Christopher Nuttall

THE LONG HARD ROAD

Prologue

Fuhrerbunker

Berlin, Germany

15th July 1941

Professor Adrian Horton, professor of history and prisoner of the German Reich, looked up as the blonde SS officer entered. The last few days had been terrifying; the SS had simply locked him and his family in their rooms and ignored all their requests for explanations – or even a chance to ask the Reichsführer what was happening. Horton had prayed, something he hadn’t done for years, asking for help; the sound of shooting had echoed through the vast bunkers.

He’d wondered if the SAS had tried to rescue them, but he knew that – no matter the genial and friendly impression Himmler offered – the SS would have killed them all before letting the British recover them. The amount of information he knew would make his rescue a total disaster – Himmler knew that, he must know that.

“Come with me,” SS Obergruppenfuehrer Herman Roth said. Horton studied the SS officer, the first SS officer he’d met in the flesh, as it were, with concern; Roth’s face was pale. Was he imagining it, or was that a splash of blood on Roth’s normally dapper uniform? What had happened?

He kissed his white wife, Jasmine, goodbye, before following Roth out of their rooms and into the main tunnels. There were signs of devastation along the corridors; the scent of gunfire was in the air. He sniffed; the smell of dead bodies was also present, along with the smell of fear and scared humans.

“What’s happened?” He asked, wondering what had happened. A coup? An air raid? A nuclear attack? Had someone made a desperate grab for power? “We heard shooting…”

“I dare say you did,” Roth said, in English. His voice was flat, soft, tired. It had nothing of the slight disdain that all of the SS officers showed when speaking to Himmler’s black oracle, just a deep tiredness. “Events got a bit out of hand.”

Horton blinked; Roth’s English had improved. He smiled to himself; the rumours that Roth had been sleeping with the English reporter who was kept somewhere else within the complex were clearly true. He wondered how she was; he’d only met her once, but she would be alone in the complex.

“That sounds like a story,” he said, as they passed a mangled corridor. Even with a repair team having clearly worked on it, it didn’t look safe. “What happened here?”

“A hand grenade,” Roth said. His voice darkened. “In the midst of all the confusion, one of the Wehrmacht generals made a grab for power, trying to bring down the bunker and expose us all to attack.”

Horton frowned. “Where are you taking me?” He asked. “This isn’t the way to the Reichsführer’s quarters.”

“I am to take you to see the Fuhrer,” Roth said, as they passed a second section where a battle had been fought. He shuddered; the battle must have been nightmarish, even in the dark. He had an impression of what it must have been like; flashes of gunfire in the darkness and knife-fights at point-blank range.

“Adolf Hitler?” Horton gasped, before he remembered himself. Disrespect to the Fuhrer was lethal here. Roth ignored him, approaching three menacing SS guards at the barricade.

“Obergruppenfuehrer Herman Roth and Professor Adrian Horton, here to see the Fuhrer,” Roth said. He passed over an identity card. “You will permit us entry at once.”

One of the guards, a man shaped like a gorilla, eyed Horton with interest. “Ah, the man with the beautiful wife,” he said. His voice was full of a leer; his face didn’t change at all. “Perhaps she wants a real man…”

“The Fuhrer ordered that any man who offered disrespect to the good Professor, or his wife, was to be lowered into a cask of acid, or perhaps sent to aid the recovery of radioactive debris from the nuclear strike,” Roth said pleasantly, before Horton could say anything unfortunate. “It would be a shame to lose you.”

Gorilla-features, his face living proof of the theory of evolution, finally showed some emotion, a flinch. “You may proceed,” he said quickly. “I will inform the Fuhrer that you are coming.”

Roth led the way into the inner office. Horton studied him out of the corner of his eye, wondering what to say. At the bottom, he was as much a prisoner of the dangerously-smart Roth as of gorilla-features, back in the outer guard post. He didn’t want to show gratitude, but he didn’t want to seem ungrateful either.

“Thank you,” he said finally.

“Think nothing of it,” Roth said breezily. Surprisingly, he seemed more energised as well. “People like that should be sent to the camps; it’s clear that he won’t rise any further.”

Horton shivered. Whenever he felt comfortable in Nazi Germany, it found a way to remind him of what hid behind the smile; a ravenous monster that had sought and achieved dominance over all of Europe, with the exception of Britain. Even with the recent… disaster in Turkey and the loss of Norway to a mainly American force, the Reich remained strong and very capable.

Roth tapped once on the door to Hitler’s room and opened it. “In you go,” he said, without announcing him. Horton blinked and stepped inside; it was brightly lit for once, rather than the grey dimness that Hitler had preferred. He gasped at the identity of the man behind the desk… and then wondered why it had been a shock.

“Good evening, Herr Professor,” Heinrich Himmler said.

Horton stared at him, and then around the office. A full-length portrait of Adolf Hitler, draped in black silk, glared down at him, beside a large German flag. A map of Europe hung on the left wall; a series of pictures hung on the right. It didn’t take long to come to the correct conclusion.

“Good evening, Mein Fuhrer,” he said reluctantly.

As always, Himmler looked harmless, the very picture of a schoolmaster. His eyes glinted with evil intelligence, hidden behind his small pair of spectacles. He sat back and waved Horton to one of the chairs positioned in front of his desk, watching him over clasped hands, almost as if he was going to lead the room in prayer.

“The Fuhrer is dead, long live the Fuhrer,” Himmler said. His voice betrayed no exultation. “I have succeeded to the office of Leader – Führer und Reichskanzler – of the Greater German Reich.”

Horton concealed his sudden dismay. Hitler had been a mad genius who would – or would have – finally taken one gamble too many. Himmler was altogether more down-to-Earth; would he make the same mistakes?

“My accession was not accepted by everyone,” Himmler said, waving his hand around the office. “Several members of the Wehrmacht sought to overthrow me and mount a separate peace attempt. Fortunately for the destiny of Germany, they failed.”

Horton said nothing, thinking as fast as he could. “We will recover what your people and the Americans stole from us,” Himmler said. “And you, my dear professor, are going to help us do it.”

He passed over a set of coloured photographs. Horton looked down at them and gasped in horror; a man hung on a set of meat hooks. He didn’t recognise him, but the blood dripping down to the floor was horrifying.

“That was Doctor Theodore Morell,” Himmler said. The note of cold satisfaction in his voice was unmistakable. “A spy in the pay of the British; something he gave our Fuhrer gave him a brain… problem.”

“And Adolf Hitler is dead,” Horton realised. “What do you want from me?”

“I will be frank with you, as the Americans say,” Himmler said. “Quite frankly; I have considered simply disposing of you. History has been changed sharply… and your knowledge of the direct path of the future has been devalued. However” – he paused long enough for Horton to feel a flicker of hope – “you understand the forces at work far better than anyone else under my direct control… and, of course, it would be impossible for you to take power for yourself.”

He smiled wryly. “You, Professor, are going to be my Grand Vizier.”

Horton gaped at him. Did insanity come with the role of Fuhrer? “Mein Fuhrer,” he said, “you want me to advise you?”

Himmler nodded. “Tell me, who else can I trust?”

Horton thought as fast as he could. “I have a condition,” he said. Himmler lifted an eyebrow. “I want my family returned to Britain.”

Himmler held his gaze, just long enough to be uncomfortable. “You are in no position to make bargains,” he said. Horton said nothing. “You will be required to serve me faithfully,” Himmler said. “If there is the slightest mistake… well, look at the end of the quack.”

Horton looked at the pictures again. “I understand,” he said finally. “You will return them?”

“We will ask the British to pick them up,” Himmler said. “Failing that, we can return them through Portugal. Now, my Grand Vizier… what is your advice?”

Horton sighed. “My honest advice is to sue for peace,” he said. “One way or another, it can’t be much longer before the Allies come for Berlin.”

Himmler smiled. “Perhaps,” he said, and outlined his plan. Horton listened with growing horror; the plan was cunning, terrifying… and it might just work.

Chapter One: The First Step Forward

Ten Downing Street

London, United Kingdom

23rd March 1942

As he had done every day for the past two years, Prime Minister Sir Charles Hanover checked the report of the Weird Incident Investigative Group; the council of scientists set up to study the Transition. The Transition, the event that had put the entire nation of Britain back in 1940, two years ago, had been determined to be an unnatural event, but past that…? No one had a clue; from eminent scientists to women who read tealeaves… it was as big a mystery as ever.

Perhaps we’ll find out the answer one day, but not for a while, Hanover thought, picking up his cup of tea and taking a sip. It wasn’t what it had been once; the supplies of tea from 2015 had run out nearly three months ago, even under the rationing system. The various merchants had forged new links with India, but the tea just wasn’t the same. Hanover chuckled; given the chaos enveloping India’s borders with Soviet-occupied Iran, he supposed he should consider himself lucky to have it.

A mound of briefing papers and emails occupied his attention, demanding that he study their contents and make executive decisions that his subordinates would translate into real live action. General Cunningham, working with SHAFE – Supreme headquarters Allied Forces Europe – was particularly insistent, demanding that Hanover order the RAF to assign more of the priceless handful of tactical support bombers to support the Allies in Scandinavia, the war raging across Norway and Sweden.

Hanover cursed. He’d hoped for – worked for – an American declaration of war against Russia, allowing the British a rest and a chance to rebuild their strength. Instead, the declaration had come at the wrong time… and a three-way war had broken out in Scandinavia. The American forces, after having kicked the Germans out of Norway, had been hammered by the Soviets; General Patton had been forced to feed more and more men into the maelstrom. In the meantime, the Soviets had recovered from the shock of the nuclear strike against their supply lines… and managed to launch a minor offensive into India.

Blasted logistics, Hanover thought coldly, staring out of the window at the cold grey sky. Logistics prevented Patton from evicting the Soviet Army back to Finland and beyond; logistics prevented the British from developing the ability to defeat Russia in Iran once and for all. Between the sudden need to protect the Turks, who at least could fight once they were rearmed with modern weapons, and the need to strengthen the defences of India, mounting an offensive had become impossible.

Hanover shook his head wryly. The talking heads, the people who gave their opinions on television, had claimed that America entering the war meant the victory was in the bag, claiming that it would all be over by Christmas 1941. As it had happened… the decisive defeat of the Germans in the Middle East had saved them from having to fight the Germans as well as the Russians in that theatre, but at the cost of damaging relations between the Republic of Arabia and Turkey.

Hanover glanced up at the map. The only good thing to have come out of the victory – apart from removing nearly half a million Germans from the balance sheet – had been the chance to help the Republic of Arabia to grow properly. Soon, he knew, it would absorb Iraq… and that was where the problems were going to begin. Not only had the Turks snatched a large chunk of Syria, but they were also evicting the Kurds… and pressing a claim to the oil wells in Northern Iraq.

Bastards, Hanover thought coldly. For once, he had had no argument with Shahan McLachlan, a man who might grow up into the leader of the Muslim Reformation. He certainly hadn’t done badly, forming the Republic of Arabia out of the desert wastes of the former Saudi Arabia – and working to create the first Muslim democratic state. Shahan had protested and threatened war… and if the Soviets hadn’t taken that day to remind the Turks that they still existed, it might have done very badly for everyone. The Russians had bitten off a chunk of Turkey, which had started the Turks screaming for help themselves.

Hanover sighed. There were nearly one hundred thousand British soldiers dug in near Istanbul, holding the supply lines closed and defending Turkey, even though they were no longer needed there. Politics demanded they stay there, even as politics demanded that a similar force remain in England at all times, against the impossible threat of a German invasion.

It was a great deal simpler when we were on our own, Hanover thought, and took a sip of tea. In the Far East, where America wasn’t at war with Japan – despite supplying Australia and India with weapons – the Japanese refused to admit that they were beaten. They’d lost almost all of their fleet to British ships – Admiral Turtledove had redeemed himself in the eyes of the Board of Inquiry – and several of their army divisions had been annihilated during the ill-fated invasion of Australia.

Hanover clenched his fist, squeezing the cup tightly. Once the new submarines were at their base in Australia – fifty new diesel submarines – the Japanese supply lines would be cut, once and for all. He’d argued that the submarines they did have should be sent in at once, but the Australians had been reluctant; they’d wanted to ensure that they moved in with overwhelming force.

Hanover shuddered. Not only were the Japanese moving thousands of their own people to China, displacing the Chinese, but they were reinforcing their own defences. Even with the advanced technology, the death toll of an attempt to invade Japan itself would be ghastly… except how else could they compel the Japanese to surrender?

Atomic weapons, Hanover thought, and shuddered again. The Americans were working hard on their own weapons, and he knew that the Germans and Russians were trying hard to complete a bomb. After all, they had a very good reason to want one… and plenty of incentive to use it. Once America got into the fight, and Scandinavia was secured… the invasion of Europe could begin.

* * *

“Production of JDAM weapons is up by fifty-seven percent,” Armin Prushank, the Minister for War Production, reported. As always, his voice was boring and depressing at the same time. Hanover always made him talk first, just to keep everyone awake. “While the demand for bombs for Norway and the rest of Scandinavia remains high, we should be able to meet production targets for the other war zones.

“Unfortunately, we cannot add more to the fleet of converted tactical heavy bombers,” he continued. Something very much like a sigh echoed from the military men in the room. “We have to balance the requirements and ensure that we have enough cargo capability to meet transportation requirements; only twelve aircraft can be spared.”

Hanover scowled to himself. Twelve. Twelve converted cargo planes; all converted into bombers, was all they had. Given a couple of years, they could have made the sky black with bombers, but there wasn’t time, not with Himmler running things just across the Channel.

“Fortunately, production of advanced anti-tank weapons, and limited anti-tank weapons from America, has risen considerably,” Prushank concluded. Hanover smiled to himself; fortunately Prushank was also good at writing briefing notes. “While building more than a handful of extra 2015 tanks is going to be difficult, we will maintain superiority in anti-tank weapons until the end of the war.”

He sat down. Hanover nodded to him and spoke gently. “Thank you,” he said. “Gentlemen, it is not an exaggeration to say that the decisions we make here will affect the course of history. We have to decide what we are doing to do – this year – to end the war.”

“That is an urgent requirement,” Noreen Adam, Public Affairs Representative, said. Her dark skin, partially concealed by a black headscarf, was bruised in places. She hadn’t had an easy life; everyone knew that. Hanover considered her; Muslim or not, she was no fool.

“As you know, dissatisfaction with the war is growing,” she said. “There was a great deal of expectation that the Americans would be able to take over and…”

“Do most of the heavy lifting,” Cunningham supplied.

“Effectively,” Noreen said. If she was rattled or annoyed, she didn’t show it. “Many people… just didn’t grasp that we were back in 1940, back in the days after the Transition. We are not a small island off the coast of America; we’re one entire country and – let’s face it – not many of us have relatives overseas to lose contact with entirely. In many ways, the rationing and the shortages, to say nothing of losing all of the communications and the Internet outside the United Kingdom, didn’t impact on that many people; they expected us to solve the problems and to some extent we have.

“Unfortunately, they want the war over with, so they can get back to their normal lives,” she continued. “Instead, we’re going to have to launch an invasion of Europe… and it’s harder to work up public anger at Himmler than Hitler. Hell, how many people know who Himmler was? Is? They know that the death toll will be appalling… and they don’t want their people to die.”

“Neither do we,” Cunningham snapped.

“I know that, General,” Noreen said. “It’s harder to convince the public. It wasn’t quite real, not until it dragged on and on and… when it became clear that there wouldn’t be a quick victory, they want the war to end with some kind of peaceful settlement.”

“Hah,” Admiral Grisham muttered. “These people are evil incarnate.”

Noreen met her eyes. “With all due respect, Admiral, so were some of the west’s allies in the terror war.”

“Enough,” Hanover said. “Yes, that is a problem, and hopefully the war can be ended this year, before this becomes a worse problem.” He scowled. “However… John?”

“Well, the Turks want us to launch an invasion up towards Stalingrad,” McLachlan, Hanover’s closest ally on the Cabinet, said. “They want us to rid Iran of the Russians, which – incidentally – would please the Indians.” He chuckled. “It’s pretty much the only thing they all agree on – that and the need to wipe out the Japanese force in Burma.”

Hanover scowled. The Japanese had launched three divisions into Burma after failing to take Singapore. Their logistics had collapsed in the awful terrain… and they’d just been left there, as far as any of PJHQ’s analysts could determine. The Japanese had been left there for nearly a year and a half, terrorising the local population and trying to muster the strength to tackle the line of defences along the Indian border.

“They’ve still not managed to agree on a constitution?” He asked. The Indians had ended up nearly fighting a civil war; only thirty thousand Contemporary troops and a great deal of luck had prevented one from breaking out… that, and the Japanese troops at the door. Hanover smiled; leaving them alone had proven to be worth the arguments from PJHQ.

“I’m afraid not,” McLachlan said. “From what General Wavell sent, the real problem is that none of the groups involved really trusts the others. Some of them – the Sikhs mainly – want us to stay involved as honest brokers, while the INC wants to move at once to full independence as part of the Commonwealth. As you know, this affects our ability to recruit troops from India… and in the meantime that fool Bose is making trouble in the north.”

Hanover scowled. “And the Americans?”

“Well, they’re finally getting over the manpower problems they had and they’re raising new forces now,” McLachlan said. “Ambassador King was working on training them up to our standards, equipped with the weapons we designed for them, and hopefully they’ll be ready to march all the way to Moscow. I believe that President Truman was going to discuss the long-range plans with you in a few weeks.”

Hanover nodded. “So… what are our options?” He asked. “Major?”

Major Steve Stirling coughed. As the most junior person in the room, he wasn’t always visible to the others in the room. “The Oversight Committee has been considering the matter,” he said. “It is reasonably clear that Germany remains our most dangerous opponent; the science of the Soviet Union can’t match the Allied production advantages. The Oversight Committee has therefore prepared a number of operation plans for your study and approval.

“The first plan is to force a landing in the Netherlands and take the docks there, rather like we did at Gallipoli, but far more complicated,” he said, adjusting the map. “Once established there, we can bring in forces from England – as we’re going to be building up forces in England anyway – and march into Germany, therefore bypassing France. Once we defeat the Germans in Berlin, we can mop up their occupation forces after defeating the Russians.

“The downside of the plan is while it promises the quickest end to the war, short of using nuclear weapons, it runs the greatest risk of catastrophic defeat by facing the might of the German army head on in very bad terrain. The Germans would have a window of opportunity to throw us back into the sea, which would be very costly in time and lives.

“The second plan is to invade through Spain,” he said, adjusting the display to match. “The build-up would be in north Africa, which would avoid the social problems in the time-honoured manner of passing them on to someone else. While that would allow us to link up with the resistance in Spain, it would force us to grind our way over the mountains, through France and into Germany. Again, the downside is serious; while it offers the best chance of establishing a secure position on the continent, it forces us to fight our way through growing opposition and the death toll will be immense.

“The third and final plan – although the Turks have been hinting at an offensive through the Balkans – is to launch an invasion through Italy,” he concluded. “While picking off some of their islands is a good idea, it would be far more difficult to launch an invasion fighting our way up Italy.”

“Very good,” Hanover said. “Any questions?”

“Why not just land in France and balance the two problems?” Cunningham asked. “We already know most of the problems with that approach.”

“The Germans might do so as well,” Stirling said. “While yes, a landing in France has much to recommend it, we would still have problems with advancing into Germany… and there would be political issues as well.”

Hanover nodded grimly. Two years after the Transition – and the disappearance of General DeGaulle – the French hadn’t managed to muster even a token resistance to the Germans. The Vichy Government had played upon the loss of Algeria – and its current status as a provisionally independent region – to muster anti-British support from the French, something that Tomahawk strikes had only made worse. While there were a handful of resistance agents, there was no Free French. The same pretty much went for Italy and Spain; ironically, only Germany had a resistance force, the Bundeswehr.

“Certainly, we owe them no favours,” he said. “One way or the other, we’ll have to discuss this with the Americans, seeing that we’ll be mounting a joint offensive.”

Stirling nodded. “The Oversight Committee believes that we should clear up Iran and Iraq, and then launch the invasion of Europe – wherever the Americans want to land, seeing they’ll be providing much of the manpower – in June,” he said. “The long-term plan, marching to Moscow, will have to depend on the outcome of the conflict in Europe. Of course, there are always the other plans.”

Hanover nodded. The orbiting Space Station Hamilton, the construction that the Ministry of Space had assembled in orbit, provided a great deal of the communications and orbital reconnaissance network. He smiled; there were plans to deploy space-based weapons against the Russians… and of course there was the Russian Resistance, which was slowly building up in Russia.

“So,” Hanover said, “we’ll concentrate on Iraq and Iran for April and May?”

General Cunningham nodded. “Quite frankly, sir, we’ve waited too long as it was. I understand the politics behind the decision, as well as the need to send almost all of our new production of weapons to support the Americans, but that’s given Stalin time to build up his own forces.”

Hanover sighed. “We’ve been over that before,” he said. “Short of forcing the Americans to fight on their own, we would have – had had – no choice, but to send them what assistance we could. Still, we have better tanks and better people; we will defeat Stalin.” He looked around the room. “Any final points before I meet with the President?”

Adam Toulouse, Secretary of State for Defence, coughed. “Prime Minister, what about the Japanese?”

“The Australians want to discuss that with us at the coming conference,” McLachlan said. “They want limited offensives to add to their own territory; now that Menzies is certain of victory, he wants to use the Australian forces to take the Dutch East Indies and the other islands and bring them into the Commonwealth.”

Hanover smiled at the thought. It wasn’t one he disapproved of; the future Indonesia had caused quite enough trouble in the future and Sir Robert Gordon Menzies, Prime Minister of Australia, was quite right to try to head it off at the pass.

“We cannot just let them add to their own territory,” Anna Hathaway, Home Secretary, injected. Hanover smiled; it was more a case of not bothering to stop them. “The public…”

“The public would be delighted at how the Aussies are saving the lives of people who would be hit by a typhoon later,” McLachlan snapped. Hanover shrugged; the basic weather pattern had remained the same, but there were small changes happening all the time, growing into bigger changes. With two nuclear weapons deployed – such a bloodless term – it was very likely to change the weather in the future.

Hanover tapped the table. “There is a more important issue at hand,” he said. “What do we do about Japan?” He looked around the table. “Invade them? Costly beyond nightmares. Nuke them? Unthinkable. Starve them out? Unimaginable. What in bloody hell do we do?”

Chapter Two: The Price of Power

Fuhrerbunker

Berlin, Germany

23rd March 1942

They were out to get him, of course.

Führer und Reichskanzler Heinrich Himmler sat in his office and stared down at the report. He’d been careful, in the days before the future Britain had arrived to… complicate matters, to ensure that the SS had good eyes and ears in the other segments of the German system. It had been that – that and sheer bloody determination and calculation – that had allowed him to pick up the reins of power since Adolf Hitler had passed away, struck down by a brain spasm caused by the so-called future medicines from his doctor.

He’d blamed it on the British, of course, extracting a confession from the doctor of British involvement in the plot, striking down the greatest military genius that Germany had ever known. It had provided an excuse to purge Germany of defeatists and troublemakers, people who dared to suggest that the war was lost. He smiled to himself; all they had to do was hold out long enough to build the feared weapons of mass destruction… and use them to force a draw.

Hitler never thought like this, he thought, and smiled. Hitler had devised the plan to trick the Americans into fighting the Soviets personally, but he hadn’t taken it to its logical conclusion. If the Germans provided a great deal of support to the Russians, they would have time to work Russia into their empire… without the brave, powerful and utterly futile invasion that Hitler had ordered, minutes before he died.

It had been a dangerous couple of weeks, just after Hitler had passed away. Some elements in the Wehrmacht had believed that Himmler himself had killed the Fuhrer; even his alliance with Field Marshal Kesselring hadn’t distracted them from several plots to end his rule. Himmler smiled; he’d learnt a great deal from books pilfered from America… including how to run a surveillance state. How could anyone mount a coup if the landline network, built to hide their messages from British decryption computers, was under SS control?

“Rommel,” he cursed. He’d worked hard to turn the former General’s name into a curse. The renegade British cocksucker still broadcast to Germany, sending a recorded transmission every week to the Volk, trying to corrupt their holy purpose. German intelligence, working with the NKVD and GRU, hadn’t been able to establish what had happened to the Germans who had surrendered along with Guderian – another traitor – but Himmler was grimly certain that many of them would have joined Rommel’s band of traitors.

After all, you could find traitors anywhere these days.

“Pah,” Himmler snapped, glancing down the list of people suspected of harbouring treacherous thoughts. It wasn’t a big list; just a handful of Wehrmacht officers suspected of being part of the conspiracy that had nearly cost him his life. One officer, in particular, had a lovely young brown-haired wife… and the agent who had accused him had been a rival for her affections. Himmler considered; was it a genuine case of treachery… or just jealously?

“Albert,” he snapped into the air, without looking up. Seconds later, his young male secretary and bodyguard marched into the room, pulling a perfect salute as he stopped in front of Himmler’s desk.

“Heil Himmler,” he bellowed, with perfect parade-ground presentation. “Mein Fuhrer!”

“Ah, Albert,” Himmler said. The young man glowed with pleasure at being addressed by his first name by the Fuhrer himself. Himmler wished that Roth or one of the smarter SS officers had been available for the task, but they were required elsewhere. It was so hard to know who to trust these days, without the knowledge of the future that Professor Horton had possessed and interpreted for them.

“I am at your service, Mein Führer,” Albert bellowed. Himmler smiled; if he’d asked the young man to bend over for sodomy, he would have done so without hesitation. Himmler scowled; some of the senior Nazis had that kind of bent, despite the fact that homosexuals were marked for extermination, but it wasn’t one of his vices.

“Take this list,” Himmler ordered, checking some of the names. “All, but this one” – indicating the possible case of jealously – “are to be eliminated forthwith. That one, Albert, is to be investigated by… ah, Kurt, I think, and I am to be informed before any action is taken.”

“Jawohl, Mein Fuhrer,” Albert bellowed. Himmler nodded; if the young man were guilty, Himmler would have no hesitation about throwing him – and his lovely wife as well – into the gas chambers, but if he was innocent the Reich could hardly afford to dispose of him.

“Thank you,” Himmler said. The young man glowed. “Please send in my Grand Vizier as you pass his office.”

Albert, who didn’t have the imagination to start wondering why the Fuhrer was associating with such an obvious subhuman, saluted once, about turned, and stamped out of the office in perfect steps. Himmler smiled; the various training sessions that Albert had undergone had stamped imagination out of his system, and any of the initiative that made Roth and Kruger so valuable.

Himmler returned to his reports – a report from the growing network within America – about American military preparations. It made grim reading; the Americans, under their best general, Patton, had finally managed to overcome the manpower crisis that had nearly crippled American operations in Norway. By the time the winter had literally frozen both sides in their bases, the Americans had managed to stem the joint German-Soviet advances that had threatened to shove them back into the Atlantic.

He grinned to himself, as he moved on to the next report. As long as the Americans had a major front open with the Soviet Union, they would have difficulty in trying anything clever in Europe. Without British bomber support – and that had been far less evident in recent months – the Americans couldn’t force the Germans out of Scandinavia, let alone interfere with the extensive mining operations that had sealed the Allies out of the Baltic Sea. The resettlement program could continue… and the Reich would have something it needed desperately, new pure Aryan blood.

“Mein Fuhrer,” a voice said from the door. Himmler looked up and smiled, the kind of smile that one would give to a favoured dog or cat. Professor Horton nodded politely to him and took his seat, facing Himmler.

* * *

The irony of it all, Professor Horton had found, was that Himmler wasn’t a bad boss, not compared to some of the university deans he’d had to scrape and bow to before getting tenure. You could speak your mind to him, as long as you were respectful, and you could trust him not to shout ‘off with his head.’

He would have smiled, were it still possible for him. His post as ‘Grand Vizier’ was one of Himmler’s little jokes; the new Fuhrer’s sense of humour emerged at the oddest times. Like one of the oriental Grand Vizier’s, he had very little power… except access to all of the information collected by a growing network of German spies and agents across the world. Himmler had been right, of course; there was no way that he could seek to take Himmler’s place.

“I trust that your wife and children are fine,” Himmler said, reminding Horton of the price for his services. He’d watched from the shadows, under the watchful eye of two SS men, as a British helicopter picked them up from Bremen. Since then, they’d exchanged emails through Kristy Stewart’s system.

“They’re fine,” he said. “The children are doing very well in their German studies.”

“That’s good to know,” Himmler said, his face portraying interest Horton was fairly certain was faked. As always, the Fuhrer reminded Horton of a snake… seemingly harmless, but deadly dangerous. “Now… what sort of policies is President Truman likely to follow towards us and our allies?”

Horton allowed himself a moment to consider. Himmler had hoped that the new Truman Government would destroy itself, but Truman had managed to hold America together, with a great deal of luck. Since then, the Americans had poured reinforcements into Norway… and worked hard to impede German reinforcements to Sweden.

“It would depend on the ally,” he said finally. “They’re not likely to be too pleased with the French, or the Spanish. That would suggest that they would impose their own democracies on top of the nations, which would be something of an improvement. The French, especially, could do with a new government. The problem, of course, is Russia; if I was in their place I would be considering a direct land invasion as soon as possible.”

“That accords with my own beliefs,” Himmler said mildly. Horton scowled inwardly; Himmler was way too clever to take himself too seriously. The day that Hitler had died, the Allies had lost their greatest ally. “In fact, given that we have had the most success in converting the future knowledge to practical technology, they will consider us the first target. Now… what will they do?”

Horton frowned inwardly. Misleading Himmler was going to be difficult. “For political reasons, they might well want to… assist the British in Iran,” he said. “America had good relations with Iran before Stalin invaded, and Truman might want to use that as an excuse for post-war influence in the region. He won’t want the British-allied state in Arabia gobbling it all up.”

He smiled. “Oil won’t be as important this time around, with hydrogen-powered cars being mass-produced instead of polluters on wheels,” he said. “He may discover that it’s a bust.”

Himmler smiled. “That’s something I wish we could develop ourselves,” he said. “Oil is a persistent… problem.”

Horton nodded. Ever since the nuclear warhead had vaporised the massive oil refinery in Romania, Germany had been having shortages of oil and other materials. Stalin had provided thousands of tons of materials… but at a price.

“I wonder if we could play on that somehow,” Himmler mused, making a note. He frowned. “It’s a shame that so many American industrialists were tried for treason; they would have protested against losing their oil revenues, would they not?” Horton nodded. “Anyway… carry on…”

“For domestic reasons, particularly after the New York incident, the Americans will want to hammer the Soviets as well,” Horton said. “Intervening in Iran gives them an opportunity for doing that without committing themselves to a conflict that will last for the rest of the year… and perhaps lead to snowy disaster. Their Joint Chiefs – whatever they’re called in this era – will want to defeat Germany – us – before they face any new weapons.”

“Yes,” Himmler said. He stood up suddenly and paced over to the map. “They will come for us. So… my Grand Vizier, where will they land?”

Horton frowned inwardly. He’d wondered about that from the first, knowing that the British – at least – would know that he was in Berlin, and they would know that he would be ‘assisting’ Himmler… and he knew they knew…

He smiled. There weren’t that many options. “The Americans will want to move for a quick kill,” he said. “At the same time, they won’t be practiced enough to land directly in… say, Denmark. That close to our shore-based air, their losses would be appalling… and they know it. Their options really boil down to France, Spain or Italy.”

He waited while Himmler considered. There was an unmentioned option – and a handful of stupid options – and he wondered if Himmler would notice. If he did, he had some good reasons for ignoring it; the question was, would Himmler?

“What about a Balkan offensive?” Himmler asked finally. “Could they not launch an invasion through Turkey into Greece and Bulgaria?”

Horton relaxed slightly, glad that his face could not pale. “They could,” he said. “The problem would be that they would have to batter their way all the way to Berlin, passing through endless bloody slaughter… and the future British will know how bloody-minded the Balkan population is. They would have to spend several years marching to Berlin… and their lines would only get longer and longer. They’d dismiss it out of hand.”

“So… France, Italy, Spain,” Himmler said. “Which one would you bet on?”

Horton considered. “Either France or Italy,” he said finally. Himmler lifted a single eyebrow. “France because it lets them deploy near to Germany; Italy because you have a lot of your industry in Italy. Spain, on the other hand, is bad terrain for any invasion; you know how much trouble both sides had in their Civil War.”

Himmler nodded. “So… not Spain,” he said finally. “And do you think we could launch an invasion of England?”

Horton blinked, trying to conceal his shock. Himmler’s smile proved that he had failed. “I don’t think you have anything like the required shipping capability,” he said finally. “The Government would have ensured that there is enough troops in England to kill any that passed the RAF.”

“True, true,” Himmler mused. “The unsinkable aircraft carrier… well, well, well.”

“Is there anything else?” Horton asked politely. In a spy novel, he would have a code for passing messages to his wife, but he wasn’t in a novel and he didn’t have a code. “I would like to compose my next message.”

“Nothing else,” Himmler said. “Have Kesselring and Roth sent in as you leave.”

* * *

Himmler allowed himself a smile as Horton left, before resuming his seat and looking attentive. Field Marshal Kesselring, one of his closest allies, and Roth entered, taking their seats. Roth began to unravel a massive set of display papers for him, while Kesselring saluted him.

“Heil Himmler,” they both said, as soon as Himmler looked up.

“Heil,” Himmler replied. They were among his closest allies. He’d once joked, and said ‘Heil Me,’ and only a couple of people had laughed. Hitler had used to say that all the time when with his closest confidents. “What is the current status in Sweden?”

“Confused,” Kesselring said wryly. “As you know, we have the better part of a hundred thousand men in the south, while the Russians have nearly five times that many in the north. Between us… we just don’t have the ability to force the Americans back into the sea, and they don’t have the ability to do the same to us.”

“Splendid,” Himmler said, and outlined his conversation with Horton. “If the Americans land, can we stop them?”

“If we move quickly, then yes,” Kesselring said. “The most important and dangerous moments in a forced landing are the first twenty-four hours. If we can stop them then, we have won ourselves a breather.” He looked into Himmler’s eyes. “We have to spend everything then, planes, ships, men, to stop them from establishing a foothold.”

“Whatever it costs,” Himmler said. “What will this do to them?”

“Apart from costing them whatever it takes to invade us?” Kesselring asked. “It would certainly force them to rethink their plans, even to hold back for a few months. They, however, will do everything in their power to prevent us from counter-attacking at once.”

“I would expect no less,” Himmler said. “Obergruppenfuehrer Herman Roth, what about the development programs?”

“We have made considerable improvements to our anti-aircraft defences,” Roth said. “Although we cannot count on maintaining radio or radar contact, we have managed to slave guns to our radar. Our calculating device may be – is – primitive compared to the British equipment, but we have a far greater chance at bringing down enemy bombers than we had before.”

He smiled. “With some of the new warheads, we should be able to really convince them that they don’t want to fly the new American bombers over Europe,” he said. “In addition, we have a handful of radio-controlled bombs, using radio and television equipment to guide them in, which should make life interesting for the Americans.” He scowled. “Unfortunately, I’m pretty certain that the British can jam them, but we should get at least one blow in.”

“Good,” Himmler said. “What did dear Speer say?”

Roth flicked through his notes. “The Minister said that production was continuing to increase, based upon the reports of clashes with the new British tanks, which we imagine the Americans will use as well. The new anti-tank rockets have been improved as much as we can, but Speer wants more of them if we can make them.”

“I see,” Himmler said. He’d wanted to purge Speer, but the man was needed. “And the superweapons?”

Roth nodded. “The V1, which has more than proved its worth, remains in production,” he said. “Current units are over a thousand at the moment, mainly being aimed at American positions in Norway. The V2 rocket is being mass-produced at the moment; it awaits your decision on how to use them.”

Himmler frowned. “Have they worked all the bugs out?”

Roth snorted. “It’s hard to be certain,” he admitted. “We’ve only test-flown the ones in Siberia, and they worked fine.” He re-sorted his notes. “The V3 is being prepared for its test-flight now,” he said. “It represents a far greater effort than the V2, although its ability to hit America makes it worthwhile. Unfortunately, we’re fairly certain that the British will see it being launched, but what can they do to stop it?”

Himmler smiled. “Bringing home to the Americans the real cost of the war,” he said. “I assume that we passed on the V1’s to Japan?”

“The designs, yes,” Roth said. Himmler smiled; the little yellow men hadn’t proved themselves worthy of joining the master race, but they could at least soak up some of the British attention.

“Good,” Himmler said. “Now… what about the cooperation project?”

Roth hesitated. The idea didn’t sit well with him at all. “We can send the broken-down designs to Russia,” he said. “We assume that they know enough to build their own now, and we’ve been setting up factories in Russian territory, well out of the range of Allied bombers. Still… Mein Fuhrer, this isn’t just a tank design.”

Himmler waved a hand dismissively. “It won’t be long before the Russians become dependent upon us for their weapons,” he said. If Germany fell – and Himmler knew better than to plan for success – they would need bases in Russia. “Besides, the value of the V2 lies in its ability to shock the enemy… which is why we will be using it on Britain. What can it give Stalin that he doesn’t already have?”

Chapter Three: High Above the World

Churchill Space Centre

French Guiana, South America

25th March 1942

Major John Dashwood, Base Commander and director of the Ministry of Space, looked down on the effects of his labours and smiled. For five miles around, factories, barracks and assembly points dominated the scene, only slightly marred by the handful of trees planted in carefully-picked positions. A person in the complex could almost believe that they were back in 2015, rather than 1941. In two years, a massive portion of Guiana had been converted to the world’s first spaceport.

Dashwood grinned as he looked down at the world’s first SSTO spacecraft, a Hamilton-class vehicle capable of carrying seven passengers or two satellites into orbit, crewed by a single man. The craft hadn’t been designed by the British – it had been an American design that had taken years for NASA to approve, with several countries building their own copies while NASA waffled – but there was no need to tell anyone that, was there?

He sighed; he would have much preferred to use the Hamilton-class alone, but sheer logistics made that impossible. Much of the Ministry’s sheer lifting power came from the boosters, the Goddard-class basic launch rocket and the Clarke-class heavy lift rocket, each of which could launch more weight than any SSTO. Their problem, of course, was that they were hardly reusable, except some components of their final stages, which could be placed in orbit and used as part of Hamilton.

Thinking of the Space Station, as always, made him glance upwards. He couldn’t see it, of course, even with a telescope it was only a single spark in darkness, but he knew it was there. Ten men – and one woman – working to build a permanent home in space. He smiled; given how easy it was to launch an Armstrong-class tank launcher into orbit, the space station would soon be much larger.

“Then the moon,” he said. He knew that the Prime Minister had plans for the space station, ones that included tactical impact weapons to be deployed against Russia, but his plans were different. The funding practically forced them to move forward, running to establish as big a lead in space technology as they could; the American space program was far behind them. No one knew what the Nazis were up to – they’d tried to build a spaceplane and apparently failed – but they could build rockets. They’d done that without knowing a technological tree… and now they did, no one knew what they were up to.

“You can get quite some distance with brute force,” he muttered grimly. Truthfully, he was concerned that they hadn’t seen more German rockets; it didn’t take much imagination to see how control of space could offset all of the British advantages. It was one of the reasons why MI6 watched so closely for German space activities… and why Dashwood was concerned that they’d seen none.

Captain Troy Tempest, his second, nodded politely to him as he entered the control room. It was a vast improvement from the draft-racked open tower they’d used for the first few launches; Dashwood almost missed it. It had had… style the modern control room lacked.

“Any change in preparation to launch Thunderbird?” Dashwood asked. Thunderbird, the SSTO being prepared for launch now, was one of the only two in existence. “Can it still be launched on schedule?”

“Yes, sir,” Tempest said. “The three new crewmembers and some additional equipment for the station have arrived.”

“Excellent,” Dashwood said. “Anything else?”

“The Americans have repeated their request for permission to include one of their people for the trip,” Tempest said. “This was a bit… firmer.”

“Bastards,” Dashwood said. The ideal of cooperating with the Americans hadn’t matched up to the reality, when the Americans had started to repeat some of the mistakes they’d made the first time around. The Americans had suffered the worst space disaster so far as well, trying to launch a man into orbit without a proper capsule.

“They might end up taking it to the Prime Minister,” Tempest pointed out. Dashwood scowled. “They’re very determined to get their own program up and running.”

“Then why bother us for space on an SSTO they can’t duplicate for years?” Dashwood asked sharply. He considered the manifest for Thunderbird. “Is the bastard here now?”

“Yes, sir,” Tempest said. “He’s former pilot Zack Lynn, from the United States Navy. Sir, it’s hardly his fault.”

Dashwood glared at him. “This is going to make me unpopular with the pilots,” he said. “Bump… um, Daniels from the crew; inform him that we need his slot for an American. Who’s the pilot?”

“It’s Abernathy, sir,” Tempest said. “You know; the new guy.”

“The RAF pilot,” Dashwood muttered. “Very well; inform him that he has Mr Lynn joining him. When the Finance Committee complains, inform them that it was an American decision.”

“Very good, sir,” Tempest said.

* * *

Thunderbird sat on the launch pad, poised to jump for the stars. Victor Abernathy, formerly of the RAF, stared up at the craft as its main hatch opened, drinking in every detail of its shape. It was simple; a blunt cone, designed for boosting up from any location into space.

“Sheila would have loved this,” he said, thinking about his colleague, who combined a love-life of astonishing complexity with a sheer love of flying that had brought her to the RAF. Sheila Dunbar had tried to apply, but she had been rejected at the second hurdle; she wasn’t very good at allowing the computers control.

“Ah, you must be the new guy,” the crewman said. He stuck out a hand. “I’m Matt Tracker.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Abernathy said. “Do I just go onboard?”

“Do you have your tag?” Tracker asked, glancing at the security tag on Abernathy’s lapel. “Pass, friend.”

Abernathy chuckled and followed him into the cockpit, climbing up the ladder into the cockpit. It wasn’t much; just a flat deck with access to the airlock, and seven seats, placed close together in the centre. One of them held a bank of controls, designed to fly the ship when the computers failed.

“You’re going to take her up?” Tracker asked. Abernathy nodded. “We just gave the old girl a tune-up,” he said. “There’s nothing wrong with her at all.”

“That’s good,” Abernathy said. “Is there anything I should know that isn’t covered in the simulations?”

“Not really,” Tracker assured him. “The computers have control most of the time; if you have to take control, you’ve practiced for every conceivable eventuality. Just remember… living in the station isn’t easy.”

“You’ve been up there,” Abernathy said. “What’s it like?”

Tracker’s eyes shone. “Awesome,” he breathed.

“Captain Abernathy?” A man asked. “I’m Captain Tempest, deputy controller. The rest of your flight is here, except there’s been a slight hitch; we’ve had to add an American to your flight.”

Abernathy blinked. “I thought that seven was the maximum,” he said, wondering if it was a final test, to see how willing he was to break the rules. “Who are we booting?”

“Daniels,” Tempest said. “The others are coming onboard now.”

Abernathy stepped to one side as the six other astronauts stepped onto the cockpit deck. “That’s… not good,” he said. “Why…?”

“Politics,” Tempest said. He checked his watch. “Take your place, Captain,” he said. “You’re about to make history.”

“Could have been worse,” Tracker muttered, as Tempest left the cockpit. “At least you still have a back-up.”

“I suppose,” Abernathy said, checking his restraints. “Are you coming as well?”

Tracker chuckled. “I’d love to,” he said. “Still… seven only, don’t you know?”

He finished checking the straps and left before Abernathy could formulate a reply. Shrugging, he pulled on his helmet and checked the links between Thunderbird and mission control.

“Thunderbird, this is mission control, we read green,” Tempest’s voice said. “Confirm.”

Abernathy ran a practiced eye down the list of tell-tales. “Everything reads green, mission control,” he said. “We are green to go.”

“We really have to get over this space opera nonsense,” Tempest muttered. “Thunderbird, you may launch when ready.”

Abernathy took a breath and tapped the launch button. Thunderbird shuddered slightly as the main engines fired, slowly rising from the launch pad and heading upwards. Abernathy glanced out of the portal, seeing the spaceport vanishing into the distance, replaced by a cloudy blue sky.

“We confirm, you have passed zone one,” Tempest said. “Telemetry reads good, Thunderbird.”

“Acknowledged,” Abernathy said. Zone one was the danger zone; the zone where a malfunction could kill them all. Any higher and the parachutes would bring them down. “Increasing boost… now!”

The weight on his chest grew as the spacecraft rose into the atmosphere, heading higher and higher with every second. The sky darkened and the stars came out, but he was too weighed down to notice. The pressure grew and grew… then the tiny manoeuvring boosters fired, tipping the SSTO into Low Earth Orbit.

“My God,” Abernathy breathed, as he stared down at the planet. For the moment, there was no sign of Hitler, or Stalin, or the stubborn Japanese; there was just peace.

“We confirm LEO injection,” Tempest said. The radio signal flickered a little as it was relayed through a satellite. “Confirm course change to rendezvous with Hamilton.”

Abernathy paused long enough to check everything. Three different sets of computers were working on the puzzle, confirming that the speed of the SSTO was just enough to catch up with the space station, without colliding with it, or making rendezvous impossible.

“Confirmed,” he said. “Docking with Hamilton in…”

He fell silent. Ahead of him, he could see it, a silver and gold construction, hanging above the Earth. Ten massive cylinders, joined end to end, covered with solar panels and tiny objects, gliding above the Earth. A handful of similar cylinders floated near to it; fuel supplies, he guessed.

“Thunderbird, this is Hamilton,” a new voice said. “Confirm slaving of navigation computer to Hamilton.”

Abernathy tapped the final instruction into his panel and carefully removed his hands from the controls. He’d heard about endless arguments between pilots and designers over that feature… and knew how dangerous it would be to send the SSTO on an unplanned course change.

“Confirmed,” he said finally. He heard the tremor in his own voice. “Confirm slaving sequence initiated.”

“Another flyboy,” the female voice said. “Don’t worry, we haven’t pronged any of you yet.”

“What?” Abernathy asked, as Hamilton grew in the portal, and then vanished as the boosters fired. He felt a quick spurt of panic, then realised as Earth appeared below them that the SSTO had rotated to present its airlock to Hamilton. A tiny tremor ran through the shuttle… and then it stopped.

“Confirm docking,” the voice said. “Confirm airlock attachment. Welcome to Hamilton, leave your biases about movement at home.”

“What did that mean?” Lynn asked, as he unstrapped himself. Abernathy smiled as the American rose out of his seat… and kept heading up. “Good God!”

“We’re in zero-gee,” Abernathy reminded him, not without a touch of malice. Daniels would have reacted much better. “Come on; let’s go and meet the neighbours.”

* * *

The woman’s name was Caroline Salamander and she was the space station’s commander. Abernathy took a certain amount of pleasure in watching the American’s reaction to discovering that she was the commander, rather than a glorified secretary.

“Welcome to RSF Hamilton,” she said, ignoring the American’s palpitations. “We’re a fairly tight-knit community, so I imagine that you know us all already. Captain Abernathy, you are going to be working on the MSV; Captain Shuddery will take Thunderbird down to the surface.”

“Thank you,” Abernathy said, who’d been wondering exactly what he was going to be doing. The Ministry had had a whole series of tasks planned, but he hadn’t been told what he would be doing. He’d known that it was a distinct possibility that he might just be sent down at once… and the relief in knowing that it would not be so was glorious.

“Three of the cylinders are habitable space,” Caroline said. Her voice was firm and hard. “Two of them are male dormitories; one of them is the female dorm. I should note, now that we have three available women, that while fraternisation is not frowned upon, we expect you to keep it discreet. If you cause trouble, you’re on the first flight downstairs, understand?”

They nodded. Abernathy smiled; Caroline didn’t seem to think that she was available.

“Of the other cylinders, two of them are for repairing satellites, one of them is for fabrication, one for the MSVs to dock and unload supply pods, and the rest are military,” Caroline continued. “While the ultimate purpose of this base is to serve as a base for lunar and LEO colonisation, we are a military base for the moment; we serve as a reconnaissance platform and we repair military satellites. Eventually, we may graduate to space-based weapons as well.”

She looked around their faces. “Although it is deemed unlikely that the enemy can get at us up here,” she said, “I will brook no laxity in security procedures. Except in emergencies, we will dot every last ‘I’ and cross every last ‘T,’ just to avoid problems. As part of them, you will each spend at least an hour exercising on the equipment on the habitat modules.” Abernathy gaped at her. “Yes, that is a security precaution,” she said.

She smiled. “I’ll give you the tour now,” she said. “Any questions?”

“When are we going to the Moon?” Abernathy asked. “We could do it by refuelling an SSTO and just leaving LEO for the trip.”

Caroline smiled again. “Sooner than you think,” she said. “Sooner than you think.”

* * *

“Might I ask you, Major, why you saw fit to dump a trained pilot and substitute a half-trained American?”

Major John Dashwood sighed. The Finance Committee was the only real oversight the Ministry of Space got – the astronauts were deemed old enough to understand the risks without any EU rules – and it was determined to ensure that Dashwood didn’t overspend. Given the requirements to keep the American economy going, the Ministry of Space pumped a vast amount of dollars back into America – after receiving them as part of a complicated tax system.

He shook his head as Ronald Tilley, MP for Margate, continued his rant. Prime Minister Hanover had packed the Committee with his supporters, but not all of them agreed with all the requirements for the Ministry of Space. They had to spend money – money that was worthless in Britain anyway – to make money… and not all of them understood that.

“Might I remind you, Major, that Captain Jack Daniels was trained by us for the SSTO flights, including the planned lunar shuttle,” Tilley continued. “Instead, a great big American will be in Hamilton, watching all of our plans and…”

“I thought that it was government policy to aid the Americans in their space program,” Dashwood said. “As you may be aware, the priority is to establish as commanding a position as possible in space, and aiding the Americans is one way to ensure that competition is maintained – and at the same time allowing us a window into their program.”

“That is of course true,” Tilley said. It was more than true; it was the statement of the policy ordered by Hanover himself. “However… there is some disquiet over American determination in this field.”

“They would have been determined anyway,” Dashwood pointed out. It wasn’t quite true that the Americans would not be able to build their own SSTOs; Hanover and he had fiddled with the information they had provided the Americans. “However, as yet them have only managed to launch a couple of satellites – and they have had a handful of disasters. One of them, I might add, was worse than anything we have suffered.”

That was true; the Ministry of Space had sixty years of spaceflight knowledge to draw on, recreating a project that had had all of the false steps charted out and discovered by the Americans or the Russians. They were moving with what they knew would work, and the Americans… were not. A certain amount of trial and error was to be expected.

“We have at least twenty years before the Americans catch up with us,” he continued. “For the moment, we should at least attempt to help them get launch capability… its not as if they will be able to interfere with our profit margins.”

Tilley snorted. “Perhaps,” he said. “However… how long until you will be able to deploy the special weapons?”

“It depends,” Dashwood said. “We need to mass-produce a number of the weapons, a difficult task with the other requirements upon our advanced weapons production systems. Once they are mass-produced, we have to get them into orbit, and then command and control systems fitted to Hamilton. I live in hope of a month, but the current requirement to mass-produce JDAM weapons and precision missiles limits what the Ministry of Space can deploy.”

Tilley nodded. “I’ll take your words back to the Prime Minister,” he said, and the other members of the Committee nodded. “However, I have been asked to remind you that the Ministry of Space may well be the key to victory.” Dashwood nodded; he’d had no doubts on that score. “When can you start establishing the lunar base?”

Dashwood smiled at the sudden change in subject. “We’re boosting more Armstrong units now,” he said. “Although it won’t look pretty, some of them can be converted into a spacecraft slash space station fairly quickly, which can then be orbited to the Moon.” He smiled. “The basic plan is simple; we’ll use the third SSTO, once its built, to push it into lunar orbit, and use the SSTO for trips to the lunar surface, where a base can be set up.

“Once we have the station orbiting the moon,” he continued, “we’ll start dropping supplies to the lunar surface and start working on a base there. Now that we know what we’re doing, we can force forward development at a far higher pace, laying claim to the entire moon years before anyone else can get there. Once we have the moon, we can start building new industries there, opening up the gateway to the outer solar system… and beyond.”

He grinned. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Britannia; ruler of the stars!”

Chapter Four: Tanking About War

Fort Powell

Nevada, USA

25th March 1942

Fort Powell was new; one of the thousands of training camps that had sprung up over the United States of America. Ten miles of barracks, vehicle garages and training grounds, hidden under the burning sun. Built with the newly-released labour available to a nation at war, it had been named for a person who might not exist now… but had existed in an alternate future.

Captain Jackie Robinson, who would have been a baseball star in the shadowy other reality, and was a Captain in the 5th American Armoured Division in the only reality he’d ever known, examined the new tank with considerable interest. While he knew enough about the new tanks to recognise that it was derived from a British Firefly, one of the easy to manufacture tanks that had equipped the first American tank forces – to say nothing of British Commonwealth forces around the globe – it wasn’t a Firefly. The determination to produce an indigenous tank design had finally created the Franks tank, named after yet another person who might never exist.

Jackie was unusual in one respect – he knew who General Franks had been – but the entire 5th American Armoured Division was unusual in another; it was the first mixed-race tank force in America. There were a handful of black infantry regiments fighting in Norway – along with far more white divisions – but the brutal fighting there had chewed them up so badly that the survivors might end up being merged together.

He chuckled to himself as the crew of the tank came up to stand beside him. The 5th American Armoured Division had been promised some of the latest equipment and a role in what everyone expected to be an invasion of Europe. That alone had done what appeals to human decency could not; brought black and white together in a combat unit. After four months of heavy training, they were working together reasonably well; the only friction had been a drunken brawl in the bar.

“Age before beauty,” his gunner said. Jackie glared at him – he was hardly a child, even if he did command part of the Division – and climbed up onto the tank, opening the turret and peeking inside.

“Smells fresh,” he said. “No traces of oil or anything.”

“It’s probably the first model and they’ve cleaned it for us,” the driver said. He’d been a member of Black Power, which still existed in case it was needed again, and had been known for being pessimistic.

Jackie chuckled and folded himself into the tank. Inside, it was very much like a Firefly, although there were a handful of minor changes. The periscope, allowing the commander to look around without distracting the driver, was new; British equipment had intended a greater merging of 2015 and 1942 technology. Again, there was enough room for even his lanky frame, and that was an improvement on the training vehicles.

“We seem to have more machine guns,” the gunner noted. He examined it thoughtfully; the press of a button put two machine guns out at both sides of the tank, and two more on each side of the turret. “What on Earth is the purpose of those?”

“The Germans have been deploying those little anti-tank rockets,” Jackie reminded him. He grinned suddenly. “How about we take her for a spin?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” the driver said. He examined the engine; that too was new, far from the engines he’d worked on as a mechanic. He pushed the start button; the tank refused to start. “What the hell?”

Jackie examined the manual that had been left on the seat. “I think you’re supposed to insert the key… here,” he said, finding a small key taped to the manual. “What blasted idiot thought of that?”

“Some nutter in a headquarters miles behind the lines,” the driver muttered. He inserted the key and the engine roared to life. “Ride them, cowboy!”

Jackie laughed aloud as the tank leapt forward, its engine rumbling as it moved out of the compound, heading onto the practice field. He’d spent hours working with the simulator, the British device that simulated driving a tank, but this was far better.

“Target ahead,” the driver said. Jackie peered through the periscope… to see the base commander’s office. General Stillwell peered out, waving at them as the tank drove on.

”I think not,” Jackie said, as the tank finally reached the practice field. “Now… crank it up… and lets see what this baby can really do.”

* * *

“Well, what do you think?” General Stillwell asked, hours later.

Jackie smiled at him. Stillwell had little time for racism; he’d spent years trying to help the Chinese to build a proper army. “I think we’ll do fine,” he said. “Is there any news on deployment?”

“Nothing as yet,” Stillwell said. “The betting pool says Iran, as the tanks aren’t that much good in Scandinavia.”

Jackie smiled. “I can’t wait,” he said truthfully. “These tanks can move faster than anything they have and they fire very quickly. All we need are a few hundred more and we’ll be ready.”

“They’ll be here next week,” Stillwell said. “The President promised that he would see to it personally.

The White House

Washington DC, USA

25th March 1942

The White House was being rebuilt; a process that had begun just after the Wet Firecracker Rebellion had come to an end, and still smelt of new paint. The temptation to install some of the most modern security systems had been considerable – and indeed the Secret Service had hired British experts after the Hoover debacle – but Truman had ordered them to avoid tearing down the entire building. That, he was certain, would have to wait until the war was over – for now, America needed to see the centre of her government standing strong.

Rain lashed against the windows of the Oval Office, even though it was March. Truman had read papers prepared on the butterfly effect, which might well have altered the historical weather patterns in unpredictable ways, and – he was assured – had given them rain like he remembered from London. It suited his mood; there was work to be done, but he knew that he didn’t feel like taking a grip on it.

The buck stops here, he reminded himself. His alternate had placed that one his desk. He was President, and short of resigning – or doing something that would get him impeached – the buck did stop with him. It was just that his other self, or even Roosevelt, had never had to steer the country away from the brink of civil war.

“My apologies, General,” he said. Eisenhower, the commander of Allied Forces in Norway, was seated behind him, facing his back. In the other history, Eisenhower would have been supreme commander of the European theatre and later President, but in this history… the balance of power between Britain and America was lopsided, on the other side. The wrong side, as far as Truman was concerned; he wanted – needed – America to be strong.

He shuddered; the anti-Soviet riots had been brutal in the wake of New York. For a week, he had feared that it would plunge the country back into civil unrest, even civil war, but ironically most of the communists and ‘useful idiots’ in high places had been purged by Hoover’s men, during their one day in power.

And the British hadn’t stuck back at a Soviet city, he thought bitterly. Everyone knew that Britain had atomic weapons, and certainly atomic material had been used in the blast, but they hadn’t blasted a Soviet city. Intentionally or unintentionally, they’d weakened Truman’s position… and only one man could deliver what he wanted, and needed.

He realised he was wool-gathering again and pulled his mind back to the subject at him. “Please continue, general,” he said.

“The build-up of forces is continuing,” Eisenhower said. If he noticed the President’s distraction, he was too polite to mention it. “At the moment, we’re raising fifty new armoured divisions, most of them mixed-race, except for the handful of… other units.”

Truman scowled. It had been the compromise required to please the Southern senators that hadn’t been implicated by the coup attempt. Those white men who couldn’t stand the thought of fighting beside black men had been guaranteed Jim Crow units. He’d taken a small amount of revenge by ensuring that the Jim Crow units were last in line for new equipment.

“At the same time, of course, we’re also raising fifty infantry and several dozen other units,” Eisenhower continued. “Part of this is rotating people – experienced people – from Norway and using them to pass on their experiences to the new recruits. As we have nearly one hundred thousand soldiers in Norway, we have some ground for reinforcing them and rotating entire units out of that hellhole.”

Truman nodded slightly. Between the Germans in the south of Sweden, and the Russians in the north, life was difficult for the Americans in the centre. Even with Patton pressing their logistics as far forward as possible, Norway was hardly the country for armoured warfare. It was an infantry war, with a handful of tanks, and it chewed up entire regiments without a qualm.

“Is there anyway that we can force them out completely?” Truman asked finally. “We need to press the war forward as soon as possible.”

Eisenhower nodded. “As you know, one of George’s priorities was to construct airports that could take the new B-29’s, now we finally have a few hundred of them, and the new squadrons have been practicing tactical bombing.” Truman scowled; some of the early practice runs had been disasters. “He thinks that we can literally bomb the Russian lines out of existence.”

“Public opinion will more likely accept the quick end of Germany, with the war going on to Moscow, than they will the opposite,” Truman said. “Has he prepared plans for attacking the Germans?”

“He has,” Eisenhower said, somewhat to Truman’s surprise. Whatever George Patton’s merits as a general were, planning ahead wasn’t one of them. “It’s fairly simple; we launch diversionary attacks against the Soviet forces, and then strike down for Goteborg and Malmo, stopping for nothing. He’s fairly confident that the USAAF can hammer the Germans enough from the air to make brushing them aside on the ground easy.”

Truman shuddered. The Axis powers had made good use of the winter to dig in and fortify their positions. By now, some of them were dug so deep that even a JDAM couldn’t shift them, slaughtering infantry in hand-to-hand fighting.

Eisenhower coughed. “Personally, I think he’s being a bit too optimistic,” he said. “Still, if we did manage to cut their supply lines, we could stave Stockholm out without having to attack it.”

“The Swedish government-in-exile would love that,” Truman muttered. “It’s a shame that they can’t convince more of their countrymen to rise up against the enemy.”

“The Germans raze villages to the ground for that,” Eisenhower said. “They’re complete and total bastards… and the Russians are worse. Did you hear the report from the SAS team? The menfolk slaughtered; the women systematically raped and then slaughtered by the SS!”

“That’s what we’re fighting,” Truman said. The new televisions, both the British imports and the newly-made American designs, had run live footage. The results had created even more enthusiasm for the war.

“It makes organising a behind-the-lines movement hard,” Eisenhower said. “Longer-term, of course, we’ll have to move into Germany.”

“Something to discuss with the British,” Truman said. “We’ll have to be working with them at that point, and of course they have Japan to worry about.” He frowned. “General, I want you to start preparing the operation to evict the Germans from Sweden, then we can start supplying the Finns with weapons. They, at least, will fight.”

“Yes, Mr President,” Eisenhower said. “I’ll see you in a week.”

Truman nodded. “We’ll try and launch the operation in a month,” he said. “In the meantime, see what we can scrape up to send to Iran, to help out the British.”

“Yes, Mr President,” Eisenhower said. “I’ll get on with it at once.”

* * *

Ambassador King smiled to himself as he entered the Oval Office, nodding politely to Captain Robinson as he entered. The black marine had been appointed the new head of the Presidential Protective Service, a task that allowed him to protect Truman from all threats, and kept him out of the public eye. Dozens of investigative reporters hadn’t figured out who was behind Black Power, and the longer it stayed that way, the better.

