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Harrison finally nodded

"You have my permission, but not my directive. Furthermore you are sending your team down there strictly to advise on security for Oak Ridge. If they get involved in anything more, the FBI will roust them, on my authority."

"Fine, sir."

When the President nodded dismissal, Donovan closed his briefcase, stood up, and then hesitated. "One final thing."

"Go on."

"The leak. I hope Hoover is running a full check on that."

"He's working on it right now. Absolutely anyone who might have had access to the code name 'Manhattan' and the purpose of the project is getting a full review. It'll take time, though. There are several hundred possible sources when you count people directly in the know and their assistants—in other words, people who might have access to reports. Several people involved with the project have Communist ties and were already under suspicion for feeding information to the Russians. One theory is that the Germans picked up on it through their operatives inside the Politburo. It's going to take time to track it down."

"I'd like to put some of my resources into this one. It'll take several weeks to set it up but maybe we can trap this bastard."

"Again, that's not your territory."

Donovan said nothing and continued to stare straight at the President.

"I never authorized it, is that clear?"

Donovan smiled. "Take care of yourself, sir. Frankly, you're starting to look run-down."

Harrison laughed and shook his head.

"I feel just like a one-armed juggler at the moment. Stay on top of things, Bill, and, on your way out, have Mayhew set you up a daily briefing with me over the next few weeks." Harrison thought for a moment. "And tell him that after he's done that I'd like to see him."

Harrison closed his eyes as the door shut behind

Donovan. Was he making the right move? Maybe Winston was right. Maybe the thing to do was blow it right out into the open. Call Hitler's bluff, tell him to put up or shut up, fight—or back the hell off. He stood and walked over to the window to look out across the South Lawn. The tulips in the garden were in full bloom, the day outside warm and balmy. Spring had finally won.
With spring coming, maybe the lights of the old Norse Gods will be more active than

ever.... Perhaps we might get to Manhattan----

"If they mean to start a war, let it be here and now." So they had said at Lexington Green, and so he finally realized, his heart was advising him this fateful day: c
onfront the beast now, before it grows any stronger, and one day simply comes to devour us. Yet the beast was already so strong-

A knock interrupted his thoughts and he turned to the door.

"Come in."

John Mayhew stuck his head through the door. "You wanted me, sir?"

"Sit down, John."

Mayhew came into the office and sat down across from the President's desk.

"I want some schedule changes worked out over the next couple of weeks. I think we might have a situation developing."

"Germany?" Mayhew asked quietly.

"I'm not sure, but if so I want us to be ready, and I need to start pulling some people in. I don't want anything to look out of the ordinary yet, but we need to get cracking on it. If the Germans are up to something, it would be much better if they don't realize we're onto them. I'm depending on you to keep a low profile while still getting things done."

Mayhew opened the President's schedule book and started to write.

April 16

Oak Ridge, Tennessee

Amazing! Intellectually Otto Skorzeny was fully aware of the lax nature of American security procedures, but actually experiencing them was something else. He found himself almost tempted to descend from the truck and berate the white-helmeted MP who had just waved them on—with not a word, and barely a glance at the proffered ID. Instead, having retrieved the card, he rolled his window up as the truck started rolling forward. Gunther, who was sitting between him and the driver, smiled.

"We are now on the Oak Ridge Turnpike," Louis announced. Louis was their contact in Knoxville. To Skorzenys immense gratification and mild disbelief, the trucker had delivered them to Louis with zero additional complications.

Skorzeny took it all in, trying to suppress any display of surprise as they rolled down the hill from the security gate and crept along through the tangle of traffic.

Coming straight into the base was a deviation from their plan, but the cop-killing had left him uneasy. Rather than going to ground on arrival at their base of operations, a small airfield forty miles northeast of Knoxville, he'd decided to immediately grab a quick look around before any disturbance they had caused could possibly result in enhanced security. Louis, to Skorzenys surprise, had not objected to the delay in delivering them to their final destination, nor to leaving the rest of the team hidden at his warehouse in Knoxville, and had suggested he come on the afternoon delivery run to the food market inside the compound.

Louis's cover was that of a produce trucker, a most convenient one for this operation. Skorzeny much preferred him to be the person who knew their final destination, as opposed to the idiot who had somehow managed to get them to Knoxville. A good German, Louis. He hoped their final contact would be as competent.

"This is the main east-west road running through the reservation," Louis announced. "The main residential areas are on our right, going up along the slope of the hills."

"Those are type-D cemesto houses —that's 'cement' plus 'asbestos,"' Gunther said, pointing out the small single-story homes that were lined up, row after row. "The E and F model homes are in toward the administrative area."

Skorzeny scanned the mass confusion around him. Oak Ridge had the feel of a frontier town, or one of those new fortified settlement towns in Occupied Russia. Everywhere there was traffic, cars, trucks, and buses; and everywhere there was mud. The main road was paved, but most of the side streets were merely graveled. They rolled p
ast a mud-spattered traffic cop, and several soldiers leaning against a storefront that stood behind the wooden sidewalk. The men were obviously enjoying the view as
an
endless stream of women walked past them.

"Are those typical security?" Skorzeny asked, nodding toward the soldiers.

"Pretty much," Louis replied. "You've read my reports, so you know there are about a thousand of them, and that they are primarily concerned with the thirty-mile perimeter and the internal checkpoints. They're spread thin."

