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 round 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.