Designated Targets

He fired twice into the backrest, knocking the man to the floor, where the laser designator found him and marked a spot in the center of his body mass. But there was no need. The rounds had begun to unfurl as soon as they hit the chair, but they passed through with enough integrity and velocity to turn his chest into a sucking crater. He was already dead.

As the odds improved, he began to wonder if he might somehow survive. Kill them all, destroy the missiles, and become a hero. He died with that happy thought on his mind.

Hidaka emptied the entire clip of the Luger into the prostrate form of Sub-Lieutenant Danton. The body jumped with each impact, blood already leaking from the first shots he’d pumped into the treacherous dog.

He was speechless with rage that the Germans could have let yet another conspirator slip past their guard. After all of the trouble they’d had with saboteurs and turncoats among the original crew. They should not have been blinded by the familiar extremism of Le Roux. These people weren’t to be trusted.

He stumbled against the body of the corpulent chief petty officer. Everything above his nose was gone, as though a shark had clamped its jaws around the top of his head and ripped it away.

Hidaka noticed that he was shaking. Shrugging it off, he kicked Danton’s body, but there was no life in there. Only two others had survived in the room, both of them Indonesians who had dived under their consoles. He felt like shooting them, as well, but controlled the urge.

Sparks and flames crackled around him from damaged equipment. In just a few seconds the boy had—

Hidaka cursed and spun around, almost slipping in the fluids that were pooling beneath his boots.

He rushed back to the station where Danton had been working, but the dense mosaic of windows and boxes on the screen meant nothing to him. He yelled at the Indonesians, ordering them to help him, but they were both in shock, too terrified to be of any help.

His heart pounding, he turned instead to the massive flat panel display. Sixteen windows displayed a feed from the nose-cams of the Laval cruise missiles as they screamed in toward Hawaii. The cobalt blur of open sea was the only image in twelve of the windows. But four showed land, buildings, aircraft, and vehicles all rushing to fill the screen.

Hidaka wanted to beat the display with his fists.

He couldn’t tell what was happening. It was all too quick.

24

OAHU, HAWAII

Rosanna Natoli had decided that it just wasn’t going to work out with Lieutenant Wally Curtis.

He was sweet and all. Just about the sweetest boy she’d ever met, in fact. But that’s exactly what he was—a boy, not a man. He didn’t excite, or intrigue, or even annoy her. He didn’t even try to seduce her. He’d moved firmly into the friend zone.

But he wasn’t very likely to understand that. They didn’t seem to have much of a friend zone here in 1942. Meeting somebody for a drink or a bite to eat seemed to imply you were going steady, or keeping company, or something. Her mother would have approved. She, however, wasn’t so sure.

She swirled the dregs of her beer and let the pang of homesickness slide on past. She desperately missed her mom, but she was never going to see her again, and unlike so many of the uptimers, she had a large established family she could run to, even if her great-aunts and -uncles and great-grandparents were younger than her now. And of course, there were her earlier forebears, most of whom she had known only through family legend. Here they were in their prime.

Her eyes began to well up as she thought of them. When she’d gone to New York to visit, they’d practically smothered her with their crazy love. She’d always thought of her mom and dad as freakazoid ethnic wannabes, what with all of the public hugging and kissing and haranguing. Turns out, she hadn’t known the half of it.

At the moment, she and Curtis were perched at a quiet bar on Diamond Head Road, overlooking the beach, a few miles from Pearl. It wasn’t a twenty-first joint, so it remained segregated. But the management had made a few half-assed attempts at drawing some customers from the Clinton’s battle group. The jukebox had been restocked with an MOR selection of “golden newbies,” as the hits of the future were known. Buffalo wings, satay sticks, and curly fries had crept onto the menu, but Rosanna didn’t recognize them when they appeared with her beer.

The beer was a giveaway, too. She didn’t drink it much, preferring a dry Californian white if she could get one, but that wasn’t the sort of thing they stocked in a joint like this.

The bar was about half-full, mostly with off-duty military types. She was one of the few women, and certainly the only civilian woman in the place. Her white cotton pants, linen shirt, and fuck-me boots weren’t endearing her to her fellow femmes, either. She could sympathize with them, having to wear those dowdy ’temp uniforms, but it was hardly her fault.