1945

by Newt Gingrich

  "What's happening at K-25?"

  "They're running behind."

  Not so good . . . Well, Holzer would do the job or die trying. "What about those fighters?"

  "The bomber stream is already into North Carolina. Two have been shot down. It's getting confusing. We're not sure if we have any fighters coming here, or if they are all going after the bombers." That was as it should be. Some of the bombers were supposed to climb and make a high-altitude run-out with the intent of drawing off fighters from the rest of the stream—and also from Oak Ridge itself.

  As they spoke, Skorzeny continued to watch the gunship wheeling up out of its strike. Suddenly there was a burst of fire from out of the darkness. The gunship continued its turn, but the tracers followed. Then, ever so gracefully, the gunship's turn tightened so that its wings pointed nearly up and down, and then it started to roll over on its back as it arced into the ground. An instant later it impacted into a hillside, adding its fuel and explosives to the inferno that had become Oak Ridge.

  A P-51 fighter came racing in low at barely tree toplevel, and then pulled straight up and disappeared into the darkness. Skorzeny watched it, saying nothing. He looked over at his radio operator, who was gazing up in astonishment

  "Signal back to Gunther that American fighters have arrived, and have him relay it out to the teams. Tell them to get a move on."

  Skorzeny waited impatiently while the radio man carried out his instructions. Next he said, "Find out if the reserve bombers are still orbiting."

  The radio operator relayed the inquiry and a moment later looked back up at Skorzeny.

  "One has been shot down." Clearly the fighters were not equipped with radar; the bombers would be in far worse shape if darkness could not cloak them.

  "Tell the team at K-25 to pull out of the building and mark it with flares. Send the rest of the bombers in—wait! Divert one bomber over to the reactor and have it drop its load there."

  Even as he turned back into the administrative building he could feel and hear the ripple of explosions and gunfire coming from the basement.

  11:45 P.M.

  "Get down!"

  Jim ducked down behind the barricade of filing cabinets that Marshall had ordered to be piled up a dozen feet back from the door. The cabinets had been knocked over and piled up two high, with traverses laid out dividing the defensive line into half a dozen small cubicles, with more piled up further back into the square room with its forty-foot sides. The scientists who weren't armed were now in the back comer behind a wall of cabinets, with a single Ranger as their final line of defense. Everyone else with a weapon was lined up behind the barricade, barrels leveled toward the door.

  Suddenly, to the accompaniment of exploding HE, the heavy steel door was smashed open as by an angry giant's fist. The cabinets that had been set to block it skittered and tumbled into the room and against the far wall. Two commandos flung themselves into the room diagonally left and right, quartering the room with machine-gun fire as they did so. After a split second's shock the defenders opened up, and the two Germans were cut apart by a torrent of fire. A grenade rolled in, coming to rest against the barricade in front of Jim, who ducked down low. The explosion was strangely muffled by the contents of the stuffed file-drawer. For once, all the paper generated by a government agency had served a noble purpose.

  Another German tried to come through and was cut apart in turn. Having learned the hard way that a single grenade did not answer their needs, the raiders now sent in a flock of them, some of which arced over the barricade, bursting toward the back of the room. One bounced off the front of Jim's barricade and went spinning into the defensive cubical next to him, where it detonated.

  Jim pulled out one of the two precious grenades he had taken from the dead SS officer, pulled the ring at the bottom of the handle, and threw it into the corridor. At the very instant he did so commandos poised outside the now-empty door frame lunged into the room as a follow-up to their own grenade toss. Jim's grenade caught only the two who would otherwise have been last in.

  Three more Germans were dropped coming through the door, but the remaining two managed to leap over the barricade, firing their weapons at point-blank range, sweeping the line. A Ranger, using his rifle like a club, smashed one of them down, while one of the scientists managed to drop the other with either a lucky or a well-aimed shot from his forty-five.

