Peace? Was it really at hand? The report Cherniakhovskii was reading was alarming. It was an analysis of the paperwork and documents found when Model's “Baronial Hall” had been taken. More than alarming, it was terrifying. It laid out in specific detail the arrangements made between Chipan, Model's government and a consortium of Islamic states in the Middle East. That much had been expected. What was not were the developments in the Middle East grouping. They were far advanced down the road to setting up some sort of federated state. There was a guiding council, called The Caliphate, headed by a man called Khomeini. Russian “experts” had thought that any such alignment was out of the question, that the various kinds of Moslem hated each other too much for such an arrangement.
It was now clear that assessment was wrong. They hated each other certainly, but they hated the rest of the world more. And they were prepared to ally against the rest of the world even at the expense of their own internal feuds. Cherniakhovskii read, horrified, of what the captured documents revealed of the nascent state's policies and goals. They amounted to a complete rejection of the modern world, a complete renunciation of everything humanity had achieved in a thousand years.
Except in the technology of death of course. The Caliphate wanted nuclear weapons, they wanted gas, they wanted biologicals. Nuclear was out of their reach, at least for the time being but Model had already given them the technology, knowledge and personnel to make chemicals. He'd given them something else as well, something that made Cherniakhovskii sick to his stomach. Model and the Caliphate had shared one particular hatred, one that Model's little state had been very well placed to accommodate. The report remarked that Caliphate documents were full of references to “The Final Solution of the Jewish Problem”. And Model had given them that technology as well.
President Cherniakhovskii slumped into his seat. Dear God was it starting all over again? Last time it had taken the lazy, self-indulgent Americans to get themselves off their indolent butts and harness the awesome power of their country to burn evil off the map. That had been one country in Europe. What would happen if half the world had to be eliminated the same way? Could humanity survive it?
There was another consideration. Russia was redeemed at long last, it had paid the price for failing to confront evil and was redeemed. They should never make that mistake again, if evil showed its face, it had to be fought. There was an old Russian fable about guard dogs. The fable said they should always come in pairs, a big guard dog and a small guard dog. Big dogs were immensely powerful but lazy. They slept most of the time. Small dogs had to keep alert because they were weak. So if the enemy came, the small dog would bark and wake up the big dog who would then do the fighting. Cherniakhovskii thought that wasn't a bad paradigm for his relationship with America. Russia was the small, alert and dedicated dog, America the big, powerful, lazy one. When danger threatened, it would be Russia's job to wake America up.
This report put another light on the world. Everybody was worried about Chipan, the effects of a unified China and Japan on world order. But this report made it clear, Chipan wasn't the threat it appeared to be. The country was desperately short of resources, of technology, of foreign exchange and of scientific expertise. They were ringed off and contained. Whether they'd done it deliberately or by accident, the Triple Alliance had contained Chipan and, given time, it would collapse under its own weight. No, Chipan was a short-term threat, no more than that. The medium and long term threat was the emerging Caliphate. This report was the first real look at just how dangerous it was.
The report had to be circulated. The little guard dog had to start barking. Copies had to go to the Targeteers in America and to that charming and ever-so-deadly Ambassador from Thailand. Cherniakhovskii smiled affectionately at the thought. Even now, his secret service still hadn't worked out how she'd assassinated Mahatma Ghandi.
Destroying Model's “New Schwabia” had torn the mask from the Caliphate. And what lay beneath the mask was uglier than anybody had dreamed possible.
Chapter Ten Going For Broke
Clark Field, Luzon, Philippines
Marisol's crew heaved themselves out of their cramped cockpits. It had been an almost nine hour flight from Honolulu with an aerial refueling half way and muscles were painfully locked into position. Major Mike Kozlowski was halfway down his steps when he saw two things. One was the arrival of a line of armament dollies with a complete set of war-shot missiles for Marisol and the other was his friend Commander Paul Foreman waiting to greet him.
“Hi Mike, I see you're going up in the world. Heard about Red Sun, getting your lady back, that was a slick bit of flying. What happened?”
“Hi Paul. Went between a pair of Cajun 106s when we were all double-sonic. It was our pod that saved us, it split the airflow enough to protect the main gear when it dropped. Marisol is a dash-thirty now. New hydraulic systems with a better back-up, we've got two new missiles, an air-to-surface version of the GAR-9 and the AAM-N-7 Sparrow Us. Not having a medium-range conventional air-to-air hurt us at Red Sun. You got a new toy under your bird?”
“Ain't that the truth. We just got'em. It’s called an Orlan. Means Eagle. Russians developed the basic idea then Lockheed took it over and got it to work. We lock it onto a ship, shoot it from about 40,000 feet, it goes up to 80,000, flies to its target then does a vertical dive on the victim. Giving the skimmers conniptions working out how to stop it. Your GAR-9s seem the best bet. You see Marisol being loaded with war-shots? Us too. Our Orlans are live, 350 kiloton thermonuclear. We've got a job to do, when we get back, beers are on me Mike. I want to pick your brains on what you learned at Red Sun
Flag Bridge, HIJMS Musashi, South China Sea
Admiral Soriva sighed and took the communication pad. He shuddered, if the existing situation wasn't bad enough, now he had this to worry him. The old escort carrier Chuyo had been ferrying some aircraft to Danang when she'd hit a mine in the main shipping channel. The Captain had tried to beach her but the damage was too bad and she'd gone down, blocking the channel completely. A minesweeper had found another mine nearby, it was an old Japanese Navy one, the serial number suggesting it had been laid back in 1941 and never swept. They must have broken loose and drifted into the channel. Anybody who believed that would believe anything. Still, it didn't matter, the port was closed until sweeping was completed.
Soriva shook his head, then went back to his chart. While he was shackled by his twelve-knot merchant ships, the Indian-Australian convoy had got out in front of him. It was more than 50 miles ahead now and pulling further away every hour. There was no way the merchant ships with Soriva could overtake it so it had to be stopped. If he took his battleship group group to flank speed, he could close on the convoy in six to eight hours time. Then he could give an ultimatum. Either they turned back or he would eliminate them with the nuclear shells he carried for his big guns.
It was an unanswerable argument and they'd have to obey. The other option was the two carriers under Admiral Idzumo behind him. There was a problem there, Shokaku and Zuikaku carried only 28 fighters and 32 bombers each. There were two Australian carriers with the task group, reportedly they carried 36 Fl IF Tigers each. The Japanese carriers didn't have the power to take them on, at best they could provide cover for the existing Japanese formations and a limited strike capability to mop up stragglers. The one good thing was that the Tigers had no strike capability, they could defend but not attack. No, the battleships were the best solution for this job. And pray that it would be over before the Americans found out. Soriva bent over the chart table again as he felt the vibration in his feet tell him Musashi had gone to flank speed.
Captain's Bridge, INS Hood, South China Sea
“Signal reads Good luck and God's Speed Sir” Captain Jim Ladone shuddered slightly, Hood, Rana and Rajput were swinging away from the convoy. Earlier, the Japanese battleship group heading the formation behind them had accelerated and started closing on the Australian-Indian convoy. The threat was obvious. Unable to overtake the fast troopships, the Japanese commander had decided to bring his battleships up and give an ultimatum. Turn back or we use our 18 inch guns. It was well-known the Japanese had nuclear shells for those guns.
There had been a quick conference and Ladone's suggestion had been accepted. He'd take the three Indian ships back to confront Yamato and Musashi. If they tried to blast past him, he'd hold them as long as he could while the convoy scattered. Then, the Australian cruisers and destroyers would try and buy more time. With luck, the convoy would be well-scattered by the time the enemy got through and most of the troopers would get clear.
“What can we do Sir? We're no match for one of those monsters, let alone two.”
“We can challenge them Number One and they will ignore our challenge. We will fight them and they will sink us. That's all there is to it.”
“Sir, there are two thousand men on this ship, We can't take them to be killed. We must save the lives of our crew.”
Ladone nearly exploded with rage, then brought himself under control. His Number One was young, still learning his business. He should be taught. However hard it would be.
“Number One, there are fifty thousand men in that convoy and we are their escort, we are responsible for them. You remember what happened on our quarterdeck only a few months ago?”
Number One nodded, he was the Number One only because the officers senior to him had died in the explosion. “We were responsible for their safety as well and we failed them. We will not fail again. But that's not what's important now. There is something much more important here.
“Number One, we're a warship, we were built to fight. Not to run away, not to hide. To fight. To bring as much harm upon the enemy as we can. The Indian Navy is a young navy, our traditions are not yet set. Today, we're going to help set them. We're going to establish a precedent that Indian warships fight. Regardless of odds, regardless of chance of winning, we fight as long as we have weapons to fight with.
“After today, every enemy who faces one of our ships will know that if a fight starts, it will be a fight to the death. And, one day, an enemy facing that choice will back off even though the odds are in their favor. More than that, once our enemies know a fight with our ships means a fight to the death, they will enter the battle scared. And then our ships will win against the odds and the more they do so, the greater will be the odds they can overcome. Today we fight, not just for the troopships under our protection but for the future. For the future ship in the same position we are in today that will live because today we choose to fight, not to run. Now ring up flank speed. We have an appointment to keep.”
Ladone looked out of his bridge over his forward 15 inch guns as he felt the vibration in his feet tell him the mighty 'Ood had gone to flank speed.
On Board USS Skipjack SSN-585, Periscope depth, South China Sea
His radio mast was up, he was in intercept position and all he needed was the position data from the Batwings. He was well away from the carriers and outside the detection arcs of their sonars. He was listening out for one minute at ten minute intervals and that was longer than he liked to have a mast up. Still, at least he wasn't emitting. That would come later. Commander Runken looked back to his plot. Two carriers in line ahead. One destroyer in the lead, one in trail, two on each side. And not one of them had the slightest idea what they were up against. Almost 90,000 tons of shipping. “Sir, burst transmission from Batwing-one.” We have the position data, they want us to start in 15 minutes..”
“Very good. Dive to 300 feet then flank speed for this position here.” Runken made a mark on the map. “We'll run out under the inversion layer then pop up to start.” Runken relaxed as the deck angled down and Skipjack vibrated as she went to flank speed.
PB5Y-1 “Batwing-One “ 60,000 feet over the South China Sea
Up here, the sky was dark blue and the PB5Ys were almost invisible against it. The radar horizon was more than 500 miles away and the radar bombing system was showing five groups of ship. The Australian convoy was well off to the west, in the center was Hood and her two destroyers with the two Japanese battleships, two cruisers and eight destroyers nearby. There was less than 30 nautical miles separating them now, the situation was about to blow wide open. Then, halfway towards the east, was the Japanese troop convoy with the Japanese carrier group on the extreme east of the screen.
If the situation did blow, Batwing-One to Batwing-Eight would take the battleship group, Batwing-Nine to Batwing-Sixteen would take the Japanese troopship convoy. The Orlans would make short work of them, that was for certain. But first....
Batwing-One accelerated as Foreman opened the throttles wide. He felt the kick in his back as Batwing-One and Batwing-Two started their long dive for the high-speed run.
Captain's Bridge, INS Hood, South China Sea
“God, they're big!”
Even at this distance. Ladone was awed by the size of the Japanese battleships. Hood had been the biggest battleship of her day but these two dwarfed her. “Kanali, when we open fire, take your two destroyers and go in for a torpedo attack. Make sure your engineer gives you every pound of steam you can get. You've got good fish and your magnetic exploders work, if you can get hits you can really hurt those two. You must hit the battleships.”
“Roger. Wilco. Good Luck Hood.”
“Signalman make to Japanese battleship. 'Military operations in progress. Exclusion zone applies as advised in notices to mariners. Request you change course and allow us searoom to complete our operations.' And may God have mercy on our souls.”
Flag Bridge, HIJMS Musashi, South China Sea
Soriva was furious. How dare the Indians tell him where he could take his ships. “Signalman, Make to Hood. 'You are instructed to clear our path. Remaining in your present position will be considered a hostile act and dealt with accordingly.' Order gun crews to close up for surface action. The Indians will attempt a torpedo attack with their destroyers when the firing starts. Tone will take Akitsuki, Terutzuki, Hazuki and Ootzuki, intercept the attack and eliminate the destroyers.”
“Sir, high flying formation of unidentified aircraft to port. Raid count is 16 aircraft, estimated altitude, 20,000 meters. Sir, two aircraft diving at very high speed.” Soriva's scowl deepened. What the devil was going on?
Captain's Bridge, INS Hood, South China Sea
Number One was the first to spot them Their air search radar had spotted the unidentified formation while it was still over a hundred miles out but it was closing fast. Now two aircraft had detached and were diving. “Dark blue sir, delta wings. My God they're moving, estimated speed over 1400 miles per hour. Must be Americans. Nobody else has aircraft like that.”
PB5Y Hustlers thought Ladone, He'd never seen them but he'd heard of them. The latest long-range maritime attack bomber in the US Navy. And it had a long-range nuclear-tipped anti-ship missile. It looked like the cavalry were arriving at the traditional last minute. The only thing that worried him now was whether he was going to be clear of the blast.
There they were, they were arcing downwards, less than a dozen miles away and closing very, very fast. “Almost 800 knots” came an awed whisper from the air warfare station. The two blue bombers were less than 200 feet over the sea surface now, carving across the space between the two groups of ships. Behind them, the concussion wave from their passage was throwing up a giant wall of spray, reaching over the two aircraft themselves. As they passed Hood there was a deep booming crash and the scream of the bomber's jets. Even as Ladone heard it, the bombers were already pulling up, climbing for the safety of the stratosphere. Behind them, the wall of spray collapsed, leaving nothing but a long, thick white line painted on the sea surface.
“Bloody Yanks showing off again.” said Ladone in deepest gratitude.
Flag Bridge, HIJMS Musashi, South China Sea
For a moment Soriva thought the noise was his own guns opening fire but it was the sonic boom of the two American bombers. They'd been so fast, he hadn't even had a chance to see them properly but he'd heard them all right. And he'd seen a wall of spray, made iridescent by the sun, forming in front of him then collapsing to form a long white line on the sea surface. It was spreading and fading now but there was no doubt what it meant. If there had been any doubt, the electronic room ended it. “Sir, we're being painted by multiple missile guidance radars, They're locked onto us. No launches yet, but very strong tracking signals, if there was tempura out there it would be deep-fried already.”
“Signal Admiral Idzumo, tell him to send air cover to drive off those bombers NOW. Helmsmen swing to oh-one-oh, parallel with that white line.” It was theatrical and very American. Draw a line in the sea and send a message. Cross it and we shoot. “Get those fighters here!”
On Board USS Skipjack SSN-585, Periscope depth, South China Sea
“Showtime folks. Up radar, illuminate the nearest destroyer with radar, full power, as many blasts as it takes to wake them up.” Runken looked at the map, if anybody had his plot they'd see that his radar emissions were on a direct bearing from his target to the Japanese transport group.
Flag Bridge, HIJMS Shokaku, South China Sea
“Sir, enemy radar transmissions bearing two-seven-zero. No visible source, sir this is a submarine attack.”
“Ready helicopters on Yahagi and Sakawa to take off and localize contact. Engage if hostile. Agano and Noshiro to detach to contact and pursue. Keep it pinned down until we're clear.”
On Board USS Skipjack SSN-585, Periscope depth, South China Sea
“Flank speed, full emergency power, maximum emergency turn to port, take her down maximum rate.”
The violent high speed turn and dive would leave an unmissable knuckle in the water but, just to make sure, they'd pop a noisemaker right into the middle of it. By the time the Chipanese helicopters got to it, Skipjack would be 3,500 yards away, under the inversion layer and moving underneath the two approaching destroyers, perpendicular to their course. This needed careful timing. Runken closed his eyes, visualizing the tactical picture above him. The helicopters, one, possibly two, would be closing on his decoy target now - yes, there were the sounds of the first pair of depth charges. They weren't trying to kill or they would have used torpedoes. That would come later. But he should be the other side of the destroyers about now... OK. Time for act two.
“Bring her up, periscope depth.”
As soon as he was there Runken surfaced the scope, high speed and too much exposure causing a spray of water that could be seen for hundreds of yards. The Japanese had seen it all right, they might be outclassed but they weren't dumb.
“Take her down, 400 feet, then round to course oh-oh oh.” Time to give the carrier commanders a nervous breakdown.
Flag Bridge, HIJMS Shokaku, South China Sea
“Noshiro reports periscope sighting sir. Off to their port.” Idzumo looked at the chart, damn, it was a second submarine, it had to be, more than 4000 meters away from the first sighting and the helicopters still had that one pinned down..
“Order Noshiro to divert and engage the new contact. What's out there?”
Admiral Idzumo paced his deck then something clicked in his mind. He took a horrified look at the chart and “Belay that order to Noshiro.”
It was too late Bridge, HIJMS Noshiro, South China Sea
The Captain assumed that Agano had received the same order and started his turn to port to engage the new submarine contact. By the time he realized his mistake, he was across Agano's bows. The other destroyer didn't have a chance, she was half way through her evasive turn when her bows ploughed into Noshiro's side just aft of the boiler room. The captain saw the side buckle and heard the scream of tortured metal, then the gout of black smoke. Locked together, the two stricken destroyers suddenly had more to worry about than their submarine contacts.
On Board USS Skipjack SSN-585, South China Sea
The control room erupted into cheers and high-fives as the sounds of the collision were picked up on the passive sonar. Then, Skipjack charged forward again, her speed eating up the distance between the outer screen and the carriers. But first, the task was to freak out the commander of the lead destroyer. “OK boys. Get ready for periscope depth again.”
Flag Bridge, HIJMS Shokaku, South China Sea
Admiral Idzumo looked at the chart in horror. His screen was a complete shambles, two destroyers disabled off to port, the trailing and one starboard destroyer working to ready their replacement helicopter. “Sir, Oyodo reporting periscope contact sir dead ahead.”
