“Oh, bull.” Henry scowled at his old friend. “It’s been seventy years. What difference does it make now? Every other war secret has been revealed… why not this one?”
“He’s got a point,” Jackson said. “We’ve held our tongues long enough. Maybe too long. We’ve told this story to our families so that no one will forget, but maybe it’s time to go on the record.”
“But we’ve signed papers.”
“Aw, c’mon.” Henry rolled his eyes. “My great-grandson has heard this so many times, he’s bored to tears with it.” Remembering Carl, he glanced at the porch door. “What’s keeping that beer, anyway?”
“Gentlemen, please…” Walker held up a hand. “I’m only trying to get the facts straight. The research I’ve done so far tells me that there are empty places in the historical narrative, details other writers either overlooked or have never been told. The three of you were there. You’re the only ones who know.”
“You’re right.” Jackson nodded. “We’re the last of the 390 Group. Gerry, Ham, Taylor, Colonel Bliss…”
“Bob,” Henry added quietly, sadly.
“Bob Goddard… they’re all gone. And I don’t think we’ve got too many years left in front of us either.”
“Not even that… Jack Cube,” Lloyd added, a sly smile on his face.
Jackson regarded him with astonishment. “You haven’t called me that in years.”
“Called you what?” Walker asked.
“Never mind.” Jackson shook his head. “Inside joke.”
Lloyd’s smile faded. “Maybe you’re… right. It’s time to… spill the beans.”
“Hear hear.” Henry tapped his cane against the floor. “Besides, what are they going to do? Throw us in jail?”
Walker refrained from letting out his breath with relief. “So, now that we have that settled…” He reached into his bag and pulled out a small digital recorder and a notebook. “Where do you want to start? In Worcester? Or Roswell?”
“No. Not Worcester, not New Mexico, and not here either.” Henry closed his eyes, as if taking himself back in time. “Long before any of us came on the scene, there was Germany…”
“Wernher von Braun, yes.” Kapman’s mouth pursed together. “Him and Dornberger… and Goering, and Sanger.”
“Uh-huh, yeah… and Hitler.” Henry frowned. “Goddamn Adolf Hitler.”
THE WOLF’S LAIR
AUGUST 20, 1941
The Mercedes-Benz cabriolet moved through the forest, the small Nazi flags mounted above its front fender signifying its status as an official vehicle. Just ahead, two soldiers on motorcycles acted as escorts; without them, the touring car would have had to stop at every checkpoint along the road. Even so, it slowed down whenever it came upon one of the Panzers parked along the roadside, if only to let the soldiers of the elite Führer Escort Battalion render stiff-armed salutes.
In the backseat, Dr. Wernher von Braun tried to assuage his nervousness by gazing through the closed windows at the towering black conifers that darkened the forest floor. He idly wondered how many different species of birds inhabited the Masurian woods of East Prussia; owls, no doubt, but probably also eagles, falcons, and other raptors that preyed upon the rabbits and squirrels that populated this dense, remote forest. Yet every time the Mercedes-Benz passed another tank, or he caught another glimpse of an antiaircraft gun hidden beneath camouflage nets, he was reminded that the woodland’s deadliest inhabitants walked on two legs.
Wolfsschanze. Wolf’s Lair. An appropriate name.
“Relax, Wernher.” The Army colonel seated beside him gently patted his knee. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
Von Braun pulled his gaze from the forest to the other man sharing the touring car’s rear seat. Colonel Walter Dornberger, thin-faced and balding, had a perpetual smile that masked an intellectual intensity second only to von Braun’s. A dedicated follower of National Socialism, he wore his dress uniform today with pride, eager for a meeting with the man he’d worshipped for nearly a decade.
“I’m not worried at all.” Von Braun kept his voice low so as not to be heard through the glass partition separating them from the Reich Security Service officer driving the car. Catching the amused glint in Dornberger’s eye, he corrected himself. “Well, perhaps a little… but only about the briefing.”
“Let me worry about that.” Dornberger pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, patted the sweat on his brow. The Mercedes-Benz’s tonneau was warm with its windows rolled up, but the alternative would have been even more uncomfortable; the humid forest air was practically alive with mosquitoes, as attested to by the fact that the soldiers all had gauze nets suspended from the rims of their helmets. “I’ll lead the briefing. All I want you to do is explain the technical details. Just…”
“Just don’t get too technical. Yes, I understand. You’ve reminded me several times already, Walter.”
Annoyed, Dornberger glared at the younger man. “Would it have killed you to wear your uniform?” he added softly.
Von Braun didn’t reply. He was dressed in civilian clothing, a plain black suit with a swastika pin affixed to the right lapel. This had been a sticking point between him and Dornberger even before they’d boarded a Heinkel 111 transport at the Peenemünde airfield earlier that morning. Von Braun had joined the National Socialist Party only reluctantly, after it became apparent that he wouldn’t be allowed to continue his research unless he swore allegiance to the Nazi cause. Indeed, he was the last holdout from the old Verein für Raumschiffahrt, the Society for Space Travel, which was dismantled after the Führer became Chancellor, its leading members absorbed by the Army’s ordnance division. Even so, von Braun remained a civilian until just last year, when he finally ceded to Heinrich Himmler’s demand that he join the Schutzstaffel as well; the Reichsführer insisted that Peenemünde’s technical director had to belong to the SS if Wa Pruf 11—Ordnance Test 11, the rocket program’s official name—was to continue to receive funding. Yet von Braun found his own quiet means of resistance; he’d never worn his black SS uniform, and it still hung in his office closest, untouched since the day he’d received it.
Dornberger knew what von Braun’s silence meant. Sighing expansively, he settled back against the seat. “And try to contain your enthusiasm,” he muttered. “No one wants to hear about going to the Moon.”
“Yes, Walter… I know.” Von Braun had been swept up by the dream of space exploration as a teenager, but Dornberger didn’t come along until the German Army became interested in the VfR’s efforts to develop a rocket capable of leaving Earth. Peenemünde’s military director was only interested in developing an ultimate weapon with which Germany could crush its foes. Beneath the jovial exterior was a dedicated Nazi with little patience for thoughts of sending men to the Moon… unless, perhaps, it happened sometime in the distant future, when a victorious Third Reich planted its bloodred flag on another world.
The touring car slowed down. A gatehouse lay just ahead, a wooden barrier lowered across the road. The motorcycle escort veered away, allowing the Mercedes-Benz to approach the gate on its own. A soldier with a submachine gun strapped across his shoulder stepped up to the car as it came to a halt. Bending over to the driver’s side window, he took a moment to examine the passengers in the backseat, then he turned to the other soldiers manning the checkpoint and raised his arm. The barrier was lifted, and the car passed through, the sentries snapping off salutes as it went by.