The Billy Club Bastard Case Files: The Case of Friendless and the Six-Toed Cat, Part 6 of 8

Mickey, Friendless, and all manner of agents and mercenaries and critters find themselves cornered. They’ll have to come up with some kind of hare-brained scheme in order to get off Key West and keep the locals out of harm’s way.

Crazy, Crazy, Crazy, All the Time is available as a Kindle ebook, in paperback, and as a DRM-free ebook.

This is Part 5 of The Case of Friendless and the Six-Toed Cat. If you haven’t read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, or Part 5 yet, check them out first.

Content Warnings: Mild Swearing, Alcohol Use, Creeps

SATURDAY NIGHT, JULY 27, 1942
PFEIFFER HOUSE
KEY WEST, FLORIDA

O'Laughlin and Sparacello took up court in Pauline's living room, lounging on a couch in the middle of the floor. Hemingway and his men circled around them against the walls, while Tamm, Mick, Cypress, and Pauline sat in uncomfortable wooden chairs across from them. In the center of their circle, on a bright Oriental rug, two boys, young but not children, were playing with the cat.

“Is this what all the fuss is about?” O'Laughlin asked.

The cat was large, but not remarkably so. It was gray with black and brown patches, with wide golden amber eyes flecked with green. It was lying on its back, swatting at a feather the boys had tied to a string. Just doing cat things.

“I don't get it either,” Mick said.

“Look pop, she's got six toes!” Patrick said.

“You're stupid,” Gregory huffed. He leaned in and examined its outstretched paw. “One, two, three... Pop, she's got six toes!”

“I already said that,” Patrick huffed.

“She is a magnificent animal, boys,” Hemingway boomed.

“Six toes or not, it looks like any other cat to me,” Agent Tamm said.

“A very nice cat, but a cat,” Agent Leddy added.

“There's more going on here than what we're seeing,” Cypress said. “Look at that.”

The whole room twisted around to see what Cypress was pointing at. Every windowsill in the room was draped with cats. Basil was standing on his hind legs, staring in from the ouside to watch this singular cat and ignoring all the animals he would normally be chasing. Behind him, every possible perch was packed with birds. Formerly stout trees were drooping under the unaccustomed burden. Even Massimo, from his spot on Sparacello's head, sat entranced, watching the cat's every move.

“It's something else,” Cypress repeated, as if he was half-asleep, too. He snapped himself out of it and continued. “I think that somehow, this cat emits a sub-sonic sound that affects nearby animal life. When they hear it, it has an affect on their behaviors and personalities that they cannot ignore.”

“Why don't I hear anything?” Sparacello asked. “I got ears, don't I?”

“The frequency must be outside our hearing range. When the cat did vocalize, her hiss and her purr, you felt something then, right? A rush of disgust, a sense of calm?” Cypress asked. Everyone in the room nodded.

“So who made this? The jerries?” O'Laughlin asked.

“I think she's a natural phenomenon,” Cypress said. “It's a freak occurrence that the Nazis want to duplicate. Not like the other thing.”

“That other thing is alive, too, and just a baby,” Marge objected. She came out of the kitchen cradling a soft bundle. It emitted a little squeak with each breath.

“You're touching it?” Mick asked.

“It is just a baby, Michael, and it's hurting,” Marge snapped.

Patrick and Gregory hopped up off the floor to get a look at the new arrival. Marge pulled the blanket aside so they could see its face.

“Ew, what is it?” Patrick asked.

“It looks like a bald rat!” Gregory said.

“Rats aren't green, stupid,” Patrick said. Gregory punched him in the arm. They were getting worked up, and their raised voices were causing the creature to squirm in Marge's arms.

“Quiet down, boys, you're scaring him,” Marge said.

“Listen to Miss Queen, boys,” Pauline said.

“Yes, mom,” they said in unison. Gregory surreptitiously stomped on Patrick's foot, Patrick quietly gave Gregory a hard pinch on the back of his arm, but they calmed down and looked at the bundle.

“That's no normal rat, even discounting the color,” Cypress said.

