SILENT GUNS (5 page)

“
Can you make it?”

“
You got a booking,” Madden
replied as he sped off.

The elevator doors slid open. Trent stepped in, the
doors closed, and the elevator rose, stopping with a start at the
twelfth floor. Unlocking the door to his apartment, he stepped in.
The aroma of mustiness, stale cigarette smoke and a leftover TV
dinner bowled him over. He chided himself for neglecting to have
the cleaning lady stop by, but was too tired to really care. He
tossed his bags on his bed and bee-lined it for the shower. After
toweling and a change of clothes, he slipped into the large easy
chair by the window. Frustrated and fatigued, his thoughts quickly
turned to Myrna. Myrna divorced him after the court-martial. Their
friends avoided them. Trent understood, her coming from a Navy
family. Ostracized. Banished. It was all too much for her to
handle.

He grabbed a bottle of Jim Beam, swallowed a
mouthful and allowed the smooth fluid to send a shiver coursing
through his body. The liquid was the prelude to a comforting, warm
glow that would radiate from deep down. He had hardly eaten
anything on the flight and that booze on an empty stomach was a
straight road to a hangover. But he could care less. He settled
back, and more than made up for the lack of calories on the flight
by re-filling his glass until he didn’t remember dropping off.
Morning guaranteed a splitting headache, a thick dry tongue and a
mouth full of cotton. And, an ornery disposition, but he slept a
deep sleep.

* * *

Sam Simons stood up and tossed another log into the
stove then said, “You had a new career in Seattle, a good job. All
your transgressions were forgotten. Why not accept your new life
and move on? You had been given a second chance,” Simons
interjected. Trent sat thoughtfully. “As hard as I tried, I
couldn’t resolve my deep-seated hatred of the Navy.”

“
I don’t buy that one damn bit,
hatred is personal,” Simons observed. “The Navy is inanimate. It
didn’t do anything to you. You make everything sound personal. You
made it personal.”

“
You’re wrong. Kindler, Denton,
Burns, and Proust made it personal. I wanted them to admit their
culpability and clear my name. The Navy hid their crime. The Navy
is just as guilty.”

“
Tit for tat,” Simons
mused.

“
I had lost everything that meant
anything to me. I reached a point where I was prepared to risk
everything. I had nothing to lose. Time was my enemy. I needed
money. The city of Seattle would pay to be spared.”

~ * * * ~

CHAPTER 5

The Puget Sound Naval Shipyard reeked of overnight
abandonment. When the War ended, the active Navy simply packed up
and left. No longer a beehive of activity, but an expanse of
abandoned gray Navy sheds, barracks, warehouses, cranes and deep
water dry-docks. All lay stilled. Graving docks stood empty save
floating debris. Overhead cranes, giant Praying Mantises frozen in
time, cast spindly shadows about the Yard.

The surrounding City of Bremerton and the Yard
shared Naval history. The Yard still poked a finger into the
downtown. The city was no longer secure in the awesome firepower
once concentrated on this small, sheltered peninsula off Puget
Sound. Today, the Yard is a graveyard for unneeded ships. On its
westerly edge, a Reserve Fleet laid in tiers moored side-by-side,
silent sentinels lazily swinging at anchor. The larger vessels:
aircraft carriers, cruisers, and battleships, all deactivated,
stood moored at piers, bows pointed shoreward. Gray ghosts, tough,
overworked, overdriven, their masts reaching for the sky, rested
peacefully, patiently waiting recall. The larger, more notable
ships hosted visitors as reminders of times past. A small cadre of
sailors and officers, most young, some right out of high school,
serviced the Fleet. Their activity offered stark contrast to the
stillness that pervaded the silent ships. These were peaceful
times. A similarity to Pearl Harbor did not escape notice. They do
say history repeats itself, Trent mused to himself.

Newby Hatcher met Trent and Madden at the gate.

