The Reich Device (26 page)

Dönitz pointed at the northern coastline with his finger. ‘Here… it’s currently a small place, on the Baltic Sea – Peenemünde. There is an access road, and a few small buildings where the navy used to keep supplies. It’s rundown now, but shouldn’t take long to convert things and build up the facility for the rocket programme.’

‘There will be logistics in moving things, adding delays, and what about the cost?’

‘The Führer has made it clear. The relocation is an absolute priority, you are tasked with making bigger and better rockets than before. Colonel Dornberger… apparently you have all the resources of the Reich at your disposal for this task… at least for now.’

Dornberger swallowed. ‘And if we fail?’

‘We are already on thin ice, you
must
not fail. We are… ’ Both men stared at each other. It didn’t need saying – Hitler was adept at removing commanders who displeased him. Dönitz broke the silence.

‘Well, from a military viewpoint, it is defended on at least two sides by the sea. We can reinforce it quickly from the naval base in Heligoland.’ Dönitz traced a finger across the map.

‘At least that’s some comfort to have the navy close by; how long do we have to make the move?’

‘Effective immediately and to be completed within a matter of months. We have no choice; the Führer demands a rapid timetable. I will draw on men and resources from elsewhere in the navy to facilitate things.’

‘What about building the fleet and the U-boat programme? This will continue? Rocket technology is potentially many months away from providing any strategic value to the defences of Germany.’

‘The U-boat fleet remains part of my grand strategy for naval defences, but Herr Hitler has other ideas. He wants weapons of assault. We are to have command of the seas with the U-boat, and the rocket will give us command of the sky – apparently.’

‘I see… ’ Dornberger swallowed, a cold sweat formed on his brow, ‘… then I had better make progress.’

‘For all our sakes, you
must
make things work. Hitler has pledged millions of reichsmarks; but he wants results.’

‘Tell the Führer that he will not be disappointed, we will double, no triple, our efforts.’ Dornberger stood and saluted.

With that the meeting was over. Both men knew the consequences of failure. Dönitz was a submariner at heart. He would do what he could to help his friend, Dornberger, and the many good officers under his command.

K
essler sat on a chair next to the Professor’s bed, studying the papers he had found in the infirmary. Mayer was suffering from smoke inhalation. The doctor, admittedly, was doing his best to keep the prisoner stable, and at least things were more secure in the main complex. The Professor had his own private room with constant medical support. Nonetheless, he was still weak.

‘Professor, this is an interesting drawing. It is a sketch of one of the prototype rockets, is it not?’

Mayer gave a feeble nod.

‘Take a look at the drawing.’ Kessler held the paper close to the Professor’s face. ‘Is it finished?’

Mayer studied the sketch as best he could. He remembered now. It was just a simple plan of a standard rocket. He needed to convince Kessler that this was his machine. In a moment of delirium he had obviously mentioned something about his new theories, but what? Was it just garbled information, or details of the device? Mayer had no idea.

‘Professor, is the drawing finished?’

Mayer nodded.

Kessler turned over the page and studied the notes on the second page. One of the engineers had confirmed that they were basic mass calculations, showing the amount of force required to lift a given weight of rocket fuel. In the grand scheme of things, this was schoolboy physics. Had Mayer sustained brain damage to such an extent that all he could do was recall basic physics? If this was the case, the interrogation would be a waste of time.

‘Professor, the calculation on the second page has an equation.
F = ma
. What does this mean?’ It was a test. Kessler knew the answer.

‘Foorceee… Foorceee… is… maaass… times… accel… ’ Mayer erupted into a coughing fit. The strain was obviously too much, but Kessler got the gist of the answer. The Professor
did
recognise the simple equation. Kessler waited for the coughing fit to subside.

‘So, you can remember your physics. That is good. Now, I want you to write down some real equations – not this schoolboy nonsense!’ Kessler leaned forward into Mayer’s face. ‘Write down the exponential calculus for a rocket burning one hundred kilograms of fuel. What is the resultant lift and how long will the fuel last?’

