The Citadel
Robert Doherty
At the awful dawn of a nuclear age-at the painful birth of the Cold War-the Citadel was constructed in secret beneath the Antarctic ice. Housing the most devastating weapon imaginable, it was a safeguard against an unseen threat far more potent than the growing Communist menace. Now, six decades later, America 's destruction seems all but assured-because the enemy has re-emerged from the shadows of time.
And the Citadel has been breached.
The commander of Section 8-a covert force of misfits assigned the impossible missions no one else will touch-Captain Jim Vaughn must now lead his unit into the unknown to diffuse a nightmare of astronomical proportions. The future hangs in the balance-and the ultimate survival of humankind is in the hands of men with nothing left to lose…
Robert Doherty
The Citadel
The second book in the Jim Vaughn series, 2007
PROLOGUE
Washington, D.C.,
24 September 1947
"You've got to be joking?" President Harry S Truman stared at the document on his desk with undisguised surprise. He looked up from it at the men gathered in the Oval Office and knew the situation at hand was no hoax, given the power that was concentrated in the room.
"Even the information about the atomic weapon-" Truman began. He stopped to gather his thoughts. After Roosevelt's sudden death on April 12, 1945, Truman had received numerous briefings on matters he had been kept ignorant of, the most shocking of which was the development of those terrible weapons he had subsequently made the decision to use against Japan. He'd told reporters that he "felt like the moon, the stars, and all the planets had fallen on me."
Now it appeared they literally had.
Truman looked at the document once more. "July eighth? That was two months ago. Why wasn't I told earlier?"
"We've been evaluating," Sidney Souers said. He was the man Truman had appointed as the director of the newly formed Central Intelligence Agency. There were three other men scattered about the room: Dr. Vannevar Bush, Chairman of the Joint Research and Development Board; James Forrestal, the first man to fill the newly developed slot of Secretary of Defense; and General Vandenberg, now Chief of Staff of the Air Force, but Truman knew him better as Chief of Military Intelligence during the world war. The man who knew all the secrets. The man who had been part of the small group who shocked him with the news about the development of the atomic bomb shortly after Roosevelt 's passing.
"And your conclusion?" Truman demanded. He shook the folder. "You're telling me we have a damn craft of some sort that crashed in New Mexico, and it wasn't made by us, wasn't made by the Russians, indeed you say it was made by-" He peered through his reading glasses for the line. "-nonhuman, non-Earth entities. What the hell does that mean?"
Vandenberg's deep voice echoed through the Oval Office. "Aliens, Mr. President. Creatures from space. We believe this craft might have been on a reconnaissance mission. Small ship and a small crew numbering only three."
"Reconnaissance for what?" Truman asked.
"Invasion," Vandenberg simply said.
Forrestal cleared his throat. "Now, General, we don't have any evidence of that."
Vandenberg's large head swiveled toward his civilian superior. "What the hell else do you send a recon for?"
"To find out information," Forrestal said. "To explore."
Vandenberg's snort of derision indicated what he thought of that. "While this is the first craft with crew we've managed to recover, this alien activity is not an isolated incident, Mr. President. Throughout the war and several times since, Allied pilots-and from what our spies tell us, Russian pilots-were often trailed by alien craft."
Truman removed his reading glasses. "What kind of craft?"
"Small glowing balls, about three feet in diameter," Vandenberg said. "No visible propulsion system." He pulled a folder out of his briefcase and slid a photo out. "This was taken by a gun camera in a P-47 Thunderbolt in 1945 over the Rhine River in Germany. This is the only picture we have, but there are almost fifty other reports of pilots who saw something like it.
"The pilots nicknamed them 'foo fighters.' At first we thought they were German or Japanese. Secret weapons. And because they were suspected to be Japanese and German, all information concerning them was classified. The reports on these things started in late 1944. They were described as metallic spheres or balls of light. Since the aircrews that reported them were usually veterans, and a gun camera recorded one, giving factual support to those accounts, the reports were taken seriously."
