Michael Wenberg - The Last Eagle

“My God, you don’t deserve any of them. Isn’t it obvious? Even that poor boy was worth a dozen men like you.”

“I don’t understand.” Sieinski said, a strange sense of calm settling over his features.

“Your crew. Not yours any longer, I suspect. What’s his name. Stefan? Yes, that’s it. It is his crew now. And they are going to take back their boat. Eagle . Or, I suspect, die in the trying.”

When Ritter glanced in the rearview mirror, Sieinski had his face in his hands. And that was the last that he thought of him for while. Ritter wrestled the Mercedes through the narrow streets of Tallinn, brushing aside a few smaller cars that happened to be sticking too far out in the street with shriek of metal and a contrail of sparks. Within moments, Ritter had caught up with the lumbering bus.

“We’ve got company.” When Stefan frowned, McBride pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “Only one organization that has those particular type of motorcars, and they’re not the fellows we want to see.”

“Germans?” Stefan said.

“Righto on that one, chum,” McBride said.

Stefan moved quickly down the aisle, using the seat backs to help him keep balance. Chief K handed him the rifle as walked past. Stefan chambered a round, kneeled on the back seat, raised the rifle butt and punched out the back window. He brought the rifle to his shoulder and hesitated, eyes going wide with sudden recognition. “You sonofabitch,” he roared. He fired and missed, Ritter swerving to the side just at the right moment, bouncing off the cars lining the street like a pinball off a bumper. Stefan fired two more shots in quick succession just as Ritter jammed on the brakes. The first round transformed the windshield into a spider web of cracks with a bullet hole directly in front of where Ritter’s face had been just a moment before. The second shot went through the Mercedes’ radiator, burying itself in the engine block. The Mercedes skidded sideways on the wet slick streets, plowing into a bench and flipping a parked motorcycle into the air.

McBride whipped the bus around a corner. As Stefan lost sight of the car, steam was curling up from beneath the hood.

“Mighty fine shooting, sir,” said the young sailor on Stefan’s right.

“You keep this for me, eh?” Stefan handed the boy the rifle, and then made his way back to the front of the bus.

“We’ll be at the harbor in a another couple of minutes,” McBride said.

“And who do I thank,” Stefan said in heavily accented English, grabbing hold of McBride’s shoulder and squeezing hard.

“Easy boy,” McBride winced. “I don’t have a spare.”

“So sorry. I can never repay your kindness.”

“Forget about me, laddie. Just doing my job. If you get a chance to return the favor, keep in mind His Majesty’s government. I think we’re going to need friends like you in the coming months. Follow me?”

Stefan nodded. “I understand you,” he said in English.

McBride wheeled the bus around the last corner, relieved that no one else had picked up the chase. The pier was directly ahead, the Eagle’s dull gray deck and conning tower visible in the glare of overhead arc lights. McBride gave a guard a friendly wave as passed through the gate, braked the bus to a stop right next to the Eagle and pulled open the door. “Last stop,” he yelled, “ Eagle !”

“You stay close to me,” Stefan said in Polish to Veski.

Veski nodded blankly.

“We’re coming with you,” Kate reminded him.

“Jesus…” Stefan sighed. He looked to McBride for help.

“Sorry, friend,” McBride replied with a grin. “I tried to argue with her, and look how it’s ended for me . I think you’re stuck with ’em. They’re adults. They know what they’re doing.”

“Just… just get aboard and stay out of the way,” he whispered fiercely. Then it was time for last minute instructions to the crew. “I want no shooting, understand? Leave the rifles here. Go to your stations, prepare to get underway. Let me deal with whoever is in charge here.”

“What about the deck crews?” Eryk asked.

“Man the deck guns, of course,” Stefan said. “But remember, our quarrel is not with the Estonians. If we’re lucky, they might just let us go.”

“Too damn much trouble to keep around,” Squeaky added.

That brought chuckles from the men in their seats.

“Exactly!” Stefan added, grinning wryly.

Chief K pushed to the front. “I must do something,” he said apologetically.

Stefan knew instantly what the chief had in mind. “We don’t know where he is.”

“That officer—I heard him say he was going to find a cold place nearby,” the chief replied. “Shouldn’t be hard to find the nearest meat market. Jerzy. I won’t leave him behind, no sir.” He wagged his chin stubbornly. “If he can’t come along, well, I’ll just stay behind to keep him company.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Stefan said gently.

“But I do,” was the blunt reply.

Stefan knew it was useless to argue, even if he did have the time. And he didn’t. The chief’s mind was set, and Stefan couldn’t blame him for it. He patted the chief on the cheek, smiled sadly. “All right,” he said. “We’ll wait as long as we can.”

As Chief K blinked back tears and nodded gratefully, Stefan leaned forward and whispered into McBride’s ear. McBride glanced at the chief, hesitated for a moment, and then nodded.

Stefan smiled faintly, and then raised his voice. “Now let’s do our jobs,” he said. He tucked the pistol into his belt and stepped off the bus.

Ritter kicked open the crumpled door. Felt blood dripping from his chin. He reached up and explored the tattered edges of skin on his cheek. Another scar to tattoo his face, he thought. It could be worse. He eyed the windshield. An instant longer, and a similar hole would be decorating the center of his forehead.

He glanced inside the wreck. Sieinski was sprawled across the back seat, moaning softly. No telling how badly he was injured, and Ritter didn’t have the time or inclination to check. A few lights had flicked on in the upper-story apartments of the buildings that lined either side of the street, but the street remained deserted, the Estonians beginning to learn what many good Germans had already discovered: In the middle of the night, it was safer to ignore crashes and sounds of broken glass, screams and shouts and cries for help. Ritter knew that if he waited for someone to call the police, there was no chance to stop them. He clenched his hand into a fist. He was not ready to give up, not yet.

As he began to run, he slipped out of his ankle-length leather coat, letting it drop in the gutter. A present for someone in the morning. He did the same with his officer’s cap, flinging it down an alley. If he hurried, he just might make it in time. There were telephones at the guard station. He could alert the harbor batteries, officials at the German embassy. And then he thought of the German freighter anchored in the harbor just beyond the Eagle . If he could somehow contact her captain, she might just be able to block escape from the harbor. There was a flower shop on the corner, lights out because of the hour. Ritter ran up to the door, kicked out the front glass, and then reached through the jagged opening to the inside latch. Once released, he depressed the outside lock and stepped inside. The warm air was fragrant with blossoms. Ritter strode to the front counter, found the telephone hanging on the wall. “Get me the German embassy,” he said to the operator. “This is Fregattenkapitän Peter von Ritter of the German U-Bootwaffe . Get me the ambassador, schnell … I don’t care,” he said, “wake him now. A moment might make all the difference…” A minute later, Ritter was back out onto the street, running hard, urged on by the rhythmic beat of his boots echoing into the night.