A scuffle sounded a hundred feet away. A shout, cut off halfway. The second guard was putting up a fight, and Koppel ran off to help.
Henrik motioned to Skov. They ran back toward the waterline, retrieved their gas cans, and split up to their assigned ships.
Henrik’s was the second ship over, scheduled to launch in two days. If he had his way, it never would.
Near the bow, Henrik wrapped a rag around the base of the scaffolding, and he poured gasoline down the post, drenching wood and rag.
Eyes wide in the darkness, he picked his way through the scaffolding and repeated the process at another spot.
If all worked according to plan, fires would cause the scaffolding to collapse, and the ship would topple, damaging the adjacent ship as well.
Henrik hurried to a point amidships. He used a greater quantity of gasoline, and the fumes made his eyes water.
He worked his way through the scaffolding, straining his ears. No shouts. No whistles. Only muffled footsteps and dribbling liquid.
Near the stern, Henrik poured out the last of his gasoline.
He ran to where Koppel guarded the two Danish traitors, one who slumped forward, probably unconscious. Henrik left his gas can with Koppel.
Skov ran up, dropped off his can, then ran toward his ship.
What was he doing? Henrik chased after him. “Where are you going?”
Skov slowed, and his eyes shone pale in the sliver of moonlight. “Let’s start our fires and get out of here.”
Henrik grabbed Skov’s arm. “Not without the others. Follow the plan.”
“Hey.” Skov shook his arm but failed to break Henrik’s grip. “The longer we wait, the more likely someone sounds the alarm.”
“The fires will raise the alarm. We must all start at the same time so we all can escape.”
“Let me go.”
“No.” Henrik ground out the word. “Unless you want Koppel to try out that machine pistol, you’d better listen.”
“He wouldn’t.”
“I would.” Koppel’s voice shot from behind. “Obey, or you’ll never work with us again.”
Skov’s arm went limp in Henrik’s grip. “Yes, sir.”
Henrik exchanged a look with Koppel. Even in the dark, even with only their eyes visible, they communicated. Skov would never work with them again.
Tin clunked behind them as more gas cans joined the others.
Koppel motioned the six men forward. He’d return the gas cans to the equipment shed, hide the machine pistols, and make sure everyone escaped.
Henrik ran back to his assigned ship and pulled out his cigarette lighter. The fumes and the white rag led him to the spot at the stern. He lit the rag. The flames were shockingly bright.
“Come on,” he muttered. The rag burned, but the wood didn’t catch. He pressed the lighter to the gasoline-soaked wood until flames licked up.
Then he worked his way onward. The firelight destroyed his night vision but illuminated his path.
Henrik set the next rag on fire and held flame to wood until the heat pushed him back.
Sweat built on his nose and lips, and the urge to remove his balaclava grew. As he made his way toward the bow, light bloomed around him and crackles shattered the silence.
He had to hurry. Not only would the alarm be raised but he could get trapped when the scaffolding collapsed.
