The White Sea. Coast of Archangelsk.
The wind screamed across the ice shelf. It sounded like a dying animal.
Wernher von Braun fell to his knees. The snowshoes Miller had given him were tangled. He couldn't feel his toes.
"Get up!" Miller shouted over the gale. "We are exposed!"
"I can't," Von Braun gasped. "My heart..."
Miller grabbed him by the collar. He hauled the German scientist up like a sack of flour.
"Look," Miller pointed.
A hundred yards out, the ice was cracking.
A black shape rose from the frozen sea. Water cascaded off the steel hull. It looked like a whale breaching for air.
The USS Nautilus.
The conning tower hatched open. A signal light flashed three times.
"They are here," Von Braun whispered. tears froze on his cheeks.
"Run," Miller said.
They stumbled toward the black shape. Sailors in heavy parkas were already deploying a ramp.
Von Braun scrambled up the wet metal. He slipped, scraping his shin, but he didn't care. Hands grabbed him. Strong, American hands.
They pulled him into the warmth of the airlock. The smell of diesel and coffee hit him.
"Welcome aboard, Doctor," the Captain said. He held a mug of cocoa.
Von Braun collapsed against the bulkhead. He hugged his leather valise.
"The blueprints?" the Captain asked. His eyes went to the bag.
"Everything," Von Braun wheezed. " The engine. The fuel mixture. The guidance."
"Good," the Captain said. "Washington is waiting."
Miller climbed down the ladder, shaking the snow off his parka.
"We dive in five," the Captain ordered. "Set course for Scapa Flow."
The hatch clanged shut. The sound of finality.
Von Braun closed his eyes. He had escaped the Red Monster. But as the submarine tilted, diving into the dark water, he realized the truth.
He hadn't escaped the war. He had just changed sides.
And he had left his friends behind to rot.
The Secret City. The Holding Cells.
The concrete floor was wet. The cell smelled of bleach and fear.
Turing walked down the line of prisoners. He held a clipboard.
Behind him, two guards carried MP-18 submachine guns.
The prisoners stood at attention. They were a mix of intellectuals, disgraced officers, and "saboteurs." All of them were thin. All of them looked terrified.
Turing didn't look at their faces. He looked at their files.
"Name?" Turing asked the first man.
"Ivanov. Professor of Mathematics. Moscow State."
"Can you visualize a cubic equation in your head?" Turing asked.
"I... yes."
"Too slow," Turing muttered. He moved to the next man.
"Name?"
"Volkov. Captain. Red Air Force."
Turing stopped. He looked at the man. Volkov had a scar running down his cheek. His hands were steady.
"Why are you here, Captain?"
"I crashed a prototype," Volkov said. "They said I wasted state property."
"Reflexes?"
"I shot down three Whites in the Civil War. I can thread a needle at 300 knots."
Turing smiled. It was a cold, disjointed smile.
"Vision?"
"20/20. before the malnutrition."
Turing marked the file with a red pen.
"Take him," Turing ordered.
The guards grabbed Volkov.
"Where are we going?" Volkov asked, panic rising in his voice. "Am I being released? Am I going back to the squadron?"
"In a way," Turing said. "You are going to fly higher than anyone in history."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you have been promoted," Turing said. "To the guidance department."
The guards dragged Volkov away. His boots scraped on the concrete.
Turing watched him go. He didn't see a man. He saw a processor. A wetware CPU with a high clock speed.
"Prep the surgery," Turing whispered to himself. "We have our pilot."
The White House. The Situation Room.
Hoover sat at the head of the table. The room was filled with smoke.
"The Nautilus has signaled," Admiral Stark reported. "Package secured. They are under the ice."
Hoover let out a long breath. He picked up his cigar.
"We have the brain," Hoover said. "Now we build the body."
"The British are demanding access," Stark said. "Churchill says it was a joint operation."
"Churchill can wait," Hoover said. "The V-2 is American property now. I want the prototypes built in Nevada. Far away from Soviet spies."
He looked at the map of Russia.
"Stalin has lost his queen," Hoover said. "Now we see if he flips the board."
"Intelligence reports massive troop movements in the East," an aide said. "And... strange activity at the secret labs in the Urals. High energy consumption. Large biological waste disposal."
Hoover frowned.
"Biological? You mean the gas?"
"No, sir. Medical waste. Surgical equipment."
Hoover tapped the table.
