“No. You misunderstand me. I will gladly perform my duty.”
“Then what is it?”
Gutwein lowered his gaze to meet the Officer’s eyes directly. “I will either succeed with the mission or do the Fuhrer proud in my death.” He made a show of sighing deeply. “What I am saying is even with the additional fuel tanks the margin of error is so fine that success will be entirely dependent on favorable winds. If we have those, I’ll deliver the package. If it is anywhere near as destructive as Heisenberg leads us to believe, then the allied forces will have no choice but to accept an unconditional surrender.”
The Officer smiled, shook his hand warmly. “Wilhelm Gutwein. Good luck. God speed on your mission, and your return.”
He stood at attention. “Thank you, sir. Heil Hitler!”
“Heil Hitler!” his superior returned, spinning on his heel and leaving the area.
Gutwein’s return was an irrelevant statement, both men knew it for a lie. If the winds were anything but perfect, he would end up ditching in the sea, where he would never be seen again. Even if he succeeded in his mission, there was only enough fuel for the bomb’s delivery.
He was on a one-way ticket to the heart of his enemy.
God and winds willing, Gutwein would drop his payload, but his own homecoming was an unlikely possibility.
Even if he survived, and found a place to land afterward, he would most likely be caught and shot. He wasn’t worried about the language, he’d studied at Eton before the war. They’d made him a set of identity papers which were nearly a decade out of date, but even that didn’t worry him. It was the necessity to live a life of deception that tormented him. He would be worse than a spy. He would have been the one who brought a nation to its knees by what he’d done, then he’d be forced to integrate with his enemies. That is, if he lived long enough to one day make his way home again, one day in the future.
Gutwein shook his head. He prayed he had enough power to allow him to get his aircraft and the device off the ground.
He wore the crisp uniform of the Luftwaffe and on his sleeve, an insignia displayed a pair of wings over two bands, indicating his rank of Lieutenant Colonel. His blond hair was trimmed neatly and pulled back. He had a well-defined jaw line and light blue eyes that once were full of kindness. That kindness had been replaced by hatred after his family were killed during a British air raid on his hometown of Hamburg almost a year ago.
The bombing was followed by a series of losses. The most recent of which was the loss of Normandy, after the assault two weeks ago by the Western Allies. They launched the largest amphibious invasion in history as they stormed the northern coast of France on the 6th of June 1944. It was the turning point, and the German war office knew it. Plans for the release of a secret weapon under construction were expedited and the strange device now in his bomb bay was the result of that effort.
Tomorrow, he would commence the most significant mission of his life. He hoped it would be the greatest turning point toward a German victory.
His thoughts turned to the strange bomb. Horror, defiance, and vengeance were mingled. If the engineers’ calculations were right and he could get his aircraft off the ground tomorrow morning, he would save the Fatherland, and have his revenge.
At 2 a.m. a soldier on the night watch woke him. “It’s time, Oberstleutnant Gutwein.”
Gutwein opened his eyes, surprised to find that he had slept. He stood up and greeted the man with a curt “Thank you,” which also served to dismiss the soldier. He quickly donned his starched uniform with pride and stepped outside.
Striding over crushed stone on the way back to his hangar, Gutwein noted with satisfaction that it was a remarkably cold night — even for January.
He rubbed his gloved hands together and breathed out, watching his breath mist. He smiled, as it was a very good omen. Cold air meant dense air. The props on his propeller-driven craft would bite deeper in denser air, thrusting a greater mass of air backwards, which meant more thrust and power. Cold, dense air would also provide more lift, essential for the mission.
It might just make it possible to get his overladen Condor off the ground. Luck, he understood through hard-won knowledge, meant everything in the world.
It was good luck turned to bad that had returned his wife and children to Hamburg at exactly the wrong time. Ursula the sensible and determined, had been given a gift of lamb steaks. Under severe food rationing, she had decided to go home early, to prepare the unexpected feast as a surprise.
She did it for me, he mused, a pang of sadness constricting his heart.
It was the same sort of twisted luck that gave him the responsibility to deliver what the history books would likely record as the most catastrophic invention of the human race. A weapon so destructive that, God forgive him, all civilizations would fear and submit to anyone with such a device. Who would risk such devastation more than once?
Gutwein preferred logic, compromise, and cool reason to war. Ordinarily, a peace-loving man, how did the fates see fit to give this duty to him? The mission was never supposed to be his in the first place.
The experimental Messerschmitt Me 264 — Amerika Bomber — was supposed to perform the task of trans-Atlantic flight and bombing raid, but three days ago the aircraft had developed engineering problems. These could be overcome with time, but the Third Reich was adamant that here and now was their last chance of success. Thus, the terrible task had fallen to him and his Condor.
Yet, who better to go than a man who had lost his family?
He dismissed the thought as he reached the makeshift hangar where his Condor had been kept. She was lit up with a series of bright lights. A team of engineers and maintenance workers were going over her, searching for any last detail that might cause her to fail.
Standing by her wingtips, were his two men.
“Good morning, gentlemen.” Gutwein greeted his copilot and navigator, disregarding the “Heil Hitler” salute.
Both replied, nearly in unison, “Good morning, sir.”
To his navigator, he asked, “Have you seen the weather reports for our intended flight track?”
“Yes,” Krause replied, handing him the report. “We’ll have a moderate tail wind. It’s predicted to ease off once we reach the Atlantic, of course, but it will help.”
“Good. Any news of enemy aircraft in the area?”
“No. At this stage we’ll have a clean run.”
“Excellent.” Gutwein turned to his copilot. “Have you checked my calculations based on our approximate weight and total fuel capacity?”
“Yes, sir,” Vogel replied.
“And?”
“It will be close, sir. If the winds are favorable, or even if the winds aren’t against us, we’ll make it. Once we reach our target, there won’t be a lot of time to locate a suitable landing site, but that was always going to be the case, wasn’t it?”
Gutwein nodded. “All right. We have a mission to complete, gentlemen. Let’s not keep our lady waiting.”
He glanced at his aircraft.
The Focke-Wulf 200S Condor appeared sad and despondent, like a loyal old dog, who knew her days were numbered. Gutwein felt a sudden loss at the thought. He’d commanded similar aircraft since the start of the war. The Condor had been remarkably reliable and had always gotten him home in one piece. Now she was naked and unadorned, as though she was about to be decommissioned and scrapped.
With his copilot, he ran his hand around her nose and fuselage — shining his flashlight into the dark openings of her ailerons in search of any damage the maintenance crew might have done to her when they divested her of so many of her functions. He continued to the tail, placing a hand on it to physically test its actuators. Both pilots completed their outside inspection of the aircraft. Neither spoke and the cold air now turned solemn, as they inspected their aircraft for her last flight.