Final Impact

by John Birmingham

  Kolhammer agreed with as much good grace as he could muster. He liked Spruance, even though he knew the other man found him and his people vexing—to say the least. As long as the Auxiliaries did what was asked of them, though, Spruance had never interfered with their command chain or conducted himself with anything but the most proper of courtesies. Lonesome Jones had only kind thoughts and soft words for him, and that said a lot.

  Kolhammer checked his watch. It would be another five minutes before the Eighty-second’s commander arrived. “Any word on when the Sovs will arrive in Washington?”

  “No,” Spruance answered. “Three or four days at a guess. But you can bet that when they do get there, they’ll have an army of liaison officers wanting to swarm all over King and ‘coordinate’ with our efforts out here.”

  “Anything to keep us out of the Home Islands,” Kolhammer said.

  Spruance grunted. He was lost in his thoughts, but the commander of the Clinton’s battle group had a good idea of what he was thinking about.

  When will we get the bomb?

  16

  D-DAY + 31. 3 JUNE 1944. 0711 HOURS.

  LOS ANGELES.

  There had been well over three hundred people at cocktails last night, and dawn found a few of them still lying around on the artificial beach on top of Slim Jim’s building. The original owner, a haberdasher who’d gone out of business by refusing to run up any twenty-first designs, had shipped in a couple of tons of sand from Europe and poured it onto the roof around the swimming pool. Slim Jim couldn’t understand the guy at all. If he was willing to buy in truckloads of fancy store-bought European sand when there was plenty of free stuff up the road at Santa Monica, why not crib a few pairs of pants from some unborn Euro-queer like Armani? Most of Slim Jim’s suits were Armani rip-offs. In fact, if he remembered right, he even owned a chunk of some fashion house back in New York that specialized in recreating clothes from uptime magazines. Or maybe not. It was hard keeping track of everything he owned nowadays. And anyway he had legions of accountants and lawyers to do that for him, freeing him up for the important business of rooftop beach parties with Hollywood starlets and a select circle of beer buddies.

  At that very moment one of his best suds-buds, old Artie Snider, was facedown in the crotch of some B-list starlet from Sammy Goldwyn’s stable. He wasn’t doing nothing, of course. That’d be a bit fucking déclassé, as Ms. O’Brien woulda put it. Artie had just passed out sometime before sunup and, unable to shift his considerable bulk, the blonde had fallen asleep beneath him. Slim Jim smirked at the twists of fate that spun out of the Transition. He was willing to bet a million bucks that when Snider had his leg shot out from under him by the Japs down in Australia, the big dumb bastard had no idea he’d land flat on his face in some bimbo’s twat at a penthouse party in LA.

  Slim Jim wrapped a soft, white cotton bathrobe around himself and tried to haul his ass skyward out of the lounger in which he’d crashed. The morning sun had climbed over the highest floors of the unfinished skyscraper across the street, burning through his eyelids to wake him up a few minutes ago. It was now hot enough to give him a bad sunburn if he didn’t watch out. He was working on his tan, but it was taking awhile. He had the kind of sallow, moley skin that didn’t brown easily. Prison pallor, they called it. Once upon a time anyway. He found people generally fell over themselves to be nice to him these days. Except for those Rockefeller pricks, of course.

  Fuck I need a beer.

  His head swam unpleasantly as he gained his feet and looked around, taking inventory. Looked like about a dozen girls had stayed over. And maybe half that many fellas. Apart from Artie, he could see a couple of sailors crashed on blow-up mattresses, which bumped against the floating bar like giant bath toys. He didn’t really know them, but he always made sure to invite some guys from the forces to his parties. At first Ms. O’Brien had insisted on it as a sort of public relations exercise, but Slim Jim found he got on a lot easier with them than the business types he was forced to mix with anyway. That’s how he’d met Snider, at some Kennedy gig or something for crippled war heroes back in New York last year. Old Artie was the very picture of respectability when he was out on government business, but Slim Jim had found him to be a hellcat of a drinker and a skirt chaser, gimpy leg and all, when the pressmen weren’t looking. He was a good guy to have around. Sort of reminded him of the old days.

  “A pot of coffee, Mr. Davidson?”

