Bradley straightened up in his chair. This priest who looked like death was pretty smart.
‘Can you tell me anything else?’ he asked.
‘Just go to Kiel,’ the priest said.
Bradley glanced through the window, saw the gallows and streaming smoke, shivered, and pushed his chair back and stood up to leave.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘My pleasure,’ Overbeck replied, his smile exposing his pain.
Bradley nodded at McArthur and they both left and walked back through Buchenwald. Bradley kept his gaze focused on the ground and prayed to God for deliverance... deliverance from hatred.
His new hatred for Wilson.
‘I’m going to Kiel,’ he said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT Berlin was hell on earth. The black-charred ruins stretched away as far as the eye could see, the air was thick with smoke and dust, people were queuing hopelessly for food and even water, bombs fell constantly from the Allied planes overhead, and from a mere thirty-two kilometres to the east, the guns of the Soviet army roared ominously.
Ernst’s final visit to the Führer’s bunker made him feel that he had entered an insane asylum. Goebbels had encouraged his unfortunate wife and six children to come and die with him and his beloved Führer when the city fell. Goring had fled to Karinhall, where his butler was waiting with fourteen carloads of treasures and expensive clothing. Bormann, after demanding the execution of Goring as a traitor, had telephoned his wife at Berchtesgaden, to inform her that he had found a hiding place for them in the Tyrol, that she was to pose as a director of refugee children, and that he had kidnapped six youngsters from the kindergarten in Garmisch to make their escaping group look more plausible. And, finally, the Führer was still babbling about secret weapons, accusing everyone of trying to betray him, ordering the arrest of that traitor, Goring, discussing the distribution of cyanide tablets with his frightened mistress, Eva Braun, veering wildly between chalkfaced exhaustion and outbursts of paranoid anger, and hoping to prolong the battle for Berlin until at least May 5, because he could then die on the same day as Napoleon.
All of this was taking place beneath the garden of the Chancellery, upon which Allied bombs were falling with the consistency of rain.
Himmler had been to the bunker that very morning to pay his respects to the Führer on his birthday, but had then left to return to Dr Gebhardt’s sanatorium. Ernst made the 120-kilometre drive to Hohenlychen, passing columns of marching German soldiers and trucks and tanks that were being bombed relentlessly by Allied aircraft.
Eventually he found himself in Himmler’s study, which was practically dark. The Reichsführer was tapping his front teeth with his fingernails and looked glassy-eyed.
‘I have not given up on negotiating peace,’ he babbled without prompting from Ernst. ‘I have instructed my masseur, Felix Kersten, to fly to Eisenhower’s headquarters and discuss an immediate cessation of hostilities. I myself braved the pouring rain to meet with Norbert Masur, the representative of the World Jewish Congress, in an attempt to solve the vexing Jewish problem, explaining that I have already turned the camps at Bergen-Belsen and Buchenwald over to the Allies, have arranged the evacuation of nearly forty thousand prisoners from the camp at Sachsenhausen, and have authorized the release of another one thousand Jewish women from Ravensbruck – and still the Schweine was not impressed!’
He glanced wildly around the room, as if expecting to see Soviet troops bursting through the walls, then tapped his front teeth with his fingernails again and took a deep breath.
‘Nor have I forgotten Count Bernadotte, of the Swedish Ministry for Foreign Affairs, with whom I am still having consultations regarding a peace-making formula. I met him yesterday and will be meeting with him again. Failing that, I will arrange a personal meeting with Eisenhower, who may be more reasonable.’
He removed his pince-nez, rubbed his glassy, dazed eyes, blinked and put the spectacles on again, and glanced nervously about him.
‘It’s not fair,’ he whined. ‘Everyone wants something from me. Kersten and Schellenberg want me to overthrow the Führer with a coup d'etat. Von Krosigk has begged me to seek peace through the Pope. Meanwhile, I’m supervising secret negotiations elsewhere – and now the Führer and those Schweine surrounding him in the bunker suspect me of treason. Have they arrested that imbecile Goring yet? I hope so. They should shoot him!’
