INCEPTION (Projekt Saucer, Book 1)

by W. A. Harbinson

  the room. They included William Shawn, the associate editor of the

  New Yorker, an increasingly blind and visibly drunken cartoonist

  named James Thurber, a matinee-idol theatre reviewer, Robert

  Benchley, and the deceptively sweet-faced satirical writer, Dorothy

  Parker. Grinning slightly and shaking her head, as if she didn’t believe

  what she was seeing, she turned back to Bradley.

  ‘I’d already checked out that possibility,’ Bradley said, ‘and to

  answer your first question, yes, Wilson could have gone into airship

  design with that kind of background. Although there were no formal

  aeronautical courses at MIT when Wilson was there, there were plenty

  of informal courses on propulsion and the behaviour of fluids – two

  subjects that Goddard later made his own. And certainly, by 1896,

  instructors and students at MIT had built a wind tunnel and were

  experimenting with it to get practical knowledge of aerodynamics. As

  for Sibley College, the experimental engineering courses that Wilson

  attended would have been conducted by professors Rolla Clinton

  Carpenter, George Burton Preston, Aldred Henry Eldredge, Charles Edwin Houghton, and Oliver Shantz – some of the greatest aeronautical thinkers of their day. Finally, Octave Chanute was the world-famous engineer who, in 1896, emulated the successful manned hang-glider experiments of the German, Otto Lilienthal, at an aerial experiment station on the Lake Michigan sand dunes near Miller,

  Indiana – so, again, Wilson learned from the very best.’

  ‘But what was the state of knowledge at the time?’ Gladys asked,

  still sceptical about what he was telling her.

  ‘Well,’ Bradley said, ‘according to what I learned at MIT, it was

  certainly more advanced than is generally known. For instance,

  Cornell’s courses at the time included mechanical and electrical

  engineering and machine design and construction. As for specific

  aeronautical texts of the time, they were surprisingly advanced and

  would have included the Smithsonian Institution’s Experiments in

  Aerodynamics, published in 1891; the Lawrence Hargraves experiment

  reports of 1890 to 1894; the 1893 reports on Sir Hiram Maxim’s

  experiments on engines, propellers, airplanes, and flying machines; and

  the Aeronautical Annual of 1895, 1896, and 1897, which contained

  original contributions from most of the leading aeronautical scientists...

  So assuming that Wilson was some kind of genius, he certainly could

  have attained the knowledge necessary to design airships.’

  ‘Oh, boy! ’ Gladys exclaimed softly, obviously intrigued. ‘And

  question two?’

  ‘Could a man of such talents have worked in America for thirtyfive years, possibly designing airships, without leaving any tracks

  behind?’ Bradley nodded emphatically. ‘Yes, Gladys, it’s certainly

  odd, but I think it’s possible. The period we’re talking about was the

  greatest so far in the history of aviation – the first successful flight of

  S. P. Langley’s flying machines; Santos-Dumont’s flight in an airship

  from Saint Cloud to the Eiffel Tower; the Wright brothers’ first

  successful heavier-than-air manned flight at Kitty Hawk, North

  Carolina; Goddard’s first experiments in rocketry; Wilbur Wright’s

  seventy-seven-mile flight in two hours and thirty minutes; then, only

  seven months later, in 1909, Louis Bleriot’s flight across the English

  Channel; the dogfiights and airship raids of the Great War of 1914, and

  the continuing advances made since then – so yes, Wilson could

  certainly have designed airships... or even more advanced forms of

  aircraft.’

  ‘But could he have done so in secret?’

  ‘Yes, that, too, is possible. In fact, it was a time when financiers were in fierce competition with one another to sink money into experimental aeronautical projects – so most of those projects were wrapped in the strictest secrecy. Wilson could, therefore, have worked in almost total anonymity with the full support, even encouragement, of his financial backers. And the US government,’ he continued, practically talking to himself, ‘quietly backed more than one aeronautical project – particularly during the late 1930s – and usually insisted that such projects be kept secret. They also occasionally took over civilian aeronautical projects and either ran them in strict secrecy or, for one reason or another, quietly aborted them.’ He scratched his nose, coughed into his clenched fist, and spread his hands on the table.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘there it is.’

