A Thousand Suns

by Alex Scarrow

  Hauser shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. No mention of Speer’s concerns about the design of the weapon. Thank God.

  Hauser had wondered whether, if the issue were raised, he should lie to Hitler or be truthful. After all, it was only a calculated risk, and not a certainty.

  Hitler took a sip of his water and studied Hauser with small eyes that glistened with moisture. ‘So tell me all about this weapon you have nearly finished building. Tell me first . . . how much destruction can we expect from it?’

  Hauser smiled. He will be pleased with this.

  ‘It is a small bomb, the size of only a ten-gallon petrol drum, but with it we can destroy an entire city, certainly dozens of square miles of complete annihilation.’

  Hitler sat forward and clasped his hands together under his chin again, his index fingers forming a steeple beneath his nose. ‘A whole city?’

  For a moment Hauser wondered whether he should come out right now with the truth. A whole city was a conservative estimate. Even if the runaway chain, the infinite chain that Schenkelmann had panicked about so much, didn’t occur, the destruction would be phenomenal.

  ‘Yes, that’s correct, a whole city, sir.’

  Hitler shook his head and smiled, ‘More destruction than a skyful of these Allied bombers. That is truly amazing. We will terrify them, and the Russians, with the incredible power of this weapon of yours.’

  Hitler’s smile quickly faded and his eyes narrowed as he addressed him. ‘Dr Hauser, you have done an incredible thing. You alone have done more for Germany, more for me . . . than whole armies of men. It seems only your weapon alone can save Germany now. For that reason, I personally am indebted to you.’

  Hauser felt a surge of pride that flushed his face with its intensity. ‘I am honoured, my Führer, truly honoured by your generous words.’

  Hitler shook his head. ‘Lately, you know I have been let down by so many men,’ he confided. ‘Men who had promised me so much and delivered to me so little, and yet, Dr Hauser . . . may I call you Karl?’ Hauser nodded eagerly. ‘And yet you, Karl, in my most desperate hour, you have given me the victory that a room full of generals has failed to.’ Hitler leaned forward over the desk and patted Hauser’s shoulder in a paternal manner.

  The Führer’s gentle touch affected him profoundly. He fought ferociously to keep his voice steady, ‘I am so proud to have been able to help you in this way, my Führer.’

  ‘So, . . . then, perhaps you are a little curious as to where, when and against whom the weapon will be used, hmmm?’

  ‘I’m afraid I have no idea.’

  ‘Indulge me, guess.’

  ‘Russia, sir?’

  Hitler shook his head and smiled. ‘America. New York, to be precise.’

  Hauser’s expression caused Hitler to chuckle amicably.

  ‘Yes. What a symbolic place to demonstrate your bomb, isn’t it? Its tall, powerful buildings, that Statue of Liberty . . . all reduced to ashes by a country thousands of miles away.’

  ‘A country they have assumed is already beaten,’ added Hauser.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘But why not Russia, sir? They’re the ones who are all but above us now.’

  Hitler reached out his right hand and rested it lightly on Hauser’s arm. The other hand, Hauser noticed, was tucked out of sight beneath the desk. ‘Their capacity to endure destruction and death is so much greater than the Americans. Losing a city wouldn’t stop Stalin now, losing a dozen wouldn’t. But New York?’ Hitler winked at him. His eyes that only a few moments ago had looked moist with fatigue and despair now sparkled with an almost benign mischief. ‘The Americans are already seeing the Russians as a threat. Imagine how terrified they will be at the thought of them getting their hands on your technology, Karl? Especially after this demonstration of ours. They will have no choice, no choice at all, my friend . . . ’

  Hauser studied his face. Hitler was waiting for him to complete the sentence, to understand the implication.

  ‘So . . . America, will have no choice but to declare war on Russia?’ he uttered in a voice little more than a conspiratorial whisper.

  Hitler nodded approvingly, as a mentor would to a student. ‘They would have to push the Russians back, out of our country, to be sure of this?’ added Hauser.

