Admiral William Hasley tried to look calm as the Japanese swarm closed in on the American fleet. The radar-guided guns on the destroyers and battleships were firing constantly, swatting the Japanese out of the sky, as a force of Japanese craft slammed into the battleship USS Washington and the heavy cruiser USS Chicago. The Washington shuddered as explosions blasted up from her port side; the Chicago wasn’t so lucky, she rolled over and sank.
“They’re not trained very well, are they?” He asked his aide, who nodded. He knew that there was nothing he could do; he kept his face calm, whatever it cost him. The Japanese pilots were inexperienced and it showed; they kept making suicidal runs into the massed fire of the American ships.
“No, sir,” the aide said. “Permission to wet myself, sir?”
Hasley snorted at the mild joke. “No, Tom,” he said. “You have to remain calm.”
As quickly as it had begun, the attack ended. The skies were suddenly clear; the only planes in the air were American. “Report,” Hasley snapped. “What did we lose?”
“Four destroyers, two transports and the Chicago,” the radar operator said. “Their IFF signals are gone.”
Hasley nodded. “How long until we hit the target?” He asked. “Can we afford to run the gauntlet again?”
He waited while the staff added up the numbers. He wasn’t scared; the problem was that each battle cost them supplies and ammunition. At some point, they would have to abandon the attempt to seize Vladivostok… and the Soviets would know that they were coming.
“Seventeen hours,” he said finally. “I think we can make it in time for the original invasion plan.”
He smiled. “Ask the British to slam a few missiles into Japan’s airbases, would you?” He said. “I think we’re at war with them now.”
Near Nakhodka, Russia
9th May 1942
No more suicidal Japanese attacks threatened the fleet; rumour had it that bad weather had forced the Japanese to remain on the ground. The darkness of the morning was broken by flickering lights; the Russians didn’t seem to have worried too much about security. Drifting mist made visibility difficult, even through the best British equipment, but Admiral Hasley was determined to go ahead.
“I don’t like it,” Flying Officer Radcliff protested. The small British pilot had been volunteered for the invasion force and he didn’t like it at all. “Why haven’t they bothered with black-out?”
“I haven’t the foggiest,” Captain Caddell said cheerfully. The Russians had set up a large gun platform on the beach; the helicopters were to take them out before the Marines could land. “Is your plane ready to go?”
“It’s a helicopter,” Radcliff protested angrily. “Yes, it’s ready; I’m not one of those people who don’t bother to do basic maintenance.”
The group of British pilots muttered agreement. The Wasp had a large number of British pilots. “Then, everyone aboard,” Captain Caddell snapped. “Move it!”
Private Max Shepherd followed the team into the first helicopter. Two accidents, one of them lethal, had convinced everyone to take very good care of the helicopters, particularly when their rotor blades were spinning. Without waiting for orders, the pilot took the helicopter into the sky, heading around the Russian position.
“I’m not reading any radar,” he said. “There are traces from Vladivostok itself, but…”
“Can it see us?” Captain Caddell snapped. “Do they know we’re coming?”
“They can hear us,” Radcliff pointed out dryly. “No, sir; those radars aren’t powerful enough to get a signal to us, and then back again.”
Shepherd tuned them out, watching as the grey sea gave way to land. The Russian lands were nothing like as attractive as Norway had been, even in the semi-darkness. They seemed to be all rocky and desolate. He wanted to sleep, but he didn’t dare; instead he focused on the mission.
The helicopter sat down with a bump. “Everyone out, now,” Captain Caddell snapped. “Pilot, take off and don’t spare the horses…”
“I think it’s too late for anything clever,” Radcliff said. “The Russians have seen us; they’re sending a cluster of tanks to investigate.”
“Bastards,” Captain Caddell said. “Deploy into tank positions, now!”
Shepherd cursed and moved with the others, reaching for his bazooka, the new improved version. They were on top of a small hill, staring into the semi-darkness. The growing light of dawn was challenging the mist, but visibility wasn’t good at all.
“There,” one of the Marines shouted. Four Marines fired at once, slamming bazooka rounds into a Russian tank, which exploded in a blast of white-hot fire.
“Spread out, kill them,” Captain Caddell snapped. One of the helicopters risked life and limb by swinging out over the enemy tanks, unleashing a burst of rocket fire into their ranks. They exploded in a sequence that was awesome and horrifying.
“We have to move on,” Sergeant Pike said. The Marines advanced at a run, heading down towards the enemy position. The Russians fought like mad bastards, but the loss of their tanks had stunned them, and they died in place.
“Take the guns,” Captain Caddell ordered sharply. “We have to take the bastards out of play, quickly!”
General Vandegrift allowed himself a sigh of relief as the Russian guns fell silent. The transport ships of the Marine force, carrying infantry and light tanks, were launched, heading into the Nakhodka harbour without a care in the world. The tiny town seemed to have been half-abandoned; the handful of fishermen were rounded up quickly.
“I don’t like this,” he muttered, as the landing ship grounded, releasing another hundred Marines onto Russian soil. “They could have challenged us with far more tanks than they did; a bit more alertness and they might have wiped out the helicopter force.”
Major Barton, the British observer, shrugged. “Perhaps they saw you coming,” he said. “Incidentally, forces from the Philippines bombed Japan with B-29 bombers.”
“That’s good news, I suppose,” General Vandegrift said crossly. “I wish we had better air cover here.”
“They’re busy elsewhere,” Barton said, as planes from Wasp – the helicopters – roamed overhead. “Vladivostok has ships that need to be taken out, and they have airfields close by, you know.”
“I knew that,” General Vandegrift snapped. British condensation always annoyed him. “I have every confidence that Admiral ugly-buttocks” – Barton bit off a laugh – “can handle the Russian flyboys. However, I have professional experience that tells me that something is wrong here.”
Barton frowned. “We have a complete satellite download, all hours of the day or your money back,” he said. “If they’re planning to launch an attack on us, where are they?”
General Vandegrift frowned, considering the question. “They’re supposed to be good at camouflage,” he said finally. “Even if they knew we were coming, it would have required precognition to know where we would land.” He scowled grimly. “Are you confident that your systems cannot be fooled?”
“Not with anything the Russians have,” Barton said confidently. “They should be trying to shove us back into the sea now, except that they’re not.”
General Vandegrift nodded gloomily. “I wish I could disagree with you,” he said. “Doctrine says that attacking a landing force as soon as possible is the correct course of action. I assume that they read your history books” – Barton shrugged – “so they’ll know that as well as we do.”