Through Waters Deep (7 page)

Boston Navy Yard
Tuesday, June 3, 1941

The air in the drafting room stood still, and Mary halted inside the doorway. All the draftsmen sat at their angled desks, pens silent, ears cocked toward Mr. Winslow's office, toward the sound of raised voices.

Mary crossed the room as if nothing were wrong and opened her notebook to a fresh page. Since she was there on official business, no one would think anything unusual about her presence.

She paused outside the office and peered around the burly shoulders of George O'Donnell to catch Mr. Winslow's eye. At the naval architect's nod, she stepped just outside the doorway and leaned against the wall to wait.

And to take notes.

“Mr. O'Donnell,” Mr. Winslow said in his cultured tones. “It's hardly uncommon for a supervisor to check the work of his subordinates. In fact, it's expected.”

“You don't trust me? I've been a draftsman since before you were born. Subordinate, my foot.”

“I appreciate your experience, but—”

“But you think your fancy college degree makes you qualified to judge my work.”

“It isn't a matter of judging—”

O'Donnell cursed. “You and your hoity-toity ways. Questioning my work and rushing me.”

“I hardly think asking you to be at your desk during working hours is rushing you.” Winslow's voice quavered.

Mary's pen flew over the paper, but she kept a nonchalant look on her face as if she were doodling to pass the time.

“You can't fool us.” O'Donnell's voice lowered to a growl. “We all know why you're rushing us—to get more of
our
ships into British hands.”

“As you know, these ships are being commissioned into the United States Navy.”

“Yeah. To do England's dirty work for her, escorting ships carrying American goods across the Atlantic to feed them—and for free. Lend-Lease? It's outright theft. Why should we help them when they've never done anything to help us?”

“We help them . . .” Winslow's voice rose and shook. “We help them so more innocent people don't die. I'll have you know my wife's nephew died in London a few weeks ago—ten years old—killed in a German air raid. If we don't help them, who will?”

Mary drew in her breath. Ten years old. What horrors the British faced.

Mr. O'Donnell snorted. “And I'll have you know my cousin was killed in the Irish War of Independence back in 1920. By the British. America didn't send help to Ireland. Why should we help the Brits now?”

“I'm not asking you to help Britain. I'm asking you to do your job.”

“My job? My job is to build ships for America. For America.
Lindbergh's right, I tell you. We need new leadership in the United States.”

Mary scribbled hard and fast. A few days earlier, Charles Lindbergh's speech at an America First rally in Philadelphia raised an uproar. What did the aviator mean by “new leadership”? Some said he was calling for an immediate overthrow of Roosevelt's presidency. Some said he was referring to the lawful election process.

O'Donnell stormed out of the office, chomping on his tobacco, rolled blueprints in hand. Every eye in the drafting room watched him leave.

Mary waited a few seconds to finish her notes and to give Mr. Winslow time to gather himself. Then she pulled out the report from Mr. Pennington and entered the office. “Good morning, Mr. Winslow.”

He set down a glass of water and swallowed hard. “A bit late for that, I'm afraid.”

“From Mr. Pennington.” She offered him the report and a soft smile.

“Thank you.” He took the papers with a shaking hand and turned his chair away from her.

She had no intention of further assaulting his dignity by asking questions about the incident, so she made her exit.

And she made up her mind. Mr. Winslow allowed Mr. O'Donnell to intimidate him, but Mary refused to let her fears intimidate her any longer.

It was time for her lunch break and time to visit the FBI agent.

Mary returned to Mr. Pennington's office in Building 39 and grabbed her new loose-leaf notebook filled with her typed-up notes. The carbon copies resided in a similar notebook in her apartment. This past weekend while she typed, Yvette kept peeking over her shoulder and warning her, but Mary wouldn't be swayed.

She poked her head into her boss's office. “I'm going on my lunch break.”

“Yes. Yes. You're welcome.” His snowy head was bent over the papers on his desk.

Mary smiled. He never made sense when he was immersed in his work. “I'll see you in half an hour.” She hadn't asked his permission, but she didn't need it. As a private citizen, she had a right and a duty to share her suspicions.

Down on the first floor, Mary entered the cramped temporary office set up by the FBI.

