Muller let his eyes freeze on Willie Brasch.
"Do not warn anyone. You are already traitors to the Reich. Like me."
"But there are children…," cried Willie.
"I know," Muller shot back, suddenly giving vent to his own suppressed rage. "Some of them are my family."
HMS TRIDENT, ENGLISH CHANNEL
"Outstanding work, Captain Halabi."
"Thank you, Admiral. I'll make sure to pass your compliments on to my crew. What would really make them happy, though, are some more Metal Storm loads."
Kolhammer disappeared inside a cloud of white noise for a moment before his image winked back into clarity. The encrypted vidlink to Washington was very shaky.
"I'm sorry," Kolhammer said. "I think you were asking for MS reloads. There's a seaplane on its way now, should be there in seventeen hours. It's carrying a pallet of ammo from the Clinton. That should take you back to twelve percent. After that, I'm afraid we're tapped out. We're going to need everything we've got for Hawaii. But the first hand-tooled Vulcans should be ready for air shipment to you in a fortnight. It's not Metal Storm, but it's a hell of a lot better than a couple of goddamned pom-poms."
Halabi smiled. "It will be, sir. About Hawaii, sir-will you be needing me to prepare for redeployment? It's going to be a very unpleasant business taking those islands back. Especially with the Dessaix on the loose."
Kolhammer must have worked through his plans for the campaign already. He shook his head emphatically. "We'll deal with the Dessaix first," he said. "And we'll need to redouble our efforts to determine whether any Task Force assets have fallen into enemy hands. The Soviets, for instance. But for now, you're best off staying right where you are. The Hawaiian mission will be run by the locals, with input from us. But it's their show, and they've agreed to leave the Trident in place."
Halabi found herself in two minds. She agreed that the best role for the Trident was as a floating early-warning center. But she felt isolated here in her own country, and the brief prospect of rejoining the community of Multinational Force ships was quietly appealing.
She had retired to her ready room and suddenly realized it was the first time in over a day and a half she'd been alone. Kolhammer looked tired, but not as tired as she felt.
"I'm sorry, sir. Excuse me," she said, stifling a yawn.
"That's all right, Captain. You've earned some rack time."
"Soon enough, Admiral. The Germans are in retreat. The bulk of their invasion fleet didn't make it past the halfway point. And they're not reinforcing the airborne forces that did land."
"I read the last burst," said Kolhammer. "There's some hard fighting around Ipswich. But infantry against armor? It won't last."
Halabi frowned. "Your burst is a bit out of date, I'm afraid, sir. The British First Armored had to pull back. The Germans were a mix of Fallschirmjager and SS Special Forces. They were pretty well equipped with portable antiarmor systems. Panzerfaust Two-fifties, I think. Or a variation on that theme, anyway. A lot of them had good, basic body armor and they were all packing assault rifles with an over-under grenade launcher. They chewed up a lot of our men."
Kolhammer's mouth was set in a grim line. "So what's happening? Do they have any kind of squad-level antiair systems?"
Halabi shook her head. "No, sir. So that's what's happening. The RAF have regained tactical control of our airspace, and those Cyclone gunships are near permanent fixtures above the German strongpoints."
"I see. How's their ammunition holding up?"
"I think we'll run out of Germans before we run out of ammo, sir."
Kolhammer sighed. "Well, we can't do much better than that."
The link dropped out.
Halabi stared at the wall of static for a full minute, wondering if the admiral might reconnect, but he didn't.
She rubbed her eyes, which felt as though they'd been baking inside a pizza oven. She sent a quick note to McTeale, updating him on the schedule for Metal Storm reloads. The Trident hummed under her feet. They'd withdrawn into the comparatively safer waters south of Ireland. It meant that the ship's own sensors weren't available to directly monitor the main battlespace over the Channel and the southern counties, but the Admiralty had decided that with the German attack effectively broken, they could afford to downgrade to drone cover only.
Halabi chuckled: a dry, mirthless sound.
