Terror on Black Oak Ridge: A novel from the top-secret days of the Manhattan Project

Terror on Black Oak Ridge

A novel from the top-secret days of the Manhattan Project

Daniel S. Zulli

ISBN 978-1-63961-824-8 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63961-825-5 (digital)

Copyright © 2022 by Daniel S. Zulli

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

All Scripture references are from the King James Bible (public domain).

Although there are historical references and characters, this is a work of fiction. This novel is a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

All photographs by Ed Westcott (public domain; courtesy of his family), except Norris Dam (p. 55; courtesy of the Tennessee Valley Authority); map of Oak Ridge (p. 219; public domain, Wikipedia article Clinton Engineering Works); Harry Truman (p. 261; courtesy of the Harry Truman Library); Knoxville News-Sentinel (p. 264; public domain; courtesy of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers).

Back cover photo by David Zulli

Cover design by JD Smith Design

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

Introduction

Upheaval

Arrival

Meeting

Inquisition

Brenda

Settled

Work

Y-12

Anomalies

Norris

Christmas

Innocence

Calutrons

Alarm

Chapel

Discussion

Threat

Disclosure

Assault

Rejection

Redirection

Guidance

Turmoil

Transfer

X-10

Intrigue

Bob

Discrepancy

Pursuit

Death

Fallout

Questions

Delay

Suspicion

Trail

Resistance

Confirmation

Arrest

Deception

Clarity

Musings

Information

Deliberations

Meltdown

Chase

Capture

Interrogation

Plans

Kiss

Proposal

Clinton

Betrayal

Summation

This book is humbly dedicated to Mr. Ed Westcott, the hardworking and intrepid photographer of the Clinton Engineering Works project in Oak Ridge. Not only are his outstanding pictures fascinating in and of themselves, but without them, we wouldn't have any record of Oak Ridge, the most incredible and singular military/scientific/social project in the history of the United States. An Oak Ridge can never happen again, and Mr. Westcott's pictures captured for future generations the story of this only-once work. For an Oak Ridge native, his pictures are invaluable and have helped me find my place in history. For a writer, they have provided the visual clues necessary to weave a tale based on fact. Historians and fans of Oak Ridge are forever in Ed Westcott's debt.

And if that weren't enough, Ed worked with my father at the United States Atomic Energy Commission and was my sponsor at my confirmation when I attended St. Mary's Catholic School in Oak Ridge. How I wish I could have talked to Ed when I lived there and heard his stories of being the only person allowed to chronicle this top secret city, the city behind a fence!

Acknowledgments

First and foremost, to God, who allowed me to be born in the coolest place in America. About twelve weeks earlier, I would have been born in Salina, Kansas, as Dad was still in the Air Force at Smoky Hill Air Force Base. God also let me attend Dallas Theological Seminary in Dallas, Texas, which has given me a proper biblical understanding of His moving throughout the ages past as well as the future. Lastly, God has given me the love of reading and writing as well as this crazy thought for a book in my head.

Second, I have to give a shout out to not only my two main editors—D'Ann and Monica—but also to the others along the way who looked my work over and gave me tremendous hints, tips, advice, and critiques that have forced me to find the better choice of words or leave otherwise great scenes on the cutting room floor because they didn't help the story.

Third, to the men and women who came to Oak Ridge to be a part of this incredible work called the Clinton Engineering Project. They left their homes to come to a place that didn't exist; endured mud, dirt, and shortages of every kind; and worked in top secret conditions to heroically do the job they were called to do. They raised families, lived, and thrived, and they gave me a complete city in which to spend my first eleven years. The pioneer spirit was definitely evident in them. To the founders of Oak Ridge, I say, Thank you.

Lastly, to not only the founder of the Internet but to all who uploaded the countless articles and material (like the hit songs of 1944), which made my research such a snap right at my fingertips. In conjunction with this, I'd like to thank Steves Jobs and Wozniak, my heroes who invented the wonderful computer that I first got while in seminary and the machines that revolutionized everything I've written since then. For those who have never used a manual typewriter, you'll never truly appreciate what a lifesaver and joy wrap-around texts, cut-and-paste, right-justified margins, italics, different fonts, and the backspace/delete button are. From my first Mac Plus with MacWrite to my current MacBook Pro with Pages, the pleasure has been all mine. How did anyone ever write anything prior to the Internet and without a computer and word processor? I have no clue and can't remember anyway. But it's great now. Thanks, Steves.

Introduction

In October 1942, the area called Black Oak Ridge, Tennessee, was a conglomeration of four rural farming communities. By the end of World War II, in the summer of 1945, the four communities were gone, and it their places was a full-fledged industrial/military/civilian town of seventy-five thousand people. The K-25 uranium-separating plant was the largest building in the world.

Yet it didn't officially exist!