My memoirs are going to be bestsellers one day, King thought to himself, as he shook hands with President Truman. The President looked tired – which alarmed him because Roosevelt had often been tired before his heart attack in the midst of the coup – but he smiled back at King.

“Good morning to you,” Truman said, letting go of his hand. “How are you?”

“It’s not a good morning,” King said wryly, waving a hand at the rain-streaked window. “Still, I suppose it could be worse.”

“Hailstones on a farm,” Truman said, waving King to a seat. “Tell me, what exactly caused this odd weather?”

King hesitated. “It’s called, we think, the Butterfly effect,” he said. “A great deal of a very different system was dumped into the air, and then two nuclear blasts probably didn’t help matters. Finally, its started to have an effect. The Ministry of Space is delighted; they’re selling time on the space station to researchers interested in studying the effects.”

“Yes, the British space program,” Truman said. “Tell me, what are the British doing up in space?”

King snorted. How should he know? “They’re building a space station,” he said. “In fact, given how much they’re hoisting into orbit, they’re building an entire space city.”

Truman frowned. “Why?” He asked. “Why expand so much effort in building such a base?”

“For the future,” King said, who’d given the matter some thought. “Hanover is… well, one of those who wants Britain to have a new empire. With the war on – and the need to avoid ruining our economy – he can build a serious presence in space before anyone starts wondering about better places to spend the cash.”

“One of our own people went up a day ago,” Truman said. “We got an email from him saying that his presence was resented.”

King shrugged. “It’s not a luxury liner,” he said. “Him going up meant that someone trained to help the British didn’t go up. Anyway, how is our own space program coming along?”

“We’re still working on it,” Truman said. “We also have to get nuclear weapons ready for use as well, but the earliest we can have one moving is late 1942, perhaps even the year after that. The British aren’t keen on helping us with that and that’s starting to annoy some congressmen.”

“It’s a long story,” King said. “A lot of people in Britain have moral qualms about using nuclear weapons, whatever the reason. They would have fought tooth and nail to prevent them being used even if Britain was about to fall to Nazi invasion. They’re… just not rational on the subject.”

He sighed. “Anyway, one of their backbenchers started a bill prohibiting the sharing of nuclear technology – except for desalination and hydrogen-cracking plants – and it passed. The net result was that they were unable to share any more than they had already.”

“And… sorry,” Truman said. “In the long run… we have to defeat Germany and Russia first.”

“And take care of the internal enemy,” King said. “Has there been any sign of him?”

Truman shook his head. The FBI had been guttered by the involvement of a handful of agents in the coup plot, and was nearly moribund. The new OSS – Office of Strategic Services – wasn’t geared up to provide internal security… and the state police didn’t have anything like their resources. Nine months after the attempted coup, J Edgar Hoover, former director of the FBI, remained at large.

“Nothing at all, which is worrying,” Truman said. “You know how much money is on his head; he might well have been lynched and stuffed in a bog. It’s only because people like him don’t die so easily that I’m still worried about it, and because of the missing files.”

King scowled. Hoover’s famous blackmail files had vanished along with him. That alone was distressing; they’d been supposed to contain dirt on thousands of prominent people… and not all of them might have fled to South Africa.

“He might still be somewhere out there, causing trouble,” King said. “Damn it, where the hell has he gone?”

“I’ve no idea,” Truman said. “Onto different matters, you will be pleased to hear that the 5th American Armoured Division, which I understand you’ve taken some interest in, will be fully equipped with tanks next week – the new improved Franks tank.”

“The American-designed tank,” King said wryly. General Palter had sworn blind that it wasn’t that different to a Firefly. “Still… how are they getting along?”

“Apparently, they’re pretty good,” Truman said. He picked a map of the Middle East off the table and waved it under King’s nose. “Now… we have to decide if its worth deploying some to Iran.”

“The British will be planning to force the Soviets out too this year,” King said. “The question is; do we want post-war influence there?”

“Yes,” Truman said. “The oil companies got hold of the information about oil deposits there. Even if the United States does go onto Hydrogen, or that mix and match car, oil will still be important, and the British will certainly try to add Iran to their… Republic of Arabia.”

“Trust me, it’s better than the alternative,” King said. “Frankly, I think we don’t have much chance of securing influence, no matter what we do there. We’d be better off investing in the Republic of Arabia, which needs American investment.”

Truman scowled. “They’re far more advanced than us,” he said. “They’re moving into our economy. They’re taking over a large portion of the most important region in the Middle East. Tell me… can the future British be trusted?”

King nodded. “Hanover is a long-term thinker,” he said. “A genuine statesman, in his way. He knows that the only hope for long-term success is peace and democracy. He’s moving to do it now, because, quite frankly, democracies are crap at it in peacetime.”

He chuckled. “Not, of course, that we have to accept permanent subordination.”

Chapter Five: Wheels Within Wheels

Bracken Headquarters

Washington DC, USA

25th March 1942

The new headquarters of the ever-expanding Bracken Consortium were based in Washington, in one of the factory locations on the outskirts of town. Cora Burnside, Assistant Director, had pressed for somewhere closer to the centre of town, but her boss and lover, Jim Oliver, had refused.

“We don’t want to be too close to the centre of power,” he’d said, and decided the matter.

Still, Cora had to admit that the complex wasn’t too bad, being designed as a mainly administrative location. The thousands of people who controlled the company, using the new computers that were far more advanced than anything they’d dreamed of, had a reasonably pleasant place to work, with proper offices and small workrooms. That had suited Oliver right down to the ground; he believed that cubicles were demeaning.

She greeted him with a smile as he came into her office, dismissing his secretary with a wave of his hand. She’d half-hoped to get a white secretary, but none she’d found had been willing to work for a black woman, so Dahlia was as black as she was. Part of her felt annoyed that he’d dismissed her secretary; part of her laughed at herself for feeling that way. After all, she’d been lower than dirt five years ago.

“It’s good to see you again,” Oliver said. Not normally a demonstrative man, he bent over and kissed her before taking a seat. He smiled at her. “I don’t suppose we have time…”

“We’ll make time,” she said. It had been a week and her body missed him dreadfully. Afterwards, she held him in the bedroom that was part of her office; she lived in the building itself when she wasn’t back in New York. “So, what happened?”

“Oh, not much,” Oliver said. “I had a meeting with the Mayor of New York, who wants to buy Geiger counters for removing the radioactive materials, and such items are covered under the Treaty. They’re prohibited, so I discussed the matter with the folks back home and they agreed to loan a MOD clean-up team for the remains of a radiological attack.” He smiled and gently stroked her breast. “It’s not quite what they wanted, but its better than anyone else got.”

“And Groves wasn’t happy?” Cora asked. She grinned as Oliver smiled wryly; she wasn’t meant to know about Groves. “One would have thought that his… lot could have supplied the counters, if not the radiation-protection suits.”

“Groves thinks that the rubble holds the keys to expanding the program I’m not supposed to tell you about,” Oliver said. “It doesn’t, I’m fairly certain; there wasn’t that much radioactivity. The only real danger, apart from the explosion itself, will be long-term for anyone who might have sucked in some of the poisoned dust.”

Cora shivered. Everyone knew about atomic weapons now; the only reason that there hadn’t been a major panic was that everyone also knew that the Germans had no way of launching bombers over the Atlantic, and the Coast Guard was searching every ship that tried to dock. She shivered again; Oliver had once commented that what everyone knew wasn’t always the truth.

“I hope you’re right,” she said absently. She’d seen the videos of the terrible war in the future. “After all, wasn’t that why you obtained that controlling interest in that oil company?”

Oliver smiled. She hadn’t understood, at the time, why Oliver had spent so much money to gain control of a major oil company… except it had held a great deal of stock in Saudi Arabia…which was now the Republic of Arabia. Any new contracts with the Arabs would be done on a sensible basis.

“Yes,” he said finally, before pulling himself out of bed and heading for the shower. “They did quite enough damage before I got control and stopped them howling about what imperialism had done to their profit margin.”

She heard the shower start. A wicked thought struck her and she padded after him, slipping neatly into the shower. “So, what did the USAAF have to say?”

Oliver kissed her as the water flowed down over their bodies. “Thank you for the bombers… more!” He said. “They want two thousand of the B-29’s and they want us to get the jet B-52s in the air as quickly as possible. They have big plans, now that Kaiser has his Liberty Ships on the production line; they have big plans to pound Germany into the dirt. They’re thinking about bases in Africa, Britain… and most of all Norway.”

Cora frowned. “Will there be anything left of Norway when they’re done?”

“I hope so,” Oliver said seriously. “Between us and the Germans, the entire infrastructure has been wrecked. The bastards are shipping Swedes out to Poland, to provide them with new settlers, and the Russians are just killing anyone who even looks at them funny. We’re at least trying – thank God for the grain harvest last year – to feed those in our territory, but shipping is a pain.”

Cora blinked. “I thought that the Germans had been forced out of the Atlantic,” she said.

Oliver smiled. “Turned out that the bastard Russians had copied the Nazi u-boat designs… once all of the Royal Navy’s asserts were turned to the Mediterranean or the Far East.” He chuckled as she started to wash his back. “Incidentally, we picked up a lot of contracts for Australia; they seem to be having ideas about launching an island-hopping campaign.”

Cora lifted an eyebrow, knowing that he couldn’t see her. “They told you that?”

“What else can one do with landing craft designed to make a landing under fire?” Oliver asked dryly. “Anyway, the Red Navy or whatever they called it had a couple of weeks of happy time with the ships of the United States Navy, but once alerted to the threat Admiral King counter-attacked and borrowed ASW asserts from England to help out.”

He snorted as she finished washing his body and turned to wash hers. “Speaking of the Navy, they were very keen to get their own B-29s, just to prevent the Army getting all the glory. They’ve been fitting the test models with anti-submarine weapons and bombs designed to take out ships – which history suggests won’t work – for the defence of the Philippines.”

Cora considered. She’d had a fairly complete brief on the alternative future and on the changes being made by the future Britain. “Does Japan have the capability to launch an invasion?”

“Perhaps if MacArthur was still in command,” Oliver said dryly. The dead General was the butt of jokes all over the United States. “He would send a poodle and a little boy called Maurice out to fight the Japanese.” He shook his head. “Between their losses in Australia and the loss of pretty much all of their navy, its hard to see how they could take the Philippines.”

“They really are looking for excuses to get their hands on aircraft the army can’t use,” Cora said. She sighed as his hands passed over her private place. “What are they going to do with them? Bomb Japan?”

“The President hasn’t declared war on Japan,” Oliver reminded her. “Congress felt that two wars were enough, and both Germany and Russia look pretty intimidating.” He stepped out of the shower and picked up a towel. “Their current nightmare is the Germans building a B-52 of their own and flying it to Washington.” He snorted. “Not possible, of course, and even if it were, aircraft from Britain could intercept it with ease. Far more likely, of course, is rockets; the Germans had a pretty advanced program before we arrived and seeing the Ministry of Space at work will only push them forward.”

“I suppose,” Cora said. “What else are we doing for lots of cash?”

She smiled as Oliver’s eyes travelled up and down her body as she stepped out of the shower. “We’re building a small force of airliners,” he said. “Mainly for hopping around America and the Caribbean, and perhaps further down. We’re building some jet fighters, although its something of a waste of time at the moment, so its lucky we’re also building Mustangs and Hellcats.”

“Whose idea was that?” Cora asked. “Don’t they trust your people to give them fighter cover?”

“It’s not a bad idea,” Oliver said. His voice sounded amused. “Mainly Admiral King, however; he’s been controlling the crash-program to build the Essex and Midway class of carriers; perhaps he knows something we don’t about the future plans.”

“Or maybe he just wants to make certain that the Navy gets its share of the funding,” Cora said. “What about the tanks?”

“Ten thousand fireflies; ten thousand Franks,” Oliver said. He stepped out of the shower and into the main room, pulling on his suit and tie. “How does life as a director suit you?”

Cora started to dress as well, changing her underwear and motioning for him to pick up some of his clothes. “Not too bad,” she said. She smiled; he asked the same thing every week. “I do wish that we could see more of each other though; I do love scandalising the upper-class nuts.”

Oliver grinned. She remembered going with him to more than one of the snootiest restaurants in Washington, none of which would do anything so stupid as to annoy – ‘piss off’ had been the term Oliver had used – one of the most powerful businessmen and the most powerful businesswoman in the world. Oliver had been right so long ago, as long as she could pay, they would allow her access to anything.

“I’m going to be staying here for a while,” he said. She felt a sudden burst of delight. “Do you want to go out for tonight?”

“Do you even have to ask?” Cora asked. She smiled at him, and then her pager rang. She would have blushed if she could have. “Oh, hell; I’m late for a meeting!”

“Go call the guy and explain you’ll be down in ten minutes,” Oliver suggested. “I’ve got work of my own to do, but I’ll be back here at eight to take you out.”

* * *

Oliver smiled to himself as Cora, freshly made up and dressed in a power suit fifty years ahead of its time, left the office, her tight skirt bending nicely around the corners of her behind. She’d grown up a lot in the two years he’d known her, from shy secretary to skilled businesswoman.

And skilled in bed, he thought with a happy sigh, before standing up and heading over to the back stairwell. One reason he’d been so delighted with the building, even over the objections of his people, was that hardly anyone knew its interior design; a six-month program of renovation had allowed him to hide a few hidden stairwells and corridors from most of his people. Cora knew, of course, but she was the only one cleared for that knowledge.

He unlocked the door and stepped into the stairwell, which was a basic spiral design, heading down to the basement. Everyone in the building knew that the basement was off-limits – it was part of their hiring contract that they never even tried to go down there – and they had no idea what happened there. Even Cora didn’t know all of it.

He sneezed once as the dry dusty air touched his throat and headed down faster. Hardly anyone had come this way since the renovation; even Oliver had only come once or twice. He reached the bottom of the stairs and smiled at the biometric scanner mounted on the wall, well out of place.

“Oliver, Jim,” he said, and placed his hand against the scanner. There were none of the computer announcements that got on people’s nerves, just the click of the door unlocking. He pushed it open and stepped inside, nodding politely to the man in the centre of the room.

“You’re late,” David Berrios, a Jamaican who spoke perfect Cockney, said coldly. Oliver shrugged; Berrios wasn’t free to leave without escort; even the much-reduced FBI would have had kittens if they knew even half of what he knew about British operations. The basement itself was covered in computers of a type that had never been authorised for use outside Britain; an entire centre of operations hid beneath the building.

“You know as well as I do that travel is far harder in his era,” Oliver said. He smiled; spending time with Cora had been necessary, as much as anything else. “I understand that you went out on the town two nights ago?”

Berrios scowled at him. The MI5 operative didn’t like the thought of anyone keeping tabs on him. That was his job. “This place has very little for people like me,” he said. “If your uniform protects me, then…”

Oliver smiled. Few people would dare to offer overt disrespect to one of his employees, whatever their colour. Still, given how low he was in Berrios’s estimation, it must have killed the MI5 officer to know that his uniform was all that kept him from a drunken lynching.

“After we hunted down those members of the Ku Klux Klan for putting two of my people in hospital, they do tend to leave that uniform alone,” Oliver said. It was amazing how many eyes a lot of money could close, even to seriously wounding two bits of white trash. “The lesson had to be taught.”

“How ironic, you can do good,” Berrios sneered. “Of course, it suits you to do that kind of act, you can’t have people getting lynched while they work for you. You are, of course, aware that people are wearing your uniforms when they’re not really working for you?”

“So what?” Oliver asked, suddenly tired of the game. “What can I do for you today? More investments in Latin America? More covert funding? Perhaps some money for you personally?”

“Only if I plan to retire here,” Berrios growled. It was true; American dollars were worth very little in Britain. “We have a task for you.”

He paced over to the table and held up a sheaf of papers. “These are plans for a jet engine,” he said. “You will pass them over to your German contact. We are aware that they still have conduits through Mexico and further down.”

Oliver lifted an eyebrow. Mentally, he cursed Sir Charles Hanover, who had placed him neatly in this position. He’d thought endlessly, testing all the alternatives, only to realise that there was no way out – precisely as Hanover had intended. All he had was the promise that he would be free, one day.

He realised that Berrios was waiting for an answer and picked up the sheaf of papers. “Why do you want me to help the Germans?” He asked. “I was under the impression that I was supposed to mislead them.”

“Indeed you are,” Berrios said. The smirk on his face was ugly as hell. “These plans are for a jet engine design that we are – in theory – giving to the Americans. On the face of it, it offers the possibility of supersonic speed, but it requires extremely advanced materials to take the sudden bursts of heat.” He smiled. “When they attempt to accelerate… boom!”

Oliver laughed. That was nasty and evil… and brilliant. “They won’t have the slightest idea what’s hit them,” he said.

Berrios nodded. “Naturally, we’ve left off some other details,” he said. “They won’t know what they don’t know, of course.”

“Very clever,” Oliver said. “Was there anything else?”

“What’s happened to the German spy?” Berrios asked. “You know, your contract?”

“Remaining underground,” Oliver said. He gave an address. “I assume that you’re going to send a team in to bug his house?”

“I imagine that you know what happened to that bastard Hoover,” Berrios said. Oliver, who didn’t, glared at him. His role in the Wet Firecracker Rebellion would hardly have endeared him to Hoover… except the renegade FBI director had been missing for months.

“I have no idea what’s happened to that bastard,” he snarled. “I really am sick of hearing about that!”

“Sorry,” Berrios said, with complete insincerity. “Now… when is the next meeting?”

“In a week, or so,” Oliver said. He passed across a list of requests. “That’s what the bastard wants me to find out.”

“Christ above,” Berrios swore, as he cast his gaze down the sheet of paper. “War plans, technology demands… they don’t fuck about, do they?”

“Germans are known for their practicality,” Oliver said. “I have explained that all modern equipment is kept under very secure storage these days, ever since Crete.”

“It’s a good thing they don’t know that the connection was drawn,” Berrios said. “Otherwise… how many more would want to kill you?”

“A lot,” Oliver said flatly. “What happened to the mob?”

“The leaders were treated as terrorist leaders,” Berrios said. “The subordinates, by and large, were offered to South Africa for their POW camps. Mr Kasper, as I’m sure you’re aware, shot himself.”

“Oh, dear,” Oliver said. Like everyone else, he had lived in mortal fear of the Balkan man. “What does South Africa want with them?”

“Men to do a lot of hard work, now they know where the diamond fields are,” Berrios said. Oliver, who suspected the truth from South Africa’s determination to recruit from the American south, smiled to himself. The black man would hardly approve. “Now… I’m going to email this back to the offices in London, which will see what needs to be approved before you pass it back to the rat bastard.”

“Yes, sir,” Oliver said. “Incidentally, could you also tell them that the Americans are increasing their purchases of rockets, like the Ministry of Space uses?”

“I’ll inform them,” Berrios said. He frowned. “That’s interesting; why would they want them?”

Oliver smiled. Berrios was very single-minded most of the time. “To launch rockets into space?” He asked dryly. “What else can they be used for?”

“Launching high explosive across the Atlantic?” Berrios asked. “Perhaps that’s what they want.”

“They could do that far more cheaply with a B-29,” Oliver said. “The Americans are expanding their space program, sir; it’s the only explanation that fits.” He smiled. “I trust that you will bring that to the attention of the Prime Minister.”

Chapter Six: Those Who Have Fallen

Safe House

Washington DC, USA

30th March 1942

For one brief shining moment, he had been the de facto supreme ruler of America.

J Edgar Hoover, former director of the FBI, threw the newspaper away from his chair with a snort of disgust. He had once been disciplined, but six months cooped up inside the safe house – one that no one, but Tolson knew about – had taken most of his edge away. His eating habits, combined with his very limited opportunities for exercise, had had an… unfortunate effect on his paunch; he was now almost pot-bellied. Drink and heavy smoking had damaged him further, to the dismay of the house’s keeper, Mrs Cosmopolitan.

As always, his mind swept back to the glorious day. His men had marched out to purge America of communists, subversives, and a number of people that Hoover had had nothing incriminating on. His files might be stored well away from Washington, but he knew the contents of the files without having to visit them. His men had made a clean sweep – the darker elements of the FBI having been more than willing to simple execute the subversives on the spot – all of which could have been covered up or pardoned under the administration he had worked so hard to bring into existence.

They failed me, Hoover thought. It had seemed perfect; MacArthur was obsessed with his own martial glory, Bankhead too concerned with the trappings of the Presidency to pose a threat to Hoover’s plans. Whatever the real nature of the man’s claim to the Presidency, Hoover could have made him a king.

Instead…

The images refused to leave his mind. The shock of discovering that the man who had dominated the United States for so long was dead. The panic when they realised that Roosevelt could no longer give them the legitimacy that would have overcome the problems with putting Bankhead forward as the President. The long delay – too long – when they searched for Truman… and planning to declare him dead hadn’t come quickly enough.

“Bastards,” Hoover scowled, looking down at the computer. He’d taught himself to use it over the past few months, learning about the British technology, which was derived from American technology from the future. He didn’t like the sound of Microsoft – its founder didn’t sound like the sort of person he wanted in America – but at least it had been American.

“Edgar?”

The voice wasn’t a surprise and he smiled upwards tiredly. Clive Tolson, his friend and companion, stepped into the shelter. They couldn’t meet that often; after the stories told about them in the blue press, they weren’t so comfortable together.

“You look like shit,” Tolson told him bluntly. His slicked back hair had been brushed forward in one of the new styles, sticking up like a garden rake. Hoover scowled; he didn’t like the look, but he had to admit that Tolson looked nothing like his past self.

“I feel like shit,” Hoover said. “Is there any news from the political front?”

Tolson shook his head slowly. Hoover wanted action, needed action, but with the massive shake-up in the federal and state governments it was hard to tell whom they might have dirt on who could still help. Tolson had been trying to make contact with the remnants of Hoover’s organisation, but it had been fragmented pretty badly.

“Most of them are either niggers or loudly proclaiming their loyalty to the new regime,” Tolson said grimly. Many of the people they did know something about – something that could be used for blackmail – were lower on the totem pole. “We might make contact with that guy in Alabama, but he’s… well, not one of the ones that we have something really incriminating on.”

In olden days, Hoover would have pounded the table with his hand. Now… now he no longer had the strength. In time, he was certain, opposition to Truman’s regime would rise, but by then he might be dead or in exile.

“Do we have a choice?” He asked. “The files we have alone could be very helpful for him.”

Tolson frowned. “It’s possible,” he said. “Sir… Edgar, if we do that, we may be giving up our only card.”

“We still have money,” Hoover said. He smiled. The remains of his former service had seized his properties, but they hadn’t found any of his hidden funds, the ones used to pay agents the FBI at large hadn’t known about. “We could provide a great deal of funding.”

“True,” Tolson said. He didn’t mention their one attempt to assassinate Truman, paying an assassin to take pot shots at the President. It hadn’t worked, and the security around the White House was as tight as ever.

“Of course, perhaps we could go to South Africa,” Hoover continued, and smiled. A lot of southerners were going, recruited by a government desperate to get their hands on as many white men as possible. He grinned; they’d even started purchasing prisoners, something that would not delight the current President.

Tolson shrugged. “I could always lay the groundwork,” he said. “Unfortunately, they’re taking a closer look at everyone trying to leave the country.”

Hoover scowled. “True,” he said. “Still, there are other ways to leave the country.”

There was a knock at the door. “I’ll get it,” Mrs Cosmopolitan shouted, heading down to open the door. The two men grabbed their weapons, prepared to go down fighting… and then Mrs Cosmopolitan sent their visitor down to see them. Hoover blinked; he knew who the man was… but what was he doing here?

* * *

I wonder if I’m being foolish, Nikolaus Ritter, Abwehr agent for the United States of America, thought grimly. It had been sheer luck, seeing Tolson leaving the congressman’s office, and recognising him. If he hadn’t spent time worrying about disguising himself – the remains of the FBI must know what he looked like now – he would never have seen Tolson under the face of a stranger.

He smiled. No one knew if the rumours of homosexuality between the two men were true, but they were clearly living together. It was foolish, in his opinion they should have stayed apart, but Hoover was a pathetic shadow of his former self. All of his power and influence had deserted him; all he had was Tolson… and perhaps his files. The mere rumour that they remained in his possession had prevented many in Congress from screaming for him to be hunted down and killed like a dog.

“Good evening, Director Hoover,” he said, keeping his voice even. Part of him wanted to smile, to gloat at his opponent’s downfall, but he resisted the temptation. He knew what he was doing was madness, but he no longer cared; the thrill of the chase was burning through him.

He smiled as Hoover and his so-called boyfriend gaped at him. They knew who he was, he realised; they were both fingering pistols. The expressions on their faces were priceless; did the woman running the house know what was happening?

“I may be seated?” He asked, taking a seat. “I have a proposition to put to you.”

Hoover’s face resumed its famous bulldog appearance. “I know who you are,” he growled.

“That’s wonderful,” Ritter said cheerfully. “Then you’re in no doubt at all about my offer.”

“You are responsible for a gun-running ring that is smuggling weapons north to Canada,” Hoover said. “You are the agent of the SS within America.”

“The Abwehr,” Ritter corrected. It didn’t matter that much; the last he’d heard the Abwehr had been merged into the SS, along with the Gestapo. “Yes, I have been doing a little gun-running… but then, I didn’t have anything to do with your coup.”

“We would have cleaned up you filth,” Hoover said. Beside him, Tolson stiffened. “We would never have accepted help from you.”

“Now, now, Mr Hoover,” Ritter chided. “Drowning men can hardly complain about the quality of the straw that saves them.”

He had Hoover’s interest, despite the tough-guy act. He could tell. “We have an offer to make to you,” he said. “We both have some interest in the war coming to an end… and we believe that you could help us do that.”

“You want me to turn traitor?” Hoover asked. “You expect me to betray my country?”

Ritter smiled; the bait had been taken. “We know that it was not us, nor the Soviets, who destroyed a large portion of New York,” he said. “We don’t possess atomic weapons.”

Hoover glared at him. The information would appeal to his prejudices, but it had to be done carefully. “You’re trying to get them,” he said.

“If we had them, we would use them to force the British to back off,” Ritter said. “My dear Hoover; the British blasted a large part of New York, just to keep you in the war. Hell, they might even have planned it so your coup would fail.”

He watched Hoover’s face twisting. He knew – with a lifetime’s worth of experience in the military intelligence world – that the British were unlikely to be able to do anything of the sort, but who knew what they could do with their advanced technology?

“The British want you to destroy us,” he said. “We… have some interest in preventing that from happening. You’ve seen their advanced technology… they were apparently pretty powerful in the world they left, but nothing compared to America. This world… they will own.”

Tolson lifted an eyebrow. His expression as he looked down at Hoover was concerned. “You feel that the British have plans for world domination?”

“I would, in their place,” Ritter said honestly.

“I am not going to work for Herr Hitler,” Hoover said. Ritter shrugged; Hitler had been dead for a while now. “I will, however, be willing to trade information.”

“Which is all I expected,” Ritter said. “Tell me, how many of the remaining senators and congressmen could you influence?”

Hoover thought for a moment. “Perhaps a hundred at most,” he said finally. “They could be convinced to take an anti-British line quite easily.”

Ritter smiled. “A word of advice then,” he said. “I would get out of Washington and go someplace else.”

Hoover shook his head. “Here… is as safe as anywhere else,” he said. “Perhaps…”

Ritter shrugged. “I look forward to helping you regain your former prominence,” he said. He smiled; he knew that it was delusion. Hoover wanted revenge for his problems… and men like that were easy to manipulate.

Testing Zone

Nevada, USA

30th March 1942

The scorching heat of the Nevada Desert passed across William J. Donovan’s body as he watched the preparations running around the rocket mounted on the pad. He ignored the heat, wondering again at his decision to come watch the launch in person; the Military Space Agency had had more than its fair share of disasters.

He studied his briefing notes while waiting for the launch. The new Office of Strategic Services had been set up the day after the Wet Firecracker Rebellion had been ended, tasked with controlling all intelligence operations within and outside the United States. Somewhat to his surprise, he’d been so successful in the other history that Truman – who’d apparently sacked him during the original history – had ordered him to set up the OSS without demur, and granted him considerable authority.

He smiled. The Military Space Agency, the new organisation designed to prevent in-fighting between the Army and the Navy, was tasked with putting America in space, by whatever means necessary. Truman might be good friends with the British Prime Minister, but no one was so foolish as imagine that the British would quite happily continue to share intelligence from orbital reconnaissance once the war was over… and if some of Ambassador King’s projections about the use of space weapons were true, they could not be allowed unchallenged control of space.

“Mr Donovan,” a voice said. Donovan nodded politely as Doctor Wilson, the director of the project, strode up to greet him. He had a flat intense face, with short steel-grey hair and grey eyes, and would have been handsome a few years earlier. “I assume you’re here to watch the launch?”

“Of course,” Donovan replied. He smiled to himself; Wilson’s intense manner matched his face. “What sort of success do you hope for this time?”

Wilson didn’t quite glare at him, but he looked very much as if he would have liked to have done so. “We’re concentrating on recon satellites of our own design,” he said. “It’s basically simple; the satellite orbits over the planet, its camera’s timed to trigger at the right time, and then it drops it’s films back to Earth.”

“Very impressive,” Donovan said. “How good is it compared to the British designs?”

“We’re getting there,” Wilson said defensively. “We do have the designs for the rockets that were being built in America, and we’ve even purchased a few hundred. Unfortunately, the British mix and match their technology and our technology, which is why they have a nearly one hundred percent success rate.”

Donovan nodded. “Have they tried to interfere with your launches?”

“No,” Wilson said. “They have insisted upon a liaison team, which as we have one at Churchill isn’t such a bad idea, and they have insisted upon notification of flight paths, just to avoid a collision between their space station and our rockets.”

Donovan lifted an eyebrow. “How likely is that?”

Wilson smiled grimly. “Pretty much non-existent,” he said. “For the moment, we’ve been putting things into decaying orbits, rather than stable ones. Still, it makes sense that they would be concerned; they don’t have anything like the lifting capability to evacuate their station in a hurry.”

Donovan frowned. “Could we do it, if we had to?”

Wilson hesitated. “Perhaps,” he said finally. “It would be very difficult, however; the orbit would have to be precisely calculated.” He narrowed his eyes. “You are considering war, Mr Donovan?”

“No,” Donovan said, not quite certain if he was lying. He liked the British, at least the ones he’d met before 1940 and the Transition, but he had to admit, they were taking space far more seriously than anyone else. “Tell me, what about the British statement of principle on space access and development rights?”

“Opinion is divided,” Wilson admitted. “I’m in favour; others are not.”

Donovan nodded and then turned to watch the launch site as the countdown began to count down the final moments to launch. The British had stated that anyone who reached a space object, the moon or an asteroid, would own that object, provided they made use of it within a set period. President Truman hadn’t disagreed, but Donovan suspected that he should have done, if space was as important as the British clearly believed it was.

“Blast-off,” Wilson said, as the rocket slowly lifted itself into the sky. Donovan, who had been expecting a whoosh and the rocket vanishing into the distance, was almost disappointed. “Now we find out… what we find out.”

Donovan nodded. As head of the OSS, he understood that. “What about the manned space program?”

“We don’t have anything like the capability required, yet,” Wilson said. “Building either a space capsule or a space aircraft is tricky. We’re working on a spaceplane design using a simplified version of a 2015 design, but it might just be a glorified death trap.”

Donovan felt a flicker of dismay. “You still have volunteers?” He asked. “They’ll allow you to risk their lives like that?”

“Oh, yes,” Wilson said. “They can’t wait to go.”

Wilson’s mobile phone rang. Donovan stepped to one side as Wilson listened before putting the phone back in his pocket. “They’re still picking up telemetry from the rocket,” he said. “It’s managed to separate properly, according to the British satellites.”

Donovan smiled at the irony. “Let me know what the results are,” he said. “I for one look forward to knowing what they are.”

* * *

The satellite, almost a guided missile, orbited the Earth several times very quickly, moving below the British space station, passing over the Reich and then the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. Donovan retired to his quarters on the base while waiting, considering the reports from his own people. He’d been working hard on infiltrating agents into German-held territory, but it was very difficult; the Germans were cracking down harder and harder on the French and Italians who served them.

He smiled to himself. The British had been more than willing to cooperate with the OSS, but even they were having problems; the SAS was perfect for sneaking around, but not for making delicate contacts with possible sources. The OSS had contacts in the Mexican embassy in Germany – and the Germans were selling weapons to the Mexicans, much to America’s annoyance – but it was harder to move around in Berlin.

Donovan shook his head and checked the other reports. The China Lobby was very keen on sending supplies from the Philippines into China, to arm the Chinese factions. That wasn’t easy either; one faction was very pro-Russia, particularly since Mao was killed by the Japanese – or at least everyone said he was killed by the Japanese. Donovan snorted; the NKVD would have had little hesitation in terminating a man who would be such a pain to Stalin in the future.

“The so-called Nationalists are corrupt, vernal and couldn’t fight a battle to save their own hides,” Stillwell had said, and flatly refused to have anything to do with the project. He’d wanted to simply give up on China; between incompetent rulers, the Japanese and deadly disease outbreaks, there was little hope for assistance in the future.

He jumped out of his musings when a plane flew overhead. The only way to recover the photographs was to have a plane catch them as they fell; he glanced at his watch and was astonished to notice that several hours had gone by without him noticing.

“I must have been asleep,” he said, and stumbled out into the main centre. Wilson waved to him and dragged him towards the darkroom, where the photographs were being developed. “What do they look like?”

“They’re… not bad,” Wilson said, as the wet images were laid on the table. Donovan considered them; they were nothing like as neat and precise as the British images, but they were a start.

“A good start,” he said aloud. “Now… how many more can you put up in a day?”

Chapter Seven: Affairs of Public Interest

BBC Headquarters

London, United Kingdom

30th March 1942

Baron Edmund enjoyed his work, most of the time. Even before the Transition, a series of careful and forward-looking decisions by the BBC staff had placed the Corporation firmly at the forefront of British television – defeating Sky and the other American news services – by developing pay-per-view technology to allow immediate access to almost any program. A viewer who had paid the proper fee could access any program at once from a BBC satellite or Internet server.

He smiled to himself as he read through the briefing papers. The entire world network of reporters had – naturally – vanished after the Transition, but the BBC was recovering, moving neatly into competition with the American newspapers and radio stations. The sudden proliferation of Internet-capable computers across America, combined with the sudden development of newer systems, had threatened the BBC, but the Corporation still had what it took.

The Americans never had the imagination to see what we could do, Edmund thought, not without pride. Collecting TV licensing fees was difficult, but if you made it necessary for people to pay to watch without heavy-handedness, it made the cost of collecting the fees unnecessary. CNN had complained about hackers hacking into their systems; the BBC had simply made it easy for people to do it without committing a crime.

“And, of course, it protects Kristy,” he said aloud, and smiled. Kristy Stewart remained in Germany, sending back footage that was both approved and not approved by the Nazi elite. She’d broken the news of Hitler’s death, coming hard on the heels of Roosevelt’s death, and that of Himmler taking control. As long as the Germans didn’t pay their subscription fees – which of course they didn’t do – the fact that there was more material than the Germans knew about would remain a secret.

He glanced down at his schedule for the day. He had a board meeting later, arranging materials so that the Corporation could continue to send embedded reporters into combat alongside the British troops, and then a meeting with the American ambassador, seeking permission for reporters to be attached to the American troops. If MacArthur had remained alive, he was certain that they would have been allowed, but Patton was different.

He scowled. Patton, in one of his rare press conferences, had spoken of the need for winning the war, not of open government or his commitment to America. Eisenhower was more newsworthy, but he just didn’t have the glamour attached to Patton, who was famous for real reasons.

His speakerphone buzzed. “Sir, Jack Roberson just called and asked if you could check your email,” his secretary said. Edmund sighed; Roberson was a great presenter, but his grasp of the modern world was slight, at best. He opened the email and skimmed though; it was a proposal for a new television show, one researching the effects of future knowledge on people.

“Wasn’t it bad enough with the future criminals?” He asked. Mary McManus was doing several years in an Irish jail cell, although with all the civil unrest in Ireland she might be sent to Britain for the rest of her sentence. Women’s rights groups were already protesting, along with groups that wanted to shoot paedophiles on sight, on the grounds that all she’d done was kill a known child molester.

Still, it might be interesting, he decided, after reading through the entire notes. Not only were there criminals, like Nixon, but ordinary people who’d had affairs, or saved money their wives didn’t know about… the ripples of the Transition were spreading across the world.

Approved for further development, he noted on the email, and returned it, before looking through some of the other emails. One in particular caught his attention; a request for an interview from Bruce Coville, the Director of Overseas Reporters. Puzzled – Coville wasn’t fond of accounting for his department to anyone, the Board least of all – Edmund sent an offer of an immediate meeting. Coville accepted at once, alarming Edmund more than he had expected.

“We have something of a… situation,” Coville said, without preamble. “We may be about to be at ground zero of a major scandal.”

Edmund blinked. “As bad as the David Kelly affair?”

“Worse,” Coville said bluntly. He picked out a CD and inserted it into Edmund’s displayer without bothering to ask permission. “Observe.”

Edmund swore. The images were indistinct; most homemade pornographic movies were. A woman and a man were having sex; the woman straddling the man and moving with considerable enthusiasm. Her face was slack with pleasure and with a shock he recognised her.

“That’s Kristy Stewart,” he said, remembering. “Oddly enough, Bruce; I already know all of this.”

“No, you don’t,” Coville said grimly, as the happy couple made love with a depressing vigour, concluding together. Edmund refrained from looking at the man’s unmentionables; it would only depress him. “Sir, that video was on the web.”

Edmund flicked off the display and stared at him. “Say again,” he said. “This was on the World Wide Web?”

“Yes,” Coville said. “As you know, everything that… Miss Stewart does while on assignment is recorded.”

Edmund nodded. The MOD and several unnamed agencies had provided the equipment; cameras and data transmitters that were supposed to hide information from anyone that didn’t have the correct access codes. He hadn’t pointed it out to Stewart, but he’d thought that she knew; everything she did was recorded. Everything.

“And this is on the web,” he said. “I suppose it could be a mistake?”

“Almost every one of her… little affairs is on the web,” Coville said. “Sir, someone has done this to us.”

Edmund blinked at being called ‘sir,’ before realising that Coville wanted to pass the buck. “She’s clearly not being raped,” he said grimly. “Shit.”

Coville pressed his point. “Sir, this will destroy any suggestion that we are impartial,” he said. “You know how strong anti-German feeling is right now.”

“I know,” Edmund said. He made a grim face; Germans who had been living in Britain for years were facing discrimination on a grand scale. It was amazing how much damage an ongoing war did to tolerance and many Germans had fled to America. “Who did this to us?”

“I don’t know,” Coville admitted. “Someone could have picked the main signal off the satellite transmission, seeing that the signalling doesn’t involve pinpoint lasers any more. Alternatively, someone could have given them the recordings from within the building, one of her enemies perhaps.”

“I’m going to have to think about this,” Edmund said. “Has anyone else picked up on it?”

“Other news companies?” Coville asked. “Not so far, but it won’t be long. Some porn lover will notice that this set is real, rather than the actors who fuck for money, claiming to be someone famous.” Edmund, who remembered the Princess Diana scandal, nodded. “And, of course, Nazi chic is quite popular in some circles.”

“As are rape movies,” Edmund muttered, with genuine disgust. The imported Japanese and Chinese porn movies had even provoked questions in Parliament. Personally, he thought that the male – and female – actors who acted in them should have been shot or flogged, even if they’d claimed that everyone in the movies was paid for their… services.

“This could rebound badly on the Corporation,” Coville said. “However, I leave it all in your hands.”

“Thanks a fucking lot,” Edmund said, as Coville got up to leave. He thought rapidly; could someone in MI6 or PJHQ have released the records? Coming to think of it, might they have appeared on the intranet in those organisations and migrated onto the greater web?

He made his decision. “Sandra,” he said, calling his secretary. “Sandra, could you arrange me a meeting with the Press Secretary?”

Sandra, a short and stocky oriental woman, entered his office and bowed. “Yes, sir,” she said. Her bow exposed a great deal of cleavage and leg. “Might I ask what the meeting will be about?”

“Unfortunate affairs,” Edmund said, and smiled at his pun. Sandra, puzzled, bowed and left, leaving Edmund alone with his thoughts.

* * *

Charlene Molesworth was a bright and bubbly teenager, at least in appearance. Her long blonde hair fell over an ample bust, which she dressed to enhance, and a very tight short dress. Her contrast to Anna Hathaway, the current Home Secretary, could hardly be greater; Hathaway was a stern prim woman with grey hair pulled tightly into a bun. Everyone was expecting fireworks; the audience had been laying bets all morning.

“Good afternoon and welcome to Spotlight,” Charlene said. She’d been hosting the show for six months, mainly because of her open sex appeal. “We have here today the Home Secretary, Mrs Anna Hathaway, for a one-to-one interview.” Her tone was designed to excite men; her nude photographs sold for a fortune. “Thank you for joining us, Anna – I may call you Anna, mightn’t I?”

Hathaway gave her a sharp look. Charlene was reminded of the picture of Granny Weatherwax from the Discworld movies. “Naturally, we were more than happy to grant you an interview,” Hathaway said, without answering the question.

Someone less enthusiastic might have been daunted. “Thank you for coming again,” Charlene said. “The first question is simple; seeing we’re waging war against the Germans, what the next step going to be?”

Hathaway gave her a long calculating look. “You must be aware that we do not discuss matters of operational security on open channels,” she said. “All I can tell you is that the Government remains committed to defeating Nazi Germany and Soviet Russia as quickly as possible.”

“But not including the use of nuclear weapons?” Charlene asked quickly. “Open reports from the first time this war was fought suggest that the Germans actually managed to detonate a nuclear weapon, just before the war ended.”

“Such reports were never proven and indeed relied upon very insubstantial evidence indeed,” Hathaway said.

Charlene gave her a dazzling smile. “But would you agree that a German nuclear threat exists?”

“I would not,” Hathaway said primly. “The Germans would have to build the bomb and then transport it here. They don’t have stealth technology and they can’t build a bomb small enough to be transported on a rocket. Ergo, we are in no danger from a German atomic attack.”

Charlene nodded. “Ah, but what about biological weapons?” She asked. “Reports suggest that the Axis are in fact using such weapons in Central Asia.”

“We are confident that any German biological agent would not be ultra-nasty, like some of the creations from our own time,” Hathaway informed her. “We are also confident that we could handle anything that got loose over here – and we have warned the Germans that any use of biological weapons will result in a nuclear response.”

Charlene seized on the last point. “So there are circumstances under which a nuclear weapon would be used?”

“In retaliation for the use of weapons of mass destruction,” Hathaway said. “We will not slaughter thousands of German citizens for no cause.”

Charlene, prompted by her producer, changed the subject. “As you are aware, the preparation of bases for the United States Air Force…”

“United States Army Air Force,” Hathaway corrected.

“United States Army Air Force, then,” Charlene said. She blinked, trying to regain her train of thought. “There are bases being built for the United States Army Air Force and the United States Army,” she said. “What guarantees are there that Americans will not act in a manner like they did last year?”

Hathaway’s face flickered. “The… incidents last year resulted from a mixture of culture shock and improperness,” she said. “No one was quite prepared for what happened, including the local police.” Charlene grimaced; a SAS unit and several Army detachments had been required during one riot. “This year, several precautions have been taken, mainly intended to prevent repeats of those incidents.”

Charlene nodded. “Tell me, what about the reports that some American servicemen caught AIDS?”

“That was unfortunately true,” Hathaway said. “They slept with prostitutes and got AIDS – along with a handful of other diseases. Most of them are responding well to treatment.”

“And those who aren’t?” Charlene asked. “Do they understand the problem?”

“We have attempted to explain it to them, yes,” Hathaway said. “That, however, is a matter for the American authorities.”

Charlene nodded. “Thank you for your frank responses,” she said. “Now… Travis Mortimer, the new MP from Edinburgh, has been questioning the value of the war. What do you say to that?”

“Mr Mortimer, with all due respect, clearly isn’t aware of the scope of Hitler’s crimes,” Hathaway said. “He is an evil that has to be stopped – now!”

“He does, however, feel that a policy of isolation would keep us safe from him,” Charlene said. “Is that true?”

“Every week, a handful of V1’s makes it way past the RAF and crashes onto British soil,” Hathaway said. “Himmler isn’t going to say… ok, peace now man. They know that the only way to win is to knock us out of the war and take our technology for themselves.”

“An interesting point,” Charlene said. “On a different note, given that India agreed to accept independence very quickly, why are we still involved there? Mortimer charges that you are attempting to create a new empire.”

“They agreed on that issue very quickly,” Hathaway said flatly. “Unfortunately, the entire process is stalled because of the Princes; they want some guarantees of their position and personal power before they step down, and may of them have private armies of their own. The Nationalists, however, find this intolerable. Our involvement is the only thing preventing all-out civil war.”

“And what about the charge that British agents took part in the American coup attempt?” Charlene pressed.

If she had hoped to rattle Hathaway, she didn’t succeed. “I can categorically state that no British agents, troops, aircraft or trained animals took part in the events in America,” she said. “That was an all-American affair.”

Charlene smiled and crossed her legs, exposing her panties to some lucky viewers. “When will we launch the invasion of Europe?”

Hathaway gave her a sharp look. “I already told you that we do not discuss operational matters,” she said. “Are there any other questions?”

Charlene felt deeply-buried instincts pushing at her. She forced them down ruthlessly. “Thank you for coming on my show,” she said. She didn’t quite dare to ask for audience questions. “One final matter; what will happen to the Jews after the war?”

Hathaway blinked at the question. “That will be up to the Palestinian Government, or the Republic of Arabia, depending on how the borders end up being defined. Thanks to the Germans, a lot of Jews have fled or joined the military forces in Palestine.”

“Talk about a mess,” Charlene said. “Thank you for joining us, again.”

The audience rose and clapped as Charlene bowed to them, then the curtain came down, covering the stage and hiding both of them. Hathaway nodded once to Charlene and then left, heading off to her car and home to rest. It wasn’t that late, Charlene knew, but being on stage took it out of you.

“Coffee?” Her Producer, Brian Bruin, said. She felt comfortable around him; he had the warm body of a bear. Brian Bruin and her had been lovers for two years.

“Yes, please,” she said, giving him a hug. Enough BBC staff believed that he was gay for no one to notice the conflict of interest. She sipped the hot coffee with a sigh of relief. “What next?”

“Nothing much,” Bruin said. She quirked an eyebrow; she knew that tone of voice. “Only… how would you like a private interview with Travis Mortimer?”

Charlene grinned. “That bitch Stewart never did anything that good,” she said. “An interview with Adolf Hitler… pah!”

Bruin grinned back. “You’ll never guess what that woman has done now,” he said. “Come on; I’ll tell you about it in my office.”

* * *

Baron Edmund had never been certain what to make of Noreen Adam, who was currently serving as the poster child for strange bedfellows as a member of the Hanover Government. As a moderate Muslim, it was of course necessary to stay on her good side… except the Hanover government had more balls when confronting Asian riots than any of its predecessors.

He scowled to himself. The BBC had gotten good coverage of two riots being crushed just after the Transition. The Government had banned broadcast of the footage and he’d compiled, not wanting to make the situation worse.

“I confess, this is an interesting problem,” Noreen said. Her scarred face twisted unpleasantly; he remembered that rumour said she’d been raped badly. “It would hardly do to have the reputation of the BBC called into disrepute.”

“Indeed,” Edmund said, not altogether certain what to make of the last statement. “However, she is in Germany and recovering her might be… problematical.”

“The understatement of the century,” Noreen said. “I have been ordered to remind you that she was allowed to go on the understanding that there would be no attempt to save her if she got into trouble.”

Edmund thought rapidly. Who had ordered her? Hanover himself? One of his lackeys? “We are considering recalling her,” he said. “Under the circumstances, would the government be willing to put a helicopter at our disposal for the task?”

Noreen hesitated. “If prior arrangements are made with the German government, then yes,” she said finally. “However, as noted before… we will not risk lives to save hers. If she gets into trouble with the SS, it’s not our problem.”

“She’s going to get in trouble with the rest of the world when they see those videos,” Edmund said. “Can you pass a Press Advisory Notice on them?”

Noreen grinned at him. “They’re on the Internet,” she said. “I suppose you could sue whoever’s got them hosted on their servers, but the Government can’t control servers in America, or even the rest of the Commonwealth. Besides… why should we care?”

Edmund glared at her. “This could ruin the reputation of the BBC,” he said. “Now what do we do?”

Noreen considered. “You could always sack her,” she suggested. “Look, it’s not really within our purview to legislate on such issues. If you feel that she’s disgracing the BBC, fire her or discipline her. If not… then what harm does it cause?”

Chapter Eight: The Man Who Would Be King

Kensington Heights

London, United Kingdom

2nd April 1942

Ironically, Travis Mortimer had never considered a serious political career, until the shambles of the collapsing Labour Government had pushed him to the fore. His membership of the Party in Edinburgh had been little more than a way to pass the time, but when the MP for his constituency resigned in a hurry, in 2016 or 1941PT, however you wanted to look at it, Mortimer had been invited to stand for the post.

He’d refused at first, but the death of his brother onboard a Royal Navy submarine had convinced him, and he’d run for Parliament in a bye-election, winning by a fairly substantial majority. The Labour Party hadn’t been welcome in the election and the opposing candidates had been party hacks, rather than people who were serious and sober. Mortimer had lived in Edinburgh all his life; they’d been brought in to stand for the position.

Idiots, he’d thought at the time, the sheer insult to his constituency driving him on. He’d fought and won the election with enough of a majority not to be relegated to the backbenches, as most new MPs normally were, and he’d swiftly taken control of New Labour. Old Labour, the traditionalists, glowered at him, but they hadn’t prevented him from establishing a power base.

Mortimer smiled to himself. It was not enough to do anything substantial, not as long as Hanover’s coalition remained in being, but it was enough to make a serious noise, if necessary.

“Travis?” Mortimer nodded as his sister Elspeth entered the room. Tall and dark haired, she’d agreed to serve as his social secretary; socialising wasn’t his strong point, no matter how many puns and plays on words the papers made about the whole business.

“Yes, Elspeth?” He asked. “What’s happening?”

“That female reporter is finally here,” she said, her mouth twisted in a look of disapproval. “She’s dressed rather like a slut.”

“Now, now, we need the media,” Mortimer reminded her. “They have to post favourable comments towards us, or we’re sunk when the time comes for elections.”

Elspeth gave him a dry look. “When that asshole in Downing Street decides to call them,” she sneered. It was an old argument; Mortimer didn’t bother to respond to it. She looked him up and down, her eyes examining every part of his dress and face. “You shaved,” she said, in a tone of mild surprise. “Do be polite to the little slut.”

Mortimer smiled. “Don’t worry, mum,” he said. “I’ll be careful.”

* * *

Charlene Molesworth studied Travis Mortimer with interest as his secretary led her in to his private office. He was young, in his mid-thirties, and possessed shiny short black hair. He was dressed neatly in a conservative business suit, standing up to shake her hand with a firm and professional handshake.

“Thank you for allowing me to come,” she said, as she checked the camera. The computer experts would use the footage to produce a complete picture of the room later. She checked that the live feed direct to the BBC was running – more than one person had tried to smash a camera after saying too much – and checked his appearance. Even with the modified cameras, some people still looked odd through a camera in bad lighting.

“Are you ready?” She asked. She was obliged by law to check before activating the camera. Some reporters left the cameras running, confident that their subjects couldn’t detect the operating system, but it had led to more than a few lawsuits.

Mortimer smiled at her. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” he said. “You may fire when ready, Gridley.”

Charlene smiled and activated the camera. “Good morning,” she said. “I’m live with Travis Mortimer, the MP for Edinburgh South and one of the people trying to claim the mantle of Leader of the Opposition. Mr Mortimer, nice to have you with us.”

Mortimer smiled, a politician’s smile. She distrusted it on sight. “Thank you for interviewing me,” he said. “Please call me Travis.”

“Mr Mortimer, ah, Travis, you have been considered the anti-war candidate,” Charlene said. “How do you respond to that charge?”

“With scorn and disdain,” Mortimer said cheerfully. “After the Germans bombed Dover and London, and their actions in the Middle East, I don’t think that anyone can really object to fighting the war. However…”

“You are on record as objecting to the awarding of an OBE to Admiral Turtledove and a similar award to General Flynn,” Charlene interrupted. “In particular, you accused Admiral Turtledove, the commander of British forces in the Far East, of incompetence, despite a Board of Inquiry ruling in his favour.”

Mortimer smiled, unabashed. “My comments about Admiral Turtledove were pushed forward by a series of mistakes made by him, including the Battle of the Indian Ocean and…”

“The Board of Inquiry ruled in his favour,” Charlene reminded him.

“That was a whitewash,” Mortimer said evenly. “Any competent commander would not have remained still while the Japanese closed in on his fleet.”

Charlene blinked. Her earphone whispered in her ear. “The Board of Inquiry ruled that Turtledove had to remain with the damaged ships, or else the Japanese would have sunk them while the rest of the fleet escaped.”

“No he didn’t,” Mortimer said calmly. “He could have opened the range with his missile-armed ships and saved them from possible destruction, and quite possibly have saved the crippled ships as well. However, that was not the only incidence of incompetence; he allowed the Japanese to land in Australia and he lost a submarine to Japanese ASW efforts.”

“Submarines have been lost before,” Charlene said.

“During the Iran conflict the USN lost a nuclear-powered ship,” Mortimer agreed. “However, that was against an Iranian ship which had roughly equal technology and a great deal of luck.”

“And you do not feel that the Japanese might also have been lucky?” Charlene inquired.

“No, because there was no reason for the submarine to be close enough for them to even get a sniff of her,” Mortimer said. “Her torpedoes could have sunk any Japanese ship, with the possible exception of a battleship, at long distance without coming close enough for them to get a sniff. Even a battleship could be sunk by two or three hits.”

Charlene frowned. “And that is your only reason to accuse the Government of incompetence?” She asked. “During the Falklands War a number of ships were lost, simply because they were overwhelmed.”

“Oh, in plain numbers, we’re already past the losses of the Falklands,” Mortimer said wryly. “But that leads to another point; we’re not doing enough to find the missing hostages in Germany.”

Charlene considered. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” she said, prompted, “but are they not looking for a handful of people in a very large haystack.”

“Although that is a bad metaphor, yes,” Mortimer said. “And, of course, the Government isn’t doing enough to knock-out the German factories, let alone the Soviet factories.” He smiled. “We have precision weapons and satellites in orbit; we should be hammering them round the clock.”

“That is a problem,” Charlene agreed. “Would you advise the use of nuclear weapons?”

Mortimer was too wily a politician to fall into that trap. “Finally, the Government seems determined to resurrect the British Empire,” he concluded. “I believe that over-extension was what got us the first time around; we should be concentrating on ourselves, not on people who will be ungrateful. Will we get a second round of immigrants from the new states in the Empire?”

He scowled. “Have we unnecessarily provoked trouble with France by unilaterally annexing their colonies and preparing for a five-year transition to democracy?”

Charlene smiled. “Thank you,” she said. “I understand that you intend to press for a general election as soon as possible?”

“Indeed I do,” Mortimer said. “We have a Government that was only half-elected, a coalition built to uphold certain established interests… and an election is required as soon as possible.”

“This would be despite the agreement with the Leader of the Opposition, Ken Barton, that the normal four-year cycle would be continued?” Charlene asked. “It seems safe enough to me.”

“We don’t have the Smith Government any longer,” Mortimer pointed out. “Barton could consider the agreement null and void. Even so, I didn’t sign the agreement.”

* * *

Mortimer smiled to himself as the hot sexy reporter departed, taking her cameras with her. He was careful to conduct a basic ELINT scan – some reporters had developed the habit of leaving electronic bugs around – but Charlene had behaved herself; there were none in the room.

“She’s gone then,” Elspeth stated, wrinkling her nose. “Crafty bitch.”

“I wonder whose side she’s on,” Mortimer mused. She had been pretty. “Perhaps we could recruit her.”

“She doesn’t have a brain cell in her head,” Elspeth snapped. “Whatever she thinks – assuming she thinks anything – the BBC is pro-Hanover. You’ll sound like a right moron or a pro-Nazi on the evening news.”

Mortimer shrugged. “Perhaps that will be beneficial,” he said. His mind worked rapidly, calculating the angles. Hanover had a solid majority, but not all of his supporters got on with the other supporters. If Barton could be induced to join him – or, more likely, if most of his coalition could be induced to join him – he would have a solid base to build a campaign on.

“We don’t want an election at once,” he said thoughtfully. “We need time; time to get our message out to the public and time to gauge reactions. We also need to push Hanover at every possible point, such as handing Palestine over to the Republic of Arabia.”

“Which is our ally, as opposed to the Grand High Pompousness of Jerusalem,” Elspeth pointed out. The Grand Mufti of Jerusalem, fanatically anti-Jewish, had been shot for war crimes.

“Ah, but what will that do to the future of Israel?” Mortimer asked. “There are nothing like as many Jews here as there are in America, but all of them want a Jewish homeland. What will they think when Hanover starts forbidding Jewish immigration?”

“It won’t be his fault,” Elspeth said practically. “Either the Republic of Arabia is a Commonwealth member, and a honoured supporter of the Commonwealth Provisional Protocols, or it is not. You know as well as I do that revoking the immigration clause would be massively unpopular here.”

Mortimer shrugged. “They won’t know that its not Hanover’s fault,” he said. “Besides, what will happen if the Republic of Arabia starts disrespecting the clause on religious and sexual equality?”

“If they do,” Elspeth said. “Many of them come from here, you know.”

“It’ll all end in tears,” Mortimer predicted. He looked down at his notes. “What do I have to do next?”

“There is a sitting at the house to debate funding for the American air force bases in Britain,” Elspeth said, slipping back into secretary mode. “You’re in favour of isolated compounds, but will give in to the majority if adequate security is provided, not American military police, who were just part of the problem.”

“It’s good to know that I have a position,” Mortimer said wryly. “What next?”

“You are supposed to give a speech at a local school,” Elspeth said. “They’re not exactly anti-war, because London was bombed, so tone that down a bit.”

Mortimer scowled. “I want this war over,” he said. “I want it to end.”

Elspeth nodded. “Unfortunately, the Germans would hardly recognise our neutrality,” she said. “We – Britain – has no choice, but to fight the war to the end.”

Mortimer scowled again. “We should just threaten to nuke them until they glow in the dark,” he said. “That would bring them to heel.”

Elspeth, as always, was coolly practical. “And what happens when they call our bluff?”

Permanent Joint Headquarters

Northwood, United Kingdom

2nd April 1942

“Bastard,” General Cunningham snapped, glaring at the TV screen through his moustache. “Look at him; new-come MP criticising the Government.”

Stirling lifted an eyebrow. General Cunningham had disliked Smith intensely, regarding the man as a weakling with the morals of a toad in the hole. Prime Minister Hanover was more to his taste; a strong Thatcher-figure whom he could follow with a song in his old heart. General Cunningham knew that if there had been the slightest question of his competence during Smith’s tenure, he would have been resigned without ever having the chance to fight a major war.

Hoping to spare himself the agony of having to answer, Stirling cast his eyes over the threat board, which had been updated with 1940 political borders rather than 2015. Ships, aircraft and infantry units were marked on the board, tracked by satellites and the orbiting space station. Several units remained on Britain itself, useless for all, but politics; the largest number of modern units remained in Iraq.

How depressingly familiar, he thought.

“That bastard dares to say that the war is being run badly,” Cunningham snapped. “What would he do? Land in Normandy and march all the way to Berlin?”

Stirling shook his head. Such an operation had been war-gamed several times in the PJHQ, always to British defeat. The forces that had existed in 2015 might have been far more powerful than their German opponents, but their supply lines were not. The most optimistic result had been the successful capture of Belgium, followed by a protracted war while new supplies were brought into the war zone.

Stirling shuddered. With the hundreds of German aircraft in Germany and France, it could have been a slaughter – would have been a slaughter.

“Most people don’t fully understand the complexities of military operations,” he said, trying to be reassuring. It didn’t work. “He’s probably just posturing for the newspapers.”

“Someone ought to say something in his ear,” General Cunningham snarled. “Perhaps something like… ah, know what you’re bloody talking about before you open your fat mouth.”

“No one would say that to him,” Stirling predicted. “I have the report on deployments for the liberation of Iran, as your requested.”

Changing the subject worked, if only for a few moments. General Cunningham nodded. “We have four armoured divisions and six infantry units in the Middle East,” Stirling said. “The Bundeswehr is currently incorporating the couple of thousand men who had agreed to join its ranks, so they’re out of action for a month. On the other hand, one of the heavy infantry divisions is from the Republic of Arabia, fighting beside us for the first real time as a unit.”

General Cunningham snarled. “I understand Rommel’s point,” he said, “but he could easily send a division to help us out without harming his unit. More experience would do them good.”

“He does know the value of training,” Stewart said wryly. “Although it’s hard to be certain, the Soviets have been busy; they have upward of half a million men – including nearly two thousand tanks – in the Middle East. Some of them are staving.”

“I’m not surprised, after someone passed around a rumour that the supplies were contaminated,” General Cunningham said. “That said, perhaps they were too ignorant to know what radiation poisoning is.”

“Perhaps,” Stirling said. He didn’t find it unbelievable that the Government of Soviet Russia, under Stalin, would quite happily feed their conscripts radioactive gruel, let alone the rations they were supposed to have. He remembered, some years before he was born, that Argentinean quartermasters had made their position worse by selling the troops the rations they were supposed to have – and Soviet quartermasters were apparently doing the same thing.

“We need to play more hob with their supply lines,” General Cunningham declared. “What about the RAF?”

Stirling nodded. “We have five new squadrons of Hawk aircraft, armed with anti-tank missiles and FAE bombs,” he said. “Some units have been equipped with Deathcloud weapons, but the Soviets have been more careful about exposing themselves to those weapons.”

