V-S Day: A Novel of Alternate History

by Steele, Allen

  “As we speak, I’m preparing to determine how long it will take for us to relocate to . . .” Von Braun paused. “I’m sorry, but the name of this place escapes me.”

  “Nordhausen. That’s the town nearby, but we will be calling the facility something else . . . Mittelwerk.”

  “Yes, thank you for reminding me. May I . . . ?” Goering gave him the slightest of nods, and von Braun resumed his seat behind the desk. “It may be some time before we can leave, though. Most of our casualties were among the labor force. Not just the foreign workers, but also the war prisoners we’ve been using lately. Without them . . .”

  “I’ll requisition more soldiers to assist you with the relocation effort. And you need not concern yourself with finding a source of labor at Mittelwerk. Herr Himmler has seen to this as well.” Goering shrugged. “I’m sorry, though, but we’ll no longer be employing any civilians who aren’t German citizens. The security risk is too high . . . and I’m convinced that one of the reasons why the British were able to strike us with such accuracy is that they had spies among the foreign workers. We caught two already.”

  “That’s entirely possible, Herr Reichsmarschall,” Dornberger said, still standing at attention beside von Braun’s desk. “However, I’d like to point out that, since late last year, we’ve been careful to keep foreign workers away from the vital facilities. I doubt very strongly that the British or their American allies have learned anything about Silbervogel.”

  Goering shook his head. “Perhaps so, Colonel, but we cannot take a chance based on that assumption. I’ve consulted Admiral Canaris, and on his advice, I’ve ordered the Abwehr to take active measures that will prevent the Americans from engaging in any countermeasures.”

  “Active measures, Herr Reichsmarschall?” Von Braun blinked. “My apologies, but I fail to understand what you’re talking about.”

  “In the past, you’ve told us of the American scientist who’s their key expert in rocketry . . . Dr. Robert H. Goddard, I believe?” Von Braun nodded, and the monster sitting across from him smiled. “You won’t have to worry about him for very much longer. The Abwehr is taking care of that particular problem. Herr Doktor Goddard will be found and liquidated.”

  Von Braun felt a chill of horror. He suddenly wished that he’d never said anything about Goddard to Goering. He had nothing against Goddard; in fact, he greatly admired him even though Goddard had deliberately ignored Hermann Oberth’s request to share technical information with the VfR.

  “Do you really believe this is wise?” von Braun asked, choosing his words carefully. “If Goddard is . . . um, liquidated . . . wouldn’t this alert the Americans that we’re involved in a rocket program of our own?”

  Goering gave him a condescending smirk. “Oh, Wernher . . . the Americans and the British must know what we’re doing here. Why else would they have dropped bombs on you?”

  “Da, Herr Reichsmarschall,” Dornberger said, ever the fawning officer. “You are correct. Perhaps not the specific details of Silbervogel, but . . .”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if they knew about that, too,” Goering said, shaking his head. “And even if they don’t, you yourself said that they are doubtless working to develop a transcontinental rocket . . . did you not?”

  Once again, von Braun regretted Dornberger’s exaggerations about the American rocket program. Had Goering figured out that it was all an elaborate lie to justify continued funding for Peenemünde and Wa Pruf 11? Yet even if he did, neither he nor Walter had any choice but to continue telling the lie. Goering had managed to get someone to drive him all the way from Berlin; he could easily return with von Braun and Dornberger as unwilling passengers, with the SS headquarters as their destination.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I didn’t realize that earlier. Eliminating Robert Goddard might be the most prudent thing to do.”

  “I thought you’d see things my way.” Goering abruptly rose from his chair, wheezing quietly with the effort. “Well, then . . . if there is nothing else for us to discuss, I’d like to view the damage. Colonel, if you would . . . ?”

  “It would be my privilege.” Dornberger was already stepping to the door; von Braun wondered if he was going to remove his uniform jacket and lay it across the puddle of water that lay just outside. Goering walked past the colonel with only the barest acknowledgment of his presence, but then he paused to look back at von Braun.

