She couldn’t see them yet, but she knew from the men’s shouts that they had spotted her. To her right was a wide, fast-flowing river, to her left a high rocky protrusion that she didn’t have time to scale. They were coming up fast behind her, too fast for her to outrun them. As hard as she’d tried to shake them, it was as though a tracking device had been attached to her at the first hut.
She scanned the scattered spruce and oak trees ahead of her, the terrain marked with boulders and small rolling hills. There were places to hide, but none on the ground that gave her an ability to see what was coming and defend herself.
She ran to a big spindly oak, scampering up the side, looping her leg over a low branch, and pulling herself up, thankful that she’d put on the trousers for this part of her journey. She moved nimbly into the tree’s branches. Its buds were just beginning to sprout, which meant that she didn’t have much cover.
Emma waited, panting, watching, hoping they might go in a different direction. Then, sure enough, they appeared about seventy-five yards away. That’s when she saw that they weren’t alone.
Of course! They had a German shepherd, just like the guards she’d encountered on Wolf’s bridge. The dog’s two masters were shorter than the guards at the bridge, not much taller than her, each dressed in an SS uniform similar to hers. One shouted that he’d follow the river to prevent their prey from cutting that way. He disappeared. The other man followed the dog, which continued to track her scent. The guard unleashed the German shepherd. It began to run in her direction.
Whoa, doggie, don’t rush.
She pulled out her revolver. The large black-and-brown canine now raced toward her at peak speed. It threw itself up against the base of the tree, barking for the first time. As it jumped up toward her, its jaws two feet from her ankle, she could smell its breath and its wet fur.
She fired, using her silencer. The dog landed in a heap. She grimaced.
She shimmied down the far side of the tree, unseen. The guard began to jog toward the dog, slowing, then stopping short, scanning the area for something that would explain the animal’s sudden stillness. Emma glanced out. The guard looked to be about fifty—probably a husband and a father, maybe even a grandfather, she guessed. She couldn’t risk anyone sounding the alarm that a trespasser was in their midst or more of Sicke’s guards would descend on her.
“All for the greater good,” she told herself.
Emma shot at his heart. She knew he’d die shortly from a lack of oxygenated blood to his brain. She ran to his body, dragged it into a small rocky crevice nearby, and leaned over to borrow a piece of clothing from him: the distinct grayish-green hat worn by male SS guards.
She hid her own cap inside her jacket and threw the guard’s hat onto her head, tucking her hair inside it. His partner would be on his way back from the river. She had to avoid any kind of chase, yelling, or gunfire that might alert other guards to her presence. She needed this returning guard close by, unsuspecting, unable to react.
Her own heart pumping wildly, Emma bent down on one knee, turning toward the dog she’d shot, appearing to tend to the animal.
“No sign of anyone near the water,” the guard reported as he approached Emma from behind. “Hey, what happened to Fritzi?”
Emma said nothing, waiting, shaking her head slowly, hearing the footsteps come closer. Without a wasted movement, she turned, rolled onto her side, and fired. The unprepared SS guard fell backward as the bullet penetrated his chest. As he fell, his hand went for his gun. He managed to raise it toward her.
“Sorry—can’t allow that,” she said, firing another silent bullet into his chest. She should have been more accurate with her first shot.
Four guards down, only a couple dozen more to go.
She retrieved her bag from the tree and started to move again.
The big emerald-green mountain lay at most twenty minutes away to the south. The light around it was just starting to fade, hinting at a picturesque, red-hued sunset.
Emma knew that time was working against her. First, it was just past 4:00 p.m., less than an hour from launch. And, second, the security team in the mountain fortress directly ahead of her was going to discover, sooner rather than later, that it had lost a number of its guards—and then the hunt for her would begin.
Chapter 43
Sunday, March 25, 1945
4:30 p.m.—Ore Mountains, Sicke’s Facility
Max Sicke raised his nose, sniffing the balmy spring air, picking up on something familiar but unidentifiable.
