Anchor In The Storm Part 42

The Ettinger's .50-caliber machine guns opened fire.

Light flashed from the U-boat.

A crash of noise overhead.

Arch landed on the deck on his side, and his sore cheek struck his outstretched arm. He scrambled to his knees. The pilothouse was intact. Most of the personnel had fallen.

Captain Buckner pulled himself to standing. "Report casualties. Mr. Vandenberg, check on the signal deck and gun director."

"Aye aye, sir." On the wing of the bridge, Arch glanced up, s.h.i.+elding his eyes from the rain. The gun director sat like a steel cap on the bridge superstructure. The forward top corner was peeled open, wicked teeth biting the wind. "Gun director hit, sir! Send damage control and medical parties."

He climbed the ladder to the signal deck. Wind whipped by. Rain slashed his cheeks. The aft 5-inch guns fired one after the other, and Arch struggled to stay on his feet. Two men lay sprawled on the signal deck, while their buddies performed first aid.

"How many injured?" Arch said.

"Two, sir."

"Medical party's coming." He stepped into the gun director housing and climbed the ladder. "Damage? Casualties?"

The rangefinder operator looked at him, spatters of blood on his face, his eyes wide and haunted. "Mr. Gannett-he's dead, sir. His head-right there in the corner . . ."

Arch squeezed his eyes shut against the pain. "Any wounded?"

"Only minor wounds. We lost director control. Guns are on local control."

"Telephone working?"

"Yes, sir."

"Tell the bridge Mr. Gannett's dead, two seriously wounded on signal deck, minor injuries in director. I'm heading to the bridge. We'll send someone to remove . . . Mr. Gannett."

Arch made his way back to the pilothouse. Machine-gun fire shattered the air, a German sh.e.l.l whistled overhead and splashed into the sea, the destroyer veered to port, someone screamed about a torpedo miss off the starboard bow.

In the pilothouse, Captain Buckner spun to face him. "You didn't get my order. Back to the director. Replace Mr. Gannett."

"Aye aye, sir." He turned for the door and paused. Arch had been trained in gunnery, but he'd rarely served there. In time of battle, they needed someone excellent. Someone like Jim.

But Jim was in the engine room, deep in the bowels of the s.h.i.+p. If Jim went to the director, then Arch . . .

He pressed his shaking hand to his twitching eye. "Captain Buckner, sir? Send Mr. Avery to the director. He knows gunnery well, far better than I do."

"We need him in the-"

"I know engines. I know them well." Arch lowered his hand and faced his captain. "I'll take his place. It's for the good of the s.h.i.+p."

"Very well. Forward engine room, on the double." Buckner waved him to the door, then turned to the talker. "Tell Mr. Avery to report to the gun director on the double."

Arch descended to the main deck. What had he done?

He'd chosen to trap himself.

Through the pelting rain, Arch strode to the hatch to the forward engine room, dodging sailors. This was the right thing to do, for the sake of the Ettinger, the crew, and Jim as well. If the s.h.i.+p sank, Jim would want to go down with guns blazing, not fighting blind below decks.

Machine-gun bullets whizzed overhead, and the 5-inch guns heaved sh.e.l.ls toward the enemy.

Arch cranked the hatch open and stared into the abyss.

Everything in him screamed not to enter. But he had to. He had to show G.o.d he trusted him enough to allow the anchor to drag him to the bottom of the sea.

Maybe this was how he was meant to die.

"So be it," he whispered.

Boston Hank held open a sack, and Shorty scanned the shelves with the flashlight, checked Mr. Dixon's clipboard, and scooped prescription bottles into the sack.

Hunched against the wall in the darkness, Lillian watched them, helpless. When she was weak, then she was strong? G.o.d promised he'd be strong for her. For what reason? So she could die well?

Die well . . .

An incongruous joy lightened her chest. She was going to die tonight, so why not make some good of it? But how?

"This is taking too long." Hank jiggled the sack. "All these long words and Dixon's stupid map."

"Idiot." Shorty grabbed a bottle and tossed it into the sack. Gla.s.s clanked on gla.s.s. "We gotta do this right. Get the drugs and the cash to make it look like a robbery. Get the prescriptions to cover our trail, make sure they don't find Stan's forgeries. Then kill the girl to shut her up."

Lillian's jaw tightened. Shut her up? Maybe she should scream after all. She'd alert anyone in the vicinity. Hank and Shorty would kill her, but they might be caught, or maybe they'd panic and leave some of the evidence behind.

Then she'd die well.

But what if no one heard? What if the thugs didn't panic? Then Dixon and Scar and the rest of the gang would get away with it.

Staying quiet would buy her time to think. Lord, if your strength is made perfect in my weakness, then you have the perfect opportunity.

Somehow she had to make sure Dixon was arrested. She was the only one who knew his role. She'd told the police officer on the phone, but he hadn't asked her to repeat her story, so he probably hadn't taken notes. When they found her dead in the morning, would the police remember any details from her call?

If only she could write a note. It wouldn't have to be long: "Dixon runs drug ring. His nephew, Charles Leary, is Scar. Talk to Arch Vandenberg, USS Ettinger." Then Arch would make the connection and fill in the rest of the details.

Could she write with her hands tied behind her back? Lillian twisted her bound hands around to her hip bone. If she put a piece of paper on the floor beside her and leaned back a bit, she could write. It wouldn't be pretty, but it would get written. Then she could stuff the paper in the back of her skirt waistband for the police to find.

