There were very few people who could talk to Bond in this way but the two of them had served together in the RNVR during the war and had even shared a flat for a short while in Victoria, sometimes travelling home together through the blackout. Fifteen years later, Bond couldn’t help liking Duggan. The man was loyal to his friends, reliable in his judgement and ran a first-class operation. Immediately after the war, he had helped set up JUNK, an underground railway that ran agents into the satellite states of Russia. He had cheerfully sold cheap Swiss watches behind the Iron Curtain, using the money to entice wavering apparatchiks to defect. It was thanks to his efforts that a great many clues about the Soviet chemical and biological warfare capability had come to light. He was good company. He knew how to live.
He could also be discreet when he wanted to be and as he waved for the bill he lowered his voice. ‘This business with the rockets,’ he muttered. ‘I have to say, I don’t like it at all. If you ask me, the chickens are coming home to roost.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘After the war, you were too busy running around saving the world. But some of us were thinking ahead. It was obvious that rocket technology was going to shape the future – and I’m not just talking about ICBM’s. I got drawn into it for a while. There was an operation called Backfire. We took a close look at any of the V2’s we could get our hands on and saw just how very good they were. So then we tried to recruit some of the boys from Peenemünde. We even had Wernher von Braun in London for a while. Horrible man. Anyway, we didn’t have any luck. There was that debacle with Colonel Tasoev who changed his bloody mind and then there was Professor Tank who disappeared to Argentina with all his plans hidden in his underpants, would you believe it! We managed to bag a few German engineers but none of the scientists were interested. They loathed the French. They were terrified of the Soviets, of course. But we couldn’t afford what they wanted to be paid so the whole lot went off to America and they’ve been there ever since.
‘I don’t know how much you know about the space race, James. I know that old bastard M keeps you on more or less full-time active service. But right now you should be looking to the stars. Let me tell you, that’s where the next war is going to be fought and that’s where it’s going to be won. Did you ever see that article in Collier’s magazine? Written by Wernher von Braun, God rot him. A fully paid-up member of the Nazi party now working for the Yanks! Anyway, he claimed it was possible to establish an artificial satellite in outer space – he called it a space station. It would have people living and working outside the earth’s atmosphere. Using telescopic cameras, they’d be able to see the face of every single human being on the planet. You light a cigarette in Leicester Square and they’d clock it. And they’d be able to launch guided missiles with pinpoint accuracy – this was written a few years back, remember – and von Braun concluded: “The first nation to do all this will control the earth.”
‘Since then the superpowers have been going at it hammer and tongs. Or maybe that should be hammer and sickle and tongs. The Americans have got Cape Canaveral. The Russians have got some sort of space city in a hellhole called Tyuratam in the middle of the Siberian desert, as far away from Western listening posts as they can get. They’ve built towers, bunkers . . . they poured a million cubic feet of concrete into the launch platforms alone. We don’t know very much, to be honest with you. As you can imagine, it’s a hellish problem getting information out. But their aim is to get a thermonuclear device weighing five tons into outer space and they may get there eventually. If they don’t, it certainly won’t be for want of trying.’
The waiter came over and they paid the bill. It seemed to Bond that the effects of all the alcohol Duggan had consumed had vanished in an instant. As they walked back through the town, he was utterly serious.
‘The thing about the space race is that it’s a strange mixture. You’ve got the scientists on the one side and the military on the other. So it’s all about exploring other planets, new frontiers and living together in peace and harmony. Or it’s about blowing the hell out of your enemy, utterly destroying them and devastating their country. It just depends who you talk to. The scientists need the money. The money comes from the military. But at the same time there’s something about space travel that’s really caught hold of the public imagination. Wernher von Braun even made a television programme, for heaven’s sake! Walt Disney’s Man in Space, also known as Mickey Mouse on the moon! But it worked. Forget the fact that the Americans and the Russians actually want to wipe each other out. Forget the fact that the entire space race began with the Korean War and the Americans’ ever-so pressing desire to drop a nuclear bomb on the Chinese. Suddenly it’s all twinkle, twinkle little star. Satellites. Communications. Artificial stars circling the earth in just two hours. Passenger rockets. Trips to Mars! Of course, a lot of it is hogwash but it’s still managed to weave its way into the dreams of ordinary people and suddenly it’s all become about prestige. You don’t even have to go to war. If you want to rule the earth, you’ve got to rule outer space. It’s as simple as that.
