Axis of Evil

Chapter Thirty-Five: Return to Salvation

Salvation

Mississippi, America

6^th June 1941

It was, without a doubt, the most dangerous and unpleasant weapon the United States Marine Corps had ever invented. It had been sheer luck that Marine Lieutenant Jones Robinson had even had a couple of canisters, they were normally kept under strict security, and with good reason. The Firelighter made the standard napalm or FAE bomb looked like a minor nuisance.

From his hiding place, Robinson gazed down at Salvation. The town was silent in the darkness; the black section of the town a burnt-out wreck. The newspapers had shrieked and moaned about the ‘black outrages,’ as Robinson had expected, but they had remained silent on the fate of the black citizens, who had been mowed down in the streets. It was as bad as the Soviet excuses for the invasion of Finland; how could unarmed and outnumbered blacks have committed the atrocities they had been accursed of, and then lynched without a chance to defend themselves.

Robinson sighed. This was the south, where the black man was a distrusted semi-animal in the eyes of the rich men who led the state, and the absolute bottom of the pole for the poor whites, who were at the mercy of the rich men and needed someone else to look down upon. Few of them had the courage to confront their beliefs; it was so much easier to hate and fear.

“Tell me, who do you think God punished?” Robinson asked himself silently, watching the town grimly. Weather prediction wasn’t as advanced as it had been in 2015, of course, but the British had made progress… and there was a surprisingly large amount of data in the files in Britain. There would be a strong northern wind tonight, according to the files, even though small changes had been observed already, mainly in the Balkans.

“Must have been the nuke,” Robinson muttered absently, before considering the quote again. The town in the story had lynched a black man and a white woman for falling in love… and then the town had been hit with a famine that had killed them all. It had been quite popular among children, but he doubted that they had understood the real message. What goes around… goes around… and bites you on the behind.

His grandpa had wanted to come along, along with some of the deserters from the Army, but he’d refused them. Their training was coming along nicely, but their stealth still left something to be desired. They would be hell on wheels when it came to fighting what he refused to admit was a terrorist war, but if they ever had to fight a stand-up battle, they would be in serious trouble. Not unlike the Jihadis, they thought of weapons as things that somehow made a man dangerous… and knew very little of strategy or tactics.

Worst of all, at least in his point of view, they were very eager to hunt down and hurt the people who’d hurt them. He didn’t blame them; it had been the constant barrage of racial harassment that had been aimed at Ambassador King that had started them along their dangerous course, but they had to be disciplined. When they finally achieved their political aims, they had to put down their weapons – although not to be disarmed, of course – and end the fight gracefully. Backing the enemy into a corner would only make the fight worse – and tear America apart.

How did I end up here? Robinson asked himself, as the wind finally changed, blowing north. Carefully, he set up the Firelighter, and then checked his body armour. If something went wrong, it would be his only protection. As soon as he was finished, he activated the Firelighter, which began to spray a mist into the air, drifting over Salvation. He glanced down at his watch, cursing; there was equipment for detecting the spread of the gas, but it was all back in Britain, or in 2015. Everything depended on him getting his sums right.

Five minutes passed, and then the Firelighter canister finished its task. An invisible cloud of gas was drifting over Salvation, settling to the ground. Carefully, he picked up the detonator and hurled it towards Salvation, throwing himself down on the ground as he did. There was a clang as the detonator hit the ground… and then a roaring blast of fire scorched over his head. The wave of heat was so powerful that he could feel it even though the suit, lashing away at his body before it faded slightly.

He pulled himself to his feet and stared into a scene from hell. Salvation was burning; the town had been almost destroyed. Every house and shack was burning and the fires were spreading out. He scowled; it was hot and the fire would burn for a while before it went out. He watched for survivors, seeing no one, before turning his face to the east and walking away from Salvation.

I’m going to burn for this, he thought, and felt something inside him die.