He pushed his chair back, paced the floor, stopped to tap his front teeth with his fingernails, then sighed and sat down again.
‘All hope is not lost,’ he said. ‘We still have our secret weapons. My stars tell me they’ll be ready just in time to turn the tide in our favor.’
Ernst heard the Soviet guns. They were only sixteen kilometres from here. He wondered how Himmler could have managed to convince himself that his secret weapons, even if they existed, could be produced in time, and in sufficient quantities, to hold back the Soviet and Allied advance, let alone turn the tide.
‘I’m afraid, Reichsführer,’ Ernst began, hoping to offer some common sense, ‘that the secret weapons – ’
‘Schriever’s saucer! He said it was almost finished! What news do you have of it?’
Himmler’s eyes gleamed with hope – the forlorn hope of the truly mad – and Ernst, who had once feared this man, now almost pitied him.
‘I’m afraid, Reichsführer, that Schriever’s flying saucer won’t help us now. Even if it works, it’s come too late to do us much good.’
‘Nonsense!’ Himmler exploded, almost jumping out of his chair. ‘The very sight of it will terrify the Soviets and make them turn back! As for the Allies, though they clearly aren’t so primitive, they’ll most likely do the same. I want that flying saucer to be finished! I want to know if it works!’
He stared wildly at Ernst, who hardly knew what to say, then drummed his fingers on the desk and took a few deep breaths.
‘According to my astrological chart,’ he said, sounding calmer, ‘something extraordinary will occur toward the end of this month, just in time to turn the tide in our favour. I believe that’s a reference to Flugkapitän Schriever’s flying saucer, so I want you to go straight to Prague and find out what' s happening.’
‘The Soviets are advancing on Prague,’ Ernst reminded him.
‘You can get there before the Soviets do. So do it, Captain. For me! Do it for your Reichsführer.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Ernst replied, as he had in fact been planning to go there to complete Wilson’s plot, but preferred to do it with Himmler’s permission, to avoid suspicion. ‘But what if the Soviets reach Prague before Schriever escapes with the completed saucer and his technicians?’
‘In such circumstances you must destroy the flying saucer and hide all the papers relating to it. Then, when the tide turns in our favour, we can rebuild the saucer.’
‘Very good, Reichsführer,’ Ernst said, now having permission to do what he had planned to do anyway.
'However, that shouldn’t happen. The Soviets are still a good way away. I see no reason why you cannot get to Prague and back here again before the end comes – and I expect you to bring me good news.’
‘I will, Reichsführer. I promise.’
‘Goodbye, Captain. And good luck. Heil Hitler!’
‘Heil Hitler!’
Ernst saluted, then walked to the study door. He opened it, started out, then glanced back to take a last look at his once frightening, allpowerful Reichsführer. He was already slumped over his desk, studying his astrological charts, neurotically tapping his front teeth with his fingernails and making loud, sighing sounds. He was all alone in that gloomy room, a shadow-figure, a mirage, a man disappearing into himself, to be lost in his own dream. He was covering his face with his hands when Ernst quietly closed the door.
The drive to Prague took nearly eight hours, was further hindered by more Allied bombing raids and roads filled with columns of troops, and was not without a great deal of tension. Bypassing Dresden in the dead of the
night, Ernst saw the darkness illuminated by the flashing of the Soviet guns, where they were firing from the Oder River. The Soviet army was very close indeed. It had already captured most of Pomerania, Poland, and Hungary, and Ernst was thankful that it was closer to Berlin than to where he was going.
He arrived at Prague in the early morning. It smouldered just like Berlin. Ernst heard bombing and the continuing roar of the Soviet guns, and realized that it was only a matter of days before Prague fell also.
The war was practically over.
Indeed, the first news he received upon reporting to the SS officer in charge of security at the BMW plant on the outskirts of the city – placed in charge, as he was soon informed, because of fears that the plant would be overrun by groups of Czechoslovak patriots – was that by dawn that very morning, Berlin had been completely encircled and its last free airports overrun by the Red Army.
Now there was no way in or out. The fate of the city was sealed.