  He squeezed Hauser’s arm gently. ‘Yes.’

  ‘But why not just explode the bomb somewhere closer, my Führer. Like London, or maybe outside Berlin, where the Russian army is concentrated?’

  ‘American presidents are weak, Karl. They rely on the will of their voters. The people over there need to be as frightened by this technology as their leader . . . after New York has vanished, the President will have no choice but to push his soldiers forward from the west into Berlin to fight the Russians. It will be an easy decision for him to make. We will have forced it to be the only decision he can make.’

  Hauser managed to look up again at the Führer’s face, to meet those intense eyes. The relief was conspicuous. His demeanour was that of a man who had escaped the hangman’s noose by an inch, or a second. He looked years younger, magnificent, almost the man who had led them to war in 1939.

  ‘This is a brilliant plan, sir,’ he managed to say.

  ‘It is a little regrettable that our first bomb will have to be dropped on the nation that should have been our ally from the very beginning. There are many people in that country who would welcome us as friends. It is a shame.’

  Hitler reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of brandy.

  ‘I put this aside earlier today, for this little meeting. I’m not a big drinker, Karl, but I would like us to toast your genius. Dr Hauser, you are a German who has beaten the Jewish technicians in America at their own science.’

  Hauser took the glass tumbler offered him, and Hitler awkwardly poured a dash of the liquor into his own glass and a much larger measure into Hauser’s.

  ‘To you and your wonderful bomb, Karl.’

  ‘Th-thank you, my Führer,’ he said, emotion thickening his voice.

  Hauser smiled and drank his brandy. Hitler smiled and sipped his.

  Chapter 21

  Test Flight

  5 p.m., 16 April 1945, an airfield south of Stuttgart

  Major Rall stood on the grass outside the entrance to the bunker and watched a flock of seagulls swoop and circle the airfield.

  ‘There must be a storm out at sea, that’s what brings them inland,’ he muttered to no one in particular.

  Storms at sea.

  He wondered how U-1061 was faring. The North Sea was becoming a dangerous place for the Kriegsmarine. There was a fair chance that the sub had failed to receive its orders, or worse, had been destroyed by a Royal Navy vessel. He had yet to hear from the U-Bootflotille in Bergen any news on whether the sub was on its way back. Of course, no news meant nothing, it was getting increasingly difficult these days to keep the lines of communication open between disparate elements of their armed forces. It hadn’t been easy to get the order through to Norway, partly because it had not gone through the usual channels.

  Worrying about the U-boat demonstrated quite clearly to Rall how fraught with uncertainties this whole operation was. The U-boat was just one small piece in the jigsaw. It was the only way of transporting a platoon of troops from Norway, north around the coast of Scotland and Ireland to a particular airstrip on the west coast of France. Intelligence reports indicated that the airfield was operated by the USAAF and staffed only by aviation mechanics and administrative personnel; a perfect place for the Messerschmitt escort planes to refill their tanks and continue escorting the B-17 beyond fighter range of France. No U-boat, no troops; no troops, no captured airstrip; no airstrip, no fighter cover for the bomber those first few hundred miles into the Atlantic - and that’s undoubtedly where the Americans and British would converge to take her down.

  And then there were the other uncertainties: would the bomb be ready before it was all too late? Could it be safely transpor
ted here without being accidentally intercepted by an Allied plane or ground troops?

  He had received precious little information about the bomb from Speer since he’d been headhunted and assigned the task of planning its delivery all those months ago. Other than being informed that it employed a new explosive formula that allowed it to yield destruction well in excess of its size, there had been no information about its dimensions and whether the B-17’s bomb racks would need to be modified to accommodate it. Nor had there been any information about the weight of this weapon, so the size of the extra fuel tanks had been guessed at. Although the brief he had been given by Speer, the Minister for Armaments, months ago had been very specific, the paucity of details about the bomb itself was causing Rall an immense amount of concern.

