The Last Eagle (2011)

by Michael Wenberg

  And that’s what bothered him about the three Dutchmen, their leader, Hans, in particular. The music of his soul didn’t match his words. There was something not right about him. Nothing wrong with his mechanical skills, or the skills of the other two, either. They all seemed top-notch. It was something else, and Jerzy hadn’t been able to put a finger on it. Unfortunately, weeks of shadowing them as they attempted to fix the assorted problems that kept cropping up on board the Eagle had given him nothing more than confirmation of his vague sense of unease. If he had approached anyone with his suspicions, it would have only added confirmation to their opinion that he was just a country bumpkin.

  He had even begged Chief K to let him take care of the fixes. He could see what needed to be done, the various steps unfolding in his mind like the pictures in a book. “I know what to do,” he said one evening, catching Chief K alone in the petty officers quarters. “Let these foreigners go home, and rely on me.”

  But Chief K had just laughed. “You are just a boy from the farm,” he said. “How can you know what to do? If I leave it to you, you might kill us all.” And so, Jerzy had waited for his chance.

  He worked quickly, searching through the bags of each of the Dutch engineers, keeping a nervous eye for anyone who might blunder by. Fortunately the boat was quiet, most of the crew resting. To be caught stealing or rifling through someone else’s belongings was a particularly serious offense on a submarine where privacy was highly valued because it was such a rare commodity.

  The third and final bag was owned by the man named Hans. The one with the scar. Jerzy hissed silently, nervous to finish the job, frustrated because the prior two bags had revealed nothing out of the ordinary. His hand touched something metallic. He pulled it out, held it up to the dim light. A wristwatch. Swiss-made. The farm boy in him was fascinated by its elegant design, obvious expense. Rolex. He mouthed the word silently. He turned it over, staring blankly at the inscription on the back of the dial. His hand began to shake as he recognized words. Not Polish. Not Dutch. German. There could be no mistake.

  “Ah, what have we here?”

  Jerzy gasped with surprise, his hand releasing the watch. Ritter’s hand snaked out, catching it easily.

  “Fencing,” Ritter said gently in Polish. “It heightens the senses and the reaction time.”

  Jerzy nodded. “I was just ….”

  “That’s all right,” Ritter whispered. “I understand. The fault is not yours. It is mine. Something wasn’t quite right. And it tormented you. I could see that. If I had not been careless, that’s where it would have ended. And you found my watch. It is a very nice watch, is it not?”

  Jerzy blinked, nodded again. “You’re .... you’re ….”

  “Yes, yes, you have it all figured out, you smart boy.” Ritter smiled sadly. He glanced in either direction down the passageway. No one in sight except for Kolb and Bergen, who had automatically positioned themselves to block the view like a pair of well-trained mobsters. “And for that, I’m sorry.” Ritter reached up, patted the boy on the cheek, and then whipped the ridge of his hand across the front of his neck, crushing his windpipe, and more importantly, preventing any screams. “There, there,” he crooned like a mother to her child, pressing the boy’s writhing body up against the bulkhead while his feet began a frantic staccato dance on the deck, soon slowed and then stopped altogether.

  Stefan, Kate and Reggie had gone forward just moments before. Ritter knew that at any second the command would come to get underway and the Eagle would spring to life. They didn’t have much time. Ritter slung one of the dead boy’s arms over his shoulder and dragged him toward the back of the boat, Kolb keeping pace, blocking the view. Once in the motor room, Bergen lifted up the hatch covering the aft battery compartment. There was just enough room. Ritter rolled Jerzy through the opening, slammed the hatch back in place, and then held his breath, wondering if the boy would get final revenge by causing a short, or something worse. But the lights didn’t flicker. Ritter exhaled loudly, wiped his brow.

  “Too fucking close,” said Bergen. “What did he find?”

  Ritter opened his hand. “My watch,” he said with a shake of his head. “‘Too my dear Peter,’ it reads on the back. In German. From my wife.”

  Even though Ritter was his superior officer, the stocky German named Bergen couldn’t restrain a shake of his head.

