by Ted Bell
“Sorry. Where did you hatch this bizarre scheme? Some squalid whorehouse or backstreet opium den, no doubt. Wrong number, old boy. I simply won’t do it.”
“You have to do it. Chiang Kai-shek makes that perfectly clear. He fears his government is coming unglued. That Mao Tse-tung and the communists will soon force him out of office. If that should happen . . . Well, I should say no more at this point. Friends are mysteriously disappearing. Some have died.”
“Let me guess. You’ve spent a lifetime cultivating your personal relationship with Chiang. You needed his help to keep the Tang pot on the stove from boiling over. Now you’re losing your power base. And you need to shore it up. You’re in a blind panic. It’s all over your face. You are the one who wants to take some radical action to remind the world that the Chinese government is still a force to be reckoned with. And that force is you.”
“What drivel. I spent a fortune educating you in the best universities. What a waste. Now, when your father really needs you, you bow out. You have to do this for me. For our great family.”
“And if I refuse?”
“You will die. And I will pass the beautiful little gun on to your successor. Someone with vision and guts and strength of will. And—dare I say it?—loyalty to Chiang and our nation. I think you still foolishly believe that you can safely ignore the force of my will. But I am telling you what you are to do, and by God, you are going to do it!”
“This ancient Chinese mind-control crap of yours worked when I was five or six. You made me feel alone and stupid and like some kind of a sissy boy. It was all bullshit, Pop. I’ve erected walls against you, old man. Six feet thick. That crap doesn’t work anymore. Not in this house.”
The old fiend actually cackled. “You think not? We shall see. I’ve planted the seed. It’s already sprouting roots inside that brain of yours. You just don’t know it yet.”
“Show yourself out, Pop. I want to be alone now. I’ll probably never see you again. So, this is good-bye.”
“But damn it to hell, you still need to—you have to—do as I say!”
“I said, ‘Good-bye.’ That means leave. Get the hell out of my bloody house before I pick up that gun and use it on you! I’m glad you came. It made me realize just how insane you really are. And how much I hate your rotten guts and always have. Now, you get out. Or I’ll have the servants throw you out on your fat ass.”
“Not without telling you one more thing, you puffed-up little princeling pretty boy. Your cowardice besmirches the proud and ancient name of Tang. As far as I’m concerned, you are no longer part of this family.”
“Fuck you, old man. I never was part of it. Now, get the hell out of my sight. Good-bye and good riddance!”
A minute or two later, Tiger heard the yellow Rolls rumble out of the porte cochere and looked out the window to see his father in the rear seat, his black top hat clearly visible in the oval rear window. He was gone. Thank God. Tiger went over to the drinks table and poured some more Scotch whiskey.
Sitting down close to the warmth of the fire, he picked up the phone and dialed a number he knew by heart.
“Hullo?” the sleepy voice said.
“Are you asleep, beautiful?”
“Not anymore, darling. What’s going on? You sound horrible.”
“My father just left. Miserable bastard.”
“Thank God. He’s not staying the night?”
“No. I threw him out in the cold.”
“Good for you. What? Why in heaven’s name would you do that?”
“He’s crazy. It was a nightmare. I’ll tell you all about it. Can you come now?”
“What time is it?”
“Almost midnight. I could come down the hill to collect you?”
“No, no. I’ve got my brother’s car. He’s down from Princeton for the weekend.”
“Good. Would you like a nice hot bath before I tuck you in? I could scrub your back . . . your front . . . your pretty little feet?”
“That sounds divine. I’ll see you soon, darling. . . .”
“Hurry, for God’s sake! Hurry!”
CHAPTER 34
The English Channel
January 1942
Commander Hawke left the dead Germans to their own devices up on the bridge and stepped outside onto the bridge wing. The air was frigid and his threadbare German tunic provided a bare minimum of protection. The steel structure of the wing projected out from the bridge deck, one on each side of the bridge, high above the deck. This was where the ship’s captain or first mate did their celestial navigation, took sightings on the North Star to locate their position on the charts. And supervised all close-in docking maneuvers with an unsurpassed view of his entire ship from this height.
