INCEPTION (Projekt Saucer, Book 1)

by W. A. Harbinson

  ‘He’s just told you,’ the pilot said, nodding in the direction of Major Grieves. ‘The 415th Night Fighter Squadron, flying bombing raids over the Rhine.’

  ‘Originally out of England?’

  ‘Right. But now out of a French airbase near Paris. One hell of a city.’

  ‘I agree,’ Bradley said with a grin, amused by the pilot’s lack of respect for rank. ‘But the incident you’re going to tell me about actually happened when you were flying out of England.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Aston Down, Gloucestershire. A Limey base.’

  ‘How’d you get on with the Brits?’

  ‘That’s a joke, isn’t it? They thought we were overpaid, oversexed, and over there to steal their women.’

  ‘Which you were.’

  ‘I guess so, Colonel. No argument there. Are those coffees for us?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ackerman said.

  ‘Terrific.’ Schlesinger picked up one mug, Grieves picked up the other, they both drank, then Schlesinger inhaled on his cigar and exhaled more smoke. Because the smoke from the last explosion was drifting over them, the cigar smoke was barely noticed.

  ‘Apparently this incident occurred on the night of November 23, last year, during a bombing run over the Rhine.’

  ‘Right. November 23, 1944. 1 have the date branded in my brain and won’t ever forget it.’

  ‘What happened, exactly?’

  ‘It was a pretty normal bombing run,’ Schlesinger said, ‘with nothing out of the ordinary until we got to about twenty miles from Strasbourg.’

  ‘When you say “nothing out of the ordinary,” what do you mean?’

  Schlesinger spread his hands in the air. ‘Nothing!’ he said. ‘Just another routine bombing raid. No problems over France, a bit of flak over the Rhine, then another untroubled period until we started getting near Strasbourg. That’s when it began.’

  ‘You were harassed by some kind of flying object.’

  ‘A Foo fighter,’ Schlesinger said.

  ‘That’s the word you guys are using for this particular kind of unidentified flying object?’

  ‘Right. We call them Foo fighters.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just a joke name. It comes from the Smokey Stover comic strip. You know? The popular phrase, “Where there's foo, there's fire.” It’s as simple as that.’

  Bradley chuckled and shook his head in amusement, then returned to business. ‘So you’d heard about the Foo fighters before you made that particular flight?’

  ‘Yeah, right, but that doesn’t mean I imagined the sons of bitches. Everyone in the crew saw the same objects – and one of our B-25s went down because of the harassment. No, sir! They were real, all right!’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘We’re just approaching Strasbourg with not a thing in the goddamned sky – no enemy aircraft, no flak, no tracers – nothing! Then, without warning, these goddamned Foo fighters appeared – about a dozen of them – and started tailing certain of our aircraft, mostly the bombers. They ascended from the ground – most of us saw them coming up. They looked like balls of fire – an orange-yellow fire, sometimes flaring white, with a tail of fire streaming out behind it – but when they flew beside my plane, a B-25, I could see that they had a dark inner core, which was probably solid. That core was shaped like a disc, or saucer, and most of us agreed it was no more than three or four feet wide.’

  ‘And you believe they were actually tailing your aircraft?’

  ‘No doubt about it, Colonel. Those goddamned things were controlled. With that orange-yellow fire around them and their unusual shape and size, they certainly seemed a bit weird and even unreal – but they were under control.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Because they flew right at our airplanes as if about to crash into them, then turned away abruptly and just tailed us, sticking really close to us. Then, each time we fired our guns at them, they flew out of range at incredible speed and in every direction.’

  ‘How fast?’

  ‘Faster than any plane I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘Why did you fire at them? They were only tailing you, after all.’

  ‘Because as soon as they started tailing us, or at least flying in formation with us – since they were usually right beside us – they appeared to cool down a bit, giving us a clearer impression of the dark inner core. Then they definitely looked saucer-shaped, probably made of metal – at times they glinted – and they seemed to be spinning rapidly on their own axis. When they were spinning like that, they made a whipping, whistling sound, like they were whipping up the air around them. And when that happened, our radar and engines malfunctioned and our planes started failing... It was weird. Really frightening.’

