Empires of the Sun: Dawn

[luis3007]

Hi, this is a TL originally written in Spanish with a focus on a WWII side scenario made by Byron McSutton, a friend of mine who can't get an account in this site (hello admins, is anybody still alive there?)
Looking for constructive and honest criticism for this TL. So here it is.

Bryan Mc Stutton presents​

Empires of the Sun: Dawn​

An alternate histoy novel​

South America on December, 1941​

Prologue. November 10, 1941

From his seat in the President’s office, the Minister of Government Luis Flores observed the entry of the Japanese envoys. The usually affable ambassador Toki Ichimonji looked stern, and he was accompanied –as in the previous meeting– by the recently arrived naval attaché Terumoto Kanada, whose long face looked like the personification of seriousness.

Flores had left behind all the doubts that he had had regarding the decisions made barely an hour before. When the president –the leader– decided something, it was the duty of a good fascist to support him unconditionally. Consequently, he greeted the Japanese somberly, but politely. Circumstances had changed substantially in the last few hours, so that it was now Peru that sought the cooperation of the Empire of Japan. So this is how it feels to make a pact with the devil, he mused. But the enemy of my enemy is my friend, he reminded himself, rather bitterly. The time to look for friends had indeed arrived.

The Minister of Finance’s nervous projections had come true. The economy was reeling from the deleterious effects of the blockade imposed by the United States, and the numbers worsened with each passing month. But Peruvian fascism had never backed down, nor would it now. Had it not overthrown Leguía’s traitorous and corrupt regime? Had it not recovered the territories usurped by Colombia, Bolivia, and Ecuador? Giving in to the gringos would be most humiliating. Never. What was won with bloodshed must be defended in the same fashion.

“To what do I owe this invitation, Mr. President?” asked the ambassador once the formalities were done with. “How may the Empire of Japan be of assistance?” There were many things that Flores could object to about the Japanese, but the ambassador’s Spanish was not among them.

“Mr. Ambassador, we want to find out if your government’s proposal still stands,” answered Luis Sánchez Cerro after a moment. Luis Flores kept his eyes on the president. At 52 years old, he still had the vigor of ten years before. Despite his short stature and graying hair, he always dominated any group of men. A fine example of the Peruvian race.

Ichimonji looked at Kanada, who nodded. “Yes, Mr. President, the Empire of Japan and the Imperial Navy are still interested in cooperating with the Republic of Peru,” the ambassador replied.

Luis Flores could see the relief on Chancellor José de la Riva-Agüero’s face. He nodded silently, adjusting his glasses and running a hand over his bald head. Although Riva-Agüero was a solid fascist, Flores disliked his insistence on sporting a moustache in these modern times. Even worse was his aristocratic insistence that he be addressed as the Marquis de Montealegre de Aulestia –but not in the presence of the president, of course– which seemed a complete contradiction of the egalitarian principles of fascism.

“May I inquire, however, as to what prompted this change of heart?” asked the ambassador. Flores discreetly turned his head towards the President and the Chancellor as if to say See? These yellow-skinned monkeys can’t help but be cunning bastards.

Sánchez Cerro nodded at Admiral Héctor Mercado, commander in chief of the Peruvian Navy. Flores had seen how the proud admiral had fallen from the lofty heights of hubris from when the Navy practically took the port of Guayaquil single-handedly, down to the depths of near nervous collapse after the recent incident. At least he had the good sense to maintain his composure now. “Mr. Ambassador, last night we lost contact with the transport BAP Rímac, which was shipping supplies to Guayaquil. One of our patrol planes located the wreckage a few hours ago. As of now, we have not found any survivors. We believe that it was attacked by a U.S. submarine,” said the admiral.

The ambassador and the attaché quickly exchanged surprised words in Japanese. “Mr. President, allow me to express my deepest condolences for the Peruvian lives lost in this treacherous attack,” he said in Spanish. “You can count on the full support of the Empire of Japan to punish this crime by our common enemy.” The naval attaché nodded his agreement.

