Dark Full of Enemies(34)

To his surprise, Petersen chuckled. “Magnus, our machinist, is very skilled.”

McKay smiled. “I never was much good with engines.”

“Nor I. Again, I thank you.”

Petersen turned to go, and McKay said, “I need to see the dam.”

Petersen turned again and looked at McKay. He placed a hand on the wheelhouse just below the boat’s nameplate and leaned. McKay watched. The man may not have brought up his fists like McKay just had, but he had tensed.

“You will see it.”

“I need to see it as soon as I can. Preferably after we’re unloaded and settled in.”

“Impossible.”

“Why?”

“Impossible.”

“I have to see it at least once before we attack.”

“Again, I say you will. But it cannot be so soon.”

“Why not?”

“I must refuel the boat. We have been sailing almost a full day now. We did actual fishing, you see, so that if the Germans stop us we are not sailing with four strangers and an empty hold.” He looked at McKay’s pistol. “Four armed strangers, also.”

“I appreciate that, but do we have to go by boat? Take me there by train or car.”

Petersen looked at the sky and laughed. “Impossible. No, you must wait.”

McKay levered himself away from the bulkhead and stepped forward. He was about to ask why it was impossible, by any means, to visit their target, when from the dark behind them came a noise like a great guywire snapping and the whole boat flooded with white light.

McKay froze. Petersen hissed something in Norwegian, grabbed McKay bodily and shoved him toward the cabin door. They stood in the lee of the light, in the shadow thrown by the cabin and wheelhouse superstructure, and McKay shoved him back. He looked around. The crewmen in the bow had risen and turned to look aft and shielded their faces in the glare. Petersen was pushing at his shoulder again, whispering.

“Patrol boat—get inside.”

McKay looked at him, at the crew. The light played slowly across the men and the deck, rounding their shapes against the blackness as the spotlight circled the boat at a distance.

A voice carried through the tunnel carved by the light, first in Norwegian, then in German: “Fishing boat Hardr?de, halt for inspection. Fishing boat Hardr?de—”

“Inside, I beg you.”

McKay started to strip his pistol belt. If he could not have his patrol to the dam, he wanted to see this, to get an idea up close what the German Navy looked like in this part of Norway. But he stopped almost as quickly. If they boarded, they would search him, and he had no papers. If they spoke to him, he had no Norwegian. He let go of his belt and looked at Petersen.

“Will they search the wheelhouse?”

“They will if they board us.”

McKay swore. If the Germans boarded them, nothing would matter. “I’ll be there anyway.”

He yanked open the door the cabin, said, “Patrol boat—be ready,” to his startled team, ducked out, and took the ladder in two steps just as the spotlight came broadside to them. He heard the fishing boat’s engine slow. He ducked into the wheelhouse and J?rgen looked at him and said something in Norwegian.

“Shut up,” McKay said. It worked. He pressed himself into the corner and looked sidelong through the dirty porthole.

The E-boat glided through the water untroubled by chop or roll. The craft was enormous, over one hundred feet long with decks several feet higher than the Hardr?de’s. It had no towers or aerials that McKay could see, and its wheelhouse lay low along the top of the hull, near the center of the boat, with angular windows like eyes. Two torpedo tubes were sunk into the aerodynamic sweep of the hull near the prow, and at the back stood a flak gun. He could not tell in the dark, but it looked like a 20mm machine cannon. He had seen E-boats—which the Germans called Schnellboote, fast boats—in harbor before, but never on patrol. German sailors in their helmets and winter gear stood on deck. Two stood manning the spotlight, two more a heavy machine gun trained on the fishing boat, and two more ready by the flak cannon. From this distance, and through this window, they looked confident, ready, and at their ease. Professionals. McKay did not like that.

The voice hailed them in Norwegian again, halting, accented, and omitted the German. McKay saw Petersen below the wheelhouse, waving, and one of the Germans waved back. McKay pressed himself harder against the bulkhead and edged closer to the porthole.

The Germans, circling, lay almost dead ahead now, showing the Norwegians their broadside and all their weapons—crossing the T. Again McKay thought of Iron Bottom Sound. The spotlight flashed and burned against the front window, and he froze. He saw J?rgen in silhouette, his only concession to the spotlight being to turn his head, and then the light swept back onto the deck as the boat continued its circle.

The E-boat’s engine growled and the Germans turned, brought the stern of the great craft around behind itself and coasted alongside the fishing boat with two feet of clearance. The pilot of the boat was skilled—he handled the monstrous vessel not just easily, but gracefully. The German pilot throttled back again and the E-boat at first slowed to a stop, then seemed to continue past. McKay scuttled to the other side of the wheelhouse and took up the same position at the starboard porthole, watching. In the stillness, McKay could hear the fishing boat’s engine.