Kevin J. Anderson & Doug Beason

THE TRINITY PARADOX

PROLOGUE

Los Alamos National Laboratory, New Mexico May

Reporter: [Tell us] what your thoughts are about the proposal of Senator Robert Kennedy that President Johnson initiate talks with a view to halt the spread of nuclear weapons.

J. Robert Oppenheimer: It is twenty years too late. It should have been done the day after Trinity.

World-shattering ideas were commonplace in the mountains of northern New Mexico.

Half a century before, at the start of World War II, the place had been rugged wilderness with only a few ranchers and hardy vacationers to disturb the peaceful emptiness. It had been the perfect place to establish a secret research laboratory to design the first atomic bomb.

Now, every time Dr. Graham Fox entered the complex, he stopped, thankful that he had participated in something so profound and extravagant so many years before. He still thought of Los Alamos as “the Project,” though it had been five decades since the city had been founded, rising out of Quonset huts, temporary Army shelters, and mud streets. So much had changed since those early days.

Fox watched the activity around him in the laboratory bay. His laboratory, though the administration didn’t let him do much anymore. His hands were too unsteady, his walk too slow. But just having one of the few surviving scientists from the Manhattan Project on staff gave any experiment prestige.

A technician wearing blue jeans and sandals bent over an array of high-energy capacitors. He tightened a bolt with a blue-painted wrench. Capacitor boxes tilled the room, each one just under a cubic foot. Thick wires sprouted from their tops and covered the floor like spaghetti.

Fox observed the technicians scurrying around with self-imposed urgency. He could hear the clank of tools and the muffled conversation subdued by the sheer size of the laboratory bay. He could smell the oil on machined parts, various sealants, the cold cement floor. The air-conditioning gave the place a stale and clinical chill.

“Vanilla” nuclear weapons no longer dominated the thrust of Los Alamos research. Spending hundreds of millions of dollars to change the center-of-gravity of a device by a few centimeters just didn’t make sense—nor did it get a sympathetic ear from Congress. Instead, sexy research proposals backed by dazzling slide shows pulled in the bucks: strategic defense, pulsed power, exotic weaponry. Fox doubted that anybody in Congress really understood the concepts; but then, congressional perception had always lagged far behind research needs. And these days, the scientists had no General Groves to bully ideas through bureaucratic roadblocks.

The electrical storage banks in Fox’s lab held only fifty pounds equivalent of high explosives. Not much by the standard of a nuke, but when used to drive magnetized rings of xenon plasma in a compact toroid, the x-ray intensity could approach the damage potential of the old dirty fission weapons. The kind of weapon terrorists were likely to use, the kind Iraq, Libya, and North Korea were still scrambling to obtain.

Fox wiped his hands on his lab coat and sauntered over to check the wiring on one of the capacitor boxes. A bearded technician looked up as he approached. “Careful, Dr. Fox. The bank is going hot. We’re getting ready for the smoke test.”

“The smoke test, right-o!” Fox nodded. He still kept his British accent after all these years.

As a physicist, he cared little about the intricate electronic monitoring systems that the technicians loved. He preferred the old-fashioned “smoke test” to the fancy diagnostics to ensure that all connections were correct: flip the switch and see if it worked or if something started smoking.

Fox squinted at the array of wires, then jiggled one of them. He hated the dim lights in the lab. It seemed more difficult to see every day. “Can the rail-gap switches handle it?”

“They’re good up to a couple of megavolts before they break down,” the technician said.

“Good.” Fox nodded to himself. Everything would already be hooked up properly, but he felt obligated to show his concern. It kept the techs on their toes, and they enjoyed it.

Back in 1943, when Oppenheimer had recruited scientists from all over the United States, the Project techs came mostly from the Army, with a few local Indians and helpers from the outlying towns added in. Everyone had pulled together, just as now.

Fox had been a young idealistic scientist then, uncertain about the moral implications of having a doomsday weapon. But though he hadn’t shared the patriotic fervor, the frantic pace and enthusiasm had galvanized everyone. How else could they put up with the horrible conditions, the isolation in the mountains—where all mail had to be delivered to a Santa Fe post office box because Los Alamos itself did not exist on any map?

By contrast, he felt the enthusiasm of the nineties to be tainted. Instead of racing against the Nazis, the goal now was to be victorious over congressional staffers, trying to get off a successful test posthaste so that the funding would continue.

“Just turn it on. Shall we see if we’re going to blow their socks off?”

“Powering up.” The technician spoke into the intercom. “Clear the bay. Short test coming up on bank two. Clear the bay.” He flicked a row of switches on the metal control rack near the wall. He kicked a long wire on the floor, knocking it out of the way. “Hey, Dr. Fox, get away from there. We’ve got a lot of juice flowing through—”

But Fox smelled smoke, the foul kind that signaled burning solder and electrical insulation. He lingered in the high-ceilinged bay that held the capacitor bank. He bent closer. He could feel the air humming around him, his white hair lifting from static electricity. Damn! One of the connections was loose, one that he had just fiddled with. Had he broken something? With all the power flowing through the capacitor bank, that would cause major damage pronto.

He tried to yell for the technician to shut everything down, but he couldn’t remember the man’s name. The fumes and the power in the air made him dizzy. His skin felt clammy.

“Clear the bay! The lines are still charged!” The technician raced down to Fox. “You all right, Dr. Fox?”

Shut the thing down, blast it! Fox thought, but he reached out a hand to steady himself. The tech’s shoulder provided a stationary point. Smoke poured out of one of the capacitor units. It sizzled, then popped.

The two capacitors next to it followed suit. Thick black smoke curled from the bank. An instant later a siren wailed; amber lights flashed throughout the high bay area. A computer-generated voice rang over the intercom. “Emergency: Halon discharge. Fire in the complex. All personnel clear the area.”

The discharge caught three other techs. The bearded man’s face was wide-eyed, the words “Holy Mother!” frozen on his lips. Hissing gas flooded the bay and choked off the fire.

A white flash burned behind Fox’s sight. It reminded him of the Trinity site, the first atomic test he had witnessed so many years before….

PART 1

1

Los Alamos, New Mexico

June

“For that first fifteen seconds the sight [of the atomic bomb blast] was so incredible that the spectators could only gape at it in dumb amazement. I don’t believe at that moment anyone said to himself, ‘What have we done to civilization?’ Feelings of conscience may have come later.”

—Norris D. Bradbury

“Great events have happened. The world is changed, and it is time for sober thought.”

—Henry L Stimson, Secretary of War

Five hundred feet above the bottom of Ancho Canyon, Elizabeth Devane lay behind a screen of scrub oak and pinon, wondering if she could really stop the newest weapons test. Living among the other protesters in Santa Fe hadn’t helped her confidence in actually accomplishing something. She was fed up with pointless arguing, passing out leaflets, getting the brush-off from people.

Elizabeth didn’t like to call it “sabotage,” but this time the end would justify the means.

“What do you think?” Jeff’s voice came from behind her, carrying a nervous bite. “I see a rent-a-cop and a few guys packing up.”

Elizabeth didn’t turn. “Can you tell if they’re getting ready to leave?” She barely heard a sound as Jeff Maple crawled up beside her on his elbows. Thunder from an early New Mexican storm, still miles away, rolled into the canyon.

“Looks like they’re done with that NCP thing.”

“MCG,” corrected Elizabeth. “Get your acronyms right.” She squinted, wishing that she had packed her own pair of binoculars.’ ‘I can’t tell if they’re done with it or not.”

The Los Alamos workers moved away from the MagnetoCumulative Generator and stood at the edge of the concrete pad. A cement apron stretched fifty feet on a side with the MCG in the center. The ten-foot-long explosive generator looked like a fat cigar with thick cables wrapped around its circumference; the wires ran across the pad to a conduit that plunged into the ground.

All details of the MCG test were classified, so Elizabeth didn’t really know what she and Jeff would be destroying—only that it was important.

Several of the men walked away from the pad to a bunker in the shadow of the canyon wall. Elizabeth rubbed her eyes and tried to make out the figures in the dimness, but the sun was just over the top of the Jemez mountains, shining between clouds into her eyes. She shook her head in disgust and took out her canteen. “I can’t see what they’re doing.”

“Whatever it is, they’re done for today. Do you think they’re going to shoot the test tomorrow?” Again Jeff’s voice sounded nervous.

“If they’re on schedule. That means we’ve got to do our work tonight.”

Jeff nodded. For now, they would have to wait. Nobody could see them this high up the canyon. She wished Jeff had known how to ride a horse; then they would not have needed to backpack all the way around the rear of the canyon, coming down from the narrows, to where the Los Alamos security strung only barbed-wire and chain-link fence to keep intruders away.

Elizabeth looked down at her freckled arms, trying to see if she had been sunburned during the day’s hike. Her skin was pale, and with her reddish hair she burned easily, but she had used liberal amounts of unscented sunblock. She tied her shoulder-length hair back with a leather thong to keep it away from her neck.

The men below moved out of the bunker shadows, unrolling a tarp over the scrub-covered ground. They raised two metal poles in the center and secured the tent over the MCG, protecting it against rain. Finally finished, the workers stepped over a small stream that ran through the canyon, then made for gray government pickup trucks parked in the dirt. Snippets of conversation drifted up from the canyon floor, echoing off the rocky walls. Everyone left; not even the rent-a-cop remained behind. The lab workers wouldn’t expect that anyone could get past the five-hundred-foot cliffs. Elizabeth waited until the last man left the pad, then rolled over to her side.

Jeff continued to watch the experimental site as Elizabeth studied his face. His red-framed glasses contrasted with tanned and dusty skin. A sheen of sweat lingered in his curly brown hair. She remembered how his little body had moved against her the night before, for the first time in many years. “Glad you came down from Berkeley, Jeff,” she said.

Jeff hesitated, then said softly, “Yeah, it’s nice to see you again. I still think about us a lot.”

“I knew I could count on you to help. Everyone else is just talk.”

“That’s what you always said about me.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Not having second thoughts, are you?”

He snorted, then reached out to grasp her shoulder. “No way.” But his hand shook as he squeezed.

He looked up suddenly and extended his arm. “Look, I found an easier way to get down. Once it’s dark we can get going.”

“Yeah, if we can beat the rain.”

She turned back to the canyon. Wisps of white steam-probably liquid nitrogen venting—came from the cables that ran up to the MCG under the tarp. Shadows extended over the entire mesa as the sun set; it looked like a race between the darkness and the clouds. The cliffs appeared steeper in the dusk.

As the last truck pulled out from the test site, guards chained and padlocked the gate behind them. Elizabeth waited for the truck to disappear from sight down the winding canyon road—it was a three-mile drive down to the main security gate at the highway.

“Still time to back out,” Jeff said hopefully.

Elizabeth’s eyes widened and she snapped at him. “I’m not backing out! If you and I don’t go tonight, all this testing is never going to stop. We have to make our point now, show them that we won’t stand for bigger and better weapons—the world doesn’t need the stuff anymore.”

Jeff smiled in the impish way that could always mollify her. “Just making sure you haven’t gotten too tainted by your trendy Santa Fe activists.” He didn’t sound convincing.

“Wimps,” she said with a scowl.

He surprised her by putting his hand behind her head and pulling her face to his. It was a spontaneous kiss, but not at all tentative. His skin was warm, and she ran her hand along his arm. They brushed tongues, lingered a moment, then broke off at the same time. “If we go now, we’re in it for good.”

“Then let’s get going,” Elizabeth said. “There’s nobody else around.”

The news of the accidental deaths at Los Alamos had shocked her—not so much from learning that the accident had been connected with the National Verification Initiative, but from the callous way in which the debacle had been covered up. A technician and some old scientist had died in the equipment foul-up; three other workers had suffocated when a fire-suppressant system dumped Halon into the sealed bay.

Five human beings had given their lives so a “test” of weapons technology could proceed. And what was the point anymore? The Berlin Wall had come down, the Iron Curtain rusted away. Iraq had been defeated in only a couple of months. Nuclear stockpiles were being dismantled around the world, and the U.S. and the Soviet Union behaved like friends. So why spend billions more dollars to develop super weapons? Were they afraid Brazil might send up a defensive shield to keep the U.S. from launching its own rockets?

She and her Berkeley activist friends, or even the Santa Fe members of the United Conscience Group, had different ideas about what the money might better be spent on— whether social programs, or AIDS research, or assisting the development of Third World countries. Even paying off the national debt would be a better use of the money!

After a beer or two Jeff would argue that the real fear now lay in the second-generation players in the nuclear game, Iraq, South Africa, Libya, North Korea. Simple nuclear weapons technology was well-known and available, and if not for the extraordinary difficulties in extracting fissionable material such as uranium-235 or plutonium, any tin-pot dictator could make his own Bomb. By this point in his conversation, Jeff’s voice was usually rising. Any resourceful terrorist could put together a “crude” Scotch-tape-and-bubble-gum bomb that had a yield larger than the one dropped on Hiroshima back in 1945.

Elizabeth agreed it was only a lucky fluke that the United States and the Soviet Union had survived their nuclear adolescence; she wasn’t confident that every other country would be so well-behaved. She wished the things had never been invented in the first place. But how could you close Pandora’s Box after the lid had been blown sky-high?

Weapons scientists, like the ones at Los Alamos, continued to develop new methods of destruction, opening new Pandora’s boxes so that all generations to follow would have more and more to fear. The designers kept at their work, even after disasters like the recent capacitor accident, even if it required them to ignore the threat to human lives.

The official Los Alamos press release implied that nothing serious had happened. When the Challenger had exploded, NASA shut down for over a year—but when a major weapons program went wrong, the work barely paused. According to the news, a safety inspection and official inquiry would be scheduled “in the near future.”

It was just like the cover-up in Los Angeles. Ted Walblaken had been an old friend when Elizabeth had worked the books for United Atomics. But she had left the giant defense contractor right after Ted’s death, after United Atomics tried to assure the press, and Ted’s fellow employees, that it could not be proved a work-related radiation exposure had caused his cancer.

That had been a turning point for her. She felt as if someone had shaken her awake from a nightmare she hadn’t even known she was having.

And now this Los Alamos test was scheduled, hardly a week after five people had died in a lab accident. Shouldn’t all research have been shut down and reassessed? Nobody seemed to care.

Elizabeth had stood in the Santa Fe office of the United Conscience Group, her fingers clenched around the newspaper clipping. The office had little furniture, a phone and a few desks, a poster on the wall showing the burned corpse of a Nagasaki victim sprawled above the slogan, “Technical Excellence Brought to You by the Los Alamos National Laboratory.” The United Conscience Group looked like a fly-by-night company in a low-rent office, but they had been active since the Gulf War.

Elizabeth scowled. If you could call this “active.”

Dave, Tim, and Marcia all reacted with suitable outrage at the news of the lab accident, then they made the appropriate “You’re not serious!” response when Elizabeth told them that the other weapons tests were going to continue on schedule at Los Alamos. She knew what would happen next.

Dave rubbed his hands together. “All right, people, we’ve got to get moving on this! Let’s contact the local radio stations, Albuquerque too, to see if we can get on the air. Tim, why don’t you draft a few letters to the editor? Marcia, you want to draw up some flyers and get them printed? We’ll have to go out and hit the street corners. I’ll get on the phone and round up all the help we can get. Let’s nip this in the bud—time to make ourselves felt!”

Rah, rah, Elizabeth thought, then left the office before Dave could assign her some insipid duties. Letters to the editor? Flyers? Yeah, that would sure make people tremble in their seats and change the world; these guys must have thought they were back in the sixties. The United Conscience Group had never done anything but talk, and as the cliché said so appropriately, actions speak louder than words.

That afternoon, she and Jeff had scaled the ten-foot-high fence that encircled the remote testing site. The canyon terrain was too rugged for most people even to attempt to hike, though the restricted area lay only a few miles from the wilderness of Bandelier National Monument. No one had questioned Elizabeth and her companion as they left the old visitor’s center building, setting off for the backcountry.’

From their resting spot partway down the canyon wall, Elizabeth surveyed the surrounding terrain. In the coming darkness, it was impossible to see into the depths of the canyon. “Keep a watch for headlights coming up the road. Patrols are the only surveillance they’ll use.”

“Yeah.”

Elizabeth pulled her backpack over her shoulders. The equipment inside clanked together. Jeff turned her around and fumbled with rearranging the chisels, hammer, and several sharp spikes so they would make no more noise. They each ate a trail bar in silence, then Jeff led the way down the tortuous route he had spotted.

She heard only his breathing as the two of them moved into the falling darkness. The shadows stretched longer, making it more difficult to find the appropriate handholds and footholds. The rocks felt warm against her skin, but they would cool rapidly at night. In little hollows along the cliffs, evening birds began to chatter with the sunset.

Time contracted for her. She followed Jeff, made sure she did nothing clumsy or stupid focused her concentration on the ominous MCG equipment sitting under the tarp. She thought of it as a dragon waiting to be slain.

They finished their descent without incident. She shot a quick glance up to the top of the cliffs—she couldn’t see the craggy steepness they had just negotiated.

Rumbles from the approaching storm rolled down the canyon. Light from the full moon peering over the canyon rim splashed over the ground, lighting the rocks with an eerie glow. As the moon slipped behind the clouds they had to make their way by touch the last few hundred feet.

Jeff stood beside her on the cement pad, catching his breath. The tarp stood high enough on its metal support poles that they could easily stand under the rippling cloth. He flicked his glance from side to side. “Feels like we’re on stage. Let’s hurry up.”

Elizabeth shrugged the pack from her shoulders. She flicked on a flashlight and unzipped the back pocket, pulling out a pair of cotton gloves.

“What are those for?” Jeff whispered. She didn’t know why he kept so quiet—they would be making enough noise in a few minutes.

“They’ve got my fingerprints on file, when I was arrested at Livermore, remember?” She felt a flash of annoyance. The arrest had been a source of friction between them, over who was willing to go furthest for their beliefs.

Jeff didn’t reply, but stepped to the MCG. He put his hands on his hips; from the taut muscles on his back, Elizabeth could see he was angry. The tarp flapped in a breeze, making the support ropes creak.

The explosive device looked like a torpedo lying on the pad. Elizabeth walked around it, stepping over the thick cables that ran up from a manhole to the device. Jeff squatted by the opening and directed his light down inside.

“The wires run underneath the pad. Probably to the bunker.” One of the thick hoses leaked white vapor. He ran a hand along the hose, then jerked it away. “It’s cold as an iceberg!”

“Probably liquid nitrogen.”

“Is it dangerous?”

She made a deprecating comment about Humanities majors, but Jeff didn’t hear her.

Elizabeth touched the MCG itself, half expecting the cylinder to rear up, expose teeth and devour her. Nothing happened. She glanced back at Jeff. “Come on. Looks like this is all set up. Keep away from the wires and just smash as much as you can.”

“We should have brought those explosives.” He looked at the large machine. “Would have made this a lot easier.”

“This will be more… personal. Think of it as smashing an abandoned car.”

Elizabeth took the hammer and chisel and a handful of spikes from her pack. Jeff had a hand sledge and a rubber-handled hatchet. She followed the vapor-emitting hose to where a series of wires ran around the MCG’s circumference. She wanted to destroy the thing, but her own curiosity made her try to figure everything out. She had enough of a physics and engineering background that she should be able to identify the pieces of equipment at least.

Though her MBA had come after she left United Atomics, after Ted Walblaken had died of his cancer, Elizabeth had taken an undergraduate degree in physics from Berkeley. She knew the basics behind the MCG. Explosives compressing magnetic fields could be used to power exotic strategic weapons. This device here would be only a simple test run before the big scale-ups to be conducted at the Nevada Test Site. But she and Jeff could never have broken into the giant Nevada complex. Here the security seemed ridiculously lax.

But why use liquid nitrogen in the setup? The MCG didn’t need it. Unless it was for something else…

She followed the cable to the front of the device. The cable split off to an array of solenoid rings.

Jeff joined her, no longer sounding nervous; he hefted his sledge. “Let’s do it.” The tarp ropes made sharp noises as the wind gusted. A growl of thunder rumbled far overhead. “That storm is going to make this like something out of Wagner.”

“I’d rather hear Rush,” Elizabeth said. “Their song about the Manhattan Project might be appropriate right now.” She pointed at the array. “I bet that feed line supplies liquid nitrogen to this solenoid—a superconducting magnet. Whatever they’re testing needs this to drive it.”

“I’ll start at the other end.” He didn’t seem interested in what the device did or how it worked. That didn’t surprise her.

Elizabeth turned for her tools as thunder exploded from the clouds above. Picking up the chisel and hammer, she decided to keep the nitrogen line intact—let that be the finale—and go after the magnet. Whatever damage she could do to the delicate magnet section would slow down the test. And if Jeff could smash the MCG itself, then the Department of Energy would have to invest time and money in constructing another one. A breach of the vacuum chambers, a distortion of the conducting walls, severed wires—anything could cause enormous damage to such a complicated setup.

Maybe by then somebody would get the point.

From the size of the device, the Los Alamos scientists must have packed a thousand pounds of high explosive around the various sections. The explosive must be nonvolatile, she thought, with the way the men had worked around the area. And if they had left it overnight, then it must not be any worse than leaving TNT secured. Nothing to worry about.

Outside, the wind whipped through the canyon, rattling the brush and creaking the tent poles. Hadn’t there been a big storm the night before the first atomic test back in World War II? She seemed to recall they had almost canceled the shot because of it. If the Manhattan Project scientists had failed back then, she mused, she would not need to be here now.

Elizabeth used the chisel to pry away the casing surrounding the magnets. She could hear Jeff banging away at the bottom of the MCG, tearing insulators from the conductive layers. Broken glass tinkled as he brought the sledge down on a diagnostic panel. The storm covered their noises, but it would be hell to climb back up the canyon wall.

Jeff pounded the long spikes through the vacuum chamber walls. Elizabeth jammed her chisel into the magnet and pried down on the solenoid connections. She looked up and saw Jeff raising the sledge above what looked to be the self-contained core of the MCG device, the chamber that held everything trapped within. A volley of lightning skittered across the sky, backlighting the scene with a silver and white glare. Jeff had a studied look on his face as he brought the sledge down…

Her eyes barely had time to react to the explosion belching along the metal cylinder as everything blew up around Jeff. Blue-white afterimages mixed with the purple splotches blazing from inside her eyes. She couldn’t hear a thing—it all happened so fast. A wave of distorted force swept over her, like a gigantic fist hurling her out of the universe—

2

Los Alamos

June 1943

“History again and again shows that we have no monopoly on ideas, but we do better with them than other countries.”

—J. Robert Oppenheimer

“At present we can see no practicable technical method of producing an atom-bomb during the war with the resources available in Germany. But the subject, nevertheless, must be thoroughly investigated to make sure that the Americans will not be able to develop atom-bombs either.”

—Dr. Werner Heisenberg

Daylight again. It had to be—nothing could be that bright with her eyes still closed. But why did the light seem to come from inside her head?

A splitting headache ran from the back to the front of Elizabeth’s skull. Her side ached, and she had trouble breathing. She felt giddy, as if she were spinning on a raft in the middle of the ocean. Her eyes wouldn’t work. What frightened her most was that her body wouldn’t stop twitching, as if every fiber had been stretched on a rack, and the nerves kept misfiring.

At least the ground was soft. She must have been thrown clear of the concrete pad when the MCG… exploded. MagnetoCumulative Generator…

Everything fell into place. The explosion, the lightning, Jeff standing with his sledgehammer held high like Conan the Peace Activist.

She had to get up. She had to move. Someone must have seen the explosion. She and Jeff had to climb back out of the canyon, hide from the security guards. They had to run, to get out of the storm.

She couldn’t even manage to open her eyes. But it felt like sunshine warming her skin.

As Elizabeth drifted back to unconsciousness, she still couldn’t tell what exactly had happened….

Elizabeth woke with a start. Try it again. She had no idea how much time had passed.

She forced her eyes open and saw that she lay on a slope, her feet pointing uphill. She wondered if Jeff had dragged her away from the MCG site, into hiding. One arm flopped behind her head, numb with the ice prickles of impaired circulation. She tried to move, but her muscles felt so tired they hurt.

The ground smelled damp. The storm had passed by, but clouds still covered the sky. Whatever had happened must have knocked them both senseless. She couldn’t hear Jeff beside her.

The implications hit her at once: the Los Alamos scientists would be returning with the guards. They would find their test apparatus ruined. Security should have been here already.

“Jeff—” She coughed from the dust in her throat. Where was he? She tried to turn her head, but black fuzz obscured her vision. As she lifted her left arm she yelped in pain. She flexed her wrist—the arm didn’t seem to be broken. She pushed up on the opposite elbow. Her eyes wouldn’t focus properly.

“Jeff!” Elizabeth sucked in a breath, and at last her vision cleared. Her heart skipped a beat at what she saw.

Jeff lay crumpled on the ground thirty feet away. Not moving.

Elizabeth struggled onto her hands and knees. It took a second for the dizziness to pass, but she focused on Jeff and crawled over to him on all fours. “Jeff?” She slowed as she approached, then stopped a yard away, ready to retch.

His legs beneath the knees were… missing; but no blood flowed from the wound. His legs looked as if they had been fused together. He lay at the lip of a shallow crater ten feet across, as if he had been caught at the edge of an explosion, too close to the fury that had knocked her senseless. His red-rimmed glasses lay undamaged beside him in the crater.

“Oh, God. Jeff.” Elizabeth ignored her pain and knelt beside him. She fought to keep her consciousness. Tears stung her eyes and she trembled, just looking at him. Reaching out with one hand, she ran a hand over his chest, then knelt and put an ear to his mouth. Nothing. Touching the artery in his neck gave the same result. He felt cold to the touch.

She checked again, then pounded on his chest, more in despair and frustration than in any attempt to revive him.

Elizabeth dug her fingers into Jeff’s curly hair, her face close to his. Tears gathered, and a paralyzing flow of memories overwhelmed her. Living with him in a small flat near the Berkeley campus. Arguing about political issues. Working on her MBA while he studied history, or poetry, or whatever he fancied that semester. They both played guitar on the doorstep, watching bicyclists or joggers go by.

She had not seen him for several years after their breakup, not until she had called him to come down to Santa Fe. To come help her with this, and maybe rebuild their relationship. Now weapons research had claimed another victim….

Elizabeth looked around, her shoulders trembling. She tried to swallow, and her throat ached from the dryness. But she began to think clearly. Jeff always admired her for that; even when she got emotional about the issues, she could somehow step back and take matters in hand. No matter how badly she was hurting.

But not now. She couldn’t move. She stared at Jeff’s lifeless body for a long time. No one came—no security forces, no scientists, nothing. She forced her eyes from his legs. The sight was all wrong; it just did not belong. Something very strange had happened.

Elizabeth didn’t know how much time passed before she snapped out of her daze and felt engulfed in panic. She had to do something, get him out of here. They couldn’t be caught now, not like this. She didn’t want the security forces to find either of them. It was a felony simply to trespass on federal grounds.

“Jeff…” She leaned over to kiss his forehead. Dust stuck to his open eyes, and she brushed the lids closed.

Jeff would have been disappointed with her if he knew she’d risked getting herself caught because of sentimentality over him. She had to smother the grief for now. Let it come back a little at a time, when she could afford it.

With an effort, she visualized herself shifting into high gear, shutting down the unnecessary thoughts like extraneous subsystems. Survival of the fittest. She could do nothing to help Jeff now. She had to start thinking about herself.

That was what he would have said to her. She would mourn later, Elizabeth told herself again, when it was safe.

She looked around.

Something else seemed wrong.

From the location of the sun, it had to be early morning. She might have time to drag Jeff’s body out of the way, maybe hide it and come back later after the scientists had left. No, the security crew would get here and comb the area once they found the wrecked apparatus. Someone should have been here long before to check if the storm itself had caused any damage.

She could never carry Jeff far. There were thousands of places to hide, little cave notches in the cliffside, if she could only get the body far enough from the experimental site—

And then it hit her: the experimental site.

Even if the MCG explosion had sent them flying a hundred yards, she still should have been able to see the concrete pad, the dirt berm covering the explosive facility, even the road that ran down the canyon to the chain-link gate.

Elizabeth got to her feet, swaying with dizziness as she surveyed the canyon. She spotted the ledge at the top of the cliff where she and Jeff had waited, the stream winding down the canyon floor, pinon and scrub brush. Everything looked unchanged.

Except that every trace of human influence had vanished. It was as if someone had come along and completely cleaned up the MCG apparatus, the pad, the road, everything.

As if the site had never been here at all.

Elizabeth had never done drugs back at Berkeley, so this wasn’t some sort of flashback. Maybe she had hit her head in the explosion, she thought. Maybe none of this was really happening.

Maybe it was.

She took care to hide Jeff’s body in one of the natural caves that dotted the cliff wall, shallow impressions weathered into the soft tuff. The rock was too hard to dig. She couldn’t find any way to bury him, no way to keep the animals away. It made her sick to think of leaving him there, unprotected, unmarked. Not unremembered. She tried not to look at his fused legs or the blood splotches on his tan shirt as she piled rocks beside him. It took an hour to cover up the shallow depression in the rock, a cairn for him.

When Elizabeth was done, she stared tight-lipped at his makeshift grave. She stood for several moments, then whispered, “Good-bye, Jeff,” and turned away while she still could.

She had heard no sound, no sign of any traffic, though hours had passed. She decided to climb to the top of the mesa, away from the canyon floor, so as not to run into one of the Los Alamos scientists. When and if things got back to normal, she wanted the situation to be in her favor. And on her own terms.

Exhaustion sapped at Elizabeth as she climbed back up the canyon wall, but still she made considerably better time in the daylight than she had last night. Even the chain-link fence was gone. She made her way down the canyon rim toward the Park Service road that would lead to the Bandelier Monument headquarters and visitor’s center where they had parked the Bronco.

The second shock came when she couldn’t find the road.

New Mexico State Road 4 should have been at the bottom of the canyon, winding its way to the national monument, looping around to the cluster of homes called White Rock, then back to the city of Los Alamos. She found only a faint horse trail disappearing into the distance. The New Mexican foothills showed no other sign of civilization.

Elizabeth shrugged off her pack. Panting and sweating, she dug out the topographical map she and Jeff had used to plot their course to the back fence of the MCG site. Squatting in the dirt on the canyon rim, she oriented the green map toward the Jemez caldera. Mount Baldy lay to the right, sixty miles away, towering over Santa Fe. Behind her rose the Sandias and Albuquerque; half a million people within a hundred-mile circle.

It just didn’t make sense. She stood and pushed back her reddish hair, then retied the leather thong. The central part of Bandelier National Monument, with its hiking trails and ancient Indian cliff dwellings, lay over the next two ridges. She was sure she had her bearings right. She would straighten this out sooner or later.

But Jeff would never be coming back.

Elizabeth shoved all those thoughts aside. Not now! She set off at a rapid, steady hiking pace. She had never felt so tired, or so overwhelmed.

The sun was not quite overhead by the time she scaled the last ridge, looking over Frijoles Canyon, where the Bandelier parking lot, gift shop, and snack bar should have been. Even in the mountains the cool early summer air seemed heavy, making her perspire more than she should have.

Elizabeth confirmed her location once again by lining up features on the detailed topo map before looking over the canyon rim. She scrambled up to the top and surveyed Bandelier. Caves dotted the far cliff walls. A partially excavated circle of boulders delineated the ancient Anasazi Indian settlement off to her right. And below her sprawled a wooden ranch house and stables, with dirt paths stretching from the buildings. She recognized the adobe visitor’s center buildings, but they looked different somehow, newer.

Mouth set, she stared at the site. Nothing existed of the ranger station she had visited just a day earlier. She could not see any cars; even the Bronco she and Jeff had left by the cottonwood tree was missing. The Anasazi ruins looked the same, but everything else had changed.

What is going on? she asked herself. Am I still dreaming?

Jeff’s death had been no dream.

Elizabeth didn’t spend time debating what to do. Explanations could be filled in later. She had to decide her next course of action. A jaunt down to the ranch house would prove nothing right now, only raise questions she didn’t want to answer. But a trip into Los Alamos would clear the air. She could figure out what was going on without causing too much of a stir. From the location of the sun, it didn’t seem to be more than eleven or so in the morning.

Confusion and panic gripped her again. Her body still felt displaced and inside-out after the explosion. She remembered Jeff… then slowly regained control of herself.

Clouds covered the top of Santa Fe Baldy fifty miles away, but it looked as if the good weather would hold. She should be able to reach Los Alamos by nightfall if it didn’t start raining again. She could get a newspaper. She could have a hot meal. Right now even Los Alamos’s limited selection of restaurants sounded appealing to her.

She could go back and sleep alone, without Jeff. She could think of how she would explain his absence. Somehow, Elizabeth could not conceive of the need to report his death to the police. A dim part of her mind recognized that she was still in shock.

But what in the hell was going on? It kept coming back to her as she walked. The simplest answer was that her mind was screwed up; the answer most difficult to swallow was that what she saw was real. But what had happened to everything?

No fences surrounded the mesa or any of the designated Technical Areas. In her Bronco, she had driven around the restricted zones many times before, pretending to be a tourist. But now she saw no warning signs, no barbed wire. As she made her way through the foothills, Elizabeth kept careful track of her location. On the map a dotted red line clearly marked the laboratory limits: U.S.

DEPARTMENT OF ENERGY RESTRICTED AREA. Though she must have crossed the line, she came across nothing that even resembled a boundary.

A spring rain spread light mist, but Elizabeth kept on, wet and miserable now. Droplets glistened on her bare arms, and her jeans and hiking boots were nearly soaked through. She ate her last package of trail mix on the go; she could see no use conserving food. Her highest priority was to find out what was going on—and to keep from thinking too much about Jeff.

Seeing the town of Los Alamos intact might jolt the imbalance from her. She wanted to think clearly again. By the time she reached the top of the mesa where the city lay, the clouds had darkened, sending down torrents of rain. Her feet squished with every step.

She approached from the southwest, following the ridge line up to where the main lab complex should be. She quickened her pace when she spotted a barbed-wire fence running through the trees, extending into the dense undergrowth. She had never thought she’d be glad to see a security fence!

Maybe the hike had cleared her mind. Maybe she had been too intense, had dwelled on the Los Alamos project too long. The explosion had sent her reeling. Perhaps her anger at the MCG experiment, and the lightning storm, and Jeff’s horrible death, had snapped her mind like a rubber band. Maybe she had imagined a Los Alamos without the lab, without the experiments.

The rain made it difficult to see far. As she sloshed through the pines and cottonwoods, her hope continued to rise. Lights—she spotted a flickering source, then a glaring array between the trees. It was if the bulbs had been hung on a wire and strung over a clearing. Noise drifted through the downpour, diffusing into the rain.

The first thing she’d do was get to a phone—call one of her friends back in Santa Fe. It would take a couple of hours, but Marcia would probably drive up, meet her at the coffee shop at the Los Alamos Inn. The news of the sabotaged MCG experiment must be all over the headlines by now. The United Conscience Group would treat her as a hero.

As she reached the clearing she slowed her pace, not wanting to reveal herself. It sounded like a construction crew hard at work even in the bad weather. Saws buzzed, hammers pounded nails…

As Elizabeth crept to the edge of the woods, her lips clamped. Her delusions crashed around her again.

Mud covered everything. Aluminum-sided Quonset huts dotted the clearing in a haphazard order. Poles carrying electrical wires ran between the buildings. The few wooden buildings looked more like thrown-together shacks.

This should have been downtown Los Alamos.

Men wearing khaki uniforms and steel helmets directed traffic around the sloppy construction site. None of the roads looked paved, just mud and some gravel, with brown puddles in ruts, no sidewalks or gutters. Spattered jeeps drove up to the Quonset huts. And the other cars looked like they had been taken from old Untouchables reruns on TV.

Elizabeth took an unsteady step backward. Her breath came in short, labored spasms. Mind games, she thought. I’ve gone completely bonkers.

But yet… the impossibility of it all… the noises, the smells, the sights… if she didn’t know better, she could just as well be back in World War II. She couldn’t make up details like this—she didn’t know anything about history. But the activity surrounding the isolated mesa seemed more appropriate for wartime Los Alamos-

She stopped. Fifty years ago this place had been wartime Los Alamos. And the height of the Manhattan Project. The birth of the atomic bomb.

Elizabeth stepped back into the woods and sat on a boulder of crumbling tuff. Not a speck of graffiti marked the boulder surface, though it lay close to the main road.

She couldn’t have been tossed back in time! That MCG explosion had somehow sent her back into the past? What about all those lectures in her undergraduate days as a physics major, talking about how time travel violated every principle of modern physics from entropy increase to causality?

Yet she couldn’t deny what she saw. Something big was going on, right where Los Alamos should be, and the city itself had vanished. How many times had she driven past the sprawling administration building, pointing out the headquarters of the bomb factory to her activist friends? What if she had suffered some sort of concussion and was simply hallucinating? A simpler answer to accept, perhaps. For all she knew, she was still lying back at the explosive site, bleeding to death, while her mind refused to accept the inevitability of dying.

Elizabeth chewed on her lip. The hunger in her stomach was real enough, as were the blisters on her feet. Maybe she needed to play this out, see what her subconscious had in store for her. Maybe it was trying to get her to accept Jeff’s death.

Had he even died?

She slapped her hand against the rough surface of the boulder. It stung. The rock seemed solid enough.

She knew she couldn’t just sit there. Night was coming fast, and she needed to get into a shelter, find some food. Even if the whole thing was in her mind.

Taking a deep breath, she set out in the rain, straight for the center of activity.

“Over here, hon! Quick now—get yourself out of the rain!”

Elizabeth could not make out any features through the downpour, but she spotted a tall woman motioning to her. “Can’t you hear me? You’ll catch your death of cold.”

Elizabeth lowered her head and trudged through the mud to the woman, who fluttered around her like a clucking hen. “Put this blanket around you. Did you just get here on the bus? What were you doing out in the trees? Not a good day to take a walk, and you shouldn’t be out there alone.”

“I can take care of myself.” Elizabeth pulled the green Army blanket around her and let the woman lead her into the building. “Thanks, though.” Thin and willowy, the old woman reminded Elizabeth of a sorority mother employed to keep watch on college coeds. She looked to be in her late fifties.

“Look how you’re dressed! Dungarees? Now you get out of those clothes and hop right into the bath. We’ve still got some warm water left. Take advantage of it while you can.” The woman put a finger to her cheek. “Didn’t they drop off your luggage with you?”

“Uh, no.”

“My word, you’re the third person they’ve done that to this week. What in the world are they thinking down there in Santa Fe? Bring up the young ladies and treat them like soldiers. What’s going to happen next? I just hope the Army didn’t ship your belongings back home.”

Elizabeth remained quiet and let the elderly woman go on. She would figure this out sooner or later.

Just inside the veranda a row of metal beds lined a long room. The low ceiling rafters revealed a dormitorylike construction. Only about a quarter of the beds looked as if they were being used.

On a flimsy table Elizabeth saw a ragged newspaper, shuffled and folded as if it had been read by a dozen people. The headlines spoke about Himmler ordering the liquidation of all Polish ghettos, someplace called Pantellaria had been captured, and the USAAF had attacked Wilhelmshaven—wherever that was.

The date on the masthead read June 12, 1943. And the paper was new and white, not yellowed with age.

Before Elizabeth could say anything, the old woman steered her to the back. “I’ll get you a spare bathrobe after you’re through with your shower, dear. I’ll notify the guard to send a runner for your luggage in the morning.”

“But what is—” She caught herself. “I mean, thank you, Ms.…  ?”

“Mrs. Canapelli. My Ronald died five years ago. He was a handyman at the university, and we used to be friends with Dr. Oppenheimer and Kitty back in Berkeley. Oppie asked me to chaperone the ladies’ dormitory. I’m glad he remembered me, bless poor Ronald’s soul.” They stopped in front of the bathroom.

Oppie? thought Elizabeth. Yes, that Oppie. She felt dizzy. So this lady was friends with Oppenheimer, the man responsible for the Bomb. “Thank you, Mrs. Canapelli. Uh, can I get these clothes dried? Do you have a laundromat?”

“A what? Why don’t I just hang them up for you. The humidity here is very low, and once the rain stops, your clothes will have a chance to dry out. We can get you an iron to use if you’d like.”

“No thanks, they’re permanent press.” Elizabeth never bothered with clothes she had to iron.

“Permanent press?” Mrs. Canapelli inspected Elizabeth’s jeans and plaid shirt. “You really took the Project at their word, dressing for the country, didn’t you? Where did you say you came from? And I didn’t catch your name.”

“Elizabeth Devane, and, uh, I’m from… Montana. I always dress like this.” She closed her mouth, not wanting to get caught up too much in her lie. Montana was about as far removed from anything else she could imagine, and it might explain some of her unusual behavior.

Elizabeth backed into the small bathroom and started taking off her clothes. Mrs. Canapelli continued to chatter. Elizabeth normally would have resented the company, but since Mrs. Canapelli mentioned everything from in-processing to Project rules, she ended up filling in Elizabeth with the details she would need for getting around. Elizabeth listened and stored the information.

It might be useful until she woke up and ended this hallucination.

Elizabeth never thought an Army cot could feel so good. She rolled over and felt only the sharp edge of the cot, not Jeff’s warm shoulders. The realization jarred her awake.

It had been at least twenty-four hours since she and Jeff had climbed down into the MCG test site. Twenty-four hours, some twenty miles of hiking. And maybe fifty years of… time travel.

Elizabeth snorted. Time travel. The human mind is far more complex than most people give it credit for. If she woke up tomorrow still in the Los Alamos women’s dormitory, then she had to make a concentrated effort not to keep thinking about the impossibility of it all. Obviously her mind wanted her to experience something in this era—best to go along with the flow and live it out. That way, at least her body could heal while her mind put things in order.

It made sense to her. Putting the blame on her psyche and leaving it time to heal. But if it was only a hallucination, she wished she could imagine Jeff back into it somehow.

The officer squinted at Elizabeth. He wore military insignia on his collar—two parallel silver bars. She didn’t know anything about ranks, but Elizabeth thought she had heard someone call him a captain.

The rain had disappeared, leaving a sunny spring morning, but the mud remained. Brown muck spattered everything; even the soldier’s khaki uniforms seemed a part of the mess.

Elizabeth tried to keep the notion that she was hallucinating out of her mind as she explained her situation. She silently thanked Mrs. Canapelli for droning on the night before, feeding her tidbits of information.

“No, sir. My papers were with my luggage. I was told to board the bus in Santa Fe. And until the Army can locate my things, I don’t have any other documents or even items to wear. Mrs. Canapelli says I should be able to arrange for some clothes through the PX…”

Trucks rumbled past; a dozen soldiers leaned out the back and whistled at her. The three people in line behind her tapped their feet in the dirt.

The captain held up his hands and rolled his eyes in good-humored exasperation. “Okay, okay, I understand! It’s just that you’re the third person in four days with the same problem. I’m trying to prevent it from happening again. Look Miss Depine—”

“Devane,” said Elizabeth. “And it’s Ms. Devane.”

He looked up sharply. “Yes. Miz Devane.” He muttered to himself, “Must be from the South.” He opened his hand and ticked off the rationale on his fingers.

“Okay, your papers must have been in proper order or they never would have let you board the bus in the first place. Otherwise, you never could have gotten up here, since there’s only one road. Therefore, something must have happened to your paperwork after you got on that bus. Maybe someone else picked up your suitcase and it’ll turn up before long? Did you have your name in it?”

“Of course.”

“Guess you’ll just have to wait and keep your fingers crossed, then. I’m sorry, Miz Devane, but until your paperwork comes through, the only thing I can do right now is assign you to the in-processing center as a clerk.”

“Doing what?”

“Clerical work, of course. What else would you want to do?” The captain looked astonished.

“How long will I be there?”

“If your paperwork is just misplaced, it may be only a couple of days. If it’s really lost, we have to go all the way back to Washington. And that may take until the end of the summer.”

End of the summer? Is that the timescale I have here, going crazy for three months? I thought I’d wake up tomorrow.

“So until then, there’s nothing more I can do.” The captain raised a finger. “Except I have to restrict you to the Project. Can’t allow you to leave the grounds until we’ve got something back on you.”

Elizabeth set her mouth, unwilling to make a commotion. What difference did it make? Where would she go anyway?

“Thank you, Captain. I appreciate your help.” She turned and left the wooden administration building. On her way out, she noticed that the Assignments and In-Processing rooms were across from each other.

She experienced a sinking feeling in her stomach. After all her efforts protesting nuclear weapons research, now she found herself in the middle of the Manhattan Project itself. And they expected her to work for them.

Two o’clock in the morning, and sleep would not come. A single white light blazed outside the women’s dormitory, throwing deep shadows across the row of beds. Outside, moths and insects whipped around in the light. Snoring came from the cot next to hers. A guard’s footsteps crunched between the buildings on the other side of the window. Elizabeth turned over and tried to make herself comfortable. The sheets smelled like bleach and felt too hot, even in the cool mountain air.

Growing up in Albuquerque, Elizabeth had dreamed of leaving New Mexico, getting out of the sleepy nowhere city and tackling the real world. Berkeley had afforded her the chance. On a scholarship, she thrived in the intellectual community by the San Francisco Bay. The Northern California lifestyle opened her eyes, though she still spent much of her time with her nose in the books.

After graduating in physics, securing a job with United Atomics in Los Angeles came naturally—it allowed her to use her knowledge and at the same time take advantage of everything L.A. had to offer. She enjoyed her life alone, from hiking in the San Bernardino mountains to body surfing off Manhattan Beach.

One day she realized that she needed an MBA to get ahead, to move out of the population of “techies” and into the higher-paying levels of management. That decision ushered in the end of her innocence. Ted Walblaken’s death shortly thereafter, and United Atomics callous attempt at a cover-up, was the last weight that tipped the scales for her.

Her move back to Berkeley and subsequent enrollment in the Management School left her jaded. She had more time to experience the Berkeley environment, get involved in the really big issues: biogenetics, the end of the Cold War, and the disarmament of America.

The 1983 Livermore protest had nailed it down—she could never return and work for big industry after allowing herself to be arrested for her principles. And then there was Jeff… but the backward allure of New Mexico had become enchanting to her again, a simpler way of life where she would not have to support the bottom-line-only businesses she abhorred. Elizabeth’s only regret was that Jeff didn’t want to come with her.

Santa Fe, only seventy miles north of where she had grown up, beckoned as an ideal place to settle. With her completed MBA and her experience in finance, she had no problem getting a job keeping the books for a Santa Fe art gallery— Nambe on Canvas. Elizabeth loved the chic gallery, the circle of friends who were also concerned about important issues. Her private accounting business grew, and she settled in the comfortable life as a professional.

But now she seemed anything but comfortable. To top it all off, with her years of specialized education, she had been assigned as a file clerk! If she weren’t in such a screwed-up situation, the whole thing would be funny.

Elizabeth pushed back the sheets and sat up on her cot. She stared at the bed next to her. The girl slept without a worry, confident that the “powers that be” would find a way to defeat the evil Japanese, the terrible Nazis, and then steer the world toward an endless supply of Truth, Justice, and the American Way. All because of the Manhattan Project.

Elizabeth swung her feet over the side of the cot, trying not to wake the others. How many times had she heard the expression “If I only knew then what I know now”? How many people would really be content to go on with the atomic bomb project if they really knew what was to come. The Cold War. The Cuban Missile Crisis. Vietnam. The Arms Race. Star Wars. The Gulf War. The capacitor accident at Los Alamos. The homeless, and the people dying of AIDS, because too much money had been spent on defense.

But how could they know? And what was better—for her to stay and do nothing, to ride out the tides of time, or try to actively change things? As a clerk in the in-processing center? Get real.

She wasn’t sure exactly how she would do it, but if she could get transferred into something more important— somewhere that made a strategic difference—then she might be able to see where things had gone wrong.

The wooden dormitory floors didn’t creak as she crept to the bathroom. Quickly changing into her own clothes, Elizabeth debated if she should wear some kind of camouflage, something to help disguise her in case she was caught. She thought better of it. Anything unnatural would only draw attention if she were spotted.

She had heard that other women sometimes left during the night and returned clandestinely, slipping past Mrs. Canapelli—midnight liaisons had not been invented in Elizabeth’s generation, after all. Too many single young men were housed at the Project, and the women of 1943 had been fed propaganda that they were supposed to adore brave soldiers in uniform. Leaving the dormitory would be tolerated, if she could stay discreet.

Elizabeth jiggled the door to the administration building. The door opened with a squeak. Surprised to find it unlocked, she held her breath. It seemed that the sound had echoed across the muddy encampment. But no one came running down the street brandishing weapons. So far, so good.

The sound of a jeep came from across the compound. Pools of yellow-white headlights turned down another un-paved road and continued up the bill. Elizabeth crept inside the Admin building and closed the door, hoping the jeep engine would mask any noise she might make. She debated whether she should lock the door in case one of the guards came to check. She decided against it; besides, she saw no key on the inside.

This left her momentarily wondering why security should be so lax—but she didn’t dwell on it, concluding that the administration areas must not rate as high in the hierarchy as the scientific part of the Project.

Elizabeth made her way down the hallway, relying on touch to get her past the large foyer. Only a few well-placed lights from the outside managed to cast their glare into the building. The site’s blackout regulations dictated only minimum lighting, not visible from the air.

Once she had negotiated the foyer, she managed to keep from knocking over a trash can by first feeling it with her shoe. The hallway led to a set of double doors. In-processing should be two doors down, across from the Assignments section. If she were going to do this right, she needed to do more than forge her papers and add them to the file—she also had to make sure that her physics background was documented.

Even at the B.S. level, with a physics degree granted thirty-five years in the future, her knowledge ought to count for something. But that opened up another set of problems entirely. How many women were on the Project now, serving in a true professional sense? There must be some, but probably fewer than she could count on her fingers. It would only draw more attention to herself, raise too many questions.

And what if she let something slip, some bit of knowledge that hadn’t been discovered yet? Her own physics studies had ignored historical perspective altogether; none of her professors bothered to add any kind of context to their explanations of important theories. According to her schooling, there was Newton, then Einstein and Dirac, and a whole bunch of equations with people’s names on them magically appearing in the interim.

How could she explain that two or three of the scientists working on the Project now would be her guest lecturers at Berkeley three decades from now? No, she had to keep this simple, mark it down in her records that she had some business experience, some mathematics. Maybe that would let her work on the sidelines, where she could watch, observe.

Elizabeth moved toward the Records section. She pushed the door open, half expecting someone to be waiting for her with gun drawn. A row of Army-gray file cabinets lined one wall like a battalion of metal soldiers. The Project personnel had made no attempt to safeguard the personnel information. And this place was one of the most secret places in the nation? The Army must have been working on the principle that the threat was entirely on the outside and not from within.

How could people be so naive?

She found a blank form, personnel qualifications. Bending over a patch of light on a cluttered metal table, Elizabeth penciled in a mathematics degree along with her business experience. That should satisfy any routine checking once she switched jobs. Filing her records, Elizabeth made her way to the Assignments section. Time to get herself a new job.

She crept through eerie hall shadows. The air felt stale. She had heard no other sounds since the jeep went by. She thought about the guards—would they really not patrol the buildings at night? She drew in a breath and looked around. Why was it so quiet? When she reached the door to Assignments, she slid inside the opening and pulled the door partway closed.

Elizabeth glanced around. The room showed even more paperwork chaos than Records. Piles of paper three feet high sat on each desk. Yellow pencils covered the windowsills, and red or black ink pads littered the floor.

Her heart sank. How in the world am I going to even find the right form in this mess? She didn’t know where to start.

She picked up a paper from the nearest desk and squinted in the dimness. It looked like an alphabetical list of people in one of the divisions. Her frustration grew. Trapped, years in the past, and knowing the outcome of a no-win situation, didn’t help her spirits any. She rummaged through another pile, sheet after sheet after sheet—nothing.

She couldn’t go back to her own time. She had no idea how. She would have to watch the Manhattan Project without being a player. Did she even want to be a player? What else could she do? The paperwork and bureaucracy here seemed just as screwed-up now as what the government had to offer in the future. The rosy picture of “all for one and one for all” painted of this war effort didn’t include the times like this.

She stopped. Something just outside in the hall. A footstep, a scratch at the door.

Elizabeth held her breath. She started to duck down, out of sight behind the desk and its column of paper. The security guards—what would they do if they found her there? Did they shoot on sight? The thought chilled her. The nation was at war, when people accepted even the atrocities of penning up American-born Japanese. Being executed for breaking into the Manhattan Project records, no matter how innocuous, no longer seemed unlikely.

Someone stepped through the door. Elizabeth ducked lower.

“Excuse me.” The words came out in a whisper. She looked up. A man stepped behind the stacks of paper and looked down at her, as if he had known her hiding place all along. “Ah, do you need any help?”

Elizabeth caught a hint of a chuckle. She strained to see the man’s face, but the light coming from the window shone behind him. She saw only his silhouette.

Elizabeth slowly stood. Her arms and legs trembled as cold sweat broke out on her skin. Her stomach knotted, but she didn’t understand. “I… I…  ” She couldn’t make the words come out.

“It’s okay. Really,” he said.

Elizabeth sucked in a breath. “Oh, damn.” She glanced around, pulled up a metal chair and sat down. “So what are you going to do with me?”

“Eh?” The man moved around so that the light shone on his face. He appeared young, not more than twenty-five or so. His hair was cropped short, curly. “Do with you? My, that opens up all sorts of implications, doesn’t it? I just thought you needed help getting around in here.”

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. She sat straighter in the chair. “Help?”

“Sure. Going through those paper piles.” He jerked his head at a particularly large heap in the corner. “Can you believe all this? This is a scientist’s nightmare and a bureaucrat’s dream. Paperwork heaven. One of those Admin clowns could die in here and it would take them a month to find out he was even missing.”

Elizabeth stifled an uncertain laugh. This man didn’t seem bothered that she was here in the dark; he didn’t appear to be a threat. “You’re probably right.”

“About you needing help?”

“No. I mean yes, I need help. But about this being a paperwork nightmare, or heaven, or whatever.” She stopped, tongue-tied. She felt angry at herself, but forced it down. She couldn’t believe any of this.

“Good.” The man cracked a smile. “Then what are you looking for?”

“Something to get me transferred. Whatever paperwork I need.”

“You want to move to another job.”

“That’s right.”

“Gosh, I can’t imagine anything being misplaced around here.” He snorted with derision. “Don’t you like what you’re doing now?”

“Typing and shuffling paperwork isn’t my strong point. I mean, that isn’t the reason I was brought here. I’ve got a good background in mathematics. It’s a terrible misuse of talent.” Elizabeth held her breath and hoped that the man wouldn’t press for details—or that she wouldn’t tie herself up in a lie she couldn’t get out of.

“Makes sense. Maria Goeppert had the same problem. One of the best minds in the country, and people would rather shove her off making coffee than using her talents.”

Elizabeth kept quiet and allowed the man to continue. She kept taking peeks out the window, afraid that their whispered conversation would draw attention. The man, whoever he was, seemed content just to sit and chat away.

“Actually, if you knew where the forms were…”

The man stood. “I don’t, but I bet if I thought as a bureaucrat would… “He looked around the room. Elizabeth’s eyes had become accustomed enough to the dark to see where he was looking. “Umm. Let’s see. This is the Assignments section, so you’d think that assignments would be on the top of their priority list. Now all we have to do is figure out where they would think of putting their important stuff. Which means…”

He strode around to the front of the office, lifted up a small pile and revealed an in basket. He fished around and pulled out a dark, half-page form. “Aha!” He looked as if he had just cracked a mystery. “The only people who really bother these folks are the ones they try to transfer. Which means that if the transfer form is located near the door, then they can get rid of the people faster. Lessen the amount of hassle they get.”

Elizabeth pushed up from her chair and moved to the front. “I don’t know how to thank you—”

“Well, if you insist… no, I mean, nonsense! I know it’s impossible to get things done during regular hours around here. You have to do things yourself sometimes. Where are you trying to get transferred to?”

“Uh, I’m not really sure. Somewhere that could use my abilities. My math background, I mean. I used to teach high school math before I joined the civil service.” Oh boy, she was going to have to remember that one.

“Ah, so that explains why you’re here. Johnny von Neumann is getting together a group to grind through some intensive calculations.” He cocked an eye at her. “You aren’t familiar with hydrodynamics are you?” He shook his head before she could answer. “Never mind—it doesn’t really matter. But if you’re a math whiz, we could sure use some talent in von Neumann’s group. Here.” Elizabeth took the sheet of paper as if it were a nugget of gold.

“Thanks!” Von Neumann… the name sounded familiar to her. Hadn’t he invented the first computer or something?

“Just put down T-Division as your reassignment. That’ll get you there.”

They deposited the official transfer form in the front office. Elizabeth crept along beside him, fearful that his cavalier attitude would get them caught, but they negotiated the building without bringing attention to themselves.

She wanted to ask the man who he was, but since he had kept his nose out of her identity, she decided to do likewise. Whoever he was, he was one strange duck-getting his kicks out of playing jokes on the paper pushers.

The man steered her to the side door. “Go ahead on out—I’ll lock up behind you.”

Elizabeth started for the door. “But it was unlocked when I got here.”

“I know.” The man grinned and pulled a long wire from his pants pocket. “I broke in and left the door open in case I had to make a quick escape. It’s great, isn’t it? Drives the brass bananas when they find out I’ve been drooling over their paperwork. Not that it’s important or anything. What really drives them crazy is when I break into the safes and leave them little notes.” He creaked open the door and peered outside. “Go ahead, it’s clear.”

“Uh, thanks again—”

“Just get going.”

“Yeah.” Elizabeth slipped outside. She moved around the mud puddles that dotted the streets and kept to the building shadows. When she finally reached the women’s barracks, the long row of cots looked inviting. She had had enough excitement for one night, and just hoped her transfer would go through without anyone questioning it.

Breaking and entering wasn’t her style. Maybe she was better off with the United Conscience Group, passing out leaflets and doing nothing significant. The MCG debacle had shown her the worst of what could happen. Jeff had paid with his life.

Once was enough, no matter how high the stakes.

3

Berlin

June 1943

“Since the outbreak of war, interest in uranium has intensified in Germany. I have now learned that research there is being carried out in great secrecy.”

—Albert Einstein

“The Germans are at present probably far ahead of us. They started their program vigorously in 1939, but ours was not undertaken with similar vigor until 1941.”

—Arthur H. Compton

His own stationery had finally arrived from the printer. He had needed to pull the rank of his new position in the Reich just to get something this simple done on time. It didn’t bode well for the more serious things he would have to do.

He rocked back and admired the printing: dr. Abraham ESAU, PLENIPOTENTIARY FOR NUCLEAR PHYSICS.

The bold Fraktur type made his promotion, achieved at long last, seem all the more official. They couldn’t take it away from him this time. Things would start to change now. No matter what the others might say.

Esau took the top sheet, careful not to smudge the ink, then snapped the ivory paper. Crisp, decisive movements always made points with his superiors. Esau had learned such details years before when he started his rise in the party as a Brown Shirt.

He sat back in the leather-covered chair, swiveling around to look at the office he’d recently commandeered. He had come in with the appropriate bustle and appearance of authority—another thing he had learned in the National Socialist Party, that the appearance of authority carried nearly as much weight as authority itself.

He had ordered several lesser workers to move the desk and the chair into the office he selected, the one with the best view of Berlin. He had never bothered to check whose office this was; the Plenipotentiary for Nuclear Physics claimed it now.

Though the day was cold for early summer, he left the window open to clear the air of stale cigarette smoke. He heard street sounds outside, the vehicles, the people going about their business even during wartime.

He noticed dust marks on the bookshelves from where the previous occupant had kept his library. Esau’s own boxes were piled in the hall outside the door. Sooner or later he would have someone unpack them, make this look like a proper office.

He thought of his cramped dormitory room in Cambridge back when the world was different, back when the unfair Treaty of Versailles remained a festering sore for Germans but not yet cause for a renewed war. German physics held the reins of science, and universities such as Gottingen held the greatest minds of philosophy, mathematics, physics, and chemistry. Esau had pursued studies in high-frequency electronics as a guest in Great Britain, eventually gaining some fame in the early days of wireless telegraphs and television.

His English friend and companion, Graham Fox, had assisted him in his studies, and they had both gone far. Rutherford taught at Cambridge, with its meadows and tree-shaded river. Niels Bohr himself came to give guest lectures. The Cavendish Laboratory, where Chadwick had discovered the neutron in 1932, had been the best equipped in all of Europe.

Abraham Esau had engaged in innumerable discussions, not just within classes, but also in their favorite meeting place, an old cafe’ in a remarkably clean alley. Other students gathered there to argue over their own imaginary problems. Scribbled mathematical formulae covered the marble-topped tables, and the waiters had strict instructions never to wipe away the marks without special permission. Unsolved problems left on the marble were often completed by other students who came in later. Esau smiled to himself; those were heady days. The vivid memories held many distinctive colors, sounds, and odors for him—but the world had since gone flat.

He had not seen Graham Fox for many years. They had grown apart as Esau absorbed himself in party politics, working his way up in the German government. His calling had been to use his knowledge and talents to help resurrect Germany from its economic death. He had been appointed President of the Reich Bureau of Standards, and later head of the physics section of the Education Ministry’s Reich Research Council. Abraham Esau, with his cursed Jewish-sounding name, had stumbled through many pitfalls, back-stabbings, and political maneuvers to get to his position now. It had made him many enemies, and few friends.

Esau straightened the photograph on the corner of the desk. He had no wife, no children—this was a picture of himself. One party weekly described him as “a thickset man with a tough farmer’s skull” and had made fun of his peasant ancestry, his East Prussian accent. Even his competency in physics. Too many people enjoyed picking on Abraham Esau.

In the photograph, though, Esau looked impeccable, wearing a gray wool jacket, neat tie, crisp white collar. He kept his steel-colored hair trimmed well above the ears and oiled into place so that it showed the parallel lines of combs’ teeth. He had one eyebrow raised, pale irises the color of water. An intelligent-looking man, a powerful man, with an upturned sneer caused by a tangled scar on his upper lip—the mark of a boating accident when he and Graham Fox had gotten a bit drunk and gone out on the river when they shouldn’t have.

