by Greg Iles
Stern drummed his fingers soundlessly on his knees. “So?”
Smith opened a map case and spread it across Colonel Vaughan’s desk. “Totenhausen Experimental Concentration Camp,” he said. “In Mecklenburg. Your old stamping grounds.”
Stern sat up, his anger forgotten.
“The camp is fairly isolated. The nearest large city is Rostock, twenty miles to the west. What used to be Poland is sixty miles to the east. Berlin is a hundred miles south.”
Stern nodded impatiently. He’d known all this since he was a child.
“The camp’s support village is Dornow, three miles north,” Smith went on, pointing at a spot on the map. “There are German troops in the area, but no elite formations. Except at Totenhausen, of course.”
“What’s at Totenhausen?”
“A hundred and fifty Death’s Head SS troops.”
“Totenkopfverbände,” Stern murmured.
“Right. And a particularly nasty bunch, according to the reports. The commandant is a physician named Brandt, an SS Lieutenant-General and chemical genius. You don’t find many scholars in the ranks of the SS, but Brandt is one. The senior security officer is Sturmbannführer Wolfgang Schörner. Interestingly enough, he’s not a Nazi.” Noticing Stern’s puzzled expression, Smith said, “That’s not as uncommon as you might think. At one time the SS was considered by some to be a potential enemy of the Party in internal Nazi power struggles. Schörner is what’s known as nur Soldaten among the old SS fighters. Only a soldier. It means he’s not a superloyal party fanatic. He fought in Russia under Paul Hausser, one of the few SS officers with a real military background. Lost an eye at Kursk.”
Surprised by the depth of Smith’s knowledge, Stern gave him an inquisitive look.
“The curious thing is why Schörner’s there at all,” Smith continued. “The rest of the troops are former Einsatzgruppen butchers or career concentration camp guards. I rather think Schörner was stationed there as a spy for the Wehrmacht. The Army High Command doesn’t like Himmler having a monopoly on weapons as powerful as Sarin and Soman. I think they wanted an SS officer at Totenhausen who would keep them informed. Schörner’s older brother is a big cheese on Kesselring’s staff in Italy. Wolfgang had just been invalided out of the Russian theater because of his eye, and he needed a job. Getting the picture?”
“Simple enough,” Stern said. “Schörner spies on the SS for the Wehrmacht. What’s the inmate population of Totenhausen?”
“Very low. Fluctuates between two and three hundred, depending on the pace of the gas tests.”
“So we’re going to sacrifice three hundred innocent people to kill half as many SS men?”
“No, we’re going to sacrifice three hundred doomed prisoners to save tens of thousands of Allied invasion troops.”
“A matter of perspective?”
“Everything is in war, Stern. To Major Dickson you’re a bloodthirsty terrorist. To your own people you’re a hero.”
“And what am I to you, Brigadier?”
Smith smiled thinly. “Useful. Let’s get back to business. Totenhausen is separated from Dornow by a small group of forested hills. The only hills anywhere thereabouts, actually. The camp is nestled against the east side of them, on the north bank of the Recknitz River. The trees grow right up to the electrical fence. They’re meant to conceal the camp from aerial surveillance.”
Smith pulled another map from his case. It showed a close-up view of the hills, the village of Dornow to the north of them, and a detailed diagram of Totenhausen Camp itself, abutting the southernmost hill.
“What’s that on the central hill?” Stern asked.
“Electrical transformer station. It’s the key to the whole mission.”
“Do we have to blow it up? I’ve had experience with that.”
“No, we want the lights burning right up until the last second. Look here.” Smith used his pipe stem to indicate six parallel lines that connected the power station to Totenhausen. “These are the overhead electrical transmission lines that power the camp and factory. They run straight down the hills from the power station into the camp. The total line distance is two thousand feet on a twenty-nine degree slope. One night before you go in, a British commando team will suspend eight cylinders of British nerve gas from a wire on the pylon nearest the power station. The cylinders will be hanging from roller mechanisms rather like those used on cable cars.”
