Rocket Lake

By Thomas Paul Terlizzi

November, 1953.
The brutal murder of Maria Gordon, a young mother, stuns a small, New Jersey town. The case quickly goes cold in a bizarre twist of fate that leaves seven-year old Johnny an orphan -- that is, until the surprise arrival of a man long assumed dead.
The case is pursued by three unlikely allies: a wise-cracking police sergeant, a German rocket scientist, and a frail, yet optimistic survivor of the Holocaust. Together, they uncover shocking evidence linking Maria's murder to Nazi war crimes a decade earlier.
Rocket Lake tells of blackmail and government cover-ups during the postwar Space race between the U.S. and Russia. As the story unfolds, scenes of 1950's American culture are revealed, seen through the eyes of a young boy, his schoolmates, and survivors of a war-ravaged Europe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312605077

Book preview

Rocket Lake

ROCKET

LAKE

Thomas Paul Terlizzi

Copyright © 2014, Thomas Paul Terlizzi

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN 978-1-312-60507-7

Rocket Lake is fiction, but includes true historical events, settings, and notable personalities in the field of aerospace research.

Any resemblance of the fictitious characters in this novel to any person or persons living or dead is coincidental.

Dedication

This story is dedicated to my parents.

Paul M. Terlizzi (1917 - 2005)  Chemical Engineer

Concetta T. Terlizzi (1916 - 1965)  Teacher

Acknowledgement:

I could not have completed this story without the loving support, encouragement, and computer skills of my fantastic wife, Ann.

It all looked so easy...

It all looked so easy when you did it on paper—when valves never froze, gyros never drifted, and rocket motors did not blow up in your face.

Milton Rosen, rocket engineer, 1956

Chronology of Relevant Historical Events

Jan. 30, 1933  Adolf Hitler comes to power in Germany.

March, 1933  First concentration camps established.

Sept. 1, 1939  Germany invades Poland. WWII begins.

August, 1940  Aerial bombing of London and Berlin.

Dec. 7, 1941  Japan bombs Pearl Harbor; U.S. enters war.

June, 1942  Battle of Midway. Major defeat for Japan.

Feb. 2, 1943  Major German defeat at Stalingrad, USSR.

June 6, 1944  Allies invade Europe at Normandy, France.

Sept. 1944  V-2 rockets hit London, Paris, Antwerp.

Oct. 25, 1944  Kamikaze attacks on U.S. Navy ships.

March, 1945  Americans cross Rhine River into Germany.

Apr. 29, 1945  Dachau slave camp liberated by U.S. Army.

Apr. 30, 1945  Adolf Hitler commits suicide in Berlin.

May 2, 1945  Russians capture Berlin.

May 8, 1945  Germany surrenders; War in Europe ends.

August, 1945  U.S. drops first atomic bombs on Japan.

Sep. 2, 1945  Japan surrenders. WWII ends.

Oct. 14, 1947  X-1 rocket plane achieves Mach 1.

Aug. 29, 1949  Soviet Union tests its first atomic bomb.

June 25, 1950  North Korea invades South Korea.

Mar. 5, 1953  Soviet dictator Josef Stalin dies.

June 19, 1953  U.S. executes Rosenbergs for espionage.

July 27, 1953  Armistice ends Korean War.

Nov. 20, 1953  Douglas Skyrocket achieves Mach 2.

Oct. 4, 1957  USSR orbits first satellite, Sputnik 1.

Jan. 31, 1958  U.S. orbits its first satellite, Vanguard 1.

Oct. 3, 1967  X-15 rocket plane achieves Mach 6.7.

July 20, 1969  U.S. lands first humans on the Moon.

FORWARD:

There was a time in America, just after the Korean War, when kids (mostly grade school boys) had a ready appetite for anything related to jet and rocket propulsion. Sort of like the airplane craze that followed Charles Lindbergh’s flight to Paris in 1927, but with an afterburning kick. To be sure, cowboys and baseball were still important pursuits and fantasies, but, damn! Jets and rockets were fast, very loud, and cool, man.

Embracing this hip 50’s technology as part of their modern world, many of these kids were easily amused by the attempts of parents and grandparents to talk the new lingo. Pity the adult who, in the presence of a know-it-all adolescent boy, equated ramjets with rocket planes.

