The Berlin Tunnel Page 2

Chapter 145

  Chapter 146

  Chapter 147

  Chapter 148

  Chapter 149

  Chapter 150

  Epilogue

  Authors Postscript

  Acknowledgments

  “We will bury you!”

  Threat made against the United States and her Allies by Russian Premier Nikita Khrushchev while banging his shoe on the rostrum at a meeting of the United Nations General Assembly —October 12, 1960

  Chapter 1

  Tuesday, October 11, 1960

  The Pan American DC-6B aircraft descended through the cloud cover on its approach to Tempelhof Airport. Through my window seat forward of the rotating propellers, I saw farmland, forests, and lakes. Then, an ugly, wide ribbon of barren earth with a long row of guard towers resting between two barbed-wire fences came into view. The sight sent shivers up and down my spine.

  “Welcome to Berlin,” I whispered to myself. Passing over this communist-built barrier meant I was now in West Berlin, an island of freedom 110 miles inside a totalitarian sea.

  I’d hoped to see the world while serving my country. With my usual bad luck, my first duty station had been March Air Force Base, just eighty-three miles from my parents’ home in Pacific Palisades, California.

  My luck hadn’t improved. Now I was assigned to what was widely recognized as the front lines of an ongoing battle of wills between two superpowers over the fate of mankind on this planet—Tempelhof Air Force Base in the divided city of Berlin.

  Having only dozed off for a few minutes at a time during three flights and two lengthy layovers, I was exhausted. I craved food, a warm shower, and a bed. With my destination beneath me, I perked up, anxious to experience my new duty station and first foreign city. My sleep cycle was messed up because of the time difference, so I didn’t expect to sleep right away.

  The aircraft made its final approach to Tempelhof. It parked under a massive canopy designed to protect passengers from the steady rain. At the bottom of the movable metal stairs, I was greeted by two fellow American Air Force officers. We exchanged salutes. A slender man of medium height with dark hair and a bright, friendly smile greeted me, “Welcome to West Berlin, Captain Kerr. I’m Colonel Mark Powell.”

  “Glad to meet you, sir,” I replied, shaking his offered hand.

  “And this is Captain Scott Taylor.”

  The lanky, red-headed captain greeted me with a grin and a firm grip. “Welcome to Berlin.” Turning, he pointed. “Our base occupies the ground through sixth floors of the north end of this building. Commercial aviation occupies the other half of the building.”

  “We’ll get you settled in your temporary quarters, get acquainted over lunch at the Officer’s Club, and then attend a short meeting. How does that sound?” the colonel asked. With his unwrinkled brow and jet-black hair, he looked much too young to be a Lieutenant Colonel.

  “Food sounds good. It’ll help me stay awake for a few more hours.”

  Mark Powell explained over lunch, “Tempelhof was the main Berlin airport in the 1930s. Back then, this was one of the twenty largest buildings in the world…”

  “—It’s a huge, almost mile-long semi-circle,” Scott interjected in a slow Texas drawl. “It was one of Hitler’s pet projects, designed to show the superiority of the German people and the Third Reich.”

  “During the height of the Berlin Airlift, an aircraft landed at Tempelhof every 45 seconds,” Mark continued. “That mind-boggling logistical feat saved the people of Berlin and avoided another war. Imagine bringing everything a city of two million people needed here by air…”

  After lunch, Scott Taylor and I passed two armed security guards at a checkpoint and made our way down a long hall into his office. His vinyl topped, gray metal desk and conference table were standard U.S. government issue. Matching grey, metal straight-back and swivel chairs were positioned around the conference table and behind his desk.

  I already liked Scott because of his easy-going manner. My kind of military man—one who didn’t take himself too seriously. He closed the door, then removed some papers from one of gray metal safes that lined the wall. “Please be seated.”

  Once we sat across from each other at the conference table, he became all business. “I’m the head of the Office of Special Investigations here in Berlin. We serve as detectives for the Air Force. Because of the project you’re being assigned to manage, you’ve been cleared for Top Secret LUMAR information. LUMAR is the code word assigned to this highly classified, compartmentalized program. Access to any information about this program is strictly limited on a need-to-know basis. Here in Berlin, only the Wing Commander, Colonel Morgan, Colonel Powell, who’s our boss, myself, and you are cleared at this time. I’ll inform you when others are added to the access list. Have you understood what I’ve told you?”

  “Yes,” I replied with some trepidation. What kind of super-secret program could they expect me to manage?

  “If you have questions about security, ask me. Colonel Powell will answer your questions about what you’ll be doing. Do you have any security issues?”

  “None that I can think of at this time.”

  “Then sign this Classified Information Non-Disclosure Agreement. If you tell an unauthorized person anything about this project, you’ll be prosecuted. The current statutes call for thirty years in a military prison. You’ll essentially be locked up, and they’ll throw away the key.” His sober facial expression left no doubt that I should take his admonition seriously.

  I’d taken an oath to protect and defend the United States with my life. Although I felt apprehension over the task I would be expected to manage, I took the offered pen and signed the intimidating document.

