– to go down with the Führer.’
‘Yes,’ Nebe said. ‘He will.’
‘Our first task, then,’ Wilson continued, ‘is to make him forget Projekt Saucer and turn his attentions elsewhere.’
‘Understood,’ Kammler said.
Wilson nodded. ‘Since for the past couple of years I’ve only been testing the Schriever saucer – which will fly, but not much – and letting Schriever take most of the credit for it, Himmler now trusts Schriever more than he trusts me. However, he’s already turned away psychologically from the project and instead is pinning most of his hopes on the V-2 rocket program.’
‘Which is exactly why he placed me in charge of it,’ Kammler noted.
‘Correct,’ Wilson said. ‘Which is all to the good. We can’ t trust Schriever, who knows nothing about the Antarctic, so we have to get rid of him while keeping Himmler happy and giving us the freedom to prepare our escape without interference.’
‘We are listening,’ Nebe said.
Ernst sucked his breath in, feeling tense, and saw Wilson’s quick glance. Then, to his amazement, Wilson smiled, almost victoriously, before turning back to Kammler and Nebe.
‘The prototype for the real flying saucer,’ he said, ‘is a small, saucer-shaped, remote-controlled anti-radar device, which I’ve dubbed the Feuerball because, when it flies, it turns white hot and becomes a ball of fire.’
‘I know nothing about this,’ Kammler said, looking upset.
‘No,’ Wilson said, ‘you didn’t, but now you do... Because now is the right time.’
‘Please explain,’ Kammler ordered icily.
‘The Feuerball is an armoured object powered by a special turbojet engine that’s radio-controlled at the moment of takeoff. Then, attracted by the enemy aircraft’s exhaust fumes, it will automatically follow that aircraft, automatically avoid colliding with it, and automatically shortcircuit its radar and ignition systems. During the day this device looks exactly like a shining disc spinning on its axis – or a silver ball – but by night it looks like a burning globe. This is actually a fiery halo around the armoured device, caused by the exceptionally rich chemical mixture that over-ionizes the atmosphere in the vicinity of the target and so subjects it to extremely damaging electromagnetic impulses.’
‘And if this Feuerball is faced with the guns of the aircraft its pursuing?’ Kammler asked.
‘It will fly away automatically,’ Wilson replied.
‘How come?’
‘A thin sheet of aluminium has been inserted under the armoured plating of the Feuerball, and this acts as an automatic defensive switch. A bullet piercing the armoured plating will automatically establish contact with that switch, trip a maximum acceleration device, and cause the Feuerball to fly vertically out of range of the enemy aircraft’s guns.’
‘Sounds wonderful,’ Kammler said. ‘But what’s the difference between the small, so-called Feuerball and your large flying saucer, the Kugelblitz?’
‘Schriever’s saucer is in fact a crude form of flying saucer, constructed from ordinary metal and using primitive propulsion. The Kugelblitz, on the other hand, is a piloted version of the Feuerball. It has the advantage of being constructed from a special metal and also using the most advanced form of jet propulsion that’s yet been invented.’
‘I’m not an engineer,’ Nebe complained.
‘The Feuerball,’ Ernst explained, directing his words to Kammler, who like him was an engineer, ‘is a perfectly symmetrical disc, devoid of all surface protuberances. Nevertheless, even with the Feuerball, the boundary layer limits its speed. In order to get rid of the boundary layer completely – and in order to make use of the dead air, not only for acceleration, but for manoeuvring as well – what Wilson required was a porous metal that would act like a sponge, remove the need for air intakes altogether, and create what our famed engineer Schrenk called frictionless airflow. Such a metal was recently created by our scientists at Gottingen and Volkenrode: a compound of magnesium and aluminium, called Lujtschwamm, or aerosponge. Wilson used it for the construction of all his flying saucers, thus solving the problem of the boundary layer and, thus, all previous limitations on speed and manoeuvrability. The Feuerball and the Kugelblitz, then, are extraordinary aircraft.’
‘You’ve already described the Feuerball,’ Kammler said, looking more interested. ‘So apart from its size, why is the Kugelblitz even better?’
