The Company of the Dead (54 page)

At sea, the new German submersibles had exceeded all expectations, tearing through the Japanese shipping and disrupting commerce between the West Coast and the Japanese Isles. The 5th Fleet dominated the waters.

Further afield, the reports were less reliable. A widely cast net gathered more rumour and hearsay than facts. Espionage agents in India provided reasonable evidence of an insurrection in Delhi, following the Japanese encirclement of Lahore. The Japanese were apparently being welcomed as liberators as they pushed into the subcontinent.

Less convincing was the report of an entire Russian army group’s surrender following a tactical atomic blast in Kazakhstan. To Webster’s mind, it was more likely the result of a maladroit attempt to destroy supplies as the Russians fell back on their proven strategy of “scorched earth”.

He included it all in his appraisal, highlighting the information he felt could be endorsed by credible sources. He noted that offers had been made by Ryuichi to the reigning families of the Saudi Peninsula. Another fortnight of similar successes in East Russia would bring the Japanese to the foothills of the Caucasus Mountains. The Japanese were, in a vast pincer movement, closing on two-thirds of the planet’s known petroleum reserves.

He didn’t plan on saying anything at all about the German stratolite fleet.

President Clancy had told him two days ago that a flotilla of six stratolites had been observed above a Russian weather station at the polar ice cap. The most recent account, garnered from a Bureau agent aboard a Norwegian whaler off the coast of Sakhalin, placed them six hundred miles from the Hokkaido shores. They could strike at any time.

Whilst the military applications of stratolites had yet to be officially demonstrated, Webster had read reports of colonial disputes where rebellious towns and cities had mysteriously burnt to the ground under mysteriously clear skies. And he’d seen the stockpile aboard the
Patton
. Three ugly cylinders, snub-nosed and fin-tailed, arrayed beyond the standard ordnance of high-yield conventional explosives. They comprised fifty per cent of the Confederate atomic stockpile, and they were all at his fingertips.

If the Germans hadn’t seen fit to inform their Confederate allies of their intentions above the Japanese Home Islands, it was of no immediate concern to him. The knowledge might provide useful leverage in the months to come, though, when dealing with the victors of this war, whomever they might be.

Webster moved away from the view port. One of Clancy’s three-star generals was examining the central map. He gave Webster a cursory nod and vanished swiftly.

Yesterday, at a meeting with senior staff, the same general had chided him for offering input into the military aspects of the campaign and Webster had smiled thinly. The general had gone on to remind him that his role was merely one of intelligence rather than the formulation of strategy. Webster had taken the general outside and reminded him that screwing a fifteen-year-old schoolboy in a room of the Tucson Holiday Inn was an interesting combination of statutory rape and sodomy. The general, pale and trembling, had agreed that Webster’s point of view might well be of some value in the coming meeting with the Germans. Webster had assured him that he would leave the big decisions to the experts.

He scanned the dispositions of the Japanese forces on the central map. So much for not trying anything in the desert. The japs weren’t supposed to cross the Black Rock, the Smoke Creek or the Mojave deserts. They were supposed to come from the north—that was the projection. So what were they doing in Yuma? What were they doing in Reno? There were two divisions massed at the edge of the Demilitarised Zone, an unhealthy mix of Union regiments among them. They had to have been airlifting troops since Berlin to have mobilised so rapidly.

The Confederacy had one reinforced division dug in along the Grand Canyon. Between them and the Japanese forces were three regiments, hastily brought across from southern Texas following the Mexican encroachment; that was all.

The Germans had promised reinforcements, but the Confederacy’s western defences appeared bleak. Still, he felt certain he’d be able to wring a few extra battalions from the thinly stretched German Expeditionary Forces. And, at the end of the day, there were always the atomics.

The Eye was filling rapidly as the morning staff arrived to relieve the previous shift. Webster elbowed his way across the crowded chamber and made for the lift. It rose slowly towards the underside of the
Patton
’s massive hull. A throwback to gentler times, its clear walls had been designed to offer a spectacle to the newly arrived. It gave one the impression of floating upwards, past the inverted spars of antennae and the spiralling tubules of water-capture devices, into the belly of an immense creature of the air. He only half-seriously considered taking a purple.

