A Silent Tide

Prologue

March 7, 1927

             Two hours before dawn, a fishing boat loaded with illegal rum slipped quietly into the mouth of a fog shrouded cove on the upper reaches of the Chesapeake Bay. A prearranged signal, from the vessel of two red lanterns hung from hooks on the lee side of the deck cabin, was acknowledged by the pulsing of headlights from the hidden shore and the boat motored slowly to a wharf that emerged from the mist.

            After securing the lines of the boat to the dock, the two boatmen on board, one the captain and the other the first mate, both draped in oilskins, came ashore and were met by three men at the end of the dock. Two of the three men were rough in appearance, with the no-nonsense look of longshoremen, short on patience and long on violence. The third man was not of that sort. A long, thick wool coat and a stylish fedora served notice of his rank and his accent spoke of his Chicago roots.

            The captain wasted little time. He spoke quickly to the gentleman in the fedora, who, in turn, signaled to his two companions. A delivery truck was backed out on to the dock and the two longshoremen removed the rear canvas cover, lowered the gate and attached a cable winch to the metal rails welded to the bed of the truck. Then, barrel by barrel, the boat's cargo of prohibition-era liquor was off loaded from the hold of the ship and onto the truck whose destination was to the speakeasies of Chicago. An hour of steady labor and the task was done. A final count confirmed delivery of goods as promised and the Fedora removed a small satchel from the cab of the truck. The captain counted the money and handshakes around confirmed the day's success.

            The first mate jumped off the dock and onto the deck of the boat to prepare for departure. He walked to the deck cabin, started the boat's engine and waited for the captain who remained on the dock, talking to the man in the long coat. 

            While the men spoke, the two longshoremen took off the winch and stashed it amongst the barrels of rum. They then secured the rear gate, tied down the canvas cover and moved towards the cab of the truck, eager to be on their way and gone from the stink of the salt marsh and the infernal hum of the bastard mosquito.

            The longshoremen reached to open the doors of the truck cab, but both men suddenly stopped cold in their tracks and stared down the gangplank of the pier as it disappeared into the thick fog that blanketed the shore. They had not heard any noise as it was deathly quiet save for the soft lapping of the bay tide against the pilings, the boat and the shoreline. But these men were professionals, well-trained Chicago gangsters, who were able to sense trouble before they could see it. There was danger afoot. Both men could feel it, the premonition being strong, but for them it was too late.

             From out of the fog and the darkness and up the worn planks of the dock walked the boots of five hard men, three armed with shotguns and two carrying Thompson .45 caliber machineguns.

            The killing was done quick.

            The longshoremen died where they stood next to the truck, both gutted at point blank range by dual blasts of 12 gauge buckshot. One of the men holding the Thompson then opened fire, instantly killing the man standing beside the captain, warm in his coat and stylish hat, while cutting down the boat captain himself in the same stream of bullets, satchel of money still in his hand.

            Only the first mate who was cornered on the deck of the boat lived long enough to see the faces of his executioners, vile men who lived hard and killed easily. The group of assassins lined the edge of the dock and pointed their weapons at the last surviving smuggler.