Code to Zero (8 page)

Because the missile was put together in a rush, the upper stages use a rocket motor that has been in production for some years, rather than a new design. The scientists have chosen a small version of the tried-and-tested
Sergeant
rocket. The upper stages of the missile are powered by clustered assemblies of these small rockets, known as
Baby Sergeants.

As Luke negotiated the grid of streets leading to Union Station, he found himself checking, every minute or two, to see whether he was being followed.

He had lost his shadows more than an hour ago, but they might now be searching for him. The thought made him fearful and bewildered. Who were they and what were they doing? His instincts told him they were malevolent. Otherwise, why watch him secretly?

He shook his head to clear it. This baseless speculation was frustrating. There was no point in guessing. He had to find out.

First he had to clean himself up. His plan was to steal a suitcase from a train passenger. He felt sure he had done this before, at some time in his life. When he tried to remember, French words came into his head: “La valise d’un type qui descend du train.”

It would not be easy. His dirty, ragged clothing would stand out in a crowd of respectable travelers. He would have to move fast to get away. But he had no alternative. Dee-Dee the whore had been right. No one would listen to a bum.

If he were arrested, the police would never believe he was anything but a deadbeat. He would end up in jail. The thought made him shiver with fear. It was not prison itself that scared him so much as the prospect of weeks or months of ignorance and confusion, not knowing who he was and helpless to make any progress in finding out.

Ahead of him on Massachusetts Avenue he saw the white granite arcade of Union Station, like a Romanesque cathedral transplanted from Normandy. Thinking ahead, he figured that after the theft he would have to disappear fast. He needed a car. The knowledge of how to steal one came into his mind immediately.

Close to the station, the street was lined with parked cars. Most would belong to people who had taken trains. He slowed his pace as a car pulled into a slot ahead of him. It was a two-tone Ford Fiesta, blue and white, new but not ostentatious. It would do fine. The starter would be operated with a key, not a handle, but it would be easy to pull out a couple of wires behind the dash and bypass the ignition.

He wondered how he knew that.

A man in a dark topcoat got out of the Ford, took a briefcase from the trunk, locked the car, and headed for the station.

How long would he be gone? It was possible he had some business at the station and would be back in a few minutes. Then he would report his car stolen. Driving around in it, Luke would be in danger of arrest at any minute. That was no good. He had to find out where the man was going.

He followed him into the station.

The grand interior, which this morning had seemed like a disused temple, was now bustling. He felt conspicuous. Everyone else seemed so clean and well dressed. Most people averted their eyes, but some looked at him with expressions of disgust or contempt. It occurred to him that he might run into the officious man who had thrown him out earlier. Then there would be a fuss. The guy was sure to remember.

The owner of the Ford joined a line at a ticket window. Luke got in line too. He looked at the ground, not meeting anyone’s eye, hoping no one would notice him.

The line shuffled forward and his mark reached the window. “Philadelphia, one-day return,” he said.

That was enough for Luke. Philadelphia was hours away. The man would be out of town all day. His car would not be reported stolen before he returned. Luke would be safe in it until tonight.

He left the line and hurried away.

It was a relief to be outside. Even bums had the right to walk the streets. He returned to Massachusetts Avenue and found the parked Ford. To save time later, he would unlock it now. He looked up and down the street. Cars and pedestrians were passing constantly. The trouble was that he looked like a criminal. But if he waited until there was no one about, he could be here all day. He would just have to be quick.

He stepped into the road, walked around the car, and stood at the driver’s door. Pressing his hands flat against the glass of the window, he pushed down. Nothing happened. His mouth felt dry. He looked quickly to either side: no one was paying him any attention yet. He stood on tiptoe, to add the weight of his body to the pressure on the window mechanism. At last the pane of glass slid slowly down.

When the window was fully open, he reached in and unlocked the door. He opened it, wound up the window, and closed the door again. Now he was ready for a fast getaway.

He considered starting the car now and leaving the engine running, but that might draw the attention of a passing patrolman or even just an inquisitive passer-by.

He returned to Union Station. He worried constantly that a railroad employee would notice him. It did not have to be the man he had clashed with earlier—any conscientious official might take it into his head to throw him out, the way such a man might pick up a candy wrapper. He did everything he could to make himself inconspicuous. He walked neither slow nor fast, tried to keep close to walls when he could, took care not to cross anyone’s path, and never looked anyone in the eye.

