Expect Trouble
by JoAnn Smith Ainsworth
We are delighted to welcome back novelist JoAnn Smith Ainsworth to Omnimystery News.
Last week JoAnn visited with us when we discussed several of her books, including her most recently published, Expect Trouble (Dark Oak Mysteries; February 2014 trade paperback). We asked if we could learn more about it, and she graciously provided us with an excerpt, the first chapter.
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Philadelphia, PA, 1943
U.S. WAVES LIEUTENANT OLIVIA "Livvy" Delacourt abhorred being late. "It's my new superior officer who is waiting."
Tension pressured the nape of her neck. Armed with one week of driver's training, she gripped the Super Deluxe '42 Ford's steering wheel like she was doing battle with Old Man Winter himself. March had come in like a lion to a country enveloped in a world war and gave no hint of going out like a lamb. A relentless wind whipped up dirty snow from Germantown Avenue's icy cobblestones to mix with moist flurries that stuck to the windshield. Ice coated the tree branches and hid on snow-blanketed sidewalks. Clutching the steering wheel, Livvy sent a prayer heavenward that she'd get this metal behemoth and herself safely to her new headquarters.
This morning — without warning — the Navy Department jerked her from a challenging assignment in Cryptology, transcribing enemy phone conversations, and reassigned her — of all things — as driver to a naval commander overseeing the formation of the top secret Joint U.S. and Allied Intelligence Project. Livvy hoped there'd be something "intelligent" about her assignment. She preferred working her brain, not her foot on a pedal.
Clank, clank, clank. The snow chains attacked the metal fenders, making her head ache. She scrunched up her eyes and wrinkled her forehead in concentration. She was looking for an estate with a wrought iron gate and a Pennsylvania flagstone fence around its five acres of land.
There.
She guided the heavy '42 Ford through the opened gate and onto the unplowed driveway stretching toward the three-story mansion known as Hamilton House. At one time, her family could have afforded a place like this — before the Crash of '29.
No smoke rose from the chimneys. No lights beckoned. The grounds under a blanket of snow and ice looked abandoned.
What a welcome.
Livvy followed the tire ruts made by a single car with a lower belly that had scraped off the top layer of snow. When the tracks veered off toward the garages, Livvy stayed on the main drive. She pulled to a stop next to broad steps leading to the multi-columned porch of her new — and impressive — headquarters. She took the car out of gear, set the brake and turned off the engine.
Before pulling on her navy blue wool gloves, Livvy glanced at her wristwatch and her stomach tightened. Fifteen minutes late. She'd get chewed out. Oh, well, there was nothing she could do about that.
An expected blast of bitterly cold air hit her when she stepped out into ankle-deep snow. She leaned into driven snow to mount the steps to the front door. From the corner of her eye, she saw that her bobbed, brunette hair — where it escaped from under her cover — had curled tightly from the damp. Her glasses and wool overcoat had acquired a dusting of snow while crossing the driveway.
Bedraggled. What a first impression.
Inhaling a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and pushed the doorbell. No sound. She pushed the bell again. Nothing.
"I'll have to get that fixed."
She knocked loudly.
The door opened with an alacrity that startled her. The rigidity of the uniformed man towering above her made her feel she should click her rubber-booted heels. She tried to see his face, but snowflakes got in her eyes. She blinked and saluted. "Lieutenant Delacourt reporting for duty, sir."
A disembodied voice growled from the darkened doorway. "You're late!"
Livvy's jaw dropped. She recognized that voice, one she hadn't heard in almost ten years. The voice belonged to her colossal high school crush — Barrington Drew, III — Trey to his friends. Sadly, she wasn't one of them.
In all the morning's haste — saying good-byes, moving her things out of her desk in Cryptology and packing her belongings in the barracks — she'd never asked about her new commander. Besides, a war was on. She was trained to accept without question whomever the Navy threw at her and to do her duty as required. Who would've guessed the new boss would turn out to be her teenage heartthrob?
Her heart pounded with the remembered agony of unrequited feelings for the handsome and wealthy senior — youthful daydreams not based on reality. It wasn't as if he'd spare a glance for a plump, impoverished and bespectacled freshman when he was already dating Livvy's first cousin, the ultra glamorous Gwen.
Peeping through snowy lashes, she could see that the thin-as-a-rail high school playboy had added muscle. Wavy black hair — now cut military style above the ears — framed a wide forehead and laughing eyes that, in the past, seemed continually amused. Right now they didn't look amused.
"Wait here while I get my overcoat." He turned abruptly and walked away.
Livvy flushed beet red, humiliated. True, she'd lost some weight since her teen years and a uniform might act as a disguise, but come on. There should be some glimmer of recognition. She'd barely regained her emotional balance when he reappeared with a briefcase clutched tightly in his gloved hand.
"Let's get going or I'll be late."
Trey brushed past her and out the still-opened front door. He rushed down snow-covered steps, leaving it to his lieutenant to close and lock the door. Locking it against what, she didn't know. The place looked barren of furnishings. She pushed at the bridge of her horn-rimmed glasses to settle them more comfortably on her nose before pulling the mansion door shut and listening until the lock clicked into place.
