The Reich Device

by Richard D. Handy

  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.

  CHAPTER 28

  Orders from the Reich Chancellery

  Kessler 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.’

  Dönitz pointed at the northern coastline with his finger. ‘Here… it’s currently a small place, on the Baltic Sea – Peenemünde. There is an access road, and a few small buildings where the navy used to keep supplies. It’s rundown now, but shouldn’t take long to convert things and build up the facility for the rocket programme.’

  ‘There will be logistics in moving things, adding delays, and what about the cost?’

  ‘The Führer has made it clear. The relocation is an absolute priority, you are tasked with making bigger and better rockets than before. Colonel Dornberger… apparently you have all the resources of the Reich at your disposal for this task… at least for now.’

  Dornberger swallowed. ‘And if we fail?’

  ‘We are already on thin ice, you must not fail. We are… ’ Both men stared at each other. It didn’t need saying – Hitler was adept at removing commanders who displeased him. Dönitz broke the silence.

  ‘Well, from a military viewpoint, it is defended on at least two sides by the sea. We can reinforce it quickly from the naval base in Heligoland.’ Dönitz traced a finger across the map.

  ‘At least that’s some comfort to have the navy close by; how long do we have to make the move?’

  ‘Effective immediately and to be completed within a matter of months. We have no choice; the Führer demands a rapid timetable. I will draw on men and resources from elsewhere in the navy to facilitate things.’

  ‘What about building the fleet and the U-boat programme? This will continue? Rocket technology is potentially many months away from providing any strategic value to the defences of Germany.’

  ‘The U-boat fleet remains part of my grand strategy for naval defences, but Herr Hitler has other ideas. He wants weapons of assault. We are to have command of the seas with the U-boat, and the rocket will give us command of the sky – apparently.’

  ‘I see… ’ Dornberger swallowed, a cold sweat formed on his brow, ‘… then I had better make progress.’

  ‘For all our sakes, you must make things work. Hitler has pledged millions of reichsmarks; but he wants results.’

  ‘Tell the Führer that he will not be disappointed, we will double, no triple, our efforts.’ Dornberger stood and saluted.

  With that the meeting was over. Both men knew the consequences of failure. Dönitz was a submariner at heart. He would do what he could to help his friend, Dornberger, and the many good officers under his command.

  CHAPTER 29

  Mayer’s Delirium

  Kessler sat on a chair next to the Professor’s bed, studying the papers he had found in the infirmary. Mayer was suffering from smoke inhalation. The doctor, admittedly, was doing his best to keep the prisoner stable, and at least things were more secure in the main complex. The Professor had his own private room with constant medical support. Nonetheless, he was still weak.

  ‘Professor, this is an interesting drawing. It is a sketch of one of the prototype rockets, is it not?’

  Mayer gave a feeble nod.

  ‘Take a look at the drawing.’ Kessler held the paper close to the Professor’s face. ‘Is it finished?’

  Mayer studied the sketch as best he could. He remembered now. It was just a simple plan of a standard rocket. He needed to convince Kessler that this was his machine. In a moment of delirium he had obviously mentioned something about his new theories, but what? Was it just garbled information, or details of the device? Mayer had no idea.

  ‘Professor, is the drawing finished?’

  Mayer nodded.

  Kessler turned over the page and studied the notes on the second page. One of the engineers had confirmed that they were basic mass calculations, showing the amount of force required to lift a given weight of rocket fuel. In the grand scheme of things, this was schoolboy physics. Had Mayer sustained brain damage to such an extent that all he could do was recall basic physics? If this was the case, the interrogation would be a waste of time.

  ‘Professor, the calculation on the second page has an equation. F = ma. What does this mean?’ It was a test. Kessler knew the answer.

  ‘Foorceee… Foorceee… is… maaass… times… accel… ’ Mayer erupted into a coughing fit. The strain was obviously too much, but Kessler got the gist of the answer. The Professor did recognise the simple equation. Kessler waited for the coughing fit to subside.

  ‘So, you can remember your physics. That is good. Now, I want you to write down some real equations – not this schoolboy nonsense!’ Kessler leaned forward into Mayer’s face. ‘Write down the exponential calculus for a rocket burning one hundred kilograms of fuel. What is the resultant lift and how long will the fuel last?’

  Kessler raised the game: one of his engineers had prepared some questions, some calculations, all about rocket fuels. He had the answers in his pocket. The calculations were way beyond the average person, but a rocket scientist who had spent all his life on such calculations would find them easy to complete. Kessler passed a pencil and paper to Mayer, and held the notepaper up to the Professor’s good arm so that he could write.

  He repeated the crucial information. ‘Write down the calculation; one hundred kilograms of fuel, what is the lift and burn time?’

  Mayer worked slowly. He wasn’t trying to stall. His brain could do the calculation easily. He had solved it in seconds; but his body would not let him write the answer down on the paper. It took incredible concentration just to get his right arm to transmit the thoughts into words and numbers on the paper. Slowly the calculations appeared, in between violent coughing fits.

  Kessler examined the scrawl. It matched. The Professor had given a correc
t answer.

  ‘Good, so you remember your calculus. Now let us focus on your machine. Is it some component of a rocket, or some advanced prototype?’

  ‘Yeeeees,’ Mayer lied.

  ‘Then draw it!’

  Mayer thought for a minute. He needed to draw something technical that Kessler would not recognise and have to verify with an engineer. It would need to be convincing, and keep the engineers busy for a while. It would need to be a real technological advancement in the rocket programme. Mayer considered the options. He had several new ideas about manifold designs and fuel mixing that he had not shared with his colleagues.

  That’s it!

  He could throw Kessler off the scent by giving him a new, improved, manifold design. Mayer began to sketch, and hoped that his body was up to the task.

  Kessler sat waiting: what else could he do? The prisoner was a wreck.

  Mayer pressed the pencil to the paper, drawing slowly, with his hands shaking so much that he needed to repeatedly go over each line. A rough sketch slowly formed on the page.

  ‘What is it?’ Kessler was genuinely puzzled.

  Mayer was exhausted and, lacking the energy to speak, he gestured for the paper and wrote a few words. He had drawn a rough sketch for the very first turbo thrust pump; in effect, a turbo charger for a rocket engine. It would take the engineers a few days to figure it out, but it would increase the initial acceleration of a rocket off the launch pad by at least two hundred percent. That would be a major technological advancement by anyone’s reckoning.

  Kessler stared at the diagram, clueless. The engineers would need to read it.

  ‘Is there anything else, Professor?’

  Mayer gave a half shrug.

  ‘Are you sure there is nothing else, Professor?’

  Mayer tried to shrug again, but it just started off another coughing fit.

  ‘Is there more? Professor, is there more?!’

  Mayer continued coughing violently, unable to answer. Spots of blood emerged from his mouth and nose.

  ‘Herr Doctor! Herr Doctor! Attend the patient!’ Kessler called in the doctor who had been waiting outside.