The Dead Alone (Empires Lost Book 3)

by Charles S. Jackson

  “You know, Harry,” Thorne declared with a smile, leaning back in his chair, “I think we’re gonna get along just fine…”

  Ambon Island

  Dutch East Indies

  December 11, 1942

  Friday

  The sight of HMS Kanimbla and her escorts steaming into the Bay of Ambon was perhaps the most glorious sight Donelson or the others could imagine as the sun rose over Mount Nona the next morning. With the heavy cruiser Canberra and two destroyers in attendance, the armed merchant cruiser was easily large enough to evacuate the entirety of Gull Force. From where they stood on the beach at Tan Tui, Eileen could also hear sporadic cheers from some of the men of the 2/21st working nearby as they too waved at the approaching ships.

  She’d spent most of the preceding day working with Watson and his daughter, assisting where she could with regard to preparing the patients for evacuation. Orders from HQ now dictated that all Australian personnel were to be taken off along with all German prisoners, including any wounded other than those so sick or critical that such movement might prove fatal.

  “Never thought an old tub like that could look so wonderful,” John Watson observed quietly, standing beside Eileen as part of a small group watching the arrival.

  “You’re leaving with us?” She asked, barely dragging her eyes away from the distant vessels.

  “Drew the short straw,” he replied with a rueful smile. “Nick insisting on staying on to look after those we can’t move…” he explained, referring to his Dutch colleague, Doctor Nicholas Renne. “I’d have argued harder, but there was Victoria to consider…”

  “Shouldn’t feel ashamed about that,” Eileen pointed out kindly, noting the tone in his voice. “You’ve a child to look out for.”

  “Mmmh,” Watson mused softly, also staring out across the water. “Aye, that’s true enough,” He conceded, not sounding entirely convinced.

  “You feel guilty about leaving him behind…” she observed with a nod, understanding the sentiment well enough.

  “For that… and for the relief I feel over getting out,” he admitted finally after a long pause. “Believe me, I’m not for a moment…”

  His words trailed off suddenly as air raid sirens split the air with their mournful wail, winding up simultaneously from several points about the general area. Seconds later, a trio of Sea Furies howled past overhead from the other side of the bay, heading east at full speed as they began to climb high into the skies above Mount Nona.

  “Oh, Christ… Oh, Jesus Christ…!” Eileen breathed in dismay, turning her head this way and that in search of enemy aircraft, as were many others present.

  “Come on,” Watson suggested, thinking it a time for action rather than words. “Best we get to a trench or something, I’d say. We can curse all we fancy once we’re safe and sound…”

  The pair made off at good speed toward a nearby cluster of slit trenches, just two of many with the same idea in the mad scramble for safety that followed the sound of those sirens.

  Most of Ambon’s aerial defences had been withdrawn during the previous day, with no more than a skeleton force of RAAF front line fighters to complement the ageing, obsolescent Buffalo Buffalos that had remained as part of the Dutch contingent. Originally a mediocre aircraft at best with a single the saving grace of reasonable manoeuvrability, the addition of extra armour, fuel tanks and a heavier machine gun armament had left the little fighter ill-equipped to deal with the best of enemy pilots and aircraft.

  In the long run however, it probably would have matter little if every available defender had been a state-of-the-art Corsair or Sea Fury in any case. The fifty-odd Mitsubishi Zeros that swarmed in from the east that morning were more than enough to completely wipe out the vastly inferior numbers of their opposition within just ten short minutes.

  The majority of the Zeros weren’t impeded in the slightest; able to continue on in tightly-grouped trios as they hurtled down out of the sky to strafe military defences and the civilian population alike with impunity. An entire squadron hit the airfield at Laha, making short work of the handful of Dakota transports and other utility aircraft still on the ground there, as well as doing untold damage to the facilities there with masses of cannon fire.