‘You can’t go back there,’ the SS commander, Lieutenant Günter Metz, informed him. ‘You might as well stay here. Wait until we see which way the Soviets are moving, then make your escape.’
Ernst had no intentions of remaining in Prague, but he complimented the officer on his keen thinking and then asked to be directed to Flugkapitän Schriever. He was escorted to the well-guarded East Hall of the great factory. There, remarkably, with a lack of realism fully the equal to that of Himmler and the rest of them, Schriever was still racing to complete his flying saucer, which was resting on its mobile steel platform and surrounded by engineers.
When Schriever saw Ernst approaching, he could not hide his frown.
‘Captain Stoll!’ he exclaimed, trying to recover, though not being too successful at it. ‘What a pleasant surprise!’
Still smarting, even after all these years, from the knowledge that he had been passed over by the German scientific fraternity to make way for second-raters like Schriever, Ernst realized that he was going to enjoy doing what he now had to do – which was to check that Schriever had not, by some combination of luck and thievery, made any unexpected advances with his design and ensure that what he did have was destroyed before the Soviets reached here.
'I’ve been sent by Himmler,' Ernst said without preamble, ‘to check on the progress of your flying saucer. Is it actually flying yet?’
‘Unfortunately, no,’ Schriever replied, wiping his oily hands on a rag, ‘but we should have it ready any day now – and then we will test it.’
‘You do realize, do you not, that the Soviet Army is advancing on a front that extends from Görlitz to Vienna and will soon be marching right into Prague?’
‘Yes, Captain, I know; but a drastic shortage of components – ball bearings for the ring plates, new heat-resistant wing discs – led to a bigger delay than anticipated. And then the Soviets captured Breslau, where Habermohl was working, and since we then had to do his work as well, we were held back even more. Nevertheless, we’ve replaced the original gas-turbine rotors with jet engines, and the saucer you see before you, if test-flown, will not let us down.’
What Ernst was looking at was one of Wilson’s crude, earlier models: a wide-surface ring that consisted of adjustable wing discs that could be brought into the appropriate position for vertical or horizontal flight while rotating around a fixed, cupola-shaped cockpit. Now powered by Schriever’s addition of adjustable jet engines, it would, in Ernst’s judgment, rise vertically a few metres, but then, once the angle of the jets was adjusted, go out of control – just as Wilson had said it would.
Although pleased that Schriever had made no unexpected progress and was still deluding himself with this piece of aeronautical rubbish, Ernst still knew it was imperative that the Soviets did not learn about any aspect of Projekt Saucer, at least not until Wilson wanted them to know, which would be in the future. He therefore said what had to be said – and took pleasure from doing so.
‘It has to be destroyed,’ he told Schriever, ‘before the Soviets arrive here.’
‘What?’ Schriever exclaimed, shocked.
‘You heard me the first time,’ Ernst said, thinking, How sweet is vengeance! ‘We have to destroy it.’
‘But it hasn’t even been test-flown yet!’
‘We still have to destroy it.’
Schriever’s assistant, Miethe, arrived, also wiping his hands on an oily rag. Schriever glanced at him with widening eyes, then turned back to Ernst.
‘Why?’ he asked.
‘To prevent it from falling into the hands of the Soviets, of course,’ Ernst told him as flatly as possible.
‘But we can arrange a test flight almost immediately!’
‘You may be too late. The Soviets are advancing fast. We’re also concerned about Czechoslovak patriots who already are causing trouble in Prague and may have men planted here, just waiting for the Soviets to get close.’
Schriever was looking desperate. ‘But without even a test flight...’
‘I’m sorry. We can’t think about that now. We must destroy the saucer.’
Looking increasingly suspicious, and even aggressive, Schriever glanced automatically at Miethe, who was cleverly keeping his mouth shut. Schriever turned back to Ernst. ‘I’ve been receiving instructions direct from Himmler’s office – not from Nordhausen – so why are you suddenly taking over?’
‘Nordhausen was evacuated and Himmler sent me to arrange the same thing here.’
‘We’re evacuating now?’
‘Do you wish to shake hands with the Soviets?’