"He's desperate," Hoover said. "A desperate man tries anything. Keep the pressure on. Squeeze him until he pops."
The Laboratory. Operating Theater 1.
The lights were blindingly bright.
Volkov lay strapped to the table. Leather restraints held his arms, legs, and head.
He was awake.
"Why?" Volkov screamed. "Why am I awake?"
"We need the neural pathways active," Turing said. He was washing his hands in a basin. He wore a surgical gown that was too big for him.
"You need to respond to stimuli during the calibration," Turing explained. "If we put you to sleep, the interface won't bond."
"What interface?"
Turing walked over. He held a device. It looked like a metal crown, studded with needles and copper wires. The wires ran to a bank of oscilloscopes.
"The helmet," Turing said. "It connects your visual cortex directly to the servos."
"You're going to put that in my head?"
"On your head. And in it," Turing corrected. "Just a few probes. To tap the signal."
Volkov struggled. The leather creaked.
"I am a Soviet officer! I demand a trial!"
"You are a component," Turing said. "Stop moving. Precision is key."
He placed the crown on Volkov's head.
He tightened the screws. The needles pierced the skin.
Volkov screamed.
"Signal clear," a technician said from the booth. "Alpha waves spiking."
"Good," Turing said. "Begin the visual test."
A screen descended in front of Volkov's face. It showed a black dot on a white background.
"Look at the dot," Turing commanded.
Volkov squeezed his eyes shut. "No! Get it off me!"
Turing sighed. He picked up a syringe.
"Adrenaline," Turing said. "To keep you focused."
He injected it into Volkov's neck.
Volkov's eyes flew open. His heart hammered like a machine gun. He couldn't blink. He couldn't look away.
"Look at the dot," Turing repeated.
Volkov looked.
On the monitor, a green line synced with his eye movement. When his eye moved, the servo on the table moved.
Click-whir.
"Perfect," Turing whispered. "Zero latency."
He looked at the terrified man.
"You are going to be beautiful, Volkov. You are going to see everything."
"Please," Volkov wept. "Kill me."
"Later," Turing said. "After the launch."
He turned to the technician.
"Drill the ports," Turing ordered. "We need a hardline connection."
The sound of the bone drill filled the room. It was a high-pitched whine, like a dentist's drill from hell.
Turing didn't flinch. He watched the oscilloscope.
The wave patterns were chaotic. Beautiful.
He was painting with pain.
The Kremlin. Jake's Office.
Jake poured a glass of water. His hand shook so much he spilled half of it.
He knew.
He didn't need a report. He knew what was happening in the Urals. He had signed the paper.
Authorization for Human-Machine Interface Trials.
He walked to the window. The Red Stars on the Kremlin towers were glowing.
"I am the monster," Jake whispered.
He had come back to stop the Holocaust. To stop the purges.
Now he was drilling holes in men's heads to turn them into guidance systems.
The door opened. Menzhinsky.
"The Americans have Von Braun," Menzhinsky said. "Confirmed."
"I know," Jake said.
"They will have a rocket in six months," Menzhinsky said. "Maybe less. They have the industrial capacity we lack."
"We will have one sooner," Jake said.
"The biological guidance?"
"Yes."
Menzhinsky hesitated. Even the head of the Cheka, a man who had signed thousands of death warrants, looked uneasy.
"Is it stable?"
"It doesn't need to be stable," Jake said. "It just needs to fly once."
He turned to Menzhinsky.
"Prepare a test," Jake said. "Not a dummy warhead. A live one."
"Where?"
Jake walked to the map. He looked at the blockade lines. The American ships strangling his country.
"The Black Sea," Jake said. "There is a US Cruiser patrolling near Turkish waters. The USS Indianapolis."
Menzhinsky's eyes widened.
" sinking an American ship... that is war."
"They are already at war with us," Jake said. "They just haven't started bleeding yet."
He stabbed the map with his finger.
"Launch the Volkov unit. Sink the Indianapolis."
"And if we miss?"
"We won't miss," Jake said. His voice was dead. "Volkov was an ace. He never misses."
Menzhinsky nodded slowly.
"I will send the order."
He left.
Jake stood alone in the silence.
He imagined Volkov. Strapped into a metal tube. Screaming as he was fired into the stratosphere.
"Forgive me," Jake whispered.
But there was no one left to forgive him. The only judge left was history, and history only cared about who won.
He finished the water.
"Fly straight, Captain," Jake said. "Make it count."