Axis of Evil

Chapter Nine: Black Fire and Ice

Nr Huntsville

Alabama, USA

5^th April 1941

The men were not the Marines that Marine Lieutenant Jones Robinson was used to working with, but the raw material was there. Their source had reported on the transport… and he was determined to put the goods to better use than they would have been originally. He’d hesitated in committing his foremost action brigade to the battle – although if everything went well there would be no battle – but this era seemed to take no security measures at all. Only a place that thought itself totally safe would transport hundreds of guns and thousands of bullets though potentially hostile territory.

Robinson shook his head angrily. The weapons, which were meant for the National Guard, would probably end up being pointed at black people. Several regions were quiet; black and white were living together almost peacefully, but in other places…

He still shuddered when he thought of the frantic gun battle in Texas. The Ku Klux Klan had decided to strike at a black church, one where voters were being registered to vote, and they’d come loaded for bear. The blacks had also been armed… and the mutual slaughter had been terrible. The ensuring outburst of long-repressed hatreds had nearly laid the entire town waste before it had burnt itself out.

Bet it was all blamed on us, Robinson thought grimly, feeling something inside him die. He’d never anticipated having to lead what amounted to a underground war inside America – no outside power had seriously threatened America with invasion since 1860 – but if violence was the only way that black men could get justice, then he would give the Klan all the violence it could take. Those who lynched in darkness with burning crosses were hunted down and killed; those who sought to pay black men less than whites were punished.

And if it was too much like the tactics the Viet Cong had used, Robinson tried to forget it, to push it aside. He was fighting for a higher cause, and the Klan deserved everything it got.

“Jones?” His grandfather said. “They’re coming.”

Robinson lifted his binoculars and peered into the darkness. This America lacked the interstate system that his America had possessed; it had been quicker to ship the weapons to the nearest coast and transport them overland. It reminded him of the old movies set in Prohibition times; the stream of lorries in the darkness, their lights probing ahead.

Idiots, he thought. If it had been up to him, he would have sent the weapons via aircraft or escorted it with a full regiment of infantry. For all of the recent unrest, the Contemporary Americans simply weren’t used to acts of… terrorism.

“Everyone get ready,” he muttered, and slipped on his night-vision goggles. The computer-controlled goggles, completely irreplaceable except in Britain, compensated automatically. The barricade across the road should show up clearly; the heat signatures of the black men and women would be invisible to all, but him.

The dull sound of the motorcade became a roar as the first of ten lorries and escorting jeeps moved along the road, and then saw the barricade. “Now,” Robinson snapped, and shot out the wheels of the lead jeep. It skidded into the barrier and the noise of screeching brakes drowned out everything else; the soldiers hopefully thought that the shot had been a simple blowout.

“Hands up,” Robinson snapped, into his tiny voder. His amplified voice screamed through the night. “Anyone without his or her hands up in ten seconds will be shot!”

A flare burst in the night, illuminating the scene. Robinson winced as the NVGs adjusted themselves for the light, revealing stunned GIs lifting their hands. His people, masked and garbed to hide their identities, stepped forward.

“Everyone out of the vehicles,” he bellowed. “Gather at the barricade. We won’t hurt anyone who will cooperate!”

He watched grimly as the GIs slowly climbed out of their vehicles. They were young, too young for what they were called to do, and pitifully under-trained for their task. Pussies, he thought coldly; none of them had the training to know what to do in such circumstances. The United States Army wouldn’t learn until after Vietnam took its bloody toll on the same young men.

“Into the vans,” he muttered, ordering the drivers forward. “You know where to go.”

“Yes, grandson,” Jackie said. The future baseball star jumped into one of the vans. Slowly, the lorries headed into the night.

“I’m sorry about this,” Robinson said, addressing the GIs. One of them was even crying; a boy who’d lied about his age. “We want to have the same rights as you, you see, and we’re prepared to fight for them. We’re going to leave you here; Huntsville is several miles in that direction.” He pointed. “Goodnight.”

