Area 51: An Uncensored History of America's Top Secret Military Base

Chapter Two: Imagine a War of the Worlds

On Halloween eve in 1938, mass hysteria descended upon New Jersey as CBS Radio broadcast a narrative adaptation of Victorianera science fiction novel The War of the Worlds. Listening to the live radio play, many people became convinced that Martians were attacking Earth, in New Jersey, and killing huge numbers of Americans. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the show’s narrator began, “we interrupt our program of dance music to bring you a special bulletin.” A huge, flaming meteorite had crashed into farmland at Grover’s Mill, twenty-two miles north of Trenton, listeners were told.

Frank Readick, playing Carl Phillips, a CBS reporter claiming to be physically on scene, delivered a breaking report: “The object doesn’t look very much like a meteor,” Phillips said, his voice shaky. “It looks more like a huge cylinder. The metal casing is definitely extraterrestrial!” Things quickly moved from harmless to malevolent and Phillips began to scream: “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the most terrifying thing I have ever witnessed! Someone’s crawling out of the hollow top!” Phillips explained that extraterrestrial beings had begun wriggling their way out of the crashed craft, revealing bodies as large as bears’ but with snakelike tentacles instead of limbs. The woods were ablaze, Phillips screamed. Barns were burning down, and the gas tanks of parked automobiles had been targeted to explode. Radio listeners heard wailing and then silence, indicating the newsman was now dead. Next, a man solemnly identified himself as the secretary of the interior and interrupted the report. “Citizens of the nation,” he declared, “I shall not try to conceal the gravity of the situation that confronts the country.” Scores were dead, including members of the New Jersey police force. The U.S. Army had been mobilized. New York City was under evacuation orders. Interplanetary warfare had begun.

Although the 8:00 p.m. broadcast had opened with a brief announcement that the story was science fiction and based on the novel by H. G. Wells, huge numbers of people across America believed it was real. Those who turned their radio dials for confirmation learned that other radio stations had interrupted their own broadcasts to follow the exclusive, live CBS Radio coverage about the Mars attack. Thousands called the station and thousands more called the police. Switchboards jammed. Hospitals began admitting people for hysteria and shock. Families in New Jersey rushed out of their homes to inform anyone not in the know that the world was experiencing a Martian attack. The state police sent a Teletype over their communications system noting the broadcast drama was “an imaginary affair,” but the hysteria was already well beyond local law enforcement’s control. Across New York and New Jersey, people loaded up their cars and fled. To many, it was the beginning of the end of the world.

The following morning, the New York Times carried a page-1, above-the-fold story headlined “Radio Listeners in a Panic Taking War Drama as Fact.” Across the nation, there had been reports of “disrupted households, interrupted religious services, traffic jams and clogged communications systems.” All through the night, in churches from Harlem to San Diego, people prayed for salvation. In the month that followed, more than 12,500 news stories discussed the War of the Worlds broadcast. The Federal Communications Commission (FCC) opened an investigation but in the end decided not to penalize CBS, largely on the grounds of freedom of speech. It was not the FCC’s role to “censor what shall or shall not be said over the radio,” Commissioner T. A. M. Craven said. “The public does not want a spineless radio.”

The 1938 War of the Worlds broadcast tapped into the nation’s growing fears. Just two weeks before, Adolf Hitler’s troops had invaded Czechoslovakia, leaving the security of Europe unclear. Rapid advances in science and technology, which included radar, jet engines, and microwaves, left many Depression-era Americans overwhelmed by how science might affect a coming war. Death rays and murderous Martians may have been pure science fiction in 1938 but the concepts played on people’s fears of invasion and annihilation. Man has always been afraid of the sneak attack, which is exactly what Hitler had just done in Czechoslovakia and what Japan would soon accomplish at Pearl Harbor. The weapons introduced in World War II included rockets, drones, and the atomic bombs — were all foreshadowed in Wells’s story. Advances in science were about to fundamentally change the face of war and make science fiction not as fictional as it had once been. World War II would leave fifty million dead.

From the moment it hit the airwaves, the War of the Worlds radio broadcast had a profound effect on the American military. The following month, a handful of “military listeners” relayed their sanitized thoughts on the subject to reporters with the Associated Press. “What struck the military listeners most about the radio play was its immediate emotional effect,” the officials told the AP. “Thousands of persons believed a real invasion had been unleashed. They exhibited all the symptoms of fear, panic, determination to resist, desperation, bravery, excitement or fatalism that real war would have produced,” which in turn “shows the government will have to insist on the close cooperation of radio in any future war.” What these military men were not saying was that there was serious concern among strategists and policy makers that entire segments of the population could be so easily manipulated into thinking that something false was something true. Americans had taken very real, physical actions based on something entirely made up. Pandemonium had ensued. Totalitarian nations were able to manipulate their citizens like this, but in America? This kind of mass control had never been seen so clearly and definitively before.

America was not the only place where government officials were impressed by how easily people could be influenced by a radio broadcast. Adolf Hitler took note as well. He referred to the Americans’ hysterical reaction to the War of the Worlds broadcast in a Berlin speech, calling it “evidence of the decadence and corrupt condition of democracy.” It was later revealed that in the Soviet Union, Joseph Stalin had also been paying attention. And President Roosevelt’s top science adviser, Vannevar Bush, observed the effects of the fictional radio broadcast with a discerning eye. The public’s tendency to panic alarmed him, he would later tell W. Cameron Forbes, his colleague at the Carnegie Institution. Three months later, alarming news again hit the airwaves, but this time it was pure science, not science fiction.

