The Heisenberg Legacy

by Christopher Cartwright

  Gutwein commenced his start-up procedure and went through the rigorous list of cross-checks. An aeronautical engineer had updated them two days ago in light of the enormous distance they needed to cover. Their lives were expendable, so it wasn’t for them that so much effort and diligence had been applied. No. It was for the sake of their payload – the unique, cataclysmic bomb the world had never seen.

  Once complete, he placed the flight pad down and faced his copilot. “Are you happy to proceed, Mr. Vogel?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.”

  Gutwein turned around and faced his navigator who currently took the cockpit’s third, and rearward facing seat, usually reserved for the flight engineer. Having reduced their full crew to just three in order to save weight, Krause was now having to play the role of the flight engineer. He was diligently checking the series of flight gauges that monitored everything from oil pressure, to fuel supplies, and engine temperatures.

  “Everything good, Krause?” Gutwein asked.

  “Yes, sir. She’s right to go.”

  “All right. I’ll close the hatch and we’ll be off.”

  Gutwein took a few steps toward the aft section of the Condor and resolutely closed the main hatch. A glance out the open gangway showed a BMW R75 motorcycle racing toward them.

  Taking in a deep breath, he sighed. What now?

  Its rider brought the motorcycle to a stop and switched off the engine. On his crisp uniform he wore the insignia of an SS Intelligence Officer. The man appeared flustered. “You are Oberstleutnant Wilhelm Gutwein?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ve just received reports of an aerial raid flying across Southern France.”

  “Do we know what their target is?”

  “No.”

  Gutwein swore under his breath. “So, the mission’s been postponed again, has it?”

  The SS Intelligence Officer shook his head. “No. There’s too much of a chance they will target Stuttgart. We can’t allow the weapon to be destroyed on the ground. It’s too important. I’m afraid that’s not possible.” He handed him a written dispatch. “My orders are to inform you to follow the second route.”

  “There might not be enough fuel.” Gutwein said, taking the paper, ripping open the seal, and scanning the short contents of the order.

  “Our flight engineers believe it will be close, but you should still make it,” the dispatch rider continued speaking. “Risks have been studied, discussed at length, and a decision made. The Führer had ordered this operation to be carried out immediately.”

  A mixture of dizziness, dread, and madness made Gutwein abruptly feel faint. With reckless abandon, he said, “The Führer’s order will be done. Heil Hitler!” he saluted.

  “Heil Hitler!” the SS Officer returned. As an epitaph to the madness of this last-chance mission, it seemed appropriate.

  *

  Gutwein taxied his craft to the end of the runway.

  He pressed his right pedal to the floor and the Focke-Wulf 200S Condor spun to face into the wind, along the center of runway seven-nine. The easterly wind ran at twenty knots, on a dry and cold morning. The weather was one of the few pieces of good luck they still had going for them. He applied pressure with the balls of his feet until he felt the brakes lock tight and the tires firmly grip the blacktop.

  He used his right hand to slowly, carefully move all four throttles to full. Like a big dog on a small lead, the aircraft shuddered and strained to break free. The four Bramo 323 R-2 radial engines increased power until their high-pitched whine nearly drowned out all verbal communication. He kept them there, checking all the gauges remained in their correct ranges.

  Vogel nodded, and with a thumb pointing upwards, he shouted, “She looks good.”

  Gutwein brought the throttles back to idle. “You still happy, Mr. Krause?”

  “Sure.” Krause replied. Gazing pensively out the port window, he said, “The question is, will she get off the ground?”

  Gutwein smiled and slapped his engineer’s shoulder. “Have some faith. It might just take every last inch of the runway to do so, but she’ll fly.”

  He’d flown test flights on the aircraft with their designer, Kurt Tank, the original engineer whose design had won the contract by Lufthansa, back in the late 1930s. They’d then worked together to modify the civilian commercial airliner so that she was structurally strengthened and fitted with the German Bramo 323 R-2 radial engines to replace the American made 875 HP Pratt & Whitney Hornet radial engines. Since then, he’d clocked up nearly ten thousand hours on the long-range aircraft – more than any other person alive. He knew exactly how much she could take.