Esau laid the stationery back on the desktop. Plenipotentiary for Nuclear Physics. The title had so many trappings, held so much power.

It had not seemed surprising that a German, Otto Hahn, would announce the discovery of the fission of the atomic nucleus in 1939, the year war broke out. Hahn had been unable to believe his own results for the longest time, probably sabotaged by his Jewish assistant Lise Meitner before she fled Germany. Finally, when he could no longer refute his astonishing results, Hahn had published his discovery in a public forum for all the world to see.

Esau found it remarkable how things had changed in only four years. Now open dissemination of such important information was unheard of. All German nuclear work—and no doubt all American and British as well continued at a frantic pace, but those discoveries were carefully hidden behind the shield of secrecy.

As Plenipotentiary, he now had to reconcile all the disparate work on nuclear physics in Germany, but he did not know how to do it. Certainly, their own researchers were among the most brilliant in the world; but they were scattered, each one working on his own pet project. It reminded him of horses pulling a cart in opposite directions, getting nowhere.

Three separate German teams worked on the same problem, and each team refused to cooperate with the others, and each received funding from different ministries.

The experimentalist von Ardenne operated the smallest program under the auspices of the Ministry of Posts—a more unlikely sponsor Esau could not have imagined. But von Ardenne had done what he found necessary to implement his ideas. Esau admired that. He himself had done a similar thing, back in 1939, when the Reich Ministry of Education appointed him to look into the possibilities of developing energy from the atomic nucleus. Hahn had just announced his discovery of fission, and physicists worldwide were falling all over themselves to be first with the next breakthrough.

On his own initiative, Esau had stockpiled all uranium available in Germany. When the Joachimsthal mines in Czechoslovakia came under German control, Esau immediately requested samples of radium from the mines. He had worked hard, he had shown his mettle, his persistence, and his vision. But instead the Ministry of Armaments had decided to start its own nuclear research program behind Esau’s back.

They appointed Dr. Kurt Diebner to do their work. Diebner had been whining for years to get something like this, and now he had stolen it from Esau. Abraham Esau was ordered to cease his own atomic research and to stop questioning orders. They told him to surrender his carefully stockpiled reserves of uranium to Diebner. He had no choice in the matter.

But now, three years later, the roller coaster of political machinations had left Esau in a position to step up, to become the new Plenipotentiary. Now he oversaw Diebner’s work, which, with his group of physicists at Göttingen, was the second prong of German nuclear research. Esau despised Diebner, with his thick black glasses, sloping forehead, and ponderous speech. Diebner had once accused Esau of stealing his work, claiming that he himself had been working on the problem since 1938… which was absolutely absurd, since Hahn hadn’t even discovered nuclear fission until the year after that.

Diebner’s team seemed the most productive of the three, but Esau knew that was only because Diebner had confiscated the cyclotron from Frédéric and Irene Joliot-Curie in Paris, when the Nazis had overrun France. Diebner had taken Joliot-Curie’s work; he had copied the Frenchman’s ideas and implemented them himself. Whose ideas would he steal next?

The third and most impressive arm of nuclear research was led at the Kaiser-Wilhelm Institute in Dahlem, a suburb of Berlin. Its most prominent member was Dr. Werner Heisenberg, the scientist who had developed the famous quantum Principle of Uncertainty, for which he’d won the Nobel Prize in 1932.

Heisenberg was the darling of the theoreticians. His fame was greater than any of the others, yet he was quiet, firm, not as much a prima donna as so many of the other researchers. Heisenberg kept his voice low, his words clipped, his thoughts very clear. Esau didn’t care for Heisenberg personally, though he respected the man.

A few months earlier, when Abraham Esau had called a conference to discuss nuclear physics work with the Nazi high command, he invited many important people in the party, as well as a great number of prominent German physicists. The idea was for the first day to be an overview, a sales pitch to the leaders of government about what exactly the research teams were working on, with subsequent days devoted to in-depth secret discussions and papers among the nuclear physicists themselves.

Goering had curtly declined Esau’s invitation, as had most of the others. Not until much later did Esau realize that his own secretary had bungled her job and mailed the wrong schedules, inviting the government and military representatives to a long agenda of technical papers with nonsensical titles, making no mention of the general overview. No wonder so few of the important ones had showed up.

Still, the room was crowded. The physicists milled around, uneasy in such a large crowd. A handful of men in military uniforms sat at a long table and in wooden chairs near the wall.

Esau ignored the physicists and spent his time making sure the officials remained comfortable, that they had coffee to drink, that someone attended to them immediately if they had questions. Perhaps, even though their superiors had not bothered to come, Esau could impress upon them what his section was doing for the war effort, what this strange nuclear physics was about. But how was he to explain atomic fission to people who did not even know what an atom was?

“Gentlemen,” Esau said. He paused, waiting for those gathered in the room to fall silent and turn their attention to him. Self-consciously, he straightened his tie. The physicists, dressed in street clothes rather than uniforms, continued to rustle about; they had no interest in what Esau would say, since they already knew more about the subject than he did himself. Let them act snobbish, Esau thought— they wouldn’t get far in their research without his support.

“Gentlemen,” he said again, focusing especially on the ranking man there, Air Marshal Erhard Milch of the Luftwaffe. “You are familiar with presentations of enhanced explosives and new ways to fashion artillery—but I guarantee that you have never before heard how German science can unleash an entirely new destructive power, one as limitless as the universe itself. It is a power that springs from the most fundamental particle of all matter—the center of the atom itself.”

Esau held up a clenched fist. “In 1938 our esteemed Otto Hahn discovered how the nucleus of the uranium atom can be split, releasing the energy contained within.” He held up a second clenched fist against the first, put them in front of him, then violently snapped them apart. “This suggests the possibility of a superbomb, a weapon based on atomic energy.

“Upon learning of this, I myself stockpiled all of Germany’s uranium resources, because the uranium nucleus is the only one that exhibits this phenomenon of fission. But alas, it is not even that simple, because only a very special type of uranium is susceptible. This type of uranium, an isotope with an atomic weight of 235 instead of the more usual 238, is exceedingly rare. Out of every thousand grams of purified uranium, only seven are of the proper type, and even then, the uranium-235 is completely mixed with the rest. We are developing techniques to separate it out.”

Esau was losing his audience. He saw them scowling, skeptical; this was not what they wanted to hear. He did not want to discuss the many failures so far, but to emphasize the possible results.

“Lest you be discouraged, let me point out that a single bomb made with uranium-235 would be more powerful than a thousand of the best bombs we have available now. The successful completion of this project will more than compensate for the difficulties. Because of this, we believe nuclear investigations should be given the highest priority from the Armaments Ministry and Education Ministry. We can win the war as soon as we overcome this obstacle of separating out the special uranium.”

“And what is so difficult about that?” Air Marshal Milch said. He remained seated. He clearly knew that he outranked everyone in the room. Insignia decorated his shoulders and his breast. His cheeks were chubby, his eyes small and dark. He puffed on a deep brown cigarette, as if to flaunt that he could obtain good Turkish tobacco even with rationing. “German chemical workers pride themselves that they can process any material.”

Esau nodded soberly, though it was a stupid question. “It is not so simple, Herr Marshal. We cannot use a chemical process because there is no chemical difference between the isotopes—they are both uranium, as far as the chemistry goes. We must find a physical method. We are working with devices such as cyclotrons, a new instrument called the ultracentrifuge, another called the ‘isotope sluice.’

“The actual difference between the good uranium and the bad uranium, if I may call it that, is infinitesimally small. Let me use this comparison: imagine you are on top of the Cologne Cathedral, looking down upon a crowd. You are given the task of finding the one man who has an odd number of eyelashes in his left eyelid… and you have only a pair of dirty binoculars to work with. That is the magnitude of our task.”

The physicists in the room seemed amused by the comparison, and a few applauded. Air Marshal Milch scowled. Esau continued rapidly, “The Fuhrer has requested that we find a way to utterly annihilate Great Britain. This bomb can do it! We can bring even America to its knees. But we can do this only if we receive the fullest support for our work.”

Esau knew he had to make his point with Milch. Armaments Minister Albert Speer had not bothered to attend the conference, but Milch had his ear and would report back, favorably or unfavorably.

Air Marshal Milch got to his feet. Esau recognized why the man usually remained seated, because he was relatively short and stockily built. He set his smoldering cigarette on the edge of the scarred table, then looked across the room. “And such a weapon—Professor Heisenberg, tell me, how big would a bomb have to be to destroy a whole city?”

Esau’s fingernails dug into his palms. Heisenberg, always Heisenberg! Why hadn’t Milch bothered to ask him?

Heisenberg shrugged, then answered after a moment of pursing his lips in thought, “About as large as a pineapple.”

“So.” Air Marshal Milch sat back down. His face seemed to be carrying a smile.

Esau cringed, suspecting that now they would be given the order to produce such a bomb and have one ready within a few months. Obviously, Heisenberg was a theoretician—he had no common sense. If he had any background in party politics at all, he would have learned never to make promises that might later backfire….

Somehow the conference had achieved its aim. Word trickled up the chain of command. Armaments Minister Speer and Deputy Fuhrer Goering had become interested in the project, though Hitler himself had taken no notice. Esau had been appointed Plenipotentiary of Nuclear Physics.

Now he stood up from the desk in his new Berlin office, went to the hall and called for someone to bring his boxes into the room. He wanted to unpack. He knew he would be staying awhile. This project still had an enormous amount of work to do before it could accomplish its aims.

Was it something to be proud of, Esau wondered, to oversee this broken-up nuclear program, with its offshoots of scattered research? With physicists squabbling over minimal resources, duplicating each other’s work?

The whole thing seemed impossible. It would take a miracle.

4

Los Alamos

June 1943

“If the new weapon is going to be the determining factor in the war, then there is a desperate need for speed. Three months’ delay might be disastrous.”

—James B. Conant

“One might point out that scientists themselves have initiated the development of this ‘secret weapon’ and it is therefore strange that they should be reluctant to try it out on the enemy as soon as it is available… The compelling reason for creating this weapon with such speed was our fear that Germany had the technical skill necessary to develop such a weapon and that the German government had no moral restraints regarding its use.”

—The Franck Report, composed by seven dissenting nuclear scientists, delivered to Secretary of War Stimson, June 11, 1945

Mud still covered A Street, but the mountain morning shone blue and crisp. Though the research town was a mere shadow of what it would become decades later, Elizabeth thought the place had a greater intensity to it, a desperate frenzy that kept everyone working their hardest. Jeeps sped by carrying loads of uniformed soldiers; bespectacled men picked their way across puddles to the Tech Area.

All the women wore dresses. Mrs. Canapelli had loaned Elizabeth a dress, a gaudy green flowery print that probably would have looked better on a sofa, and she had mentioned the best days to look at new bolts of material at the PX—as if Elizabeth had any intention of sewing herself a dress. Elizabeth hadn’t even worn a skirt in years, but at least now she felt part of the crowd. Mrs. Canapelli had also loaned her bobby pins and barrettes for her hair. Better to avoid calling attention to herself any more than she had to. Elizabeth intended to keep hiding in the woodwork as long as she could—at least until she figured out what she wanted to do.

Keeping to the side of the street, she made for the administration building. Groups of men passed her on the way. Several smiled a wordless greeting, one man whistled loudly. She wasn’t supposed to mind that sort of thing in 1943.

She clutched the paper given her by the shift captain. Working the In-Processing desk should be easier now that she knew the position would be only temporary. Someone would find her paperwork, though it had been right on top of the In box, and the transfer to von Neumann’s computations group would no doubt take a few more days, even with expedite stamped on the form.

She entered the administration building through the same door she had crept into the night before. She slowed as she walked in, trying to be nonchalant. After the bustle on the street, the place seemed deserted. Until another busload of Project volunteers arrived, In-Processing probably had time to catch up with some of the paperwork.

A young woman smiled at her from behind a stack of papers. She had tightly curled hair and wore thick red lipstick, which smeared the butt of the smoldering cigarette in a metal ashtray on her desk. “Good morning. Did you come up on the bus last night?”

“Actually, the day before yesterday, but I forgot to check in. My luggage was lost with all my papers.” The story rolled more easily off her tongue after she had practiced it several times. “I was wet and tired, and just went to the dormitory. Sorry about that.” She handed over the assignment papers the captain had given her. “I guess I’m supposed to help you out here until my transfer comes through.”

“Good luck! This is where they always stick their loose ends. You’re the second person this week they’ve stashed here until her papers were found. I can always use some help, but don’t plan on staying around for more than a few hours; they always seem to straighten things out just when the work is about to be finished.”

Elizabeth hoped for exactly that, but she forced a smile. “Maybe you’ll get lucky and they won’t find my papers.”

“Fat chance,” laughed the woman. She stood and extended a hand. “By the way, I’m Holly Vanderdeem.”

“Elizabeth Devane.”

“Nice to meet you. Do you go by Liz? Betty? Betsy?”

“Betsy?” She raised her eyebrows. You’ve got to be kidding! “Elizabeth will do just fine, thank you.” She forced another smile. “I’m not much on cute nicknames.”

“Sorry.” Holly got up to the crowded file cabinets and began to search in the D drawer. She took her cigarette along. Elizabeth tried to blink the smoke from her eyes. “Where were you supposed to be assigned?”

“Uh, to one of the computation groups. At least that’s why I was recruited.” She went over and opened one of the windows to let in some fresh air. Outside she heard a man shouting orders to a construction crew.

“Well, let me show you around the office for now. You can help me a bit. The work is mostly routine. Things tend to happen in spurts up here, mostly when the bus from Santa Fe brings in a new batch of workers. Sometimes a whole day will go by without anyone coming in. Every once in a while we get a real doozy—like that Russian physicist who could barely speak English.” She looked around and lowered her voice. “Have you had the security indoctrination yet?”

“No.”

“You’ll find out you’re not even supposed to say ‘physicist’—they’re all called engineers.” She straightened. “Anything out of the ordinary goes to the captain. The rest of our time is spent filing the new assignment actions.” She nodded to the pile of paper by the back window. “I’m way behind on that, so if you don’t mind helping me file them…”

“It’ll keep me from going crazy.” Unless I’m already crazy, dreaming I’ve been thrown back in time to old Los Alamos.

Holly tried to glance at Elizabeth’s finger. “Not married, huh? Plenty of available men here if you want to grab one and settle down.”

For some reason Elizabeth felt like an old maid. “No, I’m not married.” And I think I’ll refrain from “grabbing a man and settling down” for the moment, she thought with annoyance. “How about yourself?”

“My Eddie heads up the Chemical Nuclide Division. We were at Cornell when he got tapped for the Project. It’s all so exciting, and it’s great to be doing something, you know, important for the war effort.” She laughed. “It was bad enough dragging me away from Louisiana to go to New York in the first place. But now, bringing me to the Wild West, I guess I shouldn’t have bad-mouthed the Northeast. Where are you from?”

“Montana.”

“Jiminy! I didn’t know they even had universities there. What on earth is Montana famous for?” Holly looked shocked, then suddenly apologetic. “Oh, I didn’t mean it like that.”

Elizabeth smiled tightly. “That’s all right. My, er, husband was a professor at Montana State, and I used to be involved with the ladies’ club there.” She had to force the words out of her mouth. Emotions welled up in her, cutting off her voice, but she dug her fingernails into the meat of her palm. She had to keep up the act. “After Jeff died, I was asked to come here, get my mind off him.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. How did he die? In the war?”

Elizabeth winced, then turned away. “I’d, rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind.”

Thinking of Jeff, knowing he was lying somewhere in a shallow cave in a canyon wall, made pain rise up in her again. But the ease with which she fabricated her story surprised her. Thank you, Mrs. Canapelli. Now she had the perfect alibi for being here, unless someone else showed up from Montana State—which seemed unlikely from Holly’s reaction.

Holly fidgeted in her chair. “You poor dear. Here, let me show you what to do.” The simple instructions lasted another five minutes, repeated and stressed, though Elizabeth had figured out the task in thirty seconds. Holly asked no further questions about her personal life, and Elizabeth did not encourage conversation.

As she started filing, Elizabeth felt thankful that it would give her a chance to glance through the personnel files and help her get a better grasp on what this era was like, who else was here.

In the back of her mind, she tried to recall everything she knew about World War II and the Manhattan Project. She found her mind wandering, mixing up dates, so she tried to write down snippets of facts on a sheet while filing people’s folders. She kept the notes in her own shorthand code, something cobbled together from years of college note-taking. If somebody else found it, the scribbles would seem nonsensical.

After three straight hours of filing and no one entering the office, Holly stood and put a hand to the small of her back. She carefully touched her hair. “I’m running down to the lodge. Do you want to come and take a break?”

“The lodge?”

“Fuller Lodge has the only real meal in town, until they get the cafeteria built. If you want to chance the food at the civilian mess, that’s up to you. But if you can’t eat at the dorm, I’d stick to the lodge.”

Elizabeth straightened and surveyed her pile of paperwork, half as high as it had been when she entered the room. She wanted some time alone, so she could snoop around. “Tell you what,” she said, “if you’re right about my reassignment coming today, I won’t be able to finish this. Why don’t you just bring me back something and I’ll try to get done here.”

“You’re a gift, Elizabeth. I really appreciate this.” Holly rummaged for her purse. “What should I bring you?”

“Oh, a salad is fine. With ranch dressing on the side.”

Holly stopped and stared, then a wry smile spread across her face. “A salad— what a riot! You’re starting to fit right in! What in the world is a ranch dressing? How about a cheeseburger or a hot dog? Depends what they have warmed up.”

“Yum.”

Holly didn’t notice Elizabeth’s lack of enthusiasm. “I’ll spell you when I get back. That way you can catch lunch and take the afternoon off after your papers arrive.”

“Sure. Whatever.”

As Holly left, Elizabeth blinked and thought to herself that she couldn’t even take the food here for granted. Cholesterol city—no low-fat, no high fiber, everything loaded with preservatives. No diet drinks—or else they’d probably be filled with saccharine—no caffeine-free drinks, and no mineral water for sure. She felt her stomach turning already.

Once Holly left, Elizabeth moved to the back of the office and pulled out her list. She skimmed her cribbed notes:

—Okay, WWII started around 1940, ended 1945 (?). Germany (Nazis); Italy (Fascists); and Japanese.

—FDR is Pres, then Truman. FDR died in office. When? Truman dropped the bomb.

—Manhattan Project set up the secret town of Los Alamos in New Mexico mountains (Jemez). Bunch of scientists gathered together to develop the bomb. Headed by Oppenheimer. Tested bomb near Alamogordo: “Trinity” site.

—Built two bombs, Fat Man and Little Boy, to drop on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. (Wish I could remember the dates!) One bomb used a gun method and one used implosion scheme. Plane carrying the bomb is Enola Gay. Left from somewhere in the South Pacific. Not sure if the Enola Gay was used for both bombs. Don’t know how long between Hiroshima and Nagasaki; a few weeks most between Trinity and Hiroshima.

—Germans dabbled in their own bomb concept, but they screwed up something. Heisenberg goofed a calculation, wrote down a wrong cross-section (?). Can’t remember what it was.

Elizabeth sent a thousand silent curses to her former high school history teachers. She had never been an expert in history, but her years at Berkeley had given her the basics of when the major scientific advances had occurred. The time working for United Atomics, although in the fusion reactor group, helped her get comfortable with the jargon; and the real education started with the protest work, the Livermore incident and her time in New Mexico with the Santa Fe activists.

She felt a knot growing in her stomach, and not just at the thought of a greasy cheeseburger or a goat-meat hot dog. I’m letting this get to me! she thought. Relax, it’s only my mind. I couldn’t screw up if I tried. None of this is really happening.

She would still have to return to the MCG site soon and look around. Maybe she had missed something there and could figure things out. She also had to find a place to bury Jeff, before the coyotes found him. She pushed that thought from her mind and tried to concentrate on her list. Jeff had always called her a pragmatist.

I have to know more than this about World War II! But she didn’t. She knew a bunch of movies, but who could tell how accurate they were? The list served only to orient herself, anchor her mind so that whatever happened was consistent with what she remembered about history. If her mind was undergoing some sort of healing process, then this experience would feel as true to her as anything her memory could dish out. But yet… the urgency of the people around her, what else could it be? If it wasn’t her mind, she kept getting the same damned answer of time travel, but didn’t want to face it—

“Excuse me. Would this be In-Processing?”

Elizabeth jumped in her chair. She crumpled her list in a ball and rose from her chair.

“The door says this is In-Processing,” the man said, as if pointing it out to Elizabeth. His words carried a British accent.

A thin man, wearing an oversized coat and a narrow black tie, twisted a hat in his hands. His elbow held a manila envelope to his side. His eyes darted around the cluttered office, and when they rested on Elizabeth, they revealed a sad look. Elizabeth could see deep lines of experience etched onto his face.

“Yes, what can I help you with?”

“Thank heavens.” The man smiled nervously. He slapped his hat against his leg and entered the office. “What with all the commotion outside, I wasn’t certain which way was up. I’m from the British MAUD program, sent here to help out. Some of my fellows came a few weeks ago, but I had to take a side trip to Princeton. Szilard was still there and wanted to see me.” He smiled, focusing on her again. “Your office looks to be rather deserted compared with the rest of the camp.”

“It is.” Elizabeth smiled. She tossed her crumpled list along with a couple of used forms into a wastebasket stenciled burn. “May I help you?”

“Most certainly.” The man fumbled with the manila envelope and withdrew some papers. He held them out to her. “I’m Graham Fox, Doctor Graham Fox, actually. The MAUD people had me doing setup studies for them for the past year. Imagine my surprise when I discovered they were shipping me to this, er, enchanting place with the rest of the MAUD chaps. Didn’t even bloody bother to ask.”

Fox’s lack of enthusiasm struck a chord with her, though she didn’t know what in the world a MAUD was—the code name for the British nuclear program?

“How did you get up here, Dr. Fox? Did another bus pull up?”

“No, they told me it would be another day until the next one. I obtained a military taxi this morning. Santa Fe failed to excite me. Is it like most towns out here in the West?”

Elizabeth looked over Fox’s papers. She didn’t have a clue about what she should do next—maybe send him over to Assignments. She could always find an Expedite form to assign him to the Project.

The Project.

She found herself doing it. Give the work a nice plain euphemism and nobody will think about what it is they’re trying to accomplish. Maybe it took away some of the inhumanity from the whole idea—did these people really think about what they were doing? They had no idea how their work would snowball, what would happen a half century after they had opened Pandora’s box.

The Project.

“From far away the town looked pleasant enough,” Fox muttered. “But the buildings were made of adobe—just mud, like wattle and daub huts you see in the National Geographic magazine!”

Fox kept complaining, but Elizabeth turned to glance over his form. He had received his Ph.D. at Cambridge in 1935, directed by Rutherford—that name sounded familiar; a post-doc came next under Sommerfeld. The curriculum vitae listed his age at thirty-six. Though two years older than her, Graham Fox looked more like ten. Maybe the “eggheads” of this era squirreled themselves away and didn’t get out.

“Where do I go now, Miss…?”

“Devane. Elizabeth Devane.”

“Yes, most pleased to meet you. But might I ask where I should report next? I’m rather hungry and would like to relax a bit.”

Elizabeth looked around the room. She had almost finished the filing—and she knew her own nonexistent papers and baggage would never be found. It wouldn’t hurt for the office to be closed. She extended a hand to Fox.

“My supervisor can’t help you until she returns. I was just going to lunch myself. Would you care to join me?” Fox might prove to be as much a source of information as Mrs. Canapelli; he could tell her everything official new arrivals were supposed to know. Besides, he seemed as displaced as she was.

His puppy-dog eyes lit up. “I’d like that very much, Miss Devane.”

“Elizabeth. Please, call me Elizabeth.”

“Thank you. The British are supposed to be stodgy, but I go by Graham.” He stuffed the papers back into his manila envelope.

Elizabeth nodded to the envelope. “You don’t want to lose those. I learned the hard way. I came here to do calculations, but they have me filing instead. Paperwork mix-up.”

Fox grimaced at the thought. He held the door open for her. Elizabeth waited until he had gone ahead, then closed it behind them as they left.

They found the civilian mess hall by trial and error, watching the flow of people on the street. Once Fox learned that Elizabeth was just as new to the Project, he opened up and began to tell her of his schooldays at Cambridge, how marvelous it had been to work on physics, the only place where political borders made no difference. He had even had a close German friend—until the war, of course, when secrecy had clamped down on everything Fox tried to do.

Elizabeth dug out the money Mrs. Canapelli had loaned her. The smells of the civilian mess didn’t make her any less uneasy about the food. “My supervisor warned me about this place.”

Fox shrugged and stared down at his tray as they stood in line to pay. “This is the American West, Elizabeth. According to your Hollywood movies, we are supposed to be eating beans cooked over a campfire. Therefore, I shall not complain.”

The military cashier tallied up her lunch: “Cheeseburger, twenty-five cents; fries, fifteen cents; Coke, a dime. That’s four bits, ma’am. Anything else?” The man looked barely old enough to be in the military.

“No, thank you.” She had to figure out in her head how much “four bits” was. As she paid, Elizabeth kept from shuddering at the grease glistening on her plate from the harsh light bulbs. The only fruits and vegetables laid out on the counter bore some sort of green mold. Probably oozing pesticides, DDT, whatever.

She joined Fox at an eight-person table. Three young men in white shirtsleeves nodded briefly as Elizabeth sat down, then returned to reading copies of Physical Review and a two-day-old Santa Fe New Mexican newspaper. The man reading the newspaper commented to no one in particular about how long he thought it would take the Allies to capture the Solomon Islands, over which air battles were now apparently taking place. Elizabeth didn’t remember anything about that part of World War II.

She cut her hamburger in two, then took a bite. She looked around the dining area. “See any mayonnaise?”

Fox glanced up from his meal. “For your hamburger? Is that how you Americans eat it?”

Elizabeth forced a swallow. “Of course not. Never mind.”

“I see.”

Elizabeth didn’t realize how hungry she had become. She had only pecked at Mrs. Canapelli’s huge breakfast of eggs, sausage, and hash browns fried in lard. Now removed from the matronly woman’s presence, Elizabeth tried not to gulp.

As she looked up, she saw the mysterious man who had helped her in the Admin building the night before. He turned from the cashier and looked at her. Elizabeth recognized the short, curly hair, the angular face, the broad smile. He raised one eyebrow and winked at her, taking his plate off to a different table.

Elizabeth grabbed Fox’s wrist. “Who is that? Do you know him?”

Fox looked around, took a moment to locate the man she meant, but shook his head. “Sorry, I’m new to all this.”

One of the others at the table glanced up from his technical journal and answered, “That’s Dick Feynman, a brilliant kid. A wise guy, too, from what I hear.”

Two of his companions chuckled. “He drives the security folks nuts—keeps breaking into safes, just to prove that anyone with brains and patience can outsmart any of their precautions.”

“I heard he has his wife tear up her letters to him in at least fifty pieces, then send the shreds here. The security guys have to put the thing back together before they can read it. Feynman doesn’t mind.”

“Uh, thanks,” Elizabeth said. “I talked to him yesterday but forgot to ask his name.” The other men had already become absorbed in their technical journals again.

Fox spoke around his meal after an uncomfortable silence. “I really imagined this place would feel like more of a university town.”

“What do you mean?” Elizabeth nodded to the men still immersed in their technical papers. “Seems pretty close to me.”

“No, not that. It’s the feel of it. Look around you. People are wrapped up in their journals or moving at breakneck speed. A university town is supposed to be more relaxed, a place where people can ponder the implications of their discoveries. Sit under a tree with a blade of grass between one’s teeth, and simply think about the nature of the universe. Here, everyone appears to have a hot foot all the time.”

Elizabeth took a deliberate bite of food. Sit around under a tree? Fox must not have been going for an MBA! She didn’t want to jump into a debate on what Los Alamos should be like—not at this point.

Fox pushed back from the table. “But on the other hand, I imagine the research here is more directed than what you’d find at a university. More focused.” He shook his head. “And if it’s all to beat the Nazis to the punch, then it’s probably the only way to run a research establishment. Too bad. With all these bright lads around, some pondering would probably be better for us in the long run.”

Elizabeth put down her hamburger. “Do you really think we have so much to worry about from the German atom bomb program?”

Fox snorted. “From what I hear tell, the Nazis are about to make a breakthrough. After all, they had a corner on nuclear physics, and a two-year start on us. All the great ones from Hahn and Strassman to Heisenberg are working on their project.”

Elizabeth shook her head, suddenly remembering her list. It wasn’t often she knew enough to say something in a conversation around here. “Don’t worry about Heisenberg. He’s screwed something up, cross-section data I think. Botched calculations.”

Two of the men at their table looked up sharply. Fox narrowed his eyes. “What? Where did you hear this?”

Elizabeth grew red. She lowered her voice, trying to back out of what she had said. “Oh, just a hypothetical situation. But it’s perfectly reasonable, isn’t it? I’m sure their program is going to fizzle.” Elizabeth returned to eating her sandwich. She felt herself sweating.

“Do you know what you said?” Fox persisted.

Elizabeth breathed deeply through her nose. “Look, I’m only a file clerk, remember? How the hell should I know?”

Fox kept quiet. She felt him studying her, trying to come up with an answer; but he couldn’t possibly guess the truth. Then he nodded and dropped his voice. “I think I understand.”

Glancing up, Elizabeth noticed that he no longer looked at her, but instead stared off at a blank wall, eyes focused to infinity. She could not tell how to interpret his expression. She never wanted to bring up the subject again.

5

Los Alamos

July 1943

“In certain circumstances, this [proof of nuclear fission] might lead to the construction of bombs which would be extremely dangerous in general and particularly in the hands of certain governments.”

—Leo Szilard

“We take the liberty of calling your attention to the newest development in nuclear physics, which, in our opinion, will probably make it possible to produce an explosive many orders of magnitude more powerful than the conventional ones… The country which first makes use of it has an unsurpassable advantage over the others.”

—Paul Harteck and Wilhelm Groth, initial letter to the German War Office

R and R: Rest and Recreation. He would go crazy if he didn’t get away from the bloody Project.

The road out of the bustling, primitive town of Los Alamos plunged down the mesa like something constructed for an amusement park, then wound back up for the thirty-five-mile trek to Santa Fe. Graham Fox watched the landscape unfold as the dusty bus chugged past the small towns of Tesuque and Cuyamungue, then through the Nambe and Rio Grande valleys. As the bus strained up the last hill before Santa Fe, someone pointed out the silhouette of the Sandia mountains jutting up seventy miles to the south, near Albuquerque.

A few days ago the scenery had looked totally alien to Fox, something that existed only in cowboy movies. If he had seen a painting of the startling contrast between turquoise skies and red and golden clay, he would have considered the painter an impressionist with a garish palette. The air smelled sharp, the wind felt dry. His lips and hands had begun to chap as soon as he disembarked from the train in Santa Fe station.

This place seemed to belong on a different planet from serene, civilized Cambridge, England. At any moment he half expected a band of wild Indians to ride over the clipped-off mesas. But was a frontier town full of nuclear scientists any less bizarre?

Fox tried to tear his mind away from the letter in his pocket, concentrating instead on the distant mountains. In England the farthest distance he could see was up to the nearest grove of trees. The hills there had been soft, rolling, lush and green. In contrast, New Mexico had unlimited visibility, with a clean starkness that hurt the eyes.

But J. Robert Oppenheimer had found no better place to establish a new town whose purpose was to meet the grandest challenge of science. From his security indoctrination, Fox knew that the boys’ school on the site had been purchased in secret by the War Office, the solitary teacher and his small group of students packed off without any explanation, and Los Alamos had been set up virtually overnight. Right in the middle of America’s legendary wide-open spaces.

Maybe that was the real reason Oppenheimer had decided to set the Project here. Not so much for the solitude—from what Fox had heard, West Virginia or China Lake in California would have served as well—but other locations might place too much pressure on the scientists, box them into traditional ways of thinking. No, the limitless view had the psychological effect of keeping the scientists unbridled, uncontained with enormous ideas that could end up destroying the world. And Fox had been chosen to lend his talents, whether he wanted to or not.

Fox fingered his letter. The stationery felt thin and simple, but the words were so dangerous. Just bringing the letter out of the fenced compound went against all instructions the G-2, the Army Intelligence people, had been feeding him the past week. “All correspondence is to be submitted to the security detail with envelopes unsealed. Failure to cooperate will result in a direct violation of the Espionage Act.”

Espionage Act! The whole situation seemed ludicrous. Fox felt caught between paranoia and laughter at the absurdity of it. How could they in all honesty suspect a relationship that had already lasted fifteen years, one that had been cemented long before Chancellor Hitler began his rampage across Europe?

Fox’s Ph.D. studies at Cambridge had brought him into contact with several international students. After all, his teacher, Rutherford, was a world-renowned physicist; studying under him had marked Graham Fox as a rising star. It was something ordinary students only dreamed about.

Fox had become fast friends with Abraham Esau, a young German student. They had lived together in the boardinghouse, sharing the single water closet down the hall; they had played typical pranks together, until they had been sobered by the boating accident that left Esau’s lip scarred. Later, despite his growing preoccupation with the National Socialist Party, Esau had arranged for Fox to complete his post-doctoral work in Göttingen under Sommerfeld himself.

After Fox’s post-doctoral study, the two friends had corresponded for years, exchanging results of their latest work. They shared the excitement of Dirac’s relativistic field theory, the discovery of spinor mathematics… to them, physics was apolitical, a true bridge between cultures. Did an atomic nucleus care about inequities in the Treaty of Versailles? No matter what governments might squabble about, physics remained immutable. Fox admired that. Esau had always agreed with him.

And now, because of the war, his friendship with Esau had become illegal. Fox wanted to write his old companion, tell him that their communications must stop, but he had reluctantly adhered to the rules. Letters between himself and Esau had dwindled over the past few years, since Germany had declared war on the U.S. after the Pearl Harbor attack. But Fox’s friendship had never stopped, and he knew Esau must feel the same.

A colleague at William and Mary College had agreed to mail Fox’s letters to another colleague in Mexico, where in turn they would be sent to Norway, then forwarded to one of the occupied countries. A letter might take months to cover this circuitous route, but Fox and Esau kept their communication open.

And pointedly nonpolitical.

Fox’s leanings were certainly not toward Germany—but they did not rest blindly with the Allies either. He had heard much talk of a single world government lately. In Fox’s view, any one independent government was as bad as any other, especially if both used their weapons for mass destruction. Look at the horrible poison gas weapons used during the Great War. The great physicist Otto Hahn himself had created those weapons—was that a fitting purpose for such a man to apply his mind?

As a physicist, he believed the world could flourish without political meddling. Governments demanded too much. Physicists knew how to handle relations between countries. After all, new scientific ideas and discoveries had been exchanged freely for years. It seemed that only the bureaucrats, the militarists, and—worst of all—the bean counters, could not accept the laws of Nature for what they were.

No one government should have an upper hand, an ace in the hole it could use to dominate anyone else. It would be like two men standing in a room with loaded pistols aimed at each other. No sane person would pull the trigger, for fear that both might die. But if only one man held a gun, he might be tempted to take a preemptive action. He would feel superior, with nothing to worry about….  How could the U.S. be trusted with a doomsday weapon such as the atomic bomb, when no other country could?

Fox feared the pace the American program was setting. Did the Germans know that Enrico Fermi’s reactor, constructed in secret under the squash court at the University of Chicago, had achieved a self-sustaining nuclear reaction? It had never been done before, and marked a true milestone in the history of physics—but the results had remained a tight secret. Such breakthroughs were not to be kept under lock and key!

Fermi had used a common substance—graphite of all things!—as a moderator to slow the neutrons down in natural uranium, making it possible for them to split the uranium-235 isotope and create more neutrons to keep the reaction going. Some nuclei of the overwhelming majority of uranium-238 absorbed a neutron, thereby transmuting into a new element, one step higher in the periodic table.

Thanks to the efforts of Leo Szilard, and his constant harping for secrecy from the Germans, the news that would ordinarily be reported in Physical Review now was shared among only a few scientists whose political views were considered acceptable. What trash! German scientists like Esau might never know the simple technique, and the warring countries would continue to threaten each other with nearly completed “secret weapons.”

He had been strongly tempted to write Esau then, to tell him of Fermi’s chain reaction. He had sweated for days, changing his mind over and over again, until finally his own fear had won. But the innocuous remark that woman Elizabeth Devane had made set him to thinking again. What if Werner Heisenberg had somehow mucked up the data? What if he had miscalculated cross-sections? It was certainly possible, even for a Nobel Prize winner. Normally the physics and experimental data would be checked and cross-checked at every point when such an important application hinged on the results. But when the most respected of all German physicists, the creator of the quantum Uncertainty relation himself, stood by his results, no one chose to question him in the secrecy of war.

Fox snorted. Elizabeth Devane would have had no way of knowing… yet she had struck him as odd, the carefully prepared and trained person, so cleverly disguised that no one would suspect. Wasn’t that the way spies worked? In an undertaking as huge as the Manhattan Project, Fox thought it unrealistic that the Nazis had planted no informant. And what better cover than as an unobtrusive filing clerk who happened to have a physics background much more extensive than seemed reasonable for a simple woman? Elizabeth could quietly keep track of everything going on at Los Alamos and report back to Berlin at her convenience.

He mused about what she had said. What if Heisenberg was working for the Allies, sabotaging his research to keep Hitler’s work far behind what the others could accomplish? What if Elizabeth’s information went to the wrong people, the true Nazi warmongers, not trusted scientists like Abraham Esau?

The whole idea was preposterous. But yet… how had Elizabeth even imagined such a thing? What did she know?

That image of two men with loaded pistols seemed dangerously stabilizing when compared with a monopoly of power on either side. Equally matched, the two sides would be forced toward peace; given a bigger stick than anyone else in the world, even the most democratic nation would turn into a playground bully.

Fox knew it was dangerous to contact Esau at all, but this new insight was just too important not to pass on. The news of Fermi’s reaction had almost been enough incentive, almost, and Elizabeth’s comment had added the extra bit to tip the scales. He tucked the letter back in his jacket pocket.

The bus jarred Fox as it hit a pothole. The windows rattled and the springs creaked. Santa Fe spread out in front of him in all its historical aplomb. Brown adobe buildings lined the street, splashed with color from bundles of red chili pepper hung by doorways. Colorful Mexican tiles encircled the round-cornered windows. As stark decoration, black wrought-iron gates and bars adorned some of the houses.

A young man stood up at the front of the bus. Although dressed in typical civilian attire of white shirt, baggy gray pants, and a thin dark tie, the man seemed out of place. His mannerisms gave off an invisible signal that said “military,” G-2—not just another Nice Young Man who seemed anxious to help the scientists feel at ease on their R-and-R outing. This was, after all, the American celebration of Independence Day. Independence from Britain—Fox found that ironic. The G-2 man would probably have every person on the bus watched all day. The man cleared his throat and tried to speak over the grumbling of the bus’s engine.

“We’ll stop at 109 East Palace, Mrs. McKibbin’s place, where you all checked in before coming to the Hill. The bus will head back at 1900—that’s seven o’clock tonight, for you civilians.”

Or for anyone not used to European time, Fox thought.

“If you need assistance,” the man continued, “Mrs. McKibbin can help you. Remember not to talk with strangers about who you are or what you do. Have your new name ready in case you’re asked. Don’t reveal a whit—not even if you get arrested. We’ll take care of everything. Remember, German agents have probably infiltrated Santa Fe, and we don’t want to give them any more information than they already have. Any questions?”

Fox fingered his letter to Abraham Esau through his pocket; the note seemed to burn a hole in the material. What if they searched him? He tried to breathe normally, not to give a clue that anything was the matter.

This must be the last of it, he vowed to himself. No more. If I’m found even holding this letter, my head will be on the chopping block.

He had thought about getting to Albuquerque to mail the message, but transportation there was very limited. He couldn’t slip away for so long, not with badge checks and accountability back on Project. Military G-2 types were probably stashed away at the bus depot and the train station, just watching. Any attempt to leave Santa Fe would no doubt bring them running.

Fox fidgeted in the cold sweat of fear. Through the briefings and cautions he had received, the seriousness of the situation had never seemed real. It had been like a child’s game of I’ve Got a Secret—keep quiet and tell no one what you’re doing, then everything should turn out all right.

But now, faced with the possibility of getting caught, he felt a knot in his stomach. Was this worth the trouble? Yes, Fox thought. The balance of the world is at stake.

He forced himself to look out the dusty window as the other scientists and Army workers filed off the bus. Fox ignored the smiling young man standing at the front, still waiting for anyone to ask him a question.

The bus had pulled up to 109 East Palace. Fox had been there only a week before. Departing from the train that had taken him cross-country, he had asked directions until he found the quaint adobe house. At that address he had introduced himself to a Mrs. McKibbin; though the woman didn’t know him from Adam, she had made him feel at home. She hadn’t been expecting him in particular, she said, but so many people came and went, with her as their contact point, that she couldn’t keep track anymore. And everybody traveled under false identities anyway.

Fox stepped off the bus in the middle of the crowd. He avoided the other people’s eyes—particularly the Nice Young Man who watched the scientists disperse into the Santa Fe streets. Most of them would be going to cafes, or shopping trips, or to spend some time in an approved club drinking to the Stars and Stripes or arguing about the continuing American assault on the Solomon Islands.

Dust swirled through the air, kicked up by a summer wind that tumbled down from the mountains. The stinging dust forced people to duck their heads and keep the dirt out of their eyes. A newspaper skittered by. Fox held a hand up to his face. The bus was virtually invisible in the sudden storm.

He took advantage of the cover and strolled away from the activity. Narrow unpaved streets ran at crooked angles to East Palace. He turned at the second street—an alley—and quickened his pace. He could ask directions and find his way back later. Now he just wanted to be out of sight.

He pushed through a throng of Indians heading up the alley. They were loaded down with blankets, silver and turquoise jewelry, probably on their way to the plaza. The Indians moved aside without comment, looking to the ground. One of the women stared at him with such fierce intensity that Fox had to hurry his step. He saw no young men among them.

Another street; he passed it by, as well as the next, then stepped into a maze of side alleys. He stopped, expecting pursuit, but no one came chasing after him. The wind blew small bursts of dust around the corner. Fox caught his breath. It had been so easy. Had he been imagining pursuit in the first place? Nothing breeds paranoia better than fear. And nothing would draw attention to himself more than acting suspicious.

A door slammed behind him. Fox whirled. Two dark-haired boys ran from a house. Tattered curtains covered one of the windows; inside the house a dog yipped. The boys ran across the narrow street, laughing and barefoot. The door continued to bang as an inner spring bounced it back against the frame.

Fox wet his lips; they felt so chapped in the desert dryness. His whole situation seemed suddenly out of hand, unfolding as quickly and as uncontrolled as one of Fermi’s chain reactions. Fox tried to calm his breathing, slow his heart rate.

Looking down the street, he saw no one following him. Except for the two boys bouncing a ball against an old mud wall, the narrow alley was deserted.

Then he noticed the mailbox.

It hung by a single nail on the side of a house. Painted black with rust showing around the edges, the container held two letters sticking up from the inside.

Fox’s eyes grew wide. He clutched the letter in his pocket and took an unsteady step toward the mailbox. The boys ignored him—the mailbox seemed to recede from him with each step he took.

If he could only get to the damned box, get this poison letter out of his pocket… it all seemed a challenge now, narrowed down to just getting the letter mailed, into the post office where it would be swallowed up in an anonymous pile of similar letters.

Fox reached out and placed the envelope into the box with the other two outgoing letters, then stepped away.

Still no one came running down the street.

A ball bounced against a wall. Muted voices drifted from the buildings on either side of the street.

Fox stared at the black mailbox. He had placed an innocuous return address on the envelope—1953 Rodeo Road—an address he had made up, yet he felt sure it would draw no attention. If he had neglected to add some return address, the letter might have aroused suspicion. All mail entering and leaving the Hill was opened, inspected by the censors; Fox had no doubt that suspicious items from Santa Fe would be detained as well.

A letter to Williamsburg, Virginia, should draw no attention, though. Sitting with two other letters, his final communiqué with Esau waited in the warm desert sun. Fox felt the weight lifted from his shoulders. He had done everything he could, just a small thing. Now Abraham Esau would have to make use of it. Graham Fox had done his part.

Fox spent the rest of the afternoon walking around, poking his head into the shops that peppered the Plaza. Around the plaza groups of Indians sat on colorfully woven blankets, watching in silence as white people shopped for jewelry, picking over the silver and turquoise creations scattered in front of them. Santa Fe’s pace seemed so serene compared to the frenzy on the Hill. Fox caught himself daydreaming, actually wishing that his life could be as uncomplicated as the locals’.

He spotted the bus parked at the end of the avenue. With an hour and a half remaining before it departed, Fox turned into the La Posada Hotel and sought out the bar. Even in the low light he recognized several clusters of men from the bus.

No one invited him to their table, but he didn’t feel like socializing anyway; nor did anyone else, it seemed. Each one seemed to want a last few minutes of refuge before heading back to the Project. Fox still felt his own body trembling from the tension he had just put it through.

For all his paranoia, he had seen no indication of G-2 representatives in his wanderings. Maybe the ubiquitous intelligence force was not as thorough as had been rumored. It had been easy to mail the letter. This time.

He could not afford to do it again. He had already done enough. Or perhaps too much. For a moment he thought about running back to the mailbox, snatching the letter away—but he did not have enough time. The wheels had been set in motion.

A waiter took his order for a gin and tonic as Fox relaxed in his chair. He would have to do his Project work now. He had nothing else he could do, and he would have to try his best. He just wished the war would be over before the question of using the atomic bomb—if they managed to develop it—ever came up.

Fox swallowed a mouthful of his gin and tonic. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light in the club, he spotted another person with the same out-of-place aura as the Nice Young Man from the bus, sitting in a corner and looking over the crowd. How long had he been there? Had he followed Fox all afternoon?

Feeling suddenly reckless, Fox raised his glass and toasted the G-2 man.

The man looked away.

6

Berlin—the Virus House

August 1943

“[Heisenberg] declared, to be sure, that the scientific solution had already been found and that theoretically nothing stood in the way of building such a .bomb.”

—Albert Speer, Nazi Minister of Armaments

“German physicists had no desire to make atomic bombs, and were glad to be spared the decision by force of external circumstances.”

—Werner Heisenberg

Gravel crunched under the wheels of the staff car as the driver turned off of the cobblestoned streets. They proceeded to a less-traveled area of the Berlin suburb of Dahlem, then turned down the damp road to the Kaiser-Wilhelm Institute. The stolid construction of the Institute for Chemistry and the Institute for Physics was overbearing, designed at the turn of the century to please the rigid tastes of the Kaiser. Now, in the August rain, the trees and the flower boxes appeared subdued. Wet streaks ran down the stone walls as water splashed out of rusting gutters.

The driver of the staff car activated the windshield wiper, but it merely smeared a thin film of mud. Ahead of the car rode two motorcycle guards hunched over their handlebars. The motorcycle engines popped and puttered from the alcohol fuel.

Although he now held the upper hand, Professor Abraham Esau fidgeted in the back of the staff car, wondering if he would triumph as planned or if everything would backfire on him. The drive had not been long, but it was uncomfortable. Reichminister Albert Speer sat beside him, straight-backed and silent, staring ahead. The Minister of Armaments must be preoccupied with something other than the secret Nazi research center known as the Virus House.

Beside the driver sat Major Wilhelm Stadt of the Gestapo, dressed in a black uniform with SS armband. Major Stadt was rude, fast spoken, with an air of confidence that bordered on impatience. As did so many of the young officers, the major sported a small toothbrush moustache like Hitler’s and Himmler’s. He had his pale hair shaved severely up around his ears and the back of his neck, making him appear to be wearing an overlarge Jewish skullcap. Esau did not dare make such a comparison aloud; the SS major would not have found it amusing.

Major Stadt spoke to the driver, telling coarse stories and Jewish jokes, acting friendly toward the lower ranks—after all, wasn’t Gestapo head Himmler himself a former chicken farmer? But Stadt’s casual attitude seemed a ploy to Esau, a practiced interrogation technique. Every third or fourth comment, Major Stadt would turn around to look at Reichminister Speer, as if searching for some reaction. Occasionally Speer would nod, or smile if that seemed appropriate, but he said few words.

Esau knew that Speer had never wanted his position as Minister of Armaments—he was an architect who had served Hitler well, but he had been astonished when Hitler promoted him after the previous minister had been killed in an airplane crash. Speer had done his best in the position, but the German war effort seemed to be flagging. Mussolini had been overthrown in Italy, and a humiliating and disastrous Allied bombing raid had just turned the city of Hamburg into a firestorm.

No matter. From Esau’s work here at the Kaiser-Wilhelm Institute, both he and Reichminister Speer could become heroes. The firestorm of Hamburg would be nothing compared to the devastation a German atomic bomb could deliver. The other scientists would not be so smug and uncooperative with Speer standing beside him. Esau now had the crowbar he needed to consolidate the nuclear physics research firmly under his own custodianship.

Werner Heisenberg would not be expecting them; Esau wanted that as part of their surprise. Heisenberg lived in Leipzig with his family, but took the train to Berlin twice a week to continue work at the institute. Esau had taken great care to be sure they arrived on a day Heisenberg would be at the Virus House.

The motorcycles ground to a halt. The staff car pulled up in front of a complex of wooden buildings surrounded by a gate and a sagging barbed-wire fence. One guard, wrapped in a rain shawl with a machine gun over his shoulder, stepped forward to inspect the papers of the motorcycle riders, who gestured him toward the staff car. The driver wrestled with the crank to turn down the window.

“This is a restricted area. May I see your papers please?” the guard said, pushing his head in and dripping water on the driver’s shoulder.

When he saw Reichminister Speer and Major Stadt in their respective uniforms, the guard stiffened, but held his ground. For security reasons they had not marked the staff car to announce the ranks of its occupants.

Major Stadt remained silent, and Esau waited as the guard checked them through. Any other behavior by the guard would not have been tolerated. The guard returned the folded papers to the driver, then trudged off through the mud back to his windbreak shelter beside the barbed-wire gate. The two motorcycle riders kicked their engines into life again, then proceeded through the gate. The driver of the staff car kept the window cracked open, allowing damp air to purge the atmosphere inside. They drove into the grounds of the Virus House.

In July 1940 the researcher Karl Wirtz had built a small laboratory on the grounds of the Kaiser-Wilhelm Institute for Biology and Virus Research, adjacent to the Institute of Physics. All power and water for the new establishment came from the institute’s large virus growth laboratories. But Dr. Karl Wirtz was no biologist. The ominous name “Virus House” was prominently displayed only to keep the curious away, and to mislead any spies about the actual research conducted there.

At the beginning of the war, Reichminister Speer’s predecessor had been skeptical about the nuclear physics program, since it then appeared the Blitzkrieg would give Germany victory over Britain long before nuclear physicists could develop a new weapon. Nevertheless, a research program was set up. The head of the institute, the Dutch experimental physicist Paul Debye, was told that he must either become a German citizen or leave his post, because no foreign national could be allowed to work on a secret military project. Debye had chosen to leave, departing to go on a “lecture tour” to neutral America.

That was in January 1940. The Armaments Ministry tried to install Dr. Kurt Diebner from the military as Debye’s replacement, and this the rest of the Kaiser-Wilhelm Institute resoundingly opposed. But they had not yet realized how much times had changed. Finally the institute accepted Dr. Diebner as a provisional head, until such time as Paul Debye returned from his lecture tour.

But Diebner’s career had not survived political machinations in the following years. Other scientists, such as Karl Wirtz and Carl-Friedrich von Weizsacker had schemed to draw Werner Heisenberg into the institute, where he became titular head of nuclear physics work-subordinate to the Plenipotentiary for Nuclear Physics, of course, Esau reminded himself.

Esau had been to the Virus House on official visits, but he had accomplished nothing. The program remained as scattered and uninspired as ever, the scientists more concerned with maintaining their reputations than with winning the war.

Now, though, Esau was bringing them sufficient inspiration, thanks to Graham Fox.

He allowed himself to smile as they drove into the muddy courtyard outside the wooden barracks. Dark stains showed where rain had soaked through the plank walls. All around, the city of Berlin pressed close, too close perhaps for such dangerous research as this, but it did make a perfect hiding place.

A dim shadow behind one of the windows watched the staff car pull up, then ducked back. Esau hoped the observer would inform the rest of the physicists exactly who had arrived for a visit.

They had come to accuse Professor Werner Heisenberg of treason.

A week before, when the Reich post had delivered a letter with Belgian postmark, Professor Esau took notice. He held up the stained envelope and frowned; it looked like cheap stationery inside. He did not recognize the bold handwriting on the address with its excessive loops and flourishes. With a letter opener he slashed open the edge.

He recognized the handwriting on the letter inside immediately. Graham Fox! It was impossible, but he could not stop himself from a smile such as he had not worn since his student days at Cambridge. He wondered how Fox had managed to get a letter through the postal blockades to Germany. But none of Esau’s initial astonishment compared to what he felt upon reading the terse but profound message.

… So, my dear friend, Fermi has achieved a self-sustaining neutron reaction moderated by graphite blocks. By virtue of Germany’s superior physicists, Heisenberg’s group should have come to this discovery on their own—could he perhaps be leading you down the wrong path? After all, no one would question Heisenberg’s claims. I will do what I can here because we must maintain parity. All humanity is at risk. Must count on you, Abraham.

At that moment Esau’s secretary—the same one who had bungled his invitation to the physics conference, and then bungled his subsequent apology letter—appeared at the door with some inane question. Esau’s shouting fit sent her scurrying back into the hall. Her heels echoed on the tile floor like gunshots.

Esau clutched the letter with sweaty fingers. A nuclear reaction moderated by graphite! Esau was astounded. According to all their careful studies—no, he corrected himself, not careful enough—they had thought heavy water was the only substance that could appropriately moderate a reacting pile. How could they have missed something as simple and common as graphite?

A nuclear reactor could produce a different element, a new element beyond uranium on the periodic table, that could be used as a substitute for the rare isotope uranium-235 in an atomic bomb. In 1940 the American Edwin McMillan, working at the University of California at Berkeley, had artificially created “element 93” by bombarding uranium with neutrons. Since uranium had been named after the planet Uranus, McMillan had decided to call his new element “neptunium” after the planet Neptune.

But physical theory predicted that the next artificial element in the series, element 94, would be a candidate for fission, just like uranium-235. Element 94 did not exist in nature, but in all likelihood could be made in the laboratory. But only if they could keep a nuclear chain reaction going. Continuing the scheme of using planetary names, this element should be named after the newly discovered ninth planet Pluto. Plutonium?

If they could produce enough of this new plutonium, Esau would not need to worry about the incredible difficulties of separating uranium-235 from the rest of the ore. They could have a German bomb sooner than expected.

But for that they needed a working reactor to “cook” the uranium until it became plutonium… and to achieve a functioning reactor, Esau had thought he needed enormous quantities of heavy water, which was exceedingly rare and precious. Even then it remained a matter for conjecture, because they had never been able to obtain enough heavy water to test the theory.

The difficulties continued to tangle worse and worse as the war went on.

Germany’s only source of heavy water had been the Norwegian Hydro Works at Vemork—and the Allies had recently destroyed the plant, bringing all heavy water production to a halt. Allied saboteurs had even sunk the ferry carrying the last few drums of dilute heavy water rescued from the ruined factory.

Esau had seen no future for the possibility of reactor research. It had left them with nothing to try but the impossible isotope separation.

Now, though, Fox’s letter implied that perhaps graphite—simple carbon—could be used instead of heavy water. Esau could not comprehend why his own researchers had ignored the possibility. Especially with the great Heisenberg at the helm.

Feeling his cheeks flush with a growing anger, Esau dug through the files and progress reports describing aspects of his disjointed program. He loathed this clerical work—he could never find anything. Progress reports had been falsified, or not submitted on time, or written in such terse, vague language that he couldn’t understand what the physicists were talking about. He had not unpacked and organized the files completely, and he did not dare risk asking his inept secretary to help him. Some of the files were from Diebner’s tenure over the Kaiser-Wilhelm Institute; others had been culled from the Armaments Ministry itself, or even von Ardenne’s work for the post office.

Surely someone must have tested graphite.

He found the records after an hour of searching. He snapped the thin file away from the stack with a brisk gesture that betrayed his own impatience. Outside, an automobile horn blasted three times, and Esau made an annoyed comment to himself. He took the papers back to his desk and spread them out, piling everything else on top of his unopened mail.

Professor Walther Bothe had made the analysis. At Heidelberg, Bothe had used a sphere of high-quality graphite larger than a meter in diameter, submerging it in a tank of water to measure its neutron absorption cross-section. According to Bothe’s test results, graphite was indeed a poor choice, swallowing far too many of the available neutrons. For the nuclear reaction to be successful, the moderator needed to slow down the neutrons to the proper speed so they could cause fissions in the uranium—slow them down, not take them out of the reaction entirely.

But if the Americans had succeeded in creating a self sustaining chain reaction using graphite and uranium, then Bothe’s results must be wrong. Wrong!

Esau squinted and rubbed the scar on his lip. The car honked again below the window, but now he no longer heard it. What if Bothe had not used pure enough carbon? Graphite had a tendency to be contaminated with boron— and other results had plainly shown that boron acted as one of the most voracious neutron swallowers. What if carbon was indeed an efficient moderator, but Bothe’s result had been masked by boron contamination? The pile would then defeat its own reaction, not because of graphite—but because of the boron poisoning.

Carbon was trivial to obtain. Absolute purification would be somewhat difficult, but vastly simpler than manufacturing heavy water or finding some way to separate the uranium-235 from the rest of the natural uranium.

This changed everything.

Esau read Fox’s letter again. This also meant the Americans were far ahead of them. Despite a German head start at the beginning of the war, the Americans had already achieved a self-sustaining chain reaction. That, too, changed everything.

Reichminister Albert Speer did not take either Esau or his nuclear program seriously. But perhaps this news would make him pay attention. If the Americans had jumped headfirst into developing an atomic weapon, could Germany afford not to do the same?

Esau imagined different ways to approach Speer with Fox’s information. Such a simple letter from an old friend, but it would gain him a great deal of respect. It demanded immediate action.

The two motorcycle guards dismounted and propped their vehicles against the wooden railings. Side by side the two marched up the steps of the Virus House and stood beside the door, waiting for Reichminister Speer and Major Stadt to emerge from the staff car. The driver opened the doors for them. Esau followed Speer, hurrying to keep up with the man’s pace.

Speer was a tall, quiet man, soft-spoken but highly intelligent. He had staged and organized Hitler’s spectacular Nurnberg rallies and had become one of the Führer’s closest companions. Speer bore a superior air, a frowning disregard for Esau. But that would pass. Esau had earned a new reputation for himself.

The guards tracked mud inside the barracks as they led the way. The academics had bemoaned the presence of Nazis in the institute years before. This time, though, the visit would have a different flavor.

Esau stomped his shoes on the mat, then hurried as Major Stadt led them on a snap inspection of the facilities. At first glance the Virus House had an acceptable appearance of austerity, as all good war projects were to have. The physicists and lab assistants, startled from their routine, scurried about, trying to understand what the guests wanted, trying to hide whatever they suspected might be considered wrong. No one actually greeted the visitors.

Stadt opened random doors and peered inside rooms. He seemed uninterested in what he saw, which made Esau realize that the Gestapo major knew nothing about nuclear physics and simply expected to intimidate the researchers into showing some sign of guilt or collusion.

They found blackboards, equations, men arguing about a crude pencil sketch. In one part of the building they found a brick-lined pit two meters deep and filled with water. One abandoned experimental area left its laboratory equipment sitting idle. Idle! Esau fumed. It would reflect badly on his own credibility if his people weren’t even bothering to make a sham of ongoing research. Speer raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“This is not the only facility where our experiments are being conducted,” Esau said. “Dr. Diebner has another group working at Göttingen.”

“Indeed,” Speer replied quietly. “And is he getting any work done?”

“That is the problem!” Esau tried to master his impatience. “They are scattered and they can play games like this because I cannot watch them all. One of Diebner’s men, Dr. Paul Harteck, wanted to do an experiment with uranium oxide moderated by dry ice. He had secured an entire trainload of dry ice and needed as much uranium oxide as possible—but at the same time Heisenberg insisted on having half of it himself for a different experiment here at the Virus House.” Esau scowled and met Speer’s gaze. The Reichminister didn’t seem to understand.

“You see, with this nuclear physics, it is all or nothing—you cannot have a partial reaction. You cannot split the resources in half. The result was that both experiments failed due to lack of materials.” He cleared his throat and straightened. “That was before I became Plenipotentiary for Nuclear Physics.”

“And now everything has been straightened out completely, I am sure,” Speer said with a maddening lack of sarcasm.

“It will be,” Esau muttered. He now had a blackmail

grip on Heisenberg. After bringing the Nobel Prize winner

in line, he could begin to get other things done.~

As they approached, Dr. Werner Heisenberg emerged from the door of his main office. He bore a false expression of welcome on his face; Esau could see he had made a quick attempt to straighten his clothes. His reddish hair glistened with dampness, as if he had just combed it.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” Heisenberg said, rubbing his hands together, then turned to Speer. “You are the Reichminister? I have seen photographs of your Nürnberg rallies. Most impressive.”

“Will you be offering us tea next?” Major Stadt said. “After all, you don’t appear to have anything better to do.”

Heisenberg froze, as if it had finally occurred to him that he might be in some sort of trouble. Esau wanted to watch him sweat for a moment. It would be good to diminish that ego.

“What can I help you with, Herr Major?” Heisenberg’s voice had a slight edge. Esau felt immediately left out of the conflict.

