The Long Hard Road

Chapter Twenty-One: Surging Forward

Fort Powell

Nevada, USA

1^st May 1942

The soldiers had been informed that there would be a special announcement at 1000hrs, once they were awake and completed their morning drills. Captain Jackie Robinson, who had been practicing small-group armoured tactics in the VR machine, was relieved; the Canadian officer had been winning the detailed computer contest, entitled Sudden Strike V.

“We call this a draw, right?” He asked, as Captain Pole and himself saved the game in the computer’s memory and headed off to the parade ground. It was 0950; the MPs would take special note of anyone who was late. Black or white, they had power over all the troopers, even a captain of an armoured unit. General Stillwell might be colour-blind – and he swore blind that they were easier to teach than Chinamen – but he wouldn’t overlook tardiness.

“Fuck you,” Captain Pole replied mockingly. “I had your forces bracketed, Captain; your forces would have died.”

“Maybe I had sappers working on laying mines under your forces,” Robinson joked back. “Maybe your tanks would have gone up in smoke.”

Captain Pole chuckled mockingly again. Robinson sighed; the good captain had a point. Learning to coordinate the tanks and the infantry, particularly when the Germans had their little rocket-launcher weapons, was important, but it was also tricky. The 5^th American Armoured Division’s attempts to drill with the infantry and National Guard units nearby had been halting, at best.

“And it won’t be anything like as easy in the field,” he said. On the practice grounds, they had many advantages, but in the field they might have to face the enemy, who would have plans far more complex than those of an Artificial Intelligence Program, whatever that was. It had taken him nearly a week to understand that it wasn’t a genuine way of creating life, but a random program designed to react optimally to a given situation.

He smiled. Ironically, realising that the computer didn’t ‘cheat’ by learning when his forces were – where a human would have been certain to do so if he had the opportunity – had gone a long way towards convincing him that the computer wasn’t intelligent.

“Probably not,” Captain Pole agreed, as they entered the main field. Thousands of soldiers were already lining up, gathering into an undisciplined group, rather than by section. Tankers rubbed shoulders with infantry, who smiled at Marines and medical corpsmen.

“I’m surprised we haven’t had a riot,” he observed. Inter-service rivalry was a big thing at Camp Powell; the army men clashed constantly with the navy men, who were supposed to take the ground for the army to land on. They had had some of their best units pulled out for a mission, one that even Stillwell didn’t know anything about.

“Apparently, in the future, we are going to unite our forces into one military force,” Captain Pole said. “That sounds like a really bad idea to me.”

“Me too,” Robinson said. He would have said more, except that the bugle blew for attention. He stood to attention as General Stillwell stood on the small stage, designed for reviews. He smiled as he remembered clanking his Franks Tank past the stage, with two generals watching.

“We have received our orders,” Stillwell said. His parade-ground voice echoed out among the recruits. A rustle of excitement followed them. “Over this coming week, we will be loaded onboard ships and surged forward to Britain.”

The cheers overwhelmed his voice for a long few minutes. Robinson, who had seen combat, if not the combat in a tank, cheered as loudly as the others. “We will perform our final training exercises there, and then we will land in France and march to Berlin,” Stillwell shouted. There were more cheers. “We’ll hang Adolf Hitler from a sour apple tree!”

The song was picked up by the soldiers, who sang at great volume, if not tunefully. No one cared that Hitler was dead; they all knew that his evil lived on.

The White House

Washington DC, USA

1^st May 1942

Ambassador King smiled at his famous namesake, Admiral King, as he took his seat. The Admiral, who was well known for hating everyone, scowled back at him. His sheaf of maps and diagrams – he didn’t trust emails – hung under his arm. He saluted President Truman, and began his presentation, regardless of the others in the room.

“We have prepared the Pacific Fleet for its sail,” he said bluntly. His voice chopped through sentences like a knife through carrots. He unrolled the map and gestured for an unfortunate ensign to roll it out on the big table. “As you are aware, the fleet is currently under the command of Admiral Halsey and concentrated at Pearl Harbour. Six aircraft carriers, six battleships and nearly two dozen smaller warships, and twenty of the new transports. The carrier Yorktown, by the way, is acting as a transport for the 1^st Marine Division, which has been working with helicopters in Norway.

”The objective, of course, is Vladivostok,” he continued. “Now that we are seeing closer cooperation between the Axis powers, we can expect that Stalin will allow the Japanese to use their bases, if not send his submarines out to raid the Philippines. The plan is basically simple; the Marines will land and secure a beachhead, after which we will land the troops and march on the port.”

He pulled out a folder of orbital photographs. “British reconnaissance satellites” – his face twisted in a grimace of distaste – “and our own have confirmed the existence of several dozen slave labour camps, or gulags, as they’re called in the motherland. A number of them are close to the port; we believe they’re used for slave labour. The plan calls for liberating them at once and recruiting some of them for an advance across Russia.”

Eisenhower coughed. King knew that it was the first time he’d heard that part of the plan. It was the sort of plan the late unlamented MacArthur would have thought up.

