The Proteus Operation

by James P. Hogan

  Winslade thought frantically as he watched the situation that had seemed so hopeful collapsing like a house of cards. He had been pondering the strange situation they had walked into, searching for possible ways to exploit it, but hadn't said anything to Anna because of the guards. There seemed something providential in their having arrived at this of all places.

  Hammerhead had been made unassailable by any form of assault from the surface. And Pipe Organ, likewise, was also impregnable from the outside.

  From the outside.

  That was the fatal oversight with both facilities. The designers had thought only of protecting against threats from the outside. But both Hammerhead and Pipe Organ possessed an additional way in that bypassed all the defenses: Although the two machines were separated by a gulf of time, they nevertheless stood back-to-back, each at the end of a connecting highway that led directly into the other—like a tunnel between the keeps of two castles. Guarding the tunnel would only make sense if it were possible for somebody to materialize inside it out of nowhere.

  But that was exactly what Winslade and his companions had done. And the "tunnel" that they were at one end of led straight to the target of the entire Proteus mission. At the Ampersand briefing in London, he had described the mineshaft and waste conduit as a "back door" into Hammerhead provided fortuitously by a twist of fate. But it was nothing compared to the wide-open door that was staring them in the face right now.

  "Maybe you're right," somebody was saying grudgingly. "As long as no one's in any immediate danger . . . But you must understand our concern."

  "Of course," Kahleb replied, sounding conciliatory. "I'd have thought the same thing. Now, will you please leave this to us?"

  One of the guards was standing a few feet ahead of Winslade and to one side, but facing away to follow what was being said. He was at ease now, his manner relaxed and careless as the tension subsided. These were internal security police, little more than ceremonial guards, not battle-trained veterans or a rigorously selected elite like the Special Operations troops. Winslade thought of the risks that Warren and his men had accepted at his bidding. He could hardly refuse taking a risk himself to achieve the same objective, now that the chance was there.

  "Isn't it about time somebody listened to us for a change?" he said in a loud voice, moving forward to command attention. All heads turned toward him. He raised an arm with his finger extended as if in emphasis, his movement so natural that the guard didn't even tense as Winslade brushed past him. Then Winslade whipped back in a sudden blur of movement, ducking into a crouch as he turned and driving his elbow back into the guard's solar plexus. He sidestepped as the guard buckled, and in the same movement straightened up to deliver an edge-handed blow to the back of the neck, taking the gun neatly from the guard's hands as the guard crumpled to the floor. He had leveled it at the second guard before the latter had his own weapon half unslung. The second guard froze. Anna Kharkiovitch gaped in surprise at Winslade for just a split second, then moved quickly to take the second guards gun before most of the people in the room had registered what was happening.

  Winslade backed into a corner from where he could cover the whqle room and motioned Kahleb and his people to the far wall with a wave of the gun. The others who had confronted Kahleb were too shocked to react. "The side-catch is the safety," Winslade muttered to Anna, keeping his eyes on the others. "The lever behind the magazine selects solid rounds, left, or cannon, right. There's a three-position fire-selector in front of the fore-grip—single-shot, burst of five, or automatic, sliding forward to back."

  Anna inspected the weapon and checked it with sure fingers. "Okay."

  The two guards from outside came in to investigate and stopped abruptly when they found themselves staring into two muzzles. "Not a move," Winslade warned, his voice sharp. "Now the guns, slowly, on the floor." The guards hesitated. One of them looked apprehensively at the figure sitting up and groaning on the floor, and complied. The other guard followed suit. "Kick them clear, over this way," Winslade ordered. "Now both hands high." He nodded to Scholder and Adamson to pick up a gun each. "Take their sidearms," Winslade said Scholder and Adamson took the pistols from the guards' belts while Winslade and Anna covered them. "And now the ammunition clips. . . . Good."

  Winslade surveyed the situation and gave a satisfied nod. His face split into a smile as he moved forward out of the corner. "No, ladies and gentlemen," he announced genially to the room, "I'm afraid the fun isn't over just yet."

