The hanger in the Ural Mountains was freezing, but the air around the workbench felt hot with tension.
Von Braun adjusted his spectacles. He looked at the metal casing of the guidance unit.
"It is grotesque," the German engineer muttered.
Inside the glass-reinforced sphere, the biological processor floated in nutrient gel. It wasn't a whole brain anymore. It was a stripped-down neural cluster from a hunting dog, wired into the copper servos of the rocket's fins.
"It is elegant," Turing corrected him. He was vibrating with caffeine and mania. "It doesn't calculate trajectory. It feels the target."
"And the target?"
"Heat," Turing said. "We conditioned it. Heat equals food. Heat equals pleasure."
He pointed to the test rig. A heat lamp was set up ten meters away.
"Watch."
Turing flipped a switch. The gyroscope hummed.
The fins on the guidance unit snapped. They tracked the lamp instantly. When Turing moved the lamp, the fins adjusted. Fluid. Organic. Faster than any vacuum tube computer.
"Mein Gott," Von Braun whispered. "It is alive."
"It is a predator," Turing said, his eyes shining. "And we are going to mount it on a V-2."
The door to the hanger slammed open.
Jake marched in, flanked by Taranov. He looked like a man who hadn't slept in a week because he hadn't.
"Is it ready?" Jake demanded.
"The prototype is functional," Von Braun said, stepping between Jake and the jar. "But the ethical implications—"
"I don't care about ethics," Jake cut him off. "I care about the Japanese 6th Army digging into Mongolia. They are testing us. If we don't hit back hard, they will take Vladivostok by spring."
He looked at the sphere. The neural tissue pulsed slightly in the liquid.
"What is that?" Jake asked.
"Project Cerberus," Turing said proudly. "Organic guidance. It doesn't jam. It doesn't need a satellite."
Jake stared at the floating brain matter. He felt a wave of revulsion. This was necromancy, not science.
But he remembered the telegram about the burnt grain train. He remembered the starving faces in the Metro.
"Does it work?" Jake asked.
"It never misses," Turing said. "It wants to hit."
"Load it," Jake ordered. "We launch at dawn."
"Herr Stalin," Von Braun protested. "We have not tested the separation stage! If the rocket fails over our own lines—"
"Then it fails!" Jake shouted. The echo rang through the metal hanger. "We are out of time for safety tests! Load the damn dog!"
He turned and walked out before he could vomit.
He was building a kingdom of monsters. And he was the king.
The Mongolian Border. Khalkhin Gol.
The Japanese trenches were a marvel of engineering. Deep, reinforced with logs, and warm.
General Komatsubara sat in his command bunker, sipping tea.
"The Russians are quiet," his aide said.
"They are starving," Komatsubara replied. "Our intelligence says they are eating their own horses. We will push forward tomorrow."
He looked at the map. The path to Lake Baikal was open. The Soviet defenses were thin, demoralized conscripts.
"The Emperor will be pleased," the General said.
Suddenly, the ground shook.
It wasn't an earthquake. It was a low, vibrating hum that vibrated the tea in his cup.
"Artillery?" the aide asked.
"No," Komatsubara said. He stood up. "Artillery booms. This... roars."
He climbed up the ladder to the observation post.
The sky to the west was streaked with white trails. Five of them. Rising vertically, then arching over.
"Rockets," the General whispered. "The German toys."
He wasn't afraid. Rockets were inaccurate. They were terror weapons, meant to scare civilians, not hit entrenched troops.
"Sound the alarm," he ordered lazily. "Get into the deep bunkers."
He watched the trails apex and begin to fall.
Usually, rockets fell in a ballistic arc. Predictable.
But these... these were different.
Through his binoculars, he saw the lead rocket twitch. It corrected its course. It banked, defying gravity, dipping its nose toward the largest concentration of heat on the battlefield.
The generator tent. The ammunition dump. The command bunker.
"It is turning," the General gasped. "How is it turning?"
The V-2 screamed down. The fins adjusted, guided by the hunger of a dead dog that wanted its treat.
It didn't hit the empty field. It hit the ventilation shaft of the main bunker complex.
The explosion was blinding.
General Komatsubara didn't hear the blast. He was vaporized instantly as the thermobaric warhead ignited the air in the tunnels.
The trenches turned into a furnace.
The Kremlin. The War Room.
The radio operator pressed the headphones to his ears. His face was pale.
"Report!" Zhukov barked.
"Direct hit," the operator stammered. "Forward observers confirm... the Japanese sector is gone. Secondary explosions are still happening."
Cheering erupted in the room. Generals slapped each other on the back. It was the first real victory in months.
Jake didn't cheer. He sat at the head of the table, staring at his hands.
"The guidance?" Jake asked quietly.
"100%," the operator said. "Five missiles. Five targets. It was surgical."
Menzhinsky leaned in. "The Japanese representives in Moscow are panicking. They are asking for a ceasefire."
"Deny it," Jake said.
The room went quiet.
"Comrade?" Molotov asked. "A ceasefire allows us to move troops to the West. To face Hitler."
"No," Jake said. He stood up. His voice was cold iron. "If we stop now, they will think it was a lucky shot. We need them to be terrified."
He walked to the map.
"Tell Zhukov to advance. Take the ground while it's still hot. I want the Japanese pushed back to the sea."
"But the supply lines—"
"The supply lines don't matter if the enemy is dead!" Jake snapped. "Attack!"
He left the room.
He walked down the hallway to his private office. He locked the door.
He poured a glass of vodka. He drank it in one gulp.
He had just used a bio-mechanical horror to incinerate thousands of men.
He looked at the portrait of Lenin on the wall. Lenin looked disapproving.
"Don't look at me like that," Jake whispered to the painting. "You didn't have to fight the future."
He poured another drink.
