THE LAST EAGLE

A novel of World War II

by Michael Wenberg

The only thing that really frightened me during the war was the U-boat peril.

—Winston Churchill

Człowiek człowiekowi wilkiem. (Man is man’s wolf.)

—Polish proverb

Dedication

This story is dedicated to the officers and crew of the World War II-era Polish submarine, ORP Orzel, and my own family members who fought and served this country bravely in times of war: Cuyler Wenberg, USMC; Allen R. Miller, US Navy; William “Uncle Bill” Pile, US Navy; William “Uncle Ernie” Frost, USAF; and David “Uncle Dave” Bowman, USAF.

Acknowledgements

Thanks to my beloved wife, Sandy, for putting up with my many hours in front of the keyboard and my obsession with telling stories.

I also want to thank David Barrett for that invitation years ago to spend the day on the USS Michigan (SSBN-727) beneath the waters of Hood Canal’s Dabob Bay.

I still owe you that beer, Dave.

Chapter One

They were almost finished when the man Albert Blum knew only as Tolefson had surprised his guide with something more than a grunt and a nod.

“She is a beauty,” he said as he pulled a silver flask from the pocket of his jacket, unscrewed the cap, and then took a swig. “Happy New Year!” he added. He didn’t bother to offer a drink to Blum.

It was January 1, 1939. Dawn was still hours away. Except for this pair, a watchman and his cat snoozing inside the coal-warmed guardhouse at the main gate, the De Schelde shipyards in the Dutch city of Vlissingen were deserted.

“One last look,” this Tolefson had insisted a few minutes earlier, stepping back out into the sleet before Blum had a chance to object, forcing him to follow onto the icy catwalk bolted to the side of the red brick office building, home to the shipyard’s directors and engineering staff.

Blum knew it was a mistake as soon as he stepped outside and his feet began to slide toward the edge. He grabbed the railing with both hands, stifling a gasp of terror as a gust swirling in off the distant harbor made the catwalk shiver like an old dog. He closed his eyes for a moment and fought back a rush of vertigo and an impulse to drop to his knees. He was tempted to scramble back inside where it was warm, dry and safe to wait for his guest, this Tolefson, or whatever the fool decided to call himself an hour from now. Not that the man would have noticed Blum’s absence. Or even cared what he did. After the first greeting a few hours earlier, he had barely even acknowledged his presence.

Arrogant bastard. Blum licked his lips and glared at his companion. He could use a drink. He suspected the man was enjoying his discomfort. There had to be more to it then just one last look. But Tolefson acted the part. Hands now pushed deeply into the pockets of his worn seaman’s coat, he was staring intently into the distance.

Blum released one hand, swiped at the soggy tip of his nose, jabbed his gold-framed glasses back into position and followed Tolefson’s gaze. What was it about ships that made some men stare at them with such lust? He had always wondered. Blum wasn’t even particularly fond of the sea, so its more romantic aspects he had never understood.

A ship was just a ship, he was fond of saying to his wife. And De Schelde had been churning them out for nearly three centuries. Blum’s father and grandfather had spent their careers at De Schelde. Blum had already put in twenty years. Ten more behind a De Schelde desk, and he could retire. Ships were nothing to get excited about, nothing at all.

And yet, he had to admit the object of Tolefson’s admiration was no ordinary ship. From this distance, she looked like any submarine. But looks were deceiving. She was, in fact, one of the most advanced submarines in the world. At nearly 85 meters in length, her unique double-hull design was the wave of the future. Every major submarine manufacturer in the world had double-hulled submarines on the drawing boards or already under construction. Powered by twin Sulzer six-cylinder diesel engines, she could knife through even the roughest seas at speeds exceeding 20 knots. Underwater, batteries provided enough current to keep her electric motors running for hours, long enough to take her far away from any harm. When she found a target, she could surface in seconds, sending high-explosive-tipped torpedoes racing toward her victims. In short, she was more than a match for any vessel, deadly even to the immense battleships of the British Navy, or her more likely foe, the Germans.

Blum had heard rumors that the Germans were building an immense battleship of their own. A De Schelde–built, Orzel class submarine versus the best of the Kriegsmarine. Stealth versus brute strength. It would be a classic battle that he would love to see from a safe distance.

Blum wondered if the taciturn Tolefson would offer another observation; perhaps make up for the insult by congratulating him on the submarine’s fine workmanship. Just twenty minutes earlier, they had finished a close-up look at the submarine. Even then Tolefson had been maddening, taking his time, opening every hatch, checking valves and fittings, tapping on pipes with his knuckles, as if he could detect some flaw where teams of inspectors had not. But he remained silent, and so Blum decided to brave an observation of his own. “And yet such a waste,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

Blum jerked with surprise. “Isn’t it obvious?’ he stammered, leaning against the solid mass of the building for reassurance.

“Humor me,” Tolefson said, glancing over his shoulder at Blum as if seeing him for the first time.

“The Polish Navy, for God’s sake.” Blum retorted with the snort of a professional know-it-all, noticing how the cold made the old scar that curved from Tolefson’s chin to ear stand out like a chalk line on a blackboard. He had wondered about the scar when they met. But sensing that the exotic tale of its origin would only highlight the inadequacy of his own life, he had kept quiet. He was tempted to ask him about it now, but instead, waved his frozen hands dismissively. “They are better suited to fishing scows than one of the finest submarines in the world,” he continued. “And Eagle? A name for a thing of the air, not for a creature of the sea. She won’t be appreciated and used in the way that she might in, well, other organizations. You’ve just had a chance to see first hand what a fine vessel she is. Sound as a Swiss-made watch. Turning it over to the Poles is a bloody shame, if you ask me. That’s all I meant!” He punctuated his last words with a knowing wink.

Tolefson lit a cigarette with practiced movements, cupping the lighter flame with his hand, standing as comfortably on the slick catwalk as if he was waiting for a bus. He exhaled smoke through his nose. “"Yes, I suppose that explains it. Though I don’t think you’re right about her name. A bird of prey suits her.” He closed his bullet-colored lighter with a click, slipped it back into the pocket of his overcoat. “Are you a sailor, Assistant Director Blum?”

“What does that—” Blum began to retort before habit took over. “Of course I love the sea,” he said evenly, “but my business responsibilities leave little time for such, uh, leisure pursuits.”

“I see…” Tolefson didn’t bother to hide a faint smile as he let his words trail off. He continued smoking, watching the mist, blown in from the North Sea, begin to soften the monstrous skeletons of half-finished ships that gave the shipyards its nighttime form and texture.

Prick. With a sudden twist of his soft, flour-colored face, Blum decided they weren’t paying him enough. He’d agreed to provide information about ships under construction at De Schelde to a man who said he was an investment researcher for a bank in exchange for discreet payments on a regular basis into Blum’s Swiss bank account. Despite the money, Blum was the one taking all of the risks. And now he was subjected to personal insults? Maybe it was time to consider other offers. There was plenty of interest in what was happening at De Schelde. Besides, who did this Tolefson think he was dealing with? Blum was no low-level functionary. He was an assistant director at one of the world’s leading shipbuilders.

Blum calmed himself with three deep breaths and then watched with relief as Tolefson finished his cigarette and flicked the butt into the darkness. At last. Blum watched the tip flare bright red as it arced graceful as a cliff diver toward the ground below.

“Ah, something for you,” Tolefson said, touching his forehead like a forgetful uncle. At first Blum though he was going to offer him a drink from his sliver flask. Instead, he held out a plain, unmarked envelope.

Blum took it with both hands, turned it over, a puzzled look on his face.

Tolefson shrugged. “Perhaps a bonus for taking such good care of me tonight,” he said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in his voice.

“You think so?” The right amount might help him forgive all the earlier slights and inconveniences.

“Save it for later,” Tolefson ordered before Blum had a chance to tear open the envelope.

Blum felt a flutter of unease. Was he that transparent? “Yes, of course,” he said, clearing his throat. He glanced at his pocket watch. “We really should be going. It would be awkward for me if we are discovered.”

Tolefson didn’t move. “How high are we?” he said, gesturing in the direction of his just departed cigarette.

“Sorry?”

“How high?”

”How should I know,” Blum snapped, finally deciding at that moment that whatever bonus money was in the envelope, it didn’t compensate for this kind of aggravation. He was tired of this man’s games, observations, and silly questions, and so cold his balls ached. “Fifteen meters. Twenty perhaps. Why do you ask?”

Tolefson shrugged. “I can still see the glow from my cigarette below. It doesn’t seem that high.”

Blum gave an exasperated snort and slid forward to look for himself, angry enough to ignore his fear of heights, ready to set him right and then be done with him.

As Blum drew close to the railing, Tolefson pivoted quickly, shoved him forward with his left hand, grabbed him by the back of his trousers with his right, and lifted him into the air.

Blum shrieked as he flipped over the fulcrum of the railing, arms flailing wildly. As he began to fall, he realized with sudden clarity that he had been a greedy fool all along and was now about to die for it.

Tolefson took his time lighting another cigarette. He peered over the edge. Blum was lying chest-down, his right arm bent awkwardly at the elbow. A broken neck had allowed his head to twist around nearly 180 degrees. He gazed up at his killer with the look of a surprised owl, his pale blonde hair glowing faintly in the dark. Tolefson was no longer surprised when he came across a Jew with blonde hair. He finished his cigarette, letting the cold night air and the smoke wash away the distaste of what he had just done.

Someone would notice the body in a few hours. They would find the suicide note inside a plain white envelope in his coat pocket. It would explain everything. Money troubles. Women troubles. A man of weak character. No one had particularly liked Blum anyway. The investigation would take just a day or two, and then it all would be forgotten. No one had seen the pair enter the shipyards together. No one would see Tolefson leave.

Tolefson had nothing against the Jews. And just being a Jew was no reason for Blum to be killed. Greedy, however, that was another matter. And, of course, being greedy was just like a Jew. It was the kind of inane logic that convinced so many that Goebbels, the Nazi propaganda minister, was right after all. He had almost turned down the Gestapo’s orders, despite the risk to his career. He was not afraid of killing in the line of duty, but he was no murderer. He was a soldier. The Gestapo officer must have sensed his conflict. That’s when he had told him about Blum’s contact with the British. “He was already working for us,” he said as if commenting on the indiscretions of a club member. “We just can’t allow that kind of thing.”

“I suppose not,” he said now, his words sounding hollow in the cold night air. He lingered for another moment longer, staring hard at the Polish submarine visible under distant lights, strangely reluctant to leave.

Earlier, he had walked the Eagle’s decks with Blum trailing behind like a lost dog, inspecting every pipe, locker and fitting. He was surprised by how familiar and comfortable it all seemed.

Of course, the Eagle was nothing like the submarines he had served on in World War I, or even the more updated version he had captained before assuming his current post. She was faster and more lethal than any submarine in the world. There was something right about this ship. He had sensed it as soon as he stepped onto her deck. That’s when he began to envy the man who would soon be her captain. Lucky Polish bastard.

What was it Blum had said? “A shame,” no, “a bloody shame.” Those had been his words.

The fool was right about one thing. It was a shame. When war began, she would be an early target. If the Luftwaffe didn’t sink her, the Kriegsmarine would hunt her down and blow her out of the water. A vessel as fine as the Eagle deserved better, but her fate was all but sealed. Tolefson flicked his cigarette into the night, glanced one last time at the Eagle and smiled at a sudden thought.

Or was it?

Chapter Two

Karl Dönitz, chief of the German Navy’s U-boat operations—U-Bootwaffe—stared out the window of his top-floor office, across the broad boulevard choked with traffic, to the park beyond. In recent years, it had bustled with constant activity. Old men playing chess, young lovers strolling along the sidewalks and paths, children kicking soccer balls, playing hide and seek, or running for the sheer joy of it beneath the hawk-eyed gazes of their keepers. And for the hungry, there was the ever-present bratwurst cart, gleaming red in the sunshine like a circus wagon.

Dönitz smiled to himself at the thought of the cart’s crafty, one-armed owner. Did anyone else ever notice? He was always stationed upwind, making sure the tantalizing perfume of his sizzling brats didn’t miss a nose, working on the subconscious of the unwitting like a gastronomical Pied Piper.

His name was Friedrich Pfundt. He’d introduced himself without apology months earlier, when Dönitz’s rumbling stomach had led him across the street and the admiral decided to stretch his legs and go himself instead of sending one of his aides on the errand for him.

“Will there be war, Admiral, sir?” he had asked, recognizing Dönitz’s face from his frequent photograph in the newspaper. He deftly slapped chunks of sausage on a paper plate, adding dabs of hot mustard and horseradish, and then holding it out for him to take.

Dönitz picked up a piece of bratwurst with his fingers, eyeing the man as he considered his response. One-armed vet, not even bothering to pin up the sleeve of his yellowed shirt, letting it flap at his side like an appendage with a mind of its own. Black, shapeless pants and sturdy work boots finished a costume that was topped off by a sunburned face that looked as if it had once been crumpled in anger like a sheet of paper.

More than likely he was just a sausage vendor. But he had been fooled before. Nowadays, anyone could be Gestapo.

“Goddamn right there’ll be war,” Pfundt answered for him, following his words up with a cackle of glee. “About goddamn time, too. I’d go again if they’d take me—”

“You have already given more than enough to the Fatherland.” The admiral wiped mustard from his lips, slipped another hunk of sausage into his mouth and began to chew.

Pfundt shrugged as if it was nothing. “I left my goddamn arm hanging from a smoking snag in the Ardennes. But at least it wasn’t something more important, if you know what I mean.” He wagged an uncooked brat near his crotch for emphasis, and then cackled again, startling crows in a nearby oak. “I can still fight. Best damn one-armed shot in all of Germany. If you ask me, we should sit tight, act nicely nice, take care of what we’ve got, maybe get the Yanks and the Brits on our side, and then we strike when they least expect it.”

“I’ll pass that along to my superiors,” Dönitz said, dryly. “How many children?”

“Seven. Five boys, two girls.”

“I’m sure you’re proud.”

“Goddamn right,” Pfundt said fiercely.

“As you should be,” the admiral said, smiling for the first time as he finished his last bite, and dropped his plate into a battered trash. “Thank you for the snack, Herr Pfundt, and the advice.” He gave the man a crisp salute before pivoting away.

Dönitz would have liked to talk to Pfundt again. Today in particular. But Pfundt was nowhere to be seen, the park deserted, a chill Siberian wind convincing even the desperate to stay inside. Blowing steadily since the night before, it was driving horizontal sheets of rain through trees stripped naked months earlier. And too soon it would be dark again.

The radiator in the corner of Dönitz’s office creaked and grumbled, struggling to keep the cold at bay. He knew his staff called his office the refrigerator, as much for his icy personality as the chronic inadequacy of the building’s heating system. He didn’t mind. Icy matched his mood, particularly on this late Thursday afternoon the second week of January 1939.

He should have been elated. The previous day he had been promoted to rear admiral —Konteradmiral —a fitting exclamation point to a career began when he stepped aboard that cramped, dank German submarine twenty-five years earlier and had a sudden premonition of its potential in the art of war making.

Yes, indeed, the newly christened rear admiral mused. He should have been elated. But numbers did not lie. With enough U-boats, he could starve and freeze England into submission and Germany would surely triumph. Without them?…

Of course, he had argued for delay until the end, risking even Hitler’s wrath in his persistence. He had sixty submarines, he pointed out. He needed three hundred.

At their last meeting, Hitler had slammed his open palm on the table, ending Dönitz’s criticism once and for all. “Enough and enough,” he said, spit flying from his mouth. “You will just have to make do with what you have. If not, I will find someone who is.”

Dönitz locked eyes with the most dangerous man on the planet, his stomach tight as a fist. Logic was on his side. And yet, logic didn’t matter with this man. “You will hear no more of it, mein Führer,” he submitted after a moment. And may God have mercy on us all.

Hitler had appraised Dönitz shrewdly, and then smiled forgiveness. “That’s a good boy, Karl.”

It might have gone differently if not for Göring, Dönitz thought coldly. Hitler had chosen to listen to his self-promoting boasts and wishful thinking.

“My pilots are ready for the sacrifice to come,” the corpulent head of the German Luftwaffe reminded everyone earlier in the meeting, glancing briefly at Dönitz as he spoke.

His argument was clear to all. Why wait for more U-boats? Now was the year to strike, not 1941 or ’42. The Luftwaffe by itself would be enough to bomb the French, English and anyone else who stood in the way into capitulation.

Dönitz lit a cigarette—an American Camel cigarette, he was sure the Gestapo had noted somewhere in his files—and watched the wind swirl through the park, the stark gray trees shivering as it passed. Snow by nightfall. Weather forecasters said otherwise, but he trusted his nose and his aching right knee more than those pseudo-scientists. It smelled like snow, the air bitter. His knee agreed. And so, it would snow.

It reminded him of his promise to take his granddaughter for a walk that evening. She loved to chase snowflakes across the wide lawns at his estate on the outskirts of Berlin. It was the same every year. It could not be truly winter until they each had caught a snowflake on the tip of their tongue.

“It is a tradition!” she scolded just that morning, standing before him in her pajamas, stuffed bear under one arm. “Today is the day. Baby Bear told me. And you must catch at least one, Grandpapa,” she said, reminding him of the rules, as if nature herself needed the permission of a rear admiral, and, more importantly, a little girl, before it could continue on

Dönitz heard the step outside of his door just before the knock. He pinched the bridge of his nose, dismissing the memories. “Enter.”

A slick-haired aide stuck his head into his office. “Sir. Excuse my interruption.”

“What is it?” There was a practiced edge to his voice.

“The report you were waiting for.”

Dönitz gestured with his hand. The aide scurried across the room, laid the folder on the admiral’s desk, and then retraced his route. Dönitz let the door close, opened the folder and began reading.

It was dark outside when he finished. He closed the folder. Maybe this was a small part of the answer? It was a crazy, audacious plan. And if anyone could pull it off it was Peter von Ritter, the plan’s author. It would require good men in the right places to take advantage of every opportunity. But it might work. If they could seize just one of Poland’s Dutch-built submarines, it would increase Germany’s long-range U-boat fleet by 20 percent.

Of course, it was hard to imagine how one more submarine would make much difference in the upcoming conflict. And yet, Dönitz was enough of a student of history to realize that the fate of wars had turned on much less. And the submarine the Dutch had built for the Poles was the best in the world. It would be another six months before Germany had anything close to its capabilities.

In any case, Hitler’s mind was set and Dönitz would have to play the game as best he could with the cards he had in hand: five German long range submarines, a fistful of others and if they were lucky, a Polish wildcard thrown in to the mix.

He gave one last glance out the window then stood, stretching stiffness from his aching back. He slipped the folder into a well-traveled attaché case, a gift from his father on his eighteenth birthday, shrugged into a leather overcoat, slowly pulled on his gloves, and then put on his cap. He stared at his visage for a moment in the mirror by the door. Hawkish nose. Strong chin. Perfectly composed. Stern but not haughty. A man completely in control. “Never let them hear you fart,” his first captain was fond of quoting. “And if you do, make sure they think it stinks like French perfume or are too afraid to say otherwise.” It was one of the best pieces of advice he ever received from the man.

Dönitz grasped the doorknob and hesitated. Best to keep the plan quiet. For now. But he would make sure Ritter’s team was in place with plenty of time to spare just in case Hitler changed his mind once again and decided to attack even earlier.

In the meantime, he had more important matters to attend: an urgent appointment at home chasing snowflakes with his granddaughter. Truth be told, he regretted disappointing her above all. Perhaps this year, he would catch more than one.

Chapter Three

Nearly nine months after his plan had been dropped on the desk of Rear Admiral Karl Dönitz, Peter von Ritter moved steadily up the rain-slick dirt path that snaked its way beneath the thick canopy of trees in the woodland above the Polish port city of Gdynia.

The clouds on the western horizon were ablaze, as if the sun, fleeing in the face of yet another defeat, had chosen to ignite them instead of surrendering. The flare of orange and red that leaked through the shadows above revealed the sharp planes of the man’s face, thin lips and white dueling scar that curled as if drawn by the caress of a beautiful woman from the edge of his eye to the tip of chin. He was dressed in the clothes of an outdoorsman: fine wool pants and Norwegian wool sweater. On his feet were the kind of leather hiking boots you might find a man of leisure and wealth wearing on holiday in the Swiss Alps.

Though aspects of Ritter’s plan had changed over the months, its main objective had always remained the same: Ritter and his men were going to take the Eagle from the Poles—steal her. And if they couldn’t have her, no one would.

Ritter had vowed to himself that it wouldn’t come to that.

Breathing easily through his nose, he scrambled up a steep embankment. All his years at sea had failed to completely disguise the sure steps of an experienced woodsman.

The evening air was sharp with the smell of decaying leaves and burning coal from the nearby town. The scent reminded him of the small Prussian village his family had called home for nearly over five hundred years.

He wondered what would become of it. It had survived countless invaders: Swede. French. German. Russian. The walls of the family castle were dominated with the brooding portraits of his ancestors—warriors all—while the outside still bore the scars of time and weather, cannon balls and bullets.

And now it was his turn. A new war was about to begin. Or, as his crippled father, the ex–general, would snort with derision, his voice thickened with brandy and regret: “It won’t be new. Just a continuation of the Kaiser’s last bollix.”

Ritter glanced at his Rolex. A few more hours.

The telegram awaiting him in his room earlier had been innocuous enough: “Baby and I are fine. Hope you are having a good time. We miss you. Love, Greta.” Once decoded, it relayed the message he had been waiting for. Tomorrow, the war and his part in it, would begin.

He quickened his pace, feeling the steady thump in his chest, his legs burning. Though he looked younger, he was approaching thirty-five. His close-cropped blond hair was already beginning to whiten at the temples. No longer a young man. And yet, he refused to slow down, refused to yield to weakness and age.

Of course, he was not senior enough to be privy to the overall German plans, just his small, unimportant piece of the conflict. But that had been augmented with occasional comments and knowing laughter from friends in places and positions to know.

He didn’t need their help or the skills of a fortune-teller to imagine how it would begin. A trumped-up provocation on the frontier. Some poor son-of-a-bitch of a Polish commander, his troops suddenly under fire, wondering why hell itself has been revealed, trying to raise his superiors, lamely explaining that he had done nothing to provoke the massive German response. And then the wire would go dead, the commander and his men soon to follow.

That lucky fool corporal. Over the years, Ritter had watched with amazement as no one had called his bluff. Oh, they had blustered and barked, like poodles in the arms of their masters. He had continued to take, and take again. The German High Command, waiting for a response, an excuse to get rid of him and step into power, and yet hoping beyond hope that he would not be stopped. Who could have imagined that none would strike back? And now he was untouchable, and they were stuck with him whatever the end might bring.

Ritter slipped on a patch of exposed clay, his knee striking hard against a rock. He gasped from the pain, but pulled himself up and continued on, barely limping though his leg was numb. In some strange way, he was glad for the pain and what it told him. He was alive.

That wise old bulldog, Churchill, Ritter thought, knew what was to come. And yet, he had been discarded by the English like an old can of peas.

What had Dönitz said? Churchill was off painting landscapes? How British of him. He probably wrote poetry, as well, and ate dainty little cakes while sipping tea with his pinky raised like a surrender flag in the air. Members of the British aristocracy were not known for their masculine vigor. What little they had came from mating with vigorous German royalty the previous century.

Despite his infatuation with watercolors, Churchill was not so distracted that he hadn’t warned of the coming whirlwind or recognized the primal roar of the German people in the background of Hitler’s speeches for what it was. But no one had listened to him. He was alone. The English preferred the soothing words of Chamberlain.

The French were even more foolish. It was understandable. They had left 1.5 million of their best men on the shattered battlefields of France twenty years earlier. The idea of another war was too soon, nightmares and memories still too fresh in so many minds. Ritter was confident that when confronted by the combined might of the German Wehrmacht, Luftwaffe and Kriegsmarine, their resolve would vanish like smoke before a Teutonic gale.

As the trail crested a final rise, Ritter began to jog, the pain in his knee finally subsiding. He hurried along the trail as it headed toward his destination, anxious now to get to the prow of land that gave a panoramic view of the city and the harbor.

He stepped out onto a huge rock discarded by a receding glacier 12,000 years earlier, and looked out. Below him, the lights of Gdynia twinkled in the dusk. A dozen ships hung on their anchors in the harbor. Assorted freighters and fishing boats, mostly. The Baltic beyond lay black and quiet and smooth, a mist already beginning to erase the horizon. Closer in, however, huddled next to the quay, was a Polish submarine.

He had wanted one last look, remembering the De Schelde shipyards and the first time he had gazed at the Eagle, remembering how it felt.

Early tomorrow, hundreds of kilometers to the west, the dying would begin, but if luck held, he and his men would soon be in possession of what he and Admiral Dönitz desired most.

After he seized command, his first order as her new captain would be to replace the Polish flag flying above her bridge with one bearing the German swastika. Eagle, however, she would remain.

Chapter Four

“It’s not fair,” Sublieutenant Eryk Pertek of the Polish Navy’s submarine Eagle said pointedly, slapping the scarred tabletop for emphasis.

His boss, Lieutenant Commander Stefan Petrofski, scratched the side of his beard and shrugged in the direction of his navigator and friend. As second in command of the Eagle, he knew he shouldn’t have another beer. In addition to Pertek, there were a dozen other members of the Eagle’s crew scattered throughout the pub. Part of Stefan’s job as a Polish naval officer was to be a good example to his men. And that meant staying reasonably sober when he was out in public. Tonight, he didn’t care. He drained his mug, and then roared “Beer!” in a voice that demanded obedience.

His shout was like a slap on the bottom of the plump waitress behind the bar. She filled another mug to overflowing and began waddling in their direction, not bothering to stop and apologize to the customers she wet with spilled beer along the way.

Stefan admired the way she wove between the tables like a skilled soccer player on the attack, avoiding slaps and pinches, twisting away from grabs and caresses, using a combination of bluster and sweetness to get her message across: look, but don’t touch. There was enough to enjoy, particularly in the bounce of her ample breasts.

A few years earlier he might have made a try for her. Flirting was a holy obligation of every sailor. If he put his mind to it, he might have succeeded in convincing her that he was more than a worn-out sailor. He knew from experience that a smile transformed his bearded, sea-weathered face into something that some women found appealing or, at least, sympathetic. But tonight was not the night. So instead, he said “Tthank you” when she slammed his beer on the table, pushing a bill in her direction that more than covered the price of a dozen.

“Too much,” she protested, glaring at him with suspicion, brushing aside a dark wet strand plastered to her forehead.

“I expect nothing but a smile in return. Honest.”

A wink coaxed a harried smile to her face followed by a throaty and giggle of appreciation she couldn’t restrain. “I suppose I could use some new silk stockings.”

“And so!” Stefan exclaimed. “Another fair maiden pulled away from abyss. New stockings it is.”

A shout from the bar pulled her eyes away. She slipped the bill into her blouse, nodded her thanks, and then braved another passage across the crowded pub.

Stefan watched her leave, shaking his head regretfully. “It is done, Pablo,” he said, using his friend’s nickname and pausing to half-drain the glass. “Once I get the boat squared away for our new captain, I’ll be reassigned or booted out on my ass. He’ll want someone of his own. And so, I follow orders. That is the way it is.”

Of course, it wasn’t that simple. Stefan knew it, and so did Eryk. No one loved submarines more than Stefan. While other officers went out of their way to avoid service aboard these dank, moldy, sour-smelling, leaking cylinders of steel, Stefan had done just the opposite. As a result, he had more firsthand knowledge of submarines than anyone in the Polish Navy. It was all the other aspects of being an officer in the Polish Navy that he didn’t handle so well.

“But not in America,” Pertek said, leaning over his mug and pointing his thumb at a couple sitting quietly at a table in the far corner.

At first glance, they looked English—their clothes had probably been picked up during a stopover in London—but, of course, everyone in the pub knew they were Americans all the way from New York City. At the moment, the only makeup the woman wore was a faint, amused smile. She had pushed away her plate of pork chops and steamed cabbage, but her hands kept returning to it as if they needed something to keep them out of trouble. The man was already working steadily, head down, on a second helping, pausing every now and then to tip back his head and take a swallow or two of beer before resuming.

Rumors had them from Hollywood, but the owner of the hotel where they were staying had set everyone in the dockside pub straight the night before. Hollywood? No. She was a foreign correspondent for an American newspaper syndicate, traveling around the country, doing a series of articles about Polish poets and artists. He was her photographer. No more, no less.

Definitely not less, Stefan thought, eyeing the woman. Not the most beautiful he had ever seen, but there was something about the way she looked that he found intriguing. Perhaps it was her nose. Once broken, it had been set improperly. On anyone else it would have been a distraction, but on her, this imperfection only seemed to enhance her beauty.

He watched her scan the room, stopping for a moment when their eyes met. Did her smile brighten, perhaps recognizing in him someone like herself? And then she was distracted by a comment from her companion. She tossed back her thick red hair and laughed. Stefan wondered what made a sophisticated woman like that laugh. A subtle joke? A cynical comment? Surely not anything a rough seaman could ever say or do.

“I tell you that two men like you and me could go far in the American Navy,” Pertek continued. “Over there, what counts is what is in here and here,” he pointed at his head, and his heart, “and not who your father or grandfather happens to be.”

Stefan clenched his fists, feeling his fingernails bite into his palms. Don’t be fooled, my young friend, he thought. Those count, too. Even in America. It didn’t help that Pertek’s older brother had been sending letters from Chicago for six months, tormenting him with tales of abundance and promise. If only half of them were true, anyone over sixteen and younger than sixty was a fool to remain a moment longer in Poland.

Especially with the threat of war.

But Stefan knew they were not entirely true. As a younger man, he had visited ports around the globe, including those along the American west and east coasts. His first visit to New York had been a wonder. The graceful lady towering above the harbor. The Empire State Building. Stefan had spent so much time looking up in the air, his neck had ached for a week. Two hours sitting on a bench in front of the Macy’s department store had sobered his opinion about America. Not everyone in New York was rich, Stefan realized, as he had watched the crowds surge past him. In fact, most of them didn’t look any better off than he. And a few older crones looked exactly like the old women that populated every small village in Poland, backs twisted into pretzel shapes by endless years of stooping and hauling.

As for the occasional rich person who passed by, they looked suspiciously like the aristocracy of his own land. The same shimmer in their eye, the arrogant cock to their smooth chins. They may not have the title or the family history, but they had everything else. Class distinctions were as prevalent in America as anywhere else, Stefan suspected. They were just better disguised in the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Stefan finished the beer, suppressed a belch. “I am a Polish sailor,” he said, more to himself than to his young friend across the table. “That is who I am. That is how I will die.”

Pertek shook his head with exasperation. It was no use arguing. He’d seen that glint in Stefan’s eyes before. It was time to change the subject. He brushed his hand through thick, curly black hair that was the envy of many women. “And so, will it be war?” he asked, persistent as a child.

“I am only second in command,” Stefan said with a harsh laugh, the bite to his words revealing the sting he still felt from once again being denied command of not just any ship, but a vessel he had dreamed about his entire career. “What do I know about such things? Best to ring up that shit Hitler and ask yourself.”

“I mean it,” Pertek insisted, grasping his older friend by the arm. “What do you think?”

Perhaps it was the beer that was made this night different. Or perhaps it was something else? Sailors were nothing if not superstitious. His shoulder had been aching since that morning. It hadn’t bothered him years. Why had it chosen today to awaken? “You know, there’s this wonderful invention,” he said. “More powerful than any crystal ball, it provides the key to many secrets. It even tells me what Hitler will do next. I’ve tried to convince our fearless leaders of its importance, show them its secrets, but they…” Stefan shrugged.

“What is it?” Pertek knew he was being suckered, but he couldn’t help it.

“Reading. Pick up a newspaper or book now and then and you might not be so ignorant about the intentions of Mr. Herr Heil Hitler.”

“Come on, Stef,” Pertek said impatiently.

Stefan sighed. “It is only a question of when, not if. And very soon, if my shoulder has anything to say about it.”

“Shoulder? What about reading?”

“Oh, yeah. That too.” Stefan winked. He pulled the brim of his cap down low, stood suddenly, sending his chair tumbling to the floor. “I will sleep on board the Eagle tonight,” he announced.

He pushed off across the room, unsteady at first, and then gaining steam, heads turning here and there as shipmates followed his progress. They turned to Pertek to see if they should follow. He shook his head, raised a hand for them to stay put. Even drunk, Lieutenant Commander Stefan Petrofski was in no danger from anyone he might encounter on the docks. A stocky six-footer, he was equipped with a pair of bricklike fists and well skilled in their many uses. In fact, Pertek almost wished a thug or two would attack his friend on his way back to the boat. It might improve his mood. It couldn’t make it any worse.

It was common knowledge that Stefan was his own worst enemy. He had little patience for the subtle political game playing that was required in order to rise to the higher ranks. All of that could be overlooked if you happened to be the son of the vice chairman in charge of this or that, or the grandson of a grand duke. But Stefan had neither of these advantages. If he were not the best submariner in the Polish Navy, he would have been court–martialed, or worse, long ago. Fortunately, the staff at Polish Navy Headquarters were not that stupid. For now, they needed Stefan’s experience on the Eagle.

Ever since they had taken delivery of the boat from its Dutch builders, it had been hampered by a series of problems. First the torpedo tubes, then the engines, then the ballast tanks, and now hydraulics. They had finally brought in Stefan. No one in the fleet was better with submarines, with any ship for the matter.

As for the Eagle’s captain, the pull of his family name had put him at the helm. In Poland, that was enough. And once Stefan had trained the crew, including the captain, solved her nagging mechanical problems, he would be in the way. There were rumors that a desk job was waiting for him. For a man like Stefan, that would be the equivalent of a death sentence, and perhaps that was part of the plan.

Pertek leaned his chair against the back wall, signaled for another beer. No sense letting Stefan’s mood and his certainty about the war to come ruin the entire evening. And besides, he had just received another letter from his brother in Chicago.

When the waitress cruised by with his beer, he grabbed her by the waist, pulled her onto his lap. “Let me tell you about my brother in Chicago, America,” he cooed.

At a nearby table, Peter von Ritter watched the Eagle’s second-in-command leave the pub. An unhappy man. That was clear enough. But no fool. That was also clear. They would need to be careful around him or find a way to get him out of the way. If that meant killing him, so be it.

He looked at his wristwatch. His men were late. He had been sipping from the same beer for an hour. In the crowded, smoke-filled pub, no one had noticed except for the waitress. He had waved her off twice. After that, she quit bothering him.

He raised his hand as two men in dark wool jackets and knit caps pushed through the door. About time. The sudden pulse of fresh air dropped the temperature and momentarily cleared the air. Conversations paused as the pair were quickly appraised and then recognized: the Dutch engineers working on the Eagle. They had been regular visitors to the pub since their arrival in town, weeks earlier. Nothing special about them. They kept to themselves. The noise returned to its normal, ear-throbbing level.

The two men spotted Ritter, crossed the room to join him. When beers arrived on the table a moment later, they made no move to drink them. Ritter, however, took a long draught, and then wiped the foam from his mouth. “I hate warm beer,” he said softly in German.

The two men looked at each other with puzzled expressions.

Ritter knew what they were thinking and couldn’t hold back a laugh. No, he wanted to tell them, this wasn’t a new code. They hadn’t been missed. There had been no mistake. He lightly touched the scar on his face with his index finger and then gave them the command words they had been waiting to hear: “We go with God.”

Broad smiles. They reached for their beers, raised them in a toast.

“To a swift victory,” Ritter said.

The three clinked mugs. Ritter took another long drink, he frowned and swallowed with difficultly. “Still don’t like warm beer,” he said, slamming down his mug, motioning for another. Across the room, the waitress caught his gesture, raised her eyebrows with surprise. Ritter nodded confirmation.

The American woman with the broken nose had been watching the newcomers with casual interest, noticing the instant change in their expressions as the man with the scar mouthed some words. She was too far away to hear anything. Even so, she felt a stir of excitement. The reporter in her recognized the hint of a story in the sudden set in their jaws, the narrowing of their eyes. Hunters. The word came unbidden to her mind.

She watched as the trio finished their beers, ordered again and then finished those. Twenty minutes later, the newcomers rose, brief nods enough of a goodbye to their leader. Yes, thought Kate, he was their leader. You could see it in the way the men had watched him, the posture of their bodies, the faint expressions that flickered across their faces. And now the man with the scar was alone once again. She noticed the faint smile on his face, realizing that he was now watching her. He tipped his beer mug in salute, drank deeply, and then rose to follow his companions out the door.

“And what is your story, you ugly, well dressed bastard?” Kate McLendon said to herself, as she watched him step through the doors and out into the night.

“What’s that?” the man at her left elbow asked, stubbing out his cigarette in the remnants of dinner.

“Oh nothing,” Kate said.

“Say again, dear? It is just so bloody noisy in here, someone could yell ‘fire’ and no one would pay the slightest bit of attention.”

“Doesn’t matter. Be a sport and walk me back to the hotel?” she yelled.

“You’ve never needed any help before.”

“No, I mean it, Reggie,” she said, grabbing his sleeve, surprised by a sudden shiver. “I think I’m coming down with something.”

“Me, I hope.”

“Not if you were the last…”

“All right, all right,” Reggie interrupted, helping Kate slip into her coat, and then pulling on his own.

As they left the pub, Kate couldn’t help wondering about the man with the scar. “Creepy,” she said softly.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” Kate shivered again. As they stepped out the door, she glanced at her watch. Already one o’clock.

That made it the first day of September, 1939.

Chapter Five

“Halt, who goes there?”

“Adolf Fucking Hitler,” Stefan grumbled sourly, stepping out of the shadows and pausing in front of the boy guarding the end of the gangplank. The walk from the pub back to the quay where the Eagle was docked had taken fifteen minutes. His only entertainment along the way had been pausing to watch a pair of rats dig through the contents of an overturned garbage barrel. It wasn’t enough to keep his thoughts from taking their usual turn of late, wondering how he could stomach another day of reporting to his current captain without punching him in the face, berating himself for drinking too much (realizing, of course, that the two were most likely linked) and then drifting off to something more pleasant, trying to find the perfect name for the red–haired American woman with the broken nose. He had come up empty and doubted he would ever get the chance to ask her himself.

“Oh, it’s you, sir,” the seaman replied with relief.

Stefan gingerly pushed aside the barrel of the Mauser knock-off that was pointing at the middle of his chest. “Yes, it’s me. No boogeyman or German. You can relax. What’s your name?”

“Henryk Stachofski, sir.”

Stefan looked the young man—really no more than a boy—up and down. “You like submarines?”

A shrug. “It isn’t a chicken coop,” he said, adding the word, “sir,” after moment.

Stefan smiled. All it had taken was an honest comment from this boy to flip his mood to the better. “For me, it was a fishing boat. Not sure which stinks worse. I was about your age when I joined up. Something to be said for change, eh?”

The boy nodded.

Well, Stachofski. I’m going to do you a favor. You’re on watch until when?”

“Six.”

“Oh-six-hundred you mean.”

The young seaman sputtered. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. Always have trouble with that.”

Stefan held up his hand. “Don’t spoil it or I may change my mind. Here’s the favor. Go crawl into your warm bunk with a teddy bear or one of your girlie magazines. I’ll finish your watch.”

Stachofski’s face reddened. “Thank you, sir. But I’ll need to check with the chief first, make sure it’s okay?”

Stefan repressed a smile. “And who does the chief report to?”

The boy thought for a moment. “Ahh, I see your point.”

“Exactly. Now be off with you.”

“Thank you, sir.” He saluted, spun around awkwardly, and then marched up the gangplank.

Stefan watched him for a moment and then barked, “Seaman!”

Stachofski stopped in his tracks. “Sir?”

“Forgetting anything?”

Stachofski looked down at his fly, and then remembered the rifle on his shoulder. He smiled with embarrassment. “Sorry, sir.” He scurried back, handed the rifle to Stefan. “It isn’t loaded,” he confessed.

“Then why don’t you leave me with a few rounds, if you don’t mind? This isn’t much good without them.”

Stachofski bobbed his head, dug a handful of cartridges out his coat pocket.

“Thanks again, sir,”

“Get outta here,” Stefan growled.

Stefan shook his head as he watched the boy scamper up the gangplank. He should have placed him on report. An unloaded weapon while standing watch was against regulations. But it probably saved an accidental shot in the foot or something worse, the memory of the barrel pointing at his chest still fresh. Besides, overlooking the infraction would deny the captain the pleasure of demeaning the boy in front of his mates tomorrow morning. That alone made it worthwhile.

As the echo of the boy’s footsteps faded away, Stefan loaded five rounds into the rifle’s internal magazine and then leaned against a wooden crate, his mind drifting back to Eryk’s questions earlier in the evening. Of course it would be war. What was he thinking? Hitler was nothing if not direct. His desires and threats were clear enough even for the fools and idiots who were Poland’s military and political leaders. He still couldn’t believe that they had listened to the English and French, warning against mobilizing all of the Polish reserve troops for fear of provoking Hitler into an attack. Brave men who would have been happy to wear a uniform and squat in trenches along the Polish-German border were now out harvesting a second cutting of hay and picking pears. At least the idiots at naval headquarters weren’t that stupid. The Eagle’s sister submarines were out on patrol in the Baltic. If not for an inexplicable series of breakdowns, the Eagle would have been, too.

Stefan stared past the harbor entrance, marked by cold, green lights glowing like Christmas decorations in the distance. He pulled up the collar of his thick wool pea coat. Better out there. Room to run from danger, hide in the Baltic’s chill depths if threatened. Until the Eagle was fixed, they were as exposed as a baby’s bare ass.

Stefan reached for his pipe. Frowned when he pulled out a stub of a cigar instead. Must be in the other coat, he thought. A cigar would have to do. He struck a match, and then sucked in the strong acrid smoke. Of course, mechanical problems were not all that unusual, especially with a new boat. Any piece of machinery as complex as a submarine required a shakedown period. Everyone expected it. But something wasn’t quite right with this boat. It was like a stink too faint to detect, a mouse rotting away in some obscure duct. Hard to find, but there nonetheless. At times he had been tempted to dismiss the boat as jinxed, and look for help from one of the gypsy crones he’d see from time foretelling the future in the street markets. But that was nonsense.

The past few months had gone so badly, the Eagle’s builders had even sent a trio of engineers to help with the problems. At first, Stefan welcomed their arrival. But after two weeks, they were no closer to reducing the number of the Eagle’s problems. If anything, the Dutch had only added to the confusion. Stefan had pointed out that very fact earlier in the evening. The captain, however, wouldn’t hear any discussion of it.

“And where did you get your university degree from, Lieutenant Commander?” he had asked, stopping by the submarine on his way to a party, not even bothering to get out of the back seat of his car.

“You know I’m not a university-educated man, sir” Stefan admitted, squeezing the door handle so hard his knuckles cracked.

Commander Józef Sieinski  didn’t need to say any more. Argument won, he gave Stefan a condescending look. “How does my tie look?”

“Fine, sir.” It could have looked like it had been tied by a trained monkey and Stefan would have said fine.

“These men are experts. They built this vessel, for chrissakes. They also have the faith of headquarters, and I think we should give them our faith, as well. You know where to find me if anything comes up.”

“As you will, sir,” Stefan said abruptly, stepping away from the car and saluting. He watched the taillights of Sieinski’s car disappear around the corner. What was the point of arguing?

Stefan buttoned the front of his coat. Cold tonight. He cocked his head and listened. Planes. Probably military if the deep, throaty sound of their engines was any indication. Good to have the air force watching overhead. He leaned his rifle against a crate, opened his fly and pissed a long, satisfying stream over the edge of the pier.

He was zipping up when the first explosion rocked the far end of the harbor. He watched with fascination as fire ballooned into the night sky. Seconds later, another explosion, nearer this time, rattled windows up and down the waterfront. There was a flash of light, and then secondary explosions as chemicals and fuel began to detonate.

“Goddamn,” was all a stunned Stefan could say. And then he heard it, a growing shriek that announced an attack by one of the most feared planes in the world: a Junkers Ju 87, universally known as the German Stuka dive bomber.

Stefan didn’t bother to scramble for cover. He grabbed the rifle, pulled the butt tightly against his shoulder, raised the barrel to the black sky and waited. As the plane flashed overhead, the side of its engine cowling illuminated by blue fire from the exhausts, Stefan fired three quick shots, and then it was gone. “Take that, you German dog!” he roared, surprised by the sense of relief that coursed through his body despite the futility of his gesture.

Hitler had finally made his move.

“Sir?”

That farm boy, Stachofski, was back, standing motionless on gangplank, pointing at the nearby fires. Already, Stefan could hear distant shouts and the clank of anchor chains as crews along the waterfront scrambled to get their vessels underway. If more planes came, the harbor would become a shooting gallery.

Stefan waited as four other young seaman crowded in behind Stachofski. “Are you boys ready for war? It has finally come to our doorsteps.”

There was no response. They all stared wide-eyed at the fires, entranced by the sudden violence that in a moment had changed everything.

Stefan didn’t let their eyes linger. “Rouse the rest of the ship,” he barked. “Battle stations everyone. This isn’t a drill—”

His voice was drowned out as another Stuka shrieked by overhead, so close he imagined he heard a metallic clink as the dive bomber released its bomb. He sensed the shadow of it go by. A moment later, a column of water erupted into the air 50 meters beyond the prow of the submarine. Stefan tensed for an explosion. Nothing. Dud. Even vaunted German craftsmanship couldn’t avoid an occasional failure.

Next time, they wouldn’t be so lucky. Stefan glared at the lights on poles towering above the quay, illuminating the Eagle’s flanks like an elephant in a circus center ring. What an idiot. He chambered a round. Raised the rifle and shot out the nearby light. One more crack from the rifle, and the Eagle was hidden by darkness.

“Can’t hit what they can’t see.” Stefan noticed that the group was still on the gangplank. They hadn’t twitched, not even when the bomb had sailed by.

“Why are you still standing here?” he roared. “Move!”

“The Eagle…she can’t go anywhere. What if there’s more?…” It was Stachofski pointing out the obvious.

“That’s your job.”

“What?”

“They send any more our way, I want you to catch them.”

A blank look from the white-faced farm boy. He licked his lips and then gave a shaky “Aye aye, sir.”

Stefan laughed. “I half believe you’d give it a try, too.”

“Sir?”

“I was just kidding about catching the next bomb.”

“Oh, thank you, sir.”

Stefan watched color darken his cheeks. “Where are you supposed to be?”

Stachofski pointed conning tower. “Gunner. But I’m the only one. The others—” He gestured toward the town.

Stefan swore. “Just as well. Any shots from us are only bound to attract attention. Don’t want to do that. Still, we don’t know what’s coming next from out there.” Stefan gestured with his chin at the harbor entrance. “Get your boots on and go find your mates. Back in thirty minutes with whoever you can scare up. You there. Pimples. I’ve seen you in engine room, yes?”

The boy next to Stachofski rubbed the acne on his face and nodded. “Jerzy Rudzki, sir.”

“Is Chief Kosciuszko on board?”

Rudzki shook his head solemnly.

“Know where he is?”

The boy giggled. “Chief K’s with his…girlfriend,” he said in a high pitched voice.

“Get him! And tell him that if we’re not underway by first light, I’ll shoot him myself.”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Tell him that. Every word.”

The boy gave Stefan a gap-toothed grin. “Aye ,sir.” Before he disappeared into the shadows, Stefan noticed he wasn’t wearing any shoes.

One left.

“Name?”

“My friends call me Andre.”

“Then I will, too. Who’s the officer in charge on board?”

“Squeaky, I mean, Lieutenant Wallesa, sir.”

“Get him out here. Now, go!” Andre scrambled for the forward hatch.

Jan Wallesa, the officer everyone called Squeaky, stepped out onto the bridge a few moments later. He yawned, and then noticed the flames billowing into the black sky to the north and south. “What the hell?”

“Get your ass down here,” Stefan roared from the quay.

Squeaky tumbled over the lip of the conning tower, slid down the ladder, a stunned look on his sleep-puffy face. “What’s going on?”

“One guess. And here’s a hint: we nearly had our conning tower skewered by a Stuka’s bomb.” Stefan  thrust the rifle into his hand. “You’re in charge. Nobody but crew gets aboard, got that?”

Squeaky nodded. “Where are you going? Christ, Stef, most of the crew are ashore. Most are probably—”

“I know,” Stefan interrupted, grimacing as the enormity of what was happening begin to weigh on him. “But most of them, I wager, have sobered up and are on their way back. Hitler just gave us a calling card. No way they could have missed it.”

“But what are we going to do? We still can’t get underway.”

“I’m off to retrieve our fearless leader. I’ll be back in an hour. We need to be gone by first light, with or without him. Any objections, now’s the time.”

Squeaky hefted the rifle. “None from me,” he said.

Chapter Six

“Goddamnit,” Peter von Ritter exclaimed as soon as he realized the scream wasn’t coming from the mouth of the woman writhing beneath him in mock orgasm but from an attacking German dive bomber.

He rolled away, flicked on the bedside lamp.

“What’s wrong, sweetie?”

Ritter checked the time. Two in the morning. He picked her clothes off the floor and tossed them in her direction. “I want you out now,” he snapped, wondering if this one moment of indiscretion was going to ruin it all.

A distant explosion made the ornate mirror above the dresser tap the wall nervously. Muffled shouts. A siren wailing. Noises in the hallway as guests began to spill out of their rooms.

“Hans?” said the woman, now alarmed. She sat up, not bothering to cover her cantaloupe-sized breasts with the sheets.

Ritter didn’t notice. “Come on you Polish cow,” he said as he pulled on his pants. “Move.”

She glanced to the window, where the blush of reds and yellows from faraway flames were reflecting on the curtain.

Ritter couldn’t wait any longer. He flung away the sheets, grabbed her by the arm and dragged her out of bed. He wadded up her clothes, stuffed them into her grasp, and then propelled her to the door, the palm of his hand planted firmly in the small of her back. A shriek of panic began rising in the back of her throat as she realized what was about to happen. Before it reached a crescendo, he opened the door and shoved her into the hallway naked.

By the second explosion, he had his boots on. At the sound of the dive bomber swinging around for another pass, he rushed to the window of his hotel room, flung it open and leaned out. As it roared by fifty meters overhead, Ritter saw the cross of the German Luftwaffe, red in the reflected firelight, on its wing.

There were never to be any planes. Ritter crossed the room to the closet. Dönitz had promised that the Luftwaffe would stay away from Gydnia. Someone had screwed up. Or? Ritter shook his head at the thought. Göring. Of course. It had to be him, or some zealous subordinate acting at his behest. If true, he had to admire that devious, back-stabbing bastard. It was common knowledge that he resented any threat to the status of his beloved Luftwaffe. The U-Bootwaffe, in particular, had a mystique that rivaled that of the Luftwaffe. The fat man must have learned of their plans, despite all of Dönitz’s best efforts, and decided to contribute in his own special way. After all, what blame could come his way if a Polish submarine was caught napping in port and destroyed? Just examples of Polish stupidity and his Luftwaffe’s efficiency.

Ritter pulled on his coat, thought about grabbing his pistol, but decided against it. If he was stopped, it would be hard to explain a German Luger in his belt. He stepped into the hallway, kicked aside the large black bra dropped by his earlier companion who was nowhere to be seen, turned to lock his door.

“Freak accident,” a gaunt Englishman wearing a bright red robe said in passable Polish. “Nothing to worry about. Authorities will soon have everything under control.”

“It certainly didn’t sound like an accident,” said a woman at his side, unaware that the brown wig on her head was slightly askew.

“Excuse me,” Ritter said, moving to slip by.

“And where are you going?” said the Englishman, hands on his waist, blocking the hallway. “The authorities are asking everyone to stay in their rooms.”

Ritter flicked out a punch, catching the man in the solar plexus. He slumped to the floor, wheezing like an accordion.

“My God, why did you do that?” admonished the woman, not bothering to help the Englishman to his feet.

“He was in my way,” Hutter said mildly. “And I can assure you,” he said, pointing toward the ceiling, “that was no accident.”

“Yes?” breathed the woman.

“Yes, indeed,” Ritter said, dropping his voice to a whisper. “It’s the Russians. I saw the red star on the wings of the plane with my own eyes. They’re invading. And you know what they do to attractive women, don’t you?”

The woman pulled her sweater tightly around her torso. “No, what?”

Ritter leaned forward and whispered into her ear.

The woman’s face whitened, little squeaks began to tumble out of her mouth. “No, no, no…” she said, backing toward the doorway, blindly feeling for the door handle to her room.

“Yes, yes,” Ritter said recklessly in German, blowing the woman a kiss. “Auf Wiedersehen.”

His men were waiting in front of the hotel, smoking cigarettes, ignoring all the commotion with professional disdain.

“What do we do now?” said Helmut Bergen, his short blond hair pulsing blue from the flickering neon light above them.

Ritter stared up at the sky. The glow from the city lights washed out any stars. Too bad. He would have liked to see the stars on this night. He wrinkled his nose. He wished for stars almost as much as he now wished he had taken time to shower. He stank with the musky scent of the woman. It clung to him like stale beer. He wondered if his men could smell it, too. A mistake to have the woman in his room, but Ritter had figured that he deserved a little reward and recreation before the delicate part of his plan began.

Ritter gestured with his hand. Helmut offered his cigarette. Ritter inhaled, held the smoke until he felt dizzy, and then exhaled. “After all of our hard work, it would be a shame to let the Luftwaffe destroy our prize, eh?” he said with a cough, handing back the cigarette. “But this attack might help make our task all the easier if, of course, we don’t get killed in the process.”

Bergen and the other Kriegsmarine officer, a stocky engineer by the name of Jörg Kolb, weren’t too nervous to laugh at his joke. That was a good sign. Yes, indeed, well-trained, good men, the best of Germany.

“Ach so,” Ritter continued. “And like the good, thoughtful and brave Dutch engineers we are supposed to be, let us go see if we can’t help get our submarine underway without shitting our pants in the process, shall we?”

Chapter Seven

Kate McLendon lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, puzzled by why she was awake.

She heard the door handle jiggle, and then someone pounding on the outside. “Kate, for chrissakes. You in there? You all right?”

Kate grabbed her head and groaned. She needed to cut down on the vodka tomorrow night. And then corrected herself. Tonight. It was already a new day.

“Hold on,” she croaked, flipping on the light. She pulled on her robe, crossed the room and opened the door.

Reggie pushed in, waving his hands in the air. “My God,” he said, lighting on her bed for a moment, and then scuttling over to the window, pulling aside the curtain and glancing outside. “I can’t believe it.”

“What the hell is going on,” Kate said, scratching her head and yawning.

“You didn’t hear? I mean, you didn’t hear the racket and the—” Reggie made the sound of an explosion, his hands waving above his head like a small child.

“I sleep like a train wreck,” Kate said, aware now of the noise in the hallway outside her room, the distant wail of sirens. She pushed Reggie into a chair. “Sit,” she ordered, suddenly wide-awake and serious. “What’s going on?”

Reggie took a deep breath, adjusted his rimless glasses. “I woke somebody up at the American embassy in Warsaw. He encouraged me to do something to myself that is anatomically impossible and then hung up. Tried the provincial governor, the mayor’s office here in town, too, and nothing.”

Kate took a deep breath. “Well then, Reggie,” she said evenly. “What do you know?”

There was a muffled sound of explosions in the distance. Reggie began twisting his hands. “I heard planes and then explosions. The sound of gunfire. A woman in the lobby said it was the Russians attacking. She’s the wife of someone in the Polish military, I believe,” Reggie added.

Kate chewed on a fingernail. “Russians?” she said. “I can’t believe Stalin would attack? Hitler would see it as a provocation. He wouldn’t sit idly by and let the Red Army run wild.”

“I don’t want to be in the middle of a war,” Reggie moaned. “My wife will kill me.”

“Of course we do,” Kate corrected with growing excitement. “Don’t you see? This is the break we’ve been waiting for. War reports from the front lines. If we can produce some good pieces, you know, eyewitness reports of the motherland under attack and all that goes with it, and then get them back to London, that asshole who calls himself a bureau chief won’t care that it’s coming from a fluff female reporter and a Jew. He’s going to get it out on the wire. Every news service in the world will pick it up. That’s money in the bank.”

Reggie cocked his head in interest. “I see what you mean,” he said. “And maybe I can lay hands on a movie camera? Forget Bob Hope and Dorothy Lamour. They’d crowd into the theaters to see my footage.”

As Kate slipped out of her silk robe and begin to dress, Reggie couldn’t keep his eyes off her. Take advantage of the opportunities when they come your way, old boy, Reggie thought. And his partner was a beautiful woman, despite the broken nose. Not full-bodied like his wife, but with firm legs that seemed to go on forever. Narrow waist. Well-muscled arms. He half closed his eyes, imagining her grabbing him by the neck, pushing him over to her bed and ordering him to take off his clothes.

“I can make you be a gentleman,” came the words with soft menace, interrupting his daydream. She was standing there in front of him wearing nothing but white panties and a bra. Reggie didn’t notice. Now he couldn’t take his eyes off the clenched fist waving ominously under his nose.

“Oh, have it your way,” he frumped. “No harm in looking, is there?”

“That isn’t the point. Turn around.”

“All set?” Kate asked forty minutes later.

Reggie had just finished setting up his camera on the street corner. He was about to begin taking photographs of the burning warehouses across the harbor when he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. “Oh, Christ,” he moaned.

It was just a handful of men. Dockworkers, by their looks, Kate thought. Drinking late. Roused by the nearby explosions. Maybe they were hustling down the street to help fight the fire?

“Fucking spies,” shouted a short, pug-faced man in the front of the group.

“Scratch that thought,” Kate murmured to herself, suddenly feeling very alone and exposed. One man, she could handle. A mob was something else.

Reggie pulled his camera off the tripod and held it protectively in his arms like a child.

“We’re Yankee reporters,” Kate said in passable Polish, stepping forward to meet them though she was terrified, forcing her warmest smile.

That gave them pause. The pug-faced man walked up close and smiled. His breath, reeking of beer and cigarettes and God knows what else, made Kate’s knees weak. “Not a spy,” he said, breathing hard through his fat nose, staring Kate lewdly up and down. “A German whore!”

Kate didn’t hesitate. She kneed him in the crotch. As he crumpled forward, his face a mixture of surprise, pain and anger, she grabbed the back of his head just like her father had taught her long ago and brought up her knee again, feeling a satisfying crunch. No time to admire her work, she wheeled to the right, arm cocked, but that was when two men grabbed her by the shoulders and ran her backward, slamming her against the side of a brick building.

“Not the camera,” she heard Reggie squeal. There was a metallic crash and the sound of breaking glass.

“Hold her,” said one of the men. “Let’s see how she looks underneath all this.”

Kate couldn’t move. No one was even close enough to bite. She felt a hand on her crotch, closed her eyes and peed, surprised that she remembered something her mother had said when she was a teen about stopping boys who might be getting out of hand, thankful for the cup of coffee she had had finished earlier.

“The cunt just pissed on me,” she heard someone yell. She couldn’t restrain a laugh. A slap made her ears ring. Someone grabbed her by the hair, and smacked her head against the bricks, once, twice.

And then she was free. She tried standing, but the ringing in her ears continued. She felt the wall against her back, and slid down it into a sitting position. There was something warm spreading across her forehead. She tried to raise an arm, but for some strange reason it felt as heavy as a sack of concrete. In the shadows, she could see figures grappling in front of her, as if she was watching an out-of-focus movie. She wanted to ask a question, but for the life of her, couldn’t remember what it was. And then, mercifully, there was nothing more.

“What should we do with her?” Helmut Bergen said, licking the cuts on his knuckles and gesturing toward the woman slumped against the brick wall.

Ritter flicked his lighter to life. He held the flame up to her face, lifted her chin so he could get a better look. Unconscious. Lots of blood, but the head wound didn’t look too serious. Probably a concussion. The bruise on her cheek would be nothing. Didn’t seem to be harmed any other way. And then he recognized her. The woman in the pub. The American.

“We take her with us,” Ritter said with sudden inspiration, sensing that voice whispering in his ear once again. “I think she may be just the ticket we need.”

“What do you mean?” Bergen was thinking that a woman was the last thing they needed, right at the moment.

“What man can turn his back on a damsel in distress?” Ritter laughed.

“And him?” Bergen flicked his eyes toward Reggie, who was sitting on the pavement in the midst of his shattered camera, rubbing his chin.

“What the hell. Let’s make it a party.”

Chapter Eight

Stefan jogged steadily uphill, away from the waterfront. The explosions and the German dive bombers had been more effective than a legion of roosters. The streets were filled with the curious and terrified, some hastily packing suitcases onto overloaded cars, and others on more serious missions. He watched a lorry, soldiers crowded into the back like cordwood, rattle past him in the direction of the airfield, another truck and a pair of motorcycles, race off toward the coastal artillery batteries. At least someone was trying to do something, though the thought gave him little comfort.

Stefan couldn’t imagine his own captain sleeping through this din. But he supposed that all depended. If Stefan had to guess, by this time in the early morning, Józef Sieinski, second son of one of the wealthiest men in all of Poland, had long ago left his dinner party, retiring to the suite his father provided for him, free of charge, of course, while the Eagle was in port. If he wasn’t still drinking or pawing one of his companions, he was probably passed out, snoring heavily while the woman who thought it might be advantageous to accompany him to bed, had turned to something more interesting than he. A magazine perhaps, or painting her nails.

Stefan had to admit that there were times when Sieinski wasn’t a bad sort. Life and people were rarely as clear-cut as one hoped. His captain seemed smart enough to know when he needed help, charming enough to get it willingly, most of the time. The young sailors aboard the Eagle nearly worshiped him. He certainly looked the part of a captain. And after this stint in the Navy, he would join his father’s company, quickly assuming some senior position.

