Designated Targets — Axis Of Time Book II

by John Birmingham

  Halabi huddled deeper into the thick jacket and woolen scarf she wore against the stinging spray and sharp, biting wind. She could feel winter’s teeth in the chill of the sea air, and wondered idly whether she was just imagining that the autumn seemed colder here. The air was certainly cleaner, when you got away from the war. If only everything could be cleaner and simpler, but the longer she was here, the more conflicted she became.

  She’d promised herself she would not become emotional over the snub she’d received in London, and for most of the return trip to her ship, she had managed to maintain an admirable detachment. But as the little motorboat thumped and beat against the confused swell of the Solent’s meeting waters, she found it increasingly difficult to contain her anger and distress. After all, the insult had been as much directed at her crew as at her.

  She’d been in the capital only a short time. She had a briefing to deliver to the Combined Chiefs of Staff at the War Room and a meeting with Professor Barnes Wallis, the head of the government’s new Advanced Research Council.

  The journey up had been uneventful, if more than a little interesting. As was the case with most of her crew, Halabi had duties that kept her on station almost permanently. She rarely left the Trident. On the few occasions she did get away, the trip to London was always fascinating. Not just for the opportunity to examine the historic city and its surrounds firsthand, but also to see the human face of a war that had featured so prominently in her studies at Staff College. There were almost no private cars on the roads, and those very few she did see were gas conversions—preposterous contraptions with a small barrage balloon on the roof or trailing a gas burner in a sort of chariot arrangement. Cyclists were numerous and just as hazardous to life and limb as bicycle couriers in her day. Teams of horses drew post office vans. What few taxis were available tended to be monopolized by GIs with a lot more money than the locals. The open wounds of zigzag trenches defaced parks and playing fields. Women cooked over open fires in bomb sites and hauled buckets of water from who knew where. Occasionally she would spy somebody trying to pee in private behind a bush, often enough to suggest that the Nazis had some mad plan to destroy British morale by bombing all the country’s public conveniences out of existence. It was a feast for someone like her, with a first in social history from Oxford, and Halabi had allowed herself to become lost in her observations as she motored toward the War Room meeting.

  That had gone well enough. Churchill was there, and she’d come to appreciate his presence when dealing with the contemporary military hierarchy. The PM was a famous curmudgeon with absolutely no tolerance for any nonsense that might interfere with the important business of making war on the enemies of the realm. The Defense Committee had reviewed the contingency plans for whatever Hitler might throw at them in the coming weeks. Halabi had explained, yet again, the capabilities and limitations of her ship, and brought everyone up to date on the latest intel take from her drones and ship sensors. The meeting had concluded on a somber note, with all agreeing that the storm was about to break over the island. But there was also some confidence that the Allies would weather it, however savage it might be. England was not defenseless, as she very nearly had been in 1941. Huge numbers of troops from the U.S. and the British Commonwealth were already in country, preparing to repel the assault. The Trident provided them with nearly total coverage of the enemy’s movements. And although the Advanced Weapons programs of Professor Wallis would not begin to deliver in strength for a few months, they still had a few unpleasant surprises in store for the Germans right now.

  Halabi had left the meeting satisfied, and even a little more optimistic than when she’d arrived. The battle was unavoidable, but by no means unwinnable. There would be a terrible bloodletting, perhaps every bit as bad as the horrors of the First World War. But she thought the opposition had the bigger task. For all the firepower Hitler was bringing to bear, he was still faced with having to leap the Channel in less than perfect conditions, against a well-prepared opponent. It was not just a river crossing, whatever his loopier generals said.

  Perhaps if she had been a little less sanguine, she wouldn’t have been so badly upset by what had happened next. Halabi was climbing the stairwell back up to King Charles Street. It was a long climb, the Cabinet War Rooms being buried so deeply underground. She was juggling her briefcase and flexipad, attempting to link back to the Trident for a situation report, when she suddenly made out her own name in the low burble of voices ahead of her on the stairwell.

  Some part of her said, stop. She could just wait and let whoever it was get farther ahead of her. But her feet kept climbing, and she found herself unable to tune out the conversation.

