“That would put it precisely here.” The lieutenant placed his finger on a spot. “Directly in the middle of the North Sea, sir.”
“The North Sea?” Freyn stood up.
“That is correct, Major. And heading due west, according to our plane. At thirteen knots. To this point, they’ve ignored all radio warnings to turn around. By the looks of it, it appears to be making a run for it.”
“A run for it…?” The lieutenant had Freyn’s attention now and he turned to the map on the wall. “A run for where?”
“The only possible answer is for England, I believe, Major.”
A knot rose up in Freyn’s gut, the irritation in his bladder suddenly a million kilometers away. He took hold of his phone. “Give me German Military Command. General Graebner’s office. In Oslo.”
“General Graebner, sir?” the attendant replied with surprise.
“Graebner, yes, and quickly, Corporal!” He turned back to Lieutenant Holm. “What is the weather in the North Sea at those bearings?”
Holm paged through his report. “Clouds at two thousand meters, it appears. But weather is approaching fast.”
“And do we have any ships in the area that can intercept?”
“I am told no, Herr Major. The closest destroyer is the Z32. And it is over three hundred nautical kilometers to the south.”
Freyn looked again at the map. He plotted the approximate position of the coastal steamer. And then the destroyer. It was 560 nautical kilometers from Bergen to Scotland. If Freyn was anything, he was prepared. At fifteen knots, England was only a day and a half away. They’d never catch it. He pushed back the pain. What would a coastal passenger steamer be doing in the middle of the North Sea?
From outside his office, his attendant called, “General Graebner on the line, sir.”
Freyn picked up. Graebner was in charge of all Norwegian air defenses. “Herr General, good day to you. We seem to have an event here, a civilian coastal steamer that is making a run for, of all places, England.…” He explained the situation, as well as the likelihood that it could never be caught. “I don’t know, sir. I have no idea why a coastal passenger ship would be making a dash for England.”
The senior officer quickly barked his commands in Freyn’s ear.
Freyn drew back at the command. “You are certain, sir?” he asked, and just as quickly, the order was confirmed. “Then it will be done, Herr General. I will inform you as soon as I have news.” He put down the phone, ashen, staring blankly past Holm to the map.
“Sink it,” he said to his lieutenant.
“Sink it, sir?” The junior officer looked dumbfounded.
“You heard me, Lieutenant. Call Luftwaffe command in Bergen on my orders and order the ship to be sunk.”
“Herr Major, may I remind you the Galtesund is a civilian vessel and likely filled with nonmilitary passengers. Whoever has commandeered it, may I suggest we at least give it proper warning and then—”
“Did you not understand my orders, Lieutenant?” Freyn shot back. Personally, he didn’t give a shit if the ship made it all the way to fucking America. His only real care was that the pain in his bladder would soon give him some relief. But orders were orders. And he had covered himself appropriately. “Radio our planes to sink the ship.” Freyn handed back the report.
“Yes, Herr Major.” The lieutenant reluctantly nodded and headed for the door.
“And Holm…”
The junior officer turned at the door.
“Make no attempt to rescue any passengers on board.”
6
Somewhere in the North Sea. Second day at sea.
The first night on the ship passed uneventfully, as did the following morning. Nordstrum and his coconspirators sequestered most of the crew belowdecks, allowing only those roles that the captain insisted were essential to the running of the ship to be performed. The passengers were in a state of distress, of course. Afraid. Angry. There were business appointments that had been missed, families that were expecting them at Stavanger and Bergen who were now without word, not to mention the extreme danger they were being put in. The whispering among the passengers was that there was no way the Germans would allow them to go without force. That resistance fighters, however justified in their cause, were putting everyone at risk, even children, families, to make their own escape.
But what other choice was there? Nordstrum asked himself. Explain to everyone on board that there was a purpose to what he and his men were doing that was far more critical to the war than all their private concerns?
No, there was no other way, he knew. Or any reasonable alternative. They had done what needed to be done. This was war. They had to get this film to England. He felt certain that the Germans would allow the boat to return once he and his men had left.
He pressed the captain to push his speed to twenty knots.
“Twenty knots? We’ll run out of coal before we get halfway.”
That morning, two planes were spotted in the eastern sky, black war crosses unmistakable on their wings. People pointed in alarm. “They’ve found us! You’ll kill us all,” they appealed to anyone with a gun. One or two stopped Nordstrum on deck. “You know what will happen. The Germans will never let us leave.”
“There are families on board,” others protested worriedly, “not soldiers. What of them?”
Einar kept at it on the radio to England, begging for air support, constantly transmitting their position. But scrambling a squadron of planes to escort a civilian ship required approval from higher-ups, and that took time. Even with a cargo as important as theirs was, which could not be explained over the radio.
“So where is your escort now?” the captain spat accusingly, with a nervous eye to the German planes as well. They kept their gazes peeled as, high above them, the fighters circled the ship not once, but twice.
Then, as if by some miracle, they disappeared.
People cheered. Maybe the Nazis had let them go after all. But Aberdeen was still close to 300 kilometers away. And every one of them would be fraught with danger.
Hours passed. The skies remained clear. “How are we on fuel?” Nordstrum asked the captain on the bridge.
“You see these seas…,” the captain replied. Indeed, they had grown heavier. Waves now crashed against the Galtesund’s sides. “And the winds are coming from the northwest. Right into our faces. They’re up to twenty knots. We’re not equipped for this. We’re down to less than half fuel.”
Less than half … Nordstrum did his own calculations and realized, at their present speed, they’d better get into the safety of English waters soon or they would be sitting ducks. And they certainly weren’t about to outrace anyone, if it came to such a thing.
“Keep radioing,” he said to Einar. “Tell them it’s imperative we get an escort.”