Kessler raised the game: one of his engineers had prepared some questions, some calculations, all about rocket fuels. He had the answers in his pocket. The calculations were way beyond the average person, but a rocket scientist who had spent all his life on such calculations would find them easy to complete. Kessler passed a pencil and paper to Mayer, and held the notepaper up to the Professor’s good arm so that he could write.

He repeated the crucial information. ‘Write down the calculation; one hundred kilograms of fuel, what is the lift and burn time?’

Mayer worked slowly. He wasn’t trying to stall. His brain could do the calculation easily. He had solved it in seconds; but his body would not let him write the answer down on the paper. It took incredible concentration just to get his right arm to transmit the thoughts into words and numbers on the paper. Slowly the calculations appeared, in between violent coughing fits.

Kessler examined the scrawl. It matched. The Professor had given a correct answer.

‘Good, so you remember your calculus. Now let us focus on your machine. Is it some component of a rocket, or some advanced prototype?’

‘Yeeeees,’ Mayer lied.

‘Then draw it!’

Mayer thought for a minute. He needed to draw something technical that Kessler would not recognise and have to verify with an engineer. It would need to be convincing, and keep the engineers busy for a while. It would need to be a real technological advancement in the rocket programme. Mayer considered the options. He had several new ideas about manifold designs and fuel mixing that he had not shared with his colleagues.

That’s it!

He could throw Kessler off the scent by giving him a new, improved, manifold design. Mayer began to sketch, and hoped that his body was up to the task.

Kessler sat waiting: what else could he do? The prisoner was a wreck.

Mayer pressed the pencil to the paper, drawing slowly, with his hands shaking so much that he needed to repeatedly go over each line. A rough sketch slowly formed on the page.

‘What is it?’ Kessler was genuinely puzzled.

Mayer was exhausted and, lacking the energy to speak, he gestured for the paper and wrote a few words. He had drawn a rough sketch for the very first turbo thrust pump; in effect, a turbo charger for a rocket engine. It would take the engineers a few days to figure it out, but it would increase the initial acceleration of a rocket off the launch pad by at least two hundred percent. That would be a major technological advancement by anyone’s reckoning.

Kessler stared at the diagram, clueless. The engineers would need to read it.

‘Is there anything else, Professor?’

Mayer gave a half shrug.

‘Are you sure there is nothing else, Professor?’

Mayer tried to shrug again, but it just started off another coughing fit.

‘Is there more? Professor, is there more?!’

Mayer continued coughing violently, unable to answer. Spots of blood emerged from his mouth and nose.

‘Herr Doctor! Herr Doctor! Attend the patient!’ Kessler called in the doctor who had been waiting outside.

Mayer passed out.

Dr Steinhoff examined the sketch, eyes wide. ‘My, my… this is very exciting!… This is… I think… a new type of booster… yes, I think so, a turbo booster!’

‘So what? How significant is it?’ Kessler asked.

‘This is
very
significant. You see, if this is a booster – and I think it is – then we will be able to make our rockets go
much
faster!’ The rocket scientist beamed.

‘Then I suggest that you get your team of engineers to make it and test it.’ Kessler stared at the scientist.

‘Of course, of course, there is so much work to be done! We will need to make proper technical drawings, then to prepare a mould in which to pour hot aluminium to cast the turbo device. Then fan blades will need to be added, and made at a very precise angle, length, and flexibility.’

‘How quickly can you make this, within a couple of days? Professor Mayer is very ill. His capacity to answer questions is… shall we say… becoming limited. We may not have much time.’ Kessler was being realistic.

The scientist shook his head. ‘Not a chance. The task is a real challenge, and will keep dozens of scientists and engineers hard at work for several weeks. This task is at the frontier of precision engineering.’

‘But you
can
make this?’

‘Yes, in time. I must say, this is a work of genius, simple, yet elegant… ’

‘I am sure it is – just get on with it!’

‘Of course, Commandant, will that be all?’ Steinhoff swallowed, and returned his gaze to the sketch. A cold sweat trickled down his back. What if he couldn’t make the booster? The design was intricate and Commandant Kessler was not a man to displease.

Steinhoff clenched his jaw as a new emotion hit home.

Envy.

