Axis of Evil

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Terror in New York City

RAF Oakhanger

Hampshire, United Kingdom

22^nd June 1941

“Dear holy shit!”

It wasn’t the normal way to make reports to a superior officer, but Colonel Gardner let it past; only one thing set off alarms like that. RAF Oakhanger, one of the RAF’s satellite communications facilities, had several missions, but the most important was watching for nuclear detonations. Gardner remembered seeing the nuclear blast that had gone off near Panama… and now they had to watch for a Nazi or Soviet nuclear test.

“I confirm NUDET, repeat NUDET,” Captain Bacon snapped. Gardner hit the emergency button out of sheer habit; there was no need to institute the procedures prepared for nuclear war when a growing number of states possessed nuclear warheads and ballistic missiles.

“Location?” He asked, checking the threat boards. Everything was clear; neither GCHQ or MI6 had reported any evidence that any of the Axis powers – or the Americans, for that matter, were preparing to test a device. “Where is it?”

“New York City,” Bacon said. His voice was stunned. “It’s… I’m not sure what it is. The blast wasn’t hot enough to be nuclear, but spectroscopic analysis indicates some radioactivity within the blast, spreading out over New York.”

“Map display,” Gardner ordered, and cursed. The spreading blast would make 9/11 seem like nothing. He cursed again; the map was from 2015, not 1941. The maps they needed didn’t even exist.

“It’s a dirty bomb, sir,” Bacon said. “I don’t think there’ll be enough radioactivity for them to be really worried about it, but the blast was awesome. Most of Manhattan must be in ruins.”

The phone rang. Gardner listened quickly. “Yes, sir,” he said finally. “The weapon was a dirty bomb, not a conventional nuclear weapon. Yes, sir, we’ll stand down from red alert now.”

He put the phone down. “The Government is going to offer assistance now,” he said. “As yet, they don’t know who to point the finger at, but there’s only one main suspect.” He scowled. “Transfer all our readings from the satellites into disc, so we can forward them to the Government and the investigation team.”

“Yes, sir,” Bacon said. “Sir… are they going to nuke the Germans again?”

“I have no idea,” Gardner said. “I imagine that they’ll make their decision quickly.”

New York, USA

22^nd June 1941

Sergeant Tom Williams, New York Police Department, gazed out at a scene from hell. The entire harbour complex was burning; fires were spreading all over Manhattan Island and Jersey City. Tower blocks were burning brightly, spreading further horror across the scene; the smoke was choking people as they tried to flee.

“Get out of here,” he shouted at a group of would-be looters. He lifted his pistol, grimly prepared to shoot them if he had to, but they fled, heading away from the fires. He checked his radio; there was still no signal. The shockwaves had devastated the Island, and God only knew when it would be repaired.

An explosion detonated as the fires reached something explosive. The waves of heat increased, pushing him back as his radio finally started to work. He cursed the new technology, even as he gabbled out a report, asking desperately what had happened.

“We have to get everyone out of the city,” the superintendent said. “Organise rescue efforts as best as you can.”

He sounded panicky. Williams guessed that his boss had been caught in the blasts, whatever they were. He headed towards the nearest group of people, wandering around stunned, and started to issue orders, forging them into an impromptu rescue group. The group worked for hours, trying to dig people out of the rubble, even as the fires continued to rage out of control.

He shuddered. Whatever had happened was…

“Get the filthy nigger,” someone shouted. “He caused the blast.”

Williams glanced around sharply; a group of white men was chasing an older black man, who was panting desperately from too much smoke inhalation. As he watched, the man collapsed on the ground and the would-be lynchers gathered around him, kicking at his body.

“Stop that,” Williams bellowed. “Help the wounded.”

“Fuck you,” one of the men shouted. “Kill the nigger-lover!”

Williams lifted his pistol and the man laughed. Williams never saw the man lifting a second pistol… until the bullet slashed through his head and darkness took him forever.