“Admiral, with all due respect, the terrain of Russia is not suited to such an offensive,” he said.

Admiral King nodded. “I am aware of that and so is the Marine commander,” he said. “Our main mission will be to secure the port and the resource-rich fields that the Russians have been trying to develop in the last year. If Stalin can be induced to think that we intend to head westwards, so much the better.”

Truman held up a hand. “The pros and cons of this have been debated,” he said. “Unfortunately, Admiral, you have to be careful at handling the Japanese. We cannot, of course, inform them of the plan, and yet we cannot risk having them attack the fleet as it passes close to the Japanese islands.”

“We will keep a low profile,” King said. Ambassador King knew that the very thought of keeping a low profile was anthemia to Admiral King. “We can also ask the British to lay on a diversionary attack into Japanese waters, if necessary.”

“The mission is approved,” Truman said. “In the long-term, we may end up with a new territory, or we may end up returning the port to Russia. For the short term, however, we will put a great deal of pressure on Stalin. Ike?”

Eisenhower, who was comfortable with PowerPoint displays, held up a remote control. “At the moment, the Germans have withdrawn almost completely from Sweden,” he said. “Although they hold out in a number of tiny outposts, none of them have any real chance at threatening us. The real problem remains the Soviet Union, and the Russians are digging in. Satellite pictures reveal that they have dispatched even more combat units to Finland, which we assume will move on to Sweden, and several NKVD outfits as stiffeners.

“General Patton believes that attempting to engage the Soviets at the moment would be a stupid butting of heads,” he continued. “This is unusual for Patton, but sustaining an offensive against the Soviets would be very difficult.” He glanced sharply at Admiral King. “He raised a right howl about losing the Marines.”

“This from an army man,” Admiral King muttered.

Truman tapped the table sharply. “Gentlemen, please,” he said. “Let us have no fighting; this is, after all, a council of war. Ike?”

Eisenhower smiled. “It took us nearly five months of rebuilding the Norwegian transportation system to sustain the offensive that has nearly concluded,” he said. “While we can launch attacks against the Soviets, I do not believe that we can hammer our way to Finland, and then into Russia, at the moment. Patton believes that we should concentrate on seizing Europe and on slipping supplies to the Finns.”

He altered the map again. “The surge deployment of five front-line infantry and ten front-line armoured divisions is planned to start tomorrow,” he said. “With the massive new fleet of transport ships, we should be able to get all units into Britain – along with their supporting units – within two to three weeks. The plan is to build up very rapidly in Britain, and then invade.”

He altered the map. “Assuming a successful invasion, we would be able to funnel the new divisions into the attack as soon as they came into service,” he said. “The official plan is to land in France, secure a bridgehead, and then head to Paris, and then Berlin.” He looked around the room. “The unofficial plan is a British plan,” he said. “Both their greatest commanding general, the one who just won in Iran, and Patton believe that it’s possible. I must inform you that this is a secret; it must not get out, or the invasion will become impossible.

“The official target is the Netherlands,” he said, adjusting the map. “The British intend to concentrate their Special Forces personnel, and hit the country with considerable force, taking the docks before the Germans can destroy them. A secondary plan involves hitting Wilhelmshaven, although that would mean that there would be no aid from resistance forces at all. Once we get a bridgehead, we will strike for Hamburg and Wilhelmshaven – and then march directly to Berlin.”

Truman stood. “I don’t have to remind you, I hope, that this is a secret,” he said. “All of the planning is devised around invading France; that’s the plan we hope that the Germans will pick up on. If anyone leaks this plan, for any reason at all, they will have their careers broken and charges of treason will be filed against them.”

There was a long uncomfortable pause. “Thank you all for coming,” Truman said. “Ambassador, stay behind a moment.”

The room emptied of its personnel. King stood and took a closer seat. “Mr President?”

Truman smiled tiredly. “Can the British pull this off?”

“If nothing goes wrong, then yes,” King said. “Clearing the docks is a task for Special Forces, and they have the best from 2015. The only question mark is how quickly the Germans can react.”

Truman nodded. “And Iran,” he mused. “They’ve set up one of their provisional governments there.”

“If the place holds together,” King said. He smiled. “Hating Iran was something of a national sport in my time.”

“I want some influence there,” Truman said. “What do you think about this GODS plan?”

“Someone has a sense of humour,” King said wryly. “A Grand Organisation of Democratic States indeed.”

“Congress was debating it last night,” Truman said. “So far, I’ve been too busy to comment on it. Should we join?”

King hesitated. “There are three parts to it,” he said. “It’s a debating forum for democracies only, it’s a pledge to commit military force to prevent weapons of mass destruction from falling into the hands of dictatorships, and it’s an agreement to invest to spread democracy. Personally, I’m in favour.”

“You were very anti-UN,” Truman said. “What brought about this change?”

“This… organisation won’t have the US constrained,” King said. “If funded properly, with proper oversight – I believe that Hanover intends to form a House of Commons Oversight Committee on the subject – it might work, particularly spreading democracy around the world.”

