Dead Lock (4 page)

I got out of my car and walked to the fence, pressing my face against it. A hundred feet in front of me I could see men and equipment at work on the new lock that would replace the old Weitzel. It was to be named after our famous General, Douglas MacArthur. The Poe, Davis and Sabin Locks lay on the far side of it. Plans called for the MacArthur Lock to be eight hundred feet long, large enough to accommodate the new breed of giant lake freighters. The other locks had taken years to finish; the Army Corps of Engineers vowed that the MacArthur would be completed in just 14 months. Its dedication was scheduled for July 11, and its presence, along with those huge tethered dirigibles, changed the landscape significantly.

“Barrage balloons.”

I turned at the sound of the voice to find a man of thirty or so standing behind me.

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He stood a few inches over six feet and had blond hair and sky blue eyes. He was dressed in a plaid shirt and blue jeans and had the shoulders of a lumberjack.

I must have jumped because he smiled and said, “Sorry; didn’t mean to startle you. I saw you staring at those balloons and thought you might be wondering about them.”

“Actually you’re right,” I said, sticking out my hand. “My name is Kate Brennan.” A lot of men consider it too forward for a woman to offer her hand, but frankly that doesn’t bother me. And it didn’t seem to faze him either.

“Scotty Banyon,” he said, grasping my hand. “Those barrage balloons are there to make it tough for any German planes to dive bomb the locks.”

“German planes? The Krauts don’t have planes capable of flying here from Germany.”

“They might not have to. The fear is that they could set up a base somewhere in northern Canada, say Hudson Bay. With miles of wilderness up there, the Germans could bring in planes part-by-part by submarine and assemble them at some remote base where only the moose and caribou would see. Then fly down here and dive bomb the locks.”

“The government is taking it that seriously?”

“Seriously enough to erect this fence and bring up thousands of troops.

“Say, would you like a tour?” He reached into a back pocket and brought out his wallet. “I’ve got a pass that’ll get us inside the gate.”

“Maybe some other time,” I said. Four years or so ago I might have fallen for those sky blue eyes of his; but four years ago I hadn’t met Ronny, and wouldn’t have been through the devastating loss of someone dearer than life itself. Times like this reminded me how much I missed my fiancé and how much of the hurt remained.

I said goodbye to Scotty Banyon and set off to find out why my uncle had changed his mind about my coming to Sault Ste. Marie.

12

Walk through the front door of the
Soo Morning News
, climb six steps, cross a short hallway and you’re in the long, narrow, desk-filled space known simply as the newsroom. That’s where the action takes place at every newspaper and I found myself standing right in the middle of more action than I bargained for.

There were a dozen or so people involved in a flurry of motion. Those that I assumed to be reporters or editors sat typing madly. Two copyboys ran from desk to desk, grabbing sheets of paper as they came out of the reporters’ typewriters. From experience I knew the deadline for tomorrow morning’s edition had to be closing fast – it was time for a final edit before sending copy to the composing room where it was readied for the actual printing of the newspaper.

Some twenty feet from the group sat a young man who couldn’t have been more than twenty. Red-haired and rather slight of build, he occupied a wooden desk as he watched the scene building between the two men through a pair of half-inch thick spectacles.

I maneuvered around the group and approached the young man at his desk. “What’s going on over there?” I asked.

“Just the usual.” He glanced up at me, then back at the small group. “It’s deadline time; everyone’s anxious to file a story.”

I turned back to the young man. “By the way,” I said, “my name is Kate Brennan.”

“I know. Your uncle told everyone you were coming.” He held out his right hand. “I’m Andy Checkle, but you’ll probably call me Chuckles. Everyone does. That is, except for Mr. Brennan.”

“What does he call you?” I asked, shaking the offered hand.

“He calls me by my last name, Checkle.”

“What do you prefer?”

“Andy. Or Andrew.”

“Andy it is, then.”

Suddenly one of the men that had been typing fervently at his desk turned in our direction.

“Hey, Chuckles,” he called, “come over here.”

“Coming.”

As the young man left I glanced around the large, rather long room. Toward the rear I saw a door marked “G.P. Brennan” and started toward it.

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No one seemed to notice me heading toward the office; they were all too focused on what they were doing. I paused at the door, knocked, and waited for a response.

When none came, I knocked again. Still nothing.

I opened the door and stepped into my uncle’s empty office. As I stood there, taking it all in, I could picture him seated behind his desk, pecking away with two index fingers even after fifty-some years in the newspaper business. His snow-white hair was complemented by a ruddy complexion gained through seventy years of outdoor living through zero degree winters and eighty degree summers.

I walked around his desk, past the American flag on its pole and a coat rack that held a blue suit coat, to the back wall covered with photographs. A few square feet of space captured a lifetime in black and white. Here were photos of G.P. at work and play. Some showed him with politicians, newspaper people, sports figures and a host of celebrities like Jack Benny and Walter Winchell. One with F.D.R. and
Cleveland News Courier
publisher William Peterson recorded G.P.’s selection as “Small Town Newspaperman of the Year” by the Washington Press Club.

In other photos he stood with a variety of fishing cronies and their trout – mostly brook, rainbows and steelhead. If my uncle had his choice, he’d spend every waking hour wading thigh deep in one of the Upper Peninsula’s myriad trout streams.

A huge rainbow trout was mounted on a plaque that hung above the photographs. G.P. had caught it years ago on the Two Hearted River made famous in Ernest Hemingway’s Nick Adams stories.

I heard muffled voices coming from a doorway to my left, probably another office. I approached the doorway and knocked. Again there was no response. I opened it a crack and could hear G.P.’s voice clearly.

