Final impact

Doyle sized him up as though he were still a small-time grifter trying to pass a rubber check.

“That it?” he asked.

“That’s it,” said Slim Jim.

“Okay then, I’ll tell him. Can I get you later today, if he’s got an answer?”

Slim Jim shook his head. “Nope,” he said. “I’m going for a surf with a buddy. You can call Maria O’Brien and tell her.”

17

D-DAY + 32. 4 JUNE 1944. 0852 HOURS.

BERLIN.

He might have expected more panic. The fact that most Berliners appeared to be going about their business may have spoken to something commendable in the German spirit.

On the other hand, Ambassador Oshima thought it more likely that they simply didn’t know what had happened. Propaganda Minister Gцbbels kept a very tight rein.

All that Oshima had publicly read or heard about the fighting in the east was that a poorly coordinated sneak attack on a Wehrmacht regiment at the edge of the Demilitarized Zone had been repulsed, with heavy enemy casualties. Some German newspapers were even speculating that the Ukrainian nationalists might be responsible. There were at least three feuding militias in the Ukraine, and they all had clashed with both Communist and German forces in the last year.

But Oshima knew better.

The Reich’s ruling elite was still stunned by the blow Stalin had delivered. They hadn’t yet settled upon a response, so no compelling story had been invented to explain away this strategic reversal. As he motored down the Unter den Linden on his way to meet with Himmler, he could not rid himself of the images he had seen of the city of Berlin, ravaged by the Red Army.

He well remembered the Nanking Incident, and it took little effort to imagine the same sort of thing played out here, or at home, once the Bolshevik hordes had arrived at the gates. The ambassador maintained an outward faзade of calm, but unless he had good news to send back to Tokyo, he feared what the next few months might bring.

The Red Army would pay a heavy toll for every inch of Japanese soil they defiled, but unlike the blissfully ignorant Berliners, he had seen the raw reports and even some video coverage of the new Eastern Front, and he harbored no misconceptions about the enemy they faced. The Communists had been busy, and most shockingly they had obviously gained access to Emergence technology. They seemed almost as well equipped as the Americans and British, and their armies were much larger. The only way they could be stopped was with an atomic bomb. He hoped Himmler might have word of a breakthrough on that score, because to date the Axis had enjoyed very little success in their atomic endeavors.

As the limousine pulled up at an intersection near the Brandenburg Gate, Oshima watched a couple of SS officers browbeating a fat civilian. It wasn’t immediately apparent what crime he had committed, and of course it was entirely possible that the man was only guilty of attracting their attention in the first place. As much as Reichsfuhrer Himmler had been a good ally to Imperial Japan, delivering on all of his promises to the letter, the sight of the two black-clad Nazis bullying the terrified Berliner reminded Oshima that his “allies” would just as soon treat him as the subhuman they thought him to be. And that if they did prevail against the Allies and the Communists, their very nature would lead them to seek dominion over the emperor’s realm, as well.

A part of him had suspected Himmler of hiding progress on the atomic bomb because he wanted the weapon exclusively for the Reich. But now, with Germany caught between two formidable enemies, it seemed more likely that the Reichsfuhrer’s protests and lamentations were genuine. If Hitler had possessed the superweapon, he surely would have used it on Zhukov and Konev. Instead, everything that Oshima heard about the Soviet front led him to believe that an epic disaster was in the making.

His driver apologized for the delay in getting to the Wilhelmstrasse for Oshima’s meeting. The RAF had bombed the city the previous night for the first time in weeks, and the roads were still affected, even though the brunt of the raid had fallen a few miles away. A stray stick of bombs had landed on the transport hub of Potsdamer Platz, throwing the central traffic grid into chaos.

Oshima said nothing. He was a world away, in the old wooden streets of Tokyo, remembering his life before this madness. He doubted he would ever see home again.

That last time he had been aboveground for any length of time it was…