“If we were to go to war against the United States, what type of Japanese support could we expect?” asked the Army’s commander, Field Marshal Óscar R. Benavides. The rotund, mustached military officer had been promoted to the honorary rank after his role in lightning campaign against Ecuador a few months prior. His taste for medals and showy uniforms offended Flores’s austere aesthetic, but he tolerated it to the extent that the fatherland needed experienced and successful military men such as him.

“Excuse me, distinguished Field Marshal,” Ichimonji quickly replied, “but I was under the impression that you were already in a state of war with the United States.” Benavides blinked rapidly, and Flores could see the Field Marshal begin to redden. He did not know if the reaction was provoked by fury or embarrassment. The Minister of Government crossed his fingers in front of his face to hide a bitter smile. Sons of bitches. Now they’re the ones who’ve got us by the balls.

“But even so,” the ambassador continued before Benavides could respond, “the Empire of Japan will give all the assistance that is in its power to give. In our first meeting, we gave you the scope of the general plan. The specific details can be ironed out in the next few days, once we coordinate with Tokyo and the high command of the Imperial Navy.

“Excellent,” Flores intervened, trying to relieve the tension. “As the plan requires a maximum of secrecy, we have decided to withhold the cause of the sinking of the Rímac. We do not want to tip off the yanks.”

“Will it be possible to keep such important news a secret?” asked Ichimonji.

“Mr. Ambassador, in Peru, only patriotic journalists are allowed to operate; therefore, they will not publish anything that harms the country’s interests. I myself am taking care of the issue,” the Minister of Government answered, with a tone that indicated that he brooked no disobedience when he ordered something done. Those who did not comply would have to answer to him and his Revolutionary Legion. “The truth will become known when it will cause a greater impact.”

Truth was a term that could mean different things for Flores. He would not have been able to keep Sánchez Cerro’s regime as stable and popular as he had in these turbulent times, and overcome so many challenges, had he not had a rather flexible interpretation of the word.

Both the Ambassador and naval attaché nodded. “That’s very good,” replied the ambassador while he appeared to rise. “Now, Mr. President, we should take our leave to communicate with our government. Every hour is vital.”

The President signaled that they wait. “One moment, Mr. Ambassador, please wait a few minutes. We have not finished talking.” Although the abruptness of the intervention made Riva-Agüero raise his eyebrows slightly, Flores smiled inside. If Peru wanted to avoid ending up as Japan’s lapdog, they should get an early start in not letting the Japanese dictate the terms of their alliance.

“We have something we want to show you, which complements the initial Japanese proposal,” continued the president. “Much as you have seen fit to inform us of your plans, we believe that it would be useful if you and Captain Kanada were aware of ours, so that together we might achieve the maximum impact possible.” The naval attaché leaned slightly forward in a gesture that Luis Flores attributed to either interest or condescension.

“Admiral Mercado, Colonel Castilla,” continued the president, “if you please.”

Colonel Castilla, an intelligence analyst and planner, took the floor and began his presentation. Flores looked impassively at the officer who seemed to have come from a university rather than a military academy. His occasional pauses to cough into his handkerchief also made the Minister uncomfortable. Of all our officers, we had to show them Nicanor “Consumptive” Castilla. They had very different ways of looking at things; while Consumptive Castilla looked for convoluted solutions, Flores preferred the application of concentrated force. Furthermore, the colonel’s puerile objections to the impending war, not to mention his stubborn refusal to join the party, made him suspicious in Flores’ eyes.

Admiral Mercado continued with the presentation, giving specific details of what they had prepared for the first hours of the war. Flores could relax somewhat. Mercado was a reliable man, unlike the naval officers purged in 1936.

The Minister of Government smiled discreetly after a few minutes of the presentation. If Kanada had been skeptical at first, he definitely was not by the time Mercado had finished.

