Through Waters Deep (21 page)

East of Newfoundland
Tuesday, November 18, 1941

Heavy seas tossed the USS
Atwood
, but the interior communications and plotting room enjoyed relative warmth and stability, nestled below the waterline directly under the bridge.

Jim gathered with the four men who ran the Mark 1 computer, a complex piece of machinery, a little bigger than his mom's kitchen stove, filled with gears and levers and cams and electrical circuits. Beside the computer, three men operated the stable element, smaller than the computer but no less complex.

“Director to plot.” Mr. Reinhardt's voice came through Jim's headphones from his position in the gun director high over Jim's head. “Captain's ordered us to run a drill using one of the merchant ships as a pretend target. He suggested we aim at the
Manchester Merchant
.”

Jim grinned. The convoy commodore's ship. The day before, US Task Unit 4.1.5 had picked up Convoy HX-160 off the coast of Newfoundland. During the night, they'd counted
sixteen light violations and had received gruff resistance to their orders to darken ships. One of the captains said he didn't take orders from “gold braids” in tin cans.

Apparently Durant had chosen mock vengeance on the commodore, although the command ship sailed over a mile away from the
Atwood
and the commodore would never know he'd been targeted.

Jim spoke into his microphone. “Ammunition?”

Reinhardt laughed. “Nope. We'll just practice tracking the target, computing the solution, and transmitting to the guns. You're in condition Standby 2, correct?”

“Correct.”

“Go to Standby 3.”

“Aye aye.” Jim looked up. “Standby 3, men.”

“Aye aye, sir.” The men turned cranks and dials and pushed buttons.

Jim wandered behind the men at the stable element. The gyro inside had already been activated for their current state of readiness. What a great piece of machinery, calculating all the instantaneous compensations needed to overcome the effects of the ship's pitch and roll.

“Target angle three-zero-five,” Reinhardt said. “Target speed eight knots.”

Jim repeated the initial values aloud, and the computer operators turned little cranks to enter the data manually. Then he called up to the bridge for wind speed and direction, and the operators entered that data too. “At Standby 3,” he told Reinhardt.

“Very well. Begin tracking,” Reinhardt said.

“Aye aye. Begin tracking.”

In front of Jim, the men at the computer operated their dials. The
Atwood
's speed and course came into the computer automatically, and soon the target's bearing and range
would enter the computer by electrical signals from up in the director.

Sure beat the old system of using a plotting board and a ruler and a roll of paper, even if Jim enjoyed learning the method at the Academy.

“Range matched,” one of the operators said.

“Bearing synchronized.”

“Elevation synchronized.”

“Very well.” Jim looked over the shoulders of the computer operators, each attentive to his duties. Skilled, technical work—and each man here knew all the other men's jobs as well.

“Solution calculated and transmitted to guns,” an operator said.

Jim repeated the information to Reinhardt. In the time it took electricity to travel and motors to turn, the four 5-inch guns would each train and point at the target, with the fuze-setters in the projectile hoists set for the correct range. An engineering marvel.

“Very well,” Reinhardt said. “Cease tracking.”

Not the most complicated target, moving at a sluggish speed in parallel to the
Atwood
. But the director and computer could make similar calculations even for dive-bombing airplanes.

“Good job, men. Return to Standby 2.” Jim appreciated the captain's drills. The monotony, discomfort, and constant vigilance of convoy escort wore on the men's nerves, and having a task to perform helped distract them while honing their skills.

Jim pulled out his clipboard and filled out his report for the drill. The men had been jumpy since they left Boston, and he didn't blame them. After the
Reuben James
was sunk on October 31, the men oscillated between cold terror that
the
Atwood
would be next and heated desire to avenge the men of the
Reuben James
.

Neither approach was wise. Jim wanted to help them find a mellow balance, to be prepared and alert, unsullied by fear or fury.

Balance. He tapped his pen on the clipboard. That's what he needed. Just like Nehemiah. Prayerful but bold. A man of analysis and a man of action. A man who gathered and encouraged, yet could also rebuke and stand his ground.

Here at sea, Jim was determined to temper boldness with prayerful caution. And back in Boston?

His breath puffed out his cheeks. He'd made a mess, but he'd sort everything out as best he could. First item on his agenda when he returned—he'd have that long, emotional talk with Quintessa. But why did it have to be emotional anyway? He'd never understand how women thought. Jim had been out with Quintessa only three times, and none of those outings qualified as true dates.

However, he wouldn't return until mid-December at the earliest. Quintessa would have a whole month to think about what he'd said on his departure. She was an intelligent woman. Maybe they wouldn't need an emotional talk after all.

