12:45 A.M.
Jim hugged the corridor floor, coughing, struggling to take another breath, wondering what the hell to do. Further down the hallway nearly twenty yards of the corridor ceiling had collapsed. They were cut off, and the fire was coming for them.
Suddenly there was a puffing explosion of hissing steam from the gutted stairway, followed by a slowly building cascade of frothing water. Then, like a disapproving Saint Peter at the Gates of Heaven, General Leslie Groves stood looking down on him, offering reluctant salvation.
"On your feet, Martel."
Martel struggled erect, as did the Ranger.
"Where are the rest?"
"Down the corridor to your right, sir. Can't miss it."
Groves looked at him sharply. "Well get a move on, damn it. The rest of the ceiling is about to cave in!"
Actually there wasn't much for Jim to do, nor for the MPs Jim was suddenly aware stood behind the general. The men he had left in the storage room, the battle room, were now flowing down the corridor toward them. He stepped aside as the first of the scientists staggered unceremoniously through the door and up the stairway, which was clouded in a mixture of steam and damp dark smoke. After the first few had disappeared into the billowing smog, a sort of controlled panic ensued. With no regard for rank at all the crowd of physicists and engineers pushed and shoved its way through, those more or less whole helping their wounded comrades, as well as, to Jim's amazement, a few Germans who had indeed been not quite dead after all.
Physicists. They just couldn't keep track of who the enemy was.
Bringing up the rear was General George Marshall. Groves silently saluted.
Ignoring his fellow general, Marshall said with a grin, "Well Commander Martel, we did it, didn't we? Now let's get out of here. You first this time." With that he gave Jim a friendly shove through the doorway.
Under that five-star impetus Jim ascended to the main landing where a fireman grabbed him by his wounded arm and pulled him along. Manfully resisting the urge to add yet one more to the casualty list, Martel let himself be led outside. The several dozen survivors of the attack, the men who would rebuild "Manhattan," were sprawled on the ground. Except for those nearly comatose from their wounds, all were coughing and gasping from the effects of the smoke. A number of armed civilians carrying an assortment of hunting rifles and shotguns moved among them, offering what aid they could.
One of them, carrying a battered old Springfield and a holstered pistol, offered Jim a hand. About to tell the fellow that he was too busy to rest, Jim suddenly realized he was at loose ends. Looking around, he saw that Marshall had relented and was deep in consultation with Groves. Jim supposed he was once again an onlooker.
"You're pretty beat up," his helper announced. "Let me get somebody to look at you."
"It'll wait. Got anything to drink?"
"You put that bandage on yourself? It looks about ready to come off, and then you'll start bleeding again," the stranger insisted as he reached into his pocket, where he found a pint bottle. "Reckoned someone might have a use for this," he said, smiling. First uncorking it, he passed it over, and Jim took a long, grateful slug of bourbon.
Exhaling mightily, he passed the bottle back. "Good whiskey!" he wheezed. "Strong, anyway.... You used to be a soldier? You carry that rifle like you know how to use it"
"Yeah, I was a soldier last time, in Europe," the man replied as he gently took Jim's arm and started rearranging the self-applied rag bandage. "Medic!" he suddenly shouted.
The passing medic paused, assessed, shook his head. "Man, I got people dying here. This one can wait."
"Well, spare me a roll of gauze, okay soldier?"
The corporal shrugged and tossed him one.
Without comment, the civilian pulled out a hunting knife and cut through the rags around Jim's arm, cut off the sleeve of his shirt, and slit the yoke so that the shoulder was exposed as well.
"Belleau Wood?"
"Huh?"
"We were talking about where you saw service," Jim said.
"Oh. Uh ... yeah. And the Argonne. And other places." Carefully he tied off the bandage on Jim's forearm and began the more complex task of cleaning and bandaging the shoulder, continuing the conversation as he did so. "Now, I'm a sheriff a ways up the road. I was here visiting my cousin. He's a sheriff too. We heard on the radio about the bombing, and we could see it, so we came on down. As a matter of fact we'd gotten this strange phone call an hour or so before, so we'd already organized some vets."