“Good!” he repeated a few times before expanding his opinions in Japanese with the Ambassador.

“We will communicate with Tokyo, but Captain Kanada thinks this is feasible. He will be in touch with your staff soon, Admiral Mercado. Your proposal is very bold, which surprised us,” Ichimonji briefly summarized.

Luis Flores subtly sought eye contact with the President. When he did, he nodded slightly and smiled. Very good. It is key that the Japanese know from the very start that neither Peru nor the Revolutionary Union will be their puppets.


When he's not writing alternate history, Byron McSutton teaches real history in a local university and translates books. He's also the author of La guerra de 2012: Perú - Chile.

 

[luis3007]

Next part is up, please comments and opinions are very welcome!!

Chapter 1, i

Sadao Kuroiwa turned to look at the fuel gauge. “Don’t worry, sir,” his copilot, Sen Yamaoka, reassured him. “The Hamaki has more than enough range to complete this attack successfully.”

Kuroiwa glared at him before growling, “Of course. I know this aircraft inside and out.” Yamaoka nodded quickly and redirected his gaze forward. Lieutenant Kuroiwa smiled on the inside, but his face remained impassive. Smooth-cheeked like many of his countrymen, he had a slightly exotic look that was difficult to pinpoint.

He glanced sideways, verifying that the Type 1 land-based attack aircraft of his hikotai –or squadron– were staying in formation. Satisfied, he checked the dials again, skipping the fuel indicator. The sound of the two motors was also satisfactory. So far, so good.

“Sir, we have reached the third waypoint,” the navigator, Nobuyori Erizawa, said. “We have to turn to 355 and increase our speed by 20 km/h.” Kuroiwa turned the bomber slightly to the left, and the rest of the formation followed perfectly.

In spite of everything, Kuroiwa was satisfied with the performance of his crew and of the entire hikotai. They had been deployed suddenly to this remote part of the world, and once there, not been given much time to get used to the rustic airfield they were hosted at. The planning of what would be the most important mission of their lives had also been rushed. Anyhow, considering the theater, Sadao thought that he could be most useful.

They’re good boys, he thought in reference to his subordinates, hopefully everyone will return home safely. But even though his training had taught him not to question his superiors, he was concerned about the mission. Wouldn’t it have been better to attack at sunset in order to surprise the defenders with a strike that “came out” of the sun? Actually, almost any other time would have been better than high noon. What could the thinking behind this be?

The resources allocated to achieve the mission’s objectives worried him too. He had no doubt that his hikotai could successfully bomb and knock out the target airfield. Nor did he doubt that the Kanbaku dive bombers could hit the primary targets, but would their 250kg bombs suffice to destroy them and cause a chain reaction?

The perfectly timed arrival of the escort of Reisen fighters ended his meditation. Ultimately, the high command of the Imperial Navy knows what it’s doing, he thought and concentrated on his surroundings. One of the fighters flew next to him, parallel to his route. Kuroiwa smiled and greeted the pilot of the plane, who shook his wings happily in response before heading into enemy airspace. We’re close. May victory be with us today.

“We have a signal from the mainland!” exclaimed Shouta Tsukino, the radio operator.

“Put it on,” said Kuroiwa. “It could give us a clue as to whether we have been detected.”

They began to hear female voices singing some tropical song in Spanish. “What are they saying?” asked Yamaoka, looking at Sadao.

Kuroiwa requested silence by holding up a finger. “Something about a drum of joy. And of heading to dear Panama,” he translated after a few seconds.

“It sounds a little like taiko, only wilder. Latin style,” noted Yamaoka. Sadao gave him a stern look, after which his copilot quickly found something else to pay attention to.

Kuroiwa gazed forward again and recognized the contours of the land he had studied intensely in aerial photos. Finally, the radio silence broke. A metallic voice calmly said, “Ryu! Ryu! Ryu!” The cabin erupted in cheers and shouts of banzai. Kuroiwa smiled. “Dragon” said three times was the code that indicated that the American forces that defended the Panama Canal had been taken completely by surprise.

