Proof Through The Night: Yet Another Kill-The-Draka Fic

[Simon_Jester]

There's no reason it shouldn't in principle; it's not entirely impractical. However, it's quite plausible that the planes aren't ready yet; the Americans in this timeline decided to launch their nuclear strike now, to defeat the Draka before they wiped out the last defenses in continental Europe, rather than waiting around until they had the opportunity to launch a decapitating strike later.

Also, a fair number of targets in the Domination are fairly remote even for the B-36 flying out of the continental US, and the Draka in their home 'verse are a lot more likely to have an interceptor capable of reaching B-36 altitudes than most would be, given their oh-so-superior technology.

[ChaserGrey]

Much as I love me some magnesium overcast, I think there are good reasons to go with carrier-based bombers rather than long-range strategic bombers in this timeline. In no particular order:

1) As mentioned above, Africa is rather remote from CONUS even for a B-36. If you can base out of India and Great Britain it's not impossible, but it's not gonna be fun. No great circle over the Pole like you can do to Russia.

2) The Domination is pretty good in the air, but there are good reasons (which I detailed earlier) for thinking that their naval forces are pretty anemic. Carriers play a traditional American strength- seapower- against a Draka weakness.

3) In the Drakaverse TL, strategic bombing took a much smaller place in the Eurasian War than it did historically. The Western Allies are mentioned as being in a de-facto truce with the Germans as of December 1942, meaning that the great air battles where the 8th Air Force finally broke the Luftwaffe and went to town on German industry never happened. In *this* Draka TL, Admiral Yamamoto also convinced the Japanese to pack it in after their fleet was nuked at Truk in April of '44*, so the B-29 campaign against Japanese territory never took place either. Strategic bombing would thus be looked at with a lot more skepticism in this TL, since advocates wouldn't have the successes of Europe and the Pacific to point to. In fact, the main strategic bombing campaigns undertaken would probably be the Blitz and the Japanese campaign against Chinese cities, both of which caused a lot of damage but failed to bring about surrender. The early Bomber Command and 8th AF raids weren't anything to write home about either- not surprisingly, it took time for them to take the theory of strategic bombing and apply it in practice. In the Draka TL, they don't get that time.

I'm actually a big fan of strategic bombing, just playing devil's advocate here and saying that its boosters would be short on evidence in this TL.

And yeah- the Americans decided that they had an opportunity to trap a disproportionate amount of the Draka Race in hostile territory far from home, and decided to go right then with what they had. Reprisal is actually brand new, the second of her class. It's a good indication of how important the USA thinks this is that they sent her to almost certain destruction in the Med.

*- Yes, he convinced the Japanese to surrender. Yes, I do know the history of the Pacific War and no, I haven't been smoking anything. Basically, it goes like this: Yamamoto always believed that Japan would lose a long war with America- that's why he originally dreamed up Pearl Harbor, because he thought the only way to win would be to strike such a devastating blow that the Americans would have to sue for peace. After he survives the attempted shoot-down by P-38s, Yamamoto gets some time to recuperate and think, as well as work his political connections in the Home Islands. (He actually spent a lot of time at the Navy Ministry before the war, so he had a lot of those) After the Allies nuke Truk, Yamamoto sees the writing on the wall. He knows that's going to happen to the Home Islands unless the fleet can stop the Americans...and he also knows that the fleet *can't* stop the Americans.

When Tojo is forced to resign after the Truk disaster (historically, he had to resign at about the same time over the loss of Saipan), Yamamoto takes his chance to act. He engineers an invitation for him to visit Tokyo in his formal capacity as CINC of the Combined Fleet...meaning he can come in his flagship, the battleship Musashi with her squadron-mate Yamato. In an audience with the Emperor, he breaks with protocol and tells the Emperor bluntly that the war is lost, that the Imperial military can't stop the atomic bombing of Japan, and that the best course is to sue for peace. While everyone in the room is trying to pick their jaws up off the floor, Hirohito thinks for a minute, then buys it. Yamamoto forms a government and announces his intention to sue for peace. When the Army objects and refuses to name an Army Minister, Yamamoto asks the Emperor to waive the Constitutional requirement that the Army Minister be a serving officer- which the Emperor does. When the Army revolts, Yamamoto appeals to the Imperial Guards in the name of the Emperor, securing some defections. He then lands the SNLF troops (Japanese Marines) he brought with him, and treats the conspirators' headquarters to a small demonstration of 18.1" artillery fire. It's a near go, but Yamamoto pulls it off...just in time for Roosevelt to make a small suggestion about what to do with those **** Draka.

Whew. Anyway, I *have* thought about it, and I wanted to get it all down somewhere since I don't intend it to be in the main body of the fic.

[Simon_Jester]

Hmm.

Well, it is in keeping with your theme of "What if the other countries of the canon Drakaverse had the same kind of massive stones the Draka do? What if the heroes were approximately the same caliber of men as the villains?"

And kinda awesome.

[ChaserGrey]

I freely admit to going for "awesome" over "plausible" with regard to that aspect of the story. This was largely because I figured it was a timeline close to Stirling's Drakaverse, so plausibility was a lost cause anyway.

It's interesting to speculate about what Yamamoto might have done in an analogous situation, though. Field Marshall Viscount Slim, who experienced the Imperial military from both sides (got his butt kicked in 1941, came back and kicked butt in 1944-45), observed that the Japanese armed forces' fatal flaw was a lack of moral, as opposed to physical, courage. Japanese soldiers were suicidally brave almost as a matter of routine, but the problem was that obedience was so inculcated up and down the chain of command that nobody questioned the boss's plan...even when that plan had ceased to resemble anything close to reality. (There's a good discussion of this in H.P. Wilmott's Empires in the Balance)

Yamamoto was one of the few high-ranking exceptions to that rule, and it's interesting to think about what he might have done facing the specter of total defeat. He never really did in our time line- while it's obvious in retrospect that Japan's attempt at a Pacific defensive cordon had failed by the time of Yamamoto's death, I don't know that it was at the time. Yamamoto also harbored no illusions about Japan's fate in a prolonged war, unlike his shadow Ugaki who seemed convinced Japan would always pull out of things somehow. And he was always, always known as a gambler...

[Vehrec]

It's interesting to speculate about what Yamamoto might have done in an analogous situation, though. Field Marshall Viscount Slim, who experienced the Imperial military from both sides (got his butt kicked in 1941, came back and kicked butt in 1944-45), observed that the Japanese armed forces' fatal flaw was a lack of moral, as opposed to physical, courage. Japanese soldiers were suicidally brave almost as a matter of routine, but the problem was that obedience was so inculcated up and down the chain of command that nobody questioned the boss's plan...even when that plan had ceased to resemble anything close to reality. (There's a good discussion of this in H.P. Wilmott's Empires in the Balance)

Yamamoto was one of the few high-ranking exceptions to that rule, and it's interesting to think about what he might have done facing the specter of total defeat. He never really did in our time line- while it's obvious in retrospect that Japan's attempt at a Pacific defensive cordon had failed by the time of Yamamoto's death, I don't know that it was at the time. Yamamoto also harbored no illusions about Japan's fate in a prolonged war, unlike his shadow Ugaki who seemed convinced Japan would always pull out of things somehow. And he was always, always known as a gambler...

The thing is, he really wasn't as much of an exception as you seem to think he was. He lost the war for Japan at Midway, because of huge gaps in the Japanese doctrine and his own arrogance. He was forced to compromise his plans-Opperation AF was not part of the initial plan, but he did not object to its inclusion despite the fact that it divided his forces. Worse, his plans were overly complicated and perhaps doomed to fail from the start. Yamato spent the entire Midway operation on a 'distant support' mission that meant it could contribute nothing at all to the battle no matter what happened. Japanese air defense was also full of holes for doctrinal reasons. Simply put, he was as much a victim of the decisive battle school of fetishism as anyone else in Japan, and a victim of over-planning. No matter how far up the Japanese chain of command you went, nobody wanted to break with any plan once it was finished-because doing something on your own initiative means accepting responsibility for failure, and following the plan to certain doom is 'honorable' even today.

