“I’m afraid it was my fault, Captain,” she said.
“The hell it was!” cried a white man to her rear.
“This racist asshole bitch-slapped the doc,” somebody else called out.
Chief Mohr forced his way past Slim Jim, drawing up beside Anderson and looking down at the prostrate form of Lieutenant Charles.
“Oh, that’d be fuckin’ right,” he said darkly.
16
USS ENTERPRISE, 0409 HOURS, 3 JUNE 1942
Karen Halabi was only too aware of the outlandish presence she introduced to the small space. The men around her had so far paid due deference to the respect Spruance seemed to accord her, but she could tell from the prickling of her skin and the occasional hostile glance that she was there under his sufferance.
Spruance stared morosely out at the burning wreckage of his task force.
Dawn was coming, and the extent of the carnage was no longer hidden by full darkness. A few hours from now, they all knew Japanese planes would be over Dutch Harbor on a diversionary strike. The American commander was fast approaching the point where he would have to contact Admiral Nimitz in Pearl and try to explain what had happened. Halabi didn’t fancy changing places with him. Down below on the flight deck, a landing signals officer from the Clinton waved in a Seahawk with four survivors just plucked from the water.
“Michaels,” said Spruance, “have the Gwin and the Benham stand-by the Leyte Gulf for salvage and evacuation. They are to place their men under the direction of Captain Anderson on the Leyte Gulf. She’ll command the operation.”
There wasn’t so much as a murmur of dissent, but Halabi could feel the men bristle. Spruance remained silent, watching the lights of the helicopters as they hovered and swooped against the black curtain of the Pacific night. Karen would swear that her neck was burning with the intensity of the glares being directed at her by some of the bridge crew. But she clasped her hands behind her back and tried to take what small measure of consolation she could from the experience of riding atop one of history’s greatest warships.
She was startled out of her reverie when Spruance next spoke.
“Your people are very professional, Captain. They’ve saved a lot of men tonight.”
He didn’t add what a few men around him no doubt thought, that Halabi’s people had killed even more.
“Standards haven’t slipped, Admiral.”
“How long have you been at war, Captain?” Spruance asked in a distracted voice.
“Myself? Twelve years, sir. But it’s a different kind of war. More complicated, I suppose.”
“I don’t see how that could be,” Spruance said.
“Politics, religion, history.” She shrugged. “It gets very complicated, believe me. Often we’re not even fighting other states, just a state of mind. Ideas.”
Spruance turned completely around. Silhouetted against the glass, it was nearly impossible to see his face. “You can’t fight ideas with rockets and guns.”
“On the contrary, that’s exactly what you were doing out here, Admiral. You came here to kill men and sink ships. But it was ideas that sent you and the Japanese to war. And it’s ideas about how men and women should live that have sent England to war with Germany. I know that all sounds far too abstract, what with so much blood being spilled. But even after Pearl Harbor, you don’t understand the nature of the thing you’re fighting.”
Karen watched as Spruance folded his arms in the dark space of the bridge.
“You sound like you’re running for Congress—sorry, Parliament.”
“It’s just my MA showing. Conflict studies at Cambridge. You’ll have to excuse my academic interest in your war. It happened a long time before I was born. But we studied it closely. Because of the immense scale of violence and cruelty this conflict unleashed, there persists in our culture a horror of war, a belief that it is an unmitigated evil, even though this is also recognized as a just war. One that could not be morally avoided.”
“Because of Pearl Harbor,” said Spruance.
“No. Because of Auschwitz.”
Spruance shook his head. “Sounds like a Kraut name, but I’ve never heard of it.”
“You will.”
USS HILLARY CLINTON, 0409 HOURS, 3 JUNE 1942
One large wall-mounted flatscreen in Media Center displayed a stored high-res satellite image of the southern reaches of the Indonesian Archipelago. Dan Black knew that because Lieutenant Thieu had explained it when they arrived. He wasn’t quite sure what the hell that all meant, though.
Lieutenant Thieu looked a lot like a Jap to Lieutenant Commander Black’s way of thinking. But he sounded as though he’d spent his whole life on the beaches of California.
