Caldwell's tone was bitter. "Yeah, but I told the Russians I was sending good airplanes. These guys are tough negotiators—they'll scream to high heaven when they find out the airplane can't cut the mustard."
"Henry, the airplane is fine. We'll continue to improve it. Give us more powerful engines, Packard Merlins instead of the Allisons."
Face drawn, Caldwell snapped, "I've promised the Merlins to Dutch Kindleberger at North American."
"Come on! You know the damn P-51 is so lousy at altitude that the British are going to use it for tactical reconnaissance. And you're complaining about the Sidewinder!"
"I promised Dutch the engines, Henry. I can't go back on him."
"Why not? Exigencies of the service, demands of the state department. Ship me the damn engines and I'll get some better fighters to Russia for you. Who knows when North American will deliver?"
Caldwell felt his stomach shrink. He might be able to ship the old Allison engines to North American for another year or two, until Packard built the production rate up enough to supply Merlins for both the P-51 and the Sidewinder.
A wave of weariness swept over Caldwell and he slumped in his chair. He'd fought for years to get U.S. airplane companies prepared for war. Then war came and no one was ready; it was as if nothing had been learned since 1939.
McNaughton's voice rose. "Look, I'm not out to cheat anybody. It's just that the Sidewinder turned out to be a little overweight and underpowered. It's not the first airplane to do that, and it won't be the last. But the Russians can use them, and we'll improve them. You can't ask for more."
Caldwell reached for the whiskey bottle. He needed to see Elsie. The woman was more than an obsession, she was a compulsion, a darling compulsion. Well, he had everything else going pretty well; maybe they could get by for a year, until the new McNaughton airplanes were coming down the line, and there were enough Merlins for the Mustang.
"What about the jet engine? How are you coming on that?"
"I'll give it to you straight, Henry. We think we've got a good design—it runs like a charm for the first fifteen hours or so. Then the turbine blades melt—they just can't take the sustained heat. When one of the blades starts to go, the turbine wheel gets out of balance and the whole damn thing blows up. We've had some close calls down in the test cell."
"Well, you better get busy. General Electric is working hard on their version of the Whittle engine, and unless you come up with something fast, you'll be out of the jet business before you start."
The British had sent a prototype of the Whittle engine to the United States in October for G.E. to develop for Bell Aircraft.
"Don't tell me that, Henry. There's always room for more than one engine, more than one airplane. You don't want to have all your eggs in one basket."
"No, but Troy, you've got to start producing. The Sidewinder's iffy, and you're not making fast enough progress on the jet. If you don't come up with something soon, I'm going to start you building P-51s."
"It'll never come to that, General, believe me."
Impatiently shaking his head, Caldwell left for his rendezvous with Elsie.
*
Berlin/January 26, 1942
Joseph Goebbels's Maybach SW 38 sedan, custom body by Spohn, was to a Mercedes what a Rolls-Royce was to a Jaguar. A sable throw—the personal gift of Joseph Stalin himself in the palmy days of 1940—covered the backseat, and on each side of the car were Orrefors crystal bud vases, each with a single white hothouse rose. In previous drives Lyra had opened the inlaid rosewood cases in the doors; on the left were crystal bottles of perfume and makeup, a silk handkerchief, a golden comb; on the right were some miniature decanters, each hung with a golden medallion telling its contents. Lyra's throat constricted with desire for a taste of straight vodka, but she refrained. Little Joseph did not drink very much, sipping at the champagne he plied her with, and she would need her wits about her. The affair had begun slowly; after weeks of sending her flowers and providing a car for her ride home, he had at last sent a note asking to meet her. On the first visit he had been entirely correct; on the second he had displayed some impatience. On the third she had complied. It had been an intellectual decision; with Goebbels as a lover she would be protected and better able to work against the regime.
Each time she had to mentally prepare herself for the "seduction/' rationalizing it as her private "combat duty," a price she had to pay to fight her own personal war, a battle intensified in just the last week. She'd received word that her father and mother had gone into hiding, frightened by the Nazis' roundup of Jews in Riga. She knew that they had disappeared as much to protect her as to save themselves—and she could do nothing to help them.
