“I don’t believe it, either, but that’s the story that’s making the rounds.” The OSS was built on secrets that were never to go beyond its walls. But sometimes, still confined within its walls, secrets that should have only been known to a few became known to many.
“Anyone who thinks that can go straight to Hell. Peter’s not a traitor.” I hope, he didn’t add.
“So what’s going to happen now?”
He looked up into her bright green eyes. “I don’t know. God help me, I just don’t know.”
***
On the other side of the Atlantic, the operations officer of the RAF’s 617 Squadron, the famed Dambusters, sat ramrod straight at his desk in the squadron headquarters building at RAF Scampton, his telephone pressed to his ear so he could hear over the muted roar of a pair of four engine Lancaster bombers coming in for landing. “Yes, sir, today’s raid against the Bielefeld viaduct was a complete success, collapsing about sixty meters of the viaduct. It’s the first raid where we used the Grand Slam bomb. It shattered at least one of the pylons, and the Tallboy bombs finished off the target…yes, sir…” He looked up at his planning board, which listed all the targets the squadron had been ordered to attack over the next month. “Arnsberg is fourth on our list sir…Yes, sir, but we’d have to update our…That many, sir? Yes, sir, I understand. I’ll coordinate with 9 Squadron immediately. We’ll get it done, sir.”
As he hung up the phone, his assistant asked, “What the devil was that all about, sir?”
“That was Air Vice-Marshall Blucke.” Blucke was the Air Officer Commanding of No. 1 Group, of which 617 Squadron was a part. “We’ve been given orders from on high that the viaduct at Arnsberg has been moved up to the top of the list for the next Grand Slam raid.”
“On high, sir?”
“I distinctly heard mention of Downing Street.” 10 Downing Street was the official residence of the Prime Minister, Winston Churchill.
“Oh, hell.”
The operations officer looked out the window as the planes returning from the Bielefeld raid taxied from the runway to parking positions along the apron. The squadron leader had already radioed in the news of the raid’s success. The operations officer hadn’t been surprised at the results: while the twelve thousand pound Tallboy bombs the squadron had been using to attack hard targets were enormous, the new twenty-two thousand pound Grand Slam bombs, the largest bombs ever dropped, were positively titanic. Released from high altitude to burrow deep into the earth, they created an underground shock wave, an earthquake effect, when they detonated, that literally shook the target to pieces. “I’ll brief the squadron leader as soon as he comes in. I want you to get the ground crews to work turning the planes around and have the weapons chaps get the bombs ready for tomorrow.” He turned back to face the younger man. “We’ve been ordered to send up everything we can get into the air.”
“When?”
The chalk in the operations officer’s hand screeched on the blackboard as he wrote 15 March - Arnsberg. Turning back to his assistant, he said, “Tomorrow.”
TEUTONIC KNIGHTS
While Peter could have performed some subtle sabotage on the computer that wouldn’t have caused lasting harm, he had no doubt that Baumann would instantly have put him under a microscope. After resolving the machine’s performance problems, von Falkenstein and Hoth had made it clear to the rest of the staff that Peter was now in charge of the great computer’s operation and maintenance. A guard was now posted at the steps to the platform, which was the only way to reach the device, and only three technicians were authorized access, which greatly limited the pool of likely suspects.
The capacitor bank, however, was frequented by a dozen electrical technicians, along with Hoth and Peter, who had assisted the senior scientist with some of the system calibrations after Peter had proved his worth on the computer. As was customary before operating the gate, the capacitors were checked for any faults, and Peter’s assistance was welcomed.
While his heart had been beating like a drum and his body was soaked in the cold sweat of fear, he was able to carry out his act of sabotage all too easily. As the technicians had checked off one capacitor after another, Peter had simply slipped a small spool of solder wire into a particular gap in the housing of one of the capacitors. He hoped that, were it discovered prematurely, it might be written off as a foolish accident on someone’s part, as it certainly wouldn’t look like sabotage. Not until the capacitors were turned on and began to generate heat.