The scientist looked out from the mountain’s outdoor observation deck, the tips of his protruding ears red with excitement.
Things were happening right on schedule.
He turned to Heinrich Janson, whose hulking frame leaned against the steel railing that kept him from falling onto the railway track far below.
Kammler had hoped to attend, but he’d been ordered by Hitler to remain in Berlin. He sent Janson in his stead.
“This leather box controls the rocket on the rails, allowing us to position our fueled weapon closer to its target,” Sicke said, straining to look up at Janson while gesturing toward the toaster-sized leather attaché case that sat between them. “Then, using remote hydraulics, we can raise and launch any rocket.”
“What amazing work you’ve accomplished since we staged Heinz Stark’s death so we could steal him and his knowledge from the von Brauns!” Janson said, clapping his hands.
Sicke winced. “Herr Janson, everything here is my idea alone. Stark only does what I tell him to do. He knows that, if he doesn’t, his family will be killed and, after a suitable period of mourning, he will follow. Unlike in Munich, next time Stark’s demise would be very real.”
“Absolutely, Herr Sicke. I only meant that Stark plays a helping role in executing your brilliant plans,” Janson said. Janson knew that his position under Kammler protected him from Sicke, but he’d heard that this skinny, odd-looking scientist was as volatile as the fuel he was using to propel his bomb into the stratosphere. He did not want to set him off.
Sicke smiled at Janson, accepting his awkward compliment. Indeed, his latest achievement would soon be known around the globe: a remotely initiated, long-range nuclear device triggered by a proximity fuse to explode over Paris.
The scientist pointed carefully at one of the switches at the top of his remote-control box. “Would you please do the honors, Herr Janson?”
“I’d be happy to,” Janson said, reaching for the console.
There were two dozen small switches to choose from, all clearly labeled, but Kammler’s man knew that choosing the wrong one could prove disastrous. Before pulling the switch marked “Vorwärts,” Janson looked at Sicke, who nodded his approval. His index finger shaking slightly, Janson pulled the forward switch, locking it into place. He and Sicke swung their heads outward and down.
They heard a rumbling, and the platform they stood on began to shake. Half a minute later, it made its presence known: the back end of the missile, with its large wings, exited the mountain first, followed by its green fifty-foot body and, last, by the large black warhead containing Sicke’s nuclear device. Soldiers were crouched on each of the supporting flatbed’s four corners, machine guns pointed out.
“For this first launch, we’ve used an open flatbed railcar,” Sicke explained, glancing sideways at Janson, whose eyebrows had risen in astonishment. “At the launches to follow in the days ahead, a camouflaged, covered railcar will house the weapon so that it can be moved without attracting attention. The soldiers aboard will be able to remove its roof and unfold its sides in five minutes. And they’ll have tools for fixing any damaged rail impeding their transit.”
The scientist leaned over his portable control box, raising the flatbed’s speed on the rail. It began to climb the long, steep incline leading away from them and through the dense surrounding forest, where
it would twist and turn, bypassing huge rocks along the way, before stopping in a distant clearing to be raised for launch.
“Upon blasting off, the rocket will accelerate to thirty-five hundred miles an hour as it flies over France, where, as programmed, it will detonate above the country’s most beloved landmark just minutes later.” Sicke beamed. “I expect this bomb to disable everyone and everything within two square miles of the Eiffel Tower, including the Arc de Triomphe and several other historic landmarks cherished by our arrogant French neighbors.”
Hitler himself had once said to Kammler that if the Nazis couldn’t have Paris, the gem of Europe, no one else would have it, either.
Sicke looked at his watch again, still smiling. The führer’s prophecy was about to be realized. The scientist wasn’t even sure if Kammler had informed Hitler about the bomb’s progress and this improvised plan for launching it. Sicke had encouraged his superior to say nothing, because he worried that the increasingly erratic führer might try to meddle. Besides, Sicke had argued, this new weapon was very different than the bomb first linked to the führer’s name.
