Night of Vengeance

By Philip Bosshardt

Adolf Hitler’s scientists are on the verge of creating two atomic bombs. With Allied armies closing in on the German frontier in late 1944, Hitler approves a project called Vergeltungsnacht—Vengeance Night—to coincide with a planned counteroffensive in Belgium, a one-two punch that will give the Allies pause, maybe even cause them to sue for an armistice-- and give the Germans a chance to regroup.
Through a well-placed asset code-named Sparrow—the Allies know of Hitler’s efforts. What they don’t know is how he plans to carry out the mission. Sparrow’s real name is Elsa Grunewald, an Austrian lab tech and virulent anti-Nazi resistance member. When two American Liberty ship freighters are highjacked in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean in late summer 1944, U.S. Army Intelligence and England’s MI-6 suspect a connection. Two American intelligence officers, Wade Brogan and Derrick Merrill, are assigned to find out how far Hitler’s efforts have gone.
What follows is a harrowing game of cat and mouse, chase and ambush, double-cross and betrayal as Brogan and Merrill, despite little commando training, are inserted behind German lines, first to determine the status of the German project and later, to try and stop it.
The stakes are high, as the Germans plan to use the high-jacked freighters to deliver atom bombs to two American East Coast cities. Winding up trapped on one freighter as it gets underway, Wade Brogan and Elsa Grunewald must overcome mutual suspicions, Elsa’s fervent wish to escape Nazi Germany, and the ticklish nature of the German bombs, to prevent catastrophe from reaching America’s shores. Agent Merrill is aboard the second freighter, with even less chance of success.
Somehow, some way, with detonation timers already set, Brogan and Merrill have to find a way to stop the Nazis from carrying out their mission and save tens of thousands of Americans from ultimate obliteration.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Philip Bosshardt
• Release date: Feb 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215868034

Philip Bosshardt

Philip Bosshardt is a native of Atlanta, Georgia. He works for a large company that makes products everyone uses...just check out the drinks aisle at your grocery store. He’s been happily married for over 20 years. He’s also a Georgia Tech graduate in Industrial Engineering. He loves water sports in any form and swims 3-4 miles a week in anything resembling water. He and his wife have no children. They do, however, have one terribly spoiled Keeshond dog named Kelsey.For details on his series Tales of the Quantum Corps, visit his blog at qcorpstimes.blogspot.com or his website at http://philbosshardt.wix.com/philip-bosshardt.

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Night of Vengeance

Published by Philip Bosshardt at Smashwords

Copyright 2023 Philip Bosshardt

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Chapter 1

Albert Einstein

Old Grove Road

Peconic, Long Island

August 2nd, 1939

F.D. Roosevelt

President of the United States

White House

Washington, D.C.

Sir:

Some recent work by E. Fermi and L. Szilard, which has been communicated to me in manuscript, leads me to expect that the element uranium may be turned into a new and important source of energy in the immediate future. Certain aspects of the situation which has arisen seem to call for watchfulness and if necessary, quick action on the part of the Administration. I believe therefore that it is my duty to bring to your attention the following facts and recommendations.

In the course of the last four months, it has been made probable through the work of Joliot in France as well as Fermi and Szilard in America--that it may be possible to set up a nuclear chain reaction in a large mass of uranium, by which vast amounts of power and large quantities of new radium-like elements would be generated. Now it appears almost certain that this could be achieved in the immediate future.

I understand that Germany has actually stopped the sale of uranium from the Czechoslovakian mines which she has taken over. That she should have taken such early action might perhaps be understood on the ground that the son of the German Under-Secretary of State, von Weizsacker, is attached to the Kaiser-Wilhelm Institute in Berlin, where some of the American work on uranium is now being repeated.

This new phenomenon would also lead to the construction of bombs, and it is conceivable--though much less certain--that extremely powerful bombs of this type may thus be constructed. A single bomb of this type, carried by boat and exploded in a port, might very well destroy the whole port together with some of the surrounding territory. However, such bombs might very well prove too heavy for transportation by air….

Yours very truly

Albert Einstein

Onboard the U.S.S. Bentham Cole

Convoy HX 245

Lat 48 North, Long 28 West

July 5, 1944 (Wednesday)

0235 hours

Roy Gates was nervous, apprehensive, wary and anxious, especially since he couldn’t get the damned cigarette lit in the wind gusting across Bentham Cole’s bridge deck.