According to tradition, Robinson thought wryly, the freedom fighters should have an underground base with all the technology they could ever want. Black Power, the organisation he’d founded with some help from his backers, had only a handful of hiding places that stored weapons and some wanted fugitives; most of the members worked in plain sight, as it were. Like the Vietcong, the movement would be hidden in plain sight – and would be quite happy to punish traitors.

“We got five hundred of the new Sherman weapons,” Jackie said. Robinson, who knew the ‘Sherman’ as the AK-47, chuckled. “There’s also nearly ten thousand clips, pre-loaded with ammunition, and thousands of spare bullets.”

“Excellent,” Robinson said. He reached over to the small laptop; the children of the small house loved playing with it and kept it fully charged with its flywheel. Every time someone span the wheel, it generated a little power for the laptop. He checked the battery – it would be difficult to get supplies for the system if something had gone wrong – and logged onto the new network.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll start showing the recruits how to use the weapons,” Jackie said. Robinson, halfway through a message to the world, nodded absently. It was a few minutes later that it caught up with him; Jackie didn’t know how to use the weapons!

“Hang on a moment,” he snapped. He jumped up and followed him. “Granddad, you don’t know how to use one…”

Jackie chuckled and held up a manual. It had been printed for the National Guard; it had all of the subtly of a child’s book, perhaps for people who couldn’t even read.

“Give me five minutes and I’ll show you,” he said firmly. “It’s a bad idea to be playing with deadly weapons at your age.”

The White House

Washington DC, USA

5^th April 1941

“This is all your fault, you nigger son of a bitch,” Governor Frank Dixon bellowed at volume. Ambassador King, who’d been shouted at by experts, only smiled. “We lost thousands of guns to those nigger… communists!”

“You make it sound like an insult,” King said, half-hoping that Dixon would have a heart attack on the spot. He glared at one of his guards who had been moving forward, pushing him back. “Let me get this straight; you’re blaming me for people seeking to claim the rights of American citizens? I may have come from the future, but do I look like a founding father?”

Dixon’s face turned purple. A Democrat, he expected that the President would provide assistance for his state. “We have a god-damned nigger insurrection brewing,” he bellowed. “Franklin, I demand that you do something about this!”

Roosevelt looked pale. He’d been getting worse recently. “We have a war on our own doorsteps and you want us to send good old boys off to Germany,” Dixon snapped, sensing an advantage. “The niggers are turning on us…”

“And who can blame them?” King asked. “After all, you only deny them the rights of Americans. Dear me, what a reason to rebel…”

“They were happy until you came along,” Dixon snapped. “Happy and contented…”

“And now they’re getting uppity?” King asked mildly. “My dear fellow, they’ve seen the future… and why should they have to wait? They want to be free, and they are willing to fight for it.”

He turned to Roosevelt. “Mr President, if you signed into law the civil rights legislation and arranged equal opportunities, you could head this problem off at the pass. The last thing we need is a civil war and…”

“We’ll kick their black asses from one end of the playing field to the other,” Dixon snapped.

“One-third of your state is black,” King snapped, feeling something snap inside. “If they rebel, against you and your torments, you’ll have a fight on your hands that makes the civil war seem like nothing.”

“The War of Northern Aggression,” Dixon snapped. “They’re attacking honest upstanding…”

“Lynchers?” King asked. “You know; the kind of good old boys whose idea of fun is to hang the nearest nigger?”

Roosevelt chuckled. It defused the tension. “Governor, Ambassador, we do have a war on our hands,” he said. “Perhaps we could find them other targets for their aggression…”

Both men objected at once. “That would just give them the skills they need to kill white men,” Dixon snapped. King grinned. “So far, they haven’t faced a real army. Mr President, I propose federalising the National Guard and sending it in to hunt for the bandits!”

“Ever heard of Vietnam?” King asked. “The lessons are there; you cannot suppress an entire movement when you’re in the wrong. If you react with force, you will set the entire United States ablaze.”

