A low-pitched groan announced the start up of an emergency generator in the darkness beyond him, and a few moments later the lights suddenly came back on again. Everyone was standing in the same position as before, more or less. The first technician immediately started forward, reached the open section near the rocket’s tip and quickly checked the area he had been working in. Rybalko began to sweat profusely, his heart hammering unhealthily under his ribs. If he discovers anything different, then I’m a dead man. He held his breath, awaiting the inevitable furious outburst, then the beating, or more probably a bullet on the spot. But nothing happened. The German stood up, grunted, then beckoned the two workers carrying the steel cylinder forwards. Under his strict supervision they carefully slid the steel cylinder into its housing. A final series of checks and adjustments, and then he pronounced himself satisfied.
‘Everything OK with you, Hans?’ He asked his colleague. The other technician nodded casually. He’d finished his work some time ago, and there was no point in performing yet another check. ‘That’s it. Raus!’ He shooed all of them away, including Rybalko. The remaining work at the rear of the rocket took a few more minutes, followed by a final series of inspections and checks. A whistle blew, and all the workers were herded off to their next tasks. As Rybalko was marched away he allowed himself a small sigh of relief. He hoped that what little he had been able to achieve would be enough to make a difference somewhere.
Somewhere over the Nordhausen area 2230
Wing Commander Mike Richardson gazed out at the dark terrain that lay below him. He was flying at just over six thousand feet in a loose figure of eight pattern that covered the area north of Nordhausen. The twenty five square kilometer area he was responsible for was largely made up of densely wooded hills and valleys, and he needed to stay at this height to avoid getting too close to some of the higher peaks. There was very little to see in the darkness. The moon was hidden by a heavy veil of cloud that intermittently covered most of the area. Some of the more distinguished land features were just visible, but most of the rest of the area was pitch black. The occasional patch of burning woodland, no doubt sparked off by the earlier bombing runs, lit up the dark backdrop.
This particular Mosquito was a particularly specialized type of night reconnaissance fighter-bomber. Everything about it was matt black, purposely painted to blend into the night skies over enemy occupied territory. The engine cowlings on each wing were ducted into specially concealed apertures to make spotting their characteristic exhaust signatures much harder. Cockpit instruments were shielded to reduce glare and help pilot eyesight to adapt to the reduced light energy available during night missions. Everything about it spoke of its clandestine nature, sneaking inside the Reich’s borders to drop an agent, paradrop in supplies, or pick up a secret radio transmission.
Tonight’s mission was a tough one. It was just as well that his navigator, Flight Lieutenant Milo O’Brien, was one of the best he’d ever flown with. Richardson was very glad that O’Brien was there, helping to keep the aircraft orbiting over a defined area and on the watch for any missile launches. It was a tricky job, relying on a lot of cross-checking and dead reckoning to keep them on course and avoid straying beyond their allocated patrol zone. He knew that other Mosquitos were performing a similar job further out. They were flying a similar series of orbits to cover the region outside his central area, where the underground rocket factory was presumed to be.
They’d been up here for the last hour or so, helping to keep an eye on the area until Bomber Command reached the area. The Lancaster heavy bombers were due to arrive at midnight. B-17s and Liberators from the Eighth and Ninth USAAF had given the area a pasting during the day, but apparently with little effect for all their efforts. Later on, after the Yanks had gone home, RAF photo-reconnaissance had shown up, eager to assess the extent of the damage. But they were unable to reveal little more than yesterday’s results. The cloud cover was still a nuisance, and the photos revealed very little useful information beyond what was already known. Maybe things would be better tomorrow. A high pressure front was said to be moving towards central Germany, according to the meteorological experts. He reminded himself that no man was a master of weather patterns. Weather forecasting was still too unpredictable a science, and not subject to the desires and wishes of men.
Time stretched past slowly. O’Brien stirred in the co-pilot’s seat, scratched his side and shifted into a more comfortable position.
‘Anything to see, Mike?’
‘No. Not a damn thing’. Richardson’s eyes flicked over his instrument panel for the umpteenth time. Everything was OK, all the dials looked to be satisfactory and working normally.
‘What exactly are we looking for?’
‘I’m not sure, Milo.’ Richardson performed another instrument check, and then smoothly banked the aircraft into a sweeping turn. ‘Something like a huge exhaust flash, a large flare of light as the rocket’s engines ignite and shoot it up into the skies. I’ve never seen one before. Very few pilots have. The boffins say these V2s are so quick they’re up and gone before you can react.’
O’Brien nodded, looked back at his knee pad and timer, and glanced out of the left canopy Perspex. ‘Something like that, perhaps?’
Richardson followed his gaze.
‘Bloody hell, yes! Mark that spot!’ In an instant, he banked over the Mosquito into a steep dive, angling the nose of the aircraft towards the distant glow in the trees. Several jets of bright light splashed off the ground in the distance, surrounded by a mounting pall of smoke. Suddenly the lights began to lift, moving above the tree line. A dark shape could just be seen, rising swifter and swifter towards the heavens.
