INCEPTION (Projekt Saucer, Book 1)

by W. A. Harbinson

  Ernst did as he was told, glad to wash his hands of the matter, and merely looked on as Nebe’s men forced the prisoners up onto the waiting trucks and then drove them away, to another field well away from the sea. He caught Wilson’s glance, but the American said nothing. When they heard the distant, savage roar of the machine guns, they turned away from each other. The trucks came back empty, and when Nebe climbed down, stroking his pistol, he simply nodded at Ernst.

  Another day passed. Ernst had to wait for Kammler. The SS troops passed the time by playing cards and reading magazines, while their leader, General Nebe, sat in a chair all day to breathe in the fresh sea air. The docks could not be seen from there, only a gray swathe of the Baltic, but Nebe seemed to be content to just sit there and let events take their course. Wilson, on the other hand, was as restless as ever, didn’t like being in the bunker, and as usual passed the time by solving mathematical equations and toying with scientific formulas.

  ‘Don’t you ever just relax?’ Ernst asked him.

  ‘I

  am relaxed,’ he replied.

  Beyond the noise of the sea, it was quiet. The Allied bombers hadn’t come this far yet. It. was the first peace and quiet Ernst had known for a long time, but he was still glad when Kammler finally showed up to give him something to do.

  ‘It all went well,’ he said. ‘The rocket team is now off our hands. Von Braun and his men were housed in army barracks in Oberammergau, behind wire and under SS guard, and will soon be joined by General Dornberger. Now you’d better get back to Berlin and keep Himmler happy. I’ll expect you back here on the tenth. Goodbye

  – and good luck!’

  Ernst was driven from the hidden bunker to a small, heavily guarded SS airfield nearby, where he boarded a plane. He spent the whole flight scanning the sky for Allied aircraft, but his luck held that day and soon, when he cast his gaze down, he saw the ruins of Berlin.

  A pall of black smoke covered the city and was thickened with dust. The devastation was boundless.

  ‘It’s the end of the world,’ Ernst said aloud, to no one in particular.

  The plane touched down in hell.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN The sheer size of it was overwhelming. Bradley and Major General Ryan McArthur were inspecting the Nordhausen Central Works in the Harz Mountains, occupied the day before by the US 1st Army. The rocket production works, consisting of a series of tunnels, each approximately one mile long and joined together at regular intervals by other corridors, were located in the base of forested hills around a verdant valley; but where Bradley and McArthur were walking, in the middle of one of the gigantic tunnels, they could see only the railway tracks glinting dully in the overhead lamps and gradually disappearing into a darkness that led to a pinpoint of light – he outside world – a good half-mile away.

  The tunnels were not quiet, because the army’s engineers had already moved in, but Bradley’s voice still echoed eerily when, stopping beneath the enormous shell of a V-2 rocket, he said, ‘There’s no doubt about it. Wilson had a lot to do with them. These bastards have been based on the rocket designs of our very own, shamefully neglected Robert H. Goddard, whom the German rocket engineers revered. And we both know who worked with Goddard just before he came here.’

  ‘Wilson,’ McArthur replied.

  ‘Wilson,’ Bradley agreed. He ran his hand wonderingly along the base of the enormous rocket above him – it was hanging from a jib and crane – and said, almost reverently, ‘The most notable features of this baby’s propulsion unit are the shutter-type valves in its fixed grill, the fuel-injection orifices incorporated in the same grill, the combustion chamber, spark plugs, and nozzle – all of which are to be found in a Goddard patent, issued on November 13, 1934, and reproduced in full in the German aviation magazine, Flugsport, in January 1939. The Germans copied the designs for their early Peenemünde rockets, then Wilson came along and contributed his own, much wider knowledge of Goddard’s work to the subsequent V-1 and V-2 rocket program. Eventually the rockets attained about a hundred times more thrust than Goddard’s reached back in New Mexico, when Wilson worked with him.’

  ‘That’s some achievement,’ McArthur said. ‘The V-2s that fell on London are believed to have had a thrust of fifty-five thousand pounds, attained a velocity of six thousand four hundred feet per second, and could soar to an altitude of sixty-eight miles.’

