Gutwein commenced his start-up procedure and went through the rigorous list of cross-checks. An aeronautical engineer had updated them two days ago in light of the enormous distance they needed to cover. Their lives were expendable, so it wasn’t for them that so much effort and diligence had been applied. No. It was for the sake of their payload — the unique, cataclysmic bomb the world had never seen.
Once complete, he placed the flight pad down and faced his copilot. “Are you happy to proceed, Mr. Vogel?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.”
Gutwein turned around and faced his navigator who currently took the cockpit’s third, and rearward facing seat, usually reserved for the flight engineer. Having reduced their full crew to just three in order to save weight, Krause was now having to play the role of the flight engineer. He was diligently checking the series of flight gauges that monitored everything from oil pressure, to fuel supplies, and engine temperatures.
“Everything good, Krause?” Gutwein asked.
“Yes, sir. She’s right to go.”
“All right. I’ll close the hatch and we’ll be off.”
Gutwein took a few steps toward the aft section of the Condor and resolutely closed the main hatch. A glance out the open gangway showed a BMW R75 motorcycle racing toward them.
Taking in a deep breath, he sighed. What now?
Its rider brought the motorcycle to a stop and switched off the engine. On his crisp uniform he wore the insignia of an SS Intelligence Officer. The man appeared flustered. “You are Oberstleutnant Wilhelm Gutwein?”
“Yes.”
“We’ve just received reports of an aerial raid flying across Southern France.”
“Do we know what their target is?”
“No.”
Gutwein swore under his breath. “So, the mission’s been postponed again, has it?”
The SS Intelligence Officer shook his head. “No. There’s too much of a chance they will target Stuttgart. We can’t allow the weapon to be destroyed on the ground. It’s too important. I’m afraid that’s not possible.” He handed him a written dispatch. “My orders are to inform you to follow the second route.”
“There might not be enough fuel.” Gutwein said, taking the paper, ripping open the seal, and scanning the short contents of the order.
“Our flight engineers believe it will be close, but you should still make it,” the dispatch rider continued speaking. “Risks have been studied, discussed at length, and a decision made. The Führer had ordered this operation to be carried out immediately.”
A mixture of dizziness, dread, and madness made Gutwein abruptly feel faint. With reckless abandon, he said, “The Führer’s order will be done. Heil Hitler!” he saluted.
“Heil Hitler!” the SS Officer returned. As an epitaph to the madness of this last-chance mission, it seemed appropriate.
Gutwein taxied his craft to the end of the runway.
He pressed his right pedal to the floor and the Focke-Wulf 200S Condor spun to face into the wind, along the center of runway seven-nine. The easterly wind ran at twenty knots, on a dry and cold morning. The weather was one of the few pieces of good luck they still had going for them. He applied pressure with the balls of his feet until he felt the brakes lock tight and the tires firmly grip the blacktop.
He used his right hand to slowly, carefully move all four throttles to full. Like a big dog on a small lead, the aircraft shuddered and strained to break free. The four Bramo 323 R-2 radial engines increased power until their high-pitched whine nearly drowned out all verbal communication. He kept them there, checking all the gauges remained in their correct ranges.
Vogel nodded, and with a thumb pointing upwards, he shouted, “She looks good.”
Gutwein brought the throttles back to idle. “You still happy, Mr. Krause?”
“Sure.” Krause replied. Gazing pensively out the port window, he said, “The question is, will she get off the ground?”
Gutwein smiled and slapped his engineer’s shoulder. “Have some faith. It might just take every last inch of the runway to do so, but she’ll fly.”
He’d flown test flights on the aircraft with their designer, Kurt Tank, the original engineer whose design had won the contract by Lufthansa, back in the late 1930s. They’d then worked together to modify the civilian commercial airliner so that she was structurally strengthened and fitted with the German Bramo 323 R-2 radial engines to replace the American made 875 HP Pratt & Whitney Hornet radial engines. Since then, he’d clocked up nearly ten thousand hours on the long-range aircraft — more than any other person alive. He knew exactly how much she could take.
But would her airframe withstand the additional forces?
He’d calculated her take-off weight himself. Between the extraordinary bomb and additional fuel stored in empty bomb bays coupled to the wing, they were overladen by nearly ten thousand pounds. It would be close, but she’d fly. Safety margins were not an issue on this flight.
“All right, gentlemen, here we go.”
Once more, Gutwein used his right hand to gradually move all four throttles back to full. Again, the engines whined, and the entire metal fuselage shuddered. The Condor edged forward despite the wheel brakes locked firmly in place.
When the revolutions had nearly red-lined, Gutwein made a silent prayer. Unable to detain her any longer, Gutwein released the brakes, uncaging the Condor — allowing — no expecting the great lady to fly.
The high-pitched drone of the powerful Bramo 323 R-2 radial engines increased in pitch until they howled with the wind attempting to extract every single pound of thrust possible. The three-bladed VDM-Hamilton airscrews spun madly until they disappeared from the leading edge of the wing in a haze of gray. He would need every one of their combined 3576 kilowatts to lift her from the runway.
Initially, the overladen aircraft crept forward. Her movement felt slow, restrained to the ground by earthly forces. She gently began building up speed and momentum until she reveled in the challenge of the impossible task given to her.
Through the windshield Gutwein watched as each 1000 foot marker slipped past. Heart in his throat, the end of the runway rapidly ran forward to greet them. His eyes darted between the instrument panel and the distance markers outside. Her tail naturally lifted, making the craft straight and level. He was given a clear glimpse straight down the runway.
“We just passed the 4000 foot marker,” Vogel stated.
“Nearly there, just a little bit more acceleration,” Gutwein coolly replied. His eyes glanced at the airspeed. The Condor had reached a sluggish 80 knots.
The nose of the aircraft wanted to lift. Gutwein, refusing her natural aerodynamic desire, strained to keep the yoke pushed forward and her wheels on the ground.
“5000 foot,” Vogel said. “Speed: 110 knots.”
“We’re going to need more than that if we want to clear those trees.”
They were approaching the minimum takeoff speed of the Condor under normal conditions. Overladen by nearly ten thousand pounds above its ordinary 50,057 pounds maximum take-off weight, Gutwein knew they needed to reach a speed closer to 130 before he even considered allowing her nose off the ground.
The condor’s all metal fuselage shuddered under the intense power demand, begging to be released from the confines of gravity. He needed all the speed he could gather to get the overladen aircraft into the sky and climbing to clear the trees. Gutwein kept the stick all the way forward, trying to keep the nose from lifting.