Gates swore and kept trying his lighter. Cole was running without exterior lights, in radio silence, and the sky was slightly foggy, with a crescent moon low on the horizon, bracketing the faint orange and yellow tendrils of the Northern Lights. He knew they were in the middle of a darkened convoy, surrounded by dozens of other freighters, escorted by US Navy destroyers and they were only an hour from being in range of RAF Coastal Command patrol aircraft. The ASW carrier USS Mission Bay was also nearby, with her F6F Hellcats and SB2U Vindicators aloft for ASW duty nearby. Still, Gates was apprehensive, knowing they were cruising through prime U-boat waters.

Finally, with help from his XO, Russ Sherman, Gates got his cigarette lit. He puffed, strained his eyes to see through light night fog—the sea was calm tonight, which should make U-boat spotting a little easier, but he was uneasy nonetheless. His stomach churned…maybe it was the damned midrats he’d tried to eat, maybe not.

He tried to visualize for the hundredth time the convoy formation they were sailing in: a square nearly six miles wide, four miles in depth, some forty ships, freighters, tankers, other Liberty ships loaded to their gunwales with precious cargo and foods bound for Bristol, England. Spacing was set by their Navy escorts; Gates could just make out the darkened shape of their nearest destroyer escort, the Lake Superior, some three thousand yards abeam of Cole’s starboard bow, circling like a shepherd dog guiding her flock. The Escort Commander—what was his name, Bekins somethingorother, was a sticker for tactical discipline while in convoy. Stay in formation, keep your position, discipline in maneuver, the old windbag was always screeching at the convoy captains. Five hundred yards bow to stern, a thousand yards abeam. Easy to say as long as you didn’t have a U-boat sniffing up your ass.

Gates turned to Sherman, who face was briefly lit by the glow of his own cigarette tip.

Russ, I don’t like it. This convoy routing sucks.

Sherman coughed quietly in the stiff breeze blowing across the bridge deck. How so, Captain. The Navy’s run this route dozens of times. They know what they’re doing.

No, we should have taken a more northerly route.

Sherman could tell by Gates’ tone of voice what was eating at the captain. "You’re thinking of Galveston Girl, aren’t you?"

Mmmm…maybe. She was a good ship, my last one. Sunk right out from under me, last time I sailed these waters. Not six months ago.

Sherman shrugged silently, listened for a moment to the slap of waves against Cole’s hull. Navy says U-boat sightings are down…the ASW efforts seem to be working, what with ASDIC and the aircraft now.

But Gates wasn’t so sure. I don’t know, Russ. Maybe it’s just something I ate. I’ve just got a feeling the Nazis are up to something. What I don’t know. Just a gut feeling. To take his mind off his gurgling stomach, Gates decided to focus on something he could control. I need to check our defenses.

For the hundredth time?

I don’t care if it’s a hundred and one. Those gun mounts have to work.

Gates tossed another cigarette butt in the ash tray and stepped out of the stiffening breeze into the lee of the door to the Combat Information Center. It was cold, windy, but fairly clear, and the seas were running three to five feet over the Cole’s bow. The first purple fingers of dawn were tickling the eastern horizon, as Gates leaned over the railing, buttoning the top button of his jacket. He hoisted the binoculars and scanned the horizon off the freighter’s port bow for the hundredth time, looking, watching, waiting…for what he didn’t really know.

He reached for the bridge talker and rang up Radar. Mr. Gibson to the bridge. He wanted to check a few items on the Weapons Ready Sheet that bothered him. While he was waiting for Gibby, Gates mentally overlaid the windy whitecaps of the Atlantic Ocean before him with the tactical situation he had just absorbed.

Forty ships. Five destroyer escorts. Routing from Halifax to Bristol, with an ASW escort well astern in the shape of the Mission Bay. He knew there wasn’t much else the Navy could do and he found himself counting down the miles—at ten knots speed—until they would be in range of the RAF’s Coastal Command aircraft.

Maybe it was the sea. It was too calm. And the fog didn’t help—

Just then, Gibby Gibson poked his head out of the bridge and came out to see the Captain. What’s up, skipper?

