Designated Targets — Axis Of Time Book II

by John Birmingham

  “Firstly, allow me to extend the thanks of the emperor. He is deeply grateful for the friendship and support of the Reich.

  “As Reichsführer Himmler has pointed out, if we are to survive this war and correct our histories, we need to confine America behind her ocean walls long enough to develop the means of keeping her there. You will all have seen the news out of Australia. It looks grim, on the face of it, but I can assure you that apart from one or two tactical setbacks, events there proceed exactly as we had planned.”

  Göbbels, the master of the lie, raised an eyebrow. Oshima bowed in his direction and gave the propaganda minister a brief, knowing smile.

  “In dealing with General Homma, we calculate that Kolhammer’s land and sea forces in the Southwest Pacific have used up eighty percent of their war stocks. They appear to have overcome some logistical problems, such as fuel supply. But they simply cannot replace the missiles, or shells, or even the bullets they have expended. They do not have the factories to do so, even with the establishment of this Special Zone in California, or the smaller, less significant industrials efforts in the United Kingdom, Canada, New Zealand, and Australia.”

  General Oshima asked for the lights to be dimmed. He used a small, handheld controller to power up the tiny projector that sat at the end of the conference table. It was no bigger than a packet of cigarettes. Just one of hundreds of marvelous devices taken from the Dessaix, it projected a large, crystal-clear movie onto an old roll-down screen.

  A computer-generated map of the world appeared. Himmler wondered if there would be a musical soundtrack. On the advice of Fräulein Riefenstahl, he always had appropriate music composed for his own PowerPoint shows. It soon became apparent that Oshima did not.

  The Japanese ambassador brought up four separate windows, showing maps of the English Channel, the Middle East, Hawaii, and the Southwest Pacific.

  “You will be more familiar with your own preparations for Sea Dragon than I,” he said. “So, too, with Operation Grün in the Middle East. With the departure of the Clinton for the West Coast of America, Operation H.I. is now under way.”

  World time clocks ticked away in all the relevant time zones.

  “The Dessaix will be in position to launch her strike on the U.S. air and naval facilities in Hawaii within twelve hours,” Oshima said as another window opened up, featuring video of the amazing French vessel. “Unfortunately, as Reichsführer Himmler pointed out, we will not be able to bring the full power of this ship to bear, because of the unwillingness of most of the crew to cooperate, and because of sabotage to some of the important systems by a handful of individuals who misled you into believing they were trustworthy.”

  Himmler had personally attended the punishment of those swine. The memory was still vivid enough to make him blanch.

  “However,” Oshima continued, “with the help of a few patriots among the crew, who have helped train enough of your men to form a skeleton crew, along with some of the Indonesian sailors we took off the Sutanto, and because of the Dessaix’s amazing ability to do so much herself, the grand admiral is confident of success.

  “The first shots from Operation H.I. will land on the Americans in less than twelve hours. The Eighty-second Marine Expeditionary Unit in Australia will almost certainly be withdrawn to try to reclaim Hawaii. They may be accompanied by other elements of Kolhammer’s Task Force in the Southwest Pacific, but they will have been significantly weakened by the fighting in Australia, and of course, the Australian government may not release any forces to help if they feel they themselves are still threatened.”

  The cgi window covering the Pacific theater inflated to twice its previous size. Rising sun flags appeared over the harbor of Rabaul in recently conquered New Guinea, and moved southwest, threatening the long, isolated and almost entirely undefended coast of Western Australia.

  More flags designating Japanese air units appeared over New Guinea and sortied south, where animated bomb blasts popped up over the Australian cities of Darwin and Cairns. Cartoon parachutes descended on Darwin as landing barges traversed the gap between New Guinea and northern Australia, and larger forces established themselves around the small coastal town of Broome in Western Australia.

  Some red arrows then pushed south toward Perth, while others moved inland, across the desert toward a flashing icon that everyone now recognized as the symbol for radioactive material.

  “Significant deposits of easily mined uranium lie here and here,” said Oshima, twirling his laser pointer over the center of the Australian continent.

  Before he could speak again, the führer interrupted him. “General,” he said slowly. “I do not believe you have the capacity to carry out a successful invasion of Hawaii and Australia at the same time.”

  “No.” The ambassador smiled. “We do not. But if the Allies can be misled into thinking that we will attempt a second, coordinated series of landings in Australia, their response to the attack on Hawaii will be affected, perhaps crippled. General Homma was instructed to use the most severe methods to subdue his conquered subjects in Australia. The government there will be loath to release any of their forces, contemporary or otherwise, to the Americans if they think another such campaign is imminent. The effect will be all the more profound, of course, if the Allies suspect we will make an attempt to seize those uranium deposits in the Australian desert. Even the Americans may balk at just handing those to us. The combination of factors might even be enough to tip the balance against an immediate mission to retake Hawaii, allowing Admiral Yamamoto to consolidate our hold there.

  “I believe the Reichsführer has a plan in hand to help with this.”

  Oshima bowed slightly in Himmler’s direction. They had worked this out between them weeks before.

  Himmler nodded briefly. “The Ausland SD has successfully inserted a small number of agents into the United States.”

