Vengeance 10

He grinned, and eyebrows went up. This was the first time in weeks they had heard anything from Bethwig that even approached humour.

‘You might even say this is the culmination of a dream we have shared for more than fifteen years. Tonight, before midnight has come, we will have taken man’s greatest stride into the unknown reaches of space. You all know what this mission represents and why it is important.’

Bethwig stole a glance at the young Gestapo officer who was watching with a puzzled frown, and nodded to the propulsion plant chief to begin his report on the oscillation problem that had plagued the project from the start.

‘We completed successful firing tests at four this morning,’ he concluded with a wry grin. That part of the announcement was unnecessary, as the roar of the twenty-one engines had been heard for miles. ‘The solution is patchy at best, but I believe it will work.’ The other department heads gave him a tremendous round of applause. The solution was a brilliant piece of engineering accomplished under the most difficult conditions. After the oscillation problem, fuel had been their greatest concern. With the loss of the Dutch liquid oxygen plants and the great damage done to German facilities over the past year, obtaining the full 3.9 million kilograms of fuel and oxidiser had become a tricky proposition. Peenemunde’s own liquid oxygen plant had been put back into service late in the fall, and the last refrigerated tank cars were at that moment moving on to sidings for loading. Fuelling was scheduled to begin at 6 p.m. An additional half million kilograms had been diverted from the Nordhausen V-2 production plant at Kammler’s reluctant order. The Russian offensive had overrun East Prussia and western Poland before the autumn harvesting of potatoes — the raw material from which the alcohol was distilled — had been completed. The Logistics Supply Department had been forced to use meagre reserves of hard currency to buy sufficient potatoes from Sweden, but the shipments had never arrived, delayed first by the Allied Baltic submarine offensive and then by a Swedish ban on all strategic raw materials to the Reich. Alcohol reserves, as a consequence, were down to less than fifty thousand kilograms stored in a single tank in the almost deserted Luftwaffe storage yards. No one worried any longer about a second launch attempt.

The meeting broke up at noon, and everyone scattered to offices and command centres to begin the final vigil. The most intensive stage in the launch operation had begun, and there would be no rest for anyone before midnight.

Bethwig gathered up some papers while he and von Braun discussed last-minute details. As they were leaving, the Gestapo agent called to Bethwig and motioned him to the table. Annoyed, Bethwig shook his head and started to follow von Braun, but the man ran around the table and grabbed his arm.

‘You had damned well better listen to me,’ he whispered angrily.

Bethwig jerked his arm free, but the young man kicked the door shut and thrust a photograph at him. ‘Do you know this man?’ Bethwig was surprised, and his anger now changed to puzzlement. The face seemed familiar, but he could not recall when or where he had seen it before.

Before he could respond, the Gestapo agent said in a low voice, ‘I know what you people are up to.’

Bethwig stared at him. ‘What the devil are you talking about?’ The agent shrugged. ‘The war is lost. Perhaps you can still accomplish something useful.’

‘What…?’

‘I am talking about the rocket you are going to send to the moon.’

Bethwig’s face was a mask of astonishment.

‘Herr Doktor, there is no time for games. I am not stupid. I may not be a scientist, but I did spend two years at university. You people always overrate the ignorance of non-scientists.’

He went to the door to listen, then glanced at his old-fashioned pocket watch. ‘We haven’t much time. I believe in what you are doing and will do what I can to help. My superior, Major Walsch, is watching you closely, more so than you think. There are others besides me. The man in this photograph is an English spy named Jan Memling. He was captured early this morning with three others, just after landing by parachute in the salt marshes to the south. Walsch seems to know him personally. I had time for a quick look at his file. He is a friend of Doktor von Braun’s from before the war. There is also a notation that you and Doktor von Braun met him in 1938, in the Ruhr.’

‘Good God,’ Bethwig muttered. ‘Not again.’

‘Walsch hates you and Doktor von Braun for some reason. The Englishman and the three others are undergoing interrogation. Afterwards, I am certain, Walsch will send to Berlin for your arrest warrants.’