Skyprobe

by Philip McCutchan

  He said with a grin, “True the figure’s a bit different, but it’s the best we can do.” Quickly Ingrid pulled on a set of the Chinese clothing. When she was ready Shaw said, “Fine! It’s rough enough, but it gives us something of a chance.” He touched a strand of her hair. “Tuck it in a bit more. That’s better.”

  “What are we going to do, Smith?” she asked.

  “We’re going to kill this place by attacking its heart and soul,” he told her. “The Masurov Beam won’t survive a power cut!” He jabbed the gun once again into the stomach of the nearest of the guards. “You’ll know where the power room is, friend. I want you to lead us right to it—and fast!” The man swallowed and glanced nervously at his comrades. “I not know,” he said, his eyes darting, looking everywhere but at Shaw.

  The gun went in harder. He squirmed. Shaw snapped, “Try again, and this time do better. You can’t have been around this place for long without finding your way to the parts that matter. Your two friends will stay here, but you’re going to take the lady and myself to the power room, so you’d better get used to the idea. Granted I can’t make you look English, but you’re going to do your best to look like what I was supposed to be—a prisoner under escort. Got that?”

  The man nodded.

  “Good! Remember, if you try anything funny on the way, or if you take us to the wrong place, you’ll die on the spot—like your friend with the broken neck behind me.” He glanced at Ingrid. “Take over again for a moment,” he said. While the girl covered the man who was to guide them, Shaw lined up the remaining two with their backs to the bars. Then, stepping aside, he gave each of them a blow to the jaw that rocked their teeth loose. The men slid to the floor, one after the other, without a sound. Bending, Shaw unfastened a bunch of keys from the Number One guard’s discarded belt, locked the doors of the cages containing the television cameras, then ordered the naked man out into the main corridor, with his own gun and Ingrid’s urging him on from behind. There was no-one in sight. Shaw locked the outer door of the cell alleyway behind him. “Lead the way,” he told the Chinese, “and keep remembering what I told you. I never make empty threats. If anyone interferes, the shooting starts right away—with you as number one target. From then on, I play it by ear—only you won’t be around to listen.”

  They went fast along the passage, following the naked guard round in a circle to their right, and then down a flight of concrete steps leading off a small lobby connecting with the main passage. They saw no-one; presumably all personnel would by this time be at their allotted stations for the action that was now so imminent. Very soon, once the empty cages had been noted on the television screens in the control room and Shaw and Ingrid had still not appeared as ordered, the hunt would be on. For now, they had it all their own way.

  In this lower passage the hum of dynamos and machinery had increased until it seemed to reverberate throughout the silo; the whole place was vibrant, shaking gently to the power harnessed to the giant stalk and its attractor-plate.

  Ahead, a little farther along, they saw the red-painted door marked in Russian and Chinese characters: POWER ROOM.

  * * *

  Klaber had come on the air a while earlier for the start of the last act. He’d said, “Greg, you’ll ditch on the next orbit. Report as soon as you’re ready . . . and good luck to you both, Greg.”

  Schuster said, “Thanks, Mr. Klaber,” flipped off his communication and turned around to give the necessary orders for going into ditching procedure.

  Danvers-Marshall’s face was tight with strain now and the eyes were staring at Schuster, again with that look of incipient insanity. When Schuster passed the orders Danvers-Marshall nodded and said, “Right, but we’re going into retro-sequence sooner than you think, Greg.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Schuster asked harshly.

  “We don’t ditch in the Caribbean. We re-enter over the Pacific, over the Phoenix Islands.”

  “We do?” Schuster stared at him. “What’s the idea?”

  Danvers-Marshall said, “Don’t worry what the idea is. Just do as I tell you. Start getting ready now, you and Wayne, and I’ll give the order for firing the retro-rockets. No need to call mission control, either. They’ll know soon enough.”

  His face set, Schuster turned away and started to go through the routine. This time, everything was working perfectly. On the next and final orbit, as the capsule hurtled on through space, closing the point where now it would so unexpectedly re-enter the earth’s atmosphere, Gregory Schuster, under Danvers-Marshall’s direction, reached out for the button to send off the retro-rockets. The early pressing of that button was going to send mission control to panic stations, all right.

