Through Waters Deep (17 page)

According to his word? This was God's will? Yes, it was. It was punishment. Somehow, without even knowing it, she'd let pride worm its way back into her life—in choir, in her investigation, with Jim—and this was her punishment.

She had to relive the most humiliating moment of her life.

South of Iceland
Monday, October 20, 1941

An eerie stillness hung in the frozen air, and Jim gripped the lifeline. Oil slicks stained the water black, and wreckage littered the waves. Something macabre inside him scrutinized each lump in the water to see if it was a body. He'd already seen two.

Convoy SC-48 had passed through these seas on her way to England. From October 15 to October 19, U-boats had sunk nine freighters and tankers, a British destroyer, and a British frigate. Three American destroyers had been diverted from escorting Convoy ON-24 to help. On October 17, a U-boat torpedoed the USS
Kearny
. Although she remained afloat, eleven American sailors had perished, the first to die in this war.

Jim gave his head a sharp shake and moved on. He was scheduled to relieve the torpedo officer, Ens. Reggie Parkinson, for the afternoon watch at 1200. While waiting at the Mid-Ocean Meeting Point for Convoy ON-26 to arrive from Liverpool, the
Atwood
had been sent to search for survivors
from the slaughter of SC-48. They hadn't found a soul, and the crew tensed, scouting for U-boats.

Jim headed amidships, where the quintuple torpedo tube mount sat between the two funnels like five fingers, ready to point to starboard or port to fire at enemy vessels.

Reggie waved Jim over with his customary grin on his long face, and he briefed Jim on his station's condition and readiness. Since U-boats often remained in the area after a battle to prey on rescue ships, the
Atwood
stood at Condition Two, prepared for attack. Like Nehemiah's men, they had one hand at work and one ready to fight.

Reggie motioned toward the stern. “I was about to check on the fellows down at the depth charge racks and the Y-gun.”

“I'll take care of that. Go get some rest.” Jim clapped him on the back and sent him on his way. With calm seas for now, the men were stocking up on food and sleep.

“Ahoy!” Up on the wing of the bridge, a lookout yelled and pointed.

Jim's heart jolted, and he followed the lookout's line of sight to port. Without binoculars, all he could see was a gray shape in the water. Wreck or U-boat?

On the bridge, Durant joined the lookout, peered through his binoculars, then returned to the pilothouse.

The general quarters gong sounded, and Jim froze along with everyone else on board, waiting for the signal to specify the drill.

The bugle sounded “Assembly,” and the boatswain's mate's pipe sounded “Away fire and rescue party.” A rescue operation.

The
Atwood
made a sharp turn to port, heading for the hulk. The harder Jim squinted, the more he could make out what looked to be the upside-down stern of a ship. The rescue party gathered by the whaleboat, and the deck gang prepared to lower the boat by its davits to the water.

Jim made his way to the stern. He didn't have specified duties during a rescue drill, but he needed to make sure the depth charges were ready in case of attack.

He passed the Y-gun, already loaded with two 300-pound depth charges, which could be propelled starboard and port. The gun crew was alert and ready.

Down at the stern, 600-pound depth charges lay in two angled racks. Hydraulic controls allowed a man on the bridge to flip the release lever and drop one “ash can” at a time.

The talker was speaking into his microphone, so Jim joined him. He saluted Jim. “Good day, sir. The captain wants us to prepare to drop a pattern at 100 feet, 150, 200, and 250, at five-second intervals.”

Jim returned the salute. “Very well. Tell him the Y-gun is loaded and ready.”

“Aye aye, sir.” He waved over the petty officer, Marvin Hill, and relayed the pattern.

Hill passed on the order. Two seamen got to work with special wrenches to turn dials on the ends of the ash cans to set the depth at which they'd explode.

“Hey, everyone!” one of the Y-gun crewmen shouted. “Survivors.”

Jim jogged over to the rail. Sure enough, half a dozen men sat on what remained of the stern of their ship, waving frantically. “Thank God.” Jim smiled at the glimmer of hope in the middle of the destruction.

The
Atwood
slowed to a stop, and the whaleboat swung out on its davits, loaded with the rescue party, blankets, and rum. Durant's voice came over the loudspeaker. “This is the USS
Atwood
. Stay where you are until the rescue boat comes to you.”

