Weapons of Choice — Axis Of Time Book I

by John Birmingham

  If Brasch expected Yamamoto to be angered by the response, the great bull-necked warrior disappointed him by merely nodding. “And you Hidaka, what say you?”

  Hidaka glanced at Brasch, with frustration written across his face. It was always like this with the German. He seemed more taken with the puzzle than the answers.

  “Moertopo has been of some use in helping us understand the rocket technology,” he said. “He tells me the missile batteries of his ships are not nearly so powerful as those of the Americans he came with, but still they offer great advantage if used wisely. And radar, which we had dismissed as an irrelevance, is found here developed to an unbelievable degree. Radar-controlled gunfire potentially guarantees a direct hit with every shell fired. You can imagine the implications for the side possessing supremacy in this area alone.”

  “But can we build radar like this?”

  “No,” answered Brasch, before Hidaka could reply. He held up a flexipad that he had taken as his own. “These machines they all carry, we know of their capabilities now. But even the casing on such a machine is beyond the current limits of our production facilities. You are looking at eighty years’ worth of developments in materials science, just for the shell that contains this device.

  “Correct me if I am wrong, Moertopo, but the strange rubbery material of this electrical information block—”

  “A flexipad, Major.”

  “A flexipad, yes. The casing itself is integral to the unit, because it helps power the machine, correct?”

  “Exactly,” he said. “It’s made of solarskin plastic, which draws power from the light in this room. The warmth of your hands provides a power source, too.”

  “Right,” said Brasch, with a hint of actual enthusiasm creeping into his voice. “But to fabricate such a thing, you’d have to factor in advances across a whole range of areas.” He turned back to Yamamoto. “The thinking machines used in the design of this pad, and which control most of the machinery on the Sutanto, they use what Moertopo calls ‘quantum processors,’ and they rest upon multiple generations of antecedent technology. Would I be right in assuming, Lieutenant, that using an abacus to design a quantum processor would prove impossible?”

  “You would.”

  “With twenty years’ work, I suppose we might just leapfrog our current industrial base up to speed, but—”

  “But there are many more pressing problems,” Yamamoto agreed. “These processors, Moertopo?” mused the admiral. “They’re like electrical calculating machines?”

  “Much more than that, sir,” interrupted Hidaka. “They are almost like brains. In fact, the Americans who arrived with Moertopo call their computing machines Combat Intelligences, and allow them to make significant decisions.”

  “And it was they who decided to annihilate Spruance’s fleet?” Yamamoto asked.

  “I imagine they detected a threat and reacted, because their human controllers could not,” Moertopo said before hurrying on to add, “The Sutanto is not equipped with a CI system.”

  “Luckily for Kakuta,” said the admiral.

  “And we were not fired on,” said Moertopo. “Unlike Kolhammer’s force.”

  “Tell me, Lieutenant, what sort of a man allows a machine to make his decisions for him, especially such a fundamental choice as when to flee and when to strike?”

  Moertopo struggled to answer. He didn’t know whether Yamamoto was speaking philosophically or demanding a hard answer. When it became evident he was out of his depth, Brasch grasped the opportunity to interpose himself.

  “If I may, Admiral Yamamoto, this is the crux of our dilemma. What sort of men could do such a thing? you ask. Whereas I say, what sort of world produced them? What paths led them to their destiny? Moertopo tells us, and the library files on the Sutanto confirm, that the Allied force that arrived here represents a pinnacle of military technology. What we must ask and answer quickly is—how did this come about?

  “I would say the question is even more important than determining how they arrived. That they are here is an established fact. How they will change events, is not.”

  “I think I understand your point, Major. You are less concerned with artifacts such as rockets than with historical potential. Does the Axis have the potential to prevail in this conflict?”

  “Until now, I would have said no.”

  “And I would have agreed with you,” said Yamamoto, raising his hand to forestall any protest from Hidaka.

