He took up his notepad to compose the shortest possible phrasing, checked his code book for encryption, then set on his earphones. As he turned on his short-wave radio and fiddled with the dials, everyone else withdrew to the back of the cabin so as not to disturb him.
Kirsten turned her attention to Martinson. He had a pleasant, boyish look. With a narrow head, rendered all the more elongated by a high forehead and blond hair that stood up high and was combed straight back, he reminded her of Reggie. The resemblance increased when he smiled at her, spontaneously and without reason. He seemed easy to talk to.
“From what I recall of the plant, it won’t be easy to transfer all that liquid,” she said. “They’ll need specially made barrels and a lot of troops to guard the route. And speaking of that, do we know the likely route?”
He crossed his arms and stared up at the ceiling. “For the moment, we can only guess. But the British bombed the suspension bridge, so that eliminates truck travel, which would be impractical for large cargoes anyhow. I think they’ll have to move everything by rail line. The Allies bombarded it, but they repaired it pretty quickly. The question will be, where to intercept.”
Kirsten nodded. “Rail. That’s what I would have concluded also. Assuming they let us in on this operation, who would we be working with?”
“I’ll be coordinating other sabotage near Oslo in the next weeks, but Rolf Sørlie and Knut Haugland will be involved. I believe you know them.”
“Yes. Sørlie helped me escape from Rjukan, and I know Haugland from Operation Gunnerside.”
Terje Martinson’s eyebrows rose perceptibly. “I heard you were part of Gunnerside. You have my admiration. We heard about the operation afterward, by radio.”
Skinnarland had laid aside his headset and joined them. “London gave me authority to include you and fill you in on the details as they exist at the moment. We know, for example, that the plan is to transport the barrels of heavy water by rail across Lake Tinn on 20 February.”
Maarit frowned skepticism. “Doesn’t Lake Tinn sometimes have ice at that time?”
Martinson raised a hand slightly to indicate authority. “We’ve been monitoring the lake the last few days. It’s almost all broken up now, and ferry traffic is ongoing.”
“February 20 gives us five days. Any other details?”
“Quite a few, in fact. Our intelligence tells us that the train with forty drums of heavy water labeled potash lye will travel down to the ferry station at Mael. They’ll roll the railcars onto the ferry and, after the crossing, will load them again onto the train to Notodden. From there it’s a short trip to Menstad and a ship bound for Germany.”
“So, where along that route are we going to strike? At Vemork, along the line to Mael, at Notodden?”
Martinson sat down at the table and took off one boot. He seemed to be stalling, until he shook the boot and knocked out a tiny pebble. “Sorry. That’s been killing me for hours. Anyhow, Sørlie, Haugland, and I hashed that out a few days ago. Striking at Vemork would be impossible now. It’s too heavily guarded, and blowing up the train as it passed would kill the guards riding along.”
Maarit frowned. “Which would bring more reprisals.”
“Agreed. So that leaves the ferry port at Mael.”
“Isn’t that just as risky?”
“No, not at the port. In fact, that’s the most vulnerable point in the transfer. It has lots of advantages for us. It’s only about three kilometers south of here, easily reachable in a short time. From there we can plant a bomb to blow up the ferry in the deepest part of the lake, where they can’t dredge it up again.”
“And the ferry passengers? Won’t they be mostly Norwegian?”
He glanced away for a moment, then replied with a noticeable lack of conviction. “We’re assuming that once the ferry starts sinking, they’ll be able to jump overboard. We expect the fishing boats around at that time can pick them up.”
Kirsten fell silent. The water would be icy cold, and the passengers would be dressed in heavy winter clothing and boots. “I see,” she said quietly.
“I know what you’re thinking. Yes, there will be fatalities, but think of how many fatalities a radioactive bomb would cause. That’s what’s behind the whole program, after all, the Allies’ belief that heavy water is used to develop a fission bomb.”
