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The Plague of Allegiance
The Plague of Allegiance
The Plague of Allegiance
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The Plague of Allegiance

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The war has turned against Germany. Development of the Nazi “wonder weapons” lag. Hitler demands elements of the American jet engine prototype, allowing his scientist to leapfrog ahead. Because of his anonymity, Abwehr intelligence deskman Delp will carry out the theft. He must recruit his conspirators from Nazis residing within the US, possibly with the help of fascist Mexican rebels.

The war has also turned against American-born Mark Stark. He seethes because his immigrant family has been incarcerated in the “enemy alien” roundup. Stark’s protests result in his internment alongside Delp, who has been apprehended while recruiting at an underground German American Bund meeting. Stark, now a disaffected citizen, escapes the detainment camp with Delp.

Delp’s band, pursued by a rogue lawman, reaches Brownsville, Texas, site of the jet testing. Stark, inveigled into aiding Delp’s espionage, becomes involved with a war refugee. With the authorities closing in, Stark must choose between his family, his nation, and the woman he loves.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateApr 4, 2019
ISBN9780463285350
The Plague of Allegiance

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    The Plague of Allegiance - Michael Franks

    Prologue

    In 1948 the last of 12,000 civilians of German descent who had been detained during World War II departed Ellis Island. The FBI maintained freeing these misguided individuals was now safe because the dangerous ones—those involved in espionage—had been apprehended and now languished in the Federal Penitentiary in Leavenworth, Kansas.

    After the ferry docked at Battery Park, one former internee filed beyond the last guard, then smirked. Mocking J. Edgar Hoover’s wistfulness, the passenger melted into New York’s noontime milieu.

    Chapter 1

    Severing the carotid artery and jugular vein renders a human unconscious in approximately 20 seconds, dead in less then two minutes.

    Did Walter Delp have the courage to endure those first moments?

    No!

    With the question answered he returned to his shaving. While dragging the straight razor along his bristly neck he pondered the cause of the persistent depression.

    When thoughts of ending his life first fluttered, he believed the depression might be related to aging, since its onset had occurred precisely on his 44th birthday. But that evening he had performed adequately several times with his current lady friend, thus confirming that although his blondish hairline receded he remained virile.

    To further prove the recurrent suicidal musings had nothing to do with a deteriorating body he had reduced his gut to a slight paunch over the last few months. Still, he often flirted with exsanguination when handling a sharp object.

    Shaving complete and after donning a crisp blue suit, he stepped out onto the streets of wartime Berlin. This morning instead of heading for his desk at the Abwehr headquarters on Tirpitzufer he set off for Luftwaffe headquarters on Leipziger Strasse.

    Yesterday he had received the summons to this early morning meeting with a Generalmajor Halber. He could only surmise, since no details had been offered, that the Luftwaffe officer desired details concerning some occurrence in the United States.

    He worked in Abteilung IV—the department that conducted white foreign intelligence. He spent his days reading American newspapers and magazines, diplomatic assessments from German embassies in the US, and any other material providing insight into the events and attitudes of that nation. Black intel fell within the domain of spies who operated abroad, stealing enemy secrets.

    The Reichslufffartministerium occupied a gargantuan six-story office building in the heart of Hitler’s capital. He approached it with trepidation, considering the political winds swirling within the Nazi bureaucracy now that the war had turned against the Reich.

    He had never heard of, let alone met, the brigadier general before being shown into his office. Halber was tall and thin with a bald, bullet-shaped head. After only the sparsest of pleasantries the flyer dove into the purpose of the meeting.

    Delp, have you ever heard of a ‘jet’ engine?

    Like the thing they use to shoot rockets off into outer space? He’d read a magazine article about that method of propulsion a few years ago. His area of expertise was political and societal information, however.

    Somewhat similar, Halber replied. What I am interested in is the use of jet engines to power our fighter aircraft. They are almost a reality. The operative word being ‘almost.’ But that part of the story is for a little later. For now let’s start with a short history lesson, shall we?

    With palms sweating, he occasionally briefed high-ranking officers about occurrences in America. It was a relief to quietly listen.

