strokes
over the pad as he listened.

The Mayor’s office door flew open: Murial, all a
flutter entered and quickly closed the door behind her.

“
What is it now, Murial?” The
Mayor grunted.

“
Hiram’s on his way up. He’s
heard.”

“
Oh! Shit. I need Chitterman like
I need a dose of bubonic plague. How in the hell did the 10th floor
hear about this? I just found out myself. The damn leaks I gotta
put up with in this place. That City Council has a pipeline right
up my anus.” The door opened and the President of the City Council
burst in. Hiram Chitterman was twice Grille’s age, badly overweight
and balding, wearing a rumpled wool suit that needed care. Brown
socks and black shoes were his trademark. He looked like one of the
Smith Brothers off the box of cough drops. A slight stoop disguised
his height; a potbelly made him look rotund.

“
I just heard, Joe. Well, what are
you going to do?”

“
What the hell do you mean, what
am I going to do? Christ! Hiram, sit down. It’s probably just a
joke, a poor one, at that. Just another one of those damn crank
letters.” Chitterman loosened his tie, opened his collar, eased his
belt several notches and slumped heavily on the sofa, it groaned
under his weight. “Sam, what do you know about this?”

“
No more than you do, Hiram.”
Simons turned away. “Got anything yet, Don?”

“
Yeah! Heddy has got a good eye,”
he said, holding up his sketch. “That’s a remarkable likeness,”
Heddy blurted out. “Put hair on his face and he does look like a
weasel,” Murial said, embarrassed at her own abruptness. “Anybody
recognize this guy?” No one answered. “I took out the facial bumps
and bruises,” Don said, holding it up.

“
Take it downstairs, Don, and show
it around the Department,” Simons ordered.

“
Well, what now?” Chitterman
demanded, nervously turning to Simons. Simons settled back into the
leather chair, glanced at Chitterman and tugged his ear, “the note
says they’re going to shell the City. Christ! How can they do that?
You can’t fire a shell over twenty-five miles: and the Smith Tower
is their target. And where would they get a gun, anyway? There’s no
active military base anywhere within that range. Why the Smith
Tower? Why wouldn’t they just plant a bomb? It’s
easier.”

“
The Smith Tower???” Chitterman
cried, “Oh! My God! I didn’t know…”

“
They threaten to blow it up at
0500 tomorrow, Hiram.” The Mayor tossed him the note. “Here, see
for yourself.” Chitterman read it slowly, his black face fading
towards white. “Better fix yourself a drink, Hiram, you look like
you could use one,” the Mayor chided. Chitterman nodded and moved
unsteadily towards the bar. “Anyone else?” With no takers, he
picked up a glass and nearly dropped it. He poured in straight
scotch and clinked in the ice. “Warm scotch: it’s not
civilized.”

The phone buzzer blared. “Don’s on his way up. He
says they have a make on the guy.” Simons turned his head towards
the door, his face relieved as Don entered. “Detectives Jim Frances
and Annette Gleese know the guy.”

“
His name is Armand Schiller,”
Annette spoke up. He’s a small time hood, a go-between who’s been
pulling marijuana off the coast and shipping it inland. We think
he’s setting up a boat named the
Helga
for his next
shipment. We think he’s used her before. A Captain Larsen owns and
sails her. Otherwise, Schiller is real low-life and would sell his
mother to a sweat shop if he could cut a buck for
himself.”