Billy Boyle (36 page)

“In any case,” Harding added, “this is a top-secret mission. Complete radio silence. There’s no way to get in touch with them.”

There was a note of finality in Harding’s voice that depressed me. He looked down at the table, then at his injured hand. What had he seen in those last seconds when he tried to get to Daphne? Had she screamed, and did he still hear her?

“You must know where they’re going in Nordland,” I said, trying to stay focused. I wasn’t ready to give up. “Send someone in after them.”

“We don’t know exactly,” said Jens. “We gave them a list of contacts to make. It was up to the commando team to work out the timing. For security reasons, only one other person, in addition to those on the mission, knew when and where they were to meet those contacts.”

“And, of course, that person was Rolf Kayser,” I guessed.

Jens nodded.

“He must’ve had this planned as an escape option,” I thought out loud. “After he drove away, he must’ve stopped to watch the explosion. He saw that Kaz wasn’t dead, or at least he couldn’t be certain of it. So he went to Plan B. He got himself to safety behind enemy lines, into his own country, where he can melt into the mountains anytime. He knows we can’t track him down.”

“Damn!” cursed Harding. We all just sat there for a minute.

“There might be one way to find him,” Jens said finally.

“How?”

“I do not know Rolf ’s schedule, but I do know Major Arnesen’s. I planned it out with him.”

“What’s that got to do with it?” I asked.

“Anders is on a mission to assess the readiness of the Underground Army. Rolf ’s group was to link up with him and pass on information about the underground groups they’d trained and their ability to conduct sabotage operations with a very large shipment of plastic explosive we will be bringing into Nordland. Remember, part of the invasion plan is to seal off Nordland at its narrowest point.”

“When and where is the meet?” I asked.

“At a hut in the mountains above Leirfjord. I will have to check the exact date,” Jens answered.

“Major Harding,” I said, trying to summon up every bit of military bearing I possessed, “I request permission to apprehend Rolf Kayser at this meeting place and bring him back for trial.” Harding looked like the pope had just asked him for a kiss. He sucked in some air, then quickly composed himself. Jens looked surprised, and then smiled.

“Denied,” Harding said firmly. “You wouldn’t last ten minutes.”

“Sir, there are underground units throughout Nordland. Jens could put me in touch with one and they could guide me to this Leirfjord place—”

“I said no, Boyle. You’d either be killed or captured, preferably the former, because if you were captured, the Gestapo would get all of this out of you in nothing flat. I’ll not have you endangering the invasion plan. Period. End of discussion.” He got up and walked out of the room.

“I think he needs some time to think it over,” I said to Jens, after the door slammed.

“We don’t have that much time,” he answered. He sounded serious.

“We?”

“We. As a Norwegian, I feel responsible for my countryman’s conduct. As one who once counted Rolf Kayser as a friend, I feel betrayed. If we do nothing, as Major Harding suggests, he will certainly get away. Sweden is less than one hundred kilometers from almost anywhere in Nordland.”

“Aren’t you worried about the Gestapo getting hold of me?”

“I think you are a man of many surprises, Lieutenant Boyle. I think others should worry about you. Rolf Kayser, especially.”

Jens called for sandwiches and whiskey and we got down to some serious study. He rolled out a huge map and showed me the route Anders would follow by submarine from Scapa Flow and the shorter route Rolf was taking from the Shetland Islands. They both ended up off a little island, Tomma, on the coast of Nordland province.

“Tomma is about thirty kilometers south of the Arctic Circle. A small local boat can ferry you from it to the mainland here,” Jens pointed, “at Nesna. You take the main road from there to Leirfjord. I’ll draw a map of the path to the hut for you to memorize.”

“When would I need to be there?”

“By the 22nd of July. You have just under two weeks.”

“And how do we accomplish that, against the wishes of my commanding officer?”

Jens drummed his fingers on the table, looking at the map and then me. The drumming stopped.

“Let me see the orders Daphne typed up for you.”

