Alt.History 101 (Alt.Chronicles) Read online

  There was more at stake than Europe's inferiority complex. If half of what the spy told him about Howard's invention was true, it was going to change the face of not just the space race, but warfare.

  He dialed the number of the engineer's Dallas office, and let it ring.

  TWO - HUGH

  TEXAS, 10:31 AM LOCAL

  “Good morning, Mr. Howard,” Dot said.

  “Morning,” Hugh replied, removing his hat. “How's my schedule looking for the day?” He leaned across her desk, and fought the urge to pull in a lungful of her perfume.

  “Well, you have a meeting after lunch with the President, and then you have dinner with a starlet.”

  “Hmm. So you don't think you and I have time to run away together.”

  “It would appear you have other plans. And I have a fiancé.”

  He grinned at her, and she couldn't help but smile back. “Don't think I've given up on you yet. Have you seen Dooley around?”

  “He's down at the hangar, sir. Should I ring him?”

  “I'll call down myself,” he said, and bounded into his office. Hugh was full of nervous energy. He'd spoken with the President on the phone, but this wasn't him trying to badger Kennedy into opening up the bid for a space vessel; this was trying to convince him to change his mind on what men making it to the moon might look like.

  And his idea was a radical shift from any prototype that had been bandied about. But the suit worked. It had flown once, on a test flight, before it broke the pilot's legs. They'd ironed that particular kink out of the suit, but he was going to fly it himself in front of Kennedy. That was the only way Hugh was going to convince him that the other Project Gemini prototypes were on the wrong track.

  He picked up his phone and dialed. It rang several times, and with each ring, he worried a little more about everything that could possibly go wrong, starting with the President telling him no, and peaking with the suit crushing him into a tiny, mangled ball of bones and metal. And then catching fire.

  Dooley picked up, and he tried to put the thought out of his head. “This is Eli,” he said.

  “Doing the last-minute checks?” Hugh asked.

  “Done already.”

  “And the suit's fueled up.”

  “I was just topping it off, myself, when you called. And I was going to call you right after, to see if maybe you'd come to your damned senses.”

  “You really should know me well enough by now to know the answer to that. Without asking.”

  Dooley sighed. “You're too damned brilliant to be this damned stupid.”

  “Or maybe you're just wrong about my stupidity.”

  “You don't got to do this. This ain't the war, anymore. We have other test pilots, now – boys who get to risk their lives in civilian aircraft 'cause they missed out on Korea.”

  “None of the other pilots know the suit like I do. Look, I only entertained the idea of letting Bill test the suit because I built it around him – his measurements, I mean. But with him in traction, we don't even have someone who knows the suit well enough to walk through the take-off procedure, and we don't have a week to teach one of them, either. It's me, or it's ten months of R & D pissing through our fingers.”

  “And if the suit has another malfunction? Maybe this time a fatal one?”

  “I made my name testing my own planes, Eli – planes safe enough for Hugh Howard to fly them himself. And you've taken care of the kinks.”

  “We think so. But we thought so before our last test crippled Bill.”

  “Crippled seems like a reach,” Hugh said.

  “Each of his legs is in a hundred pieces. He may never walk again, Hugh.”

  “I don't need to walk, Eli, I just need to fly. And you'll never get off the ground if you're preoccupied with getting crippled.”

  “You know I love you like the kind of idiot son who won't take advice and keeps making the same fool mistakes?”

  “I really don't think I'm going to like what comes next...”

  “I wouldn't lose sleep if half of you ended up in Oklahoma, and the other in Mexico. But this place, it doesn't exist without you. Your name built the place- but also your reputation. It'd dry up and blow away overnight. No legacy – and no pension for those of us stupid enough to figure you cared about your employees.”

  “Now you're just pouting. I built this place with the best minds you could find – which I always assumed meant people smart enough for us to want, but stupid enough to say yes. I trust them, as corralled by you, not to let anything bad happen to me. I'll be fine. And I'm sure you'll live to fret another day. And in case you were thinking deviously, remember that you can't just cut one of the hoses to keep it from firing. This bid falls through, we may not have a company to try to save. Understand?”

