Twenty men served aboard each of the vessels, and most were lined up along their forward decks that morning as the boats tied up at a small jetty toward the western side of the facility. It was already quite humid, although a cool breeze blowing in from the Atlantic went a long way toward providing some comfort for the naval ratings working in the docks there, some of them scurrying about with mooring ropes as the vessels docked.
Lieutenant (Junior Grade) John Fitzgerald Kennedy was one of the first men off PT-101 as it was tied up, duffel bag over one shoulder as he and his XO took their first good look at the base that would be their new home, something that wasn’t likely to change in the foreseeable future unless the unthinkable occurred and war broke out.
The second oldest of nine Kennedy children born to businessman and former UK Ambassador Joseph P. Kennedy Snr and his wife, Rose, he’d had applied for the US Army Officer’s Candidate School early in 1940 but had been rejected due to lower back problems. Following months of exercise to strengthen his back – and some assistance from the then director of the Office of Naval Intelligence – he had subsequently been accepted into the United States Naval Reserve early that next year. By the middle of 1942 Kennedy had received a promotion to his current rank and had taken command of his first PT-boat. A posting to Florida had followed, then moving on to his current assignment at Panama.
An officer was waiting for them as they disembarked, and both men dumped their bags and snapped to attention as he approached.
“Welcome to Coco Solo, lieutenant,” the officer advised, exchanging salutes. “I’m Lieutenant-Commander Robson: glad to have you with us.”
“Thank you, sir,” Kennedy nodded, his distinctive, New England accent sharp and clear. “Pleasure to be here…”
“Well, I’ll let you make that call when you’ve been here a few months,” Robson grinned, not too unkindly. “The weather’s fine – most of the time – and when it ain’t, it ain’t, if you take my meaning. We don’t see much excitement down here, lieutenant: we’ve got a battleship and some cruisers comin’ through the canal tomorrow morning with a troop convoy, but mostly it’s supply ships and commercial traffic. It gets pretty boring down here otherwise.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine, sir,” Kennedy replied, giving a broad, toothy grin of his own. “Give me time to work up my crew, if the Japs don’t go and mess everything up by startin’ a war…”
“The Japanese…?” Robson almost laughed at the thought. “Hell, lieutenant, didn’t you know? This is the ass-end of the entire continent… literally: I doubt the Goddamned Japs have even heard of us!”
Massachusetts Avenue NW
Washington D.C.
December 6, 1942
Sunday
“How come I always get these shitty jobs…?” Harry Fleischman moaned loudly as he sat at the window and stared out at the tall, two-storey building right across the street, on the other side of Massachusetts Avenue. It was still early that morning and there was very little traffic about, either vehicular or pedestrian. Fleischman’s accent was one hundred per cent New York Jew, mixed in with a liberal dose of attitude and distinct lack of humility he’d acquired during three years with the US Marines.
“You get these shitty jobs because you’ve only been in the ‘Service for a year, and the rookies get all the shitty jobs,” Michael Tanaka growled, lying on a bed in one corner of the small room and unsuccessfully trying to get some sleep.
“You was in The Bureau five years before you came here…” Fleischman grinned, his eyes never leaving the window. “How come you got this shitty job?”
“Why do you think, asshole,” Tanaka shot back with a grin of his own, waving a finger about his own, clearly Asian features. His own accent was pure West Coast, without a hit of his obvious ancestry. “Those stuffed shirts up on Pennsylvania Avenue don’t like havin’ some slanty-eyed Jap hanging around in the public eye too much, so they put me out here with the rookies, watchin’ over ‘em and wipin’ their asses whenever they ‘cry for momma’…”
“Ahh, fuck you, Micky,” Fleischmann chuckled. “So why you do it then, if all you get is ‘ass-wipin’ jobs’ like this?”
