The Reich Device (33 page)

What about Heinkel? He was clearly up to his neck in it. Heinkel
was
the main architect for the attempted abduction of Einstein. Was this job in Zululand connected to Einstein in some way? The logistics were well planned; but who was this Dr Steinhoff? A geologist? Was there some technology angle that had been overlooked?

Whatever was going on, time was short.

N
ash hunkered down in the amphibious assault craft, waiting patiently for the men to get into position. It was only a mile up the river to the target area, and bobbing around at the mouth of the estuary was a risk, but with some luck the plan would work. The last few days had certainly been hectic, and the details of the assault a bit too hastily thrown together. The information on carbon deposits had somehow hit a raw nerve in London. No less than a direct phone call from the Prime Minister to Sinclair had set the wheels in motion for an immediate assault – not the usual way the chain of command worked. There had been so little time to prepare.

Nash stared up at the stars, and murmured, ‘Hey, Emily… so here we are… I know you’re hurting and when this is done… well… keep an eye out for me.’

He shook his head. This was no time to get sentimental, but the whole thing left an uneasy feeling. What was it about his report to London that had stirred up so much interest? Was it this Dr Steinhoff fellow? Apparently from Berlin, and with some expertise on rocket engines; that tied events in South Africa firmly to the German rocket programme – but why? Heinkel was SS, a German spy, for sure. Then there were the soldiers on the boat. German Special Forces, or just more SS?

Whatever was going on, Sinclair’s orders were very clear: stop all carbon shipments from Zululand at
any cost
and bring in the key players for interrogation.

Nash looked around the boat at the men. The navy’s finest. They had already proven themselves on reconnaissance missions to the target area these last few nights.

‘Okay, listen up.’ Nash spoke quietly. The three small assault craft bobbed together on the water. ‘We are going in against a well-armed and determined enemy. The shoreline is steep, and well defended. The only way in from the water is via a wooden jetty, but luckily for us, we’re not all using the front door… ’ Nash grinned in the darkness.

Behind the mining camp was mile upon mile of the toughest jungle imaginable. The Germans had worked on the assumption that no attack would come from the rear. Nash hoped this error would play to his advantage. Nonetheless, it was a risky assault plan – and the teams were new: elite army and navy troops from the hastily commissioned Cape Amphibious Training Base; the first true generation of Naval Special Forces in the region.

‘The damned weather is not on our side for going ashore.’ Rudy Temple flashed a smile from one of the other boats.

It was good to have him along. Nash looked through the clear night air at the full moon. ‘Rudy mate, I thought you had a direct line with God and could arrange the weather.’

‘Afraid not!’ he grinned. ‘Hey, but don’t worry, us Africaans will save your limey arse if you get in the shit.’

Nash shook his head. ‘Thanks mate, that brings me no end of comfort.’

At least the low profile of the flat-bottomed assault craft would help. Hopefully no one would notice their little aluminium boats.

Nash gave a harsh whisper to the three boats in the landing team. ‘Stay sharp. We don’t want to be caught out in the open. Radio silence from here, move out.’

Would three boats with a grand total of eighteen men be enough? Time would soon tell.

The men instinctively took up firing positions, lying flat on the cool aluminium plate. Nash teased the engine forward, revving gently, barely raising the nose of the boat more than a foot above the waterline. He soon found a steady rhythm, satisfied that there was minimal foamy wake behind the boat. The engine was almost silent, with the exhaust manifold on the outboard motors being especially designed to vent below the water line.

The boats moved through the darkness, with men peering into the gloom; weapons at the ready. Gradually the river mouth engulfed them. The boats made a tactical advance upriver, as the silhouette of mangroves on the shoreline grew larger.

Nash cut the engine some five hundred yards from the target area; Temple and the coxswain on the other boats did the same. They would paddle the rest of the way.

Nash focused the binoculars on the shoreline. It was pointless – just a mass of dense blackness – swamp and jungle. Nothing seemed to be stirring, but that didn’t mean anything. You could hide a battalion in the undergrowth and still not see them.

