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Ensign Zack Lee, U.S. Navy—a wiry, five-foot-seven twenty-one-year-old, fair-skinned, with buzzed white-blond hair and a pair of disproportionately large ears that stuck straight out from his very round head—was not sure exactly what to expect when he had been sent to meet the Free French Forces submarine Casabianca. He’d simply been ordered by the motor pool lieutenant (junior grade) to go down the hill to the docks and bring Commander L’Herminier directly back to AFHQ.

What Ensign Lee was sure of, however, was that he planned to carry out the order without mishap.

The motor pool lieutenant (j.g.) had told him, “Some light bird named Owen on Eisenhower’s staff has a bug up his ass that the sub driver is not to go anywhere but from the boat right to Owen’s office.” Without looking up from the crossword puzzle he’d been working, he added, “Screw it up and you’ll wind up getting reassigned to a DLM in, oh, say, el Golia.”

When Lee had replied, “A DLM in el Golia, sir?” the reply had been, “Ensign, that would be Desk, Large Metal, in the Algerian hellhole called a desert. Now, get the hell down there!”

Ensign Lee, wearing summer whites, his newly issued butter bars shining brightly in the Mediterranean sun, hoped that he was not going to have to wait too long, as he now was beginning to drip with sweat.

Lee had already managed an impressive string of screwups during his short hitch—the biggest being picking the Navy in the first place. He’d joined in large part, he had hoped, to get away from the dreadful dry heat of the sunbaked Texas Panhandle. He’d been born in Amarillo, raised an hour’s drive north in a desolate dirt patch called, appropriately enough, Cactus, Texas. And he’d just graduated from Texas Technological College, there on the high plains in Lubbock.

Now, not at all overjoyed about being assigned as a motor pool driver to ferry AFHQ flag officers and the like, he stood leaning against the front right fender of a 1941 Plymouth P11.

The four-door staff car he drove was another that the Navy had decided for whatever reason to leave in its civilian configuration—this particular one with the body and wheels painted in a baby blue color, and its bumpers, grille, window trim, and hubcaps still in shining chrome. There was one obvious modification that may have met some military standard: US NAVY had been stenciled in black, four-inch-high block letters across each of the back doors.

He mopped the sweat from his forehead, very much aware that hoping for an assignment at sea had been a colossal screwup on his part. He realized that he had, very simply, traded a dreadful, dry Texas heat for a dreadful, humid subtropical heat.

Not to mention a dreadfully boring job, one he was determined to rise above.

And not screwing up certainly was one way to accomplish that.

Lee watched the Casabianca being nudged to her berth by small tugs. Her deck was busy with what clearly were Free French sailors. They steadily and calmly readied lines fore and aft, while watchful gunners stood by the antiaircraft weaponry. A small group of five or six men crowded the conning tower.

Wonder if one of them is the captain? Lee thought. And which one?

When the boat was stopped dead in the water alongside the dock, the sailor activity increased dramatically. The speed and agility impressed Lee, who wondered what life on a sub would be like.

Can’t be worse than a motor pool driver. It sure looks more exciting.

Once the submarine was secure, a nonregulation gangplank was produced—Looks like something they could’ve made in junior high woodshop— and run from the sub’s deck down to the smooth stone edge of the dockage.

Ensign Lee watched in amazement as two male figures—What? Passengers? They sure don’t look like Free French sailors—made their way toward coming ashore.

The first figure walking toward the gangplank was a big man with dark hair, imposing—probably six feet tall, with wide shoulders—and a confident stride. He wore nice, casual tan slacks, a lightweight, dark brown shirt that was buttoned down the front, and a navy blue Greek fisherman’s cap. Slung over his shoulder was a black duffel made of what looked like a rubberized fabric.

Must be waterproofing, or something that sailors use. But is that a pistol butt sticking out above his belt buckle? I’ll be damned! He’s got himself a .45 tucked in his waistband!

Trailing the tall man by some ten feet was another tall figure, this one almost completely concealed in a traditional Arab outfit—a white gandoura cloak, a burnous cape, and on his head a fez wrapped in white cloth. He carried—very carefully, very slowly, as he apparently was having more than a little difficulty with his footing on the deck—what looked very much like a large leather suitcase.

“What’s with the Arab and the suitcase?” Ensign Lee muttered aloud.

His Texas tongue made “Arab” come out “A-rhab.”

He thought, Must be a heavy one, too. He’s using both hands on that handle.

Lee watched with rapt fascination as the big, imposing man moved quickly to the foot of the gangplank and then stopped to look back at the Arab. He clearly looked to be in a rush…and not necessarily pleased with the Arab’s slow pace.

The big, imposing man waited till the Arab had reached him, then held out his hand for the suitcase.

The Arab did not seem sure that he wanted the big, imposing man to take the suitcase. There then ensued what Ensign Lee thought to be a somewhat comic tug-of-war.

This is getting to be a pretty good l’il show, he thought, grinning.

The big, imposing man then let go of the handle, said something to the Arab, and gestured toward the narrow gangplank.

The Arab looked at what he was gesturing toward, tentatively placed a foot on the gangplank, and then apparently understood what the big imposing man was trying to tell him. Which appeared to be that the gangplank was (1) not only narrow but (2) also not exactly the most stable of conveyances to carry a heavy suitcase across for a man who was experiencing an obvious loss of footing.

The Arab let loose the suitcase handle.