Jon Merz - Raider X

He did several loops of the upper decks, getting a feel for the layout of the ship. He had no idea how the Archimedes would be attacked, which necessitated that Thatcher be as familiar with every part as he could be. If Raider X sent a couple of torpedoes into the side, then the Archimedes would list to one side or the other, or it could simply break apart into two and sink. Thatcher wanted to know the best evacuation route in case of such a thing. He forced himself to note lifeboat locations as well as the means of winching them down. The last thing Thatcher wanted was to be adrift in the ocean again. Sharks, he remembered Hewitt telling him. Thatcher shivered. He had no desire to ever see the things up close and personal.

His best bet, he reasoned, was to make his way to the lifeboats immediately once Raider X attacked. There seemed to be plenty of life boats available given the paucity of passengers he had seen thus far. There was no need for panic provided the initial attack wasn’t completely overwhelming and destroyed everything. He suspected it would not be. The Germans were more interested in sinking merchant ships than killing the passengers that rode on them. And Hewitt’s idea of using the Archimedes for bait would be a tempting target for Raider X. Her captain would be itching to get his crew into action to test them, especially as a proud Prussian military man. This Schwarzwalder character would want to see how his men operated and use the time spent sailing for the Indian Ocean to drill them into a perfect unit. So yes, it would attack the Archimedes, almost certainly.

Thatcher grinned to himself. Hewitt, for as much as he had wagered a rather staggering amount, seemed to know what he was doing. At least in regards to planning the operation. There was still the question of how exactly Thatcher was supposed to scuttle the ship when he was taken prisoner aboard it. Most likely he would need to gain access to some of the ship’s munition stores and rig an improvised charge that would set it all off.

He sighed again. He had gone from getting shot down, to riding on a ship that was presumably going to be sunk, to eventually being taken prisoner on another ship that he was going to try to sink. The ridiculousness of the situation made him almost laugh. He was thirty-two years old and he’d been in the war for less than two days. And he was already tired of trying to survive it.

But that was his life in a nutshell. Thatcher had lost count of how many times he had jumped out of the proverbial frying pan and into the fire. And then done it in reverse it seemed. Most times, the only thing that saved him was his knack for self-preservation. Maybe that was why Hewitt wanted him for this assignment so badly. Perhaps he didn’t want to sacrifice Thatcher after all. Maybe he thought that his new secret agent might actually be able to survive the harrowing ordeals and make it back to England intact.

Part of him wanted to die just to prove Hewitt wrong. But that would be silly. Thatcher had no desire to die. There was still a great deal of the world he wanted to explore. There were still a great deal of wealthy women he wanted to liberate from their riches. And that meant he would need to survive in order to do so.

It was funny, standing there by the rail being employed by the Crown in its efforts against the Germans. Thatcher was an American citizen officially, yet that hadn’t mattered at all when he was charged with his crimes in England. He couldn’t even get proper representation from the US embassy. It was as if he had been forsaken. He wondered if his father and his powerful connections had had anything to do with it. When Thatcher had left the US, he had walked out on everything that he’d ever had, determined to make his own way in life. The family had turned its back on him for doing so.

And even though Thatcher had killed that man in self-defense, the charges had been absolute and the verdict almost pre-ordained. Interestingly enough, though, once the sentence of death was pronounced, Thatcher had spent the better part of six months in jail waiting for it to be carried out. He wondered if he had been on Hewitt’s radar for a great deal longer than the SOE man had been willing to admit. Perhaps Hewitt had been grooming Thatcher for far longer, waiting until just the right time to offer him a job, knowing that the option was either death or serve the Crown.

Fucking Brits, he thought. They could be as polite and gracious as ever and yet you’d never know they were equally as cunning.

Time would tell, thought Thatcher.

Thatcher took a quick nap before dressing for dinner. As Adamson had noted, the closet in his cabin was full of clothes that Hewitt had presumably had bought for him prior to the trip. At least whoever had done the shopping had a sense of style, thought Thatcher as he browsed the selection. He chose a starched white shirt, tie, slacks, and a jacket. He tucked a red pocket square in the breast pocket for a splash of color that matched the tie and then checked his hair in the mirror before leaving his cabin.

Cyra was already seated when he arrived. There was a bottle of white wine sitting nearby that had been previously uncorked. Cyra held the glass with all the elegance of a woman who appeared to have the entire world exactly where she wanted it. In any other time and place she might have been holding court with scores of admirers. But here they were on a ship in the midst of a world at war.

She glanced up approvingly as Thatcher walked over and sipped her wine. Thatcher smiled at her. “You look exceptionally lovely this evening.”

Cyra put her glass down and her eyes twinkled. “Oh, this old thing? Just something I had leftover from a shopping excursion in Paris last year. It’s frightfully out of style.”

“If you say so,” said Thatcher as he took his seat. “I think it looks splendid on you.” He leaned forward noting the jewels that sparkled in her ears and around her neck. “Those are sapphires if I’m not mistaken.”

“Indeed they are.” Cyra smiled again. “You have an eye for detail.”

“It helps,” said Thatcher. A waiter appeared and filled his wine glass. Thatcher lifted it and clinked his against Cyra’s glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” said Cyra taking another sip. “The wine selection for a ship like this is rather limited, but this is a passable vintage.”

“I’m a gin man, myself,” said Thatcher. “But wine takes a close second.”

“Not whiskey?”

Thatcher shook his head. “I’m afraid I do better on clear spirits than I do on the darker ones. They’ve just never really settled with me for some reason.”

“Perhaps you’ve never been exposed to the proper brand?”

Thatcher took another sip of his wine. “I wouldn’t say that. I’ve sampled some of the best. Hundred year lagunins from small distilleries in Scotland and Ireland and damned if I can find one that I like.”

“But gin has such a broad palette of flavors to it. How do you choose?”

“It’s true,” said Thatcher. “I prefer a more citrus and floral bouquet than some of the others. Preferably with a lime wedge or two.”

“And tonic water or soda?”

“Tonic water,” said Thatcher. “Light on it, over the rocks. Makes for a delectable drink, let me tell you.”

“I should like to try one some time,” said Cyra. “Perhaps when we reach Lisbon?”

“That sounds marvelous,” said Thatcher. And it would have been, too if Raider X probably wasn’t going to make short work of them before they ever reached the coast of Portugal. “I’m sure we can find a hotel bar that offers the proper brand I have in mind.”

The waiter came by and took their order. Cyra asked for her filet cooked rare and to be served with fingerling potatoes and carrots. Thatcher ordered a filet as well, cooked rare, and served with potatoes and no vegetables, which provoked a raised eyebrow from Cyra when the waiter had departed again.