Von Braun glanced to one side of the room, where three clocks hung against the wall. The first was the mission clock; it stood at L minus twenty-nine minutes and counting. The second clock was Berlin time: 11:31 A.M. The third clock was the most critical one: 5:31 A.M. New York Time. Once Silver Bird left the atmosphere, it would take one hour and thirty-seven minutes to reach its target. Because there was a six-hour difference in time zones, the plan called for the attack to occur at approximately 7:40 A.M. New Yorkers would be on their way to work by then, so it had been calculated that a strategic bombing at that time would increase the fatalities among commuters, with more deaths caused by the firestorm that would rage across Manhattan and the greater metropolitan area in the aftermath.
Von Braun forced this thought from his mind as he lit another cigarette from the first one. He wasn’t the only person chain-smoking. The glass ashtrays on the desks were already beginning to fill up, and the ceiling fans labored to remove smoke from the room. He flipped another page of his notebook and tried to concentrate on the checklist.
“Launch minus twenty-two minutes and counting.”
“Fuel pressurization complete.”
“Confirm completion of fuel-pressurization cycle.”
“Pilot ready for takeoff. Seal cockpit.”
“Confirm cockpit seal.”
“Check landing-gear servomotors.”
“Landing-gear servos operational, check…”
Hearing this, von Braun shut his eyes for a moment. According to the flight plan, once its mission was complete, Silbervogel would begin a long supersonic glide from an altitude of seventy kilometers, crossing the Atlantic until it reached Germany, where it would land on the Mittelwerk landing strip just a few kilometers away. Yet everyone who’d closely studied this part of the plan knew that it was optimistic at best. The spacecraft would be out of fuel by then, its pilot capable of making only dead-stick maneuvers. The math might support the notion of a glide return all the way to base, but common sense did not. It was more likely that Reinhardt would be forced to ditch in the ocean, and although he’d been given a parachute and a life preserver, the chances of his surviving a supersonic bailout, then spending countless hours in the high seas before being located by the U-boat that had been dispatched to the North Atlantic as an emergency recovery vessel, were not good.
This was to be a suicide mission. Everyone knew it, even if no one said so aloud. If Horst Reinhardt weren’t aware of this, then he was either a fool or a madman. But everything von Braun had observed about the young Luftwaffe lieutenant suggested that he was nothing more or less than what he appeared to be: a dedicated young pilot whose devotion to National Socialism and Adolf Hitler was so complete that martyrdom would be a death he’d welcome.
“Launch minus ten minutes and counting.”
“All personnel, clear launch area.”
“Switch to internal electrical systems.”
“Internal electric system on standby, check.”
Suddenly restless, von Braun stood up from his seat. He felt Dornberger’s eyes upon him as he walked past the rows of controllers to the window. Silbervogel lay upon its sled, fully revealed now that its gantry scaffold had been pulled away. The cockpit was closed, its windows barely visible. The ground crew was hurrying away, and even the soldiers were deserting the launch site. Reinhardt was alone in his ship, waiting for the countdown to end and the order to launch.
“Good luck,” von Braun whispered. Not for the mission, but for the man.
“L minus sixty seconds and counting.”
“All systems prepared for launch.” Horst Reinhardt turned the last page of the checklist, then curled his fingers within his thick gloves one last time before resting his hands on the control yoke. He took several slow, deep breaths to calm himself; nonetheless, he could feel his heart thudding deep within his chest. In all the thousands of hours he’d spent in cockpits, never before had he been so anxious about a takeoff.
With the canopy shut, the cockpit was oppressively close, made worse by the fact that, aside from the retractable bombsight periscope in the belly, he had no direct forward view, only two narrow windows on either side of his seat. The engineers who’d designed Silver Bird had never been able to completely solve the problem of maintaining cabin integrity while also making the hull capable of withstanding the stress caused by repeated skips across the upper atmosphere. The weak point was always the forward cockpit window, which was located in the very place where atmospheric friction would cause a plasma cone to form. The periscope and the side windows were a necessary compromise; for most of the flight, Reinhardt would be relying on his instruments for navigation.
It could be done, of course, and the pilot had spent countless hours in the Peenemünde simulator learning how. All the same, though, it was hardly comforting to know that he would be flying blind. So Reinhardt barely glanced at the windows before returning his gaze to his instruments.
“L minus forty seconds and counting.” Suddenly, the voice he heard was familiar. Dr. von Braun had taken over the microphone. “Ready, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, Herr Doktor,” Reinhardt replied. “For the glory of the Fatherland and Adolf Hitler.”
Von Braun’s response was dry, unemotionaclass="underline" “Sled ignition in nineteen seconds.”
“Understood.” Reinhardt gave his straps a final hitch, then fastened his hands around the yoke. “Main engines pressurized and ready for primary ignition sequence.”
“Sled ignition in ten… nine… eight… seven…”
Reinhardt instinctively braced himself, then remembered his trainer’s advice: stay loose, relax your body, let the seat absorb the shock. He had just done so when the countdown reached zero.
“Five… four… three… two… one…”
From outside, he heard the muffled roar of the sled’s giant solid-rocket engine firing. This was controlled by the launch bunker. Yet the sled didn’t move at once; for the next eleven seconds its brakes remained engaged, allowing the engine to build up thrust. The spacecraft shook like an overeager racehorse pushing against its stall.
“Launch in five… four… three…”
From the corner of his eye, Reinhardt saw oily black smoke billowing up around his canopy windows. Licking his lips, he raised his left hand to the instrument panel and gently placed his fingers on the main-engine ignition switch. In his headphones, he heard von Braun’s calm, detached voice:
“Two… one… launch!”
The sled brakes were released, and the massive machine bolted forward. Reinhardt was immediately thrown back against his seat. For an instant, he nearly lost contact with the all-important toggle switch for the main engine, yet he managed to shove his arm forward again and get his hand back where it belonged.
The sled hurtled down the long concrete track, its speed doubling, then doubling again, with each passing second. On the viewing stand, the officers and party officials had seen the sled engine ignite but had heard nothing. It had taken nearly three seconds for the sound to reach them, and by then the sled was already in motion. They were still puzzled by this when thunder, louder and more prolonged than any created by a natural storm, hit them like a tangible object, a blast that shook the viewing stand and blew hats off their heads and caused them to step back in fear.