V-S Day: A Novel of Alternate History (13 page)

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.

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.

The engineers who’d built the engine were clustered around an instrument box, carefully watching the dials and meters registering the status of the engine’s fuel, pressure, and electrical systems. Finally satisfied, one of them looked over at the two Army officers standing nearby. “Ready when you are,” he said.

Colonel Bliss turned to Lieutenant Jackson. “Jack?”

Jack Cube didn’t lower his binoculars. “Tell ’em to go ahead, sir,” he said quietly.

Bliss nodded to the engineers. One of them began a countdown, starting from ten. The movie camera purred as its operator began filming. Several people raised their hands to their ears.

At the count of zero, the chief engineer pressed a toggle switch in the center of the box. From the distance, the dull grumble of the primary ignition sequence sounded. A small reddish spark appeared deep within the engine bell, showing that the nitrogen had forced the kerosene and liquid oxygen together in the combustion chamber, where they’d been ignited by an electric heating element. A couple of seconds later, the grumble became a mighty roar that thundered across the plain. The small spark was suddenly replaced by a white-hot jet that flared from the engine like an enormous blowtorch, sending a dense black plume roiling up into the blue desert sky. The engine trembled and shook upon the test bed, straining against the iron straps and bolts that held it down. It no longer seemed to be a machine but instead a living creature, a metal tiger suddenly awakened and wanting to be freed.

A cheer rose from the engineers, almost loud enough to be heard over the engine. They clapped each other on the back and shook hands; a couple of them looked like they were on the verge of jumping out of the trench and running straight to the test bed. Even the guards were grinning, as were the three visitors nearby. Hands covering his ears, Bliss laughed out loud.

The only person who didn’t share the enthusiasm was J. Jackson Jackson. He continued to watch the rocket engine through his binoculars, lips barely moving as he counted elapsed seconds beneath his breath: “Nine . . . ten . . . eleven . . .”

And then the engine exploded.

There was no warning at all. One moment, it was operating as it should. The next, it disappeared within the enormous fireball that erupted upon the test bed. It was as if the Army Air Force had chosen that moment to drop a one-ton bomb on the desert.

The blast made everyone duck behind the cover of the sandbags, which was just as well because the explosion sent twisted pieces of metal in all directions, with a copper pipe hitting the ground only a dozen feet from the trench. The movie camera almost toppled before someone grabbed its tripod and kept it upright, but one of the periscopes was blown over. A wave of intense heat rushed across the trench, hotter than the desert sun.

The explosion was still echoing off the distant mountains when Colonel Bliss slowly rose from his instinctive crouch to peer over the barricade at the smoking mess. “What happened?” he asked in dull astonishment, as if it weren’t obvious.

“Who knows?” Jack Cube lowered his binoculars with a shrug that could have been mistaken for indifference. He was the only one who was unruffled by the catastrophe. “Bad welds causing a leak. Bad fuel-mixture ratio. Turbine failure. Any number of things. Maybe we’ll figure it out when we pick up the pieces.”

“You don’t seem surprised.”

Jackson gave him an incredulous look:
Are you kidding?
“I would’ve been surprised if it was a success. This is . . . this was . . . a prototype. They almost always fail even if they’re built completely according to spec. And . . .”

He stopped himself, looked away from the colonel. “And what, Lieutenant?” Bliss asked. “Let’s hear it.”

Jack Cube hesitated, then slowly shook his head. “Sir, this is no way to run an R&D program. You can’t expect our group to simply put stuff down on paper, then send it to someone else to build and test. You’ve got to let us get our hands on the hardware if we’re going to . . .”

“Not a chance.” The colonel grunted as he heaved himself out of the trench, disdaining the wooden steps that had been built into one end. He turned to offer Jack Cube a hand, only to find that the younger man had already climbed up and was standing beside him. “My orders are to keep the brain trust away from the rockets. What just happened here proves to me that it’s a wise decision.”

