The Great Game

THE GREAT GAME

Stuart Slade

Dedication

This book is respectfully dedicated to the memory of General Thomas Powers

Acknowledgements

The Great Game could not have been written without the very generous help of a large number of people who contributed their time, input and efforts into confirming the technical details of the story. Some of these generous souls I know personally and we discussed the conduct and probable results of the attacks described in this novel in depth. Others I know only via the internet as the collective membership of “The Board” yet their communal wisdom and vast store of knowledge, freely contributed, has been truly irreplaceable.

I must also express a particular debt of gratitude to my wife Josefa for without her kind forbearance, patient support and unstintingly generous assistance, this novel would have remained nothing more than a vague idea floating in the back of my mind.

Caveat

The Great Game is a work of fiction, set in an alternate universe. All the characters appearing in this book are fictional and any resemblance to any person, living or dead is purely coincidental. Although some names of historical characters appear, they do not necessarily represent the same people we know in our reality.

Copyright © 2007 Stuart Slade

Contents

Chapter One: Picking Sides

Chapter Two: Kick-Off

Chapter Three: First Plays

Chapter Four: Initial Gains

Chapter Five: Early Advantage

Chapter Six: Blocking Actions

Chapter Seven: Breaking Through

Chapter Eight: Gaining Ground

Chapter Nine: Scoring Points

Chapter Ten: Going For Broke

Chapter Eleven: Changing The Plays

Chapter Twelve: Touchdown

Epilogue

Previous Books in This Series

The Big One (1947)

Anvil of Necessity (1948)

The Great Game (1959)

Coming Shortly

Crusade (1965)

Chapter One Picking Sides

Carswell AFB. Primary Operating base, 305th Bomb Group

“Oh my God, she's beautiful. I think I've just met the woman I'm going to marry.”

The subject of Captain Mike Kozlowski's sudden admiration was indeed beautiful. She was by the grass, sunning herself in the flattering glow of an early morning in Texas. Elegant, stylish, sleek, beautifully curved in all the right places. In the words of the prophets, she looked like the reason the riot started. For all her grace and allure, she looked almost demure in the sunshine but anybody who looked carefully could see the appearance was only superficial. Beneath the smooth skin she was feral, passionate, savage even. Her potential might be hidden now but it was still there for anybody with the eyes to see it. Life with this one was likely to be exciting. Nobody could claim to own her, but win her trust and she'd fight tooth and claw for her partner. Cross her and she'd go for the eyes with her nails. But, for all that, or perhaps because of it, she was breathtaking. There was no doubt about it, nor about the fact that Kozlowski was in love.

“I'm a nice girl.”

The voice, drifting across in the humid air into Kozlowski's mind, matched the appearance, soft lilting, laden with a level of female hormones guaranteed to cause trouble anywhere, anytime.

“Captain Kozlowski, your attention PLEASE.” It was General Declan, Commander of the 3O5th Bomb Group speaking. Kozlowski dragged his eyes away and focused on his new commanding officer. The General caught something in his eyes. “She was speaking to you wasn't she?” Kozlowski nodded. Declan turned to his aide. “Assign aircraft 57-0656 to Captain Mike Kozlowski Junior. What you going to call her Captain?”

Kozlowski stared at the RB-58C parked opposite. The name just popped into his mind. “She's Marisol Sir.” Was it his imagination or did Marisol suddenly stand a little prouder, casting supercilious glances at her sisters, the other RB-58s that had yet to find their partners and be named? Imagination of course but...

He hadn't expected the B-58s. His heart had sunk when he'd heard he was to be assigned to the 305th Bomb Group operating out of Carswell AFB. Carswell meant a Convair group and that meant either the lumbering old B-36 or the mediocre B-60. He'd checked the Blue Book out and it had the 305th listed as an RB-36 group, due for re-equipment. That latter bit figured, the B-36 was painfully obsolete now, meat on the table for any of the new fighters entering service around the world. The old bombers were vanishing from the inventory as fast as their replacements could be built and the specialized versions were following them.

The RB-36 was next to go, the chances of one doing its job, of penetrating enemy airspace, mapping defenses, drawing their fangs and surviving were slight. The alt-jet version of the B-36, the B-60, had never been modified to RB configuration, a tacit admission that it lacked the performance needed for the job. Some of the strategic reconnaissance wings had Boeing RB-52s but the 305th was a Convair Group.

With the B-36s almost gone and the RB-36s on their way out, that left only the GB-36s and their little Goblin fighters and the F-85 was almost as painfully obsolete as the B-36. So Kozlowski had resigned himself to flying B-60s at best and enduring the conventional bombing missions (hauling trash in SAC slang) to which they were mostly assigned.

Then they'd all seen the new bombers, lined up along the runway where they'd been towed over from the Convair factory opposite. The fabled B-58 Hustler. Capable of flying at twice the speed of sound. The first version, the B-58A had been a pure bomber. The Navy was taking delivery of those as part of its shore-based anti-shipping units; they called it the PB5Y-1. SAC had taken delivery of a few aircraft with uprated engines as the B-58B mostly for use as trainers. The ones here were the new production version, the RB-58C. The new mainstay of SACs strategic reconnaissance wings. Or that was the plan, anyway. And General Declan was about to tell them all about that,

“Gentlemen, for the last month the 305th has been a bomb group without aircraft. For most of that time, it has also been a group largely without personnel. This morning, the first of our new aircraft have arrived and now you are the first of their crews. Later, you will have your aircraft assigned to you however, before that I would like to speak a little about our mission. As you know, the 305th Bomb Group is being redesignated as a strategic reconnaissance unit. You may think that you will be flying bombers on the penetration mission. Nothing could be further from the truth. The RB-58C is the first of SACs new generation of strategic reconnaissance aircraft, tasked with opening a gaping hole in enemy defenses through which the load-carrying B-52s and B-60s can fly, You will have to master the roles of bomber, reconnaissance, electronic warfare and fighter aircraft. Perhaps all at once. You will have to be ready to go into enemy airspace, take on the best a desperate enemy can throw at you and destroy it.

“The task facing the 305th is not a simple one. We are the lead group in the conversion schedule. Following us will the 509th and 43rd Strategic Recon Groups. Our task is not made easier by an unmistakable fact. The B-58 is a hot ship, one that demands much from its pilot. Through varying causes, mostly pilot error, we have already lost seven in the test program. The Navy are having the same experience with their PB5 Ys.

“The B-58 is a pilot's aircraft but an unforgiving one, once trouble starts it will multiply with frightening speed. It is a major leap forward in technology and many of the on-board systems need refining. In a very real sense, the B-58 is a work in progress. Bringing this new aircraft into operational service means we have much hard work to do. There is a six month training course to bring us all up to speed on our new aircraft. At the end of that we will have to qualify as the first of SACs new RB-58 strategic reconnaissance groups. This is not an option.”

It wasn't an option indeed, the task facing the 3O5th was more urgent than any of the young pilots could realize. The truth was that SAC was facing a crisis. Its whole deterrent value, the whole rationale behind its effectiveness was its invincibility. SAC was invulnerable because people believed it was. Back in 1947, that had been true, during The Big One the B-36s had cruised effortlessly over enemy defenses. That had left an impression everybody believed to this day. But, it was an impression that was already false and growing more so every day.

Every year that had passed had seen more fighters entering service, more missiles being built that could threaten the B-36. Every year had seen the vulnerability of the B-36 increase that much more, the chances of the aircraft getting through to its target decline. The introduction of the B-60 in 1954 had slowed the trend and the arrival of the B-52 two years after that had temporarily stopped it but now it was starting again. SAC was invulnerable because everybody thought it was. If SAC went to war and started losing large numbers of bombers, as it would if things remained the way they were, that perception would end. And the consequences of that happening were dire. In a very real sense, SAC was a bluff and the chance that somebody would call that bluff was increasing steadily.

The RB-58 was an answer to that problem. There was no way that the large, subsonic B-60 and B-52 could outclass the defenses the way the B-36 had done in its prime. There was a new bomber being designed that would outperform the defenses, the B-70 Valkyrie, and would take over their role. The problem was the B-70 was suffering from serious developmental problems with the metal alloys used and with the air feed to the engines. It would be eight or ten years before it entered service in numbers. So, until the B-70 was available, an interim solution was needed. An aircraft that could suppress defenses before the bombers arrived. The RB-58 was that aircraft. And it had to work. It didn't help matters that President LeMay disliked the aircraft and refused to regard it as anything more than an interim answer. Short range was his major criticism, “Fit only for bombing Canada,” had been his most memorable comment. LeMay regarded a B-70 derivative, the RS-70, as the ultimate strategic reconnaissance aircraft but that lay even further in the future than its bomber sibling. So, despite his dislike, the RB-58 was it, for years to come.

“Gentlemen, we have much to learn indeed. We have twelve of our new aircraft here with more arriving over the next few days. The first eleven designated crews may go to the flight line and find their aircraft. Captain Kozlowski, introduce yourself to your new lady friend.” That brought a laugh from the assembled pilots, most of whom were jealous of the fact that Kozlowski had already found his partner. Still, General Declan though, being the son of the Hero of Ploesti had its penalties as well as its privileges - and the kid had the good sense not to trade too heavily on the prestige the Kozlowski name carried in SAC.

How long this ceremony would continue was an open guess. The bean-counters and efficiency experts were already claiming that it made no sense to assign an aircraft to a specific pilot, that it would be more effective for the crews to take the first available aircraft on the flightline. They might be right, but it wouldn't happen in his group on his watch. And it wouldn't happen as long as General Dedmon commanded SAC. The parade broke up, one group moving towards the barracks and the O-club, a smaller group walking towards the aircraft parked on the flight line. Ahead of them, a single figure had given up the pretence at patience and was running towards Marisol.

President's Residence, New Delhi, India

“Her Excellency, the Ambassador-Plenipotentiary From The Kingdom of Thailand”

Sir Martyn Sharpe beamed with genuine pleasure. “Ambassador, it is good to see you again. Please take a seat. May I offer you a drink? We have some Johnny Walker Blue Label you may enjoy.”

Sir Martyn poured a drink for his guest. He'd known the Ambassador for twelve years, ones that had treated her very kindly. There were a few laughter lines around the mouth, a few crow’s feet at the corners of the eyes, calluses on her trigger finger, but she could still be mistaken for a woman a decade or more younger. Yet in those years she had been at the center of the political maneuvering that had lead to the formation of the Triple Alliance and was now in the middle of the political maneuvering that accompanied the quiet battle for who dominated that alliance.

Perhaps battle was the wrong word, jockeying for position would be better. The three-cornered alliance between India, Australia and ASEAN was too important to be endangered by serious disagreement. There had been problems certainly, especially with Indonesia. The old Dutch East Indies had broken up. The core had remained a Moslem state but the easternmost islands around Timor, the Christian dominated ones, had become an Australian protectorate, a part of Australia's remarkable maritime 'empire'. Bali and a couple of smaller Hindu-dominated islands had become Indian protectorates. The diplomatic furore that had accompanied that split had strained the Triple Alliance badly.

Now, Sir Martyn thought it was time to rebuild the Triple Alliance and strengthen it. What was past was past and what was done was done. The future was ever more important. With the de-facto merger of Japan and China (some people were already calling it Chipan) settling down and becoming stronger, the dangers it presented made the penalties resulting from losing an argument within the Triple Alliance comparatively inconsequential.

The key was ASEAN, the Association of South East Asian Nations, another new creation and one for which the Ambassador had been largely responsible. The US had given the Philippines its independence in 1946 as it had promised and Indonesia had established its freedom from colonial rule in 1947, after The Big One. Thailand had been quick to form a regional grouping that expanded to include Malaya and equally quick to ensure its unobtrusive but absolute domination of that group, It was the standard pattern of the late 1940s and early 1950s, Thailand was using its strong economy and moral position as the one country in the area that had never been colonized to establish financial and political leadership. Combined with the prestige it had won by its defeat of France in 1940, it gave the country political punch far above its apparent weight. In effect, India, Australia and Thailand were equal partners in the Triple Alliance and their maneuverings had a certain good humor about them.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit Madam?”

“Firstly, our new Prime Minister, General Sarit, wishes me to pay his respects to you and to the President, He also wishes me to assure you that our new government continues to hold the Indian Government in the highest regard and places the greatest importance on continuing - indeed strengthening - the Triple Alliance. And having dealt with the formalities, let us get down to business. We have a problem. Masanobu Tsuji is on the move again.”

Sir Martyn cursed to himself. Colonel Masanobu Tsuji had caused serious trouble in the past and his machinations had been an unwanted complication in the days when India was trying to establish itself as an independent state. The Ambassador had been most helpful then and her presence here now suggested that the problems were genuine. “Allow me to refresh your glass Madam, I would like to call Sir Eric in to share this meeting if you have no objection?”

“None at all. This is indeed very fine Scotch.”

Sir Eric entered almost as soon as Sir Martyn buzzed, he must have been waiting in the ante-room. He eyed the whisky bottle rather plaintively as he sat down.

“As you know, the integration of Japan and China is taking place with remarkable speed. It has happened before of course, China is successfully invaded, the invaders set up a new government and in a few short years are absorbed by the Chinese, It happened with the Mongols and the Manchus and now it happens with the Japanese. The supreme ruler of China may be the Japanese Emperor, but he rules by way of a Chinese communist government.

“Yet, the basic problem that Japan and China both face is the same. Shortage of raw materials. Oh China has them, in limited amounts at least, but recovering them and utilizing them is a task that requires investment and technology. They have neither. To secure easily accessible supplies they have two choices. One is to strike north against Russia. As you know, Russia is still weak after the Second World War and is still recovering the territory held by the German warlords. Their Siberian Provinces are plums for the picking, except for one thing. The Russians are American allies and an attack on them means Strategic Air Command will pay the attackers a call. The other option is to strike south. Against us. In this case us means both my country and against the Triple Alliance as a whole.”

“But, Madam Ambassador, that would also surely bring down the Wrath of SAC upon their heads. The Americans have a simple view on the world. They like it peaceful. If it is not peaceful, they will make it so. I am told Germany is an exceptionally peaceful country these days.”

“Indeed so. But the Chinese-Japanese do have an option.” The Ambassador leaned forward and tapped Sir Martyn's map with a fingernail. “Here.”

Sir Martyn looked at where her finger was pointing and suddenly grew very thoughtful. Sir Eric looked and winced.

“Precisely Sir Eric. Burma. Its status is, shall we say, ambiguous. Burma is a protectorate of India but its internal condition leaves much to be desired. Indeed, it could be described as anarchic. The central government holds authority but outside its remit, warlordism and banditry run rampant.

“I have information that Masanobu Tsuji is in Burma now, attempting to organize an insurgency against the existing government. If that was to succeed and detach Burma from India, then Burma could become — re-aligned shall we say — with the China/Japan block. That would drive a wedge right through the center of the Triple Alliance. It would give my country a very severe defensive problem, we would have hostile borders all around us. And for some reason the Japanese hold a grudge against us.”

“Perhaps that has something to do with a destroyed infantry division and some foiled plans Madam, I do not think Colonel Tsuji enjoyed the experience of being outgeneraled so comprehensively. Especially by one so charming as your good self. The 1949 border incident was just icing on that particular cake.”

The Ambassador nodded to accept the compliment. “Once Burma has fallen into the China/Japan sphere of influence, it will open many future possibilities for them. They could more against yourselves, exploiting the Moslem problem. Or against us, doing the same. Or against Malaysia and Indonesia with the same object in view. On the other hand, if Masanobu Tsuji’s machinations were to fail, our own position would be consolidated and greatly strengthened.”

“Madam Ambassador, your words and news of Colonel Tsuji's activities cause me much concern. I appreciate you bringing them to us. What are your thoughts on future actions?”

“Burma is an Indian protectorate, technically my country and its armed forces have no authority there. However, we are allies and it would be of great mutual benefit if we put some of our people in there to find out more on what is happening. We can do that better than you, there are close similarities between ourselves and out Burmese neighbors. Also, we have worrying information that Masanobu Tsuji may be attempting to infiltrate people into our Northern provinces from Burma. Obviously we would wish to carry out hot pursuit against such infiltrators. We should also speak to the Americans on this. Perhaps you could take this issue up with them?”

Sir Martyn nodded. The concept of Chipan linking up with the growing militancy of the Moslem states was disturbing. India already had problems with Moslem separatists in the North, determined to split away and form their own Pakistan. They'd launched attacks on the Hindus and Sikhs up there and the victims had retaliated in kind. The North splitting away wasn't going to happen, but the idea offered ground for external agitators to build on. At the moment infiltration from Chipan into India was hard, geography saw to that. But if Burma fell into the wrong hands, that defense would go away.

The Ambassador leaned back in her seat. The meeting had gone well. Masanobu Tsuji was a real threat and his apparent activity in Burma was a very real concern. And if dealing with that concern should result in Burma becoming detached from India and joining ASEAN, well, so much the better. There was always the question of Japanese-occupied Indo-China. Now that was a prize worth a little effort.

Carswell AFB. Primary Operating base, 305th Bomb Group

Captain Kozlowski made it to the top of the steps leading up beside Marisol. His two crew members Lieutenants Eddie Korrina and Xavier Dravar had caught him up and were at his heels all the way up. Korrina was the navigator/bombardier, he would occupy the seat behind Kozlowski, Dravar was the Defense Systems Operator and sat in the rear. They'd all assumed that the rest of the crew would be joining them at Carswell, well that was obviously wrong. They were it.

They were edging each other around as they looked into the crew stations. Each compartment had a separate canopy hinged at the rear for entry and exit. The compartmentalization prevented direct vision or physical contact between crewmembers during flight. The pilot had a windshield with six adjacent panels, plus one panel on each side of the canopy. This afforded excellent outside vision, and the pilot could see parts of the exterior of the aircraft as well as the engine nacelle inlets. The navigator/bombardier and the DSO only had small side windows. That solved another mystery, they'd all been measured at flight school and the largest had been washed out, sent to the B-52 and B-60 units. Now, they could see why. The RB-58C was cramped.

“Mind out sirs, the paint is fresh.” Their Crew Chiefs warning was timely. His people had already painted the Kozlowski's name under the pilot's canopy and were getting stencils out for the other two.

“Chief Gibson, who does the nose art around here?”

“That'll be Murray sir. He'll see you right. Twenty bucks be OK sir? Hey, Murray, get up here. Captain Kozlowski wants his nose art. Sir, Marisol is being towed into the hangar for her post-delivery checks first so he'll get straight on with it. There are a lot of classroom sessions before you need to fly her so she'll be ready for you.” The Chief broke off as there was a clatter on the metal stairs. “You took your time Murray. Now listen to the Captain.”

“Her name is Marisol Murray, can you do us a Spanish-looking lady?”

“Sure sir Let me think a little.” Airman Murray got out a pad and soft pencils and started to sketch. After a couple of minutes, he frowned, tore off the leaf and started again. Meanwhile, Dravar was looking into his crew station at the rear of the flight deck. He had the defensive electronic countermeasures system to look after, an ALR-12 radar warner and an ALQ-16 radar repeater jammer that generated and transmitted deceptive angle and range information. As a last-ditch line of defense was the ALE-16 chaff dispensing system installed in each upper main gear fairing, with chaff being ejected through mechanically-actuated slots in the tops of each wing fairing. But, best of all, Dravar had the aircraft's only cannon, an M-61 20 millimeter gatling gun.

