Weapons of Choice — Axis Of Time Book I

by John Birmingham

  He was lost.

  Steckel had only a superficial familiarity with this part of the old city. He knew how to navigate to the bar and bathhouse, and that was it. He would have to ask directions. That realization led quickly to another. There was nobody about. The alleyway, framed by facades of ancient stone and wooden cottages, curved into blackness some twenty meters on. Steckel turned on his heel, but it was the same behind him, too. He stood in a small, isolated pool of flickering lantern light.

  For some reason gooseflesh crawled over his arms and legs, and he shuddered as the hair on his scalp stood up on end. It was ridiculous. What was there to be . . .

  Two shadows detached themselves from the inky void of a small side passage just behind the German spy and flowed like jet-black quicksilver just around the edge of his peripheral vision. A stifled cry caught in his throat and his heart lurched in response to a warning from the deepest, most reptilian part of his hindbrain. His hands fumbled at the buttons of his leather coat, frantically seeking access to the Luger he carried in a deep breast pocket.

  The faint swish of a descending Bokken was the last sound he heard before his arm shattered with a blast of blinding white-hot pain. The scream building in his throat had no time to emerge. He sensed, rather than saw, the briefest glimmer of a shadow, or a silhouette, or just a flicker of negative space, as the hiss of a wooden sword, swung with inhuman speed, presaged the end of his life. The leading edge of the hard wooden blade crushed his larynx, choking off the cry and the last breath he would ever draw.

  As he twitched and shuddered on the wet cobblestones, clutching at his throat, desperately trying to drag air in through the crumpled windpipe, his eyes, bulging and bloodshot, darted everywhere for sign of his assailants. But he died without ever truly seeing them.

  32

  HIJMS YAMATO, HASHIRAJIMA ANCHORAGE, 1324 HOURS, 10 JUNE 1942

  Isoroku Yamamoto did not look up when he had finished studying the paper. Brasch and Hidaka sat as quietly as they had during the hour and a half it had taken the admiral to read the document. Yamamoto did not speak. He exhaled a long, slow breath, as though he had been holding it all along. He closed his heavy lidded eyes, and they remained closed for many minutes.

  Brasch ventured an inquiring look at Hidaka, who shook his head wordlessly.

  “You have exceeded my expectations, gentlemen,” Yamamoto said at last.

  The two officers, near exhaustion after a marathon work session, thanked him quietly.

  Yamamoto held the ninety-page laser-printed document aloft. “As I predicted, this is worth more than your lives.”

  Hidaka remained motionless. Brasch sketched a sardonic lift of the eyebrows.

  “Our lives aren’t worth that much anyway, Admiral.”

  “Well put, Major. You would not like more time for research?”

  “No point,” Brasch said without embellishment. “We might flesh out the details and the argument, but the line of reasoning that lies at the core would remain unchanged. We weren’t really undertaking original research. One of the ship’s systems operators was able to direct us to a wealth of material prepared by scholars who had been picking over the rubble of this war for three generations. They wrote with the value of hindsight; we merely harvested their labor.”

  Hidaka leaned forward. “If I might, Admiral. This system’s operator, a junior lieutenant named Damiri, has proved much more cooperative and useful than Moertopo. He seems to have a genuine hatred of the Americans. I suspect he may prove a more willing collaborator. Moertopo is trying to play us for fools.”

  Yamamoto held the paper with his deformed hand and flicked through it again, stopping here and there to reexamine a particular point or argument.

  “I agree with you about Moertopo,” he said without looking up. “But we need his skills for now. If you wish to cultivate this other barbarian, go ahead. You have done great service to the emperor so far, Hidaka.”

  The Japanese officer looked as if he might burst with pride.

  As Yamamoto reread another section of their paper, he murmured, “I was sorry to hear about Herr Steckel, Major Brasch.”

  “I sent my condolences.”

