On the Edge of Darkness (Special Force Orca Book 1)

by Anthony Molloy

  Grant cut the engine revs to virtually nothing allowing the ‘Eddy’ to be swept clear of the bridge and to disappear rapidly into the gloom downstream.

  * * *

  The second massive explosion ripped through the fjord ten minutes after the ‘Eddy’ had shot out from under the bridge. It blew one leg, of the towering structure, away from its supporting rock bringing down hundreds of tons of rock that had loomed above it.

  The effect was staggering, the tremendous weight of falling rock, crashing down on one end of the metal structure, bent the roadway into an impossible bow. It snapped and sprang back twisting the bridge into an impassable, Chinese puzzle of metal hanging by its one remaining leg.

  * * *

  The third explosion that lethal night was by far the biggest. The ammunition dump exploded. Blazing oil from the stacked drums spewed out with the force of an erupting volcano. It turned the mountain top into an inferno to rival the devil’s own bonfire.

  Forty-gallon oil drums shot into the sky, arcing away like great fiery rockets. Exploding ammunition sprayed the mountain with great showers of sparks that flickered the high terrain into dancing light. It illuminated the trotting figures of Hogg and his men as they chased their long shadows west towards the fjord.

  * * *

  The mess sat drinking their rum and staring in amazement at the lemonade bottle that Wilson held in one grimy hand.

  They had secured alongside less than an hour before and their rum had been waiting for them. The irrepressible Wilson had produced the bottle from amongst his kit with great reverence. Inside was a metal shackle that was so big it touched the sides of the narrow necked bottle.

  “There you are, I told you I could do it that’s ‘alf a tot you owe me Nervous.” He reached out for the Leading Hand’s of the mess’s rum.

  “Will you hang on a minute,” said the Irishman, snatching his rum out of harm’s way as quick as any mother would her threatened child. “It’s a trick you’re after playing…That’s never the same bottle…”

  “What d’yer think I did … made a bottle around the bloody shackle, I ain’t no glass-fucking-blower am I, of course it’s the same bottle, you crud. Come on cough up….” He leered lecherously at his Leading Hand while adding, “Put your rum where my mouth is!”

  “Arh!…See half it off then, I suppose,” said O’Neill, begrudgingly handing a grinning and victorious Wilson his precious tot.” Come on then, how did you do it? You sponging bloody rum-rat you!”

  “Ha! Ha!” cried Wilson, one finger alongside his crooked nose, “I ain’t letting on, am I?” He swigged back lusciously, seeing off half of the Irishman’s rum and handed back the rest. “It’s for me to know and you lot to guess at. That little trick’s won me more rum than a cow’s got udder.”

  “Well,” said the Irishmen, his voice full of cunning, “You might as well tell us, ‘cause you ain’t going to get any more rum out of us, are you now? Not seeing as we know you can do it.” He held the remains of his rum up to the light to make sure Wilson hadn’t taken more than a fair share.

  “Yeah?… Well that’s true,” conceded Wilson, feeling generous as the rum took effect. He stroked his beard thoughtfully, “Tell you what… a ‘gulpers’ off the each of yers and I tell yer.”

  “ ‘Gulpers’? …Sippers,” bargained O’Neill, already half a tot down.

  “Sippers!…You got to be bloody joking, I tell you the secret and you use it to get extra rum for the rest of your naval career and for this you’re only willing to part with a bloody ‘sippers’. You can bugger off the lot of yer!”

  “Gulpers seems fair to me,” said a voice from the far end of the tot table.

  “Now!” slurred Wilson, “There’s a man that knows a sound investment when he sees one!”

  “Alright then,” said O’Neill after a long pause for sober thought.

  “ ‘Gulpers’ it is …if everyone agrees…?” There were nods around the table.

  “Right, away you go,” ordered O’Neill.

  “Oh no!… bloody rum first,” said a still cautious, but grinning, Wilson.

  “Sure, you’re a trusting soul, Wilson do yer know that?” mournfully O’Neill handed over his rum for the second time. Wilson took a generous gulp, and followed it up with, an equally generous gulp from each of the drawing members of the assembled mess.

