The Plot To Kill Oppenheimer

The Plot to Kill Oppenheimer

By Stephen Patrick

Word Count: Approx. 2500 words



Did I want to kill him? Of course I did. If I had it to do all over again, I'd put a bullet in his chest and never look back. But those windows don't stay open very long. Once they're shut, they never open again.
I look at the pictures in my album now and can barely remember being so young. That blonde hair above my UCLA sweater fell out too quick and somewhere along the way, my gut swelled over my waist.
1943 was a tumultuous time for a lot of us. I had wanted to study Criminal Law, using the law to make the world a better place. I would head to law school and later join the ranks of the rugged G-men protecting the home front from Nazi spies and traitors to the United States. I had even filled out an application, but it must have been lost on the desk of some FBI recruiter.
Then I met Diane. A budding scientist, she soon swept me with her into the worlds of Chemistry and Physics. Each experiment was a tiny puzzle to solve and each one revealed something about the world around me. I followed her to graduate school at Berkeley and to him.
He was already a star and I was not prepared for my first meeting with Oppenheimer. The buzz among the academics was deafening. He was a rock star and even the brightest young scientist wanted to be his disciple.
At Berkeley, I lost myself in unlocking the secrets of the atomic universe, questioning the very fabric of existence and pushing the theories of the day to their limits. The classes were challenging and Oppenheimer never suffered our ignorance or poor preparation. He was pretentious and you could tell when he was dumbing things down. When he really got going, most likely showing off, no one in the room could keep up. We would just close our notebooks and watch, hoping that we could learn by osmosis.
During that first semester, I lost Diana to the heavy workload and a fraternity guy. I filled the hole in my life with theorems amid clouds of chalk dust and shrieking chalkboards. While other men were in Europe fighting the good fight, I kept up my studies. Everything at Berkeley pointed in that direction. My dreams of making the world a better place through the law were realized in the promise of science. I was happily on that path when I met U.S. Army Major Vladimir Pilkin outside of a bar just off campus.
I was two drinks into the night when this man in a crisp green Army uniform sat down beside me. He bought the next few rounds and I gladly shared some small talk. He seemed interesting enough, he started asking questions.
"You want to help your country?"
The alcohol made me a slave to the truth. "I'm a scientist, but I used to want to be an FBI agent, I still want to make a difference, though."
"If that's true, come with me."
He was still a stranger then, but when he gripped my hand and his powerful fingers flowed over mine like an avalanche, I was his. My life was changing and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
Pilkin was an intelligence officer for the U.S. Army based out of San Francisco. While others focused on the Japanese threat to the west coast, he remained skeptical of the Russian-American joint efforts against the Fascists. He personally conducted the only training I received. More than mere skills, his training affected my soul. Pilkin was grooming me for the most important decision of my life; one of the most important decisions in American history.
"About your friend, the doctor..."
"Dr. Oppenheimer?"
"Yes?"
"Does he trust you?"
"I guess so. I've worked in his lab for three semesters."
"The parties?"
"I've gone a couple of times."
"Did you notice anyone unusual at them?"
"There's always a crowd, but Oppenheimer attracts scientists from all over the world."
"None of them seemed particularly unusual to you?"
"What do you mean?"
"You're the budding agent. Nothing looked suspicious?"
"A few of them had Russian accents."
"Really?"
"None of them worse than yours."
"Anything else."
"A few of them get really riled up about workers' rights, talking about how they are oppressed."
"Are they communists?"
"Maybe. They talk about rallies and upcoming events some times."

"Does Oppenheimer support these communists?"
"I don't know."
"Before you turn soft on this, let me tell you about them. My family grew up in Russia. My father fled when the Bolsheviks revolted. He saw the White Army's struggle and told me what happened to my family members and their friends. Do you want that here? If the Bolsheviks align with the Fascists there'll be no place to turn."
"The Russians are our allies."
"'The enemy of my enemy is my friend'. Don't turn your back on the communists or the Russians. Trust me, communism will be the battleground of the future, regardless of what happens in Europe."
"What does this have to do with me and Oppenheimer?"
"Your mentor holds the future in his hands."

