V-S Day: A Novel of Alternate History

THE WOLF’S LAIR

AUGUST 20, 1941

The Mercedes-Benz cabriolet moved through the forest, the small Nazi flags mounted above its front fender signifying its status as an official vehicle. Just ahead, two soldiers on motorcycles acted as escorts; without them, the touring car would have had to stop at every checkpoint along the road. Even so, it slowed down whenever it came upon one of the Panzers parked along the roadside, if only to let the soldiers of the elite Führer Escort Battalion render stiff-armed salutes.

In the backseat, Dr. Wernher von Braun tried to assuage his nervousness by gazing through the closed windows at the towering black conifers that darkened the forest floor. He idly wondered how many different species of birds inhabited the Masurian woods of East Prussia; owls, no doubt, but probably also eagles, falcons, and other raptors that preyed upon the rabbits and squirrels that populated this dense, remote forest. Yet every time the Mercedes-Benz passed another tank, or he caught another glimpse of an antiaircraft gun hidden beneath camouflage nets, he was reminded that the woodland’s deadliest inhabitants walked on two legs.

Wolfsschanze. Wolf’s Lair. An appropriate name.

“Relax, Wernher.” The Army colonel seated beside him gently patted his knee. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

Von Braun pulled his gaze from the forest to the other man sharing the touring car’s rear seat. Colonel Walter Dornberger, thin-faced and balding, had a perpetual smile that masked an intellectual intensity second only to von Braun’s. A dedicated follower of National Socialism, he wore his dress uniform today with pride, eager for a meeting with the man he’d worshipped for nearly a decade.

“I’m not worried at all.” Von Braun kept his voice low so as not to be heard through the glass partition separating them from the Reich Security Service officer driving the car. Catching the amused glint in Dornberger’s eye, he corrected himself. “Well, perhaps a little… but only about the briefing.”

“Let me worry about that.” Dornberger pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, patted the sweat on his brow. The Mercedes-Benz’s tonneau was warm with its windows rolled up, but the alternative would have been even more uncomfortable; the humid forest air was practically alive with mosquitoes, as attested to by the fact that the soldiers all had gauze nets suspended from the rims of their helmets. “I’ll lead the briefing. All I want you to do is explain the technical details. Just…”

“Just don’t get too technical. Yes, I understand. You’ve reminded me several times already, Walter.”

Annoyed, Dornberger glared at the younger man. “Would it have killed you to wear your uniform?” he added softly.

Von Braun didn’t reply. He was dressed in civilian clothing, a plain black suit with a swastika pin affixed to the right lapel. This had been a sticking point between him and Dornberger even before they’d boarded a Heinkel 111 transport at the Peenemünde airfield earlier that morning. Von Braun had joined the National Socialist Party only reluctantly, after it became apparent that he wouldn’t be allowed to continue his research unless he swore allegiance to the Nazi cause. Indeed, he was the last holdout from the old Verein für Raumschiffahrt, the Society for Space Travel, which was dismantled after the Führer became Chancellor, its leading members absorbed by the Army’s ordnance division. Even so, von Braun remained a civilian until just last year, when he finally ceded to Heinrich Himmler’s demand that he join the Schutzstaffel as well; the Reichsführer insisted that Peenemünde’s technical director had to belong to the SS if Wa Pruf 11—Ordnance Test 11, the rocket program’s official name—was to continue to receive funding. Yet von Braun found his own quiet means of resistance; he’d never worn his black SS uniform, and it still hung in his office closest, untouched since the day he’d received it.

Dornberger knew what von Braun’s silence meant. Sighing expansively, he settled back against the seat. “And try to contain your enthusiasm,” he muttered. “No one wants to hear about going to the Moon.”

“Yes, Walter… I know.” Von Braun had been swept up by the dream of space exploration as a teenager, but Dornberger didn’t come along until the German Army became interested in the VfR’s efforts to develop a rocket capable of leaving Earth. Peenemünde’s military director was only interested in developing an ultimate weapon with which Germany could crush its foes. Beneath the jovial exterior was a dedicated Nazi with little patience for thoughts of sending men to the Moon… unless, perhaps, it happened sometime in the distant future, when a victorious Third Reich planted its bloodred flag on another world.

The touring car slowed down. A gatehouse lay just ahead, a wooden barrier lowered across the road. The motorcycle escort veered away, allowing the Mercedes-Benz to approach the gate on its own. A soldier with a submachine gun strapped across his shoulder stepped up to the car as it came to a halt. Bending over to the driver’s side window, he took a moment to examine the passengers in the backseat, then he turned to the other soldiers manning the checkpoint and raised his arm. The barrier was lifted, and the car passed through, the sentries snapping off salutes as it went by.

