Caldwell nodded, mentally thanking God that the Germans were short of jet fighters! It would have been a far different war if the Luftwaffe had had a few hundred jets to put over the battlefield.
*
London/June 18, 1944
It was absolute hell being away from Elsie this long. The loneliness stoked his recurring depression. He had never been so mesmerized, so enchanted by a woman before. The longer they were together the more intense it became, a yearning offset only by Arnold's warm praise. Maybe all the crazy gambles he'd taken—and was still taking—were worthwhile. He stood gazing out the window toward the Guard's Chapel, gnashing his teeth in frustration as he caught his breath from the fast ten-block walk from his hotel. Now, for the third time that day, he was being kept waiting to talk to some Deputy Twit.
The Wellington Barracks office was the typical dignified anthill of wartime Great Britain—dozens of shabby desks crowded into an area where one glorious desk had once stood in solitary splendor, ashtrays filled to overflowing, tin trays of smudged teacups littering the floor. The acrid tobacco smoke was like a whiplash to his lungs, causing him to salivate in a fit of nicotine hunger. In New Orleans, Elsie had made him promise to quit smoking. It was tough, but she had insisted, and he always gave in to her.
The huge walnut double doors leading into the Deputy Minister's office were open for the stream of smartly uniformed young officers running in and out with sheaves of multicolored paper in their hands, each one nodding to Caldwell as he shot by, as if to say, "What I'm doing is obviously more important than what you are here for."
It was exactly the sort of assignment Caldwell hated—nothing firm, an amorphous agenda, and dealing with the smart-ass number twos of smart-ass number twos, all anxious to impress, but few anxious to work. Two years ago he could have accomplished all he wanted in two days—now it looked like it might take two weeks. The only thing that made the waiting tolerable was the time it gave him to think and plan the rest of his trip.
But this was part of the price Hap Arnold had extracted for the little side visit to Normandy.
"Henry, you don't think I took you to France for nothing, do you?
Caldwell hadn't answered Hap's rhetorical question—the relentlessly busy Arnold always had a motive.
"You heard General Marshall complaining about how unpredictable the Russians were at Teheran. And the British weren't much better at Cairo. Marshall and Ike are both fed up with us making all the concessions. They want to make sure the planners have a firm agenda for the next Big Three meeting. It's supposed to be early next year, maybe in Russia."
Caldwell was spending hours dealing with the Royal Air Force, the Foreign Office, and half a dozen other organizations, sorting out the protocol, pressing not for an exact agenda, but for a format that would require one. He knew it was a losing game—nothing could be accomplished at this level, not even with his contacts.
And it was probably pointless. The last time he'd seen Roosevelt, he didn't look as if he'd survive the year, much less be able to make another trip halfway around the world. The war had sapped the old campaigner's strength and not even the prospective drive for reelection seemed to excite him.
For Caldwell's purposes, it was a perfect time to be in Europe. Miraculously, the invasion had succeeded, despite adverse weather and all the possibilities of its going wrong. On the trip back on board the Thompson, Arnold and he had agreed that the turning point was last February with Operation Argument, when the skies over Germany had become a killing ground for the Luftwaffe.
He'd had a chance to visit Farnborough to see a production version of the first British jet fighter, the Gloster Meteor. It saddened him that Gloster had come up with a far more capable aircraft than McNaughton. Using Whittle-designed engines of about the same power, the Meteor was as fast as the McNaughton, but much more maneuverable. Caldwell was going to have to get Bandy or Hadley Roget give him a report on why there was such a big difference.
On the 15th, the Germans had launched 250 V-l buzz bombs against England, some seventy of which peppered London. The actual physical damage done was slight, but the threat to morale was tremendous. The winged robots, pulse-jet engines barking along their predetermined course, were as noisy as freight trains until they reached their target. Then, nosing down, the pulse-jet quit, and they would plunge silently and indiscriminately to the ground. Even the most optimistic Englishman of them all, Winston Churchill, took notice and called them "depressing."
