Das Bell

At the close of WW@ thousands of Nazis vanished without a trace. There were references made to The Bell, a reverse engineered piece of alien technology that can give access to an alternate Earth.

Chapter One

Berlin: April 30^th, 1945

 

Two massive above ground explosions shook the bunker, cracking a section of the eighteen inch thick wall cement wall, and sending a shower of concrete to the floor. It covered General Kammler’s already filthy uniform with a fine coating of white powder. SS Obergruppenfuhrer, General Hans Kammler, had run a gauntlet of incoming shells and murderous fire, crawling the final fifty meters to a secret entrance of the Fuhrer Bunker as the last defensible territory of the Hitler’s Third Reich shrunk to its last few hundred meters: blasted into rubble by the Red Army’s relentless assault.

        The retort of Oberst Stolher’s heels clicking together echoed off of the bunker walls: his right arm shooting out in a salute. Kammler ignored the honor, removed his officer’s cap to dust it off and addressed the colonel. “What is the disposition of Goebbels and his family?”

         “All of them dead Herr General, by Goebbels’s own hand.  He gave his wife and his children the cyanide that you left with me.  I handed it to him myself after I told him the device was damaged beyond repair and that the Russians would take us all in a matter of hours.”

         Kammler rocked back and forth on his heels nodding his head with a hint of a smile crossing his face. “Excellent Colonel: I did not need a power struggle with Goebbels after we arrive.”

“And what of Goering, Herr General?”

            “Him either.  Let that fat drug addled pig beg for mercy from the Americans!”

            “Herr General, you are certain he knows nothing?”

            Kammler snorted shaking his head at the absurdity of the question. “Do you think I or anyone else would have told that pompous idiot anything about the program?”

         Stohler looked past the General, down the corridor to see if anyone else was coming. Seeing no one, he asked the question. “Where is Von Braun and the others sir?”

         A dark cloud of anger crossed Kammler’s face and he spat on the bunker floor. “That egotistical fool with his dreams of the moon escaped our patrols.  Most likely he’s gone over to the Americans.  He’ll bargain his rockets for his life and the lives of the others from the Peenemünde group no doubt. I should have personally shot him!” 

        The next blast, within a dozen meters of the bunker, knocked both officers to the floor.  Stohler was on his feet first and helped the general up. Kammler appeared to be not the least bit shaken and continued asking questions.  “Is one of the doppelgangers here as I’ve ordered?”

      “Jah, Herr General, and a woman as you had asked for as well.”

       “Who is she?”

      “Just a prostitute I found, she’s younger in age, however, but of the same height and figure. She’ll serve the purpose. But . . .  Herr General, we do not have much time! The Reds will be here in less than an hour!”

       As Kammler was about to answer, another blast, nearly on top of the bunker, sent cracks spider webbing across the steel reinforced concrete inner walls, adding a sense of urgency to the colonel’s last statement.

        “Agreed.  Let’s get him ready to go and get her ready as well. How is he: fit to travel?”

        “Drugged, Herr General.  Doctor Morell went into see him earlier and gave him a shot of morphine. He is conscious, not coherent.”

         “All the better then. Come; let’s take care of erasing the evidence.”

          Stohler again raised his right arm and uttered, “Heil Hitler,” but the words died in his mouth, when he considered the man he was honoring. Hitler had been reduced to a drugged shell of a leader, racked with palsy from advancing syphilis.  When the drugs wore off, he was a complete lunatic, raving on about the new wonder weapons that would smash the enemy and save the Reich from defeat.

       Both officers entered Hitler’s personal quarters to find him in his plush green leather chair on the verge of sleep.  Eva Braun was resting quietly on the sofa, passed out from the double dose of tranquilizers Doctor Morell had given her earlier.

 Kammler surveyed the situation. “Oberst Stohler, send for the major and a few SS guards. Have them take the Fuhrer and his . . . woman to the railcar. Then meet me in the operations room. I take it his doppelganger and the prostitute are there?”

      “Yes sir.”

       As Kammler walked through a maze of broken concrete and dangling overhead lights that flickered on and off, he considered the fate of the Fuhrer. Yes, I must keep him alive, he thought, keep him functioning as the figurehead of a reborn Reich, but I shall be pulling his strings.  He’ll be useful until I can consolidate my power.

      Reaching the operations room, the general opened the door to face Adolf Hitler’s mirror image. The man with graying hair and moustache, dressed in one of the Fuhrer’s light brown uniforms stood up quickly and saluted Kammler. “How may I be of service to the Reich, Herr General?”

      Kammler unsnapped his Luger’s holster as he answered the imposter. “How can you be of service?  Like this!” With his hand already on the butt of the weapon, Kammler swung the gun out and up to the side of the ersatz Hitler’s temple and pulled the trigger, blowing the opposite side of the man’s head out in a shower of blood and brains.  As his lifeless body dropped to the floor, the woman, a street prostitute, screamed clutching her hands to her face, staring at the carnage of the man’s sudden close range execution.  She looked past the General to see Colonel Stohler enter the room and ran over to him, her voice coming in panicked gasps. “Colonel please, you said you would save me!”

      “No Frauline, I said I would save you for something useful: such as this!”