  The astronauts sweated.

  A few moments later, Schuster pressed the button. As he did so, Danvers-Marshall once again operated his minute metal cylinder, though not this time so as to interfere with the retro-system. The cylinder acted to cut out other controls, also the radio, while at the same time Danvers-Marshall reached back to move two levers on a panel in rear of him; there was no subsequent response on the banks of instrument dials ahead of the two intent astronauts. Though Schuster knew the retro-system was going to be att right this time it was still with a sense of profound relief that he felt the rockets fire at their five-second intervals. As each one went off there was a feeling of being pressed relentlessly backwards; as the deceleration increased, so did the G forces. The eyeballs of the three men seemed to leave their sockets as the forces acted upon them, then suddenly, as the capsule began to enter the heat passage, this feeling eased.

  In the Caribbean the vessels of the US recovery fleet waited to pick up the capsule on their radar and visually in the binoculars of the human lookouts as, so anxiously now, the sailors scanned the skies, each man searching for the drogue parachute that would open as the spacemen headed for splashdown. But, even as they watched, the messages were coming in, telling the fleet that Skyprobe IV had in fact fired off her retro-rockets at a point well in advance of that required to bring her down in the Caribbean.

  When those messages were received the men of the recovery ships knew in their bones that within the next couple of hours they would be on a war footing.

  * * *

  The guard, with Shaw and Ingrid behind him., reached the door of the power room.

  Shaw ordered him to halt.

  He was about to give the man the same treatment as he’d given the other guards back in the cage alleyway when there was a sudden, vicious stutter of automatic gunfire. Bullets bounced off the concrete walls. Ingrid, giving a sharp cry, dropped the gun she was carrying. She clutched at her arm.

  Shaw whirled around.

  Rencke was coming for him in the middle of a posse of armed Chinese and as these men approached, the naked guard pushed Ingrid’s gun into Shaw’s back. Rencke ran up close, his heavy body sweating like a pig’s, the coarse face sneering into Shaw’s eyes. “The gun, if you please!” he snapped furiously. “Drop it on the floor at once!”

  “If you want it,” Shaw answered calmly, “get it.”

  “Do as I say or I shall order the men to fire.”

  Shaw grinned. “You won’t kill me, Rencke! Not yet.”

  “Perhaps not, but the girl is expendable, Commander, if necessary—”

  “You need her just as much as you need me—don’t you, Rencke? Don’t you need her to make me talk?”

  Rencke said, “You are very clever at talk, Commander, but if you do not drop the gun I shall order the men to shoot off your hands. You will scarcely need your hands for making the broadcast.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Rencke marched them back along the lower passage and up the two levels to the control room.

  In the control room all the technicians were closed up at their stations, ready for the diversion that would shatter the space-prestige of the West. Their whole attention was concentrated, at this late stage, on their instruments. The main television screen showed the huge rou
nd plate, probing the skies, seeking, searching out the capsule. There was a pervading air of the tensest excitement, and there was a tremendous, heady expectancy in the whole compartment. Lights flickered on and off, dials grew bright and then dimmed again, others came alive in their places. There was an overall background noise of Morse and of reports being fed through the tannoy. Kalitzkin, watching his central control unit and manipulating the directional handwheel, intent like all the others, was trembling with excitement and anticipation and his face was streaked with sweat. That face, Shaw noted, held a look that approached exaltation, as if the Russian were seeing himself as the Deity, some self-made god whose knowledge would soon enable him to control the universe.

  Rencke called out to him; he turned, face glistening.

  Sharply he said, “At last!” As Rencke began going into explanations the Russian cut him short. “All this will do later,” he said. “For now, do not let us divide our attention. Fortunately,” he added, “they have not arrived too late. That is all that matters. The spacecraft is going to be a little over its time, I believe.” He signed to the guards and Shaw was taken with Ingrid, whose right upper arm was dripping blood from a graze where one of the bullets had nicked the flesh, towards the microphone where he was to broadcast his rehearsed message. Kalitzkin had a quiet word with Rencke, who ordered the guards to move Ingrid six paces clear of Shaw. Rencke then positioned himself a couple of paces from her and gave an order to the guards. While one of the men kept her covered with his gun, the other came forward and stripped away the clothing she had taken from the Chinese. Rencke reached into a pocket and brought out a cigarette-lighter which he flicked on. After examining the jet of butane gas, he snapped it off again. Kalitzkin was about to say something more when a klaxon sounded loudly on the central control panel and at the same moment the television screen showed the attractor-plate moving a little, its operating face lifting slightly on the axis of its stalk as if it were turning like some grotesque sunflower towards its source of energy.

