The Truth

CHAPTER 4: THE NEAR PAST

Balancing in the open back of the jeep, both hands holding on tight to the M-2 fifty-caliber machine gun, the OSS agent imagined himself in North Africa driving across the desert in pursuit of Rommel’s Afrika Corps. The fact that the gun had no rounds loaded was something he chose to ignore.

The driver, Special Agent Cavanaugh, usually tried to do his best to ignore his younger partner. But when, above the never-ending sounds of the wind, he could swear he heard him making rat-a-tat-tat noises, Cavanaugh tapped the brakes, causing his partner’s chest to bang against the back of the gun painfully. Cavanaugh then slowed the jeep to a halt. He got out of the driver’s seat and walked ten feet away, before pulling out his compass to make a map check. He wanted to be sure they could find their way back.

They were northwest of the newly established Nellis Air Force Base tracking a plume of dust several miles ahead of them. They’d been following the German agent from New York, via train to Salt Lake City and then by car to this area and now by jeep into the desert. Cavanaugh couldn’t imagine what the hell the German was up to in this godforsaken place, but they had their orders from Wild Bill Donovan himself.

The OSS — Office of Strategic Services — was a new entity, developed in response to the war and mimicking the British SOE, Special Operation Executive, an organization designed to do the dirtier work of warfare. Donovan, the head of the OSS, had told Cavanaugh that the arrival date and time of the German agent in New York had been forwarded from the British, but there was no clue as to the agent’s mission.

“Kramer,” Cavanaugh called out.

His partner was rubbing his chest. “What?” “You need to look at this.”

Reluctantly, Kramer gave up the gun position and climbed out of the jeep. “What is it?” Cavanaugh simply held out the compass. “Yes?”

Cavanaugh held in his sigh of contempt. “The sun is there. North is that way.” He pointed in the direction indicated by the compass, one hundred and eighty degrees out from north.

“There must be a large ore deposit nearby,” was Kramer’s best guess.

Cavanaugh looked about, then checked the map. They were on a dry lake bed, marked Groom Lake on the surveying map they’d been given. The compass was pointing at a mountain to their south.

Cavanaugh rubbed away some sand stuck to the sweat on his face. Both men were sunburned, tired, and worn. And subconsciously feeling guilty that they weren’t at the front, whether it be in the Pacific or Atlantic. When he’d joined the OSS, Cavanaugh had envisioned parachuting into Europe to work behind the lines, not driving across the desert in Nevada. He checked his watch, then walked back over to the jeep and picked up the handset for the radio to make their check-in with Nellis.

When he keyed the handset a sharp burst of static came out of the speaker. Cavanaugh cursed and fiddled with the frequency knob, checking to make sure it was set correctly. When he tried again, he still found only static. He switched to the alternate frequency but the result remained the same.

Cavanaugh looked at the mountain to the south. He pulled a set of binoculars out and focused them. He couldn’t see the German’s car, but he could see the dust trail it was kicking up. Straight for the mountain. “Let’s go.”

They hopped back in the jeep and Cavanaugh held the speed down to keep their own dust cloud from being too large. He felt exposed, but there was no other way to do this. He slowed as the plume ahead disappeared. At the base of the mountain. He stopped the jeep. “What now?” Kramer asked.

“We wait a little bit,” Cavanaugh said for lack of a better plan. “What the hell is this guy doing out here?” Kramer asked.

Cavanaugh shrugged. Nellis was nearby and it was a large air base, but there was nothing out here as far as he knew. He pulled up the binoculars, but he was too far away to make out anything.

Kramer was swinging the fifty-caliber around, shooting at imaginary enemies. Cavanaugh wondered how the man had made it through the screening process to be allowed into the OSS. He started as the crack of an explosion rolled across the desert. Cavanaugh looked through the binoculars and could see the dust cloud coming off the lower side of the mountain.

He started the jeep’s engine and threw it into gear, nearly knocking Kramer out of the rear as he hit the gas. He was trying to figure out what the German was up to, but he couldn’t even come up with possibilities.

He drove between two large boulders and skidded to a halt, seeing the German’s dust-covered car and thirty feet above it, on the side of the mountain, blasted rock, indicating where the explosion had gone off. A rope dangled from a ledge, but he couldn’t see what was just above the ledge.

Cavanaugh reached between the canvas seats and grabbed a Thompson submachine gun. He pulled the charging knob back, putting a round in the chamber. He noted that Kramer’s normally ruddy cheeks had gone white. “Let’s go,” he ordered.

