Designated Targets Page 7

  He had authorized two weeks’ leave for all members of the Einsatzgruppen who were personally involved in the countersubversion operations. Unfortunately, the pace of their work was such that nobody had managed to take as much as one hour’s break since their vital mission began with the translation of the so-called Web files.

  A PA system announced the ten-minute countdown in both German and Russian.

  Himmler noticed the arrival of Brasch and his SS chaperone. While many had been sucked down in the recent turbulence, others had flourished, and Brasch was one of them. The führer had personally promoted him to the rank of Oberst, thanking the engineer for his work in the Orient. Himmler, however, wasn’t so sure of the man. The murder of Steckel remained unsolved and unsettling, but then Brasch could hardly be blamed for that. He’d been hundreds of miles away in Hashirajima when the intelligence officer was killed. And as a lieutenant in the Ausland-SD, Steckel had doubtless accumulated many foes. That circle of perverts from the Foreign Ministry were much more likely to have been responsible.

  Still, Brasch had enjoyed unrestricted access to the historical documents for many weeks. It gave one pause to imagine how he might have been affected by them.

  “Reichsführer!” Both men snapped out perfect salutes.

  Himmler nodded at their arrival and flicked back a restrained salute. The NKVD generals remained impassive. The junior officers shuffled around to allow them to join the circle.

  Himmler put his doubts about Brasch to one side. The man had been more than effective in carrying out the special tasks they had assigned him here, and Gelder, one of Himmler’s better lieutenants, had found nothing ill to report of him, as yet.

  The Demidenko operation was proceeding in excellent order.

  “I am hopeful that your test will prove to be successful, Herr Oberst,” said Himmler.

  Brasch, to his credit, did not blanch at being directly addressed by the head of the SS. Nor did he dissemble. “We all hope for success, sir. But as I’m sure you know, I cannot guarantee it. The rockets and technical data we took off the Sutanto and her sister ship in New Guinea have been most helpful. The computers are like magic boxes. Even so, I don’t anticipate a perfect trial. But we shall see.”

  Silence fell over the group, and the Germans waited on Himmler’s response. When he acknowledged Brasch’s short speech with a curt nod, they all relaxed slightly. The Soviets did not.

  “We are more than hopeful of success, Colonel Brasch,” said Orlov, the senior Russian general, in his heavily accented German. “Much effort has been poured into this project. We are not a rich country, and every kopeck spent here is lost to the reconstruction and repair necessitated by the aggression of your own.”

  “That is your problem, General.” Brasch shrugged.

  The Bolshevik flared at the insult, and Himmler found himself in the unfamiliar role of peacemaker. “Orlov, this project is a concrete symbol of our cooperation against the common enemy. We do not need to rake over scorched earth. Colonel Brasch, you will apologize.”

  “Of course,” said Brasch with easy equanimity. “I am sorry, Herr General. In the drive to complete our work, I forget myself.”

  The PA announced, “Launch minus five.”

  The Soviets seemed mollified, and Brasch remained completely unruffled. Himmler found himself privately amused at the engineer’s cheek. Nobody was happy with this new rapprochement, but needs must out when the devil drives. And the führer’s plans were most definitely being driven by the devilish complications of the Emergence.

  Himmler polished the lens of the specially tinted goggles they’d given him and turned to the foot-thick blast window. The striking sight of the prototype V-2 rocket, poised on its launchpad, was heavily distorted through the armored glass, but he preferred to watch the test as it happened rather than on the even fuzzier televiewing screen in the control room.

  In truth, Brasch knew what would happen long before it transpired. The missile stood forty-eight feet high and measured five and a half feet in diameter. It weighed thirteen tons, most of which was liquid alcohol and liquid oxygen, to provide thrust to the 600,000-horsepower rocket engine. It was designed to carry a ton of high explosives, but did not do so for today’s test. Theoretically it could reach a speed of 3,500 miles per hour, with a ceiling of 116 miles. Unlike the aborted V-1, a fast fighter could not intercept it.

