Prologue
“Obscurity brings safety.” - Aesop
April 1945, and in the liberated city of Manila, General Douglas MacArthur, Supreme Commander of Allied Forces in the Southwest Pacific, plans the invasion of Japan. MacArthur denies it, but war planners speculate Allied casualties will exceed one million. More than double the ultimate number of U.S. casualties suffered in WWII.
Meanwhile, unknown to MacArthur, far off in the vast desert surrounding Alamogordo, New Mexico, Dr. J. Robert Oppenheimer, leader of the Manhattan Project, plans for the first test of the atomic bomb. The secretly developed weapon planned to end the war with Japan if the Japanese adhere to their Boshido death before dishonor culture and continue to refuse an unconditional surrender. MacArthur is unaware of the atomic bomb until several days before it’s detonated over the city of Hiroshima.
On the other side of the globe, the Allies witness the fall of Berlin. General Dwight D. Eisenhower, Supreme Commander Allied Expeditionary Force, chooses not to commit Western Allied troops to the final days of the battle of Berlin. But rather, let their Russian allies take their revenge.
Unknown to Eisenhower and his Generals, since 1936 Hitler has conducted his secret mission to create a weapon of mass destruction. The weapon proven time again by mankind to be the greatest of all weapons of mass destruction. Greater even than the bombs that two and one-half months later, destroys the cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki and their human and animal populations – Man, a superior man, the Elite SS, Masters of the Aaryn Master Race .
Now it’s night and Berlin is lit with burning buildings and exploding artillery charges as brutal street fighting ravages the city. In the final days and hours of the war, block-by-block, floor-by-floor, every hallway and room of every building is contested with the most brutal man-to-man combat man’s inhumanity to man has suffered thus far.
In the streets, explosions and machine gun fire are all that’s heard, drowning the screams of German citizens slaughtered as they flee – elderly, women, children. After looting, brutal rapes, and beatings, the Russians soldier’s only mercy is death, but meted grudgingly.
While off in Normandy, at Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Force Command War Room, Eisenhower huddles with his top commanders; Lt. General William Hood Simpson, Commander of the U.S. 9th Army; General Omar Bradley, Commander of the U.S. 1st Army, General George Smith Patton, Jr., Commander of the U.S. 3rd Army; Brigadier E.J. Foord, Chief of Allied Operational Intelligence, and their Aides.
Eisenhower’s angry fist pounds the table as he slowly scans his subordinates, their Aides, and his personal secretary, 2nd LT. Kathleen Summersby. No one makes eye contact. Eisenhower’s hard simmering eyes rest on Foord.
“Why does he interfere now?”
Foord scans his peers, seemingly searching for support, “Sir, it’s from the Joint Chiefs.”
Laced with sarcasm Eisenhower barks, “Of course it is! Would military commanders send so many good men to die?”
Eisenhower scans his subordinates, “Now? Surrender imminent?”
“Sir, it’s Doctor Werner von Brocklin and…” offers Simpson before he’s cut-off by Eisenhower.
“I don’t care if it’s a hundred Goddamn doctors. We’re sending our best men to die. For what?”
Eisenhower rubs his head, angst grips his mood.
“Why’s this Doctor so goddamn important? For so many lives?”
Simpson’s Aide nods to Simpson for permission to speak,
“May I Sir?”
Simpson nods his approval. The Aide pulls a report from a folder.
“Sir, Von Brocklin is a medical doctor, psychiatrist, geneticist, scientist. Reports to Himmler…”
“That butcher!” interrupts Eisenhower. Dead silence as solemn faces stare at Eisenhower. “May I continue sir?”
Eisenhower grudgingly grants permission, “Yes-yes. Continue soldier.”
The Aide continues with the report.
“In thirty-five, Hitler personally selected Von Brocklin to create the Herronvolk – Super Warriors.”
Patton interrupts. “Super Warriors?”
“The Fuhrungsschicht Schutzstaffel, the Elite SS,” offers the Aide. “First subjects from his program guard Hitler’s bunker…”
Foord interrupts, “Intelligence reports they also guard Von Brocklin.”
“We have to capture this doctor from his Elite Warriors? Now? In the center of Berlin? This is insanity,” booms Eisenhower.
Foord blurts, “Sir, the Joint Chiefs prefer capture, but they don’t want him taken by the Russians – at any cost.”
Eisenhower rubs his head, the angst palpable.
“Let me have the plans.”
Simpson’s Aide hands Eisenhower the document. He studies it.
He’s incredulous as another angry Eisenhower fist pounds the table, “Two Ninth Army platoons?”
“Yes Sir, and two First Army Platoons, with two Third Army Platoons to reinforce if necessary,” adds Bradley.
General Patton squirms, his displeasure at his troops assigned to reinforce is palpable. Old Blood and Guts wanted his troops to lead the raid, but instead he’s ordered to have them serve in a back-up role.
An angry Eisenhower studies the plans further.
“Christ! Over two hundred men,” Eisenhower studies his Generals in disbelief.
No one can make eye contact as Eisenhower demands, “Expected casualties?”
Simpson’s Aide studies the document in front of him, eighty percent is visible on the document. He pauses, clears his throat, set to speak.
But Simpson speaks first, “Fifty percent Sir.”
“Damn planners! Be a miracle if twenty percent of those men survive,” blares Eisenhower.
He scans the faces, no one makes eye contact. Simpson and his Aide conspicuously avoid eye contact.
“Goddamn suicide mission.”
Everyone shifts uncomfortably, still no eye contact.
“You’re dismissed.”
Last to leave, General Bradley pauses at the door, turns slowly, “It’s from the Joint Chiefs Sir, the President.”
Eisenhower’s weary, heavy angst is palpable, “Doesn’t make it easier Omar.”
Bradley makes steady eye contact with his commander, “No Sir – it doesn’t.”
Bradley departs and Eisenhower is alone with Summersby.
“No man is worth that many good men Lieutenant, no man.”
Her crisp Irish/English accent adds a somberness, a precision to her words usually uttered by lawyers, doctors, or men of God, “Let’s pray to God General this man is worth it.”
“Amen Lieutenant, amen to that.”
Dark night and a ringing phone awakens a groggy Eisenhower. He turns on the bedside lamp then lifts the phone.
“Yes?”
A nervous Aide stammers, “I’m sorry to wake you Sir. But…”
An impatient Eisenhower interrupts, “Yes, go on Soldier. Go on.”
“The mission is complete Sir.”
“Casualties?”
“Light sir.”
“Light? How many dead?”
“None Sir.”
Fully alert now, Eisenhower swings to a full sitting position on the edge of the bed. His back straight like he stands at attention while sitting.
“None? That can’t be. There must be a mistake.”
“No mistake Sir. I verified Sir. Light wounds, none dead or captured Sir.”
“How can that be Soldier?”
“Sir, the Elite SS aided Von Brocklin’s capture.”
Incredulous, Eisenhower interrogates, “Aided?”
“Yes Sir. Aided.”