Idzumo scanned his tactical plot, what was happening out there? There were three submarine contacts now, all widely separated and this last one was in a perfect position to rake his carriers with torpedoes. Somehow, the enemy had worked out exactly where he would be and set up a perfect ambush. There would be more submarines he was sure of it. He had no choice, no choice at all.
“All air operations to cease. Carriers to execute maximum evasive action, maintain highest possible speed. Detach Agano and Noshiro to proceed to base on their own. What was that!” A vicious jar had just shaken the ship.
On Board USS Skipjack SSN-585, South China Sea
After giving the lead Japanese destroyer a periscope flash, Skipjack had gone deep, then swung up, heading at the bows of the approaching lead carrier at an up angle of around 40 degrees. At the last minute Runken reversed the ascent, taking the submarine back down but leaving a massive wake surge in the water. It was that wake surge that hit Shokaku in the bows, giving quite convincing but inexplicable imitation of a serious collision.
“OK boys, games over, get below the inversion layer and clear. We'll shadow from a distance.”
Flag Bridge, HIJMS Shokaku, South China Sea
“Admiral Soriva Sir. He's threatened by maritime attack bombers, he needs air cover to drive them off now. “
Idzumo looked out at the scene. His ships were zigzagging violently, trying to evade any torpedoes that might be coming for them. If he stopped the evasive action to launch aircraft, he'd be wide open to torpedo attack - that crash might have been a hit already, and he'd lucked out by catching a dud. He couldn't take the risk..
“Make to Admiral Soriva. Regret under heavy attack by estimated three to six enemy submarines. Two destroyers damaged one possible hit on a carrier. No flight operations possible due to evasive action.”
Flag Bridge, HIJMS Musashi, South China Sea.
Admiral Soriva re-read the message and felt his blood pressure climb another couple of notches. Just what was 'Regret under heavy attack by estimated three to six enemy submarines. Two destroyers damaged one possible hit on a carrier. No flight operations possible due to evasive action,' supposed to mean? How could there be a “possible hit” on a carrier, either she was hit or she wasn't. Soriva wanted to pound his head on a bulkhead, or more precisely, wanted to pound Admiral Idzumo's head on a bulkhead. His chest started to hurt so he took a deep breath and told himself to calm down. The situation was stressful enough as it was.
Yamato and Musashi were running parallel with the three Indian ships, distance just under 20 nautical miles. Just out of gun range. The line the American bombers had drawn on the sea surface had long since dispersed and faded but he knew where it was and they knew he knew. They were lashing his ships with their fire control radars just to remind him. He couldn't close with the Indian ships until the bombers were driven off and he couldn't do that until Idzumo got his fighters up. Then he gets this.
Whatever was happening back there was serious. Two destroyers torpedoed, fortunately it seemed both were still afloat. The message must be corrupted, the original must be 'carrier hit, damage possible'. Since Idzumo would know very well what was the situation if his flagship, Shokaku had been hit, the stricken carrier must be Zuikaku. Things were making a bit more sense, he'd probably seen the tower of water from a hit but also seen Zuikaku was apparently undamaged. So the hit was a dud or had only done superficial damage.
This was beginning to make a lot more sense. What he didn't know was whether Idzumo had actually successfully counter-attacked the enemy submarines. And he needed those fighters desperately. Every minute he was held up here would mean it would take him three minutes longer to catch the Australian convoy - and that meant it was a nautical mile closer to friendly air cover.
“Signalman, send following to Admiral Idzumo. Air threat of utmost seriousness. Launch air cover soonest. Have you engaged the enemy?”
Flag Bridge, HIJMS Shokaku, South China Sea.
Admiral Idzumo paced the bridge anxiously. After the flurry of contacts, there had been no more and the pause was deeply worrying him. There were four helicopters now trying to localize and destroy the original contact but they were losing it. They'd dropped depth charges and torpedoes but the crafty submarine crew had evaded them all. They were still there though and dropping behind the group, submarines just didn't have the speed to catch up with a fast carrier group once they'd fallen behind. That meant the task group had probably outrun the ambush. It was time to get a final damage report off to Admiral Soriva. Then he could see about getting his aircraft up.
“Take this to the signals room. 'Damage to fleet, two destroyers collided while prosecuting submarine contact. Shokaku hit by an unidentified object possibly a dud torpedo.'“
The signals officer was gone only a few minutes, barely more than enough to get to the radio cabin and back. When he returned, Idzumo could see his face was forced into impassiveness. He handed the message flimsy over to the Admiral. Idzumo read it, and was first outraged. 'Air threat of utmost seriousness. Launch air cover soonest. Have you engaged the enemy?' Surely this was an insult, an implication that he was evading his responsibilities. Then he thought more carefully. Admiral Soriva was a respected, indeed admired, officer with a reputation for skill and ability. A handful of point defense fighters couldn't possibly be an air threat of utmost seriousness.
Then it clicked. Idzumo realized what Soriva was telling him and he mentally flayed himself for not spotting it earlier. Both the Indian and Australian Navies were British trained and the British always had two groups escorting a convoy. A close-in group of cruisers and destroyers and a screening group of carriers, some distance from the main body but ready to engage an attacker.
Soriva must have located that second carrier group, the screening group. Idzumo remembered the Indians and Australians had purchased two Essex class carriers each. They were supposed to be working up, six months or a year from commissioning but perhaps they'd been thrown in early. Admiral Soriva must be expecting an air attack from their combined groups, no wonder he was describing the threat as utmost seriousness. Well, carrier warfare doctrine was clear. Do unto them before they do it unto you.
“What is the news from the helicopters? Have they got that sub yet?”
“Helicopters say they have her sir. Contact disappeared after last torpedo attack. There was an explosion and she can't have broken clear. They got her.”
“Make to Admiral Soriva. 'Have outrun enemy ambush. One enemy submarine sunk. Am readying air strike. What is position of second enemy carrier group?' Then cease our evasive maneuvers and prepare a strike for launch. Anti-ship. Rocket torpedoes on the bombers, fighters to carry air-to-air missiles. We'll be getting the target co-ordinates from Admiral Soriva.”
Flag Bridge, HIJMS Musashi, South China Sea.
Admiral Idzumo's follow-up message hit Admiral Soriva like a kidney punch. Two destroyers collided, Shokaku torpedoed. That meant that four of Idzumo's six destroyers were out of action and both carriers had been hit. What sort of battle was going on back there? The submarines he'd run into had taken out more than two thirds of his screen and it was only by the luck of the Gods that the carriers weren't sinking. This action wasn't a happenstance convoy skirmish, this was turning into a full-blooded naval battle. But that raised another question. Why hadn't the Americans simply blown him out of the water? Without fighter cover he was helpless against those bombers. There was something he was missing, something very important.
“Sir another message from Admiral Idzumo.”
Soriva took the flimsy and read it. Suddenly, light burst into his head and he felt the deepest shame and mortification of his career. He'd been mentally savaging Idzumo for his conduct with the carriers and now Idzumo sends this message. 'Have outrun enemy ambush. One enemy submarine sunk. Am readying air strike. What is position of second enemy carrier group?' This was the missing piece of the puzzle.
Idzumo had detected a second carrier group waiting in ambush. Instead of playing it safe and leaving Soriva to save himself, he'd bulled his way through the ambush so he could get clear and launch a strike to protect the battleships. He'd risked his life and career, not to mention his command, to save the battleships. Mentally Soriva apologized to his fellow Admiral for the injustices he'd been thinking. The man had acted like a true warrior and Soriva had cursed him for it.
Then another light came on and Soriva at last understood the situation. The battleships weren't the target of the second carrier group. He'd made the traditional mistake, he'd assumed that he was the enemy's main target. Of course he wasn't, the transports were. The enemy plan was to pin down the Japanese carriers with the submarine ambush while the second carrier group took down the transport group. That explained the Americans with their threats but their strange refusal to open fire. Everybody knew that Yamato and Musashi had nuclear shells for their 46 centimeter guns. The Triple Alliance didn't have nuclear weapons, not as far as anybody knew. So the Americans, with their disgusting sense of fair play had evened the odds by checkmating the Japanese nuclear platforms with their own.
Of course the Americans had defined fair play in this case. How many Triple Alliance carriers were out there. Two at least with the convoy but how many in the second group Idzumo had spotted? Two? Four? If two, then Idzumo could have taken them on even terms. But now he had two thirds of his screen gone and his ships had been hit. And, he had to calculate on enemy capabilities. If they were committing their carriers while still half-trained he had to assume all four Triple Alliance Essex class were around. They could overwhelm Idzumo's carriers then eradicate the troop convoy. Soriva realized his battleships simply didn't matter in this equation. Idzumo must have realized that as well, that was why he had acted the way he had, prevaricating on the air cover Soriva had been demanding. He knew he had to give priority to protecting the transports.
“Signals, make to Admiral Idzumo. 'Four enemy carriers waiting in ambush. Make protection of troop convoy your topmost priority. Provide air cover to transports at earliest possible moment.' Get that message out fast.”
Soriva stared at the chart. The message was obvious, it was all over. He couldn't catch the Australian convoy without getting nuked. His transports couldn't get to Rangoon and if they continued on course, they'd be subject to air attack. It would be pointless. The game was over. Time to fold.
“Signals, make to Admiral Iwate. 'Operation abandoned due to overwhelming enemy strength. Come to course oh-four-five then make for Danang.'“ The signals officer cleared his throat and absent-mindedly tapped the earlier signal about Chuyo. “Correction make that Haiphong. Signal Admiral Idzumo and order him to make for Haiphong as well. Helm, come to course oh-six-oh.”
Flag Bridge, INS Hood, South China Sea
Captain Ladone felt the tension screwing his nerves tighter and tighter. He'd felt the same way the time he'd been on the Prince of Wales when she'd made her run across the Atlantic during The Great Escape. His older brother Jack had been on Barham, one of the six old battleships that hadn't made it. A U-boat had nailed Barham with four torpedoes. The Germans had triumphantly released film of her rolling over and exploding. He'd always wondered what Jack had felt as his ship exploded under him, now he would know.
He had accepted he was going to die. It was only a question how. The Chipanese wouldn't back down, they'd call the American bluff. If it was a bluff. It was a logic tree. There were two possibilities, the Americans were bluffing or they were not. There were two more, the Chipanese would fire nuclear shells or they would not. First case, the Americans were bluffing, the Chipanese fired non-nuclear shells. Then, there would be a gunnery duel that would last until an 18 inch shell crashed into his magazines and his ship exploded. Second case, the Americans were bluffing and the Japanese used nuclear shells. Then, Hood would be incinerated instantly. Third case, the Americans were not bluffing and the Chipanese fired non-nuclear shells. Then the Americans would return fire with their nuclear missiles and it would be the Japanese who would be incinerated instantly and Hood would survive. Fourth case, the Americans were not bluffing and the Chipanese fired nuclear shells. Then, Hood would be incinerated and the Chipanese would follow them to Valhalla a split second later. But the Chipanese knew the same four cases and the logic conclusion was that they would open fire with nuclear shells as a result.
So Ladone was waiting for the lookout to report that one of the Chipanese battleships had fired a single shell at Hood. He'd have time to make a quick prayer and that would be it. If he was lucky, the report of the American bombers firing their missiles would arrive before that shell struck. It was the waiting for that lookout's report that was grinding his nerves down. He looked forward, over his forward turrets. Would the old girl get a final chance to get a blow at the enemy? His guns were swung out, trained on the lead enemy battleship. At this range, he could probably get off one broadside, perhaps two. If the Gods of War were just, they'd let the old girl score a single hit, for the sake of honor if nothing else.
“They're turning away.”
Ladone couldn't believe it. “Confirm that.”
“The enemy ships sir, they're turning away from us. All of them. Estimated course between oh-four-five and oh-seven-five. They're breaking off.”
“Oh Dear God Thank You.” The words broke from Ladone's lips quite unintentionally. He felt almost like bursting into hysterical laughter so great was the relief. “Hold present course, oh-oh-oh. We'll stay between them and the convoy, just to keep them honest. But, he could see the Chipanese were indeed being honest. The two enemy battleships settled to course oh-six-oh and, as the minutes lengthened, they vanished over the horizon. Soon, even their faint smudge of smoke had gone. All that was left of the confrontation was the faint contrails of the American bombers high overhead.
“Number One. Plot a course to rejoin the Australians then make flank speed. And invite Rana and Rajput to join Hood in splicing the mainbrace.”
Admiral's Conference Room, HIJMS Shokaku, South China Sea.
Admiral Idzumo tapped the staff table. “Admiral Soriva has ordered us to produce a full account of the action fought with the enemy submarines. There will undoubtedly be an inquiry into the events today and we must have our reports ready. It is my understanding that we were engaged by a minimum of three enemy submarines, that we sank one while sustaining no significant damage ourselves. While Agano has been damaged in collision and Noshiro crippled, those are the risks of the sea and we must accept that accidents occur when handling high speed ships in close formation. Any additional comments before we reconstruct our own and enemy movements?”
Each captain, and each helicopter pilot started to add their details of the action. From the confused and contradictory data, a cohesive picture started to emerge, three possibly four submarines had taken part, two off to one side, one, perhaps two dead ahead. The enemy plan had undoubtedly been to make the fleet turn so that it would be caught in a classical hammerhead torpedo attack. The only great mystery was the strange bump that had affected Shokaku, was it possible she had collided with one of the enemy submarines? If so they could claim two certain kills and that would be a great achievement. After an hour, they had talked themselves into accepting that Shokaku had indeed rammed and sunk an enemy submarine. Nobody noticed that the Captain Iraya of Niyodo had failed to join in the conversation. Indeed, his face was growing steadily more worried. Eventually, Idzumo noticed his silence.
“Come Captain Iraya, have you nothing to say?”
Iraya looked at the chart. Honor demanded he speak even if it ended his career. “Sir, I have to raise an unwelcome possibility. I do this reluctantly and with the greatest respect but I must say this. Sir, we have no solid proof whatsoever that we faced any enemy submarines at all.”
There was an eruption of anger around the room, shouted challenges and abuse. Idzumo banged a gavel hard on the table, over and over again. Eventually the room quieted. “Captain Iraya, you have said either too much or not enough. Please elaborate on your comment and give us your explanation of what all the rest of us are confident is the case. Perhaps you would like to start with the enemy radar transmission that was intercepted by every one of our ships?”
“Sir, it is that transmission that concerns me the most. We are agreed on its bearing are we not?” Iraya went to the plot and marked the bearing of the transmission. “But Sir, if we extrapolate the bearing backwards, we see the following.” He added the extended bearing to the large strategic plot. It intercepted the position of the Japanese transport fleet exactly. Once done, the correspondence was obvious.
“Sir we are in the South China Sea, and the weather is very humid. Under these conditions, a layer of air, saturated with salt spray, forms above the sea. This acts as a duct and traps radar emissions, allowing them to propagate far beyond normal limits. This phenomena is called anomalous propagation or anaprop and the South China Sea is notorious for it. Sir, our helicopters followed that radar bearing using their dipping sonars until they came upon a water disturbance. I ask our pilots, if it had not been for that radar intercept, would they have assumed that water disturbance was a real signal?” The two helicopters pilots looked uncomfortable, itself an answer.
“As for the rest sir, sightings of periscopes, never confirmed. We never detected a sonar transmission, we never picked up another radar transmission, we never heard a torpedo being fired or a torpedo in the water. We never saw a single torpedo wake. Sir. We have nothing except an ambiguous radar detection and some sightings. And how often have our lookouts mistaken whales for periscopes this voyage alone? There may have been submarines down there sir, there may not, But I say we cannot state with certainty that there were.”
The room was silent. Too many people knew in their hearts that Captain Iraya had made a strong case - and that any inquiry into this debacle would do the same.
Flag Bridge, INS Hood, South China Sea
It had taken them twelve hours to catch up with the troop convoy. As the three Indian ships started to take up their previous positions, a message lamp started flash from the force flagship
“Message from Sydney Sir. Reads 'Request you honor us by leading the fleet to Rangoon.'“
“Acknowledge and accept. Order Rana and Rajput to form up on our port and starboard beam. Set course for Rangoon.”
More signals lamps were flashing. “Message from Canberra Sir. Reads 'More proof it is the size of the fight in the dog that matters not the size of the dog in the fight.'
“From Western Star, 'You big bully.'
“From Warramuga. 'The Indian Navy walks tall today.'
“From Hobart 'The beer is on us.'
“From Arunta 'Request recipe for your ship's curry. It is obviously a man's meal.'
“From Melbourne 'Dammit Hood, you let them get away.'“
Jim Ladone relaxed in his Captain's chair. His ship's honor was restored at last.
Chapter Eleven Changing The Plays
Chipanese Naval Headquarters, South East Asian Fleet, Hanoi, Indochina
The senior Admirals filed back into the conference room, their faces impassive. On the other side of the table Admiral Soriva, Admiral Idzumo, Admiral Iwate and the ship captains awaited the results of the deliberations. Even though the room was cool, all were sweating.
“This committee of enquiry was formed to make an emergency investigation of the fiasco surrounding Operation A-Go, the transport of a naval attack force to seize control of Rangoon and, by implication, Burma. Operation A-Go was part of a much larger strategic plan which has now been compromised by this failure. It is particularly disturbing to this Committee that the collapse of Operation A-Go took place without a shot being fired by the enemy.
“'It is our finding that the collapse of Operation A-Go was initiated by the arrival of American land-based maritime attack bombers that threatened the Surface Action Force with destruction unless it ceased its effort to close on the Australian/Indian troop convoy. This caused Admiral Soriva to call for air support to drive off the bombers in question. When such air support was not forthcoming, he was forced to comply with the American demands or face immediate nuclear destruction without having any opportunity to reply to the threat or to defend himself against the attack. Unable to prevent the Australian convoy from reaching Rangoon and faced with certain destruction if he tried to continue, Admiral Soriva aborted the operation and set course for Hanoi.
