Greg Iles - Black Cross

Surprised by the depth of Smith’s knowledge, Stern gave him an inquisitive look.

“The curious thing is why Schörner’s there at all,” Smith continued. “The rest of the troops are former Einsatzgruppen butchers or career concentration camp guards. I rather think Schörner was stationed there as a spy for the Wehrmacht. The Army High Command doesn’t like Himmler having a monopoly on weapons as powerful as Sarin and Soman. I think they wanted an SS officer at Totenhausen who would keep them informed. Schörner’s older brother is a big cheese on Kesselring’s staff in Italy. Wolfgang had just been invalided out of the Russian theater because of his eye, and he needed a job. Getting the picture?”

“Simple enough,” Stern said. “Schörner spies on the SS for the Wehrmacht. What’s the inmate population of Totenhausen?”

“Very low. Fluctuates between two and three hundred, depending on the pace of the gas tests.”

“So we’re going to sacrifice three hundred innocent people to kill half as many SS men?”

“No, we’re going to sacrifice three hundred doomed prisoners to save tens of thousands of Allied invasion troops.”

“A matter of perspective?”

“Everything is in war, Stern. To Major Dickson you’re a bloodthirsty terrorist. To your own people you’re a hero.”

“And what am I to you, Brigadier?”

Smith smiled thinly. “Useful. Let’s get back to business. Totenhausen is separated from Dornow by a small group of forested hills. The only hills anywhere thereabouts, actually. The camp is nestled against the east side of them, on the north bank of the Recknitz River. The trees grow right up to the electrical fence. They’re meant to conceal the camp from aerial surveillance.”

Smith pulled another map from his case. It showed a close-up view of the hills, the village of Dornow to the north of them, and a detailed diagram of Totenhausen Camp itself, abutting the southernmost hill.

“What’s that on the central hill?” Stern asked.

“Electrical transformer station. It’s the key to the whole mission.”

“Do we have to blow it up? I’ve had experience with that.”

“No, we want the lights burning right up until the last second. Look here.” Smith used his pipe stem to indicate six parallel lines that connected the power station to Totenhausen. “These are the overhead electrical transmission lines that power the camp and factory. They run straight down the hills from the power station into the camp. The total line distance is two thousand feet on a twenty-nine degree slope. One night before you go in, a British commando team will suspend eight cylinders of British nerve gas from a wire on the pylon nearest the power station. The cylinders will be hanging from roller mechanisms rather like those used on cable cars.”

Stern frowned. “The cylinders roll down the hill, into the camp, and detonate?”

“Basically, yes. Our technical people have rigged pressure triggers on the bottoms and sides of the cylinders, rather like those on conventional mines. Once a trigger is tripped, a small bullet charge blows out a cap on the cylinder head. The cylinder releases its contents under high pressure, diffusing a lethal gas cloud at ground level. It’s World War One technology, but damned efficient.”

Stern took a moment to visualize the plan. “But if the cylinders are hanging from a power line,” he said, “what keeps them from slamming into the crossarms that hold up the line on the way down?”

“That’s exactly what I asked,” said Smith, taking a pen from his pocket to illustrate his explanation. “It’s a rather neat trick, actually. Don’t think of the cylinders as hanging down from the line — even though they are. The roller wheel mechanism is like a man riding a bicycle on a circus wire. The wheel sits on top of the outermost wire on the pylon. Now, imagine the bicycle rider holding his arm straight out from his body. In his hand is a four-foot metal bar hanging straight down. And attached to that bar — well beneath the wire — is the gas cylinder, which is positioned so that its center of gravity is directly below the wire. You see? As long as the roller rides atop the outermost wire, the bar holding the cylinder — which curves up and outward before going down — will strike nothing. It’s a bloody miracle of engineering.”

“I believe it. What do these cylinders weigh?”

“One hundred thirty pounds apiece. Sixty kilograms. That’s full.”

“Can the power line hold that weight?”

Smith smiled like a gambler confident of his cards. “Do you have any idea what a two-inch thick coating of ice weighs along a hundred meters of wire? Quite a lot. But in northern Germany the lines are designed to hold it. And that’s in normal times. The war has caused copper shortages all over the world. Everyone has had to fall back on steel wire for conductor material, including the Germans. Our intelligence reports indicate that the wires at Totenhausen are actually made of wrapped steel winch cable, some of the highest tensile-strength wire in the world.”

Stern nodded in admiration. “What about the electrical current?”

“It’s fairly high-voltage, but that’s one of the reasons we chose this method. Because electrical transformers tend to blow out quite frequently, many key power stations maintain a backup set of transformers, ready to go on-line the moment the primary set is blown. Totenhausen not only has backup transformers — they’ve got a set of backup lines .

“Now, listen closely, you can’t afford to muck this up. Totenhausen uses a three-phase electrical system. That means three live wires are required to run the camp’s plant and equipment. The pylons that support these wires consist of two tall support legs joined at the top by wooden crossarms. There is a live wire running across each end of each crossarm, and one running right over the middle. For a normal three-phase system, that would be enough. But Brandt doesn’t want his lab without power even for an hour. At Totenhausen, there is a backup line for each of those live wires, running right alongside it. These backups carry no current, but become live whenever the primary lines are short-circuited. This could be caused by lightning, falling limbs, or—”

“Sabotage,” Stern finished.

“Right. Leave it to the Germans to be so efficient. But in this case, I’m afraid their efficiency has doomed them.”

“How so?”

“Because we’re going to hang our cylinders from one of those auxiliary lines. And there they’ll wait, until you arrive to send them down the hill.”

Stern nodded slowly. “What if the auxiliary lines become active?”

“Not to worry. The gas cylinders are metal, as are the suspension bars, but the rollers are fully insulated. It’s exactly like a squirrel running along a power line, Stern. As long as he doesn’t ground himself to a pole or a branch, he can run for miles. The whole scheme is brilliant. Barnes Wallis himself sketched out the roller wheel/cylinder combination. He designed the Dam-buster and Tallboy bombs, you know. Bloody genius.”

Stern waved his hand impatiently. “How do I release the cylinders from their positions on the line?”

“Child’s play. When you arrive, each roller will be held in place by a lubricated cotter pin. You’ll find a heavy gauge rope of pure rubber connected to all eight cotter pins. All you need do is yank the rope to pull out the pins. Gravity will do the rest.”

“It sounds simple enough. But tell me this. Why don’t you have whoever hangs the cylinders go ahead and carry out the attack? It would be a lot simpler.”

Smith looked down his nose at Stern. “Because they’re British, old boy. I thought you understood that. Our American cousins have not given their seal of approval for this mission, and I cannot risk having British commandos caught flagrante delicto . Also, the men who are doing that job know a lot about soldiering, but damned little about chemistry. We need McConnell on the ground.”