Bracken Industries

Nr New York, USA

7^th June 1941

Cora walked into work with a new swing to her step, handling the day-to-day matters of the business with a new enthusiasm that came from having regular sex. Even without that, she would have been happier at Bracken; the business wasn’t having anything like the problems of some of the other companies around, now that the war had finally broken out.

She sat down at her desk and checked her inbox. Hoover – she muttered a curse as she read his message – had requested a meeting in surprisingly respectful terms. She made a note of his time, booked the meeting and forwarded the email to Oliver, who had gone on ahead. It still wasn’t socially acceptable for a mixed-race relationship to exist, even though everyone who wanted to had one.

She smiled; Oliver had quoted someone to explain the lack of consistency. “My position has been absolutely consistent,” he said wryly. “I’ve been a hypocrite all along.”

Quickly, she ran through the remainder of the emails. Several plant bosses, both black and white, were warning of increased racial friction in their plants, even though the firm had a strict policy of equal opportunity, if not equal outcome. It had been minor so far, they assured her, but one of them suggesting segregating the workforce. Ironically, that plant boss had been black.

Wonder what colour he is now, she thought angrily, and forced herself to keep working. She’d look at the Black Power site later. Instead, she brought up an email marked secret; the security patrol had found a whole collection of bugs, mainly 1941-constructed, within the various plants they owned.

“Fucking Hoover,” she muttered, and opened the Internet news site. It was based in Britain and reported mainly British news, but they were expanding into America and the Commonwealth. She smiled; the British had broken the back of the Japanese offensive and had forced them off Australia, into the sea. The bandwidth wouldn’t let her view the video, but she didn’t think that she wanted to see it all. The still pictures were bad enough.

“Anything interesting?” Oliver asked. Her heart quickened as he strode out of his office, dressed in a neat black power suit. Designers from all over America were working on copying the fashions of the future; she’d seen children wearing spacesuits from a television show called Star Trek. She smiled; copyright law was a real bitch when the designers hadn’t even been born yet.

“The Japanese have been forced off Australia,” she said, skimming the bill. “A handful of Southern Governors have called for Martial Law to be declared in the south, following the destruction of a town called Salvation.” She made a face. “There has been more lynching and shooting in the south.”

“That’s bad,” Oliver said. “I got the email about some of the plant bosses.” He scowled. “We’re not going to segregate anyone,” he said. “Everything that happens in the plant is recorded; if someone does try to cause trouble they’re out the door.”

“Thanks,” Cora said wryly.

“I didn’t do it for you,” Oliver said, gently squeezing her shoulder. “What do you think of life in the estate?”

“It’s great, much nicer than my former flat,” Cora said, giving him a radiant smile. “And it has other benefits as well.”

“Like me,” Oliver said wryly. He chuckled. “Hoover is coming again, I see.”

Cora scowled. “I’m afraid so,” she said. “What does he want from you?”

“I have no idea,” Oliver said. It was one of the few things he refused to discuss with her. “Anyway, I’m off to read everyone the riot act; chat later.”

“See you later,” Cora called after him, and returned to the computer. She clicked on the link for Black Power and read the news release grimly; Salvation had been destroyed as punishment for lynching the entire black community. The news release went on and on, warning the entire south that further repression would only result in more violence. It said nothing about the bombs in Detroit, but she knew that Hoover had claimed that ‘communist crypto-fascist subversives’ had planted the bomb, before arresting much of the black community nearby. The jails were suddenly overflowing; he’d had to release most of them hours later, simply for lack of space. Nearly a third of the South was black, she knew, and she was certain that they could not all be kept down, even by Hoover.

The question of what Hoover wanted bothered Jim Oliver though his meeting with the five plant bosses, laying down the law on race relations. Like many who’d lived through the War on Terror, Oliver had very little patience for concepts like multiculturalism, but the America of 1941 had few different black cultures. The entire crisis could be headed off at the pass… if everyone would take a few breaths and be reasonable.

