Final Impact (40 page)

The main table was littered with official papers and dossiers, with plates of half-eaten food, pots of coffee, and bottles of champagne. Beria used a glass spoon to scoop dollops of Beluga caviar onto hot buttered black bread. Stalin threw grapes and hunks of cheese down the table.

“It is a great day, Comrades. A great day,” he declared. “Today we change history. Today the correlation of forces shifts back into alignment. I knew. I knew—did I not tell you?—that there was a mechanical inevitability about all of this. We may not understand the physics yet, but the laws of dialectical materialism would not allow the revolution to fail. And so, as antihistorical pressures built up, they ruptured history itself, delivering us the means to…”

Beria tuned him out. The old fool was talking nonsense again.

The NKVD boss well remembered the shock and fear that lived on Stalin’s face in the first days after the Emergence. They all expected Nazi storm troopers to burst through the gates of the Kremlin in some sort of invincible supertank, firing death rays and wonder rockets. Stalin had claimed that the Emergence was a product of an unstable history on the other side of the event, but it was all so much eyewash.

As information had trickled in, Beria had been briefed by his best scientists about the experiment that had been conducted by the madman called Pope. About what he had been attempting to do, and the theory behind it. He had tried to explain it to the
Vozhd
and the rest of the war cabinet, but had backpedaled when it became obvious that Stalin needed an explanation for why all of his statues would have been pulled down.

For Stalin it was simple. History was wrong.

And since history was subject to determinist laws, just like an apple falling from a tree, it had corrected itself. Now the workers’ revolution would proceed as nature intended.

A couple of Red Army guards appeared pushing one of the electronic boards retrieved from the
Vanguard.
A nervous technician followed them.

“Excellent.
Excellent.
Bring it in,” Stalin roared. “Turn it on, man. Quickly,” he continued. “We have the business of state to carry out.”

Beria chased the last of his caviar around the bottom of the bowl while the shaking apparatchik attempted to do as he’d been ordered. When the dull white screen winked into life, you would have thought he’d just given birth. The technician handed Stalin a small black, handheld device and attempted to instruct him on its use. The general secretary tossed it back at him.

“You do it,” he instructed.

How fortunate for the poor bastard,
Beria thought.
Stalin has enough trouble making an old gramophone play.
It wouldn’t be worth one’s life to embarrass him with a complicated piece of equipment like this.

After a few seconds’ fiddling with the remote control, a map of the world appeared.

“Marvelous,” Stalin said. “Can you—what is the correct word—
define
Berlin and Tokyo? Make them flash or something?”

He could.

“Good.
Very
good,” Stalin said. He was positively beaming. “Marshal Timoshenko, can you see those two cities?”

The defense minister nodded, unsure what this was about.

“And if necessary, do you have a bomber that could reach them?”

Timoshenko appeared to think it over. “The Tu-Sixteen could easily make it to Berlin and back, if we staged the flight out of a Polish base,” he conceded. “Tokyo would be more difficult. It could certainly be reached from Vladivostok. But the return trip is too far.”

“But the pilots could reach the Japanese capital?”

“Oh yes.”

“Then if you wish to purge yourself of blame for the disaster at Okhotsk, you will take the bombs that Laventry Pavlovich has made, and you will drop them. Two on Berlin, and one on Tokyo. And then you will do whatever is necessary to break through at the Oder and to relieve your forces on Hokkaido.

“Do you understand? Whatever the cost, you will pay it.”

33

D-DAY + 40. 14 JUNE 1944. 1020 HOURS.
THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

“Whatever the price, gentlemen, Do you understand?”

Each of the Joint Chiefs nodded, Army Air Force commander General Hap Arnold the most emphatically.

“All right. Thank you, then. General Groves, you have preparations to make.”

The general thanked the president and excused himself, accepting the plaudits of the chiefs as he departed with rare humility.

