Foo Fighters

by Daniel Wyatt

“Awful. There’s going to be hell to pay for this.”

  “Do we still have a deal?”

  “Yes,” Hollinger replied, glancing at McCreedy beside him, “except for one, tiny little detail.”

  “That is?” Erickson wondered.

  “There’s no paperwork for the Foo Fighter.”

  “The which?”

  Hollinger stood to face the pretty Erickson. They locked eyes. “The Foo Fighter.”

  “Never heard of it,” she said.

  “We have. Why isn’t it in here?”

  “I don’t know. I repeat, I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Tell Bormann we’re not talking unless we include the Foo Fighter.”

  Erickson sighed, heavily. “I will. But he won’t like it. You must consider one thing. It is very risky to send more paperwork through the lines, if there is such a machine as this Foo Fighter.”

  “There is.”

  “Very risky. It could fall into the wrong hands. We’ve been getting away with it so far, but—”

  “Then tell Bormann to think of something, because we want the Foo Fighter.”

  Over Germany

  If it wasn’t for the escorting P-51 fighter, Tooney’s crew would be in terrible trouble. Over enemy territory, with one engine out, prop feathered, the bomber pilot was doing all he could to keep Lucky Lady at 10,000 feet. But it was no use. They were still ten minutes from the German coast, and the North Sea.

  The cloud was increasing now. Tooney looked over at the P-51 pilot easing alongside the bomber, twenty yards to port. Tooney waved. The pilot waved back, thumbs up. Tooney turned the turret aft. Suddenly... blasting out of the clouds came one of those weird fighters again. Tooney got a good look at it this time, as it flew by on a parallel course. Tooney warned his pilot over the intercom and cocked his guns, bearing down on the target. He got away some shots, but they went wild.

  The P-51 pilot broke off and gave chase.

  Now there were more of the weird fighters. Two... three... four...

  Tooney stabbed at his intercom switch. “BALL GUNNER TO PILOT!”

  “WHAT IS IT?” answered the voice of discipline.

  “FOO FIGHTERS, SIR. FOUR OF THEM THIS TIME. SIX O’CLOCK LEVEL.”

  Tooney watched in horror as one of them tucked in close and fired something resembling a red beam at one of the starboard engines. Then it broke off.

  “NUMBER ONE ENGINE ON FIRE,” the pilot said, calmly.

  “NORTH SEA BELOW, SIR,” announced the navigator.

  Tooney felt the stricken aircraft nosing down even more steeply. He whirred completely around in his turret. The Foo Fighters were gone as quickly as they had arrived on the scene! Thank God!

  “PILOT TO CREW. WE HAVE TO JETTISON EVERYTHING WE CAN. PILOT TO BALL GUNNER. GET OUT OF YOUR TURRET, SERGEANT. RIGHT NOW!”

  “GOT YOU, SKIPPER.” Tooney unhooked his oxygen and heater wires and turned the ball down to line up the turret with the opening to the mid-section of the aircraft. The door cranked open, and there to help Tooney out was the left-waist gunner, the right-waist gunner standing alongside.

  Tooney looked around at the grim faces of the gunners. “Where’s Henderson?” he asked them, making a move towards the aft section.

  He was stopped by a stiff hand on the shoulder. “I wouldn’t go back there, if I were you,” said the left gunner.

  “Why not?”

  “Because... because... Henderson bought it,” the right gunner answered.

  “How? When?”

  “On the bomb run. Flak blew his head off.”

  “Shit!” Tooney gulped. “Let’s get to work, I guess.”

  The crew shed everything they could out the hatches — guns, ammunition, sidearms, flak suits. And they still were losing altitude. The co-pilot scrambled to the waist-section, and met up with the gunners. The slipstream blasted by the two open waist windows. “The skipper wants us to get rid of the ball!” he yelled to be heard.

  The gunners looked at each other, numbed.

  “Do it!” the co-pilot screamed at them. “I’ll help. Where do you keep the tool kit?”

