“Yes, everything did. It’s all piled up outside the cabin. Camouflage suits, detonators, sidearms.” He nodded toward several crates partially covered with snow and just visible through the window.
“And by the way, you’ll have to give up your Sami coats. If we’re spotted, we don’t want the German army invading Sami villages looking for you or taking revenge.” Poulsson reached into a cabinet and pulled out two old sweaters. “Wear these under your camouflage. It should be enough.”
Kirsten set hers aside for the morning. It smelled like pipe tobacco. “You know what else would be good, if you have any extras? Socks for both of us. Mine wore out, and our shoe grass is no good anymore.”
Poulsson chuckled. “Lucky for you, SOE sent us a supply. I’ll have them for you tomorrow. If that’s it, then I suggest you all try to get some sleep.”
* * *
Kirsten and Maarit curled up together in one corner. “I’m sorry now that I dragged you into this,” Kirsten whispered. “These guys seem pretty competent, but it could still turn out to be a suicide mission. I’m willing to take the risk, but you shouldn’t. No one expects you to fight to the death over some esoteric weapon the enemy may or may not have.”
Maarit snorted. “It’s a little late in the game to suggest I leave, isn’t it? You forget. My father died fighting at Narvik, and my mother and brother died because of the Germans, so I have more to avenge than you do.”
“What happened, exactly? You never told me the whole story.”
“The Germans forced my brother to act as a guide on the Hardanger. For weeks my mother heard nothing about where he was or what was happening to him. My father was already dead, I was away in Trondheim, and she couldn’t bear to lose her remaining child. She simply put on skis and went out looking for him. It turned out my brother was shot trying to run away, and she was injured somehow before she ever got to him. A herder found her body in the snow. No one has found my brother’s body.”
She took a breath, and her expression became hard. “For months I’ve felt helpless and bitter, but tomorrow, finally, I’ll have some revenge. What’s more, I want a code name.”
Kirsten took her hand, pleased. “What name do you want? Something strong, like Eagle?”
“No. Reindeer will do.”
“Reindeer. Yes. I like it.”
Chapter Nine
Kirsten wakened to the sound of men coughing and the clatter of the kettle on the stove. Next to her, Maarit was rubbing life back into her face, and they smiled encouragement at each other. This was the day.
Poulsson lit his ever-present pipe, even before taking a sip of coffee, then knocked on the table to get everyone’s attention. “Let’s do a final check. Skinnarland stays behind to radio London of the result. First team, Idland, Kayser, Strømsheim, Rønneberg, Brun—you have the detonators and explosives?”
Kirsten smiled to herself. He’d called her by her last name, like one of the men. She was accepted. Even better, two pairs of thick winter socks lay folded up beside them, and she drew one pair on, savoring the luxury of warm feet.
Rønneberg replied, “Packed and ready. Both teams have a set.”
“We have a couple of hours before we need to leave, so everyone should eat a good breakfast and make sure to pack enough food to get where you need to go once the mission’s done.”
The men grunted assent, though everyone knew escape was the weakest part of an already rather vague plan. Sweden was hundreds of kilometers away, and it was February.
In the afternoon, they reached the slope that led down into Rjukan. Eight men and two women in winter camouflage, they skied in a line along the highway running parallel to the river, dull-gray shapes against the white snow. They passed the settlement of Vaer, keeping their distance, then turned away from the road onto the steep slope down into the gorge. Tying their now-useless skis to their backs, they scrambled down the wooded part of the descent, gripping the surrounding growth to keep from slipping.
Arriving at slightly more level ground, Poulsson signaled halt. This was where they’d agreed to hide their skis before the final descent. In the growing darkness, camouflage was no longer necessary, and Kirsten was relieved to be rid of the wide flapping material that kept catching on shrubbery. All the men wore British uniforms in an attempt to spare the Norwegians reprisals if they were captured, though it was a flimsy attempt. Kirsten was the only one who spoke unaccented English, and any serious interrogation would soon reveal they were all Norwegians.
