The Long Hard Road

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Closing Doors

The White House

Washington DC, USA

11^th May 1942

President Truman drew in a breath as he studied the situation map. The tiny amount of ground held by American forces was expanding, he knew – soon it would have enveloped Vladivostok – but the cost had been awesome. Nearly three thousand Americans had met their deaths during the Russian counterattack – and that didn’t count the Navy losses.

“They knew we were coming,” General Vandegrift had said, and Truman saw no reason to disbelieve him. The Russians had prepared well for the defence; their only mistake seemed to have been to have assumed that the Americans would have tried to land directly into Vladivostok, giving the Marines just enough time to set up their defences. If the Russians had begun their counterattack as they had planned – within moments of the invasion force landing – the Marines would have been annihilated.

“Congress is howling like a stuck pig,” he commented. The Cabinet said nothing. “Can we still take Vladivostok?”

“Yes,” General Bradley said firmly. “The expansion is proceeding reasonably well now; the anti-tank rockets have proven to be a blessing. The new shells for the light Marine tanks have been very destructive; our tanks are faster than theirs and can kill them quicker than they can kill us.”

“Our supply lines are still being threatened by the Japanese,” Truman said. The Japanese attack had come as a total shock to everyone; no one had expected the Japanese to risk adding a second enemy to their list when they were clearly losing the war. “Can we punch through?”

All eyes turned to Admiral King, who scowled at them all. “Mr President, the Japanese do not have any carriers left, and they only have one battleship. This new tactic of ramming our ships is unpleasant, but we’ve sent the new radar-guided destroyers up to escort our units and the British have provided escorts as well. As long as we are careful, we can keep clear of the Japanese aircraft and mow them out of the skies should they dare to attack us.”

“And we’ve bombed them?” Truman asked. “We’re at war?”

Bradley nodded grimly. “We used the B-29’s on the Philippines to bomb them in revenge,” he said. “We don’t understand what promoted the attack.”

“Perhaps they thought that Wild Bull was British,” General Palter said. The future American would never be allowed to command in action again; he knew too much. As an officer of the USAF – which didn’t exist yet and never would if the Army and the Navy had their way – no one was quite certain what to do with him. “They might just have attacked us by accident.”

“They’re allied to Uncle Joe Stalin,” Bradley said. “I think its pretty clear that they intended to fight the war against us as well, no matter how crazy that seems.”

Truman sighed. He knew that the British weren’t eager to launch a major invasion of Japan and he couldn’t fault them, not after the near-defeat at Vladivostok. On the other hand, the war had suddenly expanded, and there seemed to be no explanation for it.

“Did the Japanese Ambassador have anything to say?” He asked finally. “Like a declaration of war?”

Henry Lewis Stimson, Secretary of War, shook his head. “Cordell Hull went to their Embassy yesterday,” he said. “They didn’t have the slightest idea that anything was up. None of our communication interceptions suggested that… this would happen.” He snorted. “They want to stay here,” he said. “They don’t want to face something back home.”

“Odd,” Truman said. He dismissed the thought. “What about the preparations for Europe, then?”

“We’re moving along the proper timescale,” Stimson said. “We can make the launch date.”

Truman nodded. “And the British have accepted our overall commander, with one of theirs in the main command role,” he said. “That should be good for us, whatever the outcome.”

“Politically, it would be good for us either way,” Bradley said. Truman, who knew that Bradley was a political general as well as a capable combat commander, nodded. A win would be credited to Eisenhower; a defeat could be blamed on Flynn. “However, the opening moves of the invasion would be a British operation. The potential for total disaster is low.”

Truman nodded. The British had war-gamed the entire battle. At worst, if the opening stages failed, only the first strike force – three thousand men – would be lost. A partial success – assuming that the Germans managed to bottle them up – could be developed into a real offensive or as an abscess on the German behind, depending on the entire situation.

He glanced up at Stimson. “What about the bombing offensive?”

“It’s been a partial success,” Stimson admitted. “The Germans have been careful about attempting to engage us, now that we’ve linked the bomber force’s defence weapons into the radar’s they carry. However, the Germans have been having some limited success at homing in on the radar, so…

“Unfortunately, they have not succeeded in crippling Germany,” he continued. “The Germans have been deploying more of their anti-aircraft rockets and radar-guided guns, hammering back at us. However, I can safely say that they think we’re concentrating on France.”

Truman looked around the room. “We, Cordell, and a handful of people in Britain are the only ones who know about the real target,” he said. He knew that he was repeating himself; he didn’t care. “That has to remain a secret.”

Stimson scowled. “I must remind you of General Stillwell’s comments on the subject,” he said. “Without knowing the real target, there is a limit to how much training we can do.”

“And if the Germans move several divisions and park them on top of the landing zone, we lose our best chance to end the war this year,” Truman replied. “Secrecy is of the essence.”

Ambassador King cleared his throat. “What about the racial mix-up of the divisions moving to Britain?”

Stimson gave him a cross look. “Roughly one-fourth black,” he said. “Relations have been surprisingly peaceful; the training schedule was devised by Stillwell to force them to work together or fail. As to how well they’ll hold up in combat… well, we’ll see.”