Meanwhile, Madison Avenue, always attuned to popular culture, systematically targeted the young male demographic by merchandizing all things jet and/or rocket. The exploding medium of television hawked toys, clothing, books, movies, and all things super and hypersonic. Poor, old Hopalong Cassidy, stuck on his horse, had to compete with Tom Corbett, Space Cadet.

But these children, and, for that matter many adults, didn’t know there was a very dark side to all this. 

Disney-like dreams about space stations and rocket ships to the Moon and planets could only become reality if large payloads could achieve orbit and, eventually, escape velocity.

The level of technology to reach Earth orbit finally become reality in 1957 with the launch of Sputnik 1 by the Soviet Union. But that success had come at a great and horrific human toll more than a decade before—in Nazi Germany—between1943 and 1945.

That part of history—the death and misery of untold thousands of slave laborers engaged in building Hitler’s long-range V-2 missiles—is incorporated in my novel.

Part One


PART ONE

1953

Rockaway, New Jersey

November 19

3:15 PM

Seven-year old Johnny Gordon had peddled hard to make it to the top of Mohawk Avenue. From his perch on the seat of his battle-scarred Schwinn he could just see the dormer windows of his house, two blocks away; the white, clap-board Cape Cod mostly hidden by masses of bright orange and russet foliage.

Indian summer was blessing the New Jersey highlands with long-lasting color. Even this late in November there had been only a few morning frosts and, despite the shortening days, the late afternoons were perfect for kids to play outside until parents called them in for supper.

Johnny gave a cursory scan for cars and readied for the downhill rush he loved, converting speed to a crowd-pleasing, fishtailing finale. He also loved that his mother was in her kitchen baking a fresh batch of cinnamon crisps.  

Wiping the sleeve of his flannel shirt across a runny nose, Johnny eased the bike past the crest of the hill, and prepared for takeoff.

Off to his right, his ears picked out a powerboat running on nearby White Meadow Lake, one of several man-made bodies of water amid the many natural pondsand lakes of the region. White Meadow Lake was only a couple hundred yards away, but the thick, mixed forest between the lake shore and the neighborhood filtered the boat’s roaring engine sound to a deep hum.

Johnny tightened his grip on the handlebars, pushed forward and grinned.

Accelerating down the hill, feet in neutral, he heard another familiar, but distinctive sound—a distant, low-pitched thud he could feel in his small chest. Johnny knew instantly it meant a rocket engine was being tested at another lake, a few miles away—Lake Denmark, where his father worked.

Zoom-climbing like a Sabrejet, the bike’s inertia took Johnny up his narrow, gravel driveway. Stomping hard on the coaster-brake, the bike side-slipped as planned. Levitating off the seat amid a cloud of gray dust, Johnny let the bike fall against the garage door. He immediately ran around to the back porch, inhaling fresh-baked goodness.

Flinging open the screen door to the kitchen, he called out, Hey, Mom! Did you… 

Maria Gordon, long brown hair tied up in a polka-dot bandana, had the phone receiver to her ear and gave Johnny a polite ‘don’t interrupt Mommy’ look. She managed to give him a strong hug with her free arm, and nodded toward the plate on the countertop. Johnny broke away and started devouring the little pie-crust morsels and washed them down with a glass of cold milk.

As she watched her freckle-faced son eat like a starving wolverine, Maria heard the operator pick up.

Hi. Helen? It’s Maria Gordon. How are you? Oh, good. Yes, I’m fine. Could you please connect me with Grissom’s Music? Thanks.

Maria tapped her foot impatiently while Helen made the connection. Like all other neighborhood wives, Maria looked forward to the coming April when direct-dial local service would finally be available for the whole township. She would not miss the demise of the eight-family party lines; picking up the phone and hearing neighbor Felicia Demarco’s nasal jabbering about nothing was on the top of Maria’s list of life’s annoyances. 

Johnny gave his mother a quick wave, grabbed more of the crumbly snacks and ran down the back porch, purposely rolling along the grassy slope to a shallow creek at the bottom. He ambled along the narrow bank, kicking at twigs and stones as he nibbled on the still-warm treats. He stopped near a dead log and bent down, fascinated by a yellow-striped salamander wiggling across the moist bark.

