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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Foreword

  Prologue

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Copyright

  FOR LAURIE AND FOR JIM BOWSER.

  THANKS

  FOREWORD

  In 1936 the Germans established a scientific community of more than five thousand persons on the northern tip of Usedom Island in the Baltic Sea at a place called Peenemünde—Mouth of the Peene River. Heading this research facility was the young genius Wernher Von Braun, who later directed America’s entrance and success in the race to the moon.

  From Peenemünde came the terrible V-2 liquid-propelled rocket that was able to hurl a 2,000-pound payload of explosives across the sea to England. Other scientific miracles came out of this research as well, miracles we now call spinoffs. New metals, new pumps, and new electronic circuitry—which later found their way into the world industrial scene—were developed as a result of Peenemünde research.

  Peenemünde was the scene on which the declining Third Reich was pinning its hopes for its Wunderwaffen, which were to miraculously stem the tide of war. Wunderwaffen like the V-2, jet aircraft, and the atomic bomb were nearing practical reality when the end finally came.

  During the chaos that reigned as the Americans closed in from the south and west, and the Russians from the east and north, the scientists and engineers of Peenemünde moved most of their important research notes and equipment, first to Bleicherode, southwest of Berlin, and later to an abandoned mine shaft in the Harz Mountains at Goslar, south of Hannover. Then, many of the important scientists turned themselves over to the American forces and, along with the retrieved documents, were brought to the United States to begin its rocket program under Operation Paperclip.

  Some of what was discovered at Peenemünde was revealed to the American public as a result of Paperclip. But much of the research remains hidden from the public view. Why? And why within months after the first German documents were captured did the United States suddenly develop the first successful atomic bomb? And why during the next twenty years did the United States emerge as a leader of the world scientific and technological community, with breakthroughs in nuclear research, electronics, rocketry, medicine, and a host of other fields?

  This book is a fictional account of what might have happened, and what might still be happening. The characters, events, and organizations are for the most part totally figments of the author’s imagination.

  David Hagberg

  Cambridge, Wisconsin

  PROLOGUE

  MARCH 15, 1945

  It was raining from a dull overcast sky. The distant sound of gunfire wafting in on a chance breeze made the two American guards at the entrance to the tunnel nervous. But there was nothing they could do. They were instructed to wait. Parked on the road down from the mine shaft entrance were a half-dozen heavy U.S. Army trucks, their drivers all waiting impatiently. To be caught here by retreating German forces would be fatal, all of them knew. Despite the enemy’s confusion, he might decide to take his desperation, bitterness, and defeat out on this lightly armed group.

  That, too, was on the minds of the young lieutenant and twenty of his men crowded around the one frail old German by a heavy steel door. So the lieutenant snapped:

  “Macht schnell.”

  “Einen augenblick, bitte.”

  The old man’s hand shook as he tried to get the lock to work. In his mind was confusion. Last year it had been Deutschland über Alles; then, in the last few months, despite the breakdowns in communications, he knew the end was near. Only days before, several young men had come with trucks to hide the high-priority secret documents. They did not say what it was all about, but the old man later looked through some of the tons of material, and he knew they concerned the Wunderwaffen. He knew then that if those records were being hidden, the end must be very close indeed.

  Now the Americans were here. Somehow they had discovered the hiding place. But he could not be blamed. No, he would be held blameless.

  The ancient steel door swung noisily open on its rusty hinges, and the Americans rudely brushed past the old man into the large vault once used to store explosives. The lieutenant whistled.

  “Son of a bitch. There must be five tons of shit here.”

  He stood like that a moment, flashlight playing over the mammoth pile of paper cartons, then began issuing orders to the men, most of whom pushed handcarts. Soon a steady line of men worked its way back up the tunnel, pushcarts loaded, to pile the boxes on the waiting trucks.

  Six hours later the vault was emptied and all but one of the six trucks was loaded. The old man had escaped into the mountains, but the lieutenant did not care. He had gotten most of what he had come for. He only hoped that the other three sections of his squadron had been equally successful at Nordhausen, Bleicherode, and Peenemünde itself.

  Only two things worried the lieutenant. The first was the sound of gunfire, which had gotten closer throughout the day. It would not do for them to get caught with this material; not by the retreating Germans, nor by the advancing Russians, who were not far away. And the second was the capsule. He had been told it probably was hidden here in the tunnel near Goslar. But despite the search, no sign had been seen of the all-important item. There was nothing he could do about that now, though, he thought as they pulled out of the area for their long trek south through Goslar, then behind the Allied lines to Munich, and the waiting transport aircraft.