He shivered. Admiral Turtledove’s drones had produced horrifying images of the last time a Deathcloud was used on unsuspecting pilots. The expanding wall of burning fuel had swept the Japanese planes out of the sky without any chance of escape.

“They don’t have much of a choice,” General Cunningham said. “And the operational plan?”

Stirling adjusted the display. “Basically, it’s simple,” he said. “We will launch simultaneous strokes towards Basra and Baghdad, while the Turks hammer their way into Georgia, backed up by SAS units and one of the super-bombers.”

“We really ought to hurry up with the program to equip some B-29s with computers and flying them ourselves,” General Cunningham muttered.

“We won’t get sucked into city-fighting,” Stirling said. “We can do without a Stalingrad. As they’ve forced much of the population out of the cities and sent them fleeing into our territory, we don’t have to worry about keeping the city intact. We can either shell it to death or stave them out. Once we cut their supply lines for good, we can deal with them at our leisure.”

“A shame that the Thor weapons aren’t ready yet,” General Cunningham said. “Can they retaliate?”

“They have the NKVD battalions in the Caucasus mountains,” Stirling said. He scowled; he took no pleasure in killing for its own sake, but the NKVD forces needed extermination. They were slaughtering the civilians; countless thousands were dying as Stalin exterminated threats to the rule of his successors. Absently, he wondered what had happened to Khrushchev and the others who had denounced Stalin after he died.

“Not much of a threat, then,” General Cunningham said. “Sweden is taking up most of their attention.”

“So it would seem,” Stirling said, and then noticed that General Cunningham was looking thoughtfully at a background piece on Travis Mortimer. Mortimer had a personal stake in the war; his brother had died onboard a Royal Navy submarine.

“So he has a reason,” General Cunningham mused. “During your free time, I want you to look into the last hours of… HMS Artful.”

I have free time? Stirling thought with some astonishment. That was a surprise. Still, there was only one answer. “Sir, yes, sir,” he said, and saluted.

Chapter Nine: Political War And Peace

Ten Downing Street

London, United Kingdom

3rd April 1942

“Will no one rid me of the troublesome politician?”

McLachlan gave Hanover a hard look. “You are a troublesome politician yourself,” he reminded him. “The young man is doing the same thing we did, back in opposition.”

Hanover scowled at him, but took the point. “The young man, then, is going to cause a lot of trouble,” he said. “Not being in official Opposition, he is free to shoot his mouth off at whoever can be bothered to listen.”

McLachlan nodded. It was one of the odder parts of the wartime British constitution, most of which existed only in the minds of those who took part. The Opposition – the party with the second-largest share of the vote – was briefed on events, even if they weren’t part of a war cabinet. In exchange, they didn’t rock the boat… too much. However, those who were in third place and below… they got to rant and rave all they wanted.

“He might have a point about our inability to rescue the hostages,” McLachlan said.

”Tell me about it,” Hanover sighed. They’d watched carefully for signs of where they were being kept, but the Germans were growing wise to the presence of SAS teams near their bases, coordinating strikes against what elements of the German industry had been uncovered. “That wretched Jasmine woman has finally managed to make an appointment with me this afternoon.”

“Perhaps Mortimer would like to have her on his party,” McLachlan said. “Wouldn’t that be something?”

“It’s hard to imagine her being a peace candidate,” Hanover said. “Still, he’s not going to get very far on a peace platform. Far more alarming, through, are his claims of military and governmental incompetence.”

McLachlan considered. “We could release the war game results,” he suggested.

Hanover shook his head. “That could – that would – give the Germans access to some of our capabilities,” he said. “They would learn what we could do.”

“They can’t access the internet,” McLachlan said.

“Famous last words,” Hanover said. “They certainly have agents in America, after all. Which leaves us to do… what?”

His mind worked rapidly. Short of a nuclear attack, there was little hope that the war could be brought to an end without an invasion and a march to Moscow. That left politics… he considered for a long moment the concept of sacrificing Admiral Turtledove, before dismissing it. Turtledove was needed; that was all there was to it.

A nasty thought struck him. “His brother served on the Artful,” he said. McLachlan’s face paled. “That… explains his odd behaviour.”

McLachlan looked as if he’d been out of the sun for a few weeks. “That’s why he’s making such a fuss,” he said. The talking heads had gone on and on about the loss of a SSN to the Japanese, without understanding the truth.

“It does make us look pretty bad,” Hanover said wryly. The brief spurt of amusement failed to dim the growing concern. “You know what could happen… if someone puts all of the picture together.”

It wasn’t a question. “We made a joint decision,” McLachlan said.

“I wasn’t trying to shift the blame onto you,” Hanover said, and mentally kicked himself. This wasn’t the time to engage in futile recriminations. “I don’t think that Mortimer will manage to put the pieces together,” he said. “Whatever else one can say about him, he doesn’t have access to the secret files, most of which have been removed in any case.”

He allowed himself a quick moment of consideration. If something happened, and it was never recorded at all, had it ever happened? “Some investigative reporter will have a field day, perhaps,” he said, “but all of the witnesses are… well, you know.”

McLachlan nodded. Apart from them, everyone involved was dead. “So, no need to panic then?” He asked. “We can continue the work?”

Hanover nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Now, what did the government of Iran have to say?”

“Well, the Shah wants Iran to be liberated by the Iranian forces in exile, but…”

McLachlan let his voice trail off. The Iranian forces in exile consisted of one rag-tag division, augmented by Iraqis from Basra. By the time that the Iraqi Government – which had perhaps been given its independence a bit too soon – had agreed to withdraw troops from the raging infernos of Baghdad and Basra, it had been too late to save many of them.

Hanover shook his head. “The demographic disaster has been terrible,” he said. Between the Russians and the Turks, it wasn’t clear if Iran and Iraq would remain functional nations after the war ended. “Knowledge of the future is a terrible thing.”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” McLachlan said. “The Shah wasn’t keen on the suggestion that Iran might become part of the Republic of Arabia and he was keen on American forces taking part in the campaign. Unfortunately, as we know what the Shah will do in the future…”

“I don’t think it’s the same Shah,” Hanover said thoughtfully.

“What’s the difference?” McLachlan asked mischievously. “Anyway, he wants American assistance, simply to prevent Iran from becoming one of the states of the new British Commonwealth.”

Hanover considered. “Political war is such a pain in the ass,” he said. “It’s up to General Flynn; if Iranian forces can take part in the campaign without imperilling its success, they can take part. If he decides against them, well… I’ll back him to the hilt.”

McLachlan got up. “I’ll leave you to your brooding,” he said. “One final question; what do we do if someone does start asking questions on a high level?”

“Everything to do with the Artful is classified,” Hanover said. “The House of Commons Defence Oversight Committee marked it as classified, to remain hidden for at least seventy years.” He grinned. “There is a certain irony in that, isn’t there?”

He shrugged. “I’m supposed to be meeting the President in a week, so I suppose I’d better go over the notes. If someone does start asking questions… well, we’ll deal with that when it comes.”

* * *

It was ironic, Hanover knew, as he read through the reports from SHAFE. The name had worked so well in the original timeline that it had been kept, along with the same commanding general. Hanover knew that it wouldn’t last, not when British and American forces were working on genuine joint operations, instead of a handful of one side’s troops supporting the other side’s troops.

Hanover nodded to himself. General Cunningham had expressed no qualms about General Patton’s use of RAF bombers and General Flynn had apparently gotten on well with the American liaison officers in the Middle East. Still, when it came to invading Europe, large numbers of troops would be involved on all sides.

He smiled. He knew what Truman would want from him and he was fairly certain that Truman would know what he wanted. Naturally, they would both pretend that their subordinates – who had been arguing out the details at levels that didn’t cause diplomatic incidents if talks failed or ended in an exchange of blows – hadn’t briefed them fully on the war plans.

Standing up, he wandered over to the small table in the corner. Smith had used it for a tea table, eating small snacks from there when he was working late. Hanover had cleaned the table personally and set up a chessboard. When he thought, he played with the pieces.

“It’s been too long,” he said, as he picked up a pawn, rolling it around in his hands. Thoughtfully, he placed it one step forward and considered; what would Himmler do? What would the cold calculating schoolmaster-figure do, faced with the problem of a joint invasion; for he had to know it was coming? What could he do?

“They know some of our capabilities,” he said aloud, thinking it though. “They have counters to some of them and they have some advantages of their own, namely ruthlessness. They have allies who will fight tooth and nail to avoid defeat; Franco and Petain.”

He scowled. No amount of underground contacts had managed to convince the Vichy French to consider switching sides. Not only were they using the loss of Algeria as an excuse, but also they were scared of the German army within their country. Hanover didn’t blame them, not for that decision, but he felt cold fury seething within his breast. Petain’s compliance with the Germans – and the French Communists outright collaboration – meant that the French were as much enemies of the Allies as the Germans themselves. It was maddening, even to one of the European Union’s strongest opponents.

What would Himmler do? He wasn’t as mad as Hitler; he was a calculator. Absently, Hanover wondered if Himmler played chess; what would a chess player do in Himmler’s place?

“He can’t count on Japan,” Hanover mused. “The Japanese are a spent force and he knows it. They can stay in their pen until we’re ready to deal with them. That leaves the Soviets; they will be the only ally that Himmler can count on – except their technology is even more primitive than the German technology.”

Angrily, he reminded himself that primitive didn’t mean stupid. A nasty thought occurred to him and he tried to dismiss it. It refused to vanish; could the Germans be trading technology to the Russians?

His desk phone buzzed. “Prime Minister, Jasmine Horton is here to see you,” his secretary said.

Hanover sighed. “Send her in,” he said, and smiled politely at Jasmine as she entered. Tall and willowy blonde, she was almost the caricature of Aryan womanhood, which would have made her… apostasy in marrying a black man even more shocking to Himmler. What must the year and a half she’d spent in German captivity have been like, before her husband accepted Himmler’s offer?

* * *

Jasmine Horton studied the man who was now Prime Minister with interest. She’d voted for Smith because he seemed like a kindly man; Hanover seemed to have little of the milk of human kindness inside him. He studied her over steepled fingers, his dark hair silhouetting his angled face.

Jasmine felt like crying. Ever since the single helicopter had picked her and her three children up from Germany, she’d been kept in a RAF base, although she had been allowed visitors. She hadn’t understood why; that was one of the questions she wanted to ask Hanover. Facing him was difficult; knowing that she – and her children – were watched every minute since their return was harder still. Hanover, had he wished to, could have watched her on the toilet, or undressing, or…

She banished the panicky thoughts with an effort. Hanover was British; even if he had been inclined to abuse his position, there was no way that he could be as bad as the SS guards. The men of the RAF regiment, who guarded the RAF base, had been unfailingly polite; she’d gotten the impression that they were used to strange hostages. They’d even been kind enough to send her children a tutor, even if they weren’t letting any of them out of the base.

They must trust me a little, she thought, and smiled bravely. If they hadn’t trusted her, they would never have left her alone with the Prime Minister.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me,” she said, and meant it. She hated being a supplicant, but she’d become used to it. The German SS might never have raped her – Himmler had forbidden it in no uncertain terms – but she’d felt raped and violated, even by being close to them. A leering drunken jock could not have competed.

“You were very insistent,” Hanover said wryly. His voice was cool and calm, but not unfriendly. “Under normal circumstances, you would not have been allowed to visit me – or any Prime Minister – during a war. I decided to make an exception in your case for several reasons.

“The first one, the most important one to me, was that you had cooperated fully with the interrogators who wanted to know your story when you arrived,” Hanover continued. “I imagine that you resented having to go over your story time and time again, but it was necessary and we are grateful.

“The second reason was that we had confined you to RAF Lyneham,” Hanover said. She was aware of grey-blue eyes watching her carefully. “We were stung – badly – by someone who we should never have let out of our sight, and that mistake could have been far more costly than it was. There was some suggestion that you might have been turned; sent over here to spy for them, as a price for your husband’s safety.”

“It’s the other way around,” Jasmine said, keeping her voice level with an effort. She remembered the truth drugs and the lie detectors and how she’d felt after the interrogation was concluded. ‘Sick’ didn’t begin to describe it.

“So we gathered,” Hanover said dryly. “Still, with nearly sixty million people on Britain, you will understand a little caution?” He lifted a single elegant eyebrow, Spock-like. “Be that as it may, it was felt by several people that we owed you an apology for that treatment, regardless of the rightness of the action.”

“Thank you,” Jasmine said.

“A second, supplementary reason for keeping you at RAF Lyneham was to keep you out of the public eye,” Hanover concluded. “The press is very pro-Government at the moment; given the nature of the agreement your husband made, you and your family would certainly be seen as traitors.” He held up a hand before she could protest. “That is not an opinion shared by the Government,” he assured her. “We hope that we will be able to release you – and your husband, once he returns to Britain – with the press and everybody else none the wiser.”

Jasmine felt her eyes tear up. “Thank you,” she said.

Hanover steepled his fingers again. “You made quite a fuss about talking to me,” he said. “Most people demand to see a lawyer when held at RAF Lyneham. So… why did you want to talk to me?”

Jasmine looked up at him. “I want you to rescue my husband,” she said. She was proud that her voice was as firm as it was. “He’s all alone in the midst of people who see him as a doped-up nigger barbarian fit only for being made into soap.”

“Rescuing all of the hostages is a matter of some importance,” Hanover agreed. “Unfortunately, the problems in finding the people concerned are quite hard to surmount. For your husband, Mrs Horton, all we know is that he is in Berlin somewhere.”

“You can’t send in the SAS?” Jasmine asked. She felt her voice beginning to tremble. “What about the Marines?”

Hanover shook his head. “The SAS can’t search Berlin for him,” he said. He opened his mouth to say something else, and then closed it. “We have to find him, and that is something that the Germans will make difficult. All we know is that they’ve built massive underground complexes under their cities, which we cannot penetrate at all.”

“I’m sorry to have wasted your time,” Jasmine said. She felt tears trickling down her cheeks; Hanover passed her a hanky. “It’s just… I want him back!”

Hanover nodded sadly. “We will do what we can,” he said. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“I don’t think so,” Jasmine said. A thought struck her. “We don’t have to pay for the stay at RAF Lyneham, do we?”

Hanover smiled wryly. “No,” he said. “I assure you that everyone who stays there has their bills paid for by the taxpayer.” He smiled. “You can order more lobster if you want.”

“I think I’d better order more caviar if I’m not paying for it,” Jasmine said, trying to cheer herself up. “Never could stand lobster. One thing; can my children go to a proper school?”

Hanover hesitated. “We’ll see what we can do,” he promised finally. “Mrs Horton, tell me about your husband.”

Jasmine talked and Hanover said nothing. She spoke about their meeting, in York, and of how they’d both been teaching at the same institute. She spoke about how they’d dated, and how both families had accepted the match. They’d both been young, but Horton had been kind and loving. He’d gotten tenure as a professor; she’d chosen to live as a housewife and never looked back.

And then they’d booked a holiday for her and the children – and a research trip for Horton – and it had all gone horribly wrong. She spoke about how Horton had tried to keep them all safe, and how the SS had watched him with disdain. Finally, she explained how Himmler had offered Horton a job… and as the price, she and the children had been sent back to Britain.

* * *

“So that’s what the bastard is doing,” Hanover muttered to himself. He waited as his secretary showed Jasmine out, having asked permission to take her into her private room for a girl-to-girl chat, and then looked back down at the chessboard. It hadn’t made sense, but who said that Himmler felt the urge to be truthful all the time?

“John, come here at once,” Hanover said, picking up his phone and dialling a number from memory. Five minutes later, McLachlan arrived in his room. “I know what Himmler is going to do!”

McLachlan blinked at him. “Taking up mind reading?” He asked. “You know that the future is no longer set in stone.”

Hanover grinned madly, feeling like he’d beaten the world champion of chess. He could have been a grandmaster if he’d continued with the game. “Himmler doesn’t want Horton for history knowledge,” he said. “By now, most of his knowledge will be worthless, won’t it?”

“We worked that out,” McLachlan said. He’d been one of the people who suspected that Jasmine was a spy. “I never understood why he wanted Horton around.”

“I do,” Hanover said. “He knows that in our position, he would have started blowing up cities until we surrendered, right?” McLachlan nodded. “So… he doesn’t understand why we haven’t taken that step ourselves; our viewpoint is alien to him, understand?”

McLachlan nodded again. “He wants Horton to tell him about our weaknesses, and about what Himmler can do to make us accept a peace short of crushing Nazi Germany. That’s what he wants Horton for.”

McLachlan scowled. “Nukes might make us… back off,” he said. “The problem is; Germany doesn’t have any.”

“They have bioweapons,” Hanover said grimly. “I think we’d better make certain that all the precautions are being taken.”

“The Oversight Committee believes that the Germans won’t be able to come up with anything that we can’t defeat,” McLachlan said.

Hanover shrugged. “Famous last words,” he said. “Famous last words.”

Chapter Ten: Back in the USSR

The Kremlin

Moscow, Russia

5th April 1942

Vyacheslav Mikhailovich Molotov braced himself before entering Red Square, which had been cordoned off by Stalin’s personal Red Army battalion, which was watched carefully by an NKVD division. He shivered; like all senior members of the Politburo, he had been assigned his own guard team by Stalin – a team that would shoot him down in an instant if Stalin ordered them to do so.

Life here has gotten a lot more dangerous, he thought, as his papers were checked carefully. No trace of his thoughts showed on his face; his famous ability to conceal his thoughts was his only weapon here. Stalin’s paranoia had grown to new heights in the months since Trotsky had returned… and no one was safe at all. The little surveillance devices that had been part of the German technological trade made certain of that; Molotov was certain that his entire apartment and dacha had been thoroughly bugged.

He smiled inwardly, allowing the guards to finish their search of him. They didn’t – quite – insist that he stripped naked, but he’d heard rumours that female visitors to the Kremlin received such treatment. He’d also heard that more than a few Party senior officers had gone utterly mad when it sank in that Stalin could see them on the toilet, sleeping with their wives or mistresses… that they had no secrets at all.

“You may proceed, Comrade,” the guard said finally. His voice was cold and flat as the Artic; Stalin would hardly punish him for being careful of his personal security. “Do not deviate from your route.”

Molotov nodded politely – it wouldn’t do to upset the guard – and entered the Kremlin, slowly making his way through the long corridors to Stalin’s personal sanctum. The entire atmosphere was darker these days; people scurried around, trying to ignore the guards. Molotov almost laughed; if someone accidentally coughed at the wrong time, it could start a bloodbath.

The thought wasn’t amusing. It had a certain resonance that refused to disappear. Molotov kept his face blank as two more sets of guards searched him, divesting him of anything that might possibly be dangerous, and then finally allowed him to enter Stalin’s room.

“Ah, Comrade Foreign Minister,” Stalin said, as he stepped inside. The room was massive, easily big enough to hold a major party. Stalin’s desk, where he was sitting, was placed at one end of the room, red flags draped the walls.

“Comrade General Secretary,” Molotov replied. Stalin’s voice was calm; Molotov felt his nerves jangle. The Georgian accent had almost vanished.

“Have a seat,” Stalin invited, waving to one of the chairs near his desk. His orderly produced a samovar full of steaming tea; a small box of tobacco sat beside it. Molotov, who didn’t smoke, watched as Stalin carefully filled his own pipe, before lighting it with a simple lighter.

Stalin noticed Molotov focusing his attention on the lighter. “Yes, that is indeed from the future,” he said. “Comrade Gregory is confident, however, that we can make them for ourselves without too much difficulty.”

He passed it over and Molotov examined it. It was made of some strange plastic, clearly holding some liquid inside it. Experimentally, he flicked the wheel on the end of the lighter and was rewarded by sparks. Gasping in pain as his thumb was burnt, he dropped the lighter on the ground.

Stalin laughed. It was a chilling sound. “So, Comrade, how proceeds our alliance with the fascist scientists?”

Molotov rubbed his thumb. The pain was sore beyond any burn he’d felt before. “It proceeds well,” he said. Refusing to give Stalin his title was a piece of petty revenge. “The fascists are producing their vengeance rockets” – the German word was beyond him – “and splitting them with us. We will soon have a major stockpile of them ourselves.”

“Good,” Stalin said. His voice remained oddly calm. “Are we certain that the fascists are not deceiving us?”

“We have been selecting the rockets for our use at random,” Molotov said. “While trickery remains a possibility, we have done what we can to minimise it. Unfortunately, the fascists have been unwilling to test the rockets in open space; we have only the results of the tests within caverns. The guidance system, for example, was modelled on one from the future” – he forbore to mention that the rocket in question had been a Russian design – “and should work.”

He smiled. “The fascists, apparently, are planning to use them in a terror strike against Britain,” he said. “We will have ample opportunity to evaluate them before revealing that we possess them ourselves.”

Stalin smiled. He enjoyed learning from others mistakes. “And we still cannot take over the German science cities ourselves?”

Molotov thought rapidly. Genius, he’d learnt from the future, had to be nurtured, not forced along. Even though the Germans in the science cities had only sidearms – forbidden anything heavier by treaty – they would have ample time to destroy all of their prototypes and the scientists inside the city.

“The fascists have anticipated trickery on our part as well,” he said finally. “Not that we had any such plans, of course.”

Stalin laughed throatily. “Of course not, Comrade,” he said. “Would we do a thing like that? We’re not Germans, you know, or even Frenchmen.”

Molotov smiled at the joke. Not just because not laughing at Stalin’s little jokes was suicidal, but also because it was genuinely funny. Molotov had handled the negotiations with the French – and their then British allies – and the French proposal had boiled down to the Soviet Union doing almost all of the heavy lifting, even through Poland had been… obstinate about allowing Russian troops on their soil.

Molotov smiled. The joke had been on them, and from what the future had said; the French hadn’t learnt a thing from the war. They were the slaves of Germany; the proud French reduced to working for the Germans, while the British stole their empire.

“The Germans have arranged the plants very carefully,” he said. Allowing the Germans bases within the Rodina had been a calculated risk. “We have teams of our own working on duplicating their work and building more industry cities that the Germans will know nothing about.”

“Excellent,” Stalin said. “Now… the memo from Georgy Konstantinovich.”

Molotov, who hadn’t seen any such memo because of the information being concealed by Stalin, lifted a single eyebrow. Stalin passed across a sheet of paper.

“He is advocating that we withdraw our forces from Iran,” Stalin said. “That cursed Indian hasn’t proven as useful as we had hoped.”

Molotov finished reading the paper and frowned. “He may have a point,” he said.

“Territory that has been gained by the Rodina may never be surrendered,” Stalin said firmly. Zhukov wanted to withdraw to north Iran and hammer Turkey as punishment for their betrayal. “The British will be at a disadvantage in city fighting.”

Molotov hesitated, uncertain what to say. There were times that Stalin wanted the truth and nothing but the truth; there were times when it was dangerous to disagree. It was true; the super-warriors of the future – including the never to be sufficiently damned SAS – were reluctant to fight in a built-up area. On the other hand, Molotov knew that that was because of a reluctance to cause civilian casualties, and neither of Iran or Iraq’s main cities had much of a civilian population left. Zhukov had hoped that Baghdad and Basra would serve as fortresses to bleed the Allies… but the British preparations were not for a city fight.

“If they choose to engage in a city fight,” he said, hoping that this was one of Stalin’s good days. “They might just seek to cut the forces in the cities off and let them starve.”

Stalin snorted. “They will seek to destroy the forces,” he said. “In their place, I would use their nuclear warheads on the city. Have the Germans made any extra progress with the nukes?”

The sudden change of subject didn’t stun Molotov. Who knew where Stalin’s thoughts went? “They have set up a prototype reactor in one of the science cities,” he said. The NKVD, the GRU and several new security organisations were watching those Germans like hawks. They’re moving forward as fast as possible, but they’ve hit problems.”

Stalin glowered. Not only did he want the nuclear weapons for himself – and not for Himmler if he could avoid it – but he was certain that the Germans had a larger nuclear program than they were admitting to. Both sides were learning a lot from the joint project, but was it enough to build a nuclear weapon ahead of the fascists?

“And the trade with the Japanese?” Stalin demanded finally. “What have the little yellow men given us?”

Molotov hesitated. The Soviet Union was providing quiet assistance to the Japanese attempts to move their operations to China; something that Molotov knew well was futile. There was no way that they could move enough of their people over before the British and their Australian brothers finally moved in for the kill.

“The Japanese program was proceeding slowly,” he said. “They’re still working desperately to build a weapon, but they had two separate programs and limited supplies.”

“But they gave us what they had,” Stalin said. Molotov nodded. “If we were to give them a bomb, who would they use it against?”

“We don’t have a bomb ourselves yet,” Molotov protested.

“But we will have one soon, won’t we?” Stalin asked. “Your projection said early 1943, did they not?”

“Yes, perhaps sooner, once we assimilate the German and Japanese research,” Molotov said. He smiled; was that not a demonstration of the truth of Communism? “Still, it will take time to build up a stockpile.”

“True, true,” Stalin mused. Molotov hoped that he’d gotten the thought of giving a nuclear weapon to the Japanese out of his mind. “So, back to our little internal problem. Lavrenty Pavlovich has not succeeded in tracking down our old friend.”

Stalin’s old friend, Molotov remembered. They had been genial opponents, because Trotsky had never realised what lay behind Stalin’s smile… until he was forced to flee the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. If Beria, one of the most capable – and sadistic – people couldn’t track down Trotsky, then the old communist must have leaned a few new tricks.

“He’ll turn up sooner or later,” Molotov said. “Our security is getting better and better all of the time.”

“He better had, or Lavrenty Pavlovich will lose his head,” Stalin growled. “This has appeared.”

He picked up a leaflet and passed it to Molotov. Molotov examined it with some concern; the leaflet was printed on finer paper than the best Soviet propaganda… and the image on it was literally out of time and space.

THE DEATH OF A DIVISION!

People of Mother Russia – the arch-criminal Stalin, he who was born in Georgia and nearly became a priest, has sent thousands of men to their deaths. They were struck by a weapon that could destroy an entire city the size of Moscow, one that will be used on Moscow if Stalin is not removed!

Do you want to live freely? Join the underground today!

“Those things have been turning up everywhere,” Stalin snapped. Molotov examined the picture; the ruins of an entire military city hung in front of his eyes. Other pictures were displayed on the other side; a ruined tank and dozens of burnt bodies.

“We must be able to locate some of their network if they’re this busy,” Molotov protested.

“Lavrenty Pavlovich has found children – street children – serving as delivery men,” Stalin snapped. “They are very careful, just like we were before the Revolution.”

Molotov nodded in agreement. The Tsar’s secret police had been brutal opponents. “What else has happened?”

“Food riots in some towns, a riot on a collective farm that was one of the handful kept in operation,” Stalin said. “They’re also pointing out that the ongoing build-up of the army will send most of the men to their deaths, and they’ve given very exaggerated death figures. People don’t believe Pravda; they believe…”

He waved the leaflet. Everyone knew – everyone who could read behind Pravda’s half-truths and distortions – that Radio Moscow and Pravda always put the best face on things. Neither one of the official organs for news dissemination had revealed the atomic blast – or the dangers of biological warfare – but the underground newssheets had revealed both of them, along with the alliance with the Germans and the Japanese.

“We will dig them up eventually,” Molotov said. He smiled; “it’s not as if we will lose our nerve, like the Tsarists did.”

Stalin smiled roughly. “Lavrenty Pavlovich has promised success,” he said. “He will have it or…”

An explosion cut him off. The ground shook. Stalin grabbed for a pistol in his desk as one of his guards hurried in.

“Sir, there has been an explosion nearby,” he said. “You have to get to shelter.”

Molotov considered the guard. He was from Georgia; one of the people who had to be loyal to Stalin… for the NKVD and the Red Army would have no hesitation about slaughtering them if they stepped out of line.

“Yes,” Stalin said slowly. “What has been hit?”

“Sir, the Lubyanka,” the guard said. Stalin’s mouth dropped open; Molotov’s followed, his shock overriding all of his control. “It’s been blasted!”

* * *

When he’d first seen the Lubyanka, the headquarters of the dreaded NKVD in its first incarnation, Trotsky had been reminded of a boarding school. A massive building covered with yellow brick, it represented fear and hatred to the population of Moscow, many of whom had seen people disappear inside it.

Trotsky watched from a safe distance, hidden in the crowd, as the lorry was driven inside the Lubyanka. It pulled up outside; its papers, artfully forged, giving it full permission to enter the sealed compound. The special delivery, which everyone knew was underage teenage girls for Beria, would not have been stopped even if the guards had suspected that something was wrong.

As soon as the lorry had entered the underground garage, Trotsky counted to ten and pushed the remote control in his pocket, then headed away from the scene. Five minutes later, the explosion blasted out behind him, as the entire building disintegrated. People ran screaming around the building and Trotsky joined them, slipping away.

“Leave, now,” the guards shouted, firing above the heads of the crowd in near-panic. It was easy for Trotsky to join them, appearing to be in a real panic, and he slipped away into Moscow. Behind him, the flames were spreading, but the guards and what Moscow had that passed for emergency services fought to put them out.

“Take that, you bastards,” he muttered. He hadn’t felt so alive in years. Natasha Yar had objected to him detonating the strike personally, but he’d insisted. Their first strike had to be as daring as possible, and leading it in person was the only way to make a bold impression.

He slipped into the shadows and picked up the outfit that had been left for him, abandoning his coat and replacing it with an anonymous outfit, one that would pass unnoticed almost everywhere. As soon as he had changed, he stuffed his old outfit into a bin and triggered a heat grenade, before slipping back into the alleyways. Ten minutes later, he was back in the flat.

“Good work,” Yar said. As always, she looked like a babushka. Irina, her fictional daughter and another agent, gave Trotsky a hug. “We have been monitoring events.”

“And has the Great Leader said anything?” Trotsky asked. “Even Radio Moscow can’t let this pass without comment, can they?”

Yar waved a hand at the Soviet radio. The program, raving about increased industrial outputs in Siberia, played on and on without interruption. There was nothing about an explosion near Red Square.

“They’re probably still trying to decide what slant to put on it and how to spin it,” Irina said, who’d attempted to explain the concept to Trotsky once. “They can’t go and admit that they have a rebellion on their hands, can they?”

Trotsky shook his head. “We’ll have to keep our heads down for a bit,” he said. “However, the other teams can start producing new leaflets – I’ll start work on a statement at once – that can be distributed.” He hesitated. “Do you think that we could broadcast on the same frequency as Radio Moscow?”

“Of course, with some equipment in space,” Yar said. Trotsky blinked; he would have expected the equipment to be here. “It could be traced otherwise,” Yar said, following his line of thought.

“We could set up the transmitter and rig a bomb next to it,” Trotsky suggested. He paused; Radio Moscow had finally noticed that the sun had risen.

“We regret to announce that a gas main exploded today in Lubyanka Square,” the radio announcer said. If he knew that he was lying, he gave no sign of it. “Although damage was serious, Comrade Stalin has informed us that the state apparatus remains intact and was in fact moved out days ago, so sabotage wreckers will still be caught and punished.”

He spoke on, but Trotsky tuned him out. “We must have got someone or something vital,” he said. “The files alone will simulate Stalin’s paranoia; he might not even have duplicates around somewhere.”

Yar smiled. “We’d better transmit a report back to London,” she said. “As it happens, we have to keep working on building the underground army and keeping it underground, and that won’t be easy.”

Trotsky nodded grimly. The plan had sounded simple when he’d proposed it; build up a small strike force in Moscow and an underground anti-Stalin movement. Stalin had retaliated – Yar had introduced him to the concept of defensive peremptory retaliatory strikes – by making arrangements for more food, although the comfort of the citizens was hardly his first priority. The bigger the organisation they created, with cells all over Russia and the nationalists in Byelorussia and the Ukraine – the more chance of the NKVD breaking open a cell and using it to break the entire organisation wide open.

“We’re going to have to take care,” he said, and meant it. The British would be quite happy for Stalin to be quickly assassinated, but he knew better. If anything worthwhile were to come out of the armed camp that Stalin was turning Russia into, Trotsky would have to move carefully indeed.

He smiled to himself. If the game was easy, anyone could play.

Chapter Eleven: The London Conference

Heathrow Airport

London, United Kingdom

10th April 1942

In the future, the American president – the most powerful man in the world – would travel around in a massive airliner, escorted by an entire flight of stealth warplanes and even a number of warships. For the moment, President Truman and his entire entourage travelled in a British 747 airliner, escorted by a set of the new experimental jet fighters from America until it passed beyond their range, and met by a flight of Eurofighters as they neared Britain.

Truman watched with awe as the aircraft passed over London. In many ways, it brought the fact of the Transition home to him in ways that meeting people from the future hadn’t; London was far larger and wealthier than he remembered it from his past visit.

“Please fasten your seatbelts,” an attractive Indian woman said. There were too few planes for the President to have been given one of his own; they were needed for the trans-Atlantic run. The crew had been nervous about the guns his bodyguards carried, even though they had been granted permission by the British Government.

Truman stared as the ground came closer and closer, the field near the airport giving way to a lighted runway. The plane touched the ground, bounced once, and ran along the runway, slowing down to a stop.

“We’ve cleared the airport for you,” the stewardess said. Her badge read SUMRITA. “There’s going to be quite a press experience, though.”

“Thank you, Miss Sumrita,” Truman said. He smiled as she left him and the plane came to a halt. His bodyguards, already nervous in the futuristic surroundings, headed for the egress. He allowed himself one moment of relaxation, and then pulled himself to his feet.

“Once more into the breach,” he said, and walked slowly to the end of the plane. The hatch was opened and mated with a corridor; Sumrita was waiting for him beside the hatch.

“I’m to escort you into the arrival room,” she said. “I believe that someone is waiting for you there.”

Truman blinked at the informality, but allowed her to lead him along the corridor, his bodyguards taking up positions as he walked. He smiled to himself; more of them were watching the exotic girl than their surroundings. She was pretty, in a slight kind of way, but he had other concerns at the moment.

“Ah, Mr President,” a voice said, as they reached the end of the corridor. He gazed around a room of stunning luxury, and finally looked at McLachlan, who was standing up to greet him.

“John,” he said, shaking hands. “I was wondering if I had been forgotten about.”

McLachlan laughed and dismissed Sumrita with a toss of his head. “No, we just wanted to allow you time to settle in,” he said. “It’s been… pretty bad for the Contemporaries and the others who have come here.”

“Thanks, I think,” Truman said. He stared around the room; every surface spoke of astonishing wealth. “Is this where your King leaves your country?”

McLachlan shook his head. “No, this is the luxury suite for people with more money than sense,” he said. “A lot of the businesses here have either been pressed into service for the war effort or placed in long-term lockdown. It’s hoped that once we get enough of your planes, some of them can reopen business.”

“You don’t use trains for travelling around, these days?” Truman asked. “What about cars?”

“Trains have been in a bit of trouble over the past few years,” McLachlan said. “As for cars, we were in the process of switching over to hydrogen when we… came here. Everything was rationed for the first few months, then we started to move again.” He coughed. “Anyway, we can discuss that later. Tell me, are you feeling fine?”

Truman nodded. “Why?” He asked. “Does jet travel cause problems?”

“Only airsickness and jet lag,” McLachlan said wryly. “We do have a program for you; a meeting with the Prime Minister today and an interview with a lucky reporter, but those can be postponed if you need a rest.”

“I see,” Truman said. “Which one first?”

McLachlan led the way to a large black car. Truman looked rather dazed as he looked around, there were countless items that he couldn’t understand as they passed through the airport. He felt a sudden wave of dizziness and nearly fainted.

“Culture shock,” McLachlan said sympathetically. “Are you sure you don’t want a rest?”

Truman shook his head. “Do I get to choose which one first?” He asked. McLachlan nodded. “I choose the interview,” he said.

McLachlan grinned. “On your own head be it,” he said. He opened the door of the car and waved Truman in. His bodyguards got different cars. “We’ll go see the reporter first.”

* * *

Charlene Molesworth had never met an American President before. She’d heard of them, of course; she’d marched against some of their policies, but she’d never met one, even in her career as a reporter. Until recently, she hadn’t been allowed to do much interviewing, and she found the constant prompting from her supervisor annoying. What was wrong with her hard-hitting questions, as opposed to the ones he wanted to ask?

She allowed herself a full smile, nearly hugging herself with glee. The Government had decreed, much to the annoyance of almost the entire reporting population, that there would be no major press conference, but one reporter would be allowed an interview on the condition that the interview was shared. She might not get an exclusive – not like her interview with Travis Mortimer – but it would be hers. She giggled once, checking her appearance in the mirror.

“You may follow me,” the Asian girl who was her escort said. Charlene giggled and followed her; all Asian girls were ridiculously formal to her, even the ones who worked for the mandarins of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. She didn’t even have make-up on; her only ornament was a badge celebrating the foundation of the Republic of Arabia.

Charlene sneered inside. A couple of female reporters had been beheaded in Iran and she didn’t see the Republic of Arabia as being any different, just another place for women to be oppressed. Why wasn’t the world safe for reporters?

She put her widest smile on her face as she stepped into the room, seeing President Truman sitting on a sofa, facing another sofa. He stood up and bowed to her, gently kissing her hand as she extended it. Charmed, Charlene turned up the wattage of her smile a bit more and took her seat, regretting her long skirt. From where he was sitting, he could have seen right up her favourite skirt… and that loosened a man’s tongue like nothing else.

“A pleasure to meet you,” she said, checking her camera. She’d planned to catch Truman’s first reaction, but Bruin – who’d also made her swot up on Truman’s career – had forbidden it. “May I turn on my camera?”

She hoped that Truman wouldn’t come up with another quote for her to puzzle over. She’d nearly looked an idiot before. “You may,” he said, nearly making her panic.

“Thank you,” she said, tapping the camera. Truman examined it with interest; it didn’t look like any camera he’d ever seen. Charlene smiled to herself; the ball studded with sensors had to look futuristic to him, and daunting. “Recording; this is an interview with President Truman of the United States, conducted by Charlene Molesworth.”

She smiled at him. “Mr President, might I ask what your plans are for the future?”

Truman lifted an eyebrow. “To defeat the Axis powers,” he said. “Past that, to build a better world.”

“Ah,” Charlene said. It had been impossible for anyone, even Bruin, to predict possible answers, but they’d worked out as many as they could. “Do you then support the creation of a United Nations organisation?”

Truman considered for a long moment. “It seems fairly evident that the United Nations failed in the original history,” he said. “While a form of… world discussion centre is perhaps a good idea, I see no reason to repeat the mistakes of the future past.”

Charlene blinked. That was blasphemy, as far as she was concerned. “The United Nations did a lot of good,” she said. “It was only when it was ignored…”

“Which was all the time, according to the histories,” Truman said. “I see no reason to repeat the same mistake, even through… my past self was apparently keen on the idea.” He frowned. “I would like to meet him.”

“Some people have been doing that here,” Charlene said. “What future do you see for black people in America?”

“I have been following policies designed to bring them fully into the mainstream of society,” Truman said. “I will allow them neither to become second-class citizens again, or to be forced into dependency. Of the new divisions we are raising now, most of them will be mixed-race, while the Government will not do business with companies that do not have an equal opportunities policy.”

“An interesting concept,” Charlene said. “Now… the Ministry of Space has basically declared a policy of claiming any object in space, once it gets there and sets up a station. Do you approve of this?”

“Personally, yes,” Truman said. “However, control of a rocky airless world would hardly help them.”

“Space travel is a waste of resources,” Charlene agreed. “However, does it not belong to the world?”

“With an attitude like that, America would never have been settled,” Truman pointed out. “The Military Space Agency supports the British view, however, and they’re the experts.”

Charlene made a face. This wasn’t going well. “And do you intend to defeat Stalin as well?”

“Yes,” Truman said flatly. “Perhaps the United Nations can work without Stalin, but we’ll see.”

“Let’s hope so,” Charlene agreed. “In the future, America will make many mistakes. Will you be attempting to correct them?”

“Of course,” Truman said. “We won’t get involved in Vietnam, for one thing. While we do hope to develop ties with Iran, once it’s liberated, we won’t become involved in the Middle East and – hopefully – less dependent upon oil.”

“Your oil companies must love that,” Charlene said. “Serve them right.”

Truman looked faintly puzzled. “Perhaps,” he said. “Any more questions?”

Charlene thought bitterly for a long moment. Many questions had just… vanished against Truman’s personality. “What do you want from this conference?”

“I want an agreement on how to end this war in the shortest possible time,” Truman said. “I want a joint plan to end the war before we run out of time.”

“And the Germans develop something really unpleasant,” Charlene agreed. She decided that the interview was over. “Thank you for your time.”

She caught Truman kissing her hand on camera this time. “Thank you for an interesting experience,” Truman said. The hell of it, Charlene realised, was that he meant it.

* * *

“You handled that pretty well,” Hanover said, as the two leaders sat down over drinks. Truman had been curious about future coffee, but it seemed to be weaker than he liked, while Hanover drank tea.

“I tried,” he said wryly. “This coffee is odd.”

“There was a fad, back in 2005 or thereabouts, for coffee shops to sell nice-tasting coffee,” Hanover commented. “Of course, that misses the point, and there was a big to-do in the papers about coffee debts. They felt that students were spending too much money on designer coffees and that coffee shops should be shut down on general principles.”

Truman took another sip. It was as bad as the first one. “So, what happened?”

“Nothing much,” Hanover said. “The fuss died away, it normally does. The key to governing in a media environment is to remain calm and keep thinking five steps ahead of the mob.”

“I’m glad that America isn’t like that,” Truman said sincerely. “That… child reporter was very imprudent.”

Hanover shrugged. “There’ll be a bigger media conference when you leave,” he said. He made it sound like a threat. “They’ll be all over you. It won’t be long until some bugger decides to set up CNN a few decades too early.”

Truman put down his coffee and took a cup of tea instead. That tasted more like he was used to. “Now, seeing we’re alone together, and we’re talking…”

“Having been carefully briefed by the staff we’re meant to be in charge of,” Hanover said wryly.

They shared a grin. “We should discuss the future,” Truman said. “It is a policy of the American Government” – by which he meant Congress – “to bring the war to a victorious end as soon as possible. I assume that you have a similar objective?”

Hanover nodded. “But what do you mean by a victorious end?” He asked. “We’ve seen enough half-assed American attempts at war.”

Truman, who’d read some of the histories, shuddered at how… weak some of the future Presidents had been. Hoover had even assassinated Bill Clinton’s parents during the Wet Firecracker Rebellion; the man had been disgustingly liberal for his tastes.

“We want democratic governments imposed in Germany and the rest of Europe, including Russia,” Truman said. “We want to make certain that nothing like New York happens again, and we want to ensure that nuclear weapons stay in only our hands.”

“We can be trusted with them,” Hanover said, without irony. Truman nodded. “Between you and me, some of our operations have been aimed at taking down Comrade Stalin’s government from the inside, as it were.”

Truman nodded. The OSS had similar plans; they were just hampered by a lack of agents already in place. “As long as they become democratic, I don’t mind,” he said. “We would, of course, want everyone involved in war crimes hung.”

“No arguments there,” Hanover said. He grinned wryly at him. “Isn’t it wonderful when allies are in agreement?”

“Yes,” Truman said. “As you are no doubt aware, we are currently preparing fifty infantry divisions, fifty armoured divisions and fifty other types of division,” he said. He smiled. “The War Department likes big numbers. We’re also working on our logistical framework, using the knowledge of the future to aid us, and we hope to correct some of the mistakes before they were ever made.”

He opened his briefcase and pulled out a map. “This is a military secret, by the way,” he said. “With the massive build-up in Norway, we plan to launch an invasion of Sweden to evict the Nazis, before turning to face the Soviets. From Sweden, our bombers can pound Germany, as well as Leningrad, bringing the cost of the war home to the bastards in a big way.”

He scowled. “Ideally, we would like to launch an all-out invasion of Europe itself in June,” he said. “We’re working on surge-deploying the army to Britain – if you’ll have us – for May, and then landing in June. What we don’t know – or perhaps they haven’t told me – is where we will land. Did your people have any suggestions?”

“They were very keen on staging a raid on the Netherlands, capturing the ports, and using them to bring in the army,” Hanover said. He picked up his PDA and accessed a file. “It would be tricky, they said, but it might just be possible. Once we broke out, we could go for Berlin and then head onwards into Russia, unless the plan succeeds.”

“Perhaps the pressure of an invasion would convince your allies to move,” Truman said. Hanover nodded. “Or… can your people take the ports?”

“The SAS commander was very confident that his people and the SBS could do it,” Hanover said. “They’re the people who paved the way for Gallipoli and you know how well that worked out.”

“The War Department was astonished,” Truman said. He smiled; Admiral King had been pressing for the Americans to develop their own special forces for that sort of task. Thinking of Admiral King reminded him of King’s suggestion. “They were rather envious.”

“Norway was pretty impressive as well,” Hanover said. “Now, I assume that you’ll want precision support?” Truman nodded. “We have plans as well.”

“I expected that,” Truman said. He knew that Hanover wouldn’t like some of his plans. “Iran?”

Hanover nodded. “We were planning to kick off Operation Sunrise next week, depending on supplies getting there in time,” he said. “Basically, it’s a combined assault to defeat the Soviet field forces in the field and seal off the cities. The Soviets make lacklustre field soldiers, but they’re very tough in cities, so we won’t fight them there if it can be avoided.”

He scowled. “You’ve seen the pictures of what happened to the citizens?”

Truman nodded. The horrifying images of civilians fleeing the Soviet forces, or being gunned down from the air, had horrified the public on both sides of the Atlantic. Eleanor Roosevelt, the widow of Franklin Roosevelt, had organised charity efforts for the refuges. It made something called the ‘Palestinian Problem’ seem minor by comparison, more like the images of Africa from the future.

“The only benefit from that will be if we have to go into the cities, there won’t be many civilians in the way,” Hanover said grimly. “I’d prefer to stave them out and concentrate on forcing them all out of Iran in a massive lightning campaign. If everything goes to plan, we’ll have completed the main part of the operation by June.”

“You do move fast,” Truman said, not sure if he should be awed or terrified. “And the future?”

“It took an American force thirty days to take Baghdad in 2003,” Hanover said. “We’ve only gotten quicker in the future. That’s how future wars are won.”

Truman nodded. “The State Department was very keen on American forces taking part in the campaign and on an independent Iran afterwards,” he said.

“They want some oil rights?” Hanover said. He smiled. “We’re not engaging in a land grab here, you know.”

“I know that,” Truman said, even though he didn’t know if he did. “What are your plans?”

“It would depend on the final outcome,” Hanover said seriously. “Iran would either become an independent democratic state, or part of the Republic of Arabia. Either way, we want a democracy there.”

“So do we,” Truman said. “We won’t let the Shah ruin it.”

“Again,” Hanover said. “Now our staffers can work on their plans.”

Truman smiled. “There’s one final point,” he said. “Admiral King had an idea to hit the Soviets in a month or so, at Vladivostok.”

Hanover blinked at him. “Have you seen a map?” He asked. He sounded astonished. “Japan’s in the way.”

“Admiral King assures me that the fleet can get past any Japanese attack,” Truman said. “The point is; once we get Vladivostok, we can start arming their Zeks from the gulags nearby.” He smiled. “It might bring us into conflict with Japan, but without a navy, how much threat can they be?”

Chapter Twelve: The Winter War

Norway/Sweden

15th April 1942

Major Bloodnok had been promised a promotion to brigadier for the coming invasion of Europe, but for the moment he was happy to remain as liaison officer and third-in-command to Patton. His position within the Allied command structure had raised some American hackles… until they’d seen the effects of JDAM and MOAB bombs on German and Soviet positions. They knew, just as well as Bloodnok himself did, that not even Patton could have gotten them through the winter, without the precision strikes that had massacred the Soviets in their thousands.

“We’re going to march all the way to Moscow and hang that bastard Stalin from a sour apple tree,” Patton had proclaimed. The American infantry and the small number of tank crewers who were stationed in Norway had promptly begun singing that to the tune of ‘John Brown’s Body,’ continuing a tradition from the terror war. It had astonished Bloodnok to discover that the tradition had come from the American Civil War; he’d assumed that one of the handful of Americans from the future had imported it.

“We’ll hang Uncle Joe Stalin from a sour apple tree,” a group of infantry sang, marching out of the base towards the parked lorries. Bloodnok saluted them as he headed to Patton’s headquarters, wondering if the American had already taken his personal helicopter and headed off to reconnoitre the battlezone for himself.

He smiled as he saw Patton’s short form standing in the doorway. Patton had demonstrated a genius for flexible combat that would have delighted the Americans of 2015. Smoking a cigar, Patton looked like a picture of himself, a short man smoking a cigar.

“Major,” Patton said. He sounded remarkably cheerful. “Are the planes ready?”

“Yes, sir,” Bloodnok said. “They’re on their way now.”

“Both others and yours,” Patton said. “I wonder what the Germans will make of them.”

Bloodnok nodded. Over the winter – which had been colder by far than he remembered it – Patton had driven his construction battalions mercilessly. Norway’s infrastructure, already wrecked by the fighting, had been repaired, while new airbases and army barracks had been built. The Norwegian Army, a force raised from Norwegians willing to fight the Germans, had been armed and trained; many of them cared nothing for borders and knew the rocky landscape of Sweden as well as they knew their own country.

Patton laughed. Nearly two hundred of the first production run of B-29 heavy bombers had been sent to Norway. Carrying an entire load of heavy dumb bombs, but equipped with modern range finders and GPS systems, they would be capable of dropping extremely large amounts of high explosive onto German targets. The Germans might have learned a lesson from the first battles in Norway – when they’d assumed that the Soviets wouldn’t get involved – but their fumbling attempts to escape British weapons would do them no good against imprecise weapons.

Patton pointed one long bony hand at a map. The German force had dug into Goteborg, a Swedish city that would have been famous in the future. Incorporating all their lessons from the first campaign, they’d been careful to sweep the hills clear of possible SAS hideouts, although they had been less successful than they clearly thought. For the distance of nearly one hundred miles, from the American lines to Goteborg, they had carefully dug defence lines and spread out their defences, secure in the knowledge that tanks were almost useless in such terrain.

“We would be better off with an amphibious attack,” Patton observed. Bloodnok smiled; Patton had studied the future campaigns of his former arch-rival Douglas MacArthur, who’d killed himself after the failure of the Wet Firecracker Rebellion. “Unfortunately, that’s not possible.”

Bloodnok scowled. The remains of the Kriegsmarine had been busy. Working from Denmark, they’d carefully mined the entire sea between Denmark and Sweden, preventing the allies from sending a fleet into the Baltic. After a series of bloody air battles, SHAFE had called off any attempt to clear the channel of mines.

“We’ll have to do it the hard way,” Patton said. “Fortunately, we have the aircraft.”

He tapped the map. “We’re going to hammer them as hard as we can, launching round-the-clock attacks, until we can start an advance. We’ll save your craft for the Germans closer to our lines; you’ll be better at avoiding slaughtering our own people.”

“Yes, sir,” Bloodnok said. He waved a hand at the mobile command unit; it had been moved to Oslo by ship and then driven into occupied Sweden. “I’ll issue the orders at once.”

“You will coordinate the entire attack,” Patton said. Bloodnok blinked; it was a gesture of trust, particularly given his ironic lack of experience with directing B-29’s or even the futuristic B-2’s. He smiled; a designer in America was planning to launch his own flying wing aircraft, now that he had access to the future designs.

“Thank you, sir,” he said. “I’ll start at once.”

“Give them hell,” Patton ordered. “I want them stunned and disorientated.”

“Yes, sir,” Bloodnok said again. He headed to the command unit and started to issue orders. The strikes would not be precisely at the same time, but by the time the German lines of communication caught up with the attacks, it would be too late.

* * *

It was a cold clear day, perfect flying weather. The Eurofighter had no difficulty in following the American bombers, vast… impressive… and completely and utterly vulnerable to a single ASRAMM.

Squadron Leader Shelia Dunbar, who privately gloried in her reputation as a slut, watched the American aircraft disdainfully. Like almost everyone in the RAF, she had joined the online debates about the future aircraft they would produce, both long-term and as a stopgap measure, and she hadn’t included massive bombers on her personal list. Whatever the merits of building what could be built quickly – and she did understand the reluctance to spend ten years building the American technological base to the point where they could build B-1s and B-2s – she also knew that the B-29s would be sitting ducks to modern weapons.

One German homing missile or Deathcloud equivalent and there will be a lot of dead pilots, she thought, watching the formation with concern. The Germans might be primitive, but they’d already managed to develop tactics that caused even the Eurofighters concern. Privately, Dunbar believed that sooner or later the Luftwaffe would run out of morale or pilots, but as long as forces weren’t operating in Europe directly, the RAF couldn’t suppress the German air force completely.

She allowed herself a quick smile before checking her onboard radar again. The Germans had managed a handful of sneak attacks on Britain by staying low, but there was no sign of Germans attempting to engage the American bombers.

“Eagle-one, the flight is about to engage the enemy,” the AWACS controller said. She smiled; the bombers of 1942 might not be very accurate without the modern systems, but with the handful of GPS receivers, IFF transmitters and the computers on the AWACS, they could hardly miss.

“Roger that, Sierra-one,” she said, moving her Eurofighter away from the American planes. It would be the height of irony to die because of flying below an American bomber dropping bombs; it would be almost as bad as the pilot who’d crashed his aircraft while struggling with his waste bags.

“Commencing bombing,” an American voice said. She watched as streams of dark bombs fell towards the ground and explosions started to billow far below… and then realised that the Germans were far from helpless.

“Shit,” she snapped, as streaks of light shot up from the ground, rising to attack the American bombers. For a crazy moment, she thought that they were stolen modern weapons, and then she realised that they were primitive rockets. One struck a B-29 directly and destroyed it; others detonated near the American planes, throwing hails of shrapnel around.

“Sierra-one, we are under attack by ground-based unguided rockets,” she snapped into her radio. The German attack ended as soon as it had begun, leaving twelve B-29’s heading for a crash-landing and five damaged.

“Understood, Eagle-one,” the AWACS said. “Recommend evasive action.”

“Oh, thanks, I never would have figured that out,” Dunbar muttered, mentally striking the controller off her list of possible boyfriends. She scowled; those weapons were primitive, but if a Eurofighter was unlucky, one could kill it – and the pilot.

“Eagle-one, we are vectoring in strike planes now,” the AWACS said. “Stand by…”

An explosion billowed up from the ground as a JDAM struck at the launch site of the German rockets, followed quickly by two more. The AWACS controller snapped out a series of orders, vectoring the B-29s back over their targets. More bombs began to fall; this time there were no rockets.

“They shot their load,” Dunbar snapped. The controller didn’t bother to answer. “Now they know the blasted things will work, they’ll build more of them.”

She cursed mentally, wishing that she’d succeeded in her application for space duty. Sex in zero-gee was supposed to be wonderful, although the trained pilot part of her mind suspected that docking manoeuvres would be harder than they seemed. She snickered; more than a few new pilots had believed the tale that she’d done it in a Eurofighter Tempest, one of the handful of two-seater models.

“Idiots,” she said, as the AWACS finally vectored her home. Trying to make love in a jet fighter while high above the Earth would definitely get into the Darwin Awards. Still, what a way to go.

* * *

“The Germans produced a new surprise,” Bloodnok reported. Patton scowled; units of the American army were already moving forward, heading into Sweden. So far, resistance had been minimal, but they knew that that would soon change. “Anti-aircraft missiles.”

Now he had Patton’s full attention. “Guided missiles like yours?” He asked. “Ones that could wipe out a bomber force?”

Bloodnok shook his head. “Missiles designed to rise up and explode at a pre-set height,” he said. “Only a danger in large numbers.”

“Clever bastards,” Patton said. “The attack will continue.”

* * *

Through what a British officer he’d met had referred to as a series of unfortunate events, Private Max Shepherd and the 1st Marine Division had discovered that they had been semi-permanently assigned as airborne infantry units. Their force of helicopters, combined with their weapons and tactics, made them ideal units for clearing German strongpoints – and they hadn’t seen the sea for several months, except from the air.

“All right, listen up,” Captain Caddell snapped. Shepherd gave him his full attention; the captain wasn’t a bad sort, even if he was pulling the responsibilities of a colonel. “The Germans have dug themselves into a position blocking the main road; our task is to hit them from the rear.”

“Ah, can’t bombs do that?” Private Buckman asked. Behind him, Sergeant Pike glared at him. Buckman wasn’t exactly a shirker or a coward, but with a rape charge hanging over his head, his enthusiasm for the war was none-existent. “They can paste it from the air, no bother.”

“We have hit it twice, I believe,” Captain Caddell snapped. Shepherd smiled; it was one of the good things about Captain Caddell that he didn’t explode when his orders were questioned, outside combat. “They’re still alive. It’s going to be hit again before we get there, so we might not have anything to do.”

“We’ll be lucky,” Private Manlito muttered. The swarthy Italian-American frowned. “They’re getting better at digging in.”

“We killed the ones that weren’t,” Shepherd muttered back, as Captain Caddell ordered them to board the helicopters. “Almost makes you wish we hadn’t done such a good job.”

The helicopters lifted off and headed out over the sea, before swinging around to follow the coast of Sweden. It looked remarkably tranquil from their distance; no one would have guessed that nearly three million soldiers of four different nations were struggling for supremacy. Shepherd shuddered; he’d seen enough burnt-out towns to know just how badly the war was costing the natives.

“We have enemy fighters attempting to intercept,” the pilot said calmly. “CAP will handle them.”

Shepherd felt fear trickling down the back of his spine. He knew how to fight Germans on the ground; they were tough and cunning bastards, even without orders, but they could be beaten. In the air… they were dependent upon the pilot.

An explosion flickered somewhere in the distance towards Denmark. “The CAP got them,” the pilot said. “Four Germans down, the rest in retreat.”

“Good,” Captain Caddell said. His voice was impressively calm. “How long until we reach the drop zone?”

The pilot consulted his display. “Five minutes,” he said. “The strikes going in now.”

Another explosion, much larger, flickered out as they came to land on a meadow. Westwards, a towering column of smoke arose from the German position. It was chilling; soldiers who hadn’t even known that they were under attack had been struck without ever knowing what had hit them.

“Go, go, go,” Captain Caddell bellowed. Sergeant Pike kicked any soldier not moving fast enough to suit him. They piled out of the helicopter – having learnt from experience how dangerous a landed helicopter could be when the Germans saw it – and ran down towards the German position.

“Form up, advance,” Captain Caddell snapped. The Marines had practised the manoeuvre thousands of times, on dozens of different practice fields. The British virtual reality systems had been awesome for practicing. They spread out, covering each other, and advanced as fast as they dared on the German position.

“Perhaps we got them all,” Manlito suggested. A burst of German machine gun fire proved him wrong; the Germans clearly had had scouts out as well. The Marines fired together, launching RPGs at the Germans, and moving forward. A Marine fell, shot through the head, and then Shepherd staggered as a German bullet hit his bullet-proof vest.

“Die, you bastards,” he yelled at them, firing madly. The entire German position disintegrated; he saw the guns – those that remained – trying to swing around to target the Marines. It was too late; the Germans fought like mad bastards, but they no longer had a chance.

“The road to Goteborg lies open,” Captain Caddell said, as the Marines rounded up the handful of prisoners. Shepherd, who was examining his chest, shuddered; it was all black and blue.

“If that had happened a year ago, you would have been killed,” Manlito observed. Shepherd glared at him. “It’s true.”

“I know its true,” Shepherd said, feeling the damage carefully. The pain was fading even as he felt it; the shock of the impact was fading. “These things are pretty impressive, what?”

“What’s what?” Manlito asked, as Captain Caddell began issuing new orders. The Marines spread out again, recovering the German guns and examining the position. It was a tough one; the guns had been half-buried in trenches and well-hidden from the air.

“Dear God,” Shepherd breathed, as the full extent of the German position revealed itself. “If we’d known that all of this was here…”

* * *

Captain Michael Michelin had the unenviable job of coordinating – or trying to coordinate – the attacks that were going in as part of the offensive, and of reporting to Patton. That wasn’t easy; the General would have quite happily have led the charge against the Germans himself, despite the direct orders to keep himself out of danger.

“How can I lead my men if I stay out of danger?” Patton had asked, and President Truman hadn’t been able to reply.

The rows of massive guns thundered as Michelin made his way to where Patton was standing, arguing with the artillery commander. Both men were waving maps around, gesturing wildly, with only one word in three being heard over the guns. Michelin came up to them, saluted, and tried to shout his message. It wasn’t heard.

Patton beckoned him into the British command vehicle, which was mercifully soundproof. “What’s up?” He asked. “Is it important?”

“Sir, the 1st Marine Division, the airmobile one, reports that they have secured the second enemy position five miles east and are requesting orders.”

“Excellent,” Patton said. He examined the map; one position had been decreed too dangerous for airmobile assaults, and that was the target of their shells. Hundreds of guns, thousands of shells, pouring fire onto the German position. “What were their losses?”

“Ten men,” Michelin said. “It would have been worse if they hadn’t been equipped with body armour.”

“That bastard Admiral King wants them back for something,” Patton muttered. “The bastard even wants their helicopters, ordering me to have them flown onto the Enterprise.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Michelin said, who wasn’t entirely privy to the long arguments about the new tactics. All he knew was that his commanding officer was getting slighted. “You need them, sir!”

“Yes, but they need a rest as well,” Patton said. His concern for his men made him a good commander as well. The ground shook as yet another volley was discharged into the German positions. “We need to hammer our way into Goteborg, and then further down, cutting the Germans off from reinforcement.” He grinned. “We might manage to jump across to the Danish islands; at the very least we could shoot hell out of them.”

He tapped the map. “Hell, we could march to Berlin that way,” he said. “I’ll mention it to Ike.”

Michelin nodded at the mention of the SHAFE commander, General Eisenhower. “I thought that Russia was the priority,” he said.

Patton shrugged. “It hardly matters,” he said. “The point is to defeat the enemy. Once we have one of the enemy forces out of the battle, we can concentrate against the other.” He grinned. “Grand strategy is the President’s job, advised by the Chiefs of Staff; mine is winning battles.”

