SILENT GUNS (32 page)

“
I have,” CPO Martinez, who had
been crouching over the table, said quietly. “The tidal flow in the
Inlet is weak, Commander, but to get around this point, the water
speeds up. The stern could carry round. An extra tug on the port
side aft should handle it.” CPO Wilson swung on him sharply, a
muscle jumped in his throat, “The tide will be incoming; the water
will be high…we do deserve a piece of good luck. Don’t we,
sir?”

“
After the two fiascos, we deserve
a lot,” a voice said. Conover ignored the remark, but placed a
scale model of the
Missouri
on the chart and said, “The
Missouri
must be positioned, thus, and jammed up tight, or
she’ll refloat on the next high tide.”

They nodded in unison.

“
What about my men?” Major
Hartwell grunted as he pushed his way to the table and leaned
in.

“
Major, station your men on the
tugs and patrol boats. Pin down Trent’s men, keep them from
firing.” The Marine major exhaled noisily. “Crap! You want us to
shoot at pinheads from a mile off.” Hartwell sucked his teeth. He
was tired, drained of physical energy, and overwhelmed. He swiped a
dripping bead of sweat from his eye. “Trent gets the height
advantage. We can’t pin anybody down unless we get aboard. Then,
the tugs can get in closer.”

“
Just neutralize the shooters,
nothing more,” Conover continued sharply. “Make no attempt to
board. We will not risk another frontal assault. As you said, it
would be unwise.” Conover’s tone held steady. Hartwell growled his
eyes flared up. Conover’s mental exercises gave him a headache. CPO
Wilson said uneasily, signs of strain around his mouth. “I can’t
wait to get my hands around Newby Hatcher’s neck. He made a fool of
me. I had the whole bunch right in the palm of my hand. Never
suspected. That damn dog…and the Lieutenant calling us off to round
up that stray. Shoot! I still wake up in cold sweats.”

“
Don’t take it so hard. I passed
them through the restricted area, even helped them. Can’t trust
anybody now-a-days,” CPO Martinez said, dourly, straightening his
back.

“
Trent won’t take this lying
down,” Conover said, looking around the table speculatively and
waiting.

“
That’s what I’ve been trying to
tell you,” Hartwell injected. “Any 40-mm or 5-inch shells aboard?”
Rankin asked.

“
They’re cocooned. Doubt they had
enough time to get one operational. So far, they’ve only shown two
machine guns and a couple of rifles,” Major Hartwell volunteered
dryly.

“
Lt. Rankin, you will take point
in NPB#41, the rest of you take your signals from him. The tugs and
Patrol Boats will rendezvous at 0200 at the Patrol Boat Dock. Be
there on time: timing is critical. Put a Navy man on each civilian
tug and get the Marines on board. Ensign Mako, you take up the rear
in NPB#22. Both Patrol Boats will cover the
Missouri
’s port
side with 50cal machine guns.” Conover continued. “Major Hartwell,
station sharpshooters on the
Oriskany
. Keep the starboard
side clear and those renegades below decks. Watch your line of
fire, though.” He paused to recall if he left anything
out.

“
Any particular sequence for
moving her out?

“
Push her stern away from the pier
first. Then, the two tugs move up the starboard side and force her
bow out. With four tugs aft and two on the bow, she should swing.
Her bow ends up pointing right here,” Conover jabbed a mark on the
charts.

“
What about the
Hammann
?”

“
Once away from the
Oriskany
, she’ll give us height. And if Trent comes up and
wants to fight…”

“
Trent still might try something,”
someone spoke.

“
What can he do?” Conover searched
for the face.

“
Maybe blow a hole in the bottom,”
Charlie Wingate said, offhandedly. The men laughed. “Better men
have tried, whole countries.” Charlie had sat patiently in the
corner, listening. He had been reluctant to speak: Conover had made
it clear he was an unwelcome guest as he exclaimed, “This is the
Navy’s show.”

Lt. Rankin stared at the chart, “It would take too
long to flood out and hit bottom: but, if we kept the bow headed
due west, we’d still be O.K. The Inlet shoals quickly.”

