Stalin's Hammer: Rome

by John Birmingham

  BY JOHN BIRMINGHAM

  (published by Del Rey Books)

  Without Warning

  After America

  Angels of Vengeance

  Stalin’s Hammer: Rome

  The Axis of Time Trilogy

  Weapons of Choice

  Designated Targets

  Final Impact

  Stalin’s Hammer: Rome is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A Del Rey eBook Original

  Copyright © 2013 by John Birmingham

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of the Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  DEL REY and the Del Rey colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Cover design and illustration: XOU Creative

  eISBN: 978-0-345-54573-2

  www.delreybooks.com

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue: April 13, 1955: Central Siberia

  01: May 6, 1955: South Rome (Allied sector)

  02: May 6, 1955: North Rome (Soviet sector)

  03: South Rome (Allied sector)

  04: North Rome (Soviet sector)

  05: North Rome (Soviet sector)

  06: South Rome (Allied sector)

  07: North Rome (Soviet sector)

  08: South Rome (Allied sector)

  09: North Rome (Soviet sector)

  10: South Rome (Allied sector)

  11: North Rome (Soviet sector)

  12: North Rome (Soviet sector)

  13: South Rome (Allied sector)

  About the Author

  Prologue

  April 13, 1955: Central Siberia

  Joseph Stalin knew he was being watched. He closed his eyes and adjusted the soft, red blanket that covered his legs, like a child hiding under his bedcovers, thinking that if he could not see the monster, the monster could not see him. The sun was warm on his face, and bright, through his paper-thin eyelids. Sitting there in his wheelchair, his face turned up, eyes closed, it was possible to imagine the whole world was a pink, warm womb.

  He let his chin slowly fall to his chest before opening his eyes and turning his glare on Beria. “We are delayed, Lavrenty Pavlovich. To what end?”

  Stalin patted his pockets, looking for his old pipe, forgetting that he had not smoked in years. The doctors had said it would kill him. Frustrated at the delay, frustrated at the doctors, angry that he could not enjoy a simple pipe, his scowl grew darker. Once upon a time the toughest men in Russia had quailed at the sight of him playing with that pipe. To turn it this way and that, to stroke the bowl with his thumb while never moving to pack even one shred of tobacco in there—that was enough to signal his displeasure. Enough to make strong men quiver with fear. Now when he patted his pockets, he just looked like an old cripple, forgetful and failing.

  Still, what little color Beria had in his face leached away at the thunderous look on Stalin’s. That was something.

  “No delay. There is no delay, comrade. Everything is running to schedule.”

  The chief of the Functional Projects Bureau stammered over his last words and nervously checked the iPad he carried. A rare and valuable working model, an Apple original, salvaged from the emergence of the British stealth destroyer way back in 1942, it was still sleeker and more powerful than anything the Functional Projects Bureau had managed to produce. Then again, it was also vastly more elegant and powerful than any of the cheaper Samsung or Google flexipads they had also salvaged.

  Stalin waved him off with a backhanded gesture. “Gah. Enough excuses, Lavrenty Pavlovich. Begin the demonstration. I have many days of travel to return to Moscow. Push your buttons. Bring down the sky. Be done with it.”

  “The satellite is almost in position now,” Beria assured him. “We must retire inside.”

  His bodyguard leaned forward. “Vozdh?” he asked, seeking permission to move him.

  “Yes, yes,” said Stalin, who did not really want to give up his place in the sun. The winters grew longer as he grew older. He was certain of it. Soon, the leaves on the small stand of trees outside his apartment back in the Kremlin would turn red, then gold, then brown. He adjusted the blanket again—an old habit, it had not moved—and tried not to let his disappointment show as his guard wheeled him off the terrace and back inside the bunker.

  He felt the chill as soon as they passed into the shadows of the deep concrete passageway. Solid-iron blast doors rumbled behind him as the small party of high officials, bureaucrats, and technicians filed in, trudging in procession to the bunker from which they would monitor the test. Moisture leaked from the thick concrete walls, giving Stalin pause to worry about his arthritis. He regretted having insisted on traveling all the way out here to witness the test firing for himself. Then he smiled. Beria undoubtedly regretted it more, and that was cause for some mild amusement. Stalin knew his deputy premier would be fretting now, squirming inside like a greasy little weasel, anxious that nothing should go wrong.

  The tension in the control room was tangible. He could feel it on his skin, taste it even at the back of his mouth. It was a familiar taste, of a fine vintage. He had been supping on men’s fears for so long, he actually believed he could take some nourishment from it. The scientists and military officers—no, they were NKVD Spetsnaz; Beria’s thralls, not Red Army, he reminded himself—all did their best to avoid catching his gaze. Beria scuttled about, snapping and hissing at the technical staff, his spidery white fingers stabbing so hard at the screen of the iPad that Stalin thought he might punch it to the floor. That would be amusing.

  His bodyguard—it was Yagi today—wheeled him past banks of computer terminals, monitoring screens, and control boards dense with flashing lights and illuminated buttons. The supreme leader of the Soviet Union understood none of it. The technology was all plundered from the far and impossible future, the world that could not be.

