V-S Day: A Novel of Alternate History (12 page)

“No.” Goddard’s tone was adamant.

Bliss met his determined gaze without flinching. “Bob, this has already been settled, and may I remind you that you agreed to it. Your job is to design the rocket. It’ll be someone else’s job to build it.”

“Doctor G agreed to this,” Ham said, using Esther’s nickname for her husband that the others had lately adopted as well. “The rest of us haven’t.”

“You weren’t asked,” Bliss shot back, “but you’re expected to abide by his agreement.”

“You’re asking rocket men not to get their hands dirty,” Henry said. “It doesn’t work that way, Colonel. We built and fired twenty-one Nell rockets in Roswell, and never once did we put ourselves in serious danger.” He was stretching the truth; there had been a few close shaves, such as when Goddard had once walked out to the launch tower to see why a rocket hadn’t lifted off, only to have it blow up before he was halfway there. Bliss didn’t need to know that, though. “You can’t isolate us like that and expect this project to be a success.”

Bliss was quiet for a moment. “All right . . . a compromise. Once we’ve assembled the test rocket, we’ll let some of your people come in to supervise the launch.”

“So long as it isn’t me.” Goddard forced a grin. “As I said, I detest airplanes.”

“Okay then . . . that leaves us with one more thing.” Bliss laid a hand on the reconnaissance photos. “Army intelligence and MI-6 want to try to locate their launch site . . . that is, if Silver Bird is not going to launch from Peenemünde. This is crucial even if it’s beyond our bombers’ current operating theater. Once Silver Bird takes off, it’ll take only a little more than an hour and a half for it to circle the globe and reach New York. So it’s imperative that the Allies try to put someone nearby who can watch the area and send word if it appears that a launch is imminent.”

“So what do you want from us?” Taylor asked.

“You people know Silver Bird’s capabilities better than anyone else. That said, you probably have the best shot at figuring out possible launch sites in Germany.”

“We might be able to do that.” Goddard looked over at Henry. “I think we can spare you for a day or two. Want to take a crack at this?”

“Sure, why not?” Henry grinned. “At least it’ll get me out of the lab for a while.”

He avoided looking at Frank O’Connor, but everyone knew what he meant. Ever since the night they’d been caught sneaking out to a bar, their FBI escort hadn’t let the 390 Group out of his sight. The men went from their boardinghouse straight to the physics lab and back again. During the weekends, they were allowed to go out for dinner and a movie, but only under supervision and with any public discussion of Blue Horizon strictly prohibited. So the men eagerly took any opportunity to slip the leash, if only for an hour or two.

“Very well. I think that takes care of everything.” Bliss stepped away from the table. “Meeting adjourned. Lieutenant Jackson, may I speak with you a moment?”

Henry watched as Bliss and Jack Cube walked over to a corner of the room. They kept their voices low and their backs turned to everyone else, so he couldn’t hear what they were saying.

Lloyd slid up beside him. “What do you think that’s all about?” he murmured.

“Haven’t got a clue, and it’s probably none of our business anyway.” Henry walked over to the coat hooks and pulled down his overcoat and hat. “Well, it’s off to the campus library for me,” he said breezily, relishing Lloyd’s envious glare. “Can I bring you anything? A good book, maybe?”

“Screw the book. Bring me a coed.”

“If I meet any nice Jewish girls, you’ll be the first to know.” Putting on his hat, Henry headed for the door. “See you at dinner, Frank,” he said to the FBI agent, and got a cold stare in return.

=====

The university library was located a short distance from the Science Building, about halfway across the Clark campus. Henry took his time getting there; spring was just a week away, and the last of the winter snow was melting beneath the red oaks and sugar maples of the commons. He opened his overcoat and whistled just under his breath, enjoying a rare moment when he was going somewhere without another team member or Agent O’Connor tagging along.

The library’s reference room was located on the ground floor. Students were hunched over books and notepads spread open upon long oak tables, intent on preparing for the upcoming midterms; the only sounds were the faint scratch of pencils on paper, the click of slide rules, and the occasional whispered conversation. Henry knew what he was looking for, so instead of approaching the reference desk, he went straight to the atlas collection and pulled out the largest one he could find.

Its maps were arranged by geographic area and were detailed enough for him to locate specific cities and towns. Unfortunately, what he needed was something else entirely: a map of Germany that would reveal topographical features as well, and also a global map that would show him precise lines of latitude and longitude between Europe and North America. He checked the other atlases, but they were no better than the one he already had. Clearly, he ought to find something better.