  I

  MONDAY, JULY 21, 1969

  It was shortly after one o’clock in the morning in Washington, D.C., when two men sat talking in a plain but elegant office in the Central Intelligence Agency complex at Langley. Both men were tired from the day’s happenings, and both were impatient to get the job started.

  “I’ll be leaving in the morning, sir,” the younger man said. He was tall, over six feet, and husky. He wore a plain dark suit that was purposely cut a little large to hide the bulge of a gun. The suit was crumpled, as if he had slept in it. When he spoke, his voice barely carried over the soft hush of the air conditioner.

  “What about Thornton?” the director asked softly.

  “I don’t know,” the younger man said. He seemed tired and harried. “Maybe Sorenson can watch him.”

  “Too dangerous,” the director said after a moment. He tugged at his lower lip. “But I understand.”

  The other man sighed. “Shall I stay, then?”

  “I don’t think so. No … no, you’ll have to continue with what we’ve started. I’ll think of something from this end.” He paused a moment, thoughtfully chewing at his lower lip now. When he looked back at his operative,
the man’s eyes held his. “Are you certain about what’s happening out there? Absolutely sure?”

  “I’m sure they’re too damned close. And after this evening they’ll be stepping up their operations.”

  “I suppose they’d have to.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The director’s eyes were red-rimmed as he watched his operative’s face. This was a nasty business. Had been from the start. But maybe this would be the end of it for a while. Maybe they would get some peace and quiet and the committee would get off his back. “What’s the latest from out there?” he finally said.

  “It’s in the report, sir,” the operative said, somewhat exasperated.

  The older man became impatient, and he snapped, “I know that. I want your personal assessment. You’ve been close to this goddamned mess from the beginning when Sorenson finally took over. And after tonight, well…” He let his voice trail off.

  There was deference but no fear in the younger man’s voice when he answered, which bespoke control even under the present trying circumstances. That attribute was one of the reasons he had been chosen to be a CIA operative. “Most likely they’re still stumbling down blind alleys like they have been since the Alamogordo and Huntsville days,” he said.

  “But we can’t be sure.”

  “No, sir. Perhaps it’s just happenstance they’ve come this far. But I don’t think we can afford to take the chance. Their operative is not stupid. Ruthlessly intelligent would be more apt. And that, simply, Mr. Director, is why I’m going out there.”

  The director stood up slowly, suddenly very conscious of his age, the lateness of the hour, and their effects on his body. He came around the large desk. “I’m still worried about the Thornton business.”

  “Probably no connection,” the younger man said, too sharply. He got to his feet. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  “I want to believe that,” the director said, looking into his man’s eyes. “But I just don’t know.” He stopped a moment, deep in thought, then he came out of it and moved across the room to the door with the other man. “At any rate, we’ll take care of it from this end. So don’t worry.”

  The operative, whose real name was known only to the director of the CIA and a handful of other people within the business, said nothing as he left the office. Unlike what he had told his boss, he did not think Thornton’s inquiry into the affair was just routine. But there was no way in which he could find that out at the moment. It would have to wait.

  He took the elevator to the ground floor, and at the main entrance signed out with the correct time after his working name, Martin Ketner.

  * * *

  The date was Monday, July 21, 1969. The time, shortly before one in the morning in the Midwestern United States. Two hours before, Neil Armstrong had stepped off the ladder of his lunar landing module Eagle, becoming the first man to set foot on the moon. Around the world, people intently watched the historic event on television sets that received an unclear picture of the desolate landscape. It was a technological triumph for the Free World, said announcers in a dozen languages. In a few places around the world, however, newscasters were calling it a dangerous mission, typical of capitalistic and imperialistic thinking.

  At Lake Ripley, about an hour’s drive west of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, Travis Sturm was just leaving the bar where he had watched the event on television. He had not planned staying at the lakeside nightclub this late, but the events of the weekend had wound him up tight. First the call from Al Thornton in Washington on Friday, and then, later, his mother’s insistence that his father was dead, had sent Sturm’s mind reeling in a dozen different directions, each as unclear as the televised picture from the moon he had watched.

  Sturm’s thoughts whirled back to the weekend, to the moment he’d decided he would take a couple of weeks off from his job as an investigative reporter with the Milwaukee Journal to finally begin the search for his father’s memory. For more than ten years, since he had learned he had a father other than the one who had raised him, Sturm had promised himself he would seek out his memory. It would be only a memory he would find—or at least that is what he thought until he talked to Thornton—because his father was among those listed as missing in action somewhere in Germany near the end of World War II, never to be heard from again.

