Designated Targets — Axis Of Time Book II

by John Birmingham

  As his train lurched into motion again, and began to pick up speed for the long run home, he worked on the 262 file—multitasking, as the phrase had it, a series of files on automatic assault rifles, rocket-propelled grenades, and prototype helicopters for the newly formed SS Special Forces. He was the very model of a loyal and tireless worker laboring in the service of his führer. In a small, very private part of his mind, however, Brasch, turned over the problem of how best to strike a fatal blow against the Nazis.

  14

  KINLOCHMOIDART HOUSE, SCOTLAND

  The Special Air Service began life as a deception. It had very little to do with airborne raids. It was a small, somewhat irregular unit of the British Army in the North African campaign, established in late 1941 by a mere Lieutenant, David Stirling. He put together a group of irredeemably unusual soldiers—specialists, loners, virtual pirates of the desert. He threw them in with the New Zealanders of the Long Range Desert Group and set them loose behind Rommel’s lines, attacking fuel and ammo dumps, destroying aircraft on the ground, and generally spreading mayhem and confusion.

  Breaking things and hurting people, thought Harry as he marched across the gravel. A cracking fuckin’ way for a bloke to earn a quid. Better than being chased around by those paparazzi cunts, at any rate.

  He clamped down on the surge of rage that always threatened to get the better of him when he thought of the misery those vultures had made of his life. Killed his mother. Ruined his father. And wrecked any chance he had of getting a bit of innocent leg-over without having to explain himself to the whole fucking world. He’d only worn that stupid swastika armband because the silly twit he was dating got all lathered up when she saw it. And how was he to know that Paris bloody Hilton wasn’t wearing any knickers when he took her to Royal Ascot? That’s not the sort of thing a bloke would find out until after cocktail hour. In many ways, he was happier here. Fewer twits and no tabloids. Now all he had to do was stop the Nazis from taking over the place. He forced his thoughts back onto the task at hand.

  The SAS in this period had become such a thorn in the side of the Afrika Korps that they were partly responsible for Hitler’s infamous “Kommandobefehl” order, stating that all captured Allied commandos were to be summarily executed. That order would have been issued on October 18, 1942. After the Transition—or “Emergence,” as it became known in the Axis states—Hitler issued the Kommandobefehl in the first week of October. British Signals Intelligence picked up the order as it was transmitted quite openly around the Reich, without the use of quantum encryption, and passed news of it on to the relevant parties: the Commando Regiment; the Special Operations Executive; the American Office of Strategic Services; and the SAS, both in Africa and at Kinlochmoidart House, the new Regimental HQ in Scotland, an hour outside of Fort William.

  Prince Harry, with freshly minted major’s pips still gleaming on his shoulders, called the regiment to parade on the lawn in front of the manor to tell them the good news. Kinlochmoidart was a baronial mansion set within two thousand acres of private gardens and woodland, which had been given over to the Special Air Service for the duration of the war. Having an heir to the throne make the request had smoothed the process considerably. The secluded location was perfect, with easy access to Loch Shiel and Loch Sunart for the boat troop, and to the highlands and the Grampians for the mountain troop. Parachute training could be done out of Fort William, where Harry’s celebrated ancestor General Lord Lovett of the commandos was ready to provide every assistance. The forests of the estate were also well suited to honing the field craft of the trainees.

  And there was a really excellent pub, just a four-mile run down the road.

  The Palace had Harry placed on the Civil List as soon as it became known that he had arrived with Kolhammer, providing him with a handsome income. This he used to open a personal account at the Glenuig Inn so that any man who was able to run the four miles to the pub in full kit in twenty-four minutes could drink his fill on the royal tick—as long as he could make the return run in thirty.

  “Harry’s Little Marathon,” as it became known, wasn’t officially listed as a prerequisite for graduating from the selection course, but no one who failed to make the run was ever seen wearing the sandy beret of the regiment.