A young woman was seated at the reference desk. She had shoulder-length chestnut hair and a pretty face, and the mannish fisherman’s sweater she wore wasn’t baggy enough to hide some nice curves beneath it. She was reading a detective novel—
Farewell, My Lovely
by Raymond Chandler—when Henry approached her, but she didn’t look up until he pointedly cleared his throat. Then she peered over her tortoiseshell glasses, and Henry found himself being regarded by a pair of startling green eyes.

“Yes?” she said, her voice low and slightly annoyed at being interrupted from her reading. “May I help you?”

It took Henry a second or two to find his tongue. What came out of his mouth was a quiet croak. “Umm . . . ahh . . . well, yes, I’m . . . ah . . .”

“Not interested. Thanks anyway.” She returned her attention to her book.

Henry blinked. “Pardon me? I don’t understand . . .”

“Yes, you do.” She turned a page. “You were about to ask me if I’d like to have a drink with you, or maybe go out for dinner, or something like that, and I’ve given you my answer. No thanks, not interested.” Her fingers made a shooing motion. “Now go away.”

It was Henry’s turn to become annoyed. “If you want to catch up on your reading, then why are you sitting at the reference librarian’s desk?” He gazed past her; there was no one else behind the counter. “Where is she, anyway? I could use some help.”

The young woman looked up at him again. “I’m the librarian,” she said, a bit less dismissive. “May I help you?”

“Now that you ask, yes, you could. I need a good global map, with enough detail to show me major geographic features as well as cities and borders, and also exact lines of latitude and longitude.”

“Mercator or Lambert projection?”

“Umm . . .” To him, a map was a map; he was unaware of any differences. “I don’t know,” he admitted, and was surprised when she smiled at him. “I guess I’m looking for something I can use to figure out . . . ah, air travel routes between here and Germany.”

“Oh, really?” The green eyes became curious. “Then you’d need an Azimuthal projection.” Putting down the book, she gazed up at the ceiling for a moment, her lips pursing together and twitching back and forth in a pensive but very becoming way. “I believe we have one in the cartography collection. Follow me.”

She stood up and walked out from behind the desk, and, as she strolled across the room, Henry noticed two things. First, every guy in the room watched her go by. Second, she didn’t walk; she seemed instead to float across the floor, her low-heeled shoes barely touching the checkerboard tiles. No wonder she’d become accustomed to college boys’ trying to ask her out. She was an angel in glasses.

She led him to a large map case at the back of the room, and in the second drawer down she found what he was looking for: a world map that not only displayed political borders, major cities, and geographical features such as mountain ranges and rivers, but was also laid out so that the latitude and longitude lines were straightened, therefore showing how many miles lay between one point and another. The map was larger than normal, big enough that it had to be unfolded and spread out across the nearest table. There was a freshman sitting where they needed to be, but he grabbed his books and scurried out of the way before the librarian even had to ask him to move. One does not argue with angels.

“Yes . . . yes, I think this will do nicely,” Henry said once the map was laid out. “Thank you.” The librarian nodded and started to glide away. On impulse, he blurted out, “Oh . . . um, one more thing. Do you have a ruler I could borrow? Maybe even a yardstick?”

“A ruler. Or a yardstick.” She stopped and turned back to him; again, the curious gaze, this time with one eyebrow raised ever so slightly. He nodded, and she smiled. “Yes, I may have one. I’ll look.” And then she went away, once again drawing every male eye in the room.

Henry had taken off his overcoat and pulled out his pencil and pocket notepad by the time she returned. “Ruler and yardstick,” she said, laying them on the table beside the map, then her eyes widened in horror as he picked up the yardstick, laid it across the map, and bent toward it with pencil in hand. “Oh, no you don’t!” she hissed, reaching forward to snatch the pencil from him. “You are not going to draw on . . . !”

“Relax. I’m not going to do anything of the kind. Just plotting points, that’s all.” Henry removed the pencil from her hand, and she watched closely as he moved the yardstick until one end rested on Germany’s northwestern Baltic coast, and the other end extended across eastern Europe. Being careful not to touch the pencil tip to the map, he used it to carefully align the yardstick with Peenemünde, then he opened his notebook and jotted down the exact latitude and longitude.

As he continued to work, steadily moving the yardstick due east in a straight line until he reached the map’s right border, then picking up again from the left side and moving it across the Pacific until it reached the North American continent, Henry became conscious of the librarian peering over his shoulder. “If you’re trying to figure out an air route between here and Germany,” she whispered at last, “wouldn’t you want to plot it to the west, not the east?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that.”

“I’m sure it is.” She continued to watch as he jotted down some more figures. “You’re not a student, are you?”

“Actually, I’m a grad student in the physics department.”