  “Huh? Oh yeah. Thanks, Albert.”

  He tried to blink away some of the crust from his eyes, but his butler steadfastly refused to come into focus. Albert was another good guy to have around, but in a completely different way from Artie. Albert, an honest-to-goddamn English butler, was an absolute fucking marvel at turning up exactly when he was needed. Like now, with a pot of strong black coffee and a toasted cheese sandwich.

  “Breakfast of champions, big Al. Thanks, buddy.”

  The tall, gray-haired servant bowed his head slightly. “Of course, sir. Your bath is drawn and your clothes have been set out for the day. A printed schedule is on your desk in your private quarters. Shall I see to the other guests?”

  Slim Jim couldn’t help sniggering. The “gentleman’s gentleman” managed to flick just enough of a spin on the word guests to imply they were anything but.

  “Get old Artie into bed, if you can, Al. And his girlfriend. You can bundle the rest downstairs to the café for breakfast and them pour ’em into cabs. Put it all on my tab.”

  “Very good, sir. And Mr. Kennedy’s man would like a word with you, too, when you have a moment.”

  “He still here?” asked Slim Jim. “I didn’t take him for such a live wire.”

  “He has been away and returned, sir. He is waiting for you downstairs in the main conference room.”

  Slim Jim shook his head. It seemed his whole fucking life was like this now, a never-ending series of meetings with no chance of escape. He rubbed the blurriness from his vision and took a long draw on the mug of coffee that Albert had poured for him. It’d taken a hell of a lot of work convincing the old geezer to let him drink out of a mug instead of some bone china cup-and-saucer arrangement. He’d hoped that maybe he could get in a few hairs of the dog this morning before heading upstate for a surfing lesson. He was really getting into surfing. But he could see that the giant machine known as Slim Jim Enterprises was going to gobble up his entire day all over again.

  “Okay, Albert. Did you get…uh, what’s his name, this Kennedy guy?”

  “Mr. Doyle, sir.”

  “Did you get him some coffee and a roll or something? Can’t leave him scratching his ass, I suppose.”

  “Chef has sent up a tray of fresh pastries and a pot of coffee, sir. Mr. Doyle understands you have been indisposed. He is happy to wait.”

  Slim Jim brayed out a short, sharp laugh. “I’ll bet. Okay. Gimme ten, fifteen minutes and I’ll be down.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “And don’t worry about Snider, I’ll see to him myself.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As his butler disappeared inside, looking like some windup figure on a cuckoo clock, Slim Jim drained his coffee and ambled over to the prone form of Artie Snider. He was in uniform, sort of. His pants were down around his ankles, and his shirt had ridden up to expose a growing paunch. A couple of the bimbos were stirring on the far side of the pool. One of them waved lazily and he waved back, smiling as best he could with his hangover. It never hurt to be friendly, even with the little guys. Especially with the little guys, in fact. Ms. O’Brien had taught him that, too. The little guys were fighting this war, she always said. They were gonna win it, too. And the world would be theirs. And his, if he kept ’em on his side.

  Music suddenly came on, blaring from hidden speakers. Loud enough to wake the hard-core hangers-on. No doubt on Albert’s order. Some dumbass uptime song called “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go.” The butler’s idea of a joke.

  “Hey, Artie,” said Slim Jim, toeing h
is friend on the side of the head, getting a nice feel of the unconscious blonde’s thigh while he was at it. “Get up, man. I gotta go, and those war bond assholes are gonna be looking for you soon.”

  Snider grunted and nuzzled deeper into the starlet’s crotch. He didn’t look like he was going anywhere quickly. Slim Jim shrugged, walked over to the pool, scooped up a mug of cold water, and returned to pour it all over them. The effect was instantaneous. Snider came awake with a roar, and his companion with a squeal.

  “What the fuck?” he cried out, shaking his head like a wet dog.

  “Gotta get a move on, buddy. Time’s a-wasting. You can crash here if you want, but you got that gig up in Frisco later this morning. You’re gonna catch hell if you blow ’em off again.”

  “Yeah, right,” the big man grunted. “Frisco…right.”

  He had some trouble getting to his feet. His knee reconstruction, which wouldn’t have even been possible without twenty-first technology and know-how, still wasn’t perfect. Slim Jim gave him a helping hand. The reek of sour alcohol on his breath was something to behold.

