INCEPTION (Projekt Saucer, Book 1)

by W. A. Harbinson

  ‘Ah!’ he said softly. ‘Captain Stoll and our American genius! I thought we had lost you.’

  ‘No, Reichsführer,’ Ernst replied, stopping with Wilson in front of him. ‘We were checking the progress of the medical and surgical experiments at one of the Ahnenerbe hospitals.’

  ‘Impressive, are they not?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And many of them were suggested by Herr Wilson, here, who is nothing if not fecund in many fields.’

  ‘Thank you, Reichsführer,’ Wilson said, then nodded coolly at Flugkapitän Rudolph Schriever, whose darkly handsome, saturnine features were illuminated with the glow of his newly found arrogance. ‘Are you looking forward to the test flight, Flugkapitän?’

  ‘Yes, Herr Wilson, I am. I have the confidence that the saucer will fly this time.’

  Wilson smiled. ‘I hope so.’

  ‘I am always a little confused,’ Himmler said in his quietly probing, slightly sardonic manner, ‘as to who is responsible for what regarding this saucer. According to certain sources, including yourself, Flugkapitän Schriever here is mostly responsible for the machine; according to others, the credit should go to you. Who, then, do I praise or blame should this machine fly or crash?’

  ‘I am willing to take the blame if it crashes,’ Schriever said too quickly, thus demonstrating an unexpected slyness at taking the credit for the machine. However, while Wilson had previously let him take most of the credit, in the hope that he would not attempt to bite the hand that fed him by badmouthing him to Himmler, he now had good reason for taking the blame for what was about to happen.

  ‘No, Reichsf

  ü hrer,’ he said. ‘I cannot let Schriever do that. I must confess that I’m responsible for the latest innovations in this model – particularly the multidirectional jet-propulsion system – and if anything goes wrong, and I pray it won’t, the blame is all mine.’

  Convinced that the machine would work and that Wilson was trying to steal his credit, Schriever turned red and was just about to retort when Stoll, after giving Wilson a puzzled glance, said diplomatically, ‘I think we better begin the test, gentlemen, while conditions are excellent.’

  ‘Of course,’ Himmler said.

  Schriever saluted and marched off, upright and determined. He was climbing the ladder up the side of the saucer even as Wilson retreated behind the concrete bunker with Ernst, Himmler, and the bulky SS bodyguards. Staring through the protective, reinforced glass viewing panel of the bunker’s wall, Wilson watched Schriever lowering himself carefully into the raised, centrally located pilot’s cockpit. When he was strapped in, Habermohl and Miethe replaced the Perspex canopy, locked it into position, then climbed back down to the ground and pulled the ladder away. When they also were safely behind a concrete bunker and a waving flag had indicated that the test could begin, Schriever switched on the saucer’s electrical system. Wilson heard the bass humming sound and saw the variable jet nozzles around the rim turning down toward the ground. When the jet nozzles were facing the earth, the engines roared into life.

  The noise was extraordinary, an earth-shaking clamour, and the red and yellow flames spitting out of the downturned jets formed a circle of fire that was obscured and distorted by the smoke and dust billowing up from the scorched, hammered ground. The saucer vibrated violently, sank down on its collapsible legs, then bounced back up, swayed dangerously from side to side, and eventually lifted slightly off the steel platform, borne up on a bed of spitting flames, the smoke swirling around it.

  It hovered tentatively in the air, its silvery body tinged with crimson, the yellow flames and black smoke forming a river of light around it. Then it rose even higher, thirty yards, then fifty, and hovered uncertainly again, tilting slightly from left to right. Then the jet nozzles moved and the flames shot out horizontally. As they did so, half of the nozzles cut out and the saucer was thrust forward instead of upward, in a sudden, brief, horizontal flight.

  Very brief, indeed – as Wilson had known it would be – because just as it shot forward, heading toward the old firing range, the side not spitting flames tilted dramatically toward the earth and the flaming nozzles, now aiming at the sky, increased its downward momentum.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ Ernst exclaimed.

