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Kauffman’s going to love this but . . .
“Come sit up at the forward bulkhead. Back here in the tail is where you feel the most motion.”
“I’m okay here. I need to see out.”
“But I don’t want you fucking falling out!”
John Craig then held up a static line. Canidy saw that one end was tied to his waist and the other was hooked into the deck rail that held the machine gun. He also saw that there was virtually no slack in it.
Well, he won’t be slipping out the door.
“You know how to use the Browning?”
Canidy saw John Craig’s mop of hair bob, indicating that he had nodded. He also thought he saw some chunks of vomitus fall out.
“We don’t want to attract any attention up here. There will be one helluva lot of muzzle flash, even with that suppressor. So do not—repeat do not—engage unless we are fired on first. Is that clear?”
The mop of hair bobbed again.
Canidy added: “It’s critical to the mission we stay invisible. Got it?”
More bobbing.
“All right, then. Can I get you anything?”
He held up his canteen and said, “I’ll survive.”
I’m not so sure about that. . . .
“Hang in there, Apollo. Work on being the god of healing. I’ll check back in a bit.”
John Craig didn’t say anything. He just let his head drop back to the bulkhead. Canidy saw him close his eyes.
What a way to start . . .
What the hell could possibly happen next?
[THREE]
German Trade Ministry
Messina, Sicily
1010 30 May 1943
Oberleutnant zur See Ludwig Fahr removed his suit coat, put it on a hanger, then hung that on the hook behind his office door, taking care not to damage the small white rose pinned to the lapel.
Fahr’s modest office, on the second floor of the ministry building, held little more than an old wooden desk, a pair of wooden armchairs before it, and another wooden chair, this one on metal rollers, behind it. His window overlooked the Port of Messina where the ferryboats arrived adjacent to the commercial fishing dockage.
He went behind the desk and took his chair. Only two of the chair’s four wheels actually rolled, and it made a grinding sound as he pulled it closer to the desk and turned to use the typewriter.
On the desk next to his portable Olivetti typewriter was a pair of Kriegsmarine-issued high-powered Zeiss binoculars. He had taken them off the submarine after he had reluctantly agreed to give up his command of U-613. Fahr now used the fine optics to keep watch on activities in the port—especially the pretty young Italian women as they disembarked the ferryboats. If he liked the looks of one enough—and usually there were two or more candidates—he could run down and intercept them, offering coffee or, if the hour was right, something stronger.
Fahr had to admit that he missed commanding the submarine and his men and a life at sea. Those feelings flooded back every time a U-boot called on the Port of Messina, which was every week now.
But he also had to admit that this wasn’t exactly a bad life, either. And, besides, he knew there was no going back. When Admiral Canaris had come to him a year ago and explained that the war was changing and that Fahr had more important things to do for the Fatherland, starting with again working under Canaris, Fahr knew that that was exactly what he would do.
Canaris was the kind of leader one followed without question.