  Ignoring the action, Jim kept his weapon leveled on the doorway. No one else came through. An MP jumped over the barricade and went up to the door, grabbing the machine pistols from the dead Germans and tossing them back to the surviving defenders. Jim vaguely recognized him as the one who had been awed speechless by Marshall's presence. Just as Marshall realized his intent and shouted "Don't be a dead hero, boy!" he slipped out the door and kicked one more weapon back through. Then he was down, jerking spasmodically from the rain of bullets that hit him.

  "General Marshall!"

  The voice echoed from down the smoke-filled corridor.

  Marshall remained silent.

  "General Marshall!"

  It was Skorzeny.

  At Marshall's nod, Jim shouted, "What's the matter, Skorzeny? We playing too rough?"

  There was a pause.

  "Ah, Martel. I was hoping we'd run into each other again, but I didn't expect it to be so soon."

  "Come on in, Skorzeny, any time you want!"

  "Mano a mano, is that it Martel? You know I'd have you; you're no match."

  Martel bristled, even though he knew Skorzeny was right, especially with his shoulder all gummed up.

  "Martel. I know Marshall's in there. Also Oppenheimer. Tell the two of them to come out, and I'll let the rest of you go. That's the deal. Otherwise we come in and everyone dies. Take a minute to think it over."

  Martel looked at Marshall, who looked like he might be considering it, and shook his head in violent negation. "Sir! The bastard wants all of us," Martel hissed. "You two will be prisoners and then he'll kill the rest of us anyhow. Don't you be a hero, sir."

  "Is that an order, Commander Martel?"

  Martel forced a smile. "Damn right, sir."

  "Martel! How about it?"

  "You can kiss my ass!"

  Skorzeny, crouched down at the edge of the corridor leading into the storage room, looked back at the one surviving member of his assault team. "I need another squad. You go round them up. Then, find the headquarters team. If they aren't still in the field, they're somewhere in this building. Tell Gunther I need more men. Also tell him to find me a couple of Panzerschrecken. Move it!"

  Skorzeny looked down at his watch, Time was running out.

  11:59 P.M.

  Since there had been no possibility of breaking through the Ranger force east of the reactor, what was left of Radl's team had been forced to backtrack north and then pick up the main Oak Ridge turnpike for the run back to their rendezvous. The road was chaos leading to an inferno. Refugees fleeing west to supposed safety clogged both sides of it, leaving only the narrowest possible corridor for traffic heading east, back into the madness. Now eastward movement was grinding entirely to a halt as cars backed up before the security gate ahead. Frantic, carbine-brandishing MPs were ordering cars off the road. Slowly, one after the next, each driver was leaning out of the window trying to make the case that he, if no others, should be allowed to continue on.

  Radl's truck, and the two behind him, contained all that was left of his team. As the trucks inched forward, Radl cocked his Schmeisser.

  The driver of the car in front of them was approached by an MP, as another stood with carbine leveled. "My family's back there, we have a new baby! I've got to get back!" The screaming argument was brief, being settled by a forty-five pressed against the temple of the driver. Weeping now, the man backed the car off to the side of the road.

  "Get ready," Radl whispered.

  His driver let in the clutch slightly, edging forward.

  "All right buddy, who are you?" the MP shouted.<
br />
  The driver, wearing an American helmet taken from one of the Rangers back at the reactor, leaned out.

  "Reinforcements for the town. Get the hell out of the way."

  "My orders are to stop and check every vehicle," the MP shouted back. "Now get your ass out and let's see your identification."

  "We're ordered to move! Get out of the way!"

  The MP shouldered his weapon, pointing it straight at the driver.

  The driver looked sidelong over at Radl.

  Radl started to bring his machine pistol up.

  "Duck!"

  The driver did so as Radl pointed his Schmeisser straight at the windshield and fired. The glass in front of him exploded, rounds pocking the pavement. One of the MPs, firing wildly, shot back and then spun around. Radl heard his men pouring out of the back of the truck, racing up to either side, storming the concrete bunkers of the checkpoint. An American machine gun opened up, dropping several of the men. Then they had gained the bunker, shoved in a grenade through the firing slit.