On January 26, 1939, the Carnegie Institution sponsored a press conference to announce the discovery of nuclear fission to the world. When the declaration was made that two German-born scientists had succeeded in splitting the atom, a number of physicists who were present literally ran from the room. The realization was as profound as it was devastating. If scientists could split one atom then surely they would be able to create a chain reaction of splitting atoms — the result of which would be an enormous release of energy. Three months later, the New York Times reported that scientists at a follow-up conference were heard arguing “over the probability of some scientist blowing up a sizable portion of the Earth with a tiny bit of uranium.” This was the terrifying prospect now facing the world. “Science Discovers Real Frankenstein” headlined an article in the Boston Herald that went on to explain that now “an unscrupulous dictator, lusting for conquest, [could] wipe Boston, Worcester and Providence out of existence.” Vannevar Bush disagreed with the popular press. The “real danger” in the discovery of fission, he told Forbes, was not atomic energy itself but the public’s tendency to panic over things they did not understand. To make his point, Bush used the War of the Worlds radio broadcast as an example.

Atomic energy, it turned out, was far more powerful than anything previously made by man. Six years and seven months after the announcement of the discovery of fission, America dropped atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, essentially wiping out both of those cities and a quarter of a million people living there. President Roosevelt had appointed Vannevar Bush to lead the group that made the bomb. Bush was the director of the Manhattan Project, the nation’s first true black operation, and he ran it with totalitarian-like control.

When the Japanese Empire surrendered, Vannevar Bush did not rejoice so much as ponder his next move. For eighteen days he watched as Joseph Stalin marched Soviet troops into eastern Asia,

positioning his Red Army forces in China, Manchuria, Sakhalin Island, and North Korea. When the fighting finally stopped, Bush’s response had become clear. He would convince President Truman that the Soviet Union could not be trusted. In facing down America’s new enemy, the nation needed even more advanced technologies to fight future wars. The most recent war might have ended, but science needed to stay on the forward march.

As Americans celebrated peace (after the atomic bombs were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, public opinion polls showed that more than 85 percent of Americans approved of the bombings), Vannevar Bush and members of the War Department began planning to use the atomic bomb again in a live test — a kind of mock nuclear naval battle, which they hoped could take place the following summer in the Marshall Islands in the Pacific. There, in a deep lagoon at Bikini Atoll, dozens of captured Japanese and German warships would be blown up using live nuclear bombs. The operation would illustrate to the world just how formidable America’s new weapons were. It would be called Operation Crossroads. As its name implied, the event marked a critical juncture. America was signaling to Russia it was ready to do battle with nuclear bombs.

In less than a year, Operation Crossroads was in full swing on Bikini Atoll, a twenty-five-mile ring of red coral islands encircling a clear, blue lagoon. A July 1946 memo, one of many marked Secret, instructed the men not to swim in the lagoon wearing red bathing trunks. There were barracuda everywhere. Word was that the fanged-tooth fish would attack swimmers without warning.

The natives of Bikini, all 167 of them, were led by a king named Juda, but in July of 1946, none of them were on Bikini Atoll anymore. The U.S. Navy had evacuated the natives to Rongerik Atoll, 125 miles to the east. The upcoming three-bomb atomic test series would make their homeland unsafe for a while, the natives were told. But it was going to help ensure world peace.

On the shores of the atoll, a young man named Alfred O’Donnell lay in his Quonset hut listening to the wind blow and the rain pound against the reinforced sheet-metal roof above him. He was unable to sleep. “The reason was because I had too much to worry about,” O’Donnell explains, remembering Crossroads after more than sixty years. “Is everything all right? Is the bomb going to go off, like planned?” What the twenty-four-year-old weapons engineer was worrying about were the sea creatures in the lagoon. “Let’s say an octopus came into contact with one of the bomb’s wires. What would happen? What if something got knocked out of place?” The wires O’Donnell referred to ran from a concrete bunker on Bikini called the control point and out into the ocean, where they connected to a twenty-three-kiloton atomic bomb code-named Baker. The men in the U.S. Navy’s Task Force One gave the bomb a more colorful name: they called it Helen of Bikini, after the legendary femme fatale for whom so many ancient warriors laid down their lives. A nuclear weapon was both destructive and seductive, the sailors said, just like Helen of Troy had been.

As a leading member of the arming party that would wire and fire the atomic bombs during Operation Crossroads, O’Donnell had a tremendous responsibility, especially for someone so young. “Five years earlier I was just a kid from Boston with a normal life. All I was thinking about for my future was a baseball career,” O’Donnell recalls. In 1941, when O’Donnell was in high school, he’d been recruited by the Boston Braves, thanks to his exceptional.423 batting average. Then came the war, and everything changed. He married Ruth. He joined the Navy, where he learned radio and electronics. In both subjects he quickly excelled. Back in Boston after the war, O’Donnell was mysteriously recruited for a job with Raytheon Production Corporation, a defense contract company cofounded by Vannevar Bush. What exactly the job entailed, O’Donnell did not know when he signed on. The recruiters told him he would find out more details once he was granted a security clearance. “I didn’t know what a security clearance was back then,” O’Donnell recalls. After a month, he learned that he was now part of the Manhattan Project. He was transferred to a small engineering company named for the three MIT professors who ran it: Edgerton, Germeshausen, and Grier. Later, the company shortened its name to EG&G. There, O’Donnell was trained to wire a nuclear bomb by Herbert Grier, the man who had invented the firing systems for the bombs dropped on Japan.

