Anvil Of Necessity

out as long as it had.......” Songkitti bit his lip. The news from Laum Mwuak had been grim. The airfield captured, the airfield defense company, 120 men, wiped out to the last man. At least half the other air force personnel gone. The rest trying to take their families out through the jungle. Chaovalit was still speaking. “And the aircraft of course. We couldn't have done anything without them. But we've the whole division on the line now and based on today, yes, I can buy you tomorrow,”

Songkitti's eyes were on the map. There was a thin line of blue pins now, marking the kidney-shaped bulge of the Japanese incursion. 16 kilometers deep at it’s thickest. Five at the thinnest by Laum Mwuak. Tomorrow was the critical day. The Second Cavalry was arriving in Phnom Penh overnight; they'd be forming up to the east of the Japanese kidney. And to its west, 11th Infantry was also slowly moving up. If 9th could hold for that one day, he'd be able to counter attack north and south, cut the Japanese force south of the Mekong off and envelope it. Today had been close run, all too close. The militia had held just long enough, Laum Mwuak had held just long enough, the Ostriches had done just enough damage and together they'd bought enough time for the 9th to come on line. Now, if he had one more day, he could start to put this right.

“I don't know if we'll have air support tomorrow. We had air superiority all day today, I don't know why. Can't guarantee we'll have it tomorrow. Anything else I can send you?”

“Replacements, always replacements. And if you've got any more officers like that woman you sent to 29th, get them up here. Prad thought you were mad sending a woman but she's been out there kicking butt and taking names all afternoon.”

“I'll shake some more personnel loose. And some 150s. Thanks Van.” Songkitti hung up and turned to his aide. “You hear that? That's the one I threatened to have dragged out of here by her hair. You think she'll hold a grudge?”

“Don't they always, Sir?”

Chapter Three Solutions

Flight Deck B-36H “Texan Lady”, 50,150 feet over the Nevada Test and Experimental Area

“Alex, did you hear what the 509th Composite pulled yesterday on Mannie Fernandez's Chain Lightnings?”

“I missed the briefings last night. Chief Designer Mikoyan was advising us on his visit to North American. But I have heard Major Fernandez was not in a happy mood. Also that his aircraft did not perform well.”

“They did as well as any I suppose. But the 305th were scheduled to do their pre-raid penetration only the 509th played a wild­card. They put one of their GB-36s. Guardian Angel up there instead of a Recon Rat. When Mannie's F-58s came up to play, the GB-36 crew waited until the fighters had topped out then dropped their Goblins on them. Mannie's birds were at 43,000, hanging on their props, and the Goblins just shot them up while the 58's were struggling not to stall and spin out. Camera gun shots are a sight to behold. All six down, then Guardian Angel swept down picked up her fighters and climbed up again. Mannie wasn't happy about that, says in a real strike there would have been more fighters around to prevent the pick up. Right too I suppose.”

“Guardian Angel, isn't she one of the ones that saved your ass over France.” Major Clancy was riding in the pilot's seat with Colonel Dedmon in the aircraft commander's position and Guards-Colonel Aleksandr Pokryshkin as co-pilot.

“That's right. Trynn Allen's bird. Guardian Angel, Sweet Caroline and Golden Girl aren't allowed to buy their own beer any time they come up to Kozlowski. Not when they pulled our nuts out of the fire after some crazy fighter jock, no offense Alex, blew our port wing to hell. He missed with his rockets but got lucky with cannon-fire. We were losing altitude and there were long-wing Messerschmitts waiting for us. Then those three turned up and blew the reception committee away for us.

“Blohm und Voss, not Messerschmitts. It was originally a Messerschmitt but Blohm und Voss took it over when Messerschmitt pigged up the design work.” Pokryshkin spoke absently as he got used to the feel of the B-36. “There are a couple at Ramcnskoye, our designers are looking them over.”

“Boss, we're picking up a contact. Single fighter burning sky, 660 miles per hour. Climbing fast as well. Much faster than anything we've picked up to date. Whoa, 7.600 feet per minute.”

“That must be the North American XF-86A. They told us it would be joining the exercise today. It is 50 kilometers faster than our MiG-15 but the Aluminum Rabbit climbs faster. I do not think we should worry though. Both aircraft will run out of climb some distance below us.”

“Thanks Alex. Any word on the problems with the MiG-15? Argus, keep an eye on that contact alert us when it crossed 40,000 feet.”

“Chief Designer Mikoyan said the designers at North American were most helpful. They say that with swept wings it is essential to build them a different way. We built them the old way, with the spars and frames first then covering them with skin. Build the wing from the inside out but that is not accurate enough anymore. North American have special jigs where they lay the skin first then apply the frames and spars to the wing skin. Build the wing from the outside in. Chief Designer Mikoyan is sending that back to Russia today and our factories will try the new method. In exchange we have given them North American information on our cannons for fighters. Our friend down there still has .50 machine guns. Not good enough.

Strange. Your XF-86 can fly but not shoot, our MiG-15 can shoot but not fly.”

“Crossing 40,000 now. Rate of climb slowing right down. Losing a lot of speed. He's leveled off, trying to build up speed again, 600 miles per hour. OK, lie's climbing but a lot slower.”

“Running out of power. He must be down to less than a thousand pounds of thrust by now.” Clancy altered course slightly, extending the distance between the climbing fighter and Texan Lady's serene progress across the Nevada sky. Aft, the twin 20mm guns in the tail moved slightly, John-Paul Martin making sure they hadn't frozen up in the intense cold outside.

“Still climbing, very slow now. Guess is he'll level off at around 48 to 49. You were right up there, he isn't going to make it.”

“And that's the best we have.”

Texan Lady continued her stately turn in the sky over the test range. About 3,000 feet below them, the XF-S6 was wallowing as the pilot fought to reach the silver giant overhead without stalling. A hard job, the gap between his stalling speed and his maximum speed was less than a couple of miles per hour. Helplessly, the pilot watched the B-36 turning away from him and separating.

“Phil, I'm taking over for a few minutes.” Dedmon dropped down and slid into the pilot's seat. “Crew, preparing for descent. Argus, altitude and position on that fighter?”

“2,500 feet below, off to around 8 o'clock. He's trying to turn with us but he can't make it. He'll stall if he pulls the bank needed.”

“Thanks. Let me know immediately if anything changes.” Dedmon could hear the little groans and squeaks in his aircraft's structure as she dropped down to 49,500 feet. He could see the XF-86 now, off to his left, essentially just hanging in the air, its thrust barely adequate to hold the aircraft in position. The pilot was trying to turn but he had neither the lift nor the control authority to manage anything more than a gentle drift. Then, Dedmon lost sight of the fighter as Texan Lady continued her own starboard turn.

Mentally, he held the position in his mind, visualizing the relative locations of the two aircraft. At the right second, he looked over his right shoulder and saw the XF-86 swimming back into view. As he watched, it seemed to creep forward, moving towards the front of the bomber's bubble cockpit. The fighter pilot had leveled off now and was trying to accelerate away from the bomber that was slowly but surely getting into his six o'clock.

“OK guys, here we go.” The XF-86 was now directly in front of them, still accelerating in an attempt to gain separation from the threatening giant behind. “Piston engines full power, jets likewise. Alex, jets lose power up here, our turbocharged radials don’t. Not as much anyway.” Dedmon was watching closely, he was trying to make a point, not cause an accident. “Power down five on turners, keep burners at maximum.”

The distance between the XF-86 and the B-36 had dropped to a couple of hundred yards, the fighter looking for all the world like a pilotfish ahead of a whale. The fighter pilot was trying to turn now, making the gentle banks to port and starboard that were all aerodynamics allowed, in an attempt to throw the bomber off his tail but it was futile. Texan Lady easily matched him turn for turn, chasing the XF-86 around the sky.

“Texan Lady this is Sabre-one. I concede. Drop back will you.” The fighter pilot's voice was aggrieved and resentful. Dedmon grinned nastily and edged Texan Lady a little closer to the persecuted fighter.

“Texan Lady, back off will you.” There was a distinct edge of panic in the pilot's voice now. Viewed objectively, Dedmon couldn't blame him; Texan Lady must be filling the sky behind him. And fighter pilots weren't used to being chased around the sky by bombers.

“Ride Him Cowboy.” The female voice echoed through the intercom system, Pokryshkin raised his eyebrows curiously.

“We have a crewmember who does a very good female impersonation. Don’t know who.” Dedmon's voice was tense also; his eyes never left the fighter in front of them.

“Texan Lady, this is range control. Break away from that fighter now.”

“Sorry Ground Control, repeat please, your message broke up.”

“There he goes Bob.” The ailerons on the XF-86 were visibly shaking. Suddenly, the pilot must have banked a little too far and his lift dropped below the critical point. The XF-86 stalled and dropped away in a savage spin.

“Right, full military power, all engines, turning and burning. We've got some altitude to get back.”

It took twenty minutes to regain the altitude lost in the persecution of the fighter pilot. Then, Texan Lady finished her scheduled flight plan and set course for her temporary duty base. A few minutes into their descent, Ground Control came back on the air. “Texan Lady, this is Range Control. For your information, the XF-86 recovered at 22,000 feet and landed safely. “The voice took on an ominous tone. “And General LeMay wants to see the cockpit crew in his office, Immediately on landing.”

General LeMay's Office. Nevada Test and Experimental Area

“Yabama Mat. You put the accent on the wrong syllable.” LeMay's eyes bulged in astonishment. Nobody had ever interrupted one of his tirades before, let alone to correct his pronunciation. Before he could resume his verbal incineration of Texan Lady's crew, Pokryshkin carried smoothly on. “And, if you will excuse me for saying so Sir, you wouldn't want to do that to my mother anyway. You've never met my mother, she's a sweet old lady but one day she was gathering wood in the forests and she was surprised by an amorous black bear, one that was feeling the needs of springtime as it were. The bear was about to have his way with her when he saw her face and he had to put a bag over her head first.”

Dedmon felt an insane desire to laugh. Nobody, but nobody, had ever done this in Curtis LeMay's office before. Pokryshkin was standing to attention in from of the general's desk with a perfectly serious expression on his face, respectful, and simply attempting to give his General the information he needed.

LeMay turned away slightly for a second and put a drop of something in each eye. That was something known in SAC but never mentioned. General LeMay had bilateral Bell's Palsy, his face was being slowly paralyzed. It was in its early stages yet, the attacks rare and short-lived but they were slowly increasing in frequency and severity. One day, they would cease to be attacks and the general's face would be permanently paralyzed.

“Just what were you playing at?” LeMay's voice rasped with barely-suppressed fury. “You were endangering a multi-million dollar aircraft and seventeen lives with that showboating.”

Before Dedmon could speak. Pokryshkin cut in again, still smoothly and elegantly. “General LeMay sir, you aren't a fighter pilot. I am, and I see things with a tighter pilot's eyes. To us, Sir, bombers are prey, things to be hunted and killed. That is all bombers are, prey to be hunted and killed. Sitting in Texan Lady this morning, I saw that this has not changed. The B-36 is prey and the fighters are hunting it. Now, the B-36 has advantages in the altitude that it flies at and its ability to turn at those altitudes. It has escaped the hunters by going where the hunters cannot go. Like a cat chased by dogs, it has found a tree and climbed up it. Now your B-36s are sitting on a branch of that tree looking down at the dogs below. But it is only a question of time before a bigger, stronger, faster, dog comes along and can jump up to where the cat sits.”

General LeMay's furious anger had faded and he was listening to the Russian with professional attention. “Guards-Colonel, we have the B-60 coming, A jet-engined version of the B-36. Not quite so much range but faster and higher flying. Beyond that we have the B-52, faster and higher-flying still.”

“Yes General, and so the cat moves to a higher branch. And still the dogs will catch it one day. And when it does, the cat will be torn apart. General, when we hunt bombers we have only one thing to think about at a time. First to find the bomber. Then to reach the bomber. Then to kill the bomber.

“Radar has solved the problem of finding the bomber. Oh I know how good your radio-electronic warfare equipment is but radar will still tell the fighters the bomber is coming and roughly where it is. Reaching the bomber is something we are working on now. We will solve that too. If the XF-86 and the MiG-15 don't achieve this, then the next generation will. Already we have an advanced MiG-15 on the drawing boards. Two years, perhaps three and the MiG-17 will be here at Red Sun. Killing the bomber? Once we have reached it that is easy. We have heavy cannon, we have rockets, already both our countries are working on practical air-to-air missiles. And through all this, the bomber just sits there, a passive target to be hunted.

“Over the last few weeks, the fighters have failed again and again but they are still the hunters and the B-36 is still the hunted, passive, waiting to be killed. Today, for the first time, it was different, A bomber attacked the fighter. Look at the films in the cameras. The pilot of the XF-86 didn't know what to do. He panicked because this had never happened to him before. Bombers do not attack fighters, only today one did. His reaction was the same as a tiger who has just been bitten by a rabbit. He thought, this cannot be happening. Sitting where I was, I could see that the solution to his problem was simple; all he had to do was dive away, pick up speed and come back after us before we could have climbed to safety. He did not think of doing that. Because that would have been a fighter conceding victory in a dogfight to a bomber and he could not do it.

“Sir, if the bomber has the ability to attack the fighters, that complicates the task of the fighter very greatly. The fighter pilot must not only think of attacking the bomber, he must think of defending himself as well. The GB-36 and the F-85 are steps in that direction but there are bigger and better ones to be made.”

“Guards-Colonel, we built a version of the B29 as an escort bomber. The YB-41, we doubled its armament, gave it multiple quad-fifties. Some even had twin or quad 20mms. The Germans got them all. Shot them all down. Every one of them.”

“I know the YB-41 General. I saw some of them go down. For all their extra guns, they were just prey. A bit tougher, a bit harder to kill but still prey. They were passive and they died. I believe the key is an active defense. A bomber that can take the fight to the fighters. Your strategic reconnaissance B-36s map enemy defenses, why should they not attack them as well?”

“How can a bomber take the fight to the fighters?” LeMay's voice was a bullying derisive sneer. “Loaded down with fuel and bombs, how can it. You were lucky today; you had a fighter that was almost helpless. How can a bomber have the performance to fight a fighter?”

“It can't General. So we build the performance into the weapon, not the aircraft.”

LeMay's expression didn't change, it couldn't. Bell's Palsy saw to that. But if he had been able to, his jaw would have dropped open. It was an elegant concept, one that would solve problems far into the future. Build performance into the weapons. Arm the bombers with the new air-to-air missiles. Use the strategic reconnaissance aircraft to blast a path through the defenses so the bombers would have a clear ride. It wasn't just elegant, it was brilliant.

Red Sun had been designed to develop fighter defenses against bombers like the B-36 yet it looked like the first big lesson was one that would greatly increase the threat, not develop a counter to it. His mind started to gallop ahead. The new strategic reconnaissance aircraft would have to be fast, relatively agile, and flexible so it could counter whatever unknowns a defense could throw at it. Something that could trick the enemy into engaging it, then destroy whatever the enemy threw up A real hustler of an aircraft. Then, he put that idea away for another time when he had an opportunity to think.

The Russian was still standing in front of him, his expression still one of polite helpfulness. “Guards-Colonel, you have made your point. And Texan Lady made hers. Tell me, Pokryshkin. just what does it take to intimidate you Russians?”

Pokryshkin returned the baleful stare, glare for glare. “General, Sir, you really never have met my mother have you?”

General LeMay shook his head. “Dismissed,. Get out the whole lot of you before I change my mind and bust you all to Airman Basic.”

Outside, Dedmon sighed and relaxed against the wall. “Alex, thank you. I thought we were doomed for sure.”

Pokryshkin did his best to look solemn and dutiful. “If necessary, it is the duty of the fighter to die in the defense of the bombers they are sworn to protect.” Then his face broke into a grin. “Besides, communism did my country immense harm but it had one great virtue. The threat of facing an NKVD interrogator taught every good Russian to think on his feet.”

Dedmon chuckled, more with relief than anything else. “Come on Alex, I'll buy you a beer or six. I have to ask though, did your mother really have a run-in with an amorous bear.”

“In a way. She was attacked by a bear once but there was no harm done. She punched it out.” Pokryshkin looked at the Americans sideways, to see if they'd fall for it.

“Uh huh.” Dedmon's voice was skeptical. “Tell us about it. Over beers.”

Portsmouth Naval Base, Great Britain,

“Oh no! Not her too!” Commander Fox had been let through the main gate of Portsmouth Royal Naval Dockyard and had walked along the wide road leading up to the base's administrative area. In a way, he'd been pleasantly surprised by the city. The stories had been that it had been bombed to a flat ruin, the few remaining people living in wooden-covered holes in the ground. It hadn't been that bad, not quite. The buildings had been shot up, strafed, bombed, rocketed, but enough of them survived to make the city livable. It was even a shadow of its former self, the Pompey of old, the sailors dream and the Master-at-Arms nightmare was still there. Getting off the train and walking down to the road that lead to the base, he'd felt quite cheered. Then, he'd turned the corner to see this.