“I’m a chemist, and I understand the process you’re talking about. Heavy water can be used as a moderator in experiments with radioactivity. It just seems so…unlikely that the Germans are anywhere near creating a bomb. The deaths right now are what bother me, not the potential ones from some vague super-bomb that doesn’t even exist yet.”
Martinson nodded, obviously pained. “I know what you mean. But we’re soldiers in a war, and if our side is to win, we have to trust that such decisions are made in good faith and follow the orders that come from them.”
Skinnarland ended the discussion. “I’ve also radioed to Rjukan. Sørlie and Haugland are on their way here.”
* * *
An hour after Martinson had left to return to his own headquarters, Sørlie and Haugland arrived. All knew each other, so greetings were brief, and Skinnarland hastened to roll out a map of the land between themselves and Lake Tinn.
“I’ve laid out the areas of responsibility. Kirsten, I’d like you and Maarit to travel down to Mael and find out which ferries will be running on 20 February. You’ll cause less suspicion than one of us.”
“We’ll leave immediately, but I know already that 20 February is a Sunday and only one ferry will be running. Why do we need to know which of the two it is?”
“Because the two are a little different, and we need to know where to place the explosives. Consequently, you also have to go on board and locate a place under the bow. We can’t waste time doing that on the day of the action.”
“Yes, sir.” Kirsten exchanged glances with Maarit, who also seemed pleased to have a specific task in the operation.
Skinnarland continued. “Sørlie will fetch the detonator from our source, and Haugland is responsible for obtaining the explosive. After you’ve identified the best location and we’ve assembled the bomb, they’ll go on board the night before to mount it. Any questions?”
“Do you think someone will recognize Kirsten?” Maarit asked. “She’s a fugitive, after all. And easy to remember with that red hair.”
“It’s simple enough to keep her hair covered, and we’ll give her a new identity card.” He rummaged among items in the table drawer. “Here. This one looks a little like you.” He handed her a battered card with grease spots that covered part of the photo. “It’s unlikely anyone will ask you to show it. Just keep it, in case. We’ll also issue you some money.”
Kirsten studied the grimy card. “So I’m Britta Nielson, age forty-six. Nice,” she added with faint sarcasm.
* * *
On 18 February, two days before the transport, they made the leisurely two-hour ski trip to Mael. At the agreed-upon spot, they hid their skis and hiked the last half kilometer to the ferry terminal. Amazingly, they found virtually no guard. Bundled in their coats, they looked like two farm women, and no one glanced their way when they entered the terminal to check the posted schedule.
“There it is.” Maarit tapped it with a finger. “February 20, nine o’clock departure, on the S/F Hydro.”
“It’s the ferry that’s outside right now. What luck. We can simply go on board as passengers.”
They pivoted around to the ticket window and purchased tickets. While they waited to join the line of passengers, Kirsten studied the steam ferry Hydro. It was larger than she expected, and uglier. Nothing about it was boat-like. It was flat-bottomed, with a wide, heavy bow that could break ice. Each side held railroad tracks, revealing its primary purpose was to transport materials on railcars in both directions across the lake. A disagreeable odor that hovered around it suggested one of those materials was chemical fertilizer. The tracks merged at the front, to allow movement of r
ailcars to or from a single track on land. Tall black funnels stood on both sides of the bridge, making the whole vessel look more like a factory than a boat.
As they watched, some railcars slid onto the ferry and were bolted in place. Presumably they carried fertilizer, which the plant still produced. After the railcars were loaded, Kirsten and Maarit joined the line of people shuffling past a Norwegian policeman, marveling that the German forces in charge of the Vemork transfer had not yet installed their troops at Mael. Perhaps the war had robbed the occupying force of its best officers.
As they passed the gate, they had only to show their tickets, with no identification. The crowd moved down into the passenger section below deck, and Kirsten checked her watch. Right on time. According to the schedule, the crossing would take two hours.
