The Black Gate

by Michael R. Hicks

  “Let’s set the fruitcake business aside for now and look at what we have in hand,” Connelly told him, ticking items off on his fingers. “We have a project under the auspices of the SS that is of personal interest to Himmler himself, and no doubt to Hitler. The show is being run by a physicist who might be as brilliant as Einstein, but who fully embraces Nazi doctrine. Whatever the project is, or whatever it does, apparently requires a tremendous amount of electricity when it’s switched on. And the project is moving from its test phase to operational use in three weeks.”

  “That about covers it,” Peter said, growing uncomfortable under Connelly’s gaze. “That does all sound a bit ominous, I suppose.”

  “Ominous enough that in two hours it will be briefed to the president. Several men with lots of stars on their shoulders are already worried about this, and soon FDR will be, too.”

  Peter shot to his feet. “What?”

  “You heard me. I came here straight from General Donovan’s office. He’s been in touch with the brass in the Pentagon, who are up in arms about this thing. Peter, just think: what if the Germans take whatever they’re coming up with at Arnsberg and stick it on top of a V-2 rocket? London is being hit by dozens of those damnable things every month. Unlike the V-1s, which can be intercepted by fighters, V-2s are impossible to stop until our troops can capture their launch sites. The explosive warheads are bad enough, but what happens if they arm their rockets with something even more dreadful? What if it could even reach here?”

  Peter crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. “The project can’t pose a threat if you bomb it to ashes. Just have 8th Air Force or the RAF mount a raid and flatten Arnsberg.”

  Connelly shook his head. “We’d do just that, except for one little problem. We can’t find the facility. The agent reporting says the project is there, but we can’t find a thing on the reconnaissance photos. The coordinates Garbo gave us seem to be for the viaduct, which doesn’t make any sense. Even if the bloody thing is underground, there should be some signs on the surface. But a dozen photo interpreters have gone over every inch of that area and come up with a big goose egg. Arnsberg looks like nothing more than a quaint little German town along the Ruhr River.” He stood up and leaned over Peter’s desk. “We’re missing something, we just don’t know what. Donovan sees an opportunity here for the OSS to take the lead on this. We want to get someone on the inside who can assess the nature of the threat and, if it’s real, throw a monkey wrench in the works to keep it from going operational.”

  “But…” Peter paused. “But that means you already knew everything that I just told you!”

  “Yes and no. The Secret Intelligence Branch already put together some pieces of the puzzle, but they didn’t do half as good a job as you just did, and none of them knew anything about von Falkenstein other than he was a physicist.”

  “But if you already knew, then why bother me with it?” Connelly just stared at him. Then Peter recalled what Connelly had said. We want to get someone on the inside… “Oh, no. You seriously can’t be thinking what I think you’re thinking.”

  One corner of Connelly’s mouth turned up in a half-grin. “I didn’t exactly volunteer you, but I might have accidentally mentioned your name when I spoke with Donovan.” He put his fists on Peter’s desk. “You’re the perfect man for the job.”

  “What, as a replacement for the project assistant who was killed? Are you insane? I wouldn’t last five minutes!”

  “Come on, Peter,” Connelly told him. “Give yourself some credit. Your parents are German immigrants, and you not only speak German like a native but you’ve spent time in-country before the war, so you’re familiar with the culture. While you’re not quite tall enough for the perfect Aryan super-soldier, with that strong jaw combined with your blue eyes and blond hair your face would look right at home on an SS recruiting poster. You’ve got a background in physics and electrical engineering, and I know that half your library at home is on occult topics.” Peter opened his mouth, but Connelly waved him to silence. “Don’t even try to deny that last bit, because I’ve seen those books with my own eyes when you had me over for dinner that time, remember?” He paused, his eyes fixed on Peter’s. “Be honest: who else would have a better chance of assessing the threat than you, and figuring out a way to stop it if there’s something to all this?”

