by Andrew Gross
“Don’t you say a word,” Ronneberg whispered to the watchman with a finger to his lips.
“Gustav…?” The door opened and someone stepped into the room.
As the man came in, Nordstrum put the muzzle of his gun to the back of his head and said in Norwegian, “Not a move or you’re dead.”
The man froze, his eyes wide and straight ahead.
“Gunnar!” the old night watchman exclaimed.
It was the foreman, Norwegian as well. Younger than the watchman, in a rumpled sweater and soiled boots. He looked in disbelief at the sight of four British commandos brandishing automatic weapons and his Norwegian colleague with his hands in the air.
“Just what’s going on here?” he asked, jaw slack.
“I’m afraid it’s too late to explain,” Ronneberg moved him by the collar, “but if you want to live, you’ll get over by the door with your friend Gustav there and not utter a single word.”
“Okay. Okay.” Ashen, the man complied.
Everything set, Ronneberg lit a match for the third time now and hurried from fuse to fuse, the intertwined cords firing up with a loud hiss as soon as the flame made contact. All to the mounting horror of the foreman, now seeing the mounds of explosives molded to the eighteen high-concentration compressors.
“Do you have any idea what you’re about to do?” His eyes bulged in horror.
“Get them out,” Ronneberg said to Jens. “Now!”
“You can’t. It’ll bring the whole building down.”
Jens pushed the two plant watchmen out into the hall to the concrete stairwell. “When I give you the signal, run. Up the stairs. You should be fine up there. And be sure and say you were taking a leak when it all happened.”
“Yes, you can be sure I will.” The old watchman nodded nervously. “And Gunnar, if you’re smart, you too.”
As Nordstrum and Stromsheim prepared to leave, Jens made the two count patiently to ten, as the first fuses burned down and Ronneberg readied to light the final one. That would leave them only thirty seconds to get outside.
“All right, run! Now!” Jens pushed the two watchmen toward the stairwell. “And be sure and tell them how British commandos would not take a Norwegian life. Now, get on!”
The two Norwegians took off, scrambling as fast as they could up the concrete stairs.
“It’s time, boys.…” Ronneberg took one last look around with a nod of accomplishment. He reached down and touched the match to the final thirty-second fuse. Nothing could stop it now. Nordstrum met his eyes, thinking that a month ago what had been mapped out on paper at such long odds against had indeed been achieved. And not by Brits, the best-trained commandos in the world. But by Norwegians. Tronstad would be smiling a little tonight.
The shortened fuse began to hiss. “Now, Kurt,” Ronneberg flicked the match toward the canisters, “what do you say we get the hell out of this place!”
43
“What the hell could be taking so long?” The Yank looked out from behind their storage drums and whispered to Poulsson. “They’ve been in there for over twenty minutes now.”
Watching over the German guard hut, their nerves were starting to fray. They could still spot Kjelstrup in the bushes, keeping an eye on the guards on the bridge. Never once had they broken off their rounds. Gutterson got Arne’s attention and tapped his watch as if to say, A lot of time has passed. I hope they’re all right in there.
Arne answered back with an anxious nod of his own, indicating he was feeling the same way.
“Stay calm, Eric.” Poulsson placed his hand on Gutterson’s shoulder. “If they’d been caught, the alarm would be sounded. We’d know.”
Gutterson let out a breath and nodded. He just couldn’t believe how long it was taking. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done, keeping his control with a hut full of Germans only ten yards away. He felt his heart thumping loudly in his chest.
Suddenly the steel door to the basement flung open. Poulsson pointed. “Look!”
Ronneberg, Nordstrum, Jens, and Stromsheim sprinted out of the building in the direction of the rear gate. Ronneberg stopped and looked back their way and waved for the rest of the team to withdraw as well.
“My God, they actually did it!” Poulsson couldn’t help but break into a wide grin.
A second or two later a loud rumble emanated from inside the building. Not the deafening blast any of them had imagined, for they’d all talked about the force of it possibly bringing down the whole building. A yellow flash could be seen from inside. The glass from a basement window blew. Still, the sound was more of a thud than a real explosion, clearly muffled by the ongoing hum of the turbines as well as the factory’s thick concrete walls.
“Was that it?” Gutterson remained there, waiting for something louder to occur. They’d all expected the guard hut to empty at the sound of it and to have to open fire on them.
No one had come out.
“I don’t know.” Poulsson shrugged. But Ronneberg was waving frantically for them to come his way as the demolition team scurried toward the gate. “It had to be.”
He turned and signaled to Kjelstrup to withdraw as well. “Time to get the hell out of here!”
Just as they were about to leave, the door to the guard hut swung open.
Gutterson and Poulsson froze.
Kjelstrup dropped to his belly in the snow, bringing up his gun. Expecting a rush of Germans to exit the shed, Poulsson and Gutterson stayed behind the drums and pulled back the bolts on their tommies, taking aim.
But only a single, half-dressed guard emerged, with a rifle slung over his back and flashing a light around the yard. “Ist jemand da?” he called out.
Anyone there?
Ten yards away, Poulsson and Gutterson remained behind their storage drums, fingers on the triggers.