Then there is the flipside to being a gambler. How many people does Los Vegas suck their pockets dry every day because they didn't know when to quit instead of trying to 'turn their luck around'? When you take risks, you also need to accept a certain level of loss, and "Know when to hold 'em, when to fold 'em, know when to walk and know when to run." Yammatto gambled and forgot when to run to put it simply. He should have never made such an absurdly large 'bet' as to attack the americans, british and dutch at the same time. Even at the time, his plans were considered pretty much mad. He only got his way on things by threatening to resign. Like a lot of flag officers on all sides of the war, he was good, but overly prepared to fight a war that never happened, and made some bad decisions that historians have glossed over.

[Simon_Jester]

True.

The thing that I think makes this legit (not "historically highly plausible" so much as "acceptable in context") is that of all the leading figures of the Japanese war effort, Yamamoto seems to have been to have been one of the ones most likely to grasp the idea that he had lost. Whereas most of his peers just kept trying to do more and more with less and less and, by all appearances, counting on divine intervention to save them.

He was a gambler with all the vices that implies, but under the gambling there seems to have been at least some recognition of what he was gambling with, what the stakes were, and just how badly outgunned Japan was. So if anyone was going to man up and try to pull the country back from the brink of total catastrophe by admitting that the war was lost, it seems fair enough that Chaser picked Yamamoto.

[ChaserGrey]

The thing is, he really wasn't as much of an exception as you seem to think he was. He lost the war for Japan at Midway, because of huge gaps in the Japanese doctrine and his own arrogance. He was forced to compromise his plans-Opperation AF was not part of the initial plan, but he did not object to its inclusion despite the fact that it divided his forces. Worse, his plans were overly complicated and perhaps doomed to fail from the start. Yamato spent the entire Midway operation on a 'distant support' mission that meant it could contribute nothing at all to the battle no matter what happened.

Conceded, more or less. My evaluation of Yamamoto is that he was a much better strategist than he was a tactician or operational planner. His analysis of the situation in the Pacific in late 1940 was spot-on: he said that if Japan went to war they would run wild for six months, but after that the weight of American industrial capacity would crush them sooner or later no matter what they did. The only way Japan could possibly win was by striking such a heavy opening blow that the Americans would throw in the towel.

His plan for the MI/AL operation did indeed suck. The only thing that can be said in his defense there is that all Japanese operational plans of the time emphasized maneuvering separate forces to combine at a decisive point with local superiority, because that was the doctrine worked out at the War College. You see it in the plan for Leyte Gulf, for example, after Yamamoto was dead. I don't think he was any worse than average in this regard, but he wasn't any better either.

Japanese air defense was also full of holes for doctrinal reasons.

Along with technological reasons, yes- the lack of voice radio for their fighters and the abysmal quality of their AA guns and directors both crippled them. I'm not sure that was Yamamoto's fault, except that he arguably could have done more while commanding carriers and shore-based air groups to promote air defense.

Simply put, he was as much a victim of the decisive battle school of fetishism as anyone else in Japan, and a victim of over-planning. No matter how far up the Japanese chain of command you went, nobody wanted to break with any plan once it was finished-because doing something on your own initiative means accepting responsibility for failure, and following the plan to certain doom is 'honorable' even today.

I'm not sure whether I agree with this or not. Yamamoto did indeed plan for a "decisive battle", but it wasn't quite the same "decisive battle" as the rest of the Japanese Admiralty was thinking of. Peattie and Evans in Kaigun lay out the incredibly detailed scenario the Japanese had laid out for that battle, with night-time cruiser and destroyer torpedo attacks setting the stage for a battle-line engagement the next morning, with Japanese ships engaging at long range over a smokescreen while spotter planes corrected their fire. It's amazing how detailed their plans were, considering nothing of the kind ever happened, and it was that concept that most Japanese admirals still clung to until very late in the war.

Yamamoto, IMO, was seeking a decisive battle in the sense that he knew the US would win the war unless their Navy was decisively defeated. He knew he needed to smash the USN before the two-ocean navy ships started showing up, or he was toast. He was willing to adapt his strategy to circumstances in bringing the battle about, though, and I think he deserves credit for that.

Then there is the flipside to being a gambler. How many people does Los Vegas suck their pockets dry every day because they didn't know when to quit instead of trying to 'turn their luck around'? When you take risks, you also need to accept a certain level of loss, and "Know when to hold 'em, when to fold 'em, know when to walk and know when to run." Yammatto gambled and forgot when to run to put it simply. He should have never made such an absurdly large 'bet' as to attack the americans, british and dutch at the same time.

That wasn't Yamamoto's decision- it was taken by Imperial Conference with the Army and Navy Ministers while he was CINC of the Combined Fleet. That was where Japan decided to go to war with the U.S. unless the response to their diplomatic initiatives was satisfactory, and set a deadline of (IIRC) December 1st for that response. Yamamoto wasn't the one who decided to trigger the "Southern Strategy", and taking on the U.S. was not his idea- in fact, as I noted above, he was very emphatic that Japan should not fight the USA. So emphatic, in fact, that they sent him to sea to make sure he wasn't assassinated...

Even at the time, his plans were considered pretty much mad. He only got his way on things by threatening to resign.

That is true, and Yamamoto was arrogant. On the other hand, when he used that tactic to ram through the Pearl Harbor plan the competing concept was to ignore everything west of Guam and just attack the Philippines...which was exactly what the Americans were expecting.

Like a lot of flag officers on all sides of the war, he was good, but overly prepared to fight a war that never happened, and made some bad decisions that historians have glossed over.

Agreed, and I don't regard Yamamoto as a genius the way some do. He was a good, clear-eyed strategist and a bad operational planner who would probably have been better off staying in his previous post at the Navy Ministry than as CINC of the Combined Fleet. I just don't think he was the bumbler that some more recent historians (Shattered Sword et al) paint him as. Whatever his faults, he was at least trying to adapt to the war as it happened and was willing to acknowledge the reality out there, which is more than you can say for most other Japanese flag officers.

And the gambler bit...that was mostly to justify him sailing to Tokyo and betting his career, life, and honor on being able to pull off a palace coup against the Army. Because under the nice, polite phrases that's exactly what it was. The Japan of this 1945 has mostly withdrawn from the world and is currently undergoing interesting times, in the full Chinese sense of the term.

[ChaserGrey]

A/N: Admit it. You missed me.

I concede the anachronism of quoting Downtown in a fic set in 1945, but I've loved the image of a crew flying away from the target singing ever since I saw Flight of the Intruder as an adolescent and it doesn't seem like such a "rock" song that it couldn't have been written earlier, for Ella Fitzgerald and the like. Call it another example of cool being placed over accuracy.

Edit: Typos, as always.

0010 Hours
T+10 Minutes and Counting
East of Marseilles, France

The light’s so much brighter there
You can forget all your troubles
Forget all your cares and go Downtown!
Things’ll be great when you’re Downtown!
No finer place for sure, Downtown!
You’re gonna be all right now…

Julius Rosemont was laughing as the three of them finished the song in a ragged chorus, gasping it out past chests that were still heaving as they tried to gulp oxygen faster than their masks would deliver it. Fujita was anchoring them with a heavy bass voice, incongruous from the tiny man he knew, and Walker was just gasping out what he could past what could have been weak chuckles or very carefully muffled sobs. The intercom dissolved as they finally all fell silent, dizzy with relief and the edge of hyperventilation. They’d done it. They’d bombed Marseilles. Done tonight’s flying for Uncle Sam, and now all they had to do was fly for themselves. Rosemont released his oxygen masks and took two careful breaths of thin, cold air before he fastened it back and managed to speak.

“C-Course back to Vendetta, Fuji? If the Glee Club is done its recital, that is.” That set off another round of strangled-sounding laughter from Walker, but Fujita managed a response.

