Ooooouuuuurrraaaahhhhh…
"We need artillery," Brasch shouted stubbornly as he leaned over to place a firm hand on the shoulder of the truck driver, who was quite obviously seconds from fleeing the post. The man's trembling hands still fumbled with the ammunition belt. He bounced up and down at the knees, and his head snapped back and forth between the awful spectacle of the approaching human wave and the beckoning safety of the tree line, some three hundred yards behind them. A low keening sound, like an animal that it knows it is being led to slaughter, emanated from deep within him.
"Fire!" ordered Brasch, pointing at the Soviets, who rushed on like a surging black tide. The machine-gun crew began to fire, the harsh industrial hammering coming in short bursts that did nothing to halt the advancing horde. They must have killed a hundred men in less than ten seconds, but Brasch would swear another hundred thousand simply trampled down the corpses.
"Where is the artillery?" he roared into the phone.
"Was ist los? Wo sind sie?"
Ooooouuuuurrraaaahhhhh…
"M-m-m-m-mutti…"
A single shot rang out, sounding flat and insignificant beneath the rising din of the Soviet charge and the snarl of the heavy machine gun. It was so close that Brasch jumped, not realizing for an instant that a warm shower of gore had just sprayed him. Then the boy soldier was dead, his body twitching spastically as the nervous system fired its last mad messages. One side of his head was missing, blown off by the pistol he had placed within his mouth and triggered when his mother had been unable to chase away the monsters rushing at him, as she had once shooed off the gremlins that hid beneath his bed.
Oooooooooooooouuuuurrraaaaaaahhhhh…
The Spandau lashed at the black tide. The boy stopped twitching. Brasch spoke calmly into the phone again, like a man inquiring at the butcher shop after his weekly bratwurst order.
"Where is my artillery?"
"Was ist los?"
He replaced the receiver.
The flood of berserkers began to slow, impeded by a foot of fresh snow, the thickness of their clothes, stiff muscles, and the littered corpses of their countrymen-but the advance remained unstoppable. Half the eternal steppe seemed filled with them, and still they poured over the horizon.
Brasch was so far beyond terror that he placidly took out his Luger, stood up in the dugout, placed one boot on the rock-hard cadaver of a Russian corporal, and commenced firing, slowly and meticulously, even though the Soviets were still well beyond the effective range of any sidearm. He wished he had a cigarette to smoke. The white-haired sergeant begged him piteously for permission to retreat, but Brasch ignored him. What's the point, he asked himself. You can die here, or a few yards from here.
The thunder of the charge hid the first rumble of the German guns so that Brasch didn't realize an artillery barrage was on its way until the first shells shrieked overhead, to explode in the center of the Russian mass half a second later. Enormous fountains of fire and ice and hateful Russian soil erupted just behind the leading edge of the attack, silhouetting the front ranks against a curtain of flames. They rushed on regardless, as smaller detonations started to thin out their ranks.
"Mortars," said Brasch with a detached air.
The machine-gunners weren't listening. They screamed at the Soviets, pouring a constant stream of fire into the maelstrom.
"You'll melt the barrel," said Brasch, whose wits were returning. He hopped down from his exposed perch and holstered his pistol. A frightful din, the thunder of a world riven in two, shook the frozen mud beneath their feet, as the big guns walked their barrage back through the densely packed Russians. He could no longer see any of the attackers inside the wild conflagration. He wondered how many had just died. Fifty thousand? A quarter of a million?
Then it was time to leave. The attack had been broken, but a few hundred crazed survivors might yet emerge from the killing field and overrun their little outpost.
"Let's go," he said to the old sergeant, turning his back to the carnage.
But some new horror paralyzed the man. His jaw hung slack and his eyes bulged. The truck driver simply howled and ran like a dog, stumbling over the corpse of the dead boy.
Twisting slowly back toward the open steppe, so slowly that it seemed as if he were forever turning, Brasch stared into the abyss. A million Russians appeared from within the boiling shroud of black smoke and blasts of flashing light.
Oooooooooooooouuuuurrraaaaaaahhhhh…
"Manfred," whispered Brasch as the barbarian horde came upon them.
