by Brian Parker
Jenkins nodded, but remained silent.
“The War Department has multiple reports of Nazi activity down here,” Cruzen continued. “We know the Germans sent at least three documented expeditions to the continent, but the belief that anyone could survive on the Antarctic continent—even those crafty bastards—is ludicrous. We need to find evidence of their abandoned attempts to establish a base and then get the hell out of here.”
Richard Cruzen had made no effort to hide his skepticism that the expedition would find anything of value. Temperatures routinely dipped into the negative fifties and sixties along the coast, reportedly much lower in the interior, closer to the South Pole. Long-term occupation by the Nazis was impossible. Admiral Byrd, the officer in charge of Task Force 68 and famed Antarctic explorer, shared his reservations. Both were experienced Antarctic sailors and professional Navy men.
Regardless of their personal feelings on the subject, they’d do as ordered.
Task Force 68 was charged with carrying out Operation Highjump to find evidence of German bases in the Antarctic. If they found anything, they were to either subdue or defeat all Nazi elements. Publicly, their mission objectives were to extend US sovereignty over the continent and train the soldiers they carried in conditions that were colder than any ever experienced by conventional forces. The public ate it up hook, line and sinker as new fears of conflict with the Commies took hold of the American psyche. Task Force 68 would accomplish their mission and be home by Saint Patrick’s Day before the Antarctic winter began in earnest. Then the men could celebrate Christmas.
“Yes, sir,” Commander Jenkins answered. “We’ll have the troops on the ice first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Thanks, Chris.” Cruzen finished his coffee and waved off the steward who appeared with a steaming carafe. “I want this operation to go safely and smoothly. Ensure the men follow all cold weather protocols and keep an eye on each other. The war’s over, I don’t want any more deaths on my watch.”
*****
21 March 2020
Pentagon, Washington, DC
James was tired. After the shift change brief, he’d gone to the food court to get some decent coffee, not the acid water they served in the JOC. He eyed the cup in front of him on the table dubiously and pushed the hard butter croissant away. His appetite had disappeared.
Normally, he’d already be on the Metro, almost to his apartment near the Dupont Circle Station. This time of morning, the bakery on the first floor of his building put out fresh, flaky, buttery croissants that were excellent, and their coffee was heavenly. Maybe the atmosphere of the café made everywhere else pale in comparison, he wasn’t sure. But, he did know that he wasn’t happy with his decision to stay in The Building to talk with the Army historian today.
Across the food court, he saw Commander Hollinsworth walking beside a tall blond woman in a dark blue military dress uniform. The stupid, light blue pants with a yellow stripe sewn on them told him that she was in the Army. That must be Major Adams, he thought.
As they got closer, he waved his hand to catch Bryan’s attention and the two of them altered course, heading toward his table.
He stood. “Good morning, ma’am.”
She switched the handle of her briefcase from her right to left hand, then reached out with her right hand, offering it to him. “Please, call me Gloria.”
He shook her hand. “James. We spoke via email.”
The major was about his height, five nine, maybe a little taller, but the heels she wore could have added a couple of inches. She was pretty without any makeup, thin in the form-fitting uniform and had a chest full of ribbons that James had no clue what they meant. He glanced at her left hand out of habit. No ring.
“Yes, of course. Thank you for responding,” she said. “When I read about the reports coming out of Fort Lauderdale, I had an idea about what it could be.”
Gloria stopped and looked around the cafeteria. “You’ll have to forgive me, but I can’t discuss my theory here. We need a secure area, preferably a SCIF.”
James wondered what information she had that would require the sensitive compartmentalized information facility, or SCIF for short. The Joint Operations Center had one, but he’d have to get Sergeant Jacobs, the intelligence sergeant, to allow them access.
“I can get us into a SCIF,” Hollinsworth stated. “But it may take a few hours if there’s anything else going on in there.”
