Origins: The Reich (30 page)

Hastelloy felt like
it had been a lifetime since he was in the field.  As director of the FBI, he spent his days behind a desk signing papers, making phone calls, and reading activity reports on events he set into motion.  When it came to the task of securing German scientists and their research notes, Hastelloy needed to be on location in Europe.

The American military was hard at work executing Operation Paperclip, and they were making very good progress.  Agents of the Soviet Union also labored feverishly to acquire German knowhow, but the behavior of their soldiers during the final months of the war did them no favors.  Rape, murder, and theft were rampant inside the Soviet controlled zones.  This was not civilian lawlessness occurring under their supervision, it was Red Army soldiers themselves forming rape gangs and punishing every man, woman, or child they came across.  It was almost as if part of the Soviet plan of occupation was to breed out the existence of pure German bloodlines.

As a result, German scientists and their families were beating down the doors of Major Staver and his men carrying out Operation Paperclip.  Over five hundred scientists, many of whom were at the very top of the operation’s wish list, had already been repatriated to the United States.  They were sent along with their families to Fort Bliss in New Mexico to continue their research work while collecting a nice paycheck from the American government.

While Operation Paperclip kept the American military focused on gathering nuclear scientists and their research, Hastelloy’s FBI assets were on the hunt for Germany’s unused stockpile of V-2 rockets.  The weapons were dubbed Hitler’s special ‘revenge weapons’, and they had absolutely terrorized the people of London.  These weapons were not like the V-1 flying bombs that flew at low altitude toward their targets and therefore could be shot down by patrolling planes.  The V-2 rockets flew up into space and came down directly over their designated target; they were unstoppable and engineering marvels considering the times.

For all the evil Tomal had committed, the unforgivable atrocities he had set into motion, leading the Germans to advanced rocketry capabilities without the benefit of computers to model out designs or binary programming to provide guidance went a ways toward making up for it all.  These first generation ballistic missiles were going to save the entire planet, if Hastelloy could find them.

Early on, the allies had located the V-2 development complex in Peenemunde along the Baltic coast.  The facility was then bombed repeatedly from August 1943 until the Germans shut it down in early 1944.  Since the weapons continued to rain death and destruction upon the city of London, it stood to reason that they were still being made elsewhere.  It also made sense that where the weapons were being built, the scientists who developed them would still be there overseeing assembly and working to improve their designs.

Hastelloy was not alone in his desire for these rockets.  Word from Soviet controlled Berlin was that the Red Army was busy tearing apart information archives while interrogating and torturing captured German officials for information on the V-2 program.  It was barbaric, but it would also eventually yield results. 

Hastelloy and his men did not have the benefit of prisoners to torture, nor data archives to read through.  All they had was a set of detailed maps of the German countryside, a handful of intelligence reports from reconnaissance planes, and historical public documents filed by mining operations with the German government.  These limited assets, along with Hastelloy’s keen mind, were all they had when he sat down to discuss the topic with three of his field agents.

As he unfurled a large four-foot by four-foot map of Germany, complete with major cities and railroad lines, Hastelloy explained the situation to his agents.  “The first V-2 manufacturing facility was bombed back to the Stone Age by allied airplanes.  Given the cost and precision tuned equipment needed to build those rockets, I think it stands to reason that any replacement manufacturing complex would be built in a secure facility underground.”

One of his agents said, “There’s that, and the Peenemunde facility was enormous and easy to spot from the air.  The fact that our reconnaissance flights haven’t found any other sites like it above ground also supports your assumption.”

  “Given that fact, I have to assume the Germans would need to get the new site up and running as soon as possible.  That means using a location already dug out,” Hastelloy went on.

“That means mining companies and dig rights applications,” another agent commented.  “I’ve pulled everything we could find since the turn of the century.  That gives us just under fifty dig sites.”

Hastelloy shook his head in frustration at the news.  “Damn this country for having so much coal under its soil.  All right, divide the permit documents between us.  Each of us will find the locations on the map and mark them with a yellow pin.”

Ten minutes later, with the map now looking like a pincushion, Hastelloy continued his process of elimination.  “Those rockets don’t build themselves, and we know how fond the Nazis were of using slave labor.  Let’s have a look at prison and concentration camp locations to see if any overlap with these mining sites.  Mark those places with green pins.”

When all twenty-five labor camp sites were marked, Hastelloy observed with satisfaction that only five of them were positioned near the mining sites.  “They would also need to be close to a major railroad line to receive parts and ship the finished product.”

According to reconnaissance flight photographs, three of the target sites were in the middle of nowhere and did not have direct railroad access.  The remaining two suspects were both equally likely candidates.  One was right along the Polish border and firmly in the hands of the Soviet Red Army.  The other was to the west of Berlin.  It was technically still in the Soviet controlled zone, but was close enough to reach without much trouble.  What’s more, it was much closer to the launch sites responsible for striking London than the site in the east near Poland.

“There,” Hastelloy declared with certainty while pointing to the map.  “Tell me everything we know about the Mittelwerk mine, Nordhausen.”

The third FBI agent present started thumbing through pages in his stack of documents until he found the details for which Hastelloy had asked.  “The mine was opened in 1917 to extract gypsum.  It has two long, parallel tunnels dug with some connecting service tunnels running between them like ladder rungs.  It looks like the facility was shut down in 1934 in order to convert it into a strategic petroleum reserve site.”

“The adjacent labor camp was named Dora and housed about a hundred thousand people.  That’s a lot of manpower and fuel storage capacity if you ask me,” the agent concluded.

Hastelloy nodded with satisfaction.  “It sure is, but it’s on the wrong side of the border.  We can’t go in heavy with the army at our back.  Pull together everyone we have within a day’s travel who’s not in uniform.”

