Truman looked up at them, reading aloud what he’d just digested silently.
‘At one o’clock this morning Eastern Standard Time, a small force of German soldiers attacked and captured one of our supply airfields on the west coast of France. The airfield was taken, some planes landed. A squadron of twelve German fighters . . . and a B-17.’
Truman looked up at them. These must be the same planes that had been encountered hours earlier.
‘They refuelled and left before the airfield could be recaptured. Nine of the German fighters were disabled on the ground, and the B-17 was seen to have taken some damage. The planes headed west, out to sea.’
He placed the slip of paper on the table. ‘That happened several hours ago, gentlemen. Assuming this plane is heading our way, does anyone know how long it takes for a B-17 to cross the Atlantic?’
There was an extended silence. Wallace spotted a junior officer quietly whispering into the ear of General Arnold.
Arnold cleared his throat and leaned forward. ‘The B-17 has a cruise speed of between two to three hundred miles per hour, Mr President, and the distance across is about four thousand miles, so that would make a journey time of . . .’
Wallace watched as several of the committee closed their eyes in concentration to do the maths.
‘Anywhere between thirteen to twenty hours, sir,’ said Wallace quickly.
Truman looked at Wallace. ‘Then it appears that we may have very little time left.’
The President looked down at the conference table, his fingers drummed on its mahogany surface, and the chiefs and the cabinet looked on in silence as Truman deliberated for a full minute before deciding to voice his thoughts aloud.
‘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 communiqué 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.’
Chapter 52
Mission Time: 20 Hours, 10 Minutes Elapsed
10.15 p.m., the Führer’s bunker, Berlin
Dr Hauser sat uncomfortably on a wooden chair in the ante-room outside the Führer’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 Führer’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 Jüng led him by. Hauser could only stare back at them with contempt.
The young woman had seated him in the ante-room. She said Hitler had been expecting him since lunchtime to join him in celebration. It was clear from the puzzled look on her face that she had no idea what it was Hitler was planning to celebrate. Now, listening to the murmurings through the wooden door, the Führer’s mood seemed to have swung from a positive demeanour only a few hours ago to one of desperation.
Ahead of him he could see through an open door into Eva Braun’s sitting room. The German Shepherd he had seen last time was on the bed again, asleep without a care in the world.
He heard movement from inside Hitler’s study, and a moment later the door opened, and Eva Braun emerged. She smiled politely at Hauser and then turned and put her head round the door. He heard her inform Hitler that Hauser was waiting outside, and then she drifted past and walked into her sitting room.
‘Blondi, out, please,’ she muttered, roughly pushing the sleeping dog off and closing the door behind her as it stepped sluggishly outside.
Hauser waited a further minute or so before he heard Hitler mumble, ‘Come in.’ He stood up and cautiously entered the study.
Hitler was sitting behind his small desk; the light from the desk lamp shone across his tired face and picked out puffy, red eyes. He gestured with his trembling left hand, clearly no longer attempting to conceal it, towards the guest chair opposite the desk.
‘Please, sit down.’
‘Thank you, my Führer,’ said Hauser dutifully as he sat down.
This time Hitler was wearing his uniform, the formal tan tunic Hauser had seen his leader wear in countless movie reels, but it looked scruffy and crumpled with several faint food stains down the front.
‘I was hoping we would have received word from the Americans some time this afternoon,’ he said, his voice wavering slightly.
‘Yes, it would seem they are cutting things a little fine, my Führer.’
Hitler nodded. ‘It seems they haven’t taken my threat seriously.’
‘Then they soon will, I assure you.’
Hitler rubbed his eyes and sighed deeply. ‘I think not. They wouldn’t leave such a thing to chance. This can only mean they have intercepted the plane . . . it’s all over.’ He absent-mindedly stroked the decorative braiding on one of his cuffs. ‘We shall not be celebrating anything this evening, it seems.’
It was then Hauser realised that Hitler had dressed up for the occasion, worn his finest formal uniform ready to receive the telegram from the Americans. Hauser had little doubt that bottles of champagne lay ready in the pantry, unopened. Hitler looked pitifully like a child dressed for a cancelled birthday party, unwilling to change out of his party-best into his normal workaday things.
‘The plane may have been delayed across the ocean; it could even arrive a couple of hours after the deadline, depending on the weather. We will have to -’
‘I think you are deceiving yourself . . . if they haven’t responded by now it is because they know there is no more threat. They must have intercepted the plane. Your bomb is no longer a threat to them.’
Perhaps he’s right.
Hitler inhaled deeply and smoothed down his tunic, aware that as he’d been wearing it all afternoon, it must now look untidy and creased.
