Stealing Trinity (25 page)

Lydia looked at Mystic. She was stunned. The boat had been Edward's joy. Something inside her snapped.

"No!" she shouted. "Absolutely not!"

Her father looked up patiently. Patronizingly.

"I won't allow it," she insisted. "Edward loved that boat. It was his, and now it's mine. I will never sell it. Never!"

Her father's response was to raise the newspaper. He began a study of the financials.

Lydia took a deep breath. "I'm going to New Mexico."

"New Mexico? Really, Lydia --"

"I want to help Major Thatcher find the man who killed my husband."

The paper still hid his face. "The major is very competent, dear. You mustn't worry--"

Lydia swatted the Times to the ground. Her father looked up in amazement.

"I do worry! I ... I apologize for my impertinence, Father, but I'm going. I have sat around here far too long playing silly games and living a gilded life. The rest of the world is dealing with death and starvation. It's time I pitched in to help. And I'll do it with or without your approval."

Lydia braced for his rage. He would rise and tower over her to deliver the verbal dressing-down that would end her little rebellion. And then what would she do? What would she do when he denied her?

Strangely, her father sat still for a moment, and his expression turned to something else. Something very unexpected. If Lydia was not mistaken, it was pride.

"All right then," he said, "go."

Braun had hidden the old Indians truck in a derelict barn on the outskirts of Santa Fe, not sure if he'd even go back to it. But Heinrich had been right about one thing -- Santa Fe was crawling with Army G-2 men, and probably the FBI. Braun knew he couldn't stay here.

He decided it was likely that the authorities had found the remains of the Luscombe and the body of the Indian. If so, they'd be looking for the truck. But they'd also be watching the train and bus stations. If he traveled at night, the truck remained his best bet.

He headed south at midnight. In three hours he passed only four cars, one a police black and white that fortunately showed no interest. During the drive Braun reflected on his meeting with Die Wespe. He would not see the scientist again until their rendezvous in the Pacific. And as soon as Braun was in possession of the trove of documents, he would dispose of the little Nazi. The question then became what to do with it all. If the information about this atomic weapon concept was indeed valuable, Braun had to find a way to sell it -- to a country, most likely. Given the present dynamics of world affairs, there was one obvious choice.

Braun arrived in Albuquerque just before dawn, rattling along with a nearly empty gas tank. With daylight less than an hour away, he had to find a place to dump the truck for good. He found it on the southwest side of town, along the banks of the Rio Grande. A junkyard sprawled out behind a wooden fence, five acres of metal, rubber, and glass to blight the landscape.

He paused in front long enough to be sure no one was around. The "office" was little more than a shack, and a pair of guard dogs came running -- German shepherds, perhaps, with something else mixed in that made them thicker in the chest and jaw. They barked and snarled behind the fence, and made Braun doubly sure that no one was inside the place.

He drove another hundred yards to find what he wanted -- a telephone pole next to the road. He steered the truck carefully, accelerated a bit, and smashed into it, corrupting the left front quarter panel. He reversed, then charged again, this time giving treatment to the right headlight and bumper. The truck was a cosmetic disaster to begin with, but after ten minutes of battering it looked like a casualty from the Russian front.

As Braun guided it back to the junkyard, the radiator spewed steam and the steering wheel pulled hard to the right as rubber scraped metal. For a final resting place, he pulled the mess up to a swinging section of the fence that served as an access point to the junkyard. He was sure that by noon today his donation would be drug inside, no questions asked.

Five minutes later, the license plate and key went spinning into the Rio Grande. Once again, Braun began to walk.

Chapter 31.

He spent three days in a flophouse south of Albuquerque. It was nestled in the Manzano Mountains, near Route 60, and run by a Spanish-American couple who spoke little English. Braun had learned long ago that it was the have-nots, the simple people, who would ask the fewest questions. The police would be less welcome at the Manzano Inn than the quiet patron who had paid cash in advance for a dirty room -- simple breakfast and dinner included. The arranged term had been two weeks, though Braun only expected to stay half that long.

