I hope this war is over soon and that God holds you safely in His hands. I wish you a long and loving life with Martha. Say hello to Red and the others. I’ll miss them and all the fun experiences together.
Good-bye.
Love,
Anne
It was completely dark when Nick was able to summon the strength to leave the church. The words in the letter were unrelenting in their power. She had left no door open, and he knew that she was right in what she had done. Her strength was simply greater than his. He mulled over whether it was his weakness or his genuine feelings for Anne at the source of his ambivalence. “I love you, too, Anne,” he said under his breath.
CHAPTER 33
The chilly but sunny day in the upper Sonoran area of New Mexico was for Dr. Oppenheimer and Major Gordon a pleasant alternative to Yukon Flats, Alaska. They had come to the remote part of the Southwest to evaluate a second site for the Los Alamos project. The ever-present cigarette clinging to Dr. Oppenheimer’s lips provided no obstacle as he conversed with the major. “It’s more goddamn tolerable than the Flats, but it still has disadvantages.” The vegetation—sagebrush, pinion, and juniper—coupled with far more acceptable temperatures were obvious advantages as the two men surveyed this remote area of New Mexico forty miles northwest of Carrizozo.
“I agree,” the major replied. “It’s pleasant now, but with a test scheduled in late summer, the heat will be a son of a bitch. It won’t be a pleasant exchange for the early fall temperatures of the Flats.”
“Point taken, Major, but the site preparation will go smoother. You damn well know the military will start their efforts a year in advance, which means we’ll be working on it all twelve months.” He sucked the cigarette with such intensity that it actually bent before removing it from his mouth to light another. “What I don’t like, though, is the volcanic history of the area.”
“Are you talking about that lava flow to the east of here?”
“Exactly. Ronald’s done some research, and the activity’s not that old in seismic terms. If this test goes as planned, we’re going to give this area a hell of a jolt.” Ronald Reisdorf had continued to be a trusted confidant to Dr. Oppenheimer throughout the project. Dr. Oppenheimer had handpicked his protégé. Some argued that Ronald was too involved for a civilian contractor. Smart as hell, though, as a Harvard physics prodigy—nobody disagreed on that point.
“What are we talking about?” The major had been gazing at the vista, but he turned back to make direct eye contact for emphasis as he asked about the jolt.
“My best guess is the equivalent of twenty kilotons of TNT.”
The major issued a low whistle. “Jesus Christ!”
“That’s why both site alternatives need to be absolutely remote. The army will have to get the people living here out on some pretense and build a perimeter of security.”
The major removed his visor cap, which was in complete contrast to the wrinkled canvas fishing hat worn by Dr. Oppenheimer, and wiped the perspiration from his brow with a handkerchief. “The army’s going to have their hands full accomplishing that with the sheer size of either site. The military police will want to know our decision months ahead of any activity.”
“We’ll give them that. Our team has been requested to provide a complete Manhattan Project dog and pony show to no less than the 509th Composite Group and his holiness, Brigadier General Leslie Groves, on the twenty-first of March in Colorado Springs. I’m not at liberty to give you the details yet, Major, but every aspect of our plan will be scrutinized. In the meantime, my vote for the test site is to pinpoint a location in this area of New Mexico as the first choice and Yukon Flats as the second. Physically, they both meet our standards, so we’ll need to be prepared to argue the value of both. In the end, though, I think it’s the proximity to our scientists at Los Alamos and the ability to mobilize the brass in and out that I think will make the difference.”
“Are you sure you understand the full merits of Yukon Flats? Just a month ago that was your first pick.”
“I think so. Ronald and I are going to review all the data tomorrow to be sure. It’s likely we’ll need one more trip for final validation.” As if to make a point, Dr. Oppenheimer stomped out his cigarette in the rocky dirt in one of the rare times that he didn’t light another.
