The Reich Device (25 page)

Nash eased through the door, and crouched behind the nearest bed – definitely three patients, and the nurse – but no one else. It was a safe bet there were sentries just outside the ward, the slightest noise out of the ordinary would bring them running. He edged around the bed, pistol raised.

Working from bed to bed, he moved along the ward.

His wet boots gave a squeak on the hard, polished floor. The nurse looked up.

Nash broke into a sprint, cocking the pistol as he slid the last few yards into the desk. The nurse was already reaching for the telephone. Nash landed with one hand firmly gripping hers and pressing down hard on the receiver. The other hand pressed the cold muzzle of the pistol against her forehead.

‘You’re hurting me!’

‘Quiet.’ Nash gently released his grip on her hand, but at the same time pushed the muzzle of the pistol deeper into her forehead.

She got the message, and sat motionless at the desk.

Nash glanced around the ward. The three patients were still sleeping. One of them was badly injured, and bandaged up; he wasn’t going anywhere. The other two were old men.

He eased the nurse to her feet and, with the pistol still firmly against her forehead, moved her across the ward to the first bed.

Nash glanced at the occupant – no luck. He sidled across to the second bed. The nurse moved in step, with the pistol pressing against her forehead.

Nash studied the patient for a few seconds. A frail, ashen shadow of a man lay in the bed. He picked up the chart on the end of the bed: Mayer! Or so the chart said. It was hard to tell through the gloom and bandages; he seemed to have aged since the plane crash.

Nash spoke quietly and clearly in fluent German to the nurse. ‘Is this Professor Mayer?’

The nurse glanced at the bed, then at her assailant. ‘Yes… yes it is.’

Nash nudged her forehead with the pistol. ‘If you interfere, I
will
shoot you.’

‘What are you going to do?’ The nurse flicked her eyes towards the patient.

Nash drew his second pistol; raising it slowly, he took aim at the Professor.

The nurse interrupted in harsh whispers. ‘I hope you feel proud of yourself. He’s an old man and paralysed down his left side. Hardly a threat to a man like you… ’

He stared down at the bed.

‘Go ahead… shoot him… coward… ’

Nash pressed his pistol into her forehead. ‘Quiet, damn you.’

The nurse persisted. ‘Look at him… how could you?’

Nash hesitated. ‘Shut up. That’s your last warning.’ He pushed the barrel hard into her forehead.

The nurse moved her head in a small nod against the barrel of the pistol. There was nothing more she could do.

Nash clicked the safety on his second pistol; lowering his aim on the bed, he shoved the weapon in his waist band. Then, with a fluid movement, Nash twisted the nurse around, forcing her arm behind her back. Ignoring her squeals of pain, he restrained the nurse with one hand and pointed the now free weapon on the Professor. She gave an involuntary shudder and tried to look away – he couldn’t blame her – this was brutal.

He took a fresh aim and applied gentle pressure to the trigger.

Suddenly, a shower of broken glass and gunshots filled his senses. Instinctively, he crouched and, turning towards the new threat, he peppered a few rounds of covering fire up the ward.

‘Intruder! You are trapped!’ Commandant Kessler clicked home another magazine in his machine gun and let rip.

Nash responded with pistol fire, but was off balance, still holding the nurse. She danced around like a rag doll as she took several rounds in the chest. Bullets ricocheted off the bed posts and light fittings. Nash lost his footing and toppled behind the bed.

He patted himself down for injuries whilst replacing his magazine. The German had the drop on him – he should be dead – but wasn’t. He slapped the bottom of the magazine, clicking it home into the pistol, as another burst of gunfire showered his position.

Tossing the corpse of the nurse away, Nash swung round, finding a firing position. He screamed with controlled aggression as he laid down fire in Kessler’s direction.

Kessler quickly replied with an equally controlled burst of fire as he slipped behind a concrete pillar. Nash ducked under a shower of brick dust and plaster.

Christ! The bastard’s deliberately aiming high!

Nash fished for a fresh magazine.

Commandant Kessler spoke in English. ‘American! American, yes?’