       Stohler swung his right arm up from behind his back toward the woman’s head.  In the last instant before her death, she could see the distinct shape of a Walther pistol in his hand.  She was dead before she could even sense the impact of the nine millimeter slug smashing her skull open. 

      Stohler called over to a corporal and two privates. “Take their bodies outside.  Soak them in benzene and burn them. Come Herr General.  All is ready.”

     The long passage way to the rail tunnel wound though the catacombs of the Fuhrer Bunker.  Descending into the flickering darkness, General Kammler’s nostrils filled with the feted stench of dampness and mold. The tunnel, as well as the underground rail line, was built upon the bodies of thousands of slave laborers: captured Red Army soldiers and Jews. Once the work was completed most of the laborers were shot and entombed within the poured concrete that formed the walls and floor of the tunnel.

      When Kammler and Stohler reached the diesel powered railcar, Major Klaus Holtzer was waiting for them.  The major’s once spotless SS uniform was disheveled and he was strained with anxiety from his knowledge that he had failed to destroy the remaining device.  Kammler studied Major Holtzer.  He could see failure clearly written on the man’s face.

        “What of Vinnitsa?!” The General barked, his eyes boring into the young major.

        “Herr General, sir!  We . . . we were unable to destroy the last device but . . . but we rigged the facility with high explosives.  We buried the device and booby trapped the complex.  No one would dare enter it without being killed.”

     “And what of the staff, Major?”

     “All of the lower grade technicians, the guards and workers have been executed as you ordered sir.  Only the top scientists were evacuated.  But . . . sir, I did not see the need for this.  Those ignorant Bolshevik peasants could never grasp the workings of the device.”

          “Those ignorant Bolshevik peasants, Major, have smashed our panzer forces with their T-34 tanks and shot our Luftwaffe out of the skies with their YAK-3s!” If the Reds ever get their hands on the device, they’ll eventually understand the workings of it!”

       The major, looking anywhere but directly at Kammler, began to walk toward the railcar. Colonel Stohler stepped in front of him, blocking his path. “I’m sorry Major Holtzer.  With the device operating on reserve power, only the four of us can be sent through. I’m afraid you won’t be joining us.”

       The two blasts from the colonel’s pistol slammed the major back against the curved tunnel wall.  Probing the man’s body with is foot for signs of life; Holtzer groaned and tried to sit up.  Stohler placed the barrel of his pistol against the side of the man’s head and pulled the trigger, being careful not to let his uniform catch the splatter of the major’s blood. Satisfied that Holtzer was dead, he entered the railcar and looked at Adolf Hitler. The Fuhrer was staring ahead with blank, glassy eyes, while Eva Braun leaned against him, still heavily sedated. Finally he looked up at Kammler.  

      Stohler motioned to the general. “Sir, we must hurry.  The charges are set for twenty minutes.  Once they go off, the tunnel will be sealed and all evidence of the installation will be erased forever.”

       Kammler walked over to his Fuhrer, saluted him, then placed his hand upon Hitler’s shoulder. The leader of the Reich again looked up at him, his eyes asking the question.  Kammler answered him before it could even be asked. “This world has been lost to us my Fuhrer, but fear not.  Another one awaits us and upon it we shall build a new Reich not to last a thousand years, but a hundred thousand!”

        The roar of a diesel engine filled the narrow tunnel as the railcar pulled away, heading deeper into the darkness.  Nineteen minutes latter, a massive explosion blasted through the secret underground complex, sending long tongues of flame down its tunnels as the structure disintegrated.  On the battered streets above, what was left of an entire block of apartment buildings sunk into the ground as the earth opened up to swallow them from below.  With the Red Army pouring high explosive shells into what was left of the city, no one noticed that the huge fireball erupting five kilometers from Hitler’s last refuge came from under the ruined apartment buildings and not from above them.  

 

 

Moscow, Russia: September 9th, 2014

           

“Anton Mikhailavitch, It’s not his; is it?”

            Doctor Anton Mikhailavitch Leonov stopped mid-stride in the narrow corridor, the tan folder he held slipping from his fingers and spilling the contents of the Americans’ report about the yellowed linoleum tiled floor. FSB Colonel Victor Gubarev, the man who had addressed him, bent down to help the doctor pick up his papers and place them back into the folder. “How did you know Colonel?”

            The officer nodded his head with just the hint of a smile appearing on his face. “In my business, we are trained to read a person’s mind by what is written upon his face.  Yours told me all I needed to know.  If the Americans’ DNA tests had confirmed what we have believed to be true for all of these years, you would not have appeared so flustered and preoccupied.  What did they say?  Whose skull is it?”

            Leonov shuffled though his papers; trying to place them back into the correct order. He pulled out the one he was looking for and handed it to Colonel Gubarev.

            “I was going to have it translated first but if you have trouble reading it in English, I’ll simply skip to the main point, without giving you a dissertation on DNA matching.”

            Gubarev nodded his head. “Go on doctor.”

            “The skull fragment belonged to a woman of about twenty years of age.”

            Looking at the series of graphs on the paper, the FSB colonel asked a further question. “Could it have belonged to Eva Braun?”

            “No sir. She was over thirty and the Americans had samples DNA from some of her relatives. It is not even a distant match.”

