V-S Day: A Novel of Alternate History (4 page)

As the film unspooled, von Braun studied Hitler from the corner of his eye. The
Führer
slumped in his seat, hands folded together, watching the film with no great interest. He had been afraid this might happen. When Hitler and his entourage had witnessed a static test of the A-4 engine at Kummersdorf, there had been an impressive display of fire and smoke as the 1,000-kg engine roared to life within its vertical test stand, yet the
Führer
had remained impassive. After the test, von Braun tried to explain what they’d just seen, but Hitler listened to him for only a couple of minutes before walking away, shaking his head in bafflement.

As the film drew to a close, there was an image von Braun wished Dornberger hadn’t insisted upon: an animated map of Europe and America, with a red arrow arching over the Atlantic from the United States to Germany.

“Germany isn’t alone in its efforts to perfect long-range military rockets,” Dornberger said, his voice fraught with menace. “America is doing so, too . . . and one day soon it may have the ability to launch an attack against the Fatherland. Clearly, the Reich must build a missile defense before other nations do so first.”

Von Braun suppressed an urge to groan.

The image faded, then the screen went white, and the last few inches of leader clattered through the take-up reel. The projectionist switched on the room lights, then walked over to the windows and opened the heavy blackout curtains. Hitler winced against the sudden rush of late-afternoon sunlight and rubbed his eyes, but it was Keitel who spoke for him.

“Are you certain of this, Colonel?” he asked Dornberger. “That America is able to attack us this way?”

“At this time, Field Marshal, the answer is no. But”—Dornberger tapped a finger against a memorandum he’d laid out on the table—“as I wrote in a report two years ago, the United States undoubtedly has a technological advantage. Like us, they, too, have been aggressively pursuing high-altitude rocket research over the last ten years . . . and we have little doubt that they may already be far ahead of us.”

Von Braun kept his expression neutral, but he knew that Dornberger was exaggerating to the point of telling an outright lie. No one really knew what the Americans were doing. Their rocket research was being done in secret, with no technical reports made public. Until 1930, von Braun was able to keep up with the progress being made by the sole American scientist actively pursuing space travel—a man whom von Braun secretly admired—but when he relocated his experiments from Massachusetts to rural New Mexico, he’d stopped talking to the press and refused to answer queries from anyone in Europe, including the
VfR
. Even the spies Germany had in the United States reported little recently except that he was apparently continuing to conduct rocket research.

Dornberger’s assertion that the United States was ahead in rocket research was questionable, to say the least. But von Braun knew why he’d made it. If fear was the only way he could motivate the
Führer
to continue funding research and development at Peenemünde, then fear was what he’d use.

“If this is so,” Keitel said, “then will it be possible for us to develop a rocket that will be able to reach America?”

“I’m not sure that’s even necessary,” Goering murmured. Like Hitler, he was unimpressed by the film. “America will not go to war with us. Their people are reluctant to get involved in European affairs, and their politicians know it.” He glanced at Hitler. “
Mein Führer
, America poses no threat to us. We will never have to fight them.”

“With respect, Reich Marshal, I disagree.” Dornberger shook his head. “It’s possible, yes, that America will continue its isolationist policies. Yet it’s just as possible that events may conspire to force their hand. Our continued assault upon Great Britain, for instance. Perhaps even the buildup of military forces in the Pacific by our Japanese allies.” Goering snorted, but Dornberger went on. “If this is the case, then we need to be prepared to counter an American rocket attack . . . or even make a preemptive strike of our own.”

“Really?” Keitel raised an eyebrow. “And will your A-4 be able to reach the American continent from Europe?”

Dornberger opened his mouth to speak, but von Braun interrupted him before he could make another baseless claim. “No, sir, it will not. Once perfected”—Dornberger gave him an angry glance—“the A-4 will have a maximum range of approximately 270 kilometers. This will be sufficient to attack targets in Britain, but the United States . . . ?” He shook his head. “No, sir. I’m sorry, but that’s impossible.”

“However,” Dornberger quickly added, “we believe it may be possible to develop a step-rocket . . . that is, a multistage vehicle . . . capable of making a transcontinental flight. The ‘America Rocket,’ as we call it, would essentially stack an A-9 atop an A-10 rocket . . . once both are built, of course . . . with the result being a very large vehicle . . .”

“I have another idea,” Hitler said abruptly, and Dornberger immediately fell silent. “Why not fit the A-4 into one of our long-range cannons and fire it that way? This would increase its range, would it not?”