‘The Feuerball,’ Wilson said, ‘not only spins around its vertical axis, but automatically follows its target, makes its target’s radar and ignition malfunction by filling the immediate vicinity with a gas that, when burning, creates a damaging magnetic field, and also flies away automatically when attacked. Yes?’
‘Yes,’ Kammler agreed.
‘Now let us enlarge this flying fireball,’ Wilson said, as if giving a lecture in a classroom. ‘The larger disc, the Kugelblitz, will also spin on its own axis, but with the addition of gyroscopic stabilization, a pilot’s cabin can now be placed on that axis, with the main body, or engine, of the disc spinning around the steady cabin. We then add to the enlarged, pilot-carrying disc a form of radio that can cancel at the pilot’s discretion the return signals, or blips, from the enemy’s radarscope and so render our flying saucer undetectable. Next, we have electromagnetically or electroacoustically controlled firing weapons, we have cannons that spit ignition-damaging gas instead of shells, we possibly have various laser or pulse-beam weapons – in development right now – and we have devices that ensure that our flying saucer will automatically retreat from enemy attacks. Add to all this the fact that the disc is made of an alloy – courtesy of the Riva del Garda complex – that can withstand enormous pressure and a temperature of one thousand degrees Centigrade and that, being porous, can take the air in like a sponge and then use it to increase its own propulsion to almost unbelievable speeds.’
Still an engineer and unable to hold in his excitement, Ernst found himself leaning forward in his chair to say excitedly: ‘Add it all up and what have we got?’
‘The Kugelblitz,’ Nebe said quietly.
‘Yes!’ Ernst exclaimed. ‘The enlarged and enhanced offspring of the Feuerball. A piloted machine in which a single mass of wing, tail, and fuselage has been formed into the one gyroscopically stabilized, vertical-rising, soon-to-be supersonic flying disc.’
‘That’s our strength,’ Wilson said.
‘So how do we protect it?’ Kammler asked.
‘We’re back to Schriever,’ Nebe said.
Yes, Nebe enjoyed intrigues – they were food and air to him – and Ernst looked into the dark light of his gaze and saw the blood that had formed it. Nebe would take new life from this conspiracy and become its strong arm.
‘Yes,’ Wilson said, ‘we’re back to Schriever. Now that Himmler trusts Schriever more than he trusts me, we must confirm him in his faith by telling him that I’m trying to impede Schriever’s progress, that for that reason we should be parted, and that Schriever should be given his own research centre elsewhere – somewhere less accessible either to me or to the Allies – to enable him to continue his work without interference.’
‘Which in fact means that you’ll be able to continue your work without interference,’ Nebe said, enjoying this, ‘and that the escape route to the Antarctic can be organized out of sight of Schriever’s spying eyes.’
‘Precisely,’ Ernst said, surprised to hear himself sounding so enthusiastic, but unable to help himself. He had wanted to be a scientist, after all, and this was pure science.
However, Kammler simply stared coldly at him, before turning to Wilson. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said. ‘Clearly there’s no choice. It will be your task, over the next few weeks, to let Schriever steal – for want of a better word – the credit for the Feuerball and to convince him that its basic principles can be used to enhance his own saucer. When you’ve done that, he’ll undoubtedly take the Feuerball to Himmler and I, being in charge of the project, will be informed. I will th
en do as you've suggested and recommend an area near Prague, in Bohem, as the new location for Schriever’s project, which will ensure that he’s not in Berlin when the Allies arrive here.’
‘And if the Allies arrive here,’ Wilson said, ‘they’ll also get me.’
‘Correct,’ Kammler said. ‘So, since I’m also in charge of the rocket program at Nordhausen, I will also request that your project be transferred to Kahla, a small village near there, where, as I’ll tell the Reichf
ü hrer, I can keep my eye on it, ensure that any innovations you may come up with are passed on to the more important rocket program, and protect both projects more easily from the Allies as they advance. I think he’ll fall for this.’
‘So do I,’ Wilson said.
‘And from there, in the Harz Mountains,’ Nebe said, ‘we can make our escape when the time comes.’
‘So be it,’ Kammler said.
