17
Western Naval Task Force Headquarters
19 Grosvenor Square, London
Monday, March 13, 1944
The yeoman took the handwritten pages from Wyatt. “It’ll be about fifteen minutes, sir.”
He wasn’t scheduled to meet with Commander Marino for half an hour. “Very well. I’ll wait.”
The yeoman retreated into the office. In the background, typewriters filled the air with clicks and clacks.
Wyatt leaned back against the counter. If only he had his book. He was reading David Copperfield again. Not only was it fun to read Dickens in London, but he was studying Uriah Heep, the villain who defrauded his employer.
Perhaps he could gain insight into the embezzler at Fairfax & Sons. Yesterday, he’d spent two hours going over the books with Mr. Montague. A fiasco. How could he find an embezzler when he couldn’t even count bus change?
Not only was the monetary system confusing, but the British wrote their dates backward and didn’t form their numbers right. They used commas instead of decimals, and they wrote the numerals one and seven funny.
Mr. Montague had been patient, and he wanted Wyatt to return next Sunday. But what good could he do?
However, he couldn’t afford to fail. Dorothy trusted him—he saw it in her eyes. He wanted to protect her, protect her father, protect the company, but how?
Wyatt crossed his ankles and breathed a prayer for insight. He imagined finding the perpetrator, Dorothy’s joy, Mr. Fairfax’s relief—
Or would he be angry? Furious that they’d gone over his head? He’d told Mr. Montague nothing was wrong. Why didn’t he want his manager to investigate?
A sick feeling coiled up inside. What if Mr. Fairfax was the embezzler?
He shook his head. Ridiculous. Mr. Fairfax might not be the best father, but he was a good man. And how could he embezzle if he never went to the office?
The door opened, and Jack Vale entered.
Wyatt grinned and shook his friend’s hand. “You’re back. How was Exercise Fox?”
“Just got in at noon.” Jack’s cheeks looked tanner, hard to do in England. “It was a great experience. They put me with a Shore Fire Control Party. We landed on the beach with British naval fire flying overhead.”
Sure, Wyatt wished he’d been there, but he was happy for his friend. “Sounds fun.”
“It was.” Jack handed his report to the yeoman and gave the man instructions. Then he leaned his elbow on the counter. “I tell you though, for the real deal I’ll be glad to be on a destroyer rather than the beach.”
“Me too. So, did the SFCPs work as they were supposed to?”
“The parties did fine, but we had radio problems. The destroyers were on their own. Some did great. Some . . . ?” He whistled. “I wish you’d been there.”
Wyatt shrugged. “I had duties here.”
“If you’d been there, we would have hit those targets.”
“Thanks.” But Geier had gunnery experience too. He’d probably done fine.
“Say . . .” Jack gave him a nudge and a wink. “How about you? Hitting your target?”
“Target?”
“The redhead.”
Wyatt chuckled. “I’m not planning to shell her.”
“Hope not. Any progress?”
“Yes and no.” He paused, not at liberty to disclose the problems at Fairfax & Sons. “Remember how I cut a deal with her the night we went dancing—I’d write home if she went to church?”
“Yeah. She convinced you after I’d failed.”
“What can I say? She’s a better dancer.”
“Hey, now!” Jack gave him a mock glare. The man took too much pride in his dancing skills.
“Anyway, she didn’t keep her end of the deal. She didn’t want to go to church alone. So I went with her yesterday, and then we had lunch with her dad.”
Open admiration lit Jack’s brown eyes. “Wyatt the churchgoing family man versus Eaton the skirt-chasing heel.”
If only Dorothy saw it that way. “More like Wyatt the big brother versus Eaton the heartthrob, but we’re doing the same thing next Sunday.”
“Maybe she’ll see you in a new light.”
Maybe not. More importantly, he hoped she’d see the Lord in a new light. If he could help reunite those two . . . well, that would be even better than winning her heart.
“Mr. Paxton?” The yeoman handed him the typed report.
“Thanks. Looks great.” He smiled at the man, then at Jack. “See you in quarters.”
“So long, Casanova.”
Wyatt laughed and left. Nothing romantic about Sunday, but he’d enjoyed the sermon, the close conversation with Dorothy, and perking up her dad with business talk.
If only every part of the day had gone that well.
Fairfax & Sons.
Eaton.
Wyatt’s steps sounded harder on the tile floor, and he turned up the staircase. One woman had been transferred, and Dorothy could be next. Didn’t Eaton care? Selfish twit.
And she adored him.
Wyatt paused at the top of the stairs and took a deep breath. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t get jealous, and there he was. Why did he always fall for women who preferred rogues?