“Call it…155 magnetic, Skipper. We’ll probably have to do a box.” In theory they knew where Reprisal would be just before dawn when they overlapped her track. In practice, if the carrier had actually managed to steer her precise, expected course all night- well, it would be the first time Rosemont had ever heard about it. They’d get as close as they could, and hope to either raise the ship on radio or find her with radar.

“Mother of God.” Walker’s voice was an obscenely reverent whisper, and Rosemont looked up to his rear-view mirror. He immediately wished he hadn’t.

Walker had thrown back the flash shield from his canopy, giving him a view of the city behind them that showed up terribly well. A black-orange mushroom-shaped cloud loomed over the city like a dark, elemental thing- Rosemont thought of the Titans of Greek myth, or Jorgmunder the world serpent looming over an entire city as he opened his maw. The cloud was lit by fire, great licking sheets of it that swept across Marseilles itself like capering wind-spirits from the Arabian Nights, burning away everything they touched. There were no fires in the harbor, but only because there was nothing left there that would burn. The docks, the ships, the tenements and warehouses that had sprouted up around them and served them through the centuries- all that they could see of them was cleaned, blackened earth like a burnt-out campfire.
Singing. My God, we were singing after we- But even the horrible beauty of the firestorm couldn’t entirely erase the relief he felt. Or his concern for the Draka radars that would be looking for them on the way back. “Walker.” No response. ”Walker, goddammit! It was a long moment before the gunner came back.

“Y-yessir.”

“Keep your eyes open back there. There are still plenty of Snakes between here and the ship, and something tells me they’re going to be just a little bit pissed off. You can stare at your stateroom wall all you like after we get back, got it?”

A pause that almost went on too long, then Walker came back with another “Yessir”. This one sounded a little better, and Rosemont didn’t think he should push his luck.

The Revenant droned on through the night, leaving the fires of Hell behind it.

0136 Hours
T+1 Hour, 36 Minutes and Counting
Seventh Draka Army Headquarters

“Strategos?”

Eric von Shrakenberg had always been a light sleeper. Any Draka boys who weren’t by nature learned during boarding school, when the lights were out and gangs of older boys came roaming the halls looking for recruits and victims both. He hadn’t always had the reflexes that half-rolled him out of bed at the first sound of a voice, grabbing for the sidearm that rested on the camp chair next to his bed and pointing it at the door. The figure there raised its hands.

“Tetrarch Smythe, Strategos. Merarch Norton’s compliments, and yo’ are required in the command center immediately.” Eric swiped an arm across his face, blinking as he tried to bring his mind up to full consciousness.

“What’s going on?”

The boy- he wasn’t much more than one, OCS was turning them out pretty fast these days- took a deep breath and swallowed. “Sir, I- that is, you’d best see for yourself, Sir.” Eric’s features darkened, but then he took in how the young Draka was almost swaying on his feet, obviously holding himself in check only through an outstanding effort of will. Terrifying him further would serve no purpose. He consciously throttled his voice down and just said,

“All right, son. Yo’ tell the Strategos I’ll be there directly.” When the door closed, Eric swung his feet onto the floor, feeling a rustling next to him in bed as Sophie hauled herself up to her feet. Even in the Citizen Force an aide sharing his bed was looked on as…unusual, but Eric was the supreme commander here and the rest of his staff had collectively decided to look the other way. Now, as he pulled on the boots he’d taken off last night before falling into bed with his clothes on, he felt her grab a uniform blouse and pull it over her head. By the time he’d stood up and headed for the door of their room, she was already a step behind him, fully dressed and cradling her Tolgren machine pistol. Eric grinned.

“Yo’ do realize yo’ don’t have to follow me everywhere, Decurion? Even we Strategoi are fully capable of walkin’ down a headquarters hallway and listening to reports without we get ambushed by a dozen angry bushmen.”

His voice was light, but there was no humor in her reply as she yanked a pack of cigarettes out of her blouse pocket, clenching one in her teeth and lighting it. “Hell you say, Eric, Sir. I heard that kid’s voice. Whatever’s goin’ down, I’d lay my next six months’ stipend it’s serious bad. Yo’ not goin’ anywhere without me, Centurion.” She only called him that when she was playing the role of an RTO reining in a headstrong junior officer, the way she’d done in Village One. Eric knew there was no use in arguing with her when she was in that mood.

The command center was silent as Eric walked in. Thunorssen was the only ranking officer there, with an assorted scatter of radio operators, map plotters, and the Merarch who held the night duty. Eric walked up to the main map table and put his hands on his hips.

“Allright, y’all. I’m here. What’s the commotion?” For a long moment, nobody spoke. Merarch Norton was standing at attention, his eyes seemingly focused off at nothing. Thunorssen looked up from the map and licked her lips.

“Ah, Strategos, that is-“

“Right.” Eric put both his hands on the table and leaned forward. This was absurd- a junior officer fresh from the agoge was one thing, but these were supposed to be the men and women leading the Race across Europe. “People, I don’ get much sleep these days. Last time I remember havin’ a good night’s rest was sometime in 1941. Now, if someone don’t start explaining why I am here at zero-one-hundred, I’m goin’ to start getting fuckin’ angry. Anyone want that?”

“Suh.” Unexpectedly, it was Merarch Norton who spoke. His eyes didn’t move from the wall of the room, and his voice was flat as scoured earth. “Suh, beg to report.”

“By all means, Merarch.” Better than nothing.

“Suh. At approximately six minutes past midnight, we began losin’ contact with bases around the Mediterranean. Fragmentary transmissions indicated they were under attack with atomic munitions, followed by a complete loss of communications. Currently we are out of contact with Constantinople, Alexandria, Nova Cyrinica, and Nova Cartago in the Police Zone, and Naples, Sofia, and Marseilles in the New Territories.” Eric stared at him for a moment.

“What?”

“Suh, more.” Norton’s eyes shone, and Eric was shocked to see that the man was holding back tears. “We have also received an all-forces message from Castle Tarleton. Max emergency, highest priority. They reported the Southern Police Zone under attack as well. Cape Town, Virconium, Diskarapur, and Shahnapur have all been hit.” Norton shut his eyes and finished. “The message repeated twice, Suh. In the middle of the third repetition it…abruptly terminated. We have been unable to reestablish contact with them or any station in Archona. Neither has anyone we can raise. It seems-“ The man’s voice cut off, and Eric waved his hand. Absently, behind the glass wall of shock, he knew that no training could prepare anyone for this. Better to spare the man shame.

“Thank yo’, Merarch. You may go.” The man saluted, fist to breast, and left the room. Eric collapsed into a field chair and stared at the map, taking it in. Except for Genoa and Palermo, every port that supplied his expeditionary force was marked with an ugly blot of red marker. He swept his eyes over Europe, thick with the remains of barely defeated armies and a people not broken to the Yoke. Looked at the southern edge of the map, and thought of a Police Zone stripped to the danger point to support the war, then with all the centralized places of order and authority wiped away in nuclear fire.

“Orders, Sir?” Thunorssen was looking down at him, and Sophie, and all the Draka and serf auxillaries in the room. “Sir, we need orders.”

Eric von Shrakenberg opened his mouth, and found there was only one order to give. One that had never been given before, in the history of the State and Race.

“Retreat.”

0325 Hours
T+ 3 Hours, 25 Minutes and Counting
Over the Western Mediterranean

“Got something, Skipper.” Walker broke the silence over Spirit of Rio’s intercom, silence that had lasted almost uninterrupted since they had dropped their bomb on Marseilles. “Airborne radar, nine o’clock and closing. I’d say whatever it is, ‘s got us .“

“What is it, Walker?” Rosemont started a turn off to the left, putting whatever-it-was into a stern chase position on them. Even if he couldn’t avoid it, he could complicate its intercept and suck it into the firing cone of the tail guns…and it wasn’t as though they were having any luck finding the ship anyway. If they still hadn’t in another half hour or so, things were going to get really interesting.