  All of which was irrelevant. This missile was never meant to fly.

  As the metallic voice of the PA counted down toward zero, Brasch felt his heartbeat quicken. He had to will himself not to flinch. Himmler had retreated behind the tinted goggles. The Russians, in their excitement, had forgotten to put theirs on.

  Stillness descended on the control room.

  “. . . five, four, three, two, one . . . ignition.”

  Even through the concrete walls and thick blast window, they could hear the roar of the engine. The wavy, green tinted armor glass distorted the view, but Brasch fancied that he could see the fatal tilt within a second of the giant lance taking off. Smoke and flame blasted away from the gantry at high speed. The missile shuddered and lurched skyward, and the small boy within him ached for it to keep going.

  But it didn’t. He had sabotaged the launch most effectively, and the room filled with intense yellow light as the V-2 tipped over, sending a long spear of superheated exhaust in their direction. Now he flinched, like everyone else, as the flames seemed to lick at the window. A gigantic, muffled explosion sounded as nine tons of rocket fuel detonated a few hundred meters away. Some of the technicians cursed; some cried out in panic. He heard somebody swearing in German and, from the tone, somebody doing the same thing in Russian.

  After a few seconds, the thunder subsided and everyone unclenched themselves. There was never any chance of the bunker being breached. Orlov and his men looked shaken. Himmler was paler and more thin-lipped than usual. He turned on Brasch with an evil look. “Well, Herr Oberst?”

  “An initial failure,” he replied flatly. “As I said, it was always a possibility. We know that the original tests, as documented in the computer records, were also problematic.”

  “But we are supposed to have learned from those mistakes,” hissed the Reichsführer. “The Soviets are not the only ones spending vast sums of money out here, Brasch. The Reich is engaged in a death struggle with the democracies, and we cannot afford this sort of thing.”

  Brasch could tell that the NKVD men, in spite of their shock at the explosion, were enjoying the spectacle of their exchange, though it meant nothing to him.

  “I shall prepare a report on the failure by the end of the day, Reichsführer.”

  It seemed as if every pair of eyes in the room was on them. A siren sounded very faintly from outside as fire trucks rushed to the pad.

  “See to it that you do, Herr Oberst, and I shall wish to discuss this in private . . . later,” he added ominously, before dismissing them both with a flick of the hand.

  “An unfortunate accident,” Gelder muttered as they slunk out of the blockhouse.

  Brasch sighed with exasperation. “It is science, my friend. Trial and error. We are years ahead of schedule, but this is not a magic wand,” said Brasch, waving his flexipad. “There will be more days like this one—believe me.”

  “You’d want to hope not,” said Gelder, with what sounded like genuine sympathy. “The Reichsführer does not like to be disappointed.”

  They walked in silence the rest of the way through the long, half-painted corridor, passing no other human beings. Just bloodied handprints.

  “Excellent work, Brasch, just excellent. Those idiots were completely taken in.”

  “Thank you, Reichsführer. It was simply a matter of not doing my job.”

  Himmler smiled at the weak joke.

  They met in a secure room, in the German section of the command compound. It was swept for listening devices every two hours, but none had ever been found. The Russians weren’t all that sophisticated. Their own comma
nd buildings, however, were thoroughly covered by German surveillance. Listening devices built into the very fabric of the Soviets’ command center had never been detected, and provided a wealth of intelligence for the SS to rake through.

  The room in which Himmler and Brasch met was small and bare, just a few hard wooden chairs, a table, and a notice board on which was pinned a single yellow piece of paper, displaying the times at which the room had been cleared by the technical services section of the SS. They had been through ten minutes before Brasch was ushered in. The two men drank real coffee and nibbled at Dutch honey biscuits.

  “You’ve done good work out here, Colonel. I shudder to think of the resources we’ve put into this place. But we must show our willingness, yes?”

  “The Russians still don’t trust us,” said Brasch.

  “No reason why they should,” Himmler replied. “We will destroy them in good time, and they know it. I doubt this is the only investment they’ve made as a hedge against the future. But as long as we control their access to the technology, they remain beholden to us. We took our boot from Stalin’s throat when we could have crushed the life out of him.”