  There was a moment’s silence which seemed to last forever, then

  Gladys said: ‘Tell you what... I’ll run a check on all the companies that

  were known to be working on such projects and see if Wilson’s name

  pops up magically. It depends, I suppose, on whether or not he used his

  own name – but I’ll certainly give it a try for you before I catch my

  ship – since the guy who obtained these notes for me, who works in the

  registrar’s office at Cornell, is my date for this evening.’

  Bradley, very much to his surprise, was upset to hear that, though

  he managed to hide the fact.

  ‘Shall I call you at home tonight?’ Gladys asked him.

  ‘Sure,’ he said, giving her his number, but feeling as guilty as a

  man arranging an assignation, ‘that would be great. Now I have to go,

  Gladys. I’m meeting my son at Penn Station at four, to take the train

  home.’

  He felt embarrassed saying it, but Gladys just smiled wickedly.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ she said, ‘I remember. You told me all about your family. A

  lovely wife and a boy and girl, as I remember.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Bradley said. ‘Though the boy and girl are older than

  you might think. In fact, Mark is eighteen.’

  ‘A good age,’ Gladys said.

  Yet she seemed sad at that moment, or at least a little regretful, and

  when they left the hotel and faced each another on 44th Street, Bradley,

  not normally a romantic man, hardly knew what to say.

  She had somehow sneaked up on him.

  ‘Well,’ she said, offering her sunburned hand and a lopsided grin,

  ‘it was nice to see you again, Mike Bradley. I’ll give you that final call

  tonight, then it’s au revoir, baby.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘

  Au revoir .’

  She just stood there as he slipped into a taxi and let it drive him

  away.

  He was almost choked up.

  CHAPTER EIGHT Bradley met Mark at four o’clock at Penn Station and they took the train back to Bridgeport, Connecticut, unencumbered with the usual rush-hour crowd of fellow commuters. As Bradley had already phoned to say they would be early, his wife, Joan, was waiting for them in her car and drove them back to their relatively modest, ranch-style home, just ten minutes from the station and surrounded by expansive gardens and protective trees. There, Bradley refreshed himself with a shower, dressed in casual slacks, shirt, and pullover, relaxed for an hour with the radio and another whiskey, then joined Joan and his two children for dinner in the oak-panelled dining room.

  Modestly drunk from his lunch with Gladys Kinder and the additional whiskey, and still an Irish sentimentalist at heart, Bradley, after sharing a bottle of red wine with the family, found himself glancing from his wife to his daughter, quietly startled at how similar they looked in all but their age. Joan was thirty-eight, five days older than Bradley, and although their daughter
, Miriam, was still only seventeen, she and her mother were almost like twins, sharing the same delicate features, dark hair, enchanting cafe-au-lait eyes, and a quietly mischievous sense of humour.

  Bradley, usually sentimental but now guilty because of his guiltless passion for Gladys Kinder, was even more in love with both of them tonight than he was normally.

  ‘How did school go today?’ he asked Miriam.

  ‘Same as always,’ she replied. ‘Clark Gable was teaching math, Bette Davis taught history, and Errol Flynn discussed the things he knows best, then gave out his phone number. That’s why I love school, Dad.’

  Bradley grinned. ‘Well, school’s certainly improved since my day – and the results are so wonderful.'

  Miriam lowered her head and blushed.

  ‘Gee,’ Mark said, ‘what a sweet kid! She makes me feel so mature, so protective, when she blushes like that.’

  ‘Shut up, Mark,’ Joan warned him.

  ‘Sorry, Mom,’ he replied.

  ‘Who’s taking you to the prom?’ Bradley asked. ‘Have you decided that yet?’

  ‘Whoever asks her,’ Mark informed him.

  ‘Shut up, Mark,’ Joan warned him again.

  ‘I told you,’ Miriam replied, smiling sweetly. ‘Errol Flynn gave me his number and a welcoming smile.’

  ‘He’s too old for you,’ Joan said.

  ‘A nice guy,’ Mark said, ‘but too old.’

