Through Waters Deep (3 page)

On the fantail of the
Atwood
, lined up with his eight fellow officers for the commissioning ceremony, Jim had never felt taller. Although 199 men in dress blues crowded the deck, the only sounds were the pennants flapping in the breeze and the voice of Rear Adm. William Tarrant, commandant of the Boston Navy Yard, as he read a speech.

This was why Jim had joined the Navy—the tradition, the camaraderie, the sea. He'd enjoyed his service on the battleship USS
Texas
, but being a “plank owner,” one of the crew at a ship's commissioning, was a great privilege.

So was serving with Lt. Cdr. Calvin Durant, the
Atwood
's commanding officer. Jim's older brothers had both sailed with the captain and spoke highly of him. An admiral-maker, Dan called him. Jim didn't share Dan's and Rob's lofty ambition, but he certainly didn't mind floating behind them.

Admiral Tarrant said, “In accordance with this authority, I hereby place the United States ship
Atwood
in commission. Hoist colors.”

The band on the pier played the national anthem.

Behind Jim at the stern, a sailor would be raising the
American flag, while at the bow another sailor would be raising the union jack with its white stars on a dark blue background. In his line of sight, a sailor ran the
Atwood
's commissioning pennant up her mast. Now she was an official ship in the United States Navy, ready to protect American shores.

Jim glanced at the empty platforms for the 5-inch gun mounts. Well, she'd be ready once they finished fitting her out.

After the ceremony, Jim headed down to the wardroom for dinner with the other officers. Since Durant had just arrived in Boston the day before, this would be the first official gathering.

Jim took his seat toward the foot of the table with Arch and the other junior officers, while Durant sat at the head.

Tall and trim, with receding sandy hair fading to gray over the temples, the commanding officer leaned back in his chair and scanned the men at the table. “Tell me about yourselves.”

Jim chuckled at the confused looks on the other officers' faces. He'd been warned about Durant's abrupt questions and commands.

Durant leaned his forearms on the table. “Yes, tell me about yourselves. Who you are and where you're from and why you're in the Navy. I expect you to do the same with those under your command. Respect them as men, and they'll respect you as an officer.”

Only the formality of the wardroom restrained Jim's grin. As Dan and Rob said—a commander who ran a tight ship but didn't lord it over his subordinates.

As the introductions circled the table, Jim assessed the officers and their personalities. A fine group of men. He'd like working with them.

“And our ensigns.” Durant gestured toward the foot of the table, at the man across from Jim.

“Mitch Hadley, sir.” The ensign directed his dark-eyed gaze around the group. “Grew up in St. Louis. Big family. Hard life.”

Jim smiled at Hadley, whom he recognized from the Academy class before his.

Hadley didn't smile back but jutted out a heavy jaw. “Unlike some people, I didn't grow up with privileges, had to work hard for everything.”

Jim and Arch exchanged a glance. That comment was obviously meant for them.

“Always glad to have a hardworking young man on board,” Durant said. “What are your goals?”

“Command, sir. I'm here to learn everything I can about the ship and about leading men. And there's no one I'd rather learn from.”

Durant looked down at his place setting, one side of his mouth twisted to the side.

Jim made a mental note. Flattery didn't impress the captain, not that Jim ever resorted to flattery.

“And you?” Durant addressed Arch.

“Arch Vandenberg, sir. I'm from Connecticut, an only child, and I've always loved the sea.” The sparkle in his sea-blue eyes confirmed his words.

Jim bit back a smile at what Arch didn't mention—the family estate, the trust fund, the yacht.

“As for my goals . . .” Arch sent half a grin to Hadley. “I've always dreamed of command too. You have competition.”

“Friendly competition only, boys.” A growl rumbled in Durant's throat, but then he turned a warm gaze to Jim. “And Mr. Avery. I barely need an introduction. I know your brothers well.”

Hadley let out a quiet snort.

Jim ignored it and rested his clasped hands on the table. “Thank you, sir. I'm proud to be their brother.” Arch's
privilege came from wealth, but Jim's came from connection—his maternal grandfather who had served in the House of Representatives and two older brothers who had elevated the Avery name in the Navy.

Lt. Vince Banning, the executive officer, crossed his arms. “The captain might not need an introduction, but the rest of us do.”

“Of course, sir. I'm Jim Avery, from the small town of Vermilion, Ohio, on Lake Erie. My dad builds fishing boats and yachts, so I grew up on the water. And I'm the third of seven children.” Maybe the reference to his big family would soften up Hadley.

