April 18, 1945 – Southwestern Poland
When the elevator doors opened Colonel Claus Webber was confronted by a scene of frantic activity disintegrating into chaos. One of the pushcarts had overturned, spilling hundreds of documents across the tunnel's floor. Two of the Jews were struggling to right the cart while a third was on his knees stacking the pages into ragged piles. Two guards watched lazily from the side of the corridor.
"Don't just stand there!" Webber shouted. For a moment the guards hesitated. Manual labor was a job for the Jews but after a quick glance at Webber's face both SS men hurriedly grabbed the edge of the overturned cart. Four days before General Kammler's Chief of Staff, Obersturmbahnfurher Stark, had left the facility to report to the General in Munich, leaving Colonel Webber in charge. Shortly thereafter Kammler had ordered all the project files crated for transport.
Under Webber's watchful eye the guards and the three prisoners hurriedly reloaded the cart.
"Who was pushing the cart?" Webber asked the senior guard.
"They were," the Corporal said, pointing at two of the Jews.
Webber took out his sidearm, waved it back and forth three times between the two pale, gray men, then pulled the trigger, shattering the skull of the older slave.
"Get him out of here," Webber ordered then turned and walked back down the tunnel. Behind him he heard the cart's wheels squeaking as the remaining prisoners pushed it to the packaging room where the lab books and blueprints would be inventoried, crated and sealed for shipment.
Three days later a JU-290 swept low over the valley. The mid-April ground was soft and spotted with puddles. For the preceding two days the prisoners and the remaining lab technicians had been laying five centimeter thick planks over the bulldozed earth in a swath barely wide enough to accommodate the plane's landing gear. Webber bit his lip nervously as the pilot dropped the big ship the last few meters.
Called 'trucks', the four-engined JU 290, and its big brother the six-engined 390, were in desperately short supply. Rumor had it that Himmler himself had demanded one and that General Kammler had turned him down, instead sending the plane here to recover its precious cargo before the Russians reached the base. If the plane foundered, if the makeshift runway failed, Webber had no illusions about what would happen to him.
The wheels hit with a thump and the 290 bounded five meters into the air, planks scattering behind it like matchsticks. The wheels came back down and this time it bounced only a meter. On the third hop it stayed down leaving snapped boards in its wake. The big plane rolled on, finally stopping a bare two hundred meters from the end of the cleared earth.
Webber issued a piercing whistle and waved his arm in a circle. A line of crate-laden carts emerged from the cargo elevator. From the other end of the runway the remaining prisoners and lab technicians advanced into the field, hurriedly replacing the broken planks with the last of the fresh ones.
Kammler's orders were explicit. Webber was to load the plane and have it ready for takeoff by twenty hundred hours. The General would radio coded orders directly to the pilot. Once the plane departed the prisoners were to be killed and the facility flooded. That part would be easy. Originally a coal mine, it required constant pumping to keep it dry. From that point on, it was every man for himself. The Sudeten Mountains in Southwest Poland were hardly on the Russian's direct invasion route but sooner or later they would show up and Webber had no intention of being there when they did. He looked at his watch. It was 16:00. He had four hours to get the plane loaded and ready to fly.
April 21, 1945 – Bavaria
SS General Hans Kammler checked his watch and stepped into the small inn ten kilometers west of Oberammergau in southern Bavaria. It felt strange to be out of uniform. The coarse wool pants chafed his legs. Two men sat in the deserted lobby, one black haired, one brown. Kammler immediately noted their sun browned skin and ill fitting civilian clothes. Like himself these were soldiers who had recently left their uniforms behind.
"Mr. Adams and Mr. Jones, I believe?" Kammler said in University English.
"Herr Schmitt?" the taller man replied.
Kammler gave his head a quick nod and extended his hand. After a slight pause the man called Jones took it then waved Kammler to the empty seat at a small, scarred table.
"Do you have the material?" Adams demanded immediately.
"It's been a long day. Perhaps we can conclude our transaction in a civilized manner."
"What would you know about civilized behavior?" the dark haired man, Adams, demanded.
"Gentlemen, insults are a poor way to begin our association. Unless, of course, you don't want my materials."
"We're not your associates. We're just here to make a trade."
"My services are of at least as much value as the documents. Only I can explain what they mean. Only I can tell you what scientists will be of help to you in exploiting the material. Only I can tell you the sites where other materials can be found."
"We don't need you for that."
"You do if you want to beat your Russian friends to them." Kammler paused and looked up at a skeletal balding man, apparently the owner, who was carrying an opened bottle of Riesling and three glasses. Kammler nodded and the proprietor left the General to pour the wine. "Gentlemen, let us not 'get off on the wrong foot' as you Americans say. If I may, I would like to go over the details of our arrangement." Kammler paused for a moment and, receiving no objection, continued.
"I have all of the documents from Site A loaded on a plane and ready to be delivered to any designated location within twenty four hours. It will fly wherever I tell it. It's destination is up to you. In return," Kammler raised his hand and extended his index finger, "I will be given a new identity and American citizenship." A second finger went up. "For one year I will work for your government translating and explaining the materials for which I will be paid one thousand dollars per month." A third finger went up. "I will immediately tell you all of the other locations and the names of the scientists who worked on advanced programs under my direction. I will be guaranteed employment for at least five years at the agreed salary if I am unable to find private employment on my own. You will facilitate the transfer of assets of mine in various accounts to the United States, tax free. And lastly, of course, you will provide me with excellent references and documentation for any new employment I may wish to seek. Have I correctly stated our agreement?"
"Yes," Jones agreed. Adams leaned back and scowled.
"Excellent." Kammler poured three glasses of wine and raised his own. "To new friends."
Jones lifted his glass and touched it to Kammler's with a bright clink. The edge of Adams' fingers carelessly knocked his glass on its side, spilling the wine in a pale amber flood. Ignoring the mishap, Kammler smiled and took a deep draft.
February 11, 1950 – Washington D.C.
"The next item on the agenda," General Hawks said, glancing down at his notes, "is Project HK 0641. Gentlemen?"
The representative from the Department of Commerce raised his pencil and received a nod from General Hawks.
"The initial tests are highly positive and Douglas, Lockheed, and Martin are all interested in licensing the technology. Commerce would like to see it moved to the development phase."
"We at the State Department have serious reservations," a slender man in a black suit cut in. "We feel that the technology will destabilize the Middle East to an unprecedented degree. Given the Soviet Union's continued activity in the area, we feel that this might result in economic disaster for the region thereby leading to a potential Soviet takeover."
"State is opposed," Hawks said, making a checkmark on one of his forms.
Gerald Weaver looked up and caught the General's eye.
"The President feels that this technology is too dangerous to be released at this time."
Hawks pursed his lips but said nothing. Weaver's argument was the excuse the Administration would rely on for the record. Everybody knew the President was indebted to oil interests who would never allow the technology to see the light of day.
Hawks turned to the last member of the panel.
"Charles?"
"The CIA agrees with State and the White House."
"Very well. My superiors at the Pentagon feel that the potential weaponization of this technology constitutes a serious danger to the United States. That's four votes to one. Until further action, Project HK 0641 is to be designated as ULTRA-BLACK. Review and development of the technology may continue under the Army's Research and Recovery Administration but no licensing or release of the technology is to be allowed without the approval of this Committee. That completes this morning's session."
Hawks looked around the table and lightly tapped his pen twice on the walnut veneer. Behind the General his aide made a note that Project 641 was to be added to the Forbidden List.