As far as Jones was concerned, it made no difference, one way or the other.
He had a battle to get to.
Thankfully, thought Mitchell, none of the men in the squad had grown up in Bundaberg. It would have made navigating the town easier, of course. But that little bit of emotional distance helped when moving through the scene of a large-scale atrocity.
The SAS officer still found it maddening, having to sit still while he watched innocent civilians killed without reason. But he had a strictly covert brief for this stage of the operation. Their mission was to move around under the cover of darkness, marking targets for the big guns, plotting troop movements, and-wherever possible-identifying enemy combatants for Sanction 4 field punishment later. Unlike the first and third squads, his men had no order tasking them to directly interdict the enemy's higher command authorities.
So they retired to the layup point, a small hill with a clear view of the town, and watched as it was systematically reduced to ashes and rubble by the artillery they had called in. Most of the squad was busy adjusting fire and drone coverage, feeding new data back to the guns, and monitoring the direct approach to their small encampment. Pearce Mitchell and Sergeant Cameron McLeod, however, had dug into the hillside a short distance away, and were watching over the reverse slope, guarding against the possibility of an attack from the rear.
The only significant concentration of Japanese forces in that direction were the soldiers guarding the surviving townspeople in a rough, unsheltered barbed-wire enclosure that had been run up on a football field. The sun blazed down on the unprotected prisoners. Neither of the SAS men had seen any sign of a water supply, organized medical care, sewerage, or even a system for disposing of the increasing number of bodies.
The guards largely ignored their charges, who rarely moved. Scoping out the encampment with powered goggles, the men could see why. The prisoners were close to death. The smell of putrefaction was strong, even from this distance. Most telling, however, was their lack of reaction to the sounds of battle as it crept closer. They had no energy to react, and were simply waiting to die.
Mitchell and McLeod stayed silent. They occasionally tapped each other and pointed out some detail that had caught the eye: a pile of tiny bodies that had to be young children; a stick figure hanging from the wire; a solitary man moving about, apparently to tend to the sick and injured. A town doctor, perhaps?
The troopers had their flexipads out and were file-sharing a plan of the camp, which they added to as the time passed. Over on their hillside McLeod sketched out potential lines of approach, while Mitchell noted the position of the fixed gun emplacements, and plotted their fields of fire. They each counted the numbers of Japanese guards and checked each other's figures.
It helped not to have to think about the people who were dying down there.
SOUTHWEST PACIFIC AREA HEADQUARTERS
General Douglas MacArthur was getting mightily pissed off at being ambushed by these characters. He stalked back and forth across his office in Brisbane. He was already late for the press conference he'd called up on the Line, where he was going to take the reporters through his victory, step by step. He had half a mind to just go anyway, to leave the prime minister hanging. But he restrained himself, mainly because he wanted to know what fresh hell Jones was about to spring on him.
It had to be something to do with Bundaberg. Some crazy scheme they were cooking up to steal his thunder while-
"General, it's Prime Minister Curtin on the phone, sir."
"About time," he grumbled, before switching to a more appropriate tone as he picked up the heavy, old-fashioned handset. It was funny how quickly he'd become accustomed to the lightweight materials the twenty-first people used.
"Yes, Prime Minister."
The harsh, flat accent of the Australian PM crackled out of the earpiece. "General, I'd like you to hold off on that press conference you're planning."
MacArthur barely contained the outburst that instantly threatened to erupt past his lips. He drew in a quick breath and waited out the political leader.
"Jones is still some time away from taking Bundaberg, and we've had a request from Colonel Toohey, the Australian field commander, to alter the operational plan. They want to try to rescue the surviving townspeople. They're being held in an open field some distance from the town center, and Jones agrees that it's worth trying.
"In that light, I'd rather we didn't go trumpeting our success on the Line just yet. It should be only a few more hours."
MacArthur had to squeeze his eyes shut and fight the urge to bellow down the phone. "Prime Minister, with all due respect, I have to disagree. The Japanese have spent themselves in front of the Line. They've collapsed, and that part of our operation is effectively complete. I don't see how it can have any effect on what Jones or Toohey are planning. However, I am your servant, as always, in these matters. And if that is your wish, then so be it."
His rage was so great that he had passed beyond the point of mere anger and into a strange calm place, where everything was devoid of color and utterly flat. His voice didn't shake at all as he spoke.
Curtin probably understood him better than did his own commander in chief. At least the prime minister hadn't handed him a fait accompli. He was shrewd enough-or considerate enough-to present the matter as a choice, not an order.
"As I said, it's only a couple of hours, General. It simply means there'll be more for you to talk about with the press. And you'll want to familiarize yourself with the details of Bundaberg, so you can handle any questions arising from that, too."
"Yes, I suppose I will," MacArthur agreed.
"One other thing, General. We're keeping this business of the dummy convoys under our hat for the moment. Young Kennedy seems to have stumbled onto something that may be of much wider significance, and we'd like to question Homma about it, if at all possible."
MacArthur glowered just at the mention of the Kennedy clan. They were no allies of his. "As you wish, Prime Minister. Although I doubt General Homma will allow himself to be taken alive."
"Perhaps not, but let's wait and see. Colonel Jones says that if they can lay their hands on him, he will talk."
At this MacArthur turned to his office window, squinting into the late afternoon glare. The city of Brisbane seemed to doze in the heat of an early summer. It had been spared, for now, but he still wondered what plans Tojo might have for all the other divisions he'd withdrawn from China.
And MacArthur was irritated at all the attention that had been focused on Jones and Toohey's sideshow, rather than on the magnificent defensive effort he had organized to the north of the city. He couldn't help but indulge himself in a moment of spite. "I suppose you read Kennedy's entire report, Prime Minister. And Captain Willet's also?"
"Of course," the PM replied warily.
"Were you not disturbed by the actions of that young female officer? The Australian? It seemed to me that she lost her head completely when she opened fire on those men in the water."
MacArthur could tell he'd scored a small victory when Curtin didn't reply immediately.
"Prime Minster?"
"I had an opportunity to speak to Captain Willet about that matter, General. She assured me that Lieutenant Lohrey's actions were in no way out of the ordinary. Not as far as their rule book is written, anyway."