Michael Wenberg - The Last Eagle

Stefan cleared his throat. “This, of course, won’t do,” he said firmly. “We can’t have a woman on board. She’ll have to get off immediately.”

Kate’s responded by closing her eyes, reaching out and grabbing Squeaky’s shoulder for support.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea, Stef,” Squeaky interjected, grabbing Kate by the elbow to steady her. “She was unconscious when she came aboard. Took a severe smack to the head.”

“I thought my orders were clear enough?”

“She was with Hans and his team. I thought… I thought we could use their help. She and her partner were attacked. I didn’t think we could just send her away, not like that.”

“There’s someone else?”

Squeaky held out a hand of caution. “But it’s all right. He’s a man, not a woman.”

Stefan pushed his back his cap, exhaled loudly. “Why don’t we start at the beginning.”

Squeaky glanced at Kate, who took the cue and started in. “Like Squeaky said,” she began, her voice faint and shaking. “My name is Kate Roosevelt. My partner, Reggie, and I work for the North American News Service.”

“For an American you speak very good Polish,” Stefan interrupted.

“I’d pass the complement on to my mother,” Kate replied, “if she were still alive.”

Stefan’s mouth swung open like a barn door in the wind, but Kate didn’t give him a chance to respond. “We’ve been doing background stories on Polish arts and culture and how regular Polish families are dealing with threat of war. You know, warm and fuzzy pieces about painters, poets, women and children. We were to leave for England in two days and from there back to the United States. But, well, you know what happened. And since I’m a reporter, I wanted to get some photographs of the attack for my stories. I also thought my uncle might appreciate it”

“Nothing like a few dead bodies and burning buildings to fire up your readers, eh?” Stefan remarked. “Uncle? Who might that be?”

Kate smiled. “Perhaps you’ve heard of him. We share the same last name. His first name is Franklin.”

Squeaky broke the silence. “You mean…?”

“Yeah, the president of the United States.”

“I don’t care who you say your uncle is,” Stefan barked. “I want you off this ship. Now.”

Stefan looked at Squeaky. “Get some guards, issue them rifles, have them take Miss whoever and her friend back to their hotel. A submarine at war is not place for a woman.”

“Belay that order.”

“Captain on the bridge,” Stefan barked as Captain Josef Sieinski stepped cautiously through the hatchway.

There was a deep purple bruise on his forehead, the color accentuating the paleness of the rest of his face. He ran a trembling hand through his thin, blonde hair. “We haven’t been formerly introduced,” he said, displaying a vestige of his normal charm despite his condition. “I’m Josef Sieinski, captain of the Eagle .”

“Kate Roosevelt, reporter with North American News Service.” She ignored Stefan’s snort of derision.

“And a beautiful American, I see.”

“That, too,” Kate replied, color coming to her cheeks. “At least the American part.”

Sieinski turned to Stefan. “And so I have you to thank for being here?”

“Yes, sir. You were lucky to have survived the attack,” he added.

Sieinski gave him a quizzical look. “Yes, of course,” he said. “Status?”

“Repairs are almost done. No telling how long they will last. But we’re fueled and ready to go. We should be underway in less than an hour. Headquarters has ordered us out of port. I don’t want to be sitting here when the next attack comes either.”

“Of course not,” Sieinski licked his lips, his mind elsewhere for the moment. “We can defend ourselves?”

Stefan nodded.

“Very good, then,” he said with barely concealed relief. “I… I’ll be in my quarters. Yes. Come get me when we’re ready to leave.” Sieinski turned and began to edge his way off the bridge, using the backs of chairs, and the wall to keep his balance.

“Sir?”

Sieinski didn’t pause. “Yes?”

“The woman?”

That brought him to a halt. He grabbed a pipe overhead, turned enough so that everyone could see the garish mark on his forehead. In the artificial light of the bridge, it made him look like a demented Cyclops. “She stays, of course. Everyone knows that a beautiful woman brings a ship luck. A neice of the United States of America’s president—that can’t hurt, either. I’ll take all the luck I can get.” He disappeared down the passageway.

“What a sweet man,” Kate said after he was gone.

“Welcome aboard the Eagle , Miss Roosevelt,” Stefan said briskly. “And if you get in the way or do anything that puts this ship or crew at risk, I don’t care who your fucking uncle is… I will certainly throw you and your friend overboard myself. Understand?”

Kate smiled. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“Put her in my quarters,” Stefan bellowed.

“Is he always so charming?” Kate remarked as Stefan escaped up the ladder into the conning tower bridge.

Squeaky gave a weak smile. He wondered if he should tell the woman that the captain had got it wrong. A beautiful woman didn’t bring luck. In fact, exactly the opposite was true. He decided to keep quiet and said instead: “Once you get to know him, you’ll find out that he’s just a big teddy bear.”

“Hides it well, doesn’t he?” Kate mocked. She held out her hand as the room began to spin again. “I think I need to lay down,” she said quickly, fighting back nausea. “Why don’t you lead me some place quiet,” she strained. You can tell me more about your Stefan along the way.”

She didn’t finish. Her mouth sagged open and her eyes began to roll back in her heard. Squeaky jumped forward, catching her around the waist before she crumpled to the deck. “Don’t worry,” he whispered, lifting her in his arms. “We’ll take care of you.” He gently carried her from the control room.

Stefan took his time filling the bowl of this pipe with tobacco and lighting it. He smoked quietly for a few minutes, the routine helping to diffuse his anger. What had he done to deserve this, he wondered.

He remembered the first time he had asked himself that question, the memory still as fresh, and sharp as a midwinter storm. It was when he learned the meaning of the epithet hurled by the teenage boys at his mother. Whore. Soon enough, a variant had been directed at him—son of a whore. About the same time, the beatings from the sons of the village’s well-to-do had begun. Many afternoons after school, they hunted him like a pack of dogs after a rat. It was sport for them. Terror for Stefan. He still remembered the first time they attacked him. Alone in the barn behind the blacksmith’s shop.

He let the smoke trickle from the corner of his mouth, exploring the old familiar scar with his tongue.

“My dear boy,” his mother had wept, wiping the blood from his torn mouth when he staggered into their small room and collapsed on the floor.

But even then, Stefan had learned it was better not to cry. The pain made his eyes water, but he kept silent, staring at his mother with the accusing eyes of a child as she pawed at his face, weeping. Of course, she wouldn’t apologize this time, or any other. She would never seek the forgiveness of the church, her parents, or anyone else in the village. Too stubborn. “I loved your father,” was all she would say to Stefan.

The town tolerated her pride—barely—because she was the daughter of an important man, the owner of the local flour mill. But she would pay the rest of her life for her mistake, scraping by with hand-me-downs from her family and washing clothes for the wealthier members of the village.