  Schriever turned on the other jet nozzles in time to make the saucer level out just as it was about to hit the ground. It bounced along like a spinning top, out of control, turning wildly, shrieking and sending up great curving waves of earth and debris even as the engines cut out and the smoke streamed away from it.

  ‘Get him out!’ Ernst bellowed at the engineers.

  Habermohl and Miethe ran like the wind, carrying the stepladder between them, and threw it onto the sloping side of the saucer and climbed up to the cockpit. They unlocked the cover, let it fall to the ground, hurriedly helped a shocked Schriever out, and ran back to the bunker, practically dragging the pilot between them. They had just hurried behind the concrete wall when the saucer exploded.

  It shuddered and collapsed, its legs giving way. Then it lay there, tilted on one side, some of its metal plates blown off, the flames shooting out from inside it and licking over the cockpit.

  Himmler stared at Wilson, his cheeks pale, his lips tight, then he glared at Ernst and stalked off, saying nothing at all.

  ‘We’re in trouble,’ Stoll said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR ‘We can no longer depend on the American genius or Projekt Saucer,’ Himmler said in his quiet, chilling manner from behind his desk in SS headquarters in Berlin. ‘Whether or not an actual workable saucer can be achieved is beside the point, since clearly this war won’t last as long as we’d hoped and the time required to complete the flying saucer will not be available.’

  ‘With all due respect, Reichsf ührer,’ Ernst said, relieved to have found Himmler so calm after the disastrous test flight but wondering why his throat was still dry, ‘we must give Schriever and the American more time. If we wish to populate Neuschwabenland, we will need something more advanced than our finest airplanes.’

  Himmler held up his hand in a rather lordly gesture of rejection. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said, ‘I know that. I’m not a fool, after all. But since the American’s saucer has failed again – and he did admit that he was responsible for it – I’m convinced that we can no longer depend on it as our final weapon, but must instead turn our attentions to Wernher von Braun's V-1 and V-2 rocket projects at Peenemünde. All the tests there have been highly successful. Indeed, I witnessed two tests myself, as well as others, at my own rocket centre at Grossendorf. Given the excellent results, it is anticipated that remote-controlled rockets will soon fall on London. Since our beloved Führer also believes in the rockets, that’s what we should concentrate upon.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Ernst said, not wishing to contradict his increasingly distracted Reichsführer, though he knew that Himmler’s real reason for concentrating on the so-called secret weapon program was based on his desire to take control of the whole of Germany's military production.

  Indeed, to this end, he had recently tried to talk Wernher von Braun into working under his command at Grossendorf. After failing to do so, he had persuaded General Fromm into letting him reinforce the Abwehr security net around Peenemünde with his SS, which actually was his first step in removing the hated Abwehr from his path. His next move, then, as Ernst well knew, would be to gain total authority over the V-I and V-2 rocket projects, despite the protests of the Abwehr’s army generals and he would surely succeed.

  ‘So, Kapit än,’ he continued, ‘I will leave you in charge of Projekt Saucer, for what it’s worth, while I personally supervise the more successful activities of von Braun and his rocket team. I hope this makes sense to you.’

  ‘Naturally, Reichsführer.’ In fact, Ernst was secretly delighted. Ever since the humiliating surrender at Stalingrad, followed all too closely by the reverses in Africa and catastrophe in Italy, Himmler had shown increasing signs of emotional instability – finely suppr
essed hysteria, a slight quavering in his voice, the constant blinking and rubbing of weary, dazed eyes. Ernst, who sensed that Himmler was growing mad, was more wary of him. Not that Himmler was alone. Berlin was now filled with rumours that Adolf Hitler was going mad, or was at least in bad health and frequently doped with the drugs supplied by his quack, Dr Theo Morell. If that was true, it would do Himmler little good because, as Ernst knew, when Himmler gazed upon his beloved Führer, he looked into a mirror.

  Ernst still believed in the SS, in the promise of the New Order, but he could no longer trust his once-beloved Reichsführer. Therefore he was pleased that Himmler had lost interest in him and Projekt Saucer and was, instead, going to turn his attentions elsewhere.

  He almost sighed with relief. ‘There is this other little problem,’ Himmler said, clasping his hands under his babyish chin and looking severe.