“Yes, sir,” Michelin said. “Do you want to pull the Marines out or send reinforcements?”

Patton studied the map. “I think we can start an advance with the AFVs,” he said. “If the Germans have had enough – and their ears must be bleeding with the battering we’re giving them – we might be able to punch our way through and rendezvous with the Marines. The road to Goteborg lies open!”

Chapter Thirteen: Island-Hopping

War Room

Canberra, Australia

15th April 1942

Sir Robert Gordon Menzies, Prime Minster of Australia, was feeling vindicated. In the original history, he’d lost the premiership to Curtin in the elections, but his stance had been proved right. With the aid of Britain, the Japanese attempt to invade Australia had been defeated and crushed utterly. Darwin was a mess, of course; the Japanese refusal to recognise when they were beaten had forced the Australians to dig them out of the city – the few parts of it they’d taken.

He looked up at the map. The Royal Australian Navy had been rebuilt and prepared for its first major action. It wouldn’t be major – the Japanese fleet was almost completely destroyed – but it would give Australia a boost of confidence. The mood was vengeful; the citizens wanted blood.

“This will please our imperialists,” he said, nodding politely to the future ambassador. “They always wanted their hands on the islands.”

David Atwell, Australia’s future ambassador to Britain from 2015, nodded. “In my time, the islands were in chaos, constantly threatening to spill over to Australia,” he said. “If they’re under your control…”

“They’ll never pose a threat,” Menzies said. He smiled. “As well as building Australian prestige within the Commonwealth.”

He grinned openly. The Australians had captured some islands from the Germans during the First World War, only to lose them at British insistence. This time… the entire Dutch East Indies, which would be known as Indonesia in the future, would be Australian.

”The trick is to make certain that we have a democratic state there,” Atwell said. “We have to defeat the Japanese before they exterminate the natives.”

Menzies shuddered. Enough of the new Australian SAS – men trained directly in Britain – had scouted around the Dutch East Indies to discover what the Japanese were doing. The videos of slaughtered and enslaved islanders, of women being forced into sex slavery and Japanese control had shocked the Australian population. The Japanese seemed determined to utterly destroy the natives.

“They’re playing at being the Draka,” Atwell said, when Menzies didn’t answer. “We owe it to them to liberate them from the Japanese.”

Menzies nodded. Finding out who the Draka were could come later. “The assault forces are ready,” he said. “Once we exterminate the Japanese from the islands, we can move in and help the civilians.”

Atwell nodded. “And, of course, help them to develop their resources for their own good,” he said.

Menzies grinned again. He’d made a private agreement with the British Prime Minister covering the redevelopment of the islands. The Australians would send teachers and developers, treating the natives as equals. A program of medical development, using the knowledge of the future, would eradicate the diseases that they suffered from and keep their numbers down, stabilising the population.

“Give us a twenty-year mandate and the islands will be a lot more peaceful,” he said, and meant it. “It’s time for the main briefing.”

* * *

Admiral Harold Turtledove, Royal Navy, was also feeling vindicated. The stain of the Battle of the Indian Ocean had been washed away by the glorious success of the Battle of the Pacific Ocean. The Japanese hadn’t stood a chance and he’d used his advantages ruthlessly, sinking their ships with ease.

As he stepped into the War Room, he nodded politely at Menzies, and then at the two Australian Army commanders. Sir Thomas Albert Blamey, the Commander in Chief of the Australian Army, nodded back; General Sir Leslie James Morshead smiled openly. It had been Turtledove who’d insisted that he be knighted, even though his service had been different than in the original timeline.

Perhaps they’ll even knight me now, he thought, although he wasn’t really concerned. A knighthood meant less and less every year with the current King, even through it had impressed the Australians. Morshead had deserved the award; the defence of Darwin had chewed up and spat out the best divisions of the Japanese Army.

“If I could have your attention, please,” Menzies said. Turtledove looked across at Menzies, along with the others in the room. “We are gathered here to discuss the plans for Operation Advanced Redemption. General?”

Turtledove frowned. He’d been opposed to Operation Advanced Redemption for several reasons, even though the Japanese had sent seven divisions to fight and die in Australia. Why waste the flower of Australian manhood when the Japanese could be starved out. Atwell’s argument – that Australia needed access to the resources of the islands and the natives needed assistance in developing a modern state – hadn’t impressed him. Still, if one of the battlegrounds of the war on terror could be averted, perhaps it would be worth the cost.

We should be starving the bastards out, he thought, and knew that the Royal Australian Navy was going to try just that. Until recently, there had been too few submarines – and one had been lost – to really go medieval on the Japanese shipping… but now, the Australians had enough ships and the crews to man them. Hopefully, the Japanese would see sense when their merchant ships were swept from the sea and surrender, before other solutions had to be contemplated.

He scowled; they’d resisted upping the pressure until they were ready to deploy a really sudden hammer blow, but the Japanese showed no signs of being ready to negotiate.

“As you are aware, the build-up of forces has continued,” General Blamey said. “At present, we are deploying ten armoured divisions and twenty infantry units, as well as a handful of special divisions. These units remained stationed near Darwin for several months following the defeat of the Japanese invasion, answering concerns in Parliament about a second invasion.”

Turtledove frowned. He’d known perfectly well that such concerns were nonsense. “However, it has finally been concluded that the enemy has abandoned any thought of offensive action,” Blamey continued. “In the only theatre of contact between Commonwealth forces and Japanese forces, there has been no attempt to take the offensive, despite the Commonwealth leaving them alone. The opportunity, particularly with the deployment of the new navy, exists to take the offensive. Admiral?”

Turtledove nodded and took control of the display screen, displaying the new order of battle. He was the officer with the greatest experience and had been offered command of the entire naval war. Menzies, who was already talking about a united Commonwealth Navy, had pushed him forward, after Australia had lost most of her navy in the first battles of the war.

“We now have two hundred small diesel-powered submarines, making up the main underwater strike force,” he said, indicating the design. “While the torpedoes are of improved 1960 design, and therefore being made in Australia and fixing one of our bottlenecks, in most other respects the submarines are equal to the SSNs that have been deployed in Australian waters.”

He displayed a chart of submarine ranges on the display. “Their only major weakness, unfortunately, is that they have far more limited range than a nuclear-powered submarine, and require tanker support. We have three tankers modified for sea refuelling and have deployed them to locations well outside of Japanese aircraft range. With these ships and satellite coverage, we can finally sweep the Japanese from the sea for good.”

“Very good,” Menzies said. “General Morshead?”

“The gathering of home-built landing craft for infantry and tanks, using future designs that have been modified for our needs, has been completed,” Morshead said. The Australians had spent a lot of time and effort building bases along the north coast. “We have also conducted a lot of drills and exercise, concentrating on developing the ability to land large numbers of troops in the shortest possible time.”

He pointed with a laser pointer to the map. “The first target will be New Guinea,” he said. “We will begin with a massive bombardment from the air, using the new aircraft and missiles, and then we will land troops, targeting the Japanese strongholds. In the meantime, the Navy will strike at Truk, the main Japanese naval base, and occupy it.”

Turtledove scowled. There was no point in hitting Truk. It wasn’t what it would have been. Taking the islands was a good idea, just to make certain that Australia had a good claim on them after the war, but Truk was hardly a major target.

“Once we have taken New Guinea, we will advance over the Dutch East Indies and deliver them from Japanese rule,” Morshead said. “Once the Japanese have been driven from the islands, they will be one step closer to nemesis.”

“It’s already there,” Turtledove muttered. “They’re just too stupid to notice.”

“And they think they can retreat into China,” Menzies said. “We’ll slam that door shut on them.”

HMS Daring

Coral Sea

15th April 1942

Ironically, the Daring had never been employed to fire at land targets before coming back in time. Her service in the war on terror had consisted of escorting troop convoys around; the only major encounter had been with Iranian jets during the Iran War. When she’d come back in time, along with the rest of Britain, she’d still only fired at Turkish targets during the Second Battle of Gallipoli.

Captain McTavish examined the display as the orders came in. They were simple and direct; bombard Japanese forces with land-attack weapons. The Daring, which had been on station near New Guinea, had been launching drones and moving closer to the islands, waiting for the orders.

“Load land-attack missiles,” Captain McTavish said, hoping that he could hide the disdain from his voice. The new weapons, ones that made the Deathcloud look meek and mild, were dangerous beyond belief. He would have preferred to have been deploying standard weapons, but he had to admit that the Japanese made bunker-busters rather redundant.

“Weapons loaded,” the weapons officer said. “Ready to fire.”

“Confirm targets,” Captain McTavish ordered. The drones and the SAS had mapped out Japanese targets all over the islands; every ship in the fleet would fire at them, along with Harriers and Hawks from the mainland. Two tanker aircraft were already in the air, refuelling an aerial armada that outgunned the Japanese with ease.

“Targets confirmed, missiles designated,” the weapons officer said. The entire fleet shared its targeting data, sharing the targets out amongst themselves. Only the new anti-aircraft ships were excluded; they carried no land-attack missiles.

“Fire,” Captain McTavish ordered. Daring shuddered as the first missiles launched from her tubes, blasting into the sky and heading for New Guinea. The Japanese had no idea what was coming their way.

“Missiles homing in on target,” the weapons officer said. “Display on.”

The CIC’s main screen began displaying the images from the drones. New Guinea seemed peaceful… until the first warhead crashed down on top of a Japanese base. The sudden blast of burning fuel – nearly nuclear in its intensity – swept over the base, burning and choking the Japanese on the ground. The satellite took over, showing the entire stretch of New Guinea, burning in dozens of different places.

“Dear holy shit,” someone breathed, as the Harriers and Hawks swooped in. The surviving Japanese targets were attacked again, with FAE and napalm, the fires spreading out across the jungles.

“Sir, fleet command informs us that the invasion fleet is about to sail,” his exec said. “They want us to cover the landing ships.”

Captain McTavish grinned. “In our day, the invasion fleet would have sailed and the bombardment would have taken place just before they landed,” he said. “Ah well; move us into covering position.”

He smiled, watching as the blue icons of the landing ships appeared on the screen, heading for their landing zones. It beat thinking about the Japanese, burning under the FAE or blown to pieces by the high explosives. There was no sign of Japanese aircraft; all of their airfields had been hit twice, just to make certain that they were destroyed.

New Guinea

15th April 1942

John Northcott, tactical commanding officer, stood on the prow of the landing craft as it reached the beach. He braced himself as the kneel bumped against sand, before driving itself firmly onto the beach. There was still some water, but that would hardly matter to the tanks. Northcott watched as the prow of the boat started to open, then climbed into his own tank. As the first tank rumbled off the landing ship, the jungle seemed suddenly to explode into fire as Napalm burnt its way through the jungle, widening a very faint road.

“Japanese ahead of you,” a voice said. Northcott blinked at the sudden warning from the SAS man, before the remaining jungle seemed to explode with Japanese infantry. They ran forward, throwing grenades and anti-tank rockets, heedless of their own safety.

“Cut them down,” Northcott snapped, unnerved by the suicidal tactics. Some of the Japanese were burning with the napalm flames, but they came on, even as the machine guns started to chatter. As quickly as it had begun, it was over; the Japanese were mown down in their hundreds.

“Fuck me,” the SAS man said. “Sir, you have a clear road, if a very hot one.”

“Thank you,” Northcott snapped. The Japanese had developed the road for their little tanks, not for Fireflies. The firebombs would have cleared the way for them, but would they be enough to bake it hard?

“No,” he realised, as the tanks entered the jungle. The heat was overpowering, even within the tank, and he felt sorry for the infantry. They were on their feet, spreading out to escort the tanks. The terrain was appalling; the tanks ambled forward slowly, slipping and sliding across the charred remains of the bomb strike.

“Good thing we prepared for jungle terrain,” his driver said, after the tank almost became stuck in mud. “How long until we reach the Japanese base?”

Northcott frowned as some brown-skinned natives appeared, staring at them. The women were bare-breasted, he noticed, and they showed signs of beatings. Had the Japanese insisted on them walking about naked?

“Japanese tank ahead,” the radio squawked. Northcott smiled; at last a real target. He peered through the periscope, watching for the first sight of the Japanese tank. He smiled as it appeared, slowly making its way down towards the landing site.

“You’d think that they would still be stunned,” he muttered, as he carefully sighted the main gun on the target. “Fire!”

The tank shuddered once as the gun fired, and then the Japanese were on them. They lunged out of the jungle, firing madly again and throwing grenades. The machine guns started to chatter, their bullets pinging off their allies armour as they cut into the Japanese. The tanks started forward again, firing madly as the Japanese climbed on top of the tanks, trying to prise open the hatches and drop grenades inside.

“Bastards,” Northcott swore, as a Firefly exploded. “Get them off the tanks!”

“Firing,” the gunner said, sweeping the machine gun across the other tanks. The hull began to vibrate as the other tanks did the same to them, slaughtering the Japanese. Finally, peace regained as the last Japanese died, leaving two dead tanks and three damaged ones in the field.

“What the hell are we fighting?” The driver asked. “They’re mad!”

“I think our tactics need work,” Northcott observed. “That could have been very nasty.”

War Room

Canberra, Australia

15th April 1942

HMS Ocean had been damaged in the Battle of the Indian Ocean, but she had been repaired and pressed into service again with the Royal Marines. As Turtledove watched on the display, the Marines slammed into Truk, firing madly as they assaulted the Japanese base.

He scowled grimly. It wasn’t that Truk wasn’t a priority target; it was that Menzies wanted it as a naval base for the Royal Australian Navy or the Commonwealth Navy, depending on the outcome. Menzies had been like a man who saw the future; Australia’s best hope lay with the new Commonwealth, and he’d worked hard for the Commonwealth Protocols.

Turtledove shrugged and turned to scowl at the reports from New Guinea. The Japanese had fought like mad bastards – how else – and they’d nearly stymied the first assault. Even the massive aerial bombardment hadn’t shaken them enough for the tankers to dig them out; even now, one of the large bombers was delivering a MOAB to the main Japanese base.

“You’re not happy, Admiral?” Menzies said. Turtledove blinked; the Prime Minister had a gift for wandering around quietly. “Has the attack failed?”

Turtledove studied the display for a long moment. The icons for the Marines were closing in on the main Japanese centre of resistance. “No, Prime Minister,” he said, acknowledging the irony. “The attack is going better than I dared expect.” He smiled. “If they’d hit us on the beaches, they could have seriously embarrassed us, but digging into mountains is useless when we can bomb them out.”

Menzies nodded. Turtledove, who’d known that some people had suggested the use of nerve gas, was relieved. The edict from Prime Minister Hanover forbidding its use had remained in place. “And you have concerns,” Menzies said.

“This is a land grab,” Turtledove said, taking his career in his hands. Menzies said nothing. “You’re using your soldiers to grab territory for future use.”

Menzies nodded. “There is a limited window of opportunity to solve two problems at one time,” he said. He gazed at the map. “In the future, the richest countries are the ones with access to resources and Australia needs the resources of the East Indies,” he said. “At the same time, despite their wealth, the… ah, Indonesia posed a constant threat to Australian security. If we take control and help to develop a democratic state, we might just succeed in averting that problem.”

Turtledove frowned. He had to admit that the logic was compelling. How much of this had been Atwell’s idea? The man had written books about how Australia should impose a peace on Indonesia; it had been why he’d been sent to Britain. The Australian Government might have found the logic compelling as well, but the world of 2015 would not have tolerated it.

He blinked. Would the world of 1942?

“The submarines are on their way in, Prime Minister,” he said, changing the subject. “In a couple of weeks, the entire force will have exterminated the Japanese merchant fleet.”

Menzies smiled. “And secured Australia’s dominance over the Pacific,” he said. “That’s worth fighting for, I think.”

Chapter Fourteen: New Choices

Fuhrerbunker

Berlin, Germany

18th April 1942

Field Marshal Kesselring was never certain why he had agreed to work with Himmler, rather than accept the offer of honourable retirement. Certainly, Himmler was easier to work for than the late lamented Adolf Hitler, who had been practically canonised by the SS, but at the same time he was chilling to be near. The man who had overseen the activities in Poland and the Balkans, who had set the Reich and Stalin’s so-called worker’s paradise to work together, was chilling. A single word from him could end a career – or a life.

No, he knew what he told himself; that Himmler had no military experience and would surely have led Germany to disaster – greater disaster – without someone to advise him. If that was the truth, Kesselring himself didn’t know; he didn’t understand himself.

“The Americans are doing better than we feared,” he said, indicating the lines of the American advance through Sweden. Their new tactics, literally shelling the German strongpoints to death, weren’t as… neat as the blitzkrieg techniques, but they were undeniably effective. Without significant air cover, the Germans were doomed to lose Sweden… and the forces holding down Stockholm would be trapped.

Himmler nodded slowly, studying the map with a thoughtful impression. Unlike Hitler, there was no doubt that he understood it – and the sheer power of the driving will of General Patton. Patton might not have been a strategic genius, but there was nothing wrong with his tactics.

“Our allies can do nothing?” Himmler asked finally. He studied the marked Soviet forces, positioned in the north of Sweden and Norway, where they’d evicted the Americans from in the winter.

“General” – Kesselring’s mouth stumbled over the name – “Koniev has launched a series of attacks against American positions,” he said. He hated to give the Russians any credit; he was certain that Stalin would turn on them when it suited him. “Unfortunately, moving forces across American positions… has not proven easy.”

He indicated the red lines of advance. Koniev hadn’t learned much, although, to be fair, the terrain of Norway didn’t give him much chance to learn about manoeuvre warfare. He’d slammed into American positions with considerable force… and then the American and British bombers had gotten to work. They might make it to Trondheim – he didn’t think that they would get to where they had to be; Oslo and Bergen.

“I see,” Himmler said. His voice was deathly cold; Kesselring wondered who would be thrown to the wolves as punishment for the failure. “How would you recommend that we salvage the situation?”

Kesselring blinked. Hitler had rarely asked for suggestions, choosing to depend on his own considerable abilities at looking inside his opponent’s head and luck. In the future that would never be, the ability had finally deserted him – if he’d had it in the first place.

He paused a moment to consider. “We cannot hold on to Sweden,” he said. “I propose withdrawing the forces in Stockholm and allowing the Russians to take over there. Even with aerial interdiction – the new rockets have worked very well – we can have them at Malmo within a week and evacuate them from Sweden.”

Himmler considered. “You would suggest abandoning territory?” He asked. His tone was mild. “Is it not a principle that territory held by the Reich should never be abandoned?”

“A strategic retreat,” Kesselring said, taking his life in his hands. “If the new weapons work, we can retake Sweden later – after a few months of Soviet occupation, they might be glad to see us. If they stay there, Mien Fuhrer, they will be destroyed?”

Himmler’s gaze swept up to the former commander of SS Das Reich, Ernst Barkmann. His war wounds, suffered during the attempt to retake Turkey, were bad, but there was nothing wrong with his mind. Kesselring felt mild relief; the man might be – was – an SS fanatic, but he had genuine combat experience. Future history said so.

“The Field Marshal is right,” Barkmann said. His voice had been damaged by the FAE bomb that had torn the heart out of Das Reich. “We cannot hold the country. Let the Untermensch have it; that will teach them to be good Aryans.”

Himmler inclined his head. “Albert, please make the arrangements,” he said. Kesselring, delighted at his good fortune, gaped at him. “There is no point wasting men trying to change what cannot be changed,” Himmler said. “Please see to it at once.”

Kesselring saluted and left, trying to forget that it had been his idea to withdraw from Sweden. Himmler had been right, of course; trying to hold Sweden was a waste of time. He smiled; once the Americans and the Communists got to grips, as they might… well, perhaps there would be opportunity there.

* * *

Himmler steepled his fingers and looked at Horton as the man entered. “You heard?” He asked. “This would seem to be a fine time for Operation Peace Makes Plenty, would it not?”

Horton allowed himself a moment to consider. Operation Peace Makes Plenty had been named and conceived by Himmler himself, who was acting as his own Foreign Minister. Joachim von Ribbentrop, who was disliked by the entire SS and much of the Wehrmacht, had been shot out of hand after Himmler had sealed his grip on power.

“By abandoning Sweden, you would show that you were willing to give up some of your gains,” Horton said finally. His mind raced rapidly. “If you did so and return control to the Swedish Government in exile, they might…”

“The Soviets would not allow it to stand,” Himmler said. “Although… there would be no reason why we could not make such an offer, along with the other offers.”

Horton nodded. Operation Peace Makes Plenty intended to show the British and Americans the cost of continuing the war… and then offer a fair peace agreement. Spain, France and Italy would regain their independence; Germany would even allow the creation of a rump Poland.

“Yes, I think we’ll do that,” Himmler said. “Even with the new weapons, it should take Patton some time to force his way all the way to the tip of Sweden.” He sighed. “We’ll give it a week, and then make the peace offer.”

* * *

Roth watched grimly as Werner Von Braun’s presentation was displayed on the wall. He nodded to the SS man who had attached it and picked up his notes. Von Braun, one of the most important people in the Reich, lived somewhere in Bavaria, hidden from Allied bombings and the British precision weapons. Roth had no doubt that the British knew who Von Braun was, and if they knew where he was, they would seek to kill him.

He smiled. Stewart, his lover, had claimed that the British had sworn off political assassinations, but he knew better. The death of Admiral Darlen remained unexplained, and then there was the loss of the American General MacArthur, who the Americans claimed had killed himself.

“Professor Von Braun has been working on our own rocket program, now we have a working V2 design,” he said. The original terminology for the tactical rockets had been kept at Hitler’s insistence. “Finally, we have a working model of a V3; a long-range strategic rocket.”

Himmler examined the display with interest. The rocket didn’t carry an atomic warhead, even though the basic design had been intended for a futuristic warhead. What it could do was hit American directly, or even Russian bases in the Urals.

“And there is no way that the British can stop it?” Himmler asked finally. “How accurate is it?”

“Professor Horton believes that the British might be able to shoot it down if it came at Britain, but he wasn’t certain if they had many of the rockets required,” Roth said. He scowled; few of the hostages knew much about that part of the British defences. “If it were to be launched from French territory, it would not pass within range, we hope.”

“You hope,” Himmler said. “How accurate is it?”

Roth frowned. “We can hit a city,” he said. “The rocket has a large warhead and it will cause major damage, but there’s no way to be certain that we would hit a given target, such as the White House.”

Himmler considered. “Would they be able to see the rocket?”

“Oh, yes,” Roth said. “They will certainly be watching for rocket tests of ours, which is why we have kept them undercover for the most part.”

Himmler nodded thoughtfully. “So, when can we fire the first rocket?”

“Once we pick the launch site, a week,” Roth said. “It’s merely a matter of assembling it under cover of darkness.”

“They would see it on the ground,” Himmler agreed. “See to it.”

Roth hesitated. “Professor Von Braun has an idea about handling the British presence in space,” he said. It still seemed like American science-fiction to him. “With the information we have collected from our agent in the American space program and the other agents we have in America, we know it’s orbital course around the Earth.”

He lifted the first display image, revealing a second concealed underneath it. “The space station proceeds around the Earth on a regular course that cannot be changed easily,” he said. “It is also the largest thing in orbit, although their new construction may be larger – not that we have any idea what its for.”

Himmler nodded. The German observatories had turned their telescopes on the British station with awe and a growing amount of horror. Even for the finest telescopes in Germany, predicting orbital paths wasn’t easy, even though it did help them to hide objects from British view.

“The point, Mein Fuhrer, is that the station cannot simply be moved along a different course,” he said, deciding not to go into the details of orbital mechanics. Professor Von Braun had explained them all to him at great length. “It must follow its course… which makes it vulnerable.”

He put up the third picture. “Professor Von Braun made the decision to proceed with a very basic design of rocket, one that could be mass-produced and fuelled very quickly. In fact, Professor Von Braun believes that we can move quickly to a solid-fuel rocket, which will be far safer and easier to deploy than a liquid-fuelled model. However, for our current problem the design is capable of launching a satellite into space – or a weapon.”

He smiled. The rocket had been copied from a future design, one that their main agent within the US had stolen from the Military Space Agency, and was – barely – within German capability to duplicate.  Professor Von Braun anticipated a high failure rate, but even one success would awe the British.

“The weapon doesn’t have to be big,” he said. “In fact, carrying the speed of the rocket and inserted into an orbit that would bring it on a collision course with the space station… even an empty bomb would shatter the integrity of the space station and spill its inhabitants out into the void.”

Himmler smiled. “How long until we can launch our own satellites?”

Roth smiled; Hoover had proven very helpful in that regard. “There is no intrinsic reason why we could not proceed with it right now,” he said. “The American designs are very simple and within our own reach, and we have the aid of the laptops in calculating the orbital trajectories. Unfortunately, we would have to rely on the technique of returning the films to Earth, rather than transmitting the signals, because of…”

“Jamming,” Himmler said. “I understand the problem.”

Roth nodded. The German transmission capabilities were not up to British standards, particularly with live imagery, and they had no way of preventing the British from simply jamming the signals.

“We also have to add an anti-tamper system to the satellites,” Roth explained. Himmler nodded. “The British could quite easily, Professor Von Braun assures me, attempt to intercept the satellite while it was in orbit.”

Himmler chuckled. “It doesn’t seem quite real, does it?” He said wryly. Roth blinked; Himmler letting his metaphorical hair down didn’t happen very often. “I assume that the Russians are moving ahead with their own rocket production?”

“Yes,” Roth said. He scowled; he understood Himmler’s logic, but given the Russians additional weapons didn’t go well with him. “They plan to have thousands of the Mark-1 V2s within a couple of months, and then move onto the Mark-2 design.”

“We all know about Russian five-year plans,” Himmler said. Roth, who had been uncomfortably aware of the scale of the Russian construction programme, said nothing. “By the time they pose a threat to us, they will no longer be a threat.”

Roth blinked at the statement, but held his tongue. After all, Himmler might be more stable than his predecessor, but he wasn’t so willing to take appearances – Russian appearances – at face value.

* * *

Kristy Stewart was bored. It wasn’t something she was used to; she was normally able to go out and about as she chose. For the past year and a half, she had been in Germany as a reporter… and she was getting bored of it. The news from home, that little that she got, wasn’t good; there was another bright young thing trying to steal her place.

“I want to go home,” she said, and smiled grimly at her lover. He blinked up at her and she wondered if she meant anything to him, more perhaps than he meant to her.

“You want to go back to England?” Roth asked. His face was a picture of astonishment. She knew that it was a fake. “Don’t you like it here?”

Stewart allowed her frustration to show. “I’m here, instead of wandering around Berlin,” she said. “This isn’t a good place to spend my days; I want to see everyone back home.”

“You could always go on a holiday,” Roth suggested. “There are still alpine retreats, if you want to go there with me.”

“I don’t think that the new Fuhrer” – she’d broken the news about Himmler’s ascension to power – “would let you take a week off.”

Roth frowned. Stewart smiled behind her hand; she understood that Himmler was making Roth work on some ultra-secret project that even her most adventurous sexual techniques couldn’t get him to talk about. It was unlikely that Himmler, who seemed to feel that sex was only good for making little Germans, would give him time off for a tryst.

“Perhaps he could be talked into it,” Roth said doubtfully.

“I need a break, love,” Stewart said. “I want to go back home.”

She winced inwardly. She knew she sounded as if she was going to cry, and she didn’t like using tears to manipulate anyone. On the other hand, most Contemporary personnel seemed to have problems resisting a crying woman.

“I’ll speak to the Fuhrer about it,” Roth promised, placing a hand on her bare shoulder. “I can’t promise anything, but I’m sure that he will let you return for a holiday.”

Stewart, who had caught the patronising undertone, frowned inwardly. “Thank you,” she sniffled, and kissed him. Roth responded to her passion as she used her body unmercifully… for it was the only weapon she had in her gilded cage. Miles from Britain, miles from a civilised country, Stewart finally understood the true danger of Nazism.

* * *

Himmler lifted an eyebrow as Roth entered the room. The young SS officer, who had been promoted to handle matters that Himmler didn’t want to trust to the regulars in any way, seemed unusually concerned. Himmler listened as Roth outlined the situation, and frowned to himself.

He hadn’t been that concerned when Roth had started his affair. It wasn’t good practice for an SS officer to be sleeping with a British woman, even if she was a good Aryan – Jasmine Horton was a good Aryan as well, part of his mind reminded him – when the camps existed for SS officers. Roth could have had an arranged marriage with one of the good German girls who had agreed to marry SS officers – and good Wehrmacht officers – who were all good breeding stock. Instead…

Hitler hadn’t cared, he’d thought that it was funny, Himmler remembered. Everything that passed between the two lovers was watched and studied by the SS oversight team, there had been no discussion of state secrets, no pillow talk, and yet… who could say what would reveal the location of the Fuhrerbunker to British intelligence. A lucky hit – and the RAF had already damaged the bunker once by accident – and the Reich would be decapitated.

If that happened…

“She can’t return home,” he said, and kept his face impassive at the expression on Roth’s face. The young fool did have feelings for the British bitch. “At least, not until Operation Peace Makes Plenty.”

Roth relaxed slightly. “She could carry the message home to England,” he said.

Himmler thought rapidly. Roth’s use wasn’t at an end – the SS had too few officers who had his capabilities – but he couldn’t be allowed to continue his relationship. It would have to be handled carefully; there was no point in breaking the man. It wasn’t as if he were a traitor, after all.

“She’ll have to broadcast the signal home,” he said. “She can go with the negotiating team to England, or through Portugal afterwards. They said they wouldn’t come to pick her up, didn’t they.”

“They sent one of their helicopters to pick up the cameraman,” Roth pointed out. “Perhaps they would agree if she was going for a holiday.”

“Perhaps,” Himmler said. He thought cold thoughts about British women. “Yes, I think that will work, don’t you?”

Roth nodded. “Thank you, Mein Fuhrer,” he said. “May I have permission to inform her of your decision?”

“Yes, you may,” Himmler said, as graciously as he could. He waited until Roth had left the room, and then picked up his telephone, dialling a number from memory. “Dieter, it’s me,” he said, and smiled at the stammering response. “I have a task for you,” he said, and outlined his orders.

He put down the phone and nodded once to himself. Whatever happened, Kristy Stewart would never return to England. She knew too much.

Chapter Fifteen: Pushing Boulders

Forward Headquarters

Kuwait, Middle East

18th April 1942

General Robert Flynn examined the map with a sensation of déjà vu. Twelve years in the past, from his point of view, the British army had spearheaded the capture of Basra, a battle that had been brutal, but possessed of only one possible outcome. Saddam’s habit of picking incompetents to command his defensive positions had made that certain.

Now… two divisions of armoured units were sneaking close to Baghdad and preparing to engage the Russian tanks near the city. Most of the development that had made the Kabala Gap so dangerous in 2003 simply didn’t exist in 1942; even with the far more competent Soviet combat engineers working away at laying mines and weapons to prevent a counterattack. With the war still raging in Scandinavia, Stalin had evidently given up on forcing a decision – a decisive battle – in the Middle East… and sacrificed the one chance for a strategic victory that would have made the Battle of Gallipoli meaningless. If he’d pushed on in the chaos… he might just have managed to save the German army from its humiliating surrender.

“God bless infighting allies,” Flynn commented, as he examined the map. It was beautiful in its way, the result of nearly four months of careful intelligence gathering; a perfect picture of Soviet deployments across the Middle East. For all his undisputed skill at armoured warfare, Zhukov remained the pioneer of the bludgeon, rather than the rapier, and that demanded concentration of force. Zhukov – or perhaps Stalin – had concentrated a formidable force along the border, unaware of the sheer power of orbital reconnaissance systems.

Flynn smiled grimly. Against the Americans of 2015, or even the Iranians of 2009 before they were finally smashed flat, his plan would have been a disaster waiting to happen. Against the Russian force, which might have made vast progress, but not enough to react fast enough, it might just work. Certainly, once the RAF got to work, anything with a red start outside the cities would be dead.

“A pity they still haven’t managed to get the Thor units up in orbit,” he muttered, as he rechecked the dispositions. Given sufficient Thor units, he was confident that he could have retaken the cities without suffering major casualties, but the cities were hardly the prime objectives. Zhukov might think that Basra and Baghdad composed a defence line, but when the RAF’s command of the air was absolute… they were just traps for Russian might.

“General Rommel informs us that the Bundeswehr is in position,” Colonel Toby informed him. “They’re ready to attack the Russians near Baghdad.”

“Excellent,” Flynn said. He rubbed his hands together. “We are about to launch the single largest British military operation since Operation Crusader, which was in the last time we fought this war.”

“Yes, sir,” Colonel Toby said. “Air Commodore Cromwell also reports that the RAF is ready to engage the enemy.”

“Good,” Flynn said. He looked up at the display, which – in a display of disregard for 2015 security – was showing the IFF transmissions of every British force in the region. It was an awesome sight. “The stage is set, the dancers are ready… blow the whistle.”

Toby nodded and headed off to send the activation signal. Flynn smiled at his retreating back; it had been a terrible mixed metaphor, but it got the idea across.

Near Baghdad

Iraq, Middle East

18th April 1942

The Bundeswehr had grown in the months since it had played such a crucial role in Operation Redemption, when it had redeemed such a large part of the German Wehrmacht. Not only had it gained two new Panzer divisions of Germans from the surrendered divisions, but it had also acquired the services of some German combat engineers. Captain Gunter Jagar, Rommel’s aide and assistant, watched as the famous general shouted instructions to the combat engineers, who were erecting a pontoon bridge across the mighty Euphrates. The river had only a handful of bridges, none of which could take a single Firefly.

He checked his PDA, heading over to report to Rommel. Up close, he could see Rommel’s famous face, which had been hailed as a hero and villain on successive German broadcasts. The news that Himmler had taken over in Germany had sickened Rommel, but Jagar knew that it had also relieved many of the men who would otherwise have refused to fight against Adolf Hitler. Jagar shuddered; like the rest of the SS, he had sworn an oath to Hitler… until he’d seen what that meant for the world.

“Yes, Captain,” Rommel said, speaking in English. Rommel’s English wasn’t bad, and he had insisted that Jagar learn the language as well. “Have we been given our marching orders?”

Jagar wasn’t sure what to make of Germans serving as a junior partner in an allied force, but Rommel seemed quite happy with it, so he held his tongue. Rommel – and Ambassador Ernst Schulze – had explained in their private strategy sessions that the Bundeswehr had to prove that it could fight, just to prevent all of Germany being torn apart for the crimes of a few.

“We’re to commence the attack as soon as reasonably possible,” Jagar said, holding out the PDA. Rommel took it, reading the short message quickly, as the scream of jet engines echoed across the sky.

“It looks as if the RAF have beaten us to the first punch,” Rommel said. Jagar could only nod as the jet aircraft raced towards Baghdad. Rommel looked down at the ranks of the Bundeswehr, massed in their lorries and tanks. “Not a bad thing, of course.”

Jagar nodded. The Bundeswehr had been moved to a forward camp near Kabala while it absorbed the new recruits and watched them for signs of allegiance to the SS. In absolute terms, the Bundeswehr was still powerful, but the original camaraderie had faded slightly, although Rommel was certain that fighting – and victory – would change that.

“All right, move out,” Colonel Muhlenkampf bellowed, as the combat engineers finished their bridge. Armoured Fighting Vehicles moved first, each one capable of handling a suicide charge with its machine guns, crossing the bridges and spreading out. Infantry units had already crossed the river by swimming, heading out to ensure that the Soviets didn’t catch the Bundeswehr at its most vulnerable, and then the tanks started to move.

“We’ll press on as fast as we can,” Rommel said. “We’re forbidden to enter the city itself – our lords and masters are worried about the civilians – but we can handle the Soviet forces near the city. PDA?”

Jagar passed it over without comment. Rommel examined the small computer, before bringing up a map of the region. The units of a large Soviet armoured regiment were positioned near the city; more units were garrisoned inside the city. The fate of the civilians within the remains of the city was a matter of rumour; refugees had told horrible stories.

“Only an hour’s hard march,” Rommel said. With all of its units mechanised, the Bundeswehr could move faster than a standard Wehrmacht unit. “We hammer them from the air, and then we take them at a run.”

* * *

Colonel Muhlenkampf peered through the range finder as the turrets of Baghdad, broken and shattered by the Soviet invasion, appeared in the distance. Smoke rose in the distance from the remains of a Soviet armoured regiment, which had been battered mercilessly from the air.

“And to think they complained about the Americans,” he muttered, as the damage to the famous city became apparent. “They didn’t set out to level the place.”

He scowled. Stalin had decided that the population of the Middle East was surplus to requirements and the Red Army had been more than happy to comply, slaughtering people who got in their way like bugs. Civilisation in the Middle East hung by a thread – and the Soviets had gleefully set out to cut the thread with a knife.

“Panzer ahead,” the new driver snapped. Colonel Muhlenkampf took direct command of the main gun, swinging around to confront the Soviet T-34. The tanks were moving to counter the Bundeswehr, spreading out to avoid a lucky hit killing more than one of them. A T-34 fired… and a Firefly exploded in a gout of fury.

“What the fuck was that?” The driver snapped, yanking the Firefly about. Colonel Muhlenkampf ignored him, concentrating on destroying the enemy tanks. Three T-34s died rapidly, the others killing three more Fireflies before they were destroyed. Colonel Muhlenkampf cursed; the Russian tactics sucked, but they had nearly mounted an effective defence.

“Incoming rockets,” one of the drivers snapped. The Firefly’s machine guns started to chatter, slashing away at Russian infantry, looking terribly out of place in their uniforms. There was nothing wrong with their weapons; they were firing small anti-tank weapons, slamming away at the Bundeswehr panzers. They were ineffective against the main frontal armour, but more than a few Fireflies were struck in the rear or the tracks and crippled.

“Mow them down,” Colonel Muhlenkampf snapped, as the Bundeswehr infantry came up. They had body armour and better weapons – he saw a Russian aiming a cheap AK-47 at a German before being mown down – and they cleared the Russian infantry.

“Bastards,” the driver said. Colonel Muhlenkampf nodded. “What now, sir?”

Colonel Muhlenkampf lifted his radio and began to issue orders. Rommel would issue orders of his own, he was certain, but his force had to be protected – or it would be worn away.

* * *

Jagar studied the satellite imagery, marvelling again at the crystal-clear images. “General, they’re pulling back inside the city,” he said. Every fibre of his being demanded that the Germans follow the Russians and purge them from the city. They could do it, he was certain. “Should we order a pursuit?”

Rommel took the high cost of victory without flinching. The cost had been higher than expected, particularly with the new rounds that the Russian tanks had been issued with, capable of burning through a Firefly’s armour. Jagar knew that Rommel had expected that the enemy would succeed in developing such a weapon – after all, they’d been seeing Fireflies for a year and might even have captured a damaged model – but so soon?

“No,” Rommel said. Jagar blinked. “That’s what they want us to do.”

“Jawohl,” Jagar said, in acknowledgement of his own mistake.

“Quite,” Rommel said. The tall General smiled. “Order the force to spread out,” he said, studying the map of Baghdad. Half of the city was on the wrong side of the Tigris River, after all. “The combat engineers are to bridge the river as quickly as possible; the RAF can handle the Russian tanks that will try to interfere.”

* * *

“Back here again,” Flying Officer Mick Eccleston muttered, as the Harrier jump jet lifted off from the forward operating base at An Najaf – where the Iraqi Government was cowering after being driven from Baghdad – and headed towards Baghdad. Before the Transition, the RAF seemed to have spent most of its time attacking targets in the Middle East, attempting to finish the extermination of the terror groups.

The ground passed under the aircraft as he logged into the tactical combat net, his aircraft becoming part of a much greater whole; the entire British military machine in the Middle East. Orders appeared on the display; he was to attack Soviet armour near Baghdad. IFF signals from the Bundeswehr and other allied units appeared on the display, to avoid a blue-on-blue attack. He smiled grimly as he saw Baghdad; like many others in the Western armed forces, he had no love for the city, whatever the historians might have thought about looking at Baghdad. They would only have been happy if the Transition had taken them back to the Bronze Age.

He smiled; novels about alternate history had become very popular in Britain, once the immediate struggle for survival had concluded. He himself had read a trilogy on the subject of an entire island… although the author hadn’t predicted what had really gone back in time. He’d also read a series from the same author on the laws of nature changing, but he’d found it disturbing… and impossible.

“Harrier-one, you are cleared to enter the battlezone,” the AWACS controller said, breaking into his thoughts. “You may engage at will.”

“Yeah, yeah, you fucking control freak,” Eccleston muttered. He found it hard to be sympathetic to the controller; no pilot liked being told what to do by a man who had never flown a fighter jet himself. “Moving in now…”

Bursts of black flak appeared around the Harrier and he jerked away from the city. Ignoring a demand from the controller for a report, he triggered the launch of a bomb at the imprudent gunner, and swooped away from the threat.

“Echo-one, picking up targets now,” he reported. A line of Russian tanks were moving out of the city, towards a number of Bundeswehr IFF beacons. “Releasing bombs.”

He smiled as the bombs blasted down at the Russian tanks. A line of explosions shattered them, one by one, wiping them out. “Targets destroyed,” he reported. He checked his display. “Echo-one, I have two bombs left,” he said. “Any other targets?”

“General harassment,” the AWACS said. Eccleston nodded, picked a Soviet position within the city, and launched the bombs, swooping away to avoid the flak. Accelerating, he clawed for height, heading back to the forward base.

“A good days work,” he said, checking the display. Other aircraft were moving in, striking again and again at Soviet targets, deploying all kinds of different weapons against the enemy. “A very good day’s work.”

Royal Palace

Tehran, Iran

18th April 1942

Stalin, in his infinitive wisdom, had decreed that General Georgy Konstantinovich Zhukov would set up his base in the Royal Palace, and so General Zhukov had complied. Now he struggled frantically to make sense of the data the radio and landline transmissions had brought him, and he felt fear gnawing at his chest.

“Why haven’t they jammed us?” He asked, as he studied the map. Baghdad and Basra were being surrounded and major air attacks had developed… against targets he would have sworn on Das Kapital that the British didn’t know about. Fuel and ammunition dumps, bridges, tank repair shops… all had been hammered from the air and destroyed.

“Perhaps they no longer have that capability,” Commissioner Petrovich suggested. Zhukov glared openly at him, confident that Stalin would forgive him if he won the battle. “They might be using it against the fascists, or the latest changes in the radio sets might be preventing them from using it.”

Zhukov bit off a comment about science not being considered a worthwhile subject in whatever dung heap commissioners were spawned on. Jamming wasn’t dependent upon the Soviet forces using a particular type of system – so far experience proved that that didn’t seem to matter.

“It makes no sense,” he said, refusing to be drawn. “They are besieging the cities, and pushing out, not attempting to take them.”

He scowled. Reports were never as clear as he wanted – he’d heard that the British could get something called a direct download from their forces – but it was clear that the forces inside the two cities were being sealed inside. Small forces had been deployed to surround the cities… while the main British force probed onwards, into Iran.

“Damn,” he said mildly, thinking baleful thoughts about the devil’s grandmother. Suddenly, everything made a certain kind of sense; the British were refusing the bait and allowing the forces within the cities to die on the vine. Instead…

“They’re coming here,” he said, and cursed openly. “That’s what they’re doing.”

Commissioner Petrovich stared at him. “What can we do about it?”

“The only thing we can do,” Zhukov said. “We’re going to pull out of the east of Iran, and re-concentrate in the north.”

If we can, an annoying imp at the back of his mind whispered. “We don’t have a choice, Comrade Commissioner Petrovich,” he snapped. “We move now, or we lose the forces when they cut the country in half!”

Commissioner Petrovich scowled. “It’ll still take them at least a week to reach here…”

“At worst, yes,” Zhukov said, who privately put it at two weeks. There was no need to mention that to the Commissioner. “That’s not the point; the point is that their forward operating bases for their aircraft will be moving forward. We’re already being pounded, Comrade, and the closer they get to us, the more pounding they can dump on us. Once they get close enough to have round-the-clock coverage, we’re going to be crushed and that will be the end of the forces in the east. They have to be moved!”

Commissioner Petrovich flinched. “The Great Stalin would not be happy,” he said. “The troops and tanks have to stay where they are.”

“The Great Stalin would be even less happy if the forces are destroyed without even seeing their enemies,” Zhukov snapped. He could understand Petrovich’s point, but he knew that it was futile; the choice was to move the forces from their hopeless position, or watch them die. “I’m going to move them.”

Petrovich glared at him, but said nothing as Zhukov issued the orders. Zhukov spoke rapidly and decisively, ordering troops to start moving at once, moving the tanks as the day drew to a close. Zhukov shuddered; was this what war was like seventy years in the future? He’d hoped that he had fought the British to a draw; he now understood that the British had been concentrating on other fronts, Norway and Australia.

We’re in trouble, he thought grimly. The Soviet Union was facing a new internal enemy – the never-to-be-dead Trotsky – and now it had suffered its worst defeat since the Revolution. Not even the humiliation of the Finnish War matched this; the Finns had lacked the capability to force the war to an end on their terms. The British…

He shuddered again, his mind drawing him a picture of mushroom clouds marching across the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, of red arrows moving across the map… from Iran to Stalingrad to Moscow…

“We have to end this quickly,” he said aloud, and Petrovich didn’t disagree. “We have to move fast.”

Chapter Sixteen: Point of No Return

HMAS Canberra

Sea of Japan

18th April 1942

Captain Mike Warburton couldn’t restrain his eagerness to finally get into the war. Like many officers and crewmen of the Royal Australian Navy – those who had survived the Japanese pre-emptive strike in 1940 – he had fiercely resented the decision to wait until the new improved Royal Australian Navy was ready before sending it into operations against the Japanese, even during Australia’s darkest hour. They’d watched the images of the Japanese invasion while they were working up the first submarines at the new/old naval base in Orkney.

He smiled openly as he contemplated his submarine. It was a world apart from the handful of cruisers and destroyers he’d served upon before the war, being more powerful and capable than any of those. It had been designed to be simple to build; the entire hull and its fittings – with the exception of some of the advanced technology – could be built at any yard in the world. The weapons were nothing like as capable as the ones the nuclear-powered submarines used, but they could be replaced with little effort by the Australian manufacturers.

“Captain, we have received the ‘go’ burst from fleet command,” his communications officer reported. The submarine could even pick up some transmissions underwater; no one in their right mind would surface so close to Japan. “They are ordering us to attack at will.”

“Splendid,” Warburton said. “Radar, conduct a scan.”

There was a long pause while a tiny radar antenna was extended, pulsing a radar signal out across the seas. The Canberra would have obtained a download from a satellite, but Warburton wanted to test his ship’s capability to operate on its own. After all, the British had lost their satellites for a long time – and see how that had affected their ability to make war.

“We have four transports and two warships, probably destroyers,” the radar officer reported. “They’re heading to China; three more ships heading away from China.”

Warburton grinned. “Move us into attack position,” he ordered. “Helm?”

The minutes ticked by as the Canberra glided forward under the water. The Japanese would have been wiser to sail in daylight; they might just have seen her under the water. In darkness, they didn’t stand a chance.

“Picking up some sonar,” the radar officer reported. “The coating seems to be absorbing it.”

“Good,” Warburton said. One aspect of the modern British submarines that had really awed him was the coating that worked to absorb some sonar signals. It wasn’t perfect – they’d had that point drummed into them time and time again – and enough signals could present submarine hunters with a contact, but no one expected the Japanese to get that lucky.

“Now sighting on the destroyers,” the weapons officer said. The display changed, revealing the enemy ships moving serenely to China.

“Slow boats to China,” Warburton said wryly. “Weapons locked?”

“Aye, sir,” the weapons officer said. “Barracudas one to four locked on the destroyers.”

“Fire,” Warburton ordered.

Canberra shuddered as she launched four torpedoes in quick succession. The sonar tracked the torpedoes as they ran free, heading for the Japanese ships. They never even saw them coming; the sheer force of the torpedoes, designed to punch their way through battleship armour, slammed into their hulls and exploded inside. The ships literally blew out of the water.

“They’re separating and increasing speed,” the radar officer reported. “They’re also turning on their decoy equipment.”

“Idiots,” Warburton muttered. The Japanese sonar decoy equipment only worked well if there was a large fleet moving in close formation. “Targets locked?”

“One barracuda apiece,” the weapons officer said. “Weapons locked.”

Warburton studied the display for a long moment. The temptation to play with the Japanese, to make them fear as Australia had feared, was almost overpowering. The ships could have been given a head start, over an hour’s worth, and they would not have been able to reach safety.

“Captain?” The weapons officer asked. “Weapons are locked on targets.”

“Fire,” Warburton ordered. Canberra shuddered again, spitting out the torpedoes in quick succession. “Impact reports?”

Canberra rocked wildly. “One of the ships must have been carrying ammunition,” the helm officer said. “It’s a good thing we were underwater.”

Warburton nodded. “And the others?”

“I think one of them is a Q-ship,” the radar officer said. “It’s coming about, despite being hit; I think the hull is stuffed with cork or something else. The others are sinking.”

Ridiculous, Warburton thought coldly. They think they can fight us?

“Yep, definitely a Q-ship,” the radar officer said. “They just lit up some sonar they shouldn’t have. Brave bastards.”

“Dead bastards,” Warburton snapped. “Lock weapons on target.”

“Weapons locked,” the weapons officer said. “Warhead; high explosive.”

“Good thinking,” Warburton said. “Fire!”

Canberra shuddered again, launching the high explosive torpedo. Warburton watched on the display as the torpedo struck, blasting a major hole in the side of the ship. Even with the cork – or whatever – helping it to float, the ship didn’t stand a chance and disintegrated, falling into the sea.

“Good work,” Warburton said. “Helm, set us on a course for the nest contacts.”

“Aye, sir,” the helm officer said. Canberra started to move again, heading away from the scene of the short encounter, leaving hundreds of Japanese floundering in the ocean, far from help.

“Communications, transmit a recording of the incident back to fleet command,” Warburton ordered. “Then inform them that we plan to continue the attacks until we run out of fuel or weapons.”

HIMS Musashi

Hashirajima, Japan

20th April 1942

The hammer had fallen, just as he had known it would. Admiral Yamamoto studied the reports of the attacks on Japanese shipping and knew the truth. From the Dutch East Indies to the holy waters of Japan herself, ships had been swept from the sea with ease. He’d always known that the enemy possessed vast capabilities in undersea warfare, but now… now only a couple of transports had survived crossing the ocean over the last two days.

The map was an intimidating one, even for someone who’d witnessed naval combat first hand. Of seventy transports, freighters and converted ships transporting soldiers, resources and weapons around the empire, only two had survived. Ships in dock, of course, hadn’t been attacked… until they’d ventured out of dock. He was mortally certain that one of the accused nuclear submarines lurked outside Hashirajima, waiting for the Musashi or one of the few remaining capital ships to poke their noses outside the anchorage.

“Now what do we do?” He asked himself. There was an answer, the same one that had occurred to him before, but it was proving hard to arrange it. He was certain if he could meet with the Emperor, he could have convinced Hirohito to end the war… before Japan starved. However, in order to ‘protect the Emperor’s person,’ two battalions of the army were dug in around the Royal Palace, backed up by the forces assembling for the defence of Japan.

“Bastards,” he scowled. The British and their Australian lapdogs hadn’t followed the strategy of waiting patiently for the Japanese to starve. Instead, they had launched brutal and powerful attacks all along the Dutch East Indies and the Solomon islands, including Truk, one of the most important naval bases in the Japanese Empire. A major British force – as opposed to the Australians who were fighting most of the war in the Indies – had landed and after a short brutal battle taken the base, although not in working condition. The Dutch East Indies had lost most of their defenders to attacks from the air; the bunkers that the original history had recommended building had been blown open by bunker-buster bombs, each one so big it required an entire aircraft to carry it.

He shook his head. The writing was on the wall for anyone with eyes to see it. Japan imported much of her food and all of her oil… and they no longer had the ability to transport it around. At the rate that ships were being lost, Yamamoto estimated that the entire merchant marine would be sunk within two weeks at most, and then Japan would starve. Already, there were signs that all was not right, but without the massive bombing campaign that had struck at Japan during the first history.

Yamamoto shuddered. The images from that history had been shocking, but the news of the Deathcloud had been worse… and the news of the firebombs deployed against Japanese troops in jungle environments had been worst of all. If those weapons were deployed against Japanese cities, their wooden and paper construction would burn rapidly… and exterminate large sections of the population.

The war was over and Japan had lost, but did the Army realise that? No! Yamamoto clenched his fist in frustration; the Army believed in the final battle, in which Japanese military might and will would sweep the British from the seas. They pointed to the future history, in which a typhoon had devastated the Allied positions in 1945 after Japan had surrendered, as proof that surrender was out of the question.

Yamamoto chuckled bitterly. There was no way that Japan was going to survive until 1945. If they made it to 1943 without either revolution or collapse he would be astonished. Without the firebombing campaign, the Army could still claim that Japan was winning… but the truth was slowly leaking its way out, spurred on by the thousands of deaths from the two major sea battles. The Army spoke of a final redoubt in China – and had moved thousands of key personnel over to Korea and China – but with the new submarine campaign, they would no longer be able to supply their new colony. The industry they’d moved over the winter would have to be enough… and Yamamoto knew that it wouldn’t be enough.

“But how do we end this war?” He asked, and knew the only answer was impossible. There was no way of contacting the Emperor; the Army had been reluctant to risk civil war by attacking the Navy, but at the same time they kept him a prisoner onboard Musashi, perhaps hoping that the British would end his life for them. Or, perhaps, they thought he could still be useful.

“Fat chance,” Yamamoto said. Ambassador Yurina Sato, a Japanese woman from the future and his lover, had introduced him to the phase. The limits of his abilities had been made very clear when he ordered nine destroyers to escort a convoy to China; the entire force, destroyers and transports, had been sunk. Even the Russians were being attacked; he knew that their Far East Fleet had lost two ships to British submarines.

He looked up at a different map, the location of naval forces around Japan. He knew that he had enough battalions of naval infantry to defend the anchorage, should the British – or the Army – come for it, but not enough to break into the Royal Palace. The Army held all the reins of power – and Yamamoto knew that there was no way of winning the war.

We’re going to lose everything, he thought grimly.

* * *

Ambassador Yurina Sato had never cared for the Sailor Moon look, choosing to believe the American who had claimed that the look – and some of the truly disgusting pornography that had come out of Japan – was a symptom of a deep-rooted cultural decline. Yurina had never understood it; what possible pleasure could someone get from watching a rape – even if the woman had agreed to be raped on film – or from animal-human hybrid sex. And that was just the beginning of films and pictures that were darker than anything else and banned in many counties.

Still, in her Japan, she’d worn a neat jacket and a miniskirt, allowing men to look at her legs. It short-circuited their thinking processes; many Japanese men were unable to admit that a woman might be able to think for herself. As long as she was beautiful and decorative, they would let her do whatever she liked… and Yurina had taken full advantage of them.

She shook her head as she walked back up the gangplank, ignored by all. It wasn’t quite as bad as being in Afghanistan, where she’d had to wear a Burka and keep back from the men in public, but it wasn’t what she was used to. It was something of a relief – once she’d become powerful enough, she’d no longer had to use her body as a weapon – but it was irritating. Apart from Yamamoto, no man in Japan took her even remotely seriously, and she had never cared for wearing the traditional woman’s dress.

The gunmetal-grey corridors of the battleship almost seemed like home to her, after spending so long aboard, and she half-hoped that the British wouldn’t destroy it. Her lover, Admiral Yamamoto, had never been able to understand it – it was not as if the British had run out of weapons to deploy against the huge ship. A nuclear warhead would have melted it like ice in the sun, if all else failed, and she knew that she was always at risk while she was onboard the ship.

“The Lady Yurina,” the guard announced, opening the hatch to the stateroom. The crew of the Musashi were kind to her; they knew that she was the admiral’s woman and possessed influence, if not power. It was typical of Imperial Japan; women only possessed power through their bodies and minds.

“Welcome back,” Yamamoto said. He spoke in English, to keep their conversation private. Only a handful of the crew could speak English. “What did you think of the town?”

Yurina shook off her outfit, relieved to be back in privacy. Her underclothes would have allowed her to walk unnoticed in a 2015 city. “They know that something’s very wrong with the war,” Yurina said.

Yamamoto nodded sadly. The anchorage had given birth to an entire race of seafarers, many of whom had married and lived near the naval port. The loss of thousands of lives could hardly be concealed; he himself had refused to take part in the war.

“They asked me and your escort where their young men were,” Yurina said. She didn’t want to manipulate Yamamoto any more; she just wanted him to understand. “They were pleading with me to find them for them and send them home and…”

She broke off. Yamamoto, not always comfortable with intimacy, reached out and gently hugged her. “We have to end the war,” he said. She looked up at him through tear-filled eyes. “We have to end it now.”

She watched as Yamamoto paced the cabin. “We have to convince the Emperor to end the war,” he said. “It worked in your timeline, and it will work again.” Yurina privately doubted it, but held her tongue. “The problem is that he’s under the control of the army.”

“And they won’t let you in,” Yurina said. She wiped her eyes and drew on all her experience in the diplomatic service. “Can’t you take the naval infantry and force your way in.”

“They want to disarm that force or put it under their control,” Yamamoto said grimly. “They keep going on and on about a united command for the defence of the home islands, and they want to take the force away from me.”

Yurina would have laughed if it hadn’t been so serious; no other nation would have worked its way into the political situation facing them. Instead of removing Yamamoto, the only remaining Admiral of any status, they had been content to leave him in power, running the navy – but without the ability to impede their plans for a glorious victory when the British invaded.

She pulled her mind back to the task at hand. “Can the force punch through to the Palace?” She asked. “Could a coup – a counter-coup – succeed?”

Yamamoto shook his head. She knew that it was a mark of his desperation that he was even considering a solution like that. “We can’t,” he said. “We would be outnumbered and seriously outgunned; they would even have tanks. If we had air cover, we might be able to get around it, but the Army controls the air force.”

Yurina shuddered. She’d seen some of the preparations to fight when the invasion finally took place; thousands of kamikaze speedboats and aircraft were being prepared, and weapons were being distributed freely. When the British came, they were determined to fight to the death…

When the British came…

A thought struck her. It was perfect. It might just work. “Darling,” she said, “there might be a solution.”

She outlined it. Yamamoto stared at her. “Are you serious?” He demanded. “You would suggest asking foreign troops to settle a Japanese internal affair?”

“Is that better or worse than them settling it by turning Japan into a mass grave?” Yurina asked dryly. “Look – they have to be worried to death about Japan; they have to know the cost of an invasion. Their choice would be between bombing us into submission or using nuclear weapons; either way, there would be very little left of Japan.”

Yamamoto nodded slowly. “Would they go for it?” He asked. “What’s in it for them?”

“I believe that they would,” Yurina said thoughtfully. “As I said, they have to be looking for a solution; I’m surprised that we haven’t had peace feelers already.”

“The diplomats are under army control,” Yamamoto said. “They might have offered a halt in place and we wouldn’t have heard about it.” He closed his eyes in thought. “The Emperor might get hurt – or killed.”

Yurina held in the sigh that threatened to burst from her lips. She didn’t think that the Emperor was a living god. “The precision weapons would ensure that no harm would come to him,” she said, and hoped that she was telling the truth. The British would understand that the Emperor had to live, wouldn’t they? “What else can we do?”

Yamamoto chuckled harshly. “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing, but to gamble Japan’s fate on one toss of the die.”

Chapter Seventeen: Warning Shots

RAF Fylingdales

Yorkshire, United Kingdom

22nd April 1942

RAF Fylingdales had had very little to do in the years since the Transition and half of the staff had been reassigned to the Ministry of Space. The massive base, equipped with the blocky Phased Array Pyramid that had replaced the famous golf ball radar housing, was overkill for the air defence network; the Germans didn’t have ICBMs. Fylingdales had used its radars to assist in tracking German aircraft over Britain, but they hadn’t really been needed since the first air raids.

Base Commander Ben Barden jumped out of his seat as the automatic alarm tripped. With the exception of drills, that alarm was never meant to be triggered, and his first thought was that it was a malfunction. His training had him running into the main room, even though logic told him that it had to be a malfunction.

Logic was clearly out to lunch. The big display, which had been tracking the growing British and American presence in space, was displaying three red contacts, tagged as an ICBM and two IRBMs. Barden’s mind refused to accept the possibility; could an American SSBN have come through the Transition and the Germans captured her?

“We have one ICBM and two V2’s,” the duty officer said. Barden felt his mind relax slightly; the computers had tagged the German rockets with the closest profile in their databanks. “Automatic warning to the command bunkers has been tripped.”

“Check the systems,” Barden ordered automatically. No one would thank him for triggering a nuclear alert if the radars were malfunctioning.

“Feltwell is also picking up the contracts,” the duty officer said. “ICBM is heading over the Atlantic; V2’s are heading for us, estimated impact site” – she paused for a long moment in astonishment – “the English Channel, near Southampton and the North Sea, near Newcastle.”

Barden blinked at the display. The phone rang. He picked it up and listened to the voice on the end. “Yes, sir,” he said. “The V2s are going to miss us.” He scowled. “Yes, it could be a trap; Civil Defence command should target the Patriots, just in case.”

He put down the phone. “That was PJHQ,” he said grimly. “The Patriot network is being targeted on the V2s now.”

The duty officer tapped a key, sharing all of Fylingdales information with the rest of the UKADR. “What about the ICBM look-alike?”

“It’s out of our range,” Barden said grimly. “Run a trajectory calculation.”

“Near New York,” the duty officer said, after a moment. “It won’t take long to get there.”

Barden swore. “That puts the cat among the pigeons,” he said angrily.

Ten Downing Street

London, United Kingdom

22nd April 1942

Stirling had been working on the investigation into HSM Artful, but he hadn’t been granted any relief from his normal duties. Two hours after the V3 had splashed down within sight of the damaged New York City, an emergency meeting of the War Cabinet had been called.