‘Why can’t we take the saucer with us?’
‘The risk is too large. We might get captured. We don’t want them to get it.’
Schriever looked even more suspicious. ‘Do you have written authority, Captain Stoll?’
‘No. Of course not. Officially, this project doesn’t exist. No project, no papers.’
‘Then why did Himmler’s office not contact me?’
‘Berlin was being encircled,’ Ernst lied blandly, ‘and Himmler’s phones were cut off. The city, as you know, has since been cut off, so you can’t ring through to them. Now please do as I say, Flugkapitän Schriever, and stop all this nonsense.’
‘Himmler may have ordered the saucer to be destroyed, but not without a test flight. I insist on a test flight!’
‘When can it be arranged?’
‘Tomorrow morning. Ten sharp.’
‘Fair enough,’ Ernst said.
He went straight to the commander, the young lieutenant, and gained his trust by sharing confidences with him, as if with an old friend.
‘He can’t be trusted,’ he told Metz. ‘We’ve had problems with him before. The Reichführer asked me to ensure that this project was obliterated, but Flugkapitän Schriever, if his test flight is a failure, will insist on more time. We have to destroy it, no matter what, so I need you and your men. Will you help?’
‘Of course, sir!’
Ernst did not sleep well that night. He rarely slept well anymore. His sleep was haunted by nightmares of death and destruction, by dreams of Ingrid and his children and all his other failures and betrayals.
It was dreams and nightmares, but also constant noise: the bombers growling overhead, the exploding bombs, the wailing sirens, the Soviet guns belching in the distance, but sounding closer each hour.
You couldn’t tell how close they were – you never saw them; you just heard them – and Ernst, who had once dreamed of glory, was glad to get out of bed.
It was just after dawn. He wandered around the East Hall. He saw the sun burning through mist and the pall of smoke from the bombing raids, the smoke drifting from the city to the fields that were pockmarked with shell holes. He tried to think of another world, a normal world, without war, but every image in his head contained violence, destruction, blood and tears, flame and smoke, all created by a dream of omnipotence, the perversion of science.
He had helped to create it.
He was hungry but couldn�
��t eat, so he lit a cigarette instead, and smoked it while gazing across the destroyed fields at the ruins of Prague. He smoked a lot that morning, just kneeling there, waiting, and then stood up when the doors of the East Hall opened and the engineers walked out.
Ernst went to a telephone in the hall and phoned SS Lieutenant Günter Metz.
‘Bring your men down,’ he said.
Schriever arrived with Miethe, nodded at him, then ordered the saucer to be wheeled out of the hall. While this was happening, Lieutenant Metz arrived with a demolition team and a squad of seasoned SS troops, all heavily armed. They spread themselves around the sunlit clearing outside as the retractable wheels of the steel platform were being withdrawn to let it become the saucer’s launching pad.
Schriever, when he saw the demolition team, flushed brightly with anger.
He climbed into the saucer and strapped himself in, then Miethe replaced the Perspex lid on the cupola and made sure it was locked. Then he climbed back down the ladder and pulled it away. Schriever started the saucer when Miethe had returned to the safety of the concrete bunker.
The saucer roared into life. Yellow flames spat at the platform. The flames shot back up and spread out obliquely to form a great fan of fire. The flying saucer roared and shuddered. It lifted off the platform, hovered just above it, making the steel turn red-hot, then it ascended a few more feet and swayed dangerously from side to side. It roared even louder, belching flame and smoke in a fury. Then, unable to go higher, Schriever tried to fly it horizontally, but the instant the jets on one side were raised, the machine started tilting. It hit the ground and rocked wildly like a dropped coin, then its engines cut out. There was a brief, shocking silence.
‘Destroy it,’ Ernst said.
Miethe ran to the saucer, clambered up its tilted side, released the locks holding down the canopy, and helped Schriever out. Looking shocked and angry at once, Schriever slid down the body on his backside, dropped to the ground, rubbed his chin with the palm of his hand, then saw the SS demolition team advancing on his beloved creation.
INCEPTION (Projekt Saucer, Book 1) Page 45