    What I am about to tell you is most secret. The information comes from a variety of sources.

    He nodded.

    Our enemies are working on a jet engine. Its development is well along. The concept was the brainchild of an English aeronautical engineer named, Halber paused, picked up a typewritten dossier, and scanned it before continuing, "named Frank Whittle.

    "It first powered an aircraft in 1937. But the ‘roast beefs’ need for massive conventional aircraft production when the shooting war commenced crowded Whittle’s invention out of the aircraft factories. Churchill, likely fearing we were nearing completion of a similar engine, agreed to let the United States take over the project.

    "An American general by the name of ‘Hap’ Arnold came to England and witnessed a test of the power plant. Afterward they handed him the engineering diagrams.

    Once back home Arnold summoned General Electric executives and offered them a contract to produce a similar engine. As you undoubtedly know, GE is one of the most technologically savvy firms in America. Arnold also asked Bell Aircraft Corporation to develop a fighter for this new power plant. It has been designated the XP-59. It was ready for its first flight in September 1942.

    Halber now read from the report. The XP-59 crossed the continental United States by train to Muroc Army Air Field, located in the high desert northeast of Los Angles, California. The secrecy surrounding the project was so great that even in this isolated locale a dummy propeller was fitted on the aircraft whenever it was on the ground.

    Military intelligence of this nature was far removed from his typical ambit of expertise. He began to wonder what was going on.

    Fortunately, Halber lectured on, "relying on spies, our RLM has been able to observe the development of the airframe. After numerous high-speed taxi tests, the XP-59 finally began flight testing a few months ago. Besides aircraft structural issues, the power plant has apparently required further refinement.

    The initial GE engine development work took place at several factories—Schenectady, New York, Lynn Massachusetts, and Lockland, Ohio, the general quoted from the sheaf of pages before laying them aside.

    I’ve been told these plants operate under some of the tightest security possible. Thus far we have enjoyed little success in learning details of the jet engine itself, Halber concluded with a sigh.

    With the next breath Halber recovered his command presence and brightened. "But of course, we are also at work on a jet-powered fighter. A recent bit of intelligence may, unfortunately, indicate that the enemy is surging ahead of our efforts.

    "A Mexican informant has reported that a secret project involving airplanes is taking place near the border with his country. The intelligence appears authentic because it comes from a member of a US fighter squadron.

    That formation, by the way, is the only unit of Mexican soldiers to join America in the war. We surmise that his wing trains on the same field in Texas where trial flights with the jet engine are taking place.

    Why so far from the other plants? He knew the states of New York and Texas were widely distanced.

    I think the engine’s development has been moved to a better climate to avoid the delays caused by the long winters—you don’t want to be experimenting in bad weather. The location appears plausible because General Electric according to this dossier, Halber tapped the report, has had a long-established base at the airport. You are familiar with Pan American Airways?

    Of course. The airline’s routes girded the globe.

    Pan Am has a repair facility there to take care of its Latin American operations. The rumor, according to the Mexican pilot, is that GE has contracted with the airline to handle the mechanical details. That allows their engineers to concentrate on technical aspects of the project.

    That still seems unusual— it being so far from their factories.

    "We’re fairly sure that GE personnel are already based on that field. They have been called in to solve a problem with the gun-aiming computer installed in the waist-turrets of B-29 bombers.

    They’ve got to have pressurization in such a high-flying machine. That means that gunners can no longer merely poke their guns out a port. That would compromise the environment within the fuselage. They need a mechanism for remotely pinpointing the target. Our analysts believe the gun aiming work is taking place on the field. That seems to indicate that GE is already in place there.

    Halber leaned back in his chair, lighting a cigarette. After inhaling he said on a quiff of smoke, With that background, I’m now around to where you fit in.

    A sense of foreboding sent a frisson of tension through his shoulders.

    You’ve been detailed to bring us the secrets of this jet engine.

    His palm clapped a cheek in a gesture of surprise. But . . . but I’m a deskman, sir.

    Halber drew on his smoke, then exhaled, In the authoritative growl of a field officer he spoke. It has been decided. Not by me, but by those above.