“I’m Nisei, Harry… second generation American with Japs for parents…” he explained with cynicism in a tone that was now decidedly darker as he drew his OSS identification badge out of his shirt pocket and waved it in the air. “With a name like ‘Tanaka’, how long you think I’m gonna keep my name off some internment camp register without having one of these…?”
“They ain’t gonna do any shit like that…” Harry declared, not even sounding certain of it himself as he shook his head slowly. “They can’t do that to Americans…!”
“They’re already takin’ lists,” Tanaka growled, returning the card to its pocket. “Talked to my mom last week: she said two guys came to the house looked like Goddamned fullbacks, sayin’ they was takin’ a ‘census’.” He snorted with equal parts derision and disgust. “Census my ass… they already did one of them two years ago. Got a buddy over at the ‘Bureau says they’ve started some goddamn list called the Custodial Detention Index: taking names and details down of everyone of Italian or German background – immigrant or citizen – that might be a danger to the country.” He shrugged. “Stands to reason, sooner or later they’re gonna start writin’ down where all the Japs are too.
“So I graduated and I got myself a job here in the ‘Service,” he continued with a sigh. “Keeps my family in the good books – I hope – and they get someone who can translate Japanese like a real native.”
“Sounds like the shit end o’ the stick to me,” Harry observed softly, lifting a pair of binoculars as he spotted movement outside. “Okay, we got three guys comin’ out the front door.”
“Anyone we know?” Tanaka asked, quickly rising from his seat and moving to stand behind his colleague.
“Yeah…” Fleischman nodded slowly, making sure of his identifications as he stared through the field glasses. “We got Nomura… Kurusu… three other assholes I never seen before, but they look like some more of those fullbacks…” He grinned. “I don’t know your guys went in for football.”
“Sumo wrestlers, maybe,” Tanaka suggested with a half-smile, joining in on the joke. “Look like muscle anyway, whoever they are…”
The large, two-and-a-half-story building across the street stood at 2516 Massachusetts Avenue NW, right in the middle of the section of Washington known as Embassy Row. Designed in a Georgian Revival style by the architectural firm of Delano & Aldrich (one of the principals being a distant relative of the president), the residence nevertheless also clearly included subtle touches of Japanese influence in its construction. A design said to have been approved by Emperor Hirohito himself, the Embassy of Japan in Washington D.C. was officially opened in 1931 and had been home to the Japanese Ambassador ever since.
They both watched as a large black limousine pulled into the cobblestone drive out front of the residence to collect the waiting dignitaries. Ambassador Nomura Kichisaburō stood out front now, accompanied by special envoy Kurusu Saburō and three others who were unknown to the two OSS agents watching from across the street; men who were clearly bodyguards, hired for their physical capabilities rather than any inherent diplomatic skills.
“Better let McCafferty know,” Fleischman suggested, looking around.
“Already on it,” Tanaka replied with a nod, handset lifted to one ear as he dialled a number into the phone by his bedside table. “Hey, Joey: it’s Mike… yeah… look, we got movement out front. Bring the car up ASAP, okay? Is Eddie there too… good… tell him to come too: we can hand off between cars so it won’t look suspicious. See you in five…” he said finally, hanging up and meaning a lot sooner than five minutes, something that was also understood by the driver at the other end of the phone.
“They ain’t got nothin’ booked for this mornin’,” Harry muttered, glancing down and a few typed sheets of paper that held their intelligence reports rega
rding the Ambassador’s scheduled appointments for the next few days. “They’re all dressed up, too… and one of the meatheads is loading a couple ‘a cases into the trunk now!”
“You stay here and keep an eye on the place, just in case something else happens,” Tanaka advised, shrugging on his suit coat and making sure his revolver was snug inside the shoulder holster underneath.
“Aww, come on…!” Fleischman moaned plaintively, rolling his eyes. “How come I gotta stay here for this one?”