She considered his words for a moment before answering. “I don’t need the SCIF. I can get you enough information without going Top Secret that it’ll whet your appetite and get you thinking. Hopefully, you’ll agree with my assessment and get me in front of your boss.”
“So, secret is fine?” Bryan confirmed.
“Yes, sir. There’s really only a few things that are classified TS.”
“That’s easy then,” he said. “James and I can talk to you in the small conference room in the JOC.”
“Thank you. That’ll be great.”
“Coffee?” James offered, pointing at the coffee shop.
“Sure,” she grinned. “After that harrowing fifteen minute commute from Fort McNair, I could use something to calm my nerves.”
James walked through the line with Bryan and Gloria as they got their drinks and then escorted them through the labyrinth of hallways, elevators and locked doors to return to the JOC. As they went they made small talk about the DC traffic, the process for becoming an Army Historian and the odds of the Capitals making the Stanley Cup finals this year.
Luckily, the conference room in the JOC was empty and the schedule posted outside the door said they had three hours before the next meeting. They went in and shut the door.
“Thank you for the tour. It was very informative,” Gloria complimented James, making him blush. “Now, let’s get down to business.”
She opened her briefcase and pulled out a manila envelope, then used a pen to break the seal. Inside was a locked document bag that she used a key to open. Gloria laid out several pieces of photocopied paper. The modern copier had picked up the colors of the originals, resulting in photocopies that looked yellowed with age.
Most of the papers were maps, but there were two copies of a packet containing about a hundred pages each. James skipped the maps, sure that Major Adams would discuss those. He focused on the top page of the packet. It looked like the beginning of a standard military operations order. In the upper right corner was a purple stamp of a penguin on top of an iceberg, trying to pull out the anchor of a naval vessel in the sea below. The stamp was labeled ‘OPERATION HIGHJUMP: Antarctic Expedition 1946 and 1947’ and below the picture was the name ‘TASK FORCE 68’.
“Is this the OPORDER for Operation Highjump?” Bryan asked.
“Yes, sir. All three pages of it. If there were additional instructions, they were verbal—or destroyed. Behind that is the after action report, heavily redacted.”
“We read the conspiracy theories, like you asked,” James stated.
“Well, what did you think?”
“I think there are people out there with way too much time on their hands.”
She laughed and James noticed that her teeth were perfectly straight and white, not a single one out of place or oddly spaced from the one next to it.
“Normally, I’d agree,” she said once she’d stopped laughing. “However, after working at the Center for Military History for three years, with a focus on the European Theater of Operations in World War Two, I’m not so sure that this one is entirely off the mark.”
“You mean to tell me that the US military went to Antarctica after the war was over to fight snow-Nazis?” Bryan scoffed.
“What I mean is that you can read Task Force 68’s mission statement, it’s plain as day what they were doing down there, regardless of what they told the public. As to what they found, we have to read between the lines. Whatever they found warranted the detonation of three nuclear warheads a decade later.”
“Wait,” H
ollinsworth held up his hand. “Your email said as much, but did we really use nukes in Antarctica?”
“Yes. That information has been declassified for decades. Officially, it was a test of the effects of high-altitude explosions on electronics—”
“You mean an EMP?” James asked, referring to the acronym for an electromagnetic pulse.
She nodded. “The detonations occurred in August and September, 1958.”
“Okay…” James said as he did the math in his head. “So, twelve years after this expedition, we tested some nukes in the same area. Seems like a big coincidence.”
“Don’t be so naïve, James. You work for the US Government. Are you willing to bet our future on a coincidence?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted.
“We brought her over here to hear what she has to say,” Bryan stated. “Let’s give her a chance to explain her theory without shooting her down just yet.”
“Thank you,” Gloria replied. “I’m getting ahead of myself and when we’re talking about the detonations, we risk crossing over into the TS portion, which we can’t do without the SCIF.”
She paused for a moment, glancing between the two of them. “I can see that you’re skeptical—so was I when my predecessor gave the WWII histories to me right before he retired. Why don’t you guys read the Operations Order, which gave Task Force 68 their mission parameters and then I’ll show you a few pages in the report. Of course, I’ll leave the entire packet here for you to read through when you get time.”
