Dark Full of Enemies(6)

“Yes, sir. And from Shetland?”

“Coming to that. The Royal Navy has an operation in Shetland that has done some excellent work and certainly comes in handy now.”

McKay glanced at the Commander, who appeared to be listening but was also drumming his fingers slowly on one knee. That must be how the British figure into this, McKay thought. The Major continued.

“Norwegian resistance people have been running fishing boats back and forth across the North Sea to Shetland for some time now. It’s mainly used for smuggling weapons and equipment in and getting people the Nazis want out. That’s how we’re getting you in. But first—a Royal Navy sub called Viking will pick you up off Shetland and bring you seven hundred miles from there to the Norwegian coast off Narvik, which is where one of our fisherman friends will rendezvous with the sub and bring you into the country. Your main contact is Josef Petersen—I have a little about him in the file for you. You’ll plan the attack on the dam with Petersen and his men and execute it accordingly.”

“Our escape route?”

“The same,” the Major said. “Viking will patrol off the Norwegian coast doing naval reconnaissance while your assignment is underway. You can make arrangements by radio for your departure. As soon as the dam is blown, leave on Petersen’s fishing boat and meet the sub. The cover of darkness should help.”

“Yes, sir.”

McKay looked down at the photographs in his hands. The glossy prints were fogged at the edges, under his sweaty palms. He wiped them with the back of his hand and held the photos with the tips of his fingers.

“Does this have something to do with the heavy water production the Nazis were doing?”

Allied special operations had spent much of the last year sabotaging Nazi research at a hydro plant in southern Norway—informants, smuggled intelligence, commando teams brought in by glider and parachute, and a nighttime infiltration of the plant. Their efforts had culminated just a few weeks before with a bombing mission that damaged but did not destroy the plant. McKay knew little about heavy water other than that producing it was a preliminary chemical step in building powerful weaponry.

“There’s nothing like that going on at Grettisfjord. We just want the dam destroyed.”

“Sir, if you don’t mind my asking—”

Then the Commander, bestirring himself at the end of the long desk, did something that surprised McKay. He spoke.

“Now, see here, Captain—McKay, is it?”

McKay blinked, nodded. The Colonel and the Major stared at the Commander.

“Captain McKay, we selected you for this business on the basis of your mountaineering and German abilities, as well as some other credentials I’d like know more about. Your engineering credentials, actually.”

The Commander was like something from a movie—the stuffy Englishman. He spoke the word actually with a prickly aristocratic chop on the C.

“Yes, sir.”

“Captain,” The Colonel said, “this is Commander Bagwell of His Majesty’s Navy. And Commander, Captain McKay is one of our finest men. There’s—”

“Without doubt, Colonel, but I’m unused to knowing nothing about the men I’m sending out on business like this and do not believe we can abide it any longer.” The Colonel sat back. He was not accustomed to interruptions during his briefings. McKay thought he was probably too shocked that the Englishman had spoken to pull rank and take control of the briefing, but that peace would soon pass. The Commander consulted a file lying open on the desk and arched his brows. McKay imagined him reading a wine list, and suppressed a smile.

“Now, then, Captain,” the Commander said. “You studied engineering at Clemson College? Where is that?”

“Yes, sir. It was required. And South Carolina, sir.”

“Required. But you went on to study history elsewhere?”

“Yes, sir,” McKay said. “After graduation I started a graduate degree in history at the University of Georgia, but didn’t finish up.”

The Commander looked up. “Why?”

“I wanted to join the Marines.”

“Ah, yes, of course. Which reminds me—what about your malaria?”

McKay stiffened and said nothing. He clenched one fist, out of sight, in his lap.

“I see. Returning to your engineering qualifications—”

“McKay is more than qualified enough to blow something up, dammit” the Colonel said. “Illiterate French Reds have been doing that for the last three years.”

“Colonel, permission to speak,” McKay said.

The Colonel waved a hand at him. “Of course.”

“My marks in engineering and mathematics at Clemson were barely passing. The… Commander may have a point, if this assignment includes anything complex—”

Commander Bagwell cut him off.

“Whether you succeed or not, whether Jerry spends his time and energies rebuilding a dam or merely augmenting what forces he has in the far north, you’ll have done a bloody good job.”

McKay did not like that—not just the way the Commander said it, but the substance. Satisfaction with second best, which was always synonymous with failure to McKay, usually meant getting nowhere near the best. Failure was not acceptable—a failed job could never be a bloody good one. Failure on these jobs meant never failing at anything again.