by Daniel Wyatt
“Yes. Excellent. Come sit down, Karl. Relax. You’ve been working too hard.”
The wind-tunnel room inside Haus 12 was one of the few places where the Director of Peenemunde Army Weapons Department, thirty-two-year-old Wernher von Braun, could talk to his friend and associate at the Luftwaffe Experimental Station on the Baltic coast island. They were surrounded by an airfield with hangars, laboratories, test stands, air-raid shelters, all part of a far-reaching operation at Peenemunde where 2,000 engineers and scientists were housed, along with 4,000 support staff. Guards were everywhere, on orders from Berlin. In the next compound the V-2 intercontinental rocket had been tested, the same rocket that had rained destruction at four times the speed of sound on the terrified Allied cities of Paris and London.
The pace at Peenemunde was fast and intense. Work, work, work. Tests, tests, tests. Meetings every day. Sixty-to-eighty hour workweeks were the norm. Tired men often slept on cots between tests. In the summer, for relaxation, the staff would swim off the beaches that were only five hundred yards away or take a casual bicycle trip over the island. Von Braun, a bachelor, chose to play his cello in off-hours, or navigate his sailboat about the island, often with a woman or women aboard. Handsome, confident, wavy-haired von Braun was the rocket genius that Berlin was counting on to lead Germany to ultimate victory with the secret weapons that Hitler had promised his people. Von Braun was a tidy, elegant man, graceful, proud, self-assured. Together with Zeller and the others, von Braun and the Peenemunde team had seen their way through the other projects, including the V-2. Now the V-4 in conjunction with the Messerschmitt factory was the latest of the toys. All under pressure from Berlin to produce... and in a hurry. In his years of research, he had seen more politics than he had thought possible. And it wasn’t getting any better.
The younger Zeller sat down with von Braun. Not yet thirty, Zeller had been by his friend’s side since 1941, one of the first to join the talented Peenemunde team. He was fair-skinned and owned a knot of black, curly hair. Like von Braun, his background in government-funded rocket research dated back to the 1930s.
“Is it safe to speak, Wernher?”
“Here? Oh, yes.”
“How much longer will this unnecessary killing continue, Wernher?”
“Only a short time. We cannot lose faith in ourselves. We must not! Space travel, that’s what all this will lead to. The moon. The planets. We are among the pioneers. And you are one of my brightest stars. I need you. We must remain unscathed to share the information with the world.”
If the compliment pleased Zeller, he didn’t show it. “That’s fine if the Americans or British find us first. But the Russians? What about them?”
“We will have to stay out of their way.”
“Mein Gott! Easier said than done.”
“Let’s change the subject, Karl?”
“Why do you avoid discussing the Russians?”
“Because, Karl, what we often fear the most never happens.”
No one spoke for several seconds.
“Are you happy with the V-4 test results?”
“That’s better, Karl. Indeed, aerodynamically it does have promise. In a lab. But unless those lightweight materials we are looking for are found, the Projekt Equinox V-4 pilot version will never obtain such speeds. It was fine as a radio-controlled model. Now Goering wants an undercarriage, with manual and automatic overrides, on-board computers. There’s simply no time.”
“How is the testing on the new turbojet engine coming along?”
“Slow, at best,” von Braun admitted. “I can’t see it being ready for, oh, at least three to six months.”
“Three to six months!”
“Yes. I heard today. It’s the compressor. It can’t seem to force enough air into the combustion chambers to ignite the fuel. It’s burning too rich by the time it reaches the tail end.”
“Herr Goering won’t be pleased.”
Von Braun stared at Zeller. “He never is. You let me worry about the Reichmarshall. You have enough trouble on your hands with Himmler.” Von Braun moved closer. “I wish to suggest in the strongest terms that you watch yourself, my friend, for you are playing a very dangerous game with a very dangerous person. We know what he’s capable of. Others have paid a high price for such action as yours. Be careful, should Herr Himmler discover your true motives.”
“He won’t. He, too, has enough to worry about. His own neck is in a noose.”
