The Haigerloch Project

Already cut to the damn bone. Nothing there. He studied the block letters he'd scribbled. There was the information from Himmelmann about the B-VIII pile being moved from Berlin during February and set up in Haigerloch; the uranium and heavy-water shipments from Stadtilm and other sites; the near-success in making the pile self-sustaining, with final success a virtual certainty…. There were the decrees by the top Nazis protecting atomic scientists, lending paramount importance to the Project; the discovery of Wanda — and Sig's scientific mumbo-jumbo proving atomic radiation….

He frowned at the next passage:

REACTOR LOCATION IN DEEP MOUNTAIN CAVES VIRTUALLY IMPENETRABLE STOP SINGLE REPEAT SINGLE HEAVILY GUARDED ENTRANCE—

He crossed out REPEAT SINGLE.

— COMPLEX HOUSES THREE THOUSAND TECHNICIANS AND WORKERS STOP MANY GUARDS STOP—

He crossed out TECHNICIANS AND.

— PROJECT DEFINITELY ATOMIC STOP SUCCESS IMMINENT STOP END MESSAGE VAN G-8

He contemplated the last sentences. Not strictly necessary. But sure as hell dramatic. Make Corny jump for that scrambler phone to Washington. What the hell. He'd leave it in.

It was time.

He opened one of the cracked, grimy windows. It faced a water tower on the far side of a service road running across the tracks and a semaphore signal on the shack side. He'd already decided to string his antenna wire from the window to the signal post. It would blend in with the other wires. As soon as that was done he'd encipher his message, send the damn thing — and get the hell out.

He dropped the antenna wire through the window and walked out of the shack….

* * *

Helmut Zander put the old binoculars to his eyes. Yes, the Scheisskerl—the shitbum — was finally coming out of the shack again. He saw him look around and then walk to the far side and disappear around the corner. Helmut took the binoculars down in annoyance and resentment. He hated those damned foreign workers. A shiftless, untrustworthy mob they were. That one down there by the shack near Semaphore Signal #17 was typical. Shirking work. Verdammter Faulenzer! — damned slacker!

He'd seen the man arrive some time before — and had watched him through his binoculars. It was a slow time at his post up in the tower of Switching Station IV. It was always slow late in the afternoon — before shift break. The men had completed most of the switching lists by then. The yardman down there — without doubt a damned foreigner — had come pushing a bicycle with a sack strapped to the handlebars. Tools? He'd watched him unstrap the sack and lay his bicycle down among the debris at the shack. Typical. A German would have leaned it against the wall. The orderly way of doing it. And he'd watched the man go into the shack.

That was quite a while ago. What the devil was he doing in there? As if he didn't know. The damned, no-good Ausländer. Loafing, of course! Instead of doing an honest day's work for his keep. Rabble. That's what they were. Malingering rabble…

He glanced at his binoculars. They gave him something to do during the dull periods on station. They had been his father's. An old pair. French Army Issue. His father had brought them back after World War I. He sighed. The bitter lines around his mouth deepened. At least his father had brought back something. He himself had been less fortunate. He had left a leg.

He felt trapped sitting up in the switching station tower. It was so damned difficult to climb the steep ladder with his crutches that, once up there, he stayed until relieved. He hated to be a cripple.

He raised the binoculars and surveyed the shack. He had a clear view of it — beyond the salvage storage shed below him on the right, flanking the terminal sidings on the left, where the damaged rolling stock had been collected. The man was out of sight, but his bike was still lying there in the rubble. A thought suddenly struck him. The bastard probably hid the bike that way so it would be less noticeable; so a German foreman wouldn't spot it — while he took it easy. Flagrant loafing. Damned foreigner… Foreigners and cripples, that's who. That's who ran the verschissene railroad yard these days.

That worthless stiff down there. He should not be allowed to get away with it, dammit! Zander smiled a vindictive little smile. He'd cook his damned foreign-ass goose!

He picked up the direct line to the Central Control Tower and cranked the handle vigorously. He would bring the matter up with Günther. It was his responsibility, that foreign rabble. A nice cushy office job, Günther had. They called him by a nickname. Raupe—the caterpillar — because he'd gotten where he was by crawling.