  The right-waist gunner unclipped the wrenches from the side of the fuselage. They started the process by loosening the four large bolts on the ball. They took turns, five of them. It was exhausting work. Pulling the bolts off, they removed the ring gear, then knocked off the four safety hangars. They all breathed a sigh. But there was more to go — twelve small bolts, three in each corner.

  “Move it!” the co-pilot blared, assisting the men. “We’re still in a dive!”

  They continued to work quickly and methodically, trying not to think of the gradual, yet dangerous descent of the bomber. When the last bolt popped off, twenty minutes after starting the whole procedure, the men stared in disbelief. The ball should have just fallen free, but didn’t.

  “Jump on it!” Tooney said.

  “Yeah, you jump on it!” the tail gunner answered.

  “OK, I will. But you guys hang onto me, just in case I slip through.”

  “Right.”

  The two waist gunners grabbed Tooney as he banged down twice on the ball with his boots.

  Nothing happened.

  “Again,” said the co-pilot.

  Tooney jumped once more.

  This time the turret let go with a giant whoosh! The men tumbled backwards. Then, one at a time, they eased forward to the gigantic hole to watch the one-thousand-pound-plus ball turret head to the water.

  There it goes, thought Tooney. My best seat in the house.

  “We did it!” the co-pilot screamed, looking around, the slipstream thundering through the new space. “Hey, I think we’re levelling off! We’re going to make it!”

  SIXTEEN

  London — March 20

  Colonel Lampert dialled the number for Churchill’s War Room at 10 Downing Street.

  “Sir, it’s Lampert.”

  “Yes, colonel,” Churchill answered, gruffly.

  “We have some startling results from our Antarctic interrogation of the German scientists. Our truth drug did the job again.”

  “What did you find?”

  Lampert sucked on his unlit pipe. “The Germans had been there for a year, almost right under our noses. They were mining through the ice and snow.”

  “Mining? Mining what?”

  “Different minerals. Oil, lead, zinc, and... titanium,” Lampert said, emphasizing the last mineral.

  “I’m not familiar with titanium.”

  “Most people aren’t. It’s rare. It’s light, strong, and resistant to high temperature. A load of it had already been shipped out by Condor before we caught up with them.”

  “How did the scientists get there in the first place?”

  “U-Boats. Here’s where the story gets interesting. Our boys captured a German submarine, U-344, off the coast while it was refuelling.”

  “Refuelling!”

  “We interrogated them, too. The Germans, it seems, have been mapping out territory on the continent, the northern part, a place they call Neuschwabenland. A few hundred miles to the east of the mining expedition, by the way. There is said to be a deep subsea trench that runs completely underthe Antarctic.”

  “Under? Did you say under?”

  “Yes, sir. The U-Boats have been using it for four years. Our men are investigating more of this now. This trench is also said to have caves, warm water lakes, and is supposed to be suitable for human habitation. We have compiled some wild stories of subs heading south to this Neuschwabenland, under the continent and coming out south of New Zealand. “

  “Could this passage be a future Nazi hideout?”

  “With the war coming to a close, it’s not out of the question, sir. That’s not all. We have found the existence of a secret Nazi society who refer to themselves as the Order of the Knights of National Socialism, to which the U-Boat skipper and one of the scientists belong.”

  “Who heads it up?”

  “No one seems to kn
ow who it is, sir. We have, however, found a copy of their oath aboard the U-Boat. They do refer to a Commander Fuehrer and his divine wisdom. It could be their version of God...”

  “Or Hitler. Interesting. No, what am I saying. It’s shocking!”

  “I quite agree.”

  “I smell an escape route of sorts.”

  “So do I. This trench, sir, should we investigate it further? If so, we’re looking at involving the Royal Navy.”

  There was a long pause on the prime minister’s line. “Keep it within the MI-6 for the time being. But I will order a Navy patrol off the coast of this... what do you call it?”

  “Neuschwabenland, sir.”

  The Rhine River — March 21

  General George Patton’s U.S. Third Army had finally reached the Rhine. The afternoon air was still and cool. There was no enemy activity on the far bank. Patton jumped down from his command jeep and proceeded to urinate in the river. His men laughed. The general had kept his promise to take a leak in the Rhine River as soon as he had come upon it.

