* * *
In single file, Olaf Kristiansand, his wife and two teenage sons moved swiftly down the path, their skis gliding smoothly over the compacted snow.
Suddenly, a few metres ahead, a hooded white figure rose out of the snow. The man held a machine gun; the barrel was pointed straight at Kristiansand’s stomach. The Norwegian stopped in a flurry of snow. He was unsure who the figure was, but he was sure he had no choice in the matter.
“Bushel?” he asked tentatively. Blake shook his head and pointed over his shoulder.
Just then Bushel emerged from behind cover carrying the Bren. He pointed up the path the Norwegians had used. “Blakey, check, see if they were followed.” He beckoned to the Norwegians to follow him.
When Blake returned Kristiansand was still talking, “…choice, I had to bring my family, I have them all, except for my father. He was not at home. I must return for him, now the rest of my family are safe.”
Bushel turned his head from the lookout slit. “No chance! That’s impossible. You’re going nowhere. We can’t risk you being taken. You’re too valuable; you know too much…We’ll be taking you away as soon as the flotilla returns…”
“I will not leave without my father.”
“Alright, I'll just hold you here by force until the flotilla returns, it’s no skin off my nose.”
“You don’t understand. If they take my father he will talk, he is old…”
“He can name names?”
“He knows the people I know; of course… they have been to my house many times… I cannot be sure what he knows. We have not talked of it…only he knows what he knows.”
“Open the hatch, Blakey, take them below.” He stepped close and added in a whisper, “And keep a close eye on the lot of them.”
* * *
Left alone, Bushel considered his options: they were few. Kristiansand and his network had become more vital to ‘Orca’s’ success with each passing day. They were more important than either him or his men, probably more important than the whole of ‘Orca’ for that matter. It they waited for the flotilla to come it could be too late. If Kristiansand’s’ father knew about this place and the Germans took him…
He shook his head resignedly. They would have to try; not for the Kristiansand’s, the younger or the bloody elder, but for themselves. There was only the three of them; nowhere near enough and if they all went it would mean leaving the Inlet unguarded, if the Germans were one step ahead of them and had the old man already, they could return to a hornet’s nest. There would be problems with checkpoints, patrols. If they were challenged none of them spoke German, or Norwegian for that matter.
One part of him rebelled. Get on the radio. Let the bloody officers sort it out, they should be here, making the decisions that was what they were bloody well paid for! Officers! Never there when you wanted them, always there when you didn’t.
Bushel dismissed the inner mutinous voice. The nearest British Officer was probably hundreds of miles away. He hadn’t tried, but he doubted he would be able to reach anyone through these mountains. It was down to him, there was only him, his was the choice to go or not to go. Even now they could be too late.
He scratched at his head. Right! On the plus side we’ve, he thought for a moment, then exhaled air in a long sigh. There wasn’t much. There was the Norwegian. He’d know the place like the back of his hand. There wouldn’t be many Jerries who could speak the local lingo. Stick to Norwegian, with Olaf’s help they had a slim chance of passing as locals.
An embryo plan began to form in his mind. It would mean relying on Stilson more than he liked. He was sure he was capable enough; problem was he was sure the bloke was cracking up. He’d seen it before, something in their eyes. The strange thing was it didn’t seem to be effecting ‘Snake’s’ legendary efficiency. If anything he seemed to be getting better. Cracking up or not ‘Snake’ was still the best there was. That was it then…but first things first, he must try and get a message to Barr. If they got the old man out then with him, a woman and her kids escape by sea was the only option.
* * *
Trondheim, 2300 hours May 27th 1940
Bushel held his camouflaged Lanchester to one side and crouched at the street corner. Something or someone had most certainly put the cat in amongst the pigeons. The darkened streets were alive with patrols. It would be a bloody miracle if they managed to avoid them all. Stilson had done well, travelling ahead of them, sticking mostly to the rooftops, he had warned them of two patrols with just seconds to spare. ‘Snake’ and a strictly enforced blackout had got them through three-quarters of the town undetected.
