Final impact aot-3 Read online

  Final impact

  ( Axis of Time - 3 )

  John Birmingham

  John Birmingham

  Final impact

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  ALLIED COMMANDERS

  Arnold, General Henry H. (Hap). US Army Commander of the Army Air Force.

  Churchill, Winston. Prime Minister, Great Britain.

  Curtin, John. Prime Minister, Commonwealth of Australia.

  Eisenhower, Brigadier General Dwight D., US Army. Head of War Plans Division. Appointed Commander of US Forces, European Theatre of Operations, June 1942.

  King, Admiral Ernest J., USN. Commander-in-Chief of the US Fleet and Chief of Naval Operations.

  Kolhammer, Admiral Phillip, USN. Task Force Commander, Commandant Special Administrative Zone (California).

  MacArthur, General Douglas, US Army. Commander, Allied Forces, South-West Pacific Area. Headquartered in Brisbane, Australia.

  Marshall, General George C., US Army. Chairman, Joint Chiefs of Staff.

  Nimitz, Admiral Chester, USN. Commander-in-Chief, US Pacific Fleet.

  Roosevelt, President Franklin D. Thirty-second president of the United States of America.

  Spruance, Rear Admiral Raymond A., USN. Commander, Combined Pacific Task Force.

  Stimson, Henry. US Secretary of War.

  ALLIED PERSONNEL

  Black, Commander Daniel, USN. On Secondment as Chiefs of Staff Liaison to Special Administrative Zone.

  Danton, Sub-Lieutenant Philippe. Ranking officer on Robert Dessaix.

  Denny, Sergeant Adam, USMC Force Recon.

  Flemming, Chief Petty Officer Roy, RAN. CPO HMAS Havoc.

  Francois, Major Margie, USMC. Combat surgeon and Chief Medical Officer, Multinational Force.

  Grey, Lieutenant Commander Conrad, RAN. Executive Officer, HMAS Havoc.

  Groves, General Leslie. Director of the Manhattan Project.

  Halabi, Captain Karen, RN. Commander, British contingent; Deputy Commander, Multinational Force; Commander, HMS Trident.

  Harrison, Sergeant Major Aubrey. 82nd MEU.

  Howard, Lieutenant Commander Marc. Intelligence Officer, HMS Trident.

  Ivanov, Major Pavel, Russian Federation Spetsnaz. On secondment to US Navy SEALs.

  Jones, Colonel JL, USMC. Commander, 82nd Marine Expeditionary Unit.

  Judge, Captain Mike, USN. Commander, USS Hillary Clinton.

  Kennedy, Lieutenant John F., USN. Commander PT 101.

  Kicji. Guide to Pavel Ivanov.

  Liao, Lieutenant Willy, USN. PA to Admiral Kolhammer.

  Lohrey, Lieutenant Amanda, RAN. Intelligence Officer, HMAS Havoc.

  McTeale, Lieutenant Commander James. Executive Officer, HMS Trident.

  Mohr, Chief Petty Officer Eddie. Transferred to Auxiliary Forces, Special Administrative Zone.

  Muller, Captain Jurgen, Deutsche Marine. On Secondment to Special Operations Executive.

  Nguyen, Lieutenant Commander Rachel, RAN. Multinational Force Intelligence Liaison to South-West Pacific Area HQ.

  Rogas, Chief Petty Officer Vincente, US Navy SEALs.

  Snider, Sergeant Arthur, USMC. 1st Marine Division. (Contemporary.)

  St. Clair, Sergeant Major Vivian Richards, British SAS force.

  Steele, Captain Colin, USN. Commander JDS Siranui.

  Viviani, Lieutenant Colonel Nancy. Production Chief for Admiral Kolhammer.

  Willet, Captain Jane, RAN. Commander, HMAS Havoc.

  Windsor, His Royal Highness Major Harry. Commander, British MNF SAS contingent. Commander Training Squadron.

  GERMAN COMMANDERS

  Gering, Reichsmarschall Hermann. Chief of the Luftwaffe.

  Himmler, Reichsfuhrer Heinrich. SS Chief.

  Hitler, Reichschancellor Adolf.

  Oberg, General Karl. SS Commander in Paris.

  Speer, Albert. Minister of Armaments.

