Michael Wenberg - The Last Eagle

Stefan sipped his coffee, dark eyes boring into Kate. “But at least you have these.”

Kate nodded. “So how about telling me your story? Bet no one but you knows it. Be a shame to die without telling someone, don’t you think?”

“You think we will die?”

Kate shrugged. “Eventually it’ll get us all.”

Stefan chuckled. “All right.” But just as he began to tell the untold story of Stefan Petrofski, Eryk stuck his head past the curtain.

“Message coming in from Hel. You should see it.”

“Sorry, American lady,” Stefan said. “Maybe some other time, eh?”

“You have a date,” Kate said, smiling sadly, flipping her notepad closed.

“What do you think?”

Stefan reread the message, and then snorted. “They insult us. Nothing for days from headquarters and now this. And they want us to specify our current position so they can have Wolf bring us charts. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

“You mean, Wolf ?”

Stefan shook his head. “No, about the charts. We didn’t radio them with that information.”

“How did they get it?”

“Exactly. They couldn’t have picked it up from the Swedes.”

“Shit,” Eryk said, with sudden understanding.

“Yes, it is the Germans thinking we are complete idiots,” Stefan said. “I almost feel insulted.”

“We’ll ignore it, then.”

Stefan smiled. “No, no. Send a message. Say we are heavily damaged, taking on water. Give them a false position, someplace south of the Bay of Gdansk.”

“You think it will fool them?”

“No,” Stefan said. “But it’s as close as I can get to saying ‘Piss off’ in person.”

By noon the following day, the Eagle was lurking beneath the surface along the shipping routes approaching Helsinki, her hydrophone operator listening for the sounds of any oncoming freighters.

It was mid-afternoon when he finally reported something more interesting than the sounds of passing whales. “Got something.,” he sang. “One slow screw.”

Stefan slow-danced around the periscope, looking for a telltale shape silhouetted against the horizon. The hydrophones weren’t exact enough to tell the sound’s source, just its approximate distance. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen.

“Still getting louder, sir,” the hydrophone operator said. “They gotta be coming our way.”

And then he spotted it. He glanced at the gyrocompass. “Bring us around, heading one—five-five.” Stefan’s words roused the men at their stations around the control room like an orchestra coming to attention at the sound of a conductor tapping his music stand.

“One-five-five, aye,” echoed the helm.

“Take us up and then rig ship for surface attack. I want to make sure they have no doubt who we are and we give them plenty of time to let someone know. I’m sure our German friend, Hans, will hear about it soon enough.”

Stefan was first on the bridge. The sky was cloudy, the sea gray and restless, but the air was clear, the visibility excellent. He noted with satisfaction that despite the long hours, his men were still hustling. The deck gun crew spilled out of the forward hatch, had the barrel unplugged and the Bofors ready in just a minute. The same was true for the conning tower AA gun crew. He was joined by three lookouts, Squeaky, and then Kate and Reggie, the latter cursing as he hauled his camera equipment up with him.

“You can’t have that here.” Squeaky said.

“Need some action shots for posterity,” Reggie replied.

“We’ll stay out of the way,” Kate interjected.

It was difficult enough arguing with Reggie, Squeaky knew he had no hope with Kate. “Stef?”

“Just stay quiet and when I say get below, you go.”

“Yes, sir,” Reggie said, saluting casually.

“Thanks, Stefan,” Kate said. She was breathing in the fresh air with visible pleasure.

“Ahead full,” Stefan said into the speaker tube. He scanned the distant freighter for any signs of identification. They had nothing against the Finns or Swedes. They wouldn’t attack any vessel from a neutral country.

There was a momentary hesitation as the Eagle switched from electricity to diesel. The engines coughed awake, and then began to roar. Eagle quickly surged toward her still unsuspecting target.

“They must be asleep,” Squeaky said with disdain, amazed that the freighter wasn’t yet taking some sort of evasive actions, hadn’t seen them knifing across the water directly at them.

“Awake now,” Kate said, as the freighter began a lumbering turn away from the Eagle . Despite the distance, they could all see now that she was, indeed, Russian.

“You can run, but you can’t hide,” Reggie said, his face alight with anticipation. “I haven’t felt this kind of excitement since we chased Eddie Vick’s little brother around the house.”

“Why were you chasing him?” Kate asked.

“Can’t remember,” Reggie said, “but you know how it is with little brothers.”

“What did you do when you found him?”

Reggie smiled.

“That’s what I thought….”

From then on, everyone was quiet, eyes intent on the freighter like children peeking underneath the curtain at a circus freak show.

Stefan broke the spell, murmuring into the speaker tube, passing on a slight course correction and then saying, “Ready tube two.”

The sudden scream from the lookout ripped through the air like a gunshot.

“Holy shit … ” a startled Reggie exclaimed, but his further comments were overwhelmed by yells from all of the lookouts.

“Rocks dead ahead!”

The freighter was instantly forgotten. Stefan pulled the binoculars away from his eyes. In an instant, he scanned the waters close at hand. Noticed the slight discoloration, the odd shaped waves caused by the shallows. “Hard starboard rudder,” he yelled into the speaker tube. “Reverse engines….”

There was a few seconds hesitation, and then the Eagle began to slow, her bow moving ponderously to starboard. There was even a brief moment when everyone thought they might make it. But certain laws of motion and momentum are immutable, particularly when the vessel weights 1,500 tons.

For Kate, the collision unfolded like a slow-motion train wreck. There was a screech of metal, like fingernails pulled across a chalkboard. Eagle’s bow lazily climbed into the air as she ran up onto the rocks and then came to an abrupt, shuddering halt, throwing everyone forward.

Stefan was the first to recover, sliding down the conning tower ladder into the control room. “Keep the engines at maximum,” he screamed and then he was racing forward, pushing aside anyone who got in his way. “Damage report,” he yelled as he ducked through the doorway into the forward section.

“Hard to say sir.” The sailor in charge, a man named Lech, stepped forward, wiping his brow with a filthy rag. The rest of the torpedo crew crowded around, their bare arms streaked with grease, faces strained with worry, glancing up at the forward hatch, and then nervously at the bow, expecting a sudden gush of water to burst through the hull at any second. “What the hell did we hit?”

Stefan ignored Lech’s question. He pushed through the knot of bodies, scanning the torpedo tubes and the various pipes, gauges and levers that choked the Eagle’s bow section, and then dropped to his knees, peering down at bilges. No apparent leaks. Of course, they were on the surface, no telling what would happen underwater, but still, it was a good sign. If they were lucky, she hadn’t been seriously holed.

“OK, everyone aft. Hustle. We’ve got to get off this shoal.” The torpedo crew sprang into action, stampeding down the passageway toward the submarine’s stern. Stefan stepped aside in the control room, letting the men pass by, listening intently for any telltale sounds of movement as the diesels continued to race. Nothing.