by Andrew Gross
Remaining perfectly still, Nordstrum reached for his tommy and quietly drew back the bolt.
After a minute or so, no one had come out. Thank God. The building seemed to have a lot of clanking, grating sounds—compressors, water pipes, currents rushing through turbines. The sound of the gun hitting the floor was only one more. Still, at some point a night watchman would come by.
Holding still until they were sure it was safe to continue on, they finally pushed ahead. After another twenty feet, Nordstrum came upon a wider opening in the duct. This one had to be inside the high-concentration room for sure. Putting a hand to his lips for his partner to remain silent, he stuck his head through the hole and peered inside.
What he saw was a large room. To his right was a man, sitting behind a table, making notes in some kind of notebook. He was older, with white hair under a flat wool cap, dressed in civilian clothes. Not a guard; likely Norwegian. Maybe a watchman in the room to take a reading.
And beyond him, to Nordstrum’s elation, identical to the models they had practiced on in Britain, were the eighteen high-concentration compressors, hissing steam and emitting the slow, steady drip of heavy water into the very same cylindrical steel canisters they had come to destroy. He looked back at Stromsheim with a triumphant nod.
They were here.
40
Hugging the shadows, Ronneberg and Jens hurried around to the north side of the building. They found the closed steel door that led to the first floor.
No one was around.
Ronneberg twisted the handle and tried to push the door in with his shoulder.
It was locked as well.
That left only the duct as their last possibility. And Nordstrum and Stromsheim were somewhere on the other side of the building.
“Quick, let’s head back around and find them,” Jens said, checking his watch. Seven minutes had elapsed since they’d first come through the gate—an eternity to those who were keeping watch on the Germans and didn’t know their progress—and they were no farther along than when they arrived.
“All right.” Ronneberg nodded and started to head back. Then suddenly he grabbed Jens’s arm. “Hold it!”
There were windows at their feet, all blackened out with dark paint of some kind. The electrolysis compressors were in the basement. These windows had to lead somewhere.
Ronneberg said, “I’m going to take a look.” He got down on a knee, making his way along the base of the building, trying to locate some section of a window he could get a view through. Finally he came upon a corner where a narrow ray of light shone through. He reached into his pocket for a small knife and scratched at it. A residue of black paint chipped off into his hand. He leaned in closer and put his eye to the tiny opening.
As if in a dream, the eighteen electrolysis chambers were visible at the far end of a large room. Nearer to him, he saw the back of a man jotting in a notebook at a table. The man was older, with white hair under a flat wool cap.
Not a German in sight.
“Anything in there?” Jens leaned over and asked under his breath.
“Yes.” Ronneberg turned around with a broad smile. “Our target.”
41
Taking his weapon, Nordstrum slipped silently through the hole in the duct and down into the large room. The compressors were hissing, clanking, synthesizing their precious by-product, drip by dreaded drip.
Stromsheim followed close behind with the rucksack of explosives.
The watchman made notations in his notebook, seemingly humming a few bars of a tune while he jotted, completely oblivious to them.
Nordstrum pulled back the bolt of his gun.
With a jolt, the watchman looked up, blinking twice at the sight of a man in a non-German military uniform holding a gun on him, and another right behind.
He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
“I assure you we’re quite real.” Nordstrum advanced toward him. “And if you want to continue to live through the next few minutes, you’ll do precisely what we say. Now put your hands up.”
“Don’t shoot,” the man said, doing as Nordstrum instructed. “Who the hell are you? And how did you possibly get in here? The door’s locked.”
“Never mind that,” Nordstrum said. “Haven’t you ever seen a British soldier before? Now get up and away from there, and keep your hands in the air.”
“Brits? This is truly amazing.” The watchman stood up and followed Nordstrum’s instructions. “What do you want in here?”
“First, where’s the key to the door to the outer yard?” Getting out that door was their only means of a quick escape.