A smug smile appeared on the
Führer
’s face; apparently, he believed that he’d found an obvious solution that had eluded the Peenemünde scientists. It took all of von Braun’s self-control to keep from laughing out loud. Now more than ever, he knew that Hitler had no concept of what rockets were. He clearly thought that they were no more than artillery shells, much like the ones he’d handled during the last war.

“
Mein Führer
,” he said carefully, “this is . . . an interesting proposal. Unfortunately, it’s not feasible. The A-4 carries its own fuel. Even if there were an artillery piece large enough for this, the discharge would instantly destroy the vehicle.”

Hitler glared at him. No one in the room said anything. Von Braun noticed that even Speer had become silent. He might be a supporter of
Wa Pruf 11
, but he was not going to stick his neck into a noose for the sake of the Peenemünde rocket program.

Then the
Führer
slowly nodded. “Understood, Herr von Braun. But this . . . step-rocket, as you call it . . . you believe it could reach America?”

“Yes,
mein Führer
, it might be able to do that.” Remembering Dornberger’s earlier admonition, von Braun took care not to mention that the A-9/A-10 was little more than a fantasy concocted by the former
VfR
members working at Peenemünde. A piloted derivative of the A-4, the A-9 had been conceived for another purpose entirely: sending a manned spacecraft into orbit, as the first step to reaching the Moon. “However, I don’t want to mislead you into believing that it can be built anytime soon. It is only a hypothetical proposal, and our priority should be continuing the development of the A-4.”

“A program that has run into many difficulties.” Goering leaned forward in his chair to pluck through a sheaf of papers on the table before him. “Your team has been at this for . . . how long now? Six, seven years? Judging from these reports, you’re had far more failures than the successes you’ve just shown us.”

A nervous frown appeared on Dornberger’s face. “This is true, yes . . . but failures must be expected in an experimental program such as this. We’re building something entirely new . . .”

“Apparently not. Your little movie”—Goering nodded toward the projector—“just told us that the Americans are already ahead of us in this area. Are you telling me that the scientists of a mongrel nation are superior to German scientists?”

Dornberger became pale. Goering had pounced, and the colonel couldn’t help but notice Hitler’s eyes fastened upon him. Von Braun came to the rescue. “What we’re saying,” he calmly explained, “is that, in order to build weapons superior to America’s, we need to develop rocket technology that will be better than theirs. Already, our A-4 prototype has reached high altitude . . .”

“Altitude isn’t the question, Herr von Braun,” Keitel said drily. “Range is the issue. It’s not enough to be able to strike Britain. Our planes can do that already. We must also have a rocket capable of striking America in the event that it becomes necessary to do so.”

“And this may be inevitable,” Hitler added, ignoring Goering’s skepticism about the United States declaring war against Germany.

Dornberger was openly sweating by then, his perpetual smile gone. “Field Marshal, with all due respect, what you ask is . . .”

“Not impossible,” von Braun quickly said, before the colonel could make a fatal blunder. “Just difficult to achieve with our current budget, not to mention our present priority rating.”

“You intend to take a rocket that’s only capable of traveling 270 kilometers and turn it into something that can cross the Atlantic?” Goering’s expression became a cynical smirk. “How will you accomplish this, Herr von Braun?”

Von Braun suddenly realized that he’d trapped himself with his own words. He’d told these men—these very dangerous men—that
Wa Pruf 11
must build a missile better than anything the Americans might launch, but then contradicted himself by stating that the A-4 was a short-range vehicle, only able to cross the English Channel from a launch site in France. He silently cursed Dornberger for even mentioning the America Rocket. In his puppyish desire to please Hitler, he’d whetted the
Führer
’s appetite for a weapon that Peenemünde could not deliver.

“Herr von Braun?” Hitler’s eyes bore into his. “Do you have an answer for the Reich Marshal?”

Knowing that he had to say something—anything, damn it!—von Braun opened his mouth to reply. Before he could speak, though, Goering turned to Hitler. “
Mein Führer
, if I may? I believe I have a solution.”

Hitler looked at the Reich Marshal. “Yes, Hermann? What do you have in mind?”

“A couple of scientists at the Luftwaffe’s Research Division, Eugen Sanger and Irene Bredt, have recently submitted an interesting proposal. A manned aircraft . . . or rather, a spacecraft . . . that they believe is capable of not only reaching the United States, but also delivering a sizable payload.” Hitler looked blank at the unfamiliar term, and Goering substituted for it a word he’d understand. “A bomb,
mein Führer
. A very large bomb.”