“Hitler’s bomb” was now his bomb.
—
Emma forced herself to breathe deeply, doing her best to stay calm as she waited at one of three heavily reinforced doors leading into the mountain.
Hidden away in the trees minutes earlier, she’d changed from her trousers to her skirt and then watched as Sicke and a huge member of his team walked onto an external deck, where they spoke and began pushing buttons.
She’d gasped when she saw the missile exit the mountain.
She’d never seen anything like it. Its appearance terrified her, threatening every human instinct she had. Assuming Sicke was still on schedule, they were only thirty minutes from launch. She’d turned away from the rocket hastily, hoping to enter the facility while the scientist was outside.
“Identify yourself,” said a soldier through a small opening to the side of the door.
“Emma Zell, special assistant to Hans Kammler,” she said, holding up the SS ID card she’d received from Peter.
In her pocket were the keys to Sicke’s jeep, and nothing else. She knew that she’d likely be checked for explosives and guns, and that even a small handgun might be confiscated given the importance of this event and the fact that the guards weren’t expecting her. She’d left her silent revolver and bag hidden in the brush behind her, deciding that her best defense and offense in this situation would be going in unarmed. Let them open up their palm without concern. She’d chosen the role of Kammler’s aide because she knew from Sicke’s call the night before that neither Kammler nor any of his assistants could make it to the launch.
The steel door swung open, and two male guards shepherded her into the mountain’s cool interior. The younger one whistled, unable to conceal the fact that he wasn’t used to SS officers being women, let alone this young and this beautiful.
They looked her up and down, confirmed her credentials, and began to search her—too thoroughly for Emma’s liking. She made it clear that she knew Sicke well and had been to his home on multiple occasions. This brought the body search to an abrupt halt. Thankfully, she thought—any longer and she’d have been forced to explain what she’d hidden in the hole sliced into the lining of her SS-issued jacket.
The older one—Papp, according to his ID—a well-built man with graying reddish hair, looked wary of her. “Follow me. I was told last night that Herr Kammler couldn’t send anyone and now two of you are here,” he said, almost as if it were a riddle to be solved as he eyed her closely.
Just my luck, she thought, turning away to hide her concern.
“I didn’t think I’d be able to make it,” she explained. “But my schedule changed.”
“Well, I’m sure your colleague Herr Janson will be happy to see you. He’s out on the deck right now with Herr Sicke.” They began to mount the open staircase that rose from the bottom to the top of the main chamber.
“I’m so pleased Janson was able to come in the end,” Emma said. “He’s a dear friend, but we haven’t seen each other in ages. I’m looking forward to surprising him.”
Papp grunted over his shoulder.
As they spiraled upward, Emma tried to stay focused on the task ahead instead of staring at her surroundings: the late-afternoon light filtering through spectacular overhead windows; the mountain’s steamy golden air; its luminous walls; the vast area dedicated to assembling rockets; and the dozens of pulleys and cables that fell from the top of the huge cavern to move impossibly heavy things around at ground level.
No wonder Sicke spent so much time here, she thought, finally pulling her eyes away to look at the gun in Papp’s holster. The guard continued to propel himself quickly up the stairs, slightly ahead of her. She’d already considered grabbing his weapon, taking Papp out, and proceeding on her own but decided against it.
She followed Papp onto the metallic see-through grate that spanned the entire roof of the cave, looking down some fifteen stories between her feet to the bottom of the chamber. It was fortunate that she didn’t have a fear of heights.
Papp led her into the humming, glassed-in control room, motioning abruptly toward its lone occupant, a graying lean man in a white lab coat. The scientist was seated, immersed in an array of buttons and switches while glancing nervously at a dozen monitors on the wall, three in particular: a view of the rail line and incline outside, where the rocket had exited the mountain; a wide shot of the cavern below; and an image of the rocket rising into position in a large clearing in the woods.
Just in time. They’re almost ready to launch.
