The German ambassador, Count Brockdorff-Rantzau, looked like a skeleton in a tuxedo.
He sat in the private dining room of the Kremlin. The table was set with the finest Tsar-era porcelain, but the food was simple: borscht and black bread.
Jake poured the vodka himself.
"To friendship," Jake said, raising his glass.
The Count didn't drink. He stared at Jake with cold, Prussian eyes.
"Friendship is a strong word, Herr Stalin," the Count said. "My government is... concerned. You are inciting riots in India. You are kidnapping scientists."
"I am surviving," Jake said. He downed the shot. "And so are you."
He leaned forward.
"The French occupy the Ruhr. They steal your coal. They humiliate you. And the British laugh."
The Count's jaw tightened. It was a sore spot. The Treaty of Versailles was a wound that refused to heal.
"What do you propose?" the Count asked.
"A secret," Jake said.
He slid a map across the table. It showed the vast, empty steppes east of Kazan.
"Lipetsk," Jake said. "Kama. Tomka."
"Villages," the Count noted dismissively.
"Training grounds," Jake corrected. "For your Luftwaffe. For your Panzers."
The Count froze. The glass of vodka stopped halfway to his mouth.
"The Treaty forbids us from having an air force or tanks," the Count whispered. "If the Allies find out..."
"They won't," Jake said. "Deep Russia is a black hole. No spies. No journalists."
He tapped the map.
"You bring your engineers. You bring your prototypes. You train your pilots here, in the sky where no Frenchman can see them. And in return..."
"In return?"
"You teach us," Jake said. "You teach my officers how to use radios. You teach my engineers how to build optics. And you sign a non-aggression pact."
The Count stared at the map. It was forbidden fruit. It was the key to German resurrection.
"And if we refuse?"
"Then I sign a pact with France," Jake lied smoothly. "And you stay a colony forever."
The Count took the shot of vodka. He slammed the glass down.
"When can we start?"
"Tonight," Jake said.
Menzhinsky waited in the corridor. He was cleaning his nails with a knife.
"He agreed?" Menzhinsky asked.
"He agreed," Jake said. "The Germans are desperate to feel like a great power again."
"You are playing a dangerous game, Koba," Menzhinsky murmured. "Training the Wehrmacht? These are the men who will invade us in 1941."
"Not if I change the timeline," Jake said.
He walked down the long red hallway.
"If Germany feels secure... if they feel strong... maybe they don't turn to Hitler. Maybe the Weimar Republic survives."
"Or maybe," Menzhinsky said, following him, "you just gave a loaded gun to a maniac."
Jake stopped. He looked at a portrait of Lenin on the wall.
"I need their technology, Vyacheslav. Their optics. Their radios. We are blind and deaf without them."
"Let us hope we don't go mute as well," Menzhinsky said.
The nursery was painted yellow.
Nadya was sitting in the rocking chair. She was sewing a button onto a tiny shirt.
Jake stood in the doorway. He felt dirty. He smelled of vodka and lies.
"Is it done?" Nadya asked. She didn't look up.
"The deal is signed," Jake said.
"With the Germans?"
"Yes."
Nadya stopped sewing.
"My father fought the Germans," she said softly. "In the Great War. He has shrapnel in his leg."
"That was the Kaiser's war," Jake said. "This is different."
"Is it?" Nadya looked at him. Her eyes were piercing. "You are arming them, Koba. Why?"
"To keep the peace," Jake said. It sounded hollow, even to him.
"You are building a monster to fight a monster," Nadya said. "And we are stuck in the middle."
She stood up. She walked over to him. She placed the tiny shirt against his chest.
"Will this fit him?" she asked.
Jake looked at the small fabric. It was terrifyingly small.
"It will fit," Jake whispered.
"He will be born in the spring," Nadya said. "Will there be a war by then?"
"No," Jake promised. "I will burn the world down before I let a war touch him."
Nadya kissed his cheek. It was a cold kiss.
"That is what I am afraid of," she said.
Three weeks later. The Secret City.
The wind howled around the concrete bunkers. It carried the scent of pine and heavy industry.
Wernher von Braun stood next to a new test stand. He wore a thick fur coat, a gift from the Party.
"The gyroscope is calibrated," von Braun shouted over the wind. "The silicone oil worked perfectly!"
Jake nodded. He wore a simple military greatcoat.
"And the guidance?"
"Active," von Braun pointed to a metal box strapped to the rocket frame. "It will correct the trajectory every 0.5 seconds."
"Show me," Jake said.
