by Daniel Wyatt
“Yes.”
“Hell! Isn’t this a terrible breach of security on the Germans’ part?”
“Bormann and the others want to save their necks. Earlier in the war, or even a few months ago, this never would have been considered. From what I understand, the Germans only have one Foo Fighter prototype, which they will try to hide, but not that hard — just enough for you to be able to see it. Inside the caves, separate components for it are being constructed. We will be met and escorted through the compound by one of the scientists, Karl Zeller, an assistant to Wernher von Braun.”
“Von Braun, huh,” Hollinger said, excited, blinking at her.
“However, he will be away during our visit, I’m told to tell you, taking care of some V-2 matters.”
“Too bad, I wish I could meet him.”
“Zeller will also hand over the Foo Fighter blueprints. I should point out that they refer to the fighter as the V-4.”
“OK. Got you. But I thought prisoners in war time weren’t supposed to be put to work?”
“That’s why we’re there to see if the rumours are true. The Germans will undoubtedly clear the caves of the prisoners before we get there and replace them with healthy Germans.”
“Clever. Then switch back once we’ve left.”
“Yes.”
“I thought so.”
She produced a wide map, and opened it up in their laps. “We are here, fifteen kilometres from the German border. Our flight path will take us over Bavaria, three hundred and fifty kilometres to Werra, in the Thuringia Mountains. We have been promised access by Hermann Goering himself, as long as we remain in the specified corridor.”
“Then Goering must be an accomplice of Bormann?” McCreedy asked Erickson, glancing at Hollinger. “How about that.”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care.”
One engine on the C-47 whirred, cranked, and caught fire. Erickson didn’t move. Number two engine started.
“You wouldn’t, by chance, be coming with us?” McCreedy asked.
“Yes, of course,” she said, nodding, eyeing Hollinger. “This is part of my business transaction. Nothing else. Furthermore, I don’t want you two to foul up. Incidentally, I’ll be using my own name. I’m leading this Red Cross team of ours.”
Hollinger smirked, the aircraft fuselage vibrating from the engines. “Fine with me... I mean... us.”
“By the way,” McCreedy spoke up, “how do we know the Germans won’t hold us for ransom? We’re at war with these people.”
“That’s not likely. What’s more, they are losing, Mr. McCreedy. What’s the point of holding two Americans and a Swiss banker for ransom at this time? It’s going to be a long flight, so relax and get comfortable, Mr. Kleeg and Mr. Spitteler,” Erickson said, looking out the window, forcing an ending to the briefing.
The C-47 turned left sharply. It began to move and bounce slowly across the grass field, until it gathered speed. As the aircraft took to the air in a flat climb, Hollinger’s stomach remained on the ground. Why did he get himself into these predicaments?
EIGHTEEN
Werra, Germany
The C-47 banked over the gravel airfield inside the mountain valley before it touched down with a heavy thud.
“You’re looking a little green there buddy,” McCreedy said to Hollinger, sitting in the seat across the aisle, as the aircraft bounced along. “You all right?”
“No. I hate flying,” Hollinger replied, glad he was at the end of the bumpy ride into enemy territory. Twice along the way, ME-109s had nudged in close, then backed off. It was unnerving. Coming down the fuselage ramp, the company of three saw a dusty, black Mercedes waiting one hundred feet ahead. A lone occupant stepped forward to greet them as they drew near.
“Welcome to Projekt Equinox,” the man said in German. “I am Karl Zeller, assistant to Wernher von Braun.” With a smile, he stared at Johanna Erickson. “This is a pleasure, Miss Erickson. I didn’t expect someone so pretty.”
Erickson held out her hand. “You are too kind. These are my associates.”
Zeller studied the two men as if they were under a microscope. “You are the Americans?”
“Yes,” Hollinger answered for the two.
“You look ill,” Zeller said to Hollinger.
“It’s nothing.”
“Quickly, in the auto. We are only seven kilometres from the site.”
