Black Chamber

by S. M. Stirling

  “I will let my agents on the spot outline the difficulties and possibilities there,” Nicolai said. “Hauptmann von Dückler will begin; he has been surveying the United States and its preparations in person and through subsidiary agents since the spring, at great personal risk.”

  Horst rose and saluted, and went through the necessary honorifics. He wasn’t . . . overly . . . intimidated by reporting to Germany’s supreme commanders. The German Army had always had a tradition of leaders listening to and learning from subordinates closer to the actual action, just as it had always encouraged the officer at the front to interpret orders flexibly—to take the knowledge of the commander’s intentions and fit it into the context of the ever-shifting variables of war. Blind obedience was for peasants or Russians.

  “The problem we face is that the United States is both inherently stronger than the English, our only other remaining unbroken foe, and better organized. We fight this war in order that Germany may be unassailably strong for the great trials of the coming century through the domination of resources on a continental scale.”

  Or at least that has turned out to be what the war is about, not least because you and General Ludendorff so decided. How long ago August of 1914 seems!

  “But the Yankees already command a continent and have had generations to develop its resources. It is one thing to read statistics, another thing to see. I have ridden the railroads across that continent, from the Atlantic to the Pacific and back, half a dozen times. For thousands upon thousands of kilometers nothing but fat black earth rich with wheat and maize, maize and wheat and potatoes and cotton and cattle and pigs—farm after farm, tilled by men of Germanic or kindred stock with the most mechanized methods, only possible on such large farms with broad acres. Raising not only food but strong sons to work and fight for America. Grazing lands running day after day as well, forests of fine timber equally vast. Enormous manufacturing cities, as if Essen had been multiplied by the score, belching smoke into the sky as they pour out steel and explosives. Mountains of metal ores of every type, mountains of coal, oceans of petroleum, all harnessed to a most formidable industrial machine with efficient management and abundant skilled labor. If these are all deployed against us, we face a struggle without limits and with . . . no foreseeable favorable result.”

  “Resources and population are one thing, even industry capable of using them; their timely deployment as actual military power another,” Ludendorff said. “As witness the English. Their empire is vast and their manufacturing capacity still fairly considerable if technically inferior to ours, but . . .”

  “With respect, Herr General, the cases are not comparable and the reason is President Roosevelt,” Horst said firmly but politely.

  There was an unconscious stiffening. The Kaiser envied and emulated President Roosevelt. The rest of the German leadership took him very seriously indeed.

  Von Bülow spoke: “With iron hand and iron will, he has mastered the chaotic energies of the Americans, and given them discipline,” he said. “Particularly in the last four years, when he has led an organized movement thoroughly inspired by our theories and methods. In some areas they have gone beyond us, as with their Ministry of Public Health and Eugenics.”

  Horst nodded, though that appraisal of the Progressives was . . . not exactly untrue, but more than a little self-flattering from a German perspective. He spoke to add precise detail:

  “More particularly, when he took office four years ago, the Americans had a hundred and fifty thousand volunteer soldiers and a militia.”

  “Comparable to the strength of Bulgaria,” Ludendorff observed dryly. “Bulgaria before it mobilized.”

  “A joke of Bulgarian proportions, yes, Herr General, though in his early terms of office he had seen to the foundation of a General Staff modeled on ours and planning for larger things. But by this spring, the Americans had six hundred thousand men in their standing army—nearly equivalent to our peacetime strength in 1914—and a million and a half trained reservists, besides a very powerful navy. He used the conquest of Mexico to increase their army, and did so—together with General Wood, Chief of their General Staff and a very able man—in a way calculated to provide cadre for a further rapid expansion. Roosevelt is not only a clever devil with a broad knowledge of history, statecraft, and war; he is good at picking able subordinates and knows how to delegate.”

  “They concentrated on training staff officers, technical specialists, the organizational framework in general?” Ludendorff said. “These were prepared in numbers beyond what was strictly needed for operational reasons in their Mexican war?”