  Automatic radar control had now taken over.

  A moment later the automated system switched the power through, cutting out the lengthier processes of manual control as used in the final test of the day before. The red beam-ready lamp glowed brightly as the remaining fights dimmed. Kalitzkin, sweating more than ever with the emotion of the instant of action and imminent success to crown years of work, tensed into immobility as a tannoy clicked on and an excited voice announced in Russian, in what was practically a scream of triumph “The capsule has now re-entered the atmosphere and is within the Mazurov Beam.”

  All eyes were now following the dials and radar screens and gauges; men with earphones clamped over their heads sat motionless, intent. Then the reports began to come over the tannoy again: “Capsule on descent course over Phoenix Islands in Pacific . . . speed normal . . . descent slowing now but probably under pull of drogue parachute only . . . no beam effect yet established. Jamming signals are being sent out by US stations but this is not effective.” There was a pause; the air was electric now with the tremendous tension, heady with a sense of achievement and consummation. Kalitzkin’s face held a look of ecstasy. He had fully expected a delay before the effect of the Mazurov Beam became apparent. This would take over very soon now —it took time for the re-set controls to overcome gravity and the high speed of fall, but everything in fact was going according to plan.

  * * *

  There had been a bright orange light outside the capsule as it streaked downward through the heat passage, where the temperature outside the heat shield stood at 3000 degrees Fahrenheit. The capsule had rocked and swayed, a horrible and violent motion, but Danvers-Marshall had managed to hold his gun steadily enough. Then, as the flare of orange had begun to diminish, Schuster knew the worst of the actual descent was over, that at least they were through the heat passage. Suddenly, his mind now freed to some extent of his technical concentration, he felt they might yet be able to get away with it. Below him in the Pacific he could see ships, ships that must surely be units of the American fleet, and islands—American islands, British islands. Apart from the enforced shift of splashdown rendezvous, nothing untoward had in fact happened . . . he gave a hoarse yell, “Wayne . . . oh boy, we’re going to make it—the Red bastards haven’t pulled it off after all!” Then he saw Wayne Morris’s face, the way his co-pilot’s eyes were staring at the cluttered instrument panel. He looked at the dials. His sudden ebullient feeling died and a cold fear gripped him. Everything was moving over, the whole of the control system was being reset before his eyes. This was the outside interference that Washington’s signal had suggested, the interference by radio or whatever it was . . . there was continuous radio jamming from somewhere, most probably the various tracking stations and the ships below, but that was having no effect whatever. Already the capsule was starting fractionally to alter its direction of fall. Desperately now, like MacAllister over the Kuriles, Schuster fought the controls, tried to bring them back to a proper descent for splashdown. It was no use; nothing was responding. Schuster tried his radio, found he was totally unable to transmit. He said flatly, “All right, so I was wrong. The bastards have us after all.” He swung round on Danvers-Marshall, his face working, demoniac. He stared into the Britisher’s gun.

  Danvers-Marshall said, “You’re right, Greg. This is it. They’ve taken us over and we’re in the beam. Don’t try anything. Sit tight and we’ll be okay, I promise you that. If you try anything, I’ll shoot and chance it. You can’t stop them anyway, Greg. We’re in their hands now.”

  * * *

  The tannoy in the Kuriles control room had come up again, loud, excited, the voice hoarse. “Change of direction now apparent on radar,” and this was followed a split second later by a near-hysterical shout and the message, “Capsule slowing perceptibly in descent.” And then, "Capsule is now altering course definitely towards this base.”