The descent became hazardous as they careened with their heavy packs over the slippery rocks and ice-encrusted snow, and only kicking a hole in the crust from time to time could slow them down.
Finally, they arrived at the bottom of the gorge, at the edge of the Måna. Unexpectedly, and alarmingly, the river was no longer fully frozen. Several inches of meltwater covered the surface, and everywhere, even in the dim light, she could see dark spots that suggested the ice had melted through. What the hell would they do now?
Poulsson waved them to follow along the stream to search for a spot that still held. Luck brought them to a narrow ice bridge, and they filed over it one by one. The chill of icy water on Kirsten’s ankles made her shiver, not only at the water, but at the thought that it might be even worse later when they had to cross back.
Shielding the beam with his hand to prevent an upward glow, Poulsson swept his light along the bank until they located the spot planned for the ascent. Only intermittent cracks and low growth broke a steep slope of bare rock. Kirsten winced inwardly. It had held her and Maarit a few days earlier, but now they’d all be climbing weighted with explosives, detonating hardware, and tools.
Once again, iron determination propelled them upward, even as some of the men lost their grip and fell several meters before catching hold again. All but Maarit had trained in rock-climbing in Scotland, and Kirsten worried. But a glance over her shoulder told her that Maarit was holding her own.
Every muscle straining, Kirsten forced herself up, propelled in part by a sense of responsibility. She had identified this route, and if any of the men lost their lives, it would be her fault.
All arrived at the ridge panting. Taking deep, cold breaths, Kirsten leaned toward Maarit. “You okay?”
“Still here.” Maarit peered upward, and Kirsten followed her glance. The plant was clearly visible now, and she studied its two main buildings, the seven-story electric-generator building and the power plant behind it. They were positioned on a rocky ledge midway up the mountain. Several smaller sheds and outbuildings were part of the complex, but the most impressive sight were the twelve huge pipes, each one some six feet in diameter, that lay side by side and carried water down from the plateau hundreds of feet above the plant.
The plant’s engines thrummed as if the mountain itself vibrated, while the rush of water through the enormous feeder pipes added a tone at a higher pitch. It was so loud they could talk without fear of guards hearing them. The thunderous industrial noise seemed at odds with the peaceful moonlit arctic landscape around them.
Thin clouds slid over the moon, but toward the south, Kirsten could see stars. Unfathomably distant and unfathomably old, they gave a brief sense of triviality to the mission. She smiled to herself at the thought of suggesting to Poulsson, “The stars say we shouldn’t bother.” She doubted he’d be amused.
Poulsson risked a second-long shine of his flashlight onto his watch. “Right on schedule. Now, when we reach the rail line outside the plant, the demolition team goes straight in. If the steel door won’t open, move on to the cable tunnel. You’ve all memorized the layout, but Brun will act as guide.”
At Poulsson’s signal, they began the final ascent toward the single rail line, and in just a few minutes, they all crouched together in the moon-shadow of a shed. As Kirsten recalled, it held some sort of transformer.
They rested again, waiting through the final countdown, and Kirsten felt Maarit at her shoulder. “Look. You can see lights down in the valley on the other side
.” The roar of the plant engines and the rush of tons of water drowned her voice.
“It must be Vaer. Farmers sitting by their fires, with no idea we’re up here risking our lives for the war, for them.”
“I guess that’s the point of a secret mission, isn’t it?” Maarit was silent for a moment. “However it turns out, I want you to know I’m happy to be doing this with you.”
Kirsten leaned toward her. “Me, too. No matter what happens, I’m grateful you stayed with me. If we make it back, we should…I don’t know…stay friends somehow, don’t you think?”
Maarit pressed toward her, cushioned by their bulky clothing. “We’re more than friends. I helped you pee, remember?”
“Listen, you can’t tell that story to anyone. Understand?”
Poulsson’s order to move forward cut off Maarit’s reply. Kjelstrup started out first, carrying heavy shears. With a smooth, efficient motion, he severed the chain on the gate and tossed the shears to the side. A single sudden kick caused the gate to swing open.