The guards on the suspension bridge seemed to look toward the factory as if they’d heard some noise, but didn’t leave their posts.
“Is anyone there?” the German guard said again, as if expecting someone to reply. There was nothing. Just one of the usual bangs and concussions caused by the machinery. Nothing to get alarmed about. He ran his light around the yard, seemingly without much concern, going as far as the ground floor of the factory, only steps away from the crouched demolition team, and pulled on the steel outer door.
It was locked.
“Who’s there?” he called out again, flashing his light.
One beam went directly over Poulsson, ducking behind the storage cask.
Gutterson tensed his finger on the trigger. “Shall I shoot?” he whispered to Poulsson, the steady drone from the turbines drowning out his words.
“He doesn’t seem to know we’re here,” Poulsson replied. Shooting him would only create an all-out confrontation, and even if they wiped out the guards and escaped, the alarm would be sounded. He placed a steadying hand on Gutterson’s elbow. “Not unless he spots us for sure.”
“Jemand…?” the guard called out one more time. Anyone? He stepped over, barely ten feet from where Poulsson and Gutterson were crouched, and shined a light directly over their heads.
Gutterson sucked in a breath. If that bastard lowers that light another foot, it’ll be the last thing he ever does.
“Schiesse…” the guard muttered to himself, and headed back to the hut.
“See anything…?” someone asked him as the door opened.
“Who knows…? Maybe the falling snow exploded a land mine or something,” the German muttered. “C’mon, let me back in. I’m not dressed for out here.”
The door quickly shut behind him.
Barely believing their luck, Poulsson and Gutterson both blew out a breath of relief with a roll of their eyes. They waved Arne forward, who scurried over to them in a crouch.
“Let’s get out of here.”
The three picked up in the dark and ran silently past the factory in the direction of the rail tracks.
The demolition team, which had taken cover in
the snow, preparing to come to their countrymen’s aid, if needed, now saw three dark shapes hurrying toward them.
“Password?” someone called. It sounded like Jens.
“Fuck the password.” Kjelstrup appeared out of the darkness. “Let’s just keep moving.”
“What’s the point in having a password, if you don’t use it?” Jens insisted.
“Leicester Fucking Square. There’s the password. Does that make you feel good? Now can we go?”
“Are we sure it blew?” Poulsson looked at Nordstrum with uncertainty in his eyes.
Nordstrum shrugged. “You saw the flash.”
“Yes, but it was more like a couple of cars crashing in Piccadilly Circus. Not exactly what I imagined.”
“Me too, to be honest,” Stromsheim agreed. “I thought the whole building would come down.”
“It blew,” Ronneberg said, ending the dispute. “The compressors are gone. I’m sure.” The world’s extant supply of heavy water. “It’s all down the drain.”
“I can’t believe it.” Gutterson shook his head, finally letting out his amazement. “We actually did it. I thought we’d all be dead.”
“Well, we will be,” Ronneberg said to him, “if we don’t pick it up and get the hell down that ridge. We still have a lot of work to do before we can celebrate.”
In a minute they were back at the wire gate they’d come in through only half an hour before. Advancing out of the shadows, this time they heard the word “Piccadilly” whispered loudly ahead of them. Helberg. And this time they answered, “Leicester Square.”
Helberg stood up. “Is it done?”
Ronneberg nodded. “Yes.”
“I didn’t hear a thing. And you’re all here?” he said in amazement, silently counting each of them to be sure. There was no big explosion, no sound of gunfire, no alarm. “The Germans don’t even know?”
“Not yet, apparently,” Ronneberg said. “But let’s not hang around too much longer to find out.”
Quickly, they edged themselves through the same gap in the gate they’d come through when they arrived, which Ronneberg did his best to fit back together so it would not be obvious how they had gotten in. Then they hurried back along the tracks. Nordstrum knew that the feeling of elation he had would be completely in vain unless they got back across the river and up the other side to safety. Inside the plant, the two watchmen likely would be running their mouths off about now. Brits. Sabotage. Every second was vital. At any moment, the sirens might sound. Nordstrum recalled what Tronstad had told him somewhat whimsically: “There’s a pretty good chance you’ll blow the compressors. But only a fifty-fifty chance you’ll make it out alive.”
Maybe the odds had tilted just a bit in their favor. Sixty-forty now. But they had to put as much distance between themselves and the plant as possible before the alarm was sounded.
The trip down the ledge proved to be far easier than the climb up. Helberg went ahead and found a more forgiving route, without the vegetation they used to hoist themselves up. The warm foehn wind that had blown in within the past hour had softened the ice and snow. They slid and lowered themselves down the rock face, all of them making it without incident.
But crossing back over the river was another matter. What had been a frozen trickle only two hours earlier had now become a rising current. The warming breeze they’d felt had melted away much of the ice, which had cracked into large, floating chucks, the current slicing through them. Jumping from loose chunk to chunk, they all leaped onto the far bank, helping each other over. Another hour, and it was likely that their route to cross back over would have been totally swept away.
