Table of Contents
Dedication
Table of Contents
Foreword
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
EPILOGUE
About the Author
The God Particle
By
Daniel Danser
Published By @ventura eBooks
207 Regent Street, London, W1B 3HH
www.aventuraebooks.com
This Edition eBook Kindle – November 2013
Copyright © Daniel Danser 2013
The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Cover design © Daniel Danser
ISBN 978-1-909087-64-4
Dedication
For my wife Paula
Table of Contents
Dedication
Table of Contents
Foreword
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
EPILOGUE
About the Author
Foreword
‘Lord, grant that my work increases knowledge and helps other men.
Failing that, Lord, grant that it will not lead to man’s destruction.’
Percy Walker
PROLOGUE
The Vemork Heavy Water Plant, Nazi occupied Norway, 1942.
The Professor’s anxiety manifested itself as a small, involuntary tic above his left eye as he waited in the anteroom to be summoned.
It had been much worse as a child. The constant eye-blinking, mouth twitches and facial grimaces had elicited derision from his classmates and frustration from his parents, who were referred to one physician after another in an attempt to cure his affliction. By the time he’d reached puberty, he was an introverted loner, preferring to study in the seclusion of his bedroom, avoiding any and all social interaction with his peers.
His disorder seemed to lessen by itself as he moved into adulthood, but the years of reclusiveness had taken its toll, making him feel awkward around people his own age. He was much more at ease with his teachers; they were only concerned with his academic ability, which was bordering on genius. He was always the top of his class in every subject, which compounded the alienation he received from his fellow pupils; however, it also gave him a sense of self-worth, an inner resolve to rise above the taunts and jibes, the mimicry and the mockery.
As a young man, he was able to control the twitches almost completely using the techniques taught to him by the psychologists he’d seen over the years. Whenever he felt an attack coming on, he would take a deep breath and think of something that was comforting, a secure place that he created in his mind.
As an adolescent, he would project his mind back to when he was a child and focus on the times his mother would wrap her arms around him. Nestled in the warmth of her bosom, she would gently rock him backwards and forwards, reassuring him that it would be alright. But, when she died, the memory became too painful, feeling only grief whenever he thought of her. It took years of uncontrollable tics before he was able to regain a mental image that worked as successfully. The contentedness he felt through the loving embrace of his wife was a strong enough panacea in all but the most extreme of situations. This was one of them.
He wasn’t daunted by the individuals in the next room; he had dealt with their kind for most of his life. They were, quite simply, bullies. They had achieved their status through fear and intimidation, removing any individual that was a threat to their authority by whatever means was available to them. That meant, certainly for two of the people next door, having them arrested on trumped-up charges and shot.
No, his nervousness was for the lie he was about to deliver and whether they would swallow it. His life, the lives of the select number of people whom he had taken into his confidence, and those of millions of others, depended on it.
He had worked at the Vemork Heavy Water Facility since it was re-commissioned by the Nazis following the invasion of Norway in 1940. Prior to that, he’d been Director of the German nuclear energy project Uranprojekt, informally known as the Uranium Club, based in Leipzig, where he met his wife Clara, who was working as a research assistant there. She was the only woman, other than his mother, that had seen the person behind the affliction. She accepted his twitches for what they were. She hadn’t reacted the way most people did on first meeting him, embarrassed to make eye contact, but had made light of his involuntary facial tics in a playful way.
‘Are you winking at me, Professor?’ she had teased. He’d reddened, and started to give her his practised formal explanation of the condition, when she laughed that mischievous laugh of hers, disarming him instantly. A brief courtship ensued and they were married in the following spring.
It had been over two years since he’d last heard that laugh and he missed it, and her, every waking moment. He wrote to her at least once a week but
was never allowed to post the letters; such were the restrictions surrounding his top secret research. External contact was limited to fellow academics that could assist him in achieving his goal, and only then if they had been fully vetted by the Gestapo.
‘They’re ready to see you now, Professor Reinhardt,’ the woman dressed in a khaki green knee-length skirt, beige shirt and black tie, said expectantly, holding the door open for him.
He promptly gathered his files together, brushed past her and entered the room. She followed him in, closing the door behind her and took up a seat in front of a typewriter in the far corner.
