by Daniel Wyatt
“Then you need me, Bormann?” Goering asserted, with contempt. “You actually trust me. Isn’t that lovely. A peaceful coexistence within the High Command.”
“Yes. A common course. Let’s resolve our differences. Forget the past. Haven’t I done so by creating our Order?”
“I have the copies of the original blueprints. I can negotiate myself. Why do I need you?” Goering said, testing Bormann.
“I thought you might say that. Yes, indeed, you may have the Luftwaffe inventions. But I have my Swiss connections.”
“So do I. All of us in the High Command do.”
“But my banker in Zurich knows Allen Dulles of the OSS quite well.”
“The hell you say? Dulles?”
“It’s true. The same Allen Dulles who would like nothing better than an Allied-Nazi alliance to fend off the Russians. The same Dulles who gave us the Russian plans for Europe.”
“How do you know this?”
“Believe me, I know it. Everything the Fuehrer knows, I know. Dulles was also at one time the legal advisor to the Anglo-German Schroeder Bank, before he became the OSS Director in Switzerland.”
“The Schroeder Bank?”
“Yes.”
“I.S. Filberg’s bank?”
“That is correct, yes. Our own German industrial cartel, I.S. Filberg, who went begging, hat in hand, to Wall Street to finance our National Socialist movement in the first place. And remember, it was a Schroeder group that merged with a Rockefeller group before the war to become the Schroeder Rockefeller Company. Our American connection may come through for us once again, when we need them most.”
“Can you vouch for your banker?”
“Yes, of course I can.”
“Even so, how do you know the OSS will wish to deal with us?”
“Oh, they will. They’d be fools not to. We have too much on Dulles and other Americans who’ve been secretly supplying us with oil and aluminium since the war began.”
Goering twirled his baton, resting it by his right leg. “How can you be sure it will work out as you say? How badly do the Americans want our inventions?”
“Basic greed on their part. They don’t want the Russians to get what we have. In addition, my banker is, allow me to say, persuasive.”
“Let me think this through. I’ll get back to you.”
“Don’t take too long. Let me stress the reality that our world is getting smaller every day. The Allies are seeing to it.”
“Do you think I don’t know that?” Goering huffed.
They walked to the gate leading out to the rubbled street. Together, they raised their right hand in the Nazi salute, then placed the same hand to their heart... a pledge of support as clandestine brothers in the second degree of the Order of the Knights of National Socialism.
“Blood brother, Herr Bormann.”
It was quite comical to the Reichsleiter, who knew that each one was out to bleed whatever they could from the arrangement. “Blood brother, Herr Goering.”
“Good day, Bormann,” Goering said, his face hard.
Bormann watched Goering leave by way of the pot-holed street to his limousine across the road. The secret fraternity initiated by Bormann in August, 1944 was starting to pay off. After the Allied D-Day landing in early June of that year, Bormann was quick to predict that the end was very near. Pulling his old adversary, Herr Meier, into the group was a strategic move. The V-4 was under Goering’s umbrella. Bormann needed the nervous wreck of a man. For the present. The trap had been laid. Goering was a bigger idiot than Bormann first thought.
Bormann saw that there were many possible places in which to hide out in the next few months. Argentina. Neuschwabenland. America. He only had to take his pick.
For the present, back to Adolf the Great. His drugs. His steady stream of chocolates. And his tantrums.
Southern England
Cloudy weather over the continent had grounded the operation for three days. But not tonight. Clear skies were expected.
The fighter pilot flicked the mike switch to the side of his oxygen mask to “on.”
“SILVER SIX-THREE TO EMERALD TOWER. OK TO TAKE-OFF?”
“EMERALD TOWER TO SILVER SIX-THREE, YOU ARE CLEARED TO TAKE-OFF. GOOD HUNTING.”
The pilot pushed the dual throttles to maximum, watching the revolutions climb on the brightly-lit panel at eye-level. Twenty-five hundred horsepower from his twin Merlin engines roared in his ears.