Durant's lean face creased in a grin. “And your goals?”

“Wherever the Navy wants to use me.”

The creases flattened. “Explain.”

Jim shrugged. “I float. As long as I can work with people, I'm happy.”

“You . . . you float?” Now the creases migrated to the captain's forehead.

“I'm easygoing. I go wherever the wind takes me.” So far he'd managed to float to the top of his high school class, into the Naval Academy, and right onto this destroyer. And for Jim, floating was a far safer policy than pushing into the wind. That's how people got hurt.

Durant leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach. “Every sailor knows if you let the wind direct you, at some point you end up on the rocks.”

Instead of showing his commander he'd be easy to work with, Jim had made himself sound lazy. “Don't worry, sir. I'm a hard worker.”

“He sure is,” Arch said. “Near the top of his class at the Academy.”

“Right behind Arch.” Jim flicked his friend a grateful look.

“Only because you tutored me in calculus.”

“If I'd known . . .” Jim shook his head in mock self-reproach.

Durant didn't reply but motioned in the stewards with the meal.

Air ballooned in Jim's cheeks. That hadn't gone well, but it wouldn't take long to win over the captain.

After dinner, Jim headed up to the deck with Arch. To starboard, the setting sun silhouetted Boston's skyline, with the Custom House standing tall above all else. To port, the lights were flickering out at the Navy Yard.

At the bow of the
Atwood
, Jim gazed down the narrow length of his ship. Couldn't wait to set out and see what she could do.

“I suppose she's done working for the day,” Arch said.

“Who?” Jim followed his friend's gaze to the Navy Yard. “Mary?”

“Yeah. Nice girl. Pretty too.”

A sour taste filled Jim's mouth. “Don't let Gloria hear you talk that way.”

Arch whapped him in the arm. “You numbskull. I'm talking about you. She'd be good for you.”

“Mary?” Jim strolled down the starboard side of the destroyer, away from the Navy Yard. “Sure, she's pretty, but you know I prefer bubbly blondes. Always have.”

“Because of . . . what's her name?” Arch snapped his fingers. “The girl back home with the strange name.”

Jim's shoulders went taut. It wasn't a strange name at all. The most beautiful name he'd ever heard. “Yes, her.”

“You always date the same type of girl, but no relationship you've had lasts more than a month or two.”

Jim skirted the platform for the number two 5-inch gun. “So?”

“So maybe there's a reason.”

The reason was clear—no one held a candle to Quintessa Beaumont.

Arch stepped over a coiled line. “Maybe you should pursue a quiet brunette instead.”

High above, the superstructure for the bridge climbed into the darkening sky—the pilothouse, the signal deck, and the gun director, all stacked in order. As assistant gunnery officer, Jim would spend most of his time caged in the gun director. “I'm not going to pursue anyone right now, not when we're shipping out soon.”

“Well then, spare me any more double dates. All those bubbles make me dizzy.”

On the far side of the superstructure, Charlestown came into view again. “Mary seems to like our evenings on the town. As long as the poor thing can put up with you and me, you'll get a reprieve.”

Arch's breath huffed out into the cool evening air. “Poor thing indeed.”

Saturday, April 19, 1941

Mary stepped out of the movie theater into the teeming Saturday night crowd on Washington Street. Neon lights flashed on marquees offering films that intrigued her—
The
Lady Eve
. . .
Western Union
. . .
Road to Zanzibar
. . .
That Night in
Rio
. Anything had to be better than
Flying Wild
.

Gloria adjusted her gloves. “That was a waste of a dime.”

“Four dimes, you mean. Thanks, Jim.” Arch punched his friend in the shoulder.

Jim bumped into Mary. “Hey, I did it for Mary. I thought she'd like the sabotage theme.”

She laughed. “Oh, don't blame me. I didn't have a vote.”

A rainbow of neon lights reflected in Jim's eyes. “Come on. I know it made you think.”

“Definitely.” She followed Arch and Gloria down Washington Street. “It made me think I would have preferred that.” She pointed to a poster for
The Monster and the
Girl
, showing a gorilla-like creature carrying an unconscious damsel in his arms.

“Next week then.”

“Maybe I'll stay home.” She tried for a mysterious smile.

“Ah, you wouldn't leave me alone with the lovebirds, would you?”

“I suppose not.” How could she? For the past several weeks, every Saturday evening Jim loped up the steps of her building and asked her out to nightclubs and movies and restaurant dinners. Not only did she get to go out on the town, but she enjoyed such pleasant company. Even if it was only pleasant and never romantic.