The room was brightly lit and dominated by a large, polished mahogany table, around which sat his audience dressed in their full ceremonial military regalia uniforms adorned with their medals. It was clearly a display of machismo. He felt decidedly underdressed – a peahen amongst competing peacocks. He recognised most of the faces – some he had met before, others he knew by reputation only. He had been given a list of attendees by his secretary that morning; it read like a who’s who of the upper hierarchical tier of the Third Reich.
Reichsmarschall Göring was the most senior of the dignitaries and was, therefore, chairing the meeting at the head of the table. To his right sat Generalfeldmarschall Keitel, Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces and, to his left, was Heinrich Himmler. Reinhardt had never met the man before and wondered whether he was there in his capacity as Minister of the Interior or, more unsettlingly, in his other guise as Reichsführer of the Schutzstaffel, otherwise known as the SS. Sitting next to him was Albert Speer, Minister of Armaments and Munitions and, opposite him, was Philipp Bouhler, Chief of the Chancellery of the Führer.
The final two Reinhart knew well, having worked with both of them before the war. The first was Paul Harteck, director of the physical chemistry department at the University of Hamburg, but today acting as an advisor to the Heereswaffenamt, the Army Ordnance Office. The second was Abraham Esau, head of the physics section of the Reichsforschungsrat, the Reich Research Council. The latter two were obviously invited to verify what Reinhardt was about to deliver. The only person missing was the main man himself. However, as he made his way to the projector, the Professor noticed a hastily-hung picture of Mein Führer looking down at him from the normally bare grey wall.
‘I trust we can dispense with the formalities, Professor Reinhardt?’ Göring’s voice boomed from the far side of the table, filling the room with a rich, baritone resonance.
‘Er, yes, by all means,’ the Professor replied, nervously pulling the steel-rimmed glasses to the edge of his nose and peering at the bull of a man over the top of them. The beads of perspiration had started to multiply on his forehead as though someone had just switched a shower on. He took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow and ran it over his balding pate. ‘Does anybody mind if I open a window? I find it a little stifling in here.’
He was referring to the immense pressure he was under to convince the people around the table to abandon the project, but he knew they would take it as a benign comment about the stuffiness of the room. Nobody objected, so he went over and slid the window up. The cool breeze of a September morning wafted over him, giving him a slight respite and enabling him to clear his mind for the task in hand. He thought of his wife – her hair, her eyes, her mouth, her laugh, her embrace – and hoped he was doing the right thing. If he succeeded, he would feel her arms around him again soon; if he failed, they would probably execute her, along with the rest of his family.
He returned to the projector and faced his inquisitors. ‘Gentleman, as you are all aware, this facility was set up with one purpose in mind – to establish the feasibility of using nuclear fission as a weapon against our enemies. I am here today to tell you that it is scientifically possible.’
Excited murmurs went around the table. This was the news they’d flown all the way from Germany to hear.
He ignored the rapacious looks on their faces and pressed on. ‘However, the cost and resources required to produce a sufficient quantity of Uranium-235 may prove to be prohibitive. Having said that, my primary concern is for the theoretical proof that a bomb can be produced that has the capability of winning the war for Germany. I do not presume to evaluate the size of the nation’s coffers or its willingness to divert those assets into a full-scale production facility, as I will leave that to the financial analysts.’ He looked pointedly at Bouhler, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat. That was all he intended to say on the practicalities of manufacturing a device. He thought it would be enough to plant the seed and let the bean counters do what they did best, which was to save money.
Unfortunately for him, Speer had other ideas. ‘What makes you think it wouldn’t be viable?’
The Professor tried to control the tick above his left eye, which was more pronounced now than it had been for years. His lie was audacious in its simplicity. He had calculated the amount of the radioactive isotope it would take to make a bomb and simply multiplied the figure by a factor of a hundred. So, instead of 65 kilograms of Uranium-235, the conclusion in his research paper stated that it would require at least 6,500 kilograms for a bomb to be effective. He was aware that the newly-developed Heinkel He 177 bomber was capable of delivering such a large payload, but it would have to be modified to carry the ordnance under its fuselage. The problem he had created wasn’t with the logistics of the device, but in the manufacture of the raw materials.
