1901

“Possibly,” she responded and returned. She knelt on the bed beside him and looked at his body. Not bad at all, she thought. Not a Greek statue, but a good, solid, live man. She ran her hands down his chest, found his manhood, and felt it harden under her touch. “Oh my.”

A malicious thought entered her head and she responded by lying beside him and then on top of him, straddling his chest. “What are you doing?” he asked, his eyes fixed on the way her breasts swayed above him.

Trina slid farther down until she was directly above him. “Molly explained to me just how she and Heinz have to make love because of his wounds. Now lie still.” He groaned as she maneuvered herself so he slid easily into her.

“Are you going to dominate me like this all the time?”

She giggled. “Only when you deserve it. Or when I want to.”

Much later and in the light of full morning they sat in their kitchen, primly dressed in gowns and robes, and sipped some hot coffee while they debated how to spend the rest of their day. Their conversation was interrupted by a sharp and insistent pounding on the front door.

“Who the heck is that?” Patrick asked.

“Probably not Paul Revere, since he’s been dead awhile,” Trina remarked. “You better go answer it.” Patrick, muttering half angrily, opened the door to find Lieutenant Colonel Harris. It was on the tip of Patrick’s tongue to rip the colonel hard for daring to interrupt his commanding officer on the morning after his wedding, but he recognized that Harris was visibly upset.

“What’s wrong, Jon?”

Harris took a deep breath. “A general alarm just came over the telegraph. We don’t know whether the Krauts are coming out or not, but we think something awful has happened in New York.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Captain Richmond Hobson felt that at least some of his prayers had been answered. The awful rain had slackened and his instincts told him it was likely to cease altogether in a little while. Visibility had improved dramatically and he could now see the running lights of scores of ships anchored in close formation in the upper bay of New York harbor. Although the wind continued to be strong and the waves choppier than he would have thought optimal, both were well within acceptable limits. The only problem was that it was already midnight and his plans had to be executed in the darkest part of the night. If he did not rush, it would be dawn before he and his men could make their way out and back, and there would be a slaughter.

Of course, he could wait one more day and start earlier in the night, when better weather would make their attempts that much easier. If he did that, however, then many of the dozens of ships would have made their way out the Narrows and into the lower bay anchorage or, worse, started back to Germany.

It was a real Hobson’s choice. He smiled ruefully and silently condemned the English stable owner of the same name who had created the statement.

There was no choice. It would be tonight. “Mr. Holland!”

John Holland had been gazing at the Germans as well, and the summons startled him. A small, bearded man in his sixties, he looked like an innocuous college professor, not an inventor of military devices.

“Yes, Captain Hobson?”

“Can you get your boat ready to depart in one hour? And in position to attack no later than four in the morning?”

Holland thought a moment. “I believe so. I might have to settle for a long shot, but perhaps I can run on the surface a little longer than I first planned. The Germans shouldn’t be too concerned about what might look to them like bobbing debris after such a great storm.”

“Then get started.” Holland nodded and turned away. “And don’t forget which fleet you’re shooting at.” Holland looked back and flashed a quick grin. John Holland’s personal sympathies lay in a desire for Irish independence, which resulted in an almost pathological hatred of things British. He had openly proclaimed a willingness to use America’s only submarine against the Royal Navy.