“So, exactly what happened?” Hanover asked, as soon as the room was sealed. Formalities could wait until they were less busy. “Everyone is asking questions as we don’t have answers.”

Stirling shuffled his notes. “The Germans launched three ballistic missiles,” he said grimly. “The first two, apparently a modified V2 design, splashed down in two widely separated locations near the coast, while the third splashed down near New York. The analysis team is en route, but it seems clear that the Germans intended to miss us.”

“A warning shot,” General Cunningham injected.

“So what?” Hathaway asked coldly. “If they put their resources into such missiles, we can still knock them down, can’t we?”

Cunningham shook his head. “At the moment, we have a force of two hundred Patriot missiles, which were reserved for intercepting scud missiles that we feared might be fired at us during the war on terror. Additionally, they were tasked for a limited ABM role when the Iranian crisis became acute and worrying. They were held back from the Battle of Britain as they would have been massive overkill against German planes. In effect, madam, we cannot replace any of them at the moment.”

Hanover held up a hand. “General, how much damage can those missiles do?”

“Not much,” Stirling answered. Cunningham nodded gratefully. “They cannot carry a large warhead; they might knock down buildings and small parts of a city, but they could hardly force us to surrender.”

“Perhaps they could,” McLachlan mused. The Foreign Secretary scowled at their faces. “Correct me if I’m wrong, please, but is it not true that the only way of intercepting one is though an ABM missile? A normal aircraft missile won’t handle it?”

“Probably not,” Stirling said. “An ASRAAM would have to be very lucky to score a hit.”

“And, of course, they can hammer American cities as well,” McLachlan continued. “Those were warning shots; they couldn’t have missed so badly, could they?”

Stirling shook his head. “Even without whatever they’ve learnt from us, they were still capable of hitting cities in the original timeline.”

“So… Himmler wants us to know that German has the capability to hit our cities and that there isn’t much that we can do about it,” McLachlan said. “Unless I miss my guess, the bastard wants us to agree to a truce.”

“They have been moving troops down in Sweden,” Hanover mused. “That might be intended as a sign of good faith.”

“They don’t have a choice,” Cunningham said. “With Patton closing in on Malmo, they risk having the entire force trapped – again. Instead, they’re allowing the Soviets to take over in Stockholm.”

Hanover scowled. “That’s beside the point, for the moment,” he said. “The question is; what do we do when Germany starts throwing more missiles at us?”

“With the help of satellites, we could track their launchers and target them from the air,” Stirling said. “We might be able to hold back the threat.”

“They’d only have to get lucky once or twice to damage our defences,” Cunningham muttered. “Even if their targeting is bad, they could knock out an airfield or a army base with a lucky hit.”

“That’s not the point,” McLachlan insisted. “They want – need – to force us to accept a peace on their terms.” He grinned. “I bet you all a fine dinner at the Nandos in Trafalgar Square that they’ll send us a peace offer through that Stewart woman.”

“No bet,” Hanover said. “What do we tell the public?”

“The truth,” Noreen said firmly. “We explain to them that Germany is experimenting with long-range missiles and they don’t pose a serious threat.”

“Do we retaliate?” McLachlan asked bluntly. “We’re talking about a threat to civilian life here.”

Hanover frowned. “We can hardly justify using a nuke,” he said. “I think we’d better stick with the moral high ground.”

Cunningham nodded. “We’re still turning up German factories,” he said. “We can expand our own bombing program.”

“True,” Hanover said. “Have a contingency plan drawn up.”

* * *

If there was one thing Hanover disliked about being Prime Minister, it was facing the Press. Parliament he understood; Parliament was meant to keep a Prime Minister on his toes, but the Press hunted for sensational stories, and to hell with national security. The baying mob lurked outside Ten Downing Street, having been tipped off by their spies – sources – within the MOD that something had happened.

“I can confirm that the war situation has darkened,” Hanover said, reading from memory. Putting a positive spin on the news would be difficult, but then he’d never believed that the people of Britain were idiots who needed to be coddled. He intended to dismantle the coddling legislation as soon as possible. “Germany had finally developed a rocket capable of hitting us.”

“Two years too early?” A reporter called. The middle-aged man would have been a great TV personality, if he’d had the looks for it. “That’s fast!”

“They probably stole the idea from the Americans,” Hanover said. Passing the blame onto the Americans was easy these days. “Fortunately for us, their terminal guidance systems are not particularly accurate and…”

“They couldn’t hit a barn door?” Someone shouted. His colleagues shushed him.

“Something like that,” Hanover said. “While this does pose a small threat to British lives, the RAF is already engaged in hunting down the launchers and targeting German industries in retaliation for the strike.” He smiled. “I urge you all not to panic,” he said. “They cannot build nuclear weapons” – the wag refrained from shouting ‘yet’ – “and they can only do a limited amount of damage. Warnings will be broadcast when incoming missiles are detected and we will do everything within our power to shoot the missiles down.”

He’d told them previously that there would be no questions. For a wonder, the reporters didn’t shout out questions as he re-entered Ten Downing Street. Major Stirling was waiting for him, as he had ordered.

“That went well,” he muttered, as Stirling passed him the first report. The recovery team had searched the area where the first missile had gone down, but they’d only found wreckage. He couldn’t say that he was astonished; the German rockets had carried warheads, after all. “Did the Americans say anything?”

“There was an explosion outside New York,” Stirling said helpfully. “They’re apparently still considering what it means for the war.”

Hanover nodded. “This isn’t good news,” he said. “We’re still a month from the planned invasion of Europe, and the last thing we need is more trouble.”

“Yes, sir,” Stirling said. “On the good side of the news, General Stillwell reported that the first ten divisions of American infantry and American armoured units were pretty much ready for deployment. They were wanting to move them over here as soon as possible, just to get them in their jump-off points. Also, the 1st Marine Division, the one that was twinned as a helicopter force, has been pulled back to the United States and sent to Pearl Harbour.”

“To hit Vladivostok,” Hanover muttered. “Any news from Japan?”

“Nothing,” Stirling said. “We expended peace feelers through Siam – which we have very limited contacts with – but the reply basically agreed to a hold in place and Japan keeping all that it had gained.”

Hanover shook his head. The Australians were showing no desire to end the war and why should they? They were taking all of the resource-rich islands, after all, and extracting revenge for the invasion.

“The Indians have been reluctant to launch an invasion of Burma,” Stirling said. “We consulted with the provisional government, but they’re desperate to keep the Indian Army and the forces we moved in to India in place, just to prevent civil war from breaking out. As long as our forces are in place, none of the princes will try anything stupid, but if they all work together…”

Hanover nodded. He’d seen the predictions, drawn up by historians who’d studied Indian history. The Princes would tear their country apart, and they had the forces to do it as well. The nation would not tolerate an attempt to put the Raj back together after it had failed so disastrously; Hanover knew that the sealed orders called for abandoning the subcontinent.

“Events in Iran move along,” Stirling continued. “We have sealed the Russian forces inside the cities and are destroying any forces that tried to poke their way out of the trap. Our own tank columns are racing for Tehran, but the Russians are pulling out of the east and heading north themselves.”

“Wise of them,” Hanover said. He entered his office and took his seat. “I assume that they’re retreating?”

“It certainly seems like it,” Stirling said. “I think they must be trying to save what they can.”

Hanover nodded. “Have the harassment campaign press them as hard as they can,” he ordered. “The ones we kill now, we won’t have to fight later.” He smiled. “Besides, perhaps we can defer the arrival of an American force if they leave before the Americans can reach the battlezone.”

“Aye, sir,” Stirling said. “I’ll forward the orders at once.”

He left the room. Hanover closed his eyes for a long moment, deep in thought. This sudden development of rockets was alarming; they might well be able to hurt thousands of civilians, particularly if they used nerve gas or biological warfare. Would that be enough to end the war?

“I wish I knew,” he said aloud, and headed down to the war room. There was work to be done.

Fuhrerbunker

Berlin, Germany

22nd April 1942

“Everything must be perfect,” the SS flunkey – SS Hauptsturmfuehrer Thierbach – insisted. Stewart ignored him, checking out the display in front of her face; Himmler’s desk stood against one wall, surrounded by a map of Germany. There was no Nazi flag in the room, anywhere.

“I said…”

“I did hear you,” Stewart snapped. Knowing that she was about to go home had cheered her up no end, and she wasn’t about to let a man with a ridiculous title get in her way. “I have years of experience in public relations, and it will be perfect.”

She paused to examine the room. It was neat and Spartan, not over-decorated or tasteless, and it was serious. People had expected orgies, but in this room Himmler would be just another bureaucrat, if rather more powerful than most. On his own, Himmler could never have risen to power, but after Hitler had died, he’d been in the position to snatch power, despite his limited imagination.

“He has to give his message from his desk,” she said. “He cannot remind people of what he is, because that would destroy anti-war sentiment, and he cannot attempt to play too much upon their emotions, because that’s pretty obvious these days.”

“There is such a thing as anti-war sentiment?” Thierbach asked. Nazi Germany, of course, wouldn’t tolerate any such thing. Stewart was finally beginning to understand how lucky she’d been to have been born into the west. “Your people would force the government to end the war?”

“Not exactly,” Stewart hedged. “Your Fuhrer would have to make a very good offer for peace, and then they might protest against further bloodshed.”

“I see, I think,” Thierbach said, checking the positioning of Stewart’s camera. “Is the camera in place?”

Stewart smiled at his unnecessary manipulations of the camera, just to prove he was doing something useful. It beat watching his eyes following her around. “The camera is perfect,” she said. In fact, with modern technology, it could have produced an acceptable image though a fishbowl. “Everything is ready.”

Right on time, Führer und Reichskanzler Himmler stepped though the door, followed by two gorilla-like guards. “Is everything ready?” He asked. “Are we ready to begin?”

Stewart smiled behind her hand. “Yes,” she said. If Himmler noticed, he chose to ignore it. “We may begin when you are ready.”

Himmler nodded and headed over to his desk, checking his uniform as he sat down. There were no Nazi symbols on the black uniform, just in case. “You may start the camera,” he said.

“I will give you a countdown,” Stewart said, and activated the camera. “Five… four… three… two… one… talk.”

* * *

Himmler composed himself as the red light flickered into a steady glow. The message was too important for any problems to interfere with; he was prepared to repeat the speech as often as he had to, making certain that the speech was perfect.

“To the people of Britain, America and the British Empire, greetings,” he said. He spoke fluent English and he’d spent time with Roth and the SS linguists, making certain that his dictation was perfect. “I am Führer und Reichskanzler Himmler, of the Third Reich of Germany.

“Your Governments will know – they may not have told you – that we have developed weapons capable of penetrating even your superlative defences and delivering a warhead to a precise target. If the war continues, we will be forced to deploy the rockets against your cities, in revenge for the thousands of German civilian deaths in the war. The Volk cry out for revenge, but I do not wish to end the war on such bad terms. You can burn us with radioactive fire; we can infect you with a deadly disease… and both of us will lose.”

He paused significantly. “In order to avoid this horrid fate, the Reich wishes to offer a final and conclusive peace agreement. Unilaterally, we have declared a weeklong ceasefire over the Reich; your forces will not be attacked unless they fire on us first. Further, as a gesture of good faith, our forces are withdrawing from Sweden, which will allow you to occupy it and liberate from our grip.”

He gave a self-deprecating grin. “The Reich places this offer on the table,” he said. “The Reich will withdraw and place back into the hands of their legitimate governments, France, Spain and Italy. The Reich will also agree to the creation of a rump Poland and permit them free access to the sea – without taxes or tariffs – through any port on the Baltic.

“Finally, the Reich will permit any citizen who wishes to leave, from democrat to Jew, the right to leave, and it will pay for their passage to Britain. That is the offer we are making to you; we hope that you will consider it.”

He smiled thoughtfully. “This signal is being sent through transmission towers in Germany and through the services of a reporter stationed here,” he said. “The attached messages will give instructions for contacting us, and we urge the British and American Governments to do so.” He smiled again. “The ceasefire will last for a week from the transmission of this message, whatever else happens, and we will attempt to avoid clashes between our forces and yours. Unfortunately, our forces have orders to fire if fired upon, so please confirm that you understand quickly, before an incident happens.

“Thank you for your time,” he concluded. “I look forward to a lasting and permanent peace between our nations.”

Chapter Eighteen: Considering The Issue

Ten Downing Street

London, United Kingdom

23rd April 1942

“Yes, Mr President,” Hanover said, speaking into the secured phone. “We received the offer of a ceasefire too.”

Truman’s voice was dry. “General Patton has been asking for orders,” he said. “Do we let the bastards escape to Denmark?”

“It would be cheaper than digging them out,” Hanover said, scowling. He’d hoped to keep the news secret, but Germany had made that impossible. Simply by broadcasting the entire message, the BBC had picked up on it even as they were studying the message from Stewart.

“True, I suppose,” Truman said. “Ambassador King is very against making peace with Germany, and of course peace with Russia is politically impossible.”

Hanover nodded, forgetting that Truman couldn’t see him. “It’s a trick,” he said. “The governments of the countries he named are all very pro-German anyway, even the French. Did you notice the attachments he sent back with Stewart’s message? If we agree, we will not be allowed to land any troops to guarantee their independence, such as it is.”

“And not a word about Russia,” Truman said. “Tell me; how much danger is there of them managing to lift an atomic weapon on one of those rockets?”

“None,” Hanover said confidently. “Even if they succeeded in making one, it would be a while before they managed to make one small enough to put in a rocket.”

“They’ll be working up on scaling up the design, wouldn’t they?” Truman said. “Might they succeed in hitting the United States?”

“I don’t believe that they could,” Hanover assured him. “They can launch long-range rockets, but their guidance systems are clearly not perfect yet.”

“I hope you’re right,” Truman said. “What sort of response are you going to send?”

“Parliament has insisted on voting on the matter,” Hanover said. He scowled; Mortimer had insisted upon it, and he had been able to convince enough of the Opposition that the vote had passed. “That should happen later today.”

Truman chuckled. “Congress has already issued its opinion,” he said. “No peace with Russia; peace with Germany only on our terms.”

“God bless America,” Hanover said wryly. “Do you intend to make the refusal permanent?”

“Yes,” Truman said. “In fact, I would like to launch B-29 strikes against Germany and targets in France, just to make our refusal clear.”

Hanover smiled. “That would seem like a good idea,” he said, thinking rapidly. A thought struck him and he cursed. “Can you hold off until after the Parliament has voted?” He asked. “They might not be happy.”

Truman made a frustrated noise. Hanover understood; if Britain was forced to leave the war, America would be forced to slog its way through Finland, something that would strain even American logistics to the limit. Even with the SAS teams working in Finland, it would be tricky beyond belief.

“I’ll order the bombing force to be ready,” Truman said finally. Hanover didn’t argue. “They have the IFF transmitters, so there’s no chance that your missiles will mistake them for a German aircraft.”

“That’s a good thing,” Hanover said dryly. Whatever the weaknesses of German air defences, the radar-guided British machine guns would have slaughtered anything without a proper IFF that looked like a German plane. “We’ll send the launch signal as soon as Parliament has voted.”

Truman snorted. “How long will that take?”

“I don’t know,” Hanover admitted. “The Speaker has proven agreeable to a quick debate; only myself, the Leader of the Opposition and that rat bastard Mortimer.” And Hanover thought cold thoughts about him. “Once that’s done, we’ll issue the orders and launch the retaliatory strike.”

“Good luck,” Truman said. “Over and out.”

Houses of Parliament

London, United Kingdom

23rd April 1942

“We don’t want to accept the peace offer as it stands,” Elspeth said firmly. Travis Mortimer lifted a single eyebrow as his valet checked his suit and tie. “It’s too much like appeasement.”

“It’s a way of offering a peace deal,” Mortimer said. “We can negotiate, can we not?”

“Yes, but what do we want from Germany that Himmler will give us without a war?” Elspeth asked dryly. She counted off on her fingers. “We want them to withdraw from their conquests, stop exterminating the Jews and install a democratic government, ideally one without any nuclear ambitions. Now… how many of them will Himmler give us?”

“Probably only the first one,” Mortimer said.

“Precisely,” Elspeth said. She smiled wryly as the valet left the room. “only someone as stupid as that reporter could believe otherwise.”

Mortimer scowled at her. “I thought she was cute,” he said.

“It’s a wonder we let you think that you’re running the world,” Elspeth said. Mortimer faked a slap at her. “Naughty boy.”

Mortimer glared. “We have to end the war,” he said. “Our society will not stand a rain of missiles.”

“We cannot end the war except by accepting a democratic German government,” Elspeth said. “We have to bring that about as soon as possible, or that bastard Hanover will build the British Empire again under cover of the war.”

Mortimer shook his head slowly. He didn’t care about the Empire, except that it had been an imperial undertaking and therefore bad by definition. If the Indian Provisional Government wanted to keep British forces in the country, as they certainly seemed to want to do, he found it hard to argue – as long as the Indians paid for the deployment.

He scowled. Sooner or later, Hanover would overreach… and there were too many unanswered questions around the conduct of the war. The war itself was popular, but some decisions had been… questionable.

“My brother would have wanted that,” he said, and scowled. Captain Jake Mortimer had been a British zealot. He’d seen the Transition as an opportunity of limitless… well, opportunity. “He was enjoying the war… until Hanover’s incompetence cost him his life.”

“He was my brother too,” Elspeth reminded him dryly. They’d never gotten on. “The point is simple; we want power, and we have to be careful to ensure that we get it.”

Mortimer shuddered. His sister’s naked ambition was disconcerting at times. “We have to stand for reform and justice,” he said firmly. “If we cannot argue for the peace agreement” – Elspeth shook her head, she was fiendishly intelligent at times – “then we must keep channels of negotiation open.”

* * *

Traditionally, MPs would remain bunched up in their parties, exchanging comments, questions, or merely discussing the weather. As they filed into the main chamber of the House of Commons, they exchanged covert glances of concern or amusement. Many of them had benefited from the measures taken to combat a social collapse, in the weeks following the Transition, and they didn’t want the war to end. Others hated the war and wanted it over, whatever the cost.

Hanover, dressed in a dark suit he felt suited him, smiled to himself. The global peacenik movement of people who felt that the world would be fine if everyone showed a little tolerance had never really existed. It had been a uniquely western delusion, like the international solidarity of the Workers and Peasants. The young band of idiots who’d rescued Trotsky had chosen to believe that their hero was a genuine communist, a flat figure of stage and screen.

Hanover grinned. The real Trotsky had been intelligent, intelligent enough to admit that he’d gotten it wrong. The latest report had the teams in Russia burying deeper and deeper into the power structure, hacking away at Stalin’s rule. Inserting small teams into the Ukraine had only made matters worse; the Ukrainians were almost in open revolt. Ten NKVD battalions were tied down in the Ukraine, trying to keep the peace.

If the entire northern hemisphere and a large part of the southern hemisphere becomes democratic on our terms, we might just be looking at peace in our time, Hanover thought. It would have been the culmination of the project that had started back when the Transition had offered them a second chance. Confronting the real axis of evil had only strengthened Britain… and while the long hard road still lay ahead, success was certain now.

Madam Speaker called for order. She had been the only person to survive the near-collapse of the Labour Party, an achievement of her own strict neutrality in debates. Hanover scowled; she had allowed Mortimer to speak, even though he should not technically have been permitted to take part in a short debate, followed by a vote. Hanover shrugged; it hardly mattered at the moment.

“Gentlepeople of the House, I ask for your attention,” she said, her voice rising above the din. “We are gathered here to vote on a German peace proposal” – she outlined the terms in both the public and private communications – “and to decide if we will accept these terms. I call upon the Right Honourable Sir Charles Hanover to speak.”

Hanover stood up. “As the Speaker has informed you, there were two components to the German offer; the open one, that they would restore independence to their subject nations, and the private, that they would attach some conditions to their peace agreement. In effect, as Madam Speaker said, their peace offer is contingent upon us accepting their terms, which include abandoning France, Spain, Italy and Poland to their economic dominance permanently.

“Yes, the Germans have promised to withdraw from those nations,” he said. The Germans had said nothing about the Netherlands or Belgium. “However, those nations are dominated by fascists, even without German support. Furthermore, the German arrangement of Europe after they learnt about the future has made them even more dependent upon Germany… whatever shape or form their government may take in the future. In effect, they are asking us to accept a permanent German domination of Europe… or else.

“And what, you might ask, is the ‘or else?’ The Germans have threatened both us and the Americans with long-range missiles, weapons that cannot carry much in the way of high explosives, or disease. Even if they do resort to bio-warfare, we have the ability to counter any such attack; our medical science is far more capable than it was in 1940.

“You might ask why Himmler has made this offer now,” he concluded. “Why? Could it be that he knows that Nazi Germany, which depends on slaves and slave labour to survive, is coming to the end of its career? In Sweden, we are evicting the Nazis and we will soon evict their dark allies, the Soviet Union. In Iran, we are forcing the Soviet Union out of the country they have laid waste to, and we will finish the war soon. With our superiority in weapons, once we get a major force on the continent, the war will be over.”

He looked around the room. “I am old enough to remember when the Allies chose to let Saddam Hussian off with his crimes,” he said. “I am old enough to remember what that cost us before the war on terror ended. Please – do not repeat that mistake. With German-controlled territory so close, we might not survive the next round.”

He sat down. “I call upon the Leader of the Opposition,” Madam Speaker said. Hanover watched as Kenneth Barton stood up; he looked older than he had been. A sudden challenge from Mortimer had been his worst nightmare. He had been briefed in by Hanover’s government – a standard courtesy for the Opposition during wartime – and Hanover knew how weak that made him, politically.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, members of the house, I will be brief,” Barton said. “I will not deny that some factions of His Majesty’s Opposition have been in favour of ending the war, whatever the cost.” Hanover smiled at the less-than subtle dig at Mortimer. “However, I myself have been aware of the events in Europe, and we have a moral duty to intervene to stop them. Across the continent, some of our descendents have been placed in gas chambers, or worked to death for the nazi war machine.”

Hanover, whom knew that most of Hitler’s victims in the changed timeline had met the second fate, nodded grimly to himself. Barton was pushing every button he could; in basic agreement with the government, but not quite part of it.

“Himmler will be worse than Hitler,” Barton said. “Unlike Hitler, he is smart and capable; the testimony of the captured Germans makes that clear. We have to stop him before he develops a nuclear weapon – he already has the delivery system.” Like Hanover, he looked around the chamber, meeting Hanover’s eyes for a long moment. “Experience tells us that none-democratic governments cannot be trusted with nuclear weapons; how many more must die in this timeline before we remove the weapons from Himmler’s control?”

Hanover heard the sigh from across the benches. “I oppose any agreement with the pure evil that Nazi Germany represents,” Barton concluded. “I will not vote for this… sham of a peace offer; I will vote for war until this cancer is burned out of our system!”

Barton sat down. The ranks of the assembled MPs buzzed with chatter. “If I may have your attention, please,” Madam Speaker said. “By special petition, Travis Mortimer has been granted the right to speak before this assembly, before the vote has been cast.”

The chamber erupted with comments. Some Conservative backbenches stood up to protest; Hanover waved them back into their seats. Madam Speaker gravelled hard as the Opposition benches turned on each other, exchanging angry accusations at their pre-emption. Hanover smiled to himself; Mortimer had damaged the Opposition and they would be far less willing to deal with him later.

Idiot, he thought coldly, and smiled.

“Travis Mortimer may stand,” Madam Speaker said firmly, and sealed the fate of her own political career. Hanover knew that before the day was out the backbenchers would be screaming for her impeachment. “Silence!”

Silence fell, broken only by the vague mutterings of mass rebellion. Mortimer stood up; Hanover noted to himself that Mortimer looked… strained. He might survive Madam Speaker’s indiscretion, but the House would not forget. It never liked a loser, or a sneak.

Just like school, Hanover thought, and watched Mortimer grimly. The Labour politician swept his hair back, taking time to concentrate his thoughts.

“Thank you for permitting me to address you,” Mortimer said. His voice, whatever the shocks he’d suffered, was firm. “I believe that we have been offered an opportunity here, one that cannot be ignored just because we find the terms unpalatable. Is it not a truth that people always ask for more than they will settle for in the opening stages of negotiation?”

Neat one, kid, Hanover thought, without hatred. It was a good point, he conceded, but not one that could be allowed to stand.

“I quite agree that the terms Himmler has offered are unacceptable,” Mortimer said calmly. “My objection is simple; why should we not try to see if we can get better terms? We should force them to give up on nuclear research, yes, and we should force them to end the extermination camps; all of which we might get if we offered it to them.

“Madam Speaker, if the vote for rejecting Himmler’s offer of a truce fails, I would like to propose a week-long period to make a counter-offer,” Mortimer continued, and was drowned out by the roar of outrage from both sides of the house. Whatever the merits of his suggestion, Conservatives and Liberals found themselves in agreement on one thing; Mortimer had no right to make them.

“That is not a legitimate point of order for this house,” Madam Speaker said, trying to curry favour with the house. “Does the member wish to propose a private member’s bill?”

Mortimer shook his head. “No, thank you,” he said. Hanover smiled; clearly Mortimer could see that there was no point in playing out a losing hand.

“Then we can proceed with the vote,” Madam Speaker said. “Cast your votes ‘aye’ or ‘nay’ for rejecting the German peace terms.”

Hanover voted, and then watched as the numbers stacked up. The ‘ayes’ outnumbered the ‘nays’ by better than four to one.

“The German offer of a ceasefire will be rejected,” Madam Speaker said. “The war will go on.”

How melodramatic, Hanover thought disdainfully, as the session ended.

* * *

Hanover read the note one final time and smiled to himself. It would be transmitted to Portugal and then onwards to Germany, but it would also be broadcast over Germany. If they were lucky, Stalin and Himmler would have a major falling out over it; perhaps they would even end up shooting at each other.

Fuhrer Himmler; we categorically reject your offer of a truce and peace talks on your terms, which would have left you with control over Europe. Your government is vile; your methods of controlling the restless enslaved natives barbaric beyond belief. Your attempt at betraying your comrade – Comrade Josef Stalin – is pathetic; do you really believe that any civilised nation would abandon an entire continent to whichever of you wins your inevitable confrontation? Your choice is simple; you may offer your surrender, or you can fight to the last.

To the people of Germany – it is not too late. If you want to avoid the savage roar of war being fought on your soil, overthrow the Nazis and sue for peace. You will have to give up the lands you seized, but we will give you in return a just peace. The choice is yours… but time is running out.

Hanover smiled to himself. He would have found such a message infuriating; he was certain that Himmler would have found it maddening. Perhaps he would order an airborne invasion of Britain, one that would be shot to pieces without ever getting close to land. Perhaps he would purge the most imaginative German officers from their positions of power, ending their threat forever. Perhaps…

Hanover shrugged and picked up the phone, tapping the command that would connect him instantly to the American President. Truman picked up on the second ring; the phone line was directly to Washington, relayed through three satellites.

“This is Hanover,” Hanover said. “The peace was rejected, three to one.”

“Good,” Truman said. “Can the 5th Air Force go into action?”

Hanover smiled. Even losing Bomber Harris hadn’t deterred people from believing that strategic bombing was a serious threat. Still, if the USAAF hammered German positions in France – giving the French a taste of war – they would be unable to react fast to the landing… when that began.

“Yes,” he said. “I’ll inform the RAF and the other UKADR stations. Harry, give them hell.”

“That’s one order we will be delighted to follow,” Truman said wryly. He sounded relieved. “Perhaps it was a bad idea fighting you.”

Hanover snickered. “Silence colonial,” he said. “Now get back to being taxed without representation.”

Truman chuckled. “Up yours,” he said. Hanover laughed. “A good bombing raid should convince the Germans that their peace has been rejected.”

Chapter Nineteen: Ghosts from the Future of the Past

Forward Base

Tikrit, Iraq

25th April 1942

General Robert Flynn examined the map with some degree of satisfaction. To an amateur, it would have looked bad; red icons were dotted around the cities of Iraq and Iran. He smiled; it wasn’t anything like as bad as it looked. Admittedly, the borders between Iran and India were nowhere near as secure as they would have become in the future, but with some of the newly-equipped units of the Indian Army poking their way into Iran, he was confident that the Indian renegade could be caught soon.

He checked the locations of his tank columns. The Russians were retreating, heading north to Tabriz, where he expected that Zhukov would make his stand. In the week since the campaign had begun, his forces had made powerful advances through uninhabited territory, seeking out and destroying enemy forces outside the cities. With the Russian forces trapped in the cities, they could press the offensive as fast as they could, hammering and harrying the Russians as they fled.

“I think this must be the first time we came here as liberators and were welcomed for it,” he said, smiling wryly. The Russians had levelled Tikrit, taking extreme care to slaughter all of the young male children, trying to kill their later… semi-ally. The boy who would become Saddam Hussian had vanished in the bloodshed, along with thousands of others. By the time the 1st Forward Recon had slashed the Russians out of the town, they’d almost depopulated it. The handful of remaining citizens, mainly young women, had been saved.

Flynn sighed. The British Army was far too professional to take advantage of them, even though they had offered – it had been all they’d known since the Russians had overrun the town and slaughtered the defenders. They’d been sent back to Arabia; perhaps Shahan McLachlan could find help for them.

“Yes, sir,” Colonel Toby said. The display flickered as the 2nd Armoured Division overran a Russian convoy and destroyed their vehicles. “We just took three thousand more prisoners.”

Flynn nodded. “Anyone interesting?” He asked. One body, apparently carefully prepared for Stalin’s contemplation, had been identified as Nikita Sergeyevich Khrushchev, who would later have threatened the world with the Cuban Missile Crisis. He shuddered. What sort of mind would have gloried in making an old man fight in the hellhole of 1st Basra?

“Some Ukrainians,” Colonel Toby said. Flynn looked up. “Nearly two hundred of them were from the 113th Ukrainian Infantry, which had apparently been deployed down here on suspicion. They want to join up.”

“I thought they might,” Flynn said. Politically, he understood, the British were working on forming a Ukrainian army, and with the amount of Soviet weapons and supplies overrun and captured, arming one wouldn’t be a problem. The main problem had been in securing the dumps; hundreds of maundering Arabs were riding around the battlezone and they didn’t need more weapons. After helping to clean up after a Saudi attack, Flynn understood the Republic’s concern.

Colonel Toby nodded. “What do you want us to do with them for the moment?”

Flynn scowled. Despite the best efforts of the combat engineers, it would be a long time before the new rail network, the result of nearly two years work, would be extended as far as Iran. With the Turks in a… questionable mood, he wasn’t keen on asking them for help; even through they were supposed to be allies.

“Have them held in POW camps where they are at the moment,” he said finally. They’d had to learn how to set up POW camps at a moment’s notice as the Russian position disintegrated; it was that, or let them die in the desert. God alone knew how many Russians and their subjects had already died of heat and dehydration.

“Separated, I assume,” Colonel Toby said, making a note on his PDA. “Fed and watered?”

“Yes, I think we better had,” Flynn said. Mistreating the non-Russian POWS, short of beating them to death, was almost impossible; the Russians had been hard taskmasters. “Have them well treated; find an interpreter and explain to them that we have to keep them until we can arrange transport.”

Colonel Toby made more notes on his PDA. “Once we have transport freed up, have them sent to the camp in Egypt; they can choose their paths then.”

“Yes, sir,” Colonel Toby said. Logistics remained a problem for any army, but with IFFs and on-board databases, it was possible to plan ahead with greater certainty than ever before.

Flynn nodded and wandered towards one of the Challenger tanks that was being repaired after having struck a mine. The town had been almost destroyed by the Russians; it was a charred ruin. The Russians had dug a grave for the townsfolk, and simply shoved them all into the pit.

“Bastards,” he muttered. “This place is never going to be the same.”

“You say that as though it was a bad thing,” Colonel Toby said. “Perhaps something new will come from this devastation.”

HMS Warspite

Black Sea

25th April 1942

Admiral Somerville studied the display – that almost seemed commonplace to him now – and grinned to himself. The Black Sea had been closed to the British when the war had broken out… until the Gallipoli defences had been forced open. The Russian Black Sea Fleet had tried to keep the British out… tried and died in the attempt. Even Contemporary forces alone could have thrashed them in a fair fight… and Somerville wasn’t interested in a fair fight.

“We are entering missile range now,” Tom informed him. “The Paris Commune is ahead.”

Somerville shook his head. Only the Russians – in an attempt to seem the leaders of world communism – would name a ship after a revolution that had been unsuccessful. Parizhskaya Kommuna, a dreadnaught that dated from before the First World War, was the only surviving Russian capital ship on the Black Sea.

“Stand by to attack,” he said. “Load main guns.”

“Aye, sir,” Tom said, relaying the orders to Captain Holland. His voice was a question; they could have killed Parizhskaya Kommuna almost as soon as the Mediterranean Fleet entered the Black Sea.

“I don’t want to waste missiles,” Somerville explained, watching the threat board. Parizhskaya Kommuna didn’t seem to have radar, or any of the small bits of 2015 technology that had popped up in the Axis Powers. “Stand by” – he watched the display as the guns sighted on the ship – “fire!”

Warspite shuddered once as her main guns fired. Somerville knew that there had been plans to refit the old battleship with missile launchers, replacing the main guns, but they had had to be shelved for lack of time. As the drone started to relay images of Parizhskaya Kommuna, the ship exploded with a monstrous gout of fire.

“Excellent shooting,” Somerville said. “Has everyone got their targeting assignments?”

“Yes, sir,” Tom assured him. “The missiles are locked on their targets now.”

Somerville nodded. The Mediterranean Fleet had spread out; four of her missile-launching ships had headed east, as close to the Caucasus ports as they dared. The other ships closed in on Sevastopol, the home of the Black Sea Fleet. Time slid past as the ships prepared to fire and then…

“Sir, we have aircraft rising,” Tom said. “They’re not ragged any more.”

Somerville scowled. The Russians had been grossly incompetent in the air for the first year of the war. The Germans must have been teaching them new tricks.

“They must have seen us,” he said. “Open fire.”

Warspite’s main guns fired, along with the other battleship and the three missile-armed cruisers. On the drone’s image, the city seemed intact… until the first salvos crashed down on the port. Entire sections literally disintegrated under the impact of high explosive and FAE bombs; parts of the city caught fire and triggered ammunition dumps.

“The enemy planes are incoming,” Tom snapped. “Request permission to declare weapons free.”

“Weapons free,” Somerville snapped, and the anti-aircraft ships went into action. They had begun their lives as old American destroyers, before being converted to carry thousands of radar-guided machine guns and hundreds of thousands of rounds of ammunition. They put up a curtain of bullets, ripping through the Russian planes and hacking them out of the sky.

“They’re brave,” Tom muttered, as the Russians came on, trying to bomb the British fleet. They fell in their hundreds, falling from the sky and died; the attack force vanished in the fire.

“The Russians are always brave,” Somerville said. “They just make bad warriors.”

He glanced at the display. Hundreds of missiles were seeking out targets within the Caucasus Mountains, hammering away at Zhukov’s supply line. As he watched, their icons came to a stop, destroying their targets. Others headed into the Ukraine, destroying the Soviet occupation forces they’d pinpointed.

“They may or may not revolt,” he said grimly, “but we’ll give them the best chance we can to succeed.”

The Kremlin

Moscow, Russia

27th April 1942

Molotov winced. In the none-too-recent past, they would have had problems linking the various sections of the USSR together – he remembered the Civil War with bitterness – but now they were able to hear about events almost as they happened. The massive program of landlines and enhanced radio systems had ensured that they heard about everything – including the beginnings of riots in the Ukraine.

“This is a plot,” Stalin snapped. He saw plots everywhere and was normally right. “Lavrenty Pavlovich’s forces are destroyed!”

Molotov scowled. The attacks in the Ukraine had been diabolically targeted; they had hammered the NKVD battalions in the region, and the Russian regiments that had been working up in the Ukraine. Only Ukrainian regiments, the ones being impressed into service for Iran, had been spared; many of them were in near-revolt.

“Comrade,” he said, taking his life in his hands, “we have to withdraw from Iran.”

“Even if that were possible,” Stalin snapped, “we cannot give up a single bit of soil!”

Molotov, who knew that the Russian troops were in headlong retreat, shuddered. The British attacks had been cunning; they had almost succeeded in interdicting the supply lines to Zhukov. In fact, with the impact of a RAF air raid on Baku, the USSR was suddenly short of oil and fuel.

“The Germans discussed peace with the enemy,” he said. “We can make the same offer, while withdrawing to territory that is indisputably ours.”

“We cannot show weakness in front of Trotsky,” Stalin snapped. Molotov scowled; three high-ranking NKVD officers had been assassinated, and five more had been shot for incompetence. Trotsky’s campaign against the state was taking its toll, particularly with the other stresses on Mother Russia.

“We could keep the negotiations private,” Molotov suggested. “The rebels against the workers and peasants would never find out.”

“The British would tell their puppets,” Stalin snapped. “Himmler himself informed me that they rejected the peace proposal in no uncertain terms.”

“Perhaps,” Molotov said, who trusted Himmler as far as he could throw the Kremlin. “Comrade, we cannot leave the entire force in Iran – and at the same time fight against the Americans in Sweden. We have to hold the British back, which we can do in the Caucasus Mountains, while concentrating against the Americans.”

“They are the most dangerous in the long-run,” Stalin said. “What about the deployment of the other weapons?”

Molotov shuddered again. “Comrade, they have made it very clear that they will retaliate against one of our cities with an atomic weapon if we use gas,” he said.

“True,” Stalin said. Molotov hoped that he’d dissuaded him. “Lavrenty Pavlovich must gain results, or his head will roll.”

A pity that Beria didn’t meet his fate with his people, Molotov thought coldly. The NKVD had been damaged by the loss of its headquarters, and then the loss of some of its senior personnel. Beria’s personal… habits had been a feature of the underground newspapers for weeks, ranging from child abuse to being a covert German agent. Intellectually, Molotov understood that the images were faked – but they seemed so real.

“Comrade, we must withdraw,” he said desperately. “There will be other opportunities, ones not on the end of a long supply line…”

“No surrender, no retreat,” Stalin snapped. “I will not order them to surrender! I will order them to fight to the last!”

Tabriz, Iran

27th April 1942

Tehran fell in an hour when a British force surrounded it, Byelorussian and Ukrainian troops shooting the NKVD force in the back and taking control of the city. After a quick negotiation over surrender terms, they left the city and surrendered to the British, leaving much of the city intact.

Far to the north, in Tabriz, General Zhukov knew that the game was up. The British had forded their way around the rivers, or lifted the tanks in by helicopter… for all he knew they had some kind of teleportation device. All that mattered was that British tank columns were snaking their way northwards towards the city, and they’d be at Tabriz within a couple of hours at most.

He stared down at the map, and then at the pistol. In a handful of days, the entire front had collapsed; it had been nothing like his battle at Nomonhan. There he’d had the better tanks, and his enemies had been the ones stupid enough to fight to the death. Here… he was the weaker force, and his enemies could reduce the impact of what advantages they did posses.

“Comrade General, Comrade Major Petra wishes to report that the 23rd Shock Regiment has taken up position inside the city,” Commissioner Petrovich said. The sheer lack of men had forced him to press the Commissioners into service. “We can hold the city…”

“No, we can’t, Comrade Commissioner,” Zhukov said. “We’re caught in a trap.”

He waved a hand at the map. “They’re destroyed our supply lines,” he said. “The tribes in the Caucasus Mountains are in revolt and the Ukraine is simmering. Once we run out of food, it’ll be all over and we’ll starve.” An explosion echoed across the city as a British aircraft made a bombing attack. “They’ve already hit one of the food stores,” he commented.

“The Great Stalin ordered us to fight to the last,” Commissioner Petrovich said. “We must obey his orders.”

“To die?” Zhukov asked. “We’re trapped here!”

Commissioner Petrovich sighed. “You want to surrender,” he snapped. “You are a defeatist!”

Zhukov snapped. “I understand these matters far better than you, you untrained amateur,” he snapped. “We will die here, never seeing the enemy, and we will die for nothing!”

Commissioner Petrovich grabbed his pistol in its holster. “I won’t stand by and let you…”

He started to draw the pistol. Zhukov, faster, shot him neatly through the head. Seconds later, his two guards burst their way into the room.

“We have to end this now,” Zhukov said. They didn’t argue: Commissioner Petrovich had not been popular. “Order Comrade Rabin to round up the other Commissioners.”

“Yes, General,” the guard said. He left the room. Zhukov picked up the telephone and made certain that the lines to Moscow were cut, and then scowled grimly.

“Escort me to the radio room,” he said. “I have to get in touch with the British commander.” He smiled suddenly. “Oh, and put the so-called resistance leader in jail,” he ordered. “We might as well offer the bastard to the British; they want his head on a platter.”

* * *

The city had been created by a famous caliph, before the Islamic world fell back into darkness, a victim of its own success. General Robert Flynn watched as the Russian troops, delighted to be out of the war, filed out of the city and headed into POW camps. They were joking and laughing amongst themselves; a far cry from the doom and gloom of the few western soldiers who had been captured during the terror war.

He sighed. There was a duty to do, one that fell to him alone as the senior officer, and it troubled him. He half-wished that he could pass it on, but self-respect demanded he do it himself; there was no one else who could. He smiled wryly as he entered the catacomb-like prison; anyone could do it, but it wouldn’t mean so much, would it?

The building felt empty; the handful of city leaders the Russians had deemed worthy of being kept alive – mainly Iranian communists – had been freed as soon as the surrender had been acknowledged. The only prisoner remained in his cell, abandoned and left alone.

I wonder what you think, Flynn thought coldly, as he reached the final cell. It was the only locked cell; there was no light, but that that came from a tiny window. It stank; he sniffed the air and recoiled. The person inside had no sanitation at all.

“Serves you right,” he muttered, and unlocked the door. He lifted his pistol in his hand as he opened the door, but it wasn’t needed. The prisoner was chained to the wall; his eyes bright with malice. A matted beard hung down from his torn face, covering rags and a skinny body.

Flynn felt no pity. He’d seen the results of the prisoner’s work. “Good evening, Mr Saud,” he said, a deliberate insult. Ibn Saud looked up at him. His face contorted as he took in Flynn’s uniform. “You have been judged by a court of your victims.”

Saud said nothing. Flynn studied him grimly. He had been given very specific orders about Saud; he was not to be allowed to threaten the new Republic of Arabia. Only one form of sanction could terminate the threat forever.

Flynn inclined his head. Saud’s eyes followed his; he was in full command of his mind. “Do you have anything you wish to say before sentence is passed?” Flynn asked. Saud glared at him; his little piggish eyes glittering with malice.

“Then I command your soul to the Lord God for judgement,” Flynn said, lifting his pistol. Saud flinched back as he carefully sighted the pistol, and fired once. The man who had brought Islam to near-destruction in the future that was past died without making a sound. Flynn dropped a thermal grenade near the body and walked out.

He shook his head as the grenade went off behind him. It hadn’t been enough.

Chapter Twenty: The Price of Pride

Over France

27th April 1942

Darkness cloaked the green fields of France, but the bombers were not affected by their inability to locate any landmarks or lights on the ground. They’d seen a handful of burning fires as they’d crossed over the coast – the remains of an RAF attack on the German radar stations – but apart from that France was as dark as ever. No lights broke the darkness; the Germans took a very dim view of it.

“Dark as a nigger’s tits,” the navigator exulted. He glanced down at his screen; the simple GPS system that would tell them when they were over the target, a joint German-French barrack house for the Wehrmacht. The Germans had been moving more and more units into France, preparing for the invasion that everyone knew would be coming soon.

“We’re not allowed to say that anymore,” Captain Paul Goodfellow reminded the navigator crossly. Officially, the USAAAF 5th Air Force was mixed-race; a number of black pilots had already arrived, working with the whites as equals. Goodfellow wasn’t sure what he felt about that; they knew what they were doing, but they were convinced that they were equals.

He snorted. It took some combat missions to see what a man was truly made of. If they came back alive without panicking or compromising the mission, then they would be equal.

“Well, what can we say?” The navigator asked. His console – something called an ECM console – started to bleep. “Sir, we have a handful of German aircraft, coming towards us.”

“How did they see us?” Goodfellow asked sharply. “Have they got radar of their own?”

“None registering,” the navigator said. “I think they must be probing, rather than hunting us directly.”

Goodfellow nodded. “Pass the contact details to the gunners,” he said, wishing that the B-29 had the British techniques for slaving the guns directly to the radars. “Order them to open fire.”

The bomber echoed to the chatter-chatter-chatter of the machine guns, loaded with explosive bullets. Goodfellow waited while the navigator shouted out details and targeting instructions, watching as blips disappeared from the screens.

“They didn’t come after us,” the navigator said.

“I noticed,” Goodfellow said. “Time to target?”

“Around ten minutes,” the navigator said. “We’re supposed to spread out.”

Goodfellow shouted navigational instructions at the pilot as the entire formation began to peel apart, heading slightly away from one another. The horror stories about German rockets – or even accidentally shooting down an Allied aircraft – had been enough to convince the USAAF to keep the planes well separated during an attack.

“Reaching bombing range,” the bomber said. His modified bombsight calculated all of the angles instantly, allowing the bombs to be perfectly targeted. “Hold her steady…”

The bomber lightened perceptibly as the bombs fell into the darkness. Moments later, flickering blasts could be seen on the ground. Goodfellow wondered what they’d hit; had they taken out a tank depot, or the barracks itself?

“Time to get out of here,” the communications officer said. The young man lifted his headphones. “The commander wants us heading back to blighty.”

“Really,” Goodfellow said. “Pilot, take us back to Britain. I hear some beers calling my name very loudly.”

“I’m surprised you can hear anything over the engine,” the navigator said. He shouted out a series of directions. “That should get us back home double-quick; has anyone checked the IFF setting?”

Goodfellow glanced at the tiny packet he carried. It was on his person because it was rigged to self-destruct when a code sequence was entered, just to prevent it falling into the hands of the Germans. If they tried to enter the UKADR without one, they would be shot down.

“It’s working,” he said. The tiny transponder was pulsing out its signal. “They’ll see us coming.”

“So will their women,” the navigator muttered. “Ah, well; onwards we go.”

Fuhrerbunker

Berlin, Germany

28th April 1942

Himmler sat in the centre of his office, reading again the rejection of his peace terms. That had stung more than he had expected, and the bombing raids were starting to become a nuisance. Even though he’d replaced Goring with the far more capable Galland, the Luftwaffe simply wasn’t capable of acting as a night-fighting force without radar.

He cursed grimly. Galland had given orders to withdraw most of the surviving Luftwaffe officers and pilots – along with their planes – to eastern Germany and Poland, conserving them for the day that the British and Americans would invade France. He was certain, from the targeting of the bomber raids, that France would be the prime target.

“It makes sense,” he said to himself. The French Government might be a loyal ally – although only for a given value of ‘loyal’ – but the French population was apathetic. There were only a handful of anti-German fighters, true, but the population was hardly inclined to help the Germans, particularly after seeing what a single British bomb had done to the German oil wells. German propaganda had been quick to dismiss the weapons as fakes, but the British silence was more convincing.

He scowled as he considered the map. The final remains of the forces in Sweden were making their way into Denmark. It was the second possible invasion front; an attack through Sweden into Germany, via Denmark. It had been a nightmare during the Franco-Prussian war, and it seemed to have reappeared. Of course, Patton would have to occupy as much of Sweden as possible, but the reports of the disaster in Iran would make Stalin hesitate.

He didn’t know for certain what had happened in Iran. All he knew was that the British had pulled off a strategic victory, finally defeating the Russian advance into Iran. With the fall of Tabriz, they could isolate and defeat the remaining Russian forces, while sending their accursed SAS agents deeper into the Ukraine. He knew from reports that there was a minor insurrection going on against the Russians, even though Stalin had reacted quickly and dispatched more NKVD battalions.

“France or Denmark,” he mused, studying the map. France would be a better choice for logistical reasons; the Royal Navy or the United States Navy hadn’t yet managed to clear the mines in the waters near Sweden. They would hardly risk losing their major combatants in the seas, would they? On the other hand, France was further from Germany; it would give the Germans more time to prepare their defences when the attack fell upon France.

He picked up his phone. “Summon my grand vizier,” he ordered, and put the phone down again. Five minutes later, Horton entered, followed by an SS guard. “They have rejected the peace offer,” Himmler snapped. “Explain!”

“I told you to offer to disarm your nuclear program,” Horton said. Himmler nodded at the guard, who slapped Horton once across his head. Black blood was the same as white blood, Himmler noted absently. “I…”

“You have been kept alive to offer advice,” Himmler hissed, as Horton swayed on his feet. He motioned for the guard to help Horton to a chair. “Why have they rejected my peace overtures?”

“They don’t trust you,” Horton said. His voice was steady, but Himmler could hear the pain under his words. “They think you’re just trying to buy time, like Saddam.”

Himmler ignored the comparison. “So… they have begun bombing France and parts of Germany,” he said. “Why?”

“They want to hurt you?” Horton asked. Himmler shook his head at the guard, who was preparing another slap. “They want to ensure that you cannot move troops into France quickly.”

“That’s what Galland suggested,” Himmler said. “Why? Are they preparing an invasion, or something else?”

“They’ve had time to build up a resistance moment,” Horton said. He must have been hurt worse than Himmler had thought; his voice was starting to slur. “Perhaps the resistance is planning an uprising.”

Himmler considered it. Many of the French Communists, who would have played an important role in the resistance, were loyal to Stalin, who was Himmler’s ally. They might not fight for Vichy, but they would refuse to act against it. On the other hand, ever since losing Algeria, there were Frenchmen who blamed the Germans for it… and the British were clearly meddling in Russia as well.

“That would make sense,” he conceded ruefully. “I don’t suppose you know anything useful about the French resistance?”

Horton shook his head. The motion clearly caused him pain. “You’ve scooped up many of the important figures in the history books,” he said. “DeGaulle vanished along with Britain; at least he hasn’t appeared to protest losing Algeria. I’m as blind as you are.”

Himmler smiled, oddly reassured. At least this time the British would be equally blind. “We could move more troops into the region in defence against a British attack, and use them to crush resistance,” he mused. “I’ll have Kesselring see to it at once. Now… where will they land?”

Horton stared at him. Himmler would have enjoyed his fear if there had been time. Part of him knew that it wasn’t a reasonable question, but he was angry. He wanted a solution quickly; one that would allow him to buy time.

“It depends how many troops they can spare,” Horton said softly. “Most of their army will still be in the Middle East, heading into Russia. Spain would be the best target if they want to meet a resistance; Franco has hundreds of enemies, after all. Then southern France, or even Italy.”

“We have crushed any opposition in Italy,” Himmler said. The entire program had been carried out during 1940; Italy had been turned into an occupied country so quickly that resistance had been futile. The so-called independent Italian army in Ethiopia survived only because the British had other things to worry about.

“Then southern France,” Horton said. “I don’t think that they would gamble on Normandy again…”

“Kesselring believes that they have the capability to do that,” Himmler said. “If they were able to land a force in Norway, they can certainly land a major force in Normandy.”

Horton frowned. “They did land there once before,” he said. “Western France, near Bordeaux?”

“Perhaps,” Himmler said. “Another possibility is making the leap into Denmark.”

Horton seemed to be recovering; he shook his head with more vigour. “They wouldn’t dare do that when they have the Soviets at their back,” he said. “They need intact supply lines for the attack to succeed, and they won’t have them if Stalin puts a major offensive into Norway and Sweden.”

“Perhaps,” Himmler said again. “You may go; Kurt, escort him to the hospital, at once. Gently.”

“Jawohl,” Kurt said. “Right this way… sir.”

* * *

There was an option that Horton had been careful not to mention, he knew. If it were used by a 1942 force, it would have probably have been a disaster, as Operation Market Garden had been in the original timeframe. A 2015 force, however, might just be able to pull it off.

His head hurt, even as the doctor poked and prodded it thoughtfully, but his mind was singing. One way or another, there would be an end to the nightmare, and perhaps soon. The doctor, who’d managed to get his hands on some medical texts from 2015, bombarded Horton with questions, even as he examined the bump on his head. He wanted to invent a better x-ray machine, and a bone-setting machine that had been a prototype when the Transition occurred – and Himmler wanted the SS medical corps to develop genetically engineered superhumans.

“You may return to your rooms,” the doctor said finally. Kurt led him out of the room. Horton followed the SS man, trying to hide a relieved smile. He knew that there was no way that he could warn Jasmine… or perhaps he could. As he re-entered his quarters, he booted up the laptop and started to type. He frowned as he typed; the message would have to pass German inspection, before Stewart could forward it for him.

Dearest heart – I hope that you and the children are fine. Heinrich doesn’t have to go to the Market Garden, and won’t unless he’s taken. Inform my granddad Charles that he doesn’t have to go there – and he’s not to force him to go.

He smiled to himself, before typing a longer message, one that would be sweet and loving and entirely in character. Perhaps Jasmine would understand, perhaps not. He’d done the best he could at such short notice.

* * *

The car was outside the entrance to one of the bunker’s sub-sections; the entire complex had now spread under almost all of the city. Stewart ignored protocol to give Roth a passionate kiss goodbye – feeling her transmitter vibrate as it dumped its entire memory back to Britain – and climbed into the car.

“The pick-up site is due north of Berlin,” her driver said. He’d been introduced to her as Kurt. Two other SS men sat in the front of the large car; her bodyguards. They drove away from the entrance, heading away from Berlin. Stewart sat back and relaxed as best as she could; the long assignment was finally over. As she started to close her eyes, she felt the car pull over in a woodland grove.

“Is the pick-up here?” She asked, blinking sleep from her eyes. “Where are we?”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Kurt said. The… lust in his voice jerked her awake, even as the first of the goons opened the door and reached for her. Acting on instinct, she kicked him in the groin, only to be grabbed by the second goon. Her hand grabbed her camera and hit the emergency button, before she realised how foolish that was; they’d warned her that there would be no rescue mission. The goon knocked the camera to the floor; the lights went off.

“Bitch,” Kurt snapped, as she was forced against the side of the car. His hands snapped handcuffs on her, before tearing her skirt away from her. She screamed once, struggling as hard as she could, before she felt a little prick at the back of her neck. The effect of the drug was instantaneous… she felt her mind drifting away from her body, and she was barely aware of their violation.

She lost track of time, and came back to herself in the backseat of the car. Her entire body was covered in bruises; she hurt everywhere. Handprints could be seen along her legs, her breasts, and her vagina hurt. She started to cry as the car continued to drive, knowing what they’d done.

“Woken up, Jew bitch?” Kurt asked. He leered at her body; her position revealed far too much of her for comfort, even without the sudden knowledge that they could take her whenever they wanted. “How are you feeling?”

A sudden fury flashed through her. “Fuck you,” she snapped, and cringed mentally, expecting a beating. Her eye lit on the camera and a dim memory surfaced; the system would appear broken if the emergency mode were to be selected.

“It’s broken,” Kurt jeered. She picked it up with her handcuffed hands, looked at it, and gave vent to the tears that were lurking behind her eyes. The system was in emergency mode; she was confident of that. Sudden hope flickered inside her mind; rescuers could find her! “We’re here, look,” Kurt said, and she felt her hopes crash.

The car passed through an SS checkpoint without more than a cursory look at their papers. The guards didn’t seem too worried about them having a half-naked woman in the back, perhaps it happened a lot in the place. The car passed up a woodland drive and stopped in front of a manor house.

“Welcome to the sanctuary of the blind,” Kurt said, opening the door. “Out, bitch!”

Stewart, knowing that he could force her out at any time, complied. He squeezed her breast as she crawled out, having difficulty moving with her handcuffed hands. He grabbed her roughly and pulled her to her feet. Stewart tried to focus, but it was hard.

“Don’t forget this,” Kurt sneered, passing her the camera. “Useless system; you may as well keep it as a reminder of how you got into that trouble in the first place.”

He laughed. Stewart wanted to cry. “Come along, bitch,” he said, and pulled her into the grand house. A man in a white coat met them. “This bitch is to be placed in a special cell,” Kurt informed him.

“Yes, but on whose authority?” The man asked. Stewart instantly rejected any thought of asking him for help; he didn’t see her as a person at all. There was a strange deadness behind his eyes. “Who gave you the right…?”

“Fuhrer Himmler, long may he live,” Kurt said firmly. The doctor stood up straighter. “Heil Himmler,” Kurt bellowed.

“Heil Himmler,” the doctor echoed. “Bring her with you this way, if you please.”

Stewart felt tears trickling down her face; she fought hard to concentrate. “What is this place?” She asked desperately. “What are you going to do to me?”

“Should she have that thing with her?” The doctor asked, ignoring her. She was just another subject to him. “We don’t let them have toys here.”

“Yes, she should,” Kurt said. The SS man chortled. “This place, Englander bitch, is where we attempt to develop new drugs and you know that they need test subjects, don’t you? It produced the drug that was used on you earlier, and it will be producing painkillers that will keep the soldiers of the Reich going for hours, even with broken bones and internal bleeding.”

He leered down at her. “The Fuhrer’s orders were to ensure that you never went home,” he said, as he pulled her through the corridors. The doctor opened a door to a private cell. “This place is for the real trouble-makers; the people who would have betrayed the noble Hitler, and now you.”

He shoved her inside, onto the bed. She dropped the camera as he unlocked the handcuffs, before kicking her leg hard enough to make her scream in pain. “I think you’ll be very useful to the Reich, this way,” he said. “Isn’t that right, Doctor Josef Mengele?”

The door slammed shut. Stewart held herself together with an effort of will, picking up and examining the camera. Checking its display, she realised that it was on emergency mode, still broadcasting a signal to the orbiting satellites. She cursed as she checked the system; it wasn’t capable of doing anything else.

A small hatch opened in the door. “No one leaves here alive,” Doctor Mengele said, and closed it with a snap. She heard his laughing for hours afterwards, ricocheting around in her head.

“I’ve got to get out of here,” she muttered, and realised that she was helpless. Unless someone came to help her, she would be trapped forever with the insane doctor.

Chapter Twenty-One: Surging Forward

Fort Powell

Nevada, USA

1st May 1942

The soldiers had been informed that there would be a special announcement at 1000hrs, once they were awake and completed their morning drills. Captain Jackie Robinson, who had been practicing small-group armoured tactics in the VR machine, was relieved; the Canadian officer had been winning the detailed computer contest, entitled Sudden Strike V.

“We call this a draw, right?” He asked, as Captain Pole and himself saved the game in the computer’s memory and headed off to the parade ground. It was 0950; the MPs would take special note of anyone who was late. Black or white, they had power over all the troopers, even a captain of an armoured unit. General Stillwell might be colour-blind – and he swore blind that they were easier to teach than Chinamen – but he wouldn’t overlook tardiness.

“Fuck you,” Captain Pole replied mockingly. “I had your forces bracketed, Captain; your forces would have died.”

“Maybe I had sappers working on laying mines under your forces,” Robinson joked back. “Maybe your tanks would have gone up in smoke.”

Captain Pole chuckled mockingly again. Robinson sighed; the good captain had a point. Learning to coordinate the tanks and the infantry, particularly when the Germans had their little rocket-launcher weapons, was important, but it was also tricky. The 5th American Armoured Division’s attempts to drill with the infantry and National Guard units nearby had been halting, at best.

“And it won’t be anything like as easy in the field,” he said. On the practice grounds, they had many advantages, but in the field they might have to face the enemy, who would have plans far more complex than those of an Artificial Intelligence Program, whatever that was. It had taken him nearly a week to understand that it wasn’t a genuine way of creating life, but a random program designed to react optimally to a given situation.

He smiled. Ironically, realising that the computer didn’t ‘cheat’ by learning when his forces were – where a human would have been certain to do so if he had the opportunity – had gone a long way towards convincing him that the computer wasn’t intelligent.

“Probably not,” Captain Pole agreed, as they entered the main field. Thousands of soldiers were already lining up, gathering into an undisciplined group, rather than by section. Tankers rubbed shoulders with infantry, who smiled at Marines and medical corpsmen.

“I’m surprised we haven’t had a riot,” he observed. Inter-service rivalry was a big thing at Camp Powell; the army men clashed constantly with the navy men, who were supposed to take the ground for the army to land on. They had had some of their best units pulled out for a mission, one that even Stillwell didn’t know anything about.

“Apparently, in the future, we are going to unite our forces into one military force,” Captain Pole said. “That sounds like a really bad idea to me.”

“Me too,” Robinson said. He would have said more, except that the bugle blew for attention. He stood to attention as General Stillwell stood on the small stage, designed for reviews. He smiled as he remembered clanking his Franks Tank past the stage, with two generals watching.

“We have received our orders,” Stillwell said. His parade-ground voice echoed out among the recruits. A rustle of excitement followed them. “Over this coming week, we will be loaded onboard ships and surged forward to Britain.”

The cheers overwhelmed his voice for a long few minutes. Robinson, who had seen combat, if not the combat in a tank, cheered as loudly as the others. “We will perform our final training exercises there, and then we will land in France and march to Berlin,” Stillwell shouted. There were more cheers. “We’ll hang Adolf Hitler from a sour apple tree!”

The song was picked up by the soldiers, who sang at great volume, if not tunefully. No one cared that Hitler was dead; they all knew that his evil lived on.

The White House

Washington DC, USA

1st May 1942

Ambassador King smiled at his famous namesake, Admiral King, as he took his seat. The Admiral, who was well known for hating everyone, scowled back at him. His sheaf of maps and diagrams – he didn’t trust emails – hung under his arm. He saluted President Truman, and began his presentation, regardless of the others in the room.

“We have prepared the Pacific Fleet for its sail,” he said bluntly. His voice chopped through sentences like a knife through carrots. He unrolled the map and gestured for an unfortunate ensign to roll it out on the big table. “As you are aware, the fleet is currently under the command of Admiral Halsey and concentrated at Pearl Harbour. Six aircraft carriers, six battleships and nearly two dozen smaller warships, and twenty of the new transports. The carrier Yorktown, by the way, is acting as a transport for the 1st Marine Division, which has been working with helicopters in Norway.

