Designated Targets

The screens ran video coverage and data dumps received from 21C assets positioned all over the local theater—vision recorded by a marine recon squad probing the Japanese garrison at Mackay, transcripts of signal intercepts sucked up by the AWACS birds, drone coverage of the frontline battles north of the city, even media packages from embedded journalists like Julia Duffy. Rachel hadn’t spoken to the reporter since they’d briefly worked together on the Clinton after the Transition, but she followed Julia’s stories whenever she could, and had privately cheered her on as she elbowed her way into the front rank of local war correspondents. She was as big a name as Ernie Pyle now. Somewhere behind the dozens of open windows, Julia’s footage of the ’temp marine sergeant who’d turned the ambush earlier that day was running in a silent loop. Rachel had downloaded the feed from the local net as soon as a digital spyder alerted her that the reporter had filed. Nobody was watching now, however.

Instead, all three officers were concentrating on a data burst from the Havoc. The submarine was patrolling just south of the Whitsunday passage, blocking all attempts by the Japanese to land reinforcements closer to Homma. The small convoy of troopships and destroyers was cautiously beating south in a large window on the central flatscreen.

Rachel pulled in close on the largest of the transports, a captured tourist liner by the look of her. “It still doesn’t seem right to me,” she said. “There’s something, I dunno . . . It just doesn’t feel right. C’mon, you guys are the spooks. Do something spooky.”

Major Brennan, the amiable American, just shrugged. “None of it makes much sense, Commander. The whole campaign is like the charge of the Light Brigade. They shouldn’t have done it. They took New Guinea by balls, and surprise, and sheer weight of numbers. And even then, it cost them badly. They needed at least twenty divisions to take Australia, not the seven they sent. They needed air dominance, which they don’t have. They needed secure supply lines, which they don’t have. They can’t move without you guys spotting them. They can’t reinforce the forces they did get ashore. It’s not rational. None of it looks right.”

Captain Taylor, the Kiwi, leaned forward to squint at the screen. “I would have said it was a diversion. Like the Aleutians were supposed to be for Midway. But they’ve been here for weeks, and nothing else has happened. They’re just running their heads into a brick wall.”

Rachel still wasn’t satisfied. She pulled the keyboard over and typed quickly for a few seconds. “I’m going to ask for a tighter frame on the big troop transport,” she said. Her request flickered along fiber-optic cables scavenged from her old ship, the Moreton Bay, up to a dish on the roof of the building, which pulsed the signal into the ether. It was picked up by an AWACS flight, which relayed it to a communications drone. From there it traveled to the Havoc.

A few seconds later, a new control panel opened up, and Nguyen tapped out another set of commands. A Big Eye surveillance drone, keeping station at seventy thousand feet above the Whitsunday passage, began its descent to ten thousand feet. Even at that height, it remained invisible to the ships below. Tiny motors whirred, lenses refocused, and new data streamed back via the relay links to Brisbane.

Nguyen pulled in tight on the deck of the ship, where hundreds of men performed an exercise routine. But despite the activity, they appeared listless. “Not exactly ripping it up, are they?” she said.

“It’s probably hot,” offered Brennan.

“What about these guys?” Nguyen asked, pointing at four clusters of Japanese soldiers who weren’t doing anything. They just seemed to be watching over the other men.

She refocused again, bringing them to a height of fifty meters virtual above the deck of the ship. “They look like guards to me. They’re carrying rifles with bayonets fixed. They never take their eyes off the men exercising on deck, so they can’t be lookouts. Take a look at the prisoners, if that’s what they are. They look Chinese to you?”

She didn’t insult the men by making the obvious joke about them thinking all Asians looked alike. Brennan and Taylor had both spent years working in the Far East before the war, and in the time that she’d worked with them, they’d never once given her reason to think of them as anything other than the most broad-minded of souls. It made her sort of ashamed of her own assumptions. She’d wrongly figured that everyone she met here would be dumb-arse bigots. It turned out her biggest problem with Brennan was her not sharing his encyclopedic knowledge of the puppet emperors of French Indochina. It had been his specialty as a visiting fellow at Poitiers University before the war.