  It was the D4Y dive bombers following behind that were first to give attention to the ships entering the bay. Anti-aircraft fire rose up from all four vessels, filling the sky above the bay with tracer and the deadly, cotton-like black puffs of flak. Proximity-fused shells took a heavy toll on the attacking bombers yet they nevertheless delivered a mortal blow in return. Wave after wave hurtled in from high altitude, diving down almost vertically upon their targets before desperately pulling up at the end of their runs, weaving this way and that to avoid the storms of flak that pursued them.

  Both destroyers were hit within minutes, both beginning to sink just as quickly as each was struck by an 800kg bomb amidships. Canberra lasted a little longer, her greater AA armament able to hold off several concentrated attacks before three hits in quick succession silenced her defences and left her burning furiously at both ends. A few more minutes and she too settling by her bows as the order was given to abandon ship.

  It was Kanimbla however that attracted most of the attention. At least a dozen bombers targeted her alone, and although four of those were blasted from the sky by radar-directed flak, at least five of the remaining attackers managed to land hits on the huge merchant cruiser, reducing her to a shattered wreck and also setting her afire much like Canberra.

  There was nothing to be done. With complete air superiority over the entire island, the Zeros continued to roam with impunity, strafing land targets and ships alike with their cannon and machine guns. At least a dozen smaller vessels were also burning in the bay by the time the last of them cruised back to the east, although this time at least half a dozen remained on air patrol high above to ensure no opposition remained.

  High up near the summit of Mount Nona on the Latimor Peninsula, Bill Jinkins and the other two men at the OP (Observation Post) had been largely spared any real danger during the aerial attack, there being no obvious targets anywhere nearby. As they rose from the cover of a shallow slit trench however, he looked out to sea to the east and swore under his breath as his eyes took in the sight of the approaching invasion force for the first time.

  “Bloody hell, Bob…” he breathed softly, feeling his first pan of real fear in that moment. “There goes the neighbourhood!”

  “That’s a lot of bloody ships out there, Bill…” his colleague observed darkly in a nervous tone.

  “Eleven… twelve… thirteen troopships from what I see,” Jinkins growled, having raised a pair of binoculars for a better look. “Mate, I think we might well be buggered…! Better let the boss know…”

  At the same time Jinkins was calling in his contact report, another OP on the northern coast near Hitu-Lama also detected the approach of a second, smaller landing force from the north-west. The warnings reached Colonels Roach and Kapitz simultaneously, causing both to immediately mobilise their troops and set up defensive lines in response.

  Carson’s Airfield,

  Northern Territory

  Carson’s Airfield lay to the south of the regional town of Katherine, situated in the upper central inland of the Australian Northern Territory, 200 miles south of Darwin. Constructed from the outset as a joint operations facility for Australian and United States’ bomber squadrons, it also home to outposted elements of the RAAF’s 2nd Aircraft Research Development Unit.

  Originally set up as a telegraph station in the early 1870s, Katherine eventually grew to become one of the largest settlements in the Territory, flourishing on the banks of the river that was its namesake. Completed in the middle of 1942, a continuous rail link between Darwin and Adelaide now connected the town with the rest of the country and had added much to its growing prosperity, along with a huge expansion in the local military presence as the threat of war loomed ever closer.

  The
Stuart Highway was also laid down at the same time, running parallel with the rail line for most of its length and originally set up as in support of the construction project itself. As the railway neared completion, the road was surfaced and sealed to complement it, for the first time providing the sparse population of Australia’s unforgiving ‘Top End’ with an alternate supply chain to the usual sea routes already in existence; sea routes than would immediately come under threat should hostilities commence.

  The hundred mile flight from Fenton Airfield had taken no more than an hour by helicopter that morning, and Thorne had emerged from the aircraft to stare out at a stark and featureless patch of brown earth surrounded by thousands of square miles of sparse, scrubby trees and shrubs that seemed to form the entire surrounding landscape so far as he could see. A train whistle sounded somewhere off to the north, its mournful call sounding completely out of place amid the otherwise almost pristine stillness of that early morning.