With the checks complete and his treachery undiscovered, Peter excused himself and returned to his room. He still had some time left before the next watch, when von Falkenstein planned to send the next test subject through.
After grabbing something to eat in the kitchen, Peter returned to his room and sat down at the desk where he had left The Black Gate and von Falkenstein’s copy of The Mystic Will. From his tunic pocket, he produced a pair of hand-sized journals he had purloined from one of the operator consoles on Level Two.
Taking a pen from the desk, he opened one of the journals and paused, the nib held a fraction of an inch from the waiting paper. Peter was an engineer by trade and had a keen eye and memory for detail, but he couldn’t trust his observations simply to his memory. He had to document as much as he could.
It would be natural for him to keep his own set of project notes here at the facility. But any information he might take with him, assuming he ever left this place alive, had to be protected, both from casual discovery and from those who might pose a threat to the United States after the Nazis had been vanquished (the Soviets came immediately to mind) in case he wasn’t able to deliver his journals to the right people. What he now knew was far more important than even the Allied exploitation of German and Japanese ciphers, which were among the most closely guarded secrets of the entire war.
That is what had driven him to borrow von Falkenstein’s copy of The Mystic Will. Flipping it open, he breathed a sigh of relief that it was the same printing as his father’s copy, which remained safe in Peter’s library at home. He had wanted the book not to read, but to use as a key for one of the world’s oldest methods of encryption, the book cipher. In concept, it was simple enough: using a particular book as the key, one could use the page number, line number, and position number of a word or letter to transform that word or letter into a numeric cipher. To decipher the information, the process was reversed. The only catch was that one had to use the exact same edition of the book. He silently thanked his father, for codes and ciphers had been another of his hobbies, and he, Mannie, and Peter had spent many fine hours enciphering and deciphering silly messages. While Peter hadn’t pursued it as a line of work, that aspect of his childhood had helped immensely when he had been sent to Bletchley Park.
His plan had two downsides, of course. The first was that he would be in a bit of hot water with von Falkenstein and Baumann if his illicit journals were discovered. Simple notes would not have been questioned, but numerical cipher would certainly raise some red flags. He might be able to talk his way out of it, but might not. The second problem was more concrete. If he died in this place, the journals, even if eventually discovered, would be useless because no one would know the key.
There is one person you can trust, he thought.
Flipping open The Mystic Will to a random page, he composed his thoughts and began to write.
***
“You wanted to see me, sir?” Peter stood at the entrance to von Falkenstein’s library. After what could have been no more than an hour of sleep, slumped over his desk, pen still in hand, he had been awakened by a soldier bearing a summons to the Herr Professor’s quarters.
“Yes, Peter, yes.” Von Falkenstein looked up from where he’d been writing in one of his own journals. Peter would have loved to get his hands on it. “Please, come in and close the door.” Peering over the top of his reading glasses, he added, “You look dreadful, dear boy. Your zeal is commendable and appreciated, but you must find
some time to rest. Come, sit down.”
Like a wooden marionette, Peter did as he was told, slumping into one of the leather armchairs facing von Falkenstein’s desk. “I’m sorry, sir. It was a very long night. I’m having some difficulties coming to grips with all that I’ve seen here.”
With a final flourish of his fountain pen, von Falkenstein closed the journal and took off his glasses, setting them on the desk. Getting up from his chair, he poured a glass of schnapps for Peter and himself. Handing Peter the glass, he said, “Here, drink this.”
Peter put the glass to his lips and took a sip, then tossed back the entire contents, swallowing it in one gulp. The schnapps blasted a welcome trail of fire down his throat and into his stomach.
