INCEPTION (Projekt Saucer, Book 1)

by W. A. Harbinson

  CHAPTER FOUR The two men came for Wilson at the Zeppelin Works at Friedrichshafen at eight in the morning and escorted him out of the factory without a word. Both men were wearing the black uniforms of the SS, and not those of the Gestapo, which Wilson took for a good sign. He felt no fear and asked no questions when, outside the factory, they ordered him up into the back of a canvas-topped truck that already contained a collection of men and women, none of whom looked too happy and some of whom were actually in handcuffs. Wilson sat between a Frenchman who tugged nervously at his peaked cap and a Jewish woman whose dark eyes glowed with dread, then the truck growled into life and began its journey to Berlin. Two armed soldiers sat at the end of the truck, to ensure that no one tried to escape.

  Wilson, who did not wish to escape, merely smiled at the sight of them.

  The journey began in the mist of morning and ended in the evening, with the streetlights illuminating the monolithic architecture of Berlin. In that long eight hours they had been driven a great distance, from Friedrichshafen on the north shore of Lake Constance to steely-gray Munich, from there to Nuremberg, still sombre in the noonday sun, then across the majestic, forested hills of Thuringia, with the shadows of the trees lengthening in the deepening light of afternoon, then through Dessau as darkness was falling and eventually into Berlin.

  Wilson had taken it all in from the back of the truck, every glimpse he could get through the canvas flapping near the two soldiers, and had noticed, especially, the many troop trucks on the roads, the armed soldiers in even the smallest towns. He was reminded, beyond any shadow of doubt, that this country was set for war.

  It was just what he needed.

  Throughout the journey, the two guards had said little to the prisoners, other than ushering them in and out of the truck two or three times to enable them to eat or go to the toilet. They had done this in a distant but reasonably civilized manner, but now, as they kept their charges covered while escorting them from the truck into a large, official-looking building, they both became noticeably more tense and officious, barking their orders and even hitting some of the prisoners with the butts of their rifles when they failed to move quickly enough.

  Once inside the building, which was gloomily lit and drearily institutional, the predominance of immaculate black uniforms, gleaming boots, and blond hair made it obvious that this was SS headquarters.

  One of the female prisoners started weeping and a man crossed himself, but Wilson, as he had done that morning, took it as a good sign that he was in the hands of the SS, which he had wanted, and not the Gestapo.

  The prisoners in handcuffs were led away. Wilson and the others were told to sit on the wooden benches lining the walls of a gloomy corridor. A golden-haired SS sergeant took their identity papers, disappeared through a door, and returned shortly after to lead Wilson away from where he had been sitting, between the dark-eyed Jewish woman and the unshaven Frenchman who had constantly murmured to God for deliverance. Glad to be rid of them, Wilson was even more pleased when he was escorted into an office and made to stop before the desk of a man he recognized from his many photographs in the newspapers: the head of the SS, Heinrich Himmler.

  He did not raise his head when Wilson was escorted in, but continued to study the papers on his desk. Wilson recognized his own handwriting and the technical sketches he had included with his lengthy letter, and smiled, feeling pleased with himself, until Himmler looked up at him.

  Wilson immediately removed the smile from his face and looked deeply respectful.

  Himmler sighed, as if weary. He had bland, decent features, a neatly trimmed moustache, and gray-blue eyes whose mildness was emphasized by his glistening pince-nez spectacles. He was a man without vanity or cruelty or lust, but Wilson knew, the minute he saw those eyes, that he was also quite mad.

  It was what Wilson needed.

  ‘So,’ Himmler said, ‘you are Wilson – John Wilson – an American citizen.’

  ‘Yes, Herr Himmler,’ Wilson replied in perfect German.

  ‘Reichsführer,’ Himmler corrected him mildly.

  ‘Sorry, Reichsführer.’

  ‘You’ve been living in Germany, under an assumed name and with forged German identification papers, for the past three years. This is correct?’

  ‘Yes, Reichsführer.’

