Dark Full of Enemies(56)

McKay lowered his head to hide his grin. “All right. You come in with me and Graves. When we go down into the dam, you stay topside in the building. Anything goes wrong, lead them a merry chase. And if they catch you, say you were alone. It’ll stop them—maybe thirty seconds.”

Graves laughed without humor. Stallings said nothing. Thirty seconds, McKay knew, was a long time in combat.

Petersen walked in. McKay had not even heard him on the stairs or turning the doorknob. The door simply swung open and Petersen stood at his shoulder. He seemed not to notice the four half-drawn pistols.

McKay stood and holstered his Browning. He waited. He would let Petersen speak first. The ice wind blew in from the darkness outside as Petersen stood staring down at the card table, the map, without seeing either. He looked at McKay.

“We will help you,” he said.

McKay’s whole chest seemed to clear and loosen and open up with relief. He took a deep breath and nodded.

“J?rgen is out gathering our men. We can bring five, perhaps six. You will know when they arrive, and there is no asking for more once the ones who come have come.”

McKay nodded again. “We won’t have time anyway. Thank you.”

Petersen did not acknowledge McKay’s thanks, but turned his eyes again to the table and glowered at the map.

“You will wear uniforms.”

McKay pulled back his jacket. Green twill showed underneath. “We had planned on it anyway. If this goes south, we want to be the only ones affected.”

Petersen nodded.

“What do I need to know?”





McKay did not know why Petersen had changed his mind and did not much care. He would wonder about it later, on the long voyage home—if that day came—and after getting some sleep—if he could. For now, he had to go through his plan again, incorporating six or more Norwegians.

God had nothing to do with the Nazis, he was sure, but if he had anything to do with the Allies, this was it.

McKay asked about weapons. Petersen said they would carry a mixture of Allied arms dropped to the Resistance farther south and weapons captured from the Germans. They had rifles, a few submachine guns, and a Bren light machine gun. McKay had not counted on that kind of supporting fire—it would be welcome. He asked about ammunition. Limited, Petersen said, but enough for a short fight before running for home. Explosives? Even more limited, but they could have what the men brought with them. Graves might get his go at the bridge after all.

McKay went through the plan again. Infiltration from above, scaling the shortest cliff near the eastern barracks, moving through the barracks to the dam, and so forth.

Petersen indicated the western side of the fjord on the map, the trail leading from the headquarters camp up and over the ridge to the dam.

“My men will be here, on the heights. If the Germans send reinforcements up the path, we can block them there. If you are fired upon at the dam, we can give you cover until you get to us, and then we can disappear into the darkness.”

“What about your boat?”

“Magnus is taking down the placard with the name now,” Petersen said. “I never liked it, you know.”

McKay smiled. “Yeah, so you said.”

“We must leave a man with the boat, of course. J?rgen is skilled, and I want one Petersen to live through this war. He will bring us to the place where we landed tonight, and then wait within sight of the dam. If all goes well, he will collect us again where we landed. If not, he can escape and save himself, or come to the wharf below the dam and collect those of us he can.”

McKay thought about that. “We’d have to do something about that E-boat.”

“Kill the crew.”

McKay thought about that as well. Any situation that involved killing everyone in the eastern barracks would probably have gotten the team killed long before.

“That’s one possibility.”

They prepared further, wending through the plan and its thicket of outcomes several times. The reinforcements and transport heartened McKay, but he would not allow himself optimism. He knew something would go wrong. Something always did—friction, elementary Clausewitz. And the plan had grown with the addition of the Norwegians. They had at least six more men to move into position above the dam and then remove, possibly—probably—under fire. Most importantly, they now had a chance at escape, of reaching the sub. If they survived the mission.





They gathered their gear and moved upstairs into the house. They sat in the darkened parlor near the front door and waited for J?rgen and the others. It was cold in the house but McKay cracked the door open anyway—he did not want frost-jammed weapons. Petersen brought them bread and salt pork, which they ate with a Cration.

McKay consumed his food—dextrose first, then the sugar cubes and all of his hardtack, chocolate last. He took the pouch of coffee grounds and put it in his chest pocket to chew on later. Then he sat leaning against the wall in the dark. His eyes ached, as if he had exercised his eyelids. His throat and chest felt empty and, after the meal, his stomach too full. He waited for the sugars of his meal to kick in. Sleep sought him. How long had he been awake? Since the Viking? At least since the voyage into Grettisstad. He thought he had slept briefly in the basement, but could not remember. They had emerged from the submarine into night and it had remained night ever since. At least on the Canal the day had come, every morning, a scenery change to distract from the exhaustion.