“And you’re without your carrier aircraft,” Colonel Shindo said sharply, trying to refocus Sato’s attention. “What do you think you can achieve?”
“The carrier aircraft will be slaughtered on the decks,” Sato said. The best of the remaining Kido Butai pilots, including the now obsolete night-flyers, had been transferred to the East Indies. Some of the newer trainee pilots had been transferred to the carriers; the only two remaining fleet carriers and the handful of converted and escort ships. Sato knew that few of them had questioned the move, or thought to ask why the ‘winning’ Japanese Navy had seen fit to let them have the run of the carriers. They were too proud of their chance to serve Japan; none of them had anything like enough training.
He shook his head. It didn’t matter, he knew; the pilots were all doomed. The British missiles would destroy the carriers before they even got a chance to launch their aircraft; thousands of tons of carrier blown out of the water before they had ever had a chance to serve the Emperor.
“Poor men,” he muttered, ignoring Colonel Shindo’s snort. He felt sick.
Ambassador Yurina rubbed the bruise on her cheek and winced. She didn’t blame Yamamoto; she knew that the powerful admiral was feeling the stress. She also knew that he wouldn’t do the only thing that could stop Japan from inevitable defeat. Launching a Navy Coup was the only possible solution… and it was impossible.
Yurina smiled to herself, grimly, bitterly. The Japanese of this era refused to take a woman seriously – some of the army men she’d met had boasted of their ‘fun’ in Nanking – and it had allowed her some small success at building a network of intelligence. So few men believed that she could think that they were quite happy to discuss matters of national security with her, including the defences around the palace. A German had warned them that the British might send in the paratroopers… and so an entire infantry division was dug in around the palace, preventing anyone the Army Minister refused to clear from entering. Hirohito was a prisoner inside his own palace, she was certain.
She rubbed her cheek again. She knew one other fact; Yamamoto was intending to lead the final mission himself. She’d tried to warn him that even if by some dark miracle the Japanese did manage to take Australia, the British wouldn’t give up. She knew that the Japanese were unable to do what was necessary to win; take the British factories that produced arms and armour. She also knew Hanover, the new Prime Minister; a war would give him time to consolidate his own position.
And there was the final dark fact. Yamamoto had offered her the choice between sailing on the Yamato to certain death, or remaining behind. She knew that if she stayed, she would fall into the hands of the militarists – those who had already judged her a worthless traitor. Her fate would be nasty and brutal; rape and then execution. Enough militarists were angry with Yamamoto to wish to hurt him from beyond the grave; if they had killed his family they would certainly not hesitate at killing his lover.
Yurina hugged her legs, curled up on the bed, and stared into darkness. She knew that she’d made a mistake in coming; she wished that she’d protested more against the revisionist history that claimed that the entire war had been a misunderstanding. She ran her hands along her legs, knowing that they would not be so smooth after the army men had finished with her.
Alone in the darkness, Ambassador Yurina made her choice… and prayed for the strength to follow through with it.
Chapter Twelve: News from Golgotha
Adolf Hitler Orphanage
Berlin, Germany
20th April 1941
Kristy Stewart, star of stage, screen and Internet, was bored. The orphanage was the same as a thousand others she’d visited in her life; the only major difference was the big picture of Adolf Hitler in each and every room. The children, boys and girls, were taught a very pro-Nazi version of German history, including the ‘stab in the back’ legend and a tale of a glorious uprising in 1923 in Munich, the infamous Beer Hall Putsch.
Stewart had to smile. She hadn’t learned much about the Beer Hall Putsch in school, but she very much doubted that it had really been the glorious battle between the working class men and the police, backed by a shadowy conspiracy of big bankers, communists and Jews, that the teacher – a ridiculously fat woman with a paddle in one hand – was talking about.
“And then they wounded our noble Reichmarshall,” she said, referring to Goring. The children didn’t smile; there was no derision of Nazi figures in the room, not even the infamous Rudolf Hess. “He kept on marching, and marching, until it was clear that all was lost.” Her voice became sticky-sweet. “And then our Fuhrer, the great man who made Germany strong again, realised that the Jews had become too strong for the brave heroes…”
The children hissed at the mention of the Jews. Stewart shuddered; she’d read one of their textbooks, portraying Jews as evil, vile, stupid and… well, paedophilic. The textbook had avoided that term – perhaps child molesters were all in the SS these days – but the implication had been clear. The story about the Jewish dentist and the young blonde Gudrun had been straight out of one of the horror urban legends that had been making the rounds around Britain.
I wonder if I’ll find Kilroy here, she thought absently, as the teacher brought her paddle down on the behind of one of the boys, who howled and clutched his behind. The teacher whacked him again and he shut up, taking his place again in the classroom.
“And then the Fuhrer offered himself up to the enemy, in order to give the others time to retreat and regain their strength so that Germany could be strong again,” the teacher continued. Stewart racked her brains; hadn’t Hitler been captured the day afterwards? “They put him on trial, but the people were so determined that he would not be killed that they were unable to kill him, and the black-shirted noble warriors laid down their lives to protect him at his most vulnerable.”
The children cheered. Stewart recorded it faithfully, knowing that the images would be sent directly back to Britain. “Heinrich Himmler, the guardian of the Reich, the Fuhrer’s shining sword, faithfully recorded the words of the Fuhrer in the book, Mien Kamph, that we will be studying later today,” the teacher concluded. “Now, who can recite for me the leading words of the Fuhrer’s speech last night?”
“I am General Rommel,” a small boy began, before the teacher was upon him. The German public was forbidden to listen to the Free Germany broadcasts, but the transmissions were so powerful that they blanketed out the Radio Berlin signals. Stewart winced as the teacher pulled down his trousers and blistered his behind with the paddle, leaving terrible marks on his pale rear.
“Now, stand over there and don’t move,” the teacher thundered, with a half-scared look at Stewart’s escort. SS Hauptsturmfuehrer Thierbach, a young blonde man who had been assigned temporarily to her while Roth handled a separate mission, nodded approvingly. Stewart didn’t react, but felt sick; pressed against the wall, the marks on the boy’s rear were all too clear.
“Now, Anna,” the teacher said, speaking to a pretty dark-haired girl, who shrank back. Stewart knew that the teacher would quite happily apply her paddle to the girls as well as to the boys. “What did the Fuhrer say?”