But Mac was dealing with a big building, so one stick of dynamite wouldn’t do. And since he didn’t have any TNT and he had previously destroyed the only place he could get it, he hoped three tins of petrol would do the job in fifty minutes. He was hoping that by 7:00 a.m. the empty barracks would erupt like the world’s biggest firecracker.

  The only problem had been the detonator, the open flame. Then he had remembered his first briefing in the Datchet mansion. He remembered the one cigar aimlessly smoking away. No one had touched it during the time he had been grilled. When he had left the room, he remembered it was still smoking. That had started him on a chain of thoughts that led to the materials he started pulling out at that very moment in the barracks.

  First, the quick-burning fuse. Wingate had glued two pieces of cigarette paper together and folded them lengthwise. That formed a trough in which he poured black powder taken from a few of his bullet casings. Onto each end he laid a match, the head of which faced out on both sides. He then rolled the paper and put it on a precisely measured piece of tape. He wound the tape loosely around the paper so the powder wouldn’t suffocate while burning, but tight enough so none would fall out.

  Next came the delay fuse. He had taken Neill’s cigar, cut an opening in the mouth end of it, and pulled out some of the tobacco. Then he stabbed straight pins all along its eight-inch length. Since the stogie went in the faucet pipe, the pins were to keep it in midair, so even as the cigar burned and ashes fell, the remaining pins would keep it aloft and shrinking steadily.

  Wingate placed both items down on the floor and got out a manual drill. He walked over to the side wall. He found a spot roughly in the middle, basically in between the two trees the other men were toiling in, and facing east, away from the rest of the camp. He quickly drilled a hole right through the wall.

  Then he returned to the makeshift fuses. He placed one match head end of the quick fuse into the opening he had cut in the cigar. He then taped it in place. Pulling out the faucet pipe with the faucet still on one end, he placed that next to the two attached fuses for easy access. Finally he took out the cardboard grenade case.

  Essentially, it looked just like the tins, only made of cardboard. It no longer had grenades in it, but it was far from empty. It was completely filled with the remaining matches of the ten boxes Mac had asked for. A hole had been cut into its side to the exact shape of the faucet pipe. Just to be sure, Mac had glued a piece of cigarette paper over the hole so not one match would fall out.

  He sat staring at the eccentric materials on the floor in front of him and waited. He waited for Neill to finish his part of the job. To take the next step, Wingate required the services of another man.

  The American never could meditate. Several people had told him it was wonderfully relaxing in times of stress, but those people never did it behind enemy lines. Wingate couldn’t think serene, loving thoughts with dozens of Nazis not fifty yards away from him. He got up and went to the window to see how the other work was progressing.

  He saw Neill in the top of a tree, making like a bird. An extremely dangerous, violent bird. The Canadian was straddling a branch that angled downward toward the occupied barracks fifty yards away from the empty building. He wrapped the stock of the MG-42 to the bottom of the branch with a roll of the darkened bandage. He used a second roll to secure the barrel so that it was pointing right at the door of the infantrymen’s quarters.

  Satisfied with his knot-tying ability, Neill pulled the clothesline pulley off the gun. He then swung around to the other side of the tree with it, spying a solid-looking branch that pointed in the general direction of the tree Sumner was working in.

  With a piece of cord that was already attached to the pulley’s frame, he tied it to the branch so that it hung free beneath it. He next reached over his head and pulled one gravel-filled sock out of one of the packs on his back. He took his end of the cord stretching between the two trees and put it through the pulley. He tied the same end onto the sock. He then lowered the sock so that it swayed just a few feet below the pulley.

  Holding it there, he grabbed the rope a bit further toward the other tree and yanked. That was the signal for Sumner to take up the slack. On cue, the cord grew taut and Neill could let go of the sock without worrying that it would fall to the ground. He returned to the machine gun branch. He worked faster now. He knew that Wingate would be getting nervous. Pulling out a five-foot length of cord from his pocket, he tied one end around the trigger grip. The remaining end was put through the pulley along with the longer cord. And, just like the longer cord, the five-foot one was tied to the sock.

