The Reich Device (39 page)

Kessler was on the move.

Nash pushed a fresh magazine into place and, recovering the pliers for safekeeping, he pulled himself upright. He searched along the gantry with the pistol.

Nothing.

More resonating footfalls issued from the metalwork.

He edged forwards, finding the aluminium steps leading up the side of the first gas tank. He dodged an arctic blast of nitrogen gas. The muzzle of his pistol caught a split second flash of liquid nitrogen, and instantly frosted over. Icy numbness penetrated his hand from the freezing weapon. Tiny splashes of liquid nitrogen stung the back of his hand like a thousand hornets.

Ignoring the pain, he methodically worked up the steps, cautiously following the curvature of the vessel. He swept the pistol wide, craning his neck. It was no good; at best he could only see a couple of yards around the curve of the tank.

He moved forwards, one step at a time, weapon up.

No Kessler.

He emerged onto a landing, and swiftly searched the gantry and pipework for a target.

Nothing.

An iced-up valve on the side of the tank caught his eye. He took out the second Bee Hive. The ice crackled under protest as the prongs on the Bee Hive dug into the frozen metalwork. He worked the explosive charge behind the valve, hoping for maximum effect. He took out a second time pencil and pushed it into place. The charge felt cold. Would the sub-zero temperature slow the acid in the time pencil down so that the charge wouldn’t go off? Or would the ice cold make the firing mechanism brittle, breaking the thin command wire to cause an instant explosion?

He wasn’t sure.

He set the pliers around the already cooling copper tube, and took up the pressure.

Suddenly, a dark figure appeared in his peripheral vision. Dropping the pliers, Nash reached for his weapon.

Too late!

Kessler’s full bodyweight piled into his rib cage. Both men rolled down the steps in a devilish embrace.

The pliers clattered, bouncing off several pipes below, before disappearing from view.

Nash jarred heavily against the gantry as they bounced; flailing his fists, he registered the crunch of his knuckles on the fleshy ligaments of Kessler’s jaw.

Kessler returned with a solid punch to the diaphragm.

Paralysing breathlessness, and pulsing abdominal pain, sent Nash’s next punch off target.

They cascaded down the last few steps, separating on the flat of the gantry.

Kessler drew his SS dagger.

Nash reached for his trusty stiletto. ‘Bollocks!’ The knife was gone.

Kessler lunged, taking the advantage.

Nash stepped back in a defence posture; he blocked the knife with a double-handed blow to Kessler’s wrist.

‘Let’s finish this, American!’ Kessler swung again.

‘Arghh!’ Nash registered a sharp pain. Blood flowed from his forearm. He bellowed. ‘Come on then! Come on!’ He whipped off his rucksack, fending off Kessler’s next blow.

The bag ripped open, spilling the last Bee Hive onto the floor.

Nash kicked out, finding the soft tissue on Kessler’s inner thigh. He kicked again, reaching for a handhold on Kessler’s knife arm.

Kessler crumpled onto one knee.

Leaping with all his strength, Nash focused on the German blade and, twisting Kessler to the floor, he landed on top of him.

Kessler gritted his teeth and, with sheer determination, maintained a vice-like grip on the dagger. He kept control of the blade, sweeping it under Nash’s abdomen.

Blood gushed from the wound.

Kessler, sensing a sudden gap, pushing his knee into his assailant’s sternum, he kicked hard.

Nash flew backwards, landing with a jolt onto the gantry, next to the wayward Bee Hive. He picked it up, half stooping against the agony in his gut. He menaced the sharp prongs at the base of the explosive towards Kessler.

Kessler stepped forwards and, with an underarm swing, aimed for the abdominal wound.

Nash blocked, locking Kessler’s forearm against his body, while still grasping the Bee Hive in his free hand.

The diesel engine exploded.

The detonation sent both men over the side of the gantry. An orange glow of red-hot fuel engulfed the walkway. Still locked in combat, both men rolled about under the flames.

Nash felt blisters form on his face as the fireball receded; with his clothes scorched and smoking, he held onto Kessler’s knife arm.