Agent Paul Sheffield stood at his desk, his back to Mary, loading papers into a cardboard box. With his slight build and thin sandy hair, he looked nothing like the dark and dashing G-men in the movies.

“Excuse me?” Mary rapped on the back of the door with her knuckles. “Agent Sheffield?”

“Yes?” He shoved his glasses up his nose and squinted at Mary. “We've met, haven't we?”

Memorable as always. “Yes, sir. I'm Mary Stirling, Barton Pennington's secretary. I set up the champagne.”

“Ah yes.” He grinned and motioned for her to take a seat. “Have you come to confess?”

She laughed and sat down. “I'm afraid not.”

“What can I do for you?” He settled into his chair behind the desk.

Mary ran her thumbs along the notebook. “As Mr. Pennington's secretary, I collect and deliver reports to various departments. I hear a lot.”

Thin sandy eyebrows drew together. “What have you heard?”

“I—I hear lots of things. Nothing threatening, but I—well, I take notes on what people say, and I've typed them up. Would you be interested in seeing?”

He let out a long sigh and held out one hand, his fingers opening and shutting.

Mary laid the notebook in front of him, pleased with how neat and organized it looked. “Each page—or pages—is for a separate person. On top is the person's name and position, plus his possible motive, means, and opportunity to commit sabotage. In the T-shaped chart below—on the left is what he said and on the right is what others said about him.”

Agent Sheffield flipped through the notebook, and Mary returned to her seat, watching his face for any glimmer of interest, but he remained impassive.

At last, he pushed the notebook away and leaned back in his chair. “What you have here is a long—and exceptionally organized—account of all the shipyard gossip.”

Mary's gut twisted. “I suppose so, but it does show each man's frame of mind, his personality, his motives, and how he's perceived. I think it would be useful in your investigation.”

“The investigation is over.” He gestured to the box on his desk. “After this afternoon's commissioning ceremony, I'm closing up shop.”

“But the champagne—”

“A single incident. The local police are in charge. As for this perceived sabotage . . .” He shrugged. “Tensions are high throughout the nation, and they're concentrated here because of the work you're doing. The problems people have seen are the normal mistakes you'd see at any shipyard. But since everyone's convinced there's a saboteur in your midst, they interpret every error as sabotage most foul. Mass hysteria.”

Mary pulled her lips between her teeth. His statement did hold truth.

The agent stood and placed more papers in the box. “In fact, the Bureau is convinced our presence here is only inflaming the situation. If we leave, show them we think nothing's wrong, everything will settle down to normal. Besides, we have more pressing matters, real spies to hunt down.”

“But what if something is actually happening here?”

He put his hands on his hips and tilted his head. “Let me guess—the Case of the Shipyard Saboteur.”

Mary's breath caught. That's what she'd taken to calling it. She'd almost written it in her notebook.

The agent shook his head. “How many Nancy Drew books did you read?”

Book covers flashed through her mind—
The Secret of the Old Clock
,
The Mystery at
Lilac Inn
,
The Sign of the Twisted Candles
. At least a dozen books—all the mysteries that had been published before she graduated from high school and set aside her girlhood heroine along with her schoolbooks.

Mary smoothed the skirt of her blue dress—the color Nancy Drew favored in her wardrobe as well. “A few.”

Agent Sheffield chuckled and pulled file folders from a desk drawer. “We see this all the time at the Bureau—eager young ladies who fancy themselves amateur sleuths able to catch clues we bumbling blind professionals miss.”

Mary gasped. “I assure you, sir, that wasn't my intention. Not at all. I just thought I could aid the inves—”

“And I assure
you
, miss. There's nothing in your pretty little notebook we don't already know.”

Her throat burning, she picked up her notebook, said good-bye, and retreated. She'd hoisted her sails and had capsized. She hadn't hoisted them in pride, but he thought her prideful, thought her pushy and condescending.

Mary strode down the hallway, her vision blurring. Had she been prideful after all? She examined her words and actions, and she rejected the notion. No, she only wanted to help. The last thing she wanted was attention or recognition.

