The smell was the worst part.
It didn't smell like tragedy. It smelled like breakfast.
Jake stood in front of the smoldering ruins of Silo 4. The scent of burnt toast hung thick in the freezing morning air, mocking the starving city.
"Ten thousand tons," Molotov said, his voice muffled by a scarf. "Gone."
Jake kicked a blackened piece of concrete. It crumbled.
"The mob?" Jake asked.
"Dispersed," Menzhinsky replied. "The survivors are in the Lubyanka. The dead are... being processed."
Jake looked at the crowd gathered behind the police cordon. Hollow cheeks. Eyes dead with hunger. They were staring at the burnt grain like it was gold dust.
"They burned their own salvation," Jake whispered.
"Panic is a blind beast," Menzhinsky said.
Jake turned to the Red Army captain guarding the perimeter.
"Secure the remaining silos," Jake ordered. "Shoot to kill. No warnings."
"Comrade Stalin," Molotov interjected softly. "If we shoot hungry women..."
"If the Army starves, we all die," Jake cut him off. "The ration is cut. Civilians get 200 grams of bread. The Army gets 600."
"200 grams is a death sentence," Molotov said.
"Then let them die slowly," Jake said. "We need the soldiers strong enough to hold a rifle."
He walked back to the car. He felt the eyes of the crowd on his back. They weren't cheering anymore. They were measuring him for a coffin.
The Secret City. The Railyard.
Wernher von Braun adjusted the fur hat low over his eyes. He carried a battered leather valise. Inside were his clothes and the blueprints for the V-3 multi-stage engine.
He looked like a tired bureaucrat. He felt like a rabbit in a wolf's den.
The lumber train was idling. Steam hissed from the locomotive, obscuring the platform.
"Papers," the guard grunted. He had a rifle slung over his shoulder and looked bored.
Von Braun handed over a forged travel permit. It was signed by Beria himself. A masterpiece of forgery created by his CIA contact.
The guard squinted at the stamp.
"Technical inspection in Archangelsk?" the guard asked.
"Ball-bearing supply chain," Von Braun lied smoothly. His Russian was accented but passable. "The Director is furious about the delays."
The guard handed the paper back. He didn't care about ball bearings. He cared about the cold.
"Get on," the guard spat. "Don't freeze."
Von Braun climbed into the caboose. It was dark, smelling of unwashed bodies and pine resin.
He sat on a wooden crate. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
The train jerked. Metal groaned.
They were moving.
Von Braun clutched the valise. He wasn't stealing gold. He was stealing the moon.
If he made it to the coast, an American submarine was waiting.
If he didn't... he imagined his brain floating in a jar next to the dog.
He closed his eyes and prayed to a God he hadn't spoken to in years.
The Laboratory.
Turing stood in the center of Von Braun's empty office.
He spun in a circle.
"Gone," Turing giggled. "He actually did it."
The shelves were bare. The personal photos were missing. The bed was made with military precision.
Turing didn't feel betrayed. He felt relieved.
Von Braun was loud. He was moral. He was always talking about "safety" and "tests."
"Now there is only me," Turing whispered.
He walked to the desk. He sat in Von Braun's chair. It was still warm.
He looked at the glass wall separating the office from the main lab.
The technicians were working on the guidance spheres. They looked nervous. They knew the German was missing.
Turing keyed the intercom.
"Attention," Turing said. His voice echoed through the facility.
The workers looked up.
"Dr. Von Braun has been... reassigned," Turing announced. "I am now the Director of the Directorate."
He saw the fear in their eyes. Good. Fear was efficient.
"Prepare the surgical suite," Turing ordered. "And bringing me the prisoner manifest from the local camp. I need candidates with high IQs."
"Sir?" a technician asked over the speaker. "For what purpose?"
"Recruitment," Turing smiled. "We are going to upgrade the hardware."
He cut the feed.
He picked up a pencil. He started drawing a schematic. Not for a rocket. For a helmet. A helmet with drills.
The German had taken the physics. But Turing still had the biology.
The Kremlin. Two hours later.
The phone on Jake's desk rang. It was the red line. The one that never brought good news.
"Yes," Jake answered.
"He's gone," Taranov's voice was tight.
Jake felt a cold spike in his chest.
"Who?"
"Von Braun. He didn't show up for the morning briefing. His quarters are empty."
Jake gripped the receiver. The plastic groaned.
Von Braun wasn't just a scientist. He was the architect of the delivery system. Without him, the nukes were just heavy rocks.
