“Jesus, have you ever seen anything like that?” Lester asked.
“The man really does not like Nazis or Commies, does he?”
Lee sat and fumed inside the office of William “Wild Bill” Donovan, the head of the Office of Strategic Services. The large and burly former attorney slammed his phone back down into the cradle. He cursed as he fixed Lee with a stern look.
“The goddamn Department of the Navy insists that we don’t know what we are talking about. Three weeks and all we get is the runaround, even with President Roosevelt screaming bloody murder about what his navy is doing behind his back.”
“Did we get verification from the National Weather Service on any freak storms in the Atlantic?”
“They tracked two of them just three days ago. One minute, a full-blown hurricane; the next, calm seas. The damn phenomenon was witnessed by half of the damn eastern seaboard. We brought that evidence from that Nazzy bastard Wentz to the navy brass, and all they did was stare at us like we were insane. My boys in weather say another is now forming around Atlantic City, New Jersey, and spreading to Philadelphia.”
“Look, Bill, I lost three good people on this. I would like an answer as to why. Let me go to the navy and ask questions my way. It sounds like they are going to attempt this crazy experiment. They may not have this information from naval intelligence.”
“Or they have just chosen to ignore it.” Donovan looked at Lee and shook his head. “The people you lost were my people, Lee, not yours. And as much as I would like to set you loose on the damn navy brass, I have another way of doing things. You need to curb that famous temper of yours.”
The phone rang. Donovan held eye contact with Garrison and then snatched the phone up. “Donovan,” he answered harshly. Lee saw Wild Bill straighten just a little as he listened to the voice on the other end.
“Are you kidding me?” he screamed into the phone. Garrison saw Donovan’s shoulders sag momentarily. “Yes, I am sorry, Mr. President. It’s just a little frustrating not knowing what it is your other damn hand is doing. When is this supposed to happen?” The room went quiet as Donovan listened. “Can you order it stopped?”
Lee stood and paced. From Wild Bill’s tone, they may have been too late. Or delayed enough that the testing had already commenced.
“Can you get me and Colonel Lee inside?” Again, he listened. “Can we expect full cooperation from the navy and Chicago University?” Another frown. “Thank you, Mr. President,” he answered and then placed the phone down. William H. Donovan stood and grabbed his coat. “Come on, Lee. We have some people to meet.”
It had taken Donovan and Lee an hour and fifty-five minutes by small plane to get from Washington to the shipyard in Philadelphia. The official naval car that met them had ensconced in the backseat no less than the former chief of naval operations, Harold R. Stark, a man Wild Bill Donovan had no love for. It was the portly Harold Stark who had been in charge the night of December 6, 1941. He could have changed history, if, as in Donovan’s biased opinion, “he had been up to the task.” The former naval chief was dressed in a black suit and was not at all happy to see Lee or Donovan.
“I should have known, Harold. This was your project, wasn’t it?” Donovan said as he took the seat next to Stark while Garrison Lee folded his long frame into the front seat with the driver.
“I am not here to answer your questions, Donovan. You are here to observe the experiment firsthand. You are not to report on what it is you witness nor comment on the same.” Stark smiled at Donovan, and it was meant as an insult to the man. “You understand the penalties involved. Both you and your watchdog up there.”
Donovan smirked and then saw the back of Lee’s shoulders tense.
The rest of the ride went in silence. They passed through no less than six more security checkpoints. With each stop, Garrison noticed the weaponry of the attending shore patrolmen became far more serious. The last checkpoint was manned by a fire team that included one .30-caliber machine gun with a crew of six.
The Chevrolet pulled up to a small sandbagged bunker fronting an area of dock that was ringed with large tarps spreading around the dock area like the sides of a great circus tent. The bunker was placed dead center and all blocked the view of the small bay in front of them.
A naval lieutenant commander stepped forward and pulled Stark’s door open with a salute, and the same was done for Donovan and Lee without the military greeting that they both had earned.
One more time, Lee and Wild Bill Donovan had to show their identification, which was matched against a set of orders just received from Washington. Each man was allowed to pass into the darkness of the bunker.
Lee was quicker than Donovan to examine the inside of the bunker and its many occupants. Each naval technician sat at a console with scopes and electronic instruments that failed to be familiar to Garrison. Armed shore patrolmen were stationed along the far wall and watched all personnel with a wary eye. Lee shook his head and then stepped to the front. Leaning close to a radar tech, he saw outside, through a thick pane of glass, the bay. All shipping had been moved, and all viewing access to the water had been blocked by large cranes hoisting tent-sized tarps into the sky. In the middle of all of this was a brand-new destroyer escort. It was one Lee recognized immediately, as it was just featured in one of last year’s Look magazine articles. The USS Eldridge, a new breed of fast destroyer, sat majestically in the closed and calm waters of the navy yard. Lee stiffened when he noticed the crew of the Eldridge was placed along the railings of her deck. Her proud five-inch gun turrets looked as if they were manned and ready. Lee turned to Donovan.
“She’s fully crewed,” he said as if in astonishment.
Donovan turned to Harold Stark, who had sat down in a large chair toward the back of the bunker with two of his assistants.
“Didn’t you read the report we sent you in regard to the suspected German casualties?”
Stark gestured to a man in a white lab coat. “Professor Williston says what you described in your report was not feasible. Impossible is the word I believed he used. Isn’t that right, Professor?”
The short man turned and removed his glasses. He gestured toward Lee and Donovan. “These are the men?”
Stark smiled and nodded. The professor placed his hands on his hips and glared at the two civilian-dressed security men.
“I’ll have you know I had to answer questions for a solid three days after your report was sent to us. You made many people around here nervous with your propaganda.”
“Propaganda? Why, you little—” Lee reached out and took Donovan by the arm to calm him. The burly man relaxed and then shot Stark a look.
“It was my report, boss,” Garrison said as he calmly looked at the much smaller professor, who saw that maybe he shouldn’t be too accusatory.
“Needless to say, your fears are groundless, gentlemen. Our preliminary tests have shown us nothing but promise.”
“Why the full crew? Why not just the staff you need to make the attempt?” Lee asked.
“Because we have other readings we have to assess. Can the crew be hidden as well as the vessel? What are the initial effects of light bending on the human body? They are all volunteers, Colonel Lee. Not one man is on board that ship that does not wish to be.”
Lee and Donovan remained silent.
“Thirty seconds to generator start-up, Professor.”
The man turned with excitement and went to the machinist mate who had just informed him it was now time to commence what the world would come to know as the Philadelphia Experiment.