“The next thing I knew I was asked to go to Bikini in the summer of 1946,” says O’Donnell. “I did not want to go. I’d fought on those atolls during the war. I’d seen bodies of young soldiers floating dead in the water and I swore I’d never go back. But Ruth and I had a baby on the way and she said go, and I did.” He went on, “I missed Ruth. She was pregnant, thank God, but I wondered what she was doing back in Boston where we lived. Was she able to take out the garbage all right?” Forty-two thousand people had gathered on Bikini Atoll to witness Operation Crossroads, and O’Donnell could not sleep because he felt all of those eyes were on him. Thinking about Ruth was how O’Donnell stopped worrying about how well he had wired the bomb.

Elsewhere on Bikini Atoll, Colonel Richard Sully Leghorn cut the figure of a war hero. Handsome and mustached, Leghorn looked just like Clark Gable in It Happened One Night. Commanding officer of Task Force 1.5.2, Leghorn was one of the pilots leading the mission to photograph the nuclear bombs from the air. Leghorn spent afternoons with Navy navigators rehearsing flight paths that, come shot day, would take him within viewing distance of the atomic cloud. At twenty-seven years old, Richard Leghorn was already a public figure. He’d been the young reconnaissance officer who’d taken photographs of the beaches of Normandy on D-day. “In the face of intense fire from some of the strongest anti-aircraft installments in western Europe, Richard Leghorn photographed bridges, rail junctions, airfields and other targets,” the U.S. Army Air Forces was proud to say. Leghorn, a physicist, had a degree from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. He loved the scientific concept of photography, which was why he went to work for Eastman Kodak after the war. Then, in early 1946, the Navy called him back for temporary duty on Operation Crossroads. He trained at the Roswell Army Air Field in New Mexico and flew the military’s best photographic equipment across the Pacific. Now here he was on Bikini. Soon, Leghorn would be soaring over the mushroom cloud taking pictures of what happens to warships when they are targeted by a nuclear bomb.

At central command, Curtis Emerson LeMay stood chomping on a cigar. LeMay was going over procedures and protocols for the Crossroads event. Just thirty-nine years old, LeMay had already graced the cover of Time magazine and was known around the world as the man who’d helped end World War II. By the time he was fortyfive, Curtis LeMay would become the youngest four-star general in the U.S. military since Ulysses S. Grant. Dark, brooding, and of legendary self-will, LeMay had led the incendiary bombing campaigns against Japanese cities, including Tokyo. When the napalm bombs didn’t end war in the Pacific, President Truman authorized LeMay to lead the 509th Operations Group, based on Tinian Island, to drop the Hiroshima and Nagasaki atomic bombs.

Curtis LeMay rarely smiled. When he spoke, it was described as “not much more than a snarl.” Critics called him a coldhearted military strategist and attributed his calculated vision to a troubled upbringing. His father was a violent drunk, and LeMay was forced to help support the family when he was a child. At the age of seven, he was shooting sparrows for an old-lady neighbor who paid five cents per bird. Though journalist I. F. Stone called LeMay a “Caveman in a Jet Bomber,” his men adored him, often noting that he was not someone who sent his men into battle but one who led them there. During the war in the Pacific, LeMay often flew lead on bombing raids. But now the war was over and LeMay was thinking about a military strategy for the future. Beginning at Crossroads, he would shape the U.S. Air Force in a way no other individual has since. As deputy chief of air staff for research and development of the U.S. Army Air Forces, LeMay was at Bikini to determine how effective the bomb could be in nuclear naval battles against the Soviet Union.

Operation Crossroads was a huge event, described as “the apocalypse with fireworks.” To someone who didn’t know World War II was over, the scene on the lagoon at Bikini that day might have seemed surreal. An armada of captured German and Japanese warships had been lined up alongside retired American cruisers and destroyers. These were massive, football-field-size warships whose individual might was dwarfed only by the combined power of them all. Eight submarines had been tethered to anchors on the ocean floor. There were over one million tons of battle-weary steel floating on the ocean without a single human on board. Instead, thousands of pigs, sheep, and rats had been set out in the South Pacific sunshine, in cages or in leg irons, and they would face the coming atomic blast. Some of the animals had metal tags around their necks; others had Geiger counters clipped to their ears. The Navy wanted to determine how living things fared against nuclear bombs.

Forty miles west of the lagoon, Alfred O’Donnell stood below deck in the control room of an observation ship watching the control bay. Above him, on deck, Los Alamos scientists, generals, admirals, and dignitaries waited in great anticipation for the bomb. Shielding their eyes were dark, 4.5-density goggles, necessary measures to prevent anyone from being blinded by the nuclear flash. O’Donnell worked the instrument panel in front of him. There were sixty seconds to go. He watched the auto sequence timer perform its function. With less than a minute remaining, the firing system moved into automation. The bars on the oscilloscopes moved from left to right as the signals passed down through the DN-11 relay system. There were ten seconds left. Then five seconds. The light for the arming signal blinked on. Two seconds. The firing signal flashed. It was zero time.

O’Donnell kept his eyes on the control panel down to the last second, as was his job. In the event of a malfunction, it would be up to him to let the commander know. But the signal had been sent without a problem, and now it was moving down the underwater wires, racing toward the Baker bomb. If O’Donnell moved fast, he could make it onto the ship’s deck in time to see the nuclear blast. Racing out of the control room, he pulled his goggles over his eyes. Up on the ship’s deck he took a deep breath of sea air. There was nothing to see. The world in front of him was pitch-black viewed through the goggles. He stared into the blackness; it was quiet and still. He could have heard a pin drop. He listened to people breathing in the silence. Facing the lagoon, O’Donnell let go of the ship’s railing and walked out farther on the deck. He knew the distance from the button to the bomb and the time it took for the signal to get there. In a matter of seconds, the signal would reach its destination.