“Santa Monica,” Thieu said, when Black asked. “My parents were deep green Earth First types. I surfed a lot to get out of the house. Then when they tried to get me to paddle my board out to hassle some longline tuna boats, I ran away and joined the navy. I don’t think they’ll ever forgive me.”
Black had no idea what he was talking about, but the mystery of Thieu was nothing compared to the two civilian women who were straining at the leash just behind him. Black figured them for civvies because of the complete lack of respect they brought to their dealings with the lieutenant.
“And what’s your job, Lieutenant?” asked Black.
“Right now, I’m just looking after you until you can get back to the Enterprise. But officially, media relations.”
“And we’re the media he’s trying to have a relationship with,” said one of the women.
Thieu exhaled slowly. “Lieutenant Commander Black, Ensign Curtis, this is Julia Duffy, a feature writer for the New York Times, and Rosanna Natoli, a reporter for CNN. You don’t have it yet. It’s a bit like the Movietone newsreels, I guess.”
“So, what, we’re supposed to talk to the press now?” asked Black, who was openly confused.
He’d felt about as useful as tits on a bull up on the flag bridge, and had been happy enough to get out from under Kolhammer’s feet as the search and rescue effort accelerated. With Curtis eager to try out a “computer,” they’d been escorted down to this “Media Center”—although it looked like an aid station to Black, with maybe two dozen civilians laid out on cots.
Thieu explained that they were reporters who’d been “embedded” with various elements of the Multinational Force, but that didn’t make Black feel any more comfortable.
“You don’t have to talk to anyone if you don’t want to,” Thieu added quickly.
“Oh, come now,” said Natoli. “I’m sure these boys wouldn’t be scared of talking to a couple of lady reporters. They were on their way to kick Yamamoto’s butt. They’ll be safe with us, Edgar.”
“And who are you going to file for?” asked Thieu. “Ms. Duffy still might be able to score a gig with the Times, but I don’t know if Ted Turner’s even been born yet. And if he has, he ain’t hiring.”
“Well, first off,” Natoli argued, “you don’t know for sure that we’re stuck here. We could all be back home selling our stories by this time tomorrow. None of us knows anything yet. Meanwhile, you have your job. We have ours.”
Black watched the exchange with growing curiosity. These women didn’t defer to the officer at all. Their demeanor was challenging, bordering on ill mannered. He dismissed the idea that it was a function of Thieu’s race. It was possible, he realized, that they just didn’t like each other. If so, it might be useful to get to know them. They might have a different angle on what was happening. He wasn’t sure he trusted Kolhammer’s people yet.
Behind the women, a whole wall was taken up with what Black thought of as movie screens, displaying scenes from all over both fleets. He could even see his own ship, the Enterprise, with two helicopters just setting down on her deck.
The view seemed to be coming from on high, directly above the flight deck, and the commander assumed another helicopter was taking the photos. When he asked, though, Thieu explained that the
feed was actually coming from a small, saucer-shaped “drone-cam” keeping station about three thousand five hundred meters—that meant twelve thousand feet, apparently—above the deck of the carrier. That almost made sense. Other panels on the big wall screen showed vision of a few surviving destroyers from his own group alongside sleek, flowing ships from the future, with a constant transfer of men between both.
Men and women, he corrected himself.
Nodding slowly to the Italian doll, he said, “I can’t speak for Ensign Curtis, but I don’t mind chatting with you while things get cleared up outside, miss. I can’t do any interviews, though. You can’t put me in your story, right?”
Lieutenant Thieu closed his eyes and muttered something beneath his breath. But the two reporters smiled radiantly.
“Fabbo,” said Duffy.
“What about you, Ensign Curtis?” Natoli asked. “You up for a little deep background?”
Curtis blushed down to roots of his hair.
Captain Jurgen Müller arrived directly from a SAR mission and was still wearing his flight suit. Commander Enrico Prodi made his way up from the Clinton’s hangar deck. And Major Pavel Ivanov of the Russian army had crossed from the Kandahar, where he had been taking part in the SEALs’ tutorial on the G4 assault rifle when Pope’s wormhole had swallowed them all.
