The Reich Device (38 page)

Kessler kept twisting. He gave a hard tug and suddenly drove Nash’s arm into the side of a bench.

The commando knife clattered to the floor.

Kessler struck out, opening the wound on Nash’s chest. Nash staggered back under the blow, stumbling over a toolbox. Kessler wasted no time in diving forward, this time firmly pinning Nash to the ground. He raised his dagger for the mortal blow.

The first Bee Hive exploded.

The shockwave sent a shower of hot metal shards and debris across the room. That was enough to set off the second charge. This time much closer, the explosion threw Kessler into the air, and sprawling into the far wall, unconscious.

Nash closed his eyes against the heat as the blast wave went overhead; with his ears ringing, hot debris rained down; but the bench took the worst of the explosion. Perplexed by his sudden change of fortunes, but glad to be alive, he tried to stand.

Not good: the room swam, a wave of nausea hit home. White noise filled his ears. A wet trickle filtered into his consciousness; his head was bleeding again. He gingerly fingered his chest. More blood, but it was just a muscle injury; the knife hadn’t penetrated the chest wall. He ripped open a field dressing and pressed it over his ribs.

He struggled through the debris towards the back of the workshop. He
had
to inspect the remains of the device. He needed to be sure: was it completely destroyed?

He need not have worried.

The Bee Hive was more than enough for the task. The device was shattered into hundreds of pieces, with just scorch marks signified where the machine had once stood. He picked up a fragment of the device and shoved it in his rucksack. Sinclair would want experts to analyse the material.

He glanced around for anything else that might be vitally important. Conveniently, the explosion had also ripped a hole in the rear wall. A couple of desks sat in the far corner, heaped with notes and technical drawings.

He hobbled over for a closer look.

He scanned through the large rolls of paper and, grabbing a selection, he pushed them into his rucksack. It would slow the Germans down considerably if they didn’t have their technical drawings. He picked up a handful of photographs; they showed pictures of the device. He flicked through them quickly, then stopped; a picture of the two benches, each with a device.

So there
was
a second weapon!

But where is it now? Not here.

It had to be in the main complex.

He shoved the photographs into his bag and picked up a can of white spirit from the nearest workbench. He splashed it around. A quick flick of a match soon saw the remaining documents ablaze.

A sudden clatter of metal drew his attention to the gap in the rear wall.

Kessler!

Pivoting round, and simultaneously drawing his pistol, Nash fired. Wood splintered from the opening as Kessler disappeared from view. Weapon up, edging forwards in a tactical advance, he followed Kessler through the gap.

Seconds later a massive explosion ripped open the front of the building. The demolition team had finally made it through. The crew looked strangely puzzled. Someone had started their work for them? The two Sappers shrugged at each other. They set about wiring up the main concrete supports in the middle of the workshop and the gable ends. A few well-placed explosions would bring the house down.

Temple held on for dear life as the last rounds powered out of the heavy machine gun. A dull click and the hot whirl of the barrel told him that the last round had been spent.

They were out of ammo.

Temple sounded the retreat. ‘Withdraw! Move, on the double!’

He tossed a last grenade through the barrack room door, and splashed the few remaining smoke canisters on the road to cover their withdrawal. He pulled out his pistol, and headed for the tree cover.

A loud thud announced a series of explosions further along the road. The demolition teams were still hard at work. But what could he do without ammo? Besides, his forces were split at the three locations; each team would have to make their own way out.

That was the plan. The aim was to rendezvous twenty miles down the coast, and wait until dark for a British submarine to pick them up. Hopefully, a few of them would make it.

His men, at least, had trained hard for the long haul, and were well rehearsed at escape and evasion from behind enemy lines. The British Sappers on the other hand were engineers, fit, but not trained in the fighting withdrawal methods.

The Sappers had other ideas.

An almighty explosion levelled the workshop building sending debris in every direction for hundreds of yards. A huge dust cloud formed over the camp. Temple paused in the tree line; his British comrades had sacrificed their lives to cover his escape. Truly humbled, he would mourn them later. For now, determination to survive was everything, he headed for the rendezvous.

He had a submarine to catch.

