Alex Scarrow - A thousand suns

The Admiral cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘That does sound like we’re talking a whole new ball game, sir. Perhaps Donovan’s young man can let us know if he still thinks it impossible for the Germans to have built at least one of these atom bombs.’

‘Mr Donovan, your technical adviser, Mr…?’

‘Wallace, Mr President,’ Donovan obliged.

‘Wallace, you informed me at our last meeting that it was highly unlikely that the Nazis could make an atom bomb due to the amount of this stuff, uranium, that they would need. That is correct, isn’t it?’

Wallace nodded. ‘Yes, sir, Mr President.’

‘So if this is an accepted fact, then this new intelligence report withstanding, it remains impossible the Nazis have a bomb. Am I correct again?’

Wallace felt cornered.

There is a remote possibility, one that hasn’t been discussed.

‘Mr Wallace?’

Bill Donovan looked up at him and frowned, urging him to answer the President. Donovan would be expecting him to confirm the President’s assertion. But then Donovan wasn’t a physicist, he wouldn’t know about…

‘No, sir. It is theoretically possible, although very unlikely, that they could have built a bomb.’

Both Donovan and Truman looked sharply at Wallace. ‘How come?’

Wallace felt the eyes of all of them boring into him. He should have at least made a mention of this in the previous meeting, no matter how unlikely it was, if only to cover himself. Now it was going to look like he’d deliberately kept information from them. Or that he was simply incompetent.

‘It could be a fast-cycle emitter,’ he uttered reluctantly.

‘Fast-cycle — ? What the hell is that supposed to mean?’

‘It’s a theory, sir. A proposal that accelerating the very start of the nuclear chain reaction and specifically shaping the discharge of neutrons will release enough energy to extend the reaction beyond the fissionable material. Thus much, much less U-235 would be required to produce a bomb, but of course the danger would be that the chain reaction doesn’t eventually burn out, but carries on indefinitely.’

Truman shook his head, irritated by the unwelcome return of techno-babble to the conversation.

‘In other words, sir, if the theory stands, a bomb made in this way could potentially… uhh… destroy everything sir. A doomsday weapon of sorts, Mr President.’

Truman paled.

‘It’s just a theory, sir,’ Wallace added. ‘There are many men working on the Manhattan Project who have already debunked it as impractical.’

‘But it seems the Germans have taken this theory more seriously?’

‘Yes, sir, it would have been the only way they could have proceeded. If their physicists had dismissed the theory as ours have done, they wouldn’t have even begun the process of making a bomb. They would know that the resources they’d need to muster for a single atom bomb would be well beyond their grasp. So it looks like their people believe the fast-cycle process can work, Mr President. But I must reiterate, sir, that the theory is considered flawed by all of our physicists working with Dr Oppenheimer, including Dr Oppenheimer, who has already described it as a load of nonsense. Any bomb designed along this principle will almost certainly fail to detonate.’

Truman stared long and hard at Wallace. ‘And why didn’t it occur to you to mention this to me yesterday?’

‘It is a flawed theory. It’s simply wrong, sir.’

‘How certain are you of that, Wallace?’

Wallace swallowed nervously.

‘Give me something I can understand… one chance in ten, in a hundred, a thousand?’

‘It’s impossible, sir, to give you a figure like that. All I can say is that it is very unlikely that this kind of bomb will work at all.’

‘Unlikely,’ repeated Truman.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Not “impossible”…’

‘Highly unlikely, sir,’ Wallace added.

‘And given they need much less of this uranium to make one of these fast-cycle things, is it possible they could have made more than one?’

Wallace nodded. ‘If they have taken this theory on board, then yes, sir… needing much less uranium than one hundred and ten ounces, it is possible they may have acquired enough U-235 to have made several of these bombs. But I must stress that it is highly improbable — ’

Truman raised a finger, ‘But, you cannot reassure me and say impossible.’

Wallace swallowed nervously as the men around the table studied him intently.

‘No, sir, I cannot give you that assurance. No atom bomb has yet been tested. In truth, we cannot know for certain what will happen when we eventually test our bomb, nor the Germans’ much smaller device. As it stands, the science is entirely theoretical, sir. We have only our arithmetic to guide us.’

The colour continued to drain from Truman’s face; he was shaken by this young man’s reply. The fellow had been unprepared to utter the word ‘impossible’, leaving Truman to draw small comfort from the young man’s assurance that it was highly improbable.

‘I think from this point on I would like us all to consider that the threat issued by Adolf Hitler might be a genuine one… and given his demand for unconditional surrender expires today, I’d suggest we had better start working out what we’re damn well going to do.’ His words had started out calmly, but a slowly emerging sense of panic and frustration had driven him to shouting by the end of the sentence. The men around the table shuffled awkwardly under his steely gaze.

He looked at his watch. ‘If our deadline started from zero hundred hours yesterday, I’d guess we have sixteen and a half hours until it expires. For now, I will presume that this deadline will be when he intends to explode this bomb.’

Mission Time: 6 Hours, 1 Minute elapsed

8.06 a.m., an airfield outside Nantes

Max cast a quick, anxious glance at his wristwatch; fifteen minutes had passed since they had landed. He checked the pump gauge on the side of the fuel truck; it showed a reading of just under 3000 gallons. They needed to fill the main tanks at least — they took about 3600 gallons. The extra tanks inside the fuselage towards the rear of the plane were useless. Several gashes, caused undoubtedly during the skirmish with the Mustangs, had resulted in their losing the entire load. The gashes were so bad they couldn’t even consider patching them. Hans had reported that the back of the plane near the tail-gun reeked of aviation fuel.

Pieter was leaning out of the pilot’s window and periodically calling out the fill readings for their tanks, but his attention was caught by movement near the entrance to the airstrip.

‘Max!’ he shouted down. ‘It looks like something — ’

The pizzicato rattle of gunfire from the barricaded entrance to the airstrip made both of them jump. It was a quick exchange, no more than a couple of bursts from two different guns. A moment later Koch jogged across the grass field towards them from the direction of the guard hut.

‘What’s happening?’ asked Max.

‘It was a jeep-load of American soldiers. They drove up to the barricade and my men opened fire on them.’

‘Did they get away?’

‘Yes. So, I expect we’ll have some more company very soon.’ Koch studied the fuel gauge and turned to Max. ‘How much longer do you need?’

‘Another five, ten minutes.’

The young captain gestured at the Me-109s parked in a cluster nearby, each pilot awkwardly attempting to fill their wing tanks from five-gallon fuel drums. ‘And them?’ he said, pointing towards the fighter planes.

‘They’ll leave as soon as we’re off the ground.’

Koch nodded. ‘If that jeep was on its own, we’ll have a while before word spreads, but I’ve got a feeling that we’ll be due some company very soon.’