What did she expect? A man who'd doted on vivacious Quintessa would never fall for her.

That pleasant young man hailed a cab. “Come on. Admit it.”

Mary's cheeks tingled. He couldn't have known what she was thinking. “Admit what?”

“The sabotage plot. It made you think.” He held open the door of the taxi.

A relieved laugh spilled out. “All right, it did.” She climbed into the backseat, squished in the middle with Gloria, between the two officers.

Jim draped his arm across the seat back behind her—not touching her—just to make room. “Are they still talking sabotage at the Yard?”

“Constantly.” She swung her mind from Jim's warm strength pressed up to her side and onto the situation at work. “The champagne incident shook everyone up. They see sabotage everywhere. They see people and tools where they don't belong. Everyone's suspicious.”

“Sounds like mass hysteria.” Gloria raised one brow.

“That's what my boss thinks.”

“What do you think?” Arch said.

With all three sets of eyes trained on her, Mary forced herself to breathe evenly. But she wasn't talking about herself, only about the situation. “I'm trying to sort it out. What if something is truly going on?”

Gloria flapped her gloved hand. “I hope you haven't been listening to that interventionist propaganda.”

Arch barked out a laugh. “Since when have you become an isolationist? Have you been listening to Charles Lindbergh and Father Coughlin behind my back?”

“Nonsense. That's propaganda too. All I know is I don't want us to go to war. I don't want you to leave me.”

Arch murmured in his girlfriend's ear.

“This is why I need you around, Mary,” Jim said.

“I'm glad I can help.” Her breath hitched. With his arm curved behind her and his face so close in the darkened car, how could she think straight?

“So, you say you're sorting it out. What have you been up to? Taking the suspects downtown and grilling them under a solitary lightbulb?”

She smiled. “They cower under my interrogation.”

“Who wouldn't?”

Behind Jim, lights and buildings flashed past. “I'm a secretary. I take notes.”

“Notes?”

She hadn't told anyone about her rapidly filling notebook, but discussing it with friends would be all right as long as she didn't seek praise. “I record what people say. Separate pages for each person, noting what they say and what was said about them. The workers are used to me taking notes anyway. I'm sure it sounds silly.”

“No, it sounds useful.” Jim shifted in his seat. “What if something happens at the Navy Yard? Then you have all that information.”

An image flew through her mind—an FBI agent flipping through her notebook, stabbing his finger at the page—“That's him! Why didn't I think of it?” Then they'd arrest the guilty party and hold a press conference and drag Mary to the podium . . .

She shuddered and shut off the movie in her mind. “I hope it never comes to that.”

“I hope so too. But I'm sure they're doing their own investigation.”

“They are, but the men don't talk to the agents like they talk to me.”

“What do you mean?”

Mary fiddled with the supple leather of her cream-colored handbag. “I'm quiet, so people open up to me and know I won't blab. And—well, I tend to fade into the background and people forget I'm there, so they speak in an unguarded way.”

Jim fell silent. Perhaps he'd forgotten her presence too.

Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced over. He looked straight at her with a rather unnerving gaze.

“Here we are.” Arch leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder.

The taxi pulled to the curb in front of the Hotel Statler.

Up in the Terrace Room, the maître d'hôtel led them to a table inside the ballroom, where Howard Jones and his orchestra played “Stompin' at the Savoy” and couples danced.

Mary smoothed the skirt of her periwinkle spring dress. With short sleeves, a scoop neckline, and a flared knee-length skirt, it was simple enough for the movies but elegant enough for dancing.

They settled around the table, ordered beverages, and then Jim turned question-filled eyes to Mary.

No more talk about her. “How's life at sea?”

“At sea?” Jim crossed his ankle over his knee. “I wish. Nothing but inventories and training and stocking supplies and installing equipment.”

“Since Roosevelt promised American escort to British convoys, I'm sure they're trying to get you ready as soon as possible.”

Jim ducked his chin and sent Arch a sidelong glance. “Well . . .”

Mary's chest tightened. “I'm sorry. I know you can't say anything.”

Arch draped his arm around Gloria's shoulder. “We just have to be careful to only discuss public information and keep classified information secret.”

“Roosevelt's promise to send you boys to protect British ships was in the papers.” Gloria shuddered. “I still can't believe it.”

“Remember, those British ships carry American supplies,” Arch said.

Gloria sniffed. “Let them use their own escorts.”

