The Big One

The Admiral was still on the bridge, a few minutes before he'd called down, asking if Madrick wanted to slow the Task Group. Madrick had refused then, he was certain the column of smoke could be seen from shore by now and if the Germans knew there was a carrier hurt out here, they'd be coming out to finish her off, regardless of the cost. So. 24 knots had made sense. But now there was a balance to be struck, speed was keeping the fires aft, away from the forward end of the ship but was also fanning them and keeping them going. The bombs that had hit the hangar deck hadn't done that much damage but the deck had been crowded with people sealing it down. They were being treated in an emergency station at the forward section of the hangar deck. That was a point that needed checking.

“Any report from Surgeon-Commander Stennis Howarth?”

“A few minutes ago sir, he said that the smoke from the fires and the water and power problems were causing problems. He said they had a lot of casualties and things were a bit tricky sir.”

“Sounds as if he has the situation in hand.”

“Respectfully, no sir. Remember Surgeon-Commander Stennis is seconded from the Royal Navy. He's a Brit. When he says things are a bit tricky, he means they are damn near critical. I respectfully suggest we move the clearing station as soon as possible.”

“Why can't the English speak English like the rest of us. Ask Stennis to get his patients ready for transfer to, to Samoa. She's alongside helping with firefighting. Ask him to set up his casualty station on Samoa. The Kittyhawk and her group are on their way in to provide assistance. She's a search-and-rescue carrier so she has enhanced medical facilities. Oh, and tell him since he's in the US Navy now, it’s going to be Doc Stennis and no more understatements.”

Madrick returned to Command Station. The air in the CIC was getting thick and hot now, there was the same indefinable haze in the air as he'd noticed an hour earlier on the way down from the bridge. “Aft Engine Room, what's your current situation?”

“We lost a high pressure line over number three sir, some of the men thought it was a main steam leak. We've got that straightened out. The power problems are affecting us badly sir, we're losing ventilation and the temperature is rising. Also, we have a smoke problem here. Not bad enough to evacuate yet but unless we can sort the power problems out. we may have to.”

That settled it. Madrick flipped the communication system to the Admiral's Bridge. “Admiral Newman sir? I believe the situation on board makes a reduction in our speed desirable. I request that the Task Group reduce speed to eighteen, that's one-eight knots. I’ve ordered Surgeon-Commander Stennis to prepare his patients for a move to Samoa. We have the situation under control sir, the fire is has been contained and is being driven back. We are getting the water and power problems under control now. The upward spread of the fire had been stopped by Samoa sir, she's pouring water into us. We're pumping clear now and dewatering as necessary. I don't think we can operate aircraft, but otherwise I think we're on top of the situation.

Dijon, France. Abandoned base of JG-26 Schlageter

“Sir, we can have Green Eight ready in about six to eight hours. We've managed to salvage a complete left wing assembly from Green Three and the tail repairs are going well.”

“Thank you Sergeant Dick. We will need as many spares and as much support as we can get. Scavenge the base and get whatever you can find into whatever transport you can find and take it all over to the Vossie base at Pontailler.” Schumann had learned a long time ago to leave Sergeants to do what was necessary undisturbed. “There will be a labor unit moving in soon to try and repair this base. No point in leaving anything for them. As soon as Green Eight is ready, I will fly it over to Pontailler.”

Schumann looked around at the wreckage of the base that had been his home since he'd finished his last tour in Russia. It had been a good home, especially compared with Russia. Then the Amis had bombed and blasted and burned it. He shook his head. Time to leave.

Flight Deck, B-36H “Texan Lady” 49,500 feet over France

“'Will you please shut up? And that ***IS*** _an order.” Major Pico had been driving the entire fight deck crew mad for over an hour now, continuously whistling “When Johnny Comes Marching Home”. Eventually Dedmon just couldn't take it any more.

“Sorry sir, the tune just seemed to fit somehow.”

“You'll fit on a Mark Three if you're not careful. Sitting on top of one while we drop it. If you want music, Comms can pipe in a radio station. Anything good, Connorman?”

“I can get us Soldatensender Prague sir. I could get us Frankfurt but they won't be on the air after Bimini Baby and her friends get there. Reception isn't very good up here sir. I'll find the best music station I can and pipe it through.”

Colonel Dedmon relaxed. So far The Big One had been a cake walk. Texan Lady was behaving herself, even their oil consumption was way below normal. They had all six piston engines running now and had fired up the jets for the climb up to 49,500 feet. A bit higher than the original flight plan called for, but aircraft commanders had considerable discretion in such things. The huge formation of SAC bombers had dispersed, the front broadening as the bombers set course for their targets and deepening as the aircraft with farthest to go pulled ahead of the pack. Texan Lady was well in front of the main bomber group now, as one of the deepest penetrating aircraft, her Hometown had steadily forged ahead of the main body.

In fact, there were only a handful of bombers with them, the Hometowns targeted on Dresden, Danzig, Konigsberg, Stettin, Breslau, Schwerin and a couple of others. Then ahead of them were the RB-36s. The strategic reconnaissance version of the B-36, their job was to plot out the enemy defenses, identify the enemy radar frequencies and pass the information back to the bombers behind them. They also had the job of making last-minute meteorological checks and determining wind patterns over the targets. The B-29 raids had failed, largely because of the dispersion due to winds when bombing from 30,000 feet had proved excessive. The B-36s would be bombing from 50,000 feet and over. The answer had been to gather wind data and relay that back to the bombers so it could be programmed into the K-5 radar bombing system. It had been tested on the long training missions and refined to the point where the B-36 could bomb more accurately from 50,000 feet using radar than the old B-17s could do using their famed Norden sights from 20,000.

Of course, with the bombload Texan Lady carried, it shouldn't matter too much. Four Mark III nuclear devices, all now armed and ready to drop. They'd been salvage-fuzed so they would go off at 2,000 feet no matter what happened. That way if Texan Lady was shot down, her devices would still damage somebody or something. More importantly, there would be none of her secrets left for an enemy to figure out. Dedmon shook his head. Four nuclear devices, each equivalent to around 35,000 tons of TNT. He couldn't imagine what that sort of explosion would look like. And Berlin was going to get twelve of them.

Most cities in German would get one or two each, but Berlin and Munich had been singled out for special treatment. General LeMay had decided to virtually empty the US nuclear arsenal in this one raid, well over two hundred devices were going to be dropped. Three years worth of production. Mostly Mark Threes but some bombers carried the older Model 1561s and the Mark Ones. That amused Dedmon, he knew the Germans had given up on nuclear weapons development in 1943, ruling out building atomic bombs as technically impossible. Yet, the good old US of A had found not one way but two to make the “impossible” device. And there were rumors of a third, something so powerful that it made the existing designs obsolete. Something called Super. Something that produced weapons equivalent to millions of tons of explosive, not thousands. What was it that strange and slightly sinister targeteer (Dedmon reflected that all the targeteers he'd met at the pre-flight briefing had been strange and slightly sinister) had called the yields of their devices? Kilotons, that was it, Dedmon supposed that if the rumors about Super were true, that made their yields measured in Megatons. A city would need just one of those, just one.

One of them would do for the B-36 as well, even dropping the existing weapons was a risky business. They'd be making their run flat out with their jets and piston engines firewalled. Even then, they'd be taking a rough ride from the blast. Their tails were especially vulnerable, the combination of size and stresses made tail failure a constant risk. SAC would need something better than the B-36 if Super turned out to be real. Still, the B-36 was it for now and, if the truth was told, Dedmon loved his big bird deeply. There was something about B-36s that won the hearts of those who worked with them and Dedmon knew that Texan Lady was just that little bit of a cut above the rest. Nobody else had ever flown her and, if he had anything to do with it, nobody else would.

He knew the RB-36 crews felt the same. Their birds flew higher and faster than the bombers, they were approaching the borders of Germany now and were running at 55,000 feet. Unlike the bomber crews, the RB-36 crew, all 22 of them, would be in pressure suits against the possibility that damage would puncture the pressurized areas in the fuselage and bomb-bay capsule. They were flying alone, without even the morale support of wingmates. Dedmon wondered if the rumors that at least one RB-36 had made it to the stupendous altitude of 60,000 feet were true. That would almost be like flying in space.

“Sir, Dirk here. Our EW sensors are picking up search radar emissions. Type identified as Mammut. Operating in the 2.5 meter band. The signals are too diffuse to get much of a bearing but I think we're running into the outer edge of the German air search radar net. Mammut is listed as having a range of about 200 miles against targets flying over 26,000 feet, but against us? Up here? We're in new territory. The Crows flying up ahead are reporting both Mammut and Wasserman sir, the latter operating in 1.2, 1.9 and 2.4 meter bands. No sign of the Jagdschlosz height-finders yet, either on our sensors or from the Crows. I guess they are in for one hell of a shock when they do get a solid paint with those. Do you want me to take countermeasures yet sir or shall we keep relying on our formation and engine settings?”

Dedmon thought for a moment, they were still a long way from their target. “Hold off on the countermeasures for a while Dirk, we'll keep as many tricks up our sleeves as long as we can.”

Office of Sir Martyn Sharpe, British Viceroy to India, New Delhi

Ghandi's death had been a Godsend reflected Sir Martyn. He was a kindly man who wished harm on nobody but he recognized good fortune when he saw it. The news of Mahatma Ghandi's tragic death in a traffic accident had spread around India like wildfire. Anti-British agitators had tried to claim that he'd been assassinated by British agents but they'd only made themselves look foolish. There were too many witnesses, too many supporters, too many independent observers who'd seen the Japanese Embassy limousine swerving down the street at a dangerous speed, too many had seen Ghandi stepping out into the road and being run down. The driver, a chauffeur at the Japanese Embassy, had been too obviously hopelessly, incapably drunk. He was in police custody now, it had taken five large Sikh constables to rescue him from a crowd that was set on tearing him apart.

The Japanese had denied everything of course and were demanding the release of their driver. They had come up with some ridiculous story about a car being stolen from their Embassy, a driver being abducted and forcibly fed with whisky and a mysterious third party actually driving the car. It was so ludicrous that even the Japanese Charge d'Affairs in New Delhi, a sad little bureaucrat called Nomura, had been embarrassed to repeat it. Trying to make such ludicrous claims had heated the anti-Japanese feeling even more. There had been riots in several major cities, the Japanese flag had been burned in some, an effigy of the Emperor had been hanged in another. Sir Martyn decided that he would indeed, with the greatest reluctance, have to release the driver to the custody of the Japanese. After all, diplomatic immunity was diplomatic immunity, Japan and India were at peace however tenuously. Releasing the drunken driver who'd killed Ghandi after intense Japanese pressure would intensify anti-Nipponese feeling in India nicely.

Yes, it was clearly and indisputably a tragic accident. One day, purely out of scientific interest, he would have to ask the Thai Ambassador how she'd organized it.

That would have to wait for many years though. The meeting with Nehru had gone extremely well. The man was enraged by Ghandi's death and by the Japanese denial of responsibility. At last, obstruction to Sir Martyn's plans to establish a capable armaments industry and defense force in India would cease. Like so many British administrators who had spent their lives working in the country, Sir Martyn had fallen under India's spell. Although he had never admitted it to anybody, he had a dream of leading India into taking its place amongst the great nations of the world again. Combining its own traditions and values with those of the West, abandoning what it had to, keeping what it could and adopting whatever it needed. Perhaps the collapse of the UK, throwing of the Commonwealth on its own resources, had been a good thing. With Ghandi and his idiot beliefs out of the way, the country could be made strong.

The next job was to crush this nonsense of an independent Moslem state in the North. Pakistan indeed. Ridiculous idea. That would be a recipe for disaster for endless religious wars between the two states. Who knew where that would end, but nothing good could come of it. The problem had been around since 1906 when the Muslim League was founded and they'd demanded a totally separate Muslim homeland in 1930. The name Pakistan hadn't even come from the Indian sub-continent, a group of England-based Muslim exiles had coined the name claiming it meant 'Land of the Pure'. And what to do Kashmir? The Kashmiris wanted no part of India or Pakistan. Another ground for endless wars. Mohammed AM Jinnah was the prime mover of Muslim independence, for a moment Sir Martyn wondered if the Japanese had another drunken chauffeur to spare. He shook his head, one tragic accident was quite enough.

And there was also the economy and government machinery to set up. It would have to be transferred to Indian hands but done slowly so there would be no collapse. Sir Martyn loved India but he was under no illusions about its ability to drift slowly into indolent lethargy. But India was independent now, the British collapse in 1940 had seen to that. He had time to fix things, time to build a strong, stable country that could be a bridge between East and West. That brought another job to mind. He called his secretary and asked her to call his Cabinet Secretary in. As always, Sir Eric Haohoa was in the office in minutes.

“Sir Eric, I would like to consult you on a matter of political relations. As you know, we are about to conclude a trade agreement with Thailand. Our manufactured good for their rice. I would like to seal the agreement by making a gift to our charming Ambassador. You have met the lady, Sir Eric. What would you suggest as suitable? Perfume perhaps? Or a painting? Or some antiquity?”

“'Knowing that one Sir Martyn, I would suggest a pair of matched Purdy side-by-side shotguns.”

“Excellent suggestion Sir Eric. Please see to it at once. Now, I would also like to consult with you over the construction of a new shipyard. One capable of building submarines as well as merchant ships. And I would also like your opinion on the De Havilland company proposal to transfer their aircraft building operations here. We lack the technology to build jet aircraft yet but I believe there are some high performance piston engined aircraft that would suite our needs very well.”

Admiral's Bridge, USS Shiloh, CVB-41 Position 46.8 North, 4.6 West

Admiral Newman realized that he wasn't psychic as soon as he pulled himself from the deck. It was a matter of physics. Shock waves traveled faster through solid, dense structures than they did through air, so he had felt the impact from the explosion in his feet a split second before the shock wave had struck the bridge. It hadn't done him much good, what was left of the bridge glass had caught him on the forehead and cheek but, if it hadn't been for the strafing pass earlier, it would have been a lot worse. But what in hell had happened? CIC would know. It took time to get through, the ship's internal communications system was getting steadily more erratic.

Captain Madrick, what is happening ? What was that explosion”

“We're still trying to sort it out sir, I'll put you through to Howarth in damage control. He has the latest picture.”

“Admiral Newman Sir? Howarth here. We still are not sure what caused that one. We have severe communications problems and have lost contact with large areas of the ship. Sir, could you assist us down here? Please tell us exactly what you can see from your bridge.”

“Forward area of the ship appears to be in good condition. Aft, it’s different. The aft elevator looks as if it has been lifted up then dropped back, it’s twisted out of alignment and at an angle. There's dense smoke coming from the elevator well. There's more smoke coming from the sides of the hangar deck aft. The flight deck itself looks wrong, as if it’s bulged upwards.”

“Sir, this is critical, What color is the smoke.”

“The smoke from the elevator well and the midships fires is black, very black and oily. That from the sides aft is also black but it appears less dense and there is a substantial amount of white smoke as well.” Newman heard Howarth curse to himself. “That's bad?”

“Very bad indeed sir. The white smoke means the hangar deck is burning now, and that means the flames could spread along the whole upperwork of the ship. The spray and fog nozzles on the hangar deck are still only partially operational so we have to get more people - please wait one sir.” There was a pause “Sir, both you and the Captain need to hear this. It’s Chief Engineer Nudge from Number two engine room. I'm going to patch him through”

“Very critical sir, very critical indeed. That explosion made things down here a lot worse. Engine Room Two is filling with black smoke quickly now and the temperature is rising quickly. We'd stick it out sir but for two things. One is that we're losing steam pressure here fast. We're also losing the aft and amidships starboard side boiler rooms. Starboard forward is feeding Engine Room One. The other thing is we're flooding down here. It’s hot water coming through sir, firefighting water and it’s coming from above us. It’s hot enough to burn sir. Another thing, the lights are flickering down here, I expect we will lose power soon. Request permission to abandon Engine Room Two Sir.”

Captain Madrick didn't hesitate “Permission Granted Chief Engineer. Secure that engine room and abandon. We'll keep under way on the forward machinery. Howarth, have you any idea what happened?”

“It’s a guess sir, may be off base completely. But I think one of the bombs that hit the side of the hangar deck did more harm than we thought. I think it ruptured a gas line. The inert gas leaked out then avgas vapor started to leak. It pooled in the aft elevator well. Now, that area is fitted with extractor fans that purge the well and discharge the vapor over the side but I think the whole electrical system in that area is chopped up. The fans didn't cut in, the avgas vapor built up until it was ignited by sparks. Or something, doesn't matter what. That was the explosion, it was deep in the ship but funneled up through the elevator well. It probably started fires on every deck. And sir, if I'm right, the starboard aft five inch magazine is close to that fire. We need to flood that magazine now.”

“Make it so.”

“Thank you sir. Respectfully, I would like to make a suggestion, one that is out of order.”

“Go ahead?”

“Sir, if we have a hangar deck fire as well as the below-decks fires, it’s going to move forward. Unless we can stop it, we're going to lose CIC next then the forward engine room. They're not damaged, like the aft machinery, they'll be untenable, not destroyed. Below the waterline sir, we're in perfect shape. But if we can't stop that fire and if we get more explosions, we're going to lose the machinery to smoke, heat and firefighting water and we'll be dead in the water. Admiral Newman, Sir, it’s time you thought about shifting your flag. In a while, you won't have communications or mobility.”

Captain Madrick started to bristle, Howarth's comments were out of line. But he forced himself to relax. Howarth was doing his job and using his initiative. And, worse, he was right. Admiral Newman was speaking again.

“I'll consider that possibility. We're not at that point yet and I hope it won't come to that. Captain Madrick. When Kittyhawk and her group join us I'll be leaving Shiloh and Samoa with you and taking the rest of the carriers to continue operations. Kittyhawk has enough Bearcats to give you a CAP but the rest of us still have targets to strike and an operation to support. After we split the group you will report to Admiral Theodore.”

Admiral Newman turned away from the Comms Board, tapping his teeth with a pencil. Looking aft from the Island now, he could see the whole aft half of the ship vomiting smoke. Black smoke, white smoke, every shade of gray in between. He couldn't see flames yet, so the fire was still mostly contained. Mostly. In other words, a bad situation that the explosion had made worse but still salvageable. He put his pencil down on the chart table and absent-mindedly caught it as it rolled off. He did it again, then the significance hit him. Shiloh was listing to starboard.

NAIADS Command Headquarters, Potsdam, Germany

“Sir, we have a message from the North Rhine-Westphalia Regional Control Center. They are reporting their long range search radars are detecting a very large formation of enemy aircraft approaching from the west. Very high altitude

sir.

Herrick frowned, reports were supposed to be accurate and detailed, giving numbers, exact courses and proper altitude data. “Tell them to report in full. Numbers, course, they know the drill.” Then he thought for a second. It was probably more American carrier strikes; it was possible that atmospheric anomalies were causing the contacts. “And check out with the visual observation stations in France.”

“North Rhine-Westphalia RCC says they can't get accurate raid data sir, it’s as if the radars can't get a lock on the formation. However, they say it’s a huge formation, the returns are like a shadow covering most of Western France. The edge isn't precise sir, the RCC say the returns are flickering. They are estimating altitude in excess of 10,000 meters sir. They say it’s moving slowly sir, about 350 kilometers per hour.”

