by Alex Scarrow
‘I . . . I can’t do that.’
‘Listen . . . we can’t detonate this bomb, Hans. It’s not going to happen -’
‘SHUT UP!’ Hans shouted, jerking the gun at Max’s face. He called out to Pieter at the top of his voice, but there was no answer. ‘PIETER!’ His voice sounded like a child’s plea, breaking with panic.
‘What? You think Pieter’s going to agree with you, Hans?’ said Max.
Hans remained motionless, the gun shaking in his hand, his eyes darting to the bulkhead leading forward, waiting for Pieter to arrive.
Max decided to try a different way to get through to the lad. ‘Look, give me the damned gun now, Hans, and I’ll forget about this. I know you, you’re a good lad and this -’
They heard Pieter calling back through from the cockpit several times, and a few moments later, realising that Hans must not be plugged into the comm. system, Pieter appeared at the bulkhead.
‘What’s the matter?’ He saw Hans pointing the gun at Max. ‘Jesus Christ, what the bloody hell are you doing, Hans?’
‘He was going to abort the mission, Pieter. He doesn’t want to finish it!’
Pieter looked incredulously at Hans. He didn’t look like he was buying that for one moment. ‘Max, what’s up with this fucking idiot?’
Max turned to him and calmly spoke. ‘He’s right. We’ve got to abort.’
Pieter frowned, confused. ‘Why? What’s up? We’re there, we’ve done it.’
‘Give him the note, Hans. Let Pieter make up his own mind.’
For one moment Max thought Hans was going to rip the note to shreds. But the young man remained still, reluctant to pass it on, holding the crumpled sheet of paper tightly in his hands.
‘Give it to me, you idiot! We haven’t got all day,’ said Pieter irritably.
Hans passed the note to Max, keeping the Walther trained on him all the time. Max handed it to Pieter then watched as his co-pilot silently read it.
A minute later Pieter looked up at them with no clear indication on his face as to what he was thinking.
‘Pieter?’ Hans spoke; there was a note of growing doubt and desperation in his deep voice. He needed Pieter to reassure him that his solo act of mutiny had been the right thing to do, that he wasn’t alone in this action.
Pieter passed the note back to Max. ‘We should continue, Max. This could be a trick, an attempt to sabotage the mission,’ he said evenly.
‘I know, I know. I thought the same at first, Pieter. But there’s more -’
Pieter shook his head. ‘We’re nearly there, Max, we’ve done it. This is just a trick.’
‘Listen to me. The Major tried to tell me about the bomb, Pieter, on the ground just before we took off.’
‘Major Rall? You think he would want to abort?’
‘Yes. I think he did. And I think he was trying to tell me that.’
Pieter frowned, then laughed, unsure how to respond to such an absurd notion. ‘It’s his fucking mission, he planned it, why would he want to abort it?’
‘He knows, Pieter! He knows this bomb could kill us all! And he was trying to tell me.’
Pieter was silent for a moment, his face clouded as he recalled those final moments on the airstrip. ‘He did act strange. I heard him too.’
Hans looked indecisively between the two older men. It looked to him as if Pieter now might be having doubts. Hans began to lower the gun to the ground, doubting his decision, his resolve beginning to waver.
Max spotted the weapon drop and decided the time had come to try and wrestle subordination back from Hans. ‘Hans, give me the gun, and go and see to Stefan.’
Hans hesitated for only a second before nodding mutely and reaching out to pass Max the weapon.
‘Even if this is true, Max,’ Pieter suddenly announced, ‘we have to go on.’
Max spun to look back at Pieter. ‘What? Are you crazy?’
‘So . . . there’s a risk. What do we lose anyway? The Russians will kill us all if we do nothing. We have to go on.’
Hans looked to Pieter once more, backing away from Max’s waiting hand, pulling the gun back and aiming it once more at his commanding officer.
‘Give me the bloody gun, Hans,’ Max said again, his command sharper.
Hans looked to Pieter, ‘Piet? What do I do?’