            Colonel Gubarev looked at the paper again shaking his head and then answered the doctor. “This is not a good thing.  There are movements afoot: in Germany, Poland, and especially here in Russia and Ukraine: young skinhead Nazis.  Hitler worshipers!  They are ignorant of their own history! The Nazis slaughtered thirty million of us and these swollitcie are glorifying them?!  With this news that all of our assurances the fiend was dead by his own hand proven incorrect, it will only embolden them here, and in many other nations as well.  This is not good!”

            “I have a suggestion sir.  I have a forensic historian that I would like to assign to this matter to and see where we went wrong.  You know, analyze the autopsy reports, the records of the interrogations of the German prisoners, eye witness accounts.  Maybe we can get to the bottom of this.”  

            Colonel Gubarev thoughtfully considered the doctor’s idea before he answered. “Alright, put this man on it right away.  Let’s see what he comes up with.”

            “Ah Colonel, it is not a he.  My forensic historian is a woman, Nina Shevchenko.”

            Gubarev’s eyebrows raised in surprise at the doctor’s answer. “A woman?  And she’s a Ukrainian?”

            “Yes Colonel, but she is brilliant. Her dissertation on Napoleon’s retreat was quite amazing.  She had come up with new forensic evidence she unearthed that discredited quite a few long cherished theories.  As for her heritage, her mother is Russian and she harbors no nationalist ambitions.”

            Considering the doctor’s statement for a few moments the man finally answered him. “Very well then doctor. Put this . . . Shevchenko to work on the matter and see what she can deduce.  Have a report for me on her progress in two weeks.”

 

The Pacific Ocean: Twenty miles north-west of San Juan, Peru:

 

            Alan Carter checked his air gauge once again.  The Trimix in his air tanks would only allow him ten more minutes at this depth.  The man next to him shook his head no; gesturing up to the surface but Carter ignored him.  A storm was closing in, a big one: category four strength.  This might be his last chance to retrieve what he thought were two watertight document cases inside the blasted out hull of the submarine.  She must have been lost very late in the conflict. The vessel was a Type 21, a highly advanced U-Boat built near the end of the war.  It was a revolutionary design able to dive deeper and travel faster underwater than any other submarine, allied or axis.  But what was it doing here and why didn’t it have a hull number or any reference of it in the German U-Boat archives in Berlin?

            The unknown wreck was over one-hundred meters down, some three hundred and fifty feet: a dangerous depth for even the most experienced of divers.  Added to that danger was the fact that Alan Carter was not only low on air, but was about to reenter the twisted wreckage of the mystery ship: a World War Two German submarine that shouldn’t be there.

            Carter kept one hand on the tether line, following it further down into the abyss. He had both of his diving lights on as the wreck appeared to loom up from out of the ocean floor. Alan Carter again checked his air gauge and watch: six minutes, that was all he had to get in, grab the two cases and get out. Entering through the rupture in the side of the submarine’s hull, Carter could see the remains of the crew in their eternal rest, staring up at him with empty sockets within their white skulls, their bones cloaked in blanket of silt. Being careful not to snag his tanks on the myriad of cables hanging from the sunken vessel, he swam from the ragged opening and into the control room. There, lying on what had been the submarine’s deck, were the shapes of the two metal cases outlined in the muck and silt that had covered them for so many years.  Alan Carter’s intuition was correct.  He quickly scooped them up in his arms had headed back to the hull breech.  Looking at his watch, it showed he had less than thirty seconds to begin his assent or risk the bends from too rapid a decompression.

****

            The late afternoon sun that dispelled the chill from Moscow had become completely obscured by clouds that were certain to bring a cold rain later in the evening.  Nina Shevchenko was seated at her desk with a number of volumes dedicated to research into the late Ice Age.  Along with photographs and archeological remains were geology reports of soil samples taken from the area of Novaya Zemlya Island showing what appeared to be an impact event in the dim past.  Nina was so focused on the data that she never heard the door open and someone enter her office until she looked up suddenly at Doctor Anton Leonov standing in front of her desk.

            Putting some of her documents aside, she stood up to greet him. “Good afternoon Anton Mikhailavitch: sorry, I didn’t hear you come in, please, sit down.  What can I do for you?”

            Leonov’s thoughts as to what she could do for him strayed into carnal territory, looking at Nina Shevchenko. Not yet twenty-nine, she was a stunningly attractive woman with long auburn hair, a slim but shapely figure and almost magnetic green eyes.  Leonov, almost sixty, overweight and balding, knew this was just wishful thinking and quickly suppressed those thoughts as he sat down. “Doctor Shevchenko, I’m sorry to have disturbed you.  I did knock but . . . perhaps you did not hear.”

            “I’m sorry Anton; I was researching a possible project on the disappearance of the Clovis cultures along with the vanishing of large Ice Age mega-fauna.  I’ve just been reviewing a new theory by an American that involves a comet impact.  I had the geology department at Moscow State University run some tests on their archived soil samples.  It seems there might be something to this.  They found deposits of iridium in the soil.”

            “And that proves what?”

            “It doesn’t prove anything conclusive yet Anton, but iridium is an element that is not natural to Earth.  There may be something to this man’s theory.  Why these cultures suddenly vanished as well as the animals they hunted is quite a mystery. However, this author is a . . . showman on American television.  I’m not certain I’d consider him a serious historian.”

