“He knew, didn’t he…” Langdale observed solemnly “…Ritter, I mean. He knew about Reuters… who he really is…”
“I – I think so…” she shrugged, unable to make sense of any of it. “I don’t know how… but yes, I think he did…”
“Then why wouldn’t a bloke protect his own son…?” He pointed out, as if the whole thing were simple as that. “You owed the Krauts a debt, and Ritter was lookin’ out for his kid. No brainer, that one…”
“Max will never forgive me…”
“Max doesn’t need to know…”
“Mal, I can’t ask you to do that for me… to lie for me…”
“You ain’t askin’ me, and I and askin’ your permission either,” Langdale fired back with a thin smile that tightened immediately as he considered his next words. “Evan… Evan told me to look after you…”
“Oh, Christ, Evan…!” She breathed hollowly, ashamed that it was only now she’d even though to ask what had happened. “Dear God, Mal, is he…? Was he…?”
“Nuh…” Langdale croaked softly, shaking his head and fighting tears of his own now as that terrible scene came flooding back to him in all its horrific glory.
“Did he…?”
“It was quick,” he muttered immediately, shaking his head jerkily. “It was quick, at least…”
“Oh, Jesus…”
“He told me to save you… to keep you safe…” He continued, sobbing now as tears also began to roll down her cheeks, “and that’s just what I’m gonna do… from anyone I have to…”
“Oh, Mal, I’m sorry…” she moaned, reaching up to take his face in hands and draw him close, resting her forehead gently against his. “I’m so sorry…!”
The Crocodile flew on across the water, everyone else inside the main cabin at that moment respectfully staring off into the distance and minding their own business as two grieving friends attempted to endure the unendurable.
HMS Ark Royal
Timor Sea, SE of Tanimbar Islands
Inside the bridge of Ark Royal, Lord Mountbatten stood rigidly by the forward windows and stared out at the sparkling waters around them, knuckles clenched desperately around the peaked cap he held tightly in both hands at his waist. A dozen officers and enlisted men went loudly about their duties as part of the carrier’s operations, mostly ignoring the admiral’s presence but consciously according him plenty of personal space all the same.
Outside, several squadrons of FAA Sea Furies were awaiting their turn for take-off, wings laden with bombs and rockets. Theirs was the task of following up the attacks on Ambon that had been spearheaded by Sabres and Bushrangers already on their way back from the combat area. Casualties within the first attack waves had been remarkably light, and all had breathed a sigh of relief upon hearing the news that the Crocodiles were also enroute back to the task force, with Captain Donelson and Sergeant Langdale confirmed aboard.
There was still the matter of Thorne’s whereabouts however – currently unknown – and the detonation of the atomic bomb at Tan Tui left Mountbatten very concerned for the man’s welfare. All contact had been cut with the F-35 in the moments leading up to the explosion, and although it seemed certain that the jet must’ve been lost somehow during the engagement, he nevertheless refused to accept for a moment that Thorne might be dead.
“Message for you, sah!” A junior officer announced, stepping up beside him in that moment and snapping to attention.
“Good news, midshipman?” He asked hopefully, meaning news from Ambon.
“Your eyes only, sir…” came the deadpan reply as the man handed a piece of paper across. “Urgent communiqué from the Palace, sir…”
“Very good,” Mountbatten nodded, meaning nothing of the sort as they matched salutes and the midshipman marched briskly away, having executed a textbook about-face. Feeling slightly nervous, he unfolded the sheet and began to read.
COPY:SECRET
From:Debutante
To:V.Adm Ld Louis Mountbatten
Details as follows:
Military warrant issued for arrest of MT.
Allegations re Atlantic Plan complicity broached with Canberra. Discussions ongoing. Delicate.
May deteriorate if MT returned to Aus. May be difficult to protect due to current situation.
Suggest sabbatical. Safer to keep safe elsewhere for time being.
Please convey our apologies and our thanks.
Sincerely, E. W.
“Damn it all…” he muttered angrily under his breath, crumpling the message into a ball within on fist. “Damn and blast…!” He snarled, louder this time as he tossed it angrily at the window and let it fall to the deck. “‘Arrest warrant’…! The bloody man deserves a bloody knighthood, not punishment!”