Ernst glanced at Wilson, saw the shadow of a smile, and knew in that instant, beyond doubt, that he would get what he wanted.
A few hours later, when darkness had fallen, as Allied bombs fell from the sky and Berlin blazed and crumbled, Ernst made loveless love to Brigette, burying himself in her slick thighs, and accepted that any future he might have would be mapped out by Wilson.
Berlin burned all around him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN Bradley awakened late in the morning to the familiar sound of broken glass being shovelled out of the gutters in the street below. Slightly hungover from the previous evening’s pub crawl with the indefatigable Gladys Kinder, and not helped by a restless night in which new, disturbing sounds had been added to the German bombings, he groaned melodramatically, rubbed his eyes, then sat up on the bed.
It was nearly eleven o’clock. Sunlight was slanting in between the curtains, illuminating the empty space beside him in the bed, where he wanted Gladys to be, though he sometimes said otherwise. She had been there for drinks and he had often walked her back to her room in the Savoy Hotel, but beyond good-night kisses and the silent touching of foreheads, he and the notoriously bold-tongued Gladys had done nothing at all.
It made him feel like an adolescent, which was not a bad feeling. Slipping out of bed, he pulled the curtains back and looked down into the street just off Shepherd Market. A bomb had fallen nearby, a few streets away. While the buildings opposite had been untouched, the blast had shattered the windows and the broken glass was being shovelled up into a garbage truck by men in navy-blue coveralls.
That familiar sight made Bradley think of the previous night’s air raid – which seemed to have lasted throughout the early morning – and reminded him that in his restless, drunken state of semi-consciousness, he’d been convinced that the sounds of the raid were different from normal.
I’m hallucinating, he thought ruefully, shaking his head from side to side,.
He was about to go into the kitchen to make some coffee when the telephone rang.
‘Hi,’ Gladys said. ‘It’s me.’
‘Who’s me?’ he asked, teasing her.
‘Don’t even bother trying,’ she responded. ‘Are you at least out of bed?’
‘Just about, Gladys. I don’t think I can keep up with you. All those years mixing with hard-drinking service guys have made you immune to hangovers.’
‘You have a hangover?’
‘Yep. And that air raid didn't help me, either.’
‘It wasn’t an air raid,’ she replied.
‘Pardon?’
‘It wasn’t an air raid. Not one German plane was seen. We were attacked by the long-rumoured German secret weapons: pilotless planes or remote-controlled rocket bombs, depending on which report you accept. Either way, those pilotless things were buzzing down on London and the south of England all night and exploding all over the goddamned place.’
‘Jesus Christ1’ Bradley whispered, hardly believing what he was hearing. His thoughts turned instantly to the rocket program at Peenemünde and Wilson’s unofficial involvement with it and other unknown projects.
‘A shock, eh?’
‘Yeah,’ Bradley replied. ‘It’s a shock, all right.’
‘Wanna join me for breakfast, Mr Bradley?’
‘I’d love to, but I think I should go straight to Baker Street and have words with my stubborn British controller.’
‘You think you can use this to make him send you to Europe?’
‘I don’t see how he can refuse now.’
‘He’s British : that's how he can refuse. They’re pretty good at refusing. Quietly... always politely... but not budging an inch.’
‘He doesn’t have a leg to stand on now.’
‘The Brits are notoriously good at balancing acts.’
‘You’re such a goddamned pessimist, Gladys.’
‘I don’t want you to go, that’s all.’
‘That’s nice to hear, Gladys, but you know I have to do this.’
‘Yeah, Mike, I know. So what about lunch before you leave?’
He chuckled at that. ‘I won’t be leaving today, that’s for sure, so lunch sounds great.’
‘There’s a Lyons Corner House near Piccadilly Circus. Let’s meet there.’
‘Terrific. Twelve-thirty?’
‘Don’t get lost.’
‘I’ll try not to.’
‘My day’s made,’ she said with a throaty chuckle, then the line went dead.
Putting the phone down, Bradley checked the calendar. It was June 13, 1944, exactly one week after D-Day, the invasion of Europe, which he’d bitterly regretted having missed. The thirteenth, he thought as he cast off his pyjamas and hurried into the bathroom. Unlucky thirteenth. He ran the water in the old-fashioned bath, climbed in, and thought of the progress of the invasion as he hurriedly bathed himself.