  “. . . unbelievable, really. That Winston would allow everything to turn on someone like that.”

  “Well, he’s been hitting the bottle rather more enthusiastically of late.”

  “Well, who hasn’t? It’s no excuse. A bloody darky and a woman. It’s a wonder the RAF lads haven’t jacked up, the losses they’ve taken saving her arse time and again.”

  As she climbed the steps, Halabi was wrenched back to the tortures of her childhood. She suddenly felt, without having to distinctly recall each and every incident, the accumulated torment of a thousand cruel, unthinking petty insults. She felt the rising heat of free-floating shame and a prickle of panic sweat under her thick, hot clothing.

  “I tell you what, if I had that ship of hers, old Raeder would know he’d been in a fight. There wouldn’t even be a bloody Kriegsmarine to worry about beyond a few e-boats. But she just sits there on the Motherbank doing her bloody knitting.”

  “Wretched woman.”

  “Well, we’ll see what happens when the real fighting starts, won’t we.”

  Back on the Solent as the small boat swung around an old Halcyon-class minesweeper, her flexipad buzzed on her hip, jolting Halabi out of her reverie. She lifted the hem of her oilskin coat, unhooked the device, and powered up in one fluid movement, despite the rough conditions.

  Her XO, a severe looking Scot named McTeale, appeared on screen. “We’ve got another big raid coming, Skipper,” he said. “About a hundred and thirty. All for us again, by the look of things.”

  As McTeale spoke, she looked around and, sure enough, the ships of her antiair screen were coming to life. Thick smoke began pouring from the funnels, water churned as they maneuvered to best place themselves between the Luftwaffe’s attack and their priceless charge, the Trident.

  The irony had long since faded, of her futuristic supership being guarded by a pack of creaking antiques. Three ’temp destroyers had already gone to the bottom protecting her.

  As the ships picked up the pace, positioning themselves to counter the approaching enemy aircraft, McTeale continued to bring her up to speed. “They won’t be here for thirty-five minutes yet, ma’am. And two of Mallory’s big wings have already scrambled to meet them. They’ll be considerably thinned out even before they reach us.”

  As he finished, Halabi thanked him and signed off, slapping the lighter’s helmsman on the back and shouting over the engine noise and brisk wind. “Get a move on, Bumpy. Company’s calling. Tie up, and cross deck with me. You’ll want to be out of the way if any of Göring’s boys get through.”

  “Aye, ma’am,” the sailor called back, opening up the throttles and making the ride even more challenging. Halabi scanned the gray, dismal skies, but she already knew she’d be unlikely to catch sight of the RAF as it headed out to do battle. Her own CIC would vector the Spitfires and Hurricanes onto the incoming raid well before it reached the Channel. The Trident’s Nemesis arrays would provide a detailed picture of three-dimensional battlespace out to five hundred kilometers. It made the country’s contemporary air defense radar network—which had done so well in the Battle of Britain—utterly formidable. By the time the stealth destroyer had deployed its small fleet of drones, the UK had real-time surveillance cover deep into Germany itself.

  It still doesn’t stop them c
oming, though, she thought.

  The Luftwaffe was sending hundreds of German airmen to their deaths every day, attempting to destroy the RAF. And despite the losses, it was having an effect. The strain on the Royal Air Force was beginning to tell. If they cracked, invasion was inevitable.

  It certainly appeared imminent. The buildup of Axis forces across the Channel had nearly reached critical mass, despite the best efforts of Bomber Command to disrupt Nazi preparations. Halabi’s best guess was that they had another fortnight to prepare, although if any of the continuous Luftwaffe raids actually broke through and took out the Trident, the attack would begin almost immediately. Because even with all her ground-attack cruise missiles gone, and her antiair missiles too precious to launch against flying crates like Stukas and Heinkel 110s, she remained the keystone of Britain’s defense.