Ahead of him, Korrina was trying to make sense of the array of equipment in his position. It was dominated by the big display for the ASG-18 multi-mode radar. Using it, he could designate targets for the big GAR-9 missiles. Nuclear-tipped air-to-air missiles, they would give intercepting fighters something to think about. Then there were GAM-83B air to surface missiles, also nuclear-tipped, for eliminating surface to air missile positions. The nuclear missiles were held in the big belly pod. The upper half held fuel, the lower half, racks for eight primary and four secondary missiles. The primaries were the nuclear missiles of course, the mix of GAR-9 and GAM-83B could be varied as needed. The four secondary missiles were GAR-8 Sidewinders, if they ever needed those, things would be going wrong.

Then, outside the pod were shoulder mountings for ASM-10s, semi-recessed into the fuselage. That was another new system - a missile that homed in on the radar emissions of an enemy search or fire control site. The “Navy had been developing this one and SAC had bought in on the concept. It had been part of a deal; the Navy had got the early B-58s, SAC had got the ASM-10 and some other missile programs the Navy was working on.

“What do you think of this sir?” Murray was holding his sketch pad out with a slightly nervous expression on his face. It was a picture of an obviously Hispanic woman, masses of curled black hair falling over her shoulders, with strongly arched eyebrows and prominent lips. A simple head-and shoulders picture, the face very slightly turned away. An expression of mixed affection and defiance in the eyes. The neckline was a simple white top.

I was going to do the usual Esquire or Playboy cheesecake sir, that's what people mostly ask for. Tell you the truth sir we have stencils for those, it’s like painting by numbers. I started that but it seemed wrong. Marisol is special somehow sir, she deserves better. She's a lady sir, so I did this.”

“It’s beautiful Airman, thank you. Here.” Kozlowski peeled off a twenty from his fold and gave it to Murray. Then, his attention returned to his new cockpit.

Behind him Gibson and Murray grinned at each other. Dumbcluck pilots fell for it every time. By the time they'd finished they would take this one for at least a fifty. As long as he didn't look too closely at the publicity shots of Jane Russell in The Outlaw.......

Ban Rom Phuoc, Thai-Burmese Border

Life, Phong Nguyen thought, could not get much better than this. Sitting in the shade, drinking rice beer and eating some meatball soup. Flirting with the girls too, even though the Thai farm girls were a bit heavier-set than the Vietnamese women he had grown up with. But then, Thai girls and their families hadn't been robbed blind by the French for almost a century. Nor did they have to endure the Japanese who now occupied Vietnam and made the French look like saints.

The families here considered themselves to be poor and, Nguyen supposed, by international standards they were. Back-breakingly-poor. Even so, the villagers Nguyen had left behind in Vietnam could teach them something about poverty. Here, even if food was sometimes short, nobody starved. Here, the Government, such as it was up here, did try to help. Some aid with crops, some advice on fertilizer. But not too much for “Government ends at the Village Gates.” The village ruled itself by way of its local headman. Even the local government, the Tambon, was a far-off thing. It collected the taxes, not too much and when times were really bad it “forgot” about them. When there was a disaster, it helped out, a little. The national government, far away in Bangkok, was even more remote. The villagers here had heard about it but that was all. They didn't care about the government and the government didn't care about them. That was fine for both sides. Benign neglect suited everybody.

But today was a little special, it was a year since Phong Nguyen had been sent to the village and this party was in his honor. Actually the village had decided it wanted to have a party and the anniversary was a convenient excuse. The girls had carefully put aside clean dresses to wear, the men had brewed up some rice beer and the loser in the cockfight the night before was now a primary ingredient in a chicken curry. Nguyen broke wind, winning grins of approval from the men around the beer jugs and refilled his cup. He really had to consider marrying one of the girls and settling down. His plan had always been to go back home when the French and Japanese were driven out but he was settling in here. He'd even been....

There was a stir of interest from the group around him. Two strangers were walking up the long path through the fields, towards the gates. Guarded interest, strangers could mean trouble. It had taken Nguyen six months to live down the title of “The Stranger” and that was with a letter from the King to the headman to help him. The government may be far away and disregarded but the King was loved, revered and unequivocally respected.

Strangers might just be passers though, on their way from there to over-there but they might mean trouble. A couple of years ago there had been trouble with strangers; a couple had come, offering well-paid jobs for the younger girls in “the city”. Now, every so often girls did go and work in “the city” for a year or so and came back with some colorful stories and a lot of money. But the ones that went with the strangers had never been seen again. So strangers needed watching. But hospitality demanded they be welcomed, offered food, shade and drink. In exchange, some news of the outside world? A few good stories to entertain the listeners?

So the strangers were welcomed in, offered some rice beer and soup and seats in the shade. And they started to report the news of the outside world, some as far away as the central provinces and south of the country. Now, there was a legendary place, people down there didn't follow the teachings of the Wise Lord Buddha and didn't even eat pork. The strangers told stories of the riches of Bangkok, how the merchants there bought rice and teak from the peasants for a small proportion of their value and resold them at immense profits. How they had vast houses and kept slaves to satisfy their every desire. How the local Tambons collaborated with them and worked for the rich. How the King was the worst oppressor of them all, sucking the life out of the country to feed his own selfish pleasures. How the Army was used to kill any who opposed the rich. One of the strangers told how his sister had refused to “co-operate” with an Army officer. In revenge the officer had her raped to death then cut off her breasts and hung them from a tree.

But there was hope, the strangers said. A group of patriots were working to oppose the tyranny of the city and the rich. To take the country back for the Asian people who lived with it and throw off the shackles imposed by the evil Europeans and their Triple Alliance. That was the real root of all evil, the strangers said, the Europeans and the Asian traitors who sold their countries out to them. If they were cast out and Asians stood together, then freedom and wealth would be for everybody.

Phong Nguyen listened to the speeches and stories with great interest. A generous two out often, he thought, if these fools had been his in the Old Days. And a really stern session before the self-criticism committee. They'd done everything wrong. They'd talked instead of listening. They'd poured out their propaganda without first learning what issues were really concerning the villagers. Who here cared if the merchants in the city were wealthy? They probably deserved it from accumulating merit in previous lives. And if they abused their good fortune in this life, woe and misfortune would be theirs in their next. And that ridiculous story about the army officer! There wasn't a girl in this or any other village who wouldn't “co-operate” if it meant a chance at catching a rich and influential husband.

No, the strangers, Nguyen stopped and corrected himself, the cadres for that is what they obviously were, should have told harmless, believable stories while listening to what the villagers complained about. They should have told funny stories that made people laugh, about how foolish administrators got tricked by wise peasants, how rich arrogant people got cut down to size by shrewd workers. Then, when they came back, they could have stories that built on and amplified the real grievances the villagers had. Stories that people would have believed because the earlier ones had been true.

But, no, they'd ruined it and they'd been too self-absorbed to even notice how the atmosphere around them had changed. Nguyen had been worried when the strangers had attacked the King, that was a really good way to start something ugly, but the villagers had held their tempers. If the strangers had known their business, they would have praised the King but sadly added that sometimes his advisors mislead him. Whoever had trained these two had done so very badly. They'd read the books and read the words but they hadn't understood them. They'd read the theories of Mao but hadn't absorbed the realities and wisdom beneath them. That sounded like the Japanese.

Eventually, the two cadres left, probably to repeat their lamentable performance at the next village. “What should we do Khun Phong?” The village headman was now showing his worry and anger. It was happening again, strangers meant trouble.

“We should finish our party and forget those boring, ill-mannered barbarians who would spoil it. But first we should report their arrival here to the Tambon.” That brought nods from everybody. Making a report would do no harm and if the other villages reported and they did not, questions might be asked. “And we should keep a watch out. Strangers mean trouble”

Again everybody nodded. Nguyen was pleased that he was accepted now, these were good people and he owed them. They'd taken him in even though there were centuries of rivalry between Thais and Vietnamese. Nguyen had tried to escape from Vietnam with his family when the Japanese occupation force had started to grind down hard. They'd fled through the jungle south and east, hoping to cross the Mekong and find refuge. But it was hard trip and evading the Japanese patrols was harder. His father and mother were suffering badly from lack of food and exhaustion. They were trying to persuade the others to leave them behind when soldiers found them.

At first Nguyen had thought they were Japanese and had almost cried with despair but they had green uniforms, not khaki and carried short, stubby rifles with long curved magazines, Russian-made AK-47s not the Arisakas the Japanese used. They were Thai troops, sent in to find escaping refugees and bring them to safety. They'd brought Nguyen's family out, treated their wounds and taken them to a refugee camp where they had been given food and shelter. Then, Nguyen had been interviewed by some Thai soldiers. When they'd found out who he was and what training he'd had, they were replaced by much more senior people, who had talked with him long into the night. Friendly talk with good beer and good food.

Then, one day, he and his family had been taken to a derelict farm in Cambodia. In the part the Thais called “the recovered provinces”. Their guide had told them that French policies had caused the rural population to fall and many such farms were abandoned. But they were on good land, rich land. The farm could support a family that worked hard - and everybody knew the Vietnamese could work hard. If Nguyen's family wanted this farm, they could have it. They would have to stand on their own feet but they could work it and improve it. One day, when Vietnam was free again, they could chose, stay here or go back to their own farm in Vietnam. Do the former and they could keep the farm, choose to go back and the Government would pay them for the improvements they had made and give it to other refugees who needed a start. Then the guide had asked Phong Nguyen, “would you do something for us?”

“What?” he'd asked. The guide had explained the need for those with certain special skills to go to villages along the Burmese border, to help them defend themselves. Nguyen had those skills, would he go? The guide had hastily explained, this was not connected with the farm, his family could have that whether he decided to go or not. But his help was needed.

There hadn't been a question really, he couldn't say no. If the request had been a price for the farm he might have, but the farm had been a gift. One that had put him in a debt of honor, and such debts must be paid. So his family settled into the farm and started to rebuild it. His brothers and their wives put up a new house, other family members started to clear the land and plant crops. A European with a strange accent came one day and brought them a male buffalo and two females. “A present from Oz' he'd described them. Oz, they'd found out, was Australia. A country far away, but one that was a good friend. Phong Nguyen had stayed for a few weeks, seen the start of the derelict farm getting back on its feet and then left for his new village. And that was how Phong Nguyen, once a Senior Political Cadre in the Viet Minh and a personal student of the great Vo Nguyen Giap, had become a chicken fanner in Ban Rom Phuoc and commander of the village's Tahan Pran militia unit.

Captain’s Bridge, INS Hood, Mumbai

Captain Jim Ladone was proud of his ship. Old, she might be, and certainly she'd seen better days, but she was still The Mighty 'Ood, once the pride of the Royal Navy and now flagship of the Indian Navy. For a ship forty years old, she wasn't in that bad condition. After the Great Escape back in 1942, she'd found her way to Singapore and then she'd been refitted and modernized. New anti-aircraft guns, radar, and a desperately needed machinery rebuild. Yet she still looked like the ship that had been the showpiece of the Royal Navy in the 1930s.

Even so, he knew her day was done. This was her last commission, even in the reduced role of training ship. Soon, she would be withdrawn from service and sent to the breakers like Repulse and Renown before her. There was little room for battleships in today's world and the crew needed to run Hood were assigned to the two ex-American Essex class carriers that had just been purchased.

Carriers ruled the sea now, but they didn't look the part. There, Hood still had them, her beautiful lines unsullied by the modernization work on her. But she wouldn't last ten minutes against air attack and Ladone knew it. Nor, in truth, was she really capable of taking on a Second World War battleship. Any of the American battleships could deal with her let alone the Japanese monsters. Ah well, to the task at hand. It was the annual Midshipmen's training cruise. Across the Pacific to Australia, port visits to Melbourne and Sydney, then over to San Diego and San Francisco, back across the Pacific to Pearl Harbor in Hawaii. Port visit to Thailand and then back home and the scrap yard.

India's burgeoning heavy industries needed the scrap steel so The Mighty 'Ood would have to go. Ladone ran his eyes down the manifest. Full load of 15 inch ammunition for his guns, they didn't really need that but a battleship without ammunition wasn't a real ship any more. Anyway, he had the last 15 inch guns in the world, might as well have some practice with them before they were silenced forever.

A world without battleships, that was something he'd never thought he'd see. When he'd joined the Royal Navy back in the 1920s, the lines of battleships stretched as far as the eye could see. Now they were all gone. The four Japanese Yamato class battleships, and four more Roma class in Italy, were the only ones other than Hood left in commission now. All the others had gone, the American Iowa’s were rusting in the reserve fleet, the rest were either museums or scrapped. The French ships scuttled in port, the German ships blasted out of the water at the Battle of the Orkneys.

That was a question that got asked at staff colleges these days - did the way the Americans destroyed the German fleet at the Orkneys act as an early indicator of the way they would later destroy Germany? Ladone shuddered slightly, the thought of The Big One made his skin crawl. An entire nation, wiped from the map. Much of the world looked on the Americans now as if they were a pack of savage guard dogs; one was grateful for their existence and the protection they provided but one didn't want to have them in the living room.

So, once Hood had finished fuelling and taking on supplies, she would be off on her last cruise. Then, Ladone would be going on to his next posting. A promotion and command of a cruiser squadron. Also ex-British ships, also getting old. One day, one day soon, India would be building her own major warships, her own cruisers and carriers.

Destroyers and submarines she was building already and impressive ships they were. Two of the destroyers were accompanying the Hood on this cruise. Big ships, well-found and mostly Indian-equipped. Eight 4.5 inch guns, in the new Mark VI twin mountings from Australia, and ten torpedo tubes. The torpedoes were weight and space holders, there was a new guided anti-ship missile being developed to replace them but it was a painfully long time coming. The catch was the new ships mostly had all-Indian crews, so opportunities for the British expatriates there were limited.

Still, in retrospect things had worked out well for India. What could have been a sudden and disastrous charge into independence had been slower and allowed an orderly transfer. Fortune had smiled as well, a few people who could have caused trouble had suffered accidents or died from natural causes at opportune moments. To stay with India had been the right decision, Ladone thought. Britain had only a tiny navy, the shattered countries of Europe had taken years to recover from the Second World War and the Great Famine. Europe was inconsequential in the great scheme of things, having been the cockpit of world affairs for centuries, it was sliding into quiet obscurity as a backwater. And, given the hammering they had taken over the last twenty years, who could blame them? By staying in India, he had a good career, a great ship to command and a family a man should be proud of at home. Yes, he had made the right decision.

Flag Bridge, HIJMS Musashi, Kagoshima Bay, Japan.

Admiral Soriva snorted and tossed his readiness report file onto his desk. A battleship division! Who had heard of such a thing in the modern age? What was worse, the Imperial Navy had two of them. Yamato and Musashi in Division One. Shinano and Kwanto in Division Two. So they had the largest guns in the world and what was the importance of that? There were nuclear rounds for the guns in the magazines and who believed these ships would live long enough to get to use them? They'd be blown out of the water by airstrikes long before that.

The Triple Alliance had six aircraft carriers. Two Essex class the Indian Navy had bought from the Americans, the two the Australians had bought and two old British carriers the Australians had inherited from the Royal Navy. The Imperial Navy had twelve carriers but they carried fewer aircraft each than the Essex class. Still, if they could find a way of engaging the Indian and Australians separately, then things would go well.

Splitting apart the Triple Alliance. That was the primary target. It had to be. It was growing stronger all the time. Meanwhile, the China Incident was over but the Japanese Army was [earning a lesson it should have considered earlier. Conquering China was one thing, ruling it was quite another. Simply ruling a country that big required a huge commitment of forces, and that was draining the resources of Japan.

The obvious answer was to recruit Chinese to enforce Japanese rule in China, but that had its own dangers. It seemed as if the Japanese who recruited the Chinese forces, themselves became more and more Chinese each year. Some of the Army officers In China had started quoting one of the Chinese warlords who had been hunted down and killed over the years. The warlord had written a little red book or something like that. It contained a few trite clichés and some mindless platitudes that were being quoted as if they were actually intelligent. Soriva shuddered. Who needed a little red book when Japan had Bushido?

And the China Incident was still draining Japan. That's why the Navy was in such poor shape. Powerful certainly, the second most powerful navy in the world, but there was a long gap between its capability and that of the first. The US Pacific fleet alone had 12 of their large CVBs with four even larger carriers coming. That didn't include the Essex class that were left, they were mostly in the Atlantic fleet now. And the Americans made no secret of their policy - if they went to war, nuclear weapons would be their first resort, not their last.

Anybody who looked at their forces could see they weren't joking. Over the last five years they'd completely re­organized their army into a new structure based around something they called the Pentomic Division. The Japanese Army people had laughed at it, called it small and weak and helpless. Pointed out how its five battlegroups were too small to fight on their own and the span of command too big for proper control. They'd spoken of how a Japanese division would crush a Pentomic with its superior will and dedication.

They'd missed what was staring them in the face. The Pentomic Division was structured to fight with nuclear weapons, so much so that it could only fight with nuclear weapons. And that meant that anybody who attacked a Pentomic Division would be struck by a nuclear counter-attack. One that would leave the country looking like Germany. Pentomic Divisions were a challenge. If one was in front of you, it was time to ask whether what one hoped to gain from a war was worth the total destruction of your country.

No, challenging the Americans was an act of insanity. Perhaps in 1940 or 1941 they might have managed it but not now. They could hurt America, there were submarines off the West Coast now with nuclear-tipped Ohkas, rocket powered and flown by brave volunteers who were the elite of the Japanese “Navy. They could take out California's coastal cities. Perhaps. But the cost would be the annihilation of Japan and everybody in the Government knew it. Japan had to bide its time, absorb China and break up the Triple Alliance. One day, if that all went well, they could build up enough power to surpass America's overwhelming might. One day.

But now, he had a different task. The Army's God Of Operations, Colonel Masanobu Tsuji, had come up with a scheme to break up the Triple Alliance. He was one of those who had been entranced by the theories of that late and unlamented warlord. Quoted them all the time. He was proposing an operation to subvert Burma, to start an insurgency there and eliminate the government. The one he installed would demand “protection” and the Navy would put in a Special Naval Landing Force “to maintain order” and cover it with the guns of Soriva's two battleships. The threat of nuclear shells from their 18 inch guns would prevent the coup from being contested.

Once Burma was taken, Thailand could be isolated and destroyed, thus avenging the Army's defeat in 1949. Thailand was the economic bridge that linked the Triple Alliance and kept it together. Its destruction would leave the “Triple Alliance” two geographically isolated limbs that could be picked off at will.

That was the theory anyway. Like all the Army's plans it assumed the enemy were going to do just what the Army expected. Admiral Soriva was seaman enough to know that things never went according to plan. Still, that was in the lap of the gods. Now, he had to get his battleships ready for sea. There was an amphibious warfare group a carrier covering force, and a replenishment group as well. All of them parts of moving a battle fleet around. And it had to be done without annoying the Americans. The Army really had no idea what was involved in.

