The Reich Device (35 page)

Steinhoff considered the payload.

How much damage would a hundred tons of high explosive do?

The current payload was a few hundred kilograms, and that was devastating enough, easily capable of destroying an area about the size of a football pitch. What would a hundred kilograms, or a thousand, of high explosive do? Destroy a small town? Destroy a city? It could certainly be used to devastating effect on the battlefield.

Steinhoff changed tack.

You don’t have to use all that force to lift something very large. There was an alternative – move something smaller – but move it very fast.

Maybe they could make their current rockets, travel a few thousand miles an hour instead of a few hundred? The rockets could reach New York in thirty minutes, instead of just London! The Reich would have a weapon that could target any location, anywhere in the world!

Steinhoff smiled, nodding to himself; his chest surged with pride – he had done it! He had
really
done it. He threw a triumphant punch into the air.

‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’

His grin broadened. At last, recognition would come – and
he had
toiled for so long. There would be honours for sure! The saviour of the Reich! Decorated by the Führer himself no less! Then there would be globalisation of the Reich, with all and every possible resource available for science; maybe even a Nobel Prize. Steinhoff beamed.

But there was a problem: no one had ever made anything fly that fast before. What would be the stresses of the massive acceleration on the fuselage of the rocket? Would the carbon coatings survive at such speed? What about the guidance system? It was challenging enough to get the rockets to fly in a straight line at only one hundred miles an hour. How on earth could they make a guidance system to direct a rocket to a specific target when the speed of flight was over a thousand miles an hour? The slightest error would put the rocket off target by many miles, missing the objective completely.

It was time for another little chat with Professor Mayer; but this time he would do it alone.

Mayer stirred from his sleep, sensing a presence in his room. He opened his eyes. The dim glow of the sidelight told him it was still night-time. His head thumped. He reached up to the wetness around his neck and registered the clammy sweat soaking through his hair. His pyjamas soaked in salty dampness. The fever had returned.

Suddenly, he spotted a figure at the end of the bed. Standing motionless, dressed in a white laboratory coat.

‘Steinhoff?’

Mayer tried easing himself up on to a pillow; his good arm took the strain, but ached. He wedged a pillow under his armpit and half sat up in the bed.

‘Steinhoff? Is that you?’

The white-coated figure remained silent, almost monolithic in the lamplight.

‘Steinhoff?
It is
you?’ Mayer coughed.

No response.

‘What do you want?’

No response.

‘Steinhoff?’ Mayer rubbed his thumping brow. The bruises on his face throbbed. He looked at the silhouetted man again. Perhaps it was a dream?

The pain of wakefulness told him it wasn’t. Mayer stretched towards the switch next to the bed and, with his muscles aching, flicked the main lights on.

Steinhoff remained fixed to the spot.

Mayer glanced him up and down. Unshaven, oil-stained laboratory coat, and pockets full of tools. ‘Steinhoff… please… ’

Steinhoff responded. ‘I have it. I’ve built my first prototype.’

Mayer gasped. ‘No!’ He made a fist with his good arm and punched the bed. ‘Steinhoff, stop, it is not too late. Please stop!’

Steinhoff spoke evenly, as if detached from the world. ‘You know I cannot do that. The prize is within my grasp.’

‘You
must
give it up.’ Mayer went into a coughing fit; he rasped between breaths. ‘You don’t know what you’ve done!’

‘Done?… Done? I have made a great discovery, possibly
the greatest
discovery; but to make it complete, there are details.’

Mayer flushed with fever, sweat dripped from his brow. ‘I cannot help you.’

‘But you will. You know how it goes; a little work here, some adjustment there… one prototype follows another… until perfection is achieved. Yes, perfection. That’s it… perfection… ’

‘Perfection?… No, just perfect madness.’

‘I will start work on a second prototype device tomorrow. I need to know about torsion, the stresses on the aluminium frame. How fast will the device go?’

‘How fast? Forget it!’ Mayer rolled back flat on the bed to relieve the ache in his good shoulder. His skull pounded as the blood rushed to his head. His stomach churned.

He stared at the ceiling as Steinhoff spoke.

‘Faster than the speed of sound?’

‘You do the math.’ Mayer rubbed his abdomen, with cramp rising in his gut.