“
Let’s go below here,” Newby
tugged at a hatch. “Not much to see.” He tossed over flashlights as
he stepped over the coaming and headed down a dark passageway.
“She’s a dead ship, been mothballed here since ‘53. Vitals: bridge,
engine room and guns, everything, sealed-up tighter than a drum.
They keep her under dehydration, just in case. Thirty days and the
old girl can be ready for sea again, Commander.” Newby’s face
glowed. Trent ignored his enthusiasm. Deflated, Newby turned away
down a ladder to the first deck. They gathered and stood gazing the
full length of the crew galley and mess hall. Imagined voices were
everywhere, echoing the ghost-like shouts of sailors. In reality,
the
Missouri
lay cold and lifeless. All living
accommodations had been ripped out at decommissioning: bunks,
tables, and cabinets. Bolted down tables stood firm in the warrant
officers’ dining area waiting expectantly. Gray Navy desks had been
shoved and piled up against bulkheads. Exposed cables and wiring
hung willy-nilly over gray-tiled decking. Water in puddles stood in
deck cavities; green mold prospered in sinks and heads.

“
Double-clad armor over the
boilers below,” Newby stomped his foot and in a calculated question
asked, “How did Madden get you over here?”

“
He didn’t. I wanted to come,”
Trent said.

“
Tony. I still say you got
screwed.” Newby replied.

“
That’s ancient
history.”

“
Don’t believe him, Newby. It’s
still stuck in his craw,” Madden pulled his jacket collar up around
his neck, “God! It’s freezing in here. But, I suppose that’s no
surprise. I slept aboard for three months. Get her steel hull out
of the water into a graving dock and she turns as cold as the North
Pole. Ever slept in a refrigerator, Newby? Well, I slept under four
G.I. blankets, a turtleneck and long johns, and never got warm.
But, when she’s alive and underway, she can spoil you
easy.”

“
What do you do here for fun,
Newby?” Trent raised his eyebrows as they explored the remaining
open passageways.

“
Dullsville!” Newby snapped back.
“During the war, Bremerton was a sailor’s town, a place to look
forward to after weeks at sea. Thousands of sailors crammed the
town every night: they would get drunk, swamp the streets and make
disturbances, search out the female population; single, married, or
otherwise, if you get what I mean. The city fathers forgave their
indiscretions; the Navy ignored them. All gone now. Today, the
Yard’s manned at rock bottom, we’re just watchmen. And, you saw
those kids, never fired a shot in anger. All the old bars on
Farragut have shut down. Craven Center is history. For thrills,
it’s a ferry ride to Seattle, but Seattle’s not a Navy town
anymore. So, we sit around and wait for the next war,” Newby
growled. “Just like the
Missouri
.”

Newby leaned into a hatch.

A steep ladder ended at a door marked CIC. Trent
glanced to his right as he entered and took in the details of the
room. It was exactly as he remembered it: fifteen by thirty feet
dominated by now sealed equipment. When underway, the center would
be crammed with sailors. It was unnaturally peaceful. Next-door was
the firing center for the 16-inch guns. Trent felt a sudden pang of
familiarity with the obsolete vacuum-tube equipment: particularly
its massiveness. He passed his flashlight across the lifeless
panels. Even with all the modern technology of electronics, the
ancient equipment remained a testimony to the best-known method for
aiming and firing thirty-plus year old guns. A skilled gunner could
fire the guns accurately manually. Trent felt an unexpected twinge
of excitement.

They stepped out on the main deck into a gray,
drizzly day. Decks of teak, in times past, scrubbed and holystoned
every morning until they shone, were now badly weathered and dingy
gray in color.

“
The turrets?”

“
Sealed. Just like below
decks.”

“
And the bridge?” Trent looked up
to the island that jutted forward of the mast. Newby eyed Madden.
Madden shrugged. Trent noticed, a Yard work crew had already
unsealed the doors and removed the shields protecting the windows
of the 4th level bridge. They climbed up. Stepping inside,
binnacle, wheel, the Captain’s chair, all were still in place.
Antiquated pieces of equipment remained bolted to bulkheads. A
yellowed and cracked piece of paper spelling out responsibilities
for destroying classified materials fluttered to the deck. Trent
pictured a list of special equipment to be detonated, destroyed by
smashing, or better yet jettisoned if capture was threatened. He
chuckled; capture defied his imagination. He stood pensively: the
sensation of the ship heaving under his feet; a powerful, thrusting
motion as she rose and plowed into the swells of a North Atlantic
storm, a stiff breeze from the north ruffling the surface of the
water. Cold air masses colliding with the warmer northward moving
ocean current creating vast patches of drifting sea smoke. Then it
came back. Trent shuddered, the horror, the slicing through
floating bodies, their cries for help, and the carnage. He abruptly
left the bridge. Saluting at the gangway, he left the ship and
didn’t look back. He didn’t have to. He was satisfied – he knew how
he would exact his revenge. He would have the
Missouri
and
her silent guns.

