The Long Hard Road

Chapter Thirty-Three: Sunset

HIMS Musashi

Sea of Japan, Japan

16^th May 1942

Admiral Yamamoto took personal command of the battleship himself as she slid out of the harbour, setting her course for Tokyo Bay. Only the certain knowledge that Musashi could have been destroyed at any moment by British missiles saved him from fretting; it had been a long time since he’d dared to order anything larger than a destroyer onto the seas. He scowled inwardly; what he was about to do could be considered treason, and certainly would be considered so by the militarists who controlled Japan.

He knew once again the bitterness of despair. There had been no warning, none at all, that the war was about to expand, not even a hint that the junta was going to launch an attack on the American fleet. It had failed, and the Americans had declared war… and Japan was doomed. It had been doomed before, he knew, but somehow having the Americans against him made it all final.

He took his seat in the mighty battleship’s map room before any of the young officers saw the tears dripping from his eyes. It had all seemed so reasonable, so long ago, to start the war and end it quickly – but that had been before the cream of the navy had been destroyed and the army broken at Singapore and Australia. The junta pointed to the vast tracts of Burma and China they held – ironically, they had come very close to success against the Chinese now that the Russians had betrayed their Chinese allies – but Yamamoto knew that it was illusion. The British had left the forces in Burma alone, but they only had to launch an attack, and it would be theirs. As for China…

He shuddered. Competing warlords, now that Mao and Chiang Kai-Shek were dead, were tearing the country apart, spreading the Japanese diseases still further into China. He had once hoped that Japan would bring peace with honour to China, but that had been before Nanking, before the decision to fight to the end. Perhaps, with enough time, the army’s colony in Manchuria would have grown rich and powerful, but Yamamoto knew that there wasn’t enough time for that.

He wandered onto the deck, wondering how the sailors felt. They hated the army; in the end, it had been easy to convince them to fight against the army, and the Naval Infantry had been more than willing to fight. Their transports followed Musashi, bobbing about on the ocean, and some of them had been sent ahead. Seizing the docks was important – and the Naval Infantry had been charged with their defence.

Idiots, Yamamoto thought, thinking about the junta. It would have been so much easier for them if they had considered the possibility of peace, even to the point of offering a truce. But it had been the one thing that Japanese culture could not have allowed; even in hindsight – Yurina had introduced him to something called alternate history – there was no way of changing events in the mind. How could there have been?

He sighed, feeling the cold spray against his small body. From Japan’s emergence as a modern state, to the first major war against a European power, to the end of the first Great War, Japan had been treated as a second-rate power at best. Denied resource-rich colonies, they had been at the mercy of those who faced – and lost to – Adolf Hitler. Roosevelt’s outright blackmail, which no one had understood was forcing the Japanese into a corner, had brought Japan to the stark choice of war, or eternal submission.

Would it have been different? He asked himself, again and again, and knew that it would never have been different. The choice remained the same, with or without the future Britain; submit or fight. And now… the Japanese faced extermination; thousands were starving to death even as Yamamoto finally moved to end the war. For millions, his action would be too late, for millions more; his actions would be the only thing that saved them from death, be it slow or quick.

Deep within his mighty heart, Admiral Yamamoto confirmed his decision – and hardened his heart for what lay ahead.

HMS Ark Royal

Sea of Japan

16^th May 1942

“Sir, the Musashi is on its way,” the duty officer said. “It looks as if Yamamoto is keeping his word.”

Admiral Turtledove nodded. The Ark Royal, the Illustrious and the two converted tankers had slipped into the Sea of Japan, surrounded and protected by forty surface ships and seven nuclear submarines. Two more shadowed Musashi; if Yamamoto was planning a strike against the British, he wouldn’t live to regret it.

“Move us into position,” he ordered. “I assume that all of the targeting coordinates have been loaded into the Harriers?”

“Yes, sir,” Captain Rogers assured him. “We selected the targets properly, according to Yamamoto’s instructions and they’re already locked for the Harriers, along with missile fire and FAE for the airfields.”