    How could this be? He had served solely in a staff capacity since the last war. Espionage tradecraft had grown into a highly specialized endeavor involving technical skills far beyond his ability. It seemed inconceivable that a layperson such as himself would be dispatched on an assignment of such significance.

    His major qualification was knowledge of current affairs in the enemy nation. A secondary plus—he had some limited capability with the English language. Still he wondered, had he offended someone in the hierarchy who was now settling a score? Or had it merely been fate not looking kindly on him?

    The Luftwaffe officer glanced at his wristwatch. I am expected at the Chancellery shortly, so let me wrap this up. Tomorrow they will be making a test flight of the latest improvements in our own engine. You and I will be there to watch.

    He listened in shocked silence barely able to follow Halber’s next words.

    The efforts of our jet developers have been wanting. I believe we lag far behind the enemy. However, witnessing our engine’s astounding performance will give you some idea of the significance of this project in furthering the war effort.

    Halber studied him a moment. I believe my words have upset you? Let me offer this; should the test go well there is always the possibility for reconsideration of the need to send a man on such a mission.

    Chapter 2

    During the jarring overnight train trip to the test site at Warnemunde Delp awoke often, invariably contemplating the irony of the situation. The mission to the US appeared suicidal—a fate he had dwelled upon recently.

    Life-ending inclinations had, however, been abstractions. The reality of a tortured death at the hands of the Americans was an outcome he would have difficulty facing.

    He was not a hard man. An overdose of sleeping pills as a way to escape a bleak future, possibly. But dying in agony was another matter. He prayed the test flight would go well, that he could return to his cubby at the Abwehr offices.

    By first light he had reached a better understanding of his recent moroseness. It was born amidst a sense of déjà vu. The war, which had started so promisingly, was going poorly now. The Eastern Front was in disarray. America was coming up to speed, flooding the theaters of war with weapons, munitions, and manpower.

    Before long the Fatherland would be back on its knees as it had been at the end of the Great War. The resultant peace imposed then through the Treaty of Versailles had debilitated Germany. He had lived through that calamity—did not want to see it repeated.

    The briefing prior to the jet test flight took place in a small building on the airfield. He sat with several air force officials and a few civilians at the conference table waiting for the meeting to begin.

    Suddenly the door banged open. Halber, the general who had yesterday changed his life, strode in, commanding all to stand to attention.

    Herman Goering shuffled into the room behind Halber. Before this moment the closest he had been to the Luftwaffe’s top general was across a sportzplatz during a Nazi rally. Now he sat within feet of Hitler’s number two man.

    Except for the Blue Max gorget around his neck, the medal-laden, epaulet-bedecked tunic Goering wore resembled a costume from a comic-opera. The baggy, sky-blue jodhpurs were apparently intended to remind others of his days as a Great War ace.

    When everyone was again seated, Halber introduced a tiny man with wiry hair. Jesco Putthammer worked for Junkers, the engine’s manufacturer. He was the civilian engineer ultimately responsible for developing the jet being tested today.

    Just to bring everyone up to speed, Putthammer began, "let me start by saying the notion that turbine blades compressing air and exploding it out the rear of an aircraft could power flight has been under development for well over a decade.

    Conventional aircraft propeller technology has peaked. The tips of these airfoils now rotate near the speed of sound. Spinning them faster creates other technical concerns, which—

    Let me tell you about an experience I had back in the last war, Goering interrupted. I was flying my Albatros. I kept telling my mechanic that the propellor was vibrating something awful. He was an old fart and always wanted to argue. . . Came from somewhere down in Bavaria, he did. Some of those mountain men should have stayed put. They are better at raising goats than machining, eh?

    With that Goering cackled before falling silent. Then his eyes ran the table accepting the sycophantic grins of the assembled underlings. Putthammer paused. Like everyone else, he waited for the man to continue on and finish his story about the propeller.

    Goering had, however, apparently lost his train of thought. Putthammer waited through several awkward beats before resuming his commentary.

    As the briefing continued he glanced at Goering, who sat at the end of the conference table. Bathed in stage makeup, the obese air Reichsminister’s glassy eyes barely focused. He appeared intoxicated, possibly under the influence of drugs.

