‘Are you cert – ‘ he began, then broke off, and shrugged. ‘A bit too late to be worrying about that, isn’t it?’ The voice was tinny and distant through the built-in headset.
Bethwig lifted a ponderous arm and clapped him on the shoulder. When the technician asked where Bethwig had gone, he waved vaguely in the direction of the inner office and stepped into the corridor, at the end of which, beyond the glass doors, he could see the lorry waiting to drive them to the launch site. Technicians and well-wishers, family members of the staff and non-technical employees, had gathered to applaud the pilot as he passed. Bethwig waved, thankful that the vision plate was tinted, so his features could not be seen. The doors were opened for him, and he stepped out. A brilliant flare lit the northern horizon at that instant, and moments later sound struck them with the ferocity of a hurricane.
Prager’s estimate of the SS garrison’s ability to respond was obviously faulty, Memling thought with some bitterness. He had lost sight of the Gestapo officer just after they had slipped back through the fence and started towards the woods. A rifle shot snapped past, and the wind brought the sound of a lorry engine racing towards them. Memling made it to the cover of the trees, but Prager had disappeared in the darkness.
He could not see the soldiers crossing the field, but he could hear them: an officer’s whistle, the sound of booted feet on frozen ground, an occasional shout. When he was satisfied that they were in an extended skirmish line, suggesting that they did not know their quarry’s exact location, Memling trotted a few hundred metres into the scrub pine, switched direction abruptly, and headed north-east towards the coast, which, unless he had badly mixed his directions, was two kilometres away. There was nothing he could do for Prager except to hope the man had got clear.
There were no longer any sounds of pursuit as he came up over the crest of a sand dune, yet he continued to move carefully. The moon had slipped farther towards zenith, and heavy cloud was moving in for good this time. Memling studied the sky; it would snow before morning, he decided. The watch he had taken from one of the dead SS troopers in Trassenheide showed 10.55. Less than an hour to go. If they kept to schedule.
As he hunched into the shelter of a bush Memling found himself wondering at Bethwig’s confident assertion that the launching would not be stopped because of technical problems: had the Germans come so far that he could be that certain, or was it all an act for his benefit? He recalled the weeks and months of repeated failure in the years before the war, when he and Phil Cleator and Arthur Clarke and all the rest had struggled time and again to get their flimsy balsa and tin creations off the ground.
And that raised the question of why Bethwig was involved in this mad scheme to begin with. He was one of Germany’s premier rocket engineers. How in the name of God had he become involved in a gun battle at Gestapo headquarters? Was the dream strong enough, he wondered, to drive a man into open conflict with his government, even to the point of treason? He shook his head. It was damned unlikely that he would ever know.
But Bethwig had told him he was going to ride that shining monster to the moon, and his breath caught in his throat at the memory of the rocket towering from the centre of the launch complex. Only someone like himself, like Franz, like those of the Peenemunde staff, could ever really understand the lure of the dream that had driven them all these years. And given the slightest opportunity, Memling knew he would have taken Bethwig’s place without a second thought.
A figure materialised on the edge of the deeper blackness that was the pine forest. A smear of cloud slid away from the moon, and he saw Prager plodding in his direction. He watched as the Gestapo agent reached the fence edging the narrow track, stooped, and began to crawl through. A spotlight snapped on, catching Prager full in its beam, and a machine-gun stitched a dead-straight line of dirt explosions towards him; Prager’s coat caught on the barbed wire, and the stream of bullets marched past and left him dangling on the fence. A moment later soldiers ran down the road, and the lorry mounting the searchlight and machine-gun followed.
It happened so fast that Memling could do nothing but watch. Someone had made a correct guess and sent a detachment to wait in ambush. Sickened at the senseless cruelty of it, Memling edged down the flank of the dune as they dragged Prager up the road. An officer met them half-way, unholstered a pistol, and fired a single round into his head.
‘You bloody bastards!’ Memling ground out as two of the SS squad pulled Prager’s body to the side of the road and kicked it into the ditch. Memling reached the hard sand beach and began to run.
The plan had come into his mind fully formed. The track ran along the beach, just back of the dunes, as he remembered the map. Less than half a kilometre on, it snaked down into a gully and up again, making a sharp turn inland as it emerged. Memling reached that gully as the lorry came into sight, travelling slowly and rocking from side to side on the badly rutted road. The glare of its headlights whipped over him, and he flattened himself against the ground. The lorry lurched down the slope, gears grinding angrily as the driver fought the transmission and the steering wheel at the same time, and the soldier at the machine-gun hung on with both hands. As the lorry started up the short slope and entered the turn Memling twisted the cap off a grenade, pulled the igniter, and waited two seconds before tossing it into the open back. He heard someone swear, and then the grenade went off.
The blast swung the lorry half around; the petrol tank erupted and the rear became a mass of flames. The driver’s door flew open and Memling shot the man as he slid out, then shifted quickly and killed the gunner as he scrambled over the side. A figure leapt from the back, uniform blazing like a torch, and Memling ignored him as he rolled about on the ground for a moment, then lay still. A bullet kicked up dirt as he got to his feet, and instinctively he swivelled, finger squeezing short bursts from the MP40. The officer who had shot Prager jerked and fell across the hood of the lorry.
Memling climbed down into the gully. A series of pops sounded beneath the blazing canvas as ammunition exploded. He kept his eyes on the officer who was groaning and trying to push himself upright. The man saw Memling standing across the hood and lifted a hand as if to shield himself. Memling reached forward and picked up the officer’s pistol from where it had fallen into the open hood vent. The SS officer tried to speak, but Memling shook his head and shot him dead.
Memling crossed the road. By the time the first soldiers arrived to investigate the blaze, he was deep in the forest, moving south.
‘Right foot here, sir, then left foot on the couch. That’s it, sir, now ease in and down.’
The technician’s big hand pushed down on the helmet, forcing Bethwig’s chin against the rim, so that he spluttered in protest before he popped through the hatch like a melon seed, caromed off the far wall of the cabin, and bounced into the seat. With an air of exasperation, the technician leaned across and reset the three switches he had knocked out of position.
Franz lay back in the contoured seat while the technicians worked to secure him to the acceleration couch and hook him into the control panels. He could hardly believe that he had pulled it off, yet the couch rocked gently on its gimbals and there was the main instrument panel above his head. He was so excited that he no longer noticed the sweaty, oily smell of the pressure suit; nor did he notice that it chafed. The suit was just about one size too small, but that could not be helped. And his neck was just that much longer than the original owner’s that the top of his head rubbed against the padding.