Darn. She'd expected more courtesy from a man of Trey's social standing. Then she gave herself a mental slap. Commonplace courtesies weren't part of a wartime society. Courtesy was extended by rank, not gender or social standing. Her duties as a lowly WAVES lieutenant included opening doors for the male officers, not vice versa.
When she turned around, Trey was already climbing into the back of the sedan, which was layered with snowflakes. She'd need to be quicker in the future. He slammed the door closed before she could make her way down the slippery steps.
Since her former heartthrob hadn't recognized her, she wondered how to act. After opening the driver's side door, she lingered overly long. She heard, "What are you waiting for, Lieutenant? You're letting the warm air out."
Good grief. Just like her mother.
"We need to get going or I'll be late for my first assignment."
She could sympathize with that problem.
Livvy climbed behind the wheel, thankful the Ford still held the heat generated on the trip to Hamilton House. She turned the key, depressed the clutch, got the car into first gear and inched down the snowy driveway toward the street. There were no tire tracks for her to follow on the way out.
"Where to, sir?"
"We're headed for NAMU."
"Where?"
"The Naval Aircraft Modification Unit north of Philadelphia in Warminster. It's the former Brewster Aircraft Factory."
Livvy had her map out and ready on the front seat. She stopped the car at the gate to study the map.
"Never mind that." His tone was curt. "I have my own map. I'll give directions."
She pursed her lips. How long would he continue to snap at her?
She heard Trey unlock his leather briefcase. In the rearview mirror, she watched as he spread a map across his lap and put a finger on their position.
"Left or right?"
"Right. Keep your eyes on the road. I'll watch for street signs."
She pulled out onto Germantown Avenue and headed back toward Johnson Street in the direction she'd come.
Livvy glanced in the rearview mirror. Trey wore a disgruntled expression as if she were the source of every setback he'd ever experienced. Great. Make her more nervous than she already was, why didn't he?
"Bear left on Washington Lane."
Livvy made the turn without sliding on the ice. The driving teacher had harped on driving on snow and ice in her training.
"Has anyone told you about your assignment?" His voice was matter of fact, without a jot of friendliness.
"No one, sir. Early this morning, I was ordered to pack all my gear and drive to Germantown. I don't even know where I'm staying tonight."
"You'll be quartered at Hamilton House. We both will. "
Her new assignment had a bright side. Too bad regulations forbid hanky panky between officers.
"We'll be quartered with two naval intelligence men who'll police the grounds. They should be there by the time we get back."
From what little she saw of the property, Livvy decided all the security men would have to do was glance out the window now and then. The unbroken snow would speak loudly that no one was sneaking up. Who'd want to, anyway? The place was almost bare of furnishings. Any secrets were probably locked in that briefcase the commander was clutching, not back at Hamilton House.
"If I may ask, sir, what are we doing this morning?"
"I'm interviewing the civilian manager of a naval aircraft factory. I'm an engineer."
As if she didn't know. An engineering slide rule and two drafting pencils lodged in his left breast pocket.
"I've been assigned to uncover any plant vulnerability to saboteurs. You'll take shorthand notes."
"I've been assigned as your driver, not a clerk." Blast it. She must break herself of the habit of speaking before thinking — and contradicting her boss on top of it.
"You're assigned as my aide. I need to get a secure facility up and running as quickly as possible. Driving is only one part. Mostly, the Navy needs your business skills."
Halleluiah. Some "intelligent" work after all. When they stuck her in driving school, the military wasn't being stupid like she first thought. Driving was an add-on to the whole package. Losing Cryptology for this project wasn't a demotion. It was a promotion. With this opportunity, she might be the first in her Sarah Lawrence College graduating class to set up an office. She smiled. A definite feather in her cap.
"What about paper and pencil?" Trey asked. "I have extras if you need them."
As if a Sarah Lawrence graduate would get caught without her notepad and sharpened pencils. "I always carry supplies."
"Good."
At least she got one scrap of praise out of him.
"Turn left on Old York Road and follow the Route 611 signs all the way north to Warminster. There are no more turns to worry about."
Much to her relief, he didn't sound irritated anymore.
She settled back in the seat as they travelled their slow and noisy way toward the NAMU facility. She heard Trey pull a batch of papers from his briefcase and glanced at him in the rearview mirror.
"I need to study these drawings." He put his head down to focus, leaving her to the challenge of getting them safely to Warminster. She secured her grip on the steering wheel and continued her battles with the monster-sized car and Old Man Winter.
Livvy was still a block away from the NAMU complex when the first waves of nausea hit her. A metallic taste flooded her mouth. Insidious buzzing — like millions of bees hovering over a clover patch — flooded her head.
Oh, no. I don't need this.
A psychic attack was coming on. Her heartbeat increased and her breath caught in her throat. Her hands sweated, causing the steering wheel to slip from her grip so that she lightly sideswiped a snow bank.
"Watch what you're doing." Trey barked the command from the backseat.
Livvy groped in her standard-issue WAVES handbag for a pillbox and swallowed two aspirin tablets without water. She worked up enough spit to take the taste out of her mouth while she clung desperately to the steering wheel. Usually, her clairvoyant visions pertained to something going on in her life. Why would driving a naval officer to a meeting start one?
