Designated Targets

different. The revelations they had occasioned necessitated the boldest of gambits and the most ruthless winnowing out of criminal elements within the state.

An image of Field Marshal Witzleben thrashing about like a dumb beast on a meat hook arose unbidden before the Reichsfuhrer’s eyes. The former commander of Army West was one of more than twenty thousand conspirators who had been dispatched, but he was one of the few whose demise Himmler had personally observed. It was necessary work, but quite upsetting, and he had left the scene of the execution shaking and white.

He had authorized two weeks’ leave for all members of the Einsatzgruppen who were personally involved in the countersubversion operations. Unfortunately, the pace of their work was such that nobody had managed to take as much as one hour’s break since their vital mission began with the translation of the so-called Web files.

A PA system announced the ten-minute countdown in both German and Russian.

Himmler noticed the arrival of Brasch and his SS chaperone. While many had been sucked down in the recent turbulence, others had flourished, and Brasch was one of them. The fuhrer had personally promoted him to the rank of Oberst, thanking the engineer for his work in the Orient. Himmler, however, wasn’t so sure of the man. The murder of Steckel remained unsolved and unsettling, but then Brasch could hardly be blamed for that. He’d been hundreds of miles away in Hashirajima when the intelligence officer was killed. And as a lieutenant in the Ausland-SD, Steckel had doubtless accumulated many foes. That circle of perverts from the Foreign Ministry were much more likely to have been responsible.

Still, Brasch had enjoyed unrestricted access to the historical documents for many weeks. It gave one pause to imagine how he might have been affected by them.

“Reichsfuhrer!” Both men snapped out perfect salutes.

Himmler nodded at their arrival and flicked back a restrained salute. The NKVD generals remained impassive. The junior officers shuffled around to allow them to join the circle.

Himmler put his doubts about Brasch to one side. The man had been more than effective in carrying out the special tasks they had assigned him here, and Gelder, one of Himmler’s better lieutenants, had found nothing ill to report of him, as yet.

The Demidenko operation was proceeding in excellent order.

“I am hopeful that your test will prove to be successful, Herr Oberst,” said Himmler.

Brasch, to his credit, did not blanch at being directly addressed by the head of the SS. Nor did he dissemble. “We all hope for success, sir. But as I’m sure you know, I cannot guarantee it. The rockets and technical data we took off the Sutanto and her sister ship in New Guinea have been most helpful. The computers are like magic boxes. Even so, I don’t anticipate a perfect trial. But we shall see.”

Silence fell over the group, and the Germans waited on Himmler’s response. When he acknowledged Brasch’s short speech with a curt nod, they all relaxed slightly. The Soviets did not.

“We are more than hopeful of success, Colonel Brasch,” said Orlov, the senior Russian general, in his heavily accented German. “Much effort has been poured into this project. We are not a rich country, and every kopeck spent here is lost to the reconstruction and repair necessitated by the aggression of your own.”

“That is your problem, General.” Brasch shrugged.

The Bolshevik flared at the insult, and Himmler found himself in the unfamiliar role of peacemaker. “Orlov, this project is a concrete symbol of our cooperation against the common enemy. We do not need to rake over scorched earth. Colonel Brasch, you will apologize.”

“Of course,” said Brasch with easy equanimity. “I am sorry, Herr General. In the drive to complete our work, I forget myself.”

The PA announced, “Launch minus five.”

The Soviets seemed mollified, and Brasch remained completely unruffled. Himmler found himself privately amused at the engineer’s cheek. Nobody was happy with this new rapprochement, but needs must out when the devil drives. And the fuhrer’s plans were most definitely being driven by the devilish complications of the Emergence.

Himmler polished the lens of the specially tinted goggles they’d given him and turned to the foot-thick blast window. The striking sight of the prototype V-2 rocket, poised on its launchpad, was heavily distorted through the armored glass, but he preferred to watch the test as it happened rather than on the even fuzzier televiewing screen in the control room.

In truth, Brasch knew what would happen long before it transpired. The missile stood forty-eight feet high and measured five and a half feet in diameter. It weighed thirteen tons, most of which was liquid alcohol and liquid oxygen, to provide thrust to the 600,000-horsepower rocket engine. It was designed to carry a ton of high explosives, but did not do so for today’s test. Theoretically it could reach a speed of 3,500 miles per hour, with a ceiling of 116 miles. Unlike the aborted V-1, a fast fighter could not intercept it.

All of which was irrelevant. This missile was never meant to fly.

As the metallic voice of the PA counted down toward zero, Brasch felt his heartbeat quicken. He had to will himself not to flinch. Himmler had retreated behind the tinted goggles. The Russians, in their excitement, had forgotten to put theirs on.

Stillness descended on the control room.

“. . . five, four, three, two, one . . . ignition.”

Even through the concrete walls and thick blast window, they could hear the roar of the engine. The wavy, green tinted armor glass distorted the view, but Brasch fancied that he could see the fatal tilt within a second of the giant lance taking off. Smoke and flame blasted away from the gantry at high speed. The missile shuddered and lurched skyward, and the small boy within him ached for it to keep going.

But it didn’t. He had sabotaged the launch most effectively, and the room filled with intense yellow light as the V-2 tipped over, sending a long spear of superheated exhaust in their direction. Now he flinched, like everyone else, as the flames seemed to lick at the window. A gigantic, muffled explosion sounded as nine tons of rocket fuel detonated a few hundred meters away. Some of the technicians cursed; some cried out in panic. He heard somebody swearing in German and, from the tone, somebody doing the same thing in Russian.

After a few seconds, the thunder subsided and everyone unclenched themselves. There was never any chance of the bunker being breached. Orlov and his men looked shaken. Himmler was paler and more thin-lipped than usual. He turned on Brasch with an evil look. “Well, Herr Oberst?”

“An initial failure,” he replied flatly. “As I said, it was always a possibility. We know that the original tests, as documented in the computer records, were also problematic.”

“But we are supposed to have learned from those mistakes,” hissed the Reichsfuhrer. “The Soviets are not the only ones spending vast sums of money out here, Brasch. The Reich is engaged in a death struggle with the democracies, and we cannot afford this sort of thing.”

Brasch could tell that the NKVD men, in spite of their shock at the explosion, were enjoying the spectacle of their exchange, though it meant nothing to him.

“I shall prepare a report on the failure by the end of the day, Reichsfuhrer.”

It seemed as if every pair of eyes in the room was on them. A siren sounded very faintly from outside as fire trucks rushed to the pad.

“See to it that you do, Herr Oberst, and I shall wish to discuss this in private . . . later,” he added ominously, before dismissing them both with a flick of the hand.

“An unfortunate accident,” Gelder muttered as they slunk out of the blockhouse.

Brasch sighed with exasperation. “It is science, my friend. Trial and error. We are years ahead of schedule, but this is not a magic wand,” said Brasch, waving his flexipad. “There will be more days like this one—believe me.”

“You’d want to hope not,” said Gelder, with what sounded like genuine sympathy. “The Reichsfuhrer does not like to be disappointed.”

They walked in silence the rest of the way through the long, half-painted corridor, passing no other human beings. Just bloodied handprints.