  “Sometimes they are all we have,” Yamamoto said, letting the paper fall to his desktop. “And I agree with your recommendations, Commander Hidaka. I could have written them myself. They are bold and will meet much resistance, but I do not see any other way out of the trap we have constructed for ourselves.”

  Hidaka nearly levitated at the praise, but Brasch punctured his brief cheer.

  “You could surrender.”

  “It is lucky for you that Herr Steckel is no longer with us,” Hidaka sputtered. “I understand that defeatism is a capital crime in the Reich.”

  Brasch, as was his way, refused to rise to the provocation. He smiled in his slow, dreamy fashion, folding his arms as if discussing a football match in a beer garden.

  “There are so many ways to die in the Reich, my friend. What does it matter how one departs this life?”

  Hidaka, who had grown even more exasperated with the German’s morose fatalism these last days, could stand it no longer. His temper launched him to his feet.

  “The manner of one’s death is the most important thing in life,” he gasped. “I would not expect an ordinary gaijin to understand, but you are supposed to be the vaunted warrior of a warrior’s race. Instead you speak like the most ignorant barbarian. It is as if you do not care who wins this war.”

  “I care very much,” said Brasch.

  “Then you should behave as if that were true.”

  Yamamoto watched the exchange without any visible sign of concern, but he intervened as Hidaka’s irritation threatened to get the better of him.

  “You forget yourself, Commander,” he said sharply. “Resume your seat. A true samurai does not succumb to rage, like some wild dog. Even in the heat of battle, he is tranquil. His own death means nothing to him. Perhaps it is you who has something to learn from Major Brasch.”

  Brasch had the luxury of snorting at the proposition, while Hidaka was forced to choke on his own pride. Stiffly lowering his head, he first apologized to Yamamoto and then to the engineer for his outburst.

  The admiral stretched and stood, motioning for the others to remain in their seats. He stepped out from behind his desk and paced the room with his hands clasped behind his back, his chin resting on his chest. Shaking his head and pursing his lips, he was the very picture of a man caught in an unbearable dilemma.

  “This is how it will be from this moment forward,” he conceded unhappily, stopping to stare out a porthole. “We will need to throw our shoulders against the axis of history, and tip it over. But the very people we are trying to save will be the ones who most violently oppose us. I have no doubt my counterparts at Pearl Harbor are having this same discussion, perhaps even right this minute. And I fear they will seize the opportunity of this miracle—or mishap or whatever it may turn out to be—to reinforce their strategic advantages, no matter what their current tactical weaknesses may be.”

  Yamamoto turned from the porthole through which he had been gazing.

  “Major Brasch, what chance is there that you will receive a fair hearing in Berlin?”

  “They already think I am a madman,” he confessed. “And they may be right.”

  The admiral rolled on the balls of his feet, examining the carpet as though the answer lay there.

  “It is not a matter of belief alone,” he mused. “They will come to believe. At some point, one of these new ships will appear in the Atlantic and sink every battle cruiser Admiral Raeder sends against it. From what Moertopo tells us, the captain may even be a woman.”

  All three shook their head at that absurd notion.

  “So it becomes necessary to advance the moment of their belief,” the admiral continued. “I think you will need to return to your history lesson, gentlemen. Scour the electric library and learn all you can of events set to transpire the next few we
eks in the European theater. We will need to intervene decisively in some issue, making use of the bounty that has come our way.”

  “Do you mean to take this ship into battle?” asked Hidaka with growing excitement.

  “Perhaps Lieutenant Moertopo and his men do deserve an opportunity to prove their loyalties,” Yamamoto mused.

  “But what if they are found wanting?” Hidaka asked.

  “We shall not let them fail us.” Then he noticed the expression on the German’s face. “You disagree, Major?”

  Brasch was lost in deep thought. He responded slowly to Yamamoto’s query.

  “Oh, no. You are right of course. I was simply wondering whether it was such a good idea, to risk such a valuable resource. And one that cannot be replaced.”

