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Six nautical miles off the autumn coast of Norway a sleek grey
shape cut a stealthy path beneath the snow-flecked swell of the
sea. The distinctive form of the Junon barely moved with the rise
and fall of the waves.
Slowly, silently, a black metal tube extended itself from the
submarines conning tower. Lieutenant Commander Querville,
the captain of the Junon, grabbed his periscope and did a rapid,
three-sixty-degree scan of the surrounding sea. He could see that
not another ship was in sight, which was just as he wanted it.
The captain downed periscope, ordering his vessel to the sur-
face.
From the bridge, lookouts scanned the horizon as Commander
Querville tried to locate his route into the Bjrangsfjord the
intended drop-off point for the team of clandestine warriors that
his vessel was carrying.
No craft in sight, the navigator reported, as the Junon pushed
ever closer towards the jagged profile of the Norwegian coastline.
To left and right sharp mountains towered before her, their
lower slopes cloaked in dense, dark pine forests, the higher
reaches encrusted with snow and ice that blazed a burnished
gold in the fine morning light.
Suddenly, there it was: a plunging V-shaped slash yawned
before them. Typical of these Norwegian inlets, the Bjrangsfjord
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