* * *

A definite chill had moved in overnight. The smell
of hot coffee wafted about the cabin and drove out the mustiness.
“The stove burnt itself out about two,” Simons volunteered as he
poured out a cup. “I got up and tossed in some wood. This place
must be a like a barn in winter. My feet about froze.”

“
Never gets that cold, just
uncomfortable,” offered Trent tugging on his socks. “The dampness
gets you. When things get wet, they stay wet. The woodpile needs
re-stocking. I’d better refill the water tank and pick up some
groceries,” Trent added.

“
I guess that leaves me the
woodpile,” Simons seated himself at the table. “So after you left
the
Missouri
, there was no turning back,” Simons
stated.

“
That’s right. No turning back,”
Trent shot Simons a restrained glance. His answer sounded so
pointed, so cold he wanted to laugh. He looked at Simon’s face, the
face of a policeman, and written all over it he read timely,
penetrating questions waiting to be asked.

“
Then, what?” Simons treaded
carefully, reaching.

“
I headed to my new office,” Trent
parried. “Margo, my secretary, had moved my possessions to the
twenty-first floor. Executive Row, she called it, the top floor of
the International Traders building. It was a great, big office with
luxurious walnut paneling and plush carpeting. Original oil
paintings hung on the wall. I had it made.” Trent waved his arms
expansively.

Simons waited a while longer, “And, then you threw
it all away,” Simons, not to be denied, shot back, the hound dog
back on the trail. Trent stood up. He needed time to reflect. The
drift of the questioning no longer interested him. Simons wanted
answers and he tired of his probing questions. Wariness pricked at
the back of his neck. He recalled sitting at his office desk
unconsciously drumming his fingers on the phone while staring out
the window. The view of Elliot Bay, the ships riding at anchor, the
piers and docks strung out below like piano keys, was breathtaking.
A large container-ship slowly sailed into the Bay, heading to the
Port of Seattle docks. The Princess Marguerite sounded her whistle
and cast off for Victoria on her daily run north. The view was
peaceful and comforting. He grumbled, as his reverie was disturbed
by a ringing phone. Margo answered and buzzed.

“
Are you ready to down a couple?”
Madden’s voice pounded through the earpiece. Trent eased back into
his leather chair. “You sound like you’re already a couple up on
me.”

“
The hell you say. How can you
tell?”

“
Are you at Haury’s?”

“
How’d you guess?”

“
I’m just about finished up
here.”

“
I ain’t goin’ nowhere,” Madden
assured him.

Trent gave Margo the rest of the afternoon off and
left. Fifteen minutes later he barged through Haury’s swinging
doors. Madden sat nursing a shot of whiskey, a parade of empty
glasses at his elbow. Trent slid into the booth.

“
Sick?”

“
Naw! Ingrid threw me out, again.
It’s O.K., we’ll make up.” Madden said as he stared at the bottom
of an empty glass.

“
Let’s go,” Trent
snapped.

“
Go? Go where?” Madden barked, a
glint of annoyance in his eyes.

“
A boat ride. We can just make
it.” Trent tossed a bill on the table and hauled Madden down to
Western Avenue and the waterfront. The sign over the pier read:
‘Seattle Harbor Tours.’ He bought two tickets.

“
Hell, we live here. Who needs a
tour boat ride?” Madden said gruffly.

Two seats sat vacant on the open-air upper deck as
the
Harbor Island
backed away and headed north. The upper
works were warm and the canvas decking dry beneath the sun’s rays.
The tour guide started her canned pitch…”On your right, ladies and
gentlemen, the Space Needle, constructed for the 1962 World’s Fair.
To your rear, the Smith Tower, the oldest skyscraper in Seattle
built just after the turn of the century, and in its time, the
tallest building west of the Mississippi. The Tower is on the
National Historic Register” the voice rested as the boat took a
sharp turn starboard…”On your right, the Seafirst Building, 48
stories, now the tallest…” The sightseers gawked at the expanse of
Puget Sound as the
Harbor Island
rounded West Point towards
the entrance to the Lake Washington Ship Canal, the waterway
connecting Puget Sound with Lake Washington. After waiting its
turn, the boat slipped into the Government Locks to be raised
twenty-plus feet into the fresh water canal. They passed working
ships, tied-up fishing fleets, ships under repair and an array of
yacht clubs that cluttered both sides of the waterway.