Down to Earth (58 page)

“What is it, Father?” His elder son’s reply floated down from upstairs.

“Keep an eye on your brother and sister for a while. I have to report to the base, and your mother will come along so she can drive the car back here. Have you got that?”

“Yes, Father,” Heinrich said, and then asked essentially the same question Käthe had: “Will it be war?” The difference was, he sounded excited, not afraid.

He’s too young to know better,
Drucker thought, remembering how enthusiastic a Hitler Youth he’d made at the same age. Not much later, he’d gone into the
Wehrmacht,
and he’d been there ever since. Did that mean he didn’t know better, either? Maybe it did. He had no time to worry about it now.

Reliable no matter how ugly it was, the Volkswagen roared to life right away. Drucker didn’t want to think about what he would have done if it hadn’t started. Called for a taxi, he supposed—an order to report immediately meant that and nothing else. No one cared about excuses; the idea was that there shouldn’t be any.

Drucker drove out of Greifswald and east across the flat, muddy ground toward Peenemünde. He cursed every car that got in his way. At the barbed-wire perimeter around the base, he showed the sentries his identification card. They shot out their arms in salute and let him by.

He stopped in front of the barracks where he spent almost as much time as he did with his family. When he jumped out of the Volkswagen, he started to take the keys with him. Käthe coughed reproachfully. Feeling foolish, Drucker left the keys alone. His wife got out, too, to come around to the driver’s side. He took her in his arms and kissed her. He wasn’t the only soldier doing such things; the road in front of the barracks was clogged with stopped cars and men saying goodbye to wives and sweethearts.

Käthe got back into the VW and drove away. Drucker hurried into the barracks and threw on the uniform that hung in the closet. “What’s up?” he called to another space flier who was dressing with as much frantic haste as he.

“Damned if I know,” his comrade answered. “Whatever it is, though, it can’t be good. I’d bet on that.”

“Not with me, you wouldn’t, because I think you’re right,” Drucker told him.

They hurried toward the administrative center. Drucker looked at his wristwatch. Less than half an hour had gone by since the telephone rang. He couldn’t get in trouble for being late, not when he’d had to come from Greifswald . . . could he? He resolved to raise a big stink if anyone complained.

No one did. He checked off his name on the duty roster and hurried into the auditorium to which soldiers in military-police metal gorgets were directing people. The auditorium was already almost full; even though he’d done everything as fast as he could, he remained a latecomer. He slid into a chair near the back of the hall and shot disapproving glances at the men who came in after him.

General Dornberger stepped up onto the stage. Even from his distant seat, Drucker thought the commandant at Peenemünde looked worried. He couldn’t have been the only man who thought so, either; the buzz in the hail rose abruptly, then died as Dornberger held up his hand for quiet.

“Soldiers of the
Reich
, our beloved fatherland is in danger,” Dornberger said into that silence. “In their arrogance, the Lizards in Poland have attempted to impose limits on our sovereignty, the first step toward bringing the
Reich
under their rule. The Committee of Eight has warned them that their demands are intolerable to a free and independent people, but they have paid no attention to our just and proper protests.”

He building up toward a declaration of war,
Drucker thought. Ice ran through him. He knew the
Reich
could hurt the Race. But, probably better than any man who’d never been into space, he also know what the Race could do to the
Reich.
He felt like a dead man walking. The only hope he had for his family’s survival was the wind blowing the fallout from Peenemünde out to sea or toward Poland rather than onto Greifswald.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

“No state of war as yet exists between the Greater German
Reich
and the Race,” Dornberger went on, “but we must show the Lizards that we are not to be intimidated by their threats and impositions. Accordingly, the
Reich
is now formally placed on a footing of
Kriegsgefahr.
Because of this war danger order, the armed forces are being brought to a maximum alert—which is why you are here.”

It won’t happen right this minute, then,
Drucker thought.
Thank God for so much.
His wasn’t the only soft sigh of relief in the auditorium.

“If the worst should befall, we shall not stand alone,” General Dornberger said. “The governments of Hungary and Romania and Slovakia stand foursquare behind us, as loyal allies should. And we have also received an expression of support and best wishes from the British government.”

