And yet, here Voorhees stood, toiling on the weapon anyway. Increasingly, though, it was looking like a one-way flight, in which each of the space-planes would be thrown away, in much the same manner his new strap-on “bottle rocket” boosters would be discarded, once they were used up, and in much the same manner he himself had nearly been thrown away, for the mere utterance of a few wrong words. Everything and everyone was expendable.
As the clock touched 5 A.M., Voorhees’s team was mixing and molding tube segments of aluminum powder and oxygen-rich resin for the strap-on boosters. They were just large enough and powerful enough to give each Silverbird an extra push toward space, kicking in after the monorail sled had served its purpose and before the main fuel tanks were employed.
Now, almost to a certainty, Voorhees could get each of S?nger’s space-planes to skip like a pebble off the surface of a pond, down from space and across the upper atmosphere, at least as far as the other side of the world—all of this in approximately forty-five minutes.
In his wildest moments of abstract fantasy, Voorhees wished he could pilot one of the Silverbirds himself, perhaps landing it on an American salt flat, where it would be saved, hopefully pointing the way toward a better world to come, after the war. But this was not to be. He looked around, and he knew: “I am in Hell.”
And always, at times like these, he asked himself, “Lisl, how did I ever get into something as horrible as this?”
CHAPTER 17
In the Shadow of Hydra
We were told that our lives were not to be considered in the destruction of this target.
—SERGEANT J. G. MCLAUGHLAN, 405TH SQUADRON, RAF
Christ almighty, boys! Just look at the fires—just look at the fires!
—SERGEANT K. G. FORESTER, 90TH SQUADRON, RAF
The European red deer had been in Peenemünde for roughly ten thousand years by the time the rocket men arrived. Both species were drawn in by the same features: calm waters, dense forests of ancient oaks and pines, warm summers, and solitude. During the twelfth century, the Germans used the natural deepwater harbor at Peenemünde to gain a foothold before driving out the Slavic tribes that had inhabited the region since the end of the Ice Age. Except for a seventy-year interval in the seventeenth century (when the Swedes had somehow taken over the peninsula), the harbor was used almost exclusively by German fishermen, and by ships supplying the village of Peenemünde. During the winter of 1936–37, fishermen, their families, and all the inhabitants of Peenemünde had received “requests” from the government “suggesting” that they should consider relocation. While some of the villagers understood immediately that a nod from that direction was as good as a shove, and decided to haul up stakes, others (fishermen, mostly) expressed a rather vocal defiance—at least among themselves. There had always been minor squabbles among these men, but they were united in their stance that their hard work put food on the plates of Germans, even those in Berlin. In an unprecedented show of solidarity, they voted a pair of their most articulate brethren to represent them on an appeal to the Chancellery: “We must be allowed to stay.”
A week later, a team of marine engineers arrived at the deserted fishing village to begin construction of the extensive dock system that soon stretched like fingers into the dark, deep waters near the mouth of the River Peene.
Along the Baltic Coast
SUMMER OF 1943
* * *
The feeling of deceleration had awakened Maurice Voorhees from a fitful nap, just before his mind registered the sound of a train’s whistle. He rubbed his eyes and yawned. When von Braun himself invited Voorhees to Peenemünde, he would never have believed his own mother if she had told him that the best day of his life and the worst day of his life could become the same day.
Looking out the window, he saw that the train was running on an elevated track. The hardwood forest he had been watching pass by when he dozed off was gone, replaced by marshland, partially obscured by a damp mist. The tang of salt in the air told him they were near the coast. There were buildings, scattered here and there, and the train slowed further as it passed a row of steep-roofed cottages. Voorhees read a weathered sign and the metallic squeal of brakes confirmed that “Zinnowitz” was a station stop. He yawned again but the sound of voices caused him to straighten up in his seat.
What on earth?
There were hundreds of people on the narrow station platform. Men and women. At first he had the absurd notion that it might be some kind of demonstration, but no, they were all jostling for position, waiting to board the train. Voorhees shifted to a window seat just before a crowd spilled into the passenger car. Within thirty seconds, they had filled every bench and staked claim to all of the available standing room. The riders seemed strangely subdued, speaking in hushed tones, if they spoke at all, but Voorhees was still able to identify half a dozen accents—northerners, Berliners. Someone was speaking Czech.