Within hours, they were in the air, flying overnight across the Atlantic, with only a brief stop in Greenland to refuel. The C-60’s wing lights were blacked out until the plane was well over the ocean, to prevent it from being spotted by any Messerschmitts that might be prowling the English coast; a couple of RAF Spitfires had escorted them as far as Ireland before turning back. Since then, Fleming had come to realize that Donovan considered him to be little more than a nuisance, a young bureaucrat forced on him by British intelligence. The general seldom said a word during the entire trip, preferring instead to read and reread the translated German document Fleming was carrying. Donovan was notorious for a flinty personality and demanding that things be done his way.
Right, Fleming thought. And if it hadn’t been for our people in Germany and France, you lot wouldn’t have a bloody idea what the Nazis are up to.
The plane taxied to a row of half-seen hangars and came to a halt. Its engines were still winding down as a couple of ground crewmen pushed a ladder alongside the aircraft. The flight engineer emerged from the cockpit and opened the hatch from the inside. A brief conversation with one of the ground crew, then he looked at his passengers. “All right, here you are,” he said. “You’ve got a car waiting for you.”
“Thank you.” General Donovan rose from his seat. “The bracelet, Commander. Put it on, please.”
Fleming had to make a conscious effort to keep from smirking. Before he and Donovan had left Hyde Park, the general insisted that Fleming secure the attaché case to his right hand with a nickel-plated bracelet. An unnecessary precaution, really, which MI-6 normally didn’t take; armed military policemen on motorcycles had escorted him and Donovan to the airfield, and Fleming had little doubt that they’d get much the same reception in America. It seemed to make Donovan feel better, though, so he slipped the handcufflike bracelet around his wrist and snapped it shut before picking up the attaché case and following Donovan off the plane.
A dark brown Ford sedan awaited them on the apron. As Fleming expected, a pair of motorcycles were parked nearby, each mounted by an Army MP. As the driver held open the rear door, Fleming saw that the Ford already had a passenger, a thin, middle-aged man who regarded them from behind wire-frame spectacles.
“General Donovan, Commander Fleming,” he said as they took seats beside him. “Welcome to the U.S. I’m Dr. Vannevar Bush. I hope you had a pleasant flight.”
“It was tolerable.” Donovan didn’t bother to offer a handshake. “Let’s go, driver.” The lieutenant who’d been sent to pick them up slammed the door shut, then climbed behind the wheel. “I take it we’re going straight there.”
“Of course,” Dr. Bush said. “He’s waiting for us.” The Ford pulled away from the plane, following the two motorcycles. “I certainly hope this is as important as you’ve made it out to be, General. He’s not someone who appreciates having his time wasted.”
“I wouldn’t have requested this meeting unless I thought it was.” Donovan gazed straight ahead, hands resting on his knees. “MI-6 considers the document Commander Fleming is carrying to be of the highest importance, and so do I.”
“I didn’t think otherwise. It’s just that . . .”
“Pardon me, Dr. Bush.” In deference to the general, Fleming had remained quiet, but his curiosity finally prompted him to speak up. “Exactly whom are we going to see? Someone in the War Department, I assume.”
“You’ll eventually be attending a meeting at the Pentagon, yes. Probably more than one. But that’s not our first destination.” The slightest of smiles touched Bush’s lips. “The next stop is the White House. The president would like to hear what you have to tell him.”
Ian Fleming said nothing, but he suddenly wished that he’d been a bit more insistent on that drink. Just then, he could have used a pint. Or better, a vodka martini.
=====
The briefing was held in the Cabinet Room, just down the hall from the Oval Office. Two men were already there by the time Bush, Donovan, and Fleming arrived: Cordell Hull, the Secretary of State, and Harry Stimson, the Secretary of War. Everyone had just finished introducing themselves to one another when a door at one end of the room opened and President Franklin D. Roosevelt came in.