‘And this is a particularly interesting year, as it happens. They’ve even got a name for it. The International Geophysical Year. It’s something to do with an eleven-year cycle. Sun spots are particularly active at the moment. I was never good at science at school and it’s above my head in every sense but the point is that there’s never been a better time to measure radiation in the upper atmosphere and around seventy countries have come together to get a slice of the action, including the USSR. They’re all talking about mutual goals, a new spirit of co-operation and all the rest of it, but that’s the scientific side. The military boys are as busy as ever.
‘This is how Eisenhower sees it. The Americans put a civilian rocket into space for the sake of meteorological and radiological research. They get the prestige. The whole world applauds. But more than that. Suddenly they’ve got a satellite over Russian air space. They’ve set a new precedent – “freedom of space” – and the Russians can’t complain. They’re part of the same effort. And the next rocket that goes up might contain weapons. It might contain spy satellites. You see what I’m saying, James? Right now there’s an opportunity for the Americans to take a giant step forward in the space race and the Russians are actually helping them on their way.’
Bond thought about the photographs he had seen in Sin’s office. American rockets being studied by SMERSH – or perhaps by a small, specialised team within SMERSH. He remembered his meeting with M in London. Suddenly he saw the connection. ‘You talk about prestige,’ he said. ‘The Russians were at Nürburgring because they were worried about their chap coming second. It was all about Soviet technology. They wanted to prove that the Krassny was the fastest car on the road. Suppose you took the same principle and applied it to space travel?’
‘Russian rockets beating American ones? The R-3 against the Atlas or whatever? I suppose it makes sense. And it would explain what Sin was doing here in Germany. A bit like that chap in Crab Key . . .’
‘Blowing up rockets. Setting back the American space programme . . .’
Duggan thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, James. You might be right but I just don’t see it. First of all, I don’t know how Sin could get access to American launch stations: Cape Canaveral, Cooke, Wallops Island, White Sands.’
‘He has a recruitment business.’
‘Cooks and cleaners, maybe. Not engineers. He’d have a hell of a job getting anywhere near and suppose he did manage to blow up a couple of rockets. Would it really make that much of a difference? The truth is, the Americans are managing perfectly well without him. Last January they fired off a Thor rocket. It managed all of nine inches before it broke in two and blew up. They say you could hear the explosion thirty miles away. So they tried again in April. Same thing: thirty seconds and then bang! It turned out that it was some safety officer who’d got it in his head – quite wrongly – that the damn thing was going to fal
l on Orlando, so he put his thumb on the self-destruct button and blew it up. The last I heard, by the way, he’d been given a new job on a small island in the South Atlantic.’ Duggan laughed. ‘But that didn’t stop them. One month later they were at it again. The third rocket sat on the launch pad quite cheerfully for a few minutes and then blew itself to smithereens. You see what I mean? Every failure just makes them redouble their efforts and the American public don’t give two hoots about all their tax dollars going up quite literally in smoke. Half the time, they don’t know. These launch stations are all remote, deliberately. And anyway, they think the prize is worth funding. Ownership of space. It would take a lot to make them change their mind.’
