V-S Day: A Novel of Alternate History

SILVER AND GOLD

DECEMBER 21, 1941

The first snow of winter had settled upon the Baltic coast when von Braun returned from visiting his family in Berlin. From the cockpit of his Fieseler Storch, he saw that a sparse white blanket had spread itself across Usedom Island, a knuckle-shaped peninsula projecting out into the frigid northern sea. Beneath a slate grey sky, the pine forests were frosted, and the waterfront was coated with a thin skin of ice. From the air, the island looked cold and remote.

Although he knew his presence was urgently needed on the ground, Wa Pruf 11’s technical director took a few moments to fly over Peenemünde. The engine moaned as he banked to the right. What had once been a small fishing village on the swampy northern tip of an island best known as a summer vacation resort had become the center of the Reich’s rocket program. Through the plane’s ice-crusted cockpit, von Braun peered down upon assembly sheds, workshops, laboratories, a liquid-oxygen production plant, office buildings, dormitories, cabins, even a track field… a small town, really, resembling a college campus more than a military base. As well it should; he and Albert Speer had intended Peenemünde to be a model for a modern scientific research center, a place where the two thousand scientists, engineers, and researchers could live in comfort while pushing the edge of a technological frontier.

Von Braun smiled. Peenemünde was a far cry from the Raketenflugplatz, the abandoned factory on the outskirts of Berlin where the VfR had built its first crude rockets from scratch. Those were the days when the Rocket Society—Arthur Rudolph and Walter Riedel among them, now von Braun’s chief assistants—had pursued Hermann Oberth’s dream of sending men to the Moon. But enthusiasm, ingenuity, and a taste for the science fiction novels of Thea von Harbou and Kurd Lasswitz weren’t enough. The VfR was always broke, even when the von Braun family kicked in a few marks, and the presence of Rudolph Nebel, an oily opportunist who’d attempted to fleece the society while pretending to advance its goals, hadn’t helped either.

The VfR had been on the verge of bankruptcy the day a long black car pulled up in front of the Rocket Port and three men in Army uniforms climbed out. On that early-spring morning in 1932, everything changed. Nearly ten years later, von Braun’s plane circled Test Stand 1, the A-4 launchpad at the northernmost tip of the island, its skeletal tower blackened by the exhaust of the rockets that had lifted off from it. How far they’d come in just a decade…

His smile faded. Very far, yes… only to have it all come to a sudden end. Never again would an A-4 roar upward from Peenemünde. After seven long years of research and development, the program had been abruptly canceled. Wa Pruff 11 had a new mission, one so mad that von Braun had difficulty believing that it could be pulled off.

Yet failure was unacceptable. Adolf Hitler himself had given von Braun his orders. “Der Silbervogel fliegen müssen”—the Silver Bird must fly.

The time for sightseeing was over. Pushing the wheel forward, von Braun brought the Storch into a low, gradual descent. A few minutes later, its wheels bumped against the tarmac of the Army airfield at the northwest end of the island.

A staff car waited for him at the apron near the hangars, its driver a corporal so young that von Braun could scarcely believe that he was allowed to wear a uniform. He snapped to attention and held open the rear passenger door as von Braun strode toward him, pulling off his flying cap and gloves. The car was cold, its heater turned off in the interest of saving petrol. Von Braun pulled up the collar of his leather jacket as the car made its way from Peenemünde West through the industrial complex at Peenemünde East until it reached the administrative and development area.

The car came to a stop in front of Haus 4, the two-story administration building. Von Braun didn’t wait for the corporal to let him out of the car but instead opened the door himself and walked up a short flight of steps to the main entrance. The building was unusually quiet, most of the administrative staff having already left for the holidays. Von Braun had decided to take his vacation early—he wanted to take advantage of the brief respite to catch up on paperwork—but he couldn’t blame people if they wanted to be with their families for Christmas. God knew they wouldn’t get many more breaks after this.

Nonetheless, work hadn’t ceased entirely. He heard typewriters and muffled voices from behind office doors as he walked down the hall to the stairs, and more of the same when he reached the second floor. He headed for his office, stepping around two men in dirty coveralls who were sweeping and mopping the tile floors, their cart parked beside them. One of them, a small, middle-aged man wearing wire-rim spectacles, murmured “Pardonnez moi,” as von Braun walked by. Von Braun barely noticed him. Several hundred foreign contract workers—mainly Italians and Poles, but also some French—held jobs at Peenemünde, doing the menial tasks that needed to be done. They were as invisible as the Russian prisoners of war who handled most of the hard labor; von Braun never paid much attention to them either.