            “Ah yes, I can see I’ve come to the right serious professional to assist me in Kremlin business because I too have a mystery and one that needs to be solved.”

            “What sort of mystery are we speaking about Anton?”

            Leonov opened an aging brown leather briefcase and withdrew the tan folder he had first shown to Colonel Gubarev. “This is a somewhat delicate matter but I’m certain with our new open culture of the Internet, it will be old news in a few days.  The skull that we had believed was the last physical remains of Adolf Hitler is not his.”

            A look of surprise came over Nina Shevchenko’s heart shaped face. “What?  Can I see the report please?”

            Leonov handed her the file and as she scanned it, her eyebrows raised in surprise.

            “So, the skull fragment is that of a woman?  They have no idea who she is?”

            “That is correct Doctor, The Americans’ DNA examination and their conclusion is absolutely accurate. We have been wrong all these years.  Perhaps Stalin was correct after all.  Perhaps Hitler did escape, but to where?”

            “And is this what you’ve come to tell me? Something I can read in the news next week? Or are you looking for my help with this matter? And please, we are colleagues, you can call me Nina.”

            “All right then Nina. We . . . Russia needs your help.  Forensic history is such a new field and has given the world such a greater insight and understanding of confusing historical events.  Using such techniques might help us unravel this mystery.  This is not a good thing for either of our two countries, Russia or Ukraine, to think that butcher escaped with his life.  There are frightening movements afoot.  The Neo-Nazis at first were just a cult, a minor nuisance, like street punks, but now they are gaining power, allied with Russian and white nationalists in a spider web that the FSB sees is beginning to span the world.  We’ve just begun to share data with the American FBI and the correlations between the skinheads and the Neo-Nazis both here and in America are of deep concern.  This news that Hitler may have made a clean escape can only make matters worse.  That’s why I need your help Doctor, ah . . . Nina.”

            Doctor Shevchenko pulled her dark purple sweater around her shoulders as if a gust of cold air had filled the room.  However, the chill she felt was in her thoughts and just how serious the new Aryan Neo- Nazi movement had become.  A colleague of hers, Doctor Hassan from Egypt, was set upon in the Metro by a band of skinhead thugs, wearing iron crosses and swastikas.  The man was lucky to have escaped with his life having suffered “only” a broken arm and three broken ribs, just because of his dark eyes and swarthy complexion. The Moscow police it seems allowed the thugs to escape.

            “Yes, I’ll help you on this matter but I need some additional data from the Kremlin archives . . . the sealed Kremlin archives.  I need the reports on the excavations in East Germany in 1961 at the time of the wall.”

            A look of surprise, almost of shock came over Leonov’s face. “How, how did you know of these?”

            “When I was a student, my professor and I once discussed the matter. He felt that since there was no longer a KGB, or an East Germany, he could speak his mind.  He told me he was part of an investigation by Soviet authorities into some mysterious artifacts in an area of Berlin that was being excavated for the foundation of the wall.  He said our people found evidence of what might have been some sort of tunnel leading from Hitler’s last refuge. But, it didn’t appear to go anywhere . . . and there was more.  The area around the excavation had unusual . . . properties.”

            “How so Nina?”

            “Anytime our soldiers, or the excavation crews, began using any high voltage electrical devices, they experienced a huge reverse surge of energy that flowed back into their equipment.  It resulted in a great deal of damage by fire and electrical short circuiting. It was as if there was something, some kind of unknown force, in the area that drew in electrical energy and amplified it many times over.  Finally any attempts to excavate there were cancelled and the wall was routed around the area instead of going through it. Anton, I know there must be documentation in the sealed archives about this.  If you want my help, I must have access to them.”

****

            “Jesus Alan!  You take a hell of a lot of chances!” Doug Markey the burly ex- Navy SEAL and captain of the Geo-Explorer grabbed the two silt covered metal cases from Alan Carter’s hands and then helped haul him back on board the ship. Markey was none too pleased that Carter had decided to go back into the wreckage of the sub but was very relieved to see that he had come back up instead of joining her entombed crew, three hundred and fifty feet below the surface.

            “Yeah, tell me about it Doug.  I ran out of air just fifteen feet from the surface. I guess I did cut it pretty close.”

            Markey smiled and then began to laugh. “I sure as hell know you almost bought it my friend, but to hear you tell it to me in that tiny little girl’s voice that ought to be reciting Mary Had a Little Lamb, just cracks me up!”

            Dropping his twin tanks to the deck Carter answered him. “Better my little girl’s voice from breathing helium than dying from nitrogen narcosis or the bends.”

            “You got that right partner.  But we’ve got to get the hell out of here and now, back to San Juan harbor.  We’re only hours ahead of a Cat-Four hurricane!”

            Alan Carter shook his head in the affirmative, as he pulled off his wetsuit. “And that’s why I had to go back.  I thought I saw the outline of these cases inside the sub.  With that hurricane whipping through here, we might not find her again.  I felt this was really important.  Look, that’s a Type-21 U-Boat down there.  They were the most advanced subs ever built during the war. They could do over eighteen knots submerged and dive to nearly a eight hundred feet.  They were almost impossible to sink. In fact, the design of our own Nautilus Class nuclear subs were based on the Type-21.  But what the hell was she doing here, off of Peru in the Pacific Ocean?  And why no hull number or anything else to identify her, and who sank her?  I think whatever is in these cases might give me the answer.”

