Operation Norway

- 14 -

It took most of the day to reach their destination and the squad spent much of it either catching up on sleep, eating mounds of stodgy food in the ship’s small mess, or visiting with Wilkins. The lad was sitting up in bed, proclaiming himself more than happy with the high-grade painkillers on offer.

“We got the leg set, Cap,” Davies said. “He’ll have some pain once the happy juice wears off but a few months rest and he’ll be right as rain.”

Banks spent most of his waking time up on the bridge with the boat’s skipper, sharing his dark cheroots, drinking strong black coffee, and mostly fighting off the offer of vodka to wash the smoke down.

They spoke of trolls.

“I heard your man Wiggins has been making fun, comparing our passenger to something from American comic books. Many of my crew are not laughing. You should let him know that trolls are a serious matter in these parts.”

“That’s just Wiggo’s way,” Banks said. “He’s not serious about much of anything except cigarettes, booze, and lassies, and I’m not sure how seriously he takes women.”

“All the same, some of the crew are from fishing stock born and bred along this coastline. You know what such folk are like — their stories go back far into the mists of time and men who live by the sea are all too aware that most of the legends told on winter nights have at least some basis in reality. They tell me that the fjord has long had a dark reputation, going back many centuries. They even call it the Troll coast and say it has long been shunned. I asked around the crew about the camp you just blew up. It too was known of and it was seen as a great mistake, bringing fear that something might be woken that has long been asleep. People were happy when it was abandoned and less happy when they heard you were making investigations in the ruins.”

“They won’t like having yon thing laid out on the deck then?”

The skipper smiled thinly.

“I had to promise extended shore leave in the Tromsø bars; otherwise, I’d have a mutiny on my hands.”

They were cruising as fast as they could manage through an archipelago of wooded, snow-capped islands on a glass-flat sea under azure skies, all trace of the night’s storm long gone and once again, Banks felt the knots of tension in him ease and unravel.

It felt like the job was, for all intents and purposes, over.

The only incident of note on the journey came when the sun was at its highest. A shout of alarm echoed from the roll-on deck. It was Wiggins, who was currently assigned guard.

“Cap, get your arse down here. The big bugger’s not happy.”

Banks arrived at the same time as Hynd and Davies, with the skipper and his crew standing well back behind them. The troll moaned piteously and writhed on the deck as if in agony. As Banks got closer, he saw that the thick skin, which looked more like crocodile than human, was dry and flaking, and the fissures between the thickest ridges were weeping a watery fluid. The troll tried to raise its arms to cover its face but was prevented from doing so by the heavy binding chains. Banks saw its gaze look up towards the sun and it moaned again then, a wail that spoke of pain and fear. The chains creaked and strained under the pressure of its struggles. They were holding.

But for how long?

“I don’t ken what his problem is,” Wiggins said. “He’s on a cruise, kicking back and getting a tan. All he needs now is to get laid and have a few drinks. He’s got it cozier than us.”

“It’s the sun,” Banks said. “He’s afraid of the sun; more than that, he’s being hurt. Sarge, get the skipper to find something to cover him up — a big tarpaulin maybe? Davies, see if another shot of sedative will calm him.”

Both orders were followed within the next few minutes and they did the trick; as soon as the beast was covered by two sheets of thick tarpaulin and another dose of sedative kicked in, it fell quiet and silent again and stayed that way for the rest of the trip.

The sun was going down behind a chain of islands in the west as the skipper brought the supply vessel into Tromsø harbor.

Tromsø proved to be a picturesque city of wooden, almost medieval in aspect, buildings, gaudily painted in primary colors and in the red of the sunset appearing to glow warm and golden. Old church towers shone in the last rays of the sun even while the harbor itself succumbed to darker shadows. That suited Banks just fine as they were able to strip off the covering of tarpaulin and get a dockside crane hooked onto the troll’s chains without any problems and without the beast stirring from its slumber.

There was an ambulance waiting for Wilkins as soon as they docked.

“I’ll have a round of beers in waiting for you when you all get home,” the private said as they lifted him aboard.

“Make it two,” Wiggins said. “I’ve got a feeling we’ll need them.”

Overhead, the dockside crane squealed and creaked as the troll was lifted slowly and carefully off the deck. As Wilkins’ ambulance departed, the quayside was left empty save for a large flatbed truck, a score of heavily armed men and an officious, thin, little weasel of a man who Banks took against immediately.

The little man barely looked up from where he was ticking off items on a list as he spoke.

“My name is Doctor Larsen,” he said in heavily accented English, “and I am in charge here now. You may all take your leave as soon as the cargo is unloaded.”

Banks walked off the vessel and over to the man and stood up close; he had four inches of height and more than that in breadth on the small man and he made sure it was noticed.

“We are not going anywhere except to accompany your ‘cargo’ which, I would remind you, is a British soldier. My orders are to ensure his well-being.”

“Your British orders mean nothing here,” the man began but Banks had seen his eyes, seen the doubt growing, so he kept pushing.

“I think you will find that they do,” he said. “Shall you make the phone call or shall I? I’m sure our respective governments would love to hear from you.”

The small man reddened and looked flustered. He seemed to be about to argue then looked in Banks’ eyes and quickly away.

“Very well then, but you will not be armed and you will have a watching brief only. I have been told that the study of this find is my responsibility and my responsibility only.”

“And again, I remind you that your ‘find’ is a British officer. Any harm comes to him and your responsibility will be to answer to me. Best you take it seriously.”

The obvious leader of the armed men on the quay came over to defuse the situation and looked Banks in the eye.

“Captain Banks?” he said in a clipped precise English. “Captain Olsen. He’s right about the weaponry — I can’t sanction you running around with assault rifles in the city. You and your men may, however, keep your handguns as long as they are holstered.”

Banks nodded; he hadn’t expected to be allowed the rifles anyway.

“Where are we headed?” he said, addressing the captain rather than the other man.

“The university. We have a trailer ready for you and your men and passes will be provided for the laboratory areas. I assure you all due care will be taken with your man.”

Banks saw a different message in the small doctor’s eyes but now wasn’t the time to push it any further.

The squad fetched their kit, and Banks thanked the skipper for all his help — and his vodka. As soon as the beast was loaded onto the flatbed — once again covered in tarpaulin to hide it from prying eyes — they piled into a succession of SUVs and followed it in a winding trail through the city.