Dark Full of Enemies(19)
“Reminds me of Baskerville Hall,” McKay said.
Howarth seemed mortified.
“Yes, I’m frightfully sorry about this. We’ve broken camp, you see—moved our base to Scalloway. Another bit of the island. Your people did ask for isolation, I’m afraid.”
“No apologies necessary, Lieutenant,” McKay said, and held out his hand. “Thanks.”
“Quite welcome, I’m sure.” He nodded to the guards. “I’m leaving you these men until tomorrow. I understand you’re to travel to Norway by submarine.”
“That’s right,” McKay said, and thought, That’s classified.
Howarth seemed to guess his thoughts.
“Not to worry, Captain, I know how to keep a secret. If you’ll step outside with me a moment…”
McKay told the team to check their gear and set up for an overnight stay in the hall. He walked outside. Howarth led him around to the front of the house.
Lunna House may have looked imposing from the road, but its view of the isthmus, the black bays on either side of it and the dips and folds of bare, rocky land across the waters was even more impressive. Below McKay and Howarth stood the squat stone buildings and pens they had driven past, and a handful of cold-stunned sheep huddling in the lee of the walls. The stone walls and buildings looked less like they had been quarried and set by man and more like they had been weathered into existence by the winds and rains of the north. The wind whipped the thin snow around them without bringing it to rest on anything. McKay’s nose burned and began to run. He turned up the collar of his coat and pulled his scarf up to his chin. Howarth appeared unfazed by the chill.
“We’re looking south, you see,” Howarth said. He waved to the left, the east. “East Lunna Voe. Open to the North Sea and unprotected by these splendid promontories. You needn’t worry about it. But West Lunna Voe—” and he gestured to the right, toward the sheltered cove where the pier struck out into the water, “—that’s where you’ll rendezvous. Sheltered. Calm and tranquil. We used to bring all our boats into that water, until we moved. Unfortunately it’s only suitable for vessels drawing less than thirteen feet, so your sub will meet you farther out, in the deepest channel of that bay.”
“Understood.”
“We’re bringing a motor launch round from Scalloway to assist you when it arrives. I don’t expect you’d like swimming that water.”
McKay laughed. Howarth laughed with him, and crossed his arms and seemed to lose himself in thought.
“You’ve heard, I suppose, about the frogman attack on the Tirpitz?”
McKay had. Just three months before, British sailors in miniature submarines had breached the defenses of a German naval base in the far northern reaches of Norway, at Altafjord. The battleships Scharnhorst and Tirpitz were moored there, within striking distance of the northern Atlantic and the arctic shipping lanes running from North America to Russia. Over several painstaking hours, the British navigated the defenses of the fjord, attached mines to the hull of the Tirpitz, and attempted to flee. The explosions crippled the Tirpitz, but the mini-subs’ crews—or what was left of them—were captured. And the Scharnhorst still roamed the sea lanes. Failure may have been too harsh a word for the mission, but success was far too kind.
Regardless, McKay admired that kind of guts.
Howarth nodded toward the sea.
“Those lads trained for the job here.”
McKay looked at the sea, imagined the brave but ill-fated crews practicing their attacks over and over until they had mastered each step and contingency, and thought again of how under-prepared his team was for this mission. He wanted to ask Howarth how long the frogmen had trained, diving into the black icewater below, but did not. He rubbed his eyes.
Howarth bestirred himself, sighed, and checked his watch.
“Nearly 1200. You’ll be wanting rest. Sunset comes by 1500 at this time of year, you know.”
“Of course,” McKay said, and held out his hand. Howarth took it. “Thanks again.”
“Not at all.”
They turned against the wind and went inside.
Howarth left the three guards with them and departed with his jeeps. McKay doublechecked the team’s gear, then went over his own. Stallings stretched out and slept. Ollila cleaned his rifle. Graves poked at the fire until it roared in the grate. When McKay had finished with his gear, he prepared a place to sleep near the fire, laid himself slowly down, and closed his eyes. Within minutes, he had checked his timepiece, turned over, and lay thinking, eyes open. He would go over the details—what details he had—with the team once aboard the sub. They would check their weapons, ammo, explosives, and other gear again. And again. He would try to sleep.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyelids shut. Sunset in two hours, when it had risen less than three hours and 700 miles ago. He opened his eyes once more, took in the snow and wan dusklight outside the windows, and slept.
He awoke again deep in the night. The fire guttered and the team snored around him. He drifted in and out and, finally, slept again. He did not realize until later, deep into the long winter darkness of those islands, that, once they sailed, he would not see the sun again.
4
He could see the conning tower and men moving on it, the moon shone so bright. The light in the cloudless black rimmed tower, deck, and sharklike prow blue-white against the twinkling bay. McKay ground his chin deeper into his scarf and checked his timepiece. It was 0400.