‘I believe there is a small buffet laid out in the map room; feel free to help yourself,’ he muttered. ‘Please leave, there are things I need to attend to now.’ He dismissed Hauser with a limp flick of his wrist.
Hauser stood up uncertainly and saluted. Hitler barely acknowledged him, staring with lifeless and empty eyes at a small-scale architectural model of Speer’s on the corner of his desk. Hauser nodded curtly and backed out of the study, pulling the door closed behind him.
Frau Jüng was waiting for him in the ante-room, her eyebrows raised curiously. ‘How is he?’ she asked.
Hauser merely shook his head, unsure of what to say, what to do next, where to go.
‘There are spare cots in the Stumpfegger’s rooms if you wish to stay, Dr Hauser. I’m not sure it’s wise to go outside again -’
Frau Jüng’s words were interrupted by a raised voice coming from down the main corridor. The young woman stepped angrily out into the corridor to see what the disturbance was all about. A junior officer approached her, walking briskly down the main corridor holding a single sheet of paper in his hand. ‘Frau Jüng, I have a telegram for the Führer.’
‘He’s not to be disturbed. That’s what he told me.’
‘It’s in English, you speak English do you not?’
‘Well, yes, a little. Give it to me.’ She took the sheet of paper from the officer and read it briefly.
‘Oh my . . .’
‘What is it?’ asked the officer.
Traudl Jüng looked up at him and snapped angrily. ‘It’s addressed to your leader, not you!’ She stared challengingly at the officer until he turned on his heels and headed back up the corridor towards the telephone exchange room. She angrily muttered something about the slipping standards of discipline around the Führer as she turned smartly around and knocked lightly on the door to Hitler’s study. Hauser heard him call her in, and she disappeared inside.
Hauser remained where he was, standing in the small ante-room, staring at the door and straining to hear what was being said beyond. Both Frau Jüng and Hitler must be talking quietly, whispering even. He could hear nothing.
A minute passed before finally the handle of the door turned, and the door swung open, revealing Adolf Hitler. He had changed his tunic to a similar one, freshly laundered. He smiled at Hauser.
Chapter 53
Mission Time: 21 Hours, 20 Minutes Elapsed
4.25 p.m., EST, fifty miles off the east coast of America
He awoke with a start.
‘Max, wake up, we’re nearly there,’ said Hans, jabbing his arm insistently.
Max felt the world quickly invade the warmth and comfort of his dream. It faded all too quickly. He hazily recalled images of a long dining table, Lucian beside him, his eyes as wide as saucers staring at the feast arrayed before him. It was a Christmas dinner, and Lucian must have been only seven, nearly eight; it had to have been Christmas 1933, perhaps ’34. He had been eighteen that year, and back from his first term at university. Max smiled; what a wonderful time that was, enjoying the novelty of his new life away from home. But he had been surprised at how much he’d missed Lucian during his first term. He had spent some of the money he had saved for several raucous nights down the local beer cellar to mark the end of term on a present that he knew would make that little porcelain face light up with ecstasy . . . a small army of painted soldier figurines. All throug
h that meal he’d teased his brother about what surprise lay within his parcel beneath the Christmas tree.
‘Pieter said I should wake you up,’ Hans said apologetically.
He would have given anything for another five minutes back there, back then. ‘That’s all right, Hans,’ he said, stifling a yawn, ‘I need to prepare the bomb.’
He turned to look at Stef to see the boy was still unconscious. He lifted the blanket to check his leg wound and found several small patches of wet blood soaking through.
‘He’s still losing blood.’
It looked like a slow trickle of blood, but it was still leaking out of him. If they could find him some medical attention as soon as this was all over, he would pull through. The lad had lost a fair bit, but he guessed he still had a chance. It was more likely he was simply sleeping from exhaustion than passed out from lack of blood.
Good, let him sleep. If he’s moving around less, the tourniquet will do a better job.
‘Hans, what’s our position?’
The gunner shook his head like a horse trying to shake off a bridle. ‘I don’t know, Pieter just told me it was time to wake you up.’
Max pulled the blanket off and stood up stiffly. He plugged into the interphone beside the port waist-gun and lifted his mask. ‘Pieter, what’s our position?’
‘Ahhh, good afternoon Max,’ he replied cheerfully. ‘We’re about forty minutes off the coast.’
‘You kept to two-fifty-five degrees?’
‘Yeah, and cruising at two hundred and fifty.’
That was fifty miles per hour faster than the minimum cruise speed; the burn from that extra speed had been unnecessary. Fuel, not time, was the important variable. Max wondered anxiously what their reserves were. There couldn’t be much left. ‘What’s the fuel look like?’
‘Don’t worry, Max; we’ve probably got an hour, maybe two, of fuel left. Looks like we’ll make it with some to spare.’