Gates pulled out a rumpled sheet from his jacket pocket. He handed it to Gibby, while he fumbled with another cigarette and lighter, shielding the flame from the wind as he tried to light up. Read. It’s last week’s maintenance on the forward 5-inch mounts. I thought we had solved that problem with the traversing track.

Gibby read the sheet with a squint and a frown. Lieutenant Carson told me they were sliding the gun mounts just fine yesterday. I haven’t heard of any more problems, unless this is something new. I’ll check into it right away.

Do that. We may be in combat action within a few hours. It’d be nice to have a full complement of weapons, even though we’re a freighter, not a warship.

Both men leaned over the railing. Gibby looked at Gates. You get any satisfaction from Bekins? I’d hate to go into an engagement and not be clear on the rules of engagement.

Gates snorted. The cigarette tip glowed briefly red as he inhaled, then spat out some smoke. Admiral told me to shut up and follow orders. Of course, the orders don’t make a lot of sense to a freighter captain. He reached into another jacket pocket and pulled out more papers. The wind nearly snatched them away. Here’s the latest wisdom from Washington… Both men scanned the telex copy of the Convoy Commander’s instructions.

Adjoining them on the bridge was Chief Petty Officer Rick Barnes, acting as bridge signalman. An alarm chirped and Barnes snapped up the bridge talker. His face was in shadow but growing concern was still visible.

Barnes said, Skipper, radioman reports one merchant ship is radioing ‘SSSS…U-boat sighted.

Gates came instantly alert and his knuckles whitened around his binoculars. Who is it, Barnes?

Barnes bent his ear to the phone. Can’t say for sure yet…it’s pretty confused. Somewhere aft and to port, maybe astern of us.

It was Russ Sherman who noticed flashing signal lamps coming from their escort. "Look! Lake Superior’s signaling…" he mouthed out loud the message being relayed all along the convoy’s stern ranks…’U-boats sighted to starboard…multiple targets…we are engaging. Hold Formation Red….’"

That was all Gates needed to hear. Russ, order the ship to battle stations.

Moments later, sirens sounded throughout the length of Liberty Ship Bentham Cole as men rushed to their stations. The forward 3-inch and aft 5-inch guns were quickly manned. Twenty-mm AA guns were trained and sighted in.

Deploy the ‘foxer?’ Sherman asked. The FXR was an apparatus of two parallel bars streamed aft to divert German acoustic torpedoes from the sound of the ship’s screws.

Do it! Gates yelled. Just as he was turning to slip back inside the bridge, Barnes’ voice cried out.

U-boat…U-boat! I see the periscope wake!

"Where, damn it? Where?"

Barnes’s voice was strained. Off our port beam! Make it five hundred yards. He’s surfacing, turning this way.

Closing for attack! Sherman said.

Gates was stunned at the news. "How the hell did he get inside the convoy?" He ordered all mounts to open fire. Seconds later, the night air ripped with the sound of heavy weapons being discharged.

Helm, come right ten degrees! Russ, tell the engine room to increase speed to flank.

Sir, formation discipline. ComEscort says to maintain tactical—

I don’t give a crap what the Navy says! We got a U-boat right on our tail—

Just then, a deafening explosion on the horizon lit up the night sky, sending sheets of red flame and thick black smoke aloft. An oiler had been hit—’

"It’s the Reuben Porter! Barnes cried out. She’s burning out of control—"

My God, look at those flames—those men—

Four loud blasts on a ship’s horn rolled across the waves.

Barnes decoded it. "’F’ for fox, sir. It’s Lake Superior. She’s maneuvering to pick up survivors, dropping her dipnet now—"

Gates closed his eyes, trying not to see the burning crewmen, their clothes on fire, streaming over the sides, abandoning the oiler, dozens of ‘little torches’ plopping one after another into the oil-soaked waters.

"Mother of God—"

Doenitz had named it Operation Paukenschlag, or Drumbeat, when the U-boats had received their sailing orders and Korvettenkapitan Horst Muhler, skipper of the U-115, figured that was about as good a description as any. The U-115 had been stalking the rear of the convoy—intercepts had termed it HX 245—for two days now, just trying to evade a few scattered escorts and maneuver in close for a quick snapshot from her forward tubes. Already they had closed enough to one juicy target for Muhler to risk raising the periscope for a quick look and bearing before final target calculations were made.