Like most people, Fleming was aware that Roosevelt was a polio survivor. Nonetheless he was stunned to see the president seated in a wheelchair being pushed by a Negro butler; the press scrupulously avoided taking photos of Roosevelt that would show him to be a cripple, so few members of the public had seen him this way. And the president looked much older than his pictures suggested: his face had become gaunt, his eyes shadowed, his physique frail. Fleming reminded himself that the president was in his third term and had already shepherded his country through the worst economic depression in its history; no wonder he looked so worn down. Nonetheless, he almost wished that Roosevelt had let his senior cabinet members handle this meeting; the commander in chief should have stayed in bed an hour or two longer.
Yet when the president spoke, his voice was surprisingly strong. “Good morning, gentlemen. I understand you’d like to see me.” He let the butler push his chair to a vacant space midway down the oak conference table that dominated the room. “Thank you, that will be all for now.” The butler nodded and disappeared through the door, closing it behind him, and Roosevelt took a moment to scan the faces of the men who’d just taken seats across the table from him. “I’ve met everyone here before,” he said, then his gaze settled upon Fleming. “Except you. May I ask who you are, sir?”
“Fleming, Mr. President . . . Lieutenant Commander Ian Fleming. I’m from His Majesty’s Naval Intelligence, on temporary assignment with Section Six.” At a loss for what else to do, Fleming leaned across the brightly polished table to offer a handshake. Donovan pointedly cleared his throat, and too late Fleming realized that this might have been a faux pas, but the president smiled and reached forward to return the handshake. Roosevelt’s hand was like papyrus, his grasp almost weightless, and Fleming’s impressions were confirmed: the president of the United States was seriously ill.
“Pleased to meet you, Commander Fleming.” Roosevelt’s gaze shifted to the thick document resting on the table between them, the one that had been in the attaché case recently manacled to Fleming’s wrist. “So Bill,” he said to General Donovan, “is this what brings you all the way from England?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President,” General Donovan said, “and it’s the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen. But perhaps I should let Commander Fleming explain how we came by it. After all, it’s MI-6 who should be thanked for finding it and getting it out of Germany.”
Everyone looked at Fleming, and he reflexively sat up a little straighter. At least Donovan had given credit where credit was due, but no one had told him he’d be leading the briefing. Trying to hide his nervousness, he pulled the document toward him. “Yes, well . . . Mr. President, this is a translation of part of a larger report that was discovered last month by two French operatives working under deep cover at a Nazi research facility near the Baltic.”
The copy was bound by brass fasteners and sealed with a paper strip that read TOP SECRET—EYES ONLY. The cover sheet bore the report’s Section Six code name: BLACK UMBRELLA. Fleming tore off the strip and opened the document to the first page. “We’re uncertain of exactly how the operatives came by this report since both were apparently arrested by the Gestapo shortly after it was passed to the resistance movement in Paris. We’ve verified its authenticity, though, and furthermore believe that it came from the office of a German scientist working at the highest levels of the German Army’s weapons development program.”
“Dr. Wernher von Braun,” General Donovan said. “He’s their leading expert in the field of rocketry. Before the war, he was involved with a civilian effort to build a manned rocket ship . . .”
“A rocket ship.” Roosevelt’s voice was icily skeptical. “I see.”
“. . . until he was conscripted by Nazis to do military research. Very little had been heard from him since then until he emerged as technical director of what my people and Section Six believe to be an effort to build long-range ballistic missiles. Acting on reports that the Germans were apparently conducting rocket research near Peenemünde, on an island off the Baltic coast, MI-6 recruited two French resistance operatives, code-named Silver and Gold, to penetrate the facility and search for information.” A glance at Fleming. “Commander, please continue.”
Fleming picked up the thread. “Until recently, Silver and Gold had given us little to believe that the Nazis were making much headway. According to them, their rockets tended either to blow up, sometimes even before they left the ground, or veer wildly off course and crash in the Baltic. So there wasn’t much to worry about, really. However, beginning late last year, it appeared that the Nazis had taken a new tack and were apparently shifting their focus to develop something other than missiles. It wasn’t until we received this report and translated it”—he tapped a finger against the top page—“that we knew what this was.”
