The Saboteurs

by W. E. B Griffin

  He also was in England, and caught up with the OSS team involved in the Aphrodite Project, which was trying—key word trying, because so far they had had little luck—to convert B-17s into Torpex-filled drones that, controlled remotely, would attack and blow up German submarine pens and other targets considered highly valuable to the military, such as plants fabricating parts for tanks, attack aircraft, et cetera.

  Lieutenant Colonel Douglass believed the drone to be a good idea—anything with the potential to save lives was a good idea—and he had good reason to, professionally and emotionally.

  As the commanding officer of the 344th Fighter Group, Eighth United States Air Force, then-Major Douglass had lost 40 percent of his pilots to enemy fire during a bombing mission of German sub pens at St. Lazare. He vowed to do anything he could, when he could, to never allow the risking of the lives of his men in such a reckless way.

  That included, one version of the story went, a furious Douglass having gone directly from his shot-up P-38F on the field at Atcham to the Eighth Air Force Headquarters building there, finding the planning and training officer who had laid out the mission—and giving the REMF a bloody nose to make his point known, not to mention remembered.

  It wasn’t the smartest of moves, Major Douglass had been the first to admit, but what the hell were they going to do to a graduate of Hudson High who had against all odds managed to actually take out a sub on the mission and bring back 60 percent of his force?

  Worst case?

  Send the poor bastard back out in his Lockheed Lightning?

  The one with its nose painted with ten small Japanese flags (or “meatballs,” each representing the downing of a Japanese airplane), six swastikas (signifying six German aircraft kills), and now a submarine of equal size?

  Even the Army’s slow-grinding bureaucratic machinery on rare occasion was capable of exhibiting some wisdom and in this case saw fit to recognize Douglass’s heroism and leadership on the St. Lazare mission by promoting him to lieutenant colonel.

  “I know that Doug would certainly welcome the chance to bomb them all,” the deputy director of the OSS replied. “There’s more than a little professional competition with our cousins in the SOE, especially after their saboteurs blew the nitrates plant in Norway last month.”

  Norway was a leading producer of deuterium oxide—or “heavy water,” a by-product of the manufacture of fertilizer—one of only two materials (the other being graphite) that scientists found could control (essentially cool) the reactors during nuclear production. The British Special Operations Executive all-Norwegian commando raid at Rjukan had destroyed a critical half ton of heavy water earmarked for the Nazis’ nuclear-development program.

  Donovan nodded. “That was such an important facility, they’re rapidly rebuilding it.”

  “Then Doug won’t have to wait long for his turn at taking it out.”

  Donovan chuckled appreciatively.

  “With any luck, he can do it safely from the controls of an Aphrodite drone,” the OSS director said. “But if the Pope keeps up the pace, Doug may not get a chance.”

  “The Pope?”

  “Fermi,” Donovan explained. “Oppenheimer picked up on the nickname. Years ago, some Italian scientists gave it to the young Fermi because they said he believed himself to be infallible.”

  Dr. J. Robert Oppenheimer was the distinguished physicist from the University of California overseeing the scientists of the Manhattan Project.

  Douglass grinned. “Oh, that one. Sorry. My mind went right to Rome. I had heard that about the nickname.”

  Donovan went on, “Oppenheimer says that in discussions with the Pope after they created the first atomic chain reaction at the University of Chicago in December, he, Oppenheimer, sees a completed bomb.”

  Douglass stared at Donovan.

  “That is remarkable,” Douglass said after a long moment.

  “Yes, which is why the OSS is accelerating the pulling out of the scientists and the sabotaging of assets.”

  “Sounds like Doug is going to be busy.”

  “We’re all going to be very busy.”

  [ THREE ]

  The National Institutes of Health Building

  Washington, D.C.

  0655 7 March 1943

  The young woman at the tall reception desk in the NIH lobby watched as the lithe, good-looking guy in his mid-twenties walked toward her. He wore a U.S. Army uniform with first lieutenant bars and had blond hair and blue eyes. He moved with enormous energy and confidence.