“At this point the Committee finds that no blame can be attached to Admiral Iwate, commander of the troop transport force. His ships were handled professionally throughout and the withdrawal of the covering forces left him with no option other than to comply with the orders to abort the operation. The Committee does, however, find that the force assigned to him was inadequate in quality and quantity. The troopships used were too slow and their escort was inadequate for close-in protection.
“The Committee also expresses its doubts as to the adequacy of the landing force assigned to this mission. However, none of these concerns affect our favorable judgment on the conduct of Admiral Iwate who is excused from further attendance at these proceedings.
“The Committee has concluded that the key question is why the Carrier Screening Force failed to provide the Surface Attack Force with the necessary air cover. Admiral Idzumo had stated that his force was under heavy attack by a coordinated force of enemy submarines that forced him to take violent evasive action and thus prevented him from launching aircraft.
“However, we can find no evidence of any such attack nor can we find any reason to believe enemy submarines were in the area. It is our belief that a series of natural events were misinterpreted and, together, mislead Admiral Idzumo into assuming a serious threat where none existed.
“It is apparent that the training standards of the Carrier Screening Force left much to be desired. Lookouts were unable to distinguish between spray, marine animal activity and submarine periscopes. Sighting reports were taken at face value without proper evaluation. Ship handling was inept and communication procedures were so poorly conceived and executed as to be totally ineffective.
“As a result, it is our conclusion that Admiral Idzumo was negligent in applying and enforcing proper training standards on the force under his command. It is also our finding that he was incompetent in using proper communication procedures. It was these failings that were the direct cause of the collapse of Operation A-Go.
“The failure to establish proper communications discipline, enforce signaling standards and train signals personnel in the proper execution of their duties was shared by Admiral Soriva. To all intents and purposes, communications between the various elements of the fleet deployed for Operation A-Go collapsed completely. This lead to false appreciations of the situation, inadequate analysis of impending threats and a gross misunderstanding of the tactical situation.
“However, the Committee also notes that the decisions taken by Admiral Soriva were fundamentally correct and prevented a serious situation from becoming critical. It is the recommendation of this Committee that Admiral Idzumo retire from active service with immediate effect. However, Admiral Soriva's sound judgment under difficult service conditions is an asset that the Navy cannot afford to sacrifice.
“The Committee also notes that the forces allocated to Operation A-Go were inadequate for the tasks demanded of them. The larger environment within which Operation A-Go existed was planned by personnel of the Army who did not allow for the difficulties of conducting maritime operations.........”
The voices droned on and on, a long menu of recommendations, observations and criticisms. More aircraft, better aircraft, better communications equipment, better training, more sea time for the fleet. New ships, built for modern warfare, replacing conversions of old designs. Viewed objectively, Soriva thought, they had done a fine job of disentangling the vital lessons from the nightmarish confusion that had doomed A-Go. Poor Idzumo was the sacrificial goat then, doubtless he was already deciding who to select as his second. His own position was better, but his career was over, he'd go no higher in the fleet.
How much of the Committee's work would see the fleet? Soriva thought very little. The money wasn't available and the humiliating fiasco in the South China Sea would seriously affect future programs. Every year, the Army was demanding more and more resources to control China and to counter the insurgencies that were springing up in the more remote provinces. No, he'd go no further in the fleet but, in a few years time, there wouldn't be much of a fleet to go further in. The Japanese Navy was a World War Two fleet in a modern era, its ships and procedures obsolete in the face of the new environment around them. Its day was done.
Listening to the Committee make its report. Soriva had a disquieting thought. If the Navy was obsolete and of only marginal usefulness and the resources to support it were lacking, then why have it at all? Why not just decide what the Navy could do given the resources available and concentrate on that, scrap everything else?
Refugee Evacuation Train, Between Russia and Germany.
Elsa, once Margrafin of Alekszejevka, sat in a carriage of the train, relieved to be out of Russia at last. A truck convoy had picked them up from Alekszejevka and taken them to a refugee camp in the forests north of the Donbass. It had been much better than they had expected, many of the women had believed they would be driven out into the woods and executed. The huts had been solid wood, they had basic beds and each had a furnace for winter. The food had been enough although nobody would have become overweight on the diet. But the camp had been surrounded by barbed wire and the wire was guarded by machine gun towers. It was a prison even though nobody called it that.
Then the man from the Red Cross had come and said the women and children would be returned to Germany. Most of the women had wept, knowing that meant they would never see their men again. Then more trucks had come and taken them to the railhead and the old steam train that was waiting for them.
The Russian-Polish crossing point was well organized. The train stopped, the women were herded off into an area in front of a long line of cubicles. One by one they stepped into a cubicle, undressed and put their clothes and personal possessions into a basket then stepped over a white line on the floor that marked the division between Russia and Poland. There, workers from the Red Cross gave them a new set of clothes and a small package of personal necessities. A few of the women had tried to persuade the Red Cross people to let them keep their wedding rings, some of the children wanted to keep a treasured toy but the workers were firm. Russian policy was that Russian women didn't have wedding rings because of Germans, Russian children didn't have toys because of Germans and it was now Russians who were giving the orders and it was Germans who would do without.
Once the border transition was complete, the train set off again, across Poland to the German/Polish border. They'd been given a meal on the train, a piece of chicken, an apple and some sauerkraut. They'd reached the German border at Gorlitz, or, rather, where Gorlitz had been. Just before the train would have reached the border, it pulled sharply to one side, off the original tracks onto a spur line. A hastily-built and poorly maintained spur line.
The line ended in something that looked like a combination of refugee camp, office block and train station. The train stopped at one set of platforms, the line it was on went no further. The women were herded off the train again, to another series of desks staffed by tired-looking workers. One of the refugees asked why they were having to change trains here. “Fallout” was the reply but nobody understood it. Whatever it was, Polish trains didn't go on into German territory.
Then the women were lined up before the desks. Soon, she found herself standing before a desk. “Name?” asked the woman behind the desk.
“Elsa, Margrafin of Alekszejevka.” The woman behind the desk stared contemptuously at her. “Name?”
“Elsa Schultz.”
“Thank you. Was that your name in 1947? And what town did you live in during that year.
“It was. My family come from Gladbeck.”
The woman pulled a file, a simple folder containing a single sheet of letter-size paper with a double column of typed names on it. She shook her head. “There are no Schultzes surviving from Gladbeck, Do you have any other family?”
“My maiden name was Heilsen but...”
The woman behind the desk checked again. “I am sorry, there are no Heilsens surviving either. As you can see we don't list casualties, we list survivors. There are so many fewer to list.” She showed the paper with the two columns of typed names. “Do you know any of these names?” Elsa Schultz staggered.
“No, but there were almost 80,000 people in Gladbeck.”
“And fewer than 100 survive. Before The Burning there were 67 million Germans living in the country. Now, there are fewer than eight million. Many died when the Americans dropped their Hellburners on our cities. More died because their injuries couldn't be treated, more still from starvation and the disease epidemics. Our population continues to fall, even now. That is why President Herrick tries so hard to bring back as many of those Germans still in other lands as he can. Now, Frau Schultz, please move on so I can try to help another.”
“Please, tell me one last thing. Have you ever found a refugee who has surviving family?” The woman shook her head.
The refugees were herded into a waiting area. One by one, they were taken away and given a brief medical examination, photographed and fingerprinted. Then, they were given a peculiar looking badge.
“Pin this to your dress Frau Schultz and never leave it anywhere. It is your radiation dosimeter. Once each month you must take it to a registered doctor. Your dosimeter must be with you at all times. This is the law. Here is your identity card and your food ration card. You are fortunate, as a young and healthy woman you are entitled to the B ration. When you become pregnant you will be upgraded to the A ration. But if you exceed the permitted monthly radiation dose you will be downgraded to the C or D ration.”
Elsa Schultz waited as the day wore on. The last of the women were given their identity cards and radiation badges and they joined the waiting crowd. Eventually, the loudspeaker system started calling names. Elsa Schultz was one of the earliest called and she was taken to another train, one that would take her to the community that would be her new home. Once the last of the selected refugees was on board, the train pulled out. The refugee center had been surrounded by trees and behind a ridge, when it pulled clear of the center, it also left that cover. What the trees had covered and the ridge had screened made the women on the train scream.
Gorlitz had been a town of 87,100 people. Now, it was gone, completely. It was a blackened, charred ruin, the outer areas skeletons of destroyed buildings, the city center completely leveled. Right in the center of the blackness and destruction was an incongruous, perfectly circular cobalt-blue lake. The refugees stared, horrified by the sight and the knowledge that the fate of Gorlitz was that of every significant town and city in Germany. Until this moment, they'd known that Germany had been destroyed but it had been words, seeing a town that had been destroyed by nuclear attack brought home the terrible reality.
The refugees had been given a booklet that introduced them to their new world. Elsa opened it to a page with a picture of the strange circular lake. “Crater Lake” it read “a lake formed at the detonation point of the Hellburner used to destroy a city. After the explosion, the ground underneath slowly subsided and the crater filled with a mixture of ground water and rain. The water in a crater lake is both radioactive and poisonous. There are more than 200 crater lakes in Germany, all are prohibited areas.”
She shuddered and looked up the word used at the border, fallout. There was an entry on that as well “Fallout. Highly radioactive waste produced by the explosion of a Hellburner. Most fallout has now faded to insignificant levels and is not considered to be a danger under normal circumstances. However, some areas are still heavily contaminated and must be avoided. The Ruhr Valley is one of these, this area is considered uninhabitable for the foreseeable future. See Hot-Spots.”
Elsa turned to the entry “Hot Spots. Although radiation levels have now, in general, fallen to levels that do not pose any significant hazard, there are still areas that have radiation levels far above the norm. In most cases, these are an order of magnitude or less above average but some are much greater than this. The most dangerous known hot-spots have a level of radioactivity five orders of magnitude greater than average and exposure to these will be fatal within a few minutes. Hot spots vary in size from less than a meter across to more than a kilometer. They are more common in the ruins of cities than in the countryside and are particularly common near targets where Hellburners exploded on the ground rather than in the air above the target. Cities destroyed by multiple Hellburners are particularly likely to be associated with the presence of hot-spots. However, hot-spots can occur anywhere and there is no visible evidence of their presence. People walking outside cleared areas must carry radiation detection equipment. Women with A and B ration cards are not permitted to leave cleared areas due to the danger of encountering hot-spots.”
Cleared areas? What did the book have to say on those? “Cleared areas These are areas that have been thoroughly explored and are known to be safe from radiological hazards. Their perimeters are indicated by yellow-and-black striped barriers. Citizens should remain inside cleared areas unless accompanied by guides who are familiar with the uncleared area and are properly equipped to detect radiological hazards. See also Cities and Prohibited areas.”
What did the book have to say on those? “Cities. All cities and major towns are considered uninhabitable and are uncleared areas due to the presence of extensive hot-spots and other hazards.
Even apparently undamaged buildings may be dangerous. Entry to these areas is prohibited unless wearing protective clothing and accompanied by a qualified guide equipped with radiological detection equipment.”
And “Prohibited Areas. These areas are dangerously contaminated and must not be entered under any circumstances. Prohibited areas are indicated by orange-and-black barriers.”
So this was to be her new home then. A country where the ground could be killing you even while you walked over it, one where towns and cities were unapproachable death-traps. As the train rattled over the damaged and hastily-repaired tracks, Elsa Schultz settled down to read her booklet from cover to cover.
Government Building, Rangoon, Burma.
Sir Martyn Sharpe wished The Ambassador was at this meeting but she was still in Washington. He desperately needed her assistance and advice as a soldier. There was a serious flaw in what he was hearing from General Charles Moses but he didn't have the specialized knowledge to put his finger on what was wrong. He was certain that if the Ambassador had been attending this meeting, she would have spotted it and corrected the situation.
“The situation around Rangoon and in southern Burma is reasonably stable and, due to our prompt intervention, the Government of the country is now secure. The areas to the east are also secured by forces based in Thailand. However, our problem lies here, in the North, in the areas adjacent to the Chipanese border. This long finger of land that stretches North has Chipanese territory on two sides of it. It is in this area that the Shan States Army appears to have achieved its greatest success and here that the Chipanese have established their strongest position.
“The heart of the area is here, the Hukawng Valley, between the Mangin and Kumon Mountains. Access to this area from Chipanese territory must pass through this area here, called The Triangle. As you can see, the road network in this area is extremely limited. While there are several reasonable roads in The Triangle, they all converge here, at Myitkyina, before spreading out to service the Hukawng Valley. Furthermore, there is an airfield at Myitkyina.
“We are planning to move a full regiment of the Australian Division to occupy Myitkyina. This will fulfill three roles. Firstly, we will be in a position to control the road access to and from the Hukawng Valley and this separates the Shan States Army from their Chipanese sponsors. This will reduce their ability to operate in the valley and thus reduce the problems the insurgency there causes us.
“Secondly, we can use the base at Myitkyina as a focal point for offensive patrols into both the Hukawng Valley and the Triangle. This will allow us to take the offensive against the Chipanese-backed forces and drive them out of the areas in question. Our actions with regard to this insurgency to date have been regrettably passive and defensive in nature and this operation will allow us to change that. The Chipanese insurgents have had the initiative to date and have established their presence in too many areas. This must be reversed. It is time they were made to pay a measurable cost for their activities.
“Thirdly, the strategically vital position of Myitkyina means that the enemy cannot allow us to hold it indefinitely. They will be forced to contest our hold on the base and thus expose themselves to our firepower. We will have artillery in the base itself and we can use airpower based in Assam and southern Burma. It will be impossible for the enemy to bring artillery or anti-aircraft guns of his own to contest our control of the area so we will be able to fight on our terms and with every advantage.
“Our base at Myitkyina will be resupplied by this road here from Mandalay and by means of the river Namyin. We can also bring in supplies by air if necessary, again from the airbase at Mandalay. We propose to start moving troops into this base area within a few days, hoping to have the new base established and operational before the Monsoon starts.
“Thank you.”
General Moses sat down. Sir Martyn felt his unease grow. The Monsoon was coming, and with it weather that could ground Triple Alliance aircraft for days at a time. Even the new Thai F-105Bs would be incapable of flying when the rains really started, as for the Indian Air Force's older jets and piston-engined aircraft, they would be out of the game completely.
And, when the rains started, the roads would be turning to mud. He remembered how The Ambassador had told him the importance of good roads in fighting insurgencies and his unease increased. This Myitkyina operation simply wasn't the way she'd taught him about fighting insurgencies. He spoke quietly to the Indian Cabinet Secretary
“Sir Eric, please will you organize a top secret encrypted and scrambled telephone call to Washington as soon as possible. I need expert advice.”
Indian Embassy, Rangoon, Burma
Sir Eric knocked on the door of Sir Martyn's room. “Your call to Washington Sir Martyn. Its ready in the Communications Room.”
They went down to the secure communications facility in the Embassy Basement. Sir Martyn picked up the telephone attached to the facility and waited while the call was connected. Soon he heard the familiar contralto, unmistakable despite the distance and cryptography. “Sir Martyn, it is a pleasure to hear from you. How may I be of assistance to you?”
Sir Eric watched him explain the Australian plan. Then there was a pause for a few seconds then Sir Martyn started to go white, holding the telephone a little further away from his ear. He started writing down notes on a pad beside the communications console. At the end of the monologue he heard Sir Martyn add.
“Madam Ambassador, I can only say how pleased I am that you confirm my gravest reservations over this operation even though I lack the professional knowledge and standing to express them so forcefully. I will take your advice immediately and thank you for agreeing to inform the Americans of what is happening. Good afternoon Ma'am and thank you.”
Sir Martyn got up shakily and poured himself a very large drink. “She wasn't very pleased.” He looked at Sir Eric ruefully. “In fact her mildest comment was 'I cannot leave men alone for five minutes without them wandering off and getting into trouble' and I got the feeling she meant it. I don't think she believes the Myitkyina operation will be successful.”
INS Cicala, On The Nanyin River, Burma
“By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at the sea, There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me.”
The singing came from the messdecks. Kipling's words were probably the most evocative ever written and always caused those who had served East of Suez to stop for a moment with a dreamy expression on their face. Commodore Nathan was no exception, when he heard the song, he stopped what he was doing and looked out of the bridge at the convoy heading upriver to the new base at Myitkyina.
The two gunboats, Cicala and Dragonfly were ancient by all standards except those of river warfare where fresh water and a lack of strenuous demands on the engines made for a long life. They were thumping along, escorting a group of freighters. Actually, the ships were LSTs, officially Landing Ship Tank, but universally known as Large Slow Targets. These weren't even real LSTs, they were a small cousin of the American-built ones, but up here large was still the right word. The ships were a long way upriver of their normal haunts and a bit too big to maneuver in the river, but needs must when the devil drives. The combination of supply demands and the beginning of the monsoon rains had made the road up to Myitkyina a nightmare of traffic jams.
“On the road to Mandalay, Where the flyin'-fishes play, An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!”
Nathan wondered how many people in the convoy knew that the road from Myitkyina to Mandalay really was the one Kipling had written about. Different war, different era of course but the same road. And dawn really was coming up like thunder out of China. Every day now, the heavy black clouds to the North were gathering, denser, blacker, more threatening. One day, one day soon, they'd burst out and sweep south and the Monsoon would have started in earnest. All they'd had so far were the precursor rains. A mere smattering compared with what was to come. Reading about it was one thing, experiencing it was something else.
“We us'ter watch the steamers an' the hathis pilin' teak. Elephants a-piling teak, In the sludgy, squidgy creek, Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak!”