She mentally created psychic roses and flung them to the outer rim of her aura, building up a psychic barrier until the roses surrounded her head-to-toe. Taught to her when a teenager by her mother, this trick saved her time and again since her mom's death. Livvy prayed it would work today.
Trey spoke as she slowly entered the NAMU gate. "Ignore the main building. They'll be in the inventory shed around back."
Livvy maneuvered the car past a series of buildings until she came to the back lot and a small brick warehouse she thought considerably larger than a shed.
"Ten minutes to spare." Trey seemed relieved.
When she pulled into an empty parking space, dark and sinister energy struck her sharply in the belly. "Ooof," she said before she could stop herself.
"Something wrong, Lieutenant?"
"No, sir."
She dragged herself out of the car and around to the passenger side to open the door for the commander. A man in a business suit came out of the NAMU building and greeted them.
"Paul Lesisko, civilian plant manager."
Trey introduced himself and his lieutenant. Nothing dramatic happened when the man shook Livvy's hand. The manager wasn't the source of her upset. Nor did she pick up negative vibrations from the men standing around outside. Something else was going on. She wished she knew what that something was.
Livvy stood by while the men talked and gestured. The buzzing in her head gradually subsided while she held the psychic barrier in place. Only the slightest ringing in her ears remained. She checked her thought processes. Unclouded — and just in time, too. The men were entering the brick building and she needed to take notes on the inspection.
Livvy pulled her glasses off and rubbed the bridge of her nose to relieve tension. She pulled a shorthand notebook and pencil from her handbag and scurried after Trey and Mr. Lesisko. Stopping a short way from the men, she flipped open the shorthand pad. She dated a clean page and glided the pencil across the page, leaving behind swirls and lines as shorthand notes of the men's conversation. She trailed after them in the drafty warehouse, shivering as she wrote, and barely succeeded in keeping the negative energy at bay.
"These are overflow parts from the main factory warehouse." The manager described the bin tags that marked which inventory was critical and which was not.
Trey asked questions on the age of the building and the various renovations. His slide rule was in and out of his pocket several times while he studied the structure. He asked for a set of blueprints and other engineering data to take with him after the inspection tour. The plant manager gave an order to a worker nearby, who left for the main building to develop a set of blueprints.
Livvy was more than ready for a trip back to Hamilton House in a warm car by the time Mr. Lesisko told them they were just about done in this building. "There's only an add-on room in the back to see."
The closer Livvy got to the bins at the far end of the warehouse, the more her pores released sweat and her head pounded. Even with protections in place, a full-blown psychic episode was returning. The trauma was more intense than any she'd ever experienced. She clenched her teeth as a brown fog drifted before her eyes. She swayed on her feet.
Trey caught her elbow. "Are you all right, Lieutenant?"
"Fine, sir." She gritted her teeth. She wanted to yell she was under attack by evil spirits, but they'd think her crazy. She'd learned over the years to keep her clairvoyance a secret closely guarded by family and friends.
Mr. Lesisko made a brief comment on the stock stored there and then said, "We're finished here."
Livvy stopped taking notes and packed up her notepad. Something bad was imminent. She had to get everyone away.
"Excuse me, Commander. There is something wrong with me." She touched her head where the headache was the worst. "I need some fresh air."
"Would you like the plant nurse to take a look at you?" the plant manager asked.
"I'd be grateful, sir."
Mr. Lesisko ushered them toward an exit door. "This way to the infirmary."
She followed the men toward the exit.
Just then a blast rattled the building. Something crashed against her head and shoulders and threw her to her knees, causing ripples of pain and flashes of light before blessedly knocking her out.
Livvy came to with a massive headache. She was on a narrow cot in the NAMU parking lot, covered with a wool blanket. The damaged structure was a safe distance away. The building still stood, minus a number of window panes. Smoke seeped out the openings. A fire engine and several police cars were parked close to the entrance, engines running. A number of cars and pickup trucks clustered nearby. Men milled about and talked in groups, most chafing their hands and stamping their feet to keep warm.
"What happened?" she asked.
"She's awake," someone said.
Livvy turned her head enough to see a white-haired woman kneeling by her side. She wore a starched white cap and had a netted bun at the nape of her neck. The name on the NAMU badge pinned to her uniform overcoat pocket said she was Nurse Evans.
"Take it easy, dear. Nothing's broken, but you had a nasty bang on the head." The nurse held up one hand with some of her fingers bent down. "How many fingers do you see?"
"Two."
"Right you are."
Livvy realized some of the blurriness when counting the nurse's fingers was because her glasses were missing. Her heart speeded up when she realized she didn't have a backup pair with her. She couldn't do her job without them. Panic rose.
"My glasses."
"They're okay," Nurse Evans said. "I have them."
"I need them to drive."
"No more driving for you today, Missy. You need to rest."
"But...."
"No buts about it, my dear. We may need to send you to the hospital."
"But...."
The nurse put a finger over Livvy's lips. The touch had a strangely calming effect. Livvy felt an affinity with the woman.
"Do you feel any nausea?"
"Not any more, but I'm cold and have a headache."
"You're still in shock, dear. I'll get the ambulance driver to bring more blankets."