  “Even now,” continued Brasch, “with everything in flux, the advantage lies with the Allies because of the manpower and vast productive potential of the English-speaking world. True, we have both benefited from a windfall, but they—like us—have received a finite gift. Missiles, once fired, can never be fired again. On the other hand, the knowledge of those missiles cannot now be withdrawn.”

  “Which means what?” Hidaka demanded. “That we are to be destroyed more efficiently by American factory workers? You contradict yourself, Major Brasch. You just said that we couldn’t hope to produce these superweapons for many years. If we cannot, neither can they.”

  “Indeed,” said Yamamoto, “but the issue may not have been decided. Moertopo, from your understanding, did this Kolhammer command a force capable of deciding a war against the combined resources of the entire Axis?”

  Ali Moertopo felt the full weight of expectation fall on him. His first instinct was to dissemble, but a finely honed sense of self-preservation suggested that honesty was in fact called for. None of these men was a fool. With time to study the files on his vessel, they could find their own answers. But if Yamamoto came to value his opinion, he could trade on it.

  Nevertheless, the gilded cage didn’t fool him. His life still hung in the balance.

  “If his battle group had survived the journey here intact, they would sweep you from the oceans in a day,” he said. “Without satellite coverage, it might take a short while to fix the position of your fleets, but once found they would be sunk to the last ship without the loss of a single American life. However, as I understand it, his carrier has been crippled and grave damage was inflicted on the rest of the task force.”

  Or I wouldn’t be here.

  Yamamoto leaned back in his chair and regarded the Indonesian like a cat considering a feathered breakfast. “You base this on the signals you intercepted when Kolhammer arrived?”

  “There was a lot of traffic.”

  Yamamoto barely moved his head as he grunted noncommittally.

  “How long before they are repaired?”

  The query was directed at Moertopo, but Brasch smiled. “If I may,” he said. “Here we find the Allies entrapped by the same problems that face us. Am I right to assume, Lieutenant, that a ship as large and complex as the Clinton—is that her name?—will spend a good deal of her life in a very specialized docking facility, undergoing maintenance and refit?”

  “I think about one year out of three would be right,” guessed Moertopo.

  “But of course, those facilities did not come with you, did they?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “So you see, Admiral, already the specter of this supership begins to recede. They will be able to manage some repairs from the stocks of matériel they carry with them, but I suspect they will be severely restricted in what they can achieve. Moertopo, quickly, those fighter-bombers they carried, what did you call them?”

  “Raptors.”

  “Yes, thank you. Can you build a Raptor from scrap metal in the hold of a ship like the Clinton? No. I thought not. So the planes they lost in the flight deck explosion, they are gone forever.”

  Yamamoto appreciated Brasch’s line of reasoning. It paralleled his own. However, he didn’t want to rush headlong into any decision. That sort of precipitate action would lead to annihilation—as history would confirm. So he gave Brasch no sign of encouragement, choosing instead to play devil’s advocate.

  “But with the missiles these ships carry, they could still cripple us befo
re we even knew we had been targeted.”

  “Indeed they could,” said Brasch. “We must ascertain how many they may retain, in order to fashion a worst-case scenario.”

  Hidaka had held his patience while the discussion circled around, but now he jumped at an opening.

  “If these ships are such a mortal threat, we have no choice but to strike at them as we struck at the American carriers in Pearl Harbor.”

  “And look how well that worked out,” smirked Brasch.

  Moertopo thought Hidaka’s head might pop right off, so deeply did he color at the remark.

  “You insult the man who devised that master stroke!” he spat.

  Yamamoto lifted his shoulders and grimaced slightly. “Do not draw your blade on my account, Commander. I am more than capable of defending my honor. The major has a point. If that operation had been successful, we would not have troubled ourselves over a battle at Midway. We failed to achieve the killing blow at Hawaii. We should have pressed the issue on the day and driven the Americans from the islands entirely. Just as the führer, Major Brasch, should not have turned his back on the United Kingdom in order to pursue a political crusade in Russia. Right there, in the opening moments of this war, we both lost our way.”