His office was small yet immaculate, its shelves filled with books, loose-leaf binders, and mementoes, the prerequisite photo of Adolf Hitler framed on the wall. Although he’d cleared his desk before leaving, memos and reports were already stacked upon the blotter. Von Braun hung up his overcoat, then pulled a cigarette out of a mahogany tobacco box and lit it with a gold desk lighter. He’d barely settled into his desk chair when there was a quiet tap at the still-open door.

“Guten Tag, Herr Doktor.” His secretary, Lise Muller, stood just outside. “Welcome back.”

“Danke, Fraülein Muller.” Von Braun puffed at his cigarette as he leafed through the memos. “I assume you’re leaving soon, ja?”

“Not until the twenty-third. I’ll take the train to Frankfurt that morning.” A coy smile as she gave her long dark hair a studiously casual flip. “I’m yours till then.”

Von Braun noticed the innuendo but tried not to show it. He was aware of his reputation as a ladies’ man, and with his classically Teutonic looks and aristocratic manner, he’d never lacked for female company. As fetching as Lise might be, though, he knew better than to take her to bed. With the Silbervogel project now rated Priority S, he couldn’t afford to be distracted by any dalliances, particularly not with his secretary. And it was only too possible that Lise might be secretly reporting to someone else. Goering, perhaps… or worse, Heinrich Himmler.

“Very well, then. It’s off to work we go.” Picking up the top memo, he saw that it was a technical query from Johannes Boykow, the scientist in charge of developing the gyroscopic stabilizer. His group was struggling to adapt the gyros they’d developed for the A-4 to suit the new vehicle, but its different launch attitude—horizontal instead of vertical—was giving them fits.

“Lise, would you please get the Silbervogel study for me?” he asked. His secretary turned to the office safe, set in the wall between two bookshelves. Only she and von Braun knew its combination. Lise turned the wheel left, then right, then left again; a soft click, and she turned its handle downward and opened the door.

Inside the safe was a 175-page report within a leatherette binder. Titled “Über einen Raketenantriab für Fernbomber” (“A Rocket Drive for Long-Range Bombers”) Eugen Sanger and Irene Bredt’s design study was one of the Reich’s most highly classified documents. For the sake of security, only two complete copies had been sent to Peenemünde; Colonel Dornberger possessed one and von Braun the other. Although individual department heads had copies of individual sections pertinent to their work, if someone needed to consult another section, he had to make a specific request from either Dornberger or von Braun.

In this instance, Boykow’s team was having trouble redesigning the gyro platform so that it could be smoothly integrated into Silbervogel’s airframe. They were considering relocating the platform from its present position in the craft’s nose to its midsection, but Boykow needed to check some figures from the Sanger-Bredt report. It was a nuisance to have to work this way, but Goering was insistent. Wa Pruf 11 was rigorously compartmentalized in order to maintain operational security, even within Peenemünde’s academy-like cloisters.

“Thank you,” von Braun said, as Lise placed the binder on the desk before him. “I think that will be all for now.”

“You’re welcome.” She turned to walk toward the door, and Wernher couldn’t help but steal an admiring glance at the way her rump moved beneath her wool skirt. Almost as if she’d sensed his gaze upon her, she abruptly turned around. “Oh! And one more thing…”

“Yes?” Von Braun felt his face burn as he hastily looked down at the report on his desk.

“Dr. Rudolph called just before you arrived. He said that he needs to see you immediately.”

Von Braun looked up again. “Did he say why?”

“No. He only said that he needs to see you at his lab at once, and you’re to come over there as soon as you get in.” An apologetic shrug. “Sorry.”

Von Braun sighed. Although Arthur Rudolph was his best friend and right-hand man, there were times when Wernher wondered if he could tie his shoes without consulting someone. His lab was located in another building in Peenemünde East. Von Braun glanced out the window behind him; to his annoyance, it had begun to snow again, and the car that had brought him from the airfield had already left. He’d have to go out into the cold once more.

“Very well.” Von Braun stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray and started to rise, then thought better of it. “Just a moment,” he said, as he picked up a pen and reached into a desk drawer for a notepad. “I need you to do something for me, please.”

Von Braun turned pages of the Silbervogel report until he found the section in which Sanger addressed the question of avionics integration within the airframe. Consulting one of the report’s many diagrams, he spent a couple of minutes jotting down the numbers Boykow needed, then tore the page from the notepad, slipped it into an envelope, and handed it to his secretary.

“Please take this to Dr. Boykow,” he said, standing up from his chair. “Wait to see if he thinks this answers his questions, and write down what he wants from me if it doesn’t.” Von Braun walked around from behind his desk, reached for his overcoat. “I’m going to see Arthur.”