That mixed good news and bad. Of course the allies stood by the
Reich
: if they didn’t, they’d fall over, and in a hurry, too. If England really was supporting Germany, that was good news, very good indeed. The English were bastards, but they were tough bastards, no two ways about it.

But Dornberger hadn’t said a word about Finland and Sweden. What were they doing?
Sitting on their hands,
Drucker thought.
Hoping that when the axe falls, it doesn’t land on their necks.

Sitting where they were, he might have done the same thing. That didn’t mean he was happy they were staying quiet—far from it. But they had a better chance of coming through an all-out exchange between the Race and the
Reich
in one piece than a place like Greifswald did.
Damn them.

“We are going to put as many men into space as fast as we can,” the commandant said. “Once up there, they will await orders or await developments. If we down here fall, they shall avenge us.
Heil
—” He broke off, looking confused for a moment. He couldn’t say “
Heil
Himmler!” any more, and “
Heil
the Committee of Eight!” sounded absurd. But he found a way around the difficulty:
“Heil
the
Reich
!”

“Heil!”
Along with everyone else in the hall, Drucker gave back the acclamation. And, no doubt along with everyone else, he wondered what would happen next.

The enormous roar of an A-45 blasting off penetrated the auditorium’s soundprooflng. Sure enough, the
Reich
wasn’t wasting any time getting its pieces on the board so it could play them. Those upper stages wouldn’t do Germany any good if they got destroyed on the ground.

“Have we got a schedule yet for who’s going into orbit when?” Drucker asked, hoping someone around him would know.

A couple of people said, “No.” A couple of others laughed. Somebody remarked, “The way things are right now, we’re damned lucky we know which side we’re on.” That brought a couple of more laughs, and told Drucker everything he needed to know. He wondered why everyone had been summoned so urgently if things were no better organized than this.
We might as well be Frenchmen,
he thought scornfully.

Major Neufeld pushed through the crowd toward him. General Dornberger’s adjutant looked dyspeptic even when he was happy. When he wasn’t, as now, he looked as if he belonged in the hospital. “Drucker!” he called urgently.

Drucker waved to show he’d heard. “What is it?” he asked. Whatever it was, he would have bet it wasn’t anything good. Had it been good, Neufeld would have left him alone to do his job, just as the dour major was doing with everyone else.

Sure enough, Neufeld said, “The commandant wants to see you in his office right this minute.”

“Jawohl!”
Drucker obeyed without asking why. That was the Army way. Asking why wouldn’t have done him any good, anyhow. He knew that only too well. Several people gave him curious looks as he left the auditorium. Hardly anyone knew why he’d had run-ins with higher-ups, but practically everyone knew that he’d had them.

“Reporting as ordered, sir,” he said when he got to Dornberger’s office.

“Come in, Drucker.” Walter Dornberger took a puff on one of the fat cigars he favored, then set it in the ashtray. “Sit down, if you care to.”

“Thank you, sir.” As Drucker sat, he wondered if the commandant was going to offer him a blindfold and a cigarette next. Dornberger was usually brusque. Today he seemed almost courtly. Drucker asked, “What’s up, sir?” He’d been asking that since he got to Peenemünde. If anyone knew, if anyone would tell him, the commandant was the man.

Dornberger picked up the cigar, looked at it, and set it down without putting it in his mouth. In conversational tones, he remarked, “I wish Field Marshal Manstein were as good a politician as he is a soldier.”

“Do you?” Drucker asked, nothing at all in his voice. He didn’t need a road map to see where that led. “The SS is in charge of the Committee of Eight?”

“And the Party, and Goebbels’ lapdogs,” General Dornberger answered. “Manstein knows better than to provoke the Lizards, or I assume he does. This—this is madness. We can defend ourselves against the Race, yes, certainly. But win an offensive struggle? Anyone who has dealt with them knows better.”

“Yes, sir,” Drucker said. Why was the commandant telling him this? Most likely because no one in authority trusted him, which, in an odd sort of way, made him safe. “Anyone who’s been in space knows what they’ve got up there, that’s for sure.”