And that’s where the problem began and ended. The Navy was just a stop along the way for him. He didn’t want any bumps in the road, no risks, and he had been born to expect obedience. Money meant Sieinski had been obeyed all of his life. As he grew older, he assumed that obedience was a result of his own leadership. He couldn’t have been more mistaken. Despite all of his advantages, Sieinski knew nothing about leadership and treating men with dignity and respect unless it was in the pursuit of his own interests.

But a ship needed its captain. That’s how it had always been. And though the mere thought of it made Stefan quiver with barely suppressed rage, Sieinski was the Eagle’s captain, and it was his duty, as second in command, to get him back to his ship. In the end, there was always duty.

As Stefan trotted across the street and up to the front of the Royal Hotel, the doorman standing at attention took one look at Stefan’s sweat-streaked face and rough clothes, and said stiffly, “Please wait here.” He put out his white-gloved hand like a police officer stopping traffic.

Stefan didn’t even bother to break stride. He shoved the man aside and shouldered his way through the gleaming doors.

The front desk was crowded ten deep with haphazardly dressed guests all competing for the clerk’s attention to check out, though Stefan wondered where they could flee once they checked out. If what he suspected was true, it was already too late. German troops were surging over the border, and any traffic on the roads would be an easy target from the air. He continued across the marble floor of the foyer, directly for the elevator, his sea boots pounding out a steady rhythm.

The operator, an old man with nose hairs sprouting like daisies out of each nostril, jumped up from his stool and saluted. “Where to, sir?”

“Name your last posting, Chief?” Stefan asked, recognizing in the salute a fellow seaman.

The old man’s smile revealed more gum than teeth. “We called her Mazur.”

“Ah, yes. Good, stout ship as I recall.” Of course, Stefan couldn’t place her, but the lie was worth it when he saw the sudden stiffening of the man’s back.

“Yes she was, sir,” the old man replied, his pale gray eyes, watering with appreciation. “Our Navy’s first ship after the war. But that was long ago. How can I serve?”

“Captain Sieinski?”

The elevator operator touched the side of his nose, motioned Stefan inside, pushed the door closed, and then rotated the brass control handle burnished to a warm yellow, engaging the lift’s motors. He ignored half a dozen angry rings on the way up and brought the elevator to an easy stop at the sixteenth floor. “I’ll wait,” he said, grinning as he pulled open the door. “You’ll find your captain in the suite at the end of the hall.”

The thick rugs that covered the floor muffled the sound of Stefan’s approach. He paused at the door, considered for a moment using the heel of his boot to kick the beautiful walnut wood door off its hinges. Of course that would require some explaining on the off chance the captain wasn’t unconscious. More importantly, it would also ruin a perfectly good door. Stefan glowered at his reflection, and then raised his fist and knocked.

He waited a moment, and then pounded the door again, harder this time.

Still no response, he tried the knob. It was unlocked. “When in Budapest,” Stefan murmured to himself as he pushed open the door and stepped into the suite.

Despite the lateness of the hour, every light in the sitting room was ablaze. A half-dozen silver serving plates piled high with fruit, meat, cheeses and pastries crowded a table in the center of the room. A special place of honor in the center of the grouping had been devoted to a sterling silver bowl filled with black, gleaming caviar. Stefan couldn’t even guess what it had cost—more than a month’s wages, to be sure. Nothing had been touched.

“Captain?” Stefan yelled, crossing the room, using a hunk of bread as a scoop for some fish eggs, and then stuffing it all in his mouth.

No sounds. Stefan tried again. “Captain?”

As he waited, he helped himself to some cheese, stuffing meat and bread into the pockets of his coat, some practical part of him realizing that Christ only knew when he might get a chance to eat again. When his pockets were filled, he began flinging open doors and yelling the captain’s name, his hope growing with each vacant room. If he didn’t find him soon, it would be only reasonable to return to the ship without him. By all rights, command of the Eagle would be his.

He found Sieinski behind the fourth door. He was face down across the bed, snoring pleasantly, wearing nothing but black, knee high socks and a soiled undershirt. A sweet smell tainted the air. The stench took Stefan back to his one and only visit to a Chinese opium den during a long ago visit to Hong Kong.

“How long has he been out?” he asked the woman sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, staring with a blank face out the window at the distant fires. She was naked, long black hair draped over her shoulders like a scarf, her skin pale as a newborn child’s.

The woman turned her head slowly and stared at Stefan with black eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Why didn’t you say anything? I yelled.”

“Oh, was that what I heard?” the woman sighed, her voice soft, the words sounding as clear and musical as notes on a piano. “It just sounded like war.”

She saved him the effort of a response. “It has begun?”

Stefan nodded.

“Who?”

“Germans.”

“Again?” The woman took a long draw on her cigarette, hollows forming in her cheeks as she sucked the smoke deeply into her lungs. “And so, what is to become of us all?”

Stefan had never seen the woman before, knew he would he would never see her again. If there was a next time, she would be clothed, and that would provide enough of a disguise to make her unrecognizable. But as he stared at the woman, noting her perfect, heart shaped face, he was less taken with how she looked, and more curious about where she had learned to speak Polish. Her accent was almost flawless.

“French, in case you’re wondering,” she said, reading his mind. “My dear auntie was Polish. She raised me from an infant after my mother killed herself. And yes, it was my fault, they all said. Are you from his boat?”

“Eagle,” Stefan said.

“Ah, yes, and an Eagle needs her captain.”

When Stefan didn’t reply, the woman smiled. “I see,” she said. “Did you realize you are so transparent? The conflict of duty and desire. That is always a torment of a life afflicted by opposites. In the East, they call it yin and yang. It afflicts you, and also my Józef.” She gestured at the bed. “He has the same problem. Of course, for all of us, the names of duty and desire are different, but at their heart they are the same.” She took another greedy pull from her cigarette. “You know he hates that thing, that Eagle? But his father expects it, and ever the dutiful son, he complies. But it will never end, these demands.”

The captain of the Eagle, his bare ass sticking like a surrender flag into the air, shifted position and farted.

“So much like a baby,” the woman said.

“I need to get him back to the ship,” Stefan said, rubbing his eyes, suddenly feeling wearier than ever before. Get him dressed. Please. I need to make a phone call. And then we will be off.”

“So polite, and you don’t look like a gentleman, but I see that looks are deceiving, at least in your case.”

“No they aren’t,” Stefan said, scratching his beard with a thick finger. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a hunk of bread, tore off a mouthful “I’ll be back to get him in five minutes. And I’ll take him then however he is.”

When Stefan returned, Sieinski was completely dressed, lying flat on his back on the bed, snoring softly. The woman had pulled on a robe, sheer enough that Stefan noticed her nipples hard against the fabric. For some reason, that was more erotic than when she was completely naked, and Stefan felt a response in his groin, surprised that the instinct to copulate could surface even under these circumstances. He noticed a sheen of perspiration on her forehead.

“What is your name?”

“Stefan…. and yours?”

The woman frowned. “It does not matter. We will never meet again.”

“Then why did you ask my name?”

The woman stared at him. “I wanted to remember you in my prayers to the Black Virgin of Czstochowa,” she said.

Stefan blinked, embarrassed now by what he had been thinking. “I’m sorry to say I can’t return the favor,” Stefan said. The shake in his voice was a surprise.

“You give up on God?” the woman said.

Stefan gave a wry smile.

The woman bowed her head briefly. When she looked up again, she was crying. “My name is Marie,” she said.

With that, they both knew there was nothing more to say. Stefan flung the captain over his shoulder. He felt a tug on his sleeve as he stepped through the doorway. Before he could turn, Marie brushed her lips against his cheek. “God be with you,” she said.

Stefan was stricken once again by the sweetness of her voice and her words.

“Promise you’ll take care of him,” she whispered.

“I’ll do what I can.”

The woman released him.

True to his word, the old man hadn’t left, despite the well-dressed crowd shouting in his face and the angry rings from the floors above and blow.

“Out of order,” repeated the old man, shaking his head back and forth like an obstinate ox. “Take the stairs.”

His eyes darkened with disappointment at Stefan’s approach. “Clear a path,” he bellowed, “Important business.” Then he stepped back into the elevator, followed closely behind by Stefan and the captain.

“I thought you said out of order?” one woman cried, clutching a fossilized poodle to her chest.

“Just fixed itself,” the old man chirped. He pulled the door closed, and gave everyone a gummy grin.

“Full speed ahead, Chief.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

On the return trip, the streets were even more chaotic. Soldiers with packs and rifles hustled to waiting trucks, engines roaring, headlights doused for fear it would attract more attacks from the air. Sirens continued to wail and nervous gunners occasionally probed the night sky with tracers. It had been at least a half an hour since the last Stuka had disappeared into the black sky.

“Did you hear the news, Navy?” cried an officer, standing on the running board of a truck, when he spied Stefan.

“Which one?” Stefan said, shifting his load to the other shoulder and slowing as he passed.

“Germans are attacking on the western front. There’s been a general mobilization.”

“Heard that,” Stefan quipped. While Marie had dressed the captain, he had managed to get through to Polish Navy headquarters at Hel, surprised when the phone had been answered on the first ring. Once he’d identified himself, he’d received a quick update from the senior officer on staff, one of the few he was actually friendly with. “Early reports are that the Germans attacking across a wide front. We’re trying to get everything out to sea. That’s all I know. What about the Eagle?”

“We’ll be gone in a few hours,” Stefan had promised.

“How?” the officer had started to say, and then he caught himself. “OK, I don’t want to know how. Use a couple of fishing boats, and tow her out of the harbor for all I care.”

“That thought had crossed my mind,” Stefan quipped, eliciting a bark of laughter on the other end of the line. “Any word on the Reds?” Stefan asked.

“None. All quiet.”

Stefan heard a yell on the other end of the line. “At once, sir,” his friend said. “I’ve been ordered to do something important—get coffee for them.” The softness in his voice underscored the bitterness of his words. “Take care,” he said, and then the line went dead.

Stefan shook his head. If that was how Poland’s leaders were reacting to the crisis, then they were in more trouble than he dared imagine. “Heard anything about the Russians?” he called to the officer on the truck.

The man frowned, scratched his unshaven chin. “That would be bad on a night of bad news. No one has said anything to me. I don’t see much of a problem with those German dogs, but if Stalin’s boys get into the fray at the same time…”

“We’re done,” Stefan finished for him. He gave a wave of goodbye, lowered his head and resumed his trek to the harbor. “Of course,” he continued to himself, breathing heavily, “we’re finished anyway. And what do you think my dear, sweet, darling captain?” Stefan jiggled his load, but there was no reply.

When Stefan was a younger man, his nickname had been The Ox. His feats of strength were still talked about by the older seamen who had served with him. None of the younger sailors believed them, of course. “Tall tales” was the polite reply. “Bullshit” was what they said behind their backs, until, of course, they happened to see Stefan act with their own eyes.

But Ox no longer, thought Stefan, wiping away the sweat that burned his eyes, shifting the captain’s weight from a shoulder gone numb to the other side. He turned a corner, thankful as the way began to flatten. Almost there, he thought, hustling on, hoping that any guards would challenge first and shoot second, and not the other way around.

“What the—?” Sieinski’s words were slurred, the tongue thick. “I’m going to be—”

Stefan felt the captain’s body convulse, the sound of vomit spattering on the pavement, and the warmth spreading across the back of his legs, Another groan, muffled profanities. Stefan’s face contorted in disgust. He angled toward the wall of the nearby building, jerked to the left as he came close. There was a thud as the captain’s skull bounced off the bricks, a moan, and then silence as his body went limp once again.

“Won’t remember a thing,” Stefan muttered, sweat dripping from the ragged edges of his beard. He wrinkled his nose at the stink of vomit that now followed them like a bad joke. “Aren’t we a sorry sight. And you, wounded in battle. That’s what we’ll call it. Nasty bomb bounced you right out of your lover’s arms and onto that hard, hard floor.”

Stefan talked to keep his mind off the searing pain in his arms and legs. He was half tempted to try another smack, harder this time, and then again and again until his captain’s head burst like an overripe grape. Problem solved. Drop this sorry piece of humanity right here in the gutter and then be done with it. It wouldn’t be that hard. He had killed before. Those other times, however, had been in fair fights. Sure, the first one, in that back alley in Manila, his attacker had a machete and Stefan had been stuck with the problem of finding something, anything to use against his mad rushes. He’d finally settled on the broken end of a broom sticking out of a garbage can. He’d ducked as the machete whistled by, a blow that would have surely severed his head if it had landed, and without thinking any more about it, thrust the jagged end of the stick into the little man’s belly before he had a chance to dance out of the way. And then Stefan had run like hell all the way back to his ship. But this would be different. Stefan would answer to many names, but murderer was not one of them.

At least not yet.

He paused to catch his breath, wiped his face with the sleeve of his jacket, and then patted his captain on the rump with something that was almost affection: “Almost home,” he wheezed. “And then maybe you’ll surprise us all by your warrior qualities.” Stefan rather doubted it, but he hoped he was wrong, for all their sakes.

Chapter Nine

Squeaky heard them first, the sound of their footsteps echoing across the pier. There had been a bustle of activity right after Stefan had left. A lorry filled with troops, their commander stopping by, making sure everything was under control, and then racing off down the wharf in the direction of the distant fires that still raged. And then the boy sent for Chief K. Still in socks, the chief leaning heavily on him for support.

“You smell like a brewery,” Squeaky said.

“Dank you berry much,” the chief said, still cheerfully drunk.

“What are your orders, sir?”

Squeaky stared at the boy’s feet and winced. His socks were blackened with dirt and crusted with blood. They must have hurt, but the boy didn’t seem to notice. “Get him on board and pour some coffee into him. When he’s able, get him down to the engineering. He’s got to get the bow rudder hydraulics fixed. Stefan said he’d shoot him if we aren’t underway by dawn.”

“Sir?”

Squeaky smiled. “I wouldn’t want to find out if he was serious. So tell him that. Every word. Might help him sober up.”

The boy pulled Chief K’s arm over his shoulder and started up the gangplank.

“And get your feet taken care of,” Squeaky said.

“Don’t hurt.”

“Even so, can’t have them getting infected. We’ll need you in the days to come. And well done, son.”

The boy beamed. “Yes, sir,” he said.

After that, it was quiet. The fires drawing attention like insects are drawn to light, leaving the Eagle alone in the center of a pool of blackness, pulling at her ropes like an impatient dog on a leash as the tide changed.

The Eagle was ready for the next attack. Sailors stood at the ready on the bow and stern with rifles, the forward gun crew, manning the 105 mm Bofors main deck gun in a trainable turret, was in place; another pair of gunners were at the retractable 40mm Bofors AA gun located in a vertical watertight well in the aft part of the conning tower. There was also a sailor in the conning tower with a rifle, and another handling the searchlight.

“Ahoy light,” Squeaky called softly.

“Yes, sir.”

“Wait until I give the word.”

“Very good, sir.”

Squeaky waited thirty seconds, fingering the trigger guard as the party approached. When they were close enough, he yelled out, “Halt!” At the same time, a beam from the Eagle’s powerful searchlight stabbed into the darkness, illuminating a party of five, who responded as if they were hit by spray from a fire hose. The recoiled, raising their hands.

“This is a restricted area,” Squeaky barked. “Identify yourselves.”

“Turn that damn thing off before you blind us all.”

“It’s those Dutch engineers,” hissed the searchlight operator.

Squeaky eyed the party suspiciously. He was right. But there was someone else with them and the chief engineer, Hans was his name, was carrying a woman in his arms.

“What’s going on?”

“Christ, man, we’ve an injured woman here,” Ritter yelled back. “Couldn’t very well leave her where we found her.”

“Well, uh, you’d best all get back to your hotel,” Squeaky interrupted. “You’ll be safe there, at least safer than here. Looks like the damn Germans have attacked. We’re preparing for sea. This is no place for civilians.”

Ritter’s scarred face twisted into a smile that looked particularly ghoulish in the bright light. He continued to approach the submarine. “Right now, this is the safest place to be,” he said, glancing along the submarine length at the sailors with rifles and the others manning the two deck guns. “And besides, we were sent here to do a job, to help get your vessel fixed. That’s still not done. You’re going to need us.”

As he talked, Ritter came to the end of the gangplank and pushed his chest against the barrel of the rifle in Squeaky’s hand.

Squeaky didn’t flinch, didn’t move the rifle away. Something about the man had always bothered him. Maybe it was the scar on his face. Tangled with a fence as a kid, he said. But he wore it like it was a fucking medal or something. On the other hand, Squeaky knew that now wasn’t the time for refusing help. Tonight, Satan himself might deserve a free pass and a kiss on the cheek if he was willing to help them fight.

Squeaky signaled his decision by dropping the butt of the rifle to the ground. He motioned for the rest of his men to relax.

“What about the woman and this other?”

“Reginald P. Goldberg at your service.” Reggie replied in broken Polish. He reached up to touch the brim of a hat but frowned when it wasn’t there. “Hooligans. I have half a mind to head back there and find them.”

“Where did you learn Polish?”

“From my dear departed mother, God rest her soul,” Reggie replied. “Grew up in a some godforsaken village near Cracow where the men were men and the goats were afraid. Managed to get out when she was in her late teens.

“I’m from Cracow,” Squeaky said, his eyes narrowing. “It’s a nice place.”

“That so?” Reggie’s lips cracked into a nervous smile. “Maybe we’re related?”

“I think not.”

Reggie straightened his tie, and stood taller. “I’ll have you know I’m only half Jewish,” he said stiffly. “And it’s the better half. But under the circumstances, I’d prefer American.”

“He and this woman are reporters from America,” Ritter added. “Imagine what they will write about their saviors, the brave men of the Polish Navy, and one officer in particular.”

Squeaky rubbed his face and smiled. “Reporters from Hollywood?”

“New York City,” Reggie replied. When he saw the disappointment flicker across Squeaky’s face, he quickly added, laughing nervously. “Almost the same thing, old bean. In fact, we like to call it East Hollywood.”

“I’ve heard of that,” Squeaky said after a moment, nodding with approval. He appraised the group, weighing Stefan’s admonition with the need to get the boat underway. “You know the way?” he said, pointing at Ritter.

Ritter nodded. “Chief K on board?”

“Ah, yes, Chief K. Drinking coffee, I suspect, at this very moment. Or pissing beer. One or the other. In any case, I expect him to be ready for work shortly.”

“Where can I stash these two?” Ritter said, gesturing with the unconscious woman still in his arms in Reggie’s direction.

“I hope she’s not hurt too badly,” Squeaky said, catching himself before he reached out to caress her hair. “I may catch hell for this, but, for now, they are under the protection of the Polish Navy as well as my personal protection.” He stepped aside and gestured with a flourish. “I don’t want them underfoot. Put the woman in my bunk for now. Setfan will know what to do with them. He wants to be underway by dawn.”

That stopped Ritter. “How?”

Squeaky shrugged. “You know Stefan. Or maybe you don’t. But mark my words, he will find a way even if he has to take the rope in his teeth and drag the Eagle out of the harbor all by himself.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Ritter said thoughtfully.

Chapter Ten

Ritter held his breath, wondering which way it would go. The barrel of the rifle stabbed painfully at the thin skin over his ribs.

His plan had always depended upon this moment. He and his men had to be onboard the Eagle when she fled for open sea. Of course, Ritter hadn’t expected the Eagle to be a target of the Luftwaffe. Surely it had raised the risks of the mission, not to mention the risk of death to Ritter and his men. But it also made the danger to the Eagle more imminent. Because of that, the men in charge of the submarine would be more amenable to the help of the civilian engineers from the submarine’s maker.

Ritter had stared blankly at the man, careful to keep his own emotions in check. He hadn’t liked this officer, this Squeaky, from the first moment. He had no doubt the feeling was mutual. The man was insolent and sarcastic, something that Ritter had never tolerated in his own subordinates.

The attractive American reporter in his arms had made all the difference. Hard to turn them away with her there in front of them, blood on her head, a visible example of what war was all about. Violence and death.

When Squeaky had relented, Ritter moved quickly up the gangplank and kept going past the conning tower. At the forward hatch, Bergen slid down the ladder first, standing there, arms outstretched, as Ritter gently lowered the woman’s limp form through the opening. “Take her to that officer’s bunk and then get to the engine room. I’ll meet you there. We have work to do.”

“What about me?” Reggie whined.

Ritter frowned. “See if they have any medical personnel or supplies on board, and do what you can with your friend’s head. After that, stay out of the way. You understand that, American?”

“I don’t think you need to worry about us,” Reggie said properly, as he disappeared into the submarine.

Ritter glanced up at the night sky. Soon it would be light. He wondered if more planes were on the way. Foolish to speculate. Of course they were—

“It’s all right,” murmured the young sailor standing nearby. “I don’t they’ll be back tonight. Besides, we’re ready for them now.”

“Is that so?”

“You can count on it. And mark my words. This war will be over in a week or two.” The sailor slung the rifle over his shoulder, liking this older man, this professional, listening to his advice.

“And it is because most Germans are cowardly dogs, eh?” Ritter suggested.

“Oh, yes,” replied the sailor. “But they make fine weapons. My brother, you know, is on the front. I asked him to keep a helmet for me. Or a rifle. I need a new hunting rifle.”

“But it isn’t the weapons, it is the quality of the men that is important. Is that what you’re saying?” Ritter savored the smell of fresh air, enjoying the delicious hesitation before his work would truly begin. He hated one thing about submarines: the stink of their atmosphere, thick with the smells of men and machines and fear.

“Yes!” the sailor said emphatically. “You’re quite right.”

“Then we agree,” Ritter said, slapping the sailor on the back. “The most superior people will prevail.” And with that, he dropped down into the belly of the submarine.

Chapter Eleven

It was a pleasant dream.

Kate was in a rowboat with her dead father. Of course, he wasn’t dead in the dream. And that was one of the things that made it so enjoyable. Some part of her still knew he was gone. But in this world, facts didn’t matter. And so, he was alive, laughing and talking about his beloved Dodgers, asking questions about her career and her loves. Kate was rowing while he sat in the stern of the boat, feet propped on one side of the gunnels, his hat tipped back on his head. A pale mist hung over the water smooth as whalebone. It was so pristine, Kate felt guilty about dipping the oars, disturbing its perfection.

“So, you married yet?”

“No, Dad.”

“Why the hell not? Except for the nose, nothing wrong with your looks. What happened to it? Looks like you went a few rounds with Joe Louis.”

Kate shook her head. “Don’t want to talk about it, Dad.”

“I see,” her dad said, languidly drawing on his cigarette, appraising her through the smoke. “Gotta know how the other guy looked.”

Kate noticed her knuckles, white on the oars. “I took care of him,” she said.

“That’s my girl,” the man chuckled. “Nobody crosses my Kate. Say, want me to introduce you to a Dodger? Good guys. I know ’em all. Some of ’em even know how to treat a lady right. You could do worse, you know.”

Of course her dad knew all of the Dodgers. Yankees, too. And Cubs. It came with being a sports reporter for one of the major New York papers. Newspapers were still media kings in 1932, and that made reporters, the well-known ones, royalty.

“So it’s war?”

“Looks like it,” Kate replied, not really caring. If it was war, it would be far away from this peaceful place and moment. She heard frogs croaking, saw a big trout swirl its tail near the surface, leaving ever-expanding rings of shadow and light behind.

“You gonna head over there to cover it?”

Kate shrugged.

“Reporter’s gotta be where the action is. Don’t let them use ‘female’ as an excuse to keep you away from the show. That’s how you make a name for yourself. How I did. I was there when Babe pointed to the outfield and whacked it, you know.”

“I remember, Daddy,” she sighed happily. It was a story she’d heard a million times and would have traded anything to hear it a million more.

“Miss me, Kate, girl?”

“More than you can ever know.”

“But I do know,” he father said, a broad smile warming his face.

Kate leaned into the oars, enjoying the rough feel of the wood on her hands and the motion of her body. She’d always loved rowing, especially at this place, the pond on her grandparents’ farm in upstate New York. She had spent a handful of happy summers here as a little girl. Once she made it to college, however, there never seemed to be enough time to come back for a visit. Kate took another stroke, pulling hard this time, jerking her daddy back and propelling the rowboat forward. She took a deep breath, and then wrinkled her nose. Skunk nearby, she thought. Couldn’t very well drop the oars and pinch her nose, so she drug the right oar deep in the water and let the boat pirouette around it. Probably better on the other side, she thought. She leaned forward, dipped the blades, and then pulled.

“What a stink,” her dad exclaimed, adjusting his hat with one hand. He reached in his pocket, lit a cigarette, and then exhaled. “That’s better,” he said.

Kate didn’t think so. Now it smelled like smoke and skunk. It was getting stronger, too. Her father didn’t seem to notice. He pulled on his cigarette, eyeing her carefully, sadly.

“Sorry, Kate, child,” he said.

“Daddy?”

“You be careful. And remember what I said about those fellas from the Dodgers.”

The dream dissolved like mist before a morning breeze. Kate coughed, and then winced as a sharp stab of pain lanced over the top of her skull. She sat up suddenly, banging her head on the bunk above.

“Holy Christ, Kate, keep still.”

“Where are we?” she whispered.

“On a Polish submarine,” Reggie replied, taking her hand.

“What’s the awful smell?”

“Welcome to the world inside the belly of the beast.” Reggie said, gesturing with his hands. “Now we get to know how Jonah must have felt. Where do you suppose all that stink goes when this thing is underwater?”

“Oh.”

“Oh is right. Sanitary accommodations leave a little to be desired. I think they have one you-know-what on this place. One that I can find anyway.”

“How’d we get here?” Kate closed her eyes, touched her head. It was swathed in bandages. “I don’t remember much.”

“The doc or the cook—take your pick; he does both on this boat—thinks you have a concussion. He might even be right. You took a mighty whack on the back of the head. Fortunately some fellas intervened before they, uh…”

“Now I remember.” She fought back a need to vomit. She felt her nose. At least they hadn’t broken it again. “And where were you while I was getting the holy hell beat out of me?” Kate took a deep breath and winced. Bruised ribs, too, maybe broken.

“Trying to protect the camera equipment,” Reggie retorted hotly.

“So, you managed to save it?” Kate was feeling less groggy by the minute. The opportunity to be on a submarine in the middle of the war was enough to help cut through the fog.She’d been hoping to find a great story, one that would ensure that newspaper publisher in the country recognized her byline.  Maybe this was it? Her growing excitement was even lessening the pain in her head.

“No,” Reggie replied glumly. “I tried. Indeed I did. But it was to no avail. In the end, I was overcome by superior force.”

Kate squinted up at Reggie and held her tongue. He looked so forlorn, so hopeless, she didn’t have the heart to berate him. Later, perhaps.

“Those other guys. Well, they came in too late to save the cameras, but boy did they stomp the shit out of hose hooligans ’scuse my French, see blue play.”

“You’re welcome,” Ritter said in heavily accented English, pushing beside Reggie and peering past the curtain that functioned as a door and into her room. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

Kate crinkled her forehead. She knew this man from somewhere else. She just couldn’t remember where and when.

“You aren’t Polish?” Kate said.

Ritter shook his head and smiled. “No. Indeed not. Dutch. An engineer with the company that built this fine vessel. My men and I have been in town the past few weeks helping the Poles with a few,uh, problems. You may have seen me around.”

“So, you’re one of the guys who, who —”

Ritter bowed his head and smiled with real embarrassment. “It was what any man would do under similar circumstances,” he said.

Kate glared at Reggie. “I don’t think so,” she said. “I owe you—we owe you. Thanks,” she said, holding out her hand. “My name is Kate, and my valiant protector and partner over there is Reggie.”

“Very happy to make your acquaintances,” Ritter said, taking Kate’s hand, squeezing it briefly, “though I regret the circumstances. It is now war, you know.”

Kate nodded, more convinced then ever that this was going to make a great story. If, of course, they didn’t find a way to kick her off this boat..

“I just wanted to see how you were feeling,” Ritter said, glancing down the passageway.

“I’ll be all right,” she said, tapping the side of her skull. “A Polish-Scottish noggin. Nothing harder.”

“Tough as nails,” Reggie said.

“I can see that,” Ritter replied with a smile. “Please. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask me. And now I must get back to work.” He touched his forehead in salute, and then disappeared.

“Seems like a nice guy,” Reggie said. “Saved our asses.”

“Uh-hmm,” Kate mused. Distinctive. That was the word that came to mind as she considered Hans. Definitely more there than meets the eye, and not just because of the scar on his face, though that in and of itself would make him someone worth remembering. She still couldn’t place him, her mind still fuzzy from the attack. “Wish I’d been able to get in a few kicks,” she mused, flexing her hands, “and maybe a right cross or two.”

“Don’t worry about that.” Reggie smiled and grabbed his crotch. “You did some damage,” he said in falsetto.

Kate couldn’t restrain a grin of her own, but even that hurt. “Gotta cigarette, Reg?”

“I don’t think you can smoke down here.”

Kate stuck out her lower lip, though she didn’t need to do anything to look even more forlorn.

“Don’t let them blame me,” Reggie grumbled, feeling the front of his jacket. He shook his head. “Want me to look around?”

“Would you?”

He disappeared out the doorway. Kate waited a minute, then sat up, held the side of the bunk until the waves of dizziness passed. No cameras. That was a problem. On the other hand, a first-hand account of the war from inside a submarine, that was a scoop no one could match. The fact that she was on a boat full of men wouldn’t hurt either. She could play up that part as well. The trick would be figuring how to stay put, and then get her reports off the submarine and on to London.

Kate glanced around the room. She’d seen bigger closets. She was sitting on a narrow bunk covered in a wad of blankets. There was blood on the pillow. At first, she wondered if the original inhabitant had had a bloody nose, and then she realized the blood was her own. Gray metal walls covered in girlie pictures. A spaghetti of cables, conduit and pipes choked the ceiling. There was a small writing table in the corner with a quilt thrown over the chair. It was a garish touch of home.

Kate pressed her palm against her eyes as another wave of nausea and pain threatened to return her to unconsciousness. “No,” she said, fiercely, biting her lips until she drew blood.

When it passed, she staggered to her feet. She was tempted to hide and hope that by the time whoever called this particular bunk home remembered they were on board, they’d be at sea. And by then, it would be to late to kick her and Reggie off the sub.

But hiding had never been Kate’s style. “Got to find whoever is in charge,” she said loudly to herself, wondering how she was going to convince them to keep her on board. She didn’t need a crack on the head to know that if she told the truth her chance of staying was slim to none. But like any good reporter, Kate wasn’t above stretching the truth every now and then to get what she wanted. And if they made a mistake and thought she was the American neice of a very important person. Perhaps even the Prime Minister of England himself, or better yet, the president of the United States, then her chances of staying on board might improve.

Kate staggered out of the cabin, down the narrow passageway, not sure she was going in the right direction, but at least she was moving, and with only two choices, the wrong way would be easy to correct. Before she met the captain, she needed to talk with Reggie, make sure he didn’t ruin her tale of deception before she had a chance to tell it. She saw men step aside, noted, as if observing it all from a third story apartment, the expressions on their faces. “You were expecting Lana Turner?” she muttered under her breath.

Chapter Twelve

Squeaky fought back a yawn, his eyes watering like he was in the midst of a week-long drunk—if only he had been so lucky. He almost wished for another attack—anything—to help break up the boredom.

The last false alarm had been an hour ago—a periscope in the harbor. After the firing stopped, and they had a chance to take a closer look, the periscope turned out to be nothing more than driftwood, floating and twisting in the swells.

“I think you got that German snag,” Squeaky said, to sheepish laughter from the gun crews.

There had been two visitors since Ritter and his group had boarded the submarine. The first, a courier from Navy headquarters, roared up to the submarine on his motorcycle, thrust orders for the Eagle to get underway into Squeaky’s hands. “Immediately!” the courier had underscored with obvious self-importance.

Squeaky crumpled the sheet, and tossed it back in the courier’s face. “This is as helpful as a case of butt wipe,” he yelled, enjoying the release. Someone, finally, to retaliate against. “And tell those assholes you work for that next time we want them to send us down something useful, like a new hydraulic pump or two.” The courier had dropped his chin and then scuttled back to his motorcycle, the flaps on his leather helmet flopping like the ears of a basset hound.

The other visitor was a butcher who had a shop a few blocks from the quay. He pulled a squeaking handcart loaded with meats and sausages up to the gangplank, pushed back his hat and whistled, hands on his hips, his gaze moving along the dark flank of the submarine. “Thought that damn airplane had done you in. Hoped not, though, mostly ’cause I wanted you boys to have these. Better to give ’em away to some brave Polish warriors than let the damn Huns have ’em.” And then he leaned close to Squeaky. “There’s also a few bottles of you-know-what under the meat,” he said. “My gift to you and your officers. Toast for all of us when you make your first kill.”

“Indeed we will,” Squeaky had replied formally, bowing his head. He reached under the seat, held a bottle of Klasno vodka up to the faint lights from across the harbor. “Thank you, Pops.” Squeaky slipped the bottle into his jacket and then waved for the man on the bow of the boat and one of the gun crew to come down. Five minutes later, the meats and sausages were on board, hanging from the overhead pipes that ran along the main passageway, adding their particular aroma to the submarine’s cocktail of smells.

Squeaky didn’t bother to fight back the yawn this time, feeling the outline of the vodka bottle with his right hand, wondering if there would be any harm in taking a nip or two. Not to be left out, his stomach gave a greedy rumble.

He almost didn’t notice the silent, easily recognized figure take shape out of the shadows. “Hold the light,” Squeaky barked hoarsely, setting his rifle aside and rushing forward. “I was beginning to think you had other plans, Squeaky said with a broad grin. “Let me give you a hand. The captain?”

Stefan nodded.

“Dead?”

“Don’t… think… so,” Stefan gasped. He staggered to a halt, and let Squeaky grab the captain and lower him to the ground.

Stefan stood there, swaying slightly as if pushed by an unseen breeze, sucking in great drafts of air. “Not dead. At least, I don’t think so.”

“What happened?”

Stefan looked up, dark eyes glittering. “Tell the men it was a Nazi bomb. It hit the hotel, wounded our captain and others. It was only a miracle of God that he is still alive.”

Squeaky frowned.

“If anyone asks, tell them,” Stefan said fiercely, reaching forward and grabbing Squeaky by the shirt. “In fact, you tell the story first thing, and make sure everyone else knows it. Understand?”

Squeaky nodded slowly.

“Good,” Stefan grunted. He smoothed the front of Squeaky’s shirt, patted him on the cheek.

“He smells like shit,” Squeaky remarked, “and so do you.”

Stefan put a hand on Squeaky’s shoulder, loosened his belt, and stepped out of his vomit-stained trousers. He put them in Squeaky’s arms. “There you go,” he said, smiling broadly. “Now so do you. Please get our dear captain aboard. Have someone clean him up. And get someone to bring me some clean pants. I can’t go onboard like this.”

Stefan rubbed his face wearily. What a sight. Stinking, white-legged Stefan. And now is the perfect time for the admiral to drive up in his staff car. The old fart wouldn’t crack a smile, Stefan’s appearance simply confirming what he had known all along.

Five minutes later, Squeaky was back. “Here you go,” he said, tossing the trousers at his friend.

Stefan had been leaning up against the gangplank, ignoring the grinning guards. He held the trousers out, sniffed the air, and then nodded to himself. They’d have to do. “Chief K on board yet?” he asked, buckling the belt.

“He said he needs another two hours.”

“Do you believe him?”

Squeaky shrugged. “I think he’s only concerned about being shot. We won’t do much good if we get out to sea and then run into mechanical trouble.”

“I know,” Stefan replied, rubbing his face again. “But we do Poland no good staying here. We’ve been lucky so far, but—” He didn’t need to finish the sentence.

“Have you heard anything?”

Stefan shook his head.

“How do you think we’re doing?”

Stefan gestured for a cigarette, waited for Squeaky to fumble in his jacket and then hand one over. He lit it, taking his time to reply. “Haven’t heard many of our planes, have you?”

Squeaky shook his head.

“That tells you how we’re doing in the air. The Army? Well, we have brave men, yes. And I suppose we’re about evenly matched in terms of numbers. The French and English did us no favors warning against mobilization. The trick is what the French will do now. If they attack, we might have a chance. But I fear that they will stay safely in their warm bunks behind their Maginot Line, and the Englanders are too far away to do us much good. We are on our own.”

“But we cannot lose!”

Stefan didn’t reply. He finished his cigarette, flicked the butt into the water. He patted Squeaky on the shoulder. “We must do our part,” he said simply. “That is all we can do. You OK here?”

Squeaky nodded.

“Pablo and the rest of the men on board?”

“An hour ago,” Squeaky said. “We’re all here.”

Stefan glanced to the east. There was already a faint hint of light. They didn’t have much time.

Chapter Thirteen

Stefan could smell the stink of hydraulic fluid two compartments away. Not a good sign. He increased his pace, ducking and weaving his way down the choked passageway, surprisingly agile for such a big man, but still finding the time along the way for a word in one sailor’s ear, a joke for another and a pat on the back. It was the behavior of a natural leader. Of course, he didn’t think of it that way. Wasn’t even aware of it. But it was exactly what his crew needed. His presence wafted through the ship like a fresh breeze.

“How soon?” Stefan asked, standing in the opening to the compartment, staring down at the huddle of men so stained with grease, it was hard to distinguish one from another.

Ritter glanced up from the pump, wiped his face with his sleeve, started to reply but held back. He and his men weren’t even supposed to be on board.

Chief K banged a pipe with his wrench, not sure how long Stefan had been watching and hoping it would create the impression that he had been in the thick of the repairs instead of sitting on the side, holding his aching head. He flashed yellow teeth. “One, maybe two hours. I got this sonofabitch patched together. But we need a goddamn new pump. Or a complete rebuild. The seals on this damn thing are kaput.”

“How long will it last?” Stefan interrupted.

The chief winced and then glanced in Ritter’s direction. “You’d have to ask him.”

“Commander.” Ritter stood, held out his hand.

“Hans?” Stefan said with surprise, grabbing Ritter’s soiled hand, feeling the strength in the grip. “Not the safest place to be right at the moment.”

Ritter couldn’t help smiling. He liked this man. He was smart, a good sailor. If he had been in command, he had no doubt they would have been sent packing weeks ago and the Eagle would be war-ready.

“We couldn’t stay away,” Ritter said. “And I know you are a man who likes direct answers, so I will give you one. I don’t know how long it will last. It could last minutes, or it could last months. It is, of course, our fault. We should have caught and fixed this problem when the Eagle was still in dry dock. You have my deepest apologies. We have played with the lives of you and your men. Offering our help is the least we can do.”

“If we survive this, I will look up the fellow who installed this pump the first time and, uh, have a little chat with him.”

Ritter laughed. Yes, indeed, he liked this man very much. It almost made what would happen a shame. “It is the least we can do.”

“A permanent fix—what will it take?”

“A new pump, or time to rebuild this one and then time to make sure the lines are purged of contaminants,” Chief K chirped in, unwilling to defer everything to Ritter.

“Where can we get our hands on a new pump?”

“Maybe Hel or Warsaw, but now—?” Chief K shrugged.

“We have some at our facility in Tallinn,” Ritter suggested.

“We may end up there,” Stefan muttered. “At this point, I’d sail to hell and back if it would get this boat healthy. Right at the moment, we don’t have time to take a little summer vacation. Your repairs will have to do. Let me know when you’re done, Hans. I’ll want to see you before you go.”

Ritter cleared his throat. “Yes, about that, sir. We were wondering if you could use some extra hands for the next few days?”

“I could use the help,” Chief K chirped hopefully.

Stefan’s first reaction was “No.” A submarine was hardly the place for civilians during war. On the other hand, they were in a pinch, and if these men could help— “Have you notified your company?”

Ritter shook his head. This is on our own.”

“You understand the risks? Last time I checked, this wasn’t your war.”

Ritter smiled.

“Welcome aboard,” Stefan said, slapping Ritter on the shoulder. “You work for the Chief, but you report to me. You’ll have to bunk where you can find space. You stay as long as the captain and I say so and when we say go, you go without any arguing. OK?”

Ritter nodded. “Thank you,” he said with feeling. He meant it.

“Torpedo tube leaks?” Stefan barked.

“Fixed ’em yesterday,” Chief K replied, tiredly. He needed a nap, but it might be days before he would get the chance.

“We leave in an hour,” Stefan announced. “I’ll be on the bridge if you need me.”

Stefan pulled on a heavy wool coat and grabbed a mug of coffee before climbing up into the conning tower. Still soaked with sweat from his trek with Sieinski, he was cold in the predawn chill.

Stefan took a sip from the mug, the coffee just the way he liked it, hot and bitter, and surveyed the scene. Smoke softened the waterfront and his view of the city. The last flames had been doused hours earlier, but crews continued to pour water on the piles of blackened rubble, columns of smoke and steam angling into the cloudless sky, already glowing pink with approaching sunrise. If there were more attacks, they would get no help from the weather.

He had men on the stern, adding a few more liters of diesel to their tanks and topping off their supply of fresh water. No telling when they would be able to get back into a Polish port, if ever. The Polish Corridor, the narrow tongue of land that was Poland’s only access to the sea, was squeezed on one side by Germany herself, and by the German province of East Prussia on the other. If it wasn’t already severed by the German Army, it was only a matter of days before it would happen. Gdansk and Gdynia would fall. And then they would be on their own.

Stefan wondered where they could go. It was hard not to think about it. It was too soon to consider while Poland was still fighting, but the time would come soon enough. By then Sieinski would be recovered. Stefan was glad he wouldn’t be forced to make the decision. Stefan knew how to fight. Surrender or exile was a choice he hoped he never had to make.

“Sir?” The call came from the open hatch at Stefan’s feet.

“I said I wasn’t to be disturbed unless it was the captain or Chief K.”

The sailor gave him a puzzled look, and then disappeared. He was back a moment later. “Sorry, sir, but, but she insists that she speak with you.”

“She?” Stefan roared.

“Any more surprises?” Stefan asked, as Squeaky slid down the ladder into view. Stefan stood on one side of the chart table in the control room, arms folded, his face impenetrable. Kate was on the other side, sitting on a stool. Her head was bandaged, her skirt torn and stained, but her eyes bright and amused.

“Well?”

Squeaky scratched his head, and gave Stefan a crooked grin. “Commander Stefan Petrofski, let me introduce you to—” He leaned toward Kate. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name earlier.”

Kate adjusted the bandage on her head. “Roosevelt,” she said crisply, “Kate Roosevelt. And who are you?”

Squeaky blushed. “Lieutenant Jan Wallesa, but everyone calls me Squeaky.” What a beauty, Squeaky couldn’t help thinking to himself.

Kate held out her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Squeaky.”

“Likewise,” Squeaky replied, grasping her hand as lightly as he would touch a butterfly, afraid that a firmer grasp would crush it.

Stefan cleared his throat. “This, of course, won’t do,” he said firmly. “We can’t have a woman on board. She’ll have to get off immediately.”

Kate’s responded by closing her eyes, reaching out and grabbing Squeaky’s shoulder for support.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea, Stef,” Squeaky interjected, grabbing Kate by the elbow to steady her. “She was unconscious when she came aboard. Took a severe smack to the head.”

“I thought my orders were clear enough?”

“She was with Hans and his team. I thought… I thought we could use their help. She and her partner were attacked. I didn’t think we could just send her away, not like that.”

“There’s someone else?”

Squeaky held out a hand of caution. “But it’s all right. He’s a man, not a woman.”

Stefan pushed his back his cap, exhaled loudly. “Why don’t we start at the beginning.”

Squeaky glanced at Kate, who took the cue and started in. “Like Squeaky said,” she began, her voice faint and shaking. “My name is Kate Roosevelt. My partner, Reggie, and I work for the North American News Service.”

“For an American you speak very good Polish,” Stefan interrupted.

“I’d pass the complement on to my mother,” Kate replied, “if she were still alive.”

Stefan’s mouth swung open like a barn door in the wind, but Kate didn’t give him a chance to respond. “We’ve been doing background stories on Polish arts and culture and how regular Polish families are dealing with threat of war. You know, warm and fuzzy pieces about painters, poets, women and children. We were to leave for England in two days and from there back to the United States. But, well, you know what happened. And since I’m a reporter, I wanted to get some photographs of the attack for my stories. I also thought my uncle might appreciate it”

“Nothing like a few dead bodies and burning buildings to fire up your readers, eh?” Stefan remarked. “Uncle? Who might that be?”

Kate smiled. “Perhaps you’ve heard of him. We share the same last name. His first name is Franklin.”

Squeaky broke the silence. “You mean…?”

“Yeah, the president of the United States.”

“I don’t care who you say your uncle is,” Stefan barked. “I want you off this ship. Now.”

Stefan looked at Squeaky. “Get some guards, issue them rifles, have them take Miss whoever and her friend back to their hotel. A submarine at war is not place for a woman.”

“Belay that order.”

“Captain on the bridge,” Stefan barked as Captain Josef Sieinski stepped cautiously through the hatchway.

There was a deep purple bruise on his forehead, the color accentuating the paleness of the rest of his face. He ran a trembling hand through his thin, blonde hair. “We haven’t been formerly introduced,” he said, displaying a vestige of his normal charm despite his condition. “I’m Josef Sieinski, captain of the Eagle.”

“Kate Roosevelt, reporter with North American News Service.” She ignored Stefan’s snort of derision.

“And a beautiful American, I see.”

“That, too,” Kate replied, color coming to her cheeks. “At least the American part.”

Sieinski turned to Stefan. “And so I have you to thank for being here?”

“Yes, sir. You were lucky to have survived the attack,” he added.

Sieinski gave him a quizzical look. “Yes, of course,” he said. “Status?”

“Repairs are almost done. No telling how long they will last. But we’re fueled and ready to go. We should be underway in less than an hour. Headquarters has ordered us out of port. I don’t want to be sitting here when the next attack comes either.”

“Of course not,” Sieinski licked his lips, his mind elsewhere for the moment. “We can defend ourselves?”

Stefan nodded.

“Very good, then,” he said with barely concealed relief. “I… I’ll be in my quarters. Yes. Come get me when we’re ready to leave.” Sieinski turned and began to edge his way off the bridge, using the backs of chairs, and the wall to keep his balance.

“Sir?”

Sieinski didn’t pause. “Yes?”

“The woman?”

That brought him to a halt. He grabbed a pipe overhead, turned enough so that everyone could see the garish mark on his forehead. In the artificial light of the bridge, it made him look like a demented Cyclops. “She stays, of course. Everyone knows that a beautiful woman brings a ship luck. A neice of the United States of America’s president—that can’t hurt, either. I’ll take all the luck I can get.” He disappeared down the passageway.

“What a sweet man,” Kate said after he was gone.

“Welcome aboard the Eagle, Miss Roosevelt,” Stefan said briskly. “And if you get in the way or do anything that puts this ship or crew at risk, I don’t care who your fucking uncle is… I will certainly throw you and your friend overboard myself. Understand?”

Kate smiled. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“Put her in my quarters,” Stefan bellowed.

“Is he always so charming?” Kate remarked as Stefan escaped up the ladder into the conning tower bridge.

Squeaky gave a weak smile. He wondered if he should tell the woman that the captain had got it wrong. A beautiful woman didn’t bring luck. In fact, exactly the opposite was true. He decided to keep quiet and said instead: “Once you get to know him, you’ll find out that he’s just a big teddy bear.”

“Hides it well, doesn’t he?” Kate mocked. She held out her hand as the room began to spin again. “I think I need to lay down,” she said quickly, fighting back nausea. “Why don’t you lead me some place quiet,” she strained. You can tell me more about your Stefan along the way.”

She didn’t finish. Her mouth sagged open and her eyes began to roll back in her heard. Squeaky jumped forward, catching her around the waist before she crumpled to the deck. “Don’t worry,” he whispered, lifting her in his arms. “We’ll take care of you.” He gently carried her from the control room.

Chapter Fourteen

Stefan took his time filling the bowl of this pipe with tobacco and lighting it. He smoked quietly for a few minutes, the routine helping to diffuse his anger. What had he done to deserve this, he wondered.

He remembered the first time he had asked himself that question, the memory still as fresh, and sharp as a midwinter storm. It was when he learned the meaning of the epithet hurled by the teenage boys at his mother. Whore. Soon enough, a variant had been directed at him—son of a whore. About the same time, the beatings from the sons of the village’s well-to-do had begun. Many afternoons after school, they hunted him like a pack of dogs after a rat. It was sport for them. Terror for Stefan. He still remembered the first time they attacked him. Alone in the barn behind the blacksmith’s shop.

He let the smoke trickle from the corner of his mouth, exploring the old familiar scar with his tongue.

“My dear boy,” his mother had wept, wiping the blood from his torn mouth when he staggered into their small room and collapsed on the floor.

But even then, Stefan had learned it was better not to cry. The pain made his eyes water, but he kept silent, staring at his mother with the accusing eyes of a child as she pawed at his face, weeping. Of course, she wouldn’t apologize this time, or any other. She would never seek the forgiveness of the church, her parents, or anyone else in the village. Too stubborn. “I loved your father,” was all she would say to Stefan.

The town tolerated her pride—barely—because she was the daughter of an important man, the owner of the local flour mill. But she would pay the rest of her life for her mistake, scraping by with hand-me-downs from her family and washing clothes for the wealthier members of the village.

Stefan would pay, too.

After she cleaned his mouth, she grabbed him by the shoulders and said the words that would become his one commandment: “You must fight back!”

And so, Stefan learned—as did his enemies. When he fought, he became a child possessed, a boy with nothing to lose because he had nothing. He soon discovered that that gave him the advantage. They, of course, had to explain bloody noses, torn clothes, soiled faces to their parents. He did not. He never picked fights, but he was quick to defend himself and his mother at the slightest provocation. Before long, even the older boys were leaving him alone.

In the month of December when Stefan was barely twelve years, his mother became sick. At first, it was just a wet cough. She ignored it, continuing to wash laundry by hand, working day after day in temperatures so cold it froze the clothes stiff as driftwood before she had a chance to get them inside. By the time she gave in to Stefan’s pleas, it was already too late. She was dead within a month. Pneumonia, the doctor said.

Of course, Stefan knew who was truly to blame. That night, he set fire to one of the barns on his grandparent’s farm, the grandparent’s who has always refused to acknowledge his existence, making sure, first, to open the stalls and the huge barn doors, so the horses inside would have a path to safety. After all, they weren’t to blame. As Stefan jogged out of town, the glow from the flames lit up the western sky. He didn’t think his mother, watching down on him from heaven, would mind too much what he had done.

He never looked back.

Stefan glanced back over the city. He had expected a return of the bombers, but after the first pair, the sky had been quiet. This lull was almost more ominous than another attack. It wouldn’t last.

“Hello there!” Reggie stuck his head out of the hatch, a big grin animating his face. He scrambled up next to Stefan. “Oh, this is much better. Mind if I smoke?”

Stefan shook his head, wondering what other rabbits that Squeaky had neglected to tell him about might appear next. He opened his mouth to order this one below. “What the hell,” he muttered instead. He reached into his pocket, held the lighter up to the tip of Reggie’s cigarette.

“Ahh,” Reggie exhaled. “Damn wretched down there,” he said. “Can’t imagine what it must be like after a few weeks.”

“You get used to it,” Stefan replied. “And you are?…”

Reggie grinned, held out his hand. “Reginald P. Goldberg at your service. My friends call me Reggie. You can, too, if you like. And who are you?”

Stefan chuckled. “Lieutenant Commander Stefan Petrofski.”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Reggie said.

“Yet another American who speaks passable Polish. How did we get so lucky?”

“You’d be surprised how many of us there are. Some places in Chicago and New York. Christ, you’d think you were walking the streets of Warsaw.”

“You are with the woman?”

“You mean, Kate? Yes. We’re partners. She talks and writes. I shoot.”

“Shoot what?”

Reggie laughed nervously. “Oh, I see. Yes, you might think I’m talking about shooting—killing—or using that thing there.” He pointed to the barrel of the deck gun. “No, I shoot a camera. I take pictures.” He pantomimed the action as if he was demonstrating it to a child or a peasant. “Or, I did, anyway. Before those thugs smashed my equipment.”

“I know what a camera is,” Stefan said stiffly. “We Poles aren’t all backward bumpkins with straw in our hair. And you might be surprised what you can do—if you have no choice. I imagine you would make quite a good marksman.” He puffed on his pipe, appraising Reggie. “Good eyes, steady hands. That’s all it takes. Oh, yes. And the ability to kill.”

“I don’t know about killing and not much about fist fighting,” Reggie snorted, embarrassed. “I was known as that Jewish punching bag when I was younger.”

“I meant no offense,” Stefan said.

“None taken.”

“I suppose you know by now that you leave with us.”

Reggie frowned. “Uh, yes, I can’t say I’m very happy about that. On the other hand, I can’t very well leave Kate by herself. Someone has to keep her out of trouble. Might as well be me.” Reggie sighed.

“There is that,” Stefan said.

“I suppose we’ll just have to make the best of it. And who knows,” Reggie smiled brightly at Stefan, “you might all be heroes. What a great story that will make back home. And we’ll be the ones getting credit for reporting it.”

“What about your cameras?”

“Yes, well, there is that.” Reggie’s faced darkened. “Rotten luck.”

“I have a Hasselblad camera under my bunk. You’re welcome to use it,” Stefan offered. “I won it in a card game a few months ago. Haven’t had the time to sell it or give it away.”

“That’s decent of you!” Reggie exclaimed, grasping Stefan’s arm with excitement. “I suppose you have film for it, as well?”

Stefan waited just long enough for Reggie to begin to deflate, and then nodded. “Of course. What good is a camera without film.”

Reggie wagged a finger at Stefan. “I see how it is. You aren’t a nice man, are you?”

“Not very.”

“Well, forewarned is forearmed, as my mother liked to say. We’ll make heroes of you and your crew anyway.”

“Know what they call heroes in Poland?”

Reggie shook his head.

“Dead!” Stefan’s laughter echoed across the quay.

Chapter Fifteen

There was the grind of the starter. The Eagle’s twin Sulzer diesel engines roared awake, their valves clattering for a few moments before settling into a well-lubricated rumble. Blue exhaust drifted out of the exhaust ports, and spread over the debris studded and fuel-fouled water. Seagulls lining the pilings next to the submarine screamed in protest over the sudden commotion. They raised lazily as a group into the pale morning air and then settled back down again.

Stefan signaled casually with his right hand. Sailors at the bow and stern dropped the forearm-thick ropes, holding the Eagle in place against the quay, into the water. They were immediately pulled up out of the way by young boys—not much younger then they sailors—racing to see who would be first to have a coil piled neatly at his feet.

Stefan pointed to the small, rust-scabbed tug idling patiently off the submarine’s bow, raised his hand, spinning his index finger in the air. White water frothed from beneath the tug’s stern, spreading out in front of her bow like a bridal train as she pulled against the dead weight of the submarine. The line connecting the two vessels quivered like a plucked guitar string, and just when it seemed it would break, force overcame inertia and the Eagle began to move away from the pilings.

Stefan glanced along the length of the Eagle, admiring her sleek, shark-like lines. Even though she represented the latest in submarine technology, she was still, unmistakably, a submarine. The engineering requirements for a vessel that could fight from above and below the ocean’s surface meant any submarine manufactured the past three decades had a cylindrical hull, tapered to a bow at one end, ballast tanks on either side, bow and stern diving planes, diesel engines for surface travel, and battery-powered motors for underwater propulsion at much slower speeds. Even the weapons of choice were common among all submarines: deck guns when surfaced, torpedoes, miniature submarines in their own right but packed with enough high explosives to split a ship in half, spit from fore and aft tubes when submerged.

Stefan had been aboard French, British, and even German submarines. Except for the labels on the valves and gauges, they were all essentially the same. He could fight effectively aboard any of them. And fighting is what lay in their future.

Stefan watched the sailors hustling across the deck below, his eyes burning with fatigue and nagged by a growing sense of uncertainty about their fate and future. He wondered how long they would be able to survive, hunted by the Kriegsmarine. They were all just one mistake away from transforming the Eagle into a coffin. Stefan couldn’t hide the grim smile that split his bearded face. With Sieinski in command, it would be a miracle if they lasted the week. And the fault would be his alone.

There was a small crowd on the pier, a brave few willing to venture out to see the submarine off despite the threat of more German air attacks. The old man who had brought the meats in the middle of the night was waving a huge red and white Polish flag. “Good hunting, Eagle,” he screamed hoarsely. “Bring us back some German heads!”

It took the tugboat only a few minutes to pull the Eagle far enough out into the bay so she could maneuver on her own. Stefan leaned over the edge of conning tower and signaled the bow crew. They cast off the tug’s line, and it backed quickly away, signaling her goodbye and good luck with a blast from its whistle before wheeling around and steaming off in the other direction.

“Your orders, sir,” Stefan said. He had the brim of his cap pulled low over his eyes. His eyes scanned the water ahead. Both hands clasped the Zeiss binoculars hanging against his chest.

Sieinski stood motionless, a slight figure next to the big-boned bulk of his executive officer. He was still hatless, despite the bite in the early morning air. The blow to his head had made it impossible to fit his cap over the swelling without some discomfort. A breeze tousled his thinning hair, the pale skin around his eyes tight as he scanned the morning sky.

“Sir?” Stefan said again.

“Oh, what’s that?”

“Orders?”

“Yes, of course. Take us out. I double checked with Hel. We’re to patrol the Gulf of Gdansk. You there, stay sharp!” Sieinski directed an angry stare at the young gunner sitting behind the Bofors AA gun in the aft part of the conning tower. His hands were up in the air, his face bright with excitement, waving at the crowd on the pier. At the captain’s shrill reprimand, his expression froze and then disappeared completely, his eyes immediately drawn skyward.

“Aye, aye,” Stefan said dryly. He pulled the speaker tube up to his mouth. “Ahead slow. Port five degrees,” he relayed to the helmsman in the control room below decks.

“I suppose I owe you my thanks.”

Stefan shrugged. He didn’t want to be reminded of the evening. His legs still ached from the marathon up to the hotel and back again, and something still smelled vaguely of vomit. It was probably his boots.

“I suppose you met Marie?”

“Yes, sir,” Stefan said. “An interesting woman.”

Sieinski gave a coarse chuckle. “Yes, indeed. I suppose you could say that.”

“She was worried about you,” Stefan said.

“Of course she was,” Sieinski said lightly. “By the way, I can’t find my overcoat. I don’t suppose?”

“Sorry, sir. Don’t recall whether I managed to grab it or not.”

Sieinski’s gave Stefan an appraising glance. He had always been careful about his personal habits. Damn bad luck the Nazis would pick the previous night to attack. Hard to tell with this one, he thought. Despite his reputation, Stefan had kept his emotions under wraps, though Sieinski could tell he was seething over being skipped over for captaincy of the Eagle. But life wasn’t fair. And resentment was something Sieinski could use. He was always good at sniffing out the weakness in an adversary, turning it to his advantage. Of course, it was a mistake to have gotten so out of control at the party. Perhaps Stefan was considering how to use that fact to his advantage. Who could fault him? It is what Sieinski would do in his place. But that was the difference between the two.

“Leave something important behind, Captain?” Stefan asked. He was peering through the binoculars, his lips set in a straight line.

Sieinski smiled. Careful now. “Yes and no. A gift from my dear mother. Expensive. Worth a year’s pay.” He watched Stefan’s lips thin as he finished the sentence: “…for someone like you, but that was his only response. Not bad, not bad at all, he thought. “But I suppose it doesn’t matter. Marie will take care of the coat. Or perhaps it will find its way onto the back of someone who needs it more than I.”

“That is an admirable sentiment, sir,” Stefan said.

Sieinski glanced sharply at Stefan, ready to pounce. But he gave no indication that he meant anything else other than the compliment. Yes, indeed, Sieinski sniffed, it was an admirable sentiment. And if the poor slob discovered what he had left in the pocket, what would it matter? It was war now. He had told Marie he could give it up at any time. But could he? He supposed that now he would discover if it was bluster or true. It was the kind of test his father would have loved. He could almost hear his father’s remark: “It’ll be a test of character.”

Yes, it would.

Both men turned their heads in unison. There was a distant popcorn crackle to the southeast. Antiaircraft shells blossomed like flowers in the early morning air, and then began marching from the horizon toward the Eagle.

“Goddamn Germans,” Sieinski hissed.

Stefan glanced at the boy, Henryk, and the other gunner behind them. He noted with satisfaction that they had already rotated their gun in the direction of the approaching aircraft. Stefan reached for the speaker tube, glanced at the captain. He was frozen in place, hypnotized by the approaching aircraft.

“Take us up to flank speed,” Stefan said.

“Sir?” came the puzzled response.

“Do as I say,” Stefan snarled. “And on my mark, set a new course. One-four-five degrees. Prepare for evasive maneuvers. Ready? Mark.”

As the roar from the submarine’s diesels deepened, the wave at Eagle’s bow rose sharply and then parted, foaming white. Despite the previous night’s attacks, the harbor was still filled with enough freighters and other vessels of every size and disposition to make even a normal passage to open sea tricky. At full speed, it was foolhardy at best. Stefan, however, wasn’t prepared to be an easy target. He glanced at Sieinski, but he was still captivated by the approaching aircraft, mouth open. Stefan knew the feeling. He doubted that Sieinski had ever experienced the thrill and horror of knowing that someone was about to try and kill him.

“Here it comes,” Sieinski shouted, pointing to the approaching shadow.

It was a single plane. He snuck a quick look, and then returned his gaze to the obstacle course ahead of them. Messerschmitt. ME109, he thought they called it. The aft gun opened fire, barking rhythmically. And then it was roaring past them, banking gracefully and climbing steeply into the sun, a tracer trail, too slow to catch it, marking its path.

“It didn’t attack!” Sieinski exhaled with astonishment, turning to Stefan. “It didn’t attack.” The relief was almost too much for him. He clutched the edge of the conning tower, his mouth open, breathing heavily, shaking his head.