A B-29 raid, Herrick thought, the Americans are being stupid enough to try another B-29 raid. They must be basing out of the Azores in an effort to hit a target in the Ruhr. Then it clicked. They were hoping the carrier raids would have flattened the opposition so their bombers could get in. That was a bad mistake for them. They'd done terrible damage in France as usual but NAIADS was untouched and unharmed. Herrick started issuing orders, bring the RCCs up to full alert. They would bring the LCCs into the picture. At last, NAIADS was going to face the challenge it had been designed for. And his belief in the system would be vindicated at last.

“Alert all the fighter squadrons under NCC command. Order the RCCs to ready theirs as well and to instruct the LCCs appropriately.”

Hangar Deck Forward, USS Shiloh, CVB-41 Position 46.8 North, 4.6 West

Triage, Surgeon-Commander Stennis thought, an ugly name for an ugly business. Dividing the casualties up into three categories. First, the minor wounds, those that could be treated by the Corpsmen and volunteers. Quietly, Stennis blessed Admiral Newman. The Admiral had insisted that every member of the task group should have at least rudimentary training in first aid and had personally made certain that his instructions were carried out. As a result, they had the minor wound situation well under control. Men were pouring sulfa powder into wounds, applying tourniquets and tending the lightly wounded with the care of real experts. Then there was the third group, those who were too badly injured to survive, they would be sedated and placed to one side. In other words, left to die. Chaplain Westover was over with them, administering last rites when needed, comforting, taking messages for families, whatever brought comfort to the dying men. The second group were the ones who needed surgery now to survive. Meatball surgery, patching them up so that they'd live for a better job later. Yet the division between those who were in the second and third groups wasn't so clear. This one could be saved but in the time taken to do it, those three would die. So this one was left to die so those would get a chance to live.

Despite the bomb hits in the flight deck, the butcher's bill here wasn't as bad as it could be, Stennis thought. So far 120 dead, 198 injured. Plus the ones nobody could find. “'Don't waste morphine on me Doc, Just hit me over the head.” The crewman was one of the hangar deck casualties, severe intestinal wounds from fragments. Not survivable. Stennis looked at him with mock severity. “You'll make do with morphine. We keep the strong stuff for the ones who really need it. You'll do just fine son.” The last words were a code for the corpsmen, telling them the casualty was for Group Three. Out of the corner of his eye, Stennis saw Chaplain Westover pay sudden attention and move over to the stricken sailor. He'd know the right words, it didn't seem to matter whether the kid was Catholic or Protestant, Jewish or whatever, the Chaplain knew the right words. Sometimes Stennis thought that even if an Outer Mongolian Orthodox Pantheist turned up in the ship's complement, Chaplain Westover would know the right words.

That sailor made the death toll 121 and the casualties were starting to come up from the firefighting efforts down below. Thankfully, all minor so far, mostly heat exhaustion, dehydration, sprained muscles and pulled ligaments. Some minor burns but none of the dreadful ones that had been expected. Stennis gave thanks for the American expertise in fighting fires. He'd come over the Atlantic on Nelson during the Great Escape. Rodney had made it undamaged but Nelson had taken three torpedoes from a U-boat. She'd made it into New York with her bows nearly underwater. Her band had been playing “When The Saints Come Marching In” as they slipped down the Narrows and the firetugs had been escorting her. Stennis remembered what the newsreels hadn't shown, the long line of dead. Short sleeved shirts, short trousers and fires had made a bad combination.

“Don't bother with me Doc, I'm fine. Joe over there needs help real bad.” Stennis looked at the speaker. Not fine but not critical. “Corpsman, Look after this sailor please.” Code phrase for First Group. It had taken Brooklyn Navy Yard two years to fix Nelson, she was with the Canadian Navy now, escorting the convoys to Murmansk along with Rodney and the three surviving Queen Elizabeths. How long would it take to fix some of these kids?

Treatment of shock and serious hemorrhage was the first priority. Getting difficult bandaging done so the victims would get a chance at surgery. Corpsmen were splinting fractures. Shattered bones were treated with more sulfa powder and thick battle dressings. They'd broken the back of that job so now they could move to next priority. Perforated abdominal wounds had to be treated next. Stennis had commandeered a compartment close at hand for surgery, the open hangar deck wasn't the place for such things. There was a problem developing though. The explosion aft had start fires at the back end of the hangar deck, a long way aft but still a problem. Then there was air quality, it was getting hard to breath. Further aft, black smoke from the fires below had made the aft part of the ship untenable but the forward movement had swept it away from the casualty area. Now, the ship was slowing causing the smoke and toxic fumes to creep forward. They were quickly making the forward hangar area extremely unpleasant.

So that meant they had to prepare for evacuation. Stennis had been ordered to move his patients and casualty clearance station to Samoa but that wasn't going to happen. Samoa was heavily involved in fighting the fires amidships and aft and her decks were a tangled maze of hoses and lines. So that plan had gone pear-shaped before it had even started. And Stennis knew he couldn't move many of his patients without killing them So there was a new plan being put together.

The fires were mostly on the starboard side of the ship and Samoa was needed there. So, the cruiser Fargo was to come in from portside and take station off the port bow. As soon as practical, the casualty station was going to be moved to her quarter-deck, Stennis mentally kicked himself and corrected his thoughts, to her fantail. As soon as Kittyhawk arrived, she was due in very soon now, she could take over treating the most seriously wounded. Kittyhawk, like the other search-and-rescue carrier Wright, had medical facilities that were the equivalent of a small hospital ship. And she had the helicopters that could lift the casualties straight from Shiloh there.

It might be all right after all. If Fargo could get into position, if Kittyhawk could arrive and take up the evacuation work then they could get a proper system working. Keep hangar deck forward as the forward triage station, then have the primary, meatball, treatment area on Fargo and Kittyhawk acting as the main care station.

It was this damned smoke that could destroy well-made plans. Stennis knew his eyes were running and his throat was filling with the stuff. They'd been spared the heavy black smoke but there was a haze in the air that was worse. You could hardly see it but it ripped at the eyes and lining of the nose and throat. Stennis decided he needed an explanation. As he frequently pointed out to anybody who would listen, he was a doctor not a sailorman. That young Ensign looked promising. He'd been sent up from the fire perimeter suffering from extreme heat exhaustion and smoke inhalation. Blackened from the fires, eyes reddened from irritation and skin lightly toasted, he was getting ready to go back.

“Ensign......” Stennis craned to read the name-tag

“Ensign Pickering, I would advise a longer rest. I believe you need longer up here in what passes for fresher air.”

“Thank's Doc, but if I stay away too long the cantankerous old bas....., errrrr, well, my Senior Chief, he'll accuse me of being a Democrat again. From the way he talks, you'd think the bombers that hit us were flown by members of the Democrat National Committee. Anyway, to be honest Doc, your air up here ain't so hot.”

“I was wondering about that. What gives?”

“Doc, normal fire is open to the air, OK. The fire heats the air, the hot air rises and more cold air is drawn in from the surroundings. That's how the chimney in your house works, right. Now if that gets out of control and the air exceeds a certain speed, the fire roars out of control and the whole thing turns into a hurricane. It’s called a firestorm. You don't want to be in one of those. But what we've got here is worse. The fires are heating the air deep in the ship but the hot air can't get out. So the heat is building up all the time, it’s like a furnace down there. The hot air builds up pressure, see, and forces its way out through any way it can find.

“Now, the fire is burning lots of pretty bad things down there. Rocket fuel, jet fuel, avgas, chemicals for napalm, ship's stores, paint, lubricants, you name it. All bad stuff. When they burn, they give up poisons. And this is a new ship, she's got lots of these new plastics in her, they're burning as well and we have no idea what the products are. So all these poisonous gases are being produced and being pushed out along the ship by the hot air from the fire. Some of the men from the firefighting teams, well, you can see they're pretty sick. Take a word of advice Doc, if you're going to stay here, get a breathing mask. And don't leave it too long. And now, I'm going back below to be.........errrrr ..........”'instructed” by my Senior Chief.”

Stennis carefully hid his grin. If that young Ensign thought he was getting a bad time from his Senior Chief, he had no idea what his Royal Navy equivalents would be getting from theirs. Senior Chiefs were like wives, you never appreciated what they were doing for you until they weren't there anymore.

CHAPTER SEVEN APPROACHING DOOM

NAIADS Command Headquarters, Potsdam, Germany

“The RCCs are reporting in Sir”

Field Marshal Herrick started to relax. The last two hours had been nerve racking. Since the original formations of American bombers had been detected on his situation boards, he had been trying to get specific information on raid size, probable targets and approach routes. The problem was that the Mammut and Wasserman radars at NCC and RCC level were producing curiously inconclusive data. The operators were certain it wasn't jamming, it was more as if the targets themselves were blurred and elusive. The long-range, low frequency radars had shown that the raid was coming but little more than that.

Herrick looked at the end of the room. The display board there was now showing France and western Germany. It was one of many such maps, engraved on large sheets of transparent perspex that could be pulled out when required. Some of the women in the room were marking the reverse side of the map with the latest contact data. The combination of large numbers and imprecise data made the raid map look like a cloud covering most of France now.

“North Rhine-Westphalia is starting to make contacts with Wurtzburg and the Jagdschlosz height-finders. Also we are getting reports from visual observers on the ground. We have confirmation of a very large number of aircraft flying at high altitude. Estimated force is over one thousand aircraft. North Rhine-Westphalia is getting altitude data now Sir. Please repeat that North-Rhine. Thank you. Sir, the Jagdschlosz height-finders report the leading edge of the raid is flying at almost 17,000 meters. The main body is a little lower but not much. North Rhine Westphalia is reporting them as flying between 15,000 and 16,000 meters.”

Herrick felt he had been kicked in the stomach. His fighters simply couldn't get up that high. The backbone of his force was the Ta-152C, equipping the bulk of the RCC controlled units. They could barely get up to 12,000 meters. A few units had the high-altitude Ta-152H that could, with GM-1 boost get up as high as 14,000 meters. The problem was that GM-1 boost only lasted a few minutes and once it was gone, the weight of the equipment made the aircraft perform worse than standard models. Yet, for all that, the Ta-152H was the best the RCCs had. The heavy fighters under NCC control were worse off. The best were the Dornier 335s and Ta-154s that could make it to 10,000 meters. How about his night-fighters? The Heinkel 219s could get up to around 12,500 meters, far short of the American bombers. There was a “high-altitude” version of that as well, that one could all the way to 14,000 meters.

The problem was the Americans had redefined the words high altitude. They weren't going to penetrate German defenses, they were going to fly over them. The fighter forces at both NCC and RCC levels were out of the fight. He'd get the Ta-152Hs up just in case any of the American aircraft had to come down, but it looked like the LCCs were going to be on their own. There was one chance though. His four-engined freaks could get up to around 13,000 meters but they had their missiles that could reach still higher. They were worth trying. They should get going now.

“Course, speed any indication of targets?”

“The reported courses are generally eastwards, speed is still relatively slow, around 350 kilometers per hour. Target appears to be Germany.”

“I know that y..” Herrick restrained himself from adding 'you stupid bitch' that would wipe out any chance he had with this one. “But where in Germany?”

“Sir, it’s impossible to say, the formation seems to be dispersing. Ground reports are that it consists of large numbers of elements of three aircraft, the elements are on diverging courses. It seems that there are a small number of aircraft allocated to a large number of targets throughout Germany.”

Herrick felt even worse, that attack plan simply made no sense at all. He'd hoped the information from the high-frequency radars would help in fighting the defensive battle but it was just making things worse. Then it clicked, the Americans were feinting, pretending to attack a large number of targets so that the defenses would be dispersed. Then they would change course and concentrate on the real target. They were gambling that Germany had few high altitude defenses and that these could be made ineffective by dispersal. A good ploy, well conceived but Herrick recognized it now and could act accordingly. He'd get his Ju-635s and concentrate their attack on the key point. But where? That was the question, where?

“We have some more information from the ground observers sir and from the radars. There is a line of single aircraft, well ahead of the main formation. They are the ones flying highest. Then there are scattered small groups behind them and the main mass of the bombers still further behind.”

That made things a little clearer. The advance line were the pathfinders. Their job was to find and identify the target. The formations behind were the markers. They'd bomb the target and compare the places the bombs actually landed with where they had aimed. The main force would then use that correction to place their own bombs more accurately. Herrick had been wondering how the Americans were planning to hit anything from such extreme altitude. Now it made sense. They'd obviously studied the failure of the earlier raids and come up with this solution. One thing was obvious, these weren't B-29s. There had been rumors that the Americans were building a new bomber, some said it had six engines, others ten. Didn't matter, they'd find out when they looked at the wreckage. The key to the situation was that line of pathfinders. If they could be taken out, the inbound formation would be blinded and they would be back to scattering bombs at random. So now he knew where to concentrate.

“Order the Ju-635 groups to get airborne and climb to maximum altitude. Vector them in on that advance line of aircraft. Order the RCCs to launch their fighters to finish off any cripples that come down to lower altitudes. The LCCs are to engage the small formations following advance line with their rocket fighters.” The Me-263s could get up to 16,000 meters -just. If they broke up the target markers as well as the pathfinders, the whole raid would be compromised. Any of the LCCs that have Wasserfall are to engage the leading line. Wasserfall had an advertised operational ceiling of 18,000 meters, more than enough. There were just so few of them in so few batteries. 12 missiles per site, one site per LCC. Fortunately, most were in the Ruhr, right in the path of the oncoming bombers.

Admiral's Quarters, USS Gettysburg CVB-43, Bay of Biscay.

It didn't look like Gettysburg would be going home after all. She had been scheduled to go for a major refit that would see her get the new hurricane bow, the forward hull plating being extended all the way up to the flight deck so the bow structure was fully enclosed. Chancellorsville had just arrived with the new design and it was working well. But now, Shiloh had been hit and was, at best, going to be in dock for a long time. That meant Admiral Charles Skimmer and the Gettysburg would have to remain on station to replace her. And then there was this.

Everybody knew the Big One was under way. The sky looked as if a giant rake had been drawn across it; from horizon to horizon it was covered with the high-altitude contrails of the B-36 formations. The first wave had already passed, the second wave was fast approaching. And the orders on his desk were part of that. Strange inexplicable orders.

The whole point of the B-36 plan was to fly at high altitude so the bombers couldn't be intercepted. But one section of bombers, the one heading for Paris was going in much lower than the rest. And 24,000 feet was very low - for a B-36. So much so that TG-57.3 was ordered to provide fighter cover. Escort and flak suppression. The flight plan was in the orders. Absent-mindedly Skimmer traced it out on his chart. Crossing France to a point just south of Paris, then swing to that course and over.... The map looked familiar somehow. Skimmer took a closer look then looked hard again. Suddenly the connection dropped into place. They couldn't possibly be thinking of THAT, they couldn't. Could they? Would they?

Surely not..... Skimmer was fighting hard to stop himself

erupting into laughter, if that was what they really had in mind... but they couldn't. Surely they couldn't?

It was time to brief his CAG. Foreman was outside and Skimmer called him in. “How you doing Paul? Enjoyed your swim?” Foreman. His back was still killing him from the ejection and there was a disconsolate Ensign-level Flivver driver on the hangar deck whose beloved mount had just been commandeered and repainted to become Made Marian II. The Doc had passed him OK to fly so he was back on the roster. And he was involved in what was coming next.

“What do you make of this Paul?” Skimmer passed him the orders and flight plan and sat back to watch the reaction. Foreman read the orders, eyebrows raised slightly, then automatically checked the flight plan against the charts. As Skimmer had expected, he looked at Paris casually, then did a double-take and made a much closer look.

“They can't be planning to do THAT. Can they? It’s just not possible. Even if it was, they couldn't be planning THAT?” He was shaking his head, Foreman was having an even harder job than Skimmer, first in believing what he was seeing and then in preventing himself from erupting into laughter. “But if it can be done, and if that's what they are planning, it’s a beauty. A classic. Epic even. The French will never recover. Admiral Sir, we've GOT to get that big momma through.”

Skimmer nodded, still trying to contain himself. Then both men gave up and erupted into helpless laughter. Behind them, on the horizon, a column of smoke marked the site of the burning Shiloh.

Electronics Pit, RB-36H “Ain't Misbehavin” 55,000 feet over the German Border.

Electronic fingers feeling out to find an enemy. Touching, approaching and retreating. Sensing what was out there, what moved and what was quiet. Fingers whose movement showed on the displays of the Electronics Pit. Ain’t Misbehavin and the 22 men on board her were doing their job, getting the measure of the enemy defenses, finding their strengths and weaknesses, plotting a route for the bombers that were following behind them. Ain't Misbehavin was alone, relying on her altitude and her electronics countermeasures for protection. So far it was working. So far.

The Electronics Pit was in the aft pressurized compartment of Ain't Misbehavin. Once this had been the gunner's station, controlling the four twin 20 millimeter mounts grouped around the rear fuselage. They'd gone now, along with the bunks, the kitchen, everything that weighed the aircraft down. The only guns left were the twin twenties in the tail and there had been serious talk of stripping those out as well. Even the sighting blisters had gone, the upper pair replaced by flush metal panels, the lower ones by flush transparency. Now the gunners compartment was filled with the display scopes for the electronic surveillance equipment. The equipment had been registering the signals from the long-range Mammut and Wasserman radars for a couple of hours now, long before the echoes would be strong enough for the Germans to get a decent return echo. Not that they would get a decent return echo; the propellers had been set to very specific speeds in order to create harmonics that would interfere with clear return pulse echoes.

Captain Mark Sheppard leaned forward, things were beginning to get serious. In the last few minutes they'd picked the first of the Wurtzburg fire control radars and the Jagdschlosz height finding systems. There was an eerie quiet in the Electronics Pit, the operators controlling the electronic fingers were intent on their job. There was none of the casual chatter that marked the flight deck and the radio/bombardier stations forward. Instead, human fingers delicately adjusted controls so the electronic fingers could do their work. Up here, crews were supposed to wear pressure suits but nobody in the Electronics Pit did. The thick gloves would destroy the operators ability to make the fine adjustments needed. Nobody was leaving the aircraft anyway, the eight men in the Optics Capsule had no way out and the crew had long ago made a decision, they came home together or went in together. Bearing in mind what was about to happen to Germany, bailing out of a stricken bomber wouldn't achieve much anyway.

Their threat priorities were defined. The primary enemy were the Wasserfall anti-aircraft missiles. They were the only weapon the Germans had that could reach up here. Problem was, SAC didn't know where they were or how many there were. They had a TOE for a Wasserfall unit that dated from 1945 that proposed a layout of four missile launch pads per site, three sites per battalion, 3 battalions per regiment. Thirty six launchers per regiment. But how many Regiments? And how many reload missiles per pad? The intelligence estimate had suggested that there weren't many, the logic was that Wasserfall used the same strategic components as the A-4 missile and the Germans were expending hundreds of those on the Eastern Front, the Army crying out for even more. So the guess was, not many. How many, that was for Ain't Misbehavin and her sisters to find out. The hard way. By getting shot at.

“We have an APR-4 hit.” APR-4 was the radar receiving system so that would be the Wurtzburg tracking radar, Sheppard thought, now if they got a radio command

alert.......”Contact designated Ghoul-One.” Technically, APR-

4 wasn't a directional system but Ain't Misbehavin was large enough to get a cross-bearing from the antennas mounted in the nose, mid-section and wingtips - provided the range wasn't too great.