Vandenberg took the photo back out of Truman's hands, which irritated the President. The Air Force general was like many others in Washington who saw him as an interloper, a poor replacement for the President who had led them through the war.
"It was serious," Vandenberg continued. "We lost eight aircraft to these things when they challenged them and fired at them. After the war we found out from going through their records that the Japanese and Germans had the same encounters and didn't know what the damn things were either. So we knew then that they didn't make them, which made us wonder who the hell did."
He slapped down another photo. Truman put his glasses on, and his eyes widened at what he saw.
"They did," Vandenberg said, tapping a finger on the alien body laid out on an autopsy table. The general leaned over the President's desk, putting both fists on it. The photo wasn't the clearest, but the gray figure on the table was obviously not human. "I don't think their intentions are good. When the Enola Gay flew the first atomic mission toward Hiroshima on August sixth, 1945, it was accompanied the entire way by a foo fighter. The mission was almost scrapped when the sphere appeared, but the commander on the ground at the departure airfield at Tinian decided to continue it. There was no hostile action by the foo fighters, and the situation was repeated several days later during the mission to Nagasaki."
"Why wasn't I informed?" Truman demanded.
The lack of any answer was insult enough.
"But you say they did nothing to stop the mission, so why do you believe their intentions are not good?" Truman asked.
"I'd ask the dead men who flew those eight planes the foo fighters took out that question, Mr. President," Vandenberg said.
Truman sighed and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes and putting more distance between himself and Vandenberg. "What now?"
Vandenberg backed off slightly, removing his fists from the desk. "We want to form a special committee to oversee everything to do with these aliens. And to prepare countermeasures and emergency plans in case of invasion. We want you to authorize the formation and the funding of this committee-which will have to be extensive, Mr. President. This might be the gravest threat mankind has ever faced."
Truman glanced over at Forrestal, the only man among the three facing him that he trusted. It was hard to judge the Secretary of Defense's face. "James?"
Forrestal looked left and right, at the other two men, and then nodded. "I think it makes sense, Mr. President. Always better to be prepared."
Truman turned back to Vandenberg. "What exactly are you talking about doing?"
The Air Force general pulled out a piece of paper. "This is an overview. We plan on calling the oversight group Majestic-12, composed of nine other men besides the three of us. Our headquarters will be set up in a very isolated site in the Nevada desert on the Nellis base range at a place called Area 51."
Truman was staring at the paper. "You're asking for six billion dollars?"
"Most of it will come from the Black Eagle Trust," Vandenberg said, "not the taxpayers.
What we need is authorization to use Defense Department assets to support this."
Truman scanned down the page. "Wh
at's this about a second base? And in Antarctica?"
Vandenberg glanced over his shoulder at Dr. Bush, who fielded the question. "Sir, we also think there is a need to establish an emergency base, sort of a bastion of last resort for the human race."
Truman looked up from the document. "My God, you really believe the threat is that serious?"
"It has the potential to be," Bush said. "If these aliens can travel across the stars, we have to assume they have incredible weapons, the likes of which we most likely can't even comprehend, never mind defeat. That is why we want to set up this Citadel in Antarctica."
Shaking his head, Truman pulled out his pen. He scrawled his signature on the bottom of the document. "Where is the copy for my records?" he asked.
Vandenberg took the signed paper out of the President's hands. "Sir, it's better if there is no paper trail. We need this"-he held the paper-"to get things going, but the only eyes that will set sight on it are the members of Majestic-12."
"I want a copy," the President said simply.
"Sir-" Vandenberg began, but Truman cut him off.
"Are you saying you don't trust me?" Truman said in a level voice.
Vandenberg's face flushed red.
"Give him a copy, General," Forrestal said.
The room was still for several moments. Reluctantly, Vandenberg pulled a copy of the order out of his briefcase and handed it to Truman.