Victory was still sitting in her concrete basin but her masts were down and there was a blackened hole almost dead amidships. Even from a distance, Fox could see where fire had curled out through the gunports and licked at her sides. Almost without wanting to, almost not wanting to, Fox broke into a run. The other side of the ship was as bad as he'd feared. It must have been one of the big rockets, the ones the Americans called Tiny Tim. It had blown out almost a third of the ship's side and sprayed the wood fragments over half the yard. A gaping, savage exit wound surrounded by the black infection of fire.

“Why her? She wasn't of any war value. Why did they have to do for her as well?” Fox's voice was anguished, almost a wail, carrying around the dockyard. It caused people to stop and look and that motion caused Fox to compose himself. By the time he had managed it, one of the workmen had come over to him.

“Now don't you take on so Sir. She's not as bad hurt as she looks, honest. We'll get her fixed up again.”

“What happened.... sorry, I don't know your name.”

“It's Thomas, Sir. It was Americans, one of them bent-wing bastards. Corsairs. Wasn't his fault either, really. They were hitting the storage buildings down the way. Couple of old destroyers were tied up down there and they were going for them as well. The Huns had flak all around of course and they'd put a twin-30 on the building over there, that one Sir. You can still see the hole where it was. It got the Yank as he came over the rooftop from the river. He must have been hit just as he fired 'cos his nose dropped and one of the rockets hit the old girl. She burned Sir, but some of the mates, well we got hoses and sand on her and we put it out before she went up proper. If you want to see the one that done it, the wreck's still down there a bit. Burned out of course. Pilot rode it in.”

Fox shook his head. It seemed so pointless, it hadn't even been done deliberately. If it had, if there had been a reason for it, even if it had been for the sheer joy of destruction, perhaps it would have seemed a little less cruel. But for the old girl to get gutted like that, by accident, by a pilot aiming at something else and a flak crew trying to stop him, it was a wanton act of fate.

Without even sensing it he thanked Thomas and wandered away, drifting towards the river that lay the other side of the line of warehouses. Then, looking across the river, he saw where the stories of the destruction of Portsmouth had come from. Pompey had survived, just but Gosport hadn't. Where Gosport had been was a flattened desert, only relieved by the square structure of the great German submarine bunker. Twice the size of the one at Faslane, a bombproof structure for two dozen U-boats and the stores needed to keep them running.

The workman had followed him. “Aye, a grim sight isn't it. Yanks did that too, last day of the war. Same time as they atom bombed Germany near enough. At least two dozen of them big bastards they say, flying so high nobody could see them. Dropped a thousand tons of bombs in a minute so they say. One minute it was all there, just the way it had been, the next it had all gone. Could feel the ground shaking all over Pompey. Us, Huns, U-boat crews, their folks, our folks, everybody just gone. There's nothing left over there now. Only that damned concrete tomb right in the middle. Smashed Gosport to hell the Yanks did but the U-boat pens survived.”

Thomas looked as if he wanted to curse somebody but didn't know who. The Americans perhaps who'd brought such destruction? Or the Germans who'd brought the American bombers down on Gosport? Or Halifax who'd brought in the Germans? Or the politicians who'd brought in Halifax? Or the people whose votes had brought in those politicians. In the final analysis, had the people of Gosport brought the B-36s down on their own heads? Surely that couldn't be right or fair. Just who was to blame? Or was nobody to blame, was the whole nightmare just the results of blind chance and evil fate?

Fox sat on a concrete bollard, looking over the gray, stained river towards the moonlike plain where Gosport had been. Sitting in the concrete bunker was HMS Thule, shortly to become HMAS Thule. A modernized, streamlined T-boat that would be his command the moment he signed his transfer to the Australian Navy. He'd take her out and Julia would follow on one of the liners and they'd meet up again out there. Somewhere fresh where they could make a new start, build a future. He'd come down to Portsmouth for no other reason than to sign those papers and look at Thule

Fox felt the breeze freshen slightly and he caught a slight hint of burned timber. He felt it was from Victory but probably it wasn't. There were enough burned buildings around here to make up the numbers. There was something else on the breeze, a smell of fresh timber. He turned around and saw a cart was unloading wood, good English oak, beside Victory. Some was being carried inside and he could hear the sounds of saws and hammers. Even as he watched, damaged timber was carried out and lengths of new wood carried in to replace it.

It occurred to him that Victory was a good allegory for England itself. Smashed, broken, burned, wrecked by friends and enemies alike. Yet still, despite all the odds, despite all the hardship, people were at work putting the pieces back together again. Rebuilding what could be rebuilt, replacing what could be replaced, making do where neither was possible. Making the best of what they had left.

He couldn't leave, Fox thought, it would be deserting. But he had his own life; he'd survived eight years of a war that had killed most of his class-mates. Wasn't that enough? And Julia deserved a proper life, one where she could have some of the things she deserved. Including a future and a family. Fox sat, staring alternately at the ruins of Gosport and the slow work on Victory, the arguments surging backwards and forwards in his mind. As soon as he made a decision, one way or the other, the losers retreated, re-gathered and surged back, swinging him the other way.

Fox sat on his bollard, unaware of the hours that were passing and the soft gray dusk that was slowly closing in on him. A lonely figure, torn by his indecision and the weight that was pressing down on him. Britain or Australia? When night fell, he was still sitting there, his face in his hands, and still he had not made his decision.

Headquarters, Second Karelian Front, Riga, “The Baltic Gallery”

“Vodka!” Rokossovsky's voice held a quiet air of desperation.

“Lord God Yes, for the love of mercy. Vodka!” Rommel's voice shared the desperation and added a touch of incredulity. Across the table from him, Rokossovsky banged the surface with his fist. Two of his women came in with a bottle of real vodka, not the home-brew that seemed to appear every time a Russian Army unit halted for a few minutes. One moved slightly faster than the other and got her glass in front of the Russian first.

“Thank you Anya.” Rokossovsky looked at the other girl then at Rommel. The girl shook her head and his hand dropped to his pistol holster. The girl shrugged and sat by Rommel, pouring him a glass of the clear liquid. Rommel understood the silent conversation as if it had been spoken in German. “Sit with the German and pour his drinks.” “Over my dead body.” “That can be arranged.'* “Oh, all right then.”

“Erwin, let us drink to insanity. There is so much of it in the world.”

“To insanity, Konstantin. Yours, ours and most especially, theirs.” Both men burst out laughing, the tension released. Neither of them was in any doubt who 'they' were. They touched glasses and drained the contents, the two girls refilling them as soon as they touched the table.

“Four governments, four different sets of boundaries, every one of them claiming to be the only true representative of the Polish people. This set want the pre-1939 borders, that set want some that haven't been seen since the 17th Century. We should have known this would happen, Erwin, we both have Polish troops in our armies.”'

“Yes my friend. And if we give mine to that lot, every one of them will be dead by dusk. And if we give yours to those maniacs down there, all of yours will be the same. They'll probably kill everybody. I wonder who they hate more, you, us or each other?”

Rokossovsky thought for a moment. “They all hate you more than they hate each other. Two of the four hate us more than they hate the other two, the remainder hate the others more than they hate us. And it’s not just us. You heard the Czechs and the Slovaks are at each other's throats? Their threats are words only, now, but words will become reality in time unless somebody stops it. So what are we to do?”

Rommel shrugged, he'd done better than he'd expected. He had succeeded in buying the freedom for some of his men by accepting the fate of others. Using the deaths of the bad to buy the lives of the not so bad. After five years fighting on the Eastern Front, he'd gained the reputation of the man who could pull the unexpected out of nothing but this maze was beyond him. Rokossovsky was grinning broadly. Rommel knew he was missing something.

“Erwin, if all our men will die, yours, mine, no matter which of the four we hand them over to, what do we do?”

“Find somebody else of course. But who? We've sent so many people out that there are few people left who'll take more. The South Africans have offered refuge but we're still running short of places.”

“Erwin, if one doesn't want any of the four horses in a race to win the solution is obvious. Bring a fifth horse.”

“Not another Polish Government Konstantin?”

“And why not? All the Polish troops on both sides know that they'll get massacred if they get released to one of the existing juntas. But, we bring in a fifth government, one that's been carefully prepared and knows that its chance of survival depends upon it exploiting all those men, the ones from your Polish divisions, the ones from ours, then we've got a chance. Its a tripod, the fifth government depends on the troops for its survival yet, independently, the two sets of troops don't quite have the strength to do the job. Together, the three parts will have the strength to put down the other four governments but each part, the government and the two sets of troops know that if one side lets the tripod down, they'll all go down. Anyway, its better that way, a balance of power is good in a situation like this.”

Rommel shook his head. It was a brilliant scheme, risky but brilliant. If it worked it could set up a stable Poland quickly. The four pretender governments would have no chance against the combined forces of the Polish troops released from the German and Russian armies. Fighting together, restoring order to the country instead of enduring a never-ending four-sided civil war, might just heal some old wounds. “Konstantin, that's brilliant. Of course, your fifth government will give you the borders in Eastern Europe you want.”

“Of course.”

“I'd guessed that. Who thought of this scheme? Zhukov?”

“No, his predecessor.”

“STALIN! He's dead.” Then a horrible thought struck Rommel, “He is dead isn't he?”

Rokossovsky looked as if he was going to say something and had quickly changed his mind. “I think so; you're in a better position to know than I am. You commanded the troops that made the final assault on Moscow. Did you ever find his body? The story is he died fighting as a private soldier. But there are rumors......”

“We looked; we never found any bodies that looked like his. But you know street fighting, most of the dead were hard to recognize. The stories were all the same though, then and for years afterwards, lie died fighting as an infantryman. We've always assumed that was the case.”

“So do those of us who don't know for sure and those that do say nothing. But Stalin anticipated this situation and set the scheme in motion. We have governments trained for the countries that are strategically essential to us. The original set were communist of course, they met with accidents or resigned. The ones we have now are, how shall we say, more national, in outlook but will still see things our way.”

“Konstantin, this Government you're sending to Poland. Will all the troops you're releasing to it be Polish?''

Rokossovsky's grin became positively feral, “That, Erwin, would be telling.”

Manager's Office, Simonstown Branch of the Bank of Pretoria, South Africa.

“Now, how can I help you, Mister McMullen?”

John McMullen started. To him, bankers had been far-off figures, remote entities that dealt with others. To be addressed politely by one was a strange and disquieting feeling,

“Well, it’s like this. My missus and I have just got off the boat from England and we've got this draft from the Government. They said I had to see a bank so it could be converted into real money again.”

That part had made McMullen nervous. He'd given the Embassy in London all his English money and been told there would be a draft for the South African equivalent waiting for him. He'd been worried about that, how was he to know that he would see it again. The memories of his bonuses paid promptly without argument had swayed him and he'd accepted the deal. Sure enough, when he and his wife had landed, the draft had been waiting for him.

“Ah yes. Of course. We handle many of these for our new residents. How are you settling in?“

“Pretty well, thanks. We have a place in the new arrivals hostel while we look for a place of our own. And I started work Monday. At the shipyard.”

“Good, good. Thinking of buying a place? Very wise. Right Mister McMullen, I have your draft here. It’s made out in Sovereigns of course. The financial section of the Embassy in London converted the money you gave them into sovereigns for us. We'll check that of course. Then we'll convert your sovereigns into rand for you and you will have your money. You know, you⁷ve timed your trip just right. There were some currency movements while you were at sea and I think you've probably made a pretty penny on the exchanges.”

“Sovereigns? What are they? How did they get into this?” McMullen's voice was suspicious and a little alarmed. The comment about buying a house had caught him off-guard. When he'd said find a place of their own, he'd meant rent one. That's what he'd always done. The idea of actually owning a house was strange.

The bank manager sighed, Inaudibly and invisibly but still sighed. That was the trouble with immigrants, especially the ones from England. They just weren't familiar with banking and how money moved around.

“Mister McMullen when England made its agreement with Germany in 1940, they effectively dropped out the Commonwealth. They were still there in name, but the rest of the Commonwealth wouldn't talk to them. The problem was that before the war, the pound was the standard currency in the Commonwealth. Essentially, all the Commonwealth countries formed a pool and negotiated currency movements as a block. Gave them much greater strength in the market you see. And the Germans moving into England kicked the center out of that system. Nobody would touch the pound and nobody knew what a rupee or a rand was. The currencies went into a tailspin. Their value went to almost nothing.

“So the Commonwealth countries got together and created a new pool currency. The sovereign. Backed by South African gold and diamonds. It’s the standard currency of all the ex-Empire countries now. Commonwealth and non-Commonwealth alike. To move currencies from one country to another, the local currency is converted to sovereigns at source then the sovereigns converted to the new local currency at destination. The sovereign pool negotiates the value of the sovereign against the U.S. dollar as a block, then they negotiate the rates of exchange of their individual currencies against the sovereign individually. It’s not the best possible system but it works and setting that up in the middle of the war was hard enough.”

While he'd been speaking, the bank manager had been looking up numbers and cranking an adding machine.

“Right, well, since you started your journey, currencies have moved because we left the Commonwealth and because of the fighting in Thailand. You got more sovereigns for your pounds as a result, and quite a few more rand for your sovereigns. It looks like you made around 15 percent on the deal while you were at sea.”

“What? But I didn't do anything. It can't be right.”

“Actually you did, you just didn't know it. You invested your money and made a profit on the investment. Actually, it was a safe deal because the Government guarantees your money. If the currency movements had gone the other way, they'd have made good the loss.”

“Well, shouldn't they get the profit then? Don't seem fair.”

“Mister McMullen, let me give you a word of financial advice. Never even think about giving the Government any more money than you absolutely have to. Now, what are your plans?”

“We're going to get a place of our own, said that, then I want to start up a metal working shop. I'm a riveter see, made a friend at the yard who's a welder and he's got a mate who's a steelworker. We set up together we can do jobbing metalwork, cover us for the times there's no work at the yard.”

“Getting your own house first, then starting a business eh. Good plan. Get bricks and mortar of your own first, then start up the business. You've got a good down payment on a house here, and with a steady job, there'll be no problem giving you a mortgage for the rest.

Then, once you're a property owner, the bank will see no problem in lending you the money for a start up. Very wise planning Mister McMullen, lot of people would have gone the other way, set up the business first and thought about a house later. That's not nearly so good from a planning perspective. Got a house in mind yet?”

“No Sir. Not yet.”

“We've got a good property department here. Bring your wife in and you can look through the books. Buy a property we're brokering and you'll save a lot on fees.

“Now, in the meantime, might I suggest you put your money in a deposit account so it can work for you while you're looking? Our Golden Opportunity account can pay you three and a half percent and you can withdraw the money any time you like. Alternatively there's our Diamond Stake scheme. You promise to leave the money with us for six months and we'll pay you five and a half percent. All figures for a full year of course. By the way, I'm not Sir. Call me Mike. And you're John?”

“Aye, John. Well thanks’ Mike. The Golden Opportunity sounds good. Can I see my money?”

“Come with me.” As he led McMullen down to the vault, the manager grinned to himself. They all asked that and the bank had a pile of gold sovereigns they showed to the people who made the request. It was so much simpler than trying to explain paper deposits and reserve movements.

“There you are John. Soon as you sign the papers, it'll start to work for you.”

“Got just one question Mike. How many people have you told that pile of coins belongs to them? Not complaining, just asking.”

Changi Airport, Singapore

Runway Sighting was a wonderful thing for sure. It had already taken Sir Martyn Sharpens Lockheed Constellation seven and a half hours to cover the 2,500 miles from New Delhi to Singapore. A few years earlier, they would have had to wait overnight at a waypoint to avoid landing in darkness. No. that wasn't true, a few years earlier, he wouldn't have been able to make the trip at all. The war had brought about some startling changes in airliners. Well, American airliners anyway. Now, there was the Constellation for speed and the Cloudliner for range. Sir Martyn blessed Air India's decision to get the Constellation first, it was over eighty miles an hour faster than the Cloudliner, cruising at 330 miles per hour instead of the Cloudliner's 250. That speed difference took nearly three hours off the trip.

Out in the night, another set of navigation lights were twinkling. That would be Sir Gregory Locock's aircraft coming in. This meeting had been hurriedly arranged when the news of the fighting had broken out. Despite the war and some emergency cable laying, communications weren't as good as they could be, in fact they were pretty grim. That was something that would have to be addressed. This was something that should have been discussed directly before staging a meeting but the inadequate cable network just didn't allow it. Still, one thing had worked in their favor. Sir Greg had been in Darwin on a visit when the decision to stage an emergency summit meeting was made. That had put him only six and a half hours out from Singapore.

Now, after the exhausting flights and the flurry of cable messages, the meeting was about to start. Out in the midnight sky, Sir Gregory's aircraft was making its final approach, undoubtedly the pilot listening to the instructions from ground control. The runway lights started flashing, then the Australian aircraft touched down. Another Constellation, this one in the colors of the Royal Australian Air Force. The graceful airliner turned off the runway and headed for the parking stands where Sir Martyn's Connie was already being refueled.

“Sir Gregory, its good to see you again. How was your flight?” It had only taken a few minutes for Sir Gregory Locock to reach the airport terminal building. “I see you have a Connie as well?”