“Port 10 degrees. Now,” Stefan barked. The Eagle heeled over, the bow turning away from the side of a barge directly in their path, low in the water, burdened by a small mountain of gravel. The astonished men who had been sitting on the gravel flanks, holding shovels in their hands, watched the dagger prow of the Eagle turn away, waved and shouted as they passed. Stefan couldn’t hide the grin that tugged at his mouth. Probably thought they were crazy, or terrified. Might be a little of both, he imagined. But he had no intention of slowing down even if Sieinski ordered it. There would be more planes. And soon. They wouldn’t be safe until they made it to deeper water.

In the meantime, he realized he was enjoying himself for the first time in weeks. Sick bastard, he thought.

“Why don’t you go below, sir,” Stefan suggested. “You don’t look well.” And then seeing the look cross Sieinski’s face, he soothed the suggestion with a lie. “We’re going to need you later on.”

That killed the retort forming in the back of Sieinski’s throat. “Of course you’re right,” he croaked agreement, unable to keep the faint whine of a little boy from creeping into his voice. “No sense pushing myself too hard.” He moved carefully toward the open hatch and paused. “I don’t understand. Why didn’t it attack?”

“Single plane. Fast. Perhaps out of ammunition.” Stefan snapped his fingers at the sudden thought. “No, probably doing reconnaissance, taking our picture. Too bad we didn’t smile as it flew by. Or better yet, give it the finger.”

“There will be more.”

“No doubt,” Stefan said.

“I leave it in your hands. Have someone get me when we’re on station.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Stefan replied. He watched Sieinski’s head disappear. Given the size of the bruise on his forehead, Stefan wondered if the man was suffering from a concussion in addition to the usual penalties from the previous night’s frolics. How did one feel after opium? Stefan had tried and enjoyed nearly every type of alcoholic beverage ever created, even smoked cannabis one night in Manila. He had managed to avoid opium. One look at the sorry creatures living in the netherworld of that opium den in Hong Kong had been enough to immunize him.

The staccato rhythm of the Bofors interrupted his thoughts.

He glanced over his shoulder. No solitary fighter this time. The Stuka dive bomber was screaming out of the sun, two more circled like buzzards high above, ready to dip their wings and begin their own attack.

As the dive bomber grew in size, transforming from a distant toy into something real and deadly, he leaned into the speaker tube, holding another course change until the last moment. “Wait, wait, wait,” he chanted, his mind gauging the speed of the diving Stuka and the reaction time of the helmsman below. He waited another fraction of a second and then bellowed. “Hard starboard 15 degrees.”

The Eagle began turning to port, sheering away from a tramp freighter that was struggling to get underway, her captain standing outside the bridge, shaking his fist and screaming unheard profanities in Stefan’s direction. And then his mouth opening wide with astonishment as he noticed the Stuka’s bomb, released too late by the pilot, tumbling over the Eagle’s conning tower, directly toward his own ship. Stefan watched him disappear in an orange flash. He ducked down behind the steel lip of the conning tower as the blast washed over the speeding submarine. He felt it, like a rabbit punch in the gut. And then it was past, his ears ringing and the air raining hot metal and wood and the pulverized remains of what had once been human beings.

Henryk and the other gunner behind him began firing again. Stefan noticed blood running from a long jagged cut on the other boy’s face. He was concentrating so intently on the next onrushing fighter, he didn’t even notice the wound. It occurred to Stefan that he didn’t know this boy’s name.

Stefan barked another change of direction. The Eagle swung around the dying freighter, smoke and fire billowing from a jagged hole where the bridge had once stood. A steady, offshore breeze, pushed the oil-fueled smoke, thick and gray, like a midwinter fog, toward the harbor opening, There was a splash on his right, a sudden blast of spray as the next bomb missed, exploding harmlessly 100 meters away from its intended target.

“Pathetic,” Ritter remarked.

“You shouldn’t be up here,” Stefan hissed with surprise. He was about to order the man back below deck, when he noticed the gunner with the bleeding cheek slump suddenly over the grips of the Bofors engines. A beet-colored stain had blossomed on the side of his shirt.

Stefan pushed Ritter aside, wrestled the boy out of the seat and held him dangling feet first over the hatch. “Take him, take him,” he bellowed below. “And you,” he said to a white-faced Henryk, who was still sitting stiffly behind the gun, “make sure he gets help and then get back up here.”

Stefan felt a sudden release of his weight as the men in the control room began to grab hold of the injured gunner’s legs, and then pull him carefully into the safety of the sub. He stepped away, and Henryk dropped down the hatch. When Stefan wheeled around, Ritter was already settling into the gunner’s seat.

“Get the hell out of there.”

Ritter winked, swung the AA gun in the direction of the approaching bomber and opened fire.

Stefan was furious. First the injured boy. And now this civilian to worry about. But if he wanted to die, so be it. He turned his attention back to the submarine’s course. It would do no one any good if he was so distracted he ran the Eagle aground.

Stefan’s lips parted in a snarl as the smoke from the burning freighter obscuring the channel ahead parted, giving him what should have been his first unobstructed view of the open sea.

Unfortunately, there were two fishing boats in the way, one a medium-sized trawler, booms sprouting from her deck like teepee poles, the other a smaller, coastal purse seiner. The screws of both vessels were frothing madly like a pair of hyperactive ducks as they tried to escape the harbor. Fast but not nearly fast enough to clear the channel before the Eagle arrived.

Stefan barked another correction to the submarine’s course. No room to zigzag now. It was steady as she goes. He would have to rely on the smoke and the shooting of the Dutch engineer for cover. He glanced over his shoulder again. This Hans seemed to know what he was doing. He was even smiling faintly as he fired, his eyes narrowed with concentration.

Stefan clamped down tightly on the stem of his pipe, focused his attention ahead. It would be a tight fit. There would be nothing elegant in the maneuver. Stefan was going to part the two vessels with the pricklike prow of the submarine like they were the thighs of a beautiful woman. The Eagle would speed between them, and then out into the Baltic. If they were lucky, he wouldn’t shove either ship onto the rocks. If not? He didn’t want to think about that possibility.

As the Eagle consumed the open water between her bow and the fishing boats, Stefan relayed a series of slight course corrections below. He made a mental note to reward the boy at the helm—if they managed to survive the next few moments.

A shadow passed overhead. Out of the corner of his eye, Stefan watched the dive bomber veer away to the right, noticed smoke trailing from its engine. He gave an approving nod in Ritter’s direction. “Good shooting,” he shouted. Ritter shook his head and gestured at the boats ahead.

The bomb punched like an iron fist through the deck of the fishing boat on the right side of the channel. There was a flash and then a mushroom of fire blossoming high into the air. The boat immediately lost power and slued to the port. The captain of the other fishing boat never had a chance. The bow of the crippled vessel sliced into his boat amidships, and then both were engulfed in explosions.

“You must give way,” Ritter shouted, hopping out of the gun well and grabbing Stefan by the shoulder. “We can’t make it through that.”

The forward gun crew was already scrambling out of their seats, seeking cover down the forward hatch. Stefan glanced at the hand on his shoulder.

“Forgive me, Commander.” Ritter stepped back, folded his arms.

Stefan ordered another course correction. The smoke and haze made it a guess. The channel ahead was almost completely blocked by the two ships in a death embrace. One option, which Stefan dismissed out of hand, was to slow the Eagle, and then feel her way by the wreckage. That would leave her an easy target for the Stukas. The other option was crazy. But Stefan had noticed that the fishing boat hit by the bomb had sagged in the middle as she veered in front of them. If he was right, her back was broken. And if the Eagle struck her near the break, he could slice through the wreckage like a hot knife through butter. If not, their fight would end right here.

“What about those men?” Ritter said it almost as a taunt. High above, the wings of one of the remaining Stukas dipped. She carried no more bombs, but her machine guns could be almost as deadly. “I need you on the gun,” Stefan barked.

Ritter hesitated and then climbed back into the gunner’s seat.

Stefan turned around just in time to see a man, trailing flames, jump from the deck of the larger vessel into the water. When he surfaced, he waved weakly at the approaching submarine. Stefan wondered if anyone else noticed him. It wouldn’t prevent him from doing what he had to do next, but it would save the second guessing.

Stefan leaned into the speakerphone, chanted another slight change in the Eagle’s course.

“You’re not going to stop, are you?” Pablo exclaimed as he crowded in next to him. “If you give way, I’ll throw him a line.” Two parallel lines of spray began to chase the Eagle up the channel. When the lines crossed the aft end of the Eagle, the bullets rang like the clang of jackhammers off the hull, and then continued on ahead, chewing over the burning vessels and stopping as the Stuka wheeled away for another pass.

“If we stop,” Stefan said, “we die.”

“If we don’t?”

Stefan shrugged. “Everyone dies.” He gestured over his shoulder. “Rescue boats are on their way. They will have to do their jobs. We still need to do ours.”

What would he do if he was in his place? Eryk didn’t know. And that was when he realized that command of a ship at war would never be for him. Stefan seemed to be enjoying himself. Eryk, on the other hand, was afraid he might wet himself. He crossed himself, muttered a silent prayer, turned away from the growing horror as the Eagle arrowed toward the burning vessels ahead and the man in the water. “I’m needed below,” he mumbled. Without waiting for permission or a reply, he disappeared through the hatch.

Ritter’s gun began a drum roll as he fired on another Stuka. Damn that Göring, Ritter thought. He wondered what the penalties would be if he strangled the head of the Luftwaffe himself. He had to survive this mission first, of course. He continued firing even though the tip of the Bofors began to glow red. When he felt a shudder convulse along the Eagle’s spine, the wail of tearing steel, he released his hand from the trigger and ducked.

At the moment she stabbed into the side of the burning fishing boat, the Eagle was racing along at top speed, better than 20 knots

Smoke obscured anyone watching from shore what was about to happen. The keeper of a nearby lighthouse, however, had a perfect view. He watched the Eagle split open the remains of the fishing boat like a ripe cantaloupe. There was another explosion as fuel tanks ruptured and the Eagle disappeared from view, completely engulfed by smoke and flames.

The keeper held his breath. Whoever was in charge of the submarine was insane, magnificently insane. But did he have any other choice? The keeper shook his head in answer to his own, unspoken question. A veteran of two wars, and countless skirmishes at sea, he was a man who knew the value of decision making. Often, hesitation came not from failure to ask the right question, but a fear of the answer. To stop dead in the water while under attack by the German aircraft would have been stupid and suicidal. Attempting to reverse course in the narrow channel would have been equally foolhardy. The only protection for the submarine was the deep waters of the Baltic. The captain had had only seconds in which to embrace the answer he must live with from now on. Surely, men would die either way he decided. His own men on the submarine, or the crews of the two fishing boats. Either way, the fate of many were resting on what he would decide. It was not a choice most men would have had the courage or the audacity to make. But the submarine, the old man saw with satisfaction, did not pause, did not waver, as she disappeared from view into the burning vessel.

The old man caught his breath, afraid the submarine had been hung up in the wreckage, but then the bow of the Eagle darted out of the billowing smoke and flames. Even from the distance, the keeper could see the fresh scarring on her flanks, slashed by the talons of torn metal. The identifying number on the side of the conning tower—87-A in big, white characters—was seared black in places. The Polish flag on the stern trailed flames. But the Eagle didn’t pause. She cleared the wreckage, darted past the harbor entrance, and churned out into the Baltic. A fogbank was lying in wait offshore. A few weeks earlier, the weather would not have been so kind. But it was fall. Already the hint of winter in the air. The keeper watched the Eagle, grunting with satisfaction as she disappeared from view. He pulled his coat tightly around his thin frame. A smile brightened his face when he saw the German planes give up, wheeling back to the east and then climbing. He heard a whistle from his stove below. “Tea time,” he muttered. He began the long, winding descent down the tower, holding the railing carefully with his right hand and humming the Polish national anthem quietly to himself.

Chapter Sixteen

Stefan hated fog. Particularly the gray stew that plagued the jagged Baltic coastline from fall to spring. It was a special menace that for centuries had made even the most stoic skippers old men well before their time.

Today, Stefan decided it was his favorite kind of weather. As the bow disappeared into the cloud, he tilted back his head, watching as tattered gray tendrils began to rush by overhead, diffusing the light, changing the quality of the sound of the sea, and muffling the bass-drum hammer of the racing diesels. Just before the fog completely obliterated the sky, Stefan grunted with satisfaction as he noticed the last Stuka turn away and begin heading back to its airfield in Germany.

They were safe, for the moment.

The Eagle plunged deeper into the refuge of the fogbank. Stefan closed his eyes, relishing the sudden change in temperature on his exposed cheekbones, the condensation growing like moss on his shaggy beard. After the madness of the preceding minutes, Stefan felt like they were entering a cathedral, everything gray, insulated from outside cares and desires. Perfect place for me, he thought, suddenly more tired than he could ever remember before, the last of the adrenaline, all that had kept him going the past hours, leaking from his bloodstream.

He knew he should be euphoric. If not for his direction, his decisions, the Eagle would still be bottled up in the harbor, or, more likely, sinking, many of her crew, his men, already dead. Instead, she was free and they would fight on.

He watched as the memory of the man on fire, leaping into the water, began to replay before his eyes. There was nothing he could have done for him, and yet, he knew that he had also died because of the decisions he had made. He also knew it was only the beginning. There would be more memories to add to the collection. This was only a start. “Better get used to it, buddy boy,” he muttered.

At fifteen years old, Stefan had been lucky enough to discover his passion. The sea. That was also the year he joined the crew of a feisty Swedish fisherman, Cy Westling, captain and owner of the fishing trawler Melina.

Already capable of doing a man’s work, Stefan went out of his way to be helpful on board. Despite the taunts and jabs of older deckhands, no job was too unpleasant for him. But Stefan had a plan. Eventually his eagerness caught the eye of Westling. He seized the opportunity, making it clear to the captain that he had no intention of remaining a deckhand for the rest of his life.

He still remembered the evening he had approached the captain. The Melina was in port in Gdansk, her hold already emptied of fish. Stefan knocked on the door.

“Enter.”

He stepped into the cabin, nervously twisting the cap he held in his hands, knowing that this was a critical moment in his life, his future. Westling was sitting at the small desk in his cabin, doing paperwork. He didn’t look up, writing for another minute.

Finally, he set down his pen, leaned back in his chair. “Yes?”

Stefan took a deep breath, and then launched into a speech he had been practicing for weeks, trying it out on the nets, and the pots and pans in the galley, and even a fish or two. He explained that he wanted to learn how to become a master of his own vessel and was hoping the captain would be willing to take him on as an apprentice.

“That so?” Westling replied, looking sharply at the near-man over the top of his reading glasses.

Stefan nodded. His eyes were drawn to the tips of his own boots under the pressure of Westling’s gaze. But he knew that how he reacted was important, too, so he forced himself to meet the captain’s eyes without wavering.

Westling studied Stefan for what felt like hours. He had known other men like Westling in his village back home. Important men. But they also seemed to treat any boys who were not their own, those who showed promise and spunk, as threats, competition to be crushed. He had watched as they had gone out of their ways to do just that, their abuse becoming as incessant as spring rain. But Stefan hoped Westling was not this kind of man. He had treated him fairly from the first day on the job. The other men in his employ didn’t like him, but they respected him for his knowledge and his equal treatment. He must have finally seen something he liked. He pulled open a drawer, pulled out a well-worn book and then handed it to Stefan. “Here,” he said, “read this. It’s called Lord Jim. Written by a countryman of yours, and a sea captain, as well. His name is Joseph Conrad. When you’re finished, let me know. We’ll talk about what you’ve learned. If I’m satisfied, we’ll go on from there.”

Stefan hesitated, turning the book over in one hand.

“What is it?”

Stefan’s face reddened with shame. “I… I. . ,” he stuttered. “I don’t know how to read.”

Westling tipped his chair against the cabin wall, scratched the top of his bald head. “You didn’t go to school?”

Stefan opened his mouth, and then clamped it shut, gripped by an overwhelming sense of dread. Reading? How could he have been so stupid. Of course, it wasn’t just a matter of a strong back and willingness to work. To become a captain you also had to know something upstairs, too. Stefan slapped the side of his head with his hat, then held out the book. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Sorry?” Westling exploded. “You’re sorry?”

Stefan’s heart felt like it was in free fall, dropping into a black well that had no bottom. It was all he could do not to cry out.

Westling sighed. “No reason for you to be sorry, son,” he said, the rage leaking from his voice. “The fault of your ignorance rests with others. But after this moment, if you do nothing to correct it, the fault will become your own. And understand this. Doesn’t matter what happened before. You are responsible. So, are you willing to learn to read and write?”

Stefan nodded.

Westling smiled and Stefan felt hope rush back into his soul like a warm breeze from heaven itself. “Good enough. It’ll just take a little longer. That’s all. You keep the book with you. Tomorrow night, 7 p.m. You come here and we’ll start your lessons. Polish, Swedish and English and maybe some German, too. When we’re done, you’ll be able to speak and read all four. Can’t captain the Baltic or the North Atlantic without them.”

“What about my evening duties?”

“You arguing with your captain?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Now get out of my sight. I have work to do.”

Stefan opened his eyes again with effort. Westling had been one of the first ever, besides his mother, to show him a kindness, expecting nothing in return. He knew he had been lucky. In all the years he had been on his own, he had come to understand that true kindness was a rarity, something usually found in Bible stories, not in the everyday life of a seaman. The result was a whole class of men and women who kept their pain and cynicism in check with alcohol. It was a path that Stefan suspected he would have taken, too. If not for Westling. Much of what he had today was do to the kindness of that old Swede. He would be forever grateful to him.

Stefan wiped his cheeks with the sleeve of his jacket, surprised by the sudden show of emotion. Wouldn’t do to fall apart now, he thought. Plenty of time for that later.

He glanced over his shoulder, following the foam of their wake back along the path they had just taken until it disappeared into the fog. Soon enough, the Kriegsmarine would be after them. They would do well, he thought, to survive the week. And yet, this Eagle still had talons. And now, she was out of her cage and ready to do some hunting.

“Forgive me once again, commander.” Ritter jumped over the edge of the railing, landing lightly on the bridge deck. Stefan jerked surprise. He had forgotten all about the man.

Ritter’s face was blackened with smoke, his blue eyes red rimmed. He rubbed his short cropped hair and gave Stefan a rueful smile. “I guess that stint I did in the Home Guard came to some use after all. In any case, I was out of line back there. I should have kept my yip shut.”

“No apologies necessary, Hans,” Stefan said, his voice hoarse. He gestured toward the gun. “I may need a new gunner. You interested?”

Ritter laughed. “I think I’ll leave it to the professionals. I’m not paid enough.”

“Foolish of you and your men to come along, you know,” Stefan remarked. He refilled his pipe, took a moment to light it in the swirling breeze in the conning tower. “We don’t have much of a chance, or other options. You do… or did. Not that I don’t appreciate your help. But it will be difficult, now, to find a safe moment to let you off that doesn’t leave us too exposed.”

Ritter shrugged. “We’re big boys. We knew what we were doing. Or, at least, I thought we knew it. That little bit at the end…” He shook his head with real wonder. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Stefan restrained a shudder. “It seemed the right decision.” Stefan wasn’t sure he said it out loud, or if it was just the echo of an excuse that he would play back again and again for the rest of his life.

“Where are we headed?”

Stefan blinked, drew on his pipe, let the smoke trickle out of the corner of his mouth. He gestured with his arm. “This will be our hunting grounds. The Gulf of Gdansk. We’ll stay here until we receive other orders or run out of fish.”

“After that?”

Stefan shrugged.

“I still can’t believe Germany attacked,” Ritter said. “Will England and France help out?”

“You know what I know. England said if Poland is attacked it will be war. So did France. Whether they do anything, your guess is as good as mine. In any case, I think it will be over soon. You think that is too fatalistic for an officer to say?”

“You aren’t a typical officer.”

“I will take that as a compliment,” Stefan said. He stared out at the fog. “But Germany will have to make to do with one less Stuka, eh?” He clapped Ritter on the back.

“Beginner’s luck that, I think,” Ritter said with an uncomfortable shrug. “If there were problems, I suppose we’d have heard from Chief K by now. But I should check with my men below.”

“No doubt.”

“Well then, congratulations, commander.”

As he watched Ritter disappear down the hatch, Stefan knew he should order the deck gun crew back out, find a replacement for Ritter, post lookouts. But another moment alone wouldn’t hurt anything. That was the problem with submarines, one of them anyway. You could never find a place to be alone. There was always someone breathing over your shoulder or farting in your face. Now they had—Stefan mentally added up the number—that woman Kate and Reggie, Hans and his two men. Sixty-six. And one toilet among them all. Stefan couldn’t repress a smile. Sharing a toilet with that many men would be an experience for the woman. What was her name? Kate. And the men, too, though in a pinch, always easier for them to drop their trousers and hang their butts over the side.

Stefan shifted his pipe in his mouth. He’d delayed long enough. He spoke briefly into the speaker tube, felt the diesels slow. He watched with satisfaction as the forward hatch flipped open and the gun crew scramble sheepishly back into place. “Leave your posts again without my orders and I’ll have you all keelhauled.”

Embarrassed nods all around.

Stefan heard the lookout and a replacement gunner clamber into place behind him. The gunner was Henryk, and he was alone.

“How’s your partner doing?”

Henryk settled into position. He wiped his palm on his coat, pulled the metal helmet down low over his eyes. Only then did he respond, staring at Stefan, his eyes wide. “Andre’s dead,” he replied simply. “Looked like a flesh wound, but Cooky couldn’t find the exit wound. Said he was bleeding inside. No way to stop it.”

As he listened, Stefan clenched his pipe so hard he bit right through the stem. Andre? Now he learned his name. The pipe’s bowl clattered harshly on the deck of the conning tower, the wind swirling the tobacco and ash and sparks around Stefan’s legs and then carried them heavenward like some ancient tribal offering.

“Goddamnit,” he snarled, pulling the stem from his mouth and tossing it over the side. “Rotten luck,” was all he could think to say.

Henryk nodded. “Not your fault,” he intoned, gripping the handles of the Borfor more tightly. “No, sir, not your fault.”

Stefan turned away, cleared his throat. “Keep a sharp eye. No telling who or what is out here.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Stefan yelled down through the hatch. “Pablo, get your ass up here.” As he waited, he pulled a thick roll, already beginning to harden, from his coat pocket. Stefan’s mouth began to water. Strange how the body could react to sight of bread automatically, while the rest of him, the human part of him, grieved over the death of a boy. But it was more than just the boy. Stefan knew it deep in his heart. It was the man in the water, the freighter captain, and the dozens of others who were now gone because of the Eagle. No time for such thoughts. He shook his head, banishing them deep into his psyche, tore off another chunk with his teeth and chewed harshly. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. A glass of beer, and it would almost be enough. He took another bite. No doubt some poor German aviator would be catching hell for missing out on such an easy target. They had been lucky. One more time. No doubt, their next encounter with the Germans would be another matter.

Chapter Seventeen

Admiral Dönitz stared intently at the glossy black and white photograph lying on the top of his walnut desk. The senior researcher from Naval Intelligence was pointing out various details. Dönitz couldn’t recall the man’s name. He thought it was Schmitz, or Schmidt, or something like that.

“Minimal damage, sir,” droned the researcher. “Looks like only two areas were bombed. A surprising number of vessels still in the harbor, all things considered. You’d think they would have headed for open sea at the first sign of trouble. And there’s your target.” He tapped the gunmetal gray, pencil-thin shape in the center of the photograph. A white, S-shaped line uncoiled behind it. “You can see that she is underway at what must be close to full speed given the heightened visibility of her wake. Clearly taking evasive action. That Polish captain must be crazy to going so fast in such a confined space with that many obstacles in the way.”

Dönitz glanced up at the researcher. Pictures never did justice to the reality of the moment they captured, especially aerial photographs. Everything reduced to stark, aseptic hues of black and white and gray. Men and women becoming no different from trees and buildings and ants. And yet, it was the people in the photograph who were important, or rather their decisions that would in turn determine the shape of the next moments. There was no camera made that could take snapshots of what was in their minds and souls. Dönitz could imagine what it must have been like a thousand meters underneath the fighter at the moment the pilot had flicked the switch and the camera housed in the belly of the ME 109 had opened, exposing the film to light. Acrid smoke in the air so thick it burned your eyes, left a bitter taste on your tongue. The infernal noise. Shouts of men. Roar of engines, screaming gulls. “You ever captained a vessel?” he asked sharply. “And what is your name again?”

“Strasser, sir. And no, I’ve never had the privilege.”

“So, then, you have no idea what it must be like to be responsible for an entire ship and crew?”

Strasser looked like he had just taken a bite from a lemon. He shook his head.

“Nor do you have any idea what it takes to prevent your vessel from being sunk, your crew killed. You don’t know, do you?”

“No, sir.”

“Until you do, then, keep your editorial comments to yourself. You see, that crazy Pole of a captain is doing exactly what I would do under similar circumstances: full speed and run like hell.”

Strasser bobbed his head. He glanced longingly at the door like a drowning man staring at the surface of the water that was still fathoms away.

Dönitz let a hiss of air escape from the corner of his mouth. Who did the fool think he was, commenting on something he had no business even considering? That was what was wrong with so many young people today. Arrogance and a stupidity. They were too stupid to realize what they didn’t know and to arrogant to keep quiet or ask for help.

And not just the young. Göring had the same problem. He had no respect for anyone except his own pet Luftwaffe. The German High Command, at Raeder’s insistence, had set Gdynia off limits in the initial attack. Even if they hadn’t decided to go after the Eagle, he needed the harbor and docks unscathed. Amazing what the Poles had done during the previous decade. What once was a sleepy fishing village of just a few thousand had been transformed into the busiest port on the Baltic. And within hours, it would be under control of the Kriegsmarine. Göring had disobeyed orders.

Dönitz flipped the photograph aside, peered closely at the next one. 87A on the side of the conning tower was clearly visible. Strasser cleared his throat to try again. “As you can see, definitely the Eagle,” he pointed. “Two officers in the conning tower. Probably Józef Sieinski, her captain, and the executive officer. I don’t seem to have his name. ”

Dönitz waved his hand aside. “I can see that.” He picked up the magnifying glass, hovered it over the photograph. “She looks undamaged.”

Strasser nodded. “But look here.” He pointed at two vessels just entering the harbor’s outlet to the sea, a channel framed on either side by the two half mile long rock jetties. “She will quickly overtake these two. No way to get past them.”

“What did our contact at the Luftwaffe have to say.”

Strasser frowned. “I’m sorry, sir. Shortly after these photographs were taken, another mission was ordered.”

“Who gave the order?” Dönitz asked harshly.

Strasser stepped back, tugging nervously at his sleeves. “That sir, is unclear.”

Dönitz’s lips narrowed. Of course, Göring wouldn’t be stupid enough to give the order himself. And if he did, what would the Fuhrer do to him? Nothing, of course. Who would regret the loss of an enemy vessel?

Dönitz gestured curtly toward the door. The analyst was dismissed. After he was gone, his aide peered into the Dönitz’s office.

“Get me a meeting with Grossadmiral Raeder, as soon as possible.”

The aide disappeared.

Dönitz drummed his fingers on the surface of the photograph. It was still unclear what had happened to the Eagle. If Ritter and his men were not on the Eagle, the mission had failed. If the submarine had been destroyed, it was a matter he would bring up with Göring in private.

“Grossadmiral Raeder has a moment now, sir,” Dönitz’s aide said.

Dönitz stood, smoothed down the front of his jacket. He picked up the photographs on his desk, and then crossed the room. Time to tell the head of the Kriegsmarine about his plan. Perhaps he could do something about Göring.

Five hundred and thirty kilometers to the west, there was a knock at the door of a cottage in Chartwell, England. Winston Churchill glanced up from his breakfast plate, a piece of sausage dangling precariously from the tip of his fork.

Across the table, a former Scotland Yard detective by the name of Thompson dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his napkin. Without a word, he picked up his pistol from the table, and went to answer the door.

Thompson’s former employer estimated that there were 20,000 Nazis in England on this first morning in September. Churchill thought that number was probably too conservative, though when you were already dealing with a small army of spies, a few thousand more either way probably wouldn’t matter much. He didn’t doubt that his own murder was a standing order with every single one of them, especially now that war had finally broken out.

Churchill felt his stomach growl with protest, plopped the rest of the sausage into his mouth, and chewed with gusto. Nothing like an English banger in the morning. The previous weeks, he’d lost weight. No appetite. But now that all the waiting was finally over, his appetite had returned. Of course, he felt little consolation in the fact that he had been right about Hitler and the Germans all along. In fact, he was even more gloomy about Poland’s chances than he had been only weeks earlier. By all accounts, the morale of the Polish fighting man was at an all-time high. But they would be no match for the German’s genius with machines. And the French were unwilling to attack German positions pre-emptively. Peace activists and French politicians agreed it was all a trifle that would soon go away. Negotiation was the key. Calmer, wiser heads would prevail.

Churchill shook his head, forked some fried tomato into his mouth. A week earlier, he had met with French General Georges over lunch. The General had detailed the French and German armies strengths and weaknesses. The analysis was impressive. Then the General had warned that the Germans had a strong army and the will to fight.

When Churchill asked him if there would be war, the old general had merely sighed, and then stared at him with eyes that had already seen too many men die.

They were too comfortable, Churchill thought. Their wall of guns and concrete, their Maginot Line, it had given them the illusion of security. It would be foolish to attack the French directly. Even Churchill agreed with that. But what if Hitler chose to race around it through another country? The thought hadn’t occurred to Churchill before. “My God,” he muttered to himself with sudden realization, “that’s what he’ll do.”

He heard an exchange of words at the door. Thompson, no doubt, pistol out, demanding identification papers, though Churchill couldn’t imagine a Nazi assassin being so polite as to knock on the door first before opening fire. And if one happened to come around the back way, Churchill had his own weapon close to his side. Not quite as good a shot as Thompson, Churchill had picked a shotgun. He had it nestled like a cat on his lap.

Thompson came in first, followed by the man at the door. He recognized him as one of Chamberlain’s men. “Breakfast?” Churchill offered brightly.

The man shook his head, a lock falling across his forehead. He brushed at it absent-mindedly. “Sir, the Prime Minister would like to meet with you this afternoon,” he said.

“Very well,” Churchill replied. He had been expecting this. “We’ll leave right now.”

“Oh, yes, almost forgot.” The aide was fiddling with the AWOL hair again. “He wanted me to pass along some news that he thought you might appreciate given your longstanding interest in matters of the high seas.”

“Yes, yes?” Churchill said impatiently.

“Our man in Gdynia reports that the last Polish submarine in port—the Eagle—has managed to escape.”

A broad smile split Churchill’s pug face. “Bully them!” he exclaimed. “On such a dark day we can take heart from at least one bright spark.”

Churchill stuck a fresh cigar in the corner of his mouth. He had no illusions about the conflict with Germany. The very survival of England would be in the balance, of that he was certain. He was ready for the fight to come. In some sense, his whole life and career had been pointing to this moment. He would serve King and country in whatever way the prime minister deemed fit. “Let’s go, Thompson,” he growled, “and don’t forget your pistol.”

Chapter Eighteen

Sieinski lay on his bunk, one leg up, his arm flung across his face. A pan on the floor was completely filled with vomit. Even if he had been so inclined, he was too weak to dispose of the former contents of his stomach on his own. That’s why God made some men seaman, he thought wryly to himself.

He had tried to eat. Some eggs and potatoes whipped together by the cook. It had stayed down just a moment, then come back up again. He had retched until his stomach was completely empty of not only the most recent attempt at a meal but of what had remained of the banquet he had enjoyed the night before. Memories of it were already disappearing like a spring snow.

Sieinski tried a sip of tea, sweet and tepid, successfully fought back a spasm and tried another sip. He needed something. He was almost too weak to walk, and his head felt very much like the time he had been struck by a polo mallet that had slipped out the hands of one of his opponents. Accident. At least, that’s what the man said later on, when he stopped by Sieinski’s hospital bed to apologize. Sieinski had never believed him.

“Sir?”

“Enter,” Sieinski groaned.

Stefan slipped into the captain’s cabin, wrinkled his nose when he noticed the foul soup on the floor.

“We’re out of the harbor,” Stefan said sourly, trying to talk and hold his breath at the same time.

“We haven’t dived yet?”

“No need. We’re in a fogbank…”

“Aren’t we the lucky ones,” Sieinski replied sarcastically.

Stefan stared at the ceiling of the cabin. “We’ll stay in it as long as we can, and then submerge until nightfall. I imagine we’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest. Every plane in the Luftwaffe will be on the lookout for us. We’re on course to reach our station off Gdansk shortly after 2000 hours.”

“Very well,” Sieinski groaned.

“I heard you lost one of the gunners?”

Stefan nodded. “Yes,” was all he said. He didn’t want to prolong the present conversation any longer than necessary. The smell from the pan was making him dizzy.

“Rotten luck having something like that on your conscience. But I warned you all to keep a sharp eye, didn’t I?”

Stefan didn’t trust himself to say anything. He kept his eyes on the wall above the captain’s head.

“Make sure you contact headquarters before we submerge. I imagine they’ll want to know that we’re still in one piece.”

As Stefan began to back out of the cabin, Sieinski lifted the crook of his arm off his face, pointed it languidly at the vomit in the pan. “Since you’re here, please take care of that. Bring the pan back. Clean enough to eat on, of course. I still don’t trust my stomach.”

Stefan bared his teeth in a weak approximation of a grin. “Aye aye, sir,” he said, saluting sharply. He took a deep breath, picked up the pan and disappeared.

What an odd man, Sieinski thought to himself. You’d think Stefan would have more to say after the death of a crewmen—one of his own men. Perhaps it was an indication of the depth of character. Sieinski would have continued along that path if it wasn’t interrupted by a vague memory. Since regaining consciousness, his overcoat had never been far from his mind. Now he had a fuzzy recollection of waking aboard the Eagle, recognizing the warmth of his overcoat, draped over him like a blanket, the touch of someone’s hand on his forehead, the tug on a leg as someone removed his boots, and then everything had become black again.

Perhaps it was here after all?

“Radioman?” Sieinski yelled, suddenly anxious.

“Aye, sir,” came the reply from the small cubbyhole on the other side of the passageway. A pale, narrow-faced boy wearing headphones stepped out of the opening. He rapped on the bulkhead next to the curtain door of the captain’s cabin.

“Come, come, don’t be shy.”

Radioman Igor Radovic stuck his head past the cloth, restrained an impulse to pinch his nose at the lingering stench. “What is it, sir?”

“Ah, yes. See if you can raise M10 for me. Tell her captain I want to meet. Rendezvous Beta. He’ll know the place and the time.”

“That’s it?”

“Oh, yes. Let me know immediately if you receive any messages from headquarters. That’s me alone. Understand?

“Aye, sir,” the radioman replied, raising his eyebrows. “Anything else.”

“Ah, yes, yes.” Sieinski had to grab the edge of the blanket to stop his shaking hands. “And get someone to find my coat. You know, my good one. It must be here somewhere. And I want to know who took it.”

Stefan stomped down the passageway like a man possessed, his face red with rage, the pan filled with Sieinski’s vomit held at arm’s length. Unfortunately for Squeaky, he was the first one he met. He grabbed the startled man by the shirt collar, thrust the pan of vomit in his hand. “Get rid of this,” he choked. “And make sure the captain gets the pan back. And I want it clean enough to eat off, got that?”

Squeaky nodded.

Stefan continued on down the passageway like a fast moving squall. He didn’t stop until he ducked into his own cabin. He leaned heavily against the bulkhead, breathing deeply through his nose. He had to be more careful. No good if he lost control. He held out his hand. It was vibrating like a tuning fork. He clenched his fist and slammed it against the wall, and then again. No, he would not allow himself to lose control, not in the face of the dangers the Eagle faced. But it was the last time he would let the captain—any captain—treat him like an ordinary stableman.

Chapter Nineteen

“I can probably find you a ball peen hammer.”

Kate stood in the doorway, a bemused look on her face. Her red hair was combed, the bloody bandage that had been wrapped around her head was gone, replaced by a six-inch piece of gauze. She touched her forehead. “Cooky—is that his name?—says I’ll have a nice scar. Not as nice as that Dutch engineer, what’s his  name?”

“Hans,” Stefan said after a moment, his voice hollow and without emotion. He glanced down at his throbbing hand and wondered if he had broken a bone. It would serve him right for his schoolboy tantrum.

“Ah, yes, that’s right,” continued Kate. “Hans. He was at the pub, too, you know. Just luck that he and his men happened along when Reggie and I…” Her voice trailed off as she remembered.

She had been laughing when he first noticed her. She’d thrown back her head, her face bright with humor, revealing a smooth, pale neck. It would be hard to make her laugh now, Stefan thought.

“Anyway, he has a real beauty. Nothing I hope to match. Probably some dueling thing.”

“He’s Dutch,” Stefan prompted.

“They do it, too?”

Stefan smiled.

“That’s better. You don’t look so fierce when you’re smiling. Not all that bad having me and Reggie aboard, I hope. Though I do have a few complaints about the state of the toilet. You’d think grown men would know how to aim it right. It’s not like I’m the only one who has to sit on the darn thing.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Stefan said.

“Would you please? I’d be so grateful. If I hadn’t grown up with a bunch of brothers, I probably couldn’t stand it. You’d have to rig something for me up on deck. It would smell better.”

“We could do that, too,” Stefan said. “Might be a bit cold.”

Kate’s eyes widened and she began a chuckle that quickly changed into a moan. “Please don’t do that,” she said, grabbing her head.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Stefan apologized.

Kate composed herself with a deep breath. “That’s better. So, I’m going to have a nice scar. It should go nicely with my nose, don’t you think?” She struck a movie-star pose, head cocked to one side, hand behind her neck, chest out, revealing ample breasts pushing against a soft green wool sweater.

Stefan swallowed hard. It was hard not to stare. “I think you look…”

“Magnificent,” Reggie finished for him, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “I’ve been looking all over this floating deathtrap for you.”

Stefan frowned. Actually, the word that came to mind was ‘wonderful.’ But magnificent would work, too. He kept quiet.

“I needed some exercise,” Kate said. “Thought I’d get some background on the second in command—for my story, of course.”

“Of course,” Reggie smirked.

“I’m very busy,” Stefan said. “What can I do for you?”

“Drop us off at the nearest port, that’s what,” Reggie quipped.

“I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

“Okay, nearest friendly ship.”

Stefan stared at him.

“See what you’re doing, Reggie? He’s getting that scary look on his face again.” Kate turned toward Stefan. “Don’t listen to him. We like it here. We’re grateful for you getting us out of there.”

“Thank the captain,” Stefan said.

Kate smiled. “And as long as we’re here,” she continued, “you won’t mind if we interview your crew. You’ll remember that I promised that you would end up famous—if you don’t get us killed, that is.”

Stefan took a deep breath, fully prepared to give a harsh retort, but the absurdity of the situation gave him pause: he served an untested captain on an untested boat with an untested crew in a time of war; his vessel was being held together by band aids and the good intentions of three civilian volunteers from the Netherlands; his crowded, all male crew was playing host to an attractive, female American reporter who said she was the neice of the the president of the United States and her photographer, while heading out to help keep the Kriegsmarine from attacking Polish port cities. Now that he thought about it, it couldn’t be much worse. Stefan leaned against the bulkhead, and began laughing. The sound of his mirth turned heads up and down the passageway.

When he finally stopped, he had to wipe his eyes. “Thank you, Miss Roosevelt,” he said. “I can’t remember the last time I laughed with so much pleasure.”

“You’re welcome,” Kate replied, her eyes narrowing.

“Under the circumstances, why would I have any objections to interviewing my crew. Just don’t interfere with their duties. You’ll agree with me that there’s no sense in having us all get killed because one of my boys is paying more attention to you than to their jobs. Of course, I’ll need to double-check with the captain. If he says otherwise, I’ll let you know.”

“I’m sure you will,” Kate said, giving him a warm smile. She wrinkled her nose, looking up at the spaghetti of pipes and conduit on the ceiling. “What’s that smell? Salami? God, is that it? Did you know, Mr. Petrofski, that there’s meat hanging from pipes in the ceiling. Bags of onions, too. It’s like the corner grocer from Hell in here.”

“I’m sure you’ve notice that space is precious on a submarine,” Stefan said. “And now, I must get to the bridge.” His eyes lingered for a moment on Kate, and then he carefully brushed past her.

“What about that interview with you?” Kate said.

“I’m a nobody,” Stefan said. As he continued on down the corridor, he reached into his pocket, felt a warm, greasy hunk of meat in his pocket, leftovers from his visit to the captain. He’d forgotten all about it.

“Where are we?” Ritter asked.

Chief K didn’t look up from the gauges. “Somewhere off Gdansk. We’ll sit on the bottom till dark, and then see if we can’t bag us a few Germans.”

“How does everything look?” Ritter was squatting on the deck next to Chief K. They were both watching Ritter’s men clean up, using already filthy rags as best they could. Their clothes and faces were still streaked with grime. Ritter had some bread and meat for them when they were done. He was famished, as well, but he would wait and eat with them.

“So far, so good,” Chief K grunted with satisfaction, flashing yellowed teeth in Ritter’s direction. “You boys finally did the trick.”

Ritter nodded, returned the smile. Fool. During the preceding weeks, when they had been doing everything they could to keep the Eagle in port, he had been easy to distract and when that didn’t work, they had simply appealed to his vanity. He would set down the wrench, ignoring what was going on, and the begin a long discourse on some obscure topic or long-ago experience that only he cared about.

The pimply-faced boy watching behind them, however, had been another matter. He was like an unwanted shadow, observing everything they did, rarely said a word. Probably nothing more than a dumb farm boy, nonetheless, he had made Ritter uneasy. He still did, though this time, instead of sabotaging equipment, they were repairing it.

“You there, boy, run get us some coffee, would you?”

The boy looked at Chief K, who flicked his hand with impatience. “Yes, yes, get to it.”

Jerzy Rudzki swung down from the pipes and padded down the passageway. As he moved away, Ritter noticed he was wearing tattered, blood-stained socks.

Chief K noticed Ritter’s glance. “Won’t take ’em off. A little slow, I think. Follows me around like a pet rooster, you know. But a good boy.”

Ritter feigned a smile.

Chapter Twenty

Stefan trained his binoculars at the distant glow along the southeastern horizon that marked the port city of Gdansk. What interested him, however, had nothing to do with the city. It was the dark shape silhouetted against the light. A ship. At least 10,000 tons by the look of her. Their first target.

Stefan glanced at his watch. He had just heard from the captain about a meeting at sea with a Polish Navy motorboat. Unusual timing. What was so important it couldn’t be handled by a radio message? He wondered. Of course, the fact that the captain hadn’t shared any details only added to Stefan’s growing frustration. But that meeting was still three hours away. They would have plenty of time to skewer this fat pig of a German freighter and make it to their planned rendezvous. No escorts in sight. Just like the Germans. Overconfident to a point of arrogance, or stupidity. And definitely German by the look of her. They would get closer before firing, but Stefan didn’t need the confirmation. He knew it in his bones.

He spoke briefly into the speaker tube. “Get the captain,” he said. As a tingle of excitement warmed his belly, he brought the glasses back to his eyes.

After escaping from Gdynia, the Eagle had zigzagged for nearly two hours in a northeasterly direction, protected from German aircraft flying high above by the fog’s gray shroud. By mid-morning, however, the fog began to thin. Stefan ordered the decks cleared, and the Eagle submerged, taking refuge in the black-green depths of the Baltic. Under battery power, and at a much slower 2 knots, Stefan changed course, south toward Gdansk. She had cruised in this direction until mid-afternoon. He had ordered all stop, and the Eagle had settled quietly, 15 fathoms below the surface, waiting here until nightfall.

The captain joined Stefan and three lookouts on the bridge. He was breathing heavily from the climb up the ladder. Stefan slipped the binoculars from around his neck and offered them to the Captain.

Sieinski took them without comment. “What do you have?” he said weakly.

In the pale red light of the conning tower, Sieinski looked ghastly. Despite the chill, his face was covered with a thin sheen of sweat. His lips were purple and the garish bruise on his forehead had mushroomed into a multi-hued stain that began at his eyebrows and disappeared under his hair line. Holding the binoculars seemed to much. His hands were visibly shaking.

“Vessel off the port bow, moving slowly. Ten thousand meters. Doesn’t seem too worried about us. Looks like a freighter. Low in the water. She’s loaded with something.”

“Anything else?”

Stefan shook his head. “I recommend we move in for a closer look.”

Sieinski chewed on his lower lip. He peered through the glasses again, breathing shallowly. “Three hours until we meet the M10.”

“We have time,” Stefan replied hastily, alarm bells beginning to go off in his head. Sieinski couldn’t be thinking that they should let this ship pass by unscathed, unchallenged?

Sieinski lowered the glasses and stared at Stefan. “When I want advice, I’ll ask for it.”

“She’s probably a German freighter. You can tell by the pattern of lights along the bow. Just our luck she’s out here alone.”

Sieinski began to cluck his tongue. “So there we have it. We don’t have the time. And even if we did, I still wouldn’t want to risk an attack going bad and miss our rendezvous with M10.”

“Excuse me, sir?” Stefan didn’t bother to keep the tone of disdain from his voice. “We’re at war and there’s a potential target…”

“I thought I was clear enough, Mr. Petrofski,” Sieinski barked. “Bring us about and let’s head for our rendezvous point.”

“But, sir!”

Sieinski shook his head and sighed. “I know, I know,” he said in a voice one might use with a child or an idiot. “I want to attack, too. But the best hunter has a cold heart. And if by some chance that freighter is German, she will radio for help as soon as we attack. With the coordinates they provide, we’ll have destroyers chasing us in short order. I don’t want to risk our meeting with M10. Does that make sense?”

Stefan choked back a hot retort. He didn’t need this inexperienced blueblood explaining risk to him. “Aye, aye, sir,” he managed to mumble.

Sieinski handed the binoculars back to Stefan. “Get me when we find the M10.” He disappeared down the hatch.

“What a load of bullshit…. ,” one of the lookout’s whispered.

“Stow it, sailor,” Stefan thundered, glaring over his shoulder. “I’ll have none of that on my bridge.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Stefan spoke into the speaker tube. “Helm, bring us about. Two-five-four degrees. Flank speed.”

As the bow of the Eagle turned away from Gdansk, Stefan pulled a spare pipe out of his pocket. He stuffed the bowl with tobacco and lit it, shielding the flame from his lighter from the stiff breeze. When he was done, he clenched the pipe in his set jaw, and then gripped the lip of the conning tower.

Of course the lookout was right. It was bullshit. Attack. That’s what submarines did. Risk was inherent with the mission. Stefan’s long years on the bridge of Westling’s fishing boats had taught him a thing or two about freighters—ones from Bremen were as different from ships that hailed from Dublin as a cod was from a herring. To hell with danger. There was a perfect target nearby—a German target, he felt like shouting—and they were turning away.

“It’s time, Stef,” Squeaky said four hours later.

Stefan panned the darkness with his binoculars. In the starlight, he could just make out the Polish motorboat, M10, right where it should be.

“Send them a greeting,” Stef ordered the signalman. “See if anyone is awake over there. Captain to the bridge,” he said into the speaker tube.

The signal light began to click.

There was a pause, and then a responding light winking from across the water. Squeaky began to chuckle.

“They’re wondering if we’ve happened across Adolf,” he said.

Stefan cracked a smile, his first in hours. “Tell them we were hoping they’d taken care of the bastard.”

Squeaky relayed the message to the signalman, who flashed a buck-toothed smile and then began clicking furiously. Just as he finished, the captain’s head appeared through the opening in the floor of the bridge. If anything, he looked even worse than he had a few hours earlier, Stefan thought. Squeaky made a move to help him up, but Stefan grabbed his arm and held him in place. The bastard had no business topside if he couldn’t handle the ladders.

“Ahead slow,” Stefan said into the speaker tube. As the sub began to nose through the chop, the motorboat came around next to her starboard side. Seamen tossed lines from her bow and stern, dropped bumpers off her side, and pulled her close. “All stop,” Stefan said.

A figure jumped down from the motorboat onto the deck of the Eagle, trotted over to the conning tower, and disappeared from view as he scrambled up the ladder.

“I could use a good, stiff drink,” said the man, reappearing again as he flung a leg over the side and dropped down onto the deck of the bridge.

“Welcome aboard the Eagle, Wictor,” Sieinski said his mouth twisting into a grin.

“Holy mother,” exclaimed Wictor Sopocko, captain of the Polish motorboat M10. “What the hell happened to you?”

“A Stuka,” Sieinski said.

“So that was her name,” Sopocko interrupted lightly. “Looks like she got the better of you.” He tapped Sieinski lightly on the shoulder and then frowned with concern when he shivered in response. “You need a doctor, you should be in your bunk with a glass of cognac.”

“There’s a war on,” Sieinski said.

“Ah, yes, thanks for the reminder,” Sopocko sighed. He glanced around the conning tower. “Gentlemen,” he said, acknowledging Stefan and then Squeaky. He held out his hand to them.

Officers of the Polish Navy were a small, select club. Stefan had, of course, met Sopocko before. He was another blueblood like Sieinski. But Sopocko’s father owned a couple of shipyards and a large estate outside of Warsaw. Stefan had seen the shipyards many times. He had, of course, never been invited to the estate. Unlike Sieinski, however, Sopocko didn’t wear his family’s influence on his sleeve. Stefan had liked him from the start, and though not friends, their years as fellow Polish naval officers had done nothing to change that impression.

Sieinski waited for last handshake and then surprised everyone by saying, “Clear the bridge. You too,” he barked at the lookout. “Captain Sopocko and I need a few minutes alone.”

Stefan hesitated, looked at Sopocko for support. But he wasn’t paying attention. His head was tilted back and he was staring open-mouthed at the stars.

“Let’s get some coffee,” Squeaky said, grabbing Stefan by the arm and leading him to the hatch.

“Very good to see you, sir,” Stefan said softly.

“Likewise,” responded Sopocko without taking his eyes off the heavens.

Stefan and Squeaky crossed to the hatch opening and disappeared from sight.

“What do you want?” Sopocko said when they were finally alone.

“Your advice,” Sieinski said. There was a hollow tone in his voice that hadn’t been there before.

Sopocko was silent. He stared down at his motorboat. The hull was pockmarked with holes, but in the darkness, they were just faint smudges. He had two men below decks, wounded from an air attack earlier in the day. He doubted they would be alive when morning dawned. He lit a cigarette, gazed back at Sieinski, his eyes shadowed by the brim of his cap, and waited.

Sieinski licked his lips. “How many destroyers went to France? Three? Four?”

Sopocko said nothing.

“And look at your vessel,” Sieinski said pointedly. “Can you survive another day out here?”

“What is it you want, Josef? Absolution? Okay. I say it, now. Your sins are forgiven, your sins from the past, the sin you are about to commit.”

Sieinski recoiled as if struck. “I thought I could at least talk with you,” he hissed. “Of all my friends, I thought you would understand the logic of it.”

“That the war is lost?” Sopocko’s laughter echoed over the water. “Of course it is lost. You fool. It was lost five years ago. And now brave men are dying. Did I tell you that my father is in Switzerland? Yes, that patriot left a week ago. He didn’t tell my brother, who is an officer in the cavalry, or me. How do you think my brother and his men are doing against the German tanks? Horseflesh versus steel. If it weren’t so horrific, so personal, I would laugh despair. I suppose the old man kept quiet because he knew what we would say. And now the sound of my last name makes me sick. Imagine that?”

Sieinski reached out, grabbed the sleeve of Sopocko’s jacket. “The army—your brother—they have no choice,” Sieinskihe said fiercely. “We do. We have other options to continue the struggle. By ourselves, it is a lost battle. But with the French, we could fight on. Think about it? That’s why the chief of staff sent those destroyers away. He knew…. he knew….” Sieinski’s words ended in a near shriek. He glanced nervously at the gun crew below, wondered if they heard what he had said.

Sopocko shook his sleeve free of Sieinski’s clutches, and nodded without conviction. “Perfect sense. I agree. And so you want me to say it? Will it make it easier for you? Okay, I say it. You go, then. Take the Eagle and your men and race to France as fast as you can. And you can believe that no one will think ill toward you. As you pointed out, we have already sent some of our destroyers away for safety. My father has left. Why not a submarine or two?”

Sieinski’s Adam’s apple bobbed with a swallow. “Yes,” he choked. “My thinking, exactly.”

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” Sopocko said, waving his arm at the canopy of stars above his head. “On some nights I have often wished that we could sail to the horizon, skip over the edge, and continue on, up there. Imagine what it must be like? They say there are a billion stars out there. I wonder if… ” He swept his gaze over the vast expanse, and then stopped at the eastern sky. It was already beginning to show faint hints of light. “Ah, dawn soon. A last dawn, I think, for me and my men.” He saw Sieinski wince. “Is that too harsh for you, my dear Józef? So be it. But I think it will be the most precious dawn of my life. I will squeeze every last second from it—cherish it like no other. Out here, we cannot hide during the day like you, and the Luftwaffe, I fear, will be at us by mid-morning like flies on the ass of a cow. Time to be off, I think. Give my best to your officers and men,” Sopocko said. “Good luck whatever you decide.”

Sieinski held out his hand. “Goodbye, Wictor.”

Sopocko stared at Sieinski’s hand, and then shook his head in refusal. “Not that, I think,” he said softly. “You can still change your mind, you know. You have some good men…. But never fear, I will tell no one. I will die with it this day. Or tomorrow. You never should have taken this command, you know.” And with those last words, he disappeared over edge of the conning tower. A moment later, the M10 moved off into the night.

Sieinski stood there, sick with shame and rage, watching until the vessel disappeared. There was the faint sound of tapping from the gun crew below. He wondered how much they had heard. Probably nothing. No one had heard a thing. Who did he think he was? Talking to him that way. To think that over the years, all those parties, he thought Sopocko a friend. He should have expected as much. Just a motorboat captain. With all his father’s influence, that was the best he could do? There must have been something lacking in his character to warrant a command such as that. Sieinski, on the other hand, was captain of the most deadly boat in the Polish fleet, and not just because of his father’s help.

Sieinski grabbed the side of the conning tower as a wave of dizziness and nausea swept over him. When it was past, he took a deep breath, scanned the sky. Indeed, dawn would not be far off. Soon it would be time to dive for safety. His men wouldn’t like it, but the decision was clear.

And they would obey orders.

He spoke into the speaker tubes. “Lookouts and officers to the bridge.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Stefan lay on his bunk, eyes closed. He was desperately tired, but he couldn’t stop thinking about the meeting on the bridge. Why the secrecy? What was so important that the second in command of a vessel had to be excluded? Was it something to do with him? Didn’t Sieinski trust him? Even worse, was he planning something that he knew Stefan would not approve of?

Stefan’s thoughts began to take even wild turns. Before they could go far, he growled with frustration, rolled off his bunk, and made his way to the officers’ wardroom. Food and coffee. Since he couldn’t sleep, that’s what he needed.

He found Kate, Reggie, Eryk and Squeaky huddled around the table that dominated the small room. A plate piled with meat, cheese, bread and sliced fruit sat in the center of the table. Everyone had mugs of coffee. Bookshelves were along one wall. A narrow counter along the other. Photographs of Hollywood starlets filled out the rest of the decorations.

“Pull up a chair, commander,” Reggie said cheerfully. “You look like hell.”

Stefan grunted. “Under the circumstances, I’ll take that as a compliment. How go your interviews?” he said to Kate.

“Interesting,” Kate said. “I didn’t realize that your crew was so young. Is that typical?”

Stefan nodded, his mouth already filled with a slice of meat.

Eryk answered for him. “Yes. You’ll find submariners tend to be a young lot. But they’re good boys, smart, quick learners. Navies around the world find that younger men tend to stand up to the rigors of the duty better than older ones.”

“What about him?” Kate said, pointing at Stefan.

“He’s an aberration,” Squeaky said, stifling a laugh.

“Careful with those big words,” Stefan said, eyes glittering. “Might get yourself into trouble.”

“Oh, I think we’re in enough trouble. What do you think about that powwow upstairs?” he asked cautiously.

Stefan didn’t take the bait. He shrugged, reached for a plate of fruit.

“I thought something was different,” Reggie said. “We’re not moving. Oh, I see. You mean, we’ve met another ship?”

Eryk nodded, kept his eyes on the bread in his hand.

Kate noticed the change right away. “Not a happy ship,” she said to herself in English. “Just our luck.”

“What’s that?” Stefan asked.

“I was just wondering if they might like a couple of passengers,” Kate said, slipping easily back into Polish.

Stefan shook his head. “You don’t want to be on that boat.”

“Why, something wrong with the captain?”

Stefan stared hard at her for a moment, Eryk and Squeaky were looking at her, as well, food paused halfway between their mouths and the plate. Stefan’s face reddened and then he exploded with laughter, Eryk and Squeaky joined in.

When they finally quieted down, Stefan wiped his eye and said, “No, nothing wrong with Sopocko. Hell of a man, good captain, too, from all I heard. I suppose you could ask about a ride. But his motorboat is not the place to be.”

Eryk and Squeaky had turned suddenly serious, their faces blank.

“What do you mean?”

“How do you think it will be for them tomorrow? We will spend the day hiding on the bottom, but they have nowhere to go. They can motor close to shore and hope the coastal batteries provide them some protection, but …” He twirled his hand over his head. “Sopocko is no coward. He will not run for cover, he will fight…” He let that hang in the air.

“Oh,” Reggie said. “Good point. Perhaps we won’t changes ships, then. I don’t mind staying on board here for another day or two. Still a few more photographs to take, you know…”

There was a sudden change in the ever present sound and vibrations of the diesel engines.

“Duty calls,” Squeaky said, as the three officers of the Eagle stood.

“You have everything you need?” Stefan said, pausing as the others slipped out into the passageway.

Kate nodded. “Everyone has been gentlemen.”

Stefan acknowledged the complement with a nod. “Let me know if we can do anything else.”

“Why the sudden interest in my well-being, commander?” Kate asked. “I still seem to remember a growl about throwing us overboard if we got in the way.”

Stefan smiled broadly.

“Oh, there is one thing, if I may be so bold to suggest,” Reggie said.

“What’s that?”

“Get us out of here alive.”

Stefan blinked. “I’ll do the best I can,” he said evenly. And then he disappeared.

Eryk was already at work at his chart table as Stefan passed through the control room. He paused long enough to glance over his shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“Plotting our course. The captain wants us to spend the day here.” He stabbed so hard at the chart he broke the tip of his pencil.”

Stefan stared at the mark. “You sure?”

Eryk nodded.

“Where is he?”

Eryk pointed his pencil upward.

“I’m going to my cabin,” Sieinski snapped when Stefan appeared at his side. He pushed shakily away from the rim of the conning tower, and arms extended, shuffled toward the hatch.

“Sir?”

Sieinski paused, swaying back and forth with the movement of the ship. “What is it?”

“It isn’t deep enough.”

“What do you mean.”

“The position you gave Eryk. It isn’t deep enough”

“Are you going to question every one of my orders, commander.”

“No, sir, it’s just…”

“I know the rules and regulations as well as you do commander. Unless you have something else to say, I’ll be in my cabin.”

Stefan bit his lip, drawing the salty taste of blood. “Aye, aye, sir,” he said crisply, saluting. He watched his captain disappear into the bowels of the the Eagle. A moment later, Squeaky clambered up the ladder. He glanced at Stefan’s face and said, “What now?”

Stefan shook his head. Of course, the captain was exactly right. He was following protocol. Stefan, however, had grown up on the Baltic. He knew its moods, its looks, like a farmer can read the clouds over the distant mountains. The summer of 1939 had been unseasonably cold. As a result the waters of the Baltic were now colder, and clearer, than normal. Thirty meters might not be deep enough. That was the worry. Of course, it would require a lucky pass by a Nazi plane to come across their shadow on the bottom, but why risk it? Why not go deeper? That was all Stefan had attempted to point out. But Sieinski was in no mood. What had gone on with Sopocko? Stefan wondered.

Chapter Twenty-Two

It was an unmistakable sound. The click of a depth charge’s detonator, transmitted to the inhabitants of the Eagle courtesy of the unique acoustic properties of the surrounding saltwater. Once heard, it would never be forgotten.

Stefan was already rolling off the wardroom bench, his temporary quarters after volunteering his berth for Kate’s use, instantly awake. The Eagle shuddered, the sound of the explosion ringing inside the underwater cylinder like a thousand bass drums. A thin layer of dust was instantly airborne joined immediately by a snow of insulation falling from the ceiling.

When Stefan burst into the control room a moment later, everyone was standing motionless, still stunned, their faces even paler than usual. A boy at the helm controls was staring down at the dark, wet spot blooming on the front of his pants.

“Yeah,” Stefan bellowed, grabbing their attention, “I almost pissed my pants, too. But what the fuck, eh? Nothing to worry about. Just a puny-ass Hun depth charge. That’s all. I think we needed a reminder that we’re at war, and not on a Mediterranean cruise. So, Ears, you just sitting in that room with your thumb up your ass and let a German destroyer sneak up on us?”

The hydrophone operator nicknamed “Ears” for obvious physical reasons, and not just because he was the Eagle’s acoustic operator, leaned out of small room containing the Eagle’s underwater sensors just down from the control room and shook his head rapidly back and forth. “Nah, sir, All I heard was a bunch of dolphins fucking out there,” he grinned at this, “but that’s all until that detonator went off…”

That help loosen up the men. There were even a few tentative smiles. “Then it was a plane,” Stefan said calmly. “Must have seen us from the air. She’ll be coming around for another pass unless she has some friends flying along with her. If she does, they’ll take the next shot. In any case, we gotta get moving. Blow tanks. Take us up to thirty meters, and all ahead full. Helm, right 10 degrees. No sense going in the direction we were pointing. Eryk, where’s deep water?”