That was true enough also, the heavy humid air seemed to damp out sound, to stifle words in the speaker's mouth. Even the thumping diesels seemed muted as the ships ploughed on. The gunboats, the freighters, the silent jungle either side of them, the sludgy brown water flowing gently against them. Wide river too, wide and shallow, its bottom a hideous gluey mud.
Looking at his little convoy, Nathan saw there was nothing to indicate that Kipling himself wasn't on board and this could still the time when the British Empire stretched across the world and the Royal Navy was the undisputed master of the seas. Only now, Nathan knew, the British Empire was gone, fragmented, and with it the Royal Navy had gone also. Some of it still served on in the Canadian and Indian and Australian navies and there was a tiny fragment in Great Britain, little more than a reminder of a name that had once been the synonym for naval power.
Then the silence erupted in a demented howl. Low overhead, two Thai F-105s crashed through the oppressive quiet, streaking above the gunboats as they headed upriver. Nathan swung his binoculars onto them, they were loaded for bear, droptanks on the inner wing pylons, a six-pack of bombs on the centerline and four more on each outer wing pylon. Well, Nathan thought, it was back to 1959 with 1960 just a few days away.
Number One was watching the jets shrinking as they howled upriver. “How do they do it Sir? Twenty years ago, they were just another obscure little country nobody could quite find on a map. Now our air force pilots fly F-84s if they are lucky or F-72s if they are not. While they fly those.”
“Money Number One, back when The Triple Alliance was being formed, the Thais signed trade deals with everybody. Good honest deals, ones that profited everybody. Only those deals put them in the center of everything financial. Then, there were a flood of businesses, banks, trading companies, all leaving Hong Kong before the Japanese could take over. They all went to Bangkok. You have a bank account Number One?”
“Of course Sir. Bank of Gujarat.”
“Which is 30 percent owned by the Thai Farmer's Bank. So when you pay your bank charges every month, a third of them go to Thailand. The problem is, Number One, that we and the Australians are thinking about now and the next five years. We have to, we've got problems that have to be solved if we're going to be around beyond five years. They're thinking about the next decade and the next century. Oh, they've got the short-term problems too but they're able to look at those in the long-term context. Thank God they're on our side.”
The silence returned, and with it the illusion of a world that had gone forever. It even seemed that the hot, heavy silence had hushed the explosion because, for a brief second, the sight of the tall column of water alongside Dragonfly seemed to be without noise. Then, of course, the sound of the explosion rolled across the river. Dragonfly was already far down by the bows, rolling over and going fast. As she went down, Captain Nathan heard another rolling explosion but this scene was worse. The LST had been loaded with gasoline and the explosion had set the cargo on fire. The ship was sinking in the center of a pool of blazing gasoline and the screams of her crew defeated even the heavy humid air.
Then Nathan saw the cause, a horned black sphere bobbing in the water, heading towards Cicala. There was no point in trying to turn, the gunboat couldn't make it and, anyway, the effort would create suction that would draw the floating mine in. He couldn't tear his eyes off the approaching object until one of the Australian troops on board acted. Sergeant Shane dropped flat on the deck, racked the bolt on his Lee-Enfield and fired a shot. The mine exploded, still well over fifty yards away. Shane held his rifle over his head. “Rule .303! Let's see the Teas do that with their Crapnikovs!”
“Get a Bren Gun team onto the bows. Pick those damned mines off. Tell the other LSTs to do the same.
There was a ragged staccato of shots and three more explosions. Then silence. The last of the floating mines had gone. After a few minutes, the convoy started to move forward again, now with the riflemen and Bren gunners in the bows scanning for the mines. They'd only been moving for a few minutes when another shattering explosion tore the silence of the river apart. Only this one was different, the previous two mine explosions had been columns of water beside the victim, this time the LST was surrounded by the blast, then a tall jet of water smashed through her bottom and broke her apart. She sank instantly.
“Sir, why are those logs moving towards the explosion?”
“Oh God, crocs. Riflemen, pick those logs off, they're crocs going after the survivors.” There was a blast of rifle fire and a deeper thud as one of Cicala's two pounder's opened fire. It was the right weapon for a job its designers had never considered, the crocodile exploded in a spray of blood. The gunner switched fire to another “log” near to the swimmers around the sinking LST and was rewarded with another eruption and spray.
“Number One, get us over to that LST now and pick those men up.”
Captain Nathan felt Cicala thumping forward. He wanted to shake, the LST had hit a bottom mine, probably a pressure mine, and another one could finish Cicala before they even knew it was there. The sensible thing was to stay clear, but just a couple of weeks earlier Jim Ladone in Hood had faced down the two largest battleships in the world because he had a convoy to protect. He'd set the bar high and Nathan wasn't about to let him down by taking the easy way out.
Like Hood, Cicala got away with it. The survivors were picked up, even some of the terribly burned crew from the first LST to be hit and some Dragonflies. Then, the convoy started backing up, returning to Mandalay. Floating mines, they could deal with but they stood no chance against pressure mines. Until they were cleared, the Nanyin River was closed to shipping. Looking at the wounded on the deck aft, Nathan was reminded of the last verse of Kipling's poem, the one few people repeated
“On the road to Mandalay, where the old Flotilla lay, With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay!”
Twinnge, On The Mandalay - Myitkyina Road, Burma
“Mud, mud, glorious mud.
Nothing quite like it for cooling the blood!”
His little daughter loved the Happy Hippopotamus song. He could sing it for hours and she would listen, her eyes entranced. But, she was in Australia and he was here in Burma. Wallowing in mud. And, the Hippos were wrong, mud wasn't glorious, it was horrible. A thick orange-red gloop that got everywhere and choked everything up. It got into suspensions and drive trains and exhaust systems. The American six-by-sixes were handling it without too much trouble but there weren't enough of them. Most of the truck transport was old British equipment and it lacked the all-wheel drive and powerful engines of the American trucks. All too often, the older trucks were getting stuck and the six-by-sixes would have to turn back and tow them out. Some stretches were so bad that the only way the older trucks could get through at all was with the help of a tow from the sixes.
It was the trucks themselves that were doing it. They were combining with the rain to churn the road surface into this thick, horrible mud. The first convoys had got up to Myitkyina without too many problems but each one that followed was having a harder time. Each truck convoy made the roads worse, each day that passed the rains got heavier. The Australian troops had thought the Monsoon had started but they'd been wrong. There had been a Tea unit in Rangoon, a Long Range Recon Patrol or Lurp, the Teas had called it, and they and the Australian unit had had a friendly exchange of prejudices. One that had taken up 150 yards of the High Street and wrecked three bars.
Afterwards the units had become firm friends and the Teas had told the Australians what the real Monsoon was like and when it would come. In about ten days time they'd said, two days ago. They spoken of rain so heavy that nobody could see more than a few feet, of torrents of water that appeared from nowhere and swept away anything in their path. And they'd spoken of the dreaded cloudbursts that would drop inches of rain in a few minutes and anybody caught in the open would drown while standing on their feet.
They'd given a lot of other advice as well, which could all be summarized as “in the Monsoon - don't” . Yet, it was obvious that they loved the monsoon as well as feared it because it was the rains that made their crops grow and brought richness to their farmland. Only, the Australians didn't love the rains they were seeing and now they feared the monsoon. Nobody had told them that the dirt roads turned into mud wallows before the monsoon started. Behind them, far behind them, engineers were black-topping the road, turning it into an all-weather highway but that wouldn't help the trucks now. Captain Golconda knew his truck column was way behind schedule and saw no way of making the time up.
Then, a miracle. A stretch of the road ahead had been smoothed out. It was still muddy, but it wasn't churned up. Some engineers had improved it a bit, probably put stone gravel down to stabilize the soil. Perhaps they could make up some time after all. One of the lead six-by-sixes stopped at the edge of the improved section, dropped the Bedford it was towing, and set off down the road. It had made about a hundred feet when there was an explosion that wrapped it in flame and smoke. As the dust cleared, the six-by-six was on its side and burning, wrecked beyond hope of redemption. Anti-tank mine, Golconda thought, he should have known.
“Down, everybody down! Ambush!”
He didn't know it was, but better safe than sorry and, anyway, the doubt only lasted for a second or two. There was a staccato crackle of rifle fire, the rapid, light snap of the Chipanese Arisaka assault rifles and the slower, painfully slower, thuds of the Australian's Lee-Enfields. The Brens cut in as well, they evened things up. Nobody argued when the Bren was described as the best light machine gun in the world. The firefight was desultory, as if the Chipanese guerrillas weren't really trying too hard, just going through the motions. In fact, the Australian troops seemed to be gaining the upper hand if anything. Then there was a new sound, explosions. Golconda recognized them, the Chipanese 50 millimeter mortar. That was the reason, the Chipanese were just keeping the trucks held on the road so the mortars could get at them. He ducked into his Dingo scout car and got on the radio.
“This is Digger 17, we've been ambushed, trapped on the road near Twinnge. Enemy forces infantry with some light mortars. We need support.”
“Digger 17, this is Ayala-One. We have your position and are three minutes out. We are F-105s with Mark 82s and 20 mike-mike. Tell your boys to keep their mouths open, this is going to be noisy.” Golconda grinned, like all Tea pilots, this one had trained in America and the English had a Texan twang to it.
He saw the jets coming in, their silver skins gleaming in the sunlight, highlighted against the dark black clouds to the North. They were diving down towards them and closing fast. Golconda had heard that the F-105 was the fastest aircraft low down ever built, faster even than the Yank's much-vaunted B-58s. These ones certainly came in fast but he guessed the Tea pilot had been pulling his leg about noise, as the jets streaked overhead, they were silent. Then, he realized it hadn't been a joke, there was an ear-splitting boom and a mind-cracking scream.
In the little Dingo, glass instrument covers cracked and Golconda felt his ears burst inwards. The noise was so intense that he didn't even hear the bombs go off. Only when he looked up and saw the hill overlooking the road covered in smoke did he realize that it had been a bomb-run. Already, the jets were coming back and Golconda heard another strange sound, a vicious rattling rasp. Another area of hill vanished in a rolling sea of small explosions.
“Digger 17, this is Ayala One, that's it for us, we were running river cover for a convoy and are short of gas. Ayala three and four are on their way in to cover you. Good luck diggers.”
“Thank you Ayala One. The beers are on us when we get a chance.”
It was as Golconda had feared. The Chipanese had concentrated their fire on the precious six-by-sixes and destroyed at least half of them. He sighed, it didn't matter anyway. The infantry would have to go ahead now, probing for mines with bayonets. That slowed the convoy speed to less than walking pace anyway.
Four hours later he realized the loss of the six-by-sixes was even less important than he'd thought. The bridge over the Irawaddy was a smoldering mass of burned timber and blown stone abutments. If they'd had the wonderful Russian bridging gear they'd seen on television, they could be across in an hour or less. But they didn't and couldn't. They had old-fashioned Bailey Bridges and the nearest unit was twelve or fourteen convoys back. The only thing he could do was stay where he was until help came. The Road To Myitkyina was closed until further notice.
Myitkyina Airfield, Burma
Four aircraft on the ground at once, that was probably a record for this airfield. Major Ranjit thought. He doubted it would stand long though. The message in his pocket was grim. The convoy coming up the river had run into minefields and lost heavily. They were stopped until divers could get the navigation way cleared of bottom mines. The road situation was even worse. Convoys up and down the road had been ambushed and what had been a supply line was now a series of small besieged outposts defending themselves from the guerrillas, not moving. That meant Myitkyina was going to have to rely on an airbridge for supply. So, four would be a small number of aircraft to have on the field at once.
That meant they'd have to brush up on their aircraft handling practices. One of the Australian C-l 19s was taxiing out onto the runway, ready to take off. As he watched, it powered up its engines and took off, receding into the south while the other C-119 took its place. Beside it, two Indian C-47s were also unloading. The big cargo doors on the C-l 19 made it a much more practical cargo hauler than the elderly Dak. It would be unloaded before the C-47s. Then Major Ranjit frowned, what was that......
“INBOUND!”
The artillery fire exploded all over the parking area, an almost perfect time-on target salvo. The C-119 took at least three direct hits and vanished in a ball of flame. Fragments lashed one of the C-47s, the salvo had been a little short to get all the aircraft first time but it had still been a damned fine piece of gunnery. The shells were coming in fast now, the enemy gunners obviously pouring fire as quickly as they could serve their pieces. Ranjit looked in awe at the shell bursts, they were 150s, no doubt about it. This wasn't just light mortars and jungle guns. Myitkyina base was facing real heavy artillery.
One of the two C-47s was running up its engines, even as Ranjit watched, it turned onto the taxiway and accelerated towards the runway. The other one was already burning, the gunners must have corrected their aim for the follow-up shots. The escaping C-47 was moving fast, far too fast for the taxiway but it didn't matter. It turned onto the runway and started to make its take-off run. Shell-bursts were all around it, level with the wings and tail, correct for deflection but not range, others were correct for range but not deflection. The C-47 was running down the runway, tail up, shell bursts all around it.
It was a deadly horse race, the aircraft leading the shell explosions by a few yards, looking for all the world like the favorite leading the pack into the final straight. Ranjit caught his breath, one shell explosion was in front of the C-47, the enemy gunner must have tried to lead the aircraft, no mean feat with a 150. He'd almost made it but the transport was already lifting off, through the smoke of the explosion, turning and pulling up its undercarriage.
Ranjit saw it was clear of the artillery, the pilot climbing to gain height and firewalling the engines to get speed. Even as he watched, tracers erupted from the hillside and coned in on the C-47. One engine trailed black, then the whole left side erupted into flame. It struggled for a few more second then flipped on its back and spun in. A cloud of oily black smoke marked its grave.
Ignoring the artillery fire pounding the runway and parking area, Major Ranjit came to attention and saluted. After that take-off run, the crew had deserved to make it. Even as he did so, the artillery fire slackened and stopped. The gunners had made their point. The Siege of Myitkyina had started.
Mawchi Village, Thai-Burmese Border
“The old man came up to the border post pushing a wheelbarrow full of straw. He was obviously too poor to be worth shaking down for a bribe and they guessed he must also be a little simple-minded for everybody knew it was impossible to make a living selling straw. So they waved him through. Every day, he did the same and soon the guards noticed he was getting a little more prosperous each week. Then it dawned on them, he was smuggling. So they started searching him, but found nothing. They searched the straw in his wheelbarrow and found nothing. They took the wheelbarrow apart and found nothing. Every day they searched more and more thoroughly, they inspected the straw to see if it had been soaked in anything but no. They searched him, they searched his clothes but still they found nothing. And every trip, the old man got richer and richer.”
Phong Nguyen stopped. The silence hung for a moment then one of his audience couldn't resist feeding him the line. “So what was the old man smuggling?”
“Wheelbarrows.” Phong Nguyen replied innocently. The village men howled with laughter, slapping the ground with their hands. One filled Phong Nguyen's beer mug and clapped him on the back. They knew him as “Khun Chom, a teak dealer from Chiang Rai touring with his wife Noi to find fine timber”.
To them he was an honest merchant who paid fair prices and did so in gold, not worthless paper. What is more, when he arrived, he always brought the villagers a small present to mark his gratitude for their hospitality and, much more importantly always came with new jokes and saucy stories from the outside world. Phong glanced over to where his wife, Lin, was sitting with the village women. She was retelling the stories from the latest episodes of “Path of Virtue”. Phong had taught her carefully, stay away from politics, stay away from anything controversial. Talk about inconsequential things and listen, listen, listen.
“Oh No” the gasp came from several of the women. Phong and the men rolled their eyes. Phong knew this was the bit where the evil Japanese businessman had poisoned the wife's wedding meal and she had eaten it. After a dramatic pause, she would carry on eating as if nothing was wrong and the evil businessman would give himself away by his reaction. Then, it would transpire the old lady who lived in the next apartment to the bride had seen him hanging around her room and called for help from her son who was an Army officer. He'd come to investigate and saved the day. He'd found the poisoned food and thrown it away, then tasted the replacement meal for the bride himself to make sure it was safe. Then his men placed the villain under arrest and dragged him away to face justice. End of story until the next visit.
“Khun Chom, does everybody in Chiang Rai have television?” It was the Headman asking.
“No, Honored Sir only a few. But it is the custom that those who have sets invite all their neighbors in to watch the programs. That has a great advantage.” Phong leaned forward confidentially. “For one hour every night the women watch their dramas and we can drink beer undisturbed.” His audience laughed again. That was an arrangement they could approve of. “But we watch the news together of course. So much is happening in the world.”
The headman looked solemn. “Here too. Did you hear of the great battle on the border?” Phong shook his head. “It was at the village of Ban Rom Phuoc. The Shan soldiers tried to take some village women but the villagers would not let them and drove them out.”
Phong sat back and listened to the Headman tell the story of how a vast Shan force had attacked the village, wave after wave of the enemy had charged the wire fence surrounding the huts but every charge was forced back by the brave villagers. Even the village spirits had joined in the battle, throwing balls of magic light into the sky, exposing the enemy to the defenders. When the ammunition started to run short, the village children ran through the hail of fire to bring fresh magazines to the villagers on the defense lines.
He heard how the great hero Phong Nguyen had stood on top of a pile of dead enemy soldiers and shouted defiant insults at the enemy as he hosed them down with his AK-47 rifle and when two cowardly enemies tried to shoot the great hero in the back, his wife Lin had protected her husband by killing them with her carving knife.
The battle had gone on for three days and three nights the headman said and when the enemy finally retreated, they left so many dead on the field that a man could walk five times around the village without stepping on the ground or on the same enemy body twice. But the villagers had defended their homes so successfully and so bravely that people came from all over the world to honor them. Why one man had even come all the way from Australia, a place far over the mountains, to give them his own water buffalo, so respectful was he of their brave fight.
