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.”