With a tommy gun at the ready, Poulsson led the covering party. Haugland followed with the more optimistic weapon of two tubes of chloroform. Maarit pressed a sudden kiss on Kirsten’s cheek and rose to join them.
Idland signaled the demolition party to follow him, and they scuttled toward the steel door of the electric-generator building. It was locked, of course. After only the briefest hesitation, he led them to the spot Kirsten remembered from the diagram Jomar had sent with her to Shetland. She grasped the full importance of the diagram, since the entryway was almost invisible. Only the top rung of the ladder showed above the deep snow. Glancing briefly over his shoulder to make sure they followed, he scrambled down the ladder to the dark spot that was the opening of the cable conduit.
Oh, shit. Kirsten was sure the others thought the same. They had all memorized the spot designated CABLE CONDUIT ENTRY, assuming it was a pipe tall enough for them to crawl through with ease. It was not.
The cement conduit was perhaps five feet in diameter, stuffed with a dozen crisscrossing steel lines and pipes. They could pass through them only on their stomachs, dragging themselves over and around the lines, foot by foot, pushing their packs ahead of them.
And she was in front. Once in, if she met an obstacle, she couldn’t turn around. The last man would have to wiggle back out again, feeling his way along with his feet, with everyone forward following him. In the freezing, wet, thundering dark. It was the stuff of nightmares.
The pride she’d felt at being the guide of the demolition team crashed against sheer claustrophobia. Nonetheless, she took a breath and started in, shoving the flashlight into her collar to free up both of her hands. Foot by foot she crawled, slid, wiggled, and pulled herself along over cables slippery with oil, and her gloves kept slipping off them.
As distraction, she thought of Maarit outside in the yard protecting her: Maarit, who had joined the mission out of friendship; Maarit, who had just kissed her.
Behind her, Idland grunted and cursed, and in spite of her own misery, she worried about him. He was bulkier than she was. All of them were. And all of them pushed or dragged sacks filled with explosive charges. They carried sidearms as well, just as she did, in canvas holsters, and the damned things kept catching on cables, yanking her to a sudden halt.
She lost any sense of time, and all existence seemed to shrink to the single task of inching along the conduit. Then, almost by surprise, they reached the first aperture. According to the diagram, it led to the room adjacent to the high-concentration laboratory. Mercifully, they could fit through it.
Removing the cover screen, they dropped in, one by one, their boots thudding on the tile floor. Only the ongoing din of the factory machinery covered the sound.
The door at the end of the room led to the concentration laboratory, and it opened from Kayser’s first push. She exhaled with relief. They had arrived at the target and, so far, not a drop of blood had been shed.
Peering through the doorway, Kirsten saw what, in fact, she had only poorly remembered—a long hall with rows of glass cylinders running along both sides. Each cylinder was connected to a maze of pipes and wires and was jacketed in stainless steel. There could be no mistake; these were the precious heavy-water cells. They were rather beautiful.
Curious. The bit of fluid she could see through the glass seemed in no way different from ordinary water. But, she reminded herself, so did gin.
At the near end, a man hunched over a table writing in some sort of ledger under the light of a goosenecked lamp. At their entry, he turned and lurched to his feet.
Kayser raised his pistol with one hand and signaled silence with the other. “Just be quiet, and nothing will happen to you. British soldiers don’t kill civilians.” The man blinked, stupefied, hearing perfect Norwegian from a man in a British uniform, then sat down again, his hands still raised.
Rønneberg stepped past him and stood for a moment of admiration before the cells. “Amazing,” he said. “They’re identical to the drawings Brun sent us.” Kirsten felt a sense of pride that she’d been the one to carry them to Shetland. The cold and seasickness had been worth it.
They went to work, placing the soft-plastic explosive coils around each one, and they fit perfectly. The planning of the demolition at least had been extraordinarily precise, compensating to a certain degree for the catastrophic misjudgments of the glider operation.
After all eighteen cells were enclosed in their explosive “sausages,” Rønneberg and Kayser attached the long fuse to a series of short fuses, and Kayser signaled for the others to gather at the steel door. With pistol in hand, he led the Norwegian overseer toward the door and ordered him to unlock it.