He hesitated and looked back at the firestorm consuming the town to the north. "I reckon we done some good," he said quietly. "Not nearly enough, but some." Finishing up the rough field dressing, the normally teetotaling sheriff paused to take a sip from the bottle, corked it, and handed it back to Martel.
Martel did not comment on the phone call, merely said, "Well, my friend, you sure saved me from getting cooked —and see those guys on the lawn, the ones in civvies? By saving them you just might have saved your country. And here's to you." As he took another slug of whiskey, Martel again noticed Marshall and Groves, still conferring as they i walked toward a jeep. A major and a captain hovered nearby, close enough to take and relay orders without interfering in their talk.
Suddenly, as if telepathic, Marshall swiveled his head and, gazing directly at Martel, gave a small peremptory gesture that brought Jim to his feet. Taking a final slug, Martel nodded his thanks to the civilian, handed him back j his bottle, and returned to work. As he was leaving he j turned and said, "By the way, I'm Jim Martel. What's your name?"
"York Sheriff Alvin York Pleased to meet you, Jim Martel."
Nodding, Jim turned away. There was something about that name....
"Commander!" Marshall called as Jim approached. "They're withdrawing toward the new airstrip. They must have some planes landing there. I'm trying to get word to those fighter planes overhead but it's absolute chaos. They can't see the strip, and so far we haven't been able to organize a force to punch through and light it up. Plus our only communication is through a single phone line running through Knoxville. We're looking for some ham radio operators, but with Oak Ridge in flames we're having to look pretty far afield. Damned security radios won't talk to the damned fighter-plane radios. Do you believe that? Well by God it's going to change, but for the moment all we can do is go after the Germans the old-fashioned way. We're heading down there now to try and cut them off."
While they were talking Groves had climbed into the jeep and turned the ignition. Without waiting to be asked, Martel climbed in behind him, leaving shotgun for Marshall. When Marshall was aboard Groves pulled out and the jeep began to travel on the road that ran southwest parallel to the open field behind the administrative building. Behind them, six truckloads of armed men pulled into line.
"Sir! Pull over here for a second!" Martel shouted.
"What now, damn it?" Clearly, though he could hardly admit it, Groves had seen enough of Martel for one day, or one lifetime for that matter.
"That Piper Cub. Please pull over to it. I have an idea. Just take a second."
"We don't have time for your bullshit, Martel. Just because—"
"Pull over, General Groves," Marshall interjected flatly.
Without a word, General Groves did as ordered.
Martel climbed out of the jeep and ran over to the Cub's side, while the convoy waited impatiently. He came back a minute later. "I met that Piper" — Christ, was it only yesterday? — "It had a radio. I just managed to get into direct contact with the military in Knoxville. They're relaying the information up to the fighters. At least I hope they will."
12:47 A.M.
"Here comes the X-10 team!"
Skorzeny turned and saw several autos and two trucks leaving the road and coming straight at the airstrip. That had to be Karl; the survivors of the Y-12 team and Richer's group had already come in, and the K-25 team wouldn't be coming in at all. Those who had come in had boarded the first three transport
s, which were already lined up on the runway. The only thing that remained to be done after loading Karl's people would be to set the triggers on the thermite grenades in the planes that were being abandoned because there were no passengers for them. With any luck that would prove quite diverting for the frustrated Mustang pilots ghosting around up there.
Skorzeny looked over at his anxious radio operator who had just overheard a contact between the American fighters and someone who was all too near to their own location. Whoever it was had the German take-off plans down pat, and so now the fighters did too. Indeed, as he was digesting this a fighter came streaking in, but it was flying by dead reckoning; its machine guns plowed a furrow parallel to the landing strip, and it disappeared into the night.
Had that furrow been on the other side of the strip—the two trucks and several commandeered autos had come to a halt and men started to scramble out of the vehicles when the Mustang interrupted the process. Now they were crawling out from under the trucks and from behind the cars. Several of them were moving slowly, walking with strange shuffling steps. One of them collapsed as Skorzeny watched. A familiar form began to slowly and painfully extract itself from the lead auto.
