Von Braun suddenly realized that he was the only man present who hadn’t saluted the Führer. He had just begun to lift his right hand when Hitler stepped closer.
“Herr von Braun… Albert has told me much about you.”
“Yes, mein Führer.” It was all von Braun could manage. Obviously, Hitler had forgotten having already met him two years ago, when he’d visited the Wa Pruf 11 static test facility in Kummersdorf. At a loss for what else to do, von Braun offered a handshake.
Hitler ignored the gesture. Instead, he quietly studied von Braun for several moments, not smiling, never blinking once. Then he gave a small, vaguely satisfied nod and turned away.
“Very well.” He took a seat between Goering, Speer, and Keitel. “Show us what you’ve brought today.”
The movie began with shots of Peenemünde while it was still under construction and continued with footage of test launches. It was silent, with von Braun delivering narration and Dornberger occasionally chiming in. Von Braun did his best to keep the information on a nontechnical level, but he was more concerned about an uncomfortable fact he and the colonel had left unspoken: the A-4 project was behind schedule, having suffered one setback after another. Indeed, the most recent launch in the film was an A-3 prototype from ten months earlier; every other rocket launched since last October had exploded over the Baltic, if not on the pad itself.
As the film unspooled, von Braun studied Hitler from the corner of his eye. The Führer slumped in his seat, hands folded together, watching the film with no great interest. He had been afraid this might happen. When Hitler and his entourage had witnessed a static test of the A-4 engine at Kummersdorf, there had been an impressive display of fire and smoke as the 1,000-kg engine roared to life within its vertical test stand, yet the Führer had remained impassive. After the test, von Braun tried to explain what they’d just seen, but Hitler listened to him for only a couple of minutes before walking away, shaking his head in bafflement.
As the film drew to a close, there was an image von Braun wished Dornberger hadn’t insisted upon: an animated map of Europe and America, with a red arrow arching over the Atlantic from the United States to Germany.
“Germany isn’t alone in its efforts to perfect long-range military rockets,” Dornberger said, his voice fraught with menace. “America is doing so, too… and one day soon it may have the ability to launch an attack against the Fatherland. Clearly, the Reich must build a missile defense before other nations do so first.”
Von Braun suppressed an urge to groan.
The image faded, then the screen went white, and the last few inches of leader clattered through the take-up reel. The projectionist switched on the room lights, then walked over to the windows and opened the heavy blackout curtains. Hitler winced against the sudden rush of late-afternoon sunlight and rubbed his eyes, but it was Keitel who spoke for him.
“Are you certain of this, Colonel?” he asked Dornberger. “That America is able to attack us this way?”
“At this time, Field Marshal, the answer is no. But”—Dornberger tapped a finger against a memorandum he’d laid out on the table—“as I wrote in a report two years ago, the United States undoubtedly has a technological advantage. Like us, they, too, have been aggressively pursuing high-altitude rocket research over the last ten years… and we have little doubt that they may already be far ahead of us.”
Von Braun kept his expression neutral, but he knew that Dornberger was exaggerating to the point of telling an outright lie. No one really knew what the Americans were doing. Their rocket research was being done in secret, with no technical reports made public. Until 1930, von Braun was able to keep up with the progress being made by the sole American scientist actively pursuing space travel—a man whom von Braun secretly admired—but when he relocated his experiments from Massachusetts to rural New Mexico, he’d stopped talking to the press and refused to answer queries from anyone in Europe, including the VfR. Even the spies Germany had in the United States reported little recently except that he was apparently continuing to conduct rocket research.
Dornberger’s assertion that the United States was ahead in rocket research was questionable, to say the least. But von Braun knew why he’d made it. If fear was the only way he could motivate the Führer to continue funding research and development at Peenemünde, then fear was what he’d use.
“If this is so,” Keitel said, “then will it be possible for us to develop a rocket that will be able to reach America?”
“I’m not sure that’s even necessary,” Goering murmured. Like Hitler, he was unimpressed by the film. “America will not go to war with us. Their people are reluctant to get involved in European affairs, and their politicians know it.” He glanced at Hitler. “Mein Führer, America poses no threat to us. We will never have to fight them.”
“With respect, Reich Marshal, I disagree.” Dornberger shook his head. “It’s possible, yes, that America will continue its isolationist policies. Yet it’s just as possible that events may conspire to force their hand. Our continued assault upon Great Britain, for instance. Perhaps even the buildup of military forces in the Pacific by our Japanese allies.” Goering snorted, but Dornberger went on. “If this is the case, then we need to be prepared to counter an American rocket attack… or even make a preemptive strike of our own.”
“Really?” Keitel raised an eyebrow. “And will your A-4 be able to reach the American continent from Europe?”
Dornberger opened his mouth to speak, but von Braun interrupted him before he could make another baseless claim. “No, sir, it will not. Once perfected”—Dornberger gave him an angry glance—“the A-4 will have a maximum range of approximately 270 kilometers. This will be sufficient to attack targets in Britain, but the United States…?” He shook his head. “No, sir. I’m sorry, but that’s impossible.”
“However,” Dornberger quickly added, “we believe it may be possible to develop a step-rocket… that is, a multistage vehicle… capable of making a transcontinental flight. The ‘America Rocket,’ as we call it, would essentially stack an A-9 atop an A-10 rocket… once both are built, of course… with the result being a very large vehicle…”
“I have another idea,” Hitler said abruptly, and Dornberger immediately fell silent. “Why not fit the A-4 into one of our long-range cannons and fire it that way? This would increase its range, would it not?”
A smug smile appeared on the Führer’s face; apparently, he believed that he’d found an obvious solution that had eluded the Peenemünde scientists. It took all of von Braun’s self-control to keep from laughing out loud. Now more than ever, he knew that Hitler had no concept of what rockets were. He clearly thought that they were no more than artillery shells, much like the ones he’d handled during the last war.
“Mein Führer,” he said carefully, “this is… an interesting proposal. Unfortunately, it’s not feasible. The A-4 carries its own fuel. Even if there were an artillery piece large enough for this, the discharge would instantly destroy the vehicle.”
Hitler glared at him. No one in the room said anything. Von Braun noticed that even Speer had become silent. He might be a supporter of Wa Pruf 11, but he was not going to stick his neck into a noose for the sake of the Peenemünde rocket program.