“
Any other questions?” Conover
radiated self-assurance. “Let’s catch them off guard. Let’s hop too
it, men.” No more failures. The Admiral’s voice reverberated in his
head. His outward behavior remained calm. Two previous, ill-fated
attacks diagrammed on brown butcher paper still hung on the wall.
Conover ripped them down.

~ * * * ~

CHAPTER 22

The wind fell calm. A cold glow bathed the main deck
of the
Missouri
under a brilliant quarter-moon. The sharp
edges of the ship’s superstructure, eerily displayed, aided both
friend and foe. The night was perfect for what Trent knew was
coming. But there was nothing to do except wait. Waiting in the
darkness, he mostly stared at the water and the lights dotting the
hillsides. Imagined shadowy figures stole silently about the main
deck. The tension held him, but mostly he feared for his men.
Fatigue, fogging their minds, was shielding them from danger, he
thought, as he pulled himself up into the turret.

After two days of no rest, the men were beaten
groggy. Harper lay straddling the breech, his arms dangling over
the sides of the center gun. Madden curled up in a fetal position
on the loading tray pan. Graves stirred restlessly under a single
blanket, his lips shaking, belching as sour acid moved to his
throat. Maxie, his body pressed up against the aft turret bulkhead,
sat fitfully awake on the cold steel deck, his legs pulled up at
the knees. Trent paused and looked down at his pale face. He feared
if he said anything, his voice would weaken.

Trent moved quietly to his cot. He laid down, his
hands clasped behind his head, his ear perked up to a walkie-talkie
propped up nearby. High above on a shelf a green light blazed
brightly. The circuit was open: he nodded off as it hummed. His
order to Newby deeply disturbed him. Newby. Post to the foretop. I
expect the Navy to try again in the early hours. Keep a sharp
lookout.

Newby brightened, although he relished the danger,
he didn’t completely comprehend how deadly the game was turning. He
was vulnerable, alone, high up the mast; his route to safety easily
cut. Worse, Newby knew it and realized he was expendable. Almost
calmly, he bragged to Trent, “They’ll get more than they bargained
for.” He waved his fist as he took station. Trent accepted the fact
that he had convicted an innocent man. And the sentence could be
his death. And that man knew it and went willingly.

“
Commander,” Newby’s voice
shattered the blackness. Trent jerked up in alarm.

“
I’m here,” he cradled the
device.

“
Funny things are going on up
here,” Newby reported.

“
What kind of things?” Trent felt
his heart pound against his ribs. A cough sliced the darkness. A
yawn. Bodies stirred.

“
Ships are moving about. I can see
running lights; at least 5 or 6 ships. One is pretty big, I’d guess
a freighter, no maybe a destroyer or destroyer-escort.”

“
Where are they?” Trent
asked.

“
They’re milling around the Navy
Patrol Boat Dock,” Newby replied. “The Navy must have something in
mind.”

The luminous, bulkhead clock read 0210.

A light clicked on, “O.K. guys, up.”

Madden rolled off the loading tray and massaged his
knees. Graves grumbled, threw off his blanket and patted his
stomach. Harper slid down off the breech and vigorously pounded his
chest to drive away the chill imparted by cold steel. They all
shared that same look—tiredness, fear.

“
They’re rallying. A patrol boat
is in the lead. They’re heading this way,” Newby shouted. The men
drew around Newby’s voice, their expressions mixed and
cautious.

Trent demanded flatly.

“
What else? What kind of
ships?”

“
Well, I’ll be damned. Tug boats.
Yeah! Tug boats. Six of them.” Trent bounded up. “They got quite a
flotilla coming our way.”

“
What could they be up to?” Trent
spoke to the men at large. “Well! Tugs move things,” Harper
responded. His words made an impression on the faces around
him.

“
Shit,” Madden exclaimed. “They’re
going to move us.”

“
What the hell for?” Graves
exclaimed.

“
So we can’t fire the turret,
dummy,” Harper said.

“
How can they do that?”

“
We can’t fire behind ourselves,
stupid!” Harper replied. There was a long pause; Graves still
looked puzzled. Trent grabbed the walkie-talkie. “Newby.” a hissing
roar of static then a chatter of hail on a tin roof. “Newby!!!”
Trent shouted.

