Excited murmurs went around the table. This was the news they’d flown all the way from Germany to hear.
He ignored the rapacious looks on their faces and pressed on. ‘However, the cost and resources required to produce a sufficient quantity of Uranium-235 may prove to be prohibitive. Having said that, my primary concern is for the theoretical proof that a bomb can be produced that has the capability of winning the war for Germany. I do not presume to evaluate the size of the nation’s coffers or its willingness to divert those assets into a full-scale production facility, as I will leave that to the financial analysts.’ He looked pointedly at Bouhler, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat. That was all he intended to say on the practicalities of manufacturing a device. He thought it would be enough to plant the seed and let the bean counters do what they did best, which was to save money.
Unfortunately for him, Speer had other ideas. ‘What makes you think it wouldn’t be viable?’
The Professor tried to control the tick above his left eye, which was more pronounced now than it had been for years. His lie was audacious in its simplicity. He had calculated the amount of the radioactive isotope it would take to make a bomb and simply multiplied the figure by a factor of a hundred. So, instead of 65 kilograms of Uranium-235, the conclusion in his research paper stated that it would require at least 6,500 kilograms for a bomb to be effective. He was aware that the newly-developed Heinkel He 177 bomber was capable of delivering such a large payload, but it would have to be modified to carry the ordnance under its fuselage. The problem he had created wasn’t with the logistics of the device, but in the manufacture of the raw materials.
He could feel the perspiration soaking into his shirt beneath his brown plaid waistcoat and jacket. ‘As you may or may not be aware,’ he continued, ‘Uranium is an element that occurs naturally in low concentrations in certain rocks, predominantly pitchblende — or, to give it its geological name, uraninite.’ He directed his comments to the non-scientists in the room. ‘We currently have a mine in Joachimsthal, near the Czech border, that is capable of processing over ten thousand tonnes of ore each year, out of which we are able to harvest approximately ten thousand kilograms of pure Uranium. Unfortunately for us, the radioactive isotope that we require, Uranium-235, makes up less than one per cent of the chemical composition of Uranium. Therefore, with our current production capabilities, we are only able to produce approximately one hundred tonnes per annum of the radioactive isotope we need. It doesn’t take a mathematician to work out that, at the current rate, it would take us sixty-five years to produce enough fissionable material to make a bomb, during which time we would have won the war by more conventional means.’
He paused to let the information sink in, before continuing. ‘Our only option is to expand the facility at Joachimsthal to increase capacity, or source a new supply of Uranium from elsewhere.’
‘And where do you suggest we source it from?’ asked Himmler, his tone far from cordial.
‘I understand the Russians have been stockpiling it as a by-product of their radium production, which they use in luminescent paint,’ he responded, trying not to sound intimidated.
‘I don’t think they’re just going to hand it over to us,’ Himmler grumbled. He turned to face Keitel, who was sitting opposite him. ‘And how is the war progressing on the Eastern Front, Generalfeldmarschall?’
He enunciated Keitel’s official title with undisguised animosity. There was no love lost between these two senior officials. Himmler regarded Keitel as a spineless sycophant, nicknaming him ‘Lakeitel’, a pun on his name, meaning ‘lackey’. Keitel had seen the atrocities that Himmler had ordered first-hand whilst in the field and regarded him as a monster. He would never admit to it, but he was actually terrified of the man.
He flushed at being put in the spotlight. ‘We have launched an offensive on Stalingrad and are confident of a glorious victory for the Fatherland.’
‘That just leaves the rest of Russia then,’ Himmler said sarcastically under his breath, but loud enough for the rest of the table to hear. He turned his attention back to the Professor. ‘Assuming we don’t get the resources we require from our enemies, how long will it take to get Joachimsthal up to the capacity we need?’
‘As I alluded to earlier,’ replied the Professor, ‘That is not in my remit. But what I will say is that, if we commit to producing an effective weapon, we would need to increase the output at Joachimsthal substantially. It would require a significant amount of manpower to build a large enough plant to produce the Uranium required, as well as a separate facility for the manufacture of the bombs.’
‘We could always use the Jews,’ Himmler sniggered. A few people around the table followed suit, but Reinhardt wasn’t one of them.
‘We could if you hadn’t exterminated them all!’ Keitel’s impetuous remark brought the joviality to an abrupt halt, leaving a pregnant silence in the room as all eyes turned on him. His facial hue deepened further to a bright crimson colour as he realised he may have just overstepped the mark. ‘What I meant was, er… we could use the Russian prisoners of war. They’re in a much better physical condition than the Jews and are used to manual labour.’
His backtracking seemed to diffuse the awkwardness in the room and even elicited a nod from Göring.
‘Okay, Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I think I have all the information I need to take back to Mein Führer. From what I understand from Professor Reinhardt, it is theoretically possible to make a nuclear bomb, but we would have to expand our production facilities accordingly. We have the man-power to achieve this, but we would still need to reassign valuable resources away from the frontline in order to realise our objective. Am I missing anything?’
The question from Göring was thrown out to the table. A resolute shaking of heads was his reply. ‘In that case, gentlemen, I’d like to thank you for your time and wish you all a good day.’ He got up from his chair, stood to attention and saluted the picture on the far wall. ‘Heil Hitler!’ Everybody in the room followed his lead, but only one man was holding his breath.
CHAPTER 1
The alarm sounded in Reactor 5, as it had done dozens of times before. However, only one person heard it this time and he knew it wasn’t a drill.
It had been over twenty-six hours since Katashi’s shift had started and he had only managed to grab a thirty-minute nap during that time. He was exhausted but, fuelled by adrenalin and caffeine, he was still able to focus on the job in hand.
The initial shockwave had wiped out the power supply to the reactors, causing them to shut down immediately. Without power, the reactors would overheat, causing a meltdown. The backup diesel generators had kicked in, as they were programmed to do in such an event, pumping around thousands of gallons of water to cool the residual heat in the reactors. As long as the pumps maintained the flow, the fuel rods would cool down over several hours, making them safe.
Unfortunately, the tsunami had put paid to that idea. An hour after the initial seismic tremor, the twenty-foot wave had breached the compound’s outer walls and flooded the diesel generators.
Katashi Negano was in charge of the Containment of Hazardous Materials Team (CHMT) based on-site at the Fukushima Daiichi power plant. His father had worked at the plant from when it had first been commissioned in 1971, but had to give up work through ill health. He now lived with his wife, Hikari, and their four-year-old daughter, Kimiko, in the coastal town of Soma. Katashi’s mother had died when he was still a child, but he’d had an abundance of aunties to supplement his upbringing by his father.