Turtledove nodded. Whatever Yamamoto might have planned, he’d been under no illusion as to his inability to prevent what remained of the Japanese air force from striking against the British fleet, should they become aware of its existence. Turtledove had already decided how best to deal with that problem, preparing a series of missile strikes against the Japanese airbases before they could launch against his fleet.

He frowned as Menzies’ face appeared on the video link. The Prime Minister had wanted to sail with the fleet, but Turtledove had talked him out of it; the Commonwealth could hardly afford to lose him now. The argument had tickled Menzies’ pride and he’d remained on Australia.

“Are you certain that he is keeping the agreement?” Menzies asked. “Is he really moving to launch a coup?”

“It certainly seems that way,” Turtledove said. “I’m preparing to launch the strikes now.”

“Good luck, Admiral,” Menzies said, and signed off. Turtledove smiled to himself and started to issue orders, launching the fleet of aircraft into the sky. He scowled; it was war by computer and calculation, hardly any of the Harriers would ever see their targets.

“Missiles away,” the duty officer said, as the ships began launching their missiles. “Estimated time to impact, two minutes and counting.”

Tokyo

Japan

16^th May 1942

Admiral Yamamoto slipped into his private cabin as the battleship entered Tokyo Bay, preparing to show a salute for the Emperor before going out to do battle with the American supply convoys. He’d taken care over the excuse, claiming that the crews needed the morale boost, and the Army had accepted. Now… the transports were tying up at the docks, and preparing to unload their soldiers.

“It’s time,” he said. Yurina looked up from the laptop she’d been provided with by the British. “Are they coming?”

Yurina nodded. “They’re coming,” she said grimly. “Are your forces ready?”

Yamamoto nodded. The Musashi was now preparing to dock itself, its weapons casually pointing in the direction of two of the barracks. If the British attacks failed – although Turtledove had assured him that they could not – the Musashi would open fire itself. In doing so, the battleship would draw fire from coast-defence guns… and perhaps be sunk by the Army troops.

“We’re ready to go,” he said. Oddly, he felt curiously free of all responsibilities, as if his life had become his own again. “Send the signal.”

The orders had been simple and to the point. The lead flight of Harriers, now closing in on Tokyo, were to engage the constant CAP over the Imperial Palace with dispatch, using missiles. Flying Officer Dalton wasn’t convinced that missiles were necessary, but he had to admit that the twenty-three Zeros were formidably manoeuvrable, and the British speed advantage wasn’t as great in a Sea Harrier.

“This is Apollo one,” he said. Flicking electronic data signals selected targets; the Zeros showed up well on their airborne radars. It was the sort of moment, he felt, that deserved a well-composed theme tune. Something with blaring trumpets and clashing cymbals. “Stand by to attack.”

He paused a moment, ensuring that the flight had shared out their targets, ensuring that they would each have a missile or two left, just in case. “Fire!”

The Harrier shuddered as it launched its missile, leaving a streak of flame lancing over Tokyo, followed by two more. Twenty-three missile trails blasted into the distance, heading towards targets that could have no idea of what was coming their way. The Zeros and their pilots died without ever knowing what had hit them.

“Excellent shooting,” he said, confirming that all of the Japanese planes had died. With the missile strikes against the known airfields, it would be unlikely that the Japanese could challenge them in the air again. “Now, take your targets for the bomb attacks… and dance!”

Private Manzo had been watching the Japanese aircraft, swooping back and fourth over Tokyo, with delight. His post, one of the less-important barricades against an invasion, had only five Privates appointed to guard it, armed with a machine gun and several rifles. He sighed. He’d wanted to enrol in the flying corps, but instead he’d been grabbed by the army and conscripted.

He scowled. He knew more about politics than was safe for a lowly private, and he was far from stupid. The war had to be going badly… or else why was he guarding a barricade in the midst of Tokyo itself? He cast his eyes over to the Imperial Palace; surely the Emperor would know some way out of Japan’s predicament. He looked up at the aircraft again… and then one of them exploded.