“I agree with Ambassador King,” Vice-President Truman said calmly. “We do not need a second civil war, particularly one when we don’t know for sure who’s an enemy or not. We have one war on our hands; we should make it more worth the while of the black man to stick with us.”

“Eu Tu Brute,” Roosevelt said wryly. King felt a flicker of sympathy; decisive action was not one of Roosevelt’s traits. “Very well, we’ll see what we can do in the field of both law enforcement – all kinds of laws. It may be that the… ah, lynching craze will burn itself out with its victims shooting back and generally cutting down the numbers of crazies.”

King smiled thoughtfully. A sociologist would have found the infusion of 1940 and 2015 terms fascinating. Perhaps reasonable action would stop events before the United States of America careened into a second civil war.

“I cannot believe that I’m hearing this,” J Edgar Hoover said. King felt his heart sink; despite being semi-ousted – no one knew for sure – as a homosexual, Hoover remained a Power within the government. “we are talking about making deals with subversives.”

He waved a hand at the list of incidents. Firefights between the Ku Klux Klan and the new Black Power movement. Wildcat strikes that had led to racial violence. Thousands of black voters suddenly registering to vote. A black man trying to stand for the Senate in Texas.

“These are all part of a conspiracy,” Hoover said, “one started by your… missing Marine, Ambassador. A conspiracy to bring down the United States once and for all.”

He paced the room, words spewing from his mouth. “We are at war, even if we refuse to acknowledge it, with all three of the… Axis powers,” he said. “The Communists are working with the Germans, and are supporting them in the political battlefield here. Do you think that the Germans could have distributed communist literature? What about the Papal Bull?”

King shrugged. It hadn’t exactly been a Papal Bull; the Pope had spoken ex cathedra, with all the power of his office and the doctrine of Papal Infallibility. In short, he’d condemned both Vatican II and Vatican III as heretical and evil – and ordered all Catholics to return to the old ways or face excommunication, calling upon the British Government to enforce it as the only true way, “as thou knowest well, my sons.” From his sources in Britain, the only response had been howls of laugher from the other religions, and an embarrassed silence from Catholics.

“This is nothing more or less than an attack upon America,” Hoover said. “The only solution is to root out the subversives and restore America to the innocent state she once was.”

“You can’t put the mushroom cloud back in the bomb,” King said, and caught Roosevelt’s look of alarm. Everyone knew about nuclear weapons now – the newspapers had reported on the single use of a bomb with a mixture of awe and fear – but the scope of the Manhattan Project was a closely held secret.

Roosevelt tapped the table sharply. “Our choice seems to be between… allowing the Negro some equality…”

“Complete equality,” King said, knowing that Roosevelt was kinder to the black unionists than that.

“Or to run the risk of race war,” Roosevelt continued. “Ambassador, can you assure me that they will be good citizens?”

“If you allow them the opportunity to be good citizens, then yes, they will be,” King snapped.

Dixon banged the table. “Perhaps you have forgotten,” he said. “They will want revenge and power – political power. This… proposal will not be greeted warmly; anywhere!”

“Governor Dixon wasn’t happy,” Roosevelt observed later. The two men were sitting alone in the Oval Office. “Anyone would think that he was planning a second secession.”

“Don’t even joke about that,” King said. “No, unfortunately racism and idiocy don’t always go together. Governor Dixon has figured something out that the Ku Klux Klan has known for years; blacks voting means that white control gets voted out of existence up and down the belt.”

“Dear me,” Roosevelt mused. “Ambassador, don’t get me wrong, but I’m sorry that you people arrived. I would have been President again, we would have thrashed Japan, and…”

“I wish I wasn’t here too,” King said. “Mr President, you can’t put the genie back in the lamp. America came all to close to civil war in the 1960s; your task is to try to drain the poison away before it brings America crashing down.”

