1945. Nordhausen was hidden deep in the German forest, unseen by Allied bombers searching for this most secret, most advanced Nazi rocket facility. The convoy of American trucks arrived out of the woods stopping at the entrance to the underground factory. The German rocket scientist stood just inside the shadow of the gaping entrance, waiting for the American OSS officer getting out of the lead truck.

“They are sending a lieutenant to rescue me and the V2 rockets!?” He said impolitely in a crisp high German. “Where is Colonel Roberts?”

“His jeep was hit. Your Stuka’s are still busy.” The OSS officer answered in equally concise German.

“Your name?”


“You are German. Yah?”

“Pennsylvania Dutch.”

“Aaachh! That is what good German’s call themselves in America? You have limited time to load. Russians are close, but our disk ships will delay them ..for a while.” He gestured to the camouflaged landing strip. Lt. Helm wasn’t sure of what he was looking at; the shape of a soup bowl, upside down, about thirty meters diameter,  ten meters in height, standing on tripod legs. The iron cross insignia was displayed on the side, like all German aircraft, but it was being painted over to match the rest of the grey seamless hull.

“What is the propulsion system?” Lt. Helm was intrigued. He had studied the German technical manuals on the V1 and the V2 rockets. He had redesigned the V1 for the US Navy back in Cape May. This new unexpected prize of war looked formidable.

“Gravity resistance…and other world technologies.” The German rocket scientist added condescendingly. The OSS lieutenant tried to ascertain his meaning, gave up and responded in American slang. “Well our boys in the white lab coats will have a ball with that one.”

“That is not part of your war plunder, Lieutenant.” He spoke English in a very passable American Midwesern accent while he gestured to the stand of ninety monolithic V2 rockets in the darkness of the hanger,   “Your war booty.. are the Vril 2.”

“What does that mean? Vril?”  Lt. Helm queried in high German.

“It is Aryan metaphysics. It means Life Force.” The Nazi said with a tinge of fanatically inspired theatrics. He was still a believer in the Third Reich.

Something moved at the edge of Lt. Helm’s peripheral vision; a person? A thing, grey with unhuman movements, moving around the disk ship. It looked at him with large, dark ovoid eyes filled with unreadable intention. The disk ship rose straight up, soundlessly, except for a deep unsettling hum. It zipped off to the east faster than anything the Lieutenant had ever seen.

The grey interloper was gone, but its presence lingered like a bad daydream.




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