“ARN-14 alert!”. There it was, ARN-14 was their broad-band radio receiver. “Designating Ghoul-Two.” The signal had to be the radio link for the Wasserfall missiles. The intelligence people had reported that Wasserfall was guided by a ground operator, who steered the Wasserfall missile to the target by use of a joystick by line-of-sight. The reports were that the missile was gyroscopically controlled in roll, pitch and yaw, with the ground radio link providing the azimuth and elevation corrections. That radio link was the weak point in the whole system, if it could be isolated and jammed, the missile would either go ballistic and easily evaded or, with a little luck, the gyros would tumble and the missile would spin out of control to land somewhere.

In the rear of the Electronics Pit, the ARQ-8 panoramic scanner operator was trying to isolate the frequency used by Ghoul-Two to guide the Wasserfalls. The intercepted transmissions were showing up on a long strip display, frequency vs amplitude. In theory the Wasserfall guidance radio should show up as a strong spike, in reality, the problem was to pick out the right spike from the number available.

“Radar reports four contacts, coming our way.” Four missiles, that suggested the intelligence on the number of launch pads was right. Below them, in the Optics Capsule, the camera and surveillance operators were tracking the missiles now and working back to the launch pads. Weather was clear, so they should be able to spot the launch. That capsule had cameras that would make a divorce lawyer salivate. By now, the two guys in radio station would be relaying a commentary on the action to the bombers and the unengaged RB-36s. That way, if it went sour, somebody could work out what they'd done wrong. “'Got Him!” It was the ARQ-8 station. “Ghoul-Two isolated. We have the radio frequency jamming now with APT-6.”

Now they were pouring radio energy into the frequency used by the Wasserfall controller. If it went right, the missiles now were unable to hear commands and would go ballistic. It would take about a minute for the missile to reach their altitude, they'd know long before then. The ARQ-8 detected a shift in the ground radio control frequency and the APT-6 adjusted to follow the change. “Whoaaa will you look at that. “ It was Optics Capsule on the intercom “One of those suckers is corkscrewing like a sunstruck rattler.” They were in luck, a corrupted guidance signal had tumbled the gyros.

Sheppard felt the jets on the wings kick in and Ain’t Misbehavin suddenly accelerated into a turn. Ain't Misbehavin might be a huge lady but she was light on her feet and up here, in her element, few, if any, could match her. The APT-6 continued pumping out its radio frequency energy, blanking out the ground signals. “Others are going ballistic, they're not following our turn, you got them.”

The RB-36 shook slightly. “Flight deck here, one missile went out of control and crashed, the others passed a safe distance away and exploded at the end of their climb. Well done boys. Arkie-eight you especially that was a fast and neat isolation followed by a near-perfect track. Let’s find some more.”

“ARC-27 station here Mark, I've found German fighter control frequencies. Can I have some fun?” Sheppard gave a thumbs up. They had a German-speaking operator on board in case this opportunity presented itself. He heard the operator speaking on the radio frequencies.

“Fighter sections Green and Red go to Saarbrucken now.............. No, Saarbrucken..............Saarbrucken you fool. ............. Who are you ................. Who am I, how dare you question me ....................... cease transmission immediately

...............Get off this frequency............No, you get off, this is a Luftwaffe control frequency............... No we are regional control ................ Idiot................. I'll have you court-martialled for this..............Pilots, this is an enemy trick do not

listen to him.................No he is the enemy...................No he is an Ami ................ Shift to emergency frequency Adolf ......................... Not Emil, Adolf................. Damn..” The operator looked aggrieved. “Mark, that Luftwaffe controller slandered me, my mother and father were married years before I was born.”

“They rumbled you then”

“Sure, it was only a question of time. They put a woman onto the control circuit, the fighter pilots must be under orders to follow female voice commands. Where she learned language like that I do not know. If we want to do this for real, we're going to have to carry women on board.”

“'Never happen, never. Not in our lifetime or that of our kids. Funs over. Keep scanning for emissions, there's more hostiles out there.” Putting women on the big bombers; who'd ever heard of such things....

NAIADS Command Headquarters, Potsdam, Germany

“The Border LCCs are reporting in sir, they have engaged the lead formation with Wasserfall missiles. They confirm the enemy aircraft are flying at approximately 17,000 meters. The raid count is now approximately 150 aircraft in the pathfinder line, about the same number in the target marker groups and over 700 in the main body. The aircraft are a new type sir, very large. Also very fast. When the aircraft came under attack they accelerated quickly, 650 kilometers per hour, almost 700. The engagements were unsuccessful sir, despite firing their complement of missiles the missile batteries have scored no hits. It appears the enemy aircraft are using intense jamming to disrupt the missile control systems. They also were able to turn inside the missiles fired at them. Also there are reports from the RCCs that the enemy are interfering with the fighter ground control system, attempting to send our aircraft on wild goose chases. These were not successful sir, our pilots are used to women relaying such orders and recognized the men's voices as decoys.”

“A very wise move, using women to give such orders. It has saved us from some problems I think.”

It was one of the party creeps, a political officer probably looking for something to fill up his reports with. This could be useful. “Ah, my friend, I wish I could take credit for the idea but it was my friend, the Reichsfuhrer SS, who suggested it. Such ingeniousness. Such forethought. If only General Galland had been as supportive, our initial engagement may have gone better.” That should do it. After 48 hours Himmler would have convinced himself that it had been his idea to use women as fighter controllers and that his friend Field Marshal Herrick had seen he got public credit for it. Convincing Himmler that Herrick was still on his side, helping him with his claims for a part of the Luftwaffe. And his last comment would blacken Galland nicely.

Field Marshal Herrick hadn't expected the Wasserfall missiles to achieve much, but he'd expected at least a few kills. The performance information that was coming was also worrying him. If the bombers really had that sort of performance at that altitude, the fighters that got up there would be hard put to catch them. The raid plot was also worrying him. They had accurate course data now, the strange problems that had affected the long-range radars weren't affecting the higher-frequency Wurtzburgs. The main body was still too far back but the courses of the target marker groups were better defined. Each group of three seemed to be heading for a city, mostly in the eastern part of the country.

That made sense of course, if they were going to change course suddenly and converge on the real target, they'd want apparent targets a distance away so the turns would be less pronounced. There were some anomalies even there though. There was one group of nine aircraft that seemed to be on a course for Berlin, another of six heading for Munich. They'd probably be the first ones to swing to the real target. Also, they'd be coming under attack from the rocket fighters soon.

Herrick thought again about the performance estimates. Then the explanation hit him; it wasn't that the new bombers were unusually fast or agile, it was the Wasserfall crews were exaggerating their performance in order to explain their lack of success. The Me-163 and 263 fighters would be better placed to bring a few down. This raid did show things though. The high altitude fighters were needed again. They'd been bottom of the priority list for years now but this raid would put them back up. In the short term there were so few of them though.

Only the Gotha flying wings had real high altitude capability. Two groups were fully equipped with them, JG-1 and JG-52, both far away on the Russian front. JG-26 was in France but it had only one squadron of Go-229s and a small sub-strength unit of the old BV-155s. Rumor had it JG-26 didn't exist any more; they'd been wiped out by the latest series of carrier strikes. But, defending against the new bombers meant the two Go-229 groups in Russia were vital and he had to make sure that NAIAD controlled them. His deft sabotage of Himmler's attempt to grab a portion of the Luftwaffe had given a couple of markers from Goering to call in. He still had Himmler's support to get any high altitude fighters he needed and his little stab at Gal land would reduce opposition from that quarter.

Herrick looked back to the developing situation map. The leading line of the American raid was well over the border now and the groups that followed it were crossing. The big cloud that represented the main body was getting close and, at last, some detail as available. Odd, each group there, the ones that were accurately plotted anyway, was also on a direct course for a German city. Well, they'd all turn for a major city soon, whatever the real target was. Essen and its steel plants, Herrick thought, that was the most likely one. Or perhaps the aircraft plants at Regensburg. Something was nagging at the back of his mind though, something from a meeting a long time ago, something about a cat?

Admiral's Bridge, USS Shiloh, CVB-41 Position 46.8 North, 4.6 West

Shiloh was dead in the water. A few minutes ago, the crew had been forced to abandon the CIC and the forward machinery spaces. Too much heat, too much smoke, too much fire. That had made the decision to transfer flag inevitable. Admiral Newman was now on board Puerto Rico, he was leaving Shiloh, Samoa and two cruisers to help fight the fires while he carried on operations with the rest of TG-57.2. Captain Madrick realized he'd been making a mistake recently; he'd thought running the ship from CIC and putting the Admiral on the bridge would ensure he could do least harm. Now, he realized putting the Admiral on a different ship entirely was even better. Then, an idea burst on him with astounding clarity, this concept could be taken a stage further. Suppose they put all the Admirals in a different navy?

Kittyhawk had arrived on the scene now, she was well away to starboard, well clear of the smoke and any danger of explosions. Her Bearcats were circling overhead as CAP while her helicopters were lifting the most seriously wounded directly over to her medical ward where surgeons were waiting. Madrick hadn't seen the HO3s used this way before. They had a capacity for four people, this time they were flying with a pilot, a corpsman and two stretcher patients. They were needed, the last explosion had caused still more casualties. Those helicopters couldn't handle the mass of casualties though, they were for the worst and most urgent cases. They had to get a cruiser alongside to cross-deck the rest. That would be Fargo, she was moving in now. About 15 men had been blown over the side from the aft anti-aircraft mountings, they had been picked up by the destroyers. Susan B Anthony, known to her crew as The Unwanted Buck for reasons that defied logical explanation, was in position there by the carrier's aft quarter.

“As a matter of fact sir, we're doing pretty well.” It was the damage control officer, Howarth. “We've driven the fire on the hangar deck back to the starboard quarter and contained it there. It's being subdued now and we expect to have it out shortly. Below decks, we've driven the main fire back to its original starting line. The fire crews are going to start re-entering the galleys, scullery and bakery shortly. Samoa has been working backwards sir, pouring huge amounts of water into our hull, that's why we're listing. But they opened the way for the damage control teams and we've regained about a third of the burned-out area.

'“At present, there is no danger to the ship sir, we are intact below the waterline and the pumps have the fire-water flooding under control. Our real problem is heat and smoke. The temperature in the forward machinery spaces had hit 165 degrees when they were abandoned and you remember what the CIC was like.

“Smoke is terrible sir. We have to make that clear in our 'Lessons Learned'. We must give the crews more breathing gear, much more. Even up here, we've got problems. Samoa tried to hose the island down but she doesn't have the pressure to do it.”

Howarth thought carefully for a moment “My real worry is the ammunition stores and fuel spaces. The temperature below decks is deadly and its rising in all the magazine and tank spaces. We caught between a rock and a hard place there. The fire is contained below decks with limited ventilation. Its acting like a furnace, its burning very hot but slow. If we open up the ship, we'll remove that risk but the influx of oxygen will cause all the fires to flare up and we'll lose everything we've gained. I recommend we keep the ship sealed up, the temperature issue is bad but its controllable, but if the fires get a full air supply, we could be in a world of hurt.

Captain's Bridge, USS Far go, CL-106 Position 46.8 North, 4.6 West

The problem with having a name like Mahan was that people kept expecting you to be some sort of strategic genius. They just wouldn't leave you alone to drive cruisers which was all any true sailorman wanted to do. Cans were too small, you spent all your life running around after other people. Battleships were nothing more than glorified office blocks these days and carriers were small moving cities. But cruisers were just right.

Captain Mahan loved Fargo. The lead ship of the improved Cleveland class, she had the new single-funnel superstructure and her anti-aircraft battery had been built around the latest three inch fifties. He'd heard only six of the class were being built since a new cruiser class, the Roanokes were about to enter the fleet. They had 12 six inch guns also but fully-automatic dual purpose weapons in twin mounts. But, for him, Fargo was a beauty, much better looking than the original Clevelands and more efficient. Now, to demonstrate how a cruiser should be handled.

“Full ahead all engines, steer three-one-five.” Captain Mahan pictured the position of his ship, racing towards the stricken and wallowing Shiloh “Three-one-five damn it and move. Crew to hold tight, prepare to receive casualties.”

OK, his bows were pointing at the port forward quarter of Shiloh. Now the next job was to slot into place. The Quartermaster was sweating slightly, it appeared that Fargo was going to smack into the side of the burning carrier, this needed careful timing. “Full right rudder NOW, engine room, full ahead on the starboard screws, full reverse on the port.” OK, that brought the bows clear of Shiloh and had Fargo sliding her stern through the water like a car skidding on ice. Now, at just the right time “Engine room, full reverse all four shafts now!” He could feel the propellers digging into the water, could see the stern nearly submerging as the ship shuddered to a halt. Mahan watched as the weather deck of Fargo slid neatly underneath the flight deck of Shiloh, the two ships less than a good manly stride apart. Easy as parallel parking, Mahan thought contentedly. There was a moment of stunned silence from the watching crews then a burst of wild cheering. Yup, cruisers were the only real command for a true sailorman.

“Cut that crap and get those casualties over.” The crew of Fargo boiled into action, lines were thrown over to Shiloh, all the equipment needed to transfer people from one ship to another following. Corpsmen were already laying out a casualty station between the catapults aft. Their KH-10 missiles had been struck down to the armored hangar below to clear more space. Below decks, men had been lining up to give blood for the wounded and there were more volunteers for the firefighting crews than spots available. A good ship, a good crew, what more could a true sailorman ask for?

Flight Deck, B-36H “Texan Lady” 52,500 feet over the Ruhr.

“Enemy fighters sir, type Ta-152H, far below us, no threat.” That was no surprise, Texan Lady, Sixth Crew Member and Barbie Doll were in their element now, cruising serenely above the enemy defenses, the sun gleaming off their silver skins. Behind them, their thick white contrails streamed across the sky, pointing to their target like arrows. 4,000 feet below them, a group of Ta-152H interceptors were hanging on their props in a futile effort to climb the remaining distance between them and their target. Even as Dedmon watched, their GM-1 boost ran out and they lost the extra power that had made their climb possible. The fighters stalled out and spun, given the Ta-l52Hs flight characteristics it was probable they'd accelerate to the point where their controls locked and they couldn't pull out before they plowed into the ground. Up here, in the thin, thin air, the rules were different.

Idly, Colonel Dedmon wondered if the German defenders had understood what was happening yet. Perhaps it would be merciful if they didn't, if they had just a few more minutes believing that this was just a normal bombing raid. Like the B-29 raids, just bigger and better. Of course it wasn't. And if the Germans didn't know they were in the Indian Summer of their existence, they soon would. The first drops were only a few minutes away now. Once the deep penetration aircraft were clear of the border areas, the methodical destruction of the German Nation could start. The timing was the only subtlety of this mission; once the drops were started, the devices would fall thick and fast, marching eastward across Germany.

There was a double reason for the timing of course. One was the obvious one; the Germans would soon understand that one bomber over a city meant that city was about to die, that a little bit of the sun was going to come down to earth and wipe it from the map. What was it that Targeteer had called it? “Instant Sunrise”, that was it. Once the Germans saw Instant Sunrise over their cities, they'd do anything and everything they could to stop the remaining bombers. That meant everything, up to and including trying to ram them with anything that could get up this high, trying to bring them down before they got to their targets. They'd fail, of course, and even if they brought some of the B-36s down, salvage fusing would see that their devices weren't wasted. And there were some unassigned nuclear bombers in the second wave waiting in reserve in case a bomber shot down meant that a target might otherwise survive.

There was another reason as well. As the Targeteer had explained, nobody quite knew what these devices would do when used for real. The atomic bomb wasn't just a bigger, better bomb, it was an entirely new class of weapon. There had been only two test shots, one to verify the original Model 1561 configuration and one to prove the Mark 3 devices that had been mass-produced. The other device in use, the Mark One, didn't need testing. As the Targeteer had told them, it was so simple it couldn't go wrong. They didn't know how high the blast would reach, quite what the interaction between the devices would result in. The Targeteer had revealed, with an almost satanic degree of relish, that originally there had been a small theoretical possibility that the devices would set the atmosphere itself on fire and extinguish all life on earth. The test shots had eliminated that possibility but their were still unknown dangers. The deep penetration bombers would have to fly back though the results of the attack, anything that limited the exposure was good. Even the word “radiation” had a nasty creepy sound to it.

“Think we can get a bit higher guys?”

Major Pico thought for a few seconds and spoke quietly to the engineering section below and behind them, Sergeants King and Gordon looked at the engine status displays. Everything was in normal operating range but how long that would last was anybody's guess. The opinion was unanimous, “i wouldn't sir. Texan Lady is behaving well above spec as it is. We're holding this altitude fine, no engine problems yet. We couldn't ask for more.”

“Hey, it’s my ass as well.” It was the female Texan voice over the intercom. Dedmon shook his head and mouthed “'Just who the hell IS that?” at Major Pico. The Major shook his head resignedly, whoever it was, they had a first class female impersonator on board. And a damn fine comedian. One who was in the wrong place; the RB-36 attempts to interfere with German fighter control had been foiled by the simple expedient of the Luftwaffe using female controllers. Their in-flight comedian may have been just what was needed to counter that simple countermeasure. Not that it mattered much, up here the Germans simply didn't have the waves of fighters that had crucified the B-29 raids in 1944 and 1945.

“Sir, four radar contacts climbing fast. Position 9 o'clock range six miles. Estimated time to contact three minutes. Targets tentatively identified as Me-263 rocket fighters.” Dedmon quickly visualized the position. By the time the Me-263s reached their altitude, they would have burned nearly all their fuel; they would be at the top of a long ellipse. The top of that ellipse was a circle whose diameter was determined by the speed and fuel status of the 263. There was another circle as well, that was defined by the speed of the B-36 and its turning circle. Dedmon grinned to himself, the German pilots were in for a shock. OK, the most likely combination of speed and fuel gave the 263 a range of 58 miles when he got up here. By then, his speed would have dropped to 535 miles per hour - say 9 miles per minute.

“'Full power all engines, turning and burning”

That gave Texan Lady a speed of 425 miles per hour, 7 miles per minute. So, if he swung away and forced the 263s into a tail chase, he'd be 21 miles away by the time they reached his altitude. Added to the six miles they were already behind him made a range of 27 miles. Since they had a two miles per minute speed superiority, it would take them 13 minutes plus to catch up - 84 miles. So they couldn't make the intercept. And that was how piston-engined bombers could outrun rocket-engined fighters.

The three B-36s swung onto their new course and continued serenely on their way. Behind them, the APG-41 tail gun-laying radar tracked the fighters then gave up as they began their long glide down to their base. Texan Lady and her consorts turned back on their original course as soon as the threat was over. The German pilots learned fast though. The next group of 263s coining up had dispersed so their intercept patterns covered a much wider area. One of them was going to be within rocket range. Not much within range it was true, over a thousand yards away, but in range.

“Tail Heavy” Dedmon ordered and watched Barbie Doll and Sixth Crew Member shift formation slightly. Now, the three aircraft were arranged to clear the fields of fire form their tail guns but, more importantly, could turn without risk of collision. The pair of 263s were closing aft now and their wings suddenly erupted into black smoke as they fired their R4M rockets. 12 rockets per aircraft, 24 in all, each with the hitting power of a 75 millimeter tank gun. Dedmon racked Texan Lady around in a tight turn. So far she'd taught the Germans that she could fly higher than they could and, once up here, could outrun them. Now she taught the German pilots a stunning lesson. With her huge wings and excess engine power, she could both out-turn them and their rockets. All three bombers deftly side-stepped the rockets and resumed their course with serene contempt for the impertinence. Dedmon knew Texan Lady would be tracking the fighters with her APG-41, whether there was a good enough shot was a decision John Paul Martin, their tail gunner, would have to make. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sixth Crew Member firing and saw a ball of smoke behind them. One of the 263s had come that little bit too close.