  An audible gasp sounded from around the table. The führer, who already knew the broad outlines of Himmler’s plan merely gestured for him to continue. Oshima was just as keen to hear the details.

  Himmler spoke from a handwritten note in front of him. “Three special agents have been in the U.S. for a month, preparing for their mission. They will receive their orders by secure channels just before the attack on Hawaii. They will bomb a number of targets on the East and West Coasts. Herr Göbbels will receive the transcript of a propaganda broadcast I wish him to make after the bombings. The effect will be to sow fear and uncertainty amongst the American populace, causing them to believe an attack on the mainland is imminent. It will further complicate any response to Hawaii.”

  “But how?” asked Göring with considerable bad grace. “You have never had any success at sabotaging their defense facilities before now.”

  Himmler smiled. “We won’t be hitting airfields or naval bases. Their bombers have been targeting our civilian populace. Now, in a small way, our bombers will be targeting theirs.”

  “Excellent!” said Hitler, smashing his open palm down on the desk. “You are right, of course, Hermann. They are a degenerate race, and they won’t be able to absorb punishment like our own Volk. Or even like the Britishers, I’ll wager.”

  The führer chortled. “I shall look forward to hearing more of this when your plan comes to fruition. But now, Mr. Ambassador. Please return to your briefing.”

  Oshima bowed and worked the controller in his hand. On the screen behind him, the window displaying the Australian theater collapsed into the background, to be replaced by a display hovering over Hawaii, and another with a wider scan of the western Pacific. The latter contained two icons, one representing the Dessaix by itself, and another for the Combined Fleet, which was located some two hundred miles to the northwest.

  “The force advancing on the Hawaiian Islands is somewhat smaller than the one originally slated for Operation M.I., the invasion of Midway,” said Oshima. “But the presence of the Dessaix has made up for that. Again, the emperor sends his heartfelt thanks to the fü
hrer for his consideration in this matter. Without the help of the Reich, this operation simply could not proceed.”

  The führer shrugged, but he looked pleased. “This is a struggle for the world, and it must be fought all over the world,” he said. “Your efforts in Hawaii over the next twenty-four hours will have a direct bearing on ours in the next week. The emperor has been more than accommodating of our prerogatives, acknowledging Germany’s claim over New Guinea, and guaranteeing the security of the German settlers in South Australia. And with the Bolsheviks still holding the British and American ships at Murmansk, we can wait for the Dessaix to return.”

  The führer glowered at Göring before continuing.

  “Our engineers have taken the critical systems which we need for Sea Dragon off her, anyway, and without the ability to replenish her rockets, the Trident is little more than a floating radar station. We shall deal with her in good time.”

  Oshima bowed. As he arose, his face was blank. He suspected an unspoken reason for the Germans’ generosity was their calculation that a sucessful Japanese invasion of Hawaii would inevitably draw American power farther into the Pacific and away from Europe. The ambassador let none of these thoughts affect his expression. He was still waiting for Hitler to put the final piece of the puzzle in place.

  The German leader took a moment to consider the dazzling array of images and data moving around on the old-fashioned movie screen.

  “In three days, the tides and the weather will be right,” Hitler said. “I shall order the High Command to surge our forces for Operation Sea Dragon. I am afraid that Speer will not have the two months he wants to build up further war stocks. The Luftwaffe will have to do what it can to protect the harbors. Two months would put us into winter, and the opportunity will be lost, probably forever.

  “General Oshima, you may tell your superiors that we are with them . . . but, uhm, please use the secure lines.”

  22

  BERLIN, GERMANY

  To an educated man of humanist sympathies, Berlin was a perverse caricature of the city Müller knew. A fright mask drawn over a familiar face.

  Nazi Germany was every bit as bad as the history teachers had said. A wasting of the soul had taken place here, and darkness had rushed in to fill the void. The fear was tactile and oppressive. It sat on everyone’s shoulders like a giant crow, ready to pluck out their eyes if they should look the wrong way.

  The SS was everywhere, too. As were the Gestapo. They made no attempt to disguise themselves, and terror surrounded them wherever they went.

  Müller had developed painful stomach cramps and a permanent headache within two days of arriving. He was sure the entire nation, possibly all of Europe, felt the same way. He’d used his spinal inserts to dial back the pain, so distracting had it been.

  The implants dispensed stimulants, painkillers, and a cocktail of pharmaceuticals to aid concentration, to sharpen the senses, and to control the physical manifestations of fear. He was familiar with the effects and the side effects. He had never known there was a spiritual dimension to fear, however. And there was no drug capable of counteracting its corrosive effect. The hammering pulse, the sweaty palms, and shaking limbs that might give him away in a random street encounter with the Gestapo—these could all be controlled by the pharmacological wonders of implant technology.

  But it was beyond the ability of science to ameliorate the psychic pain of having to confront evil cast in his own image. The Germany through which he moved was both familiar and utterly alien. Its people were Nazis, and they loved Adolf Hitler as much as they feared his agents. He had seen the same thing in the next century in what had been North Korea, a sort of national Stockholm syndrome, where the hostage nation had come to love its captor.