  Brasch simply nodded, crossed his arms, and said, “It was madness.”

  Hidaka sneered, “You would not be so free with your opinions if Herr Steckel were present.”

  Brasch favored the Japanese naval officer with his most frigid stare.

  “You may have judged Steckel well,” he said softly, “but you do not know me at all.”

  Moertopo, who sat between the men and had been trying to render himself invisible, tensed, expecting to be caught between two flailing madmen. The thought made him long for home and the joys of pirated satellite TV, fast food, and freedom of a sort.

  “Gentlemen,” said Yamamoto, “do not waste your considerable energies on each other. We have common foes, perhaps closer than we realize. Commander Hidaka, Major Brasch, I need the technical analysis to continue. Your Captain Kruger can oversee that process, Major. I want you two, however, to concentrate on historical material pertaining to this war. Lieutenant Moertopo, I am led to believe that a wealth of such material remains within your electronic library.”

  “Yes, yes of course.”

  “Good, then,” Yamamoto declared. “Waste no more time. I will see you in four days, when you will explain to me and me alone exactly what would have gone wrong for us in this war, and how you think we might avoid those mistakes. I may or may not heed your advice, but nevertheless, I expect you to give a full report. Spare nobody in your censure. Not me, not the cabinet, and not even the führer himself, Herr Major. That is why you shall report to nobody but me. I expect that if you perform this task properly, it could cost you your lives. I shall try to see to it that doesn’t happen.”

  Yamamoto grinned wickedly at that. Brasch seemed to appreciate the joke more than Hidaka. Moertopo didn’t find it funny in the least.

  “Yet, there is the matter of my shadow,” said Brasch. “Herr Steckel is a true believer, convinced of the führer’s infallibility. He will not appreciate this new line of inquiry.”

  “We shall see,” replied Yamamoto.

  22

  USS HILLARY CLINTON, PEARL HARBOR, 1021 HOURS, 9 JUNE 1942

  Ensign Curtis had a new job. No longer just the assistant bookkeeper on the Enterprise, he and Lieutenant Commander Black had been assigned to the Clinton to undergo “familiarization,” learning the basics of operating with the Multinational Force. Having done so, they would train their colleagues on the Enterprise. The idea of Wally Curtis having anything to teach some of those old salts back on the Big E was enough to keep him awake at night. They were going to eat him alive. He was just sure of it.

  But then, Admiral Spruance had personally told him that his quick thinking at Midway had singled him out as a young man who could adapt to change under pressure, and that was something they were all going to have to work on. And he did have Commander Black along to look after him.

  Curtis had nearly choked on his pride when he wrote to his mom and dad to tell them. Of course, he couldn’t send the letter yet. The censors weren’t letting anything out about the arrival of the Multinational Force. They were the talk of Hawaii. Every bar, every shop, every warehouse and factory, every home and office was abuzz with excited—and occasionally hysterical—talk, rumor, and argument about the people from the future. But not a single story had been printed in the local press. It was an invisible sensation. And Curtis was right in the middle of it.

  Who would have thought?

  He spent most of his time here, in the Media Center—except that it wasn’t called that anymore. The journalists had mostly been confined to their quarters. It was the Research Center now, and Ensign Wally Curtis was one of the first researchers. He was currently learning about helicopters.

  It was a dream posting, like being sent on a spaceship, only better. Buck Rogers didn’t have a fraction of the stuff these guys used all the time.

  Unfortunately Curtis wasn’t allowed to use the computers without supervision, not yet, and Lieutenant Thieu was nowhere to be found, so he occupied his time reading conventional books and journals. Some of it was great, but some . . .

  “Would you like to have a go on my computer, Ensign Curtis?” Rosanna Natoli asked.

  She’d appeared from nowhere.

  Curtis was used to that. The reporter and her friend, Miss Duffy, were frequent visitors to the Research Center. Unlike some of the other journalists, they’d agreed to help out. They told him they were writing a paper to explain the Transition.

