The Doomsday Decree Page 12

  ‘Where is your medical block?’ demanded Paul, still trying to fight the nervousness he felt.

  The Obersturmführer waved to an SS man who stood astride a motorcycle. ‘Escort the Hauptsturmführer to the medical block,’ he instructed.

  The man kicked his machine into motion and waved to Schmidt to follow him. Schmidt engaged the clutch smoothly and the Mercedes began to glide forward away from the security office buildings and across the compound.

  Schmidt grinned at Paul in the mirror. ‘Very impressive. You make a fine SS officer.’

  Paul grimaced. ‘We are far from safe yet.’

  The compound was a vast, sprawling affair in which the trees of the forest had been left to grow wild around huts and barracks. The trees were obviously being used to disguise the project site from the air. Paul noticed in the gloom many bunkers, barrack buildings and other buildings hidden under the thick covering of pine forest. The motorcycle was leading them across a small hill.

  ‘Jesus!’ Schmidt suddenly cried. ‘Look at that!’

  Paul started forward, gazing to the right-hand side of the vehicle. They were coming over the shoulder of what seemed to be a hillock, except that the mound was obviously man-made. The earth was newly turned and loose in spite of the trees and shrubs which were planted all round. The mound was shaped like a horseshoe and was lit by numerous spotlights which illuminated the entire area like daylight. In the depression within the horseshoe stood two gleaming black and white rockets. Paul estimated them to be about one hundred feet high. They stood squarely on their tails, noses pointed at the sky. Next to them stood some of the gasoline trucks he had followed from Dortmund. Gantrys stood by each rocket.

  ‘What are they?’ Paul whispered.

  ‘V2 rockets,’ Schmidt answered. ‘Nothing new. We’ve been launching them against England since September. They carry about a ton of explosive in the warhead.’

  ‘Impressive,’ muttered Paul. ‘I wouldn’t like to be under one of those babies when it came down.’

  The motorcyclist led them past the rocket silos and on toward another group of barracks nestling in the darkness of their forest covering. Outside one of the low wooden buildings the motorcyclist halted. Schmidt drew up behind him. A thick snow had started to fall as Paul climbed out. It was bitterly cold.

  ‘Wait for me here. I’ll try not to be long.’

  Schmidt nodded. The motorcyclist waved his hand and was gone.

  Paul strode to the main door of the medical block and went in. A thin, harassed-looking man in a white coat came forward. Paul flashed his papers at the man and said as abruptly as he could, ‘I’ve come to examine von Knilling. Orders of the Reichsführer.’

  The white-coated man bobbed nervously. ‘Von Knilling is under guard, Herr Hauptsturmführer,’ he replied.

  ‘I don’t care where he is. Take me to him,’ barked Paul.

  The little man looked fearful. ‘Perhaps I’d better phone security … ’

  Paul scowled as fiercely as he could. ‘Do so!’ he said coldly. ‘First show me where von Knilling is, then make your phone call. I have had enough delays. And make the most of your position on this project while you still hold it, Herr … ?’

  ‘Doctor Weiss,’ supplied the man, trembling.

  ‘Weiss … ’ Paul murmured the name as if committing it to memory. Already the little man was scuttling down a corridor, motioning Paul to follow him.

  At the end of the corridor was a door. Weiss took some keys from his pocket and inserted one into the lock. Inside stood an SS guard with a machine pistol hanging on a shoulder strap. He snapped to attention when he caught sight of Paul’s uniform.

  Weiss motioned the guard to wait outside while Paul moved forward to the figure on the bed. There was no mistaking the elderly man with silver-grey hair whom he had encountered in the forest. Paul glanced round, noting the bars at the window, the single bed, table, chair, and wardrobe. Spartan, yet moderately comfortable.

  ‘You can wait outside, Weiss,’ Paul said. ‘And make your phone call as well,’ he added with a sardonic smile.

  The little doctor nodded, happy to be dismissed from his presence. Paul waited until the door was shut and then bent over to examine the man on the bed.

  The elderly man seemed to be in a fever. His pulse rate was high and he was sweating.

  ‘Professor?’

  The man’s eyes fluttered and he stirred awkwardly.