The crew took up their positions at the plane’s machine guns as they approached Allbrook Airfield, located between the canal and Panama City. Suppressing it and its squadrons of fighter planes was vital for the success of the mission.

Kuroiwa could spot the fires caused by the Reisens that were strafing the grounded American planes. He could not believe their luck. Had the chaos that they were causing on land not been evident, the lack of aerial opposition almost gave the impression that they were conducting a peacetime exercise.

A timid and uncoordinated anti-aircraft barrage began shortly before the bombardier released his bombs. As soon as he did, Kuroiwa felt the controls of the Hamaki lighten. The rest of the hikotai also released their deadly cargo. Seconds later, the tail gunner announced, “We have hit the target!” This was one airfield that the enemy would not be able to use in the immediate future.

Amid shouts of banzai! and the various celebrations inside the Hamaki, Kuroiwa tried to remain focused on the overall mission. He tilted the bomber slightly to the left to observe the effectiveness of the dive bombers’ attacks. He shook his head upon seeing that while the Kanbaku were on target and inflicting damage on the main objectives –the locks– they still were not destroying them altogether.

The Panama Canal was not a sea-level crossing. Its locks were used to lift the ships up to the artificial Lake Gatun, and another set of locks at the other end lowered the ships back down to sea level. Disabling them was key. Without the Panama Canal, the Americans would have a hard time reinforcing their Pacific fleet, which –combined with the attack in Hawaii– would cripple their war effort.

“We only have one opportunity to make sure this mission is successful,” he told Sen Yamaoka. “If we don’t disable the Canal, we’ll be in a shitload of trouble.” Yamaoka nodded without comment, which was not very useful. He turned to look at the aerial battle, looking for another way to contribute to a decisive Japanese victory. Having already dropped their bombs, they only had their defensive machine guns and…“Our 20 mm cannon would cause considerable damage to those cargo ships, right?” he asked Yamaoka, pointing at one of the narrowest sections of the canal, the Gaillard Cut.

“Of course, sir. They are defenseless and have nowhere to maneuver. They’re like big walruses. If we fly low, we might get lucky and blow up one or another.”

“And with the entire hikotai, we would wreak all sorts of havoc,” replied Kuroiwa as he unfastened his seatbelt and handed control of the aircraft to a surprised Yamaoka. He got up and went to the radio.

“Captain Matsumoto, Lieutenant Kuroiwa here. Requesting permission to attack the cargo ships located in the Gaillard Cut with the hikotai under my command.” He waited expectantly for the response. If the locks were not destroyed, his attack could have almost the same effect. A few large freighters sunk in the Canal would block traffic, forcing the Americans to clear them from the path, a process that could take weeks—maybe even a month.

“Permission denied, Lieutenant Kuroiwa. That is not covered in the plan. You will not attack the cargo ships under any circumstance. Return to base with your hikotai,” replied the commander of the attack.

Kuroiwa knew that he could be accused of insubordination if he insisted, something he did not look forward to at all. Something else warranted his immediate attention anyhow. The machine guns of his Hamaki began to open heavy fire, as well as those of the rest of the hikotai. “Sir, an enemy fighter has shot down one of our planes!”

He took advantage of the fact that he was still on radio to order the planes to stay in formation. A lone bomber was highly vulnerable; the fire of an entire group of bombers, on the other hand, could intimidate enemy fighters, and even shoot one down.

“How many are there, and what kind?” he asked, returning to the pilot’s seat.

“Only one, sir,” replied Yamaoka. “It looks like a P-26.”

Kuroiwa looked at his copilot. “You mean a P-36?”

“No, sir, a P-26,” Yamaoka insisted.

