The launch site at Peenemünde was silent except for the low hum of generators and the occasional hiss of venting cryogenics.
Beyond the security cordon, the North Sea wind whipped over the dunes, carrying with it the scent of salt and iron.
On the pad stood Wotan, a three-stage, liquid-fueled monster born from the same family as the Reich's submarine-launched ballistic missiles, sleek, slate-gray, and bristling with antennae.
It was not adorned with propaganda markings or flags; this was not for the newspapers. This was for history.
Bruno stood in the armored viewing gallery beside Kaiser Wilhelm II, the Crown Prince, and a small circle of high command.
He had worn the faint smile of a man who already knew the outcome. Years of investment in rocketry, in guidance systems refined for anti-ship missiles and SAM batteries, had led to this moment.
The world expected the Reich's space program to be years away from fruition. The world was wrong.