    Both vices had been rumored. Some said Goering still suffered from the effects of a prior battle wound. Others claimed that a street-fighting injury from Hitler’s failed putsch continued to pain him. It was hinted that morphine was necessary to keep him functioning. That was also the cause of his extreme weight, so the story went. Regardless of the cause the man's buffoonery astonished Delp.

    Within a few sentences Goering again interrupted Putthammer. At that point the discussion centered on a highly technical matter of the fuel formulation for today’s test. The developer and another civilian, apparently a fellow scientist, were exploring which proportions of diesel, plus an aviation mixture, plus a special additive blended from coal would perform best. Goering suddenly broke in, expounding on the merits of the formula.

    The air minister’s legendary dilettantism was on open display. He could not possibly be fluent in the science of jet fuels. Nevertheless, the man rambled on for a few sentences before veering off onto the subject of bomb detonators. Delp watched as other nervous eyes about the room twitched.

    It had taken only a few moments in Goering's presence for him to accept as fact that the rumors drifting about concerning the Reichsminister’s bizarre conduct were true. If Hitler, Himmler, and other top Nazis performed similarly, Germany would soon lie in ruins.

    Those at the table stirred, interrupting his thoughts. The meeting was over. The group rose and filed towards the door leading to the runway.

    Once out in the frigid Baltic Sea breeze ripping across the Marienehe airfield, tears oozed down his cheeks. Back turned to the gale, he squinted down the runway studying the test aircraft.

    Thin wings bisected a tubular fuselage. The tip of this body lacked the traditional nose-mounted propeller. A round inlet took its place, allowing rammed air into the turbine nestled out of sight. The pilot was visible within a clear bubble canopy tooled into the forward end of the fuselage.

    With his white-striped on grey full-dress general’s breeches whipping in the wind, Halber, the officer charged with making a jet powered fighter a reality, stood next to Goering. Halber pressed a field telephone to his ear.

    Seconds later the gaunt general reported to Goering that the Heinkel’s launch crew was ready. The Reichsminister flipped a hand, signaling the test to proceed. Halber spoke the order into the mouthpiece.

    A mechanic stepped to the nose of the aircraft, tinkering with the Junkers JUMO 003 engine.

    That man is going to fire up the starting motor, Halber explained to Goering. It's a 2-cylinder motorcycle engine that runs long enough to get the compressor rotating. Once the air pressure builds up the engine continues to run on its own power.

    Everyone watched as the mechanic grasped a starting rope protruding from the air inlet at the front of the plane. He yanked the cord before backing quickly away in an apparent reaction to the engine spooling up. The craft was downwind—too distant to hear any sound.

    It'll take a minute for the engine to warm, Reichsminister, Halber said.

    They waited silently until the mechanic pulled the wheel chock.

    Flame shot out of the He-178’s tail. The silvery projectile rolled forward on stubby landing gear mere inches above the runway. The aircraft accelerated. Within seconds it hurtled by the knot of technicians and RLM officials, its exhaust a deafening brattle. The nose rotated upward. The craft took flight, banking into a steep, climbing turn as it positioned to perform a flyby for the spectators.

    At several thousand feet of altitude and midway down the length of the airdrome, a gout of flame erupted from near the wing root. An instant later a ball of fire consumed the aircraft. The nose and tail, fragmented by the explosion, disappeared into invisible pieces. Afire and trailing smoke, the wooden wings tumbled earthward.

    Without uttering a word Goering turned away, stomping towards a waiting Mercedes.

    Before chasing after Goering Halber pivoted around. Neck muscles corded, he chucked his face into Delp’s. Be in my office first thing tomorrow morning. You’re going to America!

    What he witnessed before the explosion had been incredible. The performance gains enabled by a jet would hand the side first to deploy such technology a war-changing advantage. The Heinkel's climb rate and the speed it had attained prior to destruction were awing—like no aircraft he had ever seen.

    Something else was also obvious. Now, four years into a conflict that Germany appeared to be losing, the pressure on the design and development team to perfect the revolutionary turbine power plant must be immense.