Jim signed the bottom of his report. Yeah, and maybe Hitler would surrender and go back to painting.

Regardless, Jim would be firm and truthful. He didn't love Quintessa. He loved Mary.

And what about Mary? Could he pursue her right away? That depended on how Quintessa reacted. He didn't want to be an insensitive dolt, but how else would it look? Both women saw him as Quintessa's property. Somehow they'd made that decision last time he went to sea.

What would they decide this time?

Jim groaned and rearranged papers on the clipboard for
the rest of his watch. Daytime was quiet on convoy duty. U-boats didn't like to attack during the day, and the merchant ships could keep station more easily. If it weren't for the weather and the difficult nights, it might be relaxing.

He longed to unwind. His short leave in Boston had been almost as nerve-wracking as his time at sea. If only he could have spent his time with sweet, relaxing Mary.

If only he could be there right now. Quintessa had told him enough about the sabotage case to know something was going on, but not enough for him to make sense of it.

And the Christmas pageant was approaching. When Quintessa told him Mary had been cast in a leading role, he was worried. How was she doing? She was strong enough to handle it, but he wouldn't be there to cheer for her, to encourage her.

He should be back for Christmas though.

Christmas. Would Mary go home to Ohio or stay in Boston? If she went home, could he get enough leave to follow her? It might be romantic to declare his love under a Christmas tree. Girls liked stuff like that, didn't they?

And he'd decided on a bold declaration, when it was time. No more trying to be suave. No more foolishness. Just plain brave honesty.

Even though it was too late. He could feel it in his gut, but that wouldn't stop him. Nothing could.

“Back at Standby 2, sir,” the computer operator said.

Jim blinked and looked him in the eye. “Very well. Good job, everyone.”

The operator gave him a teasing smile. “Daydreaming, Mr. Avery?”

Caught in the act. He chuckled. “Suppose I am.”

“The blonde or the brunette?”

The computer crew broke down in laughter. But Jim had two older brothers. He could handle teasing. He laughed
right along and clapped the man on the back. “Classified information.”

The words gouged him in the chest. Classified information. That's how he'd treated his interest in Mary, and look where that got him.

Jim started a new report sheet, a clean start. Time to declassify.

Boston
Wednesday, November 19, 1941

How strange to wear a spring suit the day before Thanksgiving, but when November felt like June, what choice did Mary have?

She headed past the Muster House on her way to work in the unseasonably warm morning sunshine. The newspapers forecasted a record high for today. If only it were still June, with Jim in Boston and Quintessa in Chicago.

Mary scrunched up her nose. What a selfish thought. What kind of person wanted to keep her two favorite people apart? Even if Quintessa hadn't arrived, Jim wouldn't have fallen for Mary. If he hadn't done so in six months, he never would.

She quickened her pace down the elm-lined road between Buildings 33 and 34. At least Quintessa's arrival saved Mary from falling deeper in love with Jim. Thank goodness she'd come when she had.

Several months ago, Jim had told her he rarely went home because seeing Quintessa and Hugh was too painful, because
it was wrong to love his best friend's girlfriend. He'd made that decision out of respect for both Hugh and Quintessa, and out of self-respect as well.

It was time for Mary to follow his example and leave Boston, out of respect for both Jim and Quintessa, and out of self-respect. Yesterday after work, she'd received a phone call from the Defoe Shipbuilding Company in Bay City, Michigan, offering her a job.

Today she would give the Navy Yard two weeks' notice. She would fulfill her obligation with the Christmas pageant, spend a few weeks at home for the holidays, then start the new year with a new job and a new start.

If God was smiling on her, she'd be able to leave before Jim returned from his tour. Last time he'd been gone five weeks. If this tour lasted as long, she'd already be home for Christmas.

“There she is.” In front of her, in the gap between Buildings 38 and 39, five men approached.

Mary recognized Ralph Tucker and Curly Mulligan, but not the other three. However, she did recognize their demeanor as less than friendly. She gave them a polite greeting and turned toward her building.

The men stepped in front of her, in an arc blocking her path.

She stopped short, hugged her notebooks, and studied five burly, angry faces. “Yes, gentlemen?”

Ralph Tucker crossed his arms over his chambray work shirt. “We understand you've been spying on our friend O'Donnell.”

“Spying?” Her voice came out thin.

Curly Mulligan adjusted his cap. “Yeah. Every time we see you, you're writing in one of those notebooks.”

“O'Donnell says you're spying for that Frenchie girl,” Tucker said. “You're her roommate, aren't you?”

Mary straightened her back and willed away the quiver in her chin. “Taking notes is my job. I'm a secretary. I was taking notes long before this sabotage nonsense began.”