  “Right you bloody rummy, now tell us; before you become incapable of speech.”

  “All right, all right. But I’m not sure if you lot ‘ave the necessary intellect to take it all in…” He bit his lip, looking doubtful, “…but, a deals a deal. You do it with a belt, a locker door knob and a piece of ‘airy string… oh and a bucket of cold water; so there you ‘ave it.”

  “And…?” asked O’Neill.

  “What’d yer mean, and?”

  “And?… And!… fucking and!” half screamed a, by now, incensed O’Neill…Have I to spell it out for you…what… do… you… do… then!”

  “What? You mean you want me to show you how to do it and all.”

  “Bugger off, Wilson,” cried Wyatt, “I’ve sussed you…you robbing bar- steward you ain’t getting your hands on no more of my rum!”

  “All right!…all right…only joking,” said Wilson, grinning and getting unsteadily to his feet. “Where’s the bucket of water I used,” he reached behind the lockers. “Arh! And there’s me ‘airy string,” he held up half a fathom of ginger sisal. “ There’s me locker door knob and there…”

  “Alright! All fucking right!” yelled O’Neill, “enough of the Houdini shit; get on with it will yer?”

  “And ‘ere” persisted Wilson drunkenly, “is what you do. Tie one end of the string to the locker door knob. Stick yer bucket of water ‘ere, nice and ‘andy and take a lemonade bottle…” He peered around until his eye fell on one with a drop in the bottom, he unscrewed the top and downed the contents.

  “Oh, fucking thanks!” said Wyatt, “that was mine, that was, I was fucking saving that.”

  “Donated to sightific research,” slurred Wilson dismissively. “Now you tie the udder end of the string to your belt, sweat back on it like this.” He leant back, “… so it’s nice and taut, catcha turn around the bottle, so it in the middle of the string like this. Then you push and pull the bottle up and down ….up and down… See that, with the string round it, the bottle’s getting hot. You do that until you smell the string burning,” He worked away like mad until smoke, from the friction of the string on the bottle, snaked its way up towards the deck head. “And then,” he said breathlessly, “quick as a flash… you whips it out of the string and plunge it in the cold water…thus. “There was a crack and one half of the bottle floated to the bottom of the bucket. The men crowded round, Wilson reached into the bucket and retrieved the bottom half of the bottle and carefully fitted the two halves back together again. “You can put what you like in there now.” he said, a look of drunken triumph on his plump face.

  * * *

  Olaf Kristiansand arrived on board shortly after lunch with important news. The situation ashore was changing hour by hour, but he had discovered that following their successes against the British the Germans were moving aircraft, supply and naval bases further forward.

  Later, in his tiny cabin, Grant studied the information in detail. Olaf had supplied him a comprehensive list of the new bases. He sat back in his chair, wondering what effect the changes in enemy troop concentrations would have on their operations.

  Some of the new bases were closer to ‘Orca’s’ forward base. The inevitable increase in traffic would certainly go hand in hand with an increase in the risk of detection. On the other hand ‘Orca’ would be that much closer to their targets and that would mean less time spent getting there and back and that might actually reduce the risks.

  New bases meant new defences. Possibilities there, new bases took time to construct and it was then that they were at their most vulnerable. Minefields for instance, always a thorn in clandestine operations, they
took time to put into place.

  A pre-emptive raid now, before Jerry had an opportunity to build adequate defences would have a very good chance of success. Grant leant forward studying the list and carefully plotting their positions on his chart.

  There was a new airstrip being constructed at Trondheim. Now there was a tempting target if ever he’d seen one. Large areas by their nature were harder to defend.

  If he held a war council straight away it might be possible to mount a raid tonight, delay would only increase the risks. He could see a mountain of difficulties to overcome, foremost in his mind was the little problem of transport. The partially constructed base was several miles from the sea…

  * * *

  Scharfuhrer Engelbert Baum swore, “Pull over, pull over!” his driver, quickly signalled right and came off the accelerator, in his mirror he saw the two road tankers behind breaking violently.

