The Reich Device (30 page)

Steinhoff reasoned through the argument in his head for the hundredth time.

Back to basics. Mayer
must
have been talking about Einstein’s work. The idea that energy is related to mass. His now famous equation predicted this, E = mc
²
. It made sense, brilliantly simple, but nonetheless it made sense. If the speed of light, c, was constant, then energy, E, would be related to mass, m – it was inevitable from the math. So, what next? How did that help? Well in theory, it might therefore be possible to turn mass into energy, and this energy would take the form of an electromagnetic wave; some kind of light. But what kind of light? An energy wave like radiation? Or something new?

Steinhoff remained perplexed.

The device was made of carbon, and that something involved sixty carbon atoms. The Professor had also mentioned something
very small
. What the hell did that mean? Was it that carbon atoms were very small? Everybody knew that. He must have meant something else, but what?

Steinhoff considered the comment on
sixty carbon atoms
. He had already spent hours on this, sketching out different ways that carbon atoms could be arranged into a sequence of sixty atoms. There were lots of possibilities. Carbon atoms joined together in chains, like some long atomic snake – or in a square lattice to make graphite – pencil lead. Carbon could also be structured into a diamond lattice. This amused Steinhoff. He would be a rich man indeed if he could discover a way to synthesise diamonds from charcoal! Of course it was impossible. There had to be some other way of joining up sixty carbon atoms.

Suddenly, Steinhoff had a moment of true inspiration.

Mayer had mentioned
particles
, so maybe the particles were made of carbon?

That was it! He needed to draw a spherical carbon structure!

Steinhoff worked feverishly, trying to think of ways to join up carbons and bend them into the shape of a sphere. A square lattice would never work, the geometry was all wrong. A long chain of carbons would be flexible and, like a snake, could be coiled in many different ways but would never make a sphere. Then he had it – it wasn’t a solid sphere at all – but a hollow one! A carbon cage of hexagons, just like a soccer ball! Desperate for confirmation, Steinhoff sketched his idea – sixty atoms! That was it! Carbon particles so minute, so impossibly small, that they would be invisible to the naked eye.

Steinhoff had reasoned his way to carbon nanoparticles.

But there was a problem. He had absolutely no idea how to make these new carbon nanoparticles, and even less of an idea of how they could be fabricated into a propulsion device. He was completely stumped.

K
essler and Steinhoff sat on the edge of Mayer’s bed in the new purpose-built hospital wing at Peenemünde. The steady flow of oxygen into the face mask supplemented Mayer’s regular breathing. Oxygen was apparently good for healing head injuries. Kessler gently lifted the Professor’s forearm; it was warm, and pink. He let the arm drop back onto the bed.

‘Tell me Doctor, has the patient showed any signs of stirring?’

The doctor flicked through the medical charts at the end of the bed. ‘Well, yes, he is improving. The chest infection has cleared. His breathing is good, all things considered. We’ve been keeping a close record of his vital signs; they appear to be stable now. There are short periods of semi-wakefulness, not long, mostly less than a couple of minutes. We have noticed an increase in rapid eye movement. My best guess is that he will awake fully, possibly within the next few days.’

‘Few days… we don’t have time to wait
a few days
.’ Kessler gave the doctor a hard stare and tossed a small box of syringes onto the bed.

The doctor stiffened. ‘What’s that?’

‘Mescaline, a new formulation,’ Kessler smiled.

‘Commandant, I cannot administer this. It was probably the mescaline and heroin mixture that sent him into a coma in the first place.’ The doctor took an involuntary step away from the bed.

‘Like I said, this is a new formulation. It contains some… shall we say… new stimulants.’ Kessler stood, holding out the box. ‘Herr Doctor, I am giving you an order.’

Steinhoff interrupted. ‘Please make the injection. We need the Professor to be fully awake. He has rested for some time. We are lost without his help.’ Steinhoff gently passed the box to the doctor, ‘Please… ’

‘Alright, alright; but I cannot be responsible for the outcome. New stimulants you say?’

Kessler nodded.

The doctor lifted a glass syringe from the box; the needled glistened as the thick liquid oozed from the tip. He hesitated. ‘Perhaps only one trial dose: agreed?’

‘Doctor, the SS have approved the new formulation – proceed!’

He carefully fed the syringe into the Mayer’s forearm, pushing gently on the plunger.