There was a blinding flash and things were not black anymore. Then there was a white-orange light that seemed brighter than the sun as the world in front of O’Donnell transformed again, this time to a fiery red. He watched a massive, megaton column of water rise up out of the lagoon. The mushroom cloud began to form. “Monstrous! Terrifying! It kept getting bigger and bigger,” O’Donnell recalls. “It was huge. The cloud. The mushroom cap. Like watching huge petals unfold on a giant flower. Up and out, the petals curled around and came back down under the bottom of the cap of the mushroom cloud.” Next came the wind. O’Donnell says, “I watched the column as it started to bend. My eyes went back to the top of the mushroom cloud where ice was starting to form. The ice fell off and started to float down. Then it all disappeared into the fireball. Watching your first nuclear bomb go off is not something you ever forget.”

Mesmerized by the Baker bomb’s power, O’Donnell stood staring out over the sea from the ship’s deck. He was so overwhelmed by what he’d witnessed, he forgot all about the shock blast that would come his way next. The wave of a nuclear bomb travels at approximately one hundred miles per hour, which means it would reach the ship four minutes after the initial blast. “I forgot to hold on to the rail,” O’Donnell explains. “When the shock wave came it picked me up and threw me ten feet back against the bulkhead.” Lying on the ship’s deck, his body badly bruised, O’Donnell thought to himself: You damn fool! You had been forewarned.

High above the lagoon, Colonel Richard Leghorn piloted his airplane through the bright blue sky. To the south, in the distance, cumulus clouds formed. The U.S. Army Air Forces navigators had sent Leghorn close enough to ground zero to assess what had happened down below on the lagoon, but far enough away so as not to be irradiated by the mushroom cloud. What Leghorn witnessed horrified him. He watched Baker’s underwater fireball produce a hollow column, or chimney, of radioactive water six thousand feet tall, two thousand feet wide, and with walls three hundred feet thick. The warships below were tossed up into the air like bathtub toys. The Japanese battleship Nagato, formerly the flagship of Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto, the man responsible for planning the attack on Pearl Harbor, was thrown four hundred yards. The retired USS Arkansas, all twenty-seven thousand tons of it, was upended against the water column on its nose. Eight mighty battleships disappeared in the nuclear inferno. Had the armada floating in the lagoon been crewed to capacity, thirty-five thousand sailors would have been vaporized.

From up in the air Colonel Leghorn considered what he was witnessing in the exact moment that the bomb went off. It was not as if Leghorn were a stranger to the violence of war. He had flown more than eighty reconnaissance missions over enemy-controlled territory in Europe, from 1943 to 1945. On D-day, at Normandy, Leghorn made three individual passes over the beachheads in a single-seat airplane without any guns. But like O’Donnell, Leghorn was able to recollect Operation Crossroads with precise detail after more than sixty years. For Colonel Leghorn, this is because he remembered exactly how it made him feel. “I knew in that life-defining moment the world could not ever afford to have a nuclear war,” Leghorn says. The only sane path to military superiority in an atomic age was to spy on the enemy so that you always had more information about the enemy than the enemy had about you. Leghorn says, “That was the way to prevent war and that is how I formulated the original idea of overhead.”

At the time, in 1946, America’s intelligence services had virtually no idea about what was going on in Russia west of the Volga River and absolutely no idea what was happening west of the Ural Mountains. Leghorn believed that if the United States could fly secret reconnaissance missions over Russia’s enormous landmass and photograph its military installations, the nation could stay ahead of the Russians. By spying on the enemy, America could learn what atomic capabilities the Russians had, what plutonium- or uranium-processing facilities existed, what shipyards or missile-launch facilities the Soviets were constructing. And because Leghorn was a scientist, he could imagine precisely the way the military could accomplish this. His idea was to create a state-of-the-art spy plane that could fly higher than the enemy’s fighter jets could climb or than their antiaircraft missiles could travel. In that moment during Operation Crossroads, Leghorn committed himself to developing this new philosophy of spying on the enemy from above, a concept that would come to be known as overhead, or aerial, espionage. Leghorn’s efforts would take him from the halls of Congress to the corridors of the U.S. Air Force Strategic Air Command. There, he would be at odds with a third set of eyes watching the twenty-three-kiloton Baker bomb at Crossroads. The eyes of Curtis LeMay.

LeMay’s perspective could not have been more diametrically opposed to Leghorn’s spy plane idea. LeMay believed that atomic bombs, not conventional explosives, won wars. Japan did not surrender after the firebombing of Tokyo. The empire surrendered only after America dropped its second nuclear bomb. During the atomic tests at Bikini, LeMay knew what only a few others knew, and that was that the Joint Chiefs of Staff had recently reversed America’s longstanding national policy of only going to war if attacked first. The JCS’s new and top secret first-strike policy, code-named Pincher, now allowed the American military to “strike a first blow if necessary.” A single effort could include as many as thirty atomic bombs dropped at once. The new and unprecedented policy had begun as a planning document less than one month after the Japanese surrendered, on August 15, 1945. Ten months later, on June 18, 1946, the policy legally took effect. No doubt this influenced LeMay’s perspective at Crossroads.

