Without answering, Gureavich shone the torch onto the area, revealing two-foot-long stress cracks in the second stage of the rocket’s casing.
Muller surveyed them, then took the torch from the technician, and moving the beam to other sections in the same area, noticed that there were more hairline cracks. ‘Damn!’
Gureavich felt for Muller, knowing for sure, the test would have to be cancelled. The rocket was at risk of exploding; the vibrations would open the cracks even further, exposing the fuel.
Muller climbed down, he was annoyed, annoyed that it was not he who had first seen the cracks, as he would have cleared the rocket for launch, and then relish in its demise, as it exploded in full view of the Deputy Premier.
Now the launch would be postponed, perhaps for a few months, while waiting for the first stage to be replaced with a new component.
Everyone at the Cosmodrome knew, the Americans were close to reaching the Moon; now this further mishap, had probably meant they now may have even won this most important race.
Muller looked up at the N1, and in his thoughts, hoped that his fellow comrade at Cape Canaveral, would be preparing to prevent the equally mighty Saturn V, from doing so.
In Titusville Florida, after a long nightshift at the Kennedy Space Centre, Peter Weisemann walked back to his seat in Steve’s Diner, after making a quick international telephone call. He had attempted to communicate with Fleischer at his office, but the Onyx Cross leader, was in an early morning meeting at his factory. Instead, he had to leave a message with his personal secretary.
Ingrid Klein had listened to the caller, and in her native German, scribbled down the three words on her pad: Mr Whiteman of Cape Industries — has the plans for your perusal.
Weisemann sat back down and picked up his copy of a German daily newspaper, which he had managed to obtain from a newsstand nearby. He took a sip of his steaming hot mug of black coffee, and tucked into a plate of pancakes covered in maple syrup, poured by the waitress. The German had always admired the way, she did this. Having just completed a night shift at the vehicle assembly complex, Weisemann, was looking forward to a good sleep, and beside him on the long seat, sat his familiar black leather briefcase.
The diner’s owner, Steve Keneally, had taken over the long-established family business from his father, who had decided to take early retirement, and take Steve junior’s stepmother, on a world cruise. The original plan was to go into co-ownership with his older brother. However, two years ago, being a member of the Florida National Guard, his brother had been drafted to serve in Vietnam. Unfortunately, due to a heart murmur, Steve had been exempt from following him.
During a US forces raid on a Vietcong tunnel network, deep within the Cu Chi district northwest of Saigon, Private Harry Keneally, had been killed instantly, along with two of his fellow infantrymen, by a subterranean blast, caused by a strategically placed, but simply made booby trap, consisting of two Russian made RGD-5 hand grenades, wired on either side of an entrance to an abandoned underground operations room.
Steve was bitter about what he saw as a pointless and unnecessary war.
He wiped some glasses, and looked over at the solitary figure sitting on the right side of his establishment. Keneally knew all his customers, and although aware that his customer was an ex-Nazi rocket engineer, he was always eager to hear the latest news on the Apollo Moon Programme, allowed to be disclosed. He put away the glasses and walked over to the German. ‘So, Peter, how are things going with the Apollo missions?’
Weisemann looked over his newspaper at the proprietor. Placing it down onto the table, he folded it neatly, and smiled.
‘We are on schedule to launch Apollo 10 in forty-eight hours. This is going to be the trial, and if this is successful, the Moon landing will take place sometime in July.’
Keneally gave a beaming smile. ‘Gee, that’s fantastic. It looks like ol’ JFK’s prophecy of putting a man on the Moon before the end of this decade, will come true. It’s a real shame, he isn’t around to see it though.’
Weisemann nodded. ‘Yes, it is indeed a tragedy,’ he replied in a false tone of disappointment. ‘So, Mr Keneally, will you be watching the launch?
Keneally beamed. ‘Oh yeah, I never miss ‘em. I’ll be taking my wife and my two boys to see the Apollo 10 launch. We usually make it a picnic, then I come back here, and open for the tourists. Thanks to you guys at the Cape, I sure get plenty of business after these launches. The parking lot is full of cars, from all over the states.’
‘Then that is good for you then, yes?’
‘You better believe it old buddy. I have to get all my girls in to meet the demand,’ he announced, referring to his waitresses.
Weisemann laughed, then after a few minutes finished his breakfast, picked up his newspaper and got up from his table. ‘I am tired, Mr Keneally. Mr von Braun is working us to the bone, at the moment, so that we beat the Russians to the Moon. I will see you soon my friend.’
‘Yeah, sure thing, Peter, I’ll put the meal on your tab. Be seein ya fella.’
Weisemann walked outside into the car park, retrieving his keys from his jacket. As he opened his car door, Keneally shouted to him from the diner’s doorway.
‘Hey, Peter? You forgot your briefcase.’
Weisemann looked up and stared widely at the white apron clad diner owner holding up his case. ‘Mein Gott! I am such a fool,’ he said using a combination of German and English. ‘Thank you, Mr Keneally.’ He took hold of the case.
Keneally nodded. ‘I guess you may have some important papers, in there, so it’s good I decided to clear your table, when I did.’
Weisemann smiled embarrassingly. ‘Yes, it was good. Thank you again, my friend.’
‘No problem, enjoy your sleep.’
Weisemann sat down in his car, shut the driver’s door and turned on the ignition.
At the exit to the car park, he paused to allow for oncoming traffic, and in these few moments, glanced with relief at the case next to him in the passenger seat. He then cursed to himself loudly, hitting his steering wheel in frustration, as he pictured someone opening the case, to find out who it belonged to and, even more damaging, discovering what was inside.
Chapter 35
At Baikonur Cosmodrome, having also finally come off duty, an equally exhausted Dieter Muller alighted the transport bus in Leninsk and walked a few blocks to a bread shop. It was late in the morning and the usual queues had now ceased.
Muller acknowledged the tall bearded man arranging bread behind the counter. ‘Good morning Igor. May I use your telephone, my friend?’
The man smiled and walked around the counter gesturing to the telephone’s location. ‘Of course, please. My wife has just made some coffee Dieter, would you like some?’
Muller nodded his approval, walked to the telephone and dialled a memorized phone number. He watched the big man disappear through a door into the back of the shop.
At the other end of the line, Fleischer answered the telephone in his office at the factory and Muller spoke in German. ‘Merlin, this is Condor. The N1 launch has been aborted. Fractures have been found in the casing and the rocket needs to be repaired. It now may not launch until August. I await further instructions.’
Muller listened as Fleischer asked him to keep him informed of the next launch.
Muller put down the phone and turned to see the baker return with two mugs of coffee. ‘Here we are Dieter,’ he said, handing him the mug.
Igor then produced a small bottle of vodka from his apron, prompting Muller with it.
Muller shook his head. ‘Not today thank you my friend. I have spent all weekend at the Cosmodrome, and wish to see my wife and son with a clear head.’