"Karl!" Skorzeny trotted toward him, but Radl held his hand up.
"Don't come near me."
Skorzeny slowed.
"We're dead men, Otto. The reactor blew with us right next to it. Maybe some of the men were far enough away, I don't know." He leaned forward, vomited a black gush of blood.
Gasping, Radl looked back up. "Get my boys who are still mobile out of here. Maybe some will live."
"Come on Karl, we're going home."
Radl weakly shook his head.
Probing fire, originating a hundred yards or so down the access road, burst out of the night. The security team answered it.
"We were trailed! Get out of here!" Radl paused to vomit again. His next words came out in a muttered gargle. "We'll hold them back. Let your men" — Karl waved toward the security team—"Fall back to the planes."
Skorzeny looked at his oldest friend, a man who had been with him from the very beginning, before war had made of him ... what he had become. For the first time in a decade he let emotion overcome reason, and stepped forward, arms outstretched.
But his friend staggered backward: "I'm covered with the stuff. Touch me and you'll get it too!"
Skorzeny felt restraining hands grabbing him from behind.
Radl looked up at him, smiling wanly. Then, as ever doing his job, he added a distraction. "Looks like you picked up a hell of a scar this trip, Otto."
Another burst from out of the darkness tore up the ground less than a meter away, but Skorzeny didn't move.
"Good-bye Karl," he whispered.
The medic, still holding Skorzeny, tugged gently at his elbow. Finally he. let himself be turned. Tears blinding his one eye, he followed the medic back toward the waiting planes. Walking backward, firing into the gloom, the security team fell back with him.
Skorzeny climbed into the plane waiting first in line, its engines howling at the delay. As the medic entered behind him and slammed the door, Skorzeny climbed up to the cockpit and sat in the jump seat behind the pilot.
"Go."
Instantly the pilot simultaneously released the brakes and hit the ignition button for the rocket-assisted-take-off packs. The plane leaped forward, twin tongues of fire jetting out from beneath the wings. Save for a single faint flare at the end, the runway was pitch black, the pilot steering by feel, while the copilot shouted off the rapidly building airspeed.
"One hundred and sixty!" the copilot roared, and both he and the pilot pulled back on their yokes. There was a jarring blow as the bottom of the plane struck something. Skorzeny waited for the impact, but they kept climbing. Then came the twin thunks as the spent rocket packs were jettisoned. Skorzeny signaled for the pilot to bank the plane hard to port so that he could study the inferno he had created.
In the middle of the turn the pilot shouted, "Plane Two is taking hits!" Skorzeny peered out the portside window. The second transport, its rocket packs still firing, was being laced by a stream of tracers coming in from its starboard side. Suddenly it fireballed. Seconds later the third plane burst through the j conflagration, still climbing. A moment later its rocket packs flamed out and it was shrouded in blessed darkness.
The fourth plane, the one carrying the survivors of Radl's team, never left the ground. The fire from a P-51 caught a wing during take-off, and the transport tilted over and pinwheeled down the runway, finally exploding in a smeared fireball that was answered in counterpoint by the timer-fused thermite grenades inside the planes abandoned for lack of passengers. Plane after plane exploded in flames, though not with the fully fueled enthusiasm of those with men aboard.
As the plane finished its turn and followed the Clinch j River north, Skorzeny looked down upon the visible evidences of his visit. Though few who followed him here were returning home, still he had won a famous victory. Next year on Victory Day they would sing of it, and him.
12:58 A.M.
Karl Radl watched as the plane carrying his men exploded in a blinding flash. Perhaps it was a mercy, he thought. Perhaps for all, certainly for many. There was a sporadic flurry of shots over by the trucks as the last of his doomed and dying rear guard collapsed, from weapons fire or nuclear poisons he wasn't sure. With a sigh of release he allowed himself to slide down the side of the car he had been leaning against, dropping his weapon as he did so. Strangely, the awful burning inside had become a warming glow, as if the invisible fire that had entered him had consumed all there was to consume, and was flickering down to a final charred ember.
