A Thousand Suns (28 page)

Chapter 42

Mission Time: 5 Hours, 50 Minutes Elapsed

12.55 a.m. EST, the White House, Washington, DC

Truman stared silently at those members of his war cabinet and the Joint Chiefs of Staff who had been recalled and able to attend at such short notice. Many of them, with the exception of Donovan and Wallace, looked as if they had been dragged out of their homes, their beds, or reluctantly from some social function.

‘Little more than an hour ago, I was informed of something very disturbing, gentlemen, an intelligence report from our people in Europe. Colonel Donovan, will you please . . . ?’

Donovan nodded and picked up a piece of paper; he read from it. ‘At 2100 hours, Eastern Standard Time, we received a wire from our OSS operation in Germany. Yesterday, a platoon of our airborne troops discovered a partially destroyed laboratory on the outskirts of Stuttgart.’ Donovan looked up from his sheet of notes. ‘I should stress that, although these boys passed on news of their discovery promptly to the intelligence people over there, it took them a little time to work out what it was they had, and for the information to make its way back to the OSS over here. So this is nearly twenty hours old. Anyway, the laboratory appears to have been used to refine uranium, a cyclotron was discovered there and -’

‘Would you explain to us all what a cyclotron is?’ asked Truman.

Donovan turned to Wallace, who stepped forward to address the men at the table. ‘A cyclotron is a machine that magnetically separates U-235 from U-238. It’s an efficient way to refine on a small scale. We tried it over here, but it was too slow a method, requiring frequent cleaning of the magnetic heads.’

‘So then it appears that the Germans have been at it,’ interrupted Truman.

The response from around the table was one of quiet discomfort.

Truman nodded at Donovan to carry on.

Donovan cleared his throat and resumed reading his notes. ‘One of their technical team was taken prisoner near the lab; he had been wounded. This technician spoke briefly to a field medic before being taken to a field hospital, where he died a few hours later.’

Donovan looked up at the men around the table and finally to Truman. ‘The medic reported that this technician talked about working on atomic weapons, and that a bomb had been moved from this installation in preparation for imminent deployment.’

This time, there was only silence from around the table. Truman’s face hardened as he studied the faces of his cabinet members and the Chiefs of Staff present. This assembly of middle-aged and distinguished faces around the conference table, faces that still poorly concealed a disapproval of him, cast judgement on him as the man who could
never
replace Roosevelt. They all remained impassive, poker faces, none prepared to offer the vaguest gesture of support or encouragement as he continued to fumble his way through this problem, alone it seemed. None of these wise men seemed to have any advice for him
now
. He turned to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Admiral Leahy. ‘Do you have any thoughts on this?’

The Admiral cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘That does sound like we’re talking a whole new ball game, sir. Perhaps Donovan’s young man can let us know if he still thinks it impossible for the Germans to have built at least one of these atom bombs.’

‘Mr Donovan, your technical adviser, Mr . . . ?’

‘Wallace, Mr President,’ Donovan obliged.

‘Wallace, you informed me at our last meeting that it was highly unlikely that the Nazis could make an atom bomb due to the amount of this stuff, uranium, that they would need. That is correct, isn’t it?’

Wallace nodded. ‘Yes, sir, Mr President.’

‘So if this is an accepted fact, then this new intelligence report withstanding, it remains impossible the Nazis have a bomb. Am I correct again?’

Wallace felt cornered.

There is a remote possibility, one that hasn’t been discussed.

‘Mr Wallace?’

Bill Donovan looked up at him and frowned, urging him to answer the President. Donovan would be expecting him to confirm the President’s assertion. But then Donovan wasn’t a physicist, he wouldn’t know about . . .

‘No, sir. It is
theoretically
possible, although very unlikely, that they could have built a bomb.’

Both Donovan and Truman looked sharply at Wallace. ‘How come?’

Wallace felt the eyes of all of them boring into him. He should have at least made a mention of this in the previous meeting, no matter how unlikely it was, if only to cover himself. Now it was going to look like he’d deliberately kept information from them. Or that he was simply incompetent.

‘It could be a fast-cycle emitter,’ he uttered reluctantly.

‘Fast-cycle -? What the hell is that supposed to mean?’

‘It’s a theory, sir. A proposal that accelerating the very start of the nuclear chain reaction and specifically shaping the discharge of neutrons will release enough energy to extend the reaction beyond the fissionable material. Thus much, much less U-235 would be required to produce a bomb, but of course the danger would be that the chain reaction doesn’t eventually burn out, but carries on indefinitely.’

Truman shook his head, irritated by the unwelcome return of techno-babble to the conversation.

‘In other words, sir, if the theory stands, a bomb made in this way could potentially . . . uhh . . . destroy everything sir. A doomsday weapon of sorts, Mr President.’

Truman paled.