He could feel the perspiration soaking into his shirt beneath his brown plaid waistcoat and jacket. ‘As you may or may not be aware,’ he continued, ‘Uranium is an element that occurs naturally in low concentrations in certain rocks, predominantly pitchblende – or, to give it its geological name, uraninite.’ He directed his comments to the non-scientists in the room. ‘We currently have a mine in Joachimsthal, near the Czech border, that is capable of processing over ten thousand tonnes of ore each year, out of which we are able to harvest approximately ten thousand kilograms of pure Uranium. Unfortunately for us, the radioactive isotope that we require, Uranium-235, makes up less than one per cent of the chemical composition of Uranium. Therefore, with our current production capabilities, we are only able to produce approximately one hundred tonnes per annum of the radioactive isotope we need. It doesn’t take a mathematician to work out that, at the current rate, it would take us sixty-five years to produce enough fissionable material to make a bomb, during which time we would have won the war by more conventional means.’
He paused to let the information sink in, before continuing. ‘Our only option is to expand the facility at Joachimsthal to increase capacity, or source a new supply of Uranium from elsewhere.’
‘And where do you suggest we source it from?’ asked Himmler, his tone far from cordial.
‘I understand the Russians have been stockpiling it as a by-product of their radium production, which they use in luminescent paint,’ he responded, trying not to sound intimidated.
‘I don’t think they’re just going to hand it over to us,’ Himmler grumbled. He turned to face Keitel, who was sitting opposite him. ‘And how is the war progressing on the Eastern Front, Generalfeldmarschall?’
He enunciated Keitel’s official title with undisguised animosity. There was no love lost between these two senior officials. Himmler regarded Keitel as a spineless sycophant, nicknaming him ‘Lakeitel’, a pun on his name, meaning ‘lackey’. Keitel had seen the atrocities that Himmler had ordered first-hand whilst in the field and regarded him as a monster. He would never admit to it, but he was actually terrified of the man.
He flushed at being put in the spotlight. ‘We have launched an offensive on Stalingrad and are confident of a glorious victory for the Fatherland.’
‘That just leaves the rest of Russia then,’ Himmler said sarcastically under his breath, but loud enough for the rest of the table to hear. He turned his attention back to the Professor. ‘Assuming we don’t get the resources we require from our enemies, how long will it take to get Joachi
msthal up to the capacity we need?’
‘As I alluded to earlier,’ replied the Professor, ‘That is not in my remit. But what I will say is that, if we commit to producing an effective weapon, we would need to increase the output at Joachimsthal substantially. It would require a significant amount of manpower to build a large enough plant to produce the Uranium required, as well as a separate facility for the manufacture of the bombs.’
‘We could always use the Jews,’ Himmler sniggered. A few people around the table followed suit, but Reinhardt wasn’t one of them.
‘We could if you hadn’t exterminated them all!’ Keitel’s impetuous remark brought the joviality to an abrupt halt, leaving a pregnant silence in the room as all eyes turned on him. His facial hue deepened further to a bright crimson colour as he realised he may have just overstepped the mark. ‘What I meant was, er… we could use the Russian prisoners of war. They’re in a much better physical condition than the Jews and are used to manual labour.’
His backtracking seemed to diffuse the awkwardness in the room and even elicited a nod from Göring.
‘Okay, Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I think I have all the information I need to take back to Mein Führer. From what I understand from Professor Reinhardt, it is theoretically possible to make a nuclear bomb, but we would have to expand our production facilities accordingly. We have the man-power to achieve this, but we would still need to reassign valuable resources away from the frontline in order to realise our objective. Am I missing anything?’
The question from Göring was thrown out to the table. A resolute shaking of heads was his reply. ‘In that case, gentlemen, I’d like to thank you for your time and wish you all a good day.’ He got up from his chair, stood to attention and saluted the picture on the far wall. ‘Heil Hitler!’ Everybody in the room followed his lead, but only one man was holding his breath.
CHAPTER 1
The alarm sounded in Reactor 5, as it had done dozens of times before. However, only one person heard it this time and he knew it wasn’t a drill.
The God Particle Page 1