  Ernst suddenly felt nervous. ‘A problem, Reichsführer?’

  ‘Yes, Kapitän, a problem. I believe you had a similar kind of problem in Poland – one concerning a woman.’

  Suddenly remembering Kryzystina Kosilewski in Cracow, deeply shocked that Himmler should have found out about her, Ernst could only swallow with a dry throat and let his heart race.

  ‘Poland, Reichsführer? If you mean – ’

  Himmler waved his hand and smiled, like a father to his son.

  ‘A Jew bitch, I believe,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, sir, but I assure you, I – ’

  Himmler waved his hand again and kept smiling, as if amused by Ernst’s discomfiture. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘That’s all in the past now. We can but hope that you’ve learned your lesson from it and will not repeat the mistake.’

  ‘Definitely not, sir!’

  ‘How is it, then, Kapitän Stoll, that according to a report received this day from one of your fellow officers – ’

  Ritter, Ernst thought bitterly.

  ‘ – your wife has been seen to fraternize with a Wehrmacht officer whose sympathies, it is known, are no longer entirely with our beloved Führer. Even worse, your wife has also been reported as drinking too much lately and, apparently, making loud, drunken pronouncements in public about what she deems to be the failings of our glorious Third Reich. Do you have an explanation for this, Kapitän Stoll?'

  'I swear to you, Reichsführer, I didn’t know,’ Ernst said, caught between humiliation and outrage to learn what Ingrid was doing behind his back. Of course, she had told him that she was quietly living a separate life and he had tried to deal with it by forgetting about it. Now he had not only been reminded of her other men, but been informed that her separate life was not being lived too quietly. He felt like murdering the bitch.

  ‘You didn’t know she was seeing another man?’ Himmler asked in his oddly pedantic manner.

  ‘No, sir,’ Ernst lied.

  ‘Are you having marital problems, Kapitän?’

  ‘To be frank, Reichsführer, yes. Though I’d hoped they wouldn’t interfere with my work.’

  ‘Most admirable, Captain. Unfortunately, we cannot have the wife of one of our finest officers making a fool of herself in public, much less offering insulting remarks about our glorious Third Reich while cavorting with a potentially traitorous officer.’

  ‘No, sir, of course not. What do you suggest, sir?’

  ‘The officer in question is Wehrmacht Lieutenant Eberhard Tillmann. Formerly a fine officer, he took part in the blitzkreig against Poland and was also one of the first to enter Paris. Unfortunately, since the reversal of our fortunes at Stalingrad and in Africa, he has taken to making subversive comments to those who will listen. What do you suggest, Kapitän?’

  Already incensed that the man was his wife’s lover, Ernst was even more outraged to hear that the bastard had been given what he had been denied: a part in the blitzkreig against Poland and the subsequent, magnificent advance across Europe and right into Paris.

  ‘With your kind permission, Reichsführer, I will have this man transferred to the Eastern Front to take charge of a penal regiment. I will also ensure that my wife keeps her peace in the future.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Himmler said. ‘I respect a man who knows when to place his duty before personal feelings. You are dismissed, Capitän Stoll.’

  Ernst saluted and left the office, choking up with fury, and marched to the exit, not looking at his fellow SS men. He noticed only the usual collection of pale-faced, frightened people waiting to be interrogated, standing along the corridors, huddled pitifully on the wooden benches, ignored by the SS guards with the pistols and submachine guns who, in their black uniforms and leather boots, looked decidedly ominous.

  A nation living in fear, Ernst thought, is a disciplined nation. We will need that when we move underground to forge a strong, fearless Aryan race.

  In the meantime, before that happened, he was being assailed by mundane problems, the main one being the wife he had once loved so dearly.

  He walked out of the building, into rain and a cold wind, and waved at one of the SS cars parked in the road. The driver moved up to him, let him in, and then drove off. Sinking into the rear seat, Ernst looked out at the ruins that had been caused by the Allied bombing and thought of the night Hitler had become the Chancellor of Germany and he and Ingrid had gone to bed in the Adlon Hotel. They had loved one another then with the innocence of idealism, but now both of them were older than their years and had become bitter enemies. Human relationships were treacherous, ephemeral, without substance, so he was glad to be involved with the SS and what it represented: an ideal state beyond petty, individual considerations; the subordination of the self to the whole in order to create a new, better man in an orderly world.