  “I do. I'm still not convinced you do, but that's above my pay grade.”

  “Don't you worry your pretty little pay grade about it a moment more. Today you get to meet the President. Then you get to knock his socks off.”

  “I'll see if I can work up some enthusiasm,” Eli said dryly.

  Hugh sat down at his desk. Through the window that curved around fully half of his office, he could see the airfield and hangars. He'd been in tighter places, financially, and in more questionable technology, too. But something about his test flight today had him more than nervous.

  He jumped as his intercom beeped. “I've got Mr. Richards on the line,” Dot said. “It sounded urgent.”

  Hugh sighed. Richards was the investor who gave him the capitol it took to build his prototype suit. The project was over budget, and everyone knew that unless the Vietnam conflict flared hot and the Air Force suddenly needed a hell of a lot more warplanes, Howard Industries was in for the fight of its life. And Kennedy had committed to keeping the US out of the conflict.

  “Hello, Mr. Howard,” a deep, rich voice said from the other end of the line. There wasn't an accent, but Hugh had done enough business with Englishmen to know when one was being hidden.

  “You're not Richards.”

  “No. But I am someone who knows enough to know that Richards' name would get me your undivided attention.”

  “I'm listening.”

  “Though only for a moment,” he said, and the man's British accent eased back into his voice. “Soviet agents are going to attack the President before he arrives at your facility. That will divert all local agencies, including the military. That will leave them free to pursue their actual goal – seizing your suit, your research and potentially yourself in the bargain.

  “You need to get into that suit and go. I don't care where. In fact, it's probably safer I not know. I'm calling from East Berlin – not exactly the most secure location. And if I were captured, the Soviets will break anyone, eventually.”

  “That's why intelligence agencies compartmentalize,” Hugh said. “MI6?”

  “I'm not calling you in any official capacity. The usual order of business wouldn't have allowed me to intervene.”

  “Why should I trust you? What prevents this from being an attempt to get me and the suit outside of the protection of my facility? Give me your name.”

  “Being in East Berlin makes the phone lines even more questionable. How about if we both survive, I'll buy the drinks.”

  THREE - IAN

  Ian held his breath. He was out of cards to play, and even over a terrible intercontinental connection he could hear Hugh's hesitation. “The attack on the President,” Hugh began. “Will it succeed?”

  Ian winced. He contemplated lying. If he told Hugh the truth... but if Hugh was as bright as his reputation suggested, and Ian was caught out lying, then he'd lose all trust. And likely, lose Hugh and his suit to the Soviets. “Yes. As I understand it, the logic was that they could mount a feint towards the President, but that the cost in resources was the same as making an actual attempt on his life. And after the missile crisis in Cuba, the Soviets owe Kennedy one.”

  “Can it be stopped?” Hugh asked.
r />   “Not through any of the normal channels. Maybe if Jack wasn't in Belize...”

  “Could I stop it?”

  “You shouldn't. I know that sounds cold. But Kennedy is little more than a symbol of American largess. Your suit, and the other work you have yet to do, is worth a dozen of him, maybe more. And you can invert that equation, if you're captured by the Soviets. Imagine a wing of your suits flying over Europe – imagine the domination that technology could ensure.”

  “Gives me a hell of an incentive not to muck it up.”

  “I'm not going to help you doom Western civilization.”

  “You can help, or I can fling myself blind into it. Which do you think is less likely to end in my capture by the Soviets?”

  “Damnit,” Ian whispered. “All I can tell you is that the assault is planned around Dealy Plaza.”

  “And you're not holding out?”

  “I'll admit that my powers of persuasion are impressive. But there are limits to the secrets even a cunning linguist can pry from a Soviet spy over the course of only a single evening.”

  “Fine. And you'll alert the Secret Service?”