“Well, stop.” The tallest man poked his finger at her, glaring down a bulbous nose. “We see you taking notes again, we break your pen. Maybe something else.”

Her breath ratcheted its way down her throat, and she stepped back. “How dare—”

“Tell you what, Miss Stirling. Why don't you let us look at those notebooks ourselves, see what you're really up to.” Ralph Tucker reached for the notebooks in Mary's arms.

She held them closer and took another step back, only to bump into someone large.

“Yeah, lady.” The mountain behind her nudged her closer to Tucker. “Show us what you got in there.”

She couldn't. All her typed notes about Yvette and Mr. Fiske were in there, for Agent Sheffield's eyes only. “It's none of your business.”

“Says who?”

“Says Mr. Barton Pennington.” Mary stared down Ralph Tucker. “Do I need to tell him you tried to steal from his secretary? The granddaughter of his oldest friend? That you threatened her?”

Tucker's gaze wavered. Mr. Pennington had plenty of influence over hiring and firing, and the union wouldn't like its name sullied by a workman threatening young ladies.

“Excuse me.” Mary shouldered her way past him.

Another group of workmen approached, and Mary sucked in her breath.

“Say, miss.” This man looked concerned. “Those hoodlums bothering you?”

The cavalry had arrived, but Mary didn't need them. She turned and gave Tucker and Mulligan an icy glare. “You tell me. Are you bothering me?”

Mulligan dropped his gaze to his shoes. “Wouldn't dream of it.”

“Good.” She passed the cavalry. “Thank you. I'm glad there are still some gentlemen in this world.”

Mary darted into Building 39, but she aimed for Agent Sheffield's office. She'd explain her tardiness to Mr. Pennington later.

The papers rustled in her trembling arms. She flung open the FBI agents' office door, marched forward, and slapped the notebook on Agent Sheffield's desk. “This is my final report.”

“Final?” Sheffield arched his sandy eyebrows.

From his corner desk, Agent Hayes gave her his customary silent nod and returned to his work.

“They know what I'm doing.” Mary crossed her arms to conceal the shaking. “They know I record their conversations, and they just threatened me. Plus, I have reason to suspect my roommate might have used my notes for improper purposes. I need to stop immediately.”

“Have a seat.” Agent Sheffield's expression softened, and he motioned to the chair. “Tell me everything.”

For the next fifteen minutes, she relayed everything that had happened over the weekend with Yvette and Mr. Fiske, as well as the morning encounter with Tucker and Mulligan.

Agent Sheffield expressed great interest in the meeting at Filene's, perused Mary's notes, added some of his own, and asked several questions. Apparently both Yvette and Mr. Fiske had moved up on the suspect list.

By the time she finished, her shaking had stopped and her determination to quit the investigation had hardened to certainty.

Agent Sheffield closed the notebook and settled back in his chair with an expression Mary had never seen before on his face—respect. “This is very good. Is there anything else?”

“It's all in the notes.” How ironic that she'd earned his
respect the moment she quit. “Thank you for listening, for believing in me, but there won't be anything more.”

His gaze stayed on her—level, sure, unbending. “As you wish. You're a private citizen. However, I suggest you keep your eyes and ears open, remember what you see and hear, write it down later—not in public—and keep me informed.”

“No, thank you.” Mary stood to leave.

But one question tickled the back of her brain. While she'd noted the discrepancy in her report, she hadn't called attention to it, since it shifted from fact to supposition.

She paused with her hand around the brass doorknob. “I'm sure you can't tell me, but I'll ask anyway. When you arrested Mr. Winslow, you said you'd found a bomb. You told Mr. O'Donnell that Mr. Winslow wasn't arrested for building a bomb, but for possessing one. Yet twice I've heard Mr. Fiske state that a crate of bomb-making equipment was found in Mr. Winslow's basement. He said it was the same equipment used to build the bomb on the
Atwood
.”

Agent Hayes whipped around and stared at her.

One corner of Agent Sheffield's mouth crept up. “You're very perceptive, Miss Stirling.”

“Which is it?”

Sheffield tapped a cigarette out of a case. “When we searched his house, Mr. Winslow was agitated when we went through his kitchen cupboards. That's where we found the bomb. But when we went down to the basement, he showed no anxiety at all.”

Mary's hand slipped from the doorknob. If he had a crate of equipment in his basement, he would have been nervous. Agent Sheffield, however, hadn't stated what he'd found—only Mr. Winslow's reaction. “What did you find?”

He chuckled. “I can't tell you that, young lady. I can only tell you what was in the public statement, what Mr. Winslow
himself was told—that we found a bomb in his kitchen cupboard.”