  “I think you’re forgetting something.” Holding on to the back of his chair for support, Peter lifted his right foot up onto the desk, letting it fall with a heavy thunk. A metal brace that helped support his leg was attached to the shoe, disappearing up his pant leg to where it was strapped onto his calf and thigh. “I’m hardly a candidate for field work.”

  “I don’t mean to rub salt in the wound,” Connelly told him, “but that leg of yours might actually be an advantage. Given your other aforementioned talents, no one would ever suspect we would send in an agent with a gimp. In fact, it could easily be passed off as a war wound which,” he added hastily, “it is, after a fashion.”

  Peter grabbed his leg and hauled it off the desk, letting his foot thump back down to the floor. “So you’d drop a cripple into Germany by parachute to spy on a highly classified project run by the bloody SS?” He shook his head. “You’re as loopy as von Falkenstein. And what about my work at Bletchley Park? Did Donovan take that into account? What if I’m captured and the Germans torture me for what I know about ULTRA?”

  “Frankly, that was Donovan’s biggest concern. But the he and everyone else who’s seen this is even more concerned about the Germans pulling some sort of ace out of their sleeve that no one saw coming, some sort of wonder weapon that will prolong the war, or even let the Germans win.” Connelly stepped back from Peter’s desk before moving to the window. “What you’ve done for the war effort has been extremely valuable, Peter, much more so than you realize. Your work here has been exemplary, and while I don’t know all the details, I know your work at Bletchley Park was highly regarded before you returned home to help care for your brother. But I also know you’ve always wanted to do more, to go in harm’s way and not just sit behind a desk.” He turned to face Peter. “I wouldn’t want to see you come to grief, you know that. But this is the one chance you’ll ever have to get out of this broom closet and head into the field before the war in Europe is over, and I can guarantee you that you’ll never be sent on a mission to the Pacific. More than that, if there’s really anything to this Black Gate business, if it poses a genuine threat, then this mission could be one of the most, if not the most, important that we’ve ever carried out. Donovan told me that himself.”

  You keep telling yourself that you missed the show, Peter thought, his hand moving to his knee to massage the atrophied flesh stretched over the shattered joint. But is this the part you want to play?

  “It’s the only part left,” he whispered to himself. To Connelly, he said, “How much time do I have before I leave?”

  “None, unfortunately. Donovan’s already kicked the people in the Special Operations Branch into high gear on this one. Our friend von Falkenstein has a tight schedule for his replacement, and we have to get you to the church on time.” He waved a hand around the office. “I’ll take care of wrapping all this up. Grab your coat and get going. There’s a car waiting for you downstairs.” Connelly reached out and shook Peter’s hand. “Good luck.”

  ***

  Stepping outside into the cold morning air, Peter looked at his watch and saw that it was only eight thirty. His entire world had been turned inside out in little more than half an hour.

  As promised, a staff car was there, waiting for him, a cloud of exhaust rising from the tailpipe. A burly man who could have been mistaken for an oversized fire hydrant said, “Morning, sir,” as he opened the rear passenger door.

  “Is it?” Peter said as he slid onto the seat. “I’m not entirely sure.”

  The man grinned but said nothing as he closed the door and came around to get into the driver’s seat.

 
; As they pulled out of the OSS headquarters complex, Peter asked, “Where are we going?”

  “Heading south to Area A, sir.” Area A was at the Chopawamsic Recreational Demonstration Area near Quantico, Virginia, and was one of the main training facilities for OSS agents.

  “I’d like to head home, first, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sorry, sir, but I’m to take you straight to Area A. The general told me himself.”

  Peter shook his head and chuckled at the insanity of it all. “Of course,” he said. “What was I thinking.” On the other hand, he wouldn’t have been able to take anything with him, so there wasn’t really any point. All that remained for him in his apartment were his books and painful memories. He didn’t even have a dog or cat to worry about.