  The final maneuver involved loading the gun. Compared to everything else, it was child’s play. Neill secured the rucksack filled with rounds from his back to the MG-42. He opened the breech, lay the first round in, and closed the breech again. With much more caution, he pulled back the cocking handle. The action slid open, gleaming in the suffused light of morning.

  Neill realized he had been holding his breath. He exhaled, realizing what a devilish invention he had set up. He had to hand it to Wingate, he thought. The outlandish device was insidious in its possibilities. If all went well, Sumner would have done the same thing to the Madsen, only aiming it at the guard tower. Then they would have a long rope stretching over the empty building, both ends attached to a hanging sock under a pulley.

  But also attached to the sock was a looser cord running to the weapons’ triggers. So when the long rope broke, the sock would fall, the short rope would be snapped tight, and down would come Hitler’s babies, cradle and all.

  Neill climbed down out of the tree, sharp on the lookout for guards. Early morning was the best time for saboteurs. The night guard would be tired and his relief would be in no hurry to get up. Neill raced to the empty barracks. He was met at the door by Wingate, who wordlessly handed him the grenade casing and pointed at the hole in the wall.

  The two men traded places. The Canadian hopped inside the building while Mac ran along the outside wall, holding the fuses and faucet pipe. Neill could smell the heavy cold fumes of the petrol in the air. They made him a little nervous. He increased his speed, but when he arrived at the hole, instead of seeing the faucet pipe, he saw Wingate’s finger. As he watched, the digit motioned him to come closer. He lowered his ear to the hole.

  “Wait,” he heard Wingate’s whisper.

  Neill understood. Before they could chance lighting anything, they had to make sure Sumner finished the final, and most precarious, piece of the diversionary puzzle. He had to climb down his tree, attach another cord to the corner stilt of the empty barracks, and then attach it to the top of a telephone pole just outside the occupied building.

  But just as in the trees, it wasn’t a simple tying operation. For Sumner had the pack with the three grenades attached to the gravel-filled knee socks. He had to tie one grenade to the single telephone wire where it crossed the heavy wooden “T” bar at the top of the pole. He had to lower the other two grenades over the two ends of the crossbar. And then he had to tie the other end of the rope that stretched from the barracks’ stilt to the handle of the sack.

  In this way, the grenades were attached to the heavy socks only by their pins. The heavy socks were in the rucksack. The rucksack was held up only by a cord tied to the empty barracks’ stilt. So when the barracks blew, the rope would break. Then the rucksack would have a great fall. And all Hitler’s horses and all Hitler’s men couldn’t put Alten together again.

  Neill saw Sumner go by the empty barracks’ door. As he passed, he gave the “OK” sign. He went on to the corner of the building to signal Wingate. Wingate acknowledged the sign by carefully lighting the cigar. With cupped hands, he drew on it heavily until the tip glowed red. Taking no chances, he swallowed the acrid smoke. Better a lung disease than a smoke signal.

  Mac had undone the quick fuse to light the delay fuse, so he quickly retaped them together and stuck the whole thing in the pipe side of the faucet until only the lone match head of the quick fuse poked out the end. That done, he stuck the pipe into the hole. On the other side, Neill jammed the grenade casing filled with matches over the pipe end. While this was going on, Sumner was neatly laying row upon row of extra ammo belts between the evaporating tins of petrol.

  Wingate didn’t need to look at his watch to know their time was up. All he needed to do was listen to the footsteps which were approaching his way from the left. It had to happen, he groaned inwardly. Something had to come along and screw up the whole plan. Mac wasn’t so worried about himself. He doubted the exhausted guard would notice him pinned to the wall in the gloom. But he was afraid the commandos would come tearing out of the barracks toward the fence, destroying all their chances.

  Wingate fingered the matches in his hands. Well, he thought, if worse comes to worst, there was always Tyler, Kirsten, and Sørum. Maybe they could cut the net before the subs showed up. Whatever the case, he concluded, fingering a match, they’d have their diversion. It might be a little early, but they’d have it.

