Read Chapter 5: The Mine

The sea had gone flat and grey, as if the Channel itself was holding its breath.

Arthur stood at the wheel of the *Perseverance*, eyes raking the water ahead. The morning haze had burned off to reveal a dull pewter sky, and the French coast had begun to take shape—a smudge of low land to the southeast, still too distant to make out details but close enough to feel the weight of what waited there.

Behind him, the deck had become a makeshift hospital. Fourteen soldiers lay in rows, wrapped in whatever blankets and oilskins Tom could spare. The smell of blood and salt hung thick in the air. A couple of the men moaned softly. Most were silent, which Arthur found worse.

"Arthur."

Tom's voice came low and tight from the bow. Arthur stepped out of the wheelhouse, squinting forward. Tom stood frozen, one hand raised, pointing off the starboard bow at something in the water.

Arthur saw it. A dark sphere, maybe three feet across, bobbing lazily on the swell. Horns jutted from its surface like the spikes of some iron sea urchin. It rolled slightly with the waves, and Arthur caught the glint of wet metal.

"Mine," Tom said.

"I see it."

Arthur's hands moved before his mind caught up. He spun the wheel hard to port, pulling the *Perseverance* away from the drifting killer. The trawler groaned, timber protesting as she leaned into the turn.

From below, one of the wounded men cried out at the sudden movement. Arthur ignored it. His eyes were fixed on the mine as it slid past their stern, closer than he'd have liked—maybe twenty feet clear.

"We're clear," Tom said, exhaling. "Christ."

But Arthur didn't relax. Because the mine hadn't come alone.

He looked toward the shore and saw it: a low, dark shape pushing out from the haze. A coastal patrol boat, small but quick, cutting through the water with purpose.

"They've seen us," Arthur said.

The first shell came a moment later. It screamed overhead and struck the water forty yards off their port bow, throwing up a white column that hung in the air for a heartbeat before collapsing.

Tom scrambled back toward the wheelhouse. "They're ranging on us!"

Arthur knew it. The gun crew on that patrol boat would find their range soon enough. The *Perseverance* was a working trawler, built for hauling nets, not outrunning warships. In open water, they'd be caught and slaughtered.

He looked at the mine bobbing behind them. Then at the patrol boat. Then back at the mine.

"Hold on," he said.

Tom grabbed the rail. Arthur spun the wheel hard to starboard, turning the *Perseverance* back toward the mine, cutting across its drift path. The second shell landed closer, soaking the deck with spray, and the wounded men cried out again.

"What the hell are you doing?" Tom shouted.

Arthur didn't answer. He held the course, aiming straight for the mine, letting it grow larger in his vision. At the last second—when Tom had already closed his eyes—Arthur wrenched the wheel over. The *Perseverance* turned so hard she heeled, water washing over the gunnels, and the mine slid past their bow with barely two feet to spare.

They passed it. And now the patrol boat was dead ahead, the mine between them.

The German gun crew must have seen it too. Their next shell went wide—much wider than before. Then they stopped firing entirely, breaking off their pursuit to angle away from the drifting hazard.

Arthur watched them go, heart pounding, hands white on the wheel.

"You mad bastard," Tom breathed. "You used their own mine against them."

Arthur turned to reply—and heard the crack.

Not a shell. Something closer. A sharp, ugly snap that came from beside him.

Tom had crumpled to the deck. His face was pale, mouth open in shock, and his left arm lay at an odd angle. A splinter of wood—from the railing or the wheelhouse frame, Arthur couldn't tell—had punched through his forearm, pinning the sleeve of his coat to the flesh.

"Tom!" Arthur dropped to his knees beside him.

Tom's jaw tightened. He didn't scream. He looked down at the wound, then back at Arthur, and shook his head. "It's nothing. Pull it out."

Arthur examined the splinter. It was three inches long, a wicked shard of oak. It had gone clean through, exiting on the other side. The wound was ugly but not bleeding as badly as he'd feared.

"Hold still."

He gripped the splinter with both hands and pulled. Tom hissed through his teeth, a sound like steam escaping, but didn't otherwise move. The wood came free with a wet sucking sound, and blood welled up dark and red.

Arthur tore a strip from his own shirt and tied it tight above the wound. Tom used his good hand to press the fabric down.

"You'll live," Arthur said.

Tom managed a pale smile. "Course I will. It's my left arm. I need my right to earn my keep."

Arthur helped him sit upright against the wheelhouse. His own hands were shaking now, the adrenaline ebbing. He forced himself to breathe.

Below, a weak voice called out. "Skipper?"

Arthur went down into the hold. The wounded lieutenant lay near the back, propped against a coil of rope. His face was the color of old paper, and his breathing had become shallow and labored. The bandage on his chest was dark with fresh blood.

Arthur crouched beside him. "Easy, lad. Rest."

The lieutenant gripped his sleeve with surprising strength. His eyes were bright, feverish.

"Skipper. The message." Each word came out strained. "You must get it to London. To the Admiralty."

"I will," Arthur said. "I gave you my word."

The lieutenant shook his head weakly. "Not just the Admiralty. A specific man. Rear Admiral Frederic Wake-Walker. He commands the destroyer flotilla at Dover."

Arthur frowned. "You know this name?"

"His is the hand that holds the timing. He'll be the one to send the ships when the signal comes." The lieutenant coughed, and a fleck of blood appeared on his lips. "But the signal hasn't come. And it won't. Not unless someone tells him what I saw."

"What did you see?"

The lieutenant's grip tightened. "The harbor at Dunkirk. Thousands of men on the beaches. No ships. No one coming." His voice dropped to a whisper. "They've given us up for lost, skipper. The navy thinks the harbor is too shallow for their destroyers. They've convinced themselves there's no way in."

Arthur looked at the map Mac had given him—the marked route through the minefields, charted by a dying officer who had known the way in.

"There is a way in," Arthur said slowly.

The lieutenant nodded. "That's what my message tells him. The routes exist. The channel markers are still standing. They can come in. But they have to come before the tide turns and the Junkers have clear skies. There's a window—three days, maybe less. If Wake-Walker doesn't know it exists, he won't act."

Three days. Arthur had no way of knowing how many had already passed.

The lieutenant sagged against him, spent. "The message is for him. Only him. Promise me."

"I promise," Arthur said.

But as he said it, his eyes drifted up to the canvas bag Mac had left near the wheelhouse. Two messages now. Two promises. And somewhere in that haze-bound harbor to the south, his son was waiting for a rescue that might never come—because the navy thought it was impossible.

Arthur stood. He looked at the wounded soldiers sprawled across his deck. He looked at Tom, leaning against the wheelhouse with blood seeping through his makeshift bandage. He looked at the sea ahead, where the dark shape of the French coast was growing larger.

The patrol boat had broken off, but they'd seen his course. They knew the direction he was heading. And if they radioed ahead, there would be more waiting when he reached the shore.

Three days. Maybe less. A harbor full of men. A message that could bring the navy. His son somewhere among them.

The *Perseverance* pushed on into the narrow waters, her engine steady, her skipper's jaw set hard against the fear that clawed at his chest.