The Heisenberg Legacy (Sam Reilly Book 11) Read online

  The Heisenberg Legacy

  By

  Christopher Cartwright

  Copyright 2018 by Christopher Cartwright

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All rights reserved.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Prologue

  Luftwaffe Airfield, Stuttgart – 22 January 1945

  Oberstleutnant Wilhelm Gutwein watched as the Borgward B 3000 military truck backed up to the tail end of his aircraft. Once the green canvas covering the tray was removed, he received his first glimpse of the strange metallic device, which had been hurriedly transferred in secret from a laboratory in Haigerloch. The instrument looked to him like an oversized, charcoal-painted American football, with four large steel dorsal fins protruding from its back. The body of it appeared swollen, more like that of an elongated sphere than the cylindrical shape of a traditional bomb. Its weight, being instantly apparent on the flatbed as the truck’s suspension settled down hard on its axle.

  Gutwein stared at the hideous creation.

  Its mere presence made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end and ice-cold fear freeze his spine. It looked malevolent and pervasive, a monster capable of extinguishing all life within an entire city. The thought was abhorrent to him, yes, but a necessary evil. He’d seen what enemy firebombing had done to Hamburg two years ago. A devastating incendiary device like this was the only solution left to his country. He didn’t precisely hate the rest of the world. In fact, he felt mostly indifferent. The simple fact remained that they were at war. No matter how abhorrent the outcome, he’d rather have his adversary’s cities destroyed than his own.

  A hydraulic hoist whirred and groaned, lifting the device into the underbelly of his aircraft. Gutwein listened to the distinctive sounds, as a mechanic ratcheted the bomb onto its purpose-built cradle. After flying the aircraft for the past two years, he felt an intrinsic connection and relationship with the grand metal bird. As he watched, he imagined he could feel his aircraft respond to this new force for destruction by shuddering under its new burden.

  He read through the sheaf of papers, a detailed technical report. At a length of a hundred and forty inches, with a width of eighty, it weighed nine thousand, two hundred and thirty pounds. In real terms, the payload was two thousand pounds greater than his aircraft was designed to carry.

  He’d commanded some of the best pilots and most honorable men he’d ever known in the Luftwaffe, but his last mission would require only one plane. Gutwein turned to admire the lines of the aircraft he’d had the privilege to fly over the past two years.

  The sight brought a thin-lipped smile to his face. This was her swansong. Never again would his craft look so beautiful, as it was impossible for her to escape this raid in one piece. He felt a rise of bile in his throat, as he realized with dreaded certainty, that it was just as unlikely that he himself would get out alive.

  Ignoring the probable and most likely inevitable outcome, as in the hands of fate, he studied his aircraft.

  The Deutsche Lufthansa Focke-Wulf 200S Condor was never meant to be a bomber. The designation Condor was chosen because, like the bird, the FW-200 had a very long wingspan – 107 feet wingtip to wingtip – to facilitate high-altitude flight. Until two weeks ago, it had been used for the sole purpose of reconnaissance over the Atlantic. It was identical to the original commercial long-range airliner that once flew non-stop from Berlin to New York in 1938. To demonstrate German technical capability, it was fitted with extra fuel tanks and used to perform long-range flights. The machine was re-designated FW-200S with the letter S representing the term, “Specialized.”

  It was a four-engine monoplane, originally powered by four American 875 horsepower Pratt & Whitney Hornet radial engines and intended to carry 26 passengers in two cabins for up to 1,860 miles. Of course, since the war had started, much of the aircraft had been stripped and replaced in order to produce a military production version.

  The American Pratt and Whitney Hornet engines were replaced with the native German Bramo 323 R-2 radial engines, featuring water-menthol power boost of 895 kW for take-off. The fuselage was fitted with a full-length Bola ventral gondola, which added a narrow bomb bay to the airframe, increased defensive armament, and provisions for a total war load of 11,902 pounds spread out over each engine nacelle.

  Even after two years of flying her, Gutwein still thought she was stunning. An elegant machine of all-metal, light alloy, flush rivet construction, except for fabric-covered flight-control surfaces and the wing covered with fabric aft of the main spar. All flight control surfaces were manually actuated, though the split flaps were hydraulically actuated. It had taildragger landing gear, all with single wheels. These retracted rearward, allowing the gear to fall open if the power system failed. The aircraft was not pressurized, limiting cruise altitude to 9,800 feet.

  To adapt it for wartime service, hardpoints were added to the wings for bombs, and the fuselage was strengthened and extended to create more space. Forward and aft dorsal gun positions were added, in addition to an extended-length version of the Bola ventral gondola typical of World War II German bomber aircraft. To complete its militarization, his aircraft incorporated a bomb bay as well as heavily glazed forward and aft flexible defensive machine gun emplacements.