“‘Cause you’re a rookie, remember?” Tanaka grinned, opening the bedroom door. “Rookies get all the shitty jobs…”
Joey McCafferty was waiting for him out front as Tanaka left the building, sliding into the front passenger seat of the white, 1938 De Soto sedan just in time to see the ambassador’s limousine drive off south-east down Massachusetts Avenue, heading toward Sheridan Circle.
“Let’s go, Joey,” Tanaka urged, the words unnecessary as McCafferty was already gunning the engine and pulling back out into the street. “Don’t get too close: there ain’t much traffic around, and we’ll be easier to spot.”
“Shit, Mike, they know we watch ‘em anyway,” McCafferty growled softly, not happy about having been disturbed from his breakfast downstairs.
“Yeah, they do, but that don’t mean they always know when we’re watching ‘em, and if we get lazy then maybe we miss somethin’ we shouldn’t.”
The limo drove right into the centre of Washington at a steady pace, following Massachusetts Avenue right through Dupont and Scott Circle, before turning right at Thomas Circle and heading south on 14th Street NW. Tanaka’s car swapped duties with an old, green Dodge during that stage of the journey, falling back and following their other car instead while it proceeded to tail the ambassador’s vehicle.
They crossed the Potomac a few minutes later at the 14th Street Bridge and drove on into Virginia, continuing on along a brand new section of the Jefferson Davis Highway as Tanaka looked out to the right to take in the sight of the huge construction site currently obscuring what would otherwise have been a view of Arlington National Cemetery. The area had once been Hoover Field, which had served as Washington’s airport until a newer, more capable facility had been opened a mile or two further south, had now become the intended site of a huge new building intended as the headquarters of the United States Department of War.
A strikingly innovative design, construction had commenced on September 11th of 1941 and was expected to be completed within the next few months. A huge building covering over six million square feet of area, it comprised of five floors above ground (plus two basement levels), and had five equal sides laid out in five concentric rings. Intended to house a workforce of over twenty thousand, the building that was already becoming known of as ‘The Pentagon’ for obvious reasons.
Tanaka thought it already looked pretty impressive, despite there still being cranes and construction equipment all over the site. Designed with the intention of very limited use of steel, due to the metal’s strategic importance for military purposes, it was built mostly of reinforced concrete and had even installed concrete ramps instead of elevators as a result.
“Looks like they’re headin’ for the airport all right,” McCafferty observed, bringing Tanaka back to the real world as they watched the limousine ahead turn left onto the access road leading into the new Washington National Airport.
“What the hell, Joey?” Tanaka growled, completely bewildered. “There’s nothing on their sheet to do anything today, let alone catching a Goddamn flight anywhere.”
A half-hour later, Tanaka was standing out on the tarmac by the De Soto while McCafferty was on the car’s radio, reporting to headquarters. They were both watching as a huge, four-engined Focke-Wulf Fw200A Condor lifted off from the main runway and turned away to the east, climbing all the way. In silver and black livery, it wore the company logo of Deutsche Lufthansa – the German national airline – although during the last thirty minutes, Tanaka had been able to establish that that particular flight had been a private charter taken out by an unidentified party. He was fairly confident he knew exactly who that unidentified party was.
“Definitely no intel on any flights for the Japs today,” McCafferty advised as he stuck his head out the driver’s side window. “The State Department said Nomura was supposed to be in a meeting with them tomorrow morning!”
“Then why are the ambassador and the special envoy both on a chartered Lufthansa flight to Berlin instead?” Tanaka mused, not happy with any of the possible answers coming to mind. “No notice… no hint of anything from intel…” He shook his head. “They’ve just left the country without a word of warning… just run away… This ain’t good, Joey,” he pointed out, staring down at his driver with a very worried expression. “This ain’t good at all…!”
US Embassy at Blücher Palace
Pariser Platz, Berlin, Grossdeutschland
December 7, 1942
Monday
Leland B. Morris combed his hair carefully, standing in front of the mirror of the small bathroom attached to his office and tried to stifle a quite powerful urge to yawn. A career diplomat, he’d held the post of Chargé d'Affaires to Nazi Germany since the recall of Ambassador Wilson in 1938, a protest in response to the Nazi’s Kristallnacht persecution of the Jews.