Ronald was a rare breed. As an American-born citizen his cover as a Russian spy was authentic. While communist infiltration in the United States was not uncommon—even FDR’s brain trust had been invaded by card-carrying communists from both countries—most were foreign born. At Harvard, Ronald’s true genius as a physicist was unparalleled. It was his study and firm conviction in socialism and collectivization, however, that motivated his misplaced idealism. The Lenin “experiment” made sense to him as a one-world order. He believed Stalin’s leadership was perfectly timed. On the contrary, he thought that the United States was too yielding in its commitment to world leadership, and he believed capitalism to be the soft underbelly of U.S. credibility. It was the Nazis, though, that confirmed the one thing he believed all of his life—there are very few ideologies destined to lead on the world stage. And within each ideology there are just a handful of people with the intellect capable of envisioning and planning a one-world order. Ronald was of the staunch belief that the United States and Germany would be pushed aside as a result of having to maintain costly wars on two fronts. He knew for a fact that the “super bomb” would be a reality soon, and the island nations of Britain and Japan were vulnerable to a bomb capable of destroying an entire city the size of London or Tokyo. Russia and its commitment to social order made sense to Ronald. In the process, Russia’s current alliance with Uncle Sam only made her stronger.
Yet, as a Russian GRU military intelligence spy, he had never met his handler. All communications took place via a BP3, the most sophisticated undercover encryption communications system in existence. Built by Polish telecommunication refugees hired by the British Secret Service, the BP3 was constructed as a vastly improved miniaturized suitcase version of the outdated and bulky Mark XV, which was housed in two wooden cases.
The BP3’s enormous power enabled intercontinental communications, although he was quite sure his handler, code named Mighty Mouse, was American. The namesake from the recent Marvel comic book release combined with too many encrypted colloquial word choices and unique sentence structure tipped off his handler’s likely U.S. upbringing—probably the northeast portion of the United States if he were to guess.
The GRU spy network secretly got their hands on a shipment of BP3 prototypes after staging what all believed to be their complete destruction. Ronald considered it an important honor to have access to his own personal BP3 system, proving the importance of his work and his intellectual capacity to change the world order. Every other method of communication was second-rate compared to the BP3. His message tonight would have to be carefully crafted.
JANUARY 26, 1944
COMRADE MIGHTY MOUSE,
MANHATTAN PROJECT SUMMIT MEETING IS PLANNED FOR MARCH 21, 1944, IN COLORADO SPRINGS WITH BRIGADIER GENERAL LESLIE GROVES AND TOP STAFF. ALL TIMETABLES AND PLANS—INCLUDING BOMB DESIGN, TESTING LOCATIONS, NUCLEAR FORMULATION, BUILDING SPECS, AND SECURITY—WILL BE REVIEWED IN DETAIL.
PRELIMINARY ITINERARY FOR LOS ALAMOS TEAM INCLUDES STOPS AT ANCHORAGE, FAIRBANKS, AND YUKON FLATS EN ROUTE TO COLORADO SPRINGS PRIOR TO MEETING. DEPARTURE FROM LOS ALAMOS TO ANCHORAGE ON MARCH 15. EXACT DETAILS NOT FINAL. ALL PROJECT DOCUMENTS WILL BE ON BOARD.
TECUMSEH
Ronald had chosen his operative code name, Tecumseh, from his belief that, if it had not been for the bad luck resulting from the actions of a drunken brother at the Battle of Fallen Timbers, Chief Tecumseh and the Indian Nations would have successfully defeated the U.S. Army. This action would have radically changed the shape of the United States political landscape. It was no coincidence that Ronald considered Tecumseh a genius for all ages.