  Radl jumped out of the truck and ran across the road, heading for the other bunker. By now civilians were piling out of the cars and running panic-stricken in every direction. A woman slammed headlong into Radl, tripping him, which saved his life as a machine-gun bullet on its way to where he had stood a split second before killed her instead

  Men from the second and third trucks were now out and pouring in fire on the bunker. The position was overrun and the gunfire slacked off.

  Radl came back up to his feet, breathing hard. Trembling, in a cold sweat, he leaned over, gasping for breath, and vomited. When the spasming didn't stop he squatted down on the pavement, head lowered. Finally it passed. A cold chill seized him and he started to shake uncontrollably.

  "Are you hurt, sir?" asked one of his men.

  He looked up, smiled weakly, and shook his head—but when he tried to stand he found he couldn't. He raised his hand and the soldier, filled with concern now, pulled him to his feet. Radl looked around and saw that one of his men was down on his knees, doubled up and vomiting.

  "Stephan's sick like you," the soldier said nervously. "A couple others are vomiting as well. Are we poisoned, sir?"

  Radl shook his head. "Just a flu or something." He laughed weakly and waved the man off. "Let's move it!" He started back to his truck and then cursed. Steam was billowing out from under the engine, and a pool of water was spreading out underneath. The other two trucks, thank God, were in better shape. All three had been targets of the American fifty-cals, but only his had been subject to prolonged attention.

  He looked back at the row of cars that were now backed up in the opposite direction, the remaining drivers and passengers still piling out and fleeing.

  "Those who were riding with me, grab those cars! The rest of you, into the trucks."

  Radl went up to the truck and pulled the drivers-side door open. The boy that he had been riding with slumped out, bleeding from the mouth. He was dead. Another wave of nausea hit Radl and bending over he convulsively vomited. With tears in his eyes he gasped for air until the attack passed.

  The soldier who had helped him get back up was looking at him, wide eyed.

  "Help me to one of the cars," Radl ordered.

  Obediently the soldier came up to his side and, putting an arm around him, he half-carried Radl over to a Ford that was sitting in the line of cars, the motor still running.

  "We're poisoned, aren't we?" the soldier asked again. "I heard one of the men say that the Americans were running in panic once that building blew up. Am I going to get it too?"

  Radl looked over at him and forced a smile. "Don't worry. Tomorrow you will bask in the praise of the Führer himself."

  APRIL 21,12:01 A.M.

  "General Groves!"

  Leslie Groves looked up at the MP who came in through the door, not even bothering to salute.

  "What the hell now?"

  "Sir, we just got a report from the east gate. One of the surviving MPs there reports a couple of hundred armed civilians in the area. Most have already just pushed their way through. They're mostly vets wearing their old uniforms. They had organized themselves under a couple of sheriffs and came down when they saw the bombing going on and heard a radio report. I don't know why they had assembled in the first place."

  For a moment Groves could only look wonderingly at the MP, then he found his voice. "Get them in here now! I'll meet them on the turnpike!"

  "Most are already up in the residential area, sir."

  "Bring every man you can find back here. Move it!"

  Groves turned back to the Ranger he had been speaking to when the MP arrived. After a few moments they went out onto the street. To the north, up in the residential area, the sound of gunfire still crackled. The reports coming in for the last half hour had numbed him. Nazis, dressed in American uniforms were systematically executing everyone they met. To the south and west he could see the fires from Y-12 and K-25, and confirmation had just come in that the reactor was blown. If the wind shifted to the southwest, Oak Ridge would be a graveyard and the Nazis could spare themselves a lot of trouble. Of course, they'd be dead too...

  All outside communication was still down except for one radio link. In the last hour he'd managed to gather a small force, but in spite of the agonized pleas of his civilian police chief and the MPs, he was not sending them up to the civilian living quarters. It was a coldly pragmatic decision: They could perhaps save some middle-echelon people, or they could marshal a counterstrike to retake the administrative building. Oppenheimer, Teller and the others holed up in there were worth far more than all the rest of the personnel combined now that there was a war on. Well, even if not many of those armed locals rendezvoused with him here, maybe they could do at least a little about the atrocities taking place in the residential areas.