  ‘Right,’ Bradley said. ‘Practically on the way to the moon! And just think of the other similarities we’ve found so far between this baby and Goddard’s original rocket. Both rockets have the same motor-cooling system; the same pump drive; the same layout front to rear; the same stabilizer; the same guidance and fuel-injection systems. The only differences are that Goddard’s rocket motors used gasoline and oxygen, whereas the V-2 uses hydrogen and peroxide; Goddard’s rocket fuel was liquid oxygen and gasoline, whereas the V-2 uses liquid oxygen and alcohol; and, finally, Goddard’s rockets were a lot smaller than the V-2. So the Nazis, with Wilson’s help, simply did what the US government refused to do: they took Goddard’s work seriously.’

  ‘And you think Wilson’s taken it even further.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Bradley said. ‘Definitely.’ He stroked the V-2 one last time, then started walking McArthur along the tunnel, toward that dime-size circle of light that represented the outer world. ‘The war’s not even over yet, but already we’ve discovered a helluva lot about what the Krauts were up to, scientifically speaking. So far, Germany’s scientific papers have been found hidden in tunnels like this, plus caves, dry wells, ploughed fields, riverbeds, and even cesspits. And we know that the weapons we’ve found so far – not only these rockets, but heatguided ground-to-air missiles, sonic-guidance torpedoes, Messerschmitt jet planes, rocket planes that fly even faster, highly advanced electrical submarines, and even the beginnings of an atom bomb project – yes, we already know that these weapons are more advanced than any we’ve got. Also, for the most part, they’re based on the work of Robert H. Goddard and, in my estimation, on the furtherance of that work by Goddard’s pupil, that goddamned traitor, John Wilson.’

  ‘You’ve never called him that before,’ McArthur said. ‘I thought you almost admired him.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Bradley confessed. ‘I do. Though I hate myself for it.’

  ‘A genius,’ McArthur said. ‘A perverted genius. A mutant... No wonder you can’t give up the chase. It’s like pursuing an alien.’

  ‘Right. He’s not real. He’s a part of my dreams. And to shake him loose, to get back to the real world, I’ve just got to face him.’

  ‘You’ll have to face something else soon,’ McArthur said. ‘And I don’t think you’ll like it.’

  Bradley was going to ask him what he meant, but was distracted when they emerged into the light at the end of the tunnel. There they viewed the grandeur of the valley below: lush green, ribboned with sparkling streams, surrounded by the densely forested hills of Thuringia, and, rising above them, the majestic, rolling peaks of the Harz Mountains.

  It was certainly beautiful, a pastoral vision... but one scarred by spiralling columns of smoke, great fleets of Allied aircraft, marching troops and advancing trucks and tanks, and pale-brown clouds of dust: a victorious army on the move.

  ‘You don’t believe it,’ Bradley said, ‘but it turns out to be true. All over Germany there are places like this: great factories and laboratories and camps hidden underground, immense, but invisible from the air, their existence once unknown. This place here, it’s vast, but it’s only one of many. And what I want to know is, where was Wilson? Where is he now? And what has he hidden?’

  ‘Let’s talk to someone,’ McArthur said.

  He led Bradley across the cleared area in front of the immense tunnel, past tanks and half-tracks and trucks disgorging more troops, under the great rockets hanging from cranes directly above, and into his jeep, which was parked by the road that led back to Erfurt. When Bradley had climbed in beside him, he drove down to the valley, past columns
of marching US troops. All the troops, Bradley suddenly noticed, looked terribly young.

  God, he thought, for the first time in years, I sincerely want this business to be over. I want Wilson to disappear...

  What he wanted, he then realized, was to be what Wilson was not: an involved human being.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked impatiently. ‘I’ve no time for joy rides.’

  ‘It’s no joy ride,’ McArthur replied. ‘You’re going to hell.’

  He drove Bradley through Erfurt, a picturesque Renaissance town, dominated by its cathedral and fish market and old quarter, with its quaint burgher houses, Gothic alcoves, and timber-framed walls. Then on to the fields beyond, lushly green, though not sweet-smelling, then into the Buchenwald concentration camp, which was not quite so pretty.