“We have received some troubling information about your activities, Herr Professor,” Reichminister Speer said. He removed his overcoat. Heisenberg reached out to take it, but Speer handed it to one of the motorcycle guards instead.

“We would like to inspect all of your experimental records,” Major Stadt said. “You will provide them, please. Professor Esau will scrutinize them to determine the accuracy, or lack thereof, in your results.” The Gestapo major’s voice began to grow louder. “We wish to find out if your inability to make progress is a result of simple incompetence or plain treason.”

This appeared to astound Heisenberg. “But Herr Major, I assure you—”

“You can assure us with your records. If you are innocent of trying to sabotage German nuclear research, you should have nothing whatsoever to hide, eh?”

Heisenberg did not answer; there was nothing he could have said.

The silence lasted too long. Esau had just begun to clear his throat when Heisenberg seemed to crumple. “Certainly. Follow me and I will get everything for you.”

In the hall, Esau watched other researchers standing indignant but afraid to say anything. He recognized Dr. Karl Wirtz, the man who had built the Virus House, and Carl-Friedrich von Weizsacker, Heisenberg’s brilliant young assistant; the other technicians were unknown to him.

Back in Heisenberg’s office—Esau noted with satisfaction how inferior it was to his own new office—the renowned physicist hesitated beside a scarred safe that looked as if it had survived an Allied bombing raid. He acted more troubled with each passing second.

“Is there any work in particular you wish me to produce?” he asked.

“Everything,” Major Stadt said. Speer gestured vaguely at the safe.

Heisenberg set his mouth and opened the safe. He withdrew stacks of lab reports, handwritten journals, and letters between himself and the other researchers. Major Stadt nodded to one of the guards, who snatched the records from the physicist’s hands.

“Give those to Professor Esau,” Reichminister Speer said. “He will search for inconsistencies, errors, or omissions.”

Heisenberg’s voice carried only a hint of his complaint, but he flashed Esau a look of pure outrage. “I do not believe Dr. Esau is quite of the same… caliber as myself. I doubt his ability to question my competence.”

“In such grave circumstances, Professor Heisenberg,” Major Stadt said, “you would be wise to keep quiet unless specifically answering a query put to you by either Reich-minister Speer or myself.”

Esau took the stack of papers, and Speer dismissed him with a casual motion. Esau said, “I shall need all of his derivations for cross-section calculations—”

“Then find an office for yourself. Take the one next door, in fact. Meanwhile, Major Stadt has some other information he would like to discuss with Professor Heisenberg.”

One of the guards opened a leather satchel and withdrew a sheaf of papers bound with a red ribbon. “The Gestapo has compiled its own file on you, Herr Professor,” Stadt said. “Dr. Esau’s new information was the last straw.”

Heisenberg looked truly baffled. “Am I accused of something?” He reached up with a hand to run it through his bristly red hair, but stopped himself.

“Accused? No. Guilty? Most likely.” Major Stadt sat down in Heisenberg’s chair behind Heisenberg’s desk, brushing aside notebooks without regard to what they contained. “You will sit in front of me and you will answer my questions. To cross-check the record, my guards will take notes. Reichminister Speer will ensure that none of your coworkers leave the Virus House until we have completed our investigation.” He snapped a glance over at Esau, still listening by the door. “We would like you to begin today, Professor Esau!”

Esau hurried out of the room as the Gestapo major began his questions….

He found it difficult to concentrate on Heisenberg’s tight, narrow handwriting. Half of Major Stadt’s interrogation was discernible through the walls and through the half-open door of the adjacent office. Esau imagined Reichminister Speer sitting in silence, watching the Gestapo officer ask his questions.

“We have on record your attempts, time and again, to defer scientists from active service in the military. For the betterment of the Reich, you say! To keep technicians working rather than shooting the enemy, you say! And who are you to decide how best we can implement our armed forces?”

Esau took out sheets of clean paper and used a fountain pen to check calculations, trying to unravel Heisenberg’s chain of reasoning. Several times Esau lost the thread of what the physicist meant, what he was trying to show. He paused between written lines, puzzling over how Heisenberg had made an intuitive leap. Back in Cambridge, in the coffee shops, Esau and Graham Fox had played similar games, trying to out calculate each other. It had been so long since he had seen Fox….

Stadt raised his voice in the next room. “But he is a Jew! I don’t care if he is one of your colleagues—we aren’t interested in Jewish physics here! You were ordered to ignore Jewish physics.”

Heisenberg began to answer, but Major Stadt interrupted him. “We have your attempt on record. Look, here are your own letters, signed by your own hand, requesting that the parents of one Samuel Goudsmidt be released from a concentration camp. Who are you to decide these things? We decide! Himmler decides! You have only one task—to develop a new weapon. And you cannot even manage that!”

Heisenberg mumbled something Esau couldn’t hear. Esau tried to maintain his concentration as he tallied a column of figures. Heisenberg himself had scratched out one answer and written another on top. An attempt to camouflage results? Or a simple mistake?

Reichminister Speer said one word, clearly heard: “Bohr.”

Major Stadt immediately spoke up. “Yes, that brings us to an interesting situation, one of the most damning we have about you. Witnesses say that you left Germany, went to Copenhagen, and met with Niels Bohr, a half-Jew with known Allied sympathies. In fact he is even now believed to be in hiding in America, working on their atomic bomb project. Yet you had a private conversation with him, you were seen together, talking. We have everything on record. Now tell us—what were you doing there?”

“I had a troubled conscience.” Heisenberg’s voice sounded shallow and defeated. “I wanted to ask—”

“Ask? No doubt you wanted to tell him everything about our program, so he could share it with the Americans! We know you are falsifying your own experiments, disrupting progress on our nuclear program, trying to make us lose the war.”

“That is not—”

Major Stadt cracked something hard against the desktop, then lowered his voice below hearing again.

The interrogation went on. Distracted, Esau continued his inspection. He stared at the numbers, at the comments jotted down in the laboratory. He tried to find flaws in Heisenberg’s work. He was too afraid even to get up and find a cup of tea for himself. None of Heisenberg’s fellow scientists were likely to be in a helpful mood at the moment.

Hours later he felt hunger biting at his stomach. The other scientists paced the halls in silence, unwilling to talk to each other. They did no work the entire day, and it had passed the time when they usually went home to their families. Some had trains to catch, but they could not depart until Reichminister Speer allowed them to leave.

Otto Hahn appeared at the door, scowling but looking dapper with his intense and bright eyes set under bushy eyebrows. His graying moustache was clipped so close as to seem a mere smear of stubble on his lip. “Excuse me, Dr. Esau. We were wondering if some sort of dinner might be provided? My technicians have not eaten all day.”

Esau looked up at him, amazed—Otto Hahn had discovered nuclear fission in the uranium atom, and now he stood timid, asking a simple favor of Esau.

“You have no food here in the laboratories?” He had wanted something to eat as well.

“Not with all the uranium we keep, Herr Professor. Many of the things here are highly poisonous. We thought it best to prohibit eating in the area.”

Reichminister Speer and Major Stadt had closed the door to maintain privacy in their endless interrogation. Esau did not dare interrupt them to ask for permission. Then he realized his own foolishness. After all, wasn’t he the Plenipotentiary for Nuclear Physics? Didn’t he have the authority to make certain decisions? Hadn’t he been the one to point out Heisenberg’s intentions?

“Gather some of the workers in the hall,” he said. “I will select one at random and he will go to the commissary of the institute to get enough food for all of us.” Otto Hahn looked relieved and nodded as he backed out the door. Esau had just proved he could be reasonable. That was good, since he would have to make these people work with him.

Later, as he worked red-eyed and far into the night, sipping on the cold dregs of a cup of tea, Esau sat up as Heisenberg’s door snapped open. One stack of laboratory records sat to Esau’s right; a few more, scattered in front of him, still needed to be checked. In front, on a sheet of his personal stationery, Esau had written a list of errors he found. The fountain pen left blobs toward the bottom of the page, when he had been too tired to worry much about penmanship.

Major Stadt stepped out. His black SS uniform looked no worse after his hours of interrogation. “Professor Esau,” he said, “have you finished? What do you have to report? You have found a substantial number of errors?”

Esau stood up and peeled the scratch paper from the desk blotter. “Yes, Herr Major. Here is a list of inconsistencies I have found. I cannot tell if these are malicious mistakes or simple sloppiness.”

Or because my own eyes are so bleary from staring at them so long, Esau thought. He couldn’t tell if he’d made the mistakes or if Heisenberg had.

But that was enough for Major Stadt. His lips made a tight smile. Reichminister Speer came out of the office beside Heisenberg. The great physicist looked defeated, confused. When he stumbled, Speer made no move to touch him.

Heisenberg splayed his fingers on the desk in front of Esau, brushing his own damning lab records aside. Esau could smell the sweat on the man, could see how rumpled his clothes had become.

Major Stadt found a ruler from the desk and smacked it against the wood, then against the doorjamb. He raised his voice to be heard throughout the halls. Speer flinched from the racket.

“Attention! Attention!” Major Stadt called. The two motorcycle guards reappeared, blinking and bleary-eyed, anxious to see what was wrong. The other scientists, no doubt unable to sleep, emerged from their rooms, Carl-Friedrich von Weizsacker beside Otto Hahn and Karl Wirtz. They continued to stare at the floor; the other lab assistants studiously avoided drawing attention to themselves.

“We will assemble in the courtyard. We have important business to conclude this evening, and I am certain you will all be anxious to return to your research immediately. You have been idle all day!”

The scientists went back to their lockers to get overcoats, to close their offices. Major Stadt grasped Heisenberg’s left arm and ushered him to the door. Esau swallowed the remains of his cold cup of tea.

Reichminister Speer stopped next to him. “Things must change around here, Professor Esau. I am hereby instructing you to consolidate all German nuclear research in this one place. No more competing with separate groups. No more sharing of minimal resources. I want everyone here, everyone working, and everyone cooperating. You will supervise them directly, and you will be housed here yourself, as well.” Speer looked around the unattractive barracks. He scowled in distaste, but made no comment about it.

Esau felt a rush of triumph. He had been pushing for this all along. Now he could get things done. Now he had the authority to make great strides in nuclear research. Perhaps they would even beat the Americans in developing an atomic bomb.

“I will need that in writing, Herr Reichminister,” Esau said. “Von Ardenne should be no problem—in fact, I think he will be glad to be under more appropriate auspices than the Postal Ministry. It will lend legitimacy to his work. But Diebner will not cooperate. He insists on working independently with his own men. I have had trouble with him before.”

Speer seemed unconcerned with Esau’s assessment. “I do not believe Diebner will be a problem. Not after tonight.”

Saying nothing more, he stepped out the door. Puzzled, Esau took a last glance at the laboratory notebooks he had not yet checked, then hurried after the Reichminister to the courtyard outside.

Heisenberg stood by himself on the muddy ground. Esau reveled in his sullen appearance—this humiliation would take the great physicist down a notch or two, make him more cooperative. Perhaps Heisenberg would stop worrying about esoteric theory and concentrate more on practicalities. Esau should find him much more manageable from now on.

Major Stadt had arranged for the floodlights to be switched on, drowning the area in harsh white light. The Virus House and its outbuildings looked like something from one of Himmler’s work camps. The wood siding showed gaps where the uncured lumber had swelled with the spring rains. The barbed wire around the perimeter looked like silver spider webs in the night.

When the other scientists had assembled outside on the spotty gravel walkways, Major Stadt trudged out to where Heisenberg stood alone. His boots made indentations in the soft ground.

“I want you to pay close attention, all of you.” Stadt raised his voice, and Esau noticed from his mannerisms that he seemed to be imitating Hitler. A lot of people were doing that these days.

“This man, your Professor Heisenberg, winner of the highest accolades your profession can bestow, is traitor to his country, to his Fuhrer, and to you all. He has committed grave sabotage against this project, which has the possibility of winning the war. He has delayed work, he has falsified laboratory results, and he has cooperated with the enemy in ensuring that Germany fails to develop an atomic bomb!”

“That is not true.” Heisenberg drew himself up. It was apparent that he had said that same thing countless times to the Gestapo major, to little effect. Stadt ignored him.

“Because of this man’s mistakes, because of his delays, and because of his treason, Professor Werner Heisenberg has caused the deaths of countless thousands of German soldiers. If this weapon had been available for our attack against Stalingrad, we could have captured that city without the loss of a single German life. We could have taken Moscow in a day, instead of months upon months of failure.”

As Stadt spoke he stepped away from Heisenberg, marching back toward the gathered scientists. Esau waited beside Reichminister Speer, watching. He was beginning to think that this had gone too far. If Heisenberg were broken too severely, he might not be useful in further research.

“All of these deaths, all of these failures, weigh on the shoulders of a single man. He is guilty of high treason.”

Stadt turned to the two motorcycle guards and gestured offhandedly to the physicist standing alone on the barren ground. “ Shoot him.”

The other scientists stood silent in shock, then muttering filled the air. Otto Hahn took a step forward in outrage. Heisenberg himself blinked in astonishment and stood up straight, but the protests seemed too many to come out of his mouth at once. Even Esau couldn’t believe what he had just heard. That wasn’t the point at all….

But Reichminister Speer just stood in silence, as if he approved.

The guards looked at each other in equal uneasiness. They had apparently never had to kill anyone before.

“Shoot him!” Major Stadt shouted.

One guard brought up his pistol while the other fumbled to pull it out of its holster at his hip. A shot rang out, a thin crack, deceptively small, and then a second shot sounded as the other guard fired.

Heisenberg crumpled to the mud under the harsh floodlights. His face turned away as he fell. The gathered scientists let out an anguished murmur.

“No more uncertainty about your principles now, Hen-Professor,” Major Stadt said.

Esau felt himself trembling. Heisenberg lay motionless on the ground. He had been alive only a second before. All of his thoughts and ideas had vanished. Reichminister Speer spoke up. “Now perhaps the rest of you can make some progress.”

Esau allowed himself to fly into a rage. He saw his chances of rapid success bleeding into the mud. “You just eliminated the most brilliant mind in our entire project! How am I to accomplish a breakthrough when you’ve just shot down the man most capable of doing so? I needed Heisenberg controlled, not destroyed!” He let his voice become icy and he turned toward Major Stadt. “Our task will be much more difficult because of this.”

Stadt’s skin appeared corpselike under the garish light. He smiled as if he had just enjoyed himself. He spoke softly. “Ah, but we have given them incentive, Professor Esau.” He turned to look at the other scientists gawking in disbelief at Heisenberg’s body. “Incentive.”

PART 2

7

Los Alamos

August 1943

“It is still an unending source of surprise for me to see how a few scribbles on a blackboard or on a sheet of paper could change the course of human affairs.”

—Stan Ulam

Taking a brisk walk in the mountain air before breakfast made Elizabeth forget about many things. Cool morning wind rushed through the aspen trees; watercolored light splashed off the mesas and the Jemez mountains in the distance. It reminded her of why she had come back to New Mexico, leaving Berkeley and the California fast lane behind.

She hated stepping inside the Project cafeteria for its semblance of breakfast. Cigarette smoke hung like fog in the air from packs of Lucky Strike Greens, the only brand available at the PX. The meal consisted of greasy eggs and bacon, potatoes fried in lard: a year’s supply of cholesterol every morning. It turned her stomach. She found no fresh fruit. Occasionally she managed to secure a bowl of sticky oatmeal or grits.

All these brilliant scientists didn’t know the first thing about keeping themselves healthy and eating right. None of that stuff had been discovered yet—they hadn’t even learned about the connection between cigarettes and lung cancer until the 1950s, after those experiments with dogs hooked up to smoking machines.

She might be looked upon as “queer”—and how even that word had changed!—in her other thoughts and actions as well. She was still trying to learn how to wear a dress again, and how to act around men. After a lifetime of treating her male companions as equals, she felt flustered when the Army men scrambled to open doors for her, or offered her cigarettes, or grinned at her like Howdy Doody every time she passed them on the dusty streets. I’m not a princess, for Christ’s sake!

Mrs. Canapelli kept encouraging her to wear makeup, to do her nails with the rest of the women, to apply garish lipstick so that she left a bright red arc on the coffee cup each time she took a drink. “But you look so plain, dear!” Mrs. Canapelli said as Elizabeth left in the morning, before the other ladies marched over to breakfast. “Don’t you want the young men to notice you?”

“I’ll do just fine,” she said. “And besides, I’m still grieving for Jeff.” After two months, Elizabeth thought. Two months!

“I understand, dear,” Mrs. Canapelli said, and patted her wrist. “Fresh coffee?”

“Thank you.” Elizabeth accepted the cup. Her morning walk provided an easy way to avoid invitations from the other “girls” to join them. They considered her aloof and grumpy; she considered them boring gossips.

Mrs. Canapelli followed Elizabeth to the back porch of the wooden dorm. Elizabeth sipped her coffee; she had gotten accustomed to the odd taste of coffee beans blended with chicory to help with rationing.

The back porch gave a panoramic view of the Sandia peaks. Elizabeth felt she could reach out and touch the desert sprawling below her. “I really appreciate all you’ve done for me. This payday I’ll make up the rest of the money you loaned me on my first night.”

“No hurry, dear. I remember what I went through myself right after Ronald died. Besides, you should never try to pay people back—pay them forward by helping the next person in trouble.”

“Thanks.” Elizabeth smiled as Mrs. Canapelli turned back toward the dorm kitchen. It was really a sign of simpler days, to be so trusting and helpful to anyone with a little bad luck.

Elizabeth had about fifteen minutes until she needed to head out; she could not tell for certain, since she kept her digital watch—sorely out of place in 1943—packed away.

She sat back against the rough outer wall. She felt comfortable here, enjoying the morning. But behind her comfort nagged a feeling that she had begun to stagnate. She couldn’t keep telling herself that this was merely a delusion. And what did it matter if this was just a delusion, if it never ended?

Two months. She had been following the news, trying to assemble the pieces of World War II—and she had to stop thinking of it by that name too, since no one yet called it a “world war.” Mussolini had been overthrown in Italy; the Allies were heavily bombing Germany, Italy, and the Pacific; and the fighting in the Solomon Islands seemed to go on forever. And here she felt so isolated from the rest of the world.

Joining Johnny von Neumann’s calculational group had come naturally enough. Elizabeth didn’t mind the work, though she found it mostly repetitious: add, multiply, subtract, or divide a number that was given to her from the woman beside her. If she got lucky, she might be required to look up the logarithm, or even an exponential. Oh boy! She rarely saw enough of the entire problem to determine what the model was supposed to show, even when the physicists explained it before the calculation.

She wished she had brought along her simplest calculator. She wondered how the Los Alamos scientists could ever overcome the theoretical difficulties of modeling an atomic blast if no one had invented a computer yet.

Von Neumann himself would do that sometime later.

But for the most part, the work was straightforward. Elizabeth had no trouble fitting in and doing her job—and that worried her. She enjoyed her life here. She enjoyed sitting with Graham Fox in the late afternoons, chatting or just relaxing in silence; he had never made a move on her, to her relief. Jeff still burned too close in front of her mind. But she and Fox had enough in common to hold fascinating conversations. He seemed too shy to express any romantic intentions.

Other times, on her Sundays off, she would go hiking by herself throughout the mesas and exploring the areas where she had never been allowed to go in her old life. Mrs. Canapelli disapproved of her going out alone, but Elizabeth ignored her.

With the exception of the Army grunts and some of the civilian workers, the Project people were all above aver age, both in intelligence and in the things that they did. Solving the problems of the universe gave them a passion in their lives, led them to push forward with the need to discover something new, because so much was left to be discovered. It was very different from her own physicist raining, where the all-knowing professors had basically told her How It Was, with no room left for questions, only a bit of fine tuning.

She found the change refreshing, back to the sense of wonder she herself had felt when choosing science in the first place. She might have been able to forget about what was going to happen with the bomb and enjoy herself here. The frantic pace of developing the Gadget brought the men together in a team more intense than any research group before or since. These people were not competing for a Nobel Prize, or even a first publication—they were trying to win a war.

She knew it would be extremely easy for her to be swept up in the group, drift along with the flow of the research; to forget about where she had been and what personal convictions had driven her here, since she had no hope of getting back to her own time. In the past month she had been thinking less and less about Jeff.

And worst of all, she—Elizabeth Devane!—was contributing to the effort. She already knew how everything would escalate, letting the sleeping dog grow more vicious year after year; how the public would become immune to common sense; how it would all lead to her own desperate actions at the MCG site, and how it would cause Jeff’s death.

Below her she heard the cantering of a single horse. Elizabeth stood, holding her warm coffee cup, and looked down the slope to see a rider come up the path. He rode an Appaloosa, guiding it up the side of the hill to a high point on the mesa where he could look back on the settlement of Los Alamos. Elizabeth saw his thin body, gangling arms, and hawkish nose. The man turned, flashed a smile at her, and waved.

As he climbed, she watched his back, the faded red-flannel shirt he wore in the cool morning. When he stopped the horse and turned it, the man was silhouetted by the rising sun. His black outline looked like a scarecrow. He looked hauntingly familiar.

“Oppie’s out for a morning ride again,” Mrs. Canapelli said beside her. Elizabeth had not heard her return to the porch. “He must be thinking of something pretty important.”

Oppie. Oppenheimer—J. Robert Oppenheimer, the mastermind behind the entire atomic bomb project. In a flash Elizabeth remembered where she had seen him before: in footage of the original nuclear test, Trinity. In the light of the dying atomic blast, Oppenheimer had quoted from the Bhagavad Gita, a book of Hindu spiritual poetry—”Now I am become death, the shatterer of worlds.” The expression on his face, the light behind his dark and too-intense eyes, had made him look like the most evil of all mad scientists.

Shatterer of worlds. She thought of the wreckage of Nagasaki and Hiroshima, the shadows of burned bodies cast on brick walls. She thought of Jeff lying dead with fused legs at a time twenty years before he was supposed to be born.

Oppenheimer spurred his horse into motion. At a gallop, they sped over the rise and down the trail into the trees.

“Shouldn’t you be getting off to work, Betsy?” Mrs. Canapelli asked.

Elizabeth finished her cold coffee and handed the cup to Mrs. Canapelli. She needed to get to her work assignment, but she felt more worried about what she would do in the long term.

John von Neumann stood tight-lipped at the front of the room. He had left all the windows closed because of the blowing dust from the streets. Metal fans clicked on empty desks around the room. The scientist with “The Problem Of The Day” paced just outside the door. Elizabeth couldn’t make out who he was.

Thirty women, most of them younger than she by at least five years, waited at their desks for the morning instructions. They were arranged in five rows of six columns. Each desk sat a precise two feet from its neighboring desk, close enough so that when one woman finished her calculation, she would have no trouble handing her answer to the next woman in the queue.

The simplicity of it all impressed Elizabeth. The whole process reminded her of a computer program—each woman would execute one line of the program, either by adding several numbers or performing some other mathematical operation, then hand off her answer to the next woman in line. The solution zigzagged around the room until the last woman tallied the final result.

Once every woman had been briefed on the precise operation she was expected to perform, von Neumann would start off the process by handing the first woman a number written on a sheet of paper. He would continue to hand numbers to the first person in line, taking up all morning and afternoon.

Most of the times the numbers were different, but often Elizabeth could remember identical numbers coming down the pipe. In his brittle Hungarian accent, von Neumann had explained that this was to double-check the accuracy of their calculations. He strode among the desks, looking down at them with his sad, dark eyes, like a Napoleonic schoolteacher.

Before each morning’s session, one of the working scientists would give a short tutorial on what the women were calculating. Elizabeth looked forward to the lectures, eager to learn more about what paths the Los Alamos scientists were taking to design the Gadget and how far along they had come. At first she thought she would be amused at the relative naiveté of the old methods, but she quickly learned that the sophistication was high. Since no one could rely on supercomputers to check models, the Manhattan Project scientists displayed an uncanny intuitive feel for the pertinent physics.

Once the calculations room quieted down, von Neumann cleared his throat. His voice was rich and exotic, with an accent that made him sound like Bela Lugosi in Dracula. “Today’s problem will be covered by Professor Feynman. Dick?”

Elizabeth slid down in her chair as Feynman entered the room. The young man’s infectious grin put the room at ease. He seemed to be flirting with everyone at once. Most of the women just wanted to get started.

Feynman picked up a piece of chalk. He flipped the chalk as he walked around the front of the room, tossing it up and down and catching it precisely each time, though he seemed to be paying no attention at all. As he spoke, Feynman met the eyes of his audience, roving back and forth along the lines of desks.

“We’re trying to overcome a problem of neutron absorption by some of the nonfissile materials. If you can imagine yourself as a little neutron being spit out of a newly formed nucleus”—he crouched low, then sprang high into the air—“and suddenly being grabbed by the wrong type of atom.” He landed on the floor and put his hands around his neck, gasping and choking. “Well, we’re trying to prevent that.”

He released his hands from his neck and spread them wide. “Today you ladies are going to calculate what we call absorption probabilities. Most of the absorption is defined randomly, and the whole process is called the Monte Carlo method—Monte Carlo because it’s based on that famous casino city located in Morocco.

“Anyway, you can look at this calculation as trying to see how many neutrons can survive being absorbed by the wrong material—like when you ladies first got here and fought off the Army types to keep yourselves available for a decent scientist, who would make a much better husband.”

Some of the ladies laughed weakly. Elizabeth did her best to ignore it. Feynman didn’t even know where Monte Carlo was.

“Now these particular calculations are going to be used in what we’re calling our gun experiment. Basically, we want to shoot two blobs of uranium-235 at each other, and we think if we can do it fast enough, then the one resulting hunk will be at critical mass—and that’s what will make our Gadget work. So, what you ladies are doing is very critical.” Feynman grimaced at his own pun, but Elizabeth didn’t think any of the other women understood it. “If the answers look good, we’ll try a small experiment with depleted uranium to get the mechanics down.”

None of the other people seemed to care or understand what the egghead du jour was talking about. Elizabeth listened to everything.

“All right, ladies,” Feynman continued. “The numbers I’ll be giving you correspond to initial neutron velocities and material temperatures. Get ready, and have fun. I’ll ring the bell every ninety seconds to let you know when to transfer your result—that should give you plenty of time to check your calculations.”

At the bell, Elizabeth knew that she had another ten minutes before the first number would work its way through the chain of calculations to reach her position in the string of workers. She kept her eyes averted from Feynman.

She wondered if anyone else might have been desperate enough to steal into the locked offices and change their particular assignments. She dismissed the thought after looking around the room; the rest of the women—they didn’t mind being called “girls”—stared at their work, oblivious to Feynman’s teasing. To the rest of them, this was just assisting the war effort, as much as assembling bomb casings or sewing infantry uniforms. They had no grasp of the big picture.

Feynman looked directly at her for the first time; he winked to show he had known she was there all along. Elizabeth tried to ignore him, but she felt her face grow red.

At any time he could divulge what she had done, that she had falsified her records, that she didn’t belong here inside the fence. And if anyone thought to question her, she would have no answers to give them….

“Elizabeth! Hey, Liz-here!”

“Uh? Oh, sorry.” Elizabeth grabbed the sheet thrust at her. She had not heard the bell ring and had forgotten where she sat. The metal fans continued to make noise, but the air felt too thick for it to stir. Feynman stood at the front of the room watching a miniature hourglass dripping ninety seconds worth of sand. Von Neumann had vanished, probably to work on his own calculations. Elizabeth glanced down at the paper. Written on it was:

v(r) = 137, T = 28

She plugged the values into the lengthy equation written on yet another sheet of paper. If only her college physics work had been so simplistic. Seconds later she ran through the algebra and produced another set of values, which she wrote down on a fresh sheet of paper.

She started to set down her pencil and hand the paper to the woman on her right when a thought struck her. What was to keep her from introducing her own errors? To muck things up a little bit. It would take the scientists a while to unravel the problems, to double-check the work. In the meantime, she could be delaying the development of the atomic bomb.

The thought stunned her. Could she change the future? She needed only to stall the work by a few weeks—when Fat Man and Little Boy had been dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Germany had already fallen and Japan was trying to surrender. A delay of even a handful of days might make the destruction of all those human beings unnecessary. By changing a minus sign or two, she could save a few million lives!

If the atomic bomb could be demonstrated, during peacetime, as part of an exhibition of the potential horrors of nuclear war, then maybe the superpowers would sign immediate agreements to halt, or at least control, their research. The shock that led to the terrible Cold War paranoia would not be nearly so severe.

She could make a difference now. Would she be able to change the future? It couldn’t hurt, no matter what. She need to buy only a few weeks.

The bell rang. Elizabeth tapped her pencil against her lips. The women around her started passing their papers… Elizabeth moved the decimal points on her answers one digit to the right, making each number ten times larger than what she had calculated. She would have to be consistently off from now on, or else the sabotaged answers would stick out too plainly.

Without hesitating, she passed the altered paper to her right. When she accepted the paper from her left, Elizabeth felt confident in what she had to do.

Kirk Hackett felt good about his munitions laboratory, pleased that high-level interest was starting to center on his work. He hadn’t been up on the Hill for more than a few months at the Impact Studies lab when people started coming to him for answers rather than telling him what to do.

After leaving the service five years before as an ordnance man at Sandia Base in Albuquerque, Hackett had continued to serve as a consultant to the Army using his high-explosive expertise. Now that he had been snatched up for the Project and his family relocated to the Hill, Hackett was finally getting his lab into shape. He felt good about working with his superior, George Kistiakowski, the man in charge of all explosives for the Project. Kistiakowski had once used some TNT lifted from the ordnance bunkers to blast clear a ski slope for the Project scientists. Hackett didn’t feel he could get away with anything like that. Not yet.

Lately, more and more scientists had been coming to the lab, taking advantage of his unique facility without understanding what they were doing. It would have been all right if they just asked Hackett to help, asked him to prepare their experiments—but too many of them, tired of spending too much time scribbling theories, wanted to work hands-on with their own schemes. It was like playing to them. Nobody seemed to realize that having a Ph.D. didn’t make one an expert in everything.

Hackett watched the latest intrusion with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face. It was obvious that this crazy Hungarian didn’t have a clue about what he should be doing. But the Hungarian was some sort of bigwig in Project hierarchy, and Hackett had to let him do what he wanted. Hackett had protested to Oppenheimer—he didn’t feel comfortable calling him “Oppie” ye\—but the chief scientist had just smiled around his pipe and told Hackett to be patient. “Some of the scientists need a lot of patience. That one’s a loner, but you couldn’t ask for anyone more brilliant.”

And now, armed with a batch of calculations, the Hungarian scientist waved his arms and insisted that the depleted uranium gun experiment be rearranged, reconfigured to adhere to the latest theoretical results. His theoretical results, checked by some kid named Feynman. So Hackett had reassembled the experiment according to the scientist’s wishes. It didn’t look right, but the models had given the scientist all sorts of numbers to prove everything.

Speaking with a thick accent in his very deep voice, the Hungarian insisted that a steel shield be inserted in front of the gun, just in case the experiment went amiss. Hackett shrugged and complied.

The scientist walked with an exaggerated limp, moving to stand behind the shield, close to the experiment, as Hackett set the fast cameras that would show the depleted uranium spherical pieces flying toward each other, propelled by the detonation into one big lump. Hackett had conducted hundreds of such experiments, all with different explosive charges, so he was not concerned about the Hungarian’s safety—why should this experiment be any different? Didn’t they have their precious calculations to prove everything? The only change this time was in the shape of the uranium lumps that would be shot together. They were fashioned in what the Hungarian called a self-forging configuration.

Hackett yelled at the Hungarian to put on protective goggles. Without a word of acknowledgment, the crazy scientist yanked the lenses over his eyes. With a shrug, Hackett pulled on his own goggles, then started the klaxon, warning people inside the lab of the impending shot. The Hungarian crouched behind the two-inch-thick steel guard. As the countdown continued, Hackett twitched his thumb on the detonator. At zero he pushed the button and an explosion filled the lab. His ears rang.

Nothing unusual.

Standing up, Hackett peered through the smoke. He waved a hand in front of his face and coughed. “Well I’ll be damned.”

A hole some three inches in diameter had been punched through the steel plate. Curved shrapnel looked like flower petals blossoming out from the back side of the metal. Hackett frowned. Usually, the explosive charge left nothing more than a large pit on the front, not even with twice the explosive charge.

“Hey, Doc—you see that?”

When he didn’t get an answer, Hackett scrambled around the still-smoking assembly. On the opposite side of the protective plate, the Hungarian physicist lay on his back, thrown halfway across the room from the impact. Blood oozed from his rib cage, seeping into the dry concrete floor.

“Well I’ll be damned.” In his shock, Hackett couldn’t think of anything better to say.

For the first time since Elizabeth had been coming to the calculation group, von Neumann was late. She had been altering her calculations for more than a week now, and she looked forward to the daily work, where she could make her small differences, chipping away at the Manhattan Project.

Early in the morning, Elizabeth thought she had heard alarms from inside the Technical Area, but no one could be sure. The women waited in the room, seated at their desks, for a good fifteen minutes before anybody suggested that someone find out what was happening. One woman opened a window. None of them looked willing to go check until Elizabeth ran out of patience. She strode out of the building.

The Tech Area was clear of people inside its barbed-wire fence, as though everyone had packed up and walked away. Von Neumann’s office was empty. Elizabeth wandered over by Oppenheimer’s office inside the fence—the Project director kept a room both inside and outside of the classified Tech Area so that anyone on the Hill could have access to him. The office was deserted as well, but Elizabeth didn’t think she would have the nerve to talk to Oppenheimer anyway.

Frowning, she stalked to the meeting hall. The scientists usually gathered there for Monday morning colloquia, a tradition Oppenheimer had established so that technical interchange would flourish within the Project. But this was Wednesday, and she had not heard of any meeting being called.

As Elizabeth approached she could hear angry voices coming from the open door. She slowed her pace, stopping outside of the wooden pre-fab building. She could hear Oppenheimer’s cultured voice pleading with someone, “… a week at the most.”

“But surely someone checked the figures! It’s inconceivable that a three order of magnitude error could slip past! Aren’t all the calculations run through twice?”

Oppenheimer, wearily: “And to reiterate, the procedure will be changed, using two separate and independent teams to check the computational group’s results. The fallacy was to allow the same group to check its own work. So please, there is nothing more we can do. In the meantime, Dr. Teller’s family will appreciate your prayers.” A moment of silence followed.

“All right, if there are no further questions, let’s get back to work. I’ll call a town meeting at lunch to inform everyone else. Because he was so well-known, we may have to come up with some sort of false press release. I’ll have to speak to General Groves about it.”

Elizabeth could hear the sound of chairs being pushed across the wooden floor as the scientists rose from their seats. She stepped back, not sure whether to run as men began leaving the meeting hall. No one spoke to her or even acknowledged that they saw her. They walked out, eyes to the ground.

Elizabeth searched the crowd. She spotted Graham Fox coming toward her. He looked sullen in his baggy clothes. He didn’t even smile as he looked at her. Elizabeth reached out and grabbed his arm. “Graham! What’s the matter?”

“Accidents happen. What do they expect?” Fox’s eyes grew wide. “They failed to tell you?”

“What? Tell me what?”

“Edward Teller.” Fox shook his head. “One of the theoretical physicists. You may have seen him—he had a limp, and a Hungarian accent? He… he tried to test one of the new gun schemes, wanted to be the first. Thought he could improve the gun kinematics for a theory he was working on.”

“What are you talking about?”

Fox shook his head. “The photos showed it all. Magnificent high-speed cameras. He created a self-forming fragment—like a bazooka bullet that jets out, only made out of depleted uranium, which is a very dense metal. The jet was able to punch through a protective plate made of solid steel.”

Elizabeth couldn’t say anything for a moment. Teller was one name she recognized—he had been called the Father of the H-bomb, he had co-founded the Lawrence Livermore Lab, and he had been one of the major advocates of the Star Wars defense program, the x-ray laser, Brilliant Pebbles. Elizabeth had fought against everything he had done—but Edward Teller was an idea man, not a hardware jockey.

“But what was a theoretician doing with the experiment?” she asked.

“Feynman’s results got him excited. The possibilities looked better than he expected. He tried to assemble the blasted thing himself.”

Elizabeth took a step back. “But Teller… he isn’t supposed to die.” She recalled the Livermore protest back in 1983, the time she had been arrested. Teller had lived to a very old age. She remembered marching with the other demonstrators, knowing that just inside the fence, old Teller was up in his ivory tower in Building 111, concocting new ways to destroy the world.

He certainly couldn’t die in 1943, before he had made much of a name for himself. That made everything different.

Fox set his mouth. “Oppie tracked the error down to a misplaced decimal point. No one was at fault, it was a mistake anyone could make. But because the group who checked the numbers was the same group that performed the original calculations, the mistake slipped past them a second time.”

Elizabeth could barely contain the conflicting emotions within her. “But what about the rest of the Project?”

“Oh, don’t worry.” Fox glanced up and narrowed his eyes. He looked around and spoke quietly, sounding bitter. “The work goes on. Teller might have been one of our brightest theoreticians, but the bloody Gadget must be built. The show must go on.”

Fox walked away with the rest of the scientists. Elizabeth leaned back against the door of the meeting hall. I’ve really done it, she thought. I’ve changed history.

But now what was going to happen?

She felt caught in a vice—the exhilaration of being able to change things was tempered by the realization that she had killed someone. Through her tampering with numbers, she had caused a fatal mistake. Would the change be for the better, or worse?

So why wasn’t she ecstatic? The man responsible for developing the hydrogen bomb, the very instrument of death that had escalated the arms race, the billion-dollar buildup of weapons, the nuclear weapons research at Livermore, California—now Teller would never be able to accomplish all that. She could consider herself responsible for wiping clean the slate of inhumanity, perhaps giving the future a real future.

Giving Jeff a second chance. The Jeff in this timeline. He wouldn’t have to die to prevent something that never occurred in the first place.

But as she watched the grim-faced scientists slog back to work, she could tell by their expressions that they had no intention of stopping because of an accident, any more than the future Los Alamos would stop the MCG test because of the deaths of some old scientist and a few technicians. Perhaps the Manhattan Project workers were even more determined to succeed.

Elizabeth would always think of Teller in his tall building behind the restricted-area fence, as she and the other members of the Livermore Challenge Group marched up and down with their banners outside the Lawrence Livermore Laboratory, trying to get someone to listen to their pleas.

In her new timeline, the Manhattan Project would continue, even without Edward Teller.

8

Livermore, California

April 1983

“I have felt it myself, the glitter of nuclear weapons. It is irresistible if you come to it as a scientist, to feel it’s there in your hands to release the energy that fuels the stars, to let it do your bidding, to perform these miracles, to lift a million tons of rock into the sky. It is something that gives people an illusion of illimitable power, and it is responsible for all our troubles, I would say, this… technical arrogance that overcomes people when they see what they can do with their minds.”

—Freeman Dyson

Actions speak louder than words. Thoreau might have been content to sit at Walden Pond and write about civil disobedience. Elizabeth Devane had always wanted to do something more tangible. She and others in the Livermore Challenge Group felt their conscience was more important than any laws they might be breaking.

On the morning of the scheduled protest, most of her companions in the van sat in silence, lulled toward sleep as the van moved along the interstate. The sun had not yet risen. Though Jeff dozed beside her, leaning against her shoulder, Elizabeth felt too keyed-up to relax. Everything about this day mattered too much. It was her first major blow against the research that had almost lured her away from an acceptable life.

Since joining the Livermore Challenge Group, Elizabeth had done her bit standing on street corners in Berkeley, handing out leaflets to people who didn’t really care. On the other corners up and down Telegraph Avenue other demonstrators were passing out their leaflets too, side by side with people handing out coupons for pizza restaurants. Many of the students were interested, she knew, but they frequently suffered from activism burn-out, with too many causes to fight for and too many organizations asking for donations. Would it be El Salvador this week, or the homeless, or Ethiopian famine relief, or Amnesty International?

But the gigantic Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory was right in their own backyard, less than an hour’s drive from Berkeley. There, within the mile-square fence, scientists developed generation after generation of nuclear weapons, high yield or low yield, multiple warheads, surveillance systems, death-beam lasers, and who knew what else. Elizabeth couldn’t ignore it. She had fled the defense contractors and the nuclear support industry in Los Angeles, but it seemed she couldn’t escape. As soon as she began to pay attention, the pervasiveness of defense work shocked her.

The Livermore Lab was the heart of the problem. Why couldn’t the scientists see that if they stopped creating new weapons, then the Soviets could stop finding ways to counter them, and this whole madness would grind to a halt?

The Livermore Challenge Group was based in Berkeley to disseminate information about the secret work going on at the Lab, and they also conducted regular protests. Easter—typically Good Friday—was the most appropriate time of year for major demonstrations. By their reckoning, this year’s would be the biggest demonstration ever. About time, Elizabeth thought. She had seen—and been guilty of—too much apathy.

Elizabeth, Jeff, and eight other demonstrators had piled in an old Volkswagen bus, riding out over the Oakland hills in the predawn darkness. She stared out the bug-spattered windshield, watching the river of headlights coming in the opposite direction as people streamed toward the San Francisco Bay for work.

The Volkswagen bus was a dull primer-coat gray, but the driver told her it had once carried elaborate paintings and peace signs. “All that stuff is passé now,” he said. “Nobody takes you seriously.”

Unable to sleep well the night before, she and Jeff had held each other, talking, running finger touches along each others’ backs, until finally they made love; exhausted, they managed to get a few hours of sleep before getting up for the demonstration. Elizabeth had gulped several cups of coffee at the headquarters, and she sipped another from the thermos beside the driver.

The other demonstrators had arrived outside the Livermore Lab, parking their vehicles up and down East Avenue or Vasco Road, in open areas by the vineyards. She saw people milling about in the darkness. Someone had a Coleman lantern set on the hood of his pickup truck. Others carried candles, but the breeze kept gusting them out. One woman filled small helium balloons and handed them to anyone who walked by.

Many people had painted their own signs and banners, but some had made extras, looking for volunteers to carry them, stop livermore Auschwitz or work for life, not death or teach peace. A woman in a lavish fur coat looked out of place, but it didn’t seem to bother her. One man in a wheelchair wore a cowboy hat and held a handful of little stick crosses in his lap. Around him milled a dozen or so other protesters with T-shirts that proclaimed them as bay area baptist peacemakers.

The Livermore Challenge Group acted as a rallying point for numerous clubs and organizations—many with wildly different political views, but all of whom had found the Livermore Lab a suitable target. United we stand. We shall overcome.

The businesslike and gentlemanly procedures of the Livermore Challenge Group surprised Elizabeth. She had her preconceptions of what a demonstration would be like, concerned citizens battling the establishment, like a spillover from sixties news clips. But the Livermore Challenge Group had composed a formal, considerate letter to the Director of the Livermore Laboratory, informing him of the date of the demonstration and giving details about how many people were expected to attend, how many had volunteered to commit civil disobedience. This allowed the Laboratory to have adequate security forces on hand and adequate facilities to hold the detainees.

Elizabeth had even seen a bootlegged videotape shown to Lab security guards on How to Arrest a Nuclear Protester, demonstrating proper handholds, procedures, and what not to do. To counter that, the Livermore Challenge Group had also given each volunteer special training in how to get arrested, what to do, what their rights entitled them to. She looked at the yellow armbands worn by some people, designating them as volunteers to be arrested. The armband gave them a certain status among the other protesters.

Elizabeth envied them. She had discussed with Jeff the possibility of volunteering, but he had talked her out of it. Since leaving her nuclear work behind, Elizabeth had jumped into the protest movement headfirst; Jeff told her she was going overboard, that she should wait and maybe get arrested next time, when she could make a rational, cool-headed decision, rather than charging ahead without thinking of the consequences. She had grudgingly agreed.

Full daylight had seeped into the sky as Elizabeth wandered about. The excitement kept building in her. Jeff held her hand, and she could feel the tension in his muscles. The collective emotions here charged the air, tingeing everything with unreality.

Already, roving cameramen for the Lab’s closed-circuit televisions walked among the protesters, chatting. It all seemed very cordial. Reporters from two local TV stations had also showed up with minicams, carrying boom microphones and looking for something interesting to videotape. Dan Fogelberg’s song “Kill the Fire” permeated the camp.

Several people obliged with appropriate theatrics. A bearded man appeared in hiking boots and a white anti-contamination suit made from an old bed sheet. Three people—Elizabeth couldn’t tell if they were men or women—came out, dressed completely in black, their faces painted like skulls. Two held flags high showing the three-bladed radiation symbol obscured by the circle-and-slash universal No sign. The middle figure carried a sign that said you can’t run from radioactive wastes.

Elizabeth got another lukewarm cup of coffee from a community thermos and sipped it as she walked along the chain-link fence. Traffic picked up on East Avenue as people came to work at the Lab, each passing through the main gate as a security guard—no, she corrected herself, they called themselves “protective servicemen”—checked the employees’ badges and waved them ahead to the entrance station.

A few of the banners—we oppose your work, not you!—served to maintain relative goodwill between the employees and the protesters. They didn’t really expect Lab employees to read the banner slogans, turn their cars around, and refuse to come to work. When she had worked at United Atomics, Elizabeth would never have done that herself. She had always ignored the few protesters, thinking that none of it concerned her, that the demonstrators just didn’t understand she wasn’t doing anything wrong. Or so she had thought at the time. She wondered now how she could have been so misled.

“Won’t be long now,” Jeff said. “Are you doing okay?”

Elizabeth saw by her watch that it was seven-thirty. She felt the butterflies in her stomach take flight. “Sure,” she said.

The full complement of Lab security guards lined up, marching out like Nazi storm troopers. Most wore tan uniforms, others dark blue; she didn’t know what the difference meant. Reinforcements from the California Highway Patrol joined them. All had white helmets and transparent race shields. She counted four German shepherd dogs. The female guards all looked extremely tough, as if it were a matter of pride. Elizabeth wondered how much this one demonstration would cost the government, but it didn’t bother her—it was money that couldn’t be spent on nuclear weapons.

Along the fence line people started singing an endless chorus of “Give Peace a Chance.” Looking at the security forces in their crisp uniforms and weapons, and the protesters in a kaleidoscope of jeans and T-shirts, headbands and bright skirts, Elizabeth thought this was a culture clash as much as anything else. Like the sixties all over again? She had missed most of the demonstrations then; she’d been too young.

She felt overwhelmed by the power of all the people gathered together. From the outside it might have looked like chaos, but here, a part of everything, she felt herself to be a vital piece of a very strong machine. They would overcome. It didn’t seem possible they could fail, not when it felt like this. Couldn’t the guards sense it too?

Four demonstrators had used a garden chain to attach themselves to the outer fence, forcing the security guards to find a pair of bolt cutters to remove it and arrest them. But that was merely a diversion.

The first group of people wearing yellow armbands lined up on the corner of East Avenue and Vasco Road, the main intersection near the Lab’s front gate. Others cheered them on. Elizabeth raised her fist. Tears sparkled in her eyes. It seemed such a magnificent sacrifice. Jeff put his arm around her. The first group of seven marched into the street as soon as the light changed. Together they sat down on the pavement.

Elizabeth watched, wondering what it would be like to sit out there, her face level with an approaching car, willing it to stop, willing everything to stop. With the emotional support of the gathered demonstrators, they could do anything.

Security forces moved in on the seven protesters sitting in the road. Working from the left, the group of guards surrounded the first protester, a man in patched jean jacket and a red headband. Six guards blocked him off on all sides, isolating him from the others. The media cameras pushed closer. Cars stopped and began to block the intersection. Elizabeth grabbed Jeff’s hand and pulled him closer so she could see, and hear, and experience what was happening.

One of the security men warned the demonstrator. Another guard timed everything with a watch. After an appropriate period had passed, the officer issued another warning, quoting some California statute. The demonstrator, barely visible between the blockade of security men, sat in silence, refusing to move. Elizabeth clenched her hand, feeling fingernails bite into her palm. Waves of anger and emotion poured from the man on the pavement. It seemed an outrage.

After the third warning, the officer placed the man under arrest. Guards picked him up and removed him from the road, then encircled the second person, repeating the entire procedure. People cheered. The cameras recorded. The first arrestee managed to raise his fist high as the guards carried him off.

Elizabeth watched, but she didn’t really see. Her anger was culminating in this one action. She wondered what had driven these other people to extremes. She had never been arrested before. She had always chosen the safe way, Jeff’s way.

But hadn’t she gotten tired of passing out leaflets, consoling herself by arguing with other activists who already agreed with her anyway? “Once you get arrested, your record is never clear,” Jeff kept saying. “That information will appear every time you apply for a job for the rest of your life.”

She hummed the chorus of “Give Peace a Chance” with the others. The security guards arrested another demonstrator.

The last time she had visited Ted Walblaken in the hospital, he had patted her arm with his clammy hand. “Have a good life,” he said. Somehow it didn’t sound corny to her. He had known he was saying good-bye, that the cancer would take him before long.

United Atomics had denied everything. They had somehow misplaced Ted’s exposure records over his career of working in the processing shop with its lax radiation safety standards. The California Occupational Safety and Health Administration had fined United Atomics, citing them with more than a dozen safety violations. United Atomics had paid the fines, weathered the negative publicity, and considered the slate cleared.

Ted Walblaken had died at the age of forty-six, in a hospital room with his wife and three children at his side.

“If you get arrested, that record will haunt you for the rest of your life,” Jeff had said. But how many lives did it take? It was worth it. She could not sit in silence anymore.

Elizabeth turned to meet Jeff’s eyes. “I’m going,” she said. “Are you coming with me?”

Behind his glasses Jeff turned into a stranger in front of her.’ ‘You can’t! Think about what you’re doing, Elizabeth.”

“I’ve had too much thinking. That’s not enough anymore. “ She pulled her arm, and suddenly Jeff was not holding her hand but was holding her back. She jerked away.

“Fine,” he said. His voice carried scorn, and in that instant everything changed between them.

Elizabeth pushed into the second group to march across the street. Some of them looked surprised at her intrusion, but others smiled and nodded. One old man patted her shoulder. Trying not to stumble, she walked onto the pavement, saw oil stains, an old crushed cigarette butt, a broken bottle at the side of the road. She sat down and faced the traffic. The cars stopped as frustrated employees tried to get past the blockade. Someone a few rows back honked his horn, startling everyone.

The gathered protesters along the fence cheered for her now. She thought of old Ted being among them. She did not look to see if Jeff had remained to watch.

The front car edged closer, pushing the grill close to Elizabeth’s chest. She leaned back, forcing herself not to close her eyes. She could hear the rumble of the engine. Staring at the fish-eyed headlights, she could not see the driver’s face, only the license plate, skier 4. What on earth did that mean?

She could stop everything. She had to do her best.

Elizabeth felt the rough pavement under her skirt. The road remained cold from the morning. She stared straight ahead, focusing on remaining where she was. Only that mattered.

Ranks of guards strode out across the road again. Elizabeth did not look up. She saw only sets of legs in identical tan uniforms and dangling black riot clubs. She heard the officer’s voice droning, and the person next to her was carried off.

The anger, the triumph, the love and support of her companions, pounded on her in waves. She felt that it would lift her up and rescue her, rescue them all, and change the world.

“We request that you leave these premises,” the guard said. “If you choose to remain, we can arrest you. Will you leave voluntarily?”

She realized he was speaking to her. She heard the engine of the car in front of her and smelled the mixture of gasoline and exhaust. In the background she could hear the song begin yet another chorus.

“I can’t just sit in silence anymore,” she muttered.

“This is your second warning.” She hadn’t noticed any time passing at all, but out of the corner of her eye she saw another officer staring at his watch. The first man recited lines from a California statute. Her conscience counted more than any laws. Laws promoting research that led to mass murder were immoral, and she could not be held accountable by them.

“If you choose to remain, you will be arrested. Do you choose to remain?”

“I can’t just sit in silence anymore,” she said again, as if it were a chant. She was doing something. She would make some sort of difference, some sort of statement for everyone to see. Jeff didn’t matter at all anymore.

“You are under arrest.”

She hadn’t even seen the officer’s face. Strong hands grabbed her arms, but she refused to stand, refused to cooperate in any way whatsoever. Every part of her felt numb, but euphoric. Two guards picked her up by the arms in a skillful carry; as time went on and they got tired, no doubt the handling would get rougher. She let her shoes drag on the pavement, making it difficult for them to haul her off. A third guard picked up her legs. Everything felt very careful. Too many cameras were watching.

From the sidelines others cheered and continued to sing. The Bay Area Baptist Peacemakers went into a hymn, which overlapped with the continuing chorus of “Give Peace a Chance.”

In the group with the other arrestees, a woman guard wrapped Elizabeth’s wrists with plastic handcuffs, a thick band like a tie for a garbage bag. The guard’s belt had a clip holding about a hundred sets of cuffs. Elizabeth couldn’t snap out of the restraints; for mass arrests the plastic cuffs were as effective as but much cheaper and simpler than metal handcuffs.

She waited for over an hour as more people came into the detaining area. It still hadn’t sunk in yet. She rode the crest of her feelings. Everyone around her seemed to be in a similar daze.

Processing started without delay, with clerks in guard uniforms filling out the arrest forms and going through the bureaucratic ritual. Some protesters remained militant and gave blatantly false names, false Social Security numbers, false addresses—but Elizabeth thought that was stupid. They had already made their point, and misinformation would only delay their own release. Resisting now harmed no one but themselves.

At last, late in the morning, the arrestees were loaded on buses, then taken to nearby Santa Rita prison. Elizabeth sat uncomfortably in her seat, with the plastic edge of the handcuffs chafing her skin. The bus felt crowded and stifling, filled with the odors of too many sweating and nervous people.

The worst part of all was enduring how badly she had to go to the bathroom after gulping so many cups of coffee….

At the time, back in 1983, Elizabeth felt she had made the supreme sacrifice. She had committed civil disobedience for her cause. She had allowed herself to be arrested for something she believed in, and she hoped her one gesture among all those others would matter for something. She hoped it would be enough.

But it had done nothing. None of it mattered now, as she stood outside the wooden pre-fab buildings in old Los Alamos, watching the scientists go about their work of designing the first atomic bomb, the initial domino in an endless chain of weapons. That first protest at Livermore had set her on a path that brought her back to New Mexico, that brought her out to sabotage the MCG site at night, that resulted in Jeff’s death and threw her back in time.

Now she had a chance to do something much more than protest, something more drastic.

Something that would make a real difference to all of history.

9

Berlin—the Virus House

October 1943

“If we look at past scientific progress, pursued with ever-increasing speed, we may reasonably expect future research workers breaking down or building up atoms at will, to be able to achieve explosive nuclear chain reactions. If such transmutations can be propagated in matter, we can envisage the enormous liberation of useful energy.”

—Frederic Joliot-Curie, acceptance speech for his 1935 Nobel Prize in Physics

“Professor Heisenberg had not given any final answer to my question whether a successful nuclear fission could be kept under control with absolute certainty… Hitler was plainly not delighted with the possibility that the earth under his rule might be transformed into a glowing star.”

—Albert Speer, Nazi Minister of Armaments

The truck pulled up with the last shipment of graphite blocks. Professor Abraham Esau stood in the doorway of the Virus House laboratory, watching it stop in front of the wrong building. Two other technicians ran out in the cold autumn drizzle to direct the driver toward the main bunker. The armed guards on the truck raised their rifles and aimed at the men hurrying toward them; the technicians stopped just in time, waving their arms.

In a way, Esau found it ludicrous, squadrons of guards flanking a graphite truck. Why would any outside saboteur want to steal a shipment of carbon! He’d had an extremely difficult time convincing the German graphite manufacturers—who had never seen more than a minimal war demand for their product—of his need for absolute priority. When orders on his “Plenipotentiary” stationery proved ineffective, Esau had obtained a direct letter from Reich-minister Speer. Finally, things got done properly.

Esau had used Speer’s authorization letter several more times, first to insist on delivery within weeks rather than months, then to force the companies to manufacture graphite with a process that used petroleum coke rather than mineral coke. The new process proved much messier for the manufacturer and cut production in half—but the mineral process always contaminated graphite with boron, the neutron absorber that had ruined Walther Bothe’s initial measurements.

Esau hated it when people, through their own laziness, tried to deceive him. “It cannot be done!” the manufacturers said. But Esau was aware of the petroleum process because some British factories produced ultra-pure graphite for specialized use in electrode tips. He and Graham Fox had required those elements for their experimental work back in Cambridge.

“It will be done,” he muttered to himself outside the Virus House, then pulled up the collar on his jacket and hurried over to the truck.

The driver and the guards worked with Virus House technicians to unload the crates and take them into the bunker building. Esau watched them work. The drizzle could have ruined some of the shipment, but someone had thought to wrap the boxes in waxed paper, which kept everything dry. Other technicians emerged from the bunker, their faces looking comically black from carbon dust.

Esau waited by the truck cab in the shadow of the rain until the workers had finished unloading. “I am Professor Esau. Do you have a receipt for me?” he asked the guard captain.

“Yes, sir.” The guard fumbled inside his wet leather jacket and withdrew a folded set of papers.

Esau took them and removed a fountain pen from his pocket, looking for a flat surface on which to write and finally settling on the wet side of the truck. He scrawled his initials and then carefully printed his full title below. “Now we have everything,” he said to himself.

“Heil Hitler!” the guard said, tucking the papers back inside his pocket.

Esau responded, then walked back toward the bunker. He didn’t listen as the motorcycles started and the truck ground its gears, backing up in the mud and gravel where Heisenberg had been shot two months before.

Inside the bunker, Esau approached the researchers and their assistants. The interior walls had been knocked down by scientists with sledgehammers, leaving only support beams at regular intervals throughout the room. Near the door, Esau stepped around crates filled with ultra-pure graphite bricks, all cut to size for the appropriate lattice spacing.

Much of the floor had been torn up in the center; long wooden planks with protruding nails lay piled against one wall. Construction workers had dug a large pit in the ground, lined it with concrete and then with plates of beryllium metal to reflect back neutrons that tried to spill out of the growing pile.

Down in the pit, three workers had placed a layer of carbon bricks along the bottom. Others passed more of the black, shiny blocks down in a fire-brigade line. Smashed fingers occurred regularly as the workers fumbled with the slippery graphite.

Dr. Kurt Diebner, Esau’s former rival, was one of the men down in the pit doing menial work. Esau smiled, considering it good for the man to get his hands dirty. And dirty he certainly was—his face, his balding head, his thick black glasses, his hands, his neck—everything was covered with shiny black dust that stuck to his sweat, clung to his pores.

All of the scientists from the scattered groups of German nuclear research had been summoned here to share offices in the Virus House. Esau himself had moved away from his precious office in the Federal Building downtown. Now, in the unimpressive barracks, he occupied Werner Heisenberg’s former office. He did that intentionally for its psychological effect, to emphasize who was in charge and what he could do if the other researchers displeased him.

He had assigned Diebner to share an office with Manfred von Ardenne, the man who had convinced the Reichpost Ministry to fund his private nuclear research. Von Ardenne was a pleasant, quiet, but brilliant researcher— probably the only one who could tolerate Diebner’s excessive ego for any length of time.

Diebner and Paul Harteck—the two dynamos behind the Göttingen research group—stuck together in their clique, working on their solo research and keeping their secrets. Or at least they had tried to—Esau had put a stop to it immediately. No longer were they petty factions competing against each other. They were competing against the Americans, who, according to Graham Fox’s message, had already succeeded beyond anything the Germans had accomplished.

The floor in the bunker felt slick from the fine black dust that clung to everything. While the graphite bricks had been cut to proper size, the workers used modified woodworking tools to cut notches for the uranium cubes. Each of the lattice holes had to be customized, because Esau was using all the uranium and uranium oxide he had cobbled together from the scattered experiments of the other research teams.

Uranium metal cubes would be scattered at six-inch intervals in the graphite material, but Carl-Friedrich von Weizsacker’s calculations had shown that this would not be enough to make the reaction self-sustaining. Within the growing pile, they would add a circular array of uranium oxide in long tubes. In the center of this they would drop the neutron source that should trigger the whole reaction.

Von Weizsacker climbed out of the pit, saw Esau standing there and walked over to him. “I now recall the papers I discussed with you earlier, Professor Esau, the last open reports about the American nuclear research.” He wiped his blackened hands on his blackened coveralls.

“They were published in Physical Review, in English. I remember reading them on the underground railway in Berlin. I believe I received a few suspicious glances when people saw me poring over an American periodical. This was in June 1940, I believe. Some scientists had reported using Lawrence’s cyclotron at Berkeley to create element 93 by bombarding uranium. But element 93 is unstable and undergoes beta decay, turning into element 94. That is the one we want. Element 94 is fissionable, and stable, and chemically different from uranium. We can make your weapon. If we can get this pile working.”

Esau could sense von Weizsacker dancing around the real issue. He felt impatient. By focusing on the optimistic good news, von Weizsacker implied that he also had something bad to say. “I know all that. So what is the problem?”

“Well, it will be very difficult for us to make sense out of our measurements from this pile we are building,” he said with no other preamble. Specks of graphite blackened von Weizsacker’s teeth, but the smudges could not disguise his boyish features, his statue-perfect Aryan appearance.

“We are mixing the sizes of the uranium cubes, adding the uranium oxide to the metal, changing the spacing. Too many variables in everything. Normally, we would build successive piles, each one simple and straightforward, with conditions we could understand and attempt to predict. With successive attempts we can add new twists and see how that affects the readings. We will never be able to understand this reaction. It is too complicated.”

Esau met the younger man’s eyes. He sensed that von Weizsacker had been chosen as a delegate from the other scientists. He noticed that the work had stopped. He kept his voice firm.

“I am not interested in understanding it at this moment. I am interested in demonstrating that it will work! Nuclear physics fascinates me as well, but have you not been listening to the radio broadcasts? The constant bombing of Frankfurt. The American General Eisenhower announcing the unconditional surrender of Italians, and then Italy declaring war on Germany!

“I must deal with the Reichminister of Armaments, who in turn must deal with the Führer. Everyone wants a useful weapon now. Understanding can come later.” Esau turned to go back to his office, but stopped. “When will the pile be ready?”