"How long?" Jake asked.
"The bed was cold," Taranov said. "Maybe six hours. He took the morning lumber train North."
"North," Jake whispered. "Archangelsk. The White Sea."
The Americans were extracting him.
"Stop that train," Jake ordered.
"It's already in the wilderness, Boss. The weather is grounded the planes. I can't drop paratroopers."
"Then derail it!" Jake shouted. "Blow the tracks! I don't care!"
"If we blow the tracks, we lose the lumber. And the train is carrying steel for the shipyards."
"I don't care about the steel!" Jake roared. "I care about the traitor! If he reaches the Americans, they will have the V-2 by Christmas!"
He took a breath. He needed to think. Not like a thug. Like a general.
"Where is the next station?"
"Vologda. Three hours away."
"Get the local NKVD," Jake said. "Lock down the station. Every face. Every paper. If he is on that train, I want him taken alive."
"And if he resists?"
"Shoot him in the legs," Jake said. "I need his head, Taranov. I need what's in his head."
"On it."
Jake slammed the phone down.
He walked to the window. The snow was falling harder.
"You think you can run," Jake hissed at the white sky. "No one leaves the ride until it stops."
Vologda Station.
The blizzard was blinding. The lumber train slowed, its brakes screeching like banshees.
Von Braun peered through the frosted window of the caboose.
Soldiers.
Dozens of them. Blue caps of the NKVD. They were swarming the platform, checking every car.
"Damn," Von Braun whispered.
He grabbed his valise. He couldn't get off here. They would catch him instantly.
He looked at the other side of the train. A steep embankment leading down into the frozen forest.
The train was still moving, crawling at walking speed as it approached the platform.
Von Braun opened the rear door. The wind hit him like a hammer.
He didn't think. He jumped.
He landed in a snowbank. The powder swallowed him. He rolled, tumbling down the slope, hitting hidden rocks and roots.
He came to a stop at the tree line. He gasped for air. His ribs ached.
Above him, the train hissed to a halt. He heard shouting. Dogs barking.
They were searching the cars.
Von Braun scrambled up. He hugged the valise to his chest.
He was in the middle of Russia. In winter. With no food.
But he was free.
He saw a marker on a tree. A blue ribbon tied to a branch.
The contact signal.
He limped toward it.
A figure stepped out from behind a pine tree. A massive man in a white camouflage suit. He held a submachine gun.
"Dr. Von Braun?" the man asked in perfect German.
"Yes," Von Braun wheezed.
"I'm Miller. OSS. You're late."
"The train... the checks..."
"We have to move," Miller said. "They have dogs. The sub is waiting at the coast, but we have a twenty-mile hike to the safe house."
Von Braun looked at his dress shoes. Then at the deep snow.
"I cannot walk twenty miles," Von Braun said.
Miller handed him a pair of snowshoes from his pack.
"Then crawl," Miller said. "Because if they catch you, Stalin will peel you like a potato."
Miller turned and started walking.
Von Braun strapped on the snowshoes. His hands were numb.
He looked back at the station. He saw the flashlights of the guards.
He turned and followed the American into the white void.
The Kremlin. Night.
Jake sat in the dark. The only light came from the fireplace.
Taranov stood by the door. He looked ashamed.
"We found footprints," Taranov said. "Leading into the woods. And tire tracks from a snowmobile a few miles out."
"He's gone," Jake said.
"We can track them. The weather—"
"He's gone, Taranov," Jake said tiredly. "The OSS had this planned for months. They beat us."
Jake threw a log on the fire. Sparks flew up.
"What do we do, Boss?"
"We assume the Americans have the rocket," Jake said. "We assume the monopoly is broken."
He watched the flames.
"We have to be faster," Jake said. "Dirtier."
He looked at Taranov.
"Send a message to Turing. Tell him he has approval."
"Approval for what?"
"Project Cerberus," Jake said. "Phase Two. The primate trials. The human trials. Whatever he needs."
Taranov looked sick. "Boss, that's..."
"We are alone in the ring now," Jake said. "And the other guy just picked up a knife. I don't care about the rules anymore."
He pointed to the door.
"Tell Turing to build me a monster that can fly."
Taranov nodded slowly and left.
Jake sat alone.
He realized he had just authorized the creation of a nightmare.
But as he looked at the fire, he didn't see the horror. He only saw the mushroom cloud he needed to survive.
"Come on, Hoover," Jake whispered. "Let's see who blinks first."