Why…? That he would never answer. Because it was his only way of coming out of this war with his hide, and, hopefully, a few kroner thrown in. And, he had to admit, maybe because he enjoyed seeing these same people humbled and in anguish. All the ones who once thought him no more than just an ox in the back of the classroom who would never amount to a thing. They didn’t snicker at him any longer. Now he had the power of life and death over them. And just whose blood, when he looked at his palms, did they think he actually had on him?
Now, in the courtyard of the station, Lund blew his whistle and his troops came into formation. Twenty-two of them. Not exactly God’s gift to the Master Race, true, but those, like him, who had made the wise, if not popular choice to side with those they thought would be the winners in this war. Yes, some could be called crooks and thieves, facing prison sentences if they did not commit. Some were a little slow, perhaps, in the noggin. Others were just not brave enough to have joined the fight against the Nazis.
And a few simple opportunists like himself who had made the same bet.
But the Gestapo chief was right on one thing: These British commandos had to have had locals in the population to assist them. There was simply no way they could ever have hoped to make it to the target, over such unforgiving country, without such help. Someone here had to be providing them intelligence on the site.
Which meant these people were still out there. In town. Or up on the vidda. Rooting them out would be no easy task. The vidda supplied an almost inexhaustible network of huts and cabins. Safe havens. It would take an army to cover the entire map.
But one way or another, he would find them. In his kind of work, there were always other ways.
“Take your men and split into two groups,” Lund instructed his lieutenant, a willing but rather sluggish farm boy named Voss. “The first will follow the W/T vehicle as it searches for radio signals. Bring in anyone they find.”
“Yes, sir.” Voss clicked his heels and gave him a heil.
“Group Two, Sergeant Karlson, canvas the streets in town. Pick up any new face you see on the streets and bring them in. We’ll sort out later who they are.”
“Sir.” Karlson snapped a nod and stuck out his arm.
“And Sergeant…” Karlson turned back. “On your rounds, take two of your men, and go down the road to Vigne. Number seventy-seven.”
“Seventy-seven, sir…” The officer stared back at him, not quite comprehending.
“I want you to keep a particular eye on the man who lives there. All comings and goings. Anyone in or out. He’s an old one. You shouldn’t have much trouble. But he’s canny. And watch he doesn’t surprise you with his shotgun.”
“I’ll handle it myself, Captain. What is this troublemaker’s name?”
“Nordstrum,” Lund informed him.
“Nordstrum? Kurt Nordstrum’s father?” the sergeant said, widening an eye.
“Just see that the old man is under our watch. Report all comings and goings to me directly.” If his son was here, someone may well be feeding the old man information. An eel could be caught, no matter how deep or cold the water.
This would be one way to fish him out.
20
“This is what you’ll all be gunning for, men.” Colonel Wilson tapped the screen in the great room turned briefing room at Avainaire.
The seven commandos, Ronneberg and the Yank, Gutterson, included, sat in front of the large screen on which an aerial photograph of the Norsk Hydro plant supplied by the RAF was projected.
“Some of you may already know it. The Norsk Hydro hydroelectric plant at Vemork. You may also know that it once was principally used to make ammonium nitrate for fertilizer. But since the Nazis took it over, that’s no longer the business that concerns us. The equipment we’re looking to eliminate is located in the plant’s basement. As you can see”—he tapped his pointer to the screen—“getting to it, without detection, will be no easy feat.”
A few of them murmured that indeed they knew the place and the colonel was right.
“The facility is built on a rock ledge blasted out of an almost vertical mountainside,” Wilson continued. “So sheer is the drop from that height that a stone thrown from the edge will not land until it hits the valley floor six hundred feet below, where the icy flow of the Mann River winds its way through the gorge.
“Above it”—Wilson elevated his pointer—“the mountainside rises nearly as steeply, to over three thousand feet, where lakes, dams, and mountain rivers feed water to the twelve huge penstocks you see here, which carry it down to the plant’s turbines. There are only three ways to reach this ledge on which the plant lies: the first, the suspension bridge you see here leading to the opposite side of the gorge and on to the town of Rjukan, two kilometers below. The second, a series of steps leading down from the penstocks, which, we’re told, are mined. The third, a single-track railway used for bringing in heavy equipment that was hewn out of the mountainside and leads all the way down the valley. I think it’s safe to say if Thor himself had chosen to build a lair on earth that could not be taken by human assault, he could have done no better than what you are seeing.”
“I know the place.” Nordstrum nodded.
“Me too,” said Jens. “As I recall, there’s a dirt road on the other side of the gorge leading down from the top shelf of the vidda near a tram. It’s called the Ryes Road.”
“There was a cable car leading above it,” Nordstrum added. “It was built so that the townspeople of Rjukan could have a chance to go up and see sunlight in the winter.”
“The Nazis have closed it,” Tronstad said. “It’s also possible the road’s been mined.”
“Since the penstocks and the plant are here on the south side of the gorge,” Colonel Wilson went on, “the Germans assume that any attack against it would naturally come from there, and they’ve defended the place accordingly. This area here”—he pointed to the bottom of the cliffs—“is heavily mined. They’ve also placed machine gun batteries at the valve house, here, and at the upper end of the penstocks, and all sorts of trip wires and booby traps along the steps down the mountainside. Everywhere else,” he said, “as is evident, is nothing but a sheer drop into the gorge below.”
“In our view, this pretty much rules out any approach to the plant from the southern side.” Tronstad took over from Wilson with a drag off his pipe. “We believe you must proceed from here, the northern side, which means you’ll have to cross the gorge and the river at night, get yourselves back up to the level of the factory—six hundred feet, and not an easy climb, especially in darkness and with weapons and explosives strapped to your backs. Assuming that it can be done…” He caught himself and smiled. “I should say when it’s done—the facility is guarded by some twenty to thirty German troops, most situated in a guardhouse.” He indicated a small house next to one of the valve buildings. “As well as the two who are rotated hourly on the suspension bridge over the gorge.”
“Why don’t we just storm the bridge and cross from there?” Joachim Ronneberg proposed. “Silencing a couple of guards shouldn’t present much of a problem.”
“All true,” Wilson agreed. “But then there’s the possibility the guardhouse would be alerted, and then it’s an all-out fight.”