  This was something to cherish.

  He slapped Ingrid’s face as soon as he walked into the apartment. ‘Don’t look so shocked,’ he said quietly. ‘You know what it’s for.’ She covered her stinging cheek with her hand. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I

  don’t know what it’s for. And you have no right to – ’

  ‘Eberhard Tillmann. A Wehrmacht lieutenant, I believe.

  Presumably as good in bed as he was on the march to Paris, but now

  joining my wife in publicly abusing the Fatherland. Now do you

  understand?’

  Ingrid removed her hand from her face and stared defiantly at him.

  ‘Yes, Ernst, now I understand. As I also understand why we won Paris

  – he is that good in bed!’

  Ernst slapped her again and she fell against the sideboard,

  straightening up as some decorative plates fell off and smashed on the

  floor. The children’s bedroom door opened and two faces appeared:

  Ula, now nine years old, and AI!red, now six. Ernst, who saw so little

  of them these days, was shocked by how mature they looked, how

  quickly time passed.

  Ashamed that they should have heard him smacking their mother,

  he covered it with a display of cold anger.

  ‘Stay in your room and close the door,’ he said. ‘Your mother and I

  are talking.’

  ‘Yes, Papa,’ Ula said, her azure eyes emphasized by the golden hair

  that fell on her blushing cheeks. Then she pushed the gawking Alfred

  back into the room and gently closed the door .

  ‘A nice thing for the children to see,’ Ingrid said, again rubbing her

  stinging cheek. ‘Their father striking their mother.’

  ‘Not as bad as eventually learning that their mother’s been

  behaving like a whore.’

  ‘Please note that I don't charge him, Ernst. I do it for love.’ He wanted to strike her again, but refrained because of the children.

  ‘Do you know how I learned about it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘From Himmler! You understand, you stupid bitch? I learned about

  my wife’s public infidelities from the Reichsführer himself! Can you


  imagine my shame?’

  ‘The Reichsführer?' At least she had the decency to look shocked.

  ’How did he know about it?’

  ‘Your damned boyfriend, this Lieutenant Eberhard Tillmann, is

  known to have made comments against the Third Reich in general and

  the Führer in particular, so the SS had him placed under surveillance,

  which means they also watched you. Reportedly you’re just like him

  now. You drink too much and talk in public. Your own insulting

  remarks about the Reich – borrowed from him, no doubt – have been

  overheard by the SS officers conducting the surveillance, one of whom,

  I'm sure, was Franck Ritter, who can’t stand my guts. Do you know

  what you've done, you whore?’

  He had hissed his last words with explosive, pent-up fury and now

  grabbed her by the lapel of her blouse, jerking her close to him. ‘You could have ruined me,’ he whispered heatedly. ‘You could

  have had me stripped of rank. You could have had me transferred as a

  guard in one of the camps. Damn it, didn't you think of that?’

  She jerked away from him, looking at him with frightened eyes. ‘No,’ she said, ‘of course I didn't think of that! I’m in love. I just – ’

  He stepped up to her again, leaned over her, wanting to crush her. ‘Don’t tell me you’re in love. I don’t want to hear those words. You said you would live your own life quietly, and I agreed to let you do it, then you turned it into a public performance for the whole world to see and hear. Drunk in public with your traitor! Parroting his traitorous words! And then I’m called into the office by the Reichsführer – by Himmler! – and told to put my own house in order. Damn you, I could kill you!’

  ‘Don’t hit me again!’

  He had indeed raised his hand, but remembered the children and lowered it, then moved away from her, a safe distance, where his temper could cool.

  Studying her, he was startled by how little she had changed, by the realization that she looked almost as young today as she had the day he’d proposed to her, ten years ago. God, how he had aged since then, yet this bitch had remained unchanged: still the same short-cropped blonde hair, the same green eyes, the same pale-faced beauty. He realized then, with deep bitterness, that in some helpless, torturous manner he still loved her and wanted to have her.