Code to Zero (28 page)

The radio signal from the more powerful transmitter may be picked up by radio hams all over the world. The weaker signal from the second can be picked up only by specially equipped stations.

Anthony was at Redstone Arsenal, sitting in his Army Ford, peering through the darkness, anxiously watching the door of the Computation Laboratory. He was in the parking lot in front of the headquarters building, a couple of hundred yards away.

Luke was in the lab, searching for his file folder. Anthony knew he would not find it there, just as he had known Luke would not find it at his home—because he had already searched there. But Anthony was no longer able to anticipate Luke’s movements. He could only wait until Luke decided where to go next, then try to follow him.

However, time was on his side. Every minute that passed made Luke less dangerous. The rocket would be launched in one hour. Could Luke ruin everything in an hour? Anthony knew only that over the last two days his old friend had proved again and again that he should not be underestimated.

As he was thinking this, the door to the lab opened, spilling yellow light into the night, and a figure emerged and approached the black Chrysler parked at the curb. As Anthony had expected, Luke was empty-handed. He got in and drove off.

Anthony’s heartbeat quickened. He started his engine, switched on his headlights, and followed.

The road went south in a dead-straight line. After about a mile, Luke slowed in front of a long one-storey building and pulled into its parking lot. Anthony drove past, accelerating into the night. A quarter of a mile down the road, out of sight of Luke, he turned around. When he came back, Luke’s car was still there, but Luke had gone.

Anthony pulled into the parking lot and killed his engine.

>>><<<

Luke had felt sure he would find the folder in the Computation Lab, where his office was. That was why he had spent so long there. He had looked at every file in his own room, then in the main office where the secretaries sat. And he had found nothing.

But there was one more possibility. Marigold had said that he also went to the Engineering Building on Monday. There must have been a reason for that. Anyway, it was his last hope. If the file was not here, he did not know where else to look. And anyway, he would by then have run out of time. In a few minutes, the rocket would either be launched—or sabotaged.

Engineering had an atmosphere quite different from that of the Computation Lab. Computation was spotlessly clean, as it had to be for the sake of the massive computers that calculated thrust and speed and trajectories. Engineering was scruffy by comparison, smelling of oil and rubber.

He hurried along a corridor. The walls were painted dark green below waist level and light green above. Most of the doors had nameplates beginning “Dr.,” so he presumed they were the offices of scientists but, to his frustration, none said “Dr. Claude Lucas.” Most likely he did not have a second office, but maybe he had a desk here.

At the end of the corridor he came upon a large open room with half a dozen steel tables. On the far side, an open door led into a laboratory with granite bench tops above green metal drawers and, beyond the benches, a big double door that looked as if it led to a loading bay outside.

Along the wall to Luke’s immediate left was a row of lockers, each with a name plate. One was his. Maybe he had stashed the file here.

He took out his key ring and found a likely key. It worked, and he opened the door. Inside he saw a hard hat on a high shelf. Below that, hanging from a hook, was a set of blue overalls. On the floor stood a pair of black rubber boots that looked like his size.

There, beside the boots, was a buff-colored Army file folder. This had to be what he was looking for.

The folder contained some papers. When he took them out, he could see immediately that they were blueprints for parts of a rocket.

His heart hammering in his chest, he moved quickly to one of the steel tables and spread the papers out under a lamp. After a few moments’ rapid study, he knew without doubt that the drawings showed the
Jupiter C
rocket’s self-destruct mechanism.

He was horrified.

Every rocket had a self-destruct mechanism so that, if it should veer off course and threaten human life, it could be blown up in mid-air. In the main stage of the
Jupiter
rocket, a Primacord igniter rope ran the length of the missile. A firing cap was attached to its top end, and two wires stuck out of the cap. If a voltage was applied across the wires, Luke could see from the drawings, the cap would ignite the Primacord, which would rip the tank, causing the fuel to burn and be dispersed, and destroying the rocket.

The explosion was triggered by a coded radio signal. The blueprints showed twin plugs, one for the transmitter on the ground and the other for the receiver in the satellite. One turned the radio signal into a complex code; the other received the signal and, if the code was correct, applied the voltage across the twin wires. A separate diagram, not a blueprint but a hastily drawn sketch, showed exactly how the plugs were wired, so that anyone having the diagram could duplicate the signal.

It was brilliant, Luke realized. The saboteurs had no need of explosives or timing devices—they could use what was built in. They did not need access to the rocket. Once they had the code, they did not even have to
get inside Cape Canaveral. The radio signal could be broadcast from a transmitter miles away.

The last sheet was a photocopy of an envelope addressed to Theo Packman at the Vanguard Motel. Had Luke prevented the original being mailed? He could not be sure. Standard counterintelligence procedure was to leave a spy network in place and use it for disinformation. But if Luke had confiscated the original, the sender would have mailed another set of blueprints. Either way, Theo Packman was now somewhere in Cocoa Beach with a radio transmitter, ready to blow up the rocket seconds after it took off.

