Immediately, images of Turkish prison camps sprang to Goddard’s mind, and he wondered what an ill old man was trying to accomplish in the black of night, surrounded by enough enemy firepower to destroy an army. The guilty, choking sensation of being a spy clung in his throat, making it impossible to take a full breath. Encompassed by the enemy, being led by one of their soldiers, he found it difficult to envision a purpose in this madness.
Before his mind had begun to accept the new situation, Goddard and von Braun were being escorted into a German transport plane of a type the American couldn’t identify. Faith alone lifted his feet up the Stair into the fuselage. The door clanged shut behind him with finality.
He, von Braun, the soldier, and two other civilians belted themselves into seats awkwardly bolted to the structural ribbing as two wing-mounted engines rumbled to life. Behind the seats several wooden crates were lashed into place. Facing forward, Goddard watched the two pilots adjust dials and flip switches, then felt himself pressed against the back of the seat as the plane accelerated. He had no thoughts. He concentrated only on the pilots and an electric heater buzzing near his feet.
A few minutes later, the plane’s radio screamed to life. German was spoken too quickly for Goddard to translate, except an occasional word. Von Braun leaned close to him and spoke loudly enough to be heard over the engines:
“We will now discover if the Bolsheviks will keep their part of the bargain. If we are still alive in an hour, they have.”
Breathing Russian air for the first time, Goddard emerged into a chill evening after a cold flight. One of the pilots whistled, tracing a pattern of gouges where shrapnel had ripped across the tail, nearly tearing it off. When the Germans realized their pilots had defected, they had scrambled an intercept group. But Russian fighters had appeared just in time to escort the plane from the Neutral Zone just beyond Sivas and across the Black Sea. Goddard shivered.
“This place is called Kuibyshev,” von Braun said as they were led to another waiting car. Even though it was long and appeared to be a luxury model, it rattled as it bumped along a winding city road. Streetlights were dim and green here. Finally, they arrived at a concrete building and were led inside.
“Welcome, Doctor Goddard, Doctor von Braun,” a man said, rising from a velvet couch and extending a hand to each. He wore a layered black suit. “We are honored to assist you in any way we can. You will find Soviets hospitable people. Right now you are tired.”
The host called out and two skinny youths rushed forward and led the scientists to the most lavish quarters Goddard had ever seen. Yet no decoration could hide that the room was as windowless as a jail call.
From Kuibyshev, another plane—this one designed for passengers—carried Goddard and von Braun, as well as another two dozen men and women, far to the northeast. Through a port, Goddard watched several other planes keep pace above the clouds. Well into the next day, they landed on a fresh concrete landing strip in the middle of endless forest. Snow clung around the trunks of pine trees at the edges of the vast runway. Goddard began to feel an unidentifiable doubt.
A great caravan of heavy trucks trundled alongside the airplanes, taking on materials and passengers. Goddard and von Braun rode in a high cab beside the well-bundled and bearded driver. At long last, they reached their destination.
“Welcome to Plesetsk Cosmodrome!” von Braun laughed, jumping down onto frozen mud. Every building was either recently poured concrete or ancient wood. Goddard would have been paralyzed with apprehension had he not seen a steam locomotive nearby tugging a cargo of tarp-covered rocket fuel tanks lashed to one of its cars.
Weary to the bone, Robert Goddard managed to smile at his old friend, his crazy compatriot.
So something grand truly is underway.
“And this is our experimental motor,” von Braun proudly said, indicating a rocket engine mounted sideways in a massive framework. Its exhaust nozzle, big enough to swallow a man, pointed off toward the trees, where a scorched wall stemmed forest fires. A dizzy snow flurry hissed across metal and parka shells.
“Incredible,” Goddard breathed, stepping closer to examine the single, two-chamber turbopump. A bevy of other scientists, mostly Russian, smiled at the man’s appreciation. “How much thrust does it produce?”
“Fifty thousand kilograms,” von Braun answered, “on LOX and kerosene.” Goddard whistled. He glanced around the rest of the immense compound. This Cosmodrome was bigger than anything he had ever seen, the launching pads, testing stands, machine shops, bunkers and railway station alone carpeting more land than the US testing bases where he had worked; the trees that marked the far end of the Cosmodrome were blurred in distance. Zhukov must have mobilized the entire Russian economy.
Finally, the subconscious gnawing he had felt since landing in Plesetsk became clear.
“This is all wonderful, Wemher,” he said. “But how, exactly, do you expect a remote rocket base to stop the fighting? This is Russia, my friend. Certainly I understand and sympathize with your dream of a spacefaring humanity, but I don’t see a connection between Siberia and an end to the war.”
One of the Russians stepped forward, touching von Braun on the sleeve with a mittened hand and muttering a few German words. He beamed at Goddard, face framed in fur.
“Professor Goddard,” he began in a fine British tongue, “allow me to introduce myself. My name is Sergey Korolyov.” They shook hands.
Korolyov went on: “Plesetsk Station has everything to do with ending our fine race’s strife. This place will become the whole world’s Space Mecca, as it were. People from around the globe will rush to join us in this milestone of progress, to take part in the heroic struggle to unite Mankind as it is meant to be!” His strong Ukrainian face grew red with excitement as he spoke, and his eyes hardly blinked, even as hard snowflakes struck them.
He continued: “The Soviet Fleets will guarantee safe passage across the Pacific, from humble Japan to the mighty Americas, as well as any ocean state and Australia. The same will be true for the North Sea, and we will offer armed escort across the Atlantic. Our fleets have grown while the combatants’ have diminished. Similarly, we will offer escort across all airways, except over Europareich territory.
“Imagine the magnitude of this operation! Yet, as great as it will be, anything less would not be fitting for such an adventure as shaping the future of Mankind. With you part of the Mankindist team, our plans are ready to march forward. You are the oil for our bearings. Now do you understand?”
Goddard began to feel a sense of greatness all around him, as if this harshly beautiful locale held a secret magic to which he held the key for its release. He shook his head in irony, realizing that spaceflight had only become a possibility since the Nazis defeated Europe. If only the Allies had won, this sequester would never have been necessary. If the Allies had won, we already would have been working our way out to Mars. No isolated cosmodromes, no twisted complications. But, perhaps, only through adversity came such advances.
The Nazis’s success had given us the stars. He smiled wryly.
For the first time in his life, Goddard watched his dreams unfold. He hadn’t imagined it would be within his lifetime.
“How will we get the message out?” he asked, choked with emotion.
Only hours after Korolyov explained, they began preparations to start filming movies in a dozen languages, each nation’s representative inviting the world to join “Mankind’s heroic united struggle toward the stars.”