CHAPTER 34
Mighty
Mouse knew the circumstances surrounding the Colorado Springs meeting of top army brass would not come again. Its importance was beyond anything he had ever handled. He planned to encrypt the message from Tecumseh with a different code to ensure absolute security before sending it that night to Agent Sirak through the scrutiny of his GRU handler. It was the end of January, just forty-five days from the Los Alamos team’s arrival. Because of his unique position in the U.S. military to have access to sensitive flight information and routes, he knew that he would be relied upon to craft a strategy. He also knew that those responsible for this rare collaboration between the NKVD and the GRU would demand a plan to successfully secure the Manhattan Project documents at all costs. For all he knew, Stalin himself would have direct involvement in the plan. On the line was an international power shift in the race for the super bomb and a fallout between the United States and Russia, if the plan failed. The pressure for a plan of absolute certainty and precise implementation was immense.
Mighty Mouse was pulled out of his deep thoughts about the complexity of such a plan when a new co-pilot came through the flight ops door, letting in a cold blast of air. “Goddamn,” the man said, reacting to the extreme cold and stiff winds. “I don’t know what I did wrong to end up here, but this sure isn’t Cincinnati, Ohio.”
“You’ll get used to it, soldier,” Cricket responded with his usual “lend a hand” attitude. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m new at the base, and I thought I’d stop over to get the lay of things … maybe some tips on how things run and how I can fit in.”
This is how things are supposed to work, Cricket thought as the ever-present clatter of the Teletype machines filled the background. Any opportunity to properly break in a new pilot was time well spent. “We can take some time right now, if you’d like. My name is Martin Mason, but people call me Cricket. It’s my job as warrant officer to look after you pilots as you come and go from the base here in Anchorage. I can walk you through the routine of schedules, assignments, flight plans, and, in general, how to keep on my good side.”
“Just what I need,” the man said, extending his hand in introduction. “My name is Bob Parker. I hail from Cincinnati, Ohio.” As the men got down to business, Cricket put his thoughts about the communication he would send that night on hold.
Nobody would ever have suspected Cricket’s involvement with the Russians. His Jersey Catholic upbringing was no match for his education on the streets in the slums of Newark. His dad died in a railcar accident—crushed between two cars in the yard. The railroad company didn’t pay a dime; they claimed he had liquor on his breath. Cricket was now twenty-six and had four younger brothers and sisters ranging from eleven to twenty-four; one was retarded and a ward of the state. His mother incurred a debilitating back injury on her factory job in ’38, making it extremely difficult to manage. Cricket’s logic was simple: God had put him on this earth to survive, and getting his education on the streets of Newark was a critical part. The bottom line for him was to get enough money for a better life for his family, and providing information paid a lot more than his job as warrant officer would ever generate.
His arrangement as an operative started innocently several years back as a watchdog for the Russians. In return, he received monthly payments that equaled half his army pay. He sent that money home to his mother to run things. She received the money in cash and never questioned it. If he was ever challenged, he could claim it came from his earnings. He lived frugally on base to support his cover and was true-blue American in everything else he did. In the beginning, he had only planned to do it short term, just for the money. References by his GRU handler, however, in his coded transmissions to Cricket identified too many specifics of his family situation back in Jersey that made Cricket realize there was no going back. That was eighteen months ago.
That night Cricket received a phone call from Robert. “Why don’t you route me through Anchorage soon so I can stay overnight?” Robert was always direct in his need for companionship. It made Cricket uncomfortable, but it had been months since they had been together.
“Maybe in a few weeks,” Cricket said. “I’m involved in something very important right now, and I need to stay focused. Don’t worry, we’ll do something.” After a little more friendly chatter he hung up. The plan for Sirak was coming together.
The documents would be worthless without a qualified interpreter, he thought. Tecumseh would be perfect, but Oppenheimer would have to be neutralized. His international connections in the scientific community, combined with his ego, made him valuable to the Russians, yet vulnerable and therefore a poor choice for a U.S. operative. They would have to get him out of the way without sending up a red flare that something was up. In addition, any subsequent investigation by the military would need to be completely stymied. Collateral damage could not be uncovered and nonessential parties would have to be eliminated without raising suspicion. The complexity and magnitude of this undertaking left Cricket agitated and unable to sleep well into the night. He finally crafted a simple encrypted message designed to get Agent Sirak’s attention and added it to the recoded communication from Tecumseh. He sent it at 0300 via RF communication.
