The Methuselah Project (8 page)

Within an hour, the six other Allied airmen began to stir. Roger shared the few details he’d gleaned from Blomberg. Then Blomberg himself and two soldiers bearing Luger pistols appeared. One at a time they wheeled the men back to their barred cells.

When Roger’s turn came, the soldiers leveled their weapons at him as Blomberg unfastened the restraints. They needn’t have bothered. Throughout Roger’s body, every muscle ached. Even his eyebrow and scalp muscles hurt. It was as if he’d spent the past month pulverizing rocks with a sledgehammer twenty-four hours a day. He couldn’t have rallied enough energy to swat a mosquito, let alone to throw a punch.

The linen sheet he clutched around his nude body provided scant protection against the frigid air of the cell. All he could do was shuffle his bare feet across the frosty concrete floor. Even his military dog tags had disappeared from his neck.

Roger noticed his clothing lying at the foot of the cot, but he had no energy to dress. Like the others, he eased onto the cot and tugged the woolen blankets up to his neck. Was the chamber truly colder than before, or was the coldness inside him?

When Roger, the seventh and last prisoner, lay securely in his cell with his door locked, Blomberg dismissed the soldiers. Moments later, Kossler showed up bearing a clipboard, which he handed to Blomberg.

Blomberg examined and then returned the clipboard to Kossler. “Gentlemen, I understand you feel somewhat lethargic. Not to worry. Based upon my earlier experiments, that’s to be expected. The weakness should pass relatively quickly.”

“What have you done to us?” Sedgewick demanded.

Blomberg paid no heed to the RAF man’s curt tone. “I was about to explain that, Number One. During the past forty-eight hours, your bodies have undergone more than thirty separate injections of various preparations, each of you receiving slightly different applications. Equally critical, however, was the phase gas, which you inhaled, plus a powerful electromagnetic field through which your bodies have passed.”

“Phase gas?” Burgess repeated from his cot.

“Excuse my crude abbreviation. Even if I pronounced the full name in German, you wouldn’t recognize it, as it’s my own invention. I translate it ‘phase gas’ for the sake of brevity. Possibly you assumed the pink fog was simply to render you unconscious? That’s merely a helpful side effect. My phase gas is an airborne, highly potent array of compounds and catalysts. When administered through the lungs, these components quickly disburse throughout the body, preparing the blood and cell tissue for alteration.”

Despite his aching muscles, Roger hung on every word. Was this character a crackpot, a demon, or a genius?

“What kind of alteration?” Rutledge asked.

“An alteration for the better, I assure you. In fact, what I have done for you should be considered an honor. Many men will someday desire what you now possess. Let me give you a complete overview—”

Roger shook his head. “Let’s skip to the bottom line.” Left to his own way of explaining things, Blomberg might take days trying to explain the chemistry and every scientific detail behind his experiment, not to mention why they should be giddy with delight about it. “You’ve done something to us. We want to know what it is—without the scientific mumbo jumbo.”

“Right,” said Lambright from cell 3. “Heaven help you if you’ve injected us with monkey brains or some such muck just to see what happens.”

Blomberg sighed. “As you wish. Although I would have enjoyed recounting details about the process, even if only in a rudimentary outline. The whole concept is fascinating!” He paused, as if contemplating how to summarize. “Perhaps you have heard of Methuselah?”

The word meant nothing to Roger, but Hazlitt raised himself onto one elbow. “Methuselah? The Bible-time character?”

“Exactly.” Blomberg grew enthusiastic again. “The man who lived the longest life in recorded history. According to the ancient record, Methuselah lived 969 years. He must have been a genetically perfect specimen—the perfect Aryan prototype!”

“The old boy’s off his rocker,” a British voice commented in an undertone.

Roger focused on Blomberg’s eyes. As before, he saw the animated glint that might signal the light of brilliance—or of lunacy.

“Since when do Nazis care about the Bible?” Burgess spat out. “The Bible also says, ‘Thou shalt not kill,’ but you Nazis have murder down to a regular science.”

As if interrupted by an impudent child, Blomberg replied, “In the opinion of the Führer, most of the Bible is a collection of myths fabricated by an inferior race. But that didn’t stop nomadic tribes from adopting and plagiarizing earlier recorded histories, such as the Genesis genealogies. Without a doubt, some earlier humans once lived extraordinarily long lives. Not until they mingled with lesser races did their life span become corrupted and diminish to the present norms.”

The professor paused, as if expecting a reaction. When none occurred, he puffed up his chest as if to make the announcement of the century. “Gentlemen, the ultimate purpose of this facility is to restore a human life span to that of Methuselah’s day. Man can live for hundreds of years. With your help, I plan to demonstrate that truth.”

Burgess caught Roger’s eye and tapped a finger to his temple. “He really is nuts.”

Kossler, the assistant, stepped forward with a glower. “Show respect. Dr. von Blomberg is one of the most brilliant intellectuals of our time. You wouldn’t speak so rashly had you been here to observe our experiments with the mice.”

Roger shook his head. “How did you ever talk Hitler into financing this half-baked scheme?”

Blomberg paced to the end of the chamber and stood directly in front of Roger’s cell. “Militarily, the benefit is priceless. A soldier with physiology enhanced by my procedure will heal rapidly from wounds. Too fast, in fact, even for infection to set in. However, to answer your question more specifically, the Führer has personal reasons to support this research. Have you never heard our leader describe this country as ‘the Thousand-year Reich’?”

“Sure. It’s in all the propaganda. What of it?”

“For your information, Number Seven, the Führer has never intended to pass control of the Fatherland to a successor. Our Third Reich
will
endure a thousand years, and the Führer wishes to lead us for the full millennium.”