As sickening as it was, it wasn't the first time she'd had to compromise herself just to survive. None of her affairs before meeting Helmut had been for love. A few had been out of loneliness, out of a need to be needed—but most had been simply for survival. Helmut had never asked about her past; if he had she would have told him. She was not proud of the way she'd had to live, but not ashamed either—she did what had to be done.
It was the same with Goebbels. She'd do what had to be done. The real challenge would be to maintain his interest after his "conquest," so that she would not lose her source of information and protection when he tired of her body.
He was unquestionably a brilliant man, but cunning, too, and suspicious. She must not underestimate him. Vanity was his weak-spot, and she played to it by assiduously reading his speeches and articles, and quoting his pithiest phrases. He was particularly susceptible to any commentary in the foreign press, and she combed the papers to find them. It was convenient that he felt that attacks on him proved he was doing a good job. But occasionally there were objective words of praise, even from the British, about a particular idea or article, and these gave him immense pleasure. She had one tonight—the London Times had written: "Goebbels's unquestionably imaginative propaganda was still effective" in an article examining German morale. She would save that morsel for parting, to use as a means of safe entree once again.
She wondered which would bother Helmut the most: her spying or her reluctant affair. She shuddered as she thought of Goebbels. His enemies called him "Schrumpfgermane"—shrunken German.
He was physically repellent, and most of all she hated his wretched square teeth, set in his broad mouth like discolored tombstones, freighting his breath with the death-scent of caries. Kissing him had been an abomination; making love to him was horrible. She drew little comfort from knowing that she was using him.
The car turned into the alley and glided to a stop, seeming as huge and silent as the Zeppelins that Maybach engines once powered. The chauffeur stepped out, transforming himself into a butler in the process.
Upstairs, a red light told Goebbels that the door had opened, and the elevator indicator began to move. He checked his sunlamp tan in the mirror, reassuring himself that he looked well for a man of forty-four. He glanced down to see that his trousers draped correctly across the mounded hump of his custom-built shoe. His deformity gave him the usual momentary sense of injustice, but he quickly put this aside, concentrating on the faultless fall of the jacket, the prosperous feel of his cream-colored silk shirt and underwear.
Moving around the room, he dimmed the lights, then turned them up again, spread the flowers to show the roses off, and started the "Appassionata" on the record player. He fussed with the champagne; two bottles of good German Henkell, no looted Dom Perignon. That was Goering's style, like his baroque hunting lodges.
Goebbels's apartment—a long, narrow art deco drawing room, a small kitchen, and a sensually furnished bedroom—was just off the Friedrichstrasse. Berlin was a rabbit warren of tunnels, and a very convenient one of whitewashed brick ran from the Ministry of Propaganda, the old Prinz Leopold Palast on the Wilhelmplatz, directly to the elevator door in Goebbels's basement. His visitors could enter with equal discretion, via an unmarked door in the alley to the rear. The apartme
nt was ideal for his "rest and recreation."
For that was all the affairs were, necessary restoratives to his health and well-being. He knew that women came to him because of his position, especially his power in the film industry. Emil Jannings had once told him that there was a Hollywood term for this practice—"the casting couch." An apt phrase, one he wished he'd coined himself. But the important point was that the women did not have to come; they came to sell themselves for their career. It was no different than the industrialists who had sold themselves to Hitler with their immense campaign contributions, or the politicians, teachers, journalists, even priests, all the "March violets" who had joined the Nazis after 1933.
He checked the motion picture projector's bulb. He'd just received the week's film shipment from Switzerland; tonight he'd show her a brand new American film, Foreign Correspondent. It was of course anti-Nazi, and that was the point, to illustrate his confidence in himself, his trust in her, an ideal stage setting for making love.
There was a timid knock. He opened it and stood for a moment taking in her beauty. Then, with a bow that he fancied was quite Viennese, he kissed her hand and gently tugged her inside.