The White House

Washington DC, USA

22^nd June 1941

“This is the work of subversive communists,” Hoover bellowed. “Who else, but they would have the idea of using a radiological weapon?”

Ambassador King watched Roosevelt with concern. The satellite pictures of the devastation, and the British news crew that had flown in via helicopter, were having an affect on the President, making him shake in his wheelchair. He didn’t look good at all.

“Was it a nuclear weapon?” Truman asked, watching Hoover watching Roosevelt. “Did the Germans deploy a nuclear weapon?”

Colonel Palter shook his head grimly. “No, sir,” he said. “It’s a dirty bomb, a weapon designed to toss some radioactive material into the air in tiny dust specs, contaminating a vast area. We’re awaiting the results of Geiger Counters now – we flew some in from General Groves – but I don’t think that it was very radioactive at all.”

“That blast was not minor,” Hoover snapped. “Have you any sense of proportion, man?”

“They stuffed the SS Moskva with explosives,” Palter said. “Sir, if it had been a nuclear bomb, the entire region for five miles around would have been devastated.”

Hoover sniffed. “And are you sure that the British were telling the truth?” He asked. “They could have just done it themselves – hell, why didn’t they stop the ship in mid-Atlantic?”

“Because of our stupid neutrality laws,” Truman said. “The Soviet Union has clearly launched an attack against us. New York was an important harbour for us; even if the contamination was non-existent we’ll still have to repair the facilities. Now that the news reporters are reporting on radiation, with all the scare stories in the papers, we’ll never get anyone to work there.”

“We have to declare a state of emergency,” Hoover said. “Sir, the Soviet Union has launched a sneak attack against us. We have to declare war and we have to retaliate.”

Roosevelt looked up tiredly. “We have to minister to our people, Edger,” he said. “I will speak to the nation in a few hours, asking people to help those in New York. Until then, take no action that will only make matters worse.”

Hoover gaped at him. “You don’t want to round up the communist sympathisers?” He demanded. “Mr president…”

Roosevelt spoke with great force. “That will be enough, Edger,” he snapped. “You may leave.”

Hoover turned on his feet and stormed out of the room. King and Truman exchanged glances as Hoover left, both men sharing the same thought. Uh-oh.

The communicator was sub-vocal only, inaudible to anyone who wasn’t wearing a communicator, and the microphone could pick up his throat movements, but King would have felt safer back at the Future Embassy. The White House had been swept of Hoover’s bugs – and they still didn’t know where they’d come from – but the sense of… imminence was overpowering.

“We have a number of trucks moving near FBI headquarters,” one of his men reported. “I’m not sure what they’re doing.”

“Moving people around,” King said wryly. “It seems as if its about to hit the fan, right?”

“Yes, sir,” Palter said. “Do you want me to pick up Truman?”

“Yes, please,” King said. “We have to keep him safe, at all costs.”

Washington DC, USA

23^rd June 1941

“Today, we take back our country,” General MacArthur snapped, as the massed team leaders listened to the general. “No more will we slip towards the evils of nigger communism! No more will we let them ruin our nation! Today, we’ll throw out the nigger-lovers and the communists from the White House and the Government!”

Sheriff Jefferson Buckley listened with cold delight. He had been the only survivor of Salvation, escaping because of his pursuit of a criminal away from the town. The explosion that had destroyed the town, burnt it down to the ground, had been visible for miles away.

“You all have your tasks,” MacArthur said. “Team one” – he nodded in Buckley’s direction – “you are charged with getting the president away from his evil advisors. The other teams will purge the communists, the nigger unions and the other parasites upon our great nation. God bless America!”

“God bless America,” they shouted back, lifting their weapons. Buckley studied his weapon with considerable interest; the AK-47 was very different to his rifle he’d used back during the… no! His mind refused to consider it. The weapon was lethal, far more dangerous than any other weapon he’d ever seen, and he smiled.

