The Bell: a device so secret that sixty-two top-level Nazi scientists were executed by SS General Hans Kammler rather than let the true nature of this ancient alien device fall into Allied hands!

“This world has been lost

to us, my Führer, 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!”

If you think World War Two ended in 1945 . . . , think again!

Praise for Chris Berman’s novels:

-------CONDOSAUR------- “Condosaur is an old-fashioned monster movie in well-crafted prose, so much so that it's easy to imagine John Agar and Richard Carlson in central roles. But Chris Berman brings new life to the classic tropes with sharp observations about life in academia and contemporary Florida. ”

~Richard Lee Byers, author of Blind God's Bluff: A Billy Fos Novel and Prophet of the Dead~

“Fans of Jurassic Park will enjoy Chris Berman's suspenseful clash of predator and prey that turns sleepy South Florida into feeding grounds in which no man, woman or child is safe from ancient hunters—a fast, danger-packed read.”

~Sandra McDonald, author of Boomerang World, The Stars Down Under, and The Stars Blue Yonder~

“Condosaur goes where Jurassic Park longed to stray, a full on dino invasion on American Soil . . . chomping down on everything and everybody that get in their way. . . . Condosaur reads like a nostalgic treat . . . The science feels right and I even found myself learning as the story progressed. . . . If you enjoy a monster romp with humour and plenty of intestines dripping from jagged jaws you’re in for a treat . . .”

~Nathan Robinson, Snakebite Horror Review, UK www.snakebitehorror.co.uk~

“. . . Chris Berman (Red Moon and The Hive) has outdone himself. His new thriller involves real people facing and dealing with a believable, nightmarish horror. Written in a freewheeling, breathtaking style reminiscent of Michael Crichton and Peter Benchley, Condosaur is set in Boca Raton, the South Florida community of wealthy retirees — fodder for a creature that was on the top of the food chain 200 million years ago. . . . a multifaceted adventure that will have everyone looking over their shoulder when they take out the nightly trash . . .

Condosaur should soon attract the movie folks. Let’s hope their last names are Spielberg or Emmerich.”

~Tim O’Connell, book reviewer: The Florida Times Union~

-------ACE of ACES ------- “Chris Berman has written an imaginative and original novel, casting real historical figures into an almost unimaginable future war. Ace of Aces is great fun for both science fiction and aviation buffs.”

~Dr. Reina Pennington, PhD-History, former US Air Force officer and author of: Wings, Women and War: Soviet Airwomen in World War II Combat~

“Chris Berman has crafted a fascinating scenario in which the skill and bravery of twentieth century warriors is not only esteemed three centuries in the future, but even considered indispensable. Indeed, in Berman’s carefully crafted future world, the heroes and heroines of the past are considered with such high regard that they are imported into the future to fight the battles of the twenty-third century. Berman does an excellent job of capturing the individual personalities of his multi-national corps of real World War II fighter aces who are now tasked with the incredible mission of saving the future.”

~Bill Yenne, author of The White Rose of Stalingrad: The Real-Life Adventure of Lidiya Litvyak, and Aces High: The Heroic Story of the Two Top-Scoring American Aces of World War II~

-------T H E H I VE -------

“Berman’s The Hive has characters that are well fleshed out and a writing style that takes the reader on a whirlwind ride to the final confrontation between the two races of beings.”

~Midwest Book Review~ “The Hive is a unique novel . . . What I liked most about it was the simple solutions . . . An excellent novel that is hard to put down.”

~Jeff Mitchell, PhD, professor at MIT and former NASA astronaut rep-resentative~

“The Hive has qualities that were championed by no less than John W. Campbell, Jr.! . . . An astounding work of logical science fiction.”

~Brad Linaweaver, best-selling author of Moon of Ice and Sliders~

-------RED MOON------- “Red Moon is captivating. I couldn’t stop reading it. It is very believable. The book will hold the attention of even the most jaded reader. I recommend Red Moon without hesitation.”

~Dr. Norman E. Thagard, NASA astronaut and first American crewman to serve aboard the Russian MIR space station~

“Red Moon is a look into what may happen when China takes over NASA’s leadership in space. A page-turner with a real possibility that it may not actually be science fiction.”

~Scott MacLeod, NASA Lunar Module test astronaut~

“Red Moon is an exciting novel about space exploration. A good read.”

