The map was as detailed as thousands of Japanese agents could make it, even if the British had suddenly rounded up many of the agents. Already, clashes had been reported between Japanese bicycle scouts and a handful of British units; Yamashita knew that he could not rely on his advance being unobserved. In fact, he had taken care to ensure that some of the bridge and railway engineers – veterans of the China War – would be attached to his advance. He was confident that the British would collapse the bridges; it was what he would have done. The British would see him coming, but would they see the scouts moving through the bad terrain?
It was a pity, Yamashita decided, that the Japanese navy would only launch an invasion towards the end of the campaign. A carrier had been allocated to the fleet; a battleship, a handful of cruisers and a small fleet of transports, which would support the Air Force in supporting the army. Still, even without the navy, the Japanese army was invincible.
Darkness was falling and Yamashita issued his final orders. The main advance began tomorrow, so the scouts had to go back into the jungle. The British had to be swept from the path of the advance.
“Nippy little bastards, aren’t they,” Captain Dwynn muttered. His subvocalised comment was broadcast to the other members of the small force; the Japanese had never deployed any communication interception equipment, even if they had suspected their presence they couldn’t even hope to detect the signals.
“Now what would our esteemed primitive cousins think?” Corporal Chang subvocalised back. A fourth-generation Chinese immigrant from Hong Kong, his position within the troop had been challenged in a major bar fight in Singapore. “You know; this is the time of Bugs Bunny Nips the Nips. We have to set a good example.”
“And we’ll set it by killing Japs,” Sergeant Vash muttered. The big burly officer, almost too large to be an SAS man, checked the night-vision scope. All of the SAS team wore basic vision helmets, which allowed them near-perfect night vision, and needed no light. Nor did the Japanese scouts; five of them, showing up perfectly in infrared, moved carefully along the road, weapons extended.
“Keep it down,” Dwynn subvocalised. He didn’t mind chatter – an SAS team was too small for a strict chain of command – but they were in the field. Admittedly, the Japanese field craft was lousy, even by 2015 standards, but their weapons could still kill. “Chang, transmit the contact report to Singapore.”
“Want to bet they ignore it?” Chang asked, but he did as he was ordered. “Bastards only want their own pleasures, nothing to do with us.”
“But think of some of the pleasures,” Vash subvocalised. “Who would have thought that Indian women worked as whores?”
“You’re not allowed to talk anymore,” Dwynn subvocalised back. The team had been astonished by the hypocrisy of the racial chain on Singapore; it wasn’t cricket to marry a Chinese woman, but it was permitted – and winked at – for a man to visit a Chinese brothel, or an Indian brothel, or a Russian one, every woman there an escaped princess. “I’m sure those women had something unpleasant.”
“AIDS isn’t due for years,” Chang said. The brothels, at least, had been happy to take his money. “Anything else; the medics can take care of with ease.”
“You’re all nuts,” Corporal Plummer subvocalised. “The odds are that AIDS started here. You should suffer for your excesses; that’s how you know they’re excesses.”
“Shut up,” Dwynn snapped. His orders were starting to print out on his helmet screen; a subvocalised command shared the compressed file with the rest of the team. The orders were clear; sneak closer and try to determine if the Japanese were moving up tanks and lorries, or if it was just a probe, like the Contemporary scouts had beaten off from time to time over the last week. “Everyone understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Vash subvocalised, after everyone had muttered agreement.
“Then move out,” Dwynn said. “Plummer, take point; Chang, hold your weapon ready and stand by, but only fire on my command.”
The darkness seemed to grow more oppressive as the SAS team moved closer to the Japanese position. The Japanese light-discipline was better than Dwynn expected; there were only hints of lights through the jungle. Audio-discrimination programs built into their helmets identified the noises of vehicles revving up, preparing for action.
“I think that this is it,” Plummer subvocalised, as they came over a ridge and looked down. A handful of Japanese tanks stood on the road, preparing to move forward. Chinese coolies worked hard, whipped whenever they slowed, to load trucks; a small group were being chained to the front of lorries.
“What the hell is the point of that?” Vash asked. Even his attitude had grown darker as the sight unfolded itself in front of them. “What are they doing? Pulling the lorry along?”
“I think they’re mine detectors,” Chang said. His professionalism slipped slightly. “They walk over a mine… boom!”
“Bastards,” Vash muttered. “Sir, I recommend attacking them.”
“What, on our own?” Dwynn asked. He checked his helmet; it was transmitting a report of their sighting to Singapore. “No, Chang; our task is to watch and wait.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Apotheoses or Nemesis
Government House
Canberra, Australia
23rd September 1940
Prime Minister Menzies awoke from a fitful sleep – the news of the Japanese military movements having alarmed him – when his mobile phone rang. Of all the technologies and gadgets that the future Britain had introduced, he disliked the mobile phone the most. Even before, he had very little privacy, but now anyone who had his number could awake him at will.
“God help us when these become popular,” Curtin had warned, and Menzies was forced to agree with him. The noise the phone made was appalling; a strange theme tune that no one would explain to him. Just who were the Simpsons anyway?
“Menzies,” he said, and listened. The caller was General Blamey, the commander of all of the Australian forces on Australia – and nominal commander of the handful of future personnel from Britain – and one of the very controversial individuals in government.
“I see,” he said finally. His wife lifted his head and he smiled as reassuringly as he could at her. “I’ll be right down.”
“Bob?” Pattie Menzies, his wife, asked.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Menzies reassured her. “I’ll be back soon.”
His orderly helped him to pull on his clothes, a simple grey business suit, and brush his hair. He tended to brush his hair forward; a vain attempt to escape the stern features that had earned him the nickname ‘Ming the Merciless.’ As soon as he left the room, two of his guards fell in beside him, ensuring his safety. All of the government members were protected, following a warning that important or would-be important figures might be assassinated by the Japanese.
“It’s clear,” one of the guards reassured him, as he moved ahead to glance into the war room. Menzies pulled himself upright, put a noble, Prime Ministerial expression on his face, and marched into the room. The military men saluted; the civilians smiled.
“Prime Minister,” Ambassador Atwell said. Menzies wasn’t certain how he felt about the future man; he was helpful, but he could be disturbing, as well as a critic of the ‘white Australia’ policy. “I’m sorry that you were disturbed.”
“It was at my suggestion,” General Blamey said. An aide passed Menzies a cup of the future coffee, one of the first items sent from Britain via the new air bridge. “We’ve been receiving reports that indicate that the Japanese are on the move.”