Raise periscope, he commanded. The boat’s conning tower shuddered as the ‘scope hissed up her sealed tube and poked just above the light swells rocking the ocean surface. Muhler turned his greasy cap backwards and affixed tired eyes to the rubber eyepiece, silently mouthing the name emblazoned on the fore hull of the nearest freighter, now barely a thousand meters away, early morning sun glinting off her funnels.

Reuben Porter.

Range, nine hundred fifty meters, he called out. Angle on the bow twenty-two degrees. Make tubes one and two ready.

Standing behind Muhler was the First Watch Officer, Joachim Wechsler. Voices called out from somewhere forward.

Wechsler reported. Tubes one and two ready.

Set your angle and fire.

The firing command was given and the U-115 porpoised a little as the first G7 torpedo slipped out of her tube, motoring away on high-pitched screws.

"Watch your buoyancy, Eins WO. Flood four and five. And give me the count."

The boat trimmed out the loss of the torpedo’s weight. Wechsler checked his stopwatch, counting down the seconds. The time seemed to last an eternity, then….

BOOOM!!

The explosion sent shock waves that shook the boat. A great cheer erupted in the control room.

Sound man, what do you hear?

The sound man turned at his desk, holding ear phones tight against his head, his eyes shut to concentrate. It was Genzlich, fresh out of the training flotilla at Trondheim, head full of black hair and a cockeyed grin on his face. "Bulkheads collapsing, Kapitan. Boilers crumpling…I hear the steam hissing…she’s going down fast."

Stupid Americans, Muhler decided. Scattering their escorts, no protection at all. They never learn. Helm, plane up to periscope depth…I want to take a look.

The U-115 rose slightly and leveled off a few dozen meters below the choppy surface of the Atlantic. Above, it was still dark, early morning, but the horizon was aflame with a red-orange glow. Muhler rotated the scope, seeing boats and arms and men adrift, while the sea surface burned with flaming oil patches. Beyond, backlit in the glow, more funnels, more freighters and tankers, more targets.

Surface the boat, Muhler commanded. Gun crews, standby. We’ll make our next attack on the surface with our eighty-eights.

Muhler, Wechsler and the rest of the control room crew hung on as the planesman made a smart up-angle maneuver to bring the U-115 to the surface. Topside, the water was choppy, slick with burning and dying men floundering in the freezing water.

The Germans had once referred to it as "die gluckliche Zeit." The Happy Time.

For the next four hours, Muhler and the U-115 prowled among the hapless tankers and freighters of HX 245 like a wolf in the sheep pen, picking off several with close-in torpedo shots…four hits in four tries!--, then finishing off two more with her deck guns. The last one had been the tanker Harriston, so fully riddled with eighty-eight-millimeter fire that her superstructure burst into flames, setting off her interior fuel tanks in a terrific, sky-scraping explosion that blew her hull completely apart. Flaming debris rained down on the Atlantic for ten minutes after that.

Secure the deck! Muhler announced over the voice pipe. "Eins WO, prepare to dive. Sound man, what contacts do you have?"

Genzlich concentrated on his signals, adjusting knobs, adjusting his earphones. "Mostly bulkheads collapsing, explosions, boilers erupting. But Kapitan, there was something before—"

It was the quaver in Genzlich’s voice, an uncertain lilt—he was practically a boy, barely a year out of the Marineschule Murwik –that caught Muhler’s attention. The Kapitan came over.

What is it? What did you hear?

Genzlich looked up. "Perhaps another sub…there was a faint kind of whooshing sound…while we were maneuvering, mostly astern, I think. I heard it several times. Unlike anything I’ve ever heard. Maybe sea life, Kapitan. "

Bearing, Genzie. What was the bearing and range?

Hard to say, sir. It came and went. It sounded like air or water rushing, like you hear when a faucet going in the next room.

Okay, sound man, okay. He patted Genzlich on the shoulder. "Maybe it was just a few dolphins humping, after all. It has been pretty exciting around here. Just keep listening on those earphones. Any destroyers, any escorts come our way, I want to know immediately."

"Yes, sir, Kapitan, of course."

The deck inclined as U-115 slid beneath the waves, turning east to exit the flaming waters. Muhler checked with the Obersteuermann, Breightmann, on their course.