            Markey just shook his head and handed his friend a steaming cup of coffee. “I don’t know how you do it man?  You’re no kind of historian I’ve ever heard of.  Instead of locking yourself up in some university ivory tower, you’re out here doing field work. And, you’re supposed to be diving on one of Pissarro’s lost ships.  Instead you find a sunken German U-boat!”

            Taking a gulp of coffee to warm him from the chill of the ocean depths and an uncomfortably close brush with death, Alan Carter answered him. “This U-Boat must have gone down near the end of the war.  There were only a few dozen of them made and as far as I know, they were all confined to the Atlantic.  Whatever this one was doing in the Pacific off of Peru has got to be something very significant.”

            “Yeah but what’s the History Channel going to say when you tell them you’ve gone sub hunting instead of trying to find the lost Conquistadors?  Anyway, let’s get below and get you warmed up.  I’ve got to get the boat moving.  In fact, look at that sky.  We’ll be lucky to get into port before the seas start kicking up.

            Alan Carter, an adventurer with a love of history and archeology, had already made his mark with the discovery of two sunken Spanish Galleons off the coast of Florida as well as publishing a controversial theory that a comet impact ended the reign of the mammoths in North America, along with the Clovis people who hunted them. Alan Carter, by the age of forty-one, had achieved much. He had successfully found the aircraft carrier Hornet, sunk by the Japanese in 1943 and now, five years later, he had his own program on the History Channel.  The expedition that the network had financed was supposed to be looking for several ships of Pizarro that had supposedly gone down during his conquest of the Incas. Instead, Alan had come across a mysterious reading of a large metal mass at a depth of one-hundred and fifteen meters, near the limit of diving technology.  Curious about the reading, Carter had the ship hold position and sent down a robot with cameras to identify a wreck that shouldn’t have been there.  What the cameras revealed was the distinct shape of a German U-Boat of an advanced type.  This was the sort of mystery that Alan Carter lived and breathed for.

            Picking up a warm fleece sweatshirt, Carter pulled it on over his broad shoulders and went below decks to shower off before joining captain and opening the two mystery metal cases. As he went down the ladder he could feel the heavy thrum of the ship’s diesel engines driving them back to port, running just ahead of the approaching hurricane.

            Twenty minutes later, his thick dark hair still damp, Alan Carter was in the wheelhouse with Doug Markey, captain of the Geo-Explorer, and about to open the two metal cases that had rested on the bottom of the Pacific Ocean for sixty-four years.  The cases had been placed into a bath of fresh water and the silt had been cleaned from them.  Picking up the first one, Alan felt a shape pain of disappointment: brown silt laden seawater poured out from the edge of the case.  Whoever had closed it those many years ago did so in a hurry and did not make a watertight seal.  Whatever the contents were, he thought they had long ago disintegrated into pulp.

            With his first mate at the wheel, Doug Markey joined his friend, and with a smile of encouragement told him to open the next case.

            “Come on man.  It’s just like that TV show.  Maybe the next case is holding the million bucks!”

            “Yeah Doug, I sure as hell hope so, or it’s my a*s for blowing off the search for the lost Conquistadors to go wreck diving.”

            Carefully Carter examined the second case.  It was heavy gauge stainless steel with the image of the Nazi eagle and the swastika stamped into it. He turned it in several directions noting that it had a solid seal and no water was leaking out.  That meant it had to be dry inside and whatever the contents were, they’d be readable.

            The case had a fitting for a special key but not having it, Alan Carter used the old fashioned method.  Taking a screw driver and a heavy pair of pliers he snapped the lock off and in moments the contents that had not seen the light of day in sixty-nine years were before his eyes.  Documents, sailing orders and photographs that only deepened the mystery were in his hands, including one official looking piece of paper that bore the signature of Nazi SS General Hans Kammler.        

            “Doug, do you have anyone on board that can read German?”

            Markey nodded his head. “Yeah, Johnny Yeager, our assistant engineer.  His parents came over from German.  He can speak it and read it.  I’ll call him up to the bridge.”

            It took only took Yeager a few moments to realize he was looking at what had once been secret documents to some sort of military operation. They identified an expedition to an area in Peru called the Nazca Plain but other than those few tantalizing hints and the reference to something called die glocke, there was little else to go on.  According to the notes, the balance of the documents with specific details of the operation were in the other case: the one that lacked a watertight seal.  Whatever this was about, it entailed a highly important mission, but it was a puzzle without all the pieces.

            After Yeager had finished translating the documents, Carter had more questions than answers. “John, you used the word glocke: what’s that mean exactly?”

            “Glocke? It means a bell Mister Carter.  But . . . I can’t see how the reference fits in here?  Only it does say the project has something to do with this bell, and there are complete documents, but they were in the other case.  The, ah . . . one that’s ruined, I guess.”

