Hanover mentally cursed the scientist who had designed the reactors, purely as a theoretical exercise. If the designs hadn’t been stolen by the Germans, they might have never had to face a German nuke.
“And can the troops advance across the remainder of Poland without being poisoned?” He asked. “The Germans seem to have built a very dirty bomb indeed.”
“The Thande reactors produce a great deal of waste,” Stirling said. “If they packed some of that around the bomb, they would have trebled its radiation count.”
Cunningham coughed. “Yes, the troops can advance,” he said calmly. “The Challenger tanks have been sealed against radiation ever since the dirty bomb became a favoured tool of the terrorists. The troops… do not enjoy fighting in NBC suits, but they can do it.”
“It’s going to take time to ensure that the American units are equipped with NBC suits,” Stirling said. “At least a week, perhaps more, and they won’t enjoy using them.”
“See to it,” Hanover said. “Is Himmler still in that camp?”
“Unless he moved while the nuke went off, then yes,” Cunningham said. “The SAS team was shell-shocked, but they managed to keep an eye on the camp, and at least one satellite has been tasked for the oversight role since last night.”
“Enough games,” Hanover snapped. “I want that bastard’s head on a platter. General, the SAS is to hit that camp and take it out.”
Cunningham nodded. “It’ll take several hours to put the mission together,” he said. “We’ll be risking most of our helicopters in the field.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Hanover said. “Make the arrangements at once.”
Over Stalingrad
2nd July 1942
General Leslie Groves vomited into a bag as the aircraft hit turbulence as it passed over the Black Sea. The Turks had been more than willing to play host to the special bombing crews, which flew from Turkey to bomb Russian positions in the Ukraine and the Balkans, but they hadn’t had any idea of the bomber’s real mission. The Turkish hatred of the Russians was powerful; they hated them with a cold hatred that Groves hoped that America would never develop.
He shook his head, feeling sick. He’d heard about future American hatred of the Arabs and sighed; after the nuclear warhead in Poland, the Americans would have every reason to hate the Germans and their Soviet allies.
“General, are you all right?” Captain Washington asked. “General?”
His voice tailed off in a gasp of disgust. Groves didn’t blame him; his vomit was streaked through with red, very red blood. He’d heard that radiation poisoning killed red blood cells, but the evidence of his own eyes suggested otherwise.
“No, I’m not all right,” he snarled. Washington winced backwards. Groves felt his own body shaking, cursing the day that he’d visited Reactor 5. It had suffered an overload and spat out a burst of radiation, killing nearly fifty engineers and placing two hundred others in hospital. Groves was one of the lucky ones; the radiation was killing him slow, not fast.
“How long until we reach the target?” He asked, calming himself by a sheer effort of will. He didn’t want to throw up again. “How long?”
“Two more hours,” Washington said. “General, we can turn back if you want.”
Groves knew that he was trying to help. “I’ve never heard such a stupid idea in my life,” he snapped. Rage overwhelmed gratitude. “Captain, no hospital in Turkey can help me now. I won’t survive the flight.”
Washington left without another word. Groves frowned to himself; it was a breach of command etiquette, but he found it hard to care. Time passed as he sat on his bench, feeling the aircraft shuddering around him as the GPS system guided them into the darkness. They’d decided to launch the mission at local night time; there was too much danger of a Russian fighter shooting them down in the day.
“Tanks away,” Washington shouted, and the B-29 shuddered. The long-range drop tanks had been perfected for bombing Japan, just before the Japanese took themselves out of the war by surrendering. The aircraft seemed to bounce through the sky; Groves felt more vomit welling up within him. This time, parts of his stomach were in the vomit.
“Dear God, help me,” he breathed. The pain was excruciating; his body just wanted to lie down and die. By sheer force of will, Groves pulled himself to his feet and staggered into the cockpit. “How long…?”
Washington blinked at his tone. Groves knew that he must sound like a man who had already died. “Ten minutes,” he said. “That’s Stalingrad ahead.”
Groves peered into the darkness. The Russians had good light discipline; he could only see a tiny number of lights glimmering in the darkness. “You’re certain?”
“Yes,” Washington said. Compassion for Groves’ illness was overridden by annoyance. “Yes, sir; I am certain.”
“Star sight confirms, sir,” the navigator said. Groves nodded. “We’re right on target.”
“I’m going to drop the weapon personally,” Groves said, and left the cockpit. He half-walked, half-stumbled as the aircraft’s machine guns started to chatter, firing at a Russian plane that had come too close. The Russians had no taste at all for night-fighting, but they were very motivated indeed.
“Sir?” The bombardier said. “Sir, are you all right?”
Groves ignored him. Fat Lady was suspended in a cage, held firmly above the bay doors. The weapon had had to be armed on route, just to prevent an accidental detonation on take-off. Whatever covert help they’d received from the British, it hadn’t stretched to a fail-safe detonator.
“We’re over the target now,” Washington shouted. “Drop the bomb.”
“Mine,” Groves said, taking the leaver. He vomited again; the bombardier gasped in disgust and jumped back for cover. One pull of the leaver and the bomb bays opened, revealing Stalingrad below. A few twinkles of light flickered below; perhaps the NKVD guards having a last cigarette.
“Bombs away,” Groves said, and pulled the second leaver. Fat Lady fell… two inches down, and then the cage jammed. “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Groves swore. His head spun. “What the hell has happened?”
The bombardier pointed to a jammed cable. “There, sir,” he said, reaching for a wrench. Groves snatched it off him, banging away at the jammed cable… and then Fat Lady fell towards the ground. Groves, leaning against the bomb, lost his footing and fell as well, heading down with the bomb.
Oh shit, he thought, and laughed harshly. Time seemed to slow down; it was almost beautiful. Fat Lady fell faster and faster, the detonator waiting for a pre-set air pressure… and then the bomb exploded. Groves died, smiling and unaware.
Waffen-SS Camp
Brest, Belarus
3rd July 1942
That was too fucking close, Captain Dwynn thought grimly, as the SAS team continued their observation of the German camp. The SS weren’t standing still; even with the weather screwed up by the nuke, they were determined to continue their patrols, just in case the NKVD planned to change their agreement.
“They gone?” Chang asked. The Chinese officer had a scarred face; he’d slashed it while diving for cover when the nuke went off. Dwynn liked to think that the strange rock had come off worst in the tiny confrontation.
“Yes,” Dwynn said. He peered down at the encampment. “Himmler hasn’t shown himself since the nuke went off. Do you think that he knows something we don’t?”
Chang shrugged. “There is too much radiation around, but most of it is over in the west,” he said. “I think he just wants to keep his balls intact.” He smiled. “Anyway, we have our new orders.”