“Ah, of course . . . physics. That explains why you’re interested in plotting a flight around the world.”

There was a trace of amusement in her voice, but also a little too much interest in what he was doing for his comfort. “I’m studying with Dr. Goddard, in his Physics 390 program. We’re trying to . . .” Henry stopped, at a loss for words. There was no easy way to explain what he was doing that didn’t involve telling her a lie. “It’s complicated,” he finished.

“You said that already.” She pulled back a chair and sat down, resting her chin on her right hand as she continued to watch him work. “Sorry I was so rude a few minutes ago. It’s just that . . . y’know, I get a lot of kids trying to . . .”

“Say no more. I think I understand.” From the corner of his eye, he saw that she was no longer studying the map but him instead. “I’m Henry . . . Henry Morse.”

“Pleased to meet you, Henry. My name is Doris Gilbert.” She extended her hand; when he shook it, he found that her touch was soft and warm. “Yes,” she added.

“I’m sorry . . . come again?”

“Yes, I’d like to go out and have a drink with you. So long as it’s coffee because I don’t drink.” She paused. “That’s what you were thinking, weren’t you?”

“Actually, it wasn’t, but . . . sure, that would be swell.” Then he remembered Frank O’Connor, and how difficult it would be to get out from under him. “But I’m going to have to do that some other time. Dr. Goddard keeps me pretty busy.”

“Certainly. I understand completely.” Doris stood up. “You know where to find me, Henry. Come back anytime.” And then she returned to her desk, her hips moving gracefully beneath her long woolen skirt.

If you think her brains are great,
Henry thought as he watched her go,
just wait till you get to her legs.

APRIL 2, 1942

With a muffled roar, the wind tunnel’s high-velocity fans came to life, their vibration shaking the thick double panes of the observation window. Red smoke poured across the stainless-steel model fixed to a slender pylon in the middle of the tunnel, a miniature jet stream to be studied by the men on the other side of the window. A clear space gradually formed beneath the model’s flat underbelly, stretching from its sharp nose to the twin stabilizers at its rear. The half-meter-long replica trembled slightly in the artificial windstorm but otherwise remained stable.

“As you see,
Silbervogel
is remarkably aerodynamic,” Wernher von Braun said, pointing through the window. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the noise. “We’ve been working to improve upon the ogival shape of the bow so as to give it greater lift during the ascent phases, thereby reducing the amount of fuel the engines will need to . . .”

“How many bombs will it carry?” Heinrich Himmler asked, almost shouting.

The
Reichsführer
’s question was characteristically blunt, conveying an impatience with technical details. The engineers conducting the test carefully kept their attention focused on the model; only Arthur Rudolph glanced at Himmler, and just for a moment. Along with everyone else, he was only too happy to let Peenemünde’s technical director handle their visitor.

“
Silbervogel
is designed to carry a 3.75-metric-ton payload.” Von Braun moved a little closer to Himmler, cupping his hands to his mouth so that he could be heard. “This can be one single bomb, of course, but we believe the best option would be three 1.25-ton incendiary devices. This would allow for a greater dispersal over the target area once the craft reaches . . .”

“Less than four tons?” Himmler’s eyes flared behind his round glasses. “
Nein!
Unacceptable! This machine must carry fifty tons at least!”

Von Braun fought to keep his expression impassive; the laughter he wanted to let loose would have been fatal. “
Reichsführer
, with all due respect, a fifty-ton payload is out of the question. In order to achieve escape velocity and complete its circumnavigation of the Earth,
Silbervogel
can carry only the bare minimum. Even its pilot cannot be more than 1.8 meters in height or weigh more than eighty-two kilograms.”

“But only three one-ton bombs . . .
pfft!
” Himmler made a dismissive gesture. “A Heinkel bomber can carry more than that!”

No, it couldn’t,
von Braun thought,
nor would it have the range.
But challenging the
Reichsführer
’s understanding of the facts was a risky proposition, so he was careful with his response. “Our studies conclude that three incendiary devices dropped in the New York metropolitan area will bring about destruction surpassing their weight. Dropped from an altitude of seventy kilometers, terminal velocity alone will cause significant damage, and the firestorm that follows the initial blast would doubtless spread across the entire city. Even if only one bomb hits Manhattan, with the other two landing in the surrounding neighborhoods, the city will be devastated. More bombs are unnecessary.”

Himmler said nothing but instead continued to watch the test. Was it von Braun’s imagination, or was Arthur keeping it going longer than necessary? From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of him standing at the control board. He’d stopped writing down figures on his clipboard and was now doing nothing more than watching the model get buffeted by the fans. Perhaps he was hoping that the noise would drive Himmler away.