But one of the men stood and jumped into the water.

“No!” Jim cried, echoed by the men around him. The man would die in under twenty minutes in the frigid water,
and several minutes would pass before the whaleboat could row to him.

“No!” Durant barked into the loudspeaker. “Do not come to us. We will come to you.”

Jim's breath froze. “What if they don't speak English?”

Two more men jumped in and swam toward the
Atwood
. Vince Banning marched down the deck. “Drop the cargo net. Now!”

The deck gang sprang to work and heaved the net over the side. If only the men in the water could make it to the ship in time. If only the whaleboat could be lowered more quickly.

“Hurry, hurry,” Jim muttered.

The alarm clanged, and Jim whipped around to face the bridge. What now?

“General quarters” blasted on the bugle. “Man your battle stations.”

They must have made a sound contact.

“Oh Lord, not now!” Jim stared at the three men in the water, swimming, each stroke slower than the last in the icy water. The whaleboat hovered just off the gunwale, nowhere near the surface.

“Haul in that boat,” Banning shouted. “Now!”

Everything in Jim wanted to scream his protest. A few more minutes and they might save those men.

But in a few minutes, they could be pierced by a German torpedo. Those three men—and all two hundred men aboard the
Atwood
—could die.

“Throw them a life raft,” Banning called, but defeat hollowed his voice.

The American naval life rafts were large rings with netting in the center. They kept men afloat but didn't get them out of the water. They wouldn't drown, but they'd die of hypothermia.

The destroyer's engines rumbled, propelling the ship away,
smothering the cries of the dying men. Jim squeezed his eyes shut, but the image of three outstretched hands, three panicked faces burned into the backside of his eyelids.
Lord, be with them
.

Durant had to make a speedy decision. He had to be bold. And he'd made the right choice for the greater good. Nehemiah had done hard things too, rebuking those who did wrong and tossing out those who violated God's law. Neither man was afraid to be unpopular.

Jim ran down to the stern for the depth charge attack. Could he be like Durant? Like Nehemiah?

“Range five-double-oh,” the talker called out. “Ready charges.”

Five hundred yards. Jim's breath curled in the air. The destroyer drove forward at about twenty knots. At that speed they'd reach the sub in about two minutes. “Everyone ready?”

“Clear the racks,” Hill called. “Charges ready to roll from the forward to the after detent.”

“Just a second.” A sailor leaned into the narrow space between the smoke generator canisters and the starboard depth charge rack, his arm down through the triangle formed between two depth charges and the lower rack rail. “Dropped my wrench.”

“Get out of there, Ozzie! Now!” Hill grabbed the hem of the man's mackinaw and yanked.

A click, and the depth charges rolled to the end of the rack.

Ozzie's scream punctured the air.

Jim leaped forward. “What happened?”

“His hand.” Hill cussed. “It's caught.”

Ozzie screamed, swore, writhed.

Jim dashed to the other side to get a better look. One of the 600-pound steel drums had smashed two of Ozzie's fingers against the vertical bar supporting the rails. Blood dripped from tears in his gloves.

Still cussing, Marvin Hill flipped the release lever to manual control, overriding control from the bridge. “Everyone! Roll back the charges. Step to it!”

“Range three-double-oh,” the talker called.

Jim's lungs filled with lead. Only a minute left to roll back all five depth charges on the rack and free Ozzie's hand—what remained of it.

Two of the men wrestled with the top depth charge, barely budging it. Ten men would be required to roll back all the charges, if they could even squeeze into the cramped space. How long would that take? More than a minute. Much longer. Then the destroyer could only drop half the depth charges, completing only half the pattern. The chance of the U-boat surviving to torpedo them would be doubled.

But what about Ozzie? The young man's face wrenched in agony, sweat beaded on his forehead, and his arm twisted at an awkward angle to relieve pressure on his smashed fingers.

Jim's breath came hard. He gripped the upper rails of the rack as if they were the jaws of an animal trap, as if he could pry them apart and save Ozzie's hand, Lillian's leg.

But he couldn't. Lillian lost her leg. Ozzie would lose those two fingers.

“Range two-double-oh. Sound contact lost,” the talker said. “Mr. Avery, sir, should I tell the captain we're down to one rack?”