‘It’s just a theory, sir,’ Wallace added. ‘There are many men working on the Manhattan Project who have already debunked it as impractical.’

‘But it seems the Germans have taken this theory more seriously?’

‘Yes, sir, it would have been the only way they could have proceeded. If
their
physicists had dismissed the theory as ours have done, they wouldn’t have even
begun
the process of making a bomb. They would know that the resources they’d need to muster for a single atom bomb would be well beyond their grasp. So it looks like their people believe the fast-cycle process can work, Mr President. But I must reiterate, sir, that the theory is considered flawed by all of our physicists working with Dr Oppenheimer, including Dr Oppenheimer, who has already described it as a load of nonsense. Any bomb designed along this principle will almost certainly fail to detonate.’

Truman stared long and hard at Wallace. ‘And why didn’t it occur to you to mention this to me yesterday?’

‘It is a flawed theory. It’s simply wrong, sir.’

‘How certain are you of that, Wallace?’

Wallace swallowed nervously.

‘Give me something I can understand . . . one chance in ten, in a hundred, a thousand?’

‘It’s impossible, sir, to give you a figure like that. All I can say is that it is very unlikely that this kind of bomb will work at all.’

‘Unlikely,’ repeated Truman.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Not “impossible” . . .’

‘Highly unlikely, sir,’ Wallace added.

‘And given they need much less of this
uranium
to make one of these fast-cycle things, is it possible they could have made more than one?’

Wallace nodded. ‘If they have taken this theory on board, then yes, sir . . . needing much less uranium than one hundred and ten ounces, it is possible they may have acquired enough U-235 to have made several of these bombs. But I must stress that it is highly improbable -’

Truman raised a finger, ‘But, you cannot reassure me and say
impossible
.’

Wallace swallowed nervously as the men around the table studied him intently.

‘No, sir, I cannot give you that assurance. No atom bomb has yet been tested. In truth, we cannot know for certain what will happen when we eventually test
our
bomb, nor the Germans’ much smaller device. As it stands, the science is entirely theoretical, sir. We have only our arithmetic to guide us.’

The colour continued to drain from Truman’s face; he was shaken by this young man’s reply. The fellow had been unprepared to utter the word ‘impossible’, leaving Truman to draw small comfort from the young man’s assurance that it was highly improbable.

‘I think from this point on I would like us all to consider that the threat issued by Adolf Hitler might be a genuine one . . . and given his demand for unconditional surrender expires today, I’d suggest we had better start working out what we’re
damn well going to do
.’ His words had started out calmly, but a slowly emerging sense of panic and frustration had driven him to shouting by the end of the sentence. The men around the table shuffled awkwardly under his steely gaze.

He looked at his watch. ‘If our deadline started from zero hundred hours yesterday, I’d guess we have sixteen and a half hours until it expires. For now, I will presume that this deadline will be when he intends to explode this bomb.’

Chapter 43

Mission Time: 6 Hours, 1 Minute elapsed

8.06 a.m., an airfield outside Nantes

Max cast a quick, anxious glance at his wristwatch; fifteen minutes had passed since they had landed. He checked the pump gauge on the side of the fuel truck; it showed a reading of just under 3000 gallons. They needed to fill the main tanks at least - they took about 3600 gallons. The extra tanks inside the fuselage towards the rear of the plane were useless. Several gashes, caused undoubtedly during the skirmish with the Mustangs, had resulted in their losing the entire load. The gashes were so bad they couldn’t even consider patching them. Hans had reported that the back of the plane near the tail-gun reeked of aviation fuel.

Pieter was leaning out of the pilot’s window and periodically calling out the fill readings for their tanks, but his attention was caught by movement near the entrance to the airstrip.

‘Max!’ he shouted down. ‘It looks like something -’

The pizzicato rattle of gunfire from the barricaded entrance to the airstrip made both of them jump. It was a quick exchange, no more than a couple of bursts from two different guns. A moment later Koch jogged across the grass field towards them from the direction of the guard hut.

‘What’s happening?’ asked Max.

‘It was a jeep-load of American soldiers. They drove up to the barricade and my men opened fire on them.’

‘Did they get away?’

‘Yes. So, I expect we’ll have some more company very soon.’ Koch studied the fuel gauge and turned to Max. ‘How much longer do you need?’

‘Another five, ten minutes.’

The young captain gestured at the Me-109s parked in a cluster nearby, each pilot awkwardly attempting to fill their wing tanks from five-gallon fuel drums. ‘And them?’ he said, pointing towards the fighter planes.

‘They’ll leave as soon as we’re off the ground.’

Koch nodded. ‘If that jeep was on its own, we’ll have a while before word spreads, but I’ve got a feeling that we’ll be due some company very soon.’

‘Can you hold them away for ten more minutes, though?’ Max asked.