  “Good day, Wernher,” he said. “May this be the end of your misfortunes.”

  “I certainly hope so, Herr Reichsmarschall.” Von Braun watched him go but didn’t let out his breath until he heard the rumble of motorcycles pulling away. Then he lowered his head into his hands and closed his eyes.

  “He’s gone, thank God.” Unnoticed until she spoke to him, Lise had come back into the office. Then she lay a soft hand upon his shoulder. “Wernher, are you all right?”

  “No . . . no, I’m not all right.” Raising his head from his hands, von Braun looked up at her. “I’m afraid I’ve done a terrible thing. I’ve given permission for a good man’s death.”

  THE PLOT AGAINST ROBERT H. GODDARD

  SEPTEMBER 30, 1942

  There was no moon in the predawn sky, no stars. Clouds lay thick above the eastern tip of Cape Cod. The only light penetrating the darkness of the Provincetown beach was the flashlight beam of a Coast Guard seaman.

  Petty Officer Third Class Tom Hawkes let the light lazily swing back and forth. It was a cool night, the first taste of autumn mixing in with the salt air, but even in the wee hours of morning, there was always the chance of finding a couple of teenagers making out on the beach. Just last month, Hawkes had discovered some kids screwing in the dunes. His light had been on them for nearly a minute before they’d noticed, and ever since, he’d been hoping something like that would happen again.

  No such luck. In fact, that had been the most exciting thing to happen to him since volunteering for Beach Patrol. Hawkes expected to be catching German saboteurs coming ashore, but after spending the last four months walking up and down the beach, just about all he’d found was driftwood, jellyfish, and pop bottles.

  Tonight was different.

  He was halfway to the breakwater when he spotted another flashlight beam. About sixty feet away, a spot of light appeared for a moment, shining, then vanished again. Shining at the water’s edge, it came and went so quickly Hawkes couldn’t tell which way it was aimed, down the beach or out across the water. Yet the radium dial of his wristwatch told him that it was nearly 4 A.M., not a likely hour for beachside lovers.

  “Who goes there?” Hawkes called out, heading in the direction of the light. “Who is that?”

  Silence, then a voice, male and with a thick Massachusetts accent, barely intelligible above the rumbling tide: “Who’s that?”

  “Beach Patrol . . . and I asked you first.” The light came on again, its beam moving toward Hawkes; a second later, Hawkes located its source. A tall, slender man, just short of middle age, wearing oilskin waders, a denim trucker’s jacket, and a long-billed cap. There was something in his other hand, but Hawkes couldn’t tell what it was until he came closer: a long angler’s rod, the kind used for pier fishing.

  “Just out to catch ’em when they start biting.” The fisherman bent over a tackle box that lay open on the beach beside him. “How’s it going tonight? See anything interesting?”

  “Only you, mister.” Hawkes relaxed but didn’t switch off his flashlight. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you out here before. You local?”

  “Me? Naw. Just come down from Boston for a week.” The older man pulled a reel from the box. “Couldn’t catch anything from the pier except garbage fish, so I decided to come out here instead.”

  “Yeah, guess that makes sense.” Hawkes glanced in the direction of town; its lights were over a mile away, with the municipal pier on the other side of the point. This part of the be
ach was uninhabited except for the one-room shacks rented to artists and summer vacationers; most of them were deserted now that the season was over, but it was possible that one or two might still be used by someone taking an autumn break from the city.

  “Hope so.” The Bostonian chuckled as he stood up to attach the reel to his rod, then he bent over again to pick up a roll of high-test line and a fishing knife. He fumbled a bit as he tried to hold them in his hands along with his flashlight. “Hey, since you’re here, mind giving me a hand?”

  “Sure.” Hawkes came closer, within arm’s reach. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Hold your light on me while I put the line on.” The older man switched off his flashlight, stuck it in his jacket pocket. “Shine it so I can see what I’m doing, okay?”