  ‘And you’re sure that the malfunctioning of the engines was directly related to the spinning of the fireballs?’

  ‘Absolutely. I’m sure. We were all sure. Because as soon as we fired on the Foo fighters, they flew away from us – the instant we started firing, in fact – and as soon as they flew out of range, our engines kicked on again. So that’s what was happening, see? When they came close to us, our engines malfunctioned and we started going down; when we fired at them and they flew away, our engines kicked back into life and we were able to level out and keep flying. So they came at us and were chased away, returned and were chased away again, and our engines were cutting in and out, and we were falling and then levelling out again. This happened repeatedly until we gave up and turned back to England... Which we only did when Tappman’s B25 went down for the count.’

  ‘Lieutenant Victor Tappman... the fatality.’

  ‘Right. Good old Vic. Out of Denver, Colorado. One of the best pilots we had – but even he couldn't handle it.’

  Another shell fell nearby, exploding a few streets away, but Schlesinger merely turned his head to glance at the rising smoke, then inhaled on his cigar and shook his head ruefully.

  ‘His B-25,’ he continued, ‘like all of the others, had been cutting in and out, going down and levelling out again; but then it cut out for too long, fell too far to be levelled out, and then went into a nosedive that he couldn’t control. I think his engines came on again, but by then the aircraft was in that spin, and so the plane was forced quicker toward the ground and eventually crashed. I heard Tappman on the intercom, shouting about the goddamned fireballs. “They’re killing our engines!” he shouted. “They’re not planes!” I heard his gunner cry out. “They’re balls of fire!” The gunner also emphasized that the balls of fire were ascending – so they weren’t natural phenomena – and then Tappman screamed, “We’re going down! Pull her up!” Then he gave one, long drawn-out cry of the word “Foo!” which is where it all ended.’

  ‘You mean, the Foo fighters flew away after Tappman crashed.’

  ‘No,’ Schlesinger said, taking another drink of his coffee and then putting the mug back down. ‘We all turned back when we saw Tappman crashing – and only then, when we were actually heading home, did the Foo fighters fly away... And those sons of bitches did fly away, Colonel, they didn’t just disappear. They ascended vertically above our aircraft, stayed above us for a short while, then, when they were certain we were heading home, they flew away horizontally and finally, when a good distance away, descended in formation toward the ground. They were controlled, Colonel. Definitely!’

  ‘It could only have been remote control,’ Bradley said.

  ‘Like the V-1 and V-2 rockets,’ Grieves added, ‘so it’s certainly possible.’

  There was silence for a moment. Bradley heard the distant battle.

  ‘This is some office you got here,’ Schlesinger said. ‘Real cosy, in fact.’

  Bradley smiled. ‘We make do with what we have.’

  Schlesinger nodded, straight-faced, and said, ‘Can I go now?’

  Bradley also nodded. ‘Sure. And thanks a lot. You’ve been a great help.’

  Schlesinger grinned, pushed his chair back, and stood up.
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br />   ‘Anytime. No sweat.’

  Grieves stood up with him. ‘Are you going to that hospital right now?’

  ‘Yes,’ Bradley replied. ‘I want to catch up with the 1st Army. I can’t hang around too long.’

  ‘Any messages for HQ in Paris?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Bradley said.

  ‘Okay, Colonel, I’ll see you in Berlin.’

  ‘I sure as hell hope so.’

  Grieves grinned at him and left, taking the pilot with him. Bradley stood up and stretched, then said to Sergeant Ackerman, ‘I’ll take the jeep and be back in an hour or so. Can you hold the fort?’

  ‘I’m not expecting many visitors,’ Ackerman replied laconically, his gaze taking in the ruined walls and missing roof of the house.

  ‘I’ll bring you back a hot blonde,’ Bradley said.

  ‘You do that, Colonel.’

