The Haigerloch Project

“You can't send in an untrained man, Colonel,” McKinley said. He was capable of making his voice sub-arctic. “You might as well shoot him here.”

“OSS has no available trained agent with all the necessary qualifications including scientific knowledge, sir,” Rosenfeld came to the rescue.

“When I briefed General Groves on the immediate problem,” Reed took up the relay staff, “he remembered Sigmund Brandt. He suggested I contact him. The general has been very much impressed by him.”

“In what way?”

“Brandt runs a manufacturing company in New Jersey that he took over from his father when he retired, sir. An electrochemical plant. It's a prime contractor on the Manhattan Project.” He paused, searching for the right words. “When the project hit a — a snag which none of the major corporations could solve, General Groves approached the senior Brandt. Brandt turned the problem over to his son, who told General Groves ‘Can do‘—and he did. In fact, he invented a whole new electrochemical process. The general was very impressed with his imaginative approach.”

“Why is he a subject for the Hechingen mission?” McKinley asked.

“He has the scientific knowledge, sir. Just enough — without being too great a danger if captured. He had to be briefed on the rudimentary aspects of the project in order to solve the problem handed him.” Reed was warming to his subject. “He also has other qualifications necessary to the mission,” he continued. He is a naturalized US citizen, born in Zürich in 1914, and he speaks German, French and English fluently — as well as Switzerdeutsch, the Swiss dialect. With proper papers as a Swiss-national technician, he should be able to sustain a safe cover in Germany.”

He looked at McKinley.

“He — he has agreed to join the OSS, General,” he said. “But — he has no prior intelligence training. In fact — no military training at all. Major Rosenfeld and I—”

“I agree,” McKinley interrupted him.

“Sir?” Reed looked puzzled.

McKinley smiled imperceptibly.

“I assume you are about to suggest that Vandermeer and Brandt be teamed to go on the mission to Hechingen,” he said matter-of-factly. “You were going to point out to me that together the two of them would make one hell of an agent. I agree.”

Rosenfeld and Reed exchanged glances. A wave of relief washed over Rosenfeld. The sale had been made.

“The mission will by mounted by OSS-SI,” he said. “From London. We will monitor it from there.”

“What is your next step?” McKinley asked.

“Both men are now at B-2, the OSS camp at Catoctin Manor in the Blue Ridge,” Rosenfeld answered briskly. “Brandt will undergo a two weeks’ crash training course with Vandermeer before going on to London.”

“Make it ten days,” McKinley said. “Four days saved now may be worth forty later.”

10

Sigmund Brandt cursed the day he'd first laid eyes on that Rosenfeld from the Office of Strategic Services. He had been summoned to the major's office in Temporary Building Q in Washington, D.C.: urgent and vital. He'd naturally assumed it had something to do with his contractual work for the Manhattan Project. He'd been wrong.

He should have known from the start that he was getting himself involved with a screwball outfit. The OSS. That file cabinet behind Rosenfeld's desk in his office should have tipped him off. Three drawers. On the top one a sign in big black letters — TOP SECRET. The next one down was marked MIDDLE SECRET — and the lowest, BOTTOM SECRET. Really!

He'd been snowed. But good! Rosenfeld had told him that the mission for which he was being asked to “volunteer” was of the utmost importance to the security of the Manhattan Project, of which he, Sigmund Brandt, was such a vital part. In fact, the job was vital to the safety of the entire United States of America, his chosen country. He hadn't been able to muster the guts to say no. There was a certain hazardous element involved, Rosenfelt had hinted; it would be behind enemy lines, but he had not been at liberty to tell Sig exactly what the mission was.

They still had not told him. He wondered wryly if they ever would — or if he would have to sally forth to fight windmills blindly. But Rosenfeld had assured him he'd be okay. He would be given a thorough training course which would prepare him for — anything. A crash course, he'd called it. Crash was right. He felt as if he had indeed crashed — from somewhere on the top floor of Temporary Building Q.

He shifted his position cautiously. The ground was damp and cold. Every muscle in his body seemed to ache.