The wooden floor creaked beneath her. Hank and Shorty didn't even look at her as they gathered more bottles from the shelves. They thought her so weak they had nothing to fear.

A little smile poked up. That was indeed a strength. They underestimated her.

How to get paper and a pen? The wastebasket sat in front of her by the door to the main store area. Even a small piece of paper would do. She could back over there on her rump and stick her hands inside. But would that make too much noise?

What about a pen? She peered around the dark pharmacy. If only she were still wearing her white coat. She had a pen in the breast pocket-she could pull it out with her mouth.

She also had a pen in her purse. Her purse? There it was-on the counter by the door. Hank must have tossed it there when he tied her up. She could scoot over, stand up, and find her pen. And her notepad was in her purse. She could record her message inside with the rest of her notes.

"When I am weak, then am I strong." Adrenaline galloped in her veins. They thought she was completely incapacitated. They didn't know she could stand up without her prosthesis.

"That's all the drugs," Shorty said. "Now for the cash. Dixon said the key for the cash register is on a key ring hanging in the stockroom."

Hank unlocked the stockroom door without looking down at Lillian. "Are you sure we shouldn't raid the front cash register too?"

"Right by the window? Idiot. Dixon said get the stuff, knock off the girl, and leave through that side door."

Lillian smiled, as invisible to them as her strength in her weakness. They didn't know what she could do.

Maybe she could make a break for it. They'd left the door to the prescription area open. She might be able to make it to the side exit in time.

No, she'd make too much noise, and the exit was locked. They'd shoot her. Then no one would know about Mr. Dixon.

Hank swore. "I can't find the-there it is." Out he came with the key ring.

The note. Lillian needed to write a note. But all that motion and rustling paper would draw their attention.

She groaned inside. If only she could call the police. She could imagine twisting her hands over by her hip and dialing 0 for Operator with one finger. There were two phones in the store, one by each cash register. One was too close to her captors, and one was too far away from her. They'd never give her enough time.

Lillian sagged against the wall. Maybe it was hopeless after all.

In her head, she could hear Dad singing his favorite hymn while he puttered in the boatyard: "His oath, His covenant, His blood support me in the whelming flood; when all around my soul gives way, He then is all my hope and stay."

She was never without hope. Christ was her hope, even now.

Coins tinkled down into Hank's sack, and Shorty tossed the bills in on top. "Now the prescriptions. Dixon said get all of them from '41 and '42, just to be safe."

Safe. Lillian hauled in a deep breath. Lord, asking you to keep me safe seems futile. But please don't let me die in vain. Let me take down the drug ring.

Safe. Why wouldn't the word leave her mind?

Safe. There was a safe in the stockroom.

Lillian tilted her head and frowned. Why didn't Mr. Dixon tell Hank and Shorty to clean out the safe? Wouldn't thieves do that?

Unless the safe was empty. Mr. Dixon had spent a lot of time in there, and he'd left with a paper sack-full of cash?

Thoughts zinged through her head, aligning in perfect order. The stockroom had only one door and no windows. The door locked from the outside, and Hank had left the key in the lock.

Shorty dumped a stack of prescriptions into the bag. "Dixon told me to burn these tonight. And his instructions too. He wrote our full names on the clipboard just to make sure we burn it. Then me and you skip town."

Lillian's breath came quick and shallow, pumping the adrenaline even faster. She had one chance. Lord, make it count.

"Don't forget the safe," she said.

"What?" Hank shone the flashlight in her face.

She turned her head away. "Don't forget the safe in the stockroom."

"It's not on Dixon's list," Shorty said.

"I'm sure it isn't. He keeps his life savings in there, doesn't trust the bank."

Hank aimed the beam toward Shorty. "I've heard him say that."

She let smugness enter her voice. "I guess he doesn't trust you either."

"Hey . . ." The beam came her way again.

"Any thief with the slightest bit of intelligence would try to crack that safe. And you wouldn't even have to try. I know the combination."

"Yeah," Hank said. "If this was a robbery, we'd torture the combo out of her."

A rumble from Shorty, and he marched over to her. "Don't you see? She wants to cut a deal. We ain't cutting a deal. She's gotta die."

"I know that," Lillian said.

"Then why would you help? I smell a rat."

"Simple." She sat up tall and glared at Shorty. "He's my boss. I trusted him, and he ordered you to kill me. Well, I want to hurt him back. The only thing he cares about is money, so how better to hurt him?"

"Nah." Shorty swatted the air between them. "We steal from him, and we pay."

"You won't steal. You'll give it back-for a price."

"Like a ransom." Hank's voice lit up. "Say, that would work."

Lillian lifted one shoulder. "Maybe 10 percent. Enough to hurt him, but not enough to make him hurt you. Sounds fair for making you do his dirty work. I bet he doesn't pay you enough anyway. And who's taking all the risk?"

"We are." Shorty's voice ground out like a truck on gravel. "And she's right. Won't look like a robbery if we leave the safe alone."

"Come on." Hank headed into the stockroom. "Dixon owes us. That Palonsky kid bled all over my nice new s.h.i.+rt last night."

Oh no. Grief welled up. Not Warren Palonsky. The poor man.

"Hey, sister. No funny business." Shorty stuck his thumb under Lillian's chin and tipped her head back hard. "You try anything stupid, and I'll let Hank there do some carving with that knife of his."

Eyes watering, Lillian managed to shake her head. "No. No funny business." Nothing funny about it at all.

42.