  Ahead a man, caught in the two powerful headlights, was fighting to control two horses as they reared and backed away from him towards the centre of the road.

  The farm cart they had been pulling had lost a wheel. The accident had blocked the narrow road completely. Extracting his ample body from the close confines of his Panzerspahwagen Baum shouted angrily at the carter. “Clear the road immediately.”

  The sudden and noisy outburst only served to upset the already nervous horses even more. He gestured angrily for his men to lend a hand and clear the road.

  The Scharfuhrer waited impatiently, hands on hips, legs astride, the very picture of anger. Clearly this dummkopf of a Norwegian peasant knew nothing of horses, his inept attempts at controlling his animals were only making matters worse.

  Already he was behind schedule now this important supply convoy would be further delayed by this incompetent rustic oaf! He drew his pistol, advanced and pointed it first at the man then at his wall-eyed horses.

  “Clear this road now, or I will shoot your damn horses and then you! Do you understand me!”

  The man almost certainly knew no, but Baum’s furious features and the pointing gun had the desired effect and the man renewed his efforts to drag the reluctant horses off the road.

  But what was this? He hadn’t noticed the peasant women before, two of them standing there behind the cart. In his experience these Norwegian women could be quite beautiful; he stroked at his heavily waxed moustache and stepped out eagerly in their direction. The women were buxom, big breasted, just his type, for was he not ‘big boned’ himself. He had no objections to the same attributes in his women, in fact he preferred it. Tantalisingly hidden behind those flowered headscarves it was difficult to see if their faces matched the promise of their ample bodies. As he drew near they kept their eyes averted, but he knew they were watching him he could hear them giggling. Of course they were shy! Only to be expected in his presence… So much the better; he liked his women big and shy. He smiled at the charming creatures, curling his lip and raised one enquiring eyebrow, an expression he had practised much in his shaving mirror. He gave his short self-assured laugh.

  One turned her head in his direction: she had a large ginger beard. Baum stepping back in surprise, caught a movement to his side, two men clad in white overalls jumped down onto the road, for a second he thought they were German Alpine Troops. Then he heard the shouted commands, British! He looked quickly, over his shoulder back towards the vehicles. His men were being dragged from their cabs. He lifted his hands slowly above his head.

  * * *

  Midshipman Hope popped his head up through the hatch of the Panzerspahwagen.

  “This could come in handy,” he said, swinging the heavy machine gun round on its mounting.

  Grant leant on the bonnet, MG34, good weapon, but with luck, you shouldn’t need it. Remember the plan, park up on the north side of the airfield, we’ll meet you there as soon as we can. You have the recognition signal?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Hope, locking the machine gun into place as Grant sprinted back towards the tankers. “Wilson! What are you doing? I told you to get in the truck.”

  “I’m ‘aving a spot of bother trying to get out of this dress, sir.”

  “No time for that, man. Get in as you are.”

  “Easier said than done in this lot, sir” said Wilson hitching up the heavy woollen skirt, exposing his black boots and legs. “Did you notice the legs, sir. I think they’re better than the wife’s.”

  “Will you get in!” cried Hope, looking with understandable distaste at the seaman’s hairy legs.

  “I am , sir.” said Wilson as he sat down heavily on the seat, “Just remember I’m spoken for.”

  Hope grimaced as he turned the key in the ignition and the eight cylinder Horch roared into life. He drove back onto the road and, with headlights blazing, the convoy resumed its interrupted journey.

  Behind them some distance from the road, eight, bound and gagged, German soldiers shivered in their long woollen underwear.

  * * *

  The sentries hastily dragged the temporary barrier from between the newly erected gateposts urged on by the young and foul-mouthed Scharfuhrer in the Panzerspahwagen.

  The armoured car pulled over to one side and the two Opel Blitz tankers accelerated past, through the gate and onto the tree-lined avenue that lead to the airstrip.