~Captain Edgar Mitchell, command pilot of the Apollo 14 Lunar Lander and 6th human being to walk on the moon~

“ . . . The novel is a fast read with believable situations and charac-ters. . . . Red Moon is a Ben Bova type of science fiction novel.”

~Midwest Book Review~

-------STAR PIRATES-------

“Shades of Errol Flynn! Star Pirates is an enjoyable romp, melding Captain Kidd with Captain Kirk. Great entertainment.”

~Ben Bova, PhD, Hugo Award-winning and best-selling author~

Das Bell

Other Books by Chris Berman

SCI-FI /ADVENTURE

Star Pirates

The Hive

Red Moon

Ace of Aces

Condosaur (horror–sci fi)

Upcoming books by Chris Berman

When the North Wind Blows (political techno-thriller)

A White Star in a Red Sky (historical fiction)

Das Bell

Chris Berman

LEO PUBLISHING , LLC King of Books

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and incidents in this novel either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

DAS BELL

Copyright © 2014 by Chris Berman

Cover art: Sébastien Annoni http://www.leopublishing.net/featuredartists.htm Editor: Frankie Sutton Book design (cover & interior): Marina Buryak

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Leo Publishing, LLC www.leopublishing.net Florida

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014943461

ISBN: 978-1-941157-00-8

Printed in USA

to all those who seek the truth no matter where

that search may lead

“Meine Ehre heißt

Tr eue”

("My Honor is Loyalty")

Motto of the Nazi SS

“As for the Germans, not only their list of crimes but their

megalomaniac desire to remake the continents along the

lines of biological-racial ‘science’ suggests an almost unimagi-

nable world had they succeeded.”

~ Professor Williamson A. Murray—military historian (taken from The Cambridge History of Warfare)

Prologue

Berlin: April 30, 1945 WO MASSIVE ABOVE GROUND EXPLOSIONS SHOOK THE bunker, cracking a section of the eighteen-inch thick

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 Obergruppenführer, General Hans Kammler, had run a gauntlet of incoming shells and murderous fire, crawling the final fifty meters to a secret entrance of the Führer Bunker, as the last defensible territory of the Hitler’s Third Reich shrunk to a few hundred meters, blasted into rubble by the Red Army’s relentless assault.

The retort of Oberst Stohler’s heels clicking together echoed off 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 Goeb-bels and his family?”

“All of them dead, Herr General, by Goebbels’ 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.”

“What of Goering, Herr General?” “Him either. Let that fat, drug-addled pig beg for mercy from

the Americans!”

T

14 C h r i s B e r m a n

“Herr General, are you 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 fool 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 are 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 Peene-münde 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 ordered?”

“Jah, Herr General, and a woman as you asked for as well.” “Who is she?” “Just a prostitute I found. She’s younger in age, 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 within the hour!”

Another blast, nearly on top of the bunker, sent cracks spider webbing across the steel reinforced concrete inner walls, just as Kammler was about to answer, 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, but not coherent.”

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

Stohler raised his right arm again and uttered, “Heil Hitler,”

D a s B e l l 15

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 that 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 Führer and his . . . woman to the railcar. After that, 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 Führer. 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 Führer’s light brown uniforms stood up quickly, saluting Kammler. “How may I be of service to the Reich, Herr General?”

Kammler unsnapped the holster of his officer’s pistol 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 and clutched 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 she ran to him, her

16 C h r i s B e r m a n

voice coming in panicked gasps. “Colonel, please, you said you would save me!”

“No, Fräulein, 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 7.65-milli-meter 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 passageway to the rail tunnel wound through the catacombs of the Führer Bunker. Descending into the flickering darkness, General Kammler’s nostrils filled with the fetid stench of dampness and mold. The tunnel, as well as the underground rail line, was built upon the bodies of thousands of captured Red Army soldiers and Jews, who were used as slave labor. Once the work was completed, most of the laborers were shot and en-tombed within the poured concrete that formed the walls and floors of the tunnel.

When Kammler and Stohler reached the diesel-powered railcar, Major Klaus Holtzer was waiting for them. The once spot-less SS uniform the major was wearing 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―wewere unable to destroy the lastdevice but . . . we rigged the facility with high explosives. We buried the device and booby-trapped the complex. No one can enter it without being killed.”