"And if that is all," Truman said, "I have other business to attend to."
Vandenberg stiffly saluted and led the other men out of the office.
Finally alone, Truman stared at the paper in his hand. He began to put it in his classified out box, then paused. He folded the paper in half, then in half again, and slid it into his suit pocket.
* * *
As their car exited the East Gate, Vandenberg turned to Dr. Bush. "Is he going to be a problem?"
Bush frowned at the question. They had left Forrestal at the drive, the Secretary taking his own car back to the newly built Pentagon. "Are you referring to Truman or Forrestal?"
"Good question," Vandenberg said. He flipped up the left lapel of his suit jacket, revealing a finely worked small brooch. It consisted of an iron cross overlaid on a circle of silver. He ran his fingers over it lightly. "Neither are of the Organization, but we need them."
"And if either become problems?"
"They'll be taken care of."
"And the Organization?" Bush asked.
Vandenberg nodded. "As we discussed. We tell Geneva about Area 51. But not about the Citadel. It's our ace in the hole. Just in case."
Bush looked uneasy. "This is a dangerous ploy."
"It's a dangerous world."
Washington, D.C.
22 May 1949
"I'm not crazy, you know." The twitch under James Forrestal's left eye seemed to contradict that statement.
"Of course not," the young doctor said. The small nameplate on his white coat indicated his name was Lansale.
This late at night, just before midnight, the normal sounds of Bethesda Naval Hospital were muted. A corpsman came by every fifteen minutes and peered in the small window set in the steel door of Forrestal's room. "Cell" would have been a better term, but no one used it out loud, at least not around the former Secretary of Defense. The occasional sound of a car on the road outside was muted this high up on the sixteenth floor.
"It's been a bad year, two years," Forrestal said, taking Lansale's agreement as an indicator to keep talking. He'd been denied visitors for months and he was desperate to share with anyone, even this new night shift psychiatrist.
"The goddamn Air Force," Forrestal began. "Money. Money. Money. That's all they want. And Truman wants a damn balanced budget, yet he keeps signing allocations pouring the money out. And they hate me. The Joint Chiefs. They hate me. They have me followed. Followed me right to the doors of this place.
"Men. Dressed in dark suits. They were everywhere. Watching me. And then when Truman removed me, fired me, replaced me. They were in the car after the ceremony. Waiting. Drove with me back to the Pentagon. They told me."
Forrestal fell silent, and Lansale waited with the patience of a man who was working the graveyard shift and had nothing better to do. But after the silence stretched into several minutes, he finally bit. "Told you what?"
"The truth," Forrestal said simply.
Lansale fired up a cigarette and offered Forrestal one. He shook his head. Lansale inhaled. "About?"
"Majestic-12."
Lansale's eyes narrowed. "What?"
"They wanted to scare me, and they did. I was a loyal fellow. Loyal."
"I'm sure you were," Lansale said.
Forrestal snorted. "Aliens. That's what they used as a smoke screen. Even Truman bought into it. Fool."
Lansale glanced down at the medical folder. "It says you tried to kill yourself not long ago."
Forrestal's head snapped up and he stared at Lansale. "That's what they said. But I didn't. Never. I was a loyal fellow. Always will be. No matter what they're planning on doing out there."
"Out where?"
"In the desert," Forrestal said. "And in the icy wasteland."
"This also says you tried to jump out of the car several times on the ride over here last month."
"I was a prisoner," Forrestal said. "I am a prisoner. They won't let my family see me. My friends."
"You're a patient, not a prisoner," Lansale said. "You have involuntional melancholia."
"I have a mind that knows too much," Forrestal countered. "My brother told me that Truman's men took my diaries. They've been reading them."
Lansale became very still. "When was this?"
"On the phone yesterday." Forrestal smiled. "My brother is coming tomorrow. He told me that also. He's getting me out of here. I've been better. They know I've gotten better. Tomorrow I leave this prison."
