INCEPTION (Projekt Saucer, Book 1)

by W. A. Harbinson

  lengthy report that the country must prepare itself for inevitable

  involvement in another world war.

  While his report had not been taken seriously by the White House,

  since then General Taylor had used him as an unofficial agent between

  Taylor's army air force intelligence branch and British intelligence, as

  well as a legal adviser, general administrator, and headhunter for the

  soon-to-be formed National Advisory Committee on Aeronautics –

  which is why Bradley had made his recent, unsuccessful trip to Robert

  H. Goddard in Roswell, New Mexico.

  ‘But why would our air force be interested in a bunch of amateurs?’

  General Taylor asked, after a thoughtful pause.

  ‘Because they’re not amateurs,’ Bradley told him. ‘The Verein fur Raumschiffart was founded in 1927 and soon included most of the rocket experts of the day: Hermann Oberth, Max Valier, Rudolf Nebel,

  Willy Ley, and Klaus Riedel.’

  The general gave a low whistle of respect. ‘That’s some bunch of

  scientists,’ he said. ‘What were they up to?’

  ‘We know that a number of small liquid-fuelled rockets were fired

  from their testing ground in the Berlin suburb of Reinickerdorf. Then,

  in April 1930, Captain Walter Dornberger was appointed to the

  Ordnance Branch of the German Army’s Ballistics and Weapons

  Office, headed by one General Becker. Dornberger was to work on

  rocket development at the army's Kummersdorf firing range,

  approximately fifteen miles south of Berlin. Two years later the VfR

  demonstrated one of their liquid-fueled rockets to Dornberger and

  other officers at Kummersdorf.’

  ‘I’m surprised I haven’t heard of this,’ Taylor said, sounding

  slightly aggrieved.

  ‘Maybe that’s because recently, with Hitler’s support, the Gestapo

  moved in and overnight the VfR ceased to exist as a civilian

  organization.’

  ‘But it’s now being used by the army.’

  ‘Right. A lot of its members, including the reportedly up-andcoming Wernher von Braun, were taken under Dornberger’s wing and

  began working at Kummersdorf in strict secrecy.’

  ‘Ah,’ the general said softly, ‘so that's why our air force is

  concerned!’

  ‘Damned right,’ Bradley said. ‘And if they knew what I recently

  learned in Roswell, they’d be even more concerned.’

  ‘And what was that, Mike?’

  ‘Since Goddard was so damned suspicious and frosty over the

  phone,’ Bradley explained, thinking again of Gladys Kinder and

  feeling distinctly guilty, ‘I visited Roswell in order to interview those

  who’d known him there – his engineers, the local townsfolk, and so

  forth. Anyway, over the week I spent there, I became increasingly

  concerned with the fact that Goddard, with so little assistance either

  financially or from fellow scientists, had managed to make such

  extraordinary advances in rocket research. Then, shortly after the final

  launch, I was introduced to a woman – ’

  ‘I won’t tell your wife that,’ the general interjected.

  Bradley grinned, as if appreciating the joke, but inwardly burned

  with the guilt he’d been trying to keep at bay ever since his single

  meeting with Gladys Kinder.

  The proprietor of the Roswell Daily Record had put him in touch

  with her. They’d met in the bar of Bradley’s hotel, and he’d been

  instantly intrigued by her air of worldly cynicism. In the course of a

  conversation about Goddard’s rocket team, he’d become

  uncomfortably attracted to her. Clearly realizing what was happening

  Gladys had passed a few mischievous remarks to that effect and

  actually managed to make him blush.

  She was tall and lean and had a head of short-cropped brown hair,

  which made her seem slightly mannish, and gray eyes that were

  disconcertingly steady over a full-lipped, sardonic smile. She had been

  wearing a long, belted dress, with high-heeled boots and a Stetson hat.

  He, in his gray suit, portly and not too tall, in his late-thirties and

  starting to show it (though thankfully he still had his hair) had felt soft

  and pampered in her attractively laconic presence.

  You didn’t meet women like that in New York – and besides, he

  just liked her.

  Now, when he recalled Gladys Kinder and also thought of his

  attractive, good-humoured wife, Joan, who lovingly looked after their

  home and children in Connecticut, he felt as guilty as if he’d had an

  affair, which he certainly had not done. He had simply been tempted,

  that’s all... So why should he feel guilty?

  ‘The woman, Gladys Kinder,’ he continued uneasily, ‘is a journalist

  for one of the local papers, the Rosewell Daily Record. When I told her

  I’d spent the past week checking up on Goddard and his old launching

  grounds in Eden Valley, she told me that two years ago she’d had an

  affair with another physicist who’d stayed with Goddard for six

  months, spent most of that time working and sleeping in Goddard’s

  machine shop, and was considered by most of Goddard’s men to have

  been very influential on Goddard’s work. Those facts were later

  confirmed in my discussions with some of the rocket team.’ Even now, as he spoke to the general, Bradley thought it odd that

  the mention of Gladys Kinder as Wilson’s mistress should make him

  feel slightly resentful and, perhaps, even jealous. It was too ridiculous

  for words, but he couldn’t deny the feeling; and when he recalled her

  sly smile in the hotel’s gloomy bar, her droll mockery of his obvious

  confusion in her presence, he was irresistibly seduced by her image and

  wanted to see her again.