Nurse Evans shouted to the driver to bring two more blankets. She rummaged in her medical bag and brought out a bottle of pills and a small canteen. She tapped two pills into her hand.
"Here's aspirin to take the edge off that headache."
Livvy waited until the nurse settled two more blankets around her before again asking, "What happened?"
"Someone planted an incendiary device in the storage building."
So that's what the psychic attack was all about. No wonder the assault was so intense.
She was too tired to psychically puzzle out what happened. She'd wait until she felt better. "Are the plant manager and the commander all right?"
"Minor scrapes and bruises, mostly. They tell me a section of an empty wooden bin fell on you. That's why you have a big lump on your head."
Livvy touched her head and the growing lump under her scalp.
"I have an ice pack and some hot, sugared tea coming from the cafeteria, dear. You'll feel better in no time."
"I must report in to the commander." Livvy tried to get up, but her body wouldn't cooperate.
"Stay right where you are." The nurse clucked her tongue like a scolding mother hen. "If the commander has anything to say, he can darn well come here to say it."
Livvy closed her eyes and drifted to sleep. She'd sort it all out when she woke up.
---
Trey's ears still rang from the blast. A chemical smell permeated the air. Firefighters, military and police milled near an area of warehouse floor thickly dusted with the white powder of fallen plaster. Breathing through a cotton handkerchief clasped over his nose, he studied the pattern of the debris and used his engineering training to understand the blast's placement and size.
Trey wondered about his lieutenant. She was still unconscious when they got her outside and into the nurse's hands. At his first opportunity, he'd see if she was all right.
He'd spent the weekend boning up on the NAMU plant, its history, its purpose and its importance. The Navy couriered the data to his old quarters last Friday, but the admiral's staff hadn't provided data on the types of explosive devices he might encounter. Bombs were definitely not part of his studies at Dartmouth's Thayer School of Engineering. He needed to understand those to calculate risk to structures.
The worst of the trauma past, Trey looked around at the men in the warehouse. His jangled nerves had settled after having been knocked down by the blast. He patted his left jacket pocket and found his trusty slide rule had miraculously stayed in place. As long as he could calculate roots, logarithms and trigonometry, the world would get back to normal.
A bomb expert wearing body armor crouched over the shattered apparatus and gestured toward the device. "This is nasty. It looks small, but it packs a wallop. It was intended to take out the structural wall and collapse the ceiling. You'd have lost the soundness of the whole building if that wall had come down."
"Our lives, too, if we'd been closer," Trey said.
"We were lucky the bomb misfired and didn't release its full charge." Mr. Lesisko appeared haggard from the ordeal.
"Someone knew the best way to cripple us. Our airplane production would've been halted for weeks, maybe even months, if we'd had to scrounge around for replacement inventory." The military man who spoke had been introduced to Trey as the naval officer overseeing the operation of the NAMU plant. He'd had other obligations that morning and hadn't joined the inspection tour. Those other obligations lost priority after the bomb went off.
"It's someone with access to this warehouse," the bomb expert said.
"All of our employees are vetted for security clearances," Mr. Lesisko said.
"The delivery men, too?" Trey wondered if those drivers went through background checks. "Can they get this far in?"
"They unload here," Mr. Lesisko said.
The military man made a note on his tablet. "I'll get security checks started on the delivery men."
"In the meantime," Trey said to the plant manager, "have your people stop the delivery trucks outside the gate and check every carton. Your men should store the supplies in the warehouses themselves until the delivery workers get cleared."
"I'll do that," Mr. Lesisko said.
Trey ordered three copies of the photographs being taken of the damaged device and its surrounding area. The military man assured him the film would be developed quickly. The photographs, along with the requested blueprints and engineering data, would be delivered to Hamilton House by early afternoon.
Trey excused himself. "I need to see to my lieutenant and get back to my office." He had his own security to set into place. After this experience, the task was more urgent.
As Trey arrived at the parking lot, he saw with relief that his lieutenant was awake, wrapped in wool blankets, and sitting up on a cot in the cold wind and falling snow. She drank from a steaming cup with gloved hands. As he walked toward her, the nagging feeling he'd had all morning came back — a faint recollection that he knew his new aide. For the life of him, he just couldn't place from where.
"How is she, nurse?"
"Coming around nicely, Commander. No signs of a concussion as yet, but she'll need monitoring."
"Is she good enough to come back to the office?"
The nurse cocked her head. "If she rides stretched out on the backseat and you drive."
"I'll drive." Trey was under intense pressure from Admiral Barber to get the facility functioning. He needed the lieutenant's office skills, even if she had to sit in a chair and direct others. Her incapacity couldn't be worse than his own fumbling efforts. He hadn't a clue how to work most office machines, let alone order them. He never had to devise a filing system and set up procedures. Always in the past, labeled file folders were delivered to him by well-trained staff. A little driving on his part to make this happen wasn't a problem to his self-esteem.
Nurse Evans interrupted his thinking. "Check her tonight. Make sure she doesn't start seeing double or get a blinding headache."
Trey nodded. "I'll keep an eye on her. If she needs help, the Navy has a doctor who makes house calls."
"Keep her talking," the nurse said, shaking a finger in admonition. "She needs to stay awake and tell you how she's feeling every so often. If you can't keep her awake, get the doctor to examine her as soon as you get back to Philadelphia."