“Loser” the female Texan voice was larded with contempt. Was Martin their mysterious impersonator?

“Major Case, Sixth Crew Member here. Tail gunner claims one enemy fighter shot down.”

“Major Lennox, Barbie Doll here. Tail gunner claims one enemy fighter shot down.”

Dedmon sighed gently and looked at the single ball of smoke receding behind them. Thus would it ever be. “Major, log we have exchanged fire with enemy rocket fighters. Three enemy fighters claimed shot down. No damage. Proceeding to primary target on full power.”

Sitting behind Dedmon, Connorman picked up a transmission from another Hometown. His voice on the intercom was shocked. “Sir, Angel Eyes is going in. The Germans managed to surround her group and a 263 got her with rockets. I'm picking up transmissions from her sir, the rockets took out all five engines on the port side. She can't be flown that way. The aft pressurized compartment was blown open, the crew in there didn't have a chance. The rest of the crew are riding her in. Pilot says to go head to head with the 263 closing speed is too high for the rocket salvoes. Don't do what they .... Transmission ceased sir.”

“She a bomber? What was their target?” There was pain in Major Pico's voice, Angel Eyes was the first B-36 to be lost in action. Many had been lost in accidents, especially in the early days when the engines had a notorious habit of dropping off. But never shot down before.

Dedmon shook his head, “The bomber in that Hometown is Colonel Arnie Cunningham's Christine. Angel Eyes was one escort, the other is Eskimo Nell. They're on their way to Duren, up near Aachen. They must be locking in for their final run by now. With a little luck, the rest of us are through.” If the intelligence people were right, the German defenses were concentrated along the borders. The Russians had told them that the original plans had been cut back and the original intent to cover the whole country with defenses had been ditched. The Russians had good intelligence. If it was right, they were on their final run now and Colonel Dedmon had a little announcement of his own.

“OK boys, we're on our way in. Five years ago the Royal Navy broke out of its harbors and escaped across the Atlantic. A lot of them didn't make it but the ones that did found refuge with us. The Germans demanded that we return the ships and their crews. When we refused, a brutal and sustained assault by their U-boats covered our East Coast with the wreckage of sunken ships and the bodies of drowned sailors. Then, they demanded that we lay down our arms. Well, today we're on our way to do just that. We're going to lay down our arms all right, straight across the center of their capital. All over Germany our bombers are lining up on their targets to do the same. Germany is going to burn.”

Official Reception for Australian Prime Minister Locock, Viceregal Palace, New Delhi, India.

“The Right Honorable Prime Minister of Australia Sir Gregory Locock and Lady Locock.”

The booming voice bounced off the ceiling and reverberated around the room. The Prime Minister made his way down the obligatory receiving line and entered the reception. By the time he had complied with the formalities, the official line had dissolved and the serious politicking had started. Sir Gregory Locock saw Sir Martyn a few feet away, speaking to a small, stocky woman with short black hair.

“And I think they must be the most beautiful things I have ever seen. It was a wonderful thought of Sir Eric's. Such magnificent workmanship , it’s a pleasure just to hold them. Since they are an official gift, I must cable my government asking if I may keep them but permission for that is never with-held.” Locock was confused, the woman had her back to him and he couldn't identify her or follow the conversation. Sir Martyn was speaking now.

“'We were lucky Ma'am, it is hard to get Purdy's now but a pair were in the country already. Once your government has approved, Ma'am, please bring them to us and one of our experts will fit the stock and trigger pulls to suite you.” Ah, shotguns thought Sir Gregory, this must be the Thai Ambassador. The two people he most needed to see were together.

“Madam Ambassador, May I introduce the Prime Minister of Australia, Sir Gregory Locock. Sir Gregory, Her Excellency, the Ambassador from the Kingdom of Thailand.”

“Madam Ambassador, it is a great honor to meet you at last. Your fame has spread before you.” That was true enough, his Chief of Staff, General Bennett, had described her as the bad thing that happens to bad people. “I have long admired your part in the campaign against Vichy Indochina.. Your destruction of the Fifth Regiment Etranger de Infanterie was a masterpiece of tactical planning.” He saw her flush a little with pride and give him a friendly smile. That was good, a little professional admiration might make up the ground lost by the shotguns.

“Thank you. Sir Gregory. But, if I may say so, your actions now on behalf of your country are far more difficult and arduous than anything a simple soldier can be expected to achieve. To build a country from nothing is a hard and dangerous task and you have, I fear, but little time to do so. My people regard Australians with much affection and we would be proud to assist you in such an endeavor. We have just entered into an agreement with India, we are trading our rice and other foodstuffs for Indian manufactured goods. A trade agreement that will benefit both our countries. Perhaps our two nations can find ground for a similar agreement.”

Sir Martyn Sharpe relaxed slightly. He hadn't been taken in by the Ambassador's warm and friendly smile to the Australian, he had long realized that her facial expressions bore no relationship to her thoughts. It wasn't as if it was a deliberate deception, it was more that the two simply were not connected. It was like watching the cast of a play performing the actions of Romeo and Juliet while speaking the words from Julius Caesar. “Sir Gregory, I must apologize for the reduced level of honors here but as you know India suffered a tragic loss only yesterday and we must show our respect for the departure of a great spirit. The people of this country held Mahatma Ghandi in great regard and are mortified by his death in such a stupid and reprehensible accident. They are demanding reprisals against the Japanese and I fear Japanese actions are not calculated to take the heat out of the situation. We had to release that drunken chauffeur last night and this was not well received. The wild Japanese accusations are inflaming passions also.'“

“Indeed so.” The Ambassador spoke with sadness and her face showed her grief at the situation. “A special investigator from Indo-China arrived today. An odious little man called Masanobu Tsuji. A Colonel I am sad to say.” The Ambassador's own military rank was Colonel, “he had the chauffeur tortured most brutally. Eventually the man confessed to having spent the night on an illegal drinking session and stealing an Embassy car. There is a lesson there for all of us.” She shook her head sadly. Sir Martyn wasn't quite certain whether the lesson for them all was don’t drink because it gets you into trouble or don 't torture people because it doesn't get you the information you need. He also made a note to look up the record of Colonel Masanobu Tsuji, that name hadn't been mentioned casually.

“But onto more cheerful things. Sir Martyn, the signed copies of our trade agreement have arrived this evening from my Government. His Most Gracious Majesty himself has signed it, a sign of our very great pleasure at establishing such warm relations between our peoples. Sir Gregory, perhaps there is the opening for a similar agreement between our two countries?”

“Alas Ma'am, Australia is in a very different position from India and our problems are of an entirely different dimension. May I explain the problem we face?” The Thai Ambassador nodded, her face an expression of intense interest. “We face a huge economic problem, one that could cause our economy to collapse. You see the Australian Economy is based on the Ottowa agreement. We made primary exports to Britain, meat, butter, cheese, wool and so on. In return, British supplied manufactured exports to Australia. Even when this agreement ran smoothly, the balance of trade was poor since the price of foodstuffs relative to industrial goods was declining between 1920 and 1940.

“Certainly we were developing an industrial base of our own, but there are still critical gaps, tin plating, alkali plants, much light and medium industry. We have created an aircraft industry, we make the Ostrich, which is a good ground attack aircraft, some trainers and a rather embarrassing fighter that's based on one of those trainers. Our sources of raw material supplies from overseas are controlled by US/British cartel agreements that put Australia in the UK zone for companies like ICI. Australia can't replace the British products, because Australia has a trade deficit with the US and no access to US markets. This was refused repeatedly in the late 1930's by the US - and war or not, I struggle to see US accepting Australian beef, butter and cheese. The UK loans to Australia are obviously null and void which has helped us a little, but the US loans are still there and the mechanism to pay them back has disappeared. No new sources of capital for a wartime program or an industrialization program or even to bring in the raw materials we need. To defend ourselves, we may be forced to institute a command economy, abandon any pretence at naval power and concentrate on building a seven division Army to defend the country at its beaches.”

“And command economies do not work Sir Gregory. Free trade and free markets are the only way for countries to prosper.” The Thai Ambassador looked thoughtful. “May I explain our problems to you and then perhaps we can see how we may aid each other. Forgive me Sir Martyn I know you have heard this before. Sir Gregory. As you know, six years ago my country recovered the territories that were stolen from us by the French in the years up to 1908. What we did not know then was the extent to which French policies and French administration had devastated the provinces in question. In the short time they ruled those areas, they destroyed a culture and economy that had been in place for a millennia and had pushed back the standards of agriculture by over five hundred. I do not joke gentlemen, the per capita production of rice in the restored provinces was less than a third of that in those that remained ours. Indeed it was lower than that achieved in the fourteenth century. Truly the French Indochinese administration had the finest economic minds of the middle ages.

“Now, we are repairing the damage and returning agriculture in the restored provinces to a acceptable level. This means our rice production is soaring, it is now more than twice the level we achieved in 1939 and 1939 was a very good year for us. But, you know what happens when supplies soar and demand remains constant. Prices collapse and the farmer is no better off than before. This is why our agreement with India is so important to us. We are selling that surplus rice and maintaining the prices paid to our farmers. We are using the income from taxes and revenues to buy industrialized goods from India. Thus we improve the living standards of our people while helping our Indian friends feed their population and develop our industry.

“But we still have a problem. The destroyed agriculture of the provinces means that the livestock there has gone. The French instituted a system by which the farmers grew only rice, for which they were paid artificially low prices, and had to buy meat from French importers who charged them excessively. Now we must rebuild what was destroyed. Sir Gregory, you say the Americans will not buy your meat and butter, then sell them to us. Send your farmers and experts to create a new livestock industry in the restored provinces. We cannot help you with your cheese, for myself I like the stuff but, to most of my country people, cheese is just very, very sour milk. But there is much more than this, more than just rebuilding the farming communities of the restored provinces.

“We must improve the diet of our children. They are our future, our joy and our responsibility. For children to have a good start in life we must make sure they have a good diet and that means they must eat more meat. Sell us your meat Sir Gregory. We will pay you with gold from our mines. With precious jewels, sapphires, diamonds, rubies, all from our own resources. We can sell you teak and the finest silk in the world. The Americans may not wish your meat and cheese and butter but they will want luxury goods that you buy from us and can sell to them. That will give you the hard currency you need to pay your debts and import what you need to establish your own industry. And your Ostrich, that is an aircraft my country needs badly. All we ask is that we treat our trade arrangements as we do that with India. Openly and without hidden clauses or secret codicils. The world is in the state it is today because of such things. We wish our trade arrangements to be open so that all can see we are dealing honestly and fairly with our partners.

“Gentlemen, my country is a small one and when elephants fight, mice get crushed. The long term health of all our countries depends on stability and that can only come from honest trade and fair, just relations. This makes sense, yes?'“

An attendant arrived with a tray of champagne glasses. The Thai Ambassador took one and looked at the men with her. Could Europeans really be so naive? She had laid the whole plan out in front of them and they still couldn't see it. As Field Marshal Pibul had said to her the night before she'd left “When the village on one side of the river has rice but no fish and the village on the other had fish but no rice, wealth and power go not to the fisherman or the farmer but to the man who builds a bridge over the river.” With these trade agreements and more like them in place, her country would be established as the central trading point for the whole of the non-Japanese Far East. Australia and India would be the starring actors in the years to come, but it would be her government that would be writing their lines.

Sir Martyn was feeling much better now. Originally, the unexpected offer of a parallel trade deal with Australia had shaken him and upset his plans to use Australia's economic plight to Indian advantage. But this way was much better, Australia was being drawn into India's orbit without the need for such an overt application of pressure. His gamble a few years ago was paying off much better than he'd thought possible. The investment of some modern military equipment and political capital had bought him a faithful and reliable ally whose diplomatic skills were greater than he could have hoped. Yes, this meeting had gone much to India's advantage. Champagne was a good way to mark such a welcome development.

For the first time in many months, Sir Gregory felt the burdens of his position lifted from him. He'd come to New Delhi expecting to have to grovel for aid. Instead, he'd had a partial solution for his problems literally dumped in his lap, from a totally unexpected direction. The trade agreement would be a good one and would secure both his future and that of his country. Even before it was signed, he could leverage it into more loans to pay off pressing debts and solve problems. But much more important was the defense issue. The story about Australia defending itself at the beaches was a farce. He knew it because his generals had told him so and the Thai Ambassador knew it because she was a professional soldier whose skills were fast becoming legendary. Sir Martyn was a politician and an economist, he probably didn't. But Australia couldn't be defended at its beaches, it was too big and the population was too small. It had to be defended at a distance, by forces that would engage the enemy before they reached the Australian mainland. Sir Gregory took his champagne gratefully, for the first time he could see his path clearing.

The three looked at each other with mutual admiration. Then, they toasted each other in an atmosphere of warm friendship, comradely respect and mutual treachery.

CHAPTER EIGHT JUDGEMENT DAY

Third Deck, Starboard Side Amidships, USS Shiloh, CVB-41. Position 46.8 North, 4.6 West.

They were beating the Monster, beating it good. They'd taken back all the compartments they'd lost in the early stages of the fire. The next step would take them through the watertight door that lead the scullery. That's where the Monster had been born. Fathered by a German bomb and mothered by circuit breakers that hadn't worked. Maintenance failure. There would be discussion of that issue in the Goat Locker. Still, long experience told The Senior Chief that the battles against the fires were being won on all fronts now; the temperature was dropping, the smoke and that poisonous haze were fading. More importantly, power was becoming more reliable and water pressure was back up. Not as good as it should be but better than before. In addition, the teams on the fire perimeter were getting regular supplies of water and salt tablets. The only problem was that they had run out of fuel for their Handy Billy pump and had to use avgas instead. That was causing the little pump to overheat and limiting its use to five or ten minutes at a stretch before they had to shut it down and let it cool.

“Mr Pickering sir, I need you to check on the men, make sure everybody's had enough to drink and nobody's got dehydrated. Can happen too easily; we don't want anybody passing out when we hit the scullery.”

“You've checked them already, Senior Chief, you know that they've had all the water they need.”

The Senior Chief mentally raised his eyes in despair, Lord have mercy, it was a Senior Chiefs job to raise young officers and set them on the right path to being True Sailormen rather than office warriors or Democrats. But sometimes the patience came terribly hard. “Mr Pickering Sir,” dropping his voice “The men need to know you're looking out for them. I know they've had their water and salt tablets, you know they've had their water and salt tablets but they need to know you're making sure you know. So, please sir, I need you to check.”

The Senior Chief watched Ensign Pickering start checking with the firefighting team. Decided he was doing a good job, making sure that the men had drunk their water and swallowed their salt tablets. Also checked their hands for burns and looked at their eyes for dirt and grit. That was a bit much, everybody was covered with soot and dirt from the fires and everybody was a bit singed. But it showed the young Ensign was getting the message. He wasn't a bad officer, the Senior Chief had known many worse who'd come out all right in the end. Just painfully green and still had so much to learn. Still, he'd lead a team fighting the fires on the Shiloh and that was a story he'd be asked to retell in future years. Right, now was the time to get through the next watertight door and into the scullery. Samoa had been drenching the area with seawater for hours now so it should just be a matter of getting in there, putting out what was left and securing the compartment. Wouldn't do to tell the men that though, they were better off thinking the Monster was still waiting for them.

“Time to go Senior Chief. Let's retake the Scullery.” Of all the men in the damage control team only Ensign Pickering and the Senior Chief realized the words were a question, not an order. “Very Good Sir. Lead men to the front prepare to........Wait One.”

Everybody had felt it. The ship had shuddered suddenly. The Senior Chief frowned, that feeling didn't belong. It had come from the other side of the ship and forward of their position. And below them? It didn't feel right at all and when something didn't feel right it generally wasn't. “What was that Senior?” Some of the older crewmen, the plank-owners who had been with Shiloh since her commissioning had also realized that something wasn't right.

“Don't worry about what goes on up there son, we've got our job to do here. Just concentrate on that and leave everything else to them that's concerned with them.” That remark got the Senior a sharp look from the Ensign, he'd noted that the shudder had come from beneath them as well. Well, the rest was right, they had their own work to do and worrying about the rest of ship would just get in the way. Get the firefighting gear ready and do their job. And, hell's teeth what was THAT??????????? Now there was no doubt something was very seriously wrong. It wasn't an explosion, more of a terrible ripping noise and the vibration was like an earthquake. Shiloh had been listing to starboard for so long now that the roll to port was shocking in itself.

The Senior Chief didn't know why he did it. Perhaps, it was his Guardian Angel, perhaps it was the ghosts of long dead Senior Chiefs, going back to the days of the Roman galleys, coming back to whisper a warning and help out one of their own. Perhaps it was just more years of experience that he cared to think about. Years spent on every type of ship the US Navy operated and every port they'd ever visited that had told him mortal danger was all around them. But something made him dive across the compartment and manhandle the blast- and waterproof hatch closed. Because the explosion that came a split second after the ripping noise was like nothing they'd experienced before. A thunderous ear-shattering roar that seemed to shake the compartment apart and hurled the men from their feet. The lights went down, the air fogged with dust and debris. Only flashlight beams lit the darkness. Now Shiloh was listing seriously to port and was down by the bows.

“Jesus, Senior, What was that?” Ensign Pickering was on the verge of losing control of his voice, a combination of shock and the filth in the air.

“Keep it down sir. Cough and spit. We've got to get out of here. Whatever that was, it's done the old girl a serious hurt. Suggest we go through the scullery and up the other side Sir.”

“If we leave, we should go back the way we came Senior, we know that way. But we haven't been given that order yet.”

“Feel the hatch sir, its heating. There's fire behind us again. And we don't know what damage that blast did. But here, sir, we're trapped. If we don't get out now we never will. At the moment we know that the scullery fires are damped down. If we go aft through the Scullery we can go up two decks then out to the sponsons. Then over the side or whatever. There's a ship plan here sir, come and look at what I mean. Sir, mind out sir look out....”

There was a soft thud in the darkness. “'Mr. Pickering sir, are you all right? You, over there. Yes you, not the person you hope is behind you. Mr. Pickering's been hurt, slipped on the deck and hit his head. He's out cold. I need three volunteers to help get him out of here. You, you and you. The rest of you get ready to break into the scullery. Firefighters at the front and sides, others in the middle. Get the Handy Billy running. We're going to have to fight through the fire in there if we're going to get out of here. Now move!”

Bridge, USS Far go CL-106. Position 46.8 North, 4.6 West.

Captain Mahan was a happy man. A good ship, a well trained crew and a difficult operation going smoothly. What more could a cruiser Captain want? He was tucked in under the port bow quarter of Shiloh, his fantail level with the side elevator opening to the hangar deck. He'd got his X and Y turrets trained to starboard, partly to clear as much space on the fantail as possible but also so that the heavy armor on the turret faces was protecting the casualty station set up behind them. His missile handling crew had managed to rig the crane aft so that its winch could be used to power the transfer system bringing casualties over from the Shiloh. The wounded were now loaded into the gurneys at the first aid station on Shiloh and attached to a looped endless cable running through pulleys. Start up the crane winch and the whole lot came straight over. Beat painfully manhandling the men over any day. Trouble was, casualties had come in faster than his crew could absorb them. Even with the helicopter shuttle taking the worst injured over to Kittyhawk there were still too many casualties coming in.