Then, Newby’s voice, clear as a bell, “Keep your
shirt on. It’s like a shooting gallery up here…and I’m the sitting
duck. I gotta keep my head down. The
Oriskany
is awash in
fireflies, it’s pretty, if you’re a firefly freak. They’re on me
with infrared. I’m getting my ass out of here.” Newby broke off
before Trent could say a word. Newby’s voice came back, “This is
Newby eagle-eye reporting, Commander. The Marines are setting up
three, no maybe, four machine gun nests on the
Oriskany
’s
flight deck. Yeah! Sandbags and all.”

“
The ships? Newby, what about the
ships?”

“
One’s a Destroyer, for sure.
She’s swinging wide, lying off the port side about two miles out.
The tugs are making for our stern. You guys better stay in the
turret. The patrol boat’s Cal. 50’s are manned. Looks like we’re
gonna get raked down the port side.”

“
How about boarding
parties?”

“
None that I can see. The gyrenes
musta lost interest. Twice was enough, eh! Tony.” Newby was solemn.
“These guys are organized, not like that last bunch. They’re taking
us seriously this time.”

“
What are they doing
now?”

“
Four Navy gangs just ran out from
the shadows of the
Oriskany
. They’re crossing the pier,
tossing the mooring lines over and letting them drop. We’re adrift.
We’re at sea again. Whoopee!”

“
Newby. Knock it off!”

“
I can’t do much else, can I?”
Newby was chagrined.

“
Except get seasick…” a voice
said.

“
What else?”

“
Four tugs are nuzzling the port
side astern.”

Trent beckoned to the men and they quickly gathered
around. Madden held a lamp aloft as Trent slapped down a sheet of
paper on the flat of the breech. He sketched out a plan. “I’ll tell
you when,” Trent was issuing orders fast and sharply. “Right. No
time to lose. Get with it.” Feet jumped to the ladder, then bodies
quickly disappeared as the men passed to the second deck and ran
forward. Trent felt stirrings of life under his feet. His body
swayed gently as he felt the stern gracefully swing away from the
pier. The sensation was all too familiar. He knew her every move,
her every trick. “Maxie?” Trent called out. No one answered. Trent
felt the energy draining from his body as he stepped unsteadily
towards a crumpled body. He was leaning against the far wall
sitting on the deck, propped up on one arm. His breathing was
shallow, his ashen face turning blue. His red shirt and jeans were
saturated with wetness. Maxie needed help; but the sands in his own
hourglass were running out and Maxie had to wait. Trent was
conscious-stricken, but his mind had set priorities.

Newby reported, “Two tugs are working up the
starboard side.”

“
Newby. How far are we out from
the pier?”

“
The stern, maybe 200 feet. The
bow is just coming free.”

“
Keep giving me distances.” Trent
eased his shoulders as he pulled a chart out from a
folder.

“
What for?” Newby inquired, the
walkie-talkie crackled.

“
Questions later. Just do as you
are told.”

Newby shrugged. He was used to taking orders.
Everybody takes orders from somebody, he thought, even the
higher-up’s take orders from higher up’s…I bet even God has a boss,
he laughed out loud. His laughter ceased when he realized the scene
unfolding before his eyes was a once in a lifetime drama. A drama
in which he never imagined he would be a player. “They are breaking
into small groups,” he reported. His was a ringside seat: the price
of the ticket - a claim on his life! His heart thumped with
excitement.

A sudden stammer of machine gun fire came from
below, followed by shouts. More fireflies flickered. Newby felt
paint flakes and shattered lead falling over his shoulders. He
laughed, like knowing he was going to be killed made it
pleasurable.

“
What the hell’s going on out
there? We’ve stopped moving.” Trent’s voice shattered Newby’s
private world.

“
We’re parallel to the pier -
about 300 feet out. They’re loading up the bow with tugs. Seems
they plan to pivot us about the stern.”

Trent illuminated a chart with a pocket flashlight.
He noted the depths, tidal flows, where the Inlet was shallow and
where it was deep. The protruding thrust of land on the mainland’s
southeast tip caught his attention. The tidal rip. How’s it going
to be done? He thought, and, then, where? Quickly, he measured
distances and directions. If he knew answers to both questions, he
would know what to do.