  “You too, darlin’,” he said, gently digging his foot into the girl’s behind as she rolled over. It was an outstanding behind, after all, and just sitting there, begging to be interfered with. Her bikini top, one of the new teensy-weensy ones, fell off as she got up and she giggled unself-consciously, giving Slim Jim an eyeful and an unspoken invitation.

  Dames, he thought. They never fucking change, no matter what part of town they’re from.

  Artie was too far under the weather to notice, and probably wouldn’t have cared anyway. They’d shared plenty of women before.

  “We ain’t gonna surf today, Jimbo?” he asked. “I thought we was gonna have a lesson up the coast? The water’s good for me leg, you know.”

  “We were,” shrugged Slim Jim. “But I got this Kennedy asshole downstairs wants a piece of me first. And you got your gig in Frisco. I’ll have my guys fly you there and back. You shoulda been there already. We can party tonight.”

  “Me, too?” asked the girl. What was her fucking name?

  “Sure, darlin’,” said Slim Jim. “Bring some friends. We’ll rip it up.”

  The music had woken everyone by now. Slim Jim could have sworn it was getting louder. It was surely getting more uncomfortable on the “beach” as the sun climbed higher. One of the sailors rolled off his inflatable mattress with a splash and a holler. That awful fucking pop song finished and a new track came on. Crunching guitars and gravel-voiced singer. He recognized it immediately as the Foo Fighters’ last single, “Innocence,” one of his faves. His flexipad was programmed to wake him with it every morning.

  “What is that noise?” asked the bimbo.

  “That is the unborn genius of Dave Grohl, sweetheart,” he informed her. “Have some fucking respect.”

  “So you figured out which one you’re putting into the White House yet?” he joked. “Or is old Joe planning to give all of his boys a turn?”

  The Kennedy clan fixer, Mike Doyle, didn’t bother to hide his aversion. He didn’t like dealing with Slim Jim, and they both knew it. Mrs. Davidson’s little boy had spent a good deal of his former life getting the shit kicked out of him one way or another by the likes of Doyle. The guy screamed ex-cop, and even though he was now taking his coin from an old bootlegger, it must have galled him something awful to have to deal with somebody like Slim Jim as an equal—or even, let’s face it, as a superior. Because in the end, Doyle was just a spear-carrier.

  He rolled his shoulders around inside an off-the-rack suit. It was an older contemporary cut, unlike Slim Jim’s stylish uptime number, and it pulled tight in all the wrong places as he leaned forward.

  “Mr. Kennedy understood that he had a deal with you for your support in this matter, whenever he asked for it. You said you’d back his choice for the primaries with money and votes. What, are you backing out or something? You got your own plans, is that it?”

  Slim Jim enjoyed the sensation of being able to say nothing for so long, it became uncomfortable. He enjoyed the view out of his picture windows, the expensive fit-out of the conference room, the acres of polished oak table in front of him.

  “Nah,” he said at last. “I don’t have my own plans. I gave Joe my word, and that’s as good as ink on paper. Better, in fact. I got a lawyer who’s an absolute fucking wonder at blowing holes in bits of paper. You tell him, when one of the boys is ready to run, I’ll do whatever I can to help…”

  He left the sentence hanging long enough for Doyle to understand more was coming. “But?” said the fixer.

  “But,” added Slim Jim, “I’m still waiting to hear from him about a little favor that I asked for back in Hyannisport.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Doyle, warily. “And that’d be?”

  “The Zone legislation,” said Slim Jim. “The sunset clause. Your boss promised me he would help kill it in the House. You make sure he understands that I’m serious. I want that clause nixed. We got a good thing going out here and we don’t need the apple cart tipped over by a bunch of know-nothing pinheads trying to wind the clock back. It’d be very bad for business.”

  Doyle sized him up as though he were still a small-time grifter trying to pass a rubber check.

  “That it?” he asked.

  “That’s it,” said Slim Jim.

  “Okay then, I’ll tell him. Can I get you later today, if he’s got an answer?”

  Slim Jim shook his head. “Nope,” he said. “I’m going for a surf with a buddy. You can call Maria O’Brien and tell her.”