Back in his quarters, he found himself thinking again about the map. Military strategy was hardly his strong suit, though he’d found over the past few days that his suggestions had been met with more than polite acceptance. He wondered if it might be more useful to utilise some of Kennedy’s men, after all. They
were
trained in sabotage and demolition work. Why ship them down to Alamogordo when they might be of more use interfering with Japanese supply lines?

He smoked a cigar. He was thinking about Kennedy again. He changed tack and, like a reformed addict, prided himself with another example of abstinence while berating the craving. He told himself he would check in with Reid after the meeting.

There was a knock at his door. A smooth-cheeked military police officer stood at attention outside the cabin.

“You’re wanted on the bridge, sir.”

Webster followed the young officer down one of the long corridors that spanned the stratolite. There seemed to be more traffic than usual for the hour. Depending on proximity, most of the transport aboard the
Patton
was provided by motorcar or mini-rail. Now, however, squads of crewmen and sailors were marching in both directions along the causeway. The pilots were suited up in thermals and flight jackets.

He became aware of a strange sensation in his stomach, and realised what was happening.

“Why are we climbing?”

The MP pulled up and replied, “We’ve just got report of two jap strats on a long-range scout sweep.”

They were now rapidly ascending. Fire crews moved to their stations, while scout crews mustered for launch. The fact that no alarms had been raised did not alter Webster’s preliminary assessment. The
Patton
was preparing for battle.

He was ushered onto the bridge and led to where Admiral Illingworth stood with his senior staff. He picked up snatches of conversation as he moved across the deck.

A pilot was examining a series of silhouettes in a large bound folder and pointing to two of the images. “That one and that one,” he said.

An observer remarked, “The
Hiryu
and the
Soryu
. They’re supposed to be over the Pacific.”

“Well, they’re here now,” the pilot replied grimly.

Nearby, a navigator and his radar techs were bent over a scope. The navigator reached for a chart and said, “See? They caught a mid-strength jet stream at forty-five thou. They don’t want to be flying any lower than that with the draught they’re carrying. If they hold to current, they can make up to one-seventy miles an hour and still maintain a scout swarm. We need to be at sixty-five ourselves and running silent if we want to slip their radar.”

“We need to be at seventy if we want to avoid their scouts,” one of the techs commented.

“We hit them now,” the other tech muttered, “and we go through them like shit through a goose.” He lowered his voice at Webster’s passing.

The mammoth stratolites, under their own power, could barely exceed velocities of fifty miles an hour in a calm. With a jet stream behind them, however, they could reach speeds of up to one-seventy. Any faster and structural damage became a genuine risk.

As for the scout swarm, scouts were the only aircraft that could match altitude with a stratolite. Anti-aircraft fire balked at eighteen thousand feet and surface-to-air missiles scattered at thirty-five. The latest prototype jet fighters maxed out at fifty-five, so the only thing that could touch a stratolite was one of the small gnat-like planes. Webster pictured the anti-aircraft weaponry he’d seen on his first tour of the
Patton
. There had also been some larger-bored weapons amongst the bristle of turrets. At the time he hadn’t really considered their implementation, but he had to wonder now what uses they might be put to in the hours to come.

Illingworth welcomed him with a gruff nod. He gave a brief update. The two Japanese strats had been sighted over the DMZ and were bearing due east. All evidence suggested that they had no knowledge of the
Patton
’s current position. The Germans were now aboard but the meeting would have to be delayed. He would be much obliged if the director began a pre-emptive discussion with the envoys.

Illingworth’s staff moved over to the foredeck’s large view port. The sky was filling with scouts. Some hung in the air, as if suspended by invisible wires, while others swooped past in practised ellipses that orbited the vast stratolite. The bridge’s buzz was rising to fever pitch as more of the staff assembled.