“D-dunno, Sir.” Walker was silent for a moment. “Could be a Draka Night Eyes set, but the frequency isn’t quite- Son of a bitch!”

“What is it?”

“APS-6 set, Skip!” For just a minute, Walker’s old energy was back in his voice. “A big, beautiful, U.S. Navy model APS-6 radar set. It’s one of Reprisal’s night fighters! They found us!”

0350 Hours
Over USS Reprisal

Rosemont was still a bit incredulous when he saw the ship’s running lights, dimmed down for war cruising but otherwise looking just as they had when he’d taken off a lifetime ago. The Revenant passed over the deck, and Rosemont got a glimpse of planes packed forward on the deck. Walker whistled.

“Whew. They’ve got a bunch of Avengers, some Corsairs, and it looks like two of our birds up there as well. Something big has to be going on.” Rosemont grunted absently, more concerned with flying a tight racetrack around Reprisal as he dumped speed. He slapped the flaps down as they went into the final turn, feeling the controls turn to mush in his hands. Then his eyes were straining ahead, picking up first the wake, then the outline of the ship, then the dimly lit paddles the ship’s LSO held up. His hands twitched with long years of experience, ignoring the deck once his sink rate was established and concentrating on the paddles’ cues. Left. Too low- power. Power. Just a bit right. Hold it- cut!

Rosemont’s hands slapped the throttles off at the same instant as Spirit of Rio slammed down on the carrier deck, her arresting hook grabbing one of the wires strung across the deck and stopping her short of the parked planes forward. A deckhand ran up and popped the canopy, reaching a hand in.

“Welcome back, Sir!” Rosemont shook it, a little dazed and wearing what he suspected was a pretty dopey grin. “We’re spotting for a dawn strike, so we have to get you below lickity-split. Need you all to stay aboard and start folding the wings." Mechanically, Rosemont brought the ground hydraulic pump online, watching numbly as the Revenant’s wings retracted at his command. Home. They were home. Safe. Part of his mind knew that wasn’t true, that even this apparent refuge would soon be under threat, but a larger part of him didn’t care. What the hell, they’d made it this far- they’d nuked the Snakes down into their holes and lived to tell about it! He could feel the elation rushing back, bubbling out past his lips in a laugh.

He got another numbing shock when the elevator bearing Spirit of Rio reached Hangar Deck Two, though. There were two other Revenants there- one apparently undamaged, but the other with one engine nacelle opened and streaked with black soot. Counting the two planes up on deck and the Spirit, that made five.

VAH-1 had boasted a strength of ten AR-1 Revenants at eight o’clock the night before. Whatever they’d accomplished, it was clear their friends had paid a terrible price for it.

When he swung himself out of the cockpit and dropped down to the deck, Rosemont found Commander Flannery waiting for him. He shook hands with his squadron commander, and gratefully accepted the cup of scalding-hot Navy coffee Flannery handed him.

“Good to see you back, Rosie. We’d about given it up on you.” Flannery clapped him on the back and started walking. Rosemont followed, unable to keep from asking,

“Good to see you too, Quint. This all that got back?” Flannery shrugged.

“We’re not sure yet. We got word that Blackie and his crew got down as planned in Gibraltar after they hit Nova Cartago. Only ones to hit the target and get back to the ship are Saint-Laurence in 07, me, and now you. Ritter and his crew in 06 radioed that they were under attack before they hit Genoa, and we haven’t heard anything about a detonation there. Figure they didn’t make it. Applebaum in 08 caught an engine fire after takeoff and 09 blew its radar when they tried to launch it as a backup, so they sent 10 after Naples instead. Intel says there was an explosion there about an hour ago, no word from the crew yet. The rest- well.” Rosemont nodded. The rest of the squadron’s bombers would have run out of fuel by now. If they hadn’t made it back to Reprisal, they wouldn’t be coming.

“What about that action up on deck?” Rosemont sipped his coffee and tried to keep his mind working. If he stopped and thought about everything that had happened since the sun set on this impossibly long night- well. The only one he’d see do that even a bit was Walker, and Walker didn’t seem to be doing so hot with it.

Flannery shrugged. “They’re going to try to hit the Snake base at Palermo before dawn. They figure they’ll be lined up for a visual search at first light, so we might put a monkey wrench in it if we can hit them early enough. The Corsairs are dropping flares, then the bombers go in. Basic visual run, so I’m sending 07 and 09.” Rosemont raised his eyebrows.

“If we stop their search, can we keep them from finding us?” Flannery snorted, then chuckled.

“Not a chance. You didn’t think we had a night fighter up just to look for you, didja? They’ve been playing hide and seek with Snake radar planes all night. The wizards over in Traverse City say they didn’t paint us, but it doesn’t matter. They know where we were at sundown, they know how fast we can go, and even if they lost their rulers and copies of Janes they can just plot where they’ve been losing search planes all night. Nope, once it gets light out they’ll send up anything with two wings and a radio, and that’ll be that. We can’t shoot them all down. We hit Palermo, might buy us a couple hours after daybreak before they can organize a strike. Worth a try. After that…well, that’ll be your worry.”

Rosemont’s eyebrows went up. “Sir?”

Flannery turned, his almost-colorless eyes focusing on Rosemont. “Rosie, we missed Genoa. All these targets have got to be hit, so I’m taking my crew in 04 to try for it again and land in Switzerland.” Rosemont curled his hands into fists, still wide-eyed with shock.

“Quint, it’ll be daylight by the time you get up there, and if the Snakes didn’t know what an AR-1 was last night they sure as hell know now! You’ll never make it!”

Flannery shrugged. “Maybe not. Hell, probably not. But somebody’s got to try it.”

“The hell you say! Quint, Sir- look. We can only go at night. Daylight’s suicide!”

Flannery’s voice went flat. “In case it’s escaped your attention, Mister Rosemont, there is a very significant chance that this ship will either be sunk or incapable of launching a strike before tomorrow night.” Hearing it put in bald terms like that chilled Rosemont to the bone. “It’s got to be tried, right now, before the Snakes get a chance to cripple Reprisal. My plane has the least damage of any, so it’s going to be me. Blackie’s the squadron XO, and he’s in Gibraltar. Ritter was the Ops officer, and he’s dead. That means you’re in charge after I go.” Dully, Rosemont noticed the skipper had said that instead of until I get back. Well, the man had never been one to hold illusions.

“Now. Applebaum did get his bomb back aboard, so after I take off you’ll have one left. Your priorities will be delivering that last weapon somewhere useful, and if possible getting some of the squadron’s planes to Gibraltar. Roll with the punches, get in a good lick, and then save what you can. Got it?” Rosemont nodded, and Flannery reached forward to clasp his arm.

“I knew I could count on you, Rosie. You know I never bought into any of that DrakSymp crap they tried to tag you with. It was good flying with you again.”

Rosemont felt his old, familiar shame well up again, with a sudden warmth for this man. They’d never been friends, but they’d been part of each other’s world- the lazy Navy between the wars and the Pacific fighting, the same carrier ready rooms and training fields. All gone, now. “Quint, listen, I-“

“Don’t start that now.” Flannery smiled, an expression that looked almost foreign on his ghost-white face. “You’ll get me goin’ too, and then we’ll have the whole ship think we’re a couple sorry has-beens. Just wish me luck, and I’ll send you a postcard while I’m in a hot tub at one of those Swiss ski resorts.” Rosemont laughed, then laughed harder, until he had an excuse to wipe a hand across his eyes.

“Good luck, then.”

“Thanks, Rosie. Oh, there’s a bottle of scotch in my lower right-hand desk drawer. Help yourself.” They shook hands one more time.

“Thanks, Quint.”

“Make sure the job gets done, Rosie. Then we’ll call it even.”

[Chris OFarrell]

Well, I've just read through this fic, and I have to say its quite catchy watching the Draka get vaporized in nuclear fire.

