The Sea Wolf pitched in the churning grey water. The deck was slick with a mixture of salt spray and diesel. It was a constant, rolling fight for balance. Sineus stood near the wheelhouse, his hand gripping a cold metal rail. The air smelled of rust and the coming storm. Ahead, less than a kilometer away, a black smudge of rock rose from the sea. An island.
The Turk, the grizzled captain who owned the trawler, stood at the helm. His crimson fez was a single point of color in the monochrome world. He pointed a thick, scarred finger toward the gap between the island and a stretch of mainland coast.
— There, — his voice was a low rumble over the engine’s groan. — The channel. Our path to Istanbul.
Sineus saw nothing but darkness and churning waves in the gap.
— I see no lights.
— That is the problem, — The Turk said. He did not take his eyes off the water. — The navigation lights are out. The channel is mined. We go in there blind, we are torn apart. We wait here, a patrol finds us. We turn back, our deal is off.
The choice was simple. And impossible. The Turk would not risk his ship. Not for all the gold in Sineus’s past. Sineus looked at the dark shape of the island. A single structure stood on its highest point. A lighthouse. Dark. Silent.
He saw his reflection in the wet, vibrating glass of the ship’s compass. It was a broken, wavering image, a face he barely recognized. A man at the mercy of smugglers and the sea.
— The lighthouse is on that island? — Sineus asked.
— Yes. Held by a German garrison. They keep the light off. Makes the channel a deathtrap for our supply ships.
Sineus made the calculation. The risk was absolute. But inaction was also a choice. A choice to fail. He thought of Kulagin’s words in the field hospital. The hard right.
— I will take the lighthouse, — Sineus said. It was not a question.
The Turk finally turned his head. His flat, dark eyes measured Sineus. The smuggler’s gaze held a new understanding. He was looking at a commander, not a beggar.
— It is your men. Your risk, — The Turk said. He turned back to the helm. — You have one hour. Then the storm is too strong to hold this position.
Sineus nodded. The price was simple. It would be paid in his own men’s blood, not the smuggler’s. He turned from the wheelhouse. Kulagin, the Sergeant Major whose loyalty was a physical law, was already watching him, waiting. Zoya, the partisan who moved like a shadow, met his gaze from across the deck. They knew.
The small boat ground against the rocks with a sound like breaking teeth. The landing was on the island’s sheltered side, a narrow cove of black stone and sucking gravel. The rain was colder now, mixed with sleet that stung the skin. Kulagin was the first out, his submachine gun held ready as he secured a line to a jagged outcrop. Sineus followed, then Zoya. The three of them moved from the boat onto the shore, their boots sinking into the wet stone.
— Sokolov, — Sineus spoke into the small radio handset. — Stay with the boat. Keep the engine warm.
— Understood, Commander, — the scientist’s voice crackled back, thin and nervous.
They left the cove, climbing a steep, muddy path. The island smelled of wet earth, salt, and decay. Zoya moved ahead, a ghost in the gloom. She was not a soldier, but a creature of the land, and this terrain of rock and stunted trees was a language she understood. She pointed to a set of faint tracks in the mud. A boot print. Fresh.
Kulagin knelt, his big hand hovering over the mark.
— German issue. At least two men. Patrol.
They advanced, following Zoya’s lead. She moved from cover to cover, never making a sound. Sineus and Kulagin followed, their weapons ready. They were a hunting party. After ten minutes of hard climbing, they reached a ridge overlooking the lighthouse.
It was a stone tower, stark and black against the bruised purple of the storm clouds. A low barracks building was attached to its base. A single light burned in a window. A thin trail of smoke rose from a chimney, instantly torn apart by the wind. Zoya held up two fingers, then spread them. Twelve. A garrison of twelve men.
Sineus studied the layout. One entrance to the barracks. One door at the base of the tower. Two sentries, one near the barracks door, the other pacing a short route along the cliff edge.
— Zoya, — Sineus whispered, his voice barely audible over the wind. — Create a diversion. On the far side of the barracks. Draw them out.
She nodded once, a sharp, predatory motion. Then she was gone, melting into the shadows.
Sineus looked at Kulagin. The Sergeant Major’s face was a mask of grim determination.
— We go for the tower door, — Sineus said. — They will expect the threat to come from the barracks. We go straight for the light.
Kulagin checked the action on his submachine gun. The metallic click was loud in the sudden quiet.
— For the light, — he agreed.
A rock clattered down the cliff face on the far side of the compound. It was a small sound, but sharp and unnatural. The sentry near the barracks door stiffened. He called out something in German. A second soldier emerged from the building. They moved cautiously toward the sound. Zoya’s diversion.
