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.’
Chapter 43
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.’
‘Can you hold them away for ten more minutes, though?’ Max asked.
Koch turned towards the guard hut and barricade and the small crescent wall of sandbags. It was hardly a great defensive position, and in any case, the airfield wasn’t contained. The Americans could easily by-pass the official entrance and enter the strip from any direction via the woods that surrounded it.
‘All we can do is fire enough shots to make them keep their heads low, slow them down a little, that’s all. I don’t suppose any of them want to be heroes today.’
Koch looked around at the collection of planes. The B-17 was parked up beside the grass strip; beside it was the fuel truck, a large container vehicle full of aviation fuel. Nearby, parked in an irregular cluster around a hastily assembled collection of fifty-gallon drums, were the Me-109s. The fighter pilots were sloshing a lot of the fuel onto the grass in their haste to transfer it to their planes.
‘It’ll take one well-placed shot to take the lot of you out if you’re not careful,’ Koch said.
Max looked around. The young man wasn’t wrong. But there was little they could do about that apart from fill up as quickly as possible and get away. ‘Well, if you can keep them off our backs for a few more minutes, I’d be very grateful.’
Koch grinned and nodded. ‘We’ll do that.’ He turned on his heels and jogged across the short grass in the direction of the hangar.
Max looked at Schroder and his men refilling their planes. He’d sent both Stef and Hans across to help them out. Both of them were working hard holding a fifty-gallon drum at an angle to pour the fuel out into the more portable five-gallon drums. The pilots were struggling backwards and forwards between their planes, emptying the fuel into the wing tanks and returning to Stef and Hans to collect another load. They were all soaked in fuel and the air above the central stash of fuel drums danced with gasoline vapours.
It might not even need a bullet, one spark is all it would take.. and they’re all history.
Koch’s men or even Schroder’s should have been supplied with funnels and pumps; it would have made the task a lot quicker and a lot safer. The sooner they were up and away, the better. Max checked the gauge. It showed just 3050 gallons… 550 to go.
Koch entered the hangar and looked around for Scholn. He saw the stocky man on the far side of the hangar overseeing the prisoners now all gathered in there and lying face down on the ground. If it weren’t for the movements amongst them one could be forgiven for thinking that these poor men had all been mercilessly gunned down.
‘Scholn… over here!’
He jogged over towards Koch. ‘Yes, sir?’
Koch looked around the hangar; there were six of his men watching over approximately sixty prisoners. Some of these guards could be freed up to help the Luftwaffe pilots with their fuel.
‘Is the door to this hangar the only way in or out?’
