Field / Dropping The Peppermint / 1 Lee M. Field 3013 Garden Lakes Blvd. Rome, GA 30161 (706) 232-8483 [email protected] DROPPING THE PEPPERMINT By Lee M. Field Field / Dropping The Peppermint / 2 “The chaos of war conveniently hides things we do not wish to see.” CHAPTER 1 In a stuffy archive chamber buried deep in an office in Washington, D.C., a reporter sits at a metal desk lit by a solitary lamp. The eerie, sepulchral chamber is silent except for the reporter’s calm breathing. The faint glow from the bulb hints at a mane of long hair. His shirt is polyester brown, a shade that doesn’t exist in the natural world. A Steno pad and tape recorder are sitting on the table in front of him. He takes out a pack of cigarettes, shakes one loose, pops it in his mouth. and lights up with flip butane lighter. He exhales and smoke fills the small room. There is a faint knock at the door and the person on the other side doesn't hesitate before entering. The silhouette of the figure is backlit from the hall lights. He is wearing an American Air Force uniform. The shoulder epaulets contain three gold stars. On the breast pocket is a myriad of medals. An insignia patch reads “military intelligence,” a pseudo-branch of the CIA. He is not as calm as the man waiting and scurries inside. The dark shadows obscuring his face, the soldier slams a folder down in front of the seated individual. Field / Dropping The Peppermint / 3 It is a common blue briefing file. The soldier nervously eyes the folder. “That’s it,” he says. “Don't ask me for anything thing more. That's all there is. Everything else was burned after the war.” Leaning forward, the reporter opens the file. TOP SECRET is stamped on the front in big red letters along with the file name: PEPPERMINT. The reporter’s breathing quickens and his hands shake as he turns the pages. “If anyone knew how close we came to losing and what we did to secure our future, this country's credibility would go down the toilet. These were sealed for one hundred years by the CIA,” says the officer as he leaves. “Then why show me?” asks the reporter. The officer does not answer. The reporter looks at the page as the door closes. The faint echo of footsteps carries from the hall. The reporter settles into his seat and begins to read. MISSION REPORT: Dropping the Peppermint STATUS: Ongoing AGENT: Unknown SUBJECT BRIEFING: Eyes Only - (Unknown Occurrence) America, 1946 Field / Dropping The Peppermint / 4 The woods are deep and dark. A tiny cabin is secluded in the forest, a place where people go to hide. A single oil lamp burns in the window. The small shelter has no utilities connected. Inside, a man sits in the darkness, hunched over a table. Notes litter the floor as he hammers away at a manual typewriter. A bottle of whiskey and a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes are his only companions. A full beard covers his face, the hair unkempt. His body is emaciated. He has deteriorated so that anyone who knows his identity will not recognize him. He trembles as he reads aloud what he is writing. “They swore me to a secrecy oath, but that doesn’t mean I have to keep it locked away in my head. The deaths covered up to look like accidents, fabrications accepted as the truth.” His mind is a jumble and he is teetering on the insanity’s edge. “I have to get it down before I forget; everything is a tangle of lies and misdirection. Even I'm not sure of the facts anymore. The power of God was unleashed upon an unsuspecting population in April 1945 and I was thrust into the middle of it. I trust no one. Finding out the truth depends on whether you believe the credibility of the source. You must give them your faith. These are the unknown occurrences from the end of World War II. Field / Dropping The Peppermint / 5 Armed conflict has a way of shattering what little facts remain, making them harder to distinguish from lies or disinformation. Small bits must be pieced back together to form a clearer picture. What transpired in April 1945 is best described as a birth, the awakening of mankind from its infancy. Like any delivery, it was brought into being through pain and suffering, but this child was unlike any other. It possessed inhuman power, and if unleashed, would bring nothing but destruction. It was the dawn of a new age whose parents were scientists, but not its keepers. Other men with nefarious plans of their own wanted to adopt it. This is my story, one of many, and these are just a handful of the details. These people have the patience to wait till the time is right, to gain enough influence to manipulate politicians and governments at will. If you are reading this, maybe you can make sense of it. The world is a dangerous place. Be careful how you judge us.” CHAPTER 2 Field / Dropping The Peppermint / 6 Thuringia, Germany, 1945 The sun sets on an early day in spring. There is a chill in the air and frost lingers on the newly sprouted grass in a peaceful valley spared amidst the carnage of a million deaths. World War II is in its final death throes. Combat has chewed up the flesh of innumerable souls. Germany has not known true defeat in its 2,000- year history, surviving and driving out the Romans equipped with only crude swords and clothed in animal skins. The Germanic horde, as the Caesars called them, were a barbaric race, capable of only cruelty and incapable of civilization. The policy of romanizing a people, turning them into citizens following the occupation was not awarded to the Germans. For hundreds of years, the conflict between the nations continued, finally resulting in Rome’s subjugation by the very ones they tried to dominate. That warlike Teutonic spirit rages still, and like those conquerors of ages ago, so too the armies that now occupy their soil will be vanquished. It is a feeling that a certain Waffen SS officer knows and believes in all too well. Outfitted with a gray uniform and jackboots polished to perfection, he is the archetypal image of a Nazi, complete with scars of battle he wears with pride. He has suffered much for his country and is not going to let his beloved Fatherland fall prey to the mongrel bands of Russians and Americans that surround him. His charge is clear: obliterate the enemy. It was a daunting task, but through years of Field / Dropping The Peppermint / 7 research and the aid of many scientists, he was now on the verge of accomplishing his mission. He sits in the back of his staff car with a lovely woman, her face obscured by strands of blonde hair falling neatly over her temples and dark sunglasses. On her arm is a red armband with a swastika, and she wears a brown blouse with a black tie and matching skirt of the female Gestapo lieutenant. Neither of them says a word. They are cold professionals on their way to a place in history, warriors in the true sense, and a fanatic for the cry of battle. They do not question orders. Neither family nor any emotional attachments will deter them from living their creed. Their country is counting on them and they must see the mission through. They are jostled as the car travels down a dirt road leading out to a small clearing in the forest. The Jonas Valley in central Germany is ancient woodland filled with majestic black pines. It’s as if the spirits of long-dead warriors imbue the surroundings with an iron-willed strength. All that matters is German soil, soil that has to be cleansed with the blood of the impure masses. Only the master race is worthy of inhabiting the world. The more the officer contemplates this, the deeper into his psychosis he delves, putting him in a trance. He swells with pride that the Fatherland has not yet fallen. He won’t allow it to. Field / Dropping The Peppermint / 8 The fading light in the woods returns him to the beginnings of the Nazi movement, the torchlight parades and the patriotic drums beating in time with his own heart. The Nuremberg Rally, where the voice of his Fuhrer thundered to the heavens, proclaiming their divine right to rule and conquer inherits the earth. His flesh rippled with goosebumps as the instrument for their destiny comes into sight. Ahead is a rocket, standing straight as an arrow but unlike any design seen before, whether the buzz bomb or its predecessor. It is larger, more imposing, and painted black with a large swastika in a white circle on a field of red paint on its fuselage. This is the V3, Vengeance, weapon three, codenamed Mithrandir, Hammer of the Gods. It houses the most lethal killing device ever constructed by man. He looks at the rocket proudly as his vehicle comes to a halt at the side of it. Stepping from the car, he smiles with a sinister grin. Several technicians work around the giant machine. Fuel lines pump liquid hydrogen and petrol into its belly, filling the tanks with what the engines need to thrust the huge rocket into the sky. Fumes from the cold accelerant form an eerie fog that hangs low to the ground.