Operation Norway

- 12 -

“Lights out, Sarge,” Banks whispered.

While Hynd moved to comply, Banks went over to wake up Wiggins and Davies. In a matter of seconds, all four of them stood in darkness, syringes, not rifles, poised for use, listening for any sign of attack. Something crashed, a rattle and tumble of stone outside, and Banks guessed that the last remnants of the red brick cell were now finally reduced to rubble.

No attack came. Twice they heard heavy footsteps beyond the door but they passed by each time.

He’s not daft.

Banks moved towards the door, putting a hand on the handle.

“Cap?” Hynd said softly. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Bringing him to us. Follow my lead and only make a move if I do. And remember,” he said, showing them the syringe. “Into the cracks. And pray we’ve got enough of this crap to keep him down.”

He opened the door and stepped out into what was now a still, cold night.

A full moon hung over the fjord, sliver glistening off both water and cliff faces. The snow underfoot looked almost blue and the carpet of stars twinkled like fairy lights overhead. The troll stood in the ruins of the red brick cell, staring up at the sky as if in wonder.

Banks took a step forward and spoke just loud enough that he knew he would be heard.

“Private McCallum?”

The response was immediate. The thing dropped its gaze from the stars and looked straight at him, its eyes lost in shadows under heavy rugged brows. It broke into a lumbering run, coming fast.

The rest of the squad was still coming through the door and the troll was already almost on top of them when Banks raised his voice, shouting now, putting all of his authority into it. He was playing a hunch here, aware that he was risking his life on it but to back off in the face of this rush would be equally as fatal.

“McCallum, stand down. That’s an order, Private.”

As before, the response was immediate although it took a while for the thing to come to a halt for it had worked up quite a head of steam. It stopped only six feet in front of Banks and once again cocked its head to one side in an all-too-human gesture that showed it was listening.

“I’m Captain Banks,” Banks said, clipped and official in manner, “and I’m here to help you.”

Then he made the mistake that could have cost him his life; he raised the syringe, showed it to the beast.

The troll moved first, letting out a roar of rage that echoed all around the walls of the fjord then swiping at the syringe as if to knock it away. Banks didn’t have time to avoid the blow and his left hand was struck by what felt like a lump of cold stone, sending the syringe flying into the night to clatter off rocks on the shore. His whole arm went numb at the weight of the hit and he tumbled off balance, just having enough presence of mind to let himself fall and not get entangled with the rest of the men.

As he rolled to one side, he saw Wiggins jump up onto the troll’s back, getting it in a half nelson. The beast, enraged at this affront, moved to grab for the corporal. At the same time, Davies stepped inside its reach and plunged his syringe down on its chest — he missed his mark and the needle — and the glass itself shattered against the hard skin. The private couldn’t get out the way in time and a huge arm brushed him away with a swatting blow that threw Davies across the quayside to land heavily, sliding for ten feet in the fresh snowfall and coming to a halt just above the drop into the icy waters of the fjord.

Banks was still trying to get to his feet and Wiggins was still hanging grimly to the beast’s neck when Hynd, calm as you like, ducked, rolled forward in a wrestler’s move, and came up between the thing’s legs. He took his time, looking for the right place to strike and slid the syringe into a crack in the skin at the thing’s groin, pushing the plunger in quickly before rolling again, through the thing’s legs and free.

“Ha, got you in the bollocks, you bastard,” Wiggins shouted and finally had enough of a grip to be able to swing his other hand ‘round and plunge the syringe into the troll’s neck. “This is for Wilkins,” he said and pushed the plunger before dropping away and tumbling out of the thing’s reach.

It took a while to go down and it went down hard. First its legs went weak, sending it rolling like a drunk to one side then the other. It hit the hut wall, leaving a massive dent. It tried to reach for Wiggins, who dodged it easily. The corporal danced like a boxer, fists up, taunting the thing.

“Come on then, big man. Have a go if you think you’re hard enough.”

Wiggins threw a punch at the thing’s belly then danced away holding his fist.

“Fuck me, it’s like punching a wall.”

“Don’t try kicking it in the nuts then,” Hynd said, laughing grimly.

The sergeant stepped forward and, using the outside of his heavy boot, kicked the troll hard on the inside of its left knee. The beast tottered and finally fell, even while it roared in rage, reaching for Hynd with huge grasping hands. It hit the quay with a crash, another echo ringing around the cliffs then finally lay still.

“That went well,” Wiggins said with a smile and went to help Davies up. The young private was shaken and stiff.

“Nothing broken except my dignity,” he said.

“Good lad,” Banks replied. “Fetch as much of that sedative as you’ve found,” he said. “I think we’re going to need it.”

Hynd lit two smokes and passed one to Banks while they both stood over the prone figure of the troll.

“What now, Cap?” Hynd asked.