  Kalitzkin, with his eyes blazing strangely, turned on Shaw. “Start talking,” he ordered in a high voice. “At once, please!” He reached out towards the microphone switch, ready to flip it on. Shaw’s lips felt as dry as dust; he moistened them with his tongue, glancing across at Ingrid as he did so. Her body was taut, breasts rigid—but her eyes were telling him he must not speak. Rencke, grinning almost insanely, had his finger on the wheel of the butane-gas fighter. He flicked it into life and an ignited jet spurted out. He directed this at Ingrid’s body.

  Shaw sweated.

  Quite apart from what would happen to the girl if he tried anything, he knew he would never get a wrong word into the microphone. Kalitzkin was much too fly for that. Nevertheless, it was all he could hope to do now. Kalitzkin was getting impatient by this time. The Russian snapped, “You will speak instantly, Commander—instantly, I say!” Six paces away Rencke’s hand moved. The lighted jet singed Ingrid’s breast. She writhed, and, as the rough hands of the guards held her still, she gave a high, tearing scream.

  * * *

  Aboard the ships searching in the Pacific the radar sets had picked up the spacecraft and then had spotted the change in the capsule’s direction of descent. Urgent messages had been flashed immediately to Kennedy and to Washington, and the ships had steamed at full speed on a chase northwards, a chase that everyone knew in his heart would prove utterly futile.

  From the White House orders went out for the nuclear missile crews to stand by for blast-off within the next few minutes. The general commanding Strategic Air Command already had his bombers launched towards their targets inside the Soviet Union and they were streaking on their pre-selected routes for positive control point, and the President was ready to send out the go-code, when Shaw came on the air from the Kuriles.

  * * *

  Shaw’s teeth had clamped down on his lip when that scream was torn from Ingrid. He said savagely, “All right, Rencke . . . you can stop that. I’ll talk.” This was the moment when he had to take a big chance; if he failed, no-one would be any the worse off for his having tried
. War would come in any case—unless he could tell the West the truth about the innocent, official Communist leadership.

  Kalitzkin snapped, “Talk first.”

  “No. The flame off first or I won’t open my mouth. And any minute now it’s going to be too late . . . isn’t it, Kalitzkin?”

  Kalitzkin’s face contorted but he gestured violently at Rencke. “Stop!” he shouted.

  Reluctantly Rencke flipped the flame off. One of the armed guards, on Kalitzkin’s order, jabbed his submachine-gun into Shaw’s stomach. Kalitzkin reached again for the microphone switch. “At once!” he ordered, and flicked the switch.

  Distinctly, and as rehearsed, Shaw said into the microphone, “This is Commander Shaw of British Defence Intelligence speaking to London and Washington. Hold everything. This message is vital. Call off all, repeat all, countermeasures. I have control of the diversion base.” His eyes flickered to Kalitzkin’s face and he spoke rapidly thereafter.

  “The base is in—”

  Kalitzkin, who had been watching him very closely, at once threw off the switch. The microphone died. Kalitzkin had seen the words forming on Shaw’s Ups; he had been quick, but Shaw was quicker—much quicker. He grabbed for the switch and the guard lunged out to stop his hand and that gave him his chance. Like lightning he changed direction and his fist came down in a vicious blow on the back of the man’s wrist. The gun went down and Shaw sent the man flying into Rencke, who staggered, cursing. Shaw bent for the dropped gun; the guards let go of Ingrid and swung their weapons on Shaw. As they opened fire he ducked and threw himself on Rencke, who still hadn’t fully recovered his balance. Shaw put a lock on the man and swung him across his body as a shield against the guns. By this time he was right in front of the central control unit and some of the bullets, before the firing stopped on Rencke’s screamed command, had smashed into the control mechanism. Glass splintered, flying everywhere around. Shaw dragged Rencke back bodily towards the computer-like control unit. The bullets, unfortunately, didn’t appear to have done any damage to any vital part of the system—everything looked as though it was functioning still. Somehow Shaw had to interrupt the process, do something—anything that would throw off the Mazurov Beam so that the men in the capsule could regain their control of Skyprobe, ditch safely in the Pacific and wait for recovery by the ships and helicopters on station. Rapidly he looked over the panel, at the dials and gauges and press-buttons.