Von Braun signaled the technician. A switch was flipped.
The rocket engine didn't fire. Instead, the fins on the bottom twitched. Left. Right. Center. Like a living thing testing its limbs.
"It knows where it is," von Braun grinned. "It knows where it wants to go."
"And where does it want to go?" Jake asked.
"Up," von Braun said. He looked at the grey sky. "Always up."
Robert Goddard walked over. He looked tired, but his eyes were bright.
"My wife," Goddard said. "Is she..."
"She is in Canada," Jake lied. "The crossing is difficult in winter. But she is coming."
Goddard nodded, relief washing over his face. "Thank you. I... I couldn't do this without knowing she was safe."
Jake felt a twinge of guilt. He had no idea where Goddard's wife was. Menzhinsky's agents were still hunting.
But he needed Goddard focused.
"She will be here for the launch," Jake promised.
"The launch?" von Braun asked. "We are months away from a launch."
"You have weeks," Jake said.
"Impossible!" von Braun shouted. "The airframe isn't stress-tested! It will tear apart at Mach 1!"
"Then build it stronger," Jake snapped. "The British are moving battleships into the Black Sea. I need a demonstration."
He grabbed von Braun by the shoulders.
"I don't need it to hit a specific street in London, Wernher. I just need it to hit the ocean. I need the world to see that we can touch them."
Von Braun looked at Jake's intense, desperate eyes.
The boy nodded slowly.
"We will reinforce the struts," von Braun muttered. "We will add weight. But it will fly."
"Good."
Jake turned to leave.
Menzhinsky was waiting by the jeep.
"The wife?" Menzhinsky asked quietly.
"We found her," the spy said. "In Boston. But she is sick. Tuberculosis."
Jake cursed.
"If she dies before she gets here, Goddard will break."
"We can bring her," Menzhinsky said. "But the journey might kill her."
"Bring her anyway," Jake ordered. "Bring doctors. Bring an oxygen tent. Just get her here alive."
He looked at the rocket.
"We are building a tower of lies, Vyacheslav. We just need it to stand long enough to cast a shadow."
The Black Sea. Two weeks later.
The British battleship HMS Iron Duke cut through the waves. Its massive guns were trained on the horizon—toward Sevastopol.
Admiral Chatfield stood on the bridge. He held a cup of tea.
"Any movement from the Reds?" he asked.
"None, sir," the radar operator said. "Their fleet is rusting in the harbor."
Chatfield smiled. "Good. We will sail past, show the flag, and remind them who owns the waves."
Suddenly, a streak of white smoke appeared in the sky.
It was high. Impossibly high.
"What is that?" the Admiral asked, raising his binoculars. "A meteor?"
The streak arched downward. It was silent. Faster than sound.
CRACK.
A sonic boom shattered the windows on the bridge.
The object hit the water five hundred yards off the port bow.
It didn't explode. It disintegrated on impact, sending a geyser of water three hundred feet into the air.
The ship rocked violently.
"Torpedo!" someone screamed.
"No," Chatfield whispered, staring at the boiling water. "That came from the sky."
He looked up. The smoke trail lingered, a perfect white scar across the blue.
It had come from the north. From hundreds of miles away.
"They have a gun," the Admiral muttered, his face pale. "A gun that can shoot over the horizon."
"Orders, sir?"
"Turn around," Chatfield barked. "Full speed! Get us out of range!"
"Sir, we don't know the range!"
"Exactly!" Chatfield shouted. "Turn around!"
The Kremlin.
The telegram from Sevastopol lay on the desk.
Target impact confirmed. British fleet retreating.
Jake slumped in his chair. He let out a laugh that sounded like a sob.
It worked. The V-2 worked.
They didn't have a warhead yet. It was just a giant metal dart. But the psychological impact was nuclear.
"They are running," Menzhinsky said, smiling. "The Royal Navy is running from a science experiment."
"They don't know it's an experiment," Jake said. "They think we are gods."
He poured a drink. His hand was shaking.
He had bought another few months. Another reprieve.
But the cost was rising.
He looked at the calendar. March 1926.
The baby was due in April.
And in the Urals, the graphite pile was getting hotter.
"We are winning," Jake whispered.
But as he looked at the map, at the red lines of tension stretching across the globe, he wondered if winning looked any different from losing.
The phone rang.
"Comrade Stalin," it was Kurchatov. "The first core is cast."
Jake closed his eyes.
"Is it warm?"
"It is hot," Kurchatov said. "It is humming."
"Bring it to me," Jake said. "I want to see the end of the world."