Alex Scarrow - A thousand suns

‘And if we drop it, and it just destroys New York, we win. The war ends on our terms, Germany survives, we go on.’

‘We go on… and what? Another war against the Russians? You think our wonderful Fuhrer is going to think twice about using weapons like this again and again on them?’ he said, pointing at the bomb nestled comfortably on the rack, a silent witness to its own fate. ‘And every time we use one, we’ll be gambling again, until one of these things suddenly goes wrong, and that’s it.’

Pieter studied his old friend in silence. He had witnessed Max question orders only once before, and on that occasion Pieter would have stood by him if it had come to court martial. That was a long time ago, when the war had been running their way, when there had been room for an act of high-handed mercy like that amidst the carnage. But the two years since had been a long time. All that was left for them now was the visceral fight for survival, at any cost. The truth was a stark choice, and it was almost certain they would die at the hands of the Russians.

‘If we don’t complete the mission, then everything we’ve fought for, you and me, not just today, but the last five bloody years… all of that has been for nothing, Come on Max,’ Pieter said. ‘Take us to New York. Lead us one last time.’

‘You’d risk the whole world for that?’

‘Yes,’ Pieter answered instantly, with certainty. ‘I would.’

The three men stood in silence as the seconds stretched out.

‘You’ve always been there for us, Max,’ said Hans with a voice shaking and hesitant. He dropped his aim and extended one hand towards him, open, ready to shake, a final gesture of appeasement, reconciliation. Max knew Hans desperately sought the approval of his commanding officer to make things right once more. To have Pieter on his side had certainly helped to firm his resolve, but to have Max with them once more would settle the matter. ‘We need you now, more than we’ve ever done. Lead us one last time,’ pleaded Hans, echoing Pieter’s words.

Max shook his head. ‘We shouldn’t be doing this.’

He watched Hans, as the young gunner’s eyes narrowed and he re-evaluated him, systematically erasing his feelings of loyalty and respect and overwriting them with contempt. Max felt something irreversible had changed in the young man’s mind.

For Hans, now, a decision had been made. His commanding officer had become the enemy. ‘Then you’re a fucking traitor,’ he growled.

Max turned back to Pieter, he felt his last chance to swing this around rested with his co-pilot. They had the strongest bond within the four-man crew. Although Max knew their background differed in many ways, they shared a mutual bond of trust. Four years flying side by side had built that trust up into a concrete foundation that surely couldn’t possibly be undermined merely by the words they had spoken to each other in the last few minutes.

‘Pieter, come on, this is madness.’

Max decided Hans might still succumb if Pieter were to change his mind and agree with him now. The young man would hand the gun over to him and shamefully concede that he had become confused by events if he were the only one, if Pieter deserted his corner now. Max knew Hans was an insecure young man, still a boy in truth. He had little faith in his view of the world, his opinions, if he held them alone. He needed the corroboration of another; even more, he needed the approval of someone with rank.

It was down to Pieter.

‘I’m sorry, Max, but we’re going ahead with this, with or without your help.’

Hans looked reassured; pleased that such an important issue had been settled by someone else. ‘What do we do now? Do I…?’

Kill him.

All three of them knew those words were what was meant, if not spoken.

Pieter shook his head. ‘No, Hans.’ He turned to address Max. ‘But if you interfere, I will do it myself.’

Max heard the pain in Pieter’s voice, it had faltered momentarily. He knew it hadn’t been an easy thing for him to say.

Pieter shrugged slightly, and a wan smile spread across his weary face. ‘Just don’t make me do that, eh?’ he muttered to Max, patting his shoulder, the last gesture of friendship. ‘Hans, take him back to the waist section and keep your gun on him, I need to get back and fly this plane.’

‘How much longer?’

‘If we’re on course, half an hour, maybe less.’

‘Good.’ Hans jerked the gun to indicate that Max should lead the way back to the waist section.

Max tried one last time. ‘Pieter, do you — ’

‘SHUT UP!’ Pieter shouted in reply. ‘Hans, don’t let him talk to you, if he talks, then shoot him, okay?’

Max cast one last glance at his co-pilot as he ducked through the bulkhead. His lips were drawn tightly, his eyes narrowed, the burden of the mission weighing heavily on his shoulders now. Pieter’s face was devoid of emotion, the last residue of warmth he had displayed towards Max had gone. His mind was on the mission, and that was all.

Mission Time: 21 Hours, 52 Minutes Elapsed

4.57 p.m., EST, the White House, Washington, DC

There was a clock on the wall of the conference room, and Wallace counted the hours. The meeting had been in session now for over fifteen hours. He looked at the other men; many were staring intently at their wristwatches.

An hour ago, one of the marines guarding the conference room door had entered and informed the President that a staff car was waiting for him in front of the White House, ready to remove him to safety outside Washington. After only a moment’s consideration Truman had sent the marine away, announcing that he wasn’t going to leave his cabinet and the Chiefs of Staff behind.

Wallace found he was developing a grudging respect for this new President. He had only been in office a few days. During the last forty-eight hours, and the two meetings which he had attended, Wallace had witnessed the man steadily grow in stature from the unassuming, quietly spoken, unremarkable figure of before to what he was now. Most definitely a leader. Staying with them here, no matter how unknown the risk, was something Wallace would remember about the man for the rest of his long life. It was a true measure of the man.

Truman was sitting motionlessly now, one of the conference room’s burgundy- and gold-trimmed telephone handsets held patiently to his ear, everyone else in the room dutifully silent. As the President waited for the call to be put through he looked up at the wall clock. ‘My watch shows me two minutes to five, gentlemen. Assuming that is the deadline, just two more minutes to go. I really don’t know what is going to happen at five, if anything.’ He looked up at them with the faintest hint of a smile on his tight, bookish face. ‘I suggest those of you who believe in a God start your praying now.’

There was a murmur of tense laughter from some of the men around the table. Nonetheless, Wallace noticed several of them closing their eyes, their lips moving subtly in silence.

Less than two minutes to go.

Wallace was still certain that the whole thing was an elaborate bluff. The B-17 which had been seen heading out across the Atlantic accompanied by several Messerschmitts was, of course, real, and certainly it sounded, from the garbled and hastily delivered intelligence reports that had come in over the last two days, that the laboratory in Stuttgart with the cyclotron was also real. But the inescapable fact, confirmed now by Dr Frewer and over the phone an hour earlier by Dr Oppenheimer, was that there was very little chance of a viable atomic bomb with critical mass less than they had calculated — enough U-235 to produce a mass the size of a baseball — and there was no conceivable way the Germans could have got their hands on that much uranium.