“We understand you have a schedule. It’s just, I’m afraid you’re about to be delayed even further,” Nordstrum said.
They removed their guns from underneath their jackets. Einar stepped back and pointed the Bren at all of them. Nordstrum announced, “In the name of the king, we’re seizing control of your ship.”
“My ship…?” The captain put down his mug and stood up defiantly. “What do you mean, seizing control?”
“I’m afraid we won’t be stopping at Stavanger any longer. We’re diverting. Navigator, please put in a new destination.”
“New destination?” The captain glared back. “What in hell are you talking about? New destination where?”
“A bit off your regular headings,” Nordstrum said. “Due west. Aberdeen.”
“Aberdeen?” The captain’s eyes bolted wide. “Aberdeen’s in Scotland! Are you mad? That’s a two-day journey. We barely have enough fuel aboard to make Trondheim. Besides, when the Germans get wind of our course they’ll blow us out of the sea. Even if we could make twice our speed, we won’t make it halfway.”
“May I use the radio then?” Einar asked the befuddled radioman, who glanced toward the captain.
“Radio?” the captain said. “The frequencies are monitored by the Germans day and night. Isn’t that right, Svorson?”
“It is, sir,” the seaman in headsets answered.
“Well, let me have a try then. Who knows, my frequencies may bring better luck. We’ll have an escort as soon as we clear Norwegian waters.”
“An escort? In the name of the king, you say…?”
“You’re a patriot, aren’t you?” Nordstrum asked. “You’re not a Quisling?”
“Quisling?” The captain’s bushy eyebrows rose. “I fought in the last war with the Danes against the Huns. I’m no collaborator. But king be damned”—he glared—“this is still piracy. If we’re caught, you’ll all be hanged. If we’re not blown apart first.”
Nordstrum leveled his gun, a sign for the radioman to get up from his chair. “There’s no time to argue, Captain. It’s Knudson, right?”
The captain nodded tentatively. “Aye. Knudson.”
“Well, Captain Knudson, either take the wheel, or you can spend the rest of the journey in your quarters. With your crew locked in their mess.”
“There’s a hundred and forty passengers on this ship to worry about, and keep safe.” He refused to budge.
“And we intend no harm to any of them,” Nordstrum assured him. “Or the crew.” He picked up the intercom and went to hand it to him. “Change of course, Captain. Tell the engine room full speed ahead. Due west.”
“They won’t accept it. I promise you.” He didn’t move.
“And I think they will, sir. In fact, two of my men are down there persuading them right now.”
Eyeing him defiantly, Knudson took the handset from Nordstrum and muttered under his breath, “You realize we’ll all be dead by nightfall.…” He pressed the intercom button and contacted the engine room. “Sven, this is the captain. You have a visitor down there?”
“Aye, Captain. Two. And armed. What’s going on?”
“They say we’re to go full speed ahead with a change of course.” The captain read them their new bearings, his hard, sea-gray eyes locked on Nordstrum, as if telling him This will end in disaster. You’ll see. The engineer in the engine room seemed to question him at first, then finally responded, “Did you say due west, Captain?”
“Aye. West.” He spat. “And with all you have.” He put the handset back in its place.
“I’m afraid, sir, the crew will have to be kept under lock,” Nordstrum said. “Other than what it takes to man the engine room, and those in food service, of course. For the comfort of the passengers. I’m sure you understand. Now take the wheel.” Nordstrum directed him to it.
The captain didn’t move.
“Take the wheel, sir.” Nordstrum pulled back the hammer on his gun. “Or you can be certain, I will.”
Slowly, with a kind of gruff but helpless glance that read, I hope to God you know what the hell you’re doing, Knudson put his hand around the ship’s wheel and spun it left. The Galtesund, with a loud start from its engines, made a sweeping turn away from the mainland.
Maybe a few people on deck noticed the change.
“One more thing,” Nordstrum said to the captain. “It will make the rest of the voyage far more relaxing on everyone’s part.…”
“And what is that?”
“I believe the ships’ weapons are in your quarters, kept under lock and key. I’m sure you’ll entrust the keys to my colleague, here. And now,” he handed the captain the handset, “if you would make an announcement to the passengers to let them know what is going on.”
Knudson took the handset and gave Nordstrum a defiant glare. “They’re never going to let us leave, you know. That you can be certain of.”
5
The next day. German Coastal Command, Bergen, Norway.
Artillery Major Klaus Freyn was relieving himself in his private bathroom at the Norwegian Air Defenses when he heard the knock on his office door. “A minute, please,” he called out, squeezing the last from his aching bladder. Whatever condition he’d been suffering from these past six weeks had not improved a bit with these useless antibiotics they had prescribed for him. This was the fifth time he’d had to go today, and it was only 2 P.M. He winced as pain knifed through his groin. “Just be patient. I’ll be right there.”
As the officer in charge of the coastal command, Freyn’s job was to oversee the radar and coastal reconnaissance network on the North Sea sector, sweeping for enemy aircraft on potential bombing missions or the first signs of coastal assault—an impossible task, he knew, since the coastline of this frigid country was as irregular and unrelenting as his kidneys. His job was to identify any intrusion and scramble the Luftwaffe or a destroyer to repel the threat. Or, if the urgency was greater, alert German Military Control in Oslo. To this point, other than twice for a drill, in the year he had had this job Freyn had not had to make a single call.
He flushed, ran tap water over his hands, straightened his fly, and stepped out of the toilet. Lieutenant Holm, who oversaw the radar room, stood at Freyn’s desk.
“I am sorry, Herr Major,” the lieutenant said, “but it’s urgent.”
“Nature, my apologies, Lieutenant,” Freyn grunted, even though he was well aware his staff privately laughed about how much time he spent occupied. He motioned with his fingers for the report. “What do you have?”
“One of our planes has spotted a ship, apparently a Norwegian coastal steamer,” the aide announced. “The Galtesund. It was due in Stavanger yesterday afternoon, but never arrived.”
“The Galtesund.” Freyn took a seat at his desk. “Spotted where, you say?” He looked over the paper routinely. A coastal steamer, urgent? Who in their right mind even cared?
“Fifty-six point five longitude north, three point five latitude east…” The lieutenant read off the coordinates.
“And that would put it…?” Freyn glanced toward the map, sucking in his bladder and wincing.