He stood up, suddenly a two-man German foot patrol rounded the corner. They were as surprised as Bushel and friends, but, none the less, their machine pistols came off their shoulders in a blink of an eye.
* * *
The two Germans hesitated, pistols levelled at the three men. They looked at each other and smiled with relief. Not much to worry about then with these three, locals, breaking the curfew true, obviously betruckeenen. The one in the middle was the worst of the three his arms around the shoulders of the other two grinning like a hyena. Now he was shouting, something in his own incomprehensible tongue. He must have wanted to stand up unsupported, he was trying to anyway. Not that it would make any difference; they would still be going straight to the cooler. The two young soldiers lowered their pistols grinning... Now the three drunks were closer… something in their eyes… not the eyes of drunks.
. The indecision was a mistake, letting them get that close… was another… their last. There were two sharp, quick movements, barely seen by the soldiers and destined never to be remembered. The two buckled at the knees and sank to the ground. They were dead and their guns taken from them before they reached it. The two marines dragged the deathly still bodies into the deep shadow of an alleyway and returned silently, watchfully, to the Norwegian’s side.
* * *
‘Snake’ had watched the scene unfolding in the alleyway below him, with professional interest. So far, he had only observed and warned, but there was a certain satisfaction in that, he had always taken pleasure in seeing and not being seen. Perhaps, later, there would be a chance to kill. A slow sneer moved through his top lip as he became excited by the thought. In spite of the cold, beads of sweat broke out on his forehead, his breathing became shallow and his long tongue licked at his nicotine-stained teeth.
He had sensed the foot patrol before the parties on the ground had even seen each other. Bushel and Blake were capable of handling that, no need for his help. He had watched the Germans die, a half smile on his lips that found no echo in the yellow eyes as he moved on.
It was at times like this, that he associated himself with the snake he loved to imitate. Times like this that he felt a snake’s superiority, its proven power over others, it’s confidence not only in itself, but with its environment, it was as one with the night. The snake and the others, so different. The ‘others’ moved and lived in the light, fearing the dark. Only the snake understood the dark, welcomed it as a friend.
When the ‘others’ were not there ‘Snake’ moved swiftly along the rooftops, but when they were, he moved slowly, silently. He could sense ‘others’ long before he saw them. There was pleasure in seeing, but not being seen, but not nearly as much pleasure as in the final act itself. They all tasted that pleasure, the hunter, the stalker, the snake. But the snake was the master. He never became a silhouette against light, never became a movement seen. He was a phantom, part of the darkness, part of the shadow, part of the night. If the hunted even suspected the presence, the game was lost, an end of the lethal game he loved, lived to play. It was why he lived, it was what gave him his passion for life; the taking of it that and the fact that there was no second chance; it had to be first time perfect.
* * *
There was no way around the crossroads. That’s why the Germans had positioned the checkpoint there. It was well sandbagged, surrounded with
barbed wire and floodlit. It looked impenetrable. The snake watched the position from high above. There were two guards, they were stopping and searching everyone, even their own kind. He sensed they were not just checking papers, they were looking for someone, possibly the Norwegian, Kristiansand.
He watched the two sentries, one fat, one thin, they had grown old in their trade, experienced, probably had seen war before. The snake sensed they knew every trick of their deadly profession for they treated every one as an enemy, treated everyone as if they were about to attack them. Now the two Germans had stopped a group of soldiers, halted them four yards from the post. Keeping their distance, they motioned the men to the wall. The Fat took up a position to one side, giving himself a clear line of fire. Thin walked along the line spreading the men’s feet wide apart and pushing their bodies forward until they were off balance, kept upright only with the support of the wall. Always careful, He never put his body between the man he searched and the covering gun of his fat friend. Fat’s eyes never left the men as the other searched them. Thin knew the game, his foot hooked around the feet of the man he was searching, ready to sweep the legs away. Unlike the foot patrol, these men were going to be a problem. It would be necessary to warn the others, very necessary. The snake sank back into the shadow.