Mickey peered over Cypress' shoulder. The thing curled up in Marge's arms sure looked like a rat. It had the ears and the scaly tail and the snout. It was also pale green, the color of dry peas, and its eyes were gummy and unfocused. Its claws seemed larger than they should be, and it try to hiss at the boys ogling it but it was too small and tired. It wheezed with every rise of its prominent ribs.

“This sideshow attraction is not anything worth killing over,” Hemingway declared.

“I cannot fathom what they would intend to do with this creature,” Winston Guest said. He took a sip of his gimlet and stared at it in disgust.

“I can,” Cypress said, his voice grim.

“What are you thinking, Charlie?” Mick asked.

“Ever heard of the bubonic plague?” Cypress said.

Everyone recoiled away from Marge and the rat. Pauline dragged her boys away and put herself between them and the animal.

“I'm not saying it's infected,” Cypress said, loud enough so everyone could hear. They calmed after a moment, but there were stills whispers in four languages.

“So what are you saying?” Mick asked. His voice was muffled because he'd clamped his poison-filtering handkerchief over his nose and mouth.

“They may have bred it to be a carrier,” Cypress answered. He must have thought that would be enough of an answer, because he paused a few seconds before hesitantly continuing his explanation: “This animal could have been created to spread diseases. It's just an empty jar, waiting to be filled with something nasty. But right now, it should be safe.”

“So we have a defused biological weapon and a mesmerizing cat on our hands?” Agent Leddy asked as he scribbled down notes.

“What would they do with a cat like that?” Sparacello wondered.

“Think about it: you've seen how riled up folks get over Hitler's speeches already. Now what if he could do the same thing to people that this cat does to animals?” Martha pointed out.

“They'd burn the whole continent down,” Tamm said.

“I can find a bag if you can find a brick,” O'Laughlin whispered to Sparacello just loud enough for the whole room to hear.

Marge's eyes nearly bugged out of her head. She marched across the room and slapped O'Laughlin right across his face.

Basil growled and Sparacello grabbed O'Laughlin's arm to hold him in place. Mickey noted the mercenary sliding a small blade back into a sheath hidden inside his belt buckle. He cocked his revolver under his jacket. O'Laughlin would hit the floor if he moved another inch.

The mercenary saw everyone ready to jump and forced himself to grin wide. He rubbed his reddening cheek, held his empty hands in the air, and said:

“The old bird can't take a joke.”

“We'll contain the specimens at the Bureau,” Assistant Director Tamm declared.

“You hardly have the facilities,” Cypress huffed.

“And where could you keep them better than the United States government could?” Tamm demanded.

“You don't have the clearance to know that,” Cypress spat.

“Well neither one of you is getting her,” Hemingway interrupted. “Let me have her, boys.”

He reached down and scooped the thick animal off the carpet to his pouting sons' dismay. He put one arm underneath her and began stroking her pointed ears with his other hand. The cat drew in her paws like and roosting chicken and squeezed in close against Hemingway's broad chest. She closed her eyes and let her tail dangle peacefully.

“I paid for her, she's staying with me,” Hemingway declared.

“It's a small island, friend, the Legion will find her quick enough,” O'Laughlin told him. “They'll be giving up on your boat, soon. They'll scour this place. Salt the earth.”

“Then Cuba it is,” Hemingway said, “We storm the Pilar and sail away.”

“The Legion is coordinating with a wolf pack. There are at least a dozen U-boats out between here and Cuba,” Agent Tamm reported.

“True enough. They're the buggers pulling Polk's strings,” O'Laughlin confirmed. “They're scared of showing their faces this close to the States, what with the Naval Air Station so close, but they'll pop ya' without hesitation on the open water between here and Havana.”

“Our plane is only five hours away,” Director Tamm said.

“Five hours, twenty-eight minutes,” Agent Leddy specified.

“Leddy and I take the cargo, along with Officials Malloy and Cypress, Miss Queen, and Mister Wayne, and we head to the mainland. With their objective out of play, the threat is over,” Tamm suggested.

“Sound like you don't know Nazis,” Mick grunted.

“How so?” Tamm asked.