  Crazy. Just crazy...

  ‘What was this woman’s name?’ the general asked, picking up his pen and staring with what Bradley, in the guilty panic of his thoughts,

  imagined was accusing intensity.

  ‘Kinder,’ Bradley replied, feeling a helpless stab of desire and its

  bed partner, guilt. ‘Gladys Kinder.’

  ‘Kinder,’ the general murmured, writing the name down. ‘Gladys

  Kinder,’ he emphasized, as if deliberately tormenting Bradley.

  ‘Mmmm...’ he murmured, studying the name thoughtfully before

  putting his pen back down, looking up again, and saying ‘So, what

  about him?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘The physicist that the Kinder woman told you about.’

  ‘Ah, yes...’ Bradley gathered his thoughts together. ‘Miss Kinder

  told me that when the physicist left for good after the rocket launching

  of December 31, 1930, Goddard confessed to her that his mysterious,

  temporary assistant was a, quote, genius, who’d helped him develop

  many of his more notable innovations, including liquid-fuelled, selfcooled motors, gyroscopes for guidance and control, lightweight fuel

  pumps, and reflector vanes to help stabilize and steer the rockets. The

  guy’s name was John Wilson.’

  ‘Interesting,’ General Taylor said, writing that name down also,

  then popping some gum into his mouth and starting to chew, ‘but I

  can’t see what relevance all this has to Adolf Hitler’s Germany.’ ‘Well, I can’t be too sure of this,’ Bradley replied, ‘but I d
o have

  my worries there.’

  ‘Don’t tease me, Mike.’

  ‘Well, for a start this John Wilson’s a complete mystery. No one at

  Roswell knew where he came from, Wilson wasn’t about to tell them,

  and even Goddard swore he didn’t know anything about him, other

  than the fact that he was extraordinarily knowledgeable about physics

  and aeronautics, just turned up at the ranch one day, showed Goddard

  some of his own drawings, and then asked if he could help him with

  the rocket project. As for Wilson's journalist friend, Gladys Kinder – ’

  He couldn’t avoid the name, and it brought back all his guilt. ‘ – even

  though she was his mistress during that six months, she learned only

  that he had an engineering background and loathed the US government

  for reasons that he never explained. She also learned, just before

  Wilson’s abrupt departure, that he intended leaving the United States

  for good and going to a country where people like him and Goddard

  would be appreciated, instead of being treated as cranks.’ There was

  more loud hammering from outside and General Taylor, after wincing,

  said, ‘I can’t stand this goddamned noise, Mike. Do you fancy a walk?’ ‘Sure,’ Bradley said, feeling trapped with his recollections of

  Gladys and glad to escape. ‘Why not?’

  Leaving the office, they strolled outside where the noise of the

  workers was even louder and the sun shone over the flat green fields.

  Relieved to feel the fresh air, Bradley followed the general away from

  the skeletal buildings and their many workers, down toward the banks

  of the Potomac River.

  ‘So where do you think your mysterious genius, this Mr Wilson,

  went?’ General Taylor asked, striding across the grass and glancing

  keenly around him.

  ‘A lot of the German engineers,’ Bradley said, ‘including Wernher

  von Braun, revere Goddard and are known to have based their work on

  his ideas. Our mysterious John Wilson would certainly have known

  that – and would also have known that while here, in the United States,

  Goddard’s theories were being treated with contempt, Germany was

  spending fortunes on rocket research that was, by and large, based on

  his work.’

  ‘So you think this Wilson went to Germany?’

  ‘I don’t think it – I know it. I checked yesterday with the

  Immigration Department and learned that one John Wilson left this

  country on January 20, 1931, that he stayed in London for a few weeks

  in early March of that year, and that he applied for a German visa that

  same month. According to British immigration records, a US citizen

  called John Wilson left England by a boat sailing for Bremen,

  Germany, on April 5, 1931. There's no other record of his movements.’ ‘You mean, you think he’s still there, in Germany.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you checked with the German authorities?’

  ‘They deny all knowledge of him.’

  ‘But you think they’re lying.’

  ‘Yes. I think he’s still there – and if he is, and if he’s working on

  rocket research, we should be concerned.’

  Stopping by the edge of the river, they looked across to the far

  bank. The fields that stretched out on all sides were flat, densely

  forested, and sun-splattered. Birds flew overhead.

  ‘You’re my best man for intelligence gathering,’ General Taylor

  reminded him, ‘so perhaps you can track him down.’

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ Bradley said, feeling the itch of frustration.