“Sir, I disagree. What it really proves is that you can’t compartmentalize this project.” Jack hesitated. “We have a solution. There’s a manufacturer in Worcester, the Wyman-Gordon Company. A military contractor, making various components for aircraft companies. If we could arrange to have them build the main engine under the 390 Group’s direct supervision . . .”

“And conduct tests where? Tell me a place in New England where you could fire an engine of this size and keep it a secret. That, plus the security risks of undertaking a secret military construction program in a major city . . .”

“It would be the last place the Nazis would look.” Bliss gave him a skeptical look, but Jackson went on. “Think about it, sir. Who would expect anyone to build a rocket engine in Worcester? And in an aircraft factory, there would already be enough security in place to . . .”

“Out of the question.” Shaking his head, Bliss walked away. “Enough, Lieutenant. This isn’t why I asked you to come here.”

“Yes, sir.” Jackson knew better than to try to force the issue. Omar Bliss was stubborn by nature, and as Blue Horizon’s project director, he had the last word. But as he fell into step with the colonel, he resolved to win the argument. Sooner or later, he’d make Bliss come around. He just had to come up with a better line of reasoning.

The three visitors who’d witnessed the test had climbed out of the trench. They’d lit cigarettes and were leaning against the sandbags, quietly chatting among themselves. At the colonel’s approach, the two in uniform dropped their smokes and stood at attention, while the one in civilian clothes did not. All three had a self-confident, almost arrogant attitude that Jack Cube recognized from flight school. They were test pilots, and if Bliss was right, they were the best.

“Lieutenant Calhoun, Lieutenant Sloman, Mr. McPherson . . . if you’ll come with us, please.” The colonel walked by them without stopping, heading for a jeep parked beside the unfinished blockhouse, where construction had begun a few weeks ago.

The test pilots crowded into the backseat, and the colonel rode shotgun while Jack drove. A short ride over a bumpy, unpaved road brought them to a single-story prefab in the middle of the secret compound going up inside Alamogordo Army Air Field. Bliss and Jackson led the three men into the building and down a short corridor to the colonel’s office. Just outside the door, a sign was on the corridor wall:

Whatever You See Here,
Whatever You Hear Here,
When You Leave Here,
It Stays Here.

Giving the sign a significant look, the colonel tapped it with his finger, then unlocked the door and opened it. His office was small, windowless, and lined with file cabinets, its government-issue desk covered with paperwork. Bliss beckoned to three folding chairs set up, then took a seat behind the desk. Jack closed the door and leaned against a file cabinet, arms crossed.

“Gentlemen, we’ve met already.” Bliss nodded to Jackson. “Let me introduce Lieutenant J. Jackson Jackson. He belongs to a research-and-development team currently involved in the biggest military R&D program Uncle Sam has going. It’s called Operation Blue Horizon, and what you just saw was the first major test.”

“Looks like it was a success,” Chuck Calhoun said drily. A short, beefy man with a red crew cut, he had a perpetual sneer that hinted at undying cynicism about everything.

“Yeah . . . a roaring success.” This from Joe McPherson, a skinny, awkward-looking guy with jug ears and a pronounced Adam’s apple.

The third man said nothing although a smile whispered at the corners of his mouth. Rudy Sloman was just a little taller than Calhoun, wiry and narrow-shouldered, with one of those homely-yet-handsome faces that either repels women or attracts them.

“Believe it or not, it was a success,” Bliss said. “The engine ran for twelve seconds before it blew up . . .”

“Eleven seconds,” Jackson said softly.

“Eleven seconds”—Bliss scowled at him—“which is pretty good considering that it’s the most powerful liquid-fuel rocket engine yet built. The next one we build will last longer, and we’ll keep working on it until we get something that can sustain 132,000 pounds of thrust for ninety seconds.”

McPherson whistled. “That’s a tall order. What are you planning to build here, some kind of rocket fighter?”

“Sort of like that . . . but not quite.” Bliss looked at Jackson. “Lieutenant?”