  Zeitzler, General Kurt, Wehrmacht Chief of Staff

  GERMAN PERSONNEL

  Brasch, Colonel Paul. Engineer. Reich Special Projects.

  Skorzeny, Colonel Otto. Personal bodyguard to Adolf Hitler.

  JAPANESE COMMANDERS

  Hidaka, Commander Jisaku, IJN. Interim Military Governor of Hawaii.

  Homma, General Masaharu. Commander of Imperial Japanese land forces in Australia.

  Oshima, General Hiroshi. Japanese ambassador to Germany.

  Uemura, Lieutenant Masahisa, Squadron leader, “Thunder Gods,” Special Attack Squadron, Sapporo.

  Yamamoto, Grand Admiral Isoroku, IJN. Commander-in-Chief, Combined Fleet.

  Yukio, Lieutenant Seki, Commander Special Attack Squadron, Caroline Islands.

  USSR COMMANDERS

  Beria, Lavrenty Pavlovich. Head of NKVD.

  Khrushchev, Nikita Sergeyevich. Prisoner.

  Molotov, Vyacheslav Mikhaylovich. Foreign Minister.

  Stalin, Josef Vissarionovich. General Secretary of the Soviet Communist Party.

  CIVILIANS

  Davidson, James “Slim Jim.” Formerly Able Seaman, USS Astoria. Chief Executive Officer and principal shareholder Slim Jim Enterprises.

  Donovan, William. Chief of the Office of Strategic Services.

  Duffy, Julia, New York Times feature writer. Embedded 82nd MEU.

  Halifax, Lord. British Ambassador to USA.

  Hoover, J. Edgar. Director, FBI.

  Natoli, Rosanna, CNN researcher/producer. Embedded 82nd MEU.

  O’Brien, Ms. Maria. Lawyer, former USMC captain, 82nd MEU. (Retd.)

  Stephenson, William. Churchill’s personal representative in the USA.

  PROLOGUE

  CHRISTMAS DAY 1942

  HMAS HAVOC, 210 NAUTICAL MILES

  SOUTH-SOUTHEAST OF THE KURIL ISLANDS

  Captain Jane Willet came awake in an instant-even before the chime rang at her cabin door. At least that’s how it seemed.

  It’s probably just my mind getting bent of out shape.

  Willet was groggy from a fortnight of broken sleep. Gone were the days of dialing up a stim surge from her implants. Indeed, most of the things she had taken for granted were long gone. Close friends and family outside this boat. Six hundred channels of bad TV. Thai food. No-fuss contraception.

  The chime rang again.

  “Enter,” she said, her voice cracking badly. She had to repeat herself, after a cough. “Come in, please.”

  The door slid to the side, and a female sailor stuck her head into the cabin. “Begging your pardon, Captain, but the XO says we’ve picked ’em up again. He said you’d want to be on the bridge.”

  “Thank you, Bec.”

  Willet sat up and ran her fingers through her hair, gathering the thick, shoulder-length mass of tangles and split ends into a workable ponytail that she tied off with an elastic band. The sailor stepped into the room and over to the counter, then poured a mug of coffee-the last of the boat’s stock of premium-blend Illy. She handed it to the captain.

  “Ah. Thanks again. Champion effort.” Willet took a sip, and it felt as though the caffeine went straight to her cortex. Young Sparrow brewed a very mean cup of coffee.

  Jeez, I’m gonna miss this when it runs out, thought the submarine commander. Wonder how long it’ll be after the war before anyone imports a decent Italian blend.

  Aloud she said, “Tell the XO to keep his finger off the trigger until I’ve got some pants on. I’ll join him in two minutes.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  Her orderly disappeared, closing the door as she left. Willet took a long slug of the coffee, brewed warm rather than hot so she wouldn’t scald herself. She set the mug down in a recess on the small table beside her bunk. She grabbed a ’temp-made energy bar and peeled back the waxed paper, then started chewing joylessly on her s
o-called breakfast at the same time as she climbed into a pair of gray combat coveralls. She checked her watch.

  Zero four thirty-one hours, local.

  She’d been asleep for less than two hours.

  Washing down a mouthful of the bar with the last of her coffee, Willet gathered up her flexipad and left behind the small personal space of her cabin. Some novels, a few black-and-white photographs of the Sydney Harbor Bridge, a picture of her sister, and a small watercolor of their parents’ beach house painted by her dad back up in twenty-one marked out the room as her private territory. She was never far from work, however.