Webster made his way to the exit.

The German delegates were being debriefed on the operations deck. Webster decided to take a detour via his cabin. He was due for his eye drops and wanted to see if he had any updates on the file concerning the Japanese air fleet. He found some comfort in the fact that two jap strats over Nevada meant two less to trouble the German flotilla over the Sea of Japan. Their deployment struck him as a curious misuse of resources.

He’d almost gained his deck when he felt a tug at his sleeve.

“Beg pardon, sir. Urgent dispatch from CINTEX.” The communications officer had a sheaf of print-outs in his hand. He thrust one forwards to Webster and stood rocking from side to side, awaiting a response. Webster dismissed him with a severe look and resumed his step.

He examined the page as he walked and got as far as the second paragraph before stumbling to a halt. Crewmen shouldered their way past him as he scanned the rest of the report.

Reid had never called in. Webster’s team had arrived at the station house to find no trace of Kennedy or his captors. Malcolm’s Raptor had logged a departure time of 1700 hours from Hot Springs. The flight plan, registered with the Little Rock field office, anticipated a Houston landing. The Raptor had never arrived.

He read the next few lines in astounded disbelief.

How was he supposed to chair a meeting with the Germans when one of his Raptors had crashed three hundred miles off course in the Louisiana wetlands? How could he be sure that Kennedy was dead when the crash site was fried beyond all recognition? And how could he have any hope of wading forwards when the blood-steeped past dragged at his heels with all the promise of the abyss?

Shine removed a strip from the torn fringe of his shirt and wrapped it around his head. He tied it back and wiped the torrent of sweat from his brow.

He’d waited two nights for the major to show. He’d listened in to the police band as the township of Morning Star was being shut down. There was no point waiting any longer. He’d walked into town and stolen aboard a freight car and watched the limestone bluffs of the Ouachita Mountains give way to Oklahoma’s gently rolling plains.

He’d hitched a ride at the border and spent the night lying on a flat-bed, under cold, slow-moving stars. They’d been forced off the road at dawn, somewhere in Nevada. Within moments a rolling cloud of sand heralded the arrival of a panzer division. He’d availed himself of the confusion to slip away and spent the early hours perched on a sand dune a few hundred yards away from the procession.

All that remained before him was the broken expanse of what had once been the I-15. The tanks had been rubber-shod, but thirty of them had managed to reduce the highway to a stretch of rubble. The little township of Las Vegas lay ahead. Another sixty miles north and west lay Red Rock.

He began the slow trudge into town and paid no mind to the odd rig that rattled along the shattered highway. He passed easily for one of the dispossessed, drifting east and west with the tides of war and loss, so when a truck pulled to a halt before him it took some moments to react. There were already two tac agents on the roadside before he grasped what was happening.

“Don’t even think about it, boy,” one of the agents snarled. He had a submachine-gun cradled in his arms.

Shine looked up at the truck. Its rear had been converted into a holding cage. He spied a group of prisoners through the torn, stretched canopy. The majority of them were indian. He thought he could make out a couple of blacks amongst the men.

“Looks like we bagged ourselves the runt of the litter. Might as well toss him in with the others.”

They ordered him to the ground. They removed the knife along with his boots. They tore off his bandana and ripped open his shirt and ran rough hands over him. The driver emerged from the cab and unlocked the back of the truck while the other agents trained their weapons on the crowd. He mounted the platform under watchful stares. He felt the crowd part as the cage door clanged shut behind him and found himself propelled towards the front of the platform. He caught looks of curiosity or faint surprise. He recognised a few of them from the camps and met their glances with a nod. The truck lurched forwards with a crunch of gears and a spray of loose asphalt.

“I knew you were coming, Martin.”

He turned to address the familiar voice and his father gazed back at him with rheumy eyes and a warm, steady smile.

“Are you alright? What’s happening, Pa?”

“We got the order, son. We’re fading in.” His father reached up to squeeze his son’s bare shoulder and said, “The major’s on his way.”