The Rhinemann Exchange (6 page)

They were all persuasive, thought Speer. And if it were not for his anger, he knew such men could—probably would—intimidate him. Albert Speer was honest in self-assessment; he realized that he had no substantial sense of authority. He found it difficult to express his thoughts forthrightly among such potentially hostile men. But now
the potentially hostile men were in a defensive position. He could not allow his anger to cause them to panic, to seek only absolution for themselves.

They needed a remedy. Germany needed a remedy.

Peenemünde had to be saved.

“How would you suggest we begin?” Speer asked Altmüller, shading his voice so no one else at the table could hear him.

“I don’t think it makes a particle of difference. It will take an hour of very loud, very boring, very obtuse explanations before we reach anything concrete.”

“I’m not interested in explanations.…”

“Excuses, then.”

“Least of all, excuses. I want a solution.”

“If it’s to be found at this table—which, frankly, I doubt—you’ll have to sit through the excess verbiage. Perhaps something will come of it. Again, I doubt it.”

“Would you care to explain that?”

Altmüller looked directly into Speer’s eyes. “Ultimately, I’m not sure there is a solution. But if there is, I don’t think it’s at this table.… Perhaps I’m wrong. Why don’t we listen first?”

“All right. Would you please open with the summary you prepared? I’m afraid I’d lose my temper midway through.”

“May I suggest,” Altmüller whispered, “that it will be necessary for you to lose your temper at some point during this meeting. I don’t see how you can avoid it.”

“I understand.”

Altmüller pushed back his chair and stood up. Grouping by grouping the voices trailed off around the table.

“Gentlemen. This emergency session was called for reasons of which we assume you are aware. At least you should be aware of them. Apparently it is only the Reichsminister of Armaments and his staff who were not informed; a fact which the Reichsminister and his staff find appalling.… In short words, the Peenemünde operation faces a crisis of unparalleled severity. In spite of the millions poured into this most vital weaponry development, in spite of the assurances consistently offered by your respective departments, we now learn that production may be brought to a complete halt within a matter of weeks. Several months prior to the
agreed-upon
date for the first operational rockets. That date has never been questioned.
It has been the keystone for whole military strategies; entire armies have been maneuvered to coordinate with it. Germany’s victory is predicated on it.… But now Peenemünde is threatened; Germany is threatened.… If the projections the Reichsminister’s staff have compiled—
unearthed
and compiled—are valid, the Peenemünde complex will exhaust its supply of industrial diamonds in less than ninety days. Without industrial diamonds the precision tooling in Peenemünde cannot continue.”

The babble of voices—excited, guttural, vying for attention—erupted the second Altmüller sat down. General Leeb’s cigarette holder slashed the air in front of him as though it were a saber; Albert Vögler scowled and wrinkled his flesh-puffed eyes, placed his bulky hands on the table and spoke harshly in a loud monotone; Wilhelm Zangen’s handkerchief was working furiously around his face and his neck, his high-pitched voice in conflict with the more masculine tones around him.

Franz Altmüller leaned toward Speer. “You’ve seen cages of angry ocelots in the zoo? The zookeeper can’t let them hurl themselves into the bars. I suggest you lose your benign temper far earlier than we discussed. Perhaps now.”

“That is not the way.”

“Don’t let them think you are cowed.…”

“Nor that I am cowering.” Speer interrupted his friend, the slightest trace of a smile on his lips. He stood up. “Gentlemen.”

The voices trailed off.

“Herr Altmüller speaks harshly; he does so, I’m sure, because I spoke harshly with him. That was this morning, very early this morning. There is greater perspective now; it is no time for recriminations. This is not to lessen the critical aspects of the situation, for they are great. But anger will solve nothing. And we need solutions.… Therefore, I propose to seek your assistance—the assistance of the finest industrial and military minds in the Reich. First, of course, we need to know the specifics. I shall start with Herr Vögler. As manager of Reich’s Industry, would you give us your estimate?”

Vögler was upset; he didn’t wish to be the first called. “I’m not sure I can be of much enlightenment, Herr
Reichsminister. I, too, am subject to the reports given me. They have been optimistic; until the other week there was no suggestion of difficulty.”

“How do you mean, optimistic?” asked Speer.

