Black Cross (24 page)

Stern frowned. “The cylinders roll down the hill, into the camp, and detonate?”

“Basically, yes. Our technical people have rigged pressure triggers on the bottoms and sides of the cylinders, rather like those on conventional mines. Once a trigger is tripped, a small bullet charge blows out a cap on the cylinder head. The cylinder releases its contents under high pressure, diffusing a lethal gas cloud at ground level. It’s World War One technology, but damned efficient.”

Stern took a moment to visualize the plan. “But if the cylinders are hanging from a power line,” he said, “what keeps them from slamming into the crossarms that hold up the line on the way down?”

“That’s exactly what I asked,” said Smith, taking a pen from his pocket to illustrate his explanation. “It’s a rather neat trick, actually. Don’t think of the cylinders as
hanging down
from the line — even though they are. The roller wheel mechanism is like a man riding a bicycle on a circus wire. The wheel sits
on top of
the outermost wire on the pylon. Now, imagine the bicycle rider holding his arm straight out from his body. In his hand is a four-foot metal bar hanging straight down. And attached to that bar — well beneath the wire — is the gas cylinder, which is positioned so that its center of gravity is
directly below
the wire. You see? As long as the roller rides atop the outermost wire, the bar holding the cylinder — which curves up and outward before going down — will strike nothing. It’s a bloody miracle of engineering.”

“I believe it. What do these cylinders weigh?”

“One hundred thirty pounds apiece. Sixty kilograms. That’s full.”

“Can the power line hold that weight?”

Smith smiled like a gambler confident of his cards. “Do you have any idea what a two-inch thick coating of ice weighs along a hundred meters of wire? Quite a lot. But in northern Germany the lines are designed to hold it. And that’s in
normal
times. The war has caused copper shortages all over the world. Everyone has had to fall back on steel wire for conductor material, including the Germans. Our intelligence reports indicate that the wires at Totenhausen are actually made of wrapped steel winch cable, some of the highest tensile-strength wire in the world.”

Stern nodded in admiration. “What about the electrical current?”

“It’s fairly high-voltage, but that’s one of the reasons we chose this method. Because electrical transformers tend to blow out quite frequently, many key power stations maintain a backup set of transformers, ready to go on-line the moment the primary set is blown. Totenhausen not only has backup transformers — they’ve got a set of backup
lines
.

“Now, listen closely, you can’t afford to muck this up. Totenhausen uses a three-phase electrical system. That means three live wires are required to run the camp’s plant and equipment. The pylons that support these wires consist of two tall support legs joined at the top by wooden crossarms. There is a live wire running across each end of each crossarm, and one running right over the middle. For a normal three-phase system, that would be enough. But Brandt doesn’t want his lab without power even for an hour. At Totenhausen, there is a backup line for each of those live wires, running right alongside it. These backups carry no current, but become live whenever the primary lines are short-circuited. This could be caused by lightning, falling limbs, or—”

“Sabotage,” Stern finished.

“Right. Leave it to the Germans to be so efficient. But in this case, I’m afraid their efficiency has doomed them.”

“How so?”

“Because we’re going to hang our cylinders from one of those auxiliary lines. And there they’ll wait, until you arrive to send them down the hill.”

Stern nodded slowly. “What if the auxiliary lines become active?”

“Not to worry. The gas cylinders are metal, as are the suspension bars, but the rollers are fully insulated. It’s exactly like a squirrel running along a power line, Stern. As long as he doesn’t ground himself to a pole or a branch, he can run for miles. The whole scheme is brilliant. Barnes Wallis himself sketched out the roller wheel/cylinder combination. He designed the Dam-buster and Tallboy bombs, you know. Bloody genius.”

Stern waved his hand impatiently. “How do I release the cylinders from their positions on the line?”

“Child’s play. When you arrive, each roller will be held in place by a lubricated cotter pin. You’ll find a heavy gauge rope of pure rubber connected to all eight cotter pins. All you need do is yank the rope to pull out the pins. Gravity will do the rest.”

“It sounds simple enough. But tell me this. Why don’t you have whoever hangs the cylinders go ahead and carry out the attack? It would be a lot simpler.”