  ‘And as this fictitious German citizen, you’ve been doing important research work on advanced gyroscopic controls with the subsonic wind-tunnel at the Zeppelin Works in Friedrichshafen.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Himmler offered a slight, chilling smile. ‘You realize, Herr Wilson, that these are criminal offences – that you could even be labelled as a spy and executed accordingly.’

  ‘My purpose isn’t spying, Reichsführer, as the notes and drawings I sent you clearly prove.’

  ‘Ah, yes... the notes and drawings.’ Himmler adjusted the spectacles on his nose and glanced down at Wilson’s papers. When he raised his eyes again, he was still smiling in that slight, chilling manner. ‘What these notes prove, Mr Wilson, according to my aeronautical advisers, is that you are an extraordinarily brilliant physicist and engineer. What they fail to prove is that you are not here on behalf of your government. In other words, as a spy.’

  ‘I have no reason to love the American government – and my only interest in life is my work. That’s why I’m here.’

  Himmler stared steadily at him, with a cold curiosity, then smiled bleakly and indicated the chair in front of his desk. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Be seated. Can I fetch you some tea?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ Wilson said as he sat down and studied the powerful, soft-faced lunatic across the desk. ‘I drink as little as possible.’

  ‘And hardly eat, so I’ve been informed. Does that explain your remarkably youthful appearance?’

  ‘It helps,’ Wilson said, not forgetting for a moment that Himmler, former fertilizer salesman and chicken farmer, was quietly obsessed with all kinds of esoteric theories, including astrology and runes, the secret of the pyramids, the spirit of the eternal Wandervogel, Horbiger’s world of ice and fire, and, of course, the magical properties of certain diets. ‘I eat and drink only the bare minimum,’ he clarified, ‘though I find that the odd glass of white wine can be beneficial.’

  ‘You speak flawless German,’ Himmler said. ‘When and where did you learn it?’

  ‘I learnt it here, in Germany, Reichsführer.’

  Himmler raised his eyebrows to display his scepticism.

  ‘Here, Mr Wilson? In the Fatherland? In a mere three years? I would think that even a child, let alone a man your age, would have trouble in being so fluent in our difficult tongue after such a short period.’

  ‘I have a retentive memory,’ Wilson explained, ‘and I learned it in three years. We didn’t even learn French in Iowa, let alone German. I’ve learnt it since coming here.’

  He was impatient with the question, since languages came easily to him. He had never experienced difficulty in learning anything, so could not abide ignorance. And languages, compared to mathematics or science, were merely child’s play.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Himmler said, forgetting the vexing question of language. ‘Iowa! The heartland of America. Which is where you came from.’

  ‘Yes,’ Wilson confirmed, remembering the rolling plains, the cold winters and long hot summers, his parents working in fields of corn between sunrise and sunset while he, who could never stand the place, searched the distant horizon. He looked back with no emotion, simply recalling it from his mind, and retained no more feeling for that landscape than he did for his parents. He remembered them treating him kindly, but that didn't mean much to him.

  The past was a dead place.

  Himmler nodded judiciously, glanced down at Wilson’s papers, picked some up and let them fall to the desk again, then spread the fingers of his delicate, almost feminine hands over them. ‘Naturally we’ve checked the details you gave us about your background and found them to be exactly as you stated. You�
��re a remarkable man, Mr Wilson, perhaps even extraordinary – which would only make you all the more dangerous, should you not be what you say you are.’

  ‘I’m a scientist, Reichsführer. I want to get on with my work. I can’t do what I want to do in America, so I came here, to Germany, where I know that my particular kind of talent is much in demand. It’s as simple as that.’

  ‘Nothing is as simple as that, Mr Wilson, as you and I both know. You’re an American citizen, and no matter your grievances, you must still love the country you came from.’

  ‘I do not, Reichsführer. To me, it’s just another country and one that can’t help me.’

  Himmler actually looked shocked, as if blasphemy had been spoken. ‘Patriotism!’ he exclaimed. ‘You have no sense of that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe.’

  ‘Believe it.’