I gave him the envelope. I realized that in all the excitement I hadn’t thought about Daphne’s death for several minutes. And suddenly, it was as if I had just found out again. I stared at the map while Jens read through the orders, and managed to regroup. Norway sure was a long way away. There was one advantage, though. Rolf Kayser would never expect me to come after him. What would be the German reaction to me if I was captured? I wasn’t so sure.

“Look, Billy,” Jens said excitedly, jabbing his finger at the papers. “Your orders are still valid. The cover sheet says thirty days, AAA priority, and identifies the issuing office. U.S. Army ETO headquarters, in this case.”

“Yeah, great,” I said. “But that and a nickel will get you a phone call.”

Jens looked up quizzically, but then went on. “The second page is the actual listing of orders, see? Then the third page contains the last order, an instruction to all Allied personnel to assist you in your duties. That is followed by the signature of Major Harding for General Eisenhower and Major Cosgrove for the Imperial Staff. Very impressive.”

“It only goes so far, Jens. At Southwold I couldn’t even get four wheels.…”

While I was talking, Jens had laid out the three sheets next to each other. He then removed the middle sheet containing the actual orders and substituted a blank sheet of paper.

“Holy shit, Jens. You’re a genius. We can add whatever we want.”

He smiled triumphantly, but the smile faded quickly. “No, Billy. You should rather say we can add whatever you are willing to add. It may cost you your life.”

It was nice that Jens was thinking about my life expectancy, but something else was stirring in my mind. The last piece of the puzzle. I took away the first and second sheets and just stared at the third sheet, all by itself.

It was so simple. So damn simple that a real clever guy like me had never even had a chance.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO

E
VERYTHING HAD BEEN SO
easy, I knew there had to be a catch. Jens had doctored the orders, and late that night I was back at Southwold, returning the BMW no worse for wear and grabbing some of the winter gear the GIs had been issued. I jumped an air transport to Scotland the next morning. I had a Thompson submachine gun, my own .45, a couple of grenades, and I felt ready to take on the whole German army. Then I realized that was exactly what I was about to do.

The orders got me into Scapa Flow, the huge Royal Navy base in the north of Scotland, no problem. I found the Fifteenth Motor Gunboat Flotilla and presented my paperwork. Jens had selected this unit because he had worked with them before and knew they were used to operatives showing up at all hours with top priority orders. The Fifteenth specialized in clandestine operations and was involved in ferrying agents in and out of Norway. This was right up their alley; a strange officer showing up unannounced with secret orders was routine. Even though my orders instructed the Fifteenth Motor Gunboat Flotilla to provide me with “immediate” transport to the island of Tomma off the coast of Norway, the commanding officer told me I’d have to wait two days for a moonless period. Motor Torpedo Boat 718 was due to leave then to pick up some downed British airmen and could be rerouted to drop me off at Tomma first. Not wanting to kick up a fuss and have my phony orders looked at any more closely, I graciously agreed. It didn’t bother me since I still had plenty of time to make the rendezvous. I was more worried about Harding. Jens was going to tell him I’d gone to Southwold to try and get firm evidence that Rolf Kayser had stolen a tire bomb. It wasn’t much of a story, but it would do to buy me a day or two.

Standing on the dock the morning of our departure, my gear slung over my shoulder, I looked out to sea at the rough water and low clouds, and then back at MTB 718. There was a catch all right. She looked big enough for a fishing trip off Cape Cod, not a rough North Sea crossing. She was about a hundred feet long and very low in the water. A voice hailed me from the boat.

“You there, Yank! Are you our Joey?”

“My name’s Billy,” I said. Laughter rolled through the crew until an officer showed up at the gangplank.

“Welcome aboard, Lieutenant Boyle. I’m Lieutenant Harold Dickinson, Royal Navy Reserve.” He was tall, thin, graceful, and hatless. His head of thick blond hair blew in every direction in the freshening wind. He wore a soiled fisherman’s thick white turtleneck sweater, and could’ve been a Harvard kid getting ready for a sail, except for the twin-mounted .50 caliber machine guns he was leaning against.