Jim and Arch laughed together. “They don't have many left,” Jim said. “And the British have to cover the Mediterranean too. Hitler just took Yugoslavia, Greece won't last long, and he's driving across Libya toward Egypt. If the Germans take the Suez Canal, Britain won't stand a chance.”

Mary tensed at the chilliness in Gloria's eyes, a look she'd seen from the diehard isolationists at work, those who said, “Fine. Let Britain fall. Just leave us out of it.”

The chill transformed to worry. “Do you think the war in the Mediterranean will distract Hitler from what we're doing? Not only are we sending supplies to his enemy, but we just set up bases in Greenland. Won't he see that as aggressive?”

“That's the idea.” Arch squeezed Gloria's shoulder.

Jim leaned his elbows on the table. “Not aggressive, necessarily, but strong. And smart.”

Mary traced the lines of her artfully folded napkin. “It's only a matter of time, isn't it? If we come between U-boats and their prey, eventually something will happen. If it's big enough . . .”

The silence and solemnity around the table answered her question.

“All this heavy talk depresses me.” Gloria sprang to her feet. “Please, Arch.”

“Shall we dance?” He stood and led her to the dance floor.

“Shall we join them?” Jim offered his elbow. “Although I doubt this song will lift anyone's mood.”

Mary took Jim's arm and tuned her ears to the band, which played “I'll Never Smile Again.” She laughed. “I don't suppose that song's good for morale.”

“No, but it's good for dancing.” He pulled her into his arms at a friendly distance, appropriate for conversation.

Mary followed his lead in a foxtrot. “Back to my original question—how's life on board ship?”

“Cramped, stuffy, and smelly.”

“Is the food all right?”

“Excellent. The Navy's famous for feeding sailors well.”

“And you and Arch share a cabin. That's wonderful. Is it better than on the battleship?”

Jim tilted his head and peered at her with one eye, like a comical detective. “I see what you're doing, Miss Stirling.”

“You do? What am I doing?”

“This is how you do your spy work. You ask lots of questions and listen with that intent little look on your face as if every word were fascinating, and your victim keeps talking and talking.”

“You make me sound sinister.” The thought tugged up the corners of her lips.

He rocked her into a turn. “Not sinister, just modest. I've noticed you don't talk about yourself if you can help it. Why is that?”

Mary glanced away, at the swirling mass of dancers, the men in tailored suits, the women in colorful spring dresses thanks to the unseasonably warm weather.

“Come on.” He squeezed her hand. “'Fess up.”

The warmth of the room pressed on her. “I don't like attention.”

“And why is
that
?”

The teasing look in his hazel eyes coaxed up a teasing smile in response. “Gloria didn't come for heavy conversation, and I didn't come for psychoanalysis.”

A shift in the musical tempo, and the band transitioned into “You Turned the Tables on Me.”

“The song inspired me.” Jim swung her around. “I'm turning the tables and interrogating you.”

“Must you?”

“I must. Favorite color?”

“Blue.”

“I can tell.” He glanced at her dress. “You wear it a lot.”

“You're very observant for a man. And what's your favorite color?”

“I'm a Navy man. Of course it's blue, but you're being naughty and trying to flip things around again and I won't have it. Why'd you choose secretarial school?”

Giggles fluttered in her throat. She'd never been called naughty before. “I'm too squeamish to be a nurse and not authoritative enough to be a teacher, but I can type like lightning and I was second in my class in shorthand.”

“Second? Why not first?”

Why had she bragged? Mary's step faltered. At graduation, the top student was presented a plaque up on stage. “I . . . I let her win. She wanted it more than I did.”

“You failed deliberately?”

She stared at the knot of his black tie, stark against his white shirt. “Yes.”

“Out of kindness, or modesty, or . . .”

Fear. “Yes. All of those, all mixed up.”

“Hmm.”

Mary couldn't bear to see his expression. Would it be pity? Or disgust? Or confusion?

“There's definitely a saboteur at the Boston Navy Yard.”

“What?” Her gaze jerked up to him, to warm eyes and an understanding smile.

“You. Sounds like you sabotage your own success to avoid attention. Am I right?”

A sour gelatinous mass formed in her throat, but she swallowed it and nodded. “I suppose.”

“There. You survived my psychoanalysis. Now for my spiritual advice—don't hide your candle under a bushel.”

She smiled her thanks, even though that advice ran counter to the spiritual theme of her life, avoiding the evils of putting herself above others.

“Now for the fun part of the evening.” He grinned at her and whipped her around in a wild circle.

She laughed and held on to his broad shoulder. She'd have to be very careful not to fall for this man.