“True, but did you know that the Nazis have been acquiring the means to build an atomic weapon? The annexation of Norway in 1934 had nothing to do with territory or resources. It was about the Vemork Heavy Water Plant. Centrifuges, and fissile materials have all been on Tomal’s shopping list of late,” Gallono added.
Hastelloy was well aware of Tomal’s activities. He also knew that almost no resources were going toward designing an atom bomb. “What’s your point? We eventually need to hit the Alpha base on Mars with nuclear or fusion weapons. Developing an atom bomb is the next logical step.”
“Have you considered what could happen if Hitler, Tomal, and their Nazi friends get hold of nuclear weapons loaded on rockets that can reach any place on the globe?”
“Tomal is one of us,” Hastelloy insisted. “He goes over the edge sometimes, but in the end he always does right by the mission. Besides, you’ll be there to pull him back.”
“No I won’t, not if Tomal has anything to say about it,” Gallono responded, his anger obvious. “Tomal sought to discredit and weaken my influence within the army during the invasion of France by setting me up for failure. When that didn’t work, he placed my divisions in the path of retreating British forces, denied me air support, and delayed reinforcements for days. He tried to eliminate me, plain and simple. That way he’d be free to operate without supervision.”
“Why, to what end?” Hastelloy asked.
Gallono became visibly agitated with Hastelloy’s questioning and went straight to the point. “Toss the covert gathering of atomic materials and trying to kill me aside, he’s exterminating people. The severely handicapped are being taken from their families and euthanized in hospitals to save resources. Along those lines, you’ve heard about the camps, right?”
“Yes, French and Polish prisoners are being sent to work camps as slave labor to manufacture war materials,” Hastelloy answered. “It’s unfortunate, but a fairly common practice in war.”
“Those camps I can live with, I’m talking about the ones in Poland where all the Jews are being sent,” Gallono went on with great concern in his voice. “Millions of them have just vanished overnight to these camps and I can tell you, there are no food resources allocated to Poland. Rumor has it they’re being starved to death.”
“The Jews, Captain. The ancestors of those you led out of the Egyptian desert. The ones Tomal has openly dubbed ‘your people’. He is wiping them out for no other reason than he thinks they’re a part of some plot of yours to rule the world.”
“I say this to you now with every confidence; Tomal is no longer with our cause,” Gallono insisted. “Something has gotten into him, into his head that goes beyond his megalomania. He is delusional. He may even believe deep down that he is doing the right thing for our mission by fighting you and the rest of us under your command. Either way, I now consider him an active enemy to our mission here on this planet.”
He was aware that Gallono had some bad history with Tomal, but in all the lifetimes they had served together, he never knew Gallono to overstate the severity of a situation. The commander was the consummate professional and knew how to keep his personal feelings out of things.
Hastelloy clasped his hands in front of his face and took a minute to think. He decided to plan for the worst and hope for the best. “I need you to do two things. First, talk up Valnor’s position of power and achievements in the Soviet Union. That should tweak Tomal’s jealousy enough to push Hitler and the Nazis into making some mistakes.”
“Second, I need you to get yourself assigned a command in Northern Africa. This will get you away from Tomal and in position to take over Egypt and surround the Nexus with forces loyal to us. If what you say is true, he may very well try to use the Nexus or the gravity weapon as leverage against us. If you’re wrong, then I’d rather be safe than sorry.”
**********
Hastelloy tried his best to push his conversation with Gallono aside as he stood outside President Roosevelt’s closed office door. To do so, he focused on the fact that this would be his first time seeing the new Oval Office. He hoped this architect showed better taste than the last, though that would not be difficult. With the walls of the previous office of the president draped in sea grass green burlap with even lighter green carpeting, it was garish in the extreme, but quite memorable.
That was indeed the point back in 1910 when President Taft commissioned the first Oval Office. Bright colors were expensive and rare back then. Displaying them in such quantity and prominence was a powerful show of prosperity for the young nation. Thirty years later, colored wall paint was affordable to all and rendered the room simply hideous; the fire in 1929 did the nation a great service by consuming the first incarnation of the Oval Office.
When he gained entry, Hastelloy resisted the impulse to look around. Instead, he focused his attention on the President who rolled up in his wheelchair to greet him at the door. Seeing a prominent world leader so physically handicapped was extremely rare in Hastelloy’s experience, and it would likely never happen again on this planet with the advent of television.
Hearing about a man’s physical ailment, or even looking at a photograph in the paper was one thing, but seeing it on screen in motion was quite another. The sad fact was it conveyed an unacceptable sense of weakness for a leader. A sentiment reinforced by the administration’s dogged work to downplay the President’s incapacity; a point of leverage Hastelloy had regretfully used upon occasion to get what he needed from the President.
After a firm handshake, President Roosevelt gestured with his free hand toward a pair of couches facing each other in the center of the room. “Director, please join us for an update on the situation in Europe.”