Once inside the Mercedes, Zeller nervously drove off. “It is cool today.”
Erickson agreed. “Yes, it is.”
“I have the documents on my person, signed by the Fuehrer to allow you access to the compound as Swiss Red Cross representatives.”
“How did you manage that?” McCreedy asked. “Especially with Patton’s Third Army so close?”
“That is none of your business. Concentrate on your mission.”
“Dual mission,” said Hollinger.
“Yes, your dual mission, Mr–?”
“I go by the name of Frederick Kleeg,” said Hollinger.
“I urge the three of you to stay with me at all times. Do not wander off. Do not ask anybody else questions. Observe only. Speak only when spoken to. Am I clear on this?”
The three nodded.
“Will we be able to observe your V-4?” Hollinger asked, bluntly.
“We will give you the greatest of opportunities to see it.”
“You mean we might not?”
“You will have to be most indiscreet.”
* * * *
The Mercedes stopped at the gate. Zeller got out. “Stay here,” he ordered the others through the open window. Then he went inside. The huge metal gate slammed behind him.
Hollinger saw the men in SS uniforms beyond the wire compound. “The SS! This better work,” he said to the others.
“Yes, the SS. But they are not allowed on the inside. Only Luftwaffe guards can do that. Please be quiet!” Erickson warned. “Here comes a guard.”
An SS soldier, carrying a machine gun, walked up to the car’s front bumper, and looked beyond the windshield to the occupants. Zeller returned with an SS officer.
“These are the Swiss Red Cross people?” the officer asked firmly, by the side of the vehicle.
“Yes, Herr Colonel.”
“You are responsible for them.”
Zeller nodded. “Yes, sir. I realize that, Herr Colonel.”
“Let’s see them out here. Quickly.”
“Of course.”
Zeller motioned to his company. Erickson got out first, followed by Hollinger, then McCreedy. The officer looked them over. After what seemed like an eternity, he gestured to the guard to open the gate. As the first three passed, he stopped Hollinger with a hand on the chest. “What is your name?” in said stiffly, in German.
“Frederick Kleeg,” Hollinger said, as calmly as he could.
“Good luck,” the colonel blurted in English.
Hollinger’s nerves tingled. He almost answered in English. Instead, he caught himself and looked at the colonel as if he did not understand.
“Proceed,” the colonel said, in German. He watched the group walk into the compound, then he headed off in the opposite direction. At his small, clapboard office, he dialled the desk telephone.
“Let me speak to the Reichsfuehrer, please.”
“Who is this?”
“Colonel Geinns.”
“Just a moment.”
A short wait.
“Yes, colonel.”
“Herr Reichsfuehrer, the Red Cross officials have arrived.”
“And?”
“Two of them don’t look Swiss to me.”
“What do they look like to you?”
“I’m sure that one of them is an American.”
“I see. Keep it to yourself.”
“But Herr Reichsfuehrer. An American... here?
“Never mind.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Absolutely nothing. Goodbye.”
Geinns stared at
the receiver in his hands. Americans on the compound and he was to do nothing? Had the whole world gone mad?
* * * *
Hollinger was all eyes, glancing, staring, observing, everywhere at once, before his attention turned to the camouflage netting in the trees. Zeller caught up to Hollinger, walked alongside, as the group slowly made their way to the tunnel.
“Ah, Mr. Kleeg, you saw it.”
Hollinger looked away, trying to remember what the B-17 ball gunner and the other airmen had described during the Foo File interviews. From what he could recall, they were dead right. It did appear to be a plate, from what he could see of the half-covered machine, only the metal bottom and undercarriage exposed. A flat, shiny plate, at that.
They arrived at the cave entrance, stopped and turned around. Their view of the V-4 outside was obstructed by a line of trees. They heard drilling behind them, on the other side of a canvas wall.
“Now, let me show you an assembly line that you might find interesting. Remember, you are to observe the prisoner conditions. Nothing else.”