“These aren't the kind of boys who pack it up when you take the ball home. These are the boys that burn the park to the ground and chase you to your front door to get that ball back. Then they burn your house down around your ears. Maybe the U-boats'll bombard this whole island just for kicks.”

“Your metaphor is both horrid and long-winded to the point of boredom,” Hemingway said. The cat was squirming in his hands. She sunk her claws into his shirt. Mick might have been somewhat hungover and more than over-caffeinated, but it looked like the Hemingway boys were right: that cat had six toes. Before he could count again, she pulled herself up higher up Hemingway's chest to get a look at the squirming bundle in Marge's arms. The rat was weak, but giving everything it had to get away.

“Sh, sh,” Marge was cooing. It didn't help.

A low hum permeated the room. In an instant, the rat's protestations ceased. It twisted around to stare at Qutat al'Um.

“What's all this?” Hemingway whispered. Qutat jumped off of him to the floor and purred louder. The rat shoved its way out of its swaddling cloth, this time with Marge too distracted to stop it. It perched on her forearm, a green collection of thin wrinkled skin and knobby bones. Long white lines ran down its whole length. Everyone recognized them for the surgical scars they were. The little guy had been taken apart and stitched back together by those sick Nazis.

“Who would do that to you, Baby?” Marge cooed at it.

Before anyone could try to catch it, it jumped. Thin flaps of veiny, translucent skin stretched out between its front and backs legs. The membranes caught air and it expertly glided over to Qutat. It landed unsteadily, but instead of snapping it up like a green midnight snack, the cat curled up around it and began licking its head. The rat was asleep in seconds, surrounded by soft fur and mesmerizing purrs.

“What the Hell was that?” Leddy asked, the first to speak.

“The Negoziatori called it a 'kobold,'” Hemingway told them. The crowd inched away from the snuggling pair.

“It's still just a baby,” Marge objected. She looked like she wanted to scoop them both up, but they looked so peaceful that she couldn't disturb them.

“Whatever we got here, my point still stands: if we leave here with the Legion still armed and angry, they aren't going to pack it up. The Nazis'll bump 'em off them all for failing. They got no qualms about burning Key West out of spite.”

“What about the coppers?” O'Laughlin asked.

“They will only engage the Legion if it all goes bad, but they're not prepared for this. We do not want open warfare on an American city's streets,” Tamm said. “The locals are keeping a perimeter, but they are relying on us to remove the threat of the Legion.”

“So we got to get off this island with the cargo and survive the trip, but we can't leave those traitors here, either,” Hemingway concluded.

“I hate to say, but the plane won't work, either,” O'Laughlin pointed out.

“And why not?” Tamm demanded.

“Those U-boats out there are Department 3 blockade boats. They'll have FlaK 88 turrets, multiple, on each boat, plus their cannons and mortars, and the crews will have fliegerfausts,” O'Laughlin said.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Tamm asked.

“Means whatever little puddle-jumper plane you got coming in will be shredded before they know what hit it,” Mick concluded.

“You have a better idea?” Tamm asked.

“You know, I might,” Sparacello said. “You got a radio in this joint?”

“Just our old Admiral,” Pauline said. She pointed at the standing radio cabinet in the corner, all dark wood and chrome.

“No, a two-way,” Sparacello said.

“Only on the Pilar,” Hemingway answered.

“Ours is at the police station,” Leddy told them.

“I can work with it,” Gator said from the back of the room. He lurched out of his seat, producing a screwdriver from a hidden pocket. Before Pauline could object, he'd pried the case open and was re-arranging its copper guts.

“Papa,” Juan the chauffeur said from the door. “Paxchi y Saxon.”

The pair Hemingway had sent after his boat had returned. The writer squeezed his way out of the packed living room to whisper to his men. Mick made a note to speak to Saxon before Hemingway sent them on another errand. Blasting swing music out of the Legion's radios might come in handy.

“What are you thinking?” O'Laughlin asked.

“The same game me and Massimo always play,” Sparacello told him.

“Tap left, tip right,” O'Laughlin said.

“I remember that trick,” Marge said. “You send some blabbering lout stomping around the front door while you sneak in the window.”