Hawke could see and hear the fierce firefight that had just broken out on the stern afterdeck. He picked up the Zeiss binoculars hanging from the rail and scanned the ship from amidships aft. He counted six enemy down on the deck, all either wounded badly or dead.
Apparently, the stern had been cleared because he saw his three crewmen, visibly unhurt, beginning to work their way forward toward the bow, moving slowly, Sten guns at the ready.
The ship’s company of three officers and twelve seamen was rapidly being depleted. Probably gone into hiding at this point . . . but not for long.
The wind out of the south was freshening now, a vast parade of orderly white caps marching across the sea to starboard. Purple cloud banks tinged with gold and crackling with lightning were stacking up on the far horizon. None of this had been in the forecast. They’d have to make for Plymouth in a blow, but it was nothing the big minesweeper couldn’t take in her stride.
He heard a muffled shout from somewhere near the bow. He turned to look and saw to his great dismay that Stauffenberg was in a jam. He was cornered and clearly wounded, the right shoulder of his tunic saturated with blood, forcing him to fire with his left hand.
Three enemy combatants had him trapped. One was advancing toward his position at a crouch; the other two fanned out, providing the lead with covering fire. The lieutenant had his back against the bow rail with no place to go but the sea below; he was taking cover behind two mammoth anchors, one to port and one to starboard. . . . Another thirty seconds and his assailant would have him dead to rights.
Hawke cupped his hands round his mouth and shouted loudly in the direction of the advancing German. “Achtung! Achtung!” he cried out. “Nicht schießen. Er ist harmlos!” (“Don’t shoot! That man is harmless!”)
The stupefied seaman paused just long enough to look back over his shoulder, and up to the bridge, to see what officer was shouting at them and why. Likewise, he caught the attention of the two Germans who were providing covering fire. It was just long enough. The man lost a step and the focus of his attention. The other two were still staring up into the glare of the sun behind the bridge, wondering at the order not to shoot. Hawke was swift to take advantage of the distraction he’d created at the bow.
He quickly raised the Sten and sighted along the barrel, leading his moving target just a hair. His finger tightened around the trigger, and he squeezed off a quick burst. The lead man instantly crumpled to the deck, having taken three or four rounds in the back. Hawke then unleashed a hail of lead on the bow, suppressing the two remaining combatants.
He saw Stauffenberg rise up and give him the V-for-victory sign before opening up on the two remaining German crewmen. They were caught in a cross fire, Hawke pounding them from above and behind, and the cornered Englishman letting them have holy hell from the front. Just then a round ricocheted off the steel bulkhead behind Hawke with a resounding twang! Hawke spun around and looked below where the shot had obviously come from.
Two more Germans were coming up the steel staircase en route to the bridge to check up on the captain no doubt. At the last minute, back at RAF ARCHBURY, Hawke had decided to cl
ip two frag grenades to his utility belt. He reached up under his tunic and plucked one out. His thought was just to pull the pin and then bounce the grenade down the steps, timing it so it would detonate somewhere within lethal vicinity of the advancing enemy.
He could literally see one of the German’s eyes widen at the sight of the lethal pineapple bouncing merrily down the steps toward him. The Nazi sailor raised his Luger 9mm but never quite got the chance to get a shot off. The grenade exploded at knee level, knocking him off his feet and backward into his comrade, the two of them falling to their deaths some thirty feet to the steel deck below.
Two more down, only one remaining.
Hawke started down the staircase, keeping his Sten at hand as long as there was any remaining resistance to him and his pirates capturing the enemy vessel.
He had wounded, of course. He needed to get Stauffenberg down to the sick bay pronto, where he could find a medical kit to patch up the lads and to stanch the blood flow. Also, he had to locate the badly wounded Campbell and see how he was doing.