‘It’s launching!’ O’Brien yelled. Richardson slammed the throttles as far forward as he could until they hit their stops. If he could accelerate fast enough, then they might be able to get into cannon range and have a chance of shooting the missile down. The Mosquito bucked and trembled as the aircraft raced forward on an interception course. Richardson adjusted the aircraft’s flight controls and tried to adjust his path to where he estimated the rocket and Mosquito would reach their best closing position. But he had never seen a V2 launch before and the speed of the thing was beyond his reckoning - even when it was moving at its slowest speed, at launch time. It arced upwards, cleaving its way towards the base of the nearest cloud.
He slid his thumb over the firing button, but in his heart knew that they were too far away to be effective. A stream of tracer shot away from the nose if the Mosquito, but the missile had now disappeared. Richardson swore softly. If they’d had a few more seconds warning they might have interfered with the launch, perhaps winged the missile or even destroyed it. There was little point in trying to pursue it now – the rocket was too damned fast. It was time to break radio silence and report in.
‘Milo, get on to squadron HQ and report what we’ve just seen. Give them the location, as near as you can estimate it.’ There was nothing else they could do but hang around until their mission time was over. Had they just identified the position of the factory, or did the Germans have the capability, as RAF intelligence hinted, to launch their rockets with ground mobile units? He knew that tonight and for the foreseeable future they’d have to cover all eventualities.
Nordhausen area 2300
The military policeman at the road block was deferential but adamant. ‘Sorry sir, but there’s no way through tonight. It’s far too dangerous. Security’s screwed down tight. This area’s been hit hard all day by enemy bombers, and Luftwaffe Area Defense HQ has advised that more are on the way very shortly.’
‘But I’m under orders to get through to the Kohnstein’, Simon protested irritably. He had already established his credentials. ‘By order of the Reichsführer SS himself!’ He waved a piece of paper in the direction of the Feldwebel in charge.
‘That may well be the case, sir.’ The sergeant shrugged his shoulders. He was not particularly bothered by the SS officer in front of
him. He had to deal with all types, SS as well as Wehrmacht, and they were all treated just the same, no matter who they were. Not unless Himmler turned up in person, and that would be highly unlikely. After all, he had his orders to follow, and they came first. ‘However, I’ve got mine. And my orders state that all traffic is to be halted and moved off the roads until further notice. So please pull over into the shelter of those trees over there. You’ll have to wait until I receive further instructions.’ He pointed to a dark mass of woodland on the other side of the road.
Simon ground his teeth in frustration. Schellenberg had managed to get a message through to him earlier. Two rockets were being launched tonight, the first in Himmler’s biological assault on the West. Was there any way he could get into the underground factory, plant the explosives and disrupt their launch? The message gave him precious little time to act, and God knows how he would bluff his way in with a rucksack containing pencils and chocolate - but he had to try. However, the enemy bombing had cancelled all that. He was only five or six kilometers away, but the factory might as well have been on the dark side of the moon. There were very few roads north of Nordhausen, and the others he’d already tried were either impassable by bomb damage or blocked by military police.
‘OK. I get the message,’ he muttered grumpily. ‘Thanks anyway.’ The Feldwebel nodded, keeping a watchful eye on Simon all the same. Probably making sure I don’t do something unexpected. Simon was aware that there were at least three others positioned around the roadblock, all of them with Schmeissers held loosely but easily capable of being brought to bear in an instant. There was nothing he could do but accede to the ‘request’. He turned the engine over, and slowly moved the Kubelwagen across the road to where another MP was indicating for him to park.
There were no other vehicles under the trees. He got out simply to stretch his legs. They still felt somewhat wobbly. The night air was cold and crisp. Most of the recent snow had melted, but a few patches remained in the deep shadows of the wood. Simon could make out the sounds of maybe two or three aircraft circling the area, but they were invisible in the night skies.
A few minutes later there was a muted rumble of an approaching convoy from further down the road, in the direction he had intended to take. From the sound of it several large vehicles were approaching, slit headlamps dimly lighting their way in the dark. They were obviously expected - the MPs quickly raised the barrier as the convoy drew closer. With a grinding of gears the vehicles continued on, barely slowing as they passed the roadblock. On the back of a large transporter lay a long shape, draped in camouflage netting and tarpaulins. It looked huge, nearly thirty meters long and bigger than those he’d seen inside the factory. Could that be the one Schellenberg hinted at, the one destined for America?
A few more minutes passed by. The roar of the vehicles drew further off. The Feldwebel in charge walked over to him.
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to take your chances with us tonight, sir.’ Simon could just make out the smile in the gloom. ‘Local air defense have just reported in. They’ve confirmed that a large force of enemy bombers is heading this way, and as a result all road traffic has been shut down until further notice. At least we’ve managed to get the two convoys through.’
‘So that was the second?’
‘Yes sir.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘I shouldn’t really talk about it, but seeing as you’re from the factory I’m sure it will be OK. They sent the first out about half an hour ago.’
‘I presume that the large load on board that transporter was another rocket?’