While he was waiting for Groves to leave, Roosevelt rolled a pencil between his fingers, a poor substitute for the cigarettes he had given up. He no longer suffered from the physical cravings—the tiny insert in his arm had taken care of those. But he still found himself longing for the familiar ceremony of smoking, the soothing effect of the ritual itself. At times like these it was almost impossible to resist the urge to just go through the motions. He was going to write a long letter to Truman, who was campaigning in Iowa at the moment, telling him exactly what he thought of the tobacco companies and what should be done about them. Assuming Harry won in November.

“You have admirals Spruance and Kolhammer via audio relay,” an aide told him.

“Put them on the speaker box,” Roosevelt instructed him. “Everyone needs to be in on this. Lord Halifax, you should stay, too. His Majesty’s government will have a say in this matter.”

The British ambassador smiled and brushed some cookie crumbs from his lap with his one good hand.

The speaker set on the president’s desk crackled before settling back into a sibilant hiss.

“Admiral Spruance, can you hear me?” Roosevelt said.

“Yes, sir,” came the slightly distorted reply. “I’m sorry for the lack of a video link, Mr. President. We’re too far out. I have Admiral Kolhammer with me.”

Kolhammer’s voice crackled out of the box. “Mr. President.”

“And I have the Joint Chiefs and the British ambassador with me,” Roosevelt responded. “Now, tell us about this message from Yamamoto.”

It was Kolhammer who answered.

“The
Havoc
picked up a wide-area datacast a few hours ago, Mr. President. A few hours after the Soviet Pacific Fleet was destroyed. It was a personal message from Admiral Yamamoto to myself, seeking to make contact to discuss the possibility of a cease-fire, prior to the immediate withdrawal of all Japanese forces to the Home Islands.”

Every man in the room reacted. Admiral King, the U.S. Navy chief, cursed volubly. Lord Halifax raised his eyebrows theatrically. Hap Arnold snorted and General Marshall, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, shook his head in amazement. Roosevelt, whose whole life had been spent cutting one deal after another, merely bobbed his head up and down.

“I see,” he replied. “And what details do we have of this offer? Is Yamamoto acting on his own? Can he deliver the rest of his general staff? Does he think this is a way to avoid reparations, and trials for war crimes? Will the Japanese submit to occupation?”

It was a hot and brutally humid summer day outside the Oval Office. Hardly a leaf stirred in the still, heavy conditions. Roosevelt wondered what time it was in Kolhammer’s part of the world as he waited for the slightly delayed response.

“On the last matter, Mr. President,” Kolhammer replied, “I would hazard a guess that the Japanese would be only too willing to submit to occupation by our forces, if only to avoid a Soviet takeover.”

“And you think that’s a good idea, I suppose,” Admiral King interjected. He and Kolhammer had a famously antagonistic relationship. Butting into the middle of a conversation between Kolhammer and the president was well within his character.

Roosevelt was glad when the other man didn’t bite.

“I have no opinion either way,” Kolhammer responded. “This is a political decision. That’s why we’re calling it in.”

Roosevelt could hardly suppress the grin that wanted to break out and run wild on his face. Phillip Kolhammer was just about the most political commander he knew. Even Douglas MacArthur was shaded into a distant second place by the man’s Machiavellian machinations. He was just damn lucky that Eleanor had taken such a shine to him.

The president had to wonder what the man was playing at.

“Is the
Havoc
in contact with the Japanese fleet?” he asked. “I understand she was supposed to be shadowing them. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Spruance answered. “Captain Willet is stalking the Combined Fleet and reports that she has independent target locks on their carriers and largest gunships, the
Musashi
and
Yamato.
”

“Then why are they still floating?” Admiral King asked, nearly shouting to make his voice heard from across the room.

Inevitably, Kolhammer fielded that question. “Captain Willet exercised her best judgment, Admiral. And in her judgment it was an open question as to whether or not our goals were served by destroying the major impediment to a Communist takeover of Japan.”