The best time to steal a suitcase would be immediately after the arrival of a large, crowded train, when the concourse was thronged with
hurrying people. He studied the information board. An express from New York was due in twelve minutes. That would be perfect.

As he looked at the board, checking which track the train would come in on, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

He looked around. He must have seen something out of the corner of his eye, something that had triggered an instinctive warning. What? His heart beat faster. What was he afraid of?

Trying to be inconspicuous, he strolled away from the board and stood at the newsstand, examining a rack of daily papers. He took in the headlines:

A
RMY
R
OCKET
B
LAST
S
OON

 

S
SLAYER OF
10 I
S
N
ABBED

 

D
ULLES
A
SSURES
B
AGHDAD
G
ROUP

 

L
AST
C
HANCE AT
C
APE
C
ANAVERAL

After a moment he looked back over his shoulder. A couple of dozen people crisscrossed the concourse, hurrying to or from suburban trains. A larger number sat on the mahogany benches or stood around patiently, relatives and chauffeurs waiting to meet passengers off the New York train. A maître d’ stood outside the door of the restaurant, hoping for early lunch customers. There were five porters in a group, smoking. . . .

And two agents.

He was quite certain what they were. Both were young men, neatly dressed in topcoats and hats, their wingtip shoes well shined. But it was not their appearance so much as their attitude that gave them away. They were alert, raking the station concourse with their eyes, studying the faces of the people they passed, looking everywhere . . . except at the information board. The one thing they were not interested in was travel.

He was tempted to speak to them. Thinking about it, he was overwhelmed by a need for simple human contact with people who knew
him. He longed for someone to say, “Hi, Luke, how are you? Good to see you again!”

These two would probably say, “We are FBI agents and you are under arrest.” Luke felt that would almost be a relief. But his instincts warned him off. Every time he thought of trusting them, he asked himself why they would follow him around surreptitiously, if they meant him no harm.

He turned his back to them and walked away, trying to keep the newsstand between him and them. In the shadow of a grand archway he risked a backward look. The two men were crossing the open concourse, walking from east to west across his field of vision.

Who the hell were they?

He left the station, walked a few yards along the grand arcade of its front, and re-entered the main hall. He was in time to see the backs of the two agents as they headed for the west exit.

He checked the clock. Ten minutes had passed. The New York express was due in two minutes. He hurried to the gate and waited, trying to fade into the background.

As the first passengers emerged, a frigid calm descended on him. He watched the arrivals intently. It was a Wednesday, the middle of the week, so there were many businessmen and military types in uniform, but few tourists, and only a sprinkling of women and children. He looked for a man his own size and build.

As passengers poured through the gate, the people waiting surged forward, and a traffic jam formed. The crowd around the gate thickened, then spread, with people pushing through irritably. Luke saw a young man of his size, but he was wearing a duffel coat and a wool watch cap: he might not have a spare suit in his haversack. Likewise, Luke dismissed an elderly traveler who was the right height but too thin. He saw a man who looked just right but carried only a briefcase.

By this time at least a hundred passengers had emerged, but there seemed to be many more to come. The concourse filled up with impatient people. Then he saw the right man. He was Luke’s height, build, and age. His gray topcoat was unbuttoned to show a tweed sport
coat and flannel pants—which meant he probably had a business suit in the tan leather bag he carried in his right hand. His face wore an anxious look, and he walked quickly, as if he were late for an appointment.

Luke slipped into the crowd and shoved his way through until he was directly behind the man.

The throng was dense and slow moving, and Luke’s target moved in fretful stops and starts. Then the crowd thinned a little, and the man stepped quickly into a gap.

That was when Luke tripped him. He hooked his foot firmly around the ankle in front of him. As the man moved forward, Luke kicked upward, bending the target’s leg at the knee.

The man cried out and fell forward. He let go of both briefcase and suitcase, and threw his hands out in front. He crashed into the back of a woman in a fur coat and she, too, stumbled, giving a little scream, and fell. The man hit the marble floor with an audible thump, his hat rolling away. A split second later the woman went down on both knees, dropping a handbag and a chic white leather suitcase.

Other passengers quickly gathered around, trying to help, saying, “Are you all right?”

Luke calmly picked up the tan leather bag and walked quickly away. He headed for the nearest exit arch. He did not look back, but he listened intently for shouted accusations or sounds of pursuit. If he heard anything, he was ready to run: he was not going to give up his clean clothes easily, and he felt he could probably outrun most people, even carrying a suitcase. But his back felt like a bull’s-eye target as he walked briskly toward the doors.