Fumbling with his keys, the man obeyed, docile, but when Rønneberg flicked open his stainless-steel lighter to light the fuse, he became animated. “Wait! Wait. Please!” he pleaded. “My glasses are at the table, and with the war, they are impossible to replace. Please!”
Kirsten was sure Rønneberg would refuse the delay over such a trivial thing. They’d tempted fate all along and were within seconds of fulfilling a mission that men had already died for. A delay of even a minute could mean the arrival of guards to yank the fuses and thus bring the project crashing down.
But for reasons known only to him, Rønneberg clicked the lighter closed and nodded to the overseer, who ran back to the table. He rummaged frantically though his papers searching for the glasses, while Kirsten and the others gritted their teeth. Finally, he found them and rushed back to grip Rønneberg’s hand in gratitude.
The tension seemed broken when suddenly footsteps on the stairs sounded, and all of them drew their sidearms. They were going to have to kill someone after all.
“No! Don’t shoot!” the overseer called out. “It’s the night foreman. He’s Norwegian.”
Another terrified civilian halted at the foot of the stairs. Obviously bewildered at seeing his colleague with hands held high, surrounded by British soldiers, he raised his hands as well.
“Enough,” Rønneberg muttered, clicked his lighter open again, and lit the fuse. He turned to the two civilians. “Now run for your lives up the stairs.”
The men took flight instantly, and the team of saboteurs flung themselves through the open doorway into the yard.
Outside the steel door Kirsten could see several of the others emerge from the half-light of the yard. As she reached the fence, the sound of the detonations reached her, and she glanced over her shoulder. The flashes of light in the basement windows showed the explosives had all gone off, but the series of dull thuds they produced seemed too weak.
She had expected elation at the completion of the mission, but felt only confusion and disappointment. Even escaping lacked drama, for no guards seemed to have been alerted, and, astonishingly, no one pursued them.
Only when they’d thrown themselves into the descent, slipping and scrabbling over the icy rocks, did they hear the sirens. Someone had finally discovered the damage, wh
atever its extent, and at least they had reached the bottom of the gorge. But now they faced an obstacle just as frightening as a squadron of armed guards.
The ominous rise in temperature they’d sensed on their way to the target had grown worse during the action itself. The Måna was now in that terrifying middle stage between frozen and liquid. Sheets of white ice, separated by inch-wide lines of black water, jostled against one another, forming a deadly moving mosaic. A new sound mixed with the sirens—the cracking of ice and the gurgling of water as it was forced up between the slabs.
They had no choice. Sheer, life-threatening necessity drove them across, sometimes stepping upon a floe wide enough to hold them, but just as often dropping to their knees when it broke in half and they had to clamber to the next block. Kirsten lost her balance as the slab supporting her tilted suddenly, and one leg slid into the freezing water. She drew it up, shocked by the burning cold, and struggled on hands and knees from one ice floe to the next one. Maarit was nowhere in sight.
At the back of her panicking mind, she grasped that the searchlights had not yet gone on. At least none shone down into the gorge, where the light would have made them easy targets. And she heard no cracking of rifle fire. Poulsson had been right. The sheer audacity, not to say insanity, of an attack down one cliff and up another had delayed discovery of their whereabouts.
But the two Norwegian workers who had seen them would have to report the five intruders, and it was only a question of how long it would take the chain of command to operate and call out the remaining guard, both in the plant, and in Rjukan, where the garrison was based. She only hoped the two men identified them as British.
The dark shape beside her revealed itself as Maarit. “Are you all right?”
“Bloody freezing, but otherwise fine. You?”
“Soaked, but I’ll make it.”
The highway, when they finally reached it, was streaming with snowmelt, and they splashed through it, already half numb. Reaching the spot where they’d hidden their skis, they heard the German trucks racing along the flooded highway on the way to the plant. After pulling on their white camouflage again, they stood in a circle around Poulsson for a final debriefing.
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