"We know about your brother coming," Lansale said. He closed the file and stood. "Would you like to go with me and get some food in the diet kitchen across the hall?"
"A last meal?" Forrestal joked as he stood up. He tightened his bathrobe around his waist with its cord.
"Yeah," Lansale said as he pulled out his key ring and unlocked the door.
They crossed the hallway to the small kitchen that served the floor. Lansale let Forrestal go in first, and then locked the door behind them. As Forrestal went to the small cabinet near the window, Lansale reached out and pulled the cord from the small loops of the bathrobe. Forrestal turned, confusion on his face, one hand holding the robe closed, the other holding a can of soup.
"What are you-" Forrestal never finished, as Lansale looped the cord around his neck and stepped behind him, back-to-back, and bent, lifting Forrestal off his feet with the cord. The former Secretary of Defense flailed about, gasping for air. Lansale had already prepared the room: the window was wide open, and he hauled Forrestal like a sack of potatoes on his back toward it.
Forrestal grasped at the edge of the window and managed to get a momentary grip as Lansale spun around trying to toss him out. The former Secretary of Defense teetered in the window, half unconscious from the cord around his next, one hand holding on.
Lansale let go of the cord, stepped back, and then snap-kicked Forrestal in the stomach. With a strangled shriek, Forrestal flew out the window and into the darkness, arms flailing. Seconds later there was the dull thud of his body hitting the ground sixteen stories below.
Lansale exited the room and briskly walked down the corridor, removing the white coat as he did so. He pocketed the small nameplate and tossed the coat in a trash bin. He went down the fire stairs, all sixteen floors. He ignored the growing commotion and walked over to a dark sedan that was waiting, engine running, across the street from the hospital. He slid in the backseat and the car pulled away.
"Any problems?" the man in the front passenger seat asked without turning around.
"None in the mission," Lansale said. "But he said that Truman has his diaries. And I
think he's talked about both Area 51 and the Citadel in there."
There was just the sound of the car's engine and tires on asphalt for several minutes as the man in the front seat considered that. "Area 51 is already on the radar. The whispers are out. We've got an excellent cover story for it." He fell silent once more, and Lansale waited in the backseat. "But the Citadel. That we cannot even allow whispers about."
Lansale leaned forward. "The plan was always to make the Citadel 'disappear.'"
"Yes," the man agreed, "but the plan was for that to happen six months from now."
"I will accelerate the plan," Lansale said. "All links to the Citadel will be severed within seven days. I'll personally take care of it."
Antarctica, Approximately 575 Miles
East of High Jump Station
28 May 1949
"The last load," the young captain in the gray parka remarked.
"Amen to that," Captain Vannet muttered. Through the scratched Plexiglas windshield, he glanced at the frozen runway splayed out in front of his plane. To his left rear, a staircase descended into the cargo bay of the massive Martin JRM-Mars transport, where his loadmaster was securing the few pallets of luggage the passengers had carried on board. Along the walls, soldiers bundled up in cold weather gear were seated on red web seats, ready to get started on the long journey out of here in the world's largest seaplane, which had been converted for use in the Antarctic by replacing the pontoons on each wing with large skis.
Capable of carrying over sixteen tons of cargo or 133 people, and with a wingspan over two hundred feet wide, the JRM-Mars was a workhouse that had allowed them to haul more cargo back and forth to this spot than a squadron of smaller planes.
Vannet couldn't blame the soldiers crowded in the cargo bay. He'd brought them here four months ago via High Jump Station set up near the Ross Ice Shelf, then spent the intervening time flying back from the station every opportunity the weather gave, bringing in equipment and supplies to these men for whatever they were building here in the frozen wasteland of the Antarctic. A week ago that process had hurriedly been reversed with an emergency order, and he started bringing equipment and people out. The outflow in equipment and supplies had been considerably less than the inflow.
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