Now von Braun could see the sprawling compound they’d just entered. As the Mercedes-Benz slowly drove down the main road, buildings appeared from beneath the trees that hid them from reconnaissance aircraft. Here and there lay bunkerlike structures, their concrete walls with few windows or doors obviously designed to resist aerial bombing, making them even more utilitarian and ugly. Uniformed officers strode purposefully upon gravel footpaths; there were no gardens or benches, and no one paused for a casual chat. This was a place where military discipline mattered above all other considerations. Everywhere he looked, von Braun saw swastikas.

Despite the summer heat, a chill ran down his back. This was the Third Reich’s nerve center, the place from which the Führer and his staff directed the war they’d launched against the rest of Europe. Over the past few years, von Braun had tried to distance himself as much as possible from the conflict, preferring to keep it at arm’s length, but lately he’d come to realize that this was no longer possible. God help him, he was one of them.

The cabriolet turned left onto a side road, passed over a train track, then came to a stop beside a one-story building. The driver got out and opened the left-rear door, and as von Braun picked up his briefcase and eased himself from the tonneau, he saw a senior officer walking toward the car.

“Dr. von Braun! How good to see you again!” Albert Speer grinned as he offered a hand.

“General Speer. Good to see you as well.” Von Braun was sincere when he said this. Tall and handsome, Speer was more than the Third Reich’s chief architect. Over the last couple of years, he’d also become the rocket program’s best friend in the High Command. An engineer to the core, Speer had taken an interest in the A-4 as soon as he learned of it, even going so far as to design the facilities at Peenemünde. He obviously saw himself as von Braun’s colleague, another man of science intrigued by the possibility of space travel.

Which was fortunate, because it meant that the Peenemünde scientists had a champion in the Führer’s inner circle, someone with the clout to keep the rocket program alive. And Wa Pruf 11 needed all the friends it could get. Plagued by technical problems every step of the way, suffering numerous setbacks for each advance it achieved, the A-4 project had gradually become a lesser military priority, losing official support to the Luftwaffe’s effort to develop Cherry Stone, a jet-propelled aerial torpedo.

This visit, arranged by Speer, was the last chance for Dornberger and von Braun to make their case to the High Command. If they failed, Wa Pruf 11 would gradually be starved to death. Already, its resources were being shifted from Army Ordnance to the Luftwaffe… and no one at Peenemünde wanted to have Reich Marshal Goering as their new chief.

“I trust you’ve had a pleasant journey,” Speer said as he enthusiastically shook von Braun’s hand. “I want to thank you for taking the time to come here. I know how much you hate to leave your workplace.”

“It is nothing. Besides, it is we who are grateful. Were it not for you…”

“It’s what little I can do.” Speer glanced at his watch. “Almost 1700. He will be here soon. If you’ll come this way, please?”

Von Braun and Dornberger followed Speer to the nearby bunker. Now that he was closer, von Braun could see that its walls were unbelievably thick: two meters of steel-reinforced concrete, with an outer masonry wall almost as an afterthought. Even Peenemünde’s launch control center wasn’t as solidly built. On the other side of a solid steel door was a short corridor leading to a conference room. Its walls were paneled with pine in an unsuccessful attempt to give the room a homey, rustic appearance; in its center was a long black table surrounded by wooden armchairs. A couple of windows had been opened; otherwise, the afternoon heat would have turned the bunker into an oven. A movie projector was set up at one end of the table, a portable screen positioned on the opposite side of the room.

That wasn’t the first thing von Braun noticed, though. Other members of the senior staff had already arrived. Standing at an open window, hands clasped behind his back, was Field Marshal Wilhelm Keitel, the head of Oberkommando der Wehrmacht and the Führer’s chief of staff. And seated at the table, hands clasped together across his ponderous stomach, was Hermann Goering.

Seeing them, Dornberger instantly snapped to attention. “Heil Hitler!” he proclaimed, clicking his heels together and throwing his right arm forward as if it were a javelin. Von Braun repeated the same words; the briefcase in his right hand saved him from having to make that idiotic, vaudeville-hall salute. Keitel acknowledged them with a brief salute of his own, but Goering did nothing except regard Dornberger with amused contempt.