It'll be interesting to see where you take this. But regarding the last chapter, wouldn't the correct decision be to load up the bomber that just got back, make whatever quick repairs you can make while reloading and refueling goes on, and then launch BOTH bombers at the final target, if its so damn important to hit it that they're going to launch a suicide attack to try and get it? Double your chances by taking two different routes to the target?

[ChaserGrey]

Glad you're enjoying. Who doesn't love a little fried Snake now and then. Tune in next time, when Eric chats with FDR and finds out what percentage of the remaining Draka population his force represents!

As for your question- I deleted a scene describing how the nuclear weapons specialists were stripping down 06's bomb and servicing it, since it was vacuum tube electronics that had just gone through a carrier launch/landing cycle. The whole system is something of a forced development, so the bombs aren't really carrier ready as we'd think of it. It was fun, but it slowed the story down and I'm trying to cut down on microscenes that don't really advance the plot.

The real answer of course, is that I have plot-type plans for that last bomb. Hopefully that's enough of a phlebotinum fig leaf to be satisfying?

[declan]

Glad you're enjoying. Who doesn't love a little fried Snake now and then. Tune in next time, when Eric chats with FDR and finds out what percentage of the remaining Draka population his force represents!

Talk about a bag of puppies, the snakes being besiged by the jannys and the rest of the subjugated populations.

I assume that the snakes are down, but not out, otherwise its just a short story. But if they are , who becomes the villain de jour in this time line.


Great story though

Declan

[Simon_Jester]

Hmm. I'd think the best option would be to launch all the airworthy Revenants, using the others as decoys for the one carrying the bomb...

[Andras]

If there's 2 bombs left, then you need to hold one plane back for the second bombing mission, and you should hold another plane as a backup/escort for that plane. So keep 2 planes back for the last bomb, and send the rest.

[ChaserGrey]

Not an actual update- that's coming, I promise. Just a chance for some audience participation!

So, after Flannery takes off on his mission we have four Revenants left on board- 03 "Spirit of Rio", 08 "Night Terrors", 07, and 10. The last two haven't had names announced yet, and since I'm somewhat overloaded I thought I'd announce a "Name that Draka-Stomping Nuclear Bomber" competition. So if you've ever wanted to paint your very own name on the side of a plane, this is your chance.

Winners will be determined by what I think is cool. In the event of a tie, all equally cool entries will be tacked to a dart board and a crazed encephalitic chimpanzee will be allowed to fling feces at them, with the first two he hits being declared the winners. The Grand Prizes consist of having your names used and the eternal blessings of Lavorg the Fish God. This contest is void where prohibited or restricted by law. Cash value less than 1/1000th of a cent.

That is all.

[Vehrec]

Name: Truth, Justice, and the American Way. Flown by the biggest bunch of comic book nerds on the carrier. Given Superman's habits of chastising and fighting the Draka and their superhumans in the comic books, its an apt name.

[DrMckay]

I'd like to propose Snakeater, with the bombadier being a Texan who grew up eating barbecued rattlesnake suggestions include either a Slim-Pickens type to poke at Dr. Strangelove, or an autistic Sheldon Type from the Big Bang Theory.

other suggestions include:

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi the mongoose from Kipling's 1894 Jungle Book which protected a British family in India from Vipers.

good for a british colonial bush pilot who flew "Over the Hump" (Himalayas) on the India/China relay, assuming this happened in your AU

Other suggestions include "Draka Soup" a play on the Marx Brothers movie Duck Soup,

Hercules for the more classically inclined, killed two serpents as an infant as well as the Hydra,

Von Shrakenburg's Flatulence for the lulz

Hope that helps, or at the very least entertains, love the story so far, it's always nice to see the "race" of Mary Sues get curbstomped.

I wonder if you will include some Spanish guerilla action. Lord knows they've got the history and current rage-on for it.

[xt828]

Is Emancipator too obvious? Perhaps also General Sherman in a backhanded reference to the destruction being carried.

[Vehrec]

Alternatively, go with an all-black crew flying the Father Abraham, if my knowledge of the Civil war is right, that is the name that the blacks hailed him by as he entered Richmond. If an Emancipator is good, the Great Empancipator is even better.

[kh1]

St. Patrick's Fire

A portmanteau of St. Patrick, and St. Elmo's Fire:

St. Patrick banished the snakes from Ireland.

St. Elmo's Fire will certainly be generated from the blast.

The double meaning of fire itself being quite obvious.

[ChaserGrey]

0530 Hours
T+ 5 Hours, 30 Minutes and Counting
Seventh Draka Army Field Headquarters

“All right.”  Eric rubbed his eyes and looked across the conference table at the collection of faces that appeared to constitute what was left of the Draka State’s leadership in Europe.  They all looked washed out, pale except for bags under their eyes and the men’s faces starting to sprout an overnight growth of beard.  Well, he probably didn’t look much better.  “The good news is that there doesn’t appear to be any organized pursuit of our front-line formations as they disengage.  The Euros are probably the only army on the planet right now in worse shape than we are.”  Grim chuckles at that.  “And we’ll be back over the mountains in-“

“A day or two, Sir.”  Thunorssen shrugged.  “That’s a best estimate, though.  There’ve already been reports of guerilla activity steppin’ up, and I’m not sure it’s just native bushmen, either.  Some of them been pretty well armed for goat herders.  If we could continue our liquidation-“

“Absolutely not.”  Eric glared at her- she’d just sat through the same logistics briefing as he had, for Loki’s sake!  Probably that was more frustration than anything else talking, but she should still know better than to ask.  “We don’t have the fuel or spare ammunition to go around looking for every cottage within ten miles.  Hell, we may not even have the manpower.”  One of the Draka nightmare scenarios had always been a mass mutiny of Janissary forces.  It had never happened, but nothing like this situation had ever happened either, and every Citizen in the army was looking over their shoulder for the first sign of trouble.

“Strategic situation.”

“Bad.”  Admiral Roundbush, their Naval man, spoke up.  “We lost everything but Genoa round here, and that Yankee carrier is still somewhere off the coast of Italy.  They hit Palermo this mornin’ and screwed up our airbase pretty badly, but we still expect to localize ‘em sometime today.  When we do, we’ll hit ‘em with all we got.  

“With what they sailed in with we can probably wipe ‘em out.  For all the good it’ll do.”  Eric sighed and nodded.  Generations of Draka had dismissed the country they’d left behind, saying over and over that the Americans were weak, soft, and unable to sacrifice what was needed to truly ensure victory.  They had been wrong, as witness the newest ships in the American navy sailing to certain destruction.  

The Admiral continued.  “From what we’re hearin’ out of the Police Zone, the other Gods-damned one is headin’ up the east coast of Africa.  She’ll be in range of Abyssinia Province province inside 36 hours.”  Which had three more of the Draka’s precious few remaining cities, Ithaca Nova at what had been known as Nairobi, Smithville at Addis Abbaba, and Easthaven at what had once been called Dar Es Salaam.

“Chances of stoppin’ em.”

“Fuck all.”  The Navy man’s voice was flat.  “We don’t have much to start with, and the Yankees sent one of their fleet carriers with that one.  What we’ve got down there can’t get near it, and yo’ know what the air defenses are like down there.”  The Draka could not be strong everywhere, and until now there had never been a serious air threat to the African heartland.  “Radio says they trying to implement evacuation plans, but there’s not enough time.  When she gets in strike range, I’d lay my life and soul we lose all three of those cities.”  Murmurs all around, a barely suppressed groan.  Better move on before that sunk in too deeply.

“Strategos Vashon, yo’ report.”

The Security man cleared his throat.  “So far no major incidents, but we’re already seeing increased partisan activity, at least on the part of the better organized groups.  Ambushes, train tracks blown up, that sort of thing.  Our people in Paris, Vienna, and Munich already say they’re overloaded responding to calls for help from rear-area units and some of the camp follower types.”  Wherever Draka armies went, loot-buyers and slavers followed, and there were always some willing to gamble with a not entirely pacified territory in order to get first pick of the spoils.  This time, Eric thought grimly, it was going to cost them.  “Italian occupied zone’s not much better.  Lid’s on for now, but we’ve already had to disperse a riot in Milan with nerve gas.  That kind of measure won’t last.”  Eric sighed.

