The FCO’s voice broke in to announce T-minus-three minutes. Von Braun wished that he could talk to Franz now in these last few moments before the launching, but it was impossible. He could hear Bethwig’s calm, unemotional voice relaying an endless series of data readings to the FCO’s staff to confirm the telemetered readings. Already he could see the repeater dials on his console flickering. Telemetry had always been one of their biggest problems. Franz has chosen the correct course, he thought. Perhaps the Allies would want their services after this damned war ended. If they were still alive, that is, and the sight of the unconscious SS officer in the corner made him doubt that. Even so, no matter what, they would never again have the complete control they had here. If ever again they or anyone else was offered a similar opportunity, the bureaucrats would hound them to an extent that would make Heydrich’s and Himmler’s interference seem like child’s play.
There was so much to learn, to accomplish, so much that could be given back to humanity, but the fools and the bureaucrats would never understand that. Von Braun put his face in his hands and sobbed, as much for the loss of their dream as for his friend going willingly to his death.
Bethwig was relaxed in the couch, ignoring for the moment the constant stream of chatter flowing from the earphones, and hugging the idea to himself as the elapsed mission time chronometer hand wound down. With less than two minutes remaining, there was no way to stop him. Everything necessary to launch the rocket was under his control. He glanced again at the control panel; all lights were glowing green except for the launch sequencer and the first-stage turbine pumps. In another thirty seconds they would be started and those lights would turn from amber to green.
His thoughts turned to the Englishman Memling. He too had agreed to give his life for one final chance at a dream. Why? Was it the same demon that drove him? But how could it be? he wondered. Memling had experimented with rockets in an amateurish way, as they all had, but certainly such limited experience could not… or could it? For a moment the frustration and hope, the lack of money and food, and the camaraderie he had experienced as a member of the VfR during the primitive Rakentenflugplatz days were more real than the smell of the pressure suit or the glowing control panel above him. And he understood. The demon was the same.
Had they made a pact with the Devil as they so often joked, or had they merely recognised its existence in themselves? Was there any difference between Hitler and Himmler with their dreams of a world empire led by the Aryan race, or between himself and Himmler? He had his own dream as well. And each of them damned the cost, both human and economic, while citing the greater good that would result.
Intentionally or not, he had sold his father and Inge, Memling, Prager, and all the rest, even Wernher, to fulfil his ambition. Bethwig struggled to turn his mind from that line of thought as his elation faded and he realised that he was no better than Himmler or Heydrich after all.
The grinding vibration of the first-stage turbine pumps whining into operation far below brought him back to present awareness. Automatically his gloved hand went to the arming switch, lifted the protective tab, and pressed down. A voice sounded in his earphones, but he did not understand the words.
The chronometer stood at exactly T-minus-sixty seconds. Deep in the instrument bay among the tangle of painfully assembled resistors and transformers and wires and meters, a series of rotary switches were turning in final sequence. Franz watched their progress as lights changed from red to green on the status board to his left; the hydrogen peroxide generator tanks being charged, the auxiliary valves snapping open and the turbine pumps whirring to provide on-board power and pump the metric tons of liquid oxygen and alcohol towards the twenty-one engines of the first stage. Other valves flew open as the fuel and LOX coursed through an intricate net of piping which frosted instantly as damp night air condensed on frigid metal. The same rotary switches sent signals coursing through kilometres of copper cable to the command centre where technicians pressed buttons and turned switches as lights winked from red to green and the umbilical cables that were Bethwig’s last connection with Earth fell away and the spider-work gantries pulled back. Another light prompted a technician to start the massive pumps that pulled sea water through an inlet fifty metres under the Baltic and five kilometres of pipes before emerging in high-pressure sprays to cool and protect the tunnel and flame baffles channelling the near plasma blast of the twenty-one rocket engines into the sky half a kilometre away.
The vibration was growing, and Bethwig was frightened, not of his own death but of what he might have paid to achieve it.
Jan Memling found the path leading to the ridge, which, though less than ten metres high, offered a clear, uninterrupted view of the launching site. He sat down and laid the machine pistol across his knees, too exhausted to run farther. He found the crumpled packet of cigarettes Bethwig had given him. There was one left, and he lit it, shielding the match with both hands.
Memling, forgetting how cold, exhausted and hungry he was, stared at the floodlit space – it was as large as a dozen football grounds – a kilometre away. The gantries had been pulled aside, and the rocket towered against the sky in the full glare of massed searchlights. Its polished fuselage, painted with red stripes, gleamed and scintillated through some atmospheric trick. He wondered if Bethwig had been able to carry through with his plan to board the rocket in place of the pilot, but he did not wonder why.
Something flickered along the rocket’s side, and he found himself wishing for a pair of field glasses. A red flare arced above the area, and he guessed the launching was imminent. He glanced at the dead SS guard’s watch, but somewhere in the past hour the crystal had smashed. The hands were stopped at 11.25, about the time he had shot the SS people in the barracks. It had all been wasted effort in any event as he had been unable to contact the submarine.
A mist rose around the base of the rocket, and he drew on the cigarette, watching with narrowed eyes as if that would help him to see better.
Wernher von Braun watched the clock hand begin its final sweep. The babble in the command centre had risen to its highest level, as always in these final seconds – the result both of excitement and a last torrent of reports. He saw several lights change from green to red indicating problems and just as quickly switch back again. Bethwig was overriding them as they occurred, and he closed his eyes a moment in fear. One light had remained red for several seconds now. It flamed beneath the gauge indicating that pressure in the oxidiser system had failed. The flight control officer was calling over and over into the microphone, trying to bring that fault to his attention, but either Bethwig was ignoring him or the communications link had failed. Then he realised that Bethwig could not have missed the indicator on his own board. He was simply overriding the system to stop the FOC from calling a launch hold.
Von Braun pressed the transmit bar on his microphone and broke into the FCO’s increasingly frantic calls. He struggled to keep his own voice under control.
‘Franz, can you hear me?’ He paused a moment, hoping that Bethwig would respond to his voice. The sweep-second touched the numeral twenty.
‘We have a light on the board indicating a LOX turbine pump failure. Do you have the same?’
He released the transmit button and held his breath.
‘Yes. I think it’s nothing more than a short in the sensor.’ Bethwig’s voice seemed crisp enough.