Yurina shook off her outfit, relieved to be back in privacy. Her underclothes would have allowed her to walk unnoticed in a 2015 city. “They know that something’s very wrong with the war,” Yurina said.
Yamamoto nodded sadly. The anchorage had given birth to an entire race of seafarers, many of whom had married and lived near the naval port. The loss of thousands of lives could hardly be concealed; he himself had refused to take part in the war.
“They asked me and your escort where their young men were,” Yurina said. She didn’t want to manipulate Yamamoto any more; she just wanted him to understand. “They were pleading with me to find them for them and send them home and…”
She broke off. Yamamoto, not always comfortable with intimacy, reached out and gently hugged her. “We have to end the war,” he said. She looked up at him through tear-filled eyes. “We have to end it now.”
She watched as Yamamoto paced the cabin. “We have to convince the Emperor to end the war,” he said. “It worked in your timeline, and it will work again.” Yurina privately doubted it, but held her tongue. “The problem is that he’s under the control of the army.”
“And they won’t let you in,” Yurina said. She wiped her eyes and drew on all her experience in the diplomatic service. “Can’t you take the naval infantry and force your way in.”
“They want to disarm that force or put it under their control,” Yamamoto said grimly. “They keep going on and on about a united command for the defence of the home islands, and they want to take the force away from me.”
Yurina would have laughed if it hadn’t been so serious; no other nation would have worked its way into the political situation facing them. Instead of removing Yamamoto, the only remaining Admiral of any status, they had been content to leave him in power, running the navy – but without the ability to impede their plans for a glorious victory when the British invaded.
She pulled her mind back to the task at hand. “Can the force punch through to the Palace?” She asked. “Could a coup – a counter-coup – succeed?”
Yamamoto shook his head. She knew that it was a mark of his desperation that he was even considering a solution like that. “We can’t,” he said. “We would be outnumbered and seriously outgunned; they would even have tanks. If we had air cover, we might be able to get around it, but the Army controls the air force.”
Yurina shuddered. She’d seen some of the preparations to fight when the invasion finally took place; thousands of kamikaze speedboats and aircraft were being prepared, and weapons were being distributed freely. When the British came, they were determined to fight to the death…
When the British came…
A thought struck her. It was perfect. It might just work. “Darling,” she said, “there might be a solution.”
She outlined it. Yamamoto stared at her. “Are you serious?” He demanded. “You would suggest asking foreign troops to settle a Japanese internal affair?”
“Is that better or worse than them settling it by turning Japan into a mass grave?” Yurina asked dryly. “Look – they have to be worried to death about Japan; they have to know the cost of an invasion. Their choice would be between bombing us into submission or using nuclear weapons; either way, there would be very little left of Japan.”
Yamamoto nodded slowly. “Would they go for it?” He asked. “What’s in it for them?”
“I believe that they would,” Yurina said thoughtfully. “As I said, they have to be looking for a solution; I’m surprised that we haven’t had peace feelers already.”
“The diplomats are under army control,” Yamamoto said. “They might have offered a halt in place and we wouldn’t have heard about it.” He closed his eyes in thought. “The Emperor might get hurt – or killed.”
Yurina held in the sigh that threatened to burst from her lips. She didn’t think that the Emperor was a living god. “The precision weapons would ensure that no harm would come to him,” she said, and hoped that she was telling the truth. The British would understand that the Emperor had to live, wouldn’t they? “What else can we do?”
Yamamoto chuckled harshly. “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing, but to gamble Japan’s fate on one toss of the die.”
Chapter Seventeen: Warning Shots
RAF Fylingdales
Yorkshire, United Kingdom
22nd April 1942
RAF Fylingdales had had very little to do in the years since the Transition and half of the staff had been reassigned to the Ministry of Space. The massive base, equipped with the blocky Phased Array Pyramid that had replaced the famous golf ball radar housing, was overkill for the air defence network; the Germans didn’t have ICBMs. Fylingdales had used its radars to assist in tracking German aircraft over Britain, but they hadn’t really been needed since the first air raids.
Base Commander Ben Barden jumped out of his seat as the automatic alarm tripped. With the exception of drills, that alarm was never meant to be triggered, and his first thought was that it was a malfunction. His training had him running into the main room, even though logic told him that it had to be a malfunction.
Logic was clearly out to lunch. The big display, which had been tracking the growing British and American presence in space, was displaying three red contacts, tagged as an ICBM and two IRBMs. Barden’s mind refused to accept the possibility; could an American SSBN have come through the Transition and the Germans captured her?
“We have one ICBM and two V2’s,” the duty officer said. Barden felt his mind relax slightly; the computers had tagged the German rockets with the closest profile in their databanks. “Automatic warning to the command bunkers has been tripped.”
“Check the systems,” Barden ordered automatically. No one would thank him for triggering a nuclear alert if the radars were malfunctioning.
“Feltwell is also picking up the contracts,” the duty officer said. “ICBM is heading over the Atlantic; V2’s are heading for us, estimated impact site” – she paused for a long moment in astonishment – “the English Channel, near Southampton and the North Sea, near Newcastle.”
Barden blinked at the display. The phone rang. He picked it up and listened to the voice on the end. “Yes, sir,” he said. “The V2s are going to miss us.” He scowled. “Yes, it could be a trap; Civil Defence command should target the Patriots, just in case.”
He put down the phone. “That was PJHQ,” he said grimly. “The Patriot network is being targeted on the V2s now.”
The duty officer tapped a key, sharing all of Fylingdales information with the rest of the UKADR. “What about the ICBM look-alike?”
“It’s out of our range,” Barden said grimly. “Run a trajectory calculation.”
“Near New York,” the duty officer said, after a moment. “It won’t take long to get there.”
Barden swore. “That puts the cat among the pigeons,” he said angrily.
Ten Downing Street
London, United Kingdom
22nd April 1942
Stirling had been working on the investigation into HSM Artful, but he hadn’t been granted any relief from his normal duties. Two hours after the V3 had splashed down within sight of the damaged New York City, an emergency meeting of the War Cabinet had been called.
“So, exactly what happened?” Hanover asked, as soon as the room was sealed. Formalities could wait until they were less busy. “Everyone is asking questions as we don’t have answers.”