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“One-zero-six degrees!” the executive officer called to the helm.

After a minute, the captain calmly said, “Distance seven-five-zero meters.”

The XO repeated that.

“Fire torpedo two,” L’Herminier ordered.

Canidy felt the Casabianca shudder as the fish shot forward. There was silence for what seemed like an eternity, then L’Herminier crossed himself again—and a muffled roar reverberated through the ship.

Then all was quiet.

L’Herminier calmly turned the scope in search of the cargo vessel.

“Ah, she’s starting to run,” he said.

L’Herminier looked at Canidy.

“I like it when the target runs,” he added. “Not as easy as the S-boat just now. You have to lead them.”

[THREE]

OSS Algiers Station Algiers, Algeria 1245 10 April 1943

As Major Richard M. Canidy, United States Army Air Forces, looked out at the Casabianca among the ships in the harbor and barrage balloons above them, Captain Stanley S. Fine, United States Army Air Forces, came out onto the balcony, a fat manila folder in his hand.

Faintly, Canidy heard a familiar sound, and his eyes caught movement in the sky. He immediately pinpointed the USAAF P-38Fs—a small V formation of five Lockheed Lightnings—and grinned knowingly. The sound of the 1,475-horsepower Allison V-12 engines was like recognizing the voice of an old friend.

All things being equal, he thought, admiring the twin-engine fighters, I’d rather be in that lead aircraft, going wherever the hell it’s going—even if that’s air combat… especially air combat—because that is where I feel the most comfortable.

It had been only months earlier that Canidy—flying with Doug Douglass, protecting a stream of B-17 bombers over Germany—had been blasting Messerschmitt Me 109s out of the sky with his Lightning’s battery of eight .50 caliber Br

ownings.

“Those birds make a pretty sight,” Fine said. “I miss flying, too.”

Canidy nodded.

Fine was widely admired not just for his creative ability—as Canidy put it, “at silencing the rear-echelon bureaucratic bastards in Washington and their endless paperwork”—but also because, despite his somewhat-frail appearance, he was absolutely fearless. And one helluva pilot.

“Here’s the stack of everything we’ve received from Mercury Station,” Fine added. “No more reports on either the Tabun or the yellow-fever program.”

“Thanks, Caesar,” Canidy said with a smile. “That’s good news.”

“There’s also an update in there from Whitbey House. Says Ann is doing well.”

“Any reason she wouldn’t be?” Canidy said. “No word where she was, what happened?”

Fine shook his head. “No—to all the above.”

Canidy said, “I’m planning to get back to London—”

“And so you shall,” Fine said. “Soon as we knock this out.”

Canidy was more than halfway through the manila folder of messages—chuckling at one of the lines that Tubes had stuck in: “Adolf and Eva send regards”—when John Craig van der Ploeg appeared on the balcony. He was holding a single typewritten message. He had a look of uncertainty.

“What’s this?” Canidy said, looking at the message. “You miss one?”

“It’s the latest from Mercury,” van der Ploeg said.