“And that is . . . ?” Harry Stimson asked.
Fleming hesitated, but Donovan didn’t. “Mr. Secretary, the Germans intend to build a manned rocket vehicle capable of attacking the United States.”
No one said anything for a moment. The room was so quiet, Fleming heard an automobile horn blare on Pennsylvania Avenue. “Pardon me?” President Roosevelt said at last. “They mean to build a what?”
“Preposterous,” Cordell Hull muttered, his Tennessee accent drawing out each syllable as an indictment of its own.
“I know it seems far-fetched,” Donovan said, “but my science lads have studied the report, and they assure me that it isn’t as absurd as it sounds.” Sliding the report away from Fleming, he turned a couple of pages to a brief preface and pointed to an initial “S” that had been signed to it. “They think this stands for Eugen Sanger, an Austrian physicist who is believed to be working for the Luftwaffe. If that’s so, then this alone gives the report credibility. About ten years ago, Sanger conducted research at the University of Vienna and made major advances in rocket-fuel mixtures. He also published a monograph on space travel in which he proposed a rocket plane much like the one described here. If he’s working for the Nazis, then they have an expert capable of producing a weapon that could pose a major threat to us . . . and by that, I mean the United States itself.”
“I find that hard to believe.” Roosevelt was openly skeptical. “America’s distance from Europe is a sufficient deterrent against attack, I would think.”
“Mr. President,” Fleming replied, “with all due respect, that distance is an illusion.”
The president’s eyes widened at the young British commander’s audacity. Cordell Hull scowled, and from the corner of his eye, Fleming could see Donovan regarding him with irritation. But Fleming had noticed the antiaircraft guns on the roof of the White House and knew how pitiful they would be against the weapon described in the Black Umbrella report.
“Sir, your country has been in this war for only six weeks,” Fleming said. “My country has been under attack from Germany for the last eighteen months. We once thought the Channel would protect us, but it doesn’t anymore. If the Nazis can assault us on a daily basis from the air, then you may rest assured that, if they can find a way to conquer the Atlantic, they will. And if they do, last month’s attack on your naval base in Hawaii will seem like only a preamble.”
While Fleming was speaking, Vannevar Bush quietly pulled the Black Umbrella report over to his side of the table. Hunched over the report, he closely studied it, absorbing details as fast as he could turn the pages. “Commander Fleming is correct, Mr. President,” Donovan said. “I would not be wasting your time if I thought this was anything that shouldn’t be considered with the utmost gravity.”
Roosevelt was quiet for a moment. The skepticism had disappeared from his eyes, replaced with guarded interest. “Very well, then, General. Tell me why you’re so concerned about this . . . rocket plane.”
Donovan knit his hands together on the table. “In brief, what Sanger has proposed . . . and what the Nazis appear to have undertaken . . . is a rocket-propelled vehicle, nearly the size of our largest bombers, that would be launched from somewhere in Germany and ascend to an altitude well above Earth’s atmosphere. It would then proceed to circle the planet in a series of shallow dives, descending and ascending again and again, so that it would skip across the top of the atmosphere like a flat stone tossed across the top of a millpond. It would continue this way, traveling eastward across Europe, Asia, and the Pacific Ocean, until it reached the North American continent. It would then make a terminal dive that would bring it within range of the East Coast, whereupon it would release its weapons . . .”
“Three incendiary bombs, each one weighing a little more than one ton,” Fleming said. “The target will be Manhattan Island, in the heart of . . .”
“I know where New York is located,” the president said coldly. “I was once the state governor. How do you know this is the target?”
“A targeting diagram is on the last page.” Donovan pointed to the report, and Bush flipped to the end. “Unfortunately, we don’t have the complete study. Apparently, our operatives were unable to photograph the entire thing. But they got enough to let us know the trajectory it would take and the means by which they can accomplish it.”