Still the fires were almost out now. The last damage control report from Shiloh had the fires on the hangar deck out, only one of the five hangar deck sections had burned, the armor doors had stopped the fires and smoke spreading further forward. Below decks, the fire had been pushed right back so only the original area, the scullery, galley and bakery were still red-listed. Even there, Samoa had poured so much water into the hull that the fires were damped down. It was just a question now of getting men in there to finish the job and secure the compartment. With a little luck, the rate of casualty transfer would slacken off now and they could get ahead of the job.

He didn't expect the explosion. A big one, deep inside Shiloh, well below the waterline. Even as he watched, the big carrier lost her starboard list and started to roll to port, bringing her flight deck down onto Fargo 's superstructure.

With a grinding and crushing of metal, Fargo's foremast with its powerful air search radar doubled and crashed down, taking the TBS antennas with it. Fargo was in irons now, trapped against Shiloh \s side, her funnel wedged against the underside of the carrier's flight deck. A tractor and a jeep rolled off the flight deck, onto Fargo's bridge, endangering ship control before they slid off, taking a port bridge wing down to the main deck and into the sea.

The two ships moved against each other, each roll and switch inflicting more damage on the cruiser. The starboard side of the bridge was nearly demolished, the wind shield had gone along with the pelorus stand, flag bag, and lookout seat. Captain Mahan looked aft; casualties were still coming out of the elevator opening in the hangar deck side but the pulley system was much closer to being level. Before it had run steeply downwards. Even as he watched, he saw his crane crew manipulating their controls to keep the transfer system running.

He had to do something to save his ship. “Starboard screws full emergency aft, port screws full emergency forward, right full rudder now”. Fargo started to pivot on her axis, her bows swinging to starboard to crash against Shiloh's hull. But, that way they were acting as a lever, forcing her stern out from under the flight deck that threatened to crush her. Even as Mahan watched, the starboard bridge bulkhead and watertight door buckled and started to cave in, the flying deck railings were crushed and the main deck boat davits started to be bent out of shape. Already the big single funnel was starting to bend at the base and its welds at main deck level were starting to give.

Mahan could feel his cruiser's powerful engines forcing her away from the carrier. All along the starboard bows, the lifelines and stanchions were giving way and the shell plating was starting to buckle up to six inches inboard. Then, suddenly, Fargo broke free from the grip that was threatening to crush her. It cost her, the aft main battery director was crushed, even the machine shop lathe was knocked from its mountings. But break free she did, her stern arching away from the carrier so that the two ships were moving apart. Even more important, they were swinging at an angle so that Fargo was steadily turning her bows towards Shiloh.

“Signal from Admiral Theodore Sir. Reads Bravo Zulu Sir”

Mahan nodded and looked aft across the shambles of the aft superstructure. Incredibly his crane crew had managed to save the casualty transfer rig and now a line of wounded were crossing the steadily-widening gap between the two ship. Looking back towards the stricken carrier, Mahan saw another explosion, this one was all internal, it was more like the sight of a snake swallowing its prey, a great gray lump running aft along the ship's side, a mixture of black, gray and white smoke erupting in its wake.

Through his binoculars he could see Surgeon-Commander Stennis and Chaplain Westover surrounded by smoke and wreckage yet still frantically getting the litters carrying the wounded attached to the transfer rig. The Chaplain was dragging the men over while the Doc was getting them attached to the transfer system. While Mahan watched, two, three, four litters started the ride over to Fargo. Then, Mahan lost sight of the two men in the burgeoning smoke cloud yet still the litters carrying the wounded came out of the elevator port. Then the world exploded.

The blast was terrible, a small volcano that tore apart the whole of Shiloh's forward port quarter the forward elevator erupted out of its housing and was thrown over 2,0000 feet into the air, flopping and turning like a giant pancake before crashing back into its well. A shower of wreckage scythed across the water towards Fargo, one piece of hangar side crushing the forward five inch mount like an eggshell. Other fragments splattered the whole forward part of the ship, much as grapeshot had hammered ship in the days of sail. Yet, as he picked himself up from the deck, Mahan realized it could have been much worse. If he had still been broadside on, the carnage among his men gathered on deck would have been appalling. As it was, that last minute break-away had meant they were protected by the bulk of the ship. There were dead and wounded, that would be for certain, but nothing like the butcher's bill that could have resulted from that dreadful explosion

Shakily, Mahan looked back at Shiloh. She was down badly by the bows now and rolling to port, her open forecastle already awash. Her entire forward flight deck had caved in and the opened expanse was burning. Where the Chaplain and Doc Stennis had struggled to save the last few wounded was a sea of burning wreckage, nothing recognizable of the ship's structure.

Yet, a quick look aft showed Mahan something that humbled him. His crane crew were hauling in the wounded and others of his crew were already diving over the side to rescue those in the water. A good ship, now hurt but still fit for duty, a great crew, bloodied but proud and unbeaten. For just a moment Mahan felt he was unworthy of either. Then he looked back to the burning wreck of Shiloh. Men were forming on what was left of her flight deck obviously getting ready to abandon ship. It was immediately apparent that the situation had become that desperate and, for the first time, Mahan believed that they had lost her.

Admiral's Bridge, USS Kittyhawk, CVL-48, Position 46.8 North. 4.6 West

“Captain Madrick, why did your ship just explode?” Admiral Theodore wanted an answer and wanted it fast.

“Sir, we think the cause was the unexploded bomb forward underwater in the evaporator space. This is all guesswork and we don't know if it was on a timer or whether whatever was stopping it exploding stopped stopping it, but it detonated. Two decks above it was a mess space that was being used to assemble Tiny Tim rockets, the big 12 inch beasts, for a strike. Howarth thinks the rockets must have been made sensitive by the heat because shortly after the bomb detonated, the rockets started to cook off. Again, we can't be sure but we think the odds are that one may have been hit by fragments and that set off the rest.

“From there, the most likely path was that they ripped through the ships structure and started fires that cooked off the ready use magazines for the forward port five inch guns. That set off a chain reaction that detonated the magazines for those guns. The explosion destroyed the forward port quarter of the ship, from what we can see, it opened up almost two hundred feet to the sea. The death toll is grave sir, we think more than 900 dead and very many wounded, you know that sir, your hospital and crew must be overloaded. I don't want men trapped below, I've ordered abandon ship for all non-firefighting teams. I want as many people off the ship as we can manage. I'm keeping about 400 men on board sir. We're fighting to save Shiloh, sir, but to be honest, the issue is in the gravest of doubt.”

Admiral Theodore nodded, forgetting that the gesture couldn't be seen over the radio. His signals officer signed him off. Theodore had destroyers in his task group and they had torpedoes. The next step was becoming increasingly obvious. His train of thought was interrupted by a knocking on the door. It was one of the SEALs, Jeff Thomas.

“Admiral Sir, our prisoner wished to speak with you. I think he has a reasonable request sir.” Theodore glowered to himself. The SEALs were beginning to get very full of themselves; yet. they did have a way of doing the impossible.

He waved the group in, the German pilot and his SEAL escort. Lieutenant Wijnand had carefully rehearsed what he was going to say.

“Admiral Sir. I have been held near the sickbay and have seen how many badly wounded men are being brought on board. I was a medical student before being a pilot and was one of the Group's medical orderlies also. I would like to volunteer my services to you for assisting in treating the wounded. I offer you my parole for this.”

Theodore stared at the young pilot. Normally he would have had him thrown out and given the SEALs a tongue lashing for wasting his time but there was something here that stopped him. And his ship was swamped with casualties and more were coming. Instead he asked a simple question. “Why?”

Wijnand thought for a moment. He hadn't really asked that question himself, he just knew it was something he had to do. Haltingly he tried to explain “Sir, I have been a bomber pilot for five years. Today I have seen for the first time what my bombs do. For me now the war is over and it is time to try and make amends for what I have done.”

“Lieutenant, my country has a long tradition of neither giving nor accepting parole. This is because during our Civil War the principle was often abused. But we also have a tradition of allowing our officers to use their judgment and I am going to use mine. I am going to trust you. I will accept your parole and assign you to Doc Ganning to help as best you can. Thomas here will get you some fatigues. Take advice Lieutenant and keep quiet. German bomber pilots are not very popular right now.”

Wijnand thought for a second and looked at the approaching army. A red white and blue flag with stars and stripes waved at its head. “Me German Sir? I am a Dutchman Sir.”

Theodore grinned and waved him out. As the SEAL named Thomas was leaving, the Admiral touched his right eye.

Thomas would watch their..... Dutchman .... carefully. Trust, but verify, the Admiral thought.

NAIADS Command Headquarters, Potsdam, Germany

Field Marshall Herrick was a confused, and very unhappy, man. The plot of the huge American air-raid was still showing it dispersing all over Germany. Each individual section of aircraft was heading straight for a city or large town, more than 200 of them in all. The expected turn to concentrate on a single target just hadn't taken place. By now, it was impossible, time and distance made concentration over a single target out of the question. So what were they up to?

There had been a brief cheer a few minutes earlier when Aachen RCC had reported one of the giants had been shot down. It hadn't lasted, it was the only success scored by the whole system. A quick look at the report showed it had been a fluke, one Me-263 section had managed to be in the right place at the right time and scored. Mostly the giants had evaded the defenses with contemptuous ease. And giants they were, too. They had good data on that now. Ten-engined monsters, six pusher piston engines and four jets. No wonder they were fast and high-flying. They only appeared to have tail guns though, that was a weakness. The Americans must have turned the Azores into one huge airbase to mount a raid this big with such aircraft. But what were they hoping to achieve?

Aircraft that big could carry a bombload greater than anything before them, perhaps even twice as much as a B-29. Herrick had seen a B-29, one painstaking re-assembled from the wreckage of aircraft shot down in the 1944 and 1945 raids. Unflyable of course, but he'd still been impressed by its size and power but thought it was a technology dead-end. The fact that it was what and where it was showed that. But these new bombers dwarfed the B-29. Perhaps the Americans were hoping that three bombers could dump enough bombs on a target to destroy it. Foolishness. It took a lot of high explosive to destroy a factory. Perhaps they were hoping if they scattered bombs lightly over a lot of cities, there would be some sort of morale collapse or political upheaval. If so that was even worse foolishness. Americans weren't foolish though. They were great engineers, the bombers overhead showed that, but poor scientists. Everything they had, jet engines, radar, rockets, aircraft cannon, all had been copied from German technology. But they weren't foolish. So what were they up to? Were the aircraft transports that would scatter paratrooper soldiers all over Germany?

His musings were interrupted by when one of the Luftwaffe controllers suddenly screamed and fell forward over her work station, holding her ears and wailing. Everybody had heard the reason, even through the thick insulation of her earphones. A - literally - ear-shattering howl followed by a brief roar of static then silence. Already the women either side of her were comforting her, fussing over her and making clucking noises. Herrick doubted she could hear them or, indeed, would ever hear anything again. From the volume of that electronic howl, the poor girl's eardrums must have met in the middle of her head.

“Sir, Aachen Regional Control Center is on the line again.” That was good, their last communication had been to report an American aircraft shot down. “They are reporting a huge explosion over Duren. The flash was very strong even in Aachen and they can see the cloud rising from there. A mushroom-shaped cloud. They say it's reached over 10,000 meters now and is a dull glowing reddish in color. They've tried to get through to the Local Control Center but all communications with Duren are down. They are having bad communications all over the region sir. They also report three American aircraft are making a direct approach on Aachen.” Suddenly the girl's eyes widened and she tore her earphones off. She just made it in time, she'd thrown them on her desk as if they were some sort of poisonous snake when they erupted into the same screaming electronic howl, a burst of static and then - silence.

Herrick looked at the situation display. The girls maintaining it had put a red circle over Duren to mark the site of the first explosion. Now, they were putting one over Aachen. Suddenly everything dropped into place. The half-memory of a cat that had been troubling him. A cat in a box. Schrodinger's cat. He'd been told about it at a meeting, an illustration of Heidelburg's uncertainty principle. Not Heidelburg, Heisenburg. That was it. The meeting had been in 1943, Heisenburg had chaired it. It had been to announce the cancellation of the German atomic bomb project, the studies had shown that the weapons were an engineering impossibility.

Suddenly he remembered the description of the impossible atomic bomb. A single bomb that would have the power of hundreds or even thousands of tons of conventional explosive. A bomb that could destroy a whole city with a single blow. A bomb that could be carried by a single aircraft. Herrick looked at the situation display, saw the small groups of American bombers closing in on cities all over Germany. There was only one possible explanation. Heisenburg had said it was impossible but the Americans had gone and built it anyway.

“OH DEAR HOLY MOTHER OF GOD NO!”

The scream of protest torn from him was a cry compounded of rage, of fear, of despair, of anger, of humiliation, and of frustration. Of the knowledge of total failure and of impending, certain destruction. Herrick slumped into his chair, his head down on his arms. With words much, much quieter than his anguished scream he begged. “Dear God, have mercy on us.”

God wasn't listening.

Duren, Germany, Intersection of Schenkelstrasse and Philippestrasse, AKA Ground Zero

The air raid sirens had started their warnings a couple of hours earlier but few people had taken them seriously, After all, Germany had been at war for eight year now and no enemy aircraft had been seen over the Reich for the last six. Old Fatty had kept his promise, hostile aircraft over the Reich were unknown and the head of the Luftwaffe was still named Goering not Meyer. Besides, those in the know had said that only a handful of aircraft were heading towards the cities. There were reports that one of the giants had been brought down just west of the city so surely the rest would soon be punished for their impudence. The skies were mostly clear, just some scattered clouds, and the contrails of the two American aircraft were clearly visible against the bright blue sky. A few unfortunate people had even gone outside to watch them as they flew overhead, perhaps hoping to see another one shot down. Of these people, the luckiest were standing on the intersection of the Schenkelstrasse and Philippestrasse when the device released by Colonel Cunningham's Christine arced down over their heads.

As the device descended, signals from both radar and air pressure sensors prompted an electronics package to begin the initiation process: from this point on, Duren's life was measured in microseconds. An electrical impulse was sent and divided to travel down 32 different wires. After 0.003 microseconds these impulses reached detonators, positioned at 32 points on a hollow sphere of high explosives. This was a mixture of curved shapes of two different types of explosives, one fast-detonating the other slow. They were arranged so that the 32 separate explosions converged into a perfectly spherical explosive wave traveling inward—with the force of a third of a ton of dynamite. After 10 microseconds the explosive wave began to compress the “pit” a sphere of uranium 5 inches in diameter, compressing it to a fluid mass 2 inches across.

At that time, 19 microseconds after initiation, a small beryllium-polonium particle accelerator in the center of the pit was crushed by the Shockwaves and fired neutrons into the uranium sphere. The first of these neutrons were absorbed by uranium atoms and promptly caused those atoms to decay. Until then, the decay products had generally left the sphere; now, the compression caused by the explosives meant that the uranium atoms were so tightly packed that those decay particles tended to find other uranium atoms and caused them to take part in an accelerating chain reaction. This cycled about 60 times in the next microsecond.

Twenty microseconds after initiation, the process was complete and the outside of the warhead was just beginning to disintegrate from within. Gamma radiation from the nuclear reactions had already radiated up to 400 yards in every direction. A region of space over Duren the size of a truck contained the equivalent explosive energy of 35 kilotons -35,000 tons of TNT. The sphere of uranium had reached a temperature of 40,000,000° F, hotter than the center of the Sun. The gamma rays given off by the nuclear reactions radiated through the exploding mass at the speed of light. This enormous release of gamma radiation was absorbed by the surrounding air, heating it to a point where it released radiation itself.

The result was a fireball — a glowing ball of gas—that emitted every imaginable type of radiation including gamma rays, x-rays to ultraviolet, visible light, infrared and radio waves. An electromagnetic pulse-a very brief pulse of radio waves—was emitted, collecting in metal objects and created a power surge that damaged or destroyed electrical equipment, power lines and communications. Fifty microseconds after the initiation, nearly every telephone and radio transmitter in Duren had been disabled. After 70 microseconds the fireball was 220 yards across and was continuing to expand at many times the speed of sound.

By now, the fireball had formed two distinct regions: the center remained extremely hot while the temperature of the outer part had fallen as it pushed the surrounding air away. The fireball brightness decreased until 800 microseconds after detonation, when the fireball was as bright as the Sun. At that point, breakaway took place, a blast wave separated from the fireball's surface. That blast wave was an expanding sphere of highly compressed and fast moving air, initially traveling at ten times the speed of sound. The wave pushed the air away before it so that a partial vacuum was created behind it. As a result, the passing wave produced enormous pressures and severe momentary outward winds, followed by less intense inward winds. The blast wave was reflected from the ground and thereby reinforced itself. It was partly cloudy over Duren, but the blast had seemed to push the clouds away. At a distance of 1.5 miles the blast wave finally dropped to the speed of sound, 19 seconds after initiation.

At breakaway the fireball was 280 yards across with a surface temperature of 2,300 degrees. Once it wasn't pushing the blast wave before it, the outer layer was reheated by the interior to reach a uniform temperature. As the fireball expanded and heated up again, a second flash began as the fireball started to release the large amount of thermal energy it contained. At 1.07 seconds after initiation, the fireball was 360 yards in diameter and had a surface temperature of 10,800° F, greater than the surface temperature of the Sun. So far it had radiated 22 percent of its thermal energy and the fireball started to rise rapidly, while its surface temperature and brightness begin to decline. However, it continued to expand until at 8 seconds after initiation it had reached its maximum size of 400 yards across and released 90 percent of its thermal content.

The cooling fireball continued to rise and expand, dragging trails of smoke and dust to form a strange and terrifying mushroom cloud, no longer glowing but still reddish in hue and reaching 30,000 feet into the stratosphere. As the cloud cooled, moisture condensed into water and the mushroom cloud turned white, forming an impressive, complex wrapping of layers of clouds.

In Duren, it blotted out the Sun and created near a field of near-darkness that tried to hide the devastation. At Ground Zero, a region 180 yards across had been fused into glass. Within 6,000 yards of Ground Zero a semi-continuous fire was raging. Dust and debris was falling from the sky over the devastated areas, along with a black rain produced when atmospheric moisture superheated by the explosion recondensed on the plentiful dust and smoke particles. The black rain lasted several hours but by then, it didn't matter any more. Duren was dead.

Blast and fire were the effects that could be seen but the third horseman of the nuclear apocalypse had already arrived in Duren; high energy gamma radiation and the particles from atoms altered within the warhead during detonation which damaged the cells of nearby living organisms. Snow-like particles of radioactive debris were falling across the ruined city, causing an acute burning sensation on exposed skin. Survivors outdoors were quickly incapacitated by large doses of radiation doing direct damage to the central nervous system, causing convulsions, coma, and death within minutes. Those inside lasted a little longer.

A new disease was being added to the medical dictionary - radiation sickness, the combined effects of internal and external hemorrhaging, immune system damage, diarrhea, nausea, vomiting, anorexia, ulcers, hair loss, sterility, miscarriages, thyroid gland damage, fever, and liver damage. Throughout the area all the trees, mammals, and birds were wiped out by the combined effects of blast, fire and radiation.

Of Duren’s 89,600 inhabitants, more than 60,000 had been killed within ten minutes of Christine releasing her device. The rest would be dead within a week.

Panzer-Grenadier Lehr Detachment 101, Hurtgenwald, near Duren, Germany

Major Johan Lup reflected that he had been tasked to evaluate and report on two alternative solutions to a tactical requirement. One was the right solution to the wrong problem, the other was the wrong solution to the right problem. There was a moral there somewhere. The tactical requirement was quite simple and very important. In Russia, the American Army had introduced armored personnel carriers for their infantry. Full enclosed, tracked vehicles armed with machine guns. They had replaced the old half tracks and given the American infantry a marked tactical edge. So, the Army wanted an equivalent.

