Designated Targets

In truth, Brasch knew what would happen long before it transpired. The missile stood forty-eight feet high and measured five and a half feet in diameter. It weighed thirteen tons, most of which was liquid alcohol and liquid oxygen, to provide thrust to the 600,000-horsepower rocket engine. It was designed to carry a ton of high explosives, but did not do so for today’s test. Theoretically it could reach a speed of 3,500 miles per hour, with a ceiling of 116 miles. Unlike the aborted V-1, a fast fighter could not intercept it.

All of which was irrelevant. This missile was never meant to fly.

As the metallic voice of the PA counted down toward zero, Brasch felt his heartbeat quicken. He had to will himself not to flinch. Himmler had retreated behind the tinted goggles. The Russians, in their excitement, had forgotten to put theirs on.

Stillness descended on the control room.

“. . . five, four, three, two, one . . . ignition.”

Even through the concrete walls and thick blast window, they could hear the roar of the engine. The wavy, green tinted armor glass distorted the view, but Brasch fancied that he could see the fatal tilt within a second of the giant lance taking off. Smoke and flame blasted away from the gantry at high speed. The missile shuddered and lurched skyward, and the small boy within him ached for it to keep going.

But it didn’t. He had sabotaged the launch most effectively, and the room filled with intense yellow light as the V-2 tipped over, sending a long spear of superheated exhaust in their direction. Now he flinched, like everyone else, as the flames seemed to lick at the window. A gigantic, muffled explosion sounded as nine tons of rocket fuel detonated a few hundred meters away. Some of the technicians cursed; some cried out in panic. He heard somebody swearing in German and, from the tone, somebody doing the same thing in Russian.

After a few seconds, the thunder subsided and everyone unclenched themselves. There was never any chance of the bunker being breached. Orlov and his men looked shaken. Himmler was paler and more thin-lipped than usual. He turned on Brasch with an evil look. “Well, Herr Oberst?”

“An initial failure,” he replied flatly. “As I said, it was always a possibility. We know that the original tests, as documented in the computer records, were also problematic.”

“But we are supposed to have learned from those mistakes,” hissed the Reichsführer. “The Soviets are not the only ones spending vast sums of money out here, Brasch. The Reich is engaged in a death struggle with the democracies, and we cannot afford this sort of thing.”

Brasch could tell that the NKVD men, in spite of their shock at the explosion, were enjoying the spectacle of their exchange, though it meant nothing to him.

“I shall prepare a report on the failure by the end of the day, Reichsführer.”

It seemed as if every pair of eyes in the room was on them. A siren sounded very faintly from outside as fire trucks rushed to the pad.

“See to it that you do, Herr Oberst, and I shall wish to discuss this in private . . . later,” he added ominously, before dismissing them both with a flick of the hand.

“An unfortunate accident,” Gelder muttered as they slunk out of the blockhouse.

Brasch sighed with exasperation. “It is science, my friend. Trial and error. We are years ahead of schedule, but this is not a magic wand,” said Brasch, waving his flexipad. “There will be more days like this one—believe me.”

“You’d want to hope not,” said Gelder, with what sounded like genuine sympathy. “The Reichsführer does not like to be disappointed.”

They walked in silence the rest of the way through the long, half-painted corridor, passing no other human beings. Just bloodied handprints.

“Excellent work, Brasch, just excellent. Those idiots were completely taken in.”

“Thank you, Reichsführer. It was simply a matter of not doing my job.”

Himmler smiled at the weak joke.

They met in a secure room, in the German section of the command compound. It was swept for listening devices every two hours, but none had ever been found. The Russians weren’t all that sophisticated. Their own command buildings, however, were thoroughly covered by German surveillance. Listening devices built into the very fabric of the Soviets’ command center had never been detected, and provided a wealth of intelligence for the SS to rake through.

The room in which Himmler and Brasch met was small and bare, just a few hard wooden chairs, a table, and a notice board on which was pinned a single yellow piece of paper, displaying the times at which the room had been cleared by the technical services section of the SS. They had been through ten minutes before Brasch was ushered in. The two men drank real coffee and nibbled at Dutch honey biscuits.

“You’ve done good work out here, Colonel. I shudder to think of the resources we’ve put into this place. But we must show our willingness, yes?”