The last thing Fleming wanted to admit was that he barely had an inkling of what he himself had just suggested. All he could do was wing it. “I’m just thinking that . . . well, if aircraft can’t intercept Silver Bird, and it’s beyond range of ground artillery, maybe the solution should be to tackle the problem by much the same means . . . we construct a rocket of our own to shoot it down.”
Again, no one spoke for several moments. “All this sounds rather far-fetched, Mr. President,” Hull said at last, still not persuaded.
“Cordell, I couldn’t agree more, but . . .” Roosevelt sighed, shook his head. “We can’t afford to take that chance. We’ve already had one sneak attack. We can’t have another, particularly not on the American mainland.”
“I agree, Mr. President,” Bush said. “The public is still reeling from what happened at Pearl Harbor. If the Nazis dropped a bomb on New York . . .” He let out his breath. “I’m not sure which would be worse, the actual damage and loss of life or what it would do to home-front morale.”
“You have a point there.” Roosevelt nodded. “Having the Nazis be able to launch an attack on American soil is unacceptable.” He paused reflectively, staring at the document as if it were a rattlesnake. “So what do you think? Can we build a rocket capable of shooting down this thing?”
Bush absentmindedly drummed his fingers on the table. “If this report is correct, the Nazis have a long head start on us. If we decide to get into this, it will have to be crash program . . .”
“Like the one we have already? The Manhattan District project, I mean.” Catching a curious look from Donovan, Roosevelt gave him a dismissive wave of the hand. “Nothing to be concerned about, General. Just a military construction program we’ve lately undertaken.”
Somehow, Fleming had a sense that it was far more than that. He didn’t say anything, though, as Bush went on. “Yes, sir . . . although, in this case, we have even more to go on. After all, the Manhattan project is based on little more than conjecture and a recommendation from . . . ah, a couple of physicists.” He laid a hand on the Black Umbrella report. “Here, we have tangible evidence.”
“Sounds to me like you’re suggesting that we shift our resources from one program to another.”
“If it comes to that, yes, sir. In fact, if this is where the Nazis are putting their resources, I’d recommend that we discontinue that program entirely. After all, we’re pursuing that line of research mainly because, up until now, we’ve believed that’s what they’re doing. If they’re not . . .”
“Understood.” The president nodded.
“Which brings us back to your original question. Can we build a rocket of our own?” Bush shrugged. “The truth of the matter, Mr. President, is that because we don’t have a rocket-development program, we’ll have to create one from scratch. And fast.”
“I see.” Roosevelt pondered this for a moment. “So . . . the Germans have von Braun and Sanger. Do we have anyone who knows just as much about this sort of thing as they do?”
“Yes, sir, we do, but . . .” Bush hesitated.
“Who is he?”
“Goddard, sir . . . Dr. Robert H. Goddard.” A wan smile. “And even if we can find him, I’m not sure he’ll work for us. I’m afraid he has . . . um, a bit of a history when it comes to dealing with our military.”
“I don’t care,” Roosevelt said. “Find him, Van, and tell him that he’s now the most important scientist in America.”
Hiding a smile behind a raised hand, Ian Fleming felt a surge of satisfaction. During the long overnight flight across the Atlantic, he’d been kept awake by the thought that the Americans wouldn’t take Black Umbrella seriously. He’d been afraid that Yankee conservatism would win out over the willingness to imagine what had once been unthinkable. Yet once again, President Roosevelt had turned out to be a visionary leader. He was willing to do whatever it took to protect his country even if it meant stepping into the unknown.
Fleming had no idea how this would all turn out. But when you stop to think of it, he mused, it would make a really smashing novel.
NELL’S FATHER
JANUARY 25, 1942
“Company’s coming,” Esther Goddard said.
Henry Morse looked up from the counter where he was peeling potatoes. Through the open kitchen window, he spotted a dusty fantail rising from the dirt road leading across the New Mexico grasslands to Mescalero Ranch. Esther’s voice came from the front porch, where she’d been taking a break from preparing lunch to have a cigarette and read the morning paper.