“Indeed so. A very good aircraft indeed Martyn. very good. A far superior machine to the old Handley Page Hercules we flew in back before the war. Hundred miles an hour, remember? We called it the built-in headwind. Now, there was reported to be turbulence in the Netherl.... in Indonesia...... so we just flew over it.”

“There always seems to be turbulence in Indonesia these days. With the transitionary authorities trying to hold power in Jakarta and BUPKIS,...”

“Ah yes, the Bahasa Ummah Partai Karya Indonesia Sejahtera.” Sir Gregory rolled the polysyllabic words around his mouth with pleasure. “Who would ever have thought they would end up as the leading local light?”

“After the Jakarta riots back in '46 I think it was fairly inevitable Greg. Once the Dutch went down in 1940, their rule out here was a rapidly-depleting resource. No fresh-faced young Dutchmen coming off the boat to replenish the ranks so they had to recruit replacements locally.

“American oil purchases for Russia kept them going economically, or at least the oil-producing areas but the rest of the country got hit by recession. Set virtually everybody at each other's throats. Once the riots started in Jakarta, they spread all over the place. Old story. Family Bing has a feud with family Ching so they whip up a local riot and burn their house down. The Dutch couldn't control it no matter how much they wanted to.

“Damn it, we've still got troops in Bali and Lombok and you've got how many in Timor? We could all use them elsewhere. BUPKIS were just the guys who moved fastest, that's all. And they had the money from somewhere.”

“Guess where.” Greg's voice was dry.

“Directly? From the Chinese Great House trading companies of course. Indirectly?” Sir Martyn theatrically shaded his eyes and looked northwards towards Thailand, “BUPKIS is going to take over, we know it, they know it, the Dutch know it. The Dutch are just trying to hold out the for the best deal they can get. That stunt somebody pulled with the forged Constitutional Conference agenda didn't help. Compared with the problems that caused, everything else fades into insignificance.”

“Not for us it doesn't. The eastern end of the island chain is Christian and they don't want to be part of a Moslem country. Very strongly, they don't want that. They want to break away and frankly I don't blame them. The Javanese don't want them to; they have ideas about re-establishing one of the old empires in the area. Without somebody stepping in from outside, there's going to be hell to pay. We've had gentle requests already from, eerrr, interested parties to establish a protectorate over an independent Moluccan state there.”

“The Dutch?”

“'Couldn't say. But probably, through intermediaries. The Dutch tried to get some sort of privileged status for their people but BUPKIS wouldn't hear of it. So now, they're trying to strike deals with the smaller islands, trying to buy themselves a haven. Timor and the Moluccas are Christian so I'd guess they tried there first. Your Hindus are a tolerant lot so that was probably choice two. But all the islands are at each other’s throats. You know that.”

“And that's not so very far away from where the Huks are playing up in the Philippines. Damn it Greg, when the Germans took Britain out, the lifted the cork on the bottle of every regional issue out here. Now we've got this so called “border incident” blowing up in our faces. We've got pressure on us as well on the Indonesian thing. Bali and a few of the smaller islands are Hindu and the extreme nationalists want us to take them over. Or establish a “protectorate” as you so elegantly put it.”

“I know. We've got a problem there we're going to have to talk about. But you're right about the whole situation here melting down. Martyn, you're not helping the situation you know. Everybody knows India's pulling out of the Commonwealth sooner or later. We're staying in; it’s the one thing that's holding this place together at the moment. Anyway, I don't think Australians will accept pulling out. Too much to lose, nothing much to gain by doing it. Seems like it would be stabbing the old country in the back as well. Anyway, the old Commonwealth's pretty much of a spent force. Won't much longer, once India's out, the Commonwealth's just a shell, out here at any rate.”

“We've got to get out Greg. Look, the Hindu nationalists want power yesterday and, to be honest about it, they can make a pretty good case. Amritsar and all that. Only there isn't a class of top-level administrators yet. The lower-grade civil servants we've got are as good as we'll find but they just don't have the experience for running things at the top. There's got to be a phased handover, we've got to keep running things while we train our replacements. Thank God the Indian National Congress understood the problems.”

Sir Martyn was quiet for a moment. Getting the 1NC to understand that an immediate handover of power in June 1940 was impossible had probably been his finest achievement. The INC had entered discussions wanting all the administration transferred to their hands and wanted it done immediately. He'd explained the problems to them, lead them carefully through the maze of economic, strategic and political hazards that bedeviled India in this crisis. He'd shown them how few solutions really offered themselves and how the very survival of India as an independent country was at stake.

The leader of the INC, Nehru, was many things but a fool he wasn't and lie, like Sir Martyn, had India's best interests at heart. He couldn't have been more different from Sir Martyn in political outlook but he also had the strength of character to realize that it would need all their combined strengths and skills to weather the situation. As their discussions had continued they'd both realized that their different political beliefs had one common factor. They both loved India and wanted to sec it great again. That realization had lead Nehru to accept that there had to be an interim stage, a gradual transition of power. But he'd also made it clear that power would change hands, sooner rather than later.

“Leaving the Commonwealth is the sort of political gesture that will allow us to do that. Publicly severing ties with Britain and the Commonwealth will give them enough to keep the INCs supporters quiet while we make sure the handover of the administration is smooth. Time, Greg, that's what we need and we're buying it. If we rush this transition, if we just pack up and hand everything over, there'll be civil war. The Moslems will pull out, try to set up their own state and they'll try and drive the Hindus out. With fire and sword and, believe me, there'll be plenty of both. The Hindus will hit back at the Moslems and there'll be hundreds of thousands of dead by the time it’s all over. And India will be split. We've got to avoid that, Greg, and leaving the Commonwealth is a small price to pay.”

“For you, perhaps, for us is a disaster. We've got to have some sort of regional organization out here and if it’s not the Commonwealth, what is it going to be? What the devil........”

The lights in the airport building had flipped out. From the darkness outside. Sir Martyn guessed that the runway lights he'd admired earlier had also gone out. Almost simultaneously there was a roar overhead, two aircraft, perhaps more, flying very low overhead.

“What's happening, are we under attack? Surely the Japanese couldn't be thinking of.....'“ Sir Greg was interrupted by two more low-flying aircraft. Sir Martyn chanced a look outside. Just turning off the runway was the dark, shadowy shape of a B-27, its navigation lights out and its somber gray paint merging in with the background. Looking behind it, he could see two more shapes making their final approaches.

“No, Greg. We're not under attack. I think our old friend is making an uncharacteristically dramatic arrival.”

He was right. As soon as the aircraft had landed, the lights came back on and the B-27 and the fighters were tucked away on the hard stand. It took only a few minutes before a familiar figure arrived in the lounge.

“Sir Martyn, Sir Gregory. I am pleased to see you. My apologies if our arrival caused disturbance but the Japanese had night-fighters up, Mitsubishi Ki-83 Ingas, and we had to fly down from Bangkok without lights.”

“It is always a pleasure to see you Madam Ambassador. I trust you were not exposed to any danger?”

“No more than usual. One of the Ingas was a little too close but my Tigercat escorts got it. Japanese radar is still not very good and their night-fighters are very poor. I have four Tigercats patrolling overhead so it is unlikely that we will be disturbed. I would suggest that when you leave here, you head south as long as you can to get well clear before turning for home. I suspect Japanese aircraft will be very active tomorrow. We had air superiority all over the battlefield today, the Japanese will try and change that tomorrow,”

“How does the battle go, Madam Ambassador? I was in Darwin and the only reports I have are very outdated.”

“The Japanese crossed at dawn. Two full infantry divisions. All we had along the border was militia. Civilians armed with shotguns and gunpowder muskets against trained infantrymen,” She sighed. In reality it hadn't been quite that bad but it bad been desperately close.

“They held the line just long enough for us to move a full infantry division up but they suffered terribly. If it hadn't been for the Ostriches flying close support, we would have been in desperate straits. But they did hold. In the east they stopped the Japanese advance; in the west we even pushed them back a bit. There's armor in that bulge somewhere but the Japanese haven't committed it yet.

“We think they're organized as four corps, each with two infantry divisions and an independent armored brigade. So far, they've probed with one of those corps. Depending on what happens to it, the others may cross or try to grind us up along the river. We've got to end it quickly, there's no way we can fight a long, drawn-out engagement against the whole Japanese Army.”

Sir Gregory nodded sympathetically. “I understand how concerned you must be. We, too, are stuck with an unwanted and apparently unending troop commitment, in our case peacekeeping in Timor and the Moluccas. We even have a request from some of the interested parties to take that area under our wing and form it into an Australian Protectorate. We would like nothing more than for BUPKIS to agree to that arrangement and allow the Christian east to go their own way.”

Although no trace of it showed on her face, the Ambassador felt an enormous surge of relief pass through her. As the news of the fighting had come in, she'd known that the one chance of her country surviving the Japanese assault was to get help from the allies she's spent two years cultivating. All day, she'd had the dreaded thought in the back of her mind, that it had all been for nothing. That Australia and India would leave her in the lurch to deal with the Japanese by herself. Now, Sir Gregory had laid out a bargaining chip, she knew that would not be the case. They would help; all that they were negotiating was the price of that assistance.

“Sir Gregory, would you have any objections if I was to speak with the BUPKIS leaders on your belief? I may have some small degree of influence with them and I am sure that the grave number of pressing concerns that they feel need urgent attention will make them agreeable to the suggestion of the Christian areas seceding. After all, they have the intention of establishing an Islamic state and a large Christian minority would be an embarrassment to them.”

And if it isn't, she would make sure it soon would be, thought Sir Gregory. “Madam Ambassador, we would be most grateful for any efforts you may feel able to provide in this matter. Our nations may be recent friends but I feel that we have so much in common that we should stand more closely together. Our links are of friendship and mutual respect and we both benefit economically from them.”

“Speaking of economics Madam Ambassador.” Sir Martyn picked up the opening smoothly. “I wonder if I might take this opportunity of mentioning another small matter. As you doubtless have heard. India will soon be leaving the Commonwealth and this will have a serious impact on the international strength of the sovereign. The effects on our international trade could be most worrying if this was to escalate. We already have such close economic links,

“I was wondering if Thailand had given any thought to joining the sovereign pool? I know the baht is currently linked to the U.S. dollar but so much of your trade is with India and Australia that it would ease the formalities greatly. And, of course, the sight of a non-Commonwealth country joining the sovereign pool would build great international confidence in our new currency.”

“It is strange you should mention that Sir Martyn. My Government has had exactly the same thoughts concerning the value of the baht and our international trading arrangements. There would be great advantages for us all in linking the value of the baht to that of the sovereign.”

None of which of course had any relation to international confidence she thought. The great weakness of the sovereign pool as compared to the old Pound Sterling was that the latter had used the Lloyds communications system as its nerve center. That had meant the currency was responsive and could accommodate changes on an international basis swiftly and effectively. None of the existing sovereign pool countries had anything like that capability.

But, Thailand was now host to the great Chinese trading corporations. They had their own communications system, one that was, in its way, as effective and flexible as the old Lloyds net. It was a different sort of net, one that ran by extended family relationships and the sort of unqualified trust that could only go with ties of blood in a culture that took family relationships very seriously indeed. A different communication systems from Lloyds indeed, but one that was there and one that worked. On a regional basis at least.

With Thailand in the Sovereign Pool, that communications system would work for the pool as a whole. And that meant her country would control the communications for the whole pool. Once again, Suriyothai was amazed by westerner's lack of foresight.

“That is very gratifying news Madam Ambassador, very gratifying indeed. I am sure that this will be of the greatest benefit to us all”

“That is our most sincere wish Sir Martyn, indeed we had hoped to make the announcement already but this wretched border incident has delayed everything. As soon as it is concluded, the financial markets will be informed of the new arrangements.”

“Madam Ambassador, I wonder if I may sound you out on an idea that has come to us.” Sir Gregory's voice was thoughtful and tentative. “Before your dramatic arrival, Sir Martyn and I were exchanging opinions on the state of affairs in this part of the world. We found ourselves to be in agreement that the effective collapse of the British Commonwealth has left this region in a most dangerous; indeed I am forced to say a completely unacceptable, state of instability. There is a pressing, nay desperate, need for a new form of regional organization to take over the role of stabilizing relations.

“Madam Ambassador, Sir Martyn, I think that since the three of us have shown we have so many interests in common and we are so well attuned to each other's interest and priorities, we might well form the core of such a new regional stability-enhancing organization.”

“What do you have in mind, Sir Gregory?”

“Nothing complex, such things are best kept simple. I had in mind a mutual defense pact between our three countries, one in which any attack by an outsider on one of the members would be considered an attack on all three. Should one member of the pact be attacked, the other two would automatically come to its aid.”

“Greg, the problem is that even if we had such an alliance, the three of us together don't have the ability to counter Japan.”

“No Martyn, we don’t. But if the three of us stand together, any attack on one of us means a large-scale war breaking out. And that is one thing the Americans have made very clear they will not permit. We don't intend to attack anybody so that doesn't worry us. But it does mean that anybody who attacks one of us will be attacking all three and that is an event big enough to bring the wrath of the Americans down on their heads.”

The three nodded their heads slowly, each measuring the probabilities inherent in the new arrangement. After a few minutes, Sir Gregory continued. “Madam Ambassador, there is one problem. We can't make this fly until the border incident presently in progress has been resolved. You must restore the border by your own efforts. Once that is done, we can prevent any follow-on attack. Can your country do that?”

Suriyothai thought for a second, no more than that. “Yes. We are moving the forces into position. We can do that.”

“Then we have an agreement. Only one decision left. What do we call this new organization. The Changi Pact?”

Sir Martyn snorted. “Greg, that sounds like a treatment for an unmentionable type of disease.”

“Or its symptom. And the term pact is in disrepute these days.” Suriyothai thought for a second. “How about the South East Asian Treaty Organization?”

Sir Martyn shook his head. “Too clumsy Madam. But you are right about Pact. Look, there are three of us. Why not call the new agreement The Triple Alliance?”

There was another measured nodding of heads in agreement. After some discussions thrashed out the remaining details, the ambassador took her leave. Simple prudence dictated she had to be back in Thailand before dawn. After she left, Sir Martyn stretched out his feet. “You know, Greg. I've got a feeling we just bullied that poor defenseless woman into accepting everything she ever wanted.”

Chapter Four Consequences

Tong Klao Village, Recovered Provinces, Thailand

The rifle bolt wouldn't fit back in. The private was struggling with it but it just wouldn't slide into place. Lieutenant Sirisoon took the bolt from his hands and looked around. Fortunately what she needed was close by. A hard, flat surface. She hooked the cocking piece over it, took a breath then pushed down hard and twisted. The firing pin spring compressed and the cocking piece slid into place. She flipped the safety into the upright position and relaxed. The rest was easy. The bolt slid smoothly back into place.

“Soldier, you must make sure the rifle is cocked and the safety in the upright position before you remove the bolt. Otherwise you can't get it back in.” She looked more closely at the soldier. He was the one who'd had trouble with his ammunition pouches that afternoon. “Let me see your pouches.” The cardboard ammunition box was stuck to the leather. She levered it free. As she'd suspected, the leather was dry and hard, the surfaces rough as heavy-grade sandpaper. “Sergeant, a word if you please.”

She and Sergeant Yawd walked away from the soldiers. “Sergeant, I don't have to say it do I?”

“No, Ell-tee. I let it slide. My fault. No excuses.”

“Check around the barns, there may be some leather polish for the animal harnesses.” The animals wouldn't need it, that was for certain. Tong Klao had owned three water buffalo. All were in the barns, dead, bayoneted and shot by the Japanese. “If so, get the inside of those pouches polished. If not, store the ammunition in them without the box. The rounds will rattle but at least they won't get stuck again. Meanwhile, I'll be away for a few minutes.”

“Sure thing Ell-tee. Pak, over here. Go with our Ell-tee.” “Sergeant, that's...”

“Ell-tee, it'll be the same for everybody. Its night and the Japanese own the night. We've got a nice tight perimeter and we're ok inside it but as sure as death and taxes, there are Japanese infantry prowling around out there. Looking for people they can lift for tactical intelligence. Nobody goes anywhere alone. Not me not you. Nobody.”

Sirisoon nodded and sought a patch of ground away from the bulk of the unit. Her business finished, she rejoined the platoon just as the pickets watching the road to the rear of Tong Klao sounded an alarm. A few seconds later she saw why. There was a truck convoy coming up the road, lights out. She'd placed two of her three RPG-2s covering that road; the third was covering the forward arc. Now, both of those RPGs would be trained on the trucks. To her relief they were the unmistakable shape of American six-by-sixes. Thai Army. Replacements. Then a chilling thought struck her, there might also be her replacement on board.

The trucks pulled into her perimeter, the machine guns and RPGs still covering them. Figures started jumping out, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty five. Her heart leapt upwards, no officers. Precious few NCOs as well and those she could see were corporals. Another cheerful thing, she recognized the stubby 60 millimeter mortars and counted at least three more MG34 machine guns.

“Lieutenant. We need to talk.” It was the company commander she'd met earlier that morning.

“Sir.” They didn't exchange salutes, no point in making a sniper's job easier.