Interesting thought Phong. They 're proud of that firefight and they call the Shan States Army “the enemy”. More importantly, he had the opening he needed to ask the one question that this whole visit was intended to allow.
“Do you see much of the Shan States Army these days?” he asked. “Do they have good teak to sell?”
The headman shook his head. “They only sell what they take from others. But they are gone now. They all left for the west.”
Next day, Phong and Lin Nguyen were back in Ban Rom Phuoc. Lin confirmed the women had said the same things to her. The Shan States Army units had pulled out of the area and headed west. One of the soldiers had boasted to the village women that there was a big battle going on up there, that troops from far away were surrounded at a place called Myitkyina and that every soldier the Shan States Army had was concentrating to overrun them. That was the information the people in Bangkok had asked them to get and the message would be going down max priority. It was also the last time he and Lin would be going over the border. She was expecting her first baby now, and it was time for her to take it easy.
Phong stretched out happily. A fine wife, a baby on the way and a comfortable home in a prosperous village full of good friends who were armed with automatic weapons. What more could a man possibly want?
Main Runway, U-Thapao Airfield, Thailand
“Marisol awaiting take-off clearance. Tower be advised our tires will blow if we stay too long here.”
“Understood, Marisol we are just awaiting foreign object clearance report on the runway. Wait one, thank you. Marisol runway is clear. For your information obstruction was a baby elephant. He's been returned to his momma who was last seen whaling on him with her trunk. You are clear to go.”
Major Mike Kozlowski eased Marisol forward. Then, he spooled the engines up to maximum power, and cut in the afterburners on all four engines. Slowly Marisol picked up speed and started accelerating down the runway. Her normal take-off run was 8,000 feet before the aircraft started to rotate but the heat here extended that. It didn't matter though, the runway here was a stunning 36,000 feet long and wide enough for all four B-58s to take off side-by-side.
Nobody had been able to explain why this huge airfield had been built out here. Rumor had it that the field had been designed by engineers who had specified the dimensions in feet and the Thai engineering company had read them as being in meters. Whatever the reason, the SAC crews appreciated it and were getting into bad habits. Barely a quarter of the way down the massive runway, Marisol's nose began to lift. Then she climbed, up and away from the concrete, already going over 200 miles per hour at lift-off and gathering speed every second.
Mission profile was to climb to 62,000 feet and head for Myitkyina in Northern Burma. The Australians had bitten off more than they could chew up there and a detached brigade was surrounded by a large and still-growing enemy force. The weather had closed down on them and, just to make life truly difficult, it turned out the maps of the area were inaccurate. Before the weather stopped them altogether, the Thais had lost two F-l05s flying close support for the besieged garrison. Not from antiaircraft fire but from flying into cloud-covered mountains that weren't where they were supposed to be. So this mission was to get the information for accurate charts of the area.
Marisol and Tiger Lily, the two RB-58C-30s in the formation were cover for the mission. They were fully loaded, two Sparrow Us on the forward shoulder pylons, two conventional anti-radar missiles on the aft ones. Their belly pods contained eight nuclear-tipped GAR-9s and the usual four Sidewinders. As always, SAC policy was that its bombers flew where they wanted, when they wanted and they were armed to enforce that policy. If they didn't fly over somebody's territory, that was a courtesy from SAC, not a requirement of the airspace owner.
The other two aircraft were different. For this mission, the two dash-twenties, Sweet Caroline and Coral Queen, were designated ERB-58Cs for this mission and carried a new pod, fitted with a system called Monticello. As far as Kozlowski could put together it was some sort of sideways looking radar that produced a picture-like map of the ground, even through the black clouds of the monsoon. It was combined with a battery of cameras and a very precise emitter location system that could track radio messages as well as radar emissions.
What made the whole system work was something very special. Right in the center of the pod was a shoe-box sized unit that held an array of metal donuts. Depending on whether the individual donuts were charged or uncharged, that shoebox could remember a “word” of no less that 4,096 “letters”. Of course, there were only two letters 1 and 0. The scientists had explained it to Kozlowski but it was all over his head. Something about digital information. He'd written it off as magic and left it there.
“Remember the briefing guys. This is for real. If there is an attempt to illuminate any of the aircraft we take out the radar. We don't use the nukes unless we have an air-to-air threat that Sparrows and Winders can't handle. We've got two ARMS and the two recon birds have four each - but they haven't anything else. So it’s down to us. But keep in mind, this isn't Red Sun. This is NOT simulated. If we screw up, we go down. So let’s try and avoid that. Marisol, there is a very good chance you will lose your virginity on this one.”
“Promises, promises.” The sultry Hispanic-accented voice came over the intercom. “Speaking of promises, did you remember to thank your girls for me?”
Kozlowski, Korrina and Dravar had all acquired Thai girlfriends during their stay at U-Thapao and, on one date, they'd told their girls that their aircraft talked to them. They'd been surprised to see the girls took that for granted; one of the women had explained that everything, plants, trees, hills, lakes, bits of machinery, had a spirit that lived in it. Some spirits were lazy and barely awake, others took a keen interest in what was going on around them. Some spirits were friendly and helpful, others malicious and spiteful. But humans who were friendly to the spirits could win over even the most malicious while those who were hostile could alienate even the most friendly.
Marisol's crew looked sharply at each other on hearing that. One of the B-60 crews had spent all their time cursing their aircraft and damning her by comparison with the B-52. Now, their aircraft was known as a jinx ship. She kept developing faults and system failures and her crew kept having minor injuries. One had gashed his hand open on a screw head that was left standing proud, another had broken his foot when the trolly jammed in the long tunnel through the bomb-bay. Anyway, next date, the girls had brought Buddhist rosaries for Marisol and explained that hanging these in the cockpits would please her and bring good luck. It had been a job finding a place to put them in the cramped crew stations, but they'd managed. They'd told Marisol about the gifts and she'd been delighted.
It used to take the old B-36s more than two hours to climb to their cruise altitude of 45,000 feet plus. It took the B-58s barely ten minutes to reach 62,000 and that wasn't pushing the aircraft hard. They had plenty of time to get up to the safety of high altitude before they crossed the border into Burma. In fact, there wasn't even much danger then, there was no anti-aircraft fire of note until they got to the Parrot's Beak, an area near Namkhan where Chipan jutted into Burma.
The Chipanese had fighters based at Tengchan in the heart of the Parrot's Beak and at least some surface-to-air missiles along the border. In theory, the missiles were a threat to the B-58s, in reality it would take incredible luck for the Chipanese to score a hit. Their missiles were similar to the US Ajax, suspiciously similar some said, but Ajax had failed against the B-58s despite being used by the best crews NORAD could find.
They punched clear of the monsoon clouds at 35,000 feet and were in bright sunshine from that point onwards. That meant, of course, that they couldn't see the ground under the dense black cloud cover but that was no problem. They had their inertial navigation systems running and were also being tracked by ground stations that would report any deviations from course. By the time they lost ground station cover, the inertial system would have been checked out thoroughly and they'd rely on it from there. In addition, they had their navigation radar and that gave them a crude picture of the ground underneath the clouds. That gave another check on the running accuracy of the INS system. One of the underlying purposes of this mission was to determine just how accurate the inertial navigation equipment really was, a lot of things depended on that.
By the time the aircraft crossed the Burmese border, they were spread out in a long line. This was another lesson from Red Sun, air-to-air nuclear weapons made old ideas about formations and formation-keeping obsolete. Grouping aircraft now just increased casualties from single shots. The present generation of bombers would be the last ones where formation flying would even be considered; when the B-70 entered service, it would fly to its targets alone. In some ways, the RB-58 wasn't just a strategic penetrator, opening the way for other aircraft, it was the prototype of a whole new concept of bomber.
However, this time there was another reason for the spread out formation. The two aircraft with Monticello pods were on the outside of the formation, where their scans overlapped, special equipment could turn their radar imagery into a three-dimensional picture of the ground. They'd do their run over the target, then come back on an exact reciprocal. The result would be a large box of countryside imaged in three dimensions, allowing accurate maps to be made. For most of Northern Burma, this would be the first time the area had been accurately mapped.
They were heading on 350 degrees now, waiting for the big search radar at Tengchan to be detected. They'd be using it as a navigation aid as they flew north and would keep its signal at constant strength. That would swing them in a wide arc south and west of the Parrot's Beak before they headed North to Myitkyina. As they approached the spur of Chinese territory, Korrina picked up airborne radar transmissions as well as the expected search radar.
Two, no four, fighters. The Kawasaki heavy fighter American intelligence had named “Brandi”. Delta wings, two jet engines with a rocket booster mounted between them. The Chipanese Army Air Force had gone heavily for jet/rocket hybrid fighters in recent years. On its jets, the Brandi was no threat to the RB-58s, but as long as its rocket fuel lasted it could get up high enough to intercept them. Armament was four 30 millimeter cannon and four heat-seeking missiles, reputed to be very similar to the GAR-8 Sidewinders. Like their anti-aircraft missiles, the similarity was suspicious. Perhaps it was time for another inquiry into the leakage of American military secrets to Japan, like the Atom Bomb Secret hearings a few years ago. Senator Macarthy had died of cirrhosis of the liver a few months back so he wasn't around to head this one but there would be somebody else.
The four Brandis were keeping their distance, paralleling the B-58 formation but about 20,000 feet below them. They were still in the tight formation the USAF had used until Red Sun had shown them the dangers of keeping aircraft close together. Korrina had a GAR-9 locked on them just in case but it wouldn't be necessary, he could sense it.
As Marisol and her sisters swung clear of the Parrot's Beak, the four Chipanese fighters broke away and returned home. There was less than a 100 miles to go to Myitkyina. Apart from the Chipanese radars in the Parrot's Beak, there was no hostile activity. Monticello required very specific speed and altitude settings to give the most accurate results and it was up to Marisol and Tiger Lily to make sure Sweet Caroline and Coral Queen could do their work undisturbed. But, as the two Monticello aircraft started their flight runs, hostile radars flicked into action. Obviously cued by the Chipanese radar over the border
“Mike, we're getting two Fire Can gun control radars. Probably controlling twin 37s but its possible there's bigger stuff down there.”
“Take one out Eddie.” The air in Marisol was tense now. Korrina made his final adjustments, locked one of the two ASM-10s on then stroked the fire button. After all the simulated shots, it was shocking to see the smoke trail streaking out in front of them. The ASM-10s had been tuned to the Fire Can frequency before take-off and the attack profile pre-selected. The missiles angled up and climbed to over 80,000 feet before rolling over and diving on the radar set underneath. The radar was blind in the arc directly over the set and the crew never saw the missile coming. In a powered dive, the anti-radar missile streaked into the clouds underneath. A few second later, the target radar blinked out.
“Radar transmission ceased at predicted time of impact Marisol. There are radio transmissions all over down there. You got it.”
“Thanks Sweet Caroline. Marisol, you aren't a virgin anymore.”
The familiar voice came over the intercom system, now throaty and lazily accented. “Well boys, was it as good for you as it was for me?”
Hill Kumon 541, West of Myitkyina, Burma.
The radar on top of Hill 541 controlled six twin 37 millimeter cannon on the eastern slope of the hill. The guns overlooked Myitkyina airfield and had already accounted for three transport aircraft. The radar wasn't working now though, the duty set was a little further to the north on Kumon 525. Lieutenant Wu Si Bo was looking at its position when there was a streak of light from the black monsoon clouds overhead, followed by a shattering explosion. The radar had gone, blasted into a blackened ruins. Behind the Lieutenant, the gun and radar crews were muttering anxiously.
“You see that sir, the stories are true.” For weeks now, stories had been circulating about their radar fire control sets. Nobody knew where they had come from, they were all of “my cousin's friend's sister's boyfriend” type. But the stories all agreed on one thing. If one operated a radar set in a thunderstorm, the antenna attracted lightning and the explosion destroyed the set. And its crew. It was time to do something about morale, the situation could not be allowed to continue.
“Men, the stories you have heard are absolute nonsense. Of course our antenna does not attract lightning.” Lieutenant Wu Si Bo hooked his foot around a power supply cable and yanked it firmly out of its socket. “And even if those stories were true, it wouldn't matter, Our radar isn't working.”
Viceregal Palace, New Delhi, India
There was something about India that drew its visitors in, that got a hold on their hearts despite all the obvious problems, difficulties and discomforts of a country that was hot and swarming with people many of whom lived barely at the edge of subsistence. A grandeur, a vision of what this country had once been and could become again. A richness of spirit that offset the physical poverty that was everywhere. General Dedmon looked out of the windows of his limousine at the crowds of people that thronged the street and marveled that so many could live in such a small area. Whole families lived on the street, handing their rights to sleep on a specific stretch of sidewalk down through the generations.
The limousine was met by two attendants, tall Sikhs in white uniforms. There was a great debate over who made the better soldiers, the big Sikhs with their beards and turbans or the small wiry Gurkhas. One thing professionals agreed on, it was a bad day when one had to tangle with either. One of the Sikhs held the door of the car open while General Dedmon climbed out. On the steps above the car, Sir Martyn and Lady Sharpe had come out to meet him.
“Welcome, General. May I introduce my wife, Rebecca. Rebecca, this is our friend from America, General Bob Dedmon.”
“I'm delighted to meet you Lady Sharpe. I've been looking forward to this evening ever since Sir Martyn made the invitation. It’s not often that an American gets to be a guest in a real honest-to-God Royal Palace”
Sir Martyn laughed warmly while mentally complimenting himself. For rabid republicans, the Americans were suckers for anything that had a Royal connection. “Come on in, General. I'll show you around although, to be honest, this place hasn't been a Royal Palace for over a century. We've plenty of time. Dinner will be served at 20:30. I hope you like Anglo-Indian food?”
“Anglo-Indian Sir Martyn?”
“Anglo-Indian started as a mixture of English and Indian food, originally an attempt to make English traditional dishes with the ingredients that were available in local Indian markets. As the confidence of the Indian cooks grew, they started to experiment with the recipes, adding here, subtracting there, changing a little this, a little that.
“Soon, they had developed an entirely different style of food, neither English nor Indian but something unique to itself. A meal that could be eaten by Englishmen and Indian alike, both feeling that they were at home, with meals that were comfortable and familiar.
“In many ways, it is a microcosm of what we are trying to do here in India today. To take the best that both India and England have to offer and use them to create something new and unique that we can all share and that will benefit everybody.”
Sir Martyn turned out to be an excellent tour guide, able to describe the history of the building and the artwork it contained. In fact, he seemed to know an amusing anecdote about events that had taken place in every room. Dedmon was stunned by the residence. He'd heard about the opulence of the Indian princes and the almost unimaginable luxury in which they lived but this was beyond anything he dreamed.
It made a stark contrast with the poverty and squalor he'd seen in the streets outside. It was a contrast he found hard to accept as being part of the middle of the 20th century. How did anybody manage to live surrounded by either extreme?
“Lady Sharpe, I must confess, if I lived here I would be too terrified to move in case I broke something priceless.”
“Call me Becky, please. All my friends do. Martyn and I do not live in this part of the Residence, we have apartments on the top floor with our own furniture from England.” She seemed sad for a second, probably remembering a way of life that had gone forever. It must have been hard for her to leave behind everything she knew and loved for a strange country. And then to be trapped there when her whole world fell apart in 1940. Dedmon wondered whether Sir Martyn had ever really understood the sacrifices his wife had made. “But, General...”
“Bob, Becky.”
“Why thank you Bob, you have something equally precious to care for. Did you bring Texan Lady over with you?”
“No Ma'am, she's in our Air Force museum now. I go and see her regularly though.” A gong rang, summoning the party to dinner.
Dedmon didn't know what impressed him the most, the dining room or the food. The dining room was exquisite, the table richly polished teak, decorated with superb silver ornaments and laid with starched white linens. They'd been joined by Sir Eric and Lady Haohoa. Sir Eric was the Indian Cabinet Secretary and the couple were long-time friends of Sir Martyn. Dedmon sternly reminded himself that being the Cabinet Secretary also made Sir Eric the head of the Indian intelligence services. He gave the impression of a traditional, self-effacing British civil servant yet all the reports made it clear he was very far from being that. He was a man it was very foolish to underestimate.
The food was as Sir Martyn had promised, a magnificent blend of English and Indian styles that contrived to be both yet neither. What appeared to be a familiar English dish would have nuances of seasoning and cooking that turned it into something exotic yet there would also be something strangely familiar and reassuring about even the most mysterious. About half way through the meal, a servant came in with an urgent message. Sir Martyn read it and his eyes widened.
“Bob, I must ask your apologies but we need to turn our television on. There is news that we both need to see.” The set was wheeled out of its cupboard and turned on. It took a couple of minutes to warm up, then a newsreader, a woman in an elegant evening sari took the screen.
“And now we must repeat the main item of news tonight. The American presidential election has been thrown into turmoil following the tragic death of Democrat Candidate John F Kennedy. News reports from Boston say that the Presidential Candidate had been badly delayed at a series of electioneering engagements and was late for a Democrat Party strategy party meeting near the family home in Massachusetts. In order to save time, John F Kennedy accepted an offer from his brother Edward to drive him in a family car to the meeting.
“At a place called Chappaquiddick Island, near Martha's Vineyard, their car apparently spun off the road into the water. Presidential Candidate Kennedy was trapped in the wreckage, apparently due to the effects of an old back injury suffered while commanding a river gunboat in 1943. His brother Edward made a valiant effort to get help for the trapped victim but, by the time he got back, John F Kennedy had drowned. Police are investigating the incident and have not stated whether any charges will be made.”