If that was the idea, it succeeded. Himmler suddenly turned and marched toward the door, trailing an entourage of junior officers. To von Braun’s quiet disgust, Colonel Dornberger had joined them, if only temporarily. Although
Wa Pruf 11
’s military director was just as terrified of the
Reichsführer
as anyone else, he wasn’t above using his visit to Peenemünde to curry favor with a member of Hitler’s inner circle.

As much as von Braun was dismayed by Dornberger’s behavior, though, he was also disappointed with his own. For the first time, he’d put on the black SS uniform that until then had only hung in his closet. It was necessary; wearing civilian clothes when the SS leader came to visit would have been disrespectful, perhaps even making Himmler suspect him of disloyalty. That was something no one could afford to let happen. It was whispered that Himmler’s enemies tended to land in concentration camps or die with a piano wire wrapped around their necks.

Von Braun couldn’t wait for the
Reichsführer
to leave so that he could take off this damned outfit.
At least I look better than he does,
he thought. Despite the knee boots, jodhpurs, and death’s-head insignia on his jacket lapels, Himmler looked like what he’d been before he joined the Nazi party: a chicken farmer, a mediocre little man with a fuzzy mustache and a weak chin. Heinrich Himmler would have been contemptible if he hadn’t been so powerful or so thoroughly evil.

“So . . .” Himmler wheeled around as soon as they’d left the windowless concrete shed. “When do you think we’ll be able to launch your spaceship, Dr. von Braun?”

Von Braun had heard this question before: from Goering, from Goebbels, from Speer, from everyone else in the High Command who’d suddenly taken an interest in Peenemünde after Hitler had given the order to proceed with
Silbervogel
. “We’re hoping to be ready to fly by next summer,” he replied, a truthful yet evasive answer that he and Dornberger had devised a while ago. “There are still many technical obstacles in our way, but we’re working to overcome them.”

Dornberger stepped in. “We’ll soon be ready for static tests of the new rocket engine,
Herr Reichsführer
. It will run on a revolutionary new mixture of liquid oxygen and a hydrocarbon suspension of aluminum particulate that promises to produce a higher thrust than the fuel we used for the A-4 prototype. The turbopump assembly for the main combustion chamber is nearly complete, once we finish testing the main coolant loop for . . .”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Himmler was impatient with details, and von Braun doubted that he understood them anyway. He continued walking toward the large, warehouselike shed that Dornberger had indicated would be the next stop on their tour. “I know your scientists are technically competent. What concerns me is whether you’ll be able to produce a weapon of this sort before the Americans do.”

“I’m positive we shall,” von Braun said. “We’re already far ahead of their own rocket program.”

Dornberger shot him a look. What von Braun had just said came dangerously close to contradicting the colonel’s contention that Germany was in a race against America to produce an intercontinental rocket. And they had another concern as well. Himmler was Goering’s rival. He’d already taken the Gestapo away from him, transforming it into an arm of the SS, and it was whispered that he wanted control of the Luftwaffe as well.

It was bad enough that Dornberger and von Braun had to answer to Goering. It would be worse if Himmler became their new boss. There was nothing either of them could do about that except prepare for the worst and expect that Himmler would win the power contest. If that happened, the
Reichsführer-SS
needed to be convinced that the
Silbervogel Projekt
was proceeding according to plan. Otherwise, the two of them might receive a visit from men in black trench coats, followed by an automobile ride to parts unknown.

“Hmm . . .” Himmler abruptly stopped and turned to gaze around the area. “Where will the launch site be located? I see nothing that indicates that the track is under construction.”

“We’ve been considering a new location,
Herr Reichsführer
,” Dornberger said. “The original plan was to build it here on the island, but lately we’ve come to believe that this might not be a good idea.”

“About a month ago, the RAF began making reconnaissance flights above us.” Von Braun nodded toward the overcast sky; Himmler instinctively looked up, as if expecting to see a British P-38 or Mosquito. “The Luftwaffe commander has sent up Messerschmidts to intercept them, of course, but they managed to get away. I have little doubt that they’ve taken high-altitude photographs of our facilities, and even if British intelligence hasn’t figured out what they are, an elevated rail three kilometers long will certainly draw their attention. If the British and American air forces decide to make an air raid . . .”

“It will not succeed.” Himmler’s tone was flat, decisive. “No bombs will drop on the Fatherland, I assure you.”

“Nonetheless, may I respectfully submit that the rail be built elsewhere, for the sake of security?” Von Braun knew that he was perilously close to contradicting Himmler, so he decided to change tactics. “Besides, the closer to the equator the launch site is located, the more we’ll be able to take advantage of the Earth’s rotation during takeoff.”

