V-S Day: A Novel of Alternate History (3 page)

“Well?” he asked. “Any conclusions?”

“I didn’t fit the nose cone correctly. And the engine didn’t fire long enough.” Carl shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. It’ll never fly again.”

“Then you build another one, and next time you learn from your mistakes.” Morse smiled. “That’s what Bob Goddard taught me, back when he and I . . .”

“Grandpa,” Ellen said from his elbow, “if you’re going to start in on your war stories, then take it into the living room. We need to clean up here.”

“Quite right.” Morse clapped a hand on his great-grandson’s shoulder. “All right, sir . . . let’s go see what everyone else is up to.” Smiling, he bent slightly to add in a stage whisper, “We’re going to tell the Great and Secret Story.”

This was the second time Walker had heard this particular phrase. Everyone seemed to know what it meant except him. Yet Carl was indifferent. “I’ve heard it before,” he murmured, looking down again at his broken model.

“You have?” Morse stared at him in shock, not knowing what to make of this. “When?”

“The last couple of times we’ve been out there.”

Straightening up, Morse looked at his granddaughter. Ellen sadly nodded, confirming what her son just said. Morse frowned in disgust and stamped away from the table, heading for a glass-fronted door at the other end of the porch.

“Really?” He harrumphed in disgust. “Can’t anyone keep a military secret anymore?”

This provoked laughter from everyone in earshot. “Look who’s talking!” Jackson yelled at his friend’s back. “What about Doris?”

“Now, don’t you talk about my grandmother,” Ellen said as she opened the door for her grandfather.

“Mom?” Carl looked over his shoulder at her. “Is Dad coming?”

“I don’t think so, hon.” Ellen had a hand on her grandfather’s arm and was guiding him through the door. “He’s still away on his business trip. Now come inside . . . please.”

The living room took up most of the lodge’s ground floor. Paneled with dark, well-aged oak, there was a fieldstone fireplace at one end, with the inevitable moose head peering down from above the mantel. The hardwood floor was covered with handmade rugs, and although there were plenty of couches and overstuffed armchairs, with two sturdy rockers near the fireplace, metal folding chairs had been brought in to accommodate everyone. The walls were lined with old framed photographs; as Walker passed them, he noticed that the men in the pictures were the subjects of his book, taken in this place when they were young . . . when some, in fact, were younger than he was today.

That isn’t what drew his attention, though, but rather the man seated in the wheelchair parked between the two rockers. Lloyd Kapman was the oldest surviving member of the 390 Group; from his research, Walker knew that he’d turn one hundred in September. If he lasted so long; Kapman was even more frail than Morse or Jackson, and there was a plastic line leading from his nose to an oxygen tank strapped to the back of his wheelchair. Walker was surprised that he was even here. His home in Concord, Massachusetts, was only a couple of hours away, but even that distance was considerable for someone his age.

“How you doing there, Lloyd?” J. Jackson Jackson asked, as he and Henry Morse shuffled slowly to the rocking chairs. “Get enough to eat?”

Lloyd looked up at Jackson with sagging eyes and nodded. “My uncle had a good lunch,” replied a rotund, middle-aged man standing beside him. “He particularly enjoyed the turnip greens . . . didn’t you, Uncle Lloyd?” he added, raising his voice almost to a shout.

Kapman turned his head slightly to gaze at his nephew, and it seemed to Walker that he was quietly annoyed by the younger man’s patronage. “Someone . . . get me a cheeseburger,” he said softly, his voice an airless wheeze. “And a beer, too.”

“Sounds good to me.” Morse carefully lowered himself into a rocker. “Carl, run down to the cooler and fetch us a couple of beers. And get one for yourself, too.”

“Grandpa!”

“Dr. Kapman, I’m Douglas Walker.” Stepping closer, the writer offered his hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, and I appreciate you taking your time to . . .”

“Speak louder!” Kapman snapped, barely touching Walker’s hand.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Lloyd,” Jackson said. “Turn up your hearing aid.”

“What?” Kapman glared at him. “What? I can’t hear you.”

“Wait a sec.” Jackson reached to Lloyd’s head, touched a tiny plastic unit behind his ear. “How’s that?”

