SILENT GUNS (46 page)

“
Rabbit heading 270; thirty miles
distance,” a Coast Guardsman wearing earphones sang out then
repositioned the marker. “Fox 2 is four minutes north of last
reported position… Rabbit heading change to 356 for
Victoria.”

“
Shifty bastard,” Conover said.
“He heads west, then swings north.” Sam Simons edged on a high
stool and watched the track unfold. “Not much of a hint, yet,”
Conover muttered. North and West, the territory is vast; although,
he can get just so far with the extra weight, he thought. Trent
must commit, soon. To where? Head for an unpopulated island north
of the Straits of Georgia? Or, possibly for an isolated inland
location on Vancouver Island? Or, how an about face into the dense,
untamed wilds of the Olympic Mountains? They’ll be tough to find in
those inaccessible valleys. To the West, the broad reaches of the
Pacific Ocean run clear to Japan. No fit place to land. Perplexed,
a shiver went up Conover’s spine

“
What’s their heading now?” Lt.
Elston queried.

“
Still north 356, sir.”

“
Knowing Trent, he pre-planned the
escape; if so, they must have stashed food, clothing and shelter
away somewhere,” Conover mused. “Possibly, gas, too.”

Simons turned, “Jim. Got anything on that?”

“
Not much, sir. Trent kept the men
together. Madden could have sequestered supplies. He spent two days
in Seattle, then disappeared for two days before showing up at the
Navy Yard.” Simons chomped down hard on his cigar. He bit clean
through then stared at the severed halves: it was fresh, unlit, and
quite unusable. He threw the pieces to the deck.

“
How’s that, again?” Simons face
visibly paled.

“
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.