Caldwell wasn't as worried by the V-l as others around him. The value of weapons shifts over time, and the V-l's time had passed. If Hitler had been able to fire them off at the intended rate—some eight thousand per month—during the spring, they would truly have been a wonder weapon. They would have chewed up much of the massed potential of the Allied armies waiting in England, and there would-have been no invasion. How close it had been: even sixty days earlier, and the whole course of the war would have shifted. Now that the Allied troops were ashore, the V-l launching sites would be overrun. He wondered who the German project officer for the V-l program was—he felt some professional sympathy for him, having a war-winning weapon in hand and then not being able to use it in time. Maybe someday he could compare notes with Hafner about it.
The public knew full well that there were other reprisal weapons in the works, but the true potential of the V-2 had not yet filtered down. No one knew when the V-2 firings would commence, nor how intensive they would be, but Caldwell was betting that they possessed a greater capability to break morale than bombers or the V-l. Swedish observers said that the missile actually left the earth's atmosphere in its flight, then reentered faster than the speed of sound, exploding before anyone could hear it coming! Even if radar somehow managed to pick it up, there was no way to intercept it. The Germans' advance in technology was tremendous; even with the benefit of the microfilmed information from Hafner, McNaughton Aircraft was technically overwhelmed by the V-2. Yet this was the 1903 of missiles—if they progressed as fast as airplanes, there would be no more manned bombers in twenty years.
He was going to wind up this trip with a visit to Sweden, ostensibly to talk to the scientists who had examined the shattered remains of a V-2 that had crashed there. His real purpose, however, was to bring Lyra and the baby out of danger, to the United States.
Caldwell was confident that she would come. The last time he'd seen her she'd been terribly worried about what would happen to the baby. Elsie was the perfect person to offer Lyra sanctuary, to take care of her until the war was over. It was too sensitive to discuss with her yet, but Elsie was the kindest person he'd ever known—she'd do it gladly.
Lyra was just the start. Intelligence showed that Russia was already gathering up information on missiles, jets, and—God forbid—the German atomic experiments. It was going to be essential to scoop up as many of the German scientists as possible and bring them to work in the United States. Maybe if he got them employed at McNaughton they could make some progress on an American successor to the V-2.
A young aide, terribly tall, terribly thin, and terribly blond, tripped out of the office to announce flutily. "The Minister will see you in five minutes."
Caldwell nodded his thanks and looked out the window. A flight of aircraft—they looked like the new Hawker Tempests from a distance—was peeling off. He followed the line of their dive down and saw a small cruciform at about eight thousand feet, exhaust streaming behind it. The Tempests—big-snouted airplanes with elliptical wings, sort of a Spitfire with a pituitary problem—came down firing, then zoomed back up for another go. They'd missed and he heard the faint popping. It was a V-l and it was coming his way.
The Tempests were forming up again to dive as the little flying bomb came on, growing louder. Caldwell thought, Must be doing about three hundred miles per hour, straight as a string. The Tempests dove again. Incredibly two of them touched wings to merge in an explosion as the mindless V-l raced inexorably onward.
It was less than
half a mile away when it pitched forward, the engine quitting, plunging almost straight down for the Wellington Barracks, looking as if it were aimed directly at his window. He raced into the astounded Deputy Minister's office yelling, "Get down!" and threw himself under a heavy oak table.
*
Stockholm/June 18, 1944
The letter in Lyra's hand was, in its own way, as potentially explosive as any incoming V-1. On the surface it was a directive to attend a symposium in Berlin for Foreign Ministry researchers and translators. That wasn't too unsettling—as the war progressed, Nazi Germany had become addicted to meetings, conferences, and symposia, as if talking would somehow solve the increasing difficulties. Despite dozens of official bans on unnecessary travel and explicit prohibitions of "non-essential" meetings, conferences had proliferated.