Steer east, make it heading zero eight five. Set turns for eight knots. We’ll go an hour or so this way, check contacts, then surface again if she’s clear topside.

"Zero eight five, aye Kapitan," repeated Breightmann. He bent to his plot board and quickly penciled in their new course and speed.

Muhler left the conn in the hands of the Eins WO, Wechsler, and headed aft to his stateroom, itself little more than a closet with a curtain shielding it from the corridor. He plopped into his bunk, pinched his eyes shut and tried to relax.

A few confused escorts. Five ships sunk. It had been easy, too easy. When would the Americans learn? They still had two torpedoes left, but Muhler wanted to save those for defense against destroyers if any were encountered. That was just good tactics, he told himself, though there were some at the OKM who didn’t see it that way, the worthless paper pushers. Muhler snorted.

Happy time, indeed.

An hour later, Kapitan returned and scanned the control room crew, sucking in a deep breath. "Prepare to surface, Eins WO. Now our real mission begins…."

Onboard Bentham Cole, Roy Gates watched with alarm as the U-boat closed on them from astern. The freighter’s aft guns seemed to have no effect, plopping rounds left and right of the slender gray hull sliding toward them. Now in range with her own guns, the submarine opened fire with her own deck guns. Deadly accurate fire swept fore and aft along Cole’s funnels and gunwales, peppering her bridge and comm shacks. Glass shards exploded and flew everywhere and Gates had to duck the shrapnel.

With only a few well-placed shots, the U-boat had managed to take out Cole’s fore and aft deck guns.

The freighter was helpless now, though she still had power and propulsion. Gates wondered if they might still be able to outrun the sub and where were the escorts anyway…off chasing ASDIC shadows, no doubt.

Incredibly, as the U-boat closed steadily, she fired no more rounds.

What the hell are they waiting for? Russ Sherman muttered. We’re sitting ducks here.

Instead, much to Gates’ consternation, the U-boat pulled alongside, matching Cole’s speed and settled in just abeam of the freighter.

After raking Cole’s port bow and nearby waters with 88-mm fire from her deck gun, an amplified voice could be heard over distant explosions. Signal lanterns flashed in the smoke and mist. Cole was being hailed by the U-boat.

Gates checked with his signalman Barnes. Chief, what the hell are they saying?

Barnes translated.

"Heave to now. Stay where you are. Prepare to be boarded…."

Gates scoffed at that. Boarded? Over my dead body.

The next words they heard were heavily accented, barely audible over the commotion, thin and faint even over a bullhorn….

Los Alamos, New Mexico

Project Y

CIC Detachment Headquarters

July 5, 1944

1715 hours

Major Wade Brogan had just passed through East Gate security and was driving up a winding hilly road to the Technical Area, where he is supposed to report to Detachment Commander, Col. Parsons. Brogan was apprehensive about this new assignment, which he scorned as ‘playing security housemaid to some eggheads,’ but he had his orders.

Brogan had just returned from assignment to the Clinton Engineer Works in Tennessee. Most of late 1943 and early ‘44 has been spent traveling around the country, investigating and validating backgrounds of key contractor personnel at CEW. He had been assigned investigative work when that became necessary, as he had an uncanny ability to blend in to any surroundings. He had even spent time as a bartender at a hotel in Knoxville, since many contractors came and went through the hotel and there had been reports of careless conversations in and around the bar.

For his three weeks as a bartender around the end of 1943 and early 1944, Brogan managed to make four cases of revealing classified information, three against Union Carbide employees working at CEW. Brogan found this personally satisfying and his reputation for resourcefulness was becoming legendary inside CIC. He could report to General Groves at the end of 1943 that CEW security was in good shape.

In February 1944, while coming off a dreary case of personnel file review and background checks, Brogan learned of a critical need for CIC detachment people to handle investigations, physical security and other duties at a new facility going up in northern New Mexico, a place called Los Alamos. At first, Brogan wasn’t overjoyed at the prospect of a desert assignment, but his immediate superior, Capt. Calvert, prevailed on him and the prospect of a promotion to Major swung the deal.

Now here he was, out in the middle of nowhere. He maneuvered through knots and gatherings of people milling about the Technical Area, with its big pond and rustic main lodge building—Fuller Lodge, Brogan somehow remembered from a briefing.

