Designated Targets

“The force advancing on the Hawaiian Islands is somewhat smaller than the one originally slated for Operation M.I., the invasion of Midway,” said Oshima. “But the presence of the Dessaix has made up for that. Again, the emperor sends his heartfelt thanks to the führer for his consideration in this matter. Without the help of the Reich, this operation simply could not proceed.”

The führer shrugged, but he looked pleased. “This is a struggle for the world, and it must be fought all over the world,” he said. “Your efforts in Hawaii over the next twenty-four hours will have a direct bearing on ours in the next week. The emperor has been more than accommodating of our prerogatives, acknowledging Germany’s claim over New Guinea, and guaranteeing the security of the German settlers in South Australia. And with the Bolsheviks still holding the British and American ships at Murmansk, we can wait for the Dessaix to return.”

The führer glowered at Göring before continuing.

“Our engineers have taken the critical systems which we need for Sea Dragon off her, anyway, and without the ability to replenish her rockets, the Trident is little more than a floating radar station. We shall deal with her in good time.”

Oshima bowed. As he arose, his face was blank. He suspected an unspoken reason for the Germans’ generosity was their calculation that a sucessful Japanese invasion of Hawaii would inevitably draw American power farther into the Pacific and away from Europe. The ambassador let none of these thoughts affect his expression. He was still waiting for Hitler to put the final piece of the puzzle in place.

The German leader took a moment to consider the dazzling array of images and data moving around on the old-fashioned movie screen.

“In three days, the tides and the weather will be right,” Hitler said. “I shall order the High Command to surge our forces for Operation Sea Dragon. I am afraid that Speer will not have the two months he wants to build up further war stocks. The Luftwaffe will have to do what it can to protect the harbors. Two months would put us into winter, and the opportunity will be lost, probably forever.

“General Oshima, you may tell your superiors that we are with them . . . but, uhm, please use the secure lines.”

22

BERLIN, GERMANY

To an educated man of humanist sympathies, Berlin was a perverse caricature of the city Müller knew. A fright mask drawn over a familiar face.

Nazi Germany was every bit as bad as the history teachers had said. A wasting of the soul had taken place here, and darkness had rushed in to fill the void. The fear was tactile and oppressive. It sat on everyone’s shoulders like a giant crow, ready to pluck out their eyes if they should look the wrong way.

The SS was everywhere, too. As were the Gestapo. They made no attempt to disguise themselves, and terror surrounded them wherever they went.

Müller had developed painful stomach cramps and a permanent headache within two days of arriving. He was sure the entire nation, possibly all of Europe, felt the same way. He’d used his spinal inserts to dial back the pain, so distracting had it been.

The implants dispensed stimulants, painkillers, and a cocktail of pharmaceuticals to aid concentration, to sharpen the senses, and to control the physical manifestations of fear. He was familiar with the effects and the side effects. He had never known there was a spiritual dimension to fear, however. And there was no drug capable of counteracting its corrosive effect. The hammering pulse, the sweaty palms, and shaking limbs that might give him away in a random street encounter with the Gestapo—these could all be controlled by the pharmacological wonders of implant technology.

But it was beyond the ability of science to ameliorate the psychic pain of having to confront evil cast in his own image. The Germany through which he moved was both familiar and utterly alien. Its people were Nazis, and they loved Adolf Hitler as much as they feared his agents. He had seen the same thing in the next century in what had been North Korea, a sort of national Stockholm syndrome, where the hostage nation had come to love its captor.

His equipment was buried beneath his skin, some of it standard issue from the Deutsche Marine, some of it implanted when he began his two-year secondment to the U.S. Navy, and some of it new, fitted in Scotland at Kinlochmoidart. As he sat, drinking a foul-tasting ersatz kaffee across the square from his target, a biolocater and feedback chip in his neck maintained a constant link with one of the Trident’s high-orbit geostationary drones.

Müller observed the café without watching. He listened to the conversations without hearing. He had learned to filter out the useless residue of everyday life. He was a scanner, sweeping his immediate surrounds for mission-critical data, and not much else.