Memling hesitated. So far he had managed to pull the SS away to the north as Bethwig had asked. He could head into the southern part of the island and disappear in the marshes and thick forest, and it would take them days to find him. What the hell was he doing here, then? Even if he could make contact with the submarine, there was only the faintest chance they would get to him before the SS. Wasn’t it better to wait a few days, until the uproar died, then find a way to Sweden? He had done it once… But he was grasping at straws. The SS knew who he was. A few Gestapo personnel killed, a company of SS shot up, would not deter them in the slightest. There was an old score to settle, and he had only added to their anger in the past two hours. Nothing had changed. There was still no other way out.
He realised then that there was something heady about mastering one’s fear, something that made suicide a bit too attractive, and sobered, he stepped around the doorway. Two black-uniformed men leaned over a desk. The operator’s back was to Memling as he hunched over a microphone. A fourth man, an elderly officer with stooped shoulders, looked up as he appeared, his expression changing from annoyance to shock as the muzzle of the MP40 came towards him. He clawed for the pistol at his belt, too late. Memling fired a single burst as he swept the pistol diagonally. The officer collapsed, and the two others hunched over and fell together as the man at the radio slid out of his chair. The room was large, with two entrances – which accounted for the two doors. There was no one else inside, and, without hesitating, Memling knelt and lined up on the entrance doors. The guard burst into the corridor looking wildly in both directions. Memling killed the man with a single shot. Behind him the radio crackled with tinny static.
Jan checked the bodies at the desk. All were dead. He dragged the sentry into the radio room and took a few moments to replace his overlarge boots and trousers. He then stepped outside the building to listen but heard only the steady ululation of wind through the trees and the booming surf on the beach a few hundred metres distant. He glanced at the sky. The cloud cover was almost total now, and the wind seemed to be mounting. He had no idea what weather conditions were required to launch a rocket as large as the V-10, but he doubted if anything short of a full gale would stop Bethwig and von Braun tonight.
Returning to the radio room, he collected weapons and ammunition, moved the chair to face the door, and tuned the radio to the proper frequency. He had decided to give the radio fifteen minutes, and that was cutting it fine. He pressed the microphone switch and began to transmit his call sign.
Stunned silence held the command centre. Every eye had gone automatically to the speaker mounted above the status board.
Wernher von Braun stared at his microphone, then reached a hand forward, as if in a dream, and pressed the transmit bar. ‘Franz…?’
‘The main control board is showing every indicator at positive.’ Bethwig’s voice rumbled from the speaker. ‘My chronometer has T-minus-fifteen minutes,’ he added, as if prompting a response.
‘T-minus-fifteen minutes,’ von Braun repeated, and looked about the room helplessly. Everyone was staring at him.
‘I have a light indicating fuelling completed and pressure holding.’ Bethwig’s voice came through the speaker again. ‘What is the status of the count? I foresee no further holds.’ His calm, matter-of-fact voice eased von Braun from his daze; but before he could respond, the SS officer supervising the launch pushed through the crowd around his console.
He thumbed the transmit button twice, hoping that Bethwig would pick up on the warning, before the sturmbannführer grabbed his arm.
‘That voice, it belongs to Herr Doktor Bethwig!’ The man was practically screaming. ‘Where is he?’
Von Braun jerked his arm away. ‘Obviously inside the rocket, you ass! Get away from here! You are interfering!’
The SS officer was livid. ‘Get him out of there, immediately! What are you fools up to? I can have you all shot!’
He grabbed for the microphone, but von Braun leapt to his feet and shoved the major so hard he tripped and fell. Von Braun yanked him up. ‘I’ve wanted to do this for a long time,’ he grated, shaking the man like a rag doll. ‘You will not interfere again or I will kill you with my bare hands, do you understand? It is too late to stop now. Too late to stop the launching. Go telephone your boss Kammler for instructions.’
Von Braun flung him away and turned to the console as the major recovered his balance and clawed at his holstered pistol. A technician hit him with a wrench, relieved him of his pistol, and, grinning, dragged the inert body into a corner. Other technicians leapt for the SS guards posted around the room and took their weapons. Von Braun picked up the microphone.
‘Franz, what in hell do you think you are doing?’
Bethwig’s laugh floated from the speaker. ‘Care to change places with me, Wernher?’
‘You have to be mad. You are committing suicide!’
‘Of course. And how better? There is nothing left for me but this. Please, old friend, it’s much too late for recriminations. We both know there is nothing for it but to continue. There will be plenty of time to talk later.’
Someone pushed a note at von Braun and he spared a second to glance at it. ‘My God,’ he muttered, forgetting the live microphone. His voice bounced from the speaker, and everyone in the room turned to him.
‘Peenemunde is under attack,’ he announced, struggling to control his voice. ‘The fuel storage area in Peenemunde West has been blown up. An SS detachment was ambushed.’ This last brought a loud cheer, and the captured guards exchanged apprehensive glances.
Bethwig’s voice broke in on the babble in the control room. ‘Peenemunde is not under attack, at least not by the Russians. A friend is causing a diversion to keep the SS too busy to interfere with this launching. This is our last chance. Get on with it!’
For a single instant every eye was on the loudspeaker, then, as if of one mind, they set to work again; each technician present understood without explanation. Although he too understood and would gladly have traded places, von Braun shook his head in despair and announced the revised mission objective. Within minutes those of the launch crews whose tasks were completed began filtering into the empty VIP gallery, their excitement plain. A hoarse cheering broke out, all fear was forgotten.
The firing control officer announced T-minus-five minutes, and von Braun ticked the final entry in his log and relinquished control. His job was finished; the FCO had charge now. He watched the activity in the room with the detachment of someone far removed in time and space. For a moment he felt as if he had never had any part of the gruelling course that over the past fourteen years had led inevitably to this moment. And then the sensation was gone, and he realised they had done it. Now they would prove that man could travel to the moon. For just an instant there was a flood of bitter jealousy at the thought that he would never be first, but then he realised that for all his hopes and longing he had never really expected that he would be. Had Franz, he wondered, ever doubted? Had he ever thought, all those years ago, what this pact they had made with the Devil would cost? Had he suspected but gone ahead anyway, knowing that this was the only chance? Bethwig had given everything of value for this dream, far more than he, and now he was about to give his life.