Hey! Johnny! Whatchyadoin’?

Johnny looked up to see his friend and classmate, Bobby Blanchard, standing above him kicking little clods of dirt. Both boys could be mistaken for brothers with their unruly brown hair, freckles, and, like their fathers, probably destined to be lanky.

Nothin’. Want to play Army?

Johnny scrambled out of the creek and both boys began running through the thick woods to Bobby’s house. They selected stout twigs that never ran out of ammo as they vocally blasted away at unseen tigers, Indians, or North Koreans. DERSH! BLAMMO! 

Just before dusk, the boys, filthy, made their way to their respective yards and parted with a simple head bob. Their mothers’ rules were basic—be back when it starts to get dark, and look both ways when crossing a street. Johnny, traipsing up the back slope hoped his mother wouldn’t notice the muddy stains on the front of his shirt.

Fifty feet from the back porch, Johnny suddenly stopped—startled by loud yelling coming from his house.

It sounded like when his mother and father argued; a very rare occurrence. But this was different. He could sense a terror in his mother’s voice.

He climbed up on the porch, deftly tiptoeing to the kitchen door, then stopped cold, not understanding the bizarre tableau before him.

Behind the screen door, back-lit by yellowish light from the open refrigerator, he saw a shadowy figure—a tall man in dark coveralls like his father wore to work.

And tall, too. Just like his dad.

The man was looking down.

Johnny took a step closer and also looked down.

Splayed on the pale green linoleum, limp and unmoving, was his mother. 

Suddenly, the standing man snapped his gaze from Maria Gordon’s body up towards the door. Instinctively, Johnny jumped back, innocent heart pounding as he stumbled sideways along the porch.

WHAM!

The door flew open and banged angrily against the frame as the man rushed forward. Johnny turned to run but his leg muscles were shaking uncontrollably. He fell down the porch steps and tried to make his legs work. He needed to scream but absolute fear paralyzed his throat. A loud squeak and a thump from the wooden porch told him the pursuer had slipped and fallen in a maddened dash, buying Johnny a lead of a few yards.

Johnny focused on the dark line of trees; if he could make it to the familiar woods, maybe he would be safe. 

He didn’t get more than a hundred feet from his house.

The last sound Johnny heard before his world went black were the footfalls coming up fast behind him, crunching newly fallen, brightly colored November leaves.

__________

1

November 20

11 AM

Rockaway’s bull-like Chief of Police, Tommy Mazzelli, stood in the kitchen doorway of the Gordon home. Slowly retreating from the disturbing, bloody scene he turned around and scanned the modestly furnished dining room. On a small, distressed sideboard was a framed watercolor of what he guessed was an old European castle. Privately nodding his admiration of the work he said, quietly,  

"First homicide we’ve had in Rockaway in what, Mike, three years?"

Yeah, Chief. Last one was that bum, Sonny Petrino, who welcomed in nineteen-fifty by smashing a Rheingold bottle over his buddy’s head. That was manslaughter for Chrissakes. But this? This is really disturbing. The Doc says the kid’s still unconscious, but has a good chance.

So what do we have so far, Mike?

Mazzelli watched Sergeant Mike Miller use the tip of a well-chewed pencil to flip open a worn spiral notebook. The wiry Miller, with gap-tooth smile and red hair reminded Mazzelli of the Howdy Doody TV puppet that his kids were crazy over. So far, Mazzelli had spared his right-hand man of that facial association.

Best guess is that Mrs. Gordon was killed sometime between five and seven o’clock yesterday evening, November nineteenth. Cause of death most likely blunt force trauma to the anterior cranium.

So, she got whacked on the forehead? Jeez, Mike, it’s just you and me; eighty-six the thesaurus.

Right, Boss. Anyway, houses in this section are pretty well separated by trees. And most neighbors were inside after dusk. None of the neighbors we interviewed saw or heard anything out of the ordinary. Woman and the kid were discovered about an hour ago, around ten this morning, by the gas meter man; propane tank’s by the back porch. Poor son of a bitch; threw up when he saw the kid’s head. Lot of blood; thought the kid was dead.

"How is the kid?"

No change. I put McNeely on duty at the hospital—St. Clare’s in Dover. He’ll call in if he wakes up. The kid, not McNeely, I mean.