“Wait, tell me about your fighter,” Hollinger asked. “Before we go in.”
“Then you are fascinated with our little magnetohyrodynamic propulsion device.”
“Ah... yes. Whatever.”
“What do you want? Technical matter?”
“Yes, anything. How does it turn? Does it have ailerons?”
“Indeed, it does.”
“What’s it made of?”
“Titanium. With some magnesium. It’s computer-operative, including the navigation. Nothing to do with what you Americans and British call seat-of-the-pants flying. It is aerodynamically sound. The wings and rudder are integrated into the body. Perfect three hundred and sixty degree visibility from the cockpit.”
“I’ll say. What’s the size of it?” Hollinger pulled out a notepad.
“Diameter is forty meters. Base to canopy height is thirty-two meters.”
Hollinger jotted down the figures. “What kind of powerplant do you use?”
“Liquid air turbojet.”
“Weapons?”
“Missiles, guns, and lasers.”
“Lasers!”
“Yes, a concentrated path of heat that will, in the future, make bullets obsolete. Some have nicknamed it a death ray. We are also working on the V-4 being invisible to radar.”
“Go on!” McCreedy said.
“It’s true.”
“If the leading edges are thin enough, it will be.”
“But if it’s too thin, won’t it fall apart?” asked Hollinger.
Zeller shook his head. “Not with titanium.”
“Geez! Where did you come up with all these discoveries?”
“We caught the rest of the world napping. That’s not all. If we had the time — but we won’t because of this war — we could determine how our V-4 could ride the wave of anti-gravity.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The earth has an electromagnetic field. Break into it, and a whole new world of propulsion is possible, without fuel and engines, where speeds many times the speed of sound are within one’s grasp.”
“Sounds nutty to me. Anyway, I’m sure everything will be covered in your paperwork?”
“What paperwork?”
“The blueprints and all that of the Foo Fighter, I mean the V-4.”
“All you get is a look.”
Hollinger grunted. “Who said?”
“Martin Bormann. You don’t get your blueprints or anything else until he is safely out of the country.”
“Wait a damn minute, here! We’re tired of this run around. You’re in no position to dictate terms. Patton is only a few days away from overrunning this place.”
“On the contrary. We are in the best of positions. Do as we say or we will blow up every trace of every secret weapon across Germany, including the V-4.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“It’s up to you.”
Hollinger and McCreedy glanced at each other. They had no choice.
Zeller walked over to the canvas, and flipped it back. Thirty feet away was the first of the smaller versions of the V-4. “Here they are. The radio-controlled models. The Messerschmitt V-4 Experimental Series 1-1a. After you. The lady first.”
NINETEEN
Berlin
Bormann lifted the receiver late in the evening. It was raining in the German capital.
“Herr Reichsleiter, it is I, Zeller.”
“Just a moment.” Bormann shut the door to his office. “Yes, what is it?”
“Is our telephone line tapped?”
“Of course not. What do you want?”
“The Americans have come and gone, Herr Reichsleiter. They saw their Foo Fighter. They will negotiate now. We have them where we want them.”
“Good. I’m delighted. The terms?”
“They want the V-4 prototype, our scientist team, including von Braun, and everything else pertaining to secret weapons that they can get their hands on.”
“Yes, that’s fine. I expected that. Go on.”
“They agree to the V-4 blueprints later on, once you are out of the country. They didn’t like our change of plans.”
“Too damn bad for them, Zeller.”
“You, Herr Reichsleiter, will be given free access through Switzerland upon your escape from Berlin. A tentative route has been worked out that will see you safely through American lines.”
“Excellent. I agree. Listen to me. Hide the V-4 prototype under anything, camouflage netting, cut-down trees, whatever you can find. Take all the paperwork out of there. Then, blow up the radio-controlled models.”
“Did I hear you correctly? Blow them up!”