‘Lower the fucking gun, you fool,’ Pieter barked at Hans, angered that the young gunner should so readily turn on Max, their friend, their leader. He turned to Max. ‘Max, we’ve got to finish this,’ he pleaded.
Max turned to look at him. ‘If we go ahead and drop this bomb,’ he continued, ‘and it does, as this notes says, destroy the world, then it’s all gone, everything, everyone, just ashes. What kind of a victory is that?’
‘And if we drop it, and it just destroys New York, we win. The war ends on our terms, Germany survives, we go on.’
‘We go on . . . and what? Another war against the Russians? You think our wonderful Führer is going to think twice about using weapons like this again and again on them?’ he said, pointing at the bomb nestled comfortably on the rack, a silent witness to its own fate. ‘And every time we use one, we’ll be gambling again, until one of these things suddenly goes wrong, and that’s it.’
Pieter studied his old friend in silence. He had witnessed Max question orders only once before, and on that occasion Pieter would have stood by him if it had come to court martial. That was a long time ago, when the war had been running their way, when there had been room for an act of high-handed mercy like that amidst the carnage. But the two years since had been a long time. All that was left for them now was the visceral fight for survival, at any cost. The truth was a stark choice, and it was almost certain they would die at the hands of the Russians.
‘If we don’t complete the mission, then everything we’ve fought for, you and me, not just today, but the last five bloody years . . . all of that has been for nothing, Come on Max,’ Pieter said. ‘Take us to New York. Lead us one last time.’
‘You’d risk the whole world for that?’
‘Yes,’ Pieter answered instantly, with certainty. ‘I would.’
The three men stood in silence as the seconds stretched out.
‘You’ve always been there for us, Max,’ said Hans with a voice shaking and hesitant. He dropped his aim and extended one hand towards him, open, ready to shake, a final gesture of appeasement, reconciliation. Max knew Hans desperately sought the approval of his commanding officer to make things right once more. To have Pieter on his side had certainly helped to firm his resolve, but to have Max with them once more would settle the matter. ‘We need you now, more than we’ve ever done. Lead us one last time,’ pleaded Hans, echoing Pieter’s words.
Max shook his head. ‘We shouldn’t be doing this.’
He watched Hans, as the young gunner’s eyes narrowed and he re-evaluated him, systematically erasing his feelings of loyalty and respect and overwriting them with contempt. Max felt something irreversible had changed in the young man’s mind.
For Hans, now, a decision had been made. His commanding officer had become the enemy. ‘Then you’re a fucking traitor,’ he growled.
Max turned back to Pieter, he felt his last chance to swing this around rested with his co-pilot. They had the strongest bond within the four-man crew. Although Max knew their background differed in many ways, they shared a mutual bond of trust. Four years flying side by side had built that trust up into a concrete foundation that surely couldn’t possibly be undermined merely by the words they had spoken to each other in the last few minutes.
‘Pieter, come on, this is madness.’
Max decided Hans might still succumb if Pieter were to change his mind and agree with him now. The young man would hand the gun over to him and shamefully concede that he had become confused by events if he were the only one, if Pieter deserted his corner now. Max knew Hans was an insecure young man, still a boy in truth. He had little faith in his view of the world, his opinions, if
he held them alone. He needed the corroboration of another; even more, he needed the approval of someone with rank.
It was down to Pieter.
‘I’m sorry, Max, but we’re going ahead with this, with or without your help.’
Hans looked reassured; pleased that such an important issue had been settled by someone else. ‘What do we do now? Do I . . . ?’
Kill him.
All three of them knew those words were what was meant, if not spoken.
Pieter shook his head. ‘No, Hans.’ He turned to address Max. ‘But if you interfere, I will do it myself.’
Max heard the pain in Pieter’s voice, it had faltered momentarily. He knew it hadn’t been an easy thing for him to say.
Pieter shrugged slightly, and a wan smile spread across his weary face. ‘Just don’t make me do that, eh?’ he muttered to Max, patting his shoulder, the last gesture of friendship. ‘Hans, take him back to the waist section and keep your gun on him, I need to get back and fly this plane.’