  He would never see that particular future. He knew that, of course. Accepted it. Life ebbed away from him now—in spite of all the new “miracle” medical treatments and organ therapies, life itself retreated from Joseph Stalin on a quickening tide of years and minutes. But nobody else would see the future from when Kolhammer and his international fleet had Emerged either, because he would not let it come to pass. He would not let it be, this false future where Putinist thugs and bandits ruled the Rodina, where the revolution was mocked and mourned. And dead.

  It would not be.

  At a word from him, as long as Beria had done his job, the sky would fall in on the world outside this bunker, and the real future would draw that much closer. Yagi brought him to a stop a few feet from the viewing port created especially for him. The armored glass was seven inches thick, they had told him, and the reinforced concrete wall of the bunker at least three feet deep. Peering through this personal viewport was a little like looking down a short tunnel. The glass distorted the view somewhat and gave it a dark green tinge. Steel shutters stood ready to slam down if needed, but he could not see them. Nobody could. Only a wheelchair-bound Stalin and one of the technicians, who was a dwarf, were of a height to have an unimpeded view through the port. Everybody else had to make do with the viewing screens. There were dozens of them about, but the two largest ones hung from the wall directly in front of him, above the viewing slit.

  The room was chilly, a function of all the infernal computers, which always seemed to be in danger of overheating. The cold, stale, recycled air irritated his eyes and seeped into his bones, but it awoke his
senses, and he did want to see this. It was why he had traveled so far east, beyond the natural barrier of the mountains.

  Involuntarily he glanced upward, imagining American satellites prowling overhead, peering down on him. But there was only the low ceiling of unrendered cement. And above that, tons of rock.

  “You are sure Kolhammer is not watching this on some television in the White House?” he growled at Beria. “They are always watching us.”

  Startled out of some reverie, the NKVD boss jumped a little and even squeaked. He was more nervous than usual. “We have done our best, our utmost, to draw their attention away from the proving grounds,” he said, stammering as before. “Ten Red Army divisions and fraternal bloc forces are exercising as close to the Oder as we dare. There have been incidents. I made sure of that personally. What satellite cover they do not have watching us there will be trained on Admiral Koniev’s newly unmasked fleet base. This is all settled, Vozdh. By your very self.”

  Stalin waved him away again, a stock gesture when dealing with Beria. He knew everything the man had just said, but he wanted him to repeat it. If Beria’s plan to mask the Hammer Fall test failed, Comrade Beria would pay the price. Not Stalin.

  Klaxons and sirens began to sound all around them, and somewhere in the distance he heard the deep-bass rumble of more blast doors sliding into place. The countdown clock between the two large viewing screens clicked over to ten minutes.

  In spite of his weariness and his age—he should have been dead two years now—in spite of all that he had done and seen, Joseph Stalin could not help but feel a flicker of excitement in his chest. Well, hopefully it was just excitement … After his last heart attack, the doctors had told him (or rather suggested, very mildly) that he might need to think about cutting back to one serving each day of his favorite lamb stew. He wiggled his fingers now, marveling at how old his hands looked, how skeletal and heavily veined.

  Nineteen fifty-three, he thought.

  These hands through which his blood still flowed, with which he could still touch the world, they should have clawed at the last moments of life in 1953. On March 5—as a massive stroke shredded his brain and twisted his body into a crippled, piss-stained mess.

  He smiled at the thought. He was still here. For now. Inside, he still felt like a twenty-year-old revolutionary, but his body was failing him. Even with his blood washed clean by a fresh, transplanted liver, even with improbably tiny machines regulating his heartbeat and sweeping toxins from his body, it was failing him. He should have been used to it, he supposed. So many had failed him over the decades. Their bodies, at least, he could pile up like cordwood. His own, he was stuck with, despite the efforts of his surgeons and pharmacists.

  The Vozdh had simply given too much to the struggle over the years. That was why he was so excited and intrigued by the possibilities of today’s test. Since the reactionary Kolhammer forces had Emerged from the Gordian knot of history at the Battle of Midway, Joseph Stalin had lived every day with the knowledge that he had limited time to set history right, to secure the revolution, and his place in it.

  Emerged from history, and destroyed it, he thought. Destroyed the settled history of the twentieth century, and the twenty-first century after that. It was still a wonder to him how nobody in the West could see the obvious truth of it. How the very impossibility of Admiral Kolhammer’s arrival from the year 2021 through this “wormhole” spoke to the impossibility of the future from which he had come.

  He grunted in frustration, setting off a momentary panic among his hangers-on, but he ignored them.

  The forces of history operate like a machine, he thought, as technicians and dogsbodies fussed about him. History: driving human progress from barbarity to civilization, from the feudal to the capitalist, then inevitably on to the final socialist stages. A history in which the USSR fell was simply not possible. Reality was not engineered in such a fashion. Thus history had righted itself with the destructive miracle of the Emergence.

  Or rather, it had started to right itself. The revolutionary work of men was in the hands of men, of course. Stalin hoped that today they would come one crucial step closer to completing that work.