Oak Ridge—and the Manhattan Project—was so top secret that when Harry Truman was vice president of the United States, even he didn't know of its existence. He didn't learn of it until April 1945, when he became president.

Beating Adolph Hitler in producing an atomic weapon was the number one priority of World War II. President Franklin Roosevelt commissioned General Leslie Groves to lead that which became known as the Manhattan Project. Oak Ridge was one of three sites chosen and was the largest and most expensive to build. Its job was to enrich the uranium-235 that would fuel the bomb. It was called the Clinton Engineering Works to say officially that something was going on there.

But no one in Oak Ridge even knew what they were working on, only some unnamed gadget.

Germany surrendered in May 1945, not having successfully producing an atomic bomb. But Japan refused to surrender, forcing the US to take extreme measures to avoid an all-out invasion of the land of the rising sun. Thus, we used the gadget on Japan, bringing her to the battleship Missouri to surrender, ending the dreadful war.

After the war, Oak Ridge moved from military to civilian control. The Manhattan Project became the Unites States Atomic Energy Commission, and Oak Ridge became an official town in Tennessee in 1959.

My father worked at AEC, having left the Air Force in March to come to Oak Ridge, where I was born in June. I spent my first eleven years there and in the surrounding towns of Norris, Oliver Springs, and Coalfield. I was born in the hospital built for the health care of the CEW workers. I swam in the same swimming pool the workers and families did. I watched movies in the same theater and shopped at the same stores they did. When I lived there during the height of the Cold War, Oak Ridge was Russia's first strike on America as it was the hub of Americans nuclear capabilities.

Sadly, the legacy of Oak Ridge and its place in history is, in my opinion, being lost. When most people think of the atomic bomb, they think of Los Alamos, New Mexico. In fact, the recent television show Manhattan (2014–2016) was set there. Outside of historians and war buffs, few people know the role Oak Ridge played in ending World War II.

I proudly call Oak Ridge, Tennessee, the most fascinating and singularly incredible military/scientific/social project ever to happen in US history. What those people accomplished in just three short years was incredible and could never happen again.

I have chosen the town of my birth for the setting for my novel as it's the perfect backdrop for a suspense-thriller. We know there were Russians spies there (enabling them to produce their own atomic bomb in 1949). Although Terror on Black Oak Ridge is a work of fiction, by putting historical people and places in the novel as well as using Ed Westcott's wonderful photos, my goal is to transport the reader back to those top secret days when everything was going into Oak Ridge but nothing was coming out (as the expression went), and weave a tale that is a good way to spend one's time.

I hope you like it.

Chapter 1

Upheaval

Dale Hargrowe was not pleased. At all.

Everything had been going so well. He had just graduated from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology with his PhD in the new field of nuclear physics this past June of 1944.

In August, he had been asked to stay on with MIT in charming Cambridge to teach first-year students as well as to continue assisting Dr. Ronald Tupper, the department chair, in research. Dr. Hargrowe had a bright future. It was going even better than had he planned it. Most importantly, he was in perfect control of his life. Despite America being involved in a world war on two fronts, Dale was doing well. Life was going well.

Until now.

Dr. Tupper's secretary, Miss Gloria Blanchard, had summoned Dale to the professor's office. That by itself seemed strange to Dale. Miss Blanchard had never done this before. Further, Dr. Tupper's door routinely stayed open. Dale had been there many times before; no conversation had been deemed personal enough to make the white-haired physics professor have a closed meeting.

When Miss Blanchard secured the door behind him as he entered, however, it signaled to Dale this conversation was not going to be a normal one.

This was when Dale Hargrowe's neat and orderly world changed forever. This was when he became not pleased.

Dale suddenly sat upright.

Are you serious? he challenged his friend and mentor, when he heard the news.

I know, Dale, Dr. Tupper said, his head nodding in understanding. I'm not happy losing you to the war, either. We were very much looking forward to you staying with us and working here. But when these men from the war department came with an urgent need for someone with your skills, I had no choice but to recommend you.

Dale had no counter-argument. He had been exempt from the war effort ever since he had been classified 4-F due to a knee injury from when he had tried out for football his freshman year of college at Amherst. Then, being a full-time college and post-graduate student allowed him to continue his life unaffected by the war.

Further, he also knew if big-time baseball stars like Ted Williams and Johnny Pesky of the Red Sox and Joe DiMaggio of the Yankees had their careers interrupted by the war, why should he be protected? Better men than he had been called to play some part in the war effort.

Still, Dale was not happy at having his personal and professional plans interrupted. Surely the war could be won without him. Surely there was someone else in all of America who could fill this bill. His life had been going just the way he wanted, right on schedule, just as it had always been. Surely there was not a need for Fate to step in now and mix up the works. Surely.