Smith looked down his nose at Stern. “Because they’re British, old boy. I thought you understood that. Our American cousins have not given their seal of approval for this mission, and I cannot risk having British commandos caught
flagrante delicto
. Also, the men who are doing that job know a lot about soldiering, but damned little about chemistry. We need McConnell on the ground.”

“But McConnell is American. What if he’s captured?”

Smith hesitated. “We’ll discuss that later.”

After staring silently at the brigadier for several moments, Stern laid his index finger on the diagram of the camp. On it were marked electrical fence voltages, barracks and who occupied them, dog pens, gas storage tanks, a small cinema, and various other facilities. “You can’t get this kind of detail from the air,” he said. “Especially that information on the SS major, Schörner. You’ve got someone inside, haven’t you?”

When Smith did not respond, Stern said, “An agent inside a concentration camp! How do you get their information out?”

“Tricks of the trade, lad. You Haganah chaps aren’t the only ones who know how to play shadow games.”

“My God, is it Schörner himself?”

Smith chuckled. “If only it were, eh?”

Stern looked back at the map. “When McConnell and I go into the camp, how can we be sure all the SS troops are dead?”

“You can’t. Not until you’re close enough to be shot, probably. That’s why you’ll be wearing German uniforms.”

Stern went still. “What?”

“You don’t fancy the idea? Standartenführer Stern?”

“I won’t wear one.”

“Suit yourself. No pun intended. But give ear: Hitler’s Commando Order of 1942 specifies that any troops captured on a commando raid — in uniform or out, armed or unarmed — will be slaughtered to the last man. An SS or SD uniform is about the only hope you’ll have of bluffing your way out if things go wrong. Besides, you’re a native German. You could actually pull it off.”

Stern glowered at the Scotsman. “I’ll think about it. How long will it take the gas to dissipate?”

“I can’t be sure of that. But since McConnell brought along his special suits, it really won’t matter. You’ll be able to go in immediately. That should greatly reduce any chance of SS reinforcements arriving from elsewhere before you finish.”

“What do we do once we’re inside?”

“Go straight to the factory. First, get a sample of Soman. McConnell will know how to use the mini-canisters and universal couplers. After that, let him take you on a tour through the plant. Anything he points at, you shoot a picture of. Laboratory logs, notes, things like that, take them. Then steal a German vehicle and run for the Baltic coast. You’ll find an inflatable boat cached there, and a Royal Navy submarine waiting to pick you up.”

Stern laid his elbows on the desk and looked into Smith’s eyes. “An inflatable boat? You do know the Baltic coast is often frozen this time of year?”

“Quite. That’s why they won’t be expecting you to leave in a boat. You’ll find the raft cached by a shipping channel maintained by icebreaker. I’ll give you all the details later.”

Stern felt far from reassured. “How are we getting
into
Germany?” he asked.

“From here we stage to Sweden by air, then—”

“We? You mean McConnell and me.”

Smith leaned forward. “I mean myself as well. I’ll be bivouacked on the Swedish coast, waiting for confirmation of success.” The brigadier could not conceal his excitement. “This is no hop into the French countryside to keep the Resistance in biscuits, man. It’s a thrust to Jerry’s vitals! If we pull off this bluff, we’ll have changed the course of the war.”

Stern studied Smith’s craggy face. “Do your masters know you’re flying over occupied territory? If you were captured—”

“No chance of that. I’ve arranged special transport for this trip. You won’t believe it until you see it. From Sweden, you and McConnell will go into Germany by Moon plane. That’s a single-engine wooden kite, painted matte black.”

“A Lysander?”

“Right. You’ll be landed just west of the hills, hopefully out of sight and sound of both Dornow village and the camp.”

“We’ll be met?”

“Yes, but you won’t know by whom until you get there.”

Stern’s eyes flickered with apprehension. “Password?”

“Your password for the reception party is Black Cross. That’s what I’ve named the mission as well. Black Cross is the Allied code name for nerve agents — it’s meaningless to the Jerries. You’ll get a more detailed set of codes before you leave.”

“When will that be, exactly?”