“Some bad news for you. We're getting reinforcements and replacements but we're desperately short of officers and NCOs. The few we're getting have to go to units that lost theirs. I'm going to have to ask you to stay out here a white longer. I know you're admin but you did a fine job this afternoon. Good news is I've brought you your replacements. I can take out your wounded and you'll be up to strength.

“In addition, I'm augmenting your unit. Some of the replacements we got included three machine gun crews, I've giving them to you and I'm also giving you one of my mortar sections, two 60mm mortar crews, detached from the company mortar battery. I don't know how you want to organize the additions, as a second weapons section, whatever. I'm boosting you for another reason as well. I want you to take point again tomorrow.”

“Again Sir?”

“Yes, again. Look, I'll be honest. Today we put you out as point because you were expendable. A newbie replacement unit. Tomorrow, I want you out there because this unit has proved itself. You've proved yourself. General Chaovalit and General Songkitti have been told of your action this afternoon. I can tell you this; you and your platoon have been Mentioned in the Dispatches. Tomorrow is going to be critical and I want the best I've got out there.”

“Thank you Sir. Thank you very much.”

“Don't thank me, after tomorrow you might not be feeling so grateful. You're holed up here for the night?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Wise move. The Japanese are too good at night fighting for us to chance anything. The whole division is hunkering down for the night; we'll start moving at dawn. I want you to push along this road here.” The Company Commander got out a map covered with lines. “This is your map for tomorrow. See the phase lines? Its critical, say again critical, you do not charge past them. Get to each line, radio in and hold until you get permission to move to the next. I can't stress this strongly enough. Do not pass a phase line without getting clearance. Do you understand?”

“Yes Sir. Phased advance holding at each phase line until given clearance to move further.”

“Good. As far as I know, you'll be engaging part of the same battalion you chewed on today. Our guess is they'll have tank support tomorrow. You won't. Nor will anybody else. We haven't got any tanks to support you with. By the way I hear you captured a sword and a battle flag?”

Sirisoon grinned and pulled the sword out from its scabbard over her back, handing it to the Company Commander hilt first. He looked at it and whistled. “'It's a beauty. You want me to take care of it for you? I'll send it to General Songkitti for safe keeping. Sergeant Major? My pad please.” The Sergeant Major handed him an order pad. The Company commander wrote out a quick description of the sword and scabbard and signed it. “Here, this will act as your receipt. Kick off, 0500 tomorrow. And well done Lieutenant.”

The trucks pulled out, leaving her watching the road while the new arrivals milled around. “Sergeant Yawd?”

“Yes Ell-tee?”

“Assign the replacements; bring first section up to strength as top priority and then the rest. We have some reinforcements, including three extra machine gun crews. I want one assigned to each of our rifle sections, reorganize each section as two gun teams, an MG34 crew and four riflemen each. One grenade launcher to each team. We'll add our new mortars to the weapons section. Get the men as rested as possible. Tomorrow is going to be a long day. I want everybody up and in defense positions at 0330.” She dropped her voice, “We're kicking off at dawn, 0500. If I was the Japanese commander out there, I'd guess that and try a pre-dawn spoiling attack. If he gets that idea, let's have a nice surprise waiting for him. I'll take first watch.” Sergeant Yawd cleared his throat. “Sergeant?”

“Ell-tee, Guard tonight is Sergeant's work. You get some sleep. We'll wake you if anything starts.”

Ostrich Djiap-One, over the Mekong River, Thai/Japanese Indochina Border

The Japanese engineers had used the night well. The wide, sluggish, muddy Mekong River already had two bridges across it at this point and there were probably others lower down. That was somebody else's business. The six Ostriches under Flight Lieutenant Phol Thongpricha had these as their target. First three aircraft would hit the bridge on the left; the others would hit the bridge on the right. With a little luck they'd get some of the armor the Japanese were reported to be bringing over the river.

“Take them down!” Djiap-One made a wing-over and started its long dive on the bridges below. He'd elected to make his approach along the length of the bridge, using the freshly-cut scar of the road as a marker and, hopefully planting the bombs and rockets along the bridge. It was a gamble but a calculated one. The errors in bombing were much more often those of range rather than deflection, a lengthwise run would mean multiple hits and massive damage. A crosswise run meant fewer hits, even at best. And there was always a chance of hitting the engineers as well.....

The big Ostrich started lurching as black puffs appeared all around it. Probably 75mms at a guess, Type 88s or Type 4s most likely. Probably the former, overnight the two divisions that had crossed the Mekong had been identified as the 143rd and 324th Infantry divisions, both Manchurian Army outfits. That meant they'd seen little fighting in China and the Japanese Army didn't send units replacements. They ran a unit into the ground then rebuilt it. So these divisions would be up to or beyond paper strength. The Japanese didn't re-equip units either. When a division was formed or rebuilt, it got what the factories were producing, for good or ill, and that was it. So the un-attrited Manchurian Divisions would have a lot of men and equipment but little of it would be new. So probably Type 4s.

The bridge below was growing fast, stretched like a ribbon over the dirty brown of the Mekong. The pipper on the bomb sight built into the Ostrich's nose was just touching the roadway where it transitioned to the bridge. Phol held it there, watching the ribbon swell and widen underneath him. He was totally focused on his bridge now, ignoring the sounds and sights around him. Then, as the bridge raced towards him, he squeezed the bomb release. The two 500 kilogram bombs under his belly went first, followed by the four 250 kilogram weapons under his inner wings.

Then his nose seemed to race along the bridge as he pulled the nose up. Sure enough there were trucks and bulldozers on the Indochina side of the river, the engineers that had put the bridge up over night. A pretty good engineering feat, thought Phol, and no good deed should ever go unpunished. He squeezed both firing buttons on his control stick and felt his Ostrich almost stop dead in midair as all ten guns opened up at once. The road in front of him vanished in a smoking cloud of red dust as the hail of 23mm and .50 caliber ammunition ripped up the laterite surface. And everything on it.

“Bridge is down. Both bridges down!” From the rear seat, Kusol Chale's words were almost a cheer. As he brought the Ostrich's nose around, Phol could see he was right, where the bridges had been was a boiling mass of black smoke, the shattered southern end of the wooden structures already sticking out. On the southern side, he could see more figures running around, vehicles trying to get clear. Including tanks, the squat, ugly little Japanese light tanks. They were a priority target and he started his dive towards them.

Again the lurch, marked this time by a shriek and screaming lines of fire as his eight RS-132 rockets leapt out in front of him. The tank laager seemed to vanish in the explosions but Phol had learned too much to assume that meant anything. Even the lightly-armored Japanese tanks needed direct hits to destroy them and the Russian-designed, Australian-made rockets just weren't that accurate. Time to go home, get another load.

“Laylas, Laylas!” Kusol's words slashed through the intercom. The gunner-observer spun his seat around on its mounting and shoved aft to man his 20mm gun. Behind the Ostrich formation, a group of shapes were diving on the ground attack aircraft, coming in fast, very fast. The swept wings immediately identified them. Kusol had been right, they were Japanese Army Laylas. More than 200 miles an hour faster than the Ostrich, fighters, not ground attack bombers. In other words, in any language, trouble.

“Laylas! Formation break up, everybody get down on the deck and run for it.” Close to the ground, flying between the trees and down valleys, the Laylas couldn't use their speed. That way, the Ostriches stood a chance. Not for Djiap-Five though. The Laylas had closed dreadfully fast and three of them had concentrated on the extreme left hand aircraft. The rear gunners were all firing but their hand-held cannon just couldn't track fast enough to follow the Laylas and they hadn't saved Djiap-Five. It was going down in a long, gentle dive, both its engines trailing thick black smoke. Even as Phol watched, the dive steepened and ended in a rolling black and orange ball.

Then Phol heard the sound of Kusol's 20mm gun thudding. He pushed the nose down faster, trying to get into the safety of the treetops but they were far away and the Laylas were too fast. He felt Djiap-One lurching and shuddering as the 20mm guns on the Laylas ripped into its structure. If anything, the heavy armor on the Ostrich's belly made things worse, causing the fragments from the shells to bounce around inside, rather than exit through a thin skin. The control panel erupted into a sea of red and yellow warning lights an instant before Djiap-One rolled on its back and dived vertically into the ground.

F-72C Thunderstorm “Fan-Seven” 22,000 feet over the Mekong River, Thai/Japanese Indochina Border

It looked like the old P-47, that was for sure, but it wasn't. The Thunderstorm had an R-4360 engine rated at 3,450 horsepower, 1,150 more than the R-2800-63 in the P-47. It had contraprops to absorb all that extra power and, most importantly it had four 37mm cannons in its wings. Not the low-firing, low velocity M-4 that had armed the P-39 series but the later M-9, designed with all the experience of the brutal war in Russia and the combined skills of Russian and American armorers. Equally adept at anti-tank and anti­aircraft worked, the M-9 had more than 50 percent greater muzzle energy than the M-4. That translated into range and hitting power. A lot more hitting power; there were few single-engined fighters that could take a hit from an M-9.

Yesterday, Squadron Leader Nual Hinshinant had been using his guns as ground attack weapons. The Japanese had crossed the Mekong and the Air Force had been thrown in to hold them while the Army moved up ground troops. Today was different. Early this morning, the Japanese Army Air Force had appeared in strength, creating chaos with the heavy Ostriches flying ground support for the troops. More than a dozen Ostriches had gone down said the reports, a lot more had been badly shot up. So now, the Thunderstorms were flying top cover, although what an F-72 could do against the jet-engined, swept wing Laylas, Nual couldn't guess. Third Wing was moving into Nakhon Phanom with its F-80s. perhaps they stood a better chance but even the F-80 was obsolete compared with the Layla.

A bright flash in the sun from up ahead. “Bogies, 1 o'clock high.” The four Thunderstorms accelerated as the pilots applied power, climbing in an effort to gain altitude before they were spotted by the unknown enemy in the sky. They didn't manage it, not quite. Nual saw the lead fighter in the hostile formation, hostile because it was dark against the light sky and that meant it was painted gray and green, not the natural metal silver of the Thai fighters, change in shape and angle over. They'd almost made it though, the Thunderstorms might not have gained an altitude advantage but they'd denied it to the Japanese. The approach would be the classical start to a joust, head-on; balls to the wall, and then the first to lose their nerve broke right.

They almost collided head on in their stubborn determination not to be the ones to break. In the seconds as the two formations closed, Nual recognized his enemy. Gails, Ki-84 Hayate the Japanese Army called them. Radial engined, just like the Thunderstorm. Slower, but more agile, two nose-mounted 13mm machine guns, some carried a 20mm cannon in each wing, others replaced the single gun with a pair of 13mms. It was rumored some carried 20mm guns in the nose as well. The Japanese had never made much of standardization. Fast firing guns, to fill the sky with bullets but lacking the range and hitting power of the Thunderstorm's 37mms.

At the last second, Nual and his fighters broke right skidding away from the Japanese group. The Japanese didn't, not at once. They went upwards, the pilots hauling back on the stick, pouring in power from their engines, yanking the Gails upwards as if they were mounted on rubber bands stretching across the deep blue sky. Then, the Japanese formation broke, their leader arching over on his back, the rest bursting away as the Japanese pilots sought one-on-one combat with their opponents.

The unexpected maneuver had given the Japanese back the high bounce position, and their leader took full advantage of it. He was coming down on Nual In a beautiful pursuit curve, one calculated with all the expertise that the superbly-trained and exhaustively-experienced Japanese could manage. It let him pick the time and place to open fire on the clumsier Thunderstorm. The Japanese chose to close to point-blank range and threw a hailstorm of bullets at the swerving Thai fighter. He didn't try for accuracy in the swerving pass, but paddled his rudder backwards and forwards, filling the sky with bullets, saturating the area through which the Thunderstorm had to fly.

Almost by instinct, Nual looked at the Gail, counting the flashes, two on the nose, four in the wings. Six 13mm machine-guns. The Japanese had nailed him beautifully, he'd been outflown, outthought, outfought. There was only one way out and Nual took it, yanking back on the stick, slamming the controls over, pulling through the stream of tire in a crazy, tumbling maneuver that arced his heavy tighter up, out of the cone of fire and killing all his speed and energy in one crazy gyration. With all the speed and energy from his dive, the Japanese pilot couldn't match the insane aerobatics and he raced past, the pilot wondering how he could have missed.

He hadn't. Nual had felt a dull thump in his thigh, not a bullet because his leg still worked but something else. A fragment blown off the airframe? He jerked the stick over to the right and stamped a full right rudder, then swept the stick over to the left. The Thunderstorm went crazy from the opposing control inputs, spinning around its axis, tumbling in the sky, only the massive power of its big radial keeping it from stalling out completely. Nual felt himself bounce off the cockpit sides, the Thunderstorm was built for American pilots and its proportions were generous for Thais.

The Japanese was coming in again; his turn had been wide, dictated by speed, by gravity, by centrifugal forces. He was superb; forcing the combat to close range where his rapid-fire machine-guns had the advantage. Nual used tricks he'd never heard of, that nobody had thought of to keep out of the fierce attacks, each time gaining experience, gaining a little more of the measure of this terribly skilled adversary. His Thunderstorm lacked the agility to dodge and twist with his enemy but he had the speed and, given a chance, he could separate. Then the positions would change and his big 37s came into their own. Now, every time the Japanese set up for one of his slashing passes, Nual could lead his path of flight and a burst of 37mm shells would thump out. But it wasn't enough, the Japanese was a natural pilot, one for whom his tighter was an extension of his own limbs, his own thoughts and he would slip though the long-range bursts of fire with little damage and then the battle would change again, and Nual would once more be dodging the streams of machine-gun fire.

228

He had another problem; his fuel gauge was edging down slowly but surely into the red. The dogfight was a stalemate but only because his engine was at full power, gulping fuel. Sooner or later, he'd run out and the Thunderstorm would be a big, heavy, glider. Easy prey. Time for a last throw of the dice. The Gail was making another pass, the 13mm bullets surrounding the Thunderstorm. Then, the Japanese raced past him and Nual slammed full left rudder, stick over to the left, emergency power and full forward on the stick. As the Thunderstorm started to tumble, he reversed the rudder and stick and headed straight down, out of the fight in a whirling snap-dive. The Thunderstorm was big and it was heavy and it picked up speed fast in a dive. The Gail was following him down, the Japanese pilot grimily determined to catch the pilot whose nerve had clearly broken. He was running from the battle. What sort of warrior was this? Below him, the Thunderstorm had stopped receding and the two aircraft were holding position.

Then, the Thunderstorm started to grow in the Japanese pilot's sights; it had pulled out of its dive and was running straight and level. In his mirror, Nual could see the Gail following him down, a thin line of black smoke streaming from its exhaust as it tried to catch him up. Then, as he saw the bright flashes on the wings and nose of the Gail, he hauled back on the stick, throwing the aircraft in a vertical bank, reversing the turn as it started. The Japanese pilot tried to follow the turn but his speed was too great, in his determination to catch the Thunderstorm he'd let speed and energy and centrifugal force build up until they'd locked his aircraft on its course. Right past the nose of the Thunderstorm.

Nual took his time for the fight was over. His cannons thumped and the big shells struck home, one blowing the engine off its mounts, another smashing the fuel lines open, a third shredding the cockpit and everything in it. There were others as well but they didn't matter. The Gail was already exploding in mid-air. Nual pulled back, turning his aircraft away from the ball of fire that had once been the Japanese fighter.

Then, he looked around the sky, only to see it was empty. They'd gone, all of them, he was the only survivor. The score was four for three. Somehow, it didn't seem like a victory.

Short of Phase line Execute, North of Tong Klao Village, Recovered Provinces, Thailand

“How are your feet holding out?”

Private Kan's facial expression was a combination of relief and nervousness. He'd been one of two men who'd had trouble with their feet the day before, typical of garrison soldiers who'd spent to much time in barracks and not enough in the field. Not taking proper care of one's feet wasn't the worst sin an infantry man could commit, not quite, but it was certainly close.

“They're fine Ell-tee. The stuff worked fine but it’s gone and burned holes in my socks.” A ripple of laughter swirled around the men in the group. The previous evening Sirisoon had noticed a couple of the men limping and made it her business to find out why. Then she'd produced a bottle of the Army's dreaded stuff, a lotion designed to cure the problems that afflicted soldier's feet. Like most army solutions, it was quick, violent and more than a little indiscriminate but also effective.

“You're lucky it’s only your socks. Had an Ell-tee once, stirred the stuff with his eating irons. Turned them green it did, then dissolved them. Had to spend the rest of the march eating with his fingers.” Another ripple of laughter spread across the group. Sergeant Yawd smiled contentedly, a scratch platoon was settling down into a real team, even the repples who'd arrived the night before were finding their place. Of course, having an officer who knew what she was doing helped. Yawd stopped briefly, realizing the import of his casual thought.

“Sergeant, a word please.” The two drifted away from the rest of the unit. “Company says we have to hold here. Hold if attacked but don't move forward to Phase Line Execute. Rest of the Company is on Phase Line Decimate two klicks behind us.”

