‘Sure,’ Bradley lied, ‘you’re okay. No problem at all. It’s just a
matter of – ’
‘The children, Mike. Look after the children. And our
grandchildren too.’
‘Shut up,’ Bradley said. ‘Don’t talk that way. Jesus, Joan. Oh, my
God!’
‘Hey, there, don’t be – ‘
But her final words didn't make it; only blood escaped from her
lips. Then she coughed and spluttered, choking on that blood, sighed,
as if too weary to be bothered, and closed her eyes for the final time. Bradley was stupefied. He couldn’t believe that she was gone. He
kept glancing around him, as if time would move backward, and when
it didn’t, he just clung to her, holding her tightly, refusing to let go,
and shedding all the tears he had held in since the days of his
childhood.
The Japanese planes left and returned, then left for the final time.
Bradley accompanied Joan’s body to the morgue and held her hand in
the silence.
The only sound was his sobbing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO Joan was flown home and buried back in Connecticut, near the house where she and Bradley had shared so much together. Mark and Miriam attended the funeral, bringing their children with them, and even though that made Bradley feel older, it also encouraged him.
Life went on and Joan still lived through her children and grandchildren, all of whom had loved her as much in life as they missed her in death.
Yet it wasn’t enough.
He felt broken up inside. He had Christmas with his children and grandchildren and some friends, but the love that they showered upon him only made him hurt more. He saw the New Year in alone, in a house that now seemed too large, and shortly after, feeling lost in the house, he decided to sell it.
Mark and Miriam didn’t need it: they now had their own homes and families. The house was only a morgue for his recollections of things won and lost, a graveyard for his past. Not a home any longer.
‘I’m putting the house on the market,’ he told Mark.
‘Gee, Dad...’
‘It’s unbearable with your mother gone, Miriam.’
‘Yes, Dad,’ Miriam said. ‘I can understand that.’
He sold it quickly enough, but the contents were a problem, because so much of what had seemed so necessary was now useless debris. He gave his children what they wanted, offered the rest to his friends, gave what was left to various charities, and took only his personal things.
On the last day, when he was sorting through the papers in his desk drawers, he came across the letters from Gladys Kinder in Europe, tied together in chronological order and looking well thumbed.
He sat down, feeling breathless, filled with love and guilt and heartbreak: his love for both women; his guilt over a betrayal that had taken place only in his thoughts; his heartbreak over the loss of both women, one living, the other dead. Feeling confused, he decided to burn the letters. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it, so he packed them away with his other things and left his home for the final time.
Needing the bright lights of Manhattan, he took an apartment near his office, started working himself to exhaustion, drank too much, and stayed in at nights, wanting only the silence.
That silence was broken by General Taylor, who dropped in, uninvited.
‘You look terrible,’ he said.
‘I guess I do,’ Bradley replied.
‘What you need is a real distraction,’ Taylor said, ‘and that’s why I’m here. Do I at least get a drink?’
Bradley poured him a bourbon. Taylor carried it across the office, taking a seat under the window, in striations of pearly-gray light.
‘I’m really sorry about Joan,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what else to say.’
‘Don’t say anything, General.’
‘We’ve counted the cost,’ Taylor said. ‘Apart from Joan, it was terrible. In the first attack, the Japs capsized one battleship and completely destroyed three others. In the second attack, they sank three destroyers and badly damaged two others. Everything on Ford Island was destroyed, including our airplanes, and we had nearly three thousand casualties, most of them fatal. Luckily, they missed the entire aircraft carrier fleet – it was out to sea at the time – but no doubt about the damage they inflicted... And now the United States is at war. We’ve lost our virginity.’
‘Right,’ Bradley said, feeling drugged.
‘Our almost total lack of knowledge about Japanese intentions,’ Taylor said, ‘due to the fragmentation of our intelligence gathering and lack of cooperation between those involved in it, has compelled us to do what you’ve been recommending for years: namely, form a centralized intelligence agency – the Office of Strategic Services, or OSS – which we hope to have running by the middle of next year. I want you to join the organization as an agent.’