“A blabbering lout? Dear, I thought we had something,” O'Laughlin said, winking at her.

“You're lucky I don't throw that little one onto your ugly face,” Marge huffed, pointing at the curled up green rat and its claws.

“Don't throw Baby, that truly would be bad luck,” O'Laughlin said.

“What's your plan?” Mick asked Sparacello, ignoring that pair of them.

“There's U-boats out there, huh?” Sparacello wondered.

“Yeah, a whole wolf pack,” Gator answered.

“The things about wolves is, they won't chase you 'til you run,” Sparacello said.

SUNDAY MORNING, JULY 28, 1942
COW KEY MARINA
KEY WEST, FLORIDA

“The signal getting through?” Mick asked. Gator had his head buried in the Frankenstein'd radio. They must have been a strange sight: two G-men, a Cajun, a grizzled vet, a Seminole Indian, Mick doused in sweat, an eighty-year-old woman holding a swaddled bundle, and a cat, all standing on the end of a short wooden dock, playing with radios crack of dawn.

“You bet, best radio man in the Delta right here,” he said.

“What about you, Saxon?” Mick asked. The gruff American, a former master sergeant with the attitude to prove it, was fine-tuning a homemade transmitter that he’d wired into a jukebox.

“All those traitors should be hearing is the Duke for the next ten hours,” Saxon replied.

“And they won't hear a word of what we're transmitting?” Tamm asked.

“Not the way I got this humming,” Saxon said. “This thing's signal is intense but very short range. If you're in a couple miles on this frequency, it blocks everything. Outside its range, it peters off quick. So the Legion'll hear 'C Jam Blues' for the next ten hours, and their bosses'll hear us.”

“That means you got to get to talking, G-man,” Gator said.

“Yes, Mister Gator, sir,” Agent Leddy replied.

“Don't forget these,” Mick said. He handed Leddy a list of scrawled passwords and countersigns. Leddy scanned them quickly, stopping at one in particular.

“This is correct?” he asked,

“O'Laughlin swore up and down that that's what Polk calls himself,” Mickey said. Marge looked over his shoulder.

“It seems somewhat audacious,” she said. She had Baby bundled up again and clutched to her chest. After its time basking in the sunrise with Qutat, the strange rat seemed calmer, and plumper. Mick thought the cat had nursed it, but no one had seen it happen.

“Audacious is right,” Leddy agreed. “Imagine calling yourself 'Patriot Shepherd' on the radio, where anyone can hear.”

“These Legion boys ain't much for subtlety, agent,” Assistant Director Tamm said. “Let's get a move on.”

Leddy nodded, then picked up the makeshift microphone and began spouting off his lines. Mickey didn't know much German, but he could tell that Leddy's recitation was sloppy and nervous. But if Leddy was going to impersonate one of those Silver Legion rednecks, sloppy and nervous might be the most convincing style he could do it in.

The assembled officials and agents waited in silence. A dozen roosters crowed in the distance. The whole place was lousy with them.

“Oooh,” Marge groaned. She clenched a steaming coffee mug in her free hand, taking occasional sips in a vain attempt to ward off what would soon be a monster of a hangover.

“What's the time?” Cypress whispered. Mick checked his watch.

“Seven fifteen,” he said. The sun had been up for about ten minutes.

“Pilar should be here soon,” Saxon said.

“If your boys got her,” Cypress muttered. He was watching Qutat. The cat was asleep in her crate, snoring softly. In the water below the dock, a large school of various fish had gathered and was swimming in slow spirals beneath her.

“Anyone stupid enough to throw in with the krauts isn't like to be much trouble for the Crook Factory. They only had two men guarding her when Paxchi and I scoped her out,” Saxon said. “It's those guns-for-hire I'm worried about.”

“O'Laughlin and Sparacello are solid, I think,” Mick replied. “They're more interested in clean slates than cash, and that's something the Nazis can't give 'em.”

Leddy repeated the message. The Bureau man was nervous, with sweat beading on his brow despite the cool breezes coming off the water. His nervousness might help sell the story.

