He penned a belated order grounding all Hughes Aeronautics planes pending further review.
He requested a trace on the three out-going flights. It returned within minutes, and confirmed his suspicions. There was no word on the Houston or Louisiana flights, but the Nevada-bound plane had crashed near a town called Alamo. He ran a scenario through his head and tacked an addendum to his order: “Check for other plane crashes—nationwide—in the last twenty-four hours. Check for survivors. Dispatch three tac squads to Alamo.”
He summoned the com officer and sent the revised order off to Dallas.
He skimmed though the intelligence reports. Local recon placed at least twelve patrols—friend and foe—between Alamo and Alpha. Is that where Kennedy’s headed? Perhaps he was making for the Demilitarised Zone and the Japanese border beyond. San Francisco or Fresno. But if he wanted to join up with the Japanese, why not just stay in New York? Unless, of course, he’d had prior knowledge of the German assault.
The permutations were staggering; they fucked his weary brain.
Illingworth had called an emergency briefing for 1500 hours, which left him just under an hour.
Webster poured himself a coffee and sorted through arriving reports, separating data from detritus. Apparently the German delegates were making good on their assurances from the morning’s summit, in the form of panzers and planes. It sounded like the Germans had committed more forces to the region than anyone had hitherto expected. Why was that?
The information he’d requested came back within twenty minutes. There had been four crashes all told. One light aircraft lost in the Mississippi Delta, two transport planes brought down by Japanese fighters over New Mexico, and the Hughes at Alamo.
Alamo... Four to six survivors, whisked away by paramedics whose arrival on the scene—as described by one eyewitness—was almost prescient. And they were surprisingly well organised for a bunch of coloureds.
Obvious. Careless.
Webster allowed himself a grim chuckle. He had to wonder, what would Kennedy run out of first—planes or pilots? Had to wonder what the hell had drawn him back to Nevada.
He glanced at his watch and prepared a final order, this one to send to Alpha: “Ship Kennedy’s men west without delay and torch the camp.”
He left it with the courier and made his way to the operations deck. Arriving early for the briefing, he took a seat near the back of the room and let his eye fall casually on the crowd of officers as they filed into the large chamber. All the services were represented, including flight, security, military police and repair teams. Thirty men had seated themselves by the time Illingworth made his entrance. Four of Webster’s own covert agents, all senior officers aboard the stratolite, arranged themselves in chairs close by and did nothing to acknowledge him.
Illingworth began with aerial photographs and an outline of the recent troop dispositions. The subject rapidly turned to the two Japanese stratolites, targets too sweet to be ignored. Their presence, in addition to the two army divisions advancing across the desert, represented a significant effort. He outlined their various options. These ranged from an all-out attack, coordinated and led by the Patton, to a strategic withdrawal to the Arizona state border. He played his cards close to his chest.
Right here, over Alpha and close to Kennedy, was where Webster wanted to be. He skimmed his notes and decided to divorce himself early from the thrust of his own intentions. He leaned forwards and tapped Paterson—the flight director—on the shoulder and murmured in his ear that observation posts were best suited for observation, so perhaps a withdrawal was in order. He made sure he was overheard, and was pleased to find his view received with respectful evasion.
The German delegates were present for the briefing, and as more facts came to light the discussion burgeoned into a full-blown war council. Before long, calls were made and President Clancy and Kaiser Wilhelm were patched through via secured shortwave link-ups.
The German delegates recommended that they maintain a conservative approach till more of their forces could arrive. A dispute over authority threatened to bog down the talks in a mire of bureaucracy. Webster had his opportunity, he just needed a mouthpiece.
He spied his three-star acquaintance from the other day, General Boyfucker, on the other side of the room. Quietly leaving his seat, he approached the man and took him aside. Before long the general’s look of apprehension transformed into one of appreciation.
They returned to the proceedings and, when given the opportunity to speak, the general echoed Webster’s words with an unexpected eloquence that singled him out for future use. With an obtuse reference to the intelligence at hand, he stated that—in view of Japanese military conduct in the Union north—he strongly suggested a strong defensive stance.
“Perhaps they never had any intention of risking unreliable Union forces against the South,” he announced. “Perhaps they were merely conducting a holding action, tying up German–Allied forces around New York. Perhaps the push is happening right here. Right now.”
Little argument was offered.
The German delegates confirmed that their panzers had crossed the state line as promised and were digging in west of Las Vegas. Three squadrons of Luftwaffe fighter-bombers and two more of Confederate scouts were en route. Additional regiments of Texan Rangers and standard Confederate units could be rapidly mustered.
Clancy took his cue. After Berlin, he said, no Japanese airship—stratolite or otherwise—would see the outer reaches of any Allied settlement. He stated, in sonorous tones, that it was better to decide the Confederacy’s fate here than on the outskirts of Dallas. He thanked the Kaiser for placing German forces at the Confederacy’s disposal at this key juncture.
It was a fait accompli. The Kaiser acquiesced; Webster smiled. The Patton was going to war.
Command of the mission was handed over to Admiral Illingworth. He summoned his squadron leaders, arranging a squadron briefing to be held at the flight director’s station.
