“Put the wire out, Tony,” Clete ordered. “There’s just enough light for us to find the sonofabitch.”
“Ain’t we lucky?” Tony said, and got up from the co-pilot’s seat and went into the cabin.
Two minutes later he was back. He nodded at Clete, who picked up the microphone.
“Peter, Paul. How do you read?”
“Paul, Peter, five-by-five.”
“Peter clear.”
“Paul standing by.”
“That was Ettinger,” Tony observed. “I wonder where the Chief is.”
“I know where he is, he went for a cerveza.”
Tony laughed out loud, and Clete joined him. The laughter was contagious and hysterical.
A manifestation, Clete thought, of extreme stress.
He consulted his Hamilton and his chart, and then five minutes later consulted them again.
“That’s where the sonofabitch was,” Clete said. “Where did you go, you sonofabitch?”
“There it is,” Tony said, pointing downward.
Clete looked. He could make out the shape of ship. There were no running lights or other visible activity. But it was the Reine de la Mer.
“I wonder why they didn’t move,” Clete said, and the answer came, but he kept it to himself.
They didn’t move because they’re not at all afraid of a single-engine civilian aircraft about to drop incendiaries on them. Or at them.
They’re getting ready for a little target practice.
There’s probably some sonofabitch down there with binoculars looking for us. “Ach du lieber, I hope he hasn’t changed his mind and doesn’t come. I was so looking forward to a little sport!”
He picked up the microphone.
“Peter, Paul.”
“Go,” Ettinger’s voice came back immediately.
“Position unchanged.”
“Hold one.”
The holding took three minutes, before Ettinger’s voice came over the radio.
“Paul, Peter, they want fifteen minutes.”
“Understand fifteen, repeat, fifteen minutes.”
“Right.”
“Paul clear and standing by.”
Clete pushed the button on the Hamilton that started the stopwatch function.