Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2)

by Charles S. Jackson

  With tensions between the Japanese and the United States currently so high it was a sobering thought that whatever the Imperial General Headquarters was up to, it also involved the Americans. It was unlikely the operation’s name was in any way relevant to the mission itself, yet Ritter didn’t like the sound of it all the same. From what he knew of the term, it described a samurai who’d lost their Shogun – a deadly warrior gone rogue – and the concept wasn’t pleasant when the involvement of the United States was considered. He knew for a fact that Reichsmarschall Reuters didn’t want a war with the USA – feared it, in fact – and it was only a miracle in Ritter’s opinion that the Americans had stopped short of a declaration of war against Germany following the invasion of Britain in 1940. A huge amount of diplomatic pressure had been placed on the Japanese in the two years since with the aim of avoiding what had at one stage seemed an inevitable conflict in the Pacific and South-East Asia.

  Deciding he needed to act quickly, Ritter snatched up the phone on his desk beside him and lifted the handset to his ear as he dialled a three-digit extension number.

  “Gunter… I’ve seen your intercept… well done,” he began the moment the line was picked up at the other end, knowing there was no need for any introduction. “Have you ever heard mention of this ‘Operation Ronin’ before in anything that’s come across your desk…?” There was a pause as he waited for the thoughtful reply. “… No, neither have I…” Ritter frowned with frustration, deciding to take another direction. “This ‘Sakamoto”… do we know who he is? Do we have any files on anyone of note by that name working under Inada at Truk…” another short pause. “… That would be excellent, Gunter… please have them brought up from archives as soon as you can… thank you…”

  Against all possibility, Ritter being well aware of the generally chaotic nature of their filing archive in the basement, the file he’d requested was on his desk twenty-five minutes later and in recognition of such an effort of unbelievable efficiency he immediately rewarded Gunter, the controller in question, with the rest of the afternoon off. Alone once more as he leafed through the half-dozen pages or so that comprised the file, he found there was little information at all about the man that been referenced in the communiqué save for that he appeared to be a model officer.

  Sakamoto Takasugi: forty-two years old and a major with the Japanese Army’s Shipping Transport Command. Born out of a farming family, he’d joined the armed forces at seventeen as an officer cadet and, it appeared, had never looked back. Neither wife nor family to speak of – just the life of the military – and what little they did know suggested he was a genius for logistics; something that had seen him promoted to captain and posted to the staff of the 2nd Shipping Transport Command out of Shanghai early in 1939. Another uneventful year of solid service had followed, all documented by the Abwehr controller who’d been handling the man’s file.

  Ritter turned the last page, expecting to find more details of his service since, and was instead confronted by a sheet that was rather conspicuously blank save for a single further notation that in August of 1941, Sakamoto had received another promotion to major and transferred to the 3rd Shipping Transport Command at Truk Atoll in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. The lack of any information regarding the man’s last year of service was unusual and raised more questions for which Ritter wanted answers. He decided to seek them out and lifted the phone once more, dialling a different extension number.

  “Konrad, its Oberst Ritter… I need to speak to you about your file on Sakamoto Takasugi…” A short pause… “…Of the 3rd STC, yes…” Another pause – a longer one this time… “…Well, my main problem is his last year of service, or lack thereof… it appears he’s done nothing in the last twelve months and earned himself a promotion for it.” A long period of silence ensued as he listened intently to the explanation from the controller at the other end of the line, the colonel’s face falling dramatically as missing pieces of information finally dropped into place. “So you’re of the opinion he’s ‘gone black’…? Yes… yes, I understand the significance of that too… thank you, Konrad…”

  Ritter hung up the phone before softly adding “…Scheisse…!” under his breath. He stared off into the middle distance for a moment, eyes seeing nothing as his mind worked unsuccessfully to find some connective thread to it all. ‘Gone black’… it was a term Oster had given the department – one that referred to anything involving covert operations – and the sound of the phrase suggested to Ritter that he in turn had acquired it from either the Reichsmarschall or his aide, Albert Schiller. Although there was no hard evidence, the belief of the experienced controller in question was that this character – Sakamoto – had become Kempetai: Imperial Japan’s Military Police Corps that also handled most of their covert operations.