“Oh, yes . . . that’s better.” Kapman nodded gratefully. “Thanks, Jack.”

“You’re welcome, you old coot,” Jackson murmured as he sat down.

“What?”

Henry Morse chuckled, and everyone else who’d witnessed this exchange politely hid their smiles behind their hands. Jackson turned to Walker. “Go on, Mr. Walker. You were saying . . . ?”

“Yes, right . . . of course.” Walker found a seat in the nearest armchair and opened his shoulder bag. “As I was saying, I’d like to thank all of you for taking the time to speak with me. I realize these reunions are very special for you, and I’m grateful that you’ve allowed me to attend. It’s the only chance I’ll have to interview all three of you at once, so . . .”

“Who . . . cleared you?” Kapman asked.

“Pardon me?”

“Who . . . gave you . . . security clearance?”

Walker started to laugh, but a sidelong glance at the two other men told him that this was a serious question. In fact, none of the people in the room—several relatives had followed them from the lawn, with more still coming in—seemed to think that Lloyd Kapman’s query about security clearance was strange at all.

“No one did, Dr. Kapman,” he replied. “They don’t have to. I mean, the
Lucky Linda
mission is a matter of public record. Nothing about it is classified anymore. Everyone knows what happened seventy years ago.”

“Not true.” Kapman slowly shook his head. “That’s . . . not true.”

“Lloyd is correct,” Jackson said before Walker could object. “There are several aspects of Blue Horizon that remain secret to this day. Only the three of us”—Ellen pointedly cleared her throat—“and the people in this room who’ve come to our previous reunions know the full story.”

“And we should keep it that way!” Kapman said angrily, then choked back a hacking cough. His nephew moved to comfort him, but the old man impatiently shook off his hand. “Cut it out, Tommy,” he muttered. “I’m not . . . dying today.” He took a couple of deep breaths from his oxygen tube, regained his wind, and went on. “I mean it. What . . . business do we have, breaking . . . silence?” He gestured to Walker. “If we let him . . . put it all in his book, then we could . . . compromise national security.”

“Oh, bull.” Henry scowled at his old friend. “It’s been seventy years. What difference does it make now? Every other war secret has been revealed . . . why not this one?”

“He’s got a point,” Jackson said. “We’ve held our tongues long enough. Maybe too long. We’ve told this story to our families so that no one will forget, but maybe it’s time to go on the record.”

“But we’ve signed papers.”

“Aw, c’mon.” Henry rolled his eyes. “My great-grandson has heard this so many times, he’s bored to tears with it.” Remembering Carl, he glanced at the porch door. “What’s keeping that beer, anyway?”

“Gentlemen, please . . .” Walker held up a hand. “I’m only trying to get the facts straight. The research I’ve done so far tells me that there are empty places in the historical narrative, details other writers either overlooked or have never been told. The three of you were there. You’re the only ones who know.”

“You’re right.” Jackson nodded. “We’re the last of the 390 Group. Gerry, Ham, Taylor, Colonel Bliss . . .”

“Bob,” Henry added quietly, sadly.

“Bob Goddard . . . they’re all gone. And I don’t think we’ve got too many years left in front of us either.”

“Not even that . . . Jack Cube,” Lloyd added, a sly smile on his face.

Jackson regarded him with astonishment. “You haven’t called me that in years.”

“Called you what?” Walker asked.

“Never mind.” Jackson shook his head. “Inside joke.”

Lloyd’s smile faded. “Maybe you’re . . . right. It’s time to . . . spill the beans.”

“Hear hear.” Henry tapped his cane against the floor. “Besides, what are they going to do? Throw us in jail?”

Walker refrained from letting out his breath with relief. “So, now that we have that settled . . .” He reached into his bag and pulled out a small digital recorder and a notebook. “Where do you want to start? In Worcester? Or Roswell?”

“No. Not Worcester, not New Mexico, and not here either.” Henry closed his eyes, as if taking himself back in time. “Long before any of us came on the scene, there was Germany . . .”

“Wernher von Braun, yes.” Kapman’s mouth pursed together. “Him and Dornberger . . . and Goering, and Sanger.”

“Uh-huh, yeah . . . and Hitler.” Henry frowned. “Goddamn Adolf Hitler.”