Von Braun thought hard about that, then smiled. “So right.”
“By the way, Wernher, I received a letter from my wife. She is safely in Switzerland. The bombing of Dresden was a perfect screen for her to slip away. After the raid the authorities filed her as one of the thousands who died. She said she will wait for me in Zurich.”
“Excellent. I am happy for you both. But you don’t look pleased about it. What’s wrong?”
“Wernher, I have the strangest of feelings that I will never see her again.”
Von Braun pointed his finger at his friend. “Don’t think that way.”
London
Roberta saw her husband arrive by taxi down below. She closed the curtain, and as the auto roared away she walked quietly across the floor and shocked her husband by whipping the door open before he even had a chance to turn the handle. Then she flew into his arms. He dropped his suitcase to the wood floor.
“Hello yourself,” he grinned.
They embraced and their lips collided inside the entrance. They were reunited after two weeks apart.
“Hey, now I like that,” Hollinger gasped, breaking off from her.
“I missed you.” She stood back. “You put on some weight.”
He sucked in his stomach. “The Russian good life. Fatty foods. And you’re certainly getting bigger.”
She patted her mid-section. “Good grief, I’m bloated, that’s what I am. I’m a sow.”
“I think you’re beautiful.”
“Thank you. I like your tan. Did you get any work done at all?”
“Yeah. And I met the man.” He pushed the door closed. “He’s awful. No. Pathetic is the word.”
“Who?”
“President Roosevelt, that’s who. He’s one sick daddy.” He flung his hat on the couch. “I got you some presents.” He dug into his suitcase and removed a flat can, a bottle, and a small painting.
She read the side of the can. “Caviar!”
“That’s right. And some vodka, and...”
“An icon! A Russian icon.”
“Do you like it?”
“It’s wonderful.” She handled the religious image painted on a five-by-seven-inch wood panel.
“Got a drink? I’m parched.”
“Wine?”
“Anything.”
“That’s all we’ve got.”
“I’ll take it.” Wesley Hollinger eased into the nearby chair. He sighed, his fedora still on his head. “He gave everything away. Our whole future. Roosevelt handed Europe to the Russians on a silver platter. Churchill warned me that it might happen. He was right. Yalta was another Munich.”
“Churchill’s always right,” Roberta laughed, bringing a crystal glass three-quarter-filled with red wine. “He told me so.”
Hollinger smirked, taking the drink. “Thanks. What did the papers say over here?”
Roberta shrugged. “The Allies will occupy Germany. There will be a new government in Poland. And... a new League of Nations will be formed.”
“Yeah, the United Nations. Nothing about the Pacific?”
“No. Should there be?”
“I guess not. It’s a secret gentlemen’s agreement. Stalin promised to declare war on Japan within three months after Germany’s surrender, in return for control of the Kuril Islands off northern Japan. Keep that to yourself.”
“Of course. My lips are sealed.”
“And they’re such cute lips too.” He drained a mouthful of wine. “So, what’s new with you?”
“Lots. We have a... well
... interrogation coming up.”
“Excuse me?”
“We have an appointment at MI-6 Headquarters, at nine AM. Sharp.”
Hollinger sat up. “We?”
“You and me, cowboy.”
“I don’t take orders from MI-6. I haven’t for... what... three years.”
“You will now. Dorwin called me. He said to be there. He’s going to be there, too, with Colonel Lampert.”
Hollinger made a puzzled face. “Ah, a joint meeting. I smell something.”
“So do I.”
“What do you think she’s about?”
“I don’t have even the foggiest.”
“You sure?”
“Honest. Hungry, my dear?”
He jolted to his feet. “I’m starved! Let’s go out.”
Antarctic
Otto Bauer had been asleep on a cot for two hours, dreaming of Germany... and his young wife. They were at home in Nuremberg. Alone. Late at night, in the summer. He was in bed, waiting for her. She disrobed completely and moved to him, her sleek body caught by the moonlight streaming in the open window. He slid back the sheets for her. She eased in beside him, bent over, and took his hand. He reached out to touch her with his other hand...