Von Weizsacker shrugged. “They are still hooking up the counters, and we will need to take measurements at successive stages of the assembly to see how far we must go to achieve criticality.”

Esau kept staring at him, waiting for an answer.

The younger man stopped, thought a minute, then nodded. “Late this evening, I would guess.”

“Good. I will be in my office.”

The man who had discovered nuclear fission, Dr. Otto Hahn, had been chosen the de facto leader of the Kaiser-Wilhelm group. Esau fostered this impression, since he respected Hahn. And Hahn seemed more interested in his physics than in using his authority, which was fine with Esau.

The great physicist, though, treated Abraham Esau like a schoolboy to be lectured. Esau’s own grasp of nuclear physics, though considerable, did not compare with the researchers working under him. He forced himself not to act too impatient when Hahn began to teach him about the pile being constructed in the bunker. Hahn ignored the fact that Esau himself had passed along the key bit of information about graphite.

Otto Hahn himself insisted on “clarifying” it to Esau, making sure that the Plenipotentiary understood the enormity of the event about to take place. Hahn stood in Heisenberg’s old office as Esau dutifully watched the great man pace. Hahn began to talk in his quiet voice.

“We know nothing about what the Americans have done, but we can conjecture how to repeat their experiment. In principle at least.” Esau noticed the stubble on Harm’s cheeks. His moustache stood out, and his eyes looked big and sad, bloodshot from too little sleep. “This goes far beyond the tiny laboratory exercises that I did with Herr Strassman and Dr. Lise Meitner—”

“You need not credit a Jew for your discovery, Dr. Hahn,” Esau interrupted, straightening in his seat.

Hahn halted his pacing, raised his bushy eyebrows and turned to Esau. “Lise did much of the work. She had the idea first. She understood long before I did—” He stopped himself, but Esau already knew what Hahn thought. Rumors even said that he had helped Lise Meitner escape to Sweden, but Hahn had never said this aloud.

Esau didn’t want to push him. He needed Hahn’s mind, his ideas, to make a self-sustaining chain reaction. “No matter. We are worried about physical principles now, not political ones.”

Hahn nodded curtly. “So we are. We know that the uranium nucleus can fission, and that it is the scarce 235 isotope that fissions due to slow neutrons. Niels Bohr pointed that out.”

Esau let his eyes fall closed for just a moment. Bohr, the half-Jew. It seemed they permeated nuclear physics.

“But now we cannot be satisfied with causing merely a fission or two just to prove that it can be done. We must make one fission cause another, and another, and another, so that the reaction continues of its own. Then perhaps it can be useful, such as making a uranium burner to produce power. That was one of Heisenberg’s ideas.”

“We wish to make a weapon, Dr. Hahn. Not a furnace.”

“Both work on the same principle. Listen.” He held up one finger, a thick finger, with blackened pores and nails from handling the carbon blocks. It would take weeks to wash everything off. Even after a thorough shower, the pores of the skin exuded graphite dust within another hour.

“In your mind, Herr Esau, picture a mousetrap with a marble balanced just above the spring.” He stepped back and gestured to the empty floor. “Now picture this floor covered with such mousetraps, each one loaded with a marble, each one ready to snap the instant an appropriate signal is received.”

Involuntarily, Esau leaned over and looked at the bare wooden planks of the floor. Hahn glanced around as if suddenly remembering where he was, then he lowered his eyes and fixed his face into a scowl. “Professor Heisenberg was very good at these thought experiments too.”

Esau said nothing. He tapped his fingertips together and waited for Hahn to continue.

“Now, I will stand outside this room full of mousetraps…” Hahn stepped back, holding one hand up and keeping a gap between his fingers as if holding something. “I have a marble in my grasp. I toss it into the room.” He mimed the gesture.

“The marble in my hand is like a neutron that I send into our reactor. Each of our mousetraps, cocked and holding their marbles, is like a uranium nucleus waiting to fission.

“My marble strikes a mousetrap, setting it off. The spring snaps up, sending my initial marble and its own marble flying into the air. Each of those two marbles strikes another mousetrap, sending two new marbles into the air, plus the same two all over again. Now we have four marbles launched in different directions, heading to different targets. And it repeats again, and again, all in a few seconds! It is like a firestorm, yes? Suddenly the air is filled with flying marbles. The sounds of clacking and springing and snapping!

“This intense reaction will continue for only a moment until all the mousetraps have sprung. All the marbles fall to the floor. Do you see how much energy I have released by simply tossing one particle?” He snapped his black-stained fingers. “That is how your bomb will work, all in an instant.”

Hahn stepped back into the office. “But that is not how our first chain reaction must work. We cannot have everything used up in an instant. We need the reaction to continue in a much slower, controlled manner, because we are using the excess flying marbles to build our new element 94. How do we do this? How can we control such an inferno?

“Imagine perhaps the room filled with cocked mousetraps again, but most of them are not loaded with marbles. Only a few of them. The rest are bare. We must get the right amount of mousetraps loaded—the right amount of uranium-235 in the mixture—and we must also space the mousetraps at the appropriate distances from each other so our result is that on average each marble that strikes a mousetrap causes exactly one more marble to fly in the air. In this way the reaction will continue at a controllable rate for as long as we require it.”

Esau smiled. “Most elegant.”

“The universe is elegant,” Hahn answered, “but secretive. It is up to us to unravel these secrets. In times of war we must unravel them faster than we might like.”

“That is the right attitude, Dr. Hahn.” Esau smiled in a way that might have been considered patronizing.

Hahn stiffened. “Professor Esau, I have already invented one terrible weapon in my life. During the Great War, Fritz Haber and I were the first to consider using poison gas against the enemy. Phosgene, chlorine gas, mustard gas. We were the first. It was our idea. Fritz Haber’s wife was a chemist herself, the first woman ever to receive a degree from Breslau University. She despised her husband’s work. She called it an abomination of science.”

Hahn lowered his eyes, letting them sink deeper behind his bushy eyebrows. “Dr. Clara Haber committed suicide when her husband refused to stop his work on our ‘super weapon.’ “

Esau decided to show compassion in his voice. “I am sorry to hear that.”

“Fritz Haber told me that a scientist belongs to the world in times of peace, but to his country in times of war. So now it is a time of war, and once again I must turn my work to the benefit of Germany. No matter what it does to the rest of the world.”

He stared at his fingers. “I like to consider myself a gentle man, but if you count all the victims of poison gas in the Great War, I already have the blood of over a million people on my hands.” He raised his eyes. “Please don’t treat me as if I am not aware of what we are doing here.”

He glared at Esau once, then left the office.

“It will go critical in the next few layers, Professor Esau.” Esau blinked, startled. He had fallen asleep with elbows sprawled on the wooden desktop. He glanced at von Weizsacker waiting by the door, then he looked at the clock. It was just past two in the morning. “I will be there shortly.” He blinked sleep away from his eyes.

A few moments later he ran along the gravel path to the bunker. Inside, naked bulbs flooded the pale walls and graphite-dusted floor, making it look like a bad black-and-white photograph. Two men continued to assemble the pile; the rest stood waiting behind the cinder-block observation wall that would shield them from stray radiation.

The pile had filled the deep pit. Graphite bricks and chunks of uranium stood in a blocky, somewhat spherical configuration. Neutron counters placed at various locations clicked from the presence of stray particles by the natural uranium decay. Otto Hahn and Paul Harteck stood beside opposite detectors, recording neutron counts as each layer was added to the pile.

Diebner climbed down from the pile. “That is the last layer, according to our calculations.” He kept his voice neutral. “If it doesn’t work now, we must begin again from scratch.”

Suspended above the pile from a chain on the ceiling, six tubes of uranium oxide hung partially inserted within the mound of black bricks. They would be the last pieces to enter the reacting pile. Von Weizsacker stood by a lever that would release a massive counterweight in case of an emergency; the weight would fall and yank out the uranium oxide rods, bringing the pile back to a subcritical state. As an added safety measure, Diebner and Harteck had mounted a drum filled with boric acid solution over the pile; in an extreme situation they could dump the solution into the pile, where the boron would swallow up all the free neutrons and smother the chain reaction. Esau winced at the drum’s precarious position. An accident could spill the boric acid into the graphite bricks, ruining the ultra-pure carbon that had been so difficult to obtain.

“Are we ready to begin?” he asked.

The others looked to Hahn, who handed his notebook to someone else. “Yes. First we must add our neutron source. Spontaneous neutrons should be sufficient, but this will make sure the reaction commences.” He raised an eyebrow. “We are tossing our first marble into the room, Professor Esau.”

Esau nodded.

“Then we will drop the remaining uranium oxide rods into the pile. This should bring us to criticality. The reaction will be self-sustaining.”

Esau folded his arms across his chest. “You may proceed.” But Hahn had already gone to the equipment piled along the walls, opening a small wooden case lined inside with lead foil. He withdrew a thin glass cylinder.

“This neutron source contains radon gas and beryllium powder. You may find it ironic that the Nazis confiscated it from the laboratories of Frederic and Irene Joliot-Curie in Paris.”

Diebner laughed. He had taken many of the Joliot-Curie notes from their laboratories, claiming the discoveries as his own. No one else said anything.

Hahn climbed the ladder to the top half of the graphite pile rising from the pit in the floor. Suspending the glass tube from a thin chain, he dangled it and let the neutron source slide down into the central hole. The clicking of the counters increased. Hahn looked over his shoulder at them. “That is as we expected. Everything is now in place.”

Esau felt nervousness chewing inside of him. “Fine. We are already behind the Americans. No use wasting time. Let’s see if the reactor works.” He listened to the counters rattling and thought of Hahn’s mousetraps.

Paul Harteck spoke up. “Would everyone please step behind the shielding wall? The leaded glass observation windows should protect you.” No one needed to be reminded twice.

“Perhaps we should proceed an inch at a time,” Hahn said, coming around behind the wall. “We will gain more information that way.”

Esau crowded up so he could see through the narrow window. “We can repeat the experiment later if you require such niceties. For now, we must see if all of us have a future here! If we do not show success with this, certain people will be very upset.” He turned to von Weizsacker. “Lower the uranium oxide.”

Von Weizsacker looked to Hahn, then Diebner, as if searching for someone to counteract Esau’s orders, but no one would speak out loud. Some of the assistants edged toward the door. Von Weizsacker released the catch on the chain, letting the six rods of uranium oxide fall into place inside the pile, bringing the pile beyond its critical limit.

The neutron counters went wild, rattling and roaring. Any attempt to keep track of individual counts failed in an instant. Esau could see no apparent difference from watching the pile.

“The reaction is self-sustaining!” Hahn cried.

Paul Harteck stood on the opposite side of the room behind another barricade, staring down at his counter. He had to shout over the noise of the cheering and the neutron counters. “It is still climbing.”

The pile looked unchanged, but the neutron counters insisted that something wondrous kept happening at the core. They had succeeded! With only minimal information, they had reproduced the triumph of Enrico Fermi a few months earlier. Perhaps the German program would not remain so far behind at all. He couldn’t wait to send a telegram to Reichminister Speer.

The counters continued to buzz with their bombardment of flying neutrons. The air itself felt hot to Esau.

“It is still climbing!” Harteck repeated. This time his voice held a greater urgency.

Hahn did not seem alarmed. He gestured to von Weizsacker and raised his voice. “Remove the rods. We now know it will work.”

Von Weizsacker released his emergency lever and the counterweight fell a few inches. The chain grew taut with a metallic ringing, but the six uranium oxide rods remained in place within the pile.

Everyone instantly fell silent. Von Weizsacker yanked on the chain, adding his strength to the counterweight. “Thermal effects!” he said. “The rods have expanded with the heat. They’re snug inside the holes and we can’t get them out. Stupid!”

“Pull!” Esau shouted. He kept remembering Hahn’s mousetraps and the marbles flying through the air, all released at once.

“It would be good to stop this now,” Hahn said with a ragged edge to his voice.

“If the reaction continues, it will melt the rods, maybe even the uranium metal. It could start the graphite on fire,” von Weizsacker said.

“All the readings are completely off scale,” Harteck shouted across the room. “We never thought it would be like this.”

“Dump the barrel!” Diebner shouted. “Use the boric acid!” He ran to the release cord himself.

“No!” Esau clapped his hands. “That will ruin everything!”

Esau added his own weight to von Weizsacker’s, pulling to draw the uranium oxide rods upward. Hahn also helped. Together they strained, and the top layer of graphite bricks buckled, shifted apart, and finally the uranium oxide rods jerked upward, glowing a dull red. Black bricks of graphite slid from the top of the pile, knocking others out of place.

The neutron counters slowed from a sound like crackling fire to a random patter of clicks. Paul Harteck slumped to the floor behind his small barricade and sat down without heed to the graphite dust on the boards.

“Well that was interesting,” Hahn said.

“It was just a start,” Esau said, raising his voice so they could hear him. He slapped one fist against the palm of his hand. “But now we are on our way.”

10

Los Alamos

December 1943

“When the clouds opened up over the target at Nagasaki, the target was there, pretty as a picture. I made the run, let the bomb go. That was my greatest thrill.”

—USAF Captain Beehan

“Now I am become death, the shatterer of worlds.”

—J. Robert Oppenheimer

Autumn colors had turned the cottonwoods and alders around Los Alamos a brilliant yellow, but the pinon, ponderosa pine, and mesquite remained dark green. The rocks were tan, streaked with blood-colored stains.

Elizabeth sat with Fox on a pile of boulders under a broad cottonwood, eating a lunch she had packed for the two of them. It made her feel annoyingly domestic to do so. The wind made a loud whisper through the trees, but the rest of the world lay in heavy silence around them.

“Nobody tells me anything,” Elizabeth said after a long lull in their conversation. “They treat me like a stupid clerk, when I know as much about what they’re doing as anyone else.” She pulled out the green ribbon Mrs. Canapelli had insisted she wear in her hair, letting the long reddish strands fall loose and free. “I try to talk about the war with some of the other women, and they couldn’t care less! Roosevelt, Churchill, and Stalin just met in Teheran—the women I work with didn’t even know where Teheran was!”

Fox glanced sidelong at her. He had always refrained from asking questions of her, though he must know something was amiss with her. He said, “You are quite unusual, Elizabeth. You do have a more intuitive grasp of physics than half the people here, and you don’t just let the men do all the talking about politics. Maybe you’d best watch yourself. You’ll begin to stand out, and you don’t want that.”

“What?” Elizabeth raised her eyebrows, wondering what he was thinking. Terror spun through her, but he couldn’t possibly know who she was.

“I said intuitive grasp. Not women’s intuition—that’s altogether different. You catch on to an idea and extrapolate conclusions better than most of the physicists I know.”

“Thanks.” She leaned back on an elbow, still uneasy. “So why the compliments? And why now?”

Fox smiled thinly. “Maybe it is the season. A girl is like Nature, showing a side of herself that changes in time. Who would have thought these aspens would turn a brilliant yellow—or that a pretty girl like you could be so complex, so deep.”

Elizabeth cringed at being called a girl. But Graham Fox, with his suave British accent, was no lounge lizard on the make. He was… sincere. This placed Fox in an entirely new light for her. She decided to change the subject to something just as dangerous, but in a different way.

“Um, so, has the project slowed down at all with the death of Teller?” Elizabeth tried to keep her voice conversational to cover how eager she was to find out what she herself had changed.

Fox looked across the canyon, toward the finger of the mesa known as Bathtub Row, where the most important scientists occupied small homes originally built for the boys’ school, each equipped with its own bathtub and plumbing.

“No,” he said, then shook his head. Fox sounded downcast, which surprised her. She had shaken him out of his romantic thoughts. “Teller was merely a theoretician, and Oppie allowed him to work alone on a fusion bomb idea. I doubt that that’s practical for at least another decade.

“Work on the actual Gadget is going as it should. We’re just waiting for plutonium from the Hanford, Washington, plants and enriched uranium from Oak Ridge, Tennessee.” He sighed. “Teller may have been brilliant indeed, but at this point we can recover from losing him.”

Fox bit his lip. “Now Oppenheimer—he is the fulcrum on which everything pivots. Oppie knows all the scientists, he is familiar with what they’re working on. He understands the problems. He knows how difficult the calculations are. He keeps his office door open, and anyone can talk to him. He listens.

“But he’s also got the ear of General Groves, who’s pushed everyone to the edge, demanding results. The scientists wouldn’t be able to tolerate Groves for a single day. Oppie’s the perfect bridge between the government and the scientists. Without him, the Project would fall flat on its face.”

Fox paused, refusing to look at her as he spoke. “Sometimes, I ponder what might have happened if he had been standing behind the projectile test instead of Teller.” Fox stared down at his half-eaten sandwich.

Elizabeth gazed off into the bright delineated canyon. She heard a few birds, and the wind rustling through the trees. Far off, the sounds of Los Alamos seemed distant and irrelevant.

During the winter’s first snowfall, gray clouds made the afternoon dreary and claustrophobic. Elizabeth stood wearing a borrowed pink sweater on the dormitory porch. The frantic pace of the Project grated like fingernails on a chalkboard, and she knew she had to get away, if only for a while.

The Los Alamos stables were on the other end of town, but Elizabeth didn’t mind walking there. She had put on the worn pair of jeans she had kept packed since the night she arrived here in 1943. It didn’t matter that the other women wore long skirts—she was not going to ride a horse in a dress.

The walls of the stable had been covered with scrap wood and pieces of corrugated sheet metal left over from the Quonset hut barracks. A few trees stood on either side of the building, but they hung still. No breeze caused the settling snowflakes to swirl in the air.

Elizabeth slipped through the half-open main doors and smelled horses, hay, and manure. Splashes of light spilled through the four-paned windows and the chinks in the walls. Dust motes trickled through the light.

“Can I help you, ma’am?”

She turned to see a gray-haired, dark-skinned Indian beside one of the horses. He stared at her with a perplexed but uninterested gaze. She had heard of Roger—who apparently had no last name—the Indian taking care of the dozen or so horses maintained for the people on the Project. Roger had worked on a dude ranch near Espanola and impressed Oppenheimer during one of his boyhood trips here; Oppie had pulled strings to get him transferred to Los Alamos.

“Yes, I need a horse saddled up,” Elizabeth answered. “I want to take a ride for the afternoon.”

Roger squinted as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. “Do you need an escort, ma’am? I’m sure we could find one of the guys who’d be willing to—”

“No! Thank you, but I’m perfectly capable of handling a horse myself.” She recited her cover story. “I come from Montana—you have to take a horse if you want to get anywhere.” In truth, she had done quite a lot of riding around the New Mexico mountains. If Jeff had known how to ride, they would not have needed to backpack all the way around to destroy the MCG site… so long ago.

“One of the Project scientists, uh, Dick Feynman, told me I was working too hard,” she continued. “Said I should take a few hours off, go for a horseback ride. It’ll feel good to be on a horse again.” Elizabeth didn’t know if Feynman’s name would carry any weight with Roger, but it couldn’t hurt. She didn’t want people to suspect that she might be thinking for herself—that didn’t seem to be expected of the women around Los Alamos.

Roger shrugged and put his callused hands on his hips, studying the horses in the stable. Elizabeth let her eyes adjust to the dimness. She wondered which one was Oppenheimer’s horse; she had not been able to see clearly in the dawn light when he had passed by and waved, months before.

“Let’s see,” Roger said to himself, “you don’t want to take Crisis, that’s George Kistiakowski’s. You probably couldn’t handle him. Oppie might take his own horse out… no, that’s tomorrow. He usually goes riding down into Bandelier. You could go there if you like. It’s designated a National Monument, but restricted to Project folks these days. It’s almost always empty, especially now that it’s getting cold.”

Roger hefted a saddle lying in the corner and staggered over to three horses that stood munching on a pile of hay in front of them. “Proton, Neutron, and Electron—these are sort of community horses. You’re welcome to take one of them.”

He set the saddle down beside a palomino that gleamed as if it had just been groomed, then picked up a red-and-white-checkered pad and straightened it on the palomino’s back.

“This one’s Proton. He’s probably your best bet.”

Roger hummed low in his throat as he draped the saddle over the pad. Elizabeth watched him, saying nothing, as he tightened the cinch strap, tugged on the stirrups, then mounted the headstall over Proton’s ears. Giving the palomino the bit, Roger handed the reins to Elizabeth.

“All yours, ma’am. Don’t ride him too hard.”

Elizabeth went to Proton, let him sniff her hands, and ran her palm over the pale patch of his nose. She stood on the left side, grabbed the reins and the palomino’s blond mane, then stepped into the stirrup. She swung over the horse’s back, adjusted her sweater, and squeezed Proton’s ribs with her thighs.

“Ah, yes,” she whispered to herself. “This’ll be fun.”

“Remind you of Montana?” Roger said, patting Proton on the flank to get him moving.

Elizabeth cantered the horse out of the stable doors and turned him around, feeling his strength under her, as if she were finally in control again.

The sky overhead still looked gray, and snow continued to fall, but it seemed a gentle snow, not a storm to be feared. Roger looked up at the clouds and nodded, but then turned to her. “You be back by dark. Make sure now, and be careful.”

Elizabeth crouched over the horse, putting her face beside its pale mane and its ears. Smiling, she urged the horse into a gallop away from the stables. Roger waved to her, but she was too engrossed in the ride to acknowledge him.

Proton seemed excited as he moved down the trail. Elizabeth felt the wind whipping her hair with cold gusts of impending winter. She shivered in her pink sweater, but it felt good.

She wanted to ride and keep moving, just to get away from the Project, but she had nowhere to run. She could never go back to her life before—she had not the slightest idea how that might be accomplished. She was stuck here in the past, but it didn’t matter so much anymore, not after six months. Her life had changed before, and she had adapted. She could change herself… and if that proved too difficult, she would just have to change her surroundings instead.

She left the clustered temporary buildings of Los Alamos behind and galloped along the trail. Without the dusty streets and soldiers and barbed-wire fences, the wind brushed against her skin, and she inhaled deeply. The mountains were clean and filled with the hint of ozone. All seemed silent and pristine.

The paths had been used by the old Los Alamos boys’ school and some of the dude ranches; rangers from the Santa Fe National Forest patrolled them occasionally. Now, men taking a break from the Project rode around the mountains carrying rifles to shoot jackrabbits. Oppenheimer himself had spent much time in these mountains.

Elizabeth headed southeast toward where the town of White Rock would eventually be built. She thought of the sprawling Los Alamos National Laboratory that would creep out to here. Many of these areas had been restricted to her before.

Proton galloped along the trail. Snow fell and began to stick to the ground, whitewashing the landscape with a soft covering. As an hour went by, Elizabeth suddenly realized where her subconscious had led her.

She used the reins to tie Proton to a low mesquite bush. The wind had picked up, but the snow slackened off.

The sky looked a darker gray, and she had no doubt that it would keep snowing throughout the night.

She wondered what would happen if a real blizzard hit the fledgling town. In Elizabeth’s former life, the snow plows would be gearing up to clear the mountain roads, schools might close. If the routes got too bad, the scientists who lived in White Rock might have difficulty driving the ten miles up the Hill to Los Alamos. But now everything was deserted.

The walls of Pajarito Canyon towered high and steep, prehistoric in their total absence of any human marking. The Anasazi Indians had been here centuries before. In the main canyon of Bandelier National Monument, Frijoles Canyon, they had grown their beans and chills, raised their sheep. The Anasazi had left abandoned cliff dwellings, much like those at Mesa Verde in Colorado. The Anasazi had disappeared, though—vanished, just like all the equipment from the MCG test she and Jeff Maple had sabotaged in this very canyon.

She hadn’t been back to Jeff’s grave in nearly half a year.

Proton snorted and pulled back, dissatisfied and looking for something to do. The reins held, and he tilted his head up to eye Elizabeth.

She stared down the length of the canyon. There, she could see the rough path she and Jeff had used to descend to the canyon floor, coming in behind the fences and waiting for the Los Alamos security men to depart, waiting for the time when they could destroy the equipment.

Elizabeth hated everything that had made their actions necessary.

She saw the mound of rocks she had piled over Jeff’s body. No one would ever come to take him away. Some of the rocks had been disturbed, possibly by coyotes or birds, but the grave seemed to be intact. A drifting of snow clung to it now; the storm would cover his burial place like a shroud.

Elizabeth didn’t want to go closer. She hated to be afraid to come near Jeff, but she didn’t want to see what was left of his body. She wanted to remember him sleeping beside her, making love to her in anxious desperation on the night before the Livermore demonstration. She wanted to remember kissing him, brushing tongues on the canyon rim as they planned their descent and sabotage. She wanted to remember him holding the sledgehammer high like… Conan the Peace Activist.

Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t like to think of hauling him to his grave, his eyes closed and burned from within, his skin melted from being caught on the edge of the explosion that had hurled her half a century back in time. She didn’t want to think of Jeff dead because of her, because of fighting the juggernaut of weapons research. All of it had started here, and now, in Los Alamos during World War II.

She hunkered down on the cold ground and picked up a handful of loose stones. As if trying to wake Jeff, she tossed them toward the indentation in the cliff wall, scattering the pebbles on his cairn. His sacrifice had not made much difference.

She remembered the Livermore protest. It hadn’t made any difference either.

She had tried more and more desperate acts. Here in 1943, in the heart of the Manhattan Project, she had done even more. Her miscalculations had led to the death of Edward Teller. But the Project still moved along. The war still went on, unchanged as far as she could tell. Berlin was being bombed, endless fighting was going on in the Pacific, Russia was surging back and recovering terrain lost to the Nazis. All of that would be insignificant once the atomic bomb came onto the scene.

How much more would it take?

“You have to think of your future,” Jeff had told her when she first considered volunteering to be arrested. “Your actions have consequences, Elizabeth. Think about what you’re doing.”

She didn’t know what to think anymore.

Graham Fox, who reminded her of Jeff in many ways, had said,’ ‘Oppenheimer is the fulcrum on which everything pivots. Without him, this Project would fall flat on its face.”

As the snow picked up once more, Elizabeth recalled the documentary clip she had seen, the grainy black-and-white picture of Oppenheimer grinning after the Trinity test, reciting, “I am become death, the shatterer of worlds….”

Oppenheimer had known what he was unleashing! He recognized the consequences, the destruction of his creation. And still he went ahead! If that wasn’t evil, she didn’t know what was.

Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut. Everything felt silent, as if the world were holding its breath, waiting for her decision.

She had asked Ted Walblaken for advice once—she couldn’t even remember now what the problem had been, but it was before he had known about the cancer, back when he would have punched out any “smelly longhair” who spoke a bad word about United Atomics or the defense industry. But Elizabeth remembered the answer Ted gave her, hearing the words in his own voice as if he could stand there right now and talk in her ear.

“You gotta do what you gotta do,” Ted had said, “and damn the consequences.”

She tossed more stones at Jeff’s grave. Melting snow-flakes made tracks along her cheeks, like tears. But Jeff said nothing, gave her no suggestions from his silent grave.

How much more would it take? The answer, difficult as it seemed, stared her in the face. As she turned to go, Elizabeth realized she had to do what she had to do. It wouldn’t be hard to steal one of the hunting rifles back at the Project. She made plans to return the next day.

Dawn came late in Frijoles Canyon. The sun shed light onto the canyon floor a full hour before the clear rays poured over the sheer walls, illuminating the sparkling new snow.

Elizabeth stirred in the abandoned cliff dwelling where she had spent the night, shivered, and sat up. She blinked, then rubbed a hand under her eyes. The cold snapped her awake and she shook her head.

Taking the stolen hunting rifle in hand, she leaned forward to the adobe window opening. She had to be ready at any time. She didn’t know when Oppenheimer would come riding through.

It had snowed all night, making her solitary vigil hushed and cold. She had slept in one of the crumbling Anasazi ruins in Bandelier, curled in the corner and trying to stay warm. She didn’t dare light a fire; she wanted to leave as little evidence as possible. Elizabeth had thought that far ahead at least.

In her time, all the cliff ruins of the Long House had been restored and reinforced to withstand the depredations of tourists. The Park Service had rebuilt joints with concrete instead of crumbling adobe; steps and trail markers had been cut into the path; safety guardrails lined all the dangerous ledges.

Not now, though—she lay awake in the ruins; rodents sought shelter in corners, and snow piled in ledges on the rocks. It felt like spending a night in a haunted house. Somehow, that seemed appropriate.

Late the previous afternoon, she had ridden back to the stable, returned Proton to Roger and thanked him. She went to the women’s dorm, telling Mrs. Canapelli she might be working odd hours for the next day or two, then had gone to bed early.

After midnight she crept out again, stole a different horse from the stables—Roger might suspect it was her if she took Proton again—and snatched one of the hunting rifles.

She would be hunting something far more important than a rabbit.

Everything seemed so easy, which she found to be a bizarre contradiction of the insipid propaganda posters warning of spies. The Project workers seemed so comfortable in their trappings of security, they couldn’t believe anyone would try the smallest action against them.

Oppenheimer would learn otherwise.

The canyon floor remained deserted early in the morning. Up near the mouth of the canyon a curl of smoke rose from the ranger’s station. Frijoles Canyon Lodge sat on the other side of the creek, a place for the Project scientists to stay when they needed to escape for an evening. It had been run by a civilian family before the war, but the Army had appropriated it when they took over the mountain site.

Morning birds began to sing in the trees, fluttering in the pines and cottonwoods below. From her vantage partway up the slope, she could see the only entrance to the canyon. Some of the adobe structures had been partly excavated a few decades before, when the National Forest Service had run the park. She could see wall lines and piled bricks from the ancient, rounded plaza of the Tyuonyi ruin, highlighted by the snow.

Scrub juniper, pinon pines, and mesquite poked up on the floor and the canyon walls. Above her the beige tuff wall rose straight and unmarred, unscalable over the line of cliff dwellings, but she had toiled down a different trail that reached the ruins. She had left her horse tethered for the night near some scrub grass on the rim. She realized she might need to escape quickly.

Elizabeth looked up and down the canyon, tense already. She tossed aside the horse blanket she had used to keep herself warm, smacked her lips, and thought of how much she wanted a thermos of hot coffee. She didn’t know whether thermos bottles had been invented yet. It frightened her to think of the possibility of people inventing an atomic bomb if they couldn’t even manage a thermos….

She felt her stomach tighten with fear. She had rationalized everything so nicely the day before. Jeff would have been proud of her reasoning. It had made sense then. She tried to drive away her doubts.

This time, at least, she did have a chance to make a real change. Perhaps it would be enough, in a different timeline, to bring Jeff back, to make his death unnecessary. She didn’t know how he would have decided the question himself.

Waiting.

Roger had said Oppenheimer would ride down to Bandelier this morning. But what if he had gone the other direction from the visitor’s center? Perhaps he went down to the Rio Grande instead, only a mile or so downhill from the canyon floor, to look at the waterfalls.

Then she would just have to try again a different day.

Ted Walblaken had waited as the cancer permeated every part of his body. He had waited to die, waited for United Atomics to admit their error, to make changes so nobody else would suffer the same way. He had died waiting for that to happen.

Elizabeth stood up, leaning the rifle beside her. Her hands melted a spot on the snow piled along the rounded sill of the window opening. An abandoned bird’s nest was tucked in the logs supporting part of the ceiling. She watched her breath steam in the chilly air.

Hoof beats. The snow muffled all sounds, but the absence of other noises amplified the clopping and jingling. Many of the birds in the ponderosa pines stopped their morning songs.

Elizabeth leaned back into the shadows of the cliff dwelling. She could bide her time. Oppenheimer had to come this way. The narrow canyon floor would lead him right in front of her.

The sun creeping over the canyon rim made the shadows stark and the colors garish. The bright snow hurt her eyes. Jagged clumps of lava tuff looked like nightmarish sculptures; they blocked the view of the trailhead.

She swallowed. Her throat tightened.

By her one action, she was about to save uncounted lives, and it would cost only one. Didn’t that make sense?

Oppenheimer rode into view, straight and aloof on a sleek brown Appaloosa, the one Roger had indicated in the stables the day before. Oppie wore gloves and a red flannel shirt. His floppy brown hat covered his eyes.

She watched the gangly way he moved, sucking on a cigarette, then tossing it into the snow. He cocked his head up, squinting to the top of the canyon wall. She could see his protruding Adam’s apple. He glanced toward the cliff houses, then away.

He rode alone. She looked for other riders, escorts or rangers to watch the all-important director of the Manhattan Project. But no, they suspected nothing. In such isolation in the New Mexico mountains, what did they have to worry about?

Elizabeth slid the rifle out of the window opening. Crumbling adobe pattered to the snow outside the wall. She looked down, then squinted at Oppie. He pulled up his horse, as if to present a better target for her.

This would change everything.

She thought of a poster she had helped assemble for the Livermore Challenge Group, showing hideously burned corpses from Hiroshima, silhouettes of human beings reduced to blast shadows against a wall in Nagasaki. A hundred thousand dead from the first blast, another fifty thousand from the second.

What about the fear inspired for decades with the Cold War, the production of bigger and better bombs? The children brought up—as she had been—in mortal fear of the air raid sirens, the civil defense training films showing how to “duck and cover.” What about the people, like Jeff, who had given their lives to resist the spread of nuclear weapons?

Jeff lay dead, in an unmarked grave, thrown back in time to twenty years before he was supposed to be born, as a consequence of the ball J. Robert Oppenheimer had started rolling.

/ am become death, the shatterer of worlds.

Elizabeth had a chance to wipe the chalkboard clean, start over with a new and better equation.

She squinted along the rifle barrel. She steadied it with her left hand and rested the stock against her shoulder. She felt her hands shaking. She would have only two shots.

She centered Oppenheimer’s head in the sight. Below, he waited for her, unsuspecting, enjoying the morning.

Oppenheimer was the fulcrum, Fox had said. His actions, his brilliance made the Manhattan Project work. He had known what he was doing as visions of nuclear fire danced in his head. Perhaps it was a game to him, an interesting physics question to see how much destruction one man could cause. She couldn’t think of him as a worthy human being. Right now, Oppenheimer was a target, a domino she was going to tip in the opposite direction, away from the chain of events she knew would happen if she didn’t act.

Mrs. Canapelli had chatted about being friends with Oppie and his wife Kitty back in Berkeley, how he had gotten her the job to chaperone the women’s dormitory after her husband had died. Mrs. Canapelli had spoken of him with fondness. Elizabeth found it difficult to imagine him as the same man, this madman.

Oppenheimer turned to look back toward the cliff dwellings. The hat cast his face in shadow, but she could see part of a smile.

Elizabeth tightened her finger on the trigger. It would be just like pushing The Button, the big red button that would launch the world into a nuclear holocaust.

Oppenheimer sneezed, startling her.

With a flinch, she recentered his head along the gun sight.

Oppie hesitated, looked around as if to make sure no one was watching, then wiped his nose on the sleeve of his red flannel shirt.

Elizabeth froze, paralyzed by the simple, human gesture. Oppenheimer blinked as if he were a little boy who had gotten away with bad manners, and then rode on.

Elizabeth couldn’t fire.

Her finger slid away from the trigger and she rested the rifle barrel on the sloping window opening. Her bones turned to rubber and she felt faint. Black spots danced in front of her eyes.

She had wanted to kill a man! The trigger had been a hair’s breadth away from sending a bullet through Oppenheimer’s head. Elizabeth began to shiver.

The rifle dropped out of her hand, slid along the adobe wall of the ruined dwelling and struck the rocks below.

The gun discharged, sending a sharp thunderclap through the narrow canyon.

Oppenheimer jerked up on his horse. He gawked around, frozen like a jackrabbit for an instant of terror, then wheeled his Appaloosa and rode off back toward the ranger station at full gallop. His hat flew off behind him as the horse kicked up snow.

Cursing herself, Elizabeth stood up, grabbed her blanket, and scrambled out the broken back wall of the An-asazi dwelling. She didn’t know how close the rangers would be. Stupid! Oppenheimer would send an entire hunting party after her. She had to hurry up the steep path along the canyon wall to reach the top, mount her horse and flee back to Los Alamos.

She didn’t know what she had done. Stupid!

She couldn’t take it back now. She had failed.

As she scrambled up the path, she kept shuddering, feeling her crisis, her indecision. “I’m sorry, Jeff,” she whispered, then hurried before she could hear the sound of approaching guards.

PART 3

11

Dachau Concentration Camp

December 1943

“The focus of the problem does not lie in the atom. It resides in the heart of man.”

—Henry L. Stimson, U.S. Secretary of War

“We technicians do not believe in miracles; we believe that success comes only as the fruit of unrelenting, purposeful labor.”

—Professor Abraham Esau

A white plywood sign inside the barbed-wire fence proclaimed in bright red letters, arbeit macht frei—but it looked as if no amount of work could set free the skeletal Jewish prisoners who moved about like stunned marionettes.

Esau felt his body tremble with revulsion. No wonder Reichminister Speer had warned him to avoid the concentration camps. “How can you stand the smell?” he whispered. He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Major Stadt, in his black SS uniform, wrinkled his nose and nodded. “Yes, they stink, don’t they? Jews! They smell when they’re alive, they smell when they’re dead, they even smell when they’re cremated. We killed seventeen thousand of them at Majdanek camp just last month. You should come here in the summer heat if you think this is bad!” He shook his head. “And they’re all crawling with vermin. The delousing stations can’t possibly keep up. I wouldn’t get too close if I were you.”

Professor Abraham Esau had no intention of getting too close.

Under the direction of Reichminister Speer, the SS had brought workers to the Kaiser-Wilhelm Institute to dismantle the experimental graphite pile. They took all the components—the carbon bricks, the uranium oxide, the uranium cubes, the neutron source—to erect a larger-scale pile, using more uranium procured from someplace Speer would not identify. After a month and a half of heavy Allied bombing, Berlin was no longer safe.

The SS had kept careful notes and drawings so they could rebuild the reactor where the production work could continue under absolute security, and where they would not need to worry so greatly about the safety of other citizens. Reichminister Speer had asked Esau to appoint an administrator to the project, someone who could supervise the reactor and deal with the uncertainties that were bound to arise.

“But I wouldn’t suggest you pick anyone you like,” Speer had said. “The reason will become obvious if you ever visit the site we have selected.”

“Where is it?”

Speer had raised his eyebrows and looked far away, as if troubled. “Near Munich, on the Amper River. A place called Dachau.”

“I believe I’ve been there. I like the area around Munich. It’s rather scenic.”

“It is not scenic there,” Speer answered, “no, not there.” He would say nothing more.

Esau had made the obvious choice for administrator. Dr. Kurt Diebner was delighted with his promotion and even said kind words to Esau, for the first time. Esau congratulated him and silently hoped the job would be as miserable as Speer had promised it would be. For the past month, Diebner had been in the Dachau camp, overseeing the construction of the new reactor building and the reassembly of the critical pile. When Esau had commended him for the speed of his progress, Diebner sent a cryptic answer via telegram, no shortage of labor here.

Major Stadt walked ahead down the main thoroughfare and snapped his fingers for Esau to follow. All the snow had been swept away, and puddles of slush had refrozen. Esau’s nose felt red and cold. The sky looked too blue and bright for the barren sore of the camp.

Major Stadt swept his hand to indicate the masses of people huddled together like animals in a corral; others worked hauling buckets, cleaning up after the prisoners, doing menial tasks as guards stood by, shifting their rifles from shoulder to shoulder. Towers ringed the outer electrified fence, with men pointing machine guns down at the prisoners. One guard kept pointing his gun as if pretending to shoot people at random.

Esau had seen films of the resettlement camps for the Jews, showing hardworking people making uniforms for German soldiers and growing food under spartan but livable conditions. He had never imagined anything like this.

“Most of them are out on work details, repairing roads, manning munitions factories, cleaning up,” Stadt said, smug. “The Jews forced us into the war, you know. It’s only fitting that they should help repair the damage they’ve done. We’ve taken films of them at hard labor. Good Germans want to see them doing an honest day’s work for the food we give them.”

They passed the administration building, which was surrounded by more barbed wire and had bars on the windows. Esau tried taking shallow breaths, but the brittle air was thick with the stench of excrement and burning corpses. He hoped Stadt would take him into the main building so he could sit in a closed room, let his watery knees stop shaking for a minute.

Major Stadt, noticing Esau’s nausea, jokingly clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll get used to it. You can get used to anything, you know.” Stadt brushed at his sleeve and strolled along. “When Himmler himself visited one of the camps, he stood too close to a line of prisoners about to be executed. Got brains splashed all over his jacket and face! Even he looked about to be sick then, but he got over it. Anybody can. Cheer up!”

Shots rang out from the other side of the camp. “Ah, and it looks as if we’ve got some executions today too. Happens usually on Thursdays, I believe. Your timing is lucky.”

Esau had forced himself not to notice, but now he squinted. Somehow a trench had been chopped out of the frozen ground. Prisoners filed into the cut and faced the earthen wall. The guards shot them. Even as the bodies crumpled, another row of prisoners shuffled in to take their place, nudged by bayonets.

“Why don’t they fight? Why don’t they resist?” Esau asked. “Are they so stupid?”

Stadt shrugged. “Where are they going to run? They are animals, like cattle in a slaughterhouse.” He kicked at the hard ground, knocking loose a small rock with the tip of his boot. “Look at this, ugly barren dirt. They’ve killed every blade of grass, every bush. This used to be a nice camp when we kept only political prisoners here. But once you start adding the homosexuals, the Gypsies, the Jews—well, look at what happens. It’s no surprise, really. It’s a good thing we’re purging them from our society.

“Would you like to see the crematoriums? Those trenches are more for show, not quite as practical. They fill up too fast. Now that you have a title of your own, Herr Plenipotentiary, I’m sure you’d like to observe other efficient operations.” He looked at Esau, then narrowed his eyes.

“You must treat such people as resources, nothing more. And because of the war, we must make the most of our resources, all of them. We make use of the spectacles they wear, the hair from their heads, the gold from their teeth, everything.”

Esau knew Stadt meant only to taunt him for the squeamishness he had shown, so he snapped, “I am not here as a tourist! I must make sure my reactor is running properly. Please confine your remarks to pertinent topics. Now, show me the nuclear pile.”

Stadt stiffened at being addressed in such a manner. But then Esau noticed the major was frightened of something else. “Professor Esau, I will explain the operations to you, but I refuse to go there, not inside and not much closer either. Right now we are upwind—that’s why I had you enter through the side gate.” He added self-defensively, “Even Dr. Diebner spends very little time actually in the reactor building.”

Esau felt outraged. “And why not? That is why he’s here!”

Stadt straightened the black SS hat on his head. “We constructed the reactor building in record time, Professor, and in bad weather yet. We had the pile functioning in a few weeks. We had no time to incorporate protection measures— shielding, Dr. Diebner calls it. It is not healthy for us to go near the place. The doctors know the radiation is dangerous, but they are running tests to determine exactly how dangerous.”

White steam boiled from four narrow smokestacks on the large building on the far corner of the camp. The steam looked insignificant compared to the black plumes from the massive crematoriums. Stadt had stopped walking and stood staring.

“We had work crews construct a canal from the Amper River, to bring water here which circulates in pipes through the pile to keep the components cool. The water is radioactive, and we use it for the prisoners, for showers and for drinking purposes.”

Esau nodded. Hahn had suggested the cooling system so the pile could run continuously. “And someone is keeping records of all this? The effects of radiation in the water and air, on the prisoners, I mean? The information could be valuable from a medical standpoint.”

Stadt brightened. “Oh yes, we have many skilled doctors here, and they are finding very interesting effects from massive doses. In fact, the radioactive poisoning seems to be nearly as effective as our firing squads, but costs us no bullets. The prisoners themselves think it’s just a cholera epidemic. Nobody understands what’s going on here.”

Stadt took two steps closer to the reactor building, but stopped again. “Obviously, the prisoners are expendable. We have them maintaining the pile, fixing the cooling system, performing routine measurements. We’ve just received a new shipment of processed uranium from the metallurgy plants near Joachimstal in Czechoslovakia. Every few days we have the prisoners disassemble the pile, remove the irradiated uranium slugs, and add fresh pieces. The irradiated uranium gets shipped off to a processing plant nearby, which is also operated with labor from Dachau.” He seemed very proud of that.

The uranium that had been cooking in the core of the reactor would be chemically treated to extract the small amount of plutonium created by the nuclear reactions. The rest of the uranium could then be reprocessed and returned to the reactor. Many of the other fission by-products were deadly poison and extremely radioactive, which posed a problem for storage.

Esau considered every concern to be secondary to producing the new element plutonium. The tiny grains slowly added up. Soon Esau’s researchers at the Virus House would have enough to perform macroscopic measurements, a major step in the progress toward a German atomic weapon. It was only a matter of time.

“If it is so radioactive in there, how do you get them to work so willingly? This is a precision installation, Herr Major. Sloppiness could ruin everything.” Esau looked at the reactor building, but he too avoided going closer. Let Diebner take the chance from now on, he decided.

Stadt peeled down his black glove and glanced at his wristwatch. “Almost noon. You’ll see in a moment. We are conscious of the radiation risk to our own guards too. All crews get rotated out after three weeks in the vicinity. Only a few of us know the real reason why.”

“What about the commandant? Doesn’t he remain here?” Esau asked.

Stadt frowned. “He has fallen out of favor for some private remarks he made about Himmler and the Fuhrer. He doesn’t even know it himself. We consider him expendable, and if he dies in the line of his duty here, then it avoids a messy court-martial, and saves us time and effort.”

Over by the reactor building many of the skeletal prisoners clung to the fences in their corrals, making unintelligible noises. They didn’t appear human anymore, naked and filthy, with wild eyes. But they seemed excited about something. The tall doors to the reactor building opened.

“Ah, here we are. Look how happy the rest of them get. It keeps a spark of hope burning, lets us squeeze a little more work out of them.”

Five men shuffled out of the reactor building doors. White steam continued to pour from the smokestacks, so the pile was continuing to function. Esau frowned. The men could barely walk, but they wore tattered overcoats and carried a single valise each. He realized they were prisoners too, near starving and very sick, but they appeared determined. They proceeded along the main thoroughfare with a drunken, stumbling gait, intent only on making their way to the barbed-wire entrance.

“Any man who volunteers for a week of work in the reactor building is set free afterward. We give him an overcoat and a valise with a change of clothes and official release papers. We let them walk out of the camp.” Stadt crossed his arms over his chest.

Esau looked around at the carnage and couldn’t believe Stadt would do such a thing. “You actually set them free?”

The men had reached the front gate. Two guards opened the gate and stood out of the way as the skeletal men moved more rapidly. One prisoner tried to run, but he fell, then crawled his way to his feet. Up in the watchtowers the man with the machine gun aimed at one, then another, then another of the freed prisoners, but the gun remained silent.

“Why not?” Stadt answered. “They are dead already. They receive a lethal dose of radiation within a few days. Many sicken inside and need to be replaced. The hardiest ones who do survive a full week in the reactor building barely last another day or so out of here.” He put a gloved finger on his lips. “I suppose we could have teams out of sight down the road to shoot them, but why should we trouble ourselves? Wastes bullets and effort, so we settle for shooting only the nonvolunteers.”

Esau shook his head, scowling. “Why would anyone volunteer for a job like that?”

Stadt narrowed his eyes and looked at him. “Look at them all, Professor. What other chance do they have? We have enough volunteers to keep us going for twelve years already.” His voice picked up a thick layer of sarcasm. “But I trust you will have your bomb finished before then?”

Esau began to respond, but the SS major turned to a guard approaching them. The uniformed man hurried and kept shoving his rifle back to its position on his back. Steam came from his mouth in spurts as he panted. “I am looking for Professor Esau!” He glanced from Stadt to Esau. “Are you the professor?”

“I am.”

The guard spoke, but he found himself out of breath and had to begin again. “Reichminister Speer has just arrived in his car. He requests that you meet him outside the camp. His driver is waiting for you.”

Esau frowned in confusion. Major Stadt let out a snort. “Speer refuses to come inside any of the camps. He doesn’t want to see what’s inside, although he knows as well as anybody does. He’s afraid. I bet he’d puke out everything he’d eaten in the past month.”

The guard shifted from one foot to the other, looking at Esau. “I can escort you right now, sir.”

Major Stadt waved at Esau. “Go on. I’ve told you about the reactor operations here. You can see everything’s going well. If you’d like to meet with Dr. Diebner or if you’d like to take a tour inside the reactor building itself, I can arrange that.”

Esau swallowed. “That won’t be necessary.”

“I didn’t think it would be.”

Esau hurried off behind the guard, anxious to be leaving the camp. He heard another line of distant shots in the trench. Major Stadt stood staring at the prisoners, then at the reactor building with its gushing smokestacks.

The guard stopped at the gate, and Esau walked under the towers with their machine guns. The practice-shooting man swiveled the barrel toward them, but then seemed to realize Esau was not another one of the Jews released from the reactor building. He tilted the gun up and directed a quick salute at the professor.

Reichminister Speer’s long black car waited in the gravel road that led from the town of Dachau to the camp. Esau could see a dim form in the backseat, silhouetted from the light of the grayish winter sky. A driver sat behind the wheel.

Esau approached the car and opened the back door, then climbed in beside Speer. The Reichminister said “Go” to the driver, who turned the car around, driving up on the packed snow beside the road. As the car picked up speed away from Dachau, Esau noticed the long gash of tire marks on the white ground.

Speer sat in silence. He had kept all the windows rolled tightly shut, making their edges fogged with steam. He had smoked several cigarettes.

“You stink,” Speer said, finally cracking open his window as they moved farther from the camp. A narrow stream of chilly air slid into the car.

“It’s that place,” Esau said. “No wonder you advised against going there if I didn’t have to.”

“I just want you to accomplish your task.” He lowered his voice even further, as if he were terribly weary. “That is the only important thing.”

Esau brightened, talking to distract himself from what he had seen in the camp. “I am happy to report much progress, Herr Reichminister. The large-scale pile is completely constructed and functioning. After the uranium components have been irradiated in the reactor, we can chemically separate out small amounts of element 94. We have samples to send back to the Kaiser-Wilhelm Institute, where our teams can perform experiments to determine its physical properties. Already we have confirmed that it is indeed fissile.”

“What does this mean?”

“It means that we can use it to make our weapon. As soon as we get enough of it. It is only a matter of time now.”

Speer fell silent and stared out the window. The driver took them down a narrow road bordered by snow-clad pine trees on both sides. Small lanes branched out, most showing only a few tracings of tire tracks in the snow. The driver continued aimlessly, letting the staff car take up most of the road. They passed an old tractor abandoned near a clearing. Esau could see no other people around.

“Time is no longer a luxury for us.”

Esau felt some of his enthusiasm wane upon hearing the flat tone in Speer’s voice. “But we are making such good progress—”

“I know you are working very hard, Herr Professor. But let me remind you about the rest of the world. You do remember the war? Two months ago Italy declared war on Germany. The Russians have retaken Kiev and now they are launching a tremendous offensive. The winter looks bad for us again, and our soldiers are not well-supplied. I don’t have months and months to wait.” He turned toward Esau. His pale eyes looked watery and bloodshot. “I need your weapon now! Or, at the very latest, within two months.”

“Two months! That is impossible. Everything is progressing without problems, but we cannot possibly have enough plutonium by then.”

“Have your men work harder. What else do you need?”

“I need time! It is not a question of working harder. We have only so much processed uranium. That uranium needs to be exposed in the reactor for a long period of time before we can extract any plutonium at all, and each time we get only a tiny amount. The plutonium will add up, to be sure, but certainly not enough in two months.”

Reichminister Speer sagged back against the leather-covered seat in the car. The spark of hope had gone out of him. “Then it is lost. We have few supplies. We cannot continue this war much longer. If we strike soon with a superior weapon, while we can still convince ourselves we are winning, then we can press the advantage. If we wait longer, it will be too late.”

He continued to stare out the window at the snow and slush. “The Fuhrer will have my head for this.”

Esau felt his mind spinning. His project had progressed so nicely. He didn’t want this to cast a long shadow over his accomplishments, not now when he had success in his hand. And if the failure ousted Speer, would not the repercussions trickle down to himself as well?

“I knew it was too much to hope for,” Speer continued. “I had no choice but to gamble on fairy tales. Magic bombs and secret weapons. Why do I allow myself to be fooled so easily?”

“Excuse me, Herr Reichminister…” Speer glared at him. Esau continued. “I may know another way. Not as spectacular as our atomic bomb idea, but it will certainly be deadly, like nothing else the Allies have ever seen.” When he smiled, the scar on his lip tingled. “And we can do it right now.”

Speer sat up straight in his seat. “What? What is it?” The driver continued along the slippery road, but Esau noticed the other man’s head cocked sideways to eavesdrop.

Esau folded his fingers together and stared over the seat ahead of him to watch the road stretch out between the trees. “When we process the uranium from the reactor, we extract the element 94, but we also end up with a great deal of other fission products. They are highly radioactive and deadly poisonous. We have them stored very carefully—they are quite dangerous.”

“And?” Speer said.

“Let us say this radioactive waste were loaded into bombs. Conventional bombs. I believe we have succeeded in developing proximity fuses that are somewhat accurate? Well, if bombs were to be detonated in the air over a large Allied city, the explosions would spread this deadly dust over an extended area, killing many of the enemy.”

Speer looked hard at Esau. “So it is just a poison? Like a poison gas?”

“Much more than that. A poison gas kills people initially, then blows away on the winds. This radioactive dust would settle around the target and it would be spread around by the winds. Our measurements of some of these fission by-products suggest half-lives of dozens of years. That means the target would remain poisonous perhaps into the next century. Lower levels of the radioactivity would drift away and contaminate farmlands, destroy crops. It is a poison that continues to work long after the bomb has been dropped. Far more devastating than a simple gas canister.”

Seconds passed as Speer digested the implications. His eyes widened, then he struck his fist into the flat of his other hand. “This dovetails with another one of our secret weapon projects! It could make both research groups practical immediately!”

Speer slapped the seat behind the driver’s head. “Driver! Take us to the Munich rail station. Professor Esau, I want you to take a trip. You will go immediately up north to a place on the Pomeranian coast. I have another research station at Peenemtinde.”

Esau blinked and thought of the enormous trip. “Pomerania? That will require a full day or two on the train! Shouldn’t I take time to plan? What will happen in my absence?”

“That’s why I want you to leave on the very next train. While you get your ticket, I will write you a letter of introduction.” Speer’s eyes glittered with relief. “You will be interested in their work, I believe.

“I want you to meet General Dornberger. And a man named Wernher von Braun.”

12

Los Alamos

December 1943

“We may be engaged in a race toward realization.”

—Vannevar Bush

“One can no longer cling to the belief that intellectual labor will be only to the benefit of mankind. Must everything that benefits mankind now result also in its destruction?”

—Professor Walther Gerlach

Elizabeth knew where she would run.

Graham Fox lived alone in a small apartment in the bachelor scientists’ complex. An important researcher in the explosives preparation section, Fox was accorded the fringe benefit of having space to himself. He had never invited Elizabeth there, but she knew he would not turn her away.

It took her most of the day scrambling on foot along the mesa to make her way back to Los Alamos. Her skin prickled with sharp stings of cold, and the winter air caused her to shiver. She had not dressed properly for overland hiking. The horse blanket around her shoulders kept most of the chill away, but it made running difficult.

The horse had pulled away from where she had tethered it at the top of Frijoles Canyon. Elizabeth stood panting, wanting to crumble to her knees as she stared at the empty spot. Hoof prints plunged off through the whiteness, back toward the stables. The clear snow showed no other paths ahead of her.

Somewhere below, Oppenheimer must have located the rangers by now. They were hunting her, finding her tracks. The gunshot had echoed between the narrow rock walls—how well had Oppie managed to determine the direction? Wouldn’t the rangers think to look in the ruins under the cliff overhang?

They would find where she had waited in ambush. Where she had failed her mission. She had not been able to get up the nerve to do what she had to. But Elizabeth was not a killer, no matter how well she could rationalize it in her mind. Logic could not decide such things. Even her emotional decision, while sitting beside Jeff’s grave, could not make her pass the moral wall she had erected.

Oppenheimer’s head had been in the rifle sight. She had intended to pull the trigger and splatter his brains on the snow. She had thought she would feel justified at the great victory she had accomplished.

She had tried to commit murder. I am become death…

The Los Alamos rangers would find her boot prints on the path up the canyon wall. The day looked blue and clear; snow would not cover her tracks for quite some time. She needed to get back to the chaos and well-traveled pathways of the site. She had to hide, she had to think, she had to snap herself out of this shock and self-loathing.

She avoided open spaces, fighting through low junipers, striding under tall ponderosa pines. Melting snow trickled from the branches, but everything else remained silent. She heard no sound of pursuit, no horses, no barking dogs, no gunshots.

What if she had lost the rangers? She didn’t consider herself skilled enough for that. But what if Oppenheimer hadn’t even reported the incident?

She paused and stood under a tree as the sun hovered on the Sangre de Crista mountains to the west, tinting them orange and magenta, not quite the deep red Christ’s blood for which they were named. She thought of what Oppenheimer had seen and heard that morning.

He had been riding alone. A single shot had sounded in the canyon, then nothing more. Oppie had fled on his horse—but he could not know the bullet had been aimed at him. Indeed, when Elizabeth dropped the rifle, the shot probably had not passed within a hundred yards of the intended victim. Other Project workers rode out to hunt jackrabbits and deer—didn’t it make sense to go hunting in the morning after a fresh snowfall?

Oppenheimer would never believe someone had tried to kill him. He seemed too naive. Easier to make up some other explanation.

Elizabeth plodded through the snow, approaching the outskirts of the town. That changed nothing. She had tried to kill a man. Her stomach tightened at the thought.

Dizzy, cold, and bedraggled, she walked past the women’s’ dormitory at dusk. She did not want to face the questions or concern of Mrs. Canapelli at the moment.

In the cold, she walked down A Street. The bustle of the Project took no notice of her as it wound down at the end of the day. A jeep drove by, splashing mud, but the driver did not turn to look at her. Nobody acted differently around her. She wondered if Oppenheimer had returned to his office after his morning’s ride, opened his door and gone about business as usual.

Elizabeth couldn’t think of that now. Her mind was a blank, scoured clean by her horror and astonishment.

She found herself at the outer door to the bachelor scientists’ quarters. She had walked with Graham Fox to the porch, but had always left. Now she looked on the weathered index card tacked to the posts on the porch, staring at the list of room numbers and names. Not caring if anyone noticed, she climbed the wooden stairs inside and found his door.

It was after dinner. She knew Fox ate early or late, never at the “normal” time—a carryover from his British upbringing. He might go back to his lab later or he might stay in his room, reading or scribbling notes. She prayed he would be in his room; she needed to be with someone.

Elizabeth stood at the door for a long moment, trying to get up the nerve to knock. Did she really want to see him? She felt afraid to depend on someone, afraid to open herself up and become vulnerable. She meant to be strong. Why should she be afraid of Graham Fox?

A man with thick glasses came out of another room down the hall and threw a glance at her. Without hesitation, Elizabeth took one more step forward and knocked on Fox’s door. The other man raised his eyebrows, but walked down the steps.

Fox opened the door and took a complete step backward upon recognizing her. “Elizabeth!” Then he paused again and his eyes widened, seeing her condition. She pictured herself with mussed hair, shell-shocked eyes, and drawn features. “What happened?” He looked around and narrowed his eyes. “Come in.” Touching her elbow, he applied gentle pressure that drew her inside, and he closed the door.

She was afraid Fox would ask a barrage of questions to ferret out what she had done”. She didn’t want to tell him. She didn’t want to admit it to anyone. She just wanted to be beside another human being, not necessarily to say anything, just to feel invisible support, companionship.

Fox surprised her by not asking any questions. He seemed to have his own suspicions of who Elizabeth was and what she was up to, but he did not want to confirm them.

Elizabeth turned away from him, frightened to meet his eyes. Fox’s room looked pathetically barren, with a bed, a chair, and little other furniture. No pictures hung on the wall. A radiator ticked under the window and sent enough heat into the room that Elizabeth began to sweat again, though she couldn’t stop herself from shivering. A hot plate with a steaming pot of water sat on a small tabletop. From the books scattered on his bed, Fox seemed to prefer lying down to study rather than working on the cramped surface of the table.

“May I get you some tea, Elizabeth? I believe I have an extra mug.” She nodded, but didn’t really have any taste for tea at the moment.

Fox continued to say nothing, but it felt like a comfortable silence. He waited for her, not pressuring her to talk. If he did learn about the assassination attempt—if Oppenheimer himself reported it—he might figure it out for himself anyway.

He plunked a tarnished silver tea ball into her cup. Tea was strictly rationed, and his tea leaves had been used before, but he dunked the ball repeatedly until the water turned brown.

Elizabeth took the cup, looked down and saw her reflection between the ripples in the tea. Without drinking, she set the cup down beside the hot plate on the table, turned to Fox and took a step toward him.

She put her arms around his waist. Fox’s body tensed, but he did not pull away. She closed her eyes and pushed her face against his chest. He wore his usual white shirt, but had unbuttoned the top button and let his tie hang loose around his neck. She wondered if he considered that to be casual attire.

Fox patted her shoulder in a paternal way, but then something changed and he ran his hand along her back. “Hush! It’ll be all right,” he said quietly, “whatever it is.”

Elizabeth felt herself trembling. She wanted to explode with what she had done—the pointing rifle, Oppenheimer’s floppy cowboy hat in her sights, steam coming from his horse’s nostrils, and the snow all around, clean and white like a drop cloth to cover such a dirty deed.

“Just hold me a minute.” She squeezed him tighter.

Fox bent down to kiss the top of her head. Elizabeth blocked out all thoughts of Jeff and of her obsession with Oppenheimer. She and Jeff had made love only three times since he came down from Berkeley. It had been all too brief. She had not held anyone close in so long, had not felt herself moving beneath a lover, felt him inside her as their passion grew, building toward a release that could drown out all the anger in her life. It had been half a year.