  ‘Professor!’ Paul whispered urgently.

  The eyes came open and tried to focus on him.

  ‘I am a doctor.’

  The professor did not reply.

  ‘What’s wrong with you, professor?’ pressed Paul.

  Von Knilling coughed slightly. ‘It’s too late to help me,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll soon go the way of the others. We just didn’t realize what we were unleashing here, that’s all. Too late, now.’ He stared at Paul. ‘You’re an SS doctor. Go and tell your sadistic little playmates that their time will come too.’

  Paul bent closer.

  ‘I am not an SS doctor, professor. I am the man whose car hit you in the forest the other night.’

  Von Knilling frowned and focused on Paul’s face. ‘What kind of trick are you pulling?’ he muttered.

  ‘No trick,’ replied Paul. ‘But I don’t have much time to waste on explanations. Just tell me what is going on here.’

  Von Knilling forced a tired chuckle. ‘Why not? It will soon be the end for me. For most people here. In fact, it will be the end for all Germany. Perhaps even for the world.’

  Paul stared at the elderly scientist, wondering whether he was crazy. ‘What are you saying, professor?’ he pressed quietly.

  ‘I am saying that we are all about to be destroyed.’

  Brigadeführer Arnt Heiden’s car drew up outside the main gates of the Project Wotan site. It had been an easier trip from Tempelhof than he had expected. There had been no enemy aircraft to give him a bad time, and his aircraft had touched down at Loddenheide without seeing a sign of an Allied machine. As his car passed through to the security administration block, just within the main gate, the Obersturmführer in charge came hurrying forward and saluted.

  ‘Good evening, Herr Kommandant,’ he said respectfully. ‘I’m glad you have come back early.’

  Heiden frowned. ‘A problem?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ replied the officer. ‘We have an important visitor though. I thought you might like to see him before he went.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘A Hauptsturmführer of the SS Medical Detachment from Berlin. He was sent down here on the personal instructions of Reichsführer Himmler to examine Professor von Knilling.’

  Heiden stared at the officer in surprise.

  Himmler’s instructions? What had the Reichsführer got to do with the project when Bormann was the one in charge? And if Himmler was interfering, why had he not even mentioned the project when they were together at the Chancellery earlier today?

  ‘You have checked the man’s papers?’

  ‘Oh yes, Herr Brigadeführer. Everything is in order.’

  Heiden bit his lip. What game was Himmler playing?

  ‘Get me a line to Berlin. I want to speak with the Reichsleiter’s office. Oh … and where is this Hauptsturmführer now?’

  The Obersturmführer frowned. ‘In the medical block with the Herr Professor. Is anything wrong?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Heiden said. ‘But I mean to find out. Get me that line to Berlin.’

  Von Knilling was easing himself up on the pillows.

  ‘I am telling you, young man, those that sow the wind will reap the whirlwind.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  The elderly scientist glanced at him curiously. ‘Do you know anything about nuclear fission?’

  ‘Very little,’ Paul said. ‘I’ve heard of it, though.’

  ‘Then I’ll try to explain it in simple terms, young man. Back in 1938 Fritz Strassmann and Otto Hahn discovered the process of nucle
ar fission … that is, the splitting of an atom into roughly two equal parts. It was in January, 1939, that the German newspapers found out and boasted to the world about our country’s success in this research. I was then attached to the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute in Berlin and became personally involved in the research. Our experiments led to another breakthrough when we calculated the critical mass of Uranium 235.’

  ‘What the hell is that?’

  ‘It’s complicated. When an atom of Uranium 235 is bombarded by neutrons it becomes unstable. It splits into two main fragments giving off energy and also splits into two or more neutrons. That is what we call fission.’

  ‘So what’s the critical mass?’ pressed Paul, trying to understand.

  ‘The two or more neutrons produce energy from the split and are able to split the other uranium atoms and this fission will produce other neutrons … a chain reaction occurs, more and more neutrons will be produced by each succeeding split. Thereby a tremendous amount of energy is released … a lump of Uranium 235 the size of a tennis ball can, in theory, produce energy the equivalent to a million one bar electric fires and keep them burning constantly for two thousand five hundred years.’