“And fight a half-hearted war with Germany,” Roosevelt said. “Tell me, what will become of us in the future?”

“We win the war and establish a better world,” King said. “Mr President, we can correct all the mistakes of the past.”

Roosevelt grinned weakly. “But tell me, Ambassador – Jackson – what happens when people don’t want to change?” He chuckled. “Anyway, I’m meant to be meeting the British Prime Minister in a week or so, so I’d better get read up on what the War Department thinks we can do to the Germans.”

No one had been quite certain what to do with the handful of future military personnel from Britain. Almost all of the corporations had offered vast incentives for people with real skills to come work for them, most of which had been terminated when the Queen Elizabeth and its escort had gone under the water. The handful that remained – and had been willing to return to America – had been scooped up by the War Department, led by the very able Henry L. Stimson.

“I confess, Colonel, that these new training methods are very instructive,” Stimson said, examining the report from Lieutenant Colonel Omar Bradley. Simple equipment meant for games, such as paintball, gave the United States a chance to train its soldiers under very realistic conditions.

“It’s only a shadow of what we had before,” Palter said. His exact position remained resolutely unclassified; he seemed to be filling several roles, but only drawing one paycheck. It didn’t seem fair, somehow.

“So you keep saying,” Stimson said wryly. “Virtual reality helmets, live-action replays, improved medical training… holograms – whatever they are – it seems like a wonderland.”

“It was different,” Palter said. The young GIs of 1940 didn’t have the institutionalised cynicism of their descendents. The planned million-man army might take more time than they’d hoped; black men simply weren’t signing up or responding to their draft papers. Only a few thousand had shown up for basic training – and more than a few had deserted after being serenaded with racial taunts.

“And the army is very pleased with the tanks, even though they are insisting on putting an American-designed tank into production soon as well,” Stimson continued. “The Firefly might be miles ahead of what we had once, but it’s not American. The navy, of course, is annoyed at losing its battleships… the entire production plan has been scrapped.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Palter said, insincerely. “War will be based on the carrier and the submarine for some time to come, and missiles will make mincemeat out of any battleship or carrier. We need deployable units, and we need them fast. Given where we plan to attack…”

“Yes,” Stimson agreed. “Tell me, based on your experience; can the operation succeed?”

Palter hesitated. “It depends on our logistics,” he said finally. “Between us and the Canadians, we have a large merchant marine, which we can use to surge-deploy – ah, it means moving a lot of troops and their equipment – to the forward base. I’d suggest using the Shetlands as a launch point, if the Brits will let us. The main problem will be German air power; they have bases in Norway, France, Germany and Denmark.”

He considered for a long moment. “We’ll have to ask the British for more help,” he said. “Some precision strikes against the Germans, some air cover, and some cruise missiles for the German airbases.” He smiled. “It’ll be a lot like Afghanistan, except there won’t be a friendly force on the ground.”

“Politically, this has to be our operation,” Stimson said grimly. “Would the British accept an American commander?”

“They have before,” Palter said. “Someone they know would be best; Colonel George S. Patton, for example. The 2^nd Armoured Division, which is fitting out with Fireflies at Fort Benning, would be ideal. Everyone knows that Patton is competent, even though tanks won’t be that useful in Norway.”

“You’re just favouring him because Patton approves your concept of sending in Special Forces,” Stimson said. “It would be a political decision, but even Patton’s detractors admit that he’s more than merely competent.”

“Perhaps Eisenhower as supreme commander, with Patton as field commander,” Palter mused. “Yes, that would work; Eisenhower is a diplomat, which will be vital, and Patton is a fighter.”

“He’s the guy who’ll be President later, right?” Stimson asked thoughtfully. “That would also be a political decision.”

“Blasted politics,” Palter said. Stimson didn’t disagree. “We have to fight and win this war, which is way to important to leave to the politicians.”

“Politics is too important to leave to the politicians,” Stimson said wryly. They spent the next ten minutes happily comparing notes on politicians they had known.