Reloading silently, Nash used the time to move into better cover behind the next bed – it was time to head for the exit.

‘Why do you want the Professor?’

No reply.

‘Well, no matter, you’re too late!’

No reply.

Kessler reloaded.

‘There is no escape you know. In less than a minute this room will be full of soldiers. You will be slaughtered like a pig. Give it up.’

Nash looked at his watch.

Kessler darted out from behind the concrete pillar, and fired an automatic burst.

Nash lost his aim as ricochets thudded into the mattress only inches from his head.

He rolled to his knees, ready to return fire.

He didn’t get the chance.

The ground shook, windows imploded. A hailstorm of glass and timber filled the room. A fraction of a second later, the pressure wave was replaced by gushing flames of burning fuel, snaking through the windows and across the ceiling, engulfing the entire room. Nash fell into a foetal position, with his hands over his eyes, and his mouth shut. He waited for the fireball hit.

Seconds later, the backdraft sucked the hot flames from the room. The acrid smell of burning alcohol and other chemicals assaulted Nash’s nostrils.

Jesus Christ! Not diesel tanks; but rocket fuel!

Nash remained on the floor, both terrified and impressed by the size of the explosion.

Kessler staggered across the burning room, peppered with glass and splinters from the blast. Blood dripped from his skin. Excruciating agony filled his ears. Kessler lifted a hand to his left ear – blood – lots of blood. A wave of nausea hit as he lost control of his balance; white noise filled his skull.

‘American! American! You will pay for this! American!’

The room span as Kessler attempted to level his weapon. He fired random shots at the far end of the room, stumbling, and blinking smoke from his eyes.

He staggered down the ward towards Nash’s position and kept firing.

‘American! Come out and fight like a man! American!’

Kessler suddenly lunged forwards, sliding through the debris on the polished floor, adding to his cuts and bruises along the way. He came to rest at the foot of the bed and, rolling upright, he levelled his weapon at Nash – but he was gone.

Dazed by the explosion, with his ears ringing and smoke burning his lungs, Nash frantically rubbed his eyes. It was useless, everything was a blur.

‘Fuck!’

He hunkered down in the fire escape, and waited for things to come back into focus. An amorphous, massive orange glow filled his vision. Half the camp was on fire. His eyes smarted. Shapes danced in and out of the orange-red molasses; large shapes, the edges of buildings perhaps? Coughing and spluttering, Nash poured water from his canteen into his eyes. It stung as he squinted into the heat, but it was enough.

The main features of the camp started to come back into view.

He lifted up his arm in an attempt to shield himself from the searing heat. An escape plan began to form. There was no chance of going back to the same hole in the fence – an inferno was in the way – but at least the barracks and most of the troops were on the other side of the fire.

He dashed across the grass and scrambled up the nearest section of the earth bank, then peered over the top. Absolute mayhem. The perimeter guards had abandoned their patrols and were busy pulling fellow troops from the fire. It was now or never.

Nash slid down the earthworks, and headed for the perimeter fence; or what was left of it. He picked a good spot, and clambered up the meshing, then dropped down the other side. He scampered a few yards into the undergrowth, pausing to stare back at the burning armaments base. The mission had been a success; nothing would survive the inferno.

Nash vomited into the bushes.

K
essler absently picked at his wounds. It had been a close-run thing. A few more seconds and the outcome would have been very different. He remembered succumbing to the smoke. Fortunately, his troops had dragged him from the burning building.

Events had flushed out the assassin. He
was
a foreigner; likely an American, or maybe British. Professor Mayer was alive – protected from the explosion by his bed – and the fact that he was already lying down when the blast wave hit. The Professor had sustained only minor cuts to his face, and some smoke inhalation, but was otherwise unharmed. The sentries had gone back into the burning building and managed to drag the Professor, mattress and all, to safety. The other patients in the ward had not been so lucky. They were all dead.

Kessler surveyed the scene; broken glass and shards of wood crunched under his feet. The air reeked of wood smoke and soot. Most of the domestic buildings on the site had been damaged, but the army engineers could work miracles. The main reinforced laboratory complex was unharmed, apart from some cosmetic smoke damage.