A single man, a Siberian or a Mongol by his features, accelerated from the foremost rank, heading straight for their dugout. He launched himself into the air, clearing the windbreak of dead Communists, slamming into Brasch, his hands closing around the engineer's neck, his teeth finding purchase in the unshaven bristles of his throat.
KRI SUTANTO, HASHIRAJIMA ANCHORAGE, 0438 HOURS, 6 JUNE 1942
"Herr Major, Herr Major, wake up sir, wake up. You are disturbing the others."
The Siberian's rough, choking grasp became a lighter, more considerate touch, shaking his shoulders, dragging him up out of the nightmare that had haunted him for weeks.
"Willie?" Brasch was disoriented. His heart still raced, almost as it had that day outside Belgorod. "Willie, is that you?"
"No, sir. It is I, Herr Steckel. From the embassy."
Brasch came upright and instantly a sharp, nearly blinding pain bit into his scalp. He cursed.
"Careful sir, there's not much headroom in here."
Brasch rubbed his head and blinked the crust of sleep from his eyes. The first thing he noticed, as always, was the warmth. He'd never expected to be warm again. Then he became conscious of his freedom of movement. He wore only a light vest and undershorts. Finally, he remembered. He was no longer at the Eastern Front. He was in the Far East, on the ship of wonders. A rush of half-formed thoughts and feelings blew through his sleep-disordered mind. Dominating them all, however, was a profound blankness and disbelief in the simple fact that he was still alive. He had numbered himself among the dead for so long, he felt ill at ease to be among the living once more.
"I am sorry, Herr Steckel. Please excuse me," he rasped. "My throat is dry. Some water, if you have it."
Steckel passed across a glass of chilled water. They had been through this ritual every night since the engineer's arrival. At first the diplomat had been awed and humbled just to draw breath in the same room as the legend of Belgorod. But two weeks of tending to this shattered husk of a man had obviously drained him of any such respect.
Brasch finished the drink in one long pull and eased himself out of the bunk. His vision was too blurred to read his watch, so he asked Steckel for the time.
"Zero four thirty-eight, Herr Major, as usual."
Is that a hint of peevishness I detect in his voice? Brasch wondered idly. Well, damn him anyway. Brasch pointed to the chair where his pants and yesterday's shirt hung. The attache fetched them without uttering a word.
"Find me some breakfast, Steckel. Some real breakfast, with sausages, and none of their damn rice. I'm sick of it. We might as well get working on this puzzle box again, eh?"
"Yes, Herr Major, right away, I have already seen to it."
"And coffee?"
"Right here, sir."
Brasch gratefully accepted the mug. Perhaps Steckel wasn't such an odious fellow after all.
"Is Captain Kruger with us yet, Steckel?"
"Still asleep, Herr Major. He turned in only three hours ago."
Brasch thought he detected a trace of censure in the man's voice. He seemed to think Brasch should be working twenty-five hours a day. He had no idea what it cost the engineer to get out of bed at all.
"What about Commander Hidaka?" he asked. "I'll bet he's awake."
"Yes, sir. I don't believe I have seen him off-duty yet. But then, I'm not here as much as you."
"That right," said Brasch. "You're not. Come on. Let us join the ot
her master race, shall we?"
Steckel, who was uncomfortable with Brasch's less-than-reverent tone when discussing matters of genetic purity, covered his disquiet by retreating into form.
"But you have not shaved, Herr Major!"
Brasch stopped exactly where he stood, with one foot half in his boot. He stared at Steckel for some time before breaking out in a loud, raucous laugh.
"Herr Major?"
Brasch shook his head.
"It does not matter, Herr Steckel. Believe me."
The Sutanto lay at anchor in a secluded section of the moorage off Hashirajima Island, blocked from view by a screen of light cruisers and surrounded by three lines of torpedo nets. A squadron of Zero fighters circled perpetually high above. Admiral Yamamoto had decreed there was never to be a second when the precious ship lacked air cover.
There would be no Doolittle Raids over Hashirajima.