  Seated at a small desk to the right of the receptionist station was a uniformed policeman—half-listening to a radio news bulletin about what was being described as a train derailment in Oklahoma earlier in the day—and two other cops standing guard by the elevators. They watched the soldier, too.

  “My name is Fulmar,” the Army lieutenant said to the receptionist. “Captain Douglass is expecting me.”

  She consulted a typewritten list.

  “May I see some identification, please?”

  Fulmar produced the identity card issued by the Adjutant General’s Office, U.S. Army, that said he was “FULMAR, Eric, 1st Lt., Infantry, Army of the United States.”

  After she carefully studied it and studied him and smiled, she produced a cardboard VISITOR badge. Fulmar thought that that was curious; he was in the OSS, not just a regular visitor to the Washington office, and thought that the list she had checked would have somehow reflected his status.

  Then he noticed there was no signage—no indication whatsoever—of the OSS and decided the standardized badge was part of the anonymity, and thus nothing more than some standard operating procedure, and attached it to his tunic using the alligator clip on the back.

  One of the guards at the elevators approached the desk.

  “Please show the lieutenant to Captain Douglass’s office,” the receptionist said to the guard.

  “This way, sir,” the guard said.

  They took the elevator up three floors, then walked all the way down a long hallway. At the end was a doorway with a little sign labeled DIRECTOR. A police guard was posted outside. He was sitting in a folding metal chair reading the Washington Star.

  The two policemen acknowledged one another, and Fulmar followed the first through the door and into an outer office that had a small army of female clerks. One was older and gray-haired, at a basic wooden desk with a black phone and a nameplate that read A. FISHBURNE, and was apparently in charge. Two younger women were standing at a pushcart stacked with papers and file folders and working with quiet efficiency to feed a huge bank of file cabinets. Three other young women noisily clacked away at typewriters, presumably generating more work for the women at the file cabinets.

  “Good morning, Lieutenant,” the gray-haired woman said with a smile. “The captain expects you.”

  There were two inner doors, one labeled DIRECTOR and one DEPUTY DIRECTOR.

  The cop started to lead Fulmar to the latter, but the gray-haired woman said, “They’re in the boss’s office.”

  The cop looked at her and nodded. He walked to the door with DIRECTOR on it, knocked on the doorframe, and when he heard a man’s voice from behind the door call out, “Come!” he opened it and announced, “Good morning, sir. Lieutenant Fulmar is here.”

  Fulmar heard the voice say, “Send him in, please.”

  The cop stepped back from the door, gestured with his hand for Fulmar to enter the office, then went out the main door and down the corridor toward the elevator.

  Fulmar stepped through the doorway and saw two officers in uniform, one a silver-haired Army colonel and one a sandy-haired Navy captain, sitting in opposing red leather chairs that were separated by a glass-top table and a red leather couch.

  Fulmar came to attention and saluted stiffly.

  “Reporting as ordered, sir.”

  The officers stood and returned the salute.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant,” the Navy captain said, offering
his hand. “I’m Captain Douglass. I think you may know my son.”

  Fulmar shook his hand. “An honor, sir. To meet you, and to be acquainted with Doug—with Colonel Douglass.”

  “That’s very kind of you to say,” Douglass replied, then took a step back and motioned to the Army colonel. “It’s my pleasure to introduce you to Colonel Donovan.” He looked at Donovan. “Colonel, may I present Lieutenant Fulmar?”

  Fulmar already had his hand out, and when the Irishman took it in his mitt of a hand, Fulmar could not help but notice the very firm squeeze as they shook.

  “I’ve heard a great deal about you, Lieutenant,” Donovan said.

  “Yes, sir?”

  Donovan grinned. “Relax. It’s very good. Otherwise we would not have asked you here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s get on with it,” Donovan said, his face somber. “It’s a matter that seems to be getting more urgent by the hour.”