  The cabin was located all of fifteen meters from the sub’s Combat Center, allowing her to arrive in a shade under the promised two minutes.

  “Captain on deck!”

  “As you were. Mr. Grey, I hear we’ve got them by the short and curlies again.”

  Lieutenant Commander Conrad Grey stepped aside from a bank of flat-panel screens, a quick nod inviting her to take his place. She could see that he was tense, like everyone present.

  “The sea’s calmed down a fair bit up there, skipper. We’re getting clean capture on the sensors now, the best we’ve had in three days. Their cocks are on the chopping block, ma’am. Just waiting for the magic word.”

  Willet took in the sensor feed with a glance. Once upon a time, they would have made this kill from a much safer distance, but in such foul weather, without satellite cover, they’d been forced to come within six thousand meters just to use the boat’s own sensor suite. Tracking something as dangerous as a Sartre-class stealth destroyer was like snuggling up to a nest of vipers.

  At least it would have been under normal circumstances.

  The Dessaix, however, wasn’t under the command of its normal crew. Mostly their fates were unknown, but it didn’t take much to imagine what had become of them. The Nazis had captured the ship while they were all still comatose from the Transition, so there wouldn’t have been a chance to resist. If any still lived, they were probably hanging by their thumbs in a Gestapo cell somewhere in Germany.

  Willet leaned back into the gelform seat padding and peered intently into the multipanel display. There was no video feed to examine, only animations of the boat’s electronic intelligence haul. The Havoc had five small drones left, but they weren’t robust enough to cope with the extreme conditions above. Three days earlier two giant storm cells had merged to create a supercell within which the Dessaix was trapped. Sitting two hundred meters down, the submariners had enjoyed an easy time of it. Conditions top-side, on the other hand, would be evil.

  They were bad enough that tracking the ship had been near impossible. They’d lost contact again and again. At last, when the weather showed signs of abating, they had her-and the chance of taking her down.

  “You know, Mr. Grey,” Willet mused, “we may not have to bother with this after all. Mother Nature might just do our job for us. It looks to me like the Dessaix is struggling.”

  “Better safe than sorry, ma’am,” her XO cautioned.

  “Of course. It was just a girlish whim.” She smiled, then her features took on an altogether somber cast. “Weapons?” she said crisply. “Confirm target lock and torpedo status.”

  “Aye, ma’am. Both confirmed. And we’ve reached firing depth.”

  “Well, then, let’s not drag it out. Open tubes.”

  Though she couldn’t actually hear or feel it, she knew instinctively when the giant submarine had bared its fangs.

  “Tubes three and four open, ma’am.”

  Willet did not hesitate. “Fire.”

  “Firing three. Firing four, skipper. Clean shots. Tracking now.”

  The Combat Center was normally a hushed environment, but when a warshot was loosed, a preternatural stillness came over the dozen men and women working there. In the bad old days a sub captain would have followed the torpedoes to their victim by watching through a periscope. Just two years ago Willet herself would have observed the killing stroke on the ship’s holobloc, where the action would play itself out as a ghostly, three-dimensional image. But now all she had was a crude computer-generated simulation as her last pair of Type 92 torpedoes accelerated toward the hijacked French vessel that was struggling through the waves.

  “Countermeasures?” she asked quietly, although there was no need. The Havoc was fully stealthed.

  “None deployed yet, ma’am. They haven’t made us.”

  She nodded, but couldn’t help chewing her lip. She had just fired off the last of their offensive weapons. There were no more shots in the locker-the cruise missile bays and the torpedo room were empty. If they missed with this strike, and the pickup crew of the Dessaix were any good, she would have to dive deep and hide out down there for a very long time.

  Two indicator bars, showing the distance to the target, crawled across the nearest screen. Five millimeters before they reached their goal, the chief defensive sysop cried out.

  “They’re on to us! Threat boards red.”

  Willet’s heart rate surged, but then her weapons officer spoke up.

  “We got a double tap, skipper! Clean hits.” He added, “She’s gone.”

  Willet’s crew were disciplined, and nobody cheered, but the commander of the HMAS Havoc spoke for them all. “Outstanding piece of work everyone,” she said quietly. “Congratulations.”