But now Luke could prevent that. He glanced at the electric clock on the wall. It was ten-fifteen. He had time to call Cape Canaveral and have the launch postponed. He snatched up the phone on the desk.

A voice said, “Put it down, Luke.”

Luke turned slowly, phone in hand. Anthony stood in the doorway in his camel-hair coat, with two black eyes and a swollen lip, holding a gun with a silencer, pointing it at Luke.

Slowly and reluctantly, Luke cradled the phone. “You were in the car behind me,” he said.

“I figured you were in too much of a rush to check.”

Luke stared at the man whom he had so misjudged. Was there some sign he should have noticed, some feature that should have warned him he was dealing with a traitor? Anthony had a pleasantly ugly face that suggested considerable force of character, but not duplicity. “How long have you been working for Moscow?” Luke asked him. “Since the war?”

“Longer. Since Harvard.”

“Why?”

Anthony’s lips twisted into a strange smile. “For a better world.”

Once upon a time, Luke knew, a lot of sensible people had believed in the Soviet system. But he also knew their faith had been undermined by the realities of life under Stalin. “You still believe that?” he said incredulously.

“Sort of. It’s still the best hope, despite all that has happened.”

Maybe it was. Luke had no way of judging. But that was not the real issue. For him, it was Anthony’s personal betrayal that was so hard to understand. “We’ve been friends for two decades,” he said. “But you
shot
at me last night.”

“Yes.”

“Would you kill your oldest friend? For this cause that you only half believe in?”

“Yes, and so would you. In the war, we both put lives at risk, our own and other people’s, because it was right.”

“I don’t think we lied to one another, let alone shot at one another.”

“We would have, if necessary.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Listen. If I don’t kill you now, you’ll try to stop me escaping—won’t you?”

Luke was scared, but he angrily told the truth. “Hell, yes.”

“Even though you know that if I’m caught, I’ll finish up in the electric chair.”

“I guess so . . . yes.”

“So you’re willing to kill your friend too.”

Luke was taken aback. Surely he could not be classified with Anthony? “I might bring you to justice. That’s not murder.”

“I’d be just as dead, though.”

Luke nodded slowly. “I guess you would.”

Anthony raised the gun with a steady hand, aiming at Luke’s heart.

Luke dropped behind the steel table.

The silenced gun coughed, and there was a metallic clang as the bullet hit the top of the table. It was cheap furniture, and the steel of which it was made was thin, but it had been enough to deflect the shot.

Luke rolled under the table. He guessed Anthony was now running across the room, trying to get another shot at him. He raised himself so that his back was against the underside of the table. Grabbing the two legs at one end of the table, he heaved, standing upright at the same time.
The table came up off the floor and teetered forward. As it toppled, Luke blindly ran with it, hoping to collide with Anthony. The table crashed to the floor.

But Anthony was not beneath it.

Luke tripped and tumbled onto the inverted table. He fell on his hands and knees, and banged his head on a steel leg. He rolled sideways and came up into a sitting position, hurt and dazed. He looked up to see Anthony facing him, framed by the doorway that led into the lab, braced with his feet apart, aiming his gun two-handed. He had dodged Luke’s clumsy charge and got behind him. Luke was now, literally, a sitting target, and the end of his life was a second away.

Then a voice rang out, “Anthony! Stop!”

It was Billie.

Anthony froze, gun pointed at Luke. Luke slowly turned his head and looked behind him. Billie stood by the door, her sweater a flash of red against the army-green wall. Her red lips were set in a determined line. She held an automatic pistol in a steady hand, leveled at Anthony. Behind her was a middle-aged Negro woman, looking shocked and scared.

“Drop the gun!” Billie yelled.

Luke half expected Anthony to shoot him anyway. If he was a truly dedicated communist, he might be willing to sacrifice his life. But that would achieve nothing, for Billie would still have the blueprints, and they told the whole story.

Slowly, Anthony lowered his arms, but he did not drop the gun.

“Drop it, or I’ll shoot!”

Anthony gave his twisted smile again. “No, you won’t,” he said. “Not in cold blood.” Still pointing the gun at the floor, he began to walk backward, making for the open door that led into the laboratory. Luke remembered noticing a door there that looked as if it led to the outside.

“Stop!” Billie cried.

“You don’t believe that a rocket is worth more than a human life, even if it’s a traitor’s life,” Anthony said, continuing to walk backward. He was now two steps from the door.

“Don’t test me!” she cried.

Luke stared at her, not knowing whether she would shoot or not.

Anthony turned and darted through the doorway.

Billie did not shoot.