  Brasch said nothing. Both of them knew that as awful as were the Red Army’s losses in 1942, it had been the beginning of the end for the German conquest.

  Before the silence could become uncomfortable, though, Brasch filled the void. “The führer is well? We do not have much news out here. Just rumors.”

  Himmler arched one eyebrow. “Really? And what might those be?”

  “Terrible rumors, Herr Reichsführer,” said Brasch. “I have heard of treachery at the highest levels of the Wehrmacht and the Kreigsmarine. Not so much with the Luftwaffe. I’m not sure why. And of course, not at all with the SS. At any rate, if even a fraction of the talk is true, it is a crime how some have abandoned their duty to the Fatherland.”

  Himmler appeared to regard him as a teacher might size up a dim pupil who had just said something profound, but quite by accident. Brasch worked hard at maintaining a slightly worried, somewhat bovine look on his face. Eventually Himmler took off his glasses and polished them with a handkerchief. Brasch recognized the gesture as a sign that the man had relaxed just a little.

  “We have had a terrible time of it,” Himmler admitted. “It has been a shock to us all, but naturally the greatest burden has fallen upon the führer himself. I have done what I can to protect him, but . . .”

  He trailed off for a moment.

  “A regiment of the Afrika Korps revolted when Rommel was recalled. Actually turned their guns on the men sent to collect him.”

  “The whole regiment!” Brasch gasped. “How?”

  “No, not the entire regiment,” said Himmler, somewhat exasperated. “Just a few men in a headquarters company at first. But then it spread through the ranks. The defense of El Alamein was thrown into chaos, and that pervert Montgomery took advantage—it was a disaster, Herr Oberst. Not at all like the spirit of Belgorod, eh?”

  Brasch allowed himself a confused shake of the head. “No, not at all like Belgorod.”

  “There was a similar uprising when Canaris was exposed. Rebellion in both the Abwehr and the Kreigsmarine. An entire Waffen SS Division was required to put that one down.”

  “Good God!” said Brasch, who was genuinely surprised that the rumors he’d heard turned out to be true.

  Himmler finished polishing his glasses and replaced them on his small, ratlike nose. “You understand these are state secrets, Brasch. They are not matters for idle chitchat.”

  “Indeed Herr Reichsführer. Of course, but why . . .” He trailed off.

  “Why do I tell you? Because you need to know, Brasch. The Fatherland needs men it can trust. I am afraid the counterattacks on the criminal gangs who would undermine our leader have rather drastically thinned out our upper ranks. They have not weakened us, mind you!” he hastened to add. “But some of those swine held important positions. They must be replaced.”

  The room seemed to become hotter, and closer. Brasch tried not to let his hopes get the better of him. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. Am I to be transferred? My work here—”

  Himmler held up one, thin, pallid hand to cut him off. “Your work here is done. Stalin is convinced that our cooperation is sincere, at least in the short term. And your efforts here have played a large part in that. He knows there must come a final settlement between us, and we know he is frantically building his forces in the Far East, where he thinks himself beyond our gaze. It doesn’t matter. When we have dealt with the immediate threat of the Allies, we shall turn on him with weapons he has never dreamed of. The trinkets we let him play with here will not save him, nor will those fleets of antique tanks he is building.”

  “I understand that, Herr Reichsführer. My mission briefing was quite specific. But what now?”

  “Now,” said Himmler, leaning forward. “You are going home. These idiots will think you have been transferred in disgrace, after today’s failure. But you have proved yourself adept at working under extreme pressure, and there are projects that require your attention back in the civilized world.

  “We are going to take the British Isles, Colonel Brasch. And you are going to help us.”