Two companies had been asked to develop prototypes and deliver them to PGL-101 for evaluation. Henschel had used one of the big eight-wheeled armored cars as a basis, enlarging it, giving it a boxy body with firing ports for the men inside and a one-man turret with a MG-151 20 millimeter cannon at the back. The back of the vehicle dropped down to form a ramp that allowed quick evacuation of the vehicle. Beautifully, designed, beautifully engineered - but wheeled. And the requirement was for a tracked vehicle.

Porsche had offered a tracked APC. One day, Major Lup wanted to meet Ferdinand Porsche so he could perform a few well-chosen atrocities on his anatomy. The Porsche vehicle was almost three times the weight of the Henschel and was elaborate to the point of insanity. It had a ramp at the back as well, but the Porsche design opened upwards and was powered. No power, the ramp stayed closed. There were no firing ports for the men inside, but there were remote-controlled cannon mounts once designed for use on a defunct heavy fighter, the Me-210. Because the Porsche vehicle was so heavy, it had two engines and burned fuel at a prodigious rate.

Lup shuddered, perhaps they should give the Porsche design to Henschel and ask them to re-engineer it. He went into the command vehicle, a Henschel thankfully, and tried to marshal his thoughts for his written report. They'd spent most of the morning trying to extract the Porsche vehicle from a ditch; heavier than most tanks, this had proved hard. Relaxing in the dim light he tried to find suitable adjectives for the experience when suddenly the ground under the vehicle started rocking violently. An earthquake? Surely not, such things just didn't happen here. Then he suddenly realized the inside wasn't so dim any more. Bright, blinding blue-white light streaming in through every crack and opening in the vehicle.

Outside he could hear screaming, then the APC rocked as a hot blast hit it. The screaming was drowned out by a mighty roar, one that made the his teeth vibrate in his head. Over it all, the shaking went on and on. Lup hung on to the fittings of the APC, still getting battered by the metal edges and by equipment that was thrown loose by the shaking.

Finally, the rocking stopped and he ran outside. Towering above them, over the nearby town of Duren, was a huge cloud, mushroom-shaped, glowing red and orange and black, reached up, high, high above him. It had punched the clouds aside, creating strange abstract patterns in the sky around it. Lup shook himself away from the sight and went to his men. Two, a sergeant and an enlisted man were lying on the ground while their medic bandaged their eyes. The doc saw Lup and shook his head. “When the explosion happened, they were looking straight at, at that” gesturing at the cloud. His lips moved quietly but Lup could read the words. They'll never see anything again.

“Sergeant, get the men up, put the wounded in the Porsche. Whatever's happened over at Duren, it must be a disaster over there. We've got to get in and help. Form column behind me,” There were five vehicles, two Henschels, two Porsches and a command vehicle. Not a bad little command but not much if the scale of the disaster was anything like his fears.

Just before they pulled out. there was another flash, this time from the direction of Aachen. Much less bright that one, distance saw to that, and Lup noted how men immediately ducked into the shadows. Again, the ground rocked violently, followed a few seconds later by the airborne Shockwave. The gap was greater than before, the explosion must have been much further away. On the horizon, another mushroom cloud was growing. Before they got to Duren, there had been many such blasts and he'd counted more than a dozen of the evil, glowing mushrooms forming. Whatever was happening wasn't an accident.

From the hill overlooking the town, Duren looked like a disaster. There was no mistaking the scale of the catastrophe, the whole town looked yellowish in the smoke-filtered light that covered it. Fires had broken out across the city and were spreading fast. Even in the five minutes Lup could watch, the fires grew bigger and their smoke spread everywhere, dividing the city into two parts. In one, the sun was still shining brightly but behind the cloud on the other side, it was completely dark. About 60 or 70 percent of the sky was covered by the cloud and the other 30 percent was completely clear but the darkness was spreading over the city even as he watched.

Lup noticed there was a strange rain beginning to fall, a black and sticky rain. It stuck everything. When it fell on trees and leaves, it stayed and turned everything black. When it fell on his men's uniforms, the cloth turned black. It stuck on their hands and feet. It made his skin itch like mad, a gnawing burning sensation. Lup used one of his canteens to try and wash the black rain off, only to find it was sticking to his skin. Just like the Ami's infernal jellygas, it couldn't be washed off.

They continued to move their small convoy towards the town. Just before the outskirts, they passed a mad naked man running in the opposite direction. He held an iron bucket over his head as if to hide his face since he had nothing on his body. Lup stopped his vehicle; the man had been engulfed by flames and barely made his way out. He kept repeating that his mother had woken him up in that morning, and that he was washing up when it happened, that mother was on the third floor of their apartment house and had been blown away with the blast. When his men tried to take the bucket he started to fight them, screaming that he didn't want to see, no matter what happened, he didn't want to see. Even when the soldiers could see his face, it was so swollen Lup couldn't even tell whether his eyes were open. While his little column had stopped to deal with the man, Lup heard the wind moaning and wailing yet the air seemed quite still now after the blasts. Puzzling, Leaving the man behind, he moved his column of vehicles forward, over the crest of a smaller ridge in front of him.

What lay in front was the Stadtpark along the banks of the Ruhr, Paths and bridges were blocked by the trunks of fallen trees and were almost impassable. If he'd had trucks, he wouldn't have got through. Even his AFVs only just made it. The trees was blasted and burned on the sides facing the city center, the other sides of their trunks had survived. Radiant energy Lup thought, and something else as well. Even where the leaves of the trees had been sheltered, they were already turning yellow and dying. Trees didn't die that fast, they fought for life, he'd seen trees blasted and burned by artillery and they'd fought to get another green shoot out, to repair the damage somehow. But here, the trees had given up. “Not just the trees either, the grass and bushes were either burned into blackness, charred beyond recovery or had the same sickly yellowing of death.

That was when Lup saw the sounds he'd heard hadn't been wind after all. The park was covered with hundreds, perhaps thousands of appallingly burned and injured people. The victims hair's was frizzled and turning to ash, and their faces bloated and dark red from burns. Pieces of their skin were hanging down from open wounds, and their clothing was scorched. They were covered with blood. Many of them were brought in on shutters that served as stretchers. They looked like ghosts, lying there, their internal organs bulging through their hands, moaning, wailing or just sitting quietly in silence, waiting to die. Lup had seen people burned before, he had pulled men out of burning vehicles, he had seen the victims of the Ami's hated jellygas but never had he seen burns like this. He'd heard the expression “burned to the bone” but, never before applied to the living.

Everywhere he looked was horror incarnate. One place he saw a man whose skin was completely peeled off the upper half of his body and by him a young woman whose eye balls were sticking out. Her whole body was bleeding. Next to them were another mother and her baby, both lying with their skin completely peeled off. The father was standing motionless beside them, his skin was paring away all over his body and was hanging from his finger tips. Just by the road were a group of high school children from the local gymnasium. They had been outside when the bomb fell and were covered with blisters, the size of balls, on their backs, their faces, their shoulders and their arms. The blisters were starting to burst open and their skin hung down like rags. Some even had burns on the soles of their feet where the super-heated pavement had burned through the soles of their shoes. Lup heard the echoing of rifle shots as some of his soldiers, overcome by the horror, gave the only form of mercy they could to those victims whose sufferings were too horrible to endure or to witness.

Shaken to the core of his soul, Lup gave the order to mount up and move into the city center. There was nothing they could do here, the scale of the disaster was beyond their ability to comprehend, let alone ameliorate. Perhaps, in the city itself, there was something they could do. The stunned, silenced soldiers took their vehicles across the railway bridge over the Ruhr. By some weird fluke the railroad bridge had burned and was leaning but it was still standing and could even take the weight of the corpulent Porsche APC. The railing on the bridge had been blown away, and the force of the shock wave reflected by the surface of the river had torn up its 30-centimeter-thick pavement. The train tracks were twisted, like melted taffy. The shadows of incinerated human bodies had been burned into the structure, and at one end, a water tank bore the shadows of its valves.

Below them were people looking for water and taking it from the river. But the water was worse that cyanide. From above the soldiers could see the weird iridescent scum floating on the surface and, even as they watched, those who drank the water screamed and threshed and died soon after. They saw the bodies floating in the river, of the poisoned, the burned, the blasted and the drowned. They saw soldiers, from the local garrison who'd shared their breakfast with the Panzergrenadiers a few hours before. Now they floated with bloated stomachs and contorted faces down the river. Lup guessed they probably had to dive into the water to get away from the searing heat of the fires.

Abandoned on the bridge, standing with sunken heads were a small group of horses, four of them, with hideously large burns on their sides. Lup and his men had eaten enough horse to recognize the smell of cooked horseflesh. Lup had always felt himself lucky to have a P08 pistol, not one of the lousy P38s. Now, he used it to shoot the horses.

A little father on, they saw uncounted numbers of dead people piled up at the side of the road. As the armored vehicles drove further on, Lup saw a woman whose legs were caught under a large timber in a building that was already burning. She couldn't get free and was screaming for help but no one came. Everyone was too busy trying to get away to pay any attention to anyone else. The soldiers used the AFV tools to free the woman but she died almost as soon as the weight was lifted from her.

As they drove closer to the city center, terribly burned people formed groups and cried from the heat as they wondered from place to place seeking an escape. Yet the fires were closing in around them, spreading from building to building and shutting off the escape routes. AM their clothes were scorched black and their skin was sore and melted as if they were hanging vinyl handbags from their bodies. The flakes and the black rain were burning Lup's skin painfully, what it must be like for people who had been flayed alive he couldn't imagine. Lup saw a blind child whose eyeballs were melted by the blast and were running down his cheeks like tears, crying “Mommy, take me somewhere!” then falling down and dying after aimless unsteady steps.

A line of people walked in the opposite direction, down the darkened street, now lit only by the orange flames of the burning buildings, each with a hand on the shoulder of the one in front. Lup thought they were wearing blackened rags but then saw they were naked and the “rags” were their flesh and skin peeling form their bones. The vicious sawing burst of the MG-42 mounted on the vehicle behind beat his order by only a split second. A man must have heard the snarl of the machinegun because he came out from behind some rubble. He must have been partly shadowed for the left side of his body was seared purple while the rest was untouched. He earnestly told Major Lup that firing a machine gun inside city limits was strictly forbidden. Then he started laughing hysterically and advised everybody that there was nothing to be concerned about. Quite mad, thought Lup, poor man. Then, perhaps to go mad was the only sane course of action

They were now passing through a part of the city where the buildings were shattered, leaning away from the blast center as if concrete and brick could escape from the fury of the thing that had destroyed Duren. Caved, in, burning with their victims still inside. One of the last buildings standing was the regional office of the Deutsche Bank about 800 meters from the center of the explosion.. Clearly imprinted on the stone steps was a dark silhouette of a man. Upon these steps at the moment of the blast a man must have been sitting, perhaps with an elbow on one knee and one hand supporting his chin, in an attitude of deep thought. Perhaps he'd just been told his account was overdrawn and a deposit was required immediately. Perhaps he'd been thinking of his friends, of who he could ask for a loan to tide him over. The incredible flash of the explosion had “printed” the outline of this man on the steps, marking the moment of his death.

Further in still was just rubble, burning rubble surrounded by the stink of roasted pork. The central portion of the city, directly underneath the explosion suffered almost complete destruction. The only surviving objects were the frames of a small number of strong reinforced concrete buildings, they hadn't been collapsed by the blast, but even these buildings had been gutted by interior fires, had their windows, doors, and partitions knocked out, and all other fixtures which were not integral parts of the reinforced concrete frames burned or blown away.

And then came something Lup had never seen before. Where the city center had been was a sheet of blackened glass. It was called Trinitite although he didn't know that. The black disk, surrounded by the blasted burning building and topped by the black and red-streaked sky with that awful cloud still hanging overhead looked like some obscene arena where demons played satanic games. The APCs drove out into the center of the hellish inferno that had once been Duren and then the armored vehicles stopped. They formed the five points of a pentagon, facing outwards as if to defend themselves from the horror that was engulfing them. From the armored vehicles on the disk of blackened glass Lup looked out at the tens of thousands of dead that surrounded him. And, although he didn't know it yet, he was already one of them.

NAIADS Command Headquarters, Potsdam, Germany

Duron, Aachen, Cologne, Essen, Dortmund, Dusseldorf, Duisburg, Bochum, Wuppertal, Bielefeld, Bonn, Gelsenkirchen, Monchengladbach.

The red circles were advancing across the map of Germany in a vicious, virulent infection, that ended with an electronic howl, a burst of static, then silence. The NAIADS operations center was quite now except for the quiet sound of the women weeping as they operated their communications equipment.

Krefeld, Oberhausen, Hagen, Hamm, Herne, Mullheim, Solingen.

The Mayor of Solingen had been fluent in English, educated in a British university, By a miracle he'd managed to get into touch by radio with one of the bombers closing in on his city. In English, he begged them not to drop, told them there were women and children in the city. The reply from the bomber had been a cold “Wir sprechen Deutsch nicht” Then an electronic howl, a burst of static and silence.

Neuss, Paderborn, Recklinghausen, Bottrop, Remscheid, Siegen, Moers, Bergisch, Gladbach, Iserlohn, Gutersloh.

Gutersloh had tried to surrender. Broadcasting across every frequency available. Broadcasts that ended in an electronic howl, a burst of static and silence.

Marl, Lunen, Velbert, Ratingen, Minden.

The early targets had all been part of the area covered by the North-Rhine Westphalia Regional Control Center. For a while, Field Marshall Herrick had hoped the attack was confined there, that the American bombers were just attempting to smash German industry. That hope had become thinner and thinner as Ruhrland city after city had vanished under the monstrous mushroom clouds. But Herrick clung to it desperately, hoping beyond hope or reason that the attack was a limited one.

Mainz, Ludwigshafen, Koblenz, Trier, Kaiserslautern.

All in the area controlled by the Rhineland-Palatinate regional control center. Herrick felt his world cave in still further. The vicious irony was tearing at his soul. He'd spent years on NAIADS, first fighting to build it, then scheming to defend it and secure the resources it had needed. He'd done it so that Germany would stand defended. Now, the system that should have crowned his professional life, that should have protected Germany, was reduced to a helpless spectator, fit only for monitoring Germany's destruction.

Stuttgart, Mannheim, Karlsruhe, Freiburg, Heidelberg.

A thousand years of history were being wiped out with casual contempt. In his mind’s eye, Herrick could see the American bombers cruising effortlessly over Germany, raining down death on the helpless country beneath. Every so often there would be a sharp cry from one of the women on the communications desks as her home town vanished under the red dots. Others reacted differently when the red circles reached their home towns. Some just watched in silence, a few fainted. One had smiled.

Heilbronn, Ulm, Pforzheim, Reutlingen, Ludwigsburg, Villingen-Schwenningen.

Suddenly there was a stir in operations center. A familiar figure had entered the area, Old Fatty himself. Only he wasn't so fat now. In fact, he was looking better that he'd done for years. It was rumored that he'd been weaned off the morphine addiction that had nearly destroyed him. The Reichsmarshal sat quietly in one corner of the Ops room, watching the spreading stains on the situation display.

Esslingen, Frankfurt, Wiesbaden, Kassel, Saarbrucken, Darmstadt, Offenbach, Hanau.

More electronic howls, crashes of static, more deadly silences. “However did we come to this?” Herrick was speaking to himself more than anybody else, his shocked mind not really capable of distinguishing between what he was seeing, hearing or feeling. But it was Goering who replied. “Sometimes, when flying at night, a pilot sets his course by the wrong star and there is nobody to stop him. By the time he realizes what he has done, he's so far into the unknown that no chart can help him back, All he can do is keep going and hope that somehow things will work out in the end. But they never do, the situation always gets worse and eventually the pilot crashes and burns. Germany set its course by the wrong star many years ago and nobody tried to stop us. So now we have crashed and burned.”

Hamburg, Bremen, Bremerhaven, Braunschweig, Kiel, Erfurt, Osnabruck, Oldenburg, Gottingen, Wolfsburg, Salzgitter, Gera, Hildesheim, Jena, Wilhelmshaven, Flensburg.

Three explosions reported over Hamburg, two over Kiel, three over Wilhelmshaven. The U-boat construction yards, Herrick thought dully. They'd given the Americans a bad time in 1942 and threatened the same three years later. Now the Americans had their revenge. God in Heaven what revenge they were taking. An old German saying popped into his mind. “Beware the wrath of a patient man.” But the people didn't deserve this. Again he didn't realize he'd spoken aloud. Again it was Goering, sitting quietly in his corner who answered. It wasn't a conversation it was more like two dead men speaking their last words at once.

“The people? Didn't deserve this? My friend, do you know who founded the Gestapo? Me. I did. It was my creation. I made it out of the Prussian criminal police. We had an informer on every block, in every shop, in every office in every factory. Every time somebody farted we heard about it. Do you know how many protested? None. When the police came for the communists then the Jews then the trades unionists and then the Slavs, do you know how many raised their voices? None. Do you know who knew what was happening to those who were arrested? Everybody. Do you know how many tried to warn them or to help them? Almost none. Do you know how many planned coups there have been? “None. Do you know how many plots there have been to assassinate the Fuhrer? None.”

Munich, Nurnburg, Hannover, Augsburg, Wurtzburg, Ingolstadt, Furth, Erlangen.

Reports of eight explosions over Munich. One of the women gasped and vomited on the floor. First time that had happened. She left her desk, spoke to a guard and stepped out of the center with his pistol. A second later a single pistol shot cracked. The guard went out and came back, reholstering his P38. ^“The Fuhrer, where is he?” This time Herrick managed the question consciously.

“He is in Berlin. Refusing to believe any of this is happening. Believes the attack has been defeated. Refuses to go to the bunker for cover. I do not propose to tell him the defense system on which we spent billions failed to stop this attack, do you? I thought not. But do not concern yourself, the Fuhrer is not seeing the same reality as the rest of us. He has not done that for a long time now. He was hearing voices years before the invention of the radio. You look shocked? What can he do to us now? Kill us? I think the Americans are about to do that for him. If you wish to shoot yourself now, you may borrow my pistol. It is a very fine one''

Leipzig, Chemnitz, Halle, Lubeck, Rostock, Regensburg, Schwerin, Dessau, Dresden.

The tide was reaching Berlin now. The radars had gone now, communications were falling apart. What word they could get was that most of the American bombers had turned and were retreating to the west. The plot still showed a formation of nine aircraft heading straight for the capital. Herrick had one card left to play, his Ju-635s. If they could stop that formation, they would at least save the capital. Not to mention his own life. It was down to his surviving four-engined freaks and the nine American bombers.

Flight Deck B-36H “Texan Lady”, 52,500 feet over Brandenburg Province Germany.

Getting there was an anti-climax. After almost 23 hours in the air, Texan Lady and her consorts had almost made it to Berlin. After the brief excitement with the Me-263s, the rest of the flight had been routine to the point of being boring. The RB-36s that had once been in front of them had already turned back and were exploring routes across Germany that avoided the dangers from the nuclear bursts that disfigured the countryside below them. Earlier, they had intercepted frantic scrambling on the radio nets but now, there was an eerie quiet. The next stage was for the formation to split up.