“A black man has equal potential to a white man,” he snapped to the gathering. “We are not in the business of using colour as a way of choosing who advances and who doesn’t – merit alone determines advancement. If a black man is better at the job, he will advance; if a white man is better, he will advance!” He glared down at them. “Our factories provide important materials for the war effort,” he said, “which my country and yours needs desperately.”

He tapped the pictures on the walls. “We are not in the business of halting work for anything,” he said. “I do not care what racial attitudes you hold. I could hardly care less if you think that homosexuals” – which was ironic, given what everyone thought Hoover was – “are going to go to hell, or not. I… do… not… care!

“We are in the business of producing things we can sell for money,” he said. “If anyone jeopardises that by fighting with his co-workers, or by slighting co-workers, that person is out the door, understand?”

They nodded and filed out of his second office. He’d set it up on the plant so he’d have a place to work when he went there. It was nowhere near as nice as the one he had in the main building, even without Cora being there to divert his calls away from his thinking sessions.

The researchers entered the room and he gave them the same lecture. Their purpose was simple; they were in charge of developing new ways of using 2015 ideas for the company, ranging from the B-52 project to the microchip. They hadn’t caused any trouble, but he gave them the lecture anyway, before heading back to the main building.

He shook his head. His sources in Washington had suggested that something was up, that a group of politicians were planning something, but it was frighteningly elusive. If Hoover was involved, he was certain that he wasn’t going to enjoy it – even if Hoover did owe him a favour.

“Mr Hoover to see you, sir,” Cora’s voice said. He scowled to himself; he’d spent nearly two hours when he should have been working on the jet program worrying about the impending meeting. It was worse than knowing that you were going to get spanked in the evening.

No sign of Tolson? He thought, and tapped the switch. “Send him in please, Cora,” he said, “and hold my calls.”

Hoover entered, alone. The burly FBI director seemed more energized these days, which seemed like bad news; he was looking forward to something. He took a seat without being asked, tossing his fedora over onto the drinks trolley.

“Good afternoon, Mr Oliver,” Hoover said, leaning forward. “I read your latest statement to the Congress Subcommittee on Future Implications with some interest.”

“Yes, the torpedo problem does need to be fixed,” Oliver said. He lifted an eyebrow; Bracken was diversifying into arms, particularly the ones that needed improvement before the war expanded. “It was the cause of a lacklustre submarine campaign during the first round of World War Two.”

“You’d think that people would fix all the problems that happened in the future,” Hoover said absently. “Like all the subversives, like Henry Wallace, and those black subversives down south. Did you know that they are receiving help from the American Communist Party?”

“No, I didn’t,” Oliver said, who doubted it. “What sort of help?”

“Mainly funds and some propaganda,” Hoover said. “That crippled oaf in the White House refuses to stamp on them.”

Oliver shrugged. “I have to work on producing arms for the war,” he said. “I would like the entire problem to be deferred until the end of the war. Now that Oslo is being surrounded, the war is one step closer to being won.”

Hoover smiled. “I have a request to make of you,” he said. Oliver lifted an eyebrow. “I believe that you own the Quiet Room?”

Oliver blinked. The Quiet Room was a business meeting room, set on an estate not too far from New York. There was no secret about it; the building was protected from the most intrusive 2015 surveillance techniques and allowed businessmen to meet, confident of their absolute privacy. It wasn’t the sort of place he would have expected Hoover to approve of.

He said so. Hoover smiled. “I wish to hire it for the night,” he said. “The entire building.”

Oliver smiled. “I dare say that that can be arranged,” he said. “You could have just done that through their website.”

Hoover shook his head. “Yes, I could have, but then it wouldn’t have been a secret,” he said. “I want you to book the Quiet Room… and then I want you to attend the meeting.”

Oliver narrowed his eyes. “What is the meeting about?” He asked directly. “I’m a very busy man, you know.”