  His equipment was buried beneath his skin, some of it standard issue from the Deutsche Marine, some of it implanted when he began his two-year secondment to the U.S. Navy, and some of it new, fitted in Scotland at Kinlochmoidart. As he sat, drinking a foul-tasting ersatz kaffee across the square from his target, a biolocater and feedback chip in his neck maintained a constant link with one of the Trident’s high-orbit geostationary drones.

  Müller observed the café without watching. He listened to the conversations without hearing. He had learned to filter out the useless residue of everyday life. He was a scanner, sweeping his immediate surrounds for mission-critical data, and not much else.

  He lit another cigarette with his free hand. The other was encased in a fake plaster mold, suspended in a sling around his neck. It was part of his cover story; he was a fighter pilot, injured over England, his wrist shattered by a bullet chip, recuperating before shifting to a desk job. It induced a lot of sympathy.

  Yes, he had agreed a hundred times, it was a great pity he would never get to fly the new planes they were building. Herr Göbbels says they will sweep the old tin cans of the British out of the skies.

  Müller doubted that. The problems with the early German jet program were systemic and resource based. They couldn’t be wished away just because you suddenly learned how to build a better ME 262.

  The bell attached to the shop door jingled as a rotund man in a uniform entered, trailed by his fat son and equally stout wife. Party members. The husband had to be some minor functionary, although Müller had no idea of what ilk. The Nazis were crazy for uniforms. He’d seen dozens of different types since he’d infiltrated the city, most of them unidentifiable. This guy might have been the deputy leader of an Ortsgruppe, a small local party unit, or he might have been a Nazi strudel chef.

  Possibly the latter, given his imposing frame.

  The great oaf was barking like a seal about how much better this café was since it had been taken away from Zelig the Jew, and come to be run by Holz, the Bavarian. “It always smelled like the cream had gone off when Zelig was here.”

  Müller instantly killed the expression of distaste that wanted to crawl over his face. Two SD goons were sitting at the corner on the far side of the café, smoking cigarettes and spooning lumps of sugar into their cups. The sugar bowl on their table was full, the only one like it in the whole place.

  The fat man’s voluble beastliness grew louder and even more offensive as he spotted the security men. His dumpy Frau smiled at them, but her eyes were fixed and glassy, and she bustled their child away to a dark corner. Müller didn’t blame her. After the Jews and the gypsies and the cripples, it would only be so long before the fat kids went into the ovens.

  He folded his copy of the Völkischer Beobachter with the banner where the Nazis could see it, pushed his chair back, and left, nodding briefly to one of the SD agents who caught his eye. One Aryan patriot to another. He looked like a man at ease with the world, a warrior at rest, and they ignored him.

  Then Müller put them out of his mind. He had spotted his quarry leaving the apartment across the square. His hand wanted to caress the small pistol concealed under his jacket, but he gave no sign of it as he exited the shop. He fixed his eyes on the target.

  Colonel Paul Brasch.

  Brasch could hardly breathe by the time he reached his office in the Armaments Ministry. He couldn’t swallow, and his heart threatened to burst out of his chest.

  Today was the day. The orders for Sea Dragon had arrived by safe-hand courier—as almost all high-security communications did now, with at least two of the Trident’s Big Eye drones in stationary position above Europe at any given moment.

  Now he had to make his choice. He told his secretary to hold his calls and shut the door behind him. There was nothing unusual about that. All over the Reich, functionaries like him were attending to their duties with increased determination. The next few days would decide the fate of Germany.

  He’d noticed the diffuse energy on the streets as he walked to work. Nobody gossiped, not with the Gestapo and the SD everywhere. But he could tell that even in Berlin, hundreds of kilometers from the action, tens of thousands of men and women were to be involved in the attack on Britain. They walk
ed a bit more briskly, kept their backs a little bit straighter, and that fanatic glint of the eye was just a touch madder.

  Brasch looked just like them, but for a different reason.

  He had been planning and preparing for this specific action for weeks, but in fact, the seeds of betrayal had been planted back in June, in his cramped, steamy cabin on the Sutanto, when he’d first read about the Holocaust. His fingers had felt cold and numb as he held the flexipad then, and a similar deadness affected them now. Indeed, whole patches of his body felt that way, as though he was already lingering in a Gestapo cell somewhere.

  He hadn’t felt so alive since the Eastern Front.

  Outside of the marbled glass door that led to his office, he could hear phones ringing and messengers scuffing up and down the corridor. The building, always a hive of industry, was electric with excitement this morning. He had a dozen separate tasks to attend to, but most of them he’d done at home on his flexipad the previous evening. His eyes were hollow with sleeplessness and, he had to admit, with anxiety. Not so much for himself but for his family. Himmler had plowed unknowable numbers of new victims into the earth since the Emergence. A distant relationship with anyone who might be implicated in future acts of betrayal was enough to condemn whole branches of some families to the extermination camps.

  Brasch let go a shuddering breath at the insanity.

  He powered up the flexipad and brought an encrypted compressed file to the front of the little desktop screen. It had taken him a long time to work out how to do this, and even longer to work up the courage to go through with it.