  “No problem.” Hawkes turned his flashlight downward, away from the fisherman’s face. Its beam found the roll of fishing line in his left hand, but the hand holding the knife vanished the moment the light touched its serrated blade. Hawkes barely had time to wonder what the fisherman was doing when he felt a sudden, sharp pain at his neck just below his Adam’s apple, and that was when he realized that his throat had been cut.

  William Meriwell quickly stepped back, avoiding the blood that jetted from the seaman’s severed jugular vein. The Coast Guard patrolman staggered forward a step or two, gagging, his hands desperately clutching his neck. Meriwell kicked away the flashlight he’d dropped, then silently watched as the young seaman collapsed face-first upon the wet sand, his white cap falling off his head to be immediately snatched away by the surf. He tried to crawl forward, but it wasn’t long before he stopped moving and lay still.

  Meriwell slowly let out his breath. His heart hammered at his chest, and he had an impulse to throw his fishing knife out into the water. He hadn’t wanted to kill the other man, but the moment the sailor spotted him, he knew that he had no choice. The kid had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, simple as that. No one could be allowed to witness what was about to happen next.

  Pulling out his flashlight again, Meriwell quickly checked his watch. Exactly 0400. He switched off the light, aimed it out into the water, then flashed it three times. He couldn’t see anything in the moonless night, but if everything was going according to schedule, a U-boat had just surfaced about a mile offshore.

  While he waited for a response, Meriwell picked up the dead sailor by his arms and, walking backward, dragged him across the beach into the dunes. He wished he had a shovel, but that couldn’t be helped; he’d just have to hope that no one found the body for a while. He went back to the beach, found the sailor’s flashlight, switched it off, and threw it into the water, then made himself busy by kicking sand over the trail he’d left. Meriwell had just finished his task when he heard a soft crunch behind him and turned around to see an inflatable dinghy coming ashore.

  Its sole occupant was a man in a dark suit, overcoat, and fedora. He pulled in his paddle and waited for Meriwell to wade out into the shallow water and haul the dinghy the rest of the way in. “Guten Morgen, Herr Schmidt,” Meriwell said quietly as he took hold of the painter. “Ich hoffe, Sie hatten eine guten . . .”

  “Shut up,” Schmidt hissed. “You are never to speak to me in German. And my name is Smith, not Schmidt.” His English was perfect, with no trace of a European accent.

  “Sorry.” Meriwell grunted as he hauled the dinghy the rest of the way to the beach. Once it was out of the surf, Schmidt—or Smith, as the Abwehr agent preferred to be known—stood up and stepped out, his trouser cuffs and dress shoes remaining dry. He turned around to retrieve a briefcase from the back of the boat, then looked around.

  “Are we alone?” Schmidt asked. “Has there been any trouble?”

  “Unfortunately, I was discovered by a Coast Guard sailor patrolling the beach.” Meriwell produced his fishing knife again and thrust it into the dinghy’s rubber side. With a soft pop and a quiet hiss, the boat began to deflate. “I killed him. His body is in the dunes over there.”

  “Damn it.” Schmidt’s voice was an angry growl. “And, of course, you neglected to bury him, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t have a shovel, so . . .”

  “Never mind. Where’s your car?”

  “Parked just off the beach road, about a hundred feet from here.”

  “Bring the boat and paddle. If we take them with us, maybe the police will figure that the sailor was killed for some other reason.” Schmidt bent over to pick up the paddle, leaving the deflated dinghy for the American fifth columnist to carry. “Now hurry.”

  It took only a few minutes for the two men to reach the Chrysler sedan parked on the shoulder of a nearby dirt road. Meriwell shoved the boat and paddle into the backseat as Schmidt climbed into the front passenger seat; when he started the car, he was careful not to switch on the headlights, instead relying on memory and night vision to turn around and drive slowly away from the beach. The headlights didn’t come on until the car was on the narrow blacktop that went out to the tip of the Cape. Only a few houses and a small inn lay at this end of Provincetown, and their windows were dark. No one saw the car as it left town.

  “How far is Worcester from here?” Schmidt asked.

  “About two hundred miles,” Meriwell replied. “We can get you there in about five hours.”

