The woman was holding a.22 in her hand.
10
Cates looked into the barrel of the gun the woman had pulled from inside her life jacket. It was a small gun, and he wondered if he should try to take it away from her. The woman swung her legs over the side of the bunk. Moving faster than he had ever seen a pregnant woman move in his life, she backed away to where he couldn’t possibly reach the gun without being shot first.
“Don’t move, either one of you,” she said. “Randy, lock the door.”
There was a sharp sudden crack in the stillness of the cabin, the sound of the bolt being thrown.
“It’s locked, Annabelle,” Randy said.
“What—”
“Shut up, Captain,” Annabelle said.
Cates looked at her and again wondered if he should try to charge her and try to wrest the gun out of her grip. There were only two of them, and if he could get the gun away from her, even if she shot him first, why then Bunder
He had the feeling all at once that he was about to make a mistake almost as serious as the one he’d made with Celeste back in June of 1938. He thought it was funny for him to be thinking about a young black-haired Irish girl when a gun was being pointed at his heart, but the notion that he was going to make another mistake loomed large and frightening in his mind, and the terrible thing about it was that he didn’t know what the mistake would be or even how he could prevent it. Would it be a mistake to jump her? Would it be a bigger mistake to hear her out and delay any action until he knew what the full score was? He didn’t know. It was 1938 again, and every fear he had ever nurtured sprang full-blown and weedy into his head, like Jack’s beanstalk, leading to a giant who devoured confused sea captains. The giant was a pregnant woman holding a tiny little gun and staring at him with the deadest eyes he had ever seen on any human face.
“Do you have a gun in this cabin?” she asked him.
He debated lying. It seemed to him that every decision he made in the next few minutes could be the one that plunged him into that spinning nightmare of error executed but not understood.
“Yes,” he answered.
“Where?”
“The safe.”
“Randy,” Annabelle said, and he moved quickly to the open safe door and reached into the safe and pulled out a holstered Colt .45. He took the gun out of its holster and waved it at Bunder.
“Get over there,” he said.
Cates watched Bunder as he moved to the chair Randy indicated. He could have sworn there was a look of immense relief in the corpsman’s eyes, almost as if he were delighted he no longer faced the prospect of delivering a baby. He sat heavily in the chair near Cates’s bookrack and blinked vapidly at the .45 in Randy’s hand.
“What do you—” Cates began.
“Just shut up, Captain, and do as you’re told,” Annabelle answered.
“What do you want? How—”
“And remember one thing, Captain,” Annabelle said. “I won’t shoot you, if you try anything funny, but I will shoot your pharmacist’s mate there.”
“Hospital corpsman,” Bunder corrected, and then blinked and looked apologetically at Cates.
“You wouldn’t want to sacrifice a man, would you, Captain?” Annabelle asked.
“No.”
“Good. That’s very smart, Captain. Especially since we don’t intend to harm anyone aboard this ship... provided you do exactly what we tell you to do.”
“And what’s that?” Cates asked.
“First, you will answer anyone who knocks on that door, or calls down on the voice tube or the sound-powered telephone. You will answer in your normal voice, and you will give no indication that anything at all is wrong. If you attempt a signal of any kind whatsoever, I will immediately kill the corpsman. Do you understand that?”
“Go on,” he said.
Annabelle smiled. She was very pretty when she smiled. He noticed the difference the smile made on her face, and then remembered again that she was holding a gun in her hand and threatening murder.
“Do you understand it, Captain?”
“I do,” he said.
“Good,” she said. “Randy, give him the first sheet.”
Randy reached under his life jacket and into the pocket of his windbreaker. He took out a folded sheaf of papers, unfolded them, consulted the top sheet, and then handed it to Cates.
“Read it,” he said.
Cates glanced at the typewritten sheet:
THE BOAT OUT THERE HAS ENGINE TROUBLE. YOU WILL MANEUVER TO PICK HER UP AND SECURE HER TO THE FANTAIL FOR TOWING. BRING HER PASSENGER ABOARD AND SHOW HIM TO MY CABIN.
“That’s what you’re going to call up to the bridge in just a moment, Captain. What’s your O.D.’s name?”
Again he was tempted to lie. The O.D. was Lieutenant Forman, who had relieved Carpenter at 1145. But if he called the bridge and asked for Mr. Carpenter instead, would they
No. Forman would only inform him quickly and politely that this was Mr. Forman, sir, was there anything he could do?
“His name is Forman,” Cates said.
“What do you usually call him?” Annabelle asked.
“Mr. Forman.”
“See that you call him that when you give him this message. Read it just the way it’s typed, Captain, and don’t say anything that isn’t on that sheet of paper. Go ahead. Call him. Use the voice tube; we want to hear his answers.”
From the other side of the cabin Randy said, “I’ve been briefed on shipboard voice procedure, Captain. No tricks, please.”
Cates nodded and went to the voice tube. He lifted it from its clamp, blew into it, and said, “Bridge, this is the captain.”
“Bridge, aye,” Forman’s voice answered.
“Mr. Forman, the boat out there has engine trouble. You will maneuver to pick her up—”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“—and secure her to the fantail for towing.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Bring her passenger aboard and show him to my cabin.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Cates replaced the voice tube on its clamp.
“That was very good, Captain,” Annabelle said. “Don’t you think it was very good, Randy?”
“Very good,” Randy said.
“We don’t really have engine trouble, Captain,” Annabelle said, smiling. “But that was our story, you see, and we wouldn’t want any of your men to begin wondering. Give him the second sheet, Randy.”
“Would you mind telling me—”
“Shut up, Captain. Give it to him, Randy.”
Cates glanced at Bunder, who was sitting wide-eyed on the edge of the bunk. He sighed then and took the extended sheet of paper.
Skip Forman had relieved the deck at 1145. It was now 1230, and he stood on the bridge and watched as the Merc maneuvered closer to the disabled cruiser. He was grateful for the activity. He did not know what there was about the afternoon watch, but he considered it the longest watch anyone ever had to stand, even longer than the midwatch. All this business with the pregnant woman and the disabled boat, though, had made the past forty-five minutes speed by. He wondered if they’d taken her to the wardroom yet. He could just imagine Bunder deliver.
“Bridge, this is the captain.”
Forman put his mouth to the voice tube. “Bridge, aye.”
“Mr. Forman, we’re going to have to change our plans here. This woman is not as close to giving birth as we seemed to think she was.”
“Very well, sir,” Forman said.
“I do not think we will have to attempt a delivery here at sea.”