AUGUST 20, 1941

The Mercedes-Benz cabriolet moved through the forest, the small Nazi flags mounted above its front fender signifying its status as an official vehicle. Just ahead, two soldiers on motorcycles acted as escorts; without them, the touring car would have had to stop at every checkpoint along the road. Even so, it slowed down whenever it came upon one of the Panzers parked along the roadside, if only to let the soldiers of the elite Führer Escort Battalion render stiff-armed salutes.

In the backseat, Dr. Wernher von Braun tried to assuage his nervousness by gazing through the closed windows at the towering black conifers that darkened the forest floor. He idly wondered how many different species of birds inhabited the Masurian woods of East Prussia; owls, no doubt, but probably also eagles, falcons, and other raptors that preyed upon the rabbits and squirrels that populated this dense, remote forest. Yet every time the Mercedes-Benz passed another tank, or he caught another glimpse of an antiaircraft gun hidden beneath camouflage nets, he was reminded that the woodland’s deadliest inhabitants walked on two legs.

Wolfsschanze.
Wolf’s Lair. An appropriate name.

“Relax, Wernher.” The Army colonel seated beside him gently patted his knee. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

Von Braun pulled his gaze from the forest to the other man sharing the touring car’s rear seat. Colonel Walter Dornberger, thin-faced and balding, had a perpetual smile that masked an intellectual intensity second only to von Braun’s. A dedicated follower of National Socialism, he wore his dress uniform today with pride, eager for a meeting with the man he’d worshipped for nearly a decade.

“I’m not worried at all.” Von Braun kept his voice low so as not to be heard through the glass partition separating them from the Reich Security Service officer driving the car. Catching the amused glint in Dornberger’s eye, he corrected himself. “Well, perhaps a little . . . but only about the briefing.”

“Let me worry about that.” Dornberger pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, patted the sweat on his brow. The Mercedes-Benz’s tonneau was warm with its windows rolled up, but the alternative would have been even more uncomfortable; the humid forest air was practically alive with mosquitoes, as attested to by the fact that the soldiers all had gauze nets suspended from the rims of their helmets. “I’ll lead the briefing. All I want you to do is explain the technical details. Just . . .”

“Just don’t get too technical. Yes, I understand. You’ve reminded me several times already, Walter.”

Annoyed, Dornberger glared at the younger man. “Would it have killed you to wear your uniform?” he added softly.

Von Braun didn’t reply. He was dressed in civilian clothing, a plain black suit with a swastika pin affixed to the right lapel. This had been a sticking point between him and Dornberger even before they’d boarded a Heinkel 111 transport at the Peenemünde airfield earlier that morning. Von Braun had joined the National Socialist Party only reluctantly, after it became apparent that he wouldn’t be allowed to continue his research unless he swore allegiance to the Nazi cause. Indeed, he was the last holdout from the old
Verein für Raumschiffahrt
, the Society for Space Travel, which was dismantled after the
Führer
became Chancellor, its leading members absorbed by the Army’s ordnance division. Even so, von Braun remained a civilian until just last year, when he finally ceded to Heinrich Himmler’s demand that he join the
Schutzstaffel
as well; the
Reichsführer
insisted that Peenemünde’s technical director had to belong to the SS if
Wa Pruf 11
—Ordnance Test 11, the rocket program’s official name—was to continue to receive funding. Yet von Braun found his own quiet means of resistance; he’d never worn his black SS uniform, and it still hung in his office closest, untouched since the day he’d received it.

Dornberger knew what von Braun’s silence meant. Sighing expansively, he settled back against the seat. “And try to contain your enthusiasm,” he muttered. “No one wants to hear about going to the Moon.”

“Yes, Walter . . . I know.” Von Braun had been swept up by the dream of space exploration as a teenager, but Dornberger didn’t come along until the German Army became interested in the
VfR
’s efforts to develop a rocket capable of leaving Earth. Peenemünde’s military director was only interested in developing an ultimate weapon with which Germany could crush its foes. Beneath the jovial exterior was a dedicated Nazi with little patience for thoughts of sending men to the Moon . . . unless, perhaps, it happened sometime in the distant future, when a victorious Third Reich planted its bloodred flag on another world.

