The sea moved in long slow swells, beneath a moonlit fog that hid the beaches, the bluffs, the other boats, and the ships that were the source of the heavy rumble of anchor chains heard far out in the bay.
Through the fog, like fuzzy images of beetles crawling across a surface of dark and slightly rippled satin, came long, low, open boats, the men laboring steadily at the oars, the officers crouched tensely at the bows, peering into the fog.
Wrapped in a cloak, one hand gripping the boat's wet gunnel, the other cupping a large watch whose luminous dial showed two minutes before 3:00 A.M., Arakal spoke in a low voice to the trumpeter crouched close behind him.
"We should be almost there. Stay right with me. And when we get out, keep that flag case up out of the water."
"Yes, sir."
Arakal snapped the inner cover shut over the watch face, pressed shut the outer cover that fitted down onto the hopefully waterproof gasket, slid the watch into its oilskin pouch, and methodically checked its fastenings. He counted silently as he checked watch, sword belt, map case, canteen, bandage box, cartridge box, and the bulky leather case for his long-seeing glasses. He eased his sword's fastenings around, and gathered up the edges of his cloak, as either sword or cloak could trip him getting out of the boat. Then he waited, and he continued to silently count:
. . . ninety-nine . . . one hundred . . . one hundred and one . . .
There was a clash of oars, and the helmsman's voice, low and patient, guided the oarsmen back into unison.
Arakal mentally rehearsed what to do when the boat hit the sand. As he thought over the possible complications and their answers, he was still silently counting:
. . . two hundred sixty-one . . . two hundred sixty-two . . . two hundred sixty-three . . .
Behind him, the huddled trumpeter shifted the flag case uneasily.
Arakal peered ahead, to see through the fog the glimmer of open water still in front of them.
The rhythmic splash and pull of the oars continued. Absently, he counted:
. . . three hundred and six . . . three hundred and seven . . . three hundred and eight . . .
Still, ahead, he could occasionally glimpse the water.
The rhythmic splash, and the gurgle of water past the boat, went on.
Tired from the storm, with the drifting fog around him, Arakal's eyes went almost shut.
There was a hiss of the hull scraping over sand. The boat slowed. The helmsman growled, "Stow—"
Arakal was suddenly wide awake. "Not yet. There's water in front of us. We've hit a bar."
The men fitted their oars back between the pegs. There was a scrape and thump as the helmsman unshipped the rudder. Again, he gave his low chant. With a faint grinding sound, the boat slid unevenly forward.
Arakal peered around in the fog as they glided ahead once again, and again time stretched out.
Where was the beach?
S-One tensely watched the display.
By now, at last, the laden troop trains were finally passing through Rouen. Position indicators for the ships showed a swerve in course, as the bulk of Arakal's Fleet swung past Normandy, and approached Le Havre. Left behind, several ships still lingered off the east coast of the Normandy peninsula. Reports from a small scout force left at the old Utah Beach told of the sounds of anchor chains, of faint rumblings and thuddings, even of the sounds of oars—but nothing whatever had yet appeared on the beach.
The wall opposite S-One's desk now showed a detailed representation of Normandy, the Bay of the Seine, and the railroad lines connecting Cherbourg to Rouen, and Rouen to Le Havre. On the display, blue lights in the bay showed the approach of Arakal's fleet to Le Havre, while on land short bright-red bars moved steadily along a black line, representing S-One's troop trains, which soon would be approaching Le Havre. The display suggested a close race, which should soon be decided, one way or another.
S-One felt the throb of a more rapid pulse, and a faint sense of shortness of breath.
Brusilov, across the desk, sat with his chair turned, watched the lighted wall, and said nothing.
Methodically, S-One thought over his dispositions. Le Havre, for all practical purposes, was defenseless. But he had over forty thousand men on the way, and by dawn the first troops should be close to the port. Surely they would be in time to smash Arakal's beachhead. But even in the event of military failure, the deception teams were already warned and ready, and could act in Normandy, Le Havre, or elsewhere. If, somehow, Arakal should see through the deception plan, then S-One would hand the whole situation over to Marshal Vasilevsky, who had already tacitly approved the location of the troops.
Testing the connection of these arrangements, S-One found no flaw. Yet, as time passed, it was becoming increasingly hard for him to breathe.
Across the desk, Brusilov's head turned, as from the east a line of light passed slowly across the map, leaving it lighter. The glowing markers on the map darkened by contrast. The change represented the coming of daylight in France.
S-One stared at the display.
There was an urgent rap on the door.
S-One called, "Come in!" and the door opened, to admit his deputy.
"Sir," cried S-Two, "we have reports that Arakal has landed. In Normandy!"
Arakal, and the other men from the first boats to reach shore, had climbed to a kind of shelving terrace partway up the slope above the beach. By some miracle, they had all reached the same beach, and Arakal was now crouched with Slagiron under the hastily erected tent. They had a map spread out before them, and a small portable lamp trailed a thread of smoke as it cast its flickering shadows over the map. Around them, the tent slatted in a rising wind, and Slagiron, one big forefinger on the map, shook his head.