Once they were underway, Maarit remained on deck, while Kirsten sought out a seaman and apologized for bothering him. The young man, with grease on his well-muscled hands, looked surprised to be spoken to. Apparently flattered at her attention, he smiled broadly and asked how he could help.
Casually, she removed her thick hat and ran her fingers through her striking red hair, fluffing it slightly. “You might not believe it, but I’m studying commercial naval engineering at Oslo. Really, I am. My father was a port captain before the war and wants me to follow in his footsteps.”
The young seaman blinked, captivated by her interest in him, and most likely also her hair, waiting for her to tell him what she needed.
“Well, you may think I’m crazy, but I’d love to see the engine room. Would that be allowed? I just want to see what it looks like in person.”
“Gosh. No woman’s ever asked me that. Besides, it’s pretty nasty down there. Aren’t you worried you might get dirty, or even hurt?”
“Oh, I promise not to touch anything. I just want to look around. She slid a notebook and pencil from her pocket, to show how serious she was. “A vessel as big as this one must have a very powerful engine.” She emphasized the word powerful.
He seemed nonplussed but eager to please. “Uh, I guess so. But stay close to me, and don’t touch anything.”
“Of course. I’ll be right next to you. Is it okay if I make a few drawings?”
“That’s fine. We have a lot of very complicated machines down here.” His expression was a boyish mix of flirtation and pride. “I’ll try to explain what each one does, and you can ask me questions if you want.”
He led her deeper into the engine room, pointing out pieces of equipment as they walked. Replying with exclamations of girlish awe, she sketched out the layout of the room, the two large boilers and the coal-fed fireboxes that heated them. The machinery was indeed complicated, built close together, and half a dozen seamen were monitoring, oiling, or stoking the fire with coal, but that wasn’t what worried her. With so many men moving about the engine room, it seemed impossible to plant an explosive that would remain undetected.
She would have to locate a place that was out of sight.
“Where is the bilge chamber” she asked suddenly.
“The bilge chamber?” He seemed astonished. “You don’t want to see that. It’s a dark, filthy place and stinks of rot and oil. Why would you want to go there?”
The more she thought about it, the more reasonable it seemed. “I know, but it’s all part of the way a boat runs, isn’t it? As important as the grease on the engine. So, I’d at least like to have a look at it, to compare it with the others I’ve seen. It will really impress my teachers. They think women don’t want to get their hands dirty.”
“All right.” He agreed, reluctantly, and pointed toward a spot they’d just passed. At the center of the engine room, midway between the two boilers, he knelt and tugged on a metal ring. A wide metal plate, hinged at one side, came up in his hand. On the side opposite the hinge, a metal ladder dropped into darkness. He was right. It stank of oil and rot.
“Can I take a look inside?”
He shrugged. “Sure. If you insist.” He stepped out of the way, and she knelt to peer into the pit.
It was perfect. By the indirect light of the engine room, she could see that a support beam ran horizontally across the chamber. She could just make out the bilge pump on the bow side, though it was irrelevant to her needs. It was easy to memorize the layout of things, and she could make a sketch later. She stood up again.
“Well, thank you for that revelation. It’s certainly a well-built boat, and you obviously have your hands full to keep it running.” She gave him a look of glowing admiration.
He beamed. “Yes, ma’am, we do our best. Unfortunately, I’ve got to work now, so you’ll have to go back upstairs.”
“Yes, of course. Sorry to keep you from your duties.” She smiled warmly and patted his sleeve as she passed him. A sweet man. She’d been lucky to encounter him. She climbed the first ladder to the passenger level, and only as she stepped onto the second ladder up to the deck did it occur to her she was condemning him to death.
Chapter Sixteen
A day later at the cabin at Lauvhøgdi, the five of them sat around Skinnarland’s table. “So, that’s the detonator.” Kirsten leaned forward on her elbows to study it.