Kramer grabbed his own Thompson and clumsily did the same. Cavanaugh looped the sling over his shoulder and grabbed hold of the rope. When he saw Kramer sling his own weapon, Cavanaugh paused. “How about covering me until I get to the ledge, then I’ll cover you?”

Kramer nodded nervously, unslung his weapon, and backed up a few feet, putting the stock in his shoulder and squinting up. Cavanaugh had a moment of doubt, wondering if it might be better to not have Kramer below him with a gun in his hands, then decided to trust that the OSS training had had some effect. He grabbed the rope and began climbing.

Just before he got to the ledge, Cavanaugh considered his dilemma. If the German was waiting for him, he was a dead man. Of course, then the German was trapped, with Kramer waiting below near his car. He remembered something an instructor had said during his training: Too much thinking made a man fearful. Easily said in a classroom.

Cavanaugh pulled himself onto the ledge, springing to his feet and unslinging the Thompson as quickly as he could. There was no one. Directly ahead a charge had obviously been placed in a crevice and a dark hole beckoned. Cavanaugh let out a deep breath, then glanced down. Kramer was in place, submachine gun tight to his shoulder. Cavanaugh signaled for him to climb up.

As soon as his partner was with him, Cavanaugh moved forward into the crevice, the muzzle of the Thompson leading the way. He could smell something familiar, then realized it was the odor of the demolitions range during OSS training.

It grew darker as he got farther into the mountain and he briefly debated going back for the flashlight he had left in the jeep. Then he caught the shimmer of a light ahead so he pressed on.

He came out of the crevice into an open space and he immediately saw the German, ten meters away, flashlight in hand, looking at some sort of console.

“Don’t move!” Cavanaugh yelled, as Kramer came up on his left.

The German spun about, shining the light directly at them, and Cavanaugh was blinded. His finger twitched on the trigger, uncertain what to do. A shot rang out and Cavanaugh pulled the trigger, the Thompson bucking in his hands as it spit out .45-caliber rounds toward the light. His firing was echoed by Kramer to the right and together they emptied their twenty-round box magazines in less than four seconds.

The beam swung upward as the German was hit and slammed back against the wall, blood spattering the rock. The sound of the guns echoed from a long distance but Cavanaugh didn’t notice that at first. Kramer started to move forward but Cavanaugh stuck his arm out.

“Reload first.”

Both men pulled another magazine from their packs and slammed them home, pulling back the cocking knobs.

“Cover me,” Cavanaugh said. He moved forward carefully. He had little doubt that the German was dead, but caution had been pounded into him during training.

He reached the body and knelt, picking up the flashlight. The German was indeed dead, the heavy slugs having torn flesh and smashed bone to the point where the man was almost unrecognizable. A Luger was clutched in one dead hand. There was a dagger in a sheath on his belt.

He slung his Thompson and retrieved the dagger with his free hand. A small, realistically carved ivory skull was at the top of the handle. Swastikas were carved into the bone grips along with lightning bolts, which Cavanaugh knew represented the SS, the Schutzstaffel, run by Himmler. He turned the knife and examined the steel blade, which had intricate detailing. Something was written and he held it close to make it out: Thule.

Cavanaugh turned it over. A word was on the other side. Steiner. He assumed that was the dead man’s name. Thule vaguely rang a bell, but he couldn’t place the name. He tucked the dagger into his belt, then checked the body once more. A backpack, riddled with holes and soaked with blood, was on the man’s back. Gingerly, Cavanaugh removed it.

Inside was a leather journal and a half dozen flares. The journal was in a style of writing that Cavanaugh couldn’t read — definitely not German — so he tucked it under his arm while he took out one of the flares. He ripped the top open and ignited it.

“Geez!” Kramer’s exclamation startled Cavanaugh, then he turned to look into the cavern and saw what had caused it. He took an involuntary step back as in the sputtering light of the flare he saw the mile-long black ship resting in its cradle. In the limited light he could barely see the end, but it seemed to extend forever.

“What the hell is that?” Kramer asked.

Cavanaugh swallowed, trying to find his voice, but bis mouth was dry as the desert outside. “The map,” he finally got out.

“What?”

“The map,” Cavanaugh repeated. “What’s this place? What’s it listed as on the map?”

Kramer came closer and unfolded the Nellis Range map they’d been given at the base. He ran his finger across and came to a halt. “It’s a training area. Only has a number. Area 51.”