Argentina, which had declared war on the Axis only in March, was one of the victors, although not a single Argentine soldier or sailor had died in the war and not one bomb or artillery shell had landed on Argentine soil. And now Argentina, as a result of supplying foodstuffs to both sides, was richer than ever.
Argentina’s role in World War II, however, was by no means over.
When, as early as 1942, the most senior members of the Nazi hierarchy — as high as Martin Bormann, generally regarded as second in power only to Hitler, and Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler — realized the Ultimate Victory was not nearly as certain as Propaganda Minister Josef Goebbels had been telling the German people, they began in great secrecy to implement Operation Phoenix.
Phoenix would establish refuges in South America — primarily in Argentina and Paraguay — to which senior Nazis could flee should the Thousand-Year Reich have a life shorter than they hoped. National Socialism could then rise, phoenix-like, from the ashes.
Vast sums were sent to Argentina, some through normal banking channels but most in great secrecy by submarine. The U-boats also carried crates of currency, gold, and diamonds and other precious stones. Senior SS officers were sent to Argentina — some of them legally, accredited as diplomats, but again most of them secretly infiltrated by submarine — to purchase property where senior Nazis would be safe from Allied retribution.
The Allies knew of Operation Phoenix and had tried, without much success, to stop it. Their concern heightened as the war drew to a close. They learned that when Grand Admiral Doenitz issued the Cease Hostilities order on May fourth, sixty-three U-boats were at sea.
Five of them were known to have complied with their orders to hoist a black flag and proceed to an Allied port to surrender, or to a neutral port to be interned. There was reliable intelligence that an additional forty-one U-boats had been scuttled by their crews to prevent the capture of whatever may have been on board.
That left at least seventeen U-boats unaccounted for. Of particular concern were U-234, U-405, and U-977. They were Type XB U-boats — minelayers, which meant that with no mines aboard they could carry a great deal of cargo and many passengers for vast distances.
There was credible intelligence that when U-234 sailed from Narvik on April 16—two weeks before the German capitulation — she had aboard a varied cargo, some of which was either not listed on the manifest at all or listed under a false description. This included a ton of mail — which of course almost certainly hid currency and diamonds being smuggled. It also included Nazi and Japanese officers and German scientists as passengers. And something even more worrisome: 560 kilograms of uranium oxide from the German not-quite-completed atomic bomb project.
It was only logical to presume that U-405 and U-977 were carrying similar cargoes.
A massive search by ship and air for all submarines — but especially for U-234, U-405, and U-977—was launched from France, England, and Africa, and by the specially configured U.S. Army Air Forces B-24 “Liberator” bombers that had searched for submarines since 1942 from bases in Brazil.
The searches of course were limited by the range of the aircraft involved and, as far as the ships also involved in the searches, by the size of the South Atlantic Ocean once the submarines had entered it.
There were some successes. Submarines were sighted and then attacked with depth charges and/or aircraft bombs. While it was mathematically probable that several of the submarines were sunk, there was no telling which ones.
The concern that the U-boats — either certainly or probably — had uranium oxide aboard and were headed for Japan was reduced when the Japanese surrendered on September 2, 1945. But that left Argentina as a very possible destination.
Whether or not the Americans ever located the U-boats allegedly carrying German uranium oxide to Japan or Argentina, or if they did, what happened to them and the uranium oxide is today still classified Top Secret.
PART I
[ONE]
The triple-tail Lockheed Constellation with HOWELL PETROLEUM lettered on its fuselage came in low over the Potomac River, lowered its gear, put down its huge flaps, and touched smoothly down at the very end of the main north-south runway.
Her four engines roared as the pilot quickly moved the propellers into reverse pitch and shoved her throttles forward. When the Connie finally stopped, she was very uncomfortably close to the far end of the runway and her tires were smoking.
The pilot radioed: “National, Howell One on the ground at six past the hour. Request taxi instructions.”
“Howell One, turn and take Taxiway One on your right. Hold there.”
“Howell One understands hold on Taxiway One.”
The Constellation was the finest transport aircraft in the world. It was capable of flying forty passengers in its pressurized cabin higher — at an altitude of 35,000 feet — and faster — it cruised at better than 300 knots — and for a longer distance—4,300 miles — than any other transport aircraft in the world. When National Airport had opened in June 1941, it had been not much more than a pencil sketch in the notebook of legendary aviator Howard Hughes, who owned, among a good deal else, the Lockheed Aircraft Company. Hughes, who had designed the Lockheed P-38 “Lightning” fighter plane, had decided that if he took his design of the P-38’s wing, enlarged it appropriately, put four engines on it, and then married it to a huge, sleek fuselage with an unusual triple-tail design, he would have one hell of an airplane.
“Build it,” Hughes ordered. “The Air Corps will buy it once they see it. And if they don’t, I know at least one airline that will.”
Although the Congress, in its wisdom, had decreed that airlines could not own aircraft manufacturing companies, and vice versa, it was widely believed that Hughes secretly owned TWA, then known as Transcontinental & Western Airlines, and later as Trans-World Airlines.
No sooner had Howell One stopped on Taxiway One than a small but impressive fleet of vehicles surrounded it. There were four Ford station wagons and two large trucks. On all their doors was the insignia of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. There was also a third truck with a crane mounted in its bed, and a black 1942 Buick Roadmaster. Neither was marked. The Buick had a large chrome object housing a siren and a red light mounted on its left front fender. Finally, there was a truck carrying the logotype of National Airport. It had a stairway mounted in its bed.
A dozen or more men in business suits and hats and carrying Thompson submachine guns erupted from the station wagons as the truck with the stairs backed up against the Constellation’s rear door.
Two men in business suits got out of the Buick and quickly climbed the stairs up to the fuselage.
They stood waiting at the top until the door was finally opened.
A handsome young officer — blond, six-foot-one, 212 pounds — stood in the doorway. He was wearing an olive drab woolen “Ike” jacket and trousers. The jacket’s insignia identified him as a second lieutenant of Cavalry. The jacket was unbuttoned, and his necktie pulled down.
The two men in suits flashed him looks of surprised disapproval as they pushed past him and entered the cabin.
The cabin looked more like a living room pictured in Architectural Digest than the interior of a passenger aircraft. Instead of rows of seats, there were leather upholstered armchairs and couches scattered along its length. There was a desk and two tables. A full bar was at the front of the cabin. The floor was lushly carpeted.