He released the brakes.
A kick in the pants... and they were off in the twilight. The pilot glanced right to his navigator in the seat tucked against his, then lifted the Mosquito fighter off the runway. He brought the landing gear up and banked the machine east.
In minutes, Bevens and Solomon were over the North Sea, heading towards Germany. As a night intruder, their mission was to check out and aggravate one of the last fighter bases in Germany — near Hamburg — that was still harassing the Royal Air Force bombers on their nightly raids of the Fatherland. And it had to be done — again — before the bombers came over tonight on a raid to Berlin.
Part-way over the North Sea, the pilot released the fifty-gallon drop tanks and went to the wing tanks. Night had fallen. They climbed to 2,500 feet. He could hear a buzzing in his headset. Enemy scanners were already on them.
* * * *
With a small flashlight, British navigator Bill Bevens studied the maps on his knees. He glanced up. According to his calculations via his panel equipment, the checkpoint should be coming up in six minutes.
“TURN PORT THREE DEGREES,” he said into his mask to Canadian pilot, Reggie Solomon. Masks on, complete with the earphones, was the best form of communication with the constant roar of the engines around them.
“YOU BET.”
“CHECKPOINT IN TWO MINUTES, TWENTY SECONDS.”
“ROGER.”
Solomon nosed the fighter down to the water line. He would be coming under the coastal radar at zero altitude, north of Bremerhaven. The German coast came up quickly... and flashed beneath. Then he brought the stick back, sending the fighter into a stiff climb. At 2,000 feet, he levelled off, then turned southeast on his navigator’s directions.
Hamburg
The supervisor attached to Zerstorer Unit 22 peered over the shoulder of his radar technician inside the darkened room. The two watched the pulsing, green blip and the green wide-sweeping arm on the screen.
“There it is, Herr Leyberger,” the technician said, recording the time with a pencil in his log. “In our sector. By that speed and the size of the target, I would have to say it’s none other than an intruder Mosquito.”
The supervisor smiled, bending over the glowing machine. “Let’s give him a little surprise. I will alert Loebitz. A single interceptor should be sufficient.”
“I agree, Herr Leyberger. One on one.”
“Yes, it will be rather sporting.”
Northern Germany
A winding river, attached to a tear-drop shaped piece of water glistened at them in the moonlight. “THERE’S THE LAKE,” Bevens said.
“GOT IT.”
“TURN FIVE DEGREES STARBOARD. WE SHOULD BE OVER DAAKAN FAIRLY SOON.”
It took two minutes to see landing lights. Solomon banked left in a tight circle, nose down.
“WE GOT ONE COMING IN TO LAND.”
Solomon nodded. His navigator was right. What appeared to be an ME-109 was in the circuit and approaching the downwind leg. Solomon flicked his gun safety switch to the firing position and gave chase. Solomon raced across the field and caught the German fighter from the side with a burst of fire. Whether he connected or not, he’d never know. He kept his finger on the button, aiming for the other fighters on the dispersal track.
He hit one and it exploded into flames. Then Daakan airfield plunged into darkness. A searchlight beam blinked on. Solomon banked low over the base, turned, and fired at the light. It went out. Solomon climbed and headed west. Mission accomplished.
Then... a flash
of light flew by overhead, heading in the opposite direction.
“WHAT WAS THAT?”
“DON’T KNOW. A FALLING STAR, MAYBE.”
“I DON’T THINK SO.”
Banking the Mosquito to starboard, Solomon and his navigator both watched a glowing orange light streak off at a tremendous speed.
“I SAY, LOOK AT THAT BUGGER GO!”
“WAIT... IT’S TURNING.”
Solomon looked over his shoulder. It was no falling star. It had to be man-made. “WHATEVER IT IS, IT KNOWS WE’RE HERE.” Solomon advanced the throttles to a healthy four hundred miles per hour.
It was not enough.