  Yamamoto considered the question a fair one.

  “The Sutanto is a card to be played,” he said. “But there is something to what you say. The value of this ship goes beyond the guns and rockets she carries. The information in her archives is potentially more valuable.”

  Hidaka leaned forward eagerly. “And not just that, sir, but a thousand little pieces of equipment we wouldn’t need on a basic mission. We should strip her down to the bones, leaving only what we require to make our point.”

  He dragged out the flexipad that he now carried with him everywhere and held it up.

  “There are nearly a hundred and fifty of these on the Sutanto,” he said. “Just one would be of untold value to our scientists and engineers. As Major Brasch has pointed out, we cannot hope to build one. But they are such powerful machines in their own right that they can help us develop—what did you call it, Major, precursive technologies.”

  “Precursor,” Brasch said in a monotone.

  “Yes. Moertopo tells me the number calculator in these machines can perform a trillion mathematical operations in the blink of an eye. Then there are the even larger computers, and the signaling devices, and the automatic rifles, and—”

  Yamamoto held up his hands.

  “I take your point, Commander. And on that point I have some good news for a change.”

  The other two men reacted in their own ways—Hidaka sitting up ramrod straight, while Brasch reclined in his lounge seat and raised an eyebrow.

  “I have been keeping something from you. We have found another ship,” said Yamamoto. “The Sutano’s sister ship in fact.”

  “But where?” gasped Hidaka.

  Yamamoto smiled. The small lines at the corner of his eyes crinkled with honest delight. “On top of a mountain in New Guinea,” he said, shaking his head at the outlandish notion.

  “My God,” breathed Brasch.

  “Indeed, Major. Her stern is buried in the mountainside. I’m told she looks like she’s sinking right into the earth. There is unfortunately no chance of digging her out. The metal has somehow fused with the rock. As did many of the crew. However, a unit of the Kempeitai is stripping her down.”

  “Were there survivors?” asked Brasch.

  “Initially.” Yamamoto nodded. “Oh, it’s not what you think, Major,” he hastened to add. “The conditions up there were quite inhospitable. Most of the crew died from exposure while still comatose. I understand we have saved five or six men. They are on their way here now.”

  Hidaka was fairly bounding from his seat.

  “This is excellent news,” he said. “We have doubled our gains!”

  The grand admiral of the Combined Fleet sighed.

  “But we will soon lose the advantage of surprise,” he said. “Australian militia scurry about that country like ants. They will soon get word back to MacArthur or Nimitz. And then, my friends, the game will be on in earnest.

  “So, Hidaka, by all means, strip the Sutanto. You can start now if you wish. But I want an operational recommendation within two days. If we are to bring off a Kessen Kantai, we must strike before Nimitz.”

  Both men left the office to return to their research. Hidaka, with action in the offing, could hardly contain his natural restlessness. Brasch found it irritating, but said nothing.

  After they left, Yamamoto had a pot of tea brought in. He felt the loneliness of command more than ever in these strange days. There would come a juncture very soon where he would have to confide in the members of the general staff and the cabinet. For now, though, they were as paralyzed by shock as anyone. They trusted the commander in chief of the Combined Fleet to fashion their immediate response to the sensational events of the past two weeks. But would they agree to his grand strategy? Would the Germans? He had no idea.

  And what was worse, he had almost no confidence in the decisions he was making. He picked up the research report that had been prepared by Brasch and Hidaka. There, on the very first page, they had produced a comprehensive list of faults with both the Pearl Harbor and Midway operations. He detected the hand of Brasch in that. Hidaka would not have been so bold. But he understood that the German was testing the limits of their autonomy.

  And much of the criticism he agreed with emphatically. He had raised all the same objections to war with America. He had foreseen with remarkable prescience the inevitable consequences of waking a giant. But he had not foreseen the result of Midway. He had been so confident of his choices in that matter.