When it came time for LeMay to present his observations on the test series to the Joint Chiefs of Staff, he narrowed them down to three succinct points. “Atomic bombs in numbers conceded to be available in the foreseeable future can nullify any nation’s military effort and demolish its social and economic structures.” In other words, LeMay would argue, America needed lots and lots of these bombs. LeMay’s second point was even more extreme: “In conjunction with other mass destruction weapons, it is possible to depopulate vast areas of the Earth’s surface, leaving only vestigial remnants of man’s material works.” But it was LeMay’s third point that would fundamentally shape the future U.S. Air Force, which would come into existence the following year: “The atomic bomb emphasizes the requirement for the most effective means of delivery in being; there must be the most effective atomic bomb striking force possible.” What LeMay was arguing for was a massive fleet of bombers to drop these nuclear bombs.

LeMay got all three wishes. Three years later, after he was promoted to commander of Strategic Air Command, the Joint Chiefs of Staff would raise the number of bombs that could be used in a first strike against the Soviets from 30 to 133. LeMay was also one of the most powerful advocates of the creation of a new and thousand-timesbigger nuclear bomb, called the hydrogen bomb, the plans of which were being spearheaded by Dr. Edward Teller. Over the next forty-four years, seventy thousand nuclear weapons would be produced by the United States. LeMay was definitely not interested in spy planes or overhead. Spy planes didn’t have guns and they couldn’t carry weapons. Military might was the way to keep ahead of the enemy in the atomic age. That was the way to win wars.

Halfway across the world, in Moscow, in a military fortress called the Kremlin, Joseph Stalin saw what was going on at Operation Crossroads but with an altogether different set of eyes. First excluded from but then invited to the Navy’s nuclear tests at Bikini Atoll, the Soviet Union had two representatives observing, one physicist and one spy. The physicist was with the Radium Institute, and the spy was a member of the MBD, the Ministry of State Security, which was the precursor to the KGB. The cover story for the spy was that he was a correspondent for the newspaper Pravda.

To Joseph Stalin, the atomic tests at Bikini were America’s way of signaling to the rest of the world that the nation was not done using nuclear bombs. It also confirmed for the already paranoid Stalin that the Americans were ready to deceive him, just as Adolf Hitler had four years earlier when Stalin agreed to a nonaggression treaty with Nazi Germany and then was double-crossed in a deadly sneak attack.

Unknown to the Americans, as Stalin watched Crossroads he did so with confidence, knowing that his own nuclear program was well advanced. In just five months, the Soviet Union’s first chain-reacting atomic pile would go critical, paving the way for Russia’s first atomic bomb. But what has never before been disclosed is that Joseph Stalin was developing another secret weapon for his arsenal, separate from the atomic bomb. It was almost straight from the radio hoax War of the Worlds — something that could sow terror in the hearts of the fearful imperialists and send panic-stricken Americans running into the streets.

Ten months passed. It was nighttime on the Rio Grande, May 29, 1947, and Army scientists, engineers, and technicians at the White Sands Proving Ground in New Mexico were anxiously putting the final touches on their own American secret weapon, called Hermes. The twenty-five-foot-long, three-thousand-pound rocket had originally been named V-2, or Vergeltungswaffe 2, which means “vengeance” in German. But Hermes sounded less spiteful — Hermes being the ancient Greek messenger of the gods.

The actual rocket that now stood on Test Stand 33 had belonged to Adolf Hitler just a little more than two years before. It had come off the same German slave-labor production lines as the rockets that the Third Reich had used to terrorize the people of London, Antwerp, and Paris during the war. The U.S. Army had confiscated nearly two hundred V-2s from inside Peenemьnde, Germany’s rocket manufacturing plant, and shipped them to White Sands beginning the first month after the war. Under a parallel, even more secret project called Operation Paperclip — the complete details of which remain classified as of 2011—118 captured German rocket scientists were given new lives and careers and brought to the missile range. Hundreds of others would follow.

Two of these German scientists were now readying Hermes for its test launch. One, Wernher Von Braun, had invented this rocket, which was the world’s first ballistic missile, or flying bomb. And the second scientist, Dr. Ernst Steinhoff, had designed the V-2 rocket’s brain. That spring night in 1947, the V-2 lifted up off the pad, rising slowly at first, with Von Braun and Steinhoff watching intently. Hermes consumed more than a thousand pounds of rocket fuel in its first 2.5 seconds as it elevated to fifty feet. The next fifty feet were much easier, as were the hundred feet after that. The rocket gained speed, and the laws of physics kicked in: anything can fly if you make it move fast enough. Hermes was now fully aloft, climbing quickly into the night sky and headed for the upper atmosphere. At least that was the plan. Just a few moments later, the winged missile suddenly and unexpectedly reversed course. Instead of heading north to the uninhabited terrain inside the two-million-square-acre White Sands Proving Ground, the rocket began heading south toward downtown El Paso, Texas.

Dr. Steinhoff was watching the missile’s trajectory through a telescope from an observation post one mile south of the launchpad, and having personally designed the V-2 rocket-guidance controls back when he worked for Adolf Hitler, Dr. Steinhoff was the one best equipped to recognize errors in the test. In the event that Steinhoff detected an errant launch, he would notify Army engineers, who would immediately cut the fuel to the rocket’s motors via remote control, allowing it to crash safely inside the missile range. But Dr. Steinhoff said nothing as the misguided V-2 arced over El Paso and headed for Mexico. Minutes later, the rocket crash-landed into the Tepeyac Cemetery, three miles south of Juбrez, a heavily populated city of 120,000. The violent blast shook virtually every building in El Paso and Juбrez, terrifying citizens of both cities, who “swamped newspaper offices, police headquarters and radio stations with anxious telephone inquiries.” The missile left a crater that was fifty feet wide and twentyfour feet deep. It was a miracle no one was killed.

