The Last Eagle (2011) by Michael Wenberg

going in the right direction, but at least she was moving, and with only two choices, the wrong way would be easy to correct. Before she met the captain, she needed to talk with Reggie, make sure he didn’t ruin her tale of deception before she had a chance to tell it. She saw men step aside, noted, as if observing it all from a third story apartment, the expressions on their faces. “You were expecting Lana Turner?” she muttered under her breath.
     
     

Chapter Twelve
     
     Squeaky fought back a yawn, his eyes watering like he was in the midst of a week-long drunk—if only he had been so lucky. He almost wished for another attack—anything—to help break up the boredom.
    The last false alarm had been an hour ago—a periscope in the harbor. After the firing stopped, and they had a chance to take a closer look, the periscope turned out to be nothing more than driftwood, floating and twisting in the swells.
    “I think you got that German snag,” Squeaky said, to sheepish laughter from the gun crews.
    There had been two visitors since Ritter and his group had boarded the submarine. The first, a courier from Navy headquarters, roared up to the submarine on his motorcycle, thrust orders for the Eagle to get underway into Squeaky’s hands. “Immediately!” the courier had underscored with obvious self-importance.
    Squeaky crumpled the sheet, and tossed it back in the courier’s face. “This is as helpful as a case of butt wipe,” he yelled, enjoying the release. Someone, finally, to retaliate against. “And tell those assholes you work for that next time we want them to send us down something useful, like a new hydraulic pump or two.” The courier had dropped his chin and then scuttled back to his motorcycle, the flaps on his leather helmet flopping like the ears of a basset hound.
    The other visitor was a butcher who had a shop a few blocks from the quay. He pulled a squeaking handcart loaded with meats and sausages up to the gangplank, pushed back his hat and whistled, hands on his hips, his gaze moving along the dark flank of the submarine. “Thought that damn airplane had done you in. Hoped not, though, mostly ’cause I wanted you boys to have these. Better to give ’em away to some brave Polish warriors than let the damn Huns have ’em.” And then he leaned close to Squeaky. “There’s also a few bottles of you-know-what under the meat,” he said. “My gift to you and your officers. Toast for all of us when you make your first kill.”
    “Indeed we will,” Squeaky had replied formally, bowing his head. He reached under the seat, held a bottle of Klasno vodka up to the faint lights from across the harbor. “Thank you, Pops.” Squeaky slipped the bottle into his jacket and then waved for the man on the bow of the boat and one of the gun crew to come down. Five minutes later, the meats and sausages were on board, hanging from the overhead pipes that ran along the main passageway, adding their particular aroma to the submarine’s cocktail of smells.
    Squeaky didn’t bother to fight back the yawn this time, feeling the outline of the vodka bottle with his right hand, wondering if there would be any harm in taking a nip or two. Not to be left out, his stomach gave a greedy rumble.
    He almost didn’t notice the silent, easily recognized figure take shape out of the shadows. “Hold the light,” Squeaky barked hoarsely, setting his rifle aside and rushing forward. “I was beginning to think you had other plans, Squeaky said with a broad grin. “Let me give you a hand. The captain?”
    Stefan nodded.
    “Dead?”
    “Don’t ... think ... so,” Stefan gasped. He staggered to a halt, and let Squeaky grab the captain and lower him to the ground.
    Stefan stood there, swaying slightly as if pushed by an unseen breeze, sucking in great drafts of air. “Not dead. At least, I don’t think so.”
    “What happened?”
    Stefan looked up, dark eyes glittering. “Tell the men it was a Nazi bomb. It hit