Dark Full of Enemies(7)

The Colonel’s face had turned red, his posture stiff.

“Commander, we selected McKay for a very particular set of credentials, and engineering is about the least important of them.”

“Oh, without doubt. I—”

“That’ll be all, Commander,” the Colonel said and, before a reply could come, “What we need is leadership. McKay succeeds at what he does, and we’ve got an excellent team to go with him.”

The Commander slouched, raised his eyebrows, muttered something like, “One should hope so,” and the Colonel ignored him.

McKay ignored him, too. “Anyone from OG, sir?”

“Unavailable,” the Colonel said. McKay felt his first sense of real foreboding at this news. The operational group was full of native-born and first-generation Scandinavians, men who still spoke the languages and knew the customs. He knew and trusted a few of them—they were reliable men. With none available, he would have to rely on his German and the second languages of the men on his team. Hiding, blending in, if necessary, would be much harder. McKay showed nothing of his disappointment or unease.

“Who have you picked, sir?”

“Just two,” the Colonel said. “You have your own choice of a third.” He waved the Major around the desk again and the Major handed McKay two sheets. A small portrait photo was clipped to each. “We picked men who have a few things in common. Experience with mountainous terrain, especially in snow, fluent German, a modicum of engineering or demolition experience. Especially as it relates to dams. You know Sergeant Graves?”

Colour Sergeant Watkin Graves was the man in the top photograph, a bull-necked, cold-eyed, smirking man in a dark beret.

“I know of him, sir.”

“He’s your combat engineer,” and, with a glance at the Commander, “the one who’ll do your math for you when the time comes to destroy the dam. Impeccable record. From South Africa—tough bastard. Royal Marine. Commando. Wound up with the LRDG in North Africa before he joined the SOE. He’s done a little of everything but he’s an expert with explosives, especially the newer Nobel plastics. You’ll have plenty.”

“Outstanding.” McKay was impressed. Royal Marines, Long Range Desert Group, Special Operations Executive—Graves seemed to have served with all the toughest outfits in the British military and intelligence services, units composed entirely of heroes on the order of Achilles. A man with good service in all three was godlike. “He’s been to Norway before?”

“Yes—his record isn’t all savannah and Sahara, thank God.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Colonel went on from memory, and McKay looked at the second sheet. The man in the photo looked ordinary, even friendly, despite the neutral pose of the dossier portrait. Even in black and white his face showed a healthy flush. He had light, tousled hair and wore American army fatigues. McKay looked at the dossier sheet. The typewritten name at the top read s/sgt ollila, olavi. McKay raised his eyebrows.

“The second is a sniper by trade. Finnish—has a name I can’t pronounce. Came to attention when Uncle Joe invaded Finland a few years ago, which we’re, uh, supposed to forget about now, I guess. Your man was a farmer and tanner with a twenty-year old rifle with iron sights, which he used to kill a hundred and fifty Russians. He said it was easier than hunting deer because deer are smarter than Russians.” McKay laughed. “Oh, and those hundred and fifty kills—all occurred within the span of about two months. He was wounded early in 1940 and spent the rest of the war recovering. Came down with pneumonia in the hospital. He hates the Russians but doesn’t like the way Finland is helping the Nazis, so he’s the man without a country right now. Been everywhere in the last few years. The Major here calls it freelance work. Keener met him while on assignment in Sweden and recruited him. Says he’s the best shot he’s ever seen.”

“Outstanding,” McKay said. He had known Keener in college, and, like Ollila, Keener had recruited him into the OSS straight out of the hospital after Guadalcanal. If Keener praised a man’s marksmanship, it was worth praising.

“His English is passable but not fluent, but he speaks German, Swedish, Russian, and Norwegian, all apparently very well. I figure if you can’t make yourself understood to him in English, you have several fallbacks.”

“Outstanding. And the third man?”

“Again, that’s at your discretion, but he needs to fit the qualifications for which we selected you, Graves, and the Finn, as well as handle radio equipment.”

McKay was surprised. The Major leaned forward.

“Our contacts in the resistance near Narvik lost their radio and need new equipment and someone to train them on it.”

“They lost it?”

They said nothing. The logs broke and settled in the fireplace and the light in the room flared as sparks rattled up the chimney.

“I’m sorry, sir. Did they get caught? The Gestapo? Quisling’s police?”

“That is unclear,” the Colonel said.

“What matters,” the Major said, “is that they need a new radio. The latest equipment, manuals, and training. They need an expert. Given the ranges involved, it can’t be just anyone.”

McKay nodded and said, “Keener. I don’t know a thing about radios. Keener’s the best radio man I know.”