  But would her airframe withstand the additional forces?

  He’d calculated her take-off weight himself. Between the extraordinary bomb and additional fuel stored in empty bomb bays coupled to the wing, they were overladen by nearly ten thousand pounds. It would be close, but she’d fly. Safety margins were not an issue on this flight.

  “All right, gentlemen, here we go.”

  Once more, Gutwein used his right hand to gradually move all four throttles back to full. Again, the engines whined, and the entire metal fuselage shuddered. The Condor edged forward despite the wheel brakes locked firmly in place.

  When the revolutions had nearly red-lined, Gutwein made a silent prayer. Unable to detain her any longer, Gutwein released the brakes, uncaging the Condor – allowing – no expecting the great lady to fly.

  The high-pitched drone of the powerful Bramo 323 R-2 radial engines increased in pitch until they howled with the wind attempting to extract every single pound of thrust possible. The three-bladed VDM-Hamilton airscrews spun madly until they disappeared from the leading edge of the wing in a haze of gray. He would need every one of their combined 3576 kilowatts to lift her from the runway.

  Initially, the overladen aircraft crept forward. Her movement felt slow, restrained to the ground by earthly forces. She gently began building up speed and momentum until she reveled in the challenge of the impossible task given to her.

  Through the windshield Gutwein watched as each 1000 foot marker slipped past. Heart in his throat, the end of the runway rapidly ran forward to greet them. His eyes darted between the instrument panel and the distance markers outside. Her tail naturally lifted, making the craft straight and level. He was given a clear glimpse straight down the runway.

  “We just passed the 4000 foot marker,” Vogel stated.

  “Nearly there, just a little bit more acceleration,” Gutwein coolly replied. His eyes glanced at the airspeed. The Condor had reached a sluggish 80 knots.

  The nose of the aircraft wanted to lift. Gutwein, refusing her natural aerodynamic desire, strained to keep the yoke pushed forward and her wheels on the ground.

  “5000 foot,” Vogel said. “Speed: 110 knots.”

  “We’re going to need more than that if we want to clear those trees.”

  They were approaching the minimum takeoff speed of the Condor under normal conditions. Overladen by nearly ten thousand pounds above its ordinary 50,057 pounds maximum take-off weight, Gutwein knew they needed to reach a speed closer to 130 before he even considered allowing her nose off the ground.

  The condor’s all metal fuselage shuddered under the intense power demand, begging to be released from the confines of gravity. He needed all the speed he could gather to get the overladen aircraft into the sky and climbing to clear the trees. Gutwein kept the stick all the way forward, trying to keep the nose from lifting.

  Not until we’re ready, darling, he murmured under his breath.

  He looked down again. Their speed had reached 125 knots. Nearly there, they were so close!

  “We just passed the final marker. End of the runway!” Vogel called out.

  “Just a little longer,” he replied, intentionally filling his voice with an optimism he no longer felt.

  Gutwein held the nose down a bare moment more. Ahead of them, the final warning lights that mar
ked the end of the runway flashed. Tense and anxious before – now, his smile was genuine. He had done all he could. Fate would decide whether his aircraft could fly.

  Vogel stared at him, terror in his eyes. “End of the runway!”

  Gutwein’s smile turned into a broad, lunatic grin. He pulled the yoke ever so gently toward his chest. The nose lifted slightly off the ground and he felt the massive change in force as the aircraft altered its angle. He carefully maintained some forward pressure to stop the nose from over extending and causing them to stall.

  Pine trees lined the edge of the field, approximately five hundred feet past the end of the runway. By the time the Condor reached them, its landing gear were less than ten feet off the highest tree.

  “Gear up,” he ordered.

  “Landing gear raised,” Vogel acknowledged, as he moved the lever.

  The mechanical actuators whined loudly as the taildragger’s wheels folded backwards into their nacelles under the inboard engines.