  The long night and the commandos’ savvy saved the situation. Neill and Sumner didn’t appear, and the guard passed by without looking back. The three Allies were moving even before the German sentry was out of sight. They practically tore off their clothes and the first layer of skin getting back under the fence. Only when they had gone through the surrounding woods for fifty yards did Wingate check his watch. It was 6:42 a.m.

  The men slowed to a sprint, moving unerringly toward a road that lay along the eastern slope of the cliffs overlooking Alten fjord. Breathing hard, their heels slapped the road just as a truck turned the corner. Mac saw the little red flag whipping in the wind from the side view mirror stem. It was Larsen’s mail truck.

  Sørum was sitting in the driver’s seat, staring straight ahead as if he didn’t see the commandos crouching at the tree line by the side of the road. But he downshifted anyway, the truck slowing as it passed. The trio ran after the tailgate, which magically dropped just as they approached it. Then the canvas flap swung back so Kirsten and Tyler could help the boys aboard.

  “Welcome back to the land of the living,” the colonel said, clapping Wingate on the back. “Everything went well, I trust?”

  “You’ll see,” said Wingate. “In about an hour.”

  They had timed it. While Mac had been putting everything else together in the whorehouse cellar, a lone cigar had been smoking its ash out for its country. The eight-inch stogie had taken fifty minutes to extinguish itself. Hopefully, in about fifty minutes, its brother back at the camp would distinguish itself by working perfectly.

  It was primitive, but if all went well, the cigar would burn down to the quick fuse, igniting the match head, which would in turn ignite the black powder, which would set off the second match inside the grenade casing, causing the hundreds of matches therein to flame, which would get the fumes going.

  At the least, the barracks would blow sky-high. At best, it would be an inferno. It hardly made a difference. As long as it cut the rope stretched above it. For Mac knew it wasn’t enough for the empty building just to burn. It wouldn’t be long before the Germans ventured forth to extinguish the blaze. That sort of simple diversion would only last for a few minutes, while drawing off only a small contingent of the infantry.

  What Mac wanted was for the weapons and the grenades to go off after the fire. He wanted to pin the contingent down and force them to call for reinforcements. He hoped he had hit on a successful way. He was only sorry that he would not be around to see it. But he would know if it worked. If he was alive an hour from now, it had worked. If he was dead, he wouldn’t care.

  A single hurricane lantern swayed from the framed roof of the truck, throwing a yellow glow over everything. Mac walked on all fours to the pile of diving equipment in the back. He started to quickly separate the pieces. There were rubber fins, masks, gloves, weight belts, diving dress with open-faced hoods, rubber shoes, and a Draeger lung.

  “A rebreather?” Wingate said aloud.

  “That’s all they had,” Kirsten explained, referring to the equipment the dead undersea commandos had left in her establishment.

  “It’s much like the British Lambersten lung,” Tyler informed him knowingly. “A closed system. The exhalations enter a purifying chamber where whatever is still oxygen-rich will be sent back to the mouth. Its greatest advantage is that it leaves no stream of telltale bubbles to mark you.”

  “Its greatest disadvantage,” Wingate said with resignation, “is that depth, overexertion, or cold could knock you out. You haven’t learned yet, have you, Tyler?”

  “It was all we could get,” Kirsten defended him.

  “And this time,” the colonel promised, “I’m not going to take the wheat and leave you the chaff.” He was making an allusion to ordering Reisings for everyone else but using a M3 himself. “I’m going with you.”

  Wingate nodded. Tyler was somewhat taken aback. He was expecting an argument at least. Instead, Wingate said, “Where’s the other stuff?”

  Kirsten produced a burlap sack from the corner. Wingate took it and pulled out some huge cutters with beaks the size of a man’s hand. Wingate had found them on the hillside farm. Sure enough, there were four of the makeshift mesh cutters. One for each of the mission’s men.