Chapter Two Kick-Off

Road from Thafa to Houayxay, Laos

Colonel Toshimitsu Takatsu threw the papers across the back seat of his car. The fools were going to destroy everything, they seemed to have some sort of death wish. They would throw away everything Japan had spent two decades and millions of lives building; destroy it out of some blind hatred of everything European. These orders were perfect examples. Pointing out that other provinces were economizing on resources by taking comfort women for the Japanese garrison from the local population instead of importing them from Korea. Instructing other provinces to do the same. Were they determined to start a civil war - again? After just bringing one of them to an end? Taking women and forcing them to service the garrison would start one nicely.

If other things didn't first. Taxes for example. Other provinces were raising large sums for the Japanese treasury by squeezing the peasants until their bones squeaked. Oh, the tax rates weren't bad in themselves - but they were when the authorities demanded payment four, five or six years in advance. The peasant farmers were doing what they always did, they hid their crops and hid their livestock. Or, if that failed, they left.

By learning to defy the authorities in small ways, they were also learning to defy it in larger ones. Of course, what was happening up North was even worse. The idea had seemed so sensible. Instead of having the peasants in large numbers of small farms, each owned by a single family, consolidate them into large units run by the state. Much more efficient, it should increase production greatly. So why were the peasants resisting so hard? Last time Takatsu had heard, the death toll up there had reached over 150,000. And resistance was still continuing. Madness.

The local leader they had running things up there didn't help either. Nguyen Tat Thanh, A small-minded, stupid functionary with a thirst for personal glory and a total lack of moral backbone. He'd been a faithful servant of Stalin's communists and, when Russia had abandoned communism, transferred his allegiance to a communist warlord called Mao. When he'd been killed, Nguyen Tat Thanh had transferred his allegiance to the Japanese. Now he pranced around in Hanoi, wearing a Japanese uniform and proposing these mad ideas on how to reorganize the country. Poisonous insects like that were going to destroy everything. Bushido was supposed to stand for honor and virtue and moral courage, not fooling around with farms and abducting peasant girls.

He was doing things differently. He'd cut the taxes down to a level the peasants could live with. He'd thrown the “recruiters” out of the villages and towns and told them he'd slit their bellies if they showed their faces in his province again. Japanese soldiers who abused local people found themselves in deep trouble, assigned to the dirtiest, most degrading tasks, those who treated the locals fairly and honestly were promoted and honored. A sergeant caught extorting money from local merchants had been executed in public. The local population would never love the Japanese troops, but they didn't oppose them. Even though he was taxing them less as a proportion of their crops, he was bringing in more revenue. Why couldn't others do the same?

Because they were foolish and dishonest and corrupt. That was the truth of it. Because the Japanese Army wasn't what it had been and it had deserted the true traditions of Bushido. All the provincial governors cared about was extorting bribes, assembling a harem and scoring points with the high-ups so they could be assigned to new provinces with more bribes, more women, and more chances of advancement. They didn't care about their duty anymore and weren't interested in advancing the cause of Imperial Rule. Instead, they looked only to themselves and their own ambitions. They had become Mandarins, not representatives of His Imperial Highness and were driving the local population to mutiny.

There was enough trouble brewing as it was. Oh, not in his province, the trouble hadn't spread here yet. There wasn't enough discontent to cause trouble and wouldn't be. Not as long as he could keep the Japanese rule as light as he could. But in other provinces, trouble was starting. Japanese soldiers would go out alone and not return, Or would be found dead, stabbed in brothels or strangled in back-alleys. Couldn't his brother officers see that abusing and exploiting the local population could only cause such things? But, even in this province, Takatsu made certain he had an escort whenever he traveled. There was an armored car in front and a truck with an infantry squad behind. Besides, he didn't travel outside his town that often, the roads weren't good enough, mostly just dirt tracks. He'd heard that Thailand was building blacktop roads near the border, well, more fool them. Spending money on roads that could be better spent on upgrading their army. Japan had scores to settle with Thailand.

The explosion tore all four back wheels off the armored car and sent the front half, complete with turret, bouncing across the road. All Takatsu could see was the billowing cloud of red dust boiling upwards with dark shadows inside. His car swerved to a halt as his driver avoided the gaping crater where the armored car had been. Takatsu was working on instinct, he was already bailing out of the back of his car when the truck behind slammed into it.

The crunching impact spun both vehicles around, throwing some of the infantrymen from the back. The rest started to jump out over the sides, the first dropping as a light crackle of rifle and machinegun fire started. Then there was the screaming sound of rockets. Three RPG-2s hit Takatsu's car turning it into a fireball. The Japanese infantry were seeking cover as machinegun bullets stitched into their truck. Some dived into the ditch beside the road, Takatsu screamed “No” but it was too late, a directional mine exploded and spewed metal fragments down the axis of the ditch. What seemed to be cover was really a deathtrap.

The survivors were firing back now, their rifles cracking as they sought out targets. It was ironic, the Japanese Army had converted from 6.5 millimeter to 7.7 millimeter rifle ammunition in 1939 and, less than a decade later, converted back again when the Japanese Army had finally adopted a self-loading rifle. Now his troops, or what was left of them were firing but Takatsu couldn't tell the difference between them and the ambushers. Both seemed the same, were the ambushers Japanese?

Whoever they were, they'd wiped his command out. The armored car crew were dead and their vehicle destroyed, not just destroyed but disintegrated. His driver was dead; he'd never made it out of Takatsu's staff car. Of the twelve infantrymen and the driver in the truck, some were around its wreckage, more blown to pieces in the ditch. Only three were left alive and even as he watched, one of them was killed. Takatsu drew his pistol, racked the mechanism and cursed as it went off. The Type 94 pistol had a design fault that made accidental discharges all too frequent. One light tap on the sear was all it took. Takatsu threw it away, absently noting that it had discharged again when it hit the road. Then he picked up one of the infantry rifles, previous owner having no further use for same. The Japanese Army was proud of its new battle rifle but in truth it was just a copy of the Russian SKS chambered for 6.5 millimeter and modified to give selective fire.

Takatsu knew that, he also knew it would make no difference what rifle he carried. The last of his escort had been killed and the ambushers were breaking cover and moving towards him. Professional to the last, he noted they were carrying old Model 38 rifles, bolt-action Arisakas. He lifted his own rifle up but saw one of the old Arisakas flash and he felt terribly weak. So weak, he couldn't stand anymore and dropped down to his knees. The ambushers had drawn bolos now, the heavy jungle machetes with weighted blades. Why had they done this? Hadn't he tried to be a good governor? He never got an answer and the last thing he ever felt was the thumps as the bolos chopped into his body.

Carswell AFB. Primary Operating base, 305th Bomb Group

“Hey, Navy, what happened to your bird? Somebody drop a hangar door on it?” The strange Navy aircraft certainly looked that way, its wings were bent up, its tail bent down, the nose drooped, the rear was cranked up and it looked like it was bent in the middle. Even its coat of matt midnight blue didn't hide that fact that this was one ugly lady. There were a group of new Navy aircraft here; Convair had just delivered the last of the PB5Y-1s to the Navy and the dark blue bombers were waiting to be ferried over to Ford Naval Air Station in Hawaii. A few years earlier the Navy had experimented with a gray and white paint job but they'd gone back to dark blue now. Everybody approved, it just looked so much better. The odd-looking aircraft was going with them, part of its evaluation and test program.

“Hey, don't blame me, I drive a Phiver, that thing is just along for the ride.” The Navy pilot appeared equally disgusted by the appearance of the strange aircraft. “Commander Paul Foreman, VPB-33 Batwings”.

“Captain Kozlowski, 305th Strategic Recon Group. Sorry Sir, I thought you flew that — uhhhh —- airplane. A Fiver?”

“No problem, I used to fly Flivvers off Gettysburg but I screwed my back ejecting. It never got right again and the Navy transferred me to patrol bombers, “Now I fly a PB5Y-1 Hustler.”

“Hey whadya know? I fly the RB-58C version. Or will be soon, the 305th has only just re-equipped. We're still doing classroom. I got my bird though, her name is Marisol. How long you been flying them for?”

“About three months now. A little bit more than 30 flying hours. We've had a lot of problems getting them serviceable. The J79-GE-5s don't work so well, You're getting the GE-10s aren't you? We've got problems in the fuel system as well, the fuel sloshes around in the fuel tanks when we accelerate or slow down. That causes stability problems. We've also had trouble with the afterburners, there's something wrong there that causes intermittent yawing at supersonic speeds. Watch landing, the Phiver comes in hot and hard. We've had problems with the wheel braking system causing tire failure at high gross weights or high taxiing speeds. The other problem we're having is the pod. Thing keeps coming loose on us. We've done high-altitude Mach two weapons release with gravity bombs and we're moving to a missile release as soon as Lockheed start deliveries. We heard the first one went crazy but the second and third shots worked.”

“Sir, Can I stand you a couple of cold ones? One to cut the dust, one to wet the throat? I'd really like to know what you've learned flying these things?”

“Make it soda and you're on. I'm on alert and you know the rules. No smoking 24 hours before flying, no drinking within 50 feet of the aircraft. Don't know how much I can help you but I'll try. And forget the Sirs, my friends call me Flightcop. You don't want to know why, it's a sad story.” Foreman shook his head sadly. “Man, that sure is one ugly looking aircraft.”

Ugly or not, he would have loved to fly it. The Navy was re-equipping the carrier air groups; the fighter squadrons were replacing their old Cougars and Demons with the new F8U-2 Crusader and the fighter-bomber groups would be getting this new bird, the F4H-2. The heavy attack groups were already flying another big Douglas bomber, the A3D and a new supersonic bomber was being developed by North American. That was supposed to be really something. His back ruled out carrier operations though; his last flight from a carrier had been the escort mission over Paris twelve years earlier - the launch and recovery for that had put him in sick-bay for a week. Now, he was land-based maritime strike bombers only. Still the big birds had their compensations.

The new generations of carrier aircraft were changing the fleet in other ways as well. The old Gettysburg class, once the queens of the fleet, were now barely large enough to handle the new aircraft. The CVB designation had been phased out, reflecting that. Now all the carriers were CVs again. The new ones were much bigger, 70,000 tons plus with four elevators and four catapults. Foreman hoped that they were better protected than the old Gettysburg class; he still remembered seeing the burning wreck of Shiloh rolling over and going down. The new carriers would be needed; the Japanese fleet was still out there and still powerful. Much weaker than the US Navy, that was certain, but the US Navy had to be everywhere, the Japanese only where they chose to be. They were strong enough to have local superiority at a given point of conflict until the US could concentrate its strength. That's where the Phivers came in; they could react fast and deliver their nuclear anti-ship missiles where they were needed. Hold the line until the carriers arrived.

Just what were the Japanese up to? Were they still the Japanese? That was a question people were seriously discussing now. Japan had “conquered” China for sure, but was Japan now being absorbed by its victim? A lot of people were arguing that was just what had happened, that Japan had conquered China only to become Chinese in the process. Those who believed in that already called the state “Chipan” and the name was catching on. One result had been that the Japanese had their attention focused on land for almost three decades now and they'd allowed their fleet to take second place. That could change. Meanwhile, the US Navy had other things to think about, the mess in Africa for example and the chaos in South America. President LeMay and SAC may believe that their bombers ruled the world but from the front lines, things looked very different.

The O-club was welcoming; this was a SAC base, not NORAD. SAC pilots still remembered that Shiloh had died to open the way for the B-36s in The Big One. Foreman started to think back over the hours he'd spent in his Phiver. What would this kid need to know about her?

Nike-Ajax Site SF-19, 78^th Air Defense Battalion, San Francisco, California

“Enemy bombers and missiles inbound, enemy bombers and missiles inbound. Prepare to engage.” It was the first in the series of events that preceded any missile launch. This was the warning sent by the Air Defense Command Post to the missile batteries along the imminent threat axis of an attack. Sirens were already blaring, sending personnel scurrying to their assigned battle stations. At the launching area, other groups of personnel were conducting last minute pre-firing checks and positioning the missiles on the launchers. NORAD had designed the missile sites with space-saving underground magazines capable of hosting 12 Ajax missiles. Now that the alert was in, an elevator lifted a missile to the surface in a horizontal position. Once above ground, the missile was pushed manually along a railing to a launcher placed parallel to the elevator.

As personnel readied the missiles, an incoming aircraft was picked up on a long-range acquisition radar. For the Nike Ajax system, this radar was known as LOPAR, an acronym for “Low-Power Acquisition Radar.” When the target appeared on the scope, the battery commander flipped on his IFF system to determine if the target was friend or foe. No response, the inbound was hostile. The LOPAR operator transferred the hostile contact to a target-tracking radar (TTR) that determined the target's azimuth, elevation, and range, and then automatically provided that information to a computer for use in guiding the SAM-A-7 Ajax missile. Once energized, the guidance computer received a running account of the target's changing position.

Adjacent to the TTR, the missile-tracking radar (MTR) locked onto the missile selected to perform the intercept. Meanwhile, all the information was being distributed on the AN/FSG-1 Missile Master systems. Missile Master was the first truly integrated command and control system featuring automatic data communications, processing, and display equipment. By eliminating voice communications, this Martin-built system allowed an area commander to use all his batteries to engage up to 24 different targets.

By now, the hostile aircraft was approaching the battery's engagement range and the battery commander launched the missile. After producing 59,000 pounds of thrust within 3 seconds to push the Ajax off the launch rail, the missile booster dropped away. Having ignited, the missile accelerated through the sound barrier. Once the missile was in the air, the MTR received continuous data on the missile's flight. In turn, by receiving updates from the TTR, the computer generated course correction information that was transmitted to guide the missile toward the target. At the predicted intercept point, the computer transmitted a burst signal that detonated the three high-explosive warheads. The missile and its target exploded in a brilliant flash of light.

In the Air Defense Command Post, a telephone rang. Major James, the battery commander picked it up “James, 19/78th here” listened for a few minutes and relaxed. “We got her guys, it was a drone fired from offshore. NORAD gives us a BZ for the shoot-down.”

Major James felt the room relax. It was NORAD policy never to announce a drill until after it had been completed. And to get a Bravo-Zulu, 'job well done', for an intercept was rare. The battery had only received one before and that was for ground defense, not an intercept. James smiled fondly at the memory, it was one he treasured. Because of the small size of the Nike-Ajax batteries, the officer cadre all got to know one another pretty well. The batteries had a tradition, once a month of having a “dining-out” evening where the officers and their guests got suited up in full dress uniform and went through the whole dining-out ritual.

That evening, the officers and their guests had adjourned to the bar when the ground defense alert siren blew. That was an imperative, everyone had to get to their assigned foxholes throughout the area. The troops had loaded onto a couple of five-ton cargo trucks and made for the perimeter. Other units deployed accordingly and within seconds the infantry guard detail had started firing 81mm mortar illumination rounds. James remembered how those things could light up the landscape. A group of figures were trapped out in the open, quickly being surrounded by the infantry and military police detachments. After about a half hour to 45 minutes James and his men received the word to secure from the alert and return to the barracks.

It wasn't a drill; some “peace activists” had decided to break into the base with the aim of sabotaging equipment. They were lucky; the guards were authorized to use deadly force if the missiles were endangered. Instead, the “peace activists” had just been placed under arrest. James reflected fondly that there had been something incredibly stylish and satisfying about busting the ungodly while attired in full dress uniform. It had added a touch of class to the evening's alert.

Now the rest of the news. “NORAD also say that the battery will be going to Nevada for Red Sun in six months time. We will be there for a month for the big exercise, then we will be re-equipping with the new Hercules missile.” That was a big step forward, Ajax had been a good first step but it was being outpaced by the development of new aircraft. The new Here had much greater range and altitude capabilities and was equipped with a nuclear warhead. Left unsaid was another factor; converting to Here meant the battery would also be getting ready to receive missiles with an anti-missile capability. Nobody, as far as James knew, deployed ICBMs yet but if they did, President LeMay wanted defenses in place waiting for them.

There was a major debate going on in defense circles now. The traditionalists favored continuing with their bomber forces, arguing that bombers were flexible, could evade and fight back against defenses and could be called back at any time right up to the final laydown. Their opponents, arguing for ballistic missiles, quoted the speed of reaction of missiles, their relatively low cost and their invulnerability to defenses.

James, at least, knew that the last claim was false. Missiles were, if anything, an easier target than bombers. They came in on a predictable course, at a known speed and their flight path could be projected easily. They were fast, that was certain, but nothing that guidance systems couldn't cope with. Even the Ajax missile had some capability against older ballistic missiles tike the German A-4. Here would have a lot of anti-missile capability and the dedicated anti-missile weapon, Zeus, more still.

The problem was political. The Republicans would have held the White House for 16 years by the next election. Two terms for President Dewey, one term for President Patton, one term for President LeMay. The Democrats had found the missile versus bomber issue a good tool with which to beat the existing administration over the head. The Democrat contender, John F Kennedy, had been briefed on what the real situation was and how vulnerable missiles really were to a well-planned defense, but he'd gone on with the anti-bomber propaganda barrage anyway.

The problem was he was young and charismatic. President LeMay had bilateral Bell's Palsy, a disease that had paralyzed his face in an aggressive-looking scowl. Television and radio were the new media for political campaigning and there, on television at least, President LeMay was doing badly. Fortunately, televisions were still in a minority of households and it was radio that people relied on for their news and opinions. Even so, the opinion polls had the candidates virtually even-pegging. Perhaps that would change when the radio debates between the President and challenger started in a few weeks time. Many people had had the experience of debating an issue with Curtis LeMay but few had come out of the exchanges having gained the upper hand. LeMay's meticulous staff work was a hard act to beat.

There was more to it than that of course; missiles and bombers were just one part of it. Over the last two Presidential terms, the Army had been cut back in favor of the Air Force and, to a much lesser extent, the Navy, in reality the Army was now just a tripwire for the nuclear forces. American policy was “massive retaliation”. Attack America or its allies and your country is wiped from the face of the earth. No ifs, no buts, no arguments, just a rain of nuclear weapons. America did not make war on its enemies, it simply destroyed them.

The sheer cost of running a modern army wasn't the only reason why the Army was being kept small and weak; a strong army could lead to commitments that were unnecessary or even dangerous. That was another aspect of existing American policy, war was a bad thing and shouldn't be fought at all, but if it was it should be ended as quickly as possibly by a massive application of force. Kennedy and his clique disagreed with that. They kept waffling about “limited force” and “flexible response”. Part of their support were the “Peace Activists” who cried out for the abolition of nuclear forces and condemned the destruction of Germany.

As the horrors of what Nazi Germany had really stood for slowly receded into the past, their following picked up strength.

Their motto appeared to be that resisting evil was as evil as evil itself. They should go to the smoking hole where Germany had been and see where those ideas lead. LeMay's destruction of Germany had bought a decade of peace, disturbed only by a few minor clashes. Was that legacy to end?

As Major James watched missile battery 19/78 dropping back into its normal routine, he reflected that crises could take more forms than purely military ones.

Chapter Three First Plays

First Class Cabin, Cloudliner “Apsaras” On Don Muang Final Approach

Landing was the part of the flight Sir Martyn Sharpe enjoyed most. From his seat on the upper deck he could watch the six pusher engines powering back while the flaps extended. There was something about the mechanism that extended the flaps that fascinated him. The Cloudliner was a great aircraft, the first of the really modern airliners but it was too slow. It was being phased out now, next year Air India was getting its new eight-jet Boeing 707s. They would cut hours off the flight to Bangkok. That was good for it was a trip he was making more often these days. But he really would miss the gentle comfort of the Cloudliner.