She groaned deep in her throat and tilted her head up. Reaching with one hand to pull Fox’s face close to hers, she kissed him. His eyes went wide, but she closed hers and she kissed him again. He responded this time. She let her teeth fall open and touched out with her tongue, probing between his lips. Fox made a thin sound and pushed his body closer to hers.

Then he straightened and pulled himself away from her. She looked up at him, waiting for him to say something else, but he remained quiet.

“It doesn’t make any difference,” she said.

Fox looked down at her. His thin face and his big eyes gave him an intense puppy-dog expression. She found it charming, very attractive. Pressing her hips against his, Elizabeth pulled off his loosened tie and unbuttoned his shirt.

Fox kept his own hands moving, but seemed a little shy. Elizabeth remembered many fumbling but passionate moments with other physics nerds she had dated in college. Being one of the minority of women in the curriculum, she had never had trouble getting men to go out with her. Something about Graham Fox reminded her of that shyness. She took his hand and guided it to her breast.

It seemed to release a restraint in him, and he made another one of his cooing sounds. He kissed her more deeply. “You’re not wearing a brassiere.”

Elizabeth tilted her head back. “Scandalous, isn’t it?” she mumbled around his lips. “I guess I’m just ahead of my time.”

Fox kept his eyes closed for the most part. Elizabeth watched him make the most delicious wince of pleasure when she slid her hand down the front of his pants.

Caressing, she made herself move carefully and slowly. She didn’t want to excite him too much. She wanted—no, she needed this to last a long time.

Elizabeth woke, shivering, in the middle of the night. The sweat had dried on her body, and now she felt stiff and grimy. She needed a hot shower. Fox lay next to her, but he had pulled most of the single blanket over his own shoulders. She smiled and felt the remnants of afterglow.

Elizabeth slid out of bed. The mattress springs creaked enough for Fox to mumble and roll over, partially awake. She went to the table and sipped the cold tea she had not touched before. After steeping all night long, it tasted bitter.

She stood next to the radiator, hoping for more warmth, but the heat had been shut off for the night.

Fox sat up in bed, blinking. Upon seeing her, his face carried an expression of pleased surprise. She wondered if he thought it had all been a dream. “Something the matter?” he said.

“Nothing.” She came back to sit next to him, brushing the sheets before she sat down. He rolled over and put his arms around her waist. He kissed her.

“You never told me what was bothering you when you came.”

“When I came?” She raised her eyebrows, but she didn’t think he understood her comment.

“When you came to my door.”

Elizabeth frowned. “I’m not sure I want to.”

Fox nodded. “Then you don’t have to.”

They sat in silence in the dimness. A bluish-white glow from the floodlights outside crept through the blinds.

“Why are we doing this?” Fox asked in a quiet voice that implied he had rehearsed the words to himself many times. “Why are we here? Why are we working on such things when we know what will come of it?”

Elizabeth clenched her fist and said nothing, reminded again of what she had tried to do, and how she had failed. One fraction of a second to pull the trigger, to change the whole world, and she could not do it. She still didn’t know if she had made the right decision. Who was she to decide things like that?

But didn’t every person have to act on their own conscience, to follow their moral imperative? It was not good enough just to brush aside the responsibility to someone else.

“You gotta do what you gotta do,” Ted Walblaken had said, “and damn the consequences.”

Fox sat up in bed and leaned over, slipping both hands around her. “This is life. We’re alive,” Fox continued. “Why are we working to bring about so much death, just to show off what we can do with our physics?”

“Is that what you really think I’m working toward?” Elizabeth asked. Her throat grew dry. She was leading him on. She hadn’t the nerve to do what she herself had decided to do.

“Do you—” Fox hesitated, swallowed, and then continued, as if he couldn’t restrain himself from asking anymore. “Do you have some sort of plan? I wish I knew who you were.”

She considered long before answering. “You can’t listen to anybody else when it’s your own conscience at stake. Do what you have to do. Damn the consequences.” Feeling like a hypocrite, she got up and began to get dressed in the dim light.

“Must you go?”

“You don’t want your colleagues to see me coming out of your room in the morning, now do you?”

He grinned, and she thought he was probably blushing. “Might I see you again?”

She shrugged and kept her back turned toward him so he couldn’t see her smile. “It’s a small town. It’s going to be kind of hard to avoid you.” She stood at the door and blew him a kiss. “Good night.”

“Yes.”

Elizabeth left as quietly as she could, already trying to decide which story would make the best excuse for Mrs. Canapelli.

13

Peenemunde Experimental Rocket Station

December 1943

“We have developed this weapon. We can service it and put it to tactical use. It was not our task to assess its psychological effect, its usefulness in present conditions, or its strategic importance in the general picture.”

—General Walter Dornberger, head of Peenemunde

“Europe and the world will be too small from now on to contain a war. With such weapons, humanity will be unable to endure it.”

—Adolf Hitler

The white cuffs of the Peenemunde estuary reminded Esau of the chalk cliffs of Dover. Graham Fox had taken him there one humid day when they were students at Cambridge. They had made a picnic on the grass, listening to the distant crashing surf, arguing esoteric points about the nature of the universe….

The cold wind of winter removed the charm from the Baltic coast, made Peenemunde look harsh and hellish—a perfect place to be building a secret weapon of destruction. Esau imagined that the waters of the bay here would also be quiet in the summertime; the brown and broken reeds he saw now would be green, a place for ducks to gather. Above the low hills on the mainland side of the Peene River, he could see the red-brick tower of the Wolgast Cathedral and rooftops of the nearby village.

Across the Peenemunde experimental site Esau located dozens of craters; some from failed rocket launches that had fallen back and exploded near the test stands; others from the Allied bombing raid of the previous August.

Esau had not slept well on the long train ride to the northern coast. He never could relax in the crowded closeness of other passengers, the rattling movement of the train, the drafts whistling through the windows. People were not meant to sleep while war-torn scenery rushed by during the day, while villages came and went, some lighted and some dark, all through the night.

His mouth still carried an onion-and-sausage aftertaste from the meal he had eaten during a long stop at Leipzig. When the train pulled into the Berliner station at midnight, Esau longed to disembark and go home, change clothes, clean himself, and get a good rest. He could take another train the following morning.

But Speer would find out. The Reichminister had given him very clear orders. So Esau remained on the train, staring out the window with sleepy eyes at the echoing, uncrowded station, knowing he had to arrive in Peenemunde as soon as possible. He asked the conductor for another blanket, but it failed to warm him from the winter chill.

Somewhere out there, people were trying to ignore the war and get ready for Christmas. Esau had no wife or children to bother about such things, and all those whom he might call his friends were merely colleagues, and colleagues did not treat each other for holidays. Especially not in times like these.

He drank several cups of tea the next morning and ate a croissant. The train arrived at Stettin just after sunrise, and Esau transferred to a different train. They reached Wolgast an hour later. After the conductor’s announcement, Esau stood up, took his valise from the rack overhead, then moved his aching body off the train.

The island of Peenemunde lay on the northern coast near Rugen, just across the water from Bornholm and the Swedish mainland. The island, about ten miles long, looked like a splayed chicken’s foot, with three toes on the southward end pointing into the wide Oder Lagoon, while the narrow top half of the island extended into the Pomeranian Bay in the Baltic Sea. The island lay next to the German mainland, separated by a channel of water.

In the adjacent city of Wolgast, Esau found a ferry to take him across the half-frozen river to the restricted area on the island. Children skated on the ice shelves near the mainland, as if nothing could possibly be wrong with the world.

Barbed wire and slatted-wood fences bordered the edge of Peenemunde. A railroad extended from the ferry landing to various parts of the island for delivering supplies and equipment, but Esau found no train in sight.

As the ferry landed and he disembarked, shivering in his overcoat and carrying his own valise, a team of guards came out to meet him. He let them inspect his papers from Reichminister Speer, and one of the men took him in a car along the bumpy gravel roads of the island. Esau felt too sleepy and grumpy for conversation, and the guard drove without looking at him.

They passed dunes and thick stands of dark fir trees, a desolate-looking frozen lake, and small army settlements on the island—Trassenheide, Karlshagen, and various buildings obviously used for research or construction. At Peenemunde village, the guard let him off and sent Esau toward a set of small office barracks, telling him to ask for General Dornberger.

It took him another half hour, with his voice gradually rising in anger and impatience, before a lieutenant finally accepted his demand for the unscheduled meeting with the head of the research station. Apparently, Reichminister Speer had not telegrammed or telephoned ahead.

“The general is preparing for this morning’s test shot out at Stand X,” the lieutenant said. “We have orders not to disturb him during the final stages. Would you care to wait for him?”

Esau, feeling ruffled, stood his ground. “I would love to rest, change clothes, and eat a decent meal. But I cannot afford the luxury, and neither can General Dornberger. Reichminister Speer ordered me to see the general immediately upon arrival. I have been on a train all night. Don’t you have any inkling of who I am? I am the Plenipotentiary for Nuclear Physics for all of Germany. You will take me to General Dornberger—now!”

Esau seethed in the front seat of the battered car when they finally departed to find the general. Despite the winter cold, the lieutenant kept his window rolled down as they drove across the island to the preparation areas near Test Stand X.

General Walter Dornberger, when they finally found him, looked harried and focused entirely on the rocket test in progress. “Another one?” he said, assessing Esau. A gray-haired man with a boyish face, Dornberger’s build appeared slight in his gray uniform. He was not imposing or commanding, but Esau recognized a hard and practical intelligence behind his eyes.

“I am here on orders from Reichminister Speer—” Esau began, reaching into his overcoat for the detailed letter Speer had given him.

General Dornberger motioned for him to follow. The general’s smile and comfortable attitude displayed his pride in the project, and his familiarity with showing it off. “I’m sure you’ll be impressed with the test. Follow me, and we can answer questions a little later.”

“I have a letter from the Reichminister,” Esau said, holding out the folded note. “Here it is.”

“Only a handful of minutes left Professor, uh, Esau, was it? Let me try to explain everything as we finish the preparations.” He indicated a man beside him, “This is my colleague and our brightest hope, Dr. Wernher von Braun. He is of prime importance to this project.”

Von Braun stood tall and impressive, dapper in his dark suit and clean overcoat; he wore a tie that looked oddly incongruous in the rough conditions of the rocket test area. Most of the other people standing around wore Army uniforms, but von Braun seemed proud of the fact that he was a civilian. Von Braun’s dark hair was slicked back and neat even in the chaotic moments before the test.

“This one will work,” von Braun said. His eyes held a spark of defiance as he turned to Esau. “You’ll see.”

General Dornberger smiled. “Dr. von Braun is an optimist, and he occasionally forgets the difference between reality and his wild ideas.” Dornberger clapped a hand on the scientist’s shoulder. “He is also, though, usually right in whatever he says.”

“Today I am right,” von Braun said. He glanced at his watch. “Ten minutes remaining. We should get to our observing posts.”

Dornberger disappeared through the door of a bunker. Esau and von Braun followed him down five concrete steps.

They went through a long underground corridor that led from the measurement room beneath the wall of the arena to the test stand itself. Double and triple rows of thick, heavy measurement cables ran along the corridor, making Esau feel as if he were hurrying down the gullet of some prehistoric beast.

They passed through a long room beside another tunnel. “This is a blast tunnel,” General Dornberger said, running his fingers against the concrete-block walls. “Those cooling pipes are four feet in diameter and can pump water at 120 gallons per second. They’re made of molybdenum steel. This wall is three feet thick. Even during a test, you can feel very little heat through it.”

Von Braun looked at his watch again and cleared his throat. “Five minutes.”

In an observation room, technicians studied readings from their instruments, monitored by red, white, or green indicator lights. Dornberger gestured rapidly, speaking so fast that the words made little sense. Esau got the impression that the general had done this tour many times before. “Those are voltmeters and ammeters here, frequency gauges and manometers over there. We need to check every aspect of the firing. You never know where something might go wrong.”

Two telephones rang at once. The technicians talked among each other. The general moved on. “This morning we’ll observe from outside. It’s more impressive that way.”

Dornberger hurried along the rising corridor through the pumping house and into the open air. Water tanks on wooden towers, twenty-five feet high, stood built into the sand wall surrounding the test arena. “We use these towers to recool the water after a test,” the general said.

“I picked up another pair of binoculars,” von Braun said. He passed them over. “For you, Professor Esau.”

General Dornberger stood beside the heavy sand wall. “Yes, we’ll be able to see just fine from here.”

Esau looked across to Test Stand X. A dune covered with skeletal pine trees rose from a wide sandy plain beyond which lay the choppy Baltic Sea. The trees themselves had been stripped and scarred from the repeated blasts, and the dune lay under a dark blanket of cinders. Fresh concrete aprons, wooden test stands, and cleared patches of dirt dotted the dune surface. Meillerwagens— long metal rigs for hauling the rockets—waited in their positions.

But the sight that gripped Esau was the towering rocket poised on Test Stand X. Strings of fuel lines, steaming white with residual liquid air, sprawled on the ground. A small service car spun at a reckless speed away from the stand.

The rocket itself looked surreal, painted in alternating sections of black and white for proper heat distribution during reentry. Like a giant javelin it waited on the test stand, ready to leap into the air, with external aerial vanes like the feathers on a gigantic arrow.

“We call it the A-4, for Aggregate Rocket Model Four,” General Dornberger said, “though the Fuhrer wants us to change the name to V-2, for Victory Weapon Two. A different rocket concept, launched more like a “catapult projectile, is called the V-1, but that was developed by a second team. We have one V-1 catapult on the northern tip of Peenemunde. But this… “He sighed and looked at the shining rocket swathed in white vapor tendrils on the test stand. “This is where our real interest lies.”

“It’s got alcohol and liquid oxygen for fuel within the cylindrical center section, along with a hydrogen peroxide tank,” von Braun said. “The fuse and the warhead are on top. We will load the rockets with explosives during actual attacks. Right now we are still trying to perfect the rocket flight itself.”

An announcement rumbled over the intercom system linked around the buildings throughout the site. “X minus three minutes.”

“We have a different way of measuring time here,” General Dornberger mused. “We call them ‘Peeneiminde minutes’—the clock measures them as sixty seconds long, but they seem so much more interminable than that.”

Esau kept his eyes on the rocket towering alone and dangerous on its concrete pad. The general tapped his shoulder. “Those big buildings over there under the camouflage netting are our Development Works and the oxygen-generating plant. We hung the camouflage only on the north side, where planes would see it coming in. On the other side are the hangars for the Luftwaffe section, then the chimneys for the harbor power station.”

“X minus two minutes,” the voice on the loudspeaker said.

“How much do you know of our work here, Herr Professor?” von Braun asked after a brief silence.

“Very little. I don’t even know what this is all about.”

General Dornberger frowned. Von Braun straightened his overcoat to hide a disappointed expression. “Then why exactly did Reichminister Speer send you here to observe this test?”

“He didn’t send me to observe the test! I am here to confer with you about the deployment of another weapon my team of researchers has developed.”

Dornberger’s smile became suddenly forced. “And what type of weapon is this?”

“I’ve been trying to show you this letter—”

The white steam curls vanished from the sides of the rocket, like gusts of breath from a sleeping dragon. Von Braun pointed at it. “Venting valves have closed. Oxygen pressure will start building up.”

The loudspeaker blared again, “X minus one minute. Regular counting will progress.”

The general and von Braun turned back to observe the test stand. “Tell us afterward.”

Esau settled down to watch.

“Forty-five seconds.”

Unable to squelch his tour-guide tendencies, Dornberger spoke over his shoulder at Esau. “The steering gyroscopes are now running inside the rocket. Only a few seconds more.”

A small shell hissed into the air, sending a streamer of green marker smoke across the sky. Esau couldn’t figure out what it was for. To test wind direction?

“X minus fifteen seconds.”

Esau realized he was holding his breath. So, he could tell, were General Dornberger and Wernher von Braun. Even the wind seemed to have dropped away in the overcast winter sky.

“Ignition!”

Clouds gushed from the nozzle at the bottom of the rocket. A rain of sparks built from the nozzle, splashing off the blast deflector and bouncing along the concrete launch platform. A sound like a gigantic blowtorch burned through the air as the sparks gathered into an arm of flame, pushing beneath the black-and-white rocket.

“Preliminary stage!” von Braun shouted.

Smoke billowed up from around the rocket’s bottom, obscuring the view. Esau squinted through his binoculars. Debris, wood chips, sand, and blasted chunks of cable flew through the air. Diagnostic wires fell from the sides of the rocket. Esau could feel the tension building.

“How much more is it going to take?” he shouted.

Then the rocket heaved itself from the ground. Casting-off cables dropped from the smooth white sides. The flame suddenly redoubled in strength as the main stage ignited. The rocket rose and picked up speed, climbing into the sky. Esau followed it with his binoculars. Behind on the test stand only a whirling dust cloud remained.

He flicked a glance sideways to see General Dornberger grinning like a child. Von Braun continued to stare through the binoculars with one fist clenched at his side. His face carried an expression of intense seriousness.

The jet of flame extended yellow and orange, longer than the rocket itself. The black-and-white patterns did not change as Esau watched, meaning the rocket was not rotating.

“Plus five seconds,” the loudspeaker announced. Esau found that incredible. Surely more time had passed than that! He remembered what the general had said about Peenemunde minutes.

“It’s beginning to tilt,” von Braun reported without taking his eyes from the binoculars.

The rocket flew out in a graceful arc over the Peenemunde estuary, toward the small green hook of another island.

“Sixteen…  seventeen… eighteen…  ” the loudspeaker continued.

“At twenty-five seconds the rocket will go faster than sound,” von Braun said. Dornberger concurred.

A “boom” startled the watchers. The loudspeaker voice said, “Sonic velocity!”

The rocket grew smaller and smaller as it sailed on. Esau thrilled at the power and grace of this weapon. He could understand Speer’s excitement. “Brennschluss approaching. Five seconds,” von Braun said.

“What?” Esau grabbed the general’s sleeve.

“The end point of combustion. The primary flame will go out.”

Von Braun shouted. Esau flicked up his binoculars and searched for the rocket in the field of view. He found white mist spewing from the side of the rocket.

“Did it happen again?” Dornberger demanded. “No, that’s just the oxygen vent opening! It has to be.”

Suddenly an explosion split the rocket, silent over the great distance. In a flash the metal javelin had vanished into a cloud of debris, flame, and steam.

General Dornberger muttered to himself. The loudspeaker made one last announcement, “Forty-three seconds. Forty-three seconds total flight time,” then fell silent. Von Braun brooded down at the ground.

“This is terrible. We must try again and again and again. We must learn to make it work properly!” The general kneaded his hands together.

Esau lowered his binoculars and stared at the spreading cloud of steam, smoke, and debris dispersing over the choppy sea. The lumpy scar on his lip itched when he smiled so broadly.

“No,” he said, startling them. “It is splendid just as it is.”

Both Dr. von Braun and General Dornberger spoke no more about the rocket’s failure that morning. They addressed Esau’s ideas with growing enthusiasm.

“We did develop a prototype rocket to be launched from a German U-boat, but we determined it would not be feasible for actual deployment.”

“Until now,” Esau corrected.

“I am still not convinced,” General Dornberger said. “We shelved the submarine rocket proposal because of the effort it would require and its low potential for payoff. We would have to specially modify a U-boat to carry the rockets, and even then the boat could carry no more than three on each journey.”

Dornberger removed his hat and laid it on the scarred old tabletop. Inside the dim barracks conference room, cold breezes pushed through ill-fitting window frames and wall joints.

“It just does not sound worthwhile. To modify a U-boat and send it on a journey across the Atlantic to strike a target with only three bombs? Unexpected, to be sure, but the destruction could not justify the effort. I would rather continue work on the V-2 program here.”

Von Braun sat impatient in his wooden chair, then he got up and paced the room. Esau began to speak, but von Braun interrupted him and stood directly in front of Dornberger.

“You don’t understand, General! If this radioactive dust is as effective as Professor Esau claims, then three rockets would be enough to… to subdue an entire city. For many years!”

“Yes,” Esau said, “it makes all the difference! Conventional explosives don’t cause sufficient damage in a case like this. But with radioactive dust, we can take a greater toll in a single attack than a hundred bombing raids.”

“And you believe Hitler intends to strike against America with this weapon? Why not Britain?”

Esau went to the chalkboard, picked up a piece of chalk, but didn’t know what he wanted to draw. “We are not certain what will happen with this poison. If we release the dust and contaminate London, the dust might spread and actually reach Normandy, perhaps even to the German Lowlands here. In America, though, we need not worry. It will be a perfect test case. We can see exactly how effective the weapon is.”

He raised his eyebrows and looked back at the general and the rocket scientist. “It will also strike fear in the Americans. We will surprise them in a way they will never forget.”

General Dornberger ran his fingers along the inside brim of his hat. “And Reichminister Speer is enthusiastic about this?”

“Very much so. He wants to use the weapon within two months.”

“Two months!” von Braun said.

The general placed his hat back on his head and stood up. “Last March, Hitler had a dream that convinced him none of our rockets would ever reach England. We nearly lost all support then, but in July he changed his mind and gave us top priority. And now you are speaking of striking not England, but America. We can convince the Fuhrer his dream was right. If we can make your idea work.”

Dornberger’s tour-guide smile had returned to his face. “Very well, Professor. We should try to find a suitable U-boat and begin modifications. This could win the war for us.”

14

German U-Boat 415

April 1944

“If any attack is made by the Germans using radioactive poisons, it seems extremely likely that it will occur not in the United States, but in Great Britain.”

—General Leslie Groves

“I was almost unnerved by the thought of what the great new misery [the Hiroshima bomb] meant, but glad that it was not Germans but the Anglo-American Allies who had made and used this new instrument of war.”

—Otto Hahn

Breakers hitting the gray steel hull of U-415 sent fine spray over the superstructure. The first watch officer and the executive officer stood out in the open air, breathing the tang of the Atlantic. Though cold, wet, and miserable in their oilskins, with wadded Turkish towels around their necks to absorb intruding water, they preferred this duty to the dimness and foul smells below in the interior.

“Captain on deck!” someone called from below.

In the conning tower Captain Werner stepped up the aluminum ladder, poking his head out. Werner paused halfway out into the air, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. The captain had the watch sparsely manned, though it went against everything he had been taught at the Naval Academy in Kiel. The submarine was not on a normal hunt this mission. U-415 had known its target from the moment they used their silent electric motors to leave port in occupied France.

“You are relieved, Leutnant Gormann, if you wish to go below,” Captain Werner said to the exec.

Gormann pressed his chapped lips together and used a gloved hand to wipe spray from below his eyes. Sunburn and windburn had turned his face raw and red. “Aye, sir.” He tossed a sodden cigarette butt over the railing into the water. A swell crashing over the deck sent a bucketful of water inside with him as he descended the ladder.

Captain Werner said nothing to the first watch officer, who stood at attention, focusing his concentration through salt-smeared binoculars. The man’s name was Tellmark, and he had joined the U-boat just before they set out on this mission. Werner knew little about him, other than that he was an untested cadet who had never before gone into battle. His reddish-blond hair left him with a sparse, patchy beard after a week out from port.

Tellmark swiveled to stare at the gray-blue emptiness that extended to the horizon. The surface of the sea showed nothing. The captain pulled his white Navy cap tighter over matted dark hair; only the commander could wear such a cap on board. With the salt spray and the dampness inside the submarine, a green-blue tarnish of verdigris already coated the brass ornaments. His long jacket of light gray leather had been stitched with heavy yarn and remained warm despite the abuse of the weather; his seaman’s braid epaulets were bleached white from exposure to harsh salt air.

By now, days out from port, his leather boots, wrinkled pants, blue sweater—even blue knitted underwear—felt like a part of him. Unable to wash, with too-few changes of clothes to be worth anything, Werner had already gotten into the submariner’s mindset of ignoring how filthy and smelly he felt.

Their journey westward across the Atlantic continued all day and all night. They kept a straight course; not a zigzag search pattern to locate and destroy Allied ships, but a distance-eating pace that would take them to the American coast. As U-415 rode on the surface, Werner swayed on the conning tower, listening to the thump of diesels and the splash of waves against the hull.

The submarine’s protective undercoat of red paint showed in streaks through the gray outer layer. Rust blossomed everywhere, even on the greased 8.8-centimeter gun on the foredeck. A green scum of algae glistened on the wooden deck overlaid on the steel hull. But this was Werner’s boat, and he allowed no flaws to diminish his pride.

Tellmark paused in his scanning. He kept his eyes to his binoculars, then extended his left hand. “Shadow bearing three-two-oh. Looks like a freighter. No, several of them.”

Captain Werner snapped around, got his bearings, then raised his own pair of binoculars. He could see the shadows approaching at an angle. As U-415 continued, the paths converged. “Looks like that convoy the radio informed us about.”

“Do we attack, sir?” Tellmark appeared excited.

The exec popped his head back out of the conning tower. “Sighting, sir?”

Captain Werner nodded in the direction of the approaching convoy, which was now visible to the unaided eye.

“Alarm!” the exec called down into the hull. “Battle stations!”

“No!” Captain Werner shouted. “Tell the radioman to transmit our position and summon all other U-boats in the area. We must leave the hunt to them. We are going to dive and avoid contact.”

“Sir?” the first watch officer said.

“Go below, Tellmark.” The captain motioned with his hands, following the man down the hatch. He slid down the aluminum ladder and hit the deck plates. On the bridge the other crew members looked at him in anticipation. The exec scowled.

“Captain, we do have three other torpedoes in addition to those new rocket weapons we had installed in Brest. We can make our strike and get away. We’ve done it a thousand times before! There can be no danger to us.”

“Secure all hatches. Prepare to dive. One hundred seventy meters. Engines, all stop.” Werner spoke into the long, echoing dimness, then turned to answer Gormann. “We will not attack. We have strict orders not to engage the enemy, no matter what opportunities present themselves. I don’t like it myself—but those are my orders, directly from Admiral Donitz and Reichminister Speer. Those three rocket weapons in the forward compartment may win the war for Germany.”

Donitz was the man who had conceived and led “wolfpack” warfare in the Atlantic, using U-boats to hunt down and destroy supplies to Britain; as of the year before, he had become commander-in-chief of the entire German fleet. The experimental modifications to U-415 had been pushed through by the Reichminister of Armaments himself. Other U-boats went out to plant mines, or hunt down ships and convoys, but U-415 had a greater mission.

Captain Werner hissed through his teeth. He grabbed the periscope and felt the motor’s vibration through his fingers. Outside, he watched the helpless ships approaching. Two destroyers flanked the convoy, but that would not have bothered Werner; it was all part of the risk. Sinking a few enemy vessels and adding to their tonnage score always relieved tensions aboard the submarine.

But not on this mission. He had to keep repeating it to himself to dampen his own frustrations. “Dive!” Werner said again, “One hundred seventy meters! Do it before they see us.”

The captain grabbed a conduit with one hand and steadied himself against the periscope handle as the submarine canted downward. Waves gurgled outside, then all grew silent as the hull sank beneath the surface. The pounding diesel engines stopped, leaving only the gentle hum of the electric motors.

“Submerged, sir. Approaching a depth of sixty meters… seventy meters.”

Captain Werner felt the air tighten around his head as the pressure of the water squeezed the hull. “Let me know when we get to one hundred seventy.”

Underwater everything seemed quiet and wonderful, free of the knocking diesel engines and the uneasy swaying of waves. Once each day the captain ordered his boat to do a routine trim dive for practice and maintenance. It allowed the crew to eat without lurching back and forth, to relax and recuperate for an hour or two. Now U-415 moved underwater with glorious grace beneath the approaching convoy. The only sounds were the hum of electric motors and the patter of water droplets condensing from overhead and splashing to the floor plates.

A distant pinging sound echoed through the hull, growing louder second by second. “Asdic pulses, sir,” the third mate said.

“I can hear them myself,” said Werner.

The British “asdic” defense—named after the Antisubmarine Detection Investigation Committee—used ultrasonic waves to search the waters for nearby U-boats that might be hiding like wolves in the water. The asdic pings struck the hull of the boat like metal arrows. Each burst set the men on edge. No one moved more than he had to.

“Depth is one hundred seventy meters, sir.”

“Maintain. Continue silent running. No unnecessary noises—everybody keep still. I don’t want them dropping depth charges on us, especially not before we can sink a few of their ships.”

“Listen to the destroyers, sir,” the soundman said. “Not like one of the freighters.”

They heard the sound of propellers and bows cutting the water above. The destroyers cruised overhead, loaded with canisters of death they could drop at any moment. The passage of the convoy sounded like distant thunder echoing through the steel hull.

“Directly above us,” the radioman called out.

“Keep steady. Nothing to be afraid of.” The thought seemed ludicrous as Werner considered it. Nothing to be afraid of? Two years ago, maybe, but not now.

In 1942 the German U-Boat Force had sunk 1200 Allied ships, seven million tons! Those were indescribable days of glory. But in March 1943 everything had changed. The Allies had brought to bear a battery of new weapons: small aircraft carriers, fast escort vessels, and a new radar device. They wiped out forty percent of the German U-Boat Force in a few weeks. A few weeks!

Captain Kretschmer, of U-99, the reigning tonnage king who had sunk 325,000 tons on his own, was captured on March 17, 1941. The very same day Captain Schepke, in U-100 with a tally of 250,000 tons, was killed when a British destroyer blew U-100 to the surface, then rammed her. No one could keep track of all the German losses anymore. The bottom of the Atlantic held as many U-boat corpses as it held sunken freighters.

The sounds of the ships passing overhead dwindled in the distance. Captain Werner continued to stare at the ducts and pipes on the ceiling, eyes half shut. Nothing to be afraid of? Hardly.

“I believe that’s the last one, sir,” the radioman said.

Werner nodded. His beard felt stiff from salt spray, and itched with unwashed sweat. “We’ll keep running submerged for another hour. Continue present heading at four knots.”

He drew in a deep breath of air filled with the sweat and bad breath of fifty men. He could sense their restlessness. They wanted to attack the convoy that had just passed. U-415 had built up a respectable record of sunken Allied tonnage, which they displayed proudly on pennants strung from the superstructure whenever they came near a German refueling vessel.

“Executive Officer, take command. I’ll be in my bunk.”

Werner went forward, ducking low to avoid a pressure gauge that protruded from the wall in just the wrong place. He would make up for the crew’s resentment when they released their special weapons and caused a greater toll on the enemy than all other U-boats combined.

The submarine hummed as it cut through the water toward its destination, New York harbor.

Captain Werner moved forward, with unconscious care in every movement. Being on board the U-boat felt like living inside a narrow steel corridor with fifty men, cramped on both sides with pipes and ducts, handwheels, anything to bang your head on. A sensible person would have considered even a day aboard the mold-ridden, urine-smelling coffin to be an inhuman punishment; but Werner had been aboard submarines since the war’s beginning, first serving on U-557 as an ensign with Captain Paulssen, then transferred to U-612 as executive officer only a month before Paulssen and his entire crew went to the bottom.

In the intervening years, and countless missions, carefully tallied kills, and endless faces of old crews and new crews, Werner grew proud of his duty aboard the submarines. His clothes never dried beyond clamminess, and every metal surface he touched felt cold and slimy. He no longer smelled the stench of close-packed sweating and frightened men.

Regulations demanded that no one bring shaving kits aboard, since the precious fresh water had to be used for drinking and cooking. Werner looked with fondness upon the usual collection of personal belongings held dear by every member of the crew—toothbrushes, writing materials, books, snapshots of family and sweethearts.

Moving forward in the bottleneck, he ducked through the low round hatches in bulkheads that separated each compartment, acknowledging greetings from his men. Many of the off-duty seamen took advantage of the silence and peace of underwater travel to sleep in narrow berths with a swing-up aluminum guardrail that sandwiched them between the edge and the closest wall.

The aft compartment held the machinery and electrical equipment, the air compressor, and three torpedo tubes. Two diesel engines capable of driving the boat at nineteen knots on the surface smelled of fuel oil and grease. Beside them the two electric motors, with their giant storage batteries, now drove the boat while it was submerged. The batteries would need to be recharged after a few hours, and that could be done only by running the diesel generators, which meant returning to the surface. The convoy would be far out of sight by then, and U-415 could continue in peace.

The galley, a single washroom, and the petty officers’ quarters were located between the aft compartment and midships. Werner smiled when he thought of the first time, as an ensign aboard U-557, he had attempted to use the washroom, trying to master the ballet of opening and closing pressure valves in their proper sequence.

The control room in midships was overloaded with pipes and ducts, valves and hand wheels, gauges and switches. The captain had been aboard U-boats long enough to be intimately familiar with everything there, the pumps, the freshwater producer, the periscope, the magnetic compass. A covered lamp let a soft glow fall on the maps on the chart table, but the navigator had left them unattended. U-415 was on a straight course.

Captain Werner undogged the round hatch into the forward section. He nodded to the radio operator, who had nothing to do while they remained submerged; all the other bunks were occupied. One man snored loudly, and the noise echoed in the otherwise quiet boat. The captain’s corner, with a green leather mattress and a green curtain for privacy, lay up front. Executive Officer Gormann no doubt assumed Werner meant to take a nap.

Instead, he wanted another look at the deadly rockets.

The foremost compartment normally held four standard torpedoes. Now the captain stopped and stared at the sleek, ominous rockets. They had been installed in a submarine bunker at Brest on the Normandy coast. The modifications had taken months, but no other U-boat in the German fleet had weapons such as these. If he could succeed in this one mission, Captain Hans Werner and his U-415 would be remembered long after the end of the war.

The rockets, painted with alternating red and black triangles that arrowed toward the snub nose, looked similar to torpedoes, but much larger. Stabilizing vanes made of dull black carbon angled outward. The forward compartment seemed cramped with only three of them and the machinery for launching the missiles.

Captain Werner had never seen such devices fired before, though he and the exec had been tediously briefed on their operation. Werner remembered the frustrated-looking man in his gray civilian suit walking among the construction bays in the echoing submarine bunker. He had introduced himself as Professor Abraham Esau. Esau had steel-colored hair oiled back neatly, and his face looked as if it did not know how to smile. An ugly scar twisted his upper lip into a threatening expression. Professor Esau made sure he had Werner’s attention and began explaining how the weapons worked and what they would do to the enemy.

The front third of each missile had been filled with deadly radioactive dust. Neither Werner nor Executive Officer Gormann understood the details about nuclear physics, but the captain also knew that Germany had claim to the most brilliant scientific minds in the world. Germans had repeatedly won Nobel prizes for their astonishing successes. Werner could not doubt they might use their new discoveries to develop a weapon that would terrorize the Allies into immediate surrender.

His U-boat would launch that weapon.

The captain had not commanded U-415 in its previous mission, when his predecessor had narrowly escaped destruction from British depth charges. The boat had been undergoing routine structural repair in dock when Admiral Donitz forwarded the order from Reichminister Speer. U-415 would undergo new modifications, for a new mission. Professor Esau had stood on the quay at Brest, looking across the dock to where U-415 lay under the arms of two cranes lowering steel plate down to its deck.

“These three rockets will fill the enemy with terror beyond anything seen in the Blitzkrieg, or even in your earliest days with the U-boat wolfpack.” Esau spoke without turning. The exec scowled at what seemed to be an insult, but Captain Werner waited for the professor. Sounds of construction reverberated in the long bunker, and gentle lapping waves splashed against the metal hull of the submarine. Dim light slanted through the narrow windows along both walls of the bunker.

“This assault will be invisible and deadly. The Americans will have no way to defend against it, no place they can hide. It will continue its effects for years to come. A fitting lesson, don’t you think?” Esau asked.

“If it works,” Captain Werner answered.

“It will work—if you get it to your target intact.”

Now, in the foremost compartment of U-415, the rockets took up space that would normally have been filled with smaller torpedoes. As it was, since these rockets would not be launched until they reached New York harbor, the crew members did not need to keep the area ready for firing; they could use the precious storage space for piling supplies that would otherwise have cluttered the rest of the ship.

Special compartments held shells for the 8.8-centimeter cannon and the two-centimeter antiaircraft gun, but the foodstuffs could go up front with the missiles. This also meant that the crew could free up the second washroom, which was usually used for storage until midway through the mission, when the supplies had been consumed enough to clear it out. The opening of the second washroom normally provided a minor celebration after weeks at sea, but Captain Werner felt the overall morale would be better if his crew had use of both washrooms from the beginning of the voyage.

The rotting smells of damp bread and fruit hung in the air, mixed with the oil and grease of mechanical parts in the new front section. Cans, barrels, and crates of food were wedged along the wall and placed alongside the radioactive warheads. In a locked front compartment, to which only Werner had a key, were stored the most precious supplies such as butter, whipped cream, coffee, and tea, beside a strictly-against-regulations bottle of brandy, which Werner planned to open after they had successfully launched the rockets. From pipes above the rockets hung smoked hams and rolls of salami. For weeks the loaves of bread had escaped the feathery blue mold, a fact so remarkable that some of the seamen considered it a miracle.

Werner ran his hand over the rounded warhead of the black-and-red rocket. The metal felt warm to his touch. He drew back, but then checked all three rockets. Each nose emanated heat that hinted at the boiling power trapped inside. He saw the external paint beginning to show signs of blistering along the edges.

He was glad the submarine had nearly reached its destination. The captain wanted to be rid of these strange new weapons.

U-415 slid into calm New York harbor under cover of darkness. The sky was smeared with a whitish-gray overcast of spring clouds, under lit by the glow of New York City. Splashes of black night and glittering stars showed through where the overcast cleared.

Executive Officer Gormann joined the captain on the conning tower as soon as the hatch opened. Water ran off the wood planking and steel plates of the submarine’s hull. Moving under the silent power of electric motors, they had crept up the Lower Bay after sunset, through the Narrows, and emerged into the Upper Bay under full darkness.

Captain Werner drew a deep breath of the cool air and surveyed the skyline. Everyone in the city would be calm, resting, unsuspecting. The U-boat would escape out to the ocean before anyone could understand what had happened.

The exec took out his binoculars and began scanning the glittering silhouettes of lighted skyscrapers. They had only a sketched map of the area, but the landmarks were obvious. “That is their Statue of Liberty ahead,” Gormann whispered. “She is staring right at us.”

The greenish-yellow glow around the statue made it look like a leviathan guarding the way. “In a moment we will give her something more interesting to watch,” Werner replied.

The submarine glided ahead. In the distance the running lights of a small ferry boat cut across the water; U-415 kept all her lights off.

The captain thought of the last time he had headed into a port—Lorient. A minesweeper had met them at a predetermined point to lead them through the deadly labyrinth to a safe berth. Captain Werner had hoisted white pennants on a line fastened to the periscope, proclaiming the total tonnage he and his crew had sunk during their previous mission. All the crewmen had changed into their last pair of clean fatigues and combed their beards, ready to celebrate. They were coming into port, with fresh food, fresh clothes, and fresh women. A band met them on the quay; nurses and other ladies waited in crowds, holding flowers.

Their reception in New York harbor couldn’t have been more different.

Captain Werner stood beside the radar-detection gear; Gormann stared through his binoculars. “I wonder which one is the Empire State Building.”

“The tallest one, I’m sure.”

“That must be it. Do you think I can see King Kong on top of it? King Kong is Hitler’s favorite film, you know.”

“We did not come here to be tourists, Leutnant Gormann,” Werner said.

“Understood, sir.” Gormann leaned down to call into the hatch. “Prepare to stop!”

“All stop,” the captain said.

“All stop!” the executive officer repeated.

“Open rocket bay doors. Let us see if this thing works.”

Gormann nodded. “It’ll be a long, embarrassing trip back if it doesn’t.”

The seamen below unsealed the hatches, and the forward deck section of U-415 split in half, letting the red dimness of the submarine’s interior show through. The opening widened as the seamen cranked open the bay doors, sliding the deck plating aside so that the rockets sat exposed in the shadows below.

“Use the hydraulic motors,” Werner said. “Raise the first rocket. Watch what you’re doing now. We’re going to have to launch the other two in rapid succession, then get out of here. Make certain everything goes properly.”

“Aye, Captain,” one of the men said from below.

A grinding hum came from the interior as the metal platform for the first rocket rose up to the deck. The rocket itself was longer than a man, tilted up at an angle.

“Exec, will you adjust the aim point? Elevation sixty-three degrees is the optimal angle, according to our instructions.” Captain Werner looked at his sketched map of the New York area, then he pointed to three different locations. “I want them to strike approximately there, there, and there. If these weapons do what Professor Esau claims, we should wipe out Manhattan, Queens, and Brooklyn.”

Gormann walked unsteadily down to the narrower end of the deck. The harbor waters remained calm as the exec cranked the stand. “Sixty-three degrees. Captain, the front end of the rocket is very hot.”

“I know. The professor told us not to worry about that.”

Gormann adjusted the blast shield to protect the wet wooden deck, then climbed back to the conning tower. Werner called into the submarine. “All clear below. Prepare for firing.”

He heard men scrambling below in the open bay. “Exec, you may fire when ready.”

Gormann adjusted the binoculars around his neck, then bent to the controlling device installed there. He depressed the activation switch for the preparatory stage that would pressurize the fuel chambers. “You might want to duck below, sir. We don’t know how serious these flames are going to be.”

Captain Werner crouched behind the metal wall of the conning tower; the exec bent beside him. Werner said, “I am going to stay here and watch. I’ve had a few singed hairs before.” After a pause, he nudged Gormann. “What are you waiting for?”

“Firing now,” the exec said. He pushed the launch button.

A roar like a thousand blowtorches blasted the submarine’s deck. Captain Werner saw the orange glow of the flames, then he and the exec raised their heads to peep over the shielding wall just as the rocket heaved itself off the stand and rose into the air, graceful and ponderous at the same time.

Heat washed over the captain’s face, but he stood and stared as the missile rose from the U-boat and climbed into the night sky, picking up speed as it arced toward the skyline. Werner looked at his pocket watch. He could not remember when the rocket was set to detonate. Already, people on the shore must have noticed. He wondered how long it would take a patrol boat to come investigate. Werner wasn’t too worried about that, though; he knew how to man the antiaircraft guns, which would make short work of any curious vessel.

“Ready second rocket!” Gormann called down. Silence no longer mattered so much.

Werner looked at the heat shield, saw it glowing a deep red from the rocket’s exhaust flames. Even with the protection, the wet, algae-covered deck had been scorched. “Wear your gloves, Gormann.”

The exec had already pulled them on and scrambled away from the conning tower over to the rocket bay as the second missile emerged from the dimness below.

Captain Werner watched the red-orange flame of the first rocket streaking toward the skyscrapers, riding high over the Empire State Building. Suddenly, in an explosion whose sound did not reach them until a full five seconds later, the rocket burst in midair, spreading its radioactive payload in a broad yellow cloud of glittering dust. The debris continued to spread and glow like embers, crawling across the sky as the poison seeped over the city.

Some bystanders might be killed by falling shrapnel from the detonated rocket casings, but the rest would believe they had survived. They would learn in a few days how mistaken they were.

Werner continued to stare at the cloud until the executive officer interrupted him. “Second rocket ready to fire, Captain. This one is targeted on Brooklyn.”

“Good,” the captain said. “Let’s finish our work and get out of here. We have made history here tonight, Leutnant Gormann. We will return home victorious.”

The executive officer launched the second rocket.

Then the third.

U-415 had submerged and slid unseen through the Narrows before the harbor patrol could find them.

In the locked supply cabinet below, Captain Werner took out his bottle of brandy. The men were in a festive mood.

PART 4

15

Los Alamos May 1944

“Everyone in that room [at Trinity] knew the awful potentialities of the thing they thought was about to happen… We were reaching into the unknown and we did not know what might come of it.”

—General Thomas F. Farrell

“The bomb must be used [for that is] the only way to awaken the world to the necessity of abolishing war altogether. No technical demonstration… could take the place of the actual use with its horrible results.”

—James B. Conant

“Attention in the area! Attention in the area!” The site-wide public address system was rarely used, but when the speakers awoke from their silence, the message usually proved to be important.

Damn! Elizabeth glanced up from her desk, having lost her place in the intricate calculation. The other women in the computations room put down their pencils and started to chat with each other. Someone stood up and looked out the window. Three women lit up cigarettes.

“All project scientists, staff members, and other personnel are to attend an immediate mandatory meeting in the Tech Area,” the tinny voice on the loudspeaker said. “I say again…  ”

Elizabeth stared down at her paper. The equations were becoming longer and more difficult to solve, and an independent team rechecked everything, so introducing errors would be pointless—if she even wanted to keep doing that. She had already caused the death of Teller, could not force herself to assassinate Oppenheimer. She didn’t know anymore what she wanted to do. After living in the past in the constant turmoil of a bloody war for nearly a year, her own convictions had grown fuzzier.

Around her the scientists felt greater pressure as they fell behind their milestone. They had two options for making a bomb core—uranium-235, which was nearly impossible to separate from natural uranium, and the new element plutonium. But now the theoreticians had learned that their so-called gun design would never work with plutonium, something to do with ambient slow neutrons that would cause the reaction to fizzle. Frantically, they returned to the drawing board to develop new models from scratch. For a uranium core, a simple gun assembly shot one small mass of uranium into a larger one, making the combined sphere into a critical mass. For plutonium they would require something much more complicated.

Elizabeth watched her pencil roll off her desk to the floor. It gladdened her to observe their difficulties anyway. She had already proven to herself that she couldn’t do much more than observe.

It looked as if they would be receiving plutonium from the Hanford, Washington, plant sooner than Oak Ridge could provide any uranium-235. The scientists needed to have a plutonium bomb design ready immediately. Elizabeth thought she remembered the Manhattan Project scientists had worked on two different designs, but her memory of the other timeline had been getting worse with every day she remained here.

“Don’t you want to see what’s up?” It was Gladys something-or-other drawling into Elizabeth’s ear. Elizabeth had never gotten to know the woman well, content to nod at her in the morning and ignore her in the afternoon.

Elizabeth tried to listen to the rest of the message as it repeated. “They want us to go too, huh? You think they’re going to treat us as human beings for a change?”

Gladys looked at her. “You heard him—all personnel. That’s us too, Betty. It might be something exciting.”

Gladys pushed away as von Neumann entered the room from his office. He clapped twice to get their attention. With his short build, dark hair, and sharp Hungarian accent, von Neumann reminded her of a puffed-up dictator. “Quickly now. You have heard the announcement. Everyone assemble at the meeting hall. We will redo your calculations after the meeting.” He whirled and strode out the door before anyone had a chance to react.

Gladys popped her gum. “You can sit by me if you want. Harvey will probably be too busy with the other eggheads.” Gladys spent every afternoon incessantly talking or complaining about her husband Harvey, a member of the University of Chicago group.

Elizabeth turned over her sheet of calculations before leaving. “I wonder what’s going on.”

“Probably another one of Oppie’s pep talks. Harvey says he’s getting under the skin of the professional staff— the scientists, that is. Says Oppie might be pushing things a bit too much. The krauts are losing anyway, and we’re mopping up the Japs in the Pacific. We’ll never get done in time.”

Don’t be so sure, Elizabeth thought, but followed Gladys out the door, trying to lose herself among the other women hurrying to the meeting hall. She frowned at how they all acted like high school cheerleaders.

Outside, the late spring sunshine felt good; another month and the scrub oak would be full and turn the top of the mountain deep green. Elizabeth made an effort to hurry her step so that she could avoid sitting next to Gladys.

The meeting hall was nearly filled when Elizabeth reached the entrance. She had never seen so many people from the Project assembled at one place before, and this was much different from Oppenheimer’s weekly scientific colloquia. The cafeterias held only a hundred or so people; even the ubiquitous ball games, pitting the eggheads against the doughboys, pulled in no more than a few hundred bystanders. Now all the chairs were taken, and late arrivals crowded inside the doors and along the walkway.

“Miss, over here.” An Army type rose from his chair and offered it to her. She started to refuse, but then thought better of it. No telling how long the meeting might last, and she would rather be sitting down… even if it meant she would probably have to endure the young man’s shuffling his feet, blushing red, and asking her to meet him at the movies sometime.

But when she turned to thank him, he had already disappeared into the crowd. Elizabeth sat down, struck by his politeness, the sexist kind that would have always annoyed her before. But she had been gone for so long now that she had forgotten how she was accustomed to having men act. She had been caught up with working on the Gadget.

She stopped her own thoughts. Gadget. Just as they refused to call the Manhattan Project for what it was, they continuously referred to the atomic bomb as a Gadget. Dehumanizing the weapon, painting warheads pink.

A year ago her blood had boiled at the dehumanization, making her go to extremes such as sabotaging the MCG test. Five months ago she had attempted to assassinate Oppenheimer. But Jeff’s death, and her inability to harm the Project director, had killed something inside her. The simple black-and-white answers from before now seemed muddied into shades of gray.

The past few months had started to catch up with her. She didn’t know whether she herself had changed or if somehow the Project itself had wavered in its course. With everyone else at Los Alamos, she had seen the regular newsreels—colored with optimism and filled with silly propaganda, but still holding a bit of truth. She had watched World War II proceed with a horror greater than she remembered feeling about the news footage of the Vietnam war. In her mind she still recalled the horribly burned corpses of Hiroshima and Nagasaki—but now she watched other footage: the Pearl Harbor attack, the death march of Bataan, the abused POWs found in Burma. Nobody knew the full truth about the Nazi concentration camps yet.

She thought she understood her attitude change, and she accepted it with trepidation—she had immersed herself in this culture and had begun to see things from their point of view. Her daily life had started to get in the way of the larger things, the important things such as her ideals, her morals.

But Elizabeth knew deep inside that she would never change, even if it meant she had to take a different approach. History could be changed—she had already proven that. When the Germans inevitably surrendered, she would be one of the first to insist that the Gadget not be used. Many of the Manhattan Project scientists would also be very outspoken—they were the first antinuclear protesters. She could feel the backlash bubbling and waiting to be released. Graham Fox would probably be among them. She couldn’t see him in the auditorium.

Oppenheimer, standing like a scarecrow in front of the crowd, rapped on the podium at the front of the hall. Everyone quieted down. Oppie crushed out a cigarette in the ashtray and coughed for their attention. He looked as if he had been stunned. The strain showed on him more than on any of the other workers.

Elizabeth shifted her head to try and get a better view. She remembered him sneezing in the canyon, wiping his nose on his sleeve. She closed her eyes to clear the thought. As Oppenheimer waited, two men in Army uniforms struggled with a canvas, erecting a movie screen. Elizabeth sat up straight to see over the heads of the people in front of her.

Oppie leaned forward and raised his voice. “I know it’s hot, but please bear with us. We’ll have to close the doors in a moment to show a film, so the heat is going to get worse. But not as bad as what we’ve got to show you. This is extremely important.” When the murmuring stopped, Oppenheimer nodded to his right. “General Groves.”

A burly man in uniform stood up from his seat and walked over to the podium. “Thank you, Dr. Oppenheimer.”

General Groves had been given the responsibility to develop the Gadget at all costs, no matter how much money he required, how many people he needed to commandeer. Few people liked the chubby and overbearing man who demanded two hundred percent from every worker on the Project. Though the general had been in and out of Los Alamos over the past year on frequent inspection tours, Elizabeth had not actually seen him until now.

She would have to fight against Groves after Germany surrendered. She studied his lantern jaw, his crest of dark hair edged with gray, and his peppery moustache. She would have to work to convince him to do a demonstration shot rather than annihilate human beings.

That was her next chance to change things.

Groves cleared his throat and gripped the podium as if he wanted to break it. He wore his khaki dress blouse. Semicircles of sweat stood out under his arms in the heat, but he showed no sign of discomfort.

“All right, everyone on the Project! I didn’t pull you away from your work to mince words, so I’ll get straight to the point. Straight to it. You’re all aware that what you’re doing, developing the Gadget, is the most noble and patriotic act your country could ask.”

Oh brother, here it comes, Elizabeth thought. She tried to remember exactly when Germany had surrendered. Maybe that was the announcement. The war had already been going badly for Hitler, if she could believe the non-objective newsreels. She thought the war in Europe had not ended until sometime in mid-1945, but could things have been changed by her presence?

She had tried to alter events here, but her actions appeared to have had no immediate effect. She couldn’t conceive of anything she had done having repercussions around the world. Could Germany have surrendered early, thus invalidating the need for the Project? Was Oppenheimer upset now because he had not completed his Gadget in time for it to be used in this war? She forced herself not to smile. Too bad, Oppie, she thought.

Groves turned around to look at the blank screen. “They say a picture is worth a thousand words.” He pointed to his aide. “Kil1 the lights.”

As the lights went off, officers standing by the outside doors swung them shut, plunging the hall into darkness. Elizabeth saw a match flare up, then a red glow as someone lit a cigar at the front of the hall. Groves’s voice came from the direction of the cigar.

“I flew into Albuquerque this morning, direct from Washington. These films have been shown exactly twice— first to the War Department, then an hour later to the President. The rest of the country is going to know soon. We might be able to hide a town the size of Los Alamos, but we can’t possibly keep New York City a secret. Go ahead and roll it.”

A movie projector at the rear of the hall spewed a ghostly light as smoke shot up from the incandescent bulb. The makeshift screen displayed an aerial view of buildings and streets, endless rows of suburbs and identical All in the Family style houses, that showed how little New York had changed over the years. In the background, Elizabeth could see the famous city skyline, which the camera approached.

“You’re looking at reconnaissance photos from a modified Army Air Corps P-51, traveling close to three hundred knots a thousand feet off the ground. We didn’t know how safe it was to fly over the area, but we needed to get in close. We had a few dozen volunteers to go in on the ground, and doctors are being flown in from around the country.”

The black-and-white film jumped, then settled down as the aircraft soared into the air. Elizabeth caught a glimpse of what looked like a bridge—the Brooklyn Bridge?—but she couldn’t see any signs of activity. The view jumped to an overhead of downtown Manhattan and Wall Street. But again the streets appeared deserted.

“At three thousand feet, you can’t tell anything unusual. Unless you know New York.” The film jumped again. This time the view was from the plane racing not more than fifty feet above a wide avenue. Broadway? Elizabeth knew only the landmarks she had seen on television.

Gasps of disbelief and astonishment broke out in the crowd. She felt her own horror building.

No traffic moved. No pedestrians ran across the pavement. Smoke rose from cars that had crashed into streetlights. The scene looked more powerful in black and white than any color splatter movie she had ever seen. She saw a body sprawled here and there. The pictures seemed to go on forever. Then the view swayed as the plane turned tightly in the air and just missed a tall building.

“Two nights ago the Germans launched three new bombs over New York. We believe a U-boat slipped into the harbor. Only one person died from shrapnel—all three of the bombs exploded in midair. We thought they were failures. We couldn’t figure out what the point was.”

The plane made another run over a different street. The desertion looked the same.

“By the next morning a lot of people were very sick. The worst ones died within hours. The doctors didn’t have any idea how to treat them. Vomiting, diarrhea, massive skin damage like burns, hemorrhaging. Many of them died on the street, taken so quickly that they couldn’t get anywhere. That’s what you see in the pictures. Nobody wanted to go back in and get the bodies.

“Then panic set in. The mayor decided to evacuate the city. Most of the casualties occurred in the frenzy to get away.”

The film changed to a different shot of a hospital filled with moaning patients. The camera showed lines of beds, many of which held two patients. Other people lay on the floors, in the corridors. Then the scene jumped to a subway station, also filled with sick-looking people. Doctors, nurses, priests, nuns, and any other healthy-looking person tried to help the sick, but they didn’t seem able to do anything but console them. A little girl sat bawling in abject grief beside her mother, who lay wide-eyed and motionless in death; the woman’s skin looked horribly burned.

Someone got sick at the rear of the hall. Wedges of sunlight spilled into the room as several people fled outside. Elizabeth could smell vomit.

“At first we thought the krauts were using some new kind of poison gas. We sent teams in to study it. What they found surprised us all.” The film showed soldiers walking cautiously down the deserted streets, wearing gas masks, holding Geiger counters in front of them. A close-up of the counter showed the needle pushed to the top of the scale.

“The Geigers went nuts,” Groves continued. “We don’t know exactly what happened, but I think we can make a good guess.”

The picture jumped, then went black. Bright light blazed on the screen. The sound of the loose end of the film flapped on the reel, but it took the stunned operator a moment to shut off the projector.

“Hit the lights,” Groves said.

Overhead, the bulbs shone down. Army officers swung open the doors, allowing sunlight and fresh outside air to enter the room.

Groves waited a good ten heartbeats before speaking; no one in the hall moved during the wait. A few groans and outraged comments came from the audience. Elizabeth found herself drawing in short, quick breaths. Her heart raced and she couldn’t slow it down. She kept picturing the little girl screaming beside her mother in the crowded subway tunnel.

“We’ve already got an estimated five thousand dead, the ones who received a massive dose in the first day and the ones killed during the evacuation. You know as well as anyone that ten times that number will probably die within the next couple of weeks. Worst of all, New York City will not be habitable for years.”

Groves smashed his fist down on the podium and made a startling, animal sound of anger. “You have just witnessed actual, uncensored photographic evidence of the Nazi nuclear research effort. Their weapon was directed against the millions of men, women, and children in New York City. But it was also to show us how far ahead they are. They have scared the pants off of me!” He lowered his voice. “No doubt they have the capability of using it again. Whenever and wherever they want.”

A murmur swept through the crowd. Groves rapped on the podium. “All right, now listen up. You men up here on the Hill have a reputation around the White House of being prima donnas, living in your own little world and pouring two billion dollars down a rat hole while the rest of the country struggles with real problems to win this damned war. In fact, other than yourselves, I don’t think there’s more than a handful of people who actually believe you can do it.”

Groves lowered his voice. “But thank God Almighty the President is one of those people who does believe.” His voice trailed off. Then, stiffly, “If you need a pep talk after seeing that film, if you need someone to come around and kick you in the butt to get you working harder on our own Gadget, then you are in the wrong place. You’d better practice your sieg heilsl

“The Germans have hit us hard, and unless you… ‘wizards’ can come up with something and do it fast, we might as well roll over and play dead. Because I guarantee you that the krauts aren’t going to stop with New York.”

Groves motioned for Oppenheimer to stand beside him on the stage. “I don’t care how you do it—just do it. Those boys fighting in Europe need you. Our Pacific forces need you. Your country needs you—” He hesitated as his gruff voice fell to a whisper, “And I need you. This may be it. Don’t let us down.”

He abruptly strode out a side door of the meeting hall. “Dr. Oppenheimer, let me see you in your office.”

The audience sat stunned for countless moments, trying to think of what to say, how to react, and what to do. The scientists stood up and broke into heated arguments. A cacophony of foreign accents filled the room, with many of the émigré” scientists lapsing into languages other than English.

“At least there was not an atomic explosion! None of the buildings were leveled—”

“What else could it have been? Fairy dust? Something killed those people—”

“Chemical weapons?”

“No, no, no! Think of the Geiger counter readings! What about radioactive dust? Do you think it’s possible”

“But why? If they were working on their own Gadget… ”

Elizabeth stared at the blank screen; vivid memories cascaded through her mind in a jumble of terror. New York City had become a radioactive wasteland. Much worse than Chernobyl or Three Mile Island. Groves had guessed that thousands more would be dead within a few weeks, but Elizabeth knew they couldn’t be counting on all the cancer deaths in the coming years. This one attack would last for decades and decades. Even in World War II, this made Pearl Harbor look like a picnic.

But what about comparing it to her own memories of Hiroshima? Nagasaki? Those images seemed too dim now, the horrors too displaced. Was it really that different?

She squeezed her eyes shut and wished she could be holding Graham Fox again. Or Jeff.

This seemed worse man what she knew of the two Japanese cities that would be bombed. Those other occurrences had been historical events, gruesome snapshots of people who had died long before she was born.

Hadn’t Japan at least been warned, to surrender or else? As far as she could remember, several cities including Hiroshima and Nagasaki had been notified days before that an attack was going to take place. But New York—had the Nazis warned America? She tightly shook her head.

Yes, there was a difference between America and Germany—like the difference between a fencer and a mad dog. The swordsman fights with finesse and honor, but the mad dog attacks indiscriminately, savaging any target in sight and stopping only when someone puts it down.

Hitler could strike again at any time.

So what would the Project do now? They were far behind with uranium-235 separation at Oak Ridge, and the theoreticians had not yet developed an alternative to the gun concept for the plutonium weapon. It looked as if they would not develop the Gadget anytime soon.

But this wasn’t as she remembered it at all. While not an expert by any means, she did have some knowledge of the bomb program because of her protest work. The scientists were supposed to be converging on the best of two solutions, not chasing after a single concept. Not just the gun.

What was it… the names of the two devices? She knew there were two, one plutonium and one uranium. Hiroshima and Nagasaki. And they had to prove the plutonium design at the Trinity test down at Alamogordo, New Mexico. She had written down the names of the bombs on that damned sheet of paper a year ago when she had first showed up at the administration building for work.

Fat Man—yes, Fat Man and Little Boy! Two bomb designs. But why were they only pursuing the one design, when they knew it wouldn’t work with plutonium? Teller had died—did he have anything to do with them neglecting one of the concepts?

She remembered something about an… implosion scheme…

.Elizabeth pushed out of the meeting hall, leaving the crowd behind. She held her hand to shade her eyes in the brilliant sunlight. She wanted to find Graham Fox, but she didn’t know what to tell him.

She drew in a breath of pine smells and flowers that had remained in bloom late in the spring. The outdoors seemed to cleanse her, soften the guilt and hurt from the films she had just seen.

She felt all mixed up inside. Nothing was simple anymore, nothing was assured—she had not felt so devastated since Jeff had died, or maybe not since she had tried to kill Oppenheimer.

Living in the past had been predictable up to now. But the New York City attack put an entirely new parameter on how she viewed things, how she lived. And what she lived for.

How could she reconcile working for the Project? Especially when the stakes had changed so drastically? How could she reconcile not working for the Project, knowing what the Nazis might do now? And it scared her.

She turned to the women’s dorm. She needed a long walk. Some time to be alone, maybe even get back out to visit Jeff’s grave, or to Bandelier. She had avoided the place since that morning the previous December.