Hastelloy took his seat alone on one couch and looked across at Secretary of State, Cordell Hull, and the newly appointed Secretary of War, Henry Stimson. Hastelloy had all but forced the President to replace the former Secretary of War with evidence of his illegal trading activities on the New York Stock Exchange. It did not matter that the evidence was fabricated, the mere implication was enough to get the fanatically anti-war man out of the administration. His replacement, Mr. Stimson, was far more open to the idea of joining the war in Europe before the Nazis owned the entire continent.
“First things first, what is the status on French and their resistance groups?” the President asked of Hastelloy since his network of informants was far more extensive than that of the armed services.
“They are a minor annoyance at best. The various partisan groups have sabotaged a few rail lines, and intercepted some supply shipments. One cell even managed to free a handful of military prisoners heading for Germany to work in forced labor camps. It’s something, but the German’s are confident enough in their control to move entire air wing groups up along the coast to start bombing England from three different directions.”
“How are the English holding up?” President Roosevelt asked his Secretary of State.
“Despite facing overwhelming numbers, the English airmen are faring quite well actually.”
“How? How are they doing this?” the President marveled. “The Battle of Britain is entering its fourth month now. Our initial estimates had the Luftwaffe taking no more than a week to eliminate the Royal Air Force command in southern England. Then they would begin landing assault troops and armor divisions. Given how quickly France fell, we thought it was a matter of weeks until England followed. How are they doing this?”
Secretary Stimson inclined his head toward Hastelloy and said, “A lot of bravery, perseverance, and a healthy helping of good intelligence gathered from spies. For more details than that, you’ll have to ask our resident spy expert.”
“Surprisingly, there’s not a lot to it,” Hastelloy began. “For the expense of a few dozen radio transmitters delivered to French farmers near the coast, the English know when an assault wave is coming. Couple that with their early detection network of radar stations and the Royal Air Force is able to intercept the bo
mbing raids with equal numbers and minimize the damage they can cause.”
“Plus, we have a mountain of disinformation for the handful of German informants to sift through to try and locate English factories. As a result, many of the bombs dropped by German planes that do manage to get through the fighter screen hit empty warehouses rather than active manufacturing sites or military installations. The bottom line is the British, for the moment, are giving as good as they are taking.”
“But for how long? Can they replace their losses?” Secretary Stimson asked.
Hastelloy nodded his head slightly. “For the moment, yes they can hold out. English factories are currently churning out three hundred new planes a month. The real limiting factor is the number of trained pilots, a limitation shared by the Germans as well. The key difference is that when an English pilot gets shot down, he opens his parachute and lands on friendly soil.
“German pilots, on the other hand, land in hostile territory and face capture or execution.”
“So that’s it then, the English will hold out?” President Roosevelt asked, more as a statement.
Hastelloy’s nodding motion turned sideways for a negative shake of the head. “The problem is that Germany has a much bigger pool of resources from which to pull. Eventually the Germans will get better intelligence and manage to break through the air defenses on a regular basis. At that point, they will start destroying the factories so that when an English plane goes down, it will not be replaced. When that happens, the war for the British Isles will be over. We need to join the fight and give them help.”
“That’s a no go,” Secretary Hull responded. “You’ve seen the latest opinion polls Mr. President. Public support for a war in Europe is simply non-existent.”
“You can take executive action for six months without answering to anyone,” Hastelloy suggested.
“Six months, are you serious?” Secretary Hull countered. “We won’t even get trained troops over there in six months, and then Congress will just call them back because there’s no way they will ratify an official declaration of war without massive public support. That’s just a statement of fact.”
“All right, all right,” President Roosevelt said with his hands out wide in front of him to stop the heated exchange. “Short of declaring war or sending troops, what can we do to support England until we can sway public opinion to favor war?”
“Ship raw materials to England in order to keep their factories going,” the Secretary of War offered. “Their U-boats will sink quite a few shipments, but enough will get through with proper escort to make a difference.”
“Good, what else?” the President prompted.
“Research,” Hastelloy suggested. “I have it on good authority that the Germans have dedicated nearly a third of their nation’s budget to research projects, and many of those new technologies are coming along at a frightening clip.”
“Like what?” the President asked.
“Aircraft propelled by rocket and jet engines rather than propeller. The prototypes are easily two times faster than the best plane the British or the United States has to offer. Also, they are developing two variants of self-guided flying bombs. One flies much like a plane and can therefore be shot down, but the second is far more threatening.”
“The project is still top secret, which is why the Germans are not boasting about the accomplishment, but their most recent V-2 rocket tests actually put a manmade object into outer space.”
“What does that accomplishment do for them?” Secretary Stimson asked. “Throwing things up into space doesn’t hurt the English on the ground, now does it?”
Amid a chorus of soft chuckles at the joke, Hastelloy drew a picture on a plain piece of white paper. The picture consisted of a circle, Earth, and an arched line going up and then down from one point on the circle to another. “What goes up must come down. In this case, the angle of descent is so steep that there’s no stopping the object, say a massive bomb, from hitting its target. None whatsoever once they get the guidance figured out.”