The broadcast was mostly library footage of JFKs life and his campaign against President LeMay. Sir Martyn spoke to a servant who left the room and returned with the week's issue of the Washington Diplomatic list. Sir Martyn turned to a page, raised an eyebrow and showed the page to Sir Eric. Both men were trying hard not to smile out of courtesy to their American guest. “Not a Japanese chauffeur this time.” Sir Eric said in a slightly strangled voice. Then the elegant newsreader cut in again.
“In a late development from Washington, the Vice Presidential candidate, Lyndon Baines Johnson, has resigned from the candidacy, quoting his shock and distress at the sudden death of his old friend John F Kennedy. In an emergency meeting, the Democrat National Committee has elected an almost unknown automobile company executive, Robert Strange McNamara, as their new candidate.”
“Bob, can you give us an insight as to what is going on here? Why did Johnson stand down? I'd have thought he would have stood a very good chance of being elected. And who is this McNamara person?”
Dedmon shook his head, his mind still absorbing the news. “LBJ is probably the wiliest politician in Washington. He knows very well that the Democrats changing candidates this late into the campaign makes his chance of being elected slender. It's not as if the Democrats were doing well, they were level-pegging the Republicans in the early stages of the campaign but that didn't last. It didn't help them that LeMay is the 'man who brought our boys home' and that Kennedy was a comparative nonentity.
“Kennedy had a lot of charisma and did well in the conventions and on whistle-stop tours but the radio debates with President LeMay went very badly for him. One thing the President has always been good at is making sure his staff work is up to scratch. I'd guess he had his aides burning the midnight oil for weeks thinking of every possible question that could be thrown at him, and he had all the answers waiting. Kennedy kept getting caught out by details and came off sounding like a lightweight. His poll figures never recovered.
“So, combining the change in candidates and the poor starting position, LBJ has worked out that he doesn't stand much of a chance. The Democrats will be down to depending on a sympathy vote and that's no way to win an election. He's betting that if he runs and looses, he'll be damaged goods for the 1964 election and somebody else would get the nod for that. So he bows out now, and sets up that fool McNamara get hammered this time around. This way, he's set to scoop the pool in '64.
“McNamara did the one unforgivable thing somebody can do in America. He designed a dreadful automobile. That'll be thrown at him over and over again. 'How can we trust the man who came up with the Edsel?'
“It is a hard thing to say about a man's death, but JFK served his country better by dying now than he could have done as President; his advisors had some pretty foolish and damaging ideas. Replacing bombers by missiles for example, and not maintaining the national air and missile defense system. Using the resources to rebuild the Army, another thing that will send him to the political graveyard. To American families, a large army means sending our boys back to the Russian Front. Ruthless as it may sound, God has looked after America here.”
“I don't think God had much to do with it,” said Sir Eric Haohoa levelly.
Chapter Twelve Touchdown.
Supreme Command Headquarters Building, Ayuthia Road, Bangkok, Thailand
They'd flown over in General Dedmon's personal aircraft, the prototype XC-144 Superstream. A derivative of the B-58 with seats for six passengers, it was cramped and uncomfortable but its speed took hours off long-haul flights. Full production had been postponed while the Fort Worth production line turned out RB-58s and PB5Ys as fast as triple shifts could manage. The delay was being used to wring the design out as thoroughly as possible. The speed of the trip had allowed them to arrive the previous evening and sleep before the meeting scheduled for early this morning. It was early too, by Bangkok standards there was still a chill in the air.
“Sir Martyn, Sir Eric, General Dedmon, welcome back to Bangkok. It is so good to see you again.”
The Ambassador had come out to meet their car. Sir Martyn noted she was wearing civilian clothes, not her military uniform. The bulge under her silk jacket indicated she was still carrying a handgun of formidable proportions.
“Madame Ambassador, it is indeed a great pleasure to have your company again. I trust your stay in Washington was productive?”
“Indeed so, Sir Eric. In fact you will be seeing one of our achievements a little later.” Sir Eric gulped and had a quick mental picture of John F Kennedy's head mounted on the wall of her apartment. “It is essential that we find a quick and effective solution to this Myitkyina debacle. To that end we have hired some consultants who will provide us with their advice and opinions. Their first action was to evict us from our own conference room so we are as interested to hear what they have to say as anybody else. If you will come with me.”
The Conference Room was guarded by soldiers, fully armed and alert. They opened the doors for the Ambassador and she lead her party in. The room was already filled with a mixture of military personnel and civilians. By some strange trick of the light, no matter where they stood, the civilians seemed to be in the shadows. The Ambassador looked around then went over to them. “Seer, I am very pleased you could make it over. Now perhaps I can repay some of your hospitality.”
“Thank you Snake. I wouldn't have missed this one for anything. You were right though, the city has changed out of all recognition since I was last here. Is the Galaxy still open? If everybody is present I think we'd better get started.”
The cover was pulled off the table that occupied most of the center of the room. When it was fully removed there was a collective gasp. The entire area was covered by a three-dimensional model of Myitkyina and the surrounding countryside. Even the coloring was correct, the artists had caught the languid menace of the jungle perfectly. The Triple Alliance positions were outlined in blue, those of the surrounding forces in red. The gasp was not of admiration though. Even in a roomful of people who were skilled map-readers, the model showed something that wasn't apparent from a two-dimensional map. The position of the besieged garrison was critical.
“When we start a consultancy contract like this, our first question is always the same yet our principals never have a well-thought answer. So we started this one the same way, with the same question. 'What is the objective of this operation?' As usual, we didn't get a straight answer. Or, more to the point, the answers that we did get were not consistent with the operational environment and the demands of counter-insurgency warfare. Nor, may I add, were they consistent with the forces committed to the operation.
“The objectives, we were advised, were to block Chipanese supply lines, to act as a base for offensive operations and to act as bait, drawing Chipanese forces into a kill zone where they could be destroyed. Unfortunately, the supply line question is irrelevant under the circumstances prevailing, the forces committed were not adequate to both defend the Myitkyina base and conduct offensive patrolling. Indeed, the forces committed to this operation are inadequate to defend the base area itself, let alone conduct any offensives.
“This is, I must regretfully report, a common factor throughout this entire operation. On a strategic, operational and tactical level, there has been an unfortunate compromise between the forces required to achieve a stated tactical aim and those that were available. As a result, the planner's grasp has fallen far short of their reach. If we look at the configuration of the Myitkyina base itself, we can see this very clearly. We have the central base area here, with the airfield and the town, surrounded by eight defensive positions. Anne-Marie, here in the north, then Beatrice, Claudine, Dominique, Eliane, Francoise, Gabrielle and Isabel.”
“Seer, how did you get this map? These positions are classified?”
“We've been running radar reconnaissance missions over the area, Snake. There are no reliable maps of this area, a good enough reason why this operation should never have been launched. There are now. We'll give them to you. As for your dispositions? Don't kid yourself. They are common knowledge; why do you think we didn't ask for them? But the dire effects of compromise are clearly visible.
“These defensive positions are too far out from the central area to be mutually supporting yet not far enough out to protect the central area from artillery bombardment. Note how they are all dominated by higher ground further out. Their garrisons are not large enough for each position to be self-sustaining yet are large enough to drain off so many troops that inadequate numbers are left to defend the central area. In short, anytime the enemy wish to, they can pick these outlying fortifications off and, once that's done, the central area will collapse. The only reason why they haven't done so already is that they're bleeding your air transport units dry keeping the place going.”
General Moses couldn't restrain himself any longer “Why are we listening to a bunch of mercenaries?”
“We are not mercenaries General. We are a private company that has been hired jointly by the three governments of the Triple Alliance to provide an analysis of this situation and suggest solutions. We work for the United States government on the same basis, providing State Department and National Security Council services under contract.”
The Ambassador's voice cut quietly across the room. “General Moses, if you have a life, return to it. If you do not I suggest you find one. Either way, get the hell off my subcontinent.”
General Moses face went deep red, his body shaking with rage. “Madam, if you were not a woman, I would strike you for that remark.”
“General, I have never claimed immunity because of my sex and do not do so now.”
He voice was a low hiss and suddenly Sir Martyn realized where her nickname came from. He also realized that General Moses was a split second from death. His had was over his baton and he was on the verge of grabbing it and lashing out. If he did, he would die before he'd moved more than a few inches. The Ambassador was staring at him with an expression of polite interest on her face. Sir Martyn saw the Seer's expression was that of quizzical amusement and he'd had stepped back out of the line of fire. He guessed he'd seen similar scenes before and asked himself just how far the relationship between these two went back. No matter, it was time to do something.
“General, the Indian Government endorses the opinion expressed by the Ambassador.”
“As does the Australian Government. General Moses, your request for retirement will be approved.”
Prime Minister Joe Frye hadn't said anything so far, but when he did speak the effects were immediate. General Moses stormed out of the room, trying to slam the heavy teak doors behind him. They were on shock absorbers so he didn't even get that right.
“Seer, our first priority must be to solve this mess.”
“Not so Sir Martyn. This mess can be cleared up. Your first priority is to make sure it doesn't happen again. You need to establish a command structure, this whole Myitkyina business started because your alliance conducted military operations without clearly defined lines of command and authority. One of our recommendations is that you establish a permanent military command structure. We have some ideas on how you can best organize that. In the meantime, you need to appoint a new commander for this operation.
Sir Martyn looked at Prime Minister Frye who nodded at the Ambassador. “Madam, would you take command of this operation please?” She nodded and her eyes defocused. Sir Martyn knew she was lost now, in calculating forces, movements and distances. Suddenly, he felt sympathy for the Japanese forces she had defeated in the past.
“We can't do it, not by the book.” She said after a few minutes. “We'll do it backwards. Break the siege from the inside first, then relieve the garrison from the outside. That means we have to get reinforcements in and that means we have to break the Chipanese forces surrounding the base. One thing works for us.
Our intelligence sources tell us that the Chipanese have concentrated nearly all the Shan States Army around Myitkyina. Also that the so-called SSA units are, in reality, Japanese Army. Please note that, Japanese, not Chipanese. Break them and we do grave damage to Chipan. Seer?”
“The enemy are in three main concentrations, north east, north west and south. Take them out and we take the artillery with them. General Dedmon, have we concluded satisfactory agreements on emergency basing rights in India and elsewhere in the Triple Alliance?” Sir Martyn took the bull by the horns and nodded. The agreement hadn't been signed but would be. Immediately.
“Then I think we can demonstrate to the Shan States Army that SAC's bombers can do more than just drop nuclear weapons. A whole world of hell more.”
Cockpit RB-58C “Marisol”, Main Runway, U-Thapao, Thailand
The four RB-58s were going first. Unlike the B-60s, they wouldn't be flying straight to their assigned targets, their flightpath was a series of loops that would cover the bombers against any attack. Their orders were quite simple “Defend the bombers against any threat using all necessary means.” After the months of training and the reconnaissance milk-runs, the Hustlers would be doing what they had been built for. Flying into enemy defenses and destroying them. With a little luck, after today, Marisol would be a little less egotistical. She'd been unbearable for the last few days, flaunting the lightning flash painted under her cockpit that denoted a radar system destroyed. It was most unlikely that, after today, she'd be only one in the B-58 fleet to have a kill to her name.
“Marisol, Tiger Lily, Sweet Caroline, Coral Queen. You are clear for takeoff. Good luck ladies.”
“OK boys and girl it’s party time.” “Andale, let’s dance!”
Main Tower, U-Thapao, Thailand
The glass shook as the four RB-58s went off the runway on full afterburner. Behind them, the long line of B-60s were taxiing forward, the glare of the tropical sun reflected from their silver skins almost unbearable. Most of the American ground staff at U-Thapao were gray with exhaustion, eight more B-60s had arrived overnight along with a clutch of C-133 Cargomaster transports. Some of those had been carrying extra weapons and equipment, others were simply stopping to refuel before heading off to, somewhere?
The new arrivals had to be refueled and checked over prior to today's mission. The munitions crews had been working all night, stuffing 500 pound bombs into the bellies of the bombers. 176 per aircraft, all fitted with fuse-extenders so they would go off above the ground, not buried in it. Radar pictures taken by the RB-58s had been loaded into the bombing systems of the aircraft. There were three formations going out, six aircraft per formation. Two spares, just in case one of the scheduled aircraft didn't make it.
Cockpit, B-60E “Flying Fiasco” U-Thapao, Thailand
“Cleared for take-off, let’s get this apology for an aircraft rolling.” Throttles firewalled, the B-60 started its run down the huge runway. Ahead of them Miss Tressmine was already halfway down the runway, her nose lifting as she started rotation. Flying Fiasco followed her, picking up speed smoothly as the eight jets pushed her down the runway.
“Hey guys, look on the bright side. This one goes well and we could get hauled out of this rust-bucket and given a decent aircraft. Ohhh sheee-it.”
Suddenly, Flying Fiasco was slowing, not picking up speed. Engineering station confirmed it “Loosing power on one, two five and seven sir. And hydraulics losing power as well, I don't think we can get the gear up even if we rotate. We have to abort sir.”
“Tower, This is Flying Fiasco power loss on four engines, hydraulic pressure going. We are aborting take-off.”
“Understood Flying Fiasco. Keep going to the end of the runway and wait there.”
Main Tower, U-Thapao, Thailand
“We have an abort General Dedmon. Captain Zipster's Flying Fiasco. Engine and hydraulic failures. Lady Lace is taking her place. Sir, Zipster's crew are swearing at their aircraft something terrible.”
Dedmon shook his head. “I've had it with that bunch of whining losers. Colonel, find whatever the lowest rank in the US Armed Forces is, invent a lower one, and bust the whole load of them to it. Then kick them out of SAC and assign them to ground duty somewhere else in the Air Force. Preferably in Alaska. It’s time we made an example of somebody. When the mission is launched, tow that bird in, get her thoroughly inspected and I'll put a new crew in her. We've got some good kids who'd welcome the challenge of getting Captain's bars by bringing a hard-luck bird around.”
“Take offs are still on schedule sir. God knows why the Thai Air Force built this runway so big but its paying dividends now. The last two aircraft went either side of Flying Fiasco.” Dedmon laughed, that was a new way of giving the finger to a thoroughly disliked crew.
Lek 's Farm, Ban Mab Tapud, Thailand
Chong reached out and scratched the water buffalo's left ear with his toe. Obediently, Bok turned left, pulling the plow around and starting the next furrow. The Monsoon rains were ending and it was planting time. This year, it was good, the price for last year's harvest had been high, they'd been able to buy the seed for this year's crops without borrowing money. There had even been some left over. They'd made a generous offering to the Monks and Father had bought Mother cloth for a new dress. He'd also bought her a gold chain she could wear as a necklace. If times got hard, they'd have to sell that of course but not her new dress.
Father was walking behind Bok now, making sure the plow turned the wet soil over properly while the other children planted the rice. Soon, the field would be flooded and the rice crop would grow.
The new furrow was taking them towards the airfield at U-Thapao. Approaching them was an aircraft, one of the giants that came from America. It wasn't the first to pass this morning but the earliest had been the fast ones with triangular wings. Then, some of the giants had passed further inland but this one was going to pass directly overhead. The giants were behaving differently from usual, trailing clouds of black smoke from their engines. Even to the farmer and his family, it was obvious those engines were straining hard to lift whatever it was the giants carried. Sitting on Bok's neck, Chong reached up and waved to the giant. To his stupefied delight the giant rocked its wings in acknowledgment then swept overhead.
Chong jumped off Bok's neck, grabbed a small handful of rice seed and climbed the bank to the road. A few yards away was a simple shrine, one of tens of thousands that stood beside the roads all over Thailand. Chong made a deep wai in front of the cracked and peeling Bhudda statue then put the rice seed in the shrine. An offering on behalf of the crew of the giant who had returned his wave and a quick prayer for their safety.
Cockpit RB-58C “Marisol”, 65,000 feet over Eastern Burma
From this altitude, the ASG-18 radar was giving a panoramic view for hundreds of miles in every direction. The four RB-58s were flying racetrack patterns. Marisol and Tiger Lily formed one pair, they were heading southwest, towards the three formations of B-60s far behind them. They were weaving, their paths interlocking as the turns widened their search scans. To the south, flying northeast, were Sweet Caroline and Coral Queen, also weaving to maximize their search scans and confuse the watching radars. For watching radars there were. They'd already picked up the big, long-range search set at Tengchan. There were others now, ones they hadn't seen before. Fighter control radars.
The northeast portions of the racetracks were longer than the southwest ones; that meant the RB-58s were steadily moving towards Myitkyina. Marisol reached the end of her southwest leg and turned northeast again, the turn pointing her nose straight at the Parrot's Beak.
“Contacts Mike, Hostiles. Three formations. Designated Bandit-One and Bandit-Two coming towards us, Bandit-Three heading south of us. Estimated speed Mach 1.2. Tentative identification, three groups of four Kawasaki Brandis. Range 180 miles closing fast, intercept course for the B-60 formations. If they aren't over the border yet, they will be in a few seconds. Whoa, they just went to Mach 2.1 must have cut in their rockets.”
“They must be hoping to do a speed run past us and get to the bombers before we can catch up. Flight Control, this is Marisol we have twelve enemy aircraft closing fast, intercepting the bombers. We're taking them down.”
“Marisol understood. For your information, enemy aircraft are already at least twenty miles inside Burmese territory.”
“Tiger Lily, take the formation on the right, we'll take the left. Take'em out Bear”
In the Bear's Den, Eddie Korrina already had a GAR-9 locked on each of the formations. He selected the left-hand one and stroked the firing button of the GAR-9 system. He could feel the whirr and thump as the belly pod launcher operated, then the lurch as the GAR-9 dropped clear. That was something they'd never felt before, the simulated launches and practice shots didn't have anything like the same feel.