“I can promise you commercial opportunities beyond your wildest dreams,” Hoover said, almost whispering. “We’re going to retake our country.”

The Quiet Room was set in a quiet woodland estate, hidden neatly from view. Cars – some older American designs, some of the newer British designs – swept up to the house, disgorging their passengers and a small army of FBI agents, who took up guard positions and displaced the British staff of the house. Oliver had arranged overtime payments and a night on the town for the entire staff, just to reduce the number of possible eavesdroppers.

The recorder on his mobile phone buzzed once as the security fields jammed it up, inserting white noise into its receptors. All ingoing and outgoing signals were jammed, preventing anyone from calling for assistance or relaying a signal out to a watching spy team. Inside, the rooms were all tastefully decorated, including some artwork that would be very valuable indeed in sixty years.

Long-term investment, Oliver thought, and smiled. There were entire warehouses of such materials, collected by him and a handful of British art collectors.

“Ah, Mr Oliver,” a man said. It took Oliver a moment to recognise him as Field Marshal Douglas MacArthur, the disgraced military commander. He spoke in a booming voice that admitted no defeat. “How nice to see you here.”

“Thank you,” Oliver said, wondering what sort of small talk he could make. MacArthur solved the problem by wandering off and shaking hands with another newcomer, Congressman Martin Dies, founder and chairman of the House Committee on Un-American Activities, the infamous HUAC. Oliver blinked; Congressman Dies had refused to pursue the Ku Klux Klan, despite more than enough evidence of its ‘un-American’ nature.

Oliver stepped into the main meeting room and took a seat, counting heads and making mental notes. Apart from Hoover, there were other Congressmen and Senators, a couple of Southern Governors, a handful of figures that seemed to be military… and Douglas MacArthur. All were white, all were clearly rich and influential; he spotted several industrialists in the crowd. He was on friendly terms with a few of them.

“Thank you all for coming,” Hoover said. His voice instantly silenced the room. “Our nation is under threat, from without and within. From the outside, we stamp over Norway while our so-called ally, Britain, snatches the most valuable bits of land, and from the inside, a communist-dominated plot to unleash race war upon us all.

“I have it on good authority that there are communist agents close to the President, even in Congress,” Hoover thundered. “Henry Wallace, new decryption methods make clear, is a communist agent! The men he plans to appoint to the Cabinet, should he become President, Laurence Duggan and Harry Dexter White, are known traitors feeding information to Moscow! Look; did Wallace not take the lead in demanding that President Roosevelt recall the patriot Field Marshal Douglas MacArthur?”

Hoover glared around the room. “The history files make it clear that President Roosevelt ordered Field Marshal MacArthur out of the Philippines, but who mentions that? What sort of a soldier refuses to obey orders?” There were some chuckles. “Throughout our country, strong action is required… and we intend to take it!”

Oliver shivered as he looked around the room. Many of the movers and shakers in America were seated in the room, including the Speaker of the House of Representatives, William Brockman Bankhead. Oliver winced; Bankhead was third in line to the Presidency… if something happened to Roosevelt and Truman.

“We have no role in the war,” MacArthur said. “The war could be ended in a week if the British unleashed their hell-weapons. Why haven’t they? They want us to bleed for them, while they save their strength!”

“We have to return to isolation and put our own house in order,” Bankhead said. “Naturally, we expect your support for this.”

There was a long discussion. Oliver listened carefully without saying anything, except when an industrialist asked what he was doing in the room. Hoover’s mischievous explanation – that the British government would want his head on a platter if certain matters became public – settled some nerves. They actually believed that they could make a coup succeed!

Oliver considered some of the people in the room and swore. Given some luck and determined leadership, they might just succeed. Hoover was thinking several steps ahead; the British might just cut off technology imports if America left the war, but if Oliver was there to help them, America would catch up quite quickly.

Holy shit, he thought grimly, as the discussion went on and on. What the hell do I do now?