At three thirty-nine in the morning on December twenty-sixth, nineteen forty-three, Admiral Sir Bruce Fraser received a message in the operations room of HMS Duke of York that made his pulse quicken. Four simple words transmitted from a cruiser sixty miles ahead: "Scharnhorst probably at sea." For five days, British codebreakers at Bletchley Park had been reading German naval signals. They knew a sortie was coming. They knew the target. But knowing and stopping were two entirely different problems. Now, somewhere in the pitch-black Arctic waters off northern Norway, the most dangerous warship left in the German Navy was hunting a convoy of nineteen merchant ships. If she reached them, it would be a massacre. Fraser had one chance to stop her. But first, he had to spring the perfect trap.
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