“Move us into position,” he ordered. “I assume that all of the targeting coordinates have been loaded into the Harriers?”
“Yes, sir,” Captain Rogers assured him. “We selected the targets properly, according to Yamamoto’s instructions and they’re already locked for the Harriers, along with missile fire and FAE for the airfields.”
Turtledove nodded. Whatever Yamamoto might have planned, he’d been under no illusion as to his inability to prevent what remained of the Japanese air force from striking against the British fleet, should they become aware of its existence. Turtledove had already decided how best to deal with that problem, preparing a series of missile strikes against the Japanese airbases before they could launch against his fleet.
He frowned as Menzies’ face appeared on the video link. The Prime Minister had wanted to sail with the fleet, but Turtledove had talked him out of it; the Commonwealth could hardly afford to lose him now. The argument had tickled Menzies’ pride and he’d remained on Australia.
“Are you certain that he is keeping the agreement?” Menzies asked. “Is he really moving to launch a coup?”
“It certainly seems that way,” Turtledove said. “I’m preparing to launch the strikes now.”
“Good luck, Admiral,” Menzies said, and signed off. Turtledove smiled to himself and started to issue orders, launching the fleet of aircraft into the sky. He scowled; it was war by computer and calculation, hardly any of the Harriers would ever see their targets.
“Missiles away,” the duty officer said, as the ships began launching their missiles. “Estimated time to impact, two minutes and counting.”
Tokyo
Japan
16th May 1942
Admiral Yamamoto slipped into his private cabin as the battleship entered Tokyo Bay, preparing to show a salute for the Emperor before going out to do battle with the American supply convoys. He’d taken care over the excuse, claiming that the crews needed the morale boost, and the Army had accepted. Now… the transports were tying up at the docks, and preparing to unload their soldiers.
“It’s time,” he said. Yurina looked up from the laptop she’d been provided with by the British. “Are they coming?”
Yurina nodded. “They’re coming,” she said grimly. “Are your forces ready?”
Yamamoto nodded. The Musashi was now preparing to dock itself, its weapons casually pointing in the direction of two of the barracks. If the British attacks failed – although Turtledove had assured him that they could not – the Musashi would open fire itself. In doing so, the battleship would draw fire from coast-defence guns… and perhaps be sunk by the Army troops.
“We’re ready to go,” he said. Oddly, he felt curiously free of all responsibilities, as if his life had become his own again. “Send the signal.”
The orders had been simple and to the point. The lead flight of Harriers, now closing in on Tokyo, were to engage the constant CAP over the Imperial Palace with dispatch, using missiles. Flying Officer Dalton wasn’t convinced that missiles were necessary, but he had to admit that the twenty-three Zeros were formidably manoeuvrable, and the British speed advantage wasn’t as great in a Sea Harrier.
“This is Apollo one,” he said. Flicking electronic data signals selected targets; the Zeros showed up well on their airborne radars. It was the sort of moment, he felt, that deserved a well-composed theme tune. Something with blaring trumpets and clashing cymbals. “Stand by to attack.”
He paused a moment, ensuring that the flight had shared out their targets, ensuring that they would each have a missile or two left, just in case. “Fire!”
The Harrier shuddered as it launched its missile, leaving a streak of flame lancing over Tokyo, followed by two more. Twenty-three missile trails blasted into the distance, heading towards targets that could have no idea of what was coming their way. The Zeros and their pilots died without ever knowing what had hit them.
“Excellent shooting,” he said, confirming that all of the Japanese planes had died. With the missile strikes against the known airfields, it would be unlikely that the Japanese could challenge them in the air again. “Now, take your targets for the bomb attacks… and dance!”
Private Manzo had been watching the Japanese aircraft, swooping back and fourth over Tokyo, with delight. His post, one of the less-important barricades against an invasion, had only five Privates appointed to guard it, armed with a machine gun and several rifles. He sighed. He’d wanted to enrol in the flying corps, but instead he’d been grabbed by the army and conscripted.
He scowled. He knew more about politics than was safe for a lowly private, and he was far from stupid. The war had to be going badly… or else why was he guarding a barricade in the midst of Tokyo itself? He cast his eyes over to the Imperial Palace; surely the Emperor would know some way out of Japan’s predicament. He looked up at the aircraft again… and then one of them exploded.
His jaw fell open as streaks of light streaked across the sky and slammed into the orbital aircraft. He waited for one of them to turn, to engage his tormentors, but instead there was silence… and drifting smoke in the sky. Strange aircraft appeared overhead, so high up that he could make out no details, and yet he was certain that they were British aircraft.
“Manzo, you lazy shiftless peasant,” Sergeant Morio snapped, cuffing him across his face. “Get back to the gun!”
Manzo didn’t dare rub his face as he jumped to the gun, hearing the welcome sound of anti-aircraft guns as they poured fire into the sky. If it bothered the enemy planes, they didn’t seem to notice; instead they launched bombs back down. Manzo watched in awe and horror as, one by one, explosions echoed over the city.
“The cowards,” Sergeant Morio snapped. He was from the north, a rough ill-educated man. He couldn’t even read. Manzo had been careful to keep his contempt hidden; he’d even flirted with the Communist Party before it had been ruthlessly crushed. “They do not dare to match steel with us!”
He waved his sword about unsteadily, screaming abuse at the sky. An explosion nearby shook the buildings, threatening his grip on sanity. “They’re coming!”
Manzo was inclined to dismiss it as paranoia, and then he looked down the street towards the docks. Grey-suited Naval Infantry were swarming over the docks, shooting their way through the remains of the army. The massive battleship he’d been admiring started to fire, shelling army positions.
“Those traitors to the Emperor,” Sergeant Morio bellowed. Manzo suddenly caught a whiff of the sake he’d been drinking. “Move!”
Without waiting for the rest of his tiny platoon, the sergeant charged the Navy’s men. They cut him down in seconds; firing bursts of machine gun fire into the nest they’d built. Manzo winced and watched as three of his comrades fell, before making his decision. Carefully putting down his pistol, he watched as the Naval Infantry advanced and overran the undefended position.
Captain Renjiro was having the time of his life, as crazy as it seemed. After ten years of enduring the taunts of the Army, his superbly-trained Naval Infantry were cutting their way through the Army’s men, ignoring their pleas and what he fondly imagined were cries of surrender. If both his force and the Army force were what remained of their respective services after two years of war… well, the thought never crossed his mind.
After all, it was enough that they hated each other, wasn’t it?
He ignored the young Army private and checked the position. They weren’t far from the Imperial Palace now; they didn’t have far to go at all. The British attacks had softened up the army, now his task was to ensure that they made it through to the Palace and cleared it of the Army vermin.