Dark Full of Enemies(32)

Now even the snow had abated, and the sky loomed solid black overhead. The chill felt good after the cabin, and McKay stood a moment at the rail and watched the sea slip by.

“You admire the view?”

McKay turned. Petersen stood behind him, waving the fire from a matchstick and puffing a bowl of pipe tobacco to life. The tiny cup of fire lit his face in the dark.

McKay laughed. “The cabin was stuffy.”

“You like the cold.”

“Most of the time.”

Petersen approached the rail and stood. His pipe now properly going, he trailed thin clouds of pleasant-smelling smoke behind him as they sailed. A peacoat, a beard, a pipe—McKay smiled to himself. Petersen was every sea captain that had ever sailed across painting, novel, or film.

“We may have something to see in a moment,” Petersen said. “You were to arrive off Eggum, that way,” he pointed meaninglessly into the dark, “but did not. That, sir, is why we could not find you.”

“You didn’t send the signal until you were several hours late.”

Petersen said nothing for a moment, and the only sound was the unhurried tunk-tunk of the engine belowdecks. “I’m taking us through Lofoten, through the Sundklakkstraumen, a strait between two of the islands.”

“And that’ll bring us into the Vestfjorden?”

Petersen looked at him and nodded. “How well do you know Norway?”

“Mostly through history books—the sagas, Snorri Sturluson, Heimskringla and everything. I studied it some. I couldn’t help admiring the name of your boat.”

Petersen grunted and pipesmoke billowed around him. “This was my father’s boat. He named it after Hardrada. A greedy opportunist who got himself killed and destroyed his kingdom. All because Norway wasn’t enough—he wanted England, too.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Like I said—it was my father’s boat.”

“Well, my sympathies were always with the Saxons at Stamford Bridge, anyway.”

Petersen looked at him again. To McKay’s surprise, he thought he saw a brief smile. Petersen smothered it again with his heavy-browed glare and looked back out to sea and pointed, “Look.”

The moon, small and waning, had come out from behind the clouds for the first time in days, and the sea lay dim and silver-pointed in its light. Above that, and to McKay’s astonishment, high and dark, stood mountains. From the darkness had appeared a steep-walled channel between the crags of Lofoten.

“Beautiful, yes?”

“Yes,” McKay said.

“The other Americans did not get such a view. There was no storm, but the cloud had obscured everything.”

“Other Americans?”

Petersen did not reply. He stood rigid, staring at the water.

“What other Americans?”

Petersen tapped his pipe empty against the rail and turned to walk away. “Step out for the air from time to time, and you may see the lights.”

“The Northern Lights? The aurora?”

“Yes.”

Before McKay could ask again about the other Americans, Petersen walked forward, to where his crew labored at something in the moonlight. McKay remained at the rail. Petersen, he thought, was going to be hard to figure out.

He became suddenly aware that he was cold, and decided to return to the wheelhouse soon. He would talk to the younger Petersen, or to Petersen himself again. The man had answered the question of his lateness, if unsatisfactorily, but McKay wanted to know more—about the dam, the situation in the Narvik area, and especially about these “other Americans.” He wondered, but stopped his imagination before it could hatch too many stories to worry about. He stayed at the rail a few minutes longer, and lit a cigarette. He watched the mountains turn slowly against the night sky, and thought of home. It’s good to see you, he thought.





They passed into the Vestfjorden and bore east-northeast. Narvik lay miles inland from the sea on Ofotfjord, a long, deep cut in the craggy shore. What little Norwegian McKay knew came to him by way of Old Norse, the language of the Vikings, whose cargo-laden ships called knorrs sought out sheltered bays called viks. Narvik, the knorr-vik—well-named. It lay in a perfect spot for shipping, on broad, deep, and calm waters, with almost no tidal action but with ready access to the sea. That had been one reason it had remained the last redoubt of the British and Norwegians at the beginning of the war. Now British and German hulls together lined the black depths of the bay.

McKay thought of Iron Bottom Sound, off the north coast of Guadalcanal. From Edson’s Ridge he had watched the Japanese Navy plying its waters, the US Navy contesting, and seen more than one ship from both sides sunk. The flotillas moved to and fro and left burning oil slicks and pillars of smoke behind. By the time the US Navy drove the Japanese out and covered the waters with friendly ships he lay in hospital on another island.

Commander Treat had been right—the German Navy owned the Norwegian coast, and Narvik was one of its most important ports. They had fought for it and won it and their navy there remained purposeful and alert. He and Howarth had talked about the German battleships at Altafjord, even farther north, and he knew the Germans patrolled the south, Bergen and Oslo and the straits between Norway and Denmark, just as heavily. Lying between the two extremes, Narvik got all traffic coming and going.