  It was a cold, autumn afternoon when he called the men together. One hundred and twenty of them jogged onto the makeshift parade ground in woodland camouflage battle dress, having come in from an orienteering exercise in the hills around the manor. They were supervised by fourteen of his own, members of the sixteen-man troop that had come through the Transition. One of his officers—Lieutenant Peter Hamilton—was on assignment God only knew where.

  The prince was dressed like the others, in a twenty-first-century British camouflage pattern. He climbed on top of a wooden ammo crate to address the men. They were the first training cohort to come through, but they already looked very different from the general run of squaddies and conscripts found in the contemporary British Army.

  For starters, they were all combat veterans who had served at least four years in the Regular Army before applying to attempt the six-week selection course. Having completed that course only a fortnight ago, they were now looking forward to twelve months of training that would turn them into “basic” SAS troopers. Or they would be, Harry thought darkly, except they’d probably be thrown into action very soon, when the Germans invade.

  There had been no break between the end of the brutal selection course and the start of their “basic” training, but Harry was about to give them one.

  A towering “Jamaican” with a thick East End accent, Sergeant Major Vivian Richards St. Clair, roared at the men, instructing them to stand at ease.

  Harry held aloft a piece of paper, which he let everyone see, flapping in the breeze. “I have here an order from Adolf Hitler,” he called out.

  The men were too disciplined to react overtly, but he did note a ripple of surprise as it passed through the ranks.

  “I wasn’t expecting it for a little while longer, actually, but it’s come in a bit early,” he continued, raising his voice to project over a blustery nor’easter that had sprung up. “Shall I read it?”

  Some wag couldn’t help himself. “If it’s from Adolf, you could wipe your arse with it, sir!”

  Harry smiled as laughter broke out. He damped it down with a wave of his hand. When he spoke again, it was in an exaggerated Prussian accent. Sadly, none of the ’temps recognized it as his best Schwarzenegger. “For some time, our enemies have been using, in their warfare, methods which are outside the International Geneva Conventions. Especially brutal and treacherous is the behavior of the so-called Commandos . . .”

  A great cheer went up at that point, and Harry let it subside before he continued, switching to his own voice.

  “. . . who, as is established, are partially recruited from freed criminals in enemy countries.”

  An even louder roar of approval greeted that.

  “I believe they may be talking about the Australian SAS, Sergeant Major,” he said in a voluble aside to St. Clair. “Convict stock and all that, I suppose.”

  Peals of laughter rolled over him, almost, but not quite, drowning out the protests of the three or four Australians in the ranks.

  “From captured orders,” Harry continued, “it is divulged that they are directed not only to shackle prisoners—”

  A cheer.

  “—but also to kill defenseless prisoners.”

  A bigger cheer.

  “Naughty fucking commandos!” somebody called out.

  He let the commotion die down completely before he read on.

  “I therefore order that from now on, all enemies on so-called Commando missions in Europe or Africa, challenged by German troops, even if they are to all appearances soldiers in uniform or demolition troops, whether armed or unarmed, in battle or in flight, are to be slaughtered to the last man. It does not make any difference whether they are dropped by parachute. Eve
n if these individuals, when found, should apparently be prepared to give themselves up, no pardon is to be granted them on principle.”

  A few of the bolder types tried to raise a few hoorays at that, but the effort fell somewhat flat. Harry let his gaze slowly traverse over every man watching him. He grinned wickedly.

  “Well, you lads are new to the regiment, and we don’t expect you to be familiar with all of our traditions just yet. But let me assure you, where we come from, this is very old news. Where we come from, our enemies don’t just pop a bullet into the back of your head if you’re foolish enough to let yourself be captured. Where we have come from, they cut off your fucking head and make a movie of it for the whole world to watch!” he yelled.

  Silence was the only reply. The faces of the new men, he saw, were decidedly uneasy. His own troopers, however, were grinning wickedly.

  “And what, Sergeant Major, is regimental policy in the face of such piss-poor hospitality?” he asked St. Clair.

  “A bloody good drink, sir,” the gigantic black noncom roared back.