Back on the second floor, she leaned against the wall outside Mr. Pennington's office and opened her notebook, her eyes still damp. The first page was for Morton Anders, a riveter on Frank Fiske's crew and an outspoken interventionist.

Mary screened her notes—she'd seen Morton Anders at the isolationist rally on Boston Common. She'd worn that itchy blonde wig and that bold red dress. And she'd been with Jim.

Her lips warped, and tears filled her eyes. Jim didn't scoff at her. Jim didn't think her investigation was silly or prideful. In fact, he believed in her.

Mary bowed her head and clutched her notebook. If only she could talk to him right now.

She could almost hear his deep voice encouraging her. She could almost feel his strong hand patting her shoulder. She could almost see his hazel eyes sparkling to cheer her up.

He'd only been gone two days. How could she miss him so much?

Off the Coast of Maine
Wednesday, June 11, 1941

“Good night, men.” Jim raised one hand in farewell to his fellow officers and left the wardroom.

“Going for your evening constitutional?” Arch asked.

“Yeah.” Although Jim had never favored solitary strolls, the smooth seas, clear skies, and pleasant temperatures on this cruise called to him.

He left the stale smell of tobacco smoke in the wardroom and made his way to the main deck and the fresh smells of ocean air. Here he could chew over the evening's conversation. Most nights this week, between discussions of shipboard happenings, baseball scores, and news events, the captain had brought up another aspect of Nehemiah's leadership for discussion.

Jim hadn't been able to figure out what in the Bible passages referred to him until Durant pointed it out tonight. During the practice loading drill, Jim had asked Gunner's Mate Udell, “How can we improve?” The word
we
was what Durant had liked.

When Nehemiah arrived in Jerusalem and wanted to enlist the help of the Jewish leaders, he told them, “Ye see the distress that we are in, how Jerusalem lieth waste, and the gates thereof are burned with fire: come, and let us build up the wall of Jerusalem.”

“We. Us. Collaboration,” Durant had said. When a leader inserted himself into the problem and the solution, he didn't blame his subordinates or look down on them. Then the subordinates rallied behind the leader. That's what he said Jim had done.

The memory of those words and a lungful of cool night air puffed out Jim's chest, but he had a long way to go. Durant hinted at it. Jim's natural style was to gather people together. That came easily to him. But what about when an unpopular or dangerous decision needed to be made?

Jim's chest deflated. “That's where I need to improve.”

At the stern of the destroyer, Jim leaned against the empty depth charge racks, which stood ready to roll ash cans of explosives down to submarines if they ever went to battle.

The ship's wake fanned out astern, and the song “Moonglow” played in Jim's mind, slow and romantic. Before him, the full moon cast silvery light on the blue waters.

Why was he drawn here every night?

A peaceful view, entrancing, and somehow familiar. Not from earlier trips to sea. It was more like a connection, a reminder. Something about the sight made him feel relaxed and strong and confident. Like . . . like . . .

Like when he was with Mary.
Those eyes.

That was it. Mary's sparkling, peaceful, entrancing eyes. Boy, did he miss her. Much more than he thought he would.

Mary had a glow rather than a flash about her. With her, he felt like he could become a better man and help her become a better woman. A friendship and yet more.

What now? Jim pushed away from the depth charge rack
and strode toward the bow, past the number four gun mount, the number three. Something about his relationship with Mary felt right, but she'd never shown any signs of being attracted to him, and their friendship was comfortable. Best to wait and see if anything happened.

Jim passed the machine gun platform, the practice loading machine, the searchlight platform. Wait and see? That sounded like floating. Could he float into love? Wouldn't a real man charge ahead and pursue the lady?

He winced and passed the aft funnel, the torpedo tubes, the forward funnel. Whenever he pursued a woman, he came across like a drooling fool, acting as he had with Quintessa. That was surely how Mary remembered him.

Behavior like that wouldn't impress a sensible woman like Mary. No, he'd have to be subtle and suave.

“Jim Avery suave?” He laughed and made his way down the narrow passageway around the bridge superstructure. He wore a suave uniform and had manners any mom would be proud of, but he still acted like a frisky colt most of the time.

“Mr. Avery? Is that you, sir?” A rough voice came from ahead.

