NAZI GHOULS FROM SPACE
Peenemunde
German Rocketry Research Center and Proving Ground, Usedom Peninsula along the
Baltic Sea, 261 kilometers northeast of Berlin, 3 March 1945
“We’re ready when you are, Herr Obergruppenfuhrer.”
“Thank you, gefreiter. Tell them I’ll be there in a
minute.”
The gefreiter closed the office door. Obergruppenfuhrer Dr. Ing Hans Friedrich
Karl Franz Kammler stood up from his desk. He stepped over to the mirror on the
opposite wall and straightened his SS uniform. The reflection that gazed back
was not that of a handsome man. Kammler had the Nordic blonde hair/blue eyes of
a proper Nazi, but his features were hard and his expression stern. Not that it
mattered. He possessed something much more valuable than good looks. Kammler
happened to be a personal favorite of his boss, Reichsfuhrer Heinrich Himmler, and that esteem opened more doors
for him than his physical appearance ever could. His services to the Fuhrer were immeasurable. He had
overseen the design and construction of the Reich’s extermination camps as well
as the installation of the crematorium at Auschwitz-Birkenau. He had been
responsible for constructing the facilities related to Germany’s special
weapons projects, including moving the V-2 rocket production facilities
underground, which ensured their continued mass production despite the Allied
strategic bombing campaign. And he had been in charge of all of the military’s
missile projects since January 1945.
If events went
well this morning, Kammler would be able to add to his kudos sending the first
men into space.
Exiting the
office, Kammler made his way outside where the gefreiter waited by his staff car. Upon seeing the Obergruppenfuhrer, the soldier snapped
to attention and opened the rear door. After Kammler climbed in back, the gefreiter closed the door and rushed
around to the driver’s side. They headed north to the Ordnance Test Area where
the V-2 launch pads were located, in particular the pad at the far end that had
been converted to hold the Amerika Rakete—the
Reich’s long-range ballistic missile.
Back in January,
with the Red Army in eastern Germany and American troops closing in on the
Rhine, Hitler had summoned Kammler to Berlin and demanded he produce a
vengeance weapon superior to the V-2 to strike the United States. The engineers
at Peenemunde swore it couldn’t be accomplished, but Werner von Braun came
forward with a unique solution. He had proposed developing a two-stage
ballistic missile using an Aggregate-10
diesel oil- and nitric acid-fueled rocket as the first stage to boost a smaller
Aggregate-9 second stage into orbit
and onto a trajectory that would bring it down along the east coast of the
United States. Because no guidance systems yet existed that would allow the
A-9/10 hybrid to fly with accuracy, Kammler had ordered the A-9 reconfigured
with a cockpit for a pilot, or astronaut,
who would guide the second stage and its accompanying warhead onto its target.
Yes, it would be a suicide mission, but Kammler didn’t care. He knew he could
find enough fanatical soldiers willing to die for the Reich if it meant
striking terror into the hearts of the Americans, and by extension allow
Kammler to win favor with the Fuhrer.
As the staff car
approached, Kammler leaned forward to look out the windshield. The northernmost
V-2 launch pad had been extended in height with a make-shift service tower to
support the Amerika Rakete. The
project had been completed at a considerable cost in diverted resources from
the V-2 program and lost lives among the Jewish slave laborers, but those
efforts had paid off handsomely. The Amerika
Rakete stood on its launch platform nestled inside the surrounding gantry.
It looked similar to a V-2, only larger and more robust. The two-stage rocket
towered twenty meters into the air, with a diameter just shy of two meters. It
rested on four fins that gave it a wingspan of three meters. The access hatch
to the cockpit sat open waiting for the astronauten
to board. For this space launch mission, the second-stage cockpit had been
reconfigured, removing the forward compartment for the warhead and utilizing
the extra space to accommodate a three-man crew sitting in tandem. Kammler had
ordered that three men be sent aloft to test the results of space flight on the
human body. The pilot would land the rocket off the coast of Nova Scotia near a
waiting U-boat that would rescue the crew, examine them, and radio their
findings back to Peenemunde.
First, however,
Kammler had to endure the obligatory photo opportunity.
As the staff car
pulled up in front of the launch tower, Kammler saw his astronauten waiting for him. Because these soldiers would
temporarily leave the atmosphere to gain enough trajectory to reach their
target, special flight suits had to be developed to protect them from the
vacuum of space and exposure to cosmic radiation. Each suit was comprised of a
rubbery airtight bladder surrounded by a restraint layer made of fabric. For
the Fuhrer’s benefit, each astronauten’s flight suit had been
designed to resemble the uniform for the branch of service they represented—the
Wehrmacht, the Luftwaffe, and the SS.
The gefreiter parked a few meters from the
men and jumped out to get the door. When Kammler stepped out, the astronauten snapped to attention. A
photographer darted around the group, snapping shots from various angles that
would later be presented to the Fuhrer.
Kammler ignored him. He stepped over to the officer wearing the Wehrmacht uniform and extended his arm
in the Sieg Heil salute. The officer
responded in kind.
“What’s your
name, soldier?”
“Oberleutnant Friedhelm Strang.”
“What unit are
you with?”
“I’m with the 1st
Infantry Division.”
Kammler nodded. “Aren’t they currently
defending Festung Konigsberg from the
Red Army?”
“Yes, Herr Obergruppenfuhrer.”
“You’ll honor
their sacrifice by what you’ll do here today.”
“Danke, Herr Obergruppenfuhrer.”
Kammler stepped
over to the officer in the Luftwaffe
uniform. “What’s your name?”