Kessler flailed onto his back, moving his shoulder up and down wildly.

It was his only mistake.

Nash powered down with the Bee Hive, planting the sharp metal prongs into Kessler’s chest.

Kessler arched in agony, hissing through clenched teeth. ‘Arrghhh! Germany will prevail! You cannot win! You cannot win! The Reich will prevail!’ Kessler coughed, blood splattered from his mouth and nose.

Nash stood, holding his stomach wound.

‘Fuck the Reich!’ He stamped his boot hard down on the Bee Hive, driving the prongs deeper into Kessler’s chest.

Kessler frothed blood.

Nash knelt down next to his victim. ‘Where is the second device?’

Kessler smiled; blood dripped from the side of his mouth. ‘Behind reinforced concrete… with dozens of men… well-armed men. You have… lost.’

Nash grunted. He took the last time pencil, and pushed it gently into the Bee Hive. He stood up.

Kessler squirmed.

‘Goodbye Commandant, and just so you know… British… not American.’

Nash walked away.

Thrump!

After only thirty yards, the Bee Hive on the liquid nitrogen tank went off.

Nash turned as the strangely muffled explosion gave way to gushing liquid. Metal creaked and snapped, as the tank toppled over, sending a wave of liquid nitrogen in Kessler’s direction.

Kessler registered the immense freezer burn as the boiling liquid washed over his feet. A brittle snapping sound crackled in the air as his flesh froze. He lifted his leg; curiously, he examined the frosted stump where his foot had once been.

Kessler smiled to himself, as he snapped the time pencil embedded in the explosive on his chest.

At last… a hero’s death… an iron cross after all.

C
olonel Dornberger brushed the debris from his desk, and hastily arranged a pencil and paper as best he could to make ready for the Führer’s phone call. The operator would only be a few moments – not much time to gather his thoughts – bad news travels fast. Somehow Berlin knew of the attack in no time at all. Perhaps it was no surprise with SS men and party political officers snooping around in every building at Peenemünde. No doubt one of them had radioed news of the assault to the Reich Chancellery.

The phone rang.

Dornberger glanced across the desk at Steinhoff. He looked worried too, and for good reason; both their necks were on the line.

Dornberger picked up the receiver.

‘Yes, my Führer… yes, that is correct… the base has been attacked… yes, of course my Führer we will double our efforts. We… of course my Führer… yes my Führer. No stone will be left unturned… yes, yes… he is with me now… yes, it will be done my Führer.’

The phone went dead. Hitler had hung up.

‘Well?’ Steinhoff stared at the ashen-faced Dornberger.

‘He is furious… and had ordered that the defences be strengthened.’

‘And?’ Steinhoff probed to stir Dornberger to his senses.

‘… And the Führer orders the security to be tripled on the perimeter and main gate. There is to be no opportunity for a second ground assault, or further sabotage.’

‘We are allowed to continue?’

‘Yes, but… we are to move your project.’

‘What? Now?!’ Steinhoff was perplexed.

‘Apparently, we are to move you and the device in total secrecy to a new underground complex in the Carpathian Mountains, near Reisebirge. The Führer called it his
Wolfsberg
.’

‘I’ve heard of it, only whispers and rumour, an impregnable fortress dug deep into the mountainside… I didn’t realise the Führer had actually built the thing.’

‘Apparently so, what’s more, he will be here in forty-eight hours to inspect our repairs and preparations.’ Dornberger steeled himself at the thought.

‘How bad is the damage? My work must continue.’

‘Details are still coming in… ’ Dornberger absently dabbed at a cut on his forehead; everyone was in bad shape. ‘… The barracks have been hit hard, almost totally destroyed by heavy fire. We have over one hundred casualties.’

Steinhoff spoke logically. ‘Yes, but the army will send more men?’

Dornberger sensed no sign of remorse at the loss of so many men. He decided not to comment, but continued. ‘The main laboratory has taken a few heavy blasts. Mostly superficial damage to the outer wall, and as you know several of the inner concrete buttresses are cracked. Many of the windows are shattered. Fortunately, the engineers indicate that the structural damage can be repaired, and the damage to the windows and interior is mostly cosmetic.’