Army officials rushed to Juбrez to smooth over the event while Mexican soldiers were dispatched to guard the crater’s rim. The mission, the men, and the rocket were all classified top secret; no one could know specific details about any of this. Investigators silenced Mexican officials by cleaning up the large, bowl-shaped cavity and paying for damages. But back at White Sands, reparations were not so easily made. Allegations of sabotage by the German scientists who were in charge of the top secret project overwhelmed the workload of the intelligence officers at White Sands. Attitudes toward the former Third Reich scientists who were now working for the United States tended to fall into two distinct categories at the time. There was the letbygones-be-bygones approach, an attitude summed up by the Army officer in charge of Operation Paperclip, Bosquet Wev, who stated that to preoccupy oneself with “picayune details” about German scientists’ past actions was “beating a dead Nazi horse.” The logic behind this thinking was that a disbanded Third Reich presented no future harm to America but a burgeoning Soviet military certainly did — and if the Germans were working for us, they couldn’t be working for them.

Others disagreed — including Albert Einstein. Five months before the Juбrez crash, Einstein and the newly formed Federation of American Scientists appealed to President Truman: “We hold these individuals to be potentially dangerous… Their former eminence as Nazi party members and supporters raises the issue of their fitness to become American citizens and hold key positions in American industrial, scientific and educational institutions.” For Einstein, making deals with war criminals was undemocratic as well as dangerous.

While the public debate went on, internal investigations began. And the rocket work at White Sands continued. The German scientists had been testing V-2s there for fourteen months, and while investigations of the Juбrez rocket crash were under way, three more missiles fired from Test Stand 33 crash-landed outside the restricted facility: one near Alamogordo, New Mexico, and another near Las Cruces, New Mexico. A third went down outside Juбrez, Mexico, again. The German scientists blamed the near tragedies on old V-2 components. Seawater had corroded some of the parts during the original boat trip from Germany. But in top secret written reports, Army intelligence officers were building a case that would lay blame on the German scientists. The War Department intelligence unit that kept tabs on the German scientists had designated some of the Germans at the base as “under suspicion of being potential security risks.” When not working, the men were confined to a six-acre section of the base. The officers’ club was off-limits to all the Germans, including the rocket team’s leaders, Steinhoff and Von Braun. It was in this atmosphere of failed tests and mistrust that an extraordinary event happened — one that, at first glance, seemed totally unrelated to the missile launches.

During the first week of July 1947, U.S. Signal Corps engineers began tracking two objects with remarkable flying capabilities moving across the southwestern United States. What made the aircraft extraordinary was that, although they flew in a traditional, forward-moving motion, the craft — whatever they were — began to hover sporadically before continuing to fly on. This kind of technology was beyond any aerodynamic capabilities the U.S. Air Force had in development in the summer of 1947. When multiple sources began reporting the same data, it became clear that the radar wasn’t showing phantom returns, or electronic ghosts, but something real. Kirtland Army Air Force Base, just north of the White Sands Proving Ground, tracked the flying craft into its near vicinity. The commanding officer there ordered a decorated World War II pilot named Kenny Chandler into a fighter jet to locate and chase the unidentified flying craft. This fact has never before been disclosed.

Chandler never visually spotted what he’d been sent to look for. But within hours of Chandler’s sweep of the skies, one of the flying objects crashed near Roswell, New Mexico. Immediately, the office of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, or JCS, took command and control and recovered the airframe and some propulsion equipment, including the crashed craft’s power plant, or energy source. The recovered craft looked nothing like a conventional aircraft. The vehicle had no tail and it had no wings. The fuselage was round, and there was a dome mounted on the top. In secret Army intelligence memos declassified in 1994, it would be referred to as a “flying disc.” Most alarming was a fact kept secret until now — inside the disc, there was a very earthly hallmark: Russian writing. Block letters from the Cyrillic alphabet had been stamped, or embossed, in a ring running around the inside of the craft.

In a critical moment, the American military had its worst fears realized. The Russian army must have gotten its hands on German aerospace engineers more capable than Ernst Steinhoff and Wernher Von Braun — engineers who must have developed this flying craft years before for the German air force, or Luftwaffe. The Russians simply could not have developed this kind of advanced technology on their own. Russia’s stockpile of weapons and its body of scientists had been decimated during the war; the nation had lost more than twenty million people. Most Russian scientists still alive had spent the war in the gulag. But the Russians, like the Americans, the British, and the French, had pillaged Hitler’s best and brightest scientists as war booty, each country taking advantage of them to move forward in the new world. And now, in July of 1947, shockingly, the Soviet supreme leader had somehow managed not only to penetrate U.S. airspace near the Alaskan border, but to fly over several of the most sensitive military installations in the western United States. Stalin had done this with foreign technology that the U.S. Army Air Forces knew nothing about. It was an incursion so brazen — so antithetical to the perception of America’s strong national security, which included the military’s ability to defend itself against air attack — that upper-echelon Army intelligence officers swept in and took control of the entire situation. The first thing they did was initiate the withdrawal of the original Roswell Army Air Field press release, the one that stated that a “flying disc… landed on a ranch near Roswell,” and then they replaced it with the second press release, the one that said that a weather balloon had crashed — nothing more. The weather balloon story has remained the official cover story ever since.