“And what of the staff, Major?” “All of the lower grade technicians, guards, and workers have

D a s B e l l 17

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 walking 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 his 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 Führer was staring straight ahead with blank, glassy eyes, while Eva Braun leaned against him, still heavily sedated. Finally, he looked up at Kammler, standing at the entrance to the railcar.

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 Führer, saluted him, and then placed his hand on Adolf Hitler’s shoulder. The leader of the Reich again looked up at him, his eyes asking a question. Kam-mler answered him before it could even be asked. “This world has been lost to us, my Führer, but fear not, another one awaits us and upon it, we shall build a new Reich not to last a thousand

18 C h r i s B e r m a n

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 later, 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.

Chapter One

Moscow, Russia: September 9, 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 to place them back into the folder. “How did you know, Colonel?”

With just the hint of a smile appearing on his face, the officer nodded his head. “In my business, we’re trained to read a person’s mind by what is written upon his face. Your face 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 through his papers in an attempt 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

“

20 C h r i s B e r m a n

asked a further question. “Could it have belonged to Eva Braun?” “No, sir. She was over thirty and the Americans had samples

of 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 he answered the doctor. “This is not a good thing. There are young skinhead Nazis movements afoot in Germany, Poland, and especially here in Russia and Ukraine. Hitler worshipers; they are ignorant of their own history. The Nazis slaughtered thirty million of us, and these svolochi are glorifying them? With our assurances that the fiend died 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 this matter to, so we can determine where we went wrong. You know, analyze the autopsy reports, the re-cords of the interrogations of the German prisoners, eyewitness 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 rose in surprise when the doctor made that statement. “A woman? And she’s a Ukrainian?”

“Yes, Colonel, but she is brilliant. Her dissertation on Napo-leon’s retreat from Moscow was quite amazing. She came up with new forensic evidence she unearthed that discredited quite a few long cherished theories. As for her heritage, her mother is Rus-sian 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.”

D a s B e l l 21

The Pacific Ocean—20 miles northwest of San Juan, Peru ALAN CARTER CHECKED HIS air gauge once again. At this depth, the Trimix in his air tanks would only allow him ten more minutes. 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, which was at category four strength. This might be his last chance to retrieve what he thought were two watertight docu-ment 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. However, 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 his watch. Six minutes 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 eye sockets within their white skulls, their bones cloaked in a 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

22 C h r i s B e r m a n

correct. He quickly scooped them up in his arms and headed back to the hull breach. 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.

Moscow University—the office of Nina Shevchenko 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 re-search into the late Ice Age. Along with photographs and arche-ological 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?”

Looking at Nina Shevchenko, Leonov’s thoughts as to what she could do for him strayed into carnal territory. Not yet twen-ty-nine, she was a stunningly attractive woman with long auburn hair, a slim but shapely figure, and 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. They found deposits of iridium in the soil, so it seems there might be something to that theory.”

D a s B e l l 23

“And that proves what?” “It doesn’t prove anything conclusive yet, Anton, but iridium

is an element that is not natural to Earth. There could be some-thing to this man’s theory. Why these cultures suddenly vanished as well as the animals they hunted is quite a mystery. However, thisauthorisa―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 with-

drew 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 believed was the last physical remains of Adolf Hitler are 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 eye-brows rose in surprise.

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

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

“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, so 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. It is not good for either of our two countries, Russia or Ukraine, to think

24 C h r i s B e r m a n

that butcher escaped with his life. There are frightening move-ments afoot. At first, the Neo-Nazis 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 sharing 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 might 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 invaded the room. How-ever, the chill she felt was in her thoughts and about 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, just because of his dark eyes and swarthy complexion. The man was lucky to have escaped with his life having suffered only a broken arm and three broken ribs. The Moscow police, it seemed, al-lowed 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 those?”

“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.”

D a s B e l l 25

“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. There seemed to be something or 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 docu-mentation in the sealed archives about this. If you want my help, I must have access to them.”

The Pacific Ocean—21 miles off the coast of Peru “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, some 350 feet deep.