    Putthammer, the scientist who had briefed them earlier, soon filled Halber’s place. I had high hopes for this test, Putthammer sighed. But, alas, I still don’t have the metallurgy formulated properly.

    I feel your disappointment, he said

    Like a startled turtle, Putthammer reacted to the wry remark by hunching his shoulders deeper into an outsized overcoat before he spoke. I feel bad for you, too.

    It appeared that Putthammer was aware he conversed with the man tapped to steal the American secret.

    So, what are your prospects now? he asked.

    Hands spread in frustration, Putthammer said, "Our project is stalled. We have tried any number of amalgams. The metals that hold up best—nickel, cobalt, and molybdenum—are too scarce to allow for mass production.

    We are toying with chromium, manganese, and even iron. But so far the turbine blades must be replaced at between 10 and 25 hours of operation.

    What’s happening to them? With the espionage assignment looming, he needed to learn something of the technology.

    Heat and vibration are the enemies. These engines have a combustion chamber, which, by the way, functions on principals somewhat akin to an auto engine. In a jet compression of air is the first step. This is accomplished by blades at the front of the engine. Next, in the combustion chamber located just behind the compressor we add fuel. The compressed air and fuel are ignited.

    With a spark plug, like in a car?

    "Not exactly, but close enough for purposes of explanation. The resulting explosion forces the air to jet out the back of the turbine. That pushes the engine forward—Newton’s Third Law of Motion in action.

    Temperatures in the combustion area are terrific—hot enough to melt metal unless we ventilate the chamber. Even then the heat is problematic. We need better materials to construct this component.

    Is that what occurred today?

    Those flames coming out the tail at the start of the takeoff run tell me that the pilot was trying to impress the Reichsminister. He was feeding too much fuel to the turbine. More fuel causes more heat. When something ruptured–probably the combustion section—the remaining petrol ignited.

    What will you try next?

    Frankly, my staff and I are running out of ideas. Give us enough time and we will happen across the correct metal, but as we search the clock is ticking down. Not only for me and my men, but for our nation as well.

    He departed the airfield still weighing Putthammer’s comment. There were whispered rumors that many in the scientific community now regretted the pacts they had made with the devil.

    They had taken Hitler’s funding, thus giving life to their pet projects. Now they rued the fact those decisions had led to the creation of weapons that scarred man and earth. A glance out his car window at the bomb-shattered city of Rostock was proof of what this war had brought to his homeland.

    Of course, there was no doubt that a scientist such as Putthammer may have been under enormous pressure to turn a dream—one that might someday be a boon to civilian aviation—into a weapon of war.

    Moreover, in the early days of the Nazi regime national pride had bloomed within many patriots, himself included. Somewhere along the way, unfortunately, those desires for a strong, stable Germany had become perverted.

    He often pondered how many of his fellow citizens secretly harbored misgivings about the course Germany had chosen? Was there a point where one’s love of his country became a sickness—a plague of allegiance? How did an individual know when to rear back, stand against the national flow?

    The source of his depression—his nation’s woes—flooded back. The Nazi elite had become drunk on their power and ability to mesmerize a generation of Germans.

    The leadership demanded national loyalty but demeaned the covenant by behaving despicably. Although he normally refused to dwell on the heinous activities alleged, in his heart he knew that state sponsored crimes took place. When the Allies came his nation would face a reckoning.

    Chapter 3

    The morning following the disastrous test flight, Delp reported to the RLM as ordered. Halber’s secretary, explaining her boss had stepped out for a moment, showed him into the general’s office to wait. He went immediately to a globe of the world, which filled one corner of the room.

    Following yesterday’s disappointing test flight the train had taken the entire night to return from Rostock. He had hurried to his quarters to bath and dress before reporting. This was the first United States map he had happened across.

    At the southernmost tip of Texas near the Gulf of Mexico coast his finger located the dot demarcating the community he was bound for.

    The vast strangeness of a foreign, enemy land far removed from Europe unnerved him. The vow to carry out the espionage that had resulted from realizing it was a duty he owed his homeland faded. Could he find a way to duck the assignment?