“They’re early, I think.” Henry dropped the potatoes in a bowl and wiped his hands on a terry-cloth towel. The car was still a mile away, but they already knew who was in it and where they were coming from. “Must have followed the directions I gave them and turned right at the second cow instead of the first.”
Esther laughed. The fifteen-acre ranch was notoriously hard to find by anyone who wasn’t a local, which was just the way the Goddards and everyone else who lived out there liked it. Henry heard the rustle of newspaper as she put aside the Roswell Morning Dispatch. “Think I should get Bob, or . . . ?”
“No, not yet.” Henry carried the potatoes over to the stove, where Esther would fry them. “Let’s talk to these guys first. If they’re not serious, then we can always tell ’em that Bob’s gone fishing or . . .”
“Fishing?” Another laugh. Esther had a point; gone fishing was a weak excuse when you’re living at the edge of the desert.
“Or something, I dunno.” Henry shoved his shirttails into his trousers. He briefly considered going to his bedroom to grab a necktie but decided against it. No one out here put on a tie unless he was going into town for dinner and a movie. If their visitors didn’t like the informality of Mescalero Ranch, they could go back to Washington. “We’ll tell ’em we needed milk, and he went in search of the nearest cow.” Or rattlesnake, he silently added. If these guys are from the Pentagon, they might actually believe that.
Esther still hadn’t gotten up from her seat when Henry swung the screen door open and stepped out onto the porch. After the coolness of the ranch house’s adobe walls, the dry warmth of a Southwestern winter day was almost enough to make him start sweating. As they watched the car rattle across the cattle guard at the front gate, Esther crossed her legs beneath her short summer skirt and tipped her straw sun hat forward a bit to shade her eyes. When she made no effort to rise, Henry knew it was his job to greet their guests and shoo them away if necessary.
The car was a four-door Pontiac sedan, khaki brown with a serial number stenciled across the driver-side door. Probably from the motor pool at Albuquerque Army Air Base, where their visitors had flown in earlier this morning. The Army was currently building another airfield in Alamogordo, much closer to Roswell, but its runways hadn’t been finished yet. The Pontiac came to a stop beneath the cottonwood out front, and Henry waited until the two men inside climbed out before he ambled down the steps to meet them.
“Can I help you, gentlemen?” he asked.
Both men wore Army uniforms. Although they’d had the good sense to take off their jackets and loosen their ties, Henry wondered why anyone wanting to keep a low profile would wear uniforms in a place where dressing up meant putting on a clean shirt. The corporal driving the car didn’t look old enough to buy a beer in the enlisted men’s club, but his companion—the silver eagles pinned to his collar told Henry that he was a colonel—was almost Bob’s age, with a small pot at his belly and dark brown hair turning grey at the temples.
“Yes, sir . . . I mean, I hope you can.” The corporal squinted at him, his stammer betraying uncertainty about his location. “We’re looking for . . . um . . .”
“We’re trying to find someone who lives around here,” the colonel said. “Professor Robert H. Goddard, from Clark University in Massachusetts.” His gaze flitted to the renovated adobe house. “Is he prese
nt?”
“And who might you be?” Henry absently scuffed a toe of his work boots against the driveway sand.
The colonel’s mouth pursed slightly. He obviously wasn’t accustomed to being questioned. He looked past Henry to the woman casually seated in a rocking chair on the front porch. “Mrs. Goddard, I presume?”
“Perhaps.” Esther coolly studied him from behind her rimless spectacles, not giving him an inch. Henry suppressed a smile. Esther was a woman who knew Charles Lindbergh as “Slim” and called one of the richest men in the country “Harry”; she was not easily impressed by a bird colonel. “You still haven’t told us who you are.”
“Colonel Omar Bliss, of the U.S. Army command in Washington, D.C. This is my aide, Corporal Max Hillman.”
