V-S Day: A Novel of Alternate History

by Steele, Allen

  “Silbervogel is designed to carry a 3.75-metric-ton payload.” Von Braun moved a little closer to Himmler, cupping his hands to his mouth so that he could be heard. “This can be one single bomb, of course, but we believe the best option would be three 1.25-ton incendiary devices. This would allow for a greater dispersal over the target area once the craft reaches . . .”

  “Less than four tons?” Himmler’s eyes flared behind his round glasses. “Nein! Unacceptable! This machine must carry fifty tons at least!”

  Von Braun fought to keep his expression impassive; the laughter he wanted to let loose would have been fatal. “Reichsführer, with all due respect, a fifty-ton payload is out of the question. In order to achieve escape velocity and complete its circumnavigation of the Earth, Silbervogel can carry only the bare minimum. Even its pilot cannot be more than 1.8 meters in height or weigh more than eighty-two kilograms.”

  “But only three one-ton bombs . . . pfft!” Himmler made a dismissive gesture. “A Heinkel bomber can carry more than that!”

  No, it couldn’t, von Braun thought, nor would it have the range. But challenging the Reichsführer’s understanding of the facts was a risky proposition, so he was careful with his response. “Our studies conclude that three incendiary devices dropped in the New York metropolitan area will bring about destruction surpassing their weight. Dropped from an altitude of seventy kilometers, terminal velocity alone will cause significant damage, and the firestorm that follows the initial blast would doubtless spread across the entire city. Even if only one bomb hits Manhattan, with the other two landing in the surrounding neighborhoods, the city will be devastated. More bombs are unnecessary.”

  Himmler said nothing but instead continued to watch the test. Was it von Braun’s imagination, or was Arthur keeping it going longer than necessary? From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of him standing at the control board. He’d stopped writing down figures on his clipboard and was now doing nothing more than watching the model get buffeted by the fans. Perhaps he was hoping that the noise would drive Himmler away.

  If that was the idea, it succeeded. Himmler suddenly turned and marched toward the door, trailing an entourage of junior officers. To von Braun’s quiet disgust, Colonel Dornberger had joined them, if only temporarily. Although Wa Pruf 11’s military director was just as terrified of the Reichsführer as anyone else, he wasn’t above using his visit to Peenemünde to curry favor with a member of Hitler’s inner circle.

  As much as von Braun was dismayed by Dornberger’s behavior, though, he was also disappointed with his own. For the first time, he’d put on the black SS uniform that until then had only hung in his closet. It was necessary; wearing civilian clothes when the SS leader came to visit would have been disrespectful, perhaps even making Himmler suspect him of disloyalty. That was something no one could afford to let happen. It was whispered that Himmler’s enemies tended to land in concentration camps or die with a piano wire wrapped around their necks.

  Von Braun couldn’t wait for the Reichsführer to leave so that he could take off this damned outfit. At least I look better than he does, he thought. Despite the knee boots, jodhpurs, and death’s-head insignia on his jacket lapels, Himmler looked like what he’d been before he joined the Nazi party: a chicken farmer, a mediocre little man with a fuzzy mustache and a weak chin. Heinrich Himmler would have been contemptible if he hadn’t been so powerful or so thoroughly evil.

  “So . . .” Himmler wheeled around as soon as they’d left the windowless concrete shed. “When do you think we’ll be able to launch your spaceship, Dr. von Braun?”

  Von Braun had heard this question before: from Goering, from Goebbels, from Speer, from everyone else in the High Command who’d suddenly taken an interest in Peenemünde after Hitler had given the order to proceed with Silbervogel. “We’re hoping to be ready to fly by next summer,” he replied, a truthful yet evasive answer that he and Dornberger had devised a while ago. “There are still many technical obstacles in our way, but we’re working to overcome them.”