The commander and his lieutenant found the last remaining German alive down in sick bay. A tall blond boy who couldn’t have been a day over twenty was seated beside Campbell’s blood-soaked bed linens, holding the boy’s limp white hand. He turned to them, and they saw the tears running down both the German boy’s cheeks.
“Don’t move,” Hawke shouted in German, covering him with his automatic pistol.
“Nein! Nein! Alles gut!” the boy said, turning again to look at the two Englishmen standing in the doorway. Men who’d completely outwitted Captain Donitz.
“Is he dead, sailor?”
“Jawohl, mein Herr,” the boy said, swiping the back of his hand across his eyes, ashamed of his copious tears.
“Christ. What happened here, boy?”
“He bled out, sir. There was just no way of stopping all that blood. I’m a medical orderly, and I know how to do it. But nothing I tried would stop all that arterial blood, sir. I’m—I’m very sorry, sir. He was a fine soldier and very kind to me. . . . He was crying. . . . I held his head and tried to comfort him . . . but it was no good. I lost him. . . . I just wasn’t good enough. . . . I’m sorry, sir.”
“Lieutenant, arrest that man and take him into custody. We’ll hand him over to the Navy at Plymouth. He can sit the rest of this one out, lucky lad.”
The young orderly looked at Hawke quizzically and said, “You are all English? Not German?”
“I’m English. He’s German. We’re friends.”
“Oh. I see.”
He plainly did not see, but Hawke just let it go. He was in far too good a mood to trifle with such matters.
* * *
—
It was blowing like stink all the way north to England. Stauffenberg sat in the comms room on the bridge just behind Hawke, who manned the helm with Hood at his side. It was the young lieutenant’s pleasant duty to inform Royal Navy Command and the DNI at Whitehall about the success of the mission. Donitz and the two other officers were gone. Like all the dead today, they’d been given burials at sea. Hawke was not so crass as to simply have their corpses heaved overboard. He’d said a few words over each one as the fallen men slipped beneath the waves.
It was done with the utmost respect, which he hoped the Germans would accord to English combatants caught in a similar situation.
Lieutenant Stauffenberg had fared a lot better than young Campbell. His was only a flesh wound, the round hadn’t hit any bone or nicked his lungs. He’d been on the radio for most of the voyage back across the Channel. He’d finally been able to summon the prime minister to the radio so Hawke could personally be the first to deliver the good news.
“I’ve the prime minister on the line for you, sir,” he said to Hawke, poking his head out the door.
Hawke lit up, relinquished the helm, and rushed inside the small comms room.
“Who the bloody hell is this?” he heard his famous relative say.
“Hawke, your nephew, Uncle.”
“You! By God! You boys survived the crash dive, did you?”
“Indeed we did, sir. And I’m happy to say a great deal more.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve got hold of the bloody prize!”
“Indeed, we have, sir. We’ve got a very nice present for you, Uncle Winston,” Hawke told his delighted relative.
“Tell me! I’ve been on pins and needles since daybreak, worrying about you and the lads!” Winston shouted, unable to contain his excitement.
“Bit of piracy on the open seas, I’m afraid, sir. We lost our portside wing on surface impact, but still managed to get out before she sank. The lads and I got fished out of the briny by a big Kriegsmarine minesweeper in mid-Channel. The Tannenberg. That phony-uniform idea of yours did the trick, and we got aboard without a hitch. As soon as they got lazy, we gave ’em hell with the Stens.”
“Atta boy! Hitler will be spitting bullets when he hears about this one!”
“Indeed, he will. There was only one German survivor, a medical orderly who helped me try to save one of my crew—a lad named Campbell, who sadly lost his right foot in the crash dive and didn’t make it. Other than that, and a flesh wound suffered by my copilot, we’re returning in good health, sir.”
“And the three-rotor cypher machine? Intact? They didn’t have time to take an axe to it? And burn the codebooks?”
“Negative. Both well in hand, sir. We’re en route to Plymouth Harbor. Do you want to arrange for someone to come fetch the presents up to you at Bletchley Park?”
“Indeed, I do. I’ll arrange for a nondescript army van with a military escort to be there when you pull into port.”