What about the husband?

Uh, one Mr. Luke Gordon left work about noon yesterday, but hasn’t shown up for work today.

Mazzelli’s eyes grew large, and he quietly asked, What kind of work?

Government. Over at Lake Denmark. He’s assigned to NARTS.

Mazzelli nodded. He was very familiar with NARTS, the acronym for the Naval Air Rocket Test Station.

Mazzelli peeked into the kitchen where Maria Gordon still lay.

Any evidence of sexual assault on Mrs. Gordon, Mike?

No, and aside from a few fresh heel marks on the kitchen linoleum, probably from Mrs. Gordon’s shoes, it doesn’t seem like there was much of a struggle. Only thing hinky in the house is the secretary desk in the front hall. Take a look.

Mazzelli walked gingerly behind Miller into the adjoining living room and towards the front door. Scattered on the hardwood floor of the tiny foyer were four little drawers that had come from above the desk’s open writing surface. Postage stamps, paper clips, key rings, pencils and envelopes littered the floor.

Oh, also, Mrs. Gordon’s purse was dumped out on the kitchen floor, but her wallet is still in it with about ten in cash. Set of car keys, compact and hair brush, etc. close to the body. Rest of the house, basement, and garage seems OK. We’re dusting for prints. School bus dropped her boy off down the street about three yesterday afternoon. He was later seen riding his bike, and one kid, Bobby Blanchard, played with him in the woods behind the house until dusk, around five o’clock. Gas man said he rang the doorbell this morning to tell Mrs. Gordon he would be going around back but got no answer so he walked around the side of the house. That’s when he saw the boy lying face down. After the meter man tossed his breakfast he went into the house and then he really had an excuse to start drinking before lunch.

"Well, hell, Mike. I don’t see this as a burglary gone bad. Desk drawers and purse are messed up, yet the silverware, jewelry drawers, and cash are OK?  Strange. Nothing else looks disturbed and even if it started as a burglary, why would you do it when folks are likely to be home? And even then, why kill? Maybe that happens in Newark or Trenton, but around here? Jeez. And the kid whacked on the head, too? Who the hell bludgeons a mom and her kid in a little burg like Rockaway?  Got to be more to it, Mike; a lot more. What else you got?"

Hospital says the skin damage on top of the kid’s skull fracture is about four-inches long. Best guess is a hard, heavy object, probably metal. Quarter-inch rectangular marks on the both victims. I’d say the kid and mother were both hit with the same weapon.

What does Mr. Gordon do over at NARTS?

Neighbor says he works in the motor pool. He’s a mechanic. Interesting, huh? Anyways, we’ve sent out an APB on his car to State Highway Patrols in Jersey, New York, Pennsylvania and Delaware. If Gordon’s involved, he’s had at least sixteen hours to make tracks. Hell, he could be halfway to Florida, I guess.

Or, even Canada. Listen, Mike, did you look for anything here at the house that could have been used on the victims, then hidden or tossed into the woods?

Doing that now. I’ve only got a couple guys, Chief, and there’s at least an acre of woods around the house. Local newspaper reporter—I think Magnussen’s the name— just left. He said they’d run it as their top story tomorrow.

"As opposed to what other top story in Rockaway? Arthur Godfrey sighted at the A&W carhop? Jesus, Mike. OK. Priorities. Keep on top of the security watch at the hospital. There may be someone out there who doesn’t want the kid speaking again. And, we need the husband, Mr. Gordon, now. Until that happens let’s get to know the whole Gordon family. Contact neighbors and relatives. Start the usual criminal checks and go see his boss and co-workers. Get a search warrant for the NARTS motor pool."

Got it. What else?

Push the neighbors to dig deep into the nosey parts of their brains. Question the gas man hard for anything else he can remember. And, carefully, ask the other neighborhood kids what they know or may have seen. Then do the usual clergy, doctors and teacher interviews, and check bank accounts and telephone exchange. Damn, Mike. What the hell happened yesterday in our nice little town?

__________

It was most certainly a nice little town.

Incorporated in 1894, Rockaway, New Jersey, population 4,300, was just one of dozens of small middle class suburban communities stretching west along Route 46 outside New York City. A fair number of Rockaway’s men made the daily, forty-mile commute by train to the big city, but many more were employed locally.  There were plenty of good jobs in various service industries and light manufacturing.