***

Months would pass without any contact with Pilkin, but under his tutelage, I feared the constant threat of Russian spies all across our country. Pilkin's vigilance made me a bit paranoid about the people around me. Deft of tongue and skilled in our culture, they could be anywhere. My enlightened perspective let me see through the façade of John Governor in my Advanced Physics class and that funny-sounding clerk at the café. Both of them were gone with a single phone call to the Major.
Two months later, the Manhattan Project was born. Oppenheimer's inner circle went and I followed in their wake. My Berkeley-honed knowledge of Physics and Chemistry and Oppenheimer's recommendation gave me a small piece of the puzzle, but I was still part of the team. We were going to end the war. We were going to change the world.
One Thursday night, I saw Pilkin's black sedan behind me as I walked home from Andi's Bar. The sedan barely slowed as the rear door flew open and the Major pulled me inside.
"It'll be done soon," he said. "There are rumors that it will end the war in Asia. If so, all of our efforts have been worth it."
All I could do was smile.
"They're coming, you know."
"Who?"
"The Russians. They've heard the same rumors. They'll be doubling their efforts."
"But the European front is already winding down."
"When it's over, they'll want a seat at the table, probably at the head. Don't think they'd let us develop this without them. They've been racing toward it too, but they don't have what we have. If they get it, It won't be Nazis and Zeros ruling this land, but vengeful communists Mother Russian Asia."
"What do you want me to do?"
"There's a meeting next week. Several agents getting together for something big, possibly trying to acquire some high-level information."
"From someone inside the project?"
"The Director."
"He's eccentric and has some odd friends. But he's not a communist. He's not a traitor."
"Your job is to find out."
"And if he is?"
"Then he's a traitor. Your Manhattan Project may turn into a mushroom cloud over Manhattan."
"What do I have to do?"
"Everything points toward an exchange this weekend at a party. I can't afford to interfere with the meeting since it might identify some key Russian players. I need you at that party. Get close to him. See if you can learn who he's meeting."
"And then?"
"I can't commit a team to it yet. It is your job to keep tabs on him and, if necessary, to take care of him. Remember, if I'm right, we can't afford for the exchange to take place."
"What do you mean?"
"We're at war, son. Do you think the American people want to see the pride of our scientific institutions paraded around as a traitor? Think of what that would mean for everyone else. It'd be better if he died a hero; a slain champion of the cause, martyred with silent lips. Besides, the project is bigger than one man. The politicians and the generals will see that the project continues."
Pilkin slid a small cotton bundle across the seat to me. I grabbed it and the heft told me what was inside. I wrapped my hand around the snub .38 revolver.
"Are you asking me to kill him?"
"I'm asking you to do your duty, to make the world a better place."
"What will happen to me?"
"I'll take care of that. Oppenheimer will be replaced and the project will go on. You'll be forgotten, erased, not even a footnote to history. We'll hide you on Uncle Sam's payroll for the rest of your life with a big secret on your shoulders, but the world will be a better place.
I had spent nearly two years under the tutelage of Oppenheimer and Pilkin. One taught me about science, peeling back the ways of nature even down to the building blocks of the universe. The other taught me about people, peeling open the psyches of those around me to reveal their frailties and deceptions. Both men taught me to watch. Both men shared their skills with me. My final test was at hand.
As I walked through the door to the party, I tucked my left arm close to my waist, pressing against the bulge in my jacket that contained the tiny pistol. The room was filled with cigar smoke and laughter and Oppenheimer was in the center; the others orbiting around his star.
Oppenheimer introduced each guest, often embarrassing them with his knowledge of their work, particularly the shortcomings. As they postured and professed the truth of their theories, I studied the man I had followed for two years. I made a few half-hearted probes into the war or Russia or the communists, but the cold response confirmed my disbelief of Pilkin's assessment. Worse, I noticed that Oppenheimer was staring at me. I began wondering if his abilities included Psychology.
I broke away to refill my drink. I was not thirsty, but I felt as if he was looking right through me. When I returned, the conversation had changed. Like all of these parties, the elite thinkers mingled with Oppenheimer's students allowing for a free trade of ideas, both ancient and new. During my absence, older, more mature faces had filled the crowd, men whose dour faces betrayed any hint of a party atmosphere.
A man sitting on a lounge chair in the corner was speaking over his cigar and brandy. "It's about balance, men. Don't you see? With the Germans on the run, the U.S. will start spreading out, pushing our economic power all over the land."
"Exactly," answered a man sitting on the table. "More of your capitalist expansion. The haves will have more while the have-nots will be relegated to death or slavery, either toward the government or toward Big Business, giving in to indentured servitude in the factories or watching their families starve. Add the bomb to that and who's to stop the US warmongers from enslaving the world. Something need to keep them in check and return our country to the beacon of democracy it was meant to be."
I felt the gun beneath my elbow and my stomach began to churn. If Pilkin was right, one of these men might be a Russian spy.
Oppenheimer saw my white face and handed me his glass and asked for a refill. I needed to stay, but needed to calm the sickening feeling in my stomach.
The bathroom stall was mercifully wide and I managed to keep my dinner within the porcelain toilet. I wiped my mouth clean and sat down, trying to calm my nerves. Some spy-buster. I cursed my weakness and thumbed the gun through the inner lining of my jacket. While I sat on the toilet, Russian spies or sympathizers were out there cruising for information.
I heard a creak and the bathroom door opened. Three men walked in and stood at the urinals. I let go of the gun and pulled my legs up to my chest.
"Why are you doing this to me now?" It was Oppenheimer.
"It has to be done, Oppie. We've talked about this since the beginning."
"Enough already."
"My car is just outside. It won't take long."
There were three men, but only two spoke. I knew who one of them was and my heart sank. I could tell by the voice. But just to be sure, I leaned down and peeked beneath the stall. I'd recognize Oppenheimer's shoes anywhere.
"Let's go. It will only take a second."
I heard their heels scrape the floor as they turned around, all three moving to the door. Once outside, I'd love them. I grabbed the gun and felt the rough edge of the trigger beneath my index finger. I stepped out of the stall and walked toward them.
They were startled at my sudden appearance. Oppenheimer even reached out to me.
"Are you OK, Nicholas? You look sick. I hope it wasn't the Brandy."
He caught my arm in his hand, squeezing it tight as he pulled me closer. Did he know? Could he know? Here I was, a pretender, a charlatan, standing close to the smartest man I'd ever know, possibly the smartest man in the world. He was probing, searching the inner recesses of my soul for whatever lay within. God help me, I didn't want to leave him wanting. I know he saw it. He knew that I was there to kill him. Did he know about the gun in my jacket pocket that I was slowly turning toward him?
I locked on to his eyes, digging for some glimmer of truth before I pulled the trigger. I looked inside him for Pilkin's traitor, but in the end, I was the traitor. Not to my country, but to myself. In the end, I simply shook his hand and walked away.
Too young and too scared to fail, I did nothing. A year later, I watched the mushroom clouds on television and read the newspaper reports of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. I watched my friends from school come back to resounding cheers. They were heroes, every one, while I sat in silence, never sharing my shame with no one until now.
If I had stopped him, if I had killed him that night, would it have changed anything? How many Japanese would have lived? How many Americans would have died? How much more painful would that have been?

~END~