His hands were shaking again. Not from fear. From the adrenaline of the kill.
He liked it.
That was the scariest part. He liked the power.
New York City. The Subway.
It was rush hour. The platform at Grand Central was packed.
Commuters in grey hats read newspapers with headlines about the "Red Terror."
A man in a nondescript coat stood near a pillar. He looked like any other tired worker.
But his name was Alexei. He was a sleeper agent, activated by the code broadcast on the shortwave radio last night.
The bear wakes.
He held a briefcase. Inside wasn't a bomb. It was simpler.
A glass jar filled with a thick, yellow gas. Chlorine and a stabilizing agent. Crude. Effective.
He waited for the train to arrive. The screech of brakes filled the air.
He thought of his family in Kiev. Starving.
"For the Motherland," Alexei whispered.
He dropped the briefcase. He kicked it onto the tracks just as the train arrived.
The impact shattered the jar.
The gas hissed out, instantly sucked into the train's ventilation system by the rush of air.
People started coughing. Then screaming.
Alexei didn't run. He stood there, breathing it in. He had to make sure.
Panic erupted. The stampede began. Bodies were crushed against the turnstiles.
The "Red Terror" had arrived in America.
The White House. The Oval Office.
President Hoover slammed the phone down.
"Gas attack in New York," he said. His face was grey. "Hundreds dead. Thousands injured in the panic."
"Russian agents?" his advisor asked.
"Who else?" Hoover walked to the window. "Stalin is sending a message. He's telling us he can touch us."
"We have to strike back. Military intervention."
"No," Hoover said. "That's what he wants. He wants a war to unite his people."
Hoover turned.
"We strangle him harder. Freeze all Soviet assets. Arrest every Russian national in the country. And tell the OSS to take the gloves off."
He looked at the advisor.
"Find the scientists. The Germans working for him. Von Braun. Buy them. Kidnap them. Kill them. If we take his brains, the beast dies."
The Secret City. Night.
Von Braun was packing a suitcase. He moved quickly, sweating.
He had received a message. A frequency on his secret radio.
The Americans offer sanctuary. Extraction point: Archangelsk. Three days.
He looked at the plans for the V-3 rocket on his desk.
He looked at the jar with the dog brain in the other room.
He couldn't do it anymore. The madness. The organic computers. The starvation.
He was a scientist, not a necromancer.
There was a knock on the door.
Von Braun froze. He shoved the suitcase under the bed.
"Come in," he called out, his voice cracking.
Turing entered. He looked disheveled, charcoal dust on his face.
"Wernher," Turing said. "I had an idea. For the guidance."
"It works, Alan. Leave it alone."
"No," Turing said. He walked into the room. He didn't look at Von Braun. He looked at the window.
"The dog brain... it's limited. It only understands hunger. Simple commands."
Turing turned. His eyes were wide, vacant.
"But a primate? A chimp? Or..."
He trailed off.
"Or what, Alan?" Von Braun asked, his hand drifting to the letter opener on his desk.
"A human," Turing whispered. "A human cortex. Imagine the processing power. We could guide a missile to fly through a specific window in the White House."
Von Braun felt sick.
"You are talking about murder, Alan. harvesting people."
"They are dying anyway!" Turing shouted. "In the camps! In the famine! Why waste the wetware?"
Turing grabbed Von Braun's shoulders.
"We can save the data, Wernher! If we upload a human mind into the machine... we achieve immortality!"
Von Braun pushed him away.
"You are insane."
"I am efficient!" Turing snapped.
He looked at Von Braun. Really looked at him.
"Why is there a suitcase under your bed?"
Silence stretched between them.
Von Braun's heart hammered.
"I... I am reorganizing," Von Braun lied.
Turing stared at him. The brilliant, broken mind processed the variables.
"You're leaving," Turing said softly.
"No."
"You're defecting."
Turing backed away toward the door.
"Stalin will kill you," Turing said.
"Alan, listen to me," Von Braun pleaded. "Come with me. The Americans... they have computers. Real ones. Not dog brains. We can do real science."
Turing paused. For a second, the old Alan was there. The boy who loved puzzles.
Then the madness returned.
"They don't have the vision," Turing said. "They have ethics."
He opened the door.
"I won't tell Taranov," Turing whispered. "Because I need your lab space."
He walked out.
Von Braun sank into his chair.
He had been spared. But he was living with a monster.
He pulled the suitcase out.
He had to leave tonight. Before Turing changed his mind. Or before Turing decided he was the perfect donor for the next guidance system.
The Kremlin. Jake's Bedroom.
Jake lay awake. The bed was too big without Nadya.
He stared at the ceiling.
He had won the battle in Mongolia. He had terrified New York.
But he felt hollow.
He reached under his pillow and pulled out the photo of Yuri.
"I'm doing it for you," he whispered.
But the boy in the photo didn't smile back.
Suddenly, the air raid siren began to wail.
A low, mournful howl over Moscow.
Jake sat up.
"German bombers?" he thought. "Already?"
He ran to the window.
No planes.
But in the distance, toward the industrial district, a massive fireball was rising into the night sky.
The phone rang.
Jake grabbed it.
"Report!"
"Sabotage, Comrade Stalin," Menzhinsky's voice was calm, almost bored. "The grain silos. The ones with the emergency reserves for the city."
"Who?"
"Not Americans," Menzhinsky said. "It was a mob. Local workers. They broke in. They tried to steal the grain. A guard fired a warning shot... it ignited the dust."
Jake dropped the phone.
His own people. Burning their own food in a panic.
He looked at the fire reflecting in the glass.
The fortress was burning from the inside.
"Let it burn," Jake whispered. "From the ashes, we build the iron."
He walked to the closet. He put on his tunic.
He wasn't going back to sleep.
The nightmare was just beginning.