“Very well.” Lise left the office before he did. Von Braun shook his head in wonder as he watched her stride down the hall, passing the two janitors on the way. Despite the fact that she’d have to cross Peenemünde East to reach Boykow’s office, she’d declined to put on an overcoat even though it was below zero outside and spitting snow. The woman must be part snow fox, he reflected as he closed his office door and followed her to the stairs. Which was a delightful notion…

The two janitors paid no attention to either von Braun or his secretary as their footsteps retreated down the hallway. But as soon they were gone, and the corridor was quiet again, they raised their eyes from their work and gazed at one another. Neither of them said anything, but a silent nod was exchanged. And then they quietly approached von Braun’s office.

The two janitors were named Yves Callon and François Latreau, but to MI-6 they were known as Silver and Gold. For the past four months, they’d been posing as custodians at Peenemünde, just another couple of foreign workers who’d been hired from a country under Nazi occupation. Even at a high-security facility such as Peenemünde, there was a need for people to do the menial labor, so that good German men could make more meaningful contributions to the war effort. Knowledge of this fact had given British intelligence the opportunity to infiltrate spies into enemy installations, with the primary objective of gathering information useful to the Allies.

Beginning a couple of years earlier, MI-6 had heard rumors of strange occurrences in northern Germany. Although Denmark was under Nazi occupation, its intelligence operations were still active, and through them, the Danes had received reports from fishermen of “flame-tailed aeroplanes” they’d seen shooting along from the western Baltic coast, usually exploding a few minutes later. Then a member of the Polish underground relayed a conversation he’d had in a Koenigsburg tavern with a drunk German soldier stationed at Peenemünde; the Nazi had bragged about his people developing a secret weapon that would win the war for Germany. Although MI-6 initially discounted these reports as fantasy—the Germans always seemed to be building one secret weapon or another—in time enough reports were received through the clandestine wireless network established between Denmark and England to convince the British that Peenemünde needed to be investigated.

To this end, MI-6 had recruited two members of the French resistance and instructed them to seek employment at Peenemünde. The British had hoped that either Callon or Latreau would be hired; as it turned out, both got jobs as janitors. Naturally, they were screened by the Gestapo, yet the resistance had already concocted “legends,” or fictional backgrounds, establishing them as Nazi sympathizers loyal to the Vichy government. So far as the German secret police was concerned, the two men were nothing more than lower-class, rather stupid Frenchmen content with pushing brooms and emptying wastebaskets.

Silver and Gold arrived in Peenemünde only a few weeks after the A-4 program was officially scrapped. During the course of the first month as janitors, they saw and heard enough to confirm that the Nazis were developing some sort of long-range missile. Although this program had been mysteriously canceled on the very eve of success, it became apparent that it was being replaced by a project that was even more ambitious.

Yet they’d been unable to learn exactly what it was. All work was being done in labs and workshops the janitors were expressly forbidden to enter, and certain areas of Peenemünde West had been placed off-limits to anyone except engineers, technicians, and senior scientists.

There was one possible loophole: Wernher von Braun’s office. Over the past few months, Silver and Gold noticed that von Braun had developed careless habits when it came to handling classified documents. Overworked and easily distracted, he’d become dependent upon his secretaries—particularly Lise Muller, on whom he obviously had a crush—to tidy up for him. So the spies made a point of visiting Haus 4 on a daily basis, keeping its hallways and restrooms spotless while watching the technical director’s office, waiting for a chance when both von Braun and Muller would become negligent.

That opportunity finally presented itself, and just in time. In two days, Silver was scheduled to return to Paris for the holidays, during which he was supposed to make a covert rendezvous with their MI-6 handler. It would be their first and possibly only opportunity to pass along any information. Aware that their mail was being opened by the Gestapo and analyzed by its cryptologists, the agents decided not to use the codes developed for them by MI-6. So it was now or never.

The office door was unlocked. Silver opened it quietly and peered over his glasses to make sure that the room was vacant, then he turned to Gold and held out his hand. Gold reached into their cart and pulled out the large horsehair brush they used to clean drapery. Taking it from him, Silver entered the office, his footsteps softened by the rubber roles of his work shoes. Gold stood watch outside, ready to accidentally drop his mop at the first sign of trouble.

The open door of the safe and the thick binder lying open on von Braun’s desk told him all he needed to know. This was a classified document, possibly the key to understanding Peenemünde’s mystery project. Carefully avoiding the windows, Silver stepped around behind the desk and, after noting the number of the page von Braun was reading before he left, closed the report. Its title confirmed his suspicions. He needed to take this to his people.