“What gives Ell-tee? What are the brass up to?” Sergeant Yawd looked at Sirisoon and saw the black pupil of her eyes contract almost to a dot. She was gone, her mind somewhere else. When she came back she would know exactly what was happening, why it was happening and what would happen next. A couple of the men had noticed it and there was a quiet whisper doing the rounds that their strange Ell-tee wasn't a human at all, that she was a pret, a ghostly spirit who had taken human form. One who could see the future and anticipate it.

That had come in eerily useful all morning. The Japanese Army Air Force had been up, over the battlefield with their light bombers. Mostly Harvs and Kens but there'd been reports of the new Oscar in other areas. Yesterday, it had been the Thai Air Force that had dominated the battlefield, today it had been absent and it had been the Japanese turn to lash at the ground troops with aircraft. Neither Harv nor Ken carried the devastating firepower of the Ostriches but they were there. The Ostriches weren't. Some of the Harvs had attacked Sirsoon's unit but she'd had a strange art of knowing when they were likely to appear and finding cover just in time.

“It’s a converging advance, it has to be. We're pushing slowly forward and that's doing two things. One is its pulling the enemy forward onto us. The other is its making sure that the other limb of the advance doesn't crunch into us rather than the enemy. Standard drill for taking out a riverhead like this is to attack its flanks by the river. Pinch it off, surround it and destroy it. Has to be that, can't be anything else. Sergeant, do you see that, up by Execute?”

Phase Line Execute was the ridgeline up in front of them. The platoon was in front of the treeline, flanks extended to guard against one of the Japanese flanking moves. There was a long patch of level ground before the ridge rose, not high but enough to screen the ground the other side. As Yawd stared, he could see a faint trace of black smoke glistening in the morning sun. Could, just possibly be cooking fires but this was war and war wasn't that kind. That was diesel smoke and diesels meant. “Tanks.”

“Tanks.” Sirisoon said agreeably. “I wonder why they haven't attacked us yet. Must be waiting for something.”

“Us to move forward? Catch us in the open?”

“Could be. They're in for a wait. Hold one.” The radio had crackled with static for a second. Sirisoon held the headset to her ear, her eyes still fixed on the faint trace of smoke. “Received. Air raid warning get everybody down now. Nobody shoot, nobody move.”

The radar, somewhere to the rear, had been right. There was a humming noise and a couple of the Japanese light bombers swept over. Harvs, Mitsubishi Ki-51s. There were a series of sharp cracks in the treeline as the 15 kilogram bombs went off. Lying down in the elephant grass, Sirisoon silently blessed the instructors who'd hammered home a basic lesson. Never set up in a treeline. If you want to fight close, set up inside the trees, if you want a clear field of fire, set up in front of the trees but never, ever set up on the treeline itself. Because that is where you'll be expected to set up.

More cracks, a bit closer, the Harvs were trying to get her unit to give their positions away. Then she thought again. They're not sure we're here at all. The rest of the company is behind us, they may be assuming that's the main body. More cracks, and a crackle of machine-gun fire. For a moment her heart stopped, had one of her men disobeyed and opened up on the aircraft that were taunting them? Then she relaxed, the machine-guns had been the heavy thump of the Japanese 13.2 millimeter, not the rasp of the MG-34. Cautiously sneaking a look, she saw the trace of smoke from over the ridge had thickened and turned into a distinct cloud.

“Here they come. On the word, mortars fire smoke. Machine-gunners spray the infantry, sieve them away from the tanks. I want those tanks blinded, when they come out of the smoke screen, RPG-2 gunners hit the center one. He'll be the platoon commander. Concentrate on him, take him down.”

There was screaming and bugle calls from the ridge in front. Then, the Japanese swarmed over, a battle-flag flying in the center, the troops rolling forward in a khaki wave. Out in front of them were the tanks, three of them, light tanks. The Harvs were still circling overhead, waiting for her unit to reveal their position by opening tire. This, Sirisoon thought, was going to get bloody.

Ostrich Djiap-Eleven, over Phase Line Butcher, Thai/Japanese Indochina Border

“Cabrank, this is Cabrank. Ann moving in support of Pony-Sirisoon.” Flight Lieutenant Pondit frowned, that was right wasn't it. Pony was the code for a beefed-up infantry platoon, taking the point for the battalion. Sirisoon was the nickname of its commander. Thai names were so confusing to outsiders that they formed a perfect code system without any further assistance. But Sirisoon was a woman's name wasn't it? No matter, the call had come up the radio net with the speed and efficiency the Thais had perfected in the war with France seven years earlier.

Pony-Sirisoon was under attack by a combined tank-infantry-aircraft group. Now the Ostriches were streaking in to take out the enemy air cover and savage the ground units. If they lived long enough, early this morning the Japanese fighters had turned up in strength and the Ostrich units had been pummeled. The six aircraft in this formation were all that remained operational out of a full squadron.

“All aircraft Buster.” Buster was full throttle. Normally, Thai ground support aircraft flew in at medium altitude and dive-bombed their targets but with the air filling with Japanese fighters, that was suicidal. This time they were skimming through the treetops, the way they'd heard the American and Russian pilots had flown their Sturmoviks. Would it be enough when the Laylas arrived. The Ostriches had an escort now, that's why they'd been committed again. But the F-80E was an old straight winged design, could it protect them from the rakish, swept-wing Layla?

“Laylas, Laylas!” Pondit's gunner gave out the cry as he saw the shapes high overhead. Pondit dropped a little lower and Fingered the Buddha amulet hanging around his neck. If ever he needed divine protection, it was now.

F-80E Taeng-Onn-One, over Phase Line Butcher, Thai/Japanese Indochina Border

“Laylas, Laylas. Take them out!'“ Flight Lieutenant Chan Nuat-Kheo shoved his throttle forward, pouring power into his J-33 engine. There were twelve Laylas in front of Taeng-Onn flight, angling down towards the Ostriches skimming through the treetops far below. An observer wouldn't have given Taeng-Oun much of a chance. They were outnumbered three to one; their aircraft looked old and antiquated compared to the swept-wing Laylas. And, objectively they were. The F-80E was an American cast off, replaced and now its replacements were being replaced. The F-80 had been in service since 1945 and three years was a long time to stay around. Yet appearances weren't everything and Chan had spoken to the American pilots who'd trained him at Luke Air Force Base. Veterans who'd flown over the Russian Front and had hacked the German jets out of the sky.

Because appearances weren't everything. The F-80E was a joy to fly, a legendary flying machine with all the power it could handle, smooth on the controls, light, agile and above all, responsive. There was nothing Chan could ask of his aircraft that it couldn't give, if the Americans were right, the Layla was treacherous and its pilots had to pay much more attention to simply flying their aircraft and that gave the Thai pilots a subtle but decisive edge right from the start.

The Japanese pilots saw them curving in from above, the classic top-cover position. The fighters swerved around, swinging to face the diving F-80s, then abruptly hauling up into a wicked climb, the low drag of their swept wings sending them skywards as if on elastic. The lead Japanese pilot swept up under the lead of the Thai finger-four and - it was gone. Chan had simply poured yet more power into his engine for that was another advantage the F-80 had. 2,450 kilograms of thrust, almost three times that of the Layla. He'd half-rolled and slammed his throttle all the way to the stops, blasting around in a tight curve that had the Layla floundering.

The Japanese fighter tried to follow him but now another factor cut in. The F-80s straight wings turned every scrap of air flow into lift, the fighter grabbing the sky as if it was a Siamese cat climbing the curtains. The Layla had swept wings and that meant a portion of its airflow was drifting spanwise, sucking the lift away from the aircraft. Already the Layla was shuddering on the edge of a stall. And the Layla was an unforgiving beast that wouldn't stand for that sort of treatment. It whipped out from its pilot's hands and fell into an uncontrollable spin. Chan was on it in a flash, his M-3 Browning machine-guns clipping out short, sharp bursts that flayed green and gray skin from the tumbling Layla. Then, the fragments turned to Perspex before the jet gouted black and orange smoke.

Chan never watched it crash, he hauled back on the stick, climbing as fast as his J-33 would drive him. Up and over, into the maneuver that had been perfected by a German and still bore his name. The Immelman. His F-80 was in its element now, raw engine power dominating the sky as it always would. Another Layla was attempting to follow him up, a futile move because 900 kilograms of thrust couldn't compete with 2,450. Chan pointed his nose at the laboring fighter and his machine-guns snapped out a short burst. Hits flashed all over the Layla and bits chopped off as the Japanese pilot dropped out of the climb and dived away.

The Layla's cleaner airframe meant it picked up speed fast in a dive and, anyway, it had a good eighty kilometers per hour over the F-80E. The speed went up as Chan frantically tried to catch his prey. His mount was doing 980 kilometers per hour now, as fast as she'd go. At this speed, the Shockwave from his nose was touching the wingtips and drag would mount enormously with every extra kilometer. The Layla didn't have that problem, the sweep on its wings kept it from picking up drag even as it pushed past a thousand kilometers per hour.

Then Chan saw that the Layla had another problem, a far worse one than just transonic drag. Even as he watched, the Layla's left wing dropped, savagely, viciously, flipping the plane into a deadly flat spin. For a brief second, the aircraft managed to hold together as it whirled in the air then the airframe gave up under aerodynamic loads it had never been meant to resist. Suddenly, the sky was full of fragments as the Layla just broke up in mid-air.

That was when Chan proved himself to be a tighter pilot. He actually wondered whether that could legitimately be considered a kill as his fighter arced up once more. Lights flashed around him as he streaked through a burst of fire from a Layla, then his wings went vertical and he hauled his F-80 around. Once again, a Layla pilot had the infuriating experience of having one of the silver fighters suddenly vanish from in front of him.

The two fighters were curving around, the Layla frantically trying to catch the jet that was exasperatingly out of reach. Then the Layla staggered under a long, deadly burst. Chan's wing man had seen the Layla drift into position and taken him out. The Japanese were warriors who fought one-on-one in individual conflict for honor and a warrior's virtue. The Thais had been trained by Americans and Russians who fought to kill their enemies and knew that the teamwork was the best, the proven, way to that end.

Black smoke, all over the sky. Green and gray shapes fighting the silver fish that darted and raced around them. In front of him one of the few surviving Laylas had gone into a steep climb. Chan almost laughed for even with swept wings a fighter has to run out of speed, out of energy, out of ideas. This trick was an old one, the Japanese was hoping Chan would follow him, then the Layla would do a tail-slide and stand on his jet exhaust, paddling the rudder backwards and forwards while he chewed the F-80 to pieces with his cannon. Chan knew the answer to that maneuver and suddenly he was tired, sick and tired of the whole stupid business. He slammed out his speed brakes, feeling the fighter grumbling with the sudden drag as it slowed. Then he lifted his nose and sprayed the climbing Layla with killing fury, tearing it apart.

It was over; there were no green and gray fighters in the sky, only silver. Three F-80s looking intact, one was trailing black smoke. They couldn't have got all the Laylas, some must have broken away and been running for the border, probably desperately low on fuel. The F-80s were the same. But Phnon Penh airfield was only a few tens of kilometers away. They could glide it if they had to. Perhaps not but the base was only a few minutes flying time away while the Laylas had to go all the way back to Saigon or even Hanoi. It didn't matter; all that mattered was that the Ostriches were safe and clear to do their job.

Ostrich Djiap-Eleven, over Phase Line Decimate, Thai/Japanese Indochina Border

The radio had been filled with the chaos of combat, the fighter pilots overhead screaming at each other as they fought to keep the Laylas away from the Ostriches. At first, Pondit had believed they'd lose, that he and his Ostriches would be fighting to survive but their top-cover had scythed through the attacking Laylas, shooting some down and putting the rest to flight. He'd breathed a quick prayer of thanks and then got back down to his job.

Up ahead a pair of Japanese light bombers, Harvs or Kens, it was too far to see, were circling an area. That was the scene, the Japanese launching a company - level attack, trying to break out of the impending encirclement and the bombers were waiting for the Thai infantry to unmask so they could bomb and strafe the defenders. Only, this wasn't China. In China, the Japanese had never fought the Ostrich.

The Japanese aircraft were Harvs and they were no match for the twin-engined Ostrich. One didn't even see the charging aircraft until it was too late and the little bomber just fell apart as the sky filled with cannon shells and machine gun bullets. Pondit's prey did spot him and tried to turn into him but it made no difference. The Harv's wing guns flashed and an opaque patch formed on the heavily armored screen in front of Pondit's face. Then he returned Tire with all ten of his guns and the Harv wasn't there anymore. Just shattered metal fragments falling to the ground.

In front, three green, crab-like shapes with little ants running with them Tanks with their infantry support. Pondit lifted his nose slightly and thumbed the rocket release, seeing the black trails streak out in front of his aircraft. Then, drop the nose again and lei the enemy feel the lash of his 23mm cannon. They'd been designed to destroy tanks and the Japanese lights were no great challenge. Pondit had picked the one on the right and it was boiling black smoke as he flashed overhead.

Then, a long climbing curve and a bombing pass the way he'd been taught to do it. A long dive, dropping the bombs as late as he could. He felt the lurch as the six 250 kilogram bombs dropped then felt the kidney-crunching slam as they went off, throwing his Ostrich upwards with fragments from its own bombs peppering its belly. The Ostrich's armor was as much to protect it from itself as from the enemy. Below, the combination of explosions, blast and fragments should have held the enemy up, pinned them down, given the Thai troops down there a chance to inflict damage themselves.

“Sirisoon-Pony this is Cab Rank. We're hanging around until told differently. We've got more 132mm rockets, plenty of 23 mike-mike and point-fifty. So feel free to ask.”

“Sirisoon-actual here. We'll remember that. Can you swing around and see if there is a follow up to this? We'll handle what's left down here.”

Glory be, thought Pondit. That voice was unmistakably female. The world was going crazy. Then he thought for a second, his top-cover had been named after the famous warrior Taeng-Onn hadn't it? Who'd died defending her village of Bangrachan against invaders? He found him hoping the owner of the voice on the radio would have better fortune than Taeng-Onn.

Short of Phase Line Execute, North of Tong Klao Village, Recovered Provinces, Thailand

Sirisoon had been watching the Harvs wait for her unit to open fire. The word had been trembling on her lips when there had been a roar, a crushing cascade of sound that had seemed to flatten her ears to her head. The Harvs had just blown up, ripped apart as the Ostriches thundered across the sky. Then the roar of the engines had been drowned out by the screaming rocket salvos that had turned the sky dark before crashing into the enemy infantry.

Those explosions had been the loudest but it was the cannon fire that had been the most spectacular. One of the Japanese light tanks had seemed to melt as the hits flashed all over it, hammering its armor and setting it ablaze. Another was less spectacular but black smoke boiled from its engine compartment. The Ostriches turned up and away, out of the smoke that billowed from their first strike. Then they peeled over and dived on the approaching Japanese, bombs tumbling from their bellies and wings.

The thunder of the explosions was something Sirisoon could never have imagined. It surrounded her, pressing in on her, driving the air from her body and the feeling from her limbs. Dully, she heard the fragments flying overhead and her instructor's voice. “Close support is no use unless it’s close. Very close. So when you call for it, get down and stay down. Or you'll be as dead as the enemy.”

Then it faded and she lifted her head. She knew the mathematics well enough. The standard close support weapon was a 250 kilogram bomb, equivalent to five rounds from a 150mm gun. Each Ostrich carried six and there had been six Ostriches. That meant the infantry company attacking them had just been hit by the equivalent of 180 heavy artillery shells. More than an artillery regiment could fire. Yet, mathematics hadn't conveyed the full impact of what had happened, the stunning, enveloping noise, the waves of pressure, the shaking of the ground. The Ostriches had dropped their bombs very close to the inner safety limit, the point at which they'd become as dangerous to friends as enemy. Very close support indeed.

And mathematics couldn't have told her the effect of the bombs. What had been a scene of beauty in the bright afternoon sun, green grass, blue sky, even the khaki of the Japanese infantry and the splotchy brown-green of their tanks had gone. A pall of black heavy smoke, shot with red and crimson, was boiling into the sky, turning the sun, dimly seen through the shroud, into a dull orange ball. The ground was invisible, no, that wasn't quite true, Sirisoon realized she could see the ground, it was just she couldn't see where the ground ended and the smoke began. Then, out of the chaos in front of her a tank, the only survivor of the three, emerged. White streaks of smoke streaked out from her positions. The RPG-2 wasn't that accurate and two of them missed but the third exploded square on the frontal armor.

Sirisoon was awed at the sight of more infantry, emerging from the smoke and dust of the bombs. The airstrike had been bad enough from her positions, out of the immediate danger area and dug in. What must it have been like in the midst of the bombing? And yet the Japanese infantry were coming on. The explosions from her 60 millimeter mortars yapped amongst them, the explosions seeming inconsequential after the earthquakes of the 250 kilogram bombs.

The tank was moving again, shrugging off three rifle grenades that hit it. Then the RPG gunners fired again, their launchers reloaded at last. One hit on the side of the turret, one over the top, another in the ground and yet it was that one, a miss, that stopped the tank at last. It broke a track and the tank spun to one side before stopping. The crew tried to bail out, obviously the tank was burning even if nobody could see it yet, but a burst from an MG34 cut them down.