  The older of the two sentries stood with his hands on his hips, shaking his head slowly as he watched the red tail- lights of the lorries swerving erratically away down the slush covered perimeter road.

  “Ha!,,, S.S! Did you see that arschloch, barely out of nappies, uniform didn’t even fit him, and already he’s a Scharfuhrer!”

  In the lorry Hope laughed excitedly, “I don’t know about you, Wilson, but I’m beginning to enjoy this.”

  Wilson raised his eyes to heaven and the cab roof, saying nothing. Shortly their headlights blinked out.

  * * *

  Grant’s wheel-spanner moved an inch and then slipped violently so that he rapped his knuckles on the outlet valve. Swearing, he yanked on the spanner once more and the aviation fuel spurted out in a fine mist. He jumped to one side, finding he could now turn the handle easily, he adjusted it so the highly inflammable liquid poured out from the tank at a steady rate.

  A few feet away Blake was having no such difficulties with his valve. Grant gave a thumbs up in his direction and they both ran back to their cabs.

  The two tankers shot off in opposite directions, fuel gushing down onto the concrete runway beneath them, it spread its way out across the apron and under the neatly parked aircraft.

  Grant had been driving for less than two minutes when the engine suddenly spluttered and died. He tried the ignition. The starter motor whirled, but the engine failed to start. He pumped at the accelerator and tried again, with the same result. He turned to a silent Wyatt in the seat alongside him, “It’s no good, I think we are out of fuel, but the other tanker should be along in a bit to complete the circle. That’s the plan anyway.”

  “No need to worry then,” grumbled Wyatt, “there’ll be another one along in a minute…unless, of course, they get into trouble. For all we know they could have run out of fuel and all.”

  Grant thought for a moment, he knew Wyatt was a cheerful soul, but that didn’t stop him being right. “Do you know how to set the timer?”

  “No idea, sir,” said Wyatt, helpfully.

  “I’ll do that then…you collect up our gear and…” A sudden blazing white light illuminated the darkened cab.

  “Christ!” yelled Grant, “get out quick. We’re sitting smack in the middle of a bloody bomb waiting to go off.”

  They jumped down from the cab with an audible splash; they were ankle deep in aviation fuel.

  “Walk round to the back, keep the lorry between us and the light.”

  Wyatt, still in his peasant women’s clothes, lifted his skirts clear and followed Grant. To their initial surprise, no one called on them to halt. It could be the guards thought it was just a tanker in difficulties or it coul
d have just been the shock of seeing a bearded man in a woman’s skirt alighting from the cab. Whatever it was, they kept on walking, past the end of the vehicle, keeping in its shadow as much as they could until they emerged once more into the white light. Their luck was not destined to last. They were only yards from the edge of the darkness, when a challenge barked out and a burst of machine fire kicked the tarmac up in their faces.

  * * *

  “Nein Nein!” screamed a panic stricken German voice from the darkness, “cease firing! Cease firing! The whole area is swimming in fuel! One spark and we are all finished!” The firing stopped as abruptly as it had started.

  Grant recognised Hogg’s voice immediately and even understood some of what he was shouting. With Hogg clinging to its running board the other tanker appeared in the pool of light and screeched to a halt. The midshipman jumped down and pointed his machine pistol at Grant’s belly. “Let’s get out of here, sir.”

  Grant lifting his hands in the air, gesturing for Wyatt to do the same, “Bugger it, Middy! I’ve just remembered, I haven’t set the bloody timer… I’ll make a dash for my lorry, you shout for them to hold their fire and then give chase. Don’t catch up with me until I’m out of sight around the back of the tanker; that’ll give me a chance to set the timer.”

  He turned running into the blinding beam of the searchlight, feeling terribly exposed despite hearing Hogg behind him doing his bit in German. Thankfully no shots rang out; it appeared to be working. In the cover of the truck at last, he leapt up into the cab and quickly set the timer on the explosives. Hogg arrived close on his heels and waved his vehicle in. Out of sight of the guards Grant crammed himself into an already packed cab and, with Hogg on the running board waving to the searchlight operators, they drove off into the night.