  The dead lay in neat rows, staring skyward, emaciated, and the living, though sometimes on their feet, did not look much better. Some of the living were dying – they had lived too long to want life – and the stench of the dead and the dying permeated the smoky air.

  Bradley saw the raised gallows, the delousing rooms, the crematoria, and steeled himself to get out of the jeep and walk through hell’s basement. He stuck closely to McArthur, feeling cowardly, and was glad when they had stepped up from the mud and entered a clean, cluttered office. A US Army captain was sitting on the edge of his desk, staring out through his window. He was smoking and drinking a glass of something and looked drained and haunted.

  ‘Hi, Cap’n,’ McArthur said lightly. ‘How are things in the funny farm?’

  ‘Not funny at all.’

  The captain turned to face them, his eyes crimson from lack of sleep, and when Bradley saw the way he gazed at McArthur, he knew they shared the same grief.

  ‘I’ve only been here two days,’ the captain said, ‘and it seems like two years... A goddamned, motherfucking, two-year nightmare. I just can’t believe this shit.’ He shook his head from side to side disbelievingly, then looked up at Bradley. ‘You’re the guy wants to talk to my man,’ he said.

  ‘What man?’

  ‘The man from Kahla. The one who worked for your Wilson. An American was involved in all this shit? I just don’t believe it!’

  He shook his head again.

  ‘Involved how?’ Bradley asked him.

  ‘Your Wilson used a lot of the people from this camp. All these scarecrows, they swear to it. Hold on, I’ll go get my man. McArthur said you were coming.’

  The man he brought in was rag and bone inside striped pyjamas. His eyes, which seemed too big for his head, were disconcertingly bright.

  ‘This is Colonel Mike Bradley,’ McArthur’s friend, Captain Shaw, said to the apparition who stood meekly by the desk. ‘He wants to talk to you about Kahla. Here, take a seat.’ When the corpse-like individual had sat down, Shaw lit a cigarette and said, ‘Colonel Bradley, this is Alex Overbeck. He’s been in Buchenwald for two years and somehow survived it. He already knows who you are. Fire away, Colonel.’ Then he gave the cigarette to Overbeck and kicked a chair toward Bradley. ‘Sit down, Colonel.’

  Bradley felt that he had to. He opened his mouth to speak, glanced despairingly at McArthur, received only a forlorn shrug of his shoulders, then looked back at Overbeck, whose eyes, which still seemed too big and too bright, were steady upon him.

  ‘I understand,’ Overbeck said, his voice as light as a feather. ‘It is difficult to talk when I look like this, but it’s not your fault, Colonel. I worked for the American at Kahla. Shall we take it from there? What would you like to know?’

  Bradley coughed into his fist and said, ‘I didn’t even know that Kahla existed. You’d better...’

  The gaunt creature smiled. ‘Oh, yes, sir, it exists. It is an old walled town, approximately halfway between Erfurt and Nordhausen, and the Nazis constructed another underground factory there, using forced labour from this camp, the closest to it.’

  ‘We don’t have a damned thing on it,’ Bradley said, gradually getting used to Overbeck’s appearance and feeling less ashamed.

  When Overbeck inhaled on his cigarette, his cheekbones looked devoid of flesh.

  ‘I had the impression,’ he said, ‘that even those at Nordhausen didn’t know about it. The complex at Kahla was constructed in great haste, at a great cost in human life, and guarded by the SS Death’s Head élite. The man in charge of it was SS General Hans Kammler. Next in charge was an SS captain, Ernst Stoll. When Himmler visited Nordhausen, he never came near Kahla – and it’s widely believed that the other scientists, from Peenemünde, didn’t even know that it existed. It was a special place, Colonel.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that even Himmler might not have known about it?’

  ‘I cannot confirm that fact, sir, but I certainly suggest it. That belief was widely held among the Buchenwald inmates who worked at the Kahla complex.’

  ‘And the American, Wilson, was there?’