Kuroiwa looked through the windows of the Hamaki, unsuccessfully trying to spot their mysterious attacker. He did not know whether he should pity, admire, or laugh at him. Whichever way you looked at it, the P-26 was as obsolete an American fighter as they came. A Sopwith Camel from World War I would have been considered only a bit more dated. It was amazing that the Americans would still have similar aircraft in a place as important as the Canal.

“A P-26…” mused Kuroiwa. “What kind of baka would climb into the cockpit of a piece of junk like that in this day and age?”


When he's not writing alternate history, Byron McSutton teaches real history in a local university and translates books. He's also the author of La guerra de 2012: Perú - Chile.

 

[luis3007]

Next part is up, please comments and opinions are very welcome!!

Chapter 1, ii

“Take that, you Jap sons of bitches!” Samuel Kemp hollered after attacking the enemy bombers. His elation quickly dissipated as he focused on a much more pressing issue at hand. He had surprised the enemy formation by attacking out of the sun, which prevented the gunners from seeing him until it was too late. It being a little after 1pm, Lieutenant Kemp was now in a near-vertical dive.

Come on, come on, come on he kept on telling himself as he pulled on the control stick. He could hear the plane’s fuselage groaning –especially from the frail, wire-braced wings– and realized that this maneuver had been rather unwise for an aircraft of this class. Although the howling of the wind drowned out any other sound –the small P-26 lacked a fully enclosed cockpit– he could still feel his heart beating a mile a minute. A ninety-degree impact against the Isthmus of Panama would be a rather inglorious way to put an end to his brief participation in the war.

Kemp heaved a sigh of relief when he finally managed to level out the P-26. He scanned his surroundings, trying to locate the formation he had just attacked. “Fuck,” he said to no one in particular upon seeing them several thousand feet above him.

All but one. One of the enemy bombers was going down while one of its engines released a thick plume of smoke. A kill! He had to pause for a moment to remember the designation of the aircraft in order to report his aerial victory. Before doing so, however, he recalled that his pursuit plane did not even have a radio on board. Those Jap names are fucking impossible anyway. It was only when the bomber finally crashed into the ocean that Sam realized that its crew had not bailed out.

Hoping to get another kill, he revved up his Peashooter and tried to regain altitude. With only two machine guns, the P-26 really did seem to be a peashooter in comparison with more modern pursuit aircraft. With such limited firepower, Kemp considered himself fairly lucky to have achieved his first kill against a twin-engined bomber. But lightning could strike twice, so he was determined to catch up to his enemies.

The gap was getting bigger, though. A colleague from his training days, Justin Hankins, had commented in a bar in Panama that when the Germans invaded Poland in 1939, the Polish pursuit planes could not keep up with the German bombers. Kemp had no qualms about having a good laugh at the Polacks’ expense, but right then, he figured he was going through much of the same frustration “Shit,” he muttered under his breath when he realized the bombers were outrunning him.

Resigned, he turned west toward Río Hato airbase, but then changed his mind. He had sortied without authorization in a radio-less plane and had refrained from waiting for the rest of his squadron. Had he waited for the rest of the pilots arrive at the airfield after recovering from Saturday’s drunken shenanigans, however, he probably would not have taken off until Monday. The fact that he too was hungover did not overly concern him.

In addition to that act of indiscipline, he was sure that the Panamanian whose car he commandeered at gunpoint would have a lot to complain about. If I’m going to be in trouble, I might as well have a little more fun. One kill might soften the reprimands. Two kills might get him a transfer to a unit with real pursuit planes. He set off toward the canal. There might be more enemies.

Only a few minutes elapsed before he detected more targets: a formation of bombers heading south, probably after attacking the La Chorrera airfield. The pursuit pilot quickly assessed the situation and concluded that he did not have time to repeat the previous maneuver. He would have to attack them in the flank, from the same height. Here we go.