The nearest large community, a few miles to the south, was Morristown, boasting its new Mennen pharmaceutical plant. Uncle Sam was also a growing employer in the area. Sprinkled across the wooded hills and along the shores of the lakes, were a number of small, non-descript government facilities devoted to research and development of weapons and related technologies.

The largest of these, and just a stone’s throw from Rockaway, was the U.S. Army’s Picatinny Arsenal.  Adjacent to the arsenal was a smaller and more obscure tenant, NARTS, located on the shores of Lake Denmark. Narrow, nearly a mile in length, bordered heavily with forest, Lake Denmark was an ideal military test site.  Since World War I, the isolated lake had been used for naval weapons development—depth charges, torpedoes and such. But with the end of World War II and the start of the nuclear age came a new urgency—U.S. rocket research. The new command, NARTS, was focused on propellant design and the static test-firing of rocket motors.  

The baby-steps of the missile age taken at Lake Denmark gave the locals a background of percussion from both successes and failures. A favorite local joke was, Each broken window pane is a guarantee of freedom from Communism. More recently, the undeclared war in Korea had brought additional government contracts to other local companies turning out military electronics and jet aircraft parts. Chuck Yeager and other military test pilots destined to break the sound barrier and future speed records were occasionally noted in the area as they met with the metal benders at Reaction Motors in nearby Denville.

The citizens of Rockaway Township were mainly white, lived in modest three-bedroom homes and had one car. Many took recreational advantage of the region’s man-made or glacier-carved lakes and kept motor boats at nearby docks. Fathers worked, and most mothers—no longer needed in defense plants since VJ Day—stayed at home with the kids.  There were a variety of neighborhoods and sub-divisions, but no major ethnic enclaves of note. Scattered throughout the population were a fair number of first and second generation Italians, Irish, and Jews. Crime was low.

Television advertising was a growing new influence, but there was a strong community awareness of American traditions and colonial history. Just outside of Morristown, George Washington’s troops had suffered terribly in winter quarters at Jockey Hollow. Local iron mines and ironworks supplied the cannons for his Continental Army and were worked into the early 1900’s. Names of lakes, streams, streets, parks, and schools often reflected Revolutionary War heroes or Indian tribes. Despite post-war suburban growth, there were still vast tracts of virgin forest where children played out frontier-life fantasies. Indian trails still existed amid the dark, boulder-strewn woods between new split-level and ranch-style homes. Rumors of unmarked graves of early settlers, Hessian soldiers, and Indians, made ghost-lore popular among Rockaway’s children.

In 1946, however, the environs of Rockaway played host to a different cultural demographic. Numbering only around thirty, these middle-aged newcomers were highly educated in physics and engineering, and starting new lives thanks to fate, luck and Uncle Sam. They were from a defeated Germany, and their particular specialty was making rockets.

__________

2

Naval Air Rocket Test Station,

Lake Denmark, New Jersey

November 20

2 PM

THUMP-BOOM!

The air in the room resonated with a double concussion from the rocket motor being tested just a mile away.

Mike Miller looked up from signing the visitor log at the NARTS security desk.

Good afternoon, Miss. A lot louder out here than in town, huh?

Yes, but you get used to it, said a skinny, but pretty young secretary manning the desk. Making strong eye contact with Miller, she handed him a security badge.

"Wear this. We don’t want you to get in any trouble, Sergeant."

Wow. I didn’t write it down but you figured out my middle name.

Mike, a first class flirt in his own right, couldn’t help noticing the girl’s tight, red mohair sweater. The rouge was a bit excessive, but her desk nameplate read Miss DePoix and he’d always had a thing for things French. He gave her a slightly salacious smile as she rose slowly, put out her Chesterfield in an ashtray full of lipstick-tinted butts, and escorted him to a small, private office. She knocked on the door jamb, and entered almost reverently.

Excuse me, sir. Mr. Miller, the policeman who called earlier about Luke Gordon? He’s here to see you.

She gave Miller a brief smile and what he wanted to believe was a wink, and returned to her desk.

Thank you, Miss DePoix. Detective Miller? Please sit down.   