The radio crackled a response. Something terse and Teutonic.

Leddy gulped.

“What is it?” Mick asked. “What'd they say?”

“They bought it,” Leddy said. “But now they need something to shoot at.”

“Let's hope the Crooks get lucky,” Tamm said.

“Sir, is it piracy if they're hijacking their own ship?” Tamm asked.

“You know, Agent Leddy, my legal expertise does not strictly cover maritime law,” Tamm said after a moment's consideration. He perked up. “What's that?”

Mick heard it, too. The rumble of engines. Planes.

“Those yours?” he asked the G-man.

“Not mine, but they might take care of everything,” Tamm replied. He pointed over Mick's shoulder, to the west. Mick followed Saxon's finger with his binoculars and saw that a half-dozen torpedo bombers had taken off from Boca Chica, Key West's naval air station.

“Those U-boats aren't the sitting ducks they're expecting,” Mick said. He couldn't have dead sailors on his conscience, there wasn't any vacancy there. “Can we warn 'em?”

“Not unless you know their frequency,” Gator said.

“Won't matter anyway,” Saxon said. “They're heading into the Gulf.”

Mick looked again. Saxon was right: the squadron of sub hunters was wheeling west, away from the Keys.

“The krauts are getting ready for action,” Tamm said. “They must have called in a false sighting in the other direction to draw off air defenses.”

“They got a plan for everything,” Cypress said.

“Papa's already on the way,” Saxon said. “Everyone get ready to move.”

Mick lifted his binoculars and studied the blue margin where the sea met the sky. A twinkling red star was falling toward the water.

“Flare's up!” Mick confirmed. The motley crew gathered themselves and readied for a swift embarkation.

“You got a good eye, master sergeant,” Mick told Saxon. “The Office is looking for...”

Saxon cut Mick off before he could finish his pitch.

“I'd be dead in a bathroom if I hadn't found my way onto Papa's crew,” he said. “He pulled a knife out of my gut in a Havana bar.”

“I understand,” Mick told him.

“What he's got going here, it's something else. I fought for my country before, but the Crook Factory is something else. We may not be patriots, but when fascists show up, you know we'll be there to put 'em down,” Saxon added.

“I'll keep you in mind,” Mick said. He looked out over the water again. He could see the Pilar charging through the water now, steaming at full speed. Hemingway was on her bow, waving both his arms.

The Pilar roared into the small marina, infuriating the already-miffed harbormaster. Assistant Director Tamm paid the man more lip service and again swore him to secrecy, and by the time it was smoothed the rest of the way out, the Pilar had whipped around and come in to dock facing back out to sea. Siskie, the old Basque fisherman who was behind the wheel, wiped sweat off his forehead as Gregorio clapped him on the shoulder for a job well done.

“We stirred up a whole hornet's nest back there!” Hemingway was shouting. “Get a move on, they're right on us.”

The entire crew, along with O'Laughlin and Sparacello, started helping the agents and officials aboard. The Irishman took Mick's hand and hauled him over the rail. When Mickey found his footing on the deck, he noticed a slick red stain on his palm. O'Laughlin waved off his concern, pointing to a rag tied tight around his upper arm.

“Just a bit of a stab,” he explained. “Basil took care of the bugger.”

The Irish wolfhound had crimson staining his shaggy muzzle. Basil was engrossed, staring as Cypress handed Qutat up to Hemingway. He bounded over and stood next to the author to watch over the gray cat like a gargoyle. On land, the roosters had stopped crowing. Instead, they had gathered by the score at the far end of the dock, silent and still, with only a sea breeze ruffling their long green tail feathers.

“Is that everyone?” Hemingway shouted. Mick did a quick count.

“That's it!” Mick shouted back.

“Full steam ahead, let's go!” Hemingway shouted.

Pilar's engines roared to life, kicked up a plume of water in the quiet marina. The harbormaster was shouting something and shaking his fist, but no one could hear what he was yelling as the boat lurched back out to sea. They steamed due east, out of the morass of tiny islands and their snoring civilians and into the rising sun. Once they had enough distance from the reefs, sandbars, and beach resorts, they could turn north toward the mainland and safety.

