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“It was insanity to embark on such a mission,” Brosin said with disgust, “and it is insanity to repeat such a failure.”

“And, Commander,” Koch had said matter-of-factly, “as it was the U-202’s and Kapitänleutnant Linder’s, so is it our duty to serve as ordered.”

“That does not mean I will repeat mistakes made.”

“Nor will I, Commander,” Koch had replied coldly. “With respect, that is why this time we land during winter. And in deeper water. You will recall that Kapitänleutnant Deecke had no such problem with U-584 landing its agents on the Florida shore. And U-584 is a Type VIIC”—he paused for effect—“the same as this boat.”

“I have made my position clear,” Brosin said and stood up. “There is no margin for error.”

“Understood, Commander,” Koch said, rising. He started to leave, then added in a light and hopeful tone: “Remember, it is the new year. Victory for the Führer and the fatherland is soon, my friend.”

“Not soon enough,” Brosin had said.

Now, more than two weeks later, U-134 was within ten miles of the uppermost east coast of Florida.

Brosin turned to his executive officer, who stood with his forehead against the periscope, eyes pressed to its rubber eyecups.

“Good, Willi?”

“Nasty weather up top, sir,” Wachoffizier Wilhelm Detrick, a squat, dark-haired twenty-one-year-old, said. “Rain, light wind from the northwest. Visibility is not great. But nothing in sight, sir.”

“Take us up, then, Willi. Keep her running on batteries, prepared to go immediately to full diesel power, if necessary.”

Brosin paused and looked at Koch and his teams, then added: “The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can get back to our real work.”

“Yes, sir,” Detrick said.

[ TWO ]

Manhattan Beach, Florida

0201 28 February 1943

United States Coast Guard Yeoman Third Class Peter Pappas, who was five-foot-five, 130 pounds, and blessed with the chiseled look of a Greek god bronzed by sun and salt, tugged the hood of his poncho tighter around his head, trying to seal out the cold rain that was dripping in around the brim of his hat.

The rain had been coming in what seemed like almost regular intervals the whole time—two hours so far, with two to go—that he had been patrolling the beach. The wind had been light but steady out of the northwest. A very, very quiet Saturday night, and now early Sunday morning.

Pappas stopped at another one of the somewhat regular indentations between the sand dunes, paths cut by the feet of countless beachgoers during warmer and happier times. He looked inland and saw nothing suspicious. Then, with his handkerchief, he wiped rain from the lens of the U.S. Navy binoculars hanging from his neck, raised them to his eyes, carefully fitted the eyepieces to his eye sockets, then made a 180-degree sweep of the beach and ocean, slowly scanning from north to south.

And seeing absolutely nothing but black-gray sand, black-gray sea, and black-gray sky.

Again.

He snickered. He had just remembered the line he’d joked with the girls to get them to meet him at night on the beach: “Want to go watch the submarine races?”

Damned submarines, he thought, the smile long gone. Joke’s on me now.

It had been about a year ago when, as a seventeen-year-old senior at Tarpon Springs High School, Peter Pappas first began to seriously consider joining the United St

ates Coast Guard.

Being around boats and water was more than natural for him. His grandparents had come from Greece and settled into what then had been a village of fishermen and sponge divers. In time, Pappas’s father and uncles had followed their father into the business that had fairly rewarded their families for their hard labors. And so, too, had Pappas begun working the boats as a young boy, learning the business from the bottom—literally, cutting sea sponges from the floor of the Gulf of Mexico.

By age seventeen, though, after five-plus years of pulling sponges and filleting fish, Pappas had more than convinced himself that he needed to do something with his life other than work the family boats.

Actually, it had been Ana who had convinced him. Not that Anastasia Costas had told him that specifically, but Pappas could figure out that a sponge diver had little chance at a long-term relationship with the only daughter of Alexander Costas, Esquire, mayor of the town of Tarpon Springs.

Pappas had the Greek-god-like looks and a seemingly endless, easy charm that went a long way to masking the fact that he had not necessarily been blessed with smarts. He was a nice guy, even honest (something that could not be said of many of the boat guys), and that coupled with the looks and charm had caught the attention of fifteen-year-old Ana. And he intended to keep it.