Eryk leaned over his chart table, pencil and ruler in hand. “Just a second.”

“We don’t have a second!” Stefan reminded his friend, quietly cursing himself for not having the sense to order Eryk to plot a course to deeper water ahead of time.

“Two-five-four.”

“Aye, helm right to new heading, two-five-four degrees.”

Squeaky repeated the command, as the two sailors on the bench in front of the periscope, turned their wheels to the right.

“How long?”

“Ten minutes,” Eryk replied, “and then it really drops off…. to 150 meters. Deeper in places.”

Stefan glanced at his watch. They’d make another course change in 30 seconds, zigzagging their way to deeper water. It might be enough to force the plane or planes to adjust their runs over the water, providing the time and space the Eagle would need.

“Plot the next course change.”

“Aye, sir.”

Sieinski appeared in the control room, breathing heavily, looking nothing like the rich, confident, captain of his imagination. There were bruises beneath his eyes, face pasty and coated with a thin layer of sweat. Dark circles beneath each arm stained his khaki-colored shirt. Open mouthed, spent from the effort it had taken making it the few meters from his bunk to the control room, he rested for a moment against the bulkhead,

Stefan’s warning was automatic. “Better not do that, sir. Compression from another blast while you’re leaning against the bulkhead could snap your spine like a twig.”

Sieinski grabbed the pipes overhead and pulled himself away just a moment before the boat was rocked by another explosion. Closer this time. Lights flickered. Somewhere toward the bow there was shout followed by the sound of blows as a seaman hammered a wood plug into a leaking pipe.

“I want that man on report, Mr. Petrofski.” Sieinski gasped, pointing a shaking finger in the direction of the hydrophone operator.

“Not a good idea, sir.”

Sieinski’s eyes flared with crazy light. “Dereliction of duty,” he spat. “That’s what it is. He should have heard the approaching vessel and warned us with enough time to take appropriate measures.”

Eryk’s eyes flickered in Stefan’s direction. But Stefan kept his tone even. “Yes, sir,” he said quietly. “But it was no destroyer. He heard nothing…”

“Except dolphins fucking,” someone muttered quietly.

“What was that,” Sieinski shrieked, his eyes roaming madly around the control room.

“We were spotted from the air by a German plane,” Stefan said.

“How do you know? He could be lying.”

Stefan shook his head. “By the time a destroyer got close enough, we wouldn’t have needed hydrophones to hear her screws. And she would have dropped multiple charges, not just one.”

Sieinski’s face fell, his mouth opened like a fish gulping for air.

“A plane? How was that possible? We must not be as deep as I ordered…” He glared in Eryk’s direction.

“No sir, we were in the exact location you specified,” Stefan said.

“Then what was it?” Sieinski demanded.

“Rotten luck?” Squeaky volunteered.

There was a suppressed giggle from one of the boys at the helm. Dangerous territory, this, Stefan thought. The captain was already damaging himself in front of his men. What little authority he had was being tattered like an old flag in a gale. And anything Stefan could say wouldn’t help the matter. If he explained about the clarity of the Baltic this time of year, it would only make the captain look even more the fool. And if truth be told, it wouldn’t do Stefan any good, either. After all, he knew better, knew they weren’t deep enough. And yet, he had done nothing. If they were killed by one of depth charges, the fault would be his alone. His pettiness might be the death of this boat.

“He’s probably right, captain,” Stefan added evenly. “Just a fluke that the plane happened over our position with the sun at just the right angle so that our shadow on the bottom was visible.”

Sieinski glanced around the control room. All eyes except Stefan’s were averted. He wasn’t so sick that he didn’t suspect something else was going on, but he couldn’t identify it. Not at the moment. He nodded slowly. “So, fill me in, Mr. Petrofski.”

“We’re underway,” Stefan said, “heading for deeper water. No doubt the plane has notified the Kriegsmarine of our location. We should be able to avoid detection.”

There was another detonation, shouts of alarm from somewhere forward. Thankfully, Stefan thought, the woman, Kate, was keeping quiet. But, of course, he wouldn’t expect her to scream, not from something like this. She was tough, that one. Lights flickered again, glass dials on the green board shattered. A stream of water arced across the control room, hitting Sieinski right in the chest. He shrieked with outrage, hopped to the side. Eryk jumped up and cranked a valve closed. The leak shortened and then died out altogether.

“Take us deeper,” shouted the captain, dabbing at blood that had suddenly begun leaking from one of his nostrils.

Eryk looked at his watch, shook his head.

“Not yet, sir, another…” Stefan cautioned. He glanced at Eryk, who flashed two fingers.

“Another two minutes, and then we can dive deeper.”

Sieinski clenched his jaws and nodded.

Even for Stefan, it was the longest two minutes of his life. Each second seemed to mosey on by as if it had all the time in the world before it had to give way to the next. Unlike the rest of the crew, he had experienced depth charges before. But those had been training exercises designed to simulate a depth charge attack, not actually kill the submarine below. The officers running the simulation had made sure that all the cans were dropped at a safe distance away from the submerged submarine. No sense trying to be too realistic and damaging a boat or worse. This was something entirely new. The sudden assault that shook the submarine like a child beating his rattle against a rock, the roar echoing throughout the boat, turning your mind and senses into mush. The roller coaster torment of waiting for the next blast. Another sudden, nerve-shattering explosion. A brief moment of wonder, listening for screams and the roar of ocean water spewing into the ship like blood from a punctured artery. And then a surge of exhilaration at your survival extinguished almost immediately by the fear of the next explosion, and the next one. Everyone kept count. The men in the planes above wanted nothing more than the destruction of the Eagle and the sixty-five human beings inhabiting her insides. They tried six times. And then a break that stretched into a half minute, and longer.

When Eryk nodded, Stefan ordered the Eagle deeper and called another course correction.

While the captain watched silently, Stefan hollered, “Anything, Ears?”

“No, sir. No contacts,” came the response from the sound room.

Sieinski blew out his cheeks, holding onto the pipes to keep from collapsing. “Well, that’s good news,” he said with shaky voice. “Let’s run for a few hours,” he ordered gruffly, gathering himself, reasserting his position, “and then find a safer place to wait until nightfall. I don’t want to get too far off station.” Sieinski didn’t wait around. He turned and shuffled like an old man back to his bed.

“Aye, aye, sir,” Stefan said. He glanced around the control room. Minor damage. A few leaks, broken glass, cracked dials. It could have been worse, much worse. And it would have been his fault. The only fool on this boat was him; that was for sure. He clenched his right hand into a fist. Next time, he wouldn’t stay quiet, even if it meant challenging the captain directly in front of the men. No sense obeying orders that got them all killed. He would have to use all his meager skills to make sure it didn’t get that far. Unfortunately, finessing senior officers had never been one of his strong suits. He wasn’t optimistic about how he would do with Sieinski. The man was obviously coming unhinged. It couldn’t all be blamed on the blow to the head. No one really knew how a man would act under stress. Now they were about to find out, not only with Sieinski, but the rest of the crew, as well.

In a perverse way, however, Stefan knew that the attack hadn’t been a bad thing. It had gotten the crew’s attention, given them their first taste of battle. They must all do their jobs or they would die. It was that simple.

Stefan noticed the seaman at the helm who had peed himself glancing furtively in his direction. “Back in sixty seconds,” Stefan said, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. The boy scrambled out of his seat, and ducked down the passageway toward the bow, trying and failing to hide the stain on front of his pants with his hands.

Squeaky grinned wickedly. His voice boomed through the control room and after the boy. “Hey, Lubomir, don’t forget to bring back a diaper.”

There was a smattering of nervous laughter. Even Stefan had to smile. They had survived. And learned something in the process. It could have been worse, much worse.

“Find us a safe place to rest this time,” Stefan said.

“Aye, aye,” Eryk intoned.

“At nightfall, we return the favor.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

“A word with you, Captain?” Ritter tapped his knuckles on the bulkhead outside Sieinski’s closet-sized quarters.

The Eagle had been quiet for an hour, cradled in a bed of silt 80 meters from the surface of the Baltic this time. Around the vessel, the various stations were manned by a skeleton crew. Everyone else resting up for the long night to come, no longer aware of the cocktail of fetid smells so thick it almost made the air visible: the stink of unwashed bodies, ripening bananas, mold, urine, smoked meats, chlorine, excrement, diesel fumes. With humidity at 100 percent, everything was damp with condensation running down the walls and sporadically dropping from the ceiling like rain in a tropical forest.

“Enter,” came the listless response.

Ritter pushed aside the curtain, stepped partially inside. On the bunk in front of him was Sieinski, laying on his side, legs pulled up to his chest. Despite the thick layer of blankets, he was shivering violently.

“Maybe I should come back?” Ritter said.

“No, no, what is it?” Sieinski said through chattering teeth. “I’ve never been rude to an invited guest and I’m not about to start.”

Ritter shrugged. “Well then. I won’t be long. I understand you are considering a run to France?”

“Where did you hear that?” Sieinski said sharply.

Ritter spread out his arms. “People talk. Hard to piss around here without someone noticing.”

Sieinski pushed out his chin. He was in no mood to argue. “What if I am?” he said through clenched teeth.

“You are captain,” Ritter said quickly. “Of course, it is your prerogative. I would not question that. After all, I am just an engineer, a technician, not a soldier. My colleagues and I wanted to make sure you had all the information you needed to make a good decision.”

“What do you mean?”

“France…. you will never make it,” Ritter said bluntly.

Sieinski pushed away the blanket with a derisive snort and sat up, grasping the edge of his bunk with both hands to hold himself steady. “Oh, please, don’t tell me about the capabilities of the vaunted Kriegsmarine. We can travel submerged for nearly 100 hours if we need to. And we have the means to protect ourselves. We can make it, I’m confident of it.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Ritter said softly, his eyes glittering.

“Explain?”

“The repairs to the hydraulic pumps and the rest of the systems…. I never expected them to last even this long. There is only one permanent fix. New pumps. If you attempt a journey to France, my, uh, colleagues and I are convinced that, well….” He shook his head. “Like I said. We won’t make it. There is not one possibility in 100.”

Sieinski bowed his head for a moment, his body sagged. “What does Chief K say?”

Ritter shrugged. “I think your chief is loyal to his captain, but as far as understanding the mechanics of the Eagle and the intricacies of her hydraulic system, well, that boy with the pimples, Jerzy, he is a better engineer….”

“I see,” said Sieinski wearily, his eyes dull. It was taking every effort to remain upright. It was almost impossible to concentrate on this new problem. He had thought it settled, they would patrol for a day longer, and then he would get confirmation from headquarters of the radio message he had sent earlier. With the war going so badly, heading for France was the only sensible thing to do. Sweden was another possibility. “What do you suggest?”

Ritter didn’t respond right away. Better to be casual about it, not too eager. It must seem like a new thought, an off-the-cuff suggestion. “Well, I don’t know what is best. But we do have repair facilities in Tallinn,” he said. “Modest, of course. But I expect that what the Eagle needs could be found there in short order. Yes, that’s it. Not as close as Sweden, but if you go there, your war is over. They won’t let you leave out of fear of endangering their sacred neutrality. Not to mention Sweden.” He wrinkled his nose. “If for one much prefer the attractions of Paris to those Lutheran tight asses. In Tallinn you could repair the Eagle, get rid of your American passengers and me and my men, and then be on your way to France, and continue the fight You wouldn’t need us anymore. It would only delay you a few days. No more.”

Sieinski leaned back against the bulkhead, pulled the blanket over his lap and began nodding with interest. Of course, it made sense. Perfect sense. And while there, he could see a doctor about his head and his other need. The very thought of being able to satisfy his craving for opium was almost overwhelming. Was there anything more he needed to prove to himself or his father? Of course not, he rationalized. After all, he had gone without it for three days. That was an adequate test of character, particularly given the tremendous strain he had been under. Tallinn? The real question was, Why he hadn’t he considered it earlier? Or why hadn’t one of his officers? It had become clear to him that they were holding things back from him. But that could all be addressed after a short stop in Tallinn. No need to radio for permission, either. The fleet commanders had other, more important, things to consider. This fell well under the discretion of a captain during time of war.

“Can I get you anything, sir?”

Sieinski smiled. “You are a gentleman. Please, a cup of tea would do nicely. I am feeling a bit better. Nasty blow to the head and a bout of something else. A visit to Tallinn would also give me a chance to see a doctor and visit some family. Did you know that my mother is from Tallinn?”

Ritter smiled. “What a pleasant surprise,” he said.

“Tallinn?” Stefan exclaimed. “Why?”

Sieinski took his time replying. He sipped from his tea, smacked his lips, and then took another sip. “Tell him…” Sieinski nodded to Ritter who was crowded into the doorway with Stefan.

“The repairs we made were only temporary. It is imperative you find more permanent solutions before subjecting the Eagle to the further rigors of war. We have facilities close at hand in Tallinn to help make that happen.”

“Since when? I’ve never heard of any.”

“Then, I’m sorry to say, you are behind the times. They’ve been there since, ah, last year, I believe.” Ritter stared blankly back at Stefan, not a challenge, but not backing down either.

Stefan peered over his shoulder. “Chief, get down here.”

Chief K, who had noticed the crowd in front of the captain’s doorway and was attempting to duck into the toilet, sagged noticeably and began trudging down the passageway toward them.

“What’s the status of the repairs?” Stefan asked. “Any problems?

Chief K glanced furtively at Ritter, licked his lips, and then dropped his eyes to the floor. “Well, you see, they seem,” he drew out the last word for emphasis, “all right for now, but no guarantees that they will last.”

Stefan gave a short bark of laughter. “There are no guarantees in war or life, Chief, didn’t you know that? We could all be dead a moment from now.”

“Well, what I mean to say is… “

Time for a little push, Ritter decided. “Captain,” he interrupted, “I won’t be responsible for what may happen to this vessel when she breaks down. And she will break down, mark my words. Therefore, if you choose not to seek port and procure a permanent solution to our temporary repairs, my men and I request a life raft, if you please. We will depart the vessel immediately, and take our chances out there….”

“For chrissakes…,” Stefan bellowed, “don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t…..”

“It’s settled then,” Sieinski said calmly from his perch on his bunk. “Not that I needed your permissions. At nightfall, we surface and make best possible speed for Tallinn.”

Stefan ran his hand through his hair, bewildered by the sudden turn of events. “Estonia? Latvia is closer. It has top-notch repair facilities. I’m sure we could get what we need there. And aren’t the Estonians cozy with the Germans?”

Sieinski’s eyes narrowed. Enough. He would remember his second in command’s outbursts. It bordered on insubordination. There would be time to take care of that once they arrived in Tallinn. “Thank you, Stefan. I appreciate your advice. I really do,” he lied. “But Estonia, as you know, is a neutral country. I just verified that with headquarters. Under the circumstances, we can expect them to respect all appropriate protocols. Under international law, we will have 24 hours, I think, to get back underway, isn’t that correct?”

Stefan nodded.

“Is that enough time, chief?”

It was Chief K’s turn to nod.

“Well then, that settles that.” Sieinski chirped, looking very pleased with himself.

“I’ll notify headquarters,” Stefan said.

Sieinski waved his hand dismissively. “No need. I’ll take care of it,” he said dismissively.

Stefan eyed Sieinski. Bullshit, he was thinking. Sieinski had no intention of sending a message to headquarters.

“Anything else?

“No, sir,” Stefan said. And then he left.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“How about a tour, sailor?”

Stefan looked up from his cup of coffee and can of fruit, his eyes red with fatigue. He had been thinking about a long soak in one of those big, claw-foot tubs you find in the best hotels. Water hot enough to make you gasp. Steam rising lazily from the surface like mist from a glassy sea on a cold Arctic morning. Sieinski’s suite had probably boasted one. Stefan regretted not checking the bathroom to find out. No doubt, it would have been large enough to accommodate his bulk, and a pleasant squeeze for two. What was her name? Marie. Yes, she would be a welcome addition to any tub. He would scrub her back with a coarse scrub, and then let her return the favor. Or this woman with the broken nose who had just interrupted his peace and quiet. Stefan eyed her sharply. It wasn’t hard to imagine her in a bathtub either, not that she appeared to need one right at the moment. Stefan could see his gaze was making her uncomfortable, but he didn’t take his eyes from her. She shifted her weight, crossed her arms. Of course, washing aboard a submarine was out of the question. Fresh water was much too precious to waste on something as wasteful as a bath or shower. The same with shaving, though Stefan had noticed that Sieinski managed to get around that particular rule. Prerogatives of the captain—of this captain, anyway. How had Kate managed to make herself look so, well, wonderful? Stefan wondered. Her pale skin was freshly-scrubbed, her hair, pulled back into a ponytail, gleamed in the dim light. The shirt and pants were her own, but even they looked clean.

“What’s your secret?” he said.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean, how do you look so, so clean while the rest of us already look and, I imagine, smell like a bunch of Neanderthals.”

Kate gave a relieved laugh. “Oh, well, thank you. I’ve been sworn to secrecy, but I suppose I can let you know. Cooky let me use leftover water to clean up a bit. I was still picking dried blood out of my hair. It was ick. He took pity on me.”

“Ick?” Stefan said, trying the English word out loud. “You know, dirty,” Kate explained in Polish.

“Oh, yes, I can see that,” Stefan said. “Ick,” he said again. “I think I like that English word.” He took the last spoonful of fruit, held the sweet flesh in his mouth before swallowing.

“That was some interesting fireworks earlier….”

“Depth charges,” Stefan said, licking syrup from his lips. “Simple but effective. Essentially barrels stuffed with high-explosives set to detonate at specific depths. Or they can be put on timers. They are delivered either via ship or plane. If they explode close enough, they sudden compression can crush our hull like a tin can.” To demonstrate, he grabbed the empty fruit can and squeezed. He slammed the crumpled remain down on the table. It was a useful reminder.

Kate tried a wane smile. “Yes, easy to forget all that, isn’t it. We are underwater, aren’t we. Are we safe?”

Stefan shrugged. “For now. We stay here until dark, and then surface.”

“I suppose you’ll go looking for a ship or two to sink.” Kate couldn’t restrain a shudder, imagining what it would be like. “Boys like sinking things, don’t they?”

Stefan didn’t smile this time. “It has to be done,” he said simply. “Though we will not hunt tonight.” His eyes darkened with disappointment.

“Really? Why not? Isn’t that what war is all about? Kill or be killed.”

Stefan combed his beard with his fingers. “Yes, that’s about right. Politicians talk and talk and talk. I suppose it makes them feel like they are accomplishing something. In this case, however, it simply gave Hitler a chance to rearm.”

“That doesn’t seem fair.”

“What gave you the idea that I’m fair?” Stefan stared at her a moment, and then continued. “And now the Polish people pay the price. And for the soldiers and sailors, our leaders point us in a direction. We go. In this case, our captain has ordered us to port—Tallinn.”

“Estonia?”

“That is correct. It is a neutral port.”

“But why?”

Stefan shrugged. “He believes the repairs our Dutch friends made to get us out of Gdynia will not hold.”

“And you?”

Stefan’s forehead creased. For just a moment, he felt a million years old. His voice cracked with fatigue when he replied. “My job is to follow orders. There will be time enough to hunt. I daresay a day or two won’t make much difference. Repairs can’t hurt. And, of course, the benefit to you is that we will have you safely ashore by morning.” The image of Kate taking a bath flickered through his mind. “You and your friend and the three engineers. Then we fix the Eagle, and rejoin our sister ships in the battle. If we are lucky, they have left some prey for us.”

“Oh,” Kate said, blinking at the sudden turn of events. She had never really worried about what would happen to them, not until the depth charges began. And then, like the rest of the crew, she wondered if they would ever get off the ship, or if it would become their tomb. She also hadn’t considered the problem she and Reggie and the engineers had created for the crew of the Eagle. How do you get rid of noncombatants, people in the way? War wasn’t a game that allowed timeouts, let you set aside the people who didn’t want to play, and then resume the contest. “I didn’t realize you were so anxious to get rid of us.”

Stefan let his breath out. “Even under the best of conditions, we live too closely together. Men, we are like rats, we adjust to it. But throw a female into the mix, even one that is supposed to bring us luck, and it can only go bad.”

“Don’t think I can handle it?” Kate said, hands on her hips, eyes hot. Well, it wasn’t me who peed her pants when this place started shaking….”

Stefan felt a wash of fatigue held up his hands in surrender. He was too tired to argue. Besides, he had never been good around women. They were too quick with their tongues. And he was always saying the wrong thing. He pushed back his chair and struggled wearily to his feet. “No, I didn’t mean that at all. In fact, I think there’s very little you couldn’t handle,” he said frankly.

On impulse, he took off his battered cap and placed it on her head. “And to demonstrate my sincerity, I dub thee Seaman Kate, the most official unofficial member of the crew with all the rights and privileges that come with that lofty status.”

Kate touched the hat and smiled. “Seawoman,” Kate corrected.

Stefan bowed deeply. “Whatever you wish, m’lady.”

“What about me?” Reggie leaned in. When he saw the hat on Kate’s head, he gave a knowing laugh.

“You can be a seawoman, too,” Kate said quickly.

Reggie elbowed her in the side.

Stefan took his time, leaned to one side to inspect the front of Reggie’s trousers and then nodded. “I suppose you pass the test, too,” he growled. “He changed them, right?”

“Probably,” Kate said with a laugh. “During the attack, he held my hand the entire time, you know, babbling like an infant.”

“I did no such thing,” Reggie protested hotly.

Kate started to hand Stefan’s hat back.

“No,” Stefan said, holding out his palms. “You keep it. A souvenir from the Eagle. Something to remember us by when you are back in comfortable New York City, U S of A.”

Kate opened her mouth but Stefan cut in before she had a chance to get going: “You said something about a tour. That is one of my duties as first officer and I have neglected it. How about I give you the official tour now? It should take five minutes or so. Not that much to see. We’ll start forward…. follow me.” He ducked through the doorway and then moved with surprising quickness down the passageway, not bothering to glance over his shoulder to see if Kate and Reggie were following. As Kate watched him from behind, he reminded her of a soccer player dribbling through a field of defenders. He quickly outdistanced Kate and Reggie. When they caught up to him a moment later, he was waiting in the torpedo room, arm draped over one of the tubes. He gestured around the cramped room. Brass pipes and fittings and valves and cables were everywhere. It looked the insides of a cathedral organ designed by Edgar Allen Poe. Even more remarkable, there were men sleeping right among the torpedoes that lined the walls. “This is about as far forward as you can go, unless you’re dead and we decided to jettison your body out one of the tubes.”

“Cheery thought,” quipped Reggie.

“As you may or may not know, there’s sixty of us,” Stefan said. “Four officers, four ensigns, three warrant officers, 15 petty officers, and 44 seamen, mechanics, engineers, techs and machinists. We’re all crammed into this iron tube about 84 meters in length.”

Reggie interrupted Stefan’s narrative with a loud yawn. Kate had paused along the way to pick up a notepad and a pencil. She stopped writing long enough to slap him on the arm. “Ouch,” he responded.

“Hope you don’t mind if I take some notes,” she said. “Please continue.”

“That tube can be looked at three ways,” Stefan continued, “as three sections, or four pressurized compartments, or seven watertight rooms. Each room has a watertight door that can withstand pressure equal to a depth of about 130 meters.”

“What happens if you’re deeper?” Kate asked.

“One hopes it never comes to that,” Stefan said dryly.

“But what if it did?”

“You pray,” Stefan said.

“Oh God,” Reggie groaned.

“Of course, the watertight compartments are designed to isolate an area with a hull breech, enabling the crew to surface the vessel and repair the problem. We’re in the torpedo compartment now. Four tubes. We carry twenty torpedoes. Extras are stowed below.” Stefan stamped on the deck. “The rest of this section includes bunks and living quarters, the captain’s room, wardrooms, sound and radio across from the captain and next to the control room. Follow me,” Stefan ordered, leading the pair back in the direction they had come.

As he moved down the passageway, he narrated the sights like a well-practiced travel guide. “Galley, petty officer’s quarters.” When they entered the control room, he paused. “This is the heart and soul and brains of the Eagle,” he said with obvious pride, his gaze taking in the periscope, helm, compass, chart closet, valves, pipes, controls, dials, wheels, cranks, meters, and other mechanisms that controlled the ship. “And up there,” he pointed, “is the tower compartment and bridge.”

“Fascinating,” Kate said. Stefan glanced in her direction. He would take Reggie’s sarcasm, but not hers, but the bright look in her eyes and the nod she gave him indicated she meant it.

Stefan cleared his throat, tried to avoid Squeaky’s sharp gaze. He was watching the trio from the chart table, pencil tapping the enamel of his tooth. It wasn’t hard to imagine what he was thinking, Stefan thought. He’d hear all about it later, no doubt.

He waved for them to follow. “Aft section, here’s where you’ll find the motors, two diesel engines for running on the surface, and recharging batteries, two electric motors when we are submerged. There’s also one torpedo tube in case someone happens to be sniffing up our ass.”

Kate pointed to the bread in the well beneath the diesels. “Now I know why your bread tastes the way it does,” she said.

Stefan shrugged. “Not enough storage room. We find it where we can and then eat the fresh stuff in a hurry. Doesn’t take long to spoil down here.”

As Stefan lead them around a diesel motor, quiet now because they were underwater, they came across Ritter and his two comrades, Kolb and Bergen, sprawled across the deck. The two faux Dutch engineers Grimp and Grump were what the submarine crew had nicknamed them—were eating apples. Ritter was trimming his fingernails.

“What a pleasant surprise,” Ritter said, leaping to his feet, slipping his knife into his pocket, and then brushing off his grease stained khaki pants. “Finally getting the tour, I see.”

Kate nodded and Reggie nodded.

“What do you think of her?”

“Very,uh, mechanical,” Reggie mumbled.

“Amazing,” Kate said. “It reminds me of Jules Verne and Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. It was one of my favorite books when I was a girl. All my friends thought I was strange for loving it so. I just wish you had a few windows so we could see outside.”

“Yes, I read it, too,” Ritter said with a nod. “Fired the imagination. How about you, Commander? I bet not. Too serious. No time for fantastic stories….”

“As a matter of fact,” Stefan said evenly, “I’ve read it many times. An old friend recommended it. He never steered me wrong.” Stefan could almost hear the old Swedish fisherman, Westling, discoursing loudly on Verne’s inadequacies as a writer, let alone visionary of the fantastic. “Too much on the machine,” he had said. “It would be a better story if he focused more on this, the frailties of the human heart.” And then he pointed to his chest. Of course, Stefan had been mesmerized by descriptions of the Nautilus. It had sparked his interest in the navy as the only chance he might ever get to ride aboard a real-life Nautilus.

“Ah, something we all share,” Ritter exclaimed too loudly, like a young man trying too hard to impress a girl. Kate didn’t seem to notice it. “Now, is there anything I can do for you both?”

“You’ve done enough,” Stefan said, still smarting from the captain’s decision to head for Tallinn, and the part Ritter played in it. “I appreciate your help”

“Yes, Tallinn before morning, I suppose. Nice to get a bath, eh, and a fresh change of clothes.” He kneed Bergen in the side and tousled his hair. “I don’t mind building submarines, but serving on one is not my cup of tea. I do hope, Miss McLendon, you’ll let me buy you dinner when we get to port,” he said. “I would love to hear all about the news business.”

“I’m sure you would,” Kate said. “And I have made it a habit never to turn down a freebie.” She glanced at Reggie. “We’d be happy to join you.”

Ritter smiled broadly at the deft way she had maneuvered the conversation. Now it was his turn. “And what about you, commander?” he said, turning to Stefan. “Would you care to join us?”

Stefan opened his mouth ready to decline. What came out surprised even him. “Of course,” he said. “I will look forward to it.”

“Good,” Ritter said, clapping his hands together. “Comrades in arms sharing a meal. That is what makes life worth living. When do we get underway?”

Stefan glanced at his wristwatch. The overhead lights suddenly switched to red. “Now,” he said.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Jerzy Rudzki resisted the urge to pick at one of the pimples on his face. It was a losing battle, as his inflamed skin demonstrated. He’d been lurking on the other side of the diesel engines, pretending to tinker with the valves when, in fact, he had been keeping an eye on those so-called Dutch engineers. Of course, no one had told him to watch them. In fact, since they had been on board, Chief K had ceded control of virtually every mechanical system in the aft section of the boat to them. And Jerzy didn’t understand it. He may have grown up on a farm, but that didn’t mean he was slow. In fact, watching the shrewd way his grandmother dealt with the shopkeepers and merchants during their occasional visits to town had been a perfect training. They were always quick to cheat the unsuspecting. His grandmother said you could catch them by listening to the sound of words, not the words themselves. “It is the music of the soul,” she said. “It will tell you what is in their hearts.” She was right.

And that’s what bothered him about the three Dutchmen, their leader, Hans, in particular. The music of his soul didn’t match his words. There was something not right about him. Nothing wrong with his mechanical skills, or the skills of the other two, either. They all seemed top-notch. It was something else, and Jerzy hadn’t been able to put a finger on it. Unfortunately, weeks of shadowing them as they attempted to fix the assorted problems that kept cropping up on board the Eagle had given him nothing more than confirmation of his vague sense of unease. If he had approached anyone with his suspicions, it would have only added confirmation to their opinion that he was just a country bumpkin.

He had even begged Chief K to let him take care of the fixes. He could see what needed to be done, the various steps unfolding in his mind like the pictures in a book. “I know what to do,” he said one evening, catching Chief K alone in the petty officers quarters. “Let these foreigners go home, and rely on me.”

But Chief K had just laughed. “You are just a boy from the farm,” he said. “How can you know what to do? If I leave it to you, you might kill us all.” And so, Jerzy had waited for his chance.

He worked quickly, searching through the bags of each of the Dutch engineers, keeping a nervous eye for anyone who might blunder by. Fortunately the boat was quiet, most of the crew resting. To be caught stealing or rifling through someone else’s belongings was a particularly serious offense on a submarine where privacy was highly valued because it was such a rare commodity.

The third and final bag was owned by the man named Hans. The one with the scar. Jerzy hissed silently, nervous to finish the job, frustrated because the prior two bags had revealed nothing out of the ordinary. His hand touched something metallic. He pulled it out, held it up to the dim light. A wristwatch. Swiss-made. The farm boy in him was fascinated by its elegant design, obvious expense. Rolex. He mouthed the word silently. He turned it over, staring blankly at the inscription on the back of the dial. His hand began to shake as he recognized words. Not Polish. Not Dutch. German. There could be no mistake.

“Ah, what have we here?”

Jerzy gasped with surprise, his hand releasing the watch. Ritter’s hand snaked out, catching it easily.

“Fencing,” Ritter said gently in Polish. “It heightens the senses and the reaction time.”

Jerzy nodded. “I was just….”

“That’s all right,” Ritter whispered. “I understand. The fault is not yours. It is mine. Something wasn’t quite right. And it tormented you. I could see that. If I had not been careless, that’s where it would have ended. And you found my watch. It is a very nice watch, is it not?”

Jerzy blinked, nodded again. “You’re…. you’re….”

“Yes, yes, you have it all figured out, you smart boy.” Ritter smiled sadly. He glanced in either direction down the passageway. No one in sight except for Kolb and Bergen, who had automatically positioned themselves to block the view like a pair of well-trained mobsters. “And for that, I’m sorry.” Ritter reached up, patted the boy on the cheek, and then whipped the ridge of his hand across the front of his neck, crushing his windpipe, and more importantly, preventing any screams. “There, there,” he crooned like a mother to her child, pressing the boy’s writhing body up against the bulkhead while his feet began a frantic staccato dance on the deck, soon slowed and then stopped altogether.

Stefan, Kate and Reggie had gone forward just moments before. Ritter knew that at any second the command would come to get underway and the Eagle would spring to life. They didn’t have much time. Ritter slung one of the dead boy’s arms over his shoulder and dragged him toward the back of the boat, Kolb keeping pace, blocking the view. Once in the motor room, Bergen lifted up the hatch covering the aft battery compartment. There was just enough room. Ritter rolled Jerzy through the opening, slammed the hatch back in place, and then held his breath, wondering if the boy would get final revenge by causing a short, or something worse. But the lights didn’t flicker. Ritter exhaled loudly, wiped his brow.

“Too fucking close,” said Bergen. “What did he find?”

Ritter opened his hand. “My watch,” he said with a shake of his head. “‘Too my dear Peter,’ it reads on the back. In German. From my wife.”

Even though Ritter was his superior officer, the stocky German named Bergen couldn’t restrain a shake of his head.

“Yes, my fault,” Ritter apologized. “No excuse of it. I should have kept it on my wrist. What does that make, one beer I owe you both?”

Bergen flashed a smile. Ritter rarely made mistakes, and when he did, he quickly acknowledged them. It was one of the reasons Kolb and Bergen were willing to follow Ritter to hell if need be. It wasn’t just loyalty. It was the fierce, brotherly love felt by comrades in arms who respect each other’s abilities. “A pitcher….,” Kolb said, “And a beautiful, blonde to sit on my lap to run her hands through my hair and keep my stein filled.”

“What hair?”

Kolb reached up and rubbed his grease-stained bald head. He stifled a laugh.

“He may be missed.” Bergen decided it was time to point out the obvious.

Ritter shrugged. “I will say he was sick. You saw how he was treated by the chief and the rest of the crew. The poor fellow was friend to no one.” The German glanced at his watch. “We will be in port in ten hours. He won’t be missed before then. After that, it won’t matter.”

Kolbwas putting away some of the tools Jerzy had left scattered near one of the diesel engines when the expected announcement came over the speaker. “All hands to stations. Prepare to surface.”

The passageway began to fill with young men in various stages of undress, hair askew, yawning.

Chief K appeared, stumbling down the passageway, scratching the gray stubble on his cheeks. He stepped through the compartment opening, and into the motor room. He grunted a greeting in the direction of the three Germans. “Next stop, Tallinn,” he said with a wide grin, grabbing the pipes overhead as the floor began to tilt and the Eagle began her climb back to the surface. “And maybe we get lucky and stay a few days.”

Ritter glanced at his colleagues, returned the smile. “Be careful what you hope for, Chief,” he said with a wink, “Two days might be long enough to get yourself back into trouble again. If we hadn’t left Gdynia when we did, who knows what might have happened to you at the hands of that crone who was warming your dick….”

Chief K’s eyes crinkled. “Oh, you tease me now,” he roared a protest. “A man has his pleasures. No harm in sampling some of the local pastries. How about you join me this time?”

“Another time, perhaps,” Ritter said, chuckling.

“Say, where’s the boy?” Chief K turned a slow 360, dug at his cheek with his fingernail.

“They all look like boys to me,” Ritter said, ignoring the glances from his men. “Which one do you mean?”

“That farm boy, Jerzy, where’s he gone off to?”

“Oh, the one with pimples. Heard him complaining about nausea. Made a mess all over the floor. I saw him head forward.”

“Looked like shit,” commented Bott, nodding.

“And I saw him fuck’n with the diesels,” Bergen added. “I warned him to check with you. But he said he knew what he was doing.”

Chief K’s face paled. “Oh shit,” he said, shifting his pipe to the other side of his mouth, the loose folds on his face tightening. “Show me where he was fiddling.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Stefan lowered the binoculars, tried to blink his eyes back into focus. He’d forgotten the last time he had had any real sleep. Three days ago? Years earlier, when he was fishing with Westling, it was not uncommon to go three, four, sometimes five days with only a snatch of sleep. But Stefan was no longer a young man, and he could tell he was approaching his limits. Push too much longer, and he would begin to make serious mistakes. Not good, especially given the condition of the captain.

The captain.

That was a problem above all others. One that could no longer be ignored. Stefan fingered the object in the pocket of his coat. He still wasn’t sure what to do about it, though it did answer many questions. Józef Sieinski, captain of Eagle, graduate of the best schools in Poland, France and England; handsome; rich, and intelligent, was addicted to opiates.

Stefan had grabbed the coat from the stack of clothes on his bunk. It would be warm. That was all that mattered. His closet-sized quarters had been vacant, Kate off interviewing crew no doubt. He shrugged into the coat as he headed for the control room, annoyed at its tightness across his well-muscled shoulders, but too preoccupied with surfacing to worry much about it. He had been first up the aluminum ladder, popping the hatch and then ducking his head like a turtle in a shell as he was inundated with seawater. He was moving even before the deluge was over, scrambling up onto the bridge deck still streaming with water, and peering over the edge of the conning tower as the prow of the Eagle creamed the surface, and then scanning the horizon even though the hydrophone operator had not detected any nearby vessels. He was immediately followed by two lookouts, Squeaky, and then the gun crews. It had all taken just seconds. A good crew, Stefan thought with satisfaction.

There was a brief pause as they switched from electric to diesel power. The engines cleared their throats, spraying seawater from the exhausts like spray from a whale’s blowhole, and then roared to life. Stefan ordered flank speed, specified the course, and then began to relax as the Eagle’s bow knifed through the choppy seas toward Tallinn.

Squeaky had been the one to notice it. “Nice coat,” he had remarked. “But might piss off the captain if he saw you wearing it.”

Stefan glanced down at the sleeves, realizing now they ended inches from his wrists. He’d grabbed the wrong coat. Simple as that. Easy enough to know how the mix-up had happened. One of the crew had taken the captain’s coat and left it in Stefan’s compartment along with a stack of his clothes, mistakenly assuming it was his. Stefan pulled up the collar. It was a nice coat. The captain had been right. More importantly, it was warm. And Stefan wasn’t about to send someone off to find a replacement right at that moment. This would do for now. Besides, the captain wouldn’t need it. He had left strict orders to not be bothered until they reach Tallinn. “Yes, it is a nice coat,” Stefan had agreed, in no mood to talk.

Squeaky knew when to leave well enough alone.

Only later, when Stefan thrust his hands into the pockets and discovered what they contained, did he realize how wrong he was about the captain. He pulled out the ornate snuff box and pried open the cover. Instead of snuff it contained a white powder. He already knew enough, but he dabbed the powder with his pinky finger and then tasted it just to be sure. “Son-of-a-bitch,” he muttered under his breath.. Of course it made sense. The smell of opium in Sieinski’s suite. The sweats and shakes since leaving port. Obvious, now that it was more than the aftereffects of cracked skull or the flu to blame for all that.

“What the hell?” Squeaky hissed.

“Quiet,” Stefan whispered, thrusting the container back into the pocket.

“Was that?…”

Stefan whirled on Squeaky. “Tell no one about this,” he whispered into his ear. “No one, understand?”

Squeaky nodded. He was silent for minutes afterward. And then, out of the darkness, Stefan heard him whisper. “But Stef, what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Stefan replied after a long pause.

That was the question that tormented him throughout the remainder of the night. What was he going to do about it? When it was time for the new watch, Stefan had remained, barely noticing when Squeaky threw the slicker around his shoulders and patted him on the back before departing below decks.

He still didn’t know what he was going to do.

Stefan brought he binoculars back to his burning eyes. Nearly dawn. The rugged Estonian coastline off to his right was beginning to emerge from the darkness, growing more distinct with each passing moment.

Throughout the night, the sea had remained quiet, as the Eagle raced toward Tallinn, away from danger, away from where she could do the most good. They had avoided a couple of ships along the way, the faint lights of each spotted early enough to give them wide berth, too far away even to identify their types. Stefan hated to pass them by, but he had his orders. The Eagle did not pause. And now, up ahead, was the entrance to the Bay of Riga. It wouldn’t be much longer before they were docked in Tallinn.

Under normal circumstances, there wouldn’t have been any question about procedures. Stefan would have put on his dress uniform, combed his beard, and then marched to fleet headquarters and made his accusations directly to the admiral in charge. Both Sieinski and Stefan would have been relieved of their responsibilities, a court of inquiry would have been convened. Stefan had no doubt of the outcome. Sieinski would have quietly retired, his pedigree no match for the risk his peculiar appetite posed to one of Poland’s most prestigious naval weapons.

But this was different.

They were about to enter port of country that was neutral at best. Stefan dared not risk a radio transmission for instructions. And that, of course, assumed that Polish naval Headquarters was still standing, and not rubble destroyed by German dive bombers. The Polish embassy in Tallinn wouldn’t be any help. What did career diplomats know of such things? By chance, there might be a naval attaché or some other military advisor stationed there, but Stefan doubted he would be of high enough rank to provide any help.

That left him to decide.

Of course, Stefan wanted command of the Eagle more than anything. There was no denying that both desire and frustration had been his closest companions since learning of Sieinski’s appointment. And here was the perfect chance to satisfy both of them.

But that was the problem. He would inherit the job by circumstance, not merit. And for how long? If Poland survived, would someone else, someone with the right family connections, be put in Stefan’s place? Would Sieinski’s failure, in the strange ways of leadership, also taint Stefan?

These were questions that for the moment had no answer. Though Stefan knew the answer to the latter two was probably, yes.

And yet, though torn by the actions that awaited him, part of him could not help but rejoice. Here was the means by which he would become captain of the Eagle for however long that fate and the Polish Naval Command allowed him. It would be better to earn command, but he knew that under normal circumstances that would forever be denied him.

Stefan shook himself violently, like a bear awakening from a deep sleep, and in that instant he decided—Sieinski had to go—and woe to anyone who got in his way. He tore off his oilskins, and then the captain’s coat. He bundled it into his fist, stared down at it for a moment, and then flung it into the wind.

The two lookouts watched the coat drop into the sea and then disappear beneath the foam. They glanced nervously at Stefan, and then at each other.

“Don’t worry, boys,” Stefan said grinning wildly. He stuck his face over the edge of the conning tower, let the breeze tear at his hair and beard, blow away his fatigue. “Damn thing was made by Germans.”

The lookouts grinned at each other, and then laughed, the sound joining the cry of seagull’s wheeling high above.

The Eagle would be repaired. That was Stefan’s first priority. And when she sailed again, Captain Sieinski would not be on board. Stefan would make certain of that. As for the Eagle and her crew, Stefan would make sure everyone did his duty. That was his job. What happened to Sieinski was someone else’s burden, not his.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“What do they want, Pablo?” Stefan asked. His old captain, Westling, had taught him English, Swedish and passable German. Russian would have been another choice, as well, but Westling had a deep, visceral hatred for Lenin and his “communist butchers,” as he called them. Since he couldn’t do anything about them, he refused or ignored all things Russian, from Russian vodka to Russian literature. “I’d rather teach you Frog,” Westling had retorted when Stefan queried him about it. It was the ultimate insult for Westling detested the French above all others.

The fat man swaddled in a heavy overcoat standing legs far apart in the stern of the Estonian motorboat cruising alongside the Eagle raised the megaphone to his mouth and repeated his instructions.

Eryk Pertek listened carefully. “They want to know our business.”

Stefan handed him the megaphone. “Tell them we are in port for repairs, medical treatment for our captain and to drop off foreign civilians.”

Pertek, the only Estonian speaker among the officers besides the captain, bellowed a response. There was a wave from the fat man. He ducked back into the cabin, returned a moment later, and began yelling.

“What is it now?” Stefan asked, impatient to get on with in it now that he had decided what to do.

Eryk gave a puzzled shrug. He waved across to the fat man, who responded with a wave of his own, and then disappeared into the cabin. The bow of the motorboat climbed up into the air as it accelerated away from the Eagle. “They want us to hold here, wait for a pilot to take us into the harbor and for further instructions from the harbor authorities.”

Stefan frowned. Careful enough. Not surprising, given the onset of war. Stefan reached for the speaker tube. “All stop,” he ordered. So, they would wait. It was a pleasant enough morning. There was a light breeze from offshore, bringing with it the smells of pine and burning coal to mix with the aroma of the sea and the ever-present stink of diesel. A little over a nautical mile ahead was the harbor entrance, and the city of Tallinn beyond, climbing the hill, modern brick buildings giving way to imposing medieval stone structures. The sun was a faint orb high above, partially obscured by a thin layer of clouds.

Thirty minutes later, the motorboat appeared again, darting quickly through the harbor entrance, and then accelerating to full speed. At the same time, one of the lookouts spotted another vessel approaching slowly from their stern. Stefan easily picked it out with his Zeiss binoculars. “What have we here?” he muttered to himself. It was an Estonian Navy cruiser. “Careful, aren’t they,” he muttered.

“Why are we stopped?” Sieinski’s head appeared through the hole in the bridge deck. He labored up the last few steps of the ladder, climbed unsteadily to his feet, and then made his way over to the edge of the conning tower. “We should be docked by now.”

“How are you feeling, sir?”

“Better,” Sieinski said. “Yes, much better. Why are we stopped?” Sieinski gripped the edge of the conning tower as much to keep his hands from trembling as to keep his balance. This close to port, to relief, was almost too much to bear. He fought back an impulse to scream out orders to get underway.

“Estonians are being careful,” Stefan said. “They want us to use a pilot to enter the harbor. It also gave them time to round up some company and possibly some additional surprises.”

“What do you mean?”

Stefan gestured at the cruiser lurking behind them. The Estonian motorboat continued to head directly at the Eagle. As she came closer, her speed dropped and she settled into the water. Whoever was in charge waited until the last possible moment to swing the wheel, turning away from the Eagle’s flank, ending the possibility of a collision, and revealing half-dozen armed sailors waiting on the deck behind the cabin.

“Surprise,” Stefan said uneasily. In response, the barrel of the deck gun began to drop toward the boat. “I don’t like this…,” he said. “I think it is time to….” He reached for the speaker tube, but Sieinski grabbed his arm.

“Do I need to remind you who is captain?” he said fiercely. And then to the gun crews, “Stand down. Barrels in the air.”

No weapons moved. Gazes flicked back and forth between the captain and Stefan. “Do it,” Sieinski bellowed. Still the hesitated. Finally, Stefan nodded, and then they obeyed.

The captain began dancing with anger. “I should have you hauled up on charges,” he shrieked, his eyes lit by a strange glow. “This is not over….”

Stefan was surprised at how calm he felt. He stared dispassionately at the madman before him. “Off course it isn’t,” he said evenly. “Prepare for lines,” Stefan said.

Sailors at the bow and stern of the motorboat flicked lines into the air. Like lizard tongues, Stefan thought. His crew pulled the motorboat close and then made the lines fast.

An older white-bearded man in black pants and coat, an English cap, scrambled over the motorboat’s gunwales and onto the deck of the Eagle, followed by the six armed sailors. He made his way to the bridge with two of the sailors, while the rest fanned out on the narrow wood covered deck of the Eagle.

“I tell my wife I will retire soon,” grumbled the old man in fluent Polish, as he flung his leg over the lip of the conning tower and dropped spryly onto the bridge deck. “I am getting too old to be climbing around like a monkey. I am Adolf,” he said with a giggle. “The harbor pilot, not the,uh, you know who….”

Sieinski reached forward, grasped the pilot’s hand and shook it. “Welcome aboard the Eagle,” he said hurriedly, already fully recovered from his previous outburst. “I’m Captain Sieinski. We’re here for repairs. I don’t understand all of this.”

Adolf eyed Sieinski’s forehead. “It is none of my business, of course. But what is your problem?”

“Hydraulic pump,” Stefan said.

“Easy enough to fix,” Adolf said with a shrug. “Now to business. You’ve been given permission to enter port. That is why I am here. If you run aground, it will be my fault, you see, not yours. As for these others”—he flicked his hands dismissively toward the armed sailors on the deck— “and that”—he gestured toward the cruiser approaching from behind—“they are here for my,uh, protection.”

Stefan covered the smile on his face with his hand.

“My feelings exactly, young man,” Adolf said. “And you’re….”

“Stefan. I’m the XO.”

“Very well, Stefan. So, what will it be, gentlemen. Do I get to go home and finish my tea, or do I get the opportunity to bring this wonderful vessel into Tallinn harbor?”

“It’s all yours, sir,” Sieinski said.

“Very well.”

Adolf waved from the conning tower. “Cast off the lines,” he yelled. He picked up the sound tube. “Do you mind?”

“Be my guest.”

“Both engines. Ahead half speed,” he said. “Yes, wonderful boat. Dutch, isn’t she?”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Andrus Kalm, admiral of the Estonian fleet, adjusted the sleeves of his uniform, and then plucked a piece of lint from the front of his jacket. He would need to scold his maid. Stupid Jew. She was supposed to make sure his uniforms were perfectly clean, and yet, for the second day in a row, he had been distracted in a meeting by lint on his jacket. This would not do. Perhaps it was time to find someone else, someone with a sharper eye? And given the present political climate, it wouldn’t hurt to have someone with a more palatable ethnic background in his service either.

Kalm cleared his throat, brushed his mustache, kept black as a Halloween cat courtesy of a dye used by his barber, and then continued in Polish. “Ah, yes, where was I. Damn unfortunate, this war, if you ask me. Complicates everything, you know. More rules and regulations.”

The admiral was safe behind a large rosewood desk, a memento from some long-forgotten trip to Asia. He didn’t stare at the three Polish officers in the chairs opposite him as he rambled along but gazed out the window of his harbor office at the steeples and turrets of medieval Tallinn. Though avoiding eye contact was a habit he had developed long ago as a young boy, when any direct gaze brought instance retribution from his abusive father, if truth be told, he did find the presence of these officers unsettling, almost insulting. It was easier not to look at them. His men knew better than to approach him without first making sure they were presentable. If any of them had looked like these three, they would have found themselves cleaning toilets in the bowels of a 50-year-old rust bucket before they had a chance to squeak an objection.

Of course, Kalm had to admit the captain, Sieinski was his name, wasn’t dressed poorly. He just looked awful. Sick. Sweat poured from his face like an overworked field hand. Dark circles already stained his uniform beneath each arm. And the bruise on his forehead, a mustard yellow with streaks of purple, looked like the artwork of an undisciplined child. And the other one, the executive officer. Dressed like a garbage man, and smelling the part. Kalm knew that submariners were not held to the high standards of surface crew in terms of hygiene and dress because of the constraints of the vessels upon which they served. But this hulk of a man was ridiculous. Filthy clothes. Red-rimmed eyes. Scraggy beard and hair. It was an insult. And finally, the Polish naval attaché stationed at the Polish embassy. This man had no excuse. He knew protocol and common decency. Kalm glanced at the man’s hands folded neatly on his lap, and then returned his gaze to the window. He had already apologized. Said he was working in his garden. At the very least, he should have had time to clean his fingernails during the drive here, or better yet, he should have worn gloves when he was working.

All this talk of rules reminded Kalm of how it had been when he was a young ensign. Recounting past deeds always made him feel better. He took a deep breath and jumped into an account of the time he had spent a few months on the Austro-Hungarian battleship Maria Theresia, cruising in the Mediterranean in 1902.

Sieinski was only half listening to the Estonian admiral, a puffed up mushroom of a man who should have been retired before the last war, he thought. Hard to keep a thought in his mind when there was a car already waiting for him outside the building. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold out. He’d managed a phone call to family friends before the meeting, and once past the usual pleasantries, asked for the number of a local physician who could be trusted. As soon as this meeting was over, Sieinski was going directly there.

Sieinski watched the admiral open his mouth, say a few words to the buildings outside, and then pause. Sieinski gave a bland smile he hoped was appropriate. Hurry up you old shit, he thought.

Stefan had stayed silent during the admiral’s prattle, too tired to care about Sieinski’s growing discomfort, wondering if anyone would notice if he took a little snooze. The chair he was sitting in was a delight. Big enough for his frame, soft cushion. In a pinch, it would do as a wonderful substitute for a bed. That alone was reason for extending this meeting. If he could just take off his boots. Then it would be perfect. But he knew the smell that would result from that act would clear the room and outrage the admiral even more than he was already. It was clear that something was bothering the old man, or else the collar that grasped his beefy neck like the hands of a strangler was too tight. Stefan glanced down at his clothes. Compared to the other two men, he looked like a vagabond. He should have changed, but at the time, it didn’t seem that important. He had on a salt-stained jacket and the same pants and boots he had been wearing when the Eagle left Gdynia. The only thing different, he was wearing a new cap. He preferred his old one, but it would be poor manners to ask Kate to trade him. Besides, he liked the idea of her having something of his.

Sieinski let Kalm finish a long, detailed exposition of his exploits during the Great War and decided it was past time to hurry things along. “Very interesting, I’m sure,” he said abruptly as Kalm paused to take a breath. “Anything else we should discuss? After our repairs, we will depart immediately.”

The naval attaché from the Polish embassy looked up from his hands. He had just noticed his dirty fingernails. His name was Adam Mokriski. He had plenty of work at the embassy. Gardening was the least of his concerns, but that is what he did when he was worried. And war news from home had him deeply worried. He had phoned in sick, deciding instead to stay home and work in his rose bed. “Yes, sir. They will depart,” he echoed, feeling the need to contribute something.

“Of course, they will,” the admiral waved. “And I will do everything to help you.” He glanced sharply at Sieinski. “Yes, there is one other item. You need to be aware of a few regulations. According to…,” he glanced at the notes on his desktop, “Article XII of the Hague Convention, to which Poland and Estonia are signatories, representatives of the neutral country—that’s me—are required to inform a belligerent warship—that’s you¬—that it must leave within 24 hours. In fact, not just leave port, but leave the territorial waters. Clear enough, I think.”

Sieinski glanced at his watch. “You will have no problems from us. Repairs are already under way…,” he lied.

“Very good,” beamed the admiral, finally deigning to look at the men, relieved that they were nearly out of his office, completely unaware of the fact, like most self-absorbed prigs, that he was the one prolonging it. “If there are no more questions, then…..” He stood, putting an exclamation mark to the end of the meeting.

Stefan yawned, looked up at everyone already on their feet, and then pushed himself out of the chair. He patted the arm affectionately. Yes, a fine chair, he thought. He remembered, his hat, reached under the chair to grab, and then plopped it on his head. “One question, sir,” he said. Sieinski had already fled. The attaché paused in the doorway, wavering between following after the captain, and wanting to hear what Stefan asked the admiral. “Perhaps you could tell me where I might find the offices of the Dutch shipbuilder De Schelde? They have a couple of items we need.”

Kalm gave Stefan a blank look. “I’m not aware that any Dutch shipbuilder has offices in Tallinn. You must be mistaken.”

“Are you sure? We have three Dutch engineers on board and they….”

“Ignorance is not one of my vices,” interrupted the admiral haughtily.

“But these Dutch engineers, they….” Stefan caught himself. There it was again. A vague sense of unease, as if his subconscious had something important all worked out, but could only hint at the answer. He caught sight of the attaché shaking his head back and forth, and then noticed that Kalm’s face had deepened another shade of red.

“Thank you, sir,” Stefan said, giving the admiral a crisp salute, pivoting around on his heels, and then he marched out of his room.

“I have to get back to my ship,” Stefan said as he hurried down the hallway.

“I was hoping to talk with you and your captain,” Mokriski said. He glanced over his shoulder. “News from home is very bad.”

Stefan gave the man a brief glance. “Tell me something I don’t know,” he said shortly.

“Why are you here?” Mokriski said with a little heat. “We weren’t notified that you were coming. It was a complete surprise. Why aren’t you?…”

“Defending the homeland?” Stefan finished for him. He stopped in the middle of the hallway, ignoring the glances from the Estonian naval staff, office workers and secretaries, hurrying by on either side of them, the bright linoleum floor gleamed like a road to Oz in either direction. Morkriski skidded to a stop a moment later, doubled back to Stefan, not afraid to stand close though he was half Stefan’s bulk.

“Why, yes, that’s exactly what I was going to say,” Morkriski said, glaring up at the Eagle’s executive officer.

Stefan gave a thin smile of apology, resisted an impulse to pat the smaller man on the top of his head. “That is an excellent question. In fact, one I asked myself on numerous occasions. But for the answer, you need to ask our dear, departed captain. I’m surprised, though, you didn’t know we were on our way. He said he radioed headquarters about our coming…”

Morkriski shrugged. “They never contacted us.”

Another faint eddy of unease touched his spine. Stefan shook his head after a moment. At the moment, it didn’t matter if the captain had lied about it, or if it was simply a mistake at headquarters in Poland. Sieinski was done on the Eagle. That was a certainty. Stefan turned and began hurrying down the hallway again. The desire to get back to the ship was growing stronger with each passing moment. On impulse, Stefan shouted over his shoulder. “I may need your help later on.”

Morkriski ran to catch up. “With what?”

Stefan gave a humorless laugh. “Probably nothing… the war has me spooked.” He paused in the middle of the marble-clad entryway of the Estonian naval headquarters building, slapped the attaché on either shoulder. “But maybe it is something. My grandmother was a gypsy, you know.” And then pushed through the doors and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

“What a loonybird.” Morkriski breathed the words, watching Stefan leave. Must be those damn boats. Enough to make anyone batty. Cooped up like that. He thought about returning to the embassy. But that was another nuthouse, the inhabitants almost as crazed as submariners. Morkriski glanced at his nails and decided. At the moment, he needed his roses almost as much as they needed him. As he followed a red-haired Estonian woman out the door, admiring the movement of her skirt across her ample behind, he began to laugh. “A gypsy grandmother? That Stefan Petrofski was a kook and a jokester. No one with gypsy parents or grandparents could ever rise to officer in the Polish Navy.” But then, as Morkriski raised his arm to hail a cab, another thought occurred to him. “What if he hadn’t been joking?”

Back in his office, Admiral Kalm was standing next to his window. Despite his age, his eyes were still sharp as a teenager’s. He spied Stefan’s bulky figure appear on the sidewalk, watched him glance automatically to the sky, a sailors habit, and then begin jogging back toward the harbor, as resolute as a locomotive.

“That one will be a problem,” he said to the man standing at his side.

Ritter, hands clasped behind his back, watched Stefan disappear. He had already showered and shaved, and stood dressed in his Kriegsmarine uniform, courtesy of the naval staff at the German embassy.

It was almost done.

“Perhaps,” he said, acknowledging this superior officer. “But I think it is too late for him to matter. It is all set, is it not?”

“As you requested, Captain,” Kalm replied smoothly. This man was only a captain, but he had Dönitz’s ear, it was said. Best to treat him gently. “The invitation is being delivered as we speak. But what if they decline?”

“Refuse free food and drink?” Ritter began to laugh. “You don’t know Polish sailors. Trust me, if we did not send the trucks, they would arrive an hour early on foot. In any case, we have them hooked. The Eagle is all but mine.”

Kalm couldn’t contain a chuckle. The young, arrogant German bastard. “No, it is almost mine,” Kalm corrected. “Or, to be more precise, under the protection of the Estonian government. There are a few rules we must follow. Arrangements made. Confirmations sent. You understand, of course.”

Ritter understood precisely. The appropriate amount of money needed to be deposited into Kalm’s Swiss bank account. When he received news of the completed transaction, the submarine would be taken to a remote location, and then turned over to a German crew, who were already waiting on a German freighter, anchored in the harbor. “As you will, Admiral.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The Eagle was tied up to a deserted pier in Tallinn’s inner harbor. A few Estonian sailors carrying rifles guarded approaches to the vessel, but their weapons remained slung over their shoulders, and the affable crew of the Eagle had already made friends with them, trading cigarettes for girlie magazines, sweets and, no doubt, a bottle of vodka or two.

Nearby, a worn German freighter rode silently at anchor. At first, its presence had caused no little consternation, the gun crews swinging their barrels to track its shape as the Eagle motored by. But when no threat materialized, the sailors on deck began jeering like soccer fans at the scattered figures who appeared on the freighter’s deck to watch the passing submarine. Strangely, though, the Germans did not reply in kind. They simply stood at the rail, silently staring. “That’s odd,” Squeaky said, raising a hand to give them a universally recognized gesture. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist,” he apologized in response to Stefan’s glance.

As the Eagle came abreast of the ship, the German flag was pulled down from the mast. “Why are they doing that?” Squeaky said.

“Afraid they’ll piss us off,” one of the gunners answered, bringing smiles to the faces of the bridge crew.

Stefan jogged past the Estonian sailors without drawing a challenge and hustled up the gangplank. He ignored Squeaky’s hail from the bridge, ran over to the aft access hatch and dropped into the engine compartment. He grabbed the first sailor he met. “Those Dutch engineers. Where are they?”

“Gone,” said the young seaman.

“They left an hour ago,” Chief K said, stepping out from behind one of the diesels, grinning enthusiastically. “Goddamn those boys were efficient. I’d like to thank them myself. That new pump arrived pronto, also a spare. Plus some extra gaskets, a couple of new springs for the valves.”

“What do you mean?” Stefan.

Chief K gave Stefan a puzzled look. “You know, all that equipment we needed. They took care of it just like they said while you were gone. In fact, I’ll be finished with the pumps in a few hours. We can get out of port any time you want after that.”

Stefan exhaled loudly to hide his confusion.

“What the hell is wrong?” Squeaky asked, joining them in the aft compartment.

“Nothing …. I guess,” Stefan said with bemusement. “Something spooked me. That’s all. Seeing ghosts. It was nothing, nothing at all…. lack of sleep. Did they say where they went?”

Chief K shook his head. “Nope. Probably some fancy hotel. And I owe them beers, too.” He dug at his ear with a dirty thumb.

“What about the Yanks?”

“Gone, too,” Squeaky said, eyeing Stefan closely. “Kate said something about needing a hot bath in the worst possible way. She said they’d drop by later on.”

Kate in a bathtub. It wasn’t hard for Stefan to imagine that particular vision of heaven, and from the look on the faces of Chief K and Squeaky, it wasn’t hard for them either. Stefan felt a hot flush of fatigue wash over him. He closed his eyes, let images of Kate drift into the blackness. Right at the moment, even a few hours of uninterrupted sleep sounded heavenly. “Need me for anything?” he asked hoarsely.

Squeaky and the chief looked at each other and then shook their heads.

“With our guests gone, I guess that means I get my bunk bank,” Stefan said “That’s where I’ll be. Don’t bother me unless it is something important like, say, the second coming of Christ himself.”