  Here and there around the room other sailors and one or two civilians sat quietly at workstations, tapping keys, scribbling notes. Curtis would have liked to ask them for some help, but truth be known, he was a little frightened of approaching them. They all seemed sort of fierce to him. Even more so than the old salts.

  “I’d love a turn on your computer, Miss Natoli!” he said with real relief.

  “C’mon then, Ensign. Let’s take her out for a spin.”

  Curtis fairly leapt out of his chair to follow Rosanna over to her workstation. As they went, she handed him her personal flexipad.

  “The big computer is more powerful, but of course I can’t carry it around with me,” she said. “When I insert the flexipad into the drive slot, however, this baby reformats itself into my personal workstation. So now I’ve got the nice big screen, the keyboard, and faster access to the Net. Or I would have, if we still had the Net. We’re making do with whatever the Clinton had cached. Still with me?”

  “Not really,” Wally said, pulling up a chair.

  “Don’t sweat it. You’re a smart kid. You’ll pick it up quickly. Where’d you say you were from? Chicago, right? Okay. Type that in.”

  Wally was actually quite an accomplished typist. He’d taken lessons at his mother’s insistence. But the combination of the very busy screen in front of him, and the strangely shaped keyboard beneath his wrists, proved so unsettling that he retreated into a slow, two-fingered, hunt-and-peck style.

  “Jesus, kid, you’re gonna have to speed it up if you want a job at the Trib. Okay, click the mouse . . . this thing here.”

  The picture on the big screen changed instantly. While Wally squinted at the flood of information, Natoli explained that Fleetnet had more than four thousand CNN references to Chicago stored in its lattice memory. Beginning to get the picture, Curtis stared in awe.

  “All right,” Natoli said. “A big cheer for the Windy City. Now, let’s refine the search. Whereabouts you from in Chicago?”

  While Rosanna played nursemaid to the ensign, at the other end of the room Julia Duffy was just beginning to feel the need for another chill pill. She’d been chewing through her supply of Prozac like fucking M&M’s, ever since they’d arrived. As she listened to Lieutenant Commander Black describe the raid on Pearl Harbor, she began to feel again as if the fl
oor of the world was dropping out from beneath her feet. Like, here’s this guy, completely sane, kinda cute even, and he’s talking about something happened way back in the last century—as though it was just yesterday, she mused, hoping it didn’t show on her face.

  “You all right, Miss Duffy?” Black asked.

  Julia placed her coffee cup on the table and saw that her hand was shaking.

  She didn’t know whether it had been such a good idea after all, agreeing to help Kolhammer out by writing this layman’s account of the Transition. The more she looked into it, the more obvious it became that they were trapped here. Without the Nagoya, which everyone agreed had been destroyed, they were fucked. You just don’t build a time machine out of box tops and vacuum tubes, which was roughly the level of technology available in forties America.

  Then again, she didn’t feel like being confined to quarters like the other reporters—about half of them—who hadn’t signed up for the program.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “It just hits me sometimes. That we’re really here. Our whole world has gone.”

  Dan Black cracked his knuckles, a sound like small rocks breaking. He could see that the reporter was growing gloomy. He didn’t know what to say, but felt as if he had to try to cheer her up.

  Truth to tell, he liked her. She was odd but intriguing. And pretty as all get-out, of course. She was interested in him, as well. He knew that much. Black had been with a few women in his time, but it had never worked out for the long run. He wasn’t sure why, but he had a feeling, half formed and little understood, that he lost interest in them when they began to lose themselves in the courtship. He shook his head. That sounded screwy. He went back to copping a look at the reporter’s legs. She’d caught him once, but didn’t seem to mind.

  “Anyhow,” he said, “Ensign Curtis doesn’t think it works that way.”

  “What way?”

  “That your coming here affects what happens in your own time. It’s still there, where you left it. He’s been reading things on those computers, reckons you might have made a whole new world of time by coming here, or something like that. I don’t know. I’m just a copper miner, and lady, I’m all at sea.”