The meeting ended and the deck cleared. It was almost five o’clock and Webster hadn’t eaten since dawn. The attack wouldn’t be launched for another few hours. That gave him ample time to peruse any new reports. He’d suck down a cigar and have a meal brought to him.
Out in the passageway, Steiner—the Abwehr’s envoy to the German delegation—stood waiting by Webster’s motorcart. He struck a casual pose but his expression was guarded.
“Do you have a moment, Director Webster?”
Webster’s bodyguards, invariable in their presence, subtle in their distribution, were mixing with some of the bridge crew. A senior agent lurked further down the passage. There were others present whom Webster didn’t recognise; possibly crew, more likely German operatives. There were probably more covert agents than soldiers in the immediate vicinity. It was a vaguely amusing notion.
“I’m on my way to communications, Mr Steiner,” Webster replied.
“That suits me.”
Webster gestured towards the passenger seat with a sweep of his arm and took the wheel. Steiner climbed in. There was a faint scuffle in the background as the various operatives clambered into adjacent vehicles and the unlikely motorcade made its way along the conduit.
“That was... interesting,” Steiner ventured after a few moments.
Webster shot him a sidelong glance, but remained silent.
“Why are you doing this, Webster?”
“Why do I do anything?”
“That is a question that sends my agents scurrying through the alleys in their overcoats and slouch hats,” Steiner commented wryly.
Webster smiled. A crinkle at the corner of his mouth.
Steiner gave his nails a cursory examination. “I can only imagine what you discussed with your general, prior to his performance.”
Webster narrowed his eye and shook his head with a slow, dismissive air.
“They will be flying non-essential personnel off-ship,” Steiner continued. “I was to be included, but declined t
o leave. How about you, Mr Webster? Do you plan on being around when the shit hits the fan?”
The provocation was oafish, the cliché stale. Hardly the German’s style. Webster said, “I’ll stick around to hold your hand.”
Steiner chuckled. “That’s a gratifying thought.”
“And what do you want, Mr Steiner?”
“I want our panzers to regroup at your installation north of Las Vegas.”
“What installation?”
Steiner gave him a facile smirk. The profile pegged Steiner as deep German intelligence. The request to use Alpha nailed him as one of the few German agents privy to Camelot.
Our panzers. The rest just stood to reason.
“How many regiments of your tank division are composed of Brandenburg Special Forces?” Webster enquired, gently.
The smirk faded, replaced by a look of cunning recognition. “All of them.”
“Your men in New York should have stayed aboard the Titanic.”
“You should have kept a tighter leash on Kennedy.”
Dark urges slithered within him. Webster kept the seethe to a slow burn. He pondered Steiner’s request, broodingly. The presence of German elite armour and the unexpected presence of so many Japanese troops in the region provoked a number of difficult questions. Nevada was but one of the routes that led into the Confederacy and it was an unforgiving path at that. Why this sudden attention on the region by ally and enemy alike? And why was he so certain that it all boiled down to Kennedy?
Webster said, “There’s no installation north of Vegas, at least not any longer. It’s been razed to the ground. So you’re free to use whatever’s left of the site.”
They were pulling up to the communications foyer. Webster killed the motor.
Steiner climbed out of the cart slowly. “I suggest you have a word with your men on the ground. Last thing I heard, your base was still up and running.”
Webster eyed him curiously, but didn’t reply.
Steiner’s expression was sombre. “That was ten minutes ago.”
The convoy of attendant carts eased to a halt and the men poured out. Three of them followed Steiner towards the elevator vestibule. The rest stood a little distance away from Webster’s vehicle.
He gave a meaningful look at the nearest agent, then entered communications with his retinue of five. They had a German tag-along, decked out in maintenance kit, who hung back from the crowd with moderate discretion. Webster tossed him a snarl. The German slipped back further and faded into the scenery.
Communications held a subdued air. All the stations were manned but the usual drone of the radio network was absent. There were intermittent bursts of coded relay but none of the usual white noise. All eyes were on the monitors.
He spied the courier across the room and strode over.
“My dispatches.”
The courier directed him back to one of the operators. He had his head down like the others, tracking a series of green blips across a darkened screen.
“My dispatches,” Webster repeated.
The man glanced up and pointed at a stack of sheets in his out-tray. He returned his attention to the monitor. Webster picked up the sheets and began to rifle through them.
He found the order to burn Alpha, stamped as sent. He said, “I need immediate confirmation on this.”
“No can do, sir,” the operator replied. “We’ve been running silent since 1630 hours.”
“What are you talking about?” Webster growled.
One of his men stepped up. “Admiral Illingworth shut down all off-strat communications following the briefing.”
“Good for him.” Webster leaned forwards over the console. “Nevertheless, son, I need that confirmation, right now.”
The operator squirmed in his seat. He glanced at a co-worker for support.
“Better call the chief,” his companion suggested, without looking up from his own screen.
The operator backed out of his seat and selected one of the handsets that peppered the walls of the com room. His companion, noting the baleful attention of Webster’s murky eye, attempted to describe the task at hand. He pointed to the screen and said, “We’re patched into the navigation frame. Passive radar reception. That’s our first wing, scouts and fighters, deploying now.”