“Good news travels fast, hey?”  Vashon looked uncomfortable.

“Ah, sir…for the last six months or so, Security has been trackin’ fairly intensive efforts by the Yankees to smuggle some of their new transistor radio sets into Europe.  We think they’re in the hands of the better-organized partisan groups and military remnants.”  

Eric stared for a moment, then just leaned forward and let his head come down on the table with a fairly loud thump.  With arms around his head, he still managed to make himself clearly heard.  “Wotan All-Father have mercy on us.  Strategos Vashon, yo’ didn’t think this was perhaps worth mentioning to the rest of us?”  Judging from the sounds he was hearing, Eric wasn’t the only one asking that.  Vashon cleared his throat again, nervously.

“Ah, Sir…the Yankees been smugglin’ all kinds of things in since the armistice last year.  We thought it would just be an internal Security matter, regardin’ pacification of newly conquered territories.”

“Well.  Fucked that one right up, didn’t yo’?”  Eric looked up, his eyes an absolutely frozen blue.  “Strategos Vashon, I really hope yo’ realize now is the time to come to Jesus.”  A murmur around the table- as Christianity had grown more and more taboo over the past few generations, profanity related to it had gotten stronger and stronger.  The heir of an Old Domination family would never have allowed such to pass his lips normally.  “If there are any other internal Security matters goin’ on among the several million bushmen, some of which are still in battalion-sized holdout groups and have access to military weapons because we didn’t have time to secure our Gods-damned rear areas, whose countries we have invaded and whose culture we have declared to be broken beneath our Yoke, and who are now between us and home, I really fuckin’ hope yo’ don’t wait to surprise us next time.  Clear?”

Vashon looked vaguely ill.  Well, he’s always wanted to do that to a Headhunter.  “Clear, Sir.  Ah, I do have the other figures yo’ requested.”  It was plain he wanted to change the subject, and part of Eric was sorely tempted to chew the man out a little more.  Making him a target for a night’s built-up terror and frustration wouldn’t help, though, and he really did want this data.

“Proceed.”

“Sir.”  Vashon took out a packet of papers and started handing them around.  “At the start of hostilities, the Citizen population was approximately 39 million, about two-thirds of breedin’ age.  Since then, we’ve taken just shy of 400,000 Citizen casualties, mostly from that group.”  Unspoken was the fact that no babies were being born to speak of either, since two-thirds the Draka of child-bearing age were in the army and the rest doing essential war work.  “Leaves about twenty-five and a half million Draka of child-bearin’ age.  Most of those in the Army, bout three-quarters of those deployed, but still about 8 million of ‘em at home, along with those too old and young to fight.

“Now, we about a third urban population.”  Which was about as low as you could go and still have a modern industrialized state.   “Unless we catch a miracle and stop that Yankee carrier, we’re lookin’ at about seven million direct casualties from the bombings.  Figure we’ll have breakdown of services, uprisings in the compounds, maybe even on the plantations.”  Born-serfs were usually meek, but any hint of trouble this vast and all bets were off.  “So we can about double that from secondary effects.  Leaves about 25 million Draka, 20 million of which can breed.”  A couple gasps came from the back of the room.  The Race was definitely going to lose at least a third of its population.  “Most of them are here in Europe, in Italy and the newly occupied territories.  Rest watchin' the Japanese make faces at us, and wonder how long that will last.  We’re spread out over half the globe, and our industrial base is gone.”

Those few sentences brought utter quiet to the room.  The Draka were not a numerous people, as they often reminded themselves, and nobody loved them.  Now they were even fewer, and the factories that had put the sword of death and slave-chain of mastery into their hands were gone.

Eric drew out a cigarette, lit it, watched the smoke climb up to the ceiling.  Fuck-all chance of quitting he had now.  “Any good news?”

“Some.”  Vashon shrugged.  “The railways back home are mostly intact, and we’re tryin’ to evacuate as many as we can to somewhere safe.  Right now that looks like the Syrian and Araby provinces, with that Yankee carrier runnin’ for Gibraltar, but a lot of those rail lines went through Alexandria.  Ditto the line of communication forces in Europe and Russia.  Might be able to hold Italy, might not.  Wherever we can hold, though, they going to need us.”

Eric looked down at the conference.  “We are the largest coherent Domination field force left within range of either of those possible refuge areas.  I therefore regard it essential to the future of the State and Race that we reach one of those as soon as possible.  Disagreement?”  He didn’t wait.  “So.  We pull back for Genoa, roll up our supply lines as we go.   Last port we still have.  Air Marshal Vorhees, yo’ will put everythin’ yo’ have into defending that city.  Admiral, coordinate with what’s left of the Navy, start makin’ plans.  Strategos Thunorssen, contact as many friendly forces as yo’ can.  Try to get them to join with us.”  Eric pushed back from the table.  Thunorssen was the only one to ask.

“What about you, Sir?”

“Me?”  Eric chuckled with absolutely no humor.  “I’m going to buy us time.  I’m going to go see what that insolent, back-stabbin bourgeois pig-fucker of a Yankee has to say.  I’m going to talk to Roosevelt.”

March 24, 1945
1030 Hours
T+ 10 Hours, 30 Minutes and Counting
Navigation Bridge, USS Reprisal

“Confirmed, Sir.”  The young bluejacket’s voice was tight with tension as he stepped forward from the radio shack.  “The Watchman patrol has eight contacts coming in, more developing, all headed right for us.”  From his chair on the right side of the bridge, Captain Gavin Bledsoe nodded and raised the binoculars around his neck to his eyes.  Pointless, of course, since most of Reprisal’s defenses would have shot their bolt by the time the Draka ever got into visual range, but it made him feel better.  It was how he’d learned to do it as a junior officer on Langley twenty-five years before, and it still felt comforting.

“Surprised it took them this long.”  

Commander Guitierrez, his exec, shrugged his shoulders across the bridge. “We did muck them up pretty good with that dawn strike, Skipper.  They didn’t get a good sighting on us until a couple hours ago, and the nearest base they’ve got left is about that far away by air.  They must have had these guys waiting on the runway.”  Guitierrez laughed.  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were mad at us.  How many do you think there are?”

Bledsoe shrugged.  “Dunno, Jaime.”  He thought a moment.  “Snakes like fours in the air, two pairs to watch each others’ tails.  Their wings usually run about forty planes, and I think they’d send whatever they can scrape up.  I’m going to say 35 bombers or so.”  

Guitierrez whistled.  “Gonna be hot before noon.”

“Yeah.”  Bledsoe raised his glasses again, watching the antiaircraft cruiser Altoona cut across his ship’s to the side threatened by the Draka bombers.  The Task Force was in a ring formation, six Fletcher class destroyers with Traverse City ahead and just to right of the centerline.  Altoona was Reprisal’s designated close-in protection, which required some deft shiphandling from her skipper to stay between the carrier and the current threat.  “I think so too.”  He nodded slightly to the officer of the deck.

Throughout the huge carrier the klaxon sounded, sending her officers and men to General Quarters.  

Ready Room One

The siren caught Julius Rosemont just as he was sorting through aerial navigation charts of northern Italy and trying not to think about the events since dawn.  Warhammer 10, which had been only slightly overdue when he had landed, hadn’t come back after dropping her bomb on Naples- which had sent Applebaum, whose place she had taken in the strike lineup, into a quiet but thorough funk.  Half an hour before he’d talked the ship’s Communications Officer into sending a message to the signals crew on Traverse City, and gotten a dispiriting reply.  No indication from Draka channels of any unusual activity around Genoa, or anywhere else.  It looked like Flannery hadn’t made it either.