“Hello, ma’am.” Hillman gave her a polite nod. Henry noted that his eyes were traveling up and down Esther, taking her in, probably believing that she was ten years younger than her actual age. She affected every guy that way when they met her for the first time; even at forty, she’d managed to hold on to her looks, elegant and sublimely sensual. If you think her legs are swell, Henry thought, just wait till you get to her brains.
“Hello to you, too,” Esther replied, favoring the kid with a smile that probably stopped his heart for a moment. “Yes, this is Dr. Goddard’s place,” she continued, standing up from her chair and sauntering down the steps. “And yes, we’ve been expecting you. Thanks for calling in advance. We’re not crazy about having people show up unannounced.”
“You’re welcome, ma’am.” Bliss was still being patient, but only barely. Esther didn’t faze him in the slightest. “Now, if I could see your husband . . . ?”
“Dr. Goddard is busy at the moment. He’s gone fishing.” Esther didn’t care about the absurdity of her lie. “If you could tell me why you’re here, I . . .”
“Sorry, ma’am, but that’s official business. I’m not at liberty to discuss it with anyone but him.”
“Really? Oh, well, then . . .” Esther nodded toward the gate. “Quickest way back is to head down Mescalero Road until you get to town. Turn right at Route 285, then . . .”
“Esther?” A voice came from the screen door. It creaked open, slammed shut. “Who’s here?”
Everyone looked toward Robert Goddard as he stepped out onto the porch. Even for Mescalero Ranch, his appearance was sloppy: baggy trousers with loose suspenders, dirty undershirt, worn-out loafers with no socks. Oil stains on his hands showed that he’d just come from the workshop; Henry guessed that he’d come in through the back door. His question was most likely a ruse; he’d probably been standing just inside the house for a little while, eavesdropping on the conversation.
“These men have come to see you, Doctor G,” Esther said, using her favorite nickname for him. “Colonel Bliss says it’s about something so important that he can’t discuss it with anyone but you.”
“Oh, really?” Tucking his hands in his pockets, Goddard ambled down the porch steps. “Well, now . . . did the Army finally change its mind about that shoulder-fired rocket I offered them?”
Henry grinned. Everyone who worked with Bob was familiar with the story. During the last war, Goddard had developed a prototype for a portable solid-fuel artillery rocket that an individual soldier could carry onto the battlefield for use as a tactical weapon. The rocket had worked well during field demonstrations, yet the Army had given it a pass. With the “war to end all wars” coming to an end, many in the War Department believed that the coming armistice would make new weapons unnecessary.
In the end, several years of research and development had been wasted, and Bob had come away empty-handed. He’d been skeptical about working for the military ever since. Not that he needed War Department funds anymore. Clark University and the Smithsonian had underwritten his research during the twenties, and for the last twelve years he’d been the beneficiary of a sizable private grant from the Guggenheim family. So he didn’t need to go fishing; in fact, he could tell Colonel Bliss to go jump in a lake.
“No, sir, this is something different.” Bliss looked him straight in the eye. “I’ve been sent here to consult with you about a project of the highest priority . . . one which we believe you are uniquely qualified to handle.”
“Oh?” Goddard raised an eyebrow. “And who is ‘we’? Besides yourself, I mean.”
Bliss didn’t immediately respond. Instead, he reached into a pocket and pulled out an envelope. Without a word, he handed it to Goddard. Curious, Henry glanced over Bob’s shoulder. The envelope itself was blank, but when Goddard pulled out the typewritten letter inside and unfolded it, Henry caught a glimpse of the letterhead. It was from the White House.
Stepping aside, Goddard read the letter. For a few seconds, he said nothing, until at last he slowly let out his breath and looked up at the colonel again. “I see,” he said softly as he handed the letter to Esther. “This changes everything.”
“I thought you might say that.” Bliss turned to Hillman. “Corporal, would you please get the report? Dr. Goddard, it may be easier if you simply read what we’ve brought you. It’ll explain things a bit better than I could.”
As he spoke, Henry walked over to Esther. “Is that from who I think it’s from?” he whispered. She silently nodded but folded the letter before he could read it.