A few months ago, the 'temps wouldn't have thought of drone coverage as a "downgrade." It would have been a bloody miracle.
Indeed, it was a bloody miracle, in the literal sense of the phrase, and it had saved her homeland.
As she slumped into her bunk, she refused to think about the fact that some people didn't agree it was her home at all.
COMMAND BUNKER, RASTENBURG, EAST PRUSSIA
It took many hours for the true state of affairs to emerge, but the Reichsfuhrer had begun to suspect that Sea Dragon might fail when his own contribution, the Sonderaktiontruppen, were shattered before they had even reached the British Isles.
Reports had to be filed via landline, because of the Allies' ability to read and decode all the Reich's radio traffic. When Himmler finally got word that over half his own airborne regiment had been annihilated in transit, the magnitude of the disaster was already coming into focus.
Nearly two hundred Allied fighter planes had drilled right through the insane confusion of the air battle over the seas around England to attack the transports carrying the SS regiment. It was as though a vengeful God had lead them there. But he knew better. The Trident had guided them onto the target. He'd known the ship had that capability. But how had it known which flight, out of the many thousands of sorties flown today, had been the crucial one? There was only one answer to that. A very old-fashioned answer.
Treachery.
"It is just not possible. How dare they, how dare they?" the fuhrer raged.
The atmosphere in the command bunker was bleak, tending toward ominous. There would be many, many people to punish for this calamitous failure. Himmler's unforgiving gaze fell upon Goring. He was drunk and blustering about the large numbers of Spitfires and Hurricanes his men had shot down. That may well be, but the RAF's air defense net was nowhere near as badly degraded as the Luftwaffe chief had insisted. And the Trident had survived every attack thrown against it with apparent ease.
Yes, it was the fuhrer himself who had downplayed the importance of the ship's electronic senses. What had he said?
What did it matter if the British had a perfect view of their doom as it came rushing at them? It was still their doom.
Well, that was hardly his fault. The fuhrer had repeatedly stated that he had no feel for naval combat. It had been Raeder's job to advise him on those matters. The senior Kriegsmarine officer hadn't spoken since news of the Tirpitz had come in via safe-hand courier. Preparing his excuses, thought Himmler.
Hitler alternated between screaming at his subordinates-ordering them to deploy units already confirmed as lost-and muttering to himself about the depth of betrayal he had been forced to endure.
Himmler kept to himself, wondering what could be salvaged.
All his hopes now lay with Skorzeny.
37
CAMBRIDGESHIRE, ENGLAND
Stealing the truck had been remarkably simple. Tens of thousands of military vehicles were on the move, and contrary to the comic book school of war, not everything ran smoothly. Vehicles broke down. Drivers didn't know which turn to take. Whole divisions got lost. Convoys were attacked and shot up from the air. Many trucks were abandoned, pushed off the road, simply because their drivers knew nothing about them beyond how to start the ignition.
Harold Philby wasn't much of a mechanic himself, but two of Skorzeny's men were. They had the broken down deuce-and-a-half running again within fifteen minutes. As a bonus, it was fitted out as a medical transport, with a red cross painted prominently on the canvas tarpaulin that covered the rear bed. After a hurried conference with the German commander, it was agre
ed that this would provide even better cover than a normal military truck, in which they ran the risk of being commandeered and attached to any combat unit they might run into.
Skorzeny had his men wrap themselves in the bloodied uniforms and bandages of the previous, missing occupants. Then they all piled into litters in the back. One of the most fluent English speakers was nominated as their "medic" to attend the wounded.
"Let's go then, tovarich." Skorzeny grinned.
He reminded Philby of a fox licking shit from a wire brush. The traitor put aside his visceral dislike of the fascist and gunned the engine. It kicked over after two attempts, and he pulled back onto the road.