”The objective, of course, is Vladivostok,” he continued. “Now that we are seeing closer cooperation between the Axis powers, we can expect that Stalin will allow the Japanese to use their bases, if not send his submarines out to raid the Philippines. The plan is basically simple; the Marines will land and secure a beachhead, after which we will land the troops and march on the port.”

He pulled out a folder of orbital photographs. “British reconnaissance satellites” – his face twisted in a grimace of distaste – “and our own have confirmed the existence of several dozen slave labour camps, or gulags, as they’re called in the motherland. A number of them are close to the port; we believe they’re used for slave labour. The plan calls for liberating them at once and recruiting some of them for an advance across Russia.”

Eisenhower coughed. King knew that it was the first time he’d heard that part of the plan. It was the sort of plan the late unlamented MacArthur would have thought up.

“Admiral, with all due respect, the terrain of Russia is not suited to such an offensive,” he said.

Admiral King nodded. “I am aware of that and so is the Marine commander,” he said. “Our main mission will be to secure the port and the resource-rich fields that the Russians have been trying to develop in the last year. If Stalin can be induced to think that we intend to head westwards, so much the better.”

Truman held up a hand. “The pros and cons of this have been debated,” he said. “Unfortunately, Admiral, you have to be careful at handling the Japanese. We cannot, of course, inform them of the plan, and yet we cannot risk having them attack the fleet as it passes close to the Japanese islands.”

“We will keep a low profile,” King said. Ambassador King knew that the very thought of keeping a low profile was anthemia to Admiral King. “We can also ask the British to lay on a diversionary attack into Japanese waters, if necessary.”

“The mission is approved,” Truman said. “In the long-term, we may end up with a new territory, or we may end up returning the port to Russia. For the short term, however, we will put a great deal of pressure on Stalin. Ike?”

Eisenhower, who was comfortable with PowerPoint displays, held up a remote control. “At the moment, the Germans have withdrawn almost completely from Sweden,” he said. “Although they hold out in a number of tiny outposts, none of them have any real chance at threatening us. The real problem remains the Soviet Union, and the Russians are digging in. Satellite pictures reveal that they have dispatched even more combat units to Finland, which we assume will move on to Sweden, and several NKVD outfits as stiffeners.

“General Patton believes that attempting to engage the Soviets at the moment would be a stupid butting of heads,” he continued. “This is unusual for Patton, but sustaining an offensive against the Soviets would be very difficult.” He glanced sharply at Admiral King. “He raised a right howl about losing the Marines.”

“This from an army man,” Admiral King muttered.

Truman tapped the table sharply. “Gentlemen, please,” he said. “Let us have no fighting; this is, after all, a council of war. Ike?”

Eisenhower smiled. “It took us nearly five months of rebuilding the Norwegian transportation system to sustain the offensive that has nearly concluded,” he said. “While we can launch attacks against the Soviets, I do not believe that we can hammer our way to Finland, and then into Russia, at the moment. Patton believes that we should concentrate on seizing Europe and on slipping supplies to the Finns.”

He altered the map again. “The surge deployment of five front-line infantry and ten front-line armoured divisions is planned to start tomorrow,” he said. “With the massive new fleet of transport ships, we should be able to get all units into Britain – along with their supporting units – within two to three weeks. The plan is to build up very rapidly in Britain, and then invade.”

He altered the map. “Assuming a successful invasion, we would be able to funnel the new divisions into the attack as soon as they came into service,” he said. “The official plan is to land in France, secure a bridgehead, and then head to Paris, and then Berlin.” He looked around the room. “The unofficial plan is a British plan,” he said. “Both their greatest commanding general, the one who just won in Iran, and Patton believe that it’s possible. I must inform you that this is a secret; it must not get out, or the invasion will become impossible.

“The official target is the Netherlands,” he said, adjusting the map. “The British intend to concentrate their Special Forces personnel, and hit the country with considerable force, taking the docks before the Germans can destroy them. A secondary plan involves hitting Wilhelmshaven, although that would mean that there would be no aid from resistance forces at all. Once we get a bridgehead, we will strike for Hamburg and Wilhelmshaven – and then march directly to Berlin.”

Truman stood. “I don’t have to remind you, I hope, that this is a secret,” he said. “All of the planning is devised around invading France; that’s the plan we hope that the Germans will pick up on. If anyone leaks this plan, for any reason at all, they will have their careers broken and charges of treason will be filed against them.”

There was a long uncomfortable pause. “Thank you all for coming,” Truman said. “Ambassador, stay behind a moment.”

* * *

The room emptied of its personnel. King stood and took a closer seat. “Mr President?”

Truman smiled tiredly. “Can the British pull this off?”

“If nothing goes wrong, then yes,” King said. “Clearing the docks is a task for Special Forces, and they have the best from 2015. The only question mark is how quickly the Germans can react.”

Truman nodded. “And Iran,” he mused. “They’ve set up one of their provisional governments there.”

“If the place holds together,” King said. He smiled. “Hating Iran was something of a national sport in my time.”

“I want some influence there,” Truman said. “What do you think about this GODS plan?”

“Someone has a sense of humour,” King said wryly. “A Grand Organisation of Democratic States indeed.”

“Congress was debating it last night,” Truman said. “So far, I’ve been too busy to comment on it. Should we join?”

King hesitated. “There are three parts to it,” he said. “It’s a debating forum for democracies only, it’s a pledge to commit military force to prevent weapons of mass destruction from falling into the hands of dictatorships, and it’s an agreement to invest to spread democracy. Personally, I’m in favour.”

“You were very anti-UN,” Truman said. “What brought about this change?”

“This… organisation won’t have the US constrained,” King said. “If funded properly, with proper oversight – I believe that Hanover intends to form a House of Commons Oversight Committee on the subject – it might work, particularly spreading democracy around the world.”

Truman smiled. “Hundreds of little dictators might take offence,” he said.

“That’s what went wrong with the first UN,” King said. “If we invest, we will build up a reserve of gratitude, to say nothing of markets. If we don’t, the British will do it and win the prize.”

Safe House

Washington DC, USA

1st May 1942

Nikolaus Ritter stepped inside the Safe House and removed his hat with a grand gesture. The message from Hoover had been unusually specific; it had demanded an immediate meeting with him. He’d half-considered ignoring the message, but the demands from Berlin for additional information was becoming so strident that he was starting to worry for his life.

“Good evening, Mr Hoover,” he said, taking a chair uninvited. “Your message said that it was urgent.”

Hoover smiled at him. Ritter recognised the desire for revenge within his smile. “Yes,” he said. “I have obtained information of great value, through a source in Congressman Jenkins’ office.” He snickered. “His assistant has large debts and is trading information to pay them off.”

Ritter nodded slowly. “Indeed,” he said. “What’s so important that you have to summon me?”

“Two details,” Hoover said, brimming with pride. “The Allies – us led into battle by the British – are planning to invade Europe, and Russia.”

Ritter lifted an eyebrow. The Abwehr had been very insistent on gaining any information on the Allies plans for invasion. Hoover might well be able to find them out, but would he tell the truth? He might want to embarrass Truman – a major Allied defeat would do that – or he might want to worm his way back into the good graces of Washington, which assisting an Allied victory might accomplish.

Fat chance, he thought wryly.

“There are two plans,” Hoover said. “The first one is to land an invasion force at Vladivostok and…”

Ritter gaped at him. It sounded like madness… and then he remembered that the Americans had managed something similar in their invasion of Norway. Certainly they had the ability to launch an invasion force right across the Pacific into Stalin’s back yard – the world was a sphere, after all.

“That plan is to be launched within two weeks at most,” Hoover said. “Regardless of the outcome, an invasion of France itself is planned for one month from now, landing directly in Normandy. Once they’ve managed to free Paris, they will head on into Germany.”

Ritter frowned. “Are you certain of your source?” He asked. “Is it not possible that it could be elaborate misinformation?”

Hoover shook his head. “It’s only known to congressmen within the oversight committees and their assistants,” he said. “So far, they’re planning to start moving troops to England now, and build up there.”

“Wonderful,” Ritter said. “What do you want in exchange for that little titbit?”

“Revenge,” Hoover said. His eyes glittered. Ritter realised suddenly that Hoover had gone off the deep end. “I want some of your people to kill that nigger ambassador and Truman the arch-traitor.”

“Because you can influence, if not control, his most likely replacement,” Ritter guessed. “Very well, Mr Hoover, we will see what we can do.”

* * *

Hoover had kept a small number of the electronic surveillance devices that Jim Oliver had obtained for him, stockpiling them around Washington in various locations for a rainy day. After the Wet Firecracker Rebellion, most of them had been rounded up, but some had remained hidden – until one of them transmitted a signal to Oliver’s headquarters in Washington.

Oliver had been astonished, but had followed up quickly with some of his agents. Moving a locator device around Washington and hunting for the other devices had been simple; they were designed to emit a pulse in response to a questing signal. It had been one of the reasons that they had been abandoned for government work.

“That’s Hoover,” he said, as the results came in. Activating all of the devices at long range had been tricky, but fortunately Hoover didn’t know enough to alter their program architecture. There was no question about the voice – any of the voices.

“The bastard is going to betray us to the Germans,” he said, with genuine astonishment. He chuckled at himself – knowing that some people would accuse him of hypocrisy – and paused to check the location. He scowled, wondering what to do. Informing the British or the Americans would reveal his own involvement with Hoover, something that would be bad for his life and business.

His mind considered rapidly. If Ritter was using Hoover as an intelligence source, there would be no way to ensure that information was filtered properly, let alone be changed upon requirement. Worse, Hoover might succeed in his mad plan – it could hardly be more of a flop than the last one – and that would be worse for business. He scowled, and started to place a phone call, before stopping himself. Asking anyone for help went against his nature.

If I could trust C Section, he though, and knew that he couldn’t. Asking the British Intelligence Service to handle the affair would be dangerous; Hanover simply didn’t need him so much. No, there was only one way to do it; he would have to take out Hoover himself, along with all the equipment. He started to form a plan and stopped. Something had just occurred to him.

“They know about the bugs and they don’t know that I was involved,” he exulted, heedless of who might hear. Chuckling with relief, he lifted a phone and placed a call. It was a long time before it was answered, even though he had a priority line. “Good evening, Ambassador King,” he said, when it was answered. “I have a problem that needs to be discussed with you.”

He waited for King’s tired swearword barrage to end. It was late in the evening. “I’ve found our old friend, Hoover,” he said. It was amazing how quickly King woke up. “Yes, I thought that might interest you,” he said. “Meeting tomorrow in your embassy?”

He smiled as King agreed. “I’ll be there at ten,” he said. “Goodnight.”

Chapter Twenty-Two: The Three-Edged Sword

Ten Downing Street

London, United Kingdom

1st May 1942

Hanover faced Baron Edmund over the table, watching the BBC director with concern. He kept his feelings from his face with an effort; this wasn’t going to go well. Edmund’s face was twitching; his eyes were desperate.

“You’ve seen the reports and the final recording,” Edmund said. “You must have heard it.”

Hanover nodded. The camera hadn’t been in a position to record the visuals of what he was certain had to have been a rape, but he had heard the sounds. Cold hard logic reminded him that Stewart had known the risks; human compassion said he should try to help, if he could.

“I heard it,” he said finally. “She did know the risks.”

Edmund glared at him. “Are you completely inhuman?” He snapped. “You have to do something!”

“Like what?” Hanover asked reasonably. “She got herself into this!”

“There’s still a signal from her camera,” Edmund snapped. “You can send the SAS to rescue her!”

Hanover considered. The prospect of Stewart’s body being used as a camp whore wasn’t as appealing as it had been before; the prospect of her being experimented on was worse. On the other hand…

“There is no way to know if she’s still with her camera,” Hanover said calmly. “The orbital images pin the location down precisely, to a manor house in the German country. I believe it belongs to Goring.”

He watched as Edmund’s face twisted backwards and forwards. They did owe her, he supposed; her information on the changes to the German command structure had been useful, particularly the titbits that had never been broadcast to the public. Still, inserting an SAS team into an uncertain place, with an uncertain mission, would be difficult, to say the least.

“So you won’t do anything to rescue her,” Edmund snapped. “How do you think they’ll play out on the evening news?”

Hanover felt a flicker of white-hot anger. He didn’t need it. “The stupid girl got herself into it,” he snapped. “She’s just like the volunteers who went to Iraq and Iran as human shields – and then was forced to stand in front of weapons or army command posts.”

“You advocated firing on them anyway,” Edmund snapped.

“And I was right,” Hanover snapped back. The two men glared at each other for a long dangerous moment. Hanover controlled his temper; they did owe her something, but perhaps not enough to risk a direct attempt to save her.

“We cannot send the SAS into an unknown region,” he said. “It would be dangerous; the last thing we want is to risk their reputation as supermen. Even though there’s been no sign of Skorzany, we can’t risk the Germans gaining a propaganda victory.” He held up a hand before Edmund could protest. “There is another option,” he said.

Edmund looked up hopefully. “What is it?” He asked. “Please, if you can do something…”

Hanover smiled inwardly. Edmund had been on the verge of disowning Stewart when she’d been… imprisoned. “We have to establish what is going on,” he said. “Case the joint, in gangster vernacular.”

“You’ll send someone in?” Edmund asked. “Who?”

“None of your business,” Hanover said. “Baron; we will try to rescue her – I suppose we owe her that much. However, this has a condition attached; you must not, now or ever, reveal that anything is happening, or that you’re even aware of any change in her status. She filed irregularly, so no one will notice.”

“I understand,” Edmund said. “I’ll make certain of it.”

“Not one word,” Hanover said. “If there is the slightest hint that there might be a rescue mission, they’ll kill her or surround her with an entire brigade of Waffen-SS. If a single word gets out, we’ll hit the site from the air.” He smiled at Edmund’s expression. “It might be more merciful.”

* * *

Benjamin Matthews Senior had often considered that he had been born into the wrong time. His childhood had been filled with tales of Kim and similar figures, advancing over Central Asia, meeting tribesmen and impressing them with tales of British glory, and outwitting stupid slow Russian stereotypes. Naturally, he went into the Army, but the British army of 2015 frowned upon young Captains taking leave of the rest of the military and trying to play the Lone Ranger. His failure to complete the SAS selection course – much to everyone’s surprise – had left him without a mission; perfect for a recruitment by MI6.

“We do missions here that you’ll have only read about in books,” the recruiter had said, and Matthews had never looked back. From inserting into several different terrorist groups, to resuming a dissident from a Saudi jail, Captain Matthews had finally found his place. Too smart to remain in the Army, too… limited to grasp the real danger of his work, meeting the Prime Minister seemed to be exactly what he deserved.

“Mr Prime Minister, may I say that it is a pleasure to meet you at last,” Matthews boomed, shaking Hanover’s hand with gusto. “I understand that you have a mission for me?”

Hanover didn’t seem amused. “How’s your German?” He asked. “Are you prepared for a mission into Germany?”

Matthews grinned. “She’s fine, how’s yours?” He asked. Hanover stared at him; one of the few men who wasn’t either intimidated or exasperated with him. “I speak fluent German, thank you.”

Hanover rattled off a question in flawless German. “So, the pen of your aunt is in the garden,” Matthews said. “Is my mission to rescue her?”

Hanover smiled for the first time. “It is not normal for an agent to be briefed by the Prime Minister,” he said. Matthews, who wasn’t the idiot he enjoyed pretending to be, had worked out that that meant that the mission was very important. “This is a volunteer mission, so if you want to back out, now is the time to say so.”

“And miss out on a chance of scoring with some hot German birds?” Matthews asked wryly. He suspected that Hanover wasn’t fooled by the act. “I reluctantly accept.”

Hanover smiled. “Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to observe a German manor house and locate one Kristy Stewart,” he said. Matthews lifted his eyebrows in an exaggerated expression of shock. “Yes, she’s been finally brought face to face with the true face of the Nazis, and they seem to be holding her prisoner. We still have a location beacon coming from her camera.”

Matthews thought quickly. “That doesn’t mean that she’s with the camera,” he pointed out.

“I know,” Hanover said. Matthews was impressed; he’d met more than a few politicians who had an exaggerated idea of their own importance. “That’s why we’re sending you. Your mission is to find out what the situation really is.”

“Well, it might be interesting,” Matthews said, staying in character. “Besides, it beats working with the American SAS trainees.”

“We had to help them build their own force,” Hanover said. “Your helicopter will leave tonight, along with the bombers that will hammer the Germans and distract them from any other incursions on their air defence network.”

Matthews stuck out a hand. “I would be honoured to accept the mission,” he said. Hanover shook his hand firmly. “I’ll bring her back, alive or dead.”

“I’ll settle for having a clear idea of her location,” Hanover said. “The SAS can recover her.”

“Overrated bastards,” Matthews said. “Don’t worry, sir; you can leave it all in my hands.”

* * *

Major Steve Stirling had found himself somewhat at a loose end. The Prime Minister had found him an office within the main governing complex – in his role as Hanover’s aide – but there was very little for him to do at the moment. The Oversight Committee had branched out now that events had moved far from the original history, moving into issues of shaping a post-war world that would be best for Britain – and of course the world – and Stirling wasn’t needed any longer.

He smiled. The arrival of American troops in vast numbers would put him back in the front lines; such as they were, as the priority was to avoid a repeat of the riots in 1941. General Eisenhower wasn’t too keen on listening to such a junior officer, but he’d slowly come around to recognising that he served Hanover as a go-between. Still, for the moment, he had time to continue his investigation into HMS Artful.

The computers of Ten Downing Street were special in one way; they had immediate access to the entire military intranet, hiding information from the public, but never from the Civil Service. No one knew when the Prime Minister might want a briefing; the links were kept open at all times, protected by the sheer power of quantum encryption and the certain knowledge that if anyone in 1942 breached the centre of British Government, the war was over anyway.

Stirling accessed the Ministry of Defences files and started to work, whistling cheerfully to himself. What information wasn’t immediately available even to a senior Civil Servant was opened to Cunningham’s access codes, ones passed on to Stirling against all the rules governing the government’s computers. Sheer laziness beat security, every time.

“Now, that’s interesting,” he muttered, as he poured himself a cup of tea, using one of his precious supply of teabags. You just couldn’t get them these days, along with a lot of other luxuries from the world of 2015. “Why would the files simply… stop?”

Sipping his tea, he started to work on the files, launching questions into the entire MOD databank, searching for HMS Artful. The mere use of a question program was covered by the Official Secrets Act; the program had been carefully modified to allow access only to documents within his – or rather Cunningham’s – security clearance. The first file was the official log, which had attachments of the other logs on the vessel that were written by the other officers.

He chuckled. He wasn’t sure, but he suspected that the Royal Navy viewed the idea of anyone, but the captain, writing a log with some concern. Who knew what they might put in? Stirling didn’t; an entire chunk of HMS Artful’s logs were missing. It was as if they’d never been filed at all.

“That’s ridiculous,” he said aloud, examining the screen. It was a serious offence to fail to file a log, yet the last entry dated from 20th September 1940/2015, when Artful had departed Britain for a mission. It was possible, he knew, that Artful might have been sent directly to East Asia, to join the battle and meet its fate in the Dutch East Indies in December, but…

“Oh, shit,” he said. There was no overt record that the submarine had returned to the base… yet there was a record that Artful had taken delivery of eighteen torpedoes, which meant that she had fired off some of her previous load. He scowled; the submarine had returned to base, and yet the log said clearly that it had never returned to Britain at all. The only proof that Artful had returned was the proof that it had been rearmed… and had some minor maintenance conducted.

“But that makes no sense,” he muttered. “If the ship had had an engine fault, such as the one that forced it to surface far too close to the Japanese, then it should have been noticed in the dockyard and…”

The date glared up at him. Artful had returned to port on the 26th of September – without any mention that it had done so – and the crew had clearly taken no shore leave at all. The entire process had been carried out in secret… and he knew what else had happened during that period. The Royal navy had been engaged on search and rescue duties…

On the 25th of September 1940, an American battleship and a British liner had been blown out of the water, apparently by a u-boat sunk three days later by HMS Coventry. The u-boat should never have been able to get that close to Britain, not with all the patrols, and it should certainly not have been able to get a shot off at both fast ships.

“No,” he said. The thought refused to vanish; the Artful had destroyed both craft, reloaded, and headed off to meet its rendezvous with destiny… after having had some work done on the ship. Might the repairers have sabotaged it enough to ensure that the ship – and its crew – were lost?

“Oh, God,” he said grimly. “What the hell do I do now?”

He knew what the procedure was; he’d certainly read enough books and seen enough movies. The hero would recruit the one incorruptible politician, or media spokesman, and broadcast the news to the world. The only problem was simple; life didn’t work like that. All he had was a chain of inferences; not enough to force anyone to do anything.

He took a deep breath. Only one politician had been calling for an inquest into the loss of the Artful, and perhaps he would be interested. Except… that would be betraying Hanover, who’d been good to him and helped his career, and who’d been very good for Britain. Attacking him – and the charge that he’d deliberately sunk the ships had been levelled before by both the Germans and Hoover – would only damage Britain’s interests; at worst, it would mean a war with America.

“What the hell do I do now?” He asked himself again. “What the hell do I do now?”

* * *

Travis Mortimer would have laughed at the irony. The Opposition – the Liberal Democrats – had been quite happy to tear him to pieces for weakening their position in the House of Commons, but Hanover had invited him to visit the centre of British Government. It was in recognition of his power, he was certain, even though Elspeth disagreed.

“It’s an attempt to shut you up,” Elspeth had said. His sister now walked beside him, her face twisted by a frown. “The Prime Minister has a duty to ask you to resign.”

Mortimer smiled. Naturally, he had held against the battering from Tim Barlow and his flunkies. By dividing the Liberal vote, he had threatened Barlow’s own power base. By exposing the weakness of Barlow’s position, he had lost, but he had also won.

“Quite spectacular,” he said, as he was shown into the Prime Minister’s office. Somewhat to his disappointment, there was no sign of the famous red button. The room was well decorated, however; a writing desk sat against the far corner that had been supposed to have belonged to Charles Dickens.

“It’s an old family heirloom,” Hanover said. He sounded vaguely amused. “It’s a fake, of course.”

Mortimer lifted an eyebrow, feeling Elspeth seethe beside him. “Why would your family have kept a fake writing desk?” He asked. “It’s not as if its worth much.”

Hanover looked innocently at him, his face guileless. Mortimer felt a flicker of suspicion. “Because it’s a writing desk,” Hanover said. “Whatever something’s origins, it may still have a worthwhile place in the world, don’t you think?”

Mortimer couldn’t quite escape the thought that there was something that he was missing. “We have come to discuss matters with you,” Elspeth said. “May we be seated?”

“Of course,” Hanover said. If he was surprised by her rudeness, he didn’t show it. “Please, have a seat?” He waved them to chairs. “Should I send for tea?”

“This isn’t a social call,” Elspeth snapped. “We have come here on business.”

“I was under the impression that Travis, your brother, was the MP,” Hanover said. “Still, perhaps we could get to the point?”

“HMS Artful,” Mortimer snapped. “The submarine that was lost due to incompetence.”

“I do trust that you’re not blaming that on the ship’s captain?” Hanover asked mildly. Mortimer felt a sudden flicker of rage. “That would be… embarrassing.”

“Was that a threat?” Elspeth asked. “We know that Artful engaged a target and then returned to port – what was that target?”

Hanover seemed to become very still. “A German u-boat, perhaps,” he said. “A surface ship?”

“They didn’t have any back then,” Elspeth said. “I believe that Artful fired upon the American ships.”

Hanover lifted a single eyebrow. Mortimer saw a flicker of triumph in his eyes. “Might I ask how you came to this remarkable conclusion?”

Elspeth opened her mouth. Mortimer talked across her. “We’re not at liberty to reveal our sources,” he said. A friend in the dockyard would have been dropped into very hot water indeed if Elspeth had given him away. “However, we know that Artful fired upon the American battleship.”

Hanover chuckled suddenly. “I’m tempted to let you go out believing that,” he said. “However, I would strongly prefer that you didn’t. Your brother’s memory would be ruined. Artful did indeed engage a target, but it wasn’t the American battleship, the West Virginia.”

“So you admit that Artful carried out a secret mission,” Elspeth said. “What did our brother do for you?”

Mortimer flinched at the acid in her tone. “The entire affair has been clouded in secrecy,” Hanover said. “I might add; this has happened for a very good reason. If you persist, you might have to face something terrible.”

Elspeth glared at him. “You’ll send James Bond around to do us in?”

“No, I’ll tell you the truth,” Hanover said. “Do you wish to know the truth?” One eyebrow quirked. “Are your truth-handling abilities up to it?”

Mortimer grinned. “How do you know we won’t tell everyone?”

Hanover ignored the question. “You might be better off ignorant,” he said. “You won’t tell anyone because you’re not stupid enough to do so. Do you still want to know?”

Mortimer took a deep breath, then nodded once. Elspeth nodded grimly. “You were half-right,” Hanover said. “Artful, under Captain Mortimer, did indeed engage an American ship, but not a battleship. Rather, it engaged an SSBN, USS Tennessee.”

Mortimer blinked. “The Americans do not have nukes,” he said.

“They did in 2015,” Hanover said. “How were we – or they – supposed to know that we would fall back in time? You know how hard it was for us to adapt; think how back it must have been for the crew of the American submarine.”

Elspeth narrowed her eyes. “Why didn’t they just make contact with us, or with President Roosevelt?”

“Not as easy as you might think,” Hanover said. “Imagine; you’re in a submarine, and you loose all communication with the mainland. You have no way of knowing what’s going on, and you have standing orders to engage the enemy’s cities, perhaps even a couple of allied cities, if you lose contact for more than a set period of time.”

Mortimer paled. “My god,” he breathed. “You mean that the American ship… might have nuked London?”

“It was a possibility,” Hanover said grimly. “We caught a sniff of the craft in early September; from the effects it was possible that it came though the Transition later than we did. Certainly, the German aircraft we found was over daylight Britain before the Transition. There was no time to lose – Artful was given orders to fire if it even remotely looked likely that the Americans were preparing to fire.”

He smiled grimly. “She did, and she hammered the American ship with ten torpedoes,” he said. Mortimer felt his mouth drop open. “The entire incident was covered up, although clearly not perfectly. Yes, you could reveal everything, but for what? After the Parliamentary debate, you might find out that you are recalled anyway.”

“They want to recall me,” Mortimer said. His voice was shaky. “Can you help me?”

Hanover smiled. “Perhaps,” he said. “There would be a price.”

“Our silence?” Elspeth asked. “I suppose we could see to that, in exchange for your help.”

“They don’t call me the current party leader for nothing,” Hanover said. “I look forward to you joining us.”

Chapter Twenty-Three: War in Space

Rocket Launch Site

Nr Munich, Germany

2nd May 1942

Obergruppenfuehrer Herman Roth studied the scene in front of him with concerned eyes. The darkness was inky black, but he knew that darkness wasn’t always a barrier to British satellites. They’d waited for a cloudy night, knowing that at any minute a supersonic jet could be overhead, dropping precision weapons that would shatter all of their hopes. The slaves – favoured Jews and homosexuals – worked hard to assemble the rocket, preparing it for launch.

“We have calculated the flight path,” Doctor Von Braun said. Roth nodded politely to the rocket scientist, who had been pushed on to greater and greater heights by the news of the future. Knowing something was possible was half the battle. “We should be able to put the object in orbit.”

Roth frowned. “We are still too dependent upon the re-entry capsule,” he said. “We really need one of those transmission systems.”

Doctor Von Braun glared at him over the laptop, its glow hidden inside the tent. Roth hadn’t been able to forbid him from coming close to the launch site, but he had managed to convince him to stay well away from the rocket. The British would be delighted to kill the doctor; he was one of the leading German scientists.

“If your source in America can find me such a system, then I will gladly add it into the satellite,” he snapped. “Merely developing transistors has aided us enormously, but we have to develop a way of transmitting a great deal of information quickly, not so slowly as to make jamming certain. We are certain that the British cannot tamper with the films…”

“Are we certain?” Roth said. He’d read a lot of electronic American books from the non-existent alternate future. “Could they not… board the satellite in orbit?”

“I do not believe so,” Doctor Von Braun said. “Although they are much more advanced than us, they are not supermen, ja?” He smiled. “Their spacecraft must follow certain basic rules of motion, and they have to be really careful when manoeuvring in space, or they might come down to earth with a bump.”

He chuckled. “We can and we will put something permanently in orbit later,” he said. “For the moment, the Fuhrer wants orbital reconnaissance and that’s what the Fuhrer will get. The satellite will be travelling in a ballistic orbit, one that will be faster than the British craft, and it will be lower than them. If they somehow manage to intercept” – he waved a hand at the rocket – “the explosives attached to the satellite will make certain that they cannot recover anything useful.”

“It might just kill a British man,” Roth observed. He frowned; Kristy would have disapproved. He wondered how she was getting on in Britain, if they would let her return. “What about hitting the other target?”

“Not for a while,” Doctor Von Braun informed him. “We don’t want to let the British know that we have the capability until the weapon is ready.”

Roth nodded. Himmler would approve of caution, he was certain. “One other thing; what about putting a man of our own in space?”

Doctor Von Braun smiled. Space travel had been a dream of his since before the Transition. “We can put a man up in space,” he said. “Getting him down safely… now that’s the problem.”

“Herr Doctor, we’re ready to launch,” the supervisor said. Roth smiled as Doctor Von Braun stood up, stretching to hide his injured bones. The control box was simple; a large red button with long cables reaching out to the rocket.

“Are you sure this will work?” Roth asked, struck by sudden doubts. “What happens if the rocket goes off on the wrong course?”

“If the satiates enters orbit, we should be able to track it through its transmitter or through telescopes,” Doctor Von Braun said absently, his hands caressing the button. “It’s time.”

Roth scowled. “Answer the question,” he snapped.

“The satellite is supposed to make three orbits before it returns to Earth,” Doctor Von Braun said. “As long as we track it, we will know when it’s supposed to land.” He snorted. “The maths doesn’t change and won’t until someone invents an inertia-less drive.”

“Thank you,” Roth said. “You may launch when ready.”

Doctor Von Braun pushed the button. There was a long moment, long enough for Roth to start to worry in earnest, and then the rocket started to rise into the air on a plume of fire. “Move,” he snapped, dragging the doctor along. The British could hardly fail to see the rocket’s launch.  He could only hope that they would have other problems. “Come on!”

He dragged the protesting Doctor Von Braun into the shelter and slammed the door behind him, then followed Von Braun to the single slit. The rocket was rising faster and faster, heading up to the stars. He knew that people would be trying to track it, but he didn’t know if they would succeed. Everything rested on German science and ingenuity.

“It’s going to cross the Atlantic in the dark,” he said absently. “Won’t we have to start launching them in daylight?”

“Don’t forget the time difference,” Von Braun snapped. “We’ll get our pictures, one way or the other.”

RAF Fylingdales

Yorkshire, United Kingdom

2nd May 1942

“Oh, shit,” the duty officer, Lieutenant Jackie Fisher, reported. “Sir, we have a major missile attack in progress.”

Base Commander Ben Barden swore. He’d been on the late shift, hoping to finish some paperwork while the base was on reduced staff. Even with the panic over the German missile demonstration, they’d not recovered half the staff they should have had. RAF Fylingdales had suddenly become important, but the creakingly slow military bureaucracy hadn’t managed to react yet.

“Show me,” he snapped, triggering the raid warning system. After two years of war, Britain was as prepared for missile attacks as it could be. “Bring the Patriot system online.”

The display flickered and zoomed in on the English Channel. “We have two hundred” – one vanished from the screen – “V2 missiles, some of which are failing in flight, and ten V3’s, heading to America,” Fisher said. She frowned. “And this one… I’m not sure what it’s doing.”

Barden scowled; the flight pattern was similar to the American satellite launch missiles. “They’re trying to put something in orbit,” he said grimly. “A satellite, a bomb, something else.”

“The computer agrees with you,” Fisher said, checking the projections. As she watched, the first stage separated from the rocket. “It’s either going into orbit, or it’s a serious accident.”

“Would it not be wonderful if the missile landed on their heads?” Barden asked absently. “How long until the missiles reach here?”

“About twenty minutes,” Fisher said. “Projected targets; London, Dover and Portsmouth.”

“I have friends there,” Barden snapped. His mind whirled grimly; he could shoot down most of the missiles with the Patriot batteries, but if they launched the missiles now they would have none left very soon. They might have no choice, but to grin and bear it.

“Some of the missiles are going to miss by a mile,” Fisher said. “Four of them… no, seven, are going to impact in the country.”

“That doesn’t help,” Barden snapped. The phone rang. “Barden,” he said. “Yes, Prime Minister?”

He listened to the instructions for a long moment. “Yes, Prime Minister,” he said finally. “We’ll prioritise now.”

He put down the phone. “That was the Prime Minister,” he said, rather unnecessarily. “We’re to track the missiles and only target ones that are going to impact on priority targets.”

Fisher blinked. “That’s… a bit hard on the people,” she said.

“There isn’t a choice,” Barden said. “RAF strike aircraft will be heading in, just to take revenge.”

Redhill, London

2nd May 1942

Mariah Stevenson cursed as she stumbled home in the dark. Personally, she thought that the Mayor of London was taking the blackout rules too seriously; it wasn’t as if the Germans could send bombers over London. Far more alarming, particularly to a doctor like herself, was the sudden shortage of priceless medical equipment. The equipment that had been made in America, or Japan, had been cut off from its producers, which meant that even the NHS couldn’t get more of the designs.

She stumbled on a beer can and relieved her feelings by kicking it down the hill. She had to admit that the streets were a lot safer now, with most of the unemployed and unemployable young men in the army, but she didn’t like missing out on the medical equipment. The NHS had had its priorities slashed – there would be no free unnecessary operations – but it was still important. Her house and her husband weren’t far away and she quickened her pace up the hill. It was the only thing that saved her life.

She hesitated as she heard… something in the sky, rather like a whistle, and she turned to look. A streak of light fell out of the sky and slammed into the bottom of the hill, blasting an explosion into the nearest houses. A wall of fire marched up the hill, but subsided before it reached her, igniting the line of cars when their fuel tanks exploded. Mariah heard screams as she stared, but she didn’t move, she couldn’t move. The devastation was stunning and…

She came to on the ground. Only seconds had passed. She pulled herself to her feet and stared down at the burning district, taking only moments to notice that there were several other fires burning in London. The sound of fire engines was very close; she staggered down towards the fires, knowing that she could help someone.

* * *

The reporters arrived only minutes later. Charlene Molesworth had been amused to discover that the BBC did indeed have an ‘Incident Engine,’ similar to a fire engine, but armed with cameras instead of fire hoses. The reporters ignored the radio broadcasts for people to stay in their homes, driving towards the closest incident.

“This is Charlene Molesworth, reporting from Redhill,” she said, as the camera panned over the fires. “The scene of devastation from a German missile attack is horrifying and…”

“Get the fuck out of here,” a resident shouted. The medic beside him tried to calm him; his arm was broken and needed to be bound up for the time being. “Fucking reporters…”

A further stream of invective was ignored as the medic led him away to the ambulance. “Someone isn’t happy at the Germans,” Charlene said grimly. “They’ve killed hundreds of people alone in this one strike.”

A burly black man came up. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” he said. Charlene examined his uniform and deduced that he was a high-ranking fire officer. “We have to bring some fire engines around….”

“Can you give us a statement?” Charlene asked eagerly, turning the full force of her charm on the man. “What happened?”

He wasn’t impressed. “German missile attack,” he snapped. “Now get out of here before I have you all arrested!”

The loud noise from a fire engine’s bell convinced her to move and the term scrambled out of the way. Charlene saw an elderly woman standing on the steps, looking down at the fire and shaking her head sadly.

“Excuse me, madam,” she said. “Would you like to say a few words?”

“We should use our nukes on those sons of bitches,” she said. Charlene was so astonished at the language that she didn’t say anything. “Did my father die in the first time we fought this war for nothing?”

Charlene blinked. “He might still be alive now…”

The woman slapped her. It wasn’t really painful, but it was a shock. “I know he could be,” she snapped. “Get out of here!”

“I think you’d better leave,” a police officer said. “We’re going to have to evacuate the entire area. The bastards put something in the bomb; it’s very difficult to put out.”

Charlene rubbed her cheek and led her team out of the disaster site. “Local residents are very angry at the Germans,” she said. “This is Charlene Molesworth, signing off.”

RSF Hamilton

Earth Orbit

2nd May 1942

From space, borders didn’t matter. Looking down on the world from the observation pod, Victor Abernathy could see the world passing by underneath, unmarked by human activity. The beauties of jungle and desert alike passed by, hidden only by white flecks of cloud, open to the view of anyone on the space station.

Abernathy shook his head in awe. In the month he’d been on the station, he’d spent most of his time flying outside, using one of the tiny MSV units to glide around the station. It had been strange, like trying to fly underwater in some ways, but he’d gotten used to it eventually. The station itself was still expanding; they’d even set up a second space station, even though it was just an empty hulk so far. Five cylinders and a single docking point were all that there was of it, but Major Dashwood had spoken of big plans for the station.

“We’re going to rig it up like a bicycle,” he said, although the analogy only stretched so far. Thanks to the financial arrangements with the Americans, they could afford essentially unlimited numbers of the capsules that made up the main hull of the station, which meant that almost every day saw a new one being lifted to orbit.

Abernathy chuckled. He’d been manoeuvring one of the new tanks into a position on the outer edge of the second station, which hadn’t been named formally yet. Given time and effort, they would form a ring – or rather a hexagon – around the second station, which would then begin spinning in space. Once it was moving steadily, there would be some gravity in space.

Perhaps then we would be rid of this wretched exercise requirement, he thought grimly. They had to spend a pre-set amount of time, per day, exercising, even when they’d worked all day in space. It had nearly caused a mutiny once; Commander Salamander hadn’t backed down at all.

As if the thought was enough to summon her, his pager vibrated. “All personnel to the main hall, at once,” she said, through the communicator. Abernathy sighed and started to pull himself out of the observation pod, along one of the new corridors, and into the main cylinder. Calling it the ‘main hall’ was an exaggeration, even if it were the largest room on the station.

Abernathy swam into the main hall and smiled at some of the crewmen. The station’s population was only expanding; only three people had gone back to Earth. The station was growing all the time; it now held fifty people, some new from Earth.

“If I could have your attention please,” Commander Caroline Salamander said. Tall and thin, firm and tough in ways that made a man go limp, Abernathy knew that almost all of the men and half of the women considered her a ball-buster. She knew her job, no one doubted that, but she was incredibly strict. Some of the wags had muttered about her carrying a ruler around, but no one had mentioned that to her yet.

“Britain is under attack,” she said, and everyone focused on her. This caused a chain reaction in the men who weren’t holding on to handholds; they drifted across the room until they hit the wall. “The Germans have launched a missile attack at Britain and America.”

No one said anything. “There’s worse news,” she said. Someone more… compassionate would have smiled. “The Germans also managed to launch something into a temporary orbit.”

“Fuck me,” someone breathed.

“I have told you before that such things are to be kept out of sight,” Salamander said. Her tone was icy. “The German success means several things; one of which should be obvious. They now have the capability to attack this station directly.”

Her icy stare kept anyone from commenting. “We are on a war footing now,” she said. “By order of Major Dashwood and the Space Committee, we will proceed at once with Project Lunar.”

Abernathy smiled. One of the projects they had been working on was sending some of the habitat tanks and supplies to lunar orbit, just so a base could be established. The problem with orbital weapons was that they had to be hauled up from Earth, but if the moon was mined for rocks and some of the rocks were sent back into Earth orbit.

“The craft is ready,” Salamander continued. Abernathy smiled; the SSTO that would push the three habitat tanks had reached orbit only three days ago. “The supplies in lunar orbit, while not enough to sustain the twenty-man team we had anticipated, will be enough for ten men, if they don’t mind being cramped.

Abernathy grinned openly. If the price for seeing the moon was being cramped, he could live with it. From the glances coming from the others, they’d come to the same conclusion. He smiled; some of the women on the station were ones he really wouldn’t mind being cramped with.

Salamander coughed loudly. “There are some other things we’re going to do,” she said. “Station Two will be moved slightly, and we will transfer some of the crew and MSV units to the station. At worst, that will give the Germans two targets to shoot at. Any questions?”

Abernathy waved a hand. “Are we going to get some weapons?” He asked. “I heard that some remarkable progress had been made with space-based lasers.”

“We’re going to get some missiles,” Salamander said. She frowned. “They won’t be here for a while yet, they’re working on adapting them for space action. As you should be aware, what we’d really need to do is push the missile or whatever away from the station.”

She looked at them all. Her face softened slightly. “I have faith that we will rise to the challenge,” she said. “The Germans will be trying to destroy us, but they will not succeed. Dismissed!”

Chapter Twenty-Four: Revenge Weapons

Ten Downing Street

London, United Kingdom

3rd May 1942

Hanover allowed no trace of his concern over the Mortimer situation to appear on his face. There were more important matters to deal with, starting with the German missile attack. As his cabinet took their places, he watched them, gauging their moods. McLachlan wanted to hammer the Germans; Noreen, oddly enough, and Anna Hathaway, seemed to agree with him. On the other side, Adam Toulouse, the Secretary of State for Defence, wanted to restrict British strikes to military targets only.

Hanover scowled as he remembered that conversation. The habit of allowing soldiers to be sued for any injuries they might accidentally inflict on an enemy civilian had been blown out of the water – he’d managed to wipe that law from the books after becoming Prime Minister – but it still worried Toulouse. He shrugged; public opinion, after the missile strikes, would hardly permit any repeat of that error.

“This is an emergency meeting, so I think we’ll skip the formalities,” he said. “Any objections?”

There were none, not even from Armin Prushank. “This has been a night of terror,” he said. “General?”

General Cunningham activated the display. A map of London and the other two cities appeared in front of them. “Approximately one hundred and thirteen V2 missiles landed within the cities,” he said. “Twelve more came down in the countryside – no deaths reported – and the others exploded in flight or came down in the sea. Fortunately, they haven’t managed to get their missiles fully working, let alone the guidance system.

“What they have managed is quite enough,” he continued. “The missiles carried two different types of warhead; a high explosive warhead and something loosely comparable to a FAE bomb, although with far less impact. Despite that, they managed to inflict considerable damage on us and the death toll, so far, is chilling.”

He met Hanover’s eyes. “So far, we have two hundred and seven confirmed deaths, and nearly three hundred injuries,” he said. “Sir, we cannot let this go on.”

Hanover nodded. “I’ve been on the direct line to President Truman,” he said grimly. “The Americans were struck with only ten missiles, but they each carried more explosive and both New York and Washington were hit. Worst of all, the Americans are demanding major retaliation; they have decided to order the 5th Air Force, based in Britain, to attack a major German city.”

“This is an excellent idea,” Hathaway said. Her face, always stern, had become even grimmer as the death tolls were reported. “We have to prevent them from trying that again.”

McLachlan coughed. “I won’t say that I disapprove of the act,” he said. “I don’t. However, I am concerned about the effect of striking at civilian populations on the Bundeswehr. Some of them will have families there.”

“The lynching of Germans is back again,” Hathaway said. “The German Embassy was stoned this morning.”

Hanover frowned behind his steepled fingers. It had been a policy since its inception to keep the Bundeswehr out of the mainland, just in case. If it was brought back to take part in the invasion of Germany, then it would face popular anger.

Prushank coughed. “I cannot say that I approve of the idea of wasting munitions on civilian targets,” he said. The room listened; Prushank rarely offered opinions on matters outside his sphere. “However, we have to show the Germans that we’re not cowed. If we were to subject the German bases in France to a full attack, using completely ruthless methods…”

“Which wouldn’t stop the Americans,” McLachlan said. “I would in fact assume that they would be relaying on us providing them with air cover.”

Cunningham nodded. “We have been preparing the RAF for such a mission,” he said. “Almost all of the air force has been stressed, hunting German launching sites. The bastards can set on up in ten minutes, hardly long enough to get a strike in place.” He waved a hand at the map. “Quite frankly, we’re going to have to reverse our policy and flatten every German base, or we would have to pull one of the aircraft we were using in Norway back to Britain and keep it on station permanently.”

“Which would provide the Germans with a perfect targeting opportunity,” Admiral Grisham said. “Their new proximity fuses and those missiles are proving a dangerous combination.”

Hanover tapped the table. “Let’s try and stay focused,” he said. “I don’t see that we have a choice, but to accompany the Americans in blasting a German city. Any opposing statements?”

There was a long uncomfortable silence. Not everyone was happy about the decision, but they understood it. “For our part,” Hanover continued, “we will hammer the German bases in France and Germany itself. We have plenty of weapons for once, we can really go medieval on them.”

“Would it not be a lot easier if we were in the Middle Ages, or even the Thirty Years War?” Admiral Grisham said. “Think how little opposition we’d face.”

Hanover snorted. “Let’s think about the war,” he said. “Now… Anna; what’s the mode on the streets?”

“They’re rather unhappy about it,” Hathaway said wryly. “Some of the old women of Parliament, particularly the male ones, have been asking why we haven’t deployed the Patriot missiles against them.”

General Cunningham scowled mightily. He turned it into an unconvincing smile on Hanover’s sharp look. “With all due respect to the old ladies of both genders” – Hathaway favoured him with a razor-sharp smile – “the Patriot system was designed to handle the MRBMs that countries such as Morocco and Algeria were deploying by 2010. It was not designed, in the worst nightmares of the people purchasing it, to handle more than ten missiles, let along nearly two hundred.”

He scowled openly. “As the MOD of that time warned Parliament, the European Union, for reasons of diplomacy, limited Patriot deployments, with the net result that there were serious flaws in the system we had, along with limited radar coverage. By trying the system into RAF Fylingdales – and to a lesser extent the American base at RAF Feltwell – we have managed to solve the radar coverage problem, but no amount of covert activity, against the European Union’s rules, I might add, managed to obtain more than a small number of Patriot missiles.

“We can deploy Patriots against V2s,” he continued. “The V2s do not have the wide variety of counter-measures that Scuds were deploying during the last Arab-Israeli spat. Unfortunately, we can knock down two hundred… and that’s it. We don’t have any more and as some of the electronics were classified American systems, we will have to reverse-engineer them, which will take time.”

Prushank coughed. This was within his sphere. “Perhaps a less… capable anti-missile missile could be designed,” he said. “I believe that the Americans developed several other missile designs, some of which might have been shared with us. Failing that, perhaps Colonel Palter could be of assistance.”

“I doubt it,” Cunningham said. “We don’t give colonels stationed overseas information on how to build one of our most advanced systems.”

Hanover nodded. “We’ll ask Palter anyway,” he said. “If he doesn’t have any ideas, then we’ve lost nothing. Armin, please see to assembling additional missiles from our own designs, if possible.” He smiled. “General, what are the Patriots currently doing?”

Cunningham blinked. He knew that Hanover knew the answer; he’d given the orders himself. “At the moment, we’ve granted fire authority to engage a missile that looks like it’s going to come down on any of our bases,” he said. “So far, the bastards have concentrated on terror bombing.”

A distant explosion underlined his words. Hanover flicked an eyebrow at one of the assistants, who left the room. “Good enough,” he said. “Now, Major Dashwood has come to us at considerable difficulty to report on the recent development in space.”

Dashwood picked up the control and took control of the display. “Last night, the Germans managed to launch a satellite into space,” he said. There was an immediate burst of chatter. Hanover tapped the table sharply. “The satellite, which we believe was a recon design, made three orbits, crossing over America, Russia, the Middle East and here, before coming back into the atmosphere. Unlike an American design, the entire satellite re-entered, although we believe that it suffered serious damage before it could deploy its parachutes and make a landing.”

“RAF Strike Command launched an attack on the crash site,” Cunningham injected.

Dashwood nodded. “Satellite recon suggests that the bastards did succeed in recovering it before hand,” he said. “Unfortunately, we don’t know how much they might have recovered; if it was designed properly, it might well have managed to land. We didn’t get a good look at it with any of our own systems, so we don’t know.”

Grisham snorted. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but surely they could not save the film from the heat of re-entry,” she said.

“We think that the satellite had a heat shield,” Dashwood said. “The design is basically simple, like an umbrella; the satellite rotates in space and comes in with the heat shield pointing down.”

He adjusted the display. “This adds a certain degree of risk to the space station, to both space stations,” he said. “Commander Salamander has given orders for the second station – which is still awaiting a name – to be moved into an orbit that would be difficult for the Germans to attack with their rockets, although with sufficient persistence they could do it.

“For the moment, we’ve started mass production of brilliant pebbles, such as the Americans deployed in 2011, and we’ve rushed a shipment of BVRAAM missiles to Churchill, which we’ll send into space today.”

“Hang on,” Cunningham said. “You’re stealing missiles from the RAF?”

“The modified BAE BVRAAM missile can accept orders from the station’s computers,” Dashwood said. “The missile will plunge down and intercept any rocket coming up, hopefully.” He scowled. “It’s never been tested, even in drills.”

Hanover nodded. “And Project Thor?”

“The lunar exploration mission leaves later today,” Dashwood said. “It’s going to be a slower flight than Apollo was, but they have more room and supplies. Once they get there, they’ll spend another week patching together the lunar station, and then start landing and picking up rocks.”

Grisham blinked. “That quickly?”

Dashwood nodded. “The technique for using the interconnections to link together the habitat tanks, which are then filled with compressed air, is well understood,” he said. “Part of what we sent them was a rock compressor, which was lifted onboard a heavy booster and then sent into a lunar transfer orbit. The SSTO will lift the rocks into orbit, where they will be compressed into boulders.” He grinned. “I don’t think that it would be very accurate at first, but we’ll learn quickly.”

The assistant re-entered the room. Hanover nodded at him. “Sir, it was another of those missiles,” he said. “It landed near the Docklands.”

“Blast,” Hanover said mildly. “Major, I think we’re going to need those weapons quicker than I suspected.”

Dashwood nodded. “It’ll still be about a month,” he said. “Of course, by that point we should have a tiny base on the moon, which will then be British.”

Hanover nodded. “General, please make the arrangements for launching the strike against the Germans,” he said. “Meeting adjourned.”

Medical Research Lab

Germany

3rd May 1942

Stewart staggered to her feet as the door opened, trying to hide herself. It was futile; they’d taken away her clothes the first night she’d spent in the research laboratory. The room was supposed to be soundproofed, but she could hear distant screaming echoing down the corridors.

“I trust you had a pleasant night?” Josef Mengele asked. His eyes swept over her body. It was worse than being leered at; he didn’t even see her as an attractive piece of meat. “We will have an interesting day today, ja?”

His two assistants slipped past him and produced their handcuffs. She no longer had the strength to struggle; they handcuffed her hands and feet without difficulty, taking the opportunity to grope her as they did, then they picked her up effortlessly.

“Come along,” Mengele said, and they carried her out of the door. She glanced around her as she did, trained reporter instincts coming to the fore, but there was nothing helpful around, even assuming that she could have used it with her hands and feet bound. “Do you know what this place was?”

Stewart said nothing. Mengele nodded to one of the guards, who reached out and twisted her nipple. Stewart screamed in pain, before shaking her head desperately.

“Next time, talk,” Mengele said, still in a disinterested tone. “This place was once the home of a madhouse, where the… secrets of the Royal Family were dissected. I believe that there is some relationship with your royal family, yes? They might have a history of madness too?”

Stewart hesitated, but the hand reaching for her other breast was too much. “Yes,” she said. “Some of them went mad.”

“How interesting,” Mengele said. A note of interest had entered his voice for the first time. “You are quite a fascinating person, did you know that?”

Stewart spoke quickly. “I’ve always had a high opinion of myself,” she said.

“You spent nearly a year and a half here,” Mengele said. His voice was calmly interested as they entered a room. The guards dumped her on the cold hard floor, and then stood at the door. “During that time, you never passed blood at all.”

Stewart flushed. She supposed that it would have been easy for the Nazis to monitor her monthly periods, had she had any, but it wasn’t something she was comfortable discussing.

“You were having an affair with Obergruppenfuehrer Herman Roth,” Mengele continued. The two guards snickered; Stewart didn’t look at them. She knew what they were looking at. “During that time, you neither had a period, nor did you become pregnant. Why?”

Stewart hesitated. “I’ve got a permanent contraceptive in my blood,” she said finally, as Mengele prepared to signal one of the guards to hurt her. “Until I’m injected with the antidote, I will never have children.”

“How fascinating,” Mengele said. “How does it work?”

Stewart shook her head, and then cringed. “I don’t know,” she said, and braced herself.

“We will find out,” Mengele said. He nodded to the guards, who picked her up and laid her down on a table, face down. They attached her feet to the table, and then unlocked the handcuffs on her feet, forcing her legs open. She shuddered; one of the guards was touching her on her suddenly exposed anus.

“First, the blood,” Mengele said. He pulled out a set of needles, and started to draw blood from her body. Helpless, unable to move, she could only scream as he drew nearly three pints from her body. “Now, let’s see what you look like inside.”

Stewart could only scream as he produced a tool and started to examine her private parts. It hurt…

* * *

Himmler watched dispassionately through the one-way glass as Mengele’s two assistants had their fun with the broken British women. He turned as Mengele himself entered the room and saluted.

“I trust that this is really necessary?” He asked. He didn’t care about the pain Stewart went through for anything that they needed, but torture for the sake of torture was so inefficient. “We have so few British captives that we can hardly afford to lose one.”

“I prefer my research subjects broken,” Mengele said absently. “By inflicting damage on her body, indeed, by attempting to make her pregnant, we will have an opportunity to see how her body… counteracts the sperm cells. Although she herself knows nothing of the technique used to avoid pregnancy, we hope to be able to duplicate it – it must be part of the strange substances in her blood.”

Himmler nodded to himself. “If we could learn a way to make the contraceptive ourselves, we could ensure that we are the only ones to breed,” he said.

Mengele nodded, eager to please. “My research into genetics is continuing,” he said. “We have already performed remarkable experiments, based on the future.”

“The priority is improving the medical services for our brave soldiers,” Himmler said. He noticed how his two bodyguards orientated on Mengele as he spoke. “Your experiments are second to that, understand?”

Mengele looked rebellious, but nodded his head. “We found something interesting,” he said. “We were testing the subjects blood cells against other samples, and we found something interesting. She seems to have almost no resistance to Smallpox, which as you know the Russians have been developing into a weapon.”

Himmler lifted an eyebrow. “She is not vaccinated?” He asked. Every German had been vaccinated for years. “They don’t know how to do it?”

Mengele smiled. “According to their history books, Smallpox was destroyed in the 1970s,” he said. “At the moment, it would be a virgin field epidemic.”

Himmler considered. “We never even thought of Smallpox,” he said. “We assumed that they would be immune.”

“Ah, but have they thought of it?” Mengele asked. Himmler frowned; there was no way to know. “Given the attacks we’ve suffered today…”

Himmler stared him down. “This is a struggle for the supremacy of the Reich,” he said. “It is not a chance for you to learn more about diseases.” He scowled. “How could we infect them?”

Mengele winced, cringing backwards from his gaze. “Their soldiers are clearly vaccinated already,” he said. “It would have to be delivered in a rocket and…”

“Not good enough,” Himmler snapped. “We would need proof that the British civilians are not immune. I will have to ask some of our sources.” He met Mengele’s eyes, forcing him backwards. “This is very much a final resort,” he said. “If you conduct any unauthorised tests on unsuspecting Britain, you will be used as a test subject yourself.” He smiled. “Perhaps those dwarves of yours would agree to act as your jailors.”

Mengele blinked. His eyes were streaming. “Mein Fuhrer, if we can hit them with this…”

Himmler looked at him. “They can hit us worse,” he said. “This is a method of last resort, Doctor Mengele; do not use it without my permission, or the Reich will go up in flames.”

Chapter Twenty-Five: Peace In Our Time

HMAS Canberra

Sea of Japan

5th May 1942

The night was dark; the Japanese islands hardly broken by a glimmer of light. Captain Mike Warburton admired the Japanese discipline; even Australia hadn’t been able to maintain such a curtain of darkness when faced with the threat of invasion. It seemed so safe and tranquil.

“Captain, we can see the light,” Lieutenant Arnstain muttered. The New Zealander pointed a long finger out at the island; a single dull light shone from a fishing boat.

“Take us in,” Warburton ordered. He shuddered; the orders had been unusually specific and detailed. They had been given a guarantee of safe conduct, and the Japanese had very little left to chase them anyway, but he was nervous. No submariner liked being on the surface so close to the enemy islands.

The fishing boat grew closer and closer. He picked up his night-vision equipment and checked the boat; only seven people were on the tiny ship. He blinked; the craft was truly tiny, more like a pleasure boat than anything else. He knew that the Japanese had attempted to spread out their fishing industry as much as possible, but he would never have dared to use such a boat on choppy seas.

“Flash the light,” he muttered, and Arnstain obeyed, sending a flickering pulse of light across the water. The fishing boat didn’t move, but its passengers crowded to the edge, peering out at them. “That’s them?”

Arnstain held up a picture as the two boats came very close, close enough for them to make out faces. “That’s that ambassador,” he said. The Japanese woman was pretty, he supposed; it was just her eyes that were strange. They gleamed in the dark, like a cat’s eyes. “And that’s the admiral.”

Warburton studied the little Japanese man as the fishing boat bumped alongside the submarine. He was tiny, but there was an unquestionable air of… discipline around him, and an air of despair. One of his hands wasn’t right; it had been wounded way back in the past.

“Yamamoto?” He called into the darkness. He was amused to see the expressions of flickering anger on some of the Japanese sailors. “Are you ready for the trip?”

“Yes, thank you,” Yamamoto said. He didn’t seem to mind the implied insult. “Shall we come onboard?”

“Make ready the plank,” Warburton ordered. Yamamoto could have hopped onto the submarine, but he wanted to be certain that there were no accidents. The plank was duly attached to the fishing boat; Yamamoto stepped across very sprightly for his age. Ambassador Yurina followed him, taking his hand as he held it out for her.

“Those two are a couple, or I’ll eat my hat,” Arnstain muttered.

Warburton ignored him. “Welcome onboard the Canberra,” he said, opening the main hatch. “If you’ll follow me, we’ll submerge and make our way back to the Ark Royal.”

“That would be very kind,” Yamamoto said. Ambassador Yurina was starting to shiver, so Warburton waved them both into the hatch and into the main hull. Arnstain recovered the plank and followed them down into the hull.

“We’re going to be running at full speed,” Warburton said. If it had been up to him, no Japanese would have ever set foot on his ship, but Admiral Turtledove had been very specific. Canberra would host the Japanese Admiral for his trip, and that was all there was to it. “I would suggest that you took a seat and stayed out of the way.”

He ignored it as the two Japanese spoke rapidly in Japanese, holding hands. He realised with sudden amusement that Yamamoto was trying to reassure her, whatever was going on, it was important.

Perhaps they’re finally going to surrender, he thought. They’d hunted Japanese shipping ruthlessly, using satellites and GPS systems to hunt down any ship, wherever it was hidden. They hadn’t stood a chance; they’d simply been swept from the seas. Any reasonable government would be trying to surrender by now.

“Perhaps you could tell us what’s happening?” He asked, as Canberra slid under the waves and headed for the position of the fleet. “We’re very curious.”

Oddly, it was Ambassador Yurina that answered. “We can’t tell you, Captain,” she said. “This is far too important to risk raising false hopes.”

HMS Ark Royal II

Pacific Ocean

5th May 1942

Admiral Turtledove didn’t like politics. Politics had seen his career and his reputation rise and fall, politics had led to risking Australia to win the war, and politics had led to their inability to bring the war to a close. It couldn’t be long before the Japanese started to starve in large numbers – in fact, there were indications that they were already beginning to starve – and finding a solution was imperative.

He gazed up at the map. The Australian forces had snatched most of the Dutch East Indies, only sealing off a handful of fortresses and leaving them to starve, and they were pushing into the Japanese-held islands in the Pacific. It had been a great day when they’d finally made contact with Singapore again, completing the conquest, but what was left to do? They could take Formosa – or Taiwan, as half of his maps still showed it – but past then?

He scowled. He knew that Prime Minister Menzies and most of the Australian cabinet were not in a merciful mode. If Australia had nuclear weapons, they would have used them by now. Instead, they wanted to starve the Japanese out and force them to eat crow, whatever the civilian death toll. They wanted revenge; he knew that some of the Cabinet were already demanding bombing raids and FAE bombs, which would be devastating. Others, however, suggested just leaving them to starve, as they would die quicker if there were more mouths to feed.

He grinned. Hanover had pressed him for a solution, but the truth was that there was none… until they’d picked up some radio transmissions from Japan on the international emergency frequency, from 2015. Opinion had been sharply divided, but they’d risked a reply, and had discovered that the transmissions were coming from the former Ambassador of 2015. Once they’d realised that Yamamoto wanted to discuss a surrender, he’d been quick to arrange a meeting.

“Admiral, the Canberra is surfacing,” his assistant said. “Admiral Yamamoto is coming onboard.”

Turtledove pulled on his cap and nodded politely to Menzies. The Prime Minister had insisted on coming; he now followed Turtledove onto the flight deck. Only fifteen ships of the fleet had come with them, but enough of them were armed and ready to make the Japanese pay for any treachery. He shrugged. They were supposed to be outside kamikaze range anyway.

“Admiral… arriving,” the officer of the deck said, as Yamamoto climbed up the ramp. It hung down from Ark Royal’s hull, allowing him to board without scrambling up a ladder, which might have been tricky with his damaged hand. Turtledove studied him thoughtfully; he wasn’t an impressive as he’d expected, but his eyes glittered with intelligence.

“Welcome onboard the Ark Royal,” he said, shaking Yamamoto’s hand. “Perhaps now we can resolve our differences.”

* * *

Admiral Yamamoto wasn’t certain what he’d expected to see when he boarded the future carrier. It wasn’t as big as he’d expected, but the flight deck was loaded with some of the small oddly shaped jets that had wrecked havoc with his forces. Several other ships could be seen, escorting the Ark Royal, and presumably covering it from any attack.