FIRST LIGHTNING,
I FIND MYSELF UNIQUELY SITUATED IN THE MIDDLE OF THESE EVENTS AS THEY UNFOLD. ACTIONS THAT MAY AFFECT THE OUTCOME OF ALL WARS AND RUSSIA’S FUTURE RELATIONS WITH THE UNITED STATES ARE WITHIN REACH. AWAITING YOUR INSTRUCTIONS.
MIGHTY MOUSE
Twelve time zones away, Agent Andrey Sirak considered the significance of obtaining the complete documentation and operational know-how of the Manhattan Project. His meeting earlier in the day with Stalin left no doubt that getting those documents was not only to be his primary responsibility, but one in which any corroboration from Russia would be vehemently denied. The depth of involvement by the joint GRU and NKVD collaboration was so secretive, however, that the existence of traitors within their very walls would make any overt attempt reckless. Complicating matters was the military intelligence policy, which Agent Sirak followed with supreme diligence, in compartmentalizing all agents and operative activities. The German SS operated similarly. He knew that the very heart of the spy system in Russia was dependent on the belief that all agents and operatives were being watched and reported on by another. One informed false move of betrayal or incompetence led to harsh consequences. The paranoia achieved was pervasive. Agent Sirak knew that to expect for this initiative to be accomplished by one person, however, was naïve and foolhardy, yet a group operating in a transparent fashion was unheard of and opened the door to a disastrous security breach. If it could be done, Agent Dubisskiy, Mighty Mouse, and Tecumseh could provide the core of such a group. But how could such a plan be brought together? Andrey toiled with the possibilities. He was very anxious for the likelihood of a successful outcome.
Finally, as if the solution had been sitting on the table for all to see, he replied to Mighty Mouse’s communication.
JANUARY 27, 1944
MIGHTY MOUSE,
GIVE ME THE DETAILS OF YOUR PLAN.
FIRST LIGHTNING
Agent Sirak knew that the logical leader had to be an American in order to pull off the subterfuge necessary to successfully complete the assignment. Agent Dubisskiy would be invaluable, yet his very experience in the NKVD would keep him from effectively taking the lead. Tecumseh was too headstrong to lead but had the right intellect for the initiative to have long-range scientific impact. It was Mighty Mouse who had the credentials to bring the group together. In fact, that’s what he did so successfully every day, the agent reasoned.
CHAPTER 35
En Route Norman Wells
February 6, 1944
My Dear Martha,
We just passed Mt. Martha where the Mackenzie and Laird Rivers come together. Lake Martha, the one also named after you, will be coming up on the left, but it will be hard to spot with the snow cover. Thinking a lot about you and the baby—do we need to come up with another
name than George? Should get some time off in June. Probably not a good time for you to travel, but I would like for you and George to come out to Glacier after the war. I think you’ll like it a lot. Red and I seem to draw a lot of flights together, which is good. I trust him as much as any friend, and he’s a damn good pilot.
Yours,
Nick
“Haven’t heard you talk much of Anne lately. Is everything okay, Pard?” Red had laid off any conversation about their situation for about a week, hoping that Nick would bring him up to speed on his own. Nick’s silence was uncharacteristic.
“People have told me that when you lose a limb you still feel it, as if it is really there … but it’s not. I guess that’s how I feel about Anne. I don’t know how I got in so deep in the few days we spent together. But now it’s like one of those dreams where you wake up in a cold sweat, out of breath, and running from an unknown demon. I’ll just have to stay one step ahead of my emotions until they run their course. It is getting better, though. Thanks for asking.”
Nick performed a lazy turn to port for a more direct heading to Norman Wells. Their cargo of tools and equipment for the CANOL gave them a little freedom to stretch their wings, so to speak. They enjoyed the crystal clarity of the winter day with nothing but the soft gray polar twilight provided courtesy of a winter sun just hanging on the horizon.
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