  “Exactly, Herr General. Far beyond. The parts of an army that cannot be improvised rapidly, and their Reserve Officers’ Training Corps was also cleverly conceived. Now with conscription the recruits flow in to put flesh and muscle on those strong bones, and already they have three million men under arms, though many are still in the training camps. And it is not as it was with the English in 1914, with men in civilian clothes drilling with broomsticks and sleeping in barns and taverns. Everything was ready, from barracks and boots to heavy artillery; or the factories and plans and machine-tools were ready. Good weapons, often excellent ones, in abundance. In some areas, such as motor transport, equipment in quantities that we simply cannot match, all in the hands of fresh, eager troops drawn from a population larger than ours. We face a power as vast as Russia, but with European or better-than-European standards of development and efficiency, one which has carefully studied the lessons of this war.”

  Colonel Nicolai took over smoothly. “We must strike before this strength can be deployed against us. The Breath of Loki, as you have seen, is an ideal weapon to deny an area to the enemy. We will use it to strike massive blows from the air against the English and the French, and tactically via guns and Minenwerfer on a large scale at the front. What the operational plan turns on, though, is our ability to use it to bottle the Americans up on their own continent. High-capacity ocean ports are yet another thing that cannot be improvised. They require both favorable geography and heavy investment over many years; hence each is a potential choke-point, far more so than any single railway line or bridge. With the help of the Navy, especially the secret capacity developed over the last year, we can do this long enough to establish our hold on all Europe. Then . . .”

  “Festung Europa!” von Bülow said. “Against such fortress walls, even the arrogant and reckless cowboy Roosevelt will hesitate to throw his troops. Behind that wall, we can consolidate our strength and prepare for the day when we can break out to control the World Ocean.”

  The naval representative nodded sagely; it was the newly ascendant Admiral von Hipper, in charge since Tirpitz’s fall.

  “And here another of the Institute’s programs, that of the Hülsmeyer group and their Project Heimdal, seems certain to bear valuable fruit this year or early in the next. The North Sea after the white nights turn to the short black days is a murky place to fight. If we are able to see and the enemy cannot . . .”

  Silence fell. Ludendorff caught von Hindenburg’s eye; the older man nodded with a Jove-like somberness, and then the younger spoke:

  “Project Loki is hereby authorized to proceed to full operational status, then.”

  The admiral spoke: “If we begin immediately, L-Day can be set for twenty-two to twenty-six days from this date. The first part of October. Those vessels intended for the most distant targets will sail first, of course. Immediately, in fact, if word is sent after this meeting. The final attack order can be broadcast.”

  “Now is the moment to drive home the sword,” Ludendorff said.

  “Agreed,” von Hindenburg said. “You are authorized to execute the attack.”

  The discussion finished with detail work; Horst remained mostly silent, as that was the Navy’s bailiwick and as everything was apparently at a high state of readiness. He wasn’t surprised; this was the Kaise
rliche Marine’s chance to do something decisive, even if not yet with their so-expensive battleships. When the generals had left and the gathering broke into knots, Nicolai took him aside.

  “Captain von Dückler, I am tasking you with the northernmost element of the attack on the U.S., against Boston and its navy yard and port facilities. Yours will be the responsibility for guiding the crew to shelter with our local allies after the devices are planted, and seeing to their evacuation along the paths you previously established.”

  “Thank you, Herr Oberst!” Horst said joyfully.

  Given his familiarity with the country it was also a job he was fully qualified to accomplish.

  There would be ten separate but simultaneous attacks. Halifax, which was in British Canada; then Boston, New York and its associated harbors, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Hampton Roads, Charleston, Savannah, Mobile, and New Orleans in the United States. If most of them came off as planned, the United States would be effectively cut off from Europe for six months or more, its plans completely disrupted. If all of them did . . . the prize was dazzling, and the glory unlimited.