“One thing before you go,” Squeaky said. He unfolded a piece of paper and handed it to Stefan. “We’ve been invited to a party. The entire boat. Food, drink, music….”

“Girls?” Chief K’s eyes were glowing.

“Probably,” Stefan said with a tired chuckle, scanning the invitation. The party was sponsored by the Polish-Estonian Friendship Society. Who the hell were they? He handed the paper back to Squeaky.

“What should I tell the men?” Squeaky asked.

“Tell them good fortune has decided to smile upon them.” Stefan hid a yawn with the back of his hand. “Leave a skeleton crew of eight behind. Poor bastards. I don’t care how you pick them.”

“What about the officers? Who should I leave in charge?”

Stefan pointed a thumb at his own chest. “Me.”

Squeaky began to protest, but Stefan cut him off. “You know how much I hate parties. Besides, I have work to do here on the Eagle.” Stefan turned, and headed down the passageway. He paused. “Oh, one other thing. Come get me if the captain happens to return.”

“Christ or the captain,” Squeaky said. “Got it. By the way, where is he?”

Stefan had a pretty good idea where the captain had disappeared after the meeting with Admiral Kalm. He didn’t feel like sharing his suspicions. “Hell if I know,” he said.

Stefan watched the two military trucks pull up to the pier precisely at 1800, most of the crew, wearing their dress uniforms, were already milling around on the wharf beside the boat. Earlier, they had rigged up a portable coldwater shower on the deck of the submarine. As a result, they all looked pink-faced and freshly scrubbed.

“Have a good time, boys,” Stefan said to Eryk and Squeaky, who were standing impatiently on the deck below the conning tower. Keep them out of jail.”

The two officers waved, and dashed down the gangplank, joining the men already crowding into the back of the trucks. A moment later, the trucks pulled away, men leaning out the back, singing and shouting.

Stefan gave a final wave, eyeing the unfortunate eight below who were sullenly beginning to take apart the portable shower. It didn’t help their moods any that he had chosen to stay behind.

“Hold there,” Stefan said, a sudden thought popping into his mind. “There’s one more person that needs to use that.”

He disappeared from the bridge, then climbed out of the forward hatch a minute later, the sour expressions on all of their faces changing to good natured hoots and hollers as he strode white-legged and barefoot across the deck, wearing only shorts and a T-shirt, towel slung over his shoulder, hat cocked on his head. Even the Estonian guards on the wharf joined in the laughter.

Stefan waved to them all like a movie star. Amazing what a few hours sleep could do to a person’s mood, the thought. That and the thought of finally being rid of the captain made him feel downright giddy. “Sorry you had to stay behind, men. But I asked Lieutenant Pertek to have some fresh food and drink sent down to the boat for later on.”

“Music and girls?” asked one of the sailors hopefully.

“Don’t push your luck,” Stefan growled. He stepped under the shower head, stripped off his shirt, turned on the water, and began singing loudly, the words to the Polish folk song echoing across the pier. The water was cold, but Stefan didn’t mind. He took extra time, soaping twice, and then let the chilly spray beat down on his head, momentarily driving away the ghosts and frustrations.

When he ducked his head out from beneath his towel, there she was, standing on the pier next to Eagle, arms crossed, smiling. In the distance, Reggie was leaning up against a car. He waved a greeting.

“I’d offer you a shower, too,” Stefan said, his face reddening as he hurriedly pulled on his T-shirt, “but it doesn’t look like you need one.”

“Ever the gentleman, Mr. Petrofski. Please, don’t hurry on my account. I was enjoying the,uh, show. What was the name of that tune? It sounded familiar.”

“Polish folk tune,” Stefan said briskly. “I see you are situated?”

Kate nodded. Thanks to the American embassy. A couple of secretaries that happen to be my size. And you and your men. You and the captain left before we could say thanks….”

Stefan bobbed his head with embarrassment. Such a lovely, tough woman, he thought. Another time and another place it might be different. “My pleasure,” he said wistfully.

They were spared the need for any further conversation by a shout from the aft of the boat. Chief K was half out of the hatch, motioning rapidly with his arms, his face white as bread flour. “Come, come quickly,” he choked, and then he slipped back inside the Eagle.

Stefan gave Kate a puzzled glance. “I’ll be right back.” He grabbed his hat, trotted across the slick wood deck to the aft hatch and then slid down the ladder. He found Chief K sitting on the floor next to the opening to the battery compartment. He was holding his head in both hands, rocking back and forth, moaning.

“What the hell is wrong? I thought you’d gone?”

Chief K looked up, his face wet with tears, snot messing his upper lip. “I … I was looking for Jerzy…”

Stefan shook his shoulders. “What is it?”

Chief K began patting the battery compartment hatch with his open palm. “That poor boy. That poor, poor boy….”

“Oh, dear,” Kate said, stepping off the bottom of ladder, kneeling next to the chief, embracing him with her arms. Chief K leaned his head on her shoulder, began sobbing like a child.

“You shouldn’t be down here!” Stefan said sharply.

“Not that again,” Kate retorted. “I suggest you see what’s there.”

Stefan pulled open the battery compartment hatch, then reeled away from the stench that billowed out of the hold and filled the engine room. Kate and Chief K turned their faces and began to gag.

“Kee-rist,” Stefan said, pulling his T-shirt over his nose, and then leaning over the opening again.

There were any number of ways to die aboard a submarine. Bad luck. Stupidity. Mechanical failure. One of the most feared, however, was a problem with the batteries. The Eagle’s batteries weighed 50 tons, held in two compartments under the decks. If they happened to get flooded with saltwater, the resulting chemical reactions produced chlorine gas. If it happened while the boat was underwater, the results would be catastrophic.

The first thought that flashed through Stefan’s mind was that this smell was chlorine and they needed to get off Eagle quickly, but as his brain began to classify the various organic molecules that he had detected, he quickly realized it wasn’t chlorine after all. In fact, it was a smell like no other: decaying human flesh.

Chief K began to vomit. Eyes watering, Stefan peered into the hold. He couldn’t miss it. A body. He stared at the clothes, the bloated face. Hard to tell who it was. And then he noticed the bare feet, soles bruised and scabbed. He pushed the hatch back in place. “Come on,” he said to Kate and Chief K.

In the clear air topside, Kate was the first to recover. “Who is it?” she asked, the reporter in her going to work. She reached for the notebook in her purse.

“The farm boy,” Stefan replied. “Jerzy. Chief, when was the last time you saw him?”

“Huh?” Chief K replied dully.

“Jerzy!” Stefan barked sharply, glaring down at the man. “He’s one of your men. How long has he been unaccounted for?”

Chief K recoiled as if slapped. “I… I … dunno exactly.”

“Think, man.”

“Yesterday. Yeah, that’s it. Maybe, midday. Left him tinkering. I went to get some shuteye. Then we surfaced, and everything got busy. Hans said he was sick. Flu or something. I didn’t think anymore about him.” The chief grabbed his head, began moaning. “What the hell was he doing down there. He should have known better. I should have watched him….”

Stefan motioned for one of the sailors on the deck. He had him take Chief K aside.

“I don’t understand,” Kate said. “How could something like that happen? And he’s been there the whole time while we?…”

“I’m sorry,” Stefan said. “You need to go. I must contact our embassy, get someone to look at the body.”

“Wait,” Kate protested.

Stefan shook his head, began leading her to the gangplank. “Please don’t make this difficult,” he said. “I’m very pleased to have met you, Miss Kate Roosevelt. Maybe we shall see each other again.” He turned and disappeared into the boat.

“I’ll take that bet, sailor,” Kate said.

Chapter Thirty

“My dear captain, you look much better, if I may say so.” Ritter stood and smoothed down the front of his uniform.

Sieinski looked out from beneath his towel, glanced with surprise around the room, and then back at Ritter. Steam still billowed out of the bathroom behind him. There was a slosh of water, and a woman’s giggle.

“What the hell?…” Sieinski said, reaching back and closing the door.

Ritter pointed to small pile of white powder on the table. “Refreshments and a bath and some recreational activities. You must feel like a new man. I must say you look like one.”

Sieinski blinked, recognition suddenly flaring across his face. He flung the towel aside, pulled his robe tightly around his waist and marched up to Ritter. “Who are you?” he said, jabbing a finger in front of Ritter’s nose.

In anyone else, Ritter would have admired the man’s composure. In this one, it was simply poppy-based courage. Ritter clicked his heels together. “Let me formally introduce myself. Fregattenkapitän Peter von Ritter of the German U-Bootwaffe. Under normal circumstances, I would then say ‘at your service.’ But really, the point of my visit, is to say, you are at my service.”

“Eagle?” Sieinski said with alarm.

“Aren’t you the sharp one, Captain. Indeed, Eagle.” Ritter glanced at his watch. “Right about now, Estonian officials are interning your vessel.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What’s to understand? The Eagle is a wonderful vessel. The Third Reich needed it. And so…”

Sieinski began to nod. “It has been you all along. The mechanical problems. The delays…”

“Of course, Captain,” Ritter cut in smoothly. “I never figured you for a stupid man. Distracted, but not stupid. We had to prime the pump of your gullibility. Convince you of the fragility of your new vessel. It wasn’t too difficult.”

Sieinski visibly sagged. He stepped away from the German officer, slumped into the chair. “My ship,” he whispered.

“Actually,” Ritter said, finger in the air, “my ship now.”

Sieinski struggled to rise, his face contorting in rage. Ritter stepped forward, pushed him back into the chair.

“And now we meet to discuss your fate, Captain.”

“What do you mean?” Sieinski said dully. His glance drifted over to the cocaine on the table.

“Soon enough, Captain,” Ritter purred, “I will leave you to your vices. But first you must do something for yourself and your men. Your ship is no longer under your command. But you still have men to lead. I’m told the Estonians are willing to send them home—and we will guarantee them safe passage—but only under your command. If not, their fate is uncertain, as is yours…”

“I need time to think,” moaned the captain.

“No time,” Ritter barked. “The fate of you and you men rest in making a decision at this point. Your father is also waiting to hear from me. Your cooperation will go a long way toward demonstrating the kind of cooperation we will expect from him and his rich friends when we complete our conquest of your country.”

Sieinski stared blankly at the German. “My father? But they will blame me.”

Ritter shrugged. “That is the nature of men and their leaders. You are forced to make difficult decisions. And then held accountable for them. And so, your decision, please.” Ritter began to pull on black leather gloves.

Sieinski, face in his hands, nodded. “I’ll do what you ask. I have your word we will be treated safely?”

“One gentleman to another,” Ritter bowed his head briefly.

“All right, then,” Sieinski surrendered.

“Very well, Captain,” Ritter said. “Good choice. Get dressed. You will stay here until an officer from the Estonian Navy comes to get you.” He crossed the room, opened the door. A German soldier was standing guard. “One of our men from the embassy. For your protection,” Ritter said, smiling.

Sieinski looked up. “And what of Poland?” he asked.

“Poland is no more,” Ritter said simply. He opened the door and left. Halfway down the hall he heard a muffled crash as Sieinski began to vent his rage on the furniture in his suite. “But of course, you already knew that,” he said to himself.

Stefan and two other sailors, their faces covered in masks, laid Jerzy’s body, wrapped in canvas, on the dock, and then backed away.

Removing the boy from the battery compartment had been a grisly task. Despite the masks, the men were almost overwhelmed by the smells from his already putrefying body. Rigor mortis had set in, forcing Stefan to break both of his legs in order to pull him out. At the sound of the first leg cracking like a piece of rotten wood, the eyes of one of the sailors standing by to help had rolled back in his head and he had dropped on the spot.

“What the hell happened to him,” panted one of the men, moving up wind.

Stefan was white-faced. It was hard to think what might have motivated the boy to crawl into the battery compartment on his own. And even if that unlikely event had managed to occur, why hadn’t anyone heard shouts from the trapped boy? And that still left someone to put the hatch cover back in place. Jerzy couldn’t have done it.

Stefan knelt down, pulled aside the canvas. He peered closely at Jerzy’s neck. He was no expert, but there was only one thing that could explain the dark blue bruise across Jerzy’s neck: a blow to throat.

Stefan stood, covered Jerzy’s face. “I need to go to the embassy,” he said. “Make sure he is not disturbed.”

Stefan reentered the Eagle. He was still barefoot, wearing wet shorts and a T-shirt. He slipped into his cubicle and dressed quickly, stomping into his salt-stained boots as a last act. Done. First the embassy. He would use them to contact Naval Headquarters, and then make arrangements for someone to take charge of his body. At the very least, it needed to be put on ice somewhere. And then to track down Hans and ask him a few questions.

Stefan climbed up the conning tower onto the bridge. It took a moment to digest the scene before him. A gray military truck was idling next to the Eagle. A dozen or more Estonian Navy sailors, armed with submachine guns, were standing along the pier. On the other side of the Eagle, a motorboat was nuzzling against the Eagle’s flank like a hungry cub. One of the Eagle’s crewmen was sitting on the deck, hand to his face, a beard of blood coloring his chin. Three men dog paddled in the water, screaming profanities, another clung precariously to the side of the Eagle, ducking every time a length of chain whizzed above his head. In control at the other end of the chain was the young sailor, Henryk, his face red with anger. He was wielding the chain like a cowboy, Stefan thought in the brief instant before he realized he needed to end it before someone else was seriously hurt. “Stand down,” he roared, his voice filling the midday air. High above, the sun was obscured by a thick layer of clouds. Except for the sounds of gulls, all was quiet, each person frozen in a moment of time, only Stefan seemingly outside of it, watching it all like a distant observer.

Henryk looked up, questioning, breaking the spell. Stefan nodded. He waved to the men on the bow, who reluctantly lowered their fists.

“You are the executive officer?”

Stefan looked over the lip of the bridge.

Finally, it was all beginning to make sense. He wasn’t sure how, but it was all connected, he was sure of it now. The captain’s insistence that they port here. The mechanical problems. The Dutch engineers. The party. Even Jerzy’s death. All of it. “Get off my ship,” Stefan said evenly.

The Estonian naval officer shifted his weight uncomfortably and replied in heavily accented Polish. “I’m sorry I can’t do that. It is unfortunate we could not met under better circumstances.” From the look on his face, it was clear that he would have preferred shoveling chicken manure to this duty.

Stefan didn’t reply. He continued to stare down at the man, unmoved.

“My name is Commander Jaak Talli,” the officers said. “By order of the Estonian government and under direction of the admiral of the Estonian Navy and the port authorities of the city of Tallinn, I am officially notifying you of the internment of your vessel.” He pulled a document out of his pocket, slapped it onto the side of the Eagle’s conning tower. “And now I must escort you and your men to safe keeping.”

Stefan vaulted over the edge of the conning tower, slid down the ladder. He stood in front of the officer. “By what right do you do this?” he said.

The captain shrugged, barely able to meet Stefan’s gaze. “I have my duty,” he said. He must have realized how inadequate that sounded. He glanced over each shoulder. “This is unpleasant, I know. I asked the same question. I was told that Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania have agreed that if any submarine or aircraft involved in the war enters the territorial waters or airspace of any country, it will be immediately interned. It is just this war, you know…”

“And when was the agreement struck?” Stefan asked sarcastically. “This morning?

The captain looked stricken, but he kept quiet.

Stefan sighed. It was over for them, he realized. The war. Everything. There was nothing more he could do. “It won’t do any good, you know,” he said quietly. “After they devour Poland, they will come after you.”

“And we will fight,” was the soft reply.

Stefan gathered himself, glancing around just to make sure that there was no other possibility. But there was none. He had been a fool. No sense continuing the charade. “I don’t want any of my men hurt,” Stefan croaked.

“You have my personal promise,” Talli said. He held out his hand.

“And I will hold you to it,” Stefan said, keeping his hands at his side.

Talli gave him a mournful look, dropped his hand, turned and marched down the gangplank. Stefan patted the side of the Eagle’s ironclad conning tower, and then followed him. Henryk and the rest of the men formed up behind Stefan.

Stefan was the last one to climb into the back of the truck. He lingered for a moment, breathing heavily. Across the water, he saw the German flag shoot back up the freighter’s mast and then begin to ripple in the gray light. At the same time, one of the Estonians ripped the Polish flag from Eagle’s bow. He crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into the water like it was nothing more than a bag of garbage.

“Take care of my man,” Stefan said bleakly, gesturing toward the canvas wrapped body of Jerzy. It wasn’t a request.

“But of course,” Talli said quickly. He wrinkled his nose as the swirling breeze brought the stench of decay to his nose. “There’s a butcher with a large cooler a few blocks from here…”

“Good enough,” Stefan said with a nod of appreciation. “I don’t think Jerzy will mind…”

Parked behind a line of garbage cans nearby, it was easy to see it all.

Kate and Reggie watched Stefan hesitate, glance back at the Eagle, and then at the men with weapons at ready, closely watching his every move.

When his shoulder’s slumped with resignation and he climbed into the back of the truck, Kate bit her lip to keep from crying out.

Of course, they had almost missed it happening. Kate and Reggie had been on their way back to their hotel when they’d passed the truck, loaded with armed sailors, racing in the other direction.

Reggie had watched Kate turn around in the seat, her brow furrowing. And then she was barking loudly in his ear: “Turn this piece of shit car around. We must go back. Now!”

“Aww, Kate,” Reggie had moaned. But he’d done what she wanted anyway.

“This is none of our business, Kate,” he said now. One more try, though he could tell by the grim look on her face that it wouldn’t do any good. “I’m hungry. Let’s go.” He revved the car’s engine impatiently.

“Not yet,” Kate snapped.

“What do you think is going on?” Reggie asked with a tone of resignation.

“I don’t know. But I think our Polish friends have just lost control of the Eagle. My, my. Who have we here?”

The black Mercedes, black, white and black swastika standards flying from the corners of the front bumper, came to a stop next to Eagle. First out was a round-bodied fat man dressed in an ornate black uniform. He was followed by a German officer. As the man stood, he glanced at the sky, and then gazed around the pier.

Both Reggie and Kate ducked lower. “Did you see who that was?” Reggie began to babble excitedly. “Hans—or whatever his name is—is a goddamn Nazi. Do you think he saw us?”

Kate stared at nothing for a moment, thinking hard. What was going on? Stefan and his crew arrested, the Eagle seized by the Estonians and now this, Hans, the Dutch engineer, transformed into a German officer. And then she smiled. “Of course,” she breathed. “Brilliant. Do you see what they’ve done? They managed to pick up a brand new submarine without firing a shot.”

“Grand theft submarine,” Reggie muttered.

“Exactly,” Kate said.

Reggie peaked out the window. Ritter and the other officer were no longer in sight. Time to go. He slipped the car into gear, backed quickly around the corner. Depressed the clutch, dropped the steering column shift into first and goosed the gas pedal. “That was close,” he said. “Definitely time to be gone. Our ship doesn’t leave for another day, but maybe we should go there now?…”

But Kate was already shaking her head. “Sorry, Reggie. We have a few things to do first. First stop, the British embassy.”

“What do you have in mind?”

Kate grinned. “Paying back a few favors,” she said, “and maybe adding a few more pages to the greatest stories of our lives in the process.”

“I like that sound of that,” Reggie said. “I think…”

Chapter Thirty-One

Rear Admiral Karl Dönitz had no hobbies, though he sometimes allowed himself a few moments to fantasize about something far removed from submarines: flying a hot-air balloon. It was always the same place. He would be swinging in a basket below a brilliant white orb, drifting peacefully over the lush Bavarian landscape, the Alps smiling in the distance, the sky that intense color of blue that happens only once or twice each summer. No interruptions. No phones. Complaints, politics, conflict and death just bad memories. Most of all, except for the creak of the basket, the occasional roar of the burner, and maybe a faint moo or two from the cows grazing far below, it would be quiet.

“Warsaw is now surrounded.” The triumphant words brought him back to the moment.

“Was there ever any doubt?” Dönitz remarked.

“No, sir.”

“What are our casualties?”

“They are expecting only 10,000 dead.”

“Only?”

“I could be worse,” blurted the young officer.

Dönitz stared back. “Have you ever seen anyone die in combat?”

The officer shook his head.

Dönitz narrowed his eyes. “Sometime in the next few weeks, I expect you to visit one of the local military hospitals. While there, you need to talk with three soldiers. Find out what they thought of combat. And then I want to hear about it. Their names, ranks, and what happened to them.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dönitz flicked his hand impatiently. “Anything else?”

“Just some news from Ritter, sir.”

Dönitz couldn’t disguise his eagerness. His eyes sharpened, he raised an eyebrow. “Yes, yes, go on…”

“He says everything is going according to plan. The Estonians have interned the vessel, and they have the Polish crew in custody.”

“When will we have control of the Eagle?”

“Two days.”

“Is our crew ready to go?”

“They are awaiting orders aboard a freighter at anchor nearby.”

“Excellent!” Dönitz grinned. “Send my congratulations to the captain. Tell him I look forward to congratulating he and his men personally.”

“One more question, sir.”

“Yes?”

“He says the Estonians are asking for instructions about what to do with the Eagle’s former crew.”

Dönitz pressed his hands together. “I assumed the Estonians would turn them over to the Polish ambassador.”

The aide shrugged.

Dönitz sighed. Such a waste of good men. “If they are unwilling to turn them over to the Polish ambassador, suggest that they drive them to the border and hand them over to the Soviets.”

The officer clicked his heels together, saluted crisply, and then departed the office.

How did the Americans say it? Time to let the cat out of the bag. Of course, Dönitz didn’t doubt that Hitler already knew about his operation. He did little to hide his distrust of the military. Dönitz knew that a number of his own aides did double duty as informants for the Gestapo. At some point it might become a problem, but so far he made sure they reported what he wanted them to pass on. And now it was time to make Ritter’s capture of the Eagle official. Dönitz spoke into the intercom his desk. “Fritz?”

“Yes, sir,” came the immediate response.

“Get me a few minutes with the Führer. As soon as possible. Tell him I have a present for him… ”

“Sir? Wasn’t his birthday in April?”

Dönitz chuckled. He didn’t mind the correction. Fritz was just making sure Dönitz wasn’t embarrassed. “Just do as I say.”

“The Eagle’s wings have been clipped.”

Winston Churchill pointed his cigar at the speaker. I’m not in the mood,” he growled. “Speak plainly.”

The face of the man hovering in the doorway of the recently appointed First Lord of the British Admiralty reddened noticeably.

“Sorry, sir. You,uh, asked us to keep you apprised of the situation of the Polish submarine the Eagle.”

“Quite right, go on.”

“Word from our embassy in Estonia. She put in to Tallinn earlier today. A few hours ago, she was interned.”

“What?” Churchill roared with alarm.

“Their embassy has lodged a protest.”

Churchill snorted loudly. “All the good that will do. Their captain must be a fool. What of her crew?”

“Apparently, they are being confined. And here is the interesting news. We’ve learned that the Germans have some sailors waiting aboard a freighter in the harbor.”

“Bloody hell,” Churchill glowered. “The Eagle’s new crew?”

“Apparently.”

Churchill shook his head. “Send a message to the ambassador and our naval attaché there. Have them do what they can. The last thing we need is another German submarine on the prowl, not that we’ll be able to do much about it right at the moment.”

The young messenger ducked out of sight.

Churchill sucked on his cigar, the bright end glowed. He held the smoke in his mouth, letting his tongue taste its richness, and then he let it trickle out a corner. Another German submarine? He restrained a shudder. Even though England was unprepared for this war, few of the obstacles facing her were fatal. German U-boats, however, were causing nightmares that haunted his sleep. How many U-boats did Dönitz have? And now, one more to torment them with. Churchill’s gaze drifted to the half-eaten sandwich sitting on a plate on the corner of his desk. They had enough food for now. Six months from now it might be different. He reached out, pulled the plate closer. Time to set a good example and get in the habit of not wasting food, he thought to himself. He sat the ever present cigar in the ash tray, and picked up the remainder of his sandwich. He took a hearty bite and went back to work.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Captain Duncan McBride of the Royal Navy gave the woman standing in front of his desk a lingering glance—he couldn’t help himself—and then he carefully placed his magnifying glass on the desktop, closed the worn leather notebook containing his stamp collection. She was definitely a looker, he thought, giving her another long gaze. Beautiful red hair. Green eyes. And the kind of mouth you would never grow tired of kissing. Unconsciously, he reached up and straightened his tie, brushed back the sides of his hair.

She had barged into his office when he was right in the middle of adding three new stamps to the notebook that had once been his father’s, and before that, his grandfather’s. Something about a bunch of Poles, he thought she’d said. He’d always had trouble following the American accent.

“I don’t suppose you would mind repeating yourself, umm?” he said, the clipped, measured tones of an Oxford graduate wrestling with a rich Scottish brogue. When he was angry or excited, which, at the moment, he was neither, the brogue always won out.

Kate glanced over at Reggie, who was leaning against the doorframe, hat tilted back on his forehead. He shook his head as if to say, He’s all yours.

Kate put her hands on the top of the desk, smiled sweetly. “Okay, Mac, pull your dick out of your ear and listen up. I’m in no mood to repeat myself. The Estonians have interned the Polish submarine Eagle. Maybe that’s not news to you. But here’s the kicker. It looks like it is at the behest of their buddies, the Nazis, who are already pawing over it. Reggie and I saw one guy looking her over like he was checking out the latest Buick. Anyway, I don’t think your superiors would be happy to learn that you did nothing about it when you had the chance. So I’m here to see if maybe you’re interested in becoming a hero.”

McBride smiled. What a refreshing change. Nothing like your typical English woman, he thought to himself, but then again, he’d always heard that Americans were more volatile. More like the Scots. And by the look of this one, she definitely had some Scottish in her.

“What did you say your last name was?”

“I didn’t. It’s McLendon. Kate McLendon.”

“And mine is Goldberg,” Reggie added.

McBride began to beam. Scottish after all. He offered Kate a cigarette. She shook her head. He gestured at the chairs in front of his desk, motioned for Reggie to take a seat. McBride took his time lighting his own cigarette. “I suppose I deserved some of that,” he said. “But telling me to extract my, what did you call it, dick from my ear…a little uncalled for don’t you think?”

Kate settled awkwardly into the chair. She looked at Reggie for help.

“She’s upset,” Reggie volunteered. “It’s American, for,uh, a pickle. You know, cucumber in vinegar… ”

“I see,” McBride said. “Pickle, eh? I never liked them. Thank you, though. I’ll keep that in mind. Maybe I’ll have the opportunity to use it sometime. As to the point you were trying to make, Of course I know about the Eagle. I’m not sitting here with my – and here’s some Scottish slang for you – thumb up my Arse.” He emphasized his point by raising his voice and then swallowed hard, continuing on in softer tones. “In fact, I know your friends are being held in a once lovely sixteenth-century mansion in the old part of the city. The previous occupant, a wealthy Jew, owner of a local glass factory, had the place completely renovated. Wonderful man. Gave some of the best parties in town. About a year ago, however, he decided to relocate his family. Alarmed with the government’s move to cozy up to the Germans. So they left for Sweden all of a sudden. Smart man. Can’t say I blame him. Troubling news….. In any case, it seems it is the only place they could find on short notice to hold them all. Not a prison, but it might as well be. Built like a fortress, narrow windows, few access points, easily guarded. As for being a hero, most of them end up dead. And I’m not ready for that—not yet anyway. So what’s your interest in this matter?”

Kate settled back in the chair. “Nothing official. I mean, we’re not representatives of the U S of A, if that’s what you mean. We’re with North American News Service. We were in Poland doing some reports when the Nazis invaded. The boys on that sub got us out of Gdynia,” Kate said, “and we’re feeling obligated.”

“That’s N.A.N.S. for short,” Reggie added.

“My partner and I – well, we just couldn’t sit by and do nothing,” Kate said.

McBride nodded. “I see. What do you expect from His Majesty’s government?”

Kate waved her hands. “What else. We help bust my friends out of the clink—give ’em a chance to get their boat back!”

McBride smiled. After months of quiet, activity had suddenly quickened at this Baltic outpost of the British Empire. A few days earlier, the ambassador had dropped by his office. “I suppose you’ll need to see this,” he sneered, letting the slip of paper flutter out of his hand. It was brief. Just two words: “Winston’s back!” No wonder the ambassador was in a foul mood, McBride realized immediately. He was a die-hard Churchill hater from the first war. This was the worst possible news. McBride, on the other hand, felt energized. This would mean his recall back to England. He was sure of it. But more importantly, with Winston back at the Admiralty, maybe they had a fighting chance against the Huns. And then, an hour ago, a message from the old man himself: he was to do what he could to help the crew of the the Eagle. Just the kind of open-ended request that could get him back in the good graces of his superiors. Never hurt to do a favor for the Admiralty. And so McBride had pulled out his stamps. He always thought better when he had something to occupy his hands.

McBride gave an appraising look at the pair across from him. He’d always heard Americans were an idealistic bunch. News reporters, she had said. McBride took his time smoking, his mind racing with the outlines of a plan. Maybe they could do something after all. And these two could be a key. He felt the hair rising on the back of his neck. It had been a long while since he had felt the call of battle. Athena was surely singing at the top of her lungs now. He slapped his hands together. “All right,” he said. “It occurs to me that you two – news people – can go places that I cannot. I imagine the Poles could use a few weapons, don’t you think?”

“Guns? I don’t know about that….” Reggie said nervously. “And what would you be doing, Mr. Brave Navy Man?”

“I’m a bit too well known around here,” McBride said evenly. “Never know when I might run into someone who knows my face. Show up there, and the game would be up. We’ll have time and opportunity for one chance to help them. After that, it’ll be too late. And that means you two…”

“What do you have in mind?” Kate asked.

McBride related the plan. It was simple enough. Kate and Reggie would smuggle weapons to the Polish crew and relay instructions about what McBride was intending to do. McBride would set off an explosion nearby. In the distraction, the Poles could make a break for their boat. The rest was up to them.

Reggie glanced at Kate, a worried look on his face. “Sounds like someone could get killed.”

McBride stared at them. “I’m told the Germans will make the Eagle one of their own in a day or two. What do you think will happen to your friends after that?”

“Why, they’ll just be turned over to the Polish embassy,” Reggie sputtered. “Or let free. I mean, they haven’t attacked Estonia. It’s Germany they’re fighting.”

McBride didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. He finished his cigarette, stubbed out the end.

Kate decided for both of them. “Sounds good, Mac. When do we get started?”

“Are we under arrest?”

Commander Jaak Talli frowned. “Of course not.”

“Then can we leave?” Eryk asked.

Talli sighed. He was having trouble meeting Eryk’s eyes. He gazed at the chandelier that from high above dominated the room. “I’m sorry to say, no,” he said. “I have my orders. You are to stay here tonight until my superiors make arrangements with your embassy. We will bring in blankets. It is the best I can do…”

“Helluva way to treat your friends,” Eryk shouted, face reddening. He looked like he was going to take a swipe at the Estonian officer, but Squeaky stepped up, grabbed him by the arm. Eryk hesitated and then shook him off, making it a point to glare at Talli, and then the guards posted by the doors at either end of the room. He turned on his heels, crossed over to the chairs where the rest of the officers and crew of the Eagle were sitting, kicked a chair, and then picked it up and sat down.

Talli held out his hands in appeal. “Remain calm,” he said raising his voice. “I regret what has happened; truly I do. I will do what I can to make you comfortable. We have food and coffee coming in an hour. You will be allowed to use the facilities one at a time. Until then, for your own protection, you need to stay here.”

“Go fuck yourself,” somebody shouted. He was joined by more shouts, and then, just as quickly as it started, it began to die out. It was as if losing their ship had ripped the heart and passion out of each and every one of the crew. It was something Talli understood. He was a sailor, too. That submarine was not only their duty, but it was their home. They looked after her, and she looked after them. Cut off from the Eagle, they had lost an important part of themselves. Talli looked mournfully over the group of submariners, shook his head, and left.

Ever since he had joined his men, Stefan had sat quietly on a chair in the corner. When offered cigarettes, he ignored them. When Eryk, and Squeaky, and the others approached him, attempted to get him to respond to questions, he did nothing.

“I think he’s cracked,” Eryk said. “Who would have thought it?”

Squeaky shook his head. “Nah. He’s thinking up a plan to get us out of here. Soon as he has it all figured out, he’ll let us know. Don’t worry.”

“You’re full of shit,” Eryk said. “Say, where’s the captain?”

“Speaking of somebody being full of shit,” Squeaky said. “And yeah, that’s a good question. Where is the asshole? Makes you wonder, don’t it?”

“What do you mean?” Eryk said.

“I mean, whose idea was it to come here.”

“You don’t think he was in on it, do you?” Eryk looked over his shoulders, his voice hushed.

“Guy was just looking out for his own ass. That’s what I think. We were his trophy boat; he’d stay hitched to us for a while and then move on to bigger and better things at headquarters. Unfortunately, the war started up. That put a kink in his plans, yes, sirree. And then, instead of going after the Germans, we’re forced to skedaddle for repairs here. But lo and behold, we’re interned by the Estonians. Who’d have thought that. In other words, safely out of the war.”

“Jesus, you could be right.”

“We should tell Stef.”

“Nah, leave him be. He’s still thinking. If I can figure it out, so can he. If I’m right, he’ll let us know.”

Across the room, Stefan was vaguely aware of the furtive, worried glances from his men. He saw Eryk and Squeaky huddled together, talking fiercely. They would have been disappointed to discover that instead of planning their escape, he was wondering whether he should bother somebody for a smoke. For the most part, he had recovered from his initial shock, the guilt and regret over not being able to prevent what had happened. The personal recriminations at being such a complete fool. He had known better and still he had let it happen. Now that they were under guard, he couldn’t figure out a way to rectify his mistake. He had always prided himself on his ability to solve problems even in the most stressful situations. But this was unique. And his mind felt trapped in molasses. Of course, he knew that worrying about a smoke was just a way to ignore the real problem, a growing sense of fear over what might happen to his men. He had no illusions. As well-meaning as Talli seemed to be, he would do what he was ordered. Stefan doubted they would be handed over to Polish diplomats, and even if that happened, what could they do? Before long, there would be no Poland. Of that he was sure. The Estonians couldn’t very well let them go free. After all, they were combatants in a war. Most likely, they would be handed over to somebody else. And that meant either the Soviets or the Nazis. Stefan didn’t like either choice, but he was at a loss to know what to do. And so he sat and worried about a smoke.

Kate didn’t even bother to knock. She looked at the address on her pad, then at the numbers above the massive stone doorway. “Excuse me,” she said to the Estonian sailor guarding the door. She pushed the barrel of his gun aside and marched right on in.

The guard opened his mouth to shout a warning, but Kate glanced over her shoulder and gave him a perfectly timed smile. That stopped the guard in his tracks. He gave Reggie a confused look. Reggie shrugged an apology, held out his press card for the guard to scan, and then snapped his wallet shut. “BBC,” he lied, and then he picked up the camera equipment and followed after her.

Kate paused in the entryway and did a quick turn around. McBride hadn’t been kidding. It was a gorgeous place. Strange jail for the crew of the Eagle, but it made a certain sense. An actual jail or prison would have alarmed the men right off. Hard enough to control one angry sailor, she couldn’t imagine how it would be with sixty. Besides, they weren’t officially arrested. What had McBride said the Estonians were calling it? “Belligerent guest restrictions.” Kate wondered if they actually hired people to come up with inane phrases like that or if it was just a characteristic of every bureaucracy on the planet. Of course, bringing the Eagle’s crew here made the threat less obvious. And as McBride pointed out, the building had limited ways to get in and out, so it could be guarded by a small group of men. When they figured out what to do with the Poles, they would load them aboard trucks, and drive them off to their fate.

Kate shifted her purse on her shoulder. The weight of the two pistols made the strap bite uncomfortably into her shoulder. They had decided against hiding them in Reggie’s equipment. Too easy for them to be discovered if anyone decided to look. Kate’s purse wasn’t much better, but McBride had figured that the ever-proper Estonians would bother to check Kate’s personal belongings. That was the hope, anyway. And so far, so good.

A short Estonian naval officer trotted up to Kate at about the same time Reggie staggered through the door. The officer was wiping his mouth, missing the sheen of grease on his upper lip. They had interrupted dinner.

He glanced at them both. Judged them British by their clothes. “Yes, yes, what can I do for you?” he said in accented English.

“I’m here to talk with the officer in charge.”

“That is me. My superior, he is gone for the moment.”

“NANS,” Reggie blustered nervously, holding out his press ID.

“We’re here to interview the Polish sailors….” Kate added. “We’re with an internationally recognized news service.”

“Impossible,” the Estonian said with a shake of his head. “The men are in protective custody. You must not disturb them. I am under orders.”

“Why?” Kate said with alarm. “They aren’t sick are they? It isn’t smallpox, or the flu….”

“Or something really contagious,” Reggie added hopefully. He was having serious second thoughts about this whole operation. If the crew was sick, that would end any hope of freeing them. It would be too bad, but so it goes in life.

“No, no, they aren’t sick. They are perfectly healthy and eating food graciously provided by the people and government of Estonia as we speak at this moment.”

“That’s perfect,” Kate cooed. “You’re feeding them right now. You see, we just want to get their story for our readers, and write about the wonderful treatment they’re receiving from their Estonian hosts. They are being well treated, aren’t they. By the way, what is your name?”

The Estonian officer straightened the front of his jacket. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a white handkerchief, and wiped his lips once again. He glanced at his watch. Talli wouldn’t return for another hour. He would have to decide. He glanced at the woman and decided. “Veski,” he said. “Walter Veski. Lieutnant Commander, Estonian Navy.” He bowed his head formally and smiled.

Kate answered the smile with a giggle. She held out her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Walt,” she said. “Miss Kate McLendon. I’m an American. This is my associate, Reggie Goldberg.”

The Estonian took Kate’s hand. For a moment, she thought he would raise it to his lips. But he didn’t.

“Yes, we treat them very well. They have committed no crime…”

“Then why won’t you let us chat with them? It would mean so much to me.”

Reggie stifled a sigh of disgust. The girlish routine couldn’t possibly work on the man. But, as in the past, he had overestimated the powers of his own gender and underestimated Kate’s.

A look of alarm crossed Veski’s face. He took Kate’s hand. “Of course you can see them. Please, please, dear lady. And you write a nice story?”

“Of course,” Kate replied sweetly, squeezing Veski’s hand. “It’s Walter Veski, isn’t it.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

From the front seat of a nondescript black sedan parked a block away, McBride watched Kate and Reggie disappear through the front door. He hugged the steering wheel, expecting them to reappear at any moment. When they did not, he slumped back in the seat, tipped his hat low over his eye, and waited. So far so good. But if they ran into trouble, they were on their own. He’d made that clear.

Half an hour passed. Still no signs of alarm from inside the building. In fact, the guard at the entrance had slung his rifle over his shoulder and was talking and gesturing to an old man wearing a green beret, arms wrapped around a bag of groceries, who had paused on the walk. McBride watched the guard place a cigarette in the old man’s mouth and then light it, the match flaring brightly in the evening shadows. The old man shifted the load in his arms, nodded thanks to the soldier, and then continued on his way. It was all so normal, and yet McBride now noticed a strange tinge to all the usual activities. It was almost as if he was seeing them for the first time, marveling at what they represented. Or perhaps it was simply a realization that life couldn’t possibly go on as it always had when war had started again and every place would soon be touched by it? Or maybe it was more than that? McBride wondered.

McBride nodded to the old man as he trudged by his car. It was time. He’d waited long enough. Now it was his turn. He started the car, slipped it into gear, and then began to make his way through the darkening cobblestone streets of Tallinn, back toward the warehouse district near the harbor. He kept an eye on his rearview mirror. He had taken the necessary precautions when he slipped out of the embassy, but you could never be sure. It was common knowledge that the city was crawling with intelligence agents from all sides of the war. He glanced at his watch. Nearly 8 p.m. Time enough. He bounced over railroad tracks, wheeled between two buildings, swung down a narrow side street and paused in front of a warehouse door. He flicked the car lights on and off. The door swung open. He gunned the engine and drove into the cavelike interior, turned off the motor, and stepped out. As soon as the door closed, overhead lights flared.

“You weren’t followed… ” It was a statement, not a question. A tall, thin-faced man stepped forward, held out his hand. “Not bad, for an amateur. Nice to see you again, Duncan.”

McBride grinned, stepped out of the car. “I’ll take that as a compliment. All set?”

Ashley Thomas, the local representative of the British Secret Service, nodded. “ A vacant building has been found a half a block away. It should burn quite nicely. No sense killing any locals. And this should do …” He gestured over his shoulder in the direction of a bright red bus.

“I said lorry,” McBride responded, frowning.

“Best I could do on such short notice, old boy. It’s from a local company. Shouldn’t look too out of place. You have a driver? I hope you don’t expect me to waste any of my people on this fool’s attempt.”

McBride could feel his cheeks beginning to color. “You have any better ideas? I’d like to hear them.”

Thomas shrugged. “Not my problem,” he said.

“That’s what I thought,” he said dismissively, the Scottish tinge to his words becoming more pronounced as he continued. “Damn Germans didn’t give us much time. The crew is being hauled off tomorrow. The old man wanted us to help out, and that’s what I’m going to try to do.”

Thomas exhaled in disgust. “Churchill? I heard he was back. We’ll see how long the dinosaur lasts this time. So, who’s your driver?”

McBride took a deep breath. “Me.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Do you even know how to handle one of these? Not like driving a Morris.”

“I think I’ll do all right,” McBride said pointedly. He didn’t mention the fact that his father still drove a dark green bakery delivery van through the streets of Edinburgh every morning, the same van McBride had used to learn how to drive when he was fifteen –years old.

“What if you’re caught?”

McBride shrugged. “I shan’t be. And if I am, I’ll just say the Poles made me do it.”

Thomas laughed, tossed him the keys to the bus. “Good luck then,” he said. “You’re going to need it.”

McBride caught the keys in midair. “Save it for the Poles. Getting down to the harbor is going to be the easy part.”

Ritter was standing in the center of the foyer, legs apart, back flagpole-straight, slapping his black leather gloves impatiently into the palm of his hand.

“How dare you bother me here at the home of my cousin?…” Sieinski said.

“You have a promise to keep, captain. Remember?” Ritter said evenly.

“Józef? Everything all right?” A tall, well-dressed woman came up behind Sieinski, grabbed him by the arm, felt his discolored forehead. “He still isn’t well, you know.”

“I haven’t had the pleasure,” Ritter said, removing his cap. “My name is Peter von Ritter. And you?”

“Frieda Aaviksoo,” Sieinski said. “Her husband is a minister in the government.”

“What a delight.” Ritter said, nodding slightly. He didn’t offer her his hand. He replaced the cap on his head and looked sharply at Sieinski. “Well?”

As Sieinski nodded, his face began to change, sag in upon itself like a rotten pumpkin too long in the sun. He turned to his cousin. “Yes, my dear,” he said hoarsely. “My men are in need of their captain. A few formalities. And then I will return.”

The woman patted Sieinski on the cheek. “You know,” she said to Ritter, “Józef is my favorite cousin. It was such a nice surprise to hear he was in town.”

“I’m sure,” Ritter remarked dryly. “Shall we go?”

Ritter settled into the back seat of the Mercedes with an audible sigh. “Marvelous vehicle, don’t you think? Nothing quite like it in the world. And these seats. Only the very best leather. Quality always shines through. It is the same with people, I think.” Ritter smiled broadly. “I hope you found satisfactory resolution to your, ah, sickness?”

Sieinski ignored the barb. He stared out the window, watching buildings flick by, windows lit up warmly, everything normal. He wondered what was happening in Poland. His cousin had been listening to the BBC when he arrived at her house. The news was bleak: Germans advancing across all fronts, Warsaw surrounded. He couldn’t help wonder how different it would be if had ignored Ritter’s advice.

“Could we have made France?” Sieinski asked.

Ritter knew what Sieinski wanted, but it wasn’t his place to give it to him. He would have to find that in a cathedral. “Yes, of course,” he said dismissively.

Sieinski’s shoulder dropped ever so slightly. What little that had remained of the man who had existed the night before the Eagle left Gdynia had now vanished completely. “What do you want me to do?” Sieinski asked dully.

“In the morning, your men are to be taken to a safe haven,” Ritter said. “The Lituanian government has agreed to accept them for the time being. From there, they will be repatriated back to Poland, or to a neutral country of their choice.”

“What about me?”

Ritter couldn’t hide the sneer. Of course, he was true to type. How had this narcissist become a leader of men? He only thought of himself. His men were nothing to him. He was a disgrace. It was unfortunate that the crew couldn’t be freed instead and this man taken to the border their place and handed over to the NKVD, the Soviet secret police. “You are free to do what you want.” He watched Ritter’s fingers tapping nervously on his thigh. “And as for your men, I want you to tell them what I just told you. Assure them that no harm will come to them. They will be treated with all due respect. Tell them that this has been worked out with the Polish embassy.”

“Has it?”

Ritter didn’t respond.

“I see,” Sieinski said. “And my father?”

“As soon as you do what I have asked, I will notify my superiors of your cooperation.”

“How can I trust you?”

“Yes, yes,” the German sighed. “There it is. How can you trust anyone today? Who knows what is in another’s heart and mind, really? You make love to a woman, and assume she has thoughts only for you, but in reality, she is dreaming of another, perhaps your best friend, or the man playing saxophone in the band at the club you just visited. And while you are making love to her, you are thinking of another, maybe that lovely American woman who accompanied us on the Eagle, eh? Who knows anything in times such as these? But on this I give you my word as one officer to another.”

Sieinski glanced at the German next to him. “Very well,” he said softly. Not that he had any choice in the matter.

Stefan finally gave up and bothered someone for a couple of cigarettes. That distraction settled, he had returned to his seat in the corner, ignoring the looks and comments from his officers, and then proceeded to light the first one, smoking it slowly, watching the smoke eddy toward the ceiling.

He was on his third cigarette when, as promised, food and drink arrived. Plates of steaming sausages, noodles, bread, soup, potatoes, bowls of grapes and apples, and bottles of beer and cider were set up on tables along with plates, cutlery and cups. Amazing what effects a good meal and drink can have on a person, Stefan thought, watching his men line up. Bellies quickly filled, the crew of the Eagle, sullen and restless earlier, had quickly settled down. Soon enough the last of the food was gone, a few of them men laughing and joking with the two guards in the room, asking when the music would begin and the dancing girls would arrive. Instead of complaining when they were told none were coming, a couple of sailors began singing Polish folk songs, their voices bright and cheerful. A few of the jokers among them even tried their hands at dancing, their male partners doing their best impressions of shy country girls.

From his chair in the corner of the room, Stefan showed little interest in the antics of his crew. He was smoking slowly, his thoughts remained locked up. Eryk had brought a plate of food over to him, but when Stefan hadn’t even bothered to acknowledge his presence, he had left it on the floor. It was still there, uneaten.

Stefan didn’t notice Kate when she first stepped through the doorway, the Estonian officer on one side of her, Reggie on the other. That wasn’t the case with the rest of the crew, however, who as soon as they recognized who it was, began whistling their approval at the change that had come over their former passenger. Kate smiled in response. When she twirled around like a movie star or a model, their cheers increased, and she was immediately surrounded, all of them begging for a dance.

Kate laughed with delight, apologizing loudly. She pushed them aside and marched across the room and right up to Stefan. “Doesn’t look like we’re going to get our dinner with Hans,” she said, taking a deep breath, “so how about a dance instead?” She gave Stefan the kind of smile that would have wakened a dead man.

The Eagle’s crew whistled their approval. The singers began another song. Stefan stubbed out his cigarette and looked up. “Why are you here?” he said listlessly.

Kate’s smile dissolved into a look of contempt. She glanced down at the plate of uneaten food on the floor next to his chair. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said sarcastically. “Maybe I came to the wrong place? I thought there were some sailors here itching for a fight with the Germans. I guess I was wrong. I see now it’s just a room filled with a bunch of dumb Polacks. And I’m beginning to think that you’re the dumbest of the lot. Having a little pity party, are you? Tricked out of your boat, of all things, my, my. And betrayed by your captain. Didn’t even get a chance to fight the bad guys. And now, I see you’re sitting here feeling sorry for yourself. You poor little baby.” She reached out to pat him on the cheek. “Looks like I’m wasting my time….”

Kate’s words had had their desired effect. Each one was like a puff of wind on a hot cool night. Stefan began to rise, his face hardening. He intercepted Kate’s wrist just before her hand touched his cheek. “Enough,” he whispered fiercely, aware now that the singing had stopped, that everyone was watching, including the Estonian officer, who had begun to cross the floor, a puzzled expression on his face. “What do you want?”

Kate gave Stefan a strained smile. “Just get up and dance with me, you big dope. Please…”

“I must warn you,” Stefan said as he slowly stood and forced a smile to his face. “I cannot dance.”

“Jesus, you’re a hopeless shit,” Kate said. “Just follow my lead.” She took his hands, lead him out onto the floor. The two singers began another tune. While the crew of the Eagle stomped and whistled with excitement, Kate and Stefan began to dance.

Walter Veski watched the pair for a moment, then snorted with disdain. American women. What had he been thinking? He still had half a plate of food uneaten on his desk. “You get two hours,” he said loudly. “No more.” He turned on his boot heels, and stomped out of the ballroom.

For Stefan, worries about the war, and his men had been shoved aside by a more immediate fear: that he was just a clumsy ox after all and he would end up stepping on this beautiful, entrancing, spirited woman’s feet. But as they slowly moved across the floor and that didn’t happen, Stefan began to relax. There was something in her gestures and the way she cocked her head and stared into his eyes that made him realize for the first time what he had missed by never settling down. And that realization filled him with a sense of remorse so swift and terrible he winced with pain.

“What’s wrong?” Kate said.

“It’s just…” Stefan fumbled with his thoughts and feelings. “If only it had been… different.”

“But then you and I might never have met, eh?” Kate replied softly. “By the way, I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”

“What’s that?”

“My name really isn’t Roosevelt.”

Stefan laughed suddenly, pulled her closer. “I knew it,” he said.

“Forgive me?”

“Never.”

“And there’s one other thing.” She leaned her head on his shoulders, and began to whisper in his ear. Eryk and Squeaky saw the glance he gave her, noticed the change in the way he moved.

“Lucky sonofabitch,” Eyrk said. “Imagine having a babe like that tell you she loved you.”

“Yeah,” Squeaky breathed softly. “I can….”

Chapter Thirty-Four

Veski and the two guards had forgotten all about the Poles.

The trio was standing on tiptoe by the lead-glass windows at one end of the banquet hall, straining to see through the thick antique glass what was happening down the street. Another fire truck had just screamed past the front pillars of the 16th-century mansion. The orange glow of flames was like the colors of an angry dawn on the windows of buildings across from the blaze.

Veski noticed it first. A bright red municipal bus idling next to the curb in front of the mansion’s steps. Strange place for a stop, he thought. He peered more closely. The driver looked vaguely familiar and somehow out of place, like a man wearing a business suit on a hot day at the beach, or a child in a bowler hat driving a car.

Veski raised a finger as a hazy image of the man began to take shape. As he recalled, however, this man—or someone who looked very much like him—had been wearing the uniform of a British officer. Why? Veski eyes widened with a sudden thought. He nodded, his finger bobbing in unison to the beat of his chin. “I know him….” he breathed.

“Good for you,” came the whispered response. He felt something sharp jab at his side. “Have your men hand over their rifles.” And then another jab.

Veski jerked with surprise. He couldn’t help it. Stefan responded by digging hard with the barrel of the pistol. The motion elicited a loud “ouch” from the Estonian, which was finally enough to drag the attention of the two guards away from the fire. They turned, started to bring up their rifles and hesitated when they saw Eryk, who was positioned behind Veski and Stefan, legs apart, arm out, pointing a pistol steadily in their direction.

“Say it!” Stefan said. “Our quarrel isn’t with you and your boys.”

Veski nodded. That made sense. “All right… all right,” he sputtered. “Just don’t hurt me. You two there, put down the rifles. Do as I say.”

The guards looked almost relieved. They leaned their rifles against the wall, stepped quickly away and raised their hands. Stefan glanced out the window, noticed McBride waving furiously from the driver’s seat of the bus.

It was time.

Stefan had listened with growing excitement as Kate sketched out the plan, her breath soft as a flower petal on his ear. “One o’clock sharp. Be ready then. A bus will be out front.”

He held her delicately, hand resting lightly on the small of her back, trying to concentrate on her words, his footwork and the music, but her closeness—the warmth of her hand on his shoulder, the smell of her hair—was maddening.

He saw the bemused looks on the faces of his officers, Reggie’s sarcastic leer, and the longing smile of every single member of the crew, all them watching their performance, all of them wishing the same thing. He didn’t blame them one bit.

And then the men finished their song, the impromptu trio bowing and smiling and scattered applause. Someone suggested another tune. And then she was off, pressing her handbag into his hand before being pulled away by Squeaky of all people.

“I better take over,” he said with a broad grin, as the men began singing another song. “You look like you’re about to faint.”

Stefan stood awkwardly, watching the pair dance away, admiring Squeaky’s confident steps. He knew how to dance. Kate was smiling, enjoying the skill of her new partner, acting as if dancing were the only reason she was there. As they whirled by him, Kate winked. And right that moment, Stefan vowed that when this was all over…

“Put your tongue back in, commander,” Reggie interrupted, grabbing Stefan by the elbow and steering him off the floor. “Don’t you think you should find some place safe for the purse and the,uh, paperweight inside?”

“Damn you,” Stefan said softly.

“I know, I know. But you’ll thank me in the morning.”

Stefan pulled his elbow free. “Since you’re so insistent on being useful, find Eryk and send him over. We have a few items to discuss.”

Reggie clicked his heels together in mock salute. “As you wish, Herr Captain.”

“Don’t push your luck, American,” Stefan growled.

Kate gamely danced for another hour. Even one of the Estonian guards took a spin, the Poles hooting good-naturedly while the other guard held his rifle. When she had danced with everyone who wanted a turn—nearly the entire crew— the singers were as hoarse as seals. By then, Stefan had filled Eryk in on the plan. They had split up, moving unobtrusively through the crew, briefing the rest of the officers. By that time Kate prepared to leave. As she was saying her goodbyes to the singers, she picked up her coat off the back of a chair and then walked over to Stefan, who was leaning against the far wall, smoking quietly by himself. Most of the men had settled down in their makeshift beds, mattresses and blankets on the floor. Many were already snoring, succumbing to the effects of the food and drink and late hour.

“My purse?”

Stefan pulled it from beneath his arm and handed it to her. She hefted it in her hand, nodded her approval. “Thank you for the dance,” she whispered.

“My pleasure,” Stefan replied. “I hope I can repay you for your help.”

She stared at him, a solemn expression on her face, as if her inner eye was attempting to discern their future. “I’ll hold you to that promise, Commander.” She surprised him with a light kiss on the cheek. “I’ll see you around.” And then she was off, striding like a prom queen across the floor. She found Reggie by the door, hooked him by the arm. The guard at the doorway let them out, bowing slightly as they passed.

“Anyone else we need to worry about?” Stefan asked.

Veski seemed hypnotized by the pistol in Stefan’s hand. Stefan jabbed him again to break the spell. “Uh, one at the door,” Veski said, “one out back. That’s it. We didn’t think…”

“And good for us that you didn’t,” Stefan said, cutting him off. “All right, rouse the men,” he said to Eryk. “Time to go.”

Eryk waved across the room to Squeaky, who whispered to the other officers, and senior sailors. They quickly moved among the crew, most of whom were scattered across the floor sleeping despite the commotion outside, shaking them awake. Stefan was surprised at how calmly they woke. A momentary blank look, or a yawn, and then a curt nod, smiles even, as the officers briefly told them what was happening. Stefan had kept news of the plan from the bulk of the crew. No need for them to know until the time came. It also prevented any nervousness from alerting the guards. Within moments of understanding what was happening, each crewman glanced in Stefan’s direction, as if needing reassurance that he was he was back in charge. What they saw seemed enough for them.

“Hurry, hurry,” Stefan hissed. “Let’s go….” He grabbed Veski’s arm, and hustled across the dance floor. Eryk grabbed the two rifles, motioned with the pistol for the two other guards to follow. As two of the Eagle’s gun crew, he tossed the rifles to them. “No shooting unless ordered, understand?” he said. Both men nodded curtly.

“What are you going to do with us?” Veski said with alarm. Eryk gave Stefan a questioning look, as if to reiterate: Yes, what are we doing with them?

Stefan smiled. “For now, you’re coming with us. Think of yourselves as a guest of the Polish Navy. We’ll try to treat you as decently as you treated us.”

Eryk’s snort of with laughter caused Veski to send a worried look in his direction. He knew from experience that Poles had a violent streak—his wife was Polish. He just hoped they didn’t take it out on him.

Stefan paused at the door, the rest of the crew crowding behind him. “There’s a bus waiting out front for us,” he said, scanning their faces. “One guard at the front door. You all wait here while I take care of him. When I shout, come fast. We’ll load onto the bus, and then make for the harbor.”

Here it was. Would the crew still follow him after all his mistakes? He noticed a few worried nods and a tight smile or two, and then Chief K pushed to the front, his face pale as a death shroud. Ever since the discovery of Jerzy’s body, he had been silent and withdrawn, occupying a special room set aside in his own private hell. But no more. His face twitched with life. He was breathing heavily as if he had just completed a long run. “And what then?” he gasped. It was everyone’s question. “We can’t very well sail a damn bus back to Poland.”

Stefan put his hand on Chief K’s shoulder, but he shrugged it off, twisted away and asked the question again, his voice trembling with emotion. “What then, goddamnit?”

Stefan looked out over the men. “We take back what is ours,” he said, “and then get the hell out of here. I don’t know about your boys, but I’m tired of Estonian hospitality…”

Chief K stared at Stefan with bruised eyes, and then, finally, bobbed his head, his face split by a grimace that was the best grin he could muster. It was the answer he had hoped to hear. It was the same for the rest of the crew, too. They pressed forward, ready to go. “Let’s get it done,” Chief K barked hoarsely. “We’re right behind you, Captain!”

Stefan shook his head in response to the chief’s attempt at a compliment. “Not yet a captain,” he said, and then he slipped out the door. His shout came a few moments later, the guard looking sheepish, holding his nose, blood coating his upper lip like a sloppy child caught in the raspberry jam. Stefan handed the guard’s rifle to Chief K and then pushed outside.

McBride already had the door open. “This isn’t a bloody holiday,” he spat as the first sailor climbed slowly up the steps, smiling nervously at McBride. “Get your arses in gear.”

The boy and the other behind him didn’t understand the man’s English, but they all recognized the look and bark of an officer. They scampered up the steps and trotted down the aisle, sliding into the seats. Stefan was the last one aboard.

“All set?” McBride said.

Stefan nodded. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he said in English.

“Couldn’t have put it any better meself,” McBride roared.

But as he pulled the door shut, an arm and shoulder suddenly got in the way. “Oww,” squealed Reggie. “Open up, open up. I need these.”

“What the hell are you doing?” McBride half stood in his seat, jammed the door lever forward, face blossoming red.

Before Reggie had a chance to respond, Kate jabbed him in the bottom. He spread his arms in apology, and then scampered aboard the bus.

“Nice to see you again, boys,” Kate announced.

“You must get off,” Stefan said, furious. “This is no place…”

“For a woman?” Kate finished for him. “I’ve heard that before. Didn’t work earlier, and it won’t work now. You aren’t leaving us behind. Without us, you’d still be sucking your thumb back there. Besides, I don’t have the ending to my story yet.” And with that, she sat down on the front seat and crossed her arms.

“We don’t have time for this,” McBride sputtered. He dropped back into his seat, closed the door, shoved the bus into gear. “Next stop, Eagle!” he roared.

“What seems to be the problem?” Ritter said.

“Fire, sir,” replied the driver of the Mercedes, half turning around in his seat to address the officer behind him. “The street —it’s blocked.”

“Go another way….”

Ritter leaned forward, peering through the front window. Two fire engines were parked in front of the burning building. The cobblestones along the street glistened like river rock wet with spray. Hoses were coiled like gigantic anacondas, their mouths held by two firemen pointing their spray at the flames that seemed intent on spreading to the upper stories of the building and the adjacent structures. The mansion where the Polish crew was being kept was up ahead, just over a block away. Ritter noticed a red bus pull away from the front of the building. Curious. He watched it accelerate down the block toward the fire, and then lean to the left as its driver made a sharp right turn down a narrow street leading toward the harbor. Even seeing the bus crowded with men wasn’t enough for Ritter to realize what was happening. It was locking eyes for just an instant with the figure of the bearded man standing over the bus driver, that made everything clear.

“Back, back,” Ritter screamed. When the German driver didn’t move immediately, Ritter scrambled over the front seat, pushed open the door and kicked the man out. He pulled it closed, dropped the Mercedes into reverse, and with a squeal of tires, began racing backward. He braked hard as the big German car raced through the intersection, spun the wheel to the right to whip the massive front hood around and then hard to the left. Before the slide was stopped, he’d jammed the car into first, popped the clutch and stomped on the accelerator. The Mercedes leapt forward.

“What the hell is going on?” Sieinski shouted from the back seat, responding to the sudden crazy antics of his keeper.

Ritter shook his head, his laughter filling the car. “A worthy opponent after all. It was always him I was worried about. You are a fool, and except for that poor boy, the rest of the men could be deceived easily enough, but not him. I should have known better…”

“What are you saying?” Sieinski shrieked, his face contorting with ignorance.

“Did you see that red bus?”

“Yes.”

“Your men are on it.” Ritter was almost gleeful. “And they are heading back to the harbor.”

“But why?”

“My God, you don’t deserve any of them. Isn’t it obvious? Even that poor boy was worth a dozen men like you.”

“I don’t understand.” Sieinski said, a strange sense of calm settling over his features.

“Your crew. Not yours any longer, I suspect. What’s his name. Stefan? Yes, that’s it. It is his crew now. And they are going to take back their boat. Eagle. Or, I suspect, die in the trying.”