The fears were legitimate: fears that the Russians had hover-andfly technology, that their flying craft could outfox U.S. radar, and that it could deliver to America a devastating blow. The single most worrisome question facing the Joint Chiefs of Staff at the time was: What if atomic energy propelled the Russian craft? Or worse, what if it dispersed radioactive particles, like a modern-day dirty bomb? In 1947, the United States believed it still had a monopoly on the atomic bomb as a deliverable weapon. But as early as June 1942, Hermann Gцring, commander in chief of the Luftwaffe, had been overseeing the Third Reich’s research council on nuclear physics as a weapon in its development of an airplane called the Amerika Bomber, designed to drop a dirty bomb on New York City. Any number of those scientists could be working for the Russians. The Central Intelligence Group, the CIA’s institutional predecessor, did not yet know that a spy at Los Alamos National Laboratory, a man named Klaus Fuchs, had stolen bomb blueprints and given them to Stalin. Or that Russia was two years away from testing its own atomic bomb. In the immediate aftermath of the crash, all the Joint Chiefs of Staff had to go on from the Central Intelligence Group was speculation about what atomic technology Russia might have.

For the military, the very fact that New Mexico’s airspace had been violated was shocking. This region of the country was the single most sensitive weapons-related domain in all of America. The White Sands Missile Range was home to the nation’s classified weapons-delivery systems. The nuclear laboratory up the road, the Los Alamos Laboratory, was where scientists had developed the atomic bomb and where they were now working on nuclear packages with a thousand times the yield. Outside Albuquerque, at a production facility called Sandia Base, assembly-line workers were forging Los Alamos nuclear packages into smaller and smaller bombs. Forty-five miles to the southwest, at the Roswell Army Air Field, the 509th Bomb Wing was the only wing of long-range bombers equipped to carry and drop nuclear bombs.

Things went from complicated to critical at the revelation that there was a second crash site. Paperclip scientists Wernher Von Braun and Ernst Steinhoff, still under review over the Juбrez rocket crash, were called on for their expertise. Several other Paperclip scientists specializing in aviation medicine were brought in. The evidence of whatever had crashed at and around Roswell, New Mexico, in the first week of July in 1947 was gathered together by a Joint Chiefs of Staff technical services unit and secreted away in a manner so clandestine, it followed security protocols established for transporting uranium in the early days of the Manhattan Project.

The first order of business was to determine where the technology had come from. The Joint Chiefs of Staff tasked an elite group working under the direct orders of G-2 Army intelligence to initiate a top secret project called Operation Harass. Based on the testimony of America’s Paperclip scientists, Army intelligence officers believed that the flying disc was the brainchild of two former Third Reich airplane engineers, named Walter and Reimar Horten— now working for the Russian military. Orders were drawn up. The manhunt was on.

Walter and Reimar Horten were two aerospace engineers whose importance in seminal aircraft projects had somehow been overlooked when America and the Soviet Union were fighting over scientists at the end of the war. The brothers were the inventors of several of Hitler’s flying-wing aircraft, including one called the Horten 229 or Horten IX, a wing-shaped, tailless airplane that had been developed at a secret facility in Baden-Baden during the war. From the Paperclip scientists at Wright Field, the Army intelligence investigators learned that Hitler was rumored to have been developing a faster-flying aircraft that had been designed by the brothers and was shaped like a saucer. Maybe, the Paperclips said, there had been a later-model Horten in the works before Germany surrendered, meaning that even if Stalin didn’t have the Horten brothers themselves, he could very likely have gotten control of their blueprints and plans.

The flying disc that crashed at Roswell had technology more advanced than anything the U.S. Army Air Forces had ever seen. Its propulsion techniques were particularly confounding. What made the craft go so fast? How was it so stealthy and how did it trick radar? The disc had appeared on Army radar screens briefly and then suddenly disappeared. The incident at Roswell happened just weeks before the National Security Act, which meant there was no true Central Intelligence Agency to handle the investigation. Instead, hundreds of Counter Intelligence Corps (CIC) officers from the U.S. Army’s European command were dispatched across Germany in search of anyone who knew anything about Walter and Reimar Horten. Officers tracked down and interviewed the brothers’ relatives, colleagues, professors, and acquaintances with an urgency not seen since Operation Alsos, in which Allied Forces sought information about Hitler’s atomic scientists and nuclear programs during the war.

A records group of more than three hundred pages of Army intelligence documents reveals many of the details of Operation Harass. They were declassified in 1994, after a researcher named Timothy Cooper filed a request for documents under the Freedom of Information Act. One memo, called “Air Intelligence Guide for Alleged ‘Flying Saucer’ Type Aircraft,” detailed for CIC officers the parameters of the flying saucer technology the military was looking for, features which were evidenced in the craft that crashed at Roswell.

Extreme maneuverability and apparent ability to almost hover; A plan form approximating that of an oval or disc with dome shape on the surface; The ability to quickly disappear by high speed or by complete disintegration; The ability to group together very quickly in a tight formation when more than one aircraft are together; Evasive motion ability indicating possibility of being manually operated, or possibly, by electronic or remote control.