"Thank you. And it’s Sergeant Miller, sir. Mike Miller."

Pleased to meet you. Horrible, horrible thing yesterday.  How can I help?

"You’re Mister Hank Kessler?" The man Miller had come to see did not stand or offer a handshake.

"Yes. Doctor Kessler. It’s really Heinrich, but…"

You’re from Germany, Doctor? Miller felt silly, since Kessler’s strong, guttural accent made it so obvious.

Yes, a few of us here at Lake Denmark and nearby research facilities are from Germany. You’ve been there, perhaps, Sergeant? Army?

Me? Hell no. Uncle Sam had me too busy shootin’ Japs in the South Pacific. Marine Corps.

Kessler pretended to ignore the crude comment as he noticed Miller’s eyes make a quick scan of the office. The government-issue gray metal furniture and the thin, plywood room dividers were all too familiar to Miller from his service days. A cheap, asbestos drop-ceiling barely concealed the building’s true architecture—a pre-fabricated, galvanized steel Quonset hut.

Behind Kessler’s desk was a large, black and white photograph. It showed a fat, big-finned rocket. In the foreground stood two rows of men in long winter coats and homburg hats with overly serious expressions. Against the opposite wall was a blackboard with mathematical equations. Centered on Kessler’s desk was a Dictaphone. Several red plastic recording cylinders were scattered haphazardly and the microphone was still clutched in Kessler’s hand.

Miller’s practiced-eye gave Kessler the once-over. The doctor, although seated, was likely over six-feet, based on the length of the overcoat hanging on a hook near the door. He was also slender, with slicked-back dark hair and an angular, arrogant face. Miller’s imaginative brain conjured up a dueling scar on the cheek to complete the perfect Prussian stereotype. 

So, Sergeant, you want to know about Luke Gordon. This is so upsetting. I don’t know him very well, you understand?

"But he does work for you?"

"Yes, technically he is assigned to my division—the propellants division—but he’s in charge of the motor pool. He’s a mechanic. We have about ten lorries—sorry, trucks—and a few jeeps. Our test sites are dispersed around the lake and the vehicles get a lot of wear and tear on the gravel roads."

So who is his immediate supervisor?

Himself. He has a couple mechanics who work with him. I call Luke when we need a vehicle and sometimes he drives the technical people to and from the sites.

And who is your immediate supervisor?"

Commander Steve Turner. He’s the Officer in Charge of the test station, but like I said, Gordon reports to me, but I rarely have dealings with him.

You folks need some pretty high security clearances I imagine.

Yes. Some of us. Kessler offered Miller a cigarette.

No, thanks. Does Mr. Gordon hold a high clearance?

Kessler lit a cigarette for himself using a lighter shaped like a rocket. He took a prolonged drag and blew a perfect smoke ring towards the ceiling. He held the cigarette like an American, not the way all the Germans held them in the movies Miller had seen.

Oh, no. Strictly vehicle maintenance; no special clearances. The visual part of what we do here is pretty open. It’s really just the test data that’s classified.

"But Luke Gordon does go to the sites?"

Well, yes. Just to drop off and pick up personnel, testing equipment, supplies and stuff.

Dr. Kessler, why did Gordon leave work early on Wednesday?

"My secretary, Miss DePoix, said Luke called this office from the motor pool Wednesday around noon and said he was feeling sick. She left me a sick leave request which I just saw this morning. I initialed it as an official, paid sick day. Of course I didn’t know then what I do now. The murder, I mean."

"Had Gordon been sick?"

Well, no. At least he seemed fine last I saw him.

When was that?

Last Friday.

Not this week?

I’m sure.

Why are you so sure?

"I wasn’t here, Sergeant. I was in New Mexico.

Observing a test at White Sands Missile Range. "

What kind of test?

"A missile, Sergeant." Kessler’s tone was testy.

How’d that go?

That’s classified. Any other questions Sergeant? I have a lot of work to catch up on.

When did you get back?

Last night. I drove back from LaGuardia airport with my boss, Commander Turner.

I see. Is Luke Gordon going through any personal difficulty? Money, booze, divorce?

I know of no personal problems, Sergeant.

Did you and Gordon ever socialize?

Socialize? No. Not really.

"What