  Wingate looked at those mission men. Tyler’s face was expectant and assured at the same time. He wanted to prove himself to Wingate, while thinking the captain already knew his true worth. Neill and Sumner were on the razor’s edge. They had been dragging along behind everyone on most of this mission, not understanding most of what was said. They had seen their partners killed. But now they were excited. They were actually doing something themselves. They saw a chance to pay back for Baker’s and Biggins’ deaths. They were working with the man they trusted most: themselves.

  Wingate looked at himself. He was at his full strength, but he was tired. All the others were trying to prove something. That was their primary objective. Somehow, winning the war had become secondary. They were going to succeed because they had to prove themselves. To Wingate. To their fallen brothers. And to themselves.

  Wingate didn’t want to prove anything. He wanted to win the war. He wanted to complete his mission. And most of all, he wanted to face the ringmaster. The man who had been pulling everyone’s strings for the whole operation. The man who had disappeared right when the trouble started. Wingate wanted to see Walters.

  “All right,” he said aloud, nothing in his voice betraying his thoughts. “We reach the pier in ten minutes. Get changed.” Everyone moved quickly to respond, ignoring the presence of the woman. But Kirsten wouldn’t let Mac ignore her. As he tugged the heavy rubber up his legs while sitting in the back of the truck bed, she came to sit down next to him. “We will wait for you at the MILORG stabbur,” she said.

  “No, Kirsten,” he answered her, still changing into the suit. “You will not wait.”

  The Norwegian woman misunderstood. “No, you will not die! I know it. I feel it.”

  Wingate stopped tugging and looked at her. She meant it. She was feeling. She wasn’t working on just a sensory level anymore. She wasn’t just thinking in terms of “I-hit-you, you-hit-me.” She was beginning to feel some worth. He put his hand to her cheek. He didn’t care about the macho overtones. Putting it on her arm as if she were one of the boys would have been ridiculous.

  “It’s not that,” he said so no one else could hear. “I have some unfinished business to do after Source is all over. Accounts have to be settled.”

  “I could wait,” she assured him.

  “Then you would die,” he reminded her. “Alten fjord is no place for you any longer. Go over the mountains with Sørum. I will see you again.” Wingate suddenly banged on the partition between the cab and the bed. “You hear me, Sørum?” he called. “Take care of this woman. She’s worth more than you are.”

  “I hear you, Captain,” came the Norwegian’s muffled voice. “And I obey. She will be protected. You will see.” Great, Wingate thought. Somebody else with something to prove.

  They looked like something from another planet. They stood in their rubber boots, holding the fins in one hand and the mesh cutters in the other. They weren’t in wet suits, the kind that warms the body with a thin layer of water that adjusts to skin temperature. They were in winter dry suits, the kind that allows no water to touch the body. Of course, some liquid always managed to get in, usually at the very edges.

  Wingate made a final check of the equipment as the truck slowly lumbered toward the deserted boathouse and the rotting pier. The miniature aqualung was in place—the reducing valve, demand valve, pressure gauge, and corrugated tubes with the mouthpiece all in working order. He had the compass strapped to his wrist. He tightened his grip on the big cutters. For a second, he considered how absurd it all was. Demolitions men playacting divers using pruning shears as wire cutters. Then Colonel Tyler encroached on his ruminations.

  “Wingate,” he said, obvious tension in his voice. “What about the others? The Lutzow and the Scharnhorst. What if they have anti-torpedo nets too?”

  “The Lutzow has returned home for repairs,” Wingate informed him, remembering what Larsen had said. “The Scharnhorst has left her berth for the day. The most important target ... the only one, is the Tirpitz. If we get that, our job is done.”

  There was a knock on the wall separating the cab from the truck bed. “Trouble,” came Sørum’s voice. “There’s a guard at the boathouse.”

  Wingate swore. “We don’t have time for this,” he complained to himself. “Do you know German?” he asked Sørum through the partition.

  “Not enough to be convincing,” the Norwegian answered, his voice getting higher in pitch. “And he might recognize me!”

  “Keep calm,” Wingate ordered. “Drive right for it. At the last minute, take a quick turn so the guardhouse is facing the rear of the truck.”

 

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