  An ironic complicating factor suddenly occurred to him. Several of his security personnel, unable to bear the thought of what was happening in the housing complexes, had simply gone AWOL, and were currendy engaged in their own private wars. He hoped they would be able to link up successfully with the civilians, even though they and the invaders wore the same uniforms.

  He couldn't blame them for caring more about the women and children they saw every day than about a bunch of middle-aged dome-heads from out of state, and part of him was glad they'd "deserted" in a good cause. He'd skin those who survived though.

  12:05 P.M.

  Richer popped the magazine out of his Luger as he gazed tenderly down at the half-dozen girls he had just talked out of their hiding place and then killed. It had felt so wonderfully good, especially when the extremely pretty one started to cry as, after first forcing them to kneel, he systematically shot her five friends, one after the other. She had looked quite a lot like another girl from Tennessee, but that one had been laughing. This one had not found him so amusing; after she learned what was going to happen to her, she begged to be shot like the rest. With a knife he would never be a failure again.

  As he absentmindedly reloaded his pistol he could still feel that delicious chill from gazing into her terror-filled eyes as they finally glazed into nothingness. What a relief to once again be able to give this side of his nature free rein. After the Armistice, even in Occupied Russia his favorite sport had to be practiced in secret, or in the camps. How stupid the law was, Richer thought as he holstered his pistol and walked back out to the street where his personal squad of three waited, looking at him wide eyed.

  "Don't approve, Peter?" he asked his radio man. Peter hadn't served with Richer before, and was an odd combination of soft and outspoken.

  "Sir, they looked like gymnasium girls. No more than seventeen. There was no reason for that. Especially what you did to the last one."

  "Hmm. Perhaps you're right. I'll remember that, Peter," Richer said calmly as he sensuously wiped his bloody hand along his trouser leg. It was good for morale for the troops to know you listened.

  Richer looked down at his
watch. The fun was almost over. It was time to order the teams to the rendezvous. From around a corner he saw three figures approaching. "Hey! Come over here!" Richer shouted. He waited.

  The three slowed.

  "Come on, I don't have all night; get your asses over here!"

  "Call in the platoon leaders," Richer said over his shoulder to Peter. "Rendezvous at the command post in fifteen minutes."

  The three civilians remained where they were.

  Richer unslung his machine pistol and strode briskly in their direction. Ammunition was running low; no sense in spraying them from a distance. Besides, up close was more interesting.

  As he was bringing his Schmeisser into line, Richer was suddenly aware of a rifle barrel angling up from hip level. The next instant he felt a terrific punch to the shoulder. He was vaguely aware of two more rifle shots and the deeper blast of a shotgun, followed by the clattering sound of equipment-laden bodies collapsing to the ground, his own and others.

  Now a man wearing a US Navy blouse over striped gray pants was staring down at him. "I told you they was Germans, Al," the man dressed as a sailor announced, chambering another round into his rifle. "You could have got us killed, making us wait that way till you were sure."

  "You are awful doggoned easy about maybe shootin' Americans, Lloyd," the one addressed replied. "Besides, I had at least a quarter second even after he started swinging that midget machine gun of his around."

  Frank, dressed like Al in a US Army jacket with corporal's stripes looked at his cousin unbelievingly. "A whole quarter second. Hell, I guess I could shoot the whole German Army in a whole quarter second, Al." The words were ironic, but the voice was filled with rueful admiration. "Now what we gonna do with this live one?" He pointed the gun straight down at Richer, the muzzle a few inches from his face.

  Instinctively, Richer interposed his bloody hand.

  "Let's hog-tie him and let him lay," said Al. "The brass is gonna want some prisoners, and this one's an officer. That's why I was careful not to kill him in the first place. I wouldn't a' killed the other one I got either, except he was farther away and startin' to move," he added apologetically.