Foo Fighters

by Daniel Wyatt

  “The stump was a cockpit, I take it.”

  “It didn’t look like no cockpit to me, Mr. Hollinger. It didn’t have any glass. At least, I didn’t think it had glass.”

  Hollinger immediately suspected a radio-controlled machine. “That’s interesting. No glass in the cockpit,” he observed, writing on the pad. “How close did it fly past your bomber?”

  “Oh,” the gunner said, “fifty feet. Right under us.”

  “Did you catch any markings on it?”

  “Are you kidding? At that speed!”

  Hollinger sensed the airman’s annoyance. “That’s it?”

  “Yes, siree. Excuse me, but I have to hit the hay before I drop. It’s been a long day.”

  “Of course. Thanks. Thanks loads,” Wesley said, shaking hands with Tooney.

  The ball gunner threw his cap on his head and shrank away, leaving Wesley Hollinger to his own crazy thoughts. “Round!” he muttered to himself before he packed up his briefcase and left the room. He remembered the intercepted radio dispatches he had read a few weeks before that indicated new call signs and codenames out of Loebitz airfield. And there was no communications with the pilots. Could they really be the radio-controlled machines?

  “Round,” he repeated in the hall. Whoever heard of a round aircraft?

  Birkenhain

  Heinrich Himmler, wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a field-grey uniform void of decorations, received Count Folke Bernadotte of the Swedish Red Cross, nephew to King Gustav, at his SS Headquarters.

  “I want to know,” Himmler began, “if you will be a mouthpiece for peace on the German behalf with the Western Allies, should the moment present itself?”

  The middle-aged official paused and answered. “I will do what I can, although I cannot speak for the Allies. I would, however, want something in return from you.”

  “Name it.”

  “You must release all Scandinavian prisoners in your concentration camps, should a deal be struck.”

  Himmler hesitated. “It’s possible.”

  Bernadotte folded his legs in the chair across from Himmler, then asked, “Do you not think it pointless to continue this war with Hitler at the helm? Why do you not seize power yourself, now?”

  Himmler shook his head. “No. I could not do that. I took an oath to the Fuehrer. As a soldier and a German, how can I betray him? I have built the SS and the Gestapo on loyalty. I would be abandoning that basic principle.”

  “I’ve heard differently about your loyalty to the Fuehrer.” When Himmler didn’t answer, Bernadotte readied himself to leave.

  “Just a moment,” Himmler said.

  “Yes, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”

  “If I should release your Scandinavian prisoners, I should want some compensation.”

  “Such as?”

  “I insist that the Danish and Norwegian underground refrain from further sabotage.”

  “I can’t promise you that.”

  “Then there’s nothing I can do.”

  Bernadotte chuckled. “Herr Reichsfuehrer, you do not have too many choices. You are in a frightening position. You are losing the war and won’t last out the year. You will have to bend first. Not me.”

  NINE

  Peenemunde West — February 20

  The airfield loomed silent. Reichmarshall Hermann Goering and Wernher von Braun paced along the runway of the Luftwaffe test site, discussing the V-4 situation, the two matching each other stride for stride. A raw, icy breeze blew off the Baltic, chilling them to the bone, despite the bright mid-morning sun.

  The titanium had arrived by Condor aircraft that week. Goering wanted to see the new pilot-controlled secret prototype once the metal was refined and put to good use on it. Von Braun seemed to think that the new fighter was only weeks away from completion. A full team was toiling on the V-4, twenty-four hours a day. They spoke of the different phases of development — fire control system, armament testing, performance and handling, intensive flight test program. Each aspect would all have to be stepped up in record time. Good news, the doctor reported, the turbojet engine problems with the compressor had been overcome by the technicians near Berlin. The airflow was running smooth.

  Goering looked pleased.

  They both stopped to see the last of the V-2 compound next door being shipped off by the fleet of trucks. By evening, the site would be completely vacated. Only a few hundred people were still employed at Peenemunde, most of them at the Luftwaffe project. In the last few days hundreds of trucks had loaded V-2 rocket parts, equipment, and documents and migrated south.

  “Has the new V-2 site been determined?” Goering asked.