* * *
27th May, Scapa Flow.
The door opened, a marine sentry entered, holding it back against its stop, Admiral Mackenzie followed like one of his own destroyers, firing broadsides of orders and questions over his ample stern, a thick plume of smoke trailing from his funnel of a pipe. In his wake, he towed a retinue of aides. He shifted his fire to a tall rheumy-eyed man… “Collins get ‘Able Force’ dispatched as soon as possible. Tell them time is of the essence, I won’t stand for any delay.” His head trained round and he opened fire on a new bearing, “Richards, I want ‘Operation Klondike’ underway as of yesterday, am I understood? Well, don’t just stand there man! What are you waiting for… a blasted medal”
Lieutenant Richards retreated through the thickening smoke screen.
The Admiral’s guns had detected a new target. “Arh! Barr!” he shot the words like two armour-piercing shells. “A moment please, gentlemen.” He raised a signal arm and taking Barr under it, drew him to one side. I’m afraid I’m going to have to split your ‘Orca Force’ I want you, helping out at Dunkirk,” he raised an eyebrow, “You’ve heard of course?”
“About the retreat? Yes sir.”
The old admiral’s eyes signalled a warning like a shot across the bows.
“ ‘Operation Dynamo’ is not a retreat, Barr, it’s a strategic withdrawal! Damn it almost a fleet action. Vice Admiral Ramsey has made an appeal for more destroyers, ‘Havant’, ‘Anthony’, ‘Saladin’, ‘Malcolm’ even the ‘Harvester’s’ going and her crew are still under training! Unlike the other services the Navy does not do retreats, Barr!”
“No, sir, of course…But I’ve rather a lot on at the moment, I’ve still got men ashore in Norway. I’ve just heard from them that the ‘Network’ has been compromised…”
The Admiral signalled ‘heave to’ with one arthritic hand. “I know, I know… Grant will have to take charge of that…he’ll have to do the best he can… under the circumstances…In actual fact we can’t spare him either. You know the bloody Belgians have chucked the towel in?”
“I hadn’t heard, no, sir.”
“Today! Of all bloody days, their King… what’s his name?”
“Erh...Leopold, I think, sir.”
“Hmm! Whatever… he signed a bloody armistice, the blighter. His army laid down their arms and left a bloody great hole in our lines. Waterloo all over again. We’re having to shift a whole bloody Division to fill the gap. If they don’t get there in time we’ll lose the bloody lot… Still might for that matter.”
Barr wasn’t to be side-tracked, “Grant’ll need help, sir, it’s not a one man job…” Surely the ‘Dirty Four’, sir?…Crosswall’s boat?”
“You obviously don’t fully understand the situation we’re in, Barr. Calais fell to Jerry yesterday; they’ve been bombing Dunkirk for five days now, the place is a bloody shambles and we have over three hundred thousand men there. Ramsey’s right…we will need every ship… Christ! Every blasted raft if we’re to get them off those beaches. Nothing... Nothing can have greater priority… Can’t you see…we are going to need those men in the months and the years ahead…And make no mistake, Barr, we are now talking years. This little lot will put set us back that long. Defending England is going to be our number one priority for the foreseeable future… Norway… the Network, every other bloody thing has to take second place to that.” He took a deep pull at his pipe, it seemed to calm him. “No, Grant will have to do the best he can. I have every confidence in him.” He thought for a moment, sucking slowly at the pipe, then sighed, a thin stream of smoke curling from his mouth, “Tell him he can have the other boat…in this bloody mess, I don’t suppose one boat more or less will make that much of a difference.”
Once the …erh… ‘Strategic withdrawal?’ is complete sir,” asked Barr, he was trying hard not to appear too forceful, “Have I your permission to head north and help out?”