— Now, — Sineus breathed.
He and Kulagin broke cover. They moved fast, low to the ground, covering the fifty meters of open space to the tower in seconds. The second sentry, the one on the cliff path, turned at the sound of their running feet. He was too slow. Kulagin’s submachine gun coughed a single, three-round burst. The man crumpled without a sound.
They reached the tower door. It was thick wood, bound with iron. Locked. Sineus slammed his shoulder against it. It held firm. From the barracks, there were shouts. The diversion had been discovered.
Kulagin stepped back. He raised his weapon and fired a controlled burst into the lock mechanism. Wood splintered. Metal screamed. The door swung inward into darkness. They plunged inside.
The air was thick with the smell of oil and cold stone. A spiral staircase of iron grate clung to the curved wall, climbing up into the blackness. Sineus took the lead, his Tokarev pistol held tight in his hand. They took the stairs two at a time.
A German soldier appeared on the landing above, framed against the faint light from the open door below. He had a pistol. Sineus fired twice. The man fell, his body tumbling down the narrow stairwell. The clang of his rifle on the iron steps was deafening.
They kept climbing. Another soldier leaned over the railing from two levels up, firing his rifle blindly into the dark. The muzzle flash was a blinding white flower. Bullets sparked off the stone wall behind Sineus. Kulagin returned fire, a long, rising burst that stitched its way up the railing. The soldier shrieked and fell back.
They reached the top, a small, circular room with a heavy iron door. The lamp room. Sineus kicked it open and went in low.
The room was a cage of glass and brass. The huge, multi-faceted lens of the lighthouse lamp dominated the space. Two German soldiers were inside. One was a radio operator, shouting into a handset. The other was a non-commissioned officer, turning to face the door, his submachine gun rising.
Kulagin was through the door a second after Sineus. His weapon roared, filling the small room with an unbearable noise. The German NCO was thrown back against the glass panels, his body leaving a spiderweb of cracks. The radio operator dropped his handset and raised his hands.
Sineus did not hesitate. He fired one shot. The operator fell. Silence returned, broken only by the howling of the wind outside.
Sineus went to the lamp mechanism. It was a complex assembly of gears and electrical contacts. He had no idea how to operate it. He keyed his radio.
— Sokolov. We are in the lamp room. Talk to me.
— Thank God, — the scientist’s voice was a relieved hiss of static. — There should be a main power switch. A large lever, probably painted red.
Sineus scanned the control panel. He found the lever and threw it. Nothing happened.
— Nothing.
— There must be a secondary ignition sequence. Look for a panel with a series of smaller switches. They must be engaged in the correct order. German naval code. I know it. There should be four switches. Are they labeled?
Sineus leaned closer. There were small placards above each switch.
— Yes. ‘Netz.’ ‘Zündung.’ ‘Rotation.’ ‘Spiegel.’
— Power, ignition, rotation, mirror, — Sokolov translated. — Engage them in that order. Netz first.
Sineus flipped the first switch. A low hum filled the room.
— Zündung.
He flipped the second. A bright spark arced inside the lamp housing. The huge bulb began to glow with a pale, hesitant light.
— Rotation.
He flipped the third. With a low groan of gears, the entire lamp assembly began to turn.
— Spiegel!
Sineus flipped the final switch. The light inside the bulb intensified, a brilliant, clean white that hurt the eyes. The beam focused, coalesced. A solid pillar of unwavering truth cut through the storm and the darkness.
He looked out through the glass. He could see the Sea Wolf, a small, dark shape tossed by the waves. The light swept over it, illuminating it for a second before moving on. They had their path.
He saw his own face reflected in the huge, curved glass of the lamp. It was warped and stretched by the lens, but it was whole. It was illuminated. It was the face of a man who had restored something, not erased it.
— It is done, — Sineus said into the radio. — We are coming back.
The journey down was faster. They did not need stealth now. Shouts and gunfire echoed from below. The garrison was trying to storm the tower. Kulagin took the lead, firing down into the stairwell, clearing their path.
They burst out of the tower door and ran for the cove. Tracer rounds, angry red lines, zipped past them in the dark. They scrambled down the path, sliding on the wet mud and rock. The small boat was waiting, its engine a low thrum. Sokolov was at the tiller, his face pale with fear.
They piled in. Kulagin pushed them off the rocks as Sineus started firing back toward the beach, providing cover. The boat lurched as it caught the swell. They were away.
The storm raged around them. The lighthouse beam swept across the sky, a steady, defiant pulse in the heart of the chaos.
The island was a dark shape receding behind them, alive with the muzzle flashes of useless, angry gunfire. The wind was a clean, cold roar.