Her mouth drifted open. Agent Sheffield had deliberately told her, in a roundabout manner, that they had indeed found a crate of equipment. No one knew except the FBI.

And Mr. Fiske.

And Mary. “Mr. Winslow didn't know. That means someone else put it there. Someone trying to—”

“I thought you quit, Miss Stirling.”

She sighed. She wouldn't be in Boston for long anyway. “No promises, but if I hear anything . . .”

“I knew you wouldn't let me down.”

Mary shook her head and departed. This was how Nancy Drew got herself in trouble too, but Nancy always found her way out.

If only real life came with such guarantees.

Mary and Quintessa sat on Mary's bed with the door shut, hunched over the section of the notebook dedicated to Frank Fiske.

On a blank sheet of paper, Mary drew a straight line to track the timing. “See?” she said in a hushed voice. “Mr. Fiske's son was drafted last October in the first lottery. Fiske is worried. He had a horrible experience in the First World War.”

“Who didn't?” Quintessa whispered.

Although Mr. Fiske was Mary's prime suspect, she still didn't want Yvette to hear their conversation.

“I don't blame him for his concern for his only son.” Mary made another mark at September 1940. “Just a month earlier, President Roosevelt agreed to give fifty of our old destroyers to Great Britain. I remember how angry Mr. Fiske was, all the isolationists.”

Quintessa tucked a blonde curl behind her ear. “When was the champagne incident?”

“March 18.” Mary drew another line and gave Quintessa a pointed look. “Exactly one week after Roosevelt announced Lend-Lease.”

“Oh.” Green eyes widened. “The isolationists hated that.”

“That's about the time I started taking notes.” All along, Mr. Fiske had seemed to be the calm voice of reason, yet he was always there, always involved. “All the problems have happened on Fiske's crew.”

“That just means the saboteur is probably on his crew.”

“That's what I've assumed from the start.” Mary tapped the mark at March 18. “The champagne was a call for attention, as if the saboteur wanted the FBI to start looking.”

“He succeeded.” Quintessa turned a page. “Here's something about decking failure?”

“Yes. It failed after Mr. Fiske inspected it. Mr. Bauer and Mr. Kaplan blamed each other.”

Quintessa's lips twisted. “Well, we know it wasn't Mr. Bauer, and Mr. Kaplan's been in jail for a while. And things are still going on.”

“Exactly. So it was someone else, someone trying to make Bauer or Kaplan look guilty. Mr. Kaplan wants us in the war. Mr. Fiske doesn't.”

“Where does the bomb come in? I still can't believe it. What if something had happened to Jim? To his friends?”

“I know.” Mary focused on her notes, trimming out thoughts of the man she loved. “The number two gun mount was installed on May 9. Jim—” She swallowed hard. “Jim was there, and he observed an argument between Bauer and Kaplan that Mr. Fiske broke up.”

“Hmm.”

“Think about it. Everyone suspects the loudmouths. A smart saboteur would know better. He'd keep a low profile.”

Quintessa nodded and ran her finger down the mark on May 9. “Mr. Fiske was there the day the gun was installed.”

“Yes, and he sent Mr. Kaplan to the handling room to clean up—that's where the bomb was found. Kaplan said he was only there five minutes.” Mary rolled her shoulders. “I think Mr. Fiske sent Kaplan to frame him, so others would remember him going there.”

“Wow.”

“The
Atwood
shipped out June 1. Fiske and Kaplan returned for a final check the day before. I think that's when he planted the bomb and painted the swastika.” Mary darkened the mark. “But it was so flamboyant. Kaplan realized he was being framed, and then he got beaten up by thugs from the German-American Bund. He got desperate. He wanted to create evidence to prove what he believed to be true.”

“That a Nazi did it.”

“Mm-hmm.” Mary gave her friend a small smile. How wonderful to puzzle things out with Quintessa.

“So when did Jim find the bomb?”

Mary turned from the affection and worry in her friend's eyes. “June 11. There was an uproar, but not for long. No one was arrested, and everyone was upset about it.”

“Mr. Fiske too?”

“Of course. Then over the next month or so, things started happening again, sections failing after inspection. And here . . .” Mary drew another line. “August 8, right in the middle of the congressional hearings on the bill to extend the draft, which affects Mr. Fiske's son. Mr. Fiske told me Bauer's section had failed after he inspected it—and that he found Mr. Kaplan's gloves at the spot.”

“Mr. Fiske just happened to find them, huh?” A skeptical look from Quintessa.

Mary flipped a page. “Look. On August 18, Roosevelt
signed the bill to extend the draft. Mr. Fiske's son is bound to the Army until May of '43. Do you think we'll avoid war that long?”