  “Yes, my fault,” Ritter apologized. “No excuse of it. I should have kept it on my wrist. What does that make, one beer I owe you both?”

  Bergen flashed a smile. Ritter rarely made mistakes, and when he did, he quickly acknowledged them. It was one of the reasons Kolb and Bergen were willing to follow Ritter to hell if need be. It wasn’t just loyalty. It was the fierce, brotherly love felt by comrades in arms who respect each other’s abilities. “A pitcher ….,” Kolb said, “And a beautiful, blonde to sit on my lap to run her hands through my hair and keep my stein filled.”

  “What hair?”

  Kolb reached up and rubbed his grease-stained bald head. He stifled a laugh.

  “He may be missed.” Bergen decided it was time to point out the obvious.

  Ritter shrugged. “I will say he was sick. You saw how he was treated by the chief and the rest of the crew. The poor fellow was friend to no one.” The German glanced at his watch. “We will be in port in ten hours. He won’t be missed before then. After that, it won’t matter.”

  Kolbwas putting away some of the tools Jerzy had left scattered near one of the diesel engines when the expected announcement came over the speaker. “All hands to stations. Prepare to surface.”

  The passageway began to fill with young men in various stages of undress, hair askew, yawning.

  Chief K appeared, stumbling down the passageway, scratching the gray stubble on his cheeks. He stepped through the compartment opening, and into the motor room. He grunted a greeting in the direction of the three Germans. “Next stop, Tallinn,” he said with a wide grin, grabbing the pipes overhead as the floor began to tilt and the Eagle began her climb back to the surface. “And maybe we get lucky and stay a few days.”

  Ritter glanced at his colleagues, returned the smile. “Be careful what you hope for, Chief,” he said with a wink, “Two days might be long enough to get yourself back into trouble again. If we hadn’t left Gdynia when we did, who knows what might have happened to you at the hands of that crone who was warming your dick ….”

  Chief K’s eyes crinkled. “Oh, you tease me now,” he roared a protest. “A man has his pleasures. No harm in sampling some of the local pastries. How about you join me this time?”

  “Another time, perhaps,” Ritter said, chuckling.

  “Say, where’s the boy?” Chief K turned a slow 360, dug at his cheek with his fingernail.

  “They all look like boys to me,” Ritter said, ignoring the glances from his men. “Which one do you mean?”

  “That farm boy, Jerzy, where’s he gone off to?”

  “Oh, the one with pimples. Heard him complaining about nausea. Made a mess all over the floor. I saw him head forward.”

  “Looked like shit,” commented Bott, nodding.

  “And I saw him fuck’n with the diesels,” Bergen added. “I warned him to check with you. But he said he knew what he was doing.”

  Chief K’s face paled. “Oh shit,” he said, shifting his pipe to the other side of his mouth, the loose folds on his face tightening. “Show me where he was fiddling.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Stefan lowered the binoculars, tried to blink his eyes back into focus. He’d forgotten the last time he had had any real sleep. Three days ago? Years earlier, when he was fishing with Westling, it was not uncommon to go three, four, sometimes five days with only a snatch of sleep. But Stefan was no longer a young man, and he could tell he was approaching his limits. Push too much longer, and he would begin to make serious mistakes. Not good, especially given the condition of the captain.

  The captain.

  That was a pr
oblem above all others. One that could no longer be ignored. Stefan fingered the object in the pocket of his coat. He still wasn’t sure what to do about it, though it did answer many questions. Józef Sieinski, captain of Eagle, graduate of the best schools in Poland, France and England; handsome; rich, and intelligent, was addicted to opiates.

