Designated Targets

bomb. I gotta find my brother—”

He wandered off before she could get his name.

She had to get closer to the station, to find somebody who had at least half a clue. So she began to jog over to Chambers Street, stopping to grab a clip of a mother and young daughter—she supposed—dressed for the opera, sitting and hugging each other, shaking violently and not speaking at all. The daughter was moaning.

The pad chimed, and she broke off filming to read an updater from the Times. There were three other bomb sites in Manhattan: at Penn Station, Grand Central, and in Macy’s. There were fewer casualties at Macy’s, which had been closed when the explosion went off. The bombs at the railway stations had seemingly been designed to hit civilians, rather than to damage infrastructure. They’d gone off in the restaurants.

She heard the musical theme from The Simpsons and experienced a definite shunt in her mind, as it tried to get traction on a very slippery slope. Then she remembered that was Rosanna’s call ID tag.

“Hey, babe. God, am I glad to see you,” Julia said with enormous relief. “Dan said you guys were toast.”

Rosanna looked fine, if a little shaken. It was still daylight in Hawaii, and she seemed to be outside, with a huge fire burning in the background. “We got hammered,” said Rosanna. “It had to be a missile strike, Jules. Nothing else looks like this. There was even an EMP. It fried all my stuff that wasn’t hardened to mil-grade. Where the hell are you?”

“I’m home,” said Julia. “Well, not at home. The city got parcel-bombed. I’m on it right now. Looks like someone’s been doing their homework. They’ve gone for soft targets, high body counts. Easier than hitting guarded facilities. How long has the laser link been up?”

Rosanna shook her head. “Just a few minutes. I figured they’d use the Clinton as a relay soon as I saw how bad it was. I can’t say how long it’ll stay in place, or how long they’ll let us have access. Bandwidth is pretty limited, but I guess they want to know what happened. I’ve got a highlights package for you. I’m sending it now, compressed in the signal. I’ve got vision of Pearl, what used to be Hickham, and what’s left of Honolulu.”

“Hickham? Isn’t that where the Raptors are based?”

“Were based. They’re fucked.”

Julia felt a surge of anxiety in her friend’s behalf. “Jesus, Rosanna. Get yourself out of there now. The Japanese are coming for sure.”

“I know,” said Natoli. “This place is on the edge of a panic spiral. But there’s no getting out. It’s pure chaos, Jules.”

“Is Curtis all right?”

“He’s fine. He was with me. And our fat shadow, too.”

Julia was going to ask, but Rosanna carried on without a break.

“I’ll tell you about that later. Look, I’ve got to go, Jules. I’ll file every three hours, as long as the link is up and I have access. Raw footage. You can produce me for a change.”

Rosanna attempted a brave smile, but Julia could tell it was forced. Happiest in an editing suite, her friend wasn’t a field reporter. She’d never had embed training. And there she was, stuck in the middle of the ocean, on a small island that was about to become a battleground.

“File every hour,” said Julia. “Then I’ll know you’re okay.”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll see you soon,” Rosanna promised; then she cut the link.

Somehow, Julia doubted it.

26

THE PACIFIC THEATER OF OPERATIONS

The sight of so many aircraft forming up and heading out, to further reduce the enemy’s defenses, should have brought joy to the grand admiral. After all, it was rare in war to be given a second chance.

But Yamamoto had not yet fully recovered from the shock of seeing Hidaka on the little movie screen, disheveled and covered in blood, telling him that one mutinous Frenchman had nearly wrecked the entire plan. Indeed, he may well have done so. They hadn’t yet determined how much damage this barbarian Danton had wreaked, and they wouldn’t know for certain until their own planes flew over the islands and reported back.

Unlike his initial reaction to the Emergence, Yamamoto wasn’t incandescent with rage, not this time. For the admiral, rage came from the sudden, unexpected destruction of certainty. And in his heart, he hadn’t been at all surprised by this development.

After Midway, nothing seemed to surprise him anymore. If somebody had walked in and told him that Charles Lindbergh had been elected president of the United States, or that a race of super Nazis had suddenly emerged in southern Africa, he doubted he would raise an eyebrow.

So his primary reaction to Hidaka’s untimely news was a feeling of sickening free fall, which he fought to keep to himself. He could only wonder if the world would ever return to the certainties of just a few months previous.

The mood on the bridge of the great battleship Yamato mirrored his own. Perhaps if Hidaka had been able to report a complete success, it would have been different. The officers and crew might yet have been seized with the fevers of victory, celebrating as they had during the first few months of the war. But now, they all seemed to wonder if their doom was approaching, and whether or not a squadron of F-22s might still come shrieking toward them at two or three times the speed of sound.

Pounding through the Pacific toward their objective, the Combined Fleet looked unstoppable. Yet in the face of the weapons the Americans now possessed, his cruisers and carriers were little better than origami trifles.

The officer of the watch announced that the last squadron of dive-bombers was away. Yamamoto did not bother to get up from his chair to watch them disappear into the vanishing point, far to the east. But he was quietly gratified to see some of the junior officers excitedly whispering to each other and pointing as the attack got under way. Regardless of any trepidation they might be feeling, they could not contain their enthusiasm to have at the Americans.

It was good, he thought. His Majesty would be well served by these new samurai.

Following their example, he put aside his own concerns. The warrior who drew his blade without confidence was doomed. Hidaka said the missile strike had done an enormous amount of damage, and his own air assault would surely add to the Americans’ woes.

“Captain,” he said, sitting a little straighter in his command chair, “signal the fleet to redouble its vigilance. There will be enemy submarines in front of us. And a counterattack from Midway remains possible.”

The bridge crew took their lead from Yamamoto’s renewed vigor. Backs straightened. Orders were barked out just a bit more crisply. Everywhere he looked, he saw evidence of Japan’s finest young men, willing to die in the service of the empire.

It wasn’t right for him to let them down with maudlin displays of anxiety.

Lieutenant Wally Curtis just couldn’t believe it. He had thought of the jet planes as indestructible. And yet there they were, every last one of them, totally fubar. A dozen or more piles of burning wreckage.

Hickham Field was littered with scrap metal and human body parts, but most of the crash crews and fire engines were clustered about the tarmac where the F-22s from the Clinton had been parked. They were all gone, except for two that had been up in the air when the missiles came over. And he’d heard they had been banged up when they had to land on a normal road surface, because there was no undamaged runway anywhere that could take them. The undercarriage of one had collapsed when it fouled in a big pothole, and the other had clipped a power pole and just about torn off a wing.

That was the scuttlebutt, anyway. He hadn’t seen it himself, and as Rosanna kept telling him, unless you actually saw it happen, it probably didn’t.

Well, he’d seen this happen hadn’t he? Curtis had thought he’d never again see anything to equal Midway, but this came close. They’d driven in to Hickham, flashing three different types of ID at the guard post, which was too busy to check them properly, anyhow. The base was a write-off. It was hardly recognizable as a working facility.