  Dornberger stepped in. “We’ll soon be ready for static tests of the new rocket engine, Herr Reichsführer. It will run on a revolutionary new mixture of liquid oxygen and a hydrocarbon suspension of aluminum particulate that promises to produce a higher thrust than the fuel we used for the A-4 prototype. The turbopump assembly for the main combustion chamber is nearly complete, once we finish testing the main coolant loop for . . .”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Himmler was impatient with details, and von Braun doubted that he understood them anyway. He continued walking toward the large, warehouselike shed that Dornberger had indicated would be the next stop on their tour. “I know your scientists are technically competent. What concerns me is whether you’ll be able to produce a weapon of this sort before the Americans do.”

  “I’m positive we shall,” von Braun said. “We’re already far ahead of their own rocket program.”

  Dornberger shot him a look. What von Braun had just said came dangerously close to contradicting the colonel’s contention that Germany was in a race against America to produce an intercontinental rocket. And they had another concern as well. Himmler was Goering’s rival. He’d already taken the Gestapo away from him, transforming it into an arm of the SS, and it was whispered that he wanted control of the Luftwaffe as well.

  It was bad enough that Dornberger and von Braun had to answer to Goering. It would be worse if Himmler became their new boss. There was nothing either of them could do about that except prepare for the worst and expect that Himmler would win the power contest. If that happened, the Reichsführer-SS needed to be convinced that the Silbervogel Projekt was proceeding according to plan. Otherwise, the two of them might receive a visit from men in black trench coats, followed by an automobile ride to parts unknown.

  “Hmm . . .” Himmler abruptly stopped and turned to gaze around the area. “Where will the launch site be located? I see nothing that indicates that the track is under construction.”

  “We’ve been considering a new location, Herr Reichsführer,” Dornberger said. “The original plan was to build it here on the island, but lately we’ve come to believe that this might not be a good idea.”

  “About a month ago, the RAF began making reconnaissance flights above us.” Von Braun nodded toward the overcast sky; Himmler instinctively looked up, as if expecting to see a British P-38 or Mosquito. “The Luftwaffe commander has sent up Messerschmidts to intercept them, of course, but they managed to get away. I have little doubt that they’ve taken high-altitude photographs of our facilities, and even if British intelligence hasn’t figured out what they are, an elevated rail three kilometers long will certainly draw their attention. If the British and American air forces decide to make an air raid . . .”

  “It will not succeed.” Himmler’s tone was flat, decisive. “No bombs will drop on the Fatherland, I assure you.”

  “Nonetheless, may I respectfully submit that the rail be built elsewhere, for the sake of security?” Von Braun knew that he was perilously close to contradicting Himmler, so he decided to change tactics. “Besides, the closer to the equator the launch site is located, the more we’ll be able to take advantage of the Earth’s rotation during takeoff.”

  “Yes . . . yes, I see your point.” Again, Himmler became contemplative. “Perhaps it could be built in an occupied country near the Mediterranean. Southern France, or perhaps Egypt . . .”

  “Those are the optimal locations, yes, but then we’d have a new problem . . . moving Silbervogel there once it’s assembled. The vehicle will be twenty-eight meters in length and have an empty weight of ten metric tons. Transportation out of the country will be very difficult, and should the craft be damaged in any way during transit . . .”

  “There’s also the necessity of having a large workforce,” Dornberger said. “Several thousand people work here, including the war prisoners we’ve assigned to hard l
abor. Moving this operation elsewhere will mean that we’ll have to find a new source of labor. This will be difficult if the project is relocated to France or North Africa.”

  “I understand.” A dry smile appeared on Himmler’s pinched face. “Let me look into this. I may be able to find an alternative within our borders.”

  Von Braun inwardly groaned. Without intending to do so, he’d given Himmler another reason to give Hitler why the Luftwaffe in general, and Silbervogel in particular, should be turned over to him. Himmler’s first priority was his own ambitions. Anything he could use to further them was fair game.

  “That would be helpful, Herr Reichsführer,” he said. “Danke.”

  “Still, this matter about the American rocket program bothers me. How can you be so certain that we’re ahead of them? We’ve had little recent intelligence about what they’re presently doing.”