“Hauptman Rudolf Altner, from the Air
Ministry in Berlin. Reichsmarshall
Goring selected me personally for this assignment.”
Kammler suppressed
a smirk. That fat morphine addict was content to send his men to certain death,
but was too afraid to travel near the front to see them off. “All of Germany is
proud of you.”
“Viele dank, Herr Obergruppenfuhrer.”
Kammler moved to
the last officer in line, who snapped ramrod straight. The man exuded strength,
confidence, and arrogant superiority.
“And you?”
“Standartenfuhrer Werner Konig.”
“You’re the
pilot of this flight?”
“Yes, Herr Obergruppenfuhrer. I’m looking forward
to bringing the war to American soil.”
“Don’t get
overconfident,” warned Kammler. “This is only a test flight. But if it’s
successful, soon we’ll be doing to New York and Washington what the verdammt Americans have been doing to
Berlin these past few years. The Reich is counting on you…” He looked at all
three officers in turn. “…all of you, to make this flight a success.”
Konig nodded.
Kammler stepped
back and extended his arm one final time. “Heil
Hitler!”
The officers
responded in kind and bellowed, “Heil
Hitler!”
As Kammler
headed back to the staff car, the three astronauten
made their way to the service tower where a ground crew of Luftwaffe personnel waited to escort
them to the cockpit and strap them in. Upon arriving at the Bunker Control Room
from where he would monitor the test flight, Kammler entered and quietly stayed
in the background while the various technicians went about their final
preparations. Nearly thirty minutes passed before the mission control director,
SS Sturmbanfuhrer Hoess, stepped
over.
“We’re ready, Herr Obergruppenfuhrer.”
“Proceed.”
Hoess turned
back to the others. “Begin launch sequence.”
A scurry of
activity ensued inside the bunker. The exterior air raid klaxon sounded,
warning those outside of the imminent launch. A technician in civilian clothes
called out, “Thirty seconds to launch.”
“All systems are
within working parameters,” responded a technician in a Luftwaffe uniform.
“Electrical
control circuits attached and functioning,” added a third technician in a white
lab coat.
“Twenty seconds
to launch,” called out the technician in civilian clothes.
“Prepare to
activate pyrotechnic device,” ordered Hoess.
“Preparing to
activate device,” responded the Luftwaffe
technician.
“Ten seconds to
launch,” called out the technician in civilian clothes. “Nine. Eight. Seven.
Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.”
“Activate
pyrotechnic device,” yelled Hoess.
“Pyrotechnic
device activated,” said the Luftwaffe
technician. “Propulsion has been initiated.”
The A-10’s
engine ignited, generating 375,000 pound force of thrust. The Amerika Rakete lifted off the launch
pad, rapidly gaining speed and altitude until it rocketed toward the heavens at
a speed of 4300 kilometers per hour.
“Status,”
ordered Hoess.
“All systems are
functioning normally,” responded the Luftwaffe
technician. “The rocket’s trajectory is normal.”
“Time.”
“Twenty-five
seconds into burn stage,” called out the technician in civilian clothes.
“Prepare for
second stage separation,” ordered Hoess.
The technician
in the white lab coat replied, “Ready for second stage separation.”
“Status.”
“All systems are
functioning normally,” said the Luftwaffe
technician from his terminal. “The rocket has attained an altitude of two
hundred and seventy-six kilometers. Trajectory is normal.”
“Forty seconds
into burn stage,” called out the technician in civilian clothes.
“Status.”
“The rocket has
attained an altitude of three hundred and seven kilometers. Trajectory is
normal.”
“Burn stage will
be complete in five seconds” The technician in civilian clothes began the
countdown. “Four. Three. Two. Burn stage complete.”
The Luftwaffe technician added, “The rocket
has attained an altitude of three hundred and ninety-four kilometers.”
“Initiate second
stage separation,” ordered Hoess.
“Initiating
second stage separation,” said the technician in the white lab coat. He toggled
a switch, but the red display light above it remained on. He flipped it back to
its original position and toggled again, with the same result. “Schiesse.”
Hoess made his
way to the technician’s station. “Talk to me.”
The technician
repeatedly toggled the switch. “I can’t initiate separation.”
Kammler stepped
over to the technician. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know.”
On the ninth attempt, the red display light went out and the green light came
on. “We have second stage separation.”
“Status!” called
Hoess.
“The rocket has
attained an altitude of five hundred and seventeen kilometers.” The technician
in civilian clothes looked up from his console. “The trajectory has not
changed. The rocket will obtain low earth orbit.”
“What does that
mean?” asked Kammler.
“The delay in
separation boosted the second stage beyond its re-entry point. Rather than come
back down near Nova Scotia, the second stage is about to go into orbit around
the earth.” Hoess sighed. “Our astronauten
are lost in space.”
“Ficken.” Kammler had hoped to end his
career with the Reich on a high note, but fate had intervened.
“What happens
now?” asked Hoess.
“I’ll fly to
Berlin this afternoon and explain it to the Fuhrer
myself.” Kammler plotted who he could blame this failure on. “He’ll be furious,
but I should be able to talk him down.”
“No, Herr Obergruppenfuhrer.” Hoess paused.
“I meant about the astronauten.”
Kammler shrugged.
“I’ll put them in for the Iron Cross First Class.”
“Very good, Herr Obergruppenfuhrer.”
Hoess did not
seem impressed, but Kammler could care less. The war would be over in a few
months, and Peenemunde and everyone in it would either be dead or prisoners of
the Red Army. So be it. Kammler had other concerns.
Such as
surviving the collapse of Nazi Germany.
Nazi Ghouls From Space is available for the Kindle.
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