  The exploits of the Kempetai were well known within the Abwehr and their extremes of torture, interrogation and violence in general had earned the unit a reputation for brutality that was seldom matched – no mean feat in itself, considering the activities of Nazi Germany’s own SS and Gestapo on occasion. If Sakamoto was Kempetai then it was possible he’d been preparing for over a year for the mission for which they’d now intercepted orders. Ritter didn’t like the idea – he didn’t like it one bit – and he was certain it was something he needed to pass higher along his unorthodox chain of command.

  Heartily glad his own CO, Bäcker had taken a long weekend (with secretary in tow, of course), Ritter rose quickly to his feet and moved around the desk to where his uniform jacket and officer’s cap hung from the coat stand near the door. Snugging the cap over his head and slipping his folded jacket over one arm, he stepped out into the main office and stopped just long enough to speak with Hanna, who was walking back toward his office at that same moment.

  “I’ve decided to leave early for the day, Hanna… please let the rest of the office know on my behalf…”

  “Of course, mein herr… shall I call your wife and let her know to expect you…?”

  “No need,” Ritter forced a smile and a wink. “Think I’ll surprise her with some flowers instead…”

  “Sounds lovely, Herr Oberst… I wish I had someone so caring to look after me!”

  “I’m sure you will one day, Hanna,” Ritter quipped in return, not really listening and completely missing the possibility she might’ve been flirting with him. “…Anyway, must fly… see you tomorrow morning…!”

  In the corridor outside, Ritter immediately turned left into the bathroom across the hall and stepped inside one of the cubicles, locking the door behind him. Lowering the toilet seat lid, he carefully placed the files he’s sneaked out beneath his folded jacket on top and drew a tiny camera from his trouser pocket. Photographing each page in turn, he continued until he’d recorded images of every single one before placing both files back into their appropriate folder covers and returning the camera to his pocket.

  Although certain no one else was in the bathroom, he made a pretence of flushing just in case and walked out, popping his head back inside the main office just long enough to return both files to a ‘put away’ tray near the door. A moment later he was gone, threading his way through the hallways of the Abwehr as he made directly for the stairs down to the ground floor and the exits.

  The afternoon was warm and balmy as he stepped into the fresh air of the Tirpitzufer a few moments later. Waterbirds called from the canal across the road and the street was filled with vehicles and heavy pedestrian traffic as Berliners went about their daily routines, enjoying the autumn sunshine.

  Turning right, he headed west along the street and walked just a hundred metres or so before coming to a halt at the intersection of Tirpitzufer and Hildebrandstrasse. There he waited several impatient minutes for someone to finish their call before stepping inside the phone booth there and dialling a number he knew all too well.

  “Warragul…” he said simply as the call was answered after just two rings. The word he received in return confirmed h
e’d spoken to the right person and he hung up the phone, completely satisfied, before slipping on his uniform jacket and making his way northward along Hildebrandstrasse.

  As Ritter reached the far end of the street he halted again for a moment at Tiergartenstrasse, turning to stare off to the west and give a faint grimace at the irony as he caught sight of the Japanese Embassy on the next block. Judging the right moment, he darted forward once more through the afternoon traffic and deftly made his way across to the other side and the huge, glorious, tree-filled parkland that was the Berlin Tiergarten. Turning his back on the rush of vehicles behind him, Ritter strode off across the grass at a brisk pace, making for the nearest path that would lead him directly to the centre of the park itself, some seven hundred or so metres away.