“Our
goals
are to defeat the Japanese and the Nazis,” King barked back. “Look it up in your history books, Admiral. I’m sure it’s in there somewhere.”

“That’s enough,” Roosevelt said. He threw an almost pleading look at George Marshall. “General. What’s your feeling about this matter? I must confess, my initial reaction is to say
damn it all
and send them to the bottom.”

Marshall was sitting with what looked like painful formality in a Chesterfield armchair, and he didn’t waste time mulling the question. “As I understand it, the Soviets’ ability to project power in that theater has been dramatically constrained by their losses off Hokkaido. Even if the
Havoc
were to cripple the Japanese now, it wouldn’t necessarily mean that Stalin was free to walk into the place and take over. Look at our own projections for an invasion of the Home Islands. Without using atomic weapons, you’re talking about millions of men and hundreds of thousands of casualties.”

“But the Russians have atomic weapons, General,” Roosevelt said.

“I don’t believe they have many,” Marshall replied. “If they did, we would have seen them by now. It’s even possible, if you agree with Admiral Kolhammer, to imagine them bombing
us
if they thought they could get away with it. How many bombs would
that
take? How many cities would we be willing to lose, just to hold out against Communist demands? How many would your people trade for their freedom, Mr. Ambassador?

“I doubt Stalin has the capacity to launch more than another three or four atomic strikes at the moment. Assuming he wants to concentrate his efforts on Europe, that means a largely conventional campaign to take Japan. And as I said, all of his sea-lift and naval air capability was destroyed by Yamamoto. So I guess I come down on the side of Admiral King. Sink them.”

Roosevelt surveyed the room. Hap Arnold nodded. King did so vigorously.

“Mr. Ambassador?”

“I’m afraid the PM would want to make this call himself—”

“For chrissakes, we can’t ring London every time a sub captain wants to put a torpedo into a Jap,” protested King, who had almost no time for his British allies.

Lord Halifax, a sickly man with a withered left arm that ended in a stump, smiled wanly. “I do not propose to ask any such thing of you, Admiral. I was merely pointing out that Prime Minister Churchill would doubtless prefer that you heard his opinion, rather than mine, or even my best guess at what his thinking might be. It is an operational matter, in the end.”

“Excuse me.”

It was Kolhammer’s voice again, sounding strained, which was to be expected since the argument was running against him.

“It
is
an operational matter,” he agreed, “but it will have broad political consequences.
Historical
consequences. I cannot emphasize this strongly enough. You cannot allow the Soviets to gain control of Japan. They have overrun China already, apart from areas where the Nationalists are holding out. They have pushed deep into Afghanistan, within artillery range of India’s Northwest Frontier, last time that I checked. They have advance forces in northern Indochina and Korea. They are going to enslave four-fifths of the world by the time they are finished.

“This war is not about the last four years, not anymore. It is about the next hundred. Possibly the next five hundred. I’m sorry that I appear to be the only one with this opinion, but I am going to put it out there, and put it strongly.
And
I want it recorded that I disagree in the strongest terms with any decision to reject Yamamoto’s offer without even investigating the terms. Mr. President, this is Yalta on a global scale.”

Roosevelt prickled at the reference to Yalta. When the first “future histories” had been published, he’d taken real damage over something he hadn’t even done. At what point in his life in
this
world had he consigned Eastern Europe to Communist dictatorship? Kolhammer could be insufferable at times like this.

“Admiral Spruance,” he said brusquely. “You will order Captain Willet to sink those ships.”

Kolhammer tried to speak again. “Mr. President—”

“I have made up my mind, Admiral. Now, if there is nothing else.”

To Roosevelt’s surprise, there was.

Spruance spoke. “About the same time Captain Willet intercepted the Yamamoto datacast, she also received one from Major Ivanov, the Russian officer who arrived with Admiral Kolhammer and who is, uh, operating within the Soviet Union of his accord.”