Lyra enjoyed the film, especially Joel McCrea's bravado, but was unsettled to find Goebbels preoccupied and a little distant. Had he decided that she was not worth pursuing? Repressing her repugnance, she reached out to take his hand, asking if he was well.
"It's nothing—a headache. We're going to have to raise the price of potatoes, and I'm worried about the public reaction."
"What a man you are—concerned with everything from potatoes to the Eastern Front. And"—squeezing his hand—"always in danger, too." They had talked about his personal security earlier. "Aren't you concerned that the Communists, or some insane person, will make an attempt on your life?"
Preening with drawing-room bravery he confided, "Not at all—it doesn't matter what happens to me. The Fuehrer could readily find another writer like myself." He hesitated, waiting for her protest.
"But, no!"
"No, let me interrupt. My life is not important—but the Fuehrer's—that is everything."
His reserve dissolved and he launched into an animated discussion of Hitler's habits—the armor plate he wore in his hat, his frequent changes of schedule, the way he would suddenly, without any previous announcement, change the location of meeting places and the routes to them. It was the insider talking, the man who knew all, a great leader.
She nodded eagerly, saying nothing, drinking in the flow of words, knowing how dangerous they were to her, how invaluable they would be to her friends in the Resistance.
His voice faltered and alarm suddenly registered in his eyes, as he realized he had said too much. Without hesitation, she made herself tremble as if her passion could no longer be contained, extending her arms to him and saying, "My sweet, enough of this. Kiss me."
*
Le Touquet, France/February 10, 1942
Hitler, the frustrated architect, had made one characteristic contribution to the art: the reinforced concrete bunker. All over Europe, Todt Organization crews had despoiled the landscape with massive ugly structures sited half above and half below the ground, many of them taken from Hitler's own design sketches. They varied in size and function, but all were cloaked with certain dismal characteristics: the hum and grind of auxiliary power units, salts exuding from every tunnel wall, and the pervasive odor of a Parisian pissoir. The gloom was amplified by the dim yellow lighting pulsing to the fluctuations of the generators. The only decorations on the wall were the phantom impressions of the long-gone wooden forms that had contained the pour.
Colonel Galland, relishing his new role as General of the Fighter Arm, had assembled all of the leaders of fighter units in the West for "Operation Thunderbolt," a literal sink or swim operation for the still formidable remnants of the German surface fleet. Three of the proudest names in German military history adorned the ships bottled up in the harbor at Brest. The British bitterly wanted revenge against all three. The Gneisenau and the Scharnhorst had sunk the aircraft carrier HMS Glorious in 1940, while Prinz Eugen had escaped after aiding the Bismarck in sinking the Hood. The RAF had launched more than three hundred attacks against the ships; sooner or later they would sink them where they floated at Brest.
Josten knew no words would be wasted as Galland stepped to the podium, forcing himself to speak in slow, measured tones that compelled attention, his rich baritone reaching to every corner of the briefing room.
"The Fuehrer has directed that the battle cruisers Gneisenau and Scharnhorst and the heavy cruiser Prinz Eugen, with the necessary escorts, leave the harbor at Brest, and proceed"—he paused for emphasis—"via the English Channel to Wilhelmshaven, and then to ports in Norway."
There was a collective gasp. The British had permitted no enemy navy to force the channel since The Armada; they would certainly throw in everything they had in order to stop this effort.
"I understand your reaction, but the fact is there is no alternative. If we leave the ships in Brest, they will eventually be sunk by the RAF; if we take the other route, around Ireland and Scotland, we will be met and outgunned by the Home Fleet. If we sail the Channel"—he grinned broadly at the Navy men fuming near the podium—"the Luftwaffe can protect the Navy."
"The Fuehrer recognizes that this is a high-risk project, but has determined that the effort must be made. These ships will be vital for the defense of Norway, and to attack the convoys."
Some of the men were taking notes; others looked on in a stunned silence.
