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their work.
    But night-time launches were different, especially this far from the front line. They did not have to fear the prying eyes of artillery spotters, and no fighter-bombers would take to the skies for low-level missions unless they could see where they were going.
    For the men of the V-2 programme, darkness had become the only thing they trusted in the world. That and their ability to vanish before the heat had even left the metal of the launch scaffolds.
    General Hagemann waited by the communications truck, in which an Enigma machine, set to the same rotor configuration as the one on the trawler, would receive the message sent by Captain Hildebrand, giving the coordinates of this particular’s rocket’s crash site.
    It was to be the last test launch for at least a week. The reason for this was that the bulk of available V-2 rockets were being pulled back from their launch sites in Holland, where they had been used for bombarding London and the port of Antwerp, and were now to be redirected towards targets in the east. Overseeing the safe transport of the rockets, as well as scouting out new launch sites, was about to become a full-time job for Hagemann.
    His troubles did not end there.
    Targeting the Russians would only increase the pressure placed upon him by the High Command to solve the guidance problems which had plagued the V-2 programme from the start. Thanks to wildly over-optimistic predictions from Propaganda Minister Goebbels, the German public had been led to believe that miracle weapons were being developed which would turn the tide of the entire war. Even some members of the High Command believed that such things might be possible. But time was running out. Soon not even miracles would save them.
    By the small dusty red light of the radio’s main console, Hagemann watched the operators scribbling down the trawler’s message as it emerged from the Enigma machine. It was a longer message than usual. Normally, Hildebrand just relayed the coordinates of the V-2’s splash point. Hagemann immediately began to worry that something had gone wrong.
    The radio operator finished transcribing the message, tore off the page on which he had written it down and handed the page to the general.
    The first thing Hagemann noticed was that there were no numbers written down, which would have indicated the coordinates where the rocket, or ‘needle’ as it was always referred to in the messages, had landed. These numbers would then have been tallied with the adjustments made for this particular flight, indicating whether or not they had improved the V-2’s accuracy.
    Instead, the message read: ‘Needle overshot to north-north-east. No splash point indicated. Unusual exhaust pattern observed.’
    When Hagemann read those last words, his whole face went numb. ‘Reply,’ he croaked, barely able to speak.
    The radio operator rested his first two fingers on the keyboard of the Enigma machine.  ‘Ready,’ he said quietly.
    ‘Explain unusual exhaust pattern,’ Hagemann told the operator.
    The operator tapped in the four words.
    They waited.
    ‘What’s taking them so long?’ snapped Hagemann.
    Before the operator could reply, a new message flickered across the Enigma’s light board.
    Hurriedly, the operator decoded the message. ‘It says “Silver cloud in halo”.’
    The general’s heart slammed into his ribcage. ‘Silver cloud?’
    ‘That is correct, Herr General. Shall I ask for further clarification?’ asked the radio man.
    ‘No,’ replied Hagemann, barely able to speak. ‘Send a new message, this one to FHQ.’
    The operator glanced up. Those three letters stood for Führerhauptquartier and meant that the message would be going directly to Hitler’s private switchboard. He hesitated, unsure that he had heard the general correctly.
    ‘Is there a problem?’ barked Hagemann.
    ‘No, Herr General!’ the radio man waited, fingers poised over the keys.
    ‘The message should read: “Needle overshot