“Gentleman, please be seated.” Speer gestured to a couple of chairs on the other side of the table from Keitel and Goering. “Wernher, I understand you’ve brought a film you’d like for us to see?” He nodded toward a lieutenant standing beside the projector. “If you’ll give it to our staff officer, he can set it up for you.”

“Thank you.” Opening the briefcase on the table, von Braun pulled out a box containing a 30 mm movie reel. He handed it to the lieutenant, then watched over his shoulder as he loaded the projector. Von Braun was concerned about the film’s being damaged—it had been made specifically for this meeting, so there were no copies—but he also wanted to avoid Goering as much as possible. Even so, he could feel the Reich Marshal’s eyes upon him; it was as if Goering were a wolf and von Braun the hare who’d unwittingly wandered by.

The lieutenant had just finished threading the film into the take-up reel when the conference room door opened again. “The Führer!” Speer exclaimed, and this time everyone in the room turned toward the door. All except von Braun, who’d just then been removing some notes from his briefcase. Caught by surprise, he dropped the notes and hastily turned to find Adolf Hitler standing behind him.

This wasn’t von Braun’s first encounter with Hitler, and his impression of him hadn’t changed. For a man idolized by millions of loyal German citizens and feared by many more, he was far less intimidating in real life than he was in newsreels. He wore a grey uniform jacket with a swastika pin on the right lapel and the Reich’s eagle above the left breast pocket, and his tie was knotted with military precision, but von Braun couldn’t help but notice that his shirt collar was already stained with sweat. He was nearly a head shorter than von Braun, and his small body had none of the stature seen in official photographs. To von Braun, the lank, oily hair that fell across his forehead and the absurd little toothbrush mustache made him look like a peasant—a farmer or perhaps a butcher—who’d found a costume uniform somewhere and decided to wear it as a joke.

Then he gazed into Hitler’s cold eyes and saw what others had seen. Determination. Willpower. Ruthlessness. And lurking beneath all that, a hint of madness.

Wernher von Braun was a baron by inherited title, the scion of a wealthy German family. He’d never admired this Austrian commoner who’d found his way into beer-hall politics. Like many others of the social gentry, though, he’d been careful to keep his opinions to himself. Some of his liberal friends had had the foresight to flee Germany when they still could, and others had elected to stay and join the ranks of silent objectors, but the few who’d spoken out against Hitler and the Nazis had disappeared, taken from their homes by the Gestapo, their estates confiscated by the government. No one had forgotten the Night of the Long Knives, and no one talked about it either.

Von Braun suddenly realized that he was the only man present who hadn’t saluted the Führer. He had just begun to lift his right hand when Hitler stepped closer.

“Herr von Braun… Albert has told me much about you.”

“Yes, mein Führer.” It was all von Braun could manage. Obviously, Hitler had forgotten having already met him two years ago, when he’d visited the Wa Pruf 11 static test facility in Kummersdorf. At a loss for what else to do, von Braun offered a handshake.

Hitler ignored the gesture. Instead, he quietly studied von Braun for several moments, not smiling, never blinking once. Then he gave a small, vaguely satisfied nod and turned away.

“Very well.” He took a seat between Goering, Speer, and Keitel. “Show us what you’ve brought today.”

The movie began with shots of Peenemünde while it was still under construction and continued with footage of test launches. It was silent, with von Braun delivering narration and Dornberger occasionally chiming in. Von Braun did his best to keep the information on a nontechnical level, but he was more concerned about an uncomfortable fact he and the colonel had left unspoken: the A-4 project was behind schedule, having suffered one setback after another. Indeed, the most recent launch in the film was an A-3 prototype from ten months earlier; every other rocket launched since last October had exploded over the Baltic, if not on the pad itself.

As the film unspooled, von Braun studied Hitler from the corner of his eye. The Führer slumped in his seat, hands folded together, watching the film with no great interest. He had been afraid this might happen. When Hitler and his entourage had witnessed a static test of the A-4 engine at Kummersdorf, there had been an impressive display of fire and smoke as the 1,000-kg engine roared to life within its vertical test stand, yet the Führer had remained impassive. After the test, von Braun tried to explain what they’d just seen, but Hitler listened to him for only a couple of minutes before walking away, shaking his head in bafflement.

As the film drew to a close, there was an image von Braun wished Dornberger hadn’t insisted upon: an animated map of Europe and America, with a red arrow arching over the Atlantic from the United States to Germany.