The urgency now was to get back to their skis and rucksacks and get up to the vidda as fast as they could. By now, the Nazis had to have discovered what had taken place and, any second, the alarm would sound. If the searchlights on the factory’s roof and the bridge fixed on them in the ravine, they’d be trapped there with no hope of escape. Even if they did somehow make it to the Ryes Road, there would be hundreds of troops on their tails. They headed along the bank until they found the rutted path they had used to slide their way down the slope two hours before.
Then they began to climb.
The snow, which had been packed on their descent, was now soft and deep, just what they didn’t need. Their boots sank in up to their knees, making each step grueling exertion. They knew that every second that delayed them could mean their lives. Grabbing at bushes and branches, reaching for whatever they could, they pulled themselves up, doing their best not to start a snow slide that would drag them or a teammate back down.
Six hundred feet.
Where are the searchlights? Nordstrum wondered. Why haven’t the Germans responded?
Huffing and sucking for air, they finally saw the main road winding a hundred feet above them, where they had stored their skis and packs.
Nordstrum grinned at Jens. They were almost home.
That was the moment they heard the penetrating wail of sirens behind them.
44
In Rjukan, Dieter Lund shot up in bed. “Trudi, what is that?”
Out his window, sirens were blaring. The clock read 1:20 A.M. He knew in an instant something wasn’t right.
“It sounds like an air raid,” his wife said. “Dieter, we should head to the basement!”
“No, wait!” Lund ran to the window.
It wasn’t an air raid. There was huge commotion on the streets. The Germans were organizing. He could hear truck engines starting, commands shouted. The clop of heels and boots as troops were assembling. A line of trucks with soldiers in them, along with armored vehicles heading up the road at a fast clip.
The road to Vemork.
From that direction, there was a shifting glare in the sky. Searchlights, Lund realized. And the wail of sirens.
It could only mean one thing.
“My God, something’s happened up at the factory,” Lund said. The troops were being sent up there; the searchlights fanned over the entire valley.
Sabotage.
He ran to the closet and threw on his uniform, for once not worrying if it was neatly pressed.
Trudi leaped out of bed and went to the dresser. “Dieter, wait. Your cap.”
“My cap? Trudi, there’s no time. The plant’s been attacked. I have to go.”
45
Adrenaline surging, sirens wailing behind them, the saboteurs picked up their pace, grabbing at anything—rocks, vegetation—that would support them, propelling themselves up the other side.
They had to make it to the road before the searchlights fixed on them.
From the bridge and the factory’s roof, the beams from searchlights crisscrossed the valley, once or twice missing them only by a matter of meters.
Panting, drenched with sweat, they finally made it up to the lip of the main road. Exhausted, they toppled over the edge and caught their breath. For a moment all seemed clear. Their skis and rucksacks were on the power line road just a few yards above them.
But as they went to cross, the rumble of fast-moving engine noise and the beams from headlights rapidly approaching sent them scurrying back to the ground.
Two trucks came around the bend fifty yards in front of them, chugging up the hill.
The first pushed along a large plow to clear the road, whose switchback turns made the drive up the mountain a treacherous one. As it passed by, barely six feet away, the group buried their faces in the drift the truck created. Twenty yards behind, the second truck motored toward them, the back crammed with German troops from Rjukan.
They pressed their bodies into the snow.
With a grinding shifting of gears, the troop truck roared past them as each heart stood still.
They remained there, their fingers on their triggers, until the two trucks continued on and did not stop. The next bend in the road took them out of sight.
One by one, everyone pulled themselves up to their feet and sprinted across the road, scrambling to the ledge
above them—the power line road where they had stashed their gear. Quickly, they put on their suits and skis. Each had prepared packs with their civilian clothes, forged identity papers, local kroner, food and water.
Across the valley, lights could be seen running along the railway tracks behind the plant as the alarm continued to sound. The Germans had finally figured out their route. Seconds later, the giant search beams from the roof of the plant began to fan over the valley near where they had just crossed the Mann. Gradually, the lights ascended the very slope they had just climbed. As the light neared, they ducked for cover, the beam passing right above them.
Below, there was now a steady rumble of traffic coming up the road, a continuous line of trucks and official vehicles heading up to Vemork, filled, no doubt, with troops, brass, and Gestapo. It had been the right plan to climb. There was no way they could have continued along the road as they had on their way in. Above them, the cable car rose to the vidda, another two thousand feet up. To get there would involve an exhausting climb. And then the Ryes Road, with its treacherous, zigzagging bends in and out of the cable car trestles would prove even more demanding.
Nordstrum, who knew the way as well as anyone, looked up to pick out the best path through the trees to start. Then, with the sort of offhand smile that conveyed they had come through their share of danger, but the toughest part still lay ahead, he took in a breath and set off, saying, “I’ll take the lead.” Jens followed next, then Poulsson and Gutterson, who had pulled his weight every step of the way.
The rest of them fell in line.
The climb they now faced would have taxed the will and conditioning of even the most experienced of mountain men, without even factoring in all they had already done that night. For the next three hours they forged their way up the steep incline, one ski at a time, often sideways to the ridge, ignoring the biting pain in their lungs and the grueling strain on their thighs. They pushed on, knowing their only escape was to reach the top, which towered over them at almost four times the altitude as the factory had at the start of their earlier climb.