The body of the nurse caught his attention, twisted and scorched. It was a pity, she had been a good interpreter. It was an inconvenience, granted, he would have to find another one. She was supposed to help the Professor draw his machine, and make any notes. Kessler squatted, observing the body. It was only chance that had delivered him to the infirmary at the right time so late at night: he couldn’t sleep. Next time the American, the foreigner, whoever he was, would not be so lucky.

Kessler stood up, and inspected the remains of the Professor’s bed. Had the Professor finished the task? There was nothing on the floor or bedside cabinet. Perhaps the drawings had been lost in the fire? Nonetheless, it was worth searching. He worked towards the nurse’s station, poking around each bedframe to eventually arrive at the remains of the desk.

The surface of the desk was covered in glass and charred pieces of timber. Everything was soaking wet. The fire crews had worked hard through the night. Opening the top drawer revealed nothing – just the usual paraphernalia of a ward sister – keys to the medicine cabinets, a few instruments, and pencils. Kessler opened the second draw; and hit the jackpot. The papers were still a little damp, but it was written in pencil and still legible. Kessler smiled at his find and began to read.

The sketch on the first page was an outline of a rocket, with the outer covering peeled off to show the inner working.

So, the Professor was making a rough diagram of the inside of a rocket, but why?

Kessler peered more closely at the paper, starting at the bottom of the diagram. It looked like rocket motors, and the exhaust system. Above this were various fuel tanks, and at the top of the rocket was the nose cone. This was where the all-important explosive payload would go; but this was all well known to the engineers at Kummersdorf.

There’s nothing new here. This is no good! Or maybe the drawing isn’t finished?

Kessler turned over the page. Things were now looking more interesting – a few lines of scrawl, tricky to decipher; and a couple of equations.

Better, some fresh equations; but what for?

The Professor would have to explain.

Kessler carefully carried the damp pages back to his office. They would dry out and be easier to read. Professor Mayer would be quizzed on their contents. Kessler smiled to himself again; he was looking forward to it.

Admiral Dönitz sat at his desk in the Reich Chancellery. The room was a perfect rectangle containing an art-deco style fireplace at one end; an expanse of carpet filled the room. The neat lines of the new style of civil engineering shone through; cleanly dressed stone, with large windows at precisely regimented intervals. Dönitz stared at a map of Germany on his desk. Shaking his head, he tossed the photographs from Egypt onto it. The meeting with his supreme commander, Adolf Hitler, had not gone well. The evidence of competition in the Middle East, and the news of the attack at Kummersdorf, had sent the Führer into a rage.

The long drive back from the Führer’s private residence, the Berghof, had left Dönitz stewing on a mixture of poor military strategy and sheer lunacy. It was madness. Why spend millions of reichsmarks on a project of limited military value? Nonetheless, Dönitz still believed in the importance of the chain of command. So that was that. He would do his duty.

A knock at the door roused Dönitz from his melancholy.

‘Colonel Dornberger to see you Admiral,’ the orderly announced.

‘Good, good, show him in.’

Dornberger paced smartly into the room. The orderly closed the door behind him, leaving the two men alone. Dornberger came to attention in front of the desk, giving a sharp click of his heels.

‘Please Colonel, sit down, please… let’s dispense with the formalities.’ Dönitz gestured towards the chair in front of his desk.

‘What news from your meeting with the Führer?’ Dornberger searched the lined expression on Dönitz’s face. He had never seen the Admiral look so concerned.

Dönitz took a deep breath and exhaled. ‘Well… to say that the Führer is displeased would be an understatement.’

‘And?’ Dornberger leaned forward, on tenterhooks.

‘We both have some new orders, with immediate effect. The armaments base at Kummersdorf is simply not secure enough for such a special project. We must move the rocket programme to a new, secret location.’

‘What?! Where?’

‘Good question… but I have a suggestion… ’ Dönitz leaned over the map, ‘… I know of a more secure location, and very remote. At least your scientists could work on the rocket programme undisturbed.’

‘Any improvement in security is welcomed; perhaps a change of location would help.’