Stealing Trinity Read Online Free PDF Page B

but was certainly a spy. The Allies would be most interested, and jail time was possible. Of course, if it was the Russians doing the questioning, there would be nothing beyond a single bullet in Braun's future. Returning to surrender was not in his best interest.
    "My mission is of vital importance," Braun insisted. "Your commander made this quite clear, did he not?"
    The captain laughed. "Of course. But then, my commander is an idiot who has not been to sea since the last war."
    Braun cursed inwardly at his error. Here was a man who had survived by thinking independently, making it through four years in a combat theater where 70 percent casualties was the grim fact.
    He would not be cowed by threats from superiors when there were far more immediate dangers in the skies and waters all around.
    Braun smiled. "You have not seen an idiot until you've met my own commander. Now there is a bastard. But all the same, I must get to America."
    "For our Fuhrer?"
    "No, Herr Kapitanleutnant. For our country."
     

Chapter 5.
    Major Michael Thatcher pedaled his bicycle briskly at the shoulder of the Surrey road, the morning chill offering its usual incentive. His small, wiry frame gave minimal aerodynamic resistance, and he kept his head down to maximize the effect. The trip from his cottage to Handley Down was a matter of eighteen or nineteen minutes depending on the wind and, to a lesser extent, the condition of the road, which had a nasty tendency to deteriorate under heavy rain. Thatcher himself was not a variable.
    His legs churned in steady time, notwithstanding the uneven gait -- his left leg, artificial from the knee down, had never mastered the upstroke. Thatcher spotted Handley Down right on time as he rounded the last bend. Typical of the English country manors of its era, it was shameless and unrestrained, an overbearing statement of class and station. Huge fortress walls stood guard on all sides, protecting the forty-odd rooms that lay within. The place had been requisitioned for the cause in 1940 and, approaching the gated entrance, Thatcher tried to imagine what it might look like in another year's time. Minus the drab olive jeeps and sodden sandbags, it would revert to its proper owner, Lord somebody-or-other, and the offices and holding cells would be smartly reshaped back into dens, libraries, and servants quarters. The crater near the stables had a number of possible uses, but would likely be filled in and smoothed over out of respect for the crew of the B-17 that had smacked straight in last August. Only then could the gentry return and the parties begin.
    Thatcher slowed as he approached the perimeter gate. Six months ago he would have endured a stern challenge from the guards, but now, with things winding down in Europe, the mood had lightened considerably.
    "Mornin', Major," a corporal called out as Thatcher approached, his lazy salute an apparent afterthought.
    Thatcher braked to a full stop and balanced the bike by his good leg. His return salute was crisp. "Good Morning, Thompson." He looked into the tiny shack that served as shelter for the guards. It was empty. "Where is your second?"
    "Ah . . . well that would be Simpson, sir. He's gone for our morning tea."
    "Corporal, this post is assigned in pairs. It is a dereliction of your responsibilities to --"
    Thompson interrupted, "Here he comes now, Major."
    A chunky enlisted man waddled up the path from the main house, a battered teapot in his hand and a stupid grin on his face. Thatcher frowned and issued a firm warning, "We're not done yet lads, do you hear?" He pushed off and covered the last hundred yards to the house, knowing the two guards were probably enjoying a laugh at his expense.
    He leaned his bicycle against a young beech tree and secured it with a chain and lock -- the law was clear on securing all forms of transportation, and no caveat was made to exempt military installations. Thatcher entered Handley Down through its grand main entrance. Two