His palms still wide, the watchman slowly reached to his vest pocket and came out with a ring of keys. “May I?”
“Put it on the table.” Nordstrum directed him with the gun.
The man wound clumsily through the keys until he found the one he was looking for. He put the entire ring, with one key sticking out, next to his notebook. “You know if the Germans find you in here, we’ll all be shot.”
“Then you better do your best to keep that from happening.” He turned to Stromsheim. Go check outside the door and retrieve your gun,” Nordstrum said in English.
Stromsheim headed to the basement door, opened it slowly, and stuck out his head.
“Tell me your name?” Nordstrum said to the watchman.
“It’s Gustav. Fredrickson.”
“So, Gustav Fredrickson, do what we say and you’ve nothing to worry about. Don’t, and all bets are off. How often do the guards come around?”
The watchman glanced at the clock on the wall. “Once an hour, usually at ten minutes past. Punctual to a T.” It was 12:48 now. That gave them twenty minutes. “They check the water levels, make a lot of notes. The bastards can’t afford to lose a precious drop. But there’s others in the building … My foreman. He comes around. I’m not sure you can count on him.”
“And we can count on you…?” Nordstrum questioned.
“Me, yes. British commandos? With a grasp of Norwegian. Look, I know what you’re here to do.”
“You do, do you?” Nordstrum opened the rucksack of explosives and placed it on the table. “Then we best get started, don’t you think?”
* * *
Near the German guard hut, Poulsson and Gutterson hid behind the storage drums, barely ten meters from it. It had been almost twenty minutes since Ronneberg and the demolition team had gone inside. Amazingly, not a single guard or watchman had wandered by.
They waved to Arne Kjelstrup, who was crouched in a clump of bushes, watching over the sentries on the bridge. From inside the hut, they could hear the chatter of voices, some laughter at intervals. Who knew how they were passing the time in there? Drinking coffee. Playing cards. Sharing photos of some Nazi film star. It took all the restraint Gutterson and Poulsson had not to just riddle the hut with bullets and put an end to them.
12:46.
Separately, each of their minds drummed with worry. What could be taking so long? Had any of the teams reached the target? Did they encounter any opposition? Were the two of them crouched here, the minutes ticking achingly slowly, and their countrymen were trapped inside?
No, the alarm hadn’t sounded. Or gunfire. If they’d been caught, they would surely know by now. They just had to be patient and maintain the watch. But every minute that passed stretched on as if it were an hour. Poulsson, who spoke a little German, strained to listen to what was being said inside the guard hut.
They heard a sound from within. Suddenly the door flung open.
Gutterson’s heart stood still.
A German came outside, stretching his arms. He wore no jacket or helmet. His uniform shirt was open. The stripes on his arm indicated he was a corporal. “It smells like a barnyard in there tonight. I’m going to take a piss,” he called back over his shoulder.
The guard took a look around, basically staring directly at Jens and Poulsson, crouched behind the drums, as if he knew they were there.
Gutterson wrapped his finger around the trigger.
Then, slapping his sides for warmth, the guard stomped around the back of the hut, and shortly they could hear the tinkle of urine as he relieved himself in the snow with an audible sigh.
“Every time he pees, Helmut sounds like he’s having sex,” someone said inside, loud enough for all to hear, followed by a cackle of laughter.
“Yes, well, at least I know the difference,” the peeing guard shouted back. “Which is more than I can say for any of you.”
When he finished, the guard hustled around again, with a “Brrrr…” and opened the door and ducked back inside.
Poulsson and Gutterson took their fingers off their triggers. Another situation like that, both seemed to know, and it would be hard to hold back.
Where were Nordstrum and Ronneberg? They had to be out soon.
It was now 12:51.
42
Stromsheim hurried back into the high-concentration room, now holding his Colt. Nordstrum tossed him the open rucksack of explosives. Immediately, the sapper expert began setting them out.
The watchman’s eyes went wide.