A memory of Oppenheimer flashed through her thoughts—watching his horse approach over the virgin snow, sighting Oppie’s angular head along the line of her rifle barrel—

“Oops!” She ran into another man wrapped up in his thoughts. Elizabeth drew back. “Sorry. I wasn’t looking where—” She looked up and reddened. “Oh, Dr. Feynman. I’m sorry.”

“Ah, please call me Dick, my dear. Allow me to get out of your way.” He made a dramatic show of stepping aside. “Especially if you’re heading for the Admin building. This just might be a good time to forge another reassignment, get out of the Gadget-building business.” He stepped aside and grinned; but the sparkle had gone from his eye.

Elizabeth lowered her shoulders. “Things aren’t going all that well, are they?”

Feynman cocked an eye at her. “Why do you say that?”

“The calculations you’re giving us. The theory group, that is. I mean, everything used to be so straightforward, calculating small variations of one design. But now the designs are changing radically, they get much smaller or bigger. And you haven’t got the right idea yet.”

Feynman looked alarmed. “You picked all that stuff up just from the numbers we were giving you?”

Elizabeth swallowed, wondering how much of the “dumb girl” charade she should keep up. “It wasn’t hard. Not if you pay attention to the lectures at the beginning of the day, and if you watch the parameters change.”

Feynman jammed his hands in his pocket. “My, my. What’s G-2 going to do when they discover we’re teaching a bunch of housewives how to build atomic bombs?”

He remained silent for a moment, while Elizabeth resented being called a housewife. Glancing around, Feynman seemed satisfied that no one was looking in their direction. He lowered his voice. “Yes, we are having some difficulty. We can’t use our main design for a plutonium Gadget, and Oak Ridge is having trouble with the isotope-separation process for uranium-235. “He looked glum.” There’s got to be a simpler way to do things.”

“Then what about the implosion scheme?” The one you’re going to use for Fat Man, she added silently.

“Uh?” Feynman frowned. “Which design was that?”

Elizabeth closed her eyes and swallowed, all too afraid of what she might be doing. “Implosion—you know, take a spherical shell of plutonium that’s subcritical, then crunch it together into a solid sphere that is critical. You can use symmetrical high explosives to do the compacting.” You’re going to do it anyway! she thought.

Feynman spoke slowly. “Betsy, where in the hell did you hear that? And what makes you think an implosion would work?”

Elizabeth opened her eyes, acting innocent again. “You’re the physicist, you tell me.”

Feynman’s eyes widened. He took his time thinking things through. Finally, he nodded to himself. “This is right up Neddermeyer’s alley.” He reached out and squeezed Elizabeth’s shoulder. “We’ll look into it. You’re pretty bright. Uh, thanks. And anytime you want a new job—”

“Right. You’ll break into the Admin building and doctor the papers for me.”

“No. Really.” Feynman put his hands on his hips. He looked serious for the first time she’d known him. “I can get you transferred out of Johnnie’s group just as easy as I got you transferred in. You’re too bright to be a cog in a wheel. I can use a good math assistant, someone to help me on these analytic solutions. Or maybe just to keep track of my notes.”

“Ah, surely you’re joking, Mr. Feynman!” She paused, then mumbled, “Never mind, you wouldn’t understand.”

“No, I’m serious. You know, helping me with my research, the stuff Oppie wants recorded?” She waited for him to drop to his knees or something. “Won’t you at least think about it?”

Embarrassed, Elizabeth set her mouth. “Why me? I’m not that good.”

Feynman let a smile spread across his face. “I don’t know. Maybe I believe in luck too much—but you’ve got something special going for you, and until I figure it out, I want to tap into it. Maybe you can really help the Project.”

Elizabeth thought quickly. Things were moving so fast. She felt she had to jump onto the bandwagon before it rolled on and left her in the dust. This wasn’t a time she wanted to be left behind—not with the timeline turning out so differently from what she remembered. “Okay.” She stuck out a hand. “See you tomorrow?”

“I’ll clear it with Johnnie. Just report to the design group tomorrow morning, my office.” He shook her hand and was off. “Implosion!”

Elizabeth watched Feynman as he ran back toward the Tech Area fence. She didn’t know whether to feel like a savior or a traitor.

16

German U-Boat 415

May 1944

“It is the sad, terribly ironic truth… that toward the end most of them knew that their cause was lost. The heroism of the warrior, who is generally naive, young, honorable and incorruptible, can never make up for a bad cause.”

—Captain Edward L. Beach, U.S. Navy

“It is an awful responsibility which has come to us, and we thank God that it has come to us instead of to our enemies. We pray that He may guide us to use it in His ways and for His purposes.”

—President Harry S. Truman

Captain Hans Werner gripped the iron rail on the edge of the deck, steadying himself though the sea remained calm. Wrapped in an old sheet, the corpse of First Watch Officer Tellmark looked like a shapeless blob of bread dough.

Two of the remaining men coughed; they appeared to be waiting for something. Werner realized he had said no eulogy yet, and he tried to concentrate, pulling his mind away from the agony in his body. In the past handful of days, he had exhausted all of the eulogies he could imagine.

“May the sea take this man and keep him. Let the currents carry him to a grand reunion with all the other brave submariners who have died in this miserable war. And may God have mercy on the rest of us.”

The other two men rolled the sheet-covered body off the edge of the deck. Tellmark made a deep, soft splash as he struck the water, then bobbed on the surface, slowly sinking. The knocking diesel engines carried the U-boat away from where the corpse disappeared.

Captain Werner had delivered sixteen similar eulogies in the past week. Another twenty of the crew lay deathly ill, retching and crapping blood into the bilges. The U-boat did not have enough bunks for them all—the men were supposed to alternate shifts, some sleeping while others worked. But out of his crew of fifty, only fourteen remained functional enough to perform their duties.

They were all dying, trapped in a metal drum the size of two railroad cars. Below, the air smelled with a fantastic stench of sickness and death.

By the time they had begun to chart their return journey across the Atlantic, away from New York harbor, the crew members all looked alike, smelled alike, acted alike. Being imprisoned in such close quarters for so long, many mannerisms, curses, and facial expressions had become identical. Each man’s individual habits became known intimately among the entire crew—how they snored, how they laughed, how they ate. They were a close team; only two had felt sick with what seemed to be a severe flu.

On previous voyages, Werner had enjoyed that supernatural rapport, that sharing of secrets no other human beings could understand. But now it worked against them, because the entire crew knew, to a man, that they were doomed. The sickness ran rampant in the great iron coffin of U-415.

Werner descended into the submarine, using each rung of the aluminum ladder. His trembling legs would not let him slide down to the deck plates as he had always done before. Inside the conning tower, three men shared a cigarette, keeping it protected from the breakers and spray that too often extinguished a smoke. The acrid smell of burning tobacco struck Werner as refreshing compared to the fetid air inside the boat.

He removed his white cap and found that clumps of his beautiful dark hair had stuck to the sweat inside. Werner had given his mother a lock of hair before departing on this voyage; she had pasted it in her keepsake book….  Most of the crew had patchy baldness, skin sores, nausea, and terrible dysentery.

His executive officer, Gormann, had been one of the first. Days before, Captain Werner had knelt beside Gormann’s bunk, whispering to him. Gray and clammy, the exec was surrounded by an awful smell. He looked as if he had been boiled alive in some caustic substance.

Gormann spoke, saying what Captain Werner himself feared. “It’s the Americans—one of their secret weapons. It is some kind of plague. They must have immunized all their own people, and now we have been infected. All of us breathed the air. How many have been struck down already? How many of the crew are as bad as me?”

Werner pressed his lips together. “Don’t worry. Rest now.”

“How many!”

“Eleven, so far. Many of the others are feeling sick. I myself seem to be feverish and ill.”

“As I thought.” Gormann let the silence hang for a long moment. Werner heard only the incessant banging of the engines, groans from sick men, and subdued conversation from the other crew members. The exec reached out a hand that clenched with spasms. “You cannot bring the boat back to Germany, Captain. You cannot bring the plague with you.”

Werner straightened. “What are you saying?”

“Do you want to do this to all of Europe? This way the Allies can wipe us out without spilling any of their own blood. It will make the Black Death look like a minor unpleasantness.”

Werner brushed Gormann’s remaining hair away from his sweat-glistening forehead. “Don’t think about that now. Just close your eyes.” The exec complied.

Werner tried to speak of something more pleasant to occupy Gormann’s thoughts. “Think about your Academy days—do you remember them? I went to the Naval Academy in Flensburg, had about six hundred in my class. After basic schooling, I went off for half a year on a small minesweeper, then rejoined my classmates by Christmas.” Werner sighed. “Already by that time four of my classmates had been killed in action. We were all nineteen. The rest of us were promoted to ensigns. Double-breasted blue uniforms—can you remember how it felt to wear one for the first time?”

Looking down, the captain saw a smile on Gormann’s face.

“When we finally got sent out on our first assignment, they packed us off in crowded train cars and made us ride through the night up to Kiel. Crammed in such a small space… I guess it was training for life aboard a U-boat, eh? We thought it would be just as Jules Verne described in his book, not like this.

“Remember all the silly things you were afraid of on your first voyage: Would your life preserver save you? How long would it take the boat to fill up with water if a depth charge cracked the hull? If you escaped from the boat at a depth of three hundred meters, could you make it to the surface before you drowned? The admiral spoke to us before we went to our boats. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘this day Germany expects every man to do his duty.’ We’ve done that, haven’t we?”

Gormann had fallen asleep, but his peaceful expression had lapsed into a half grimace.

Werner stood up, blinking fuzziness from his eyes. He held his stomach. He wished they could receive some word about what had happened to New York, if they had been successful with the rockets, or if they had sacrificed themselves for nothing.

The exec never woke again. By the next morning five other crewmembers had been incapacitated by the plague, including the radioman.

Werner himself tried to contact any nearby U-boat in the western Atlantic, but could get no response. As another day passed, he sensed the rest of the crew verging on panic. And he could do nothing to console them.

As U-415 worked its way back toward the home port, day and night, the crewmembers grew more lax in their observation. Much of the German submarine fleet had already been destroyed by Allied defenses, but the sea was still filled with enemy destroyers. Werner felt it was only a matter of time before someone spotted U-415.

He didn’t know anymore if that would be such a bad thing.

In his bunk, Werner woke from a feverish dream of his second season of vigorous training. Ice covered Pillau harbor with a layer a third of a meter thick; ice-breakers chugged back and forth to keep the channel clear for small boat traffic, for U-boats to come and go, for the exercise to take place. The training submarines went to sea and back, day and night, letting the cadets assume roles as captain or engineer. The seasoned instructors ordered crash dives, signaled emergency drills, caused accidents that the cadets would have to fix. Werner had performed well, doing everything right, but no matter how perfect his actions, in his dream the U-boat kept sinking, and he couldn’t save his crew….

Dark hair clung to his comb when he tried to make himself presentable before pushing aside the green curtain that gave the captain’s space a little privacy.

He learned that two more men had died in the night.

The boat swayed in the uneasy sea, making the men groan. Some vomited into the bilges. Werner stood under the periscope, holding on, trying to determine his best course of action. He could barely take three steps without stumbling.

It made him smile for a moment. When submariners got into port, they always had a great deal of trouble walking—not just because of the drinking binges, but because they were not accustomed to walking on solid ground that didn’t sway beneath their feet. Now the whole world seemed to be swaying.

At the navigator’s table the captain tried to write a full entry in his log, but he could no longer remember how many of his men had succumbed to the plague. He wanted to document everything, tell each symptom, tell how long it had taken them to feel the effects.

Condensing moisture dripped from the overhead pipes, splashing on the table, making everything damp. His pencil would not write well in the logbook.

Werner couldn’t understand how the Americans had developed such a terrible weapon, and how they knew that the plague would not backfire on them.

It had to be the Americans, didn’t it? U-415 had brought nothing with it, only their three experimental rocket weapons from Peenemunde. He remembered touching the warhead end of the rockets, how warm and feverish it had felt. Surely the developers would have provided protection for the U-boat crew.

It had to be the Americans.

His unsteady hand made his handwriting illegible in the log, and he soon gave up, letting himself drift off into bleary reminiscing. How long had it been since he had fun, since he had been a carefree man who enjoyed life?

He recalled coming back to Brest, or Kiel, thinking fondly of the women ready to greet them—Suzette? Maryanne? No, Suzanne! That was her name. Making love with a desperation and a sense of abandon, focusing on ignoring everything but the next second. He tried not to let any feelings of romance intrude, because all the while he was on top of her, feeling her skin against his, listening to her whispers of passion—he knew that a different man had been inside her the night before, and she would not remember his name as she whispered the same noises in the ear of someone else tomorrow.

He would be death to Suzanne now. He could never go back. Only the ocean remained for him, and its cleansing depths.

Werner wanted to die in peace and silence. Another few days had passed, and he could take it no longer. He shut off the diesel engines himself. Together with the four still-functional men, he secured the hatches of U-415 and prepared to dive, tilting the submarine at an angle that would take her all the way to the bottom. He nudged the electric motors to their full speed of nineteen knots.

The boat held only an eerie silence of impending death. Werner turned to the men who had joined him. “Gentlemen, you are relieved of duty. Your service has been exemplary. “

One man slumped into a cross-legged position on the floor plates, as if duty had been the only thing that had kept him on his feet. Two others shuffled to their bunks to die with their eyes closed. One stocky man—Werner could no longer remember anyone’s name—chose to remain at the bridge.

“This day Germany expects every man to do his duty,” the admiral had said before Werner’s first voyage four infinite years before. He closed his eyes, trying to think of women, of birthdays, of his family. He wanted bright memories.

His fondest recollection was of the Hotel Beausejour after fifty days of patrol, and the ecstasy of shaving, of standing long under the pounding spray of a hot shower, breathing deep of the steamy, clean air, and then sprawling out on the shamelessly spacious bed with its crisp white sheets. He would miss that.

Blinking, he stumbled his way toward the rear of the boat, his boat. The floor tilted from the submarine’s descent, and the effort of climbing uphill exhausted him. But Werner hauled himself through the last hatch to the engine room, where the three torpedoes waited.

The engine compartment reeked of fuel oil and grease and smoke, but now the electric engines hummed, sucking power from the batteries, turning the screw that drove the boat downward. Werner stopped, reeling as the black gulf of unconsciousness swelled around him. Intentionally, he smashed his knuckles against a bulkhead, and the stinging pain snapped him back to awareness. Nausea threatened to cripple him, but he managed to force it down.

The three aft torpedoes waited in their tubes, and it took all his strength to open their hatches. Steel-gray arrows, they looked small and familiar compared to the red-and-black rockets he had fired at New York City. These gray weapons had been his companions. They had helped him sink dozens and dozens of enemy ships. He called on them to perform one more service.

“We must all do our duty for Germany, gentlemen,” Werner whispered to the first torpedo casing. “I know you are hungry for the hull of a British ship. I’m sorry I must keep you here. It is a difficult thing to ask.”

He set the timer for the scuttling charges on all three torpedoes, then made his way downhill back to the control room.

Werner wanted someone to shout the alarm one last time, to spot an oncoming destroyer after U-415 had sunk another supply ship. They would make a crash dive and slip to safety under the waves. All his crew would be back alive and working together.

The U-boat always slid into the invisible depths while they could hear the whir of approaching ships above. They would brace themselves, knowing a spread of eight or sixteen depth charges would come floating down, racing the descent of the boat. Asdic pulses would ping on the hull like hammers trying to break in. The shock waves of exploding depth charges would send the men reeling along the floor plates, searching the hull seams for any fresh leaks. Werner would order drastic course changes, trying to fool the enemy above with a meandering course.

Sometimes it took hours or even a full day before the destroyer above gave up looking for the great raft of air bubbles gushing to the surface that would signify the destruction of a submarine. But they always gave up, and Captain Werner and his U-415 always survived.

Those had been years of glory.

The boat continued to descend, deeper than it had ever gone. At a depth of four hundred meters the hull groaned and squeaked as the underwater pressure worked to crumple the steel shell. The bottom of the Atlantic remained a long way below.

The creaking sounds made Werner think of all the good men who had died at sea. Their ghosts swam in the depths too dark for any sunlight. Did his own fallen companions wait for him even now? He thought of them swimming outside the U-boat, shadowy and formless, with tattered uniforms, accompanying his submarine, escorting it to its final resting place.

The hull plates shrieked from the strain. Somewhere in the aft compartment a rivet popped free with the force of a bullet, pinging and ricocheting three times before it clattered into the bilges.

Werner could hardly breathe. The sounds of the outside depths and the humming of the electric motors seemed to be the whispers of dead men.

He didn’t know how long it would take for the pressure to destroy the boat—five hundred meters deep now, he saw—or if the scuttling charges would detonate first.

He would know in a moment.

17

Los Alamos

July 1944

“Hitler had sometimes spoken to me about the possibility of an atom bomb, but the idea quite obviously strained his intellectual capacity. He was unable to grasp the revolutionary nature of nuclear physics.”

—Albert Speer, Nazi Minister of Armaments

“It will not be a calamity if, when we get the answers to the uranium problem, they turn out negative from the military point of view, but if the answers are fantastically positive and we fail to get them first, the results for our country may well be tragic disaster. I feel strongly, therefore, that anyone who hesitates on a vigorous, all-out effort on uranium assumes a grave responsibility.”

—Ernest O. Lawrence

Elizabeth rolled over and tried not to disturb Graham Fox. He made no sound as she moved away from him. She patted her clothes in a pile on the wooden floor beside the bed, searching for the clunky watch she had bought at the PX. Holding it up in the moonlight, she squinted to see the time.

Two a.m. Sleep had escaped her for the last three hours, but it seemed later than that. Then she noticed the second hand had stopped. She had forgotten to wind the damned thing again. Elizabeth really missed her LCD digital watch. No telling what time it really was. At this rate she’d be dragging by morning, and probably wouldn’t be able to slip back into the women’s dormitory in time to get past Mrs. Canapelli.

She had had the nightmare again, recalling the film General Groves had shown about the New York disaster. As she had expected, another twenty thousand people had died from radiation exposure in the following month and a half, but the Germans had failed to strike again, sending everyone into panicked speculation.

She still saw the low-altitude footage of deserted streets, the little girl crying beside her dead mother. It seemed so unreal. She couldn’t believe what the Nazis had done. It was inhumane, something that she had never confronted on such a scale. These people played with radioactivity, but had no fear of its dangers.

At times like this she could understand why she had told Feynman about the implosion scheme. She still had not been able to admit that to Graham Fox. She didn’t know what he would think of her hypocrisy. He grew more resistant toward the Project work day by day.

Elizabeth tried to convince herself. Would the method really have been overlooked if she hadn’t brought it up? Somehow she doubted it—the theoreticians kept dabbling with new and exotic ideas, and sooner or later they would have had the inspiration.

But would it have come in time?

It didn’t matter now. The point was that she had let the genie out of the bottle, and she couldn’t stuff the horror of nuclear warfare back inside. You can’t close Pandora’s box. If it hadn’t been Germany, then someone else would have abused the new knowledge of the atom. Before the war nuclear physics had been esoteric stuff, full of theory and empty of practical use, while geniuses strolled along under tree-lined lanes chatting about the possibilities. Nuclear Metaphysics?

If Germany did have the capability to dump radioactive dust on American cities, would they issue an ultimatum to President Roosevelt, force him to surrender? Even now Roosevelt was campaigning against Dewey for his fourth term, but the aftereffects of the New York disaster didn’t look good for him. The war continued to go badly for all sides, and Dewey’s rhetoric had grown ugly. The Los Alamos scientists muttered among themselves, but went back to work. Dewey knew nothing about the Manhattan Project. FDR’s own vice president, Henry Wallace, didn’t even know about it, unless secrecy had changed since the New York attack. If Roosevelt lost the election, the existence of Los Alamos might be in question.

But the election remained three months away. Would a change of power cause Hitler to issue an ultimatum? Elizabeth shuddered, thinking of life in America under a Nazi regime.

She rolled back over on Fox’s bed and stared at the ceiling. No wonder she couldn’t doze off, thinking about saving the world—or at least what was going to happen to it.

“Can’t sleep?” Fox’s voice was quiet. He didn’t sound groggy, so he must have been awake for a while.

“No.”

“What’s wrong?”

She answered too quickly. “Nothing.”

He rolled to the side. “I’ve been listening to you tossing and turning for the last hour.” He was silent for a moment, then reached over to caress her arm. “What’s wrong?”

Elizabeth turned so that she faced him. She could barely make out the outline of his head in the dim light. Oh, damn, she thought. She had tried to keep her thoughts about Fox detached, to prevent getting close to him. It had been more than a year now since Jeff had died.

Jeff. The memory of him seemed far away. She couldn’t even place his face in her mind. What color eyes did he have? Curly, dark brown hair, red-rimmed glasses, but his features escaped her—she just couldn’t see him.

And Fox. Sure, she had slept with him, but what did that really signify? She needed companionship, and she liked him. But that didn’t mean she shared every little thought with him. Often, Fox looked at her strangely, as if he suspected something, but he seemed to have drawn his own conclusions about who she was. She didn’t want to tell him the truth.

Too much Father Knows Best mentality filled Los Alamos—commitment, religion, obedience: Truth, Justice, and the American Way. She was a product of the eighties, after all, when everyone was in it just for themselves. You didn’t have to pledge heart and soul just to sleep with someone—she was living a way of life half a century before her time!

But sometimes it became too much for her to handle. She needed someone to talk to, and she couldn’t alienate Graham Fox. He would find out for himself soon. She bit her lip and whispered, “Feynman. I’m the one who explained to him how to make the Gadget work.”

“Certainly. Now go to sleep.” He smiled at her.

“Graham, listen to me.”

A moment passed. His puppy-dog eyes widened. “Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

Fox sat up in bed, tangling one arm in the sheet. “What?”

“I told him what was wrong, how they could get it to work.”

Fox’s breath quickened. “I never asked you how you know so much. I always thought—I mean, how could you? Can’t you see what’s going to happen now? Someone will drop the atomic bomb on Berlin. The Germans used only fission by-products when they attacked us. Many people died, yes, but it could have been so much worse! They must be just warning us that they could annihilate us anytime they like. But they haven’t! Abraham Esau wouldn’t do that! They haven’t come back with another weapon in months—what makes you think they will? But if the U.S. goes on the offensive, it’s never going to end!”

Elizabeth shook her head and tried not to listen to his reasoning, or what he had said. She didn’t know who Abraham Esau was, didn’t know how Fox could have figured out so much. “It’s not like that.”

Fox sighed, but she could still hear the anger simmering behind his words. He avoided touching her as he sat on the narrow bed. “What did you tell Feynman?”

“Nothing he wouldn’t have figured out in time.”

“What did you tell him? Is that why he wanted you as his assistant? What’s going on here? Are you sleeping with him?”

Elizabeth got up from the bed and stood naked in the warm room. She opened the blind a little to let moonlight splash across her skin. “Graham—”

Fox leaned over and grabbed her wrist. “Elizabeth, I need to know what—”

She twisted away from him. “Implosion physics, Graham. Implosion. They would have figured it out sooner or later. Until they get enough U-235, they’ll never get the gun method to work on plutonium.”

“You let Feynman know that? He’s one of the brightest men around! I thought you wanted to stop the madness too!” His voice was rising, and she let her own anger boil, feeling defensive, not wanting to hear the argument she had already had with herself.

“All I did was give them a hint, a head start.” For all she could remember, the implosion method should have been considered long before now, so somehow she had managed to change something else in history…

Fox reached up and grabbed her shoulder. His fingernails dug into her flesh. His voice came as a hiss, sounding alien to her. “You’ve destroyed any hope of us halting this insanity. Now it’s going to escalate who knows where. The war was winding down. We couldn’t take any more, but now we’ll have a whole new array of weapons to use. Wonderful, is it not? Why didn’t you tell me? I might have been able to get the information back to Germany, to keep things equal again—”

Elizabeth struggled away. She stood at the edge of the bed. Pushing her hair back, she glared at Fox’s silhouetted figure. “Let the Nazis know? Are you crazy? Look what the bastards have already done. Didn’t you see those films of New York? You don’t even know how many people are going to die of leukemia in the next decade or so! It’s not over—it’ll keep getting worse and worse.”

As if he hadn’t heard her, Fox kept his voice cold. “Elizabeth, working with Feynman will only accelerate the completion date of the Gadget.” He stood up and took a step toward her.

“Keep away from me. Want me to start screaming—or would you rather I just kick your testicles up into your stomach?” Her words shocked Fox, but she didn’t care.

She breathed deeply through her nose, feeling the adrenaline pump through her veins. Fox wanted to contact Germany? What did he mean? What did Fox think she was, a Nazi spy? Was he? Her eyes went wide and she clenched both hands to her side. When Fox didn’t move, she backed away, keeping her eyes on him.

Picking up her clothes, she quickly dressed.

“Elizabeth,” he said, “wait—we haven’t finished this.”

“Don’t come near me.” She whirled and left the tiny apartment, leaving the door wide open.

Elizabeth hadn’t seen Richard Feynman for more than ten minutes at a time in the full month she had been working for him. He’d fly into his cluttered office like a whirlwind, hand her a stack of scribbles to transcribe, breathlessly answer a question about his notes from the previous time, then get pulled away as another physicist collared him.

“Implosion is the word!” he hollered to her once as he hurried off to yet another meeting. The delay from the Oak Ridge uranium isotope-separation plants had sent the Hill into a funk. Feynman’s revelation of an implosion process for the plutonium device revitalized the Project. None of the physicists were free for more than minutes in the hectic new schedule imposed by Oppenheimer and General Groves.

This made Feynman’s notes even more crucial—Elizabeth had to transcribe scrawled shorthand that covered entire research notebooks into a coherent flow for the other Project scientists to follow. With her background in physics, she was the ideal transcriber—helped along by the fact that she was not getting the information cold. As a result, she established herself in less than five weeks as an invaluable link between Feynman’s group and the rest of the Project.

Meanwhile, she kept to herself, sitting alone at meals and making sure that Fox did not bother her. She felt totally justified in her decision to help Feynman, and her feelings could not be swayed by more rhetoric from Fox. He frightened her, now that she had seen an entirely new sliver of fanaticism peeping out from him. Or maybe she was hiding from a similar streak in herself.

Things changed—circumstances and people. In her younger days she could not have imagined anything worse than nuclear proliferation as the ultimate crime against humanity. A year ago—six months ago, in fact—she could not have foreseen herself supporting the Project to the degree she was now.

She would never believe in the bomb as the ultimate peacemaker, but now the country had to protect itself from another Nazi attack. The U.S. needed to keep the bomb as a defense, not to explode it on already-pounded Japanese cities just to show off the nifty toy they had concocted.

The cafeteria in Tech Area 1 had previously closed at eight p.m., but now stayed open twenty-four hours a day—one of General Groves’s incentives to keep the scientists working round the clock. They could work however and whenever they wanted, as long as they worked all the time.

Elizabeth’s eyes widened when Feynman dragged Oppenheimer into her work area. She felt all her muscles lock. She had never met the man face to face. In her mind she saw him riding his Appaloosa in the morning snow. Legs trembling, she started to rise when they entered.

Oppenheimer took charge; even Feynman seemed cowed in the director’s presence. “Please sit, no need to stand. Betsy, I don’t think we’ve formally met. I’m Robert Oppenheimer.”

“Dr. Oppenheimer.”

“Please, call me Oppie. Everyone else does.”

“Then call her Elizabeth,” said Feynman, “not Betsy.”

Oppie’s dark eyebrows shot up. He looked genuinely upset, as if he had not been thoroughly briefed about an important subject. “I’m sorry—”

Elizabeth extended her hand. Her skin went clammy, but she forced herself to meet the man’s eyes. “A common mistake these days.”

Oppie offered a firm grip, his fingers long. “But it’s a mistake that should be avoided. Thank you.” He tapped his pipe against his palm and looked around the cluttered office. “Dick tells me you’re doing a smash-up job for him.”

“Nothing out of the ordinary.” Elizabeth tried to behave appropriately demure.

Oppie found the edge of a desk and sat on a stack of handwritten papers she had not yet transcribed. Feynman flopped down in a chair and just smiled, showing white teeth, content to have the director do the talking. Elizabeth got the strange feeling that this wasn’t going to be one of Oppenheimer’s infamous pep talks. He sucked on his unlit pipe, looked at it, then continued in his soft voice, taking special care to pronounce every single word correctly.

“To the contrary, Elizabeth, I think it’s extraordinary to make sense out of any physicist’s notes—especially to the point of finding flaws in equations and writing a logical sequence of conclusions. And when you throw in the fact that it’s Dick Feynman’s penmanship…” Oppie pulled the pipe from his mouth. “I’d say that we’ve found a real gem in you.”

Elizabeth started to argue, but caught a glimpse of Feynman nodding. She suddenly realized she was being set up. She said slowly, “I don’t see what you’re getting at, Oppie.” She couldn’t help the edge of sarcasm in her voice; it felt like a defense against her fear of him, and her shame at what she had tried to do.

Oppenheimer set his pipe beside him on Feynman’s desk and said pointedly, “I think you were too modest describing your background, Elizabeth. A typical faculty wife never gets a scientific background like yours. It’s a shame that your records were lost, otherwise we might have spotted your experience and put you to work helping out the Project in a more meaningful manner.” He held her gaze. “By the way, what is your background? Montana State University can’t find a copy of your transcripts. They say they would have sent their entire file if the Army requested it.”

Elizabeth noticed that Feynman watched her intently. She attempted to make herself blush. She couldn’t tell if Oppenheimer was trying to frame her, to catch her at her lie. Had Feynman told Oppie about finding her breaking into the administration building a year before, falsifying her records?

“Well, I was always close to Jeff’s work—he was my husband. You probably don’t remember him, but he says he met you once or twice. He was a student at Berkeley when you were there.” Elizabeth tried to draw from all the details she had heard about the director.

“I can’t say I remember him too clearly, but I’m sure I would if I saw his picture. I taught a lot of students.”

“Jeff was pretty shy,” Elizabeth said, feeling weak inside. “Not having children gave me an opportunity to attend classes in the department. Montana State was not very strict about who audited what.” She shrugged. “I helped Jeff grade papers as well, so I guess I just picked up most of my physics background.”

“Impressive. You really should be proud of yourself.” Oppenheimer fell silent for a moment. Elizabeth glanced at Feynman; he gave her a thumbs up and grinned his support. He fidgeted in the chair.

Elizabeth pushed back her hair, adjusting a barrette that itched. “So what’s up? You didn’t come here just to compliment me on transcribing Dr. Feynman’s notes.”

“You’re right. I didn’t.” Oppenheimer stood up from the desk, looking like a gangling marionette with flopping stick arms. He started to pace about the room. “The Project has a chance to achieve its goal with this implosion concept. Our other theoreticians have solved the predetonation problem with uranium-235. Everything up here at Los Alamos is falling into place. Except we still have one problem—our liaison with the places making the material. General Groves is hot to get out to Hanford and Oak Ridge to chew some of the contractors out and get things into higher gear.”

“So why does this concern me?”

Oppenheimer shot a quick glance at Feynman, who stared at the floor. “The general needs to leave directly from here to Washington State. And he wants someone knowledgeable about the physics of the Gadget to accompany him. We’ve got everyone I can spare on this implosion scheme, and pulling any of the scientists off that project might be disastrous. We’re spread very thin here, and every man has his particular area of expertise. If I send the wrong man away with Groves, and we end up needing his experience…” Oppenheimer shrugged. “It could set back the Project, give the Nazis time to hit us again.”

“You want me to accompany Groves?” The tubby, overbearing man had rubbed her the wrong way each time she had seen him. He reminded her of a gravel-voiced drill sergeant, an impatient man always one cup of coffee behind being cured of his grouchy mood. “Um, I’m not sure I know enough about the Gadget to give him any advice.” And he probably wouldn’t listen anyway.

“You know just the right amount, don’t worry,” said Feynman. “Most people here are only concerned about their specialized part. When you’ve been transcribing my notes, you’ve been concerned with the Gadget as a whole.”

“It will be a good opportunity for you,” Oppenheimer said.

“Opportunity for what?” She felt defensiveness rise up again, some of the old annoyances that had been building for the past year. She had tried to ignore them, to adapt to the 1940s environment. “How is General Groves going to react to having a woman along with him, especially a smart woman?”

Oppenheimer looked to Feynman, trying to understand Elizabeth’s complaint. “The general usually has a woman accompanying him, his own secretary. She happens to be in Washington, D.C., at the moment, so we’ll have you fill in.”

Elizabeth scowled. “Oh boy, I get to be the general’s personal secretary. Are you sure he doesn’t want me locked in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant?”

Feynman hesitated. “You’ve done secretarial work for me here, Elizabeth. We’ll skip the barefoot and pregnant bit.”

“Is Groves going to expect me to talk when I’m spoken to, and shut up when he’s through listening to me? If I’m going along as an advisor and a personal secretary, I can do what’s required for the job. But he has to order his own meals and lay out his own bedclothes.”

Oppenheimer hesitated. “The general is a busy man… ”

Elizabeth only glared at him with an icy expression.

“I told you, Oppie,” Feynman mumbled out of the corner of his mouth. Then he reached out to pat Elizabeth’s arm. “You’ll be General Groves’s technical point of contact. It’s an important spot, and that’s your duty. You and he will have to work out the details, but we’ll warn him about some of the things he’ll have to do by himself.”

“And he calls the scientists prima donnas!” Elizabeth said.

“Dick will prep you the next twenty-four hours before you leave,” Oppenheimer said.

Elizabeth stood and walked to the window. The morning sun had fully risen, bathing the mountain mesa in fresh light. Sounds of people hurrying to their jobs in the Tech Area were tempered by the birds chattering to each other. As she glanced up the hillside, she saw a sudden movement—a white-tailed mule deer bounding out of sight. She would miss this place. But it might be good to be away from Graham Fox for a while.

“How long am I going to be gone?”

“You’ll leave in about a week, by train from Albuquerque,” Oppenheimer said. “Total travel time will be a month, maybe two. The general needs to spend time at Hanford and at Oak Ridge. You have to take a train everywhere, or a private car. None of us is allowed to fly anymore; airplanes are considered too dangerous, and we’re too valuable to the country to risk it.”

“Elizabeth.” Feynman spoke from behind her; his voice softened. “We don’t really have a choice. I didn’t want to ask you to do this—heck, I’d rather have you here keeping me straight—but you’re really the best person we have.”

Elizabeth blinked, stunned at the rapid change of events. And all because of an offhand comment to Feynman. Or was it? Would this have happened anyway? Groves was out here because of the Nazi bombing—but would he have decided to go on this little trip if her implosion scheme had not surfaced? She did not want to be thrust into such a pivotal role. She had already done far more than she had intended.

Elizabeth breathed deeply. All she saw in front of her was the film of the P-51 racing close to the ground, and the deserted streets of New York, overlaying remembered photographs of burned and mutilated corpses from the Japanese atomic bomb blasts. What was that saying? A person could not serve two masters, lest she despise one and hate the other. Telling Feynman about implosion was one thing—she didn’t take an active role in the weapon development—but giving direct technical advice was an entirely different matter. Now she could see why Fox felt betrayed. But there was no other way.

“Let’s get started,” she whispered.

18

Hartford Engineering Works, Washington

August 1944

“On the day I learned that I was to direct the project which ultimately produced the atomic bomb, I was probably the angriest officer in the United States Army.”

—General Leslie R. Groves

“We came to recognize that this substance [plutonium], which up to then one had never seen except through its radioactivity, would be fissile. This conclusion was soon to lead to a preposterous dream: by means of a neutron reactor such as never before existed, manufacture kilograms of an element never before seen on earth.”

—John A. Wheeler

“Get your own damned pot of coffee,” Elizabeth said.

General Groves had grated on her nerves from the beginning. After ten hours beside him on the train, Elizabeth had all she could do to keep her temper in check. She didn’t turn away from the night-blackened window of the streamliner as it sped with muffled clacking along the tracks.

She saw the reflection of Groves’s astonished expression, then she watched it change to one of outrage. “I— Are you questioning my orders?”

Now Elizabeth turned to him. The situation struck her as so funny she had to control a giggle inside of her. “I’m not in the Army, General, and I’m not a waitress. You can’t just order me. Slavery was abolished in the 1800s, you know.”

Groves snapped shut the manila folder of papers on his lap. His jowls trembled as he tried to find words. The smoldering cigar in his hand spewed out stinging smoke. His eyes looked bloodshot, and his chestnut-and-gray hair was disheveled. “I brought you along, Missy, in order to—”

“To be your technical advisor about some parts of the Project. That’s what Feynman and Oppenheimer crammed me with all night. And my name is not Missy. You can call me either Ms. Devane or Elizabeth.”

Groves sat speechless. Elizabeth enjoyed it very much, but decided she had made her point. “However, I think I’ll go get us a pot of coffee. I could use some myself.”

She got up and went looking for the conductor. Returning from the dining car, Elizabeth carried a tray with a silver coffeepot and two china cups. She set it on the small courtesy table and fixed herself a cup. “You can pour your own, General.”

Groves thrust a manila folder at her. “If you’re going to act like my technical advisor, then you’d damn well better get your facts straight. Read this. Memorize it. It’s all about Hanford and the plutonium plant.”

He reached for the coffeepot, and she sat back in her seat. In the folder she found black-and-white aerial photographs of the central Washington desert, an enormous sprawling complex of long brown barracks flanked by occasional Quonset huts. Another photo showed gigantic buildings, water towers, smokestacks, power lines, all erected in the middle of a barren wasteland.

“Did you get any cream and sugar?” Groves asked.

“No. I take mine black.” She didn’t look up, but she heard him mutter to himself.

The pages of text had been typewritten on an old manual machine with a faded ribbon. She could see marks from erasures and scribbled-in corrections.

Six hundred square miles of land in the middle of the flat Richland valley had been deemed by the Department of Justice as “necessary to the public interest,” and appropriated en masse. Fifteen hundred residents had received eviction notices from the government—most of the people had been farmers, or veterans who had settled there after World War I; many were offered jobs in the burgeoning Hanford Engineering Works, where construction began on a scale that would have made Egyptian pharaohs proud.

The construction numbers staggered Elizabeth. 45,000 workers, 11,000 pieces of heavy machinery, 158 miles of railroad tracks, 386 miles of roads, 1177 buildings. She shook her head. The bigger numbers were difficult to comprehend—40,000 tons of structural steel, 780,000 cubic yards of concrete, 160 million board feet of lumber. All for an installation that had magically appeared out of nothing in the middle of sagebrush and emptiness!

She read accounts of difficulties the Hanford management, run by Du Pont as a contractor, had had with rowdy workers, the brawls, the drunkenness. The quantity of beer consumed in the construction camp was greater than in the entire city of Seattle. The camp bars had special windows that allowed security forces to lob in containers of tear gas whenever the workers got out of hand; paddy wagons hauled unconscious drunks off to a holding area until they sobered up enough to go back to work.

She read documented complaints from labor unions about the working conditions, about the lack of amenities, about the poor transportation services. Apparently everyone had to ride in dilapidated buses out to the reactor construction sites, which were no closer than six miles and often as far as fifteen miles from the main camp. To encourage productivity, the Du Pont management had chosen the buses in worst condition and used them for the last runs in the morning and the first runs in the evening; that way, the last to arrive at work and the first to leave were forced to suffer the worst ride.

The whole place sounded like a Wild West mining town. “A charming vacation spot,” Elizabeth muttered to herself. She watched a feathering of ripples on the surface of her coffee as the train shuttled along.

Groves had fallen asleep with papers in his lap, his black coffee untouched. It surprised her that he didn’t snore.

The dry air smelled dusty when they disembarked from the train at Richland, Washington. The sunlight bore a yellowish tinge, reflected up from the barren land.

Elizabeth looked around, blinking sleep from her eyes. She felt stiff and uncomfortable from the hours on the train, but Groves stepped down, clasping his briefcase to his side. His khaki dress uniform had wrinkled, but the general himself looked supercharged.

“General!” a man called. “General Groves, over here!”

Groves turned and walked over to a younger, thin man, also in military uniform, standing on the platform. The man smiled behind a pair of dark sunglasses while snapping a salute. Elizabeth followed Groves, carrying her overnight satchel.

“Fritz! I didn’t expect you to come out here yourself.” Groves tightened his voice and returned the salute. “Don’t you have anything better to do? I didn’t leave you in charge of all this just to be a chauffeur.”

“Please don’t call me Fritz, sir.”

“If you didn’t get so annoyed about it, nobody would bother.”

The two men amazed Elizabeth by not slowing for a moment. They talked as they met, then moved along at a half run. The younger man turned and held out his hand to her, still walking away from the train. “New secretary, General? I’m Lieutenant Colonel J. T. Matthias, ma’am.”

“Not much of a secretary,” Groves snapped.

“Technical advisor, at the moment,” she answered, taking his hand in a curt grip. “Elizabeth Devane. The general is upset because I wouldn’t read him a bedtime story.” Matthias seemed to have trouble hiding his shock.

The colonel took Elizabeth’s satchel and packed it in the back of a dusty jeep parked alongside the Richland station. Groves kept hold of his own briefcase. Matthias wiped a finger along the grime on the windshield. “Just had the damn thing washed this morning.”

“You picked this place, Fritz. Put up with it.”

They drove out, bouncing as Colonel Matthias turned sharply over the embankment to the main street. They left the outskirts of the city of Richland and struck north along a straight road that the horizon swallowed in the flat distance.

The Hanford Engineering Works lay twenty miles away from Richland. All signs of civilization fell away, plunging them into a wasteland of sagebrush and sand that seemed to stretch forever. The sky looked like an inverted blue china plate, with a thin crepe of high clouds. The aquamarine path of the Columbia River curled across the desert; untended orchards and farmland broke the monotony. Far, far in the distance, she could see a green-gray haze of mountains.

Groves raised his voice above the breeze whipping over the windshield. “I plan to stay a week or so and get everything knocked into shape. What’s going on? You didn’t tell me why you came to meet me yourself.”

“Well, General, we got the reactors completed ahead of schedule—and you know how tight the schedule was in the first place. I think what the Nazis did to New York got everybody quaking in their socks. These workers don’t have the tiniest idea what we’re doing at the plant, of course, but they think this must be some pretty big project.”

“When are we going to start getting usable amounts of plutonium? My boys at Los Alamos are waiting. They’ve got a hot new idea of how the plutonium Gadget might work”—Groves looked at Elizabeth grudgingly—“thanks to Miss Devane here.”

Matthias grinned. “Well, we had to make sure all the safety systems were installed in the reactors, but they’ve been cooking for more than a month now. The plutonium-separation plants are up and running. All remote-controlled.”

“Any other troubles? Out with it! I can see you waffling.”

Matthias stared ahead at the road. “Nothing out of the ordinary, sir. Just handling some of the men. Yesterday afternoon all 750 of our plumbers went on strike. I was up salmon fishing at the mouth of the Columbia—my only day off in a month—but I got called back. It’s a mess. They’ve been whining to their union.”

Groves’s face turned a deep red. “Strike! This is wartime, dammit! They can’t strike.”

Matthias seemed haggard, but Elizabeth saw the hint of a smile behind his eyes. He looked at his wristwatch. “They’ve brought part of the construction work to a standstill. I’ve called a meeting with the strikers at, um, nine o’clock this morning. Half an hour from now. I was hoping you might speak to them, General.”

Groves seethed on the seat of the jeep. “Just drive, Fritz!”

Elizabeth and Lieutenant Colonel Matthias stayed out of Groves’s way as he charged into the Hanford theater. All 750 strikers had gathered there, grumbling and looking ugly. Many had been drinking, and Elizabeth saw a brawl about to happen, or perhaps murder. On the door and walls, people had put campaign posters for presidential candidate Dewey, looking sincere with his short dark hair parted in the middle, his black eyes, his bushy brown moustache. Someone else had drawn a large caricature of Franklin D. Roosevelt.

“Sieg heil, you Nazis!” Groves shouted as he walked onto the stage. “Yes, I mean you! Every one of you! What the hell do you think is going on here?”

He paused for the barest second, just enough for the first instant of an outcry, but then he raised his voice, using the microphone this time so that his words drowned out all other noise. “You are interrupting a project that could save the lives of a great many of our servicemen. I’m sure that most of you are patriotic Americans, but I wish I could find the dozen men responsible for this outbreak, and send them packing to Germany where they belong!”

The auditorium echoed with a storm of protests, but the general weathered it without flinching. “You have complaints? You don’t like working conditions here? My heart aches for you—it really does—and I’m sure all our soldiers getting shot in the Pacific would sure hate to be in your shoes.” He found a podium and pounded it.

“In case you haven’t been watching the newsreels, there is a war going on! You’re part of it here! Men are dying by the thousands—no, hundreds of thousands—and you have a chance to end it all if this project works out!”

He lowered his voice as the striking plumbers became quieter. “Now you just think about your complaints and write them down. You think about all our men lying at the bottom of Pearl Harbor. You think about all the good soldiers who died alongside the road on the Philippines during the death march of Bataan. Then you write down your complaints and get them to me. I’ll see that everything’s taken care of.

“Oh, I forgot to introduce myself. I’m General Leslie Groves. I’m in charge of this whole mess. Everything. I can cut wages by half. I can cut off all alcohol supply. I can make things better, or I can make it worse. It just depends on whether you cooperate. Now get back to work!”

Groves stalked off the stage to where Elizabeth and Lieutenant Colonel Matthias stood waiting. Elizabeth could hear an uncertain, not-so-outraged tone in the grumbling of the striking plumbers, and she didn’t want to stay around in case their mood changed.

“Thank you, General,” Matthias said.

“Let’s get out of here. Show me those damned separation buildings you’re so proud of.”

Ugly. Elizabeth could think of no better word. The Queen Mary separation plant stood like a long, stretched shoe box made of blotched concrete. Windowless, the narrow building sat in a great basin of scrubbed dirt, barren of anything but a few weeds. The jeep’s tires kicked up dust on the worn dirt road as the vehicle bounced along.

Control shacks, power lines, and a single tall smokestack ran toward the prisonlike complex. A thin humming hung in the air. Matthias held open the door of the control bunker for Elizabeth.

“I’ve asked Raymond Genereaux to meet us here,” he said. “He designed the separation plants for Du Pont. He’s in charge of everything here, and he could probably give you a better overview of the process.”

Inside, the air became hot and stifling, smelling of grease and cigarette smoke. Naked yellow light bulbs made the interior of the control bunker look like the belly of a submarine. “Ray, you’ve got visitors!” Matthias called.

They went to a bustling control room with a dozen operators working the panel for big machinery. A tall engineer stepped toward them, extending a hand to the general. The yellow light made Genereaux’s hair look paler, his blue eyes appear greenish. His expression was serious. “General Groves, I hope you will find everything satisfactory here.”

He led them toward the crowded control works. The brusque-looking men there remained silent, concentrating on their work with a dedication that convinced Elizabeth they had been instructed how to act around the general.

“Because everything must be remote-controlled,” Genereaux said, towering over one man who looked very nervous at his station, “we must watch all activities through a special monitoring system we developed. It uses television cameras—we find it very effective.”

The grainy TV pictures looked dim and distorted, but Elizabeth could make out the general images of the tomblike interior. On the grainy image she saw long lines of processing cells with a metal pier standing beside each one. Garish lights shone down on everything, showing open corridors where no human being could ever walk again. She imagined what it must have been like for the last person to close the door and seal the newly constructed building, knowing the place was about to be filled with radioactive poison.

“Using mechanical lifts, we take the irradiated uranium slugs and put them underwater. The slugs are still glowing because of the radioactivity. We need to take them to a depth of thirty feet. We operate remotely from here, every step of the separation process.”

He tapped one of the smeared monitor screens. “This is one of the first practical uses ever made of television. We had to redesign the optics so we could use a microscope through the water. Our original glass lenses all turned black from the radiation, and we had to come up with plastic replacements. So far we have overcome all obstacles, General.”

Elizabeth pondered the irony of men designing an atomic bomb with a technological background that could barely make a television work.

“Good,” Groves said, “so when do we get the plutonium?”

Genereaux looked to Matthias. The lieutenant colonel opened his mouth to answer, but suddenly the windowless control bunker plunged into blackness. All power stopped, the television screens winked out, the yellow bulbs faded-just for an instant as Elizabeth saw colors dancing in front of her eyes—then everything switched back on.

An alarm sounded. The control workers scrambled over their panels, looking at blinking lights, old analog gauges and monitors. The television picture skirled with a horizontal band of interference, then straightened out.

“What was that?” Groves demanded.

“One moment, General,” Genereaux said, checking his monitor panel. Matthias didn’t even answer, but grabbed a clunky black telephone. Groves scowled.

“It was less than a second,” Elizabeth said. “A blip in the power.”

“Makes all the difference in the world,” Matthias said around the telephone mouthpiece, then shifted his concentration as someone answered the other end. “It’s Matthias,” he said, “tell me. Quick!” He paused to listen. “Oh, damn! Well, I mean it’s good, I suppose, but dammit anyway!” He scowled. “Everybody okay? All right, get moving. I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

He slammed the phone back down. Groves stood waiting. Matthias didn’t hesitate, didn’t try to make excuses. “Something cut the main power line between Bonneville and Grand Coulee. Backup power came on in about a fifth of a second, but that was still too long. It triggered the emergency systems, and all the reactors shut down. Shut down!”

“Well, get them running again!” Groves said.

“We will, but it’ll take days.”

Groves closed his eyes and pounded on the control console hard enough to make parts rattle. Elizabeth looked at the TV monitors and thought of the deadly forces kept so precariously contained throughout the entire Hanford site. “Aren’t you at least glad all the safety systems kicked in as they were supposed to? You probably didn’t test them out, with the slapped-together way you’re doing everything on the entire project. If the reactors had gone out of control, you could have had a major disaster here.”

Groves narrowed his eyes at her. “There are times when I really don’t like your attitude, Miss Devane,” he said. “This is one of them.”

“I’m just giving you technical advice.” She knew Groves couldn’t conceive of a disaster like Chernobyl, and she felt sorry for him.

The general looked as if he wanted to order her to drop to the floor and do push-ups. Instead he redirected his anger toward Matthias. “Find out what caused the power outage. I want to see it myself. And make sure it doesn’t happen again.” He strode toward the door, a mass of clenched muscles. Then, remembering what he was expected to say, he turned toward the control room workers. “Keep up the good work, men.”

Two days later the jeep bounced along the rough desert surface, following the web of power lines strung from pole to pole across the endless flat. Sandstorms had long since obliterated any trace of a road alongside the power poles and had covered all potholes, but Lieutenant Colonel Matthias managed to find every single one of them.

Elizabeth swayed, feeling seasick. Her back and buttocks throbbed. She wanted to snap at something, yell at someone, but she kept her silence. Beside her in the back of the jeep, General Groves looked even angrier than she felt.

They had been driving for an hour and a half. The dust and heat of the central Washington desert made even a few minutes in the open jeep miserable. Elizabeth had seen no markers, but Matthias seemed to know exactly where they were. He turned around from the steering wheel and raised his voice over the grind of the engine. “Should be right up here, General. You’ll find it interesting.”

Groves wiped a ham like hand across his mouth, smearing dust away from his lips. “It better be. I’m starting to wonder whatever caused you to pick this place, Fritz. Didn’t you have any better alternatives?”

“Please don’t call me Fritz, sir.”

Elizabeth turned and shouted toward the general, “What did you mean about him picking this place?”

“Fritz went out on a site-selection tour for the plutonium works. We gave him a handful of likely choices for the installation. He chose Hanford. He had worked with me on building the Pentagon, and he offered some advice on the gaseous-diffusion plant in Oak Ridge. I trust his judgment.”

Matthias brought the jeep to a stop so suddenly that the back wheels slewed to the left. “Almost passed it. Between these two poles up here.”

“What can you see of the explosion?” Groves asked.

“You’ll find out in a minute.” Matthias climbed over the side of the jeep and turned to offer his hand to Elizabeth.

“Not necessary,” she said, and scrambled after him. Groves, with his girth, needed the help more.

Matthias took off his sunglasses, swiped them across the front of his khaki shirt to brush away the dust, then planted them back on his face. Sweat caused the fine sand to stick to his forehead and cheeks. “Follow me.”

He trudged toward the nearest wooden power pole, avoiding mounds of scrub grass. Groves and Elizabeth came after. She could already see the blackened blasted mark on the ground, the gashes in the wood, and the shine of new electrical connections above. Small chunks of shrapnel lay scattered over the ground.

“We got the primary wiring rigged again in half a day,” Matthias said as he strode around the burned area. “This is the power line between Bonneville and the Grand Coulee dams. The Hanford Engineering Works installed special safeguards just so we wouldn’t lose power completely. I guess somebody must have thought a fifth of a second switching time was acceptable.”

“Make sure it doesn’t happen again,” Groves said. “Find out who made that assumption and chew his ass. How long is everything going to be out of commission?”

“Three days, sir. Everything shut down, all safety systems kicked in just like they were supposed to. Sorry, sir.”

“Three days! For a fifth of a second blip?” Groves kicked a melted piece of metal from the sand. “Tell me what happened here.”

Matthias cleared his throat and straightened his sunglasses again. “The shrapnel is what’s left from a small thermite bomb. We also found some mechanism and tattered pieces of rice paper nearby in the desert.”

“A Fugo balloon?” Groves rolled his eyes. “Good God, what luck the Japs have!”

Elizabeth bent down to look at the scraps of slagged metal. “What’s a Fugo balloon? What are you talking about?”

“Fire balloons, a present from Japan,” Groves said.

“The Japs launched what must have been thousands of them,” Matthias explained. “Rice-paper balloons carrying fire bombs. They go up on the winds at about forty thousand feet, drift along the air currents, over to the United States. We’ve found a few intact over the past month or so—they seem to have a system of weights and altimeters that keeps them in the jet stream. When they’re over the U.S., the balloons explode their bombs, like this one did.”

“How come we never heard about this?” she asked. “Why weren’t people warned?”

“The first couple hit in remote parts of Montana and North Dakota,” Matthias said. “Nobody noticed except for a few local small-town newspapers—but the Jap press made a big deal of the stories, so we know their spies are reading even our dinkiest hometown rags. We stopped publishing any word about it.”

“The Japs don’t understand just how big this country is,” Groves said. “They can’t beat us by lobbing a few balloons at random across the entire western half of the United States. They just got lucky here, damned lucky.” He picked up a chunk of melted shrapnel, swaying as he bent his large body over. He inspected the lump, then hurled it out into the desert. “I’ve seen enough.”

He strode back to the jeep, moving with swift determination that looked awkward on him. “If that’s the best damned secret weapon they can come up with, we don’t have to worry about the Japanese. Come on, Fritz! I’ve only got another few days here before I catch a train to Oak Ridge.”

19

Oak Ridge, Tennessee

September 1944

“We have spent more than two billion dollars on the greatest scientific gamble in history—and we have won.”

—President Harry S. Truman

“I feel immensely cheered and braced up. Oak Ridge is the largest, most extraordinary scientific experiment in history.”

—Secretary of War Henry L. Stimson

Despite all the priority General Groves commanded, despite the Manhattan Project’s AAA war status to get every supply at the soonest possible moment, the streamliner train still took forever to get from one side of the country to the other.

Elizabeth had visited other parts of the U.S. before, but had mostly divided her time between California and New Mexico. She had flown in a plane wherever she vacationed—but as the passenger train moved across endless miles of desert, mountains, plains, she began to get a conception of the vastness of the United States. Seeing this, she thought how ludicrous the Japanese plot had been to drop untargeted balloon bombs on random sites, thinking to cause important damage.

Now that she had established her working relationship with General Groves, Elizabeth decided to slacken her hardline approach and be more cooperative. She had made her point, and Groves seemed uneasy enough around her that he watched his step more than he normally would.

So she helped arrange connections for the trains, working to avoid long delays and to determine the best route to get him to Tennessee. The two of them sat and talked sometimes; Groves ignored her often; he dictated letters; he smoked his cigar. She stared out the window at the 1944 landscape.

The two of them could have flown to Oak Ridge in a day, but Groves refused to risk himself or any of the Los Alamos scientists to the less-safe airplanes. “Listen, Miss Devane, every one of those scientists—and myself too— are vital national assets right now. We are needed for the war effort. You may not comprehend this yourself yet, but we will change the history of the world by what we do.”

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. She knew that more than he did himself.

“I won’t even let the scientists drive themselves around,” the general continued. “One day when I rode with Dr. Lawrence up in the Berkeley hills, he was gesturing with both hands and wrapped up in his thoughts, talking to me and paying no attention to the road. The car was weaving back and forth—a few more feet and we would have gone over the hillside. For some of these eggheads, just letting them drive is dangerous. And I can’t let them do anything dangerous. I obtained a chauffeur for him that afternoon, and all the top scientists got one too.”

Groves puffed on his cigar. “For us, taking a plane is dangerous. We sit here on the train, and we take as long as it needs to take. Besides, we’re getting work done right here.”

Elizabeth thought of how she would rather be back in Los Alamos. But then she recalled her last fight with Graham Fox, and how much she had changed in the fifteen months she had been trapped here in the past. Her former life seemed unreal to her. She tried not to ponder it often.

Groves settled back in his train seat, sucked on his cigar, and dictated a letter. Elizabeth scribbled as fast as she could; she had never learned shorthand.

“I’ve done a lot of things,” the general said later in conversation as the sun set across the hilly farmland of Indiana, “but this is going to be my crowning achievement. I’ve seen duty in Hawaii, Europe, and Central America. I built the Pentagon, for God’s sake, but nothing compares to this… this dream. Two billion dollars’ worth, and we’ve only got a lot of construction and exhaustion and receipts to show for it. No Gadget yet.”

Elizabeth worried for a moment that he might ask about her own background, and she would have to make up a story again. But Groves had never shown any interest before, and he didn’t now. He seemed preoccupied only with himself and his project. He had no real conception of what he was starting—and Elizabeth no longer had any idea how it would all turn out. Too much had changed.

Groves stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray beside his seat in the coach. Elizabeth tried to open the train window to let in some fresh air, but the catch would not work.

The general opened his briefcase and stared at its contents. He spoke as if finally deciding to break news to her. “The real reason we have to get to Oak Ridge when we do is to be on hand for a very special inspection. It seems one of the congressional ninnies, Albert Engel from Michigan, is making a stink about all the money we’re spending and the funny way we’re covering up our expenses. He thinks I’m committing a major-league fraud on American taxpayers, and he’s making public noises about it.”

Groves sighed. “Just what we need—some congressman calling all sorts of attention to a billion-dollar secret war project we’ve been working on for years. Why not just send a typed notice to the krauts?”

Elizabeth looked at him. She had not considered the funding before. “You mean all this work, all that money, and nobody in Congress knows about it. Nobody authorized the expenses?”

“Roosevelt authorized them. He’s commander-in-chief, it’s wartime, and he considered it his own prerogative. Oh, Secretary of War Stimson and a couple others have met with the House Speaker, the Majority Leader, and the Minority Leader about it, explaining the Project’s urgency and all that. They accepted the explanation and they agreed not to worry about it until after the war. But you can’t tell everybody. And trying to convince Congressman Engel to keep his mouth shut just makes him yap more. Especially now with the election only a couple months away, with Dewey ahead in the polls, anybody’s looking for a way to shoot down the people in office.” Groves ground his cigar stub into the ashtray once more.

“So what is this inspection at Oak Ridge?” Elizabeth asked.

“Secretary Stimson is traveling down with Engel. I’m supposed to be there as head of the whole Project to show them around, tell Engel as little as possible, but impress the hell out of him.”

“I thought we were going to check on uranium production?”

“Well, that’s the main reason anyway. Stimson shouldn’t be traveling anywhere. His health is so bad he can hardly walk. He’s got to use a cane. We had new ramps installed all over the place at Oak Ridge, then polished all the doorknobs, cleaned all the windows, swept all the sidewalks. Of course, none of the Oak Ridge folks know Stimson is coming. Half of them think it’s FDR and that the ramps are for his wheelchair.”

Groves looked at her with his pale eyes. He puffed out his cheeks and spoke in an almost human tone. “So please cooperate and help me out here with whatever I need. This is important.”

Elizabeth frowned and realized that Groves actually seemed intimidated by her. “Okay, I will,” she said. “But don’t get used to it.”

Late summer left the Tennessee hills verdant and filled with insects, most of which bit or stung. The air was rich with humidity that made Elizabeth sweat just from the effort of breathing. Her gingham dress clung to her and itched. She had rolled down the passenger-side window of the limousine, but even the stirred breeze didn’t help as the motorcade climbed the hill.

In the back of the limousine rode General Groves, dressed in a clean and freshly pressed uniform, taking up more than his share of the seat. Next to the general sat the gray-haired Secretary of War, Henry Stimson. Stimson’s skin looked ashen, and his pale moustache emphasized the sharpness of his hawkish nose. Stimson laid his cane across his bony knees and rode with an expression of discomfort on his face. Directly behind Elizabeth, Michigan congressman Albert Engel sat making nervous small talk with his two companions. The balding, red-faced representative looked as if he had somehow gotten in over his head by questioning the Manhattan Project.

In the backseat General Groves attempted to explain some of the physics behind isotope separation. Elizabeth listened with a bemused smile on her face as he simplified the concept to the point of ridiculousness, but neither Stimson nor Engel appeared to be grasping the science, nor did they seem to care. When Groves described the atomic nucleus, comparing hydrogen and helium, Stimson perked up and interrupted. “Helium? That word comes from Helios, the Greek sun god, doesn’t it?”

Groves stumbled on his words for a moment, then agreed, though he plainly couldn’t see the relevance of the comment. “Yes, I believe helium was first discovered in the sun.”

Stimson formed his thin lips into a smile and nodded as if pleased with himself. He had apparently not understood anything else. But then, Elizabeth realized, Stimson probably didn’t need to understand. He had given Groves the responsibility of bringing the whole Project together, and he trusted his choice.