When Ritter glanced in the rearview mirror, Sieinski had his face in his hands. And that was the last that he thought of him for while. Ritter wrestled the Mercedes through the narrow streets of Tallinn, brushing aside a few smaller cars that happened to be sticking too far out in the street with shriek of metal and a contrail of sparks. Within moments, Ritter had caught up with the lumbering bus.

“We’ve got company.” When Stefan frowned,  McBride pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “Only one organization that has those particular type of motorcars, and they’re not the fellows we want to see.”

“Germans?” Stefan said.

“Righto on that one, chum,” McBride said.

Stefan moved quickly down the aisle, using the seat backs to help him keep balance. Chief K handed him the rifle as walked past. Stefan chambered a round, kneeled on the back seat, raised the rifle butt and punched out the back window. He brought the rifle to his shoulder and hesitated, eyes going wide with sudden recognition. “You sonofabitch,” he roared. He fired and missed, Ritter swerving to the side just at the right moment, bouncing off the cars lining the street like a pinball off a bumper. Stefan fired two more shots in quick succession just as Ritter jammed on the brakes. The first round transformed the windshield into a spider web of cracks with a bullet hole directly in front of where Ritter’s face had been just a moment before. The second shot went through the Mercedes’ radiator, burying itself in the engine block. The Mercedes skidded sideways on the wet slick streets, plowing into a bench and flipping a parked motorcycle into the air.

McBride whipped the bus around a corner. As Stefan lost sight of the car, steam was curling up from beneath the hood.

“Mighty fine shooting, sir,” said the young sailor on Stefan’s right.

“You keep this for me, eh?” Stefan handed the boy the rifle, and then made his way back to the front of the bus.

“We’ll be at the harbor in a another couple of minutes,” McBride said.

“And who do I thank,” Stefan said in heavily accented English, grabbing hold of McBride’s shoulder and squeezing hard.

“Easy boy,” McBride winced. “I don’t have a spare.”

“So sorry. I can never repay your kindness.”

“Forget about me, laddie. Just doing my job. If you get a chance to return the favor, keep in mind His Majesty’s government. I think we’re going to need friends like you in the coming months. Follow me?”

Stefan nodded. “I understand you,” he said in English.

McBride wheeled the bus around the last corner, relieved that no one else had picked up the chase. The pier was directly ahead, the Eagle’s dull gray deck and conning tower visible in the glare of overhead arc lights. McBride gave a guard a friendly wave as passed through the gate, braked the bus to a stop right next to the Eagle and pulled open the door. “Last stop,” he yelled, “Eagle!”

“You stay close to me,” Stefan said in Polish to Veski.

Veski nodded blankly.

“We’re coming with you,” Kate reminded him.

“Jesus…” Stefan sighed. He looked to McBride for help.

“Sorry, friend,” McBride replied with a grin. “I tried to argue with her, and look how it’s ended for me . I think you’re stuck with ’em. They’re adults. They know what they’re doing.”

“Just… just get aboard and stay out of the way,” he whispered fiercely. Then it was time for last minute instructions to the crew. “I want no shooting, understand? Leave the rifles here. Go to your stations, prepare to get underway. Let me deal with whoever is in charge here.”

“What about the deck crews?” Eryk asked.

“Man the deck guns, of course,” Stefan said. “But remember, our quarrel is not with the Estonians. If we’re lucky, they might just let us go.”

“Too damn much trouble to keep around,” Squeaky added.

That brought chuckles from the men in their seats.

“Exactly!” Stefan added, grinning wryly.

Chief K pushed to the front. “I must do something,” he said apologetically.

Stefan knew instantly what the chief had in mind. “We don’t know where he is.”

“That officer—I heard him say he was going to find a cold place nearby,” the chief replied. “Shouldn’t be hard to find the nearest meat market. Jerzy. I won’t leave him behind, no sir.” He wagged his chin stubbornly. “If he can’t come along, well, I’ll just stay behind to keep him company.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Stefan said gently.

“But I do,” was the blunt reply.

Stefan knew it was useless to argue, even if he did have the time. And he didn’t. The chief’s mind was set, and Stefan couldn’t blame him for it. He patted the chief on the cheek, smiled sadly. “All right,” he said. “We’ll wait as long as we can.”

As Chief K blinked back tears and nodded gratefully, Stefan leaned forward and whispered into McBride’s ear. McBride glanced at the chief, hesitated for a moment, and then nodded.

Stefan smiled faintly, and then raised his voice. “Now let’s do our jobs,” he said. He tucked the pistol into his belt and stepped off the bus.

Ritter kicked open the crumpled door. Felt blood dripping from his chin. He reached up and explored the tattered edges of skin on his cheek. Another scar to tattoo his face, he thought. It could be worse. He eyed the windshield. An instant longer, and a similar hole would be decorating the center of his forehead.

He glanced inside the wreck. Sieinski was sprawled across the back seat, moaning softly. No telling how badly he was injured, and Ritter didn’t have the time or inclination to check. A few lights had flicked on in the upper-story apartments of the buildings that lined either side of the street, but the street remained deserted, the Estonians beginning to learn what many good Germans had already discovered: In the middle of the night, it was safer to ignore crashes and sounds of broken glass, screams and shouts and cries for help. Ritter knew that if he waited for someone to call the police, there was no chance to stop them. He clenched his hand into a fist. He was not ready to give up, not yet.

As he began to run, he slipped out of his ankle-length leather coat, letting it drop in the gutter. A present for someone in the morning. He did the same with his officer’s cap, flinging it down an alley. If he hurried, he just might make it in time. There were telephones at the guard station. He could alert the harbor batteries, officials at the German embassy. And then he thought of the German freighter anchored in the harbor just beyond the Eagle. If he could somehow contact her captain, she might just be able to block escape from the harbor. There was a flower shop on the corner, lights out because of the hour. Ritter ran up to the door, kicked out the front glass, and then reached through the jagged opening to the inside latch. Once released, he depressed the outside lock and stepped inside. The warm air was fragrant with blossoms. Ritter strode to the front counter, found the telephone hanging on the wall. “Get me the German embassy,” he said to the operator. “This is Fregattenkapitän Peter von Ritter of the German U-Bootwaffe. Get me the ambassador, schnell… I don’t care,” he said, “wake him now. A moment might make all the difference…” A minute later, Ritter was back out onto the street, running hard, urged on by the rhythmic beat of his boots echoing into the night.

Sieinski didn’t know how long he lay there, dazed, but not completely unconscious. He was aware of Ritter leaving, like a child on the edge of sleep hearing the slam of a door as his father heads for work in the darkness.

Sieinski moaned and sat up. He felt his forehead, once again tender from striking the back of the seat. His knee hurt, as well. But that seemed the worst of it. He worked his joints just in case, testing his shoulder, arms, neck. He would ache elsewhere later on, but nothing serious.

What had happened? His mind replayed the previous moments. Chase. Shots. And then he remembered The bus had been filled with the Eagle’s crew. His men. And then a sharp intake of breath, as he suddenly realized the truth. Not his men, not any longer. Ritter was right. Stripped of everything he had ever valued let him see clearly for the first time the waste and wreckage that was his life. And worst of all. They had left him behind. Sieinski began to weep. He felt once again the sweet despair of being overlooked by his friends. It was felt no different now than it had as a child twenty years earlier. They had left him behind. He caught himself. Not childhood ignorance, this time. What did he expect? He had abandoned them, left them to fend for themselves. They hadn’t left him behind, it had been his choice all along. He had been captain in name only, enamored with the rights and privileges that that rank had bestowed upon him. He had forgotten all about the responsibilities that came with it. He hadn’t taken care of his men, he hadn’t taken care of his boat, and so they had learned to do without him. His anguished sobs rang out in the darkness. What was he to do now? What would the Germans do to him when they found him? Sieinski was assaulted by a flurry of thoughts and emotions. His first inclination, as was his habit, was to find some way to protect himself. But Sieinski didn’t stop there. That was a change. He was no longer the same man he had been moments before. Despair had brought him to the bottom. But unlike many, he was not content to stay there. He couldn’t. The thought of his crew back on theEagle filled him with a wild sense of hope and possibility. Maybe it wasn’t too late to help them?

Chapter Thirty-Five

Commander Jaak Talli was in the Eagle’s bow compartment when he heard the faint shouts drift down the passageway, the footsteps on the deck overhead sounding like a herd of kids bursting out of a classroom. He glanced at his watch. 1:20 a.m. He couldn’t imagine it was the German crew already. They were punctual to a fault. They weren’t scheduled to take over the Eagle until she had been towed out of the harbor. And that wasn’t going to happen until mid-morning. Curious, Talli headed for the forward hatch.

Most of the afternoon and evening he had spent aboard the Eagle, supervising the disarming and unloading of her torpedoes through the loading hatches near the bow and stern. It was hot, greasy, grueling work, requiring a gang of men, block and tackle and chains to hoist the deadweight of the torpedoes above deck. It was also dangerous. A slip or a false move, and the TNT-packed cylinder could easily swing to one side, crushing a hand, a leg or worse.

Despite the risks, Talli’s order had been very specific. The damn Germans were getting the submarine, but that didn’t mean she needed to be handed over fully armed. There were just two torpedoes left when he’d finally called a halt to the work. It was nearly midnight. “We’ll finish in the morning,” he said with his brevity. “Oh-seven hundred sharp!”

He’d followed the quietly grumbling men out, and then returned, curiosity drawing him back aboard more than the coat he’d left. On an impulse, he’d decided to explore the deserted vessel, looking in every nook and cranny, the haunting presence of the crew his only companions. He spent time thumbing through the captain’s log, inspecting the engines, even rummaging through a few duffel bags like a adolescent voyeur. In the control room, he took hold of the periscope, imagining himself peering across a stormy sea at a distant target.

Talli had always been a surface sailor, serving on small patrol boats mostly, only recently getting command of his own. The Estonian Navy had never been as large as her neighbors. Its duties mostly revolved around patrolling her rugged coast line and infrequent rescues. But that hadn’t stopped Talli from reading about submarines, learning as much as he could about them. Dreaming. When the Eagle appeared in the harbor, he could barely contain his excitement. What luck. It wouldn’t be difficult to get a tour of the boat, of that he was certain. And then, incredibly, he had been ordered to intern the crew and learned the submarine was to be handed over to the Nazis, his superior, Admiral Kalm, winning the wrestling match to see who could be first among many at providing favors for the Germans. The fools. Didn’t the realize it was only a matter of time before Estonia and the other Baltic states were eaten by the German or Russian wolves. It was inevitable because, as his grandfather would have said, “it is in their nature.”

By the time Talli climbed up through the forward hatch, the Polish crew was already fanning out over the Eagle’s deck, disappearing down the aft hatch, climbing up onto the deck guns.

There had been three guards on the quay. He noted in a glance that they had gathered, along with the guard from the mansion, along the edge, overlooking the Eagle. They stood together like a cluster of forgotten schoolboys, looking awkward in a game that was just about to begin. Remarkably, not one threat had been made against them, and so their rifles hung limply in their arms, barrels pointed impotently at the ground. Just a few hours earlier they had been trading cigarettes and booze with these men. Now, they simply watched them go about the business of getting the Eagle underway.

As Talli began to take it all in, he had a sudden, fleeting impulse to escape. In three steps he could be off the deck, leaping into the harbor water. A long swim underwater would take him safely away from the floodlights shining down on the Eagle. He could be back up on the quay in five minutes and on his way to finding help.

But as he watched the men take back their vessel, these feelings were pushed aside by a sense of calm of the kind he had not experienced since he was a boy, staring in awe at the stained glass windows of the town’s cathedral. Instinctively, he knew there was something deeply right about what was happening. There was nothing he could do—nothing he wanted to do.

When the last Pole stepped off the bus, its doors swung close, there was the sound of grinding gears. The bus backed off the quay, reversed direction, and then disappeared down a street angling away from the harbor. And then Talli noticed Stefan standing next to the conning tower, remembered him from before. The Pole. He had an Estonian officer, Veski, at his side. There was a pistol in Stefan’s belt.

When Stefan saw Talli, standing on the ladder, halfway out of the forward hatch, he didn’t seem surprised. He motioned him over.

“And so we meet again,” Talli said striding confidently up to Stefan. He nodded toward Veski. “I should ask what is the meaning of this… but it seems clear enough.”

Stefan nodded. “We’re taking back what is ours.”

Though he had never seen an American baseball game, Talli responded to the reality of the words like a big league manager sending signals to a batter at the plate. He exhaled loudly, took off his hat, ran his hand through his thick hair, and then put it back in place, tugging the brim.

Stefan eyed Talli. “You aren’t trying to work yourself up to try something stupid, are you?”

Talli was silent for a moment and then smiled. “I am no friend of Germany. And as you say, this is your vessel. I have no specific orders to prevent you from taking back your sub. I will do nothing to stop you.”

“I figured as much,” Stefan said. “I pegged you for an honorable man first time I saw you. I can see I was right. You had trouble stomaching what happened, didn’t you?”

Talli sighed. He yelled orders in Estonian to the three guards on the pier. A sense of relief crossed their faces. Finally, someone to tell them what to do. They hesitated a moment, and then slapped each others on the shoulder. What luck. Instead of watching this sub well into the night, they now were free to stop by the nearby pub before reporting back to their barracks. “I told my men to leave. I don’t want them hurt. And I won’t stop you. But you can’t get out. Soon everyone will know. We have shore batteries protecting the harbor. They will destroy your vessel if you try to leave.” He sounded sad as he said the words.

It was Stefan’s turn to shrug. “We each do what we must,” he said softly.

Eryk’s head appeared in the forward hatch. “We have just two torpedoes,” he yelled.

Stefan whirled on Talli, grabbing the front of his uniform in his fists.

The Estonian didn’t react. “I’m sorry. We didn’t think the Germans needed them. We offloaded all the rest earlier today. Of course, I didn’t think you’d be needing them”

Stefan released his hold. A smile without humor cut across his face. “Yeah, my mistake. I should have let you know. And what else is gone?”

Talli didn’t get a chance to answer. Squeaky shouted down from the conning tower. “The charts,” he shrieked. “They’re all gone.”

Talli shook his head sadly. “You see, even if you get away, you won’t get far, not without charts. It would be suicide to try…”

Stefan’s face hardened. “We will not stay here,” he said, fiercely. “We will tap-tap our way out of the Baltic like a boatload of blind men if we must.”

Talli had to admire this man’s courage. But he waters off the Estonian coastline were particularly treacherous. And they would be chased—by the Estonians, the Germans and the Russians.

His eyes narrowed, considering a sudden thought. He glanced at Veski, who was looking at him with the sour expression someone usually reserved for a bug. And that’s when he realized he was face to face with one of those moments that would determine the rest of his life. “I know these waters as good as any man,” he said. “You will need to take me with you.”

Veski couldn’t contain himself. “The Admiralty will hear of this,” he spat.

“I don’t suppose you could drop me off along the way afterward?” Talli said. “Preferably not anywhere controlled by Germans or Russians…”

“We could arrange something,” Stefan said with a nod of acceptance. “Welcome aboard, Commander.”

“Thank you,” Talli said, surprised by the emotion that leaked into the words.

As for you,” Stefan continued, turning his attention to Veski, “I wouldn’t want you to miss out on any of the fun, either. You’re coming along, too.”

Chief K had never considered himself a churchgoing man. In fact, he had always treated anything to do with spiritual matters with a particular disdain. “My church,” he liked to brag when drunk, “is the nearest whorehouse, and my altar is a fat woman’s bosom.”

But as he ran down the darkened, street, the chief found himself praying like a child. “God help me find, Jerzy,” he chanted under his breath. “Please God help me find Jerzy.”

Of course, the chief didn’t want to be left behind, but he knew that he was as good as dead if he abandoned his shipmate, Jerzy. Like his captain, the chief had reached bottom. It was there he found a glimmer of redemption. But only if he found the body of his lost crewmate.

Chief K trotted around a corner, desperately scanning the buildings on either side of the street for any hint that one of them might be butcher’s shop. He nearly tripped over the drunk strewn like a pile of forgotten rags on the curb.

“What the hell,” snarled the man in hoarse, thick-tongued Estonian.

Before the navy, Chief K had worked in the engine rooms of an assortment of tramp freighters plying the waters of the Baltic. As a result, he’d picked up enough Estonian to get by. “Butcher. Where is it?” he said, squatting down in front of the man, ignoring the vomit in the gutter next to him.

“Wha… what?”

Chief K slapped the man across the face. “Butcher?” he shouted. And then another slap.

The man raised his arms to protect his face, and then tried scuttling off. Chief K stomped on his ankle. The man screamed. This time, when he glanced fearfully up at his tormentor, his eyes were nearly clear.

Chief K grabbed the man by the collar. “The butcher’s. Where is it?”

“Tha… thattaway.” The man gestured. “Down this street. On the corner.”

Chief K was already running. Even though it was hard to miss, he nearly dashed right by it. Smoked meats hanging behind the glass display window, the interior dark. He made a cut like a football halfback and, without breaking stride, lowered his shoulder and crashed through the front door, wood splintering in every direction.  Meat locker, he thought. In the back. He staggered over the shattered door, across the floor, then behind the counter and down a back hallway. The meat locker was on his right. He pulled at the heavy stainless steel door and then stepped into the frozen interior dark as a sack full of black cats. Straining his eyes, he felt around the inside of the doorway, found a light switch. He stared wildly for a moment at the side of beef hanging from a hook just inches from his face, its flank caked with blood and frozen fat. And then yelled, jumping with fright. Struggling to gain control of himself, he gulped hard, eyes blinking, steam rising from his head. He scanned the interior of the meat locker. Crowded with bloody carcasses, it looked like a bus stop at rush hour. And no sign of Jerzy’s body. He began darting among the hanging meat, pushing them aside until they were all swinging back and forth from their hooks like gruesome fruit on the branches of a tree. He had to choke back a hysterical laugh at the sight.

He was almost ready to abandon this place and try another when he noticed the canvas covered form lying next to a pile of bloody rags in the corner. “Jerzy,” he breathed with relief. He squatted next to the dead man, tried to lift him into his arms, but the boy’s body wouldn’t budge. He set his feet and tried again, straining, his face crimson, the veins on his neck bulging. Same result. He dropped to his knees, and looked more closely. Moisture from Jerzy’s body had leaked through the canvas and frozen it to the floor. He needed something, anything to help him pry the body free. The chief looked frantically around the room. Nothing. He dodged back through the carcasses, looked outside the locker. Next to the back door was a flat-bottomed shovel. Once it had been used to stoke a coal-burning furnace. Now it was used to dig away snow and ice. It would do. He grabbed it and then was back into the locker, repeating his run through the frozen defenders. In a frenzy, he jammed the sharp edge of the shovel beneath the body again and again, and then it released. He dropped the shovel, lifted one end of the stiff form and ducked beneath it, balancing it on his shoulder like a beam of wood. And then he was on his way, scurrying as quickly as he could beneath the staggering weight of the frozen boy. Lungs nearly bursting and legs on fire quickly reduced the chief’s thoughts to a white hot point: they would wait—Stefan would wait for them—he was going to make it.

From his perch on the bridge, Stefan noticed that his men hadn’t even bothered with the ropes. They’d simple cut them with an axe. The deck crew was already in place, helmets on, wheeling the gun barrel nervously in the air. Talli was standing by his side, grinning like a kid in a toy store. “What will your wife think?” Stefan said, noticing the gold band on Talli’s finger.

“She ran off a year and a half ago,” Talli said.

“Too bad,” Stefan grunted.

“No, no. Not at all. She was a bitch,” Talli said, his grin brightening.

Stefan responded with a smile of his own. He held his breath as the starter began to grind. Talli had assured him that only torpedoes and the charts had been removed from Eagle, but what if they’d disabled a critical system? First one and then the other diesel coughed, smoked and began to purr. In another moment, they would be on their way. Still no signs of alarm from the Estonian authorities.

Stefan glanced down the quay. They couldn’t wait much longer.

“All set,” Squeaky yelled from below.

A siren in the distance began to scream. Talli elbowed Stefan. “Look at that….” he motioned at the dark hulk of the German freighter behind them. It was coming to life. A puff of white smoke belched from its stack. They could see men running along the deck, and the lights were now blazing from its bridge. “I don’t like the look of that,” Talli said.

“Nor do I,” Stefan replied. Come on, chief,” Stefan muttered. Sweat was trickling down his face, making his beard itch.

Eryk’s head appeared in the conning tower hatch. “Stef?” was all he said.

Stefan was prepared to wait longer, but the sudden appearance of an Estonian half-track racing into view made the decision for him. The barrel of its gun began to swing ominously in the Eagle’s direction. Stefan was about to scream at the deck gun crew but they were already getting a bead on the half-track. They fired at the same time as the half-track’s gun crew. There was an instant of unknown and then the half-track leapt into the air, exploding into a ball of fire and tumbling metal. Simultaneously, the edge of the quay next to the Eagle disappeared, chunks of asphalt and shattered spikes of wood flying like shrapnel through the air.

Stefan and Talli ducked below the edge of the conning tower, and then, just as quickly sprang back up. The half-track was a burning pile of twisted metal and shattered glass. Everyone on it had been incinerated. The Eagle, on the other hand, was unscathed, though that was not the case for some of her deck crew. One man had been blown in the water. He was floating face down. Someone had already jumped overboard and was swimming after him. Another sailor was slumped to the deck, holding the side of his head where his right ear had once been. “Help those men aboard.” Stefan’s screams roused the rest of the stunned crew into action. “Henrik, can you get below by yourself?” A vague nod from the bleeding boy. “Go then, now.”

Instead, Henrik waved his hand, staggered over to the edge of the deck, and grabbed one end of the rope, the deck crew had tossed to the sailors into the water.

“Nice shot, boys,” Stefan said to the gun crew.

They glanced away from the remains of the burning half-track, looked up in his direction. With their too-big helmets, they looked like three children, Stefan thought. Soon enough they would realize what they had just done. It was just a piece of machinery that had been destroyed. They had also killed human beings for the first time.

Stefan waited until the two sailors in the water had been pulled aboard. One more glance down the pier. Flames for the half-track cast garish shadows along the distant warehouse walls. Still no sign of the chief. “Sorry,” Stefan whispered. He leaned toward the voice tube: “Number one back all slow, number two, forward all slow.” The rumble of the diesel engines, each slaved to their own screw, deepened. The two screws began to turn in opposite directions and the Eagle’s bow slowly pivoted away from the side of the quay.

Talli was keeping his eye on the freighter, its Nazi flag snapping in the breeze. “We’re too late,” he said, as the wave began to rise at her bow.

Chief K staggered around the corner, huffing loudly beneath the crushing weight of his burden. He gave scant attention to the burning half-track, two torn bodies leading up to where it had tumbled to a rest. He noticed the torn edge of the pier and an instant later saw the Eagle, slowly pulling away, already too far out to stop. He was too late. He came to a halting stop, careful to set Jerzy’s body gently on the ground, and then he crumpled, completely spent. They had waited to the last moment. But for the chief and Jerzy, it had not been long enough. It was clear from the wreckage on the pier, Stefan had waited until the end, and beyond. For that he would be forever grateful, however long forever might be. Perhaps only a few days, especially after the Estonians got a hold of him. But the chief no longer cared what happened to him. “It’ll be all right,” he wheezed, patting the canvas next to him. “Your ol’ Chief K’s here. I’ll take care of you. Don’t you worry, Jerzy.”

He raised an arm toward the submarine, his hand cold and claw-like, and waved. It was almost a blessing. And then, as he watched the Polish flag rise above the conning tower, he bowed his head and wept.

That’s how McBride found him a few minutes later. He braked the bus to a skidding stop next to the chief and the body of the dead man. He opened the door, and jumped down the steps. “You and your friend need a lift?”

Chief K gave McBride a blank look, and then he noticed the bus. He looked back at McBride.

“Stefan asked me to watch out for you.” McBride said softly. “He wasn’t sure you could make it.”

The chief didn’t understand English, but he recognized the name of his captain. “Stefan?” the chief whispered. He glanced in the direction of the submarine.

McBride noticed the look and nodded. “Yes, your captain, Stefan.” He reached forward, helped the chief to his feet. “He did not forget you. We don’t have much time,” he said. They carried Jerzy’s frozen body up the steps onto the bus.

A moment later, McBride steered the bus into the dark of Tallinn.

Chapter Thirty-Six

It was oddly quiet as Ritter ran out onto the pier, slowing to a trot as he passed the burning wreckage of the half-track, and then picking up speed for the final 100-meter dash. But it was a race he could not win. He was unarmed. And the Eagle was already too far away to be stopped.

The half-track was sending coils of oily smoke into the night sky, filling the air with the acrid stink of burning tires and paint, overheated metal, and cooked human flesh. Ritter was actually surprised by the signs of battle. His phone call to the German ambassador had been a perfect example of brevity. He had made it clear to the ambassador that if he didn’t get in touch with the German freighter’s captain and get him to block the Eagle’s escape the ambassador’s career would take a sudden turn for the worse. He hadn’t thought about alerting the Estonian forces. But his call and threats must have terrified the ambassador enough that he had taken it upon himself to rouse the head of the Estonian Admiralty, who, in turn, had managed to scare the crew of the ill-fated half-track into their vehicle. Unfortunately for them, the Eagle’s deck gun crew were better shots.

Ritter trotted up to the tattered edge of the quay. Mooring lines still dangled into the black, debris-covered water. By now, the Eagle was already three hundred meters from the end of the quay, rapidly gaining speed, still easy to see despite the darkness. In the harbor beyond the Eagle, the German freighter, ablaze with lights, was making a beeline toward the harbor opening.

Ritter nodded with satisfaction, mentally gauging the speed of the freighter and the Eagle, the distance each had to go before reaching the harbor opening. Of course, in a fair race, the German freighter was no match for the Eagle. Fortunately for Ritter, this race was anything but fair. The freighter, slow as it was, had enough of a head start and less distance to travel. In just a few minutes she would be in position to block the harbor opening. The Eagle wouldn’t be able to go beneath her. Too shallow.

Just a temporary setback, soon enough set right. He had made his call just in time—barely—and the ambassador had done what he had requested. Once he had regained control of the Eagle, he wouldn’t bother trying to humor the Estonians. He would personally make sure his men were placed on board. If the Poles resisted in any way, he would have them shot on the spot and dumped into the harbor, beginning with their big, bearded executive officer, Stefan.

“Mind if I join you boys?”

Kate stepped up onto the deck of the conning tower bridge. She pulled her coat tightly around her as she joined the two men, Stefan and Talli. The bruise on her forehead was beginning to leak out from beneath her make-up. The wind roughed her hair. Stefan noticed she had pulled on a pair of trousers beneath her skirt. Too bad for the men in the control room who had watched her climb up the ladder.

Stefan gave her a distracted glance, frowned and shook his head.

“I know, I know…” she said. “You don’t need to remind me. I should stay below. Dangerous up here. But I needed some fresh air. And if we aren’t going to make it, I wanted to be up here, not down there.” Kate turned around, leaned against the edge of the conning tower, and stared back at the city of Tallinn. “Lovely place,” she mused, “I wish I could have spent more time here.” She noticed a figure standing on the quay. “Wonder who that is?”

The words struck at Stefan like a dagger. Despite the danger of the moment, he couldn’t totally ignore feelings of failure at leaving Chief K behind, and the worry that McBride had been unable to find him. He wheeled around, brought the binoculars to his eyes, fully expecting to see Chief K standing there by himself. “That’s not the chief,” Stefan said tonelessly, his lips parting into a decent impression of a wolf showing his fangs. “You again. And look at that uniform. Kriegsmarine. Who the hell are you and why did you want my ship?”

Talli squinted back at the pier. Despite the darkness, there was enough light from the fire to see Ritter’s blond hair even without binoculars. “Fencing scar on his face?” he asked

Stefan nodded, lowered his binoculars. “Know him?”

“His name is von Ritter. Peter. I met him yesterday. He is a Fregattenkapitän in the Kriegsmarine. How do you know him?”

Stefan shook his head. “I am a fool,” he muttered angrily.

“He was aboard the Eagle with two others,” Kate interjected. “Posing as Dutch engineers, weren’t they?”

Stefan nodded.

“Saved me from some trouble,” she said, touching her forehead, her eyes losing focus for just a moment. “Wonder why they bothered?”

Talli nodded knowingly. “Ahh, they were after your vessel all along.” It was a statement, not a question.

“So it seems,” Stefan said through teeth clenched so tightly his jaw was beginning to hurt. He was half tempted by a wild thought: to leap off Eagle, swim back to the pier, and then proceed to kill with his bare hands the man who had murdered Jerzy.

“What is your plan now, Captain?” Talli asked dryly. The question brought Stefan back to the moment. He tore his gaze away from Ritter. “Oh, I don’t know,” he croaked harshly, gesturing futilely at the freighter that was moving to block their way out, “I was kind of hoping you might suggest something.”

Talli shook his head and smiled.

“I was afraid of that.”

“What about that?” Kate pointed at the deck gun.

Stefan shook his head. “I’m afraid it would do about as much good as spitting watermelon seeds at an elephant.”

“Uh-oh,” Kate said, gesturing at a distant motorboat, light bow wave spilling high in the air, racing toward the submarine from the other side of the harbor. “What do you think they want? Don’t look friendly either.”

“One of yours?” Stefan asked Talli.

Talli squinted at the distant boat, visible in the tapestry of shadows and reflected city lights that winked and dazzled across the harbor’s surface. “Private,” he said, frowning. “Some rich man’s yacht, I think.”

The motorboat closed quickly, banked at the last minute and came abreast of the submarine’s bridge, and then cut its speed to match pace with the submarine. The figure piloting the boat from the flying bridge high above the cabin, turned his face toward the trio in the conning tower, and grinned.

“Hey?” Kate said. “ Isn’t that…”

“Captain Sieinski,” Stefan finished for her. “Yes.”

“What is he doing?” Talli said.

Sieinski stared at Stefan for a moment. He pointed to the freighter.

Stefan spread his arms wide, palms upward, acknowledging the futility of it all. The freighter would block the way, and then it would be over. There was nothing he could do.

Sieinski looked again at the freighter, then back to Stefan, staring intently at his second in command for another moment. And then saluted.

“Why did he do that?” Kate said.

Talli and Stefan said nothing. Sieinski gave a final nod, turned away and shoved the throttles forward. The bow of the powerful yacht leapt into the air like a dog let out of kennel, and then veered away from the submarine, straight toward the stern of the freighter.

“What can he do?” Kate said with growing alarm. “That little boat is no match for that, that monstrosity…”

Talli interrupted Kate’s rant by gripping her arm tightly. “Time to pray,” he breathed.

Hope and horror. Stefan couldn’t ignore the sudden appearance of either emotion as he realized what Sieinski was going to attempt.

“He’s not going to do what I think he’s going to do, is he?” Kate said. “It would be suicide.”

“Don’t call it that….” Stefan said sharply

They watched silently as the yacht raced up quickly behind the lumbering freighter. Lights began to wink along the freighter’s back railing.

“They’re shooting at him,” Kate said with surprise. Talli and Stefan remained mute.

The shots had no effect. The dark water and the night making the bouncing yacht a difficult target for even the most expert marksman. And Sieinski didn’t flinch from his goal. At the last moment, the yacht seemed to accelerate into the freighter’s stern. It disappeared in a sudden flash followed by the dull thump of an explosion. A ball of flame mushroomed into the air, lighting up the entire harbor. And then, just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone. The freighter continued on course, seemingly no more bothered by the yacht’s assault than a cow is bothered by one fly.

“What a waste,” Kate said, turning on Stefan like it was his fault.

Stefan kept the Eagle on course, cutting through the dark water at top speed. He would have to decide their fate in another moment. Perhaps ramming the freighter was the only course left to them.

“Look,” Talli said.

Slowly, imperceptibly, the big freighter began turn away from the harbor opening.

“I don’t understand.” Kate said.

When Stefan made no move to respond to her question. Talli did it for him. “His sacrifice was not in vain. He has damaged her rudder.”

“He knew what he was doing then….,” Kate murmured.

“He was a sailor,” Talli said. “He knew….”

Stefan’s mouth was a straight line. In a way, it changed nothing. Stefan still despised Sieinski and all that had made him the way he was. And yet, at the end, he was a captain in deed as well as title. Stefan touched the tip of his cap in final salute.

Ritter watched with curiosity as the motor yacht raced out of nowhere, approaching the submarine. At first he assumed it was the Estonian harbor authorities, attempting to persuade the Eagle to give way and stop. But when the yacht turned away from the submarine and raced toward the freighter, he began to worry. As seconds passed, and the yacht quickly closed on the freighter, his alarm increased. “Shoot, you fools,” he screamed finally, his voice ragged and hollow in the predawn darkness.

A moment later, the light from the muzzles of a dozen rifles began to wink along the railing of the freighter.

There was no change, however, in the yacht’s course. Of course, what could a motor yacht do? He tried to assure himself. It was an empty gesture. A craft of wood and glue against a monstrosity of iron and steel a hundred times its size.

Ritter felt himself calm as he watched the last moments. He pulled out a cigarette, lit it and then exhaled at the same moment the yacht disappeared beneath the freighter’s stern. There was a momentary flash of fire as the fuel tanks detonated, and then nothing else. It had been futile. He wondered who had been piloting the motor yacht. A local anti-Nazi partisan? Not likely. Someone from the Eagle’s crew staying behind to sacrifice himself? Again, not likely. He had watched the way Stefan treated his crew more like family than sailors. He would no more leave someone behind than a father would leave behind a son. Whoever it was must have known he wouldn’t survive the impact. He had to be prepared for death with nothing to lose.

Ritter continued to watch the race, relaxed now, smoking casually. When he finished his cigarette, he would jog over to the Estonian Naval Headquarters and settle it all with Admiral Kalm. At the moment, he was enjoying the spectacle, and the time alone.

And then the worst began to happen. The freighter’s bow wavered and then with agonizing slowness, it began to turn away from the harbor opening.

“No,” Ritter whispered in disbelief. He flipped his cigarette into the water. Somehow, the yacht had damaged the freighter after all. It gave the Eagle the chance it needed. Now it had an open shot to the sea.

There was only one thing left to do. Destroy the submarine. She couldn’t be permitted to escape. That had been clear from the outset.

It was almost as if Ritter gave the order. There was a flash followed by a loud crack from the harbor battery on the nearby bluff. Ritter held his breath and then exhaled when a plume of white spray erupted into the air, 150 meters short and another 75 meters behind the Eagle.

The Eagle shifted course slightly and seemed to hunker down lower in the water like a jaguar dropping her head and then running for her life. Her deck gun fired in response, but the shell exploded against the side of a building far short of the harbor battery.

Ritter clenched his fists as he watched all that he had worked for, all that he had dreamed about, begin to dissolve before his eyes. He had been so close, within mere hours of taking over control of the vessel. And now this, she was on the verge of escaping, or worse yet, being destroyed.

Though it wasn’t technically his fault, how would he explain it Dönitz? He had carried out the entire plan with meticulous precision only to falter at this last moment. Ritter shook his head. Enough time later for recriminations.

It had been a risky plan from the start. In some sense, it was amazing they had gotten this close. Of course, that wouldn’t matter to the Dönitz, or Hitler, for that matter.

The Estonian guns on the harbor’s other side opened fire. The results were the same—a column of spray shot into the air. Another miss. The crack of the big guns, firing now with persistence, sounding like thunder rolling across the harbor and town. Behind him, all the buildings were ablaze with light. Everyone in Tallinn was awake, watching the show.

Still the Eagle continued to streak for the harbor opening, her passing marked by a trail of white foam.

Two more shots, two more misses, the shells striking rock and concrete on the harbor jetty instead of the submarine’s iron skin. Closer. But Ritter could see they were too late to zero in on the submarine. Or perhaps they were missing on purpose. He would never know. The remaining shots were acts of futility. Ritter watched the Eagle race past the jetty, disappear into the night. He sighed heavily, turned on his heels, and began to trudge away. The Eagle was gone.

He didn’t get far. A moment later, a dark black Mercedes, identical to the one Ritter had left destroyed on the streets of Tallinn, glided to a stop on the quay. The head of the Estonian Navy, Admiral Kalm, stepped out of the car. His face was puffy from lack of sleep. He licked his lips and said, “We did what we could.”

Ritter shook his head with mock regret. “I’m afraid I will have to report otherwise to my superiors.”

“What of my,uh, remuneration?”

“Ah, yes. Of course, good intentions count for nothing. Since we received nothing, you will get nothing.”

The admiral sagged and then caught himself. “I will talk to Dönitz.”

Ritter laughed. “By all means. Please do. You’re a fool if you think it will do any good. I did everything including handing you the submarine on a silver platter, and now you let it get away.” Ritter stepped closely, his face inches from Kalm’s nose, who too, his credit, did not back away. “You’re lucky I don’t kill you right here,” Ritter breathed, a sudden flush of rage rushing through his body. And then the moment passed and he stepped back, cocking his head with a sudden thought. “Take me to your headquarters,” he ordered. “I need to make some new arrangements.”

The head of the Estonian navy bowed his head in acknowledgement, held open the door for Ritter, and then climbed in after him.

The drive back to the headquarters was short. Ritter didn’t mind. He had already dismissed that pig of an admiral. He would pay. Not now, of course, but later. The Reich had a long memory.

As for Ritter, he would pay as well. It was as he expected. But before that time came, he still had a few options. Of course, it would require the services of a German destroyer, but under the circumstances, that might not be hard to come by.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Moments after he had learned the news of the Eagle’s escape from Tallinn, Dönitz was summoned by Hitler.

He trotted down the granite steps at German Naval Headquarters two at a time and slipped into the back seat of the waiting Mercedes without bothering to acknowledge the driver who was holding open the door for him. Across the street, a gaggle of children were crowded around the sausage vendor, clamoring for food like young birds in a nest. One boy’s face was already smeared with mustard. He caught Dönitz eyeing him, and smiled without restraint, holding out the bratwurst in his fist as if to say, “Can you imagine anything as wonderful as this?” And then Mercedes pulled away from the curb.

Dönitz wasn’t surprised that Hitler already knew about Eagle. He had expected to be called in for an explanation. He just hadn’t expected the call so soon. Even so, he wasn’t worried. There was little to the operation that Hitler could find objectionable, except the outcome, of course. It had been a risky operation from the start, but it had cost little terms of men and material, so the benefits had been worth the risk.

As the driver negotiated the mid-afternoon traffic in Berlin, Dönitz chuckled silently under his breath. Those damn Poles. The sailor in him couldn’t help but admire the resiliency of the Eagle’s crew. Hutter and the rest of them had underestimated their tenacity as much as they had overestimated the capabilities of the Estonians to keep them under control.

After a five-minute drive, Dönitz was quickly ushered into Hitler’s office. He was surprised to find Göring there, filling a chair in front of Hitler’s massive desk like a huge, bloated toad.

It was a strange sight, the admiral thought: not one, but two Hitlers watched his approach across the shiny marble floor. There was the slick-haired Hitler sitting motionless at his desk, flanked on either side by flags of the Third Reich. And then there was his twin: a huge, full-length portrait hung on the wall behind him.

Both Hitlers stared ominously at Dönitz.

As Dönitz took a seat , Göring acknowledged his presence with a condescending smile. Hitler waited a moment and that got right to the point, his blue eyes flashing. “What now, admiral?” he asked sharply. “You have made the Reich a laughingstock, not to mention the U-Bootwaffe.”

“Mein, Führer,” Dönitz began. “My apologies at this terrible misfortune. We assumed our Estonian friends were more competent then they turned out to be. This sudden turn of events is completely unexpected.”

“And so, now we have a Polish submarine on the loose in the Baltic?” Göring interrupted. “That is no small problem, not with our attentions turned elsewhere. Think of the devastation it can wreak on our shipping.”

Hitler gazed at Dönitz, waiting for an explanation. At times, there was something unnatural about him, the German admiral had always thought. It was apparent now. Hitler could perform with the best of them, crackling with energy, voice resounding through a room, or a building, or a stadium, with terrible authority. But now, he seemed shrunken, smaller. He held himself still as a reptile on a rock, eyes barely blinking, just watching. Will you eat me, too, Dönitz wondered, remembering a few of the officers who had dared challenge Hitler, or had failed at a given plan . He was too visible to disappear. No, the worst he could expect was retirement. The Alps in the fall. Dönitz could imagine worse places.

Dönitz had never been very good at subterfuge. He wasn’t about to begin now. “Threat?” he replied evenly, glancing at Göring . “I think that overstates it. The Eagle has but two torpedoes, and, more importantly, she has no charts and little food and water. If she doesn’t run aground, or blunder into a mine field, her crew will be forced to give up.”

“And if not?” Hitler said, eyes sharp as flint.

“Then we will destroy her. No one can escape from the German Navy’s relentless pursuit. To resist is to die. That is the message that we will leave with our enemies.”

Göring couldn’t surpress a cackle of laughter. “Bravo,” he mocked, clapping his hands. “Your speech writers should be commended.

Hitler, however, did nothing. He stared another moment at Dönitz, and then stood “It was a wonderful plan,” he said. “I like it when my officers take risks for the glory of the Fatherland.” As he ended his words, his eyes fell on Göring , who immediately grew silent.

“Thank you, sir,” Dönitz said, cautiously.

“I’ve ordered the Generalfeldmarschall to help out as much as possible, just in case, of course, your navy is unable to capture or destroy that submarine crewed by those Polish mongrels. Amazing how resourceful animals can be when cornered, don’t you think? I can’t imagine it will be a problem, but they’ve already surprised you once. I hope they don’t do it again. I expect you to keep me informed.”

Dönitz stood, bowed and clicked his heels subserviently in response. “Yes, mein Führer.”

As Dönitz left, he paused at the door, glanced back at Göring . The fat air marshal was now leaning over the German leader’s right shoulder, eyeing maps spread out across the Führer ’s desk. Göring looked up and winked. Dönitz marched out.

A half an hour later, Dönitz was reading a message from Ritter. He was suggesting something that Dönitz was already considering. Eventually, the Eagle had only way to go and still remain part of the war: out the Baltic and west to England. Ritter was asking for a picket of ships to guard the escape from the Baltic along with a personal request to be assigned to one of them. Dönitz knew the Kriegsmarine didn’t have that many to spare, but he could probably get enough cruisers, destroyers and minelayers and then fill in any gaps by temporarily swallowing his pride and asking for Göring’s help with reconnaissance flights. Between the two of them, they should be able to spot the Eagle and sink her, if it came to that.

Dönitz glanced down at his hand, the one holding the message. It was shaking slightly. He watched it, willing it to stop, but it was no good. He set the paper down on his desk top. They had come so very close to success. He had a nagging sense that their chance was gone, and her escape would come back to haunt them in some fashion or another. And now he would never know what difference she might have made in the conflict with England.

A few hundred kilometers to the west, Churchill sat in his basement office, listening to rumble of detonating German bombs overhead. Hitler hadn’t wasted any time, he thought.

Churchill was nearly finished with a letter to the American president, Franklin Roosevelt. Of course, direct contact such as this, bypassing the Foreign Ministry, the Prime Minister, and other, normal channels of communication, was fraught with its own risks, especially with American interests divided about intervening in the war against the Germans. In fact, the current American ambassador, Joseph Kennedy, was decidedly pro-German. Given the choice, Churchill didn’t doubt that Kennedy would prefer to see England lose to Germany. Most people dismissed this as simply the usual Irish antipathy toward anything British. Churchill suspected it was more complicated than that, but he had no intentions of sitting down with Kennedy and attempt to discover his true feelings. Thank God for one thing: the man wasn’t president of the United States. Not yet, anyway.

Churchill finished his last paragraph, and then signed the letter with a signature he would continue using in all future correspondence, even after being elevated to prime minister: “Naval Person.”

That done, he puffed his cigar back to life, and then returned to the note that he had just set aside. It was from the British Naval Attaché in Tallinn, Estonia. Churchill shook his head as he read the note again, grunting with pleasure. “God bless them,” he thought. There was little chance the submarine, the Eagle, would survive, but at least they would not rot in prison, and the Eagle would fight the way, and for whom she was intended.

Churchill expected Poland to fall within the week. Gdynia and the other Polish coastal cities had already been taken by the Germans. Soon Eagle would have nowhere to go. If a miracle happened, and she survived, Churchill hoped she sailed for England and not Sweden or France. The British Fleet could use her services.

He reread the note’s last line, shook his head with wonder. He couldn’t imagine a woman aboard a submarine. But leave it to an American. Curious, he wondered how she had gotten involved . The note didn’t say, but that was a story he would like to hear some day. When McBride, the naval attaché, arrived in England, he was going to make it a point to ask him about it.

Churchill had a sudden thought. He picked up his pen and added a postscript to his note to Roosevelt:

P.S. We believe two American news reporters—a man and woman (I am attempting to discover their names) —are aboard the Polish submarine Eagle now in the Baltic. She will undoubtedly be hunted by the Germans. I have no knowledge of her course or disposition, but I shall keep you informed should we come in contact with her or hear more news.

N. P.

Churchill rubbed his eyes. The bombing had stopped. He wondered where the Eagle was now. It wasn’t hard to imagine what they were experiencing. Depth charges must be a lot like what Londoners were facing. An unknown attacker from above. The click of a detonator and instant death. The inexplicable waiting from one moment to the next, wondering how much longer you might have to live.

Churchill folded the letter, set his still burning cigar to one side. He pushed back his chair, crossed to the other side of his room, unloosening his collar and belt as he went, and rolled onto his cot. He reached up and turned off the lamp on a table beside his cot. He would sleep. For a few hours, anyway. He closed his eyes, tried to clear his mind. But tonight sleep was even more difficult to find than usual. He couldn’t help wondering what it must be like to have 50 fathoms of water overhead, and the threat of someone waiting to destroy you if you surfaced. When he finally flicked the lamp back on a half an hour later, his pale forehead was damp with sweat. The bombing had started again. He quickly pulled on his shoes and slippers, his navy cap. He needed some air. The walls and ceilings in his basement office seemed to be pressing in on him from every side. He padded down the corridor followed by one of his personal guards, then started up the stairs, until he found himself on the building’s roof .

“Dangerous, sir,” the guard muttered, reminding Churchill of the obvious. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Churchill blew out a deep breath, looked up at the dark sky. The distant thrum of German bombers was easy to hear. It sounded like an orchard in spring heavy with buzz of ten thousand bees. To the east, the sky was punctuated with flashes from the anti-aircraft guns, and sliced by spotlights, weaving nervously back and forth. “No, this is fine. I can imagine worse places. Indeed I can.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

“Orders?” Talli stood, arms crossed, waiting.

Stefan heard the request, but he remained mute, his thoughts elsewhere. A magician had once visited his village when he was just a boy. He had tried to get close enough to see, but sharp elbows and jabs finally convinced him to give up, so, instead, he had climbed onto the roof of the building across the street. He crept up to the edge, and from there was able to peer down on the spectacle below just as the magician made chicken appear beneath a purple cloth that had moments before covered nothing but an egg. The crowd had gasped and then applauded with delight. Even though Stefan knew it had been a trick—it had to be—he couldn’t help being impressed. How had the magician done it? He had often wondered.

He was thinking about that magician now, wondering if that memory could inspire him to produce his own trick. He knew what his men expected. But he wasn’t sure he could summon enough of his own magic to get them to safety.

The Eagle had left the harbor far behind, and she was now following a twisting course dictated by the reassuring blinks of the occasional navigation buoys. Below deck, the radioman was attempting to contact the Polish base at Hel. But no word. Not a good sign, Stefan knew, but he kept that to himself. The radio transmitter could be destroyed, or worse, the Germans might have taken charge of the base.

Despite the lookouts, Stefan couldn’t help an occasional glance aft. He was surprised that no Estonian ships had taken up their pursuit. They had motor launches that were more than a match for Eagle’s speed. But the line of white foam, the only indication of their passing, faded into the darkness and they remained alone. But for how long?

According to Talli, they would soon pass beyond the last buoy. After that, they would be blind, navigating by the seat of their pants. Stefan knew the Baltic waters off the Estonian coastline were dotted with small islands and unseen rocky shoals lurking just a few meters below the water’s surface. One wrong move, and their jagged teeth could easily tear through the Eagle’s steel skin. Escape had been the easy part. Now that they had accomplished the unthinkable, where would they go? Stefan had always wanted command. But right at the moment, he would have gladly turned it over to someone else, even Sieinski. What was the saying? Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it. He had it in spades. But like it or not, he was in charge now, responsible for everyone on board. It was up to him. Or no one.

“Commander?” Talli cleared his throat.

Stefan breathed deeply through his nose, looked up at the sky. Unseen clouds shrouded the stars. The wind had shifted to the east a half an hour earlier; it was now blowing in increasing puffs. Maybe a storm by morning, Stefan thought. He could smell it on the breeze. Not a bad thing. They would be harder to find in nasty weather. The deck of the Eagle was already moving rhythmically, like a galloping horse, through the slight swells. She seemed as glad as her crew to be free. “What direction will they expect us to go?” Stefan asked, wondering if he decided to start wearing a magician’s cape, or began wielding a magic wand, it would make the future easier to see.

“Home.” Kate answered, turning away from the conning tower’s edge, pulling at the cigarette that dangled from the corner of her mouth.

After the escape from the harbor, Kate had stayed on the bridge. Stefan knew it was probably against a Polish Navy regulation to have any civilian, let alone, a civilian female, on the bridge when the threat of attack was imminent. But there was probably little left of the Polish Navy. And no one aboard would care if Stefan made up a few of his own rules. And so, Stefan had decided on the spot that rule number one would be this: let any gorgeous female stay on the bridge as long as she wanted— but only if she wasn’t a pain in the ass. He wondered how the rule would look, typed up on official paper and posted in the galley. It would give the men a good laugh, of that he was sure. Of course, the rule was tailored specifically to fit Kate. She was gorgeous, in a rough sort of way. And she wasn’t a pain in the ass. At least, not since leaving Tallin behind. In fact, she hadn’t said a word until now.

“Yes, I think you are right,” Talli said. He glanced at Stefan and when he made no move turned to Kate. “I’m sorry. We haven’t been formerly introduced. Commander Jaak Talli. Estonian Navy.” He bowed stiffly in Kate’s direction.

Kate flicked her cigarette into the wind, brushed back her hair with her open hand. “What is it with you guys? All the bowing and heel clicking.” She held out her hand. “Kate McLendon. I’m a reporter with NANS.”

Talli grabbed it and they shook. “American?”

“That, too.”

“My pleasure,” Talli said. “You can imagine my curiosity. You speak Polish very well. And I hope to hear how you ended up involved in all of this before I must leave.”

“You got a date, Jaak, for later on,” Kate said. “Might be helpful telling it to somebody. I’m not sure I’m going to believe it myself.”

“And so…” Talli began and then paused.

Stefan filled in the missing beat: “Please call me Stefan…” he said.

“As you like, Stefan. What is your home port?”

“Gdynia,” Stefan said.

Talli shook his head. “Ah, I think no longer. The Germans will have taken it by now.”

Stefan noticed a hint of change along the eastern horizon. Daylight soon, and then the hunt would begin in earnest. Most German ships would be far to the southwest. Not so the planes of the Luftwaffe. They would be combing the skies above them at first light. Eventually, if they were to escape the Baltic, they would have to make their way southwest. But not yet. That is what they would expect. “Can you take us northwest?”

Talli nodded, smiling. “Yes, I know those waters very well,” he said. “Almost all the way to Sweden. I began fishing it as a boy.”

“Another goddamn fisherman,” Stefan laughed. “I knew there had to be another reason why I liked you. Northwest it is then. And how do you like Swedish cooking, commander?”

“My favorite,” Talli replied.

“Good,” Stefan said. “That’s where we’ll drop you and your buddy off then. No sense you getting killed along with the rest of us. In the meantime, I rely on you, commander, to get us there. We are in your hands. And, of course, if you happen to make a mistake and lead us aground, I promise you that I will throw you overboard and make you pull us free with your teeth.” Stefan was smiling as he said the words, but their was no humor to them.

“He said that to me, too,” Kate interjected with a soft laugh. “First time we met. I’m not sure I’d believe any of that throw-you-overboard business.”

But Talli understood very well what Stefan was saying. Even so, he didn’t hesitate. He picked up the speaker tube. He motioned to his right. “Last buoy. Do you mind?”

“Go right ahead,” Stefan said.

“Helm. Set new course at one-eight-three. Both engines ahead full.”

Who the hell is that?” came the sharp response.

“Our temporary pilot,” Stefan said, squatting over the hatch opening and yelling down at the men in the control room. “Do as he says until I say otherwise.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Say, commander, think you can handle it solo for a few minutes?”

In fact, Talli could barely contain his excitement. Piloting a submarine. Who could have imagined the inexplicable turn of events that had brought it about? He didn’t dare speak, so he nodded, smiling gratefully.

Stefan slapped him on the shoulder. “Very well. You have command. I’ll be meeting with my officers below. Back in ten minutes. No longer. Sing out if you get in over your head.”

“Aye, aye.” Talli snapped to attention and saluted.

Stefan chuckled. “No, I think I need to thank you. Get us through the obstacle course facing us, and maybe I buy you a beer after the war, eh?”

Talli doubted it was a promise that would ever be kept, but he nodded at the gesture. “Yes, I would like that very much indeed.”

Stefan started down the hatch opening, and then hesitated. “Are you coming, Miss MClendon? You may want to hear this. You know, for your story.”

They met a few minutes later, the Eagle’s officers, and Kate and Reggie, were crowded into the galley and spilling out into the passageway. Stefan stood, one foot up on a chair. Despite their recent success, there was no celebrations. The group was quiet, fully aware of the risks before them. They waited for Stefan to begin. He didn’t need to hear the question that he knew was on everyone’s mind. It was written plainly on their faces: “What now?”

Stefan cleared his throat. Never one for eloquent speeches, he kept it simple and blunt. “And now our escape truly begins. We must decide. I have attempted to contact headquarters and heard nothing. I think we are alone in this. We have three choices, it seems to me. One, we surrender to the Germans.” The sudden angry headshakes, a couple of sharp nos elicited a grin from Stefan. “I didn’t think you’d go for that. OK then, here is the other two. We find another neutral port. We would be safe in Sweden, but the war would be over for us, I think. They will not want to anger the Germans by allowing us to escape. Or we try for France or England, and do what we can to continue the fight.”

Squeaky raised a finger in the air. “This may be obvious but I’ll throw it out anyway. How do we get anywhere without charts?”

Of course, that was a key problem. There was also the matter of only two torpedoes, and Stefan had also learned that while they had been held, the Estonians had offloaded most of their food and water. Even with short rations, they could go a couple of weeks at the most. No more than that.

The immediate concern, however, was navigation charts. While on the bridge, he had come up a solution, of sorts. It was crazy, though probably no crazier than what they had just successfully carried out, and it was the best he could come up with. Stefan pushed his cap back on his head. “No charts,” he said, “really!” He began tapping his forehead, his mouth dropping into a grin as he looked around the group.

The response was puzzled looks. Had their new captain gone daft? Kate, however, began to smile and nod. “Get out your crayons, boys,” she laughed.

“This is no time for uh, nonsense,” Squeaky said sternly, even though he wasn’t sure what a crayon was. He shifted in his seat, uncomfortably aware of Kate’s warm thigh pressing hard against his leg. There was a sheen of sweat on his upper lip. “This is serious…” he added, voice wobbling like a choir boy’s.

Kate elbowed him sharply in the side. “You think I’ve never sailed before, buddy boy? Well, think again. I know a thing or two about it. Don’t you see what he’s getting at?”

Silence. Stefan smiling, enjoying the befuddled looks on his men’s faces. Finally Eryk ventured into the hazardous waters. “You want us to draw our own charts?” he said, his voice tinged with disbelief.

“Exactly,” Kate and Stefan shouted in unison.

“Move that boy to the head of the class,” Kate added, giving Eryk a smile that turned him red with embarrassment.

“We are sailors, are we not?” Stefan said. “Some of us have sailed the Baltic for most of our lives. Now is the time to prove how good we are. Between us all,” Stefan interjected, “think of the thousands of hours we’ve spent on the Baltic, looking at navigation charts? We won’t get perfection, I know, but even something that is pretty good would help. What do you think, Eryk?” Stefan eyed his navigator. He needed his whole-hearted agreement. If he didn’t think it was possible, then there was only one choice: Sweden.

Eryk scratched the top of his head, squinting as he stared off into nothing. And then he shrugged. “Of course it can be done,” he said simply. “If that is what you decide, then I will do my best.”

It was a cautious response, but it was good enough for Stefan. “Then we have two options. Sweden or?…”

“Where do you say we go, Stef?” Squeaky interrupted.

Stefan stared intently above their heads, his eyes boring holes in the bulkhead. “Of course, if we all want to eat well, we go for France. But since I don’t care about pleasing my belly, and because I want to fight with the best Navy in the world, that means England. So I say this. We try to hook up with the British Fleet. And that means getting the Eagle out of the Baltic and into the North Sea….”

He let it hang there in the air between them, shimmering brightly in their imaginations like a Christmas ornament.

“Jesus,” Reggie whispered.

Kate glanced around the group. No one seemed willing to say out loud what the rest of them were thinking. She pushed back her hair, “Giddyup, cowboy,” she said.

“What?” Stefan said. He had seen enough movies to recognize the word cowboy but had no idea what the American idiom giddyup meant.

Reggie sighed. “She means, we follow you. To England or hell. Am I right?” There were nods from all of Eagle’s officers. “Looks to me like it’s settled then. Here we come, England….”

As the meeting broke up, and everyone returned to his duty, Kate stopped Stefan with a hand on his arm. “One moment, if you’ve got it.”

“Sure.”

“I think I’ve figured out how I want to do this piece.”

“Piece?”

“My story, I mean.”

“I see. Yes, go ahead.”

“Mind if I sit?”

Stefan shook his head, so he and Kate traded places. He thought she looked tired. Her hair was pulled back and gathered behind her neck. Her make up had worn off hours earlier. She still wore men’s pants beneath her skirt.

“I want your permission to interview everyone on board. From you, all the way down to the youngest sailor. I want to get everyone’s story. And Reggie, he’ll take everyone’s picture to go along with it.”

“Like an obituary,” Stefan said, flashing a crooked smile beneath his beard.

She didn’t think it was funny. “No, no, don’t even think that,” she protested wearily. “It’s just, I’ve decided I don’t want to tell what happens. I want you and the rest of your boys to tell the story, and that means talking to each and everyone of you. You don’t know how extraordinary this is. I bet you’re the last Polish naval vessel still fighting. The last Eagle. Do you realize that? And getting out of Estonia, not to mention Gdynia, why, that was next to incredible. If I didn’t see it happen, I wouldn’t have believed it. And now you want to head off to England with the entire German Navy on your tail. It is just so… so…” Words failed her. She took a deep breath, and then said, “I… I want to do it right… that’s all.” He voice faltered.

Stefan considered her proposal. Of course, he couldn’t care less about their story. Maybe later, if they survived, would the different perspective give him another opinion. But Kate and Reggie were the two people on board without duties. And writing the story, interviewing the crew, did give them something to do.

“All right,” he said. “Not an obituary, then. A history of the first crew of the Eagle and her exploits in the Baltic. How is that?”

“That’s it.”

“I only ask one thing.”

Yes?”

“Don’t forget to write about Chief K and Jerzy. And don’t forget Sieinski, either. That sonofabitch was a captain at the end, you know. Can you do that?”

Kate didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. She nodded, and then turned away. For the first time since the war began, she was weeping.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Ritter finished his third cup of coffee, fought back a yawn that threatened to rip open the stitches that held the gash on his cheek together.

It had been two long days. First the flight from Tallinn to Berlin, his brief report to Dönitz with the admiral, ever the one for details, paying particular attention to where the plan had fallen apart. He made Ritter repeat the account of Sieinski running the yacht up the freighter’s ass, peppering him with questions the second time. Ritter explained that the pathetic excuse for a man had been completely broken. Seen it with his own eyes as he left him sprawled across the back seat of the wrecked Mercedes.

And yet, he had been wrong. Beneath the masks of privilege and avarice, there had remained a faint image of a man. And when he had nothing to live for, he had discarded the masks, and chosen a path of honor.

“It is what separates a few from the beasts,” Dönitz commented. “At times, we do the unexpected, what is contrary to our nature. If not for this captain, the freighter would have blocked the escape, and we would have kept our prize. You should have taken his possible actions into consideration, don’t you think?”

Ritter had just nodded in response, holding himself as close to attention as one could get while sitting as Dönitz stared at his underling for what felt like hours, though it was probably only seconds. As sweat began to trickle down Ritter’s spine, Dönitz saw something that must have satisfied him. He flicked his hand dismissively. “Learn from it, Peter.” That’s was it. No punishment. At least, not yet. Meeting over.

“Aye, aye, sir.” Ritter couldn’t keep the relief out of his voice. As he left the admiral’s office, it had taken every ounce of strength not to bolt for the door.

And then another flight to Pilawa, where he met up with the Kriegsmarine destroyer Leberecht Maass. Her captain had been less than pleased when Ritter handed him his new orders, essentially placing the destroyer under Ritter’s command. They were to patrol just beyond The Øresund the chokepoint between Sweden and Denmark, that last obstacle in the Eagle’s path before she entered the Kattegat. From there, it would be aesy for her to make the North Sea. Of course, all of this assumed she would make it as far as The Øresund. And there were a score of German ships and plans combing the Baltic, intent on making sure that didn’t happen.

As they bucked through heavy seas toward their destination, a flotilla of German ships were already laying additional minefields, to join the maze of shoals and shallows and islands and peninsulas that the Eagle would need to navigate before she could escape into the North Sea. Every Kriegsmarine fighting vessel in the Baltic had been alerted to the Eagle’s presence and given strict orders to destroy her on sight. She wouldn’t be allowed to disrupt German sea traffic. There was even a hint at rewards and decorations for the captain and crew of the vessel that managed to bag the Polish submarine. German pride was at stake.