            The most interesting find was paperwork signed by Hans Kammler, the SS General who was in charge of the Nazis most secret projects.  The U-Boat had been dispatched on his orders to Peru and the crew was to assist in the recovery of a critical component to whatever this bell was.  The U-Boat was to rendezvous with a German freighter that would transport these mystery components to Argentina.  Other than some photographs of what appeared to be archeological digs and an image of something akin to Stonehenge, there was little else to go on.

After studying the images for several minutes, Alan Carter turned to the captain and asked him, “Doug, I need to use the sat-phone to call a friend of mine in at the Naval War College in Rhode Island. He might be able to shed some light on this.”

Laughing, Doug Markey answered him. “Be my guest.  Just don’t go running up my phone bill!”

Moscow Russia: Lubyanka, Headquarters of the FSB: October 12^th

 

            Nina Shevchenko had entered the Baroque styled former headquarters of the KGB with a degree of apprehension.  It was hard for anyone whose heritage sprung from the Soviet Union to feel anything else but a deep sense of unease when walking into this edifice, for in the past, not many that walked in ever walked out again. 

It was well past three o’clock in the afternoon and still she sat in the outer office of FSB Director Boris Ivanov.  After weeks of waiting, she was finally granted an audience with the man.  The sticking point in the conversations between the investigative department trying to make sense of the Hitler mystery and the keepers of the archived KGB records were the sealed files.  Long hours of discussion had gone on over Shevchenko’s request.  It was only after a Neo-Nazi incident a few days earlier that Ivanov himself had relented and invited her to discuss the matter in his office.  The meeting had been set for two-thirty and Nina had been fifteen minutes early.  She looked at her watch again.  She’d been waiting in the outer room for just over an hour. Finally, the director’s assistant stepped out and ushered her into Boris Ivanov’s office. As she entered she was struck by the ostentatious of his chambers, the frescoed ceiling with gold inlay, the wall tapestries and the Louis the XIV chairs set in front of an ornate desk.  The presence of one Dell’s newest computers created a striking incongruity to a room that could have been transported straight out of the early 1700s.  Nina Shevchenko walked toward the director’s desk, her heels clicking on the decorative inlayed wood floor. 

FSB Director Ivanov rose to greet her, addressing her in Ukrainian. “Ah, Professor Shevchenko, I’m quite pleased to meet you.  Won’t you be seated?”

Nina sized the man up.  He was quite tall and slim.  What hair he had left was silver.  She judged him to be in his mid-sixties: the right age to have been a high ranking officer in the KGB before the fall of the Soviet Union.  This fact alone plus his speaking to her in Ukrainian made her feel distinctly uncomfortable.  Was he using the Ukrainian language as means of disarming me and gaining my trust, she thought, or testing my loyalty to Russia? She adjusted her dark blue skirt and sat down on a gold and dark red embroidered chair, then answered him.

“There is no need to address me in Ukrainian Director Ivanov; I’ve been speaking Russian all my life.”

“Very good Doctor, and German and English as well I see.”

“Yes, I’m certain that you must have a file with a great deal of information on me.  You would not be the director of the Federal Security Service if you did not. But, my background is not what I’ve come to discuss with you.  One month ago, Doctor Anton Leonov came to me and asked for my help in putting to rest this Hitler matter.  When we spoke, I had told him that I needed access to the sealed files that pertained to the excavations in Berlin in 1961.”

Ivanov pulled a pack of Dunhill Fine Cut Blues from a drawer in his desk, lighting one before he even asked the question, “Do you mind if I smoke?  Nasty habit but I’ve been at it far too long to attempt to quit now.”

Blowing a cloud of blue tobacco smoke out, the director considered the woman sitting in front of him with a look of both curiosity and perhaps suspicion.  Finally Nina sensing the tension in the room could wait no longer and addressed him again.

“Director Ivanov.  I know that I’ve been put off on my request to view these files but I also know that the incident a few days ago in Perm may have changed your perspective in the matter, am I not correct?”

Ivanov realized this woman was not just a forensic historian, but a good psychologist as well.  Yes, he though, things have changed over the past week.

“Your assumption is correct Doctor.  That was a nasty bit of business in Perm, this skinhead attack on a multi-cultural music concert.  A number of the musicians from Uzbekistan were killed along with many concert goers as well as some children.  These Neo-Nazis got away cleanly. They were using new sophisticated automatic weapons of an unfamiliar type.  We’re not certain where they came from but many witnesses heard them shouting, ‘Hitler Lives!’ before they stormed the concert hall and began firing. Next month the Bolshoi Theater will host the Israeli National Ballet.  Moscow does not need another incident to soil our international reputation like that of the Chechen attack at the drama theater several years ago.”

Nina’s head nodded in agreement with the man, but her thoughts definitely did not. It would be refreshing if Ivanov had as much concern for the victims of such violence as he does for Moscow’s reputation.  Finally, she spoke to him. “So then Director Ivanov, do you feel that the news of the skull has emboldened these fascists?  Anton Mikhailavitch surmised as much. I’ve been waiting nearly a month to begin my investigation. You’ve finally agreed to see me because now you need my help, is that correct?”

Crushing out the cigarette Ivanov answered her. “I’m usually not the one being asked the questions, Doctor, but you are correct.  This is a bad business about a possible Hitler escape, but your request to view the restricted files presents problems, not the least of which is your nationality. We were once all part of the greater Soviet Union but now that Ukraine has ambitions of her own with the West . . . things are different.”         