Von Braun closed his eyes. Sanger. He knew all about Eugen Sanger. A talented scientist, yes, perhaps even a visionary, but nonetheless an outsider to the German rocket effort, not even a former
VfR
member. Von Braun had seen Sanger and Bredt’s proposal, and considered it . . . well, if not insane, then at least improbable.

“Tell me more,” Hitler said.

There was a sudden gleam in Goering’s eyes, and, for an instant, he glanced at von Braun. Von Braun saw the smug look on his face, and in that moment he realized that the Reich Marshal had artfully led him and Dornberger into a trap. First, allow the Peenemünde men to convince the
Führer
that America poses a threat that cannot be ignored. Next, question the Army Ordnance’s ability to develop a rocket capable of responding to an American intercontinental rocket. And, finally, present Hitler with an alternative that his Luftwaffe had developed instead.

Goering had always wanted control of the German rocket effort. It appeared that he might have found a way to get it.

Helplessly, von Braun began to listen to what the Reich Marshal had to say.

DECEMBER 21, 1941

The first snow of winter had settled upon the Baltic coast when von Braun returned from visiting his family in Berlin. From the cockpit of his Fieseler Storch, he saw that a sparse white blanket had spread itself across Usedom Island, a knuckle-shaped peninsula projecting out into the frigid northern sea. Beneath a slate grey sky, the pine forests were frosted, and the waterfront was coated with a thin skin of ice. From the air, the island looked cold and remote.

Although he knew his presence was urgently needed on the ground,
Wa Pruf 11
’s technical director took a few moments to fly over Peenemünde. The engine moaned as he banked to the right. What had once been a small fishing village on the swampy northern tip of an island best known as a summer vacation resort had become the center of the Reich’s rocket program. Through the plane’s ice-crusted cockpit, von Braun peered down upon assembly sheds, workshops, laboratories, a liquid-oxygen production plant, office buildings, dormitories, cabins, even a track field . . . a small town, really, resembling a college campus more than a military base. As well it should; he and Albert Speer had intended Peenemünde to be a model for a modern scientific research center, a place where the two thousand scientists, engineers, and researchers could live in comfort while pushing the edge of a technological frontier.

Von Braun smiled. Peenemünde was a far cry from the
Raketenflugplatz
, the abandoned factory on the outskirts of Berlin where the
VfR
had built its first crude rockets from scratch. Those were the days when the Rocket Society—Arthur Rudolph and Walter Riedel among them, now von Braun’s chief assistants—had pursued Hermann Oberth’s dream of sending men to the Moon. But enthusiasm, ingenuity, and a taste for the science fiction novels of Thea von Harbou and Kurd Lasswitz weren’t enough. The
VfR
was always broke, even when the von Braun family kicked in a few marks, and the presence of Rudolph Nebel, an oily opportunist who’d attempted to fleece the society while pretending to advance its goals, hadn’t helped either.

The
VfR
had been on the verge of bankruptcy the day a long black car pulled up in front of the Rocket Port and three men in Army uniforms climbed out. On that early-spring morning in 1932, everything changed. Nearly ten years later, von Braun’s plane circled Test Stand 1, the A-4 launchpad at the northernmost tip of the island, its skeletal tower blackened by the exhaust of the rockets that had lifted off from it. How far they’d come in just a decade . . .

His smile faded. Very far, yes . . . only to have it all come to a sudden end. Never again would an A-4 roar upward from Peenemünde. After seven long years of research and development, the program had been abruptly canceled.
Wa Pruff 11
had a new mission, one so mad that von Braun had difficulty believing that it could be pulled off.

Yet failure was unacceptable. Adolf Hitler himself had given von Braun his orders.
“Der Silbervogel fliegen müssen”
—the Silver Bird must fly.

The time for sightseeing was over. Pushing the wheel forward, von Braun brought the Storch into a low, gradual descent. A few minutes later, its wheels bumped against the tarmac of the Army airfield at the northwest end of the island.

A staff car waited for him at the apron near the hangars, its driver a corporal so young that von Braun could scarcely believe that he was allowed to wear a uniform. He snapped to attention and held open the rear passenger door as von Braun strode toward him, pulling off his flying cap and gloves. The car was cold, its heater turned off in the interest of saving petrol. Von Braun pulled up the collar of his leather jacket as the car made its way from Peenemünde West through the industrial complex at Peenemünde East until it reached the administrative and development area.