Colonel Dedmon's Texan Lady would lead Sixth Crew Member and Barbie Doll across the center of the city, dropping on Spandau, Charlottenburg, the Reich Chancellery and Lichtenburg. Colonel DC Montana's Raidin' Maiden would swing south leading Mardi Gras and Silver Angel to drop on Potsdam, Steiglitz, Tempelhof and Karlshorst. Finally, Colonel Norman Friedman would bring his Peace on Earth in on the northern route with Happy Hooker and Shady Lady to hit Hennigsdorf, Wittenau, Rosentahl and Blankenburg. The drops had been carefully planned, the Targeteer had shown Dedmon how the destruction patterns would interlock and reinforce each other to devastate the whole city. More importantly from Dedmon's point of view, their positioning and timing would mean the B-36s could get clear of the city before all hell -quite literally - broke loose.

If it worked right, the three formations would be on converging courses so they could form up the other side of Berlin for their return home. Another 22 hour flight. Dedmon hadn't decided whether to go straight home on the Great Circle route or divert via the Azores and tank up again there. Depended on his fuel status he supposed. Texan Lady had been running on all ten engines for nearly two hours now but her immense tankage still gave her a worthwhile fuel reserve.

“Sir, 16 contacts coming up from underneath us. Slow rate of climb consistent with manned jet or piston engined fighters. Not Wasserfall or the Me-263s. I'll have a look.” Texan Lady didn't have the superb optical equipment of an RB-36 but what she did have was good enough for her bombardier to be nick-named “The Argus”. A few second later there was a puzzled whistle from the nose compartment “Sir, I think the enemy have finally cracked. We appear to be under attack by flying abortions.”

“Clarify Argus, what's going on down there?”

“Sir, the fighters climbing towards us appear to have two fuselages joined together by a central wing. Each fuselage has two engines, one at the front, one at the back.”

Dedmon's eyebrows raised. “Major Pico, please go down to the nose compartment and search it thoroughly. I have reason to believe Argus has some bottles of alcoholic beverages hidden away. When you find them, confiscate them and bring them back up here.”

“Sir, it’s for real. They're climbing towards us. They can't make it all the way up, they seem to be breaking off at around 45,000 feet”

“The Germans do have a twin-engined fighter, the Pfeil, that has engines front and rear, and they have been experimenting with twin-fuselage aircraft. Perhaps this is something along those lines?”

“Sir, Bombardier here. One of the fighters is firing rockets. Dedmon looked down, black smoke was streaking away from the weird looking tighter underneath them, straight towards Texan Lady. OK, he knew the answer to this and banked the big bomber around. To his surprise, the rockets altered course to follow him,, climbing fast to eat up the gap between the fighter and the bomber. “Find that thing's control frequency and jam it Dirk, NOW.”

“No frequency to jam sir, we're not picking up anything. There's no control signal at all.”

“Damn it, something must be controlling them.” Dedmon was weaving Texan Lady, but the rockets still kept countering his turns. Around him, he could see the other bombers were also trying to evade the missiles. Then, they weren't closing any more. As he watched, they ran out of energy and stalled out, falling away. The weird German fighters were out of range, even using their steerable rockets. Dedmon sighed with relief.

“You know Andy, if the bad guys ever get those things working and on an aircraft that can get up here, we could be in real trouble, OK. Crews - all aircraft. Formations to split for bomb runs. Get ready for the runs over Berlin. Don't miss your target points, if you do, you'll have to do a rerun and that won't be healthy. Get ready for an intervalometer check.”

On Texan Lady the master command system gave out a bleep, setting the clocks in the aircraft - and more importantly to the 12 nuclear devices they were carrying to the same instant. Now, everything in the formations was running exactly synchronized. The speeds of the aircraft were calculated so the drops would be simultaneous for each of the four three-device salvoes. That would prevent them blowing each other up. It would take 200 seconds for the first device to fall from the B-36s altitude to initiation. By the time that happened, the last salvo would be on its way down and the bomber would be well clear of the blast.. Now, Raidin' Maiden and Peace on Earth were leading their sections away.

“Prepare for bomb run.” Now the crew had hard work to do. Heavy cotton duck curtains were pulled over all the aircraft transparencies. Six layers of cotton duck, interleaved with layers of carbon to prevent flash penetrating the cockpit. The crew members solemnly took eyepatches out and put them over one eye. They were the last line of defense against flash penetrating the inside of the aircraft. The theory was the victims would lose only one eye and could continue on using the other.

“Arrr harrr me Hearties” It was the female voice again. Dedmon was convinced it was Martin in the tail gunner's position. Couldn't prove it though.

The next job was to get the internal lights switched on so the plane could be secured. The crew were busy getting everything loose stowed away. After 23 hours in the air, Texan Lady was littered with garbage from rations and the mechanics of flying. It all had to be secured so that the blast from the explosions would throw it into unwanted places. Back in the aft compartment maps and frequency charts were stowed, the oil drums for the engines sealed. Dedmon checked the navigation equipment.

His course was 91 degrees and the conduct of the attack would soon be in the hands of The Argus. He would fly Texan Lady along her bomb run, dropping the devices as soon as the K-5 radar system showed the correct target picture. That was another requirement the Targeteer had told them about. The drop points had to be clearly visible on the K-5 radar scope. Dedmon suddenly realized the depth of planning that must have gone into setting The Big One up. Aboard Sixth Crew Member and Barbie Doll the crews were getting their monitoring instruments and cameras ready. Their role was as much scientific as military; it was essential to get every scrap of information from every drop.

OK. Time to go. Lights off and the inside of the aircraft was pitch black. He took his hands off the controls and felt the tiny movements as The Argus lined her up on the targets. Then, there was a bang, a soft bump and another bang. That had been the snap-action bomb-bay doors opening, the first device being dropped and the door closing. He felt Texan Lady making a small sensuous movement, then, 48 seconds after the first drop there was the same bang-bump-bang. Some more slight moves, 96 seconds after the first drop, bang-bump-bang. More moves, 144 seconds after the run started bang-thump-bang. Then the engines surged and Texan Lady was running for her life.

The B-29s, originally envisaged as the atomic bomb delivery aircraft, would have had to perform some elaborate escape maneuvers to get away from the blast of their devices. The B-36 relied on speed and altitude. The Argus had put Texan Lady was in a slight dive, straining her engines to get as far away from the target as possible, 200 seconds later and 24.5 miles behind her, the first of her nuclear devices initiated. She was clear, the blast wave felt like a kidney punch to the crew, no more. Still she ran, as each successive blast wave hit her. Ten, eleven, twelve, it was all over, Berlin was 42 miles behind them and, if it had been done right, all nine aircraft would be closing slowly to regain formation.

The crew took off their eyepatches rolled up their duck curtains. The outer surfaces of the heavy white cotton were singed brown, perhaps the safety margin hadn't been that big after all. After their eyes adjusted to the light, they could see the flight plan had worked perfectly, the other two sections were closing in, far enough out for safety, close enough for support. Dedmon brought Texan Lady around in a gentle bank, allowing Raidin' Maiden and Peace on Earth to drop into position. Berlin was far away to port yet Dedmon could see the roiling, boiling cloud of smoke and debris that covered the city. Towering over the layered mass were twelve giant glowing reddish-brown mushroom clouds twisting and boiling in the light as they slowly darkened, the glow fading and the red-brown gradually turning white.

“Oh my God, what have we done?” It was Major Pico speaking quietly to himself,

Nottingham, Occupied England

As always, it had started with a message on the radio. “The Fat Man Has Sung for Kathleen.” That had taken David Newton and his cell to a message drop that contained further orders. Those had supplied the group with yet more instructions and weapons. And a target. This was an attack on a German installation.

Something almost unheard-of. The Resistance had studiously avoided attacking German installations. Halifax targets were fine, the Germans didn't really care. Kill an odd sentry or a member of the collaborationist forces well, that would be tolerated. Bui hit an installation or do something spectacular and all hell would break lose. The Irish had found that out, Back in '42 the Germans had taken Ireland over. It wasn't an invasion, they'd just walked in and taken it.

The IRA, hardened, so they thought, by years of guerilla warfare against the British had declared their campaign “to liberate Ireland from the new invaders.'' They'd attacked a German convoy at a small village called Ballykissangel. Then sat back to watch the fun.

They knew what would happen, the security forces would come, flounder around making enquiries, arrest a few people and that was it. Well, the SS and Gestapo came and locked the men in the Catholic Church. The women and children were locked in the Protestant chapel. Then the German burned both churches down. They'd destroyed every building in the village and plowed the ruins under. By the end of the day there was no sign the village had ever existed.

It was, the German commandant explained, the new rules. They were called Lidice Rules. First rule. There are no rules. Here ends the Lidice Rules. One IRA attack meant the nearest village to the scene was wiped off the face of the earth. The SS didn't care whether it was the right village or the wrong village. It was the village.

It had taken some time for the message to sink in and a lot of Ireland got depopulated in the process but even the IRA had learned. Don't attack Germans. They don't play games. They are not nice people. They only obey Lidice Rules. The British Resistance had watched and learned. Don't attack Germans. But now his group and the four that had assembled with it were ordered to attack a German installation. To be accurate, Soldatensender Nottingham, Technically this was the radio station that served German troops stationed in the UK. In reality it was the one radio station everybody listened to; they had to, it was where German directives were announced. Now it had to be taken off the air at a specific time and Newton's people had to hold it against all opposition until authorized to withdraw.

This sounded grim. It was not what resistance forces did. They hit and ran and hid. So why were they ordered to take a target and hold indefinitely? Something was going on. Sally had noted that the Germans she did business with had been acting strangely. Apparently, communications with Germany were down all day. One of her “clients” had spent most of his time with her worrying about his wife and children. Sally couldn't understand the problem, she knew they lived in a small German town well away from the big cities. A place called Duren,

Newton looked through the dusk towards the radio station. It wasn't heavily guarded at all. Lidice Rules were a better protection than guards. But the time to go wasn't yet. He and his people had to wait. For some reason, timing was very crucial in this job.

NAIADS Command Headquarters, Potsdam, Germany

A new display board had been wheeled out, partly obscuring the graveyard map of Germany. This one showed the Western approaches to Berlin. Technically, covering Berlin was the responsibility of the Berlin Local Control Center reporting to the Brandenburg Regional Control Center which relayed its reports to the National Control Center. However, in reality, all three were in the same place and used the same staff and facilities. Field Marshal Herrick reflected that if this last throw of the defensive dice failed, he would have to court-martial himself.

The display showed only 25 aircraft, there were more around but those were the only ones that mattered. Nine were American bombers, heading into Berlin now. Flying in three V formations. Going up to meet them were sixteen Ju-635 heavy fighters. Four “finger” formations each of four aircraft. Looking at them, Herrick was irresistibly reminded of two groups of medieval knights out to joust in the name of chivalry. Only chivalry had nothing to do with what was going on now. The Americans had simply ignored the German defenses and smashed the country without giving it a chance to defend itself.

The Ju-635 was the last chance to save something from the carnage. Most of the four engined-freaks were lost now. Some had landed only to be destroyed on the ground, others had been too close to the mushroom clouds when the American Hellburners exploded. Such an apt name, one of the fighter pilots had overflown Mainz, said all the fires of hell were burning in the city and the American bombs had picked up the name, Hellburners. But there were 16 Ju-635s left, low on fuel and that was good. Most of the four-engined freaks had been unable to even get close to the American bombers and had had to watch them cruise past. A couple had claimed their missiles had got close to their targets and caused the big bombers to head west, streaming smoke. In his heart, derrick guessed that was optimistic. But the 16 defending Berlin were flying light, on his orders they'd fired off their cannon ammunition and done everything else they could to lighten their load. 16 Ju-635s, 3 missiles per aircraft, surely almost 50 missiles could achieve something against nine targets? Couldn't they?

Herrick watched while the plot developed. It was the usual pattern now, the American bombers heading straight for their target, relying on their speed and altitude to evade the defenses. The Ju-635 pilots had learned from earlier battles, they'd spread out to catch the American bombers in a web. Their problem was they were stalling out of their climb a full 2,000 meters below their targets. The Americans were using the same evasive tactics they'd used earlier, wait until the enemy fired then used their aircraft's astounding high-altitude maneuverability to turn inside the weapons. Of course now it didn't help, the missiles followed them into the turns but each turn drank up the missile's energy. The American bombers ducked and weaved around salvo after salvo. One by one, the missiles all fell short of their targets. The last one gone, the big Junkers turned away, they'd shot their bolt. And missed.

There were gasps, a few whimpers then a profound silence in the operations center as the plot showing the German fighters separated and left the American bombers to their runs. The three formations of bombers were splitting now, their intent obvious, they'd make three parallel runs over the city beneath them, Herrick found himself having trouble breathing, the despair in the air was so thick.

“So how many Hellburners do you think they will drop on us?” Reichsmarshal Goering sounded almost obscenely cheerful. “I think nine. One from each bomber. Anybody else got a guess? I'll give a prize to anybody whose guess is closer than mine. Anybody?” There was a deafening silence.

“I think twelve sir. Munich had six bombers and got eight Hellburners. We have nine so I think twelve.” The woman sounded hesitant and nervous about speaking to somebody ranked so high but Goering smiled at her. “And what is your name my dear. It appears nobody else wants to play.”

“I am Sunni Sir. Sunni Brucke.”

“Are you married Sunni?”

“No sir, I was hoping to marry my fiancé on his next leave. He is in Russia. With the Panzers. But...”

“Not one of my fighter pilots.” Goering shook his head as if he couldn't believe a woman would want to marry anybody other than a fighter pilot. “We'll make this a little bet between us then. If your guess is closer than mine then you and your fiancé can have your honeymoon at Karinhall.” There was an intake of breath around the room. Karinhatl was Goering's legendary hunting lodge, named after his first wife.

A fabled palace of extreme luxury filled with treasures looted from all over Europe. Several of the other women mentally kicked themselves for not joining in, they'd missed the chance of a lifetime, “if I win Sunni, you give me that bracelet you are wearing. We have a bet?”

Sunni nodded, the bracelet was a cheap and worthless piece of costume jewelry. Herrick watched fascinated. With a simple exchange Goering had made people think about the future again, about surviving and what to do if they survived.

The plot showed the American bombers were approaching fast now. “How tightly can we seal this place down. And once we have done so, how long can we stay down here?” Herrick realized Goering was speaking to him now. And the voice was solid ice, it wasn't the genial banter he'd used with the girl. The friendly good humor had gone from the eyes, replaced by piercing, glacial command. Herrick reminded himself that Old Fatty was not a clown or a buffoon; if he gave that impression, it was because doing so served his ends. To be frightened of this man was very wise.

“Sir, we are deep down here, protected by reinforced concrete. The air supply is from outside but it’s filtered by a system intended to defend against poison gas. We have our own generators and a good supply of fuel. Not a great supply but we can economize by cutting out non-essential systems. We have food for at least two weeks. Not good food but it will keep us running.”

“Then we can ride out the attack?”

“As long as a Hellburner does not land right on top of us, yes sir.” Herrick was aghast, he mentally flayed himself, he had been so hypnotized by the destruction he'd forgotten to think out how to survive. He'd been so fixated with the failure of his air defense system, he'd forgotten to capitalize on what it could do. How many RCCs and LCCs had been lost because their staff had done the same? A few simple things might give them a much better chance of surviving. “Kill all the unnecessary lights, make sure the air system filters are in place. Make sure that whatever is loose is fixed down. And hold on this will be rough.”

It could be minutes, perhaps seconds until the Hellbumers started to fall. It seemed like hours were passing yet the plot of the bomber approaches had coincided with the city already. A few people were praying, others writing notes or last letters. Goering's words had broken the air of utter despair and demoralization but nobody really believed they could survive.

Then, there was a massive blow that filled the room with dust and smoke, panels from the ceiling crashed down; people were knocked from their feet as the room shook. Herrick saw the floor was actually moving in a rippling wave, the maps flexing and arcing on their tracks. There was a roar, a deep threatening growl that seemed to fill the room from all around, no particular source but surrounding them in a cocoon of noise. Over in one corner, the cups and saucers shattered into fragments. Herrick felt himself falling, landing on his butt in an undignified squat. The lights went out completely and there was utter darkness.

That made the second shock all the more terrifying even though it was much weaker than the first. By now, everything that could be broken had broken and everybody who could fall over was on the ground. Instead they were just shaken and the wreckage was spread around. That shock lasted longer that the first and was still fading when a third, weaker and longer, struck. Weaker was still a relative term though, the NAIADS operations center had been built to withstand attack even though nothing like the Hellburners had even been imagined when its specifications were drawn up. Springs, Herrick thought, next time we'll put the whole structure on springs to absorb the shock. Then the fourth Shockwave hit, stronger than any except the first.

It went on and on, a hideous remorseless hammering, each blow adding more chaos and damage to the shattered command center. Each successive Shockwave was weaker than those that preceded it now, but they were striking a progressively weakened structure and the damage mounted fast. By the time the last blow struck, the walls were cracking open and masonry had collapsed from the ceiling. After it was all over, the blacked-out room seemed deathly silent. And still, so very still. Even when the emergency lights came on, it was hard to see anything through the dust, smoke and wreckage. But the fans picked up and the air cleared. The room was a complete shambles, the orderly German working environment seemed just a dim, distant memory. People picked themselves up from the floor. One of the women kept muttering “we are alive, we are alive.

There was an eruption in one corner of the bunker. A pile of crushed wreckage and shattered ceiling tiles suddenly started moving, then the burst open, Goering's head emerged, his body still buried in the shambles but incredibly he was smiling. “Of course we are alive you silly girl. I am here. Once I flew one of Mr. Fokker's triplanes. If I survived that, no Americans with their Hellburners stand a chance of killing me. Field Marshal Herrick. Are you aware of what you now command? And of who I now am?”

Herrick thought for a second. Then a great light opened inside his head. NAIADS had failed as an air defense system, not because it was a bad system but because it didn’t have the components it needed to succeed. But it was probably the finest communication system in the world; one no other nation could match. It was a communications system that had worked superbly well even when faced with an unimaginable challenge. And it was a hardened communications system, once the strange electronic effects had faded, and they would fade he was sure of that, they were the means by whatever was left of Germany could coordinate its survival. And Goering? He was probably the only senior member of the Government left.

Another great light flashed on in Herrick's head. He'd assumed that Goering's presence here was happenstance, or perhaps an old fighter pilot wanting to die surrounded by the last remnants of his air force. But Goering must have had this worked out from the beginning, he must have grasped the significance of the American raid early on and thought this whole thing through. He suddenly wondered if Hitler's refusal to believe that the incredible destruction of the raid was really taking place had been entirely due to senile decay.

“Yes my Fuhrer..” Goering stopped him with a wave of his hand. “Mr. President please. Germany has had one Fuhrer this century and that is quite enough.” Herrick nodded to accept the correction. “Yes Mr. President. We will get the communications up again and then what? What are your intentions.”

“To make peace, you fool. Do you want the Americans to come back tomorrow or the day after with more Hellburners to finish the rest of us? How much chance do you think our armies will stand when the Americans drop Hellburners on them? And if we must grovel to get peace, then grovel we will. And, Miss Sunni. It was twelve Hellburners. You win our bet. When you and your young man are together again, you are welcome to stay at Karinhall for as long as you wish.”

Somewhere Starboard Side Aft of Amidships, USS Shiloh, CVB-41. Position 46.8North, 4.6 West.

