Now von Braun could see the sprawling compound they’d just entered. As the Mercedes-Benz slowly drove down the main road, buildings appeared from beneath the trees that hid them from reconnaissance aircraft. Here and there lay bunkerlike structures, their concrete walls with few windows or doors obviously designed to resist aerial bombing, making them even more utilitarian and ugly. Uniformed officers strode purposefully upon gravel footpaths; there were no gardens or benches, and no one paused for a casual chat. This was a place where military discipline mattered above all other considerations. Everywhere he looked, von Braun saw swastikas.
Despite the summer heat, a chill ran down his back. This was the Third Reich’s nerve center, the place from which the Führer and his staff directed the war they’d launched against the rest of Europe. Over the past few years, von Braun had tried to distance himself as much as possible from the conflict, preferring to keep it at arm’s length, but lately he’d come to realize that this was no longer possible. God help him, he was one of them.
The cabriolet turned left onto a side road, passed over a train track, then came to a stop beside a one-story building. The driver got out and opened the left-rear door, and as von Braun picked up his briefcase and eased himself from the tonneau, he saw a senior officer walking toward the car.
“Dr. von Braun! How good to see you again!” Albert Speer grinned as he offered a hand.
“General Speer. Good to see you as well.” Von Braun was sincere when he said this. Tall and handsome, Speer was more than the Third Reich’s chief architect. Over the last couple of years, he’d also become the rocket program’s best friend in the High Command. An engineer to the core, Speer had taken an interest in the A-4 as soon as he learned of it, even going so far as to design the facilities at Peenemünde. He obviously saw himself as von Braun’s colleague, another man of science intrigued by the possibility of space travel.
Which was fortunate, because it meant that the Peenemünde scientists had a champion in the Führer’s inner circle, someone with the clout to keep the rocket program alive. And Wa Pruf 11 needed all the friends it could get. Plagued by technical problems every step of the way, suffering numerous setbacks for each advance it achieved, the A-4 project had gradually become a lesser military priority, losing official support to the Luftwaffe’s effort to develop Cherry Stone, a jet-propelled aerial torpedo.
This visit, arranged by Speer, was the last chance for Dornberger and von Braun to make their case to the High Command. If they failed, Wa Pruf 11 would gradually be starved to death. Already, its resources were being shifted from Army Ordnance to the Luftwaffe… and no one at Peenemünde wanted to have Reich Marshal Goering as their new chief.
“I trust you’ve had a pleasant journey,” Speer said as he enthusiastically shook von Braun’s hand. “I want to thank you for taking the time to come here. I know how much you hate to leave your workplace.”
“It is nothing. Besides, it is we who are grateful. Were it not for you…”
“It’s what little I can do.” Speer glanced at his watch. “Almost 1700. He will be here soon. If you’ll come this way, please?”
Von Braun and Dornberger followed Speer to the nearby bunker. Now that he was closer, von Braun could see that its walls were unbelievably thick: two meters of steel-reinforced concrete, with an outer masonry wall almost as an afterthought. Even Peenemünde’s launch control center wasn’t as solidly built. On the other side of a solid steel door was a short corridor leading to a conference room. Its walls were paneled with pine in an unsuccessful attempt to give the room a homey, rustic appearance; in its center was a long black table surrounded by wooden armchairs. A couple of windows had been opened; otherwise, the afternoon heat would have turned the bunker into an oven. A movie projector was set up at one end of the table, a portable screen positioned on the opposite side of the room.
That wasn’t the first thing von Braun noticed, though. Other members of the senior staff had already arrived. Standing at an open window, hands clasped behind his back, was Field Marshal Wilhelm Keitel, the head of Oberkommando der Wehrmacht and the Führer’s chief of staff. And seated at the table, hands clasped together across his ponderous stomach, was Hermann Goering.
Seeing them, Dornberger instantly snapped to attention. “Heil Hitler!” he proclaimed, clicking his heels together and throwing his right arm forward as if it were a javelin. Von Braun repeated the same words; the briefcase in his right hand saved him from having to make that idiotic, vaudeville-hall salute. Keitel acknowledged them with a brief salute of his own, but Goering did nothing except regard Dornberger with amused contempt.
“Gentleman, please be seated.” Speer gestured to a couple of chairs on the other side of the table from Keitel and Goering. “Wernher, I understand you’ve brought a film you’d like for us to see?” He nodded toward a lieutenant standing beside the projector. “If you’ll give it to our staff officer, he can set it up for you.”
“Thank you.” Opening the briefcase on the table, von Braun pulled out a box containing a 30 mm movie reel. He handed it to the lieutenant, then watched over his shoulder as he loaded the projector. Von Braun was concerned about the film’s being damaged—it had been made specifically for this meeting, so there were no copies—but he also wanted to avoid Goering as much as possible. Even so, he could feel the Reich Marshal’s eyes upon him; it was as if Goering were a wolf and von Braun the hare who’d unwittingly wandered by.
The lieutenant had just finished threading the film into the take-up reel when the conference room door opened again. “The Führer!” Speer exclaimed, and this time everyone in the room turned toward the door. All except von Braun, who’d just then been removing some notes from his briefcase. Caught by surprise, he dropped the notes and hastily turned to find Adolf Hitler standing behind him.
This wasn’t von Braun’s first encounter with Hitler, and his impression of him hadn’t changed. For a man idolized by millions of loyal German citizens and feared by many more, he was far less intimidating in real life than he was in newsreels. He wore a grey uniform jacket with a swastika pin on the right lapel and the Reich’s eagle above the left breast pocket, and his tie was knotted with military precision, but von Braun couldn’t help but notice that his shirt collar was already stained with sweat. He was nearly a head shorter than von Braun, and his small body had none of the stature seen in official photographs. To von Braun, the lank, oily hair that fell across his forehead and the absurd little toothbrush mustache made him look like a peasant—a farmer or perhaps a butcher—who’d found a costume uniform somewhere and decided to wear it as a joke.
Then he gazed into Hitler’s cold eyes and saw what others had seen. Determination. Willpower. Ruthlessness. And lurking beneath all that, a hint of madness.
Wernher von Braun was a baron by inherited title, the scion of a wealthy German family. He’d never admired this Austrian commoner who’d found his way into beer-hall politics. Like many others of the social gentry, though, he’d been careful to keep his opinions to himself. Some of his liberal friends had had the foresight to flee Germany when they still could, and others had elected to stay and join the ranks of silent objectors, but the few who’d spoken out against Hitler and the Nazis had disappeared, taken from their homes by the Gestapo, their estates confiscated by the government. No one had forgotten the Night of the Long Knives, and no one talked about it either.