  “Right then,” yelled Harry, “to the pub!”

  “Smashing spread, Major Windsor!” said a young trooper juggling a southern-fried chicken leg and a pint of ale. “Me old mum doesn’t cook half as good as this nosh.”

  Harry clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, eat up, son. We’ll be busing it back to barracks tonight.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  The tables of the Glenuig Inn were groaning under the weight of the feast Harry had organized. Kitchen staff from Balmoral castle had been driven in two days earlier to prepare the food in secret. A banner hung across the bar congratulating the troops for passing the selection course, the first official acknowledgment that they had achieved something even remotely noteworthy. The day they’d actually graduated, the training cadre simply tapped those who had made it, and sent them on a twenty-mile forced march in full kit, followed by two hours of jujitsu training, and a night-maneuver exercise.

  “Nice one, gov,” St. Clair said as he leaned against the bar with a glass of Highland Park almost hidden in one enormous paw. “The lads was beginning to suspect you were a bit of a tyrant.”

  Harry took a long draw on a pint of Wee Heavy. “I am,” he said, licking away some froth. “Sibling issues.”

  The small whitewashed alehouse couldn’t contain all the soldiers and invited locals who’d crowded in for the celebration. Despite the chill of approaching dark at high latitude, they spilled out of the building and onto the grounds, where they tended to cluster around large braziers of burning peat. Quite a few wandered across the road to take their drinks onto the white-sand beach that fronted a small bay letting onto the Sound of Arisaig.

  “You think these lads will be ready?” asked St. Clair.

  “Not a chance,” Harry replied quietly. “Not what we’d call ready, in any case. But I can’t see Hitler waiting until next spring to have a go. He knows he’s got to get in and finish us before the U.S. can build up enough combat-ready divisions and matériel. He’ll try it on well before Christmas, Viv. I’ve got an old-fashioned fiver says we won’t even see out the month.”

  “Sorry, guv, can’t take that bet. Reckon I’d do me dough cold.”

  Harry watched as the crowd swarmed around tables laden with venison and boar from his newly acquired estates. Piles of fresh vegetables, roasted taters, and Yorkshire pudding nearly buried dozens of smokehouse hams and chickens. It was a bacchanalian feast, given the wartime restrictions. Mutton pie and carrot pudding were the staples of the local diet. The sweets jars in the village shops were all empty, and the chocolate bars in the windows were made of wood. Only the wrapping was real. For Harry, the highlight of this evening promised to be the Hitler-shaped piñata stuffed full of real chocolates and toffees and boiled sweets that he had organized for the village children. When he lay in his bunk at night, he prayed that they, and his own men, would survive what was coming.

  “You really put the wind up ’em, with that Kommandobefehl stuff,” St. Clair mumbled around a Thai chicken stick he had lifted from a table of “modern” foods. The curries and rice dishes were popular with the small twenty-first crew, but mostly provoked curiosity and a little fear among the locals. Harry had restricted himself to a small bowl of lamb korma. He scooped up a last mouthful with a piece of garlic naan, washed it all down with a slug of ale, and shrugged off St. Clair’s concern.

  “Best they know, Viv. Should fire them up. Like that time we nearly got caught in Surabaya by old Ibn Abbas and his mob. A damn close run thing, what!” he mugged, dropping into a parody of an upper-class twit.

  As the night wore on, Harry let himself bathe in the atmosphere of the room, both its actual warmth as the mercury dropped outside, and the balm of close companionship with decent people. He’d known very few moments like this since his college days. None since he’d returned to the regiment at the reduced rank of captain after a four-year spell in civvies. When the government had reintroduced conscription after the intifada, his brother, King William, had called all the royals together and made it clear that he would not have his subjects forced to endure dangers and hardships that the principals of the firm were unwilling to face alongside them.

  Harry had actually been intending to return to uniform anyway, but as so often happened when Wills made one of his pronouncements, Harry ended up feeling as if his own decisions were being presented to him as a fait accompli. It was incredibly galling, but such was the fate of the second heir to the throne. Still, he missed his brother.