  “Saving the crew is of high priority, Captain von Dückler,” Nicolai said. “They are picked men, brave men, volunteers specially trained, and you yourself are a valuable agent, a weapon in our hand. But neither they nor you are the highest priority, not in a war in which thousands of brave men die every day.”

  “That is understood, Herr Oberst,” Horst said gravely. “If I must, I will trigger the launching mechanism with my own hand. Victory is never cheap, not a great victory such as this.”

  And I will cry long live sacred Germany as I do it, Horst thought. Or perhaps just Scheisse . . . but I will do it in either event, and that is what matters; then I must trust that the merciful Lord God and His mother will not deem it suicide. But if I must lose Heaven for Germany . . . that too.

  Nicolai stood silent for a moment. “This woman, Carmody, will be useful in moving your party overland to Mexico, and in arranging the arms shipments to revitalize the guerilla war against the Americans . . . you have not allowed yourself to become infatuated, I hope.”

  “Of course not, sir!” Horst said indignantly . . . and with a stab of guilt he thrust his hand down firmly.

  Entranced, yes, but not infatuated. Elisa was right; we could no more make a life together than a tiger and a shark could.

  “Is she?”

  Horst sighed, still feeling a tug of wounded . . . yes, vanity, I should admit that.

  “No, sir. She is . . . extremely self-contained and does not allow personal matters to interfere with her mission.”

  Nicolai raised a brow. “Unusual in a female; more often they are preoccupied with petty personal concerns. Perhaps she will also be useful in keeping the Whelan girl from collapse; it will be convenient to have the two females on the same ship, less disruptive, since we must make use of them at all. Whelan is naïve and wedded to childish scruples, but some use may be gotten from her for the Fatherland; and hers are the contacts in Boston itself. That will be a delicate matter. They must evacuate the crew quickly, and before they realize what the nature of the Loki weapon is. They might balk if they realize that the effects . . . cannot be contained strictly to the naval installations, which is their current impression.”

  When they realize it will destroy their city and presumably their families, Horst thought. And the extent to which we have deceived them. Though they were most willing to be deceived!

  Nicolai continued: “It may well be necessary to silence the girl at a crucial moment. She knows too much.”

  Horst couldn’t altogether hide his distaste but answered stolidly: “I understand the military necessities, Herr Oberst, you may rest assured as to that.”

  After all, I am going to be killing thousands . . . no, certainly tens of thousands, possibly hundreds of thousands of women and children. What is one more?

  * * *

  • • •

  You do have to eat, Ciara dear,” Luz said gently, noticing that the girl was merely pushing things around her plate. “Think of something different. Something that gave you pleasure.”

  That meant not thinking too much about the food itself: thin potato soup that might once have been frightened by the corpse of a chicken waved above the pot, followed by rubbery schnitzel encased in limp dingy crumbs, gray noodles in nameless sauce, excessively boiled potatoes and cabbage, and something that disgraced the name of apple strudel. All accompanied by that suspicious bread and margarine that someone had tried to make without using animal or vegetable fats. You needed fats to make glycerin, and you had to have glycerin to make explosives.

  It all represents German cooking about the way an accordion man with a trained monkey represents Italian opera. Though there is enough of it, at least, so stop whining, Luz—you remember sucking on pebbles because there wasn’t even any water, por Dios.

  It was seven now, and the sun was touching the western hills. Long golden spears shot through the high narrow windows of the hall that served as the officers’ mess, catching on a gilded antler now and then as they lanced across the high spaces, or the halberd of a motionless man-at-arms in a niche. She had to admit there was a certain melancholy magic to the long northern twilights.

  Either the food situation in Germany was very bad, or the high-ranking here were being ostentatious about not escaping from the tribulations of ordinary folk, or both. She suspected it was both, from the way everyone else was tucking in as if this were better than their ordinary fare. From overheard bits of conversation the visiting heavies would be leaving tomorrow morning, doubtless off to approve of some other evil plot.