  The entire aircraft had undergone
a third and even more striking transformation within the past two weeks. Additional long-range fuel tanks were added. The Bola ventral gondola previously fitted on most bombers was removed, and in its place a custom-built cradle for the device was mounted.

  To compensate for the additional weight of the bomb and fuel, all non-essential items were stripped from the Condor. The forward dorsal 19-inch turret with a 7.9mm MG 15 machinegun, 13mm MG 131 machinegun in aft dorsal position, two MG 131 guns in beam positions, one 20mm MG 151/20 cannon in front of the ventral gondola, and one MG 15 in the aft section of the gondola were all removed.

  His seven-man crew would be reduced to just three – himself, a copilot and a navigator. He would have liked to bring his bombardier along, too. But the weight restrictions meant that he couldn’t risk the additional crew. Too much weight, and they would never reach the American coastline and Germany’s last hope, would disappear into the Atlantic. No, he had to lose his bombardier. Either he or his co-pilot could make the final drop. From what he’d been told, there would be little targeting required. The device was so powerful, he merely needed to drop it near the city, and the bomb would do the rest.

  Once airborne, if they were spotted by anyone, they would be utterly defenseless. But why would they need it? Where they were headed, no one would be expecting them…

  Frowning, the pilot finished reading the report, began re-reading it.

  A military adviser of smaller stature, yet superior rank strode through the aircraft hangar, stopping in front of him. “Heil Hitler!" He said, saluting by extending his right arm to neck height, then straightening his hand so that it was parallel to his arm.

  Gutwein, returned the salute as a show of loyalty and as compelled by law. Originally, the Wehrmacht refused to adopt the Hitler salute, preferring to maintain its own customs. Only after the 1944 plot against Hitler were the military forces of the Third Reich ordered to replace the standard military salute with the “Heil Hitler” salutation.

  “Oberstleutnant Gutwein. You are confident of the route?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And do you believe it is possible to make the delivery?”

  “It is possible.” Gutwein stared up at the clouds, as though making a private concession to his God. “But it won’t be up to me whether I succeed or not.”

  “Are you shunning your responsibility?” The Officer’s voice hardened. “Perhaps I should have someone with more confidence fulfil this obligation.”

  “No. You misunderstand me. I will gladly perform my duty.”

  “Then what is it?”

  Gutwein lowered his gaze to meet the Officer’s eyes directly. “I will either succeed with the mission or do the Fuhrer proud in my death.” He made a show of sighing deeply. “What I am saying is even with the additional fuel tanks the margin of error is so fine that success will be entirely dependent on favorable winds. If we have those, I’ll deliver the package. If it is anywhere near as destructive as Heisenberg leads us to believe, then the allied forces will have no choice but to accept an unconditional surrender.”

  The Officer smiled, shook his hand warmly. “Wilhelm Gutwein. Good luck. God speed on your mission, and your return.”

  He stood at attention. “Thank you, sir. Heil Hitler!”

  “Heil Hitler!” his superior returned, spinning on his heel and leaving the area.

  Gutwein’s return was an irrelevant statement, both men knew it for a lie. If the winds were anything but perfect, he would end up ditching in the sea, where he would never be seen again. Even if he succeeded in his mission, there was only enough fuel for the bomb’s delivery.

  He was on a one-way ticket to the heart of his enemy.

  God and winds willing, Gutwein would drop his payload, but his own homecoming was an unlikely possibility.

  Even if he survived, and found a place to land afterward, he would most likely be caught and shot. He wasn’t worried about the language, he’d studied at Eton before the war. They’d made him a set of identity papers which were nearly a decade out of date, but even that didn’t worry him. It was the necessity to live a life of deception that tormented him. He would be worse than a spy. He would have been the one who brought a nation to its knees by what he’d done, then he’d be forced to integrate with his enemies. That is, if he lived long enough to one day make his way home again, one day in the future.

  Gutwein shook his head. He prayed he had enough power to allow him to get his aircraft and the device off the ground.

  He wore the crisp uniform of the Luftwaffe and on his sleeve, an insignia displayed a pair of wings over two bands, indicating his rank of Lieutenant Colonel. His blond hair was trimmed neatly and pulled back. He had a well-defined jaw line and light blue eyes that once were full of kindness. That kindness had been replaced by hatred after his family were killed during a British air raid on his hometown of Hamburg almost a year ago.