  CHAPTER 41

  THE COLD LIGHT OF predawn was just touching the eastern sky above the Berlin rooftops as an SS staff car screeched around a corner into the Prinz Albrecht Strasse and stopped outside the main doors of Gestapo headquarters. The hunched street sweeper across the road and the two policemen clutching their capes around them against the cold as they stood talking on a corner opposite took little notice as a guard got out from beside the driver and hurried to open one of the rear doors. The stiff, primly upright, and sparsely built figure of Heinrich Himmler, probably the second most powerful man in the Third Reich, emerged, wearing an officer's greatcoat and black peaked cap with the badge of SS Reichsführer. He had a tight, downturned mouth, clipped mustache, and a receding chin, and blinked sleepily behind rimless pince-nez as the guard escorted him up the steps. The sentries heel-clicked to attention and opened the doors, and the two figures marched quickly through and crossed the deserted vestibule to the elevators.

  Reinhard Heydrich, Himmler's deputy and head of the Reich Main Security Office, which incorporated both the Gestapo and the SD, was pacing impatiently to and fro when Himmler came into his office minutes later. At thirty-six, tall, blond, fair-skinned, with a firm-set mouth, straight nose, and clear-cut features, Heydrich typified the Nordic ideal of Nazism's racial fantasies. An incarnation of the technology of government by brute force, he stood out from the majority of the Third Reich's leadership by virtue of his supreme self-confidence and ability. With a capacity to divorce completely all forms of emotion from his work, including any personal spite, Heydrich combined the technician's dispassionate pursuit of efficiency with the cynic's readiness to exploit whatever was expedient. The result was a calculated ruthlessness utterly devoid of any human considerations that frightened all who came in contact with him, including, at times, even Himmler.

  "Good morning," Himmler greeted. "Well, what do you have?" He had been awakened by a phone call a half-hour earlier, in which Heydrich had said simply that there were urgent matters to discuss concerning "Valhalla," code-name for the installation at Weissenberg that housed the connection to Overlord in 2025. A day previously, Hitler had expressed concern to Himmler over the security precautions. Field Marshal Keitel, head of the unified defense staff established in 1938, had shown the führer a report from Canaris indicating that the British and American intelligence services were coaching a picked espionage group to specialize in matters connected with atomic research. Canaris had mentioned Weissenberg specifically, and the skeptical tone of some of his remarks had hinted strongly that he for one was far from convinced by the SS's cover story. Hitler was worried and had told Himmler to investigate.

  "It's worse that we thought," Heydrich said. "A lot worse." He gestured at the papers strewn across his desk and picked up the file that he had procured from the Abwehr. "We're talking about an elite military sabotage unit that goes all the way up to Churchill and Roosevelt, personally."

  Himmler puckered his mouth grimly. "Military? You mean the American military is involved actively—a neutral country?"

  "Exactly," Heydrich replied. "As I said, Roosevelt's involved personally. What's the only thing that could be important enough to justify that?"

  "My God! Are you saying they know what's at Weissenberg?" Himmler took the file and began scanning the pages rapidly.

  "We have no firm indication of that, but Canaris's people believe it's the target. They've eliminated possible alternatives."

  "Does Canaris know what it is?"
<
br />   "No, I don't think so. But he suspects it's not what we say it is."

  Himmler looked horrified as he turned over the earlier documents in the file. "July, last year! Washington in October? London? Surely this can't be possible! You mean they've known about it all this time?"

  "And more," Heydrich said. "You remember that incident near Kyritz over three weeks ago—where four terrorists were killed when one of our units was called out to some shooting at a checkpoint? Well, the bodies have all been identified. They were all on record, which means they were just baggage porters. None were members of this Anglo-American sabotage squad. Therefore, the squad is still at large."