His jaw fell open as streaks of light streaked across the sky and slammed into the orbital aircraft. He waited for one of them to turn, to engage his tormentors, but instead there was silence… and drifting smoke in the sky. Strange aircraft appeared overhead, so high up that he could make out no details, and yet he was certain that they were British aircraft.

“Manzo, you lazy shiftless peasant,” Sergeant Morio snapped, cuffing him across his face. “Get back to the gun!”

Manzo didn’t dare rub his face as he jumped to the gun, hearing the welcome sound of anti-aircraft guns as they poured fire into the sky. If it bothered the enemy planes, they didn’t seem to notice; instead they launched bombs back down. Manzo watched in awe and horror as, one by one, explosions echoed over the city.

“The cowards,” Sergeant Morio snapped. He was from the north, a rough ill-educated man. He couldn’t even read. Manzo had been careful to keep his contempt hidden; he’d even flirted with the Communist Party before it had been ruthlessly crushed. “They do not dare to match steel with us!”

He waved his sword about unsteadily, screaming abuse at the sky. An explosion nearby shook the buildings, threatening his grip on sanity. “They’re coming!”

Manzo was inclined to dismiss it as paranoia, and then he looked down the street towards the docks. Grey-suited Naval Infantry were swarming over the docks, shooting their way through the remains of the army. The massive battleship he’d been admiring started to fire, shelling army positions.

“Those traitors to the Emperor,” Sergeant Morio bellowed. Manzo suddenly caught a whiff of the sake he’d been drinking. “Move!”

Without waiting for the rest of his tiny platoon, the sergeant charged the Navy’s men. They cut him down in seconds; firing bursts of machine gun fire into the nest they’d built. Manzo winced and watched as three of his comrades fell, before making his decision. Carefully putting down his pistol, he watched as the Naval Infantry advanced and overran the undefended position.

Captain Renjiro was having the time of his life, as crazy as it seemed. After ten years of enduring the taunts of the Army, his superbly-trained Naval Infantry were cutting their way through the Army’s men, ignoring their pleas and what he fondly imagined were cries of surrender. If both his force and the Army force were what remained of their respective services after two years of war… well, the thought never crossed his mind.

After all, it was enough that they hated each other, wasn’t it?

He ignored the young Army private and checked the position. They weren’t far from the Imperial Palace now; they didn’t have far to go at all. The British attacks had softened up the army, now his task was to ensure that they made it through to the Palace and cleared it of the Army vermin.

He checked the location of his other forces, using the small tactical radios that Yamamoto had produced from somewhere. They had succeeded in their first set up objectives; the radio station had been captured intact and the army command post had been destroyed. He knew that the Naval Infantry couldn’t hope to hold onto the entire city for long, not with army battalions so close, but if Yamamoto’s plan worked, they wouldn’t have to. If it didn’t… well, there were worse people to die for than the Emperor.

“Move out,” he shouted, leading his force towards the palace. He allowed Captain Kenjo to take the lead, snapping orders into his radio. The Imperial Palace would be converged upon by three armies, threatening it from three different directions. “Come on!”

They shot their way through a hastily-erected blockade and entered the palace grounds. The white pavilion lay ahead of them and they spread out, securing the palace. Even the army hadn’t had quite the audacity to turn the palace into a fortress; they’d simply replaced the Royal Guard.

“We hold the palace,” he shouted. He didn’t dare to enter, or to try to visit the Emperor himself. That was up to Yamamoto and his consort. He lifted his radio and made his report.

Yamamoto had half-expected failure. The gods had seemed to have forsaken Japan – or perhaps they liked the thought of the Japanese fighting to the last – and he smiled as the news of their success came through the radio network. Even so, he felt nervous; if the Emperor ordered him to commit suicide he…

…Would not have to obey. Somewhere along the line, he realised, his loyalty to the Emperor had been replaced with loyalty to Japan. He held out a hand to Yurina and led the way out of the battleship, into the armoured car that had been captured during the fighting. It was safer; army snipers still infested the city, fighting desperately for a bad cause. Bullets pinged off the armour as they drove up towards the Palace, refusing to stop for anything.