Stern frowned. “The cylinders roll down the hill, into the camp, and detonate?”
“Basically, yes. Our technical people have rigged pressure triggers on the bottoms and sides of the cylinders, rather like those on conventional mines. Once a trigger is tripped, a small bullet charge blows out a cap on the cylinder head. The cylinder releases its contents under high pressure, diffusing a lethal gas cloud at ground level. It’s World War One technology, but damned efficient.”
Stern took a moment to visualize the plan. “But if the cylinders are hanging from a power line,” he said, “what keeps them from slamming into the crossarms that hold up the line on the way down?”
“That’s exactly what I asked,” said Smith, taking a pen from his pocket to illustrate his explanation. “It’s a rather neat trick, actually. Don’t think of the cylinders as hanging down from the line—even though they are. The roller wheel mechanism is like a man riding a bicycle on a circus wire. The wheel sits on top of the outermost wire on the pylon. Now, imagine the bicycle rider holding his arm straight out from his body. In his hand is a four-foot metal bar hanging straight down. And attached to that bar—well beneath the wire—is the gas cylinder, which is positioned so that its center of gravity is directly below the wire. You see? As long as the roller rides atop the outermost wire, the bar holding the cylinder—which curves up and outward before going down—will strike nothing. It’s a bloody miracle of engineering.”
“I believe it. What do these cylinders weigh?”
“One hundred thirty pounds apiece. Sixty kilograms. That’s full.”
“Can the power line hold that weight?”
Smith smiled like a gambler confident of his cards. “Do you have any idea what a two-inch thick coating of ice weighs along a hundred meters of wire? Quite a lot. But in northern Germany the lines are designed to hold it. And that’s in normal times. The war has caused copper shortages all over the world. Everyone has had to fall back on steel wire for conductor material, including the Germans. Our intelligence reports indicate that the wires at Totenhausen are actually made of wrapped steel winch cable, some of the highest tensile-strength wire in the world.”
Stern nodded in admiration. “What about the electrical current?”
“It’s fairly high-voltage, but that’s one of the reasons we chose this method. Because electrical transformers tend to blow out quite frequently, many key power stations maintain a backup set of transformers, ready to go on-line the moment the primary set is blown. Totenhausen not only has backup transformers—they’ve got a set of backup lines.
“Now, listen closely, you can’t afford to muck this up. Totenhausen uses a three-phase electrical system. That means three live wires are required to run the camp’s plant and equipment. The pylons that support these wires consist of two tall support legs joined at the top by wooden crossarms. There is a live wire running across each end of each crossarm, and one running right over the middle. For a normal three-phase system, that would be enough. But Brandt doesn’t want his lab without power even for an hour. At Totenhausen, there is a backup line for each of those live wires, running right alongside it. These backups carry no current, but become live whenever the primary lines are short-circuited. This could be caused by lightning, falling limbs, or—”
“Sabotage,” Stern finished.
“Right. Leave it to the Germans to be so efficient. But in this case, I’m afraid their efficiency has doomed them.”
“How so?”
“Because we’re going to hang our cylinders from one of those auxiliary lines. And ther
e they’ll wait, until you arrive to send them down the hill.”
Stern nodded slowly. “What if the auxiliary lines become active?”
“Not to worry. The gas cylinders are metal, as are the suspension bars, but the rollers are fully insulated. It’s exactly like a squirrel running along a power line, Stern. As long as he doesn’t ground himself to a pole or a branch, he can run for miles. The whole scheme is brilliant. Barnes Wallis himself sketched out the roller wheel/cylinder combination. He designed the Dam-buster and Tallboy bombs, you know. Bloody genius.”
Stern waved his hand impatiently. “How do I release the cylinders from their positions on the line?”
“Child’s play. When you arrive, each roller will be held in place by a lubricated cotter pin. You’ll find a heavy gauge rope of pure rubber connected to all eight cotter pins. All you need do is yank the rope to pull out the pins. Gravity will do the rest.”