“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 now and 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. “That’s why I had to go back. I thought I saw the out-

26 C h r i s B e r m a n

line 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 eight hundred feet. They were almost impossible to sink. In fact, the design of our own Nautilus-class nuclear subs was based on the Type-21, but what the hell was she doing here, off 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’s ivory tower, you’re out here doing fieldwork. 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, Car-ter 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. What-ever this one was doing in the Pacific off Peru has got to be some-thing 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 archeo-logy, had already made his mark with the discovery of two sun-ken Spanish Galleons off the coast of Florida, as well as pub-lishing 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-three,

D a s B e l l 27

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 mystery was the sort for which Alan Carter lived and breathed.

Picking up a warm fleece sweatshirt, Carter pulled it on over his broad shoulders and went below deck to shower off before joining the 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 was in the wheelhouse with Doug Markey, captain of the Geo-Explor-er, and about to open the two metal cases that had rested on the bottom of the Pacific Ocean for sixty-nine 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 sharp pang 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, had long ago disinter-grated into pulp.

With his first mate at the wheel, 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 ass for blowing

28 C h r i s B e r m a n

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 swas-tika stamped into it. He turned it in several directions, noting that it had a solid seal and no water leaking out. That meant it had to be dry inside and whatever the contents were, they would be readable.

The case had a fitting for a special key, but not having it, Alan Carter used the old-fashioned method. Taking a screwdriver 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 photo-graphs that only deepened the mystery were in his hands, includ-ing 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 Germany. He can speak it and read it. I’ll call him up to the bridge.”

It only took Yeager a few moments to realize he was looking at what had once been secret documents about some sort of mili-tary 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 docu-ments with specific details of the operation was 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 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 some-thing to do with this bell, and there are complete documents, but

D a s B e l l 29

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 critical compo-nents 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 12th NINA SHEVCHENKO ENTERED THE Baroque styled former headquar-ters 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, because 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 occurred 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.

30 C h r i s B e r m a n

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 Ivanov’s office. As she entered, she was struck by the ostentatious of his chambers, the frescoed ceiling with gold inlay, wall tapestries and the Louis the XIV chairs set in front of an ornate desk. The presence of one of 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, gave her a distinctly uncomfortable feeling. 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, French, 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 told him that I needed access to the sealed files that pertained to the excavations in Berlin in

D a s B e l l 31

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 quitting now.”

Blowing a cloud of blue tobacco smoke out, the director con-sidered the woman sitting in front of him with a look of both curiosity and perhaps suspicion. Finally, Nina sensing that the tension in the room could wait no longer 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 thought, 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 concertgoers, 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 were 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

32 C h r i s B e r m a n

agreed to see me because now you need my help, is that correct?” Crushing out his cigarette, Ivanov answered her. “I’m usually

not the one being asked the questions, Doctor, but you are correct. This possible Hitler escape is bad business, but your request to view the restricted files presents problems, not the least of which is your nationality. Once, we were 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 profes-sionalism. 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 assume 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 that 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 mys-tery. 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 did 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 more recent activities ordered by Yuri Andropov against proponents of Ukrainian nationalism prior to 1984. Ex-posure 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

D a s B e l l 33

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 condi-tions are met. You are only to view the files that pertain to the mysterious excavation and the 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 wit-nesses to the events at the excavation, and I must have your assurance in writing that they can speak freely about what hap-pened.”

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. “Take this letter with you in the morning and pres-ent 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. I will see to it that you can speak freely to anyone with direct knowledge of the Berlin excavation.”

Chapter Two

San Juan Peru: October 12th, 0900 hours

LAN 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 succumb-ing 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 town. 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. The sat-phone rang and Markey grabbed the receiver, listened for a moment, 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 Walter Cunningham. Markey could only hear half the conversation.

“Hey, Walt, thanks for calling me back. Yeah, we had a hell of

A

D a s B e l l 35

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 you 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 to Argentina, eh? Yeah, and I bet 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 who 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 as if he was about 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 might 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 harbormaster 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 the British and us. 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 then he 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

-END OF PREVIEW-

Afterword

I HOPE YOU HAVE ENJOYED READING DAS BELL. THIS STORY IS MY

take on one of the great mysteries of World War Two. SS General Hans Kammler had been in charge of many secret projects for the Nazis during the war, including the development of the ME-262 jet fighter and the V-2 rocket. The one project of Kammler’s that was shrouded in the greatest secrecy was “The Bell” (Die Glocke). In the 1990s Polish researcher and journalist Igor Witkowski gained access to documents of a project so secret that at one point sixty-two of the scientists involved in the project were executed by the order of Hans Kammler to prevent this information from falling into Allied hands. Witkowski’s book on the subject, titled The Truth About the Wunder-waffe, was published in the year 2000.