They had been walking through medieval streets largely untouched by the war. Station G loomed up in front of them; a red-brick building that could have been a guest house or perhaps the home of a minor government department. Nobody stopped them as they walked in. An elderly doorman, head buried in a newspaper, barely glanced up. But Bond wasn’t fooled by the seeming lack of security. The doorman would almost certainly be armed. Their entrance would have been filmed by cameras concealed somewhere in the cornices. A fluoroscope would have been triggered as they passed and if they were known to be unidentified and carrying concealed weapons, the entire building would have gone into immediate lockdown. Duggan’s office was on the second floor. He puffed and wheezed his way up the faded marble staircase, supporting himself on the handrail, and he was in a bad mood as he entered the room with its solid desk, comfortable chairs and antique, cast-iron stove.
‘Greta!’ he called out. ‘I want two coffees. Strong – black. And have we had anything from London?’
A moment later, a smart-looking girl appeared, dressed in a severe, grey suit and with her hair in a Paris cut, framing her face. She was carrying a file and after a cool appraisal of Bond, she left it with Duggan and went out. Duggan opened the pages and read them. Bond lit a cigarette and waited for him to finish. The girl came back with the coffees. Once again they were alone.
‘Well,’ Duggan said at last. ‘We’re not really any the wiser. First, nothing’s come up on Jeopardy Lane, not from the CIA or the FBI. But she certainly isn’t a journalist – no articles under that name and she’s not known at Motor Sport or any of the other magazines. Secondly, we’ve got a bit more information about your friend Sin Jai-Seong, but nothing to get too excited about. The Blue Diamond Recruitment Agency is an absolutely solid business with no associations, criminal or otherwise. It has a virtual monopoly when it comes to Koreans, obviously, but it also handles Puerto Ricans, Jews, Greeks . . . you name it. There are millions of them, all cheap labour, but you can see that he’s creaming twenty cents off every dollar they earn and he’s making a fortune.’
‘What areas are they working in?’ Bond asked.
‘Well, he has to be careful, particularly in New York. The Cosa Nostra control rubbish collection and construction and he doesn’t want to rub up against the unions. But he’s got his finger in pretty much everything from meat processing to the rag trade. Labourers, hod carriers, elevator operators. A lot of the work is seasonal and, as I say, all of it’s low-paid. He has a lot of people in transport – the subway system and buses. But no rocket scientists, James. The closest you’re going to get is someone sweeping the floor.’
Bond took this information in. ‘What else?’
‘You asked about launches and this time you may have struck lucky. I don’t know. The next one is five days from now.’ Bond raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes, I thought that might interest you. They’re doing a satellite test, blasting off a Vanguard rocket from Wallops Island and they’re determined this one’s going to get off the ground. I’ve managed to dig up an image for you. Does it ring any bells?’
Duggan passed a photograph across the desk. Bond examined it: a strip of coastline, white buildings, the pencil shape of the rocket, the empty horizon. He recognised it at once.
‘It’s identical,’ he said. ‘Or as near as dammit. This was the picture I saw on Sin’s desk.’
‘Then you’d better be on your way, old boy. You’ve already got the go-ahead from M. I’ll arrange the flight.’
That same evening, Bond left for New York.
PART TWO:
. . . MUST COME DOWN
THIRTEEN
The Man in Charge
‘I’m sorry, Mr Bond. I think you’ve wasted your time . . . and, for that matter, mine too.’
Bond, still exhausted by the flight from Berlin, the long drive down from New York, a brief and unsatisfying sleep in the wrong time zone and the wrong motel, was not surprised. Somehow he had known from the moment he had been shown into this blank, comfortless office with its comfortless office furniture and single, rectangular window looking out onto a strip of uninteresting shoreline, that this wasn’t going to go well. Behind the desk, Captain Eugene T. Lawrence USN sat with the easygoing obstinacy of a man too used to being obeyed. The Navy Liaison and Project Officer at Wallops Island was a man in his mid-forties, immaculately dressed in his summer uniform, khaki with gold buttons and three rows of ribbons nudging into his lapel, dark tie and shoulder boards. Buttoned up in every sense. He had the solid build and huge neck of a football player. The head, with its sandy-coloured hair, small eyes and smooth cheeks, was curiously baby-like. Bond guessed he went to church every Sunday. He would have a wife who would boast about him to her friends but who would wince at the sound of his coming home, and a son – Eugene Jnr – who would call him ‘sir’. He was the man in charge here and it didn’t matter if you had better judgement, more experience or new information. You did as he said.