  In the rear-facing engineer’s seat, Krause glanced through the small viewing point in the flooring that gave him a clear view of the Condor’s underbelly. “Gear up, and locked,” he confirmed.

  With the drag of the landing gear removed, the Condor was finally able to pick up speed and gain altitude. Gutwein set a course for a steady climb until they reached a cruising height of nine and a half thousand feet. Its technical ceiling was above twenty thousand, but without a pressurized cabin, they were restrained by the thin atmosphere to ten thousand feet.

  Gutwein immediately set a northerly course and continued until they reached the English Channel. Vogel unclipped his harness. Taking the secondary role of radio-operator, he headed aft and waited for the report from Germany’s radio tower at Bordeaux. The operator there had been instructed to broadcast any sightings of enemy aircraft throughout the entire region.

  A few minutes later, Vogel returned and took his seat again.

  Gutwein glanced at him. “Well?”

  “We have a clear run down the Channel and into the Atlantic.”

  Gutwein closed his eyes and gave a silent prayer of gratitude. “That’s a miracle.”

  He took the first shift for a total of four hours, flying over the Channel closer to the French Coast. With the blackout, there was little to see. No one would risk turning their lights on after dark since the war had begun and air raids were common. He passed the most eastern French peninsula of Brest and headed out into the dark Atlantic, setting the course they would try to maintain for the next twenty or more hours.

  He unclipped his seatbelt. “Here, take the controls. Maintain this heading. I’m going to take my first sleep shift.”

  Vogel confirmed, “I have the controls. Have a good sleep, sir.”

  “Wake me if we run into trouble.”

  Gutwein headed to a somewhat flat section of floor toward the aft of the fuselage, where an inflatable mattress formed a poor replacement for a bed. For two hours he lay there with his eyes shut, trying to force himself to sleep. It was an impossible task. Within another twenty-four hours he might fail in his mission and that would mean he’d be dead. Alternatively, and somewhat more terrifying still, he might succeed, and perhaps millions would have died because of him.

  Both outcomes were abhorrent. His entire mission abominable, but necessary. “Wer die Wahl hat, hat die Qual,” the German proverb advised, meaning, “He who has choice has torment."

  Fortunately, he wasn’t burdened by decisions. His choices had dwindled. They were narrowing further with every minute of flight.

  After four hours and having checked his wristwatch for what seemed to be the millionth time, he gave up. Gutwein stretched his legs, poured himself a coffee, and headed toward the cockpit.

  He stopped midway along the shallow fuselage, where Krause was at the top of a small ladder taking a sighting through the observation dome above. Gutwein waited until Krause had finished and climbed back down.

  “How are we looking?” he asked.

  “Good,” Krause answered. “Do you want to take your own sighting and confirm our coordinates?”

  “Sure.” He put his coffee mug down.

  Gutwein took the bubble octant, which was basically a sextant, designed to work through the observation dome, and climbed up to the top of the ladder. The observation dome protruded a single foot above the top of the metal body of the fuselage. The sky was clear above and he had an uninterrupted view of the stars. It was another good omen.

  He spotted Polaris and then adjusted the bubble until the octant appeared level. Making a note of the time, he looked through the mirror, adjusting the angle until the star appeared to be on the azimuth. He then read the angle off the mirror. Gutwein made a mental note of the angle and the time using a navigator’s accurate chronometer. This number would later be used to calculate their longitude. He then spotted Sirius and followed the same process until he could accurately read off its angle. This number would be used to calculate their latitude.

  Gutwein climbed down the ladder and sat down at the navigator’s table. Krause handed him the book of navigation almanacs. He quietly flicked through the pages until he came up with the matching angles. Navigators measured distance on the globe in degrees, arcminutes, and arcseconds. A nautical mile is defined as 1852 meters, which is exactly one minute of angle along the meridian of the Earth.

  He wrote the numbers down.