As parties went, the Independence Day bash that night at Fuller Lodge was fairly subdued. Oppie had already spoken that afternoon, before a huge throng, right out there in front of T Building, several hundred of them at least. Jammed all along Trinity Drive, even onto the muddy shores of the Pond…a throbbing, buzzing crowd, alive with excitement. Patton was battering his way across France, the Nazis were on the run, Germany had all but surrendered.

Parties and gatherings had erupted all over the Hill that afternoon and evening. Knots of people gesturing and laughing, even singing, clotted the dusty avenues between the buildings. The Cryogenics Lab, down by the canyon rim, had even put on an impromptu dinner and dance, catered bucket-brigade fashion all the way up from the commissary.

So why the hell was Edvard Tolkach so morose, sitting in the corner of the lodge’s great room below a rack of stuffed coyotes over the huge stone fireplace? Hans Bethe, head of T Division, had put out the word: there’ll be another party at Fuller tonight…we’re all gathering there after nine…come as you are…we’ll snack and drink and laugh…we’ll show ‘em T Division knows how to put on a real affair—

It was that kind of night on the Hill at Los Alamos.

Fuller Lodge was a rambling wood frame building, an overgrown log cabin with a large veranda out front and twin chimneys on the sides. Night had come to the tech area but lights blazed up and down Trinity Drive and Central Avenue and Canyon Road. People still gathered in clusters of three and four, whispering and laughing into the wee hours of the morning.

Through all this, Major Wade Brogan weaved and maneuvered his car toward a dilapidated log cabin of a building that was Detachment headquarters.

He parked, got out and stretched his back—three hours driving through winding and narrow mountain roads up from Santa Fe--and went inside.

Parsons was at his desk, rifling vigorously through some papers, clearly agitated as he looked for something.

Brogan?

The CIC agent stiffened and saluted. Major Wade Brogan, sir. Reporting as ordered.

Parsons looked up and squinted at him through thick glasses. Brogan, look…we’re in a bind here. We need more bodies…I need more agents. One of my men, Perkins, is running a surveillance op right now. I want you to find him…he’s probably somewhere around the Lodge, all those parties and such. Hook up with him and help him keep our targets under watch. Where are your bags?

Brogan shifted uneasily. In the car, sir. I was hoping to—

Forget that. Leave ‘em. You won’t be with us long. Just go find Perkins.

Yes, sir.

Brogan departed the log cabin and went in search of his unknown partner.

The two scientists they were following strolled on down into the heart of the tech area, slipping between the boiler house and a small tin-roofed hut that served as a clinic, drawn inexorably toward still-raucous knots and clusters of late-night revelers. A car radio blared a Glenn Miller medley while in the pools of spotlights, a dance line of T-Division technicians and clerks had formed, a big pinwheel undulating across the dust. Laughter and shrieks punctuated the night. MP’s cruised the perimeter, trying to keep a semblance of order.

Fifty yards behind the scientists, Dog Brogan paused on the edge of the gathering, clapping his hands in time to the music, while his main target ambled on into the darkness. Tolkach and Graebel made another turn at the patrol road fence, and headed back toward Trinity, toward the trading post.

Running surveillance was tricky at times. As soon as he had found his partner, Perkins had told him that Tolkach was well aware of the tail—in fact, that was part of the plan. But you didn’t want to crowd a target. Give him room to feel comfortable and he’d lead you to the nest every time…that was the general idea. Brogan smiled at the dancing, while his partner slipped down a dark alley to keep an eye on their friends. Switching off didn’t hurt, either. A target could get used to a tail, almost like they were dancing themselves, and work the tail to his own ends. Sort of like the tail wagging the dog, was how Colonel Cates liked to put it.

Brogan waited a few moments, then hustled to keep up with Quantum. He saw Perkins hand wave him over from the shadows by a stack of lumber.

Looks like they’re heading back, Perkins offered.

To the Lodge?

Maybe…there are so many people out tonight, it’s hard to stay up with them.

Better for us, Brogan reminded him. I’ve just got a feeling, Cactus. Learned that in Tennessee. Tonight’s the night. Something’s going to pop…I can just feel it.