  “Yes,” von Braun replied. “Bleicherode, in the Harz Mountains.”

  “Slight change of plans, then? Not Werra?”

  “No.”

  “The V-4 project will remain until the prototype is finished. Then ship everything out to a location I am in the midst of securing, near the assembly line for the smaller models.”

  Von Braun nodded, his hair waving in the breeze. He was shocked by Goering’s worsening physical condition since their last meeting in December, his voice and body shaking more with each passing month. “And Himmler, what does he have to say to this latest piece of information?”

  Goering shrugged. “What can he say? The Luftwaffe is in charge. Not him. I know he’s itching to know what we’re up to. We can always spread a rumour. We could say we’re testing a larger radio-controlled model. Or, better yet, a V-1 launched from a bomber. Anything to keep him out of our hair.”

  Von Braun shook his head, thinking of Zeller and his association with the SS leader. “It’s no use. I’m sure Himmler must know by now. How could he not? His guards have surrounded the place for months. What I can’t figure out, Herr Reichmarshall, is why has Himmler been left out of all this? He knows all aspects of the V-2 operation, but the pilot-controlled V-4 prototype we have to keep to ourselves.”

  “Because I want it that way, Herr Doctor! The Reichsfuehrer thinks he has to stick his nose everywhere. I was the one who kept him out, on Hitler’s orders.”

  Von Braun backed off, squinting in the sunshine. What did it matter? Himmler knew, anyway. “Yes, Herr Reichmarshall.”

  “Our new Alpine compound will once again be patrolled by Luftwaffe guards on the inside, SS guards on the outside. I spoke to the Fuehrer on the matter, and he assured me that Project Equinox will remain under my control.”

  “Herr Reichmarshall, how close are the Russians?” von Braun asked, bluntly.

  Goering wished he could avoid the question. He looked away nervously to the Baltic sand dunes on the horizon, the direction the Red Army would be coming. He brought his hands together to make one giant, white-knuckled fist. “Seventy miles.”

  “In that case, we had better move swiftly on the prototype.”

  “Yes. And I must return to Karinhall.”

  “I will see you to your limousine, Herr Reichmarshall.”

  London

  That evening three men and an attractive redhead woman convened in a smoky conference room on the second floor at MI-6 Headquarters.

  “Seven interviews each, I understand,” Jack Dorwin said, puffing furiously on his cigar.

  “That’s correct, sir,” Wesley Hollinger replied.

  Roberta nodded. “Exactly.”

  “Let’s hear it. What do you have?” Colonel Lampert wanted to know. “Did you compare notes as we had asked?”

  “We did,” Roberta said. “After you,” she gestured to her husband.

  Hollinger cleared his throat and began. “Here’s the gist of it. We have compiled consistent stories — a pattern — to what the airmen saw. In every case, the men were reluctant to tell their stories to us.”

  “Why?” Dorwin asked.

  “Simply because they thought they’d be laughed at.”

  “I see. Continue. Please.”

  “OK. First, the speed of this fighter... is... get this... somewhere well over one thousand miles
per hour.”

  “Astonishing!” Lampert uttered, removing the pipe from his mouth.

  “Impossible,” Dorwin said. “No fighter can go that fast.”

  “We have the information, sir. The V-2’s can do two thousand easily, and then some. Why can’t the Germans find a fighter that matches such speeds?”

  “You’re talking about a fighter, not a missile.”

  Roberta tugged her husband’s sleeve. They had both sensed beforehand that they would get this sort of reaction.

  Roberta took a deep breath and said, “Mr. Dorwin, you and the colonel asked Wesley and me to interview the airmen, compare notes and evaluate this new Nazi fighter — whatever it is. And now we’re telling you. In most cases, the airmen saw this thing scream by so fast they thought it was a bullet. The shape in half the case studies is similar. Round, and thin. Like a plate or saucer. Half the size of normal fighters. No cockpit, merely a piece of metal in the middle. On top. In five of the situations, the fighter let loose a spray of some sort. No bullets. No cannon. In two of those cases, the spray went straight for an engine exhaust of two B-17 bombers in the same flight. Both times the bombers exploded in mid-air. Four of my seven personal interviews were night-time sightings. Every time the eyewitnesses reported that this machine glowed orange all around its circumference. And, from all the information at our disposal, we believe these machines are not pilot-operated, but quite possibly radio-controlled, as the New York Tribune article reported.”