  “I enjoyed that. Now, back to work,” Patton chuckled, zipping himself up and glancing across the river that separated liberated France from Hitler’s Germany. He turned to his XII Corps subordinate, bespectacled General Manton Eddy and ordered, “We’ve got to establish a bridgehead at once!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Patton had been crystallizing a plan in his mind for weeks. He would be the first Allied commander to cross into Hitler’s Fatherland, and thus spoil British General Bernard Montgomery’s long-anticipated March 23rd crossing of the Rhine, amid press releases and such. Although Patton had not received prior permission to cross from Supreme Commander Eisenhower, he would instead get his men over the river, where they would be engaged by the enemy and forced to hold their ground and not turn back. The British and Montgomery would have to take a back seat to the Third Army.

  Eddy and Patton hunched over a map on Patton’s jeep. “We’ll cross here, tomorrow night,” Patton said, pointing a steady finger near the town of Mainz.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Patton grinned wide. He could see the whole central belly of Germany opening up to his tanks.

  Lake Lucerne

  Wesley Hollinger was bored batty, as he put it to McCreedy twice, waiting the whole week for word from Bormann’s contact. At 10pm on the fifth day, the American answered his hotel room door to find Johanna Erickson standing outside.

  “Look who’s here.”

  “Surprised?”

  “Not really,” Hollinger answered. “You did say you were returning.”

  “I did, didn’t I? Do you want to go for a walk? I have a favourite scenic spot by the lake that’s quite breath-taking.”

  “Why not tell me what you have to right here? Let’s go out to the balcony.”

  She smiled. “I might be convinced.”

  What was she up to? Hollinger thought. “Would you like a drink? Schnapps? Wine?”

  “Schnapps will be fine.”

  “I’ll have one, too. Go on out, please, I’ll be right with you.”

  Through the French doors, they could see that the moon was up. A pleasant evening to sit out. The temperature was near sixty. The sun had set an hour ago. Hollinger went to a cupboard in the hallway to pour the drinks. Erickson followed him, shutting the hall light switch off. He turned around at the sound of her steps. She moved closer with her easy grace, not making a sound.

  “What is it, Miss Erickson?”

  “I have a message for you.” She backed him into the wall, and put her arms over his broad, strong shoulders. Their faces were inches apart. “From Martin Bormann.”

  Caught off guard, Hollinger was aroused by this exotic woman’s forwardness and her perfume smell of spring flowers. “What’s the message?”

  “Just a moment.” She kissed him boldly on the lips.

  He couldn’t help it. Her beauty, her delightful dimples, the smell of her perfume, was all too much. His hands seized her slim waist like magic. He found it hard to breath, and it had nothing to do with the mountain air. He pulled her close, stroking her smooth hair. They covered each other with passionate kisses. She was the first to break off. “Bormann can’t deliver till the war’s over. But I can deliver now.” She kissed him again, this time finding every corner of his mouth.

  They continued kissing, uninhibited. Hollinger gripped her harder until their bodies were pressed together. He had no intention of putting a halt to this. In a flash, his bachelor days came back to him. He was single all over again. She stood back and undid the top three buttons of her blouse as he watched. She took Hollinger’s right hand, and led it slowly, deliberately, inside. She wasn’t wearing a bra. His heart beat faster. He knew that from this point on, there was one logical conclusion to this. Bed.

  “You never did tell me whether you like forward women,” she whispered.

  Then he thought of Roberta, and found himself torn between the two. He removed his hand. “Wait!”

  “What’s the matter, Wesley? Don’t quit now,” she said softly.

  “Wait, I said. Who do you think you are? I know why you came back.” He shook her. “You’re not going to get away with it!”

  “Stop it! You’re hurting me.”

  “Who do you think you are? Bormann’s whore?” He pushed her away, harder than he had wanted to. She crashed into the wall. He looked down at her, poker-faced. “It’s Bormann, isn’t it! Isn’t it! What did he promise you? Money? What?”

  She tried to get up. “You are very foolish, Wesley Hollinger.” She got to her feet and buttoned her blouse, her nostrils flaring.

