A chill wind was raising choppy waves on Lake Superior. Little whitecaps showed under lowering skies with just an occasional beam of moonlight filtering through the pressing darkness. There was a sailboat beating southward through the chop. A weary young man clung to the tiller, his eyes straining for a shore he could not see. But he could hear breakers. He had to make that shore before dawn and then cover ground fast, try to make it to a tiny place called Eagle Harbour at the northern extreme of Keweenaw Point, Michigan.

He studied the compass for the thousandth time. It's rather like navigating a fighter plane across the Channel on a bad night, he thought, but so much slower...and even colder. The cold was beginning to numb his senses and stiffen his fingers. The tiller felt like a stick of ice, and the purloined jacket he was wearing gave little protection against the elements. There had been no time or opportunity to get hold of a better one.

Then he saw it, just for a moment. A blinking light...red, red, green....red, red, green. Then nothing. The signal! "Too lucky!" he exclaimed. "I must be the luckiest bastard in the whole air force!"

A slight adjustment to the tiller. She handled nicely. Nice to be sailing again, even under these conditions. It reminded him of the days before the war, sailing with his brothers. They had loved the blustery days, ripping along with the leeward side right down in the water, but a night like that on Lake Superior would have been the end of him. Fortunately the wind was rather moderate tonight, even if it was too damned cold.

Where was that signal? Ah, they must be playing it safe, and only signalling occasionally. Then he saw the shore clearly, a long curving expanse of rocks, crashing waves, and spray flying off in sheets. Christ! Where do I put her ashore? Where are they? Does it matter? Must put her ashore now.

The signal flashed again...red, red, green...and it was only a few hundred feet away. (By God, I've made it!) Then the little boat's keel caught on the bottom and she bumped, broke loose, caught again, slewed half around. A wave broke half over the side and drenched him. Cold as bitter death. The boat lurched shoreward like a crab, leaning half over and catching again. Time to swim for it.

He dove in and felt the cold superior waters close around him, so cold it was like fire. He broke surface, gasped for air and struck shoreward with desperate energy. Got to move on adrenalin while it lasted.

He rode a big wave in for the last twenty feet or so and washed up on small rocks and sand, rolled over, and struggled away from the next set of waves that were coming in to clutch at his heels. Hell and damnation! So cold and raw. Never been so cold.

When the flashlight fell on his face he could only look up at it dumbly. If these were border police, he was too cold and tired to fight or run anymore.

"Leutnant Brehmer, I presume?" The man was thin, dressed in a dark raincoat, with the collar pulled close around his face. He wore spectacles and a fedora.

"Yes," said the young man, rising cautiously to his feet and shivering. There were two other men standing near, studying him carefully. If they were armed, they weren't showing it.

"Who sent for you?" asked the thin man.

"Marika," said Brehmer. "Who commissioned you?"

"Donner und Blitzen," answered the thin man, smiling. "Welcome to America, Leutnant Brehmer. I am your contact, 'Otto'. I apologize for the poor harbour conditions. It is not usually this unpleasant crossing the international border into 'the land of opportunity', but we are living in difficult times, all of us. Cigarette?"

"I should much prefer a hot drink," said Brehmer. "Or two. Or some Schnaps. I am freezing my goddamn arse off."

The other two men laughed, and one of them took off his coat and pressed it on Brehmer. They hustled him up the beach, scaled a small embankment, and got in a car whose motor was still idling. One man took the wheel, the other got out a map, while Brehmer and "Otto" sat in the back seat. And thanks to God! There was a thermos of still hot coffee in the car. Brehmer drank down the coffee like it was the nectar of paradise.

"Otto" studied his catch of the night with great interest. He got out a bottle of brandy and offered it to Brehmer. "No schnaps tonight, I'm afraid." No matter. The brandy was an excellent substitute.

"So, how did you like Canada? Were they hospitable?"

"Not terribly. But they were basically decent. You know the British. They are great believers in law, order, and honour, and really quite proper fellows to deal with, in my opinion."

