Weapons of choice

Jane Willet was obviously shocked by the news, but Judge noticed that neither MacArthur nor Prince Harry reacted as sharply as he might have expected. Then he noticed the look on MacArthur's face. His heart, already thudding from the news out of Pearl, lurched again. Something else must have happened.

"It's the Nuku," said Harry. "She's turned up, and the Japs have got her."

29

PARLIAMENT HOUSE, CANBERRA, AUSTRALIA, 2032 HOURS, 9 JUNE 1942

There were few wartime friendships more unusual than that between General Douglas MacArthur and the Australian prime minister, John Curtin. Watching the two men together, Paul Robertson could never quite shake himself of the feeling that theirs was a partnership doomed to succeed.

MacArthur was an imperial figure, an overweening egotist, a favorite of the far right in America and a demonic character in the imagination of the left for his role in using troops to smash a demonstration by unemployed veterans and their families in Washington during the Great Depression.

Curtin was a labor organizer and left-wing politician who'd been jailed for opposing conscription during the Great War. Much less a firebrand than a man of unassuming stillness and modesty, he provided MacArthur with the one thing the general could never hope for at home, unconditional support and dependence.

Robertson, a well-traveled banker who'd given up a lucrative career to serve as Curtin's principal private adviser, shook hands with MacArthur in the PM's cramped parliamentary office before taking one of the two seats in front of Curtin's desk. MacArthur, carrying one of those fantastic machines they called a "slate," dropped into the other.

Prime Minister Curtin looked to be as intrigued by the device as Robertson. It was the first time either of them had encountered direct evidence of the "Arrivals."

"It's a shame those officers couldn't have come with you, General," said Curtin. "I would have liked to have met them, particularly the local lass."

MacArthur, holding the data slate like a royal flush in the last round of a poker tournament, brushed the gray casing and said, "Couldn't be helped, Prime Minister. As I said in the cable, there've been developments. They've had to get back to Pearl."

"But we can expect them back soon, can't we?" said Curtin. "Yamamoto is still on the loose, and there's no American fleet to stand between him and us, now. I'd feel a lot better with one of those rocket ships here. Especially an Australian one."

His voice betrayed a deep anxiety. He'd been catching hell from Churchill over his decision to bring home two battle-proven Australian divisions, as insurance against the threat of a Japanese invasion. The British wanted to send them to Burma, of all places!

Robertson knew the PM had suffered terribly for the decision, harangued by London and prodded by Washington to do as they wanted, not as he thought best. And when he'd faced down the demands from Churchill, there was the even greater stress of actually waiting for thousands of Australian troops to make it home across waters infested with U-boats and raiders and Japanese carriers. Robertson had more than once found the PM alone in this office, doubled over in pain. It was as if the responsibility of leading the country through its darkest hour was eating him from the inside out.

MacArthur leaned forward and rapped the desk with his fist.

"I'm going to move Heaven and earth to get those forces sent here as quickly as possible, Prime Minister. It would help if you could cable the president in support. After all, there are some Australian units attached to this Kolhammer's force. They should be here in this theater, placed under my command."

Robertson suppressed a smile at MacArthur's choice of words. He composed a suitably neutral facade before interrupting.

"These developments you mentioned, General MacArthur, I take it you mean the report out of New Guinea?"

The American's features clouded over momentarily. He fidgeted with the device. After a few tries he got the screen to light up and MacArthur handed the slate across to Curtin. Robertson could see there was some sort of picture displayed on the glowing face of the machine. It was a dark, midwinter's day outside, and when lit the slate was bright enough to throw the PM's shadow up the wall.

"That's a photograph taken by a long-range patrol, operating in the Saruwaged Ranges of New Guinea," explained the general. "Commander Judge was kind enough to transfer it to this machine for me before he left. We would have dismissed it as a fake a month ago. But given what's happened, I think we have to take it seriously."

Robertson watched the prime minister's face as Curtin examined the picture. He frowned like a man confronted by an intricate puzzle. After a few seconds his eyes opened wider and he sat bolt upright.

"Is that a…?"

But words failed him.