Truman nodded. “Before we close, what about the news from General Groves?”

Stimson smiled. “We will have a working model of an atomic device within a month,” he said. “The device, code-named Shockwave, will be ready for deployment approximately a week after the invasion of Europe.”

Ambassador King lifted an eyebrow. “Are you not going to test it?”

“It’s the same design as was used in the original history, according to Groves,” Stimson said. “The British might be unwilling to use their most terrible weapons, but are we?”

Future Embassy

Washington DC, USA

11^th May 1942

Ambassador King had never lied to the President before. When Truman had asked him if there had been any further news about Hoover – neither the OSS nor the FBI having been able to find any trace of him – he’d said that there had been no sign of him. He’d lied; Oliver’s tip-off had revealed Hoover’s hiding place, the problem was to decide what to do with him.

“As I see it, we have to take him into custody,” he explained. The other members of his little group – General Palter and Captain Robinson – blinked in unison. The aging former base commander and the former Marine made an odd contrast. “We need the files he has stashed away.”

“For further influencing politics,” Robinson said. “A question; how does that make us any better than him?”

It was a good question, King conceded. Unfortunately, the world they’d grown up in was gone, destroyed by the Transition. Hoover, who didn’t know when to give up, was worming his way back into power. He’d been the one who’d tipped off the Germans to the Vladivostok invasion – and no one knew if he might be able to influence someone who knew the real target of the coming invasion.

“It doesn’t,” he said frankly. “However, we know what the nation went through, just to reach the semblance of equality we had in 2015; we know the race violence, we know the inner cities, we know how people with our colour were bribed into supporting very bad policies.”

“Speaking as someone with white skin, we do have other concerns,” Palter injected dryly. “Gun control, the abortion movement… we can reshape America with that sort of power.”

Robinson nodded grimly. “I assume that we cannot ask the local police for assistance,” he said. “Just us, then?”

“Just your small team, yes,” King said. He’d thought about asking Oliver for help, but had decided against it; he didn’t know what Oliver’s involvement with the entire matter actually was. “I assume that the site has been under observation?”

Robinson smiled. “Only his boyfriend and the housekeeper, Mrs Cosmopolitan, have been going in and out,” he said. “Captain Bosco has been keeping watch; the only occupant half the time is Hoover himself.”

King nodded. “Let’s roll,” he said. “We move in, arrest the housekeeper and Hoover himself, get our hands on the files and… well, we can dump him somewhere.”

“Why now?” Palter asked. “He has provided the Germans with the fake information.”

“And how long will it be before they discover the truth?” King asked. “We have to move now, quickly. If they suspect, the worst that will happen is that they won’t know exactly where the invasion is coming in to land.”

He scowled as the small team headed for their car. It wasn’t a brilliant plan, but it was the best that they could do, under the circumstances.

Safe House

Washington DC, USA

11^th May 1942

Captain Bosco was hidden inside a house opposite Hoover’s, having spent the better part of a day rigging up surveillance sensors under cover of darkness and the uniform of a roof-repair man. He checked the sensors one last time before coming to meet General Palter; the housekeeper had gone out ten minutes ago. From the bug he’d attached to her car – one of the latest models – she was on the other side of Washington.

“She’s something in the city, or more accurately related to something in the city,” he’d explained, having solved the problem of why she had the car in the first place. The surveillance equipment Ambassador King had obtained – he didn’t know where he might have gotten his hands on prohibited technology – was perfect for the task at hand.

“Hopefully, she’ll stay away long enough for us to do this,” Palter said. “Can I bring the team in?”

Bosco checked the other little devices he’d scattered around. “All of the telephone lines go through a single point,” he said. “Call me when you’re ready and I’ll cut them all off with the flick of a switch.”

Palter nodded. “What about gay-boy Tolson?”

“I don’t know,” Bosco said. “He was last here two days ago. I think he might have left Washington; the bug on his car hasn’t re-entered my range.”

“Good thinking,” Palter said. “Get ready to move on my command.”

Ambassador King’s face was well known, too well known even in a region that had people who’d never seen a black man and believed them to be legends, or lies told to explain how evil people from down south were. He stayed back as the two former Marines headed up the driveway to the door, and neatly picked the lock, stepping inside with weapons drawn. Robinson, his face half-hidden by a hood, followed them.

“Come on inside,” he said, after a long moment. “The water’s fine.”

King snorted and followed him, stepping into a simple townhouse. It wasn’t very large, and it had tacky decorations on the walls, but it was comfortable. The smell of cigarettes hung in the air, one of the worst tobacco blends. He made a mental note to propose legislation against tobacco firms, before stepping into the cellar.

“Good evening, Mr Hoover,” he said, his voice firm. All of the experience in dealing with two Presidents and countless foreign ambassadors kept his voice calm. Hoover had been living in a dump, but he’d clearly been trying to clean up his act. An exercise machine – a modern exercise machine – sat against one wall; a computer was placed precariously on a table.