They were well north of London, with at least half a day's travel in front of them and absolutely no guarantee of surviving it. He doubted that he would survive, even if they made the objective. Number Five had been quite explicit about the steps he should take to escape when he'd delivered Skorzeny, but after six months on the run, the rogue spy knew just how hard it was going to be to avoid detection once he'd put his head up. Unlike Burgess and Maclean, he'd gone to ground immediately upon learning of the Transition, and he was still alive because of it. The others, he had no idea. They could be dead, or more likely they were being detained somewhere by the SIS, tortured with the drugs and interrogation machines that were said to have arrived with the dark woman and the Trident.
"What is this marshland, tovarich?" Skorzeny asked as they rumbled along. "I thought Cambridge was a university, not a swamp."
"This is Cambridgeshire," Philby explained. "Specifically we're in the Ouse Washes, a floodplain between the Old and New Bedford rivers, drained by the Fourth Earl of Bedford in the sixteen-"
"A swamp, then, as I said."
Philby exhaled slowly.
If he ever made it to Moscow, he was going to get a medal for this.
A flight of American planes screamed overhead, wagging their wings just for him.
Biggin Hill was unrecognizable.
Actually, that was untrue. Harry had seen damage like this on many occasions. So many over the years that he'd lost count.
"Hammerhead run," said Sergeant St. Clair as the Eurocopter settled on its wheels.
"Looks like," the prince agreed. "Not well directed, though."
"Well enough, guv."
Harry's face twisted as he allowed the point. There were buildings and hangars standing, untouched, and runways that had been excavated in cross section rather than along their entire length. But the damage was still massive and crippling. Twelve hundred dead, they'd told him on the way in, including two members of Halabi's crew who'd died when their billet, a nearby village inn, had been destroyed by a wayward packet of submunitions.
"Can you refuel, here?" asked Harry as the rotors began to wind down.
The voice of Flight Lieutenant Ashley Hay responded in his earbud. "Our fuel stores weren't touched, Major. We'll top up and get back to Trident ASAP, if you don't mind."
"Okay. Thanks again for your help back there, Ash. Smashing effort."
"Thank you, sir."
His half-troop, minus the casualties Akerman and Bolt, were already unloading kit from the NH91 into a couple of vintage jeeps with.50 cal. mounts for the drive north, where they would meet up with the regiment, which was prepping for a night assault into Aldringham, one of the Suffolk villages still held by the Fallschirmjager.
Harry waved off the chopper, bent over, and hurried to his men in the jeeps. Fires burned all around them, and as he was climbing into the lead vehicle, he noticed a disembodied human thumb lying by the rear wheel.
"Your Highness," said his driver, a whey-faced lad just as Harry had once been.
"None of that, son. Major will do. You know where you're going? You won't get lost?"
"Ipswich, sir, via the city. Done it a hundred times."
"Good lad." Harry clapped him on the back, announcing with faux high humor, "And you shall know us by the trail of our dead."
"Excuse me, Major?" asked the 'temp, who now looked worried.
"Nah, excuse the guvnor," said St. Clair as he stowed his weapon in a gun rack on the dashboard. "He's got a very sad weakness for postpunk allusions, and it comes out when he's under pressure."
The wheels spun on grass, and they leapt away. Harry settled back and hauled out his flexipad, pulling down the latest sit rep from the Trident.
As soon as the unit linked to Fleetnet, a Priority 1 e-mail unfolded itself on screen.
"Trouble, guv?" St. Clair asked.
"Not really," Harry replied. "Good news, actually. The Aldringham job's a blow out. Seems they love their new gunships so much, we're all being pensioned off, and the rest of the war is going to be won by dicing up the krauts with miniguns."
"Fucking corker!" St. Clair grinned. "We still going to London, though?"
"Yep. I've still got to meet the PM for tea and biscuits."
"You'll want to make yourself beautiful, then, guv. You're a right fuckin' sight, you are."
