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kidding about catching the next bomb.”
    “Oh, thank you, sir.”
    Stefan watched color darken his cheeks. “Where are you supposed to be?”
    Stachofski pointed conning tower. “Gunner. But I’m the only one. The others—” He gestured toward the town.
    Stefan swore. “Just as well. Any shots from us are only bound to attract attention. Don’t want to do that. Still, we don’t know what’s coming next from out there.” Stefan gestured with his chin at the harbor entrance. “Get your boots on and go find your mates. Back in thirty minutes with whoever you can scare up. You there. Pimples. I’ve seen you in engine room, yes?”
    The boy next to Stachofski rubbed the acne on his face and nodded. “Jerzy Rudzki, sir.”
    “Is Chief Kosciuszko on board?”
    Rudzki shook his head solemnly.
    “Know where he is?”
    The boy giggled. “Chief K’s with his…girlfriend,” he said in a high pitched voice.
    “Get him! And tell him that if we’re not underway by first light, I’ll shoot him myself.”
    “Excuse me, sir?”
    “Tell him that. Every word.”
    The boy gave Stefan a gap-toothed grin. “Aye ,sir.” Before he disappeared into the shadows, Stefan noticed he wasn’t wearing any shoes.
    One left.
    “Name?”
    “My friends call me Andre.”
    “Then I will, too. Who’s the officer in charge on board?”
    “Squeaky, I mean, Lieutenant Wallesa, sir.”
    “Get him out here. Now, go!” Andre scrambled for the forward hatch.
    Jan Wallesa, the officer everyone called Squeaky, stepped out onto the bridge a few moments later. He yawned, and then noticed the flames billowing into the black sky to the north and south. “What the hell?”
    “Get your ass down here,” Stefan roared from the quay.
    Squeaky tumbled over the lip of the conning tower, slid down the ladder, a stunned look on his sleep-puffy face. “What’s going on?”
    “One guess. And here’s a hint: we nearly had our conning tower skewered by a Stuka’s bomb.” Stefan  thrust the rifle into his hand. “You’re in charge. Nobody but crew gets aboard, got that?”
    Squeaky nodded. “Where are you going? Christ, Stef, most of the crew are ashore. Most are probably—”
    “I know,” Stefan interrupted, grimacing as the enormity of what was happening begin to weigh on him. “But most of them, I wager, have sobered up and are on their way back. Hitler just gave us a calling card. No way they could have missed it.”
    “But what are we going to do? We still can’t get underway.”
     “I’m off to retrieve our fearless leader. I’ll be back in an hour. We need to be gone by first light, with or without him. Any objections, now’s the time.”
    Squeaky hefted the rifle. “None from me,” he said.
     
     

Chapter Six
     
     “Goddamnit,” Peter von Ritter exclaimed as soon as he realized the scream wasn’t coming from the mouth of the woman writhing beneath him in mock orgasm but from an attacking German dive bomber.
    He rolled away, flicked on the bedside lamp.
    “What’s wrong, sweetie?”
    Ritter checked the time. Two in the morning. He picked her clothes off the floor and tossed them in her direction. “I want you out now,” he snapped, wondering if this one moment of indiscretion was going to ruin it all.
    A distant explosion made the ornate mirror above the dresser tap the wall nervously. Muffled shouts. A siren wailing. Noises in the hallway as guests began to spill out of their rooms.
    “Hans?” said the woman, now alarmed. She sat up, not bothering to cover her cantaloupe-sized breasts with the sheets.
    Ritter didn’t notice. “Come on you Polish cow,” he said as he pulled on his pants. “Move.”
    She glanced to the window, where the blush of reds and yellows from faraway flames were reflecting on the curtain.
    Ritter couldn’t wait any longer. He flung away the sheets, grabbed her by the arm and dragged her out of bed. He wadded up her clothes, stuffed them into her grasp, and then propelled her to the