  Hollinger folded his arms. “Tell Bormann that I want those damn Foo Fighter blueprints. No more games. Not from you or anybody else. And by the way, I don’t like forward women. Especially women who try to use me.”

  They were silent a long time, both reluctant to utter the next word, both catching their breaths. She squared her shoulders, then left without a word, slamming the door behind her.

  “What’s the matter?” Hollinger said to himself, his face warm and red. “No goodbye?”

  SEVENTEEN

  Berlin — April 1

  Bormann and Goering walked and listened to the distant thump of the artillery shells far to the east, and tried to show no fear of the Russian General Zhukov who was closing in on Berlin.

  “Your banker didn’t take care of it, obviously,” Goering barked, swinging his baton by his side in the Chancellery garden.

  “No,” Bormann answered stiffly, dragging on his cigarette, picturing Johanna Erickson. He didn’t want to be reminded of his misfortune. Too bad, she had always gotten the job done before.

  “What now?”

  “Consider our alternatives, Herr Goering. The courier line is far too dangerous with the advancing Allies approaching us. Patton has already crossed the Rhine and is heading towards the Thuringia underground factory. We know that the British have overrun Camp Berlin. We have only one choice.” Bormann slowed his steps and looked across at the Reichmarshall.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s crazy, but it’s our only solution.”

  “What? Tell me.”

  Bormann groped for the words. “Let the Americans see this Foo Fighter, as they call it.”

  They stopped.

  “How can we do that?”

  “Bring them into Germany to see the V-4 with their own eyes. To show that we are acting in good faith.”

  “You have to be out of your mind!”

  “I’ve never been more rational,” Bormann answered, as calmly as he could.

  “How do you propose we pull this off?”

  “Fly them in.”

  “What!”

  “You have the authority to provide free access into Germany by air, providing the plane has Swiss markings.”

  “Yes, I have the authority as Luftwaffe leader, technically, but—”

  “But what?”

  “How will the Americans get past Himm
ler’s SS, who are guarding the entrance to the compound?”

  “I have a source.”

  “Who?” Goering wanted to know.

  “One of the scientists, who is allowed as much free movement about the country as von Braun. He will meet with them and get them past the compound on written orders from the Fuehrer. I will see to the paperwork.”

  “Who is this scientist?”

  “Karl Zeller.”

  “I know who you mean. So he’s the one who’s been feeding you information all this time?”

  “Yes,” Bormann admitted.

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter now.”

  “No, it doesn’t. He’s trustworthy. He’s on our side.” Bormann puffed on his cigarette. “Well, can you do it?”

  Goering twirled his baton. “I... yes, I suppose. The whole thing seems crazy to me. If anyone finds out about our little escapade, we are dead, Bormann.”

  Hitler’s secretary smiled through his cigarette smoke. “Drastic times spawn drastic measures. To tell you the truth, it seems crazy to me, too. But what else can we do?”

  “Himmler could be the problem.”

  “He’ll never know.”

  “How do you know that he doesn’t already?”

  Near St. Gallen, Switzerland

  It was dawn when they boarded the C-47 with the red-and-white Swiss flag markings parked on the field in the clearing. Hollinger had qualms about this bizarre mission. Was this a cruel April Fool’s joke for him and McCreedy, flying into Germany under Swiss diplomatic cover? Standing stiffly inside the metal fuselage, arms folded, was Johanna Erickson, in black slacks and white blouse. She led the Americans down the fuselage, pointing to a set of seats facing each other on the starboard side.

  She reached into her briefcase and handed the agents the necessary documents. “Here are your passports,” she began, as the three sat. “Mr. Hollinger, you are Frederick Kleeg. Mr. McCreedy, your name is Jacob Spitteler. You are officials of the Swiss Red Cross. Your knowledge of the German language will benefit you both, I’m sure. Any questions?”

  “Yeah, I still don’t get something, Miss Erickson,” Hollinger asked. “Am I to understand that we, as Red Cross representatives, will be observing prisoner working conditions of a top secret military project?”