“What we’re building is a manned space vehicle that will operate above Earth’s atmosphere,” Jackson said. “The X-1 will be a fighter, yes, but . . .”

He didn’t get to finish. Calhoun was already braying laughter, slapping his hands against his knees as he doubled over in his chair. McPherson tried not to laugh, but the smirk that appeared on his face betrayed his skepticism. Sloman shook his head disbelievingly but otherwise remained quiet.

“Man, oh man!” Calhoun was almost wheezing from the effort to speak. “You darkies sure are funny!”

“Knock it off!” Bliss snapped. “You’ll address Lieutenant Jackson with the respect due to a fellow officer!”

Jack tried not to smile. Over the past couple of months, Bliss had gradually learned to regard him as being more than “a credit to his race,” yet this was the first time he’d heard the colonel stand up for him. At least in one area, they were making progress . . .

“Yeah, yeah . . . sure, Colonel. Sorry.” Calhoun snuffled back laughter, straightened up again. Then he looked at Jackson, and said, “So, Lieutenant . . . with all due respect, how many shoes did you have to shine to get those bars?”

Jack Cube’s hands fell to his sides, reflexively curled into fists. He did nothing, though, except look at Bliss and quietly shake his head. “Okay, Calhoun, get out of here,” the colonel said, his voice tight with anger. “The program can’t use someone like you.”

“With pleasure.” Calhoun shoved his hands in his pockets and strutted out of the shack. Just before he left, though, he began to whistle a tune. Jackson recognized it at once: “Suwannee River,” an old minstrel-show song usually performed by white people in blackface.

Bliss waited until Calhoun slammed the door shut behind him, then let out his breath. “My apologies, Lieutenant. If you want, I can have him brought up on charges.”

Jack shook his head. “That’s all right, sir. I’m just glad we found a bad apple early.” He looked at the other two men. “What about you? Any more humorous remarks?”

McPherson had already wiped the smile off his face. He shook his head. “Not at all, Lieutenant Jackson,” Sloman said, speaking up for the first time. “Only too happy to be serving with you.” He paused, then added, “A rocket ship? Did I understand you correctly?”

“Yes, you did. Blue Horizon is a crash program to build a fighter that will ascend to suborbital altitude of more than forty miles and return safely to Earth. We’re doing this because the Germans are doing the same thing . . . and they intend to use it to bomb New York.”

Sloman let out a low, soft whistle, but McPherson was unimpressed. Folding his arms across his chest, he raised an eyebrow. “Nazi spaceship. Uh-huh . . . now I’ve heard everything.”

“Believe it, Mr. McPherson,” Bliss said. “Army intelligence has received sufficient information to convince us that the threat is real. We wouldn’t be going through all this if we didn’t think otherwise.”

“We can discuss details later,” Jack Cube said. “For now, though, the reason why the three of you have been asked to come here . . . two, now that Mr. Calhoun has been dismissed . . . is because we need to find someone to fly this craft.”

“I had a feeling you were going to say that.” There was a sly grin on Sloman’s face.

“I’d think that would have been obvious by now.” Jackson gave him a brief smile in return. “Make no mistake . . . this will probably be the toughest mission you’ve undertaken. Training alone will be extremely difficult. As for the X-1 itself . . . it’s still on the drawing boards, but have no doubts, gentlemen, it will be unlike anything you’ve ever flown before.”

“Uh-huh. I see.” McPherson rubbed his nose. “And what’s in it for us?”

“That should be obvious,” Jack said. “A chance to serve your country as no one else ever has, and a place in history if your mission succeeds.” He didn’t mention another obvious fact—the consequences of failure would be violent death and an early grave—because pilots seldom spoke of such things.

McPherson slowly nodded, then reached over to the colonel’s desk and picked up a notepad and a pencil. He jotted something down, then tore off the page, folded it in half, and stood up to hand it to Bliss. “All that’s well and good,” he said, “but if you want the best, you’re going to have to pay for it. That’s my figure, Colonel. It’s not negotiable.”