  The Grosse Tiergarten, often referred to by just the second word of its official title, was a huge, public park set within the larger borough of the same shortened name. Over 200 hectares in area – better than 500 acres in imperial measurement – it was the second largest urban garden in Germany and was surpassed only by the 417-hectare Englischer Garten in Munich. Originally a hunting reserve exclusive to the Prince-electors of the Holy Roman Empire (its name meant ‘Great Animal Garden’), the Tiergarten was transformed to its current use as public parkland in 1830 by Prussian landscape architect Peter Joseph Lenné.

  At thirty-seven years of age, Carl Ritter was a tall and muscular man with dark hair and eyes and an open, intelligent expression. Things had changed greatly for him since the British invasion of 1940. Two years ago, the Wehrmacht was fighting in England and much of Occupied France was still proving difficult to subdue completely. Two years ago, Ritter had still been an oberstleutnant (lieutenant colonel) and recovering in the Luftwaffe-Lazarett at Lessingstrasse after surgery to repair a bullet wound to the upper thigh: a wound his doctors were unaware had come from a German machine gun.

  Just two years ago he’d been uncertain of his own future… and of the future of his wife and the children they were fostering: two young French boys whose family had been murdered by the SS. As he walked through the Tiergarten that afternoon, most of that seemed a very long time ago, and September of 1942 found Carl Ritter in a quite different situation. He was perfectly fit once more, his healed wound having left no lasting problems save for a little pain sometimes on very cold mornings. He and his wife – he supposed ‘family’ might be a better word these days – were living in a very nice little two-storey apartment in a small block off Motzstrasse, in the borough of Schönberg.

  Anton, the eldest of the two boys, was quite happily attending school nearby. The war record of his adopted father and reputation of his ‘moderately-famous’ actress mother was more than enough to ensure his less than perfect mastery of German was no stumbling block to his education. To his credit, teachers at the elementary school on Hohenstaufenstrasse all considered the boy an extremely quick learner with a command of German as a second language already almost equal to that of a native-born child of the same age.

  Kurt, the younger of the brothers, was now close to two years of age and was a strong, healthy toddler. He was already picking up words fast and moving about their apartment now even faster, able on occasion to run his foster mother and grandmother ragged in the face of his huge reserves of energy. For Carl and Maria Ritter, who’d lost their only son to crib death six years before, these two wonderful children had become a godsend that had renewed their love and completely revitalised their marriage.

  They’d lived in Berlin for eighteen months now, the move from Koblenz necessitated by his promotion and new posting. Ritter had been a frontline geschwader commander at the beginning of 1940, his unit the renown ZG26 ‘Horst Wessel’. Zerstörergeschwader 26 had been all but obliterated however in August of that same year and had never reformed. His good friend and former XO, Willi Meier, had received his own promotion and gone on to command the newly-formed attack wing SG2. They still kept in touch now and then. For his part, Ritter had never gone back to front line duty after his recovery, something for which he was wholly grateful. A decorated officer who’d demonstrated his resourcefulness and intelligence on numerous occasions could be of use in places other than in combat, and in April of 1941, Carl Ritter was promoted to oberst (colonel) and received a new posting to Berlin.

  It was difficult to find spare time to for oneself as an intelligence officer in Berlin, and Ritter would’ve greatly enjoyed the opportunity for a walk through the Tiergarten that afternoon had the circumstances not been quite so serious. Free time of any kind at all was difficult to come by and that was particularly true for the 2IC of the Abwehr’s Asia-Pacific Section, especially considering the fact that the South East Asia and Pacific regions were quickly becoming the focus of attention for the entire world.

  This had been Ritter’s department over the last eighteen months; one that’d been initially quite challenging for a man whose base of learning was that of frontline military tactics and strategy rather than the backroom dealing and politicking that went with a staff intelligence posting. Fortunately, Ritter was a sharp and perceptive man of equally high integrity who also possessed a singularly useful quality that was often vital for a man in that type of position: he immediately inspired trust in almost everyone he met.