At the exit, he glanced back over his shoulder. The crowd was milling around the same spot. He could not see the man he had tripped, nor the woman in the fur coat. But a tall man with an authoritative air was scanning the concourse keenly, as if looking for something. His head swivelled suddenly toward Luke.

Luke stepped quickly through the door.

Outside, he headed down Massachusetts Avenue. A minute later he reached the Ford Fiesta. He went automatically for the trunk so that he
could hide the stolen suitcase—but the trunk was locked. He recalled seeing the owner lock it. He looked back toward the station. The tall man was running across the traffic circle in front of the station, dodging cars, heading Luke’s way. Who was he—off-duty cop? Detective? Nosy parker?

Luke went quickly around to the driver’s door, opened it, and slung the bag onto the backseat. Then he got in and slammed the door.

He reached under the dash and found the wires on either side of the ignition lock. He pulled them out and touched them together. Nothing happened. He felt sweat on his forehead, despite the cold. Why was this not working? The answer came into his head: wrong wire. He felt under the dash again. There was another wire to the right of the ignition. He pulled it out and touched it to the wire on the left.

The engine started.

He pressed the gas pedal, and the engine raced.

He put the transmission into drive, released the parking brake, flicked the indicator, and pulled out. The car was pointing toward the station, so he did a U-turn. Then he drove off.

A smile crossed his face. Unless he was very unlucky, he had a complete set of fresh clothes in the bag. He felt he had begun to take charge of his life.

Now he needed somewhere to shower and change.

The second stage consists of eleven
Baby Sergeant
rockets in an annular ring around a central tube. The third stage has three
Baby Sergeant
motors held together by three transverse bulkheads. On top of the third stage is the fourth, a single rocket, with the satellite in its nose.

The countdown stood at X minus 630 minutes, and Cape Canaveral was buzzing.

Rocket men were all the same: they would design weapons, if the government wanted, but what they dreamed about was outer space. The
Explorer
team had built and launched many missiles, but this would be the first to break free of the earth’s pull and fly beyond the atmosphere. For most of the team, tonight’s launch would be the fulfillment of a lifetime’s hopes. Elspeth felt the same way.

They were based in Hangar D and Hangar R, which were side by side. The standard aircraft hangar design had been found well suited to missiles: there was a large central space where the rockets could be checked out, with two-storey wings on either side for offices and smaller laboratories.

Elspeth was in Hangar R. She had a typewriter and a desk in the office of her boss, Willy Fredrickson, the launch conductor, who spent almost all his time elsewhere. Her job was to prepare and distribute the launch timetable.

Trouble was, the timetable changed constantly. Nobody in America had sent a rocket into space before. New problems arose all the time, and
the engineers were forever improvising ways to jury-rig a component or bypass a system. Here, duct tape was called missile tape.

So Elspeth produced regular updates of the timetable. She had to stay in touch with every group on the team, record changes of plan in her shorthand notebook, then transfer her notes to typed and Xeroxed sheets and distribute them. The job required her to go everywhere and know almost everything. When there was a hitch, she learned of it right away, and she was among the first to know about the solution too. Her title was secretary, and she was paid a secretary’s wages, but no one could have done the job without a science degree. However, she did not resent the low pay. She was grateful for a job that challenged her. Some of her Radcliffe classmates were still taking dictation from men in gray flannel suits.

Her noon update was ready, and she picked up the stack of papers and set out to distribute them. She was rushed off her feet, but that suited her today: it stopped her worrying constantly about Luke. If she followed her inclination, she would be on the phone to Anthony every few minutes, asking if there was any news. But that would be stupid. He would contact her if anything went wrong, she told herself. Meanwhile she should concentrate on her work.

She went first to the press department, where public relations officers were working the phones, telling trusted reporters that there would be a launch tonight. The Army wanted journalists on the scene to witness their triumph. However, the information was not to be released until after the event. Scheduled launches were often delayed, or even cancelled, as unforeseen snags arose. The missile men had learned, from bitter experience, that a routine postponement to solve technical problems could be made to look like an abject failure when the newspapers reported it. So they had a deal with all the major news organizations. They gave advance notification of launches only on condition that nothing would be published until there was “fire in the tail,” which meant the rocket engine had been ignited.

It was an all-male office, and several men stared at her as she walked across the room and handed a timetable to the chief press officer. She
knew she was attractive, with her pale Viking looks and tall, statuesque figure, but there was something formidable about her—the determined set of her mouth, maybe, or the dangerous light in her green eyes—that made men who were inclined to whistle, or call her honeybunch, think again.

