1945 (31 page)

"Time to talk to Harriman," Jim finally said.

"Then what?"

"Have the FBI come down and rip this place apart."

"And suppose they won't?"

Martel knew that wasn't as ridiculous as it sounded. Damn the not-invented-here syndrome, anyway! Jim pointed south toward a ridge looking down on the runway. "I think, old friend, that up there would be a good spot for you to hang out and keep an eye on things."

"Me? Why not you?"

"Like you were moaning about before, you lived out in the boonies during the war; you're used to it. I, on the other hand, am of effete naval-pilot aristocratic lineage. Also, Major Mason, I am the boss on our little expedition," Jim added with just enough of a smile to show that he didn't want to have to
really
pull rank.

By now they had crested the ridge. Jim pulled the car over as Mason cursed under his breath. While Jim pulled a backpack and portable radio out of the trunk, Mason reached under his seat, pulled out a forty-five semiautomatic and slipped it into his pocket.

"If it rains I'll sort of have to shoot you when this is over, pal."

The weather's beautiful. Find a good vantage point, set up and keep in touch. I'm Black Knight, you're White." Martel opened up the back door of the car and pulled back the blanket concealing the portable transceiver that they had wired into the car's antenna.

"If anything jumps, holler. Otherwise check in every two hours during the night. I'll wait here till you get set up and we make sure the radios check out."

"Great, just great. I'll freeze my tail off out here when I could have been back in a warm bed with Sarah."

"You could not love her half so much," Jim quoted with what pretended to be a mock-serious look.

"What if the FBI won't play?"

"Then we'll get Donovan to loan us some people and do it ourselves. I'd love to be in on nailing Skorzeny. He's starting to get under my skin."

Wayne lit a cigarette and slowly exhaled. "I'd wager that we're starting to get under his, too."

Wayne was more right than he knew. Lurking in the stairway leading down to the secret basement, Skorzeny had recognized both of them while they were giving Bachman the pseudo-friendly third degree.

April 20, Midnight Somewhere in Germany
(April 19,6:00 P.M. in Oak Ridge)

Shifting his shoulders under his backpack, Karl Radl walked slowly down the line of men, making one final check. Earlier he had watched the enlisted men carefully for signs of dismay as they were finally briefed as to where the target was, and the reason behind the strike. No need to have worried: the months of training, the months of speculation, were finally over for them, and they were eager to begin.

The forty men of his platoon were bent forward under the weight of their gear—parachute and backup, first-aid kit, gas mask, machine pistol, two hundred rounds of ammunition, two hundred rounds for their squad's heavy MG-42 machine gun, six fragmentation and three thermite grenades, two signal flares, knife, pistol and twenty-four rounds, two mortar rounds or one antitank round, four kilograms of plastic explosive already prepacked into steel rods for insertion into the reactor, flashlight, target maps, compass, two canteens and three days of rations. In addition, some of the men were carrying radio equipment and backups. In some cases the gear very nearly outweighed the men carrying it.

Underneath each of the stretched long-distance Me-264Es were three drop-containers that would be jettisoned at the same time the first man went out the door.

The containers held additional ammunition, two hundred kilograms of plastic explosives, a mortar, three heavy machine guns, and a specially designed 47-mm antitank gun which could be assembled in under five minutes. It could be pulled by two men, or simply hooked onto the bumper of nearly any commandeered automobile.

In the glare of the brightly lit airfield Radl saw a
Kübelwagen
coming down the taxiway. He turned to his men and barked, "Attention!"

They did their best to comply.

The Kübelwagen pulled up and Radl snapped off a salute as Herman Göring climbed out of the vehicle. Grinning broadly, the Reichsmarschal returned the salute with his baton, and then came up to slap Radl on the shoulder.

"All set, are we?"

"Yes, Herr Reichsmarschal."

"Good, good. The Führer sends his personal greetings to all of you. His eyes and mine will be upon you and your men. The Reich is counting on you for its salvation. If you are victorious, our nation will survive. But if you fail, Radl, the Americans will rain down atomic destruction on our cities. Germany will be destroyed."

"My men understand that, sir. We've trained more than half a year for this moment. We will not fail." Privately Radl thought that Otto had expressed the same thoughts much more effectively. The knowledge that both men were merely passing on the words of Adolf Hitler would have left him speechless.

Göring grinned again, and again slapped Radl on the back. Turning, he went down the line of men, patting some on the shoulder, shaking hands, and wishing them well. Down at the end of the taxiway, the engines of the first of the 264s in line started to cough, a sound soon joined by the whine of its two jets. One after another, the others joined the chorus.

After an inquiring glance at Göring, Radl nodded to the platoon commander at the head of the line. The man started up the steps into the aircraft, the rest of the section laboriously following. Ground crews waited at the door to help hoist the overloaded soldiers in. Once aboard the plane they would not leave it for the next twenty-eight hours.

Göring stood by Radl's side as the line filed aboard. As they did so, Göring nodded to an aide, who came forward and handed Radl a sealed manila envelope.

"The final briefings, weather reports, and intelligence from Skorzeny," Göring explained.

Radl looked down at the envelope curiously. "Is everything all right?"

"They had a bit of a scare from the FBI late yesterday but it doesn't look serious. Weather is projected to be good over the target tomorrow night."

"And the rest of the plan?" Radl asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

Göring smiled. "Let me worry about the big picture. Now get aboard, Radl, and good luck. There's a Knight's Cross waiting for you when you get back."