  But the memories, even the painful ones, haunted him. While Connelly had done his job selling the mission to Peter, he hadn’t mentioned one important aspect of the mission: extraction. Even if they could get Peter into Germany, there was no way they would ever get him out. He touched the wedding band that he still wore on his ring finger. This might be your last and only chance to make things right, he thought. Or at least truly say goodbye.

  “Okay, I don’t need to go home, but I do need to make a stop before we head south.”

  “But the general said…”

  “What’s your name?” Peter cut him off.

  The man glanced at him in the rear view mirror. “You can call me Bob, sir,” he said in his Boston Irish accent.

  “Bob. Of course. Listen, Bob. There’s something I have to do. It’ll only take us a little out of the way, and I won’t tell General Donovan if you don’t.”

  “Sir, the security on this thing is tight as a drum, tighter than I’ve ever seen. If we…”

  Peter leaned forward and gripped Bob’s shoulder. “We’re going to do this, or I’m going to get out of the car right now and you can explain to Donovan why the op was scrubbed.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Peter found himself climbing the wide stairs to the entrance of the imposing residence of Elena’s parents. The steps had been swept clean of snow, which made the going easier. Walking up stairs was always an awkward affair, although not quite as much as coming down. Nothing here had changed, of course. Unlike in times past, the three story marble columns flanking the grand entry way reminded him of sentinels tasked with keeping out such riffraff as himself.

  He paused for a moment before the door, gathering his courage. Then he took the polished brass lion head door knocker in a firm grip and rapped three times.

  Exactly ten seconds later the door opened on smoothly oiled hinges. The face of the elderly head butler appeared. His black face betrayed no emotional reaction.

  “Hello, Roy,” Peter said. “Is Elena here?”

  “She is, sir. Would you…”

  “Who is it?”

  An electric thrill ran through Peter at the sound of his wife’s voice. Your soon to be ex-wife, you mean, he corrected himself. The last time he’d heard that voice had been three months ago, and she had been angry, hurt. Her voice now sounded happy, like it used to be.

  Then she was there, standing before him. She was as beautiful as ever, her brunette hair elegantly coiffed, her lithe body in a dress that was no doubt on the cutting edge of fashion. He caught a whiff of her perfume. He didn’t recognize it, but it was lovely and glamorous, just like her.

  Unlike Roy’s carefully neutral expression, hers spoke volumes. “Peter.” She made his name sound like an epithet. “What are you doing here?”

  “I…” His tongue seemed to lose its sense of purpose, and he stood there for a moment, speechless.

  “Is something wrong, darling?”

  A man he’d never met came to stand beside her. Handsome enough to give Clark Gable a run for his money, he also had the air of old money about him. It was in the way he looked at Peter, like Scrooge before his transformation, beholding a beggar on his doorstep.

  “No, nothing’s wrong,” she said dismissively. “Peter, what do you want? I told you I didn’t want to see you. You shouldn’t be here.”

  “I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry, sorry for everything,” Peter rasped. His throat felt as if it was swelling shut with anger and humiliation. But he had come here to say something, and he was determined to say it. “You wouldn’t return my calls, and I wanted to tell you because, well, I may not get another chance. I know it probably doesn’t matter now,” his eyes darted to the Clark Gable look alike, wanting to wipe the smirk off the man’s face, “but I wanted you to know. I thought maybe, maybe you might…”

  “Might what? Come crawling back to you?” She threw her head back and laughed. It was a hurtful, haughty sound. “Don’t be a fool. Our marriage is finished, or did you forget what my lawyer told you?”

  “No, I didn’t forget,” Peter said through clenched teeth.

  “I think you should be going now,” Clark Gable said. “Come on, darling. We’re supposed to meet your parents at the club house in an hour.” He held out his arm, and with one last disgusted look at Peter, Elena took it and followed him back into the house.

  “I’m sorry,” Roy whispered after the couple was out of earshot, a look of sadness in his eyes as he closed the door.