Rosemont had seen it before, in three different squadrons as they fought their way back across the Pacific.  After a while, you realized that the really dangerous cases weren’t the men who had nervous breakdowns and wouldn’t leave their bunks, or ran amok until the medics sedated them.  The dangerous ones were the men who stayed sane, but became so used to danger and death that they couldn’t distinguish between the ordinary risks of war and truly foolish chances.  They would mount solo patrols further and further out from base, press their attacks home even against the most withering flak fire, and eventually get themselves and their crews killed.  

Flannery had been in it since Pearl Harbor, and the longest break he’d gotten from combat in that time had been the nine months they spent training up with VAH-1.  If there'd been more time Rosemont could have talked him out of it or gone to the Captain, but there hadn’t.  Now the severely reduced VAH-1 was his responsibility.

The pilots and other aircrew tumbled in through the ready room door as the siren sounded.  Fujita still had his headband on and gave Rosemont a thumbs-up as he settled into his padded chair, and Walker gave his commander a shaky grin.  He had been looking better since they landed, but there was something still unsure about his manner.  Applebaum’s crew was already there, sitting around trying to figure out something to say to their pilot.  Pablo Saint-Laurence, the improbable product of a marriage between a Quebecois father and the daughter of one of Mexico’s old aristocratic families, settled into the back of the room with his crew and yawned with elaborate indifference.  Granted, they’d been up all night bombing Nova Cyrinica and then Palermo at dawn, but Rosemont still doubted anyone could be tired enough to sleep just now.  Yarrow, Warhammer 09’s pilot, settled into his chair and looked around the room with the defensive look of a wounded bulldog.  Nobody had suggested that he was at fault for a radar failure when called on to back up 08, but he seemed to expect the first accusation any moment.  A few of the spare aircrew loitered around the back of the room, not saying much.

The air was tense.  The mood was ugly.  Usually it made sense to have pilots in their ready rooms at battlestations- it kept them safe and ready to respond to any emerging threats.  The problem was, the Revenants didn’t have a tactical role.  All that these men could do in the upcoming battle was to be targets for the wrath they had called down on their own heads.

Bridge

“Here they come!”  Captain Bledsoe swung his binoculars around, catching a hint of silvery wings glinting against the sun.  Reprisal’s fighters had done their best, but she had only one squadron each of day and night fighters and the Corsairs had been used hard already.  They had shot down a good third of the Snake attack force, but that still left twenty-odd bombers making their way in towards the battle group.  

“Evil Eye type radio emissions, Sir!  Traverse City advises they’re responding.”  Bledsoe grunted.  The latest intelligence said the Snakes were starting to use radio-guided bombs against what was left of the Spanish Navy, and he wasn’t surprised to see them making an appearance here.  Ahead of his ship, Traverse City was forging ahead at high speed, and Bledsoe could see antennas in her upperworks stop spinning and point off in one direction.  The whole point of the Texarkana class cruisers was to carry all the flag, communications, and electronic self-protection gear that carriers normally carried but wouldn’t fit on the cramped United States class design.  Now they were about to find out if her designers had wrought well.  Overhead, he could see a shimmering up high as the Draka bombers released their loads, still arrowing in to guide their projectiles home.  Any moment now.

“Radar warning!”  The young talker’s voice had gone up several octaves since his last announcement.  One of the bombers up there had broken through the jamming and painted Reprisal.  Now there was a slim black bomb silently dropping through the air somewhere above them, its fins swiveling in response to corrections from its launching aircraft, getting precise range data from the radar.

“Hard a-starboard!”  The helmsman pushed his wheel over, and Reprisal heeled over into her turn, the island tilting crazily towards the sea as its sponson dipped towards the water.  Bledsoe knew that Guitierrez would be watching the inclinometer carefully- his ship’s designers had done their best to balance the weight of the island, but if they heeled too far over they still might bend the rudder post or warp a shaft getting her back up.  That would be certain death for the ship, and most if not all of the men aboard her.  “Chaff and smoke, full pattern!”  Around the carrier, her escorts were doing the same, and for a moment the sky criss-crossed with a crazy web of white vapor trails as hundreds of unguided rockets shot up from the task force’s decks.  Then the warheads burst, burying the task force in a layer of overcast mixed with fluttering metal strips.  The message canceling the radar warning had barely reached the bridge when there was a massive explosion of spray off Reprisal’s port bow.  The carrier’s hull shuddered, but there were no other near misses.  

Bledsoe let out a breath.  “Allright, looks like we got through the first one.  Helm, start bringing her back up, slowly.”  The ship began to ease back to an even keel, and he looked over at Guitierrez.  “That wasn’t so b-“

The last four bombs the Draka Vulture bombers had released were an experimental type, delivered to a few units by Technical Section but not yet cleared for field service.  The wing commander hadn’t cared when the word came down about what had happened the night before, though, and ordered every piece of guided ordnance they could fit loaded onboard the first strike against the Yankee carrier.  Two of them failed to function, the delicate electronics of their seekers wrecked.  The other two worked perfectly, finding the biggest source of electronic “noise” their seekers could acquire and dropping down on it.  One was still off, dropping just off Traverse City’s stern, but the other struck true.  It impacted just forward of the command cruiser’s bridge, pierced her armored deck, and then the one-ton warhead detonated just outside the number two turret barbette.

There was a yellow flash, then an ear-splitting roar on Reprisal’s bridge as Traverse City vanished in a massive white fireball, a curling mushroom cloud pushing up to the heavens for an instant.  The junior lieutenant who had the deck had been watching her through binoculars, and dropped to his knees, hands over his eyes.  When the flash cleared, there was only a bit of wreckage still visible, already slipping under the sea.

“My God.”  Bledsoe just stared for a moment, frozen.  Next to him, Guitierrez crossed himself in response.  After a moment, he knelt down next to the young lieutenant.

“Sir?”  The boy’s voice was high, quivering.  “Sir, I can’t-“

“I know, son.  Don’t worry about it.”  Bledsoe motioned a seaman messenger over to take the boy to sickbay.  No need to call a replacement.  He somehow doubted he would leave Reprisal’s bridge soon.  Perhaps not ever.

“The Captain has the deck.”

1100 Hours Local Time
T+ 12 Hours and Counting
The White House, Washington, DC

“We’re ready, Mister President.”  The young Army officer gave a thumbs-up from his post in the corner, and Franklin Delano Roosevelt picked up the phone.  Various arrangements technical and diplomatic had taken up all the hours since dawn, but now everything was ready- including the wired-in speaker that would allow the rest of the cabinet gathered around him to hear and the tape recorder that had automatically cut in when he picked up the phone.  They were through taking chances with the Snakes.

“Mister President?”  The voice on the other hand was a strange sort of clipped drawl that was still alien to his ears after a life in public service.  “Can yo’ hear me?”

“Arch-Strategos von Shrakenberg.”  Roosevelt allowed himself a smile as he settled into his chair.  “Strategos, knowing as I do what the Draka think of diplomatic niceties, I suggest we skip over the usual forms and get straight to the point.”  He paused for a moment, with malice aforethought.  “Of course, should you wish to protest our completely unprovoked and outrageous act of aggression against the Domination of the Draka, our ally, I am prepared to listen.  But no more than sixty seconds, please, we have a great deal to do.”   Secretary of State Cordell Hull choked back a laugh from his seat on the divan, and General Arnold grinned as he held a light to his cigar.  He’d been sulking on and off for months ever since the carriers had been chosen to carry out MONGOOSE instead of the 8th Air Force, but this moment was too sweet not to savor.  

The other end of the line was silent for a moment, and when von Shrakenberg responded he was almost spitting out the words.  “No, Mister President, that suits me just fine.  I’ll certainly admit that yo’ caught us on our backs.  But then, it’s not our national mythos that teaches that the white hats never shoot first, is it?”  Roosevelt smiled.