No deck lights burned on the Indonesian vessel, and blackout curtains had been draped across all her openings, allowing work to continue twenty-four hours a day. Contrary to rumor, Commander Jisaku Hidaka was not awake for every one of those hours, but he did drive himself for as long as humanly possible each day. Like Steckel, he made it clear he found Brasch's apparent lack of commitment perplexing, and occasionally disturbing.
"Good morning, Commander," Brasch said in nearly flawless Japanese.
Hidaka looked up from the computer screen and returned Brasch's greeting in his own faltering German. "Guten Morgen," was about all he could muster. Brasch's English was also better than Hidaka's, but there were occasions when they used it to confer, nonetheless. Neither man really trusted Steckel. When he was within earshot, they spoke in the enemy's tongue, of which he had no knowledge.
"And what do you have for us today, Commander Hidaka?"
The Japanese, he found, tended toward a scattergun approach, skipping from one fantastic discovery to the next as they swarmed over the ship. Brasch, on the other hand, spent most of his time patiently arguing in favor of a more systematic method: choose a category of investigation-such as the offensive missile system-draw up a template to guide the research, and move methodically through each stage of the study.
He had also prevailed upon them to exploit the Indonesians, Lieutenant Moertopo and his men. Yamamoto had been detaining them in heavily guarded luxury on the island. But the admiral was disinclined to let them anywhere near their controls again-especially since the vessel now lay at the very heart of Japan's naval power. Word was that Yamamoto lay awake at night, fearful lest half his fleet might be disintegrated beneath a brace of doomsday rockets. Even the cavalier Hidaka had to agree with that.
Still Brasch had argued, finally appealing directly to the admiral himself.
"Those men are cowed," he insisted. "They are as pliable as sheep. They feel abandoned by the Americans, and remain unbalanced by their presence here."
"So you would have unbalanced men sit in the midst of my fleet, controlling weapons of a power we can hardly imagine?" asked Yamamoto.
"Yes," asserted Brasch, "if you would have me come to understand those weapons. We could stumble along for years trying to figure out how even the simplest devices work. Or we could just ask them. If they cooperate, we reward them. If not, we force them."
Yamamoto finally relented when Brasch explained that the sensors on the Sutanto gave him reason to suspect they could not keep the Indonesian vessels a secret for much longer. Moertopo had already explained that the other ships in this Kolhammer's task force were larger and even more capable. Their devices would surely sniff out the truth before long.
"And then, Admiral Yamamoto, you can expect to lose a great many ships just outside your window, to their doomsday rockets."
Yamamoto had surrendered to the argument.
For his part, Brasch alternated between sincere fascination at the wonder of the ships and the blank flatness that had come upon him in Russia. In his most lucid moments he understood that he was sick, afflicted by a paralysis of both mind and soul. Depending on his mood, he might be reduced to tears by a letter from his wife and son, or so unmoved that he couldn't be bothered opening the envelope.
He occasionally wondered why the army had sent him here. A mix of reasons, he presumed. His Japanese was fluent, thanks to many childhood years spent traveling the Orient with his parents. Father was a diplomat, just like Steckel. Or maybe not so much like Steckel. His father's career had eventually stalled under the Nazis.
And Brasch's engineering skills, as even Hidaka acknowledged, were exceptional. But he knew there was more to it. They had tried to make him a hero after Belgorod. His insanity in standing atop the pile of Russian dead, to calmly empty his pistol into a Soviet horde, was an exact fit with the fuhrer's "stand fast" principle. He had even met Gobbels when they brought him home to show off this fine example of Aryan manhood.
Unfortunately his shattered nerves hadn't equipped him for the public role of superman, and after two instances of ill temper and a breakdown in a radio recording studio, his schedule of appearances had been canceled.
A small article in the Volkischer Beobachter announced that he had been dispatched overseas on an important mission for the fuhrer, but that was before the mystery ships had even arrived. The bizarre communiques from Tokyo had simply provided an excuse to be rid of him for even longer. He suspected the high command thought this whole adventure was an absurdity dreamed up by the Japanese to explain the abortive end to their Midway invasion.
