“XO’s up top, Cap’n,” a grimy Wogan volunteered. “Cook’s girl’s payin’ us a visit.”

Morton swallowed another corrosive burst of profanity, spun on his heel, and darted back into his cabin. The precious, flimsy wooden box in his kit had only one cigar left, and he hesitated before grabbing it. His last Cuban! But a deal was a deal, and she’d earned it. Plus, as the Germans had learned, it would be a bad idea to piss her off.

He stuffed the cigar in his front pocket to climb the conning tower ladder. Flinging open the outer hatch, he tripped on the sill and nearly fell flat on the narrow deck. “SAUNDERS!” he screamed, in the general direction of the knot of crew gathered at the bow. “Do I have to fight the entire war by myself? And who authorized a party, you idiots? We’ve got work to do!”

Saunders slouched over, the sleepy grin on his face undiminished by Morton’s accusations. “Just saying hello to Mitzi, Captain. What’s the drill? Mitzi’s people say the sea is clear for miles.”

“Well that’s one bit of good news. Which doesn’t make up for the fact that we will be be ordered back to port in less than a month. For inspection.” Morton was gratified to see the grin on Saunders’s face vanish. At least someone else grasped the danger.

“Molumphy got a future WARNO, sir?”

“Correct.” Morton looked about the top surface of Fintan, hoping for inspiration. Unfortunately he caught sight of the symmetrical, curved pattern of indentations along the shield piece of the deck gun. It was quite clearly a bite mark from something with a three-foot-wide jaw and teeth that could leave holes in steel. “Gaah! How the hell are we going to explain that?”