He had wanted to go with the troops, to be one of the first to step onto the soil of Europe, but the urbane Lieutenant Colonel WentworthKing had refused him permission, insisting that he remain in London until the Allies had overrun Germany. Bradley had been furious, but there was little he could do about it, other than keep track of the known movements of the German scientists, contact European resistance groups regarding Wilson’s whereabouts, and, when not thus engaged, spend his time with Gladys Kinder, with whom he was now undoubtedly in love in a pleasantly gentle, middle-aged way that so far was devoid of angst.
Nevertheless, while he would dearly miss Gladys if and when he left London, he was becoming increasingly excited by his conviction that now Wentworth-King would be unable to refuse him permission to travel to Europe and begin the real search for Wilson.
If remote-controlled rocket bombs were already falling on London, God knows what other secret weapons the Germans, doubtless with Wilson’s help, were about to use against Britain and, possibly, the Allied troops in Europe.
After letting the water out of the bath, he dried himself, dressed quickly and carelessly, then hurried out of the apartment and headed for Baker Street. By now he was used to the broken glass on the pavements, the fresh piles of smouldering rubble, and the scorched, jagged holes in the walls of the buildings, revealing the rooms inside, like stage sets, some untouched, some in chaos, all somehow naked and pitiful. The barrage balloons were still overhead, swaying like beached whales, and anti-aircraft gun emplacements stood in the many small parks and squares, the gun barrels being polished by the crews while they waited for night to fall. Yet normal life continued. The roads were filled with buses and taxis, and, as usual, the newspaper vendors shouted out the day’s headlines, which today were about the ‘miracle’ weapons.
Bradley thought of Wilson, hidden somewhere in Germany, and wondered what he would spring next.
‘Ah ha!’ Lieutenant Colonel Wentworth-King said brightly when Bradley entered his cluttered office in SOE headquarters in Baker Street. ‘Our American friend!’
‘Morning,,’ Bradley greeted him, then pulled up a chair and faced the soles of the lieutenant colonel's boots, which were up on the desk.
‘
Can I order you up some tea?’
‘No, thanks,’ Bradley said.
‘I don’t suppose I have to ask why you’re here,’ Wentworth-King said with a slightly mocking smile.
‘No, I don’t suppose you do. What have you learned so far?’
‘As we suspected, the rockets are V-ls, being flown, as far as we can ascertain at this point, from bases in the area of Pas de Calais. They’re not pilotless aircraft but flying bombs, powered by petrol and compressed air, coming in at low altitude at an approximate speed of four hundred miles per hour, steered by a gyroscope and designed to explode on impact. So far, our anti-aircraft guns are proving to be fairly ineffective against them, though hundreds of ack-ack units are being rushed to the south coast, where even more buzz bombs, or doodle-bugs, as they’re already being called by the populace, are falling.’
‘Christ! ’ Bradley exclaimed.
‘Here, in London, the flying bombs have scored direct hits on a church, a convent, a hospital, and a house in South London, with considerable loss of life. Outside of London, the situation is even worse, with a veritable deluge of bombs falling on Southampton, Kingston, Sevenoaks, and Bromley and, indeed, still falling this very minute. Apparently the ground of southern England is shaking as if in an earthquake, and whole areas are now covered in a pall of smoke. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a cup of tea?’
‘No, thanks,’ Bradley said. ‘It doesn’t settle my nerves. Any comment on the bombs from across the water?’
‘German radio is describing the flying bomb as a, quote, miracle weapon, whereas Dr Goebbels is repeatedly using the name “V-l,” which suggests that other secret weapons are in the pipeline and about to be unleashed.’
‘Wilson,’ Bradley said.
‘I beg your pardon, Colonel?’
‘That son of a bitch Wilson’s behind them.’
‘I really don’t think so. They’re part of the Peenemünde project, headed by Wernher von Braun. Wilson has nothing to do with it. We’re convinced he’s still at Kummersdorf.’
INCEPTION (Projekt Saucer, Book 1) Page 31