  Stefan had grabbed the coat from the stack of clothes on his bunk. It would be warm. That was all that mattered. His closet-sized quarters had been vacant, Kate off interviewing crew no doubt. He shrugged into the coat as he headed for the control room, annoyed at its tightness across his well-muscled shoulders, but too preoccupied with surfacing to worry much about it. He had been first up the aluminum ladder, popping the hatch and then ducking his head like a turtle in a shell as he was inundated with seawater. He was moving even before the deluge was over, scrambling up onto the bridge deck still streaming with water, and peering over the edge of the conning tower as the prow of the Eagle creamed the surface, and then scanning the horizon even though the hydrophone operator had not detected any nearby vessels. He was immediately followed by two lookouts, Squeaky, and then the gun crews. It had all taken just seconds. A good crew, Stefan thought with satisfaction.

  There was a brief pause as they switched from electric to diesel power. The engines cleared their throats, spraying seawater from the exhausts like spray from a whale’s blowhole, and then roared to life. Stefan ordered flank speed, specified the course, and then began to relax as the Eagle’s bow knifed through the choppy seas toward Tallinn.

  Squeaky had been the one to notice it. “Nice coat,” he had remarked. “But might piss off the captain if he saw you wearing it.”

  Stefan glanced down at the sleeves, realizing now they ended inches from his wrists. He’d grabbed the wrong coat. Simple as that. Easy enough to know how the mix-up had happened. One of the crew had taken the captain’s coat and left it in Stefan’s compartment along with a stack of his clothes, mistakenly assuming it was his. Stefan pulled up the collar. It was a nice coat. The captain had been right. More importantly, it was warm. And Stefan wasn’t about to send someone off to find a replacement right at that moment. This would do for now. Besides, the captain wouldn’t need it. He had left strict orders to not be bothered until they reach Tallinn. “Yes, it is a nice coat,” Stefan had agreed, in no mood to talk.

  Squeaky knew when to leave well enough alone.

  Only later, when Stefan thrust his hands into the pockets and discovered what they contained, did he realize how wrong he was about the captain. He pulled out the ornate snuff box and pried open the cover. Instead of snuff it contained a white powder. He already knew enough, but he dabbed the powder with his pinky finger and then tasted it just to be sure. “Son-of-a-bitch,” he muttered under his breath.. Of course it made sense. The smell of opium in Sieinski’s suite. The sweats and shakes since leaving port. Obvious, now that it was more than the aftereffects of cracked skull or the flu to blame for all that.

  “What the hell?” Squeaky hissed.

  “Quiet,” Stefan whispered, thrusting the container back into the pocket.

  “Was that? …”

  Stefan whirled on Squeaky. “Tell no one about this,” he whispered into his ear. “No one, understand?”

  Squeaky nodded. He was silent for minutes afterward. And then, out of the darkness, Stefan heard him whisper. “But Stef, what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” Stefan replied after a long pause.

  That was the question that tormented him throughout the remainder of the night. What was he going to do about it? When it was time for the new watch, Stefan had remained, barely noticing when Squeaky threw the slicker around his shoulders and patted him on the back before departing below decks.

  He still didn’t know what he was going to do.

  Stefan brought he binoculars back to his burning eyes. Nearly dawn. The rugged Estonian coastline off to his right was beginning to emerge from the darkness, growing more distinct with each passing moment.

  Throughout the night, the sea had remained quiet, as the Eagle raced toward Tallinn, away from danger, away from where she could do the most good. They had avoided a couple of ships along the way, the faint lights of each spotted early enough to give them wide berth, too far away even to identify their types. Stefan hated to pass them by, but he had his orders. The Eagle did not pause. And now, up ahead, was the entrance to the Bay of Riga. It wouldn’t be much longer before they were docked in Tallinn.

  Under normal circumstances, there wouldn’t have been any question about procedures. Stefan would have put on his dress uniform, combed his beard, and then marched to fleet headquarters and made his accusations directly to the admiral in charge. Both Sieinski and Stefan would have been relieved of their responsibilities, a court of inquiry would have been convened. Stefan had no doubt of the outcome. Sieinski would have quietly retired, his pedigree no match for the risk his peculiar appetite posed to one of Poland’s most prestigious naval weapons.

  But this was different.