Dönitz had swallowed his own pride and accepted Göring ’s offer to help discover the Eagle’s position. Of course, Dönitz knew the Nazi air marshal would not be content to leave it at that. The Eagle’s escape gave Göring another opportunity at oneupmanship over Dönitz in their ongoing duel. Dönitz didn’t care about that. He couldn’t allow the Eagle to escape. The humiliation of that on the eve of the Reich’s stunning victory over Poland would be too much to bear.

The side bets Ritter overheard being made among Dönitz’s staff gave the Poles little hope. A few expected them to bumble into a mine field, or run aground. Others figured they would scoot like scared chickens to a neutral port, joining other Polish fighting vessels and at last count, two submarines on the Swedish sidelines where they would spend the rest of the war. After all, they were Poles, weren’t they? And should they have second thoughts, the Swedes, unlike the Estonians, wouldn’t jeopardize their own neutrality by letting them escape.

Ritter, however, thought most of his fellow officers naïve. He knew these Poles. Grudgingly respected them, even. Of course, they were like any other: a few brave, and a few fools, and the rest just flesh and blood human beings. And the admiral’s staff conveniently chose to ignore numerous accounts of Polish bravery that had managed to sneak their way into the tightly controlled German newspapers. The recent charge of a horse cavalry against German tanks—touted as a sign of Polish futility—was one of the most noteworthy.

Ritter couldn’t help it. He made his contribution to the office pot. Of course, he had an advantage. He’d seen the Eagle’s crew in action. They were young, yes. And naïve. But they were not the bumbling fools everyone seemed to think. But what made them dangerous even was their commander, Stefan Petrofski. He would not give up, not this one. He had two torpedoes with which to fight.

Ritter expected Stefan to make for England. Knew it in his heart. Petrofski would want to fight, not surrender. It was a move Ritter understood completely. Under similar circumstances, it is what he would do, as well. But when Eagle made it as far as The Øresund—and Ritter had no doubt that she would—he would be waiting for her. Before they died, the disappointment would break the hearts of everyone on board. And that too, was how it should be for the defeated.

The Leberecht Maass nosed into another dark green swell, her sharp bow peeling the water to either side like a paring knife. He felt the vessel hesitate, her screws racing in the froth, and then biting again and pushing her forward. Ritter knew the Eagle was without charts. As a result, he expected Stefan to be careful. He wouldn’t charge immediately for the exit to the Baltic. No, he would take his time. Stealth was the Eagle’s best bet. And that meant, despite the dangers of running aground, operating on the surface only at night, spending the rest of the time hidden underwater. Of course, those tactics carried with them their own risks. All of this meant, however, that despite his stop in Berlin, there was no urgency to get into position. They had time to get in place, and then the wait would begin. There were many eyes and ears watching and listening for Eagle. He had no doubt that one of them would soon bear fruit. Petrofski would make a mistake. It was inevitable. When that happened, the German fleet would be ready.

“More coffee, sir?”

The seaman stood stiffly at attention, legs spread to maintain his balance. “Yes, that would be kind of you,” Ritter replied.

The captain had gone to bed, leaving Ritter alone on the bridge with the helmsman and the night watch. Rain began to lash the windows. Ritter smiled to himself. It was almost pleasant.

Almost.

Stefan watched Kate crying, wanting to comfort her, make it somehow better. He raised a hand in her direction and then let it drop to his side. He backed out of the galley and immediately grabbed Reggie, who was standing in the passageway, by the front of his shirt. “When she’s ready, I want you to take her to the captain’s quarters, OK?” Stefan whispered. “It’s hers for as long as she’s here.”

Reggie nodded, then posed the question he couldn’t keep back: “What about me?”

Stefan resisted an impulse to fling Reggie against the bulkhead. Instead he gave him a sharp pat on the cheek.

“Ouch!” Reggie rubbed the red mark left behind.

“Because I’m fond of you,” Stefan said, “you can have Jerzy’s bunk. He won’t need it anymore.” Stefan decided to keep to himself the fact that Jerzy was notorious for never changing or washing anything—blankets, clothes, hair. In the submarine, perpetually rich with smells, his bunk was a particular standout. “Oh yes, you can share it with our other guest, that Veski what’s-his-name.”

Before returning to the bridge, Stefan gave the Eagle a quick inspection, double-checking for himself her various mechanical systems, dispensing reassuring jokes and words of advice to the crew along the way. Typically, submarines were manned by the youngest sailors in the fleet.  Stefan apart, the Eagle was no exception. Not that he needed to say anything to any of them. Stefan was one of those rare individuals who could radiate confidence like a wood stove in winter. He didn’t miss a thing, pointing out three broken valves, a pile of greasy rags in a corner—a fire hazard, deadly on a submarine—and half a dozen other minor items

On his way back to the bridge, he noticed that the galley was deserted. That was a good sign. Stefan knocked on the bulkhead outside the captain’s quarters. No answer. He peered through a crack in the curtain. Kate was curled up on the bunk, her notepad on the mattress beside her, pen still in her hand. She was asleep. Stefan hesitated for a moment, and then. stepped inside. He closed the notebook, pulled the pen from her hand, and then draped one of Sieinski’s wool sweaters over her shoulders, lingering a moment to watch the peaceful expression on her face. This is worth fighting for. The thought came unbidden to his mind. Not pride, or honor, or country even, but for her and those like her. It seemed enough.

Stefan was still preoccupied with thoughts of the woman as he set his arms on the smooth edge of the conning tower and leaned into the breeze, letting it scour his face like a cold shower.

The Estonian gave him a few moments. “Will you be joining me in Sweden?” he asked.

Stefan turned his attention to his pipe. He packed the bowl with tobacco, and then, shielding it from the wind, lit it carefully. He let smoke trickle out of the corner of his mouth and then clamped down on the stem with his teeth. “Not Sweden,” he said, finally addressing the question. “We will make for England— after we drop you and your friend off—and not right away.” Stefan had already decided that despite the danger, they would not try to escape the Baltic immediately. That’s what the Germans would expect. They would know that the Eagle was low on food and water, hampered by lack of charts. Instead, as the German’s grew tired of waiting for them near The Øresund, the Eagle would go to war elsewhere.

Talli nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

Stefan was surprised he was that obvious. “Why?”

“It is where I would go,” Talli answered.

“You can come with us, you know. I could use another man. We could boot your partner off the boat by himself.”

Talli considered the offer, and then shook his head with regret. “Tempting, yes. But I think Sweden is for me. You see, my help does not mean I am not a loyal Estonian. I must make my way home.”

Stefan understood. They were not that unlike, he and Talli. “We’re making good time?”

Talli nodded. “She is a wonderful vessel, you know.

“I know,” Stefan said.

“Light soon, what then? Dive?”

Stefan pulled up his collar, peered at the sky to the east. There was a hint of horizon, a pale line with darker gray above and below. No answers in the captain’s handbook for this particular problem. What would they do when night no longer protected them? It was a tossup: stealth or speed. Each had its risks. Stealth meant they would spend the day underwater, powered by electric motors, cruising at a pace little faster than a quick walk. On the surface, they could fly along at nearly ten times the speed. But of course, all that might be for naught if they were spotted from the air. And so, the decision became one more of art than science, more intuition and gut feeling than facts and logic. “Steady as she goes, commander,” Stefan decided, and then more loudly for the new lookouts in the conning tower. “Eyes sharp. We dive at the first sign of anyone. We don’t fight, not yet. Got that?”

Brief nods in response.

“Yes, they will be looking first to the southwest,” Talli said. “When they find nothing, then their eyes will swing this way. Now it is the time to run with the wind.”

Stefan clenched his pipe tightly and chuckled. “You sound like a poet.”

“Just an ordinary seaman,” Talli responded.

“Like I said,” Stefan muttered to himself. “A poet.”

Soon enough, the Eagle was caught by dawn. Stefan and Talli and the rest of the men on deck watched the sky lighten, marveling at the fresh pastels like children emerging from a world made up entirely of gray and black, their senses no doubt heightened by their recent brushes with death. And as the day began to age and the weather continued to worsen, the sky and sea remained strangely empty of all pursuers except for the occasional gull.

At noon, Talli ordered a course correction. The bustling Swedish port of Stockholm was but 250 kilometers west of Tallinn and Eagle had been racing at top speed almost directly toward the Swedish capital city ever since leaving the last Estonian buoy behind and curving west around Naissaar Island. Talli didn’t need navigation charts to sense that every passing mile greatly increased their chance of detection. The busy sea route between Helsinki and Stockholm was just over the horizon to the north. Their luck was bound to change.

“You know, I think Veski and I would enjoy Gotland this time of year,” Talli announced as the Eagle’s wake began to curve toward the southwest, “if that is all right with you, captain.”

Stefan nodded, any thought of reply interrupted by a sudden appearance from Eryk, his head popping up through the conning tower hatch like a toy jack-in-the-box. “News from the BBC,” he said. “Thought you might like to hear it. The Soviet Union has joined the Nazis, invading from the east.”

“Those bastards!” Talli exclaimed, realizing immediately what was in store for his own country.

“And three of our submarines are now interned in Sweden,” Eryk continued, “one has rendezvoused with the British. They didn’t say which one. And you’ll like this. The Germans are reporting our escape. We’re famous, or infamous. They say we executed two Estonian guards and two officers in our escape, and in an unprovoked attack, destroyed a half-track, killing all of her crew onboard.”

And with that, Eyrk gave both men a sunny smile, disappeared down the hatch. He reappeared a moment later. “Oh, yes, the Germans also say we have sunk two unarmed passenger ferries. Hundreds dead. ”

Talli shook his head. “You’ve really upset them now. Next they’ll accuse you of a sneak attack on the Führer himself.”

“If only we could get a chance at that sonofabitch,” Eryk remarked.

Stefan was only half paying attention. Word of the Soviet Union’s entry in the war was bad news indeed, though not entirely unexpected. It didn’t change anything except for more quickly sealing Poland’s fate. There had been little hope with the Germans as the sole adversary; there was none at all with the Soviets.

But as he considered the news, he realized it also had direct bearing on the Eagle. It meant even more ships would be looking for them. Before Eryk could disappear a second time, Stefan asked: “How go the maps?”

“They go,” Eryk replied evenly. “And then he was gone.

For the thousandth time since dawn, Stefan scanned the horizon, stem of his pipe clenched between his teeth. “When will we arrive off Gotland?”

Talli thought for a moment, staring up at the sky for the answer. He shrugged. “Mid-afternoon, possibly nightfall. We’ve been making good time.”

“Yes, we have. My thinking exactly. Time to get back to work. He grinned at Talli, leaned into the speaker tube and yelled. “Emergency dive.”

There was a brief moment of silence, then three blasts of the diving alarm. “Clear the bridge!” Stefan shouted. The gun crews scrambled out of their seats, the lookouts tumbled down the conning tower ladder. Stefan waited for the bow of the Eagle to begin to dip below the surface before gesturing toward Talli. “After you, sir.”

Stefan dogged the conning tower hatch, slid down the aluminum ladder, and then waited, watching the second hand of his watch, listening to elaborate call and response between the diving officer, Squeaky, and the men around the control room:

“Bleed air.”

“Bleeding air, aye, aye.”

“Pressure in the boat.”

“Pressure, aye.”

“Green board.”

“Green board, aye.”

“Five degrees down bubble.”

“Aye, five degrees.”

“Twenty meters.”

“Twenty, aye.”

“Mark,” announced Squeaky when the depth gauge touched 20 meters.

“Not good enough,” Stefan said. “If a destroyer had been close, we’d be dead by now. He stood close to Squeaky. “Next time, I want everyone, and I mean everyone, who isn’t essential to the dive’s control crowd forward. Got it?”

Squeaky nodded with understanding. This was a trick he’d heard about but they had never practiced. The extra weight in the bow would help get the Eagle below the surface much more quickly.

“Okay, let’s surface and try again.”

Throughout the rest of the day, Stefan continued to drill the crew. The practiced a dozen dives and still Stefan wasn’t satisfied. When they were surfaced, he ran the deck gun crews through their paces, having them practice loading and firing. Of course, he drilled them not just for the sake of practice. It also kept their minds and their bellies off what the German’s were preparing for them.

Throughout the day, Stefan checked with the radio operator. Except for faint reports from the BBC’s Polish section, there were no messages from headquarters at Hel, or from any other Polish vessel, for that matter.

It seemed as if all of Poland had been swallowed by a monster, and only the Eagle and her crew were left behind.

Chapter Forty

“Can’t get over how healthy you two look,” Stefan laughed, “for dead men, that is.”

Talli grinned, his white teeth visible in the darkness, but the comment made Veski look even more worried than usual. He glanced around the deck, looking for sailors hiding with submachine guns. He was, in fact, half-convinced that Stefan was going to change his mind and machine-gun them both once the raft was a few meters away from the Eagle.

The Eagle was now drifting in quiet seas a few kilometers east of Gotland, the largest island in the Baltic. It was early morning, just over twenty-four hours since they had escaped from Tallinn harbor. In that time, the Eagle had covered nearly 300 kilometers. More importantly, no one knew where they were. They had gone that entire distance without being spotted by surface ships or aircraft.

There had been a slight break in the weather. The seas were almost gentle, slapping lazily against the Eagle’s gray flank like summer waves at the beach. Bobbing next to the Eagle was a yellow life raft, prevented from floating away by two crewmen who were holding the rope attached to a rubber ring sticking out like a baby’s binky along its lip.

“All right, then. Off you go. We’ve put some food and drink in your raft. You have your paddles.” Stefan squinted into the dark. In the distance, a pale smear of beach marked Gotland. He reached into his pocket and surprised Veski by pressing a couple of bills into Veski’s hand. “Treat yourself and Talli to a couple of beers when you find a pub, okay?”

Veski gave Stefan a suspicious look, glanced at the money in his hand, and then pocketed it. “Thank you,” he said.

Stefan motioned toward the raft. Veski climbed over the side of the conning tower, disappeared from sight. Talli lingered. He held out his hand. “Don’t forget that drink you owe me, eh?”

Stefan chuckled. “I won’t. And don’t forget what we discussed. I don’t expect it to fool the Nazis, but it might confuse them a bit.”

Talli laughed. “I will play my part like, how do you say, like a Rudolph Valentino.”

“Good enough,” Stefan said. “Luck be with you.”

“And with you, my friend.” A moment later, the raft began to move away from the submarine. Talli was paddling steadily, but Veski looked like he was trying to shoo away flies with his. Stefan almost felt sorry for Talli. At the rate they were going, it would be a number of hours before they reached shore. Time enough for the Eagle to be faraway.

Stefan met his officers and the ship’s cook in the control room. Kate joined them moments after he began, notepad in hand. She seemed almost cheerful in fact, flashing him a big grin as she entered the room like a fresh spring breeze.

“I think I’m almost getting used to the smells,” she remarked, taking the chair at the chart table hurriedly vacated by Eryk. “Must have been what it was like in the Middle Ages, walking the streets of any major city. You know what I mean? Open sewers. Rats. Filth. Ick.”

“How are the interviews going?” Stefan said, ignoring her commentary on the sanitary conditions of his boat.

“Oh, yes, I’m digressing They’re fine. Very well, in fact. I need to get you in a day or two.”

Stefan nodded, caught Squeaky and Eryk staring at him, barely repressed grins plastered across their faces. “Yes, as I was saying—” He grabbed the side of the periscope and continued. “The Germans will expect us to make for The Øresund straightaway. If we have enough food, I think we should dawdle a few extra days, make them wonder where we’re going and what we’re up to. Cooky, you round up all the food like I asked?” Most of the sausages and meats once hanging from the conduits and pipes overhead like hams in a smokehouse were gone, interned along with the crew and the boat by the Estonians. Stefan didn’t doubt they now occupied places of honor in kitchens across Tallinn or were already warming the bellies of their former captors.

The Eagle’s cook, a bow-legged, flat-faced runt of a man named Kloczkowski, nodded. “Didn’t leave damn much behind,” he snarled. “But I done what you asked, with a little arm-twisting. Just so’s you know, you might be getting a few complaints.” He made a fist and blew on his bruised knuckles. “Oh, yes. You said look everywhere. Also turned up a few bottles,” he said, sneering in Squeaky’s direction. “It seems that a couple of someones— I won’t mention who—had a stash, against regulations.”

“Well, I leave it to you to keep those under lock and key,” Stefan chuckled. “We’ll break them out when we met up with the British.”

Kloczkowski liked that idea. He responded with a gap-toothed grin. “Aye, aye, sir.”

“So, how long can we go?”

“I figure everyone can tolerate quarter-rations. Five days. After that….” He shrugged.

“How about water?”

“Not much better, skipper. Those engine boys, though, they’re working on some ideas for getting more.”

“I’ve heard what they’re doing and I’m not drinking water cut with piss,” Squeaky said. “I don’t care what kind of filter they run it through. No way.”

Stefan was intrigued. He knew that the engine crew had been spending spare moments trying to devise ingenious ways to capture the condensation in the air. So far, they’d found nothing worked any better than licking the walls. They were still trying. He hadn’t realized they were experimenting with filtering urine.

“Tell them to keep at it,” Stefan said, grinning at Squeaky.

Cooky nodded, giving Squeaky another glare.

“So instead of making for The Øresund,” Stefan continued, “we’re going to do the opposite, head back toward home, and then swing north, looking for targets, and then after that, run down the Swedish coastline…”

The rest he had to say was drowned out by a collective cheer from everyone around the control room. The sound echoed throughout the boat. At last they were going to fight back. Even Kate couldn’t restrain a clap.

“We have two torpedoes. We use them to cause as much mischief and mayhem as possible and then, when the Germans and the Soviets and whoever else is after our ass has given up on our leaving the Baltic, figuring we are simply wasting time until we turn ourselves over to the Swedes, we make a run for the British. Any questions?”

There were none.

“OK then, back to your stations.”

As the meeting began to disperse, Stefan grabbed Eryk’s elbow. “How are the charts?”

Eryk gestured at the table, unable to hide a look of pride. “I hope these will work.”

Stefan propped his elbows on the table, staring closely at Eryk’s handwork, noticing the surprising level of detail that was shown.

“I started with what I knew,” Eryk said. “Facts. Places. Positions. And those provided a rough framework for everything else. A few of the men had direct knowledge of specific areas. They helped fill in the blanks. Of course, the distances are just approximations, and the big holes are mine fields. I put down what I could remember, but you can bet the Germans are laying more. We could stumble into them at just about any time. I just hope this thing doesn’t get us all killed.”

“Good job, Eryk,” Stefan said, meaning every word of it. “We get out of this, I’m recommending you for a decoration.

“Just buy me some warm English beer, Stef,” Eryk said.

“That too,” Stefan said, yawning. He was so tired he felt numb, his brain suddenly sluggish, like a river choked with ice. Not a good sign.

“Why don’t you get some rest?” Eryk suggested. “Just tell me our next course.”

Stefan glanced sharply at Eryk. His saying it out loud had triggered a flood of fatigue. “Yes, of course, you’re right,” Stefan said thickly, his voice running out of energy like a Victorola in need of cranking. He shook his head as he tried to get his eyes back into focus. “Run south to the Gulf of Gdansk… don’t want us spotted… men keep a sharp look out… dive at first sign of anything… hunt tonight, and then….” His voiced trailed off as he fought back a yawn.

“Hunt tonight? You’re optimistic.”

Stefan gave up and let the yawn happen. “We’re due,” he said slowly. “Have someone get me in an hour.” And with that, he staggered out of the control room, and aft toward his bunk.

Eryk watched his friend leave, deciding right then to disobey a direct order from a superior officer. He had no intention of waking Stefan in an hour. He would let him sleep until he woke.

After leaving Talli and Veski in their yellow raft, Eryk directed the Eagle south toward the Polish coastline, her speed a constant 20 knots, the only breaks coming when lookouts spotted a German plane and then a destroyer’s dark, menacing shape along the horizon an hour later. In both cases, the Eagle dove for safety and remained submerged until it was clear.

At mid-morning, the clouds suddenly lowered and the weather worsened, winds climbing until the reached near-gale forces. As the Eagle bucked and swayed over a never-ending picket line of three meter rollers, the evil stew that was the submarine’s air became even fouler, filled with the stench of vomit. Those who didn’t know better complained. In between dry heaves, the rest thanked whatever god was watching over them, knowing that the weather would ground any aircraft and make it almost impossible for the low-slung submarine to be spotted by any vessel.

Stefan slept until noon, right through two crash dives, stumbling into the control room red-eyed and mad after being rolled out of his bunk by a particular nasty wave. He was all ready to blister Eryk for ignoring his orders. But Kate’s presence at the navigation table, as she was working on her story, gave him pause.

He rubbed his face, stifled a yawn. “I said one hour,” he grumped, glancing at Kate, and then back to Eryk.

“I know,” Eryk replied.

“Well?”

“Well what? I thought you could use the sleep. You’re no good to us dead on your feet. You should know that. And you won’t get any shuteye tonight, so…”

“So you should thank him for knowing when to ignore your orders,” Kate chimed in.

“Jesus,” Stefan exclaimed, scratching his beard. “What a way to run a ship! My officers choose to ignore direct orders whenever they feel like it. Sorry, sir, I don’t feel like firing on that ship right at the moment. Or: Sorry, sir, I don’t think we should take that heading right now. Maybe later. What’s next is chaos, pure and simple.” He wagged a finger in Eryk’s direction. “Do it again and I’ll have your ass. Got it?”

Eryk snapped to attention and saluted. “Sorry, sir.” Of course, he felt anything but sorry. Stefan would get over his pique soon enough.

“I think somebody got up on the wrong side of the bed,” Kate commented. “And it occurs to me that a little more chaos among military leaders might lead to fewer wars against us civilian types.”

“She’s got you there, sir,” Stefan heard the hydrophone operator comment drift out through the door in the sound room.

Stefan’s face turned a brilliant shade of red. “Bullshit she does,” he barked. He spent the remainder of the afternoon ignoring them all, intently poring over Eryk’s handmade charts like they were Michelangelo’s recently discovered works.

Twenty-two hours after leaving the waters north of Gotland, the Eagle was lurking at periscope depth in the Gulf of Gdansk, back again at the beginning.

Stefan’s arms were draped over the periscope grips, face pressed against the rubber eye mounts. Seawater dripped down from above, drenching his already soggy hat. He didn’t notice. In fact, he looked close to happy.

“Skipper, contacts closing,” sang out the hydrophone operator.

Stefan’s shoulders tightened. He twirled the periscope around. And then he saw them. Three thousand meters off to the port. Two good-sized freighters. At least 10,000 tons each. Their distant shadows outlined with deck lights and lined up like a couple of railroad cars heading to market. Obviously, they had not been warned that a Polish submarine was still loose in the Baltic. Or they had been warned, and didn’t care. Just like Germans. Arrogant. Stefan watched them pass by the unseen submarine. “We’ll take them on top,” he said into the intercom mike. “Full rise on the bow planes. Prepare tube one.” He peered through the periscope again and chanted: “Rudder, port 15, steer eight-five.”

Kate had remained in the control room throughout the day, leaving occasionally to do another interview, then returning to write it up. No one seemed to mind her presence. At first glance, she was nothing to look at. Her hair was pulled back and gathered at her neck, no makeup, broken nose, and men’s pants beneath the skirt she had worn into the ballroom just a day earlier. And yet, in some strange and mysterious way, she had never looked better to the men, more alive and dangerous and something else, as well. It was something that had never happened before in any submarine in the world. Because of her actions, they had come to see her as an extension of themselves. The world’s first female submariner in fact, if not in name.

She gazed around the control room. Remember this, she told herself. Remember it all. Some of the boys were staring intently at the gauges and dials as if they could glean from them something even more profound than the state of the ship. Others, faces pale and haggard were turned toward Stefan, their eyes bright with emotion: fear, despair, excitement, hope, hatred. Almost every human feeling imaginable flickered in their eyes. And yes, love, too. She could see that, as well. They loved their big, burly captain in the love reserved by men for their true fathers. She didn’t doubt that if she could magically leap 100,000 years back in time and do inventory of the faces of a hunting party, she would see the same emotions playing across their faces. This was just another hunt in a long line of hunts.

“Would somebody get me a cup of coffee?” Stefan said suddenly, a goofy grin splitting his beard.

Blank stares all around. Did they hear him right? But Kate could feel the tension ease. A few of the boys laughed, admiring the courage of their skipper in the face of what was to come. Kate admired it, too. It was the kind of intuitive act that could never be taught. Her father had had the same touch with men. It was what made him such a good reporter. He would have relished being part of this. Of that Kate was sure. No doubt he would have written up the Eagle’s story like an epic baseball game, good versus evil, the fate of the free world at stake.

No one had moved. Kate moved to get the man a cup herself.

Eryk shook his head. “Stachofski,” he bellowed.

The radio operator stuck his head out the door.

“Get the skipper some coffee.”

“Sir?”

“You heard me.”

Stachofski pulled off his headphones, tried to pat down his hair, which was a nervous tangle of curls. “Cream and sugar, sir?”

“Black,” Stefan said, “and hot enough to curl my dick.” He saw Kate’s mouth contort into a grin at those words, the look of shock on the faces of those around him. “Oh,uh, sorry,” Stefan stuttered with mock embarrassment. “Not used to having a woman on board.”

Stachofski was back a moment later, handing the cup to Stefan. As Eagle’s bow began to tilt upward, he drank the cup quickly. It was black and hot, but that was where any resemblance to coffee ended. Having simmered for hours, it was the consistency of thick cream and tasted like diesel fuel. But, of course, everything aboard a submarine quickly took on the stench of diesel. There was no way to get away from it, and nothing anyone could do about it.

As the conning tower broke the surface, Stefan gulped down the last of his coffee, pulled on a rain slicker, and then scrambled up the ladder. He opened the hatch, ducked beneath a curtain of water, and then stepped up onto the bridge deck, breathing heavily through his nose.

It was raining, a steady wind from the northeast, unsettled waves chopping the surface. The storm from earlier in the day had moved on. Along the horizon, the underbelly of the clouds glowed faintly, indicating the location of Gdansk and the coastline more precisely than any compass.

Stefan raised the Zeiss binoculars, scanned the black lengths of both freighters, grunted when he found what he was looking for: German flags, lit by spotlights on a pole above their bridges.

“Closer,” Stefan said. “We can’t afford a miss.”

As the Eagle surged ahead, Stefan made another course correction, angling the Eagle’s bow slightly ahead of the lead freighter. If they missed it, there was still a chance they would hit the second one.

He watched through his binoculars as the distance narrowed, confident that the Eagle’s low-slung shape would be impossible to pick out in the dark. And if by some miracle they were spotted? It was already too late to do to run from them. . He could feel the lookouts behind him nervously shifting their weight back and forth. They were close enough now to make out detail on the ship, see faint figures in the bridge, high above the water.

Stefan waited until they were 1,000 meters from the target, watching the freighter closely for any change in direction, singing quietly under his breath: “Hold, hold, hold.” And then he dropped the binoculars. “Fire one!” he yelled into the voice tube.

There was a slight shudder, as a pulse of compressed air propelled the 7-meter long French-made torpedo stuffed with 148 kilograms of high explosives from the tube. Like a bloodhound hightailing after a fox, the torpedo didn’t hesitate; it raced away from the Eagle at better than 40 knots.

Stefan didn’t wait to see the impact. He already knew it wouldn’t miss. “Bring us about,” he shouted. “Rudder hard port. New course two-two-five. Let’s get out of here.”

The Eagle’s conning tower leaned toward starboard as her bow ported, away from the freighters. Spray broke over the bow as her twin diesels accelerated to maximum.

Even though Stefan had no doubt what would happen, he was still startled by the explosion. It lit up the sky like sunshine on a summer day. He felt a wave of heat on the back of his head, and then a thump in his chest as the pressure wave went past the Eagle.

“Holy Christ, what was she carrying?” a lookout exclaimed.

A second explosion peppered the night. “Probably not frozen pork,” Stefan said. He glanced over his shoulder, the fires from the ship dazzling his eyes, momentarily ruining his night vision. It was clear from the bow’s 45-degree angle that the Eagle’s torpedo had broken the freighter in half. She was already sagging in the middle, circles of burning fuel spreading out over the water like molasses from a broken bottle. He could see men jumping from her stern, disappearing into the dark water.

The following freighter fired off distress flares, but instead of slowing to look for survivors, began taking evasive action, veering away from the doomed ship, her captain no doubt concerned that he was going to be the next one victim.

In his mind, Stefan could almost see what was happening in Gdansk. Rescue ships already scrambling to get out of port, along with sub chasers. They couldn’t be certain it was the Eagle. Perhaps there was another Polish submarine loose in the Baltic, or maybe the freighter had hit a mine that had become untethered? But they couldn’t take that chance. If the dying freighter’s captain had managed to send a message, he would tell them what had happened. Torpedo. To the north, German and Soviet warships would be veering south, their captains’ sleep interrupted by news of the attack on the freighter.

Stefan turned his back on the burning vessel, already thinking about the next target, a Soviet vessel. No sense letting the Germans get all the fun.  Helsinki, Finland, a day and a half’s cruise north, was a destination port for Soviet materials. It shouldn’t be too hard to find a Soviet freighter or two. Another explosion underscored his decision.

Chapter Forty-One

“Just in, sir.” The junior officer saluted and then disappeared off the bridge.

Ritter scanned the message quickly. “Sonofabitch,” he said with a shake of his head.

“Pardon me?” sniffed the Leberecht Maass’s captain , Albert Funkt.

Ritter waved the message in his hand. “Report of a freighter sunk off Gdansk a few hours ago.”

“Hit a mine?”

Ritter shook his head. “Lookout recovered from the water reports seeing a submarine fleeing north. Wasn’t close enough to identify her.”

“The Eagle?”

Ritter shrugged. “You count ’em. Three in Sweden. One sunk. Another in England. She’s the only one left.”

“But what is she doing there? I thought you said…”

“That she would try to escape,” Ritter finished for him. “Yes, I remember. And that’s what I still think.”

“Heading in the wrong direction, then.” After breakfast, the captain had reclaimed his chair on the bridge. He leaned back in his seat, uniform immaculate, and glanced knowingly at Ritter. “They are Poles. Now they will run for safety. Sweden, I think.”

Ritter shrugged. “You may be right, captain, but our orders stand.” He glanced again at the note. It also had news from Sweden. Two Estonians picked up on Gotland. The message indicated that they were the ones taken by the Eagle.

It had been Ritter’s idea to say that the men had been executed. Of course, it was just wishful thinking on his part. He hoped news of their murder would prevent the international press from hailing the Eagle’s crew as heroes. It had worked in Germany, but no where else. And now he wondered if anyone would remember that these Estonians were supposed too be dead. Too bad they had turned up in Sweden. If they had been picked up by the Germans, they wouldn’t have survived the night.

“Where can they go?” Funkt said. “No charts, is that right?”

Ritter nodded.

“It would be foolhardy to continue. Yes, if the captain is a reasonable man, they will turn themselves over to the Swedes.”

“And that’s where you’re wrong, Herr Captain.”

“How so?”

“Their captain is not reasonable.”

After destroying the freighter, the Eagle ran hard on the surface until morning until she was forced to submerge when lookouts spotted two distant warships, steaming down from the north. She remained hidden until the hydrophone operator indicated it was clear, and then surfaced again for another few hours until a lookout picked out a high-flying plane approaching from the southeast. Another crash dive, and then worry that they had been spotted. But no bombs were dropped, and Stefan finally decided it was clear. Back to the surface once again. That set the pattern for the day, a constant yo-yoing, diving at the first sign of anything, and then cautiously back to the surface, and full speed ahead.

Stefan spent most of his time in the control room, consulting Eryk’s charts, marveling again and again at their apparent accuracy, worrying about how best to attempt the narrow passage at The Øresund when the time came. Too shallow to run the passage underwater, they would be forced to do it on the surface at night. Daylight would be suicide. “Anyone know the maximum ebb tide flow through the passage at the Sound?” Stefan asked.

Cooky surprised them all by volunteering the information. He stood in the entry to the control room, balancing a tray of coffee cups on his head. “Eight knots,” he said, though I’ve seen it higher.”

“Thank you, Cooky,” Stefan said.

“Don’t mention it, sir. More coffee?”

“Not now.”

“What are you thinking, Stef?” Eryk asked.

“I’m thinking that if we’re very lucky, we’ll be able to float right by the Germans using the tide and our electric motors.”

The one break Stefan allowed himself was soon interrupted by Kate and Reggie, who found him sitting by himself in the galley. The submarine was quiet, hiding underwater from three planes picked up on the horizon and heading their way. The sound of the electric motors was a welcome change from the incessant roar of the diesels.

“Mind if we join you?” Kate asked.

Stefan was chewing on a piece of salami sandwiched between two slices of bread that were only partially covered with mold. He took a drink of coffee, motioned to the open chairs at the table.

Kate pulled out her notepad and pen.

“Business, I see,” Stefan said.

“I thought I’d better catch you when I can,” Kate said. “Mind if Reggie snaps your shot.”

Stefan was too tired to care. He glared across the table as Reggie set up his camera. “Say cheese,” Reggie said in English. Stefan frowned, not recognizing the English words. Reggie clicked the shutter. “Scary,” he said, pulling his head out from beneath the cloth. “Moldy bread. Nice touch. And those black circles beneath your eyes look permanent. You are a modern-day pirate.”

“I suspect that’s what the Germans must think of me,” Stefan said, smiling wickedly. “I hope you got my best side.”

“Didn’t know pirates had one,” Reggie laughed. “I suppose your mother will care, though.”

“My mother is dead,” Stefan said simply. “Long ago.”

“Oh,” was all Reggie could think to say. “I think I’ll go bother someone else.” Embarrassed, he gathered up his camera gear and scooted off down the passageway.

“When?” Kate asked.

“I was a boy,” Stefan said. “It doesn’t matter now.”

“What about your father?”

“I didn’t have one.”

“I see,” said Kate.

“Do you?” Stefan said, tearing fiercely at the bread. “Do you really? Did you know your father?”

She nodded.

“And did you know he loved you, treasured you more than anything.”

She nodded again.

“As it should be. But that means you have no idea what it was like for me and those like me to grow up without a father.” He rubbed his eyes with his thumb. “But I became strong and survived,” he rumbled.

Kate hadn’t bothered to write any of it down. She didn’t need to. Something about Stefan made him impossible to forget. She had a sense that even as an old woman, she would still hear his voice as fresh as it sounded at this very moment. “You’re right. You don’t know what you missed. Just a nagging sense of loss that haunts you. Me, my father is dead now. I knew he loved me, always did. And now he is gone, and I am haunted by what I had, and have no more except memories.”

Stefan sipped his coffee, dark eyes boring into Kate. “But at least you have these.”

Kate nodded. “So how about telling me your story? Bet no one but you knows it. Be a shame to die without telling someone, don’t you think?”

“You think we will die?”

Kate shrugged. “Eventually it’ll get us all.”

Stefan chuckled. “All right.” But just as he began to tell the untold story of Stefan Petrofski, Eryk stuck his head past the curtain.

“Message coming in from Hel. You should see it.”

“Sorry, American lady,” Stefan said. “Maybe some other time, eh?”

“You have a date,” Kate said, smiling sadly, flipping her notepad closed.

“What do you think?”

Stefan reread the message, and then snorted. “They insult us. Nothing for days from headquarters and now this. And they want us to specify our current position so they can have Wolf bring us charts. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

“You mean, Wolf?”

Stefan shook his head. “No, about the charts. We didn’t radio them with that information.”

“How did they get it?”

“Exactly. They couldn’t have picked it up from the Swedes.”

“Shit,” Eryk said, with sudden understanding.

“Yes, it is the Germans thinking we are complete idiots,” Stefan said. “I almost feel insulted.”

“We’ll ignore it, then.”

Stefan smiled. “No, no. Send a message. Say we are heavily damaged, taking on water. Give them a false position, someplace south of the Bay of Gdansk.”

“You think it will fool them?”

“No,” Stefan said. “But it’s as close as I can get to saying ‘Piss off’ in person.”

Chapter Forty-Two

By noon the following day, the Eagle was lurking beneath the surface along the shipping routes approaching Helsinki, her hydrophone operator listening for the sounds of any oncoming freighters.

It was mid-afternoon when he finally reported something more interesting than the sounds of passing whales. “Got something.,” he sang. “One slow screw.”

Stefan slow-danced around the periscope, looking for a telltale shape silhouetted against the horizon. The hydrophones weren’t exact enough to tell the sound’s source, just its approximate distance. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen.

“Still getting louder, sir,” the hydrophone operator said. “They gotta be coming our way.”

And then he spotted it. He glanced at the gyrocompass. “Bring us around, heading one—five-five.” Stefan’s words roused the men at their stations around the control room like an orchestra coming to attention at the sound of a conductor tapping his music stand.

“One-five-five, aye,” echoed the helm.

“Take us up and then rig ship for surface attack. I want to make sure they have no doubt who we are and we give them plenty of time to let someone know. I’m sure our German friend, Hans, will hear about it soon enough.”

Stefan was first on the bridge. The sky was cloudy, the sea gray and restless, but the air was clear, the visibility excellent. He noted with satisfaction that despite the long hours, his men were still hustling. The deck gun crew spilled out of the forward hatch, had the barrel unplugged and the Bofors ready in just a minute. The same was true for the conning tower AA gun crew. He was joined by three lookouts, Squeaky, and then Kate and Reggie, the latter cursing as he hauled his camera equipment up with him.

“You can’t have that here.” Squeaky said.

“Need some action shots for posterity,” Reggie replied.

“We’ll stay out of the way,” Kate interjected.

It was difficult enough arguing with Reggie, Squeaky knew he had no hope with Kate. “Stef?”

“Just stay quiet and when I say get below, you go.”

“Yes, sir,” Reggie said, saluting casually.

“Thanks, Stefan,” Kate said. She was breathing in the fresh air with visible pleasure.

“Ahead full,” Stefan said into the speaker tube. He scanned the distant freighter for any signs of identification. They had nothing against the Finns or Swedes. They wouldn’t attack any vessel from a neutral country.

There was a momentary hesitation as the Eagle switched from electricity to diesel. The engines coughed awake, and then began to roar. Eagle quickly surged toward her still unsuspecting target.

“They must be asleep,” Squeaky said with disdain, amazed that the freighter wasn’t yet taking some sort of evasive actions, hadn’t seen them knifing across the water directly at them.

“Awake now,” Kate said, as the freighter began a lumbering turn away from the Eagle. Despite the distance, they could all see now that she was, indeed, Russian.

“You can run, but you can’t hide,” Reggie said, his face alight with anticipation. “I haven’t felt this kind of excitement since we chased Eddie Vick’s little brother around the house.”

“Why were you chasing him?” Kate asked.

“Can’t remember,” Reggie said, “but you know how it is with little brothers.”

“What did you do when you found him?”

Reggie smiled.

“That’s what I thought….”

From then on, everyone was quiet, eyes intent on the freighter like children peeking underneath the curtain at a circus freak show.

Stefan broke the spell, murmuring into the speaker tube, passing on a slight course correction and then saying, “Ready tube two.”

The sudden scream from the lookout ripped through the air like a gunshot.

“Holy shit … ” a startled Reggie exclaimed, but his further comments were overwhelmed by yells from all of the lookouts.

“Rocks dead ahead!”

The freighter was instantly forgotten. Stefan pulled the binoculars away from his eyes. In an instant, he scanned the waters close at hand. Noticed the slight discoloration, the odd shaped waves caused by the shallows. “Hard starboard rudder,” he yelled into the speaker tube. “Reverse engines….”

There was a few seconds hesitation, and then the Eagle began to slow, her bow moving ponderously to starboard. There was even a brief moment when everyone thought they might make it. But certain laws of motion and momentum are immutable, particularly when the vessel weights 1,500 tons.

For Kate, the collision unfolded like a slow-motion train wreck. There was a screech of metal, like fingernails pulled across a chalkboard. Eagle’s bow lazily climbed into the air as she ran up onto the rocks and then came to an abrupt, shuddering halt, throwing everyone forward.

Stefan was the first to recover, sliding down the conning tower ladder into the control room. “Keep the engines at maximum,” he screamed and then he was racing forward, pushing aside anyone who got in his way. “Damage report,” he yelled as he ducked through the doorway into the forward section.

“Hard to say sir.” The sailor in charge, a man named Lech, stepped forward, wiping his brow with a filthy rag. The rest of the torpedo crew crowded around, their bare arms streaked with grease, faces strained with worry, glancing up at the forward hatch, and then nervously at the bow, expecting a sudden gush of water to burst through the hull at any second. “What the hell did we hit?”

Stefan ignored Lech’s question. He pushed through the knot of bodies, scanning the torpedo tubes and the various pipes, gauges and levers that choked the Eagle’s bow section, and then dropped to his knees, peering down at bilges. No apparent leaks. Of course, they were on the surface, no telling what would happen underwater, but still, it was a good sign. If they were lucky, she hadn’t been seriously holed.

“OK, everyone aft. Hustle. We’ve got to get off this shoal.” The torpedo crew sprang into action, stampeding down the passageway toward the submarine’s stern. Stefan stepped aside in the control room, letting the men pass by, listening intently for any telltale sounds of movement as the diesels continued to race. Nothing.

“Flood the rear trim tanks,” Stefan barked. Eryk pulled two levers on the bulkhead. As he watched the needle on the gauges begin to climb, they all felt the Eagle settling at the stern. “Keep those engines going,” Stefan said.

Again they waited, bodies attuned to any sense of movement. Still nothing.

Stefan noticed that everyone in the control room was staring at him. They didn’t need to say a word. What next? It was clear on all their faces.

“Engines all stop,” Stefan said. “When’s high tide?”

Eryk dug around beneath the chart table. He pulled out a book that had tidal information for the entire Baltic. “At least they left us this,” he said, thumbing through it. “Who’d have thought it would come in handy. Ah, yes, here it is. He glanced at his watch, and then toward Stefan. “Hour and a half.”

“All right,” Stefan nodded. “Blow the stern ballast. For now, keep everyone aft. Every five minutes, we’ll try to pull off this thing. Hopefully, we can do it before the Soviets send visitors.”

“Sorry, Stefan,” Eryk said.

“For what?’

“My charts… I didn’t have this down…”

“Forget it. My fault. Your charts are fine and they’re still going to get us out of here alive. Don’t worry.”

But as Stefan climbed back up to the bridge, he was wishing he felt as confident as his words. In fact, they were in serious danger. The freighter had already contacted Soviet authorities. He was sure of that. Even now, pilots were probably scrambling to their planes, ground crews loading the racks with bombs.

“Look, they’re curious,” Reggie said, pointing to the approaching freighter. “Can’t imagine why they’re coming back. If it was me, I’d be high-tailing it out of here.”

“I’m sure the captain would like to do just that,” Squeaky said. “He’s probably been ordered back by his superiors. If he disobeys, he gets a first-class ticket to Siberia.”

The freighter circled the submarine at a safe distance, tracked the entire way by the deck gun crew. They were willing to try a shot, but Stefan shook his head. “It would be like spitting grapes at an elephant,” he said.

After fifteen minutes, the freighter’s signal lamp began to flash, and then the vessel resumed her course toward Helsinki.

“What did they say?” Kate said, looking up from her notebook where she had been writing furiously, her eyes wide.

Stefan couldn’t help chuckling. “Their captain said he was sorry for our misfortune and wished us all a speedy trip straight to hell.”

“My word,” Reggie said, taking another photograph of the departing vessel. “What does he mean by that?”

The water at the Eagle’s stern began to froth again. There was a shriek of metal, a slight sense of movement, and that was it. “Almost,” Squeaky said under his breath.

Stefan wasn’t paying attention. He was scanning the northeast horizon. He saw them at the same time as the lookouts. “Planes,” they yelled in unison.

“That’s what they meant,” Stefan said, pointing. “If we don’t get off this rock in the next ten minutes, we’re dead.”

There was a knock outside Ritter’s door. He suppressed a groan. After three nonstop days and sleepless nights, he had finally retired to one of the destroyer’s Spartan guest quarters, determined to get some rest. He had just pulled off his shirt and socks.

He pulled open the door. “Yes?”

The sailor took a step back, frightened by the look on Ritter’s face. The scarring didn’t help, either. “Here.” He thrust the paper into Ritter’s hand, and then scooted down the passageway.

Ritter unfolded the sheet. Another radio message. Soviets had found the Eagle. She was stranded in the North Baltic approximately 43 kilometers southeast of Helsinki. They were sending forces to neutralize her.

The antiseptic language didn’t disguise what was about to happen. Or what had happened already. Submarines, for all the fear they inspired, were still surprisingly fragile vessels. A destroyer or battleship could take on planes and survive the encounter. A submarine’s only protection was the deep. If the Eagle couldn’t dive or move, she was dead. It was as simple as that. She was probably already gone.

Ritter couldn’t help feeling disappointment. He had hoped to meet up with the crew again, deal with the submarine personally. And now that too had been taken from him.

As for Dönitz, he wouldn’t be happy to learn that Eagle was destroyed by the Soviets and not ships of the mighty Kriegsmarine. It was almost as bad as having one of Göring ’s planes do it.

Everyone in the conning tower watched the planes take shape, growing more distinct with each passing second. And then they heard them, a far off drone, like bees working in an orchard.

There were two of them. “They’re called the Illyushin IL-2M3,” Stefan remarked. “Should have four bombs each, plus machine guns.”

“How do you know that?” Reggie asked.

“Bedtime reading courtesy the staff at headquarters,” Stefan replied with a blank stare. “They actually thought the Russians would be the first to invade. Decided it would be good if all the senior officers new the difference between an Illyushin and a Yak. I always figured one could kill you just as dead as the other, regardless of what they were called. In any case, these pilots won’t do anything fancy. You two should go below.”

Kate shuddered. “Sorry. Like I said back in the harbor, I think if I’m going to die, I’d rather do it up here. I promise to stay out of the way. Hell, give me a rifle, and I’ll shoot at them myself.”

“I’m sorry,” Stefan said. “But we need everyone we can spare in the aft end of the submarine. Another few kilos might make all the difference. You boys, too,” he said to the lookouts.

Kate swallowed hard, decided the fierce look on Stefan’s face made it clear what he thought about an argument. She was the first to leave, disappearing down the ladder without another glance. Reggie and the rest of them followed her. “You, too,” Stefan said Squeaky. “And when you get down then, I want everyone to start racing back and forth between the fore and aft sections. Squeeze as far forward and back as you go. Keep at it until I tell you to stop. It might be enough to help wiggle us off the rocks.”

Squeaky didn’t say anything. He just nodded.

From then on, it became race between nature and plane. Each passing minute, the tide rose another few inches, while the planes flew a few kilometers closer to the Eagle. Stefan had no idea who would win.

The AA crew in the aft section of the conning tower had their guns swiveled in the direction of the approaching planes. “They’re Russians,” Stefan advised them. “That means they’ll come in low, lengthwise and vodka for everyone on the plane that sends one down our throat.”

The two young men at the gun tugged nervously at their gray helmets, licked their lips. Better here than in that iron coffin down below, Stefan knew they were thinking. From below, he could hear someone bellows and shouts, urging the dog-tired crew to keep going, all the way to the bow of the boat and then back again. And it was helping. He could feel a faint shift in the Eagle each time they ran back and forth down the passageway.

It would be close.

The Eagle’s engines roared constantly now, the seawater at the stern whipped into a frenzy, the exhaust floating near the surface like an early fog. The two Russian bombers wheeled around in front of Eagle, and then lined up on her bow, still four kilometers away, and began their approach. Stefan saw the bomb bay doors swing open. The AA gun behind him opened fire, flinging shells into the sky. It was too soon, but he didn’t say anything.

There was a sudden jerk. Steel plating screaming in protest, and the Eagle suddenly slipped off the rocks. Stefan heard shouts of joy drift up out of the conning tower hatch opening. “Rudder hard right,” Stefan screamed in the sound tube, unable to take his eyes from the onrushing bombers, hoping they could hear him below. “Hard starboard!”

Diesels racing, the Eagle began to pivot out of the planes’ path, but it was maddeningly slow.

Stefan saw sparks stitch the underbelly of the first bomber. The submarine’s fire was finding its target, though the plane didn’t seem to notice any more than a dog would notice a handful of mosquitoes feeding on its hindquarters.

Stefan held his breath as the bomber dropped its cargo. Nothing he could do now except wait and watch. The bombs tumbled lazily through the bright morning air, like dirt clods lobbed by a child at a distant adversary. As Stefan estimated the bombs’ trajectory, time seemed to dilate, their flight slowing to a crawl, each metal-encased explosive becoming distinct and perfect. Stefan felt a profound sense of resignation and regret when he realized it was too close call.

When the first two bombs landed meters short, plumes of water erupting high in the air, he was overwhelmed with a sense of relief almost too much to bear. He ducked involuntarily as the next two sailed past the conning tower and flew into the shoal that moments before had held the Eagle it its grasp. Their explosions sent a cascade of water and pulverized rock into the air, the rock peppering the sides of the conning tower like pebbles thrown by a gang of bullies.

Stefan hollered into the voice tube: “Now forward. Full speed. Rudder hard port.”

The next bomber was closing fast. The pilot had adjusted his path, dropping altitude and following the Eagle as she backed off the rocks and turned. He obviously expected her to continue in reverse, but the Eagle slowed to a stop and then, screws churning madly, began to move in the opposite direction, gaining speed with each revolution. The AA gun opened fire again. Stefan saw black dots appear along the wing and then march toward the port engine. There was a puff of smoke from the engine; the propeller began to slow; the wing dipped, pulling the plane toward port. As the pilot struggled to keep the plane flying with just one engine, the bombardier released the bombs, but too late. They fell harmlessly starboard of the Eagle. The bomber screamed by overhead, still losing altitude; her tail gunner opened fire, gouging wood chunks off the deck. The Eagle’s AA crew returned the favor, pouring fire into the heavily armored Russian bomber. But at closer range, the gun began to have deadly results. Stefan watched the canopy shatter, the plane now low enough to see frantic movements in the cockpit. She continued to lose altitude, the port engine streaming pale flames. The conning tower AA gun fell silent, and everyone on deck watched as the bomber’s port wing touched the surface of the Baltic. Friction ripped the wing from the fuselage as easily as a cook plucking feathers from a duck. The bomber cartwheeled into the water, flying apart as she spun, and then finally stopping in a shower of spray and debris.

Except for the distant hum of the other bomber and the sound of the Eagle’s own diesel engines, all sound of combat ceased, he sudden fury of the previous moments passing like a summer storm.

“Let’s go,” Stefan yelled into the sound tube. “New course One-nine-five. Rig ship for dive. Clear the bridge.”

There would be more planes. And soon. No doubt the remaining pilot had already radioed for reinforcements. But the Eagle had survived—for the moment. Another few seconds on the shoal, and the Eagle would have been smacked by two bombs, and probably more from the following bomber. They had been lucky. Stefan knew it was time to make for England.

The AA crew retracted their gun back into its watertight compartment. The deck gun crew plugged the muzzle and locked down their gun, and then tumbled back down the forehatch like rabbits into a hole.

Stefan waited until the foredeck was awash. He gave one quick look around, noted the smudge of two approaching ships against the gray sky and above them, three dark specks. More bombers. No surprise. The Russians would scramble every available warship. Probably the Finns and the Swedes, too. They would have uninvited company overhead before long. He took a last deep breath of the fresh air, savoring the sweet taste on his tongue like a warm piece of fruit. Just before the water began rushing in, he ducked into the ship, pulling the hatch tight.

Chapter Forty-Three

Admiral Karl Dönitz pushed away his plate, touched his stomach slightly, and then belched. All of his favorites. Warm potatoes coated in cheese, two fat brats, juice oozing from breaks in their skins, and steamed baby carrots covered in brown sugar and butter. A mug of hearty Bavarian beer to wash it all down.

He belched again, pushed over one of the sausages, noticing, for the first time, their similarity to the shape of a submarine. Of course, it was too symmetrical for the shape of the current generation of submarines, which were still not much more than surface vessels that could operate for periods of time underwater. But he had been excited by some of the newer designs. They did, indeed, look more like sausages, long, smooth, and rounded, so they could slip more easily through the water. With better batteries, and some of the other ideas they envisioned, German submarines would someday stay underwater for days, racing along at speeds rivaling the fleetest fish in the sea, and then diving to depths far exceeding the limits of current submarines. A weapon like that would revolutionize warfare. If the war lasted that long. Right now, those submarines lived only on drawing boards and the imaginations of German engineers.

He flicked the button on his intercom. “I’m done,” he said,pushing aside his plate Dönitz lit a cigarette and stared out at the blackness beyond his window.

A moment later, there was a light knock and then the door opened. His aide crossed quickly to Dönitz’s desk, the leather creaking on his boots.

“There is this for you, sir. Just in.”

The aide pushed a piece of paper across the desk, and when there was no further request or orders from his master, he spun on his heel.. He left the way he came in. The door latched with a soft click.

Dönitz sucked on his cigarette, faint hollows appearing on each cheek. He glanced at the paper. He already knew what it reported. The Eagle had attempted to torpedo a freighter south of Helsinki—what the hell were they doing up there?—and in the process ran aground. Russian forces were called. Bombers were unsuccessful in their initial attack. The search by sea and air units continued.

“Goddamnit,” Dönitz muttered. He admired pluck as much as the next man, but these Poles didn’t know when the fight was lost. Poland itself was just a week or so away from complete surrender. Warsaw was surrounded. German forces were shelling and bombing it incessantly, softening the city up before ground forces moved in, wiping out the few remaining fighters. And yet this submarine, this Eagle, kept fighting.

He knew of the bets made by his office staff. The ones who had placed their money on the Eagle making for Sweden were already counting winnings. Possibly. But Dönitz still thought it unlikely. There was something to be said for character, and surrender, even in the form of interment, was not in the character of this crew. No, they would make for the North Sea. Ritter was right about that. Dönitz had received requests for a change of orders from his forces in the Baltic. He made a mental note to tell them to keep searching with appropriate reminders of what failure would mean. No need, though, to contact Ritter. Dönitz smiled. Despite his failure with the Eagle in Tallinn, he was one of his best men. He understood the power of character.

He finished his cigarette, reached for his intercom button. “Bring me some hot peppermint tea,” he said, “and a little cognac.”

“Yes, sir,” came the faint response.

Peppermint to settle his stomach, cognac to sharpen the mind. Already late, he had a stack of reports to read. It would be early morning before he arrived home. And required back again a few hours later.

As he waited for his tea, he let his mind wander. If he were the Eagle’s captain, what next?

His wife knew. No one else. Easy enough to understand why: they were never around when he woke in the middle night, moaning.

“That dream again, Winston?” she said, flicking on the bedside light.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood. In oversize pajamas, he looked like small child, not the soon-to-be leader of the fight against Nazi Germany.

“Gallipoli wasn’t your fault,” she said, trying to soothe him. The reports cleared you.”

“And they were poppycock,” he sighed. “Can’t sleep anyway. I’ll do some work.”

“Oh, Winston.”

“I’ll be all right,” he said. His boxer’s face softened. He kissed her gently on the cheek. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

He pulled on his robe and shuffled out of the room. Instead of heading to his office, he went to his painting studio. Half-finished watercolor paintings lay scattered around the room. Interrupted by that damn Hitler, Churchill thought. He wondered when, if ever, he would get the chance to finish them. When he peered into the future, it was bleak at best, dominated by the struggle that he knew would soon engulf the entire world. He had been right about Hitler when no one was listening, when members of the House of Commons thought he was a one-note fool: Hitler this, Nazi threat that.

Churchill poured himself a few fingers of Scotch, settled into the wicker chair in front of his easel, held the glass up in the light, staring into the rich liquid as if it were a crystal ball.

Of course, she was wrong. It had been his fault. He knew it, even if the reports had glossed over his culpability. Men had been butchered because of his mistake, his arrogance. He shook his head, took a drink, let the rich liquid trickle down his throat, warm his belly. He had vowed to never let it happen again. And yet, how could he prevent it? Already he was playing with men and ships like they were pieces on a board game. They were not. Others might forget, but he wouldn’t let himself. Even so, he was bound to make mistakes, and men would die as a result of them. And part of him would die with them. And that too was how it should be. If he wasn’t changed and scarred by the consequences of his decisions, then he was a monster, no different than the raging lunatic who had bewitched the German people.

It was the Polish submarine Eagle that had stirred up the memories. She was like a cat. How many lives had she already used up? British Intelligence had picked up messages from the Russians and Finns that the Eagle had run aground. He had waited throughout the day for confirmation of her demise, but it never came, and then a message just after dinner with the PM: she had escaped and was being pursued.

Of course, the Eagle had little in common with the fiasco at Gallipoli. And yet, it shared similar themes. A small band of men—and one American woman, if the accounts were correct—fighting against overwhelming odds. What was it about such events that captured the imagination? Was it the heady mix of hope, heroism, and, yes, fear? The Eagle’s escape dominated the free newspapers in Europe as well as the media in Germany. It was threatening to eclipse reports of Poland’s near collapse and driving Hitler into a rage. And still the submarine’s crew did the unexpected. Instead of attempting escape, they had attacked, sinking a German freighter loaded with fuel oil off Gdansk, and now this, going after the Russians. The chuckle came unbidden, rough and ragged like a worn-out engine, but chuckle nonetheless. Part of him wished the crew would port in Sweden, joining three other Polish vessels interned there. Survive and live to fight another day. They had already done enough. And yet another part of him, the one still inspired by childhood tales of King Arthur and his knights of the Round Table, wished them to continue the fight. What had the poet written: “To strive, to seek, to fight, and not to yield?”

Silently, he vowed. If the Eagle survived and made it to British-controlled waters, he would be one of the first to greet her and her captain. Maybe some of the Eagle’s magic could rub off. Churchill hoped it was so. He lifted his glass. “Godspeed, Eagle,” he growled into the air.

Chapter Forty-Four

Underwater, the Eagle was powered by electric motors using energy stored in her gigantic batteries tucked away in two places under her decks. And like every submarine of the late 1930s, she cruised at a tortoiselike speed of two or three knots. Of course, in a panic, she could accelerate to 9 knots, but that was still hardly an impressive speed. And if she remained at that pace for very long, she would quickly exhaust her batteries, forcing her back to the surface where she would need to remain until they were recharged by her diesel engines.

At the moment, Stefan was pondering these engineering constraints as he sat on his bunk, eating an apple. He was wearing a soggy shirt open at the collar, damp pants and salt-stained boots. His dark beard was unkempt, as was his hair, their dark color matched by the circles of fatigue—almost bruises—beneath each eye. Cooky had found the apple rolling in filthy water in a corner of the engine room when the entire crew had been dashing back forth like a herd of elephants. It was bruised, and the skin tasted like everything else, diesel. Stefan didn’t care. The flesh inside was firm and moist, its apple scent headier than any woman’s perfume. He was convinced it was the best apple he had ever eaten.

Stefan had often dreamed of a time when submarines would be more like the vessel imagined by Jules Verne in Twenty-Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. He had read the book many times—and hadbeen enchanted by it. It remained one of his all-time favorites, helped encourage him to pursue a career in Navy submarines when it came time to leave fishing. How much easier and safer if they could simply stay submerged for weeks on end at depths beyond the reach of their enemies? What a weapon a submarine would be then.

Faintly, Stefan could still hear the whoosh-whoosh sound of screws from the ships on the surface, prowling now in the distance. The Eagle had been submerged for four hours, creeping along 120 meters below the surface as destroyers, probably Russian, combed the waters overhead, flinging set after set of depth charges into the water in hopes of either destroying them or driving them to the topside.

Stefan listened to distant explosions, the Eagle’s hull creaking in response, as they began yet another run. Persistent devils, he thought. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. Four depth charges per rack, two racks per side, twenty-four explosions in all, their sounds gradually diminishing as the destroyer and submarine moved in opposite directions. And then reload, perhaps reset the timers so the cans sank deeper or shallower before they detonated, and do it all again. It was monotonous as a factory assembly line. And just as effective.

Once the Eagle submerged, Stefan scampered forward once again to assess the damage to the bow. They were lucky. Only minor leaking. But there was one other problem that might have unforeseen consequences. Something was wrong with theEagle’s forward torpedo hatches. They wouldn’t open, the skin of iron that coated the bow twisted and dented just enough to keep them closed. Their one remaining forward torpedo was now useless.

Stefan set them on a course almost due west toward the Swedish coastline. Deeper waters that direction, Eryk promised, still feeling guilty about running aground, though Stefan, and everyone else, assured him it wasn’t his fault.

Nothing elegant about the plan now. Feel their way down the Swedish coast, avoiding minefields, aircraft, and Swedish and German ships. Keep everyone sharp despite little food and water. And then wait for dark, sneak through The Øresund, and on into the North Sea. As soon as they were free of The Øresund, they would contact the British Fleet.

Stefan finished the apple, core and all, licked his fingers clean. It was quiet now. The destroyers moving off, out of range, or perhaps giving up. He glanced at his watch. Dark soon. And then a long night ahead of them.

There was a knock on the bulkhead. “Enter,” Stefan said.

Kate stuck her head past the edge of the curtain, and Stefan was suddenly aware of how he must look and smell. Her pale face looked freshly scrubbed. She had finally gotten rid of the dress and was now wearing clothes borrowed from the crew, a clean men’s shirt, khaki pants and shoes. She jumped as the explosions began again. They sounded like some faraway giant whacking the side of a grain silo with a log.

“Can’t get used to those,” she said sheepishly. “Don’t know how you stand it. I thought I was going to go crazy earlier….”

“Me, too,” Stefan said.

“You?”

Stefan nodded.

“Could have fooled me.”