When the Americans had dismantled the Air Bridge after World War Two, many of the C-99s had been sold, in truth almost given, to civilian operators. With their huge cargo and passenger capacity they had revolutionized air travel. When he was a child, Sir Martyn had dreamed of, one day, traveling somewhere by air. The Cloudliner had made air travel so cheap it was now commonplace. The children on this flight seemed mightily unimpressed by the experience.

The other thing he liked about this part of a flight was the feeling of dropping in on the country below. Underneath his aircraft, he could see the green cross-work of fields, divided by hard-top roads and canals. Every year, a few more roads, a few less canals. Fewer long-tailed boats, more trucks and motor scooters. This was a familiar feature now, all three countries in the Triple Alliance were developing fast, industrializing as quickly as their infrastructure allowed. They were dropping quickly, he could see a child sitting on a buffalo wave at the aircraft and felt the wings rock slightly in acknowledgement. Then, he felt the thump as the wheels went down. They were passing over the airport perimeter and ....

The pilot was good as well; he'd settled the big bird down with no more than a gentle tap. The upper deck of the Cloudliner was high enough for him to get a good view over Don Muang airport. Far over to the right was the military sections, Sir Martyn could see the line of brand-new F-105B Thunderchief bombers parked over there. Sir Martyn knew that the USAF had changed the specs on the F-105, introducing an all-weather attack system but making the more-limited B-model obsolescent before it was delivered. The Thais had moved in and bought the entire B-model production run, over 75 aircraft, at a bargain-basement price. Obsolete for the USAF they may be but they were the best fighter-bombers in the region.

There were more new military aircraft around, he couldn't see them but he knew some of Thailand's new F-104As were on hotpad alert somewhere around here. They were a more controversial purchase, Sir Martyn's Indian Air Force advisor had hard things to say about the Starfighter. Sir Martyn envied the Royal Thai Air Force, India's air force was too large and its responsibilities too varied to allow them to adopt the same policy of quality over quantity. The RTAF was on its third generation of jets while the Indian Air Force still had some piston-engined aircraft in operational service. That was a thought, perhaps India could buy the F-84Fs the RTAF was withdrawing from service?

The front passenger exit was opening. In the old days, they'd have had to go down steps and walk across the concrete in order to enter the airport terminal. Now, there were big, bus-like vehicles that had an elevating passenger section. It would lift up, the passengers would enter and it would drop down before driving over to the terminal. It was rumored that the next thing in airport design would be a tunnel that extended to the aircraft from the terminal itself,

“Sir Martyn, Sir Eric?” A young Thai officer had entered from the service bus. “Please come with me.” He led them out into the bus and it dropped them quickly to ground level. There was a large white limousine waiting, as he got in, Sir Martyn saw the box-like passenger cabin lifting back up for the rest of the first class passengers. “The Ambassador has asked me to bring you straight to her office prior to taking you to your residence here. She apologizes for troubling you after your long flight but we have little time and much to do.”

Sir Martyn looked out the window. When he had first come here, almost twelve years ago, the city had been a sleepy quiet place, shaded by trees and crisscrossed by canals. Now, the canals were being filled in to make way for roads and the trees were being cut down. There were small business and machine shops setting up all over. Banks too, the banking sector here was growing by leaps and bounds as the country became the clearing house for trade and financial dealings outside the China-Japan block.

There was a price being paid for progress, the character of the city was being lost, it was becoming like every other large city everywhere. The traffic was getting bad as well now, there were too many motor scooters, too many cars, too many trucks. But over there? Sir Martyn nudged Sir Eric and pointed. Across the road, an elephant was making its stately way down the street. Bangkok was still Bangkok.

The limousine pulled through the gates of a building and stopped. It was a large, square building built around a courtyard that still had trees and a small lake with a fountain. Their guide took them in and up in an elevator to the top floor. As they stepped out, The Ambassador was waiting for them. To his surprise, Sir Martyn saw she was wearing an Army uniform with a Colonel's rank insignia and a pistol strapped to one hip.

“Welcome, my friends. Thank you Captain, you may leave now. I will not be requiring you for the rest of the day. If you have no other duties, you are dismissed. Sir Martyn, Sir Eric, please come to my office.”

The Ambassador led them in to a large, airy office. From up here, the sound of traffic was muted and the air was cool. A large ceiling fan made for a pleasant current of air around the room. The Ambassador fixed drinks, Sir Martyn noting that she knew exactly what to serve and how, and settled down behind her desk , “Gentlemen, it appears that our original fears were correct. Over the last few weeks we have been gaining an improved picture of Masanobu Tsuji's movements and plans. The overall situation is a little less obscure than it was when we first met but there are still many holes to fill in.

“Firstly, we were correct in our hypothesis that we are seeing the start of a wide-spread attempt to begin insurgencies across this region. There are a number of factors playing into this, some of which may be beneficial to us, others present a serious danger. Burma is the primary arena for this offensive. The Japanese have been infiltrating large numbers of agitators; cadres the theorists call them, into the area. Some are Japanese military personnel who have been trained in insurgency theory, others are Burmese nationalists, or communists, or simply mercenaries.

“Whoever they are, they are moving around the villages, trying to stir up discord between the local people and the authorities. That effort is spilling over into our northern provinces. Some here claim that this may be an accident, they believe that the cadres, who are not very skilled, simply stray outside the area of operations. But the consensus is that a part of Masanobu Tsuji's plan is to start an insurgency here, to act as a diversion and prevent us acting against the developing insurgency in Burma.

“We have taken steps against this possibility already. As you know, there are large numbers of Vietnamese refugees seeking protection in our country. Many of these are Viet Minh veterans. As the refugees arrive in our territory, we are filtering out the most skilled and senior of the Viet Minh veterans and asking them to assist us by moving to villages in the insurgent-threatened areas. This is already working well, these are skilled insurgents themselves and they know what to look for and how to counter the activities.”

“Can you trust them Ma'am?”

“Of course not Sir Eric, But we have set things up so that it is very much in their interests to co-operate with us. You see, there are more insurgencies developing around here than the obvious ones. We have had word, for example, that General Vo Nguyen Giap had founded a Vietnamese People's Liberation Army aimed at driving the Japanese out of Vietnam and Laos. We understand that they have much support and have already achieved some significant results. A few days ago a senior Japanese provincial administrator, Colonel Toshimitsu Takatsu, was assassinated. We believe that the VPLA may well have had a hand in that.”

“I must admit Ma'am, we were puzzled by that attack. By all accounts Colonel Toshimitsu Takatsu was an enlightened and civilized man, a good and just administrator who had a genuine feel for the region and sympathy for the people. He seemed to be the least likely of targets.” Even as he spoke, Sir Martyn got a sensation he hadn't felt since he was five years old and had publicly miss-spelled “cat” . The Ambassador and Sir Eric were exchanging glances and he could almost read the Ambassador's unspoken thought He's your boy, Sir Eric. Don't blame me. But when she spoke, the voice was as soft and polite as always.

“Sir Martyn, please remember this is an insurgency. One where the objective is to bring about a widespread and effective uprising of the people against the government. To do this the government must be hated and despised and the people must regard it as an oppressive enemy. You have one administrator who is a greedy, vicious, corrupt sadist who is antagonizing the people and driving them into our hands. You have another who is a humane and just man who does the best he can for the people he rules and has earned their respect. Which one do you kill? “

Sir Martyn nodded. Put that way, it made sense although lie didn't like it. He got the distinct feeling he was entering a world he would rather not know existed.

“However, this is not the least of our problems. You are aware of the growing wealth in the Middle East and Arab world in general?”

Again, Sir Martyn nodded. Iran had been an oil producer for many years and Iraq had been so for almost as long. Now they were being joined by Saudi Arabia and the Gulf States. They had banded together in a cartel called the Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries or OPEC. They were getting very rich selling oil to both Europe and to Chipan. That hadn't worried the Americans who ran their economy on their own supplies backed up by Siberian oil, but, it gave the OPEC countries a serious hold on Europe.

The problem was that the German occupation of Moslem areas in Southern Russia had radicalized much of the population there. That philosophy was seeping into the Arab world as a whole and had combined with the Wahhabite regime in Saudi to form a grouping that was militant, anti-western and wealthy. A bad combination. Then there was the Shi'ite groups centered around Iran, Perhaps it was fortunate that the two sects hated each other as much as they did.

“Much of that wealth is going to funding another insurgency, this time in your northern provinces. The demand for Pakistan is rearing its head again and there are strong signs that Masanobu Tsuji is behind that as well. There is, after all, much of common interest between the Middle Eastern states and Chipan. But there is something more, something we have not worked out yet. The Moslem insurgents in your Northern provinces, in our southern provinces and elsewhere are very poorly trained in insurgency techniques but extremely well trained in military tactics. That is a puzzle we need an answer to. Now gentlemen, before I take you to our briefing facilities for a more detailed discussion, one last word in private.

“Sir Martyn, I told you how insurgents always target the best and brightest administrators? And that you have an insurgency problem developing? Here, I do speak as a member of my government. Your services to your country and to your partners in the Triple Alliance have been valuable beyond calculation. That makes you a primary target for an assassin. Look to your life, Sir Martyn, we cannot afford to lose you.”

Nellis AFB, Nevada. Primary Operating Base of 414th “Red Sun“ Combat Training Squadron

In the eyes of many, Captain John Paul Martin was, despite his lowly rank, currently the most important officer in the USAF. Not because he was a Mustang who'd worked his passage up from the ranks and collected two kills with the tail guns of a B-36 on the way. It was because for the last five years he'd been the range officer of the United States Air Force Air Warfare Center more commonly known as Red Sun.

Martin couldn't help reflecting that he had the best duty assignment the Air Force could offer and anywhere after here would be downhill. It was his responsibility to maintain the elaborate instrumentation that covered the 7.9 million acre Nellis Range Complex - 2.9 million acres of which were severely classified. Civilians flying over the outer 5 million acres might, provided they were humble and penitent, get away with a vitriolic tongue lashing and loss of their pilot's license. Those who infringed on the inner 2.9 million acre part would, if they survived, face a diet of prison food for a long time.

The secrecy of the range had lead to speculation about what happened there. The woo-woo community had been rife with stories about space aliens and crashed spacecraft. Others claimed that secret aircraft of remarkable performance and astounding technology were being developed. The woo-woos were a problem so the Air Force had come up with an inspired solution; they'd set up a decoy area on the edge of the range and leaked that this was where the interesting things really happened. There'd been a competition over what to call it, Martin had won that with the entry “Area 51”. It was a simple code, A=l, B=2 etc. Thus “Area 51” decoded to give “Area EA”- Enthusiast's Airshow.

Add a few discarded prototypes and mock-ups, deploy a few savage guard dogs and it kept the woo-woos happy for hours. Yet, the stories were closer to the truth than most people thought. Two remarkable new aircraft were being tested now, a long-range supersonic penetration fighter, the North American F-108 Rapier and the Lockheed F-112 Blackbird, a hypersonic home-defense interceptor. They wouldn't be ready for this year's Red Sun but the F-108 was due to make it for the 1960 exercises. Maximum speed: 1980 mph at 76,550 feet. Service ceiling 80,100 feet, things had come a long way since the early days.

Martin remembered he'd still been enlisted and a tail gunner back at the first exercise. Red Sun had been born as a result of what had been a virtual civil war inside the USAF. The tactical fighter groups had come back from Russia to find that Strategic Air Command with its nuclear-armed bombers was being treated as if they'd won the war single-handed. An attitude that SAC had done little to discourage. The fighter and attack groups found themselves overshadowed by the B-36s and the exploits of the Navy over France. First bitter at being “the forgotten Air Force” they'd become increasingly aggrieved and indignant. The fighter community had taken to claiming that they could have stopped The Big One - and it didn't take long before the more hot-headed were offering to shoot a B-36 down to prove the point.

Something had to be done and that something was Red Sun. The fighter groups had been instructed to send their best and brightest to Nellis AFB for a two-week exercise that would pit them against the B-36s of SAC. What had happened was completely unexpected. It had been assumed that the USAF fighter pilots would do at least as well as the Luftwaffe had managed a year earlier. After all, the American fighter pilots knew the bombers would be coming in high and the tactics they would use. Without that knowledge, the Germans had downed seven bombers and damaged another dozen.

When the exercises started the American pilots achieved -nothing. SAC had been studying the reports of The Big One as well and had spent a year defining its doctrines and tactics. The planned two weeks had stretched to four and then to six. Every day the B-36s had swarmed over the target area, serenely ignoring the fighters floundering around below them. The tighter pilots would go away, revise their tactics, modify their aircraft and try again - with equal lack of success. Below them. Observers watched and learned.

That was the secret of the Air Warfare Center, Red Sun was intended as a training exercise so that combat aircrews could train in the most realistic simulated war environment possible. Even the first Red Sun in 1948 hadn't been a competition between flying units, nor a duel between pilots. It had been a post-graduate university course in air defense technology and the lesson learned was simple. Air defense had failed completely, the United States was as vulnerable to high-altitude nuclear bombers as Germany had been a year earlier.

The lessons of the 1948 Red Sun had been compiled and circulated to strategists, tacticians, aircraft designers, anybody who could come up with answers. One answer had underlined how desperate the problem had been; since the B-36 was the only aircraft that could fly and fight comfortably at those high altitudes, the B-36 was assigned an air defense mission, to be executed by dropping nuclear devices on inbound enemy bombers.

Martin reflected that his last Red Sun before going away to become an officer in 1949 hadn't been any better. By then NORAD had been formed to integrate the defenses of the United States. It was loosely based on a German system called NAIADS that had failed to defeat The Big One. American investigators had liked the basic idea behind NAIADS but believed it had been executed badly. NAIADS had been a rigid, inflexible tree with information passing up and down a tightly defined hierarchy. NORAD, from its headquarters in Colorado, was the center of a flexible, multiply-redundant web by which information could flow around any damage caused by enemy action.

By 1949, the Air Warfare Center had changed as well. In the first Red Sun, the actions had been observed by spotters on the ground with binoculars. Over the year, they had been equipped with Contraves Kinetheodolites to precisely track the aircraft and record their maneuvers. The first radars had been installed and a series of lecture theaters had been built for debriefings. In doing so, a new science had been created called Range Instrumentation. A science that investigated the technology needed to measure and plot everything that happened over an area and reveal how it had happened.

Neither NORAD nor range instrumentation had helped much, not in 1949. Some of the fighters the defenses deployed had been stripped down and their engines boosted to develop more power at high altitudes. The modified F-72s and F-80s had managed to reach the B-36s that year but they had been staggering at the limits of their performance and the B-36s were in their element. As the summary at the end of the exercise had put it “The B-36s stopped ignoring the fighters and shot them down instead”. If they'd been using real ammunition, Martin would have left Texan Lady an ace.

The glory days of the B-36 hadn't lasted of course. It had faded away slowly. By 1951 the first of the new jet interceptors, drawing on the experience of the earlier Red Sun exercises had arrived. The F-94 Starfire was a hasty modification of a twin-seat trainer version of the old F-80C, fitted with an afterburner, it could make it up to the B-36s and stay there to fight them. Not well, it lacked the firepower for that, but at least it could try. Then, in 1952, the Northrop F-89 had entered the exercise. Sluggish and with an appalling accident record, it had the firepower the F-94 lacked. One aircraft had the performance but not the firepower, the other the firepower but lacked the performance.

These new Fighters, controlled by a thing called the “Air Defense Ground Environment”, were the child of Red Sun but they were weak and sickly children. At the end of the 1952 exercise, the summary had stated proudly “after five years of hard work, technical innovation and unrelenting effort, our air defenses have now advanced to the point of being totally ineffective.”

But, if 1952 had been disappointing, 1953 had seen a sudden change in the fortunes of the defenses. Two new fighters had joined the flightline at Nellis, the latest version of the F-94, the F-94C and the single-seat F-86D Sabredog. Both were able to fly and maneuver at the B-36 operational altitudes and, with their rocket batteries, had the firepower to do some real damage. The RB-36s were still out of reach but the loaded B-36s now had to fight to survive.

Something else was added to the equation as well, the first Ajax missiles had entered the exercise. Up to now, ground-based anti-aircraft weapons had been useless, ineffective against targets flying at over 36,000 feet. Ajax was effective against targets flying at up to 60,000 feet and that put even the RB-36 within reach. In 1953, for the first time, a combination of Ajax “firings” with attacks by the F-94C and the F-86D had managed to inflict significant “losses” on a B-36 attack.

Martin remembered that the ground gained had been lost during his first year at Red Sun. 1954 had seen the B-60, the all-jet version of the B-36 entering the exercises for the first time. About 80 mph faster and about 2,000 feet more service ceiling gave the B-60 the edge that the B-36 had lost. A year later the B-52 had made its first appearance. With over 630 mph maximum speed it marked an enormous advance over even the B-60. Yet that year, the first of the Century series fighters had arrived with their GAR-1 air-to-air missiles.

For the last five years, the B-60 and the B-52 on one side and the F-101, F-102 and F-104 on the other had been battling it out in the skies over Nevada. Electronic warfare faced off against missiles and radars. The old days when the bombers held an absolute technical advantage had gone but the fighters didn't have a decisive edge either. Now it was all down to tactics, technology and skill. And those were the things the forcing ground of Red Sun had been designed to develop.

Martin grinned. This year, two new Convair products were being deployed for the first time. As always, the best went first to Red Sun. SAC were sending their new RB-58C Hustlers and NORAD the F-106A Delta Dart. The 498th Fighter Interceptor Squadron based at Geiger AFB in Washington was going face to face with the 305th Strategic Recon Group fresh from conversion school at Carswell. This was going to be interesting. And, who knew? Perhaps he could talk one of the RB-58C drivers into giving him a ride. At Red Sun all things were possible.

Baronial Hall, Walthersburg, New Schwabia

Field Marshal Walter Model, once known as “The Fuhrer's Fireman” and now Baron of New Schwabia listened carefully. It had been his imagination, or possibly distant thunder, but it wasn't artillery. Here in Walthersburg, the city once called Stalingrad, the border of New Schwabia was close enough, if there had been artillery fire, he'd have heard it. In some ways it was foolish for him to have his home so far forward but there was no choice. Walthersburg was the great industrial center of his state. Astrakhan gave him oil and Rostov a port but Walthersburg was his industrial backbone. Lose that and everything else would be lost.

He'd already been luckier than most. Of all the little states that had sprung up in occupied Russia after the Americans had destroyed Germany, his was the one that was most powerful. He had been left with the best troops, the better part of an Army group with Panzers and infantry and even an SS division. He'd been left with enough aircraft to make a reasonable air force and the ground he occupied contained the foundations of a modern state.

One by one, all the other German satrapies had been taken by the Russians but New Schwabia had been left until last. It had even grown a bit, absorbed some territory and refugees from the others. He'd also been lucky in position; he had the Black Sea guarding his left, the Caspian guarding his right and neutral Turkey guarding his rear. Only the Northern front was open and half of that was guarded by the Volga. When the Russians attacked, and it was a when, not an if, their front would be from Donetsk to Walthersburg. He'd stacked his defenses there and dug in. His army had spent twelve years digging in.