  “I'll send the message up the proper chain. But we're speaking because I don't believe the message will arrive promptly enough to matter.” Ian sighed. “You should let him die. You're risking the war over what doesn't even constitute a battle.”

  “Fortune favors the bold.”

  “And she castigates the reckless.” Ian's jaw clenched. If they had been in the same room, he'd have laid the industrialist out. But he was helpless to stop him. All he could do was hope Hugh was half as good a pilot as he thought. “Be careful, Hugh.”

  “Yeah. You, too.”

  Ian hung up the phone, and heard noise from the bedroom. He walked cautiously in. The spy was stirring in bed. She smiled up at him sleepily.

  “I'm afraid I may have bedded you under embroidered pretenses. I work in British intelligence.” Hugh was used to watching the process play out, in slow motion. The realization was the first blow. The second was how very much she'd told him the night before; that strike took longer to land, because of the amount of alcohol and post-coital exhaustion involved. She retrieved her pistol from her pillowcase, and aimed it at his chest.

  “I'm afraid I also took liberties with your ammunition,” he said, and produced a handful of rounds from his jacket pocket. “But we've had a lovely time, so far, and I'd hate to spoil that over a petty philosophical difference. Your organization will not look kindly on our association. Mine... accepts the way I tend to operate. I'd like to offer my assistance in expatriating.”

  “And if I refuse?” she asked.

  “I leave, and you stay. But I've already passed along the information you gave me. Your masters will track it back to you. And you know what they'll do when they do. But we needn't belabor that point any further. I like you, and would prefer you be happy in a place where the Soviets won't have such an easy time putting a bullet in you.”

  “They will, anyway,” she said despondently. The crush of Soviet communism had that effect on those already struggling under its heel.

  “No,” he said. “If they thought they could catch you in the next, say, ninety days, you'll be in possession of intelligence valuable enough to mount an assault inside the UK. But if we can keep you out of sight for that time period – all the while debriefing you –” she flustered, and for a moment Ian wondered if 'debrief' had translated properly, before he continued, “then the value of your murder goes down significantly. And despite popular media, it's quite difficult to hire an assassination in England. We can keep you safe, I promise.”

  “And how much is a spy's promise worth, I wonder?”

  “Depends on the spy,” he said. “But your alternatives are far, far worse. I want you to live, to be happy, and prosper. And possibly to meet me at a pub in London some day when neither of us are punched in.” He smiled, and she smiled back.

  “I'll need to collect my things.”

  “No,” he said, “you don't. The only things you have are what's on you, now. Nothing else is worth losing your life over. I have a bolt hole prepared. Dress, and we'll leave. After I make a brief phone call.”

  FOUR - HUGH

  Hugh was sweating already. He had always prided himself on being good under pressure; he didn't sweat when he was piloting an experimental aircraft. But before? He was a human puddle. And walking across the lot towards the hangar, he could feel his shirt beginning to stick to his skin. Some of that was the noonday Texas sun, but in November he could hardly claim that was the entirety of it.

  He grabbed a rag on his way into the hangar, and unfolded it to find a corner not smeared in grease. He dabbed at his skin and stared at the suit. It looked like a man-shaped submarine that lost a fight with a can-opener. The design used plates of heat-shielding that slid to either side to allow the human pilot to step inside.

  Eli noticed him, and started over towards him. “Weren't expecting you so soon,” he muttered. “The President's still a ways off.”

  Hugh threw his jacket over a chair and loosened his tie. “Change of plans. We're bringing the demonstration to him.” He dropped the tie on his jacket and attacked the buttons on his shirt.

  “What?” Eli asked.

  “I just got word from the State Department. The Soviets are in town. Two-pronged assault, hitting Kennedy with one, and us and the suit with the other.”

  “What would they want with – oh God,” Eli finished. “It's two-thirds of the way to a man-portable tank.”

  “Yeah. Even the Russians could manage to turn it into something deadly.” Hugh laid his pants and shirt over his jacket.

  “And I can only imagine if they scooped up you and the suit. That would be the Nazis getting ahold of the bomb and Oppenheimer.”