  Tomorrow I’ll have an opportunity to pump Horst, Luz thought. Probably in both senses of the word, which will be fun. Nothing like that for taking your mind off something unpleasant.

  Right now he wasn’t all that far away, but he was deep in conversation with Colonel Nicolai and the Herr Privatdozent, kept to a level lost in the buzz and clatter off the high roof. The two women, and one extra man, were at the end of one of the long trestle tables. Luz was keeping an eye on the civilian; he was unmistakably an American, of a particular sort, which meant that she should learn more. There was no way on God’s green Earth he could be up to any good in this company.

  “Did your Auntie Colleen tell you stories when you were a girl?” Luz asked. “My parents did, one or the other or both, nearly every night. That was always my favorite time of the day; it was how I learned to read.”

  “Stories? That she did!” Ciara said, a little more cheerfully. “She’d often come over and cook for us, and tell us stories later in the parlor. Or we’d visit at her flat, lying on the rug before the coal fire with the cats, and she’d read to us—there was this book by a man named Curtin, when we were small. The Shee an Gannon and the Grugach Gaire was my favorite of those, and Colm most liked Fin MacCumhail and the Fenians of Erin in the Castle of Fear Dubh. She had Hans Christian Anderson too, and Peter Pan, and others . . . And Auntie Treinel had this lovely book of Grimm’s tales, it must have been forty years old even then, and she’d read them to us—translating as she went. Odd and bloody and exciting they were, not the version like boiled potatoes with no salt you see today.”

  She added scornfully: “Thinking the little ones will be scarred for life at a fright.”

  “Treasure Island?”

  “Oh, yes, and I wanted to be Jim so badly! And then we moved on to Twain, Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer, reading them together and talking about them. I reread them again a little while ago and for all the games and make-believe and boys’ naughtiness they’re deep and sad.”

  Now that’s very perceptive, Luz thought, and went on aloud:

  “Twain knew his business and no mistake. He’s wiser when he’s showing boys at their foolishness than many a solemn man is with a thousand ponderous pages of conversations in parlors and ballrooms. Henr
y James, for example.”

  “Oh, him,” Ciara said, and rolled her eyes. “But still, that raft trip down the river is like a happy dream in some ways . . .”

  Ciara paused with the fork halfway to her plate. “And that was cunning of you. I’ve actually eaten half of this. Not much of a treat, but I’ve had worse and I feel better for it.”

  “What’s more, I ate half of mine without noticing either. Thanks!” Luz said.

  She’d managed to get the schnitzel down, gristle and all, and the rest was mostly just dull. When it was finished she felt . . . not hungry anymore, which was the minimum basic function of food, after all. Like all those locomotives being fed bad wartime coal, she could get the work done.

  “The mind and the body can’t really be separated, you know,” she said. “The one affects the other equally. You were hungry; it was just that your mind was getting in the way.”

  “Auntie Treinel is a splendid cook,” Ciara said, smiling fondly at the memory. “Her sauerbraten of a Sunday was fine, and her Schweinshaxe. So it’s not that we’re in Germany that makes the food here so dreadful.”

  “They’re short of everything, ladies,” the man said; he’d moved a little closer after pushing away his plate. “Hungry as my people were in sixty-five. More credit that they don’t let it stop them.”

  He inclined his head and mimed lifting the hat he wasn’t wearing. “Robert Edward Daubigny, of South Carolina, happy to be at your service,” he said. “Pardon my forwardness in introducing myself, but we’ve been thrown together by circumstance. And in a common purpose.”

  Luz and Ciara both inclined their heads slightly and shook hands warily; no matter the circumstances, you always had to be a bit cautious about friendliness with an unknown man. His grip was firm and strong; the hand didn’t have a workingman’s calluses, but Luz judged he was a hunter, and rode a good deal, which accorded with the outdoorsman’s complexion. From the slight dent in his nose, he’d probably played college football too, or possibly boxed as an amateur.