Jim stared at the man in his headphones. They were close enough to lose sound contact. They had to release the depth charges in thirty seconds. If they did, Ozzie would lose the other two fingers on that hand. What if the contact was a whale? A pocket of cold water? What if Jim sacrificed Ozzie's hand for nothing?

But what if it was a U-boat? What if they only dropped half the charges, and the U-boat survived to sink the
Atwood
with Ozzie and two hundred other men on board?

Jim had to decide, and he had to decide now.

Time to be an officer. Time to be bold. He straightened up. “Hill, switch back to bridge control.”

“What? He'll lose his hand.”

“That's an order. Do it now.”

Hill's square face agitated, but he leaned over and flipped the lever.

“Please don't,” Ozzie cried. “Please, sir. Please don't.”

“Call for a medical team,” Jim told the talker, then he circled the rack and set his hand on Ozzie's shoulder. “Get as much of your arm out of the way as you can. I'm sorry, but we need to sink that sub before it sinks us.”

The man scrunched his eyes shut, tears streaming down his cheeks, and Jim clenched his shoulder.

Behind Jim, the port rack clicked, and a depth charge splashed into the water, set to explode at one hundred feet.

Five seconds. Ozzie's muscles tensed beneath Jim's hand.

Five, four, three, two, one.

The lever clicked. The charges rolled forward. Ozzie screeched.

As soon as the charge rolled by, Jim grabbed his shoulders and pulled him free. “Come on, men. Get him out of here.”

Sailors dragged the screaming man away from the racks, to the open space behind the number four gun mount.

A loud hollow explosion sounded behind the ship. The stern heaved out of the water, and Jim fought to keep his balance. The water turned white in a rapidly spreading circle, then a giant plume erupted in the center. The first depth charge.

Two more depth charges rolled off the stern. Three more explosions fired, churning up the sea.

Jim leaned back against the smoke generator, his breath galloping. A group huddled around Ozzie. Some of the men held him down while a pharmacist's mate wrapped gauze around four bloody stumps.

The
Atwood
shifted to a circling pattern, and the Y-gun fired both 300-pound depth charges.

No further sound contacts. No torpedo wakes in their direction. But no oil or debris rose to the surface.

Jim stood there, gloved hand splayed on the cold steel of the smoke generator, while blood froze on the depth charge rack and the medical team helped young Ozzie Douglas down to sick bay to start a new life without the fingers on his right hand.

A vile taste filled Jim's mouth. For the second time in his life, he'd acted boldly. And for the second time in his life, someone had been maimed.

Boston
Friday, October 24, 1941

Mary leaned in to Mr. Pennington's office. “I'm off to see Agent Sheffield. I'll be right back.”

Her boss shook his white head. “I do wish you'd stop. Your grandfather will have me tarred and feathered if anything happens to you.”

“Thank you for your concern, but nothing will happen. I only take notes.” She waved and departed. No need to tell Mr. Pennington how daring she'd been lately, even sitting behind suspects in the cafeteria to record conversations. Inadmissible evidence, Agent Sheffield told her, but still valuable information.

Mary's heels clicked down the hallway. The FBI agent's sudden appreciation for her skills should have served as vindication but instead only reminded her of the role she'd played in Ira Kaplan's arrest. That guilt motivated her to find the real saboteur.

She descended the stairs. Things were heating up. At first
the errors in the shipyard looked like sloppy work, but now it looked like a deliberate attempt to slow production.

Rumors of sabotage abounded in Massachusetts lately. Down in Fall River two weeks before, a fire had broken out at the Firestone plant, destroying thirty thousand tons of crude rubber, 12 percent of the American stockpile. No one knew how it started, but everyone had a theory.

Mary paused at the base of the stairs and gripped the banister. If only she could discuss things with Jim. Never again. She had to release him, and how it hurt.

Why had she kissed him? That complicated matters. Now he knew she cared. Now he'd feel sorry for her when he chose Quintessa. How cruel it would be to force him to choose. No, she couldn't have that. She had to assure him that she wanted him and Quintessa together.

She hauled a breath into her burning lungs. If she loved Jim, if she loved Quintessa, she could do this.