Brigadier Smith leaned back in the chair and rested his hand in his lap. “In exactly ten days, Stern, Heinrich Himmler is going to stage a demonstration of Soman at Raubhammer Proving Ground on the Lüneburger Heath. Among those present will be Adolf Hitler. Himmler intends to convince the Führer that nerve gas is the only weapon that can stop the coming Allied invasion. And, my boy, Himmler is
right
.”

Smith held up his hand and splayed his fingers. “Five days before that test — six nights from now — you and McConnell are going in. That gives you a four-day window in which to make your attack. Four days to wait for the proper wind and weather conditions. Four days to convince Heinrich Himmler that the Führer’s fears of Allied gas capabilities are extremely well founded.”

Stern stood up and flexed his fists with nervous energy. “I want to know about this contact of yours, Brigadier. Our lives will be in his hands from the moment we’re inside Germany. Is it someone in the village? A soldier in the camp? Who?”

Smith’s face gave away nothing. “If I told you that, his life would be in
your
hands. And right now, he is a lot more valuable than you are.”

“I see.” Stern leaned over the maps in silence for nearly a minute. “One question. It seems to me that a place like this would have a lot of safety equipment. Gas masks, suits, safety drills, that kind of thing.”

“I think the reality will surprise you. Remember, Sarin and Soman can kill simply by contact with the skin. I’m sure Brandt and his staff have special protection, but to really protect the SS troops, everyone would have to wear a full body suit and mask at all times. It’s just not practical. There are gas alarms in the factory itself, but the SS troops don’t even carry masks with them. If you ask me, Himmler considers the Totenhausen detachment expendable. Satisfied?”

“This sounds like it could actually work.”

“It’s
going
to work.”

Brigadier Smith fired his pipe and leaned back in Colonel Vaughan’s chair. “Tell me,” he said, “how are you and the good doctor getting along?”

Stern shrugged. “He’ll do his job, I suppose. As long as he doesn’t figure out that the real objective is to kill people, not disable the lab and factory.”

“He won’t. As long as you don’t help him.”

“Don’t worry about that. Are we finished?”

“Finished?” Smith slapped the desk with a bang. “Not nearly. You’ve still got some training to do before bed.”

“Training?”

“Climbing that pylon is going to be ticklish, especially in the dark. We’ve rigged a dummy here for you to practice on. We’ve got climbing spikes, harness, the lot.”

“I’ve climbed a hundred telegraph poles,” Stern objected. “I can do it without spikes and without practice.”

Smith chuckled. “The pylons at Totenhausen are sixty feet tall, laddie, and may well be covered with ice.”

“More games,” Stern grumbled.

“Look, I know you’ve no use for us,” Smith said equably. “We’re not too fond of you either, to be frank. But you’ve got to set that aside. It’s Jerry you want to kill, remember.”

He stood up and walked to the closed door and rapped sharply on it. Someone pushed open the door. It was Sergeant McShane, dressed for foul weather. From the Highlander’s hands dangled leather belts and straps fitted with medieval-looking spikes of iron.

Brigadier Smith folded his maps with amazing dexterity for a one-armed man, then tucked his case under his arm.

“Take him up the hill, Sergeant,” he ordered.

When Stern finally trudged into the Nissen hut behind the castle, all his muscles were shaking with fatigue. By then someone had sent an orderly to the hut with blankets, pillows, and matches, but McConnell was not yet asleep. He was reading his German textbook by the light of the paraffin lamp.

Stern collapsed onto his cot and lay staring at the ceiling.

McConnell closed the book. “What were you doing to get so wet?”

“Studying electricity. What about you?”

McConnell dropped the textbook on the floor. “Colloquial German. SS protocols and orders. Plus a little organic chemistry.

“Say something in German.”

“Wie geht es Ihnen?”

“
Ach
, your accent is terrible!”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Don’t worry,” Stern said in an exhausted voice. “I’ll do any talking that needs to be done. I doubt we’ll have to do much.”

“I suppose we’re going in dressed as Germans?”

Stern turned his head and looked across the narrow space that divided them. “Why do you say that?”

“Christ, they’re fitting us up with German weapons, they’ve got me studying SS orders. . .  What else could it be?”

Stern said nothing.

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lying here,” McConnell said. “And I’ve got to tell you, this mission doesn’t make sense.”