“Perfect.”
“May the saints preserve us! You bloody well pulled it off, didn’t you? Good work! Someday this amazing story will be declassified, and you will be hailed as a great hero of this war, my boy. But in the meantime, I want you to bring your entire crew here to Number Ten for a little reception tomorrow, in your team’s honor. I’ll even invite the Queen's mother. Nothing she likes better than the gin and Dubonnet fizz my barman here at Ten makes for her.”
Hawke laughed. “Sounds delightful, Uncle! What time should we be expected?”
“What time is the sun setting over the yardarm, sir?”
“One o’clock somewhere in the British Empire, I should guess. Does that suit?”
“Eminently. I’m very proud of my young nephew on this glad day for England. You’ve done an enormous service to the nation. It could even be a tipping point in this war. And please tell the lads that I am very, very proud of all of you.”
“I will, sir.”
Hawke was beaming from ear to ear as he emerged from the comms station. What remained of his crew on the lost bomber had now gathered round the helm, eager to hear what the skipper had to say.
Hawke stood before them, hands clasped behind his back, looking each and every man dead in the eye before he spoke a word.
“I’m sure some of you armchair historians have, like me, knowledge of Admiral Lord Nelson’s dying words as he lay on the blood-soaked decks of his flagship Victory at Cape Trafalgar . . . the battle surely won. But the loss of England’s greatest naval hero would be felt for years to come.
“Nelson said, to his adoring captain, ‘Kiss me, Hardy.’ And then, his pale blue woebegone eyes cast to the heavens, he said, ‘Thank God, I have done my duty!’ And then he died, thankfully conscious of his magnificent victory that day. Of Britain’s victory! I want each and every one of you to remember Nelson’s dying words when your hour finally comes. Remember this day and thank your God that, before you died, you were able to do your duty! And, remember this, my brave and hardy lads. You, here today, have earned every right to say those words before you leave this earthly coil. Well-done, chaps! Well-done!”
And then, at that instant, fr
om the poop deck to the foredeck, from the mizzen to the mainmast, from bow to stern and from the very heights of the rigging, the Tannenberg erupted with a roar, shouts, and cries from his crew.
“Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!”
CHAPTER 35
Dragonfire Lagoon, the Bahamas
Present Day
Dusk. The sun seemed in no hurry to slip away. The upended bowl of sky above was on fire in the west. Hawke, his attention locked on the rim of the far horizon, saw what could very well have been flames from Dante’s inferno, rippling across the vast perimeter where sea meets sky, and rays of gold were streaking seaward toward Black Dragon Lagoon. From this height, atop his fifty-story hotel, the views were literally breathtaking.
He’d made a last-minute decision for himself, Stoke, and Mr. Brock to go directly up to the rooftop club for drinks and dinner alfresco.
“What do you guys think, Stoke?” he asked his old friend and comrade in arms, still staring at Mother Nature’s fiery display out on the far edge of the world.
“About what? Her?” Stoke said, smiling at his new friend, China Moon.
China looked, Hawke thought, incredibly beautiful tonight. She was wearing Dior, a strapless pink gown with a wasp waist decorated with intricate beading and pearlescent sequins. She wore an exquisitely simple diamond necklace around her throat matched by two teardrop earrings. A metallic silver clutch bag was tucked under her bare arm.
“Yes,” China said overtly flirtatiously. “What do you think about her, big boy?”
China certainly appeared to have fallen hard for that man mountain, Stokely Jones Jr., and she was lost in a deep conversation with him. Hawke smiled, just happy as he could be to have one of his old flames and one of his oldest and dearest friends within speaking distance. When you hadn’t seen Stoke in a while, it was almost easy to forget just how essentially large a human being he actually was.
Hawke had once said, by way of introduction, “So, this is my good friend, Detective Sergeant Jones. He’s only slightly larger than your average refrigerator.” Six months later, Stoke found himself living in London, having left the force, and working as a bodyguard and man Friday for none other than Lord Alexander Hawke himself.