F
INAL WEEK OF
D
ECEMBER
1943

T
HE
M
ETHUSELAH FACILITY
, G
ERMANY

A
lthough Roger wasn’t familiar with German cuisine, he believed he detected a slight bitterness in some of the meat dishes. Was Blomberg sneaking more chemicals into the chow? He considered a hunger strike, but by the time each meal tray arrived, an uncontrollable craving for food overpowered all self-restraint. The other prisoners exhibited the same urges.

The soreness in the men’s muscles dissipated gradually. For the next five days—a period in which Christmas came and went without celebration—regardless of how much they rested or how well they ate, all of them experienced physical exhaustion and confined themselves to their cots.

“Totally normal,” Blomberg assured. “Your body cells are rejuvenating themselves, restructuring and realigning according to ancient genetic blueprints. This process taxes the organism’s energy reserves. It will pass.”

“It bloody well better pass,” the ever-defiant Sedgewick threatened. “Germany signed the Geneva Convention, you know. You’ve got no right to use Allied prisoners for your filthy experiments.”

Blomberg’s voice gained an almost compassionate timbre. “You still don’t understand. Explorers like Ponce de Leon have expended vast amounts of time and capital roaming the globe in search of a fountain of youth. What price would be too high for multiplying one’s life span by ten or fifteen times? Yet you have received this golden opportunity for free, Number One.”

“We would have appreciated being asked first.”

Blomberg shrugged off the complaint and departed. Did he assume their grumpiness would fade once his patients better understood the “adjustments” he’d performed on their bodies?

By the sixth day after Blomberg’s experiment, Roger’s body ached much less. By the tenth day, the extreme muscular soreness passed. But each night the men slept more deeply than ever before, and they continued to experience maddening hunger pangs throughout the following week.

One day while Blomberg made his morning rounds, Roger seized the opportunity to pose unanswered questions. “Why us, Doc? Why were we chosen? There were plenty of other warm bodies in Germany before we got shot from the sky.”

“Quite so. The specific decision was the result of medical, social, and political considerations. Not to mention fortuitous timing.”

Hot frustration ballooned inside Roger’s chest. Why couldn’t this man who commanded such an impressive array of English words give a straight answer? “I don’t suppose you could clue us in on these considerations?”

“Primarily I proceeded through a process of elimination.” Blomberg appeared gratified to have an attentive audience, even if it was only one individual. “At first, I considered using Jews from one of the internment camps, but we quickly ruled out that option. As I’ve already mentioned, you participants of the Methuselah Project receive a priceless honor. Although I don’t necessarily concur from a scientific viewpoint, the leadership of the Third Reich views Jewry as inferior stock. Thus, bestowing such an honor on people with Jewish ancestry was out of the question.

“Next, I weighed the possibility of utilizing subjects from Poland, Russia, or other Slavic lands. However, the Führer overruled. His viewpoint is that these people groups are undeserving in a biological sense. The same holds true for gypsies and similar subgroups within our grasp.”

In the next cell, Burgess sniffed. “Oh, naturally. After all, you can’t go around bestowing such a significant honor on just anyone.”

“Precisely,” Blomberg replied, either not detecting or ignoring the sarcasm. “Of course, I would have been willing to use French candidates, but again, the Führer adamantly opposed. Our Wehrmacht blitzed through France like a hot scalpel through butter. The Führer interprets their capitulation as a sign of weakness and inferiority. The French disqualified themselves for Methuselah.”

“Why didn’t you just use one of your own German citizens?” asked Lambright. “Surely your beloved Führer couldn’t object to a purebred Aryan?”

Blomberg stepped backward to better address his growing crowd of listeners. “Actually he did. Despite the honor and privilege involved, Methuselah is still an experimental procedure. If anything were to go wrong … Well, the Führer would not subject citizens of the Reich to that possibility. No, we required healthy, suitable, admirable specimens from outside our own nation.”

“So, that left the Brits and the Americans,” Roger said.

“Correct. Despite the losses from your aerial bombardments, Adolf Hitler holds a grudging respect for you airmen. General Göring was the one who recommended captured Anglo-Saxon flyers. Your fortitude and tenacity have quite impressed him, as well, although he can’t admit it publicly. As soon as this facility was equipped, Göring issued documents authorizing the redirection of seven Allied prisoners into my care. Your timing and good fortune at being shot down in this vicinity were highly opportune. Or to quote your own slang, you got a lucky break.”

Jamison sat up on his cot. “Are you saying we can’t die anymore?”

The professor shook his head. “You misunderstand. If you were stabbed through the heart or if your head were chopped off, you would perish as quickly as any man. But if your bodies don’t suffer mortal trauma, they should function quite well for hundreds of years. In fact, better than before. If you receive nonlethal injuries, I theorize that your cells will regenerate ten times faster than before. Possibly faster. Of course, only the coming weeks will tell. We must observe you and maintain detailed records of all pertinent information.” The professor jotted a final note onto his ever-present clipboard. “Good day, gentlemen.” He departed through the metal door.

Clang.

When Blomberg was gone, Burgess shook his head. “No day is going to be good until we get out of here. How can a guy who looks so normal be so whacko?”

Sedgewick agreed. “If you ask me, whatever that madman injected into us is more likely to shorten our lives than extend them. From now on, I plan to drink as much water as I can. Maybe it will flush out some of the chemicals.”

Roger latched onto Sedgewick’s idea. The sooner his body could rid itself of Blomberg’s lunacy, the better. The question was, would drinking extra water actually help? Or was it possible the seven had already been poisoned? If so, their bodies might already be slowly dying.