The car came to a stop in front of
Haus 4
, the two-story administration building. Von Braun didn’t wait for the corporal to let him out of the car but instead opened the door himself and walked up a short flight of steps to the main entrance. The building was unusually quiet, most of the administrative staff having already left for the holidays. Von Braun had decided to take his vacation early—he wanted to take advantage of the brief respite to catch up on paperwork—but he couldn’t blame people if they wanted to be with their families for Christmas. God knew they wouldn’t get many more breaks after this.

Nonetheless, work hadn’t ceased entirely. He heard typewriters and muffled voices from behind office doors as he walked down the hall to the stairs, and more of the same when he reached the second floor. He headed for his office, stepping around two men in dirty coveralls who were sweeping and mopping the tile floors, their cart parked beside them. One of them, a small, middle-aged man wearing wire-rim spectacles, murmured “
Pardonnez moi
,” as von Braun walked by. Von Braun barely noticed him. Several hundred foreign contract workers—mainly Italians and Poles, but also some French—held jobs at Peenemünde, doing the menial tasks that needed to be done. They were as invisible as the Russian prisoners of war who handled most of the hard labor; von Braun never paid much attention to them either.

His office was small yet immaculate, its shelves filled with books, loose-leaf binders, and mementoes, the prerequisite photo of Adolf Hitler framed on the wall. Although he’d cleared his desk before leaving, memos and reports were already stacked upon the blotter. Von Braun hung up his overcoat, then pulled a cigarette out of a mahogany tobacco box and lit it with a gold desk lighter. He’d barely settled into his desk chair when there was a quiet tap at the still-open door.

“Guten Tag, Herr Doktor.”
His secretary, Lise Muller, stood just outside. “Welcome back.”

“Danke, Fraülein Muller.”
Von Braun puffed at his cigarette as he leafed through the memos. “I assume you’re leaving soon,
ja
?”

“Not until the twenty-third. I’ll take the train to Frankfurt that morning.” A coy smile as she gave her long dark hair a studiously casual flip. “I’m yours till then.”

Von Braun noticed the innuendo but tried not to show it. He was aware of his reputation as a ladies’ man, and with his classically Teutonic looks and aristocratic manner, he’d never lacked for female company. As fetching as Lise might be, though, he knew better than to take her to bed. With the
Silbervogel
project now rated Priority S, he couldn’t afford to be distracted by any dalliances, particularly not with his secretary. And it was only too possible that Lise might be secretly reporting to someone else. Goering, perhaps . . . or worse, Heinrich Himmler.

“Very well, then. It’s off to work we go.” Picking up the top memo, he saw that it was a technical query from Johannes Boykow, the scientist in charge of developing the gyroscopic stabilizer. His group was struggling to adapt the gyros they’d developed for the A-4 to suit the new vehicle, but its different launch attitude—horizontal instead of vertical—was giving them fits.

“Lise, would you please get the
Silbervogel
study for me?” he asked. His secretary turned to the office safe, set in the wall between two bookshelves. Only she and von Braun knew its combination. Lise turned the wheel left, then right, then left again; a soft click, and she turned its handle downward and opened the door.

Inside the safe was a 175-page report within a leatherette binder. Titled “
Über einen Raketenantriab für Fernbomber
” (“A Rocket Drive for Long-Range Bombers”) Eugen Sanger and Irene Bredt’s design study was one of the Reich’s most highly classified documents. For the sake of security, only two complete copies had been sent to Peenemünde; Colonel Dornberger possessed one and von Braun the other. Although individual department heads had copies of individual sections pertinent to their work, if someone needed to consult another section, he had to make a specific request from either Dornberger or von Braun.

In this instance, Boykow’s team was having trouble redesigning the gyro platform so that it could be smoothly integrated into
Silbervogel
’s airframe. They were considering relocating the platform from its present position in the craft’s nose to its midsection, but Boykow needed to check some figures from the Sanger-Bredt report. It was a nuisance to have to work this way, but Goering was insistent.
Wa Pruf 11
was rigorously compartmentalized in order to maintain operational security, even within Peenemünde’s academy-like cloisters.

“Thank you,” von Braun said, as Lise placed the binder on the desk before him. “I think that will be all for now.”

“You’re welcome.” She turned to walk toward the door, and Wernher couldn’t help but steal an admiring glance at the way her rump moved beneath her wool skirt. Almost as if she’d sensed his gaze upon her, she abruptly turned around. “Oh! And one more thing . . .”