But people at her level weren't usually invited, for the conferences usually meant tacit perks for higher-ups—trips home, some extra rations, or a chance for some clandestine romance.
It was troubling that the invitation was so preemptive. She had to leave tomorrow, aboard a Luftwaffe transport plane, instead of flying the more comfortable—and safer—civil flight on A.B.A., the Swedish airline to Berlin.
Steeling herself, she went through the by-now automatic precaution of turning Ulrich over to Greta, repeating her precise instructions as to what should happen if she didn't return. She kissed the baby goodbye and embraced Greta, who had given them so much love and support since Ulrich's birth, and upon whom she now depended totally.
The aging Junkers transport was camouflaged for the flight over the sea, with even the black cross insignia on the wing painted in muted colors. It was symbolic. Once the Luftwaffe had ruled the Baltic. Now it had to skulk along at wavetop height to avoid Allied aircraft. There were only three other passengers, men in civilian clothes who nodded to her courteously enough, then returned to their own discussion.
It didn't trouble her when they veered away from Berlin—there was probably an air raid in progress. But her heart plummeted when she realized they were landing at the Focke-Wulf airfield at Cottbus, and that a police van was waiting. So it had come to this.
The largest of the three men escorted her to the van, saying, "I'm Sergeant Boedigheimer. Don't be alarmed, this is for your own protection. You are going to see a friend, Colonel Hafner."
She composed herself on the short drive to Hafner's office. Ulrich was safe, that was all that mattered. She'd done what she had to do, and she'd do what was necessary to survive.
Hafner greeted her with customary directness.
"Countess, I'm sorry that I had to intercept you. The letter you received was a death warrant. Your friend Dr. Goebbels had arranged for you to go to Buchenwald, to be disposed of."
Lyra was wary—this might be a trick, part of an interrogation process.
"Why would the Reichsminister do that? I've done nothing wrong."
"Let's not dissemble. He must have decided that he can't afford to have it known that he had a Jewess as a lover."
A sense of helplessness enveloped her. She'd always suspected that Hafner knew all about her.
"What will happen when he finds out that I'm not at Buchenwald?"
"As far as he will know, you've gone to Buchenwald and have been killed and your body cremated. We've arranged for a substitute. No one will ever know the difference."
Lyra laughed nervously to herself—her death was being arranged with false papers, the same way her marriage had been!
"Why are you doing this?"
"I could tell you that it's because your husband is my friend, but I won't. The truth is that you were a threat to me—you knew too much about my dealings with the Americans and the Russians. I don't think you'd betray me deliberately, but you are an amateur and you were being watched. They might have interrogated you, and I couldn't afford that. But most of all, you will be a bargaining chip, either for the Americans or the Russians."
"Helmut will find out and kill you."
"Quite the contrary. Helmut knows and approves. He'll be here this afternoon to collect you. We're going to hide you at Dr. Kersten's country home, about seventy-five kilometers from Berlin. You'll be safe and very comfortable there."
"Am I a prisoner?"
"Not at all. Harzewalde is a large house, with a staff and gardens. You'll eat well. But for your own safety, you will be under house arrest and incommunicado. Do you want your baby brought down to you?"
Panicked, Lyra said, "No. I don't want him to come to Germany, ever. I'll go to him when I can." Recovering her poise, she asked, "Why is Helmut going along with this?"
"He thinks you've been denounced for being a Jewess. That's enough nowadays. I haven't told him about your love affair with Goebbels or that you are a spy. It would kill him if he knew you'd passed on secrets on the jet fighter. And he'd probably kill us both."
When Helmut arrived, he was formal and correct, but terribly hurt that she considered their marriage ended. His blond hair was thinning and the ingrained dirt of combat flying darkened his tired face.
After he was sure she was well, he asked, "Where is Ulrich?"
"I don't know, Helmut. Think about it! If I knew, it would put him at risk, and the people helping him, too. The whole agreement to hide Ulrich was conditional on secrecy—they couldn't take the risk, otherwise."