"Yes. So I hear. And are they proper fellows to fight with?"

"Definitely," said Brehmer. "We've had the devil of a tussle with them over bloody old Eng-gel-land and the thrice damned channel. They are brave, skillful, and entirely dedicated men, flying quite good aircraft. I had the excellent luck to shoot down six of them since August, and then my string of luck ran out, and they shot me down instead one day over Kent. My crate got raked fore and aft by some smart fellow in a Spitfire. He had me cold, but my mates came right to my aid and chased him off. Then I tried to make it back but the engine started smoking badly. It caught fire shortly after that, and I bailed out. Nothing else to do. I found myself descending into a beautiful little field with several very unfriendly gentlemen with pitchforks waiting to receive me when I landed. Since then I have been a guest of His Majesty," Brehmer smiled wryly. "They sent me and a number of others to Canada shortly after. It seems we were too set on escaping, so they decided to put us farther afield. An ocean away."

"Yes. Well, you are in America now, and America is neutral territory. Still, you're what could be termed an illegal alien, so we are going to arrange for a new identity for you for the next little while. You are going to be a diplomatic assistant named 'Becker'. Here are your papers."

Brehmer looked them over. Hans Becker. Well, not a bad name, he supposed. Anyone could be called Hans Becker. It was like being called Tom Smith in England. Totally ordinary.

"So," said 'Otto', "for the last time I congratulate you as Leutnant Jurgen Brehmer for your past aerial exploits on behalf of the Reich. We now have a different sort of work for you to do."

"I am not returning to Europe? I wish to fly again with my unit."

"Not right away. First we need you to help with some intelligence work right here in America. In the big city of Chicago, in fact. I will brief you on that shortly. Your flying abilities may yet prove very useful."

"I see," said Brehmer soberly. This wasn't what he had counted on, but he was ready to do whatever was deemed to be his duty. "I want to write to my family as soon as possible," he said.

"Yes, by all means. We will provide everything you need for that," 'Otto' assured him.

They pulled into a dirt road and up to a small cabin. It looked like a hunting lodge, and when they went in it proved to be exactly that, complete with a handsome moose head mounted on the wall.

One of the other fellows, whose name was apparently Martin, started up a fire in the wood stove and soon the place was reasonably warm. Brehmer suddenly realized how utterly tired he was, and when 'Otto' showed him to a bunk bed he collapsed on it and fell asleep immediately.

"Good man," said Martin. "Imagine escaping and getting all that way in a little sailboat, and then landing within a few hundred feet of the arranged spot. It's almost unbelievable."

"Yes," agreed Bruno. "He must be a tough and resourceful one. I hope he doesn't get pneumonia from his dip in the lake."

"We must make absolutely sure he doesn't, gentlemen," said 'Otto'. "Warmth and food and tender care are the order of the day. We need him far more at this moment than the Luftwaffe does. We'll give him a good couple of days rest here, and then we go straight to Chicago, and we start working. Martin, Bruno, I need that boat sunk. Before daylight.   Take the motor launch up the coast and do it now."

"What?" protested Bruno. "It's 4 AM."

"Exactly. Not much time. Why are you still here?" said 'Otto' sharply, drawing his brows together. Bruno glanced at Martin, sighed, and they turned as one and headed out into the darkness.

"Never misses a damned thing, does he?" muttered Bruno, as he started up the car.

"Not a damned thing whatsoever," agreed Martin. "This poor flyboy, Brehmer, is going to get put through his paces, I'll guarantee it. He may soon wish he was back fighting the Tommies again."

"I think he already wishes it," said Bruno, putting the Packard in gear. "Some of them are born to it. The life expectancy is short, so they say, but you get to fly high for awhile...just like a god... and you get all the girls you can handle when you're on leave. France is a lovely place."

"Yes. Well, there are girls enough in Chicago for me," smiled Martin. "I love the USA. I hope to God they stay neutral forever."

"You'd better," said Bruno I don't think they're liable to join forces with us any time too soon."

* * * * *