  Heydrich held up another sheaf of papers. "And this is a laboratory report on the things found with the explosives they were carrying. It all came from England. And this is what part of the conclusion section says." Heydrich read, "The most likely conjecture is that this clothing was specifically developed to afford protection in hazardous gaseous and liquid chemical environments. A specific purpose, however, cannot be deduced."'

  "Chemicals!" Himmler gasped. "It has to be Weissenberg. Somehow they're going to try to get in through the main plant!" He paled visibly as the full implication sank in. "And if those materials were captured almost a month ago . . . oh, shit . . ."

  "The saboteurs are already in the country," Heydrich completed. "And for a job as important as this, there won't have been just one shipment of materials."

  Himmler turned away and stared at the map on the wall of Heydrich's office. Overlord would have to be advised via Hitler, but the immediate decisions would have to be taken locally, as was normal. The time dilation factor of 200—it had been 360 back in 1926, when the whole thing began, and was reducing constantly as the past "caught up"—meant that even if Overlord took an hour to respond, over eight days would have passed by in Germany. Strategy and long-term goals could be passed down, but not something like this.

  "Contact the SS Oberstgruppenführer at Leipzig and have a detachment sent out immediately to take over gate security at that plant," Himmler instructed. "Also, have them secure the place and stand by in case of emergencies. Then get onto the Führer's headquarters and advise the commander that I wish to be notified at once when the Führer rises."

  Heydrich looked uneasy. "Wouldn't it be advisable to secure the plant now, using the defense force that's garrisoned inside Valhalla, until the reinforcements from Leipzig arrive?" he said.

  Himmler shook his head. "I'd rather keep them where they are in case we're wrong about these saboteurs entering through the plant. We would look very foolish if they got in while our crack guards were elsewhere checking workmen's passes. But make sure that they tighten up the entry procedures at Valhalla."

  Heydrich hesitated for a second and then nodded. "It will be as the Reichsführer orders," he said.

  "Also, get somebody to contact the Todt Organization and have them locate the engineers who were responsible for the structural changes. Bring them here, with complete plans of what was done. I want details of every conceivable means of entry."

  Himmler glared at the Abwehr papers on Heydrich's desk. "It's inexcusable that this information has been withheld from us for so long," he seethed. "I suspect that our friend Admiral Canaris has been scheming to aggrandize his department at our expense. But this time he has meddled in more than he thinks." His eyes gleamed malevolently behind his pince-nez. "He is becoming dangerous. We'll take care of him later, after this other business has been resolved."

  So this was it, Ferracini thought as he sat hunched in the back seat of Gustav Knacke's Fiat, moving with the early morning stream of vehicles, bicycles, and workers trudging on foot toward the Weissenberg plant. The culmination of years of intelligence gathering and planning back in his own world before 1975; the construction of the system at Tularosa; the recruitment and training of the Proteus team and its projection back in time; the setting up of Gatehouse; the move to England and the preparations since then: all to bring four men—Warren and Ryan had not made the one-week deadline—to this place on a clear, chilly morning on the first day of April. By the end of the day, it would all have been decided; either the incredible gamble would have paid a dividend worth years of effort, immeasurable human dedication, and the risk of many lives; or it would have failed.

  The car passed the last of the workers' rowhouses on the outskirts of Weissenberg and rounded a bend from where the plant was visible, its main entrance only a half-mile or so away across flat, open ground dotted with clumps of gorse. Apart from the Citadel, which was operated and guarded by the SS, the chemicals plant was subject to no more than the normal level of industrial security, and Gustav anticipated little trouble getting the team in. The fenced-off compound enclosing the munitions-making area inside was tougher, but that was of no consequence since the plan didn't require access to it. Nevertheless, to be on the safe side, the Ampersand group had decided to infiltrate separately.

  "Your friend isn't very talkative, Gustav," Julius said from the front passenger seat. He was a colleague who always rode to work with Knacke. "Or is it the early hour, do you think?"

  "Oh, I don't really know him, Knacke replied. "He's just started—over in PM-4, I think he said. Somebody suggested I had a spare seat and would be able to give him a ride. Well, you know how it is with this war economy—can't really refuse." He glanced over his shoulder. "Is that right—you're in PM-4?"