Mary straightened her shoulders and entered the FBI agents' office. Frank Fiske leaned over Agent Sheffield's desk, examining a blueprint.

The agent smiled at Mary. “Ah, Miss Stirling. This week's report?”

Mary's smile stiffened. She didn't care to have anyone other than the FBI agents and Mr. Pennington know about her notes, and now Mr. Fiske gave her a curious look.

“Perfect timing.” Agent Sheffield took her report, skimmed it, and set it down. “I have another job for you. I already have permission from Mr. Pennington.”

“Oh?” The excitement of being included in the investigation mixed with her frustration at being singled out. She respected Mr. Fiske but kept him on her suspect list. After all, he had motive, means, and opportunity, and she wouldn't be impartial if she excluded him.

“A job?” the leadingman asked.

Agent Sheffield rolled up the blueprint on his desk. “You want me to talk to Weldon Winslow. Miss Stirling took thorough and accurate notes when Mr. Kaplan was arrested, and I'd like to employ her stenography skills again. I'll see you later, Mr. Fiske.”

Agent Hayes unfolded his long form from his desk chair, gave Mary a silent nod, and held open the office door for her.

After the leadingman headed back to the docks, Mary followed the two agents next door to Building 38. “May I ask what this is about?”

Once inside, Agent Sheffield climbed the stairs. “I don't want to confuse you with technical details, but Fiske's crew has had problems.”

“I heard. The holes were drilled too large for the bolts, so several entire sections had to be scrapped. Then they assembled another section using too-small bolts, which weakened the structure.”

The agent stood on the landing and raised an eyebrow at her. “Yes.”

Mary raised her sweetest smile. “A girl picks up some technical know-how in four years at a shipyard.”

He continued on his way. “Mr. Fiske checked again. Everything had been constructed according to the blueprints.”

In the hallway, Mary fell in beside the gentlemen. “So the blueprints are the origin of the errors?” The blueprints came from Mr. Winslow's office.

Thoughts careened in her mind. Mr. Winslow, with his desire to aid Britain, had motive, but he hardly seemed the radical bomb-building type. Did he have the mechanical expertise to build and install a bomb? She'd never once seen him on the docks.

The agents marched down the aisle in the drafting room, and all the draftsmen stopped and stared. The scrutiny made
Mary's skin crawl. She wasn't trying to display herself, yet everyone was looking at her.

Agent Sheffield knocked on Mr. Winslow's door and entered the office.

Mr. Winslow's eyes widened, then he stood and offered his hand. “Agent Sheffield, Agent Hayes. To what do I owe the pleasure? And Miss Stirling. Always a pleasure.”

Mary shook his slight, soft hand, noting his clean, manicured nails. Did the man even know how to use a hammer or a wrench? How could they think him guilty of sabotage?

Agent Sheffield pulled up a chair for Mary, then sat across from Mr. Winslow's desk, thumping his shoes onto the desktop. “Do you know why I'm here?”

Mr. Winslow stared at the agent's shoes, his lips thinned. “I can't imagine.”

“Why don't you tell me how your plans make it into blueprints and end up on the docks?”

Mary opened her notebook and started a new page of notes.

Mr. Winslow straightened the blotter on his desk. “It's rather straightforward. I draw up preliminary plans with all the specifications. I pass them on to the draftsman assigned to that project. He draws up the final diagram, has the blueprint developed, and delivers it to the leadingman.”

Agent Sheffield lit a cigarette without offering one to Mr. Winslow. “Have you heard about the bolts on the Fiske crew?”

“Yes, I have. I can't imagine what happened. It's all rather strange.”

“Here's the situation.” The agent angled cigarette smoke over the desk. “We had an independent inspector come in. He verified the construction was performed exactly to the specifications on the blueprints.”

“Exactly? That can't be. Do you—do you think I made a mistake? Even if I did, it hardly seems like the FBI's jurisdic—
wait. You don't think I did it on purpose?” The edge of the blotter rolled in Winslow's grasp.

Agent Sheffield shrugged and tipped his wooden chair back. “Tell me—what should I think?”

Mary took notes rapidly, her gaze darting back and forth between her notebook and the men. She didn't want to miss even one nuanced gesture.

