McNamar sat back in his chair and shot Edland a disappointed look.
“Another go it shall have to be,” Ramsey said. “Regardless of the losses.”
“Four out of ten Lancasters, sir,” Dickie said. “And one of the Pathfinders.”
Ramsey passed Dickie a cross look for reminding him. “Regardless of the losses. Turn that thing off.”
The room plunged into darkness as the slide disappeared. Lights suddenly flooded the interior. The men rose, stretching. They’d been meeting for the better part of two hours and most of them were stiff with fatigue. They would take a break and come back to the briefing room for another round of meetings.
McNamar hunched his shoulders and twisted, trying to drive circulation back into his muscles. “So you didn’t find what you were looking for?”
“No, sir,” Edland said to the sound of chairs being scooted out of the way and the flurry of rustling papers. “Prisoner interrogation gave us very little.”
“I told Ramsey that the immediate threat on D-1 and D-Day was the E-boat. He agreed and that’s why the RAF went in.” McNamar nodded toward the blank screen. “Now it looks as if they have to go back, the poor bastards.” A British air marshal stopped by and led McNamar aside, obviously intent on keeping their conversation private.
“You’re the PT boat chap?”
It was the Royal Navy officer who had done the briefing — Moore.
“I beg your pardon?”
“PT boats? Aren’t you the fellow who went out looking for an E-boat? Didn’t find one, but jolly good show just the same.”
“Oh, we found one,” Edland said, remembering the blazing mass bobbing up and down in the water. “We just didn’t get to keep it.”
“Still, quite an adventure. Quite the problem, Adolf’s little boats. It’ll take some doing to catch them in their lair. It’ll take the lives of a lot of good chaps as well.”
“That’s true,” Edland said, hoping that he could return to McNamar soon. He had an idea, something that had been nagging at him since he questioned the scared German sailor onboard the 155 boat. A wild, unformed thought that hung on a conversation that he had had many years before. A friend of a friend, he thought. Some academic who never saw the light of day because they were trapped in a self-made cage of theories, computations, and models. Then Edland heard Cole’s name. He turned to Moore, startled.
“Jordan Cole,” Dickie said. “He’s in PT boats, too. Tall chap. Thin. Do you know him?”
“Yes,” Edland said, wondering what else he could say about Jordan Cole. He decided to leave it at that.
“Splendid,” Dickie said. “Absolutely splendid. Known Jordan since forty-one. Great friend. Great friend, indeed. I wonder, would you mind telling him that you and I met and we must talk? Would you do that?”
“I’d be happy to.”
“Splendid. Perhaps I’ll run into him first but one never knows these days, does one? We really should talk. Catch up on old times and such. Still, with the war being the war it might be a while. So you’ll tell him that we chatted and I asked after him? Won’t you?”
“I’ll tell him.”
“My. My, my. Fancy meeting a friend of Jordan’s.”
Edland saw McNamar motion toward him. “Excuse me, will you?”
“Certainly,” Dickie said. “You won’t forget, will you? Tell Jordan?”
“I won’t,” Edland said, and made his way to McNamar.
“The Royal Air Force is about to turn up the heat,” McNamar said. “The consensus is that if we can’t smash them up in the pens then we’ll catch what’s left of them at sea. It’ll be a couple of days before anything happens; no Tall Boys.”
“Somebody should get a close look at one of those new E-boats,” Edland mused.
“That’s not our concern, Mike. Why the interest?”
“Just curiosity, that’s all, sir.”
“Well, your curiosity is depriving me of one of my most valuable staff when I need him most, so knock it off. You want to solve a mystery, do it on your own time. Put in for some leave.”
“Would you grant it, sir?” Edland smiled.
“In the middle of a war? Not on your life. Come on, we’re going to start again.”
“Will you excuse me, sir? I’ll read over the minutes and catch up.”
“Yeah, okay, but get with me later on. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“Yes, sir,” Edland said.
When Edland was outside, he decided to take a walk to clear his head. He fought the urge to jam his hands into his pockets, a habit of his, because it wasn’t military. He’d been told this by an elderly captain, rather forcefully, and conditioned himself never to do it again, clasping his hands behind his back instead. But his head drifted down so that he studied the cracked sidewalk in front of him, another civilian mannerism, because, as far as he knew, there was no military code against walking with one’s head down. He was dissecting memories, following bread crumbs, his father had called it when his father could be bothered to speak. “Intelligent men are often preoccupied,” his mother explained, using one of several excuses that she kept nearby to account for his father’s coldness. One day Edland, who had reached the age when such things are said, replied at the dinner table: “Yes, mother. Or perhaps he’s just an arrogant, insensitive bastard who cares for no one but himself.” That certainly gave the meal a unique flavor.
McCreay? McCary? Edland’s mind traveled down a twisted path from Columbia to Stanford and finally settled on MIT. It had to be MIT, Edland told himself. But MIT? Why was I… Potter! Probably the most undisciplined individual in academia, a short, round, brilliant man whose personal life was always in tatters. “I wear pants with oilcloth pockets,” Potter had once confided to Edland, “so that I may steal soup.” Potter was one of those men who declared intelligence a burden but whose creativity and genius was a joy to watch unfold.
It was Potter, and it was MIT, and the man’s name was McGill.
Edland bumped into a bowler-wearing individual with a trim mustache and umbrella. “I say, old chap,” the man said, lifting an eyebrow. “You walk on your portion of the sidewalk and I shall walk on mine.”
Edland mumbled an apology and hurried on, looking for a cab. He had to get back to headquarters. He had to send a cable to McGill at MIT. Several years ago Potter had taken him to a long, dank building that held a massive water tank, because McGill’s secretary had captured Potter’s interest. While Potter smiled and spoke with great charm to the secretary whose only attribute Edland could see was a massive bosom, Edland watched McGill hoist a strange miniature ship from the water. Outriggers, Edland thought, having seen devices such as that used to stabilize long, narrow craft in the Pacific. But the explanation troubled him the moment he said it; he knew that it wasn’t correct but before he had time to investigate further, the secretary had dismissed Potter and so there was no reason to stay.
Outriggers, he remembered as he flagged a cab down. But not outriggers. Wings on boats. Flying boats. Sea Eagles.
Chapter 14
There were six boats in the 11th Flotilla. Schnell boats, fast boats, in other words, or E-boats the British called them — simply enemy boats. Four of the six boats mounted Trinities, one boat remained in the pens in the process of having the guns installed, and one boat, S-317, had its well enlarged but carried nothing forward; no teeth, the crew told one another. It was on S-317 that Reubold stationed himself during the trials with the nervous Waldvogel at his side. They were just off a sandbar, far out into the bay, and the object of their test was a grand old bark that had strayed off course during a storm many years ago and died in the shallows. She was an unnamed wreck, her destination long forgotten. And everything topside had been swept away by winter storms except for the stubby remains of five masts that had once held fields of glistening canvas, bleached white by the sun. Now, embarrassed by her condition, she lay low in the shallow water so that no one could see what had become of her.