“Please come right this way,” the British Admiral said. He seemed… less cocky than a British Admiral from Contemporary Britain, less convinced of his own omnipotence. Yamamoto followed him into a briefing room and knew that he’d been right to want to surrender; the ship’s very nature spoke of power and wealth.

He studied the Australian out of the corner of his eyes. What would he want? Would he be willing to avoid further bloodshed, or would he insist on forcing Japan to submit or die? Would he be willing to work with Yamamoto, or would he demand complete submission? He shuddered; few Japanese would go along with that.

Admiral Turtledove – a strange name for a fighting admiral – coughed. A midshipman, awed to be in Yamamoto’s presence, poured him a cup of foul-smelling coffee. Yurina had no qualms about drinking it; she took a gulp before it was cool enough to drink.

“I am not a diplomat,” Turtledove said. “I trust that you will not be offended if I speak bluntly?” Yamamoto shook his head; he appreciated bluntness. “Admiral, you have lost the war. Your mighty fleet has been destroyed. Your air force has been weakened greatly. Your army has lost nine of its best front-line divisions. Your merchant marine, which you need to supply your food, fuel and basic resources, is being exterminated even as we speak.”

Yamamoto recoiled. He’d hoped, deep inside, that the British wouldn’t know the true state of affairs. “The physical survival of Japan as a nation is in doubt,” Turtledove said. “How long will it be before your people are reduced to eating themselves?”

Yamamoto met his eyes. “I understand the situation,” he said. “If it were completely up to me, I would surrender, or at least discuss terms. However…”

Yurina recognised his problem, his difficulty at speaking of something so shameful. “Perhaps we could discuss the terms of surrender first,” she said.

Turtledove smiled. “We have some basic terms,” he said. “However… we have to know what the problem is. Are you speaking on behalf of your government?”

His mocking voice irritated Yamamoto, enough to blast its way through his reluctance to speak. “The Emperor is currently being held prisoner in his own palace,” he said. “We need you to help us speak to him.”

Menzies lifted an eyebrow. “Why should we care about your internal problems?”

Could he really be that stupid? Yamamoto didn’t know. “The Emperor would be willing to discuss peace,” he said. “Unfortunately, his… current set of advisors is feeding him bad advice, such as claiming that we’ve sunk nearly three hundred of your ships.”

“That’s the entire pre-Transition Royal Navy three times over,” Turtledove said. He snorted. “Now we know where all the money went.”

Menzies frowned. “And I assume that you wish us to land troops in Tokyo to rescue him?”

“No,” Yamamoto said. “We can land troops. The problem is that they have more battalions dug in around the palace, while I can only bring two naval infantry battalions to the palace. If you were to attack the palace from the air, and use your precision weapons, we might have a chance.”

“I see,” Turtledove said. “And after that?”

Yamamoto took a deep breath. “I will speak to the Emperor, convince him to stand down the troops, and discuss a peace.”

“We would need your agreement for the peace terms before we even considered such an operation,” Turtledove said. “Perhaps…”

Menzies interrupted him. “Admiral, it might be a trap!”

“Can we take the chance that it isn’t a trap?” Turtledove asked. “We have worked out a set of surrender terms, Admiral; are you ready to hear them?”

Yamamoto took a deep breath again. He felt Yurina’s hand steal into his and squeeze gently. “Yes,” he said. “However, I make no guarantee that they will be accepted.”

Turtledove nodded. “We understand your position,” he said. “First, we want a complete evacuation of all of your conquests. Manchuria will be allowed to determine its own destiny, along with Siam and Indochina; Burma will go to India. Formosa – Taiwan – will go to us, along with Hong Kong. You will have nothing outside the Home Islands.

“Second, you will demilitarise for the next twenty years, during which time we will guarantee your security,” he continued. “You will permanently renounce the use of nuclear, chemical and biological weapons and you will be forbidden to research, develop, or stockpile such weapons. During that time, an Allied army will be stationed on your territory, including inspectors to ensure that you keep your word.

“Third, you will democratise. The Emperor may keep his title, but power will be placed into the hands of a civilian, democratically elected, government. The noble families, the army families and the industrial concerns will be broken up; they will no longer be allowed to steer Japan’s destiny.

“Fourthly, your economy will be adapted to service the needs of your people, without conquest. We do not intend to return you to farmland; however, we intend to be certain that you will be unable to threaten the peace of the world for some time to come.

“Fifthly, Japan will assist in the rebuilding of the nations devastated by your war. Fully twenty percent of your GNP for the twenty-year period of occupation will be set aside to aid in the rebuilding.

“Finally, although we understand that the causes of the war were multifaceted, Japan will acknowledge its role in starting the war and carrying out atrocities against helpless civilians. All of the records of the civil service, and the armed forces, are to be made available to a war crimes division, which will have complete powers to investigate and punish crimes. Further, all of your nuclear, chemical and biological research is to be handed over to the commission.”

* * *

“You leave us with very little,” Yamamoto said, after a long uncomfortable pause. “Do you not realise that you might be sowing the seeds for the next war?”

“I assure you,” Menzies said, “that there are those in Australia who want to burn down your cities and sow the ruins with salt. Australian opinion will accept nothing less than a humbling peace.” He scowled. “We will not commit mass rape, Admiral, nor will we poison your citizens with diseases, nor will our soldiers hold beheading competitions. We will treat you decently, as long as you surrender.”

“Military resistance is futile, Admiral,” Turtledove said. “You will not get better terms.”

Yamamoto looked up. His eyes were bright with tears. “I was on the deck during the battle when we beat the Russians,” he said. “I witnessed the birth of Japanese power – and now I am to witness its end?”

“For the moment,” Yurina said. “The occupation will not last as long as you suggest, Admiral?”

“Perhaps,” Turtledove said. “Still, there will be retribution for crimes you have committed.”

Yamamoto made his decision. “Can I have a promise that there will be no new terms added on, should I agree now and launch the coup with your assistance?”

Turtledove frowned. “I will enquire of the Prime Minister,” he said, and looked at Menzies. Something passed between the two men. “Prime Minister?”

“I don’t think that the Commonwealth would add extra terms,” Menzies said. “I will place the full backing of my government behind the terms. Now, about launching the coup…?”

Yamamoto outlined the plan. It was simple enough; his forces would travel around the island in the handful of remaining transports and land directly in Tokyo Bay, covered by his single remaining battleship and British air cover. The minefields would be removed by one of his people who had responsibility for the defence of the bay. They would land directly into Tokyo itself, and fight their way to the palace, where they would rescue the Emperor. Once they had saved him, he would surrender Japan.

“And what if he refuses to surrender?” Turtledove asked. “It would be crazy, but he might just decide that he had nothing left to lose anyway.”

“I will ensure that he doesn’t,” Yamamoto said, and felt something inside him die. “Do you agree to support me?”

“I believe that I have the authority to agree,” Turtledove said. “How long?”

“I think between a fortnight and a month,” Yamamoto said. “Long enough to get everything organised.”

Turtledove nodded slowly. “Very well,” he said finally. “We will send you back – Ambassador, do you wish to return as well?”

Yurina nodded. “Yes, thank you,” she said.

Turtledove frowned. “You’re a braver woman than I am,” he said. “Very well; the Canberra will return you to Japan, along with some proper communications equipment. Good luck.”

* * *

The Canberra sank slowly under the waves as she left the task force’s defence perimeter, not that it had been needed. Ark Royal’s radars had been clear; the Japanese hadn’t even been aware that they’d been present. They could have gone a lot closer to Japan without them noticing that they were there.

The task force turned south, heading away from Japan. The base at Truk had been damaged by the fighting, but it would suffice as a place to refuel and make new plans. Admiral Turtledove allowed himself a moment of relief; at least Yamamoto hadn’t refused the terms outright, or made ludicrous demands of his own.

“You did well, in there,” Menzies said. A jet would arrive to return him to Australia, but for the moment he was resting onboard the vast ship. “I thought for a moment that he would refuse.”

“He’s a pragmatist,” Turtledove said. “He understands that we would have had to go nuclear, or even just wait for them all to starve. If he can end the war for us, then fine; if not, we’ve lost nothing.”

Menzies lifted an eyebrow. “You have doubts?” He asked. “You, the commander of the force that kicked their behinds twice? You, the man who commands the Commonwealth Naval forces and treats all men and women as equals.”

“I’ve seen enough Marine operations to know that they’re far from easy,” Turtledove said, ignoring the last comment. “There are so many things that can go wrong, particularly fighting in close quarters where our airpower will be less useful than I suspect Yamamoto believes. Dear God; Yamamoto is brave, isn’t he?”

“You’re impressed,” Menzies said. “A hero of yours?”

“He was one of the finest naval commanders of the war,” Turtledove said. “If he’s lucky, half of the Japanese are going to regard him as a traitor, just for saving them from death – the total extermination of the Japanese people. If he’s unlucky… well, they weren’t joking about bamboo shoots under the nails as a torture method.”

Chapter Twenty-Six: A New Beginning

Forward Base

Kuwait

6th May 1942

Hanover sucked in the dry air of Kuwait as the hatch opened on the plane, allowing the hot air to wash into the plane. He waited the exact amount of time for the soldiers to line up, and then he stepped out of the plane onto the stepladder.

“Present arms,” General Flynn bellowed. Two hundred men, all from the 2nd Armoured Division, presented armed. “Salute!”

They saluted, as one. Hanover, a veteran himself, saluted back, and then saluted the flag. He stepped off the stepladder, still holding the salute, and stepped onto the small podium. Microphones and three small cameras were pointed at him, but the media people were keeping well back. This was for the soldiers. Everyone knew that.

“At ease,” General Flynn bellowed. He hadn’t wanted to do that, but Hanover had insisted. The last thing the troops would want was to stand at attention while he gave a speech, even the short one he’d written for the occasion. The men deserved better than a long speech in uncomfortable surroundings.

“Thank you, all of you,” Hanover said. It was sincere; it meant more to them than flowery phases. “Your work today should hopefully lead to a more peaceful Middle East in the future, one where the virus of Islamic Extremism has been stamped on before it ever truly developed. You have the thanks of thousands yet unborn, and perhaps the people here will appreciate us more.”

He smiled wryly. From the reports, the Iranians and Iraqis – having lived under Soviet rule for nearly a year – had been very relieved to see the British. He didn’t know how long it would last – not many Iranians wanted the Shah back and he didn’t really want to upset them – but for the moment the Middle East was enjoying a period of peace.

“There is one final task left to do,” he said. “We have to march to Berlin, and then Moscow, completing the task of eradicating fascism from the Earth. We have done so much, and now there is only one task left. For the day, however, everyone has a day on liberty.”

He stepped off the podium as General Flynn ordered a second salute, then the troops dispersed. Hanover saluted Flynn as he stepped up to him, and then shook hands firmly.

“It’s a honour to have you here,” Flynn said. “What do you think?”

Hanover glanced around Kuwait, at the results of nearly a year and a half of development. The makings of a formidable port were already laid, linked to the growing railway network, built with American-supplied rails. It wouldn’t be perfect, far from it, but a transport network would help boost the economy forward.

“It’s impressive,” he said. “I’m very pleased with it.”

Flynn grinned. “Blame Shahan McLachlan,” he said. “The man is a font of positive energy and an absolute disregard for the previously established rules here. Do you know that we have seven different ethnic groups in Arabia, all thanks to the Turks?”

“They’re still forcing out the Kurds?” Hanover asked. “What are we doing to do with them?”

“Shahan has been developing the fields of Arabia,” Flynn said. “As you know, he has two desalination plants and they’re both working hard. It’s not quite as simple as adding water, but it will help to feed everyone in Arabia.” He smiled. “Given twenty years, they might just succeed in forging a real country.”

Hanover nodded. “It looks as if he will get most of Iraq,” he said. “Iran’s provisional government, while committed to democracy, wasn’t keen on the idea of joining up.” He shrugged. “The Americans are planning to invest heavily, provided they continue their path towards democracy, so they won’t be a problem in the long term. In the short term, however… what’s the security situation like?”

Flynn grinned. “We have five divisions of armoured infantry that belong to the Republic of Arabia,” he said. “With the death of Ibn Saud, the Saudi tribe seems to have come apart, although it’s hard to be certain. Now that our satellites have improved, hunting them down if they pose a problem shouldn’t be difficult. I don’t think that there are any more worries from that quarter.

“In the north, the Russians have dug in along the Caucasus Mountains,” he continued. “They don’t have the ability to push an offensive against us any more, but we’re going to keep some troops in Tabriz, just to make certain. Unfortunately, they pretty much wrecked Baku before retreating, and the natives are revolting.”

“I’m sure they are,” Hanover said dryly. “Have they asked for support?”

“Not yet,” Flynn said. “The collapse of Soviet power led to a civil war. The mutual slaughter hasn’t stopped yet.”

Hanover nodded. “And the Jewish problem?”

“Shahan is supposed to be meeting with the Jewish leader now,” Flynn said. “God only knows what they’ll come up with; we can do without a civil war in our new ally’s territory.”

“No,” Hanover agreed. “Still, a peaceful Middle East is important, no matter how many noses get bent out of joint.” They reached the command building, neatly guarded by a British soldier, and stepped inside. “Is this building secure?”

Flynn led him into a quiet room. “Yes,” he said. “We have a full security suite in here, even though we haven’t met any bugs yet. We can talk about anything.”

Hanover’s gaze softened. “I’m sorry about Ibn Saud,” he said seriously. “I never meant to put you in that position.”

Flynn shrugged. “I saw what happened to a desert campsite when he and his people went through it,” he said. “It wasn’t hard at all.”

Hanover nodded. “You may have realised that this front is being wound up,” he said. “Attacking up north would strain our logistics to breaking point, which we cannot allow. We also have commitments to attacking in France, along with the Americans.”

Flynn blinked. “Sir, attacking in France would be repeating history – with the Germans knowing what’s coming.”

“I know,” Hanover said. “Officially, the attack’s target is France. Unofficially” – he outlined the plan – “we’re going elsewhere.”

Flynn sucked in his breath when Hanover had finished. “Sir, that’s…”

“Daring, yes,” Hanover said. “Unfortunately, there isn’t a better idea; we have the option of there, or places which will prolong the war into the next year.” He frowned. “There are signs that the Germans are getting desperate.”

“I heard about the rocket strikes,” Flynn said.

“Some of our media is blowing the whole thing out of proportion,” Hanover said grimly. “That, and the American strikes back against Germany. We were trying to avoid a bloody war of civilians, but Himmler has raised the stakes higher than ever before.”

Flynn frowned. “I would have expected Hitler to do that, but Himmler?”

“He knows that we are worming away at Stalin’s state,” Hanover said. He looked sharply at Flynn. “That does not leave this room, by the way.” Flynn nodded. “He may fear that Russia will collapse, which will leave Germany alone, or that the Russians will come into the war on our side.”

Flynn gaped at him. “Is that even possible?”

Hanover shook his head. “I very much doubt it,” he said. “The only thing we’re certain of is that the rise of resistance to Stalin’s rule is weakening him.”

“That must be why he ordered Zhukov to stand and fight,” Flynn said. “Are we going to be using the Russian prisoners as an army?”

“Perhaps,” Hanover said. “Given… what the Americans are planning, the USSR might come apart sooner rather than later. However, that’s beside the point.” He tapped the map. “Politics have been interfering in the military situation again,” he said.

“That always happens,” Flynn said. “Which politician has decided to stick his oar in this time?”

“Harry Truman, President of the United States of America,” Hanover said. “As I told you, the plan to invade Europe is growing into coherent form; a mixture of our finesse and American brute force.”

“The Citizen Force and the Janissaries,” Flynn said. He grinned. “They have become popular, haven’t they?”

“I wonder if Major Stirling is related to him,” Hanover said absently. “However, the issue at hand is command; who is going to command the mission.” Flynn lifted an eyebrow. “The Americans were very determined to have their own commander in overall control, so we argued them into accepting you as tactical commander.”

He held up a hand to prevent Flynn from saying anything. “You’ll have overall command of the invasion force, with Patton and Bradley as your seconds,” he said. “I came this far for one important reason; General, do you wish to accept the command?”

Flynn looked at him for a long moment. “Why me?” He asked finally. “Why am I honoured? Why not General Cunningham, or General Barrington-Smythe?”

Hanover considered the question. “You are the most successful commanding officer we have had in this war,” he said. “You have the confidence of the Americans, which is not to be overrated, and you are used to working with allies. You also understand modern warfare, something that the Americans don’t, not yet; they either see us as supermen or overrated.” He frowned slightly. “Both General Cunningham and General Barrington-Smythe hold high enough ranks to raise hackles at being subordinate to Eisenhower, while you don’t.”

He smiled. “Does that answer your question?”

“Yes,” Flynn said. “I accept the command.”

“Excellent,” Hanover said. “You’ll be flying back to Britain tomorrow. Colonel Jordan will take over your command here.”

“Thank you, sir,” Flynn said. “Will you be joining us for the mess dinner? They made it just like you had back in Iraq.”

Hanover laughed. “I’d be delighted,” he said. “Then we’ll have to head back to Britain.”

* * *

Shahan McLachlan removed his skullcap as he entered the room, leaving it carefully on the table, before washing his face and hands. He checked his appearance in the mirror; he wore a proper suit instead of his normal Muslim robes. He’d never been able to develop much of a beard; shaving it off had been a small sacrifice. He smiled as he looked at the picture his one-year-old daughter had drawn for him, and then he entered the room.

He shook hands with the man who was waiting for him, giving him a neutral smile that could be turned into charm or ice, depending. A bigger smile threatened to break out; the man reassembled one of the Green Lantern Guardians of the Universe. If he’d had blue skin, David Ben-Gurion would have been a dead-ringer for one of the little aliens.

“It is a pleasure to meet you at last,” he said. Ben-Gurion controlled the Haganah, the Jewish Defence Force, which had fought fanatically against the Germans and some of their allies, including the now-dead Grand Mufti of Jerusalem. The famed Irgun – the most fanatically anti-British and anti-Arab force – had fought even harder… and had been defeated badly for it.

“I suspect that I will be not so pleased,” Ben-Gurion said finally. The Jew knew what would have happened – and what would happen if the situation deteriorated. “I imagine that you are here to tell us to clear off.”

Shahan shook his head. “Nothing of the sort,” he said seriously. “I have an offer to make to you, and a request.” Ben-Gurion lifted an eyebrow. “Allow me to summarise the situation as I see it,” Shahan said. “We are about to start shooting at each other – and that cannot be allowed.”

Ben-Gurion nodded his great head. “I would prefer not to have my new country torn apart by civil war,” Shahan said. “I suspect that you would feel the same way too. However – I am not prepared to tolerate a second state of Israel; it was a disaster for all concerned.”

“That depends on what books you read,” Ben-Gurion said. “Some sources state that the Jewish state was a complete success.”

Shahan lifted an eyebrow. A Jew in the Government somewhere must have shipped Ben-Gurion some future history books. He made a mental note of it and continued. “The situation on the ground is very different,” he said. “Like you did, I have the task of producing a government out of several different ethnic groups. A war with you would help that in the short term, but not in the long term.”

“We would tear Israel out and into existence if we had to fight you by any means necessary,” Ben-Gurion said. “You know that we would.”

Their eyes met. “You know that we would win,” Shahan said, “and in the process disgrace ourselves before Allah.”

Ben-Gurion smiled. “Is survival more important than the good opinion of God?”

“Is survival possible without the good will of God?” Shahan asked. “I won’t, I can’t, fight such a war… and yet it seems that I will have no choice, unless you agree to my proposal.”

Ben-Gurion smiled. He thought he had the edge. “I will listen,” he promised.

“This nation is intended to be based upon democracy,” Shahan said. “We have five different types of Muslim here alone, not counting the Christians in Lebanon and Iraq. Any attempt at setting up a religious-based nation would be doomed to failure.”

“Of course,” Ben-Gurion said mildly.

“The fact that the existing power structure has been badly damaged offers an opportunity to change it,” Shahan said. “We – the founder members – will create a state based on democracy, where the sexes are equal before the law, and where all religions are equal before the law.” He smiled. “Even Jews.”

“I imagine that you’ll have a lot of opposition from your own people,” Ben-Gurion said finally. “We bought that land – but look at all the people who claimed we stole it.”

“Land won’t be such a problem in a few years,” Shahan said. “The techniques for making the desert bloom are well understood in 2015. Give us five years and we’ll have gardens surrounding Mecca.” He smiled. “As for opposition, how many of them can really afford to start a pogrom against such a useful minority?”

“As they’d also be minorities,” Ben-Gurion said. “I trust that you will allow immigration?”

Shahan shook his head. “Not for the first few years, except for family members,” he said. “South Africa is accepting Jewish refugees, so they will have somewhere to go. If any of your people have problems with the agreement, we can buy them a ticket there and wave goodbye.”

“It’s tempting, I admit,” Ben-Gurion said finally. “What guarantee do we have that you’ll keep your word?”

“We would absorb the Haganah into the ranks of the Arabian Army,” Shahan said. “You would be in a strong position.”

“But not strong enough to force Israel out of you,” Ben-Gurion said. “You’re a very brave young man, President McLachlan; your own people will behead you.”

“Perhaps,” Shahan said. “To paraphrase a very great man; keep running if you stumble and you won’t fall. Mr Ben-Gurion; I need to know soon.”

“I can’t say that I like the actions of Turkey,” Ben-Gurion said slowly. “I will have to consult with my allies, but I think I will accept. There is one condition, however; you agree to the Haganah regiments being based within the Jewish regions.”

“Some of them, yes,” Shahan said. He’d expected that demand. “However, we will rotate the divisions around, just to ensure that they do build up a relationship with the entire country.”

“Then I agree for myself and the Haganah,” Ben-Gurion said. “Now, how will the Government be organised?”

Shahan smiled as they started to discuss the nuts and bolts of the proposal. Perhaps this crazy idea will work after all, he thought. Perhaps we can build a proper nation for us all.

* * *

When he was younger, he’d known a girl called Anisa, who’d been a good friend before he married. With his wife’s permission, he’d named his daughter after her, and was playing with her by the fire. Tomorrow, they would be heading back to Salaam, to oversee the integration of the Jews into the provisional government, but for the moment there was peace.

“A fine daughter,” Hanover said. Shahan looked up; they’d all been placed in the same building. A flicker of suspicion passed through his mind; Hanover could have organised it. “What is her name?”

“Anisa,” Shahan said. “Did you arrange for us to have the same block?”

“It would have been impolitic to have given each of us separate buildings,” Hanover said. His voice was coolly amused. “Did you have a good meeting with David Ben-Gurion?”

“Didn’t you have the room bugged?” Shahan asked. “We agreed that we would try to integrate the religions.”

Hanover nodded. “Thank you,” he said seriously. “Have you thought about long-term status?”

“We’re going to model it on Britain,” Shahan said. “A Parliament; districts which will elect Members of Parliament, but with a proper constitution.”

“There have been demands for one in Britain,” Hanover said absently. He bent down and gently picked up Anisa. “You’ll have to be careful not to leave any loopholes.”

“We will,” Shahan said. “So… what next for you?”

Hanover shrugged and passed Anisa to Sameena, who had just entered the room. “You mean, British relations to here?” He asked. “I imagine that we won’t have any difficulty in continuing to provide you with support, particularly since you’re going to be a member of the Commonwealth. Given ten years, you could really develop this region.”

“We hope so,” Sameena said. She held their child closely. “What else did you want to say?”

If Hanover was surprised, he didn’t show it. “We will not support you if you turn this into a religious dictatorship,” he said seriously. “That’s the warning you had before, and now you have what you want… well, getting what you want can be very dangerous.”

Shahan looked up at him. “I understand,” he said. “We won’t mess this second chance up.”

“Please don’t,” Hanover said. “You carry the only hope of Islam’s survival in this strange new world.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Kamikaze

The Kremlin

Moscow, Russia

8th May 1942

Molotov stepped through the security guards – Moscow had become even darker as the NKVD cracked down on the citizens – and entered Stalin’s inner sanctum. For once, the dictator wasn’t unhappy; he was smiling darkly. Molotov felt panic; only the certain knowledge that the guards would shoot him down if he tried to run kept him walking towards his chair.

“Have a seat,” Stalin said. He held up a box of cigars. “Georgian, I’m afraid, but they’ll have to do.”

Molotov’s mind worked rapidly as he took a cigar. Stalin was in a good mood, and he was certain that that meant trouble. The cigar was thick and smoky, from Stalin’s native Georgia… which was in revolt. He felt his blood run cold; was Stalin making a subtle point?

“Quite weak really,” Stalin said. “They really should have been more grateful to me. After all, did I not make them strong?”

Agreeing with Stalin was always a good idea when a person was unsure of their ground. “Yes, Comrade General Secretary,” Molotov said. He was astonished; ‘weak’ was not a word he would have applied to his cigar. The future claimed that smoking was bad for you, and smoking the cigar he could believe it. His lungs wanted to curl up and die.

“I received interesting news from our good friends the Germans,” Stalin said, his tone only mildly sarcastic. “They have a high-ranking source within America, and it seems that the capitalists intend to stab us in the back, at Vladivostok.”

Molotov thought quickly. Asking for a map would be a sign of weakness. “Would they not have to go through Japan first?” He asked. “They are not at war with Japan.”

“They would certainly have to go close to Japan,” Stalin agreed. He smiled darkly. “I think its time that the Japanese earned the resources we’re pouring into Manchuria for them.”

Molotov considered. “Comrade General Secretary, they do not have a fleet anymore,” he said. “What can they hit them with?”

Stalin laughed throatily. “So formal,” he said. “It turns out that the Japanese have prepared a new weapon; they crash their planes into British ships and blow them out of the water. Think how many little capitalists they could drown.”

“And if they could wipe out the fleet, they could defeat the attack before it had even begun,” Molotov said. “Will they agree?”

“Of course they will,” Stalin said. Before Molotov could find of a way to tactfully remind him of the dangers, he elaborated. “Comrade Apanasenko has far more firepower than they have, placed along the borders. Think of how we could destroy the Japanese redoubt, and still have time to prepare the defences of Vladivostok.”

Molotov smiled. Stalin was thinking like a strategist. “Their flimsy defences would not stand up to us for long,” he said. “Our tanks are so much better.”

Stalin nodded. The Japanese were making frantic efforts to create a fall-back position, on the off-chance that the British worked up their nerve to the point that they would dare to launch an invasion of the Japanese Home Islands. Even with some assistance from Russia, they hadn’t managed to create the strong nation they desired… and now that they had lost contact with their homelands, they had been crippled.

“You will inform the Japanese Ambassador of our requirements,” Stalin said. “In the meantime, we can prepare to defend Vladivostok, although only with what we have on hand.” He looked down at the reports on his desk. “You may leave.”

Molotov left. He knew – and he knew that Stalin knew – that the Soviet Union was in serious trouble. The Trotsky movement in Russia itself was gaining ground, particularly after the defeat in Iran, which they had taken care to inform the public about. Radio Moscow, of course, had gone on and on about how delighted the Iranians were about Soviet liberation from the Shah and how they were embracing communism… but no one was listening.

He shuddered as the guards patted him down. The rebellions in the Ukraine and Belarus, despite mass deportations, were still burning; the Ukrainian conscripts had had to be disarmed after several unpleasant incidents. Tens of thousands of them were now in gulags, sitting out the war until Stalin had finished with them. Thousands more had escaped back to the Ukraine… while the economy was in serious trouble.

He stepped out of the Kremlin and into his car. The driver took one look at his face and started the car back to the Foreign Ministry. Molotov ordered him to head to the Japanese Embassy, and then regretted it; they had to drive past the wreck of the Planning Division. Trotsky’s strike – all the underground claimed that he had led the strike personally – had decimated the planners who held the vast Soviet Union together; killing Stalin alone would have had a similar effect.

Scowling, Molotov stepped out of the car and into the grounds of the Japanese Embassy, passing through first NKVD guards, and then Japanese soldiers, both of whom insisted on inspecting him. Whatever happened, he was certain, as long as they didn’t lose their nerve, they would win in the end.

“Ah, Ambassador Hikada,” he said, as he was shown into the presence of the Ambassador. “I have a proposition to put to you.”

USS Enterprise

Sea of Japan

12th May 1942

Admiral William Hasley, known as Bill to his friends and his subordinates, stared through his binoculars as the American force entered Japanese waters. It wasn’t something he was pleased about – the exact situation of America’s relationship with Japan wasn’t clear – but he was confident that his force could chase off any Japanese fleet, if the remainder of the Japanese fleet dared to come out to fight.

“Keep the combat air patrol up anyway,” he ordered. The little radios that had been designed by the British and mass-produced by American factories were delights; he could coordinate entire carrier wings with ease. The six fleet carriers of the fleet could put up four hundred aircraft between them, each one a brand-new Hellcat fighter flown by a skilled pilot.

“Yes, Admiral,” the duty officer said. Enterprise launched a squadron of Hellcats even as the Admiral watched, a manoeuvre that had been practiced time and time again at Pearl Harbour, when the fleet was being prepared for departure. “Should we launch one of the AEW aircraft from Wasp?”

Hasley turned his binoculars to glare at the older carrier, USS Wasp. Unlike her six comrades, the older carrier wasn’t fit for fleet action – and Hasley firmly believed in the new carrier doctrine that his other self had pioneered – and instead she carried the 1st Marine Division, which wasn’t a real division any longer. Instead, it was a helicopter force, one capable of engaging any target from the air. He grinned suddenly; one of the aircraft carried a powerful radar that was far more capable than anything the Enterprise carried.

“I think that would be a good idea,” he said. “My complements to General Vandegrift and ask him to dispatch the helicopter.”

He didn’t speak to Major General Vandegrift personally. They didn’t get on. Instead, he studied the latest in orbital reconnaissance; if the Russians knew they were coming, they weren’t doing anything to get ready to meet them. He frowned; Vladivostok was not an easy place to attack under normal circumstances, which was why he wasn’t going to attack it directly, even with the large force under his command. Instead, they would land at Nakhodka, and then march to surround the city-port.

“Ah, Admiral,” Captain Thompson said. He waved a hand at the borrowed British radar system. “I think we have a problem.”

Hasley looked at the display and swore. “Is that a glitch?” He asked. “I never trusted those systems…”

“No, sir,” the radar operator said. “They’re real.”

For a long moment, Hasley’s mind refused to accept them; nearly a thousand aircraft heading from Japan, directly for the fleet. They couldn’t be real; no one in their right mind would launch a fleet like that, would they?”

“Sound battle stations,” he said. The alarms started to ring. “Get the planes off the decks, now!”

* * *

Flying officer Shinto wasn’t used to his aircraft. The modified Zero was a new design, supposed to be capable of matching the British aircraft. Shinto, who’d seen the British aircraft, knew better, but it was a honour to die for the Emperor – one that he’d been forbidden. As one of a handful of survivors from the Dutch East Indies, one of the most experienced pilots that Japan had left, Shinto had been forbidden to crash into any American ship.

Shinto clenched his teeth as he saw the American planes ahead of him. His mission was to keep them off the suicide units, which were loaded with explosive and too heavy to manoeuvre well, and to fight as long as he could. He pulled a lever, dropping the extra fuel tank – hopefully landing on top of an American ship – and swooped around into the battle.

An American plane appeared in his sights and he fired. It wiggled away before he could confirm he’d hit it, but he was certain that he had. The sight of another American plane going for a kamikaze unit caught his attention, and he swooped down on top of it, firing a long burst into its tail. He blinked; it was still flying!

“What in the name of…”

It wasn’t a thought he was destined to complete. The Hellcat he’d fired upon had better armour than any Japanese aircraft. It flipped around and spiralled towards the ground in a controlled dive… and one of its wingmen fired directly into Shinto’s aircraft. His last thought was puzzlement; how could he die so easily?

* * *

The radar operator had given up trying to track the battle, but it was very clear what the Japanese were trying to do. They swarmed down on the American ships, targeting the battleships and the carriers, trying to crash into them. The explosions that marked their deaths proved that they were carrying high explosive loads.

Admiral William Hasley tried to look calm as the Japanese swarm closed in on the American fleet. The radar-guided guns on the destroyers and battleships were firing constantly, swatting the Japanese out of the sky, as a force of Japanese craft slammed into the battleship USS Washington and the heavy cruiser USS Chicago. The Washington shuddered as explosions blasted up from her port side; the Chicago wasn’t so lucky, she rolled over and sank.

“They’re not trained very well, are they?” He asked his aide, who nodded. He knew that there was nothing he could do; he kept his face calm, whatever it cost him. The Japanese pilots were inexperienced and it showed; they kept making suicidal runs into the massed fire of the American ships.

“No, sir,” the aide said. “Permission to wet myself, sir?”

Hasley snorted at the mild joke. “No, Tom,” he said. “You have to remain calm.”

As quickly as it had begun, the attack ended. The skies were suddenly clear; the only planes in the air were American. “Report,” Hasley snapped. “What did we lose?”

“Four destroyers, two transports and the Chicago,” the radar operator said. “Their IFF signals are gone.”

Hasley nodded. “How long until we hit the target?” He asked. “Can we afford to run the gauntlet again?”

He waited while the staff added up the numbers. He wasn’t scared; the problem was that each battle cost them supplies and ammunition. At some point, they would have to abandon the attempt to seize Vladivostok… and the Soviets would know that they were coming.

“Seventeen hours,” he said finally. “I think we can make it in time for the original invasion plan.”

He smiled. “Ask the British to slam a few missiles into Japan’s airbases, would you?” He said. “I think we’re at war with them now.”

Near Nakhodka, Russia

9th May 1942

No more suicidal Japanese attacks threatened the fleet; rumour had it that bad weather had forced the Japanese to remain on the ground. The darkness of the morning was broken by flickering lights; the Russians didn’t seem to have worried too much about security. Drifting mist made visibility difficult, even through the best British equipment, but Admiral Hasley was determined to go ahead.

“I don’t like it,” Flying Officer Radcliff protested. The small British pilot had been volunteered for the invasion force and he didn’t like it at all. “Why haven’t they bothered with black-out?”

“I haven’t the foggiest,” Captain Caddell said cheerfully. The Russians had set up a large gun platform on the beach; the helicopters were to take them out before the Marines could land. “Is your plane ready to go?”

“It’s a helicopter,” Radcliff protested angrily. “Yes, it’s ready; I’m not one of those people who don’t bother to do basic maintenance.”

The group of British pilots muttered agreement. The Wasp had a large number of British pilots. “Then, everyone aboard,” Captain Caddell snapped. “Move it!”

Private Max Shepherd followed the team into the first helicopter. Two accidents, one of them lethal, had convinced everyone to take very good care of the helicopters, particularly when their rotor blades were spinning. Without waiting for orders, the pilot took the helicopter into the sky, heading around the Russian position.

“I’m not reading any radar,” he said. “There are traces from Vladivostok itself, but…”

“Can it see us?” Captain Caddell snapped. “Do they know we’re coming?”

“They can hear us,” Radcliff pointed out dryly. “No, sir; those radars aren’t powerful enough to get a signal to us, and then back again.”

Shepherd tuned them out, watching as the grey sea gave way to land. The Russian lands were nothing like as attractive as Norway had been, even in the semi-darkness. They seemed to be all rocky and desolate. He wanted to sleep, but he didn’t dare; instead he focused on the mission.

The helicopter sat down with a bump. “Everyone out, now,” Captain Caddell snapped. “Pilot, take off and don’t spare the horses…”

“I think it’s too late for anything clever,” Radcliff said. “The Russians have seen us; they’re sending a cluster of tanks to investigate.”

“Bastards,” Captain Caddell said. “Deploy into tank positions, now!”

Shepherd cursed and moved with the others, reaching for his bazooka, the new improved version. They were on top of a small hill, staring into the semi-darkness. The growing light of dawn was challenging the mist, but visibility wasn’t good at all.

“There,” one of the Marines shouted. Four Marines fired at once, slamming bazooka rounds into a Russian tank, which exploded in a blast of white-hot fire.

“Spread out, kill them,” Captain Caddell snapped. One of the helicopters risked life and limb by swinging out over the enemy tanks, unleashing a burst of rocket fire into their ranks. They exploded in a sequence that was awesome and horrifying.

“We have to move on,” Sergeant Pike said. The Marines advanced at a run, heading down towards the enemy position. The Russians fought like mad bastards, but the loss of their tanks had stunned them, and they died in place.

“Take the guns,” Captain Caddell ordered sharply. “We have to take the bastards out of play, quickly!”

* * *

General Vandegrift allowed himself a sigh of relief as the Russian guns fell silent. The transport ships of the Marine force, carrying infantry and light tanks, were launched, heading into the Nakhodka harbour without a care in the world. The tiny town seemed to have been half-abandoned; the handful of fishermen were rounded up quickly.

“I don’t like this,” he muttered, as the landing ship grounded, releasing another hundred Marines onto Russian soil. “They could have challenged us with far more tanks than they did; a bit more alertness and they might have wiped out the helicopter force.”

Major Barton, the British observer, shrugged. “Perhaps they saw you coming,” he said. “Incidentally, forces from the Philippines bombed Japan with B-29 bombers.”

“That’s good news, I suppose,” General Vandegrift said crossly. “I wish we had better air cover here.”

“They’re busy elsewhere,” Barton said, as planes from Wasp – the helicopters – roamed overhead. “Vladivostok has ships that need to be taken out, and they have airfields close by, you know.”

“I knew that,” General Vandegrift snapped. British condensation always annoyed him. “I have every confidence that Admiral ugly-buttocks” – Barton bit off a laugh – “can handle the Russian flyboys. However, I have professional experience that tells me that something is wrong here.”

Barton frowned. “We have a complete satellite download, all hours of the day or your money back,” he said. “If they’re planning to launch an attack on us, where are they?”

General Vandegrift frowned, considering the question. “They’re supposed to be good at camouflage,” he said finally. “Even if they knew we were coming, it would have required precognition to know where we would land.” He scowled grimly. “Are you confident that your systems cannot be fooled?”

“Not with anything the Russians have,” Barton said confidently. “They should be trying to shove us back into the sea now, except that they’re not.”

General Vandegrift nodded gloomily. “I wish I could disagree with you,” he said. “Doctrine says that attacking a landing force as soon as possible is the correct course of action. I assume that they read your history books” – Barton shrugged – “so they’ll know that as well as we do.”

Barton cursed suddenly. “They know some of our advantages,” he said. “They know – or believe – that we have precision weapons with us. They know that we’ll see them on the ground, so they don’t attempt to attack us, but instead to drag us into a fight for Vladivostok itself. We have to take the city as soon as possible; it’s a threat to our supply lines. They know that… and so they hope to break us in the city.”

General Vandegrift smiled wryly at the ‘us.’ “I still don’t think that’s right,” he said. “I’m going to continue bringing the force over, and I’m going to deploy scouts around, just to make certain that there are no Russians close enough to observe us. Once we have the entire force on land, we can advance to seal off Vladivostok.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Fight To The End

Vladivostok, Russia

9th May 1942

General Iosif Apanasenko, Commander of the Far Eastern Military District, watched in awe as the battleships duelled with his heavy guns. He’d long prepared for an attack on his fortress – although he had expected to have to meet a Japanese attack – and watching the dual was fascinating. The battleships were so far away that they could only be glimpsed briefly in the mist by the yellow flashes of their main guns, which, minutes later, would deposit a massive blast onto his positions. In return, the arrays of heavy guns would fire back, attempting to hit their tormentors.

Apanasenko allowed himself a smile. He’d read the information on the capabilities of the future with considerable interest and one thing was clear; their technology didn’t make them invincible. They had been beaten before by Soviet forces, and they could be again. He had nearly five hundred thousand ethnic Russians under his command, and he knew that they were tough enough – and expendable enough – to be used to win the great victory Stalin wanted.

He picked up the field telephone without bothering to dial a number. “Comrade Rakba,” he ordered. “Order the bombers to launch at once.”

* * *

The American bombers had been kept busy bombing Vladivostok itself, rather than the airfields which lay nearby; only a handful of bombing raids had been mounted on the airfield. A cunning camouflage system had made the damage look more impressive than it really was. The Red Falcons, one of the elite formations that hadn’t had its reputation – and its flight crew – wrecked in Iran, remained fairly intact. They had trained hard for aerial combat, and they were commanded by the skilled Colonel Gubnasha.

“Any ships you see are ours,” Gubnasha informed his flight crew, as they rose above the land. “All our ships have been withdrawn, or so the good general has informed us.”

The crew didn’t comment on what they were certain was a lie. The pounding Vladivostok had taken made it unlikely that anything had survived in fit state to go to sea. The facilities at Nadhodka – which hadn’t had any ships stationed there – had been captured by the enemy.

Gubnasha led his crews out over the sea. Ahead of him, he could see the American fleet in the strange half-light. “Forward, my falcons,” he cried, and opened the bomb bays.

* * *

Admiral Halsey was actually relieved when his radars picked up the Japanese swarm; they weren’t trying to dive bomb his ships. Instead, they were trying to bomb from high attitude, something that wasn’t very accurate at the best of times.

”Open fire,” he snapped, as the Russians closed in. The Combat Air Patrol was already engaging; the Hellcats were slashing away at the Russian planes. He watched through his binoculars – there was no longer any point in trying to give orders – as the fighters duelled it out; the Russians had worse equipment and clearly their pilots were not as skilled, but lord, were they brave. He watched grimly as a battered YAK rammed a Hellcat, both planes exploding and falling to the ground.

“The destroyers are doing well,” his aide said. Halsey nodded; the Russians were now attempting to come down for torpedoes – or perhaps to try to bomb from low attitude. The radar-guided guns on the destroyers lashed out, sweeping them from the skies, but they came on and on.

“Sir, Saratoga’s been hit,” Commander Ajax snapped. Halsey swung round quickly, just in time to see a massive explosion rippling through the carrier and blasting her out of the water. She sank rapidly; if there were any survivors, he didn’t see them.

“Raise General Vandegrift,” he snapped. “What is the current status of the landings?”

“Aye, sir,” his aide snapped, and headed off to the radar room. Halsey scowled; the Russians were showing no sign of breaking off, despite the horrific casualties. A nasty thought developed in his mind… might the entire attack be a diversion?

“Sir, General Vandegrift reports that his corps is under heavy attack,” his aide panted. He had run across the bridge; a breach in protocol that many other admirals would have censured him for committing, even in the heat of a battle. “He urgently requests air cover and battleship support.”

“Fuck,” Halsey swore. “Helm, pull us out of here, back to the landing zone. Vladivostok will have to wait.”

* * *

Gubnasha laughed aloud from the sheer pressure of the dogfight. The Russians were fighting well, even if they didn’t have quite the manoeuvrability of the American planes. They’d hit several big ships, he was certain, and he’d seen one of their carriers explode. He grinned; one day the Rodina would build ships like that and carry the red flag to the four corners of the world.

“They’re leaving,” he said. The American ships were pulling back, running from the battle. It made sense, he knew; the dogfight – which hadn’t lasted that long – had to be burning through their pilots as much as it was burning through his. An American plane lanced past his command aircraft; he saw the gunner fire at it – and miss.

“Shoot better next time,” he called, and settled down to watching the Americans leave. They were moving quite fast, and he knew that pursuit would be futile. “Call the planes back to the base,” he ordered. He never saw the American Hellcat that was just below the command aircraft, or the line of bullets it poured into his craft. Gubnasha died, smiling and unaware to the last, dreaming of his triumph.

* * *

General Vandegrift had known that things were going too well, but even the experienced Marines hadn’t been able to find the observer, hidden as he was under the ruins of a T-34 tank that looked as if it had been bombed from the air. American search parties had passed close to him, but none of them had seen him, or the cable that linked him to the command post further north.

“Comrade, the Americans are landing now,” he muttered. They’d secured Nadhodka, but the observer had expected them to do that. Now they had been building up their forces, using the small port to land directly. Other boats moved forwards and backwards from the landing force, carrying men and supplies to the beach. He muttered in envy; one of them was clearly a medical ship. The Red Army had nothing like that.

“Understood, Comrade,” the Colonel commanding the force said. “The Red Army Force is on its way.”

* * *

General Vandegrift had fought, argued and cajoled through every committee and sub-committee in Washington for the loan of one of the priceless British mobile radars, attached to a large number of batteries of mobile machine guns. They would be needed, he argued, and eventually President Truman had ruled that he could have a set.

“General, they’re coming,” the operator said. “Nearly a thousand aircraft.”

“Open fire,” General Vandegrift snapped.

“They’re not in range yet,” the operator said calmly. The batteries had been distributed around the landing zone, and now the port of Nadhodka. “They’ll be in range in three minutes. Designating targets now.”

“Just sweep them out of the skies,” General Vandegrift ordered, as the noise of Russian engines drew closer. “When can we fire?”

“Now,” the operator said, as a black cloud of planes appeared over the hills. The guns started to chatter, firing short bursts seemingly randomly. General Vandegrift looked up, to see Russian planes exploding and falling out of the sky, but there were so many of them.

“Take cover,” he bellowed. Many of the Marines had already done so without orders. “Everyone get down!”

The Russian planes swooped overhead, bombing with a viciousness that General Vandegrift had never seen before, targeting ships and Marine transports alike. The chain of explosions lashed out at him, but the machine guns kept firing, sweeping Russians from the sky. The operator threw himself down beside him, gasping for breath.

“We’ve lost two of the batteries,” he said, trying to remain calm. “Shit, its worse than Dover.”

“Yes, they battered you pretty hard then,” General Vandegrift said, who had seen the reports. He didn’t understand why the 2015 British hadn’t had bomb shelters or a clear plan for a massive air raid. “Are our own aircraft trying to engage?”

The operator nodded. “I think so,” he said. “There were certainly IFF-equipped contacts coming back. The problem is, sir; what happens when they run out of ammunition?”

“We are dependent on Halsey,” General Vandegrift said, with an inflection that suggested that he would have sooner asked Old Scratch himself. “The flyboys had better live up to their egos.”

As suddenly as it had begun, the attack ended. The operator pulled himself up and staggered back over to the radar system. “We seem to have chased them off,” he said. General Vandegrift nodded. “Satellite imagery is tracking them back to their airfields… empty patches of ground?”

“Bastards are very good at camouflage,” General Vandegrift muttered. He studied his map. “About two miles from here; we’d better get moving.”

The operator blinked. “Don’t you want reinforcements?”

“We have ten thousand men on the ground and two hundred light tanks,” General Vandegrift snapped. “This isn’t the time for waiting for the follow-up force…”

“Perhaps we don’t have time,” the operator said. “Look.”

General Vandegrift studied the display and swore. A line of Russian tanks had appeared, hundreds of them, heading towards the landing zone. A second appeared from the opposite direction, and then a third.

“We have movements all over the map,” the operator said. “I think we might be in trouble.”

“Oddly enough, I noticed,” General Vandegrift said. He grinned. “It’s time to deploy the Marines for anti-tank operations and…”

His radio buzzed. “This is Halsey,” a voice said. General Vandegrift was almost pleased to hear from him. “What do you need?”

General Vandegrift considered for a long moment. “I need you to shell the following coordinates,” he said, and nodded to the operator, who rattled them off. “There’s a shit load of enemy tanks coming our way.”

“I’ve had the orders given to the battleships, the aircraft will hammer their airbases,” Halsey said after a long moment. “The re-supply convoy from the Philippines is on its way; it should be here in a day or so.”

General Vandegrift shrugged. “Admiral, it will be decided by then, one way or the other,” he said. “What about the Japanese?”

“The British have launched some of their fuel-air missiles at their airbases,” Halsey said. “Whatever happened, it seems to have been an isolated incident.”

General Vandegrift snorted. “You can’t trust those slant-eyed sons of bitches,” he said. “Are we are war with them, or not?”

“Seems pretty clear that we are,” Halsey said. “The President hasn’t made any announcements yet, but its not like they can do much to us, is it?”

* * *

Tank Commander Kabanov loved his new tank. The JS-1 – named for the man who’d forged the Soviet Union – was far too slow and heavy to cross a bridge, but it was strong and heavily armoured, with a main gun that could blow through even future British armour. Kabanov, who knew that manufactory experts rarely knew what they were talking about, wasn’t keen to test that theory, but the British and their American allies had clearly decided to force the pace – and lay their hands on a piece of Holy Mother Russia.

“Forward,” Colonel Kagnimir snapped over the little radio, made from German designs. There was none of the jamming that rumour had placed in Iran, despite heavy denials by Radio Moscow. Kabanov hadn’t disagreed openly – he liked being alive – but he’d been very relived when Kagnimir had insisted on practicing manoeuvres without the radios.

“Incoming,” someone shouted. Kagnimir had barely time to issue a demand for more information when the shells crashed down on top of the tanks. Kabanov felt his entire tank flip over and over, coming to rest on its treads again; the rest of the brigade wasn’t so lucky. Of what had once been fifty of the most powerful tanks in their armoury, thirty had been destroyed outright, including the command tank.

Shit, I’m senior, Kabanov realised grimly. He snapped orders into the radio, knowing that another flight of shells had to be heading at them even now. His mind raced rapidly, trying to realise where the Americans had placed their guns, but he came up with nothing. Where the hell are they?

“They’re firing from the sea,” Captain Kaliman snapped. “Sir, they’re firing from battleships.”

On cue, a second round of shells exploded in their midst. Aircraft roared overhead, dumping strange fat bombs on the tanks, which exploded and released massive gouts of flame, spreading out over the tanks. The heat rose to horrifying levels… and then the third round of shells arrived. Tank Commander Kabanov wasn’t lucky again; a single shell scored a direct hit on the turret of his tank.

* * *

“Get those weapons into place,” Captain Caddell snapped. “The Russians will be on us any second now…”

“I think they’re here,” Sergeant Pike said calmly. Private Max Shepherd looked up to see a line of green tanks closing in on the Marines’ position, one that would – hopefully – force them to come at them two or three at a time. “Stand by to fire!”

A Russian tank fired, a shell that exploded against a rocky position, barely missing the anti-tank gunners. “Fire,” Captain Caddell ordered, and five rockets were launched at once, blasting through the Russian tanks. “Hold them back.”

Shit, Shepherd thought, as a wave of green-clad Russian infantry appeared over the hill, firing directly at the Marines. “They’re trying to clear us out,” he shouted.

“Pour it on,” Sergeant Pike bellowed. The burly sergeant was controlling a BAR machine gun, mounted on a tripod. He fired madly, time and time again, raking the Russians as they marched forward. They died in their hundreds, bodies ripped apart by the bullets, and they kept coming.

“Fire,” Captain Caddell ordered, and three large guns opened fire, pouring high explosive into the Russian ranks. That broke their formation as men were blown apart; peace regained as the Russians fell back in disorder, leaving hundreds of bodies behind.

“They’re coming,” Sergeant Pike said, and the entire force groaned. A hail of shells slammed into the Marine position; Shepherd realised that the Russians must have sneaked an observer forward. The blasts forced him down the hill, scattering them, as the Russians probed forwards. He un-slung his bazooka and fired a rocket at an advancing tank, which exploded, and then fell back.

“Back to the next position,” Captain Caddell shouted, trying to coordinate the retreat. It was succeeding, barely; the Marines had been hit hard and they wanted to retreat. A flight of American planes came over the hills, firing madly, and dropped bombs on the Russians; massive waves of fire cooked them in their thousands.

“Napalm,” Private Manlito said. The wave of heat reached the Marines, warming them even as they shuddered at the smell of burnt meat, and faded, leaving them in command of the battlefield.

“They can’t keep coming,” Private Buckman breathed. A handful of Russian tanks appeared; the big blocky designs. “Shit.”

“Our tanks,” someone shouted. Four American tanks were nosing forward, moving faster than the Russian tanks, but more carefully. Shepherd realised that they carried less armour and shuddered; if the tanks were hit, they were death traps. It was why he had refused to go into armour when offered the chance.

“Cover them,” Captain Caddell snapped, holding the force together by sheer force of will. “Keep the infantry off their backs.”

The Russian tankers must have seen their new opponents, for they fired at the same time. Two American tanks fired at the same time, killing their opponents before they were hit themselves. Shepherd winced as both tanks were hit and exploded, their comrades forcing them aside and pushing on.

“Cover them,” Captain Caddell snapped, as a line of Russian infantry appeared on the side of a hill. The tanks opened fire with machine guns, sweeping the Russians away, then firing at an imprudent Russian tank that had tried to sneak over the hill in the confusion. “We can hold this position!”

New life swept through the tanks as supplies arrived, carried by a handful of trucks. Shepherd moved as quickly as the other men to get new ammunition, just as new Marines arrived to stiffen the defences. The first Marines jeered at the newcomers, but no one was in the mode for a fight. Sergeant Pike glared at anyone who looked too belligerent, keeping tensions down. The Russians were advancing again – and the Marines prepared to fight to the end.

* * *

“We were luckier than we deserved to be,” General Vandegrift muttered, as the day drew to a close. It had been close; the Russians had fought with suicidal bravery, but the napalm and the battleship guns had prevented them from forcing the Marines back into the sea. Once the entire force had landed, and the aircraft replenished, they had been able to go on the attack, hammering their way though Russian positions and sealing off the landing zone from any prospect of a Russian counter-attack.

“I know,” Halsey said. The two men were standing in Enterprise’s flag officers quarters. “The reinforcements should be here soon, and then we can advance again.”

General Vandegrift nodded grimly, too tired to do much more. The Russian attack might have been broken, but small commando forces were constantly pressing against the widening perimeter of American-held territory. Instead of a quick blitzkrieg – the German word had entered the American vocabulary – against Vladivostok, they had been forced to fight for their lives against a vigorous Russian counterattack.

“We bled badly,” he said darkly, and knew that he was being unfair. Halsey had lost four large ships; a carrier, a battleship and two cruisers. Even with the extra ships now steaming towards them, he knew that it had been tough and as close to a disaster as it could be without actually being one.

“Your men fought well,” Halsey said. “The satellites reveal that the Russians aren’t doing too much to make a new attack force.”

“Perhaps Stalin shot the guy in charge,” General Vandegrift injected.

“Perhaps,” Halsey said. “So we should have time to build up and then seal off Vladivostok, then we can complete the mission.”

General Vandegrift nodded. “Any news on the British missile-launching submarine?”

“It’s supposed to be here tomorrow,” Halsey said. “It can do the hard work of cutting the railroad for us, then we’ve cut them off from the rest of the Rodina anyway.”

“I suppose,” General Vandegrift said. “We lost thousands of lives. Congress is going to have a collective heart attack.”

Halsey grinned. “Ah,” he said wryly, “just think of how that would streamline the war effort.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Closing Doors

The White House

Washington DC, USA

11th May 1942

President Truman drew in a breath as he studied the situation map. The tiny amount of ground held by American forces was expanding, he knew – soon it would have enveloped Vladivostok – but the cost had been awesome. Nearly three thousand Americans had met their deaths during the Russian counterattack – and that didn’t count the Navy losses.

“They knew we were coming,” General Vandegrift had said, and Truman saw no reason to disbelieve him. The Russians had prepared well for the defence; their only mistake seemed to have been to have assumed that the Americans would have tried to land directly into Vladivostok, giving the Marines just enough time to set up their defences. If the Russians had begun their counterattack as they had planned – within moments of the invasion force landing – the Marines would have been annihilated.

“Congress is howling like a stuck pig,” he commented. The Cabinet said nothing. “Can we still take Vladivostok?”

“Yes,” General Bradley said firmly. “The expansion is proceeding reasonably well now; the anti-tank rockets have proven to be a blessing. The new shells for the light Marine tanks have been very destructive; our tanks are faster than theirs and can kill them quicker than they can kill us.”

“Our supply lines are still being threatened by the Japanese,” Truman said. The Japanese attack had come as a total shock to everyone; no one had expected the Japanese to risk adding a second enemy to their list when they were clearly losing the war. “Can we punch through?”

All eyes turned to Admiral King, who scowled at them all. “Mr President, the Japanese do not have any carriers left, and they only have one battleship. This new tactic of ramming our ships is unpleasant, but we’ve sent the new radar-guided destroyers up to escort our units and the British have provided escorts as well. As long as we are careful, we can keep clear of the Japanese aircraft and mow them out of the skies should they dare to attack us.”

“And we’ve bombed them?” Truman asked. “We’re at war?”

Bradley nodded grimly. “We used the B-29’s on the Philippines to bomb them in revenge,” he said. “We don’t understand what promoted the attack.”

“Perhaps they thought that Wild Bull was British,” General Palter said. The future American would never be allowed to command in action again; he knew too much. As an officer of the USAF – which didn’t exist yet and never would if the Army and the Navy had their way – no one was quite certain what to do with him. “They might just have attacked us by accident.”

“They’re allied to Uncle Joe Stalin,” Bradley said. “I think its pretty clear that they intended to fight the war against us as well, no matter how crazy that seems.”

Truman sighed. He knew that the British weren’t eager to launch a major invasion of Japan and he couldn’t fault them, not after the near-defeat at Vladivostok. On the other hand, the war had suddenly expanded, and there seemed to be no explanation for it.

“Did the Japanese Ambassador have anything to say?” He asked finally. “Like a declaration of war?”

Henry Lewis Stimson, Secretary of War, shook his head. “Cordell Hull went to their Embassy yesterday,” he said. “They didn’t have the slightest idea that anything was up. None of our communication interceptions suggested that… this would happen.” He snorted. “They want to stay here,” he said. “They don’t want to face something back home.”

“Odd,” Truman said. He dismissed the thought. “What about the preparations for Europe, then?”

“We’re moving along the proper timescale,” Stimson said. “We can make the launch date.”

Truman nodded. “And the British have accepted our overall commander, with one of theirs in the main command role,” he said. “That should be good for us, whatever the outcome.”

“Politically, it would be good for us either way,” Bradley said. Truman, who knew that Bradley was a political general as well as a capable combat commander, nodded. A win would be credited to Eisenhower; a defeat could be blamed on Flynn. “However, the opening moves of the invasion would be a British operation. The potential for total disaster is low.”

Truman nodded. The British had war-gamed the entire battle. At worst, if the opening stages failed, only the first strike force – three thousand men – would be lost. A partial success – assuming that the Germans managed to bottle them up – could be developed into a real offensive or as an abscess on the German behind, depending on the entire situation.

He glanced up at Stimson. “What about the bombing offensive?”

“It’s been a partial success,” Stimson admitted. “The Germans have been careful about attempting to engage us, now that we’ve linked the bomber force’s defence weapons into the radar’s they carry. However, the Germans have been having some limited success at homing in on the radar, so…

“Unfortunately, they have not succeeded in crippling Germany,” he continued. “The Germans have been deploying more of their anti-aircraft rockets and radar-guided guns, hammering back at us. However, I can safely say that they think we’re concentrating on France.”

Truman looked around the room. “We, Cordell, and a handful of people in Britain are the only ones who know about the real target,” he said. He knew that he was repeating himself; he didn’t care. “That has to remain a secret.”

Stimson scowled. “I must remind you of General Stillwell’s comments on the subject,” he said. “Without knowing the real target, there is a limit to how much training we can do.”

“And if the Germans move several divisions and park them on top of the landing zone, we lose our best chance to end the war this year,” Truman replied. “Secrecy is of the essence.”

Ambassador King cleared his throat. “What about the racial mix-up of the divisions moving to Britain?”

Stimson gave him a cross look. “Roughly one-fourth black,” he said. “Relations have been surprisingly peaceful; the training schedule was devised by Stillwell to force them to work together or fail. As to how well they’ll hold up in combat… well, we’ll see.”

Truman nodded. “Before we close, what about the news from General Groves?”

Stimson smiled. “We will have a working model of an atomic device within a month,” he said. “The device, code-named Shockwave, will be ready for deployment approximately a week after the invasion of Europe.”

Ambassador King lifted an eyebrow. “Are you not going to test it?”

“It’s the same design as was used in the original history, according to Groves,” Stimson said. “The British might be unwilling to use their most terrible weapons, but are we?”

Future Embassy

Washington DC, USA

11th May 1942

Ambassador King had never lied to the President before. When Truman had asked him if there had been any further news about Hoover – neither the OSS nor the FBI having been able to find any trace of him – he’d said that there had been no sign of him. He’d lied; Oliver’s tip-off had revealed Hoover’s hiding place, the problem was to decide what to do with him.

“As I see it, we have to take him into custody,” he explained. The other members of his little group – General Palter and Captain Robinson – blinked in unison. The aging former base commander and the former Marine made an odd contrast. “We need the files he has stashed away.”

“For further influencing politics,” Robinson said. “A question; how does that make us any better than him?”

It was a good question, King conceded. Unfortunately, the world they’d grown up in was gone, destroyed by the Transition. Hoover, who didn’t know when to give up, was worming his way back into power. He’d been the one who’d tipped off the Germans to the Vladivostok invasion – and no one knew if he might be able to influence someone who knew the real target of the coming invasion.

“It doesn’t,” he said frankly. “However, we know what the nation went through, just to reach the semblance of equality we had in 2015; we know the race violence, we know the inner cities, we know how people with our colour were bribed into supporting very bad policies.”

“Speaking as someone with white skin, we do have other concerns,” Palter injected dryly. “Gun control, the abortion movement… we can reshape America with that sort of power.”

Robinson nodded grimly. “I assume that we cannot ask the local police for assistance,” he said. “Just us, then?”

“Just your small team, yes,” King said. He’d thought about asking Oliver for help, but had decided against it; he didn’t know what Oliver’s involvement with the entire matter actually was. “I assume that the site has been under observation?”

Robinson smiled. “Only his boyfriend and the housekeeper, Mrs Cosmopolitan, have been going in and out,” he said. “Captain Bosco has been keeping watch; the only occupant half the time is Hoover himself.”

King nodded. “Let’s roll,” he said. “We move in, arrest the housekeeper and Hoover himself, get our hands on the files and… well, we can dump him somewhere.”

“Why now?” Palter asked. “He has provided the Germans with the fake information.”

“And how long will it be before they discover the truth?” King asked. “We have to move now, quickly. If they suspect, the worst that will happen is that they won’t know exactly where the invasion is coming in to land.”