Dale drummed his fingers on his thighs. I guess there's no way out, is there? he asked in a surrendered tone.

I'm afraid not, son, Dr. Tupper softly said.

So, what is it I'm supposed to do?

I don't know that. Even if I did, I wouldn't be able to tell you. If I could hazard a guess, I'd say your dissertation on fission has something to do with it.

More finger drumming. Where am I supposed to do whatever it is I'm supposed to do?

Miss Blanchard has your travel details. The public name is called the Clinton Engineering Works Project, near Knoxville, Tennessee. Beyond that, I don't know.

Dale was having a difficult time imagining what could be so important in the lower part of the Appalachians. He could imagine New York, Chicago, Washington, DC, or somewhere in California, but not some place in the Smoky Mountains. Tapping out imaginary tunes on his legs did not produce any answers.

What could be so doggone important to the war down there? he said, thinking aloud.

Dr. Tupper raised his right hand and looked at Dale through his round, rimless glasses. Though Dr. Tupper often spoke with a good-natured twinkle in his eye, this time he did not. Whatever this was, it was serious.

Dale, my first piece of advice is to keep your thoughts and opinions to yourself. I don't know much of anything about this, but by putting two-and-two together, I have some theories. Regardless, I do know that from this point on, it would serve you well to merely salute smartly and carry on without undue noise.

Dale exhaled, acquiescing to the inevitable. When do I leave?

Dr. Tupper turned his chair around and faced the window behind him.

Tomorrow morning, he said in an almost inaudible tone.

Dale just about sprang out of his chair.

Tomorrow morning? he roared. Are you serious? You can't be serious!

Dr. Tupper turned back around to look at his protégé. You are to pack clothing for all four seasons in one trunk, as well as any comfort items, like books and papers and such. Anything else you might need, you can get there.

But what about all my personal affairs? This doesn't give me any time at all!

We'll have someone take care of everything for you. Look, son, we do not like this any more than you do. But the war is our top priority and demands all our best efforts. I know you'll do a great job down there.

Dale sat stunned and speechless, a thousand images of the war effort flooding his mind. Everyone was doing their part to win this war. Americans were rationing sugar, metal, rubber—materials needed for use on the front lines. Enthusiastic boys and girls collected every available scrap of these items in their neighborhoods and brought them to local collection points. Victory gardens were grown. No effort was too small and no person too important to not contribute to winning this terrible war. Still, he did not like this demand on him. It messed up everything.

Silently, Dale stood and reached across Dr. Tupper's desk to shake his hand. As he turned to leave, Dr. Tupper softly said, God be with you, son.

Feeling utterly numb, he opened Dr. Tupper's door and walked out of the office, head down. He did not break stride as Miss Blanchard placed an envelope with travel details in his hand. He felt as if a bailiff was handing him his jail sentence.

As Dale strode out into the warm August sun, he thought of Dr. Tupper's last words to him: God be with you.

God? Dale never thought about God. To him, God was a nice story for people who needed something to believe in. Dale's very nominal church upbringing did not leave much of an impression, only bland messages from ministers who did not seem to believe it themselves.

Dale was a scientist, raised and educated in the world of Darwinian theory. Man was the highest evolved animal, not descendants of Adam and Eve. Dale dealt with empirical evidence, like fossil records and vestigial organs, not to mention cold equations and test-tube results. God was a nice crutch for those who needed something to lean on. He did not.

If God did in fact exist, Dale thought, He must be playing a cruel joke on him.

Dale had never, ever talked to God, other than when he recited the few prayers he was forced to memorize as a youth. But now, he had something to get off his chest.

He looked up to the sky, pointed a finger upward and declared, "I'll go, but just for the record, I am not pleased!"

Chapter 2

Arrival

By the time the train stopped at Knoxville, Tennessee, at 7:28 Wednesday morning—he had left very early Tuesday morning—Dr. Dale Hargrowe had been traveling nearly twenty-six hours.

It felt like twenty-six weeks.

Dale had been awake for the better part of thirty hours. And he still was not entirely sure why he was in Knoxville. He knew he did not want to be.

He had begun his journey from Massachusetts on Tuesday, reporting to the train station at the Dorchester Extension at 7:30 a.m., and leaving for Boston at 8:15. From there, the train rumbled through Springfield, Hartford, New York City, Philadelphia, Baltimore, DC, Richmond, Charlotte, then finally wound its way through the southern tip of the Smoky Mountains, ending at Knoxville.

The rail cars had been packed—mostly by fresh-faced GIs—forcing Dale to sit upright in the coach car, nodding off but not really sleeping. He had left deep sleep in his comfortable bed back at his Cambridge apartment.