  17

  D-DAY + 32. 4 JUNE 1944. 0852 HOURS.

  BERLIN.

  He might have expected more panic. The fact that most Berliners appeared to be going about their business may have spoken to something commendable in the German spirit.

  On the other hand, Ambassador Oshima thought it more likely that they simply didn’t know what had happened. Propaganda Minister Göbbels kept a very tight rein.

  All that Oshima had publicly read or heard about the fighting in the east was that a poorly coordinated sneak attack on a Wehrmacht regiment at the edge of the Demilitarized Zone had been repulsed, with heavy enemy casualties. Some German newspapers were even speculating that the Ukrainian nationalists might be responsible. There were at least three feuding militias in the Ukraine, and they all had clashed with both Communist and German forces in the last year.

  But Oshima knew better.

  The Reich’s ruling elite was still stunned by the blow Stalin had delivered. They hadn’t yet settled upon a response, so no compelling story had been invented to explain away this strategic reversal. As he motored down the Unter den Linden on his way to meet with Himmler, he could not rid himself of the images he had seen of the city of Berlin, ravaged by the Red Army.

  He well remembered the Nanking Incident, and it took little effort to imagine the same sort of thing played out here, or at home, once the Bolshevik hordes had arrived at the gates. The ambassador maintained an outward façade of calm, but unless he had good news to send back to Tokyo, he feared what the next few months might bring.

  The Red Army would pay a heavy toll for every inch of Japanese soil they defiled, but unlike the blissfully ignorant Berliners, he had seen the raw reports and even some video coverage of the new Eastern Front, and he harbored no misconceptions about the enemy they faced. The Communists had been busy, and most shockingly they had obviously gained access to Emergence technology. They seemed almost as well equipped as the Americans and British, and their armies were much larger. The only way they could be stopped was with an atomic bomb. He hoped Himmler might have word of a breakthrough on that score, because to date the Axis had enjoyed very little success in their atomic endeavors.

  As the limousine pulled up at an intersection near the Brandenburg Gate, Oshima watched a couple of SS officers browbeating a fat civilian. It wasn’t immediately apparent what crime he had committed, and of course it was entirely possible t
hat the man was only guilty of attracting their attention in the first place. As much as Reichsführer Himmler had been a good ally to Imperial Japan, delivering on all of his promises to the letter, the sight of the two black-clad Nazis bullying the terrified Berliner reminded Oshima that his “allies” would just as soon treat him as the subhuman they thought him to be. And that if they did prevail against the Allies and the Communists, their very nature would lead them to seek dominion over the emperor’s realm, as well.

  A part of him had suspected Himmler of hiding progress on the atomic bomb because he wanted the weapon exclusively for the Reich. But now, with Germany caught between two formidable enemies, it seemed more likely that the Reichsführer’s protests and lamentations were genuine. If Hitler had possessed the superweapon, he surely would have used it on Zhukov and Konev. Instead, everything that Oshima heard about the Soviet front led him to believe that an epic disaster was in the making.

  His driver apologized for the delay in getting to the Wilhelmstrasse for Oshima’s meeting. The RAF had bombed the city the previous night for the first time in weeks, and the roads were still affected, even though the brunt of the raid had fallen a few miles away. A stray stick of bombs had landed on the transport hub of Potsdamer Platz, throwing the central traffic grid into chaos.

  Oshima said nothing. He was a world away, in the old wooden streets of Tokyo, remembering his life before this madness. He doubted he would ever see home again.

  That last time he had been aboveground for any length of time it was…

  Well, in fact he couldn’t remember. It had been so long, and events had taken such a twisted and evil course since then, that Himmler seemed to have spent most of his waking life shuffling from one dank, stale-smelling underground bunker to another. The touch of morning sun on his face in the brief seconds between climbing out of his Mercedes and hurrying into the nondescript building on a small street running off Wilhelmstrasse had been like a week at a spa in the Alps. If only he could have lingered in the sooty, high-walled courtyard at the back of the building where his car had pulled up. He might have stood there all day, soaking in the warmth and the sweet, soft light. But such an indulgence was not for him. History was bearing on his shoulders, threatening to crush him.