"Here's another one!"
Radl looked up. Interesting. The stars were still out, the Moon—yes that was the Moon—was high overhead.
"He's still alive ... sort of."
Someone was blocking the light and he wanted to protest but the words somehow wouldn't come.
Words were being spoken. English. Yes, he could speak English ... or could he? Not just now, perhaps. How odd. He could understand it, but he couldn't remember how to speak it.
"Who are you?"
The other replied in German. Good. It was soothing to hear one's own language, here at the end. In gratitude he responded by looking up. The face before him flickered and glowed from the light of the funeral pyre of 264s on the runway.
"Radl—aren't you Karl Radl?"
'Yes . . . how do you know me?" Radl asked, using the intimate form, as if speaking to a friend.
"Jim Martel, American Navy. We met on Victory Day."
Radl smiled. "Victory Day . . . day of victory. Whose victory? Not mine. Not even Otto's, this time."
"Skorzeny. Where is he?"
Radl nodded to the airstrip.
"He got away, he always does. He always does."
He saw Martel leaning down, reaching toward him.
"Don't, and I speak as a friend. I'm dying from radiation, a very great deal of radiation. Don't, or you'll die too." Martel drew away.
Radl laid his head back, trying to see the stars just once more. But there was nothing there now, only darkness, and then, finally, a soft gentle light. He imagined himself moving toward it.
1:05 A.M.
Martel rose from Radl's side. As he stood, he realized that Marshall was standing at his side.
"What did he say?" Marshall asked.
"Skorzeny's alive. They got away."
"Well, that doesn't matter now," Marshall said. "It's what happens next, and what we do, that matters now."
Jim Martel turned and looked back at the fire that seemed now to spread from horizon to horizon, filling all the world, and all the future as well.
INTERLUDE
2:35 A.M. Knoxville Airport
Lieutenant Commander James Mannheim Martel and General of the Army George Catlett Marshall were pressed gently back into their upholstered seats as the DC-3 that had been commandeered for their use lifted of
f from the Knoxville airport.
"Wondering why I dragged you along, Commander Martel?"
Jim hadn't really been wondering about much of anything. So much had happened to and around him in the last twenty-four hours that he was just observing without judgment. In his hypoadrenalized condition a surprise trip in an overloaded helicopter, followed by a quick transfer to an executive aircraft hardly counted as interesting.
"I figured you would tell me, sir."
"We'll be seeing the President this morning."
"Sir?"
"Do you recall the story of Saul of Tarsus?'
"Yes, sir, I do," Jim replied, puzzled. "I'll probably get this wrong, but as I recall, on the road to Damascus, Jesus appeared to Saul, saying, "Why do you persecute me so?" Saul was so impressed he changed his name to Paul. Changed his whole way of thinking, too ... Oh."
"Well, I'm not about to change my name, but my 'whole way of thinking' has just undergone a major shift. Listening to the dome-brains gathered in Oak Ridge was part of it, that and realizing just where we would be without them. Another part was watching you and Skorzeny—"
Jim snarled unconsciously at the name.
"—in action. Almost like mirror images of each other, but both so very good at what you do. Him as a super-commando, you as a superb improviser in an impossible situation, countering his every move, almost stopping him cold. But the clincher was realizing that we are in a de facto state of war with a power that makes the Japanese Empire at its height look like a Gilbert and Sullivan threat."
Jim, who would bear the scars of the Great Pacific War to his grave, was not pleased at this demeaning of a fierce and powerful enemy, but he took the General's meaning.
Marshall looked at Jim speculatively. "What chance do you think an unbiased oddsmaker would give us in the coming fight, Commander? One in three? Two in five?"
Jim shrugged. "We always start behind, sir. It's a national tradition by now."
"Not this far, Commander. Not this far." Marshall shifted in his seat, leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He was silent for long enough that Jim began to wonder if he had gone to sleep, but apparently he was merely gathering his thoughts.
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