  ‘We're talking about Hitler’s Third Reich. One man on his own can’t do much with this kind of problem. That's why we need a central intelligence-gathering organization,’ he continued, warming to his favourite theme. ‘The Brits have an intelligence system that puts us to shame. The last thing we had that remotely resembled an intelligence agency was Herbert Yardley’s Black Chamber – which was only a codebreaking unit – and since that was closed down in 1929 we haven’t had a damned thing to replace it. Which is doubtless why Yardley wrote his best-selling book exposing our so-called secrets – and why New York federal marshals, the damned idiots, have just raided the offices of a perfectly respectable publisher to impound Yardley’s second book.’ The general laughed heartily at that one, then said, ‘The way you pronounce the word “idiots”, Mike, reminds me

  that you’re an Irish-American.’

  ‘Ha ha,’ Bradley responded, but warmly, without malice. He was

  proud of his background and not ashamed of what he’d become,

  despite not being what he should have been. Although his uneducated

  grandparents had emigrated from Ireland and he’d been raised as a

  Roman Catholic, Bradley had gone against convention by becoming a

  staunch member of the Republican party, instead of a Democrat, which

  most of the Irish were. He had also, after winning numerous awards for

  distinguished service in the battlefields of France in the Great War,

  become a successful lawyer, with his own law firm on Wall Street. So,

  yes, he was proud of his background and achievements – and knew that

  General Taylor, his close friend, truly respected him.

  ‘Anyway,’ the general said, wincing when the hammering on the

  distant buildings started again, ‘you were starting to talk a blue streak,

  so don’t let me stop you.’

  ‘This guy, Wilson,’ Bradley continued, ‘who is possibly an

  aeronautical genius, has gone off to sell his talents to a country whose

  whole interest in science is geared to its aggressive potential – in other

  words, Hitler’s Third Reich.’

  ‘So?’ Taylor said.

  ‘So, since the Third Reich is devoted to war, we should be keeping

  tabs on Wilson – but we can’t do it because we don’t have the

  necessary intelligence-gathering organization.’

  ‘But we do have that.’

  ‘No,’ Bradley insisted, ‘we don’t. What we have is an

  uncoordinated collection of different intelligence agencies. Army

  Intelligence, or G2; the Office of Naval Intelligence; the FBI; the

  Secret Service; the State Department; the Customs and Immigration services; the Federal Communications System Service; and the Treasury's Foreign Funds Control Unit – not one of which deals with

  the others, let alone recognizing them.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So what we need is a centralized, coordinated intelligence, like the

  British Secret Intelligence Service.’

  ‘A sort of Central Intelligence Agency,’ Taylor said.

  ‘Right, General. You got it’

  ‘Ah!’ the general exclaimed softly. ‘So

  that’s why you came all the

  way from New York to see me, instead of using the phone. You want

  to ride your favourite hobbyhorse again and persuade me to include

  you in the formation of a proper, coordinated intelligence-gathering

  agency. Have I got it right, Mike?’

  ‘Yes, General, you have. I’m a highly successful, thirty-eight-yearold lawyer with a plush office in Manhattan, but the best time I ever

  had in my life was during the war.’

  ‘So I gathered,’ the general said. ‘The Distinguished Service Cross,

  the Distinguished Service Medal, and the Medal of Honor...’ ‘Right,’ Bradley interjected. ‘Which proves I’m a survivor – and

  that I’m willing
to hang in when the chips are down.’

  ‘No argument there,’ the general murmured. ‘Come on, let’ s head

  back.’

  They turned away from the river, heading back to where the men

  with the saws and hammers and nails were swarming like flies over the

  frames of buildings that would soon house a branch of army air force

  intelligence and the new National Advisory Committee on Aeronautics. When Bradley thought of aeronautics, he thought of John Wilson;

  and when he thought of that mysterious genius, he also thought, with

  guilty, helpless longing, of Wilson’s mistress: the middle-age, laconic,

  and undeniably attractive Gladys Kinder.

  He just couldn't help himself.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘my kids are growing up, they’re both now

  away at college, and although I still have Joan, I’m bored with my legal

  work. I’m also, as you know, deeply convinced that America will,

  sooner or later, have to become involved with the outside world. I

  accepted your offer of unofficial intelligence gathering in Europe

  because I hoped that it would lead to stronger ties with the intelligence

  services already existing over there. And having been there, I’m

  convinced more than ever that we need a central intelligence-gathering

  agency – and I happen to know that you believe that also and have

  even discussed it.’

  ‘You know more than you should,’ General Taylor said, 'which is,

  of course, why we should take you on, on a more permanent basis.’ They skirted around the building site and stopped by Bradley's car,

  parked just outside the general’s office, gleaming in sunlight. ‘Are you in the process of forming such an agency?’ Bradley asked

  as he slipped into his car.

  ‘Early stages yet,’ the general replied, ‘but the short answer is yes.’ ‘And can I be part of it?’

  ‘Yes – when the time comes. In the meantime, you’d better get on

  the trail of this John Wilson. If we can’t yet find out what he’s doing in

  Germany, you might at least find out where he came from and just who

  he is.’

  ‘I will,’ Bradley said.

  When the general had entered his office, Bradley drove away,

  feeling a lot better, disturbed only when he thought of Gladys Kinder

  and her relationship with the enigmatic, possibly dangerous, Wilson. 'Goddammit!' he whispered.