James reached across the table and slid one of the packets in front of himself. The order was written in military teletype, all capital letters, making it hard to read. The first paragraph had a thick black line through everything, redacting the Friendly and Enemy Situation. However, the next two paragraphs laid out Task Force 68’s mission plainly:
2. MISSION. O/A 02 DECEMBER 1946, TF 68 DEPLOYS TO DETERMINE THE FEASIBILITY OF ESTABLISHING AND MAINTAINING BASES IN THE ANTARCTIC, WHILE SIMULTANEOUSLY INVESTIGATING EVIDENCE OF GERMAN //NAZI// ACTIVITY NEAR DRONNING MAUD LAND TO ENSURE THE ENEMY IS NOT RECONSTITUTING COMBAT POWER WITHIN STRIKING DISTANCE OF U.S. SOIL.
3. EXECUTION.
A. CONCEPT OF THE OPERATION. TF 68, COMPRISED OF 13 US NAVY VESSELS AND 3 US ARMY INFANTRY BATTALIONS, IS SUBDIVIDED INTO 5 GROUPS: EAST GROUP, WEST GROUP, CENTRAL GROUP, CARRIER GROUP, AND BASE GROUP.
1) SCHEME OF MANEUVER.
James stopped reading. He didn’t need to know what formation Task Force 68 sailed to Antarctica in; that might be something his Navy companion wanted to know, not him. He’d seen enough. He put aside his reservations about the average conspiracy theory and asked Gloria about the results of the expedition.
“Did you read the websites?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he replied. “One guy went on for thirty pages. Crazy stuff like the commander of the operation, Admiral Byrd, was murdered a few years after giving an interview that said his men fought UFOs in Antarctica. Then, he said the Secretary of the Navy at the time of Operation Highjump, who later became the Secretary of Defense, was institutionalized and then committed suicide by jumping from a window at Bethesda Naval Hospital.”
She tapped the documents. “That’s in here, but the official record is that both instances were unrelated. James Forrestal was admitted to the psychiatric ward at Bethesda for depression after he resigned his post as the Secretary of Defense and committed suicide there two months later. Likewise, in 1947, Admiral Byrd gave an interview to a newspaper in Chile about fighting a war against flying objects in Antarctica. He went on to call for military bases at both the North and South Pole to defend against the threat. He was hospitalized and not allowed to give any more interviews.”
“No shit?” Bryan muttered.
“No shit, sir,” she replied with a wry smile. “Those are facts. Now, whether they were murdered or not, I have no idea.” She glanced back at James. “I’m pretty sure I know which webpage you’re referring to. There’s a lot of garbage in there, but he’s got a lot of truth as well—whether that’s from research, or purely accidental remains to be seen. He’s right about the massive number of missing Nazi troops and scientists as well.”
“The article said 250,000 troops were unaccounted for. Is that right?” James asked.
“Yes,” she acknowledged. “Although, it’s highly unlikely they all went to Antarctica. A lot of them died in Russia and their deaths were never recorded.”
“Okay, so we sent troops to the South Pole after the war. Big deal,” Hollinsworth groaned. “The official purposes of testing cold weather gear and learning techniques about how to launch planes from icefields make sense. We were convinced by the late 1940’s that we would go to war with Russia. What can you tell us that will make me believe we found evidence of Nazi activity there? Even more important, what the hell does this have to do with the incident in Florida?”
“It’s… It’s complicated,” she replied. “James, can you please see if that SCIF is available? It would make everything easier.”
James nodded and left the room. Sergeant Jacobs was available according to the magnet placed in the “IN” column drawn onto a whiteboard outside the entrance to the SCIF. He pounded on the door, hopefully hard enough to be heard through the heavy muffling layers around the door.
A small door opened up at head height and a pair of brown eyes appeared. “Can I help you, sir?”