For all the digging, his army was still mobile, that was the wonder of it. His first crisis had been when the news of the American attack with their Hellburners had reached them. His troops were demoralized, most wanted to go home to see if their families had left. Some had and about half had made it back. Their message had been chilling. Nothing left, no families, nothing. The Americans destroyed everything.

His troops had faced reality. Now, New Schwabia was the only bit of Germany left anywhere in the world. The German soldiers had taken Russian wives (taken being the operative word, the women's consent had been neither sought nor desired) and built themselves new lives here. New Schwabia had become the perfect modern feudal state. Russian serfs, Wehrmacht Yeomanry, SS aristocracy and, over them all, Baron Walther Model,

That's when he'd faced his second crisis. Equipment. His German tanks and guns and aircraft had worn out in the end and there was little chance of getting replacements let alone developing new models to replace the obsolete designs. Then, a miracle had occurred. A miracle in the shape of a Japanese Colonel and an Iranian priest. Colonel Masanobu Tsuji and Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini. Negotiations were long and hard but in the end, a three-cornered deal had been struck.

The Islamic States bought modern arms, large quantities of them, from Chipan, paying for them with oil. They then sold those armaments to New Schwabia in exchange for Model training their soldiers. Soldiers from the Islamic States of the Middle East spent two years with the German colors now, learning to act like modern soldiers. Model grinned to himself. Act like was right, they weren't Germans and never would be but they were good enough.

Those meetings had been hard though. The Japanese had been reasonable enough, they had their own agenda and this was a part of it. Model could see that and negotiate accordingly. Khomeini had been more of a problem, he just wasn't a rational man. But common ground had been established; they both hated America, Khomeini for what America was, Model for what it had done. They'd shared another hatred as well, one that had cemented them together when Model had shown him films of his Einsatzgruppen making New Schwabia Judenfrei.

So now his Army had manpower and armor. His Air Force had aircraft. Now, when the Ivans came, he could fight. And, who knew? On a limited front with a mobile force he might even win. Better odds than he'd faced many times during the War. And better odds than facing Hellbumers.

Chapter Four Initial Gains

Ban Rom Phuoc, Thai-Burmese Border

The long dusty road into Ban Rom Phuoc was getting familiar now, just like the roads leading to a dozen more villages in the area. Well, perhaps not now. For some reason the Thai government was surfacing roads in the province with blacktop. Senior Cadre had reported that and it was puzzling headquarters. Blacktop held the heat and was uncomfortable to walk on in the noon sun. It didn't have the dust clouds of laterite of course but it seemed eliminating dust was a small benefit for such a great cost and effort. It didn't matter here-and-now though, this road was still laterite.

The Senior Cadre thought that this village was just about ready for the next step. He and his Junior Cadre assistant had made several visits, instructing the villagers in the evils and oppression of the Government, opening their eyes to how they were being exploited by the merchants and bankers, how the Europeans were responsible for their poverty and hardships. He'd told them all about how a new force was rising in Asia that would drive the Europeans away and the village could be lead into a new era of peace and prosperity.

He'd followed the book precisely, even though he couldn't agree with most of it. All this farce of walking from village to village, pretending to be traveling traders. Of treating the villagers as being equals. He was a Japanese Army officer; he should enter the village in style, impressing the farmers with his status and importance. How dare a bunch of uneducated farmers think they were his equals! He'd made his real status clear to his Junior Cadre from a very early point in the operation. Junior Cadre was a Burmese nationalist and now knew well where power and authority really lay.

Anyway, it didn't matter, this village was ready now. They'd have another consciousness-raising session this evening and stay overnight. Then, tomorrow evening, he would incite the masses into rising against the Headman they now saw as a tool of the Government and they would kill him and his family. The authorities would investigate but their investigation would prove little. In frustration, they would punish the villagers who would thus be driven into the hands of the revolution.

It was an inevitable sequence of events, clearly laid down in the books they had studied. Follow the manuals and it would go well, the first of his assigned villages would be won over to the side of Japan. By late evening, Senior Cadre was convinced that his judgment had been correct. Ban Rom Phuoc was ready to be radicalized. After the evening revolutionary consciousness session he'd told the villagers he and Junior Cadre would be staying the night. There had been a stir of unmistakable satisfaction at that. As he went to the hut the villagers kept for travelers who wished to stay overnight. Senior Cadre saw that the village was indeed ready.

Senior Cadre woke from a dream where he was suffocating - and realized it was no dream. Something had been thrown over his head, covering his face. Even as he struggled to wake properly, he felt a dreadful pain across his stomach, a blow, probably from a heavy bamboo stave. It was the first of many, raining down on his chest and stomach and legs. Some were flat blows from the length of the bamboo clubs; others were vicious short stabs where the staves were wielded as spears. Mixed in were kicks from feet, some hardened from waking barefoot, others softer.

From inside the muffling blanket, Senior Cadre could hear screams, his own and those of Junior Cadre. And more sounds of blows and kicks and the pants of those delivering them. Then he was dragged from the wooden bed and thrown to the floor. More blows, and his hands were tied in front of him, a bamboo staff rammed between his elbows and his back. He could feel himself being hauled through the hut door and hurled down the steps. The impact as he hit the ground at the bottom knocked what little breath was left out of his body.

Then the blanket was torn away and he could see again. The entire village was surrounding him, the scene lit by burning torches that gave a flickering orange glow to the scene. Some of the villagers were the local defense force, the Tahan Pran, in their black coveralls and carrying a mix of shotguns and muzzle-loading muskets. Others were the villager civilians, men, women and children who had gathered around the guest hut.

Senior Cadre saw Junior Cadre flying through the air to land with a dull crump beside him. Then, both were dragged to their knees to face the villagers surrounding them. Senior Cadre was bewildered, confused, this was a bad dream it couldn't be happening. He and Junior Cadre were supposed to be doing this to the Headman and his family, it was him and his wife and their children who were supposed to be kneeling here, bound and beaten, surrounded by an accusing crowd. Not him, he was Senior Cadre.

You poor fools, Phong Nguyen thought quietly to himself as he watched the two cadres being beaten and kicked into position. You poor, poor fools. You had no idea did you? You were so swept up in your own arrogance, your own self-importance, you didn't see what was going on around you. You were so convinced you were following the book, you didn't see you were fighting the people who wrote that book. He shook his head, a gesture that those around him mistook as anger at the injustices the strangers had committed but in reality was pity for two foots who were playing with things they didn't understand and would now pay the price. But pity should never stand in the way of duty.

“These strangers are charged with committing serious crimes against the people of this village. Who here has accusations to make against them?”

There was silence for a minute then one of the young women stepped forward. Her name was Ai and she was a popular girl in the village, well liked for her friendliness and amiability. She pointed at the older of the two strangers kneeling in the dirt. “I accuse this one. He asked me to pleasure him and I agreed but he wanted to use me as a boy. When I refused he seized my breast and twisted it until I screamed. Look,”

She opened her top; her breast had ugly and obviously fresh bruises on it. Bless You My Child, Phong Nguyen thought, memories of his time in a Catholic school resurfacing, that is one good start.

“And he hit me and threw me across the room. If two of our men hadn't come who knows what he would have done to me. Phong Nguyen noted that two of the men straightened slightly with pride. More of that later. Now he had his work to do.

“THIS ONE?” He roared with anger pointing at the older of the two men, the one he had no doubt was the Senior Cadre and almost certainly Japanese. “THIS ONE?”

His voice shook with simulated rage. “This is the one who on his first visit here told us how his sister had been raped and mutilated by our soldiers.” It wasn't actually, it was the younger one who'd told that story but who cared? Truth had nothing to do with what was happening here tonight.

“He accused our brave soldiers, the soldiers who drove out the French from the Recovered Provinces and brought us the respect of the world; he accused them of raping and murdering his sister when all along it was he who does such terrible things.” The crowd would remember that as the stranger confessing to raping his own sister, This was going well. Phong Nguyen spat on the ground in front on him. “Who else has accusations?”

An old farmer stepped forward and pointed at the younger stranger “That one took my best rice beer, the batch that I'd made for the wedding of Lat and Nod, drank a little and threw the rest away. And never even offered to pay for it.” Phong Nguyen shook his head sadly “Your best rice beer you say, the finest in the province I'm told.” That was a safe comment, every village knew the rice beer it brewed was unequaled in the province. “And never even offered to pay.” A deep sigh and a shake of the head.

Nao stepped forward. An older woman, her husband had died of snake-bite in the fields four years ago, Since then, she'd rented the farm out and raised her family by doing odd work for others in the village.

“I did their laundry for them and they left without paying. Next time they came I reminded them and they called me a bloodsucking landlord.” That caused a genuine surge of anger, what else could a widow do but rent out her farm? And Nao had never complained about her fortune but made the best of what life had given her. Her children were clean and polite and she never failed to make a generous donation to the monks.

“I heard them; we all heard them, insult our King.”

Phong Nguyen didn't see who'd called that out but it was true, everybody knew it. Now, those holding the torches were banging the ends against the ground, making the shadows dance and sway in the night air. In the background somebody had started tapping on a drum, a bit melodramatic but, running a revolution was half theater, after all.

“They never made a donation to the monks!”

Another unrecognizable voice, this time a woman. And again true and everybody knew it. Watching the two cadres, Phong Nguyen could see that realization had sunk in, this was no dream, no game, they had been outfoxed and they were going to die. They were both looking desperately around for a way out, for an escape for somebody to help them. It was pointless, they were already dead, they just hadn't stopped breathing yet.

Now the accusations were coming thick and fast. Alt the resentments, all the half-remembered injuries and wounds and insults of a lifetime were pouring out. In the atmosphere that was swirling around the village square, the two men kneeling in the middle were the focus of everything that had been bottled up and festered for years. By now, nobody could hear the individual allegations but it didn't matter. Few, if any, had anything to do with the two cadres in front of them.

It was a long-delayed release of frustration and anger poured out over a convenient target. Tomorrow, it would be remembered only as the two strangers being found guilty of all the things that had offended and insulted the villagers. After it had gone on long enough but before it began to ebb, Phong Nguyen raised his hand to stop the flood of charges. “Do we find these strangers guilty of their crimes against our village?” That was a loaded question of ever there was one - and even if it wasn't, the villagers could hardly turn around now and say no. The roar back was “YES”. As if it could have been anything else.

Lin made what really was the best Chicken Pad Thai in the province. It truly was superb. She may not have been the most beautiful girl in the village but the other women had already glumly concluded that her Pad Thai gave her first choice of all the eligible men in this village and the ones in the surrounding areas.

Her secret was her butcher's knife. The girls from the village had once gone to the provincial capital, taking what little money their families could spare with them. Most of the girls had bought a new dress or jewelry but Lin had bought a superb Swedish carbon steel butcher's knife and sharpening stone. Her mother had beamed with pride at her daughter's foresight for now she could slice chicken so thinly the strips were transparent. Flash-fried in seasoned oil, they melted in the mouth, blending with the rest of the Pad Thai to make a dish fit for the Gods.

Now Lin had her knife in hand as she stood behind the older of the two strangers. When Phong Nguyen chopped his hand down, she grabbed the stranger's hair, pulled his head back and sliced the knife across his throat. The blade was so sharp that it slid through the flesh with hardly an effort. Lin carefully avoided the spine, she didn't want to knick the finely-honed edge of her precious knife on a bone. As the stranger's blood sprayed out, Phong Nguyen drew his Tokarev TT-33 pistol and shot the other cadre through the head. As he did so, he decided he would have to tell Vo Nguyen Giap that these tactics worked as well when you were defending things as they did when you were subverting them. That was an important lesson that should not be lost.

Then something happened which astonished him. The shock of seeing the killings they demanded, the villagers should have been stunned, filled with guilt and shame. Then, those feelings could be turned against those who the dead had represented. “See, it was their fault you were forced to do this.”

But, here, now the people were proud of what had happened. They looked at the bodies with satisfaction. Looking at them, Phong Nguyen had an epiphany. In his years with the Viet Minh, he'd been attacking things; tonight he had been defending them. That was the difference, before the villagers had been attacking and destroying, tonight they had been defending and protecting. Guilt and shame went with destruction, pride and satisfaction with protection. The implications of that needed much thought. But first he had a message to send.

Next morning, Phong Nguyen was still sitting on the ground thinking over his discovery of the night before when the trucks arrived. He hurried over, he had to speak with the platoon commander and make some quick changes to the script. That took a few minutes, by which time the villagers had assembled around them. Nervous and apprehensive but defiant. They'd defended their village hadn't they? And nobody could object to that could they? The Army Lieutenant got out of his truck and looked at the dead bodies. “What Happened?”

The Headman explained, now the accusations of the night before had become facts. At this point, the original script had called for the officer to break into a furious tirade lashing the villagers for taking the law into their own hands. Now, that had gone. Instead, he shook his head sadly and remarked how difficult it must have been for them to raise their hands against guests. But, the safety and security of the village had to come first and they'd had no choice. But now, the friends of these evil persons would be coming to take revenge. That brought them back to the script. Perhaps the Army could help. Would these be useful to you?

In the back of the trucks were crates, containing new Russian-made AK-47 rifles. The long war with Germany and the German warlords had made Russian infantry weapons the envy of the world - and the country's leading foreign currency earner. Most countries vastly preferred the AK-47 to the American M-l. The Lieutenant took one from its crate and gave it to the Headman. Phong Nguyen turned to the villagers.

“The Army has given us these fine rifles to help us protect our homes, our families, all that is ours. Who will join the Tahan Pran now?”

The first three to step forward were Ai and Nao and Lin. Women? Why not? There were women in the Regular Army and women had been some of the best soldiers in the Viet Minh. Besides, after last night's display of knife-work he was not going to upset Lin - and anyway, he liked her Chicken Pad Thai.

Come to think of it, she really was a very fine woman; she would make a good wife for a Viet Minh Senior Political Cadre. But, better yet, the men in the village were not going to stand back and let the women fight for them. They were already stepping forward, at this rate, the Tahan Pran would triple in size and their new automatic rifles would give them many times greater firepower yet.

The Army lieutenant was asking the Village Headman for permission to stay for a day or two so that his men could teach the villagers how to look after their new rifles. Meanwhile Phong Nguyen went over to Lin and started to show her how to use her new AK-47. As he did so, she nestled a little closer to him. The village women looked at each other significantly. The Vietnamese orphan they had taken in had gained much prestige and respect today, Lin had made herself a good catch.

Captain's Cabin, INS Rana, Melbourne Naval Base, Australia

It had been a hard cruise. Rana and her sister ship Rajput were brand new, fresh from the shipyard and carried a clutch of new systems, both Indian and imported. Integrating them had been a problem, getting some to work at all had been a worse one. Captain Kanali Dahm had written a scathing report on some of the dockyard work that had been done. It had been skimped, some of the welding was far sub-standard, and he had boiler problems. The good news was that his four twin 4.5 inch guns had worked perfectly and what firepower that gave him. 40 rounds per minute per barrel for 320 rounds per minute total. His torpedoes might be old but they were trusted and reliable. Other navies may have defective torpedoes but he could trust his.

Anchored across the way from the two destroyers was the flagship of the squadron, the battlecruiser INS Hood. During the destroyer's gunnery practice, she'd let fly with her main battery of 15 inch guns. Now that was firepower, accurate too. Captain Dahm had seen the big shells fall in a tight pattern around the selected target. He knew what would happen now that they had reached Melbourne and opened up for public visits tomorrow. There would be a line of people waiting to visit “The Mighty 'Ood^y stretching far beyond the dockyard gates but his destroyer would be deserted.

This was good, because the only people who would be coming on board were his professional colleagues from the Australian Navy. And, of course, the members of the Naval Mafia who would come along to photograph his antennas. His crew had already been hard at work, applying a spot of strongers to his upperworks and hogging out the messdecks. He wanted his new command looking shipshape before his peers - and the naval press.

Mind you, port visits could be embarrassing sometimes. He'd been a sprog on the Old Renown when she visited London a few years back. Traditionally navies that traced their ancestry back to the Royal Navy had in common that the best hospitality onboard ship could be found in the Chief Stoker's Mess – but entry was by invitation only and a rare privilege. A minor British politician called Healey had been found hammering on the entry hatch to the CSM at 0300 demanding free beer. Avoiding a diplomatic incident there had taken deft footwork. Kanalt Dahm had heard later that the same politician had attempted the same trick on an American ship and tried to force an entry into The Goat Locker - rumor had it that a Senior Chief had accused him of being a Democrat and thrown him over the side as a result.

That was another thing; he had to get the Ship's Poisoner to give the crew the usual lecture on how not to catch unspeakable diseases while on a run ashore. Not that they'd listen of course, this was a training cruise and the ships were full of cadets and trainees. That might explain some of the systems problems they'd had of course. A Jimmy Green and a new piece of electronics were a marriage made in hell. Come to think of it, that raised another problem. As always on a port visit, he had a pile of invitations for the crew.

There was something strange about them. “For parties of up to ten seamen at a time to visit the our brewery, sample our products and play the staff at cricket,” Then there was this one. “To crew of INS Rana. Beach party, barbeque and a friendly game of cricket.” And “Six Indian Sailors invited to piano recital and listen to the cricket”. Was the entire Australian nation insanely devoted to cricket, did factory workers pour out from their machine shops on breaks to practice their batting and bowling? Even that didn't explain this one “Madame Sophie's House of Sin, visit us for an evening of strict discipline and cricket.” Captain Dahm shook his head. Fortunately his Jimmy had arrived.

“Cricket, Number One? Is the entire Australian nation insanely devoted to cricket? We don't have enough sports equipment on board for a tenth of these invitations.”

“Don't worry sir. The Harbormaster here believes that we are the ones who are all insanely devoted to cricket so he adds an invitation for cricket to every welcome message we get before he sends them over. The Yank cruiser out there got the same invitations with 'baseball invitations' added. Who knows what French ships get. Perhaps it is better not to ask. Sir, that didn't sound right?”

There had been a dull thump, faint here in Dahm's cuddy but distinct nonetheless. There was a crash as the Sparker dived in. Captains differed in their approach but Dahm's was that if the message was urgent enough for a Sparker to risk a tongue-lashing, it was urgent enough to dispense with the formality of a knock. Almost simultaneously the “away tire and rescue parties” was sounding. “Sir, emergency sir, there had been an explosion on the Hood:'

“Not her magazines?” The moment anybody mentioned a battlecruiser and explosion in the same phrase, people's minds went immediately to the magazines.

“No Sir at the Admiral's reception. No word on what happened but Hood is requesting all available assistance to handle casualties. Rana and Rajput are to go to full battle stations immediately and close down. Sir, messages come from Captain Ladone, no word from Admiral Singh. He asks you to attend him immediately once you have secured your ship.”

There was a roar overhead, an American helicopter from the cruiser Roanoke lying offshore was heading for Hood. The Americans may be trigger-happy but they moved fast when they needed to. And that included helping their friends, Dahm thought. Right this moment, he would trade half his guns for a shipboard helicopter.

“You heard, Number One. Action stations now. Seal down. I'm going over to Hood? Outside sirens were sounding, from ships and from emergency vehicles on shore.

Quarterdeck, INS Hood

“Captain Dahm, thank you for getting here so quickly, and thank Rana for the speed of her response. God, what a mess.”

