“Oh, it’s you, sir,” Markley said from the doorway. “Thought we had ghosts about.” He saw the photographs on the light table. “A man’s got to get some rest, don’t you know, sir? A man can’t do a proper job unless he has a good night’s sleep. Sometimes I take a drop to help me sleep, sir, but I always make time for a good night’s sleep.”
“Yeah, I saw the bottle.”
Markley coughed into his palm. “Hair of the dog, I assure you, sir.”
“Must have been a Great Dane,” Cole said. “What about these photographs? They’re new.”
“Yes, sir. Came in from Leuchars. That crew tossed the cameras but not before pulling out the film canisters. Most fortunate for us, sir.”
“Yeah. It’s our lucky day. There’s a hell of a lot more detail here than the other photographs, but it still doesn’t answer my question.”
“What question would that be, sir?”
“What’s all of the shooting about? If there’s nothing there, why make a fuss? I need an eyewitness.”
Cole watched Markley stroke his red mustache with his thumb and index finger in thought. “You know, sir. There’s a Norwegian chap down in Charts and Maps. Got out just before the Germans took over. He’s a sailor, I believe. At least he drinks and cusses like one.”
“Get him.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but it’s a bit late to be waking someone up, don’t you think?”
“Now, Markley.”
It was thirty minutes later that Cole heard the sound of cursing in the hall. It grew louder and more profane until a short, stocky, florid-faced man filled the doorway. Markley stood a respectful distance behind the Norwegian, his uniform disheveled and a red welt under his eye.
“Who the fuck do you think you are, getting me out of a warm bed?” the Norwegian said with a thick accent.
“Have a care with those words!” Markley roared. “You’re speaking to an officer.”
Cole ignored both of them. “I need your help.”
“Fuck you and your help. You aren’t English! Fuck you, whoever you are.”
Cole waved Markley back as the big man moved at the Norwegian. “Lieutenant Jordan Cole, United States Navy.”
“Now the goddamned Americans want to boss me about. First it was the Germans, and then the English. Now the goddamned Americans. What next? The Swedes?”
“Do you know anything about Leka Island?” Cole asked.
The Norwegian turned to Markley in pure despair and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Who is this imbecile?” he asked the gunner’s mate.
Markley was about to answer when Cole jumped in. “Listen to me, you foulmouthed son of a bitch, I know you can cuss and you can probably drink, but I haven’t got time to listen to your life story. So I’ll ask you again and this time I’ll speak slowly so that pea-sized brain of yours can wrap itself around every fucking syllable. Do you know anything about Leka Island?”
The Norwegian pursed his lips and nodded. “This is a fellow who can grow on you,” he told Markley. He walked to the table. “I captained the ferry that ran between Goteboro and Alborg and I know Leka Island better than you know the hairs on your ass.”
“Okay,” Cole said, handing him the lens, “take a look at the photos and tell me if you see anything unusual.”
The Norwegian looked at the lens in disgust and tossed it against the wall. “I don’t need these fucking things.” He hooked his hands behind his back, bending over the table, and began studying the photographs, blowing out great breaths through heavily veined cheeks.
Finally he stood. “Here’s your problem here, sonny. You’ve got one too many islands in the group.”
Cole almost asked if the Norwegian was sure, but he didn’t want to start him on another tirade. Instead he said, “Which island shouldn’t be there?”
“This one. She wasn’t there before and I don’t know what she’s doing there now, but she doesn’t belong to Leka. Probably got blown there in a storm or dropped by seagulls.” He slapped Cole on the arm and announced merrily: “You’ve got yourself a mystery, sonny, and a big one she is. I never heard of islands sailing about, but there’s a first time for everything. Now I’m going back to bed and if you send that big walrus to wake me I’ll rip off his mustache and use it to polish my boots.” He made his way to the door and brushed past Markley. “Oh,” he said, stopping. “It was a fucking pleasure meeting you, too.”
“By God, sir,” Markley said, after he left, “that man deserves a good thrashing.”
Cole looked over the photographs. “I need to get to Leuchars.”
“I beg your pardon, sir.”
“I need to get up to Leuchars. I’ve got to see for myself.”
“You’ve lost me, sir.”
“What the hell is so special about Leka Island and why has this island” — he stabbed the photograph with his finger — “suddenly appeared? Can you get me up there?”
Cole watched as Markley carefully prepared his response. “Harry Hamilton will have my head and my ratings if you go flying off without orders and me aiding and abetting. Sir.”
“Markley?”
“Yes, sir. But—”
“You just get me up there and I’ll take full responsibility. You don’t need to know why.”
“Too right, I don’t need to know why, sir. If you take an old sailor’s advice you’ll stay put.”
Cole remained silent, watching the petty officer’s resolve melt. “I’ll do it, sir. God bless my soul, I’ll do it, but if this ends badly for you, and it’s for certain it will, we never spoke of it.”
Cole smiled. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. Why don’t you take what’s left in the bottle?”
“Small comfort that’ll be, sir. It’s nearly all gone and by my own hand.”
Chapter 9
Admiral Doenitz watched the last of the twelve U-boats disappear in the distance, a strange tableau of peace in the constant din of the active naval base. Captain Godt, his chief of staff, stood next to him, towering over the short admiral.
“What do you think of Raeder’s scheme?” Doenitz asked Godt over the clatter of a passing fleet tug.
Godt noted his superior’s use of the word scheme instead of plan. It could mean nothing or it could be a sign of the admiral’s dislike and distrust of the whole project.
“I think that we have a very good chance of dealing the English a crippling blow,” Godt said. He watched Doenitz nod and then followed him as the admiral clasped his hands behind his back and walked along the pier in thought.
“Yes. Yes,” he said as if his answer were not a part of a conversation but of ideas swirling within him. Godt dropped back a pace, watching Doenitz.
Raeder’s plan was simplicity itself. Sea Lion would dash from Leka Island, up the Kattegat, through the Korsfjord, and meet her supply and escort vessels at Grimstadfjord. There she would reprovision and refuel. No one during the meeting had brought up Bismarck. It was thought that one of her fatal decisions had been not to top off her tanks before proceeding into the North Atlantic. Of course, this view was delivered in hindsight, after her battered corpse had begun rusting on the bottom of the North Atlantic.
From Grimstadfjord to Hjeltefjord, Raeder’s staff officer had explained easily, his pointer gliding smoothly over the map between Fjellsund and Norway, accompanied by three destroyers and a fleet tanker.
At this point Doenitz had turned and pinned the Luftwaffe staff officer with a questioning glance. The implication was obvious: what was the air cover?