The touring car slowed down. A gatehouse lay just ahead, a wooden barrier lowered across the road. The motorcycle escort veered away, allowing the Mercedes-Benz to approach the gate on its own. A soldier with a submachine gun strapped across his shoulder stepped up to the car as it came to a halt. Bending over to the driver’s side window, he took a moment to examine the passengers in the backseat, then he turned to the other soldiers manning the checkpoint and raised his arm. The barrier was lifted, and the car passed through, the sentries snapping off salutes as it went by.

Now von Braun could see the sprawling compound they’d just entered. As the Mercedes-Benz slowly drove down the main road, buildings appeared from beneath the trees that hid them from reconnaissance aircraft. Here and there lay bunkerlike structures, their concrete walls with few windows or doors obviously designed to resist aerial bombing, making them even more utilitarian and ugly. Uniformed officers strode purposefully upon gravel footpaths; there were no gardens or benches, and no one paused for a casual chat. This was a place where military discipline mattered above all other considerations. Everywhere he looked, von Braun saw swastikas.

Despite the summer heat, a chill ran down his back. This was the Third Reich’s nerve center, the place from which the
Führer
and his staff directed the war they’d launched against the rest of Europe. Over the past few years, von Braun had tried to distance himself as much as possible from the conflict, preferring to keep it at arm’s length, but lately he’d come to realize that this was no longer possible. God help him, he was one of them.

The cabriolet turned left onto a side road, passed over a train track, then came to a stop beside a one-story building. The driver got out and opened the left-rear door, and as von Braun picked up his briefcase and eased himself from the tonneau, he saw a senior officer walking toward the car.

“Dr. von Braun! How good to see you again!” Albert Speer grinned as he offered a hand.

“General Speer. Good to see you as well.” Von Braun was sincere when he said this. Tall and handsome, Speer was more than the Third Reich’s chief architect. Over the last couple of years, he’d also become the rocket program’s best friend in the High Command. An engineer to the core, Speer had taken an interest in the A-4 as soon as he learned of it, even going so far as to design the facilities at Peenemünde. He obviously saw himself as von Braun’s colleague, another man of science intrigued by the possibility of space travel.

Which was fortunate, because it meant that the Peenemünde scientists had a champion in the
Führer
’s inner circle, someone with the clout to keep the rocket program alive. And
Wa Pruf 11
needed all the friends it could get. Plagued by technical problems every step of the way, suffering numerous setbacks for each advance it achieved, the A-4 project had gradually become a lesser military priority, losing official support to the Luftwaffe’s effort to develop Cherry Stone, a jet-propelled aerial torpedo.

This visit, arranged by Speer, was the last chance for Dornberger and von Braun to make their case to the High Command. If they failed,
Wa Pruf 11
would gradually be starved to death. Already, its resources were being shifted from Army Ordnance to the Luftwaffe . . . and no one at Peenemünde wanted to have Reich Marshal Goering as their new chief.

“I trust you’ve had a pleasant journey,” Speer said as he enthusiastically shook von Braun’s hand. “I want to thank you for taking the time to come here. I know how much you hate to leave your workplace.”

“It is nothing. Besides, it is we who are grateful. Were it not for you . . .”

“It’s what little I can do.” Speer glanced at his watch. “Almost 1700. He will be here soon. If you’ll come this way, please?”

Von Braun and Dornberger followed Speer to the nearby bunker. Now that he was closer, von Braun could see that its walls were unbelievably thick: two meters of steel-reinforced concrete, with an outer masonry wall almost as an afterthought. Even Peenemünde’s launch control center wasn’t as solidly built. On the other side of a solid steel door was a short corridor leading to a conference room. Its walls were paneled with pine in an unsuccessful attempt to give the room a homey, rustic appearance; in its center was a long black table surrounded by wooden armchairs. A couple of windows had been opened; otherwise, the afternoon heat would have turned the bunker into an oven. A movie projector was set up at one end of the table, a portable screen positioned on the opposite side of the room.

That wasn’t the first thing von Braun noticed, though. Other members of the senior staff had already arrived. Standing at an open window, hands clasped behind his back, was Field Marshal Wilhelm Keitel, the head of
Oberkommando der Wehrmacht
and the
Führer
’s chief of staff. And seated at the table, hands clasped together across his ponderous stomach, was Hermann Goering.

