As he continued to work, steadily moving the yardstick due east in a straight line until he reached the map’s right border, then picking up again from the left side and moving it across the Pacific until it reached the North American continent, Henry became conscious of the librarian peering over his shoulder. “If you’re trying to figure out an air route between here and Germany,” she whispered at last, “wouldn’t you want to plot it to the west, not the east?”
“It’s a little more complicated than that.”
“I’m sure it is.” She continued to watch as he jotted down some more figures. “You’re not a student, are you?”
“Actually, I’m a grad student in the physics department.”
“Ah, of course… physics. That explains why you’re interested in plotting a flight around the world.”
There was a trace of amusement in her voice, but also a little too much interest in what he was doing for his comfort. “I’m studying with Dr. Goddard, in his Physics 390 program. We’re trying to…” Henry stopped, at a loss for words. There was no easy way to explain what he was doing that didn’t involve telling her a lie. “It’s complicated,” he finished.
“You said that already.” She pulled back a chair and sat down, resting her chin on her right hand as she continued to watch him work. “Sorry I was so rude a few minutes ago. It’s just that… y’know, I get a lot of kids trying to…”
“Say no more. I think I understand.” From the corner of his eye, he saw that she was no longer studying the map but him instead. “I’m Henry… Henry Morse.”
“Pleased to meet you, Henry. My name is Doris Gilbert.” She extended her hand; when he shook it, he found that her touch was soft and warm. “Yes,” she added.
“I’m sorry… come again?”
“Yes, I’d like to go out and have a drink with you. So long as it’s coffee because I don’t drink.” She paused. “That’s what you were thinking, weren’t you?”
“Actually, it wasn’t, but… sure, that would be swell.” Then he remembered Frank O’Connor, and how difficult it would be to get out from under him. “But I’m going to have to do that some other time. Dr. Goddard keeps me pretty busy.”
“Certainly. I understand completely.” Doris stood up. “You know where to find me, Henry. Come back anytime.” And then she returned to her desk, her hips moving gracefully beneath her long woolen skirt.
If you think her brains are great, Henry thought as he watched her go, just wait till you get to her legs.
A VISIT FROM THE REICHSFÜHRER
APRIL 2, 1942
With a muffled roar, the wind tunnel’s high-velocity fans came to life, their vibration shaking the thick double panes of the observation window. Red smoke poured across the stainless-steel model fixed to a slender pylon in the middle of the tunnel, a miniature jet stream to be studied by the men on the other side of the window. A clear space gradually formed beneath the model’s flat underbelly, stretching from its sharp nose to the twin stabilizers at its rear. The half-meter-long replica trembled slightly in the artificial windstorm but otherwise remained stable.
“As you see, Silbervogel is remarkably aerodynamic,” Wernher von Braun said, pointing through the window. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the noise. “We’ve been working to improve upon the ogival shape of the bow so as to give it greater lift during the ascent phases, thereby reducing the amount of fuel the engines will need to…”
“How many bombs will it carry?” Heinrich Himmler asked, almost shouting.
The Reichsführer’s question was characteristically blunt, conveying an impatience with technical details. The engineers conducting the test carefully kept their attention focused on the model; only Arthur Rudolph glanced at Himmler, and just for a moment. Along with everyone else, he was only too happy to let Peenemünde’s technical director handle their visitor.
“Silbervogel is designed to carry a 3.75-metric-ton payload.” Von Braun moved a little closer to Himmler, cupping his hands to his mouth so that he could be heard. “This can be one single bomb, of course, but we believe the best option would be three 1.25-ton incendiary devices. This would allow for a greater dispersal over the target area once the craft reaches…”
“Less than four tons?” Himmler’s eyes flared behind his round glasses. “Nein! Unacceptable! This machine must carry fifty tons at least!”
Von Braun fought to keep his expression impassive; the laughter he wanted to let loose would have been fatal. “Reichsführer, with all due respect, a fifty-ton payload is out of the question. In order to achieve escape velocity and complete its circumnavigation of the Earth, Silbervogel can carry only the bare minimum. Even its pilot cannot be more than 1.8 meters in height or weigh more than eighty-two kilograms.”
“But only three one-ton bombs… pfft!” Himmler made a dismissive gesture. “A Heinkel bomber can carry more than that!”
No, it couldn’t, von Braun thought, nor would it have the range. But challenging the Reichsführer’s understanding of the facts was a risky proposition, so he was careful with his response. “Our studies conclude that three incendiary devices dropped in the New York metropolitan area will bring about destruction surpassing their weight. Dropped from an altitude of seventy kilometers, terminal velocity alone will cause significant damage, and the firestorm that follows the initial blast would doubtless spread across the entire city. Even if only one bomb hits Manhattan, with the other two landing in the surrounding neighborhoods, the city will be devastated. More bombs are unnecessary.”
Himmler said nothing but instead continued to watch the test. Was it von Braun’s imagination, or was Arthur keeping it going longer than necessary? From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of him standing at the control board. He’d stopped writing down figures on his clipboard and was now doing nothing more than watching the model get buffeted by the fans. Perhaps he was hoping that the noise would drive Himmler away.
If that was the idea, it succeeded. Himmler suddenly turned and marched toward the door, trailing an entourage of junior officers. To von Braun’s quiet disgust, Colonel Dornberger had joined them, if only temporarily. Although Wa Pruf 11’s military director was just as terrified of the Reichsführer as anyone else, he wasn’t above using his visit to Peenemünde to curry favor with a member of Hitler’s inner circle.
As much as von Braun was dismayed by Dornberger’s behavior, though, he was also disappointed with his own. For the first time, he’d put on the black SS uniform that until then had only hung in his closet. It was necessary; wearing civilian clothes when the SS leader came to visit would have been disrespectful, perhaps even making Himmler suspect him of disloyalty. That was something no one could afford to let happen. It was whispered that Himmler’s enemies tended to land in concentration camps or die with a piano wire wrapped around their necks.
Von Braun couldn’t wait for the Reichsführer to leave so that he could take off this damned outfit. At least I look better than he does, he thought. Despite the knee boots, jodhpurs, and death’s-head insignia on his jacket lapels, Himmler looked like what he’d been before he joined the Nazi party: a chicken farmer, a mediocre little man with a fuzzy mustache and a weak chin. Heinrich Himmler would have been contemptible if he hadn’t been so powerful or so thoroughly evil.