Meanwhile, the Oak Ridge driver tried to make small talk with Elizabeth, working too hard to catch her eye and then drawl some inane comment about the weather or about his local baseball team. The man’s words came out so slowly in his Southern accent that Elizabeth wanted to shake his cheeks and knock the rest of the sentence out long before he ever got to the verb.

She looked out the front windshield instead, at the bug specks all across the glass. Butterflies flew about in the pine, oak, and poplar trees; fluffy seeds gusted in the breeze. The driver had pointed out the dogwoods that would be bursting with pink or white flowers in the spring. To the west she could see the bluish hazy line of the Cumberland Mountains, to the east were the Great Smoky Mountains. Below the road the meandering Clinch River wound around the base of the ridge.

Nineteen miles from Knoxville, Black Oak Ridge had been selected by Groves himself as the first major site for the atomic program because of its isolation, its pleasant climate, and abundant water and electrical supply, thanks to the Tennessee Valley Authority dams. Few locals lived in the area, yet the site was easily accessible by train and road. The enormous construction project here had revitalized the flagging rural economy.

When the driver topped the ridge and drove out across the sprawling complex, Congressman Engel leaned forward and spoke to no one in particular; his words rang in Elizabeth’s ears. “Good Lord!”

Stimson cackled and slapped his cane on the back of the limousine seat. “Now do you see what all the money’s being spent for, Albert?”

Groves spoke in a smug voice. “Actually, this is only the K-25 plant, just one of the major facilities we have here. The entire complex is on 54,000 acres.”

“But it’s… huge!” Engel said.

The sight astonished Elizabeth as well. The building sprawled in front of them, shaped like a squared-off U half a mile on a side, four hundred feet wide. It appeared as ugly as the buildings at Hanford, sinister and gray, like a fortress with tiny windows along only the top floor.

Groves smiled. “We believe it’s the largest single building in the entire world. Shall we step outside the car? You can comprehend the size better.”

Groves opened the car door himself and stood. He extended his large hand to help Stimson climb out, slow and careful. Congressman Engel got out the other side and stood, gripping the edge of the car. The driver waited, pleased to have a chance to talk alone with Elizabeth, but she got out of the car as well, staring down at the gargantuan building.

As she smelled the medley of forest odors, she could hear a whining hum that throbbed in the air, pitched just at the edge of hearing. The plant was operating at its full capacity.

“We use K-25 for our gaseous diffusion work with uranium,” Groves said. “Like I described it in the car, we take a uranium hexafluoride gas and pump it through three thousand separate filter stages, all in a row inside that one building. The filter material is so fine that it can preferentially allow uranium-235 atoms, the lighter isotope, to pass through a little bit easier than the heavier isotope uranium-238.

“But the uranium hexafluoride is extremely corrosive. None of the piping or valves in that entire building are made of steel or conventional alloys because they’d get eaten away within hours. Most everything’s glass, specially crafted. The filtration material had the same constraints. And this is only a single facility.”

Groves put his thumbs into his protruding waistline as if he had just impressed himself. “After we pump the gas through the three thousand stages, what comes out the other end is a little bit enriched in the uranium isotope we want. Only about one percent, but that’s better than anything we’ve achieved before.”

“And that’s why you need such a large complex,” Engel said.

“Yes, sir.”

“But what do you need it/or?”

Groves scowled. “I’m afraid we can’t tell you that, Mr. Congressman.”

Stimson turned and looked over the car at Engel. “We need it to win the war, Albert. We need it to get back at the Nazis for what they did to New York.”

“But-”

“Oh Albert, can’t you see this isn’t all just a fraud?” -

Engel shuffled his feet on the opposite side of the limousine. “Of course I can see the money hasn’t been embezzled away somewhere. But I still can’t understand what it’s about.”

General Groves took a step toward the front of the car, then waved at a pair of mosquitoes in his face. “Congressman, we have an army of workers inside those buildings. Every man or woman stands at their own station. They have been given very careful instructions about what the needles on their gauges should read and which knobs to turn if they need to adjust anything. We have thousands of stations, every one monitoring just a single part of this gigantic process.

“But not one of those workers knows how his piece fits in with anything else. Not one of them has the vaguest idea of what the whole thing is for. They don’t need to. They only need to know that they’re doing war work and their country depends on them. And pardon me for saying this, sir, but you don’t need to know either.”

“The general means no offense, Albert,” Stimson interrupted.

Groves nodded down at the K-25 building, then turned his conversation down a different track. He pointed to a distant set of buildings on another flattened hilltop. “The Y-12 plant over there is where we use a different process, the electromagnetic method, to separate the isotopes further. We have giant magnets wound with silver wires all arranged in an enormous loop called a racetrack, and the gas gets passed through the magnetic fields. We’ve also got a third plant, S-50, using yet another process called thermal diffusion.”

“Why so many different methods, General?” Engel asked, still defensive. His eyes looked glazed from the technical jargon, though. “Why not just pick the best one and go with it? We don’t have infinite financial resources, you know. That’s what my constituents would be most distressed about. It’s typical of the way Roosevelt has been handling things throughout his administration. That’s why Dewey is doing so well in the polls.”

Groves drew in a deep breath, apparently to quell an outburst in front of the congressman. “Mr. Engel, we must find the process that works. We are at war, and the attack on New York has shown us that German secret research is following the same lines as ours. We don’t have the luxury to try one idea, then another, then another. We must try them all at once and proceed immediately with whatever solves our problem. We must have this working now.” He pulled a cigar out of his breast pocket but did not light it. “And it is. We have been successful. Now we must put it to use. The Germans aren’t going to know what hit them.”

Congressman Engel looked down at the K-25 building and shook his head. Elizabeth could tell he was astonished, but she still didn’t know if he was convinced.

“We’ve come all the way out here, Mr. Secretary,” Groves said. “I know you’re probably tired already, but I would like to show you the Y-12 and the S-50 plants as well.”

“Just have that driver mix me an old-fashioned and I can last a few hours more,” Stimson said.

“I would like to see the other plants,” Engel said. “But I wish we could get rid of some of these bugs!” He slapped at something on his hand, then climbed back into the car.

“General Groves,” Stimson said, lowering his voice with a glance at Engel slipping into his seat and out of earshot. “I would suggest that you hurry up with your Project. You know I have always supported you with the full resources of the War Office, but I’m not sure how much longer I can continue to serve. This atomic bomb idea is about the only thing that keeps me in office.

“But that’s not even the worst of it. Too many people have blamed FDR for what happened to New York. This war has been going on for too long, and his popularity is plummeting. All of us in the White House know that there’s practically no chance in hell that Roosevelt could ever win against Dewey now.”

Groves stopped moving in shock—the first time Elizabeth had ever seen him stand still. “And Dewey knows nothing about the Project. There’s no telling whether he’ll even support it.”

Stimson nodded. “That’s right, General. I would say it behooves you to get something ready before November.”

Groves stared down at the K-25 plant. “That’s impossible, Mr. Secretary.”

“Impossible?” Elizabeth interrupted. “General Groves, I thought you said yourself that you never wanted to hear that word spoken aloud by anyone connected with this project.”

The general turned red and glared at Elizabeth. She ducked inside the car before he could lash out at her. Congressman Engel fidgeted in the backseat of the limousine. “Are we going to get moving?” he asked. “It’s awfully hot in this car.”

As Stimson clambered into the back, making every move as if his joints had been fashioned out of fine china, Groves stuck his head in and spoke to the driver. “We’re skipping the rest of the tour. Back at the office we can find someone to show Congressman Engel and Secretary Stimson around. Miss Devane and I must get to Knoxville and catch the next train back to New Mexico.”

“General, I would still like to see—” Engel began.

“I’m trying to think right now.” Groves rubbed his forehead. “Miss Devane, if you have any more brilliant ideas as my technical advisor, you had better come up with them between now and the time we board the train.”

20

Dachau Concentration Camp

November 1944

“First, it’s very possible that Germany will soon produce some fissionable material. We have no evidence to the contrary. Second, there is no known defense against a nuclear weapon. And third, if we succeed In time, we’ll shorten the war and save tens of thousands of American lives.”

—General Leslie R. Groves

They hauled another dead one outside the big doors that morning.

Daniel Waldstein—rather, the skeletal man who had once been Waldstein—and one of the other prisoners picked up the shrunken, disintegrating man they had known only as Eli. Eli did not moan or move as they carried him from the concrete floor of the reactor building; that didn’t mean he was dead, but once a man reached this state of collapse, Daniel knew he was doomed.

When they opened the door to set out Eli’s body on the cold muddy ground, the breath of frigid wintry air felt like the snap of a wet towel in his face. The odors of the concentration camp struck him, as did the briskness of the air. New snow had melted around the reactor building, dotting the ground with puddles trying to freeze.

Daniel and Saul, his helper, set the body down where other prisoners would come to retrieve him. The Nazi guards refused to go near the reactor building. Saul turned and shuffled back inside to the humid warmth. Daniel caught one last breath of the fresh air, then pulled the enormous doors shut behind him with a clatter on their metal tracks.

Inside, the cavernous reactor building felt unbearably hot and stifling. Steam filled every breath. The other prisoners remained silent, and the reactor itself made only humming and hissing noises from the coolant water being pumped through its pipes into the core. No mechanical sounds could be heard—the reactor worked by magic, it seemed. None of them knew what the thing did or what it was for.

They knew only that if they worked inside there for a week, they would earn their freedom. They had seen others walk out, carrying a few possessions and a new coat. Most of them did not survive their term of labor—but it was worth the risk. Any of them would have said so.

No one could understand what kind of sickness struck them down, why their bodies fell apart simply from being in the same room with the reactor. Occasionally, the Dachau doctors would remove one of the workers for inspection and analysis, and those workers never came back.

Daniel Waldstein kept ignorant of science. He had been a jeweler, a fine jeweler with his own shop in Berlin. He had not harmed anyone; he had simply made his jewelry, rings, pendants. Some of the finer pieces he wore himself—or had worn. Everything had been stripped from him on the day he arrived at Dachau.

He thought of those days sitting in the dimness of his shop, with light shining through the windows that he cleaned regularly. He could smell the precious metal as he worked on it; he could feel the smooth craftwork on his strong but delicate fingers—fingers that had long since been smashed and dulled by hard work here in the camp. Daniel remembered talking to his customers, Germans and Jews alike. He thought about going home at the end of the day and relaxing in his apartment, perhaps lighting the candle for a dinner with his wife Emmi.

They had shot Emmi within the first month here.

Now Daniel felt only a tiny candle of life burning in him, focusing existence on merely carrying his soul from one second to the next. He could not give up. He could not surrender. He had endured this, and it could not possibly get worse.

Already gaunt and nearly starved, half dead from exposure to the cold autumn and approaching winter, Daniel had grown much worse in the few days he had worked in the reactor building. In another day or two it would be his turn with the four others to disassemble the reactor, wearing scarred and burnt leather gloves to pull away the hot blocks of graphite, moving them aside to withdraw the glowing warm tubes of uranium, preparing them for shipment somewhere else. It was the day after disassembly that workers most often succumbed.

Daniel remembered his rush of excitement when the camp officials had picked his name for the duty. Tears had streaked his cheeks; he had fallen to his knees with gratitude toward the guard who had told him of his opportunity.

Now he knew he could not survive the length of his term of service, though only a few days remained. He could not keep his meals down. Sores covered his skin. Diarrhea had exhausted him, torn him apart. Retching, trembling, sweating, he could not last much longer. He would never leave Dachau alive.

Daniel had always feared he would die here. Somehow he had known it in the back of his mind. But the desperate need to survive refused to let him believe, though now it had become even worse: not only was he going to die, but he was going to die without knowing the reason, without knowing what this infernal device was for, how the Nazis would use it… to win the war? To destroy the world?

Saul looked at him before returning to his work, as if knowing what Daniel was thinking. Saul kept his voice low and bleak. “We are all dead men here. How many more days before they carry us out? Before you carry me, or I carry you?”

Daniel saw a flash of anger behind Saul’s eyes. The anger startled him, and he realized that his own anger had slept for too long. While he remained passive, had his own dignity been trampled beyond the hope of recovery? Why had he let them do everything to him? Was it just to survive? If survival cost that much, was it worth living?

Daniel looked at his hands, blackened from the carbon bricks and the ever-present graphite dust. These were the hands that had just carried a man, a human being, out into the mud, where he would be thrown into a trench and buried with the others.

Daniel took a step closer to Saul. He kept his voice low, as if afraid someone might hear him, though none of the Nazis would dare enter such a dangerous place. “You see what they are doing to us. Why are we helping them?” Saul’s face hung slack, as if the brief flash of anger had been all the emotion remaining within him. “We don’t even know what this does.”

Daniel remained silent, and then stared into Saul’s eyes. They were bloodshot, with dark pupils that looked blasted and shrunken from everything the other prisoner had seen and done.

“But I bet we could break it.”

Saul blinked and took a step backward. He looked down at his own hands, at the tattooed number on the inside of his forearm. “We don’t know how it works. It has no mechanical parts. I used to build and fix machines. This is not a machine.” It seemed an empty objection. “We could knock down the pile?”

Daniel shook his head. “No, they would shoot us and have someone else rebuild it in a day. We must cause more damage than that.”

He jerked a bony shoulder to indicate the cooling pipes where water rushed through the reactor, bursting into steam and pouring out the smokestacks above. Day after day, when not assigned to other work details, Daniel had watched the smokestacks, looked at the white steam, wondering what it was like inside the reactor building. He hoped and prayed that his name would be picked because that would give him a slim but definite possibility that he could escape this place and go back to his old world, to his jeweler’s shop, back to an imaginary life with Emmi.

He knew that would never happen. Emmi was gone. His shop was smashed, the windows broken out during the one frenzied night called Kristallnacht. He could not go back, but he could get out of here. Or so Daniel had thought. Now he knew otherwise.

“Saul, we cannot let it continue. Who knows what they are going to use this for? If we smash the cooling pipes, that is the only thing that could perhaps cause enough damage to stall them a little while. They will kill us for it, but we are dead anyway.”

Saul now looked as if he had second thoughts. “I do not want to die to serve no purpose. What if we do no good?”

“Does it not serve a purpose just to do something, just to strike a blow against them?”

Saul pondered this a moment. The other prisoners continued their aimless jobs, but some had stopped to listen.

“Yes,” Saul said. “It does.”

Daniel and Saul spoke to the other workers in the reactor detail. All agreed, except one man who hung so close to death he could barely keep himself moving.

“I heard that other Dachau prisoners sabotaged the construction work on showers that were to be used to gas Jews,” Daniel said. “We will do the same to this project, whatever it is. The Nazis will have no success from our labors.”

Saul found a small wrench used to adjust some of the apparatus and handed it to Daniel. “You should be the one to do this first,” he said.

Daniel took the wrench and looked at it. The tool was too small to be used as a weapon against any of the guards, not that the guards would fear them anyway, strutting around with their rifles and machine guns. The Jewish prisoners outnumbered the guards hundreds to one, but still none of them did anything. The guards enjoyed taunting them, knowing the prisoners would not resist; they had all been too cowed.

The lack of guards inside the reactor building was another reason why working there was such an attractive assignment. Regardless of the chance for freedom, even if they knew they were likely going to succumb at the end of a week, a few days without the taunting, without the nightmare of having a rifle barrel pointed at your back every moment, was perhaps worth dying for.

Daniel took the small wrench over to the red-painted valves protruding from the main cooling pipes. He slipped the wrench through the padlock and twisted, although he had not the strength to break it. Black spots danced in front of his eyes and he felt dizzy from the effort, but still he pushed and twisted.

One of the other prisoners, wearing a pair of the burned gloves, came back with a brick of the soft graphite and pounded on the wrench with it.’ The graphite crumbled into splinters of glossy black powder, but it added enough force to snap the hasp of the padlock.

Daniel took the lock off and dropped it. The rushing sounds of water pulsed next to his ear just on the other side of the pipe. He didn’t hear the padlock as it struck the concrete floor. He yanked out the chain holding the valve in place and, with a burst of strength, tossed the chain toward the towering, silent reactor.

Saul and Daniel turned the valve together, cranking it on resisting threads until they had shut all the water off. The other prisoners used the wrench to break smaller, secondary padlocks off, turning valves.

Saul opened up a large shunt valve, which sent a jet of water blasting into the echoing reactor bay. The water looked clean and cool as it splashed up on the concrete. Daniel stared at it. One of the prisoners held his hands out and stood in the stream, but the force knocked him backward. Daniel let the water run over his own hands and feet, feeling it soak into his clothes.

The river water felt icy, and his whole body numbed in an instant. Daniel didn’t mind. He wanted to feel numb. The weakness and nausea welled up in him again, and he fell retching onto the floor. He spat blood into the swirling water.

Through eyes blurred with tears of pain, he gaped at the blocky, dark leviathan of the reactor. Already he could feel waves of heat pulsing, growing hotter. The water felt cool, but Daniel could not concentrate. The dizziness roared in his head. As the water swirled and the reactor continued to eat itself alive from within, he slumped cross-legged in the churning pool.

They had done something. They had made a point. This wasn’t useless. In response to his thoughts, his lips made their own small smile.

Saul hunkered down beside him. The gushing water continued to echo in the empty building. All the prisoners remained silent as the heat rose. They had no strength to scream, or cheer.

“Are you all right?” Saul asked. “How do you feel?”

Daniel hung his head and felt water dripping down his back, down his chest. He looked up. “I feel fine.”

Dr. Kurt Diebner sat in his austere, tiny office in the administrative barracks near the camp processing center. All day long he heard the movements, the banging, the wailing, the complaints of prisoners being taken into Dachau. He had his own small window covered with a splintered set of wooden blinds he had insisted upon installing. He did not want to look upon the wasteland of the camp all the time.

Diebner doodled on a piece of paper, ostensibly working on plans to improve the efficiency of his graphite-moderated pile, but he had nothing else to work on, nothing he could do except sit and resent what had been done to him and his career.

The radioactive dust dumped on New York had bought them time. Hitler had been so pleased, he had allowed them the freedom to go back to their original work. They would produce a bomb to write their names larger in history than any other incident in the war. But not Diebner. He was stuck here, in this place.

He rubbed his hands to slick back his thinning hair and pressed his black glasses against his face. He had worked for the Ministry of Armaments to develop new munitions, though he had no interest or skill in such activities. He had served a short assignment at the Kaiser-Wilhelm Institute, leading all the Virus House researchers, before he had been reassigned to a different team. He had not felt comfortable until he worked with his own group at Göttingen, with Paul Harteck and Walther Bothe and the others. Together, they had used the information taken from the Joliot-Curies in Paris to further German nuclear research.

But then Abraham Esau, with his Cambridge education and his arrogance, had snatched it back from him, pushed him down like a naughty child. Now Diebner had been thrown here in this hellish pit of Dachau. He had welcomed the responsibility at first, to run a project by himself, no matter where it was located—until he realized what it meant. Now his digestion was bad, his attitude bad, his health declining. He found he could no longer care about the reactor project or the plutonium they had begun to produce. He had seen the deaths caused in New York by the radioactive by-products from this reactor, but the Jews here seemed to be dying in numbers as great.

Before long, they might have enough material to make Hitler’s super bomb.

A draft whistled through the chinks in Diebner’s window. It had been a breezy day, a cold November morning. He snapped open his wooden blinds and stared out at the bleak camp, at the muddy barrenness surrounding the reactor building.

He noticed that the smokestacks had stopped giving up steam. For a moment he felt only puzzlement, knowing it should have been days yet before they disassembled the pile and removed the irradiated uranium rods. Then, when he saw the gathering black smoke coming from the walls and roofline, he panicked.

He had just turned around when one of the guards pounded on his door. Bursting into the small office, the guard shouted over the normal chaos of the processing center. “Dr. Diebner! You must come to the reactor building immediately!”

“I can see already. What happened?”

“There is a fire! We can hear it through the walls, but the prisoners have blockaded the door. We don’t know what they have done.”

A fire in the reactor, Diebner thought. A blaze hot enough to burn the graphite. It would be an inferno inside the building already. He could see black smoke gushing out the stacks, through cracks around the ceiling, through the lips of the large doors.

The reactor was melting down, the core burning. He felt an ice lump inside himself. He alone knew what that meant.

“Dr. Diebner, you must come and see! Tell us how to fix it.”

But Diebner didn’t move. His knuckles grew white as he gripped the corners of his desk. “There’s no way to fix it. This is a disaster!”

Inside the blaze, uranium rods would be melting. All the graphite slumping together into a mass, all contaminated, everything radioactive. They had constructed the reactor building so rapidly that they added no containment, nothing to trap all the deadly by-products and keep them from spraying through the air if such a catastrophe happened. The smoke gushing into the sky would be poison, dumping death just as the small rockets had spread radioactive dust on New York City.

“Get my car. Immediately! I must leave within the next two minutes! All of your men must evacuate. Everyone must flee.”

“Evacuate? But what about the prisoners?”

“Go! Now!” Diebner slapped his hand on the desktop. “Do not worry about the prisoners.” He lowered his voice. “They’re already dead.”

The guard finally ran out. Diebner himself left. He looked around to see if he should take anything with him. He had only a moment—if it wasn’t too late already. But then he realized that there was nothing here he wanted to keep.

He hurried outside. Prisoners gathered near the reactor building, staring at the spectacle. Flames came out from the roofline, through chinks in the side. Guards scurried about, some directing firefighting efforts, others trying to escape.

Diebner waited for his car, and kept waiting. He looked around to find some other way he could flee. He wanted to get moving, put distance between himself and the invisible death. He didn’t know if he should hold his breath, duck his head and cover his mouth. He could never hide from the radiation.

Black smoke rolled out from the fire, swirling in the mild autumn breezes, some of it settling like a blanket on the camp.

Diebner’s hands were trembling. This, he thought, is a true holocaust.

He wondered why his car was taking so long.

PART 5

21

Trinity Site

November 1944

“Those who have originated the work on this terrible weapon and those who have materially contributed to its development have, before God and the World, the duty to see to it that it should be ready to be used at the proper time and in the proper way.”

—Leo Szilard

The trip from Los Alamos took three hours in the unmarked government car, and Fox sweated in the autumn sunshine every minute of the dusty journey south. The two military policemen accompanying him didn’t blink as the car passed through the Albuquerque city limits without slowing. If a traffic policeman stopped them, Fox would have to show his unmarked and unsigned driver’s license; he was not allowed to divulge his name or his purpose. His MP escorts would see to that.

Fox swallowed in a dry throat. The three of them had emptied their thermos of coffee half an hour before. He didn’t dare suggest that they stop, not even for some refreshment. The orders were clear enough: no stopping allowed on the way to Trinity site, near Socorro.

He had insisted on being the driver, despite what General Groves said about the poor road skills of the scientists. Fox only had to remember to drive on the right side of the pavement.

Fox treated the two MPs coolly, not partaking in their stilted argument about the presidential election. Politics and Washington, D.C., seemed so far away, so irrelevant. He was going to help set up a test to explode an atomic bomb.

He kept his responses to their questions on the level of a grunted yes or no. He felt too uncomfortable with his own reservations to speak pleasantries with the young men. Somehow he suspected that these innocent-looking escorts had really been assigned to G-2 to watch him, not simply for his “protection.” What if they were sent out to make him trip up, spill something that he ordinarily wouldn’t divulge? What if they suspected that by now Graham Fox abhorred everything about the Manhattan Project and what it was bound to unleash on the world?

He remembered the day he had sent the letter to Esau, how the Nice Young Man from G-2 had seemed to sense that Fox had circumvented the security regulations. Nothing had happened in the intervening months, but Fox couldn’t shake the feeling that he was still being watched, observed. The paranoia stirred up feelings of guilt, like looking in the rearview mirror and seeing a police car following too close, just waiting for it to flick on the flashing lights.

But he had only himself on this end, now that Elizabeth Devane had… changed, throwing her assistance in with the Project itself. She had been gone for nearly two months with General Groves—talk about going off with the devil himself! Fox had always assumed she was a well-hidden German sympathizer, perhaps even a spy; he hadn’t wanted to know what she really was, so long as she felt the way he did.

“You can’t listen to anybody else when it’s your own conscience at stake.” She had said it herself, the first night they had made love, almost a full year before. “Do what you have to do. Damn the consequences.” But now that had changed. She had changed.

He would take her earlier advice, whether or not she still believed it herself. He knew Abraham Esau would be trying his best on the German end. The fact that no further radioactive attacks had occurred on American cities implied that Esau had convinced the Nazi high command to stage a warning shot. Esau would not allow the development of a full-scale bomb such as this one they were about to test at the Trinity site.

The plutonium bomb, based on the implosion concept Elizabeth had suggested herself, had been designed and completed. But no one knew if it would work. The assembly used explosive lenses to smash a hollow sphere of plutonium into super criticality, and it should function, according to all the calculations and models. But Edward Teller had been killed in an experiment that had also been proven, according to all calculations and models. Theory made mistakes. A successful test would put all doubts to rest.

Fox’s duty was to manage part of that test.

He tried to concentrate on the driving. He kept his eyes on the road and his hands upon the wheel, but the turn of events at Los Alamos kept creeping up on him. After New York, after Elizabeth had suggested the implosion scheme for the plutonium bomb, the entire Project had seemed reborn. There could be no stopping it now.

Unless he could do something. His new assignment might afford him an opportunity. Could he allow the warlords to up the stakes a thousand fold?

Fox hadn’t minded being taken off the radionuclide team; he realized that the importance of his group had diminished with respect to the overall Project goals. But being placed under Kistiakowsky’s high-explosive group had angered him. What did he know about shock physics? Hydrodynamic motion? Detonation waves? “If you don’t know it, learn it!” Oppie had said. The same thing had happened repeatedly over the years, with scientists forced to become instant experts in fields where they had no background. But somehow it worked.

Lucky that the crazy Ukrainian had realized Fox’s predicament and had suggested that Fox be sent down to coordinate a simulation for the actual test. To provide a benchmark to compare the blast of the plutonium bomb, one hundred tons of high explosives were going to be detonated in the desert. A radioactive source would be placed in the high explosive, and the debris would be tracked. Fox was going to put counters at various distances from the explosion, then would run around in a jeep to take readings afterward.

Fox thought about the chance he had missed to join a few outspoken colleagues who had left the Project in protest. But he thought he might have a greater chance to influence events from inside. As if that would make a difference to the world at large.

Once south of Albuquerque, the MP escorts began to relax. It seemed as if everything north of the city had served as a testing ground to see how well they could follow directions. Or maybe they assumed that the clumps of sagebrush held innumerable spies close to the Project, but now they had traveled far enough to be safe. Their conversations grew less strained; Fox still didn’t join in. No doubt the military police thought all the Project scientists were weird anyway.

As they headed into the flat volcanic basin south of Albuquerque, the two-lane road wound along the Rio Grande. Grande—a true misnomer; the muddy channel seemed to hold no more than a bathtubful of water. There was no comparison with even the Thames. But in an area of the country where water was as scarce as here, perhaps a tubful of water did deserve to be called “Grande.”

The sun shone into the car, and hot wind rushed through the open windows. General Groves had insisted on strict observance of all speed limits. Fox fidgeted, and increased his speed anyway.

An hour later Fox found them leaving the small town of Socorro, a smudge of a village that marked the last town of any appreciable size before the site. Ten miles south of Socorro the MPs had Fox slow down for the three buildings called “San Antonio, New Mexico,” a laughable image of its Texas namesake. No sooner had Fox turned off the highway than the military policemen exchanged looks.

The man stretched out in back pushed his head up next to Fox’s. “Ah, Dr. Fox, you know once we get to Trinity, we’ll be stuck with mess hall food.”

The MP in front twisted his body and joined the conversation. “And since it’s one o’clock, that means at least another four hours until we get to eat.” The backseat MP grinned. “And we would hate for one

of the lead Project scientists to go hungry.”

“Especially with such an important test coming up.”

Fox slowed the car down. On the left a small adobe house sat with a sign dangling on rusted chains from a wooden arch.

OWL CAFE

home of the green chile cheeseburger

WELCOME!

The backseat MP said, “Why, look, Dr. Fox. There’s a restaurant right now!”

His partner responded too quickly. “Good idea!”

Fox badly needed to stretch, though he didn’t feel very hungry. His stomach had been upset for days. “How much farther to the site?”

“Uh, at least another hour.”

“Maybe two.”

“If not more.”

Fox hesitated. “The orders were not to stop—”

“Except for necessary bathroom stops and emergencies.”

“And this certainly qualifies, doesn’t it?” The two MPs looked at Fox hopefully. “You’re the driver, though.”

The two couldn’t have been older than twenty, not at all like the steely-eyed G-2 agents he imagined them to be. They were really just adolescents. Growing boys. Fox pulled into the dusty clearing in front of the Owl Cafe.

Minutes later they sat in the dim bar, the only customers in the place. A large dark-skinned man grinned at them from the grill. Long tangled hair hung around his shoulders and gold-plated teeth filled his mouth. Turquoise hung from his neck and adorned his rings. He flipped three half-pound hamburgers, scraping with his spatula and sizzling them back on the grill. The MPs and Fox sipped on long-necked bottles of Mexican beer.

The cook slipped dripping green-chili burgers in front of the men, and both MPs grabbed for theirs. Huge cut french fries filled the remainder of the plate. Fox picked his up, looked around for a napkin, but found none. He wrapped his mouth around the bun; biting down and feeling hot juices squirt into his mouth. American food.

The Indian leaned back against a post that bisected the bar. “Lot of visitors coming through lately. You fellas lucky to catch me open today.”

Fox swallowed a mouthful of chili before answering. “What’s the occasion?” He had to catch a gulp of beer to wash down the burning in his throat.

The Indian nodded to a row of bottles behind the bar. “I’m moving them to the rear of the cafe\ Some Army types told me they all might get knocked down the next couple of weeks by some sort of explosion. Never can tell what they’re doing out in the middle of the desert. Know what that desert’s called? Jornada del Muerto—The Journey of Death. Dead Man’s Trail. Don’t know what they’re doing out there.”

Fox choked on his food. The two MPs ignored the exchange and kept to their lunch. Fox finished chewing so he could swallow, then asked innocently, “When did you hear about this?”

“The explosion?” The Indian picked his teeth and shrugged. “Let’s see—one, maybe two weeks ago.”

“And when is it supposed to happen?” Fox tried to sound disinterested so that he wouldn’t raise suspicion. One of the MPs kicked him under the table.

“Sometime this month. Doesn’t matter to me. That’s the Alamogordo Bombing Range out there anyway, always something blowing up.” The large Indian laughed. He leaned forward, propped his elbows on the bar and whispered loudly, “They say they are building windshield wipers for submarines, or an electric airplane.” He made a small circle in the air with his finger next to his ear. “I think they are putting me on, so I figure that I might humor them.” He straightened and spoke louder. “And if moving my bottles keeps bringing the Army guys in, hey, what does it matter?”

Fox smiled and nodded. Releasing knowledge of the impending explosion was strictly forbidden, but warnings were always mixed with the “official” cover stories and staged rumors that filled the streets of Santa Fe.

But the whole incident left Fox certain of one thing: the MPs were definitely not G-2 agents—otherwise they would have shut the Indian up the second he had mentioned an explosion. Perhaps the two young men were exactly what they appeared to be, simple military escorts.

Fox muttered a thanks to the Indian and pushed back from the bar, leaving half his meal on the plate. The MPs looked up at him, their mouths full of hamburger.

“I’ll be by the car. Just need to stretch my legs a bit. All that driving, you know.” Fox left before the men could answer.

He stepped into the dusty road. The blue sky arched out in front of him. To the west enormous thunderclouds built up on the horizon, the top of their anvil-shaped heads spread out as far north as he could see. It looked like they were going to get one hell of a cloudburst by the end of the day, which was unusual for late autumn. They should be able to make it the rest of the way to Trinity before the rain started.

Fox lit up a cigarette and drew in a lungful of smoke. The exchange with the Indian had set him to thinking. How many people really suspected that something big was going to happen here? The through traffic alone would have set off the residents of sleepy San Antonio.

The village wasn’t more than a hundred yards long—some of the other scientists had used the term “spitting distance.” How many trucks, jeeps, and unmarked cars had passed through on their way out to the Trinity Site? How many people connected with the atomic bomb test had made unofficial stops at the Owl Cafe?

And if the residents of this flyspeck town knew about the test, then how many others would know? It seemed to prove something to Fox: no matter how much the government wanted to clamp down on keeping the information secret, people were still going to find out, one way or another.

He drew on his cigarette. An atomic bomb. Unleashing the unimaginable forces that held all matter together—how could any person be trusted with such power, much less someone like General Groves? As the frenzied campaigning between Dewey and Roosevelt showed, with American politics throwing a new President on the scene every four years, it would be only a matter of time before some man got elected who wanted to take over the world.

Oppenheimer kept trying to wash his hands of responsibility, claiming that the scientists’ job was simply to design and build the thing, to let other people decide how to use it. But now that they were so close to having the bomb, what would happen next? Would every country want to have its own weapon?

Germany had the capability. With the Allied invasion of Normandy a few months before, piercing Fortress Europe and driving the German army back, with the Allied landing in southern France in August, with Romania and Bulgaria also declaring war on Germany, the Nazi house of cards was crumbling. And if they still refused to use the atomic weapon that they must have…

With each passing day the Germans did not strike, their psychological and military advantage slipped away. Germany would surrender soon. And the Japanese had also begun to fall in the Pacific, with American forces taking Guam in July, Peleliu in September, and then finally crushing the Japanese fleet in the Philippines in the Battle for Leyte Gulf only a few weeks before.

America did not need this bomb. But still they wanted to play with their expensive new toy. Fox could only hope that someone among the scientists would see reason and put a stop to everything. Someone, perhaps, like himself?

You can’t listen to anybody else when it’s your own conscience at stake.

Fox drew in a breath, closing his mouth against the dry, dusty air. His nose and chapped lips burned. The taste of the green chili made him even more thirsty.

The Project was quickening its pace, and there seemed to be no end to its momentum. Could he prevent it? Maybe the Gadget wouldn’t work. If it did work, he could not possibly prevent the knowledge of the bomb from seeping out. Everyone would know how to crack the atomic nucleus, and someone would destroy the world with that knowledge.

“How do you close Pandora’s box?” he muttered to himself. Fox flinched and dropped his cigarette. The tobacco had burned down to his fingers. He put his finger to his mouth.

“Hey, Doc—you missed some really good beer. The Injun brought out his special reserve.”

The second military policeman burped. “We’ll have to pick up a case of that stuff on the way back up. We can’t bring it onto the site.”

“Right-o. Let’s get moving.” Fox slid into the driver’s seat. Waves of heat rippled up from the cloth seat covers— they were black, of course. He could smell the hot fabric, and winced as he sat down, wiggling to keep from getting burned. “You chaps ready?”

“Yeah.”

Fox pulled out onto the dirt road; the motion sent hot wind and brown dust into the car. San Antonio vanished behind them in less than a minute.

As they headed east, toward a small line of hills, Fox realized that they had been the only traffic through the village in the entire time that they had been there. That’s right, he thought. There’s no way to keep this thing quiet.

Black lava peppered the side of the roadway. Fox wanted to stop and pick up some of the hardened lumps, but the MPs pointed out that their stop at the Owl Cafe had put them behind schedule. The road dropped into a valley, leaving the black lava behind. About five miles ahead of them Fox spotted a tiny building by the side of the road.

“What’s that?”

One of the MPs leaned forward and squinted. “Guard shack. We take a right when we get there. Trinity site is about twenty miles southeast.”

“This truly is out in the middle of nowhere.” Even though he had grown accustomed to the sparseness of New Mexico over the past year and a half, this made the rest of the desert look lush by comparison. He drove the car south through the valley. To their left rose the rugged San Andreas mountains, stark and brown, devoid of any vegetation. Sheer peaks jutted up, lining the valley with a natural wall.

Scrub brush, cactus, and weeds dotted the desert floor. Heat shimmered off the road in the distance. If Fox had ever imagined what hell must look like, the area surrounding Trinity Site came close. In his mind this place already looked as if it had been devastated by an atomic bomb. Jornada del Muerto, the Journey of Death, the Indian cook had called it—an appropriate name.

They traveled nearly fifteen miles before coming to a road. A weather-beaten sign stuck up from the ground. Paint peeled off the wood, and sand covered most of the lettering, but Fox could distinguish project y and an arrow that pointed to the left. As they turned for the site, Fox saw a cloud of dust ahead. He squinted. It looked like a flurry of activity: trucks, cars, cranes, and tiny dots that had to be people.

As they drew closer, the MPs straightened their uniform ties and ensured that their shirts were tucked in. “It’s bad enough with all the officers around,” one of them grumbled, “but knowing that General Groves can show up any minute makes it worse.”

“Sometimes I think they’re more worried about the way we look than how we do our jobs.”

Fox all but ignored the chatter. Didn’t they realize what they were doing here, what was about to happen? How the world was going to be changed forever?

They passed another hot and sweaty guard standing in the afternoon sun. After the guard waved them in, Fox drove slowly into the complex. Wooden buildings and rounded Quonset huts were scattered about the area. An old ranch house sat near the commotion; far away from all the buildings a metal tower rose up in the middle of the desert.

The MP in the front seat pointed to a row of cars up ahead. “You can park there. They don’t want any cars running around the site—they break down too easy. Take a jeep if you need one.”

As he turned into the dusty parking lot, Fox noticed a row of low-slung buildings in the distance, made of concrete with mounds of dirt pushed up around their backs. He saw military guards all over the place; several of them kept watch over two flatbeds covered with tarpaulins.

Why bother? he wondered. If anyone wanted to get in and sabotage something, he would never get out alive.

As Fox cut the ignition in the car, the two MPs sprang out and stretched their legs. An Army officer walked up to the car. The MPs snapped to attention. “We’ve got Dr. Fox, sir.”

The officer waved the men away. Fox climbed from the car and put on his hat. He debated removing his tie, but he saw that the young officer had kept his tie on even in the stifling heat, so Fox decided to loosen his instead.

“Dr. Fox, I’m Lieutenant Johnston. I’ve been assigned to run interference for you.” Tall, sandy-haired, and armed with an infectious grin, Johnston looked affable enough.

“Excuse me?” Fox shook the man’s hand. “I don’t wish any interference.”

“No, run interference. Like in football.”

Fox made a small smile, but he still didn’t understand. American football was quite different from soccer. “I see. Does that mean you’ll assist me with the high-explosive test and cut through the paperwork so I can get my work done?”

“Or whatever else you need to do.”

Fox retrieved his jacket from the front of the car, dusted it with the palm of his hand, and slung it over his shoulder. “So where do I start?”

“Have you been to Trinity before?”

“No, but I’ve seen a sketch of the general layout.” He paused. “Can you tell me why they call it Trinity? What’s the significance?”

“Beats me.” Johnston shrugged. “You’re about the fiftieth person to ask that. Dr. Oppenheimer thought it up, and he’s not telling. But so what’s new? Everything else about this place is a secret.” The lieutenant turned and motioned for Fox to follow him. “Let me point out a couple of spots to you, and you can start whenever you’re ready.” Johnston nodded to the big white house. “The McDonald ranch will be your headquarters. The high-explosive test will take place on that wooden tower.”

“How is the real test of the Gadget coming along?”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that, sir.” The lieutenant’s answer came too quickly, like a memorized answer. Fox stopped and waited. Johnston shrugged. “I hear it’s all on schedule. We’ve got one more bunker to finish. The first one is five miles away from the shot tower and will be the closest to the actual test. That’s where Dr. Oppenheimer and most of the senior scientific staff will stay when the Gadget goes off. They all want the best seats in the house.”

Fox stopped and tried to find the fortified bunker in the distance. It was barely visible from where he stood across the flat nothingness. He could make out two more bunkers in the desert.

“All the senior staff will be present? General Groves as well? Watching the bomb go off?”

“Well, assuming it does go off. Somebody said it might rip away the whole atmosphere, but the general said to go ahead anyway.”

Fox drew his lips tight. “What about the risk?”

“I really don’t know much about it, sir. The general said the models had predicted enough margin for error.” Johnston kept walking toward the ranch house. “Please follow me, sir.”

Margin for error? Fox couldn’t believe it. After the miscalculations had caused Teller’s death, he thought the scientists wouldn’t put so much faith in models anymore. And they would all be up front, closest to Ground Zero, watching to see what their Gadget would do.

Once the genie was released from the bottle, it could never be stuffed back in. But if the wizards who conjured up that genie were destroyed, then perhaps no one else would be able to command it.

Do what you have to do. Damn the consequences.

The entire senior staff.

If he somehow prevented the Manhattan Project from ever following through on their Gadget, and if the Germans would never use their own device, then the world would truly be safe. People needed time to grow and learn to deal with holding such power. He could not stop it forever, of course, but he could buy time. Let people deal with such knowledge during rational years, after peace had come and the world had learned its lessons of war. He would have to bankrupt the Allied “brain trust.”

“Dr. Fox, I almost forgot—see these flatbeds?”

Fox looked again at the canvas-covered flatbeds he had seen upon driving in. “Yes?”

“It would sure make everyone a lot more relaxed if you would do something about them. Now that you’ve arrived, you’re officially in charge over there.”

Fox frowned. “What do you mean? I don’t even know what they are.”

“Your explosives—a hundred tons of H.E. for the benchmark test. It’s keeping the guards a little nervous.”

Fox stared at the shapeless masses under the tarpaulins. A hundred tons of high explosives, at his disposal.

“Yes, I can see how they might be nervous about it.” He nodded. “Don’t worry. I’ll see to everything.”

22

Los Alamos

November 1944

“We are influenced by the fact that we are under great pressure, both internally and externally, to carry out the test, and that it undoubtedly will be carried out before all the experiments, tests, and improvements that should reasonably be made, can be made.”

—J. Robert Oppenheimer

The newspapers hadn’t come up from Santa Fe yet, but the little Los Alamos radio station broadcast the news immediately. For those without radios switched on, the loudspeakers around the camp made the announcement.

“Dewey wins the election! Roosevelt has lost in a landslide on his bid for a fourth term at the presidency of the United States. Dewey vows to put an end to the war. What this means to the Project, ladies and gentlemen, is anyone’s guess.”

Elizabeth had arrived back in the mountain city after being gone for months, traveling around the country with General Groves, accompanying him back to Washington, D.C., and now returning to Los Alamos while the general went down to Alamogordo to set up the Trinity test. It took Elizabeth a long moment to understand the mood of the people moving down A Street, but then the loudspeaker repeated the announcement.

“Dewey has won…”

Yet another change, she thought. It was an endless spiral going nowhere. She couldn’t keep up with what she remembered about how the events should have occurred.

Groups of Army men marched in close-order drill at one end of the encampment; jeeps carrying uniformed officers roared by, spewing dirt from the unpaved streets; the officers hung onto their hats. The localized public address system was in constant use, paging one person after another.

Elizabeth moved her bags to the side of the administration building. It felt good to be away from General Groves. Now maybe she could catch a breath of air, preferably one untainted by cigar smoke. The time she had spent with Groves seemed a million years away—as distant as her old life in her original timeline.

Along with the bustling activity, an extraordinary number of vehicles filled the center of Los Alamos—trucks, jeeps, and cars in every conceivable parking spot, stashed behind the dorms and along the barbed-wire fence of the Tech Area.

Before heading back to the dormitory, she decided to check in with Feynman’s office. She had missed working with him, his jokes and his laughter. She didn’t want to miss what caused the excitement around the camp. Groves had told her about the scheduled test of the implosion device. The Trinity test. The theoreticians had worked even more overtime than usual, and Hanford had shipped down barely enough plutonium to make the bomb’s core. Something in the back of her mind suggested it wasn’t right. Didn’t the explosion happen next year? In 1945? Still… it was all going to end soon.

And then it would just begin. She could no longer guess what might happen.

Everywhere she walked, red-eyed intensity shone on the scientists’ faces. Everyone seemed on the verge of snapping at anything that stood in their way, but they all looked to be bearing the weight of something important.

But what if Germany surrendered soon? she wondered. What if Dewey refused to continue funding the Project? They would have only another two months before Roosevelt handed over the presidential reins. Any advantage she might have had in predicting the future had dissolved with the bombing of New York.

Elizabeth stepped up her pace to Tech Area 1, back to her old working place. Feynman was nowhere to be seen. His office lay in its usual cluttered state, and even her desk had papers strewn all over the place, as if Feynman had used her room as a holding tank for his notes. She wrote a scribbled message, tacked it to the back of his chair, then made her way to the applied mathematics area.

John von Neumann’s computation group was grinding away, furiously trying to complete several sets of computations, double-checking parameters for the upcoming test. The physicist passing out the initial values hadn’t seen any members of the senior staff. Some of the gathered ladies in the room looked up at the disturbance—Gladys what’s-her-name scowled at her—but Elizabeth left.

She made her way back to the Admin building. After being at the center of things during Groves’s trip, she felt discarded. They could have at least left a message for me. But she tried to rationalize to herself that the Project didn’t revolve around her. She had served when she was needed, but that didn’t give her the right to an inside track to what was going on.

Still, she felt empty, left out.

She picked up her bags and started for the ladies’ dormitory. The dry autumn had left Los Alamos basking in heat. She remembered the first rainstorm and the muck covering all the streets. The place looked no more civilized, but she realized that it did feel like home.

Elizabeth hauled her luggage and kept to the side of the street. A military jeep sped by, then stopped. The driver craned his neck around and gunned the engine, sending the jeep roaring back toward her. “Need a lift, ma’am?”

“Sure.” Elizabeth pushed her bags into the backseat before the driver could get out to help her. She climbed into the front.

“Where you going?”

She pushed back her hair. “Women’s dormitory-Second Street.”

The driver jammed the jeep in gear and set off before she had a chance to say thanks. He wore standard khaki military dress along with the ubiquitous tie and overseas cap. He couldn’t have been more than nineteen years old, and noting the absence of military decorations, she thought he was probably a new clerk assigned to the Project. She had to hold onto the side of the jeep as they spun around a corner until the driver stopped directly in front of the dormitory.

“Here you are, ma’am.” The serviceman’s eyes seemed bright, as though he was privy to some sort of exciting secret. He helped her take the luggage to the dormitory step.

Elizabeth extended a hand. “Thanks. Are you going down to Trinity for the test?”

“Me?” The young man looked shocked. “No ma’am. They don’t need me down there. But, you know, if the test is successful, then we’ve practically won the war! Everybody knows that.”

“And what if it’s not successful?”

“Uh?”

“The test. What if it fails?”

The young man appeared shocked. “It can’t. I mean, all these smart professor types holed up for all these years—there’s no way the test is going to fail!”

“Do you even know what’s supposed to happen?”

The G.I. shook his head and took a step back. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” As he hopped back in the jeep he brightened. “Don’t worry, those guys know what’s going on. After all, our government wouldn’t waste all this manpower on a dud, would it?” He waved, and left Elizabeth standing in a whirl of dust.

The government wouldn’t waste things. Boy, has he got a lot to learn. But she couldn’t fault an optimistic young man for having faith in his government, especially not during the most devastating war in history. There was no comparison to what she remembered about Vietnam here— it was literally life or death for these people.

For her as well.

And it wasn’t just him. It was everyone around here. The secretaries, the scientists, and worst of all, the military men. They all believed in these physics wizards who promised an atomic bomb that might destroy Europe. The magic that would solve their problems, end war forever because with an atomic weapon America could enforce peace throughout the whole world. Everything depended on the success of this test, two weeks from now.

She felt surprised at herself for having these thoughts, the first doubts and cynicism since… when? Since she had failed to assassinate Oppenheimer? What would have happened if she had succeeded? Time would have changed in some other unpredictable fashion. She no longer had the temporal hindsight to determine if anything had changed for the better. She could barely remember how things were supposed to be.

Her past reality seemed farther and farther away. She knew she would never return to the world she had known. She had to live here, and now.

So why not give in, move ahead and go with the flow? Her early effort to change things only mucked up history itself. Would she do even more damage if she tried to change things again? New York had been bombed, Teller had died, Dewey had won the election… how many more things could she hope to change—would she change?

Elizabeth turned to stare at the encampment again. She had been gone so long. The Tech Area remained out of sight from where she stood by the dorm, but she could just make out the top of the administration building. To her right the Jemez mountains showed her where she had stumbled in from the rain a lifetime before, just after Jeff’s death, to see Mrs. Canapelli waving her into the warmth and shelter of 1943.

So why couldn’t she just live things out like a normal person? Forget about changing the world—she already knew that life was a lot more complicated than she gave it credit for. “Do what you gotta do. And damn the consequences,” Ted Walblaken had said. Was he even alive in this timeline? He would probably be just a baby. The thought made her shiver.

Some things had to be immutable, no matter how she tried to change them. But was the war one of them? Already, she had forgotten to think of it as World War II. Had she set into motion inexplicable forces that could not be turned back? What if Germany really did win this war? That didn’t seem possible, given the turn of events lately, according to the newsreels—but what if more things happened later? What if the Cold War got worse, and the Cuban Missile Crisis did escalate into a full-scale nuclear war? What if the world did not survive to see the days of glasnost and perestroika, to see the Berlin Wall come down and the Eastern bloc cracked open?

The thought didn’t cheer her, but she couldn’t do anything to change what she had already set into motion. She stooped to pick up her bags, more confused than ever about what she wanted to do. Mrs. Canapelli opened the screen door as Elizabeth stepped for the dormitory.

“Welcome back, hon! You look absolutely exhausted. Why don’t you come on in and take a bath, soak your feet for a while. This time of day we might be able to get a little hot water for you.” She bent to help Elizabeth with her luggage, then started talking at her usual speed.

“Things have been racing so fast since you left. The Project is quite abuzz with something happening. I suspect there’s going to be a big climax or something, and soon.” When Elizabeth was inside, Mrs. Canapelli suddenly stopped her chatter. She reached inside her apron and pulled out a sheet of paper.

“I almost forgot. Dr. Feynman dropped this by this morning, and wanted to be sure you got it. He knew you were coming back today.”

Elizabeth opened the envelope with shaking hands. All the self doubts and worries she had experienced just moments before melted away. She tried to read the letter through Feynman’s chicken-scrawl handwriting. After typing so many of his notes, she had learned to interpret his words.

Elizabeth,

By the time you get this we’ll be on our way to accomplishing the test. I have taken the liberty of sending your security clearance to Trinity; please come as soon as you can. Oppie has authorized your presence. Implosion was your idea, after all!

Dick

Mrs. Canapelli raised an eyebrow as Elizabeth looked up. “Well? Is everything all right?”

She couldn’t understand whether she felt proud of herself or nauseated at what she had done. It was your idea after all! But she had been invited to witness the test, and if the test device worked, then the end of the war with Germany wouldn’t be far behind.

Elizabeth smiled, keeping the note to herself. “Everything is fine.”

Graham Fox worked late at the Trinity site, but that was not an unusual occurrence. Everyone worked late, every night, sometimes until four ill the morning, when they would stagger off to bed, only to awake three hours later and start all over again. The deadline approached, and excuses were not acceptable. Standing outside, under the infinite starry skies of the desert, feeling the cold autumn wind ruffle his hair, Fox could clear his thoughts, harden his resolve, and go back to what he had to do.

Once the last technician had left, staggering down the wooden steps of the shot tower, Fox continued working. A half-empty thermos of weak tea sat among the clutter on the planks of the detonation platform. On the main surface of the platform the high-explosive bricks were arranged in thick blocks and staggered into a huge hemispherical dome that rose fifty feet above the desert sands. A white tent like structure surrounded the setup.

Alone now, Fox allowed a half hour to pass before he stopped his own work. Looking down to the ground, he saw nothing in the glistening darkness. The moon lit everything with a watery gray-blue. A guard sauntered past on the dirt road a hundred yards to the east. Fox listened, but could make out no other sounds.

He was alone. No one could see him.

He ducked into the tented area and stuffed five bricks of high explosives into his satchel. He didn’t relax until he had zipped the satchel shut.

For the fifth night in a row he had managed to slip some H.E. blocks out of the test area.

He had one more stop before heading for his quarters to snatch a few hours of sleep before piling the explosive bricks under the harsh morning sun. As project manager for the H.E. simulation, it was his responsibility to check on all aspects of the upcoming test. That included visiting the observation bunker the senior staff would inhabit.

23

Trinity Site

November 1944

“If the bomb were not used in the present war, the world would have no adequate warning as to what was to be expected if war should break out again.”

—Arthur Compton, in a letter to Secretary of War Stimson

“It ought to be clear to us that we, and we alone, are to be blamed for the frustration of our work.”

—Leo Szilard

Mrs. Canapelli peered over a stack of bleached white towels at Elizabeth. “Have a good trip down there. It sounds exciting. I wish you could just stay for a day or two and rest!”

Elizabeth helped Mrs. Canapelli carry the towels back into the dorm. “Yeah, it sure would have been nice to settle down for a while. I’ve been on the road so much that I can’t seem to figure out where I am anymore.”

“Well, you must be doing something right, Betty. All these important people keep asking you to accompany them.”

Elizabeth laughed. “I don’t know about that.” She bent to pull out her old blue jeans—”dungarees”—from the bottom of the drawer. She shook them out and looked wistful. She hadn’t put them on since the day she had tried to shoot Oppenheimer.

“You aren’t thinking of wearing those, are you?” Mrs. Canapelli wrinkled her nose.

“White Sands isn’t the place to wear a dress.” Mrs. Canapelli looked blank. Elizabeth explained, “I mean the Trinity site.” That’s right—White Sands missile range probably wasn’t established until the fifties or so!

“You’ve been down there before?”

“No, but some of the guys here told me about it. Trying to scare me with stories about rattlesnakes and tarantulas and scorpions.” Mrs. Canapelli cringed, but Elizabeth used it to her advantage. “So you see, that’s not the place I want to be having bare legs.”

Mrs. Canapelli still looked skeptical. “If you say so. I suppose that you’re used to wearing that sort of clothes, being from Montana and all. But to tell you the truth, you really don’t look very feminine in those dungarees.”

Elizabeth smiled to herself at Mrs. Canapelli’s concern. Self-doubt about her femininity was the least of her concerns. She wondered what Mrs. Canapelli would think in twenty years when women started wearing hip-huggers and burning their bras.

“Tell you what—I’ll change when I get down there. Okay?”

“You know best. Just be careful. And good luck with whatever it is you’re doing down there.”

“Thanks.” Elizabeth closed her suitcase.

A horn honked from outside the dormitory. Mrs. Canapelli squinted out the window. “Oh, it’s your ride. They’re waiting for you.”

Elizabeth swung her bag from the bed. “Thanks again. With any luck I’ll be back within a week.”

Once in the black government-licensed car, Elizabeth settled back for the ride down to Trinity. She recognized the two other passengers as physicists from their interactions with Feynman; she thought one might be Enrico Fermi, but she didn’t recognize the other. They politely nodded to her and went back to reading their journals. Everything seemed so calm—the driver didn’t speak either, but Elizabeth didn’t mind. She hoped to catch a long nap on the drive down. It would be a nice change from accompanying General Groves.

Elizabeth stared out the car window with her eyes half closed, lost in thought. As the car wound its way down from the mesa, they passed cliffs that jutted up hundreds of feet and boulders bigger than houses. Pinon pine, Douglas fir, and blue spruce hung onto rocky ledges.

Although no one spoke, Elizabeth sensed a subdued excitement in the car, and it kept her awake. The rugged landscape seemed to magnify the tension. The bomb could have been developed in no other place, nowhere that matched the grandeur of northern New Mexico, the limitless boundaries that allowed physicists to tinker with the forces at the heart of the universe.

In another few days everything would reach its climax. The goal to which they had devoted years of their lives would be wrapped up in the detonation of one sphere of plutonium.

And then what? What would happen when Pandora’s box was finally opened for all the world to see? Would all nations react the same way as they had in her original timeline? The bipolar split of the USSR and U.S.? Would it still take fifty years for those old wounds to heal? Or would everything get worse?

Elizabeth then wondered about her own life. What was she going to do with herself after the test succeeded and the urgency of developing the bomb went away? One way or another, the war would soon be over. Someone would eventually discover that she had no birth certificate, no real identification. She didn’t know how much longer she could fast-talk her way through everything.

She couldn’t stay at Los Alamos. Even though she had helped develop the weapon in the first place, she couldn’t keep helping to make it worse and worse. Or would even that conviction change? At times she hated herself and her weakness. Germany would be stopped, and hopefully America would have enough sense to get rid of the weapon once and for all.

In her old timeline she realized that some people had accused the U.S. of racism by dropping the bomb on Japan. It was all right to obliterate Hiroshima and Nagasaki because the Japanese were “different.” Japanese-Americans were thrown into detention camps; German-Americans never were. No matter how terrible the Nazis were, they still looked like Americans. What would the public think if they saw radiation-crisped blond-haired babies lying in the rubble of a nuked Berlin?

It would never be Harry S Truman’s decision now. It fell into the hands of President Dewey. She had no idea what the man would do.

With her knowledge of how things might have turned out, maybe she could start something that would force the U.S. to ban further work in nuclear weapons. Some of the other scientists had expressed doubts. She might even have to talk to Graham Fox again, try to resolve things with him. One person should be able to make a difference. Look at what Ralph Nader had started, back in her timeline, overturning the whole safety industry.

She knew the U.S. had experienced food riots and some war demonstrations in the past, but they were nothing like the major protests in the sixties, or even her Livermore demonstration. Maybe she could change things, help keep the world on the razor-thin path that would let them survive the next fifty years.

Elizabeth set her mouth, unable to sleep in the car as she considered the possibilities of all she could do.

They ate a late lunch at a run-down place called the Owl Cafe, which was one of only a few adobe buildings that collectively called themselves a town. Several cars and jeeps were parked at the small restaurant; the longhaired cook appeared frantic but delighted by the unexpected flood of business. Half the people were civilians, the other half military. As the only woman in the place, Elizabeth felt many gazes turned to her, but she ignored them. Her eyes stung from the cigarette smoke floating in the claustrophobic room—that was one thing she still had not been able to get used to, even after all this time.

She and her companions ate quickly and managed to get back on the road before many of the other diners had finished. When they turned south for Trinity, time seemed to slow. The scenery looked blasted and monotonous. She felt eager to get to the place, but also uneasy about being part of the atomic test. Elizabeth kept looking at the driver, trying to urge the man to drive faster, but the desert miles crawled.

Elizabeth squinted at the horizon. A dust storm shrouded the base of the mountains, obscuring the view. The car shook as they drove along the bumpy road, making it even harder for her to see. They crept over a sloping hill, and the dust lowered like a veil. Not more than two miles in front of her stood a metal tower, alone in the middle of the desert.

It rose over a hundred feet from the ground. Four legs supported the structure with pipes crisscrossing the middle. A tent covering of canvas billowed in the wind on the top, shielding whatever the tower held.

Elizabeth’s chest started to hurt; she realized she was holding her breath. She breathed deeply and looked around the car. No one else had seemed to notice the site. Fermi glanced up from his journal.

“Ah, is this the shot tower?” he said in his thick Italian accent.

The driver cleared his throat. “Yup. You shoulda seen it a week ago, when they blew up a test shot. A hundred tons of explosives, they said. Boy oh boy, it looked like Hell on Earth, with dust and smoke flying up into the sky. We were so far away down in the base camp that we couldn’t hear the boom for five seconds or so.” He lowered his voice. “And I heard that’s gonna be nothing compared to this real shot.”

“If it works,” Fermi said.

“It will work,” Elizabeth muttered. Fermi stared at her, but seemed to dismiss her comment.

Elizabeth looked back at the tower. So this is it. Everything they had been working for on the Manhattan Project—and every reason why she had first gotten involved in the antinuclear movement. The Livermore Challenge Group at Berkeley, the United Conscience Group at Santa Fe, she and Jeff climbing down the canyon during the storm to smash the MCG setup… this flimsy tower looked too frail to even hold the weapon.

In the next few days the precious plutonium core would be driven down from Los Alamos under heavy escort. In the desert heat a few men would begin the final assembly of the test device. Until now the tower sat like a rifle with no bullets—it needed to be loaded with the Gadget before it was complete.

The driver proceeded past the front guard shack, then circled around the settled area of the site, keeping at least half a mile from the structure before they pulled up to an old wooden farmhouse in the middle of the barren area. The driver pulled the car to a stop and spoke. “We’re here. Old McDonald’s farm—ha, ha, I mean ranch.”

Elizabeth barely noticed the joke, thinking how glad she was that he had remained quiet during the journey. The driver opened the trunk and started removing their luggage.

“A jeep will come around and take you to the tents. That’s where you’ll be staying until the test.” He nodded to her. “I think Oppie wanted to put you up in the ranch house, ma’am. I’ll get someone to help with the bags.”

A voice came behind them. “No need for that—I’ll take care of it.”

Elizabeth turned, startled. Graham Fox stood with his hands in his pockets, a thin, uncertain smile pressed on his lips.

“Hello, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth nodded, trying not to show any emotion. “Graham.”

“General Groves mentioned that Oppie had invited you down for the test. He asked me to show you around, take you under my wing, as it were.” Fox put his fingers on Elizabeth’s elbow and steered her away from the others. They walked across the packed brown sand, stepping over clumps of scrub and cactus.

“How thoughtful of him.”

“It wasn’t my idea, Elizabeth.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t.” She stopped and held a hand in front of her eyes to shield them from the sun. They had moved a good twenty yards away from everyone. “Graham—things have changed. I’ve been gone a long time. I don’t know what you expect of me.”

“I know—”

“I just wanted to make sure you knew.”

Fox held up his hands. “Fine. I have no problem with that.” When Elizabeth didn’t react, he nodded away from the ranch house. “Come along, we can talk.”

She followed reluctantly; they walked until they were well away from anyone. She frowned and tried to interpret Fox’s reactions. “Graham, you don’t understand. Our relationship isn’t the only thing that’s changed. I’ve been doing some thinking. About this weapon, what we’ve developed.”

“Yes, you certainly had a hand in its success, didn’t you?” His voice dripped bitterness.