Von Falkenstein poured him another. “I called you here for a very important reason,” he said quietly as he sat down in the chair opposite Peter. “There is no easy way to say it, so I’ll just get on with the matter.” Peter nodded, suddenly worried. “The more time has gone on, the more I regret Baumann’s choice as the leader of the first contingent of our new Teutonic Knights. He is quite the warrior, yes, but he is also a heartless, honorless baboon. He’s vile and sadistic, and I think in the end, once he transits the gate and is given the powers of our great ancestors, he will be found to be ill-disciplined, unwilling to carry out the Führer’s orders. Instead, I believe he will follow a course of action of his own design, which will lead to very unfortunate consequences for the Reich. We have put so much into this project, sacrificed a great deal to get to where we are today, and I feel like we may be about to pour our gold into the wrong mold, as it were.”
Peter felt queasy, and it had nothing to do with the schnapps. “Sir, if I may ask something?”
“Of course.”
“Standartenführer Baumann told me that you’ve sent a few hundred travelers, including children, through the gate. But why didn’t you just stop your experimentation with Ivan? What more perfect engine of destruction could you hope to find in a chimera than him? A thousand, even a hundred, of those things would put a stop to the Russians, to say nothing of the Anglo-Americans.”
Von Falkenstein laughed. “Creatures like Ivan are indeed weapons, Peter, but like the ridiculous super-tanks the Führer has been obsessed with, they are also completely impractical. They would be easily identified, and on the battlefield what can be seen can be destroyed.” He shook his head. “As powerful as such a creature is, even with its regenerative ability, destroying it by cannon fire, bombs or aircraft rockets would be a trivial matter.” He shook his head. “No, we need not just a super-weapon, but a super-soldier. And that is what we found in the form of Subject 98-7.”
“I know that the Reich needs such a weapon to win the war, but have you thought about what lies beyond?” Peter asked, indirectly trying to reason with the older man. “Once such beings have been released into the world, who is to say they can ever be controlled? I’m not an expert in biology, but any time a superior species is introduced into an environment, the existing equilibrium is destroyed. The Reich itself could be endangered.”
Von Falkenstein waved away Peter’s concern. “That is the shape of our future, Peter. The world will indeed be transformed by our very hands. And I doubt for not a single moment that the Führer himself will quickly join the ranks of the immortals once he sees the fruits of our success.”
The thought of Hitler, immortal and surrounded by an immortal army of SS soldiers to shield and protect him, made Peter’s stomach turn. The world would burn for all eternity.
“As you know from the operations schedule,” von Falkenstein told him, “we will send through another test subject today to fully validate the gate’s operation. Once that is done, using one of the Organisation Todt laborers, I plan to send the first company of soldiers through the gate as quickly as possible.” He paused a moment, holding Peter’s gaze. “As I mentioned earlier, I have become convinced that Baumann is not be the best candidate to lead them. I have decided on someone else, someone who is not simply a spear carrier, but who has a deeper understanding of what we are doing here.”
Peter gripped the arms of the chair, his chest tightening with a sense of panic. “You can’t possibly mean me, sir!”
“Yes, I mean you. I took the liberty of sending a communique to that effect to SS Headquarters, and it was endorsed by the Reichsführer himself. Baumann is one of Himmler’s fair-haired children, and I am sure he will get his chance to drink from the well of immortality. I emphasized your strengths over Baumann’s, despite your inferior rank, which is something that will be addressed quite soon.”
“But…but…” Peter couldn’t catch his breath. “Sir, my leg…”
Von Falkenstein shook his head. “Your leg will not be a concern, my friend! Once you pass through the gate, your leg will be healed.”
Peter nodded, trying to think of something to say, but he was in an utter daze. The nightmare into which he had been flung was only getting worse and worse. “Thank you, sir,” he managed. “It is a great…a great honor.”
“You need not thank me, Peter. As I said, the Reich badly needs men such as you. I have not yet informed Baumann, so please keep this between us for now.”
Like a mechanical puppet, Peter nodded before tossing back the rest of the schnapps.
Von Falkenstein rose and poured him another glass before returning to his chair. “The other reason I recommended you over Baumann is a bit more personal. It involves Mina.”