“The quantities of bortz and carbonado diamonds were said to be sufficient. Beyond this there are the continuing experiments with lithicum, carbon and paraffin. Our intelligence tells us that the Englishman Storey at the British Museum reverified the Hannay-Moissan theories. Diamonds
were
produced in this fashion.”

“Who verified the Englishman?” Franz Altmüller did not speak kindly. “Had it occurred to you that such data was meant to be passed?”

“Such verification is a matter for Intelligence. I am not with Intelligence, Herr Altmüller.”

“Go on,” said Speer quickly. “What else?”

“There is an Anglo-American experiment under the supervision of the Bridgemann team. They are subjecting graphite to pressures in excess of six million pounds per square inch. So far there is no word of success.”

“Is there word of failure?” Altmüller raised his aristocratic eyebrows, his tone polite.

“I remind you again, I am not with Intelligence. I have received no word whatsoever.”

“Food for thought, isn’t it,” said Altmüller, without asking a question.

“Nevertheless,” interrupted Speer before Vögler could respond, “you had reason to assume that the quantities of bortz and carbonado were sufficient. Is that not so?”

“Sufficient. Or at least obtainable, Herr Reichsminister.”

“How so obtainable?”

“I believe General Leeb might be more knowledgeable on that subject.”

Leeb nearly dropped his ivory cigarette holder. Altmüller noted his surprise and cut in swiftly. “Why would the army ordnance officer have that information, Herr Vögler? I ask merely for my own curiosity.”

“The reports, once more. It is my understanding that the Ordnance Office is responsible for evaluating the industrial, agricultural and mineral potentials of occupied territories. Or those territories so projected.”

Ernst Leeb was not entirely unprepared. He
was
unprepared
for Vögler’s insinuations, not for the subject. He turned to an aide, who shuffled papers top to bottom as Speer inquired.

“The Ordnance Office is under enormous pressure these days; as is your department, of course, Herr Vögler. I wonder if General Leeb has had the time …”

“We
made
the time,” said Leeb, his sharp military bearing pitted in counterpoint to Vögler’s burgomaster gruffness. “When we received word—from Herr Vögler’s subordinates—that a crisis was imminent—not upon us, but imminent—we immediately researched the possibilities for extrication.”

Franz Altmüller brought his hand to his mouth to cover an involuntary smile. He looked at Speer, who was too annoyed to find any humor in the situation.

“I’m relieved the Ordnance Office is so confident, general,” said Speer. The Reichsminister of Armaments had
little
confidence in the military and had difficulty disguising it. “Please, your extrication?”

“I said
possibilities
, Herr Speer. To arrive at practical solutions
will
take more time than we’ve been given.”

“Very well. Your possibilities?”

“There is an immediate remedy with historical precedent.” Leeb paused to remove his cigarette, crushing it out, aware that everyone around the table watched him intently. “I have taken the liberty of recommending preliminary studies to the General Staff. It involves an expeditionary force of less than four battalions.… Africa. The diamond mines east of Tanganyika.”

“
What?
” Altmüller leaned forward; he obviously could not help himself. “You’re not serious.”

“Please!” Speer would not allow his friend to interrupt. If Leeb had even conceived of such drastic action, it might have merit. No military man, knowing the thin line of combat strength—chewed up on the Eastern Front, under murderous assault by the Allies in Italy—could suggest such an absurdity unless he had a realistic hope of success. “Go ahead, general.”

“The Williamson Mines at Mwadui. Between the districts of Tanganyika and Zanzibar in the central sector. The mines at Mwadui produce over a million carats of the carbonado diamond annually. Intelligence—the intelligence that is forwarded regularly to me at my insistence—
informs us that there are supplies going back several months. Our agents in Dar es Salaam are convinced such an incursion would be successful.”

Franz Altmüller passed a sheet of paper to Speer. On it he had scribbled: “He’s lost his senses!”

“What is the historical precedent to which you refer?” asked Speer, holding his hand over Altmüller’s paper.

“All of the districts east of Dar es Salaam rightfully belong to the Third Reich, German West Africa. They were taken from the fatherland after the Great War. The Führer himself made that clear four years ago.”

There was silence around the table. An embarrassed silence. The eyes of even his aides avoided the old soldier. Finally Speer spoke quietly.