  Bradley left the ruined building, passing the armed guards, then climbed into his jeep and drove through Cologne, or what was left of it. The devastation was appalling. No street was untouched. He drove past skeletal buildings, imposing hillocks of rubble, the blackened remains of exploded tanks, overturned trucks, and mangled half-tracks. People still lived in the ruins, their pitiful possessions grouped around them, and children kicked up clouds of dust as they clambered over charred wooden beams and jumped off the remains of walls. Occasionally shots rang out – the army was cleaning out German snipers – and Frenchmen with FFI armbands and women armed to the teeth were kicking collaborators, the men bruised, the women with shaved heads, along the streets and into basements and rubble-strewn rooms to mete out rough justice.

  Bradley tried not to see that, because although he strongly disapproved, he could do little to stop it. He was therefore undeniably relieved to arrive at the hospital. Though it was still standing, it had also been severely damaged and was surrounded by rubble.

  He parked as some Flying Fortresses growled overhead, heading for the Rhine and the German cities beyond it, and thought of the balls of fire, the so-called Foo fighters, that had been harassing and sometimes destroying Allied bombers for months now.

  Saucer-shaped objects, he thought. It could only be Wilson.

  And he had to admire Wilson, while also feeling a touch of dread. Bradley was more determined than ever to find him as he entered the hospital.

  There was a jagged hole in the roof just above the reception desk and the floor below it was covered in broken plaster and a dirty white powder. Uniformed MPs were on guard, checking for malingerers, but they snapped to attention and saluted when Bradley stopped at the desk. He asked for Major General Saunders, the OSS officer who had called him there. When Saunders arrived, he forgot to salute, but offered his hand instead.

  ‘Major General McArthur told me about you,’ Saunders said with a casual, relaxing smile. ‘He told me what you were after. This woman, we think she knew the man you want, and she’s eager to talk. No love lost there, I think. Come on, Colonel, this way.’

  ‘How is she?’ Bradley asked as Saunders led him through the nearest door and into a corridor.

  ‘Not too good,’ Saunders replied. ‘She copped a bomb in this very hospital. She was working here as a nurse for the Germans when we bombed it to hell. She was buried in rubble, broke a lot of bones, and will possibly be paralysed for life. But she can talk. She’s coherent. She came here from Berlin, where she’d lived in the Kürhessen district with an SS engineer named Helmut Kruger. According to her records, which we found in the hospital files, she came here to work under the auspices of the SS and was otherwise being favoured with all the privileges of an SS dependant or wife. Since, according to those same records, she and Kruger had not been married, we wondered why this was so and decided to ask her about it. We were surprised, then, when she told us with some bitterness that the name “Kruger” was a pseudonym for an American engineer, John Wilson, who’d worked at the rocket research centre at Kummersdorf, just fifteen miles south of Berlin. I conveyed this information to Major General McArthur and he told me to contact you. Your special baby, he said.’

  He led Bradley along some more corridors, few of which were undamaged, then into a ward where the beds were crammed tightly together and the roof, which had collapsed, was temporarily covered with canvas sheeting. Most of the windows were also covered in canvas, and the wind drummed against it.

  Saunders led Bradley to the bed of a woman whose steady, fearless gray gaze emerged from a swathe of bandages that covered her head and hid most of her features. Her arms and legs, protruding from a white sheet, were in plaster casts.

  ‘Mrs Bernecker,’ Saunders said, ‘this is Colonel Bradley, from the American intelligence service, OSS. Mike, this is Mrs Greta Bernecker.’

  ‘Hi,’ Bradley said, feeling awkward because of the woman’s injuries.

  ‘Hello,’ the woman replied in good English. ‘You wish to know about Wilson?’

  Taken aback to hear Wilson mentioned so casually, like a living person, Bradley took a deep breath and said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘So... ask your questions.’

  Bradley took another deep breath, surprised by his nervousness. He glanced at Saunders, who smiled back and said, ‘I don’t think you’ll need me anymore, but if you do, you can find me through our temporary office right here in Cologne – and you know where that is. Okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ Bradley said. He watched Saunders take his leave, passing the other beds, sometimes nodding and waving at the patients he knew’ When the OSS officer had gone, he turned back to Greta Bernecker.

  ‘You were living with Wilson in Berlin, is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He was called “Kruger” at the time?’

