Free SILENT GUNS by Bob Neir Page A

a set of keys and
slipped a set into his pocket. Behind the warehouse, they tromped
down a sloping bank of waist-high brambles and scrub brush onto a
dock of solid, heavy fir timbers. The rails of a marine railway
disappeared under the surface of Lake Union. “Where is she,” Trent
demanded.
    “ That’s her, over there,” Madden
nodded across the canal. “That’s the Helga .” In the forest
of antennas, funnels and masts, it was impossible to pick out the Helga . “I’d like a closer look,” Trent said, hurrying to the
Mustang. It was Saturday. Weekend boaters cruised steadily down the
Ship Canal into Lake Union, out to the Government Locks and into
Puget Sound. The docks and shipyards were shut down for the
weekend. Madden shoved aside the gate to the fisherman’s dock. The
air was cool; a light breeze swirled the mist around the mastheads
of the moored ships creating whirling dervishes in white
gossamer.
    “ Which one?” Trent searched for
painted names.
    “ Over there, the well-built one.”
Madden led, carefully overstepping fishing gear and drying nets
strewn about until they drew up at a short gangplank.
    The Helga ’s upper works were a freshly
painted white, a dazzling coat that made her shine eerily. A white
band encasing a red diamond encircled a solid, black funnel. The
lines of a short, stubby bow, typical of Pacific Coast King
Crabbers, led to a graceful sweep aft to the fantail creating a
wide, roomy aft working deck.
    Madden said, “She’s beamy, with plenty of working
space below decks. If she were a broad, I’d bet she’d be terrific
in bed.”
    Trent stared down at the squat, stubby hull tracing
her gentle lines. A long deckhouse ran forward from a break
amidships and stopped fifteen feet short of the stem; three doors
were cut into the port side of the deckhouse. Topsides, a tugboat
style wheelhouse sat perched on two stub wings; aft the wheelhouse,
perched a tiny sea cabin, assumedly the Captain’s. Ladders led from
the working deck to the aft edges of the port and starboard stub
wings. Topsides, starboard of the funnel, a Boston whaler was
cradled, ample enough for six men, covered with canvas and secured
for rough weather. At the break amidships, a sturdy cargo mast
plunged deep into the hull, its cargo boom snuggled up neatly
against the mast. Two square hatches were cut into the working
deck: one forward and one aft, each battened down on fifteen-inch
coamings. A small hatch just forward the counter, allowed access to
the steering gear and the aft hold. A wooden platform lay over the
entire surface of a steel working deck leaving the hatch coamings a
foot above the platform.
    “ Obviously, a crabber, “Madden
remarked.
    “ I didn’t know you were a
fisherman?”
    “ I’ve shipped aboard a crabber.
Captain Larsen is a rough weather sailor,” Madden observed. “Bet he
works his men no matter what the seas. I’ll bet that wooden
platform is his own invention. See how the open slats let water
drain through into the scuppers. Gives the crew solid footing. Bet
there’s not much freeboard when those holds are full. A dangerous
trade anyway you look at it, but the way he’s battened down…he’s a
cautious man. He’ll pull those wooden platforms, dry stanchions and
net reel and he’s ready for dry cargo. The two holds would be
drained and dried; they’re nothing but holding tanks for live crab
and fish, anyway. That boom has the height we need.”
    The Helga rose and fell to a slight swell
that swept in from a passing boat. Traces of sea life were exposed,
clinging at the waterline. She was a steel ship, an old ship, but
showed no splotches of either rust, red primer or odd colored
paint. The bulwarks and decks were clean. The Helga was
cared for, a thing of beauty.
    A harsh growl, deep yet muffled. A German shepherd
stood topside, four feet firmly planted, poised to spring. The
wheelhouse door stood latched open. Trent moved to board. The dog
sprang and charged down the