  “You all right, guv?”

  Harry let go a long breath he’d been holding. “Sorry, Viv. Miles away.”

  “Years, you mean.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Your Highness, Your Highness!”

  Harry’s spirits dropped at the sound of the voice, but his face somehow managed to light up with a credible imitation of surprise and pleasure, another benefit of royal training. Miss Deborah Jones, the schoolmistress, was bearing down on him with a couple of heifers in tow.

  He’d paid a visit to the school one afternoon, to give a talk to the kiddies. Besides the village and estate children, a hundred evacuees from London had been relocated locally and were in attendance. He’d thrilled them with tales of the future, most of which were true, and it had been an altogether pleasant diversion for a couple of hours. But Miss Jones had been pestering him ever since, trying to set him up with one of the many dumpy red-haired lasses who were so common hereabouts.

  Jones herself was a thin, painfully angular woman with a mouth like a puckered cat’s anus, and whenever excitement got the better of her—as it had at the moment—the anus would pucker all the more violently.

  “Your Highness, Your Highness!”

  “Please, Ms. Jones. It’s just Major Windsor.”

  Viv, he could see, was grinning like a big black Cheshire cat.

  “And who are these lovely young ladies, Ms. Jones?” asked the sergeant major, not so much as flinching when Harry dug a callused thumb into a very sensitive pressure point on his upper arm.

  “This is Miss Lang, and this is Miss Biggins,” she trilled.

  On closer observation, Miss Lang was what he and Wills used to call a bit of a six-pack, which was to say, if he threw down that much beer in a short space of time, he might just well have a crack at her on general principles. She wasn’t even afflicted with red hair. Perhaps . . .

  “Major Windsor, sir?”

  In his panic at being fronted by Miss Jones, he hadn’t noticed the dispatch rider who appeared through the crush of the room.

  “Yes, Corporal.”

  The rider was dressed for the road, in heavy oilskins, crash helmet, and goggles. He pulled an envelope from his satchel and handed it over, probably wondering why the woman with the cat’s butt for a mouth was glaring at him so fiercely.

  Harry thanked him and then made his apologies, assuring the three women that Sergeant Major St. Clair would keep them entertained fo
r the rest of the evening. He moved around the bar and into the relative calm of the pub manager’s office. Closing the heavy oak door behind him cut the sound of the party down to a muted roar. He broke the seal on the envelope, which came from Downing Street.

  The prime minister had ordered that he proceed to London with all dispatch.

  THE SOLENT, SOUTHERN ENGLAND

  As a child, Captain Karen Halabi had retreated from a deeply unpleasant family life by hiding herself in books, specifically by seeking refuge in the lore and mythology of English seafaring. From her preteen years, when her school friends were plastering their bedroom walls with garish posters of pop stars, she dreamed only of running away to sea and escaping the prison of her father’s house. Her obsession was a mystery to all.

  Not in its origin—because anybody who had endured the misfortune to deal with Khalil Halabi was soon possessed of the same desire to flee—but because Karen had no seafaring blood in her at all. Even on her English side, her late mother’s family ran back through an entirely unimpressive lineage of slum-dwelling lumpen proles. There was no reason why she should have been drawn to the sea, other than the obvious one: it was so much more pleasant than going home.

  And it was still the place she chose as her home, she realized as the lighter carried her across the waters of the Solent, which separated the Isle of Wight from England, back to her ship and crew. Still the one constant in her painfully conflicted life.

  The sea spray was cold and stinging on her coffee-colored skin as they motored into the chop. The sailors, ’temps, were used to her by now. They’d made the trip from Portsmouth to the Trident dozens of times, ferrying across crew and all manner of visitors. She had even organized a brief tour for them. After that, their initial reserve—which sometimes bordered on hostility—had gradually morphed into tolerance, if not outright acceptance.

  She wondered if it would always be that way here. If she would forever be allowed to serve her function, grudgingly valued, but never appreciated for herself.