Nothing happened.

‘Give him another dose,’ Kessler ordered.

‘No wait! Look!’ Steinhoff pointed at Mayer’s face.

Muscles twitched as his eyelids flicked open for a few seconds; a groan issued from underneath the oxygen mask.

The doctor leaned over the bed. ‘Professor Mayer… Professor… ’ He gently shook his shoulders. ‘… Can you hear me?’

Another groan; this time his eyes wandered, but stayed open.

‘Don’t be alarmed Professor Mayer, you are in hospital. I have been looking after you. Can you hear me?’

Mayer slowly nodded.

‘You have been asleep for a long time, but don’t worry. You are safe.’

Mayer croaked and coughed as the world swam in and out of focus.

White light.

His eyeballs throbbed. He instinctively turned his head away from the bright ceiling. Stiff muscles stretched. Ligaments found new life as the popping of unused tendons vibrated through his skull. It was somehow refreshing.

A dark, blurred figure sat on the edge of the bed. Ghostly movements filled his peripheral vision. Mayer tasted the dusty, leathery foulness of his mouth; swallowing, his throat grated. ‘Water… ’

The doctor leaned over and, after removing the face mask, he offered a drinking straw. ‘Take a sip… carefully… not too much… just wet your lips.’

The water flashed a sudden wave of coolness through his chest; his eyes started to focus. He gulped down several mouthfuls of the refreshing liquid. He stretched his right arm, there was no pain. He took in a deep breath. It was a little awkward, but effective.

The room came gradually into clear view. Mayer absorbed the scene. A clean white room, the smell of disinfectant, the hum of medical instruments. He took another good breath and flexed the digits of his right hand. His strength seemed to be returning.

A doctor hovered attentively to his left. He heard the doctor’s voice in his ear.

‘Just rest Professor… you are in hospital… ’ The doctor smiled, repeating himself. ‘You will be a little stiff; you have been sleeping for a long time… just rest.’

Hospital?
Mayer remembered.

The crash. No, not a hospital, but a prison!

He turned his head slowly to the right.

A Nazi uniform, a commandant?

He gritted his teeth. Vague recollections of questions filled his mind. This man had asked him so many questions. Mayer sensed danger. Who was this man?

He gazed at the Nazi, searching for recognition. The mind is a strange thing, he could see the man asking questions.

What is his name?… What is his name? Kessler! His name is Commandant Kessler. Yes, Commandant Kessler from the SS.

Mayer met Kessler’s gaze head-on as it all came flooding back.

What have I told him? The rocket design! The turbo booster! My God!

He remembered making the sketch. He
had
told Kessler about the turbo booster. Had he told Kessler anything else?

Mayer wasn’t sure.

Well, there wouldn’t be anymore.

Mayer clenched his good arm into a fist on the bed and waited. His strength seemed to be returning with each passing minute.

‘Welcome back Professor, I’ve been waiting for you.’

Mayer opened his mouth to speak, but then decided not to. Silence would be his weapon.

Kessler asked another question.

Mayer ignored it, and instead assimilated the details of the room. The door was a few metres away. He tried to wiggle his toes. The right leg responded. Nothing from the left leg. He wouldn’t be escaping anytime soon.

He searched around the bed with his eyes.

Fight back… fight back… but how? The oxygen cylinder maybe?

Oxygen would burn, but he didn’t have anything to rig it up with. Regardless, it was just out of arm’s reach, too far from the bed. He didn’t have the strength.

Kessler spoke again.

Mayer blanked him out, and concentrated on the room, looking for a more realistic option.

Then he spotted the box of syringes.

It was worth the chance, but he needed a distraction.

‘Professor Mayer, you
can
hear me? Am I right?’

Kessler’s voice penetrated his thinking.

Mayer decided to respond. ‘Yes.’

‘That’s good, we can resume our last conversation.’

Mayer feigned undue weakness. ‘Con… versation?… What… con… versation?’

He gently gripped the bed clothes with his right arm, inching the box of syringes closer.

‘You spoke of a machine. Tell me about your machine.’

‘Fever… must have been… the fever,’ Mayer lied.

The box edged a little closer.

‘Yes, you spoke of a machine… ’

Mayer touched the edge of the box with his fingertips.

‘Mach… ine… what… machine?’ Mayer kept his gaze fixed on Kessler.