Hillman returned to the car, came back with an attaché case. Using a key to open it, he pulled out a thick manila folder. As the corporal handed it to Goddard, Bliss said, “I’d prefer it if you’d read this by yourself and not discuss it with anyone.”
“I’ll read it alone,” Goddard said, “but I won’t make any promises about the second condition.” He nodded toward Esther and Henry. “My wife and Mr. Morse here are two of my closest assistants, as are the two other men who are my employees. Anything I may agree to do for you, I’ll need their help. Keeping this a secret from them is out of the question.”
Bliss hesitated. “All right, have it your way. But we’ll need to have them sign security agreements . . . and the FBI will probably want to check their backgrounds, too.”
“Uh-oh,” Esther said, giving Henry a sly wink. “You’re in trouble now.”
Bliss looked at her sharply. “Why? Is there something we should know about?”
“Henry has suspicious political affiliations.”
The colonel’s eyes narrowed as he turned to Henry. “You’re a Communist?”
“Worse than that . . . he’s a Republican.” Goddard had already opened the folder and was peering at the document inside. “I wouldn’t worry about my associates, Colonel. They’ve all signed confidentiality agreements with me. Esther, please take our guests inside and give them some lunch. Henry, ask Lloyd and Taylor if they’ll come in, too. I’ll be in my office.”
“Okay, Doctor G,” she said, but he’d already turned away and begun walking back up the stairs, tripping slightly on the first riser. “Colonel, Corporal . . .”
The two Army men nodded and followed her. Henry watched them go, then headed for the assembly shed behind the main house. He still hadn’t any idea what this was about, but if the president’s signature was on the letter Bliss had presented Bob, then it was a good bet this couldn’t be about shoulder-fired missiles.
=====
Lunch was enchiladas with fried potatoes, served at the battered pinewood table that took up most of the dining room. Taylor Brickell and Lloyd Kapman were there as well, both of them just as oil-stained and filthy as Bob. The rocket men cleaned themselves up before coming to the table, but Colonel Bliss wrinkled his nose a bit when he saw them. Henry couldn’t blame him; except for Esther, everyone at Mescalero Ranch looked like an automobile mechanic.
Bob didn’t join them for lunch. From his office at the back of the house, they could hear Bach playing on the old windup Victrola he and Esther had brought with them from Worcester. At one point, Henry got up to visit the bathro
om. On the way there, he passed Bob’s office. The door was half-open, and through it he saw Goddard leaning back in his armchair with his feet propped up on the desk, intently studying the report while smoking one of his foul black cigars. Bob didn’t look up even though Henry’s footsteps caused the floorboards to creak, and Henry knew that his former professor was completely riveted by what he was reading.
Conversation at the lunch table was light. Inevitably, the subject turned to why the Goddards had moved from Worcester, Massachusetts, to this remote corner of New Mexico almost twelve years ago even though Bob continued to serve as the chairman of Clark University’s physics department. The most obvious reason, of course, was Bob’s health. The New England climate had never been kind to the tuberculosis Goddard had suffered since childhood. Indeed, it had very nearly killed him when he was a teenager; at one point, his doctors had given him only a couple of weeks to live (“He got better,” Esther said, an understatement if there ever was one). The dry Southwestern air allowed him to breathe freely for the first time in his life; nonetheless, he still smoked, a habit that he’d picked up from his father.
The main reason, though, was the nature of his research. The first rockets Robert Goddard built—including the world’s first liquid-fuel rocket, launched on March 16, 1926—were sent up from his Aunt Effie’s hilltop farm in Auburn, Massachusetts, just south of Worcester. Goddard kept them secret for quite a long time because he wanted to protect his designs from imitators—particularly Hermann Oberth, the German scientist whom Bob knew was pursuing the same line of research—yet public discovery was inevitable once he was awarded patents and published his work as a Smithsonian Institution monograph.
“When that happened, the newspapers were all over him,” Esther said. “Before he knew it, every reporter in America wanted to do an interview with him. And they all wanted to know when he was going to build that rocket to the Moon.”
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