  ‘If you were a German citizen, I’d have you shot for that attitude.’ ‘I’m not German, Reichsführer.'

  Himmler picked up a pencil, drummed it on the desk, tapped it lightly against his teeth, then put it down again. He sighed, almost sadly. ‘Even though our country is not at war with yours, what you’ve done, in coming here to work for us, is virtually treason. Are you a traitor? Is that what you want to be?’

  Wilson had to admire him for saying that. The chicken farmer was no fool. He looked like a schoolteacher, perhaps even a monk, but mixed in with his lunatic ideas was a steely intelligence. Not a vast intelligence, but a sharp one, which meant that he had to be handled carefully and never taken for granted.

  ‘A traitor?’ Wilson said. ‘I don’t think in such terms. I was exploited by my government, then betrayed and cast aside, and now I wish to lend my talents to those who will use them.’

  ‘Lend your talents?’

  The question actually amused Wilson. ‘How wise you are, Reichsführer, to understand that a man of my ambition would not willingly do anything for free. Naturally, I came here for the most selfish reasons – because I live for my work and only someone like you would have the vision and courage to finance it. I’ll work for you as long as you finance my research – which is why I wrote to you.’

  ‘And you do not care to what ends your research will finally be put?’

  ‘A true scientist can’t be concerned with such matters. My only concern is the pursuit of ultimate knowledge – and I know you agree with that. I’m just as much a soldier as you are, but what I fight for is science.’

  ‘Are you as ruthless as a soldier, Herr Wilson?’

  ‘Yes, Reichsführer, I am.’

  Himmler smiled, obviously pleased with this response, though his smile held no warmth.

  ‘Why me?’ he asked softly. ‘Of all the people in the Third Reich, why did you write to me, rather than to some influential scientist or politician? You must have known you were taking a great chance – exposing yourself as an alien who used false identification papers in order to obtain a position in one of our most important research establishments – and that I could have decided to have you shot as a spy. So why me, Herr Wilson?’

  ‘Because you’re a man of vision,’ Wilson said, combining a lie with a certain amount of truth. He felt that Himmler was, indeed, a man of great dreams, if not vision, who would support any kind of research, no matter how esoteric or even mad. For that, if for very little else, he would certainly be useful. ‘Because you believe in the limitless possibilities of the future, will back your beliefs with actions, and will not let petty human emotions stand in your way. You and I, Herr Himmler, if I may say so, are similar that way.’

  ‘What you say may be true,’ Himmler replied, unmoved by flattery, ‘but it still doesn’t explain why I should give you, a foreigner, my support, particularly since you wish to take part in our most vital, and therefore confidential, research.’

  ‘You should give me your support, Reichsführer, because my papers have shown you what I can do – and what I can do is much more than anyone you have could do.’

  ‘Some of my scientists would take offence at that remark.’

  ‘That wouldn’t change its accuracy. My work is proof of my genius. More important, I’m engaged in a project similar to one you’ve already started: the creation of a revolutionary form of transport and extraordinary weapon.’

  ‘You mean Projekt Saucer.’

  ‘Yes, Reichsführer.’

  ‘And how did you know about that, Herr Wilson, since the project is under SS supervision?’

  ‘There are always whispers, Reichsführer, particularly among scientists, and naturally I picked them up in Friedrichshafen. I was also puzzled to see certain, odd machine parts in the Zeppelin Works – but when combined with some of the experiments taking place in the wind tunnel, I realized they could only relate to the development of an aircraft shaped like a saucer – the kind of machine being researched with Projekt Saucer at Kummersdorf West.’

  ‘What kind of experiments were you doing in the Zeppelin wind tunnel?’

  ‘Tests relating to Prandtl’s boundary layer.’

  ‘The importance of which is?’

  ‘If we can’t solve the problem of the boundary layer, the speed and manoeuvrability of our aircraft will always be limited.’

  ‘Please explain.’

  ‘The perfect flying machine will be one that requires no runway, since it will take off vertically, will be able to hover in midair, and will not be limited in flight by Prandtl’s boundary layer.’