Coffee was on its way up from the kitchens but at that moment, as he struggled with his collar and neck tie, he was still fighting off the residual drowsiness of having been unexpectedly awakened from an extremely deep sleep. He was quite unused to being awoken before dawn, and the night was still hanging heavily on him as he shrugged on his suit jacket and made his way slowly out into the office once more. An orderly was already waiting with his coffee, the aroma mesmerising as he took his seat at the huge, ornate desk at the centre of the room and bade someone allow entry to the unscheduled visitor that had turned up at such an ungodly hour.
“Armaments Minister Speer,” he observed with no small amount of surprise as the man who’d once been Hitler’s architect was ushered in, alone and seeming rather on edge right from the start. “An unexpected… pleasure… please – sit down and grab some coffee and let’s talk about what was so all-fired important that it couldn’t wait until morning.”
“My sincerest apologies, Chargé Morris,” Speer apologised deeply, taking a seat on the opposite side of the desk as directed but making no move toward the coffee. “I assure you I would not be here unless it was absolutely necessary.”
An unconventional genius of sorts, Speer had originally come to fame as the official Nazi Party architect, having devised many grand plans for the German Reich that culminated in an ultimately never-realised blueprint for a massive reconstruction of Berlin itself under the title of Welthauptstadt Germania (World Capital Germania). At Reuters’ insistence – based on Realtime hindsight of the man’s capabilities – Speer had eventually been appointed as Armaments Minister, and his unconventional approach and unswerving drive had seen massive improvements in production across the board.
“Well, let’s have it then,” Morris grumped, not at all happy about his lack of sleep as he sipped at his coffee cup. “What’s The Führer want that’s so important it requires a visit from the Minister of Armaments before dawn on a Monday morning?”
“Sir, I do not come from The Führer,” Speer advised nervously, surprising Morris again. “I come at the direct request of Reichsmarschall Reuters… as a favour for an old friend. We have some information that is of importance to the United States: information that is incredibly sensitive…”
That statement cleared any remaining fog from Morris’ mind in an instant. Without saying so plainly, the man had just made it clear nevertheless that he had come in an unofficial capacity, bring information that was almost certainly secret and very possibly dangerous into the bargain.
“You have my attention, sir,” the Chargé advised with equal solemnity, placing his cup back on the desk and folding his hands carefully in front of
him.
“Sir… there is no easy way to say this…” Speer began falteringly, as nervous regarding the enormity of what he was about to say as for the fact that he was passing classified information that could potentially see him executed after a long and rather unpleasant torture session just for the fun of it. “Regardless of our countries’ political differences, I’m sure you have been aware for some time of the respect the Reichsmarschall has for the United States… the last thing he or anyone else with any sense wants is conflict between our nations…”
Morris suddenly went very cold inside, a chill rippling throughout the length of his body as the realisation came to him that what he was about to hear could only be very bad news.
“It has come to the attention of the Reichsmarschall that certain rogue elements within our own ranks have recently seen fit to provide the Japanese Government with two explosive devices… two extremely powerful explosive devices, each capable of levelling an entire city.”
“Go on, sir…” Morris urged cautiously, sceptical but concerned all the same.
“We have just had word that one of these devices was unloaded at a port on the Mexican west coast three weeks ago, bound for an unknown destination. It is our… belief… that the Japanese intend to detonate this device somewhere in the United States as part of a move to declare war against your country.”
It was a moment or two before Morris was able to even speak, staring long and hard at the man seated before him.
“You understand, sir that if what you have told me is true, the Empire of Japan is planning to launch a surprise attack against the United States that could kill thousands of innocent civilians?”
The Dead Alone (Empires Lost Book 3) Page 53