“Mm-hmm.” The woman on the other end sounded bored. “What is your number, please? I’ll tell Agent Sheffield you called, and he’ll get back to you in the morning when he comes to the office.”
Panic pressed on Mary’s throat. “That’ll be too late. This is an emergency. Please, ma’am. I’ve worked with them on the sabotage case at the shipyard. Agent Sheffield gave me this number and promised I could reach him night or day.”
“Yes, ma’am. But I’m not allowed to bother the agents except in an emergency.”
Mary took a long, trembling breath. “That’s why I said it was an emergency.”
“Ma’am, if I had a dollar for every emergency I hear about, I wouldn’t need this job.”
“Two lives are at stake.” Her voice came out thick. “Does that qualify as an emergency?”
An annoyed sigh. “I’ll let Agent Sheffield make that decision—”
“Tonight? You’ll call him immediately?”
“I’ll call him and tell him to call you.”
“No. That’ll take too long. Tell him Mary Stirling called. Take this down, please. It’s important he knows all of this. Tell him Frank Fiske has made his move. He’s lured Weldon Winslow and Heinrich Bauer to the Navy Yard. Tell him to meet me at Dry Dock 2.”
She gasped. “You’re not going there, are you?”
“If that’s what it takes to bring in the FBI, then yes, I am. Right now I’m the only person who knows these men are in danger—or cares. If you care too, you’ll call Agent Sheffield right this instant.” She hung up.
What was she thinking? Her face looked pale in the mirror with twin red spots high on her cheeks. She wasn’t a police officer or detective. She didn’t own a weapon and wouldn’t know how to use one.
If only Jim were here. Her eyes drifted shut for a moment. Jim was no longer her undercover partner. He belonged to Quintessa.
She was alone, and she was the only one who could act right now. What if the dispatcher didn’t call Agent Sheffield? What if the phone was busy or both men were out? Even if they did come, Mary could get to the dock faster.
The local police wouldn’t be able to help on a military base, but there were guards at the gate. They could help. She wouldn’t be dashing into danger alone like some silly movie heroine. She’d alert the authorities. It was the right thing to do.
Mary grabbed her red coat from the rack. Her old brown coat lay underneath, quiet and unassuming. She switched coats. Tonight invisibility might come in handy.
39
South of Iceland
Jim climbed into the gun director, where six men worked hard.
Lieutenant Reinhardt barked orders into his microphone. “Lay for star-shell spread to starboard.”
Reinhardt acknowledged Jim with a nod. “Good to see you, Mr. Avery. No response from number one. Number two took casualties and damage, lost director control. Go check both guns.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Jim made his way back down to the deck.
The aft guns fired in a roar. Star shells soared high and hovered by their parachutes, showering light on the dark sea.
Toward the bow, the flames provided plenty of illumination, but a demonic orange sort. Jim pressed forward, careful not to interfere with the damage control party’s work. Heat assaulted his face. Men trained fire hoses on the inferno and guided the wounded farther aft for first aid, black figures silhouetted by the flames, by the orange-gray smoke drifting to port.
Jim passed the number two gun mount and stopped short. The bow was gone, and the number one gun tilted into the breach, mangled. His quarters were gone. Simply gone. Thank goodness Arch was amidships in the engine room.
He shook off his shock. Once they closed the watertight compartments, the destroyer could sail without her bow, although slower. But the number one gun? The seventeen sailors who manned the gun and its handling room? They’d been directly over the magazine that exploded.
And the sound room lay forward of the magazine. All the sonar operators ... gone.
A stench rose, the sickly sweet smell of fuel oil and burning flesh.
Bile filled Jim’s mouth, but he swallowed it. He had work to do.
