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.
“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.”