"Nothing matches."
Arakal noted the small blue Xs that marked the positions of the ships anchored off the coast. He slid a marker along the edge of the scale, clamped it at his estimate of the distance the small boats should have traveled, considering the time that had passed, held the pin at the end of the scale to the nearest blue X, and swung the scale around.
"The tide must still have been going out. So, we were coming in against the tide. And, on top of that, there must be a current out there."
"Bullinger claimed to have accurate tide tables."
"They must have been like those maps of the Mediterranean he told us about. We're going to have to bring the bulk of the men ashore at dead low tide."
"Ashore. But where?"
Arakal lifted an edge of the map to get the flickering light more directly on it.
"Look. Back of this other beach, over here, where it isn't so steep. The distances match, if we make allowances for a current."
Slagiron swore under his breath. "This puts us on the wrong side of the river. On top of that, there's the marsh, and we're on the wrong side of it, too."
"But everything fits. That second bar we hit would have been about here. And we finally landed here. And now, we should be—" He put his finger on the map, back of the beach "—here."
Slagiron peered at the map. "We can't reach Cherbourg from here. And we could get bottled up in this hole."
"But at least," said Arakal, "we're on land."
"There is that," said Slagiron with feeling. "All right. Do we try to get to the right beach? Or do we use this one?"
"If we try to get to the right beach from here, we'll have a mess like that fourth practice landing. There won't be any unit not mixed up with some other unit. Just keep them coming in. And give your account to Bullinger on paper, so if their spy system still works, we don't tell the Russ about this."
S-One gripped the arms of his chair, looked back at the display, then at his deputy.
"Normandy?"
"Yes, sir."
S-One glanced up.
Off Le Havre, on the display, the ships were now swinging away, moving further out into the bay. And now a blue marker had appeared on the Normandy coast.
For the second time in two days, S-One felt the world step aside, to go on without him. He kept his voice calm, as he turned to his deputy.
"Activate the deception plan."
S-Two said, a trace of anguish in his voice, "Sir, the scout team on the spot reports that the coast defense system is still undamaged. There has been no bombardment or actual penetration of the defenses."
"And?"
"We can open fire on Arakal's ships, turn the troops around in Le Havre and start them back toward Normandy."
"That will take time. How many of the enemy are already ashore?"
This time, S-Two's voice was clearly anguished: "We don't know."
"A hundred? Five thousand? Twenty thousand?"
"We can't be sure! There may have been more deception. I would guess between three and twelve thousand. But we don't know."
"And how many men do we still have in the Citadel?"
"Very few, sir. But until there is heavy damage, the guns can be worked by automatic control. It is a very efficient system, designed and built before the war."
S-One hesitated, and glanced at the display. Suddenly he sat straight.
"But that is not Utah Beach!"
"No, sir. They completely avoided Utah Beach."
S-One sat very still.
"In short, we have received from them nothing but misleading information?"
S-Two nodded.
S-One glanced briefly at Brusilov, who sat stolidly, saying nothing.
S-One looked back at his deputy.
"What they have done is nothing less than to use our electronic information system to lead us around by the nose." He glanced at Brusilov. "What would you do, General?"
"Roughly as your deputy suggests."
"How do you think it would work out?"
Brusilov considered the map, and shrugged.
"Who can say? No matter what we do, it could turn into an ugly mess before it's over."
S-One considered it, narrow-eyed. He turned to his deputy.
"Order the last of our troops out of the citadel. Reroute the units at Le Havre to Metz. Activate the deception plan, at once."
S-Two stiffened, gave a slight bow, and hurried out.
S-One looked at Brusilov.
"As a purely military solution, I suppose my deputy's idea has its merits. But I see now that we have to aim at more than military victory. Arakal has acted on a different level entirely." S-One paused, frowning, then looked at Brusilov curiously. "This is what you meant, when you spoke of Arakal's blows 'dislocating the mind'?"
Brusilov nodded. "This is a sample of it. And if you will excuse me for giving too much advice, I think the situation is now so dangerous that it would be better at once to hand over command to the Marshal. In my experience, the riskiest way to fight Arakal is with subtlety. In a plain straightforward fight, we can wrestle him to a standstill. He is tough, but so are we, and our weapons are better. But when the bright ideas begin to flow, look out. He has the edge, there."
S-One nodded. "I can well believe it, General. And if it were a question of a fight, I would do exactly as you suggest. But I have discarded that idea. I am not planning to fight Arakal."
Brusilov blinked. He glanced at the display. Then he looked again at S-One.
"Arakal is ashore in France, with the world's only battle fleet, and thirty-five thousand men at his back, and France by your own reckoning is a tinder box awaiting the match. And you are not going to fight him?"
S-One smiled. "That is correct, General."
"Then, if I may ask, Comrade, what are you going to do?"
"The deception plan, that I spoke of, is already in action."