He had toiled on the design of rocket engines for years. Recognition for his work was long overdue. Why hadn’t he seen this before? How could a sick man sketch a work of genius in minutes? The hand of providence had given him Mayer. He would do well to use this advantage, and keep Mayer alive as long as possible.

‘Commandant, I must protest! The patient is
very
sick. We
must
let him rest,’ the doctor whispered in harsh tones, standing outside the patient’s door, desperately trying not to disturb the calm. Despite his best efforts, Mayer was in decline. ‘Please Herr Commandant! The smoke from the fire has compounded a number of medical problems with the patient. He has a
serious
lung infection.’

‘No matter, you will assist me during the interview. I want to know what
he
knows. The Führer wants to know what
he
knows!’ Kessler towered over the doctor.

‘Look, I can give the patient pain relief and keep him comfortable, but that is all. He really needs to rest; he’s on death’s door.’

‘Herr Doctor, that is precisely why the interrogation must continue!’

Kessler stormed into Mayer’s room with the doctor in tow.

Mayer had a high fever and muttered periodically – even Kessler had to admit that he was probably wasting his time – but still, a round of questioning wouldn’t hurt. As a precaution he had brought the senior rocket scientist, Steinhoff, along to take notes and listen just in case the Professor garbled some nugget of pure genius. The turbo device had been a good step forward. Maybe he had been wrong, perhaps there was no new machine after all? On the other hand, if a sick man could sketch out such a revolution in engineering as the turbo device, then there must be other technological advances trapped inside his head. Kessler reasoned that the interrogation was worth continuing.

‘Professor, can you hear me? How do we control the turbo device? How do we feedback the signal from the device to the fuel tanks?’

Kessler was asking ridiculously complex questions, but the engineers needed answers. With luck, he might blurt them out between bouts of delirium.

‘What is the feedback signal?’ Kessler persisted.

Mayer mumbled nonsense. Any chance of a reasoned conversation had long since slipped away.

‘What is the feedback signal?’ Kessler repeated, shaking Mayer by the shoulders.

‘I know… Albeeert… ’

Both Kessler and the rocket scientist leaned in close to catch what the Professor was saying.

‘Albeeert… friennnnd… save… meeee.’

Kessler looked at the rocket scientist. ‘Dr Steinhoff, who is Albert?’

‘Albert, that will be Albert Einstein,’ answered the rocket scientist.

Dr Steinhoff was a physicist, as well as a fine engineer. Everybody knew of Einstein; his equations and ideas had turned the world of physics upside down in the last twenty years. If the situation had not been so grave, Steinhoff might have been lightly amused by Kessler’s ignorance.

Mayer continued his delirious mumblings.

‘Mass… to energgeee… quan… tuum… fast… so fast… ’

Kessler glanced at Steinhoff for explanation.

‘Mass to energy; he must be recalling one of the field equations. Maybe
E = mc
²
. Fast, something is fast – it could be light – the speed of light.’ Steinhoff was intrigued.

‘Noooooo… Nooooooo!’ The Professor dissolved into a coughing fit. Then, out of the blue, came a moment of lucidity. Mayer opened his eyes, and spoke clearly.

‘Wave number equals two
Pi
over
lambda
. Quantum energy, quantum energy!’

Mayer collapsed back on the bed.

‘What is he talking about?’ Kessler could see things were moving into new ground.

‘I have no idea,’ Steinhoff shrugged. ‘Something to do with wave energy and quantum mechanics.’

‘We must know more!’ Kessler turned to the doctor. ‘Wake him up – you have the adrenalin shots. Do it!’

The doctor produced a box of glass syringes with long needles. ‘I have prepared a dose of adrenalin, as you requested; but please understand, the hormone is a strong stimulant. It will wake the patient up for a few minutes only.’

‘Do it!’ Kessler ordered.

The doctor complied. He carefully took out the first glass syringe containing adrenalin, and instinctively tapped the glass to remove any air bubbles and to check the contents. With the syringe raised in the air, he pressed Kessler for confirmation. ‘This will be only a temporary boost to energy levels. It is a hefty dose – too much and we risk heart failure or a massive internal bleed.’