Mick stumbled across the heaving deck and made his way into the flying bridge. It was crowded, with Hemingway, Saxon, Gregorio the first mate, Assistant Director Tamm, Agent Leddy, Gator, and Cypress all arguing while Siskie fought for enough elbow room to handle the ship's wheel.

“There is a convoy steaming out of Miami right now, ready to meet us halfway. The Jean Chastel is at their head. And they have a team trained to handle these types of animals,” Cypress was telling them, but neither Hemingway nor Tamm was having it, and neither was impressed when Cypress name-dropped the Office's premier U-boat killer. The Jean was renowned in certain circles for having sunk entire wolf packs on its own without ever losing a ship in its care. This pair was not impressed, and they chose to argue over the cat.

“That animal is a national security issue,” Tamm argued.

“That animal is a cat and entitled to live as a cat. And it is and my property,” Hemingway countered.

“The President of the United States says I have jurisdiction in this case,” Cypress said. He produced a letter from his pocket. Tamm braced himself against the cabin's ceiling as he read it. Hemingway glared over his shoulder.

“This is baloney,” Tamm declared after a moment's study.

“Malarkey,” Leddy added.

“Bullshit,” Hemingway clarified. He leaned over Tamm and rubbed the signature with his thumb, smearing it. “The ink's not even dry!”

That got everyone yelling, but Mick's big lungs boomed loudest of all.

“Gentlemen, Doctor Cypress is correct,” Mick shouted over them. “We have the full backing of the United States government to take the lead in all investigations into the alternative sciences. We have permission to confiscate, conscript, or commandeer any persons or property that would assist in our investigations.”

“You can't possibly have that kind of jurisdiction,” Tamm sputtered, though he knew he was wrong. He looked to Leddy, who didn't have anything to add for once. They'd both briefed enough to know to that whatever Mick was up to was above their pay grade, and the letter proved it.

Cypress had worked up that letter on Hemingway's own typewriter in his own former study, and Mick had put on the finishing touch himself with the FDR stamp Earp had issued to him. It helped to have the president's backing whenever Mick found himself in a pickle. Earp said it carried the full authority of Roosevelt’s actual signature, but Mick wasn’t sure locals would see it that way.

He lowered his voice and told it like it was before they could examine the letter any further:

“What I'm saying is that either you cooperate now, we survive this Nazi madness, and you all get medals when we get home, or I punch each and every one of you in the head and we do it all my way anyway,” Mick said. The G-men looked at each other, then nodded. They knew how to follow orders. Tamm folded the letter up and slid it into his jacket pocket.

Hemingway wasn't happy, and he wasn't afraid to say so.

“I am not happy,” he snarled. “This is a living, breathing being. If I find out you lot is doing anything to her other than treating her right, there will be hell to pay. Don't try to hide it, I have my sources.”

“Mister Hemingway...” Cypress started, only for Siskie to correct him.

“Papa.”

“Mister Papa...” Cypress tried, but Gregorio butted in.

“Captain.”

“Captain Papa,” Cypress growled, “I am a biologist, not a monster. Nazi science is all about tearing things to pieces and studying the parts. I learn through observation and interaction. Qutat, and Baby, for that matter, will be given the safest accommodations. They'll eat the healthiest food and given the most advanced medicines. And I have the resources to see it through.”

Hemingway stared into the younger man's face for a full ten seconds, looking for cracks. Satisfied, he asked:

“You're giving me your word?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then put her there,” Hemingway said. He put one of his big mitts out and shook Cypress' hand. He turned around pointed to the southeast through the windscreen. Mick scanned the horizon and spotted a series of tiny black dots. Polk and the Legion, hot on their trail. “Enough jerking around, boys, we got traitors to fight. Ready your weapons! Man your battle stations!”