The Japanese infantry was pinned down, they'd been relying on their armor to get them through and it had failed. China had done the Japanese Army no favors, she thought. They'd learned all the wrong lessons there. They'd learned that infantry wouldn't stand in front of tanks, that a few rounds of artillery would disperse a defense, that a few light bombs from an aircraft would cause panic. Above all, they'd learned, or thought they had, that fighting spirit was more important than weapons and in China that probably had been true. Only, this wasn't China and here relying on fighting spirit meant pitting flesh and blood against machine guns and explosives.

Time for another lesson. “Fix bayonets.” Her order went out and there was a rattle as the long sawbacks were drawn and fixed in position. In China, the Japanese had viewed themselves the masters of bayonet fighting, a claim the Chinese had never contested. Now, the Japanese were finding themselves matched, bayonet for bayonet with an enemy who relished its use as much as they did. And had a much better bayonet, Sirisoon reflected smugly. “Attack! Follow me!”

The Thai platoon poured into the Japanese unit throwing it back in confusion. Sirisoon fired once from the hip, dropping a Japanese sergeant, then engaged a private. She parried his thrust but that left her out of position for a thrust of her own so she kicked him in the groin instead. He victim doubled up and she thrust the bayonet into his shoulder, right where the neck started. Twist and pull, the sawback ripping the flesh as it was withdrawn. Another soldier coming in from the right, another parry and this time a superb thrust to the stomach. She was just withdrawing her sawback when there was a terrible blow in her side.

Sirisoon sprawled on the ground, her rifle out of reach. Over her, a Japanese soldier stood, bayonet poised for the downthrust. That's how it ends she thought. Like Taeng-Onn, knocked down then stabbed on the ground, over and over again. Just as her stomach muscles contracted to resist the killing blow, she saw the Japanese stagger and fall, red flowers on his chest where Yawd's MP-40 had sprayed him; A hand grabbed her shoulder and helped her up.

It was over, the Japanese were done. “Get me Channel Seven.” There was a pause. “Strisoon-Actual here. We stopped them. Permission to advance to Execute? Very Good Sir.”

She looked around her unit was falling back into a skirmish line, ready to either hold or advance. “Forward, we have to take the ridgeline. Sergeant, casualty count, soon as you can. Medic, look after the wounded. And watch the Japanese, their dead might not want to stay dead”

First Army Circle Headquarters, Ban Masdit, Recovered Provinces, Thailand

“Damned politicians. Even Her. They're screwing around and its costing my boys.” General Songkitti's aid looked surreptitiously around as if the King's Ambassador-Plenipotentiary would suddenly appear in the room, breathing fire. On the other hand, the general's frustration was understandable. He'd wanted to hold back until the 11th and Second Cavalry divisions were in place so he could launch a full strength counter-attack and destroy the Japanese invaders. Only, just after dawn, the word had come down from the Ambassador herself. 'Go today with what you've got. Feed the units in as they arrive.'

As a result, the two advances along the river were going much more slowly than they should have been. What was intended to be a massive pair of converging thrusts that would cut off the Japanese advance and encircle it was turning into a even push all along the front. The 12th Cavalry Regiment was moving slightly faster but that wasn't much. At best the push was at walking pace. The only bright spot was that the Japanese were falling steadily back and the area of their riverhead had shrunk dramatically. The 9th Division had advanced some ten kilometers in the same number of hours and their lead clement should be in sight of the river soon. 211th Regiment was already on the river, pushing along its banks narrowing the frontage of river held by the Japanese and threatening their bridges.

Better news was that the Japanese fighter effort over the area had subsided at last. The sudden appearance of their fighters over the battle area early in the morning had been a disaster. They'd bled the ground attack units badly and only the commitment of Second Wing had restored the situation. In two days, the Air Force overall had taken a pounding. Fifth Wing had virtually gone, mostly destroyed on the ground at Laum Mwuak Airfield. Fourth Wing had lost about half its effectives, most of the losses being in the vital Ostrich squadrons. Third Wing, a pure fighter outfit with F-72s and F-80s had lost a couple of aircraft but was virtually unscathed otherwise. And it had decimated the vaunted Japanese Laylas in the air battles that morning. Still, with three wings out of seven involved, almost half the Air Force was committed to this one battle and about half of that had been lost. In two days.

Three divisions out of seven committed, three air wings out of seven already in the battle. Only the Navy wasn't being sucked into this “border incident” and they didn't really have much to offer. If the fighting spread, there simply wouldn't be enough in the way of available forces to counter it.

“Telephone Sir. On the scrambled line from Bangkok. The Ambassador herself.”

Songkitti cursed and picked up his extension. What did she want now? To order him to lead a bayonet charge himself. Not that he wouldn't welcome the chance. “Songkitti, Your Excellency.”

“Just out of curiosity. General, what did you just call me?” The contralto voice on the telephone was friendly and slightly amused. Which meant nothing at all of course.

“Errr, Your Excellency?”

“Never mind. Just be assured, I know how you feel. Been there myself. What's the situation on the ground?”

“End Game, Your Excellency, The Japanese are pulling back, re-crossing the river to avoid being encircled. They're doing so slowly and fighting every inch of the way but they are pulling back. We should be on the river by nightfall. Lead elements of the Ninth have recaptured Laum Mwuak Airfield and rescued the surviving air force personnel who were trying to get out through the jungle. What worries me is the Japanese follow-up. They've got three times the force they committed yesterday already on scene and if that lot hits us, we can't stop them.”

“You don't have to worry about that General. It won't happen. That's why I'm calling. At 2000 tonight our time, the Governments of Australia, India and Thailand will be announcing a new mutual defense pact by which an attack on any one of the three members will be considered an attack on them all. That's why you had to advance today and feed the reinforcements in piecemeal. This wouldn't have been possible if you and your men hadn't driven the Japanese back today.”

“But, your Excellency, India has, what, 27 divisions? Australia two or three? Even all three of us cannot match the Japanese in sheer numbers. Even, if we could, it would take weeks to get those troops here. We'd still have to fight this Japanese force on our own and we're shot, we can't match them.”

“And the Japanese cannot match the American bombers. For weeks now, the Americans have shown that nobody can stop their bombers. As part of their open skies policy, they've overflown Japan many times and the Japanese can do nothing to stop them. In fact, the Japanese have even less in the way of defense than Germany did. The Americans have also made it very clear they will not tolerate any more major wars of aggression. The Japanese attack yesterday was a border incident, one beneath their attention. A major war involving all three of us will not be acceptable to them and they will act to end it. I know that, don't ask how, but I do. There will be no follow-up attack General, and if by chance there is, there will no longer be a Japan to threaten us.”

“Thank the Lord, Your Excellency.”

“No, thank the B-36. Good evening General.'' The phone cut off abruptly.

His aide came in, a long box in his hands and a bemused expression on his face. “General?”

“Her Excellency assures us there will be no follow-up Japanese attack. We've won this one, Kam, by the skin of our teeth but we've won it. Once the troops settle down for the night, keep them on full alert just in case. The next regiment of 11th to arrive,”

“The 411th sir?”

“That's the one. They'll do a sweep tomorrow, clean out our rear areas of any by-passed holdouts. That's all. We stay on our side of the river. Once the river line is held, pull the Second Cavalry out of the line. The Ninth as well provided things settle down. They're been mauled, they need to regroup and absorb replacements. What's in the box?”

“A Company Commander from the 29th sent it up Sir. By courier no less and for your personal attention. I don't know....... My God, it’s beautiful.”

Songkitti had opened the box. Inside was a Japanese katana complete with scabbard. There was a note attached to it and he read it with rising eyebrows while his aide admired the sword. “According to the good Captain, this sword was captured from its original owner, in personal combat, by our fragrant and delightful Lieutenant Sirisoon who placed in his hands for safe keeping. He most respectfully asks that we hold it in trust, awaiting her return to reclaim it.

“This is the real thing Sir. 18th Century certainly, possibly 17th. Not a cheap imitation. Must have been a family heirloom once. I'll put it up on the wall of the Officer's Mess.”

“No Karri, you won't. We'll put this into safe keeping as the Captain requests. When Sirisoon gets back, we'll return it to her and ask her if we can have it for display in the mess with a memorial that explains who captured it and how.”

“Suppose she says no?”

“She won't. She wants more than anything else for us to accept her as a soldier. This way she gets a very obvious public symbol of acceptance and we get her sword legally. Everybody's happy. Now, get the orders out.”

Text of a Press Statement Issued By the Foreign Offices of Australia, India and Thailand

“Developments in the international situation as it affects the countries of the Par East have shown that the existing framework of relations is no longer functional and cannot be repaired to a status that best serves the interests of all the peoples of the region. This is well-illustrated by the current unrest in Indonesia and the southern Philippines and by the events of the last few days in Indo China. The Governments of Australia, India and Thailand therefore announce the formation of a new super-national identity to be known as The Triple Alliance.

“Under the terms of this agreement, the three principle members agree to a pact of mutual defense under which any attack by any party on any member of the Alliance shall be considered as an attack upon all three. Each member of the Triple Alliance has committed itself to the full support, with all its resources, of any of the other members that have come under attack. This is not an offensive alliance; it has as its purpose, purely the reduction of tension and maintenance of international peace.

“The members of the Triple Alliance also commit themselves to developing the economic stability and well-being of the region for the benefit of all its citizens. To this end, they have elected to adopt the sovereign as their common internal trading currency in the hope that this will promote both stability and investment.”

Statement released by the State Department, Washington, D.C.

“The United States of America applauds the initiative taken by Australia, India and Thailand to form a regional structure that will both prevent international disturbances and enhance the prospects for peace, security and prosperity in the region. The United States looks forward to the opportunity for peaceful trade and diplomatic relations with all the countries in the region.

“In this spirit the United States would like to offer its services as an honest broker to resolve the present conflict in accordance with the strict provisions of international law. The unfortunate events that have taken place along the Mekong River during the last few days are a sad reminder of how relatively minor problems can escalate out of all proportion and lead to the most dire of consequences. All good-willed peoples of the world wish for peace and mutual understanding and we hope that this event can be resolved in appreciation of this spirit. We propose an immediate cease-fire and a return to pre-hostilities positions on both sides as a preliminary to an inclusive conference that will address all the outstanding issues raised by the conflict.”

Office of President Zhukov, Field Kremlin, Nizhny Novgorod, Russia

“Gospodin President, this announcement has just been received.” Marshal Cherniakhovskii was carrying a sheaf of papers. Zhukov looked up at his deputy, his eyes bleary with tiredness even though it was only mid-morning. Too little sleep, too much work, too many problems. He couldn't understand why people wanted this job and wondered just how many of the world's leaders privately and secretly regretted the climb to the top. Some hadn't, some had positively relished the position but he was prepared to bet they were a minority. Zhukov knew that the load of being Russia's President was killing him. Only, he couldn't give it up, not until he had a successor who could take Russia the way it needed to go. He had a strong feeling Cherniakhovskii was that man.

“Have you read this?”

“Yes Gospodin President, but I don't see how it affects us.”

“It does my friend, in many ways. Not least of which, a strong alliance to the south of Japan bars the route to any further expansion in that direction. We, the Americans and us, bar the way north, Japan is contained, still very powerful and very dangerous but it is contained.”

“I do not see any great signs of strength in this Triple Alliance. It seems a very limited pact. Adequate for the purpose yes, but there is no great strength to it. All three countries together have forces that do not equal those of the Second Karelian Front and we have others as well”

“It will be a strong alliance because it has to be a strong alliance. The members have no choice but to make it so whether they wish it or not. Remember the saying of Catherine the Great. 'Strong alliances are like strong steel. They are not forged on a mattress of desire but on the anvil of necessity.' It will take them time to realize that but, yes; it will be a strong alliance.”

“And the Americans? Their talk of trade and offer of mediation?”

''President Dewey told me that America has a new policy now. They will not make war upon their enemies, they will simply destroy them. This is an announcement of that policy and contains a warning to Japan, They will back off this attack or they will be destroyed as thoroughly as Germany was. And there is nothing they can do to stop it. Now, the question is, how do we make ourselves felt in this 'mediation'?”

“Is it so necessary that we should?”

Zhukov looked affectionately at his deputy. Cherniakhovskii was one of the younger men he was grooming as his successor. This one showed initiative, asked questions, expressed his opinions, all attributes that would have got him killed a decade earlier. He shook himself, had Stalin's great purges been only a decade ago? It seemed like a lifetime. For far too many Russians it had been their lifetime.

“Indeed it is. Our greatest weakness is that we need the Americans. We need their nuclear firepower, we need their economic strength, their skills, their expertise. We need their endless cornucopia of weapons and the tools to make weapons. We need their knowledge of how to run an economy so that it produces enough to feed and clothe our people. We need the Americans, Russia has been so terribly hurt by this war that we cannot survive without them. But, they do not need us. We are useful to them certainly, but they do not need us. So we must never let them think they can do things alone.

“Every time they make a move, we must be there, helping them, supporting them. We must make ourselves so useful to them that usefulness become approximate to need. And, remember this, the Americans are generous to a fault and they hate to be under obligations. Offer them bread, they will return with meat and think nothing of it. If we aid them as much as it within our power to do so, they will return the aid tenfold.”

^:'So the anvil of necessity drives us together as much as it does the Triple Alliance.”

“Indeed it does. But also remember this. The Americans, for all their strength and power, need a friend in the world. That one friend will be a very privileged entity indeed, for the shadow of American power will make it seem many times stronger than it is. I tell you this. To survive, Russia must be that friend. So I ask again. How do we help the Americans?”

There was a long silence. Then, Cherniakhovskii tentatively, almost as if he was speaking to himself, broke it. “We could always offer to host the meeting. Neutral ground, away from the scene. Emphasizing that we are also independent, honest brokers. And we could add that the ruins of Moscow are fitting place for the conference since it would highlight the destruction of modern war.”“

Zhukov laughed, the barking grow! that usually meant somebody's army was about to get destroyed. “In that case we should offer to hold the conference in Berlin. At least there, the radiation levels wilt ensure they reach agreement quickly before the delegates start to glow in the dark,”

Cherniakhovskii joined in the laughter, “Shall I contact President Dewey then on your behalf? Advise him that we intend to make the offer of conference facilities to support his initiative.''

A beam of pride spread across Zhukov's face. The young Marshal had got the message. “Yes indeed. Do that.''

The Ambassador's Office, Supreme Command Headquarters, Bangkok, Thailand

The night had seemed infinite, eternal. It reminded her of another night, long ago, when she'd stood at another window watching the glow on the horizon as the old Capital of Ayuthya burned to the ground, A traitor had finally done what siege couldn't. The city had fallen and every man, woman and child had been killed. It had been under siege for 18 months before it fell but that didn't make her failure then any the less. Nor did the fact that it had taken two Burmese armies, each 100,000 strong to defeat Ayuthya's armies and besiege the capital. The capital had fallen, the country had been defeated and occupied.

She'd been outside, gathering new armies, mobilizing more troops until one night the glow on the horizon had told her it was too late. Then had followed more years, of guerrilla warfare, of resistance, then of a renewed war that had driven the Burmese out. She had feared that, once again, her country would be occupied and, once again, she would have to fight the invader from the jungle.

It almost seemed to her that the glow had returned, a rich, red glow lightening the eastern sky. It was dawn, not fire, and as she watched the sun lifted over the horizon and started its arc in the sky. She stood there, still, unmoving as dawn lit the city and slowly brought it to life. An uncertain, apprehensive life as people searched for news of the fighting on the Mekong. Then she moved, turning around as there was a knock on the door. A messenger.

She read the message, a brief communiqué from Tokyo accepting the offer of American mediation and the Russian offer of a location for the conference. Also, agreeing to the cease-fire, the few remaining troops on the south bank of the Mekong withdrawing over the river.

The crisis was over. There was no need to plan a new guerrilla war, no need to plan resistance in the countryside against the day the Japanese could be driven out. She walked to her office door and locked it. Then, she quietly sat at her desk and wept with relief.

Administrative Building, Nevada Test and Experimental Area

The airfields were empty at last, six weeks of testing and evaluation had finally ended. Colonel Pico stopped typing and looked out of his office window at the runway, the glare from the concrete blinding in the mid-day sun. The lesson learned from the first Red Sun exercise was simple. Air defense had failed completely; the United States was as vulnerable to high-altitude nuclear bombers as Germany had been a year earlier. The B-36s had overflown the best fighters in the United States Air Force. They hadn't fought their way through the defenses, they'd simply ignored them. It was what he had feared, what his nightmares had warned him of. The United States could not defend itself against the sort of attack that had destroyed Germany.

His eyes returned to the paragraph he had just finished typing. “Present generations of fighters have proved incapable of reaching the altitudes routinely used by B-36-type aircraft for the penetration of hostile airspace. Only the German Go-229 fighter had any capability to reach these altitudes and its lack of maneuverability meant that it was unable to successfully engage the B-36. In any case, this type of aircraft is, as far as is known, now extinct and its deficiencies in other areas are such that we find it most unlikely that any nation would wish to copy its layout. Field modifications to the types of fighters used during the Red Sun trials proved unsuccessful and the representatives of the aircraft companies attending cannot hold out any hope of future modifications improving the situation. New types of aircraft must be developed to provide a high-altitude intercept capability. Until then, the unexpected ascendancy of the turbocharged, piston-engined bomber is complete.”

