They were part of a special unit known as Jet Propulsion Section, Research and Intelligence Branch, Army Ordnance Technical Division, commanded by Major Robert Staver. McCreedy, Hollinger, and the two von Braun brothers watched as two U.S. Army sergeants lugged in the half-dozen crates of documents down the wooden steps and into the cellar of the three-story house.
As soon as the men departed, Magnus popped open the lid of each one. Pleased with what he saw at first glance, he nodded at his brother, whom he was interpreting for. Wernher von Braun, his arm in a sling, smiled. The paperwork appeared to be in order. Apparently, Staver’s men did well, digging the crates out of the abandoned mine in Thuringia only days before the Russian Red Army took over that area of Germany.
“Does it look like we have everything?” Hollinger asked.
“It seems that way, yes,” Magnus said, answering for his brother.
“The V-4’s?”
“Right here, Mr. Hollinger. In the middle of this first box.” Magnus rummaged through one crate and showed the OSS agents a two-inch thick file pertaining to the Foo Fighter.
“Geez!” McCreedy exclaimed, zipping through the technical pages. “Look at this will you.”
“I’m looking,” Hollinger said.
“Projekt Equinox, Mr. McCreedy and Mr. Hollinger. Of course, we do have other projects for your pleasure. Lasers, V-2’s, research on space travel, the sky is the limit, as Wernher has often told me.”
“A little pun there, right?” McCreedy added, smirking.
“A what?”
“Gentlemen!”
At the foot of the steps stood an officer. His hands behind his back.
“Who are you?” Hollinger spoke out.
The officer approached, confidently. He was average height, on the thin side, in his forties. “General Lomax, United States Army Air Force. I have been given the authority to commandeer all data pertaining to Project Equinox.”
“Says who?” Hollinger barked.
“The President of the United States and the Office of Strategic Services. That’s who. Here is my documentation.”
Hollinger opened the envelope passed to him.
“Damn, this thing is signed by Donovan. And Truman.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hollinger showed one of the pages to McCreedy.
“That’s Donovan’s signature, all right,” McCreedy said. “What gives?”
“Well, what do you know,” Hollinger frowned. “After all the time I’ve spent on this, weeks away from home, the Army Air Force is taking over the V-4 file.” Hollinger should not have been surprised. With Roosevelt gone, Truman in, there was a power shift in Washington. A changing of the guard.
“This is now a classified project,” Lomax insisted, taking the papers out of Hollinger’s hand. “Do not discuss it with anyone.”
“I know. I know. I’ve been there before.”
McCreedy grunted. “Since when does the Air Force tell the OSS what to do?”
General Lomax folded his arms across his chest. “Since now.”
American troops found Reichmarshall Hermann Goering on a congested road the day the war was officially announced over. They pulled him from his limousine and took him off to a local interrogation centre. He and his entourage of nurse, doctor, and adjutant were in good humour, especially Goering, who was treated as a celebrity.
Goering had wanted to surrender to the Americans after his SS captors released him three days earlier to fend for himself. At a hastily called press conference that afternoon, in the open air behind the interrogation centre, he was asked several questions in German.
“You know that Hitler and Goebbels are dead, do you not?” one reporter stood and asked.
Goering stayed seated, squinting in the bright sunshine. “Yes, of course I do.”
“Do you know the whereabouts of Heinrich Himmler?”
“I do not. I don’t care where he is.”
“Were you and Himmler friends?”
“No.”
“When did you see him last?”
“At Hitler’s bunker in Berlin. April 20th. It was a party for Hitler’s birthday.”
“Was that the last time you saw Hitler?”
“Yes.”
“Were you asked to be Hitler’s successor?”
“No.”
“Did you try to take power on your own?”
Goering felt a chill, despite the sun’s warmth. “I thought about it.”
“Where’s Martin Bormann?” a different reporter asked.
Goering cleared his throat. He knew now that he never should have collaborated with Bormann on anything. For all he knew, Bormann might have gotten away and was now lying on a tropical beach somewhere. Then again... Goering, on the other hand, had nothing left. No money. At least not in Germany. Only his Swiss bank accounts, which he couldn’t access. No V-4 blueprints. They were taken from him by the SS, who found them on his person. No Luftwaffe to command. No power.
Goering let the audience fall quiet. Then his lips began to move, slowly. “I hope that Martin Bormann is burning in hell, because that’s exactly what he deserves.”
Hollinger wished he had picked a better day to return to London. The town was celebrating. Shouting, drinking, dancing. The war was over. People clogged the streets. It took him hours to get from the airport to his apartment building, a trip that should have taken forty or fifty minutes at most.
He climbed the steps, opened the door, and saw Roberta sitting on the couch.
She looked up, open-mouthed, as if she had seen a ghost. “Wesley, where the hell have you been?”
“Here and there. What kind of greeting is that?”
They ran for each other and embraced.
“Now, that’s better,” he said, kissing her. “You’re bigger. And your stomach’s in the way.” He poked her with his finger. “You look... well done.”
* * * *
Three days later, nine-pound, two-ounce Wesley Hollinger, Jr. was born to proud parents.
“Congratulations,” London’s OSS Director said. He and Hollinger were sitting in comfortable lobby chairs outside the maternity section.
“Thank you, sir. Cigar? But don’t smoke it in here.”
“I won’t.” Jack Dorwin took the cigar, dropping it into his inside suit jacket. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. So, did you find Bormann?” Hollinger asked, his voice low.
“Hell, no. The guy disappeared. No sign of him at the bunker, nor anywhere in Berlin. Not yet, anyway. Donovan and Dulles sure want him bad.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“The only news I got is that he left Hitler’s bunker on the first of May, only hours before the Red Army took the Chancellery. And hasn’t been seen since.”
“Any contact with his Swiss banking friends?”
“Nothing that they admit to.”
“The scientists?”
“That’s why I’m here. Wesley, I have some other news for you. I don’t know if you’re going to like it. Orders from Donovan.”
Hollinger slouched in his chair. “Where are they sending me this time?”
“How’d you guess?”
“I have this sixth sense. Where, sir?”
“Washington. After Roberta gets back on her feet.”
“Please, sir, let’s not rush it. She’s had a rough time of it lately.”
“I’ll hold Donovan off.”
“Thank you. So what will I be doing?
“A new assignment under Operation Paperclip. Donovan will fill you in. I don’t know anything about it myself, only that the scientists will fall into it. I can say this, too. There’s some big changes ahead for the OSS.”
“What kind of changes?”
Dorwin smiled. “You’ll see.” He stood. “So, can I pop in on Roberta and the baby now?”
“Sure,” Hollinger said, thinking of Washington instead.
It was back to the States. This time with a wife and baby.