In the Missile Firing Laboratory she found five shirtsleeved scientists standing at a bench, staring worriedly at a flat piece of metal that looked as if it had been in a fire. The group leader, Dr. Keller, said, “Good afternoon, Elspeth.” He spoke in heavily accented English. Like most of the scientists, he was a German who had been captured at the end of the war and brought to America to work on the missile program.

She handed him a copy of her update, and he took it without looking at it. Elspeth nodded at the object on the table and said: “What’s that?”

“A jet vane.”

Elspeth knew that the first stage was steered by vanes inside the tail. “What happened to it?”

“The burning fuel erodes the metal,” he explained. His German accent became stronger as he warmed to his subject. “This always happens, to some extent. However, with normal alcohol fuel, the vanes last long enough to do their job. Today, by contrast, we are using a new fuel, Hydyne, which has a longer burning time and higher exhaust velocity, but it may erode the vanes so much that they become ineffective for steering.” He spread his hands in a gesture of exasperation. “We have not had time to run sufficiently many tests.”

“I guess all I need to know is whether this is going to delay the launch.” She felt she could not stand a postponement. The suspense was already killing her.

“That’s what we’re trying to decide.” Keller looked around at his colleagues. “And I think our answer is going to be: Let’s take the chance.” The others nodded gloomily.

Elspeth felt relieved. “I’ll keep my fingers crossed,” she said, turning to leave.

“That’s about as useful as anything we can do,” Keller said, and the others laughed ruefully.

She went outside into the scorching Florida sun. The hangars stood in a sandy clearing hacked out of the low scrub that covered the Cape—palmetto palms and scrub oaks and sharp sandspur grass that would cut your skin if you walked barefoot. She crossed a dusty apron and entered Hangar D, its welcome shade falling across her face like the touch of a cool breeze.

In the telemetry room she saw Hans Mueller, known as Hank. He pointed a finger at her and said, “One hundred thirty-five.”

It was a game they played. She had to say what was unusual about the number. “Too easy,” she said. “Take the first digit, add the square of the second digit, plus the cube of the third, and you get the number you first thought of.” She gave him the equation:

1
¹
+3
²
+5
³
=135

“All right,” he said. “So what is the next highest number that follows the pattern?”

She thought hard, then said: “One hundred and seventy-five.”

1
¹
+7
²
+5
³
=175

“Correct! You win the big prize.” He fished in his pocket and brought out a dime.

She took it. “I’ll give you a chance to win it back,” she said. “One hundred thirty-six.”

“Ah.” He frowned. “Wait. Sum the cubes of its digits.”

1
³
+3
³
+6
³
=244

“Now repeat the process, and you get the number you first thought of!”

2
³
+4
³
+4
³
=136

She gave him back his dime, and a copy of her update.

As she went out, her eye was caught by a telegram pinned to the wall:
I
’
VE HAD MY LITTLE SATELLITE, NOW YOU HAVE YOURS
. Mueller noticed her reading it and explained, “It’s from Stuhlinger’s wife.” Stuhlinger was chief of research. “She had a baby boy.” Elspeth smiled.

She found Willy Fredrickson in the communications room with two Army technicians, testing the Teletype link to the Pentagon. Her boss was a tall, thin man, bald with a fringe of curly hair, like a medieval monk. The Teletype machine was not working, and Willy was frustrated, but as he took the update he gave her a grateful look and said, “Elspeth, you are twenty-two-carat gold.”

A moment later, two people approached Willy: a young Army officer carrying a chart, and Stimmens, one of the scientists. The officer said, “We got a problem.” He handed Willy the chart, and went on. “The jet stream has moved south, and it’s blowing at one hundred forty-six knots.”

Elspeth’s heart sank. She knew what this meant. The jet-stream was a high-altitude wind in the stratosphere between thirty and forty thousand feet. It did not normally extend over Cape Canaveral, but it could move. And if it was too fierce, it might throw the missile off course.

Willy said, “How far south is it?”

“All over Florida,” the officer replied.

Willy turned to Stimmens. “We’ve allowed for this, haven’t we?”

“Not really,” Stimmens said. “It’s all guesswork, of course, but we figure the missile can withstand winds up to one hundred twenty knots, no higher.”

Willy turned back to the officer. “What’s the forecast for tonight?”