“We’re here,” Yurina said. He realised that she was nervous; he took her arm and led her out of the car, leading the way through the main gates.

“You have no right to be here,” a servitor said. Yamamoto ignored him. “Admiral, I protest…”

Yamamoto glared him into silence. “Where is the Emperor?” He asked. He knew that the servants, members of the Court themselves, would be reluctant to talk to him, so he lifted his sword. “Where is he?”

“In his private rooms,” the servitor stammered. Yamamoto was disgusted; the man had grown fat, while soldiers and sailors starved and died. “I can lead you there.”

Yamamoto motioned for two of his guards to hold the servitor. “I know the way,” he said, and led the way into the Palace, climbing stairs without thinking about what he was doing. For Yurina, he realised, it was worse; the Palace might have been very different in her day. They reached the Emperor’s private rooms – he noted the lack of a guard with anger – and he knocked politely.

“Please, enter,” a voice said. Yamamoto shivered; Hirohito’s voice was exactly as he remembered it, but weaker. “Please, don’t stand on ceremony.”

Yamamoto entered and prostrated himself. He was vaguely aware of Yurina doing the same thing beside him. “Please, rise,” Hirohito said. “Admiral, what are you doing here?”

Yamamoto had expected anger, or annoyance. The mildly polite tone was different. He pulled himself to his feet, taking a moment to take a covert look at Hirohito, and realised that the Emperor was thin and gaunt. Had the Army not dared to feed him, for fear that he might order their arrest?

“I have a vitally important report to make to you,” he said, and detailed the war situation, leaving nothing out. Grimly aware that Hirohito knew nothing about the war, he explained about the three nuclear detonations, the invasion of Vladivostok by the Americans, the militarists decision to add America to the list of enemies… and the defeat of the Combined Fleet.

“Your Majesty, we have lost the war,” he said. “Sire; the British have made some agreements to us, if we surrender now and…”

“What of my people?” Hirohito interrupted. The Monarch’s voice seemed stronger. “How fare they?”

“Many are starving,” Yurina said. Yamamoto noticed that Hirohito didn’t take offence at her tone. “They know that they have been betrayed. Your Majesty, we have to end the war.”

“I agree,” Hirohito said. Yamamoto blinked. “They have never told me any of that, not since the first conference, when you yourself assured me that there would be time to seize a commanding position.”

Yamamoto lowered his eyes. It was true. “I know my mistake,” he said, “and I will offer the only recompense I can, once the war has come to an end.” He was aware of Yurina’s alarm beside him. “But we have to save the people.”

“I won’t ask you to die, Admiral,” Hirohito said. Yurina relaxed. “I will ask you to do something worse, to live for me. We have to end the war.”

Yamamoto almost collapsed with relief. “Your Majesty must broadcast to the army,” he said. He lifted his radio and gave orders for the British transmitter to be brought to the palace. “You must issue orders to surrender.”

Hirohito bowed his head. He was older than he looked, Yamamoto knew; a man who had never wanted to be Emperor. “I will,” he said. “Have they made any agreements about my person?”

“They have agreed that Your Imperial Majesty will keep the throne,” Yamamoto said, as the radio was carried in. “Your life is safe as always.”

Hirohito shook his head. “Then others will be condemned to this half-life,” he said. He inspected the radio; Yurina showed him how to speak into it. Hirohito took a deep breath, and began. “People of Japan,” he said. “The war situation has taken a turn not to Japan’s advantage…”

He spoke on. Yamamoto was only dimly aware of Yurina’s shock at the speech. “We will make a truce with our enemies before they destroy us to the last man, before the Japanese people can be wiped from the face of the Earth,” Hirohito concluded. “I appoint Admiral Yamamoto as the new Prime Minister. He will make the arrangements with the British.”