Harry Turtledove - Cayos in the Stream

They can kill you even so, of course. They have the machine gun on the conning tower and the deck gun. The deck gun is an 88. It is made to sink freighters so the U-boat does not have to waste torpedoes on them. One or two hits from it will not just sink the Pilar . They will rip her to splinters and everybody aboard her to cat’s-meat.

Quietly, the men bring the ninos up where they can grab them in a hurry. Swaddled in goatskins, the Tommy guns could be anything. Sure as hell, Josep tips his to his mouth, pretending it is a wineskin. No one gets excited or afraid because a submarine is in the neighborhood.

No. Nobody acts excited or afraid because a submarine is in the neighborhood. It is not the same thing. It is not even close. Your balls have climbed up into your belly. Your heart drums loud and fast in your chest. Beads of sweat dot your palms. If you try to spit now, what will come out? Dust, as in ashes to ashes, dust to.

“Won’t be long now, boys,” you say. Despite your flannel tongue, you sound like yourself. It is a neat trick. You wish you knew how you did it.

One of the Nazis on the conning tower wears a cap with a white crown. Not a very clean white crown, but still. . That is their captain. If he plays it smart, you have not got a prayer. He will not let you near the submarine. He will send over a boat and take whatever you have that he wants. The Germans at the deck gun and the machine gun will cover the Pilar . You will not be able to do a thing.

That is, if he plays it smart. He had better not play it smart, then. The best way you have thought of to keep him from doing that is acting like an idiot yourself. Well, almost. The best way you have thought of to stop him is acting like a famous idiot.

Who says you will be acting? You hear Martha’s acid voice inside your head. She is not aboard the Pilar . She is back at Finca Vigia. You hear her acid voice anyhow.

If you are going to act like a famous idiot, the time to start is now. “Hand me the megaphone,” you murmur to one of the men who has put his life on the line along with yours.

“Here you go, boss.” He gives it to you. He figures you know what you are doing. He would not be out here with you if he did not. Maybe he is the idiot. Or maybe you are, after all.

You raise the megaphone to your mouth. It does not weigh anything much. It looks like one a high-school yell leader would use. The only difference is, it has no high school’s name painted on it.

“Ahoy, the submarine!” you bawl through it. “Can you give us a hand, please? I’m Ernest Hemingway!”

If no one on the conning tower speaks English, this will not work. It may not work any which way, but that will scuttle it for sure. But the Germans on the tower-and the ones at the 88 on the rusty deck-jerk as if you poked them with pins. The skipper calls something down the open hatch. After a minute, someone hands him a megaphone a lot like yours.

“You are. . Ernest Hemingway?” he calls back to you. His English is accented. It is a hell of a lot better than your scraps of German, though. “ The Ernest Hemingway? Do I hear this rightly?”

“ The Ernest Hemingway.” You try to sound like a proud, famous idiot. “See for yourself.” Proudly, you lower the megaphone.

The U-boat skipper looks you over with a big pair of binoculars. “You are Ernest Hemingway,” he says through his megaphone. Even across that stretch of ocean, he sounds amazed.

“Told you so.” If you are going to be an idiot, be a big idiot. Be a big, smug idiot, in fact. That makes you seem even stupider.

“We are at war, your country and mine,” the skipper says. At his gesture, one of his men runs up a flag. Red, white, and black, sure as hell. An ugly old swastika-is there any other kind? — in the middle. The Nazis’ calling card.

Oh, you bet we are , you think. “Well, so what?” you say. Yes, be a big, smug idiot. Who could want to hurt a world-famous writer? Except for some ex-wives and an editor or two, that is? Nobody at all. So you go on, “What are you going to do? Sink me?” You laugh as if the idea has never once crossed your mind.

“It did occur to me, ja .” Even speaking a language not his own, the U-boat captain owns a dry wit.

You laugh to show you notice. Always notice when they think they are funny, whether they are or not. Especially when they are not, in fact. It disarms them. Just for a moment, you eye the 88 aimed at the Pilar . If only you could literally do that!

“What the devil for?” you say. “Our countries may be fighting, but I’ve got no beef with you. No beef-but I’ve got some marlin steaks in the ice chest.” You swell yourself up like a proud, smug idiot. “Caught the marlin myself.” You are not even lying. . there.

All he needs to do is put some men in a boat and send them over to take the marlin steaks. Then they will see the ninos up close or the Huff Duff set. Then you will have to kill them. Then the U-boat captain with the dry wit will have to blast the Pilar to matchsticks. Incidentally, he will have to murder you and all your friends. It will be a shame, but it is part of the cost of doing business. He may even note what a shame it is in his log. Not that that will do you or your friends a nickel’s worth of good.

You have to keep him from remembering that is all he needs to do. “You can even do us a favor, if you’d be so kind,” you shout across the blue water.

“You mean, besides letting you live?” Yes, the skipper’s wit is dry-dangerously dry.

You laugh as if you know he is kidding. Knowing he is not makes the laugh come harder, but you bring it off. “Of course, besides that,” you say easily. Your voice insists he has to be making a joke. Nobody but an ex-wife or an editor could ever want to harm the great Hemingway! “What happened was, my fire extinguisher pooped out. If we can get a fresh charge from you, that’d be swell.”

If you can’t convince them, confuse them . Somebody in Hollywood said that while they were filming For Whom the Bell Tolls . You do not remember who, but it fits Hollywood much too well. And it fits more places than Hollywood alone. You need that fellow in the white hat-he would wear a black one in a horse opera-to forget he can do as he pleases with you. You need to make him think he is doing you that favor.

Small in the distance, his mouth opens wide. He laughs, too. As long as the U-boat keeps that distance, your weapons are useless. His slay at far longer ranges. Out past a mile, in fact. You do not want to remind him of that. You want him to worry about your stupid fire extinguisher instead.

You lift it off its mount and show it to him. The one you lift will not put out a fire, but the U-boat skipper does not have to know that now. You have found an excuse to get your hands on it, so maybe he will find out later. Maybe. If you are lucky enough. If you are distracting enough.

He raises the megaphone with his right hand while he waves with his left. “Come alongside, then!” he shouts. “Slow and easy, mind you. And do not think we won’t clean you out of marlin, because we will.”

The U-boat skipper has reached past the fire extinguisher you are holding. He remembers the fresh fish in your ice chest. Because he has had to reach past the extinguisher in his mind, the remembered marlin seems more important to him. A character you are writing might work that way. Nice to see it happen in real life.

You hold the extinguisher with one hand to raise your own megaphone. “Coming alongside, slow and easy!” you bellow. You lower the megaphone. Softly, in Spanish, you tell Josep, “Lay us right next to that bastard, amigo . He’ll never know what hit him.” With luck, he will never know. Always with luck . You do not say that. It is one of those things that, yes, go without saying.