That was an understatement. The quarterdeck looked like a butcher's shop that had been hit by a hurricane. Shattered wreckage and bits of bodies everywhere. Few recognizable. Captain Ladone shuddered, this was worse than a shell hit. “Don't touch anything, the bomb was packed with fragments, nails, bits of metal and there may be some sort of poison in it as well. We don't know if that's true or what it might be. The Docs say a couple of injured died even though they shouldn't have.”

“What happened?” Dahm looked at the hideous carnage surrounding him. This was worse than anything he'd ever seen. He and Ladone ducked as one of the dark blue American helicopters lifted off, taking wounded to a shore hospital.

“The Admiral's Chief Steward wired himself with stolen explosives and blew himself up. Took a tray of drinks over to Admiral Singh and Prime Minister Locock and just blew up. They're gone, both of them. They must be around here somewhere, but, well you can see the mess. We've got at least forty dead, over a hundred injured. Its going to get worse, we've hardly begun to count yet”

He stopped while another American helicopter touched down to pick up casualties.

“The Steward was Iqbal, a Moslem. Been in the Navy for years. He left a note in his compartment. 'We Must Have Pakistan' it said. Kanali, you'd better be damned careful now.”

More sirens and emergency vehicles arrived shoreside. The entire dockyard was a mass of ambulances, fire engines and police cars now, their lights giving a strange festive air to the disaster. While the political and military implications of the disaster started to sink home across the world, on the scarred and bloodstained quarterdeck of INS Hood, the medical teams worked frantically to save the wounded.

Wireless Road, Bangkok, Thailand

Even official limousines have problems sometimes. While Sir Martyn Sharpe and Sir Eric Haohoa relaxed in the back of their official limousine on their way to the Indian Residency on Wireless Road, their driver was trying to work their route through the evening rush-hour traffic. Once, this had been an easy task but no more. Increasing prosperity meant more private vehicles and that meant traffic jams.

Suddenly, their driver pulled into the side of the road. An army motorcycle had pulled in ahead of them and stopped. Now the rider, Army uniform but wearing a white helmet, scarf and gloves was walking back. Sir Eric noted he was keeping his hands in plain view and he had a terrible sense of unease. The soldier, from the Thai military police, an organization better known as “the White Mice” spoke with urgency.

“Your Excellencies, The Ambassador apologizes for the inconvenience and discourtesy but requests that you return immediately to Army Headquarters. The gravest of emergencies has arisen. My men and I will provide you with an escort through the traffic.”

As he finished there was a howl that even drowned out the traffic, four F-104s went over the city on full military power, climbing hard. The other military police were stopping the traffic and making room for Sir Martyn's official limousine to turn. The F-104s were followed by a pair of the F-105s, straining for altitude with their wings loaded down with bombs. The officer gestured upwards. “You may see how serious the situation is, they even have got those working.”

It was a grim and tense ride back through the city. Whatever it was that was happening, word was spreading. Crowds were gathering outside electronics shops selling the new televisions. Thailand had opened its first TV stations only the year before but the technology was catching on fast. The motorcycle outriders did a good job of clearing away traffic and they made it back to the Army headquarters in a few minutes.

Two M-41 tanks were sitting outside the building now and a General was running from one side of the courtyard to the other. If nothing else, that highlighted how serious the events in progress were. The Ambassador had already come to meet them. Now, she was carrying an AK.-47 rifle slung over one shoulder.

“Sir Martyn, I am so terribly sorry have you heard the news?”

““No Ma'am, your men brought me straight back here.”

“Very well, it came just a few minutes ago. Sir Gregory Locock has been assassinated. We have few details as yet but none that we have are good. It appears that he and other members of the Cabinet were attending an official reception on board the Indian battlecruiser Hood when a suicide bomber blew himself -and them - up. The dead and wounded are in hundreds. The hospitals in Melbourne are full. We have gone to full alert, you must have seen the aircraft taking off. Your President has done the same in India. We are setting up a communications link for you now. Our equipment here is much better than that at your Residency. Please come to our main conference room.”

The room was full of senior officers, passing information around as it came in. Most were armed and many were wearing the green-and-black camouflaged uniforms the Army wore in combat zones. As the two guests entered they were seated at the main conference table with a young woman behind them. She started quietly translating as much of the meeting as she could, keeping the guests from feeling left out. Looking around. Sir Eric sensed the primary mood of the gathering was confusion, there was too much speculation, too little hard fact to base it on. Messages were coming in, casualty figures rising inexorably.

The Ambassador sat down with them, her rifle banging her hip as she did so. “The Deputy Prime Minister, Mr. Joe Frye is taking over. He'll be on the line to us soon. Have you noticed the pattern in the casualties? The number of dead continues to rise but the number of wounded has started to fall. It seems though the most seriously wounded are dying at an unexpected rate. I think we will find that bomb was much more sophisticated than just a few sticks of explosive.”

Suddenly every officer in the room jumped to attention. The new Australian Prime Minister had patched through on the secure communications link. The King had also been patched in and was speaking to Mr. Frye. It was the usual message of sympathy and condolence for a great loss but there was one surprising thing; the King stated that he was going to visit Australia in person for the funeral of Sir Gregory and the other victims of the bombing. Sir Eric could sense the wince that went around the room as the security implications of that were absorbed. Once the room had returned to normal he turned to the Ambassador.

“A very brave and wise decision if I may say so Ma'am. And a very far-sighted one for the whole of our Alliance. I think I see what we face now.” The Ambassador raised an eyebrow, “I think I see Tsuji's plan now. This bombing, assassinating an immensely popular and effective Prime Minister on one of our warships, by one of our navy sailors, was intended to split Australia away from the Triple Alliance. It was intended to raise doubts as to the trustworthiness of India as an ally and concerns over the effectiveness of her armed forces.

“If there is any change in Australian policy as a result of this act, that will be a bonus, but the real target is the link between Australia and India. I think a further part of Masanobu Tsuji's plan was to distract and neutralize India by reviving the Pakistan issue, India has by far the largest armed forces in the Triple Alliance but a sustained insurgency in the northern provinces will stretch our resources badly. The insurgencies in your northern and southern provinces are intended to distract and neutralize you to give you internal problems that will prevent you mobilizing your forces.

“With all three partners in the Triple Alliance distracted by these problems, Chipan can move into Burma unopposed using the insurgency there as an excuse. By the time we get our act together and counter the move, it will be too late.”

“A very fair assessment Sir Eric. One that, with some minor differences we agree. But I think it is a typical Japanese plan, it is very complicated and has many components. I think also there are parts of this plan that we are still missing. But it has the flaw all Japanese plans have, everything has to happen the way the planners intended and the other players have to fulfill their roles exactly according to the script. If all goes as planned and if everybody does as the planners expect then the results will be a great success. But we can see their plan and we are already countering the moves by doing the unexpected. His Majesty's visit is but one example. Tell me, Sir Eric, what do you do when you see a rabid dog?”

“Why shoot the poor thing of course.”

“No, Sir Eric, you capture it, with great care of course, and throw it into your enemy's house.” Sir Eric saw the Ambassador's eyes and was reminded of the old saying Stare into an abyss long enough and the abyss stares back. “Sir Eric, allow me to introduce you to our rabid dog.”

The Ambassador led him through the officers who'd gathered around a radio station that was broadcasting news of the catastrophe in Australia. She spoke quietly to one officer who turned around to greet him. Facing Sir Eric, wearing a Thai General's uniform with only a VPLA shoulder patch to distinguish it from the others in the room, was General Vo Nguyen Giap.

Krasny Kut, Southern Russia. Primary Headquarters, First Byelorussian Front

Everybody believes that secret weapons are weapons. Ask somebody to describe a new secret weapon and they will speak of a new gun perhaps or a new missile. Maybe a new tank or a new bomb. But, reflected Colonel-General Andrei Mikhailovich Taffkowski, sometimes secret weapons could be deadlier than any of those. The ones driving past him now were a superb example, an invention that had the potential to be deadlier than any gun or tank or missile. The long column of trucks were delivering Russia's new secret weapon to the troops as fast as the factories could churn them out.

Taffkowski maintained the stern, unyielding yet inspirational expression required of all Russian generals but inside he smiled to himself. America may have its big bombers, thank God it did have them, but Russia had its army. Much of it paid for by American dollars it was true the letters MSDAP were a wonderful thing. Mutual Self Defense Aid Program. A wonder indeed. America bought the weapons it approved from Russian companies and then gave them to the Russian Army. That was why the Russian nickname for the T-55 tank was the Washington - named for the face on the dollar bills that had paid for them, MSDAP had replaced the World War Two Three-Way Military Assistance Program and was providing those countries America smiled upon with military punch far above that they could have obtained otherwise.

MSDAP had proved to be an elegant solution to a whole set of serious problems. The Americans had changed the definition of war with The Big One. A country that went to war with America would be obliterated, nobody doubted that. But, there were other problems that were not in that category, regional problems, low-level problems that American nuclear bombers couldn't solve. So MSDAP armed American allies who would look after regional problems for her. It was easy to be an American ally, all you had to do was treat your civilian population decently, trade fairly with your partners and try to solve disputes with neighbors peacefully. The Americans didn't ask that you agreed with them or became like them. Just don't cause them trouble.

There were other benefits the MSDAP had brought to Russia and the other recipients. The equipment purchases pumped hard currency into the national economies, funding their recovery and the development of a new production base. In addition to strengthening the military forces of the country, they stabilized the economy and increased prosperity. That brought problems of its own of course, but the gains were worth the cost. For the Americans, it meant they didn't have to build things they didn't need.

If their own small Army didn't need them, their allies supplied each other with American dollars smoothing the way. Some of the purchases went to the American Army itself of course, the Americans used more Russian equipment than they liked to admit. All their biological warfare defense equipment for example. And now, Russia's new secret weapon. Andrei Mikhailovich Taffkowski had been present when the new equipment had been shown to the Americans. The head of the American purchasing commission, a Marine General called Krulak, had taken one look at the equipment. “I want them, they are mine, give them to me” had been his first words. He'd even offered to marry one.

The Americans had placed their orders for the new equipment but their own army and Marines would have to wait. There were more urgent priorities. The Russian Army had reached the end of its long road back from the grim days of 1942. Now, 17 years later, they were preparing to launch their assault on the last of the German occupiers who still sat on Russian land.

That was why his First Byelorussians were here and the First and Second Ukrainian Fronts and the First Khazak Front. They faced the survivors of Army Group South Ukraine under Field Marshal Walther Model. The problem was that the Germans were sitting behind some of the best natural defenses in the country. Andrei Mikhailovich Taffkowski knew that his right flank was blocked by the Black Sea, his left by the Caspian. The Assault was going to have to be head-on from the North and that was where his problem lay.

On paper, the front was almost 500 kilometers long, stretching from the Taganrogskiy Zaliv to the Volga Delta at Astrakhan. The catch was that half of that front was masked out by the River Volga itself and another large section was masked by the Tsimlyanskoye Vokh, a massive lake. In reality the ground for an offensive was packed into an 80 kilometer wide stretch east of the Tsimlyanskoye Vokh by Stalingrad and a 160 kilometer stretch south of the Tsimlyanskoye Vokh down by Novocherkassk.

The Germans were evil, not stupid. They could read a map and they knew where the attack was coming - and they'd had twelve years to stack their defenses. The problem was that lake. It split the two campaign areas so widely that they could not be mutually supporting. Hit both at once and the two thrusts would be bogged down in the defenses and the Germans would defeat them in detail. It was even worse because neither of those routes actually lead anywhere. The Southern route was sealed off by the Don River after less than 40 kilometers, the Eastern one by the Volga-Don canal.

Then there was the supply problem. The headquarters of the First Byelorussians was here because this was where the roads were. The axes of any attack had to be in areas where supplies could be concentrated and moved. The problem was that the road and rail nets centered on Stalingrad. Operations south of Stalingrad were impossible unless the road net was cleared. Andrei Mikhailovich Taffkowski shook his head and kicked some mud from his boots; the roads had been sprayed with water to keep dust clouds down.

That British moron Fuller had seemed to believe that tanks were invincible, invulnerable perpetual motion machines that could float over unfavorable terrain and keep going regardless of any need for resupply. The flaws in his work were so obvious it was hard to understand how he had been taken seriously by so many for so long. Finland had taught the Russians the error in Fuller's theories and the lesson had been reinforced by years of fighting along the Volga front.

That was the final problem. The attack had to be on the widest possible front. Hard-won experience had shown that an attack on a narrow front was doomed to failure; the Germans could react faster than any other army in the world and they had an eerie ability to assemble the shattered scraps of destroyed units into effective fighting forces. A thrust that was too narrow would simply be smothered by counter-attacks into its flanks.

Theorists might speak of an avalanche of tanks descending into the enemy rear to wreak havoc but realists knew it just wasn't going to happen. They understood the attack had to be on a wide front, pushing as hard as possible on the widest front possible, to create so many crises that the Germans would be overwhelmed by them. Either they would eventually be goaded into lashing out with a counter-attack that would bring them out of their fortifications or the pressure would eventually snap their forces like an elastic band breaking.

It worked, it was the way battles were always won, Fuller and his foolish nonsense to the contrary. There was a catch, here there was no broad front. There were just the two narrow strips leading to a water obstacle. In fact the Don-Volga line was probably the strongest natural defensive position in the world.

And that, Andrei Mikhailovich Taffkowski thought, was where his secret weapon came in. The Volga was uncrossable, everybody knew that. At 800 meters, it was too wide and too deep for pontoon bridging. By the time the engineers had built their pontoon bridge, the Germans would have assembled one of their scratch battlegroups and the Volga would run red with Russian blood again. But Andrei Mikhailovich Taffkowski had a secret weapon, one that had the strange initials PMP. Pomtommo Mostovoj Park.

Quite simply, the best pontoon bridge set in the world. A truck mounted system that cut the time needed to bridge a river to a small fraction of the original and over distances users of previous bridging systems would regard as inconceivable. The PMP was going to allow the Russian Army to do the impossible. The First Byelorussian Front was going to make an assault crossing of the Volga River.

Cockpit RB-58C “Marisol” Carswell AFB

“You never take me out anywhere. “

The voice was sulky and had a pronounced Hispanic accent, one that had developed since Marisol had first spoken to him. Kozlowski couldn't blame her for being frustrated. She and her sisters were a new type of aircraft, and, as with all new aircraft, there had been were problems that delayed crew training. He'd been scheduled to take Marisol up for the first time last week but the whole fleet had been grounded while the engineers hastened to find out why the fuel balancing system had failed to work, causing another Navy PB5Y to crash.

It didn't help matters that ground crews and maintenance troops were still learning how to service and fix these strange new planes. They lacked technical manuals, special tools and support equipment, and the RB-58C was sophisticated in ways ground crews of earlier aircraft hadn't even considered. The metal panels for example, were a lightweight honeycomb. Damage one and it had to be replaced using special high-precision jigs and tools.

“It’s OK Marisol. Take a look at your nosewheel. We're about ready to start engines and run our Power-ON checks. I'd say that things are going about right. No problems so far. That yellow tractor should be towing us out any minute now.”

Sure enough, there was a jolt as the tractor hooked up and, for the first time in a week, Marisol was towed out of her hangar into the sunshine. Even that was no guarantee that they would fly today, her last trip out had been back to the Convair facility for upgrades. The technical problems and their fixes had meant a constant stream of those. The 305th had 36 RB-58Cs on strength now and every one of them was different. Marisol was one of the earlier aircraft and the accumulated number of modifications had meant it would be quicker to take her back to the factory for an upgrade to the latest standard. Hopefully, that included a fix for the fuel problem, that's what today's flight was to test. That and to get Kozlowski's crew finally into the air.

But this was a real flight; Kozlowski heard the roar of the air turbine cart added to the noise already caused by the electrical generator parked beside Marisol's wingtip. A jumble of electrical cords, air hoses and interphone cables lay on the ramp. That had been another delay, it took a lot of equipment to support pre-flight and maintenance of a supersonic airplane and much of it simply wasn't available in the quantities required. “Time to button up guys” and his crew lowered their overhead canopies.

In the rear seat, Dravar started to read the checklist aloud, Kozlowski responding according to the prescribed manner as the dozens of items were called out. SAC was strong on procedure and doing things right. That was a legacy of when President LeMay had run SAC. It worked and what isn't broken doesn't need fixing.

While the checklist was being read a tall access stand had been wheeled up beside the forward fuselage and then moved away again. Soon one inboard engine started turning, as the starter cart fed high pressure air to the little turbine which in turn drove the main engine. The engine turned over faster and faster, and suddenly smoke and hot air rushed from the tail cone. In a few minutes all four engines were running. The roar was deafening. Chief Gibson chivvied the ground crew as they struggled to remove the maze of hoses, cords and equipment. Now, at long last, Marisol was running off internal power, for the first time she was truly alive.

Chief Gibson raised his hands and Kozlowski eased Marisol forward. The engines roared and she began to roll only to stop abruptly as he checked his brakes. Then, once more she began to move, with the crew chief using hand signals to guide the pilot onto the main taxiway and move toward the runway. The chief saluted smartly as he waved the plane clear of its parking spot. At the wide spot in the taxiway, just short of the active runway, the plane stopped. There, Kozlowski ran the engines to a higher power setting, his last check of all instruments, hydraulics, electrical and flight control systems before takeoff.

At that point, Kozlowski cut in the afterburners on all four engines. Flames shot out behind the plane for twenty feet or more as the extra thrust was added to accelerate the plane down the runway for takeoff. Slowly Marisol picked up speed and started accelerating down the runway. More than 8,000 feet would be needed before the nose began to lift. Then she climbed, up and away from the pavement, already going over 200 miles per hour at lift-off and gathering speed every second. Behind her a Convair owned F-102 chase plane slid into position to observe the test flight.

The plan was for Marisol to accelerate normally from subsonic cruise at Mach 0.91 to reach 600 knots and then climb to about 45,000 feet. If the ram air temperature permitted she could go to Mach 2.0. Below them, Kozlowski could see the long lines of B-36 and RB-36 bombers waiting to be scrapped; there were so many of them that the first wave of scrapping had actually caused a short-lived glut of aluminum on the metals market. Behind them the F-102 was already having problems keeping up with Marisol, the sluggish performance of the F-102 was a serious problem, but there was a new interceptor joining “NORAD, the F-106 that was supposed to handle that.

“Boss, ram temperature OK for supersonic, we're cleared for Mach 2. Say bye-bye to our chase plane.”

“'Andale, let’s dance.” That was Marisol's voice in the intercom. Kozlowski rammed the throttles forward and she accelerated smoothly through the sound barrier,

“Ram air temperature only 105 degrees, cleared to take her up to full speed.” Dravar reported.

Before Marisol got to the 115 degree limit she was indicating Mach 2.2. The next job was a high altitude Mach 2 simulated bomb run at the Matagorda Island range off the Texas coast. That was when Kozlowski felt things start to go wrong, the crew were leaning heavily to port in their seats, as if they were tilted to one side and sliding to the left. The four engines, now in full afterburner, were consuming fuel rapidly from the main fuel tank, the only one with adequate pump capacity to sustain the acceleration.