“Of course! But that could be days…weeks even. You have my permission…but!… only when the Admiralty call a halt to operations at Dunkirk… and hear me Barr…not a second before that…” He held up a warning finger as Barr went to speak, “Not a second before…I know they’re your men. I know how you feel…Christ knows, I’d feel the same.”
“Thank you sir.” Barr saluted, turned on his heel and disappeared into the throng astern of the Admiral.
* * *
In the world in which it moved it shunned the light. Shadow and darkness were its only friends. It flowed into the shadow and it flowed out, merged and re-emerged, unseen, unheard. He had become it at last. He was one with his Mentor. Before the snake, all men walked in fear, wept with dread, sank to their knees in the filth of their own terror. At long last it knew who it was, and what it was, knew its power. Its prey was unaware of its presence, hidden in the deep shadow of the old apartment block, the snake slid to the roof’s edge. Only inches below, the prey, the one with the corporal’s stripes, moved out from the doorway, out past the sandbags. Then… slowly… slowly the snake’s neck stretched over the roof’s edge until it could see the other man through the window. He was standing at the desk writing in a book. The snake hung its long thin body from the roof and slowly slid to the floor. Unseen it slipped quietly into the hut… moments later it emerged and glided silently to the sandbag barrier. In the snake’s trail, a river of black blood flowed from the doorway. It coiled, ready to strike, waiting; the time would come…for its prey would come to it, drawn by the Mentor.
* * *
Grant’s E-boat bumped and bounced across the swell, heading east, fast to beat the sun, an all out race to get there before first light.
Astern the other boat, Crosswall-Brown’s M.T.B., kept station. This time the race had a prize, Kristiansand; it was going to be touch and go. Grant looked to the east; pink had already begun to stripe the horizon.
He had no idea what the situation was ashore. There had been no second message from Bushel. They could have been captured, killed, anything. The lack of information made planning difficult, his mind ached with possibilities and contingencies. Somehow he had to allow for all and every eventuality. His first priority must be to reach the Inlet before first light. That much was clear. He checked the clock above the tiny chart table; they would make it unless there was a delay of some kind…an engine fault the other boat would have to proceed alone. If they met the enemy… then Crosswall-Brown would have to draw them off, deal with the situation, as best he could alone. Crosswall-Brown would have to buy him the time to disappear into whatever darkness remained. There never seemed to be enough of that. This war was one of dearth and deficits, not enough ships, not enough men, not enough information …not enough darkness.
* * *
Bushel crouched in the deep shadow cast by the stark white lights of the checkpoint. Stilson’s warning had come just in time; another thirty seconds and it would have been too late. He was grateful for that, it was Stilson’s manner that worried Bushel. It worried him more than being in a German held town worried him; and that was saying something.
It was in the look, it was in his movements, his smile, if you could call it that. Tonight he seemed to be worse. At one point he had put his hand on Stilson’s shoulder… he went over the short conversation again in his mind.
‘You all right, Snake.’ he’d asked.
‘What do yer mean by that!’ he’d replied quickly; too quickly.
‘Just that, are you all right?’
‘We ‘aven’t time for this. We’ve work to do.’
‘What I meant was…I don’t know…I suppose what I’m trying to say is…Don’t let it get to you.’
The marine had laughed a hollow empty sound, ‘Killing always gets to you. Especially our kind.’
It had been the most words he had heard Stilson string together in a long time, but it wasn’t the words, it was the way that he’d expressed them. The man was haunted, possessed, something. He had seen it there before, but now it was much more than just a passing mood. Those eyes, in that split second before he’d turned away. He’d seen it, putting a name to it was another thing. It certainly wasn’t fear, eagerness? It was more than that, fanaticism? Signs of an inner struggle to control whatever it was that possessed him? Bushel was no doctor, but thinking about it now the bloke could be having a breakdown. If he was, he had chosen one hell of a time, they needed him and his unusual skills. For starters, he was the only one who could get them past that check point.
On the Edge of Darkness (Special Force Orca Book 1) Page 28