  Admiral Raeder couldn’t be sure how many ship killers remained in her vertical launch tubes—in fact, there were six. But he could be certain that her sensors kept London aware of every move made by anything bigger than a kübelwagen on his side of the Channel. Meanwhile, the ship’s combat intelligence and human sysops could coordinate Britain’s defensive efforts in a way that was far more effective than pushing wooden blocks around on a big table.

  Yet still they were coming.

  As the lighter moved to within a hundred meters of the Trident, Halabi linked her flexipad to the ship’s CIC and brought up a display of the dogfight that was unfolding to the south. The screen wasn’t big enough to show a real-time video feed from the high-altitude drones on station above the Channel, but the CGI schematic showed her enough. The raid had formed out of three airfields near Lille, St. Lo, and Rouen. Fighter cover, which was just peeling away to engage the RAF defenders, accounted for thirty hostiles. The rest were the bombers.

  She doubted many would get through. Radar-controlled triple-A on the Isle of Wight and the destroyer screen would most likely deal with any planes that evaded the interceptors.

  Halabi felt her biochip implants link to the ship as the lighter bumped against the Trident’s composite skin.

  With a chime, McTeale reappeared on the pad’s display. “CI has analyzed the attack profile, Captain. It’s a new one. There’s an eighty percent chance they’ll come in low, to try and get under the guns we’ve got positioned on the island. The destroyer screen is moving into position, as recommended by Posh.”

  Halabi couldn’t entirely suppress a smirk at that. Posh was an AI with the voice of an unborn pop star, and every time they got bossed around by the “glorified abacus,” as they called her, the Royal Navy captains couldn’t help getting their knickers in a twist.

  Deck crew helped secure the lighter and get the ’temps on board as she compressed the formalities of her return into a quick salute and a brisk recommendation that everyone get below ASAP.

  She moved quickly but without apparent haste. It just wasn’t appropriate for one of His Majesty’s stealth destroyer captains to be seen rushing about like a giddy schoolgirl, and she felt the keen responsibility of setting a good example.

  “Chief Waddington, escort our guests to the mess for a cuppa. They’ll be with us for the next little while.”

  Her senior enlisted man ushered them toward a hatch at the rear of the teardrop bridge as the Metal Storm pods deployed from their recessed containment cells with a whirr. “This way, Bumpy, Freddie,” he said. “Keep out of the captain’s way now. She’s got Nazis to be killing.”

  The ’temps were obviously torn between fascination and the feeling that they were hopelessly out of place. They’d both been through a tour of the ship, but they’d never seen her in action before.

  “Not, today, I think, Chief,” Halabi said as she pushed past them on her way to the CIC. “I’ve got a pound says we don’t fire a volley.”

  Waddington gave it a second or two before nodding brusquely. “Done then, ma’am. For a quid. Right you two, follow me.” The chief left with his guests in tow, and Halabi hurried on.

  A leading seawoman announced the captain’s arrival, but she bade everyone to keep working. It was always reassuring to get back into the CIC, even with the ship’s offensive capability so drastically diminished. On the forward bulkhead of the hexagonal shaped center, six giant flat panels had been linked into one theater-wide display.

  Four of the panels were presently devoted to the attack on the Trident. Two remained fixed on schematics of Axis deployments on the mainland. She could see as soon as she entered the soothing blue light of the center that even more units had been moved toward the French coast. Another Waffen-SS division had been billeted at Brugge in Belgium. Two regiments of Panzer Grenadiers had moved north from Amiens to Douai. And more radar-controlled antiair units had appeared around the ports of Le Havre, Dieppe, and Calais.

  “Looks like they’re warming up for the Cup, Mr. McTeale.”

  “Aye, ma’am,” said her executive officer. “It’s beginning to look like a right fucking teddy bears’ picnic. The RAF is chopping into those wee beasties right proper, though.” He nodded at the screen where multiple windows of cascading data clearly indicated that a substantial toll had already been levied on the attackers.

  Before Halabi could concentrate on the readouts, however, her chief defensive sysop called out. “Captain, we have a development. Three hostiles approaching at low altitude, from one-forty-three relative, airspeed of eight hundred eighty kilometers per hour.”