Kozlowski recognized the problem, a phenomenon called “fuel stacking”, a condition where fuel in the main wing tank tended to move laterally in flight. This was an especially disturbing problem when the tank was half full or so, and most worrisome during supersonic flight. He had to struggle to keep Marisol on course and complete the bomb run and reach the target. It was dangerous, for such heavy fuel stacking could result in loss of control and possibly exceed limits on the aircraft's structure.

After what seemed an eternity he started deceleration and descent to subsonic cruise. As he decelerated and began descending, the remaining fuel in the tank shifted forward toward the narrow portion. That tended to improve stability and gradually Marisol's flight behavior started to recover. By the time she reached Mach 0.91 and leveled off, things had returned to normal. The crew let out a collective long sigh of relief. Kozlowski patted the instrument panel in front of him. “We'll make a deal Marisol, we won't bail on you and you don't bail on us. Agreed?”

“Agreed” The comments came simultaneously from Korrina and Dravac.

“OK, Agreed.” Marisol 's voice came over the intercom. “Hey, I heard that!” It was Korrina from the center seat. “Of course I let you hear me. We're a team aren't we?”

Chapter Five Early Advantage.

Flag Quarters, HIJMS Musashi, Kagoshima Bay

Admiral Soriva completed his letter and placed it to one side. It was a professional courtesy, from one of the last battleship commanders to another, expressing his sympathy for the terrible events on INS Hood. It was an insult to all true sailormen to do what that steward had done. After forty years of admirable service, the Hood would now be remembered as the ship where a crewmember assassinated an honored guest. It was more than terrible, it was dishonorable to treat her that way.

Honor settled, Soriva turned his attention to his own Navy. The task force he was supposed to be leading was still swinging around its anchors in Kagoshima Bay, waiting for the word to go. A word that had been delayed three times already and was now being delayed again.

There was no proof, and the Army wasn't talking, but there was a rumor that the operations planned by Masanobu Tsuji were not going as well as their promoters had hoped. It seemed though starting an insurgency was much easier on paper than it was when dealing with real people in real situations. It was taking more time and was less certain than the text-books suggested.

There were rumors that the Army were trying to hurry things along, the same rumors also suggested that some of the agitators had already met with an untimely end at the hands of the very villagers they were supposed to be recruiting as a result.

Well, that was all the Army's problem. They'd nailed their colors to the mast of these new ideas about “revolutionary warfare” and they could live with it. Still, the basic plan was still in place. It might be moving more slowly than originally intended, but it was still the same basic form. Once the Burmese government was being faced with widespread civilian unrest, there would be an appeal for peace-keeping troops and the Japanese would respond.

They'd put a Special Naval Landing Force ashore, seize the capital and install a new, Japanese-dominated government. It was fortunate that trouble had flared in both India and Australia to take their attention away from the problems developing for them in Indo-China. It was very fortunate, very convenient. That reflection caused an uneasy thought to stir in Soriva's mind, like a poisonous snake hidden in a bowl of salad. Soriva resolutely pushed it to one side. There were some things better left unthought.

The Navy had problems all of its own, the chief of which was shortage of ships. The Navy was showing the effects of years of under-funding and what little money there was had gone on building the missile-launching submarines currently stationed off California. Japan had tried to build a heavy bomber to match the American B-36, the G10N-1 Fugaku. The GI0N-1 was meant to cruise at 10,000 meters with a maximum speed of 680 kph and be able to carry a 5,000 kilogram bomb payload for a maximum range of over 19,000 kilometers. For shorter ranged missions, the payload could be as high as 20,000 kilograms.

Overall, the G10N-1 had been a pretty impressive aircraft with capability close to and in many cases, exceeding the B-36. The problem had been that Japan just didn't have the industrial capacity to build them in large numbers and by the time the force had reached a significant level, the aircraft was becoming obsolescent.

Instead, once Japan had tested its first nuclear weapon, they had used a low-flying turbojet powered missile as a delivery system. Each of the I-400 class submarines carried six and could fire them at one per minute. A few obsolescent bombers, a handful of cruise missiles flown by heroes, an ageing and obsolescent fleet and an army that was mostly tied down trying to rule the most populous country in the world. That was Japan's claim to great power status.

Still, some progress had been made. His battleships had been refitted in the early 1950s with the twin 10 centimeter gun mounts replacing the older 12.7 centimeter guns and they'd been given a decent radar fit. Floatplanes had gone and been replaced by helicopters. That gave him better protection against submarines but his destroyer screen still dated from the 1940s. They were anti-ship destroyers, still armed with torpedoes. A good torpedo, perhaps the best, but what good were they when the threat came from the skies? The Germans had relied on guns at the Battle of the Orkneys and there had been few survivors to reflect on that mistake. There were newer destroyers in the fleet, some carrying anti-aircraft missiles, but they were with the carriers. His battleships had to rely on their guns. As they always had.

Outpost 3, Ban Rom Phuoc, Thai-Burmese Border

The eyes were hardly visible, buried underneath camouflage nets and brush. They watched as a column of men crept past on the approach path to Ban Rom Phuoc. A finger on the hand that served the eyes gently pressed a switch on a portable radio. The mouth that also served the eyes remained closed, to speak would be to attract attention. Instead the finger broke squelch on the radio three times in quick succession then again, more slowly. Once for each group often. Then three more quick breaks to sign off. Then the finger stopped and the eyes watched.

Village Center, Ban Rom Phuoc, Thai-Burmese Border

Back in the command center at the center of Ban Rom Phuoc, Phong Nguyen added another marker to the map. It was the third report; the number of enemy troops massing outside the village was more than 150. He nodded to the headman; the Tahan Pran volunteers were already mobilizing and sliding silently into their defensive positions. The unarmed villagers, most of them, started moving into the bunkers underneath the small houses. Others continued loading magazines for the Tahan Pran.

He'd been expecting the attack after the killing of the Cadres and the arrival of the Army unit. Now, the Army had gone. Their last act had been to build a barbed wire entanglement around the village perimeter. Theoretically, it was there to stop the enemy infiltrating the village, in reality it was an open challenge. “If we build it, they will come” Phong Nguyen thought grimly. And they were coming in strength. A fourth observation point clicked in, another estimated 30 men moving on to the perimeter. All gathering along the North and West sides. No surprises, no aces to pull, this was going to be a straightforward infantry slugging match

The tension in the air made it feel heavy and thick, threatening to suffocate the waiting villagers. In fact the night was cool, even by local standards. It was 00:30, the heat of the day had passed and it would be a comfortable time to sleep. Only nobody would, for at that moment when the enemy started to pour mortar, rifle-grenade and machine gun fire from several positions surrounding the village. The explosions inside the village marched across the defense positions, or at least, across the old ones.

Nguyen had guessed the Cadres would have passed information on what they had seen to the Main Force fighters. So he'd changed the positions around and moved the foxholes forward. He winced as several mortar shells landed in the area of his hut and that of the headman. At least it indicated the Main force were unaware the Tahan Pran were waiting for them. The explosions were deafening even though the mortars were mostly 50 millimeter, the ones the Japanese called the “Knee Mortar”, Nguyen hoped, with grim humor, that at least some of the enemy had taken that name seriously and shattered their kneecaps in the attempt.

Now his own mortars thumped. He had three of them, American 60 millimeters. They weren't firing explosives though, instead the area over the wire perimeter was bathed in brilliant white light as the Tahan Pran parachute flares ignited over wire entanglements. As he'd guessed, there were sappers in the wire, cutting paths for the infantry to follow. They were already most of the way through; the next stage would be for them to use satchel charges on the defensive positions. There would be more sappers following the main infantry attack, they would be carrying flamethrowers to burn the women and children sheltering in the bunkers. Nguyen knew the pattern well; he'd organized similar attacks himself during his days with the Viet Minh.

But the lead wave of sappers weren't going to get anywhere, they were trapped in the wire and the villagers were starting to open fire at the targets highlighted in the harsh white light. Nguyen could hear the slow rhythmic thumping of the AK.-47s against the light crackle of the Japanese Arisakas. The sappers were dropping, pinned down, unable to go forward or back. One forgot himself and jumped up only to be tangled in the wire. Nguyen could see his body jerking as the 7.62mm bullets struck him.

The Tahan Pran were doing it right, each of them had multiple fire positions and they would fire a short burst from one, then roll to another before firing again. Rifle and machinegun fire was coming out of the woodline, suppressive fire intended to make his men put their heads down. Even as he thought that, he saw the streak of a rocket flash out from one of the Tahan Pran positions and explode in the trees, he thought he saw bodies thrown by the explosion but it could all have been a trick of the light.

The rocket might as well have been a signal. Enemy troops boiled out of the treeline, a quick estimate, showed at least 300. The outposts had obviously missed some of the infiltrators. Some dropped into cover position and started laying down grazing fire on the Tahan Pran positions, hoping to keep the defender's heads down while others tried to run forward to seize new positions.

The AKs continued their dull thumping, backed up by longer bursts from the two light machineguns. They forced the advancing enemy to drop into cover, made them fire their Arisaka automatic rifles at the fortified defenders. Mow it was a straightforward firefight, the bogged-down attackers trying to suppress the fire that held them; the defenders trying to prevent any additional movement towards them.

The attackers had one advantage, they knew where the village was, their mortars didn't need the flares to see where to direct their fire. The Thai mortars were tied down delivering flare rounds so the riflemen could see what they were doing. On the other hand, the attackers were relying on rifle grenades to handle the Thai foxholes, while the Tahan Pran had their RPGs. Even as Nguyen watched, another rocket slashed out across the field, smacking into a small knot of enemy troops sheltering in a dip.

In the village, some of the children were running out of the bunkers, carrying fully loaded magazines to the Tahan Pran riflemen and bringing back the empties for reloading. A mortar round landed close to one and the child was thrown into the air, hit the ground and lay still, the empty magazines he had been carrying scattered around him. A girl ran out, collected them up and ran back to her shelter with them. For once, just for once, in an infantry battle, ammunition wasn't a problem for the defenders; they had plenty of it stockpiled. The problem was just getting it to the rifle pits.

Out on the wire, an enemy officer was trying to drive the riflemen forward, to get them moving against the vicious fire from the AKs. Suddenly he spun around and dropped. He hadn't really stood a chance, the automatic rifles were pumping out so much firepower that the attempt to lead men forward was almost suicidal. Automatic rifles made standing up on a battlefield a mistake that carried its own, terminal penalty. Nevertheless, the attack was moving forward. The enemy was extending the front to the sides, stretching the flanks to envelop the defense. On the left, they were almost up to the wire before the threat was seen and pinned down by the AKs.

At least the enemy mortar fire was petering out. The enemy did have a restricted ammunition supply, for their heavy weapons at least. As if to take advantage of fire support while they still had it, the troops on the left surged forward. As they did, there was a heavy thudding burst, a Japanese 13.2 millimeter machinegun that had previously been silent, opened up on a defense position.

The big machinegun was quickly silenced as another rocket tore into its position but the damage was done; the Tahan Pran defenders at that point were killed or pinned down for a crucial few seconds. The attackers were through, into the main line of resistance. At close quarters they had a slight edge, it was down to bayonets and the longer Arisaka was a better bayonet platform than the short, stubby AK-47. There was a brief fight around the rifle pits in the area of the breakthrough, then the pits were silenced.

This was critical, Nguyen knew that the militia would fight well from fixed positions and defenses but lacked the tactical skills and co-ordination for a running fight. Now, the attackers would start their next move, to roll up the positions on either side of them, opening a hole through to the center of the village. Nguyen grabbed his own AK and gathered his reserve up. Vo Nguyen Giap, in their long hours together, had hammered the lesson home, always have a reserve. No matter how stretched the line, no matter how few the resources, keep a reserve. Even if its only yourself and your best friend, keep a reserve.

“Now, at this crucial moment, he had a force to meet the penetration. He and his Tahan Pran troops ran forward and dropped into the cover of the buildings. The attackers had directed their last few rounds of mortar ammunition to support their breakthrough but it was too little; one of Nguyen's reserve force went down but the rest poured automatic fire into the disorganized attackers. The Tahan Pran riflemen in the rifle pits on either side of the penetration were also firing, hosing bullets into the group in their midst. Swamped by fire from three sides, the attackers fell back.

Nguyen's men re-occupied the rifle pits, moving the bodies of their previous occupants to provide some extra cover. He left enough of them to fill the gap in the line then took the rest back. Keep a reserve, always keep a reserve. The enemy group were falling back now and the observation groups deep in the jungle were reporting that the enemy attack was breaking up.

One OP took the chance of using voice radio instead of the agreed break-squelch codes. They'd just taken out one of the Japanese 50 millimeter mortar teams and captured the mortar. The mortar had only one box of three rounds left, the OP was going to return them to their owners. A few seconds later there were three rapid explosions in the enemy troops hung up in front of the wire. That hastened the movement of the enemy back into the treelines.

They'd be disengaging now, and heading for what they thought was a sanctuary the other side of the border. What they didn't know was that there were Thai regular troops, Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol forces, out there who would follow them back to the base. They'd pursue the matter further but, for Ban Rom Phuoc, the fighting was nearly over. The rifle fire slowed down until it was a few sporadic shots then ceased.

When dawn came, the villagers could see the damage. Their wire was down in several places, some of the huts had been damaged, two had been destroyed completely. There was enough smoke to make the eyes sting and the smell of cordite saturated everything. The well had been hit; several of the animals were dead including one of the precious buffalo.

Worse there were eight bodies brought in, seven Tahan Pran and the boy who had been kilted carrying ammunition. Some of the women were crying, an old man watched impassively as his son was added to the line of dead. A Monk in his orange robes was sprinkling their bodies with water quietly repeating the Buddhist chant. A dozen more villagers were wounded, most badly. The Japanese 6.5 millimeter round did a lot of damage for a small bullet. Together, almost a quarter of the strength of the village defense unit was dead or wounded.

The good news was that all five of the two-man OPs had returned to the village safely, one triumphantly carrying its captured mortar. That wasn't the only weapon captured; there was a pile of captured rifles, all Arisakas, mostly the new automatic rifles but some the old-fashioned bolt actions. There were a couple of Type 99 light machine guns as well and some of the villagers had found the Type 93 13 millimeter machinegun. Nguyen shook his head, another rule foolishly broken. The captured weapons pointed straight at the people really behind the attack last night.

The enemy wounded would tell more, the villagers had brought them in and they had been taken to the huts to wait until they could be treated - or until they died. The villagers hadn't brought the enemy dead in yet. There were at least forty, hung up on the wire or in the rifle pits where they'd come close to breaking through. There were more in the jungle and probably more still on the way out. How many more wounded were out in the jungle they had no means of knowing.

His thoughts were broken by a choking cloud of dust, a helicopter was landing. One of the Army's Sikorsky transports. An officer got out, the same one who had been in the village earlier. Nguyen watched while he saluted the village headman and paid respects to the line of dead. The helicopter had also brought a medical team who were starting work on the wounded. There would be more troops coming and a resupply of ammunition. Nguyen saw the officer speaking with the other militia troops.

Eventually, he addressed the village as a whole. It was the usual thing, commending them on a well-fought defense, stressing the strength of the enemy, the skill and courage with which they'd been repulsed. Sympathizing with them on the loss of their friends and family. Then adding that he was writing a report on the action here at Ban Rom Phuoc and would personally make the report to the King himself, describing the courage and sacrifice of the villagers.

“Will you really be telling the King himself of what happened here?” Nguyen asked the officer later.

“You dare to suggest that f would associate His Majesty's Name with a lie?” had been the cold and hostile reply. Then the officer had relaxed, he was speaking with a Vietnamese after all, one who could not be expected to understand such things.

“Yes. His Majesty will be told in person. And the families of those who died or disabled here will receive Royal pensions as a mark of respect for their courage and loyalty. Ban Rom Phuoc will be receiving some gifts as well, so that others can see that resisting the terrorists may require courage but is the way to a better future. Now, Khun Phong what went wrong last night. And how do we fix it?”

Phong Nguyen thought carefully. “We were too light on firepower. We need more light machine guns, automatic rifles don't substitute for them. We need more mortars and we need at least one heavy one. An 82 or 120. We also need a way of lighting the perimeter so we are in darkness and the enemy lit up. The flares from the 60s did a good illumination but they tied down the firepower from those mortars. We need more and better radios. Most of all we need landmines. We must have antipersonnel mines, American Claymores for preference.”

“Some of that we can fix now. There is a truck convoy coming that will replace the ammunition expended last night. It will have extra weapons we can leave here. One of the gifts that is coming is a generator for the village and a grant of diesel fuel for it. We must think of the best way of using it when the next attack comes.”

Baronial Hall, Walthersburg, New Schwabia

Pre-dawn, the horizon in the east was beginning to turn grey before the sun appeared. As always, Model was up and getting to work. The Ivans were building up for the attack, there were at least seven Fronts identified now. Six on his left, in the west around Donetsk, one in the east facing Kapustin Yar. Almost 90 infantry divisions, 14 tank divisions and 12 mechanized division. And an Airborne Army of five parachute divisions. There would be more, much more, the Ivans held most of their heavy assets at Front level. Especially artillery. Russians called the Artillery the God of War. There was a cruder version. “Infantry is the queen of the battlefield, artillery is the king of war, and we all know what the King does to the Queen.” Truly, the Russian artillery was a hammer to be feared.

Then there was the other side of the equation. His own forces, six panzer divisions, two panzergrenadier, nine infantry and one parachute division. Plus his strategic reserve, the SS-Wiking Division. He had his own high-level assets as well of course, but nowhere near the resources the Russians could call on.

That was the real problem of course, the Russians were American allies and could call on American support. Almost superstitiously Model looked up as if he expected to see American bombers about to rain Hellburners on his little country. The Americans didn't fight their enemies, the Americans just destroyed them. Ruthlessly and without conscience. Model didn't think the Americans could fight. They'd done well enough when the First and Second U.S. Army Groups had been in Russia but that was more than a decade ago. Now, they just relied on their bombers.

It didn't matter though, what did matter was that the Russians could call on American funding and had used it to equip their armies. His own forces were ill-equipped and threadbare. Even his supplies of Japanese equipment were only a partial solution to that problem. His units might have proud German names, but the bulk of their strength was Arab trainees and Russian feudal conscripts. The Arabs could fight, sometimes, tf they felt like it, but the Russians? He doubted it. Not for him, not for the Germans. They'd have to be driven into action and driven to fight.

So it would come down to his fortifications. A thick belt of them covering his left flank. It was a strange irony that the French were criticized for building the Maginot line yet the Germans had spent more on steel and concrete fortifications before the War than the French had - and the French had done a better engineering job. Model's own fortresses were modeled on the Maginot line, deep bunkers in a mutually supporting web. Most of New Schwabia's concrete production had gone into those bunkers.

There was a deep opening belt, dense enough to require a major attack, thin enough to conserve manpower. That would blunt an attack, define its axes and buy him time. Then there were the serious fortifications, the anti-tank guns and artillery and the new anti-tank missiles, all in massively built bunkers on the reverse bank of the Don River. Backing the whole system was the mobile reserve of the panzer divisions, ready to counter-attack and fill any holes in the system. If they could just hold out long enough, it might be enough. Russia was tired, desperately tired after almost 20 years of war. If he could hold them and break their attack, they might give up, accept that they were not going to get back this last piece of what had been their territory and offer terms.