  ‘What about that kid who walks you home from school? At least he looks like Errol Flynn.’

  ‘Looks aren’t everything, Dad.’

  ‘His father’s rich,’ Joan reminded her.

  ‘Money’s not everything, Mom.’

  ‘It’s nearly everything, Miriam.’

  ‘Will he be taking you?’ Bradley asked.

  Miriam sighed. ‘He hasn’t asked me.’

  ‘When he he asks, are you going to say yes?

  Miriam sighed. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘A real lucky guy,’ Mark said.

  ‘Yes, isn't he?’ Miriam responded.

  ‘Please finish your desserts,’ Joan said to all of them, ‘so I can clear this table and put up my feet.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am!’ they all exclaimed at once.

  Joan did in fact put her feet up after dinner, stretching out on the sofa, while Bradley sat on the floor beside her, having a brandy and feeling deeply grateful for the good life he had. The kids had retired to their own rooms and he was about to put on the radio, but Joan stopped him by taking hold of his wrist and pulling his hand onto her stomach, which still was as flat as an adolescent’s, and seductively warm.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘I don’t want to hear the radio. Let’s just talk for a while.’

  ‘Okay, dear. Sure. Anything special you want to talk about?’

  ‘Nope,' she said with a lazy smile. ’Nothing special at all. How did your day go?’

  ‘The same as always,’ he replied. ‘Clark Gable came by for a drink, Bette Davis dropped in for a smoke, and Errol Flynn called to discuss his forthcoming date with Miriam. That's why I love my work.'

  Joan chuckled and squeezed his hand, then lightly stroked his wrist. ‘So what did you really do?’ she asked. ‘Anything exciting?’

  ‘Mostly routine,’ he lied, shocking himself. ‘The best part of the day was lunch with Dave Marsh, who sends love and kisses.’

  Joan’s smile was quietly radiant. ‘Ah, my boyfriend!’ she said softly, oblivious to Bradley’s shame. ‘Was this just your usual monthly get-together or something special?’

  ‘He’s going to check someone out for me,’ Bradley told her. ‘A guy called John Wilson. A guy who’s starting to intrigue me. A real mystery man...’

  He told her all about Wilson, going into more detail than he had planned, and then added that he was expecting a late-night call from one of Dave Marsh’s friends: a lady named Gladys Kinder.

  When he stopped talking, Joan rolled onto her hip, to stare directly, steadily at him.

  ‘Be careful, Mike,’ she said. ‘Don’t let this become another obsession. You’re easily bored, always searching for new adventures, and I know that you’re looking at intelligence work to get you out of the office. But I repeat, please be careful. Don’t become obsessed with this mystery man. We have a good marriage, but it’s been through its troubles, and most of those troubles occurred when you became obsessed with your work. So please, Mike, no matter how intriguing this man is, don’t let him threaten our marriage.’

  ‘I promise I won’t.’

  Joan went to bed shortly after and he promised to follow soon, but instead sat on, thinking about what she had said and accepting the truth in it. They did have a good marriage, but it

  had been troubled at times, and in nearly every instance the problem had been caused by his obsession with some job or other and his subsequent neglect of home and hearth. He loved Joan and the children, appreciated what he had, and didn't want ever again to let work, or anything else, take him away from them.

  And he was silently vowing not to let this happen when the telephone rang.

  ‘I think I’ve found our man,’ Gladys Kinder said. ‘Our mysterious Mr Wilson.’

  ‘Shoot,’ Bradley said.

  ‘In 1895, the year Wilson left Cornell, a now-defunct New York financial company, Cohn and Goldman Incorporated, financed an aeronautical company, reportedly to research and, if possible, construct passenger-carrying airships. While Cohn and Goldman denied repeatedly that they were attempting to build commercial airships – as most speculators routinely did in those days – I have confirmation that they constructed their factories in Mount Pleasant, near the border of Iowa and Illinois... And according to the company records, the man put in charge of the whole project was a relatively unknown aeronautical scientist named John Wilson.’

  Bradley was surprised to find himself releasing the breath he had been unwittingly holding in.

  ‘Anything else?’ he asked.

