Tim Glister - Red Corona

Corona was the newest frontier in the global espionage war – a joint project between the CIA and NASA to create a network of satellites carrying ultra-high resolution cameras that could be positioned above any location on the planet at a moment’s notice. It was supposed to hand the US an eye on the whole world – and unassailable intelligence supremacy – but it was behind schedule.

‘He’s impatient,’ Murphy said. ‘He wants us on the moon already.’

‘Who the hell signed off that speech?’ Dixon asked rhetorically as he rubbed his free hand over the top of his stubbled buzz-cut head. ‘I can’t even get a decent radio signal into orbit, let alone two hundred and forty thousand miles into space.’

‘It’s three months since Freedom 7 went up. He doesn’t understand why we’re still playing around with parachutes.’

Dixon sighed. ‘Neither do I,’ he said. He leaned onto his elbow, massaging his temple between his thumb and middle finger.

‘You shouldn’t be telling me things like that.’

‘I know better than to try and keep secrets from the CIA. And I need all the help I can get.’

Despite years of work, Dixon and his team had failed to find a way to send data-heavy radio signals through the atmospheric barrier. This was why the Corona satellites relied on dropping capsules full of photographic film from the tips of their thick, cigar-shaped bodies, and why Alan Shepard had been blasted into near-orbit aboard Freedom 7 with a communications system that was essentially a jumped-up walkie-talkie.

‘We have the nation’s best scientific minds on this, Patrick. There’s not much more help I can get you.’

‘The president’s welcome to come down to Langley and lend a hand if he wants.’

‘Let’s not go down that road,’ Murphy said.

Part of Murphy’s job was keeping the president informed about strategic developments from the Corona programme; another part was stopping him from getting too personally involved.

Dixon looked down at the mess of papers on his desk. Each one was a pipe dream or dead end.

‘Why do I feel like I’ve got a sword dangling over my head?’ he asked.

‘Because you do,’ Murphy said. ‘But if it’s any consolation it’s over both our heads. A few photos in a metal tube every couple of weeks isn’t enough. He wants his parade down the Mall. And slightly more relevant to us, he wants to know what’s going on in Russia.’

‘Can’t he send up the U-2s again?’ Dixon asked.

‘Not an option.’

A year ago, Gary Powers’ U-2 spy plane had been shot down deep inside Russian territory by a rogue S75-Dvina missile. The incident hadn’t just embarrassed America and handed Russia a major political victory. It had also effectively ended the CIA’s aerial reconnaissance operations, and led directly to its interest in Corona.

The holy American trinity of government, military, and private industry had been experimenting with orbital reconnaissance since 1957. Under the codename Discoverer, Washington paid the RAND Corporation to build satellites, the Itek Corporation to design next-generation triple-lensed panoramic cameras, and Eastman Kodak to develop a new film stock that delivered three times the resolution of the best aerial photography film used in World War Two. The Air Force originally managed the Discoverer programme, but in May 1958 control was moved to the Advanced Research and Projects Agency, then when NASA was founded a few months later it was shifted again.

Progress was slow. Between January 1959 and May 1960, Discoverer attempted twelve satellite launches, and every single one was a failure. Two rockets never left the launchpad, five exploded before they reached orbit, and the five that did all malfunctioned. But as the shockwaves of the U-2 incident rippled around Washington throughout the summer of 1960, the CIA science and technology division was already taking over leadership of Discoverer and turning it into Corona.

Corona was named after the outer layer of the sun’s atmosphere that only becomes visible during an eclipse, when everything else is black. Given how handicapped American intelligence gathering had become, it was an apt moniker. The research team, now led by Dixon, was given a new, dedicated lab at NASA’s Langley Research Center in Hampton, Virginia. They were also told that, when it came to getting Corona working, money was no object and failure was not an option.

‘Powers was a fluke,’ Murphy continued. ‘But intelligence says Russian missiles are more than capable of hitting the U-2’s cruising altitude now.’

‘I thought that was just Khrushchev banging his shoe.’

‘For once it seems the old man isn’t lying through his teeth. The Air Force is working on a new plane with a higher ceiling, but it’s taking time.’

‘Everything takes time.’

‘Not for us. We’re magicians, remember?’

‘How could I forget?’

Dixon hung up the phone, leaned back in his chair, and wondered, for what felt like the thousandth time, why he’d ever left his tenured position at MIT and joined NASA. Of course, he knew the answer. He wanted to help America win the space race. But right now it felt like they were losing, and because of him.

He picked up a sheet of paper from his desk, hoping to find inspiration in its scribbles and half-finished calculations. It didn’t come.

There was no Watcher at Knox’s front door when he got back to Kemp House. But someone was waiting for him.

He found Peterson sitting at his dining table, leafing through the three bundles of papers from Bianchi and Moretti’s flat that Knox hadn’t taken with him to Cambridge and Holloway.

‘What are you doing here?’ Knox demanded. He didn’t appreciate the invasion of his private space. He was also still irritated about his trip to Cambridge – guilty that he’d dragged up an old man’s demons, and embarrassed that the whole thing had been a waste of time – and frustrated that Sandra Horne hadn’t given him anything useful.

‘Manning wants a progress report,’ Peterson replied, eyes still skimming through the papers in front of him.

‘He can wait.’

Knox could tell Peterson wanted to say something more, but he wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of asking what. So they just stared at each other across the table while Knox took off his jacket.

Peterson blinked first. ‘Find anything interesting in Cambridge?’

‘You had me followed?’ Knox said, slamming his jacket down on the table for dramatic effect.

‘Of course I had you followed,’ Peterson said. ‘In four days London will become the biggest intelligence target since the Paris Peace Conference. The last thing I need is a rogue element running around the place.’ He picked up the address book and flicked through it.

‘I’m not a rogue element,’ Knox replied.

‘You ignore orders. You’re unreliable. And now you’re my problem.’

‘I’m doing what I have to to get answers.’ He gestured at the papers, making it clear that they didn’t hold any.

‘From your perspective, perhaps. But let me give you another one. The director general is in a coma, two men have been found dead, and the man who connects them all ran off at the first opportunity.’

‘You and Manning put me in the middle of this.’

‘Where we could keep tabs on you.’

Knox’s jaw hardened. He wondered exactly what ‘keeping tabs’ meant. Did Peterson’s interest stretch to scrutinising his service record?

‘I don’t like what you’re implying,’ he said.

‘Implying suggests I’m saying something open to interpretation. You’re still as much a suspect as anyone else. More as far as I’m concerned. And fleeing the scene hardly does you any favours.’