He signalled for a final weapons and camouflage check. The enemy would only see the whites of their eyes, and even then, only at close quarters. He checked his kit for noise and weaponry: two automatic pistols, machine gun, belt kit with spare ammo, daggers, and grenades – all present and correct. Last, but not least: one machete, dangling on a length of parachute chord. An essential piece of kit for working through the jungle, but still, a pain in the arse to keep tucked away. Nash shoved it under his belt kit as best he could, and did another weapons check. It wasn’t necessary, but every man had his quiet little habits. It was all about being mentally prepared for the assault. Besides, these guys were the best of the best, a good impression was needed.

The paddles dipped gently in and out the water, pushing the boats steadily towards the mangrove fringe. This was the danger zone. If there was a trap to be sprung, it would come now.

It didn’t.

Nash sensed the gentle shudder as tree roots scrapped under the hull: shallow water. A storm of sand flies leapt from the branches of the mangroves. With the safety off and adrenalin pumping, each man piled silently ashore over the bow, taking up defensive positions amongst the mangrove roots. Nash followed the last man over, and waded to the head of the formation. He fanned his weapon back and forth, mouth open, with eyes and ears straining.

Good news, no battalion hiding in the bushes.

Nash whispered, pointing towards the jungle. ‘Boats away, form up, move out in two minutes.’

The men complied, drawing the lightweight craft into the mangroves, and stashing them under the dense foliage.

‘Come on, come on, let’s move!’ Nash pressed himself against a salty tree trunk, wedging his submerged boots onto some mangrove roots to stop himself sinking in the mud. Weapon up, staring into the darkness, he waited for the men to form a column. The sooner they were through the mangrove fringe the better.

‘Rudy up front, gunner to the rear,’ Nash whispered. It was better to have the best navigator lead the head of the column – and Rudy Temple was a master craftsman; the bush would test everyone’s skills to the limit. The beefy gunner with his high-calibre machine gun took up the rear. Anyone following their trail would be hosed down in seconds.

Nash moved gently forward into the mangroves, trying not to disturb the water, only to be instantly engulfed by blackness drenched with humidity and mosquitoes. His eyes started to adjust to the darkness; the shadow of the man in front went in and out of view. The buzz of mosquitoes filled his ears.

The men moved in unison, silently through the swamp.

After fifty yards of counting time and footsteps, the water started to recede; giving way to muddy, lush jungle. Temple stopped and checked his compass for direction. Satisfied with the compass bearing, he tapped the man behind on the shoulder, and started counting footsteps in his head as the column moved off again. He stopped every fifty yards or so, took another bearing and repeated the process. It was painstaking work; but completely necessary. Getting turned around and lost in the bush was not an option.

The assault team worked its way inland for two hundred metres and then turned parallel to the shoreline, heading towards the mining camp. The dense bush tore at their clothing, and every man was drenched in sweat. Yet, they moved silently forward in good order.

Eventually the jungle began to thin out.

Nash tapped the man up front on the shoulder; the column duly stopped. ‘Rudy, how far?’

‘Two hundred metres, over the rise,’ he spoke quietly in Nash’s ear.

‘Okay, weapons check and water, we move in two.’ The message went down the line. Each man took a few seconds to recheck their weapons, stow machetes, and gulp down a few hard-earned mouthfuls of water.

‘Listen up.’ The men gathered round. ‘We go as planned; in three squads with my team down the middle. Remember flanking positions – if these bastards get behind us we’re finished. The enemy is alert and professional. Go in hard and fast.’

The men nodded in agreement. It didn’t need saying; every man knew his job, and the job of the man next to him.

The team moved silently up the slope, weapons at the ready.

Nash peered over the rise. Good news: mostly quiet with only two guards patrolling the makeshift perimeter at the back of the camp. He followed the roll of barbed wire with the binoculars; all strung out like a great snake along the rear perimeter. It was a token gesture about waist height. He waved the men forward. Sliding over the rise, moving in a commando crawl, he went head first down the bank, trying to keep his weapon out of the mud.

The teams moved efficiently down to the perimeter, each leaving a man behind on the ridge to lay down covering fire.