Bauer didn’t hear the door open, but he did feel a heavy tap on his shoulder. He awoke thousands of miles from his homeland to see Wilhelm Raeder leaning over, a grin on his face that spread his mouth and thick beard. Bauer would have preferred his wife.
“We did it.”
Bauer rubbed his bleary eyes and focused on the far window. It was still daylight. Then again, it was nearly always daylight this close to the South Pole this time of year. “Did what?”
“We found titanium.”
Bauer was awake now. He coughed, the last stage of the cold that had lasted weeks. “Titanium!”
Raeder nodded, eyes flashing.
“Has it been confirmed?”
“Our lab reports never lie.”
“Where in heaven’s name did you find it?” Bauer sat up.
“Not one hundred meters from the hot springs. Forty feet in the rock. Where there’s hot springs, there’s minerals.”
“Yes. You did say that, as I recall. Now what do we do?”
“Tell our friends at Peenemunde.”
Bauer rubbed his whole face with both hands. “Won’t they be delighted.”
“Yes, won’t they. I wish I could be there to see their faces.”
SEVEN
Birkenhain, Germany — February 16
Twenty-four hours after the V-4 wind-tunnel test, Karl Zeller reported to Heinrich Himmler’s new command post, a large mansion purchased by the SS in 1938 near Prenzlau, fifty miles north of Berlin. The doctor drove his Mercedes past the SS guard at the gate and into the gravel parking lot. At the front door was another SS guard, who checked the doctor’s identification, then told him to take the stairs to the right.
Tired, Zeller entered the first office he saw on the first floor and waited in the anteroom. He didn’t know what to expect from the Reichsfuehrer today.
The SS leader looked up from his paperwork. “Dr. Zeller, do come in.”
Himmler’s SS adjutant, Ludwig Hahn, closed the door to the panelled den. Zeller stepped forward. He was now standing before the ruthless man who controlled the lives of millions of Germans. “Heil Hitler!” he saluted. For a moment, the scientist looked off to the side at the framed oil painting of Frederick the Great.
“Heil Hitler,” Himmler replied, his expression distant and cold. “On your way to Berlin, again, are we?”
“Yes, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”
“Anything new at Peenemunde on the pilot-controlled V-4?” The leader twirled his gold pen, his eyes trying to detect a dent in Zeller’s armour.
“The problem lies with the turbojet engine. Dr. von Braun feels that it will take anywhere between three to six months before it will function properly and be ready to fit into the fighter.”
“Too long, Herr Doctor.”
“My sentiments exactly, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
Zeller cleared his throat. “What can I do, Herr Reichsfuehrer? It is out of my control, and is not my department. The engines are not tested at Peenemunde.”
Himmler grunted, easing up on Zeller. “Yes, that is true. Anything else that might be of interest to me?”
“Yes. I want out, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”
“What was that?”
“I am not a spy. It is far too difficult to work on a top secret Luftwaffe project while next door to the V-2 compound, constantly patrolled by the SS. I thought we were all on the same side.”
“So you want out, do you?”
Zeller pursed his lips. “Yes.”
Himmler calmly turned in his chair to the safe behind him. He played with the combination, until the safe popped open. Himmler extracted a file and slapped it on the desk. He spread it slowly as if it were a precious religious document. “Zeller, you are so naive. Look it at! Your file, Herr Doctor, regarding your adulterous relationship with the Berlin prostitute who you were so highly fond of. You’ve managed to hide it from everybody except me, Herr Zeller. Go ahead, deny it. You can’t.”
“I won’t try.” Zeller was crushed. He found no point in looking through the paperwork or defending himself. Himmler knew too much. “It was a mistake I made some time ago.”
“Yes, it was. Your first year of marriage.” Himmler retrieved the file, returning it to the safe. “Your family doesn’t have any inkling, do they?” The leader waited for an answer that never came. “I didn’t think so. It would be a shame should they find out, now that your wife is reported missing.”
“Yes, it would be a shame,” Zeller admitted.