“Yes, that’s what I said. Patton is coming your way, you fool! I will get the Fuehrer to sign the orders for the Luftwaffe to destroy the models.” Bormann lowered his voice. “In his state, he will sign anything right now. He trusts me explicitly.”
“Yes, of course, Herr Reichsleiter. I will do as you say. Where shall we go?”
“There’s an abandoned resort near Bleicherode in the Harz Mountains. Stay there.”
“Will that be another Fuehrer order?”
“Yes. Anything else?”
“No, Herr Reichsleiter.”
“Goodbye.”
Bormann smiled, placing the receiver in the cradle. Good news. The best news in weeks. The Americans badly wanted the V-4 blueprints. The Reichsleiter returned to his letter writing, his mind flashing back to his wife at their comfortable house in the Bavarian mountains near the Swiss border.
My Gerda darling,
We must never cease to rejoice that we have our Fuehrer, for our unshakeable faith in ultimate victory is founded in a very large measure on the fact that he exists — on his genius and rocklike determination. I have no premonition of death; on the contrary, my burning desire is to live.
Keep well
Bern — April 2
Switzerland’s OSS director Allen Dulles was fascinated by the blueprints McCreedy and Hollinger had brought back. One paper in particular held his attention.
“Delta-wing fighters, are they?”
“Yes, sir.” Hollinger leaned over the office desk. “That is the Horten HO-IX. They call them swept-back wings. That model has two jet engines capable of 2,000 pounds of thrust each.”
“It appears to be a flying wing.”
“It sure does.”
“What’s thrust? Never heard of it.”
“A new term for the jet era. Rather like a horsepower rating.”
“How much exactly is two thousand pounds of thrust?”
“A lot,” answered McCreedy, when Hollinger failed to find the words.
“What kind of speeds are we talking about?”
“Faster than the speed of sound, sir,” Hollinger replied.
Dulles stared at them. “What else?” He flipped to the next sheet, a strange-looking vertical-standing craft, shaped like a torpedo. He read the p
encilled-in name in the corner of the paper. “Focke-Wulf Triebflugel. Reminds me of one of those things experimented with in the States. A helicopter.”
“And what is this?”
“The HS-293, the world’s first air-to-ground guided missile with a one-thousand-pound warhead.”
Dulles pulled out another sheet. “And this?”
Hollinger smiled. “Another German first. That, sir, is a rocket that in tests going back to 1942, can be fired from a submerged U-boat.”
Dulles shook his head, and flipped through several more papers, the 163 Komet, the 262 jet, the V-1 Flying Bomb, until he came to the V-2 rocket, which he studied for several moments. Then he pushed the blueprints to the side of his desk. “I never would have believed it had I not seen these.”
“Us neither, sir.” McCreedy replied.
Hollinger folded his arms. “And we saw the Foo Fighter, the pilot-operated one, and the radio-controlled models manufactured underground.”
“But no paperwork for our people?”
“No, sir. That was part of the deal we cut. They’re holding out. We get it once Bormann is safely out of Germany and on his way to South America.”
Dulles removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Good work nonetheless. I will contact Donovan in Washington. And I will have copies made for him and Dorwin.”
“Sir,” Hollinger said. “The German underground facility is amazing. I don’t know how they do it. Tunnels everywhere. Machine shops, launch pads, assembly lines, and living quarters.”
“Astounding. By the way, I just got word before you two arrived. Patton is within striking distance of that factory you were at near Werra. So stick around, Mr. Hollinger. This isn’t over with yet. One other thing, did you have any problems in Germany?”
Hollinger smiled. “Us? No problems at all. Piece of cake.”
* * * *
Hollinger took the stairs, and turned a corner to the front lobby. There she was, holding a briefcase.
“Johanna Erickson! What are you doing here?”
She was dressed exquisitely, brown skirt, white silk blouse that showed off her figure, and she smelled of spring flowers. “I was on my way to the office. I heard you were in town.”