Designated Targets

Three companies of SS Sonderaktiontruppe had been sheltering in the small forest, which was now just a smoking mound of shattered splinters, drifting leaves, and—he supposed—tiny bite-sized pieces of Aryan supermen.

HMS TRIDENT, THE ENGLISH CHANNEL

There was no audio track, of course, for which Halabi was quietly grateful. Five or six hundred men being turned to offal was unlikely to make for easy listening. The top-down view, from a virtual height of five hundred meters, was more than graphic enough. The Cyclones began to turn for home. As if in counterpoint to silent carnage, the ship’s CIWS fired again, a couple of long, growling bursts.

“Metal Storm down to three-point-nine percent, Captain.”

“Thank you, Ms. Morgan. Lieutenant Davis, how’s our air cover?”

“Changing over now, Captain. But Squadron Leader Zumbach’s men are refusing to withdraw. They’re staying until they run out of fuel. One of them has just tried to ram a One-oh-nine.”

Halabi rolled her eyes skyward, but could see only ducts, composite paneling, and fiber-optic cable. She could still wonder at what it must be like up there, in primitive planes that probably wouldn’t even get a safety clearance in her day. If this were a movie or a cheap, particularly stupid novel, it was the point at which she would call up Jan Zumbach and order him to get his crazy-arse Poles back to base.

But the readout on her personal display told her that she would soon be completely vulnerable to the scores of Luftwaffe planes that continued to press in on her, no matter what losses they sustained.

Metal Storm barked twice more.

“Very good, Ms. Davis,” said Captain Halabi.

The main display reformatted as the volley of missiles closed with their prey. One giant window was filled with the image of the Tirptiz; two smaller pop-ups, with the pocket battleships Admiral Scheer and Lützow. Fighter escorts buzzed around them like insects, and a dozen smaller vessels raced along in attendance.

“What on earth are they doing, Marc?” Halabi asked as the entire battle group began to swing around.

Her intelligence boss, Lieutenant Commander Howard, leaned forward, as if to study the screen more closely. “I—I think they’re coming around to present a broadside, Skipper?”

“To the missiles?”

“I think so. They’ve probably had radio reports, by now.”

He called out across the CIC to the sigint station. “Do we have any breakdown of the radio traffic to the Tirpitz?”

“Working on it now, sir,” replied a striking black woman with a thick Glaswegian accent.

“They’re firing blind,” said Halabi, and it seemed as if every gun on the port side of the Tirpitz and her escorts opened up. The missiles were still a hundred miles away, but moving so swiftly that they would close the distance to impact in less than one minute.

As she watched, the fighter escorts broke away and began to race into the west, sparkling points of light on their wings indicating that they, too, were attempting to throw a wall of lead into the path of her missiles.

“Weapons. What chance do they have of intercepting our—?”

“Splash one already, Captain. Attack reformatting.”

One of the missiles had been destroyed when it flew into a cloud of shrapnel thrown out by the massive main guns of the Tirpitz, which was firing time-fused shells. With the missiles moving at hypersonic speed, there was nothing she could do. Everything happened so quickly that only the Combat Intelligence had time to respond, as another two precious missiles died in midair.

The CI flashed out instructions to the surviving weapons, reassigning one each to the German capital ships. The maces dipped down to wave height and separated. Before Halabi could say another word, could draw breath, or even feel her next heartbeat, three silent white blooms of light consumed the ironclads. The missiles were carrying subfusion plasma-yield warheads that detonated like miniature supernovae deep inside their targets.

Admiral Scheer and Lützow exploded and broke up an instant later. Halabi’s stomach did a slow backflip as she watched the Tirpitz emerge from the plasma effect. The mace had done a huge amount of damage amidships, but the great warship continued on as though shrugging off a peashooter.

“Damn,” she cursed, just as the bow of the Tirpitz suddenly bent back on itself and began to dig into the North Sea like a plow.

A few of the CIC crew swore at the amazing sight, and then it was gone. A rapid series of secondary explosions ripped her apart, destroying a couple of escorts that had raced in to help.

“Message to the Admiralty, Ms. Davis. All targets serviced. No survivors anticipated.”

“Aye, Captain. Allied armored units are moving to encircle the main German airborne assault at Wickham Market, ma’am, and Lieutenant Hay reports that Major Windsor’s troops have secured the airfield at Alresford.”

“Thank you, Comms.”