  “Your cover while you’re here in Berlin is that you’re the new chief of the Berlin weather station at Tempelhof. Here is a USAF manual on weather forecasting—study it and be prepared to use the correct terminology when describing what you do. We’ll discuss this more next week.”

  He directed me to follow him across the hall where I was photographed. The photo was laminated into my security badge, then attached to a chain which went around my neck.

  Scott instructed, “When you enter this Special Security Area, hold your badge up beside your face so that the guard on duty can verify that your face matches the photo. Like this,” he said demonstrating. “Wear the badge at all times while you’re in this area.”

  He then escorted me to Wing Commander Colonel Glen Morgan’s office. There, I met a tall, slender man with a ruddy complexion. His greeting was reserved, even aloof, but his handshake was firm. I immediately noticed the puckered scars on the left side of his face, which also covered his misshapen ear. His dark blond hair was combed to cover the scarring on his scalp. He said little, but I sensed he was assessing me, trying to determine if I would be suitable for my new assignment.

  On the way toward Colonel Powell’s office, I asked Scott, “Are Colonel Morgan’s wounds from Korea?”

  “No. WW II,” Scott replied. “He has an impressive war record. He was commissioned at eighteen and flew his first combat mission over Germany before his twentieth birthday. He bailed out of his burning bomber during his 47th mission, and he spent a year and a half in a German POW camp. He’s a battle-scared veteran whom you’ll grow to respect. Do a good job for him, and he’ll support you every step of the way.”

  Scott led me down the hallway. “This area contains the unit administrative offices and our main conference room.”

  I saw standard government-issue furnishings—light blue vinyl tile floors, tan enameled walls, and fluorescent fixtures hanging from white acoustic tile ceilings. Typewriters atop desks along with brown metal desk lamps and in/out baskets. Uniformed males of various ranks made up the office staff.

  Scott paused to brief me on Lt. Colonel Powell’s background. “He graduated from West Point in 1947 and requested duty with the Air Force soon after it became a separate service. Despite the fact that he never flew airplane
s, he is now one of the Air Force’s youngest Lieutenant Colonels. You’ll find we’re lucky to have Colonels Morgan and Powell as our top brass, especially given the nature of your project.”

  I glanced at Scott, expecting more. Just then Lt. Colonel Powell approached us. He motioned for me to follow him down a nearby hall into a windowless area with two small offices and a large conference room. Entry into the three-room complex was controlled by a single door with a cipher lock.

  “Welcome to our tank,” Colonel Powell said with a sweeping arm gesture. “It’s universally known as a tank, because all six walls are metal-lined. It’ll be your office and primary work area as long as you’re assigned to this project. Have a seat on this side of the conference table so we can both view the same things together.”

  I sat and listened intently.

  “Currently, it’s the only place where cleared individuals can discuss the LUMAR project. It’s designed so that nothing said or done here can be compromised by anyone in the adjoining offices, the rest of the building, or the myriad of outsiders interested in everything that goes on here. Select either of the other smaller rooms to be your office.”

  I nodded, feeling overwhelmed.

  “Your phone is on the desk outside of the door. Like all of the phones on the base, it’s tied directly into the German telephone network. Never say anything that might be even remotely valuable to the enemy who surrounds us here. Assume they’re listening to every word you utter, because they probably are.” Pausing for emphasis, Colonel Powell continued, “The necessity for this level of security will become apparent as we talk.”

  Still unable to envision what duty I would be expected to perform, I listened intently.

  “You and I have an especially important task which, if completed successfully, could thwart the Russians’ intention to spread Communism to other countries.”

  The colonel captured my full attention with that comment.

  “We relieved the man you’re replacing. You’re on probation until you prove you can handle the job.”

  I wanted to say “I have a new master’s degree in civil engineering and no experience in the management of large construction programs.” Instead I asked, “Why me?”

  “You’re here partially because you’re the only one available with the required security clearance. You were initially considered because one of your professors at Cal Berkeley praised you to a senior NSA civilian. No offense, but we searched for a more senior officer with more construction project management experience. None were available.”

  I shook my head and smiled faintly, appreciating his candor.

  “When the Cold War intensified in the mid-1950s, the communists began construction of five nuclear-hardened bunkers in East Berlin,” Colonel Powell said, pointing to each in turn on a map spread out on the conference table.

  “In 1958, the designers of those five facilities were ordered to connect them into a nuclear-hardened communications system,” the Colonel said. “They were also instructed to reroute all important government and military communication lines via that system. Soon, an almost meter-wide metal pipe filled with communications cables was buried ten feet underground. That metal pipe connected the two communist decision makers’ bunkers in central Berlin with similar facilities at Russian and East German military headquarters here and here. A trunk line runs up here to the bunker at Stasi headquarters….”

  “—Stasi?”

  “The East German Secret Police. Commonly known as the Stasi. They are our number one enemy here in Berlin. The Russians let them do all the dirty work—murder, torture, brainwashing—any and every bad act you can imagine. Everything that a totalitarian regime needs are their stock in trade. You’ll encounter them first hand and learn to hate everything they stand for.”