  ‘No, Mike. Those are the only clippings I could find on either Wilson or Cohn and Goldman Incorporated.’

  ‘It’s more than enough to go on,’ Bradley said. ‘Thanks a hell of a lot, Gladys.’

  Excited and confused at once, he was just about to hang up when Gladys spoke urgently enough to stop him. ‘One more thing, Bradley... In checking the clippings, I was also reminded that the following two years – 1896 and 1897 – were notable for one phenomenon in particular: the great wave of mystery airships. At the time they called them UFOs – unidentified flying objects.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because most of the reports indicated that the airships were more advanced than any known to have been constructed at the time. Also, they were reported to be carrying passengers, or crewmen. They landed frequently, usually to collect water for their engines, and at such times the crewmen talked freely to anyone who approached them... And the crewman who features most frequently in the reports is a man who always introduced himself as…’

  ‘Wilson.’

  ‘Right.’ Gladys chuckled and then turned serious again. ‘I’m gonna arrange to have a friend send you the newspaper clippings about those sightings – and that’s about it, Mike. After this, I’ll be on my way to Europe. No more lunches. No phone calls...’

  Her voice trailed off into a silence that spoke volumes and left Bradley grieving.

  ‘Gladys, I don’t know how...’

  ‘What’s domestic life like out there in Connecticut?’

  ‘It’s very nice.’

  ‘Yeah, I thought so. Goodbye, Mike.’

  ‘Goodbye, Gladys.’

  The phone went dead. Bradley felt very emotional. He forgot to join Joan in bed, but instead went into his study and sat at his desk. He pulled out the notes he had collected on Wilson and started to ponder them.

  The next morning, having not slept a wink, he rang General Taylor.

  CHAPTER NINE ‘I’m Lieutenant Ernst Stoll,’ Wilson’s new interrogator said when the cell door had closed behind
the man and he took the hard wooden chair facing the bed upon which Wilson was seated. ‘I am, as you can see, a member of the SS, not the Gestapo, and I work for the technical intelligence branch. Naturally,’ he added, waving the papers in his right hand and offering what seemed like a shy smile, ‘I know who you are. So shall we begin?’

  ‘What if I say no?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘I would ignore you, of course.’ Wilson smiled. ‘Let’s begin, then. I take it, as you’re from technical intelligence, that we’ve made a little progress – or, at least, finished with relatively unimportant matters.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Lieutenant Stoll said, mildly amused by Wilson’s impertinence. ‘Your background and motivation have been accepted as valid, so I’m here to talk about the work you’ve already shown us and the work you now wish to do for us.’

  ‘Good,’ Wilson said, deliberately keeping his gaze steady, searching the lieutenant’s face for what it was hiding, because all faces were masks. Lieutenant Stoll was young, perhaps in his middle twenties, and while he looked diabolically handsome in his gleaming black uniform, his face did not display a confidence to match. Indeed, he seemed a little haunted, a man divided within himself, and was obviously trying to cover his doubts with his dryly polite, distant manner. ‘You have a technical background?’ Wilson asked him.

  ‘Yes,’ Stoll replied with a flicker of pride. ‘I studied aeronautical engineering at the Institute of Technology in Munich, then rocket technology under Professor Becker at the Institute of Technology, Berlin University.’

  ‘Ah!’ Wilson exclaimed softly, with admiration. ‘Becker! So were you a member of the German Amateur Rocket Society?’ ‘No,’ Stoll said, briefly displaying hurt and resentment, then hiding it by changing the subject. ‘I trust you found the previous interrogations civilized?’ he asked, looking up from his papers.

  ‘Yes,’ Wilson said. ‘Perfectly civilized. Surprisingly so.’ Lieutenant Stoll raised his eyebrows as if puzzled. ‘Why surprisingly so? Is it not what you would have expected from German officers?’

  ‘Given the sounds that have emanated from some of the other cells, I take it that not all German officers are so civilized when interrogating their prisoners.’

  Ernst looked embarrassed, then smiled bleakly. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘ that. Well, some prisoners are more troublesome than others, as I’m sure you agree. A little persuasion often goes a long way – though I hope that the noise from the other cells didn’t make you lose too much sleep.’