Moscow, USSR, 1965
Sergei Kirov knew the general mail system was monitored, but he had no other option. He disguised himself in civilian clothes—a drab coat and a worn cap—a terrifying act of defiance for a man who had lived his entire life within the secure confines of the Soviet scientific elite.
He walked through a freezing, crowded Moscow street to a central Pochta Rossii office, blending in with citizens mailing holiday packages and letters to family. He placed his envelope—addressed simply to "Dr. Henri Dubois, Journal of Applied Physics, Zurich, Switzerland"—into the slot.
As he walked away, a sense of finality washed over him. The envelope contained the correct mathematical formulas for the N1's dampening system. If Dubois, a respected neutral Swiss scientist, received it and published the findings quickly, the information might reach the engineers at Fili in time—not as a KGB intelligence coup, but as independent scientific research that exposed the flaws in the American-provided design.
He made it two blocks before a black Chaika sedan pulled up beside him. Two men in thick, dark coats emerged.
"Citizen," one said, his voice flat.
Sergei stopped, his blood running cold. They hadn't caught him with the letter, but Volkov was a careful man. He likely had Sergei watched constantly after their meeting.
"Yes?" Sergei asked, forcing calm into his voice.
"Colonel Volkov requests your presence at headquarters. Immediately."
Sergei looked back at the post office. The fuse was lit; now he just had to hope his message traveled faster than the KGB.
Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland, USA, 1965
Captain Sterling was hitting a wall. His investigations into item code 44 Alpha-Delta were being stonewalled by people two pay grades above him. The cargo manifest had been reclassified three times in two days, moving from Secret to Top Secret, then disappearing entirely from the primary tracking systems.
He decided to go rogue. He called a contact at the Cape Canaveral launch center, a technician who owed him a favor for covering up a minor security breach.
"Hey, Bill. I need info on the Agena target vehicle Jim Donovan docked with," Sterling said over a secure, but technically unsanctioned, line.
"That bird is hot, man," Bill said nervously. "Deorbited last night. Broke up over the Pacific."
"I know that," Sterling said. "I need to know about the payload bay the 'data storage unit' was in. Was it designed for recovery?"
A long pause on the other end. "I'm not supposed to say. But the schematics listed that section as a 'hardened recovery unit.' Not designed to burn up on reentry. It was designed to land intact."
Sterling thanked him and hung up. The confirmation was clear: the cargo wasn't an "exposure test." It was a delivery mechanism for the Soviets to find. The CIA was using NASA missions to feed false data to the enemy.
He needed to talk to Major Donovan. He needed to find out exactly what was put on that flight and why. But first, he needed to make sure he wasn't followed by his own government. He knew the stakes now, and they were far higher than he had imagined. The rivalry had turned the truth into the most dangerous weapon of all.
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