“Radio message! Incoming radio message!” The bridge comms officer called out, breaking his concentration. “It’s a message from Ambon, admiral! It’s Mister Thorne…!”
“Thank the Gods…!” Mountbatten declared loudly, finally releasing a relieved breath he’d been metaphorically holding for some time now. “Where is he, lieutenant? What’s be been up to…?”
“Aircraft down, sir…” the sub-lieutenant advised after a moment’s pause, relaying the information that was being given at the other end of the transmission and stifling a smirk. “Currently stranded on the beach near Laha and using a Japanese radio set. Says it’s best not to ask how he got it. He says that the fireworks were lovely, but next time he might stay home for New Year’s Eve…”
“Bloody cheek of the man!” Mountbatten muttered, also trying not to smile. “Tell him to stand by while we organise some relief for him!”
“Sir, he wants to know whether Captain Donelson has been found; that she got away all right…”
“Tell him she’s on her way back to Ark Royal as we speak, lieutenant,” the admiral nodded, stepping across to a small map table to one side of the bridge and directing his next question to a lieutenant-commander standing nearby. “XO, what do we have in the area… other that this task force, I mean?”
“Well, sir, we have a light cruiser and two escorts north of the Tanimbars, acting as a screen against enemy subs…” he began, instantly pulling out the correct map from a pile on the table and opening it for Mountbatten to see. “… Here and here…” he explained, pointing with one finger. “A few more here, doing the same on our western flank… and also a small flotilla of destroyers here…” he added, indicating an area of the map north of Dili, in the Banda Sea “…enroute from Singapore…”
“‘Singapore’…?” Mountbatten repeated, an idea suddenly striking him. “Yes, Singapore might be just the thing for a week or two until we sort all this out. “Comms; please advise Mister Thorne that we shall have units sent as soon as possible, but do let him know it may be hours before we can get something to him. “Commander,” he added, turning back to the XO, “I’d like a message sent immediately to the RAF command at Penfui: we’re going to need one of their Catalinas despatched to Ambon as soon as possible.”
“Sir…!” The officer acknowledged immediately, saluting and turning to pass the order on through his chain of command.
Kure Naval Arsenal
SE of Hiroshima, Japanese Home Islands
Tōjō Hideki stood at the small dais and watched impassively as the huge aircraft carrier slid down the main slipway into the cold waters of the Seto Naikai, the great inland sea separating the Japanese Home Islands of Honshū, Shikoku, and Kyūshū. At fifty-seven, it took a great deal to impress the Japanese Prime Minister. He’d attended a great many ceremonies during his long and varied military and civilian careers, and having been an army officer in any case, naval projects – although clearly necessary – were more of an annoyance than anything to be celebrated.
Garbed in his ceremonial dress uniform and wearing his ubiquitous, round spectacles, Tōjō stood at attention as the primary member of a large cluster of official dignitaries, lined up on either side to watch as the newest of their f
leet carriers entered the water in a great spray and surge of waves, and was immediately taken under control by a squadron of waiting tugs.
In the distance, air raid sirens howled somewhere. They’d been wailing at the Naval Arsenal fifteen minutes earlier, when the Prime Minister had summarily ordered them to be shut down. Nearby radar stations had picked up the approach of one aircraft of unidentified nationality – which of course automatically branded it as an enemy – however no one was particularly concerned at that point.
Long-range reconnaissance flights out of Allied bases in South-East Asia and the Philippines had become common since the war had broken out, and so far, every single errant aircraft had been intercepted and shot down. The idea that a lone bomber might’ve been sent to attack a facility as strategically important as Kure was simply too ludicrous to consider seriously.
Tōjō glanced quickly down at his watch, inwardly cursing the time and desperate to know of any further news from Ambon. Initial reports of an Allied attack had barely reached him as he’d stepped up for the commencement of the ceremony, and there’d been no further updates in the hour that had passed since. That fact alone was cause enough for some concern, but he had persisted with the launching ceremony nevertheless, not really taking seriously the possibility that the enemy might actually have a chance against the best of Japanese Imperial forces.