“After New York, the niggers will get back in their place or die,” he muttered, as the teams raced out to their trucks. The teams were hidden in a warehouse on the outskirts of Washington; it was just a short drive to the White House. Then…

“You deserve it,” he muttered, thinking of Roosevelt. The man had done a lot of good, but only at the price of letting the niggers think that they could be good Americans. When they had finally tried to rise above their station, had Roosevelt done anything? No – the President had listened to his black advisor and allowed the niggers to run rampant.

“Take us out,” he ordered. As one of the few soldiers with combat experience – back in the Great War – Buckley had been placed in charge of one aspect of the mission. He knew why; if anything went wrong, it would be blamed on him, rather than on MacArthur, a good American who’d crushed rioters in the streets.

“We’ll be there in no time,” his driver said. The entire convoy had military plates, which should allow it to pass through any checkpoints that might have been set up. In all the confusion following New York, he doubted that anyone would be thinking about stopping military vehicles.

“Good,” he muttered back, checking his weapon. The plan was simple; shoot down the Secret Service agents if they refused to surrender, surround the White House and search the place from top to bottom. Everyone inside was to be arrested and held prisoner without any communications until after events had settled down.

“Nearly there,” the driver said. “Everyone’s ready, sir.”

“Good,” Buckley said. “Let’s get this over with and then we can all go home.”

Marine Lieutenant Bosco had taken up position near the White House, lying on a roof of a building that felt very cold, even with the warm day. One advantage the counter-plotters had; they could use radio bursts without having to worry about detection.

He watched grimly as a line of trucks drove up towards the White House. They were basic trucks, but they wore army plates. Rumour had it that the local police had been bought off, but if the men were armed with the missing AK-47s, the local police would be outgunned anyway – badly.

“They’re here,” he muttered into his radio. There was no reply, as per procedure, but he would have been glad of a reply, just to convince him that he wasn’t alone. He felt dreadfully alone, both with the tiny number of real Marines in America – and being positioned in a very vulnerable position.

“I’ve got to stop volunteering for things,” he muttered to himself. “Colonel, I count nine trucks and at least two hundred men.”

“Noted,” Palter’s voice said. “Continue to observe.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, watching as the men spread out around the White House. He shuddered; like all who’d spent time on the Presidential Protection Detail, he’d been through endless wargames and exercises – and watching a real coup happen was disconcerting.

The bullet cracked against the side of the car, glinting off the bullet-proof window. Cursing, Colonel Palter jammed on the accelerator, running away from the ambush force. Seventeen men, armed with pistols and rifles, trying to kill the Vice-President.

“I’m too old for this,” he screamed, as he swung the car into a tight turn. He silently blessed the foresight – and the KKK attempts to kill the Ambassador – that had led them to purchase a special car from Britain.

“Does this happen a lot in your time?” Truman asked, keeping his composure with a skill that Palter could only admire. “Political assassinations and coups?”

“This is the first one we’ve ever had,” Palter snapped, taking the car though a tight turn and running away from the assassins, breaking every speed law in the book. He smiled suddenly; if they’d been in 2015, they would have run into traffic by now, but Contemporary Washington didn’t have anything like as many cars, not with the war on. All the auto manufacturers had been converted to producing tanks.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Truman said, holding on to his seat as Palter accelerated still further. Habit kept Palter glancing at the sky, even though there were no helicopters around. “What about Franklin?”

It took Palter several seconds to realise that he meant the President. “I don’t know,” he said. “The last I heard was that the White House was being surrounded, so he might be a prisoner by now.”

Truman shivered. “Or dead,” he said. “He was never in very good health after the Transition suddenly shook up the world.”

“We never stopped apologising for that,” Palter said. He tapped his radio. “Report?”

“The FBI is moving in on the Progressive party headquarters,” one of his marines snapped. Palter kept one ear listening to him. “They’re arresting Wallace and all of his people… sir, there’s firing coming from the black union halls!”

“They must be killing them out of hand,” Palter muttered. “Sir, we have to stop this.”