Stefan shrugged, rubbed his burning eyes with his thumbs. “I’m the captain now,” he said wearily. “That’s my job. Just about pissed my pants, though, when I thought that bomber was going to drop a few high explosives down our throat.”

“Go on!” Kate exclaimed with a giggle and a shake of her head. She reached out and shoved him in the shoulder like she had often done when her first boyfriend teased her. There was a stretch of awkward silence after she realized what she had done. “Say, Reggie and I had an idea.”

“Now you want off?”

Kate’s eyes flickered with anger. “No, of course not. We’re with you and your men until the end.”

“Whatever end that may be,” Stefan finished for her.

“I’m an optimist,” Kate said, raising her chin.

“What’s your idea?”

“Eryk said we’re going to be staying close to the Swedish coastline, right?”

Stefan nodded. He motioned to a chair in the corner of the cubbyhole that masqueraded as his quarters. “Sit. Please.”

Kate shook her head. “Too jumpy,” she said, smiling an apology.

“Go on….”

“Well, we were wondering about making a Swedish flag, or sign, or something. Hang it from the conning tower, cover up the Eagle’s markings. Might not fool anybody, but on the other hand, if we’re surprised, it might give us some extra time.”

“Good idea,” Stefan said, smiling. “Thanks. Get a couple of the boys to help you. Might help them pass the time.”

“Okay, I’ll do that. You want to see it when we’re done?”

“Sure,” Stefan said.

“And what about that interview. When could we finish?”

The thought that had been dancing around the back of his mind ever since he had spied her in the pub in Gdynia jumped out of his mouth before he had a chance to stop it: “How about dinner with me when we get to England?”

Stefan watched Kate’s face change, thinking how much it reminded him of a spring sky, just when you get used to one look, it gives you another. He couldn’t read the one he was giving him now. She stared at him and then said, “I see underneath all the grime, you’re an optimist, too.”

Stefan said nothing.

“Okay,” Kate said. “On one condition.”

“You can finish the interview over dinner, if you like.”

Another flash of anger. “You presume too much,” she warned. “That’s wasn’t what I was thinking.”

“Then what is your condition?” he said, stretching the last word out sarcastically.

“Dinner and drinks are on me,” Kate said, and then she was gone.

It was Reggie’s idea. “Why can’t you just move the damn thing,” he said out loud.

They were gathered in the control room a few hours later, the regular contingent of officers and crew, along with Cooky leaning in the hatchway. Stefan and Eryk we’re peering at Eryk’s hand-made charts, attempting to dredge up any missing details, arguing about the pros and cons of various courses.

Squeaky was restlessly prowling the crowded perimeter of the control room, lamenting for the moment the damage to the torpedo doors before moving on to other woes. “A moment longer, and we could have fired,” he said. “Then it wouldn’t matter what happened.”

That’s when Reggie wagged his finger in the air and asked his question.

Cooky’s response came with a sneer. He didn’t like the effete American and didn’t mind who knew it. Of course, Cooky didn’t like most everyone, particularly Brazilians, he was always quick to point out, though the actual reasons for picking on the natives of that particular part of the world remained a well-kept mystery. His apparent affection for Kate was one exception to his universal dislike. “Go ahead,” he said. “That damn fish just weighs—oh—1,600 kilos, give or take a few hundred. Yeah, by the look of your biceps, you could almost lug it to the aft torpedo compartment all by yourself.”

There was laughter around the control room. Stefan looked up from the chart, eyes bleary and red rimmed. He turned to Reggie. “What did you say?”

“He wondered why we don’t move that fucking torpedo aft,” Cooky interjected, laughing again with ill humor.

Reggie gave a wane smile and shrugged. “What do I know, eh?”

Stefan blinked slowly, his eyes feeling as if he had gravel in them. He was halfway surprised each blink wasn’t audible. Now that they were running for England, and, essentially, unarmed, he was particularly aware of their lack of torpedoes. That one still remained onboard, unusable, only add to the bitter taste in mouth. Why couldn’t they move it to the aft torpedo room? Of course. Now would be the time to do it, before they came closer to The Øresund. Under cover of darkness, in a calm sea, it would be tricky, but not impossible.

After days of close proximity, Squeaky was watching Stefan closely, aware of every slight change in his mood. “Nah, nah,” he said, “that would be a very bad idea.”

Stefan looked blandly at Squeaky.

“I know you’re thinking about that torpedo, moving it aft. Am I right?”

Stefan didn’t respond, he just continued to stare at Squeaky.

“It can’t be done. Not now. The crew is exhausted, you’re exhausted, and you expect to get it done out here in the middle of the Baltic? OK, OK, it’s not impossible, it’s just that it would be very, very difficult. It’ll be slick as a baby killer whale, and just as heavy… the deck will be like an ice rink… I suppose we could rig some sort of pulley system above deck, but then we’d have to wrestle it aft, and reverse the process… like I said…” His voice finally ran out of steam. A look of resignation washed over his features. Still Stefan said nothing. “Aw shit,” Squeaky submitted finally. “OK, we’ll move it. I’ll get the strongest men, just tell me when.”

Stefan glanced at his wristwatch. “How about now?”

The Eagle surfaced at dusk; her diesel engines coughed to life and began recharging the batteries, though her screws remained motionless. There was a slight breeze coming from the east. Though the surface was roughed by a sharp chop, the Eagle barely moved. It was about as close to perfect conditions as one could find in September fall in the middle of the Baltic.

Inside, the Eagle’s interior lights switched to red for the long night. In the torpedo compartment, Lech and two other sailors were already cranking loose the bolts holding the torpedo loading hatch in place. As it came free, a rush of cool sea air poured in the submarine.

“All set?”

Squeaky looked up through the hatch opening, saw Stefan’s form, features shrouded in shadows, peer from above. “Aye, aye, sir,” he said formally. “Eight men down here, another eight up there…”

“Nine,” Stefan interjected.

“Didn’t think you could stay away from the fun,” Squeaky said with a nod of appreciation. He hadn’t intended to ask for Stefan’s help—no sense getting the captain hurt or injured—but Stefan was by far the strongest man on the boat and so his offer wouldn’t be turned away. “I’ve got it trussed up with this canvas sling like a chicken,” he said, patting the torpedo’s steel flank in front of him. “Should make it easier to control. That’s the idea, anyway. It’s pointing the wrong direction. So, not only do we have to lift this bastard out of here, we’ve also got to pivot the nose in the other direction.”

“Up here?” Stefan asked skeptically.

“Naw. Not enough room. We’ll start the turn down here. We’ll lift up the nose, and then walk the ass end back underneath to get it going the right direction as you and the boys up there get your hands on it. Once you’ve lifted it free, we’ll skedaddle aft and be waiting for you. I’ve got ’‘em ready to crack open up the loading hatch as soon as you get there.”

Stefan stood, slapped his hands together. All he needed was talcum powder, and he would have been ready for a clean and jerk. He glanced around at the other sailors who would help. Henryk gave him an awkward grin. Stefan slapped him on the back in response. “Ready?”

Henryk’s eyes widened with alarm as the Eagle shifted nervously beneath their feet. But then he nodded. A pale, scrawny looking bunch, Stefan thought. They would have to do. Because of the space restrictions inherent to submarines, crews were not usually the biggest and brawniest.

“Let’s go, let’s go,” Stefan roared. Until the job was done, they completely defenseless.

A moment later, the nose of the torpedo bobbed above decks like the snout of some ancient animal. Its appearance was accompanied by primal groans, as the men below strained against the dead weight.

“Come on you bastards, help…” Squeaky cried out.

The torpedo seemed to sniff the air, and then it was surrounded by sailors above deck, each grabbing an end of a sling. As they began to pick up the strain, the rest of the torpedo slowly appeared.

Stefan grabbed two slings, one in each hand, his arms forearms quivering with tension. Henryk, who was standing next to him, gasped from the effort, his lips peeling back from his mouth into a grimace.

As the full weight of the torpedo was taken up by the men on the deck, they quivered and moaned as one, trembling like a grove of aspens before a sudden, hot gust of wind. Silently—it was too much effort to say anything— and slowly, they began the awkward shuffle on the shifting, slick wood deck toward the submarine’s stern.

As the group—four on the inside, five on the outside, the torpedo in between —squeezed past the conning tower, the Eagle swayed abruptly as an irregular wave hit the bow, and then broke down the side. It was enough. The torpedo swayed in sympathy, and two of the men at the back, on the side nearest the conning tower, slipped. Stefan roared as the torpedo began to pinch him against the conning tower. He heard Henryk scream, and felt a sudden increase in weight as the men lost hold.

From some hidden place, Stefan found an untapped reservoir of strength. Even as the cartilage of his own ribs began to crackle, he lifted with all his might. “Don’t stop now,” he grunted between grinding teeth.

And just as quickly, the men regained control of torpedo, and continued to snake past the conning tower. Stefan noticed that Henryk had blood rimming his mouth. He coughed, and sprayed the torpedo with red mist. Still, he continued to lift, ignoring the agony of his shattered ribs.

As they approached, the aft access hatch opened. Stefan was ready to collapse. The others looked in similar condition, but grimly, everyone held on. This close to success, they didn’t dare let down their crewmates.

Now there were gasps of pain and effort. They lowered the nose of the torpedo first, and felt the exquisite relief as the men below began to take up the weight. And then it was below decks. The men as one collapsed on the deck, sobbing with success and relief.

“Get Cooky,” Stefan screamed, but he was already on deck, handing around one of the precious bottles of cognac, and then he was at the boy’s side, dabbing his mouth with a cloth.

“What the hell happened?”

“He was squeezed between the torpedo and the conning tower,” Stefan gasped, placing his hand on his own ribs, wincing at the pain, realizing he might have cracked a few ribs of his own.

Albert, that was his name, Stefan remembered. One of Chief K’s boys in the engine room.

“We did it?” he whispered. The effort brought a spasm of coughing, and more blood.

“Jesus, don’t say anything,” Cooky yelled with alarm. He shrugged at Stefan as if to say he’d do what he could for the boy but this was beyond his meager skills.

“Yes, Albert.” Stefan touched his cheek, surprised at its softness. “We did it indeed. And now we’re going to find you a quiet place to rest. We’ll be in England before you know it. Just do what Cooky says, okay?”

The boy closed his eyes and nodded.

As Cooky and Henryk took the boy below, Stefan turned away. He would be surprised if he saw another dawn. Had it been worth the risk, worth one life? He didn’t know. Not at the moment.

About then, everyone who remained on deck turned to watch the sun peek through the gap between clouds and sea, sending dazzling orange rays streaming across the restless Baltic. A moment of wonder, and then, just as quickly, the show was over, and the sun disappeared below the horizon

“Smells like a storm tonight,” Eryk said, appearing at Stefan’s elbow. He handed his captain an oil-slicked rain coat and then his cap.

Stefan was too exhausted to respond with anything more than a grunt. He shrugged wearily into the coat, watched as two sailors pushed the aft torpedo access hatch back into place.

That boy, that Albert. They had almost made it. One random wave. That was all it took. He had seen crushing injuries many times before, some not all that different than the one experienced by Albert. In every case, the men had died. They had been too far from doctors. The broken ribs had flayed the delicate lungs as effectively as any butcher’s knife.

Stefan followed Eryk slowly up to the bridge, climbing the rungs like an old man, and then gasping with pain as he climbed over the edge.

“You all right?” Kate asked, her face etched with concern.

“I’ll live,” Stefan said. It was more than he could say for Albert. “Would you see about the boy? Make sure he’s comfortable?”

Kate nodded, and disappeared below.

Stefan leaned into the speaker tube. “Set course one-nine-five,” he ordered hoarsely. “Flank speed.”

“I’m worried about mine fields, Stef,” Eryk said. “In the dark, we’re not going to be able to spot them until it is too late.”

Stefan shrugged. “That’s why we’ll hug Swedish waters. Can’t imagine the Germans mining their waters. I mean, those bastards are arrogant, but not that arrogant.”

Eryk mumbled something into the top of his coat.

“What was that?”

“Just said, I hope not. How long, do you think it’ll be before we get there?”

Stefan thought for a moment. Hard to think. But he couldn’t stop now. “We’ve got 620 kilometers, give or take. We’ll do maybe 170 kilometers tonight, another 30 or more tomorrow…. We’ll be close in three nights. Maybe wait until the fourth night to give The Øresund a go. Of course, could be longer if we run into any trouble.”

“Of course,” Eryk repeated under his breath. “And to think I chose this instead of becoming an artillery officer.”

“If you’d chosen artillery, Stefan said quietly, “you’d probably be a prisoner now… or dead.”

“There is that,” Eryk said.

The weather began to worsen about midnight. By early morning, the Eagle was corkscrewing through heavy seas, and the foredeck was constantly awash. Long before that time Stefan had sent the deck gun crew below. The last thing he needed was a man, or woman, washed overboard.

The monotony of the night was interrupted about 3 a.m. by an appearance from Reggie, who needed a smoke. He stood the entire time, legs apart, back to the bullet- hard rain, hands cupped over his cigarette to keep it from fizzling out completely. As soon as it was done, he lit another. He smoked and talked nonstop for a half an hour about his family and friends in America, his job, his car, his wife’s sexual preferences. At one point, Eryk interrupted him to ask innocently enough about Kate.

“She’s busy working on her story,” Reggie said, staring suspiciously at him. “Something about finishing it before we get to England. When did you start falling for her?”

Eryk stumbled for a response.

Reggie cut him off. “Yeah, right. Don’t bother. Just get in line, bub. You don’t think there aren’t a dozen lugs just like you. She’ll break your heart, she will.”

“You sound like someone who knows,” Stefan interjected.

“Nope. Not me,” Reggie said bitterly. “I’m happily married.”

When Reggie finally left, hands shaking, teeth chattering from the soaking, both Eryk and Stefan were glad to see him go.

The Eagle submerged at dawn, though no ship or plane was in sight. Stefan didn’t want to chance discovery, and no one complained about his decision. The storm continued to increase in force, and they were all happy when the Eagle settled into calmer waters 60 meters below the surface. Anyone who wasn’t on duty fell immediately into his bunk, a few not making it even that far, simply curling up in an out-of-the-way nook or cranny, lulled into an exhausted sleep by the hum of the electric motors.

The second night, the Eagle resumed her race to the south on the surface of a still restless sea, but with the storm’s passing, she was without the protection offered by bad weather. As a result, the night was punctuated by crash dives and one heart-stopping moment as the Eagle rounded past the lighthouse on the southern tip of Öland and came upon a Swedish patrol boat, its spotlight sniffing the surface of the dark water. For an agonizing moment, the light caught Eagle in its beam. Like the angel of death gazing at us, Stefan thought to himself, as he held his breath, waiting for the patrol boat to erupt in activity, his eyes dazzled by the beam. And then it moved on.

“Jesus Christ,” Squeaky croaked, crossing himself quickly. “They had us….”

Stefan didn’t have time to think about why they had been missed. The night was dark, overcast, the seas unsettled. After a few hours on watch, it was easy to make a mistake. He leaned into the speaker tube, dictated a new course that would veer them away from the ships, and then following it with “Emergency dive!”

By morning, Stefan was so tired he felt numb. He turned over control of the vessel to Eryk, who didn’t look any better than he felt, and stumbled back to his cabin to try and get some rest. But sleep was elusive. He couldn’t ignore the tension that had been slowly building ever since they escaped Tallinn. His nerves felt stretched like steel cables on a bridge burdened to the breaking point. And yet, he couldn’t break. It just wasn’t an option.

He finally gave up on sleep, and turned to the captain’s log. He was nearly finished with entries from the previous night, when he paused, pen hovering above the paper. Something wasn’t right. He was already up from his desk when the shriek of metal against metal began to echo throughout Eagle. “All stop,” he bellowed, racing down the passageway toward the Control room in his bare feet. “Reverse engines, now.”

“Reversing engines,” Eryk repeated, his young face transformed by fear into that of an old man. “What the hell is that?”

The metallic howl slowly came to a halt as the Eagle’s forward motion stopped and then started up again, like an insane laugh, as the boat reversed direction.

“Course change?” Eryk asked.

“Steady,” Stefan said.

At the instant the sound ceased, Stefan yelled, “All stop. Blow tanks. Take us up.”

“Blowing,” Eryk repeated. “Aren’t you going to look around first?” He gestured at the periscope.

Stefan shook his head, watching the depth gauge spin toward single digits, hands on the ladder to keep them from shaking. He hadn’t answered Eryk’s first question, but he had a pretty good idea what caused the sound. The image of it filled him with dread. If he was right, they were lucky they weren’t already dead.

He was first up the ladder, spinning the hatch open, and vaulting out onto the bridge deck, still barefoot, followed close behind by Eryk, two lookouts and the conning tower gun crew.

“What have I done,” Eryk moaned, pointing at the round metal ball, studded with spikes and packed with enough explosives to blow off Eagle’s bow, bobbed on the surface like a rust-streaked prehistoric menace twenty meters from Eagle. Stefan did a quick scan. In the murky light of midday, at least a dozen more mines were visible, a web of death waiting for some unsuspecting prey to stumble into their midst and be destroyed.

“What do we do now?” Eryk said, his hands flapping helplessly at his side. Three mines blocked their escape. There were at least that many in any direction in front of them.

Stefan scratched his beard, looked up at the sky as if they would provide an answer to their dilemma. They could submerge, try their luck, but the chance of snagging a cable mooring a mine to the bottom was fairly high. They could try and detonate the mines ahead with the deck gun, but the explosion of the closest mine would probably kill or incapacitate anyone on Eagle’s deck.

Stefan didn’t like the answer he kept coming back to, but it was the best he could do.

“Get me a long pole,” he said to Eryk, stripping off his shirt. And then he explained what he wanted to do.

“You’re joking,” Eryk said.

Stefan shook his head, patted Eryk on the cheek. “Don’t worry. I trust you,” he said. “You have the helm.” He climbed over the edge of the conning tower, slid down the outside ladder and padded out onto the Eagle’s foredeck. The Eagle moved restlessly beneath his feet. Stefan windmilled his arms in the chill, hopping nervously back and forth on the balls of his feet like a prizefighter about to enter the ring.

“What’s going on?” Kate asked. She pushed up next to Eryk, leaning into him for comfort.

“We’re stuck in a mine field,” Eryk said, watching as one of the crew popped out of the foredeck hatch, leaned down to pull up a long pole. Stefan was right there to take it from him. He grasped the end of the pole, the muscles in his arms and back suddenly flexing like a bodybuilder’s. Stefan glanced up at Eryk, and smiled. He looked like he was enjoying himself.

“We’re going to try and get out,” Eryk said softly. “Stefan will use that pole to push off any mines that get close.”

Kate’s mouth opened, and then closed. There was nothing benign about the look of the mines, Kate thought, staring at the nearest one, lurking near the surface like a crocodile. They looked evil, craggy with barnacles, and shaggy with black algae. “Are those spikes what I think they are?”

“Yes,” Eryk said simply. “It’s a contact mine. The simplest type. Those are the detonators. He touches any one of them with the pole, and he’s vaporized, followed an instant later by us. You know, you may want to get below.”

“I don’t think so,” Kate said with a sharp shake of her head. “If I’m going to go, I’d just as soon do it up here and below.”

Eryk leaned into speaker tube. “All ahead slow, hard starboard rudder.”

As the Eagle moved ahead, her bow swinging to starboard, Stefan hefted the pole in his hands and began stalking the approaching mine like a hunting Neanderthal.

Eryk spoke again into the speaker tube. “Port rudder, hard. Reverse port screw. Dead slow.” The Eagle’s bow began to come about, while her stern continued to slide away from the approaching mine. “All ahead both screws; ease off the rudder,” Eryk said.

Stefan padded along the side, matching speed with the mine as it slid by the Eagle’s flank, ready to push it away if it came too close. He wasn’t needed. When it was passed, he almost skipped back to the bow, shouting up to Eryk: “Well done!” And there he waited for the next two mines, one more to follow after that, and then they were out.

On the bridge, Eryk was mute, his brain racing as he calculated course, speed, current, even the wind and then considered the fixed positions of the three mines anchored up ahead. His forehead was furrowed with strain, sweat gathering along his hairline. Some devil laid out this trap, he thought for just a moment. He glanced to the starboard and port at the band of mines curving off like a gill net in either direction. No, straight ahead was the way to go. In his mind, he could the see the path they needed to take. It was their only chance. He could avoid two of the mines, the first and last, but the middle one was the problem. Stefan would have to hold it off with his pole. He murmured instructions into the speaker tube.

Kate pulled out a cigarette. As she lit it, she noticed her hands remained steady. She wasn’t sure that was a good sign. Any sane person should be howling in terror right at the moment. Instead, she drew in the smoke, smiled as she watched Stefan began to bounce up and down with anticipation. Like a big kid, she thought. And then she turned his back on him, unable to watch anymore. She leaned into Eryk, finding comfort in the weight of his body against hers. He was so absorbed in the problem at hand, he didn’t even notice her. She glanced up the sky, marveling in the clouds’ delicate shapes, the wonderful hints at color, the smell of the sea air in her nose, even the tobacco’s rich taste in her mouth. There could be worse moments to die, she thought. She wasn’t done with her story of the Eagle and her crew. That was her one regret. It was a great tale. If that mine went off, no one would ever get the chance to read it.

As soon as they were past the first mine, Stefan could see what Eryk had in mind. It was like they were connected in some strange way. He could almost overhear his thoughts. The middle mine, the second one of the pair, was the problem. Once past that, they would be out of danger.

Stefan was enjoying himself. It was insane. And part of him knew it was the cumulative effects of stress and lack of sleep. But he couldn’t help himself. Prowling the deck half-naked, armed with a long pole, had ignited some long-buried memory instilled in the genes of every human male on the planet by 100,000 years of living. His ship, his home, his family, was about to be attacked by a creature of fierce power. And he had a fucking wooden pole to fight it off.

The Eagle nosed ahead, curved slowly around the first mine, closer than Eryk would have liked. He peered anxiously over his shoulder—one swell stronger than the rest was enough to push the Eagle into side—but the waves remained steady as a heartbeat. Stefan was ready as they came at the next mine; he speared it deftly with the pole, avoiding the detonators on the spikes, taking up the impact with his shoulders and then leaning into the mine’s bulky weight, every muscle on his torso quivering with strain, as he pushed it past the bow and then began to shuffle down the side, keeping the mine away from the Eagle’s unprotected flank.

Eryk wasn’t watching. Couldn’t. He knew that one stumble, one slip of the pole, and the mine would swing into the Eagle and explode with catastrophic consequences.

For Stefan, everything had slowed and then disappeared. Only the pole and the mine were left. He had an eon to consider the placement of each foot, the stress on the pole, and the angle of his body. He noticed every slight move of the pole’s tip on the mine, as they remained delicately balanced in a strange embrace, the mine’s single-minded purpose against Stefan’s will. He marched passed the conning tower, onto the aft deck, his bare feet beginning to slide ever so slightly.

Kate drew in another lungful of cigarette smoke, then exhaled as Stefan appeared below her, balanced on the deck’s edge like a tightrope walker. It was hard to imagine that he could hold off that massive steel ball floating just next to the submarine all by himself, but he was. An ox, indeed, she thought, remembering the nickname he had once been give by his men. Even from her perch on the bridge, she could see the strain in his arms and back. He must be getting tired. Not much more. Ten more steps. Then five. Just a few meters.

She watched Stefan gather himself, and then push with all his might. The mine swung away from Eagle’s iron side as she slipped past, and then began to come back as soon as Stefan released it, the suction of the submarine’s wake threatening to pull the mine into her stern like a tornado sucking up a house. At the last moment, it was pulled up short by its steel tether. And then they were free. Stefan flung the pole over the side in one last act of defiance, and then slumped to his knees, accompanied by slowly growing cheers from the crew, who began pouring out of the forward and rear hatch.

They still weren’t out of danger. Eryk ignored the celebration, intent on the last mine, quietly ordering a minor course change. He watched the mine pass by on the starboard and then sagged visibly.

“Nicely done, Commander,” Kate said, offering him a cigarette.

“I don’t smoke,” he said, slipping the cigarette into the corner of his mouth, and then leaning forward as Kate offered him a light.

“You do now,” she said.

Eryk was right in the middle of a hoarse cough when the lookout interrupted the celebrations on the deck: “Ships at nine o’clock.”

“Clear the deck,” Stefan shouted, struggling to his feet. The men began scrambling for the open hatches, their mob changing from jubilation to fear as quickly as if someone had flipped a light switch. Along the horizon, two shapes were quickly gaining definition. Stefan stared at them for a moment, as the dive klaxon began to sound below decks. Destroyers, by the look of them. German. Racing like greyhounds directly toward the Eagle. So much for sneaking into The Øresund. They’d been spotted.

Chapter Forty-Five

“Eagle… we’ve got her!” The radioman trotted up to the captain, handed him a slip of paper.

Ritter glanced up from a book he had found in the ship’s library. It was a copy of Hamlet. In German. He had already decided it was a poor substitute for Shakespeare’s original in English. Not something Hitler and his sycophants would ever like to hear, he was sure, but their zeal for all things Teutonic sometimes bordered on the ridiculous. He slipped off his perch on the far side of the bridge, crossed to the navigation table, set the book on the edge. “Where?” he said.

The captain looked up from the message. “West of Bornholm. Looks like you were right.” He sounded disappointed. “She was heading this way. We got her.”

Ritter glanced at the chart, tracing along with his index finger until he found the position on the map. He noted the sea depth in the area and frowned. More than enough room for the Eagle to dive and hide. “Is there a minefield anywhere near here?”

“Yes. Since last year. According to this message, it appears that the Polish submarine was caught by it. Somehow those lucky bastards were able to make it through. When our ships were spotted, she dove. She won’t get away.”

Ritter rubbed at the scab on his check. Itching already. That was a good sign. He restrained an impulse to pick at it.

“Shall we join them?” The captain glanced up at the helm, ready to issue the order.

Ritter stared out the bridge window at the gunmetal-gray sea glinting dully in the midday light and the dark band of Danish coastline beyond. They had been prowling the narrow stretch of the Sund, between the Danish port of Helsingør, and the Swedish counterpart across the channel, Helsingborg, back and forth like a relentless sentry, for the past two days. He was restless to move on, too. Do something. But it would be wrong. His father had always complained that he was too impatient. But no longer.

Ritter sucked air in through his teeth. “We stay here,” he decided. “This is where they will come. They will have no choice.” He snagged his copy of Hamlet from the edge of the chart table as he strode across the room, turned slightly in the direction of the captain and touched his forehead in a salute, and then disappeared through the doorway.

“As you wish,” the captain said tightly. This Ritter had better be right, he thought to himself, or Grossadmiral Raeder himself would hear of it.

Stefan hooked his arms over the periscope, slowly walked it around, and then he stopped. “Malmö,” he croaked at the sight of the lights glowing softly like a warm fire against the night sky to the east. He noticed the beam from the lighthouse just south of the city begin another sweep, probing almost all the way out to the Eagle, though she must be at least eight kilometers from the shoreline. The location of lighthouse confirmed it. There was no doubt. It was Malmö. And the Eagle had finally made the approaches to the passage at The Øresund.

Stefan pulled away from the periscope and found Eryk. Of course, he deserved all the credit. It had been his makeshift charts that had lead them safely west from Bornholm. If anyone was a hero, it was Eryk. But Stefan was too exhausted to offer him anything more than a wink and a nod of appreciation. Eryk seemed beyond any response, panting open-mouthed like everyone else because of the high levels of carbon dioxide, sprawled over his charts, trying to ignore the headache that threatened to split his skull in two parts. But he caught Stefan’s faint motion and, after a moment, smiled as best he could, and nodded back at his friend. If truth be told, Stefan’s recognition was more valuable to him than any medal he could ever receive. Of course, he could never say that to him. It wasn’t their way. And so a mutual exchange of nods would have to suffice.

Stefan glanced around the Control room. In the one faint red light that remained unbroken, it was a garish mess of shattered glass, cracked dials, insulation dangling from the bulkheads and ceiling like flesh from a partially skinned cadaver, a thin layer of fetid, blood-colored water gently washed back and forth across the deck as the Eagle swayed to the ever-present pulse of the sea. The air was thick enough to chew, and almost unbreathable, oxygen levels dangerously low and carbon dioxide levels too high. The men were all in various states of exhaustion, or worse. One of the helmsmen—Stefan couldn’t remember his name—had finally broke. He was curled up in the corner, moaning softly to himself. They had just left him alone.

And yet, remarkably, despite their current state, they had suffered no serious damage. They had been depth-charged almost nonstop for 22 hours, the destroyers taking turns flinging cans into the water until their supplies were exhausted, and then hurrying away only to be replaced by another ship.

Instead of running after escaping from the minefield, Stefan kept the Eagle resting on sediment at the bottom of the Baltic for most of the day. He suspected they were save by their proximity to the minefield. As the destroyers made their initial depth charge runs, they shied just far enough away from the field to keep the Eagle whole. Though not in any serious danger of being destroyed, she was trapped.

During one lull in the action, when the destroyer pack had moved off, their screws silent, Stefan decided it was time to make a run for it. But even after they partially blew the ballast tanks, suction kept Eagle glued to the bottom. Stefan tongue-lashed the weary crew to their feet, and then lead the exhausted, and near-dead stumbling and staggering fore and aft until their shifting weight finally broke the Eagle free. By that time, the men, many weeping and moaning, simply dropped in place.

They had headed southwest, through another night and another day, hugging the bottom, pausing at the sound of approaching ships, driven along at a dogtrot by their electric motors, the pounding of depth charges in the distance, and high-speed screws from destroyers and torpedo boats ebbing and flowing, but never disappearing entirely long enough so that they could sneak to the surface to recharge their batteries and air supply.

Until finally they had reached Malmö.

Stefan did another circuit with the periscope. Distant lights moved like fireflies, but nothing close.

“Take us up, all the way,” Stefan ordered, and then leaning into the speaker tube, said: “Rig for surface. Cooky to the control room.”

“Yes, sir?” Cooky said, poking his head through the hatchway a moment later.

“You know those bottles I had you hold under lock and key?”

“Yes, sir,” Cooky replied, puzzled.

“Break them out,” Stefan said slowly. “I want everyone on board to get a swig. Tell them it is courtesy of the great people of Poland.”

Cooky’s features disappeared into a grin. “Aye, aye, sir,” he said, saluting. And then he was off.

As was his habit, Stefan was first up the ladder, cracking the hatch, and then scrambling slowly out onto the bridge as the diesels rumbled awake.

He was hatless, wearing a pea coat thrust into his hands at he last moment by someone in the Control room. He raised his nose into the night air and breathed like a man starved. He couldn’t imagine anything so smelling so wonderful.

A chill breeze tousled his hair. Some part of him noted that there was a hint of rain in the air and realized like someone in a dream that that would be a good thing for them all this night. And fog, too, if there was a God in heaven watching over them. The fragment of a poem came unannounced to his mind. Something from Westling’s collection no doubt: The fog comes on little cat feet … He hoped it was true, the fog already silently padding across the channel ahead of them.

Stefan ordered half speed, set the new course, almost due north now. He felt the Eagle surge forward as if even the submarine had grown tired of creeping along underwater and was as anxious as the rest of them to get this finally over with. He glanced at his watch, the dial glowing faintly in the dark. Twenty-two hundred. The tide was rushing out of the Baltic right at the moment, carrying them along at another three or four knots. Instead of charging through the passage at flank speed, he planned to idle along, zigzagging back and forth across the channel to avoid any ships, keeping the diesels as quiet as possible. And if they were very lucky, they would be into the broad, deeper waters of the Kattegat by morning. Another day of hiding, and then time to contact the British Fleet, slip around The Skaw and out into the North Sea, hoping they didn’t run into a British minefield or get mistaken for a German U-boat by British aircraft before they had a chance to rendezvous with friends. He could see the ending in his mind, shimmering like a distant mirage. So close and yet, still, so many opportunities for failure in between.

He already knew what he would do if they were discovered. He wouldn’t let them be captured by the Germans. He would scuttle the ship first, or make a run for the shoreline—either Denmark or Sweden—and beach the Eagle in shallow water.

He felt a lump in the pocket of the pea coat. He slipped his hand inside and pulled out his pipe. Someone had had the presence of mind to put it in the pocket before handing him the coat. Only one problem. He had bitten off the stem earlier. Damn.  He would have to be content with memory again. He set his legs apart, brought the binoculars up to his face. There were a scattering of running lights to the east and west, a few to the north. “Eyes sharp,” he said to the lookouts behind him, though the words weren’t necessary. They understood how important they would be this night.

“Here we are,” Kate announced, pulling herself up the ladder and walking gingerly over to Stefan. Following closely behind were Reggie and Squeaky.

Even in the dark, Stefan was shocked by the change in her appearance, wondering at the same time how he must look. The skin of her face seemed stretched over her skull. She seemed lost in her man’s clothes. Stefan was afraid the breeze would pick her up and blow her into the night. The only thing that hadn’t changed was the sound of her voice. If anything, it was more vibrant and alive than ever before.

She shook loose the bundle she held close to her chest. “Ta-da. Where do you want it?”

In the dark, it took Stefan a moment to realize what it was. “Isn’t that breaking the rules?” he said, chuckling dryly at the sight of the Swedish flag that was now flapping around Kate’s legs like a skirt.

“Oh, don’t be an old woman.” Kate replied with a giggle that was touched with just a hint of hysteria.

“You all right?”

“Hell no,” Kate said, her voice trembling. “I’ll never be the same again….”

“Where can we put it?” Reggie interjected.

Stefan stared closely at their handiwork. They had done a nice job. It actually looked like a flag, large enough, and detailed enough to fool anyone from a distance. He couldn’t imagine where they had scrapped up enough cloth of the right color to do the job, but the proof was there before him.

“Who did the sewing?”

Squeaky pointed at Kate.

“Nice work. Handy with a pen and a needle.”

Kate’s laugh was brittle as ice. “It helped keep me from losing my mind when those damn… damn things were going on, and on, and… .” Her voice trailed off and Stefan didn’t doubt that she was telling the truth.

“Squeaky, have one of the men pry off the numbers. Pull down our colors, and the flag at the bow. Hang this over the edge of the conning tower, secure it to the sides. It might come in handy tonight. If we’re lucky and get the pitter-patter of fog, who knows, we might even make it.”

“Still the optimist I see,” Kate said. “And a poet, too. Pitter-patter? From the American poet Carl Sandburg. His poem was called, “Fog.” I didn’t know you were so widely read.”

Stefan shrugged.

When he remained quiet, Kate asked: “Mind if I stay up here? I don’t think I could …”

“Stay as long as you like,” he said.

When Squeaky was done securing the flag, he turned to Stefan and said: “OK, what do we call her? Can’t be the Eagle anymore. She’s a Swedish sub now.”

“How about Ursula,” Reggie said, remembering the name of a woman he had met in a Chicago club a few years earlier. Blonde. Tall. Gorgeous. As he recalled, she’d said she was from Sweden, though with her accent it had been hard to tell. In fact, she had been so beautiful he hadn’t cared where she’d been born.

“Shut up, Reggie,” Kate said sharply. She knew him well enough to suspect what he was thinking.

“I think tonight,” Stefan said, “we’ll be the Westling after my old captain. Any objections?”

Reggie raised a finger, and then let it droop when Kate gave him a glare.

Just past midnight, Stefan’s wish was granted. The clouds began to lower, the lights on the shoreline softened and then disappeared altogether as everything was enveloped by fog.

The wind dropped as well, and in the quiet, the sounds began to echo strangely. At one point, they could hear a man singing softly in the distance.

“He’s singing in German,” Reggie remarked. He observation received a jab in the side from Squeaky, and a shush from Kate. There was the rattle of chains on a metal spool, the clang of a restless buoy, and always, the grumble of distant motors.

“Popular, aren’t we?” Kate whispered. “I think I rather like it the other way.”

The boats appeared suddenly in front of them, their stern lights winking dimly. Stefan caught himself before he issued the order to dive. It would have been useless anyway. The Øresund along most of its stretch was too shallow. And then he recognized them. Instead of fleet of German torpedo boats, they were, instead, a half a dozen fishing trawlers, heading out to sea. He almost laughed at the absurdity of it all: in the midst of a war, men were still going out to fish. It was a signal. Life would continue—men and women falling in and out of love, children singing, brothers and sisters quarreling—whatever happened to the Eagle.

“Quarter speed,” Stefan said quietly into the speaker tube, not wanting his voice to carry. The throb of the Eagle’s twin diesels slowed, and suddenly all of them could hear the sounds of the engines from the fishing boats. They didn’t seem to notice the shadow trailing in their wake. Their course never wavered.

“Angels,” Kate breathed.

“What?”

“They’re our guardian angels, sent to lead us to safety.”

“No, they’re just…” Reggie began, but then he noticed Stefan’s gaze and let it drop. “Yep, goddamn angels,” he said.

They followed the fishing boats past Skåne like a halfback following blockers. On half a dozen occasions, they dimly saw ships—or more accurately, saw lights—approach the trawlers. As Stefan whispered all stop, they watched as each vessel was inspected by powerful beams, and then released to move on.

On the last occasion, however, as they neared Helsingborg, one of the stray beams of light discovered the Eagle lurking in the rear. “Oh, shit,” Reggie exclaimed, smiling sickly into the light like a deer about ready to be shot. “Game’s up.”

As the light danced over the side of the Eagle, everyone held their breath. Everyone except Stefan. He gave a friendly wave, yelled something back at light. Instead of shouts of alarm, or the crack of gunfire or the boom of deck guns, the light suddenly flicked off, and they heard the vessel move off.

“Someone smack me in the chest to restart my heart,” Kate said. “What the hell just happened? Would somebody tell me?”

On impulse, Squeaky leaned over and kissed her unexpectedly on the lips. “I’ve been meaning to do that since I first saw you,” he said brightly. “I don’t think I’ll get another chance.”

“Try that again and I won’t be so friendly.”

“Don’t worry.” Squeaky was beaming proudly.

Then they all stared at Stefan. “What?” he said. “We’re the Westling. Remember? I was just acting friendly.”

“What did you say?” Kate asked.

“That was Swedish,” Stefan said. “I told them good luck finding any fucking Polish submarines in this soup. At least, that’s what I think I said.”

“I think it was the flag,” Kate said, nodding.

Stefan couldn’t restrain the laugh any longer. “I think you’re right,” he said. “My Swedish isn’t that good. They ignored me, saw the flag, and thought we were a Swedish submarine.”

“Someone will have hell to pay,” Reggie said, nodding. “What a mistake. I’d hate to be in his shoes when they find out.”

“Me too,” Stefan growled happily. He whispered into the speaker tube, and the Eagle resumed her course. The rest of the night unfolded as if they were all held captive in a dream. As the fog began to lighten, the course ahead opened up, the shorelines on either side curving away to the east and west, and the Eagle cruised out into the Kattegat. Stefan ordered the decks cleared, listened to the dive klaxon begin to pulse, took one last look around, and then slipped below.

Chapter Forty-Six

“What did you say?” Ritter exclaimed.

He was in the dining room, finishing breakfast, listening to the clump of officers at the other end of the table relate the night’s activities.

“Excuse me, sir?”

“I want you to repeat what you just said.”

“You mean, about the Swedish submarine?”

“Yes, that one.”

“Nothing to tell. We came upon some trawlers, inspected them per orders, and then noticed a Swedish submarine behind them. We check them out, too. Saw the Swedish flag, talked to their captain…”

“You talked to the captain?”

“Yeah. He yelled something at us in Swedish, waved all friendly, like. And that was that. Nothing more to tell.”

Ritter flung his plate across the dining room, scattering eggs and potatoes in every direction. “You fools,” he shrieked. “The one time I’m not looking over your shoulders and you let it go by. Why didn’t someone get me? Or the captain even?”

“It seemed routine,” retorted the young officer, his face suddenly white.

“There were no Swedish submarines out last night. That was the Eagle. We had her, and you let her go!”

Ritter raced out of the dining room, up the steps to the bridge. The captain was nowhere to be seen. “Helm, bring us about. Take us into the Kattegat. Flank speed.”

The man at the wheel looked confused. He didn’t move. “Sir, the captain?…”

“To hell with your captain. Do as I say now, or you’ll spend the rest of your career on a barge.”

The helmsman nodded, spinning the wheel counterclockwise. Ritter gestured at a nearby seaman standing at attention. “You, come here!” He hurriedly scribbled a message on a scrap piece of paper he pulled from his pocket. “Have this sent to Admiral Dönitz immediately. Schnell!”

The seaman wasn’t about to argue. He dashed off, barely stepping aside at the doorway in time as the captain stormed onto the bridge from the other direction. The front of his uniform was dark with coffee. The ship’s sudden turn had spilled most of a cup of coffee, along with a forkful of eggs, down his front.

“Ritter, what the hell is the meaning?…”

“The Eagle slipped by last night,” Ritter said sharply, cutting him off. “She’s probably hiding somewhere in the Kattegat by now. I’ve sent a message to Dönitz requesting spotter aircraft and additional vessels. If she surfaces, we still have a chance. In the meantime, we should wait for her off The Skaw. We won’t get another opportunity.”

The Eagle surfaced after dark, water streaming from her deck. The engines coughed awake, and she immediately surged ahead like a salmon heading for home. She had made nearly 40 kilometers submerged during the day, Stefan deciding to press ahead after Cooky announced they were out of food and would be out of water by nightfall.

Unlike the chokepoint of the passage at The Øresund, the Kattegat was nearly 80 kilometers wide and nearly twice that long. Even though the Kriegsmarine had fifty ships looking for the Eagle and dozens of airplanes patrolling the skies overhead, that still left plenty of places for the Eagle to hide, and deep water to run.

Stefan scanned the horizon and then the waters ahead of them, half listening as the gun crew and the lookouts scrambled into position.

He already knew that Kate was staying below. She wanted to finish her story before they met up with the British.  Stefan took it as a good sign.

There was a steady breeze whistling out of the north, already roughing the water into 10-foot swells. Stefan didn’t need a weather report to tell him there would be no fog this night. But there was a black line along the horizon ahead. The wind was being pushed along by a storm front. He sniffed the air again. More help was on its way.

Hour after hour, the Eagle burrowed through swells of ever-increasing size. And with every passing moment, Stefan began to believe that they would make it after all. As the band of darkness seeped across the night sky, the stars were swept away and the wind continued to increase. By midnight, the sky was as dark as a sack full of black cats and the wind was now howling like an enraged witch, whipping spray off the top of the waves and driving it hard against the conning tower. Bundled into his oilskin slicker, Stefan glanced down a the foredeck, awash in water, felt the Eagle buck beneath his legs and almost shouted in glee. With this weather, Eagle was like a Polish needle in a haystack.

The Germans would never be able to find her.

By 5 a.m., Stefan estimated their position northeast of The Skaw. The storm had moderated, though the sea was white-capped and angry, and a steady wind continued to blow in his face. He decided it was time to begin the turn west into the North Sea. As he leaned into the speaker tube, one of the lookouts screamed. After hours of wind and waves, the sound of a human voice seemed unnatural.

He looked aft, and stared dumbfounded as the destroyer slid dimly into view, bobbing and dancing in the surf behind them.

She was already too close for the Eagle to dive, so Stefan yelled, “Full speed ahead,” realizing even as he said it that they were already going at maximum speed.

He watched the destroyer’s signal lamp began to flick off and on.

“She’s the Leberecht Maass,” cried one of the lookouts who did double duty as the signal operator aboard the Eagle. “German. She’s ordering us to surrender or she’ll fire.”

Stefan watched the destroyer’s bow wave leap into the air it began to gain on them.

“Where the hell did they come from?” Squeaky said.

“Does it matter?” Stefan said evenly. Under the circumstances, he was strangely calm, part of him watching the events unfold like it was a scene unfolding on the sidewalk outside a café. They were nearly free, and now this one last challenge. It was almost if God was checking to make sure that they were still worthy. Or worse, he had changed his mind in the infernal chess match he seemed to play with happenstance and human life and was now curious to see how the crew would deal with dashed hope and despair.

“I guess not,” Squeaky said.

“Sir, what do you want me to tell them?” The signalman had been in the conning tower nearly as long as Stefan. He was as soaked as a wet poodle and shaking so violently from the chill he looked like a spastic.

Stefan struggled to think of some pithy response he could have the boy relay back. Even wide awake, and well-rested, he was never one for the quick comeback. And right at the moment, he was so tired that he feared that if he closed his eyes for just a moment, he would fall asleep right where he stood. Nothing came to mind. “Just send, ‘Long live Poland.’”

The boy began clicking the signal lamp, still shaking so hard Stefan wondered how many additional letters and words he was adding to the message.

“You think they’ll get the message?” Squeaky asked when he was done.

The destroyer’s forward deck gun was already swinging toward them. There was a flash of light, then a sharp crack, as the sound lagged behind. White water erupted skyward ahead of them, the wind tearing it apart as it fell back.

“Yes, sir. I think they got the message,” said the signalman, his haggard face brightened with a grin.

Another shot. Another column of water danced into the air. “Damn. She’s got us bracketed,” Squeaky yelled, turning his head away in anticipation of the blast that was bound to come next.

Stefan barked an order into the speaker tube, and the Eagle suddenly slowed like a cabdriver jamming on the brakes.

“What are you doing?” Squeaky said with alarm, glancing over his shoulder.

There was another shot from the destroyer. A moment later, the shell hit the water directly ahead of them. If they had continued at full speed, it would have struck the Eagle dead center.

“Ready aft tube.” Stefan yelled, watching the destroyer continue to eat up the space between them. “Full speed and helm hard port on my mark.”

Squeaky closed his eyes and sank to the bridge deck. He reached the end. He couldn’t watch anymore. What would happen would have to happen without him.

Stefan noted the drop in the height of the destroyer’s bow wave, as her helm reacted to the Eagle’s sudden drop in speed. He was too tired now to feel anything but curiosity. He wondered if Ritter was aboard the destroyer. Somehow he knew he was. They shared a connection, that wasn’t yet ready to be severed. And then he wondered what Ritter would think in just a moment.

“Fire aft torpedo,” Stefan said as casually as ordering fish and chips and a mug of beer at an English pub. And then he screamed, “Mark!”

Another wasted night, the captain of the Leberecht Maas was thinking to himself. After the fiasco of the night before, both he and Ritter were afraid to leave the bridge. For different reasons, of course. Ritter no longer trusted the destroyer’s officers any more than he now trusted the Estonians. And the captain feared the contents of whatever report would make its way back to Admiral Dönitz if they missed this last chance at nabbing the Eagle. Needless to say, after a half a dozen cups of coffee, the captain was beginning to think he would be forced to make a quick visit to the head. He couldn’t do what Ritter had done. It was hardly seemly. Ritter had simply stepped outside, not even bothering to close the door, and then peed over the side of the ship. He was still zipping up as he stepped back onto the bridge, giving the captain a knowing smile, as he settled back into his position to wait.

“Ship!” came the yell from one of the lookouts. “Twenty degrees off the port bow.”

“Holy hell, it’s her,” cried the helmsman.

“Careful,” Ritter said, leaping to his feet, and crossing to the helmsman.

“I’ve had enough,” snarled the captain. “This is still my ship until the admiral says otherwise. I know how to deal with this Polish scum.”

Ritter stopped mid-tracks.

“Helm, bring us in behind her. Signalman. Here’s what I want you to send them: ‘Surrender, or we’ll blow her out of the water.’”

“Aye, sir.”

“Uh, captain, you might like to know that the Eagle has an aft torpedo tube.”

“I’m well aware of that, Mr. Ritter,” the captain. “I also know that except for two forward torpedoes, all were removed in Estonia. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir, but…”

“It seems to me, that except for her forward deck gun, and possibly one torpedo in a forward tube, she’s defenseless. So let me handle this…. Maybe you’ll learn something.”

Ritter’s scars seemed to whiten on his face. He smiled coldly. “As you wish, captain.” He remained where he was standing, folded his arms.

In the distance, the Eagle’s signal lamp began to blink. “What do they say?” the captain asked, barely able to contain his excitement. His ship had captured the renegade Polish submarine Eagle. Now the Reich newspapers would quit reporting about the submarine’s exploits and carry instead stories about his ship and her brave captain. He wondered what sort of medal would be in store for him. Maybe even a post in Berlin?

The signal operator gave the captain a puzzled look.

“Well?”

“They, uh, they replied, ‘Long live Poland’… that was it. How do you want me to respond?”

The captain smiled. “Fire at will,” he said. “And don’t stop until she’s sinking.”

It was almost dawn, the light a gray wash, blending sea and sky. It was a miracle they had happened across the Eagle. Another moment earlier or later, and she would have escaped unscathed into the North Sea. He wasn’t surprised by their response. They couldn’t surrender now. Under the circumstances, he would have done same thing.

He was watching the Eagle closely, saw the sudden darkening of the water at her stern as her screws slowed to a stop. “Nicely done,” he said under his breath, blinking at the flash from the forward gun, and then noticing the shell splash in front of her bow. There would be no more tricks. The next would be a direct hit.

“Half speed,” the captain said “We’ve got her now.”

Ritter was first to notice the streak of white begin to arrow toward the destroyer, saw the froth of water at the Eagle’s stern, her screws churning once again, her bow swinging to starboard. He couldn’t help the smile that crossed his lips. “Oh, damn,” he said.

The explosion lifted the bow of the destroyer half out of the water, shattering the windows in the bridge. Ritter picked himself off of the deck, noticed the captain crumpled against the bulkhead, his head twisted at an unnatural angle. He staggered forward, stared out through the glass-free openings, as the gray shape of the Eagle moved off in the distance. Sirens were screaming across the ship. He waved his hand in a half-hearted gesture of salute and then turned his attention to the crippled destroyer.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Two days after her confrontation with the Leberecht Maass, the Eagle rendezvoused with the British destroyer HMS Valorous, 70 kilometers east of the Isle of May, and was escorted through mine fields to the base at Rosyth, Scotland.

Stefan remained in the bridge while the Eagle docked, proud at the way his men hustled to their lines even though they were all so exhausted and weak from their ordeal that many had barely been able to walk moments before.

He waited until most of the men had filed over the gangplank, made their way down an obstacle course of officers, their fresh, clean, sharply pressed uniforms in stark contrast to the filthy rags worn by many of his crew. His boys, however, behaved like gentlemen, smiling, shaking their hands. Once past the group, they were intercepted by British sailors and a few nurses who, pantomiming gestures of food, drink and sleep, lead them off to a nearby building.

“Shall we go, Commander?”

Kate stepped up onto the bridge for the last time. The last few days of peace had helped repair some of the damage the stress of the previous weeks had caused. She still had dark circles under her eyes, but her hair looked freshly washed, and someone had found clean clothes for her. Stefan sniffed. She was even wearing perfume.

Kate saw the look in his eye. “That Cooky, he’s a marvel. And know what the men did? They gave me some of their water ration sent over from the Valorous. Enough to wash my hair and take a spit bath. I must say that was the most marvelous bath I’ve ever had. And the water, I hated to get rid of it. It was more precious than holy water.”

Stefan smiled. He’s heard about the gesture from his thirsty men, thought it was one of the nicest things he’d ever heard. “They’re good boys,” he said simply.

“Well, I wanted to give you this,” Kate said. She thrust a damp envelope into his hands.

“What’s this?”

“My story,” Kate said, “I mean, your story. The story of the Eagle and what happened. All of it. What it was like all those hours underwater. The chase. Sieinski’s death. I had to write it you know, but the newspaper will never run it like this. Too long. Of course, I’ll have to write something for them. But this, well, this isn’t mine. You deserve to have it. Consider it returning a favor,” she said.

Stefan glanced down at the folder in his hand. He leaned down and kissed Kate on the lips.

“You two going ashore sometime or what?” Reggie yelled up from the base of the conning tower.

“I still owe that dinner, you know,” Kate said, sniffing and then wiping her nose with the back of her sleeve.

“I didn’t forget.”  Before Stefan lifted her onto the ladder, he kissed her again, this time accompanied by cheers by some of the Eagle’s crew.  “I think I liked you better as a Roosevelt,” he said.

Kate smacked him on the arm and slid down the ladder like an old hand before he had a chance to respond.

Holding hands, Stefan and Kate were the last ones off the Eagle. A nearby band was again working its way through the Polish national anthem. Kate kissed him on the cheek and than hurried to catch up with Reggie. As Stefan approached the line of British officers waiting for him, he was so tired he could hardly keep on his feet. He saluted and shook hands with each in turn.

The last in line was short, pudgy-faced man wearing a fedora and swathed in a khaki raincoat. He was watching Kate, who had grabbed Reggie by the arm and was walking off arm in arm with him. He barked out a laugh. “I wonder if there’s more like her where she comes from,” he said, shaking his head. And then he noticed Stefan. “Welcome to England, son,” he growled, grasping Stefan’s hand squeezing it hard. “I’ve followed your epic adventure with utmost interest. We have much to talk about. Much!”

The voice and face were unmistakable. “Thank you very much, Mister Churchill,” Stefan said slowly, struggling with the English, his words thick with emotion. “We’re happy to be joining you in the fight.”

“And we’re glad to have you, my boy,” Churchill said, gruffly, swiping at the tears in his eyes.  “I want you to tell me everything. But first, why don’t you begin with that woman. I understand she’s related to Mr. Franklin Roosevelt…”

Winston Churchill put his arm over the shoulder of the big Polish seaman, and together they walked off the dock.

Epilogue

Rear Admiral Karl Dönitz jumped high for the ball. The effort was not unrewarded. It knocked off his cap, which sailed in one direction, while the rubber ball struck the tips of his outstretched fingers, and careered in the other, bouncing twice before disappearing into a waist high crop of nettles.

His granddaughter’s joyous screech split the late afternoon air, heavy with sunshine. Dönitz brushed back his hair and then smiled with embarrassment. Too much time in a chair, he thought. A year ago, he would have caught the ball.

Movement caught his eye. A tall, lean German officer approached through the woods. A black Mercedes was parked in the drive. Its engine was still running, the driver leaning against the door, reading a newspaper. This wouldn’t take long.

“Afternoon, Herr Admiral.”

“Hello, Peter. How is your new command suiting you?”

“Well, sir. And thank you. It was more than I deserved under the circumstances.”

Dönitz smiled sharply. “I know,” he said. “One moment.” He turned and without hesitating walked into the nettles, noticed a flash of red, and reached down to pick up the ball, ignoring the pain in response to the stings. He tossed the ball to his granddaughter. “Go find your mother,” he said. “I’ll join you both in a moment. I feel like warm cocoa. How about you?”

“With cream?” asked his granddaughter, her blue eyes bright.

“But of course,” Dönitz said.

“Beautiful child,” Ritter commented.

“Yes, she is,” Dönitz said softly. “And I wonder what will become of her, of us all.”

“Sir?”

Dönitz shook his head. He had just learned of Hitler’s plans to break his agreement with the Stalin and attack the Soviets. German troops were already stretched to the breaking, fighting in the Baltic states, in North Africa, in English skies and seas, and the North Atlantic, and now he wanted to add another front to the war, Russia. “Ever study Napoleon?”

Ritter thought for a moment. “I’ve done a little reading on his campaigns.”

“You might want to refresh your memory,” Dönitz suggested.

Ritter gave him a puzzled look. He was about to ask another question, but he was familiar with the look on the admiral’s face, and decided against it.

“What brings you out here, Peter?”

“Sorry, sir. I was at headquarters when the word came. There was a standing order to let you know about it. I thought, under the circumstances, it might as well be me. It is the Eagle. Naval Intelligence has deciphered British transmissions. It’s been corroborated by our contacts in England. She’s missing. Haven’t heard from her in a week.”

“Any survivors?”

Ritter shook his head.

“Ach. Too bad. It is always too bad. How strange, I almost feel like she was one of ours.”

“She almost was,” Ritter quipped with humor. Dönitz flashed one of his infamous looks and Ritter continued on without missing a beat. “I know what you mean, sir. It doesn’t seem … right.”

“Another story without a happy ending. I fear there will be more. Did we have any forces in the area she was patrolling?”

“No.”

“And so, she finally ran out of luck. Had her share of it, I would say, though I think we make most of the luck that comes our way. Or make ourselves ready or not when it presents itself. Could have been any number of things, you know. An accident. A catastrophic equipment failure. A mine…  What did you say they called her captain?”

“Ox.” When Ritter smiled, the scar on his face almost disappeared

Dönitz closed his eyes, took a deep breath. “God in heaven… ” he chanted silently, the only fragment of a prayer he ever allowed himself when he heard about the loss of one of his own boats. In this case, it had come unbidden to his mind, an unconscious salute to a worthy foe. When he reopened them, the moment had past.

“When does your patrol begin?”

“Two days.”

“How about your boat?”

“She is an excellent example of German engineering,” Ritter said mechanically.

“I hope you know you don’t have to do that with me,” Dönitz said softly, giving his former aide a glacial smile.

Ritter nodded his head. “Sorry, sir. One has to be more careful nowadays.”

“Indeed.”

“She is a decent boat. We have found and fixed a few problems. Makes me wonder who they have working in the factories now. Definitely not patriots of Germany. I just hope we found them all. My crew. My God, how young they seem. They call me ‘the old man’ behind my back. I suppose I am. We will see what happens. We will do our best.”

“I expect good hunting as a reward for my trust in you,” Dönitz growled with affection.

“Of course, sir.” Ritter snapped to attention with a click of his heels.

Dönitz watched him march back across the perfectly manicured lawns, slip into the rear seat of the Mercedes. There was a grind of gears, and then the car was off. Dönitz was alone. He stood there, silently flexing the hand that still burned and tingled from the sting of the nettles. Nasty weeds. And yet, even they had their uses. In the bleak days after the first World War, he could remember a number of meals where nettles were the chief ingredient. His wife had read somewhere that if they were boiled, they were as nutritious as spinach. Dönitz had intended to tell his estate manager that he wanted them all destroyed. It wouldn’t do to have his granddaughter stumble into them. On the other hand, news of the upcoming attack on the Soviets had left him with a feeling of dread. On second thought, the nettles would stay. Not a bad thing for his granddaughter to learn: the world had stinging nettles, and much worse.

There was a call from the house. Dönitz saw his granddaughter wave. “Cocoa,” came her shout on the window.

Dönitz slipped his hands into his pockets and began trudging toward the house. “God in heaven…” he whispered.

The End

Author’s Note

Although The Last Eagle is a work is fiction, it is inspired by the exploits of the Polish Navy submarine Orzel and her crew over the course of a few weeks at the onset of World War II in September and October of 1939.

On September 1, 1939, Germany invaded Poland from the west, joined a few weeks thereafter by forces of the Soviet Red Army invading from the east. Vastly overmatched by one foe, Poland was doomed by two. She was not, however, wholly unprepared. Her army had been mobilized during spring and summer, and most of the Polish Navy was already at sea. One exception: The submarine Orzel, which didn’t sail until shortly after the attack began, leaving from her home port of Gdynia for duty patrolling the Gulf of Gdansk where she was supposed to harass Nazi coastal shipping as part of Operation Worek, the Polish Navy’s plan for the defense of Poland.

But after just a few weeks at sea, the Orzel unexpectedly put into the neutral Estonian port of Tallinn. There is some controversy about the reason. By most accounts, her captain had been acting erratically since leaving port. He claimed to be sick. Some of the crew wondered, however, if he didn’t have the stomach for warfare. Whatever the actual reason, Estonian authorities sympathetic to the Germans soon interned the vessel. They placed armed guards on board, imprisoned the crew, removed her charts, and then began to disarm the vessel, removing the breechblocks of her deck guns and disarming her torpedoes.

Though minus her captain, the Orzel crew, under the leadership of her executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Jan Grudzinski, was not done fighting. On the evening of September 17, they overpowered their guards, regained control of their ship and, despite fire from Estonian port batteries, escaped Tallinn, sailing Orzel back out into the Baltic.

During the next few weeks, Orzel became a legend. She was hunted constantly by German sea and air patrols as well as the Swedish Navy (who was concerned that doing nothing would jeopardize the country’s neutrality) and the Soviets. Initially hampered by a lack of sea charts, which had been removed from the vessel by the Estonians, the Orzel crew remained undaunted, although their course was akin to driving a car with eyes closed. Drawing on the experience and memories of her crew, they created their own crude replicas. Using these hand-drawn charts and navigating by the seat–of–their pants, the Orzel crew managed to evade her pursuers, avoid fields of floating mines and escape the Baltic. Seriously low on food and water, she made her way out into the North Sea, where she contacted the British Fleet. On October 14th, the Orzel rendezvoused with a British destroyer and was escorted to safety.

After minor repairs, the Orzel rejoined the war, participating in a number of sea actions and patrols with the British Fleet, including the defense of Norway. She was lost sometime between May 24 and June 8, 1940. Her wreck has never been found.

About the Author

MICHAEL WENBERG lives just up the road from the Point No Point lighthouse on Washington State’s Puget Sound. In addition to working in technology, he’s the former CEO of the Walla Walla Symphony. He enjoys backpacking, hiking and kayaking the waters of Puget Sound with his wife, Sandy, and their dog, Gracie.

Discover other books by Michael Wenberg

Captain Lewis’s Dog, Dognapped, Henri the Clown, Oops, Melba’s Slide Trombone, Tubby the Forgotten Tugboat, (Smashwords ebooks, 2011), Stringz (a young adult novel published by Westside Books, 2010), Seattle Blues (a young adult novel published by Westside Books, 2009), Elizabeth’s Song (a picture book illustrated by Cornelius Van Wright, and published Beyond Words Publishing, 2002).

Connect with Michael Wenberg online

You can find Wenberg online at www.michaelwenberg.com, or contact him at michaelcwenberg@hotmail.com.

Copyright

Copyright 2011 Michael C. Wenberg

www.lasteaglenovel.wordpress.com

Amazon Edition

Content

THE LAST EAGLE
A novel of World War II
by Michael Wenberg

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Epilogue

Author’s Note

About the Author

Copyright