Roosevelt could feel high color in his cheeks, and he was certain his blood pressure surged. He’d already had it out with Kolhammer over this one, and it was galling in the extreme to find himself in a position where he was forced to concede the utility of having Ivanov in the USSR.

“Go on, Admiral
Spruance,
” he said, trying to keep the aggravation out of his tone.

“Well, Admiral Kolhammer is better informed than I, Mr. President, as he’s had time for a full briefing from his Intelligence Division—”

That’d be right,
Roosevelt thought.

“—but as he explained it to me, Major Ivanov has confirmed the existence of a Multinational Force ship, the
Vanguard,
within the USSR, and the existence of a large nuclear facility in eastern Siberia, in which the Soviets constructed the weapon used over Lodz. He has provided the location, some surveillance images, and a good deal of technical data obtained from a number of Russian scientists who worked at the facility.”

“And where are those scientists now?” Roosevelt asked.

“They’re dead, sir,” answered Kolhammer bluntly. “Major Ivanov terminated them.”

A great weariness threatened to steal over the president. What was the French word for existential despair? He felt it more and more often whenever he contemplated a world remade in the image of people like Kolhammer. There were some days when he couldn’t wait to be free of it all.

Aloud, he said, “Well, my decision stands. Captain Willet is to close with the enemy and destroy them.”

D-DAY + 40. 14 JUNE 1944. 2340 HOURS.
USS
HILLARY CLINTON,
PACIFIC AREA OF OPERATIONS.

Death Cab for Cutie’s “Crooked Teeth” poured from the speakers in Kolhammer’s cabin. The admiral swirled the ice-filled glass of Coke, sipped, and stared at the flexipad on his desk as the Cuties sang about making a horrible call.

There was nothing he could do. Willet had her orders and she would obey them without question, regardless of her own personal misgivings. He looked at his watch. She was probably launching her first salvo right now.

He leaned over and picked up the flexipad. A small icon, an open envelope, marked the e-mail message from Yamamoto.

Another icon designated Ivanov’s file. His eyes flicked over at the door to his room like the tip of a rawhide whip. There was one chance that he might yet influence events. He and Willet had talked their way around it after the audio hookup with Washington, convincing Spruance that the
Havoc
should only take down those ships that provided a clear and immediate threat to Allied vessels.

It left one possibility open.

He didn’t stop to consider the consequences.

Opening Ivanov’s message, he quickly excised the location of the Siberian
Sharashka
and copied in a few details about the facility’s purpose.

He checked the
SEND
and
HARD-DELETE
boxes at the top of the message. The pad linked to the
Clinton
’s Nemesis arrays and pulsed outward. Microseconds later a software agent cannibalized that portion of the pad’s lattice memory that held any trace of the e-mail. Then it ate itself as the music played on, assuring him that there had been nothing there all along.

Kolhammer turned off the pad, finished the Coke, and stood up. It was time to get back to the bridge.

D-DAY + 40. 14 JUNE 1944. 2340 HOURS.
HMAS
HAVOC,
PACIFIC AREA OF OPERATIONS.

The
Woomera
-class submarine slipped through the warm bath of the Pacific like an assassin’s blade. It never came closer than sixty meters to the surface, but a thin cable trailed from a recessed slot at the rear of its conning tower and ran all the way up to the surface, where it maintained a constant link to a Big Eye drone that was maintaining its position above the center of the Japanese fleet.

“Target lock verified, Captain.”

“Thank you, weapons,” Willet said, never taking her eyes off the screen in which the Japanese ships steamed south. “You may fire.”

The sub’s offensive sysop ran her fingers down a line of icons. A hundred and twenty meters forward of the Combat Center, eight torpedo tube doors slid open and an impossibly complicated waltz began, with the
Havoc
’s Combat Intelligence tracking its prey via the link to the drone, then passing the position fix data down to the seeker heads in the retrofitted torpedoes.

One after another they launched, leaping from the tubes and accelerating away. They were driven by hydrazine monopropellent rocket engines, and trailed guidance wires back to their mother ship.