Stone silence gave Hastelloy an opening to continue and press his real agenda for the meeting. “As for what sort of bomb they might deliver with this V-2 weapon, all my sources say that Germany is developing an atom bomb. We don’t know a whole lot about it other than theoretical estimates place the destructive force in the neighborhood of a five hundred kiloton explosion. Basically, entire cities would vanish in an instant with one of these atom bombs.”
Stunned faces led Hastelloy to conclude his update by asking, “Not so funny now, is it?”
President Roosevelt chewed the inside of his cheek in contemplation for a minute before looking over at his Secretary of War. “We need to beat them to the punch. They may not be a direct threat to us now with this V-2 rocket, but being able to reach North America would only be a matter of fuel and better steering. I don’t care what it costs; we need to beat them to the punch. I want a plan on my desk by next week detailing a project that will give us an atom bomb before the Germans, or anybody else for that matter.”
“Yes Mr. President. I already have a long list of scientists we’ll need to recruit for the effort. One in particular is far ahead of the pack and without question needs to be the project leader,” Hastelloy added.
“Put it in the proposal,” President Roosevelt said before changing the subject by shifting his gaze to the Secretary of State. “Now, how are the new trade negotiations coming along with the Empire of Japan? They have got to be feeling the pinch of no oil or steel by now.”
Hastelloy knew the details of this topic very well and decided to let his attention wander around the new office as the update progressed. His eyes focused on the presidential seal stitched into an area rug that covered most of the hardwood flooring in the room. The eagle held an olive branch for peace in its right talon and a clutch of arrows symbolizing war in its left.
For now, the seal had the eagle’s head facing the olive branch, but Hastelloy knew there was a second rug insert with the eagle’s head facing the arrows for display during times of war. With any luck, that second version of the seal would be in use soon.
**********
“I assume you’re talking about the Manhattan Project?” Mark asked of Hastelloy. A subtle affirmative nod gave him leave to continue, “Let me guess, your science officer, Tonwen, was tapped to lead the research project that gave mankind the most destructive weapon ever conceived.”
“Who else?” Hastelloy replied with his arms flung wide open. “During his studies he cultivated deep relationships with some of the greatest minds of that generation. I would go so far as to say that as Dr. Robert Oppenheimer, Tonwen was the only person on this planet who could have accomplished that monumental objective.”
“How did you get so many people with such liberal and borderline communist political ties accepted into the project?” Mark asked. “The ultra-conservative military top brass had to have put their collective foot down to stop such appointments into the most secretive and expensive project the nation had ever undertaken to that point?”
“A heightened state of necessity has its own way of clearing inconvenient obstacles such as that,” Hastelloy answered.
Chapter 27: Subtle Touch
Beneath the sands of Egypt, Colonel Azire led his men down the three-mile stretch of metal lined tunnel at a forced pace that gave him flashbacks to his days of basic training. He took no small measure of pride in being able to hold a seven-minute mile pace the entire way at his age. He felt his ego deflate a bit though with a glance back at his men accomplishing the same feat while loaded down with backpacks, body armor and heavy weapons.
His chest felt like it was about to explode, but time was of the essence. The dead American soldier outside the Sphinx chamber would be due to report in at some point. At that time, Azire and his men would lose the element of surprise, and they needed every advantage available to them to deal with Terrance and his elite Navy SEALs.
When his flashlight ca
ught a glimpse of the three hundred foot tall ladder leading back to surface at the end of the tunnel, Colonel Azire felt a rush of both relief and panic. In his haste to reach this point, he had left himself on empty to make the taxing climb back to the surface. Azire reduced his pace and came to a trotting stop as his left hand reached for a ladder rung at eye level. He gave a moment’s thought to leading the climb, but realized it was a fool’s notion. He would only slow his men down, and they were the ones with the training and weaponry to take on the American soldiers standing guard at the top.
“Take another thirty seconds to settle your breathing,” Colonel Azire managed to say to his panting men. “Then it will be masks on as we make the climb. When you reach the top, the third and fourth man will toss up tear gas grenades as the first two enter the room and subdue the guards quickly and quietly if at all possible. We cannot afford for a warning communication to be made.”
“Right; that’s enough of this standing around. Go. Now,” Colonel Azire managed to force out of his hollow lungs. His words saw his soldiers don their gas masks and dutifully begin the demanding climb. Once his eighth and final soldier mounted the ladder, Azire place both hands on his knees and took an extra minute to catch his own breath before making the climb as well.
With every passing ladder rung, Azire realized he made the right choice in going last. His men were climbing at twice his rate, outdistancing the reach of his flashlight. Soon all he could hear was the sound of his own heavy breathing inside the constrictive gas mask.
Ten minutes into the climb Azire heard two sharp pops from up above, the tear gas grenades. This was followed by a brief moment of shouting which ended in three loud gunshots and a sound suppressed rip from a silenced machine gun. Thirty seconds after that, there was another exchange of gunfire until all fell silent up above.
Origins: The Reich Page 17