  The bombing was followed by a series of losses. The most recent of which was the loss of Normandy, after the assault two weeks ago by the Western Allies. They launched the largest amphibious invasion in history as they stormed the northern coast of France on the 6th of June 1944. It was the turning point, and the German war office knew it. Plans for the release of a secret weapon under construction were expedited and the strange device now in his bomb bay was the result of that effort.

  Tomorrow, he would commence the most significant mission of his life. He hoped it would be the greatest turning point toward a German victory.

  His thoughts turned to the strange bomb. Horror, defiance, and vengeance were mingled. If the engineers’ calculations were right and he could get his aircraft off the ground tomorrow morning, he would save the Fatherland, and have his revenge.

  *

  At 2 a.m. a soldier on the night watch woke him. “It’s time, Oberstleutnant Gutwein.”

  Gutwein opened his eyes, surprised to find that he had slept. He stood up and greeted the man with a curt “Thank you,” which also served to dismiss the soldier. He quickly donned his starched uniform with pride and stepped outside.

  Striding over crushed stone on the way back to his hangar, Gutwein noted with satisfaction that it was a remarkably cold night – even for January.

  He rubbed his gloved hands together and breathed out, watching his breath mist. He smiled, as it was a very good omen. Cold air meant dense air. The props on his propeller-driven craft would bite deeper in denser air, thrusting a greater mass of air backwards, which meant more thrust and power. Cold, dense air would also provide more lift, essential for the mission.

  It might just make it possible to get his overladen Condor off the ground. Luck, he understood through hard-won knowledge, meant everything in the world.

  It was good luck turned to bad that had returned his wife and children to Hamburg at exactly the wrong time. Ursula the sensible and determined, had been given a gift of lamb steaks. Under severe food rationing, she had decided to go home early, to prepare the unexpected feast as a surprise.

  She did it for me, he mused, a pang of sadness constricting his heart.

  It was the same sort of twisted luck that gave him the responsibility to deliver what the history books would likely record as the most catastrophic invention of the human race. A weapon so destructive that, God forgive him, all civilizations would fear and submit to anyone with such a device. Who would risk such devastation more than once?

  Gutwein preferred logic, compromise, and cool reason to war. Ordinarily, a peace-loving man, how did the fates see fit to give this duty to him? The mission was never supposed to be his in the first place.

  The experimental Messerschmitt Me 264 – Amerika Bomber – was supposed to perform the task of trans-Atlantic flight and bombing raid, but three days ago the aircraft had developed engineering problems. These could be overcome with time, but the Third Reich was adamant that here and now was their last chance of success. Thus, the terrible task had fallen to him and his Condor.

  Yet, who better to go than a
man who had lost his family?

  He dismissed the thought as he reached the makeshift hangar where his Condor had been kept. She was lit up with a series of bright lights. A team of engineers and maintenance workers were going over her, searching for any last detail that might cause her to fail.

  Standing by her wingtips, were his two men.

  “Good morning, gentlemen.” Gutwein greeted his copilot and navigator, disregarding the “Heil Hitler” salute.

  Both replied, nearly in unison, “Good morning, sir.”

  To his navigator, he asked, “Have you seen the weather reports for our intended flight track?”

  “Yes,” Krause replied, handing him the report. “We’ll have a moderate tail wind. It’s predicted to ease off once we reach the Atlantic, of course, but it will help.”

  “Good. Any news of enemy aircraft in the area?”

  “No. At this stage we’ll have a clean run.”

  “Excellent.” Gutwein turned to his copilot. “Have you checked my calculations based on our approximate weight and total fuel capacity?”

  “Yes, sir,” Vogel replied.

  “And?”

  “It will be close, sir. If the winds are favorable, or even if the winds aren’t against us, we’ll make it. Once we reach our target, there won’t be a lot of time to locate a suitable landing site, but that was always going to be the case, wasn’t it?”

  Gutwein nodded. “All right. We have a mission to complete, gentlemen. Let’s not keep our lady waiting.”

  He glanced at his aircraft.

  The Focke-Wulf 200S Condor appeared sad and despondent, like a loyal old dog, who knew her days were numbered. Gutwein felt a sudden loss at the thought. He’d commanded similar aircraft since the start of the war. The Condor had been remarkably reliable and had always gotten him home in one piece. Now she was naked and unadorned, as though she was about to be decommissioned and scrapped.

  With his copilot, he ran his hand around her nose and fuselage – shining his flashlight into the dark openings of her ailerons in search of any damage the maintenance crew might have done to her when they divested her of so many of her functions. He continued to the tail, placing a hand on it to physically test its actuators. Both pilots completed their outside inspection of the aircraft. Neither spoke and the cold air now turned solemn, as they inspected their aircraft for her last flight.