Bush turned the report around to let Roosevelt see a map of the greater New York City area, with a series of concentric circles radiating outward from Midtown. “And this is the vehicle, Mr. President,” he added before flipping back a couple of pages to reveal a cutaway diagram of a futuristic vehicle: stub-winged, flat-hulled, with two vertical stabilizers but lacking the familiar propellers of a conventional airplane. “Looks rather like a torpedo.”
“A torpedo, yes, but much larger . . . and piloted.” Donovan indicated the small figure seated inside a cockpit within the craft’s sharp prow. “Putting a man aboard means that they wouldn’t have to rely on an automatic guidance system. What we’re talking about, really, is a long-range bomber, just one that uses rockets instead of propellers.” He glanced at the Secretary of State. “Not all that improbable, once you really think about it.”
Hull didn’t respond, but his expression told Fleming that he was still unconvinced. “Perhaps not,” Stimson said, “but I don’t understand why they’d choose to fly all the way around the world to reach New York. Why not simply fly straight across the Atlantic?”
“My scientists have analyzed this,” Donovan said, “and they believe that, if the craft . . . they call it Silbervogel, or ‘Silver Bird’ . . . is launched from west to east, it can take advantage of Earth’s rotation to give it an additional boost during the ascent phase, thereby reducing the fuel necessary to reach outer space and increasing the payload capacity. As explained in the report itself, skipping Silver Bird along the top of the atmosphere would also allow it to achieve the necessary velocity to reach its target while further conserving fuel.”
“The takeoff itself would be done on an elevated horizontal track . . .” Fleming began.
“The vehicle would be mounted on a mobile sled with another rocket engine at its rear,” Bush said. Fleming was impressed; in just a few minutes of quick study, the science advisor had already gleaned the report’s important details. “The rocket sled will accelerate to five hundred meters per second, and at the end of the track, the craft will be catapulted into the sky. The rest of the ascent phase will be under its own power.”
“All right then.” Stimson shrugged. “So we wait until we see the damn thing coming toward us, then we send interceptors to shoot it down.”
“I think not, Mr. Secretary.” Donovan shook his head. “By the time it reaches New York, its altitude will be seventy kilometers . . . that’s about 43.5 miles, far above the range of our
planes.” Again, he nodded to the report. “That’s the whole purpose of this operation . . . to provide the Germans with a weapon that can’t be defeated.”
“Not by conventional means, at any rate,” Fleming added.
Bush glanced up from the document. “You have something in mind, Commander?”
He’d only been thinking out loud, yet Fleming suddenly discovered that every eye had turned toward him. President Roosevelt was looking straight across the table at him; both Stimson and Hull were waiting for whatever he had to say, and he didn’t have to look around to know that Donovan had locked onto him as well. Perhaps he should have kept his mouth shut, but it was too late.
“I’ve just been thinking”—he coughed in his hand to clear his throat—“pardon me, I’ve just been thinking that, if the Germans are developing an intercontinental rocket as an offensive weapon, perhaps the proper response should be to develop one of our own as a deterrent.”
Hull made an unpleasant sputtering sound with his lips. “The proper response should be to bomb the hell out of Peenemünde.”
“Unfortunately, sir, the Germans still have air superiority over most of Europe.” Fleming shook his head. “Their radar is more effective than we believed, and they’re capable of putting interceptors in the air whenever we launch an air raid. Only lately have we been able to send our Mosquitoes over the German borders, and even then they haven’t been very effective. We’ve suffered major losses when we’ve tried daytime raids, and high-altitude bombing runs at nighttime have missed the target more often than not. The RAF fully intends to bomb Peenemünde . . . but not until we’re confident it won’t be a suicide mission.”
“I’m afraid he’s right, Mr. President,” Stimson said. “We’re a long way from successfully mounting air raids deep within German territory.” He nodded to Fleming. “Go on, Commander. I’m interested in what you have to say about building a rocket deterrent of our own.”
V-S Day: A Novel of Alternate History Page 8