  He motioned toward the couch and chairs.

  “Have a seat, please.”

  “Thank you,” Fulmar said and moved toward the red couch.

  As Donovan went to his red armchair near the fat manila folder on the glass-top table, he said, “I don’t know about the lieutenant, Captain Douglass, but I would be eternally grateful for a cup of coffee.”

  Douglass looked at Fulmar. “How about it?”

  “Please.”

  Douglass went to the door and opened it just enough to call out. The sound of typewriters filtered in.

  “Mrs. Fishburne,” he said, “coffee for three, please, and anything else you can scrounge up that we might find of interest. Thank you.”

  Douglass closed the door, shutting off the clacking, and returned to the red chair opposite Donovan and sat down.

  Donovan, seated toward the front edge of the chair cushion, leaned forward. Elbows on his knees, he held his hands together—almost in a manner of praying—and tapped his fingertips together twice, then touched index fingers to his nose and thumbs to his chin as he considered his thoughts.

  He looked directly into Fulmar’s eyes.

  It was a penetrating gaze, and as Fulmar looked back into the steely gray-green eyes he felt himself automatically sit more rigidly.

  “What I am about to tell you,” Donovan began in a tone deeply serious, “is known by only a few people in the OSS.”

  “Yes, sir,” Fulmar said, but it was more a question.

  “The President has directed the OSS to quote quietly and quickly unquote put an end to the acts of German sabotage on American soil.”

  “Sir?”

  “Do I need to repeat myself?” Donovan said softly.

  Fulmar glanced at Douglass, who was expressionless, then back to Donovan.

  “No, sir,” Fulmar said. “It’s just that it was my understanding that that was the FBI’s territory.”

  “It is. Which is why what I am asking of you requires the utmost secrecy.”

  After a moment, Fulmar said, “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you have any questions?”

  Fulmar nodded.

  “A few, sir. The first being: ‘Why me?’”

  “You are the proverbial round peg for the round hole,” Donovan said, sliding back in his chair to a more relaxed position and crossing his legs. “You understand the mind of a spy and the mind of a German—you speak German fluently, yes—?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “—And how many other languages?”

  Fulmar shrugged. “Three fluently, maybe four, five passably. Living in so many places, they came to me easily….”

  The director nodded. “And that—and I mean your ability to blend in ‘so many places,’ as you put it—coupled with your actions in the rescue of the Dyers makes you our round peg.”

  He paused.

  “You perform exceptionally under pressure…and we’re under a great deal of pressure.”

  There was a long silence before Douglass broke it.

  “The President—and our country—simply cannot have these agents taking the focus off of the war abroad,” the deputy director said.

  “Yes, sir. What would you have me do?”

  “Whatever is necessary,” Donovan said.

  “And, sir, that would be—?”

  “Whatever is necessary,” Donovan repeated evenly.

  The director let that sink in, and when Fulmar slowly nodded that he understood, Donovan went on:

  “The FBI has been directed to share with us everything they have on all the bombings. On the surface, that sounds great. But I find at least two fundamental flaws in it, the first being that Director Hoover is not going to willingly turn over all of the information if there’s a chance that he can hold something back in order for the FBI to collar these German agents and get the credit—”

  “We know for a fact they’re German?” Fulmar said.

  Donovan showed his mild displeasure at being interrupted. “May I finish?”

  “Certainly, sir. My apologies.”

  “To answer your question, we have reason to believe that they are agents of Germany—if not precisely German nationals—because of the pattern of evidence that they’re leaving, from weapons to witnesses. There’s a file—”

  Douglass stood up. “I’ll get it,” he said and went to the big desk.

  “—and in it,” Donovan went on, “is everything the FBI believes we should have. It’s enough to establish that in all likelihood we are dealing with German agents—soldiers trained by Skorzeny. You’re familiar with Obersturmbannführer Skorzeny?”