  Outside the bar, he got into his battered but mechanically perfect Porsche 1600S. Since his Army days in Germany he had vowed he would own a Porsche. A few years ago, on a return trip to Germany as a civilian, he had finally bought the car and had since put more than 100,000 miles on it, driving the 100-mile round trip to work every day.

  Easing out onto the lake road, he headed the short distance to his small apartment overlooking the water. It was a brilliantly clear night, with no traffic whatsoever. He felt very much isolated from the world and its happenings at the moment, the green dash lights and purring engine the only parts of his world that were real. He thought about his father as he drove.

  Sturm had been born Travis Sturm, but when he was very young his mother had married a man named Leonard Williamson. He was never told he had another father, and he grew up as Travis Williamson, his early memories of another name fading completely out of his mind after a year or so.

  His mother had delayed telling her son the truth about his real father at first because she thought he should be older and more mature. She had made a mistake when she was young, but that was over now. Then, as the years passed, she told herself it didn’t really matter if Travis knew about his real father. Her son had a father now, and although he wasn’t much, he was the only father Travis had ever really known. After a while she began to believe this herself.

  He thought about those days now as he turned onto the side road leading to his apartment. He had finally learned his real name when he was seventeen and tried to join the service. At first he had been crushed by the news, but then, later, after his mother had told him how she had met his father, how they had had no chance to be married before he went into the Army, and how he had never come back, his spirits began to rise. No longer would he have to keep the name Williamson. He was a Sturm. It was a nice name. It was short and to the point. It would be a good name to use as a byline when he began writing stories. His only regret was that he had never known his real father, and now would never get the chance. But he had vowed to himself that someday he would find out everything there was to know about the man.

  He pulled into the graveled parking lot in front of the low, white apartment building at the edge of Lake Ripley, and hurried into his well-kept apartment. Inside, he kicked off his shoes and took off his shirt as he went into the kitchen to get a beer out of the refrigerator. Then he went back into the living room and opened the curtains on the large plate-glass window that looked out across the lake. A few lights glowed on the other side, and the moon shone overhead, splashing and rippling yellow across the lake. Two men were getting ready to enter the sleep phase in their lunar landing module 250,000 miles away, Sturm knew, but he was a long way from sleeping this night.

  He sank down on the couch and punched the rewind button on the tape recorder still attached to the telephone. Friday morning, after he had decided he would begin his search for everything he could find out about his father, he had called Al Thornton, an old friend from his days with the Associated Press in South Dakota. Thornton had been one of the few good newspapermen in that state, and he and Sturm had struck up an immediate friendship. Then, when U.S. Representative Melvin Harnett had become Senator Harnett from South Dakota, he had asked Thornton to come to Washington to be his administrative assistant. Sturm remembered the day Thornton and his wife Susan had left for Washington.

  It was a cold, windblown, South Dakota January day at the airport in Sioux Falls. After the good-byes had been said, Thornton had looked seriously at Sturm.

  “Look, kid, I know damn well you’re not staying with the AP in South Dakota. You’re just not meant for this place. But if ever you need any help from Washing
ton, give me a ring and I’ll tear the town apart for you.”

  “You’re right, Al,” said Sturm, shaking his head. “I’m thinking about getting out of here. Since Ellen and I were divorced, I’ve been chomping at the bit to go.”

  “Where to?”

  “Probably to Germany for a while. I’d like to try a few free-lance detective stories from over there.”

  “Well, good luck, kid, and don’t forget, if you ever need anything from Washington, give me a call.”

  Sturm remembered that day and had decided to ask him for help on Friday. His old friend had been surprised to hear from him, but had assured Sturm he would look up his father’s military records immediately. He said he would have the information by early that same afternoon.

  Sturm stopped the tape about the point he had started recording Thornton’s return call—a call that had sent his mind reeling. He punched the playback button, then sat back with his beer to listen to the voices, unreal and faraway over the hum and squeak of the unit’s motor.

  “… got the records you’re looking for, Travis.”

  “Any trouble finding them?”

  “Not really, although some punk clerk in the Pentagon’s Records Section said he wasn’t supposed to release any of the data. I told him who I was, and he backed down. It’s one advantage to living in this goddamned class-conscious town.”

  “What did you find out?” Sturm could hear the earlier excitement in his voice even over the unclear quality of the recording.

  There was a pause, then Thornton’s voice came on strong. “I thought you said your dad had died in the war?”

  “As far as I know, he did,” Sturm said. “My mother told me he was listed as missing in action.”

  “Not according to what I dug up.”

  “What did you find? Don’t tell me he’s still alive?”

  “According to the records of a Jonathan Sturm, who was twenty-four when he enlisted in the Army September 15, 1942, from Madison, Wisconsin, your father is still alive.”