“Yes?” Von Braun felt his face burn as he hastily looked down at the report on his desk.

“Dr. Rudolph called just before you arrived. He said that he needs to see you immediately.”

Von Braun looked up again. “Did he say why?”

“No. He only said that he needs to see you at his lab at once, and you’re to come over there as soon as you get in.” An apologetic shrug. “Sorry.”

Von Braun sighed. Although Arthur Rudolph was his best friend and right-hand man, there were times when Wernher wondered if he could tie his shoes without consulting someone. His lab was located in another building in Peenemünde East. Von Braun glanced out the window behind him; to his annoyance, it had begun to snow again, and the car that had brought him from the airfield had already left. He’d have to go out into the cold once more.

“Very well.” Von Braun stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray and started to rise, then thought better of it. “Just a moment,” he said, as he picked up a pen and reached into a desk drawer for a notepad. “I need you to do something for me, please.”

Von Braun turned pages of the
Silbervogel
report until he found the section in which Sanger addressed the question of avionics integration within the airframe. Consulting one of the report’s many diagrams, he spent a couple of minutes jotting down the numbers Boykow needed, then tore the page from the notepad, slipped it into an envelope, and handed it to his secretary.

“Please take this to Dr. Boykow,” he said, standing up from his chair. “Wait to see if he thinks this answers his questions, and write down what he wants from me if it doesn’t.” Von Braun walked around from behind his desk, reached for his overcoat. “I’m going to see Arthur.”

“Very well.” Lise left the office before he did. Von Braun shook his head in wonder as he watched her stride down the hall, passing the two janitors on the way. Despite the fact that she’d have to cross Peenemünde East to reach Boykow’s office, she’d declined to put on an overcoat even though it was below zero outside and spitting snow. The woman must be part snow fox, he reflected as he closed his office door and followed her to the stairs. Which was a delightful notion . . .

The two janitors paid no attention to either von Braun or his secretary as their footsteps retreated down the hallway. But as soon they were gone, and the corridor was quiet again, they raised their eyes from their work and gazed at one another. Neither of them said anything, but a silent nod was exchanged. And then they quietly approached von Braun’s office.

=====

The two janitors were named Yves Callon and François Latreau, but to MI-6 they were known as Silver and Gold. For the past four months, they’d been posing as custodians at Peenemünde, just another couple of foreign workers who’d been hired from a country under Nazi occupation. Even at a high-security facility such as Peenemünde, there was a need for people to do the menial labor, so that good German men could make more meaningful contributions to the war effort. Knowledge of this fact had given British intelligence the opportunity to infiltrate spies into enemy installations, with the primary objective of gathering information useful to the Allies.

Beginning a couple of years earlier, MI-6 had heard rumors of strange occurrences in northern Germany. Although Denmark was under Nazi occupation, its intelligence operations were still active, and through them, the Danes had received reports from fishermen of “flame-tailed aeroplanes” they’d seen shooting along from the western Baltic coast, usually exploding a few minutes later. Then a member of the Polish underground relayed a conversation he’d had in a Koenigsburg tavern with a drunk German soldier stationed at Peenemünde; the Nazi had bragged about his people developing a secret weapon that would win the war for Germany. Although MI-6 initially discounted these reports as fantasy—the Germans always seemed to be building one secret weapon or another—in time enough reports were received through the clandestine wireless network established between Denmark and England to convince the British that Peenemünde needed to be investigated.

To this end, MI-6 had recruited two members of the French resistance and instructed them to seek employment at Peenemünde. The British had hoped that either Callon or Latreau would be hired; as it turned out, both got jobs as janitors. Naturally, they were screened by the Gestapo, yet the resistance had already concocted “legends,” or fictional backgrounds, establishing them as Nazi sympathizers loyal to the Vichy government. So far as the German secret police was concerned, the two men were nothing more than lower-class, rather stupid Frenchmen content with pushing brooms and emptying wastebaskets.

Silver and Gold arrived in Peenemünde only a few weeks after the A-4 program was officially scrapped. During the course of the first month as janitors, they saw and heard enough to confirm that the Nazis were developing some sort of long-range missile. Although this program had been mysteriously canceled on the very eve of success, it became apparent that it was being replaced by a project that was even more ambitious.

Yet they’d been unable to learn exactly what it was. All work was being done in labs and workshops the janitors were expressly forbidden to enter, and certain areas of Peenemünde West had been placed off-limits to anyone except engineers, technicians, and senior scientists.