  ‘No. He was only listed officially as Kruger. The SS confiscated his American documents and gave him those of a dead German named Kruger. I gather it was because they didn’t want uninformed government clerks and administrators learning that an American, Wilson, was working for, and being supported by, the Third Reich. Officially, then, he existed as Kruger, but those who knew him, or worked with him, called him Wilson.’

  ‘He was working at Kummersdorf at that time?’

  ‘Yes. He was actually working at Kummersdorf West, at the other side of the old firing range, well away from the real rocket research centre.’

  ‘The one run by Wernher von Braun.’

  ‘Correct, Colonel.’

  ‘And when Wernher von Braun left to go to Peenemünde?’ ‘Wilson took over the larger hangars at Kummersdorf.’

  ‘Do you know what he was working on?’

  ‘Some kind of highly advanced, radical aircraft.’

  ‘Did you find out anything about it?’

  ‘No. He sometimes talked about it, but I didn’t understand what he was saying. He was an engineer, an aeronautical scientist, and such talk just bewildered me. I only understood that he was after an aircraft that could go straight up and down, like a helicopter, but could fly a lot faster. He said it was shaped like a saucer – remember that much. In fact, the research program was called Projekt Saucer, which confirms what I say.’

  Bradley thought of the hangar in Iowa, then of the Foo fighters, and knew he was heading in the right direction. ‘Did von Braun know anything about Wilson’s project?’

  ‘I don’t think so. It’s possible, but I doubt it. I know from what Wilson told me that he’d contributed considerably to von Braun’s rocket program by passing on certain of his technical innovations. And I think that because of that von Braun believed that Wilson’s experiments were related solely to the V-1 rocket program.’

  ‘Who did know about Wilson's work?’

  ‘The people who worked with him: an old Italian, Belluzzo, two German engineers, Habermohl and Miethe, and a Luftwaffe engineer, Flugkapitän Rudolph Schriever, who was obsessed with pleasing Himmler and tried stealing the credit for Wilson’s work. While at Kummersdorf, they were all under the supervision of an SS offlcer, Lieutenant Ernst Stoll – now a captain, I think.�
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  ‘Is Wilson still at Kummersdorf?’

  ‘No. Conflict between him and Flugkapitän Schriever, with Schriever gaining Himmler’s trust, led to the research team being split into two groups. One group, headed by Schriever, Habermohl, and Miethe, were sent to somewhere in Bohem, in Czechoslovakia, and the other, headed by Wilson alone, went to the Harz Mountains.’

  ‘Whereabouts in the Harz Mountains?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly. He mentioned a place called Nordhausen, though I don’t think he was actually going there, but to somewhere close to it.’

  That made sense to Bradley. British and American aerial reconnaissance and local resistance intelligence had already confirmed that some kind of huge rocket production centre was located underground, near Nordhausen, in Thuringia. As that area was also part of the Nazi's planned Last Redoubt, it was logical that anything related to secret weapons would be transported there.

  Trying to hide his excitement, he forced himself to look at the heavily bandaged Greta Bernecker and asked, ‘Is what when you and Wilson separated? When he was moved to Thuringia?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied bitterly. ‘We weren’t married and only SS wives could go, so I was left in Berlin.’

  ‘Yet ended up in Cologne.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, still sounding bitter. ‘The SS offered me a pension or the chance to work in one of their hospitals. Since the pension was laughable, I accepted their offer of work here. This was an SS hospital, Colonel, before you people came here.’

  Bradley studied the woman carefully – or what he could see of her. Her visible features were hard, the lips sensual, slightly cruel, and her gray eyes, though hardly filled with warmth, were admirably fearless. She might be paralysed for the rest of her life, but she was not seeking pity. You had to admire that.

  ‘How did you come to be living with Wilson?’ he asked her.

  ‘I was working at the time as a nurse in a secret, experimental hospital just outside Berlin, and Wilson went there more than once to have some operations.’

  ‘What do you mean by an “experimental” hospital?’

  ‘It was devoted to Himmler’s so-called anthropological experiments, mostly under the auspices of the Ahnenerbe, the Institute for Research into Heredity. Normally, the experiments were carried out