  Carl Ritter sometimes missed the days of commanding his own geschwader – lately he’d begun to feel he was just one tiny ‘cog’ in a very big machine – but he generally felt quite comfortable with his lot in life. His job kept him at the forefront of many Wehrmacht operations, his finger on the pulse of what was going on, and very little passed his desk without him knowing of it. This was particularly true of anything associated with the Asian or Pacific regions, as would be expected considering his position, and any information of that nature was vitally important in the performance of his duties.

  The information he was privy to also often became incredibly useful in relation to another unauthorised and far more dangerous role he’d been performing now for the better part of those same two years. Carl Ritter was an undercover operative for the SIS, and in his current position he was perfectly placed to provide information to the British Government-in-Exile and the rest of the Allied Commonwealth Nations.

  Ritter reached the end of the pathway through the park and stepped out into the open, immediately assaulted once more by the mid morning traffic that swirled in raucous waves around the Grosser Stern: the huge, multi-lane roundabout that completely encircled the grand monument of the Siegessäule (Victory Column) that was the showpiece at the centre of the Tiergarten. Turning right, he walked along the pavement for sixty metres or so to the intersection at the Charlottenburger Chaussee, using one of the street’s newly-opened pedestrian tunnels to walk at a leisurely pace beneath the bustling traffic. He climbed the stairs back up to into the warm sunshine on the opposite side of the Grosser Stern, emerging quite near the steps leading to the Siegessäule itself.

  Fingers grasped nervously around the camera inside his pocket, Ritter paused for a moment and stared up at the monument before him. The column was impressive: a 67-metre tall structure comprising four huge blocks of sandstone with a hall of pillars beneath, all sitting atop a base of solid red granite. It had originally been designed to commemorate Prussian victory in their war of 1864 against the Danes, however by the time of its inauguration in 1873 there’d been further successful Prussian conflicts against Austria (1866) and France (1870-71), and the original three columns were erected in honour of this trio of victories, adorned with the barrels of cannon captured from each enemy.

  Originally erected in the Königsplatz at the end of the Siegesallee (Victory Avenue), it had been relocated to its current position at the centre of the Tiergarten ‘Great Star’ roundabout as part of Albert Speer’s grand design for a new Berlin. The fourth section of sandstone column was added at the same time in recognition of Nazi victories in Poland and France, taking the monument to its current height, and atop it all stood an 8.5-metre tall bronze sculpture of
Victoria, the Roman goddess of victory which Berliners referred to colloquially as Goldelse – ‘Golden Lizzie’.

  Ritter walked up the steps to the huge, granite base of the monument, pausing once more for a few seconds as he stood in its shadow and stared back down the way he’d come toward the distant bulk of the Brandenburg Gate, several kilometres away at the far end of Charlottenburger Chaussee. Taking a quick glance around, he took the camera from his pocket and hid it in his right sleeve before making a show of kneeling down to tie one of his shoelaces.

  Beside his shoe, between his foot and the wall of the Siegessäule, he was able to slip a finger into a small crack in one of the smooth, flat cobblestones and lift it just a centimetre or two. The space created was just enough for him to release the tiny camera and allow it to slip silently into a small cavity beneath the raised stone. Tying his shoe quickly, he stomped his foot down sharply as he rose once more, ensuring the stone was pushed back down securely before stepping back to the wall again as if nothing had happened. Another moment and Ritter wandered off once more, ambling slowly away with the pretence of enjoying a sunny afternoon as he held both hands firmly in his pockets and fought to keep them from shaking with fear.

  Junction Hotel, Tocumwal

  New South Wales, Australia

  September 19, 1942

  Saturday

  Tocumwal was a small country town by the northern bank of the Murray River, on the border between the Australian states of New South Wales and Victoria. Traditionally home to the indigenous Aboriginal Ulupna and Bangarang clans prior to white settlement, the first pastoral runs had been established in the area around the 1840s with the town itself being created and recognised as an entity during the 1860s-1870s. Prior to Australian Federation in 1901, Tocumwal had served as an important goods crossing and customs checkpoint between the two colonies.