“That is justification, not precedent, general. The world cares little for our justifications, and although I question the logistics of moving battalions halfway around the globe, you may have raised a valid point. Where else nearer … in
East
Africa, perhaps, can the bortz or the carbonado be found?”

Leeb looked to his aides; Wilhelm Zangen lifted his handkerchief to his nostrils and bowed his thin head in the direction of the general. He spoke as if exhaling, his high voice irritating.

“I’ll answer you, Herr Reichsminister. And then, I believe, you will see how fruitless this discussion is.… Sixty per cent of the world’s crushing-bortz diamonds are in the Belgian Congo. The two principal deposits are in the Kasai and Bakwanga fields, between the Kanshi and the Bushimaie rivers. The district’s governor-general is Pierre Ryckmans; he is devoted to the Belgian government in exile in London. I can assure Leeb that the Congo’s allegiances to Belgium are far greater than ours ever were in Dar es Salaam.”

Leeb lit a cigarette angrily. Speer leaned back in his chair and addressed Zangen.

“All right. Sixty per cent crushing-bortz; what of carbonado and the rest?”

“French Equatorial: totally allied to de Gaulle’s Free French. Ghana and Sierra Leone: the tightest of British controls. Angola: Portuguese domination and their neutrality’s inviolate; we know that beyond doubt. French West Africa: not only under Free French mandate but
with Allied forces manning the outposts.… Here, there was only one possibility and we lost it a year and a half ago. Vichy abandoned the Ivory Coast.… There is no access in Africa, Reichsminister. None of a military nature.”

“I see.” Speer doodled on top of the paper Altmüller had passed to him. “You are recommending a nonmilitary solution?”

“There is no other. The question is what.”

Speer turned to Franz Altmüller. His tall, blond associate was staring at them all. Their faces were blank. Baffled.

Brigadier General Alan Swanson got out of the taxi and looked up at the huge oak door of the Georgetown residence. The ride over the cobblestone streets had seemed like a continuous roll of hammering drums.

Prelude to execution.

Up those steps, inside that door, somewhere within that five-story brownstone and brick aristocratic home, was a large room. And inside that room thousands of executions would be pronounced, unrelated to any around the table within that room.

Prelude to annihilation.

If
the schedules were kept. And it was inconceivable that they would be altered.

Wholesale murder.

In line with his orders he glanced up and down the street to make sure he hadn’t been followed. Asinine! CIC had all of them under constant surveillance. Which of the pedestrians or slowly moving automobiles had him in their sights? It didn’t matter; the choice of the meeting place was asinine, too. Did they really believe they could keep the crisis a secret? Did they think that holding conferences in secluded Georgetown houses would help?

Asses!

He was oblivious to the rain; it came down steadily, in straight lines. An autumn rainstorm in Washington. His raincoat was open, the jacket of his uniform damp and wrinkled. He didn’t give a damn about such things; he couldn’t think about them.

The only thing he could think about was packaged in a metal casing no more than seven inches wide, five high, and perhaps a foot long. It was designed for those dimensions; it had the appearance of sophisticated technology; it was tooled to operate on the fundamental properties of inertia and precision.

And it wasn’t functional; it didn’t work.

It failed test after test.

Ten thousand high-altitude B-17 bomber aircraft were emerging from production lines across the country. Without high-altitude, radio-beam gyroscopes to guide them, they might as well stay on the ground!

And without those aircraft, Operation Overlord was in serious jeopardy. The invasion of Europe would extract a price so great as to be obscene.

Yet to send the aircraft up on massive, round-the-clock, night and day bombing strikes throughout Germany without the cover of higher altitudes was to consign the majority to destruction, their crews to death. Examples were constant reminders … whenever the big planes soared too high. The labels of pilot error, enemy fire and instrument fatigue were not so. It was the higher altitudes.… Only twenty-four hours ago a squadron of bombers on the Bremerhaven run had scrambled out of the strike, exacting the maximum from their aircraft, and regrouped far above oxygen levels. From what could be determined, the guidance systems went crazy; the squadron ended up in the Dunbar sector near the Scottish border. All but one plane crashed into the sea. Three survivors were picked up by coastal patrols. Three out of God knows how many that had made it out of Bremerhaven. The one aircraft that attempted a ground landing had blown up on the outskirts of a town.… No survivors.