  “Two minutes, Vozdh,” said Beria, surprising him.

  Where had the time gone? Stalin shook his head, disgusted. He had been daydreaming again. He leaned forward to peer out through the armored glass. A nameless valley fell away from them hundreds of feet below, disappearing into the haze. Ten miles away, hundreds of obsolete tanks and trucks, many of them empty hulks, salvaged from the battlefields of the Great Patriotic War, waited on the valley floor. He was aware of increased tension behind him as the technicians hurried through their last-minute procedures. Literally—the last-minute procedures. The countdown clock had reached sixty seconds. Beria really had nothing to do, setting himself to annoy everyone with his pestering and interference as he did it.

  “Leave them alone, Lavrenty Pavlovich!” Stalin ordered. “Let them do their duty.”

  Chastened, the NKVD man and chief engineer—Pah, that was a laugh!—of the Functional Projects Bureau quit bustling around and hovering at the shoulders of his senior men. He opened and closed the cover of his flexipad a number of times before setting it down on a steel workbench and shuffling over to stand beside Stalin.

  “There is nothing left to do but wait,” he said.

  “Then we shall wait,” replied the Vozdh.

  The final countdown was strangely disappointing. A disembodied voice on the public address system took them through the last few seconds: “Three … two … one … launch …” But of course there were no rockets to roar or shake the earth beneath their feet.

  “How long?” asked Stalin.

  Beria seemed unnaturally pleased to have a question he could answer promptly. “Less than two minutes,” he said with confidence. “These are the small, tactical rods we are testing today. They will launch from low orbit and accelerate to nine thousand meters per second.”

  Stalin scowled at him, stealing some of that confidence away. “And we are safe here in this bunker?”

  “Oh yes,” said Beria, with apparent relief. “We would not dare test the largest of the rods like this. They are designed to reduce mountains, such as this, to smoking craters.”

  “Like Tunguska?”

  Beria hesitated, as though it were a trick question. Which in a way it was. The scientists and engineers—real scientists and real engineers, unlike Beria—had briefed him well at the start of this project. They had to. It was a massive investment of the state’s resources, and one that drew money and men away from one of Stalin’s pet projects: the electronic storage of human memory and consciousness. His gaze faltered for a moment, slipping away from Beria to stare at the back of his old, liver-spotted hands again.

  “Vozdh?”

  “Pah! Do not bother,” Stalin told him, worried that his mind had wandered again. “I know about Tunguska. I know how it was different. The rock from space—a giant snowball, they told me—it exploded in the air. These rods will not.”

  “No,” said Beria. “Look …” He bent his knees and leaned forward, pointing toward the viewing aperture, even though the giant screens hanging above it afforded a grand, God-like view of the entire valley.

  The dictator peered out through the armored-glass slit but found himself watching the screens too. They had split into windows to display the video feeds from a dozen cameras scattered up and down the valley. None of the hundreds of tanks, trucks, and APCs out there were moving; they sat baking under the late-summer sun. Stalin opened his mouth to say something when he thought he spotted a flight of birds sweeping across the scene, but before he could form the words, bright white streaks of light speared down from the sky. He saw the flash of impact through the glass just a moment before the very planet heaved and rumbled in shock. His mouth dropped open in surprise as the roaring noise of impact and detonation reached deep inside the bunker.

  There was little and less to see on t
he screens, which didn’t so much blank out as “white out.” He squinted involuntarily before turning his attention back to the viewing port. Beria too had bent over again to look through it, as other men and women, some in uniform and some in coveralls and lab coats, did the same. A few flinched away as an enormous fireball raced up the valley toward them. Stalin thought he could make out the pressure wave that preceded it, flattening the sea of grass and a few small saplings that stood between the foot of the mountain bunker and the point of impact.

  Then heavy steel shutters slammed down, blocking off even that view. A few people jumped. But not the supreme leader of the Soviet people. He closed his eyes and imagined the sun, warm on his face, and bright even through his eyelids.

  01

  May 6, 1955: South Rome (Allied sector)

  “Your Highness,” said the actor as he performed a short bow. “It is an honor.”

  As always, Harry was surprised by how much richer Sir Alec Guinness’s voice was in person, how much power and subtlety had been pressed out of it by the primitive recording technologies of the mid twentieth century. At least, the first time around. The invited guests and attendant media for the movie premiere were packed tightly into the art deco foyer of the Cinema Barberini, and the crowded space roared with many hundreds of voices—especially Italian voices, which tended toward amplified stridency at the quietest of times anyway. Even so, Harry had no trouble making out the actor’s words. Unlike him, Harry was forced to use his parade-ground voice to cut through the cacophony.

  “Sir Alec,” he replied, “the honor is all mine. Love your work.”

  Guinness smiled and shook Harry’s proffered hand. Both men had strong, callused grips, but neither felt the need for anything as gauche as a bone-crushing competition. In Harry’s experience of 1950s society, that made for a pleasant change.

  “I’m never quite sure how to take it when people say something like that these days,” said the recently knighted actor. “Would it be presumptuous of me to ask whether you refer to my old work or my new?”