“Therefore, you will continue to be my eyes at Peenemunde West, Herr Zeller. Don’t worry about the SS guards, because you are the reason I do not have to send them into the Luftwaffe compound. Now, leave me.”
Red-faced, Zeller saluted, spun, and headed for the door.
“Zeller?”
The scientist stopped and cocked his head at the SS leader. “Yes, Herr Reichsfuehrer?”
Himmler’s voice reached an octave higher, when he said, “What do you know about a group called the Order of the Knights of National Socialism?”
Zeller was caught unprepared, but quickly recovered. “Never heard of them, Herr Reichsfuehrer. Who are they?”
“Never mind. Go.”
Berlin
Bormann and Zeller walked in the Chancellery garden. Overhead, rain clouds began to form. The day was chilly. It was quiet in the capital city.
“What exactly is titanium?” Hitler’s secretary asked the scientist.
Zeller took a breath, hands behind his back, staring at the ground. “A lightweight, silver-grey metal, Herr Reichsleiter. It is strong, a much higher strength-weight ratio than steel, and noncorrosive in salt water. It is nearly as hard as diamonds, and has a melting point of over 3000 degrees Fahrenheit. Exactly what is needed for the larger version of the Messerschmitt V-4 interceptor and her anticipated supersonic speeds.”
“And they just happened to stumble upon this titanium in the Antarctic?”
“Yes, Herr Reichsleiter.”
“Does Himmler know?”
“No. At least I didn’t tell him. He did, however, question me about the Order.”
“He did? What did he say?”
“He asked me whether I had heard of them.”
“And you said?”
“I said I didn’t.”
“Did he believe you?”
“Yes, I think he did.”
“Are you certain he does not suspect you have been reporting to me?”
“Yes, I am. He knows I make excursions to Berlin to see the Fuehrer. That is all.”
“What do you think of our illustrious leader, Adolf the Great, now?” Bormann smirked.
“He... he has changed... He is an old man. Very sick.”
> “That’s putting it mildly. He is blaming everybody. His generals, Goering, Himmler. You name them, he blames them.”
Everybody but himself, thought Zeller. “I heard it all, Herr Reichsleiter.”
“What did he say to you? Can you remember word for word?” Bormann then pulled out a pad of paper and began to jot down Hitler’s conversation with the scientist. After some minutes, Bormann said, “So, it is the Fuehrer’s opinion that the morale of the German people is still high?”
“Yes, it is, Herr Reichsleiter.”
Bormann put the pad away. He would transfer the notes later to his tagebuch. “So... how much of this titanium have they found?”
“Enough to build perhaps a thousand Messerschmitt V-4’s, Herr Reichsleiter. But there is one tiny complication,” Zeller winced.
“That is?”
“The difficulty and expense of separating this vein of titanium from the ores in which it is found.”
“I see.”
“Titanium is still a new metal. It was discovered only 150 years ago, and wasn’t first refined until just recently at Luxembourg — 1932 or ‘33, I believe.”
Bormann looked up to the darkening sky. “This might be a touchy subject, but how is your wife, Karl? Is she—?” he stopped short.
Zeller noticed that he was called by his first name, the first time Bormann had ever done so. What was Bormann up to? “She is... missing,” he lied. Only he, his wife, and von Braun would know the truth. “I have a friend in the government who is keeping me informed of the situation. She is... presumed dead.”
“I’m sorry. Your parents?”
“They were out of Dresden at the time,” Zeller replied, after a long thought. “Visiting in the country.”
Bormann seemed to actually care. “Good. Good. At least they were lucky. Dreadful, that’s what it was. Give my compliments to them.”
“I certainly will, Herr Reichsleiter. Thank you for asking.”
Zeller caught early reports from insiders of the Allied bombing of Dresden that had occurred in the week. It was horrifying, to say the least. During a series of massive raids deployed by the British and Americans that had lasted for three days, over 50,000 people died, most of them in a fierce firestorm that raged through the historical city containing some of the greatest architecture in Europe. Dresden was no more. The last Zeller heard, the city was still smouldering.
