Mulvaney stepped down from the podium and took a seat alongside the brass who watched in silence as the oldest of the scientists from Rostock took a step forward to the front of the stage. He removed his protective headgear and, as Fleming had discovered at Rostock, spoke hesitantly but with a good command of English.
“The Komet can reach a speed of over a thousand kilometres an hour — that is six hundred and twenty-five miles per hour. Remarkable you will agree, yes? I will now show you what sort of fuel produces the energy to make this possible.”
While the German moved round behind the table and replaced his headgear, two of his colleagues brought forward an enormous sheet of Perspex which they held between the table and the audience. The chief technician then produced two glass phials, no bigger than the top of a fountain pen. When he showed them to the audience, pinching the glass gingerly between thumb and forefinger, Kruze could see the surface of a clear fluid dancing delicately inside each container.
His voice was muffled behind the mask.
“In my hands I hold two different fluids — in the left, C-Stoff and in the right, T-Stoff. The Komet’s internal tanks contain 1160 litres of T-Stoff and 492 litres of C-Stoff. That is around two tons of fuel altogether. Remember these quantities when I show you what happens when only a centilitre of each is mixed together.”
He poured a drop of C-Stoff into a flat glass dish and then gently eased off the metallic lid of the T-Stoff” phial. He held it for a few seconds over the dish while his hand steadied and then in a quick, precise movement, emptied the liquid onto its shimmering counterpart.
The second the two made contact, there was a blinding explosion, sending shards of glass flying up against the Perspex screen. When the smoke from the table started to dissipate, the scientist took off his headgear and looked with some satisfaction at the faces of his audience.
Admiral Welland was the first to speak. “What the devil is that stuff?”
“C-Stoff,” the German said mechanically, “is mainly methyl alcohol and is innocent enough on its own. But when mixed with the T-Stoff, or hydrogen peroxide, it produces a massive cryogenic reaction. The chemicals are easy enough to produce. It’s controlling them once they are mixed that is difficult, very difficult.”
“You mean those two substances are mixed in the engine’s combustion chamber and burn on their own to give the aircraft its rocket power?” The admiral asked.
“Precisely.”
The room filled with the excited murmurings of the dozen or so spectators.
“It is hardly necessary for me to add,” Hausser said nervously over the hubbub, “that this fuel is highly unstable. We had several instances at Rostock where the T-Stoff leaked into the cockpit and literally dissolved the pilot. T-Stoff will instantly decompose anything of an organic nature; clothes, skin, rubber — even iron and steel. For this reason we had to make the fuel tanks out of aluminium. Even then, we could not prevent all leaks.”
The demonstration over, Kruze wandered alone back to the Komet. The technicians were still working frantically to prepare the aircraft for its first flight. It was the haste of the flight-test programme that alarmed him. On previous occasions he had taken captured aircraft up on the day they had arrived at Farnborough, but this little bitch was different — a rocket fighter that could fly at over 6oomph, laden with two tons of liquid explosive.
He climbed into the cockpit and eased himself into the tiny bucket seat, casting his eyes over the simple instrument panel. The intruding bay containing the cannon squashed his legs together to the extent that he had difficulty operating the rudder pedals. He called over Broyles who was working on the wing behind him.
“Hey chief, couldn’t we take out the weapon bay to make a bit more room for me in here? I can hardly move my damned legs.”
The seasoned old engineer grinned ruefully. “That’s no weapon bay, sir. It’s the fuel tank that houses the hydrogen peroxide for the rocket motor. I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do about it.”
The ground crew were strapping Kruze into the cockpit of the 163C when Staverton walked into the hangar. Welland’s last words were still ringing in the AVM’s ears. He had threatened to cancel the demonstration on the spot, so acute was his concern about the fuel.
Utter chaos appeared to surround the Komet. Technicians were pumping water through the steam generator to prevent any inadvertent mixing of the two cryogenic rocket fuels. Other engineers played hoses over the ground directly beneath the aircraft in case any spilled.
As Staverton drew up alongside the cockpit, he could see wraith-like wisps of noxious T-Stoff gas venting out of the safety valves on top of the aircraft’s fuselage. All the crew who had spent the night and morning working on the Komet wore masks to stop them from ingesting the deadly hydrogen peroxide. Kruze was wrapped in his asbestos flying suit and had his oxygen mask clamped firmly across his face.
The hangar doors were winched back to admit the little tractor which would tow the Komet out to the end of the runway.
Even after his extensive briefings from the Komet’s designers and engineers that morning, Kruze was still poring over the dials and switches that dotted the instrument panel.
He looked up and saw Staverton’s outstretched hand; he shook it and went back to his instruments.
“I know this air-test is only meant for checking out the speed and range of this thing,” Staverton shouted to make himself heard, “but could you pull out all the stops over the airfield. For the brass from the War Ministry, you understand. It could be important.”
If the AVM had asked him before he had climbed into the aircraft, Kruze would have told him to take a running jump. If he was to take risks, he wanted answers. But in the cockpit, Kruze was a different person. He felt no negative emotion now, just a desire to get on with the job, mingled with excitement and trepidation at the awesome power of the aircraft he was to ride and break, like a wild steer at a cattle-meet. He gave Staverton the thumbs-up.
As the Komet slid out of the hangar, Kruze waggled the control column from side to side and looked down the wings to check that the ailerons were responding to his commands. If he noticed Staverton’s wave, he never acknowledged it.
The head of the EAEU started the long walk to the far end of the runway where the invited VIPs were watching, and waiting.
The tractor positioned the Komet at the end of Farnborough’s main runway so that all Kruze could see was concrete stretching into the distance over the aircraft’s nose.
Everything was quiet in the cockpit, except for a slight hissing sound from the two idling Walter rocket engines which were waiting for the command to explode into life.
Kruze sat bunched in the bucket seat, preparing himself for the signal from the tower. An image of Penny sprang into his mind, her eyes sad and her lips mouthing silent words. Kruze shook his head to clear the picture. It felt like a bad omen.
His headset crackled.
“Tower to Kruze. You are clear to take off. Good luck.”
Kruze nudged the throttle lever to its first position. There was a muffled sound from the rear of the aircraft and a dull vibration shook the airframe. The turbine tachometer read around fifty per cent. All systems normal. Kruze pushed the lever to the second stage. The Walters roared, their thrust pushing the little aircraft hard against the two chocks in front of the wheels. One final glance at the instruments and Kruze banged the throttle to its last stage. The reaction was instantaneous. The Komet bounded over the chocks and a wall of gravity pushed Kruze back into his seat. Straining to keep his eyes level with the instruments, he watched the needle on the airspeed indicator surge forward, while outside the concrete rushed past in a blur at the periphery of his vision. The control column went loose and then with a slight application of back pressure from the wrist, the Komet was airborne.