“Good morning, Sergeant Jacobs. I’m James Branson, I work the North American desk. I don’t think we’ve met formally.”
“No, sir. We haven’t. Can I help you?”
“I have a visitor from the Center for Military History and she needs to be able to talk TS. Is the SCIF available?”
“It is. But since she doesn’t work in the JOC, she’s not on the SCAR.”
“SCAR?”
“The secure access roster,” he sighed. “Before somebody is allowed in the SCIF, they have to be authorized to come in here.”
“Oh. Am I on it?” James wondered.
“Yes, sir. You work in the JOC. You’re authorized. I’ll need to get her JPAS information.” Sergeant Jacobs must have seen the confused look on James’ face. “It’s a system that checks security clearances. Do you have her social or DoD ID number?”
“Hold on, she’s right up there in the conference room. If she passes your check, we can use the SCIF right now?”
The eyes disappeared and then returned. “For about forty-five minutes. Then I’ve got a meeting in here.”
“Perfect. I’ll be right back.”
James went and told his two companions that the SCIF was available, they just needed to get Gloria cleared to enter.
SIX
25 December 1946
6 miles off the coast of Prydz Bay, East Antarctica
Lieutenant Craig Albany pushed the throttle on the Galloping Ghost to full and lifted away from the water. He’d flown fifteen combat missions in the PBM-3D Mariner seaplane and it appeared that the Navy thought he might get into another scrap with the Nazis of all things.
“Most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
“What was that, Craig?” the navigator, a new officer to the crew named Bales, from Birmingham, asked.
“Ah, nothing, Bales. I’m just wondering what we’re gonna see over there.”
Craig banked the Ghost toward the coastline and away from the USS Pine Island to coincide with his statement.
“Looks like somebody wants us to fight, sir!” Waxler, a waist-gunner laughed into the radio.
“You just keep that fifty secured inside, Waxler,” the crew chief barked. “If we don’t expose ’em to the sea spray or the cold, we’ll have a hell of a lot easier recovery.”
Craig listened idly for a moment as the enlisted men chattered over the crew’s internal frequency and then tuned them out. His primary mission was to map the coastline on the eastern side of the continent. The mission’s secondary objective was to find evidence of a Nazi base.
The Gho
st would accomplish her primary objective, he was certain of it. The second objective… Craig really didn’t know what to think about that one.
Intel said that the whole operation was predicated on two U-boats turning up in Argentina several months after the war in Europe was over and reports from ships traveling around Cape Horn off of South America of flying disks that made strange light patterns in the sky at night over the continent. Argentina was the typical resupply point for ships exploring Antarctica, so the presence of the U-boats was circumstantial at best, although there shouldn’t have been any lights over the uninhabited Southern Continent.
But come on. Nazis? That’s stretching the paranoia a little too far, Craig thought as he stared at the endless expanse of ice and snow below the seaplane. He settled in for a long, and boring patrol. Actually, if it weren’t so cold, this might be pleasant.
*****
23 August 1950
Kobe, Japan
“Are we certain that they can be trusted?”
“As certain as anyone can be,” Hauptmann Mueller replied. “The Japanese hate the Americans as much as we do. They fought a noble, if bloody, war with them and the Americans changed the game by using atomic weapons. The emperor was forced to surrender or else face the total annihilation of his people.”
“Yes, but the war is over,” Oberleutnant Hamm pressed. “It ended four years ago. The Americans—” He stopped and looked around at the faces in the market stalls. When he was satisfied, he began speaking again in a lower tone. “The SCAP manages almost every aspect of Japanese government and economy. How are we supposed to make contact without alerting them?”
“The SCAP? Bah,” the captain scoffed at his mention of the Supreme Commander of Allied Powers—the man in charge of the military occupation of Japan. “MacArthur has run this country’s economy into the ground. There is a severe recession occurring in Japan as we speak. Their economy is in a shambles. They have too many people and not enough resources—or employment opportunities.