“It sounds simple enough. But tell me this. Why don’t you have whoever hangs the cylinders go ahead and carry out the attack? It would be a lot simpler.”
Smith looked down his nose at Stern. “Because they’re British, old boy. I thought you understood that. Our American cousins have not given their seal of approval for this mission, and I cannot risk having British commandos caught flagrante delicto. Also, the men who are doing that job know a lot about soldiering, but damned little about chemistry. We need McConnell on the ground.”
“But McConnell is American. What if he’s captured?”
Smith hesitated. “We’ll discuss that later.”
After staring silently at the brigadier for several moments, Stern laid his index finger on the diagram of the camp. On it were marked electrical fence voltages, barracks and who occupied them, dog pens, gas storage tanks, a small cinema, and various other facilities. “You can’t get this kind of detail from the air,” he said. “Especially that information on the SS major, Schörner. You’ve got someone inside, haven’t you?”
When Smith did not respond, Stern said, “An agent inside a concentration camp! How do you get their information out?”
“Tricks of the trade, lad. You Haganah chaps aren’t the only ones who know how to play shadow games.”
“My God, is it Schörner himself?”
Smith chuckled. “If only it were, eh?”
Stern looked back at the map. “When McConnell and I go into the camp, how can we be sure all the SS troops are dead?”
“You can’t. Not until you’re close enough to be shot, probably. That’s why you’ll be wearing German uniforms.”
Stern went still. “What?”
“You don’t fancy the idea? Standartenführer Stern?”
“I won’t wear one.”
“Suit yourself. No pun intended. But give ear: Hitler’s Commando Order of 1942 specifies that any troops captured on a commando raid—in uniform or out, armed or unarmed—will be slaughtered to the last man. An SS or SD uniform is about the only hope you’ll have of bluffing your way out if things go wrong. Besides, you’re a native German. You could actually pull it off.”
Stern glowered at the Scotsman. “I’ll think about it. How long will it take the gas to dissipate?”
“I can’t be sure of that. But since McConnell brought along his special suits, it really won’t matter. You’ll be able to go in immediately. That should greatly reduce any chance of SS reinforcements arriving from elsewhere before you finish.”
“What do we do once we’re inside?”
“Go straight to the factory. First, get a sample of Soman. McConnell will know how to use the mini-canisters and universal couplers. After that, let him take you on a tour through the plant. Anything he points at, you shoot a picture of. Laboratory logs, notes, things like that, take them. Then steal a German vehicle and run for the Baltic coast. You’ll find an inflatable boat cached there, and a Royal Navy submarine waiting to pick you up.”
Stern laid his elbows on the desk and looked into Smith’s eyes. “An inflatable boat? You do know the Baltic coast is often frozen this time of year?”
“Quite. That’s why they won’t be expecting you to leave in a boat. You’ll find the raft cached by a shipping channel maintained by icebreaker. I’ll give you all the details later.”
Stern felt far from reassured. “How are we getting into Germany?” he asked.
“From here we stage to Sweden by air, then—”
“We? You mean McConnell and me.”
Smith leaned forward. “I mean myself as well. I’ll be bivouacked on the Swedish coast, waiting for confirmation of success.” The brigadier could not conceal his excitement. “This is no hop into the French countryside to keep the Resistance in biscuits, man. It’s a thrust to Jerry’s vitals! If we pull off this bluff, we’ll have changed the course of the war.”
Stern studied Smith’s craggy face. “Do your masters know you’re flying over occupied territory? If you were captured—”
“No chance of that. I’ve arranged special transport for this trip. You won’t believe it until you see it. From Sweden, you and McConnell will go into Germany by Moon plane. That’s a single-engine wooden kite, painted matte black.”
“A Lysander?”
“Right. You’ll be landed just west of the hills, hopefully out of sight and sound of both Dornow village and the camp.”
