Suddenly, the solid green blast doors of the room opened, and the leader of the project, Colonel Giorgi Ormrekov, strode inside. His pristine uniform lay under his great coat, he carried across his shoulder. He stepped up to a table, and removing his cap, placed it down to address his men. ‘Good morning Comrades,’ he said in a booming authoritarian voice. ‘I trust that we are on schedule?’
Muller smiled at him. ‘Yes, Comrade Colonel. We are on schedule, and awaiting the arrival of Comrade Kaminski and his staff.’
Ormrekov nodded his approval. ‘Excellent! Let us hope that today, we have good fortune in the presence of our benefactor, especially when he will be with Vice Premier Lushkov, and he of course, will be expecting nothing but a success.’
Muller nodded. ‘In that case Comrade Colonel, we must hope that this time we will prevail, or we will all find ourselves being sent to join the nomadic shepherds out in the desert, to help them herd their goats.’
Chapter 32
At Cape Canaveral, the transporter crawled laboriously, carrying the Saturn V rocket to Launch Pad 6, in preparation for the Apollo 10 mission, the dress rehearsal for the Moon landing. The main task for the three astronauts, Tom Stafford, John Young and Eugene Cernan, would be to look at all the problems encountered on the previous Apollo missions, plus any new ones, that could arise, and so work to solve them, in readiness for Apollo 11 to undertake its pioneering feat.
In the assembly complex, Weisemann stood with an American colleague, checking figures on the Apollo 11 Lunar Module guidance unit. In his hand was a small computer console, in which he typed, as they were called out to him. He spent some time reviewing them, discussing the frequent anomalies arising from their diagnostic tests. Thankfully, to the mission team, they had been minor glitches, and had been easily rectified. The German engineer finished his task and left for his office to type up his report. As he walked along the corridor, someone who sounded familiar to him called out his name, followed by a friendly greeting in German. ‘It has been a long time, Peter.’
Weisemann turned, recognising his old friend Lars Brauer. They shook hands. Brauer had also originally been part of the Von Braun Peenemunde exodus, escaping the Waffen SS death patrols, to locate the American lines. Following his eventual capture, he had joined his other colleagues in their journey, first with the British, to assist in the V2 tests at Cuxhaven, then on to the USA, to work on the rocket programmes, being directly involved with the development of the Redstone rocket, which had put the Mercury astronauts into space.
Weisemann greeted his old colleague. ‘Lars, I haven’t seen you since our early days in Huntsville. Where have they been keeping you, my friend?’
Brauer smiled. ‘I have been working in the Grumman factory, in Long Island. How are you Peter, and how is Lotte?’
Weisemann informed Brauer of why his wife was now back in West Germany.
‘That is bad luck. I agree that it was very hostile at first, when we arrived in America, but after the success with Project Mercury, things began to settle down, and we are no longer treated as badly as we were before. I have been given a beautiful house in Long Island. So, Peter, what is your role here, at Kennedy?’ Brauer listened, as Weisemann explained to his old friend, he had been assigned to work on the guidance systems for the Lunar Module.
Brauer laughed. ‘Well it looks as though we will be working together, while I’m here, as I have come with the Grumman team to oversee the performance of our module, during the Apollo 10 mission.’
The two old friends continued their reminiscing, as they strode side by side, down the corridor, and on arrival at Weisemann’s office, they shook hands again, promising to meet later that day.
Inside, Weisemann put down the hand console on his desk and reclined in his chair. He then started to worry, wondering how close his old comrade would be working with him, which in his mind, immediately raised another question. Would he still be able to complete his mission?
In a clearing, deep within the Ahrenwald, two German soldiers in field camouflage crouched down, laughing at a joke they had just heard from another soldier carrying jerry cans. Beside them, attached to an erect mobile launching girder, stood a camouflaged V-2 rocket. It was mid-November 1944 and their laughing grew louder, as did a ringing green telephone. Suddenly, a red London Transport double decker Routemaster bus appeared at the brow of a hill, as the telephone continue to ring…
Alex Swan moved his unconscious head from side to side, muttering in his sleep, then woke to feel a tap on his shoulder. Janet Ross was speaking softly to him. ‘Alex? Wake up Darling!’
Swan’s eyes flickered open, as he felt her hair on his neck. Disorientated, he looked at the curtains draped over the windows, remembering, after a rather subdued evening with Howard Barnett and his wife Heidi, he had stayed the night at Janet’s flat. He pushed himself up and sat leaning on the headboard.
Ross sat up next to him. ‘You were dreaming again. The same one?’
Swan nodded, brushing sweat from his forehead. ‘Yes, the same one again. This time though, I saw German soldiers, and they were laughing as they fuelled a V2 rocket. Then just before I woke up, I saw a Number 89, London bus.’
Ross leant over and kissed his forehead. ‘Why don’t you go and see your doctor about this, it’s been going on for a few weeks now. Perhaps, he could give you something to help you sleep. This case you are on, it’s obviously triggered all these bad memories. So, what is it, Alex? You can tell me you know.’ She hugged him then moved away again, looking directly into his eyes. ‘Please tell me, what it is.’
Swan stared back at her, noticing a tear was forming. If there was anyone apart from Arthur Gable, who he could confide in about this, then he could confide in her. ‘Yes, Janet you should know. I’m only sorry I haven’t told you earlier about it.’ He clutched her hand and then commenced with his story.
Later that morning, at St Mary’s Hospital, Air Commodore Sir Alistair Higgins was sitting up dozily in bed in his private room, having just had the dressing on his abdominal wound changed. Beside him, Lady Higgins, wearing a white flowery dress with black shoes, sat reading the newspaper. Her strawberry blonde hair, was tied up on top of her head, secured by a butterfly-shaped hairclip. ‘They seemed to have covered up what really happened to you, quite well Alistair,’ she said, commenting on the St Pancras event.
Higgins turned his head to her. ‘What have they said then, my dear?’
Lady Higgins looked over her newspaper. ‘They have said, you collapsed with a possible mild heart attack, following a scuffle in the crowd, and the police then arrested a man for causing the affray.’
Higgins attempted to laugh, soon realising it was too painful to do so. ‘I agree, my dear. The Security Service have done a fine job in keeping the Press at bay. We don’t need any of those Fleet Street hound dogs, discovering what really happened do we? It’s a jolly good thing you arrived in time yesterday to get your driver to issue that statement to them. Mind you, I expect the poor chap was surprised and scared stiff, when he realised that he had to do it.’
Lady Higgins folded the newspaper and placed it down on the table. ‘Come to think of it, he was a bit nervous.’ She rose from her chair. ‘Is there anything that I can get you, dear? I’m going out to have a cigarette. It’s such a beautiful day and a shame, you are cooped up in here. Doctor says that you are to have complete rest for at least three weeks. That will be good, at least we can spend some time together, away from that dammed office of yours.’