“Germany isn’t alone in its efforts to perfect long-range military rockets,” Dornberger said, his voice fraught with menace. “America is doing so, too… and one day soon it may have the ability to launch an attack against the Fatherland. Clearly, the Reich must build a missile defense before other nations do so first.”

Von Braun suppressed an urge to groan.

The image faded, then the screen went white, and the last few inches of leader clattered through the take-up reel. The projectionist switched on the room lights, then walked over to the windows and opened the heavy blackout curtains. Hitler winced against the sudden rush of late-afternoon sunlight and rubbed his eyes, but it was Keitel who spoke for him.

“Are you certain of this, Colonel?” he asked Dornberger. “That America is able to attack us this way?”

“At this time, Field Marshal, the answer is no. But”—Dornberger tapped a finger against a memorandum he’d laid out on the table—“as I wrote in a report two years ago, the United States undoubtedly has a technological advantage. Like us, they, too, have been aggressively pursuing high-altitude rocket research over the last ten years… and we have little doubt that they may already be far ahead of us.”

Von Braun kept his expression neutral, but he knew that Dornberger was exaggerating to the point of telling an outright lie. No one really knew what the Americans were doing. Their rocket research was being done in secret, with no technical reports made public. Until 1930, von Braun was able to keep up with the progress being made by the sole American scientist actively pursuing space travel—a man whom von Braun secretly admired—but when he relocated his experiments from Massachusetts to rural New Mexico, he’d stopped talking to the press and refused to answer queries from anyone in Europe, including the VfR. Even the spies Germany had in the United States reported little recently except that he was apparently continuing to conduct rocket research.

Dornberger’s assertion that the United States was ahead in rocket research was questionable, to say the least. But von Braun knew why he’d made it. If fear was the only way he could motivate the Führer to continue funding research and development at Peenemünde, then fear was what he’d use.

“If this is so,” Keitel said, “then will it be possible for us to develop a rocket that will be able to reach America?”

“I’m not sure that’s even necessary,” Goering murmured. Like Hitler, he was unimpressed by the film. “America will not go to war with us. Their people are reluctant to get involved in European affairs, and their politicians know it.” He glanced at Hitler. “Mein Führer, America poses no threat to us. We will never have to fight them.”

“With respect, Reich Marshal, I disagree.” Dornberger shook his head. “It’s possible, yes, that America will continue its isolationist policies. Yet it’s just as possible that events may conspire to force their hand. Our continued assault upon Great Britain, for instance. Perhaps even the buildup of military forces in the Pacific by our Japanese allies.” Goering snorted, but Dornberger went on. “If this is the case, then we need to be prepared to counter an American rocket attack… or even make a preemptive strike of our own.”

“Really?” Keitel raised an eyebrow. “And will your A-4 be able to reach the American continent from Europe?”

Dornberger opened his mouth to speak, but von Braun interrupted him before he could make another baseless claim. “No, sir, it will not. Once perfected”—Dornberger gave him an angry glance—“the A-4 will have a maximum range of approximately 270 kilometers. This will be sufficient to attack targets in Britain, but the United States…?” He shook his head. “No, sir. I’m sorry, but that’s impossible.”

“However,” Dornberger quickly added, “we believe it may be possible to develop a step-rocket… that is, a multistage vehicle… capable of making a transcontinental flight. The ‘America Rocket,’ as we call it, would essentially stack an A-9 atop an A-10 rocket… once both are built, of course… with the result being a very large vehicle…”

“I have another idea,” Hitler said abruptly, and Dornberger immediately fell silent. “Why not fit the A-4 into one of our long-range cannons and fire it that way? This would increase its range, would it not?”

A smug smile appeared on the Führer’s face; apparently, he believed that he’d found an obvious solution that had eluded the Peenemünde scientists. It took all of von Braun’s self-control to keep from laughing out loud. Now more than ever, he knew that Hitler had no concept of what rockets were. He clearly thought that they were no more than artillery shells, much like the ones he’d handled during the last war.

“Mein Führer,” he said carefully, “this is… an interesting proposal. Unfortunately, it’s not feasible. The A-4 carries its own fuel. Even if there were an artillery piece large enough for this, the discharge would instantly destroy the vehicle.”

Hitler glared at him. No one in the room said anything. Von Braun noticed that even Speer had become silent. He might be a supporter of Wa Pruf 11, but he was not going to stick his neck into a noose for the sake of the Peenemünde rocket program.

Then the Führer slowly nodded. “Understood, Herr von Braun. But this… step-rocket, as you call it… you believe it could reach America?”

