The Last Eagle (2011) (30 page)

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.

From his perch on the bridge, Stefan noticed that his men hadn’t even bothered with the ropes. They’d simple cut them with an axe. The deck crew was already in place, helmets on, wheeling the gun barrel nervously in the air. Talli was standing by his side, grinning like a kid in a toy store. “What will your wife think?” Stefan said, noticing the gold band on Talli’s finger.

“She ran off a year and a half ago,” Talli said.

“Too bad,” Stefan grunted.

“No, no. Not at all. She was a bitch,” Talli said, his grin brightening.

Stefan responded with a smile of his own. He held his breath as the starter began to grind. Talli had assured him that only torpedoes and the charts had been removed from
Eagle
, but what if they’d disabled a critical system? First one and then the other diesel coughed, smoked and began to purr. In another moment, they would be on their way. Still no signs of alarm from the Estonian authorities.

Stefan glanced down the quay. They couldn’t wait much longer.

“All set,” Squeaky yelled from below.

A siren in the distance began to scream. Talli elbowed Stefan. “Look at that. …” he motioned at the dark hulk of the German freighter behind them. It was coming to life. A puff of white smoke belched from its stack. They could see men running along the deck, and the lights were now blazing from its bridge. “I don’t like the look of that,” Talli said.

“Nor do I,” Stefan replied. Come on, chief,” Stefan muttered. Sweat was trickling down his face, making his beard itch.

Eryk’s head appeared in the conning tower hatch. “Stef?” was all he said.

Stefan was prepared to wait longer, but the sudden appearance of an Estonian half-track racing into view made the decision for him. The barrel of its gun began to swing ominously in the
Eagle’s
direction. Stefan was about to scream at the deck gun crew but they were already getting a bead on the half-track. They fired at the same time as the half-track’s gun crew. There was an instant of unknown and then the half-track leapt into the air, exploding into a ball of fire and tumbling metal. Simultaneously, the edge of the quay next to the
Eagle
disappeared, chunks of asphalt and shattered spikes of wood flying like shrapnel through the air.

Stefan and Talli ducked below the edge of the conning tower, and then, just as quickly sprang back up. The half-track was a burning pile of twisted metal and shattered glass. Everyone on it had been incinerated. The
Eagle
, on the other hand, was unscathed, though that was not the case for some of her deck crew. One man had been blown in the water. He was floating face down. Someone had already jumped overboard and was swimming after him. Another sailor was slumped to the deck, holding the side of his head where his right ear had once been. “Help those men aboard.” Stefan’s screams roused the rest of the stunned crew into action. “Henrik, can you get below by yourself?” A vague nod from the bleeding boy. “Go then, now.”

Instead, Henrik waved his hand, staggered over to the edge of the deck, and grabbed one end of the rope, the deck crew had tossed to the sailors into the water.

“Nice shot, boys,” Stefan said to the gun crew.

They glanced away from the remains of the burning half-track, looked up in his direction. With their too-big helmets, they looked like three children, Stefan thought. Soon enough they would realize what they had just done. It was just a piece of machinery that had been destroyed. They had also killed human beings for the first time.

Stefan waited until the two sailors in the water had been pulled aboard. One more glance down the pier. Flames for the half-track cast garish shadows along the distant warehouse walls. Still no sign of the chief. “Sorry,” Stefan whispered. He leaned toward the voice tube: “Number one back all slow, number two, forward all slow.” The rumble of the diesel engines, each slaved to their own screw, deepened. The two screws began to turn in opposite directions and the
Eagle’s
bow slowly pivoted away from the side of the quay.

Talli was keeping his eye on the freighter, its Nazi flag snapping in the breeze. “We’re too late,” he said, as the wave began to rise at her bow.

Chief K staggered around the corner, huffing loudly beneath the crushing weight of his burden. He gave scant attention to the burning half-track, two torn bodies leading up to where it had tumbled to a rest. He noticed the torn edge of the pier and an instant later saw the
Eagle
, slowly pulling away, already too far out to stop. He was too late. He came to a halting stop, careful to set Jerzy’s body gently on the ground, and then he crumpled, completely spent. They had waited to the last moment. But for the chief and Jerzy, it had not been long enough. It was clear from the wreckage on the pier, Stefan had waited until the end, and beyond. For that he would be forever grateful, however long forever might be. Perhaps only a few days, especially after the Estonians got a hold of him. But the chief no longer cared what happened to him. “It’ll be all right,” he wheezed, patting the canvas next to him. “Your ol’ Chief K’s here. I’ll take care of you. Don’t you worry, Jerzy.”

He raised an arm toward the submarine, his hand cold and claw-like, and waved. It was almost a blessing. And then, as he watched the Polish flag rise above the conning tower, he bowed his head and wept.

That’s how McBride found him a few minutes later. He braked the bus to a skidding stop next to the chief and the body of the dead man. He opened the door, and jumped down the steps. “You and your friend need a lift?”

Chief K gave McBride a blank look, and then he noticed the bus. He looked back at McBride.

“Stefan asked me to watch out for you.” McBride said softly. “He wasn’t sure you could make it.”

The chief didn’t understand English, but he recognized the name of his captain. “Stefan?” the chief whispered. He glanced in the direction of the submarine.

McBride noticed the look and nodded. “Yes, your captain, Stefan.” He reached forward, helped the chief to his feet. “He did not forget you. We don’t have much time,” he said. They carried Jerzy’s frozen body up the steps onto the bus.

A moment later, McBride steered the bus into the dark of Tallinn.

It was oddly quiet as Ritter ran out onto the pier, slowing to a trot as he passed the burning wreckage of the half-track, and then picking up speed for the final 100-meter dash. But it was a race he could not win. He was unarmed. And the
Eagle
was already too far away to be stopped.

The half-track was sending coils of oily smoke into the night sky, filling the air with the acrid stink of burning tires and paint, overheated metal, and cooked human flesh. Ritter was actually surprised by the signs of battle. His phone call to the German ambassador had been a perfect example of brevity. He had made it clear to the ambassador that if he didn’t get in touch with the German freighter’s captain and get him to block the
Eagle’s
escape the ambassador’s career would take a sudden turn for the worse. He hadn’t thought about alerting the Estonian forces. But his call and threats must have terrified the ambassador enough that he had taken it upon himself to rouse the head of the Estonian Admiralty, who, in turn, had managed to scare the crew of the ill-fated half-track into their vehicle. Unfortunately for them, the
Eagle’s
deck gun crew were better shots.

Ritter trotted up to the tattered edge of the quay. Mooring lines still dangled into the black, debris-covered water. By now, the
Eagle
was already three hundred meters from the end of the quay, rapidly gaining speed, still easy to see despite the darkness. In the harbor beyond the
Eagle
, the German freighter, ablaze with lights, was making a beeline toward the harbor opening.

Ritter nodded with satisfaction, mentally gauging the speed of the freighter and the
Eagle
, the distance each had to go before reaching the harbor opening. Of course, in a fair race, the German freighter was no match for the
Eagle
. Fortunately for Ritter, this race was anything but fair. The freighter, slow as it was, had enough of a head start and less distance to travel. In just a few minutes she would be in position to block the harbor opening. The
Eagle
wouldn’t be able to go beneath her. Too shallow.