  “Yes, sir. Of course.”

  Fulmar’s tone suggested that it was inconceivable that anyone could not be familiar with such a storied warrior, enemy or not.

  Douglass brought back a folder thick with papers. He put it on the glass-top table. Fulmar glanced at it, then back at Donovan.

  “And that brings me to the other flaw,” Donovan went on. “The OSS at its core is military and thus plays by different rules than does the FBI. While Director Hoover has been known to stretch the rules of law enforcement to suit his needs, by and large he keeps the bureau on the straight and narrow—his intolerance of crooked cops, for example—and this rigid mind-set, having trickled down to how the rank and file fundamentally operates, limits what the bureau is capable of accomplishing. You follow me so far?”

  “I believe so, sir. No risk, no reward.”

  “Yes. The President understands these limitations, as he does the parameters of the OSS, and thus has decided that the situation requires something more than the FBI offers….”

  He paused to gather his thoughts.

  “These attacks,” he went on, “spotlight some of our country’s biggest weaknesses. The United States cannot secure its vast borders—that’s a statement of fact, not a political ploy—and our infrastructure is vulnerable to subversive acts. We simply cannot protect every electrical substation, every train station, every town reservoir from attack. There are too many, and the manpower available—that is to say, everyone we are not sending to fight abroad—is far too few.”

  “So one clever saboteur can with little effort cause remarkable chaos,” Fulmar said.

  “Correction,” Douglass said, “is causing remarkable chaos.”

  “And with more than one on the ground,” Donovan added, “there is a force multiplier effect. Follow?”

  “If the public hears of two,” Fulmar offered, “they speculate that there could be two—or two dozen—others.”

  “It’s already happening in the press reports,” Douglass said. “Reckless speculation. And soon the press will draw the obvious conclusion that the Texas and Oklahoma explosions show that the size of the attacks are becoming larger by the day.”

  Donovan added: “Given time—and the Hoover Maxim on Criminality—the FBI would get these guys. But we don’t have the luxury of time.”

  “‘The Hoover Maxim on Criminality’?” Fulmar said. “I am not familiar with that.”

  Donovan�
�s eyes twinkled as he looked at Douglass.

  “You wouldn’t be expected to,” Douglass said with a smile. “Quoting from the J. Edgar Book of Law Enforcement, ‘The Hoover Maxim on Criminality stipulates that all criminals—without exception—commit some stupid act before, during, or after a crime that allows for their eventual capture.’”

  The director and deputy director of the OSS exchanged grins.

  “Forgive us,” Donovan said. “We do not mean to make light of the circumstance. It is just that the important word there as far as we’re concerned is eventual.”

  “Yes, sir,” Fulmar said. “We do not have time to wait.”

  Donovan nodded. He liked what he just heard. Fulmar had said that he understood the urgency of the mission—and with “we” his acceptance of it.

  Douglass said, “And that brings us back to doing whatever is necessary—”

  There was a knock at the door.

  Douglass looked to Donovan, who nodded.

  “Come!” Douglass called.

  The door opened and Mrs. Fishburne came through it, struggling with a tray holding three china mugs of steaming coffee and a plate piled with sticky bun pastries.

  “I’m sorry that I took so long,” she said, placing the tray on the glass-top table. In her hand there was a sealed envelope, with STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL stamped in red on the front.

  “This just came for you, Colonel,” she said. “An FBI agent hand-carried it here. He said that his orders were to give it to you personally. It took some time for me to convince him that the director and the deputy director were not only unavailable now, but that it would be hours before either was available at all. He gave that about five seconds of thought and decided that waiting was not high on his list of priorities.”

  Donovan chuckled as he broke the seal of the envelope.

  “You did well, Mrs. Fishburne,” the director of the OSS said, scanning the message. “As you’ll learn, the FBI has a very high regard of itself, and it is a noble endeavor indeed—if fruitless—to try to help keep them grounded.”