S
moke swirled amongst the burning trees and remains of the wooden buildings. Nash stalked after Kessler, with his ears still ringing; the pistol weaved to and fro, searching for a target. The zip-zap of occasional small arms fire flicked dangerously close. Ignoring it, he studied the hazy vista ahead. A sudden eddy in the smoke revealed a lone figure. He took aim, and fired two rounds.

Kessler disappeared into the foggy blackness.

Damn it!

Nash half-jogged after his quarry, slapping a fresh magazine into his pistol as he went.

He stepped into the acrid smoke, holding his breath. His eyes burned with the tang of chemicals and soot. He kept the weapon up all the same. A shadow shifted a few yards ahead. He fired two controlled rounds, adjusted his aim, and then fired again.

Nothing.

He shuffled forward, coiled, ready for the attack, his weapon still searching for a target. The smoke gradually cleared. A building emerged into view: the back of the main complex.

But no Kessler.

A monstrous diesel engine, akin to one of Brunel’s great Leviathans of the Victorian age, sat firmly attached to a large concrete standing. Several huge cylindrical steel containers some thirty feet high, perched in regimented order next to the diesel; together the construction lined the back of the building. The diesel engine and steel tanks were attached to each other by a spaghetti of industrial pipework.

A sudden muzzle flash issued forth from amongst the pipework. Rounds zipped into the concrete around Nash’s position.

Instinctively, he dropped to a knee-firing position, and poured rounds in the direction of the muzzle flash.

The click-clatter of bullets on metalwork gave way to a loud hiss. A jet of steam erupted from a damaged pipe; but no Kessler.

Nash searched the gantry along the diesel engine with his weapon, following it up some steps, then along a first-floor level amongst the tanks. One of the tanks was liquid nitrogen, the warning label said so. At minus two hundred and seventy degrees Celsius, it could freeze-dry a man to dust in seconds.

Still no Kessler.

‘American! You cannot have the device! You have already lost!’

A short burst of machine gunfire sent Nash diving for cover behind a low concrete plinth. He pulled a grenade, and tossed it towards the diesel engine.

Boom!

Shards of hot metal flew into the air, hot oil spewed onto the concrete. Smoke and steam flashed up the side of the building.

Ignoring the billows of smoke, and the whiz of hot steam, Nash zigzagged at break-neck speed across the open ground. He crunched into the concrete standing next to the diesel, and went into a crouching position. Slipping on the oily debris, he searched for Kessler.

Jets of steam blocked his vision.

The sudden clank of feet vibrated on the gantry.

Nash darted forwards, and let rip a short burst. Rounds flecked off the handrail of the walkway. Kessler jumped, and disappeared from view under the liquid nitrogen tank.

‘Bollocks! Well, there’s more than one way to flush the bastard out. To hell with it!’

Nash reached for the remaining Bee Hives in his rucksack.

Steinhoff stood over the bed. The rattle of machine gunfire echoed outside the main complex. The occasional grenade blast made the internal windows vibrate. The smell of cordite drifted into the room.

Mayer lay semi-conscious on the bed, but despite redressing the head wound, he seemed to be going downhill.

Steinhoff felt a pang of regret in the pit of his stomach, not for exacerbating the head injury, but for the lack of time. The fighting seemed to be getting closer.

Boom!
…
Boom!
… The walls vibrated with another blast. A fine spray of concrete dust shook off the ceiling.

Yes, there was so little time.

A steady flow of oxygen hissed from the face mask. A drip fed life-saving fluids into the emaciated body.

Steinhoff sat on the edge of the bed. The stale dampness of sweat, acrid urine and disinfectant suddenly mixed with the cordite to assault his nostrils. The brick dust only added to the ashen paleness that was Mayer’s face.

Steinhoff opened the small box, and stared down at the syringes.

Silver lances of truth, or purveyors of death?

Lifting out the first syringe, Steinhoff gingerly punctured the rubber tubing on the drip. He pushed the plunger steadily, watching the dense liquid mix with the fluids in the bag.

He waited.

Nothing.

He checked his watch – two minutes – still nothing.

Boom!

Steinhoff flinched.

More brick dust.

He lifted another syringe, and injected a second dose.

Mayer gasped as his eyes flicked open.