  Colonel Powell pointed to the bottom of the map and continued, “A tunnel built here five years ago by the British Secret Service and our CIA allowed us to tap into high-level Russian and Warsaw Pact communication lines. Unfortunately, it was exposed by the Russians about a year after it became operational. The voluminous amount of extremely valuable information gleaned from that source has prompted our leaders to build a new tunnel into East Berlin. You and I have been tasked with its construction. We’ll not only be tapping into the lines that connect those bunkers—we’ll also access communication links between Berlin, the rest of the Warsaw Pact and Russia. Your job is to manage that project.”

  Stunned, I said, “If that red line on the map is the border and the blue line is the route of the pipe between each of the bunkers, it’s quite a long distance from West Berlin.”

  “It is, except right here.” He indicated a spot on the map. “Where the border is the River Spree. The buried pipe is only about 1400 feet from a vacant apartment building that our government recently purchased to house the western terminus of the tunnel. The plan is to start the tunnel inside that building, go under the river, and come up beneath the pipe on the other side.”

  “I have questions.”

  “I’ll try to answer them.”

  “What are my duties?”

  “Program manager for the construction of the tunnel and the Signals Exploitation Center. You’ll plan and supervise the entire construction effort.”

  “Isn’t that your job?”

  “No. I’m the Deputy Commander of Detachment 1 of the 6910th Security Wing, which is the Air Force Signals Intelligence Collection Unit here at Tempelhof. I have a large number of other duties, and I’m not an engineer. I’ll be available to assist you to work within the military system.”

  “What’d my predecessor do to get relieved?”

  “He feared mistakes, wanted me to make all of the decisions, and drank too much. He was a potential security risk.”

  “Do we know precisely where the pipe is buried?”

  “No. It was buried two years ago, and the decision to exploit it is recent. One of our operatives traced its route on a map with a ballpoint pen. Here is a copy of the map he marked up.”

  Looking at the map and its scale, I remarked, “This map covers a large area. The line showing the pipe’s possible route must be thirty, forty, perhaps even fifty feet wide, so we only have an idea about the route of the pipe.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Do we know what obstructions are between the building and the tube?”

  “On this table is a set of public works drawings from the late 1930s. They show the location of the subway, storm drains, sewage pipes, underground electrical conduits, and certain other obstructions in that immediate area. Unfortunately, they haven’t been updated since 1945.”

  “Does it show building foundations?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  “Let me summarize,” I said, trying hard to keep an amused tone out of my voice. “We are going to excavate a fourteen-hundred-foot-long tunnel under a wide, deep river into East Berlin, bisect a one-meter wide pipe without actually knowing where it’s located while also avoiding unknown obstructions that are probably in our path.”

  Mark snickered at my description. “It’s even worse than that. While building the tunnel, we are also going to need to keep a paranoid, totalitarian East German regime and the three million civilians of Berlin, plus our closest allies, from discovering what we are doing.”

  “Sir… Colonel Powell, if you’ll forgive me, my favorite professor in graduate school said, ‘Almost anything is possible given enough time and money, but many things are improbable.’ I think this project falls into the latter category. In fact, it’s highly improbable.”

  The Colonel nodded his agreement. He even smiled. “I don’t disagree. But Captain Kerr, your job is to figure out how to accomplish the highly improbable.”

  Feeling overwhelmed, I said, “Sir…I’m probably not the right man for this job. I do have bachelor and master’s degrees in civil engineering, but I’ve only worked under the direct supervision of experienced people. We relied on local contractors to perform most of the work. M
y experience is as a contracts administrator for the construction of aircraft hangars and the paving of runways, not as development manager for a tunnel.”

  “For now, Captain, this is your responsibility. Thirty-four experienced construction workers will arrive in early January to start work. You have almost three months to prepare to direct their activities. Is that clear?”

  In officer’s training, we learned there were only three acceptable responses to an order from a superior officer. Yes, sir—No, sir—No excuse, sir. I chose the only reasonable response. “Yes, Sir.”

  “One more thing you need to know. By September of next year, the tunnel must be finished and preliminary operation of the Signals Exploitation Center must begin.”

  “Eleven months from now! Why?”

  “The East German and Russian leaders are committed to signing a separate World War II peace treaty in October or November of next year. Their objective is to negate the four-power control of Berlin. This action will cause a confrontation between the Russians and us, which might well lead to war.”

  “Obviously advanced information on their intentions would be exceeding valuable,” I remarked, staring in disbelief at the Colonel. “Um…That’s a lot of responsibility on our shoulders.”

  “Yes, it is, Captain.”

  I cringed. Doing all this in less than a year is unrealistic. I’m responsible for the whole thing. My God!

  “Be here in the tank early Friday. The combination of the cipher lock is 3192. Find an apartment as soon as you can. Captain Taylor has agreed to give you a tour of Berlin on Saturday.”

  “Yes. Sir.” I responded, still feeling confused.

  As we left the tank, he added, “Always make sure this door is secure before you leave the area. I expect a debriefing on your progress every Friday at 1300 in the tank.” He escorted me to a nearby stairway, shook my hand, smiled, and walked away.

  His words rang in my ears. “You’re the only one available.” But if I fail, I thought, what happens to the world?