Bond had been met at the gate by a younger man in a short-sleeved white shirt and flannel trousers who had introduced himself as Johnny Calhoun, Base Manager. Bond had quickly got the picture. This was what Duggan had already told him at Station G. Lawrence represented the military side of Wallops Island, Calhoun the scientific and civilian. Bond had seen his file and knew that he was a West Point graduate, employed by the Glenn L. Martin aerospace manufacturing company who had provided the majority of engineers working for the Vanguard Operations Group (VOG). He turned out to be slim and boyish with a crew cut, an easy smile and Ray-Ban Wayfarer sunglasses.
‘Good to meet you, Commander Bond. Welcome to Wallops. This your first time?’ Bond nodded. ‘I’ve only been here a year. I got transferred here from Baltimore and it’s been quite a ride. Please, come this way, sir. Captain Lawrence is waiting for you in his office.’
A single, wide track led from the car park, running parallel with the sea. There was a huge blockhouse on the left and, about fifty yards away, on the other side of the track and right next to the water, a great square of white concrete that was the launch pad. Bond stopped and gazed at the tower, ninety-five feet high, and the silver-white rocket standing there, its fury contained as it waited for the moment when it would finally be unleashed and blasted into space. Once again, he felt an irresistible thrill, something inside him that was both awed and inspired by the sheer power of the thing, the shimmering steel rising sleekly from the first stage rocket motor to the questing tip of the nose cone. From a distance, it looked almost lightweight, perfectly balanced on its platform about ten feet above the ground and surrounded by engineers and technicians – acolytes worshipping at the altar of modern science.
‘Yes, it’s quite a sight,’ Calhoun muttered, following his eyes. He had a pleasant drawl and seemed genuinely friendly, the sort of man you couldn’t help but like. ‘Every time I look at it I find myself knocked out by how far we’ve come – and wondering just how far we still have to go. Will you be here for the launch?’
‘I can’t really say,’ Bond replied.
‘You should try to stay if you can. You won’t have seen anything like it. It’s a wonderful sight.’ Calhoun faltered, then half smiled. ‘At least, it is when they get off the ground.’
Bond had been present at the launch of one rocket – indeed, he’d had a
unique, ringside view – but decided not to mention it. The two of them walked together, heading for a low white building surrounded by shrubs. The air was very warm, the sun beating down from a cloudless sky. There wasn’t a breath of wind. Perfect launch conditions, Bond thought.
‘You know . . . maybe I should mention a couple of things about Captain Lawrence,’ Calhoun said. He already sounded apologetic. ‘There’s a great deal of pressure on him at the moment, just three days before a launch. We all feel the same way. So when we got the communication from your London office via the CIA, well, it couldn’t have been worse timed. I’m not blaming you, of course. I’m just trying to explain why you may find the captain a little . . . tired.’
‘Does he get “tired” very often?’
‘Yes, sir. You could say that.’ Calhoun shook his head. ‘He’s not such a bad guy when you get to know him. He joined the navy the day after Pearl Harbor. Trained at the US Naval Academy and flew missions in Korea. You know he got the Bronze Star? He came here the year before me and actually he’s run the place pretty well. Security. Discipline. Morale. He’s kept open the channels of communication and that’s quite something in itself, let me tell you. You have no idea how it is in this place. We’ve got so many different people involved, even ordering a light bulb or new toilet paper can take half a dozen forms and a committee meeting! If he’s a bit short with you, just don’t take it personally.’
Trigger Mortis Page 13