  “From where?” Lampert queried. “Other planes in the air?”

  “Like the newspaper article stated, from the ground. Thanks to some sophisticated radar system that can bring the fighters to point-blank range.”

  Dorwin and Lampert stared at each other, calmly, eyes large, not saying a word.

  “This, gentlemen,” Hollinger added, his voice steady, “is another one of those things that we had better get our hands on before the damn Russians do, along with the V-1, and the V-2. If we don’t, the Russians will be miles and years ahead of us, and—”

  Lampert stood. “You’ve made your point, I trust, young man,” he said, “and we thank you, Wesley and Roberta. Leave us with the... Foo File. You’re both off the case.”

  Hollinger grunted. “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “And... that’s it?” Hollinger said. He couldn’t understand it. A week of solid work, the interviews, thousands of words on paper. They had only started. And all over with so quickly, as if it had never happened in the first place. “If you say so. Let’s go,” he said to his wife.

  Peenemunde West

  Zeller placed the last of the large blueprint papers in the printing frame, under the last of the original drawings. He flicked on the strong light for the required time, then flicked it off. He removed the blueprint paper and slid it into the tray of water. Before his eyes, he saw the paper turn blue in the spots where the light had activated the chemicals on the sheet, and white where it had not. Waiting several minutes, he allowed the sheet to dry. Then he gave it another shot of light.

  It had been a long process. Zeller now had exact copies of the new, pilot-controlled V-4 drawings.

  Berlin

  Bormann lit a cigarette in the Chancellery garden.

  “I thought you quit,” Goering asked him, twirling his baton.

  “I did. But I started again. Nerves, you know.”

  Goering knew all about nerves. “This has been hard on all of us.”

  “Yes, it has. Let’s walk some more.”

  They came to a stop in the centre of the garden.

  “How is the Fuehrer?” asked the Luftwaffe leader.

  “You’ll see for yourself when he finally wakes. The drug is working better than expected. It seems to mix well with his chocolates. A lethal combination.” Bormann laughed. “Have you come to a decision?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, must you keep me in suspense?”

  Goering’s eyes were bright with vigour. “Count me in, Bormann.”

  Bormann exhaled a cloud of smoke. “You won’t regret it. I will make contact with the Americans.”

  “Are you sure this will work?”

  “Positive, Herr Reichmarshall. They will listen to proposals put forward by men of our calibre. As long as we hold Projekt Equinox and the V-4 in reserve. And don’t forget what we have on Dulles and the greedy American companies assisting us since the war began. The list is endless.”

  “Do you have proof of the transactions?”

  “Yes, of course I have proof. Months ago, I locked some shipping documents away in a Swiss vault. Bills of lading and invoices that follow a path from the United States to Argentina to Spain to Switzerland.”

  “How on earth did you get these documents?”

  “Swiss and American friends loyal to the cause.”

  “You mean loyal to their own bank accounts.”

  “Yes, that’s probably more like it. Furthermore, you yourself, Herr Reichmarshall, have a cousin in America, Hugo von Rosen, who is a partner in a Philadelphia company under Swedish control that has supplied us with ball bearings via South America for five years. I have in my possession some of those documents too.”

  “How do you know about Hugo?”

  “My Swedish connections, again.”

  “A lot of good that will do me now, having a cousin overseas,” Goering said. “So, you will hand the Americans the other military plans first? The V-1s, the V-2s, the jets?”

  “Yes, just as I told you before. But our biggest problem could be Himmler. We must keep him at arm’s length.”

  “I will,” Goering assured his brother in the Order. “I have the Fuehrer’s ear in that matter. Himmler and his SS will not be running the new V-4 project. The SS are not allowed inside the compound.”

  Bormann nodded, then asked, “Did you close up your estate?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “Where will you go when you do?”

  “Berchtesgaden. My family is already there.”