Koch turned towards the guard hut and barricade and the small crescent wall of sandbags. It was hardly a great defensive position, and in any case, the airfield wasn’t contained. The Americans could easily by-pass the official entrance and enter the strip from any direction via the woods that surrounded it.

‘All we can do is fire enough shots to make them keep their heads low, slow them down a little, that’s all. I don’t suppose any of them want to be heroes today.’

Koch looked around at the collection of planes. The B-17 was parked up beside the grass strip; beside it was the fuel truck, a large container vehicle full of aviation fuel. Nearby, parked in an irregular cluster around a hastily assembled collection of fifty-gallon drums, were the Me-109s. The fighter pilots were sloshing a lot of the fuel onto the grass in their haste to transfer it to their planes.

‘It’ll take one well-placed shot to take the lot of you out if you’re not careful,’ Koch said.

Max looked around. The young man wasn’t wrong. But there was little they could do about that apart from fill up as quickly as possible and get away. ‘Well, if you can keep them off our backs for a few more minutes, I’d be very grateful.’

Koch grinned and nodded. ‘We’ll do that.’ He turned on his heels and jogged across the short grass in the direction of the hangar.

Max looked at Schröder and his men refilling their planes. He’d sent both Stef and Hans across to help them out. Both of them were working hard holding a fifty-gallon drum at an angle to pour the fuel out into the more portable five-gallon drums. The pilots were struggling backwards and forwards between their planes, emptying the fuel into the wing tanks and returning to Stef and Hans to collect another load. They were all soaked in fuel and the air above the central stash of fuel drums danced with gasoline vapours.

It might not even need a bullet, one spark is all it would take . . . and they’re all history
.

Koch’s men or even Schröder’s should have been supplied with funnels and pumps; it would have made the task a lot quicker and a lot safer. The sooner they were up and away, the better. Max checked the gauge. It showed just 3050 gallons . . . 550 to go.

Koch entered the hangar and looked around for Schöln. He saw the stocky man on the far side of the hangar overseeing the prisoners now all gathered in there and lying face down on the ground. If it weren’t for the movements amongst them one could be forgiven for thinking that these poor men had all been mercilessly gunned down.

‘Schöln . . . over here!’

He jogged over towards Koch. ‘Yes, sir?’

Koch looked around the hangar; there were six of his men watching over approximately sixty prisoners. Some of these guards could be freed up to help the Luftwaffe pilots with their fuel.

‘Is the door to this hangar the only way in or out?’

Schöln looked around. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Right, well, pick one of your men to remain with the prisoners and send the others over to help those pilots. The quicker they get under way, the better for everyone.’

Schöln looked back at the prisoners lying face down on the ground, hands behind their heads. One man to guard all of them? Under other circumstances he would have considered that as taking a bit of a chance, but looking at them now, none of them were combat soldiers. He couldn’t foresee any of them attempting an escape. He nodded and turned to carry out Koch’s orders as the first of a series of bursts of small-arms fire could be heard coming from the direction of the guard hut.

Here they come
.

Koch headed at the double out of the hangar towards the front entrance. Büller and a dozen of his men were dug in there, the sandbag bunker proving the only sensible place to set up a defensive enclave.

Seconds later he slid to the ground behind the sandbags, and worked his way over to Büller.

‘All right?’

‘Hello, sir. Looks like the jeep had some friends with it,’ he replied, squinting through a gap between the bags. He made way for Koch to peer through.

Fifty yards beyond the flimsy barricade on a dirt track that led from Nantes to this airfield were four trucks and several more jeeps. As he watched, US soldiers spilled out of the backs of the trucks and spread out to use the cover of poplars that lined both sides of the dirt track.

‘I’d say that’s a full company they’ve sent to deal with us,’ said Koch to Büller.

‘There must be a base nearby . . . it’s only been half an hour since we took this strip.’

‘Well, I guess we’ve been a little unlucky. Listen, we’ve only got to hold ’em here for a few minutes, okay? Nobody needs to do anything stupid. Just keep them busy for a while with some covering fire. It’ll probably take them a while to organise something anyway.’

Büller nodded and spread the word amongst the men sheltering behind the sandbags and inside the hut to lay down some suppressing volley fire on the dirt track. The rattle of gunfire increased as the sporadic bursts intensified. Koch watched with satisfaction as the American soldiers, still piling out of the trucks, went to ground. He was right; it was going to be a while before they were fully deployed and ready to retake the airfield.

They won’t realise how time-critical this little skirmish was.

We’ll do this yet
.

The soldiers who had taken cover behind the poplars began moving. Koch watched them as they ducked under some hedges that lined the track and jogged across into an open field beyond. They stopped and dropped several times as Büller’s men sprayed a little fire in their direction.