Nina narrowed her eyes. This was an affront to her professionalism.  Choosing her words carefully, considering she was speaking to the Director of the FSB, she answered as tactfully as she could, hoping the anger she felt would not creep into her voice.  “Director Ivanov, I don’t want this discussion to descend into the arena of post Soviet politics.  Yes, I hold a Ukrainian passport, but I put my professionalism before any personal beliefs that you might believe that I hold.  When I was born and during my childhood, there was still a Soviet Union and we were all part of one country for better or worse.  Now you are treating me like a foreigner? You said yourself, this is a bad business.  I’m certain the FSB has been working on the matter over the last month while I’ve been awaiting word from you.  Since I’m here in your office, my guess is that you’re no closer to solving this mystery. If you were, I wouldn’t be here, would I?”

Ivanov shot back, “No you would not!” then in softer voice he continued. “If we were any closer to determining whether Adolf Hitler escaped and how he had done so, you would not be here Doctor . . . but we have not.  However, your request to delve into the sealed files presents me with . . . a problem that is complicated by your Ukrainian heritage.  Certain, actions against Ukraine were conducted during the time of Stalin that we wish to keep sealed, as well as certain more recent activities ordered by Yuri Andropov against proponents of Ukrainian nationalism prior to 1984.  Exposure would . . .  complicate our relationship with Ukraine in ways that would not be helpful to Russia.  Also, please keep in mind that Vladimir Putin was the section chief in East Germany prior to 1985 and it was Putin who consigned the files you seek to sealed secret status, not to be opened.  However, in this case, I am of a mind to grant you limited access so long as certain conditions are met.  You are only to view the files that pertain to the mysterious excavation and peculiar incidents of electrical malfunctions and, you are to have an FSB officer in the archives vault with you at all times. Also, you may not retain any copies of the information contained within the documents.”

Nina Shevchenko tugged on her blazer.  It was an unconscious habit she exhibited when wrestling with conflicting thoughts.  Finally she answered him, “Agreed Director Ivanov. But, I have a condition of my own.  I will need to interview all of the eye witnesses to the events at the excavation, and I must have your assurance in writing that they can speak freely about what happened.”

Ivanov nodded his head. “That is agreed.  You can begin your investigation as early as tomorrow.”

Boris Ivanov penned a quick note and handed it to Doctor Shevchenko. “Bring this letter with you in the morning and present it to the administrator for the archives division. One of my officers will be waiting to assist you.  You’ll have no trouble gaining access to the Berlin excavation files but . . . those files only.  And, I will see to it that you can speak freely to anyone with direct knowledge of the Berlin excavation.”

 

 

San Juan Peru, October 12th 0:900

 

Alan Carter along with Doug Markey and the crew of the Geo-Explorer were holed up in the lobby of the Hotel Corregidor in San Juan during the night while the hurricane that had followed them in from the Pacific lashed the city with one-hundred mile an hour winds.  Markey had just made landfall when the swells of the sea began pushing small pleasure craft and local fishing boats around like toys in a bathtub.  The steel hulled Geo-Explorer would have no problem riding out the storm but those local men who depended upon the sea for their income would be sorely tested, with their small wooden boats succumbing to the powerful forces of nature.

With the coming of daylight, the wreckage wrought by the storm was plainly visible in the streets of the city. With no power and limited access to the roads, Doug’s crew, along with Alan Carter, and a hotel full of tourists were staying put for a while. However, one thing was working and that was Doug Markey’s satellite phone, the one he had taken from his ship.  At the moment a beam of sunlight from the clearing skis illuminated the hotel lobby, the sat-phone began to ring.  Markey grabbed the receiver, listened for a moment that then called over across the lobby to Alan Carter. “Yo, it’s for you!  The Naval War College in Rhode Island!”

Alan got up off the chair that had served as his bed that evening and grabbed the receiver. It was the commandant, Rear Admiral Water Cunningham. Markey could only hear half the conversation.

“Hey Walt, thanks for calling me back.  Yeah, we had a hell of a blow come through here but things are clearing up.  We’re pretty sure the ship is fine but I don’t know how all those little boats in the harbor made out though.  So, what do have for me?  Is that right?! Ah ha . . .” There was a long pause in the conversation while Carter listened intently. “Wow, yeah that gives me a pretty good clue as to what happened to the U-Boat.  Anything else on the freighter?  So they made it Argentina eh?  Yeah, and I bet that the manifest said fruits and vegetables.  Whatever they were carrying had to have been authorized by Hans Kammler . . . Yeah the Hans Kammler, the SS General that vanished in 1945. I have his original orders. Anyway, thanks Walt.  That gives me something tangible to go on. Yeah you too, and say hello to Barbara and the kids for me as well.”

Alan handed the phone back to Doug Markey.  The man looked like he wanted to burst with curiosity. “So what was that all about?  What’s up with Argentina?”

“It seems in late March of 1945, a Dutch flagged freighter was loading crates of what may have been artifacts taken from an archeological dig up in Nazca.”

“Wait a second Alan, Nazca?  Isn’t that the place with huge animal carvings in the ground and things that look like airport runways?”