‘How much longer?’
‘If we’re on course, half an hour, maybe less.’
‘Good.’ Hans jerked the gun to indicate that Max should lead the way back to the waist section.
Max tried one last time. ‘Pieter, do you -’
‘SHUT UP!’ Pieter shouted in reply. ‘Hans, don’t let him talk to you, if he talks, then shoot him, okay?’
Max cast one last glance at his co-pilot as he ducked through the bulkhead. His lips were drawn tightly, his eyes narrowed, the burden of the mission weighing heavily on his shoulders now. Pieter’s face was devoid of emotion, the last residue of warmth he had displayed towards Max had gone. His mind was on the mission, and that was all.
Chapter 54
Mission Time: 21 Hours, 52 Minutes Elapsed
4.57 p.m., EST, the White House, Washington, DC
There was a clock on the wall of the conference room, and Wallace counted the hours. The meeting had been in session now for over fifteen hours. He looked at the other men; many were staring intently at their wristwatches.
An hour ago, one of the marines guarding the conference room door had entered and informed the President that a staff car was waiting for him in front of the White House, ready to remove him to safety outside Washington. After only a moment’s consideration Truman had sent the marine away, announcing that he wasn’t going to leave his cabinet and the Chiefs of Staff behind.
Wallace found he was developing a grudging respect for this new President. He had only been in office a few days. During the last forty-eight hours, and the two meetings which he had attended, Wallace had witnessed the man steadily grow in stature from the unassuming, quietly spoken, unremarkable figure of before to what he was now. Most definitely a leader. Staying with them here, no matter how unknown the risk, was something Wallace would remember about the man for the rest of his long life. It was a true measure of the man.
Truman was sitting motionlessly now, one of the conference room’s burgundy- and gold-trimmed telephone handsets held patiently to his ear, everyone else in the room dutifully silent. As the President waited for the call to be put through he looked up at the wall clock. ‘My watch shows me two minutes to five, gentlemen. Assuming that is the deadline, just two more minutes to go. I really don’t know what is going to happen at five, if anything.’ He looked up at them with the faintest hint of a smile on his tight, bookish face. ‘I suggest those of you who believe in a God start your praying now.’
There was a murmur of tense laughter from some of the men around the table. Nonetheless, Wallace noticed several of them closing their eyes, their lips moving subtly in silence.
Less than two minutes to go.
Wallace was still certain that the whole thing was an elaborate bluff. The B-17 which had been seen heading out across the Atlantic accompanied by several Messerschmitts was, of course, real, and certainly it sounded, from the garbled and hastily delivered intelligence reports that had come in over the last two days, that the laboratory in Stuttgart with the cyclotron was also real. But the inescapable fact, confirmed now by Dr Frewer and over the phone an hour earlier by Dr Oppenheimer, was that there was very little chance of a viable atomic bomb with critical mass less than they had calculated - enough U-235 to produce a mass the size of a baseball - and there was no conceivable way the Germans could have got their hands on that much uranium.
No possible way, unless they’d discovered another form of isotope?
Unlikely.
At five o’clock only one possible thing could happen. The bomber would drop a device that would fail to detonate.
But there was a remote chance . . . Wallace noticed his mouth drying and the slightest tremble coming and going. There’s a chance.
He allowed himself to indulge the improbable notion for a moment, that on this day the world would end with a bang. He wondered how fast this theoretical chain reaction would travel if it happened. If the bomb were to be dropped on them here in Washington, it would presumably be an instant death. But if it were dropped on New York, he wondered what vision they would behold as the explosive ripple of separating atoms approached them here, 300 miles away. A wall of brilliant light sweeping across the world, the light of a thousand suns bearing down on them, consuming all matter in front of it, and leaving behind it only superheated sub-atomic fragments?
‘One minute,’ Truman announced drily. Then, all of a sudden, the call connection came through. ‘Gentlemen,’ Truman continued, ‘I’ve got the company commander of the Times Square anti-aircraft battery on the phone.’