“We’ll be met?”
“Yes, but you won’t know by whom until you get there.”
Stern’s eyes flickered with apprehension. “Password?”
“Your password for the reception party is Black Cross. That’s what I’ve named the mission as well. Black Cross is the Allied code name for nerve agents—it’s meaningless to the Jerries. You’ll get a more detailed set of codes before you leave.”
“When will that be, exactly?”
Brigadier Smith leaned back in the chair and rested his hand in his lap. “In exactly ten days, Stern, Heinrich Himmler is going to stage a demonstration of Soman at Raubhammer Proving Ground on the Lüneburger Heath. Among those present will be Adolf Hitler. Himmler intends to convince the Führer that nerve gas is the only weapon that can stop the coming Allied invasion. And, my boy, Himmler is right.”
Smith held up his hand and splayed his fingers. “Five days before that test—six nights from now—you and McConnell are going in. That gives you a four-day window in which to make your attack. Four days to wait for the proper wind and weather conditions. Four days to convince Heinrich Himmler that the Führer’s fears of Allied gas capabilities are extremely well founded.”
Stern stood up and flexed his fists with nervous energy. “I want to know about this contact of yours, Brigadier. Our lives will be in his hands from the moment we’re inside Germany. Is it someone in the village? A soldier in the camp? Who?”
Smith’s face gave away nothing. “If I told you that, his life would be in your hands. And right now, he is a lot more valuable than you are.”
“I see.” Stern leaned over the maps in silence for nearly a minute. “One question. It seems to me that a place like this would have a lot of safety equipment. Gas masks, suits, safety drills, that kind of thing.”
“I think the reality will surprise you. Remember, Sarin and Soman can kill simply by contact with the skin. I’m sure Brandt and his staff have special protection, but to really protect the SS troops, everyone would have to wear a full body suit and mask at all times. It’s just not practical. There are gas alarms in the factory itself, but the SS troops don’t even carry masks with them. If you ask me, Himmler considers the Totenhausen detachment expendable. Satisfied?”
“This sounds like it could actually work.”
“It’s going to work.”
Brigadier Smith fired his pipe and leaned back in Colonel Vaughan’s chair. “Tell me,” he said, “how are you and the good doctor getting along?”
Stern shrugged. “He’ll do his job, I suppose. As long as he doesn’t figure out that the real objective is to kill people, not disable the lab and factory.”
>
“He won’t. As long as you don’t help him.”
“Don’t worry about that. Are we finished?”
“Finished?” Smith slapped the desk with a bang. “Not nearly. You’ve still got some training to do before bed.”
“Training?”
“Climbing that pylon is going to be ticklish, especially in the dark. We’ve rigged a dummy here for you to practice on. We’ve got climbing spikes, harness, the lot.”
“I’ve climbed a hundred telegraph poles,” Stern objected. “I can do it without spikes and without practice.”
Smith chuckled. “The pylons at Totenhausen are sixty feet tall, laddie, and may well be covered with ice.”
“More games,” Stern grumbled.
“Look, I know you’ve no use for us,” Smith said equably. “We’re not too fond of you either, to be frank. But you’ve got to set that aside. It’s Jerry you want to kill, remember.”
He stood up and walked to the closed door and rapped sharply on it. Someone pushed open the door. It was Sergeant McShane, dressed for foul weather. From the Highlander’s hands dangled leather belts and straps fitted with medieval-looking spikes of iron.
Brigadier Smith folded his maps with amazing dexterity for a one-armed man, then tucked his case under his arm.
“Take him up the hill, Sergeant,” he ordered.
When Stern finally trudged into the Nissen hut behind the castle, all his muscles were shaking with fatigue. By then someone had sent an orderly to the hut with blankets, pillows, and matches, but McConnell was not yet asleep. He was reading his German textbook by the light of the paraffin lamp.
Stern collapsed onto his cot and lay staring at the ceiling.
McConnell closed the book. “What were you doing to get so wet?”