‘Yes sir. They launched the first one just over the brow of the hill behind us – one hell of a sight. We might just get a view of the second.’ The MP grinned. ‘That’ll certainly give our British and American friends something to think about.’
Simon nodded. He had little to say, and soon the Feldwebel drifted back into the shelter of a patch of birches where the rest of his detail stood huddled together. The next half hour passed slowly. The muted droning of aircraft flying above the clouds echoed through the woods, the only thing that disturbed the sound of the wind whistling through the trees. It could have been worse - at least it wasn’t raining, not yet. But there might be a different, more lethal kind of rain to contend with later.
He was roused from his thoughts by the sudden roar of engines, away to his left. It was probably one or two kilometers away, but the dark made it impossible to estimate precisely. The noise rapidly grew louder, quickly followed by a burst of glaring light that lit up the surrounding area.
‘That’s it, number two!’ The military policeman was by his side, pointing wildly towards where the cacophony was coming from. ‘Any second now, and…’
He was interrupted by another blast. Suddenly something was moving in the trees, a large object with a fierce red-white jet of flame shooting out from its base. As it cleared the tree tops Simon caught sight of the rocket as it struggled upwards against the force of gravity towards the dark skies. It began to rise, slowly at first, then progressively quicker and quicker as it accelerated away from the ground and reached for the heavens above. The noise was immense, a thunderous din that drowned out all other sounds. A few seconds later and it was gone, vanishing quickly into the clouds. Nothing was left behind, only a diminishing rumble as the missile sped further away towards its final destination.
But the rumble did not entirely go away. Soon Simon was able to make out noise of a different type, the mounting roar of aircraft engines moving in from the northwest, from the direction of Belgium or maybe even England. A heavy throbbing began to fill the air, dense and malevolent. It grew louder and louder. Soon they could hear the high pitched whistle of falling bombs.
‘Best get under cover, sir. We’ve made a little shelter over here.’ The MP pointed to a dark shadow under the trees. ‘Won’t save us from a direct hit, but I think we’ll stand a good chance of coming out unscathed. Follow me.’
Little Aston, Staffordshire, England 2320
John Roberts peered out from the shelter of his porch and gazed up at the night sky. It was a lovely night, cold but clear and the stars twinkled far away in the heavens. The black-out was still in force, even at this late stage of the war - a good thing, as far as he was concerned. It meant that his eyes would quickly adjust to the dark, and he could experience the natural unspoiled quietness of the countryside at night. He loved to slip out late in the evening and stretch his legs whenever he could, whenever his gout was not playing him up. A short, brisk walk before bedtime always helped to settle him down for the night, that and a small shot of rum – strictly for medicinal purposes only, of course.
There was nobody else at home. His wife, Edith, had sadly passed away the previous year from a bout of pneumonia. She’d had a good innings – after all, seventy eight was a good age and the end was mercifully quick. There was little Dr Wall could do. Somehow the good doctor had managed to get hold of some drugs to help her, some of these new fangled antibiotics that were very hard to come by, but by the time they arrived it was all too late. His son, a senior lieutenant commander in the Royal Navy, was able to make the funeral, but he was back in London now, hard at work in the Admiralty. His only real friend was Redford, a black Labrador who accompanied him wherever he went, even slept on the end of his bed. All the rest of his elderly mates were either dead or living in old people’s homes, something that saddened him greatly. He had vowed to himself that he would never end up in one of those awful places and as far as he was able, he would look after himself - until Old Nick himself finally paid him a visit.
He stepped slowly out into the front garden, circled the small cottage and headed for the gate that led from his garden into the fields beyond. A low whistle and Redford suddenly appeared from behind the bushes that flanked the pond close by the back fence. The latch lifted easily and the gate swung noiselessly outwards, and they were off, following a well-trodden path across the ploughed and furrowed landscape. A hedge lay over to his right, well
lit up by the light of the full moon. It marked the boundary of Forge Lane. Behind him the village, strung out along the main road that ran from Sutton Coldfield to Walsall, was quiet. There was virtually no traffic at this time of the night, another good thing. He was not a fan of the internal combustion engine, even though it made a lot of sense in being able to get around and travel. He much preferred the old times when he was a lad, back in the days of Queen Victoria, and how the countryside was then, before the rapid spread of urbanization and the noise and pollution that went with it.
A copse of dark trees loomed up ahead. Suddenly Redford began to bark for no obvious reason. Maybe it was a badger or a fox? ‘Quiet, boy!’ He grumbled. There was no point in upsetting the neighbours. Bill Jarvis’ farm was only a short distance away, and the last thing he wanted was to get his dogs barking and growling this late at night. Their racket would be enough to wake the dead. ‘Shhh!’
Redford whined and crouched down with his tail between his legs, looking up at the sky. Richards followed his gaze. Something was arcing down towards the earth, rapidly closing the distance with an ear-splitting shriek. A blinding flash of light, quickly followed by the blast of a large explosion suddenly erupted from just over the crest of the low hill in front of him. Even from where he was, maybe a third of a mile away, the impact and compression wave was enough to rock him backwards.
The Fall of the Father Land Page 20