  “I'm not sure I belong in that company,” Hugh said, and stepped inside the robotic suit, “but I appreciate the sentiment all the same. Preflight?”

  Eli looked at the technicians monitoring gauges. They nodded. “You're go.”

  “Once I'm gone, you'll want to call the authorities. Most of them are already preoccupied with Kennedy, and that'll only get worse if shots are fired. But call in any favors you can, and lock down the compound. The Soviets can't get any of our work. I'm sealing the suit.”

  The suit was controlled through a series of complicated gestures. Closing it required Hugh to roll his wrists so both of his palms faced upward, then close his fingers tightly into fists. The suit responded by shifting several of its armored plates, closing him in a cask. It reminded him of the Poe story, about the man bricked up with wine. He wished he'd grabbed a drink from his office.

  Eli started to crank open the skylight. Then Hugh felt the floor begin to tilt. The suit was on a metal launch-pad with a lip designed to contain the heat and flames of the initial ignition.

  “Stand clear for ignition,” Hugh said. His voice echoed strangely inside he metal suit. It must have been how medieval knights heard themselves. He raised his arms, then stretched his fingers. The rockets on the backs of his thighs and the bottoms of his feet kicked on, and for a moment he hovered a few inches off the ground. Then they all fired together at once and he went sprawling through the air.

  An instant later and the rockets mounted on his forearms kicked on, and he was able to stabilize himself. He used them to adjust his pitch, and start gaining altitude.

  “Well,” Eli said over the radio, “you managed to take off without dying. Guess I owe Marty a Coke.”

  “You bet a Coke I'd die taking off?” Hugh asked, too amused at the idea to be upset by it.

  “Or break something. And remember, you've got to keep the g-forces below ten, or you pass out, and you die.”

  “And who gets a Coke if that happens?”

  “I do. Brown took that bet. I covered the over and the under. The spread's a young man's game.”

  “What's the range on our radio?”

  “Too short. We're working to minia
turize some of the longer-distance military tech, but for now, we weren't planning on having the suit any further than the airspace above the field. I'm going to lose you an--sec-----ow.”

  FIVE

  Hugh was alone. The suit wasn't as responsive as he had intuited, but once he had it leveled over the city, he didn't have flying to distract him. Soviet agents were trying to capture him, and his suit. He didn't know the British man in Germany, and wondered if it was possible he had been misled, that Kennedy was safe, but the Soviets were luring him into a trap.

  He shook off the notion. His airfield maybe wasn't the securest of locations, but it would still be easier to put a hand on him and his tech there, rather than plucking it out of the sky.

  He adjusted the lenses over the suit's eyeslats. They were designed to let a pilot aim the suit towards an aquatic extraction point from orbit, but had enough magnification that he could make out the details of a gathered crowd, and a motorcade.

  He was getting close to Dealy Plaza, and so was the President. He tucked his arms against his torso and clawed his fingers, increasing fuel to the rockets. Time was running out.

  SIX

  Hugh's father, Robert, fought in World War I. He told him about the time he was shot, by a sniper. Technically, the man just a little to the front of him was shot, took the bullet through the head. That man saved his life, because the bullet slowed enough it didn't hit Robert hard enough to break through his sternum to pierce his heart – it ricocheted off, into then out of a lung.

  But he remembered that moment, the few seconds before the shot and after, like it was days in the offing. He saw light glint off a scope in the second-story window of a small French home. He'd heard about snipers, seen a few men shot. But it was the first time he saw light reflecting off a German's scope.

  The world moved in slow motion. He knew he needed to get down, to get the friend in front of him down. He saw the muzzle flash, but he reasoned he was moving already, he'd have time to warn his friend, and push him out of the way. He thought he was going to make it, started to play through visiting him and his family back in Ohio for the holidays, reminiscing about the time Robert saved his life. He wasn't sure if it'd be Thanksgiving or Christmas, just that his entire family would be wearing ugly sweaters.