Eighteen adhesive, sausage-shaped charges, each about a foot long, made of nitro-cellulose, with a detonator fuse 120 centimeters long. Since it took one second for each centimeter to burn, two minutes were all they had to get safely out of the building.
As he saw what was happening, the watchman stood up. “That’s enough to take the whole building down. You’ll never get out of here.”
“Then at least we’ll die knowing we did the job, don’t you agree?” Nordstrum said. “Now sit back down.”
Where the hell were Ronneberg and Jens? One way or another, they should have been in here by now. Time was running short. If no one showed, he’d have to put down his gun and help Stromsheim with the charges or they’d never get it done in time.
12:53.
“Don’t make a move, Gustav,” Nordstrum said, heading to help his friend at the concentration cells. “Otherwise, I’ll be forced to—”
Suddenly there was a crash, the sound of glass shattering. Nordstrum spun and aimed his tommy at the blackened windows behind the desk. Shards of glass fell onto the floor, a rifle butt coming through.
“Just keep at it!” he yelled to Stromsheim. “If they’re Germans, set the fuses to go.” If it was indeed someone unwelcome, he’d give his friend as much time and cover as he could. He leveled his gun at the person climbing through, prepared to pull the trigger at the first face he saw.
To his delight, it was Ronneberg’s.
“Jesus, another second and I would have pulled the trigger,” Nordstrum said, scurrying over. “Where the hell have you been?”
“What did you expect us to do—knock? This was the only way we could find to get ourselves in,” Ronneberg said, maneuvering an arm through, kicking out a last piece of glass, and pulling himself through. “I’m glad to see you here though.”
He jumped onto the floor.
Jens was next, tossing the lieutenant his backpack of explosives. “Lieutenant.” He nodded, pleased to see him there.
“Say hello to Gustav.” He introduced the watchman in English.
“Lord in Heaven, just how the hell many are you?” The watchman stretched his eyes wide.
“Gustav says the Germans come by every hour to check the water levels. At around ten after,” Nordstrum said.
“Not around, exactly,” the watchman declared. “There’s usually two of them. They leave their guard hut on the hour, but that’s what it takes to get here and maybe have a smoke on the way.”
“That gives us about five minutes before they leave the hut, and we’d better be out of here.” Ronneberg looked at the clock. “Kurt, how long did you say it would take?”
“Seven minutes. Depending on what we found in here.”
“Seven minutes…” Ronneberg checked his watch concernedly. “We’d better get cracking.”
Donning rubber gloves, each of them knelt and worked their tasks with the precision of a craftsman who could do a specific job over and over in his sleep, molding the charges to the belly of each steel compressor tank and connecting the wiring.
Each tank was four feet, two inches tall, jacketed in stainless steel with lead pipes, condenser tubes, water seals, rubber tubing, anodes, cathodes, water jackets, flanges, and dials coming out of them. Things Nordstrum knew nothing about or how to read, only that the microscopic extract of the concentrated solution that fell drop by drop into the cylindrical metal tanks was more important than the largest rocket in the Nazi war machine.
It had been four minutes now since Jens and Ronneberg had come in.
“Be careful. There’s a lye discharge that comes off them,” the watchman warned. “It’s very caustic, so avoid getting it on your skin or clothing.”
“Thanks,” Nordstrum replied. The last thing he wanted was to have to kill a fellow Norwegian, and for what it appeared, Gustav was doing his best to cooperate with them.
They had wired twelve of the eighteen compressors.
Five minutes now.
There were eighteen fuses altogether, but Ronneberg went from processor to processor, coupling the finished ones, so there would only be nine to light at the end. Then he attached a second thirty-second fuse to one, which would presumably ignite them all, the longer ones acting as a form of insurance in case the shorter fuse failed. They could not take the chance that once they left someone would stumble on them before the charges exploded and defuse them.
When Stromsheim and Nordstrum had finally molded the last of the charges to the cells, Ronneberg set another around the group of steel storage canisters in the corner, next to a water drain.
