John Birmingham: Final impact

Kolhammer had to agree. Herculean efforts had gone into determining the status of the Axis powers’ atomic weapons program. Nearly as much energy had gone into disrupting that program as had been devoted to the invasion, and to the search for any more “missing” task force ships like the Dessaix.

Of course, the great unknown was still the Soviets. Stalin undoubtedly had his own atomic plans, and while it was extremely unlikely that he’d really cooperate with the Nazis beyond the elaborate charade of the Demidenko facility, just about everything they’d been dealing with had been unlikely, ever since the moment Manning Pope’s wormhole had dropped them eight decades into the past.

“I think you’re right, Mike,” Kolhammer said. “But I still get that sick feeling in my gut every morning when I get out of the rack. You have to figure Groves is going to deliver any day now, and then what? When we first got here, I used to dream about Marie every night. Now all I see in my dreams are mushroom clouds springing up over Europe.”

“Yeah, me, too,” Jones agreed, with a somber cast to his features.

None of the three was privy to the progress of the Manhattan Project, the Allies’ own race for the bomb. Despite the resources Kolhammer had transferred over to General Leslie Groves, the man in charge of the project, a wall of impenetrable secrecy still surrounded it. Nobody outside the inner circle had any idea when the first bomb would be dropped, or where.

But thanks to the records they had brought with them, the whole world knew it was coming. This had induced a state of generalized panic that reminded Kolhammer of the days following the destruction of Marseilles, back in his own universe. The genie was out of the bottle, and everybody was well aware that he wasn’t a friendly spirit.

“Okay, gentlemen,” he said, putting an end to the maudlin exchange, “we deal with what we must, and what we can. Mike, I’ll be handing things over to Nancy Viviani tomorrow and heading down your way, so you’ll need to get out of my room and change the sheets. I know you Texans love sleeping rough, but we admirals, we prefer our little comforts.”

Judge grinned. “It’ll be good to have you back, sir.”

“Lonesome,” Kolhammer continued. “You got everything squared away there? I’ve been talking to Spruance, and he’s looking forward to seeing your people at work. But some days it feels like he’s a minority of one.”

“Admiral, I’ve had the First and Second battalions locked down for three days now. Everyone is back from R and R, and we didn’t have a single straggler. I think that’s a record. My boys and girls, they’ve got some shit to prove. Not to me. But like you say, there’s a lot of folks don’t think they’re up for it. We’ll prove ’em wrong, if we get the chance.” The marine growled out the last line with real anger.

“You’ll get the chance,” Kolhammer promised.

“That’s not what I hear. What I hear is that you’ve been taking heat to send us to fucking Persia. For garrison duty with the Brits.”

Kolhammer shook his head emphatically. “Look, you’ve heard right. There’s been some pressure, but it doesn’t mean a damn thing to me. You’ve got to stop chasing your tail, Lonesome. It’s been two years, and it never stops.”

Frustration flashed in the marine’s eyes. “That’s why I can’t stop chasing my goddamn tail, Admiral. Every time I look back, there’s someone trying to fuck me in the ass!”

“Nobody here is going to allow that to happen. True, I got leaned on. And when it happened, I did what I always do. I told ’em to take a leap. You’re coming to the Marianas with the rest of us, so get used to it.

“Now, Mike,” he continued, shutting down the subject, “how’s my old girl? She ready to rumble?”

Judge nodded. He looked uncomfortable, though, at having been caught up in the crossfire. “Even my wife was impressed when she stopped by, sir. And those Royal Navy types, they don’t impress easy.”

Jones’s deep bass rumbled out. “So what, you gonna have to keep your pants on forever now?”

Judge’s expression didn’t change a bit. “I think the phrase yo mama covers it, jarhead,” he replied calmly.

It was a rare day when Kolhammer could think of anything positive that had come of the Transition, but Mike Judge’s wooing and winning of Captain Karen Halabi qualified as A Good Thing. Their giddy, teenlike infatuation reminded him of his own marriage, back in its first hot flush, and he felt sure that, like his, theirs would endure. He had kept to his vows, forsaking all others even though he was lost to Marie, and for all she knew he had died off East Timor.

Though Judge had already been married for six months, Kolhammer still saw the intensity there, despite the fact that they’d been able to spend very little time together. Halabi’s last two weeks of leave had been spent on board the Clinton while her husband bedded down the last of the retrofit and prepped the great warship to go back out to sea. She’d worked just as hard as he had, lending her invaluable experience in re-equipping the Trident with what the locals called “Advanced Technology” but the uptimers all thought of as museum pieces. Like the six-barreled 20mm Vulcan cannon that replaced the Clinton’s laser packs and Metal Storm mounts.

It hadn’t been much of a honeymoon, as Judge admitted, but at least they had managed to get one day and one night to themselves, staying at the log cabin Kolhammer had bought for himself up at Clear Lake.

Jones broke in on Kolhammer’s train of thought. “I saw the new fighter squadrons out at Muroc the other day, Admiral. It was a beautiful thing, watching those Skyhawks get busy. Of course, my guys were all over yours, Mike.”

Before Judge could respond, Kolhammer cut him off. “You can lay your bets later, gentlemen. I just wanted to make sure nothing’s getting jammed up here at the last moment. So, Mike, you happy with your aircrew? They’re about ninety percent ’temp, aren’t they?”

“Yes, sir. And I’ve got hundreds of requests from the ship’s original complement, asking to return to combat duty, but we still can’t justify putting our own people in harm’s way. Not when they’re of more use in research and development. It does make for some sore feelings, though, Admiral.”

“Bruised egos,” Kolhammer grunted.

“Nothing to be done about it,” Jones said. “It’s been the case since we got here that anyone with an engineering degree-or any technical qualifications, for that matter-is going to be of more use in the lab than out on the battlefield. I’ve lost some of my best combat engineers to Caltech because of it. And one of my best company commanders, too, who just happened to major in fucking fluid mechanics, all because he was hot for some bimbo surfboard designer back in college.”

“You know, it’s been noted-rather uncharitably, I might add-that the three of us are all going back into combat,” Judge observed.

Kolhammer shrugged it off. “We’ve been through it a hundred times. Somebody has to command this battle group, and it’s a very different gig from running Spruance’s task force, even with the AT stuff they’ve been bringing online. The whole world is watching Calais right now, but soon enough they’ll be watching us, too. Tojo isn’t the only one who wants to see us fall on our asses.

“So if there’s nothing else I can do for you gentlemen, I suggest we all get back to work. And I’ll see you in San Diego.”

Both men nodded in agreement, then signed off. Kolhammer returned to the business of handing over the Special Administrative Zone to his deputy, Colonel Viviani. She would be empowered to act in his stead for the duration of the deployment. That meant he was almost free. There were about two hundred documents requiring hard-copy signatures, a final sit-down with the colonel, a quick tour of the campus to say good-bye to his department heads, and then he was outta there.