“Yes.” Jim squinted in the faint light from the foremast, range, and side lights overhead. A man in a petty officer's uniform headed toward him. “Udell?”

“Yes, sir. I was looking for you.”

“For me?” Jim met up with the gunner's mate.

“Yes, sir.” Udell rubbed the back of his neck. “Something isn't right in my mount, down in the handling room. I talked to Mr. Reinhardt yesterday, and he said it was nothing, but . . .”

Jim frowned and crossed his arms. “What is it?”

“Water.”

He swallowed a comment about being at sea. “Water?”

“My men noticed some drops on the deck the other day.
We wiped them up. More the next day in the same place. Nowhere near the doors. Sir, you know we keep things dry down there 'cause of the powder.”

It didn't seem like a problem—except Udell thought it was. “Mr. Reinhardt said it was nothing?”

Udell let out a growl. “He says we're on the ocean. He says be more careful. Sir, I joined this Navy twenty years ago, when you and he was still in knee pants. I know when things ain't right.”

Jim clapped him on the shoulder. “Show me.”

Udell led him to the ammunition handling room directly underneath the number two gun. Racks of 5-inch projectiles and brass powder cases lined the walls. In the center of the small room, the projectile hoist and powder scuttle extended to the gun compartment above. Udell and his crew kept this room spic and span.

“Here, sir.” Udell pointed to the panel boxes by the central column. Three droplets of water spotted the deck, and the petty officer wiped them up with a rag. “Just since I left to find you.”

Jim squatted. The droplets lay beneath the panel boxes. “What's in the boxes?”

“Controls for the projectile hoist.” Udell unlatched a panel box.

Jim looked inside. The usual switches and dials seen on any control panel. However, the left-hand third of the box was walled off with a tiny padlock securing the door. “What's back there?”

“Don't know, sir. And I don't have a key. That's not right. I'm the gun captain.”

“And Mr. Reinhardt—”

“Wouldn't come look.”

Jim jiggled the padlock. “Are the other turrets like this?”

“Don't know.”

“Let's find out.” Jim scrambled outside, down a hatch, and into the number one handling room. He greeted a crewman and opened the panel box. Smaller than the panel box in the number two mount. No walled-off area. No padlock.

An uneasy feeling writhed in Jim's belly. What about all that talk of sabotage at the Navy Yard? Weren't the men who installed that mount the same men on Mary's suspect list?

But water? In a locked box? Nothing about it made sense.

“What do you think, sir?” In Udell's weathered mask of a face, concern flitted in his brown eyes.

Jim scratched at the stubble on his chin. “I don't know. But I agree with you—something isn't right.”

“You gonna tell the captain?”

Go straight to Durant over Reinhardt's head? That didn't seem wise, and it certainly wouldn't make Reinhardt warm up to him. But the gunnery officer had already dismissed Udell's observations. Wouldn't he dismiss Jim's too?

But reporting to Durant would create a monstrous wave.

The image of those three drops on the deck filled his mind. He'd talk to Durant in private. If nothing came of it, he'd ask the captain not to say anything to Reinhardt.

He had to do this. He had to make a little splash. Besides, no one would get hurt.

“Come on, Udell. Let's go find the captain.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Durant would be up on the bridge. He said he always had to say good night to his ship, and he believed in long good nights. Jim had served as junior officer of the watch a few times late during first watch and mid-watch, and there was Durant, still saying good night.

Jim led Udell up to the bridge, high above the deck.

Sure enough, Durant stood behind the helmsman in the pilothouse. He glanced at Jim. “Mr. Avery.”

“Captain, may we have a word with you in private, please?” He motioned to the petty officer behind him.

“Very well.” The corners of Durant's thin mouth turned down, and he showed them into his tiny cabin just aft of the pilothouse and shut the door. “What's up?”

“Sir, it's probably nothing, but . . .” Jim relayed the situation as concisely as possible without mentioning Reinhardt's name.

“A padlock?” Durant perched on the edge of his desk. “Why would we keep anything locked up in a handling room? Udell, have you ever seen anything like this?”

“No, sir.”

“Odd.” The captain leaned out the door. “Mr. Banning, go with Mr. Avery. He'll brief you on the way. I'll take the conn.”