Radl stepped back and snapped off the Nazi salute. Göring answered with his baton, then warmly shook his hand, and Radl turned and started for the plane. Reaching the ladder, he gladly accepted the help of two ground crew, one pulling him up, while the other pushed from behind. Going through the door, he took a deep breath. No more drills. This was finally it. The men inside the cavernous transport broke into cheers at the sight of him. He waved good-naturedly.

Unclasping his parachute harness, he lowered it down on the floor and then sat down and unsnapped the quick-release for his combat pack. Sighing with relief, he stood back up, placed his Schmeisser into the gun rack lining the bulkhead, and then shoved his pack and parachute into their holding bin and strapped them in tight.

Standing up, he went forward, checking to make sure his men were settled into their bucket seats up forward. The distribution of the men and gear was crucial since the transport was at maximum weight. In fact, the men would have to remain in their seats not just for take-off but for several hours while fuel burned off.

After confirming that all was as it should be, Radl went through the forward door and climbed up into the cockpit, where the crew was intently running through final checkout. When he became aware of Radl's entrance the chief engineer looked back and smiled a welcome. "It's going to be one hell of a take-off, sir."

Radl nodded mock-ruefully and climbed into a pop-down seat behind the copilot and strapped himself in. He plugged in a headset to listen to the control tower as it directed the fleet of transports. Five planes were already out of their stands taxiing down to the end of the runway. One after another, the remaining transports took position until finally their plane, with all six engines howling, pivoted out onto the taxiway and turned east.

The engineer tapped Radl on the shoulder and pointed up.

Discernable from their running lights, a stream of bombers was passing overhead at five thousand feet, going into a broad banking turn. The bombers had been taking off for the last half hour from airfields to the south. Soon they all would rendezvous and begin the main leg of their journey.

The tower cleared the first transport down at the end of the runway. It turned out, lined up, and started lumbering slowly, painfully down the runway. Fifteen seconds later the next plane came into position and started forward; fifteen seconds later the third.... One after the other the line of transports moved slowly forward. The fourth, fifth and sixth planes toned out. They were next____

Radl saw a brief glimpse of Göring, standing in his Kübelwagen, waving excitedly. The pilot snapped off a quick salute. The tower gave their plane final clearance. The pilot and copilot leaned into the throttles and the mixed howl and growl of the jet and prop engines became a unitary roar. They quickly scanned their instruments one last time even as they swung out onto the runway. The plane started to labor forward. This was Radl's first take-off in a 264E under full combat load. The plane moved forward as if its wheels were mired in mud to the axles.

Looking over the copilot's shoulder, he saw the airspeed indicator slowly click up to twenty and then thirty kilometers per hour. Far down at the end of the runway he saw planes lifting off. The needle on the airspeed indicator slowly continued its climb to sixty then seventy then eighty kilometers per hour. The plane ahead started to tilt back. Its wheels lifted off slightly, touched down, came back up. Airspeed was now over a hundred and twenty kilometers ... a hundred and forty. The end of the runway was less than two hundred meters away. Radl watched its approach, mesmerized.

Then the view tilted back, and suddenly the bouncing stopped. They were airborne. The copilot quickly reached up to the toggle switches overhead to raise the landing gear. Airspeed went past one hundred and eighty kilometers and the pilot reached down to click the flaps in to ten degrees and then finally to neutral. The man looked back over his shoulder with a shaky smile; Radl suddenly realized that the take-off had been every bit as tricky and potentially catastrophic an operation as it had seemed to his amateur's eye.

Well, in the event, they had all made it. The stream of transports ahead started to wheel into a wide and shallow turn, while those further back in the line banked in steeper to cut across and thus come up alongside to form up into two flights of five. Overhead, the bombers and gunships made one final orbit as well, waiting for the transports to climb into formation. Radl listened as the group leaders reported in. Only one bomber had aborted so far, because of an overheating engine, and all the transports and gunships were still in the formation.

They were on their way. Strange that he didn't feel better about that. Of course much could yet go wrong. The weather could turn against them, forcing them to jump into the middle of a storm, too many planes could fall out for mechanical problems, or the Americans might figure out what was going on. But that wasn't it... nor was it the feeling of impending doom that bothered him. That feeling was an old friend by now, with him at the start of every mission. Perversely, he would be made fearful by its absence.

No, he was bothered by the mission itself. Not one of his men fully understood that if they were still there when the reactor core was breached, a most unpleasant death would come for all of them within a matter of hours.

He leaned over slightly to look back down at the airfield as they continued to go through their wide banking turn. There was really nothing to leave down there. He had no life, he realized, other than the unit, other than wherever it was that Otto would take him to next in their career of destruction. He understood that relationship as well. Otto most likely agreed with him that the two were each the other's closest friend, yet Radl knew Skorzeny would not think twice about sacrificing him for the sake of a mission, any mission.

Is this all that I am? Radl wondered. A cog in a machine created for the greater glory of Otto Skorzeny? All the propaganda about the future, about those generations yet unborn who would view them as heroes out of an epic age —what good was it? Fatuous nonsense.

And as for the Americans ... he felt nothing, for or against them. It was easy to hate the Russians. With them, it would be much the same whoever won, the main variable being who was on the receiving end. The Americans, though, were something different. Strange they were, almost amusing in their innocence. Would they use that new bomb of theirs the way Germany would, without hesitation?

Radl thought about it. Doubtful. Anything the world had that the Americans wanted badly enough they would simply buy. We Germans have been taught to see this as a wolf age of struggle between ethnic nations; the Americans simply didn't care about such notions, could hardly comprehend them. Oh they were willing enough to fight when forced, and after their Great Pacific War it had to be acknowledged that either the Japanese hadn't been as tough as they'd looked, or the Americans were much tougher than a bunch of free-enterprise degenerates had any right to be.