There was a quiet knock on the door and one of Model's Russian women brought in his breakfast tray. Tea and black bread and cold meat and some fresh fruit. The woman placed the meal on the table and backed away. Like any good officer, Model was adept at reading body language and he could sense her fear and then her relief when she made it to the door. That was good, it was fine to have one's people love their ruler but it was much better to have them afraid. Frightened people didn't change their minds.

It would be decades before New Schwabia would be properly established as a new German country. An entirely new generation of new children had to be born, fathered by Germans and brought up as Germans. A new society had to be created for them to grow up in. Model had taken the first step there, in the selection of his title. He liked the rolling sound of Baron, Rittmeister sounded like something out of a circus and Graf was a title best used for engineers. But Baron Model had sounded good, impressive. In New Schwabia, there was no higher authority than Baron. The SS had got the message early. A Priest had posted a list of the Ten Commandments and an anonymous SS officer had added had added “The above only valid when approved by Baron Model.”

Model poured a cup of tea and placed it on the window ledge beside him. Then looked out again, in the east the sun was just rising, its leading edge just showing above the hills. And, as it came into sight in the east, from the west Model heard a long, quiet sustained thunder. It could have been a far-off storm except the weather was good and no roll of thunder was ever sustained like that. Model looked at the cup of tea beside him. The surface was rippling with concentric waves forming on the surface. It wasn't thunder then.

The God of War was speaking.

Belaya Kalitva, Primary Objective, 69th Guards Rifle Division, Second Ukrainian Front

A few minutes to go and everybody had their mouths open. Not from shock or surprise but to equalize pressure and save their eardrums from the hell that was passing over their heads. The numbers were awesome. The total strength for 2nd Ukrainian Front was 550,000 soldiers, 336 tanks, 1270 of the deadly JSU-152 assault guns, 7136 artillery pieces and heavy mortars, 777 multi-barreled rocket launchers and 500 aircraft. The thrust on Konstanthovsk was taking place on a 160 km wide front with a first wave of 30 Rifle Divisions. The main attacking Rifle Divisions had attack sectors that were only 1.5 km wide on the primary threat axis. That meant there was one gun or rocket launcher for every 20 meters of front. They were all firing, as fast as the gunners could thrust rounds into the breech or stack rockets on the rails.

Further to the east, the First Ukrainians were attacking towards Kalachna Don and driving towards the Don-Volga Canal. In 24 hours time, even further east, the First Kazakh Front would launch its assault towards the Volga River at Kapustin Yar and Akhtubinsk. That left the First Byelorussians, but Nikolai Fedorovich Lukinov didn't know where they were going. Head on into Stalingrad he supposed. That would make sense but it would be the devil's own battle. It still made as much sense as anything, if anything could make sense in this hell of noise and shock. The ground underneath him wasn't just shaking, it was moving in waves as the sheets of shells and rockets poured into the German positions in front of them.

Lukinov would have liked to have lifted his head to look at the earthquake enveloping the German fortifications but he knew better than that. Three years fighting the Germans, clearing their gangs of bandits off the soil of Mother Russia had taught him never to lift his head until he had to. And, if he forgot that lesson, Klavdia Efremovna Kalugina was laying down just a few meters away to remind him. She and her spotter, Marusia Chikhvintseva, were one of five sniper teams attached to his battalion. Even now, in the middle of the artillery storm, her rifle was rock-steady.

A few days earlier she'd dropped a German message-runner at a range of 1,200 meters. Lukinov knew that the Germans had snipers also and there was no reason to believe they were any less capable than Kalugina. Well, that wasn't true. There was the greatest reason all to believe that Kalugina was one of the best. She was still alive.

They'd need every edge they could get to take the fortress in front of them. It was called a “block” and was shaped like a hand spread on a table. The fingertips were the front bunkers. Three were anti-personnel with two turrets each housing a pair of machine guns. The other two were anti-tank with a single turret housing an 88 millimeter gun and a single co-axial machinegun. The palm was the artillery bunker, with two turrets each holding a single 105 millimeter howitzer. Intelligence said the turrets were taken from old tanks, that might be so but it made little difference.

The weak point in any fortress was the entry point; here the only one was at the rear of the artillery bunker. The infantry would have to overrun the fortress before they could get to an access point. Of course, the whole ground area of the block was thoroughly infested with landmines, anti-tank and anti-personnel. As a final touch, the block wasn't isolated, there were other blocks either side and behind it that could sweep it with machinegun and tank-killing fire.

This was the front edge of the battle zone; the fortifications at the main line of resistance along the Don would be much heavier.

The raving of the artillery barrage doubled in intensity and a new sound was added, the howl of fighter-bombers streaking across the sky to dump their loads onto the defenses. The ground-attack pilots were taking a terrible risk, diving through the artillery barrage to dump their loads on the enemy.

The screaming, sky-ripping noise of air-to-ground rockets terminating in the vicious flat crack of their explosions, the dull roar and wave of evil-smelling heat from napalm.

Nikolai Fedorovich Lukinov silently blessed the Americans who'd supplied their Russian allies with napalm, the one weapon that terrified the Germans beyond sanity. Jellygas, the fascists called it. If the bunkers had been old-style with firing slits instead of turrets, the napalm would have eliminated them by sucking out all the air but that didn't work against the ones they faced today. Still, napalm would burn off all the cover, let the attacking Frontniki see what they faced. And now the last act of the fighter-bombers, the heavy dull boom of the big bombs with fuze extenders, the plan was that they would detonate or destroy the landmines. Most of them The rest, the Frontniki would find the hard way. Then - silence. Sudden, eerie and complete.

“Follow Me! Urrah! Urrah!”

The cheer was answered along the jump-off line as the Frontniki surged forward. Their mortars, the 82 millimeter ones that went everywhere with them, started yapping, dropping smoke rounds all around the Block that was Nikolai Fedorovich Lukinov's target. Isolate it, try to deprive it of support from the other blocks. Also, try to deprive the artillery observers of lines of sight so the Germans couldn't call in their own artillery support.

The Frontniki were running forward as fast as they could, trying to close as much of the gap as possible before the stunned defenders could recover and start hosing the ground in front of them. Priority target was the two anti-tank guns, if they could be knocked out, the JSU-152s could close up and destroy the machinegun positions with relative safety. Overhead, but not by much, there was a scream of high-velocity shot, somebody was firing at something.

The ground was hot and crumbling now, shaken to powder by the artillery and scorched by napalm. At least the wire was down, blown up and ripped apart by the artillery barrage. Nikolai Fedorovich Lukinov heard cracks and saw some of the infantry start to go down as they tripped off the mines. The little schu-mines were designed to wound, to blow off limbs and remove genitals rather than kill, the idea was that a wounded man would need three or four others to take him back to a casualty station.

The Frontniki had come up with their own solution to that approach. Get wounded and you were on your own until the sweep unit behind them got to you. Ruthless but fewer died that way. Long, vicious sawing bursts of machinegun fire. The Germans were coming back to life. The machinegun turrets were firing continuously, raking fire backwards and forwards across the lines of advancing Frontniki. The drill was well-known, one gun in the turret was firing while the other cooled and was reloaded. That way, the stream of fire could be maintained almost indefinitely.

Behind the Frontniki, a JSU-152 broke cover and lurched forward, its big gun firing on the bunker that had opened up on the infantry. Its first shell missed, overshooting. Before it could reload, the long-barreled 88 in one of the anti-tank bunkers had swung to engage and fired a shot. The hit resounded across the battlefield, a screaming clang that blended with all the other noise of the attack. The thick armor on the JSU had taken the hit and its 152 millimeter fired again, this time landing its hit squarely between the two machinegun turrets in the central bunker.

The Frontniki had gone to ground when the sawing bursts had started to cut them down, since then they had been trying to synchronize short runs forward with the swinging streams of fire from the machine guns. With the central bunker temporarily silenced, they made a bit more ground. Nikolai Fedorovich Lukinov saw the hatch on one of the 88 millimeter turrets open and one of the crew, probably the commander, very carefully and cautiously looked out.

As he did so, his head distorted and snapped back. Klavdia Efremovna Kalugina had scored again. Only about 300 meters, she wouldn't be boasting of that one. Behind them the JSU-152 had taken more hits and was silent, smoke coming from its open hatches. Lukinov hoped the crew had gotten out safely, at least they were far enough back to escape being machine-gunned as they bailed out.

Over to his right, there were three smoke trails, smacking into the side of the turret of an 88, the one whose commander was still draped over the side of the steel cupola. One must have penetrated because smoke started to rise from the turret and its barrel drooped slightly. Nikolai Fedorovich Lukinov started another short run forward, one of the anti-tank guns down, one to go. Suddenly, something, perhaps a glimpse below open perception, warned him and he changed his foot placement at the last instant. A schu-mine had been where his stride would have landed. Still shaking from the near miss, he took a short red wand out of his belt and stuck it in the ground by the mine. Somebody from a penal battalion could deal with it later. Another shot from an RPG hit a machinegun turret on the center bunker, it vanished in a burst of flame. Much thinner armor than on the 88 turrets.

The defense in this block was beginning to come apart, one of the 88s was down and the central machinegun bunker was damaged. That left the machinegun bunker on the extreme right isolated. If they could take that out, the remaining anti-tank gun could be eliminated and the JSU-152s could deal with the rest of the machine guns. He angled his advance over, the bunker was firing long bursts, but its coverage was spotty. More Frontniki went down as they closed in but soon the RPG-7 rounds flew across the space and the turrets were destroyed. There was a sound like a train going overhead.

Looking behind him Lukinov saw the other two JSU-I52s in the support platoon had broken cover and started firing as they lumbered forward. As they did so, five figures got up from the ground by their disabled vehicle and ran back for cover. The crew had survived, good. Their tank could be recovered, it would be repaired and could be back in the battle again in a day or two.

From their position well back, the JSUs had seen something Lukinov had been too close to spot. A blind zone caused by a dip in the ground. It would have been covered by the destroyed 88, now it was a path forward. The central machinegun bunker took a flurry of hits from the 152s and ceased to function.

That cleared a path for the Frontniki to swing around and take the other 88 from the rear. There were more vicious cracks as schu-mines claimed victims but they were beside and behind the 88. Again, the RPG-7 gunners scored their hits and the gun went down. Freed from its threat, the JSU-152s barged their way forward again, firing on the remaining machinegun position. It didn't last long and now the Frontniki had their last job to do

The artillery bunker, it hadn't fired yet It was supposed to support the forward bunkers but it had remained silent. It was visible now, through the smoke and carnage but the Frontniki drew no fire from it. Its guns were intact, apparently, but one sign as to what may have happened was lying outside. A German soldier, his head shattered by a rifle bullet. Score two for Klavdia Efremovna Kalugina. Must have been a difficult shot and her second for the day. The girls in the sniper teams believed they got one good shot per day, a second was a bonus. A third was an occasion for a party. All the girls knew what the Germans had done to the women they had captured and the sniper teams took grim satisfaction in the retribution they exacted. Their only regret was the sniper code - one bullet, one kill - didn't allow them to cause the Germans some of the suffering they had inflicted on others.

Come to think of it, the dead “German” looked odd. Nikolai Fedorovich Lukinov knew it was a myth that all Germans were fair-haired and blue eyed but this one had black hair, brown eyes and an olive-colored skin. And his nose was unduly prominent, even allowing for the fact that most of the head behind it had ceased to exist. Looking around, he could see what had happened, the crew of the artillery bunker had abandoned the position. Kalugina had been caught by surprise and only managed to drop the last one out. The others had been machine-gunned as they ran away. By the Frontniki? By their own comrades in the other blocks? Nobody would ever know.

Nikolai Fedorovich Lukinov cautiously approached the entrance. It was open but it could be booby-trapped or there could be hold-outs inside. Still this was why Mother Russia paid him such a generous salary and gave him no less than 900 grams of black bread a day.

“Follow me!”

He jumped in and looked around. The entry passage had a pair of right-angle bends as a grenade and gas trap and then opened out the fighting room. There was a portrait on the wall. Not Model or Hitler, but some unkempt looking man with a black turban and a disheveled beard. Nikolai Fedorovtch Lukinov knew he had stumbled onto something important here, something that shouldn't be touched until experts got to look.

Outside, the two surviving JSU-152s had pulled up next to the captured artillery bunker. They had positioned themselves carefully so they were shielded from the anti-tank guns in the block behind this one. Lukinov saw his infantry had spread out also and gone to ground. A quick head count, he almost sighed with relief. Of the 50 men he had started with, no less than 12 had made it this far alive. Probably a few more wounded in the ground behind them.

He went over to the command JSU, he needed to radio back quickly, the GRU battlefield intelligence people needed to look at this bunker as soon as they could get here. Meanwhile there was another block to be attacked and counter attacks to be driven off. The work of a Frontniki never ended.

Parliament House, Canberra ACT, Australia

The staff were good, quiet and discreet. They'd brought a buffet meal in without disturbing the meeting and made sure everything was in order. Drinks had been served, the food was suitable - there was even a cheesecake for the Thai Ambassador. But even the staff were being distracted by the television news showing the Russian assault on Kalmykia - or New Schwabia as the German occupiers called it. It was a mark of how the world was changing as well; the newsreel footage was barely 12 hours old. The Russians had flown it straight from the front for distribution to the rest of the world, to show that the liberation of the last stretch of their homeland was in progress. Also to show them the price Russians were prepared to pay for the defense of their homeland.

Being able to watch a battle while it was still in progress was a new experience. Sir Martyn Sharpe didn't fully grasp what he was seeing; he was a politician and an economist, not a soldier. Prime Minister Joe Frye was better placed, he'd served as a ranker in the Australian Army and he was appalled by the way the Russians were paying with flesh and blood to chew through the concrete and steel of the German defense line. The Ambassador was watching with the calculating interest of a professional soldier evaluating the military of another country.

“How do they do it Ma'am?” Sir Martyn was almost afraid to ask, as if the answer would transfer him into the images on the screen. “How does anybody do it? How did you do it?”

“This is why it is wise to have men as soldiers Sir Martyn. One day, there comes a time when we have to run straight at a machine gun, and it is best to have those around who think that is a good idea.”

“Oh.” Then a long pause “Ohhhhh.” As the meaning sank in. The Ambassador's eccentric ideas on feminism sometimes took a little getting used to.

“How would I do this? Much the same way I think. There are not so many options in trying to break through defenses like this. The Americans would, of course, drop a number of their atomic bombs on such a line and remove it from the earth but we do not have that choice. The Germans have had twelve years to build that defense line and breaking it will be costly no matter how it is done. A more interesting question is what Model plans to do about this. He has many options and none of them are very good.”

The television news ceased showing the film from the Russian battles and switched to domestic news. The lead was, of course the funeral of Sir Gregory Locock and the other victims of the Hood bombing. The Ambassador briefly wondered what was really in Sir Gregory's coffin then indulged herself in the self-centered luxury of trying to spot herself in the news film. Prime Minister Frye and Sir Martyn were doing the same; television was still enough of a novelty to make the game exciting.

Behind them, the serving staff grinned at the sight of the high and mighty behaving like normal people. The film switched to shots of the three Indian warships in Melbourne. They had their foremast yards slanted to port; the mainmast yards sloped to starboard and lines hanging from them and over the sides. The newsreader explained that this was called “Scandalizing the Rig” a mark of the deepest mourning and respect. He noted the last time this had been done was when the death of Queen Victoria had been announced almost sixty years earlier.

With the novelty of the television news over, the meeting resumed. The funeral of Prime Minister Locock had provided an admirable excuse for a quiet, low-key meeting of the three. There was due to be a public conference of the heads of state; President Nehru of India, General Sarit of Thailand and the Australian President in a few days time which promised to be a complex and difficult period of negotiations. Therefore, it was wise for the three people present today to decide on the eventual outcome before it all started. The Ambassador elegantly licked crumbs of cheesecake off her fingers.

“I have some good news I think. Over the last few days there have been a series of attacks on our border villages near Burma. None of the attacks were successful, although the villagers have taken casualties defending themselves. In passing, Prime Minister, we would like to buy some more of the excellent water-buffalo you are now breeding here. Those villages lost heavily in the attacks and their water buffalo are an important part of village life. Sadly they were very vulnerable to mortar fire.”

“There will be no need to buy them Ma'am. Your villagers lost their friends, family and possessions fighting on behalf of us all. The least Australia can do in return is to donate the livestock needed to replace their losses.”

The Ambassador nodded in grateful acknowledgement “We learned many things from these incidents. Almost all the weapons we captured are Japanese supplied and are quite modern.

Although the attackers claim to be the Shan States Army, we have inspected the dead and have reason to believe many are Japanese regular troops. We have taken prisoners and their interrogation leads us to think that some are Burmese nationalists, others are Chinese. Our LLRP forces tracked the retreating enemy units across the Border in Burma and then, sometimes, as far back as China. So, we have a positive identification on our enemy now.

“More good news is that the Japanese themselves appear to have an insurgency problem. Their attempt to take over Vietnam and Laos has not met with local support and attacks on Japanese possessions and personnel are growing. An organization called the Vietnamese People's Liberation Army is claiming responsibility for these attacks.”

All three were smiling, they were well aware that the VPLA was a Thai-run counter-guerilla operation.

“The Japanese have made matters worse by installing a brainless dolt named Nguyen Tat Thanh as their puppet ruler there. The man is a doctrinaire communist and is determined to force his ideology on the local population; I believe he is very unpopular.”

Idly Sir Martyn wondered if that meant Nguyen Tat Thanh, whoever he was, had already met with a regrettable accident or was about to depart the world in some other manner. Then he remembered his first lesson in the ghastly business of revolutionary warfare, kill the competent, allow the incompetent to live. Nguyen Tat Thanh would be safe.

“The bad news is that the insurgency effort in Burma has been much more successful than in our country. There are areas of the North where the SSA is in virtual control. We believe the time is approaching when they will ask the Japanese for assistance in maintaining peace and security. And that will, of course, lead to a Japanese occupation.”

The Ambassador reached out and helped herself to another slice of cheesecake while Sir Martyn rolled the thought around in his mind. “The best option would be for us to get in first would it not? To have our own peacekeeping force there so that there is no excuse for Japanese intervention.”

Frye picked up the idea and ran with it. “Sir Martyn, Madam Ambassador, May I make a suggestion? It would be foolish to deny that the assassination of Prime Minister Locock was intended to cause a rift between Australia and the rest of the Triple Alliance. What better way to show the world, and those who planned that appalling crime, that they have failed by sending an Australian peace-keeping force to Burma? Say, a division of troops, maybe two.

“That would provide a telling demonstration that we will not bend the knee to terrorists nor allow them to dictate our national policy. Madam Ambassador, how urgent is this matter? How much time do we have?”

The Ambassador's eyes defocused for a few minutes. “We have at least three months, no more than six. If the VPLA score a few successes in the next few days perhaps a little longer. Plan on three months Prime Minister.”

Sir Martyn tried to get the initiative back. Triple Alliance meetings always tended to be like this. “Prime Minister, I have a further suggestion. If the troop convoy will leave from Australia in three months time, may I request that our squadron presently here. Hood, Rana and Rajput be allowed to form part of the escort for the convoy? You have few heavy ships of your own, your two ex-British carriers serve as troop transports while the two Essex class you bought from the Americans are hardly in service yet. An Indian escort for the convoy would also be a telling demonstration to our enemies that their plans and machinations have failed.”