The Counter Intelligence Corps’ official 1947–1948 manhunt for the Horten brothers reads at times like a spy novel and at times like a wildgoose chase. The first real lead in the hunt came from Dr. Adolf Smekal of Frankfurt, who provided CIC with a list of possible informants’ names. Agents were told a dizzying array of alleged facts: Reimar was living in secret in East Prussia; Reimar was living in Gцttingen, in what had been the British zone; Reimar had been kidnapped “presumably by the Russians” in the latter part of 1946. If you want to know where Reimar is, one informant said, you must first locate Hannah Reitsch, the famous aviatrix who was living in Bad Hauheim. As for Walter, he was working as a consultant for the French; he was last seen in Frankfurt trying to find work with a university there; he was in Dessau; actually, he was in Russia; he was in Luxembourg, or maybe it was France. One German scientist turned informant chided CIC agents. If they really wanted to know where the Horten brothers were, he said, and what they were capable of, then go ask the American Paperclip scientists living at Wright Field.

Neatly typed and intricately detailed summaries of hundreds of interviews with the Horten brothers’ colleagues and relatives flooded the CIC. Army intelligence officers spent months chasing leads, but most information led them back to square one. In the fall of 1947, prospects of locating the brothers seemed grim until November, when CIC agents caught a break. A former Messerschmitt test pilot named Fritz Wendel offered up some firsthand testimony that seemed real. The Horten brothers had indeed been working on a flying saucer-like craft in Heiligenbeil, East Prussia, right after the war, Wendel said. The airplane was ten meters long and shaped like a half-moon. It had no tail. The prototype was designed to be flown by one man lying down flat on his stomach. It reached a ceiling of twelve thousand feet. Wendel drew diagrams of this saucerlike aircraft, as did a second German informant named Professor George, who described a latermodel Horten as being “very much like a round cake with a large sector cut out” and that had been developed to carry more than one crew member. The later-model Horten could travel higher and faster— up to 1,200 mph — because it was propelled by rockets rather than jet engines. Its cabin was allegedly pressurized for high-altitude flights.

The Americans pressed Fritz Wendel for more. Could it hover? Not that Wendel knew. Did he know if groups could fly tightly together? Wendel said he had no idea. Were “high speed escapement methods” designed into the craft? Wendel wasn’t sure. Could the flying disc be remotely controlled? Yes, Wendel said he knew of radio-control experiments being conducted by Seimens and Halske at their electrical factory in Berlin. Army officers asked Wendel if he had heard of any hovering or near-hovering technologies. No. Did Wendel have any idea about the tactical purposes for such an aircraft? Wendel said he had no idea.

The next batch of solid information came from a rocket engineer named Walter Ziegler. During the war, Ziegler had worked at the car manufacturer Bayerische Motoren Werke, or BMW, which served as a front for advanced rocket-science research. There, Ziegler had been on a team tasked with developing advanced fighter jets powered by rockets. Ziegler relayed a chilling tale that gave investigators an important clue. One night, about a year after the war, in September of 1946, four hundred men from his former rocket group at BMW had been invited by Russian military officers to a fancy dinner. The rocket scientists were wined and dined and, after a few hours, taken home. Most were drunk. Several hours later, all four hundred of the men were woken up in the middle of the night by their Russian hosts and told they were going to be taking a trip. Why Ziegler wasn’t among them was not made clear. The Germans were told to bring their wives, their children, and whatever else they needed for a long trip. Mistresses and livestock were also fine. This was not a situation to which you could say no, Ziegler explained. The scientists and their families were transported by rail to a small town outside Moscow where they had remained ever since, forced to work on secret military projects in terrible conditions. According to Ziegler, it was at this top secret Russian facility, exact whereabouts unknown, that the German scientists were developing rockets and other advanced technologies under Russian supervision. These were Russia’s version of the American Paperclip scientists. It was very possible, Ziegler said, that the Horten brothers had been working for the Russians at the secret facility there.

For nine long months, CIC agents typed up memo after memo relating various theories about where the Horten brothers were, what their flying saucers might have been designed for, and what leads should or should not be pursued. And then, six months into the investigation, on March 12, 1948, along came abrupt news. The Horten brothers had been found. In a memo to the European command of the 970th CIC, Major Earl S. Browning Jr. explained. “The Horten Brothers have been located and interrogated by American Agencies,” Browning said. The Russians had likely found the blueprints of the flying wing after all. “It is Walter Horten’s opinion that the blueprints of the Horten IX may have been found by Russian troops at the Gotha Railroad Car Factory,” the memo read. But a second memo, entitled “Extracts on Horten, Walter,” explained a little more. Former Messerschmitt test pilot Fritz Wendel’s information about the Horten brothers’ wingless, tailless, saucerlike craft that had room for more than one crew member was confirmed. “Walter Horten’s opinion is that sufficient German types of flying wings existed in the developing or designing stages when the Russians occupied Germany, and these types may have enabled the Russians to produce the flying saucer.”

There is no mention of Reimar Horten, the second brother, in any of the hundreds of pages of documents released to Timothy Cooper as part of his Freedom of Information Act request — despite the fact that both brothers had been confirmed as located and interrogated. Nor is there any mention of what Reimar Horten did or did not say about the later-model Horten flying discs. But one memo mentioned “the Horten X” and another referred to “the Horten 13.” No further details have been provided, and a 2011 Freedom of Information Act request by the author met a dead end.

On May 12, 1948, the headquarters of European command sent the director of intelligence at the United States Forces in Austria a puzzling memo. “Walter Horten has admitted his contacts with the Russians,” it said. That was the last mention of the Horten brothers in the Army intelligence’s declassified record for Operation Harass.

Whatever else officially exists on the Horten brothers and their advanced flying saucer continues to be classified as of 2011, and the crash remains from Roswell quickly fell into the blackest regions of government. They would stay at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base for approximately four years. From there, they would quietly be shipped out west to become intertwined with a secret facility out in the middle of the Nevada desert. No one but a handful of people would have any idea they were there.