And wasn't that the truth, Pico thought. Artem Mikoyan had been quite explicit about it; even his vaunted new MiG-15 would only have a marginal capability against the Featherweight IV B-36H. He had an advanced version of the aircraft on the drawing board and the Russians had promised to get a prototype MiG-17 over to Nevada as soon as it left the factory. There was an engine development that could help, a thing called reheat. It was another combustion chamber at the rear of the engine where raw fuel was dumped into the jet and ignited. It was supposed to provide a surge of power at high altitude - at the expense of massive fuel consumption. Would it be enough? Mikoyan was gambling it would be with his MiG-1 7 and North American were doing the same with the XF-86D Sabredog. And would it stay enough? There were new versions of the B-36 coming and on the horizon was an all-jet derivative, the XB-60. That was due to fly in a couple of years time. Boeing was designing a rival, a more advanced bomber still, the XB-52. Were the fighters doomed to an everlastingly futile game of catch-up? And could anything help them?

“Existing ground based anti-aircraft defenses proved entirety ineffective. Existing anti-aircraft guns could not reach the altitudes flow by the B-36 and the proposed new 120mm gun is also ineffective against targets flying at that altitude. It is urgently advised that maximum effort be placed behind the development of the new Ajax missile.”

The Russians had more to fear than the United States did. The Japanese were introducing two new bombers, derivatives of German designs that were also high-altitude bombers. Pico chuckled to himself, one of them was a version of the He-274 and had been code-named Curt. A name that had been very hurriedly changed to Dick. There were legends about why that had happened. The Russians, their help had been invaluable here. They flew fighters a different way from the American pilots and their ground control techniques were different. Once again, Pico's eye fell on the relevant section of his report.

“Comparison of the American system of free-ranging fighters receiving operational information from ground control and the Russian system of fighters flying under strict course and speed directions from their fighter direction center has shown no clear advantage for either system. Each worked best under specific circumstances. In good weather and where the fighters were covering large areas, the American system worked best. In bad weather and in the point defense of high value targets, the Russian system proved superior.

“The considered opinion of the participants is that the command and control system eventually adopted by NORAD should be a combination of both systems, exploiting the best advantages of each. Further trials will be necessary to determine the exact nature of that combination.”

The Russians had shown something else as well. Their Tu-4s had lumbered up to the range, within easy intercept parameters of the fighters. Only then, they'd turned away, leaving small shapes streaking through the sky towards the targets. Air-to surface missiles, stand-off weapons. Both the Americans and Russians had been working on them but the Russians had got theirs operational first. They'd been too fast for the piston-engined fighters to intercept and the jets had barely enough time to engage them.

Eventually, the answer had been George Preddy and his F-65G Tigercat night fighters. Their radar had allowed them to track the inbound stand-off missiles and plot an intercept. Not a high probability, the Tigercat was too slow for that, but a good possibility. With practice they had one chance in five. Which was more than they had against the B-36. Of course, that raised an ugly possibility, B-36s carrying stand-off missiles.

“The provision of search and target acquisition radars should be considered essential. The increasing speed of modern combat aircraft means that the old days of target acquisition by Mark One Eyeball are no longer viable. A modern radar is so essential to fighter combat that it should be an integral part of the aircraft's design.”

Pico sighed again and rubbed his eyes. His last conclusion was the one he really hated. “'Only one possible form of defense against high-flying heavy bombers appears practical until the new generations of fighters and anti-aircraft missiles enter service. It is most urgently recommended that at least one group of B-36 bombers be assigned to an air defense role and trained in the use of air-to-air bombing of enemy aircraft using nuclear weapons.”

Damn, he thought, was this what the world had come to? The nightmares he'd had ever since looking back on the twelve mushroom clouds rising over Berlin seemed to crowd in on him. Air-to-air bombing with nuclear weapons was the least-worst option. The world really was going mad.

Headquarters, Second Karelian Front, Riga, “The Baltic Gallery”

“Well, we've done it Erwin. We've done the impossible.” The map was empty; the last units of Army Group Vistula had surrendered. Oddly, quite a few of the problematic units, the ones that had been expected to cause the worst complications, had suddenly turned out to be 'Polish'. They'd been given a choice, join the new Polish Army supporting the Russian-sponsored government or dig uranium ore with wooden shovels. They'd joined the Polish Army.

With eyes wide open, for they knew what Rommel and Rokossovsky both knew. The units would get the dirty jobs, the suicidal attacks, be rammed into the fighting again and again until they were all gone. But, they would die on their feet, like men, not diseased troglodytes coughing their lungs out in the radioactive dust of a uranium mine. That was a deal worth making and they'd taken it. All but one. General Otto Skorzeny had shot himself the night after his last unit had surrendered to the Russians. Rommel thought of him with contempt. In the end, he hadn't had the courage to face responsibility for what he'd done. Physical courage, he'd had in plenty but not moral courage. Perhaps, Rommel fought, that was what had led Germany astray, too much physical courage, too much physical skill at fighting, not enough moral courage to ask why?

“Your General Staff was a remarkable organization Erwin, quite remarkable. Twice this century, it has taken on almost the whole world and nearly fought it to a standstill. And never once did one of its members ask 'Why are we taking on the whole world?' Never once.”

Rommel shook his head helplessly. He'd learned too much over the months of negotiations to argue the point. It was redundant anyway, the General Staff were ashes floating somewhere in an incinerated Germany. “I can't disagree with you Konstantin. Looking back now, we started to go astray sometime in the 19th century, those damned unreadable philosophers everybody quotes and raves about but can't be bothered to study in full. They poisoned the minds of just enough people and the whole world had to pay.”

“It did Erwin, but there is blame enough for more than just you Germans. The rest of Europe shares your guilt and is being punished now for its sins. They saw the cancer growing in its midst and they did nothing to cut it out. And we Russians have more blame than most to bear. We didn't just fail to cut the cancer out; we helped it grow and caught a bad case of the disease ourselves. Perhaps why we have been punished so terribly. I do not know. There are those in Russia who say that what has happened is God's punishment for our sin of omission. They may be right but such things are not our concern today. It is not the question of the blame of one people or one nation but that of one man. You, Erwin.'“

Rommel squared his shoulders and nodded sharply. It was what he had expected. From the first time his eyes had opened to what the German Army had done in Russia he had been certain of his fate. Now it had come and he felt a strange relief. “So, my trial will start?”

“Your trial is over Erwin. You have been on trial here every day since we first met. We have watched you, try to save your men yet also do what was right. You have not earned an acquittal but you have earned clemency.” Rokossovsky looked pensive for a moment. “There is a bend in the Volga, where the war did not reach. The river surrounds it on three sides and the fourth is guarded by mountains. A place called Zhiguli. A very beautiful place. In that bend, secure and isolated from the rest of Russia are the dachas, the country homes, of retired Russian leaders. Marshals, politicians, scientists, others who have retired to private life. I have a dacha there and so docs Zhukov, and Koniev and Malinski. So now do you and a few of your comrades. The ones who have earned clemency.”

Rokossovsky stood and drew himself to attention. “Field Marshal Rommel, for your crimes against the Russian people you are here by sentenced to life imprisonment in Zhiguli, You will serve your sentence under house arrest.”

He sat down again. “You will live there the same as us, the only difference being you will not be allowed to leave the town without an escort. Believe me, that is for your protection, it will be many years before a German accent will be tolerated in Russia. You will have to stay there with other retired Generals, yours and ours, drink tea and vodka, play chess and refight old battles. It's a dirty job Erwin, but somebody has to do it.”

Rommel nodded. It wasn't as if he had anywhere else to go, the American bombers had seen to that, “Marshal Rokossovsky, I submit myself to the judgment of the Russian people.'' Then he too relaxed. “You say you have a dacha there as well? When will you be coming out?”

“Soon, Erwin, very soon. I have one campaign left and Poland to get straightened out. Then I too will retire to Zhiguli. All of us who fought this war are worn out, our time is done. It is for the younger men to take over now. And for God to guide them.”

The Garden Hotel London, U.K.

London was quiet, eerily so. There were few vehicles, most people walked, the luckier had bicycles. Animals had returned, for deliveries and transport and their leavings were once again a problem in the city. And Commander Robert Fox still had not made up his mind. He'd done right by the Australians, he'd checked Thule over from stem to stern. She'd been well modernized at Groton in Connecticut and was now pretty close to a Type XXI in performance. Her batteries were new and her sensor suite was first class. She was a good boat, in his heart he knew she was a better boat that his Xena. Was she still his Xena? He'd changed his mind half a dozen times on the long train trip up from Pompey.

The decision was logically inevitable, he knew it. Even with his fabled luck, the peace-time Royal Navy would have no place for him. It was shrinking almost hourly, its ships being sold for scrap as the Government frantically tried to raise money to pay its bills. There would soon be no commands for Commanders, there were too many officers and most would be beached. In Australia, he would have a command, a future. Yet he couldn't just leave the country, it would be deserting his post. The evening before he'd met Dr Swamphen for dinner and they'd talked far into the night. Swamphen was leaving; he was going to a place called Wood's Hole in America, Wouldn't say what he would be doing but said it was a sound, well-financed project.

He stretched out on the bed with its patched cover and sheets. The hotel served dinner but it was a fixed time and no choices. Still, it was worth waiting for. There was something else he was waiting for and it came sooner than he expected. The telephone rang and the operator's voice told him his long distance call was through.

“Robert Darling! How is your trip going?”

“Julia, Very well, Thule is beautiful but Portsmouth's a wreck. Gosport's just gone. You remember our first married quarters? The whole street has vanished, it’s as if a giant child had just wiped it away with his hand. Even Victory's hurt. She got hit by a rocket, a big one.” His voice petered away as he remembered the blackened wood and the smell of burning. The silence grew, heavily and expensively. Eventually Julia broke it.

“We're staying in England, aren't we?” They'd been married a long time and Fox recognized the tone of her voice, a wife desperately trying to bury her own bitter disappointment and support the decision her husband had made. Suddenly, the decision was made. He couldn't do it, not to her.

“Whatever are you talking about? I'm signing on for Australia in just a few minutes. The Embassy is just around the corner and they're waiting for me now. I just called to tell you to start packing. Why on earth would you think I would turn down a modernized T-boat?”

Fox could tell from Julia's voice she was crying with relief. “No, I suppose you couldn't. Robert, you go play with your boats and I’ll have everything sorted out by the time you get back. A lot of it's still packed anyway. And don't consort with naughty women while you're down in London. I've heard about that city. Now run along before this telephone call bankrupts us.”

Fox laughed and hung up the phone. He left his room and went down to reception, dropping off the key as he left.

“Dinner at six, Sir.”

“Thank you, I'll be back by then. Just going for a walk.”

The Australian Embassy was less than a mile away, he had plenty of time. Goodbye Xena, hello Thule he thought. Yes, he was leaving his post, but he had his wife and a future to think about. Britain would survive, it always had, always would. He glanced up and saw, high in the sky overhead, a wide contrail, red and white against the darkening sky. A silver point at its head, a B-36 probably on its way to Russia.

There was a fog coming down, barely more than a hint now but soon it would become the pearlescent gray that turned the London streets into a magical place, lit by the welcoming yellow of the shop lights. He'd miss London, always would but London, also would survive. It didn't need him, Julia did and it wasn't right to ask her to stay here. Australia would be their home now. Suddenly, he urgently wanted to get back to Thule he'd heard there were some new tricks that could be done with the modernized T-boats and he wanted to try them out.

Radio Broadcast Studio, Washington D.C.

“My fellow Americans, I speak to you tonight, to advise you of the events that have taken place in recent weeks. Before I do that, I would like to speak about the events of 1939 and 1940. In those years, a single power, aggressive, over-mighty, convinced that its might gave it the right to rule by force every nation that could be made to submit, attacked the countries around it. Its neighbors prevaricated, made excuses, appeased the aggressor. Nobody resisted until it was too late and by the time they did the aggressor had grown too strong for them. They were defeated and the war spread until it engulfed the whole world. Because of that war, a million and a half American boys will never come home again.

“This must never happen again.

“We have heard much in this campaign about international agreements and multi-national organizations and the need for America to maintain peace in the world community.

“In the end this will mean just one thing. More American boys will leave home never to return. More American mothers will grieve for their lost children, more American fathers will have nothing left of their sons but a folded flag and a memory. And so it will go on, far into the future. An endless sacrifice of the best we have.

“We must find a better way.

“That brings us back to where we started, to the events of the last few weeks. In that time, we have averted two wars without the loss of a single American life. The first was a war that could have started by mistake, by two nations who each believed the worst of each other. Each believed the other was massing troops on the border to attack; each was tempted to strike first and gain the upper hand. Two nations in the street at High Noon, each waiting for the slightest move that would cause them to go for their guns.

“Under our Open Skies policy we flew reconnaissance aircraft along the border and took photographs, the best our technology could provide. We gave those pictures to both sides, showing them that there were no troop concentrations, there were no plans on either side for an attack. The tension in that area faded away.

“This was the best way to end a war, not by sending large numbers of American boys to die in far-off lands but by removing the cause of the war before it ever started.

“We have also made it clear that we will not tolerate wars of aggression. A nation that tries to overrun and conquer its neighbors will face the wrath of American bombers. We will not tolerate the strong forcing the submission of the weak.

“Let us be clear about this. We do not rule the world. We do not say to others, this you will do, this is how you will live, this is who will rule you. We do not demand they love us, we do not even ask that they like us or agree with what we are or how we live. We merely say to them, live in peace and let others do the same. For if you want war you will be an enemy of America and America no longer makes war on its enemies, it destroys them.

“When a small war in a far-off land threatened to expand to a much larger conflict, just as the war in Europe expanded ten long years ago, we made that point clear. We simply reminded those responsible for starting that conflict of the motto of Strategic Air Command. 'Peace Is Our Profession.' We do not rule the world, we do not wish to and we will not make the attempt. We will just keep the peace.

“Tomorrow the American people have a choice. They can vote for a never ending commitment of American troops in far-off lands, fighting wars in sweaty jungles or the icy wastes, a policy that will send our sons back to the hell of Archangel. Or they can vote that Peace Is Our Profession and live behind the sword of Strategic Air Command and the shield of the oceans and our fighter defenses.

“Thank you and good night.”

President Dewey leaned back from the microphone and stretched. Then he quietly left the radio broadcast room and made for his official limousine. The poll figures looked bad but there was only one poll that mattered. The one tomorrow.

Ban Masdit Village, Recovered Provinces, Thailand.

The small convoy pulled to a halt in the street, dust swirling around the vehicles, a few curious dogs sniffing cautiously around to see who these new arrivals were. A jeep, five trucks. Sergeant Yawd leaned back in the rear seat “How did you get the transport Ell-tee?”

“Just told the motor pool sergeant that I knew all about his little sidelines and if we got transport, he'd have a week or two to get straightened out before we did an audit.”

“What was he up to?”

“I don't know. I let him fill in the blanks for himself. Obviously there's something he doesn't want investigated. There usually is.”

“What's going to happen to us Ell-tee? Back to truck guard duty?”

Sirisoon shook her head. They'd spent weeks garrisoning the river before being pulled back and replaced by a unit from the Eleventh. That was when she'd had her orders direct from General Songkitti in an envelope that included news that her sword had arrived and was in safe keeping for her. That had surprised her, privately she'd put her chance of getting it back at no more than 50:50. “We're being constituted as a ready alert platoon. There'll be one at each base from now on. The General says it's to make sure we don't get caught like this again.” She looked at Yawd out of the corner of her eyes. “You're stuck with me as well. General says, too many junior officers got killed leading from the front to replace me. By the way, I've been meaning to ask. When did I stop being Ma'am and become Ell-tee?”

Yawd looked embarrassed. “Well, errr.” He waved a hand in front of her, “Ma'am just came with the configuration so to speak. You earned the right to be our Ell-tee.”

“Ah, so.” The imitation Japanese made them both laugh. “Sergeant, the men have had a hard time. We've got two hours or so, let them wander around as they wish.” Yawd cleared his throat. Sirisoon carried on smoothly. “Under the supervision of their corporals of course. Reassemble in two hours.”

Yawd smiled contentedly. There was something very satisfying about seeing a young officer taking the first steps to becoming a good officer. “And you Ell-tee?”

“Got some personal things to get from the store over there.”

Sirisoon set out for the village store, easy to pick out as it was the largest frontage. Yawd followed her and settled down in a chair by the door, happy to relax in the sun. Sirisoon went inside; there were indeed some personal things she needed to get.

The store was typical of its kind, an uneven wooden floor, dusty despite the owner's wife sweeping it twice a day. Goods piled around in no particular order, some new, some old, some valuable, some junk. She searched through the shelves before she found what she needed. The counter where the shopkeeper and his assistant stood was by the door. The assistant was a young girl, probably the shopkeeper's daughter for most stores like this were run by the family. Sirisoon went over to them to pay.

