It went on and on, a hideous remorseless hammering, each blow adding more chaos and damage to the shattered command center. Each successive Shockwave was weaker than those that preceded it now, but they were striking a progressively weakened structure and the damage mounted fast. By the time the last blow struck, the walls were cracking open and masonry had collapsed from the ceiling. After it was all over, the blacked-out room seemed deathly silent. And still, so very still. Even when the emergency lights came on, it was hard to see anything through the dust, smoke and wreckage. But the fans picked up and the air cleared. The room was a complete shambles, the orderly German working environment seemed just a dim, distant memory. People picked themselves up from the floor. One of the women kept muttering “we are alive, we are alive.
There was an eruption in one corner of the bunker. A pile of crushed wreckage and shattered ceiling tiles suddenly started moving, then the burst open, Goering's head emerged, his body still buried in the shambles but incredibly he was smiling. “Of course we are alive you silly girl. I am here. Once I flew one of Mr. Fokker's triplanes. If I survived that, no Americans with their Hellburners stand a chance of killing me. Field Marshal Herrick. Are you aware of what you now command? And of who I now am?”
Herrick thought for a second. Then a great light opened inside his head. NAIADS had failed as an air defense system, not because it was a bad system but because it didn’t have the components it needed to succeed. But it was probably the finest communication system in the world; one no other nation could match. It was a communications system that had worked superbly well even when faced with an unimaginable challenge. And it was a hardened communications system, once the strange electronic effects had faded, and they would fade he was sure of that, they were the means by whatever was left of Germany could coordinate its survival. And Goering? He was probably the only senior member of the Government left.
Another great light flashed on in Herrick's head. He'd assumed that Goering's presence here was happenstance, or perhaps an old fighter pilot wanting to die surrounded by the last remnants of his air force. But Goering must have had this worked out from the beginning, he must have grasped the significance of the American raid early on and thought this whole thing through. He suddenly wondered if Hitler's refusal to believe that the incredible destruction of the raid was really taking place had been entirely due to senile decay.
“Yes my Fuhrer..” Goering stopped him with a wave of his hand. “Mr. President please. Germany has had one Fuhrer this century and that is quite enough.” Herrick nodded to accept the correction. “Yes Mr. President. We will get the communications up again and then what? What are your intentions.”
“To make peace, you fool. Do you want the Americans to come back tomorrow or the day after with more Hellburners to finish the rest of us? How much chance do you think our armies will stand when the Americans drop Hellburners on them? And if we must grovel to get peace, then grovel we will. And, Miss Sunni. It was twelve Hellburners. You win our bet. When you and your young man are together again, you are welcome to stay at Karinhall for as long as you wish.”
Somewhere Starboard Side Aft of Amidships, USS Shiloh, CVB-41. Position 46.8North, 4.6 West.
Democrats, the Senior Chief thought, definitely the work of DEMOCRATS. He and his damage control team had fought their way through the fire in the Scullery. In truth, that hadn't been so difficult. Samoa had poured so much water into this area that the fires had been damped down before his men got in. There were areas burning of course and a few were in their way. But no worse than any kitchen fire. They'd been put out. Smoke and poison were the worst problem. The Senior Chief spat. Jet black. Not good, even for him, not good at all. So they'd got through the scullery and out the other side, up a trunk access to the next deck which was reached via a hatch. Then, they'd gone back, got their Handy Billy pump, some avgas to run it. Made sure Mr. Pickering was OK. He'd taken a nasty blow to his head and his forehead was gashed open but he was still breathing. Then opened the hatch - or tried to. It was dogged shut. From above.
The Senior Chief was much more worried than he was letting on. There was something about the feel of a doomed ship, of a ship that had given up and accepted death and Shiloh had it. Ever since the great explosion that had rocked her, there had been more and more smaller explosions, so often that they sometimes seemed to merge into a single tolling detonation. Decades of experience and more shipboard emergencies than he could remember told him that the fires must be spreading out of control by now. With each of the explosions, the ship was shuddering and screaming, absorbing mortal blow after mortal blow. And the hatch that was their way out was dogged. From above.
“We've got to get aft. Everything must be burning up forward and the way the deck is sloping, she's flooding fast up there. There must be a way up. You stay here. Gibson, you're in charge. Look after Mr. Pickering until I get back.”
The Senior Chief dropped back down into the scullery and vanished into the darkness. Behind him, the situation grew more desperate. Somehow a rumor started that Shiloh had already been abandoned and that destroyers were torpedoing her. Anybody left on board would drown with her. The ship was listing to port faster with each minute. One seaman put his hand on a bulkhead then withdrew it in terror “it’s cold, we're already under water.” Gibson clipped him on the jaw and stopped his hysterics; panic now would kill them all. At long last, the Senior Chief made it back. His eyes were half-shut from the smoke and he was bleeding in several places but he'd found a way out. He retched and caught his breath.
“We can get out of here. It’s tough but we can make it. We have to go aft about a hundred feet. The overhead has come down but if you get on your hands and knees, we can make it. Hang onto the belt of the man in front of you. No pushing or shoving or you won't make it Those of you as don’t have breathing gear, cover your nose an’ mouth with cloth. Anything, Wet it, if you don't have water, piss on it. You three with Mr. Pickering, stay in the middle of the group, make sure he's over the wreckage on the deck.
“I'm OK, Senior, I can make it on my own.” Ensign Pickering's voice was weak and shaky but he was speaking. That was good, thought the Senior Chief, it would have been better if he had said something sensible. But then he was a young officer and probably a Democrat to boot, it was too much to expect him to say something sensible, even without a concussion.
“OK Sir, but you stay in the middle of the group, hang on to Gibson's belt. Lets go.”
The men followed the Senior Chief into the passageway. It was dark, filled with smoke and cramped beyond understanding. Unable to move any way except forward, not up, not down, not to one side or the other, just forward. There was no way to escape the thick black smoke that coiled around them. Ensign Pickering marveled at the man who'd made his way through this passage once, into the fresh clean air, then come back for him and the rest of the team. The smoke filled his lungs and he felt as if he couldn't go any further.
Somehow, the Senior Chief whispered into his ear “Don't quit now or I'll bust your ass.” Had he really said that? Or had he said “bust your ass again.” Pickering didn't know and resigned himself to the fact he never would. After what seemed an eternity they came to a hatch. The Senior had opened it once already, now it was flung open and the damage control team poured into the fresh, clean, cold air. The fittest of the men paused for a second then grabbed and pulled some of the men too weak to pass over the coaming. The Senior Chief and Ensign Pickering were the last out.