“Yes . . . yes, I see your point.” Again, Himmler became contemplative. “Perhaps it could be built in an occupied country near the Mediterranean. Southern France, or perhaps Egypt . . .”

“Those are the optimal locations, yes, but then we’d have a new problem . . . moving
Silbervogel
there once it’s assembled. The vehicle will be twenty-eight meters in length and have an empty weight of ten metric tons. Transportation out of the country will be very difficult, and should the craft be damaged in any way during transit . . .”

“There’s also the necessity of having a large workforce,” Dornberger said. “Several thousand people work here, including the war prisoners we’ve assigned to hard labor. Moving this operation elsewhere will mean that we’ll have to find a new source of labor. This will be difficult if the project is relocated to France or North Africa.”

“I understand.” A dry smile appeared on Himmler’s pinched face. “Let me look into this. I may be able to find an alternative within our borders.”

Von Braun inwardly groaned. Without intending to do so, he’d given Himmler another reason to give Hitler why the Luftwaffe in general, and
Silbervogel
in particular, should be turned over to him. Himmler’s first priority was his own ambitions. Anything he could use to further them was fair game.

“That would be helpful,
Herr Reichsführer
,” he said.
“Danke.”

“Still, this matter about the American rocket program bothers me. How can you be so certain that we’re ahead of them? We’ve had little recent intelligence about what they’re presently doing.”

Von Braun found himself at a loss for words. Himmler was correct; they really didn’t know where the Americans stood in terms of rocket development. Neither he nor Dornberger could afford to admit this, though, because it would have undermined the myth upon which the
Silbervogel Projekt
was built: America was far ahead of Germany in the field of rocketry, and Silver Bird was the Third Reich’s best chance of catching up.

“It might be possible that their program is being done in secret, just as ours is.” Von Braun had no idea if this was true; he just hoped that it didn’t sound like he was making it up on the spot. “It would make sense that their foremost scientist, Robert Goddard, would be involved in any sort of long-range project that the Americans might have undertaken . . .”

“Has doubtless undertaken,” Dornberger quickly added. “Yes, I agree. The project is being kept hidden, naturally, and Goddard is probably in charge. This is probably why our intelligence operatives have yet to determine its purpose or whereabouts.”

Von Braun nodded, even as he and Dornberger shared a conspiratorial look. Both of them knew this was an utter fabrication. What little they knew about Goddard’s recent activity was that he was somewhere out in the American desert, tinkering with rockets that probably couldn’t reach the next state, let alone Europe. Himmler wouldn’t be aware of this, though. If he could be led to believe that the Americans had their own Peenemünde, with Robert Goddard as its mastermind, then the
Reichsführer-SS
and the rest of the High Command wouldn’t suspect that they’d undertaken a massive and enormously expensive research-and-development program in response to a threat that simply didn’t exist.

Perhaps we’ll be lucky, and the war will be over before this thing is ready to fly,
von Braun thought. Like Eugen Sanger and Irene Bredt—who were involved in the project only as Luftwaffe Institute advisors, with no direct role, at least as yet—he’d come to view
Silbervogel
as a space vehicle rather than a military weapon. Perhaps one day it could be used for more peaceful purposes, like carrying the components of a Mars expeditionary fleet into orbit for assembly. Until then, though, he’d have to focus on carrying out an attack on America, a goal he’d come to like less and less as time went on.

“Yes . . . yes, that would make sense, wouldn’t it?” Himmler slowly nodded. “You’re quite right. Dr. Goddard should be investigated. I’ll have to request that the
Abwehr
look into this. Perhaps their operatives may learn something new.”

“It would be prudent,” von Braun said carefully.
Let them take their time,
he silently added.
The longer it takes for them to find him, the safer we’ll be.

“
Reichsführer
, if we may . . . ?” Dornberger stretched out his hand, beckoning them to return to the tour.

“Of course.” Himmler strode forward, his retinue in tow. Von Braun walked alongside Dornberger as he led them toward the nearby assembly shed. The guards snapped to attention, arms raised in rigid salutes. The
Reichsführer
ignored them as he allowed Dornberger to open the door. Von Braun stepped aside and let everyone enter the shed before him.

The shed held one of Peenemünde’s most closely guarded secrets. Ever since last Christmas, when a French spy had been caught lurking outside with a Minox camera, no one was allowed to enter without an identification card signed by both Dornberger and von Braun. The size of a large airplane hangar, it performed much the same role . . . but what was inside was no ordinary aircraft.