  "That's right," Ferracini answered. He had been speaking in deliberately broken German. "I start five days back on clean-the-pipes."

  "What accent is that?" Julius asked.

  "Is Spanish. Weather here is not so Spanish—all rain and fog"

  "How come you're here?"

  "I fight with Franco in war and then join Italians—go back work for Mussolini. But money better in Germany, they say, yes? So I go, but is lies. Give money, yes, then take away again."

  "Oh, you'll get used to that," Julius said with a bitter laugh. "What do we call you?"

  "Sorry, please?"

  "Name—what's your name?"

  "Oh. Is Roberto'"

  "So they've started cheating you already, eh?"

  Ferracini thought for a moment. "Money, yes, he agreed. "But so what with money, anyhow? German girls okay-deal instead. Spanish girls all with very Catholic mamas—everything no-no until get married, then only if Pope say so. What Pope know about girls? So maybe Hitler, he do something good for Germans after all."

  Julius laughed. "Hear that, Gustav? Roberto, you're okay."

  The car slowed down as it approached the gate, and Ferracini reached into his pocket for the pass they had faked using blanks obtained by Marga. As Gustav had predicted, the security procedure at the gate was casual, and the car was waved on by a bored factory guard in response to three passes being pressed against the window. At that moment, Ferracini caught sight of Cassidy just outside the car, struggling to control a wobbly bicycle and holding his pass between his teeth. The guard waved him on without looking at it. In the back seat, Ferracini closed his eyes and breathed a long, silent sigh of relief. Payne and Lamson, who were coming in on a workmen's bus, would have no problem.

  That left only the consignment of suits, weapons, and equipment. But that should already have been taken care of. The third accomplice, whom Gustav and Marga had referred to as "Erich," was bringing it in the scrap-metal truck that came early every other morning to collect swarf and turnings from the machining shops. Occasionally, it was searched on the way out, but never once had it been stopped going in.

  Ten miles away on the far side of Weissenberg, outside a blacksmith's forge and mechanic's workshop with faded signs advertising oil and tires and an antiquated gasoline pump in front, the driver of the battered truck that had just had been towed in was arguing with a man in a leather cap and grease-stained boiler suit.

  "Tomorrow? But that's out of the question! I've got to have it done right away, I tell you!"

  "Oh, really? And who do you think you are? You'
re lucky enough as it is that I was passing by on my way here, otherwise you'd still be out on the road. I've got two other jobs promised this morning. You'll have to wait your turn."

  Erich gritted his teeth in exasperation. "Look, I've got to get to the plant this morning. Just fill it up with cold water and I'll take it as it is."

  "What, with a hole like that in your radiator? Impossible! You'll never make the first mile."

  "All right, then—fifty marks extra on the price if you fix it right away."

  "Well, I really don't know. . . ."

  "Sixty! I must have this truck on the road."

  "Seventy."

  The wail of sirens interrupted, and both men turned to look as the traffic began pulling over to the side of the road. Moments later, two motorcyclists in steel helmets and SS uniforms came into view, followed a short distance behind by a convoy comprising a staff car and three trucks loaded with troops, racing from the direction of Leipzig. Erich's face fell as he took in the scene.

  "Very well, seventy," he said tightly. "Provided you begin at once. And now, where can I find a telephone? It's most urgent."

  A hundred yards away along the road, a black Mercedes carrying a swastika emblem on its door and flying an SS pennant nosed out of a side-turning onto the main road and roared off after the convoy.

  CHAPTER 42

  THE YOUNGER KURT SCHOLDER took a cautious step forward, then stopped and shook his head. Winslade kept the gun leveled and raised his chin questioningly. "Look, I still don't know what's going on, but I do know he's genuine," young Scholder said, inclining his head in the direction of Scholder.

  "This may cost me my job, but I'd like to help. If the true story is as you say, I don't want to just stand here doing nothing."