“Yes, mein Führer, it might be able to do that.” Remembering Dornberger’s earlier admonition, von Braun took care not to mention that the A-9/A-10 was little more than a fantasy concocted by the former VfR members working at Peenemünde. A piloted derivative of the A-4, the A-9 had been conceived for another purpose entirely: sending a manned spacecraft into orbit, as the first step to reaching the Moon. “However, I don’t want to mislead you into believing that it can be built anytime soon. It is only a hypothetical proposal, and our priority should be continuing the development of the A-4.”

“A program that has run into many difficulties.” Goering leaned forward in his chair to pluck through a sheaf of papers on the table before him. “Your team has been at this for… how long now? Six, seven years? Judging from these reports, you’re had far more failures than the successes you’ve just shown us.”

A nervous frown appeared on Dornberger’s face. “This is true, yes… but failures must be expected in an experimental program such as this. We’re building something entirely new…”

“Apparently not. Your little movie”—Goering nodded toward the projector—“just told us that the Americans are already ahead of us in this area. Are you telling me that the scientists of a mongrel nation are superior to German scientists?”

Dornberger became pale. Goering had pounced, and the colonel couldn’t help but notice Hitler’s eyes fastened upon him. Von Braun came to the rescue. “What we’re saying,” he calmly explained, “is that, in order to build weapons superior to America’s, we need to develop rocket technology that will be better than theirs. Already, our A-4 prototype has reached high altitude…”

“Altitude isn’t the question, Herr von Braun,” Keitel said drily. “Range is the issue. It’s not enough to be able to strike Britain. Our planes can do that already. We must also have a rocket capable of striking America in the event that it becomes necessary to do so.”

“And this may be inevitable,” Hitler added, ignoring Goering’s skepticism about the United States declaring war against Germany.

Dornberger was openly sweating by then, his perpetual smile gone. “Field Marshal, with all due respect, what you ask is…”

“Not impossible,” von Braun quickly said, before the colonel could make a fatal blunder. “Just difficult to achieve with our current budget, not to mention our present priority rating.”

“You intend to take a rocket that’s only capable of traveling 270 kilometers and turn it into something that can cross the Atlantic?” Goering’s expression became a cynical smirk. “How will you accomplish this, Herr von Braun?”

Von Braun suddenly realized that he’d trapped himself with his own words. He’d told these men—these very dangerous men—that Wa Pruf 11 must build a missile better than anything the Americans might launch, but then contradicted himself by stating that the A-4 was a short-range vehicle, only able to cross the English Channel from a launch site in France. He silently cursed Dornberger for even mentioning the America Rocket. In his puppyish desire to please Hitler, he’d whetted the Führer’s appetite for a weapon that Peenemünde could not deliver.

“Herr von Braun?” Hitler’s eyes bore into his. “Do you have an answer for the Reich Marshal?”

Knowing that he had to say something—anything, damn it!—von Braun opened his mouth to reply. Before he could speak, though, Goering turned to Hitler. “Mein Führer, if I may? I believe I have a solution.”

Hitler looked at the Reich Marshal. “Yes, Hermann? What do you have in mind?”

“A couple of scientists at the Luftwaffe’s Research Division, Eugen Sanger and Irene Bredt, have recently submitted an interesting proposal. A manned aircraft… or rather, a spacecraft… that they believe is capable of not only reaching the United States, but also delivering a sizable payload.” Hitler looked blank at the unfamiliar term, and Goering substituted for it a word he’d understand. “A bomb, mein Führer. A very large bomb.”

Von Braun closed his eyes. Sanger. He knew all about Eugen Sanger. A talented scientist, yes, perhaps even a visionary, but nonetheless an outsider to the German rocket effort, not even a former VfR member. Von Braun had seen Sanger and Bredt’s proposal, and considered it… well, if not insane, then at least improbable.

“Tell me more,” Hitler said.

There was a sudden gleam in Goering’s eyes, and, for an instant, he glanced at von Braun. Von Braun saw the smug look on his face, and in that moment he realized that the Reich Marshal had artfully led him and Dornberger into a trap. First, allow the Peenemünde men to convince the Führer that America poses a threat that cannot be ignored. Next, question the Army Ordnance’s ability to develop a rocket capable of responding to an American intercontinental rocket. And, finally, present Hitler with an alternative that his Luftwaffe had developed instead.

Goering had always wanted control of the German rocket effort. It appeared that he might have found a way to get it.

Helplessly, von Braun began to listen to what the Reich Marshal had to say.