Alex Scarrow - A thousand suns

‘So, according to Hitler’s telegram, he intends to make a demonstration of this weapon whatever course of action we take. If he really does have a weapon, that is. And, if we fail to give him what he wants, he’ll do it again. Which means, gentlemen,’ Truman said, carefully laying out his thoughts, ‘that he’s telling us he has more than one of these weapons. That’s a very frightening claim.’

Truman’s gaze drifted to one of the tall, elegant windows that looked out onto the White House lawn. ‘So, we know there’s a plane on its way over, there’s a chance they have something inside that we might have reason to fear. If they can do it once…’ The President let the men around the table finish the sentence for themselves.

‘Despite the fact that Hitler wants to make a demonstration, if we agree promptly to his terms, then perhaps there is time left that he can order this plane around,’ Truman added, to the consternation of some of the leading military representatives. ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen. I can’t afford to delay this any longer. If there’s just a chance this bomb is for real, I have only one choice. We will accept his terms.’

The room erupted with a chorus of voices.

‘The people of this country won’t accept that, sir!’ said the Secretary of the Department of the Interior, Harold Ickes. He turned to the man sitting next to him, the Secretary for the Treasury, Henry Morgenthau. ‘Harry?’

Morgenthau agreed. ‘And what about our allies? We haven’t consulted with — ’

‘Screw our allies! It looks like the Nazi sons-of-bitches are after us, not them!’ shouted Admiral Leahy. ‘And anyway, if the Russians manage to get their hands on this technology, they’ll use it on us. We have no choice but to turn this around and square up to Russia. I’m with the President.’

‘Mr President?’ Wallace called out quietly; his voice was all but lost in the noise. The chorus of responses grew louder, as it escalated to a shouting match between the Joint Chiefs and several of Truman’s cabinet.

‘That is outrageous!’ shouted Morgenthau. ‘The people of America will not accept this! Mr President, sir, there is no way that America can be seen to surrender to Germany, not now, not now that they are beaten. For crying out loud, there are Russians in Berlin… only miles from Hitler. It’s all over — ’

‘That’s right, Russians in Berlin! If they haven’t already come across whatever atomic project the Germans have put together, they almost certainly will!’

Wallace surveyed the scene. The President sat back dispassionately and watched the heated debate without any emotion. He looked like a spent force, drained of energy by this act of submission. It seemed everyone else in the room was talking, except the President and Wallace himself, who was beginning to see a possible, although inelegant, way through this mess.

Truman wearily cast his eyes around the assembly of men and advisers who had each, it seemed, been able to offer him little help in his hour of need. He spotted Wallace. The young man had raised his hand like a timid child in a raucous classroom. Truman was touched by the young man’s courtesy and grace.

‘Mr President, sir?’ said Wallace quietly.

Truman raised both his arms to quieten down the meeting. As their voices dropped he turned back to Wallace. ‘Since you seem to be the only one here with any manners, young man… let’s hear what it is you’ve got to say.’

‘Mr President, that communique suggested the B-17 was damaged, yes?’

‘Yes, I believe it did.’

‘With all due respect, may I make a suggestion, sir?’ Wallace said. ‘That we send Hitler our surrender. But this doesn’t pass through normal channels, not through General Eisenhower. Equally, we do not inform Prime Minister Churchill, or, of course, Stalin.’

The noise in the conference room quickly petered out.

‘It is a communication directly between yourself and him… a personal dialogue, a gentleman’s agreement, if you will. We know that Adolf Hitler now no longer possesses effective communication with his people or his troops. In fact, the only centre of communication they have left is in Norway. We send our surrender, and we wait. If nothing happens by, say, nine o’clock tonight, we retract it. Hitler will have had our surrender in his hands for only a few hours. I dare say, with the Russians still going about their business in the suburbs of Berlin, he won’t be able to stick his head out of the bunker and shout out about winning the war. He will have no one to celebrate this news with other than those people sharing his bunker with him.’

Truman nodded, and Wallace noted Donovan smiling proudly.

‘If this does turn out to be a bluff, or this B-17 fails to make it across, then no one need ever know we took this seriously. No one need ever know that the United States of America surrendered to the Germans, even if it was for just a few hours.’

Mission Time: 20 Hours, 10 Minutes Elapsed

10.15 p.m., the Fuhrer’s bunker, Berlin

Dr Hauser sat uncomfortably on a wooden chair in the ante-room outside the Fuhrer’s small study. Eva, his wife of only a few hours, was with him inside. The door was closed, but through it he could hear the murmur of her voice, soothing, consoling like a mother to a child. Every now and then he heard his voice, deeper, but high as a man keening. It sounded like he was crying, whimpering. Every time he heard this, her voice quickly followed, swiftly saying whatever it was she needed to say.

Hauser felt his stomach churn, he felt nauseous.

It disturbed him that this magnificent man could sound so frail, so vulnerable. Germany needed him to continue being strong, especially now. It was not the time for tears. The man had the strength of a lion; surely it wasn’t possible for these mewling noises to be coming from him, the same whimpering sound that the Jew Schenkelmann had made on his knees.

Hauser had arrived only half an hour ago. The journey up from the airfield had taken much longer than he had anticipated and it had been touch and go as to whether he would be able to safely make it inside the bunker. The few dozen men left of Hitler’s Leibstandarte and a pathetic company of boys in oversized Wehrmacht uniforms had been pulled into a tight defensive knot around the ruins of the Reich Chancellery. Hauser’s driver had only managed to get the truck within a mile of the bunker, and from there, accompanied by the six SS guards he had brought with him from the airfield, he had picked his way through the ruined maze of buildings towards the bunker. More than once, they had been shot at in the dark and Hauser and his men had had to call out that they weren’t Russians. The soldiers guarding the Reich Chancellery had attempted to turn Hauser away, telling him that no one else was being permitted access to the bunker. Hauser had eventually managed to convince one of them to call through on the entrance phone, and after a few minutes’ delay he was told he could make his way down below and into the bunker; his SS guards ordered to help the others defend the perimeter.

The bunker seemed far quieter than he remembered from his visit just over a week ago. As he passed by the Goebbels’ rooms he caught a glimpse of the man, recently promoted to General Plenipotentiary for Total War, sitting beside a bed where his wife lay sleeping fitfully. Goebbels had turned to look at him briefly, a drawn look of futility and resignation on his face.

In the second room he could hear the voices of their children talking quietly. This time there were no games going on, no chatter, no laughing. He had noticed, as he had been led towards the Fuhrer’s study, that the bunker was starting to look less ordered. He passed in the hallway two generals seated opposite each other in a nook, clearly drunk. They stared in bemusement at him as Frau Jung led him by. Hauser could only stare back at them with contempt.