  Lieutenant Commander Grey stayed bent over the schematic displays until he was entirely satisfied. Standing upright, he asked, “Shall we search for survivors, ma’am?”

  It didn’t take long for her to consider the question. “No, I’m afraid not, Mr. Grey. The seas are still running at twelve meters up there. We can’t take the chance. Bring us around, and let’s get back to the lake. Prepare an encrypted burst for Pearl, San Diego, and Sydney, then send it when we get within range.

  “And have Ms. Sparrow brew me a hot chocolate. I’m going back to bed.”

  1

  D-DAY. 3 MAY 1944.

  0300 HOURS. IN TRANSIT.

  The lead helicopter hammered across the English Channel at the edge of its performance envelope, close enough to the waves that Lieutenant Gil Amundson thought he could feel a fine mist of sea spray stirred up by their passage through the darkness.

  The seven men in his chalk were quiet, each alone in his own cocoon of anticipation and fear. Amundson could hear Sergeant Nunez beside him, reciting rapid-fire Hail Marys, working through a set of rosary beads in what looked to the young cavalry officer like record time. Across the cabin Private Clarke was nervously tapping his heel on the steel plating of the floor, the tempo increasing until it sounded like one of those rock-and-roll drummers. Then he’d curse, punch himself on the leg, and go still for a moment before starting all over again.

  On either side of him a couple of the boys were dozing fitfully. Or at least pretending to.

  That’s how it went the whole way across. Each man playing out what might be his last hour as he saw fit. Some checked their equipment, before checking their buddy’s. Some leaned over to get a view of the invasion fleet as it headed for the coast. Corporal Gadsden craned his head skyward, the bulky lens of his Gen2 Starlite goggles tracking his gaze as he picked out Dakotas, gliders, Mustang night fighters, and, at one point, a squadron of Sabers miles overhead, all screaming toward France.

  Amundson forced himself to go through the plan again. The rapid insertion, the assembly point for his platoon, the mental map of their objective.

  He used what little space he had in the chopper to perform a set of isometric exercises, lest his butt fall asleep before they jumped into Hitler’s front garden. He stretched his arms and legs and craned his neck from side to side, a full extension in each direction, which gave him a clear view of the rest of the cav squadron as it thundered toward the enemy in 132 Hueys, with another forty Cobra gunships riding shotgun.

  It seemed that the demonic roar of so many engines, the great thudding of all those rotors, could surely be heard in Berlin itself. But as quic
kly as the thought came to him, it was gone.

  A quick glance forward through the armored glass canopy revealed the firestorm that was engulfing the Pas de Calais. So much high explosive had been dropped on that small region of France, it would be a wonder if anything bigger than a flea still lived down there. There’d even been talk back in England that Ike might bust a nuke over the krauts, although Amundson doubted that. They hadn’t been outfitted to fight in radioactive terrain.

  That wouldn’t stop the Nazis, though, he supposed. Axis Sally had been taunting the Allies for weeks now, claiming that the Reich was just waiting for them to set foot on the Continent, giving them an excuse to use the first of their many, many A-bombs. Amundson glanced down, then back at the lead elements of the great fleet headed for the beaches of Calais. At least his squadron was probably too small a target to justify the use of such a weapon.

  No, they were probably just gonna get chewed to bits by German jet fighters.

  Ah, screw it.

  He figured the same doubts were gnawing through every man in the operation. Eisenhower himself was probably being tortured by the same sort of fears. Ever since the Transition, so much was known, but so much more was unknowable.

  There was one person who didn’t seem to give a shit, though, and she was sitting directly across from him. She was a civilian, but she’d seen more combat than any of them. Maybe even anyone in the whole squadron. Amundson knew a few guys who’d fought in the Pacific, but almost everyone else in the Seventh had never fired a shot-not in combat. Nor had they come under fire themselves.

  But they’d trained as hard as any outfit in the world. And in one of those weird, head-spinning paradoxes, they’d learned the lessons of another D-Day, one that had taken place on another world. Amundson knew, for instance, that a field full of French cows most likely wasn’t mined, but if those cows kept staring at a bush or a hedgerow, there was probably a German hiding there. Their equipment was without a doubt the best. The poor old infantry, down in those Higgins boats, they didn’t get any Starlite goggles, or even body armor. And they were still armed with the M1 Garand, not the brand-new assault rifles with integrated grenade launchers.