There was a stream of brownish-white smoke in front of them, curving up, far out of sight. It would climb up to over 100,000 feet before slashing down in a glide - if anything moving at over Mach 6 could be called gliding. Korrina and Dravar had already drawn their steel blinds, Kozlowski flipped down his black visor. Any second now....
A new star suddenly appeared in the sky, white, painful, glaring white even through the black protective visor. In the rear cockpits, even through the shields and filters, the stations turned white from the thermonuclear explosion fifty miles away. A split second later, even before the first new star had reached its full power, there was a second flash and another new star lit up the sky over Burma. There was a gap, a couple of seconds no more than that, then a third, much dimmer star, one that was marginally less painful to see, appeared. Marisol shook and rolled from the blasts, another thing they hadn't expected.
Yet, the strange thing was, 45,000 feet below the place where the fighters had died, under the black clouds of the Monsoon, nobody would know that the RB-58s had captured little pieces of the sun and unleashed them on their enemies. It showed on the radar though, there were ugly splotches where the weird electronic effects of a nuclear initiation had blanked out the radar transmissions. Under those leprous patches, twelve enemy fighters had been blotted from the sky in less than five seconds. Tengchan and the other radars would be seeing the same thing and they would know what had happened.
“Control, this is Marisol. Four enemy fighters destroyed with one GAR-9. One more kill and we're aces.”
“Negative Marisol. Word from the top. Multiple kills with GAR-9s count as a single kill towards ace status. You've got four more to go. Good hunting.”
A nice sentiment, but it didn't look like it. Xavier was reporting the Tengchan radar was still working but all the others were down. Kozlowski turned Marisol towards Tengchan then grinned as it hurriedly went off the air. It stayed off, even when Marisol turned away, back on her racetrack.
A few minutes later Tengchan came on again, only to shut down as soon as Marisol turned towards it once more. That time, it stayed shut down. The first stage of today's lesson had been delivered; challenging SAC was a very, very bad mistake. A mistake that carried a nuclear penalty.
Cockpit, B-60E “Miss Tressmine” 47,000 feet over Haipaw, Burma
“Whoa, the Ladies are throwing a Hissy Fit. Three nuclear explosions, 45,000 feet. GAR-9s. Marisol. Tiger Lily and Sweet Caroline are all claiming kills. They're reporting the Chipanese shut down air activity on the spot. Don't want their airbase nuked I assume. I'd suggest we alert Guns to get his new toy ready, just in case.”
The B-60E carried the six-barreled Vulcan cannon in place of the old twin 20mm mount. Even the B-52s hadn't got those yet, they still had quadruple .50s.
General Cameron relaxed in the commander's seat. This was the second time he'd done something like this, the first one had been twelve years earlier in Paris. Then, he'd incurred the lasting hatred of every shopaholic in Europe by devastating the Champes Elysee. What his B-60s were about to do today built on that experience. Already the formation was splitting into its three sub-groups, each targeting an enemy concentration
“Bring the group around to zero-zero-five. Load up the radar picture, drop a reference bomb. Now let's hope the Ladies clear a way in for us.”
Cockpit RB-58C “Marisol”, 65,000 feet over Myitkyina, Northern Burma
“We have enemy radars sir, Fire Cans, nine of them. Positions dialing in now.”
The number made sense, electronic reconnaissance had isolated twelve hostile fire control radars, four per enemy concentration. Three had been picked off during the reconnaissance runs. That left nine. And the RB-58s had a total of 12 AAM-N-10s. It was time to make a demonstration. This time, the anti-aircraft gunners would be in no doubt about what was killing them.
“Take 'em down. We'll hit from under the cloud cover.”
Central Command Post, Triple Alliance Base, Myitkyina, Northern Burma
There was something wrong with the clouds, Major Ranjit noticed suddenly, they seemed to be boiling and spreading as if giant stones were being thrown into them. Then, four shapes burst through, big delta-winged aircraft surrounded in a ball of shimmering, shining silver. They were silent, silent as the grave, even as rockets streaked from under their bellies and curved into targets far out in the enemy hills. Then, the roar of their jets and the supersonic bangs drowned out the explosions of the missiles but the delta winged jets were already gone, climbing through the clouds, leaving eight oily smoke tracks boiling up into the sky from the enemy-held hills. The anti-aircraft guns that had remained obstinately out of reach of the Australian 25 pounders were blind.
Hill Kumon 541, West of Myitkyina, Burma.
They hadn't stood a chance. Lieutenant Wu Si Bo had guessed the bombers were doing around Mach Two when they'd blown up the other radars, way too fast for any of the guns to get a shot in. He'd yanked the power cable from his radar and shut it down as soon as he'd seen something was about to happen so his crews were alive, none of the others were so lucky. Or were they the lucky ones? One thing they were clear, they were fighting Americans now and Americans didn't fight, they destroyed. But the Shan States positions were too close to the Australian base for the Americans to drop nuclear bombs without destroying their allies as well. And they weren't that ruthless. Were they?
Cockpit, B-60E “Miss Tressmine” 47,000 feet over Myitkyina, Burma
Everything was in the hands of the K-11 radar bombsight. They had the radar pictures, they'd identified the aim points, the reference bombs had provided the corrections. Lost in all the noises of the B-60, the crews didn't hear the bomb bay doors open, but they felt the thump-thump-thump-thump as all four sets of snap-action doors opened. More than half the length of the bombers was their bomb bay. The B-60s were adjusting their positions, delicately, elegantly, their grace deceitfully denying the deadliness of what they were about to do. The intervalometers had been set, when the K-l Is gave the order, they'd start to spew 500 pound bombs out of that cavernous pit. 176 per aircraft, 1,056 in total on each enemy concentration. The big bombers didn't even lurch as the stream of bombs left the bays.
Hill Kumon 541, West of Myitkyina, Burma.
Lieutenant Wu Si Bo saw something very strange. Six long black lines had emerged from the clouds and were heading steadily for him. Far over to the north he could see six more. The lines seemed to go on forever, and now they were matched by a soft, gentle but all-enveloping howl. As if a dragon was wailing defiance at them. A dragon above them.
The Dragon had been born in Paris, on the Champes Elysee. What had started out as a warning to the French not to start any opportunistic wars of conquest or revenge had turned into something else. When the targeteers had inspected the devastation, they'd quickly understood that something quite unexpected had happened. What was supposed to have been a long, snake-like path of destruction had actually been an extended egg-shape, the destruction going far beyond that anybody had expected. What was even more curious, the Arc de Triomphe had been destroyed before the last salvo of bombs had hit it.
The explanation had taken some finding, but once found it had been obvious. Each of the thousand pound bombs had landed just behind the blast and shock wave front of the one that preceded it. So, as the explosions had marched down the Champes Elysee, they'd multiplied their effects over and over again. Each bomb had built on those before it to create a piston that shattered everything in its path.
An even stranger effect had taken place behind the leading front of the piston. The consuming inferno of the explosions sucked in air from the surroundings to feed their fires. For tens of yards on either side of the blast-piston, everything was sucked towards the explosion, only to be met and hurled back again by the deadly blast waves. As the targeteers had said, it was the perfect suck-and-blow. This time, suck-and-blow would blend the six lines of bombs into a single whirling phalanx of Shockwaves, fire and fragments.
The leading end of the long black line landed just over a mile away from Lieutenant Wu Si Bo, the first of over a thousand five hundred pound bombs marching westward across the jagged mountains that surrounded Myitkyina. At first, they looked like a normal series of explosions, no different from the clouds of fire and smoke that had risen over the Australian base at Myitkyina during the artillery bombardments but, as the bombs started their cavalcade of devastation across the mountains, a shining silvery-blue wall of energy, the blast piston, formed in front, hiding the horrifying carnage that was following it.
As the blast piston tore through the Chipanese position, the exquisitely beautiful Shockwave smashed through everything in its path. The few things that survived the concussion wave were shredded by the whirling hailstorm of fragments and debris or burned in the roaring mass of explosions. It took only a minute for the blue-silver wall to reach Lieutenant Wu Si Bo and, to him, it seemed to approach slowly. As it neared his position, he reached out to touch it then the world burst and turned into fire.
Central Command Post, Triple Alliance Base, Myitkyina, Northern Burma
Major Ranjit was stunned beyond words. What had once been the lush, menacing green of the jungle-covered hills was now brown and bare. The trees, even the grass and bushes had been destroyed in the roaring cascade of bombs. Nothing, neither animal nor plant, could have survived.
Even as he watched, he heard a drone of engines. A transport aircraft, one with four engines, had dropped through the clouds on final approach. As it lined up with the runway, another came through the clouds, then another. Almost at the same time, there was a scream of jets, the four delta-winged bombers flew overhead, speed reduced to subsonic, goading any surviving guns into firing at them. Ranjit doubted there were any left to take up the challenge.
As they patrolled, the big transports started landing and started to disgorge the troops they were carrying. Troops, and food, and ammunition and artillery. At first Ranjit thought the troops were Ghurkas but through his binoculars he saw the short, stubby rifles with curved magazines. Thais. No matter, after 57 days, the siege of Myitkyina was over.
Chipanese Naval Headquarters, Imperial Fleet, Tokyo, Japan
Admiral Soriva knew something had happened as soon as he entered the building. The summons had been short and to the point. He was to report directly to Admiral Tameichi Hara immediately. He'd been on leave ever since he'd been relieved from command of his battleship division, and, in truth he'd never expected to be given another position in the Navy. He reminded himself, he didn't know he was receiving a posting now, he could simply being informed of his retirement. But surely, the Commander-in-Chief of the Imperial Navy wouldn't concern himself directly with that? And what was going on?
As he entered Admiral Hara's office, The CinC was reading a report. He looked up at Soriva standing before him. ''You have heard what has happened?”
Soriva shook his head. For three months, he'd carefully avoided reading anything or seeing anything. He'd been trying to regain some sort of inner peace after the fiasco of his last mission. Poor Idzumo might have had a better deal after all. He was at peace now.
“After the Americans forced us to abort your naval movement, Masanobu Tsuji put a back-up plan into action. Tsuji took three divisions of the Imperial Army, including the Imperial Guard, and deployed them in Northern Burma as a purported insurgency force. There was a ragtag of local tribes with them as local color but the force was Japanese. His authority to make such a deployment was highly questionable, that is one thing that is being investigated now. One thing is not questionable. The Triple Alliance asked the Americans for help and produced proof that the so-called Shan States Army was really Japanese regulars. As a result, the Americans obliged, in return for some substantial political and economic concessions of course. The Australians had precipitated the situation, by placing a full regiment of their division where it was vulnerable to a concentration of our forces in Northern Burma. The Americans obliterated our forces with their bombers.
Soriva shuddered, his mind filled with the pictures of orange-red mushroom clouds rising over the troops. Would the same be happening to Japan? “They used nuclear weapons?”
“Not against our troops, no. As you know, the whole crux of Tsuji's plan was to create a situation where we would fight the enemy on their territory and intermingled amongst them. Under those circumstances, the Americans would not be able to use nuclear weapons on what amounted to their own territory and their own people. Tsuji was convinced that Americans would be unable to fight without using their nuclear bombers and so this strategy offered a way of beating them without risking destruction. However, it appears he fundamentally miscalculated.
“The Americans hit our troops with conventional bombs but in such numbers and with such violence that they might as well have nuked us. Few of our troops survived, those that did will never be of any use to anybody. They are all deaf, some are insane, others have had their sense of balance destroyed. The Americans did use nuclear weapons against our fighters though; a squadron of Army Kawasakis that tried to intercept the American bombers was incinerated in mid-air.
“Admiral Soriva, I can think of no set of circumstances that could do more to thoroughly vindicate the actions you took when faced by American bombers. Tsuji's rashness and arrogance throw your own judgment and good sense into sharp relief.
“His Imperial Majesty was most perturbed by news of the destruction of our forces and wrote an Imperial Rescript expressing his deep concern to Colonel Tsuji.”
“Ah so that pest is dead then?” Any officer receiving such a Rescript would commit suicide on the spot.
“Not that one. Reportedly, he denounced it as a forgery and has disappeared somewhere into Western China. In the meantime, The Triple Alliance had consolidated its hold on Northern Burma and is undoing his work there. To make matters worse, the insurgency in Vietnam and Laos grows worse by the day. Admiral Soriva, Japan is being stretched on the rack.
“Which brings us to the subject of this meeting today. I am assigning you to a newly-created post within Imperial Naval Headquarters. The post is Head of the Navy Strategic Planning Directorate. You will report directly to me. Your duties will be to examine, in great detail, the strategic position of Japan, establish our naval priorities and determine what assets will be required to meet those requirements.
“The Army is establishing a similar position to examine Army priorities and the two of you will be required to work together. Failure by either of you will be considered to be a failure of you both. The future structure of the fleet will be based upon your decisions just as the future of the Army will be based on those of your counterpart. Whatever is superfluous to our needs will be scrapped to fund our real requirements.
“I am giving you a very heavy responsibility Admiral. Do not let me down. And please, do not delay in starting this task.”
Cockpit, B-60E “Flying Fiasco” U-Thapao, Thailand
Lieutenant C.J. O'Seven looked at the cockpit of the aircraft, his stomach sinking. Had his family's fabled luck deserted him? It had all started when his grandparents had come ashore at Ellis Island. Their family name, Ossenvierneira, had been beyond the spelling ability of the Irish-American immigration officer who'd shortened it to O'Seven. As immigrants they'd done well and prospered.
Charles John O'Seven had made it into the Air Force, trained on B-60s and his crew been picked as a reserve for this deployment. Then, he'd been given a shot at Flying Fiasco. The Colonel had been honest, she was a hard-luck ship with a history of minor accidents, aborts and generally sub-standard performance. She was a challenge, turn her around and O'Seven would get Captain's Bars years earlier than otherwise. Fail and it would be a black mark that would really hurt.
He'd jumped at the challenge, grabbed the chance and now regretted it. Flying Fiasco was a B-60E, only three years old, yet she looked like an aircraft that had seen a decade of hard service. The paint was battered and scraped, the seats and worktables chipped and stained. Worse, not all the damage was wear and tear, some was deliberate, there was graffiti scratched into the paint and cigarette burns that looked intentional rather than careless. Hell, nobody was supposed to smoke on the flight deck anyway. But it wasn't just the mess. There was a sullen, resentful attitude in the cockpit. It had been there since he'd climbed in.
“OK guys, everybody find your station and we'll start to clean her up. Make notes of any damage and we'll try to patch it up. Chief, how did she get this way?”
“Ground crews tried to keep her neat Sir, but they gave up in the end. They can only do so much. They kept her running mechanically well, you know even after the abort yesterday, we couldn't find anything wrong with her. But her crew just didn't care. I'll get some cleaning stuff, Sir and a couple of men to start work on your station.”
“Chief, I think you misheard me. I said 'everybody find their station and start cleaning,' not 'everybody except me find their station and start cleaning.'“
The Chief grinned and O'Seven realized he'd just passed a little test.
“The cleaning supplies are good idea, can we also get the right paint so we can touch up all this damage? Another thing, that name outside, it isn't fitting for an aircraft. Can you remove it? That we would appreciate some help with.”
“Yes sir, that paint's hard to get off, but we'll strip it. Have you selected a new name for her?”
O'Seven thought for a moment. “How about Honey Pot? With some artwork of a sexy blonde rolling dice, five and two showing?” He reached into his wallet and took out a twenty “I understand that's the standing fee for nose art.”
The Chief was marveling. A young officer who didn't mind getting his hands dirty. One for the books. “No Sir, this one's on the house. And, Sir, I think I know something else that might help. If you'll excuse me.”
O'Seven got on his knees and crawled under the seat, there was debris under there, papers and just plain dirt and junk. Obviously, the previous crew, now on their way to Alaska, or so he'd heard, had just tossed trash around. That could explain some of the malfunctions. Silver foil from a cigarette package could play hell with electronics if it got to the wrong place. He heard steps behind him.
“Get me a bag for all this garbage and tell the guys to be on the look-out for debris that's found its way to places it shouldn't.”
“Yes Sir” said General Dedmon dryly.
“General, Sir, I'm sorry, I didn't, I thought you we, I mean, oh hell, sir. Please be merciful and kill me quickly.”
“At ease Lieutenant. Status?”
“Sir you wanted us to take her out in 24 hours. I request we stay for at least another 24 beyond that. I want to have a blitz on cleaning her and fixing her up. You know how it is Sir, once started, if we have to stop, we never quite get back in the swing again. Can we have 48 hours?”
“We're clearing the base in 72 hours. You'll have to be gone by then. You'll have to bring the ground crew back with you as well. I see they're scraping the old nose art off?”
“Yes Sir. Change the name, change the luck.”
Dedmon nodded. “Wise move. Good luck Lieutenant. After what happened yesterday, the B-60 is going to be around for quite a bit longer than we'd thought. And may be working a lot harder than we'd thought. Fly High Lieutenant.”
O'Seven had just started to relax when the Chief returned with four Thai girls, wearing coveralls, their hair tied back under scarves. “Lieutenant, these ladies have been helping keep the base and hangars clean, they've been cleared for working here. They'll clean the decks and bulkheads and the other traffic areas for you. They're paid from base funds, per diem and meals.”
“Meals Chief? Proper portions I hope, not left-overs.”
“Sir!” The chief appeared genuinely offended. “The ladies eat as guests of the Sergeant's Mess, Sir.”
Privately, the Chief gave O'Seven another tick of approval, most young officers wouldn't have thought to check that point.
“Buckets of hot water, soap, bleach and brushes coming up Sir. If your people lower the dirty water out of the nosewheel bay, we'll dump and refill for you. My people will be cleaning up the outside. Paint will be here this afternoon. Also, sir, we have some leather coming up, you can buy real good leather here. Once it arrives, the ladies will try and repair the seats as best they can for you. Oh yes, and sir? I got some coveralls for you and your crew to wear. This is going to be a long, dirty job.”