“Yes sir,” all three men replied.

“While you’re doing that, I need to see about securing the use of some locomotives and clearing a track to the coast,” Hastelloy said.  “If we came to this conclusion so easily with our limited intelligence resources, I doubt that the Soviets will be very far behind us.  When they show up, since we’ll be trespassing on their side of the line, we’ll have no choice but to leave what we can’t sneak out for the Soviets to play with.”

The next day Hastelloy and nearly a hundred of his field agents dressed in civilian clothes converged on the foothills of the Harz Mountains.  They came upon the outskirts of forced labor camp Dora.  The place was massive in scale, yet eerie in silence as it was all but abandoned once the German guards left their posts. 

Hastelloy’s agents tried making contact with the remaining inhabitants, but had no luck.  The handful of spindly adults they spotted moving between buildings in the distance were there one moment, then gone the next.  Even when the men tried working together to hem the elusive targets in, they simply vanished around corners as if they were apparitions. 

A sixth sense in the back of Hastelloy’s mind began going off right after the evasive contacts began.  It was almost as if they were being led around the camp for a specific purpose.  It certainly did not feel like a Soviet trap since Valnor’s last communication promised to hold off the Red Army advance into that area for at least another day.  He could not put his finger on it, but there was something off about the place so he opted to avoid any potential trouble.

“Leave the camp alone and follow the rail lines leading toward the hills.  Any manufacturing facility is going to be tied into the main lines at some point,” Hastelloy ordered the men over his handheld radio.

Just over a mile west of camp Dora, they struck pay dirt.  A set of railroad tracks had been buried beneath dirt, rocks, and shrubs.  The path led them three hundred yards over rugged terrain to find a large tunnel entrance hidden beneath camouflaged cargo netting.  From the air, Hastelloy was quite certain the tunnel entrance was indistinguishable from its surroundings, but the significance of the place was unmistakable when staring at it from ground level.

The moment Hastelloy set foot inside the tunnel entrance, he knew for sure that this was the place.  This subterranean complex was the linchpin of Hastelloy’s entire four thousand year endeavor on planet Earth.  He would have loved to savor the moment, but there was no time to waste.  The discovery was far larger in scope than he could have imagined. 

Walking down the long tunnel, he was stunned to see railway freight cars loaded with the forty-foot long rockets fully assembled and ready to ship.  In all, they found one hundred of the white and black checkerboard painted missiles.

Hastelloy followed one of the crossing corridors into tunnel B and discovered a two-story manufacturing complex.  Along three assembly lines, he saw several V-1 flying bombs, V-2s, as well as jet engines for their Me 262 and Ar 234 aircrafts partially assembled.

“My God, this place is gigantic.  We’ll never be able to remove everything before the Soviets figure out what we’re doing here,” an agent said over Hastelloy’s shoulder.  “These walls are made of solid granite.  There aren’t enough explosives left in all of Europe to collapse these tunnels.”

Hastelloy opened his mouth to respond, but was preempted by a chirp from his hand radio.  “Director, we have a situation at the front entrance of the tunnel.  It appears we were followed here from the camp.”

“Are we under attack?” Hastelloy asked over the radio on his way back.  “Do we need to call in air support?”

“No, nothing like that, sir,” an amused voice responded, “but we do need you up here as soon as possible.”

When Hastelloy arrived, he found his agents charged with guarding the front entrance holding eight men at gunpoint.  He could see why the radio operator was amused with Hastelloy’s question.  These were not German or Soviet soldiers.  In fact, collectively they were probably the least imposing group of men he had ever laid eyes on.

Each of them wore thick-framed, circular glasses along with dark dress pants and white button up shirts.  None of them were malnourished, but still, none of them could have weighed more than a hundred and fifty pounds.  They had all aged from the photos Hastelloy committed to memory on the flight over from the United States, but he could still recognize nearly all of them.  They were all German scientists who worked on the V weapons projects.

“
My name is Hans
,” the tallest of the scientists said in German.  “We were prisoners and made to work in these caverns…” 

Hastelloy had heard enough and put up his hand to stop him mid-sentence.  “Stop the lies.  I know who you are, Doctor Werner von Braun.  You used to run this research and manufacturing facility for Hitler.”

He then lowered his halting palm to offer a handshake.  “I am John Edgar Hoover, Director of the American Federal Bureau of Investigation, and I’ve been looking for you and your men for a long time.” 

The good doctor looked as if he wanted to continue with the ruse, but thought better of it and continued the conversation in nearly perfect English.  “These men standing next to me, and dozens more back in the camp, all worked on the V weapons you see inside these caverns.  We know how they work, how to make them, and where the research and design documents for them are hidden.”

“I take it then that you, your men and all your families have been waiting around to offer your services to the first country arriving to take ownership of these weapons?” Hastelloy asked.

“Not exactly,” Dr. von Braun arrogantly declared as if he were the master of the universe itself.  “We are here to offer our knowledge and services to the highest bidder.  You Americans are the first to arrive, so you have the privilege of making the first offer.  I advise you not to make it too high because we both know the Soviets will probably double it with their opening bid.”

Hastelloy could only crack a smile at the man’s hubris, “Tell you what, why don’t we try this again.  All of you are wanted criminals who I’m obligated to turn over to the courts for war crimes committed against humanity.  I now have the rockets and jet engines.  They can be reverse engineered, so we don’t need you; any of you.”

“That process will take a lot of time, money, and effort if it works at all,” Dr. von Braun countered without the slightest falter in his confidence.  He clearly thought his research and designs were beyond any other mere mortals; he must have been good friends with Tomal to be this overconfident.  “Why not skip all that time, risk, and expense by simply making us an offer we can’t refuse.  Make us rich and you will save ten times the sum.”