Anchor In The Storm Part 43

South of Long Island Arch dogged the hatch above him, trapping himself below decks. "Be with me, Lord."

After all, how was dying in the engine room any different from dying on the bridge? If he was meant to die tonight, he'd wake up in heaven, and it wouldn't matter whether he'd entered through drowning, explosion, or fire.

He climbed down the long ladder into the engine room, the familiar noise overpowering the screaming voice in his head, the familiar vibrations melding into his tremor.

Jim would be climbing up the ladder on the starboard side. No time for Arch to ask his forgiveness. No time to pa.s.s his regrets to Lillian.

On the upper level, Arch strode along the steel mesh catwalk, ducking around sailors and pipes. He stopped at the gauge board with its wall of gauges and meters. "Damage? Casualties?" he asked the upper-level man.

"No, sir. But we're having problems with the reduction gear."

"I'll take a look." Arch pa.s.sed the turbine that turned steam into power. Beside the turbine sat the reduction gear, which reduced the power from the turbine to the lower speed required to rotate the propeller shaft.

For a few minutes, troubleshooting with the machinist's mates and making mechanical adjustments blunted his anxiety. Changes in course, the rolling deck, and the rumbling guns overhead reminded him of the battle and storm.

Why had he dreaded the engine and fire rooms? Being blind to the battle and doing good hard work had advantages.

A loud hollow explosion astern shook the destroyer. Arch and his men braced themselves.

Depth charges. Captain Buckner must have driven one of the U-boats to dive.

Another depth charge exploded.

Something popped, and men shouted.

Arch whirled around. The pipe leading from the condenser to the deaerating feed tank had snapped, and hot water poured out.

He jogged over. They couldn't interrupt the cycle. Steam from the boiler flowed to the turbine and then into the condenser, which converted the steam back to liquid. The deaerating feed tank removed air from the hot water and fed it back into the boiler.

"Come on! Let's get this fixed." Thankful for his leather gloves, Arch lifted a sagging end of pipe, while a machinist's mate grabbed the other end, both careful to avoid the streaming hot water.

Another depth charge rattled the s.h.i.+p, but Arch kept his footing. His men wrapped the broken pipe with mounds of insulation and electrical tape, a temporary fix, but it would do.

"Mr. Vandenberg!" someone shouted from the lower level. "Hull's leaking!"

"Get it sealed!" A destroyer's thin skin and rivets didn't always stand up to the explosive power of her own depth charges-especially in a storm. He peered through the mesh decking. A fine spray of seawater spurted along a vertical seam. If they didn't seal it soon, the breach would widen.

He pa.s.sed the gauge board. "What's the news?"

"One U-boat submerged, either sunk or damaged. The other's still attacking on the surface, but she's falling behind."

"Tell the bridge the hull's leaking, no casualties. Send damage control party." Arch scrambled down the ladder. He had to keep the engines running at flank speed to outrun the U-boat.

A thin layer of water coated the lower deck. On the starboard side, sailors pressed steel plating over the breach, water spurting around the edges.

"Where's the welder?" Arch called.

"Coming, sir." The sailor pulled on his leather helmet.

"Get an-"

Noise ripped through the hull overhead, crashed into the condenser behind him.

A sh.e.l.l!

Arch spun to inspect the damage.

A chunk of metal zipped toward him.

He flung up his arm, ducked. Too late. White-hot pain exploded around his left eye.

He cried out and fell to the deck. Slicing, bulging pain. Right where Jim had slugged him.

Arch covered his eye with his hand, but the pressure made him cry out again. He sat up to get out of the water, and he opened his eye, but he only saw red.

"Sir!" The welder lifted his mask and stared down at him.

Head wounds bled profusely. Everyone knew that. It wasn't as bad as it looked. Or felt.

A sailor handed him a rag, and Arch cupped it loosely over the wound. The pain radiated from his cheekbone up to his eyebrow, the whole eye socket throbbing and p.r.i.c.kly.

Regardless, he had a job to do. He got to his feet and gazed around with his good eye. Three other men were bleeding from arms, chests, backs. Shrapnel wounds. "Can you work? Do you need help?"

All three said they could work.

A cloud of steam billowed from the top of the condenser. "Shut down the condenser!" Arch called.

"Already on it, sir."

He turned back to the breach in the hull, which ripped higher now, and he beckoned the welder. "We need to fix that on the double."

"Aye aye, sir." The welder lowered his mask.

Arch pointed to the drenched men holding the patch in place. "Get an extra piece of plating to protect those men from the sparks."