‘
How fast?
’ Steinhoff moved forward, taking a wrench from his lab coat pocket.

Mayer flinched as the cool weight of the steel pressed against his belly. ‘Very… fast.’

‘The speed of sound?’

Mayer gasped as the wrench pushed deeper into his stomach, then yelped as the wrench was twisted. ‘Yes… yes… obviously!’

The weight was suddenly lifted. Mayer recoiled holding his gut.

‘How do I get the carbon sixty to give a stable coating, and stay intact at the speed of sound?’

‘No, I cannot… help you.’ Mayer remained curled up.

‘How do I get a stable carbon sixty coating at high speed?
How?!
’

Steinhoff’s voice echoed around the room. Mayer tensed as the wrench rested on his head wound.

Steinhoff rolled the tool clumsily over the bandage.

Mayer gritted his teeth against the pain. The sound of the scab cracking, and the moistness of fresh blood soaked into his bandage.

‘Steinhoff… it is not too late… turn away… ’ Mayer’s gullet burned with rising vomit; his intestines tightened in unison with the fresh pain in his skull.

‘How do I fix the coating at high speed?!’

The sudden
thump
,
thump
of the wrench against his skull sent a sharp, lancing pain through his body. ‘Arghh! Arghh!… Do you not see it?’ Mayer covered his head with his good hand, and gritted his teeth. The wrench smashed into his knuckles, closely followed by a wave of pain. ‘Arghh! Electrostatic… you work it out!’

Steinhoff ’s voice boomed through the pain ‘Electrostatic? Very clever.
How?
How exactly?’

‘You’re the genius… your twisted mind… will never the find answer!’

A deep thud, pain, and the rush of vomit registered as Mayer passed out.

S
ir Hugh Sinclair poured over the maps in the cabinet office briefing room and the latest reconnaissance photographs from Peenemünde with General Gort, the head of the British Army. The political situation in Eastern Europe was deteriorating rapidly, with Herr Hitler showing aspirations to annex parts of Austria and the strategically important Sudetenland on the Czechoslovakian border. Perhaps Mr Churchill had been right all along about Hitler, but nobody had listened – until now. The threat from Peenemünde
was
significant. The Germans could potentially target any major city in mainland Europe, perhaps even London. Regardless of any intent, the mere existence of the facility gave Hitler a political advantage.

Sinclair worried, but kept an outward air of calm efficiency. Any substantial military intervention at Peenemünde by the British would be seen as an act of war. Equally, doing nothing was not an option.

The German fleet was still anchored in the Heligoland Bight, in the north west of Germany. This was a natural harbour, and the towns along the River Elbe that fed into the massive bay had a long history of shipping and ship construction. Hamburg in particular had all the heavy steel industry and infrastructure needed for making weapons. The military significance of basing the German fleet in Heligoland was not lost to the sharp military mind of Sir Hugh Sinclair.

Not only could the German fleet move freely westward into the North Sea, but it was also only a short hop eastwards around the Schleswig Peninsula into the Baltic Sea. The fleet could quickly mount a defence of the rocket base at Peenemüde.

‘What about a bombing raid on Peenemünde?’ asked Sinclair.

‘Out of the question. Too overt, and politically it would be too risky. Britain is in no shape to go to war.’ General Gort shook his head.

‘Sometimes one has to take risks to win,’ Sinclair countered.

‘I agree, but the risk is simply too great. Besides, any bombers would have to fly direct to Peenemünde, and that would take them over the heavily defended Heligoland. The German cruisers with their big guns would chew us to pieces. There are also substantial air defences at Peenemünde.’

Sinclair threw another idea in to the mix. ‘What about a high-altitude bombing raid?’

‘No good.’ Gort rubbed his brow. ‘The planes are not up to it. They would burn more fuel than they can carry. In any event, Peenemünde is a small target area. They need to fly low to be on target.’

‘Then, what about a ground assault with regular troops?’

‘That would be political madness, and militarily we simply don’t have enough men and equipment. The only route in is by sea, and the Germans have the area well defended. We would have to defeat the German Navy first, and then battle ashore at Peenemünde. There would be heavy casualties and little chance of success.’