‘What about the workshop?’

‘That’s the main problem. It’s been totally destroyed.’

Steinhoff sunk back in his chair. ‘No! I can’t believe it! We have to rebuild… find new labourers… work day and night… we have to do it.’

‘You should have heard his voice… trembling with rage… the Führer doesn’t share your optimism.’ Dornberger shook his head. ‘It’s also possible that they weren’t here for the rocket programme.’

‘What?’

‘Think about it. The workshop was specifically targeted. Clearly the assault was made by professional soldiers, probably Special Forces, and their explosives experts knew exactly where to place the charges for maximum effect. This cannot be coincidence.’

Steinhoff shrugged. ‘Perhaps the workshop was just an easier target? It is, or rather was, just a simple brick and timber building. Nothing like the reinforced concrete used in the main laboratory complex.’

‘No, that would be too convenient.’ Dornberger went with his gut instinct. ‘No, they were after you, Steinhoff. Look at the evidence. The second prototype device and most of your notes have been completely destroyed. Charges placed deliberately for maximum destruction of the device.’

‘So, what are you saying?’ Steinhoff wanted to be sure.

‘The Americans, the British, someone knows about your machine – and want to stop it – bad enough to risk some crack troops on an assault deep in our territory.’

‘Do you
really
think they were after me?’

‘Yes, definitely. At the time of the attack you were deep inside the main complex, and reasonably well protected. It is only by chance that you survived the assault. However, many of your technical assistants have been killed.’ Dornberger was unable to conceal his annoyance. ‘Damn it! I should have insisted that
all
of your project was moved into the main building.’

‘It’s not your fault. You gave into my requests on the mark II model. I just wanted the flexibility to be close to the machinery in the workshop; with so many small adjustments to make, it made sense to be near the lathes and cutting tools.’

‘Nonetheless, they were good scientists, and now all are dead because I did not think of the security implications.’ Dornberger shook his head wearily. ‘Look… Steinhoff… it’s best that you stay in the main complex from now on, and with an armed escort. We can’t take any more chances. We will make careful preparations, and then move things to the Führer’s
Wolfsberg
. The transportation of the remaining device, the few surviving technicians, and whatever remains of your notes
must be
secure.’ Dornberger was deeply concerned – physicists were now a valuable commodity and in short supply.

Steinhoff nodded in agreement.

There was so much to do, and so little time to do it.

Sinclair sucked in the bad news as he studied the documents from Peenemünde. There was only one conclusion: the Germans had more than one device. The latest aerial photographs also showed a hastily constructed railway line, going right into the camp.

So, the Germans were looking to move the device to a more secure location?

It was the logical thing to do.

But where?

Sinclair picked up the phone. ‘Margaret, bring me the most recent report on the recognisance along the Czech border.’

The secretary dutifully replied and seconds later appeared with the report.

The Czech Resistance had paid with their lives to get this first-hand intelligence. It was certainly a massive construction project by any measure, and underway in the remote Carpathian Mountains. The Germans were tunnelling into the hillsides and setting up heavy defences. The secrecy and complex defences pointed to military weapons development. The rumours were that the Germans were moving their uranium work from Berlin to a new facility. The proximity of uranium ore in the region was also too much of a coincidence. This had to be it.

If this location was good enough for the uranium weapon, it would be secure enough for the device, and God knows how many other secret projects.

It looked like an impenetrable fortress. If construction of the device was moved to Czechoslovakia, then it would all be over. There could be no successful attack against such a well-defended underground facility.

There was only one brutally simple solution: kill as many German scientists as possible
before
they get to the complex. Destroy every train and every convoy heading in that direction.
Nothing
from Peenemünde would get through to the Carpathian Mountains.

Sinclair picked up his pipe. Sabotage, murder and mayhem were the unsavoury tools of clandestine warfare. He had another job for MI6 and the boys from Section D – after all, the D was for
destruction
.