Michael Wenberg - The Last Eagle

Talli was silent for a moment and then smiled. “I am no friend of Germany. And as you say, this is your vessel. I have no specific orders to prevent you from taking back your sub. I will do nothing to stop you.”

“I figured as much,” Stefan said. “I pegged you for an honorable man first time I saw you. I can see I was right. You had trouble stomaching what happened, didn’t you?”

Talli sighed. He yelled orders in Estonian to the three guards on the pier. A sense of relief crossed their faces. Finally, someone to tell them what to do. They hesitated a moment, and then slapped each others on the shoulder. What luck. Instead of watching this sub well into the night, they now were free to stop by the nearby pub before reporting back to their barracks. “I told my men to leave. I don’t want them hurt. And I won’t stop you. But you can’t get out. Soon everyone will know. We have shore batteries protecting the harbor. They will destroy your vessel if you try to leave.” He sounded sad as he said the words.

It was Stefan’s turn to shrug. “We each do what we must,” he said softly.

Eryk’s head appeared in the forward hatch. “We have just two torpedoes,” he yelled.

Stefan whirled on Talli, grabbing the front of his uniform in his fists.

The Estonian didn’t react. “I’m sorry. We didn’t think the Germans needed them. We offloaded all the rest earlier today. Of course, I didn’t think you’d be needing them”

Stefan released his hold. A smile without humor cut across his face. “Yeah, my mistake. I should have let you know. And what else is gone?”

Talli didn’t get a chance to answer. Squeaky shouted down from the conning tower. “The charts,” he shrieked. “They’re all gone.”

Talli shook his head sadly. “You see, even if you get away, you won’t get far, not without charts. It would be suicide to try…”

Stefan’s face hardened. “We will not stay here,” he said, fiercely. “We will tap-tap our way out of the Baltic like a boatload of blind men if we must.”

Talli had to admire this man’s courage. But he waters off the Estonian coastline were particularly treacherous. And they would be chased—by the Estonians, the Germans and the Russians.

His eyes narrowed, considering a sudden thought. He glanced at Veski, who was looking at him with the sour expression someone usually reserved for a bug. And that’s when he realized he was face to face with one of those moments that would determine the rest of his life. “I know these waters as good as any man,” he said. “You will need to take me with you.”

Veski couldn’t contain himself. “The Admiralty will hear of this,” he spat.

“I don’t suppose you could drop me off along the way afterward?” Talli said. “Preferably not anywhere controlled by Germans or Russians…”

“We could arrange something,” Stefan said with a nod of acceptance. “Welcome aboard, Commander.”

“Thank you,” Talli said, surprised by the emotion that leaked into the words.

As for you,” Stefan continued, turning his attention to Veski, “I wouldn’t want you to miss out on any of the fun, either. You’re coming along, too.”

Chief K had never considered himself a churchgoing man. In fact, he had always treated anything to do with spiritual matters with a particular disdain. “My church,” he liked to brag when drunk, “is the nearest whorehouse, and my altar is a fat woman’s bosom.”

But as he ran down the darkened, street, the chief found himself praying like a child. “God help me find, Jerzy,” he chanted under his breath. “Please God help me find Jerzy.”

Of course, the chief didn’t want to be left behind, but he knew that he was as good as dead if he abandoned his shipmate, Jerzy. Like his captain, the chief had reached bottom. It was there he found a glimmer of redemption. But only if he found the body of his lost crewmate.

Chief K trotted around a corner, desperately scanning the buildings on either side of the street for any hint that one of them might be butcher’s shop. He nearly tripped over the drunk strewn like a pile of forgotten rags on the curb.

“What the hell,” snarled the man in hoarse, thick-tongued Estonian.

Before the navy, Chief K had worked in the engine rooms of an assortment of tramp freighters plying the waters of the Baltic. As a result, he’d picked up enough Estonian to get by. “Butcher. Where is it?” he said, squatting down in front of the man, ignoring the vomit in the gutter next to him.

“Wha… what?”

Chief K slapped the man across the face. “Butcher?” he shouted. And then another slap.

The man raised his arms to protect his face, and then tried scuttling off. Chief K stomped on his ankle. The man screamed. This time, when he glanced fearfully up at his tormentor, his eyes were nearly clear.

Chief K grabbed the man by the collar. “The butcher’s. Where is it?”

“Tha… thattaway.” The man gestured. “Down this street. On the corner.”

Chief K was already running. Even though it was hard to miss, he nearly dashed right by it. Smoked meats hanging behind the glass display window, the interior dark. He made a cut like a football halfback and, without breaking stride, lowered his shoulder and crashed through the front door, wood splintering in every direction. Meat locker, he thought. In the back. He staggered over the shattered door, across the floor, then behind the counter and down a back hallway. The meat locker was on his right. He pulled at the heavy stainless steel door and then stepped into the frozen interior dark as a sack full of black cats. Straining his eyes, he felt around the inside of the doorway, found a light switch. He stared wildly for a moment at the side of beef hanging from a hook just inches from his face, its flank caked with blood and frozen fat. And then yelled, jumping with fright. Struggling to gain control of himself, he gulped hard, eyes blinking, steam rising from his head. He scanned the interior of the meat locker. Crowded with bloody carcasses, it looked like a bus stop at rush hour. And no sign of Jerzy’s body. He began darting among the hanging meat, pushing them aside until they were all swinging back and forth from their hooks like gruesome fruit on the branches of a tree. He had to choke back a hysterical laugh at the sight.

He was almost ready to abandon this place and try another when he noticed the canvas covered form lying next to a pile of bloody rags in the corner. “Jerzy,” he breathed with relief. He squatted next to the dead man, tried to lift him into his arms, but the boy’s body wouldn’t budge. He set his feet and tried again, straining, his face crimson, the veins on his neck bulging. Same result. He dropped to his knees, and looked more closely. Moisture from Jerzy’s body had leaked through the canvas and frozen it to the floor. He needed something, anything to help him pry the body free. The chief looked frantically around the room. Nothing. He dodged back through the carcasses, looked outside the locker. Next to the back door was a flat-bottomed shovel. Once it had been used to stoke a coal-burning furnace. Now it was used to dig away snow and ice. It would do. He grabbed it and then was back into the locker, repeating his run through the frozen defenders. In a frenzy, he jammed the sharp edge of the shovel beneath the body again and again, and then it released. He dropped the shovel, lifted one end of the stiff form and ducked beneath it, balancing it on his shoulder like a beam of wood. And then he was on his way, scurrying as quickly as he could beneath the staggering weight of the frozen boy. Lungs nearly bursting and legs on fire quickly reduced the chief’s thoughts to a white hot point: they would wait—Stefan would wait for them—he was going to make it.