“That’s the place all right.  The harbor master got curious about the freighter. He could speak some Dutch and he figured out the crew were German.  By the end of the war, Peru was no longer neutral and had allied with us and the British.  Only, the man had a problem. Checking out the ship with binoculars he could see most of the crewmen were armed with MP-40 machine guns.  The small detachment of Peruvian soldiers in San Juan would have been slaughtered, so he waited until the ship set sail and contacted the Peruvian Navy.  They had only one patrol boat in the area.  They made a run on the freighter but the Germans drove them off with heavy fire.  The Peruvians radioed a US destroyer escort that was protecting oil shipments from Talara, north of here.  The DE caught up with the freighter and put bunch of three-inch shells into her, but she poured on steam and outran the escort, heading right into a squall. Since the DE was on anti-submarine duty, they didn’t follow her. That same freighter, showing considerable damage, arrived in Argentina two-weeks later.”

Markey scratched his head.  “So how does that explain the U-Boat?”

“Well, I have a theory about that.  Since the destroyer escort never made a sonar contact and didn’t drop depth charges, they couldn’t have sunk the sub.  This U-Boat was supposed to protect the freighter.  I think they fired a torpedo to try and sink the escort but it must have been a circle runner.  It turned back on them and then, wham, no more U-Boat.  Anyway the hole in the side of the one we found looks to be consistent with a pretty big direct hit, not a concussion breach.” Alan Carter shook his head from side to side in thought and then clapped his two hands together in anticipation of discovering something really significant. “This has got to be one for the books Doug!  Listen, I’m going to need to call my producer for the show.  Things are pretty messed up here and I know you’ll need a couple of days to make sure we’re ready to sail.  I’m taking a little side trip to the Nazca Plain. It’s not far, about eighty kilometers from here.  Even though it’s been nearly seventy years, there might be something I can come up with.  I think this just might turn out to be one of those unsolved mysteries of World War Two.”

The following morning dawned clear, with a crisp wind and cool temperatures.  The sun rose over the mountains to the east of the port city of San Juan, struggling to bring itself back to life from the devastation caused by the hurricane of two days earlier. 

Alan Carter had already been up before the sun and had prepared himself with a camera, some digging tools and an Indian interpreter.  Most of the residents around the Nazca area were direct descendents of the Inca and while Spanish was the official language of Peru, many of the native people preferred to converse in their traditional tongue.  Carter had rented a slightly battered brown Toyota Land Cruiser and by sunup, he and his interpreter-guide were heading along the rough twisting roads to the Plain of Nazca, some eighty kilometers distant.

The Plain of Nazca is a mysterious enigmatic place with carvings of huge animals: monkeys, spiders, and birds and even plants spread out for several kilometers on the dry desert landscape.  The enormous geo-glyphs, some over six-hundred feet long can only be viewed properly from the air and can even be seen clearly from Earth orbit.  Among the puzzling representations are long, straight lines that appear to be remarkably similar to airstrips, causing some to theorize that the builders of these huge designs were much like the cargo cults of the South Pacific, Stone Age level natives who erected replicas of aircraft and built runways in the hope that American cargo planes would one day return with wondrous gifts to their islands.  In the case of the builders of Nazca, were these designs an attempt to replicate the works of some advanced civilization that had either passed from existence or perhaps was not of this world to begin with?  Alan Carter didn’t put much stock in either of those theories, taking the approach that these were built by some pre-Inca civilization to pay homage to their Gods but why, he had thought, would a Nazi military expedition come all this way to obtain some mysterious artifact if the lines and figures were nothing more than that?

Forty minutes into the journey Carter’s cell phone rang.  At least some of the towers were back on-line after the storm.  It was Doug Markey on the line with some potentially good news for Alan. After he’d left to go up to Nazca, Walter Cunningham called from Rhode Island on the satellite phone.

“Hey Alan, did you try and open the other case?  You know the one that was waterlogged?”

“No, I guess not.  In the rush to get back to port and after pouring over the documents in the undamaged case, I guess I forgot to give it a try.”

“Then that’s good news.  Your buddy the admiral called from the Naval War College.  He said the navy’s testing out some new equipment, like a souped up version of a CAT-scanner.  He said as long as the case hasn’t been opened, you can try it on the machine.  He told me to tell you to bring the case to Norfolk, Virginia.  That’s where they have the scanner.  He said they might come up with nothing or they might be able to give you something readable, only don’t open the case; keep it in a bucket of fresh water.  I’m heading back to the boat now and I’ll take care of it.  See you when you get back.”

That was great news for Alan Carter. Maybe, he thought, I’ll be able to get something useful out to the other metal case.  If the information in the first one is correct, then the second one will reveal a lot more about the German expedition along with whatever this thing called a bell is.

Chapter Two

Author's Note

Das Bell will be released in early 2014. It is a 127,000 word novel. This is chapter one. This is not a final edit.

Reviews

[Wez Hardyn]

I couldn't help smiling as I began your story - there's something essentially funny about Nazis clicking their heels and talking about the 'reds' (Mel Brook's fault I suppose). You began to suck me in with your character portrayal and I can't wait for the Nina Shevchenko meets Alan Carter confrontation - frosty but fizzing with chemistry I'll wager. It's really well written and I will be following the quest (tongue firmly in cheek), cheers, Wez