Witkowski’s research points to a massive underground facility in Nazi-occupied Poland where experiments were conducted on a bell-shaped device. It stood fifteen feet high and nine feet wide at the base. “The Bell” consumed massive amounts of electrical power required to spin two counter-rotating discs filled with a mysterious violet-colored, radioactive liquid metal called Xerum-525. Once “The Bell” was in operation it appeared to draw in power literally out of thin air, leading to speculation that the Nazis had tapped into zero-point energy, left over from the big bang. “The Bell” also generated an intense electromagnetic field that was instantly fatal to anyone who stood too close to the device, reducing a human being to a puddle of black goop. Another effect of this device was that of antigravity: under operating conditions, “The Bell” would lift into the air, thus having to be constrained by heavy steel chains. British

Sample

Acknowledgements

Professor John Broom—PhD Military History, professor at Norwich University—for his assis-tance with the correct ranks of the Nazi SS and with the info on recent upgrades to NATO weapons systems. Norwich University, Northfield, VT. Graduate program in military history. Ben Bova, PhD—Hugo Award–winning author—for his encouragement and inspiration. Nick Cook—author of The Hunt for Zero Point and aviation editor for Jane’s Defense Weekly—for his efforts to unravel a seventy-year-old mystery. Brad Linaweaver—author of Moon of Ice—for whose enthusiasm for my writing is greatly appreciated. David Brin—New York Times–bestselling science fiction author and futurist—for his encouragement. Dr. Joseph P. Farrell—internationally noted author—for his research into the truth behind the Nazi Bell, in his book The Brotherhood of the Bell.

A C K N O W L E D G E M E N T S 395

Igor Witkowski—Polish journalist and investi-gator into the secret SS work on the Nazi Bell. His book is The Truth About the Wunderwaffe. Sébastien Annoni for his amazing cover art, Frankie Sutton for her dedication and care in editing my book, and Marina Buryak for her book design. Leo Publishing, LLC, for making this book pos-sible. My beautiful wife and my daughters for their support. Most of all, I would like to acknowledge the courage and commitment of all the Allies in World War Two for bringing one of the world’s most evil regimes to their knees. May the nefarious fallen never rise again.

---Ranks--- Reichsführer — — — — — Generaloberst–(Waffen SS) Oberstgruppenführer — — — — — — — — — — — Obergruppenführer — — – Gruppenführer — — — — Brigadeführer — — — — – Oberführer — — — — — – Standartenführer — — — –Sturmbannführer — — — ­ Hauptsturmführer — — — Obersturmführer — — — – Scharführer — — — — — - Unterscharführer — — — – Schütze — — — — — — —

National Leader Supreme Group Leader Colonel General (general of the army) General (four star) Lieutenant General (three star) Major General (two star) Brigadier General (one star) Colonel Major Captain First Lieutenant Staff Sergeant Corporal Private

Wehrmacht Ranks: Regular Army Grenadier — — — — — — Gefreiter — — — — — — – Unterfeldwebel — — — — – Leutnant — — — — — — – Hauptmann — — — — — – Major — — — — — — — – Oberst — — — — — — — General — — — — — — –

Private Corporal Sergeant Lieutenant Captain Major Colonel General

Source: Handbook on German Armed Forces, Washington, D.C.: USGPO, 1944 as quoted in Abraham Edelheit and Hershel Edelheit, History of the Holocaust:

A Handbook and Dictionary (Boulder: Westview Press, 1994) page 424.

About the Author

CHRIS BERMAN grew up reading science fiction novels and stories and began writing his own towards the end of 2007, after a bicycle accident. His first novel, The Hive, was originally released in 2009. His writing defies a set style in creating novels of hard science fiction, techno-thrillers, and alternate history—with each work of fiction, a unique literary adventure. He holds a Master of Arts in Military History, is a member of the Society for Military History, and has an extensive background in spaceflight and astronomy. He lives in Florida with his wife and daughters.

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