  Overbeck, having survived a living death, was still able to smile – and to make it sardonic. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘the American was working there. I was amazed, but there he was. At first I couldn’t believe it – it just didn’t seem credible – but though occasionally, sometimes jokingly, he was referred to as “Kruger,” those who worked most closely with him addressed him as Wilson. I noted, further, that though his German was grammatically perfect, it retained the trace of an American accent. Also, though he often wore an SS uniform, it was clear to anyone but a fool that he wasn’t a military man - and never had been. Besides, he was too old. That was the biggest joke of all. He looked about sixty – an extremely healthy, vigorous sixty – but there were rumours that he was much older than that, maybe even by fifteen years. Whether or not there was any truth in those rumours, he was certainly no German soldier, let alone a member of Himmler’s SS Death’s Head.’

  ‘What did you do in Kahla?’ Bradley asked.

  Overbeck just shrugged. ‘What we all did. I worked.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Anything they ordered me to do.’

  ‘Let me rephrase the question: What work was the American involved in? What was he constructing?’

  ‘A secret weapon,’ Overbeck said, as if it was self-evident. ‘Not much different from the work going on at Nordhausen. Rockets, submarines, jet planes... All sorts of highly advanced weapons.’

  ‘And Wilson’s? Specifically?’

  ‘A disc-shaped aircraft. Jet-propelled, I think. We all made jokes about eating off the saucer – we were so poorly fed, you know. Anyway, that’s what he was working on, this saucer-shaped, jetpropelled aircraft that ascended straight up in the air. I hated him – to me, he was just a Nazi – but his machine was breathtaking.’

  ‘You saw a test flight?’

  ‘I helped wheel it out of the hangar.’

  ‘And it made a vertical ascent?’

  ‘Yes. Then it hovered in the air – not moving, just hovering – then shot off horizontally – so fast, I hardly knew where it went.’

  ‘How fast?’

  ‘Too fast to calculate. And since I can’t judge even an aircraft’s speed, I wouldn’t hazard a guess.’

  Bradley smiled. ‘What did you do before the war, Mr Overbeck?’

  ‘I was a priest,’ Overbeck replied.

  Bradley didn’t know where to look. The man’s strength made him feel weak. He coughed into his fist again, felt foolish, then cleared his throat. ‘No wonder you can’t judge the speed of aircraft.’

  Overbeck blew a cloud of smoke and smiled again, his cheeks prominent. ‘Anything else?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Is Wilson’s flying saucer still at Kahla?’

  ‘No,’ Overbeck said. ‘It was blown up a few days later. I think they destroyed it to keep you or the Soviets from getting your hands on it. Which is why, when they evacuated the site, they executed everyone who’d worked there and took everything with them. I’m a lucky man, Colonel.’

  ‘Sounds like it. How did you escape?’

  Overb
eck spread his hands in the air and glanced up at the ceiling, as if speaking to God. ‘I wasn’t at Kahla that day,’ he said, returning his gaze to Bradley. ‘I normally worked there, but not that day. One of the wives here – the wife of an SS officer – wanted help in the house, and since the prisoner who normally did it fell ill and was therefore shot, I was dragged out of the queue waiting for transport and given to her instead. It’s was as simple as that.’

  Bradley studied the floor. It had the look of something solid. He needed it because his head was swimming in a whirlpool of madness.

  ‘When did they leave?’ he asked.

  ‘Early this month,’ Overbeck replied. ‘Apparently Kammler went first, taking the scientists from Nordhausen – ’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The scientists from Peenemünde.’

  ‘But not Wilson?’

  ‘No. Then Camp Dora was evacuated and the prisoners returned to their former camps. And finally, on the fourth, fifth, and sixth, the scientists from Kahla departed, one group each night.’

  ‘Do you know where they went?’

  ‘Prisoners working at the railway stations can confirm that the three trains, one each night, were all heading for different destinations: the first one marked to terminate at Rostock, the second for Lübeck, via Rostock, and the third and last for Hamburg, via Hanover. Since all of those places were in the line of the Allied advance, it can be assumed that they were only halfway houses and that the final destination would be on the Baltic.’

  ‘Peenemünde?’

  ‘No,’ Overbeck said, stubbing his cigarette out with obvious unhappiness, then breathing deeply, as if yearning for another. ‘Since the Soviets are advancing at great speed toward Peenem

  ü nde – and were even then – the only other possible destination would be a port of escape, most likely Kiel.’