Webster grunted.
“No one’s ever done anything like this before.”
Webster turned to watch the operator at the handset. “Call me old-fashioned,” he said. “I was never one for precedent.” He turned to his agent. “This isn’t happening fast enough.”
The agent slid away, and Webster reverted his attention to the co-worker with the penchant for idle chat. He jotted some numbers on the back of his dispatch. “Can you get me a visual on these coordinates?”
The operator scanned Webster’s scrawl. “Over the horizon. No line of sight.”
Webster retrieved the document swiftly and folded it into his pocket.
The agent returned with the operator in tow.
“Sir, the chief is getting the admiral on the line. That’s the best I can do for you.”
“Thank you.” Webster approached the handset. He paused, turned back to the agent and said, “Secure the other operator.”
The co-worker gave a faint cry of protest that faded to nothing at the agent’s approach. The rest of his team signalled their support by shifting either side to facilitate his departure.
Webster took the phone.
“Please make this fast.” Illingworth’s tone was frostily polite.
“I need a verification from my ground team.”
“What do you need to know?”
“I need to know if something is on fire.”
There was a thoughtful pause on the line, then Illingworth said, “I can spare a scout for reconnoitre. No communications after launch. It’s all direct lines and face to face from here.”
“I’ll send along one of my men.”
“Give me a sec.” Illingworth returned after a few moments. “Okay. Have him report to flight deck three.”
“By the way, I’ve co-opted one of your staff, Peter. He saw too much.”
“How do you sleep at night, Glen?”
“With one eye open.”
Webster rang off. He selected one of his entourage and gave careful instructions. He led his procession from the communication room. He told the German operative to fuck off. He took the radio operator aside and said, “No good deed goes unpunished,” and sent him down to the Eye under escort.
He climbed into the cart, accompanied by the last of his guard, gunned the motor and began the tedious drive back to his cabin. Grey walls flashed past, corridor after corridor of curved metal. Clusters of motorcarts slid by as air crew and sailors attended their posts.
His meal was waiting for him. He left his guard at the door and brought the food inside himself. The porthole admitted the wan glow of looming dusk. He removed the patch. He put on a sweater. He lit a cigar and watched the blue smoke seep into the ceiling vents. He sucked the coating off a pink and spat out the core. He dozed, fitfully.
He was splashing cold water on his face when there was a brisk rap at the cabin door. Stepping over, he jerked it open. The young officer almost spilled into the room. He made an effort to compose himself.
“The raid, sir.” He barely flinched when he saw the ruined aspect of Webster’s unveiled eye. “They’re about to commence their primary run.” He quickly retreated, to wait outside the door.
Webster towelled off and replaced the patch. He cast a glance at the porthole where pinholes of starlight flickered faintly. The sky was a purple bruise. A trio of scouts wheeled in the distance. He followed the officer into the corridor. His guard joined them at the cart.
There was no traffic now. The pilots were on the flight decks or aloft, arrayed at the rendezvous points. The sailors were at their stations and the combat teams were at their gun-mounts. All non-essentials were long gone, evacuated to Flagstaff and points east.<
br />
The cart raced down the empty passageway.
Webster asked for a rundown and the officer sketched out the tacticals.
The Patton had been able to put ninety scouts—almost two-thirds of her complement—into the air. The stratolite was holding at forty-five thousand feet, pitched above a swift easterly. They could make a ready descent into the jet stream and be back over the Grand Canyon in about an hour. Alternatively, they could climb to sixty-five, sit back and watch the fireworks.
The guard gave a whistle of admiration. The young officer warmed to his subject. Webster sifted through the account.
Different altitudes demanded different strategies. Their current height facilitated a rapid launch sequence. Mass retrieval of returning scouts was practicable, but there was the threat of standard enemy fighters. The best defence was afforded by a dense fighter screen, supported by the Patton’s own anti-air turrets. Resembling an aircraft carrier, the stratolite behaved primarily as a platform for the delivery of aircraft. Her metal-plated, multiple-ballonet structure was sturdy enough, but it would only take limited fire. She could tolerate the loss of a third of her ballonets, though, and remain aloft. The helium would never ignite.
Sustained enemy action, however, would bring her down.
Above sixty thousand feet it was a different story. Maintaining a scout swarm was hazardous at that altitude. The strat was safe from generic aircraft. Hostile scouts were vulnerable to friendlies and, failing that, anti-aircraft fire due to their diminished manoeuvrability at such heights. Above sixty thousand, the Patton was more than just a transport service. She could make deliveries of her own. Standard ordnance, dropped from those heights, redefined the term “devastating”.
Webster considered the German stratolite fleet perched over the Sea of Japan, and said, “This is all theoretical, isn’t it?”
“Mostly.”
“No one has ever attacked a stratolite before, have they?”
The officer bristled. “Director, the japs enjoy air superiority close to the DMZ. Their FS-Zs and Ronins will be watching the desert, the airfields. We’re sending in six squadrons of rocket-armed scouts from on high. They won’t be expecting an attack from above.”
The Company of the Dead Page 46