He'd hitched rides south to the area, and had immediately stumbled onto the place. It was ideal for his purposes -- quiet, and only three miles from the strange dead-drop location Karl Heinrich had chosen. Braun had already made one dry run, borrowing a bicycle from the innkeeper for a late morning ride. On that occasion, he had picked out the correct cement road marker and climbed to the crest of the hill. There, he'd found nothing aside from the clearing Heinrich had described, and a magnificent view of the Rio Grande Valley. Tonight he hoped for more.

It was three o'clock in the morning, and the slim moon was little help. Braun found the road marker again, but only after passing it once. He walked the bike into the scrub and leaned it against a tree. From the handlebars he unhooked a kerosene lantern, also borrowed from the inn, and Braun stoked it to life.

The climb, which had been simple in daylight, would be a far greater challenge at night.

Braun started off carefully, keeping the lantern low and in front to illuminate trouble spots --loose rocks, fallen tree limbs, stray roots. The forest here was similar to Santa Fe, thick, stunted vegetation that clawed its way across dusty soil to probe every crevice for water and nutrients.

He reached the top at precisely three forty-five. Heinrich had been insistent on the time, thought Braun could not imagine why. By definition, a dead-drop meant that Die Wespe would be nowhere near the place. And Braun could hardly envision anyone else coming to this godforsaken wilderness at such an hour. He was breathing heavily and, as he stood straight, he imagined that the fat little Nazi must have been panting like a dog after such a climb. Again, he wondered what was so special about this time and place.

At the crest of the hill was the same clearing he'd seen last time, but in the lantern's light he saw something new. A tripod, the kind used by photographers, was centered on the best level ground. It was equal to his own height, and a small box was mounted on top. Braun went to it and put the lantern close. A metal plate read: spectrograph. On the opposite side was an orifice of sorts, oriented toward the south.

Braun looked out and saw the wide valley, barely visible in moonlight that filtered down through broken clouds. A few tiny clusters of light punctuated the landscape, all many miles away. He remembered Heinrich's next instructions. Go twenty paces toward the valley. He lowered the lantern and counted steps. Reaching sixteen, a knee-high rock blocked his path. Immediately behind it was a canvas bag. Braun set the lantern carefully on the rock and opened the bag. A handwritten letter was on top.

.

Rainier

Our plan is progressing well. Here are the documents that you asked for. They are enough to convince anyone with a background in the field that my information about the Manhattan Project is invaluable. I have also detailed everything I know with regard to my travel plans. We must meet on the island of Guam. The ship we discussed will make port at 9:00 a. M. onJuly 27th. I will come, ashore, with every thing at the first opportunity. From, there, we, must rendezvous with the, others as quickly as possible,.

Look at the papers Later, Rainer. At this moment it is more, important for you, to check your watch. At precisely 3:55 you must use the protection in the bag and Look to the southern, sky. The test is scheduled for 4:00, forty miles south of where you stand. You, are about to witness history my friend assuming this incredible thing works.

Karl

.

The test, Braun thought. That's why Heinrich had chosen this place. Rendezvous with the others -- he truly believed the Reich would carry on. Braun marveled at how an educated man could be so blind. But then the ranks of the Nazi Party had included many such learned men, and they had proven blind indeed -- every vision, every idea obscured by the blackness of hatred.

He checked his watch -- 3:51. Braun reached into the bag and pulled out a thick folder of documents, a welders mask, and a bottle of suntan lotion. Suntan lotion. He wondered if it was Heinrich's idea of a joke. He stood and again regarded the nighttime vista.

Braun shook his head. He could not bring himself to apply the lotion, and he tossed it back into the bag. He did, however, resign to pulling the welder's mask over his head. It was heavy and ill-fitting. The dark glass faceplate turned the world nearly black. Braun could no longer see his watch, and the resulting limbo of time made him tense. He had seen every kind of explosion known to man, some at an uncomfortably close range. What kind of thing, he wondered, could require such precautions? And forty miles, a ridiculous distance. At this range there would be nothing -- perhaps a momentary flash on the horizon.