As the train finally halted at the Southern Railway Station on West Depot Avenue in Knoxville, Dale decided that being in eastern Tennessee in August was not good. The air was hot and thick; bugs chirped and hummed as the new day broke. While it had been warm back in Cambridge, the nearby ocean had generated enough of a cooling breeze to make life palatable. Knoxville had no ocean breeze, and Dale's clothes stuck to his skin. He could not wait until his next shower and change of clothes.

Dale got up and arched his back. He shook and wiggled his limbs to restore their full function. If he would have to run for his life, he would lose.

This is nuts, he thought. He should still be in historic Cambridge, getting ready to begin his first year of teaching at MIT, enjoying his life. Even though the Red Sox were mired in fourth place in the American League, a .500 team, Dale had plans to see a couple of games at Fenway before the season ended. Dale had lots of plans, none of which included being in hot and humid Tennessee.

As he detrained, the Black porters began unloading the various trunks and luggage of the passengers who had made Knoxville their final destination. It was a large stack.

He passed a portable stand where the Red Cross was passing out fresh coffee and donuts, the aromas of both filling the air. GIs flocked to it like bees to a flower. After gathering his trunk, Dale looked up. A sign read,

Clinton Engineering Works Inside

This was where he was supposed to report once he had arrived, according to Miss Blanchard's instructions. Lugging his trunk behind him, he entered this section of the train depot.

Dale felt like he was inside some armed forces recruiting station. Uniformed Army personnel were processing anxious-looking men as if they were reporting for basic training. There were a variety of desks and stations with signs hanging above them from the ceiling tiles: Construction. Food Services. Truck Drivers. Secretarial Pool. Laborers. And then the one to which he was to report: Engineers. Soldiers moved about with clipboards, directing this fresh batch of recruits in a systematic fashion, with low tones and blunt looks. An Army private told everyone to leave their trunks over in one corner of the room.

A four-by-eight-foot sign with bold red letters dominated the room:

Security Starts Here!

Below these stark words was another line:

You will be told only what you need to know.

Dale's mind reeled. Even though he knew he had not been drafted, no civilian job he had ever applied for in his past had ever felt like this.

This was different. There was no idle conversation. No smiles and handshaking. No questions asked or answered. Talk was short, to the point and businesslike. Eyes were hidden underneath military caps. This was not the place for forging relationships.

Dale entered the line for engineers. There were two others before him, standing behind a taped line on the floor several feet in front of a somber Army sergeant's desk. They were not to cross it until the three-striper barked, Next! Dale approached him when it was his turn.

Name? the sergeant asked, not even looking up from his stack of paperwork.

‘Dale Hargrowe,' he answered. That's H-A-R-G-R—

I can spell, Sergeant Somber growled. Dale Hargrowe, he confirmed. ID, he said. That was not a request but an order.

Dale fumbled around in his back pocket and produced his MIT employee badge and his Massachusetts driver's license.

Sergeant Somber looked at them both, looked up at Dale, looked down to his paperwork, checked it off, and made an entry next to his name. He handed the documents back, along with a badge labeled CEW 7-39XR, and pointed for him to proceed to the staging area where the other engineers had been directed to wait.

Dale dutifully obeyed. He apparently was the last one expected, at least for this round. He desperately wanted to talk to these other men and ask them where they were from, what form of engineering they did. Was it chemical, structural, biological, or was it nuclear like his? He wondered what their jobs would be at whatever Clinton Engineering Works was.

But since this was not the place for questions, Dale could only speculate on the answers.

Get your IDs out again, as well as the badge just handed to you, bellowed a short, stocky man with round glasses and a gray, civilian suit. He had come out of a room adjacent to the desk occupied by Sergeant Somber, who had given this new man the list of the three waiting engineers. The gray suited man walked past the men and ordered, Follow me to the bus.

Outside, he directed, When I call your name, show me your IDs and badge. Then enter the bus only when I have cleared you.

He went down the list alphabetically: Alders! He checked Alders' credentials against the list Sergeant Somber had produced, then he jerked a no-nonsense thumb toward the door of the bus.

Gilchrist. A jerk of the thumb.

Hargrowe.

That made three. Once they were all on the bus, a porter opened the back door and started loading the luggage and trunks. The bus was full of road-weary men and women who had journeyed to Knoxville. Dale had to assume they were as clueless as he was about what they were getting into. They all looked that way.

Dale plunked down behind the driver of the bus, a Black man of about fifty, immaculately dressed in his official bus driver's uniform, with official bus driver's cap jauntily tilted to the right side.

Y'all just sit back and relax now, folks! he cheerfully announced, closing the door with a swing of his arm on the lever. I'll have you at your destination in no time flat. I'll have you right there, or my name isn't Ernest Eugene Cummings. Yes, sir!

Then, to no one else in particular, Ernest Eugene Cummings, bus driver, went on his own little soliloquy as he started the bus in motion. "I wanted to be called E. E. Cummings, but that there fancy poet fellow