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was up to his knees now, and still they ran, louder splashes, water in his face, the beach behind him suddenly bright with daylight, the pop of a star shell. The lieutenant dove down, was gone, and Dundee took a hard breath, couldn’t hold it, gasped for air, tried again, filled his lungs, felt the water at his waist. He dove as well, streaks of light past his head, pops and splashes of machine-gun fire, zips in the water. He could hear nothing but his own swimming, gasped for breath, rolling over in the water, a quick glance back, the flare extinguished. His feet couldn’t touch the bottom, and he began to swim again, his arms and legs leaden, searing pain. He had forgotten to count, vicious anger in his brain, stupid orders, useless. He pushed himself through the water, ignored the burning, Find the rhythm, one arm, turn, the other, steady kick. He couldn’t hear the machine guns, the sky black again, his shoulders on fire, numbness in his legs, a quick look up, straight away from the beach, Yes, keep going. Thank God for swimming. No damned folbot, not tonight. We’d be staring at bayonets, or worse.
    He kept swimming, peered up every few seconds, felt himself rise up on a swell, scanned the smooth surface, no sign of the lieutenant, dammit! What the hell do I do, swim to Dover? He looked back toward the beach again, saw a searchlight, the sound of a truck, Yep, you go right ahead, search that whole damned beach. He let his legs drop, treading water, thought of Henley, the man’s big laugh, always a slap of the hand on your back. Swim, you idiot. He turned in the water, began to kick again, the motion steady, thought now of the submarine, where the hell are you? And now he heard a quick shout, raised his head up, a huge hulking mass. Oh, God! Thank God! He gulped a bellyful of salt water, pushed himself that way, his legs useless now, no strength at all, and there was a hand, grabbing his, pulling him clear of the water, the submarine already moving, submerging, and he dropped down, inside, the hatch closing above him.
    He gasped for air, felt a lurch, the submarine rolling to one side, the captain at the controls, no words, the crewman close to Dundee, looking at his face.
    “We ha’nt seen your mate! You sure he’s not coming? Captain, ought’n we wait for him?”
    “Can’t do it, Mr. Higgins. All hell’s opening up on that beach. They’ll spot us in a flash.”
    Dundee realized now the lieutenant was lying on the narrow deck beside him. The officer rolled over, said, “No. Get moving. Henley’s gone.”
    Dundee tried to sit, the sub tilting, rolling him forward, and he reached out, felt the lieutenant grab his hand.
    “Thought you were gonna swim straight home, Dundee. You passed me like a damned fish.”
    He looked at the lieutenant’s face, saw the man’s head go down. Dundee, still gasping, spit salt water. “A land mine. There were minefields. It had to be. Henley…”
    “Yeah. Never knew what hit him, most likely. A blessing in that. We were damned lucky to get out of there.” The lieutenant looked down toward his own belt, raised the pouch. “Mission accomplished. Got what we came for. They’ll test this sand, see what it can hold.”
    Dundee nodded slowly, tried to see Henley’s face, gone now, as though he never existed. The word came to him again, the word they all understood: expendable. He put his hand on his waist, felt for the pouch, the rocks. He pulled the pouch around in front of him, unfastened the strap, held it up. Mission accomplished. Those bloody engineers had better make some use of this. We lost a good man…for a bag of rocks.

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    2. ROMMEL
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    NEAR SAINT-LAURENT-SUR-MER, FRANCE
JANUARY 26, 1944
    T hey brought the body up the draw on a stretcher, four men whose faces showed no taste for the job they were doing. Rommel watched from above, turned away now, said, “British?”
    “Yes, sir. About one this morning. We sent out patrols along the beach in both