“If we get out of this alive, the FBI is going to be ripped to shreds,” Truman muttered. An explosion billowed up from the official section of Washington. “What the hell was that?”

“Sir, someone blew up the Soviet Embassy,” the watcher said. “Sir, its madness out here.”

“I know,” Palter said, as he made the final turn and headed directly into the Future Embassy. He sent a signal ahead; the gates opened and he plunged in without stopping. “Over and out, for now.”

“It’s like a bloody fortress in here,” Truman said. “Can we retake Washington?”

“That’s rather up to our friends,” Palter said. “For now… we’re safe.”

The Secret Service man was carrying a pistol. It looked a toy next to the AK-47s that Buckley and his men were carrying. His air of grim determination completely failed to awe Buckley, who had seen worse from drill sergeants in the first war.

“What the hell are you people doing here?” The Secret Service man demanded. “Leave at once…”

He broke off as Buckley pointed his AK-47 at his chest. “This is your only choice,” Buckley said calmly. “You can surrender now, along with your men, or you can die.”

“Fuck you,” the man snapped, lifting his pistol. Buckley shot him once, the other men opened fire on the other Secret Service men. The battle was short, sharp, and preordained. Buckley lost only three men.

“Move in,” he snapped. “Gary, you secure the rear; Todd, Wally, you get the sides. Everyone else, you’re with me!”

He ran forward, crossing the lawn and kicking in the main doors with a grenade. The explosion shattered the doors and he forced his way forward, fanning the men around the ground floor. It was vital that it be secured before the upper floors could be taken.

“Secure the ground floor,” he snapped, and then a bullet cracked past him, striking one of his men. The Secret Service had rallied, sending men to fight him. He fired back madly; shooting bursts through the defenders, his men spreading out behind him. “Die, you idiots.”

“Grenade,” his second shouted, tossing a grenade up the stairs. The explosion shattered the stairs, blasting the hastily improvised barricade down and slaughtering the defenders. He ran forward, his men leap-hopping each other as they moved forward, using their grenades whenever the defenders built a barricade.

“The Oval Office,” his guide snapped. The final doors lay in front of them; the men fell quiet. Buckley stepped forward, watching for a trap, and pushed the door open gently with his weapon’s butt. It opened easily; the core of American power was at their mercy.

“You know, if you want to petition for redress of grievances, there are other ways to do it,” a man’s voice remarked. It was very familiar from the fireside radio chats he’d heard on the radio. It took them moments to connect the strong voice with the weak form sitting in a wheelchair, shaking his head sadly at them.

“President Roosevelt?” Buckley asked, stunned. Hardly anyone had known that Roosevelt was wheelchair-bound.

The dry voice was wracked with pain. “You were expecting Abraham Lincoln?” Roosevelt asked. You have to stop this!”

“You lead us to ruin,” Buckley’s aide snapped. “Why didn’t you send in the army to punish the niggers?”

“They had grievances against you too,” Roosevelt said. His voice was harsher, coming through pain. “You saw them as nothing, but inferiors, lynched them, raped them…”

He coughed. “I never wanted to abandon anyone,” he said, though hoarse breaths. “For America to progress, the entire people had to progress, even black folk. Yet it was hard; no matter what your fool of a general tells you, the President is not all-powerful. Press on one group, they press back. Tax the rich too highly, they go elsewhere and close factories. Tax the poor, who don’t have much money, and you get riots. Convince managers and unions to balance, instead of one crushing the other and destroying entire factories because of the demands.”

“My boss laid me off when he left the country,” one of Buckley’s men snapped. “You didn’t force him to give me a job.”

“And did you join a Union?” Roosevelt asked. He coughed; Buckley saw blood on his sleeve. “If you pay the employees too much, the employers have less money to invest in new materials and…”

His voice broke off. “Please,” he said, each word an effort. “Don’t destroy America and…”

He slumped in his wheelchair. By the time a doctor reached the White House, it was too late. President Roosevelt, President of the United States of America, was dead.