  And then there was the fighter escort. He had two Me-109s in the hangar; they had both been flown in the previous night under cover of darkness. The pilots that had flown them in said it had been touch and go getting them across skies crawling with American, British and Russian aircraft. What about the other ten or so he had been promised? Would they make it here?

  The seagulls lost interest in the airstrip and swooped away northwards. His gaze fell upon Max and his men playing football with some of the ground crew just inside the hangar. The dim light of the late afternoon made little impression on the darkened interior of the building where the B-17 and the first two Messerschmitts of the squadron were discreetly hidden in the shadows. He watched the men kick the football between them; each one taking turns to do a trick with the ball.

  It was good to see them play like that.

  The morale of the men seemed quite high here on the airfield. It had become a remote outpost where order still reigned, while beyond the solitary guard hut it was a turbulent sea of drifting refugees, running before a Russian tidal wave. On the airfield it almost felt like another time, the happy days at the beginning of the war when it appeared as if every campaign they embarked upon would lead inevitably to victory. Just a few days ago, all of these men had nothing else on their minds other than how to find American or British troops to surrender to safely. Now, once more, they looked like men with some fight left in them, some purpose greater than making it through the next few days alive. Rall found it hard not to smile. Even with grim defeat staring them all in the face, and an uncertain future ahead for them at the hands of their Russian conquerors, it seemed to take the smallest spark of hope to turn them once more into soldiers.

  And, in all honesty, it was just that, a small spark of hope. Max and his boys would be lucky to make it out of German airspace, let alone reach the Atlantic or beyond. They had to know that too.

  Damn, we should have won this war on balls alone.

  The ginger-haired lad, Stefan, seemed to have a natural ability with the ball. He deftly flicked it up with his toe and kept it in the air alternately with both feet. Both Max and Pieter clapped him on, as they counted each touch.

  Good men, both of them, older than most. Max was twenty-nine and Pieter, two or three years younger. They had experience and the calmness that comes with maturity in their favour, important qualities for a pilot and co-pilot. Both of them had already taken turns flying the bomber at dawn and dusk, and both had adapted efficiently to the abnormal size and handling of the plane.

  Rall watched Max receive the ball, trap it and lob it to Hans.

  Oberleutnant Kleinmann was an interesting parcel to unwrap. The personal records of the crew had been forwarded to Rall many months previously, when the project was in its infancy. Back then Rall had asked for the service records of the best, longest-serving bomber crews in the Luftwaffe. There had only been half a dozen sets of records forwarded to him, and by the time Rall had been able to start pulling in men for the operation, four of these crews had already been either captured or killed. Max’s crew had a longer and far more impressive service history than the other remaining crew and so, by process of elimination, they were chosen. Max, being their pilot, was of course the most important part of the equation. Rall had been instructed to vigorously examine the records for the crew that were to deliver the bomb. The weapon, he had been told, represented a significant technological advance and could not be allowed to slip, intact, into the hands of the enemy. Thus there had to be no doubts about the crew and their loyalty. Their motivation had to be beyond question. It was for that reason alone that Rall had advised his superiors that the crew be offered the opportunity to volunteer for the mission rather than be ordered to carry it out. Max remained a small concern for Rall. The man had one black mark on his records. He had apparently questioned an order to release bombs on a retreating column of Russian soldiers. The column had contained civilians. His bomb load was eventually dropped but had missed the column. No disciplinary action was taken, but the incident remained an indelible mark on an otherwise exemplary record. Rall knew that Kleinmann was now prepared to drop this bomb on American civilians. He knew it hadn’t been an easy decision for the pilot, but the rationale was there, and Max had acknowledged it made sense if this was to end the war. However, what caused Rall some degree of concern was that Kleinmann wasn’t an automaton, he was a thinker, as demonstrated by this incident on record, someone prepared to think beyond the order. An admirable trait in anyone other than a soldier.

  What else worries me about Max?

  He was not a Nazi. It would have made things a lot simpler for Rall if he had been. The issues of motivation and loyalty could be taken as a given. He would carry out the mission unquestioningly for his Führer and the party; but Max had to be handled a little more carefully and his motives analysed more closely.

