Designated Targets

Built in 1919 in the Italian Renaissance Revival style, the Whitelaw was the world’s most famous African- American hotel. It was a temporary home in the national capital for entertainers like Duke Ellington, or the leaders of black organizations like the NAACP, none of whom could rent rooms in the city’s segregated luxury hotels. So it was unusual—almost unprecedented—for a high-ranking white military man to stay there. Admiral Kolhammer’s PA had standing instructions to book him into the Whitelaw whenever he traveled to Washington.

He checked in early, straight off the red-eye, before starting a long day of crisis meetings at the White House and the War Department.

“I need to get some breakfast, have a shower, and change,” he told the front desk. “Then I’m out of here. In fact, if you could have a car waiting for me at a quarter of nine, my little part of the war effort would run a lot smoother.”

The duty manager was only too happy to help. The Special Administrative Zone put a lot of business through the Whitelaw.

Agents Flint and Stirling hovered nearby, like golems in off-the-rack suits.

“Would you prefer to have breakfast in your room, sir?” the manager asked. “We have a suite ready for you.”

“No. I’ll just go through to the dining room now. One of my staff is meeting me there. A Commander Daniel Black. Please send him on through when he arrives. He shouldn’t be too long.”

He turned to his security detail. “We’re going to be on the move all day. You guys ought to grab some chow while you can, too.”

The agents nodded, and Stirling moved through to check out the room.

A bellhop was summoned to take Kolhammer’s baggage, and the kid obviously recognized him. In fact, almost everyone in the large crowded lobby seemed to know who he was, courtesy of four months of blanket coverage in the black press. As he moved through the warm but cavernous space, with strangers pointing and smiling, or just whispering and trying not to look like they were gawking at him, Kolhammer was struck by the thought that this was probably how Spruance had felt when he’d first come aboard the Clinton back at Midway.

Well, it was his choice to stay here. In part, it was just petty politics, really. But sometimes that was important, too. He had a lot of officers serving under him who would not be welcome in any of the other, better hotels in Washington, simply because God had wrapped them up in the wrong skin color. And to Phillip Kolhammer’s way of thinking, that sucked. Back in the twenty-first, a lot of assholes would have thought of his insistence on staying here at the Whitelaw as politically correct grandstanding. But they could go fuck themselves and the horse they rode in on.

Correctness be damned. He simply wouldn’t stand for his men and women being treated with anything but the utmost courtesy. If the fucking Ritz or the Savoy wouldn’t have, say, Colonel Jones as a customer, then they could damn well get by without Kolhammer’s money, as well. He tipped the bellhop and walked through to breakfast.

“You eating, Agent Flint?” he asked.

“No, sir,” said Flint. “Stirling’s always been more of a chow hound than me. I had a Twizzler on the plane.”

A waiter met them at the entrance to the dining room, a huge sumptuous space that was about half-full. Kolhammer took a table and ordered a full hot breakfast with a pot of Jamaican coffee. Flint left him alone, taking up a station where he could see all the entrances and exits. Dan Black arrived just as Kolhammer’s first cup of coffee was poured. The man looked like he hadn’t slept in three days.

“I haven’t, sir,” Black said, when the admiral asked him. “Julia believes sleep is for the weak. She’d make a good Nazi, in many ways.”

Kolhammer allowed himself a chuckle at that. He had no personal relationship with Duffy, but they had locked horns professionally a couple of times back in the twenty-first. She’d proved herself more than helpful after the Transition, however, and Kolhammer had come to appreciate having an indirect line into the national press via Duffy, through Black. It was amazing, really, the alliances he’d been forced to make.

“Any closer to setting a date for the big day?” he asked.

Black shook his head. “I’m beginning to think she has a—what do you guys call it?—a fear of commitment.”

Kolhammer laughed out loud for the first time in days. “We do,” he said. “We do. But I don’t know if a lack of commitment is one of Ms. Duffy’s defining character traits, Commander. She’s just very focused. I think you’ll find that, when the time comes, she’ll throw herself into marriage with the same enthusiasm she brings to her work, you poor bastard.”

Black looked more than a little worried at that. “You two have crossed swords before, haven’t you, Admiral?” he said. “She speaks of you a lot. Calls you the Hammer.”

“Yes, but does she say it with respect?”

“You can’t have everything, sir.”

“And therein lies the sorrow of existence, Commander. At least according to the Buddhists. There’s no law says you can’t have breakfast, though.”

Black ordered bacon and eggs when Kolhammer’s order arrived.

“So, you read the files I e-mailed you?”

“Yes, sir,” said Black. “Read them on the train coming down. I’ve already made calls to Patton’s staff, and to Eisenhower. Ike’s on board, but I suspect that if we delay too long here in Washington, we’ll get home to find that General Patton has made off with all of our prototypes and the test crews to drive them, colored or not. I’ve gone ahead and released the new ’chutes to the Hundred-and-first, though. I didn’t think you’d have a problem with that.”

Kolhammer chased a piece of sausage around his plate and shook his head. “That’s fine. But I’ll bet General Lee didn’t leave it at that.”

“No, sir. He wanted the assault rifles and the grenade launchers, too. They’ve done some training with the MK-One down in Kentucky. Lee’s in town right now, trying to get Marshall to agree to reequip the whole division.”

“Jesus Christ,” muttered Kolhammer. “They’re still months from being combat effective. Okay. Leave that one to me.”

“What’s your reading, sir, if you don’t mind me asking. I’ve been out of touch.”

Kolhammer blew his cheeks out in exasperation. “Well, first up, I don’t think there is any chance of an invasion here. I know that makes me a minority of one, but the Axis powers don’t have the ability to force a landing on the continental U.S. They do have a fair shot at taking Hawaii, and they will throw everything at England.”

“Will they win?”

Kolhammer sighed. “They could. The odds are against them. It’s the wrong time of year. They don’t have air superiority. The Royal Navy can still kick Raeder’s ass in a straight-up fight. And of course, there’s always Halabi to consider. But it’s not going to be a stand-up fight. The Luftwaffe can put two thousand aircraft over the Channel, which will severely constrain the British Home fleet, even with the RAF and the Army Air Force ripping into Goring’s men. They’ve been just as busy leapfrogging themselves as quickly as we have.”

Black nodded. One of the files Kolhammer had sent him was Captain Halabi’s report of the jet and rocket attack on the Trident. She described the German weapons as primitive and their tactics nonexistent. But those 262s looked mighty impressive to Black, who’d learned his flying just ten years earlier in a canvas biplane.

“And Hawaii? Australia?”

Kolhammer looked grim as he mulled over his answer. “The signals we’re getting from MacArthur about a second assault Down Under are bullshit. The Japanese do not have the depth to pull off two strategic strikes at the same time. But they’ll benefit from any doubt they sow in our minds by making a move to surge more of their forces down from New Guinea. It complicates things enormously. The chances of Prime Minister Curtin releasing any forces to help us in retaking Hawaii are slim because of it.”

“You think it’ll come down to having to retake the islands.”

“I’m afraid so,” said Kolhammer. “I’ve got all my intel people working the take from Hawaii, and nothing I’m