The men picked at a tray of sandwiches in Kolhammer’s private quarters while the admiral handed out mugs of coffee.
“Where is Colonel Gogol?” asked Ivanov.
“I’m afraid he didn’t make it,” said Mike Judge.
The Spetsnaz officer took in the answer, processed it, and grunted.
“Too bad.”
Ivanov didn’t look like he needed much commiserating. Judge restricted himself to replying, “Yeah, too bad.”
A knock sounded at the door and Kolhammer called out, “Enter.”
The three visitors all turned to see Sub-Lieutenant Maseo Miyazaki, acting commander of the Siranui. One arm was encased in a bright green gel tube, and he stood with the aid of a stick.
Despite his injuries, Miyazaki bowed deeply, every line in his body rigid. It was as if he had fiber-steel cable instead of muscle and bone. Kolhammer took his cue from the young officer and, rather than staring directly into his eyes, he averted his gaze, just slightly. He discreetly studied the stoic mask Miyazaki had drawn across his feelings. Grief and pain were obvious, but survivor guilt was there, as well, a gnawing sense of shame and remorse that one should live when better men had died.
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” he said, bowing his head. “I served with Captain Okada on a number of occasions. He was a fine warrior. A man of giri. I would appreciate it if you let your men know how deeply we feel his loss and the death of his comrades.”
The young officer carefully straightened his back.
“Thank you, sir. I understand two of Admiral Spruance’s ships were destroyed by the Siranui,” he said. “As the officer responsible, I now forward our most abject apologies to the admiral and place myself under arrest pending court-martial for the unauthorized killing of Allied naval personnel.”
Kolhammer was stunned. Nobody moved. The other three foreigners were obviously as taken aback as he was. They looked like props placed by a director. His stateroom, paneled in oak and furnished with a leather lounge and deep blue carpets, suddenly seemed strangely artificial to him, like a stage setting. As he recovered his wits, he put down his empty coffee mug and searched for a reassuring, but authoritative tone.
“Please stand at ease, Lieutenant. In fact, sit down and take the weight off. Please, I mean it. The release of your combat mace was not unauthorized. I sanctioned an overriding autonomy for the fleet CIs, and the consequences of that decision are mine to bear, not yours. I’ll be certain to forward your apologies to Admiral Spruance but I won’t allow you to take the blame.
“Unfortunately, I fear that won’t satisfy the demands of the situation.”
Miyazaki entered the room with a small degree of difficulty. But he carefully lowered himself into a chair next to Ivanov and gratefully accepted a cup of green tea from Commander Judge.
“Domo arrigato.”
“You’re welcome,” smiled Judge.
Ivanov gave the young Japanese sailor a slap on the knee.
“Good shooting,” he deadpanned.
Kolhammer grimaced inwardly. He had served with a lot of Russians. He was used to their gallows humor. “Gentlemen, I won’t bullshit you. We have a problem,” he said. “I doubt we’re going home anytime soon. Maybe never. That leaves you men up fecal creek. We have twenty-one German, eighteen Italian, and fifteen Russian personnel serving on attachment throughout the task force. And, of course, we have the Siranui. You’re the senior surviving officers of your national contingents. If we are indeed trapped here, your homelands are dictatorships, and in the case of Germany, Italy, and Japan, they’re enemy states.”
Ivanov let out a short, humorless laugh. “I suspect that for me and my comrades, Admiral, the Soviet Union is an enemy state.”
“That’s why you’re here as well, Major.”
“And us?” bristled Müller. “Are we to provide you with some sort of loyalty pledge?”
The Italian, Prodi, threw up his hands. “Alora! You have no reason to be concerned with my feelings, Admiral. Have you visited Rome and seen the fascist architecture? It’s an abomination! Profoundly antihuman and a total misreading of imperial design. That pig Mussolini deserved to hang by his heels!”