“Temper, Strategos.  To desire an end is to desire the means necessary to that end- you know who invented that one”  Roosevelt searched his memory for a deliberately crude Draka aphorism.  “All looks different to the man on the stake, doesn't it?”  A muttered curse on the other hand, and Roosevelt’s grin got wider.  Anyone who wanted to make politics his profession learned to suppress their emotions as a matter of course, but there was no denying that after years of having to make nice with that arrogant harpy of an Archon while she looked down her very prominent nose at him this was deeply satisfying.  Almost as satisfying as the knowledge that the said harpy was probably dead in the ruins of bombed-out Archona.

After a moment, von Shrakenberg mastered himself.  “Very good, Mister President.  Business, then.  What do yo’ want?”

“You.  Gone.”  Roosevelt’s voice was completely devoid of humor.  “The Draka are a cancer, Arch-Strategos.  We took a long time to realize that while the tumor got bigger and bigger.  Almost too long.  We’re not going to give you the chance to grow back in another generation or so.”

1200 Hours Local Time
T+ 12 Hours and Counting
Draka Seventh Army Field Headquarters

Eric’s grip tightened on the radio microphone.  He hadn’t expected anything else, really, but it was still a great deal to take in.  “Why set this up at all then, Mister President?  If’n that’s the case, we’re all dead anyway.  Or did the lessons yo’ took from our ‘playbook’, as you Yanks say, include the stress-relievin’ powers of gloating?”

Roosevelt chuckled.  “Not quite.  You see, Strategos, we may have had to become a bit like you in order to defeat you, but that doesn’t mean that we want to be you.  We don’t actually want to kill every Draka Citizen man, woman and child.”  Which left unsaid whether or not they would do it, if they thought they had to.  “We are prepared to offer you terms.”

“Which are?”

“Unconditional surrender.  Draka forces are to evacuate Europe immediately- we’ll help you with that, since I understand your logistics situation is currently a bit difficult.”  Eric could feel his face going deep-red.  The man really was sparing no effort to twist the knife.  “Likewise the former Russian territories you’ve taken, and Turkey- we still have the son of the last legitimate Sultan around, and there are enough people there who remember self-government.  We understand that things may take longer in the territories further into your Police Zone, but we still have a detailed blueprint for independent states based on tribal groupings inside a decade.  The Draka are to disarm, completely.  In return, we let you relocate to Madagascar- properly supervised, of course, no atomics or other nasty toys.  No serfs, of course, and no activity anywhere off the island.  We'll also have a list of individuals we want for crimes against humanity."  

“Ah.”  Eric bit his words out.  “So yo’ really do want us dead, and just don’t want the deed on yo’ own hands.”  Goddamn Yankee cowards.  “Yo’ want us to give up all we have and go into exile near an Africa that’ll be turned over to our own ex-serfs.  Do I need to point out that once they’re freed those people will not be in a gentle mood?  Or what happened the last time yo’ tried to get rid of our ancestors by exile?”

“Strategos, I’m offering you a choice.  If your former serfs don’t exactly love you, that’s hardly our fault.  And you will not be allowed to expand again- rest assured that we will be watching you very, very carefully to make sure of that.  We learned our lessons from Hitler as well, and at the first sign you’re rearming- well.”  Roosevelt cleared his throat.  “You know, Strategos, I’ve read your book- the one you couldn’t publish in the Domination without getting a bullet to the head from your own Security people.  You said in it the Draka had to conquer or die.  The first option is now closed to you.  I’m offering you a third- you can change.  By the time you’re done, your children won’t be Draka anymore.   But you will get to have them.  

“Of course, if you don’t like that choice…the second is always open to you.”  Roosevelt’s voice was cool again, without the barest hint of the olive brach he’d just offered.  “If you think you can regroup your Race in Italy, Syria, or on the dark side of the Moon, you’re welcome to try.  Personally, I think you’ve lost a third of your number already and you’d be very, very lucky not to lose another third by the time you secured some piece of territory and got your serfs under control.  You wouldn’t have the population base to rebuild your beloved plantations and factories before we came for you.

“And make no mistake, Arch-Strategos von Shrakenberg.  If you don’t take my offer, we will come for you.”

Eric’s hand was white on the telephone.  “I think you’re optimistic, Mister President.  You missed one of our ports.  I can move my army as I need to, in order to rally the Race, and your precious carriers have to be running out of atomic bombs.  You can hurt us, but I don’t think you have the strength to kill us off.  Much as you might want to.”

Another chuckle, but this one a bit weaker, with a cough at the end.  “Strategos, my offer stands.  It’ll be open for the next forty-eight hours.  After that I suggest you ask Odin, or the Will to Power, or Almighty God to have mercy on your people, for we will have none.  And if you doubt me…you haven’t even begun to see what we can do.”


Bridge, USS Spiderfish
In the Bay of Biscay

Commander Eduardo de la Playa scanned the sky carefully with his binoculars.  He’d never thought to be here when the bombs fell on Pearl- the Submarine Force’s war was in the Pacific against the Japanese.  Now, they were ready to practice the trade they’d learned in another place entirely.  Their boats were new Balao and Tench class designs, with a couple improvements suggested by German refugees and a good leavening of experienced submariners who had made it out of Germany.

The diving alarm sounded, and de la Playa stood aside to let his men scramble off the bridge and down the hatch.  A few moments later, nothing remained above the waves to show Spiderfish had ever been there, and a full minute later a Draka observation bomber swept impotently overhead.  They had been chasing phantoms all day, and the word back at their French base was that nobody knew when the next shipment of fuel was coming in.  Try as they might, they wouldn’t be able to stop the stream of submarines making their way from English ports towards the Straits of Gibraltar.

Any Draka forces that tried to move over the Mediterranean without permission were going to find that task very difficult in a day or so.


Aboard B-29B 42-6034 “Father Abraham”
Over the English Channel

Colonel Israel Washington rocked his control yoke to wiggle his wings, looking back to see the groups forming up around him for their run on the rail yards at Vienna.  They’d flown a couple missions against targets in Germany before they were overrun a few months back- moving rubble around already burnt-out cities for practice, and whenever possible “accidentally” letting a few bombs hit something they knew the Draka wanted intact.  Not much, but enough to get his Wing up to speed.  

Now they had a chance to take this fight to the real enemy.  Washington grinned fiercely behind his oxygen mask.  To him, the Draka were the washed-up refuse of the Confederacy, with a lot of like-minded sons of bitches tagging along.  Every one in the wing had an account to settle with them.

As he watched the bombers fall in, Washington smiled for another reason.  They’d had to fight to keep their color scheme after 8th Air Force Command had said that all paint had to be stripped off to save weight.  He’d had to go all the way to General LeMay and argue that removing their colors would adversely effect the men’s morale for no reason, but he'd won.  Every B-29 in his sight was finished in bare metal, except for the bright red stripe on their tails.

Behind him, Washington saw the signal that meant Draka Soup and Emancipator, the tail-end ships for his two groups, had joined up.  He rocked his wings one more time, then turned his nose towards the European coast.  The 32nd Bomb Wing, the Bomber Boys from Tuskegee, were finally going to war.

EDIT: Changed location of the Draka exile, per a suggestion from Simon_Jester who had a much better idea than I did.  Thanks much for letting me use it.

EDIT II: When you're giving a guy credit for his idea, it helps to spell his name right.

[declan]

hah , no chance of those fuckers getting the stargate now.


Excellent addition to my sunday reading pleasure Chaser, thanks.

Declan

[ChaserGrey]

hah , no chance of those fuckers getting the stargate now.

Congratulations. In contrast to most of the time people say "Lol"...that one actually had me laughing out loud. Good one!

[Agent Fisher]

The Red Tail smacks the Snakes! Not quite the nimble P-51, but I'll accept that trade to a slow lumbering beast as long as they kill Draka.

[Vehrec]

Ohhh, mine eyes have seen the glory! You know, I thought a good Drakafic might be the attempted assassination of Abraham Lincoln by Draka agents disguised as non-state actors, only to be foiled by that namby-pamby general McClellen.

[ChaserGrey]

Problem is, I think canonically Douglas is President during the ACW. Might still be a fun concept, though. Would this be before, during, or after the war?