Anthony leaped over a lab bench, then threw himself at a double door. It burst open, and he disappeared into the night.

Luke leaped to his feet. Billie came toward him with her arms wide. He looked at the clock on the wall. It said 10:29. He had a minute left to warn Cape Canaveral.

He turned away from Billie and picked up the phone.

The scientific instruments onboard the satellite have been designed to withstand takeoff pressure of more than 100 gravities.

When the phone was picked up in the blockhouse, Luke said, “This is Luke, give me the launch conductor.”

“Right now he’s—”

“I know what he’s doing! Put him on, quick!”

There was a pause. In the background, Luke could hear the countdown: “Twenty, nineteen, eighteen—”

A new voice came on the line, tense and impatient. “This is Willy—what the hell is it?”

“Someone has the self-destruct code.”

“Shit! Who?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s a spy. They’re going to blow up the rocket. You have to abort the launch.”

The background voice said, “Eleven, ten—”

“How do you know?” Willy asked.

“I’ve found diagrams of the wiring of the coded plugs, and an envelope addressed to someone called Theo Packman.”

“That’s not proof. I can’t cancel the launch on such a flimsy basis.”

Luke sighed, feeling suddenly fatalistic. “Oh, Christ, what can I say? I’ve told you what I know. The decision is yours.”

“Five, four—”

“Hell!” Willy raised his voice. “Stop the countdown!”

Luke slumped in his chair. He had done it. He glanced up at the anxious faces of Billie and Marigold. “They’ve aborted the launch,” he said.

Billie lifted the hem of her sweater and stuffed the pistol into the waistband of her ski pants.

“Well,” said Marigold, somewhat lost for words. “Well, I declare.”

Over the phone, Luke heard a buzz of angry questions in the blockhouse. A new voice came on the line. “Luke? This is Colonel Hide. What the hell is going on?”

“I’ve discovered what made me take off for Washington in such a hurry on Monday. Do you know who Theo Packman is?”

“Uh, yeah, I think he’s a freelance journalist on the missile beat, writes for a couple of European newspapers.”

“I found an envelope addressed to him containing blueprints of the
Explorer
’s self-destruct system, including a sketch of the wiring of the coded plugs.”

“Jesus! Anyone who had that information could blow up the rocket in mid-air!”

“That’s why I persuaded Willy to abort the launch.”

“Thank God you did.”

“Listen, you have to find this Packman character right now. The envelope was addressed to the Vanguard Motel, you may find him there.”

“Got it.”

“Packman was working with someone in the CIA, a double agent called Anthony Carroll. He’s the one who intercepted me in Washington before I could get to the Pentagon with the information.”

“I talked to him!” Hide sounded incredulous.

“I’m sure of it.”

“I’ll call the CIA and tell them.”

“Good.” Luke hung up. He had done all he could.

Billie said, “What next?”

“I guess I’ll go to Cape Canaveral. The launch will be rescheduled for the same time tomorrow. I’d like to be there.”

“Me, too.”

Luke smiled. “You deserve it. You saved the rocket.” He stood up and embraced her.

“Your life, you goop. To heck with the rocket, I saved your life.” She kissed him.

Marigold coughed. “You’ve missed the last plane from Huntsville Airport,” she said in a businesslike tone.

Luke and Billie separated reluctantly.

“Next one is a MATS flight that leaves from the base at five-thirty
A
.
M
.,” Marigold went on. “Or there’s a train on the Southern Railway System you could catch. It runs from Cincinnati to Jacksonville and stops in Chattanooga around one
A
.
M
. You could get to Chattanooga in a couple of hours in that nice new car of yours.”

Billie said, “I like the train idea.”

Luke nodded.“Okay.” He looked at the upturned table. “Someone’s going to have to talk to Army security about these bullet holes.”

Marigold said, “I’ll do it in the morning. You don’t want to be waiting around here answering questions.”

They went outside. Luke’s car and Billie’s rental were in the parking lot. Anthony’s car had gone.

Billie embraced Marigold. “Thank you,” she said. “You were wonderful.”

Marigold was embarrassed, and turned practical again. “You want me to return your rental to Hertz?”

“Thank you.”

“Off you go, leave everything to me.”

Billie and Luke got into his Chrysler and drove away.

When they were on the highway, Billie said, “There’s a question we haven’t talked about.”

“I know,” Luke said. “Who sent the blueprints to Theo Packman?”

“It must be someone inside Cape Canaveral, someone on the scientific team.”

“Exactly.”

“Do you have any idea who?”

Luke winced. “Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell Hide?”

“Because I don’t have any evidence, or even much of a reason, for my suspicions. It’s just instinct. But, all the same, I’m sure.”

“Who?”

With a heart full of grief, Luke said, “I think it’s Elspeth.”