The entire inventory of finished heavy water product in the world.
When he was done, everyone stood silently for a second. All they could hear was the steady drip, drip, drip of the deuterium oxide into the collection bins.
“Okay.” Ronneberg let out a breath of anticipation. Everything was set. Seven minutes had elapsed, exactly as planned. That left them ten to get out before the watch arrived and back to the gate before the whole building became a giant fireball.
Nordstrom and Stromsheim went from cell to cell, doing a final check on the charges and detonators. “They’re all good.” Birger gave a thumbs-up to Ronneberg and removed his gloves.
All that was left was to set the fuses and leave.
Nordstrum turned to the watchman. “All right, you and I are going to get that outside door unlocked now, Gustav.” He led him out by the arm and into the corridor. It was only a dozen or so more steps to the steel door that led outside. Nervously, Gustav fumbled while finding the key. “C’mon, old man. No foolish moves. The last person I’d ever want to hurt is a Norwegian.”
“You don’t have to worry about me. I promise, I’m on your side in this.”
Finally the watchman inserted the key and turned the latch. Nordstrom cracked open the door. Cold air rushed inside. Everything seemed quiet outside. No sign of anything troubling in the yard.
“It’ll lock on closing?” Nordstrum made sure.
“It should. That’s how it’s set up,” the watchman said.
“Then we’ll leave it ajar. Okay, back to the cells.”
In the high-concentration room, everything was ready to go. Ronneberg had spread some British paratrooper seals and an explosives manual around. He took his machine gun and kicked it near one of the heavy water cells. To anyone looking into what they’d done, it would seem that British soldiers were responsible. He looked around one last time. “Ready?”
Jens glanced at the watchman. “What about him?”
“Please, I won’t tell. I’m no Nazi, I swear. I fought in the last war.”
“We have to shoot him,” Jens insisted. “He’ll sound the alarm.”
“The explosion will sound the alarm,” Nordstrum said. He looked to Ronneberg and received a quick nod in return. “Get up to the top level,
” he said to Gustav. “Say you were taking a pee.”
“Of course, of course. I’m already starting to feel the urge.” The watchman headed toward the door.
Stromsheim packed the last of the unused explosives into his rucksack. “I’m all set.”
“All right, then.” Ronneberg nodded. He struck up a match. “Let’s take it down.”
“Hold it!” the watchman suddenly shouted. “My eyeglasses. I need them. They must be on the table.”
“You must be joking, old man!” Jens looked at him with astonishment. “We’ve got no time for your glasses.” Then to Ronneberg: “Just light the fucking fuses and let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Please, I’m blind without them. They’re almost impossible to replace,” the watchman begged. “The Nazis have taken over everything.”
Nordstrum had heard even bare necessities like optics had ground to a halt under the occupation. With a chortle of exasperation, Ronneberg extinguished the match and threw it on the floor. He turned to Jens. “Go see if you can find them, quick.”
In frustration, Jens ran over to the table, shuffled quickly through whatever was strewn upon it, found the glasses on the log, and hurriedly brought them back to the grateful watchman. “Here! Now let’s go.”
“A thousand thanks.” The watchman’s face lit up with relief.
“Now.” Ronneberg struck a second match. They’d all been inside for close to fifteen minutes now. One minute after one o’clock—a patrol was just leaving the hut. Ronneberg turned to Nordstrum and Jens. “Take the old man. We’ll meet you at the door.”
But as he bent to finally light the first fuse, suddenly the sounds of approaching footsteps could be heard from the outside corridor.
“Shit.”
Nordstrum and Ronneberg exchanged a look of concern. Whoever it was, they had no more time to delay things now. In just four minutes someone might come out of the guardhouse to check. Nordstrum slipped behind the door, pulling the bolt back on his weapon, prepared to drop whoever it was in his tracks, if the wrong person a little early on his watch came in.