  Rall had decided not to pass these niggling concerns up the chain of command. There was now no more time left to mess around finding another crew. Max had fought dutifully for the Luftwaffe for the last five years, whatever his reasons - loyalty to the Führer, the Nazi party or simple patriotism - and he had volunteered willingly. There was no need, or time, to doubt him now.

  Max kicked the ball back to Stef and looked at his watch. It was half past five. The sky was overcast, and the pallid grey light had begun to make it difficult to see the football. It was time again. He looked towards the bunker and spotted Rall standing near the entrance. He pointed to the sky and Rall gave him a thumbs-up.

  The old boy’s got sharp eyes.

  ‘Okay, lads, playtime’s over. Time for another spin.’

  The men headed back inside the hangar towards the B-17. Max ducked underneath the fuselage, hoisted himself up through the belly hatch into the bombardier’s compartment and then climbed the ladder up into the cockpit. Pieter followed behind him, squeezing his stocky body awkwardly through.

  ‘Max, am I flying this thing tonight?’

  Pieter was desperate to get as many hours as possible on the bomber before the mission date. Both men had discussed the flight schedule of the mission and Max would be flying the plane through the most hazardous portion of the journey, across southern Germany and France. Once they were across the French coast and over the Atlantic, Pieter would take over and allow Max some rest.

  Pieter needed more time at the controls.

  ‘Think you can handle take-off?’

  He grinned. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, make sure it’s a tidy one, the Major’s got his eye on us.’

  The pair of them slipped on their thick sheepskin flight jackets and flying caps and sat in their seats. Max lifted the oxygen mask to his face and spoke into the interphone. ‘Hans, Stef? Are you boys dressed and ready?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Stefan.

  ‘Waist-gun port and starboard check, ready to go,’ answered Hans.

  Max fired up the engines and gunned the throttle several times. He turned to Pieter. ‘Okay, let’s run through this in order. Set the aileron, elevators and rudder trim tab controls to zero.’

  Pieter found the tab controls easily and reset them. ‘Aileron, elevators, rudder to zero.’

  ‘Okay, test the wing flaps.
’

  Pieter tested both sides full up and full down. ‘Check.’

  ‘Okay, Pieter, next?’

  ‘Test the propeller pitch, test the super-chargers?’

  Max nodded. ‘Yes.’

  The engines roared momentarily. ‘Check.’

  ‘Okay. You can take her out and taxi to the end of the strip.’

  Pieter signalled to one of the ground crew and the chocks were pulled away from the wheels. The B-17 eased forward and rolled out of the hangar, across the grass and up onto the tarmac of the strip at a sedate pace.

  ‘A little, faster, Pieter. The less time we’re down here on the ground the better.’

  He nodded, eyes locked firmly on the ground passing them by outside. He opened the throttles slightly and the bomber lurched as she picked up some speed. As the end of the strip approached Pieter eased back and swung the plane round.

  Max patted his shoulder. ‘Looking good. Now remember, a hundred miles per hour and we’re off the tarmac, ease her away but get the speed up there as quickly as possible, all right?’

  Pieter nodded and licked his lips.

  ‘Relax. Now remember what do you need to do next?’

  Pieter closed his eyes, recalling the take-off procedure they’d read from the translated USAAF training manual.

  ‘Tail wheel lock to ON.’ He fumbled for the switch and found it.

  Max smiled reassuringly at him. ‘Go on, Pieter . . . she’s all yours.’

  Pieter tentatively eased his foot off the brake and adjusted the manifold pressure. With a face locked with concentration he began to open the throttle. The four Wright Cyclone engines roared angrily and the bomber shuddered forward along the strip. Pieter kept one eye on the cockpit window, watching the concrete race past to ensure they were steering a straight line down the strip and not drifting to one side or the other, and one eye on the speed indicator. As the bomber approached a hundred miles per hour they felt the force of lift pulling the bomber up, and Pieter began to ease up on the control column.