Kessler hissed. ‘Professor,
no more games
! Tell me about your new equations!’

‘Equation?… Lots of… equations.’

Kessler sat forward. ‘Tell me about carbon, Professor. What type of carbon? How do you use it?’

‘Carbon… yes… there are… many forms… of carbon.’ Mayer stalled.

He worked his fingers into the box, and around one of the syringes.

‘What do you do with the carbon to make your machine?’

‘Come… come closer… listen… ’

Kessler leaned in.

It was just enough.

Mayer took a deep breath and, tensing his grip on the syringe, he thrust the needle upwards with all his strength. The needle rammed home into Kessler’s flesh, deep under his lower jaw. The metallic lance sat buried to the hilt, only stopping when the glass end of the barrel met the skin. Shaking with effort, Mayer frantically pushed on the plunger.

‘Arghh!’

Kessler lashed out.

Mayer absorbed the blow; his head rattled with the numbness of the impact.

Kessler staggered backwards. ‘Arghhh!’ He pulled the hypodermic from under his jawbone. Gazing down at the broken syringe, he saw that it was empty.

‘I
will
break you!’ Kessler produced a crisp handkerchief and mopped at the wound under his neck. His face turned pink with rage. ‘You
will
tell me everything. Then you will beg for death!’

He stormed out of the room, holding the wound under his neck, as the drugs took effect.

Kessler staggered down the corridor as a wave of heroin and mescaline pacified his muscles. His eyes registered the impossible.

The walls pulsated with iron crosses.

He reached out to one shiny black cross; as he did so, the medal dissolved into blood. He took another. The metal became effervescent, and vanished from his palm. Blood dripped through his fingers. He grabbed desperately at the wall; each cross turned crimson red.

Death oozed forth from the plasterboard.

His father’s voice echoed inside his skull.

‘Iron cross? No… only heroes deserve such honours. It is beyond your reach… murderer… murderer!’ The voice boomed with laughter, then hissed, ‘Remember your grandmother. Remember the Sabbath!… Jew… ’

The ceiling sagged like an overweight blancmange. Sandbags and a machine gun nest came into view. His father stood, skeletal, with his rotting flesh holding onto the weapon. He pulled back the cocking mechanism of the heavy-calibre gun.

‘Be a real hero boy… be a man… ’

His tattered Imperial uniform flapped as he opened fire. Empty shell casings rattled into the treasure chest of medals at his feet.

Kessler screamed as he dived forward into the hailstorm of bullets, hoping for just one medal from the box.

M
ayer sat up in the bed, trying to hold still. He felt the fresh air against his scalp, and a certain claustrophobia lift with each turn of the crepe bandage. The doctor unwound the dressing.

‘How does that feel, any pain?’

Mayer replied. ‘Feels fine, tender but no pain.’ He lifted his right arm to feel the healing wound on his head.

‘No, no, don’t touch it.’ The doctor gently blocked his movement. ‘We need to keep it clean. The scar tissue looks pink, a decent scab has formed, and no puss. I think you’re on the mend at last. Any headache?’

The constant dull throb in his head provided the answer. ‘Yes… most of the time.’ Mayer rubbed his eyes with his good arm.

‘But improving? Less frequent?’

Mayer half shrugged, and moved his attention to the rest of his body. He worked his right arm and tensed the muscles in his good leg. It seemed reasonable, even good enough to stand on. The left arm and leg remained mostly numb. Paralysis. He wondered about escape. ‘My left side?’

The doctor tried to keep a neutral expression. ‘Look, I am afraid I don’t know if it will improve. In time, perhaps, but you can expect some disability.’

Mayer looked the doctor in the eye. ‘You… you can get me out of here?’

The doctor paused and lowered his gaze to the floor. ‘No… no, I wish I could, but I can’t. I am truly sorry… ’

The door burst open. Kessler stood in the doorway. The doctor suddenly fussed with the bed clothes, going red in the face.

‘Why was I not informed that the patient was awake?’

Mayer interrupted before the doctor could reply. ‘Because the patient… is… civilian… not a convict.’ He stared daggers at Kessler. Hatred, yes, it was hatred. It was alright though. In these extreme circumstances it was possible, even acceptable, to hate another human being. But then, where did Kessler score on that scale? Did he count as human? Mayer’s resolve strengthened.