  “That’s good thinking, Goering. Close to Switzerland. Easier for an escape over the border.”

  “Yes. And closer to the advancing Americans, should anything go wrong with the OSS talks.”

  “And why should anything go wrong?”

  “Only a precaution on my part,” Goering said. “Nothing is for certain these days.”

  “Very true.”

  “According to Wehrmacht reports, General Patton’s Third Army is heading that way. He will reach there before the Russians or the British.”

  You hope, thought Bormann. “Good plan.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Stay with the Fuehrer, of course,” Bormann replied.

  Goering put his hands on his hips. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “No.”

  “But why stay?”

  “I can’t leave him. It will look far too suspicious for me to up and leave now.”

  “But don’t you know the Fuehrer will not surrender. He will hold out till the end. By then it may be too late for you to escape. The Russians are sure to reach Berlin before the British or the Americans. They will surround the city.”

  “I’ll have to take my chances.” Bormann glanced at his watch. “You had better go below. The Fuehrer will rise soon. Blood brother, Goering.”

  Goering stood erect, baton by his side. “Blood brother, Bormann,” he said, well overdone in enthusiasm.

  It seemed ridiculous to Bormann, as he watched Goering proceed to the Fuehrerbunker entrance. The secretary still didn’t trust Goering, and the feeling, Bormann was certain, was mutual. So who was kidding who?

  He stomped the cigarette into the soft earth.

  So, he’s waiting for Patton, is he? Bastard!

  TEN

  Trier, France — March 1

  He was a dream come true to the Allied press. They called him “Old Blood and Guts.” He wore a pair of ivory-handled .45-calibre Frontier Model revolvers on his hips. He used profanity dur
ing the day, then never forgot to read his Bible at night. Everywhere he ventured, he took his bull terrier, Willie, with him. He was a man of action. He was also a terror to the Nazis. With lightning sweeps, his Sherman tanks had chased the enemy across the hot, dry North African desert and through the soft underbelly of Sicily, always in a race to beat the British general he so loathed, Bernard Montgomery.

  To his friends he was George or Georgie. People either loved him or hated him. He talked too much, often telling everyone within earshot that the Allied High Command was denying him the full glory of early Allied victory. Along the way, he had slapped out two of his own soldiers, thus angering scores of his superiors, including his friend, Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces, General Dwight Eisenhower. He was an embarrassment to Eisenhower and Montgomery, who both tried to bring Georgie under control by under-supplying him so that Montgomery could advance at a quicker pace through France to give the British press something to write about.

  Fifty-nine-year-old General George S. Patton Jr. was the commanding officer of the mighty American Third Army, which had captured so many German prisoners in France that the authorities didn’t know what do with them all. Since his army had been deployed in the French campaign in August 1944, Patton lived by one motto: “On to the Rhine.” And, of course, he had to make a game of it and beat the British — that cocky, egotistical Montgomery — there too, as he had done so triumphantly at Messina in Sicily.

  Midday, at his command post, the six-foot-plus Patton was in a celebrating mood. His Third Army had taken Trier on the Moselle in violation of Eisenhower’s original orders. Outside, distant artillery popped.

  “General, sir. These have just come through.”

  Patton received two dispatches from his adjutant. The general sat down next to another chair taken by Willie and opened the first sealed envelope. It was from one of his personal spies, a newspaper correspondent he knew who had been following the Third Army advance through France. The reports of the German prisoners were true, the writer felt. Grumbling, Patton folded the dispatch and placed it in a side trouser pocket of his immaculate uniform. He rubbed his thin, silvery hair. He knew the Americans had several prisoner camps in liberated France, many taken over by the French army. Held mostly outdoors in barbed-wire enclosures with little or no food or water, thousands of German soldiers were apparently used for labour, starved and mistreated so terribly that some were dying. Patton had even heard a rumour that relief organizations like the International Red Cross were denied access to the prisoners. A lot of these prisoners were captured by his Third Army, and now they were facing horrible, unsanitary conditions. Although he had beaten them on the battlefield, he felt responsible for the German soldiers. There were German prisoners in Ike’s hands who were starving to death, and the Supreme Commander, so it seemed, was doing nothing about it.