Roth ignored him. Losing the satellite was annoying, but it could be replaced. He’d been watching the rocket through his small telescope… and he thought that he’d seen something near the rocket. There had been a tiny flare of light…
The field telephone jangled. Roth picked it up and listened. The German observatories had been watching the rocket as well, just to confirm that it was following the right course, and they were certain that something had hit the rocket, as it had been about to drop the second stage.
“I see,” he said finally. He’d read about orbital weaponry, but it had been the first time they’d had even a hint that the British had such weapons. “I’ll ask the Fuhrer at once.”
He put down the field telephone. “Have the missile for the space station prepared at once,” he ordered. “I’m going to speak to the Fuhrer.”
“But… Herr Obergruppenfuehrer, if the British have weapons designed to shoot down missiles, won’t they just shoot down the rocket?” The director was panicking; Roth didn’t blame him. “It would be a waste of the rocket.”
Roth snapped. “A few hundred miles to the west, Herr Director, there are thousands of soldiers dying,” he said sharply. “What is a single rocket against that?” He allowed himself a moment of anger, before bringing it sharply under control. “Beside, its important to discover how powerful the British weapons are, and how capable.”
He held the director’s eyes. “Do you understand?”
The director wilted. “Yes, Herr Obergruppenfuehrer,” he said. Roth nodded. It had been a reasonable question, but the simple fact was that the entire Reich was at stake – and what was a single rocket, no matter how expensive, compared to that?
“The Fuhrer,” he snapped into the field telephone. Moments later, it rang again, connecting him directly to the Fuhrerbunker. Quickly, ignoring the growing rage that swelled within him at talking to Himmler, he summarised the situation.
“Is it worth the loss of a missile?” Himmler asked. Roth knew that he couldn’t snap at the Fuhrer, not and remain in place for Kesselring. “Why not let the Russians do it?”
“We don’t want them getting that far into space, do we?” Roth asked, as innocently as he could. “Besides, the Russian rockets are nowhere near as capable as ours are, and we have other advantages, such as the nature of the weapon.”
He knew that Himmler was thinking rapidly. “Tell me,” Himmler said finally, “can you guarantee that the same orbital weapon won’t shoot down the missile?”
Roth shook his head, confident that Himmler couldn’t see him. It was the same question as the director had raised, but Himmler was more important. Too important to be fobbed off or overridden, not under these circumstances.
“No, Mien Fuhrer,” he said. “However, the weapon will be boosted into a slightly different orbit and it might escape their notice. If they could shoot down every missile, they would be doing that right now, instead of letting New York and Washington and Richmond take beatings.”
“True,” Himmler conceded.
Roth pressed his advantage. “Mien Fuhrer, we have to move now, before they see the rocket on the ground,” he said. “They already have a policy of hammering rocket launch sites, so they’ll hit here soon. We need to move.”
Himmler didn’t question his comment. “Very well,” he said. “I authorise the rocket.” There was a fake-sounding chuckle. “I might take it out of your salary.”
Roth laughed. Laughing was easy. “There’s nothing like certain employment,” he said. “The rocket will be launched soon, and I’ll keep you advised on progress.”
Space Station Clarke
Low Earth Orbit
6th June 1942
Abernathy allowed himself a moment of complete awe as he studied the growing space station in low Earth orbit. Unlike Hamilton, Clarke was intended to have some gravity, which meant that it would have to be huge enough to spin without causing significant damage. Carefully, he completed the task of manoeuvring the entire tank into its position on one of the six struts, and moved the MSV back from the station.
He shook his head inside his space suit, which was almost a spacecraft in its own right. Clarke had a couple of open living tanks, but Commander Salamander had refused to allow any risks to be taken, not when help was so far away. She had insisted that they maintain enough fuel and air to return to Hamilton at all times – as a minimal requirement. Complicated computer programs, originating from space war games, had been adapted to handle the complex mechanics of the issue.
“That’s tank thirty-seven in place,” he said. The follow-up team would fit the tank with its rear hatch, for the next tank, and would ensure that there were no air leaks before compressed air could be released into the tank.
“Acknowledged,” Commander Davenport said. He was Salamander’s junior officer – her former second in command – and he’d picked up a lot of her attitudes. “Confirm position and status.”
Abernathy sighed ruefully, but read off the numbers anyway. He had nearly twice as much fuel as was required to return to Hamilton the fast way, and enough air to do it the slow way if required. He wouldn’t have minded; it was very peaceful high above the Earth, once the panic attacks had faded.
He rotated slightly to study Clarke. The space station appeared to be spinning, but he knew that that was an optical illusion caused by his own position. A giant half-completed bicycle wheel – although without the tyre yet – Clarke dwarfed Hamilton. He smiled; he had a feeling that Hamilton would remain one of the most important bases though, it was entirely zero-gee.
“You are directed to return to Hamilton,” Davenport said finally. A course appeared in his MSVs systems, but he checked it anyway, just in case. “Once there, you will assist with the bombardment project.”
“Acknowledged,” Abernathy said, and smiled grimly. The MSV started to move, accelerating ahead to meet Hamilton as it raced around the Earth, coming up on the space station from the rear. He relaxed slightly and allowed himself to wonder; what had it been like for the three lucky men who’d set foot first on the moon? Under the Space Treaty, the moon was British territory as long as they maintained a base upon the surface, and he had applied to join that base.
He checked the orbital monitor as he raced over the world. There had been another series of launches from Russia, aiming at the Americans and one attempt to hit the Churchill space centre. That missile had been shot down by a Patriot missile, the first ICBM to be fired upon in any reality. He shook his head; what did it have to be costing the Axis in resources to build missiles that could only damage a city block or two?
He chuckled. The first consignment of lunar rock was due to be arriving in a few days, compressed into boulders. Salamander had already informed him that he would be taking part in the bombardment, trying to hammer the Russian factories in the Urals. He’d expected that they would have been able to create precision weapons, but they had to be manufactured in Britain and then they had to be carried into space.
Damn, he thought. Still, the space program was expanding; there would be a growing population in orbit, and perhaps some manufacturing capability. He grinned, more population meant more women; the growing space society had already had their first scandal, when a female doctor had literally prostituted herself for money.
He chuckled. It hadn’t been against regulations, as no one had thought of banning it before it became possible. He hadn’t taken her up on her offer – three hundred pounds for zero-gee sex – but nearly a dozen men had before Salamander caught wind of it and given everyone a lecture on the subject. The offending woman had been quietly sent back down – and it had been the joke of the week that Salamander would have preferred to have done that without the bother of a spaceship.