“All right then.” Stimson shrugged. “So we wait until we see the damn thing coming toward us, then we send interceptors to shoot it down.”
“I think not, Mr. Secretary.” Donovan shook his head. “By the time it reaches New York, its altitude will be seventy kilometers… that’s about 43.5 miles, far above the range of our planes.” Again, he nodded to the report. “That’s the whole purpose of this operation… to provide the Germans with a weapon that can’t be defeated.”
“Not by conventional means, at any rate,” Fleming added.
Bush glanced up from the document. “You have something in mind, Commander?”
He’d only been thinking out loud, yet Fleming suddenly discovered that every eye had turned toward him. President Roosevelt was looking straight across the table at him; both Stimson and Hull were waiting for whatever he had to say, and he didn’t have to look around to know that Donovan had locked onto him as well. Perhaps he should have kept his mouth shut, but it was too late.
“I’ve just been thinking”—he coughed in his hand to clear his throat—“pardon me, I’ve just been thinking that, if the Germans are developing an intercontinental rocket as an offensive weapon, perhaps the proper response should be to develop one of our own as a deterrent.”
Hull made an unpleasant sputtering sound with his lips. “The proper response should be to bomb the hell out of Peenemünde.”
“Unfortunately, sir, the Germans still have air superiority over most of Europe.” Fleming shook his head. “Their radar is more effective than we believed, and they’re capable of putting interceptors in the air whenever we launch an air raid. Only lately have we been able to send our Mosquitoes over the German borders, and even then they haven’t been very effective. We’ve suffered major losses when we’ve tried daytime raids, and high-altitude bombing runs at nighttime have missed the target more often than not. The RAF fully intends to bomb Peenemünde… but not until we’re confident it won’t be a suicide mission.”
“I’m afraid he’s right, Mr. President,” Stimson said. “We’re a long way from successfully mounting air raids deep within German territory.” He nodded to Fleming. “Go on, Commander. I’m interested in what you have to say about building a rocket deterrent of our own.”
The last thing Fleming wanted to admit was that he barely had an inkling of what he himself had just suggested. All he could do was wing it. “I’m just thinking that… well, if aircraft can’t intercept Silver Bird, and it’s beyond range of ground artillery, maybe the solution should be to tackle the problem by much the same means… we construct a rocket of our own to shoot it down.”
Again, no one spoke for several moments. “All this sounds rather far-fetched, Mr. President,” Hull said at last, still not persuaded.
“Cordell, I couldn’t agree more, but…” Roosevelt sighed, shook his head. “We can’t afford to take that chance. We’ve already had one sneak attack. We can’t have another, particularly not on the American mainland.”
“I agree, Mr. President,” Bush said. “The public is still reeling from what happened at Pearl Harbor. If the Nazis dropped a bomb on New York…” He let out his breath. “I’m not sure which would be worse, the actual damage and loss of life or what it would do to home-front morale.”
“You have a point there.” Roosevelt nodded. “Having the Nazis be able to launch an attack on American soil is unacceptable.” He paused reflectively, staring at the document as if it were a rattlesnake. “So what do you think? Can we build a rocket capable of shooting down this thing?”
Bush absentmindedly drummed his fingers on the table. “If this report is correct, the Nazis have a long head start on us. If we decide to get into this, it will have to be crash program…”
“Like the one we have already? The Manhattan District project, I mean.” Catching a curious look from Donovan, Roosevelt gave him a dismissive wave of the hand. “Nothing to be concerned about, General. Just a military construction program we’ve lately undertaken.”
Somehow, Fleming had a sense that it was far more than that. He didn’t say anything, though, as Bush went on. “Yes, sir… although, in this case, we have even more to go on. After all, the Manhattan project is based on little more than conjecture and a recommendation from… ah, a couple of physicists.” He laid a hand on the Black Umbrella report. “Here, we have tangible evidence.”
“Sounds to me like you’re suggesting that we shift our resources from one program to another.”
“If it comes to that, yes, sir. In fact, if this is where the Nazis are putting their resources, I’d recommend that we discontinue that program entirely. After all, we’re pursuing that line of research mainly because, up until now, we’ve believed that’s what they’re doing. If they’re not…”
“Understood.” The president nodded.
“Which brings us back to your original question. Can we build a rocket of our own?” Bush shrugged. “The truth of the matter, Mr. President, is that because we don’t have a rocket-development program, we’ll have to create one from scratch. And fast.”
“I see.” Roosevelt pondered this for a moment. “So… the Germans have von Braun and Sanger. Do we have anyone who knows just as much about this sort of thing as they do?”
“Yes, sir, we do, but…” Bush hesitated.
“Who is he?”
“Goddard, sir… Dr. Robert H. Goddard.” A wan smile. “And even if we can find him, I’m not sure he’ll work for us. I’m afraid he has… um, a bit of a history when it comes to dealing with our military.”
“I don’t care,” Roosevelt said. “Find him, Van, and tell him that he’s now the most important scientist in America.”
Hiding a smile behind a raised hand, Ian Fleming felt a surge of satisfaction. During the long overnight flight across the Atlantic, he’d been kept awake by the thought that the Americans wouldn’t take Black Umbrella seriously. He’d been afraid that Yankee conservatism would win out over the willingness to imagine what had once been unthinkable. Yet once again, President Roosevelt had turned out to be a visionary leader. He was willing to do whatever it took to protect his country even if it meant stepping into the unknown.
Fleming had no idea how this would all turn out. But when you stop to think of it, he mused, it would make a really smashing novel.
NELL’S FATHER
JANUARY 25, 1942
“Company’s coming,” Esther Goddard said.
Henry Morse looked up from the counter where he was peeling potatoes. Through the open kitchen window, he spotted a dusty fantail rising from the dirt road leading across the New Mexico grasslands to Mescalero Ranch. Esther’s voice came from the front porch, where she’d been taking a break from preparing lunch to have a cigarette and read the morning paper.
“They’re early, I think.” Henry dropped the potatoes in a bowl and wiped his hands on a terry-cloth towel. The car was still a mile away, but they already knew who was in it and where they were coming from. “Must have followed the directions I gave them and turned right at the second cow instead of the first.”
Esther laughed. The fifteen-acre ranch was notoriously hard to find by anyone who wasn’t a local, which was just the way the Goddards and everyone else who lived out there liked it. Henry heard the rustle of newspaper as she put aside the Roswell Morning Dispatch. “Think I should get Bob, or…?”
“No, not yet.” Henry carried the potatoes over to the stove, where Esther would fry them. “Let’s talk to these guys first. If they’re not serious, then we can always tell ’em that Bob’s gone fishing or…”