“Don’t mind the lads. We call all our passengers ‘Joeys.’ That’s what Aussies call a baby kangaroo, carried safely in its mum’s pouch. Don’t know if that’s where it got started, but there it is.”

I climbed aboard and saluted. I had seen guys salute when they boarded ships in the movies and thought I’d try to look like I knew what I was doing.

“I thought you Yanks were supposed to be rather informal,” said Dickinson, returning the salute nonchalantly and glancing around at his men. “We don’t bother with a lot of that here, do we boys?”

“Too busy keeping old 718 afloat for that,” one of crew said with a grin as he descended belowdecks with a toolbox. I suddenly became nervous.

“Everything belowdecks working, Lieutenant?” I asked.

“First, call me Harry. And second, don’t worry about a thing. The lads keep her in tip-top shape. They’re just having their fun with you. We’re on our own a lot and don’t have time for rubbish about spit and polish. Engines and weapons, that’s what we spend our time on. Plenty of opportunity between wars to polish the brass.”

“I like the way you think, Harry. How many of these trips have you made?”

“To France and Norway, or just Norway?” A crew member walked by, a bearded fellow clenching a pipe in his mouth, trailing smoke, who laughed as he looked at me.

“OK, forget it. I’m sure you know your job. I’m a little nervous.”

“Nervous? Why, Lieutenant Boyle, whatever for? We’re just about to leave on a six-hundred-mile trip through enemy-infested waters, with a big, fat low-pressure system just sitting over us, dumping buckets of rain and churning up waves taller than houses, in order to land you alone in Nazi-occupied Norway, just south of the Arctic Circle, and leave you there. Why should you be nervous?”

“Houses? Waves taller than
houses?
”

“Rather large houses.”

I huddled in the galley as we got under way, sitting on a bench and sipping a cup of hot, sweet tea. Or trying to. The boat was rocking and I was trying to match the rolling motion while bringing the cup to my lips.

“Ever do any sailing back in the States?” Harry asked as he came in. I could see by the half smile on his lips that he doubted it.

“I once rode the ferry across Boston Harbor.”

“Boston! Where you colonials wasted all that perfectly good tea?”

“The same.”

“Serves you right, then.”

“What does?”

“This crossing. This mission.”

“Well, I asked for it. Is this tub going to make it?”

“We’ve been through worse weather,” Harry said, a serious look passing briefly over his face, “but I’d hate to make a practice of it. Old 718 will do just fine. She’s got four Packard engines driving four shafts and can do a top speed of thirty-five knots.”

“Does that count going up the side of a wave?”

“No,” he laughed, “it does not. Calm sea, thirty-five knots. This mess, we’ll make fifteen or twenty, tops. It’s going to be rough.”

“The weather or the Germans?”

“Both, although for now we’ve only the weather to worry about.”

He took a rolled-up map from a shelf above me, opened it, and laid it out on the table, using an empty teacup to hold one side down.

“Here’s our position now, northeast of the Orkney Islands. We’ll pass the Shetlands and then head due north. Then we leave the North Sea and enter the Norwegian Sea. Here,” he marked a spot of open water, “we turn east-northeast and head into Tomma. Then we start worrying about Germans.”

“What about the Luftwaffe?”

“They don’t fly in this weather. Neither do our chaps, for that matter. This low-pressure system is stalled right now. I doubt it’ll move for a day or so. That will give us time to land you and get away offshore before the clouds and fog lift.”

“What about German patrol boats?”

“Plenty of those, and they will be out. Luckily, visibility is so limited that they shouldn’t be a problem. We can outrun most of them and outgun the smaller craft. It’s the Vorpostenboot ships I don’t want to bump into in the fog.”

“Vorpostenboot?”

“Flak ships, like picketboats. They patrol at a distance from shore, trying to catch incoming aircraft and alerting the coastal defenses. They’re slow, but armed to the teeth with AA guns. Machine guns; 20mm, 37mm, and 40mm cannon. Nasty, if they spot you.”