The motley crew scrambled around him. Former fishermen, chauffeurs, photographers, priests, and bartenders picked up machine guns, grenades, and rifles and set up along the rail. Martha found her own gun, an old Spanish carbine from their civil war, and took her place among the Crooks. O'Laughlin and Sparacello gave each other a look, then took up their own positions, guns at the ready. Kid Tunero hustled Marge around to the far side of the ship, behind cargo crates and bulkheads for cover, leaving her to wrangle Qutat, Baby, Basil, and Massimo all at once. For her part she seemed to be doing well: Qutat was purring, calming the other animals down.

“Distance?” Hemingway asked.

“Sei kilometro, Papa,” Siskie answered. Gregorio was studying the horizon through an old-timey bronze sextant. After a moment, he nodded in confirmation.

“Any word from the full-time Nazis?” Mick asked Leddy.

“None since the dock,” the agent replied. He clamped the earpiece to the side of his head, like he'd hear something if he listened harder.

“Three minutes 'til machine gun range,” Saxon said.

“Wait for my say-so,” Hemingway said.

Fernando punched the console and a spring-loaded drawer popped open. He retrieved a half-full quart of brown rum and offered Hemingway the first sip. He received it gladly and took a slug, then passed it around the bridge.

“Stare them down, boys,” Hemingway said.

Saxon held up the bottle in front of Mick's face after taking his own sip.

“Aw hell,” Mick said. He took it and knocked it back, because who was he to argue with tradition? It was vanilla and clove and heat and molasses. Sweeter than he liked, but it had what he was looking for. The murderous specks on the edge of the sea were still growing, but that didn't seem so bad just then, for whatever reason.

Cypress took one sniff and tried to hand it off to Tamm, who turned it down. Leddy followed his director's lead with a bit of hesitation. One of the Crooks scooped it up again and it was down to a final sip before it made its way back 'round to Hemingway, who dutifully polished it off.

“Well,” he said as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, “Let's see how well you speak kraut then, G-man.”

No one looked more nervous than Leddy as they watched the Legion armada close in.

“Should we man battle stations?Are there evasive maneuvers? Can we do them?” he was babbling.

“If we give up the ghost now, the krauts'll be on to us, too,” Gator said. “Stay on course. Stare 'em down. Make 'em mad.”

“Distance?” Hemingway asked.

“Quatro kilometros, Papa,” Gregorio said.

Basil started barking, wild and curious. The big dog was standing up with his feet on the rail, glaring out at the water. Marge was flustered, trying not to spill her drink or drop Baby as Basil's wagging tail swatted her in the face.

“Somebody shut that dog up!” Hemingway shouted he watched the ominous sea.

“Oi, Basil, quit it!” O'Laughlin shouted. The dog missed one beat in his barking tirade, but picked it right back up again. Mick leaned out the bridge door to see what had gotten him riled.

“Shark!” Mick shouted, his lizard brain taking over and warning everyone before he even knew his mouth was working. The sight of a long, gray, muscular shape slicing through the waves woke something deep in his guts that not even Nazis got to quivering.

“Bottlenose dolphins,” Cypress said. Mick's racing heart calmed as he recognized the leaping creatures. There were dolphins trailing the Pilar's wake for as far as he could see.

“How many are there?” he wondered.

“This isn't a normal pod,” Cypress realized. There were at least forty dolphins off the left side of the ship, and even more on the right. The official stood up straight, wondering aloud: “Where is the Qutat?”

Marge leaned out from behind the excited dog and pointed down. The cat's cage was pressed up against the Pilar's hull.

“She's calling them, reverberating through the keel,” Cypress realized.

“Are your fascists even out there?” Hemingway wondered to the officials. He could care less about dolphins.

“Huff-duff is going mad,” Saxon reported. He tapped a radio box that with a circular face, a HF/DF radio direction finder, the latest generation technology before the hand-held radio signal tracker the Office used. The little hand inside the huff-duff was bouncing all around, red, green, left, right, all over. There were so many unknown signal sources submerged ahead that it couldn't pick just one to track. Saxon's eyes went wide and he sat back frm the detector. “They're all over.”

“Then what are they waiting for?” Hemingway wondered.

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Copyright © 2023 Daniel Baldwin. All rights reserved.

Written and edited by Daniel Baldwin. Story by Bonnie Baldwin. Art by Bruce Conners.