He was, but there was nothing for it but a cat's lick and promise, as grandma used to say. He wondered where she was right now. The firm had decided to stay in London, come what may. He couldn't imagine that some precautions hadn't been taken, however. Then again, last he'd heard, they pitched poor old granddad right into the thick of it in the Channel. Harry had no idea what ship he was on, or whether he'd even made it.
What a fucking mess.
He was going to drink an unhealthy number of lagers when this was all over.
The prince settled back into the seat and caught up with the latest burst.
Halabi had made it through without significant damage, although she was now bereft of any force-projection capability, having fired the last shots in her locker.
The German invasion fleet was piled up on the French side of the Channel, unable to make any headway against the Allied air forces or Royal Navy. The Kriegsmarine had pretty much ceased to function as a blue-water surface fleet, with the destruction of the Tirpitz battle group, although that had been a close-run thing. The Germans had put up a reasonably effective antimissile screen simply by filling the air in front of them with a storm front of shrapnel and high explosives. A bit like the jihadi in his own day, Harry mused.
Flight ops hadn't resumed from Biggin Hill, and probably wouldn't for a few weeks, given the extent of the damage. But the sky was still crowded with aircraft from other airfields. As they drove away from the ruined sector station, Harry stretched his cramped neck muscles by craning his head right back and scanning the dull gray skies. The traffic was all one way, heading out. Whereas a few hours earlier, it had been an unholy mess up there, with incredible numbers of aircraft twisting and turning in massive dogfights, now the skies looked more like a superhighway delivering massed columns of fighters and bombers over the Channel.
"What were they fuckin' thinkin', d'you reckon, guv?" asked St. Clair as Harry read a couple more E-mails, which came in as flash traffic.
"The Nazis? They weren't thinking at all, Viv. That's the problem with leadership cults. They're red hot on getting shit done, once the big man has spoken, but not so good at weighing up whether that shit should have been done in the first place."
He had an e-mail from the War Ministry with details of the briefing he was to attend at Whitehall, before continuing on to Ipswich. And a quick personal note from Churchill, personally thanking him and his men for their efforts at Alresford.
Harry checked his watch. They'd be another hour or two getting there, and probably an hour delayed while he was at the briefing. "Viv," he said, leaning forward, "you and the lads should chase up some hot nosh when we're in the city. It's going to be a while before they get another sit-down feed."
Their driver piped up. "Begging your pardon, sir, but I know a good chippy near Whitehall, if your lads wouldn't mind."
Harry smiled. "How do you think the lads would feel about some fish and chips, Sergeant Major?"
"I suspect they could murder a fee
d, guv."
"What's your name, son?" asked Harry, shouting over the engine noise and the rush of air.
"Corporal Draper, sir. Peter Draper."
"Well, young Pete. I like the cut of your jib. That's the sort of initiative which built the British Empire. Drop me at the Ministry, and get my boys some hot tucker-my shout."
Harry passed over a ten-pound note.
"And keep the change."
They almost ran off the road. He'd forgotten that Corporal Draper had probably never seen so much money in one place.
Philby maintained a safe house in London that hadn't been discovered following the Transition. A professor of economics at Trinity College, Cambridge, owned it-a man he had recruited as a talent-spotter for the Russians just before the war began.
He was now in the Pacific, working as a Naval attache in Melbourne, and Philby presumed upon their relationship to borrow the house as a hideout. Built in the 1700s, it had a coach house around the rear, large enough to conceal the truck they had stolen; London was in such a state of upheaval, with the streets full of military vehicles, the emergency services, and commandeered civilian transport, that one wayward truck was unlikely to arouse much suspicion, if they moved quickly.
Only Philby and the two fluent speakers raised their voices as the squad disembarked from the truck, still pretending to be wounded soldiers. Philby ordered them into the house and loudly announced that they'd be staying there until beds could be found for them at a military hospital.
Once inside, the men stripped off their bandages and bloodied rags, resuming their counterfeit roles as soldiers from Holland and Denmark. They unpacked their kit, checked weapons, and waited for the call.
It came within two hours.
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