Papp interrupted the scientist to introduce Emma and then left the room to return to his post. The scientist looked at her with a mixture of surprise and annoyance. The normally good-humored forty-five-year-old hadn’t been expecting any visitors at such a sensitive time, and when he was so busy. He hadn’t even eaten his lunch—a plate of bratwurst sat untouched at his side.
“Janson and I are honored to be here today on behalf of Herr Kammler,” Emma said as she moved closer to watch what he was doing, her mind racing to think of why she recognized the name Papp had said. Stark. Stark. Stark.
“Please don’t speak!” Stark implored. “We’re twenty minutes from our launch. Sicke and Janson have the control box out on the deck. Maybe you can go and join them,” he said, gesturing toward one of the room’s windowless walls, beyond which was a door to the outside.
Of course! Oh, my God! This is Stark—the von Brauns’ colleague who Magnus said disappeared in Munich while he was working on a remote detonator and longer-range missiles. Everyone thought he’d been killed in an air attack.
She ignored Stark’s abrupt approach and remained polite. “Sorry to interrupt. I have only two questions that Herr Kammler will want answered,” she insisted.
“Very well, what are they?”
“If something were to go wrong, can you override the remote-control box and stop the launch?” Emma asked, looking down at him.
“That was my wish, but Sicke decided otherwise,” Stark said with a sigh. “I cannot override his remote device. It’s already been programmed to launch at 5:00 p.m. precisely. He wants whoever has the box to make decisions close to the action rather than from afar. I understand the logic, of course,” he added carefully, not wanting to appear critical as he turned away to examine the instrument panel.
“But with all the things you monitor here—fuel levels, temperatures, coordinates, engine readiness, and wind direction,” Emma said, scanning the panel, “what happens if something goes wrong and you need to stop the countdown?”
“See this switch here?” he said. “If I flip it up, they can hear me through the control box and we can speak.” He paused. “Now, I believe that I’ve answered your two questions. If you wouldn’t mind, please leave me to do my work.”
“Thank you. That’s all I needed,” Emma said. He looked away, completely oblivious of her once more. She strolled behind him casually, surveying the room and catching sight of a long quilled pen with a sharp metal tip. She picked it up, estimating its length, then sizing up his nose. This should work. Before he could react, she’d moved over him, grabbed his head, and thrust the tip of the pen far inside one of his nostrils as he looked up at her helplessly—four inches of pen still outside his nose and at the tip of her fingers.
“As you may know, Herr Stark, there’s only a fine wall of tissue that separates your brain from the top of your nasal passage,” she told him. He stared, eyes wide, his face still in shock. “You’ll die and never see your family again. I know they miss you. Do as I say and you’ll have a much better chance of being reunited with them.”
“What do you want?” he asked.
“Help me save Paris.” She collected her thoughts. “I’m going to flip that switch you pointed out, and, when I do, you will calmly tell Sicke that you need him in here immediately. You’ll remind him that his guest should remain on the deck so that someone is with the now live control box at all times.”
Emma gently pushed the pen upward. Stark could feel it dig into the tissue inside his nose. His face contorted and he pointed, indicating that she should flip the switch.
She pulled the silver intercom switch up and prepared herself for the possibility that Stark might shout a warning to Sicke.
Stark did exactly as she’d instructed. Max Sicke had no chance to reply. She pressed the switch back down, removed the pen from Stark’s nose, and hit him hard at the base of his skull with the heel of her hand, just once. She hoped that he’d regain consciousness within a matter of minutes, but no sooner.
—
The door that she was crouched behind flew open.
“Stark! What’s wrong?” Sicke demanded, rushing to the scientist, who’d collapsed on the instrument panel.
His nose warned him—vanilla—but too late. Emma had jumped up and moved in behind Sicke, poking him in the back of the skull with her new pen. “Don’t move and don’t say anything or my bullet will leave gaping holes at the front and back of your ferret head.”
Weapons of Peace Page 39