Nash held his breath, lying flat and motionless against the wire. Boots clumped past in a rhythmic plod – the two guards – they would be back soon enough. Sweat dripped from his palm. He adjusted his grip on the wire cutters.

Click!
The first cut.

The wire gave a quiet snap.
Click, click, click
, more cuts. The tension in the barbed wire gave a little. He crawled forward into the roll of wire. Then, putting pressure on the cutters, with his free hand ready to dampen the vibration in the adjacent coil, he made ready for the last cut. Muffled foot falls approached from the distance.

Snap! A clean cut.

Nash eased the wire back with his free hand and stowed the cutters hastily in his breast pocket. The footfalls suddenly got louder – guards!

He leapt through the gap, commando knife drawn, and piled on top of the first man, shoving his hand over his mouth and simultaneously plunging the knife through his neck. Pushing down firmly, desperate to silence the guard, he dug in the knife and twisted. The guard gave a few spasms as blood gushed from his jugular. Nash kept the pressure up.

The body went limp.

A gentle thud caught Nash’s attention. The second guard dropped to his knees momentarily, before falling face down in the mud. He registered the gaping hole in the guard’s forehead, and glanced a nod of thanks to his left. Temple smiled back, with a small trail of smoke still rising from his silencer.

The assault team needed no second invitation, and fanned out through the gap in the wire. Nash surveyed the scene as the men quickly took up flanking positions along the perimeter.

‘Number One,’ he hissed at Temple, pointing towards the nearest cover – a couple of tool sheds and a pile of gasoline barrels.

The team went forward, moving silent and swiftly. Nash’s nostrils filled with the smell of gasoline as his slid behind a few drums.

‘See that.’ He pointed to the right. ‘Tents – they must be sleeping quarters for the workers.’

Temple nodded, and dispatched two men to keep the workers under wraps. There was no point having civilians screwing up the line of fire.

Nash peered over the top of the gasoline barrel to get a better view of the camp. Further down the slope, a larger shack perched at the end of the jetty; likely the main guard room and the reception for boat landings.

‘How many guards do you count?’

Temple whispered back. ‘Two outside the guard room, four on the beachfront, and we can expect some at the far end of the jetty; at least eight men.’

‘Plus whoever’s inside.’ Nash nodded towards the light burning brightly in the guard room; with luck that would include Steinhoff and Heinkel. ‘Remember, we need the scientist alive.’

Temple duly nodded.

It was a good twenty yards across open ground towards the guards’ shack; and no chance of making the distance without a firefight.

Nash tapped Temple on the shoulder. He got the message and raised his pistol. With luck they could take out at least one guard, maybe two, with the silencer.

‘Alarm! Alarm!’ A shout broke the silence – so much for the element of surprise.

A headshot dropped the first guard outside the shack. Rolling off the decking, the second guard found some cover on the riverbank, and instantly returned fire. Simultaneously, weapons trained up the hill on Nash’s position.

Rounds thudded into the drums. He ducked down behind the gasoline cans. Fuel spewed from the bullet holes.

‘We need to move!’ Nash screamed as he tossed two smoke grenades into the open ground. Green smoke filled the air.

Moving forward, the six-man team worked in pairs, providing covering fire for each other.

Nash sprinted in a zigzag shooting from the hip, then rolled up onto his knees in a defensive firing position, providing a hailstorm of covering fire for the next pair in the team. Machine guns rattling, the sound of splintering wood penetrated the smoke as the rounds found their target. A guard staggered through the smoke, blood pouring from his chest. He danced like a rag doll as ammunition filled his torso, then collapsed to the ground, dead.

Nash felt a rush of movement to his left. The second pair from the team zigzagged past, firing rapidly. They didn’t make it – ignoring a shower of blood, bone and splinters – Nash pressed forward.

Suddenly, with the smoke clearing, a German screamed into view.

A deafening shower of hot shell casings poured onto Nash’s shoulder. He ducked as Rudy peppered the German full of lead. The body bounded across the mud landing close by. It was good enough; Nash dived behind the corpse for cover and returned fire. Rudy Temple landed in the mud next to him.