Against the Tide Imperial: The Struggle for Ceylon (The Usurper's War: An Alternative World War II B, James Young [best management books of all time TXT] 📗

"I just need to get your impressions of what happened to your vessel," Jacob prodded gently. "I know Commander Sloan already asked you some questions and you were off watch when the shooting started. I guess we'll start there."

"Aye aye, sir," Clancy began. "As I told Commander Sloan, I was down in the wardroom when those bastards opened up…"

In Jacob’s professional opinion, it took Clancy longer to describe the Trenton’s end than it had taken the light cruiser to die. The ensuing fifteen minutes was some of the most harrowing narrative Jacob had ever heard. As with Houston, the two German raiders had ran up the German navy ensign before opening fire. Their first salvo had been aimed at the Trenton’s superstructure. Jacob doubted the light cruiser’s captain had lived past the fight’s first sixty seconds. The cruiser had managed to get off maybe one salvo, then a pair of torpedoes had knocked out her power. Clancy had struggled his way to the deck just as Trenton was starting to capsize.

The Omaha-class might need to function in pairs. That was not a battle, it was an organized murder.

As soon has he had the thought, Jacob thought back to the Italian cruiser they’d jumped seemingly a lifetime ago.

Or maybe the real lesson from this is what I said to Farmer about paranoia and longevity being intertwined.

“Thank you Lieutenant Clancy,” Jacob said. “Do you have anything else that you think might help a Board of Inquiry?”

“No, sir,” Clancy replied.

“You’re dismissed,” Jacob said. The young officer stood up and saluted. Jacob returned the gesture, then waited for Clancy to be led out by O’Rourke. He looked at the gathered officers, many of their faces ashen.

“Gentlemen, let’s get back to work,” Jacob said simply. “It’s going to be a long war.”

Ratmalana Airfield

0940 Local (1640 Eastern)

15 September (14 September)

"Sir, is it true that this was one of the British squadron's ready rooms?"

Isoro turned from the window to look at the young petty officer who had asked the question. The man was languorously laying on a chaise lounge, munching on cookie he'd taken from a tin liberated upstairs. The small living area was filled with the sounds of Chopin, the short wave radio still tuned to whatever frequency the British Exile Government was using out of Sydney.

Isoro smiled at question. The petty officer looked concerned at the expression, unconsciously sitting up straight.

There is something wrong with our Navy that a non-commissioned officer thinks I'm going to beat him because I smiled. That or I'm no further from a breakdown than I was two weeks ago and it shows.

Commander Fuchida had drawn lots for which pilots would remain on Ceylon and which would accompany the Kido Butai back to Singapore then onwards to Japan. Isoro suspected some trickery, but he had been selected to lead the contingent of Shiden that were to remain until the Army showed up.

Ah, as if on cue, he thought, hearing the distant thrum of propellers. Or at least, I hope that is the Army, and not the British, Germans, Americans, or all of the above.

That Isoro worried about possible Nazi aircraft spoke to how crazy the war was getting. Although he was certain the rumor was wild, allegedly their erstwhile allies in Berlin had not taken kindly to Vice Admiral Yamaguchi's…direct methods of negotiating. Isoro wasn't sure of the details, he had just been advised not to assume any German aircraft sighted on patrol were friendly.

I hope we didn't pay so dearly for this island just to sell it dearly with our blood to some other colonizer.

Shaking his head, Isoro remembered he hadn't answered the question.

"One of their night fighter units, allegedly," he replied simply. "The Army never got this far south before the surrender, and the Rikunsentai just occupied the perimeter without checking the buildings."

The petty officer stopped, looking at the cookie in his hand. His companion laughed.

"Yes Heike, that means you could be eating a poisoned cookie as we speak," the thinner, taller noncom said.

Murakami. Both of them off of Taiho. I hope they haven't used up their luck.

There was a peal of thunder. Isoro glanced out the window into the gloom.

They'd better land fast or there's going to be an accident.

Monsoon season had officially begun a few short days before, and the rain gods had not disappointed. Isoro was pleasantly surprised that the bombers were all able to put down quickly, the complete squadron landing in a matter of minutes just as the rain began to cascade down in sheets.

"Sir, are we going out in this?" Heike asked as Isoro walked towards the door. The rain beating down on the roof was strangely relaxing, and he took a moment to just listen.

"No, I think our Army friends can come to us," Isoro said, opening the door. The dropping temperature made it feel as if a cool breeze was blowing into the humid building. As he watched men dash through the rain around the bombers, Isoro listened to the shortwave radio in the corner.

Those bomber pilots probably did not ever expect themselves to be sitting here, on Ceylon, as a hedge against treachery from a nation that no longer even had colonies before the Treaty of Kent. I can only hope that they enjoy their stay.

A formerly British lorry rolled down the runway towards the bombers. One man, clearly the squadron commander, waved wildly for it to come towards his aircraft. As the truck slowed, the squadron commander turned, saw Isoro, then gestured for one of his officers to head towards the opened door. Noting Isoro's naval uniform, the designated officer strode slowly and deliberately towards the squadron shack.

Ah yes, cannot have the Navy think that Army pilots are averse to a little rain.

A short, squat man, the young Army lieutenant's eyes narrowed as he regarded Isoro upon reaching the doorway. The officer then turned towards the two petty officers lounging on the couches and his face started to darken.

Why no, I am not wearing