****
Scapa Flow
Friday, May 1, 1942
Under a cool and clear sky, Lachlan inserted a red ampule into the fourth of the limpet mines lined up in the wooden dinghy.
His brow tingled, and he wiped away a bit of sweat. Working with Mackenzie Salvage had taught him a dreadful respect for explosives.
One last look at his watch and a thermometer and the chart in the ampule box. If he wanted the mines to explode around 2200 hours, he needed to activate them now.
His dinghy floated between the bulk of the partially sunken blockship and the uninhabited island of Glimps Holm. In the distance, men worked on the Churchill Barrier crossing Weddell Sound.
So far, no one had approached him. If anyone inquired about his work, he was to state that he was blowing up a blockship for the Orkneys and Shetlands Command and to tell them to direct further inquiries to Lt.-Cdr. Bennett Blake.
That would purchase sufficient time to finish the job and flee to Dunnet Head.
He had to finish the job. Cilla’s case and her life depended on a terrific explosion.
Lachlan ran his tongue around the dryness of his mouth, ground out a fervent prayer, removed the safety pins, and turned each of the actuating screws.
Silence greeted him, as promised, and he released a pent-up breath.
He rowed close to the upturned bow of the blockship, slid the rod into the bracket of the first mine, and maneuvered it into the water and near to the ship.
A magnetic pull. A muffled clang.
Lachlan jiggled the rod free and rowed closer to amidships. Thank goodness he enjoyed salvage work, because after thewar no one would hire him except his own father. Tonight, the blockship and his reputation would be destroyed simultaneously.
The second mine sprang to the ship’s hull, and Lachlan rowed aft. Lately, for the first time ever, he looked forward to working with Neil. Their strengths would bring different and complementary assets to the company.
Lachlan lowered the third mine into the water. It attached too high, with part of the mine above the waterline.
He groaned, but the strong magnets would make removal difficult—and he had no time to spare.
Blake would be appropriately furious when Lachlan confessed tomorrow. A demotion would follow. MI5 would force the Admiralty to keep Lachlan at Scapa Flow, but Blake would despise and distrust him from then on.
“It’s worth it.” The fourth mine clanged to the hull. “For Cilla.”
Lachlan rowed around the blockship to face the blue expanse of Scapa Flow. His usual fast motorboat puttered toward him, and Lachlan waved the crew closer.
At least most of the US task force had sailed from Scapa on Tuesday to help escort Arctic convoys. His personal reputation would be tarred and feathered, but he didn’t want to stain the reputation of the Royal Navy in front of their guests.
Lachlan pulled the oars into the dinghy and packed his remaining materials into a crate. All their hopes rested on the explosion.
MI5’s plan still felt flimsy as did Kraus’s promise to allow Cilla to remain in Scotland if the sabotage succeeded. Why would the Germans spend so much time and risk a valuable U-boat simply to observe an explosion?
They would make such a dangerous journey for one reason only—to extract Cilla. Yardley assured him they’d arrest Krausupon landing, and he seemed almost giddy at the prospect of capturing an Abwehr handler.
But Lachlan would carry his revolver tonight.
The motorboat pulled up to Lachlan and cut the engine.
The coxswain dropped a line and a rope ladder into the dinghy. “How did it go, sir?”
“Very well.” Lachlan tied the line to the eye at the dinghy’s bow for towing. He’d told the crew about blowing up the blockship to maintain his story that he thought he was acting with Blake’s approval—if not his direct orders.
Lachlan handed the crate up to the coxswain. “Remember what I told you. Dinnae tell your mates about this and dinnae come near this location tonight.”