Lieutenant C.J. O'Seven started stuffing debris from around the aircraft commander's seat into a trash bag. Then he stopped and ran his hand along the instrument panel. “Don't worry Honey Pot” he whispered “We'll get you looking real nice again.”
Twinnge, On The Mandalay - Myitkyina Road, Burma
After almost two months of smelling rotting jungle and foul mud, the odor of freshly-laid tar was a blessed relief. The Indian Engineer battalion had reached them the night before, now they were just finishing putting blacktop on the reconstructed road to Mandalay. Two more companies of the battalion were hard at work building a new bridge over the Irawaddy.
Captain Golconda wouldn't be taking what was left of his convoy up to Myitkyina though, there wasn't enough of it to make the effort worthwhile. Two months of mortar fire and probing attacks had seen to that. Instead, his unit would become a guard detachment for the bridge that was now going up and would start to secure the area.
General Moses would have apoplexy if he read the operational guidance for that. He'd been a great one for taking the fight to the enemy, for offensive patrolling of the jungle to search for and destroy enemy units. All that had gone.
Now, the orders were, go to the villages, make friends with the local population, guard them against the guerrillas. Cut the guerrillas off from the villages, leave them in the jungle. If we control the people, the guerrillas can have the jungle, given time it will kill them all. Remember the golden rule. Fifteen percent of the people support you, 15 percent support the enemy, seventy percent just want to live in peace. So if your presence means that they will live in peace, those seventy percent will be your supporters.
His men had done well, Golconda thought, few could have done better. They'd held here for two months until relieved. Just like dozens of small outposts up and down the road. The Australian Expeditionary Force had won laurels in this campaign, even if the strategic concepts had been a bit misdirected.
There were lessons to be learned certainly, and faults to be put right. A new infantry rifle was one of them, it hadn't escaped his notice that as many of his men as had the chance had dumped their Lee-Enfields in favor of Chipanese Arisakas. But, there was much to be proud of as well. Much to be proud of.
Captain 's Bridge, INS Hood, Mumbai
Every so often, a Captain got orders that were a real pleasure to obey. This was one of them. A string of signals had arrived over the last few hours, all of them good. The first had told him that the orders to decommission and scrap Hood had been reversed. Then, a second set had instructed him to prepare his ship for sea, he was to take Hood to the United Kingdom and return her to the Royal Navy.
Apparently, the British were setting up a naval history center in Portsmouth and had requested that Hood be sold to them as the centerpiece. She'd be joining some other famous ships there, including Victory and Warrior. The request had come with a note from the Americans attached, stating that they would consider the donation of Hood to the new Naval History Center 'a friendly act'. They'd even offered one of their decommissioned battleships to India for breaking up so Indian industry wouldn't suffer from the loss of scrap steel.
Even better, he'd got permission to bring his wife Indira and their children along on the trip. He'd left Great Britain almost 20 year ago and had never been back since. It would be interesting to see what had become of the old country. By all accounts, Britain was recovering fast, the long years of privation following the war were fading away as prosperity returned. Idly, Ladone wondered what had happened to the family properties in England. He was the only surviving child, his brother and sister had both died in the war and he had heard nothing from the rest of the clan.
Still, he'd be able to show his wife his original country and give his children some idea of where the rest of their roots lay. They'd have a chance for good tour before they came back home. He had the money saved, Indian Navy salaries were far from princely but Indira came from a wealthy family and they had always had that to fall back on. He could go to a British pub again, see Trafalgar Square and the Tower of London where Halifax had been executed. And, he'd get a chance to have some sausages, the one thing he truly missed in India. Sometimes, Captain Jim Ladone had thought he would kill for a decent British sausage.
Petrograd, Russia
Brides always looked beautiful, they couldn't help it. The wedding dress had arrived safely and been altered to fit Klavdia Efremovna Kalugina. Now, she was standing next to Tony Evans in it. Tonight, a seamstress would adjust it again, and tomorrow, another bride would get to wear a proper wedding dress on her marriage day. Tony was in Marine Dress Blues and there was an honor guard for the couple. The decision to stay in Russia had been both hard and easy. Hard because he would be living in a strange country, easy because he'd be living there with Klavdia.
He'd already started a prospering business in Petrograd, it turned out that pizza was the perfect restaurant meal for a country that lacked money yet sought something exotic to take away the memory of two decades of privation. His restaurants in Petrograd were crowded and he'd be opening one in Moscow soon. To get the raw materials in from the countryside, he'd started a road transport business using surplus army trucks and that was prospering as well.
And he would be going home soon, for a visit, to introduce Klavdia to his home town and his family. Their children would be brought up as Kaluginas because there was nobody else in her family left to carry on the name but there were plenty of other Evans family members in South Carolina.
Their visit would coincide with the start of the deer-hunting season. In a state where the first day of deer-hunting season was a universal holiday, anybody who could shoot like Klavdia would be a local heroine within hours. Evans listened to the Eastern Orthodox wedding ceremony going on around him and decided he was a very fortunate man.
Ossetia, Georgia, Russia
A hundred kilometers to go, perhaps a little more. His column was still moving, his surviving army units on the outside, fighting off the attacks of Russian Army units, bandits and anything else that threatened, the civilians and supplies and everything that couldn't fight in the center. A whole country on the move, looking for sanctuary, looking for a place they could survive. Right in the middle of his column were his precious technicians, the ones with the expertise to design and build biological and chemical warfare production plants. They were his passport to sanctuary.
When he'd started, Model had found himself with a column of more than 70,000 people, twice as many as he'd expected. He had about half that number now, and that included some more that had joined him on the march out. The first hundred kilometers had been the worst, his attempt to divert Russian attention away from his break-out had failed. The Russian Sturmoviks, the Sukhois and the twin-engined Ilyushins, had slashed at his column day and night, ripping at it with their rockets and burning it with jellygas.
They'd made it to the mountains though, and in doing so traded one source of misery for another. The mountains had killed almost as many people as the Sturmoviks. Cold, rock falls, the impossibility of keeping the column properly screened on the narrow, twisting paths through the mountains. They'd made it through though, and debouched from the mountains just north of Tbilsi. Now, it was a straight march to the border with Iran.
The ground was smooth, the land rich and there was plenty of food. The Russian Frontal Aviation was the wrong side of the mountains and their Sturmoviks were out of range. Even better, word had spread from Iran, the column was protected by The Caliphate. As a result, the local people were helping them on their way south. They brought food, and medical attention and guides to show the best routes and avoid the worst traps. More importantly, they warned Model of any threats.
They were over the worst now. His people would survive. Despite the best efforts of the Russians, his people had survived. As he walked south, picking them up and laying them down, the age-old infantryman's step, Model laughed. He'd beaten the Russians again.
EPILOGUE
Ayuthia Road, Bangkok, Thailand - Six Months Later
Even at mid-day the roads were jammed and travel by car was a time-consuming process. Then again, there wasn't much choice. Still, the limousine had finally pulled away from the Palace, the agreements that had resolved the crisis, at last signed and in place. In the back, Sir Martyn Sharpe, Sir Eric Haohoa and the Ambassador relaxed, the strains of the last year lifted. The Ambassador opened the bar in the car and poured out drinks. Sir Martyn was looking out the window, enjoying the bustle of the city but Sir Eric was troubled. Eventually, he broke the companionable silence.
“What did it all mean Ambassador? What did we achieve? It seems so much effort, so much work, so many people killed and for what? A few small adjustments on a map? A few changes in the ways we do things?”
The Ambassador looked thoughtful. “On one level perhaps you are right. What we have achieved seems little perhaps. But things never are solved with a great flash and a magnificent stroke of genius. Only in novels does a wonderful achievement by the hero solve the problem and change everything for ever. It is rarely the case that a situation like this ends with an absolute victory. If we think on the implications of this, we can see why. If every such crisis was continued to an absolute end then they would be fought using absolute methods. We all have Germany to remind us of the terrible end that lies on that path.
“Instead, we resolve situations like this by increments. We agree that we can end a situation in a way that everybody can live with. We recognize a change in the balance of power by adjusting the outward appearance of that power. Changes are small, a little is achieved here, a little there. Some ground is lost here, a deadlock is the result there. And over the years, small things add up to a surge that cannot be stopped. History is bigger than any of us Sir Eric, the momentum of history is so great that one person can rarely make a great difference.
“That is why we call it The Great Game. At most we who play The Great Game can make only a small ripple in the passage of time, a minor deviation in the great river of events. We play our hands in The Great Game and in doing so we give the flow of history a nudge here, a small prod there and herd things a little in the direction we want to go. And that is what has happened now.
“Today, the Triple Alliance is a little stronger than it was. We have shed blood, our own and that of others, together, we have shed blood for each other. We have had our mettle tested and we have each seen we can depend upon the others. A potentially serious weakness in our organization and procedures has been revealed and dealt with. Our new Permanent Military Council will ensure that operations are properly planned and evaluated before our forces are committed. The Seer was right, our attempts to conduct military operations without clearly defined command authority was a recipe for disaster. We made a mistake and it has cost us dearly. We must make certain we do not repeat it.
“More good news is that a shaky part of our territory has been shored up and supported. Burma is more stable now as a result of our actions. Burma is now independent yet has become a member of ASEAN so is still a part of our alliance. That is the best of both worlds. Also, we have tied the Americans a little more to us. This crisis saw the Americans commit their military in our support. In doing so they forced the Chipanese to take a step back. The American B-60s broke the back of the Shan States Army and that buys us time to rebuild the country and bring it under a firm rule.
“As a result, Chipan is a little weaker than it was. There is more dissent between the Army and the Navy and they are having more trouble with the insurgencies in their country. The insurgency they face in Indo-China is growing with every month that passes and their pre-occupation with Burma means they have done little to counter it. The Vietnamese People's Liberation Army is well established now and rooting it out will be a major undertaking. Frankly, I doubt that Chipan can do it, their resources are more stretched and their commitments are greater than ever before.
“Most importantly, Masanobu Tsuji's plots have been exposed and he has lost face. Not for the first time I might add. His influence is weakened and that means that more reasonable people have a chance to make their voices heard. It is our understanding that more and more officers in the Chipanese armed forces are protesting against Masanobu Tsuji's grand designs and extravagant plots. They suggest it is time for Chipan to take stock of their capabilities and resources and scale their ambitions down to match their real abilities.
“But all of these developments are double-sided. The insurgency war in Burma has not ended, the Shan States Army was a reflection of real problems and real desires. They have been pushed back certainly, crippled, probably but not destroyed. They will have to go back to the initial stages of an insurgency and start over. Having learned lessons, they will do better next time.
“On our part, we now owe the Americans a serious debt and they will collect on it. Sooner I hope, rather than later, I do not wish to have that indebtedness hanging over our heads. The Chipanese have benefited from their failure also; if they listen to their voices that call for a cut-back of commitments and a reduction of imperial overstretch, they may yet come out of this stronger than they went in.
“The Americans have benefited also, they have shown once again that their bombers can go where they wish and do what they want. If anybody doubted that they could do so, such doubts have been dispelled. They have tested out some of their new doctrines and evaluated their new technologies. I tried to get The Seer to admit that was why they helped us but failed in that. It is a pity because admitting they had interests beyond supporting us would have reduced the debt we owe them.
“They have benefited politically as well. The tragic accident, and it really was an accident, there is no doubt of that, which befell John F Kennedy has given President LeMay a second term in office.” She paused slightly, she know Sir Eric believed she had been responsible for Kennedy's death even though she had not, it really had been a genuine accident, driving too fast on a wet road. “By the time of the next American election, the momentum of American policy will be so set that no radical changes will be possible. That is to the benefit of us all, of course. The one thing the world does not need now is a weak-willed or unstable America.
“America has done something else that is also very important for them. There were those who believed that America would only fight with nuclear weapons so if they could create a situation where such weapons could not be used, then America would be helpless. That was the calculation that lay at the heart of Masanobu Tsuji's planning. He attempted to use an insurgency to create a situation where we could be attacked without inviting American reprisals.
“For as long as the situation remained an insurgency, the Americans stayed uninvolved but when the Chipanese escalated the situation to involve their regular forces, the Americans acted. First they warned off the Chipanese Navy, then they destroyed the Chipanese regular units around Myitkyina. By using conventional rather than nuclear weapons on the Shan States Army, they demonstrated to the world that, while destroying enemies with nuclear weapons was their preferred option, they would use other solutions if the situation demanded. But their use of nuclear air-to-air missiles demonstrated that attacking SAC always brings about a nuclear response and that when SAC is around, nuclear weapons are always on the table as a viable threat.
“'The big winner over the last year has been Russia of course. They have peace now for the first time in almost twenty years. They now have their territory back under their own control yet their victory is also a matter of shading and degree. Their economy is wrecked, their country needs decades to rebuild and their casualties are beyond counting. Life will be hard in Russia for decades yet that too is a matter of degree. For where there is such hardship and such great tasks, there are also great opportunities for those with the wisdom to see them and the strength to take them. I think Russia will be the stronger for this ordeal but that strength will not be seen in your lifetimes.
“Even the military results are shaded. Field Marshal Model is leading his people out to the south, it is a military achievement that few other commanders could equal. Model may be a most hateful person but he is one hell of a fighting soldier. And he has left the Russians with the problem of southern provinces bubbling over with war and rebellion.
“'Our real enemy has been exposed also. The Russians releasing their report on the rise of The Caliphate have done us all a great service and we owe them a debt of honor that we must repay. The view The Caliphate has of the world, the kind of society they wish to introduce and their attitude to everybody who does not share their beliefs are all deeply disturbing. It is indeed most fortunate that we have been warned of the danger The Caliphate poses years before their emergence causes a situation that will be critical.
“So now we have time to plan, to make our first moves and to start the long process of deflecting history in our favor. The extra time the Russians have given us means we can plan properly and we can make small changes now that will bear great fruit in years to come. These will have more time to bring about their effects and will remove the need to make larger and more dangerous changes later. This must be our priority for the next few years, The Caliphate must not be allowed to grow in strength. They are being dealt their hand in The Great Game now and our part of the Game is to guess what cards they hold and work out how they will play them.
“Sir Eric, we have gained much this year. A shade here, a shade there, but adding up to a significant gain for us. One that will be apparent when the histories are written. This time, we have played our hand in The Great Game well and the balance of forces in the world has shifted in our favor. But in truth nobody has finally won or finally lost. Another hand in The Great Game is being dealt and we must wait to see what the cards will hold for us. The Great Game never ends, my friends, it existed before we were ever born and will go on long after you are dead.
“Sir Eric, Sir Martyn, may I make a suggestion? We are in the courtyard of the Supreme Command Headquarters Building now. Although being appointed Chairman of our Permanent Military Council is a great honor, it means I have work that cannot wait. May I suggest you visit our National Museum? It has many treasures and exhibits of life in the past here. Few visitors to our country go there so the material on the exhibits is in our language only but the guides will be happy to help you and speak about what you see.”
“Why thank you Ma'am, that sounds a delightful way to spend the afternoon.”
The Ambassador got out of the car and spoke quickly to the driver before vanishing into the building. The official limousine drove a few yards and stopped outside the Museum. Inside, it was cool and peaceful, the air filled with the slight yet unmistakable odor of very old things carefully preserved. The two visitors lost track of time wandering around looking at the range of displays.
Unlike most museums, it didn't concentrate on the lives of the wealthy and powerful but also contained exhibits of the life of commoners, of the tools the craftsmen used, the clothes they wore and how they passed the time when their labors were completed. At each point, somebody would step forward and quietly explain what was being shown and fill them in on the background to the exhibit. The guides were students who were doing research work at the museum and helping out visitors was a secondary role for them. As a result, they lacked the smooth patter of professional guides but made up for it by being genuinely interested in their subjects and pleased to share knowledge with other people who shared that interest.
As the visitors went around the building they were absorbed by a richness of a history they had hardly known existed. The museum was laid out in a grid so that, walking around one way, visitors were gently lead through all the different aspects of life at varying points in the country's history. By changing direction they could follow the development of a single aspect of society as it changed through the centuries. They ended in an art gallery, full of paintings of Kings and Queens and courtiers. They varied in quality but some were extraordinarily lifelike, so much so that the figures seemed to leap off the canvas and take possession of the room.
“Eric, look at this.” Sir Martyn's voice was urgent. Sir Eric joined him in front of a large painting, one of the largest in the display. In common with all the others, it was centered around the King and Queen, sitting in the middle, the noblemen and noblewomen of the court gathered beneath them. This painting was different though, for standing behind the King's Throne was a woman, her hand on the back of the throne itself. The symbology of the picture was overpowering, clearly showing the importance and status of the woman.
As Sir Eric looked closely he realized it was the Ambassador. The painter had caught her appearance perfectly, somehow even managing to suggest that, despite the expression on her face, nobody could possibly know what she was thinking. The hands, the stance, the painter had caught everything. The picture was almost frighteningly lifelike, so much so that Sir Eric felt if he spoke to the picture, he would hear a reply from the familiar contralto voice.
“I don't recognize the King, it must be King Ananda. He died in 1946. What a beautiful painting.”
“Can I help you sirs?” One of the guides had seen their interest in the picture and come to speak with them.
“We were just admiring this superb painting, and the lady in the background.”
“Ah sir, that is the King's Personal Ambassador, a very famous person in our country. Many are the tales told of her brilliant achievements as a soldier and as a diplomat. She is an inspiration to all the women of our country.”
“Excuse my ignorance but I do not recognize His Most Gracious Majesty in this picture. Is it King Ananda?”
The girl broke out laughing, the sound echoing the notes of wind-chimes in a gentle evening breeze. “Excuse me sir, but no. That is King Ramkhamhaeng. This painting is more than three hundred years old.”
THE END
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