Operation Norway

- 21 -

Olsen had lost four men — the two over the side lost to the river, the man on the ground with the caved in chest, and a fourth who lay slumped against the wall with a broken neck. The captain was moving gingerly as he came down the bridge towards Banks and was favoring what was obviously a bruised back. He was on the radio, speaking too quickly in Norwegian for Banks to catch the gist of it but when he got off the call, he shook Banks’ hand then smiled grimly at Wiggins, who was kicking at the dead troll at his feet.

“There’s a cleanup crew inbound,” the Norwegian captain said. “And thanks to you, there’s more of us alive than dead. Nice moves.”

“I learned it from my mother,” Wiggins replied. “It was her motto — when in doubt, go for the bollocks.”

Olsen turned to Banks.

“Another one down but still more than a dozen to go. Intel has them moving through the factories across the bridge, heading north. There’s a stretch of high sea cliffs in that direction.”

“And I’m guessing it’s riddled with caves?”

Olsen nodded.

“Larsen’s back at base. His theory is that they’re seeking shelter.”

“I’m loathe to take anything that wee wanker says as gospel,” Banks replied, “but this time he might have a point. Lead on, Captain, we’ve got your back.”

Olsen left two men behind to wait for the cleanup crew and led a reduced troop off the bridge and into the sprawl of factory units.

There was much more evidence of the trolls’ passing inside the maze of buildings. The beasts had continued on an almost straight line due north, pausing only for random acts of destruction… and feeding.

They saw signs of hurried evacuation at each unit that they passed, cars that had crashed into each other not by force of the trolls but in their hurry to flee, dropped packages and discarded briefcases. The worst thing was the torn remains and dismembered torsos of those who had been too tardy in their flight, lying discarded and partially eaten in a trail they had no trouble following.

They came to a wide central crossroads bounded by new metal sheds on all sides. Right in the center, where a rudimentary roundabout had made a perfunctory attempt to direct traffic flow, the trolls had paused long enough to leave the most gruesome sign yet of their passing.

“We’ve seen this before,” Banks told Olsen, “in the hills above the fjord.”

It was another mass feeding area and as the squad had seen in the hills, the remains had been posed as if in an attempt at art, with a tower of stacked heads overlooking gaping, emptied chests, splayed ribs, and empty bellies. And entwined in and around it all were pink and gray glistening entrails, already crusting where the blood dried. The stench, even in the open air, was almost overpowering. The only good thing was that the chill of December was too severe for flies or carrion crows. The ritual feast was a quiet, dead place, their art testament to the trolls’ hunger and fury.

They were all glad to leave it behind and continue north.

“Cap,” Wiggins said quietly to Banks as they walked in a deep alley between two tall factory buildings. “I don’t want to be Billy-Bad-News here, but what the fuck are we going to do if we catch up with these wankers? We don’t have the firepower to take them down if they all come at us at once. One of them took out four men at the bridge back there. I ken I was never that great at math but the sums don’t add up.”

It was a question that had occurred to Banks several times since they’d left the university. His only hope was that they could somehow herd the trolls into an area where fire could be concentrated — maybe bring the tanks up again, or call in an air strike. At least, that’s what he would do if he was in charge.

“It’s Olsen’s call,” Banks said. “We’re running backup here. Just keep your eyes peeled. At least we’re out of the heavily populated areas. And if the captain’s intel is right, they’re heading for shelter. We’ll get them there.”

He saw the word in Wiggins’ eyes; he didn’t have to hear it.

How?

They emerged from the canyon made by the high-sided factories onto a level seafront, a narrow pathway above a shingle shore. The path led northwest away from the factories then beneath tall rock sea cliffs. High up, over fifty yards up and two hundred away, they caught a glimpse of movement. The trolls were well camouflaged against the stone but the taller figure of the one who had been McCallum was clear enough. They were filing one by one into a wide cave mouth halfway up the cliff.

“We have them now,” Olsen said. “I will call in a strike.”

Banks walked forward and put a hand on the captain’s arm.

“Wait,” he said. “I mentioned earlier, we dropped a cave on the big bugger up in the hills and he climbed out. We can’t take the chance, he’ll do it again.”

“You’re saying we need to go up there? Go into the cave after them? That’s a big risk to ask my men to take when the easy option is, as your corporal might say, to bomb them to buggery.”

“Then let us go,” Banks said. “We started this shite when we woke McCallum. We’d like to finish it.”

“Four men against a pack of trolls? I do not like your odds, Captain.”

“Luckily, I’m not a betting man,” Banks replied. “And you’ve seen how McCallum responds to my orders. Maybe we can shift those odds in our favor. I have to try.”

Olsen looked Banks in the eye and nodded.

“Very well then. You shall have your chance. But I will be calling in the air force as backup. They will be ready to level these cliffs on my command.”

Banks looked up the narrow pathway the trolls must have climbed to reach the cave, gauging distance and time.

“You’d best give us half an hour. I’ll be up there waving if it’s all clear.”

“That’s okay,” Olsen replied. “I won’t ask my men to do it — but I too feel some responsibility here, for I should have kept a closer check on Larsen. I’m coming with you.”