“A fine vessel, Prime Minister,” Shimada Shigetarō observed softly as he stood to Tōjō’s right, distracting him momentarily. “Another fine addition to our formidable naval power…” Two years older, Admiral Shimada was the current Minister of the Navy and a powerful member of the Japanese Imperial General Headquarters. As a one-time commandant of the Kure Naval District during the 1930s, the Prime Minister’s presence was a source of some personal pride, if perhaps somewhat vicariously.
“Fine enough for the expense of one hundred million yen!” Tōjō grunted in return, trying not to sound annoyed. “An impressive sight though, I concede,” he relented, giving a little ground. “Our carriers are a generation ahead of anything the Americans have yet put to sea – this much we know – and the shattering success of Operation Z has confirmed this. Once the rest of Asia is in our grasp, they will have no choice but to sue for peace!”
Taihō was indeed a huge vessel. Topping out at sixty-five thousand tons displacement, she was the first of the IJN’s Yamato-class carriers to have been built as such from the keel up, rather than to be converted from the original battleship design still in use by the German Kriegsmarine. As such, she was a more spacious and far more capable carrier, and had become the namesake and lead ship of her own, revised ship class. With space for more than 130 aircraft and a complement of 3,000 men, she was also equipped with the heaviest concentration of anti-aircraft weaponry ever fitted to a Japanese warship.
“Twelve months to complete; then she will take her place in the history books alongside her sisters,” Shimada almost cooed, clearly enamoured by the spectacle. “You have honoured us all with your presence today, Prime Minister.”
“You can thank Kido for that, Shimada-san,” Tōjō answered with a shrug, eyes never leaving the ship before them as a crowd of military personnel looked on. “Made it quite clear the Emperor thought it best we all attend.”
“This is the Emperor’s wish?” Shimada gasped, almost awe-struck for a moment. In his excitement, he failed to not the cynicism in the other man’s tone.
“Oh, it was never specifically stated,” the Prime Minister explained with a wry half-smile, “however it was made quite clear all the same. How unfortunate that the Lord Keeper of the Privy Seal has since become ill and was unable to travel with us…” he added with blatant sarcasm. “I trust his little lapdog, Miyagi, is tending to his ‘recovery’…”
Advisor to the Emperor himself, Lord Keeper of the Privy Seal, Kido Kōichi, had originally been a supporter of Tōjō’s appointment as Prime Minister, however the two had since fallen out over Kido’s outspoken opposition of the army’s pre-war plans to invade the Dutch East Indies, fearing reprisal from the Americans. That neither he nor the Emperor had been appraised of Tōjō’s intention to use atomic bombs against the United States until just days before the attack on the Panama Canal had done nothing to improve relations between them.
“May he experience a quick and pleasant recovery, of course,” Shimada declared automatically, again catching nothing of the other man’s sarcasm, then frowned as his own attention was momentarily distracted by the continuing wail of air raid sirens in the distance. “A shame these cursed spy flights must spoil the mood. Do – do you think perhaps we should seek shelter…?”
“Nonsense…!” Tōjō replied with a shake of his head, almost managing a smile beneath a bushy moustache almost identical to Shimada’s. “One plane, I am told. Let them come...” he declared. “They will come and they shall die, for daring to defile Nihon with their vile presence!”
The XB-42 crossed the north-west coast of Shikoku and continued on, high above the Seto Naikai. At a height of eight miles, huge expanses of Honshū’s coastline filled the horizon ahead as Trumbull stared out through the windscreen of the pilot’s bubble canopy, offset to the left of the centreline and raised above the rest of a cockpit that was buried deep within the flying wing’s nose.
He’d managed to get some rest during the 10-hour flight as Jones, his South African-born co-pilot, had taken over, allowing him the opportunity to curl up on one of the small, uncomfortable cots behind the flight deck and get a few hours’ sleep. Trumbull knew the break had helped, and he definitely felt sharp and alert, yet he still had no sensation of feeling refreshed. His mind was filled with fear and misgivings, and his current clarity of mind ultimately only served to heighten his concerns as the southern coast of Honshū approached.
