The Last Eagle (2011) (4 page)

“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.

“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.