  Von Braun found himself at a loss for words. Himmler was correct; they really didn’t know where the Americans stood in terms of rocket development. Neither he nor Dornberger could afford to admit this, though, because it would have undermined the myth upon which the Silbervogel Projekt was built: America was far ahead of Germany in the field of rocketry, and Silver Bird was the Third Reich’s best chance of catching up.

  “It might be possible that their program is being done in secret, just as ours is.” Von Braun had no idea if this was true; he just hoped that it didn’t sound like he was making it up on the spot. “It would make sense that their foremost scientist, Robert Goddard, would be involved in any sort of long-range project that the Americans might have undertaken . . .”

  “Has doubtless undertaken,” Dornberger quickly added. “Yes, I agree. The project is being kept hidden, naturally, and Goddard is probably in charge. This is probably why our intelligence operatives have yet to determine its purpose or whereabouts.”

  Von Braun nodded, even as he and Dornberger shared a conspiratorial look. Both of them knew this was an utter fabrication. What little they knew about Goddard’s recent activity was that he was somewhere out in the American desert, tinkering with rockets that probably couldn’t reach the next state, let alone Europe. Himmler wouldn’t be aware of this, though. If he could be led to believe that the Americans had their own Peenemünde, with Robert Goddard as its mastermind, then the Reichsführer-SS and the rest of the High Command wouldn’t suspect that they’d undertaken a massive and enormously expensive research-and-development program in response to a threat that simply didn’t exist.

  Perhaps we’ll be lucky, and the war will be over before this thing is ready to fly, von Braun thought. Like Eugen Sanger and Irene Bredt—who were involved in the project only as Luftwaffe Institute advisors, with no direct role, at least as yet—he’d come to view Silbervogel as a space vehicle rather than a military weapon. Perhaps one day it could be used for more peaceful purposes, like carrying the components of a Mars expeditionary fleet into orbit for assembly. Until then, though, he’d have to focus on carrying out an attack on America, a goal he’d come to like less and less as time went on.

  “Yes . . . yes, that would make sense, wouldn’t it?” Himmler slowly nodded. “You’re quite right. Dr. Goddard should be investigated. I’ll have to request that the Abwehr look into this. Perhaps their operatives may learn something new.”

  “It would be prudent,” von Braun said carefully. Let them take their time, he silently added. The longer it takes for them to find him, the safer we’ll be.

  “Reichsführer, if we may . . . ?” Dornberger stretched out his hand, beckoning them to return to the tour.

  “Of course.” Himmler strode forward, his retinue in tow. Von Braun walked alongside Dornberger as he led them toward the nearby assembly shed. The guards snapped to attention, arms raised in rigid salutes. The Reichsführer ignored them as he allowed Dornberger to open the door. Von Braun stepped aside and let everyone enter the shed before him.

  The shed held one of Peenemünde’s most closely guarded secrets. Ever since last Christmas, when a French spy had been caught lurking outside with a Minox camera, no one was allowed to enter without an identification card signed by both Dornberger and von Braun. The size of a large airplane hangar, it performed much the same role . . . but what was inside was no ordinary aircraft.

  Heinrich Himmler stopped and stared at what appeared to be a completed and flight-ready Silbervogel. Resting upon its tricycle landing gear, nose pointed toward the shed’s double doors, the vehicle took up nearly half the enormous workspace. Fluorescent ceiling lights reflected off its burnished silver skin; rollaway ladders had been pushed up beside the fuselage, with one of them positioned next to the cockpit’s open canopy. The entire vessel looked like it was ready to be towed out to a launch rail that hadn’t yet been built.

  “You’ve begun building it already?” Himmler asked, the eyes behind his glasses wide with awe.

  “No, Herr Reichsführer.” Dornberger was grinning from ear to ear, obviously pleased by Himmler’s reaction. “This is a full-scale mock-up, used by our engineers to help them work out the design details. The airframe is made of white pine, with canvas stretched across it and painted to simulate the outer hull.”

  “I see.” Himmler was obviously disappointed to find that this Silbervogel was nothing more than a model. Folding his hands together behind his back, he strolled toward the mock-up, giving it a cold and silent appraisal. “And the real craft, Colonel? Where is it?”

