CHAPTER 1

FEBRUARY 4, 1945

PRAGUE, CZECHOSLOVAKIA -- UNDER GERMAN CONTROL

     Five men stood behind a protective concrete wall at the edge of a large clearing, slit openings in the wall allowing them to survey the scene. Each had adopted an air of nonchalance and a look of what was supposed to be clinical detachment. In point of fact, there was tension in the air, and each man dealt with it in his own way.
     One stood clapping his gloved hands together nervously in an attempt to warm numbed fingers. Another shifted his weight from right foot to left foot, left foot to right foot, in a tense little jig. Two others spoke in hushed whispers, wondering if the chill wind would worsen, forcing a postponement of the test. 
     The fifth man, standing fully six and a half feet tall, loomed over a sandy-haired lieutenant seated before what looked like a large radio set. The tall man gestured to one dial on the radio set and then another. The lieutenant nodded his head and made an "okay" circle with thumb and forefinger. The tall man nodded back and turned to one of the wall-slits.
     At the center of the clearing, he saw a dozen technicians scurry about a huge tarp-covered device 138 feet in diameter and 20 feet tall. Steam rose from under the tarp, giving the device the appearance of a sleeping, fire-breathing dragon. The image was not inappropriate, he thought.
     He watched with pride as technicians -- his technicians -- checked radio connections and adjusted guidance systems that had been checked and adjusted a hundred times before. They worked silently, efficiently, as they had been trained to do. That was good. There could be no appearance of nervousness, not today, not now. There was too much riding on today's test, and appearances were often as important as performance in matters like this.
     At precisely two minutes before 10 a.m., a car drove up, and two men in perfectly tailored Nazi uniforms got out. One was grotesquely overweight, though none dared mention that fact to him. The other was thin -- too thin -- his gaunt features and sallow complexion giving him the appearance of an animated corpse. They were an odd pair, demanding respect, though more often arousing fear in those around them.
     At the duo's appearance, guards around the perimeter of the clearing snapped to attention. Technicians redoubled their efforts. The men behind the wall huddled closer together in defense against the biting cold . . . and the approaching men.
     "We are not ready," whispered one of the men behind the wall. "It's too soon."
     "If not now, when?" said the tall man. "The Thousand Year Reich will be lucky to last another six months. Now, be quiet. We must greet our esteemed guests."
     The visitors walked behind the wall, the thin man first, followed by his cumbersome companion. "Doctors," the thin man said, "the Feuhrer salutes you and sends his regrets that he could not be here today to witness your demonstration. He is otherwise occupied."
     "We understand, Herr Goebbels," answered the tall man, "and we appreciate the time you and Reichsmarschall Goring have taken out of your busy schedules to indulge us. We assure you, you won't be disappointed."
     "We had better not be," Goring muttered, pulling the collar of his heavy uniform coat up to protect his thick neck against the chill.
     The tall man ignored the implied threat and introduced himself.
     "I am Dr. Karl Unland, coordinator of the V7 Project. These are my colleagues, Drs. Schriever, Habermohl, Miethe, and Bellonzo. You have both been briefed on the project, so I will make my comments brief, that we can conclude our test and get out of this damn cold.
     "Conventional aircraft are becoming more sophisticated every day, and our jets and rockets, effective though they may be, are in the very first phases of development. Even they cannot keep the enemy 
out of the skies."
     Goring's eyebrows raised dangerously at this slight. "Are you saying the Luftwaffe isn't up to the task of defending German air space? Answer carefully, Herr Doktor . . ."
     Goebbels eyed Unland intently, waiting to see how the young scientist would respond. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Unland gave the only answer possible. "I am saying precisely that, Herr Reichsmarschall. It is no secret. The enemy now owns the skies. We must take the next step, no, make the next leap in aviation technology. We must produce a weapon so powerful, so intimidating, so destructive, no nation on Earth would dare enter our airspace. I believe we have developed just such a weapon."
     "Are we ready?" Unland shouted to the lieutenant by the radio apparatus.
     "Yes, Herr Unland."
     "Then, begin!"
     At a signal from the lieutenant-technician, workers pulled the tarp from the object at the center of the clearing. A great cloud of steam escaped and rose rapidly into the air, obscuring vision for a 
moment. When the steam vanished, Goring gasped in astonishment. Unland was pleased. Even Herr Goebbels smiled a little as he wondered if this meant  salvation for the Reich.


May 6, 1945 (CHECK DATE)

     The sounds of twisting metal and shattering glass filled the air, nearly drowning out the basso bee-swarm drone of planes flying overhead. Russian artillery sent shockwaves through the complex. Throughout the vast underground factory, Germans and Czechs scurried from lab to lab, from storeroom to storeroom, destroying everything that could lay their hands on. Time was running out.
     "Damn Americans!" Unland cursed. "How close we came, eh, Schriever? How close we came."
     "You'd do well to forget about the Americans and their planes. Just shred papers," Schriever shouted. "The Russian army is the real problem, and they will be here any day, any hour. I for one do not relish falling into their hands!"
     "Yes, yes, but all this work, and for what?"
     "Well, we can't very well carry years of work with us, can we? And we can't leave it here for the Russians. We will flee, find the 'damn' Americans, and begin anew. Our knowledge is in our heads, not in this paper, is it not? Now, shred. Shred!"
     "Yes, I'll shred," Unland replied, "I'll tear up my life's work but hear me -- the Americans will pay, the Russians will pay, our Feuhrer will pay. The work is all that matters, and they've ruined it. Someday."
     "Herr Unland." It was the lieutenant who had been at the radio controls on the day of the Fenruary test. "I must speak with you at once. If you will please come with me."
     Unland looked up from his shredding and saw that the lieutenant (What was his name?) was no longer in uniform.
     "Herr Unland, my name is Schmidt, Lieutenant Wilhelm Schmidt, Project Tech 1. Please come with me. Quickly. I offer you hope of victory. We have no time for questions."
     Unland, aghast at the man's audacity -- even with defeat mere hours away, he was still the project director -- followed, past the offices near the surface, past the labs below, down past the vast construction areas, down to the lowest level of all. Here, in the deserted storage areas, Schmidt stopped.
     Unland surveyed the scene with disgust. All around were the fruits of his labors -- twisted metal, snippets of now-useless wire, shattered glass, smoldering, stinking rubber. After a moment, he spoke.
     "Why do you bring me here, Schmidt? We have precious little time to waste and there is nothing of value left here. Speak quickly. I have no patience left."
     "Believe me, Herr Unland, I know just how little time is left to us, but hear me out. I have a proposition for you, one which you will find too intriguing to ignore. Your work will continue. Your father made sure of that."
     "My father? Surely you seek to make a fool of me. My father has been dead for nearly 15 years!"
     "Yes, Karl," Schmidt said calmly, "but he made arrangements for you."


June 1, 1945

     The complex was deserted when the Russian army discovered it on May 9. The Germans had left a mess -- and a useless one at that. The scientists and technicians who had worked here until so recently had all been accounted for: Some had surrendered to the Americans; some had been taken by the Russian army as it moved into and through the area around Prague; some had died trying to escape their would-be captors.
     Wilhelm Schmidt, Project Tech 1, and Karl Unland, V7 Project Coordinator, were listed as missing, believed dead by both Soviet and American intelligence organizations.