Gierek began to puzzle through the presence of the dog a short distance away, but because of the drugs and the adrenaline, his mind refused to cooperate in the process. A haze appeared and moved like a fog over his vision, and as it did, the dog stood and moved to him until it was at his side.
Gierek could smell the grease and oil that permeated the animal’s coat, and he thought that the dog remained standing for that reason — to establish his presence. Then the dog dropped to the ground, pushing his body heavily against Gierek’s. The pilot felt the dog’s warmth and watched as the animal carefully laid its head down on its paws, closed its eyes, and took up station next to him. As Gierek slid into unconsciousness, his hand sought out the filthy, thick fur, and he intertwined his fingers in the oily thatch. As full darkness claimed him, Gierek’s mind relaxed to the rhythm of the Black Prince’s breathing.
Chapter 31
PT-155, her deck cleared of prisoners transferred to Firedancer on the open sea, slid peacefully into her berth at Wayside Dock. She was battered, bits of her torn away by the gunfire of the E-boat, and there were streaks of charring as rounds burned across the wood. Her crew was worn out; the deep-seated fatigue that excises the excitement of battle so completely that all that remains is a collection of random images. They had fought and failed to save Mr. Edland’s boat. That was what they had taken to calling the vessel that had thwarted their attempts to capture — Mr. Edland’s boat. It was gone now, deep in the waters of the English Channel, along with the remnants of two PT boats that had burned down to the waterline and then slid below the surface.
The 155 boat brought back three of the dead — American dead. Still forms under dark gray blankets with the initials USN stenciled on them. It was always difficult to travel with the dead, although they never asked anything of you. They were content to lie neatly arranged on the Day Room canopy, bothering no one. Their voyages were over. Their presence, though, was a different matter. They represented the unspoken guilt of the survivors — guilt mixed with relief that they had not died. The guilt was heavier, as if the survivors shared a responsibility with the dead, and for the dead. And that by living they had somehow betrayed the dead. That was the nature of war.
“How’s the hand?” Cole asked Edland as the commander rolled his fingers back and forth.
“In one piece,” Edland said. “Thanks for saving me back there.”
Cole shrugged. “The navy takes care of its own.”
“That’s what I hear,” Edland said. “But thanks anyway.”
DeLong brought the boat alongside the dock expertly, barely causing the canvas bumpers to sway as she moved in. Several crewmen jumped to the dock and tied her off as DeLong signaled to disengage the engines. He stepped away from the wheel and stood motionless for a moment before searching the pockets of his jacket for cigarettes. Cole saw the action and tossed him a crumpled pack.
“Now what?” Edland said.
“We gas up, re-arm, and go back out,” Cole said matter-of-factly. “There’s an invasion on, you know. Why? Want to go along?”
A thin smile crept across Edland’s face. He’d finally had his fill of PT boats. “No. Not this time. I’d better get up to London and report.”
“Sorry about your boat,” Cole said, catching the pack that DeLong threw back to him. “It would have looked swell mounted on the wall.”
“We got some important stuff. Codebooks. The decoding machine. That’s something.”
“Yeah,” Cole said, stepping off the boat and onto the dock. Edland followed him. “So long, Commander.”
Edland nodded, looking at Cole. “Take care of yourself, Lieutenant.”
Edland headed up the dock, passing a British naval officer who looked familiar. Then he realized it was the man he’d met at the briefing in London; the one who knew Cole. A seaman second class, standing next to a jeep on the wharf snapped to attention.
“Commander Edland, sir?” he asked.
Edland nodded.
“They want you back up in London, tout de suite. They sent me to pick you up.”
“What’s going on?” Edland asked.
“Got me, sir,” the seaman said, sliding behind the steering wheel and pressing the starter. “Something big, I guess. Nobody tells me nothing.”
“Okay,” Edland said, suddenly weary. He looked back to see the naval officer talking to Cole, and then he looked at the other PT boats coming in. They looked as weary as he felt, he decided, and thought of something he had once heard. Where do we find such men? He felt, for a moment, something very unexpected. It was pride. Honor. Emotions that he gave no consideration to because he always held them suspect. They could not be quantified and there was no empirical evidence to support them, but here they were, nevertheless. Where do we find such men?
“Ready to go, Commander?” the seaman asked, shifting into first.
Edland nodded and settled back in the seat.
“Hello, Jordan,” Dickie Moore said as he approached Cole.
“Hi,” Cole said. “Take over a minute, will you, Randy?”
“Rough, was it?” Dickie said, looking over the boat.
“Pretty rough,” Cole said. “I lost some men. What brought you here? I thought you’d be up in London with the big brains.”
Dickie shook his head and managed a troubled smile. Cole saw him preparing himself. Finally, Dickie took a quick breath and blurted: “She’s dead, Jordan.”
It took a moment before Cole could repeat the words to himself, but they still made no sense. He looked at Dickie, his tired mind trying to shift through the meaning. “What?”
“Rebecca’s dead, Jordan,” Dickie said. His voice caught as he looked at Cole with sheer helplessness.
Cole stood motionless. Everything from his last visit rushed at him. Rebecca on the settee, William the butler, her mother, Rebecca slipping the bookmark between the pages of the book, the comb, mirror, brush, bottles… a box, some kind of box, the coverlet on the settee. There were plants all around them; he could remember the scent and he thought that the broad leaves of some must have been heavily waxed because they shone so. He recalled her mother’s cool voice, and the slow, fluid motion of Rebecca drawing her feet back so that he could sit down.
Dickie was talking again, the words taking some form, becoming distinct now.
But the words meant nothing; they were as unreal as his friend’s presence. Slowly Cole felt his body weaken and his hands turn very cold, as if he had shaken hands with death and seen its horrible face for the first time.
“That’s not true,” he said stupidly, and then grew numb as a thousand questions rushed at him. “No. That’s not true.” He knew death. He’d seen it in war. This was not war and Rebecca could not be dead. There was no reason for it.
“Her heart,” Dickie said. His voice was strained. “Her mother told me. When she was a girl. She was quite ill.”
Cole felt anger well up in him. “It’s a lie,” he snapped. “You’re a goddamned liar.”
There was silence between them before Dickie tried again. “No,” Dickie said. “You must be reasonable about this, Jordan. Rebecca’s dead. Her heart gave out. She’s gone. Don’t make me say it again. I loved her, too, as well you know. Like a sister. She was a decent person.”
Cole’s legs gave way and he half-stumbled to the PT’s gunnel and slumped against it. “That can’t be,” he said in a whisper. “It can’t be.” These things don’t happen. Men die in battle. He’d seen the death of civilians during the Blitz, but not a single person, not Rebecca. Not someone who meant so much to him. The only words that could have come to him, came. It’s not fair. Not her. Not Rebecca. It’s not fair.