‘They’re trying to flank us,’ he shouted above the clatter of their gunfire. ‘Those Yanks are pretty good, not your average bunch of GIs,’ he said to Büller. Büller nodded; these men were almost as good as the Russian convict brigade they’d faced outside of Murmansk. He’d wager a packet of cigarettes that these soldiers had already seen some action.

We spoke too soon
.

‘They’re working their way around to the sides. They’ll get to the planes unchallenged unless we pull back. I want you to direct most of your fire on those men moving across the fields to the left there, and those men moving off the track to the right.’ Koch pointed towards a copse of trees to the right of the track. The copse extended around to the top end of the airstrip, where it grew a little thicker and became a narrow stretch of wood. The planes and the fuel truck parked there at the bottom of the landing strip were only fifty, perhaps sixty, yards away from this treeline.

That wasn’t so good.

‘Slow down those ones heading for the trees on the right. If they get to the trees, then keep them ducking with a few shots into the woods. You’ve got to slow them down.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’m going to take some of your men and establish a tighter defensive ring nearer the planes.’ Büller nodded and Koch clapped him on the back. ‘Hold your position as long as possible and then fall back towards me.’

A few dozen yards away from the gathered planes was a stack of supply crates; tinned food, probably destined to be relief for the recently liberated citizens of northern Germany. A typically American gesture, he thought. They bomb the fuck out of us, then shower the poor bastards left alive with food parcels.

The crates were small enough to be manhandled. It would take only a few moments to pull them out across the ground around the planes to create some reasonable defensive positions.

Koch pointed towards the cluster of planes and the fuel truck to one side of the strip.

‘That’s where we’ll hold them back.’

Büller turned to look. ‘That’s open ground -’

‘Don’t worry . . . it won’t be.’

Koch was up and quickly tapped five of Büller’s squad on the shoulder. They followed him as he ran towards the planes, ducking low as they went.

Max checked the gauge again, it showed only 3270 gallons had been pumped so far. The speed at which it was pumping the fuel was slowing down. The pressure had dropped; the fuel truck must be approaching empty.

Shit.

The sound of gunfire had returned a couple of minutes ago, and now seemed to have intensified. ‘What’s going on? Can you see anything?’ he shouted up to Pieter.

Pieter looked towards the entrance, where a thin haze of blue smoke above the sandbags was developing. He spotted half a dozen of their men running towards them. ‘Ah, fuck it, they’re running away already!’

Max stood up straight.
Running
away
? So much for ‘as good as the Fallschirmjäger
’.

He walked around the end of the fuel truck to see Koch and some of his men approaching them. They veered to the right and headed towards a tarpaulin-covered stack of crates. As soon as they were there they pulled savagely at the boxes and began dragging them across the grass.

‘Okay,’ said Pieter. ‘Maybe they’re
not
running away.’

Max watched as Koch slung his MP-40 over one shoulder and struggled with two of the crates, one under each arm, across the ground to a position thirty feet in front of the fuel truck. He threw them unceremoniously to the ground and raced back for some more.

‘They’re setting up some cover, I think,’ he shouted up at Pieter.

He heard the sound of liquid bubbling in the fuel pipe, and then he noticed from the gauge that the pressure from the fuel pump had plummeted. Either the pump was damaged or the fuel pipe had sprung a leak. He worked his way back to the rear of the truck and found a geyser of fuel spraying from a gash in the pipe. Most of the fuel was spurting out of the hole; only a fraction of it was getting to the B-17. Already a large pool of gasoline was spreading across the rain-moistened turf; the thick fumes floating above it dangerously concentrated.

Dammit.

Max shut off the pump and closed the valve. One spark and the fuel truck, still half full, and their plane would be a smouldering tangle of metal. They needed another 250 gallons to fill the wing tanks. He looked towards the large fifty-gallon drums, there were only four, and they’d need five. Even if there were that many, it was too much fuel to pour manually five gallons at a time.

He called up to Pieter. ‘The fuel pipe’s severed.’

Pieter ducked inside the cockpit for a moment and then returned. ‘Our tank is nearly full, more than three-quarters . . . won’t that be enough?’

It could be.

It was a virtually impossible calculation to make. On a full supply of 3900 gallons, they knew the B-17 could achieve a one-way range of about 4500 miles. New York was 4666 miles away. If they flew low, less than say 5000 feet, and at a low cruising speed, maybe 200 miles per hour, they could perhaps squeeze an extra couple of hundred miles out. But if they could just lose some weight . . .

‘Pieter! Go and remove anything you can, we need to lighten the plane,’ Max shouted.

‘Like what?’

‘Throw out one of the waist-guns, the oxygen cylinders, anything we can afford to lose.’

‘We can’t throw out the oxygen.’

‘We’ll do the rest of this journey under 5000 feet. Now do it! Hurry!’

Pieter’s head ducked back inside.