“Why, if the Brits are right it means thousands of lives could be at risk,” he was saying. There was a pause, and then, “How reliable do you think their information is?”

I didn’t recognize the next voice, but I could hear it clearly. “The report came straight from British intelligence … MI6.”

“Those Kraut bastards! An attack on our locks during the dedication ceremony will do a lot more than destroy property. They’re purposely aiming to kill thousands of innocent men, women and children.”

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My first inclination was to close the door and sneak back out to the newsroom. But before I could budge, the door flew open and my uncle stood in front of me.

“Kate. Good god, what are you doing here?”

“Sorry, G.P., I didn’t mean to eavesdrop; I just came into your office looking for you and heard voices coming through this door.”

I found myself looking into an office adjacent to my uncle’s. I had seldom seen him look so serious.

“I suppose you caught the gist of what we were saying,” G.P. said.

“I couldn’t help it,” I said, stepping into the office. “Do you really think there will be an attack on the locks?”

“The information you overheard is top secret, Miss Brennan,” said the tall dark-haired man standing next to my uncle.

“This is Jack Crawford, Kate. He’s our managing editor, the man you’ll be working directly for.”

“Hello, Miss Brennan. Your uncle said you were coming.”

Crawford stood a few inches taller than my uncle and was heavier, with broad shoulders that tapered into a narrow waist. Like my uncle, his tie was loosened and the sleeves of his white dress shirt were rolled up.

I would have extended my hand in greeting but the tension in the room was such that I merely nodded.

G.P. looked uncomfortable. “Kate, this can’t get out.”

“But you said it, G.P. What about the people who are going to be there for the dedication of the new lock?”

“The Army will provide plenty of protection for them,” G.P. said. “There’s anti-aircraft artillery everywhere, Kate. And the heavy cables attached to those barrage balloons will cut a dive bomber to pieces.”

The prospect of an attack still bothered me. “The Germans aren’t foolish,” I said. “If they’re planning an assault on the locks, they obviously have some degree of confidence it can succeed.”

This time Crawford spoke. “The artillery around the locks isn’t the only reason to feel confident,” he said. “There’s also a very real possibility that we can stop them before they ever take off. Both our military and Canada’s are combing the north provinces. They’re on the lookout for any kind of clearing that might serve as an airfield for the Germans to use.”

“Suppose they don’t find anything?”

“The dedication ceremony won’t take place until July 11
^th
,” G.P. said. “That’s more than enough time to reschedule. If we have to.”

“How did you find out about this raid?” I asked. Both men stood silent; then G.P. spoke.

“Why, my Washington contacts,” he said. “They picked it up from the British.”

“And you believe it’s reliable?”

G.P. waved a hand in the air. “Yes, yes, I’m certain. Jack and I have been through all that. The information came straight from MI6. They’re not admitting anything of course, but my guess is they’ve broken the German code.”

“Why do the Germans want to kill civilians?” I asked. “What do they stand to gain?”

“Just destroying the locks would be bad enough,” G.P. said. “Cutting off the supply of iron ore that goes through those locks would put our plants out of business; paralyze our entire war production. But doing it with that kind of violence would gain them another advantage. When Jimmy Doolittle and his boys bombed Tokyo last year, the physical damage was slight, but the psychological effect was catastrophic. It scared the hell out of the Japanese people knowing we could penetrate their borders.”

Crawford nodded. “So far the war’s been waged overseas in Europe and the Pacific,” he said. “An attack inside our borders would drive a big hole in the confidence of the American people.”

There was a knock at the door that led to the newsroom and G.P. held up his hand for silence.

15

It turned out to be one of the newspaper’s secretaries with word that G.P. had a telephone call. He disappeared through the door to his office, leaving me alone with Jack Crawford.

Crawford broke what could have been an awkward silence.

“Glad to have you with us, Miss Brennan. It’s difficult to find help during the war. Most qualified people are overseas, or stationed at some military base here.”

This time I did extend my hand and Crawford took it casually. I was surprised by how large his hand was, and how rough and calloused his palm felt. More like a lumberjack or construction worker than a newspaperman.

“My uncle has always acted as managing editor of the Morning News,” I said. “Frankly, I’m surprised he’s entrusted the job to someone else.”

“Your uncle is still very much in charge,” Crawford said. But I think he wants a little more free time to himself. I came on board this January.”

“I’m looking forward to being here,” I said. “It’s just that I’d assumed I’d be working directly with my uncle.”

“No, you’ll be working for me,” Crawford said. “I hope that won’t be a problem.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. “You can start Monday morning. I’ve already assigned the crew that’ll be working this week’s Saturday and Sunday editions.”

Before I had a chance to say a word, G.P. came back into the room.

“That was Shirley Benoit on the phone, Kate,” he said. “She was returning my call to say she’s got room at her place for you to stay.”

“Shirley?”

“Bought the Martin’s place last January. Says she’s looking forward to seeing you again.”

That was great news. Shirley and I had been best friends during the year I spent here in the Soo during my parent’s divorce. After school we had both moved away from the Soo. It would be wonderful to see her after all these years. But I thought about Mick, waiting patiently in the car. “Does she have room for a dog?”

“Why don’t you ask her yourself? She waits tables over at Blades Larue’s restaurant. I told her you’d meet her there.”

“Thanks, G.P.,” I said, starting for the door.

“Oh, Kate . . .” I turned back at the sound of my uncle’s voice.

“I’ve told Mrs. Miller you’ll be joining us for supper tonight. Cocktails at 6:30.”

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