Seeing them, Dornberger instantly snapped to attention.
“Heil Hitler!”
he proclaimed, clicking his heels together and throwing his right arm forward as if it were a javelin. Von Braun repeated the same words; the briefcase in his right hand saved him from having to make that idiotic, vaudeville-hall salute. Keitel acknowledged them with a brief salute of his own, but Goering did nothing except regard Dornberger with amused contempt.

“Gentleman, please be seated.” Speer gestured to a couple of chairs on the other side of the table from Keitel and Goering. “Wernher, I understand you’ve brought a film you’d like for us to see?” He nodded toward a lieutenant standing beside the projector. “If you’ll give it to our staff officer, he can set it up for you.”

“Thank you.” Opening the briefcase on the table, von Braun pulled out a box containing a 30 mm movie reel. He handed it to the lieutenant, then watched over his shoulder as he loaded the projector. Von Braun was concerned about the film’s being damaged—it had been made specifically for this meeting, so there were no copies—but he also wanted to avoid Goering as much as possible. Even so, he could feel the Reich Marshal’s eyes upon him; it was as if Goering were a wolf and von Braun the hare who’d unwittingly wandered by.

The lieutenant had just finished threading the film into the take-up reel when the conference room door opened again. “The
Führer
!” Speer exclaimed, and this time everyone in the room turned toward the door. All except von Braun, who’d just then been removing some notes from his briefcase. Caught by surprise, he dropped the notes and hastily turned to find Adolf Hitler standing behind him.

This wasn’t von Braun’s first encounter with Hitler, and his impression of him hadn’t changed. For a man idolized by millions of loyal German citizens and feared by many more, he was far less intimidating in real life than he was in newsreels. He wore a grey uniform jacket with a swastika pin on the right lapel and the Reich’s eagle above the left breast pocket, and his tie was knotted with military precision, but von Braun couldn’t help but notice that his shirt collar was already stained with sweat. He was nearly a head shorter than von Braun, and his small body had none of the stature seen in official photographs. To von Braun, the lank, oily hair that fell across his forehead and the absurd little toothbrush mustache made him look like a peasant—a farmer or perhaps a butcher—who’d found a costume uniform somewhere and decided to wear it as a joke.

Then he gazed into Hitler’s cold eyes and saw what others had seen. Determination. Willpower. Ruthlessness. And lurking beneath all that, a hint of madness.

Wernher von Braun was a baron by inherited title, the scion of a wealthy German family. He’d never admired this Austrian commoner who’d found his way into beer-hall politics. Like many others of the social gentry, though, he’d been careful to keep his opinions to himself. Some of his liberal friends had had the foresight to flee Germany when they still could, and others had elected to stay and join the ranks of silent objectors, but the few who’d spoken out against Hitler and the Nazis had disappeared, taken from their homes by the Gestapo, their estates confiscated by the government. No one had forgotten the Night of the Long Knives, and no one talked about it either.

Von Braun suddenly realized that he was the only man present who hadn’t saluted the
Führer
. He had just begun to lift his right hand when Hitler stepped closer.

“Herr von Braun . . . Albert has told me much about you.”

“Yes,
mein Führer
.” It was all von Braun could manage. Obviously, Hitler had forgotten having already met him two years ago, when he’d visited the
Wa Pruf 11
static test facility in Kummersdorf. At a loss for what else to do, von Braun offered a handshake.

Hitler ignored the gesture. Instead, he quietly studied von Braun for several moments, not smiling, never blinking once. Then he gave a small, vaguely satisfied nod and turned away.

“Very well.” He took a seat between Goering, Speer, and Keitel. “Show us what you’ve brought today.”

=====

The movie began with shots of Peenemünde while it was still under construction and continued with footage of test launches. It was silent, with von Braun delivering narration and Dornberger occasionally chiming in. Von Braun did his best to keep the information on a nontechnical level, but he was more concerned about an uncomfortable fact he and the colonel had left unspoken: the A-4 project was behind schedule, having suffered one setback after another. Indeed, the most recent launch in the film was an A-3 prototype from ten months earlier; every other rocket launched since last October had exploded over the Baltic, if not on the pad itself.