  A low-grade jolt ran through the combat center—nothing that a stranger would notice, but enough for Halabi to pick up.

  “Jets,” she said without showing her surprise. “Ms. Burchill, reassign Drone Zero Three to the new contact.”

  A new window opened up on the four screens feeding coverage of the air battle. A real-time feed appeared, from a Big Eye that was keeping station at 110,000 feet.

  “They’re Two-sixty-twos,” said Halabi. “A little premature, I would have thought. Intel, quickly, give me the E! News version.”

  A young lieutenant worked his keyboard, calmly but quickly. “In the Original Timeframe, first jet flight July eighteenth, nineteen forty-two, ma’am. Tests proved engines to be unreliable. They mostly remained so. Used as a bomber rather than a fighter. Not very maneuverable. Long, straight-line attacks with cannon when engaging Allied bombers.”

  “Posh indicates a ninety-eight percent probability that we are the target, ma’am,” said Lieutenant Burchill.

  “What does she say about the air screen’s chances of knocking them down?”

  “Less than thirty percent, Captain. She recommends that we designate for Metal Storm.”

  The big screen showed the three prototype jets slashing across the Channel at nearly twice the speed of the Hurricanes fighting it out thousands of feet above them.

  “Designate them,” said Halabi, “but let the destroyers and the shore batteries have a go first. They might have been able to jump-start these jets, but I doubt they’ve been able to build a decent Exocet yet. It might be another dummy run. A ploy to trick us into using up more of our war stocks.”

  “Posh is resetting the air screen, ma’am, based on probable attack vectors.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Burchill.”

  Halabi watched intently as the thirteen corvettes and destroyers emerged from the mouth of the Solent and spread out in a formation determined by the Trident’s Combat Intelligence to provide the most effective interlocking fields of fire.

  “The Daleks are locked and tracking, Captain,” reported her defensive sysop.

  Halabi threw a quick glance at a feed from the deck-cams, showing three Metal Storm pods that were deployed and making micro-adjustments as they awaited the order to fire. She wondered who had first nicknamed them Daleks. A Brit, probably. The name had never really caught on in the U.S.

  Her comm boss appeared at her side. “Flash traffic from London, ma’am. A movement order, for you, from Downing Street.”

  “It can wait,” she replied curtly. “I’m about to los
e a bet with Chief Waddington. Comm, send a message to Fighter Command. Warn them about the Two-sixty-twos. Tell them they can counter for the jets’ increased speed by using their superior maneuverability. I don’t think it’s going to be an issue today. But you never know.”

  “Aye, ma’am.”

  The distant thunder of old-fashioned ack-ack reached them through the composite ram-skin and monobonded-carbon armor of the Trident’s hull. The air screen had opened up. She watched a top-down view of the ships as flame and smoke poured from Bofors and small-bore cannons and .50-caliber machine-gun mounts. Two armored motorboats appeared from the northwest quarter to lend their efforts, as well, although they weren’t plugged into the air-defense grid that controlled the fire of the other ships and the shore emplacements.

  “Splash one!”

  A German jet erupted into a bright yellow ball of flame and oily smoke. A small cheer went up, but quickly subsided as the two remaining jets pressed on.

  “Captain, Nemesis telemetry data indicates that a five-inch shell from HMS Obdurate took out the hostile.”

  “My compliments to Commander Amis,” she said.

  “Splash two!”

  A second jet fighter disappeared inside a boiling cloud of burning debris.

  There was no applause this time. The third plane continued on its course, ripping past the destroyers in a matter of seconds. On screen, the sparkling lines of white fire danced along the opposite sides of the defending ships.

  “HMS Obedient got number two, Skipper.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Evans. My compliments to Commander Welsh.”

  Halabi took her seat in the center of the CIC and slowly rubbed her lips with one finger as she watched the last plane cross into her fire-zone.

  “Intel, ma’am. Analysis indicates air-launched missile capability. Possibly prototype R-Four-M rockets, with a PB-Two warhead.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Burchill. Estimated time to release of hostile weapons package?”

  “One minute, plus or minus ten seconds, ma’am.”