"And what happens now? What if something happens to you or to me? How do we find him?"
"They know to seek us out. They tell me that it will be a religious family, working with a Swedish pastor. I have to trust them. God knows there is no one else to trust."
The answer infuriated him, and they drove in silence to Harzewalde, accepting that the war had made them strangers.
*
Nordhausen/July 24, 1944
Terror and death, death and terror. That's what Germany's come to today. If we were winning, that might be all right. But we're not.
Bruno Hafner did not dare say out loud what he was thinking, even to poor old Kurt Weigand struggling along beside him. The whole country was drenched in a vengeful more-Nazi-than-thou hysteria after last Thursday's attempt on Hitler's life. Super-patriotism was now the order of the day. No one entered or left a room without an enthusiastic "Heil Hitler" salute, especially here at the great Central Works, where the SS had taken over the V-2 program.
What bunglers the plotters had been! There's going to be a blood bath that will make the Night of the Long Knives back in 1934 look like a tea party. God help anyone under suspicion for anything.
Hafner looked at Weigand with concern. He'd been going downhill ever since being trapped in the shelter at Regensburg-Pruefening. He hadn't been badly wounded, but the experience had stripped him of his drive and energy.
The meeting had been called by Himmler himself. Only God knew what the man wanted, or how he could take time off to come to this colossal running sore called Nordhausen.
The gigantic plant was operated solely on the basis of terror. When Hafner built his underground plant at Cottbus, he had never imagined that subterranean architecture would go to extremes like this. Only 160 kilometers from Berlin, under Kohnstein mountain in the Harz range, a slave crew of human ants had created the greatest underground factory in the world. Two main tunnels, each nearly two kilometers long, had been tunneled out in an S-shaped parallel course (appropriate now, since the SS had taken over) about two hundred meters apart. Joining them, like rungs of a ladder, were forty-three parallel galleries. Almost one hundred thousand square meters of floor space had been hacked out by Sklavenarbeiter. More highly skilled slaves were now producing V-2s at the rate of six hundred per month, and still others were building the Junkers jet engines that were at long last streaming off the production lines.
The factory was totally bomb-proof, and there were no limits to its expansion. Plants for producing liquid oxygen and synthetic oil were being built. No attempt had been made to build a runway—they were too attractive as targets—but there was talk of making co
mplete jet aircraft there and catapulting them into the air from the factory entrance.
They had entered via an open elevator, which had clanked down a cool, moisture-glistening limestone shaft. Humidity hung in the tunnels in sponge-like air, stirred periodically by chill gusts of wind that whistled in the skein of electrical wires suspended overhead. Despite the moisture, there was dust everywhere. Hafner had a small cut on his finger, and the dusty air stung it like iodine. Underlying the hollow echoing noises of the workplace was a dull drumming, the hacking cough of the slave laborers. The lights swinging in the gelid draft danced the workers' shadows across the chiseled cavern walls, surrealistic silhouettes waxing large as giants, then waning to nothingness.
"Dr. Caligari's cabinet. Macabre," was Kurt's first comment.
On each side there were endless rows of machine tools, each one served by teams of emaciated laborers in torn striped pajamas. Some wore the yellow patch of the Jew, some the sr for Sowjetrusseland, some p for Poles. All wore wooden clogs for shoes. Those at work bent hastily over their tools. Any others stood at a bony attention against the side of the passage, their striped caps doffed, cringing if one of the black-shirted SS Totenkopfverbande guards—"death's head" was so appropriate—made a sudden movement. Even in passing, Hafner caught their death scent. They were already decaying, dissolving into the moldy vapors of the manmade cave.
Weigand was agitated, mumbling to himself.
"What's that, Kurt?"
"Look."
He pointed down one of the tunnels to the side. Strung across on a rope, eleven cadavers in advanced stages of decomposition were hanging. A twelfth had rotted and fallen to the ground beneath the rope he had died on.
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