John Craig noted that.

Canidy then put his hands on his hips and surveyed his work.

"All right. That and a few other items I have should be all we need."

Starting with Q-pills for all. . . .

Canidy turned away from the gear at the bulkhead and glanced around the darkened C-47 interior.

Now, where the hell is John Craig?

He started aft, careful of any other obstacles as he went. Halfway down, he began to make out the vague shape of the Browning machine gun by the trooper door-and then the human form behind it.

What is he doing?

As Canidy reached the rear of the aircraft and inhaled, there was no question what John Craig van der Ploeg was doing.

Oh, Christ! he thought, getting an even stronger whiff of the vomitus that almost triggered a sympathetic gag. That's what. He's airsick!

The closer Canidy stepped to van der Ploeg, the stronger the foul acrid odor became.

And the stupid bastard is sitting in the worst place.

Please don't tell me he tried to hurl out the door.

Canidy got a better look at him, and around him. John Craig was sitting next to a dozen olive drab ammo cans stenciled with 200 CARTRIDGES .30 CALIBER M-1919 in yellow. He was leaning against the aft bulkhead, his eyes closed and his head drooped toward the open door. The recent contents of his stomach were widespread.

He did try to hurl out the door-and the slipstream fed it right back to him.

"Hey!" Canidy said over the roar. "You okay?"

John Craig's eyes cracked open.

"I've been better."

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.

Ludwig Fahr rolled a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter, tapped his fingertips together as he glanced out at the harbor and composed his thoughts, then began typing:

HIGHEST SECRECY.

TO- BRIGADEGENERAL HANS OSTER, DEPUTY DIRECTOR.

ABWEHR HEADQUARTERS, BERLIN.

FROM- HERR ERNST BECK, DIRECTOR.

GERMAN TRADE MINISTRY, SICILY.

1125 HOURS.

1943-05-30.

BEGIN MESSAGE.

AS PER YOUR DIRECTION, URGENT MESSAGE FROM FATHER TO SON WAS DELIVERED THIS DATE AT 0800 HOURS.

I PERSONALLY WATCHED HIM READ MESSAGE.

THERE IS NO QUESTION (A) THAT THE MESSAGE WAS IN FACT BELIEVED TO BE FROM THE FATHER AND (B) THAT THE DETAILS OF THE MESSAGE ITSELF WERE BELIEVED TO BE GENUINE.

ADDITIONALLY, THERE DID NOT APPEAR TO BE ANY REAL SURPRISE -- SUCH AS ANGER OR DENIAL -- ABOUT THE GRAVITY OF WHAT THE FATHER WROTE.

THE REASON FOR THAT, I THINK, IS THAT IN THE COURSE OF OUR CONVERSATION IT BECAME CLEAR THAT THE SON ALREADY BELIEVED AS THE FATHER DOES.

FINALLY, SON UNDERSTANDS THAT THIS CHANNEL IS NOW OPEN AND AWAITS FURTHER WORD.

STANDING BY.

BECK.

END MESSAGE.

HIGHEST SECRECY.

Oberleutnant zur See Ludwig Fahr tugged the sheet of paper from the typewriter, read over what he had typed, penciled two corrections, then noisily slid his chair back.

He stood, and took a long look at the harbor and then the sea. Out in the strait, he saw that a sleek Kriegsmarine Schnellboot-literally "fast boat"-was reducing its speed between the outer channel markers, making an approach to enter the mouth of the port. He grinned appreciatively.

What beautiful lines she has!

Fahr, having briefly commanded one before moving to U-boats, was quite familiar with the fast-attack S-boats. Built in slightly different designs, they all were about one hundred feet long with wooden hulls and massive engines-one variant packed triple two-thousand-horsepower Daimler-Benz diesels-and were capable of hitting more than forty knots.

S-boats were heavily armed with 4cm Bofors, four-barrel 2cm flaks, and 53.3cm torpedoes. To deliver the torpedoes on target, it would wait in the dark to ambush a submarine or ship, then strike quickly. Then it would run, as it carried only the fish in its tubes. The weight of additional torpedoes would slow the boat's fast attack-and faster departure.

Fahr looked beyond the S-boat and saw an unarmed, unattractive bulky barge-shaped vessel-and grinned even more broadly.

A ferryboat was following the S-boat into port.

If I hurry, I can have this sent and be back here in time to watch the ferry unload!

He quickly walked out of his office and marched the message up to the radio room on the top floor.

[FOUR].

Latitude 37 Degrees 81 Seconds North Longitude 10 Degrees 96 Seconds East Over the Mediterranean Sea, West of Sicily 2010 30 May 1943 A loud noise suddenly shook Dick Canidy out of a deep sleep, and he slowly realized that it had been his own snoring that had awakened him. He quickly scanned around him and in the glow of the instrument panel lights saw that he was strapped in the copilot seat and that Hank Darmstadter still had the left seat.

Canidy turned back the left sleeve of his black coverall to check his Hamilton wristwatch. According to the chronometer, they had right at two hours behind them.

So, another hour plus or minus . . .

He sniffed, then cleared his throat.

He thought he could still smell vomitus but figured that had to be a product of his imagination.

Wonder how John Craig is doing back there.

With any luck, he's slept the entire time.