‘I thought that would be your answer,’ Sinclair paused, ‘I have been discussing options with the Secret Intelligence Service. Our boys from Section D are going to have a crack at the Hun.’

Gort stiffened with surprise. ‘Bloody hell old chap, are you sure?!’

Section D was a newly formed part of MI6 and its specialty was undercover operations behind enemy lines. Its sole purpose was sabotage and destruction of the enemy’s infrastructure. Or indeed, any other little job they were asked to do.

‘The operation has already been approved by Mr Churchill,’ Sinclair continued as he pulled up an aerial map of Peenemünde.

General Gort raised an eyebrow, murmuring to himself.

‘Clearly, the facility is well defended from an assault by sea or by air; but there is one weakness.’

Gort gave a cautious look. ‘Go on, I am listening.’

‘The base is at the end of a narrow strip of land that is serviced by one road. The route is not well protected. The Germans are simply not expecting an attack from within Germany.’

‘What are you suggesting? That we simply walk up to the front door and knock?’

‘Yes.’ Sinclair stood up and lit his pipe, puffing absently on the mellow tobacco. ‘The enemy is arrogant. That is their weakness. They will not be expecting such a daring attempt.’

Gort had to admit – Sinclair had a point.

‘We will use a small team with lots of high explosives. You can see from the photographs that there are four main areas to attack. The main living quarters housing the scientists and the guards, a cluster of buildings that, for now, we think are workshops. There is also the main experimental station. The latter is surrounded by concrete bunkers and is partially buried in the ground. We would need to get a man inside to do any significant damage.’

Sinclair seemed to have it all worked out.

‘What’s the escape plan? How do we extract the assault team?’ asked Gort.

Sinclair looked grimly at his colleague. ‘There is no escape plan. This is a one-way ticket for some very brave men.’

General Gort fell silent, and furrowed his brow.

‘General, I know… I know… but understand this; disrupting the German rocket programme is pivotal. It is essential to morale in the British Isles that no rocket ever makes it onto our soil. It is also critical from both a political and military point of view. The simple fact is that the Germans have rockets and we do not.’

‘And if the men are captured?’

‘Nothing will identify them as British. They know the score.’

‘Very well, then I agree… I just hope Mr Churchill has made the right call. This could turn into a pretty old mess fairly easily.’ General Gort collected his hat from the coat stand in the corner of the room. ‘Good luck. Obviously, we can provide anything you might need… just let me know.’ Gort gave a rare smile.

Sinclair nodded as Gort left the room, then waited. Alone at the large oak table, Sinclair dialled an internal number.

‘It’s on… ’

He hung up the receiver and re-lit his pipe.

Emily Sinclair snuggled under Nash’s arm, listening to the steady rhythmic beat of his heart. Her full warm breasts pressed against his rib cage. A sweet perspiration moistened her cleavage as Nash gently stroked her golden brown hair. He kissed her on the forehead and sighed.

Emily smiled, gazing up into his eyes. ‘I love the sound of your heartbeat… so strong… reassuring.’

Nash smiled back, running his fingertips over her left breast; the nipple instantly hardened. ‘I love everything about you too… ’ Nash leant over, and kissed her tenderly on the lips. She responded, pulling him in closer, feeling the undulations of the firm muscles covering his ribs.

The taste of perfume and moist lipstick filled Nash’s palate. He ran his fingers around her waist finding the small of her back. The softness of her skin tantalised his senses; with his heartbeat rising, he kissed her deeply. Her breathing increased, chest heaving; her tongue darted in and out of his mouth between gasps.

‘Oh Danny! I wish this could last forever… ’

Nash eased her back into the pillow, breaking the embrace; he smiled. ‘I wish it could too… but I have to go to work soon.’ He brushed his index finger across her fringe, tracing it lightly over her eyebrows and down to the tip of her nose. He whispered. ‘Such a perfect, perfect face. You’re beautiful… you’re funny… you make me smile… you’re everything a man could ask for.’

He kissed her deeply on the lips and sank back onto the bed, relaxing his whole being. He exhaled gently. All the tension had gone; she somehow made him complete. But would it last?

A pigeon landed on the skylight window of the attic room. It purred gently, pecking absently at the glass.