    A door latch clicked. He pivoted around.

    Checking to see where this berg of Brownsville is located? Halber asked as he entered.

    He snapped to attention. Yes, sir.

    When I learned what is supposedly going on there, that was the first thing I did as well. The town is apparently nestled right up along side Mexico. Only a river separates the two. That may be the reason they sent the Mexican pilots there to train.

    Overnight the Generalmajor’s ire had apparently cooled. He felt comfortable enough to pose a question. Just how reliable is the intelligence source?

    Halber took a seat behind his desk and motioned him into a visitor’s chair.

    I don’t know much, except that that he’s a Mexican. The man was described as, let me see, Halber thumbed the intelligence report he had referred to during their first meeting. They call him an ‘Aztec Eagle.’ Lists his squadron here as the 201st. Maybe your Abwehr can enlighten us both about that unit?

    Given Halber’s bonhomie attitude he ventured an argument to duck the mission. The reason I ask is that this Mexican might be a logical person to sneak into the secret facility and photograph whatever documents you need.

    While fishing a cigarette from his tunic, Halber sighed. I had a feeling I’d failed to clearly explain one point when I covered this matter two days ago. We need an actual engine, or at the very least, a turbine blade from one.

    He gawped.

    My apologies. Halber paused as he spun the wheel on a gold Dunhill lighter. The wick failed to ignite. The scientists say a metal specimen is the fastest, surest way to get the formula right.

    Halber leaned across the desk with the cigarette clasped between his first two fingers, apparently hoping for a light from Delp. He did not smoke and waved Halber off with a shake of his head.

    I should have been more specific on the need for an actual part. Regardless, here’s what has been passed along from this Mexican pilot. The Americans have the jet rigged up in a bomber. The engine doesn't actually power the Boeing, which is only the ‘mother ship,’ so to speak.

    So they take the bomber up on her own engines and once aloft run the jet?

    That's what we've been led to believe. Halber pulled a tiny tool from his desk and began unscrewing the stem that held the lighter’s flint.

    Why not get this ‘Aztec Eagle’ fellow to highjack the damn thing and fly it out of the country? You don’t need me, you need a pilot. He immediately regretted the aggressive retort, attributing it to stress.

    The bomber is too complicated for a lone fighter pilot to manage.

    Fortunately, Halber had ignored his intemperate remark, instead concentrating on getting his lighter functioning.

    He spoke in a less pejorative voice. Can’t you infiltrate one of your Luftwaffe bomber pilots and let him fly it out?

    "My colleagues and I have considered that option and concluded, if you’ll excuse the expression, that it ‘won’t fly.’ That method might have been a possibility up until a short time ago.

    In the beginning the host airplane was a Consolidated B-24 bomber. While it is a fairly complex machine we have recovered enough of them—that have been downed by our air defenses—to understand their systems. Apparently the jet testing has, however, now advanced to the point that a higher performance plane is required. The Americans have started to use one of their new Boeing B-29s.

    This long-distance bomber had been commissioned when it appeared that the Axis would conquer all of Europe. It was reportedly capable of bombing deep into the interior of the Continent from distant airfields. That meant the turbine was already aboard a machine that could transport it far beyond America’s shores.

    He removed heavy framed spectacles and massaged the bridge of his nose. I'm not understanding the problem? With a complete engine on board, why not just send in an entire team of experienced pilots and hijack the whole rig?

    Let me start by saying that the B-29 is in all likelihood the most complex flying machine ever constructed.

    With a fresh flint now seated in the spring-loaded stem, Halber screwed it back into the pocket lighter as he spoke.

    With the Englanders having held on during the Battle of Britain, there has been no need to deploy it in the European theater. It has been used nearly exclusive against our nipponese allies where it flies high above the Pacific. None have crashed where the Japanese can salvage wreckage. That means we have very little idea of its flight characteristics or equipment.

    Cigarette back between his lips, Halber again spun the Dunhill’s wheel. The flint sparked but no flame followed. He laid the smoke aside and continued.

    "I was, nevertheless, in favor of the course you just suggested, because that would also provide us a B-29 in the process. But I was

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