"I will." She'd get the best of care, even if he had to call in his personal physician and pay out of his own pocket.
Trey watched as the ambulance workers helped the nurse position his lieutenant on the backseat of the sedan. They donated pillows and blankets to make her comfortable. He understood the ambulance staff would stay at the NAMU facility until the "all clear" was given that no more explosive devices were found by the bomb squad men checking the other buildings.
Nurse Evans handed in the thermos of hot, sugared tea. "Sip this, sweetie. It'll help keep you awake."
Trey climbed into the driver's seat and started the car on its clanking way. Irregular clumps of frozen snow pulled at the car's steering. As he wrestled with the wheel, he developed an appreciation for the physical challenges his driver tackled on the trip to Warminster.
Trey searched for a way to start the conversation the nurse demanded. He decided the nagging thought was a good place to start.
"I have a nagging feeling we've met before. Have we?"
In the rearview mirror, he saw her briefly close her eyes and wondered if she were having trouble with a headache because of the blast. Over the noise of the chains, she said, "I'm Gwendolyn Smyth's cousin."
A mental connection kicked in. Awkward. He should've recognized her.
"Little Olivia?" He saw her scrunch up her nose and wondered what that was all about. "The little girl who used to hang around the gate cottage at Gwen's place?" A smart, sweet, awkward and extremely shy girl.
"The very one. I go by Livvy now."
No wonder he didn't remember her. She seemed years younger than he in high school. A year was like a decade to a teenager. "I'm sorry I didn't recognize you."
"It was quite a while ago."
"You should've said something."
"I didn't want to presume on past friendships between our families."
Silence reined until Trey remembered the nurse's admonition to keep her talking. "What have you been doing since high school?"
To his surprise, she went into detail about her high school commercial courses and her business studies at Sarah Lawrence College. By the end of it, she'd given him the details he needed to determine which tasks he could safely delegate.
Trey knew the Sarah Lawrence College fees were paid by Gwen's mother. If he remembered correctly, when his lieutenant was a teenager her father lost all his wealth to the Crash of '29. A stroke brought on by the financial tragedy put him in a wheelchair. Instant poverty was why Livvy and her father were living in the gate house on the Smyth estate instead of in their own mansion.
"What about you?" she said. "I read in the Inquirer you had joined the military."
He nodded. "I knew we'd be dragged into the war. I wanted to be an officer by the time that happened."
"Makes sense."
"My engineering training helped me move up the ranks fast."
"Your father probably helped that along."
It was Trey's turn to symbolically scrunch up his nose. He wanted to be judged on his own merits, not his father's influence.
Throughout the snowy trip to Hamilton House, Trey reciprocated by detailing his Dartmouth studies and previous employment. If the two of them were to work closely together, they needed to know each other's competency levels.
They were almost to Hamilton House when he ran out of educational and business topics and asked about her cousin. Gwen was by far the best looking girl during his high school years, but she had a way of wheedling him into difficult situations he hadn't intended to explore. They got in trouble a time or two in high school and went their separate ways for college.
"She'll be surprised we're working together," Livvy said. "So will Aunt Victoria and Uncle Max."
"Give them my regards."
Trey made the turn into the estate grounds. His eyes widened upon recognizing the man slowly exiting the rear seat of a car parked in front of the mansion — his friend from college with a high-level D.C. job. Trey blasted the horn multiple times as he pulled to a stop. He rolled down the window, stuck his head out and shouted, "Walter Oberson, you old bastard. What're you doing here?"
"I've got orders for you." Walt held up his briefcase.
Whatever his friend was carrying must be important for the government to send him by car and not by train. Gasoline and tires were in scarce supply from being directed overseas to the war effort. Most people couldn't afford to drive and just put vehicles up on blocks.
Walt pointedly glanced up and down the estate driveway. "The place looked abandoned when we got here. I expected to see your sports car at the very least."
"In the garage." Trey's family had ways of getting extra war-time ration cards for gas and tires. He didn't exacerbate a scarcity situation, but indulged himself occasionally. The top secret Hamilton House facility was somehow important enough to the government that both a sedan and a Jeep were allotted to it. He wouldn't often need his car, but liked keeping it nearby. Besides, the estate had six garages. Plenty of room.
Trey rolled up the window, made sure the gearbox of the Ford was in neutral and set the hand brake before climbing out to greet his friend. He left the engine running to keep the car warm for Livvy. Upon meeting Walt halfway between the two automobiles, Trey embraced his college buddy in a bear hug and added several hard pats on the back. "You old son-of-a-gun."
"We need to talk."
Trey's brow furrowed. "You sound serious. Help me get my lieutenant inside and we'll pow wow."
Walt cocked his head. "What's the matter with her?"
"A saboteur planted a bomb at a naval facility we inspected this morning. She got hurt in the blast."
That announcement more than startled Walt. "You're kidding!"
"It misfired, but still caused damage."
"Are you hurt?"
Trey shook his head, a frown expressing his concern. "I lucked out, but my lieutenant got clobbered by some wood. She may have a slight concussion."
Walt's face mirrored Trey's concern. "It puts the face of reality on what we're doing."
"You're telling me."