“Aye aye, sir.” The executive officer led them back down to the main deck.

As they walked to the gun mount, Jim repeated the story.

Lt. Vince Banning shifted his square jaw to the side and raised one eyebrow. “Water?”

“I know. But why is there water in the panel box? Why a padlock? The other turrets don't have a lock. Something doesn't seem right.” No need to mention the sabotage rumors.

Banning glanced behind him. “Well, I trust Udell. If he says something's wrong, something's wrong.”

“That's what I thought.” Jim threw a smile behind him to the petty officer, glad Reinhardt seemed alone in his disrespect. “Say, Udell. We might need a hacksaw for that lock.”

“I'll get it, sir.”

In the handling room, Jim showed Banning the setup. As he did, a lone drop fell from the seam of the panel box and splashed on the deck.

“I've got a hacksaw.” Udell clambered through the door.

Jim stepped aside to let the man work.

After a few minutes of sawing, Udell pried off the lock and opened the door. “Holy mackerel!”

Jim peered over his shoulder. A tin can sat inside on a film of water. Wires protruded from the side and poked into a block of—

Holy mackerel indeed! “Is that TNT?”

“Don't touch a thing.” Banning cussed, lunged for the telephone, and explained the situation to the bridge.

Jim sat on his heels, his heart pounding. The rumors were right. There was a saboteur.

Within seconds, the siren clanged overhead and the loudspeaker announced general quarters.

Jim's blood went cold. They'd run the collision drill every day at sea, preparing for any type of hull breach, from collision, stranding, a torpedo hit—or an explosion. He never dreamed they'd put it into practice so soon.

All around the ship, men would be running to their stations, closing watertight doors and hatches, preparing the damage control and medical teams, and readying the whale boats and life rafts.

Banning motioned with his thumb to the door. “Go on, Avery. Get out of here. You too, Udell.”

“No, sir,” the men said in unison.

“Fools.” Banning stared at the bomb and rubbed his hand over his mouth. “Let's see what we have here.”

“Why the water?” Jim ran his finger through the puddle in the bottom of the panel box. “It's leaking from the can.”

“All right.” Banning wiped his upper lip, then gingerly slid the contraption out of the box.

Udell got down low and peered up at the device. “There's a tiny hole in the bottom.”

Jim tossed aside his cover and ran his hand through his hair. “It's designed to leak. Very slowly.”

“So the water level inside falls,” Banning said.

“Maybe something's floating inside,” Jim said. “Like a cork.”

“Yeah.” Udell clapped his hands. “When the water runs out, two wires meet, and boom!”

“Boom.” Jim's breath ran out.

“Throw it overboard,” Udell said.

“Then we'd lose the evidence. They wouldn't be able to track down the saboteur.” And Mary would never forgive him. “Let's cut the wires, take off the TNT.”

Banning frowned at the bomb for a long moment. “Go ahead.”

While Banning held the can and Jim held his breath, Udell pulled his clasp knife off his belt and sliced through the wires. No boom.

All three men released deep sighs.

“Okay. Let's tell the bridge. Then we'll show the captain.” Banning pried off the TNT. “They'll want all of this for the investigation—the can, the padlock, the explosive. Mr. Avery, call up to the bridge.”

Jim got on the telephone. Soon the siren sounded three times overhead, and a voice on the loudspeaker called, “Secure.”

But were they secure? If the saboteur left one bomb, might he have left another? Jim had to tell Durant about the rumors at the shipyard and Mary's concerns.

Right there in the handling room, surrounded by powder cases and explosive shells. If the bomb had detonated, it could have blown off the bow of the ship and taken many—if not all—of the crewmen to the bottom of the sea.

Thank God, they'd caught it in time. Yes. Thank God.

Jim closed his eyes and did just that.

When he opened his eyes, he looked inside the panel box again. What kind of man would do such a thing? What kind of man had so little regard for human life?

What was that? Dark marks on the wall of the panel box, hidden in the shadows.

Jim pulled his flashlight from his trouser pocket and shone it inside. A bright red swastika marred the steel.

And the words “Sieg Heil!”