Mr. Winslow's fingers skittered around as if he were typing on a miniature typewriter. “Why would I do anything to jeopardize our ships or our men? I want to help Britain, and the best way I can help is by getting these destroyers out to sea. Why would I slow production? You ought to look at the men who want to keep us off the seas and out of the war.”

Mary anchored her tongue between her teeth so she wouldn't mention the theory that Winslow could be framing someone to stir up public sentiment in favor of the war.

Mr. Winslow thumped his fists on the desk. “O'Donnell!”

“O'Donnell?” Agent Sheffield sounded as if he'd never heard the name before, although it appeared in each of Mary's reports.

“George O'Donnell.” Mr. Winslow ran his hand over his pomaded brown hair. “Of course. He's the loudest isolationist I know. He's the draftsman assigned to Fiske's crew. He draws up the blueprints from my plans. He could alter them. He's the one. It's him, I tell—”

“You'd like that, wouldn't you?” A gruff voice rose from the office entrance.

Mary whipped around.

George O'Donnell filled the doorway. “You'd love to make me look bad. You're the one who altered the plans, you and Kaplan in cahoots, I bet you. Then you pin it on me. Pin it on the isolationist. That'd get the papers in a fit, drive us right into the war.”

Mr. Winslow rose from his chair, his fingers still working
on the desktop. “I could say the same about you. You altered the plans to make me look guilty, make it look as if I were trying to get us into the war.”

O'Donnell entered the office, fists clenched by his side. “You and Kaplan. Yeah, you'd need help, someone willing to get dirt under his nails. I wouldn't be surprised if that French girl were in on this too, always sticking her nose into things around here.”

“French girl?” Mary said, pen still. “Yvette?”

O'Donnell looked down at her, his heavy salt-and-pepper brows drawn together. “Yeah. Young. Brunette. Long foreign name.”

Mary doodled on the corner of her page to look indifferent. Yvette had mentioned her fascination with drafting, the time she spent in the drafting room.

Agent Hayes stood and grasped the doorknob. “Excuse us, Mr. O'Donnell. This is a private meeting. We'll speak with you later.”

A twitch in Agent Sheffield's upper lip told Mary he was perfectly happy listening to the men incriminate each other.

Agent Hayes shut the door behind Mr. O'Donnell and took his seat.

A long stream of cigarette smoke rose from Sheffield's mouth. “Then there's the matter of Winslow Shipbuilding Company. Your family.”

“They're not my family.” Mr. Winslow's voice went taut, and he fiddled with his fingers. “They may have raised me, but they aren't my family. My wife and children are. I made my own way in this world, no thanks to them, and I have no share in their lives or in their company.”

Agent Sheffield rested his forearms on the desk and cocked his head. “You're shaking pretty hard, Mr. Winslow. Perhaps you should see a doctor about that.”

The men stared each other down, and Mary held her
breath. What sort of message had passed between them? What was that about?

Mr. Winslow's hands dropped to the handle of his desk drawer. “I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be shaking? I'm not accustomed to such accusations.”

“Of course not. A gentleman like you.” Agent Sheffield planted his hands on his knees, grunted, and stood. He reached across the desk to shake Winslow's hand, blowing cigarette smoke in his face. “As you said, always a pleasure.”

Mr. Winslow drew away and choked back a cough. “Yes. A pleasure.”

Mary capped her pen. She'd never seen such bad manners from the FBI agent, as if he were deliberately trying to annoy the patrician naval architect. He'd succeeded.

“Come along.” Sheffield motioned for Agent Hayes and Mary to follow him.

Mary turned back to give Mr. Winslow a polite farewell. “Good-bye.”

“Yes. Good-bye.” His smile stretched over his teeth. In his open desk drawer, his hand clenched a small object.

For a man who insisted he wasn't guilty, he sure acted guilty. And yet the idea of Weldon Winslow rigging and installing a bomb seemed ludicrous. Unless he had help.

Mary followed the agents into the hallway.

“What do you think?” Agent Hayes asked.

“I think . . .” Sheffield glanced at Mary, then leaned closer to Hayes, his voice low. “I think a spring wound this tight is bound to pop.”

Whatever did he mean by that? Mary resisted the urge to write it down, but she memorized it.

Both Winslow and O'Donnell did act tightly wound, but when—and how—would they pop?