"Does the admiral know we have spy activity in the area?"
Trey nodded. "Naval personnel working on the premises contacted headquarters."
"The FBI?"
"Alerted. They hadn't arrived by the time I left."
"You didn't stick around?" Walt appeared puzzled.
"My job is to search out future vulnerabilities. It's somebody else's job to clean up."
Walt nodded. "You have a point."
"Besides, I needed to get back here. The brass is pushing hard to get this place up and running."
Walt grinned. "It's just as well you came back or I could've been sitting out in a cold car for hours. I timed my arrival for when you were expected, not for any delay because of an explosion."
"You should have let me know you were coming."
"It wasn't in the cards."
"Well, let's get my lieutenant inside and we'll talk."
Walt got his driver to assist and before long the men maneuvered Livvy out of the backseat. The driver shut the Ford's door and carried the blankets. Walt carried the thermos and pointed out icy hazards along the way. As Trey was crossing the driveway with Livvy safely in his arms, he became aware his lieutenant wasn't as plump as she once was. She still wore those huge glasses, though.
He safely maneuvered the slippery steps and gave Walt the key to open the front door.
On entering, Trey realized there was no sign of his security staff having been to Hamilton House. What an unfortunate start to his first official day. All his staff were late and an explosion marred his first assignment.
Trey deposited Livvy into one of the two office chairs and Walt's driver arranged the blankets around her. With no heat in the mansion, he didn't even offer to take the men's coats, even though, ironically, there were two oak coat racks standing near the building's only other furnishings: two office desks and chairs.
Trey turned to Walt. "What are these orders you have for me?"
Walt looked around. "We'll need a place to talk where we won't be overheard."
Trey harrumphed. "We've got twenty rooms in this place. Pick one."
"A place with a table."
"Now that's more difficult. As you can see, we're not set up yet." The opened doors revealed the bare parlor and dining room.
"We'll improvise," Walt said.
"I'm not even sure if the electricity is turned on. It wasn't when I left this morning." Trey walked to the wall socket and flicked the switch. The crystal chandelier centered before the grand staircase flared on. "Progress." Having grown up in impressive homes, he could appreciate the quality of the thick crystals.
"I need to show you some documents," Walt said. "Let's take one of these desks into a room."
Trey pointed left toward a door near the back hallway. That office was an interior room with no windows. He preferred a window but thought it more important to safeguard the secret documents he'd have to read, rather than have a view. "I plan to use that room as my office. We can carry a desk in there."
Livvy was struggling to rise as if to give up her office chair to the two men. "Stay put, Lieutenant." She slumped back down with a relieved expression on her face.
The three men carried an oak desk into the back office. The driver then rolled the second oak office chair into the room while carrying a coat rack in his other hand. The men hung their hats on the rack but kept their coats buttoned. Walt put his briefcase on the desk.
"I'd appreciate it if your driver would see if he can get the furnace going."
Walt gave the order and the driver left for the basement, closing the office door behind himself.
Trey turned to his friend. "Let's see what these orders are that you have for me."
"How much do you know about your new assignment?"
He stuck to the basics as he'd read them this weekend. "We're to inspect naval facilities and point out vulnerabilities in their security preparations. We're to locate Nazi spies on the East Coast before they can damage naval facilities." Trey paused, but decided to go ahead with his concerns. "That part doesn't make sense. The FBI should handle spies." He lifted an eyebrow and turned his head in a sidewise glance at his friend and his gut clenched at the serious expression on Walt's face. "Am I in some kind of trouble? You look like you did that time in college when you bailed me out of jail after a frat party."
Walt pointedly ignored the comment, but since it was his friend standing across from him Trey added, "It's beyond me why the brass would want an engineer to head this project instead of security staff."
Again no response before Trey added, "We're a joint project with Allied forces. I report to U.S. Naval Command."
"Partially."
"Partially?"
"Actually," Walt said, "the operation's not under the Navy. The head man and my superior is one of President Roosevelt's most trusted civilian advisers. He and your father are members of a top-secret committee code-named The Watch. Its mission is known only to a handful of top legislators, businessmen and military personnel — and now to you."
The tiny hairs on the back of Trey's neck started to rise.
"I work for the White House," Walt said. "I'm on The Watch staff."
Trey's eyebrows rose. Impressive. Even though advancement came quickly in wartime, Walt was young to be assigned to such a high-powered, secret committee. Being 4F because of flat feet, Walt didn't participate in ROTC like Trey did, but took government studies at Dartmouth. The studies had taken him high up in the administration. Maybe, like with Trey, advancement was more a factor of how few men were left in the states to run the country.
"We thought you'd take this better if the information came from me," Walt said.
This was not setting up to be a run-of-the-mill briefing. Walt was the man to count on in college. Trey hoped that was still true. "What's going on?"
Giving in to a college-days' habit, his friend nervously ran fingers through his hair before speaking. "Your father is one of the wealthy industrialists chosen by President Roosevelt for appointment to The Watch. He was appointed a couple of years ago when it looked like we'd be drawn into this conflict. The British were already reporting that spies had infiltrated the U.S."
Although the Deuce wielded the breadth of power to be among top decision makers, his dad had never breathed the name, The Watch. "His fingers are in a lot of pies."