‘I don’t want to,’ Bradley said.
‘Yes, you do,’ Taylor insisted, sipping his bourbon and sounding determined. ‘We’ve just been informed by British intelligence that according to various European resistance groups, remote-controlled bombs and flying rockets are being constructed at a Nazi research centre in Peenemünde, in the Baltic. Based on that information, British intelligence conducted further research and can confirm that in 1936, work did in fact begin on the construction of a secret proving ground in the vicinity of a small fishing village called Peenemünde and that it’s since become one of the Nazis’ most advanced experimental stations. Analysis of aerial photography taken in the past few weeks shows that the proving ground exists, that the southern part contains workshops where, we believe, the missiles are constructed, and an extensive settlement that has since been verified as being occupied by the scientists. A little farther on, near the village of Karlshagen, are barracks for soldiers and workers, plus a prisoner-of-war camp and concentration camp.’
‘Sounds pretty cosy,’ Bradley said, not wanting to know.
But Taylor persisted. ‘Since we’d already informed the Limeys about your old friend, John Wilson, they’re now working on the theory that the new weapons, while ostensibly being made at Peenemünde, may in fact be the indirect products of Wilson’s genius in that field, since the rocket team was originally based in Kummersdorf, Berlin, at the other side of a former firing range where Wilson and some other German rocket scientists were working at the same time.’
‘That sounds logical,’ Bradley said sourly.
Taylor was unmoved. ‘So the British Secret Intelligence Service,’ he continued doggedly, ‘recently got in touch with us and asked us if we had any opinions about their latest theory. Naturally we agreed that in all probability their theory is substantially correct and that Wilson, the traitorous bastard, is largely responsible for the Peenemünde flying bombs and rockets. This has naturally led all of us to wonder just how advanced Wilson is and what other diabolical innovations he has up his sleeve. It has, in fact, convinced us that he has to be tracked down and taken off the stage – and that’s why we want you. We want you to find that son of a bitch and terminate him.’
‘I’m too old,’ Bradley said.
‘Bullshit,’ Taylor responded. ‘We need you because you were once an excellent pilot, have done unofficial intelligence work both for the US Army and as a civilian lawyer, know a hell of a lot about aeronautics, speak French and German, know Europe like the back of your hand, and are obsessed with John Wilson and what he’s up to.’
‘True, but I’m still too old,’ Bradley said, feeling only the pain of his loss and the lack of enthusiasm for life that Joan’s death had engendered.
‘No, you’re not,’ Taylor said. ‘You’re just in a state of shock. And that’s exactly why you need this kind of distraction – and why you’ll be good at it. As for your general fitness, if you join OSS, you’ll be put through a tough retraining program, with a special emphasis on espionage, self-defence
and undercover, or guerilla, operations. So when the time comes, you’ll be fit enough. And believe me, Mike, you need this job to help you forget Joan. You need it. So take it!’
Deeply moved by what his friend was trying to do for him, aware, also, that he really
did need something to distract him from his anguish, Bradley said, ‘And once I finish with the training... What happens then?’
‘You’ll be posted to London, to help the British Special Operations Executive track down Wilson and put an end to his activities. Now do you want it or not?’
Bradley leaned forward in his chair, covered his face with his hands, and accepted he had to escape.
‘I want it,’ he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE ‘They’re perfect specimens,’ the white-smocked hospital surgeon informed Wilson and Ernst Stoll as he removed the guillotined human heads from the laboratory’s refrigerator and placed them into tin cans.
‘Jewish only?’ Wilson asked.
‘No,’ the orderly said, placing the last severed head in a can and putting the lids back on. ‘When we received a letter from Professor Hirt, the head of the Anatomical Institute of the University of Strasbourg, telling us that the number of skulls in the university’s collection was too limited, we started obtaining them from captured Russian troops, and these heads are mostly those.’