Two men grabbed a large sheet of metal and wrestled it into position.

A new kind of shaking took over Arch's limbs, and a wave of dizziness made him stumble. But he had work to do.

The crackling sound of sparks from the welding torch added to the noise of the engine room. All around him, men cranked valves shut.

With the rag covering the explosive heat around his eye, Arch sloshed through the water to the talker. The dizziness swelled into nausea, and the shaking intensified, numbing his fingers.

He waved his cold, quaking hand at the talker. "Tell the bridge . . . the sh.e.l.l damaged the condenser. We're shutting it down. Shut down the forward engine and boilers. Have to do it."

The talker's dark eyes stretched wide. With his gaze fixed on Arch, he repeated the words into the telephone.

The nausea, the spinning, the pain. Arch bent over and retched, his throat flaming.

"Sir! You need help."

"No, I need to do my job." The words burned in his throat, and he wiped his mouth with a corner of the rag, but it was already soaked through, bright red. "Head wounds. They bleed."

"I-I know, sir."

Arch stumbled forward, splas.h.i.+ng through the water. "Shut down the engine. Shut it . . . down."

His vision darkened, and he braced himself, leaned over, retched again.

If only he could sleep. His head felt so heavy, so full. This time he'd sleep well. No nightmares of being trapped below decks, because there was nothing to fear.

His vision went black, his legs gave way, and water washed over him, soothing the pain.

Nothing to fear at all.

Boston "What's the combo?" Shorty followed Hank into the stockroom.

Lillian scooted on her bottom over the threshold. The door opened into the stockroom, and she needed to position herself under the doork.n.o.b. And she had to stall the crooks.

The flashlight swept to her. "The combo?"

She ducked from the blinding beam. "It's 40-27-38."

"Here. Hold the flashlight." Hank spun the dial. "Forty . . ."

Lillian eased herself up to her knees, her heart thumping.

"Twenty-seven . . . thirty-eight."

"No," Lillian said. "You mixed up the numbers. It's 40-28-37."

Shorty grunted. "Listen, Hank. Open those stupid big ears of yours."

Hank grumbled, and the dial spun. He'd have to start all over.

Lillian planted her right foot on the floor.

"Forty . . . twenty-eight . . ."

One more diversion. "Not forty. Fourteen. Please listen."

Shorty cussed. "Sounded like forty."

"It's fourteen. With an N." Lillian centered her weight over her right leg and prayed for balance. If she fell or made too much noise, she'd be dead.

The dial spun, clicking.

In one smooth motion, Lillian pitched herself slightly forward and rose to standing.

"Fourteen . . ."

She felt tall and conspicuous, but the flashlight illuminated the lock of the safe and two faces intent on cracking it.

"Twenty-eight . . ."

Behind her, Lillian groped for the doork.n.o.b and wrapped her fingers around it, careful not to b.u.mp the dangling keys. "When I am weak, then am I strong." Lord, please make this work.

"Thirty . . ."

Three quick hops, and she yanked the door shut behind her.

"Hey!" Shorty yelled.

Gritting her teeth, she sandwiched the key between her thumb and the knuckle of her index finger, and she rotated the key, clicking the lock into place.

To the phone, the front phone so she'd be closer to the exit if they escaped.

She hopped to the door, lost her balance, and caught herself on the counter. The jar of marbles rattled-and inspired her.

Cussing and footsteps sounded from inside the stockroom.

In the darkness, Lillian found the door to the prescription area and pulled it shut behind her. Out in the main store area, she leaned over the counter and b.u.mped her forehead into the jar of marbles, tipping it over the edge into the prescription area.

It shattered on the floor, followed by the staccato of hundreds of marbles bounding over the wood.

Hank and Shorty cried out.

It did sound a bit like machine-gun fire. Lillian headed for the main entrance.

More cursing, and they rattled the doork.n.o.b.

She hopped down the aisle, picking up speed as she went, guided by the dim light from the street. More than anything, she wanted to fly out that door to safety, but she wouldn't. She had to call the police, the sooner the better.

A loud thump on the door, another, and another. They were trying to break down the door.

At the front of the store, she found the phone on the counter. With her elbow, she knocked the receiver from the cradle. She wrenched her bound hands as far to the side as she could, dug her index finger into the dial at zero, spun the dial all the way around, and released it.

Then she leaned over the dropped receiver on the counter.

"Operator-"

"Help! Send the police. Dixon's Drugs on Main Street. Two men with a gun. They plan to kill me. Hurry!"

A shot rang out.

Lillian screamed.

"Ma'am!" the operator yelled.