Truman smiled. “Hundreds of little dictators might take offence,” he said.

“That’s what went wrong with the first UN,” King said. “If we invest, we will build up a reserve of gratitude, to say nothing of markets. If we don’t, the British will do it and win the prize.”

Safe House

Washington DC, USA

1^st May 1942

Nikolaus Ritter stepped inside the Safe House and removed his hat with a grand gesture. The message from Hoover had been unusually specific; it had demanded an immediate meeting with him. He’d half-considered ignoring the message, but the demands from Berlin for additional information was becoming so strident that he was starting to worry for his life.

“Good evening, Mr Hoover,” he said, taking a chair uninvited. “Your message said that it was urgent.”

Hoover smiled at him. Ritter recognised the desire for revenge within his smile. “Yes,” he said. “I have obtained information of great value, through a source in Congressman Jenkins’ office.” He snickered. “His assistant has large debts and is trading information to pay them off.”

Ritter nodded slowly. “Indeed,” he said. “What’s so important that you have to summon me?”

“Two details,” Hoover said, brimming with pride. “The Allies – us led into battle by the British – are planning to invade Europe, and Russia.”

Ritter lifted an eyebrow. The Abwehr had been very insistent on gaining any information on the Allies plans for invasion. Hoover might well be able to find them out, but would he tell the truth? He might want to embarrass Truman – a major Allied defeat would do that – or he might want to worm his way back into the good graces of Washington, which assisting an Allied victory might accomplish.

Fat chance, he thought wryly.

“There are two plans,” Hoover said. “The first one is to land an invasion force at Vladivostok and…”

Ritter gaped at him. It sounded like madness… and then he remembered that the Americans had managed something similar in their invasion of Norway. Certainly they had the ability to launch an invasion force right across the Pacific into Stalin’s back yard – the world was a sphere, after all.

“That plan is to be launched within two weeks at most,” Hoover said. “Regardless of the outcome, an invasion of France itself is planned for one month from now, landing directly in Normandy. Once they’ve managed to free Paris, they will head on into Germany.”

Ritter frowned. “Are you certain of your source?” He asked. “Is it not possible that it could be elaborate misinformation?”

Hoover shook his head. “It’s only known to congressmen within the oversight committees and their assistants,” he said. “So far, they’re planning to start moving troops to England now, and build up there.”

“Wonderful,” Ritter said. “What do you want in exchange for that little titbit?”

“Revenge,” Hoover said. His eyes glittered. Ritter realised suddenly that Hoover had gone off the deep end. “I want some of your people to kill that nigger ambassador and Truman the arch-traitor.”

“Because you can influence, if not control, his most likely replacement,” Ritter guessed. “Very well, Mr Hoover, we will see what we can do.”

Hoover had kept a small number of the electronic surveillance devices that Jim Oliver had obtained for him, stockpiling them around Washington in various locations for a rainy day. After the Wet Firecracker Rebellion, most of them had been rounded up, but some had remained hidden – until one of them transmitted a signal to Oliver’s headquarters in Washington.

Oliver had been astonished, but had followed up quickly with some of his agents. Moving a locator device around Washington and hunting for the other devices had been simple; they were designed to emit a pulse in response to a questing signal. It had been one of the reasons that they had been abandoned for government work.

“That’s Hoover,” he said, as the results came in. Activating all of the devices at long range had been tricky, but fortunately Hoover didn’t know enough to alter their program architecture. There was no question about the voice – any of the voices.

“The bastard is going to betray us to the Germans,” he said, with genuine astonishment. He chuckled at himself – knowing that some people would accuse him of hypocrisy – and paused to check the location. He scowled, wondering what to do. Informing the British or the Americans would reveal his own involvement with Hoover, something that would be bad for his life and business.

His mind considered rapidly. If Ritter was using Hoover as an intelligence source, there would be no way to ensure that information was filtered properly, let alone be changed upon requirement. Worse, Hoover might succeed in his mad plan – it could hardly be more of a flop than the last one – and that would be worse for business. He scowled, and started to place a phone call, before stopping himself. Asking anyone for help went against his nature.

If I could trust C Section, he though, and knew that he couldn’t. Asking the British Intelligence Service to handle the affair would be dangerous; Hanover simply didn’t need him so much. No, there was only one way to do it; he would have to take out Hoover himself, along with all the equipment. He started to form a plan and stopped. Something had just occurred to him.

“They know about the bugs and they don’t know that I was involved,” he exulted, heedless of who might hear. Chuckling with relief, he lifted a phone and placed a call. It was a long time before it was answered, even though he had a priority line. “Good evening, Ambassador King,” he said, when it was answered. “I have a problem that needs to be discussed with you.”

He waited for King’s tired swearword barrage to end. It was late in the evening. “I’ve found our old friend, Hoover,” he said. It was amazing how quickly King woke up. “Yes, I thought that might interest you,” he said. “Meeting tomorrow in your embassy?”

He smiled as King agreed. “I’ll be there at ten,” he said. “Goodnight.”