  Paul felt unable to believe the figure as he contemplated it.

  ‘For this chain reaction to occur,’ Von Knilling went on, ‘the uranium must be in a sufficiently large lump, otherwise too many neutrons escape. The smallest amount of uranium necessary to produce this effect is called the critical mass. Once we calculated that we had the principal for a super bomb.’

  Paul tried to follow the scientist. ‘A super bomb?’

  ‘A weapon of terrible proportions. We found that one pound of Uranium 235 — that is, a mass about the size of a golf ball — could, in principle, release energy equivalent to about 9,000 tons of TNT. Think of it. By using a fairly simple process, nuclear fission or splitting atoms, we could devise a bomb that no one could have imagined before, not even in their wildest dreams. We started work, and we have built a bomb based on nuclear fission which will be equal to an explosion of 20,000 tons of TNT.’

  Paul stared at him aghast. ‘But that’s enough to … ’ his voice trailed off at the enormity of the calculation.

  Von Knilling smiled grimly. ‘Enough to destroy London, or Dortmund and Münster put together.’

  ‘You say you have succeeded in building such a weapon?’

  ‘Two such weapons,’ Von Knilling corrected him. ‘But they have not been tested. Each bomb is three tons in weight, with a fissionable core that is less than point five per cent of the total weight. Yet those bombs will destroy everything within a radius of ten miles or more.’

  Paul whistled softly. ‘And this is what Project Wotan is all about?’

  Von Knilling nodded.

  ‘The bombs are already mounted on the two rockets we have in the silos. Each rocket carries a warhead constructed of a uranium bomb; each bomb is the equivalent to 20,000 tons of TNT. As soon as the rest of the rocket fuel gets here from Peenemunde the rockets will be launched at London.’

  The door opened abruptly and Doctor Weiss put his head through. ‘Do you need anything, Herr Hauptsturmführer?’

  Paul shook his head. ‘I won’t be long now.’

  Weiss withdrew. Paul turned back to von Knilling. ‘When are those rockets due for launching?’

  ‘The end of the month. Perhaps as soon as the fuel arrives.’

  ‘Will they work?’

  ‘In principle. But we aren’t sure of the timing device. They could explode anywhere. London … or even here, on the site.’

  Paul found himself shivering. ‘What is wrong with you, professor?’ he asked after a moment.

  ‘I will be dead in a week or two. It’s radiation sickness. Already ten of our personnel have died. The radiation is actually the greater danger.’ Von Knilling tried to lean forward. ‘That’s what makes the bombs so terrible. The explosion will be deadly enough. But what happens after the explosion is even more so. Radioactive materials will be released over a wide area. I have calculated that it will make the vicinity of the explosions a wasteland, contaminating it with so much radiation that probably twice as many people will die from it as will die from the immediate explosion.’

  ‘But that’s horrendous!’ gasped Paul.

  Von Knilling shrugged helplessly.

  ‘How did you get this sickness, professor?’ Paul asked.

  ‘During the course of our experiments on the fissionable material.’

  Paul frowned. ‘Was a Sturmann Stenzel one of the people who died from this sickness?’

  Von Knilling looked surprised. ‘How did you know about Stenzel?’

  ‘I work at the hospital in Münster where he was taken.

  ‘I was a friend of Doctor Klaus, who treated him.’

  ‘Ah.’ Von Knilling nodded slowly. ‘Yes, Stenzel died of the sickness which was induced by handling the fissionable materials … Radiation, you see, the emission and diffusion of rays emanating from … ’

  ‘Do you know what happened to Klaus?’ interrupted Paul impatiently.

  ‘The doctor? Heiden told me that he began to suspect radiation sickness. The matter was turned over to the Gestapo. They investigated and found that the contamination had spread. There was a high radiation count found in the doctor’s home. He and his family were taken away and … ’

  ‘Eliminated?’ snapped Paul.

  Von Knilling nodded. ‘It was Heiden’s orders.’

  ‘Who is Heiden?’

  ‘Brigadeführer Arnt Heiden is the commandant of this project.’