He continued down the hall. That wasn’t fair. Adler wasn’t a rogue. He was ambitious and competitive, but he’d been better suited for Oralee. He’d won her heart through strong character as well as charm.
If Dorothy preferred Eaton, what could he do? Nothing. In the meantime, he’d keep doing what he was doing.
Wyatt entered Commander Marino’s office. “Good afternoon, sir. Here’s my report.”
“Have a seat.” The commander’s voice and eyes were hard.
What on earth? What had he done? Wyatt lowered himself into a chair.
Commander Marino held up folders in both hands. “This report was written in February when Mr. Geier was here. This was written last week when he was gone.”
“Yes, sir.” He couldn’t keep the question mark out of his voice.
Commander Marino shook one folder. “Tell me, how much of the first report did you write?”
He didn’t want to get Geier in trouble, but he couldn’t lie. “A good deal, sir.”
“Reading them, you’d think they’d been written by the same man, every word. You wrote them all yourself, didn’t you?”
Wyatt fiddled with the hem of his jacket. “Not entirely, sir. Except last week’s, of course.”
The commander flopped the papers down, his gaze hard as ebony. “Give me a percent.”
Numbers left no room for fudging. He sighed. “Ninety, maybe ninety-five.”
He jerked his head to the side and slapped his hands on the armrests of his chair. “What did Mr. Geier do while you wrote the reports?”
He had no idea, so he chose Geier’s own words. “He—he talks to people, makes connections, builds bridges.”
“And left you to do all the work.”
“I wanted to do it, do it right. I enjoy it, and it’s vital.”
Marino raked his hand through his black hair. “He lied, took all the credit, and bamboozled me, the low-down . . .”
Wyatt stared at the emotions racing across his CO’s face. What had happened to make him see the truth?
Marino’s gaze snapped to Wyatt. “Exercise Fox did not go well from our standpoint. Mr. Geier made us look like fools. He didn’t know Royal Navy terminology, the differences between their guns and ours. It was all in his briefing papers. Then they couldn’t make radio contact with the SFCPs—not Geier’s fault, but he should have been able to pick out targets of opportunity based on the maps. He failed. The gunnery officer was furious.”
“Oh no.”
“Can you do what he was supposed to do?”
“Well, yes, sir. I—I’d study the materials. I already know the maps inside out, and last year I helped direct fire at Amchitka, Attu, Kiska, the Battle of the Komandorski Islands.”
“Good.” He stacked the old reports to the side. “Our role has become more important than ever. Admiral Ramsay agreed with this department’s assessment that we didn’t have enough escort and fire support ships in the American sector—partly thanks to your work, I now know.”
His shoulders squirmed, but he allowed the praise to settle down like a cloak. “Thank you, sir.”
“He asked the US to send three battleships, two cruisers, and thirty-four destroyers.”
The map in Wyatt’s mind lit up with dozens of ships, hundreds of guns. “That’s great, sir.”
“Granted, they’ll strip away some of the British ships, but we’ll still be ahead.”
“Yes, sir. Miles ahead.”
“But that means we’ll have more work—complete bombardment plans for each ship.”
That was the kind of work Wyatt liked. “Yes, sir.”
“I’m bringing in a new man, Lt. Irwin Slobodsky. I served with him in the Mediterranean. He’s hardworking and reliable. This week you’ll bring him up to speed so he can keep up with the intelligence and reports, and next week you’ll head down to Plymouth.”
A huge break, and all he could think about was missing a couple of Sundays with Dorothy.
Marino shoved a folder to Wyatt. “Unfortunately, Fox was the last big exercise until the end of April. Exercise Beaver starts March 27—only two regiments, but you’ll get your feet wet.”
Wyatt flipped through the thick stack of papers. “Two weeks. I’ll be ready.”
“I know you will.” His voice lowered to a growl. “As for Geier, he’ll be transferred and disciplined.”
How was he supposed to respond? “Good” would sound vindictive. “Thank you” would sound pitiful. “I’m sorry to hear” would sound lenient. So Wyatt just nodded, his head bent over the folders.
“You’re dismissed.”
“Thank you, sir.” Wyatt stood and turned the doorknob.
“Yes, sir?”
Marino’s forehead pinched together. “You told me you were doing your share, and I didn’t believe you. I’m sorry.”
“All forgiven, sir.” He gave his CO a warm gaze. “And I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t.”
Wyatt headed down the hallway, his mind tumbling. Success fit like a shirt cut off-kilter. But it wasn’t about him—it was about the Allied cause.
He accepted it into his empty hands.