The light came up from behind and overtook the Mosquito in seconds, then raced ahead of them as if they were standing in mid-air. Solomon took a few shots at it, and missed. It was much too quick.
“WHAT THE—” Solomon gulped into his mask. He had always thought the Mosquito to be the fastest fighter in both air forces, British and German. Not so. Was this thing a fighter? Of course it was a fighter. What else was it? Maybe it was one of those German jets. But even the jets couldn’t be this fast.
Solomon banked to port, the direction of home.
England.
The light appeared out of nowhere and headed right for them. Nose to nose! From a hundred yards away, it flew straight up and disappeared into a layer of clouds, turning the sky above them a dusty orange.
Solomon never let up on the throttles.
“HERE IT COMES AGAIN!” the navigator warned, glancing over his shoulder at the light falling out of the clouds in a tight U-turn. “HEAD FOR THE DECK!”
It was on their tail in a flash. A hundred yards back, it slowed down... then sped up, letting loose a spray at the Mosquito’s engine exhaust, before darting straight up into the clouds again.
The British fighter disintegrated, spreading molten debris over enemy territory. Bevens and Solomon died instantly.
Hamburg
The technician watched with childlike excitement as the unidentified blip disappeared off the radar screen, leaving only the wide, pulsing, green sweep.
“It’s gone, Herr Leyberger,” he sighed, hiding a grin. “I take it to mean one thing.”
The supervisor walked over. “I know. For them the war is over. I will return the interceptor to base. Well done, Wolfgang.”
“Thank you, Herr Leyberger. I wish I was there to see it.”
“Me, too.”
FOUR
Antarctic — January 30
Otto Bauer savoured a swig of hot, strong coffee from his glass mug inside the wooden hut, as he and a younger associate studied the lead samples brought to them off the ridge.
“Still too low grade,” Bauer sighed, magnifying glass to his eye. He scratched his beard, now nearly as full as the others in the camp.
“But it is improving in quality as we drill deeper in the rock.”
Bauer agreed, sniffing. He was fighting off a cold. “What depth are we now?”
“One hundred meters.”
“We have to go even deeper, or else go farther inland and start all over again.”
“Where there’s more ice to drill through?” the associate asked. “I don’t expect Wilhelm to agree to that.”
“No, I suppose not.” Bauer swallowed more coffee, grunting, sniffing, wiping his nose with a handkerchief. Two weeks and barely anything worthwhile removed from the ground. He had to be patient. Do your duty, he remembered.
The phone rang.
“Otto, it’s for you,” said a third man inside the hut.
The scientist walked over to the desk phone opposite the dirty window. “Hello.”
“Otto, it’s Wilhelm.”
“Yes, Wilhelm,” Bauer replied. “I hope you have some good news, better than the samples so far.”
“I do.” Wilhelm Raeder sounded excited. “Our number two search squad reported in.”
“Where have they been? We haven’t heard from them for two days.”
“Radio malfunction, and a bad storm inland, so they said. Nevertheless, they found something worthwhile.”
“And what did they find?”
“Won’t you be surprised?”
“I’m beginning to think that I will. Are you going to keep me in suspense?”
“Get dressed. Warm. We are going on a journey. Be ready in five minutes,” Raeder ordered, with a voice of authority.
* * * *
The journey was slow over the dry snow. The wind blew, but not hard enough to hamper visibility to any great degree. Raeder drove, navigating by a large compass and radio communication with his search team. After a slow thirty kilometres into the interior, Raeder slammed on the brakes of the canvas-covered jeep beside another covered jeep. They were in a wide, flat clearing several kilometres across.
The driver rolled down his window and gestured towards a rise to the right. “Another kilometre or more. That way.”
“Right.”
They lumbered on until the driver drew his vehicle to a halt. “Here it is,” the driver said, proudly.
Bauer stepped out onto mushy, wet snow and gazed upon a steaming pool of water approximately ten feet by fifteen feet. He bent down. The pool was clear, rocks at the bottom. The air over it warm, almost hot. He wiped his nose.