Could be my bladder, Perkins said. After all those drinks—

Shhh---

They eased out into the light and began sauntering north, toward Trinity Drive and the bungalows, to all intents and purposes a pair of scientists engaged in heated argument over some obscure point of theoretical physics.

Brogan knew full well there were at least one, maybe more, Nazi agents on the Hill. Since coming to Los Alamos, it was his job to be professionally suspicious of everyone. That was what Counter-Intelligence Corps agents did. But from late March, at the direction of Cates and his boss Colonel Parsons, Tolkach had gotten the lion’s share of attention.

It was a ticklish operation. A machinist from T Division, name of Gray Givens, had already been arrested and expelled from the Hill. He’d been caught with papers in his quarters he didn’t have clearance for. Tolkach was a different animal, though. He had arrived in February ’43, one of the earliest émigré physicists to set up shop. He was tight with Oppenheimer and Hans Bethe. Impeccable credentials. Worked with Fermi in Chicago. Rutherford in England. World expert in shock wave physics.

He was proving a very hard nut to crack indeed, not the least because he had high-level protection from Oppie himself. Critical to the project…critical to national security, were the words he remembered.

Edvard Tolkach had sufficient clearance to handle sensitive ordnance-related papers, materials and components, things like fuses and detonator designs but he was too canny to get caught with materials outside his clearance. Searches of his quarters routinely turned up nothing incriminating. Still, surveillance had on more than one occasion observed Tolkach (code named Quantum) bargaining with the PX manager for odd items, such as unusual quantities of paper (for coded reports, maybe?) and an unusual number of keys and locking devices. Odd things for a physicist to be getting from the base PX.

Word had come down to the Detachment directly from Groves on 10 April: put Quantum under 24-hour surveillance until further notice. Since CIC Los Alamos Detachment wasn’t blessed with a huge pool of agents, the order put a strain on operations. Everyone had to pitch in, even Col. Cates. Then Brogan showed up and Cates had put him to work. He hadn’t even had the time to take up his newly-assigned undercover position as a stock clerk at the PX and had gone on watch full time. It was boring as hell but potentially rewarding as there was growing evidence that a major spy ring was working the Hill and Dr. Tolkach was involved.

Tolkach waved off Graebel and headed back to his own dormitory, a low rambling structure not far from the Big House up on Nectar Street. Brogan and Perkins followed at a discreet distance, negotiating several more street gatherings, horns honking and radios blaring. Tolkach disappeared inside for nearly an hour, while the CIC agents marked time outside, then the Czech physicist re-appeared suddenly and flung several bags into a nearby Dodge. He fired up the engine and spun off down the street in a swirl of dust, turning left at Central.

Brogan watched from the shadows of a telephone pole. "Ten bucks says he’s out the East Gate and on his way to Santa Fe. Better let Coyote know he’s rolling."

Perkins nodded. "MP’s can follow him to the train station. Coyote’ll pick him up there. What time’s the Starliner leave?"

Brogan was already heading back to the Detachment command post, a rude hut behind T Building that everyone called the log cabin. Schedule says there’s a train departing at midnight. All-nighter to Chicago. Some of the boys think he’ll make a change there before going on to New York.

New York’s the end of the trail?

Brogan was hurrying now, almost in a trot across the dusty street, dodging some crazy Jeep driver, who had to swerve to avoid them. "New York’s the Emerald City…the place is crawling with Nazis. Russians too. With Tolkach on the move, this game’s in the fourth quarter. We nab Quantum with his fingers in the cookie jar and we could win the whole ball game…smash up the nasties and their whole network for good. But we can’t let him out of sight for even a moment."

Perkins finally caught up with Brogan as both agents rushed toward the brightly lit ‘log cabin.’ Inside, they found Colonel Parsons busily rifling through a stack papers, increasingly agitated, clearly still looking for something that continued to elude him.

Perkins reported, "Colonel, Quantum seems to have gone to bed. I’ve got another agent at the dorm, keeping watch."

Parsons looked up, squinted through thick glasses. Brogan?

Brogan stiffened and saluted. Yes, sir.

Your bags still in your car, Major?

Yes, sir.

Parsons roughly shoveled his files and papers aside and glared up at Brogan. Sit, Major.

Brogan sat down.