  ‘I am not an engineer,’ Himmler reminded him impatiently.

  ‘According to Prandtl’s theory of the boundary layer, the air sweeping in on an object in flight increases its resistance in direct proportion to the increasing speed of the flying object. Because of this, the speed of any flying object is finite. However, if some method can be found of removing the boundary layer, virtually limitless speed and manoeuvrability will be achieved.’

  ‘And a disc shape is the best shape for this?’

  ‘Potentially, yes. The buildup of the boundary layer is dramatically increased by the many surface protuberances of a normal aircraft – wings, tails, rudders, rotors, and so forth. If we could get rid of those – by somehow wrapping them together as part and parcel of the one, circular, smooth-surfaced flying wing – we would at least be on the road to the perfect flying machine.’

  ‘And you think we can accomplish this here in Germany?’

  ‘I think you’re the country with most interest in such developments and certainly the most advanced so far. Regarding vertical-rising aircraft, the Focke-Wulf Company has already announced that it has almost completed its FW 61 helicopter, which will be the first fully operational helicopter in existence. Regarding experimental tailless aircraft, or flying wings, devoid of vertical stabilizing or control surfaces, the Horten brothers of Bonn have already produced some successful prototypes. As for other problems standing in the way of limitless speed and manoeuvrability, it was a German, Professor Ludwig Prandtl, who, at Gottingen in 1904, defined the nature of the boundary layer. Since then, many other German scientists have been experimenting with revolutionary new types of aircraft in the hope of finding a way of defeating that layer. A disc-or-saucer-shaped aircraft, without any surface protuberances, is the logical outcome of that research.’

  Himmler’s smile was as chilling as the gaze behind his small pincenez. ‘There are those who would say that such an aircraft cannot be built.’

  ‘The foolish always speak loudest.’

  ‘And you think that you can help with such a project?’

  ‘I can complete it, Reichsführer. I’ve been working toward this goal all my life and have now almost reached it.’

  Himmler glanced at Wilson's technical drawings, which had been done in black ink, then raised his eyes again as he spread his slim hands in a questioning manner.

  ‘But are you close to reaching it?’ he asked. ‘My scientists often make the same claim — but so far they have failed.’

 
‘Just look at my drawings, Reichsführer.’

  ‘I am not a scientist, Herr Wilson. Your drawings look impressive, but to me they are meaningless – though initial reports have certainly confirmed that your written work is extraordinary. These drawings will have to be studied further by people more knowledgeable than I. In the meantime, I have to consider what it is you want from me.’

  ‘I’ve already told you that, Reichsführer. I wrote to you not only for the reasons we’ve just discussed, but also because I know that the SS is gradually taking over the security and management of the Third Reich’s major scientific and research establishments, that soon it will be the most powerful organization in Germany, and that you, its Reichsführer, are the only man in power with the vision to see what can be done in this particular field. Already you've implemented a discshaped aircraft project; only I can take that project to its completion – but I need your support.’

  There was silence for a moment and Wilson waited patiently, neither excited nor frightened. He was fully in control as Himmler stared steadily at him. He did not flinch from the mild monster, but neither did he try to challenge him. Instead he let his gaze go slightly out of focus, as if gazing inward.

  Which he did in a sense, thinking back upon America, remembering Goddard and how the Americans had mocked him while these clever Germans revered him. Well, Goddard was back in Roswell, struggling along on a mere pittance, while he, Wilson, if Himmler went as he thought he would, would soon have all the money and equipment he could possibly want.

  Pleased, he focused again upon Himmler, whose mild gaze concealed madness.

  ‘You do realize, Herr Wilson, that once I gave that support, you would be committed to working for the Third Reich for the rest of your days?’

  ‘Yes, Reichsführer.’

  ‘And that if you betrayed us, or even tried to leave the country, I would personally have you executed?’

  ‘Yes, Reichsführer, I realize that, also.’

  ‘You are therefore willing to commit yourself totally to the Third Reich and all it stands for?’