  ‘Now, you say that Stenzel’s death and your illness are both due to this sickness brought about by contamination from radioactive material?’

  ‘Yes, there’s no doubt of it.’

  ‘I’m still not sure I understand why this happens.’

  Von Knilling sighed. ‘You recall Becquerel? He discovered that uranium gave off radiation. He was experimenting to find out if certain substances gave off invisible rays. One day he left a sample of pitchblende, a mineral containing uranium, in a drawer on top of an envelope containing an unexposed photographic plate. It was an accident. When he developed this plate he found that it was fogged and realized that the radiation came from the mineral, which meant it was radioactive.’

  ‘I recall the principle.’

  ‘The mineral we have constructed our bomb with is uranium from Czechoslovakia. Its radiation levels, once treated with what we call a moderator, can be lethal.’

  ‘Is that really possible?’

  ‘Yes. Before treatment it can take a long time. We have accidentally increased the speed of the process incredibly. I know, my boy. I am going to die. Perhaps in a week, perhaps two weeks at most. I already have all the primary symptoms.’

  ‘There is nothing that can be done?’

  Von Knilling shook his head.

  Paul heaved a deep sigh. ‘It sounds preposterous. The whole idea is fantastic!’

  ‘No more preposterous than the little maniac who governs our destinies from Berlin,’ Von Knilling said. ‘I am as good as dead now. I know it.’

  He reached up and grabbed Paul by the sleeve. ‘Listen, young man, contact someone … Contact the Widerstand, contact the Allies … Tell them about the bombs. Tell them that they must destroy this site immediately. If they don’t … then we are witnessing the birth of a terrible age of horrifying weapons which will inevitably destroy mankind. I have created an evil monster and my punishment is death. But there is time yet for the world to be saved!’

  He tugged Paul nearer. ‘Remember … if Hitler cannot use these weapons to destroy London then he will use them to destroy his own people.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ demanded Paul.

  ‘You are opposed to Hitler, aren’t you?’ His eyes gazed straight into Paul’s own. ‘You are a member of the Widerstand. I know. I can sense it. Well, listen to me. Do you think you have clean hands, you of the Widerstand? Because you oppose Hitler and his Nazis, d
o you think it absolves you from the crime of the German people with whom the ultimate responsibility for his rise to power lies? We have all allowed ourselves to be seduced, to follow him with servility, dreaming the intoxicating dreams he painted for us. But realize that Hitler despises the German people and uses them merely as the instruments of his will.

  ‘He is the arch-destroyer who is determined to stamp out and destroy everything in the world which does not serve his purpose. He is not content with half-measures … He will transform the entire earth into a graveyard if he is not stopped,’

  Paul thought the old scientist had begun to ramble, but the man clutched his sleeve with a fierce determination.

  ‘Hitler has issued a secret decree. I saw it in Heiden’s office. The Nero Decree, they call it. If the Allies and Soviets enter Germany then they must find nothing but wasteland. If Germany fails to win the war, Hitler is determined to wipe out the German nation as unworthy of survival. He has issued a Doomsday Decree ordering those terrible bombs to be detonated here should the Allies make an attempt to overrun this site. The explosions will destroy everything in the vicinity, creating a wasteland all the way from Münster to Dortmund, causing clouds of radiation to drift across Germany, killing and destroying … If this is allowed to happen, we are all doomed!’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Brigadeführer Heiden stood beside his desk with folded arms, gazing through the window at the floodlit silos. The two tall dart-shaped rockets loomed impressively against the night sky. Although he would not have admitted it, the truth was that Heiden was afraid of those twin glistening machines of death. And yet he found his fear a curiously pleasurable sensation. It was knowing that he had the power to annihilate thousands at the flick of a switch which produced these conflicting emotions in him.

  His telephone shrilled. ‘Berlin, Herr Brigadeführer,’ announced the operator.

  Heiden stood listening to the information imparted by the voice on the other end of the wire. His face grew white. Then he said: ‘Do not worry. There is no way they can leave the site now. We will have them picked up.’

  Slamming down the receiver, he called for his adjutant, at the same time tugging his Luger from its holster. His face had a purposeful expression as he strode out of his office in the direction of the medical block.