  His hands shook as he read the summary of what would have happened, had Kakuta not turned tail and run for home. The breaking of their naval codes meant Nimitz had known exactly what was heading his way. The repair of the Yorktown, which they had thought sunk or at least damaged beyond salvage, had added a crucial platform to the American order of battle.

  The incredible sacrifice of wave after wave of American pilots—all of them knowingly flying to their deaths—touched him in a way he had not thought possible. They had died with great spirit, just to give their dive-bombers a shot at Nagumo’s carriers. In five minutes three of those carriers had been destroyed, and the war lost. The fourth soon followed. All because of a stupidly complex and wasteful plan for which he bore sole responsibility.

  Yamamoto had to lean against his desk as waves of dizziness and nausea swept over him. He, and he alone, had brought unutterable shame upon the emperor and devastation on the homeland. He did not need to reread the brief account of the atomic blasts that would have devastated Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Nor did he need to examine the photographs again. The images would stay with him for the rest of his life.

  He wondered bleakly how long that might now be.

  Would his new grand strategic design change anything? Or were they all trapped in a cycle of predestination. Was Japan doomed to lose this war and face subservience to a Communist China in the next century?

  Yamamoto put down his tea. Such things could not be known until they had come to pass. Resolution took hold of him, driving out his doubts and fears. His choice was clear. He must do everything he could to safeguard the emperor and the Home Islands. If he should fail, such were the fortunes of war.

  A convoy of twenty-seven trucks arrived in the early evening to carry away the equipment that had been stripped from the Sutanto. At least three of the vehicles were filled with an eclectic assortment of twenty-first-century artifacts that had little or nothing to do with the ship’s military role. All of the printed matter was boxed up and carried away along with video game consoles, televisions, DVD players, camcorders, coffeemakers, waffle irons, rice cookers, digital watches, most of the ship’s pharmaceutical supplies, and 125 personal flexipads along with thousands of data sticks containing games, books, movies, music, and pornography. The seemingly endless list of exotic devices threatened to make Yamamoto’s head swim.

  “Don’t be so glum, Lieutenant,” he said to Moertopo. “You’re not being robbed. Far from it, you’re probably being saved. That ship will be the Americans’ first target when they discover we have it. You must realize that yourself.”

  They stood on the dock watching the operation with Major Brasch. Hidaka was down in the vessel, overseeing the removal process. Moertopo remained defiantly
sullen.

  “Nevertheless, it is my ship, Admiral. Surely you must understand that.”

  “Of course,” said Yamamoto.

  Brasch snorted in mild derision. “Sailors. You are like old women.”

  Hidaka had grown expert in the use of his flexipad. He carried it around the ship, checking manifests and loading schedules against the actual progress. They were doing well. The Indonesians were actually brisk and enthusiastic as they went about the business of emptying the vessel. No doubt this was the result of the fact that they had been given more liberty, better conditions, and more frequent visits by the comfort women in the last few days.

  It had worked wonders for their morale, especially the whores. Many of them were Englishwomen from Hong Kong and Singapore. The sailors seemed particularly appreciative of the chance to have their way with them.

  Hidaka smiled as he paused outside the CIC, but his good mood quickly dissolved when he saw Sub-Lieutenant Usama Damiri advancing on him. Damiri, the Sutanto’s information systems officer, had proven to be much more supportive and competent than Moertopo, who preferred to spend his time in bed, smoking hashish and fucking blondes. But Hidaka found Damiri’s lack of deference irritating, and his constant demand to be consulted was dangerously impertinent. He’d cultivated the man as an alternative to Moertopo, and though it had borne results, they had come at a cost.

  Damiri marched up to him. “We need to speak,” he said.

  “You mean you feel the need to bother me,” Hidaka corrected him. “I don’t see that we have any need to do anything other than finish our work here.”

  “You cannot denude the ship of all its defenses,” said Damiri.