‘All undamaged?’
‘Of course! Once the heads of the living specimens are measured and selected, death is induced by injection, then the head is severed from the body and shipped in these cans, which will be hermetically sealed, to the Anatomical Institute.’
‘Good,’ Wilson said. Turning to Stoll, who was looking distinctly queasy, he said, ‘There’s a lot we can learn from these heads. There are ways we can use them: the psychological and physical creation of the Superman and a work force that has no free will. Himmler’s Institute for Research into Human Heredity, the Ahmenerbe, must not be wasted on quasi-mystical research, but utilized for a more practical purpose: medical and surgical experimentation of the most fearless kind. We must look at the human brain and learn how to control it, study the human body and learn how to change it. In doing this, we can create a new kind of man – any kind that we want. This is what we’re doing here.’
‘Can we leave now?’ Stoll asked.
‘Yes,’ Wilson said. After thanking the surgeon, he led Stoll out of the laboratory and back through the corridors of the SS hospital, taking note of the fact that the young Kapitän was still looking queasy and understanding that he could use his moral qualms when the occasion called for it.
Right now, however, he was intent on preparing Stoll for the world he would inherit. To that end, as they passed the guarded doors of other laboratories and operating theaters, he said, ‘Our experiments are wide-ranging and in fact know no bounds, which is why we’re using human beings instead of just animals. It’s through our ruthless experimentation on these human beings that we’re learning about brain manipulation, limb and other bodily replacements, the causes, nature, control, and use of fear, even the effects of freezing and decompression, all of which will be useful when we move to our underground colony in Antarctica.’
Ernst nodded thoughtfully, trying to accept the unacceptable. Wilson knew, as they left the hospital, that he would in time do so.
The hospital entrance was heavily guarded by armed SS troops, with more troops placed strategically at the far side of the road. Wilson glanced along the street of this suburb of Berlin, quiet and almost empty in the gray light of August, and thought of how the whole of Germany had become a huge armed camp in which fear, torture, and death were commonplace. It was a prototype for the kind of colony he envisaged in the Antarctic; but the world he would create would be controlled by scientists and dedicated to the advancement of knowledge. It would not be controlled, as Himmler thought, by his blond young gods of war and dedicated to his mystical notions of a world of ice and fire.
‘I haven’t seen much of you lately,’ he said to Stoll, as the chauffeur-driven SS car carried them around the outskirts of Berlin, through the outlying villages, past columns of troop trucks, and on toward the research centre at Kummersdorf, south of the city. ‘What have you been up to?’
‘My work with the Lebensborn organization,’ Ernst replied, rolling the window down to let air in, then lighting a cigarette.
‘Which many Germans still think are maternity homes.’
‘Yes.’
‘And this work keeps you busy?’
Ernst sighed. ‘It’s all for Projekt Saucer, Herr Wilson. As you know, the real aim of the institutions is the controlled breeding of the perfect Aryan, a Nordic super-race, through the disciplined mating of men and women selected in accordance with the racial principles defined by the Ahnenerbe.’
‘Yes,’ Wilson said, feeling impatient, ‘I already know that. But are you exploiting the Lebensborns for our purposes?’
‘Yes,’ Ernst said, sounding weary. ‘For the past eighteen months, when not actually at Kummersdorf, I’ve been organizing the kidnapping of thousands of racially valuable children from all over Europe, as well as the Soviet Union, and shipping them to the many Lebensborns now spread throughout the Reich, where they undergo special training to Germanize them. The past records of such children are erased and their parents, if not exterminated, are not told where they are. Within weeks of arriving at the Lebensborns, the children can remember little of their past, have been given new names – which also helps them to lose their former identity – and have been taught that they haven’t descended from the ape, but from the SS. Given their political indoctrination and total devotion to the Reich, these children, when they become of age, will voluntarily take part in our human stock breeding and go on to create the racially perfect, totally loyal, new breed of man, to be controlled by our Nazi élite in our SS colonies under the ice. You should be proud of me, Wilson.’