He waited for what he thought was fifteen minutes. Nothing happened. A coyote howled a plaintive wail. Braun heard a rumble in the distance, but it was only the familiar, gentle roll of a distant rain shower. He took off the mask and tossed it aside in disgust. So where was the awe-inspiring weapon, this revolutionary idea? Had it been a failure? Had the Americans spent billions of dollars pursuing worthless, chalkboard theories? He eyed the folder of documents. Did Wespe have anything of value?

Braun again sat on the rock and began to read. The first document was some kind of scientific synopsis, an introduction to a collection of diagrams and calculations that were attached. The handwriting on the cover page was clearly Heinrich's, matching the letter Braun had already read:

.

Uranium Enrichment: The Gaseous Diffusion Method

Several pounds of the fusionable, isotope, U-235 are necessary for a single bomb. This desirable isotope exists naturally at the ratio of only 1 part in 140, thus physical methods of separation, are required Three possible solutions were originally identified: electromagnetic separation, thermal diffusion and gaseous diffusion. Of these, gaseous diffusion has proven the most effective, though it requires significant industrial capacity.

In principle, when uranium is converted to a, gaseous compound (uranium hexafluoride), it can be forced through a porous screen The heavier U-238 isotope moves more slowly and is effectively "filtered" This process must be repeated roughly 5,000 times to achieve the nominal weapons-grade purity of 93% U-235.

Attached are copies of blueprints of the American K-25 plant, a forty-four acre facility at Oak Ridge, Tennessee. The magnitude of this production site, cannot be underestimated It was built at a, cost of 500 million US dollars. I believe it is feasible to construct a, smaller scale version By avoiding certain errors, efficiency can be improved Particular attention must be given to the materials used in construction Uranium hexafluoride is extremely corrosive, and will react violently with grease or oil. Also, maintenance is paramount, as contaminants have resulted in a continuous series of setbacks and shutdowns. The Union Carbide Corporation runs this facility, and a copy of their operating manual is included here...

.

Braun pored over the letter and attachments. Most of the papers were hand-drawn duplicates, but a few originals bore the header: U. S. Army Corps of Engineers -Manhattan District. These were stamped top secret. There was also a second file, regarding a place called Hanford, Washington. The cover letter, again in Heinrichs hand, was titled: Plutonium -- the transmutation of u-238. Braun read it, then found himself carrying on to the rest, a thick volume of blueprints, diagrams, and equipment specifications. The project was industrial in nature, different from the artful works of design Braun had studied at Harvard. Yet he recognized enough to see the legitimacy of the information. The scale of this place in Tennessee was unlike anything he had ever seen.

Braun was seized by excitement. He pored over page after page by light of the lantern, checking dimensions, awed by the immensity of it all. 500 million dollars, he thought. For one industrial plant? Had the Americans gone insane? He looked at every page, his heart pulsing by the end. There was so much here -- details, calculations. And this was only a sample of what Heinrich possessed. It had to be of value.

Braun stood. His back ached from sitting on the rock. He locked his hands above his head and stretched like a cat. The injured shoulder was better, almost no pain. A look at his watch told him it was nearly five thirty. He'd lost track of time and spent over an hour consuming Heinrich's file. But what good was any of it, he thought, if the whole project was a failure? Dejection stabbed in. Once more, Braun looked across the land. He saw only tranquility --a desert still, silent, and black. And then the sky exploded.

The universe fell ablaze in white light. The brightness was incredible, like nothing he'd ever seen. He instinctively stepped back and turned his head aside -- yet Braun forced himself to look. The flash did not fade, but rather grew in intensity, as if the sun had crashed into the desert valley. His eyes adjusted to the light, and he saw a mountain of dust rising into the sky. He stood transfixed as smoke and light churned into a hellish orange fireball, rising up and up. Then Braun saw something else. A wave of destruction sweeping out, rolling across the desert at incredible speed. Rolling right at him. He braced himself.

It hit like a hurricane. Braun tried to stand firm against the pressure. He squinted and his hair was blown back. The sound came now, not an instantaneous crack, but a rumble that grew and grew like a thousand bass drums. It seemed to have no end, pulsing echoes that pounded off the surrounding hills.