  It had already been uncomfortably warm that morning as they’d left Fenton, and nothing had improved much as he’d arrived at 2nd ARDU, sweat already forming on his face and bare forearms as he and his pair of ‘escorts’ were collected by Land Rover and ferried past row upon row of American-made heavy bombers, some belonging to the RAAF and most to the US Army Air Force. Dozens of B-24 Liberators and B-17 Flying Fortresses waited idly beneath the gleam of the rising sun, a handful being attended to by maintenance crews here and there as the base went about its morning routine, so far untouched by the reality of war.

  A single, asphalt strip of almost 3,000 yards’ length was the installation’s main feature, running roughly north-west to south-east and known officially as Runway 14/32 as a result, the title declaring the two available directions of approach of 140˚ and 320˚ respectively. The main administration buildings and workshops lay to the east, connected to the outside world by a single service road that lead out through the main gates nearby.

  The highway and railway lines ran directly past the airfield, skirting its northern boundaries as they headed on into Katherine, and that service road permitted access both to the road and to a military-controlled railway siding that was the base’s main supply line. Perhaps half a mile away on the opposite side of the highway, a large tank farm attended to Carson’s refuelling needs, that too supplied by regular rail shipments brought up through the interior from Adelaide, 1,600 miles to the south.

  Their transport took the trio away from those main buildings however, instead turning toward the western side of the airstrip where a secondary cluster of Nissen huts and huge hangars housed the often-secret workings of the 2nd ARDU. As Thorne drew near, he immediately picked out several aircraft types that were clearly new; models that had not yet entered widespread operational service, or any service at all in the case of some.

  A large maritime patrol aircraft that was clearly based on the same wing and engine layout as his personal YC-29 transport stood by the nearer of four large hangars, surrounded by at least half a dozen F-7A Sabres wearing standard RAF insignia and tropical camouflage patterns. Three Crocodiles – presumably the same ones he’d seen at Tocumwal – stood nearby, and another pair of helicopters were parked some distance beyond that, clearly also quite advanced compared the ubiquitous Chickasaw on which he’d arrived, and it wasn’t hard for him to recognise the general shape and design as being similar to that of a Realtime UH-60 Blackhawk, an aircraft he’d encountered many times during time as an air force officer, many years ago and many more in the future.

  A pair of YC-29s almost identical to his own lay at the far end of the hangars, along with what appeared to be at least an entire squadron of new A-5A Bushrangers, a large and powerful, attack aircraft from Republic Aviation that the Americans had taken to calling the Thunderjet. With twin tails, a brutish, almost insect-like nose and a pair of jet engines in pods, mounted high on its rear fuselage, there was no mistaking the Realtime origins of that deadly aircraft.

  The huge 30mm rotary gun mounted in its nose might have carried just four barrels rather than the seven he remembered, but it otherwise appeared just as dangerous as the Avenger cannon that in Realtime had earned a reputation for lethality of almost mythic proportions. In Thorne’s time, the aircraft he knew of colloquially as the Warthog had been the world’s premier close support aircraft. In its current guise as the A-5A, it was currently faster than any piston-engined fighter and almost as manoeuvrable, allowing it – for the time being at least – to compete as a fighter in its own right, albeit one of huge and quite intimidating size.

  One aircraft Thorne hadn’t expected to see was the familiar shape of the F-35E Lightning II, parked beneath the shade of an iron-roofed shelter to the left of the southernmost of the hangars. Even as the vehicle pulled to a halt in front of that same hangar and they all dismounted, Alec Trumbull was already exiting the structure through a small side door and walking toward them at a steady pace.