Parsons squinted at him like he was a lab specimen. You come highly recommended. From what I’ve read of your file, you did good work in Tennessee. Cracking those cases with Union Carbide, that was inspired. Calvert couldn’t say enough good things about you.

Brogan held his breath, waiting for the but to drop.

We do things a little differently out here on the Mesa. Security’s tighter than a whore’s ass…I’m sure you’ve seen that already. This is a special project we’re protecting and there cannot be any leaks anywhere…ever. Understand?

Brogan indicated he did.

What makes this challenging is all the eggheads…excuse me, the scientists, we lodge here. They’re a talkative bunch. They chat and yak like teenaged girls…it’s their makeup, I’m told. They like to share their work and their results. They like to meet in big conferences, chatter like birds. But General Groves’ orders are crystal clear. ‘No unnecessary chatting.’ When you’re working here at CIC Los Alamos, one of your most important jobs will be riding herd on all the chatter. It’s need to know only and security here is highly compartmented.

Colonel, I’m just glad to get out of the office and back into the field. Poring over personnel files for weeks on end— Brogan smiled sheepishly, well, sir, it’s not what I do best.

I understand that. We still have paperwork— Parsons held up a thick manilla folder, crammed with papers. These are the surveillance logs and reports from one suspect. You’ll have to fill out reports every time you stand watch or trail a suspect. This is the Army, after all.

Brogan had a question. "Sir, may I ask what CIC’s interest is in Quantum and Windward—" he checked with Perkins to see if he’d used the code names right.

Parsons nodded. "You may ask. I’ll tell you what I can, for now. The Hill—this whole compound—is dedicated to one project. You may have heard the code name Silverplate…it means everybody here—scientists, lab technicians, secretaries, security people like you and Perkins, even the MPs at the gates—are all supporting one effort. That effort is to build a special bomb…a big bastard that they say that level entire cities. Turns out the Nazis are interested in this too. And the Russians, supposedly our allies. Brogan, it’s no exaggeration to say that the Nazis and the Soviets are swarming around the Hill like pigs to a trough. Once you get settled in here, one of your most important duties will be to track down and roll up penetration efforts…that means spies, saboteurs, covert agents, it’ll be a major and continuing effort. You’ll get your field time but the most important thing you can bring to Los Alamos is diligence. Persistence and a fine eye for detail and nuance. Parsons sat back in his squeaky chair and steepled his fingers across an ample paunch. Brogan, people here are smart. They think they know better than we do what’s needed around here and they’re suspicious, you could even say contemptuous, of security efforts. We have to be just as smart and, hopefully, three steps ahead. Got that?"

Brogan chanced a glance at Perkins, who nodded subtly, running fingers through his disheveled reddish hair. Yes, sir. I think so. Colonel, you did ask me to leave my bags in the car….

Oh, right, Parsons slammed his chair down with a loud squeak and a bang on the floorboards. I almost forgot. Brogan, it seems your orders have been changed, while you were enroute. He waved an official-looking piece of paper at Brogan. Just came in from D.C., right from General Marshall’s office. You’re ordered to take the next flight out of Albuquerque straight to Washington.

Sir, I don’t—I thought--

Parsons held up a hand. Hold on, son. You’re ordered to report directly to the head of Army Intelligence—G2—that would be General Clayton Bissell. He’s in the new Pentagon building.

Brogan was stunned. Sir, I had orders to report here. Do you know anything about this assignment? It doesn’t make any sense.

Parsons was sympathetic but pleaded ignorance. I don’t know anything other than what’s on this sheet. All I need to know is the Chief of Staff’s signature on this page…Brogan, you must have some pretty high-level supporters back east. You’d better get going. The General’s expecting you in his office at 0700 hours tomorrow morning.

Brogan swallowed audibly and grabbed his coat, saluting as he rushed out the door. He hustled to his car, still loaded with bags, and sped off toward East Gate, swerving around a squad of sentries as he negotiated the turns.

It didn’t make any sense. It was Colonel Calvert at the Clinton Engineer Works back in Tennessee who’d prevailed on him to take the New Mexico assignment, dangling the prospect of a promotion to Major as a carrot. Now, this—

Typical Army screwup, he figured. Somebody’s head would roll over this. He just hoped it wasn’t his own.

It was a two-hour drive down to Albuquerque through Santa Fe. Brogan pressed harder on