Democrats, the Senior Chief thought, definitely the work of DEMOCRATS. He and his damage control team had fought their way through the fire in the Scullery. In truth, that hadn't been so difficult. Samoa had poured so much water into this area that the fires had been damped down before his men got in. There were areas burning of course and a few were in their way. But no worse than any kitchen fire. They'd been put out. Smoke and poison were the worst problem. The Senior Chief spat. Jet black. Not good, even for him, not good at all. So they'd got through the scullery and out the other side, up a trunk access to the next deck which was reached via a hatch. Then, they'd gone back, got their Handy Billy pump, some avgas to run it. Made sure Mr. Pickering was OK. He'd taken a nasty blow to his head and his forehead was gashed open but he was still breathing. Then opened the hatch - or tried to. It was dogged shut. From above.

The Senior Chief was much more worried than he was letting on. There was something about the feel of a doomed ship, of a ship that had given up and accepted death and Shiloh had it. Ever since the great explosion that had rocked her, there had been more and more smaller explosions, so often that they sometimes seemed to merge into a single tolling detonation. Decades of experience and more shipboard emergencies than he could remember told him that the fires must be spreading out of control by now. With each of the explosions, the ship was shuddering and screaming, absorbing mortal blow after mortal blow. And the hatch that was their way out was dogged. From above.

“We've got to get aft. Everything must be burning up forward and the way the deck is sloping, she's flooding fast up there. There must be a way up. You stay here. Gibson, you're in charge. Look after Mr. Pickering until I get back.”

The Senior Chief dropped back down into the scullery and vanished into the darkness. Behind him, the situation grew more desperate. Somehow a rumor started that Shiloh had already been abandoned and that destroyers were torpedoing her. Anybody left on board would drown with her. The ship was listing to port faster with each minute. One seaman put his hand on a bulkhead then withdrew it in terror “it’s cold, we're already under water.” Gibson clipped him on the jaw and stopped his hysterics; panic now would kill them all. At long last, the Senior Chief made it back. His eyes were half-shut from the smoke and he was bleeding in several places but he'd found a way out. He retched and caught his breath.

“We can get out of here. It’s tough but we can make it. We have to go aft about a hundred feet. The overhead has come down but if you get on your hands and knees, we can make it. Hang onto the belt of the man in front of you. No pushing or shoving or you won't make it Those of you as don’t have breathing gear, cover your nose an’ mouth with cloth. Anything, Wet it, if you don't have water, piss on it. You three with Mr. Pickering, stay in the middle of the group, make sure he's over the wreckage on the deck.

“I'm OK, Senior, I can make it on my own.” Ensign Pickering's voice was weak and shaky but he was speaking. That was good, thought the Senior Chief, it would have been better if he had said something sensible. But then he was a young officer and probably a Democrat to boot, it was too much to expect him to say something sensible, even without a concussion.

“OK Sir, but you stay in the middle of the group, hang on to Gibson's belt. Lets go.”

The men followed the Senior Chief into the passageway. It was dark, filled with smoke and cramped beyond understanding. Unable to move any way except forward, not up, not down, not to one side or the other, just forward. There was no way to escape the thick black smoke that coiled around them. Ensign Pickering marveled at the man who'd made his way through this passage once, into the fresh clean air, then come back for him and the rest of the team. The smoke filled his lungs and he felt as if he couldn't go any further.

Somehow, the Senior Chief whispered into his ear “Don't quit now or I'll bust your ass.” Had he really said that? Or had he said “bust your ass again.” Pickering didn't know and resigned himself to the fact he never would. After what seemed an eternity they came to a hatch. The Senior had opened it once already, now it was flung open and the damage control team poured into the fresh, clean, cold air. The fittest of the men paused for a second then grabbed and pulled some of the men too weak to pass over the coaming. The Senior Chief and Ensign Pickering were the last out.

They were on a starboard midships three inch twin mount sponson, it was a measure of how badly hurt Shiloh was that they could see clear forward. Her bows were well under now and grew water was lapping up the ruin of what had been the flight deck. She'd rolled so far over to port now that their view over the splinter tub was of sky, not sea or other ships. They could see the boiling black smoke, hear the explosions.

The Senior Chief looked over the edge of the tub, Samoa was aft of their position, no longer fighting the fires but using her hoses to hold the fires back while survivors poured over from Shiloh. The rumors had obviously been correct, “Abandon Ship'' had been sounded and the destroyers with their torpedoes were waiting. Only there was no way for his men to go. Aft was blocked by wreckage, forward led only to fire and water. Go to port and the same two enemies waited. Go to Starboard...the Senior Chief looked - it was steep but it might be possible using ropes to climb down.

“OK you guys. Here's what we'll..” A roaring machine had the temerity to drown him out. The Senior Chief looked up, one of the new helicopters was hovering. A rope was thrown down and a figure leaned out, holding up three fingers. OK three men. The Senior tapped the three youngest and they swarmed up the rope. He watched as the helicopter peeled away and took the men to the fantail of Samoa. Then it came back for more. Backwards and forward it went until only the Senior Chief and Ensign Pickering were left in the gun tub. Once more the rope snaked down. The Senior looped it around the officer, secured it then took a good hold himself. The winch whined and strained but it pulled them both into the helicopter.

“Sorry about the rough ride. I normally fly a Bearcat but all the ferry work means we're short of helo pilots and I quailed on these some time ago. Bit rusty though.” It was the young Lieutenant flying the machine. Urchin by his name tag. The Senior Chief saw the sinking Shiloh now receding beneath him, then looked around at the helicopter with great satisfaction. This machine, he opined, was NOT made by Democrats.

CHAPTER NINE REDEMPTION

Nottingham, Occupied England

The sunset had been spectacular, a huge display of crimson and red, covering the whole sky. Even now, it was still apparent, dimming as the sun sank further away but enough to give an eerie reddish glow to everything. Scientifically, David Newton knew that something must have put a lot of dust into the atmosphere but what? Doubtless he would find out sooner or later. One way or another.

Looking around, he had sixteen resistance fighters gathered with him. They'd picked up their weapons from various hidden dumps, Newton didn't know how the supplies had got there, or who had put them there, but they were what he needed. One group had a pair of RPG-2s, the rest had a mixture of American greasegun and Russian PPS-43 submachine guns. But Newton himself had something very special, something he'd only heard of in whispers. A Delisle carbine. He patted and stroked it gently. It was an odd looking weapon, the furniture and action of a Lee-Enfield rifle but chambered for .45 ACP. The whole weapon, from receiver to muzzle was shrouded with a suppresser. The Delisle was reputed to be so thoroughly silenced that the only noise it made when it fired was the click as the firing pin hit the primer.

The plan was simple enough. His Delisle would drop the two guards at the gate. They'd go down without causing an alert so his men could get in. They'd fan through the radio station, capturing the installation and its staff. The orders were to take as many prisoners as possible, to kill as few as possible. But that was secondary; the key part of the mission was that the radio had to go off the air at 20:58 precisely. That was when it would be playing Lilli Marlene, a tradition with German radio stations. Then, at 21:00, the station would normally broadcast the news, starting with new directives and orders from the German administration.

But it was 1900 now, two hours to go. The attack had to be as late as possible; the radio station had to be held for at least 30 minutes after 2058. The less time the station was occupied before then meant the less time he and his people would be sitting at a fixed point, waiting for the SS to arrive. So now it was necessary to wait. After three years as a resistance fighter, David Newton was learning the old regular army slogan. Hurry up and wait.

Cockpit Goodyear F2G-4 “The Terminator” Flying Through Paris

“Yeeeee-hah”. The rebel yell burst out of Lieutenant Evans quite unannounced. Once in a while, he got positive confirmation that God was a fighter pilot. This was one of those times. He'd never beaten up a city this large before or had quite so much fun doing it. And, even better, they were doing it under orders and it was all quite legal. They'd had very specific orders. Buzz the city as thoroughly as you can. Now, twenty four F2Gs were doing their level best to fulfill their orders to the letter. It was a dirty job, but somebody had to do it. Even The Terminator seemed to be enjoying herself, she wasn't being anywhere near her usual handful.

Not for the first time, Evans was amazed how clearly he could see things this low down. There was a plump matron in front of him ferociously waving what appeared to be a walking stick at the approaching tighter. Evans could even see the sad little ball of knotted string that the French fondly imagined was a dog tucked under her arm. Then she was gone. Evans angled The Terminator's nose up slightly. Yup, she was lying on her back waving her arms and legs in the air like a little beetle with the apology for a dog running around her. Nothing to be sorry about, only one sort of late middle-age woman was still plump and had a fur coat seven years into a German occupation. Serious-grade collaborator.

Over the radio. Lieutenant Brim in Dominatrix was singing, rather tunelessly as it happened, “As I flew down the Bois de Boulogne with some independent hair.” It was quite possible too, they were near the Bois de Boulogne and they were flying low enough to sweep somebody's wig from their head - assuming that somebody was dumb enough to stand up. That was one of the serious purposes behind this aeronautical equivalent of a student frat party. To drive the citizens off the street and into their cellars and bunkers. The Super-Corsair was ideal for that - everybody in France knew that the crank-winged Corsairs would shoot up and napalm anything that moved.

Evans angled his aircraft around and glanced at the fuel gauges. He had a few minutes left and then another group of Marine F2Gs would be coming in to continue the fun. They'd carry on until the B-36 arrived. That was another purpose behind the air display, to goad any anti-aircraft gun crews still at their weapons into opening fire. That hadn't happened yet, in fact the Germans were being remarkably quiet. Bearing in mind what had happened earlier, this wasn't surprising.

The pilots had been briefed before takeoff on what the B-36s had done. That had silenced the room. Pilots used to dealing out death with five inch rockets and thousand pound bombs had a hard time envisaging bombs that were equivalent to tens of thousands of tons of explosives. And when one's yardstick of destruction was an airfield shot up, how did one swallow a whole city blasted into oblivion? Let alone hundreds of cities. There was talk of the death toll, of hundreds of thousands of casualties, some people even whispered that it might hit a million dead.

Evans guessed the Germans were frantically trying to get in contact with whatever was left of their homes. Certainly today they weren't firing on him. Not even at the coast. Over on his left. Bitter Fruit and Snakebite were rejoining him. They'd been over at Ile de la Cité seeing how much glass they could break. The rules were strict, buzz the city but don't shoot unless shot at or unless you see AA guns. Anything else was fine. And that included using their engine noise and the pressure wave caused by flying fast and low to break things. Evans took it for granted that somebody had paid a visit to Notre Dame. Perhaps Jim Hamner in Warmonger had done the honors, for some reason he had a down on organized religion.

Evans guessed that the display was working. He and Brim were over Montmatre now, although perhaps “over” was an exaggeration. The streets were clear now except for shattered glass and the debris from scattered trees. A girl on a rooftop was waving at him as he passed below her. Evans waggled his wings slightly as he thundered down the street then lifted up to leapfrog the row of houses at the end. Now a quick run over the Elysée Palace and off home. You know, he thought, a man could get to enjoy this.

FV-1 “Made Marian II”, Escorting B-36H “Victory Parade” Approaching Paris

God in Heaven she was big. Not just large, the B-29 was large. The B-36 was BIG. As in HUGE. And no sluggard either. When they'd picked her up as she crossed the coast she'd been at 40,000 feet and the FV-1s had to struggle to reach her. Then, when they got up there, Victory Parade had suddenly accelerated and left them behind. Had shot ahead of them and then, politely, waited for them to catch up. When they did so, she'd started to turn. The fighters couldn't stay with her, in the thin air, if they pulled the bank necessary to do that, they stalled out. Eventually the B-36 had stopped playing with them. Foreman had tried to get a little revenge by doing a barrel role, something no aircraft that large could even begin to try. “Try that” he said. Victory Parade had radioed back “Try this.” After a couple of minutes with apparently nothing happening he'd asked what they were doing “Flying with two engines shut down” was the reply.

But that was Up There. Now they were Down Here and the big bomber wasn't so happy. The long wings that gave her the ability to fly so high were now a liability, increasing drag and slowing her down. Hence the tighter escort. Down Here, Victory Parade was vulnerable and, with her belly stuffed with thousand pound bombs, her engines were laboring to keep her going. Still, the job ahead needed absolute precision and the lower altitude would achieve that. Foreman let Maid Marian II drift backwards a little, nearer the tail of the bomber. He was right, the giant tailplanes were larger than the wingspan of his fighter. There was a static crackle in his earphones. “Keep clear Navy. We love you dearly but we don't want you too close. You don't want to get too close either; the turbulence behind us is real bad.”

Foreman waggled his wings and gave some more separation. His squadron were flying close escort, grouped around Victory Parade as a last line of defense in case enemy fighters broke through. Other squadrons were sweeping ahead and to either flank in order to intercept hostiles before it ever got that critical. There were some other Navy fighters around including the new Panthers; they'd come over after finishing their strikes. Once news of the B-36's unique mission had spread through the grapevine, it was an all-hands exercise to see she got to her target without harassment.

Once SAC and the Navy had been at dagger's drawn over funding, priorities, critical unit supply, everything that made a wartime production program run. Foreman had flown over the sinking wreck of Shiloh on his way to meet Victory Parade and had heard the messages radioed down from the returning bombers. They'd seen Shiloh dying as a result of her efforts to help them get through and he guessed that the image would have an impact post-war few would expect. He didn't know if the impact would be positive or negative but he guessed that, at least, the aloof bomber crews of SAC would be aware of the price the other services had paid to get to this point.

“Hey Little Friends, turning into our bomb run.” It was Victory Parade. Foreman thumbed his transmit button. “Received and understood Big Sister. We'll stand off a little now. Good luck.”

Salon Marat, Elyseé Palace, Paris

Marshal Petain, President of France, Marshal Gamelin, Minister of Defense and Marshal Purneaux, Minister of the Interior stood at the window, watching the dark blue fighters streaking over the city. Gamelin shook his head and muttered a string of obscenities aimed at the “Anglo-Saxons” who had dared to disturb the city's peace and tranquility. Had they no respect for culture? From what he had to tell the others, obviously not.

“So Marshal, what has happened in Germany.” Petain's voice was quavering and uncertain.

'The Americans dropped bombs of incredible power on almost every center of population. The Germans call them Hellbumers; I believe the correct name is Atomic Bombs.”

Gamelin thought for a moment, the idea of such destructive power in the hands of the barbarian Americans was repulsive. “They delivered them with giant bombers flying at very high altitude. Our people have been reporting them flying over us. Without asking our permission I might add.”

You pompous, arrogant, Parisian thought Marshal Purneaux as Gamelin struck an outraged pose. Don't you understand what has happened today? The world has changed forever and you can't see it. Purneaux was a Breton, born and bred and had a Breton's earthy contempt for Parisians. Gamelin was still talking. “Nevertheless, it is now obvious that Germany has suffered a serious reverse. One that might prove fatal to her hopes of success in this war.”

Every major center of population gone, their whole industrial structure gone, a serious reverse? What would Gamelin call a disaster? Their wine being served at the wrong temperature? Gamelin was still pontificating. “We must now think of how to position ourselves at this juncture. The Americans are children and we must think on how to guide them, how to steer them in the right direction. They require education and shepherding. We must control them for their own good and they must be taught to rely on us for direction and supervision. Most importantly we must ensure that they understand that we are the founding member, the senior member of the coalition that has defeated Germany and treat us with the respect we deserve.”

Marshal Purneaux was seething to himself. Gamelin was so blinded by Anglophobia and his own blinkered view of reality; he couldn't see what was staring him in the face. In fact, Marshall Purneaux, noted, what was staring them alt in the face. A dark-blue bent-wing fighter coming straight at them. By the time the other two men had torn themselves away from their mutual self-admiration and noted its approach, it had swollen from a dot to a snarling shape that filled the window. Petain and Gamelin fell to the floor. Purneaux didn't, if the Corsair was going to open fire, he'd have seen the orange flashes on its wings by now and Americans didn't go crashing into things. So he stood and watched it as it lifted at the last second and flashed over the rooftop,

Petain climbed to his feet, shaking more with shock than fear. Gamelin was shaking with rage as well as fear. But it was Petain who spoke, in a voice made weak with age. “Soon, the Germans will be leaving France. They cannot remain here, they must either leave to salvage what is left of their homeland or the Americans will invade and drive them out. We must make it clear to both them and the rest of the world that our liberation was our doing, it was our efforts, our endurance, our willingness to suffer hardships that brought about final victory. The German occupation of Paris must be ended by our troops and marked by victory celebrations in which our troops are the center. Only then will history record the true picture of the efforts of the French people.

Marshal Purneaux saw that the prowling fighters had pulled out by now. The streets were emptied, everybody had taken cover. Yet in the distance there was a strange sight. A great silver bomber was approaching, surrounded by a swarm of dark blue fighters. Obviously one of the giants that had destroyed Germany. What on earth were the Americans up to?

Bomber/navigation station. B-36H “Victory Parade” over Paris

Captain D C Cameron lay on his belly, his eyes glued to the K-3 optical bombsight. They had dropped a reference bomb a few minutes earlier; the K-5 had plotted its descent and compared its impact point with that of the prediction made by the system. Then, it had calculated the correction and fed that to both the K-5 radar sight and the K-3 optical. It wasn't perfect, far from it, but it would do until somebody invented a bomb that steered itself to its target. Cameron had heard such things were being developed, he'd believe them when he saw them.

Now, in the cross-hairs of the K-3, he could see Paris unrolling beneath him. The intervalometer was set. Once he pressed the release switch, the thousand pound bombs would start to drop out of the four bomb bays at precisely determined intervals. They would continue to do so until he released the switch. Alignment was absolutely crucial here, for the last few minutes he'd been making minute adjustments to the course held Victory Parade, adjusting for wind and drift as he approached the start of his target. Cameron quickly scanned the telescope up and down the target. Perfectly aligned with the center. And the fighters had done a superb job of sweeping the streets clean. They were deserted. The bombs were fused for impact so people in their shelters should be safe. The whole purpose of this raid was to demonstrate power and precision and to make a political point, not to cause casualties.

Back to the impact point. The cross hairs of the K-3 were sliding across the Tuileries Gardens now, towards the Place de la Concorde. A split second before they touched the end of the Champs Elyseé, Cameron squeezed the release button. He could feel the bang as the snap-action bomb bay doors open but the release of the thousand pounders was undetectable. He'd done this before, many times, but never on an enemy target. The whole idea for the raid had started at a B-36 firepower demonstration, LeMay and a Targeteer had been watching and they'd come up with this use for what was, until then, little more than a party trick.

Below him the first thousand pounder exploded exactly where the Champs Elyseé joined the Place de la Concord. A fraction of a second later, the second exploded exactly 100 feet further down the Champs Elyseé. From there, the line of explosions, each bomb impacting exactly 100 feet further down the Champs Elyseé, marched across the very heart of Paris. Through the Square Marigny, towards the Place d'Etoile.

Far above Cameron was working hard, keeping the bombsight cross hairs tracking the target. It would have helped if the French had built it straight but they hadn't. There were odd turns and changes of angle that had to be accommodated and, above all, the last eight bombs had to be reserved for the final act. The clicks on the bomb control panel continued, Cameron was sweating now. It was hard work and his eyes had to be in two places at once, one keeping the cross hairs aligned, the other watching the bomb counter. 72 - 73 - 74 - 75 - 76. That was it, Cameron released the switch, holding thousand pounders 77 - 84 in the bays. Now was the even more precise bit. Cameron adjusted course and saw the Arc de Triomphe. He'd flipped off the intervalometer now so the last eight bombs would release at once. As the cross hairs started to touch the final target, DC Cameron salvoed all eight one thousand pound bombs into the Arc de Triomphe.