Hoover made an incoherent sound. “It’s over,” King said. “You betrayed your country in the worst way possible. What did the Nazi officer offer you?”

“I have friends and allies,” Hanover snapped. His voice was dull; he hadn’t used it properly for a long time. Just for a moment, King had an inkling of what his life must have been like, to have had his career ruined by whispers from the future. “You won’t get away with this.”

King’s flicker of sympathy faded grimly into cold anger. “You betrayed the entire country,” he said. “What’s your excuse?”

“I would have taken us back into isolation,” Hoover said. “We would have fixed the country while the Germans and the British battered one another into nothing. Your people would have been exterminated, Ambassador from a shadow world…”

King shook his head sadly. “You’re mad,” he said, almost gently. “You’ve been reduced to living in squalor, instead of that famous restaurant you used to enjoy. No wonder you’ve lost your mind, or do you think you could have run America from this room?”

“I would have saved America,” Hoover said. “Is it worth it, Ambassador?”

“You’re delusional,” King said coldly. He was riding a torrent of emotion. Pity. Shame. Anger. Amusement. How could he describe it to himself? “You fell, Hoover, you gambled and you lost. What right had you to seek to decide America’s future?”

“You do the same thing,” Hoover said. “What are you going to do with me?”

Robinson spoke, his voice cold and clear. “We’re going to take you somewhere safe,” he said. “Once you’re there, you will tell us all of your secrets.”

“No,” Hoover said. His smile might have been intended to be sly. “I know all of my secrets and I won’t tell you any of them.”

“Bring him,” Robinson said. “Ambassador, are you all right?”

“It’s always hard to gaze into the face of a defeated enemy,” King said. He stared around the room. “We’ll have to destroy this place, of course.”

Robinson nodded. He brought out his bag and started to unload thermal grenades. “We won, and it feels more as if we lost,” he said. “Does that happen a lot?”

“To lose is to win, and to win is to lose,” King quoted. It was then that the shooting started.

The man on the motorcycle was impressed with his new toys, impressed enough to perform a long-term job for his master. The instructions had been simple; wait in a building for the orders, watch the cameras carefully… and when a certain man leaves the house, kill him.

It hadn’t taken him long to realise that the raid on the house was the moment for action. Taking the mobile system with him and sealing the house for his later residence, he mounted his motorcycle and rode off, heading through Washington to the correct location, one specified by his master. It was the only place that he would be unobserved, the only place where there would be no record of him.

Now, he thought, and powered up the bike. A final check showed three men leaving the house, two of them escorting a third man who was very clearly Hoover. He rode onto the street, holding the special weapon in his hand, and lifted it as soon as he entered range. A quick burst of fire and Hoover fell backwards, four bullets blasting through his head. His escorts dived for cover – too stunned to think of shooting back – and the assassin rode on, taking shortcuts that few people would dare to take.

Success, he thought, and he picked up his mobile phone to make the call. “I got him,” he said.

“Well done,” said the voice on the end. Seconds later, the mobile phone exploded, along with the mobile receiver, utterly destroying the motorbike and all proof of the existence of the assassin. He died without ever knowing what had happened to him.

“Stay here,” Robinson snapped, lifting his weapon and running up the stairs. Leaving King behind, he moved as quickly as he could, but he was too late. Hoover and one of his people were lying there, dying.

“Clyde,” Hoover breathed, and died. Robinson checked his old friend, but it was clear that the bullets had killed him. They hadn’t worn body armour; they hadn’t thought that it would be needed.

“Who the hell was that?” He snapped. He picked up his phone. “Bosco? Talk to me!”

“I saw, sir,” Bosco said. “I didn’t get a good look at him. He was wearing a helmet, sir; there’s no point in trying to trace him.”

“Fuck,” Robinson swore. “Ambassador, Hoover’s dead.”

King stumbled up from the cellar. “Who could have wanted him dead and known that we were here?” He asked. “Who?”

“It could have been someone just looking out for Hoover,” Robinson suggested. “It might even have been Tolson, wanting to be rid of him.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter now,” he said. “We have to get out of here.”

The story on the Internet was stunning, but there were enough accurate details to prove that it was valid, particularly to Clyde Tolson. Hidden under the name of Clive Toadstool – a name that drew laughs, but no particular attention – he watched the television as the first camera crews reached the site, called by an anonymous phone call. Hoover’s body was taken to the city morgue, even as his house burnt to the ground. The police chief, a new appointee and one unused to interviews, spoke at length about the need to catch Tolson and unravel the rest of Hoover’s web.

“Bastard,” Tolson commented. He didn’t know how to feel; to be sad at the death of the man he had worshipped, or to be pleased at finally being free. They had argued – badly – during their time underground; how the mighty had fallen.

He studied the brochure again. Half an hour later, he presented himself at the South African Emigration Office, which had been doing good business lately. Far too many people who had been involved with the losing side of the Wet Firecracker Rebellion had gone though its doors, hoping to escape before the past caught up with them.

He smiled as the pretty assistant collected his papers and checked through them for any problems. After all the time he’d spent doing the bidding of Hoover, he was finally free.