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 b
right 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.
The Last Eagle Page 4