  They were about to enter port of country that was neutral at best. Stefan dared not risk a radio transmission for instructions. And that, of course, assumed that Polish naval Headquarters was still standing, and not rubble destroyed by German dive bombers. The Polish embassy in Tallinn wouldn’t be any help. What did career diplomats know of such things? By chance, there might be a naval attaché or some other military advisor stationed there, but Stefan doubted he would be of high enough rank to provide any help.

  That left him to decide.

  Of course, Stefan wanted command of the Eagle more than anything. There was no denying that both desire and frustration had been his closest companions since learning of Sieinski’s appointment. And here was the perfect chance to satisfy both of them.

  But that was the problem. He would inherit the job by circumstance, not merit. And for how long? If Poland survived, would someone else, someone with the right family connections, be put in Stefan’s place? Would Sieinski’s failure, in the strange ways of leadership, also taint Stefan?

  These were questions that for the moment had no answer. Though Stefan knew the answer to the latter two was probably, yes.

  And yet, though torn by the actions that awaited him, part of him could not help but rejoice. Here was the means by which he would become captain of the Eagle for however long that fate and the Polish Naval Command allowed him. It would be better to earn command, but he knew that under normal circumstances that would forever be denied him.

  Stefan shook himself violently, like a bear awakening from a deep sleep, and in that instant he decided—Sieinski had to go—and woe to anyone who got in his way. He tore off his oilskins, and then the captain’s coat. He bundled it into his fist, stared down at it for a moment, and then flung it into the wind.

  The two lookouts watched the coat drop into the sea and then disappear beneath the foam. They glanced nervously at Stefan, and then at each other.

  “Don’t worry, boys,” Stefan said grinning wildly. He stuck his face over the edge of the conning tower, let the breeze tear at his hair and beard, blow away his fatigue. “Damn thing was made by Germans.”

  The lookouts grinned at each other, and then laughed, the sound joining the cry of seagull’s wheeling high above.

  The Eagle would be repaired. That was Stefan’s first priority. And when she sailed again, Captain Sieinski would not be on board. Stefan would make certain of that. As for the Eagle and her crew, Stefan would make sure everyone did his duty. That was his job. What happened to Sieinski was someone else’s burden, not his.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “What do they want, Pablo?” Stefan asked. His old captain, Westling, had taught him English, Swedish and passable German. Russian would have been another choice, as well, but Westling had a deep, visceral hatred for Lenin and his “communist butchers,” as he called them. Since he couldn’t do anything about them, he refused or ignored all things Russian, from Russian vodka to Russian literatu
re. “I’d rather teach you Frog,” Westling had retorted when Stefan queried him about it. It was the ultimate insult for Westling detested the French above all others.

  The fat man swaddled in a heavy overcoat standing legs far apart in the stern of the Estonian motorboat cruising alongside the Eagle raised the megaphone to his mouth and repeated his instructions.

  Eryk Pertek listened carefully. “They want to know our business.”

  Stefan handed him the megaphone. “Tell them we are in port for repairs, medical treatment for our captain and to drop off foreign civilians.”

  Pertek, the only Estonian speaker among the officers besides the captain, bellowed a response. There was a wave from the fat man. He ducked back into the cabin, returned a moment later, and began yelling.

  “What is it now?” Stefan asked, impatient to get on with in it now that he had decided what to do.

  Eryk gave a puzzled shrug. He waved across to the fat man, who responded with a wave of his own, and then disappeared into the cabin. The bow of the motorboat climbed up into the air as it accelerated away from the Eagle. “They want us to hold here, wait for a pilot to take us into the harbor and for further instructions from the harbor authorities.”

  Stefan frowned. Careful enough. Not surprising, given the onset of war. Stefan reached for the speaker tube. “All stop,” he ordered. So, they would wait. It was a pleasant enough morning. There was a light breeze from offshore, bringing with it the smells of pine and burning coal to mix with the aroma of the sea and the ever-present stink of diesel. A little over a nautical mile ahead was the harbor entrance, and the city of Tallinn beyond, climbing the hill, modern brick buildings giving way to imposing medieval stone structures. The sun was a faint orb high above, partially obscured by a thin layer of clouds.