The reality had reduced him to helpless laughter more than once, further convincing Herr Steckel of his mental frailty.
He rarely worried about the report he would have to make, and soon. He knew Steckel already had been sending inflammatory messages. For Brasch, who had walked in the land of the dead for so long, the Sutanto presented an intriguing puzzle that diverted him from the unbearable burden of living.
HIJMS YAMAMOTO, HASHIRAJIMA ANCHORAGE, 0824 HOURS, 6 JUNE 1942
Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto flexed his injured left hand. He had lost two fingers many years ago in the battle at Tsushima, and he was troubled every now and then by phantom pain in the missing digits. The discomfort was so much a part of him that he did not attend to it with his conscious mind. That was beset by a multitude of problems arising from the events of June 3.
A cursed miracle was the only way to describe it, an inexplicable event that smashed the American fleet at the same time as it delivered untold power into their hands. It still felt to him as if the whole world had been tipped off its axis and now wobbled precariously, threatening to spin completely out of control.
As for the Indonesian vessel, the technical aspects of their amazing find were in some ways the least challenging. Given enough time, engineers like Brasch would unlock every secret contained within that ship. No, it was the historical ramifications that would prove the most challenging, the most dangerous. Who was to tell the emperor how this conflict was destined to end? And who would tell Hitler of his ordained fate, dead by his own hand three years from now, his body burned beyond recognition to keep it from the Communists who would enslave half the Reich?
Well, Brasch would have that unhappy task, he supposed. Yamamoto did not envy him. It was undoubtedly a death sentence.
Yamamoto peered out the porthole at the farms that climbed the sides of nearly every hilly little island dotted throughout this part of the Inland Sea. Atop each hill sat batteries of antiaircraft guns hidden beneath thick camouflage netting. Anchored all about lay nearly 150 ships of the imperial fleet.
The admiral quickly abandoned the small glimpse of the outside world, returning to his desk, which was buried under thousands of pages of paper-reports from the team examining the Sutanto. Most were technical updates, the latest explanations of some astounding new technology. Set to one side however, was a pile of documents Yamamoto found even more disturbing than the report about the superbombs. This smaller set of papers represented the findings of his intelligence officers who had been
assigned to trawl the ship's so-called "electronic files" for historical information.
Therein lay a description of his own death, shot down by American fighter planes over New Guinea. That was a macabre curiosity, but in fact of no great concern to the admiral. Not when measured against the larger picture that had emerged of the course this conflict was supposed to take, and still would, in his opinion. Every misgiving he had ever expressed-about the folly of warring with both the United States and the British Empire-had come to pass.
Or would come to pass.
From the top of the pile he plucked the time line he had ordered drawn up. He could see that in a less than a fortnight Tobruk would fall to Rommel, but his advance would peter out at Alamein within a month, and vast tonnages of American firepower would begin to crush the life out of the Afrika Korps. On the Fourth of July, the very first U.S. Army Air Force operations over Europe would commence with attacks on Dutch airfields being used by the Luftwaffe. Soon enough the skies over Europe would be full of Yankee bombers and fighters.
At the end of July, Japan was supposed to advance on Port Moresby in New Guinea. He had seen the plans himself. But that would mark the farthest expansion of the empire. Australian troops would soon hand the army their first defeat on land.
On August 9, Vice Admiral Mikawa was to destroy an Allied cruiser squadron at Savo Island. But that could not happen now, because the Allies must surely know of it. And, of course, some of the American ships fated to perish there had already been destroyed.
It was confounding in the extreme to try to untangle these knotted threads of fate and circumstance. But one thing was becoming clear: the trend of events could not be allowed to proceed on their appointed course. Unless he was able to conceive of some master stroke, unless the Axis high command could be convinced to abandon their strategic follies, all was lost.
Yamamoto's stomach burned with acid as he reread the most unsettling dossier of all: an incomplete but deeply troubling account of China's rise to power under a Communist regime and the long, dark shadow that cast over a declining Nippon in the next century. Even if they laid down their arms and begged the Allies for mercy this morning, annihilation at the hands of the Mongols seemed inevitable.
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