There were two concealed catches at each end of the brush’s wooden handle. Beneath Silver’s thumbs, they slid apart like the locks of a Chinese puzzle box, allowing him to pull the handle apart and reveal the hollow space within. Tucked inside the brush, padded by a rubber mold, was a Latvian-made Minox camera, its lozenge-shaped body only 7.5 centimeters long. Coiled beside it was a thin silver chain 45 centimeters in length, with a clip at one end and a small ring at the other.

Silver clipped one end of the chain to the camera, then slipped the ring around his left thumb. Bending over the desk, he placed his left hand next to the open report, then positioned himself so that the chain led directly up to the camera held in his right hand. In this way, the Minox was at the perfect distance for photographing documents. Peering through the miniature viewfinder, he took a couple of moments to adjust the focusing dial; when the typewritten print on the first page was sharp and clear, he went to work.

Silver had spent many hours in the resistance’s Paris hideaway learning how to use the Minox. The time was well spent. Again and again he pressed the tiny stud of the camera shutter, synchronizing it with the turning of each page. He didn’t read what he was photographing; every second was precious and couldn’t be used trying to comprehend material that only a scientist could fully understand. Although the Minox’s 9.5mm film cartridge held fifty exposures, the report had more than three times that many pages; afraid to miss any crucial information, Silver jumped ahead a few pages to snap pictures of bar graphs and tables that seemed important.

Then he came across a diagram that caused him to stop what he was doing. Staring at the cutaway drawing of a strange-looking aircraft, he suddenly realized that Wa Pruf 11 had moved far beyond mere rocketry.

This was not a missile. This was something else entirely.

Silver snapped a picture of the diagram, then turned a couple of pages and found another that appeared interesting, a global map with a squiggly line curving up and down across the outer surface, like something hopping across Earth’s atmosphere. He’d just finished photographing it when Gold’s mop fell to the hallway floor.

Silver glanced up, saw the other spy through the open door. Gold pointed to his ear, then down the hall toward the stairs. Someone was coming up.

The Minox’s frame counter told Silver that he had seven exposures left, but there was no time to use them. Under no circumstances could he let himself get caught in Dr. von Braun’s office. Silver hastily turned the report’s pages back to where the technical director had left them, then detached the measurement chain from the camera. He stuffed the chain in his pocket and slipped the Minox back into the brush handle. One last look to make sure that everything was the way he’d found it, then in four quick steps he was out of the office.

Silver had just retrieved his broom from where he’d left it against the wall when Lise Muller emerged from the stairway. Even before he saw von Braun’s secretary, Silver knew that it was her; when she walked, the low heels of her patent leather shoes made a distinctive tap-tap-tap sound with which he and Gold had become familiar. He still had the horsehair brush in his hand; stepping past Gold, whose back was to the approaching woman, he reached out to put the brush back in the janitor cart.

Then its cover fell off and the Minox dropped onto the floor.

In an instant, Silver realized what had happened. In his haste to get out of the office, he’d neglected to close the two catches that locked the brush’s hidden compartment. Fortunately, Gold was standing between the camera and the approaching secretary, but even as Silver squatted down to pick up the Minox, he knew that in another second she’d see…

“So what do you think of Fraülein Muller’s ass?” Gold said casually, speaking to Silver as if she weren’t there. “Wouldn’t you like to get your hands on that?”

Silver heard the secretary’s footsteps come to an abrupt halt. Glancing up to peer between Gold’s legs, he saw that Lise had half turned away, hands raised to her face to hide her embarrassment. Silver snatched up the Minox and stuffed it down the front of his coveralls. It had disappeared by the time Lise recovered enough of her dignity to face the two janitors again and clear her throat.

“Oh… hello, Fraülein.” Gold was the picture of deferential servitude as he looked around, seemingly noticing her for the first time. “Nice day, isn’t it?”

The secretary said nothing as she marched the rest of the way down the hall, her expression stony but her face bright red. She didn’t even glance at Silver as she stormed past them; he’d already picked up his brush and, surreptitiously replacing the handle cover, returned it to the cart. Lise’s shoes stamped against the bare wooden floor as she entered von Braun’s office. The door slammed shut behind her, and Gold started to let out his breath in relief, but Silver quickly raised a hand. Listening intently, he heard what he’d hoped to hear: the soft, metallic clank of the wall safe’s being shut.

The two men traded looks: Gold, an accusatory glare, Silver, an apologetic upward roll of his eyes. Once they were sure the hall was clear, Silver returned both the camera and the measuring chain to their hiding place. In moments, the brush was back where it belonged, and the two men returned to what they’d been doing.

Nonetheless, the blood had drained from Silver’s face, and not just because of the close call. What he’d seen in the classified document on Wernher von Braun’s office frightened him deeply.

The Minox film couldn’t get to England fast enough.