Sussmann leaned against the door-frame to watch. Walsch started to speak, but Memling turned then and shot the Gestapo officer once, through the forehead.
‘One more can’t make my nightmares any worse,’ he muttered.
Bethwig parked the car on the northern boundary of the deserted POW camp. He and Jan Memling got out while Prager worked to bandage the surviving grenadier’s shattered arm. The corporal and the other grenadier had been killed, and Sussmann had received a shrapnel wound in the stomach. The pain and loss of blood were sending him into shock. He lay back in the front seat breathing heavily, his face pale.
The wind whipped tatters of snow at them once again, and Memling shivered in his ill-fitting uniform. They stood just below a small rise where the trees had been cleared, and talked for what seemed a very long time. Bethwig told him of the work they had done, passing lightly over the details in his haste to cover everything. He wanted this quiet, capable Englishman to understand what had brought them to this night; more, he wanted his help.
Memling nodded when he began to describe the V-10. ‘I know. I was here.’
Bethwig hugged his coat about himself. ‘It was rumoured you killed four SS soldiers.’
’How do you know about that?’
Bethwig laughed humourlessly. ‘Peenemunde abounds in rumours. They were confirmed when the Gestapo arrested Wernher von Braun, Ernst Mundt and Helmuth Gottrup.’
‘Arrested… then…’
‘No, all three were subsequently released. The SS wanted to hang them, but in those days we still had a few connections that meant something.’
He took Memling’s arm and urged him up the slight rise until they were standing on the crest. Below them lay the immense sprawl of the V-10 launch complex. The area seemed a fairyland of lights and broad avenues leading to the towering conical shape of the V-10.
‘Jesus,’ Memling breathed.
The rocket was immense. He had never imagined anything so huge in his life. It was as if he had stepped into another world, another time. Even at this distance it was staggering. A lorry moving past the rocket’s base snapped the scene into scale. The rocket was wider than the lorry was long. Technicians swarmed like ants over the three-stage rocket and its scaffolding. Against the moonlit sky the thrusting, brilliantly lighted shape glistened as if alive. Looking into the shallow valley formed by the surrounding hills, Memling knew he was witnessing for the first time in the history of the human race a scene that would be repeated endlessly into the future as man struck out from the tiny, cramped world of his birth in search of his ultimate destiny. That barely remembered French scientist had been right after all; they all, he and Franz Bethwig and Wernher von Braun and all the other scientists and technicians at Peenemunde shared a magnificent dream, which even the savagery of total war could not destroy.
‘The V-Ten.’ Bethwig leaned sideways to make himself heard over the wind, it was designed to bombard the eastern coast of the United States with atomic explosives.’
Memling turned to him, eyes growing wide, but Bethwig shook his head before he could ask the question.
‘Our atomic projects were cancelled long ago. But not the V-Ten. We have test-flown four of them. This is the fifth and final rocket.’
‘Then you are going to launch it?’ Memling found his voice at last.
‘Yes. Tonight. But not at the United States.’
‘Where?’ Memling asked the question even though he already knew the answer.
A sudden current of happiness shot through Bethwig; he could not explain it, but he laughed and clapped Memling on the back and pointed at the moon. ‘There, my English friend, to the moon, as we talked about all those years ago in Arnsberg, remember? Tonight, we shall do it.’
Memling watched the car recede until its tail-lights disappeared. He then hitched on the sling of his machine pistol and started off towards the northern end of the island. Prager scratched his head and, as if reaching a decision, strode after him. The Englishman grinned as he came up, but said nothing. Both men were busy with their own thoughts.
He had an idea of Prager’s mental struggle; he had been through it himself. It was conceivable, he had decided, that this rocket might have some military value, even though at this late date it could have no real effect on the course of the war. In any event, what Bethwig intended to do was far bigger, far more important to the human race, than any of its petty and – after tonight – outdated squabbles. He really had nothing to lose, Memling decided. His own chances of survival were slim in any event, and he might as well see that something came of this damned war. And besides, he admitted, he wouldn’t miss the launch of the first rocket to the moon for life itself. After a while the trees hid the launch site, but the glow remained in the sky as a beacon and they trudged on towards the petrol and fuel storage tanks.
No one turned to look at Bethwig as he entered the control room and stood for a moment watching the orderly chaos. This was the part he loved, these final hours when everything came together and a thousand men worked as one towards a single goal.
Tangles of cable ran across and along the aisles, taped to the floor here and bundled together with lengths of flex there. A huge ready board was mounted on the wall where it could be seen from every corner of the room. Bethwig scanned the coloured markers quickly; everything was proceeding on schedule. As he watched, a technician scurried across the metal platform to replace a yellow marker with a green diamond indicating that the return stage liquid oxygen tanks had been pressure-tested successfully.
A twelve-year-old boy skidded to a halt before him; the son of a test engineer, he was serving as a messenger. His face was flushed with exertion, and he could barely contain his excitement. ‘Please, Herr Doktor. There is a telephone call for you. From Brigadeführer Kammler. He has been waiting fifteen minutes.’
Bethwig followed the boy to the main console where Wernher von Braun scowled at him. Bethwig nodded and drew a finger across his throat. Von Braun’s scowl deepened, but he offered the receiver, one hand across the mouthpiece.
‘I told him you were on the launch stand, checking the second stage gyro assembly.’
‘Herr Brigadeführer Kammler? How nice to hear from you. Have you been held up? We expected you this afternoon.’ Bethwig made his voice drip.
‘Never mind that now.’ Kammler was shouting, his words almost lost in the roar of atmospherics. ‘What the hell is going on there? I am being prevented from reaching Peenemunde…’ The next few sentences disappeared in the crash and pop of static.
‘I am sorry, Brigadeführer,’ Bethwig said into the mouthpiece. ‘The line is so bad I cannot understand you.’
‘…status there? Will you…?’
Bethwig was able to guess at the question. ‘We will launch on time. All stations have reported in. The submarine is on station and everything appears ready at this time. Please do try and get here,’ he finished, and handed the phone to the boy.
‘If Brigadeführer Kammler comes back on the line so that you can understand him, son, tell him what’s happening. Otherwise, hang up.’
The boy’s eyes went wide as he accepted the phone; he stammered something, but Bethwig had already turned away, motioning von Braun to follow.
‘What the hell is going on?’ von Braun demanded, grabbing his arm as they reached the corridor. ‘Magnus telephoned an hour ago to say that Sussmann was arming some men to deal with a problem. What problem, damn it?’
‘The problem of Inspector Jacob Walsch. Do you remember an old friend of yours, Jan Memling?’
Wernher von Braun blinked in surprise. ‘Of course… oh no, not again!’
Bethwig nodded. ‘Yes. He was sent to Peenemunde to persuade you and the staff to surrender to the British or Americans, rather than the Russians.’