Michael Wenberg - The Last Eagle

“And good for us that you didn’t,” Stefan said, cutting him off. “All right, rouse the men,” he said to Eryk. “Time to go.”

Eryk waved across the room to Squeaky, who whispered to the other officers, and senior sailors. They quickly moved among the crew, most of whom were scattered across the floor sleeping despite the commotion outside, shaking them awake. Stefan was surprised at how calmly they woke. A momentary blank look, or a yawn, and then a curt nod, smiles even, as the officers briefly told them what was happening. Stefan had kept news of the plan from the bulk of the crew. No need for them to know until the time came. It also prevented any nervousness from alerting the guards. Within moments of understanding what was happening, each crewman glanced in Stefan’s direction, as if needing reassurance that he was he was back in charge. What they saw seemed enough for them.

“Hurry, hurry,” Stefan hissed. “Let’s go….” He grabbed Veski’s arm, and hustled across the dance floor. Eryk grabbed the two rifles, motioned with the pistol for the two other guards to follow. As two of the Eagle’s gun crew, he tossed the rifles to them. “No shooting unless ordered, understand?” he said. Both men nodded curtly.

“What are you going to do with us?” Veski said with alarm. Eryk gave Stefan a questioning look, as if to reiterate: Yes, what are we doing with them?

Stefan smiled. “For now, you’re coming with us. Think of yourselves as a guest of the Polish Navy. We’ll try to treat you as decently as you treated us.”

Eryk’s snort of with laughter caused Veski to send a worried look in his direction. He knew from experience that Poles had a violent streak—his wife was Polish. He just hoped they didn’t take it out on him.

Stefan paused at the door, the rest of the crew crowding behind him. “There’s a bus waiting out front for us,” he said, scanning their faces. “One guard at the front door. You all wait here while I take care of him. When I shout, come fast. We’ll load onto the bus, and then make for the harbor.”

Here it was. Would the crew still follow him after all his mistakes? He noticed a few worried nods and a tight smile or two, and then Chief K pushed to the front, his face pale as a death shroud. Ever since the discovery of Jerzy’s body, he had been silent and withdrawn, occupying a special room set aside in his own private hell. But no more. His face twitched with life. He was breathing heavily as if he had just completed a long run. “And what then?” he gasped. It was everyone’s question. “We can’t very well sail a damn bus back to Poland.”

Stefan put his hand on Chief K’s shoulder, but he shrugged it off, twisted away and asked the question again, his voice trembling with emotion. “What then, goddamnit?”

Stefan looked out over the men. “We take back what is ours,” he said, “and then get the hell out of here. I don’t know about your boys, but I’m tired of Estonian hospitality…”

Chief K stared at Stefan with bruised eyes, and then, finally, bobbed his head, his face split by a grimace that was the best grin he could muster. It was the answer he had hoped to hear. It was the same for the rest of the crew, too. They pressed forward, ready to go. “Let’s get it done,” Chief K barked hoarsely. “We’re right behind you, Captain!”

Stefan shook his head in response to the chief’s attempt at a compliment. “Not yet a captain,” he said, and then he slipped out the door. His shout came a few moments later, the guard looking sheepish, holding his nose, blood coating his upper lip like a sloppy child caught in the raspberry jam. Stefan handed the guard’s rifle to Chief K and then pushed outside.

McBride already had the door open. “This isn’t a bloody holiday,” he spat as the first sailor climbed slowly up the steps, smiling nervously at McBride. “Get your arses in gear.”

The boy and the other behind him didn’t understand the man’s English, but they all recognized the look and bark of an officer. They scampered up the steps and trotted down the aisle, sliding into the seats. Stefan was the last one aboard.

“All set?” McBride said.

Stefan nodded. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he said in English.

“Couldn’t have put it any better meself,” McBride roared.

But as he pulled the door shut, an arm and shoulder suddenly got in the way. “Oww,” squealed Reggie. “Open up, open up. I need these.”

“What the hell are you doing?” McBride half stood in his seat, jammed the door lever forward, face blossoming red.

Before Reggie had a chance to respond, Kate jabbed him in the bottom. He spread his arms in apology, and then scampered aboard the bus.

“Nice to see you again, boys,” Kate announced.

“You must get off,” Stefan said, furious. “This is no place…”

“For a woman?” Kate finished for him. “I’ve heard that before. Didn’t work earlier, and it won’t work now. You aren’t leaving us behind. Without us, you’d still be sucking your thumb back there. Besides, I don’t have the ending to my story yet.” And with that, she sat down on the front seat and crossed her arms.

“We don’t have time for this,” McBride sputtered. He dropped back into his seat, closed the door, shoved the bus into gear. “Next stop, Eagle !” he roared.

“What seems to be the problem?” Ritter said.

“Fire, sir,” replied the driver of the Mercedes, half turning around in his seat to address the officer behind him. “The street —it’s blocked.”

“Go another way….”

Ritter leaned forward, peering through the front window. Two fire engines were parked in front of the burning building. The cobblestones along the street glistened like river rock wet with spray. Hoses were coiled like gigantic anacondas, their mouths held by two firemen pointing their spray at the flames that seemed intent on spreading to the upper stories of the building and the adjacent structures. The mansion where the Polish crew was being kept was up ahead, just over a block away. Ritter noticed a red bus pull away from the front of the building. Curious. He watched it accelerate down the block toward the fire, and then lean to the left as its driver made a sharp right turn down a narrow street leading toward the harbor. Even seeing the bus crowded with men wasn’t enough for Ritter to realize what was happening. It was locking eyes for just an instant with the figure of the bearded man standing over the bus driver, that made everything clear.

“Back, back,” Ritter screamed. When the German driver didn’t move immediately, Ritter scrambled over the front seat, pushed open the door and kicked the man out. He pulled it closed, dropped the Mercedes into reverse, and with a squeal of tires, began racing backward. He braked hard as the big German car raced through the intersection, spun the wheel to the right to whip the massive front hood around and then hard to the left. Before the slide was stopped, he’d jammed the car into first, popped the clutch and stomped on the accelerator. The Mercedes leapt forward.

“What the hell is going on?” Sieinski shouted from the back seat, responding to the sudden crazy antics of his keeper.

Ritter shook his head, his laughter filling the car. “A worthy opponent after all. It was always him I was worried about. You are a fool, and except for that poor boy, the rest of the men could be deceived easily enough, but not him. I should have known better…”

“What are you saying?” Sieinski shrieked, his face contorting with ignorance.

“Did you see that red bus?”

“Yes.”

“Your men are on it.” Ritter was almost gleeful. “And they are heading back to the harbor.”

“But why?”