  46°51'05.7" North

  And,

  21°42'51.9" West

  He marked the coordinates on a map of the Atlantic and smiled. Krause had calculated the same numbers. The tail wind was making a considerable improvement in their ground speed. They were making good time.

  Gutwein returned to the cockpit and took over the controls, sending Vogel off to try and get some sleep. The next four hours passed relatively quickly. The tail wind even picked up a little. So long as their luck held, they would make it with fuel to spare.

  That’s when Krause approached. His jaw was set hard, his concern was palpable.

  “What is it?” Gutwein asked.

  Krause swallowed. “We have a problem.”

  *

  The Lorenz FuG 200 Hohentwiel low UHF-band ASV radar was a new addition to the Condor. Positioned in the nose of the aircraft, the device utilized an array of sixteen horizontally-oriented antennas, which the radio operator had to manually switch between to determine the direction of the enemy. The received signal strength was then displayed on a cathode ray tube, also called a monitor, so the observer or pilot could roughly gauge the target's heading. When it worked, it provided results bordering on the realms of what was considered magic, before the start of the war.

  Gutwein felt the fear rise in his throat like acid after a long night drinking heavy whiskey, as he stared at the image.

  “Is there any chance this is a false reading?” he asked.

  “No,” Krause said, without hesitation. “The exact location may be off slightly, but there’s no doubt about it… we’re on a direct heading for an enemy convoy.”

  Gutwein shook his head. Two years ago, this would have been exactly what they were looking for. Now there was too much risk that they would be shot down and the most important mission in the history of the war would be ignobly lost to bad luck.

  Since 1941 Winston Churchill, who despised the Focke-Wulf 200 Condor as the Scourge of the Atlantic, ordered every convoy to carry an escort of Hawker Hurricanes. The small fighter planes were equipped with new Rolls Royce Merlin engines, and launched via the ship’s CAM catapult system. Stripped of her defensive armor and weaponry, the Condor would be annihilated by their twin 40mm Vickers machineguns. Gutwein sighed heavily. “All right. We’ll head north to avoid it. We’re using less fuel than expected, we can afford a minor detour, yes?”

  Krause shook his head. “Not possible. The predominant wind farther north is westerly. With a head wind, we’d never reach our target.”

  “Okay, so we go south.”

  “That’s possi
ble, but we’d have to go a long way south to avoid the trailing end of the convoy.”

  “We can do that.”

  Gutwein returned to the cockpit with the new bearings and advised Vogel to adjust his flightpath due south immediately. He wasn’t taking any chances of the group of ships spotting them and making a precautionary attack. Right now, their only saving grace was the fact that by the sheer size of the convoy they had been able to spot them on radar at a distance of eighty miles, much too far for the convoy’s radar to spot their small aircraft.

  The Condor banked left and maintained that course for forty-five minutes before turning due west again. Gutwein joined Krause in the radio operator’s station, and studied the cathode ray tube for any signs of the convoy changing their direction.

  As he snuck around the enemy, he subconsciously found himself holding his breath, like a child might during a game of hide and seek. When they passed, his lips curled in an upward smile of success. If Winston Churchill had any idea what just slipped by him, he would have happily sacrificed his entire convoy just to stop their mission.

  Half an hour later, Gutwein took over the controls again, as they set a new course toward their target. The rest of the flight continued uneventfully until they were about three hours from the coast of America – when thick cloud cover swept over them.

  Gutwein tried to rise above the clouds, but they continued above their maximum unpressurized ceiling height of ten thousand feet. He dropped down to a cruising altitude of eight thousand feet and kept the yoke fixed steady, concentrating on keeping the Condor in a straight and level flying position. His eyes continuously scanned the artificial horizon, altimeter, and compass, to avoid deviating from their current readings on the instruments.

  Pilots, disoriented by the sudden loss of any visual references, were prone to making fatal mistakes within minutes of entering dense cloud cover. Gutwein had been a pilot long enough not to lose his composure during such an event. The cloud would soon pass, at least by the time they reached the American coastline.