There was another woman there, a young mother with a child. Sirisoon put her purchases on the table and dug out the money to pay for them. As she did, she absent-mindedly shifted the rifle hanging over her shoulder and moved the sawback bayonet on her belt. The child ran past her, to his mother and Sirisoon looked down at him, smiling as she picked up her goods. The young boy made a choking noise and buried his face in her mother's skirts. The woman grabbed him and swung him around, putting herself between her child and the stranger who stood in the store. She glared at Sirisoon, trying to erect a visual barbed wire fence to protect her child. The young shop assistant was staring at Sirisoon, something close to horror on her face. Sirisoon picked up her purchases and left. As she stepped through the doors, she heard the voices from inside the store.

“Lord have mercy on us. Did you see her eyes? Real killer's eyes!”

''Shush, she'll hear you.”

Outside, Sergeant Yawd fell in beside his officer his voice quiet and fraternal. “Welcome to the club, Ell-tee.”

Nellis Air Force Base, Las Vegas, Nevada.

The crew slid into their accustomed places and started reading off the long check-list before take-off. The cockpit was hot, stiflingly so, and nobody on the flight deck wanted to delay getting off the ground and up into the cool air high above.

“It's hot out here.” Major Clancy was running through the electronics list, reading it as per regulations.

“We'd better get used to it; we're going to be out here from now on.”

“Confirmed then?”

“Yup. Just came through. The whole 100th is transferring from Kozlowski to Nellis. The base has got to be expanded to take us but as soon as it's done, we'll be basing out of Nevada. Facing west across the Pacific, not east across the Atlantic.”

“We're staying here?” It was the voice they already associated with Texan Lady although Dedmon still privately believed it was somebody playing a joke. Or perhaps just his imagination. He talked to his aircraft, every pilot did, and it was quite possible he was imagining the responses. But then why did others hear what he heard?

“That's right. This is our new home.”

“Oh good. It's nice sitting here in the sun. Maine is so cold makes my frames ache.”

Clancy and Dedmon grinned at each other and shook their heads. Some things just defied a rational explanation. Time for a quick mission orders recap. “Profile mission everybody. We're going to hit Hawaii. We'll fly out at 40,000 feet, go to 43,000 for our bomb run then come home. Argus, radar only. No visuals.”

“How long before the rest of the group comes down Bob?” Clancy put his clip-board into its holder and settled himself into his seat.

“At least six months. And that's assuming there's no change in the Administration. Did you get your vote in?”

“Of course. As long as that?”

“General LeMay came down to inspect the base and had one of his raging furies. Reportedly he made the base commander cry. Described the married quarters here as unfit even for a particularly slovenly breed of syphilitic cockroaches and is having the whole lot torn down. The group won't move down until the enlisted married quarters are ready. Iron-Ass says the officers can wait a little, they can afford to rent off-base.”

There was a silence as Dedmon and Clancy waited nervously, glancing around to see if General LeMay was going to suddenly materialize in the cockpit. He didn't and they relaxed. “Enlisted getting their married quarters first. That's a break with tradition.” Clancy's voice was thoughtful

“General LeMay,” Dedmon reckoned they'd got away with one Iron-Ass, two would be pushing their luck “Says that we can't expect our ground crews to work the duty hours they have to while they're worried about their families. So they get priority for new living accommodation. I've seen the new quarters up at Offutt. Six-man rooms for the unmarried enlisted men, small studio apartments for the married couples. They're spartan but they look pretty good and they don't cost so much more than the old designs. I hear some of the enlisted men's wives have started calling the General 'Saint Curtis'.”

“Yeah.” Clancy's voice was disbelieving. “They don't have to work for him. Right, we've got tower clearance to taxi out. Hawaii here we come, for God, America and Saint Curtis!”

The McMullen Household, Simonstown, Republic of South Africa.

“Maisie? Where are you? Luv, I'd like you to meet Jorgie and Deke. Who are known to the world as the Management, workforce and administration of McMullen Metalworking Industries. We're bosses now.”

“It’s agreed? That's wonderful. Jorgie, Deke, John's said so much about you,”

“Nothing too awful I hope.” Maisie McMullen giggled and shook her head. “And John's told us all about you Maisie, said what a fine job you'd made of the house. Didn't do you justice though, this place is beautiful. John, your wife's got a real talent for doing a house. And for cooking too by the smell from the kitchen.”

Maisie McMullen flushed. She'd bought a standing rib of beef for the dinner tonight and stared at it, not knowing what to do. For a decade, Britain had been at war and then suffered a miserable peace. Food had been in short supply and cooking large meals was a forgotten art. The joint she'd bought had been more meat than her family had seen in a three-month. She simply didn't know how to start cooking it. In fact, she realized, she didn't really know how to cook at all. Not with real food. She could turn the rations into meals, as good as any and better than most, but real food like this? Where was she supposed to start?

Fortunately, Jorgie and Deke's wives had turned up bring some contributions for the feast and they'd learned of the problem. So Maisie had sat at the table, watched and taken notes while the two South African women had taken over her kitchen and cooked the dinner. Not that the men would ever know that, as far as they would be concerned, Maisie had cooked this meal. She'd also made a private note to get cookery lessons as quickly as possible although she'd already noted how many white households had a black cook and domestic help.

The McMullens lead the way out where the meal was waiting. The party settled down and waited while grace was said, in Afrikaans and English. Then, as he carved the joint (clumsily and not too well but nobody remarked on the fact), he picked up on the business news. “Not only have we registered the company, we've got our first contract. Ammunition boxes for Denel. It’s welding and metal-working so it fits just fine, I'm doing riveting down at the yard while Dirk and Jorgie can look after the boxes. Think we've got a good thing going here.”

“We've got some more good news John.” Maisie spoke a little diffidently, looking down at her plate.

“We have?” McMullen was curious.

“Not you John.” Maisie McMullen put her hand on her stomach. “We've got some news. Just confirmed today.”

It took a minute for the message to sink in, then the room erupted with cheers. The women patted Maisie on the pack and made clucking noises while the men took turns to pump McMullen’s hand. After the fuss settled down, he finished serving the meat and watched the rest of the feast being passed around. Eventually his own plate was filled. Meat and vegetables, more than he'd thought he'd ever see served to a person. He sighed very happily.

“Good simple, solid grub, that's what I like.”

Epilogue

The Oval Office, the White House, Washington D.C.

TRUMAN BEATS DEWEY!

“Did you see the headlines Sir?” The young woman behind the secretarial desk help up a copy of the Chicago Daily Tribune, the headline emblazoned across the front page in huge type.

“I did indeed honey. Half the country is laughing and the other half weeping. I hear Joe Kennedy swears he'll take the whole system to court. Anyway, the boss asked me to come around.”

“Yes indeed Mister Stuyvesant. If you'll just take a seat for a few minutes. The President will call for you shortly.”

It was actually a bit longer than that. Stuyvesant had a chance to read the whole of the Chicago Tribune article on Truman's defeat of President Dewey and speculate on just how many red faces there were in newspapers around the country this morning. Eventually, the phone rang and the receptionist spoke quietly. “If you'll come with me, Mister Stuyvesant, the President will see you now.”

“Congratulations Mister President. A fine win, by seven and a half points according to the latest counts. Electoral College 342 to 189.”

'Thank you, Philip. Harry Truman has already called me and conceded. In a fine, gentlemanly speech I might add. One that should be an example to everybody in this city. My new administration will make a point of finding him a post that honors his qualities. I must admit though, for the last few days, I was beginning to feel it would be I who would graciously concede. How could the press have got it so wrong?”

“Couple of things Sir. One was that they stopped polling too early, a week before the election. They assumed that people would have made their minds up by then and the picture wouldn't shift. They missed that there were two independent candidates who had a strong volume of support. People said they supported them anyway, but when push came to shove they wanted to make their vote count and went for one of the two primary candidates. Wallace's support came mostly from Democrats and what little he kept took support from them. Strom Thurmond's Dixiecrats are primarily Democrat as well but they are also the families of a lot of the boys who went to Russia and didn't come back. They don't want to see that happening again and they broke solidly for you Sir. Joe Kennedy's invectives against Strategic Air Command didn't help. The way that group saw things, it was the bombers that allowed the rest of the boys to come home.”

“You said two things? And the other?”

“The press supported the Democrats Sir, most of it anyway. They saw what they wanted to see, not what was actually happening. It’s a common thing, everybody does it, but this time it was worse than usual. Perhaps because of the way Joe Kennedy kept stirring things, I don't know. There's no harm in being part of a self-validating community as long as one remembers that's what it is. Only that got forgotten this time. The press experts assumed that people would vote the way they expected because they couldn't imagine them going any other way. My guess is, if they'd taken the second-preference votes of the independents and forecast using those, they'd have got pretty close,”

President Dewey nodded. “How is your uncle doing Stuyvesant? I heard the shipyard shut down. Must have been a blow for him, he loved that yard.”

“Indeed so Sir, but he knew its time was gone. The war showed that, it just couldn't build anything really useful, just a few PT boats. So he and the yard retired together. I believe he looks forward to living in retirement now.”'

“And well-deserved it is. He did well by this country, served with honor and made public service something to be respected. You'd do well to follow his example.”

“I intend to Sir, my uncle and I were always very close. I sincerely wish to continue his work,”

“Good. Stuyvesant ... or do you prefer to be called 'The Seer'?”

“The Seer Sir, if you have no objections. That means my Uncle's reputation and name will remain his alone.”

“Odd code-name. How did you get it?”

“It's based on a time when I taught some people a lesson sir, one they didn't want to learn. But that was a long time ago.” The Seer leaned forward a little expectantly. President Dewey had a pattern in meetings like this, a few minutes of harmless generalities then straight down to business.

“And you taught the Germans another. The whole world in fact. Seer, a few minutes ago you spoke of people only seeing what they want to see, not what really was there. Did you mean that?”

“Certainly sir. I'd say most problems people face come down to that.”

“Hmmm. People, I don't know about that. Governments, it’s certainly true. Anyway, the way you people planned the destruction of Germany has been noticed and a lot of my colleagues have been thinking about its lessons. You, targeteers you called yourselves, were contracted to do a job and you did it. Fast, efficiently and without outside interference. That's a capability we want to keep. That's not true, we don't want to keep it, we want to exploit it and develop it.

“We are proposing that a new agency be started, the National Security Council. This will be a completely independent agency, outside the normal bureaucratic structure of Washington. It will be run by the same consortium of contractors who planned The Big One and its remit will be to provide independent and objective analyses of the threats facing the United States.

“The NSC will have the duty of calling the shots the way it sees them, without fear or favor. If I or my successors are wrong, it will be up to you to say so. If we are ignoring important things, tell us. You'll have full access to all intelligence and any other information you want. The contract under which the NSC will be run will stipulate your budget and your objectives. How you achieve those objectives is your business. That contract will run for ten years and be renewable at the end of each period. It will not be cancelable within that period. So no matter what you say or do, the NSC and its staff can't be fired.

“Seer, I want you to run the NSC. You will have the title of National Security Advisor and you will have full access to me at any time. It’s a Cabinet-level post and you will be expected to attend cabinet meetings. Sorry about that. You accept?”'

“Sir; It's an honor.” The Seer grinned. “The Democrats are going to go ballistic.”

“Some will. Not as many as you think. I talked this over with Harry Truman before the election. If his party had won, this plan would still have gone ahead, and you'd still have got the offer. If there's one thing the world's learning, it’s that we can't afford bad decisions anymore.”

Dewey looked through a file. “There's a US Army Corps of Engineers project for a new office building not far from here. It’s been decided that building will be the headquarters of the National Security Council. Once the contracts are signed, go and see them and make sure the building is suited to your requirements. How will you get your staff?”

“We'll build on the core from the planning staff for The Big One Sir. i know many useful people we can bring in. We can draw on a widespread range of expertise, there's a lot of experience for us to make use of.”

More than you can possibly know, thought the Seer although no sign of the reflection passed across his face.

“That's the advantage of a country like ours. There's always somebody who knows what we need to know, even if one has to look in all sorts of strange places to find them.”

President Dewey's face was thoughtful. “You can start your new job now. We ran the election on a policy of no foreign entanglements, keeping ourselves to ourselves and only intervening when our vital national interests are at stake. And when we do, it is with our bombers, not by sending troops. Is that right?”

“Neo-Isolationism. In the short term, Sir, I think so. At the moment, our nuclear monopoly puts us top of the heap by a margin so large we can't measure it. We can destroy anybody we want to, and nobody can stop us. That won't last Sir, I give it five years, six at the most, before Japan gets its own nuclear weapons. Even then, they won't mess with us, it just isn't worth it for them.

“We're entering the Pax Americana Sir, the era when we keep the peace. We won't get thanked for it but it’s a good thing to do. How long will ii last? That depends, the Pax Britannica lasted for almost a century but that was a different era. We don't rule the world, Sir, we don't want to and we couldn't even if we did. The Pax Americana just means that we'll stop anybody else who does want to be Emperor of the World. That should be good enough.”

“The Pax Americana. “ Dewey's voice was thoughtful. “I like the sound of that. NSC will generate a report exploring those ideas further. Make it your first priority,”

The Seer left the office and left, picking his hat and coat up as he did. His car was waiting for him outside, its driver a young woman. Naturally a blonde, like most fair-haired girls, she'd dyed it dark brown. Looking like a German was not a tactful thing in an America that had only just ended the bloodiest war in human history.

“Inanna, take me our home in Georgetown. We've just got everything we wanted. I'll need to talk to Nefertiti on this one. I really ought to let Eldest know what's happening as well.”

“He won't like it you know. You know what he thinks about interfering.”

“I do and he's right. But we've got a new situation here, something we've never faced before. I don't think we've ever had weapons that can wipe the whole species out before. Anyway, we're not interfering; we're not going to tell people what to do. We're just going to try and stop everybody from making any serious mistakes while they follow their own plans.

“That's something that should have done that a long time ago and this country fought a civil war because of it. I think if Sam Grant had known that war could have been stopped and hadn't been, he'd have shot everybody on the spot.”

The Seer was silent, seeing a picture of a meeting around a camp fire at three in the morning as the casualty results from Spotsylvania had come in, the image haunting his mind. Grant's words echoed in his mind complementing the image. “After this war is won, I hope to God that I never fight another one.” Sam had been drunk enough to see too clearly and say things that were too true. Far too true. Would the Pax Americana mean that he could think the same, that he would never have to plan another war?

Inanna was chuckling as she edged the car through the roads to Georgetown. “Honey, do you find the idea of getting shot by a drunken general amusing?”

“Frankly boss, yes. Somehow you'd turn it into an advantage. That wasn't why I was laughing though. I was thinking about the phrase the Christians have in their Bible. 'When the end days come. Demons will walk the earth.' Does that make these the end days.”

The Seer didn't join her laugh. “All too probably I'm afraid. Technology development is moving much faster than people's ability to control that technology. That was obvious even as early as the Civil War. Even then, technology had moved faster than the ability to understand its implications. They were still trying to fight rifled muskets with Napoleonic tactics. Damn it, Sam should never have tried that last assault at Cold Harbor and he nearly shot himself when he realized what he'd done.

''Now, it’s a thousand times worse. We planned The Big One as a horrible example to the world of what the power of modern weapons really meant. Curt sees it the same way, just a different perspective. I don't think anybody has listened to either of us.”

“So the prophets were right then? Could it be some mystics are right?”

“Oh come on Inanna.” The Seer was slightly irritated. “In all the time we've been around, have you ever known a mystical prophet to be right? ’There will be accidents'. 'Important people will die'. 'There will be discontent.' 'Trade will be affected’ That's the best they can do. Vague generalizations that could mean anything and only mean something long after the event. Most of them were so far gone on hallucinogens that their minds were up in the clouds anyway.”

“What are you going to do about Loki, Seer? He hates you for not telling him that The Big One was about to happen.”

“I know, and it could have got him killed as well. Loki will get over it. It’s not the first time he's lost people due to his own lack of foresight. There was the Morrigan business a few years back. I've heard that was connected with the way Odin vanished from circulation but I expect I'll get the truth of it eventually. He'll cool down in the end. Any word from Suriyothai yet?”

“None yet, I think she's still tied up with the Moscow Conference. The status of Saigon or something.”

“We'll need to talk to her, Loki as well. Mostly Suriyolhai though, it looks like she was right after all. We can't carry on wandering from country to country avoiding trouble. We've run out of places to wander to. My guess is, here we are and here we'll stay. Its a good country and these are good people, we should cast our lot in with them. Eldest won't like that either, he's never approved of Suriyothai's attachment to her homeland. I don't think we have a choice though. We have to join the Americans and that means doing the best we can for them.”

“The Anvil of “Necessity.” Inanna's voice was thoughtful.

“That old Russian saying? Its true though. We have to stay with the Americans for both our sakes and necessity makes the alliance a strong one. I just pray that it’s strong enough. I don't know what's going to hit us eventually but something will and when it does it will be very, very nasty,”

The two occupants of the car settled back in silence, contemplating the future. Unknown to either of them, the wire recorder concealed in the car hissed gently as it transcribed the silence onto its reels.

The End