  “On the other side of the mock-up,” von Braun said. “If you’ll follow me . . .”

  Von Braun led him and his entourage around the mock-up; Himmler gave it little more than a passing look, no longer impressed now that he knew what it was. On the other side of the hangar, a skeletal frame lay half-finished upon a support cradle. Built of aluminum and stainless steel, it had a stubby bow but no nose, a pair of wings but no tail section. Bundles of multicolored wires were laced throughout the frame, held in place by black elastic tape. The cockpit lacked a canopy; in fact, it was nothing more than a small, empty tub, with neither instrument panel nor seat.

  “This is it? This is all you’ve built so far?” Himmler’s disappointment turned to anger. He waved a dismissive hand at the craft as if it were nothing more than a child’s elaborate toy. “I’ve seen better work at the Junkers factory.”

  Again, von Braun had to keep his temper in check. The arrogance and ignorance of this . . . this former poulterer . . . was appalling. “Herr Reichsführer,” he said, somehow managing to maintain an even voice, “the Junkers factory builds airplanes on an assembly line. What we’re doing here has never been attempted before . . . constructing a vehicle capable of penetrating Earth’s atmosphere and flying all the way around the world on a single tank of fuel. It is more than merely revolutionary. It is the future.”

  Even as he said this, he knew that Himmler wasn’t listening. This ignorant little man had no appreciation for the groundbreaking work that still needed to be done before Silver Bird would be ready to fly. Even the fuselage would be a new development. Experiments had shown that the only material capable of withstanding multiple atmospheric entries was titanium, perhaps with a graphite coating along the underbelly and leading edges. Germany’s only source of titanium was in the Ukraine, though, where it would have to be mined even while the Army was struggling to hold the eastern front of the Russian invasion, and once that ore was extracted and shipped to Germany, it would still need to be subjected to the refinement process the Kroll laboratories had developed only a few years earlier.

  If they were lucky, they’d have just enough titanium plating to cover the airframe, but the result would be an aeronautical advance generations ahead of anything done before. But try explaining any of that to a chicken farmer . . .

  “Millions of Reichsmarks have been spent on this . . . !” Himmler snapped.

  “And millions more will be spent before it’s complete,” von Braun said, and the
Reichsführer glared at him, irritated by the interruption. “But when it’s done, the Fatherland will have a craft beyond imagination . . .”

  “And a weapon that cannot be defended against or defeated,” Dornberger finished. “It will be worth the time and expense, sir. That I promise.”

  Himmler was quiet for a full minute. He looked first at the skeletal airframe, then turned around to gaze at the mock-up. Once again, he clasped his hands together behind his back, but now he rocked back and forth on his heels, the toes of his boots softly tapping against the concrete floor.

  “Twelve months,” he said at last, not looking at either Dornberger or von Braun. “You have twelve months to make this thing fly. Or the Führer and I will be . . . gravely disappointed.”

  Without another word, he marched toward the door, his officers trailing along behind him.

  SKID

  JUNE 14, 1942

  The rocket engine lay on its horizontal test bed, smoking in the desert sun. Sixty feet long, its components weren’t covered by an outer skin but instead lay exposed; a liquid-oxygen tank, a kerosene tank, and a liquid-nitrogen tank, with complex turbopumps feeding their contents into a rear-combustion chamber. The maw of the exhaust bell pointed toward the distant horizon, giving the engine the appearance of an enormous gun.

  Five hundred yards away, a dozen men huddled within a trench protected by a wall of sandbags. Tripod-mounted periscopes jutted above the barricade along with a motion-picture camera, but most of the onlookers simply peered over the sandbags, ready to duck if anything went wrong. Electrical cables snaked across the sand from the test bed to a nearby diesel generator, which in turn was controlled by wires leading to the trench. A couple of minutes earlier, the tanker trucks that fueled the engine had driven away from the test area. Now the prototype engine was on its own, wreathed in cold oxygen fumes and quietly groaning in the heat of a New Mexico afternoon.