‘Hello Gustav, it’s me, Steinhoff. Can you hear me?’ He leaned close to Mayer’s ear.

Whumph!
The walls gave a heavy vibration. Glass cracked.

Mayer rasped.

‘I have been working hard… very hard you know?’ Steinhoff searched the blank expression in Mayer’s eyes. The oxygen whooshed under the face mask.

Mayer gave a muffled sound.

‘I have finished it. The device! I
have
finished it. It is a thing of beauty, so… so elegant… ’

‘Ummmhhhhh! Ummmhhhhh!’

‘Sorry, what was that?’

Steinhoff removed the oxygen mask.

‘Nooooo! Nooooo! Nooooo!’ Tears began to roll down Mayer’s face.

‘Of course, I understand now… you mentioned
travelling to the stars
once. Well, naturally I assumed it was just the delirium. But it wasn’t was it?’

‘Goooo… to… heeeeeellll… ’

‘I must ask you again. Just exactly how far and how fast do you think your device can go? Oh, I am sorry…
your device
… I should say
my device
, after all I built it! Answer the question: how fast can it go? Ten times the speed of sound, a hundred? How fast?!’

‘Fuck… yooooou… ’

‘Not really the answer I was looking for, but that’s easy to fix isn’t it?’ Steinhoff injected a third dose into the drip bag.

Mayer snorted, spasms shot down his right arm as the fluid hit. His brain fogged over with a wave of psychedelic euphoria.

Whumph!

A sudden rush of air filled the room with broken glass. Thick smoke began to roll through the windows.

Steinhoff shouted into Mayer’s ear over the din. ‘Now, how fast?!’

‘Suuuper… sonnnic… yeeeeees.’

‘Yes, supersonic, but how fast?’

‘Maaaaach… fif… teee… ’

‘Did you say Mach fifty – fifty times the speed of sound? Are you sure?’

‘Faaaaaster… faaaaaster… ’

‘My God! Faster? How much faster?!’

Mayer coughed violently as he took in the heavy smoke; fragments of lung tissue and blood spewed onto the bed clothes.

‘How do I make the fuselage hold together at Mach fifty?! How can I make the nano carbon coating secure at that speed? How?!… How?!’

Mayer stiffened as his eyes rolled back into their sockets; foaming at the mouth, a seizure took hold.

‘No! No! Answers! I need answers!’ Steinhoff injected the last syringe into the drip.

Mayer thrashed, arching his back. The spasm passed and he sunk back onto the bed.

A machine gun rattled, loud and crisp, outside the door.

Blood dripped from Mayer’s ears and nose. Sinews of congealed blood clots dangled from the corner of his mouth.

Steinhoff grabbed Mayer by the pyjama shirt, lifting him up off the bed. ‘How do I make it strong enough?!’

No answer.

‘How? How?!… How fast will it accelerate?! Enough to achieve escape velocity? Can we put a rocket in space?! How do I hold it together at that speed?! How fast?! How fast will it accelerate?!’

Mayer gave a spasm, his eyes glazing over, ‘Acceeeeelerate… toooo… God… ’

With that Professor Gustav Mayer was dead.

Nash took stock. Three Bee Hives, and three time pencils remaining; one with a ten-minute fuse, the others just four minutes. It was enough. The explosions would take out Kessler, and with luck, bring the back of the building down. Perhaps the second device was on the other side of the wall? The explosion would at least do some damage.

He worked his way around the smouldering diesel engine onto the metal gantry. He wedged the first Bee Hive into the fuel inlet; some five hundred gallons of pink diesel would certainly get the show on the road. He took out the ten-minute time pencil, pausing to rub the sweat and oil off his palms. He pushed the detonator gently into place, then fished around in his pockets for the pliers.

He took the strain, feeling the copper tube flex under the bite of the plier.

Crack!

Ten minutes.

Suddenly, machine gunfire sparked up the side of the engine. Nash slipped. The pliers clanked haplessly onto the floor of the gantry. He rolled onto his belly and, with a double-handed grip on his weapon, emptied the magazine in Kessler’s general direction. Instant jets of super-cooled nitrogen sprung from the bullet holes in the nearest tank.

Vibration on the gantry?