They heard an indistinct noise over the speaker-phone on the table in front of Truman, a hiss and a warble, the rumble of wind and of distant traffic and the muffled sound of a voice.
‘Is this Captain Delaware?’ Truman asked, speaking loudly into the mouthpiece.
‘Captain Eugene Delaware,’ they heard someone answer equally loudly. ‘Who’s this?’
‘This is President Truman.’
The captain laughed, ‘Steve, you trying that shit on me again? I told you this kind of crap don’t -’
‘Captain Delaware, this is your President, and I don’t have the time nor am I in the mood to play games with you, son.’
The President had struck the right tone.
‘Uh?’ Delaware responded. The noise over the speaker was suddenly muted, as if a hand had been placed over the mouthpiece and they heard the frantic exchange of muffled voices.
‘Captain Delaware, I was directed to this line via Colonel Smithson. When we’re done here you can check on that,’ added Truman impatiently.
The noise of wind and distant traffic returned as, presumably, the young captain had removed his hand. ‘Mr President . . . I’m really s-sorry, sir.’
‘Don’t worry about it, son. Listen now. We have had a report that one of our B-17 bomber planes is inbound to New York.’ Truman looked up at General Arnold, who nodded. ‘It’s carrying an important guest . . . but, we think it may be in some trouble.’
‘Yes, sir. A B-17, sir.’
‘We think it should be arriving any time soon. I want you to stay on the line with me, Captain, and let me know what you can see or hear. You got that?’
‘Y-yes, sir. I got that, sir.’
The conference room was utterly silent as all of them strained to listen to the confusion of noises coming from the small table-top speaker. Wallace wondered if New York was the target, whether they would actually be able to hear the distant drone of the flying fortress’s engines moments before this bomb was to be dropped.
Truman broke the silence. ‘So, is there anything in the skies, son? Anything you can see or hear?’
‘It’s very noisy, sir. A lot of noise up here. I’m just looking around. There’s patchy cloud cover, sir. Broken clouds, so anything approaching could be hidden from us until it’s quite close.’
‘Just keep looking, Captain, and stay with us,’ said Truman.
The President looked down at his watch. ‘By my ti
mepiece, we have under a minute left, gentlemen. In case I’m not around to say so . . . thank you for attending these last two days.’ Almost as an afterthought, Truman added: ‘God bless America.’
Wallace smiled at the President’s words, and he found himself marvelling at Truman’s composure. The man must be as nervous as him, probably much more so, given that he had no understanding of the science that confidently assured Wallace that this day would not be their last. Only Wallace and Frewer could see the numbers that made this bomb a nonsense. Their eyes met across the conference room and Frewer shook his head in a relaxed manner and smiled to reassure Wallace.
Nothing’s going to happen, kid.
Even so, Wallace couldn’t help but feel the cold draught of fate rushing towards them all.
The second hand on the wall clock passed by the nine and now pulled upwards towards the twelve in a languid arc.
Chapter 55
Mission Time: 22 Hours, 5 Minutes Elapsed
5.10 p.m., EST, approaching New York
Pieter saw the continent ahead of them at first as a series of indistinct smudges, appearing fleetingly behind the thick bank of clouds on the horizon. It seemed like America was having a dull, wet day as well as Europe. The smudges eventually merged into a solid dark mass of land on the horizon as he brought the plane down to 3000 feet.
‘Hans, I can see America!’ he shouted excitedly into his mask.
There was a moment before Hans replied as he scrambled to look out of one of the portholes to confirm the sighting. ‘My God, we made it!’
The low cloud had shrouded the coastline, hiding it from them until the last moment, and now he could see it approaching swiftly. Below, he could see several ships heading out to sea, leaving behind them long wakes that pointed like pale fingers north-west towards New York.
‘We’ve come too far south. I’m going to bring us up to two-ninety,’ he said, thinking aloud. ‘How’s Stef?’
‘Still out cold. He doesn’t look too good.’