It was a slight attempt at levity, so Wilson smiled at him, then glanced up at the bombers heading for England. ‘How are things going in Neuschwabenland?’
‘Progress is slow and painful, but at least it’s being made. Many workers have already been shipped out from the camps and are digging out their underground accommodations in terrible circumstances. The death rate is high – from cold, exhaustion, and often hunger – but the first underground area will soon be cleared. More men and materials will then be shipped in, and by the end of next year, we should be able to start shipping in the scientists, as well as the first children from the Lebensborns. It is your side of the work, Herr Wilson, that is now moving slowly.’
‘Time is of the essence, I know, but this thing can’t be hurried.’
‘You must understand,’ Ernst said, ‘that since the defeat in Russia, our beloved Reichsführer is becoming even more concerned that we perfect your flying saucer – which he views as the ultimate weapon – and also ensure that the underground space in Neuschwabenland is completed and fully manned before the present war comes to an end.’
‘The present war?’
‘As you know,’ Ernst replied rather stiffly, almost offended, ‘this war is merely the prelude to a thousand-year war – the one that will turn the German soldier into the Superman.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Wilson said, amused by Stoll’s passionate sincerity, ‘that war.’
‘Yes,’ Ernst echoed him, ‘that war. And ever since Stalingrad, which marked the beginning of the end of this war, the Reichführer has become almost desperate to ensure that everything is prepared for our escape to Antarctica.’
‘But everything is being prepared, as you’ve just so vividly demonstrated.’
‘Not fast enough,’ Ernst said. ‘That’s why he wants another test flight of the flying saucer. He views it as the most vital part of our operation – an undefeatable weapon, as well as a means of flying in and out of there with impunity – and he’s growing worried that it will not be completed in time.’
‘I’m sure it will be,’ Wilson said, ‘though
nothing under the sun is guaranteed.’
‘It has to be,’ Ernst replied, ‘so let’s hope that this test flight is successful. Otherwise there’ll be trouble.’
‘From Himmler?’
‘Yes.’
Wilson had to force himself not to grin. The car had reached Kummersdorf, and as the driver slowed down on the approach road to the research centre, where high barbed-wire fences surrounded flat, windblown fields, he tried to imagine the expression on Rudolph Schriever’s face when the flying saucer, which he was claiming as his own, failed to fly. Wilson knew it wouldn’t fly. He had ensured that it would not, because its failure would give him what he needed to get rid of Schriever and place Stoll on his side.
He had it all worked out.
When their papers had been checked at the heavily guarded gate, they were waved through and proceeded along the road, past the old firing range, now overgrown, to the research centre’s collection of ugly, corrugated-iron and concrete hangars, which also were protected by heavily armed SS troops.
On Stoll’s instructions, the driver took them between two of the hangars and parked at the far end. There, in an open space between the firing range and an overgrown hillock, the latest version of the socalled ‘Schriever’ saucer was sitting on its lowered steel platform, prepared for takeoff. The gas turbine rotors that had been housed in the previous model’s four hollow legs had been replaced with a series of variable jet nozzles arranged all around the outer rim, just below the saucer’s centre of gravity. Combined with the machine’s lack of rudders, ailerons, or other protruding surfaces, this gave it a more graceful, seamless appearance.
Looking eerily beautiful in the fading mist of late morning, the saucer appeared to tower over the men who were either working around it or simply observing it from behind the concrete bunkers and heat shields placed across the hangar’s open doors. Even as Wilson and Stoll clambered out of the car, Himmler was being escorted from of the hangar, his pince-nez reflecting the sunlight. He was accompanied by his usual bodyguards. Schriever, again in his flying suit, walked proudly beside him. Himmler stopped advancing when he saw Wilson and Stoll coming toward him.
INCEPTION (Projekt Saucer, Book 1) Page 26