Nor, in Skorzenys estimation, did they seem very concerned with the difficulty of their mission. He grinned to himself. Amazing the false sense of security three or four thousand miles of ocean could give people. Soon they would learn the hard way that times had changed since an envious Bismarck had complained that "God protects fools, drunkards and the United States of America."

"What about plainclothes?"

That was a different story. They're everywhere. We work on the assumption that anyone we talk to is a member of either the military or the FBI. We lost three people to them last year, but since we operate under a cell structure, they couldn't use their initial success to roll us up. As for the rest of the security here, there are several thousand private guards, hired by the various companies involved in the operation. Most of them are no better than you might suppose, but we assume there might be FBI in their ranks as well."

As they crossed through a heavily traveled intersection, Louis nodded to the left. "Y-12 is two kilometers down that road —just on the other side of that line of hills. Travel another two kilometers past Y-12 and turn right, and you come to X-10 another ten kilometers to the west."

Skorzeny nodded encouragingly. He knew this area like the back of his hand from maps and models, but the map was not the territory: it was still necessary to scope out the actual ground. Continuing with that line of thought, he asked, "Have you had a look at the facilities? Could we?"

"Not a chance. We'd have had to go overland, dodging patrols all the way. They've got different ID badges for each part of this base. The badges we have now are for outsiders coming in to make deliveries. If they catch us even a hundred meters past where we are supposed to go, we'll be in the security guardhouse. Viktor has been doing custodial work in K-25. You'll meet him tonight after he comes off shift. I also had a man in Y-12, but he was one of the three picked up."

As Louis talked, most of Skorzenys attention was focused on the visual data that came streaming in. The buildings were flimsy temporary structures, nothing more than plywood and studding. Even light-caliber bullets would exit the far side of most of them. That plus the extreme population density meant that for virtually every piece of ordnance dropped into the area there would be a significant kill ratio. After the bombing, though, the streets would be packed with panic-stricken survivors and wreckage; forcing vehicles through the confusion might prove problematic. Well, a little terror shooting would go a long way toward clearing the streets again, one way and another.

"That last turnoff led to the airstrip?" Skorzeny asked, making sure.

"Right. They just started working on it. It's not even paved yet but it's good enough for C-47s and C-54s."

"But is it long enough for our 264Es?" Gunther asked.

"We were told it was a thousand meters," Skorzeny said.

"I couldn't tell you."

"Then where did that datum come from? Who vouched for it?" Probably it was somebody's damned "estimate" masquerading as a fact. It wouldn't be the first time an operation had failed because of such an idiot misunderstanding. "Well, then, I'll have to check it out."

Louis said nothing but Skorzeny could sense his discomfort The man was undoubtedly a capable spy, he had, after all, been active inside the United States for nearly four years, two of them in and around this hypersensitive site. But by the very nature of his job he preferred to operate alone, not drawing attention, moving with caution. It was a method that would no longer apply in these final days of the operation.

"Here's our delivery." Louis turned the truck off the main road, pulled in behind a food market, and backed the truck up against the unloading platform. Climbing out, he motioned for Gunther and Skorzeny to follow. After unlocking the back of the truck, he went into the bay.

"Hey, Albert!"

A florid-faced rotund grocer emerged.

"I got fifty crates of lettuce, ten of oranges, ten bananas and ten tomatoes."

"I ordered twenty oranges."

"Say, don't blame me, buddy. Ten's what's on the invoice, ten's what I got for you."

"I ordered twenty."

"You want the ten? I should take 'em back?"

"No, I'll take 'em. Of course I'll take 'em! But I ordered twenty."

"Up to you, pal." Louis looked back at Skorzeny and Gunther. "Let's give the man his produce."

Albert pulled a half-smoked cigar out of his pocket and lit it, watching intently as they moved the crates from the truck to where the store manager pointed.

"Well, I tell ya. Don't ever get yourself tangled with running a store where the military is in charge. It's enough to drive a guy crazy. Check this, explain that, sign this paper here," and he waved his hands about. "I should have stayed in Cleveland."

Albert paused and looked over at Skorzeny and Gunther. "Say, who are these guys?"

"I screwed up my back. The doc said lifting's out for a while. I put them on the payroll last week. Besides, I'm thinking of expanding. They're gonna take over this run once I get another truck. This way I get them cleared to come in here and learn the ropes,
and
I save my back."

After finishing the job, Skorzeny and Gunther paused and looked inquiringly at Louis, who nodded a dismissal. Jumping down from the loading dock, Skorzeny went up to the front of the truck, casually lit a cigarette, and looked around. After a moment Gunther followed.

"It's almost too easy," Gunther whispered.

"Don't worry. Something is bound to go wrong. We've already experienced that with Hans, and then the police." Skorzeny, with his hands in his pockets, casually strolled away from the truck and back to the main street.

Traffic inched by, the buses packed with passengers heading out to the west where the K-25 plant was. He yearned to board one, but the card clipped to his shirt pocket wouldn't even get him on the bus. Still, the viewing was good right where he was. The administration building was plainly visible not two hundred meters away, as was the security building, though it was some distance away. Across the street and a hundred meters up the hill, the housing projects started. Turning and looking to the south he could see wisps of smoke coming up from the other side of the ridge —Y-12. Two MPs strolled by, not even slowing as they passed their
raison d'etre.

April 16

Knoxville, Tennessee

"So where's our pickup?" Wayne Mason asked as he looked around the Knoxville Air Terminal.

"Beats me," Jim Martel replied laconically.

"So what do we do now?"