In her mind Elizabeth saw the image of the little girl wailing in the crowded New York subway, sitting cross-legged beside her dead mother. She saw the footage of the plane passing over deserted, poisoned streets.

“You know, I’m not sorry for what I did. Germany hasn’t surrendered yet. For all we know, the Nazis are ready to hit us again with another shower of radioactive dust, if not a bomb of their own.”

“They wouldn’t do that!” Fox said, grabbing her arm. She pulled away. “Every day that passes without Germany using another weapon means that their scientific staff have managed to circumvent Hitler’s wishes! They have controlled themselves. They won’t do it. You know damned well that Hitler isn’t refusing to drop another weapon because he’s a good little boy. Think, Elizabeth. The only reason why we haven’t been hit again is because they have physicists like me over there, people willing to stop this madness—I thought you were one of them too, but I guess I was wrong. They know what’s at stake.”

“Are you sure that’s the reason?”

“It must be! And you know that once the Americans have a working atomic bomb, somebody’s going to drop it. We could have used our own radioactive dust weapon at any time, but we wanted something bigger! More destructive! To show the Germans we could be even more horrible than they were.”

Elizabeth fell silent. She did know what would happen. She knew what the President had done in her timeline. After spending two billion dollars on developing a new weapon, they wanted to make some use out of it.

Fox lowered his voice. “What was it you told me about following your conscience, doing what you had to do? I’m listening to your own advice—or was it all just empty words to console a man you had just slept with?”

Elizabeth stiffened and snapped at him. “Don’t bring that into it! That doesn’t have anything to do—”

Fox shook his head. “No, I suppose it didn’t have anything to do with me, with my thoughts. I suppose it didn’t mean much to you either.” He swallowed and started walking again. When he spoke, he seemed to be talking to himself. “I can’t allow it to happen, Elizabeth. Our German colleagues are risking their lives to prevent their bomb from going further. They’re in a much more dangerous situation than us. I have to do my part.”

Elizabeth snorted. She started walking back toward the ranch house. “So what are you going to do? The test is going to go on, Graham, no matter what you think. I’ve got work to do.”

As she turned, Fox called after her. “Elizabeth…”

She stopped, looking down at the sand, but didn’t turn to face him. “That’s it, Graham. No more.”

“Elizabeth.” He stepped toward her. “Where are you going to watch the test from?”

“The test? I don’t know. I’ll be with Feynman, I suppose.”

“Please watch it with me. I’ll be in a safe place.”

“No, I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

He shuffled his feet. “Well, don’t go to the bunker during the test.”

“Why not?” She sounded tired, was tired—of putting up with him, of listening to his reasons why she should help him, because they sounded too close to what she wanted to hear. In a way, he reminded her of the people she had known in Santa Fe who were all talk and no action.

“Just… don’t, that’s all.”

Elizabeth balled her fists and stepped up her pace.

24

Berlin—the Virus House

November 1944

“I believe the reason why we didn’t do it was that all the physicists didn’t want to do it, on principle… If we had all wanted Germany to win the war, we could have succeeded.”

—Cari-Friedrich von Weizsacker

Professor Abraham Esau stood by the flyspecked window in Heisenberg’s old office. He felt numb; only the nervousness and terror in the pit of his stomach reminded him that he was alive.

He stared out into the courtyard. Shrubbery dotted the barren spots. The gravel walkways looked more permanent now after a year and a half, different from that dark, wet night when Werner Heisenberg had been executed. If Heisenberg were still alive, perhaps he could think of some way to salvage the situation. They would never develop their atomic weapon now; they could not even use the radioactive dust again.

Esau watched the black staff car sit where it had parked. Shadows moved inside as the driver shut off the engine then emerged from his door, hurrying around to open the back. Reichminister Albert Speer stepped out, moving stiffly, like a puppet. He had aged a great deal in only two years. He stood, staring at nothing, and removed his hat. He pulled off his black gloves and stuffed them in the pocket of his uniform jacket.

Speer glanced around at the buildings of the Virus House, the chain-link fences, the wooden construction. Nothing had been improved since the establishment of the nuclear physics research group under Esau. The rest of the Kaiser-Wilhelm Institute looked imposing and Prussian, with tall buildings, stone edifices, and ornate facades. The Virus House, though, looked like a place where “ugly” research was conducted.

Speer turned and gazed straight toward Esau’s window. Though the glare from the sunshine would drown out any shadows of himself inside the room, still Esau cringed back. Speer had come for him. Esau hadn’t thought it would happen so soon.

On weak legs Esau walked back to the desk and set to work, straightening the papers on it. He closed the drawers of his file cabinet with a sense of finality, locking away all the failures, all the ideas they had developed.

From the top corner drawer of his desk, he removed his remaining stack of engraved stationery that proclaimed him as Plenipotentiary for Nuclear Physics. Tilting his hand, he let the buff-colored paper slide a few sheets at a time into the waste can.

He recalled hearing Major Stadt’s voice snapping an order for his two guards to shoot. In the darkness, under the glaring floodlights, Heisenberg crumpled to the mud. His shock of brownish-red hair looked dull compared to the bright red splotches on his chest.

Esau ran a hand over his own heart. He wondered if the same fate waited in store for him. He had failed. All of Germany was falling. They would put him to death.

The meltdown disaster and fire at Dachau had wiped out nearly everyone in the concentration camp. Those who had survived the initial massive dose of radiation were sure to die soon. This included the guards, all the Jewish prisoners, the camp staff, and a large fraction of the population in the surrounding towns. Within twenty-four hours Kurt Diebner had died in a small local hospital where the doctors had no idea how to treat his sickness.

The disaster had ruined all of their processed uranium, all of their purified graphite. They had nothing left of the entire reactor, and it would be a long time before they could gather the material to make a replacement.

Dr. Otto Hahn had insisted on going to the site himself, armed with a Geiger-Müller counter to mark the spread of the radioactive contamination. Hahn had kept a careful journal, recording every reading. He had toured the ruins of the Dachau camp, remaining less than an hour as he looked at the unburied bodies struck down by radiation sickness.

Many of the prisoners had fled the camp and wandered away, searching for an escape—but they were walking dead. And they died scattered across the countryside.

Otto Hahn had seen all this, and he had also found the people dying in their homes in the surrounding villages. He had seen horses lying dead in barns. He had seen vehicles stopped as their drivers, too sick to continue, crashed into trees.

Perhaps Hahn had been reminded too much of the deaths caused by his own development of poison gases in the Great War. Gas warfare had been his idea, after all. All those people had died because of his invention—and now he saw a slaughter of even greater magnitude. Perhaps it had been too much for his conscience to handle.

Hahn had left his journal behind and he had fled. Nothing had been seen of him for more than a week, and Esau did not expect him to be found ever again.

Now, without Heisenberg and without Hahn, Esau had been deprived of his two brightest stars. When times were more desperate than ever, he had no hope. The nuclear physics solution to this war, the awesome secret weapon Hitler would spring on the world, was no longer viable. They had gained time, with the successful attack against New York, but they had lost all their progress.

He heard footsteps in the hall. Esau remained with his back to the door, staring at the file cabinets. The footsteps stopped, but the visitor said nothing. Esau spun around to face him. “Reichminister Speer, how good of you to visit,” he said in a flat, uninflected voice.

Speer’s pale blue eyes widened at the cold tone of the greeting. “Herr Plenipotentiary, I am sorry I could not inform you of my coming. It is better for you to receive this in person.”

Esau felt a cold twist in his stomach. He wanted to wince and cringe backward, but he held himself firm, as all his party training had shown him. “What is it, Herr Reichminister?”

Speer reached inside his breast pocket and withdrew a folded letter. With one hand he waved it in the air to unfold it. “I have in my hand a personal letter from the Fuhrer himself.”

Esau held his breath.

“It is a letter of commendation. The Fuhrer has seen photographs of all the deaths in New York City. He is very pleased with this radioactive weapon of yours that kills people—that kills the enemy, but does not damage property. I must admit that I am fond of this too. You know of my own interest in architecture. It pains me to see how the indiscriminate bombs dropped on Berlin are destroying some of our greatest historical landmarks.

“Your radioactive dust weapon does not do this. The Fuhrer wants to implement a large program, and he wishes to have dozens of these radioactive bombs after all. We will scatter them over Great Britain. We will wipe out London, we will wipe out Coventry and Birmingham.”

Esau stammered, unable to believe his ears. “But that isn’t possible! Such bombs will contaminate the whole area for years, decades, perhaps even a century.” He lowered his voice. “You saw what happened at Dachau.”

Speer nodded. “The Fuhrer perhaps does not understand this, but these are his orders. He believes that within a year or two the winds will blow the contamination away, leaving the cities free for us to inhabit. Ready-made lebensraum, he thinks. We will not even need to build new places for ourselves. Everything will be there for the taking.”

Reichminister Speer handed over the letter. “Once again we are very satisfied with what you have done for our efforts. The Fuhrer himself has seen to it that you receive a medal of commendation.”

Speer sat down without being asked. He folded his hands in his lap, and his bright eyes took on a sudden focused intensity. “Now then, tell me how soon we can have these other weapons in production. I must have results and I must have them soon.”

Esau felt his throat go dry. “But have you not been informed of what happened at Dachau? We can no longer produce anything! Our uranium is gone, our graphite is destroyed, our reactor has burned. We have no more material to work with!”

Speer froze and, without moving in his seat, his knuckles whitened. He spoke again, keeping his voice low, the pacing of his words even. “I cannot accept that answer, Professor Esau. The Fuhrer wants these bombs. He must have the results soon—it could well be the last chance for the Third Reich. It is my responsibility as Reichminister for Armaments.”

Speer pursed his lips and remained silent. Esau felt too distressed to say anything.

“If I tell the Fuhrer to forget his only hope, I have no doubt that I will be removed from office. I believe I am his friend and confidant, and he depends on me. My predecessor in this post was killed in a sabotaged plane. I don’t want to end up in the same fashion—and believe me, if that fate is in store for me, I will make sure it is in store for you as well.”

Esau felt his skin grow damp and clammy. He sat down behind his own desk—Heisenberg’s old desk. He answered slowly, making up the phrases as he spoke. “I will have to… discover new methods of working. I will have to obtain new resources of purified graphite. I will have to command all production from the Joachimstal uranium mines.”

“You shall have it,” Speer said.

Esau cleared his throat, but averted his eyes. “You realize that the Americans are no doubt much farther along than we are. We have had numerous setbacks. Now that we have used our weapon, you can be sure the Americans will use theirs before long. We have no defense against it.”

“That is why we must hurry.” Speer stood. “Do not let me down.” He turned to leave, then stopped. “And by the way, congratulations on your commendation.”

Esau sat staring at the clean top of his desk until long after he heard Speer’s staff car drive out of the courtyard. He could not do it! He had no way! They had no heavy water, no uranium, no supplies, no graphite. The remaining researchers were tired and ready to snap—and now they no longer had Heisenberg or Hahn, not even Diebner!

Esau removed some of the progress report files from the cabinet. He stared at the calculations, the projections, the overoptimistic estimates of all their work, cheerily faithful from the days when their biggest worry had been to get more attention, more priority, more funding. Now he wished he could take it all back.

Heisenberg himself had managed to fool everyone for a long time because of the mistakes in his calculations, because of neglecting certain ideas. Esau stared at the complicated numbers. Few people could understand all this. He himself needed to work very hard to put all the pieces together.

It had worked for Heisenberg.

He considered the idea again.

No one would know. It would buy him time. Esau needed time right now, although he didn’t know what to hope for. Perhaps another miracle. Perhaps the end of the war.

He took his pen and stared down at the numbers in the calculations and followed them with his fingertip.

As unobtrusively as he could, Professor Abraham Esau began to alter the data.

25

Trinity Site

November 1944

“As I lay there in the final seconds, I thought only of what I would do if the countdown got to zero and nothing happened.”

—General Leslie R. Groves

“It was like the grand finale of a mighty symphony of elements… It was as though the earth had opened and the skies split. One felt as though he had been privileged to witness the birth of the world.”

—William L. Laurence, The New York Times, official reporter of the Trinity test

Elizabeth woke at the sound. Opening her eyes on the cot, huddled under an Army-issue blanket, she looked at Dick Feynman standing in the doorway. A few of the other VIPs had stayed in the refurbished rooms of the McDonald ranch house; the rest of the building had been turned into administrative headquarters for the Trinity test. Feynman cleared his throat a second time to make sure he had Elizabeth’s attention.

“What’s the matter?” She struggled to an elbow. As her sheet fell from about her, she glanced down. Mrs. Canapelli insisted that she wear a nightgown in the dorm, though Elizabeth had normally slept naked, back in her old timeline. She saw she was still wearing her comfortable clothes, though. It took her a moment to understand where she was, what was going on.

“The test. It’s going to be back on,” Feynman said. “It stopped raining. I thought you were just going to take a nap.”

Elizabeth tried to clear the sleep from her mind. She had been dreaming about something… Livermore, and the protest. Jeff had been with her; he had refused to get arrested. Why had she dreamed of that? It had been years since the demonstration.

And then she remembered where she was—Trinity site, the Gadget, World War II. This was the day! They had postponed the midnight shot because of a freak rainstorm across the desert. And now, by the darkness outside…

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Time to get up. They’ll restart the countdown soon, and we’ll have to get back out to the main bunker.”

She rubbed her arms, getting herself moving. The night before, everyone had been mesmerized by the whole thing, swept up in the final excitement that surrounded the test… and then about eleven o’clock the rain had come. Boiling clouds thousands of feet high had rolled over the dry Jornada del Muerto; lightning bolts lit up the sky, and the thunder tried to compete with the explosion men were waiting to make.

Elizabeth remembered now, the disappointment, the short tempers, the impatience among the scientists. Oppie and General Groves had gotten into a genuine shouting match at the bunker. Elizabeth herself had been dragging, depressed, uncertain. She felt her conscience clamoring, at war with itself. Nobody else knew what was about to happen, what new path they would set the human race on. And she had helped them with it. All her protesting to stop nuclear weapons after it was too late—and now she had had a chance to stop it from the beginning, and she had failed. She had become a part of what she hated… or had she just been brainwashed by the situation? Or had she been brainwashed before? She didn’t know how she could ever tell.

She had not slept well for several nights at the site. In the test bunker, with the countdown halted under the pouring rain and the scientists fidgeting, grumbling to each other, she had just sulked. Dick Feynman had encouraged her to go lie down when the rest of them traveled back to the ranch house to wait out the storm.

When she had leaned back on the old canvas cot, listening to water trickle through leaks in the old roof, smelling the drenched desert, she knew the test could not take place. The weather would have to be perfect. General Groves would want nothing to ruin his display.

Elizabeth blinked and looked at her grubby clothes. Feynman kept staring at her, flashing his cockeyed, suggestive grin. She felt stiff and dirty. How about a long hot shower, with plenty of lather, good shampoo, then a blow dryer? A blow dryer—she hadn’t used one in a year and a half. Even a shower in this desert hellhole seemed beyond all possibilities.

“How long to the detonation?”

“Two hours at the most. They haven’t officially announced it yet. Oppie wants a new report from the meteorologist first. The general looks like a kid who’s just had Christmas canceled on him.”

Elizabeth started to get up, but Feynman didn’t move to give her some privacy. She plucked at the buttons on her blouse. “Um, could you give me a minute to change into some clean clothes? Want to dress up nice for the atomic blast, you know.”

Feynman raised his eyebrows. “If you insist.” He backed to the door. “I’ll meet you outside.”

Once the door closed, Elizabeth struggled into her extra pair of khaki dungarees. She had gotten them from the PX at Los Alamos. Her one pair of blue jeans no longer fit her well. She had gained weight, sitting around too much, having a sedentary life, getting too comfortable.

Too comfortable, too accepting of what was going on. She had stopped fighting and surrendered. After the test, though, she could really begin her debate, to convince people never to use the terrible weapon they had developed. After their years of effort and billions of dollars of expense, Elizabeth knew the President would have to see the Gadget work. She just had to convince everyone not to use it on people, not on Germany, not on Japan. Somehow, she was trying too hard to make herself believe that General Groves and the others would listen to her.

She met Feynman outside the door. “Ready?”

“Yeah. Let’s check in with Oppie.” Feynman led the way down the hall to the living room.

Bright pools of illumination shone from trouble lights hooked onto the wall. Cigar smoke curled up to the ceiling in a blue haze. Elizabeth coughed, feeling her tired eyes stinging already; no one noticed that she and Feynman had arrived.

Serious-looking military officers stood at one end of the wall, fidgeting as if they were trying to be comfortable. Their close-cropped haircuts, identical long-sleeve khaki uniforms, and dark ties made them indistinguishable from one another.

A line of senior Project physicists faced the military men. The scientists also dressed alike—white shirts, dark pants, a few even wore ties, but they lounged in chairs. Oppenheimer and General Groves spoke quietly in the center of the room. Smoke rose from Oppie’s pipe and Groves’s cigar. Oppie kept waving his hands, holding them chest high in a gesture that made him look like a poorly made scarecrow.

The scene looked like a confrontation between two teams in some sort of battle. And in a way, that’s exactly what it was—the academicians against the soldiers. They didn’t yet know just how much at odds they would be. Right now their goals were in harmony: to stop Nazi Germany. But soon, Elizabeth knew, the two camps would split and champion different goals.

Elizabeth could not see Graham Fox among the scientists, but he would be out at his observation station to take readings from the test. Several other solo researchers had been placed at various distances from Ground Zero to measure the blast.

She stood quietly in the hall and tried to catch what the men were discussing. The front door of the ranch house stood open, letting a cool wet breeze float inside. The rain had stopped, and the sky showed patches of black sky and speckles of stars. Only the sound of water dripping from the roof gave any indication of the storm. Elizabeth wished a breeze would enter the room and clear the air of smoke.

Groves raised his voice. “Every day we delay—”

“I know, I know.” Oppenheimer sounded exhausted, ready to crumble. “Every day takes us farther from victory. We’ll do the test today, General. Just give me five more minutes for that wind check downrange. At least make sure the people and towns downwind from the blast are shielded from fallout. We don’t want to make another New York disaster out here in the desert.”

Groves blew cigar smoke into Oppie’s face. “I know when you’re exaggerating, Dr. Oppenheimer. We’ve discussed the worst-case scenario before, so don’t go trying to scare my staff.” Groves glanced back at his men. They stood placid; their faces revealed nothing. Elizabeth could tell that the last remark had been more for Groves’s own men than as a retort to Oppenheimer.

Oppie waved the cigar smoke away from his face and sucked on his pipe. “I just wanted to make sure that we’re both aware of the consequences.”

“Damn right we are. You’ve got your own calculations to prove it.” Groves shifted his weight. As Elizabeth knew, he was a man not used to waiting for what he wanted.

“Oppie?” An enlisted man entered the ranch house, out of breath. The rank insignia on his arms showed him to be a private. His boots were covered with mud and wet sand, but the rest of his uniform was dry. He strode into the room, then stopped as he caught sight of Groves. He snapped to attention.

“Morning, General.”

“Get on with it,” said Groves after returning the salute.

The enlisted man held out a paper to Oppenheimer. “The winds have died down. Meteorology forecasts no weather coming in for at least the next three hours.”

“Thank you.” Oppenheimer beamed. “That takes care of it, General.” He raised his voice and clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention. “Looks like it’s a go!”

Groves snatched the paper from Oppenheimer, grinning. He looked at Elizabeth, but didn’t seem to recognize her. “Let’s do it,” he said.

Oppenheimer studied his watch. “An hour and a half. That’ll give us time to run through the check one more time.”

“Right.” Groves whirled and snapped to his men. “You heard him. Ninety minutes.” And he was out the door with a graceful, rolling gait despite his girth and his obvious weariness.

Elizabeth expected some excitement after Oppie had made his announcement. The men all looked to be asleep on their feet, feverish and ready to curl up on their bunks. They had been working nonstop for days on the final preparations.

The support crew filed out of the ranch house and headed into the dark night. They each had their specific task to perform, even if just to observe the test. No one spoke; they must know to save the cheering for later. Somehow it seemed appropriate to set off the world’s first nuclear explosion in the darkest hours before dawn.

Elizabeth and Feynman waited until the last man had left. Feynman rubbed his hands together, then squeezed her shoulder. She wondered how he had been so certain that the test would proceed. “The Army’11 be making a last sweep of the area to make sure no one’s left around.”

“Do you have anything left to do?”

“Me? A theoretician! Theoretical physicists are useless when things get practical.” He thought for a moment. “I had an advisor once who told me that when he caught himself doing anything useful, he knew it was time to change fields.” He grinned. “Come on, join me in the command bunker. I’m sure there’s enough room.”

“Okay.” He put his arm around her as they left the ranch house; she managed to discreetly extricate herself from his touch.

They made their way to a convoy of jeeps just outside the ranch house. They tried to avoid the mud and fresh puddles from the storm. The hard sand surface had absorbed most of the moisture, but in some spots the ground had left pools of water. The air smelled fresh, rinsed clean of the dust that had been whipping around the test site for the past week.

The jeeps sat parked in a long line, their engines running as the support crew climbed in. Sunrise would not come for another hour or so. Long pencil beams of light came from the sets of headlights, making the convoy look like a glowing caterpillar. As she and Feynman approached, a figure stepped from the shadows behind the first jeep. Elizabeth recognized his profile, the thin body, the tense way he held his shoulders.

“Elizabeth…”

“Hello, Graham.” Elizabeth stopped walking.

Feynman placed his hand behind her back and urged her forward. “Dr. Fox—you’ve heard the shot is back on?”

“Yes.” Fox’s eyes didn’t move from Elizabeth as he answered. They glittered in the glare from the headlights.

Feynman said, “Hey, you can join us in the bunker. I think we’ve got room for one more.”

Fox shook his head. He spoke so low it was hard for her to hear his words. “Elizabeth, I shall be with my radionuclide collection experiment. Were you still planning on joining me? I came back to fetch you.”

The suggestion startled her. She had never agreed to be with him for the test. “Well, Oppie is expecting me in the bunker.”

“I was planning on having you help me—none of the technicians is free. These measurements are crucial.”

Elizabeth swallowed and tried to think of a way out. Fox worked his mouth but said nothing else. She felt very uncomfortable.

Feynman dropped his hand from her back. “Oh, go ahead, Elizabeth. You’ll be able to see the test much better from out there. Too many big heads crammed in the command bunker. We’ll be up to our necks in IQs.”

Elizabeth drew in a breath, stalling for time. What was going on here? Why was Fox so insistent?

“We must hurry, Elizabeth,” Fox said, touching her elbow. “The test is set to go in eighty minutes. I’ve still got to check out the radiometers.”

“He’s right.” Feynman gently pushed her from behind. “You’d better hurry.” With that he turned and climbed into one of the jeeps. He called back as the jeep started to move. “Keep your fingers crossed!”

“I will,” Fox said.

As the jeeps moved off, Elizabeth frowned at the vehicle’s sour exhaust fumes over the fresh smell of rain. One by one the jeeps sped off along the dark road toward Ground Zero. In the backs, men hung onto their hats.

Fox pressed his lips together. He watched her for a moment. Neither of them spoke. Finally, as one of the last vehicles pulled out, he said, “Let’s go. I brought my own jeep.” Swinging into the driver’s seat, he checked out the gear shift and waited for Elizabeth to join him.

Elizabeth hesitated. Fox’s attitude didn’t leave room for questions. He had tried to talk to her several times in the last few days, but she had ignored him, though she watched him growing more and more desperate. She looked around. She brushed away a few spots of standing water in the passenger seat, then climbed into the jeep.

The last vehicle pulled away from the ranch house and followed the others down the dirt path. She recognized none of the remaining scientists in the back. All of the camaraderie she had felt as the Project had come to its conclusion seemed to have flown away. Just as she had arrived here alone, now she stood with Fox—she might as well have been alone again. She didn’t want to be with him. Everything had changed, she had changed. She wasn’t sure she liked—or understood—what had happened to her.

The times with General Groves, Dick Feynman, and even Mrs. Canapelli had provided her with a means to cope with this new timeline. She would never have made it this far without the support she’d gotten from the others.

She had used Graham Fox as a crutch to help her after she had tried to assassinate Oppenheimer. That former Elizabeth seemed a stranger to her now. How could she have thought about murdering someone in cold blood? Hadn’t Fox himself mentioned it, if only in conversation?

Now that the bomb was about to detonate, now that the life she had lived for the past year was suddenly coming to a head, she had nothing that was her own. Nothing but the companionship of the one man here who resented the bomb as much as she once had. Now Fox hated it more. In his eyes she must be a traitor to what she had believed.

Oh, crap. She pushed back her hair and sat back in Fox’s jeep. “Let’s get out of here. I don’t know what you expect to accomplish.” Fox didn’t look at her as he gripped the steering wheel. His knuckles shone white as he gripped the shift lever.

Ten miles away, the blinking red light on top of the shot tower was barely visible. Elizabeth walked around the clunky-looking diagnostic electronics as Fox worked on his collection device. The equipment contained strip charts with red marker pens, vacuum tubes, and gauges with wobbling needles. A hundred-foot-tall telephone pole stood at her right, from which ran a bundle of wires. She could see a small package attached to every ten feet up the side of the pole. Behind her a tinny voice came from an Army field radio propped against the car. “Thirty minutes to zero.”

Fox wiped his dusty hands and joined her. He nodded toward the pole. “Each instrumentation package has a velocimeter, a barometer, thermometer, and flypaper.”

“Flypaper?”

“To catch radioactive debris in the wind. The other stuff is to correlate the wind velocity, pressure, and temperature of the blast wave. My flypaper will give us an idea of the total radioactivity in this part of the explosion.” Fox seemed disinterested in what he was doing, rattling off the information as if he were lecturing in front of a class.

Elizabeth turned back to the shot tower. She felt the tension like a knot in her stomach. A light glow appeared behind the mountain, where the sun struggled to come up over the horizon. The distant mountains looked like jaws ready to bite down on the dawn.

Fox didn’t speak much. The desert around them remained absolutely quiet. Elizabeth thought it strange not to hear at least some noise: for the past few days, sounds of hammering, sawing, welding, cursing, and nervous laughter had filled the camp. But now she heard nothing. The desert held its breath, waiting for the test, waiting for the world to change.

Fox fumbled in a knapsack. “Here. Use this suntan lotion. No telling how much protection we’ll need from this faraway.”

“What?” She grasped the bottle of sunscreen.

“We’re likely to get hit with a healthy dose of radiation centered about the ultraviolet. That means we could get sunburned from the blast.” He picked up a pair of sunglasses from the portable table. “And wear these. We must face the opposite direction until after the initial flash, but then we can turn around.”

“Twenty-five minutes,” the tinny voice said from the radio.

Elizabeth held up the glasses; in the darkness she could barely see through the dark lenses. She lowered the glasses. “Graham?”

“Yes?”’

“What’s with the bunker? Why this? Why did you need to take me out here?”

“What do you mean?” He avoided her expression and mumbled his words.

“You know damned well what I mean.”

Fox thrust his hands in his pockets and stared off toward the shot tower.

Elizabeth allowed him a minute of silence before speaking. “Then what is it? My God, you know it’s over between us. Give it up and quit resenting me.”

“Resenting you?” He whirled on her. “I opened myself up to you! I don’t make friends easily, but I let you in. I trust my friends. I value them. I can’t trust you anymore. You’ve changed too much. You’ve become one of them. You’re dazzled by all this, and you can’t think of the consequences anymore. You sold your conscience for a pat on the back.”

Elizabeth winced, then defended herself with anger. “Just because I slept with you a few times doesn’t make us soul mates. We’re too different. I don’t agree with—”

“Just because you slept with me? Is that all it means to you? An amusing little roll on the mattress?” Fox seethed with his anger, but then he lowered his voice in defeat. “I thought you were like me. I thought you understood exactly what sort of monster we were creating here. I thought you wanted to work with me from the inside, to stop it. Do what your conscience tells you to do—those were your own words, Elizabeth! But you change your conscience whenever it’s convenient—”

She slapped him, but didn’t know which of them felt the most stung. “It’s not like that. This test will go off, but I don’t know what will happen next. I used to know. New York never got wiped out. Germany surrendered. President Truman dropped the bomb first on Hiroshima and then on Nagasaki. He used both the plutonium bomb and then the uranium bomb.” Elizabeth turned away from him and felt herself shaking. “This isn’t how it happened at all.”

Fox blinked in confusion. “President Truman? What are you talking about? Roosevelt and Truman lost the election. They want to use the bomb on Germany, not on Japan.”

“This is a different timeline! History has changed, somehow. I changed it. Everything is all messed up.”

Fox grabbed her shoulders. “Elizabeth, what on earth are you saying? Who are you? I thought you were planted here. A German spy or saboteur or something. I never reported you because I thought we were both working toward the same goals, but then you went over to them!”

Elizabeth pulled away from him in shock. “A German spy? You’ve got to be kidding! I’m from the future. The future! Or a different future, at least. I caused an accident, I woke up back here. I don’t know how it all happened. I wanted to change things, fix it for the better, but now I think maybe I should have left it alone, left everything alone. A spy?”

Elizabeth froze, about to laugh, but then her eyes widened. “Are yow?” She grabbed the front of his white shirt. She could see dust and sweat stains on the material. One of the buttons pulled off as she gripped him. “Graham, what did you do to the bunker? Tell me!”

“Elizabeth, you’re insane. From the future? You don’t know what’s happening here. You can’t understand—”

She struck him again across the mouth, hard enough to split his lip. “What did you do to the bunker?”

Fox flinched, then glared at her.

“Twenty minutes,” the announcer said.

He shoved her away. “Too late now anyway. Somebody must do something to stop the madness before it begins. Germany showed restraint. They proved they could control their destructive urges. I’m not at all convinced we can do the same. You’ve seen the look in General Groves’s eyes. He wants this weapon, he wants to see the blast. He wants to take over the world with it. He’ll have a better Big Stick than any other military commander has ever had.”

“Graham, it doesn’t happen that way. We survive it. Times get ugly and paranoid for a while, but we survive. You can’t uninvent something!”

“But I can certainly delay its progress. That’s the beauty of having a classified program, Elizabeth—only the senior staff know how the entire project fits together. Once you get rid of most of the people who know how to make the Gadget—”

“Get rid of…  ” She glanced at the jeep and started to move toward it. Her heart pounded. Fox grabbed her arm, squeezing and digging in with his fingernails. “Don’t touch me!”

“You’re going to stay right here. You can’t make it back to the command bunker before the detonation.” He looked ludicrous with white suntan cream smeared on his cheeks and nose. But his words frightened her very much.

Fox turned back to look at the tower. In the distance the first rays of the sun had just begun to peek over the San Andres mountains. It would be several minutes yet before the light hit the ground around the base of the mountains.

“Fifteen minutes,” the radio said.

Elizabeth whirled and lashed out, jerking herself from his grip. He clung to her blouse so that it ripped along one seam. “You cannot make it!” he said.

She started for the jeep again, but Fox tackled her. Sharp rocks and sand stung her face, and she coughed, trying to wheeze her breath back. Fox held her down. She squirmed and kicked.

“It is already done, Elizabeth. Everything is in place. I hid some of the test explosives inside the command bunker, then wired the detonation to occur in parallel with the bomb. They’ll never even feel it.”

She thought of Oppie and Groves and Feynman and all the other scientists in the command bunker, leaning forward, waiting to see the flash that would be brighter than a thousand suns.

“No!” She moved sideways and brought her knee up, jamming it between Fox’s legs, then punched him in the larynx, using the sharp edges of her knuckles. Being a student in Berkeley had taught her plenty of self-defense techniques.

Fox mewled and turned to jelly. She scrambled out from under him and crawled toward the jeep.

“Too late,” Fox wheezed behind her.

“Oh shut up!” Elizabeth threw a glance at the radio. The Army field unit was propped up against one of the muddy tires. Painted a khaki green, it was as big as a large knapsack.

“Ten minutes,” the voice said. “Minute by minute countdown starting now.”

The dials looked incomprehensible to her; she couldn’t make out any of the settings. Nothing came from the speaker box except a quiet hiss of background static. Elizabeth dropped to her knees and started flipping dials. “Hello, can anyone hear me? Hello?” She leaned into the device. “Answer me!” She smacked the radio with the flat of her hand.

Fox’s voice came from behind her. “There’s no microphone, Elizabeth. They didn’t want the scientists to inadvertently compromise the test by breaking radio silence.”

She scrambled back over and grabbed his hair to smash his head down on the sand. “Then give me the keys to the jeep. Now!”

Fox grunted and tried to claw at her with his hands. She pointed her fingers straight out and held them like an icepick in front of his wide, glazed eyes. “Give me the keys, dammit, or I’ll gouge your eyes out!”

He tried to roll her off of him, then groaned in his own agony.

“All right, we’ll do the left eye first!” She drew back her hand.

Fox gasped his words. “No, no!” He seemed to realize he couldn’t get away. “Jeep… doesn’t have keys!”

Elizabeth leaped to her feet, feeling stupid. Of course, the Army Series M vehicles used only a starter button. She thought about kicking Fox one more time in the kidneys for good measure, but sprinted for the jeep instead.

She threw herself behind the steering wheel and fumbled for the starter button. She pushed her hair out of her eyes. In the distance the area around the shot tower remained deserted. Nothing moved as far as she could see, where moments before the area had been a flurry of activity—jeeps had bounced across the desert, carrying last-minute dispatches; scientists had set up their diagnostics. Now nothing moved as far as she could see. The desert waited for a second sun to rise.

Setting the choke, she pushed the starter button. The engine caught, and she jammed it into gear. The vehicle lurched forward.

And then Fox stood there, somehow getting to his feet and throwing himself in front of the jeep. She swerved, ran into a rock and bumped over it. The front headlight struck Fox and sent him sprawling back to the sand. She could see blood in the dim dawn light. Fox screamed in pain, then shouted a last, plaintive “Stop!”

She gripped the steering wheel and did not move for a fraction of a second. Fox was hurt. He needed help. She remembered holding him, talking with him, making love to him.

She recalled sitting in front of a car, skier 4, in the Livermore demonstration. She had trusted civil rules of protest. Instead, she had now run down Graham Fox.

You gotta do what you gotta do, and damn the consequences. She should stay with Fox, take care of him, see what she could do to help him. What if he was dying? What if she had killed him? She didn’t have time to prevent anything back at the bunker anyway. She couldn’t stop the explosion from killing all the scientists. She had to get her priorities straight.

“I can try,” she said to herself, and left Fox lying there as she let up on the clutch. The jeep jerked as it moved into first gear, but she managed to keep it moving. The stick shift wasn’t too different from what she had learned to drive, but it took most of her remaining energy to jam the clutch to the floor.

The jeep sped off, spewing wet sand from its tires. Fox raised a hand, trying to call her back, but she ignored him. She had made her choice. His wasn’t the only life at stake.

Things had changed from what she thought. These people were not the historical monsters she had imagined them to be years ago when she was with the Livermore Challenge Group or with her Santa Fe activists. Flesh, blood, feelings—and things were different here.

The jeep picked up speed as she ran through the gears. Her body smacked against the side of the vehicle as she hit a depression; she clung to the wheel to keep herself from bouncing out. She could hardly see the road. She fumbled for the headlights, but they helped little in the growing glare of sunrise. Still, she kept the jeep pointed toward the command bunker, a good five miles away from her, from Ground Zero.

She had to punch the vehicle to over sixty miles an hour. Could an old Army jeep even go that fast? It had to. She had less than ten minutes. She pressed the pedal to the floor. Over the bouncing she could make out that the wobbling speedometer read a maximum of fifty miles an hour. The rough desert road made her bones rattle in their sockets. She didn’t have any idea how fast she was really traveling, but she prayed that there would be time to reach the bunker.

She didn’t want to be caught in the open when the blast went off. In her mind she saw a snippet of one of the silly civil defense films from the fifties, with cartoon ducks singing a ditty about how to “duck, and cover!” if you happened to be away from a fallout shelter during a nuclear air raid.

As she came closer to the bunker she blasted the horn and yelled at the top of her lungs. “Come on, somebody let me know you’re hearing me!”

She couldn’t tell how far she had gone, or even how far she had left to go. The bunker seemed to sit fixed on the horizon with the tower standing vigil five miles farther away.

She didn’t even know if they could stop the test.

But that didn’t matter. She had to get the people out of the bunker. Feynman, Oppie, Groves, Fermi, von Neumann, a bunch of other Project scientists, a New York Times reporter, a dozen military men, all waiting for the Gadget to go off, and not even knowing they were sitting on another bomb themselves.

She spotted something—someone standing outside the bunker, as if he had just stood up and noticed the oncoming jeep. She tried to keep her hand on the horn, but kept bouncing up with the potholes. She steered with one hand and tried to swerve to miss a cactus the size of a tire, then ran over a broken mesquite bush instead.

The tire exploded, causing the jeep to lurch and bounce, barely avoiding a rollover. “Dammit!” she screamed, and tried to keep the jeep moving, but it caught in a pothole and spun around in the other direction.

Without a second to waste, Elizabeth leaped away from the steering wheel and ran toward the command bunker. She could see it just over the rise in front of her. She sprinted so quickly, leaning forward, that she sprawled on her face in the wet sand, got up again, then kept going.

“Get out of the bunker! Out!” She screamed until her voice fell hoarse. “Get out of there!”

Back at the bunker another person joined the first one outside, then another. One of them pointed at her, but the other two whirled around to look at the tower, then all three made frantic motions with their hands, urging her to hurry.

“No, you idiots! Not me!” Panting as if each breath were being ripped from her lungs, she grew closer. “Out of the bunker!” She had to make them hear her. She took a deep breath and put all her strength behind shouting one word. “Bomb!”

She scrambled ahead and could hear faint words called back to her. “Fifteen seconds until the bomb! Hurry!”

They were not thinking of the right bomb. With more energy than she knew she possessed, Elizabeth threw herself forward. She didn’t recognize the military men standing outside it, motioning to her. They had all turned to watch the tower. The countdown clicked off its final few seconds.

“Get out of the bunker! Please!” she cried. “Out!”

Several people heard her and came to the doorway. The military men ducked down. “Get them out! There’s a bomb! Sabotage!” Elizabeth said again, but she had little force left behind her voice. “They’re going to die!”

Feynman stepped to the doorway. He wore black sunglasses and had suntan cream smeared on his face. He saw her, frowned, and instantly recognized something was wrong. He turned back to the bunker entrance and shouted. Some of the people inside looked startled and reacted with alarm, moving toward the doorway.

As Elizabeth fell to her knees at the last embankments outside the bunker, she could see Oppenheimer and General Groves sitting side by side, ignoring all the rest of the commotion. Oppie turned to her, blinking at seeing Elizabeth there. “A bomb! Get out!” she said one more time, but Oppenheimer flinched and turned back to the slit window, staring through smoked glass and focusing all his attention on the shot tower. One of the military men reached out to grab the general’s shoulder.

“…one… zero!”

Far across the desert, a flash, bright enough to deaden all her senses, then everything went dark. At the same time, the bunker erupted like a volcano. She heard an instant of sound like the roar of a world breaking apart, then her ears were swallowed in a blanket of shocked silence.

Time seemed to go in slow motion. Elizabeth brought her other hand up to her eyes. Purple splotches filled her vision, like a thousand flashbulbs going off at once. Dirt filled her mouth as she rolled; a smell of gasoline seared her nose.

The ground moved from both explosions. Dirt, chunks of rock, shrapnel thanked to the earth around her. The packed sand gave a lurch, then settled down to a long rolling motion in the shock wave from the atomic blast, the same feeling as the San Francisco earthquake of ‘89, which she had felt back at Berkeley.

She could hear or see no other reaction from any of the gathered observers. Every person had to experience this alone, to deal with it in his or her own way.

And then the wind struck. A hot, smacking pop that grew and grew, and never seemed to quit. The wind howled, pushed her back, away from the tower, away from the bunker. Away from the bomb…

She forced her eyes open and tried to see, but still the purple-yellow splotches obscured her vision. She fought against the wind that tried to shove her away from the people she had been trying to save.

And just as suddenly, the wind reversed itself. It came as a shallow, haunting roar that tried to suck her back in the opposite direction, like an undertow into the sea, into the past, into the future.

But she could never go back. She had to live with what she had helped create.

She struggled to her knees. At her left came a growing heat. She turned, still unable to see. The blindness persisted. But as she faced the heat, she felt as if she could feel the growth of the fireball—it should have already risen thousands of feet by now, boiled into the upper atmosphere and spread out in a yellow-orange mushroom cloud.

The genie had escaped its bottle.

“I am become death, the shatterer of worlds,” Elizabeth said.

Oppenheimer was supposed to say that. She didn’t think he was around to quote from the Bhagavad Gita.

EPILOGUE

Santa Fe, New Mexico

May 1952

“For some time we had known that we were about to unlock a giant; still, we could not escape an eerie feeling when we knew we had actually done it. We felt as, I presume, everyone feels who has done something that he knows will have very far-reaching consequences which he cannot foresee.”

—Eugene Wigner

When the protester walked through the open door into Elizabeth’s art gallery, her radio in back was playing yet another Frank Sinatra song. She wondered if she would live long enough to hear Led Zeppelin, or even the Beatles.

The protester wore a neat skirt suit, but Elizabeth could spot her intentions immediately. She carried the leaflets under her arm like a weapon.

Elizabeth rocked back in her chair and watched her look around the small gallery, pretending to be interested in the pottery and sand paintings. Outside in the street a man and woman walked by with a small child. They were conservatively dressed in light slacks and billowing shirts, perfect for the Santa Fe summer sun but not for the cool evenings.

The protester glanced up to meet her gaze, smiling. She fidgeted; she was new at this, Elizabeth could tell. Elizabeth turned her head to the side so she could see her clearly, since she could never look at anything straight on again. Not since the Trinity blast.

The woman opened her mouth as if she were going to ask her a question, but when Elizabeth did not meet her gaze, she swallowed and pulled out one of her leaflets instead. Elizabeth’s offset gaze always disturbed people.

The center part of her vision was gone, and she could see only out of the corners of her eyes. She didn’t want to remember the old days, eight years before, but the Trinity test was burned in her memory forever, every time she opened her eyes. The towering, glowing mushroom cloud that branded itself onto her retinas so that she had seen it for days, while recuperating.

“Excuse me, ma’am. I was wondering if I could talk to you for a moment? It’s very important to the future of all of us.”

The piece of newsprint bore the words stop atomic warfare!

She replaced her shiver in her spine with a wry smile. “Of course I’ll look at it.” She held the paper to the side to read the words.

After the detonation, she had been in and out of consciousness for a day, flash-burned and shock-deafened. She had been delirious for another half a day, but then had focused on the chaos, the tiny infirmary set up in the McDonald ranch house, the medics tending them all.

It had taken the support staff two full days to find Graham Fox. In the confusion after the atomic blast and the explosion of the bunker, no one had thought to look for one man at a single outlying survey station who had not checked in. Only later, when Elizabeth began to sob and babble about what had happened, did they realize that no one had seen Fox. When they drove out to his station, they found him in the open, unmoving, staring up at the limitless New Mexico sky.

Elizabeth had broken Fox’s leg and hip when she struck him with the jeep. Fox had lain mere on the baking sands, unable to move for two full days, with no food, no water, and no shade. On his broken leg he had crawled over to the thin shadow cast by the telephone pole. Bloodstains and scuff marks in the sand showed how he had crawled around the pole, trying to remain in the narrow shadow as the sun moved across the sky. His face and arms were raw from flash burn as well as sunburn. Elizabeth pictured him sprawled unprotected and staring in awe as the great fireball rose into the dawn sky.

“If you have any questions, I’d be happy to explain them,” the protester said. “I know some of the concepts are rather difficult, but you don’t need to know about nuclear physics to understand the danger if these weapons aren’t used properly.”

Elizabeth looked up at her from the paper. “No, I don’t think I need you to explain anything.” But the woman had begun her speech now.

“I know Americans are excited right now with the atomic bombing of Pyongyang, Mukden, and Fushun. Congress didn’t do much debate when General MacArthur asked to use the weapons, and now he is claiming total victory over North Korea and southern Manchuria. President Lodge has formally petitioned the Republic of North Vietnam to adhere to France’s Indochina Occupation Accords or risk the same penalty. MacArthur is calling it his ‘Pax Americana’ and everybody seems happy about the whole situation.”

Elizabeth, though, had not been happy. When she read of the use of three bombs in Indochina, she had been absolutely horrified.

“But those weapons,” the protester was saying, “were exact duplicates of the uranium gun-type weapon that we dropped on Peenemunde and Hiroshima six years ago and Moscow last year. In all that time we haven’t improved them at all. No one’s been able to recreate the plutonium bomb they tested down in the desert.”

Elizabeth cleared her throat, feeling sweat prickle her arms. “I understand that most of the scientists got killed during the first test.”

She herself had suffered a concussion and two cracked ribs, second-degree burns—all in all, rather minor compared to the others. Eight people had died, including Oppenheimer and General Groves, crouching side by side and watching for an atomic flash they would never see. The explosion had broken both of Fermi’s legs, tossed and smashed Dick Feynman every which way, leaving him crippled. Only Johnnie von Neumann had somehow emerged unscathed. “Probabilities,” he had said in his thick Hungarian accent, “merely probabilities.”

Out of the corner of her eye she looked up to the framed black-and-white photograph of Feynman in his augmented wheelchair in front of a chalkboard. He had signed it, “For Elizabeth, what a great bang we had!” He had gone back to teaching at Berkeley, working off-hours on his theoretical studies. He still kept in touch with her, trying to get her to join him in California, where she could be his assistant. He claimed the wheelchair and the partial loss of function in his left arm didn’t slow him down at all. “I’m a theoretician, Elizabeth,” he had told her. “I don’t need to do anything.” The only other effect, he said, was that the women on campus now considered him safer.

She sighed at the thought. Going to work with Feynman again was indeed a tempting offer, but she wanted nothing more to do with any such work. She had left nuclear research once before, vowing never to support the effort. This time she meant it. She had seen once again what it could do.

“Those warheads are mass-produced at Oak Ridge. Uh, that’s in Tennessee.”

“I know. I’ve been there,” she snapped, growing annoyed at being reminded of everything.

The protester’s eyes widened. “Well, if you’ll read this you’ll see what I’ve been getting at. Some scientists have developed proposals to put atomic bombs to peaceful uses. Beating swords into plowshares, as it were.” She laughed a little.

“We could use atomic explosions to blast canals, to excavate new harbors, to make reservoirs. Down there at the bottom of the page, you’ll also see a description of something called ‘Thunderwells,’ deep pits filled with water under which we would set off an atomic explosion— our calculations show that the shock wave would be enough to launch something into orbit. Americans would be the first to send an object to space!”

“Wonderful,” said Elizabeth. “If you leave the paper here, I will read it. I promise.”

The woman appeared defeated, but she bought a small Nambe pot before leaving. Elizabeth told her she could leave some of her leaflets on the counter. She smiled and thanked her before moving down the mall to find someone else.

Not too many tourists showed up anymore nowadays. Elizabeth rarely thought of her old timeline, but when she did, she remembered that the tourists would flock to the plaza, catch a midday meal at the Bullring and then stop by the galleries before heading up to Los Alamos or Taos.

But Los Alamos had been shut down for years. Nothing remained but a deserted old Army town, decaying buildings. The Project had done its work, and it could now rest in peace.

As one of his last official presidential acts, Franklin Roosevelt had used the uranium bomb. The gun-type design did not need to be tested, once the purified uranium-235 had arrived from the Oak Ridge plants. Even without Oppenheimer and Groves to push for its use, Roosevelt had dropped the Bomb on the German island of Peenemunde, where the Nazis had developed the radioactive-dust missiles that had made New York uninhabitable.

President-elect Dewey had engaged in an enthusiastic propaganda campaign, dropping millions of leaflets in German cities, showing photographs of the death and devastation of both New York and Peenemunde, with a caption urging the people “Don’t Let This Go On!”

Dewey had announced a list of German cities to be obliterated if the Nazis did not surrender immediately. His first act as the new U.S. President would be to annihilate Berlin if Hitler did not surrender unconditionally. Frightened more by the unknown actions of a new President, Hitler surrendered on the day Dewey took his oath of office. He had then killed himself with a poison capsule before the Allies could begin carving up his Reich….

Current events always frightened Elizabeth. She rarely looked at the newspapers at all anymore, because she had lost track of what had already happened, and what might still come. She felt responsible for every disaster she read about.

Had she done something to trigger all this? What would have happened if she had assassinated Oppenheimer? Was the world better now or worse? Or just different?

For a while she had dabbled in the stock market, investing in television manufacturers, in John von Neumann’s company that produced “computing machines”—but the world economy had changed enormously, and she had no particular edge over anyone else. It was like what had happened to her eyesight—though she stared straight at something, she still could not see.

After opening her art gallery, exhibiting the work of local Indian artists, she had decided just to live her life and let the world go on by itself. History had chosen a different path, and it had to proceed where it would go, without any help, or interference, from her.

She would watch the future happen, while she lived in the past. Do what you have to do. If things got too bad, she would have to step in again and try to change things. And damn the consequences. For someone.

Afterword

THE TRINITY PARADOX ORIGINS

Doug Beason

I think it was Kevin who came up with the idea of writing an alternate history of the Manhattan project. And it all seemed natural at the time, the thing everyone expected us to do. After all, we’d met back in ’85 at a nuclear weapons laboratory, and we’d both had experience at Los Alamos National Laboratory—birthplace of the atomic bomb—and we’d both been out to the Nevada Nuclear Test Site: Kevin as a technical writer, and myself as a researcher.

Writing Trinity was not only personally and professionally interesting for us, but it made extensive use of our training and education. In fact this had become somewhat of a trademark for us: we both knew and understood our writing because we were not only active in the field, but we were publishing and making technical advances in it as well. This became an attribute of our collaborations: inserting real life experience and knowledge into our work. Other projects, such as our short story “Reflections in a Magnetic Mirror,” and novels such as Ill Wind, Ignition, Lifeline, the Nebula-nominated Assemblers of Infinity, and the Craig Kreident SF-mystery series (Virtual Destruction, Fallout, and Lethal Exposure), all made use of our scientific backgrounds.

What made writing Trinity even more exhilarating was that Kevin was a fanatic for historical detail, and as a computational physicist, I was fascinated by the science pioneered at war-time Los Alamos. I had performed my PhD thesis on the Los Alamos supercomputers, and Kevin had orchestrated some complex technical publications at the lab, as well as spent weekends touring the once highly secretive complex, and hiking throughout Bandelier National Park and the Anasazi ruins.

Writing Trinity started as a typical brainstorming session for us. We were eating either pizza or grilling steaks—a great way to fuel the creative juices—and whoever wasn’t cooking was taking notes. The concept grew into about five pages when we decided to start chopping it up logically and laying out the different plot lines.

The idea was that an extremely bright, and blindingly passionate female anti-nuclear protestor would somehow be transported back to the origins of the Manhattan project, in the middle of wartime America. This allowed us to explore the question of whether her foreknowledge of history would change the outcome of inventing the bomb… or WWII? And would her views change when she was suddenly immersed in this frantic, all-out effort to save 1940s America?

Writing the novel was one of the most fun collaborative experiences I’ve had. For example, one morning we wrote synopsis of major scenes onto sheets of paper. That afternoon (after a hike up the Sandia mountains in Albuquerque) Kevin and I laid the paper all over my living room floor, rearranging them while we mapped out the plot. My wife kept our toddlers out of the way while Kevin and I unscrambled plot lines, added and subtracted chapters, and finally achieved a holistic, visual view of the novel.

The story naturally divided itself along two lines: the German nuclear effort, and the US/UK Los Alamos secret program to produce the “device” (what the atomic bomb was called at the time).

Kevin and I divided the writing duties equitably. “You take that character and I’ll take this one.” Or, “I’ll write this chapter if you want to write the next one.” After the first draft was finished, whoever wanted to take the first cut at re-writing the entire novel had carte-blanche to change anything he wanted—words, sentences, scenes, structure, plot, whatever. And that, I think, was the strength of our collaboration. It was like taking our own work (but yet weirdly different because we had not written all of it) and rewriting it as our own. It took awhile to get into this mode of editing, but that gave the novel a single voice, and gave us the freedom to produce something that was much greater than simply slapping two pieces of disparate text together.

For this collaboration, the process of figuring out “who wrote what” fell naturally along our areas of interest. Kevin may not have literally jumped up and shouted that he wanted to write the German part of the novel, but he did everything but that. And I assume that I did the same for writing the US part. One anecdote I fondly remember was about the innovative way that we fictionally killed off Edward Teller, father of the H-Bomb. I actually truly admired Dr. Teller, and years later, he nodded his head in amusement when I told him I’d committed literary homicide in Kevin and my critically acclaimed book.

The Trinity Paradox was a culmination of our diverse experiences, a fusion of mutual interests. At the time we wrote the novel, it had been fifty years since the Manhattan project had occurred when we wrote Trinity in 1991, and that monumental event was quickly fading from memory. By contrast today, the Beatles first appeared on the international scene some fifty years ago, and look at how many people are still swept up by that creative explosion… equivalent in cultural change, if not in energetic force, to the impact made by wartime Los Alamos. We just wanted to ensure that perspective was not forgotten.

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RESURRECTION, INC.

In the future, the dead walk the streets—Resurrection, Inc. found a profitable way to do it. A microprocessor brain, synthetic heart, artificial blood, and a fresh corpse can return as a Servant for anyone with the price. Trained to obey any command, Servants have no minds of their own, no memories of their past lives.

Supposedly.

Then came Danal. He was murdered, a sacrifice from the ever-growing cult of neo-Satanists who sought heaven in the depths of hell. But as a Servant, Danal began to remember. He learned who had killed him, who he was, and what Resurrection, Inc. had in mind for the human race.

CLIMBING OLYMPUS

They were prisoners, exiles, pawns of a corrupt government. Now they are Dr. Rachel Dycek’s adin, surgically transformed beings who can survive new lives on the surface of Mars. But they are still exiles, unable ever again to breathe Earth’s air. And they are still pawns.

For the adin exist to terraform Mars for human colonists, not for themselves. Creating a new Earth, they will destroy their world, killed by their own success. Desperate, adin leader Boris Tiban launches a suicide campaign to sabotage the Mars Project, knowing his people will perish in a glorious, doomed campaign of mayhem—unless embattled, bitter Rachel Dycek can find a miracle to save both the Mars Project and the race she created.

“Drumbeats”

A chilling story cowritten with Rush drummer and lyricist Neil Peart. A rock drummer bicycling through the African wilderness encounters a village that makes very special drums. This one will make your heart skip a beat.

BLINDFOLD

Atlas is a struggling colony on an untamable world, a fragile society held together by the Truthsayers. Parentless, trained from birth as the sole users of Veritas, a telepathy virus that lets them read the souls of the guilty. Truthsayers are Justice—infallible, beyond appeal.

But sometimes they are wrong.

Falsely accused of murder, Troy Boren trusts the young Truthsayer Kalliana… until, impossibly, she convicts him. Still shaken from a previous reading, Kalliana doesn’t realize her power is fading. But soon the evidence becomes impossible to ignore. The Truthsayers’ Veritas has been diluted and someone in the colony is selling smuggled telepathy. Justice isn’t blind—it’s been blinded.

From an immortal’s orbital prison to the buried secrets of a regal fortress, Kalliana and Troy seek the conspiracy that threatens to destroy their world from within. For without truth and justice, Atlas will certainly fall….

GAMEARTH—Book 1 of the Gamearth Trilogy

It was supposed to be just another Sunday night fantasy role-playing game for David, Tyrone, Scott, and Melanie. But after years of playing, the game had become so real that all their creations—humans, sorcerers, dragons, ogres, panther-folk, cyclops—now had existences of their own. And when the four outside players decide to end their game, the characters inside the world of Gamearth—warriors, scholars, and the few remaining wielders of magic—band together to keep their land from vanishing. Now they must embark on a desperate quest for their own magic—magic that can twist the Rules enough to save them all from the evil that the players created to destroy their entire world.

GAMEPLAY—Book 2 of the Gamearth Trilogy

The Gamearth Trilogy continues. It was written in the Rules—Save the World! Over the past two years, a group of four players had given so much to their role-playing world that it had developed a magic of its own. The creatures, warriors, sorcerers, thieves—all had come alive. And now there is an odd connection between the gamers and their characters, splitting into factions to determine the fate of the Game itself and both the inside and the outside worlds.

GAME’S END—Book 3 of the Gamearth Trilogy

The finale to the Gamearth Trilogy. It’s all-out war between the players and characters in a role-playing game that has taken on a life of its own. The fighter Delrael, the sorcerer Bryl, as well as famed scientists Verne and Frankenstein, use every trick in the Book of Rules to keep the world of Gamearth intact while the outside group of players does everything possible to destroy it.

Digital works by Kevin J. Anderson & Doug Beason:

ASSEMBLERS OF INFINITY

Nebula Award Nominee. The crew of Moonbase Columbus make an amazing discovery on the far side of the Moon—a massive alien structure is erecting itself, built up atom by atom by living machines, microscopically small, intelligent, and unstoppable, consuming everything they touch. The mysterious structure begins to expand and take shape, and its creators begin to multiply.

Is this the first strike in an alien invasion from the stars? Or has human nanotechnology experimentation gone awry, triggering an unexpected infestation? As riots rage across a panicked Earth, scientists scramble to learn the truth before humanity’s home is engulfed by the voracious machines.

ILL WIND

A supertanker crashes into the Golden Gate Bridge, spilling oil. Desperate to avert environmental & PR disaster, the oil company uses an oil-eating microbe to break up the spill. But the microbe, becomes airborne… and mutates to consume petrocarbons: oil, gas, synthetic fabrics, plastics. When all plastic begins to dissolve, it’s too late…

IGNITION

NASA—you have a problem. In this high-tech action adventure from Kevin J. Anderson and Doug Beason, terrorists seize control of the Kennedy Space Center and hold the shuttle Atlantis and its crew hostage on the launchpad. But astronaut “Iceberg” Friese, grounded from the mission because of a broken foot, is determined to slip through the swamps and rocket facilities around Cape Canaveral and pull the plug on the terrorists. With their years of experience in the field, Anderson and Beason have packed Ignition with insider information to create an extremely plausible, action-packed thriller.

VIRTUAL DESTRUCTION—Craig Kreident #1

At the Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory in California—one of the nation’s premier nuclear-weapons design facilities—high-level physicists operate within heavy security to model and test new warhead designs. But politics can be just as dangerous as the weapons they design, and with gigantic budgets on the line, scientific egos, and personality clashes, research can turn deadly.

When a prominent and abrasive nuclear-weapons researcher is murdered inside a Top Security zone, FBI investigator Craig Kreident is brought in on the case—but his FBI security clearance isn’t the same as a Department of Energy or Department of Defense clearance, and many of the clues are “sanitized” before he arrives. Kreident finds that dealing with red tape and political in-fighting might be more difficult than solving a murder.

Written by two insiders who have worked at Lawrence Livermore, Virtual Destruction is not only a gripping thriller and complex mystery, but a vivid portrayal of an actual US nuclear-design facility.

FALLOUT—Craig Kreident #2

They call themselves Eagle’s Claw, one of the most extreme militia groups in the United States. They have infiltrated the Device Assembly Facility at the Nevada Nuclear Test Site, and the most frightening display of nuclear terrorism is about to unfold.

Only the Nebula-nominated collaboration of Kevin J. Anderson and Doug Beason could masterfully blend hard-as-nails high-technology with hard-driving intrigue to deliver such an explosive thriller. FBI Special Agent Craig Kreident—the unforgettable hero from Virtual Destruction—returns in this breathtaking tour de force of terrorism, cutting-edge technology, and raw emotional power.

Written by two insiders who have worked at the nation’s nuclear design laboratories and high-security research facilities, including the Nevada Nuclear Test Site, Fallout is a pulse-pounding thriller of an extremist group and stolen nuclear weapons, as well as a detailed portrait of what happens behind the fences of government facilities.

LETHAL EXPOSURE—Craig Kreident #3

At Fermilab near Chicago, researchers use the world’s largest particle accelerator to unlock the secrets of the subatomic universe. While working late one night, Dr. Georg Dumenico—candidate for the Nobel Prize in physics—is bombarded with a lethal exposure of radiation. He will die horribly within days.

FBI Special Agent Craig Kreident knows it was no accident—but he has to prove it, and the clock is ticking. The nation’s most valued research is at stake, and only Dumenico himself knows enough to track down his own murderer… if he survives long enough to do it.

Copyright

Copyright WordFire, Inc. & Doug Beason

Originally published by Bantam Spectra, 1991

Kindle edition

www.wordfire.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Content

Kevin J. Anderson & Doug Beason
THE TRINITY PARADOX

PROLOGUE Los Alamos National Laboratory, New Mexico May

PART 1

1 Los Alamos, New Mexico June

2 Los Alamos June 1943

3 Berlin June 1943

4 Los Alamos June 1943

5 Los Alamos July 1943

6 Berlin—the Virus House August 1943

PART 2

7 Los Alamos August 1943

8 Livermore, California April 1983

9 Berlin—the Virus House October 1943

10 Los Alamos December 1943

PART 3

11 Dachau Concentration Camp December 1943

12 Los Alamos December 1943

13 Peenemunde Experimental Rocket Station December 1943

14 German U-Boat 415 April 1944

PART 4

15 Los Alamos May 1944

16 German U-Boat 415 May 1944

17 Los Alamos July 1944

18 Hartford Engineering Works, Washington August 1944

19 Oak Ridge, Tennessee September 1944

20 Dachau Concentration Camp November 1944

PART 5

21 Trinity Site November 1944

22 Los Alamos November 1944

23 Trinity Site November 1944

24 Berlin—the Virus House November 1944

25 Trinity Site November 1944

EPILOGUE Santa Fe, New Mexico May 1952

Afterword THE TRINITY PARADOX ORIGINS Doug Beason

Look for these and other digital works by Kevin J. Anderson:

Digital works by Kevin J. Anderson & Doug Beason:

Copyright