Final impact

SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA.

If she squinted into the bright morning light and concentrated on the northern headland, where developers hadn’t gained the upper hand back in twenty-one, it was almost possible for Jane Willet to imagine she was home again. Bondi Beach remained the same deep, south-facing bay. That would never change. The biscuit-colored cliffs looked just as they had when she’d last left her Sydney, the beautiful, conflicted, and utterly self-obsessed meta-city of 2021. Standing in the fresh air on the flying bridge of the Havoc’s conning tower, she could see the old art deco apartment she’d rented for a year when studying for her postgrad degree at Sydney Uni, except that here it was a “new” building, standing out rather starkly on the raw, scraped-looking heights of Ben Buckler. The third story had not yet been added and two modern houses that had stood beside it in her memory were gone, replaced by fibro cottages. Goats roamed freely over what would one day be the links of the North Bondi golf course.

“Fancy a drink at the RSL, Chief?” she asked.

Roy Flemming didn’t take the binoculars from his eyes. “They haven’t built it yet, skipper. Just a big sand dune there at the moment.”

The great, black cigar-shaped hull of the most powerful submarine in the world passed smoothly through the cold blue waters of the Pacific as they drew nearer to the end of their long voyage. There was almost no swell to speak of today, no lines of whitecapped breakers rolling in toward the golden crescent of the beach. Her beach. That was fine by Willet. It’d make for a much smoother passage through the Heads.

“Not much of a welcome home, is it?” mused Lieutenant Lohrey, her intelligence boss.

“Not much,” Willet agreed.

There were only a few sailboats out on the deep, and no RAN vessels or officials to greet them.

“We are having a reception at town hall tomorrow, remember,” the captain offered a little weakly.

“Whacko,” said Flemming.

“Spiffing,” Lohrey agreed in the same monotone.

Willet smiled thinly and muttered, “Wankers.”

They passed the cliffs at Vaucluse in companionable silence, watching as the lighthouse drew up, then slipped behind them. Soon enough they were turning to port for the run in to Sydney Harbor, and as Willet was afforded a better look inside the vast anchorage, her heart began to beat harder. A real smile broke out, lighting up her face.

The entire harbor was choked with flotillas of sailcraft and warships. A dozen ferries, all of them crowded with cheering and waving spectators, were drawn up in the waters off Manly Pier. Tugboats pumped huge white geysers from their fire hoses, high into the sky, forming rainbows as the winter sunlight refracted through the falling spray. Horns began to blare. Whistles shrieked and tooted. And Willet could feel in her chest the roar of what had to be a million voices raised in acclamation of their return. She wanted to speak but a lump in her throat prevented any words from coming. She swallowed and tried again, beaming as she turned to Lohrey. “Amanda, you’d better make sure the crew can see this on shipnet. They’re gonna be pissed if they miss it.”

The Havoc’s intelligence chief sported a rather sheepish grin. “Already taken care of, skipper.”

Willet narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “You knew? You knew this was waiting for us and you didn’t say anything?”

Lohrey showed her a pair of open, honest palms. “Orders from the PM, ma’am. Mr. Curtin was adamant that this was to be a surprise party. He’s waiting for us at Woolloomooloo along with an honor guard, our families, such as they are, and a couple of hundred freeloading dignitaries.”

Willet’s curse was lost in the roar of six RAAF jet fighters sweeping overhead, waggling their wings and trailing green and gold smoke, a nice uptime touch. A battery at the North Head artillery school commenced a twenty-one-gun salute.

The captain of His Majesty’s Australian Ship Havoc saw almost none of it as tears dissolved the scene into a swirling miasma of color. She felt Roy Flemming’s hard, leathery hand slap her once on the back.

“Good job, skipper. Good fucking job.”

7 AUGUST, 1944.

CANADA.

Paul Brasch stepped lightly out of the jeep and thanked the driver before collecting his duffel bag. Night was falling on the small lakeside village; one bright star had already appeared in the east, a single point of light in a burned orange sky. Without the wind of the jeep’s passage, he became aware of a rich stew of unfamiliar scents and the chaotic overture of birdsong and insect calls.

The village, a tiny hamlet that serviced the local salmon-fishing industry, was a good mile around the curve of the lake. He caught the briefest hint of singing and a piano playing as the breeze changed direction for a moment. And then it was gone again, and he was left alone at the end of the long gravel roadway down to the waterfront cabin.