Haugland shoved the apparatus to the center of the table. “Simplicity itself. Just two alarm clocks with the alarm bells removed.” He tapped the place where they had been removed and replaced with copper and Bakelite plates. “These wires welded to the copper connect the clocks to the detonator caps. An electrical current will set them off.”
Maarit leaned close, interested. “Where does the charge come from?”
“From these.” Sørlie held up four large flashlight batteries.
“Very nice. Elegant, one might say.”
“And everything attaches to these babies.” Haugland opened a canvas sack to reveal two large rust-colored sausages.
“Nobel 808?” Kirsten asked. “It looks like the stuff we used at Vemork.”
“Yes, but in a single big load instead of a series of small blasts. We calculate this will blow a hole about ten or eleven square feet in the hull.”
Maarit frowned. “That’s going to bring in a lot of water fast.”
“That’s the idea. Once it detonates, we don’t want the ferry to limp toward shore and then sink in shallow water, where the Germans could retrieve their barrels. We’d be back where we started.”
“It’s also why we want to plant it under the bow,” Sørlie added. “That way the ferry will go down bow first, raising the propellers up out of the water so they can’t move any farther. We figure it will take four to five minutes to sink completely.”
Maarit looked glum. “Four or five minutes. Not enough time for all the passengers to escape.”
Skinnarland appeared pained. “Do you imagine we haven’t already thought about that? We know we’ll probably lose a few. We won’t always have the luck we had at Vemork. But five minutes will allow most of the passengers to get into lifeboats or, if they’re able-bodied, to stay afloat until one of the fishing boats picks them up.”
“In near-freezing water,” Maarit added in a monotone.
“What more can I say? We’re doing our best to minimize civilian casualties. If this doesn’t succeed, you can be sure London will send bombers to take out the cargo in port, and that will cost a lot more Norwegian lives.”
Maarit nodded sullen agreement.
“All right.” Sørlie redirected the conversation. “Tomorrow’s the day, so we have to plant the explosive tonight. Do you have the diagram?”
Kirsten drew the sketches from her pocket and unfolded them on the table. “The engine room is no good. It’ll be crawling with seamen even when they’re docked, and I didn’t see any place to hide the explosive. But the bilge compartment, just underneath, is perfect.” She ran her finger along the horizontal beam she had drawn between the two bulkheads. “This is the ideal place to tape the whole apparatus. During the trip, no one has any reason to go down there, and the noise in the engine room will
muffle the sound of the ticking.”
“All right, then. We do a night ski to the Mael Terminal. Sometime after midnight, when the guard is bored and drowsy, we can slip aboard.”
“I think you should also have some plan, in case the guard is increased,” Skinnarland said.
The four of them exchanged glances, and Kirsten spoke. “Judging by their conspicuous absence yesterday, I’d say the Germans are focused on guarding the railcars and have completely overlooked any vulnerability on the ferry. Unfathomable.”
Haugland snorted. “No wonder they’re losing the war.”
“One last question.” Maarit raised her hand. “Are we absolutely certain the railcars with the heavy water will be on that particular ferry? Is there any possibility they’ll be held up?”
“There’s always a small chance, but it’s unlikely. The train’s scheduled to arrive tonight, and the railcars go out tomorrow morning. None of our contacts suggest a delay. Why do you ask?”
She chewed her lip. “I was just thinking that it’s bad enough to sink a boat with dozens of civilians on it if it hurts the enemy. It would be appalling to do it for nothing.”
Haugland snorted, obviously weary of the discussion.
Maarit still scowled, and the mood of the group changed. Skinnarland replied wearily, “Your reservations have been noted, but there’s nothing we can do.”
“Yes, there is. No one’s looking for me. I can blend into the crowd of passengers, even buy a ticket. Once the railcars are loaded, I’ll leave, and the operation will go forward. But if something prevents the transfer, if the Germans suddenly have a change of plan, or grow suspicious, I volunteer to go aboard and defuse the bomb.”
“You can’t do that without being captured. How would you explain, as a passenger, going down into the bilge compartment?”
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