“Up to one hundred seventy-seven knots, and no sign of the jet stream moving back north.”

“Hell.” Willy ran a hand over his smooth pate. Elspeth knew what he was thinking. The launch might have to be postponed until tomorrow. “Send up a weather balloon, please,” he ordered. “We’ll review the forecast again at five o’clock.”

Elspeth made a note to add the weather review meeting to her timetable, then she left, feeling despondent. They could solve engineering problems, but there was nothing they could do about the weather.

Outside, she got into a jeep and drove to Launch Complex 26. The road was a dusty, unpaved track through the brush, and the jeep bounced on the ruts. She startled a white-tailed deer that was drinking from a ditch, and it bounded off into the bushes. There was a lot of wildlife on the Cape, hiding in the low scrub. People said there were alligators and Florida panthers, but Elspeth had never seen either.

She pulled up outside the blockhouse and looked across to Launch Pad 26B, three hundred yards away. The gantry was a derrick from an oil rig, adapted for this purpose and coated with orange rust-resistant paint to protect it from corrosion by the humid, salty Florida air. At one side was an elevator for access to the platforms. The whole edifice was brutally practical, quite without grace, Elspeth thought; a functional structure bolted together with no regard for how it looked.

The long white pencil of the
Jupiter C
rocket seemed caught in the tangle of orange girders like a dragonfly in a spiderweb. The men called it “she,” despite its phallic shape, and Elspeth too thought of the rocket as female. A bridal veil of canvas covers had concealed the upper stages from prying eyes since it arrived here, but that had now been removed, and the missile stood revealed, sunshine gleaming off its spotless paintwork.

The scientists were not very political, but even they knew that the eyes of the world were on them. Almost four months ago, the Soviet Union had stunned the world by sending up the first space satellite, the
Sputnik.
In all the countries where the tug of war between capitalism and communism was still going on, from Italy to India, throughout Latin America and Africa and Indochina, the message was heard: communist science is best. A month later the Soviets had sent up a second satellite,
Sputnik II,
with a dog onboard. Americans were devastated. A dog today, a man tomorrow.

President Eisenhower promised an American satellite before the end of the year. On the first Friday in December, at fifteen minutes to noon,
the U.S. Navy launched the
Vanguard
rocket in front of the world’s press. It rose a few feet into the air, burst into flames, toppled sideways, and smashed to pieces on the concrete.
IT
’
S A FLOPNIK
! said one headline.

The
Jupiter C
was America’s last hope. There was no third option. If this failed today, the United States was out of the space race. The propaganda defeat was the least of the consequences. The American space program would be in total disarray, and the U.S.S.R. would control outer space for the foreseeable future.

All that, Elspeth thought, resting on this one rocket.

Vehicles were banned from the launch pad area, except for essential ones such as fuel trucks, so she left her car and walked across the open space between blockhouse and gantry, following the line of a metal conduit that housed the cables linking the two locations. Attached to the back of the derrick at ground level was a long steel cabin, the same orange color, containing offices and machinery. Elspeth entered by a metal door at the rear.

The gantry supervisor, Harry Lane, sat on a folding chair, wearing a hard hat and engineer boots, studying a blueprint. “Hi, Harry,” she said brightly.

He grunted. He did not like to see women around the launch pad, and no sense of courtesy constrained him from letting her know it.

She dropped an update on a metal table and left. She returned to the blockhouse, a low white building with slit windows of thick green glass. The blast doors stood open, and she walked inside. There were three compartments: an instrumentation room, which ran the width of the building, and two firing rooms, A on the left and B on the right, angled toward the two launch pads served by this blockhouse. Elspeth stepped into Firing Room B.

The strong sunlight coming through the green glass cast a weird light over the whole place so that it looked like the inside of an aquarium. In front of the windows, a row of scientists sat at a bank of control panels. They all wore short-sleeved shirts, she noticed, as if it were a uniform. They had headsets through which they could talk to the men on the launch pad. They could look over their panels and see the rocket through
the windows, or check the color television screens which showed the same picture. Along the back wall of the firing room, a row of pen recorders stood shoulder to shoulder, tracking temperatures, pressures in the fuel system, and electrical activity. In the far corner was a scale showing the weight of the missile on the launch pad. There was an air of quiet urgency as the men murmured into their headsets and worked their panels, turning a knob here, throwing a switch there, constantly checking the dials and counters. Over their heads, a countdown clock showed the minutes left to ignition. As Elspeth looked, the hand clicked down from 600 to 599.