Reader followed behind. “Hot springs.”
“I can see that.” Bauer shook his head, sniffing. “Unbelievable.”
“Yes, isn’t it. In the Antarctic.”
“No, I mean, you brought me all the way out here to show me some damn hot springs?”
Raeder smiled. “Yes and no.” The geologist went to the rear of the jeep, threw off the canvas cover, and returned with four crystal glasses and the bottle of wine that Bauer had brought from Germany. “Otto, I learned a long time ago that one must always keep a sense of humour in addition to a sense of reality. With that in mind, we celebrate.”
“Why?” Bauer replied, confused.
“Time to break open Wernher’s French wine. Boys, jump in. You too, Otto. Might do wonders for your cold and your mood.”
“I hope to hell it does.”
They all stripped naked, threw their heavy clothes on the warm rocks and eased into the hot water, which had to be over a hundred degrees. Soon they were squatting in a pool up to their chests.
Raeder poured the wine. “A toast... to our luck.”
They clinked glasses, and drank.
“What luck is that?” Bauer asked, licking his lips, the dark, red wine stinging his throat. The combination of steamy water and powerful wine was actually clearing his sinuses. “Excellent, I must admit.”
“Don’t you see?” Raeder answered. “This must have been a volcanic region at one time, thousands or millions of years ago. I wonder what’s under all this ice?”
“Or perhaps,” Bauer interrupted, thinking of what the sub skipper had said about the trip under the continent, “it still is volcanic. Far beneath the earth. Oftentimes, cold areas can have the hottest springs. Iceland, for example.”
“Greenland, too,” Raeder agreed. “I saw them. I was there in 1939 and 1941, before the Americans forced us out and built their air bases.” Raeder dunked his head under the water, then popped up, massaging his hand through his slicked hair. “Otto, as a geologist I know that where there’s hot springs, there’s minerals. Sometimes close to the surface. We might be on to something. We’re going to have to move our drilling team. Right here.”
Bauer pondered Raeder’s assumption, staring into the wine. “Now I see.”
“Drink up, my friend!” Raeder laughed. “Drink up!”
“I just might do that.”
London
Alone in the projection room, Wesley Hollinger read the OSS dispatches — intercepted radio signals — brought to his attention. Obviously the Germans had added something to their already-potent arsenal. Loebitz airfield had a new fighter and were in direct communication with Hamburg. New call signs and codenames had been exercised. But, strange..
. no radio communication with the pilots, or at least not recorded. Very bizarre.
Hollinger tossed the dispatches on the seat next to him. He stood up to press the button on the side of the projector to start the film that he would see for the first time, a short piece that had been smuggled out of Germany. He shut the room light off and let the film roll. The footage was amazingly clear, with sound, and in colour! No need to act surprised. The Germans were highly advanced in such technology. Hollinger immediately recognized the rocket-powered Messerschmitt ME-163 Komet, one of the most radical and futuristic of German aerial designs. Single-seated and single-engined. According to sources, it was capable of reaching the speed of sound in level flight. The ME-163 was a short fighter, Hollinger could tell right off by the pilot standing beside it. It was also quite ugly, like a lop-sided torpedo. But looks meant nothing to the American agent once he saw the aircraft take off down the grass strip on its jettisoned trolley at a fantastic speed, smoke belching from its exhaust. It then climbed nearly straight up to the clouds... in seconds!
Hollinger gaped at the screen. Dorwin was right about one thing in his assessment of the situation in Germany. The Germans were years ahead of the Allies in aeronautical research.
What else did they have?
Werra, Germany
Heinrich Himmler strutted alongside the fighter production line, the nervous SS commandant in charge of the underground facility closely at his heels like an obedient puppy, eager to please. In the midst of the noise of construction — banging, drilling, shouts from supervisors — the commandant methodically explained the work at each station.