"Your father was sworn to keep The Watch's existence a secret."
"He certainly kept it a secret from me."
"The only reason I can tell you about the committee is because this Operation Delphi facility is an extension of The Watch. As its head, you have need-to-know."
"Operation what?"
Trey's heart speeded up. Since Friday, he was part of a hush-hush project with a code name and he only learned about its composition a minute ago.
"Operation Delphi"
This was sounding less and less like something Trey would enjoy. "How does being under the White House instead of under the Navy Department change our status to super-secret?"
"The mission."
"We're to find spies based on Allied intelligence. What's so strange about that?"
Walt seemed nervous and delayed getting to the point.
"Well, spit it out. What has my old man gotten me into this time?" Trey heard the anger in his voice.
His friend unlocked his briefcase and started pulling out papers. "The White House created The Watch, and subsequently Operation Delphi, at the urging of Prime Minister Churchill. British spies report that Hitler has brought together an occult team to disrupt the Allied war effort through mind control."
Once more, the little hairs on the back of Trey's neck stood up. "Occult?"
"Psychics."
Trey's jaw dropped. "Surely the White House doesn't believe in that claptrap."
"The Joint U.S. and Allied Intelligence Project's task is to counteract the Nazi occult efforts no matter their personal opinions on the subject." Walt had disclosed the facts in his no-nonsense way, despite the unbelievability of the assignment.
Disbelief churned in Trey's gut. "They want me to get involved in witchery?"
"I argued against your appointment," Walt said. "As an engineer who has to measure everything, I thought you'd be miserable."
"You bet I will."
"Believe me, there were military officers evaluated for the operation with more experience than you, but the committee isn't looking to you to wage war. They want you to interview people who claim to be psychic and to test their abilities. If by any wild stretch of the imagination this stuff is real, you're to assemble a team. Then you're to figure out how to use their psychic ability to defend against occult attacks from Germany or to find our enemies — like today's saboteur."
Trey felt like he'd been kicked in the stomach by a mule. "A load of nonsense."
Walt sat on the office chair and leaned his elbows on the desk. "It's hard to swallow."
"That's like my telling my aide to go into a trance and write the saboteur's name on her shorthand pad. It isn't going to happen." Trey had been looking forward to using his engineering skills on the European or African fronts. His autocratic father pulled the rug out from under those plans to send him on a different path, and what a path!
"I know, I know. I have a hard time swallowing that one myself," Walt said.
"Dammit. It's insanity."
"Hunches are important for catching spies."
"You consider hunches psychic?" Trey asked.
Walt nodded. "This nebulous stuff about evil energies is another matter. No one in the White House will admit to believing in it, but they decided 'better safe than sorry'."
Trey kicked the leg of the desk, making Walt's papers jump. "Why me?"
"The committee wants Operation Delphi to run on a scientific footing."
"So get a physicist. Their heads are in the clouds. They should be able to find a psychic or two while they're up there."
Walt shook his head. "The committee wants someone practical to study the psychic results objectively, to analyze, evaluate and test Nazi claims against physical reality."
Trey saw the logic of that thinking. The committee couldn't use a psychic to analyze so-called psychic events. That required a skeptic, but did the operation require him?
"Why me?"
"Your father convinced The Watch you'd never be swayed from scientific reasoning by wizardry and claptrap."
Trey waggled his head, dejected. "I'm the wrong person for this."
"The Watch believes you're the right one."
"I'm an engineer. If I can't touch it, it's not there."
"Your nonbelief is precisely what The Watch wants, my friend."
Trey stayed silent for a couple minutes while he paced back and forth. He was being backed into a corner. Sweat rose on his forehead, defying the cold air. "What do they expect of me?"
"The Watch wants a practical, can-do leader, not someone with his head in the clouds."
"Practical, can-do. That's me."
"The rules of the game are in these papers." Walt tapped the stack.
Trey walked over to take a look.
"You'll need to convince the neighbors and those in the military you interact with, that yours is a normal, wartime facility with a mixture of military and civilian staff."
"Is that why you sent me to NAMU today? It seemed strange to investigate a well-established facility when I didn't even have my office set up yet."
"Yep. We're establishing a fake façade behind which the real work is done. The sabotage attempt was not part of our agenda."
Trey's frown spoke of his outrage. "I'll petition for another assignment."
"No can do, my friend. Your dad recommended you as someone with ethical standards and a seriousness for scientific method that could not be compromised. The Watch took months before deciding on you. Refuse this assignment and you've thrown away your future — whether military or industry."
"My dad can get me out of this."
"A month ago, yes. Not now when they've started implementing their plan."
Walt rose, clasped him on the shoulders and looked him in the eye. "Just the fact I'm briefing you puts you under surveillance for the remainder of the war. These are some of the most powerful men in America. They won't take kindly to having their decision thrown back in their faces."
His father probably put him on this ridiculous project to keep him safe from Axis bullets, but one misstep and a White House bullet would shoot down his future.
Despair churned in his gut. "I'm being set up to fail."
"Not really, old buddy. Debunking Nazi claims is in itself a success."
Trey kicked the desk again. "This claptrap will take resources away from the real war."
"What if the Nazi schemes have a basis in truth?"