Peter slowly set down the glass on the end table. “How so, sir?”
“Put simply, she seems to trust you, and she has always been an impeccable judge of character.”
Except when it comes to you, Peter thought, but held his tongue.
“I have seen that you two seem to get along quite well. That is why I need you to fully understand one thing.”
“What’s that, sir?”
Von Falkenstein looked him straight in the eye. “I accept, even expect, a degree of familiarity between Mina and the men who work here, especially those like you on the command staff. In fact, that familiarity is a valuable asset, because she sees and hears things that I never would, things that have often been of great value to me. Men will say the most amazing things to a beautiful woman, especially one they consider a friend. But always remember this: if you ever so much as lay a finger on her, I’ll have Kleist flay you alive and then cut you up into tiny pieces to feed to his menagerie.”
Peter gulped, frightened as much by the casual tone von Falkenstein had used to deliver the threat as the threat itself. Human life had absolutely no value to this man. “Sir, I would never…”
Von Falkenstein waved his hand in a dismissive gesture as he took another drink. “I know, Peter, I know. You would never think of it, of course. I just tell you this so there are no unfortunate misunderstandings later. You are far too valuable an asset to waste.”
Before Peter could say anything else, von Falkenstein got to his feet. “Now,” he said, “go get some rest. Because if all goes well, you will be next through the gate after our final test subject.” He clasped his hands together like an eager schoolboy. “I am so excited for you, young man! And once you and your soldiers are through without incident, I believe I will follow. The contributions I could make to the Reich as an immortal are simply incalculable.”
“Yes, sir. Incalculable.” Doing his best to conceal the tremors that had taken hold of his body, Peter got to his feet. “I’ll be in my quarters until summoned for the next watch.”
“Sleep well, Peter.”
Clicking his heels together and bowing his head slightly, Peter turned and limped out of von Falkenstein’s apartment, knowing that he would never be able to sleep again.
SABOTAGE
Mina contemplated the latest news from Doghouse with an odd mixture of dread and relief. She made her way slowly back to the entrance, nodding politely to the guards, before taking the elevator down to Level One. She came to stand before Peter’s door. Her hand poised
to knock, she was momentarily torn with indecision. In the end, she decided he deserved to know. She believed he was a good man at heart, but, like so many others in this place, had been seduced by a power beyond his ability to fully understand.
Rapping softly on the door, she called, “Herr Müller?” She had to knock three more times before Peter finally answered the door.
Unable to help herself, Mina put her hand to her mouth. “Peter,” she whispered, “you look terrible! Are you ill?”
He hadn’t shaved, his hair was a mess, and there were dark circles under his bloodshot eyes, looking like bruises against his pale skin. He looked at her with an owlish expression, as if he didn’t quite recognize her.
With a quick look to make sure the corridor was clear of prying eyes, she pressed her hand on his chest and pushed him back as she stepped into the room and closed the door. His breath smelled of schnapps, and she saw a nearly empty bottle sitting on his desk beside The Black Gate and the other book he had taken from von Falkenstein’s library. A journal lay open on the blotter, the pages filled with long strings of numbers. “You should go to the infirmary.”
Peter threw his head back and laughed. “They have nothing that can cure this,” he told her.
“What, Peter? What is it?”
He staggered to the desk and poured himself another drink. “Didn’t your love tell you? He’s going to put me in charge of Hitler’s new super-soldiers. He apparently thinks I’m more worthy of the honor and will make sure to put the needs of the Reich first.” He held up the glass in a mock toast and then tossed it back, swallowing it all.
“No,” Mina breathed.
“Oh, yes. If the test is successful today, if the poor fool they send through comes out like our dear friend Subject 98-7, they’re going to send me through next, and then the first batch of soldiers. I’m going to be their commander.” He giggled and reached for the bottle again.
Mina snatched the glass from his hand and slammed it down on the desk. “Has he told Baumann?”
The Black Gate Page 12