  6

  SOUTHWEST PACIFIC AREA, CORAL SEA

  It was as if they were counting her shots. Captain Jane Willet knew Yamamoto was lurking off to the north of New Guinea, well beyond the range of her Nemesis arrays. The Havoc had been out on point duty, hundreds of miles ahead of Admiral Spruance’s diminished Task Force for nearly six weeks now. No Japanese ships had made it past them. Spruance may have had just the Enterprise and USS Wasp to call on for carrier-borne strike missions, but with the submarine’s advanced sensor suites and battle management systems to act as a force multiplier, he could deploy his precious aircraft to devastating effect. Yamamoto, meanwhile, could not move directly against him, for fear of losing his capital ships to the Havoc.

  The Japanese grand admiral seemed to be waiting her out. Sending a long line of tempting targets her way, hoping she would run down her stocks of torpedoes and cruise missiles. Willet assumed he knew what she was packing. Some of the basic specs for the Havoc were available online, and the Indonesian tubs had been linked into Fleetnet. God only knew how many pages they had cached before the Transition, but it would be prudent to assume that the Japanese were somewhere with an abacus, or a flexipad, ticking off every kill she made.

  “Five contacts, Captain,” reported her intel chief, Lieutenant Lohrey. “Good returns from the drone. We can have visual in ten if you want me to reposition.”

  The commander of HMAS Havoc leaned over her shipmate’s shoulder to check out the data for herself. “You make them out to be transports, Amanda?”

  “At least three, with a couple of destroyers for escort. No air screen, again.”

  Willet chewed her lower lip, but in the end the decision was easy. “Well, I’m not wasting any taxpayers’ money on this. Especially as the taxpayers haven’t even been born yet. Squirt a position fix to Spruance, see if they can vector a couple of those American subs on them.”

  Lohrey turned in her chair. “Begging your pardon, Captain, but the ’temps still haven’t completed the changeover of their torpedoes. If they’re packing Type Fourteens, they might as well shoot spitballs at ’em.”

  Willet nodded ruefully. The sub-launched torpedoes carried by American boats from this time had major problems with their running depth and warheads. Depression-era budgets hadn’t allowed for proper testing, and the training shots ran with significantly lighter dummy warheads. This meant that in a real shoot-out, the torpedoes tended to “sink” a little, and could actually run right under the keel of their targets. The magnetic exploders that might have compensated for this didn’t work properly, because they were designed to function in far northern latitudes, and they went a little haywire south of the equator.

  Even if, by some chance, the captain got lucky and actually hit his ta
rget, the contact detonator often failed because they’d been designed for an earlier, slower type of fish. The ’temps’ Mark 14 hit with enough speed that the firing pin often missed the exploder cap altogether. It was logical to assume that once this had been pointed out, it would have been attended to with all dispatch. But no, she’d just read an e-mail that morning from Kolhammer complaining that the civilian manufacturer, NTS Newport and the responsible navy office, ComSubSWPac, were still resisting a total refit.

  “You’re right,” sighed Willet. “They could shoot their whole wad and still not hit anything.”

  “What about these guys here?” She tapped the screen with a light pen, instantly drawing a box around two blue contacts floating within a sheltered cove on the mainland, less than a hundred klicks to her east and 250 south of the advancing Japanese reinforcements. Lieutenant Lohrey worked her station quickly; a window opened and began scrolling text.

  “That’s a couple of PT boats, ma’am. Fifty-nine and One-oh-one. They’re tasked for harassment and interdiction of Japanese supply barges coming down through the Whitsundays. If they’re carrying the old Mark Thirteen’s, they’d have a better chance than the subs.”

  Willet stood back from the screen and thought it over. She couldn’t risk a radio transmission, and the PT boats didn’t have the equipment to receive a compressed data burst. But she didn’t want to use up any more of her precious store of weapons taking out a troop ship. She had worthier targets.

  “Okay,” she concluded. “Let’s make some new friends. Helm, I want a fast run across to those torpedo boats. I’ll talk to the skippers myself. Leave the drones up; we’ll grab the take from them on the way.”

  She ordered the comms boss to send a compressed encrypted burst back to Spruance, explaining why they were moving off station.

  Turning back to the flatscreen, she tapped her pursed lips with the light pen.