  The German agent pulled back his shirtsleeve, checked the luminescent dial of his American-made watch—4:05 A.M. If his contact was right, they’d arrive in Worcester shortly after nine o’clock. “Very good. And you’ve located Dr. Goddard’s home and studied his habits?”

  “Oh, yes.” A grim smile appeared on Meriwell’s face. “I’ve been watching him for about two weeks now. The best place to find him won’t be at his house, though. It’ll probably be on campus, where he . . .”

  “Let me make that determination.” Schmidt’s briefcase rested across his knees; he tapped his fingers against it as he gazed out the window. “Just get me there. I’ll do the rest.”

  =====

  “Bob? Esther’s got the car started. She’s waiting for us.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake . . .” Tugging on his raincoat, Robert Goddard hurried downstairs to his living room. He glared at Hillman, who stood patiently waiting for him at the front door. “Max, you’re almost as bad as she is. Are you two working together to make my life miserable?”

  “You got it, Doctor G.” The young corporal grinned as he held out his hat and umbrella. “She’s already taken your briefcase out to the car.”

  “Like I’d forget that,” Goddard grumbled, and Hillman refrained from reminding him that he probably would. Over the past few months that Max had resided with the Goddards, living in their guest room and sharing most of his meals with them, he’d become less a military attaché and more like a family member, even a surrogate son. And if there was one thing Hillman had learned about Professor Goddard, it was that the old man was absentminded as hell.

  A cold, slobbering rain was falling outside, bringing down a few more of the leaves turning color with the coming of autumn. Esther’s car stood in the driveway, headlights on, windshield wiper clattering back and forth. Goddard didn’t bother to open his umbrella, though, but instead pulled up his overcoat collar and put on his hat before he left the front porch and marched down the steps, Hillman behind him. Just as they were about to turn toward the car, though, Goddard noticed the neighborhood mailman coming up the front walk.

  “Hold on a second,” he said to Hillman, then walked over to the mailman. “Morning, Joe. Got anything for me?”

  “Sure thing, Professor. Here ya go.” The mailman reached into his shoulder bag, pulled out several letters, and handed them to Goddard. “Beautiful weather we’re having, ain’t it?”

  “Lovely.” Goddard tucked the mail into his inside coat pocket. “Think I’ll go for a swim.” Joe laughed and turned away, and Goddard hurried to the car, where Hillma
n was already holding the door open for him.

  “One day,” Esther said, as her husband climbed in beside her, “you’re going to surprise everyone by getting to work on time. We’ll have a parade and everything. Fireworks, balloons, circus clowns . . .”

  “Oh, be quiet and drive. And for the record, I’m never late. Everyone else just gets there early, that’s all.”

  Hillman laughed out loud from the backseat, and Esther gave him a wink in the rearview mirror as she backed out of the driveway. As she drove away from the house, she didn’t notice the Chrysler sedan parked a short distance up Tallawanda Drive, or that it pulled away from the curb and began to follow them.

  =====

  “Who is the man riding with them?” Schmidt asked.

  “Some kind of assistant. Maybe a bodyguard.” Meriwell drove crouched over the steering wheel, peering through the heavy rain that the windshield wiper couldn’t quite slap away. “He’s living with them, that’s all I know.”

  “Is he always with Dr. Goddard?” Schmidt asked, and Meriwell shook his head. “Then he’s not a bodyguard. This is good.”

  Meriwell glanced at the gun in Schmidt’s lap. The Abwehr agent had removed the Walther PPK from his briefcase en route from the Cape. It was now loaded, a black silencer fitted against its barrel, and Schmidt had pulled on a pair of thin leather gloves.

  “I could pull up alongside them,” Meriwell suggested. “From your side of the car, you could get all three.”

  Schmidt gave him a sharp look. “My orders don’t include his wife or friends,” he said, an angry edge in his voice. “If I don’t need to eliminate them, then I won’t. Is there ever a time when he’s alone?”

  Meriwell thought about it a moment. “He sometimes steps out for a smoke. I guess they won’t let him do that in the lab, ’cause he comes out three or four times a day.”