"Everyone knows those people are fakes."
"Maybe, maybe not, old buddy. What if Hitler wins because he harnesses energies to make our men too sick to fight? Are you willing to take even the remotest chance?" Walt paused as if to allow time for his comment to sink in before adding, "The White House won't take that chance."
"I probably shouldn't be telling you this," Walt said as he started organizing papers from his briefcase, "but if it makes you feel any better, yours isn't the only operation The Watch is creating."
"So the whole weight of Hitler's defeat by psychic warfare won't be on my shoulders?" Trey knew he sounded like he had a bad taste in his mouth.
"Keep that to yourself, buddy. The Watch wants all findings separated. They don't want you to influence one another. And the fact there'll be psychics working in this facility stays here."
"As if I'd blab to anyone that I'm in charge of nut cases."
Trey's insides seemed reamed out, but somehow, he had to make a success of Operation Delphi. For the life of him, he couldn't figure out how a scientific mind like his would go about finding spies — let alone psychics.
His brain sorted through what he'd learned even while his ears picked up the clanking sounds of radiators heating up. Walt's driver had the furnace going. He walked over and twisted the radiator knob to "on." He threw back his shoulders. "I'll do my best. I'll give Operation Delphi a fair shake."
Walt looked as if the breath he'd been holding was gradually leaking out. "Your best is all we can ask for."
"I'll either debunk the idea or pull a team together."
"Your staff needs to stay in the dark until it's determined they have need-to-know."
"Oh, great, kick me some more, why don't you?" Trey's temper flared. "You're tying my hands."
"Can't be helped."
"That'll put a damper on doing the job."
"Not necessarily. You carried out your assignment this morning with the information the Navy gave you this weekend. That information wasn't the full picture."
"Sure, and a bomb went off."
"A hazard of war. I repeat: Operation Delphi's true mission must be kept from your staff until it's absolutely certain they need to know."
"What about my security detail?"
"Everyone. Need-to-know is only required when you start interacting with psychics."
Trey raged against the tying of his hands. "How am I supposed to find these psychics? I wouldn't know one if he were sitting in this room."
Walt tapped the stack of papers on the desk. "The Watch put together a list of potentials, old man. Names, addresses, phone numbers, if they have phones. The Watch also did preliminary work toward security clearances. The background checks are among these papers."
"So what am I supposed to do with this list?"
"Interview them, old buddy. Determine if their claims are true. Cull out the best of the lot to make your team."
Trey leaned against the edge of the desk and glanced down at the papers. He no longer had a desire to kick the desk nor even to rant and rave. Like it or not, Operation Delphi was his. The operation might be the biggest Washington boondoggle around, but he would do his best to get value out of it for the American taxpayer. He'd inherited a strong work ethic. Somehow he'd adapt that work ethic to this project. After all, everything operated under universal laws. If gravitational fields yielded to calculation, why not intuitional fields? He'd either measure psychic events or debunk them. "Who at naval headquarters knows the true mission?"
"Only Admiral Barber. He's the one who'll pass information back and forth to The Watch. Everything you do must be marked for his eyes only."
"What if I can't get in touch with him?"
Walt handed Trey a business card. "You phone me or your father. We report to Roosevelt's adviser, whose name you have no need-to-know."
"I'll contact you, not my father."
"We'll get furniture and supplies to you over the next few days. We have a detail on hand to change the locks tomorrow and get safes in here to store your documents."
"Do I have the budget for it?"
Walt nodded. "More than enough. The details are in these papers." He pointed to the briefcase.
"That's a relief."
"Keep these papers with you at all times, buddy, until you get a safe. Sleep with them."
"You're kidding, right?"
"Not in the least. We don't want any of this psychic stuff leaking out."
Trey grunted. "I should say not."
"It could make the White House a laughingstock."
"Wouldn't it."
"Not a whisper of the true mission can pass outside these walls."
Trey nodded, a scowl furrowing his eyebrows. Walt checked his wristwatch. "I need to get back to Washington."
Despite everything, Trey was glad to have seen his college friend. The ties of their college friendship still existed. "We'll definitely keep in touch this time."
His friend must've seen something in his face that made him edgy. "You all right, buddy?"
Trey threw back his shoulders and touched his slide rule as if it were a talisman. "Somehow I'll be all right."
— ♦ —
Photo provided courtesy of
JoAnn Smith Ainsworth
JoAnn Smith Ainsworth experienced food ration books, Victory Gardens and black-out sirens as a child in WWII. These memories help her create vivid descriptions of time and place, which put you in the middle of the story as a participant in a fast-paced journey through paranormal realms as U.S. psychics hunt down Nazi spies.
She has B.A. and M.A.T. degrees in English and has completed her M.B.A. studies. JoAnn currently lives in California.
For more information about the author, please visit her website at JoAnnSmithAinsworth.com or find her on Facebook and Twitter.
— ♦ —
Expect Trouble
JoAnn Smith Ainsworth
A Novel of Romantic Suspense
Opening herself to ridicule by revealing she's clairvoyant is the last thing U.S. WAVES Lieutenant Livvy Delacourt wants, but when Uncle Sam needs her skill to track Nazi spies, she jumps in with both feet.
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