“Of course.” Dornberger’s nod was jerky. “Yes. Of course. And that brings me to the main reason I called you here, Lieutenant Colonel. Changes in the alignment of the Committee of Eight affect more than the broad foreign policy of the
Reich.
I must tell you that you will not be allowed into space during this crisis. I am sorry, but you are reckoned to be politically unreliable.”

Drucker supposed he should have expected that, but it hit like a blow in the belly even so. Bitterly, he asked, “Why bother calling me here, then? I might as well have stayed at home with my family.”
We could all die together then,
ran through his mind.

“Why? Because I am still working to get the restriction lifted. I know what a good man you are in space, regardless of your troubles on the ground,” Dornberger answered. “Meanwhile . . . You may be lucky, you know.”

“If we’re all lucky, none of this will matter. We’d better be.” Drucker got up and walked out without bothering to ask for permission. Normally, that was as close to lese majesty as made no difference. Today, General Dornberger said not a word.

“They are serious!” Vyacheslav Molotov sounded indignant. That, in its own way, was a prodigy. Andrei Gromyko knew as much. His shaggy eyebrows twitched in astonishment. Molotov was so agitated, he hardly noticed. “The Germans
are
serious, I tell you, Andrei Andreyevich.”

“So it would seem,” the foreign commissar answered. “You already told them we wanted no part of this madness. Past that, what can we do?”

“Prepare as best we can to have the western regions of the Soviet Union devastated by radioactive fallout,” Molotov answered. “Past that, we can do nothing. We are one of the four greatest powers on the face of the Earth and above it, and we can do nothing. Against stupidity the very gods themselves contend in vain.”

From a convinced Marxist-Leninist, that was almost blasphemy. It was also a telling measure of Molotov’s agitation, perhaps even more telling than raising his voice. Gromyko understood as much. Nodding, he commented, “And it was a German who said those words. He knew his people all too well.”

“Was it?” Molotov had long since forgotten the source of the quotation. “Well, whoever it was, we are about to watch all of Europe west of our border go into the fire, and the only thing we can do is stand back and watch.”

Gromyko lit a cigarette. After a couple of meditative drags, he said, “We could go in on the side of the
Reich.
That is the only action we have available to us. The Lizards will not want our assistance.”

“No, we would only ruin ourselves by joining the Germans. I can see that,” Molotov said. “But, damn it, we need the
Reich.
Can you imagine me saying such a thing? I can hardly imagine it, but it’s true. We need every single counterbalance to the Lizards we can find. Without the Nazis, mankind is weaker.” He grimaced, hating the words.

“I agree with you, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich,” Gromyko said. “Unfortunately.”

“Yes, unfortunately,” Molotov said. “I have sent certain operatives into Poland, to give us contacts with the human groups there. I do not know how much good that will do, or whether it can do anything to minimize the destruction war will bring, but I am making the effort.” He had control of himself again. He hated giving way to alarm, but there was so much about which to be alarmed here.

“Let us hope it will help.” Gromyko didn’t sound as if he thought it would. Molotov didn’t really think it would, either, but David Nussboym had volunteered for the mission, and Molotov let him go. He owed Nussboym a debt; without the Jewish NKVD man, Beria would surely have liquidated him before Marshal Zhukov put paid to the spymaster’s coup.

And, if the worst did happen in Poland, odds were that Nussboym wouldn’t come back to claim any more payments on that debt. Molotov made such calculations almost without conscious thought.

Gromyko said, “The Americans are concerned about this crisis, too. Do you suppose President Warren can get the Germans to see reason? The Nazis do not automatically hate and disbelieve the United States, as they do with us.”

“I have had consultations with the American ambassador, but they were less satisfactory than I would have liked,” Molotov answered. “I could be wrong, but I have the feeling the USA would not be sorry to see the
Reich
removed from the scene. The Americans, of course, would suffer far less incidental damage from a conflict over Poland than would we.”

“They are shortsighted, though. Having the
Reich
on the board strengthens all of humanity, as you said, Comrade General Secretary.” Gromyko was not going to contradict his boss. Molotov remembered trembling when he’d had to try to steer Stalin away from a course whose danger was obvious to everyone but the Great Leader. Molotov knew he wasn’t so frightful as Stalin had been, but even so. . . . His foreign commissar sighed. “I don’t suppose they would be Americans if they were not shortsighted.”