This time the bombers detected his arrival and let loose an intense defensive fire. Amid the machine gun fire, Kemp pressed the attack and fired his own barrage. In a few seconds, he found himself on the other side of the enemy formation, but he was almost certain that he had hit at least one of them a few times. A quick glance at his fuselage confirmed that he too had been hit, and the enemy bombers continued shooting at him. The engine started to make a strange clanking noise.

He glanced back. No bomber was straggling or losing altitude. Fuck. No second kill today. The time had come to return to base. That is, assuming the base still existed, which could not be taken for granted. He headed toward Río Hato.

What nagged at him about that last attack was that he had not recognized the Japanese bombers. Their dual rudders differed from the first group that he had intercepted. Have they attacked us with a new model? While pondering whether the aircraft’s roundels were strange, he was interrupted by a sight that made his pulse quicken again.

At three o’clock, four Navy Type 0 Carrier Pursuits were turning to get on his tail. Oh, fuck me. He pushed the control stick to the right, toward the curve of the Japanese. The P-26 might be slow, fragile, and lightly armed, but it was very maneuverable. It was the only thing that he would be able to count on to get out of this alive.

It was not working, however. The Japanese pursuit planes matched his turn radius, and began narrowing it too. Soon, they would be able to shoot him practically point-blank.

A last resort. Kemp rolled the Peashooter until it was upside down, and then yanked on the control stick. A strong pressure crushed him against his seat. Come on, come on. Compared to four enemy pursuit planes, fuselage cracks were a secondary concern.

It was futile, though. Either the Japanese pursuit planes were good or their pilots were. Even worse, it could have been a combination of both. Whatever the case, while leveling out, Samuel Kemp looked at his mirrors and realized that they had not had the slightest difficulty in following his maneuver. He could do nothing but watch helplessly as the tracers got closer and closer to his plane until…

“Fuck!” A 20 mm projectile blew a hole in his left wing, igniting a fire. Machine gun bullets began to pepper his P-26.

He tried to keep control of the plane while he unfastened his seatbelt. For the first time, he felt grateful for being in an airplane without a closed cockpit. He threw himself out of the plane head first, praying that the tail would not hit his head. A friend of his had died that way in training.

He was in free fall moments later, and out of control. Despite having trouble breathing, he managed to deploy his parachute. He felt a strong pull throughout his body that almost made him lose consciousness, but regained his composure shortly afterwards. In the distance, he saw his P-26 going down in flames, and a bit farther away, he saw the Japanese pursuit planes turn smoothly and head toward him.

The feeling of terror returned. There he was, hanging in the air, completely helpless and unable to take any evasive action. No one would miss an obsolete P-26, but one fewer pilot might take a significant toll. Or at least it would for him.

As his reflexes kicked in, he put his arms and legs in front of his body, knowing it would be of little use if they intended to shoot him with their machine guns. Even worse, they could shoot his parachute and let gravity do the rest. For a reason unbeknownst to him, he thought about Dorothy at that moment.

He also recalled the drunkenness of the previous evening. Justin had warned him that his reputation as an unruly whippersnapper had tanked any possibility of being assigned to a squadron equipped with more modern pursuit planes. Only a war could breathe new life into his dead end of a career. “If that’s what it takes, let there be war!” he had answered drunkenly. His wish had been granted, but he concluded that a dead career was preferable to being dead himself.

The Type 0s passed within a few hundred feet. It happened in an instant, but Sam could see the lead pilot give a friendly wave, after which he sped away to continue looking for targets. For now, Samuel Kemp would continue living. Despite not being particularly religious, he murmured a “Thank you, Lord.”


When he's not writing alternate history, Byron McSutton teaches real history in a local university and translates books. He's also the author of La guerra de 2012: Perú - Chile.

 

[mlp]

That was amazing!

 

[rush4you]

So you know Byron? Tell him to continue the TL where he left it in his website! (and you update it here more often too)

And not wanting to spoil those who didn't read it in Spanish yet, but if a certain couple of countries decide to join the already large enbroilment, WW2 can really take a dramatic turn without ASBs, and they can really join...