  “Glad you could make it, Old Man,” Alec declared as they drew near, extending a hand in greeting rather than any attempt at a formal salute. “Arrived last night – came up as soon as I heard you were dropping in…”

  “Yeah, well it was kind of an offer I couldn’t refuse,” Thorne growled with a wry smile of his own. “Group Captain Trumbull, may I introduce Colonels Solingen and Murray. These gentlemen are my escorts for the time being: they’ve been assigned to assist me in my daily duties, non-existent as they are at the moment…”

  “Ahh, yes…” Trumbull nodded sagely, resisting the urge to smirk over the scornful emphasis in his friend’s words as he’d uttered them through clenched teeth. “I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting either of you before,” he added, addressing each officer in turn, “although your reputation for hard work and efficiency certainly precedes you, Colonel Solingen…”

  “I’m sure that’s all wonderful, group captain, but I’d like to take this opportunity to lay down some ground rules right from the start,” Solingen replied gruffly, making no effort to show any respect whatsoever. “We’ve been given orders direct from the War Cabinet that no communications between Air Vice-Marshal Thorne and the outside world are to be permitted unless they go through us, and by us,” he added, throwing Murray a sharp, sidelong glance that was met by a mockingly insincere expression of complete innocence, “I mean specifically me…”

  Solingen’s department already possessed a relatively comprehensive file on Alec Trumbull due to his family connections and his association with Hindsight, and Solingen was therefore well aware of the close professional relationship and friendship the two men shared. He was also well aware of the fact that although he and Trumbull were of similar equivalent rank, he technically held seniority due to greater time serving at that level.

  “I recognise that the air vice-marshal is a friend of yours, group captain, but we have a job to do and we have our orders: I’d just as soon prefer not to have any cause for unpleasantness while we’re here…”

  Holy shit, the voice in Thorne’s head muttered fearfully as he looked on, aghast over what might be about to happen and unable to tear his eyes away as if the scene were a road accident unfolding right in front of him. Maybe you better stand aside a little – you might get hit by the shrapnel when this goes off…

  “Is that so, colonel…?” Trumbull asked slowly, almost sounding completely unaware of the insulting manner in which he’d just been addressed and making Thorne almost wince in sympathy over whatever unknown horror Solingen was about to experience. “Well, I thank you for your advice and your honesty…” There was a short pause, almost as if he were about to let the whole thing go at that, before finally adding: “There is one small detail however of which you may not be aware. Active as of yesterday afternoon, RAF High Command has been kind enough to bestow upon me the rank of air commodore… effective immediately…” He paused again, allowing just enough time for that piece of information to sink in. “As such,” he continued, carefully ignoring the spreading expression of combined displeasure
and discomfort spreading across Solingen’s face, “I believe I now outrank you, colonel, and as I am also the commanding officer of this facility, I would suggest that anything the occurs within the boundaries of this base are subject to my approval rather than yours. Would you say that was a fair assessment, hmmm…? There’s a message for you, by the way,” he went on, ignoring the man’s expression as Solingen’s fury rose over such a blatant insult. “You’ve been asked to contact your headquarters the moment you arrive, so I should get on that if I were you… the driver will take you back over to the communications centre on the other side of the base.

  “Gentlemen…” Trumbull continued, turning to address Thorne and Murray as Solingen’s face turned beet red over the humiliation he’d just been so deftly handed. “Sorry to waste your time coming all the way over here also, but you’ve arrived just in time for breakfast and I, for one, am famished. We’ve an air-conditioned officer’s mess over there, and I have it on good authority that the breakfast is exemplary: seeing as the colonel here needs to head over that way anyway, I’m sure he won’t mind sharing a ride…”

  To say that the ride back to the other side of the base in that Land Rover was uncomfortable would’ve been one of the great understatements of the 20th Century. Rigid in the front passenger seat, Solingen had stared silently out through the windscreen the entire time while the other three in the rear talked on inconsequential matters, Trumbull learning a little more about Lieutenant-Colonel Harry Murray and Murray learning more of him in return.

  It was only as Solingen had been deposited outside the main admin buildings that the conversation turned to more serious matters.

  “A Jap landing force has been sighted off Ambon this morning,” Trumbull advised immediately as they drove away, no humour in his tone at all now. “No word of engagement yet: we only received the initial report half an hour ago.”