Galland swiftly laid out the plan—the ships would weigh anchor at night and steam at full speed through freshly swept minefields. Absolute radio silence was required. At noon the next day they would force their way through the narrowest part of the Channel, the Dover Strait.
"It is his view that the British reaction will be delayed long enough for us to effect a daylight passage of the narrowest part of the Channel. It is the most prudent time, even though we'll be vulnerable to air and sea attack, and even to shelling from the shore."
Galland went down an exhaustive list of requirements, detailing radio frequencies, takeoff times, and the absolute necessity for radio silence. He took a few questions, then began his conclusion.
"Gentlemen, this is one mission for which the only acceptable result is success. We must try to remain undetected for as long as possible, for as soon as the British learn we are at sea they will launch every available bomber and torpedo aircraft against us. These must be shot down at all costs."
He paused, conscious that he was beginning to speak too rapidly and that he must not lose the import of his final comment. He surveyed the room, letting his presence fill it.
"No matter what the reason—no ammunition, guns jammed, low fuel, whatever it might be—the Luftwaffe pilots who cannot shoot the hostile aircraft down will ram them."
There was another stunned silence among the Air Force men as
their naval counterparts broke into broad smiles, realizing that the
Luftwaffe had just accepted the ultimate responsibility for the success of the mission.
Driving back to base in his Horch cabriolet, Josten had time to digest the full meaning of Galland's briefing and to consider how it influenced his own position, already highly unusual. Galland had selected him as an airborne commander during the critical initial part of the operation. That sort of recognition would help him with his advocacy of the jet fighter. And he needed all the help he could get because time was so critical. If Russia were knocked out this year, the Me 262 could be developed at leisure. If Russia fought on, the jet would be absolutely necessary to ward off an invasion in the West, perhaps as early as next year. Then the 262 would be invaluable, perhaps even decisive.
*
The English Channel/February 12, 1942
Galland's plan called for a minimum of sixteen fighters to be over the fleet at all times. For twenty minutes of each hour the relief aircraft overlapped
, combining to form a force of thirty-two. The squadrons were to leapfrog along the French and Belgian coasts, landing to refuel at progressively more northern bases until the job was done.
At first the term "over the fleet" was a misnomer. To avoid the British radar for as long as possible, they flew below the mast height of the three capital ships that steamed north at full speed, their bows diving like eager dolphins into the slate-gray ocean, rising to toss back V-shaped spumes of green-white spray. On the day's first sortie, the miserable weather forced the ships to weave in and out of the gray-white frosting that heaped the surface of the sea like whipped cream on a Sacher torte. Josten maintained a constant watch for the destroyers and motor torpedo boats that bounded around the ships like dogs nipping at the heels of sheep.
By Josten's second sortie, the clouds began to lift, and he had a clear view of the extent of the fleet. The three big vessels were in line astern, with destroyers ranging ahead and on each side, and the German E boats scampering about, crisscrossing in a watery gymkhana.
The noise of the engine receded into the background of his consciousness, and there remained only the unremitting crackle of the receiver of the non-transmitting radios. Dolfo must have impressed them; the Luftwaffe was maintaining perfect radio discipline. All of Galland's preparations had been good, from the gradual increase in jamming to confuse British radar to the flurry of Luftwaffe sorties that had been flown in the past few weeks to disguise today's efforts.
The fleet had been at sea for fourteen hours, the last four in broad daylight. It was a February blessing that little more than four more hours of daylight remained. It seemed impossible that the British had not detected them by radar or by the innumerable aircraft with which they patrolled. Was it a trap?
He knew that the fabled white cliffs of Dover were only eighteen miles away; the ships were within the range of the guns there. And where were the bombers and the torpedo planes?
Josten banked sharply as a wall of water erupted in front of him; gunfire from the coast, well behind the stern of the last ship, Prinz Eugen. Very well, they had been sighted, and the code words "Open visor" came over the headsets, relieving them of radio silence and low altitude flight. The Messerschmitts quickly broke up into groups flying at one-, two-, and three-hundred meters height.
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