Two seconds of confused and utter silence greeted the Italian’s outburst.
“Right, then,” Kolhammer said when he recovered. “Thank you, Commander Prodi. To answer your question, Captain Müller, no, I’m not looking for loyalty pledges. But there are people here who will. And even if they get them, they’ll still want to lock you up.”
“I expect Stalin shall try to put an icepick in my brain,” said Ivanov without much emotion. “But we shall see how that works for him, da?”
“Stalin isn’t my concern,” said Kolhammer. “J. Edgar Hoover might be.”
The blank looks he received told him they hadn’t boned up on their American history before accepting their postings.
“Look, I harbor no doubts about your dependability, but you can expect a lot of shit from the locals. Not so much you and your guys, Ivanov. But then, like you say, you’ll have your own problems. We can sort this out properly when we have more time, but I want you to personally get around to your people and tell them to keep their heads down. Especially when we get to Pearl Harbor, or Brisbane, or the West Coast.”
“We don’t know where we’re going yet?” asked Ivanov.
“We don’t know much about anything,” Kolhammer conceded. “Commander Judge has pulled together a list of the personnel you’ll need to contact. Forget about your other duties until you’ve done this.”
Sub-Lieutenant Miyazaki coughed, and spoke in a halting voice. “And what am I to do, Admiral? How do we hide a Nemesis cruiser?”
Kolhammer propped himself against his desk. The Europeans seemed almost as interested in his answer as the Japanese officer. He worked a kink out of his neck and sighed.
“The next few days won’t be easy, but as long as my command remains intact I am responsible for your welfare and security. I won’t allow it to be compromised. Is there anything you need, by the way?’ asked Kolhammer. “Medical supplies or personnel?”
“I’m afraid our casualties were mostly killed in action,” said Miyazaki. “Indeed, I have organized for our surplus medical supplies to be taken off for distribution to those vessels more in need. I understand the Kandahar is running low on burn gel and vat skin.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. That’s much appreciated. I’ll see to it that your generosity is acknowledged.”
Miyazaki seemed truly affronted by the proposition, becoming animated for the first time in their encounter.
“That will not be necessary,” he insisted. “It is not a gesture!”
/>
“I understand that, Maseo,” said Kolhammer, gently and deliberately choosing the informal, intimate form of address. “I also asked you about personnel. Being blunt about it, I had a reason. You’ve lost all of your senior officers. I’ve had significant casualties on the Leyte Gulf. We’re going to lose that ship in the next few hours. It would help smooth things over with the locals if you accepted Captain Anderson and a small cadre of American officers as replacements for your casualties.”
Miyazaki was silent. Kolhammer could see the effort play out on the young man’s face, as he wrestled with conflicting demands and desires.
“I don’t mean to be insulting, Lieutenant. But we don’t have a lot of time. On the other hand we do have a shitload of resentment and fear and outright loathing to contend with. I’m going to have my hands full keeping your crew out of a prison camp.”
He could see that Miyazaki was about to leap to the defense of his men. Holding up one hand, he plowed on. “I know. It’s not fair. But that’s just tough shit. I know that you’ve slaved your CI to the Clinton. I’ve told Spruance that, but it means nothing to him. He won’t rest easy until he sees an American in charge of that ship.”
“A black woman?” scoffed Miyazaki. “You think that will please him?”
Kolhammer smiled weakly. “Well, he can’t have everything his own way, can he.”
He felt real sympathy for the youngster. His behavior during the battle had been entirely proper and courageous. Under different circumstances it would have earned him a medal. Instead, he stood implicitly accused of being untrustworthy and dishonorable. Of lacking giri. There weren’t many worse insults you could hand a Japanese fighting man, but Kolhammer had no choice. He remained motionless, perched on the arm of the couch, frantically searching for a way that Miyazaki might save face. He was thus a little startled that it was Captain Müller who was provoked into an outburst.
The German, who looked like he was chewing on something sour, barked out, “This is a lot of bullshit for nothing, Herr Admiral.”
Weapons of Choice — Axis Of Time Book I Page 25