“Ten minutes, gentlemen…” he announced softly through the microphone embedded into his oxygen mask. “All gun crews to your positions if you please.”
Oxygen was a necessity at such high altitudes, and the entire crew were currently going about their duties with similar masks fixed across their mouths and noses. They were all also wearing at least three or four layers of thick clothing as defence against the terrible, freezing cold that was close to -40˚C outside the aircraft. Heating and pressurisation were intended production modifications that hadn’t made it into the prototype, leaving the crew far less comfortable as a result. Also, the low external temperatures meant that contrails had been forming for some time behind the XB-42, water vapour within its exhaust freezing almost instantly as it streamed away behind the high-flying bomber.
It was a danger in theory, as those trails would be visible for hundreds of miles and would clearly pinpoint the aircraft’s position for any attacking fighter, however Trumbull wasn’t expecting a great deal of opposition. The Boomerang was currently flying at well beyond forty thousand feet, and it was unlikely in the extreme that any enemy interceptor could even reach such a height. Even if a pilot were indeed able to draw near, the thin air at that altitude would make manoeuvring extremely difficult for a small fighter, giving the flying wing a great advantage due to its huge wing area.
Above and below the middle of each huge wing, remote gun turrets emerged from their recessed mounts and began to rotate, their single 15mm rotary machine guns turning this way and that as the gunners controlling them worked their aiming periscopes from deep within the main fuselage. Each fired a short burst in turn, sending a few streaks of tracer sizzling away into the sky behind the aircraft as they tested their weapons by ‘clearing their throats’ in preparation for combat. At the rear of the aircraft, in the very tail, the rear gunner did the same with his 25mm cannon, taking his powered mount through its full range of movement to ensure it was operating correctly. He too fired off a test burst, watching, almost mesmerised, as long streams of dazzling red arced downward in the Boomerang’s wake.
“I have a number of bogies on screen now, sir,” Patchett, his EW officer announced over the intercom, the young
flying officer seated at his instrument panel at the rear of the cockpit below, head hunched over a small, circular radar screen. “Not close yet, but closing from three- ten- and twelve-o’clock… the fellows at twelve are the ones to watch…” he added, indicating the closest threat.
“Thank you, Andy,” Trumbull acknowledged quickly, scanning the skies across his forward arc but not yet able to pick out any enemy fighters. “Keep me posted: commencing descent to bombing altitude now. Roger: arm the weapons if you would, there’s a good chap…” Trumbull tried to effect an air of nonchalance, but the faint quaver in his voice declared that lie to the rest of his crew. As all of them were feeling equally nervous and conflicted, none were prepared to pass any judgement.
Pushing the stick forward, he began to nose the Boomerang gently downward, feeling it fight him a little as the air rushing past its huge wing surfaces initially refused to accept the change. Pushing his throttles up just a touch, he mostly allowed gravity to do the work as the bomber began to accelerate beyond the optimum cruising speed it had maintained throughout the majority of its long flight.
First Lieutenant Miyamoto Gorou of the 59th Hikō Shidan (Air Combat Wing) pushed his twin-engined heavy-fighter to emergency power, struggling for altitude as he roared southward at well beyond 400 knots. Flying in a loose ‘V’ formation, he and his two wingmen had basically topped out at slightly above forty thousand feet: still at least four thousand below their intended target, if the radar controllers at Kure were to be believed.
The Kawasaki Ki-45, known as Toryu (or ‘Dragon Slayer’) in IJAAF circles, was an impressive aircraft by any standards. Powered by two uprated variants of the same 2,100hp Mitsubishi radial fitted to the Zero, its thin wings and incredibly narrow, oval-shaped fuselage provided the Toryu with a far superior top speed equalling that of the Allied Mustang or Sea Fury. The massive power increase its twin engines provided was gained however in a direct trade off for manoeuvrability, although it was nevertheless surprisingly nimble for its size. Having entered service the preceding year, it had already earned a well-deserved reputation as an accomplished night fighter and light attack aircraft.
The Dead Alone (Empires Lost Book 3) Page 109
