CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN The sheer size of it was overwhelming. Bradley and Major General Ryan McArthur were inspecting the Nordhausen Central Works in the Harz Mountains, occupied the day before by the US 1st Army. The rocket production works, consisting of a series of tunnels, each approximately one mile long and joined together at regular intervals by other corridors, were located in the base of forested hills around a verdant valley; but where Bradley and McArthur were walking, in the middle of one of the gigantic tunnels, they could see only the railway tracks glinting dully in the overhead lamps and gradually disappearing into a darkness that led to a pinpoint of light he outside world a good half-mile away.

The tunnels were not quiet, because the army's engineers had already moved in, but Bradley's voice still echoed eerily when, stopping beneath the enormous sh.e.l.l of a V-2 rocket, he said, 'There's no doubt about it. Wilson had a lot to do with them. These b.a.s.t.a.r.ds have been based on the rocket designs of our very own, shamefully neglected Robert H. G.o.ddard, whom the German rocket engineers revered. And we both know who worked with G.o.ddard just before he came here.'

'Wilson,' McArthur replied.

'Wilson,' Bradley agreed. He ran his hand wonderingly along the base of the enormous rocket above him it was hanging from a jib and crane and said, almost reverently, 'The most notable features of this baby's propulsion unit are the shutter-type valves in its fixed grill, the fuel-injection orifices incorporated in the same grill, the combustion chamber, spark plugs, and nozzle all of which are to be found in a G.o.ddard patent, issued on November 13, 1934, and reproduced in full in the German aviation magazine, Flugsport, in January 1939. The Germans copied the designs for their early Peenemnde rockets, then Wilson came along and contributed his own, much wider knowledge of G.o.ddard's work to the subsequent V-1 and V-2 rocket program. Eventually the rockets attained about a hundred times more thrust than G.o.ddard's reached back in New Mexico, when Wilson worked with him.'

'That's some achievement,' McArthur said. 'The V-2s that fell on London are believed to have had a thrust of fifty-five thousand pounds, attained a velocity of six thousand four hundred feet per second, and could soar to an alt.i.tude of sixty-eight miles.'

'Right,' Bradley said. 'Practically on the way to the moon! And just think of the other similarities we've found so far between this baby and G.o.ddard's original rocket. Both rockets have the same motor-cooling system; the same pump drive; the same layout front to rear; the same stabilizer; the same guidance and fuel-injection systems. The only differences are that G.o.ddard's rocket motors used gasoline and oxygen, whereas the V-2 uses hydrogen and peroxide; G.o.ddard's rocket fuel was liquid oxygen and gasoline, whereas the V-2 uses liquid oxygen and alcohol; and, finally, G.o.ddard's rockets were a lot smaller than the V-2. So the n.a.z.is, with Wilson's help, simply did what the US government refused to do: they took G.o.ddard's work seriously.'

'And you think Wilson's taken it even further.'

'Yeah,' Bradley said. 'Definitely.' He stroked the V-2 one last time, then started walking McArthur along the tunnel, toward that dime-size circle of light that represented the outer world. 'The war's not even over yet, but already we've discovered a h.e.l.luva lot about what the Krauts were up to, scientifically speaking. So far, Germany's scientific papers have been found hidden in tunnels like this, plus caves, dry wells, ploughed fields, riverbeds, and even cesspits. And we know that the weapons we've found so far not only these rockets, but heatguided ground-to-air missiles, sonic-guidance torpedoes, Messerschmitt jet planes, rocket planes that fly even faster, highly advanced electrical submarines, and even the beginnings of an atom bomb project yes, we already know that these weapons are more advanced than any we've got. Also, for the most part, they're based on the work of Robert H. G.o.ddard and, in my estimation, on the furtherance of that work by G.o.ddard's pupil, that G.o.dd.a.m.ned traitor, John Wilson.'

'You've never called him that before,' McArthur said. 'I thought you almost admired him.'

'Yeah,' Bradley confessed. 'I do. Though I hate myself for it.'

'A genius,' McArthur said. 'A perverted genius. A mutant... No wonder you can't give up the chase. It's like pursuing an alien.'

'Right. He's not real. He's a part of my dreams. And to shake him loose, to get back to the real world, I've just got to face him.'

'You'll have to face something else soon,' McArthur said. 'And I don't think you'll like it.'

Bradley was going to ask him what he meant, but was distracted when they emerged into the light at the end of the tunnel. There they viewed the grandeur of the valley below: lush green, ribboned with sparkling streams, surrounded by the densely forested hills of Thuringia, and, rising above them, the majestic, rolling peaks of the Harz Mountains.

It was certainly beautiful, a pastoral vision... but one scarred by spiralling columns of smoke, great fleets of Allied aircraft, marching troops and advancing trucks and tanks, and pale-brown clouds of dust: a victorious army on the move.

'You don't believe it,' Bradley said, 'but it turns out to be true. All over Germany there are places like this: great factories and laboratories and camps hidden underground, immense, but invisible from the air, their existence once unknown. This place here, it's vast, but it's only one of many. And what I want to know is, where was Wilson? Where is he now? And what has he hidden?'

'Let's talk to someone,' McArthur said.

He led Bradley across the cleared area in front of the immense tunnel, past tanks and half-tracks and trucks disgorging more troops, under the great rockets hanging from cranes directly above, and into his jeep, which was parked by the road that led back to Erfurt. When Bradley had climbed in beside him, he drove down to the valley, past columns of marching US troops. All the troops, Bradley suddenly noticed, looked terribly young.

G.o.d, he thought, for the first time in years, I sincerely want this business to be over. I want Wilson to disappear...

What he wanted, he then realized, was to be what Wilson was not: an involved human being.

'Where are we going?' he asked impatiently. 'I've no time for joy rides.'

'It's no joy ride,' McArthur replied. 'You're going to h.e.l.l.'

He drove Bradley through Erfurt, a picturesque Renaissance town, dominated by its cathedral and fish market and old quarter, with its quaint burgher houses, Gothic alcoves, and timber-framed walls. Then on to the fields beyond, lushly green, though not sweet-smelling, then into the Buchenwald concentration camp, which was not quite so pretty.

The dead lay in neat rows, staring skyward, emaciated, and the living, though sometimes on their feet, did not look much better. Some of the living were dying they had lived too long to want life and the stench of the dead and the dying permeated the smoky air.

Bradley saw the raised gallows, the delousing rooms, the crematoria, and steeled himself to get out of the jeep and walk through h.e.l.l's bas.e.m.e.nt. He stuck closely to McArthur, feeling cowardly, and was glad when they had stepped up from the mud and entered a clean, cluttered office. A US Army captain was sitting on the edge of his desk, staring out through his window. He was smoking and drinking a gla.s.s of something and looked drained and haunted.

'Hi, Cap'n,' McArthur said lightly. 'How are things in the funny farm?'

'Not funny at all.'

The captain turned to face them, his eyes crimson from lack of sleep, and when Bradley saw the way he gazed at McArthur, he knew they shared the same grief.

'I've only been here two days,' the captain said, 'and it seems like two years... A G.o.dd.a.m.ned, motherf.u.c.king, two-year nightmare. I just can't believe this s.h.i.t.' He shook his head from side to side disbelievingly, then looked up at Bradley. 'You're the guy wants to talk to my man,' he said.

'What man?'

'The man from Kahla. The one who worked for your Wilson. An American was involved in all this s.h.i.t? I just don't believe it!'

He shook his head again.

'Involved how?' Bradley asked him.

'Your Wilson used a lot of the people from this camp. All these scarecrows, they swear to it. Hold on, I'll go get my man. McArthur said you were coming.'