  Peter made his way back down the steps, being careful and taking his time. He’d looked back over his shoulder to see his wife and her new beau watching him from one of the upstairs windows, and he refused to give them the satisfaction of watching him tumble ass over teakettle.

  “Not a happy visit, I take it?” Bob said quietly as Peter reached the car.

  “Not at all.” Pausing just long enough to pull off the wedding band and toss it into the carefully manicured hedge, Peter said, “Let’s get out of here.”

  THE CARPETBAGGERS

  “Time to wake up, sir.”

  Peter blinked his eyes open, squinting against the glare of the light bulb dangling directly over his bed. He shivered, throwing a reproachful look at the small wood stove in the corner, which had been entirely unequal to the task of keeping the room warm.

  Bob stood over him, a smile creasing the chiseled features of his face. “Hope you got a few winks, sir. You’re going to need them.”

  “Best sleep of my life,” Peter groaned as he grudgingly cast aside the comforter and blanket. He was still dressed in an American Army combat uniform, right down to the olive drab wool socks. The flight across the Atlantic in a rattletrap DC-3 transport had left him exhausted and chilled to the bone. After Bob had driven him to the OSS safe house in the pre-dawn hours after the plane had landed, Peter had crawled into bed and instantly fallen asleep. He knew he was in England, but that was all. The darkness, accentuated by the blacked out windows in the homes and buildings they’d passed, had denied him even a glimpse of the countryside he had come to love during his brief tenure at Bletchley Park.

  As he sat up, every muscle in his body cried out in protest, and the shattered knee of his right leg began to throb with a vengeance. “I feel like I went fifteen rounds with Joe Louis.”

  Bob’s smile broadened. “As long as you won, sir.”

  Peter managed a chuckle as he tugged on his boots. Bob had been his constant companion since they’d left OSS Headquarters in Washington four days before. He was part butler, part chauffeur, part mentor and, Peter suspected, part bodyguard, as well. He’d pushed and dragged Peter through two very long days of intense training at Area A, doing his best to hammer the most basic agent survival skills into his formerly desk bound charge. While Peter was a skilled marksman with a hunting rifle, Bob and the instructors at Area A had taught him how different hunting could be when the target could shoot back. They also introduced Peter to the rifles and pistols he would find in the Third Reich, in the unfortunate event that Peter had to use them. Other instructors at Area A had taught Peter the basics of how to survive in a winter wilderness, how to use both German and OSS communications equipment, and expanded on what he knew about the Nazi Party and the SS.
On their third and last day, Bob had given him rudimentary instruction in jumping from a plane with a parachute and, far more important, how to land in such a way that Peter had a good chance of walking away.

  The memory silenced Peter’s chuckle. Even in the “baby jumps,” as Bob had called them, leaping from a low wall into a cold muddy pit, Peter’s bum leg had consistently given him trouble. It either collapsed under him or he overcorrected and held his legs too stiff, slamming into the ground like a dropped post. Every jump had left him groaning with pain. While Bob had seemed pleased with his progress, despite Peter’s constant mishaps, he had been forced to call a halt to the training before Peter made it to the static drop tower, let alone a real training jump. They’d simply run out of time.

  After lacing up his boots, Peter asked, “What time is it?”

  “Time to get going, sir,” Bob answered with his usual vague response to any question dealing with time or location. “I’ve got some food ready for you, then we need to be on our way.”

  At the mention of food, Peter’s nose discovered the aroma of eggs, bacon, hash browns, and coffee in the air, wafting into the room after Bob had come in to wake him.

  With his stomach growling, Peter followed Bob downstairs and took a seat at the tiny dinner table. Bob served him a delicious breakfast, although it could have been dinner, for all Peter knew. He didn’t care. He was famished. Craning his head so he could peer into the small kitchen, he saw it was empty, as was the adjoining living room. He and Bob were the safe house’s only occupants. “My God, man. You cooked all this? Is there anything you can’t do?”