He scowled as the small team headed for their car. It wasn’t a brilliant plan, but it was the best that they could do, under the circumstances.

Safe House

Washington DC, USA

11th May 1942

Captain Bosco was hidden inside a house opposite Hoover’s, having spent the better part of a day rigging up surveillance sensors under cover of darkness and the uniform of a roof-repair man. He checked the sensors one last time before coming to meet General Palter; the housekeeper had gone out ten minutes ago. From the bug he’d attached to her car – one of the latest models – she was on the other side of Washington.

“She’s something in the city, or more accurately related to something in the city,” he’d explained, having solved the problem of why she had the car in the first place. The surveillance equipment Ambassador King had obtained – he didn’t know where he might have gotten his hands on prohibited technology – was perfect for the task at hand.

“Hopefully, she’ll stay away long enough for us to do this,” Palter said. “Can I bring the team in?”

Bosco checked the other little devices he’d scattered around. “All of the telephone lines go through a single point,” he said. “Call me when you’re ready and I’ll cut them all off with the flick of a switch.”

Palter nodded. “What about gay-boy Tolson?”

“I don’t know,” Bosco said. “He was last here two days ago. I think he might have left Washington; the bug on his car hasn’t re-entered my range.”

“Good thinking,” Palter said. “Get ready to move on my command.”

* * *

Ambassador King’s face was well known, too well known even in a region that had people who’d never seen a black man and believed them to be legends, or lies told to explain how evil people from down south were. He stayed back as the two former Marines headed up the driveway to the door, and neatly picked the lock, stepping inside with weapons drawn. Robinson, his face half-hidden by a hood, followed them.

“Come on inside,” he said, after a long moment. “The water’s fine.”

King snorted and followed him, stepping into a simple townhouse. It wasn’t very large, and it had tacky decorations on the walls, but it was comfortable. The smell of cigarettes hung in the air, one of the worst tobacco blends. He made a mental note to propose legislation against tobacco firms, before stepping into the cellar.

“Good evening, Mr Hoover,” he said, his voice firm. All of the experience in dealing with two Presidents and countless foreign ambassadors kept his voice calm. Hoover had been living in a dump, but he’d clearly been trying to clean up his act. An exercise machine – a modern exercise machine – sat against one wall; a computer was placed precariously on a table.

Hoover made an incoherent sound. “It’s over,” King said. “You betrayed your country in the worst way possible. What did the Nazi officer offer you?”

“I have friends and allies,” Hanover snapped. His voice was dull; he hadn’t used it properly for a long time. Just for a moment, King had an inkling of what his life must have been like, to have had his career ruined by whispers from the future. “You won’t get away with this.”

King’s flicker of sympathy faded grimly into cold anger. “You betrayed the entire country,” he said. “What’s your excuse?”

“I would have taken us back into isolation,” Hoover said. “We would have fixed the country while the Germans and the British battered one another into nothing. Your people would have been exterminated, Ambassador from a shadow world…”

King shook his head sadly. “You’re mad,” he said, almost gently. “You’ve been reduced to living in squalor, instead of that famous restaurant you used to enjoy. No wonder you’ve lost your mind, or do you think you could have run America from this room?”

“I would have saved America,” Hoover said. “Is it worth it, Ambassador?”

“You’re delusional,” King said coldly. He was riding a torrent of emotion. Pity. Shame. Anger. Amusement. How could he describe it to himself? “You fell, Hoover, you gambled and you lost. What right had you to seek to decide America’s future?”

“You do the same thing,” Hoover said. “What are you going to do with me?”

Robinson spoke, his voice cold and clear. “We’re going to take you somewhere safe,” he said. “Once you’re there, you will tell us all of your secrets.”

“No,” Hoover said. His smile might have been intended to be sly. “I know all of my secrets and I won’t tell you any of them.”

“Bring him,” Robinson said. “Ambassador, are you all right?”

“It’s always hard to gaze into the face of a defeated enemy,” King said. He stared around the room. “We’ll have to destroy this place, of course.”

Robinson nodded. He brought out his bag and started to unload thermal grenades. “We won, and it feels more as if we lost,” he said. “Does that happen a lot?”

“To lose is to win, and to win is to lose,” King quoted. It was then that the shooting started.

* * *

The man on the motorcycle was impressed with his new toys, impressed enough to perform a long-term job for his master. The instructions had been simple; wait in a building for the orders, watch the cameras carefully… and when a certain man leaves the house, kill him.

It hadn’t taken him long to realise that the raid on the house was the moment for action. Taking the mobile system with him and sealing the house for his later residence, he mounted his motorcycle and rode off, heading through Washington to the correct location, one specified by his master. It was the only place that he would be unobserved, the only place where there would be no record of him.

Now, he thought, and powered up the bike. A final check showed three men leaving the house, two of them escorting a third man who was very clearly Hoover. He rode onto the street, holding the special weapon in his hand, and lifted it as soon as he entered range. A quick burst of fire and Hoover fell backwards, four bullets blasting through his head. His escorts dived for cover – too stunned to think of shooting back – and the assassin rode on, taking shortcuts that few people would dare to take.

Success, he thought, and he picked up his mobile phone to make the call. “I got him,” he said.

“Well done,” said the voice on the end. Seconds later, the mobile phone exploded, along with the mobile receiver, utterly destroying the motorbike and all proof of the existence of the assassin. He died without ever knowing what had happened to him.

* * *

“Stay here,” Robinson snapped, lifting his weapon and running up the stairs. Leaving King behind, he moved as quickly as he could, but he was too late. Hoover and one of his people were lying there, dying.

“Clyde,” Hoover breathed, and died. Robinson checked his old friend, but it was clear that the bullets had killed him. They hadn’t worn body armour; they hadn’t thought that it would be needed.

“Who the hell was that?” He snapped. He picked up his phone. “Bosco? Talk to me!”

“I saw, sir,” Bosco said. “I didn’t get a good look at him. He was wearing a helmet, sir; there’s no point in trying to trace him.”

“Fuck,” Robinson swore. “Ambassador, Hoover’s dead.”

King stumbled up from the cellar. “Who could have wanted him dead and known that we were here?” He asked. “Who?”

“It could have been someone just looking out for Hoover,” Robinson suggested. “It might even have been Tolson, wanting to be rid of him.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter now,” he said. “We have to get out of here.”

* * *

The story on the Internet was stunning, but there were enough accurate details to prove that it was valid, particularly to Clyde Tolson. Hidden under the name of Clive Toadstool – a name that drew laughs, but no particular attention – he watched the television as the first camera crews reached the site, called by an anonymous phone call. Hoover’s body was taken to the city morgue, even as his house burnt to the ground. The police chief, a new appointee and one unused to interviews, spoke at length about the need to catch Tolson and unravel the rest of Hoover’s web.

“Bastard,” Tolson commented. He didn’t know how to feel; to be sad at the death of the man he had worshipped, or to be pleased at finally being free. They had argued – badly – during their time underground; how the mighty had fallen.

He studied the brochure again. Half an hour later, he presented himself at the South African Emigration Office, which had been doing good business lately. Far too many people who had been involved with the losing side of the Wet Firecracker Rebellion had gone though its doors, hoping to escape before the past caught up with them.

He smiled as the pretty assistant collected his papers and checked through them for any problems. After all the time he’d spent doing the bidding of Hoover, he was finally free.

Chapter Thirty: Dance of the Diplomats

Aldershot Army Base

United Kingdom

15th May 1942

It had been the first time that Gunter Jagar had set foot in the future Britain, a world of marvels and magic, even to a former engineering student. The train that had transported them from Dover to the British Army base ran on principles he couldn’t understand; he had badgered the guard to tell him how it worked. For a long time, he felt as if he was a curious innocent child, free from all debts and obligations.

The feeling ended when they reached the special station, which was along a private rail line that was for the military and important government business only, according to their escort. Sergeant Kettle, who’d been asked to accompany them, hadn’t said much about it, beyond the fact that the existence of a large part of the rail network was unknown to a large percentage of the population.

“How are they to know that there are more lines for any single main line than they could possibly grasp?” He’d asked, when Jagar had asked why. “They don’t understand the concept at all; to them it is all wooden railways or electric railways, but how many of them have more than a handful of trains?”

He’d begun a long story about a schoolmaster he’d had who played with modal railways, constructing one of great complexity that had awed the children, but Jagar hadn’t been paying attention. The wonders of the British countryside were nothing special to a man who’d been born in Bavaria, but the technology on view, as if it were cheap and simple, was awesome.

The train stopped in a special station, one that was hidden by woodlands, and Kettle led them along the path into a building, also half-hidden by trees. They could hear the distant, but very recognisable sounds of men training for combat, but they couldn’t see them.

“This is the servants entrance?” Rommel asked, breaking his long silence. Jagar hadn’t dared to disturb him; he’d been wrapped in contemplation during the entire train journey. “We come as common supplicants?”

“Not at all, General,” General Flynn said. Jagar flinched in alarm; they hadn’t even seen him hidden under the awning. “This is one of the little places we don’t tell the public about, just to keep the press off our doorstep.”

He led them inside, taking care to take their coats as they passed through a security barrier. “I trust that we can rely on your discretion,” he said. “This is regarded as one of the most secure places in Britain, purely because of its unknown nature. With PJHQ at Northwood and Main Building near Whitehall, the press and the pack of reporters have plenty of places to besiege.”

“This is a very Spartan building,” Rommel said. He sounded approving. “Do you entertain politicians here?”

Flynn chuckled. “Not in the slightest,” he said. “You have been brought here for a reason; Colonel Muhlenkampf can handle the task of bringing the main Bundeswehr force back to the forward base in Britain.”

Rommel lifted an eyebrow as they stepped into a big meeting room. It was comfortable, in a strange shabby way. “I was under the impression that the Bundeswehr force was not going to be allowed to come to Britain,” he said. “Have circumstances changed?”

“Yes,” General Cunningham said. Jagar studied the burly general, so different from Flynn or Rommel’s tall frame. Instinctively, he knew that Cunningham would smash through any problems, no matter what they were. “Won’t you and your aide take a seat?”

Rommel took a seat, waving Jagar to the seat next to him. Cunningham didn’t sit; he paced over to the end of the table and activated a display screen, revealing a map of Europe. Tactical icons – German, French, Italian, and Spanish – dominated the scene. A large number were grouped in France; a second group were bunched around Denmark; a third were stationed along the Soviet-German border.

“I have to inform you that this meeting is strictly under the highest security,” Cunningham said. Jagar considered their isolated rustic location and wasn’t convinced. “The invasion of Europe is planned for the 1st of June.”

Jagar gasped and felt Rommel stiffen beside him. He wasn’t sure how to think; he knew that the Nazis had to be destroyed, but at the same time he found it hard to be sanguine about a war being fought over all of Germany.

“The basic plan is simple,” Cunningham continued. “On the 1st, elements of the SAS and SBS, supported by the new trainees and paratroopers, will attempt to seize the docks in the Netherlands; hopefully expanding their control over most of the country, as far as Amsterdam and Rotterdam. They will be supported by the most intensive air attacks ever mounted, using satellite guided weapons to hammer away at the Wehrmacht and Luftwaffe units within the region. A careful program of disinformation has attempted to convince the Germans that the target is in fact Normandy.

“In the event of a success, we intend to place ten British divisions and twenty American divisions into the Netherlands during the day,” he said. The map altered to show the progression. “Again, none of the units involved know the real target, but we have trained them as best as we can for the task at hand. While we imagine that Himmler will seek to counter-attack, we have great faith in aerial interdiction; almost everything in the RAF’s and USAAF’s inventory is being turned over to the mission. As soon as our lodgement is secure, we will leave the Netherlands, and advance.”

The display changed again. “We will have to deploy some units to the West Wall, just to prevent a counter-attack from that region, but almost everything else will head directly for Berlin. We won’t attack cities directly; we’ll do what we can to seal them off and trap whatever forces remain in the cities. Once we reach Berlin, we plan to take the city and hopefully Himmler, before moving on to the east.”

“You’re talking about travelling… several hundred miles in a very short space of time,” Rommel observed. “Are you that confident in your ability to bomb everything out of your way?”

“Pretty much,” Flynn said. “Unless the Luftwaffe has made a genuine quantum leap, the worst threat will be radar-guided guns, and we have missiles designed to take them out. I won’t say that it will be easy – this is very different from the Middle East – but we can do it.”

“And then I presume that you intend to march on to Moscow,” Rommel said. “Do you have any idea of how long and difficult that would be, even if you faced no opposition?”

“Yes,” Flynn said. “In fact…”

“Other options are being explored,” Cunningham interrupted. “We’re not at liberty to discuss them. However, you may be wondering why we asked you to come here.”

Rommel smiled. “It seems as if you don’t need us,” he said. “The proud Bundeswehr force does not seem to have any role at all in events.”

Cunningham shook his head. “We understand that fighting in Germany might be difficult for many in the Bundeswehr force,” he said. “However, we have two separate missions for you, if you can undertake them.” Rommel nodded. “The first one is that we would like to have two of your Panzer divisions attached to the main force for the attack on Berlin,” Cunningham said.

Rommel nodded. “Assuming that someone with a working brain doesn’t overthrow Himmler and surrender, I think we can help. We’ll have to, just to live with ourselves afterwards.”

“The second mission is a little more complicated,” Cunningham said. “We would like you to handle police duties and accept surrenders from forces which we hope will be cut off by the advance.” He tapped the display. “The SS, we suspect, will fight to the end, but we have hopes that the regular Wehrmacht units will surrender to you, particularly under promise of good treatment. Resistance, we hope, will be minimal; the Werewolves might not fight against you.”

Rommel nodded again. Jagar frowned; the original Werewolves had been ineffectual, but many of the SS, which would form the Werewolves, regarded the Bundeswehr as traitors. Rommel’s broadcasts, on the shape of the post-war world, would not be pleasing to the SS, even if it was far more than Germany had gotten in the original timeline.

“I hope that they will not be treated harshly,” Rommel said. “It wasn’t an easy decision for me, let alone many others in the Bundeswehr.”

Cunningham nodded. “They will have to go into POW camps until we can sort out the war criminals from them,” he said. “With Ambassador Ernst Schulze organising a post-war administration for the first few years, everything should go smoothly without ever having to compromise with hardcore Nazis.”

“I have a point,” Rommel said. “There are units of the Wehrmacht near the Soviet border. If Himmler or someone else surrenders, we can expect Stalin to launch an attack against them, just to prevent them being aimed at them. What will you do about that?”

Cunningham considered. Jagar wondered if they’d realised that that would be a problem. “We would attempt to help units that had communicated their surrender to us,” he said. “However, you do understand that logistics would not be perfect?”

“Logistics are the bane of strategists,” Rommel said wryly. “They defeated the attack in the Middle East, after all.”

“We will attempt to help them,” Cunningham promised. “Do you see any other problem with the invasion plans?”

Rommel considered. “We can expect that Himmler will throw everything he has at you,” he said. “Do you have sufficient anti-aircraft firepower to hold them back from the landing zones?”

“A good point,” Flynn said. “We hope so; our radars are far better than anything they might use, and most of the bottlenecks have been overcome. Five hundred RAF fighters, nearly a thousand American Hellcats and Mustangs, and every ship will have automated anti-aircraft machine guns. It’s going to be a nightmare, but the computers can cope.”

“I hope you’re right,” Rommel said. “In the Battle of Britain, we – they – overwhelmed you by force of numbers alone.”

“It’s a different situation,” Cunningham said. “In 2015, or 1940, we expected to face attacks by handfuls of jet aircraft, assuming that we ever fought a conventional war at all. Now our defences have been adapted, the only real threat are those missiles, and they’re a pain rather than a real threat.”

Rommel smiled. “I hope you have reason to be confident,” he said. Jagar frowned inwardly; he knew that meat hooks would be the least that the Bundeswehr soldiers could expect if they lost and were captured. “Now, shall we discuss the details of the offensive?”

They started to discuss the long complex process of landing troops. Jagar was impressed with the logistics programs; they were so capable, they might have made communism work. Thousands of ships, from roll-on, roll-off ships, to car ferries to American liberty ships, had been amassed for the offensives. Thousands of tanks and nearly two hundred thousand soldiers were being prepared for the offensive, gathered at camps all over Britain.

“This will be very chancy,” Rommel said afterwards. “How are your people taking the preparations for the invasion?”

Cunningham snorted. “There is a lot of anti-German feeling now,” he said.

“That’s why you kept the Bundeswehr away from the public,” Rommel said, without resentment. Jagar admired his calm. “You don’t want an incident.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Flynn said. He sounded sincere. “Your men fought well during Redemption and the final attacks on the Russians in Iran.”

“Think nothing of it,” Rommel said. “It’s to erase the stain on Germany’s honour, not to do anything for you and your Commonwealth.”

There was an uncomfortable pause. “We understand your position,” Cunningham said finally. “Now, what about lunch?”

German Embassy

London, United Kingdom

15th May 1942

Ambassador Marcel Duchamp glowered as he walked past the police guard and entered the German embassy. It was ludicrous; the Germans were threatening all of Europe, and the German embassy was the centre of the plans for the new post-war Europe. Duchamp scowled; between the British and their… Commonwealth, there would be nothing left of the French Empire, no chance for France to develop to superpower status. Australia had seized French territory in the Pacific; Indochina would go independent – and communist, he was sure – and Algeria… the British had turned it into part of their empire.

Duchamp’s face grew even darker. He knew that elements within the French embassy had been shivering at the thought of having to deal with DeGaulle, who would have led the Free French movement. In the week since learning of their fate, he had devised plans to have DeGaulle killed and then having it blamed on the Germans, before realising that DeGaulle had vanished along with Churchill and the Britain of 1940. Petain, however, was worse; France was now a full member of the Axis of Evil… and the British were dealing with the Germans!

He glared at the German secretary as she led him into the meeting room. The British had permitted the creation of a German army – and a post-war administration under a known Eurosceptic – which would ruin France still further. There would be no socialist European Union; no attempt to prove that France was right, whatever the cost to economic growth. France would become a backwater, the Germans would regain their power within a decade.

I knew that Hanover hated the European Union, he thought bitterly, but did he have to ruin France as well? He looked up; five other ambassadors were looking back at him. Not all ambassadors had survived the trip through time, for the simple reason that they’d not been in Britain at the time; the German, French, Italian, Spanish and Ukrainian ambassadors were present in the room. Absently, he wondered what had happened to the Japanese Ambassador, the wretched Sato woman.

He scowled, directing mental vitriol at Hanover. Only the German and Ukrainian ambassadors had been directly involved in shaping the post-war world. The others… had been sidelined.

* * *

“Thank you all for coming,” Ambassador Ernst Schulze said. He glanced around the room; the French Ambassador looked as sick as a dog. “I won’t mince words; the invasion of Europe through France is about to begin.”

“They have not asked our permission for such a move,” Duchamp snapped.

“I hardly think they need it,” the Spanish Ambassador said. Relations between Spain and France had been unpleasant following the Gibraltar Incident. “It’s not as if the government of Marshal Petain recognises you.”

“I have offered to go back there and convince them to surrender,” Duchamp snapped. “The glory of France is being held down and…”

Schulze tapped the table. “That’s beside the point,” he said. “The war will end soon, either through the Allies – which only includes General Rommel’s Bundeswehr from us – marching to Berlin, or though the use of nuclear weapons. Then… what will become of our countries?”

He looked around the room. “Most of you will be aware of the agreement we have made with the Allies,” he said. “Germany, at least, will have a limited military, and certain obligations regarding war crimes. On the other hand, there will not be an onerous occupation, nor will Germany be separated into two sections. The government will have strictly limited powers, including very little control over the commercial sphere and limited taxation powers.”

He smiled. “Germany is on course for an economic boom, after the war,” he concluded. “The question is; how many of you will come with us?”

Duchamp glared at him. “They have stripped us of our empires,” he snapped. “The Americans and the British will hardly let us build a European Union…”

“Well, not on your lines, anyway,” Schulze said. Duchamp flushed angrily. “Seriously, can any of you say that losing the empires is such a bad idea?” There was silence. “I mean, come on. The French fought for years in Algeria, and you know how that ended up. Did they not do us a favour?”

There was a long silence. “That’s beside the point,” Duchamp said finally. “They had no right to decide our fate for us.”

”And that’s the point of this meeting,” Schulze said. “President Truman and Prime Minister Hanover have become very close, a partnership of equals. In addition, the British are going to turn the British Commonwealth into a genuine association, one that will create a British trade zone, one that will be dominant over a vast percentage of the Earth. The Americans, meanwhile, have picked up most of the British investments in Latin America and South America, and they have started investment designed to create… well, a modified form of the NAFTA agreement. In Africa, the nation of South Africa, while a member of the British Commonwealth, has been working towards absorbing most of the former British colonies, building an empire of considerable wealth. In those regions, we will be locked out from trade, or influence, or anything.”

He looked around the world. “Decide our fate for us?” He asked. “This world… the Americans and the British will own it.”

He pulled a curtain away from the wall with a flourish. “This is their world,” he said. “They will rule everywhere, but Europe and Russia…”

Duchamp coughed. “Where is the Russian ambassador?”

“I think he went off to see Stalin and got killed,” Schulze said dryly. He was glad that he hadn’t done anything so stupid with Hitler. “This is their world,” he said again. “Now… where in there is for us?” He paused. “I know that they will deny us a space industry for at least twenty years and no military presence in space, ever. Our nations are regarded as enemy nations; can we allow that to continue?”

He took a breath. “Most of Europe will remain free from devastation by this war,” he said. “We would have a formidable base to build from, rebuilding the economy and developing new technologies. I believe that most of you have done as I have and stockpiled books and information; we can use that information, if we work together.” He coughed. “We can no longer allow a failed experiment in central government,” he said. “We have – we must – to allow free markets and free trade, without restrictions. I suspect that our taxation powers will be limited, which will prevent bureaucraty from becoming bloated.

“If we unite Europe in a federal state like this, perhaps not openly, we might be able to ensure that we end up with a voice in the world,” he concluded. “It will take time, perhaps as long as three decades, but we can do it. Will you work with me?”

Duchamp was the first to speak. “How do you know that our governments will listen to us?” He asked. “We are not their ambassadors, after all?”

Schulze blinked at hearing such a practical question from the French Ambassador. “The British and the Americans will be needing advice on stabilising the situation, once the war is at an end,” he said. He smiled. “Now tell me; who do you think they’ll turn to for that advice?”

Chapter Thirty-One: In The Presence of Mine Enemies

Medical Research Lab

Germany

15th May 1942

Benjamin Matthews checked his appearance in the mirror of the car before fixing his SS cap firmly on his head. It was dangerous to pose as an SS man – one of the people in the manor might know all of the senior officers by sight – but he hadn’t been able to find any other way of entering the building. Stewart’s camera continued to send its signal into the skies, but there had been no sign of her.

“I’m about to go in,” he subvocalised, and drove around the bend. The two SS guards at the gate straightened up when they saw his car, one that was only used by senior officers, and saluted firmly.

“Heil Himmler,” Matthews returned. In the week he’d spent in Germany, falling into his role and working with the handful of MI6 agents already within Germany, he’d picked up the new salute and the car. The German garage had been bombed from the air, just to prevent the SS from hunting for a stolen car. “My papers, here,” he snapped, presenting them.

“Thank you, Herr Gruppenfuehrer Zimmerman,” the guard said. Matthews kept his stern look on his face; there were at least five hundred Gruppenfuehrers – Major Generals – in the SS, and it was unlikely that any one person would know all of them by sight. The real Gruppenfuehrer Zimmerman was in Bavaria; the Germans were too good at keeping records to risk including a fake Gruppenfuehrer. “Excuse me, I have to check…”

“I am here on a personal mission for the Fuhrer himself,” Matthews snapped, putting ice into his tone. His monocle glinted in his eye. “Do you imagine for a moment that anything that is important enough to call me from Bavaria can wait?”

The guard wilted under his gaze. Matthews could almost see his thoughts; the papers were perfect, the attitude was perfect, and he was a senior SS officer with the confidence of the Fuhrer himself.

“No, Herr Gruppenfuehrer Zimmerman,” the guard said finally. “Your papers seem to be in order. You may pass.”

“Heil Himmler,” Matthews snapped, and drove up the driveway. The guard had to jump out of the way to avoid being knocked down by the car. He drove up towards the manor house, careful to avoid a sigh of relief. His attempt at planting some sensors near the manor had revealed that the Germans had constructed an elaborate surveillance network around the entire estate.

“Heil Himmler,” the secretary said. Matthews looked him up and down, and then fixed his gaze on a part of his uniform that was slightly out of place. The secretary stumbled to fix it, cringing under Matthews’s gaze.

“Heil Himmler,” Matthews said. “Now you are in a fit uniform for an officer of the force devoted to protecting the Reich, explain to me why the senior officer isn’t here to meet me?”

The secretary was too stunned to sort out the inconsistency in the statement. “Herr Doctor Mengele is experimenting with the patient – our main subject – at the moment,” he said. “Shall I call him?”

“No,” Matthews said. He kept his face stern, ignoring the shiver that ran down his spine at the name of Mengele. “Lead me to him at once.”

The secretary hesitated. Matthews glared at him and he submitted. “Right this way,” he said, leading the way into the manor house. Inside, it was designed like a hospital, with clean walls and locked cells. They walked onto a set of stairs and headed down; Matthews wished he could ask more questions, but Himmler would not have sent someone out here unbriefed.

“This is the viewing chamber,” the secretary said. “I can’t take anyone into the secure chamber; you have to wait while I call him.” Matthews shrugged and wandered over to the glass window, peering into a medical surgery. A woman was bound to a table, while a short man poked over her body with a needle. He felt sick; nothing he’d seen in Saudi or Iran had prepared him for the chilling and disgusting sight.

“Herr Mengele is on his way,” the secretary said. Matthews nodded and watched as dispassionately as he could as the short man left the naked woman to bleed, heading through a series of doors. He waited for five minutes, just long enough for the secretary to get really nervous, and then Mengele stepped into the room.

“You may leave,” Mengele said, indicating the secretary. The young man didn’t argue; he was glad to be out of Matthews’s presence. “Now, what can I do for the Reichsführer?”

Matthews glared at him. “You will address him as the Fuhrer,” he said. “He is the heir to Adolf Hitler, the sainted man who made us powerful again.”

Mengele cringed. “Yes, Herr Gruppenfuehrer,” he said. “Why are you here?”

Matthews peered down at him, projecting his annoyance with the rudeness of the question. He didn’t understand why Himmler had accepted Mengele; there had to be other doctors, rather than the squalid little man. Mengele was disgusting; he could still smell blood and smells he would have preferred to have never smelled emanating from him.

“I have been ordered to obtain a report on your progress,” Matthews snapped. “What progress have you made with the subject?”

Mengele cheered up, perhaps realising that he wasn’t about to get into trouble with a senior officer of the SS. “We have taken around twenty pints of blood in total from her,” he said. “Cultivation of the supply” – he pranced in delight – “indicates a clear vulnerability to smallpox, although the Fuhrer has forbidden us to infect her or any of the other prisoners to test the theory. Development of stocks of smallpox proceeds apace; we will soon have enough for the special project.”

Matthews concealed his shock with an effort. He needn’t have bothered; Mengele was too obsessed with his own progress to care. “In addition, there are a number of curious items in her body, from a perfect contraceptive to some vaccines – we can only imagine what diseases they are intended to prevent. The contraceptive itself is remarkable; it seems to grow and multiply like a virus. We have kept some of it alive in a blood mixture, it might even be possible to literally infect people with it, particularly the subhumans of China.”

Matthews focused his mind on the here and now. There was information that was vital here. “Are you manufacturing the smallpox here?” He asked. “Is that safe for Germany?”

“Oh, of course,” Mengele said, dismissing his concerns. “It’s a strain that we have all been vaccinated against, I assure you. The Fuhrer raised similar concerns.”

“And he ordered me to check again,” Matthews said. “How long until it will be ready for deployment?”

“Maybe a week,” Mengele said. Matthews felt his heart flip over; Smallpox would wreck havoc on the British population. “The Fuhrer refused to allow us to establish duplicate factories, so we are of course limited in what we can produce.”

Matthews nearly broke character and sighed in relief. He held it in, fixing Mengele with a glare. “I have seen enough,” he said. “I trust that you have written reports?” Mengele nodded. “The head of security here will show me around, so I can inspect your security,” he said. “Then you will give me copies of your reports, and a covering letter for the Fuhrer. Include everything he needs to know.”

Mengele opened his mouth to object. Matthews glared him into silence. “The future of the Reich is at stake,” he said. “Do not defy the will of the Fuhrer.”

* * *

Matthews, confident that he’d left an impression of himself as a total bastard behind, drove away from the manor. As soon as he was half a mile away, in a nearby town, he stopped for lunch, while using his tiny transmitter to relay his findings. He read his way through Mengele’s report while eating lunch in a small café, and then he drove away into the countryside.

“Sir, I assume that you want to move in at once,” he said, after detailing the contents of Mengele’s report. “It won’t be long before they catch on to my fake credentials.”

“We’re going to have to move in,” Hanover said grimly. “I relayed your findings to PJHQ; we’re going to have to really stomp the place into the ground and you know what that means.”

Matthews looked around the countryside and shuddered. “A nuke,” he said. He knew why; only the searing heat of a nuclear warhead could guarantee the destruction of the smallpox bug.

Hanover’s voice was grim. It was a measure of the seriousness of the situation that he was handling it personally. Matthews smiled; Hanover probably missed his days when he was doing something himself, instead of just giving orders.

“Yes,” he said grimly. “There remains a second problem; could an SAS team rescue her and capture Mengele first?”

Matthews nodded silently. “Raiding the building would not be difficult,” he assured him. “It’s designed to keep out casual observers, not a full SAS assault. They could have dug an entire division in around the building, but they didn’t.”

“We would have noticed and wondered why,” Hanover said. The Prime Minister sounded tired. “PJHQ is putting the mission together now,” he said. “It will be launched in dusk, five hours away. You will meet the team on the ground and leave with them.”

“It would be a shame to leave this car,” Matthews said wryly. “Understood; will they want me to take part in the assault?”

“That’s up to the team leader,” Hanover said. “You’ll brief him on it now, and then you can plan the assault.”

“Yes, sir,” Matthews said. “I’ll wait nearby for extraction.”

Hanover snorted. “Don’t miss your flight out,” he said. “If you stay on the ground, you’ll die like Doctor Tucker.”

* * *

The Luftwaffe had abandoned any attempt to challenge the RAF or the USAAF in the night time, withdrawing from the offensive as dusk fell. The flights of bombing attacks over France and Germany continued, allowing three Eurofighters and a Tornado to slip through the German defences unobserved, completely invisible to even the naked eye, so high in the sky.

Squadron Leader Shelia Dunbar took a breath. The mission was going to be chancy enough, even for her; they would have to make certain that they managed to rendezvous with the tanker, or they would have to swim home. She knew the pilot of the tanker – she’d even spent a pleasant weekend with him in a hotel room – but his orders were specific. The tankers – and the AWACS – were not to cross over the mainland, whatever the situation.

“Let’s hope they don’t challenge us,” she muttered. The Eurofighter was handling badly, carrying two Paveway bombs on each wing rather than the missiles it would normally carry. She shuddered; she knew what the Tornado was carrying. The tactical atomic weapon would burn two square miles of the German countryside.

“You deserve it, you bastards,” she snarled. She’d seen the damage left by the V2 missiles. If there was any truth at all to the rumour about smallpox – and she’d seen that the entire RAF was being vaccinated – she wanted to use the weapon herself. She had other targets; the Germans had a handful of bases nearby, and they had to be destroyed before they could react to the commando raid.

She triggered her radio. “This is Eagle-one,” she said. “We’re in position.”

“You are clear to attack,” the controller said. “Commandos inbound now.”

She checked the target designator. For once, the bombs were being guided from satellites, rather than a spotter on the ground. The Eurofighter shuddered as the bombs fell from the plane, flying lighter as sparks of fire appeared on the ground. Against such a dark background, it was almost beautiful.

* * *

Seven CV-22 aircraft headed into Germany, flying directly from airfields in Sweden. In the lead aircraft, Captain Dwynn ran though the orders; they had been very specific, even to the point of interfering with his freedom to design his own operations. Raid this building. Rescue this woman. Secure her camera. Capture this man. Failing that, ensure that both of them are dead. Then run and don’t look back…

“Captain, we’re coming up on the landing zone,” Flying Officer Chehab reported. “Two minutes until we land.”

Dwynn nodded. He would have preferred to have inserted some distance from the target, but it was not to be; the orders had seen to that. They would be landing in a field close to the target, while the RAF would hit the outer defences of the manor house they were attacking. It was dangerous; they would be horrifyingly vulnerable if they were caught on the ground, but speed was of the essence.

“Everyone ready,” he subvocalised, preparing his team. He had twenty-one men for the operation itself, and thirty who would guard the aircraft and act as a reserve if it were to be needed. He’d wanted to use them in the attack itself, but they hadn’t trained together; another hint that the operation had been put together on the fly.

He waited until everyone had acknowledged, then the ground came up with stunning speed, the manor house silhouetted against the trees. An explosion blossomed up from within its grounds, hopefully giving them something to worry about apart from the team.

“Move it,” he shouted, as his team formed up around him. Three groups, spreading out and running through the woods. A wooden fence was jumped over; Sergeant Vash left a small explosive pack behind, just to destroy it and prevent it getting in their way when they made their escape. They kept moving, coming up on a number of Germans who were trying to repair a damaged gun.

“Die,” he shouted, firing down. The Germans were swept aside in a moment; a RPG round slammed into the main door and shattered it aside in a moment. A dull thump announced the destruction of the fence, then the team was moving inside, throwing grenades around to keep the Germans busy.

“Move,” he snapped, firing madly into a bunch of German guards. They seemed stunned; they were unprepared for the attack. A German in nightclothes was killed before he could move or jump back; Dwynn could only hope that he wasn’t the target.

“Down there,” Corporal Chang snapped, pointing at the stair leading down to the prisons. Dwynn detailed one squad to guard the stair – the only known entrance or exit – and led his force down the stairs, into the chamber of horrors. The signal was very close now; he kicked open a door to see a naked and horrifyingly bruised girl screaming in the corner.

“We’re friends,” Dwynn shouted. He tapped the British Union Jack on his shoulder. “We’re friends.”

She stopped screaming. “Come on,” Dywnn snapped. “Plummer, take her upstairs.”

“Aye, sir,” Plummer said. “Will you be fine here?”

“Move,” Dywnn snapped. Agent Matthews had located Mengele’s room for them; the evil doctor had taken a room next to his chamber of suffering. “Come on.”

He kicked down the door and the bullet caught him in the chest. It slammed into his body armour, throwing him back, but it didn’t have the impact needed to punch a hole right through his armour. Chang leapt forward and kicked the weapon out of Mengele’s hand, and then kicked the doctor in the groin.

“Ouch,” Dwynn said, rubbing his chest. “That’s him?”

“Looks like it,” Chang snapped. Mengele voided his bowels. “Yuck.”

“Bring him,” Dwynn snapped. He tossed some grenades further down the corridor to discourage the other scientists from trying anything, before running back down the corridor, covering Chang as best as he could. His chest hurt; he knew that Mengele would hurt worse.

Damn it, I hope he hurts worse, he thought, as they made it up the stairs. “Report!”

“We’re still holding here,” Sergeant Vash said. “They seem to have given up on evicting us.”

“Time to leave before they get ideas,” Dwynn snapped. He watched grimly as Mengele was neatly handcuffed and picked up effortlessly by Vash. “Move it.”

The team, minus three soldiers who had been hit and killed, moved out quickly. Plummer had to carry the reporter; she was in shock. Dwynn muttered a report into his radio as they ran through the woods and back to the planes.

“This is Big Bird,” a new voice said. “I suggest that you get out of there. The Germans are sending an armoured force into the region.”

Dwynn blinked. “What the hell do they think we’re doing?” He asked. The CV-22 aircraft appeared out of the darkness in front of him, along with an old friend. “Ben,” he said in delight. “What are you doing here, you stupid bastard? I thought you washed out and never got back in.”

“Finding targets for you,” Matthews said. Mengele looked up at Matthews and started to stammer. “Hi, doc,” Matthews said. “Aren’t you lucky you’re coming with us? Himmler won’t be happy to see you after all this, you know?”

“Get him in the plane,” Dwynn ordered sharply. “Ben, we have to get out of here.”

Matthews nodded. “No argument there,” he said, climbing into the aircraft. Moments later, the aircraft climbed into the air and ran for it, flying as high and as fast as they could. “Do you know what’s coming here?” Dywnn shook his head. “They’re going to nuke the place!”

* * *

“Eagle-one, that’s the planes out of the main blast range,” the AWACS said. “The special weapon can now be deployed.”

“Confirming target,” the Tornado pilot, Anisa Samna, said. “Weapons armed and ready to be launched.”

“Launch,” Dunbar said. She hit the afterburners, vaguely aware of the other planes doing the same thing as the nuclear bomb headed towards the ground. She closed her eyes as the bomb fell, moving faster and faster, and slammed into the house. She had seconds to wonder why it hadn’t detonated… and then a blast of white light flashed behind them.

Fuck me, she thought. The tactical nuclear weapon had been an American design, ironically intended for strikes against rogue state bioweapon manufacturing centres, and modified for the strike. It blasted its way into the bunker before detonating, then exploded, scorching the region clean of any life at all. No viruses could survive the heat of the strike; they were wiped out in seconds.

The Eurofighter shuddered as it fled the blast wave, and she felt pure terror for the first time in her life, before it steadied. A quick check revealed that the other pilots were also safe and well.

“Gentlemen and lady, we just made history,” she said. “Now, let’s get home before something else goes wrong.”

Chapter Thirty-Two: Reflections on the Eve

Ten Downing Street

London, United Kingdom

15th May 1942

Dear God, what have I done?

Hanover stood at the window as the War Cabinet filed in. They had all supported the decision, in the end, but it had been his decision to make. He shuddered; the human race had lived in mortal fear of nuclear weapons for seventy years – only one had been detonated since 1945 – and he had deployed three of them in two years. The third target…

He shook his head as the room fell quiet. The BBC hadn’t heard about it yet, but Radio Berlin was screaming about the attack, claiming that an entire city had been vaporised. It was nonsense, of course, and Hanover knew that some of the population would believe the lies. Nuclear warheads were linked up with civilian deaths; everyone knew that, didn’t they?

“Major Stirling?” Hanover asked, still staring out of the window. Stirling had been bothered about something later; Hanover had no idea what. It was a mystery on top of a whole stack of mysteries, starting with the current status of the German bioweapon program.

Stirling spoke to Hanover’s back. “The blast faded within two miles of the impact point,” he said, “with a steadily degrading damage radius after the first mile. Although its impossible to be certain, radiation should be minimal, all concentrated within the target zone. Satellite observations are far from perfect, but the blast does not seem to have caused a radioactive cloud.”

Hanover nodded slowly. “Unfortunately, a lot of German civilians seem to have panicked, because of Radio Berlin,” Stirling continued. “The German police and SS are on the streets in force, trying to prevent a mass exodus from the site, but everyone nearby who saw the blast is panicking.”

“Serves them right for trying to convince our own people that we’re barbarians,” Cunningham commented. “Did we get all of the germs?”

“We think so,” Stirling said. “Certainly, we subjected the entire place to a massive blast of pure heat, so if any survived there, it will be a dark miracle. It would have taken seconds to vaporise them all.”

“Microseconds,” Cunningham corrected pedantically.

Hanover coughed. “Does it matter?” He asked dryly. “Carry on, Major.”

“Yes, sir,” Stirling said. “Mengele, the captured doctor, swears blind that there are no other facilities, but it wouldn’t be hard for them to have several more running without him knowing about it.”

Hanover nodded. “The agent involved is to get the Victoria Cross,” he said. There was no argument. “Has Mengele told us anything else useful?”

“Apparently, he thinks he cracked the secret behind the contraceptive,” Stirling said. “Ironically, if he had been allowed to experiment, he might well have turned it into a disease and sterilised everyone. The really interesting information, however, is what Stewart’s camera was able to tell us.”

He adjusted the display. “As you know, the device stored information that we were never able to relate to anything before,” he said. “Thanks to being in emergency mood, everything was secured and stored on the camera itself, including hints as to the location of Himmler’s bunker.” He paused. “From what we asked Stewart – she’s not in good shape – Himmler seems to have dug under all of Berlin.”

Cunningham scowled. “That’s why we were never able to make sense of the transmissions we did get,” he said.

Hanover nodded. “Interesting, for the moment,” he said. “How is she?”

“We have her at RAF Lyneham for the moment,” Stirling reported. “She’s not in good shape at all; she was beaten, raped several times and then lost a lot of blood for Mengele’s experiments.” He frowned. “There is massive scarring inside her vagina; she may never be able to have children, and the Germans were clearly interested in examining the remains of the broken leg she’d had when she was twelve. Mengele was competent enough to repair the surface damage, but the bastard couldn’t be bothered to do it right.

“Mentally, she’s fighting back, which is a good thing,” Stirling concluded. “She’s working hard on trying to recover, although it will be a long time before she’s fit to go back to work. She was apparently talking earlier and wants to meet the team that saved her; she seems to think she can interview them for the BBC.”

“Baron Edmund is going to have problems with that,” Hanover observed.

Hathaway cleared her throat. “There is, of course, the minor problem of her sleeping with the enemy,” she said. “It didn’t go down well with the public; you saw the demonstrations outside the BBC buildings in London and Manchester. Parliament was debating a private member’s bill for heavy punishment of collaboration.”

Hanover frowned. The bill would have covered Oliver, and he wanted to keep Oliver alive. Oh what a tangled web we weave, he thought absently.

“Don’t you think she’s been punished enough?” Noreen asked sharply. The Asian woman knew what rape was like. “She’s been beaten and raped and came very close to being used as a Typhoid Mary.”

“Is she contagious?” Cunningham asked sharply. Stirling shook his head. “Thank god,” Cunningham said.

Hanover held up a hand sharply. “Enough,” he said. “Noreen… I think we can avoid prosecuting her; Anna, see to it.” Hathaway looked rebellious, but nodded. “It’s not a government issue or concern about what happens to her with her employment at the BBC, although if her information is useful enough… well, Baron Edmund owes us a favour.”

He smiled. “That’s not the most important matter at hand,” he said. “What about the vaccination program?”

Armin Prushank coughed. “We broke open the stockpiles of vaccine, broad-spectrum vaccine, as soon as we got the news from the agent in Germany,” he said. “So far, we’ve managed to inoculate every medical person, politician” – he rubbed his own scar absently – “police officer, fire officer and we’re moving down the list now.” He scowled. “Reaching people has been a problem; we have stockpiles of the vaccine moving out to GPs and just as quickly vanishing into people. Schools have been ordered to inoculate their children and to act as a centre for inoculating parents and older children, and of course the military was already immune.”

He shook his head. “We weren’t anything like as ready for it as we thought we were,” he said. “All the drills came to nothing when reality hit. If there’s an outbreak in the next two days, I don’t know if we can cope with it.”

“That’s the problem with drills,” Cunningham said. “They have everything… except the emergency.”

Hanover scowled. “Smallpox,” he said. “What an oversight.”

“And from the Oversight Committee too,” Prushank said. “Perhaps we need an enquiry…”

“Now hold on a minute,” General Cunningham snapped. “Who in their right mind would have imagined that even Hitler would sink so low?”

“Himmler,” Hathaway said. “It’s Himmler now.”

Hanover turned back to the table and glared around it. “We can slander each other and place the blame and clear our own names when it comes to writing our memoirs,” he said. He smiled; Spike Milligan’s Goon Show had broadcast a new version of Tales of Men’s Shirts, in which the war had begun with the British and German Generals writing their autobiographies. “We have a crisis on our hands.”

“If we manage to have most of the population inoculated, we should be safe,” Prushank said. “Then we can hold the enquiry.”

“Balls to the enquiry,” Cunningham said rudely.

“Silence,” Hanover said. The single word spread out and produced silence. “I’m due to address Parliament in” – he checked his watch – “two hours. It should prove to be a horrifying experience. One last point; Major, how is Rommel taking this?”

“He understands,” Stirling said. “He’s not happy about it.” He paused. “Sir, I took the liberty of sharing the information about Himmler’s whereabouts with him. He wants to put together a mission to capture him.”

Hanover sighed. “We need all of the special forces for the operation in the Netherlands,” he said. “Perhaps after that.”

“He wanted to use Bundeswehr infantry,” Stirling said. “He thinks they can take the bunker.”

Cunningham snorted. “They’ll be slaughtered,” he said. “They’re not trained for such a mission.”

Stirling nodded. “General Rommel is as aware of that as you are,” he said. “However, he feels that Germany has to be saved from Himmler, whatever the cost.”

“The priority is landing and securing a lodgement in the Netherlands,” Hanover said sharply. “That takes priority. After that, well we’ll see.”

“There is one other point,” Admiral Grisham said, before the meeting could break up. “Do we proceed with the operation in Japan?”

Hanover nodded. “Admiral Yamamoto swore blind that he knew nothing of their junta’s decision to attack the Americans, and I’m inclined to believe him. Seeing he’s told us where most of the airfields are, we can gamble some ships to support him.”

He sighed. “If we don’t, I think we might end up having to nuke them,” he said. “Anything is better than that.”

The Kremlin

Moscow, Russia

15th May 1942

Vladivostok held out against steadily growing American pressure. Stalin was pleased; it wasn’t the total defeat of the Americans he’d hoped for, but it was better than losing Vladivostok quickly. The Americans had surrounded the city, and were bombarding it with shells, but they had been bloodily repulsed from their attempt to seize the city directly.

“Thanks to my adroit diplomacy, we have arranged for a Japanese army to move up and relieve the city,” Stalin said. Molotov, who remembered it as his adroit diplomacy, said nothing. “We have dozens of Japanese to go visit their ancestors, and we save our own men.”

Molotov frowned. “Comrade, we have a more pressing problem,” he said. “The British deployed a nuclear device within Germany, ending the German bioweapons program.” Or at least the one they told us about, he thought coldly. “They are clearly overcoming their… scruples about using the weapons.”

Stalin shrugged. “They will not turn a weapon like that on our civilians,” he said. “If they were using them, they would have used them on Vladivostok and ended the resistance there, to say nothing of Japan.”

Molotov hesitated. “Comrade, we should talk peace,” he said.

Stalin’s voice was icy cold. “Comrade, that brought down the Tsars and the Provisional Government that followed them,” he said. “They displayed weakness at the wrong moment and we jumped on them.”

Molotov, who knew that it had been Lenin’s government that had concluded a humiliating peace, didn’t dare to mention it. “We have to solve our problems,” he said grimly. “We have not yet tapped out the manpower in Russia itself, but we now have three separate fronts to worry about; Vladivostok, Iran and Sweden. We also no longer have any advantages in tanks; the Americans have developed shells that make their tanks able to kill ours, and they have always been better with aircraft.”

He shuddered. General Iosif Apanasenko had poured the Red Air Force out like water, trying to crush the American fleet. It had failed and the casualties had been horrifying. The Americans had taken a battering, but their success at cutting the Trans-Siberian Railroad had limited what reinforcements could be sent.

“Himmler may discuss a separate peace,” he continued. “Japan may discuss such a peace; they would be insane not to at least consider the possibility. Now that Germany has faced what the British call a ‘tactical’ nuclear strike, someone may overthrow Himmler and discuss a peace with the British. The British might even demand that they join them in invading us as part of the surrender terms.”

Stalin shook his head. “Himmler will never discuss a peace agreement that will not leave him with his head,” he said. “Between the British and the Americans, no one will want to leave him alive. How can he surrender knowing that one of the surrender terms will be his head on a silver platter with an apple in his mouth?”

Molotov blinked, wondering where Stalin had learnt that phase. It wasn’t a normal Russian one, and as far as he was aware it wasn’t a Georgian one either. “Then perhaps the British will entice someone into taking power,” he said, and winced inwardly. Such a suggestion could only fuel Stalin’s paranoia. “There are Germans who don’t like him.”

“I wonder why,” Stalin said. Molotov laughed dutifully. “I am certain that we can rely on Comrade Himmler” – he chuckled heavily – “to stay in power. Now, what about the progress of our own smallpox weapons?”

Molotov shuddered. Despite a determined effort by the Communist Party, not every one of Russia’s teeming populations had been inoculated. Indeed, the use of biological weapons in Afghanistan and Central Asia had rather damaged any faith the nations – riddled with superstition as they were – might have had in Russian medical science, which was of course the finest in the world.

“Comrade, they used such a terrible weapon on the Germans, just to prevent them using such weapons,” he said. “If we manage to deploy one, what will they do to us?”

He had a dreadful vision of mushroom clouds marching from west to east across the Soviet Union, forever consigning it to the garbage can of history. The few survivors would envy the dead; they would never have the chance to live in the Worker’s Paradise.

“They would not dare to act against us,” Stalin said. “With Himmler’s help, we should have a nuclear weapon by the end of the year.”

Molotov hesitated. The attempts at building a nuclear device had come with a dreadful cost; Soviet manufacturing was not up to the standards of what was required. A leak in the Urals, a leak of radioactive material, had infected thousands with radiation poisoning; the NKVD had rounded them all up, shot them and buried them in mass graves. He shuddered; he still didn’t know if that was an accident, or deliberate German sabotage.

“We won’t have enough to prevent the British – or the Americans – from destroying us,” he said. “Why would they hold off from destroying us, one city for the entire United Soviet Socialist Republic?”

Stalin’s eyes glittered. “We will inform them that we have more devices,” he said. “We will be reasonable, Comrade; we will give them Europe, and Himmler and his men will flee to us. We will offer to make concessions, perhaps even to do the hard task of wiping the Japanese from China. But we will not surrender and we will not accept any restrictions, as long as we remain penned up.”

He grinned a toothy grin, the kind of grin that swam towards swimmers with a fin on top. “They will look at us, trapped in our desolated country, unaware that we know where all the minerals are buried, and they will leave us there. Let them deploy their bases in India, in Germany, in China; they will see nothing from us. In ten years, in twenty years, they will grow weak, and relax, and then a single hammer blow from us will bring them shattering to the ground.”

Molotov stared at him. He knew, deep in his heart, that it would not work. Stalin’s plan, to eat crow while the Allies grew lax, wouldn’t work. Truman was not Roosevelt, and Hanover didn’t rule Churchill’s England. And even if they did, the USSR itself was tottering; Trotsky was hammering away at its foundations. Not a day went by without some new outrage, and the NKVD was running around in circles.

He searched for the right words, and they didn’t come. Rebellion was seething in the Ukraine and Belarus, without even the threat of a German invasion to hold them beside Russia. Nearly half a million soldiers were deployed there, the results of the largest military build-up the world had ever seen, and they were all that was keeping the population down. Rumours – rumours that the natives would soon face the same kind of population reduction measures as the Poles had already faced – were widespread; no one believed Radio Moscow when there was Radio Free Ukraine.

“Lavrenty Pavlovich believes that he is on the verge of a breakthrough,” Stalin said, breaking into his thoughts with ease. “The discontented elements would be rounded up with ease, once he gets all the people into place. Then… we will have a peaceful Russia again.”

Molotov didn’t shake his head, but he knew that Beria was lying. One of his people worked in the new NKVD headquarters – the third they’d had since Trotsky had begun his campaign – and he’d reported that Beria was becoming more and more desperate than ever. In fact, he half-suspected that Beria was attempting to negotiate with Trotsky, although even Molotov couldn’t begin to imagine what he thought he could offer Trotsky, who’d publicly promised to hang Beria when the revolution came. The NKVD had no clues, no time, and its morale was dropping sharply.

A distant explosion echoed through the room. Stalin didn’t move; he seemed to have fallen into a rapt contemplation of Trotsky’s execution when he had caught. Molotov hesitated; should he slip out or stay? A second explosion, more distant than the first, announced yet another strike at Stalin’s regime. He sighed, very quietly.

“We will proceed at once with strikes against the continental United States,” Stalin said suddenly. Molotov jumped. “We have mass produced the long-range missiles, some of which will be hurled at America and tipped with high explosive. They will help to remind the Americans that we can hurt them.”

“The Germans have suggested other targets, based upon their satellite images,” Molotov said. “If we put the American soldiers in England out of action, we will be able to slow down their invasion of Europe.” He scowled; he knew that the missiles were almost certainly grossly unreliable. “They might be forced to give us another year to prepare our weapons and defences.”

“Indeed,” Stalin said. “Comrade Voroshilov informs me that the Stalin Line is fully ready for any challenge from the west.”

Molotov scowled. Not only was Voroshilov incompetent, he was also a liar. With all of the unrest in the western USSR, the Stalin Line might be stabbed in the back. Even with the massive fortifications around cities and industrial plants, the entire defence rested upon the tacit cooperation of the citizens.

“We will do as you suggest and add our missiles to those hitting Britain,” he said. “Perhaps a few could be hurled at America as well.” He smiled. “Comrade, we’ll come out of this stronger and the Revolution will be triumphant.”

Whose revolution? Molotov thought, but he was wise enough not to ask aloud. Stalin would not have been amused. He might even have decided to have Molotov executed in front of him. Thoughtfully, absently, Molotov began to consider other options, for his own personal survival, if nothing else.

Chapter Thirty-Three: Sunset

HIMS Musashi

Sea of Japan, Japan

16th 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

16th 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

16th 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.”

Chapter Thirty-Four: Unanswered Questions

The White House

Washington DC, USA

19th May 1942

It had taken only three days for the surrender of Imperial Japan to be finalised. General Vandegrift, who had been expecting to receive the attentions of a Japanese Army, had been astounded when it offered to surrender instead. A five-sided war had promptly broken out, between Japanese factions who wanted to surrender, Japanese factions that didn’t want to surrender, Chinese and Russian factions who wanted to seize the Japanese equipment and extract revenge, and the Americans.

Ambassador King shook his head as Truman detailed the surrender agreements. The Japanese had expected to surrender to Britain, and so America would not be contributing an occupation army. King was wryly amused; Churchill hadn’t been happy over Britain’s exclusion in the original timeline, but Truman couldn’t care less. Instead, the United States would exercise a protectorate over Korea, until some form of native government could be installed.

He frowned. That might prove difficult; the Japanese had torn up the ethnic Koreans pretty badly. Between heavily-armed Japanese settlers, the remains of the Korean people and Chinese collaborators with the Japanese, it didn’t look good for lasting peace. The rest of China wasn’t much better; some Japanese generals had even allied themselves with warlords against everyone else, and the Japanese bioweapons were still wrecking havoc.

“Odd, what happened to Hoover,” Truman said, breaking into his thoughts. “Who could have wanted to kill him?”

King assumed that the president was joking and responded lightly. “It’s not as if he had no enemies,” he said. “There are – there were – thousands of people who wanted Hoover dead, often with very good reason.”

“And this person knew when to attack,” Truman said. “The FBI doesn’t know what to make of it.”

“We weren’t the only ones observing the house, obviously,” King said, grimly realising that Truman was wondering if he had done it. “There were elements within the FBI that hated Hoover.”

“Those that survived his rule,” Truman agreed. “William Donovan suspects that the Germans did it, perhaps to keep us worrying. There’s still no sign of Hoover’s files, so they might have gone up in the fire.”

King nodded. If they hadn’t gone up in the blaze, he had no idea what had happened to them. That in itself was worrying; who might have them now. “There’s still no sign of Tolson?”

“None,” Truman said. “The state the FBI is in, it will be years before we have a working counter-intelligence service. The OSS is working to take over the operations in Latin America, where there is evidence of German subversion, but it will be years before the new network is ready.”

King nodded. He’d aided in the planning for the OSS himself. William Donovan, he was certain, had taken his advice to heart; there would be no repeat of the CIA’s disastrous failures in 2001. Building networks within Germany and Russia was the priority, and yet they were far less capable than the British of mounting operations within enemy territory.

He smiled. The BBC’s gloating over the mission to Germany, which had involved an officer using forged papers, had seemed indiscreet at first. After the first reports of Germans shooting Germans for misidentification, he understood the point; anything that disrupted German communications was worthwhile.

“Congress is getting antsy about how we don’t have a working nuclear weapon,” Truman said. “After the British struck Germany – over smallpox, of all things – questions have been raised. Groves says that they’re working at maximum speed and they’ll have one in two weeks to a month, but…”

“The British won’t use theirs on us,” King assured him. “They did warn Hitler and then Himmler about bioweapons.”

Truman shook his head. “Smallpox,” he said. “Who would have thought it?” He sighed. “How is the build-up in Britain going?”

General Palter picked up his PDA and flipped through the pages of information on the screen. “We have the best part of the force already there,” he said. “We’re currently stockpiling supplies and weapons, and then we’ll move the last few units over to Britain.”

“I trust that there is a vigorous training program going on,” Truman said. “We can’t have the troops going soft.”

“We’re running constant drills,” Palter said. “One thing is reasonably certain; the Germans have no sources within Britain itself, and certainly not within the military camps. We will seal the camps off for the last week before the invasion, and start running drills centring upon the actual invasion target.” He shook his head. “It’s not perfect, but it’ll do for the moment.”

He grinned. “As soon as the main landings begin, we can start shipping in the second set of reinforcements,” he said. “We’ll kick off a small offensive in Sweden, just to keep them looking in the wrong direction. Unfortunately, the Turks were unwilling to commit to launching a second diversion in the Balkans, even though they have staked their claim to German-occupied territory.”

“They want it, they fight for it,” Truman said. He took a breath. “Only a week or so to go,” he said. “Was it this bad in your time?”

King considered. How did one explain the media culture of 2015 to a man of 1942? How did one explain that the death of one American was considered a defeat? How did one explain that it was considered perfectly acceptable to make a few airstrikes, perhaps rattle the sabre a few times, and then back out, leaving the enemy alive in its den. How did one explain the howls of outrage that had echoed around the world every time America attempted to correct its mistakes? How did one explain the acceptance that a dictatorship was as legitimate as a democracy?

“Worse,” he said. He frowned inwardly; he hadn’t invested millions of dollars in media and publishing companies to allow America to make the same mistake twice. There would be no Vietnam syndrome here. America would be strong and free, just as she was meant to be. “Much, much worse.”

Truman smiled. “It doesn’t get any easier then,” he said. He looked up at the map; Vladivostok still held out. In 2015, the media would have been screaming for heads, and the President would have given them a few at once, starting with the commanding officer and then a handful of flunkies in the State Department.

King shook his head. Palter was wise enough not to comment. “No, Mr President,” he said. “It doesn’t get any easier.”

Camp Dependable

Near Yarmouth, United Kingdom

22nd May 1942

Captain Jackie Robinson enjoyed Camp Dependable. It was massive, open, and had perfect training grounds. The tank simulators were absolutely wonderful; they mimicked every last movement of a tank, even to destruction. The sheer processing power, as it had been explained to him, allowed them to simulate entire battles, from careful advancement to crazy charges that only worked in the movies. They might have worked in Libya, back when the Transition was new and the British were fighting on their own, but the Germans were tougher than the Italians had been.

“The invasion will begin soon,” General Stillwell informed his captains, two weeks after they had arrived at Camp Dependable. “In three days, we will be sealing this camp and concentrating exclusively on training.”

There was a collective groan. The training had been so intense that men were dreaming about German tanks attacking their positions. Stilwell scowled at them, gaining silence after a few moments.

“We have to train as if we’re going to be fighting tomorrow,” he said. Robinson lifted an eyebrow; were they going to fight tomorrow? Of course not, he concluded. Stillwell continued. “You have been granted two days of liberty,” he said. “I expect you to conduct yourselves accordingly.”

The Captains filed out and reported to their units, passing the news down the line. Two days of leave made up for a lot, but it was clearly a warning that the war was going to begin soon. At least, their part of the war.

“American forces engaged Soviet forces in Sweden today in what has been called a desperate attempt to evict them before the terrain becomes too cold for further advance,” the BBC reporter said. Robinson paused to watch; most of the news meant nothing to him, but the reporter was worth looking at. Her blonde hair and open cleavage suggested a wantonness that was appealing.

“In further news,” the reporter, who was identified as CHARLENE, continued, “American forces were repulsed from yet another attempt to take Vladivostok. Although the Ministry of Defence hasn’t commented, sources within the foreign ministry have suggested that the surrendered Japanese troops took part in the operation, attacking the Russians beside Americans.”

“That’s probably why the attack failed,” Captain O’Neil said. The bluff Irish-American had never looked at just his skin colour, even though their units were rivals. “You can’t trust the Japanese to turn on their allies.”

“We only have one ally here,” Robinson pointed out. “The British. The French have been sucking German cock.”

“I’d like to have her sucking my cock,” O’Neil said, waving a hand at the TV. Robinson snorted; the first year of the American Internet had provoked outcry, just from all of the blue movies on it. A year later, following Hoover’s rebellion, they had subsided, slightly.

“No argument,” Robinson said. She really was wearing a very open jacket. “Hey, do you think she goes on dates with servicemen?”

“I don’t think you earn enough,” O’Neil said. “They don’t pay us enough for anything here.”

Robinson shrugged. Learning how little American wages were worth in Britain had been a shock to the troops. “True,” he said. “I’m going to the restaurant in Yarmouth; the Indian one. You coming?”

“Nah, the General found me something to do,” O’Neil said, with genuine regret. “Catch you in two days?”

“You’ve found a whorehouse,” Robinson accused mildly. O’Neil blushed. “Naughty man.”

“Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow you may catch some disgusting skin disease,” O’Neil said. They’d watched the comedy movies in the mess. “See you later, man.”

Fuhrerbunker

Berlin, Germany

28th May 1942

Himmler studied the results of the nuclear strike, now they had had time to analysis it fully, with a sense of profound dissatisfaction. The casual destruction of nearly two square miles of German countryside was distressing – even if it had provided some unexpected sources of radioactive material for the dirty bomb project – but the loss of the smallpox project was terrifying. It suggested entrapment; it suggested treachery. Who could have betrayed him, he wondered, who might have had a reason to sabotage the bioweapon program?

He peered down at the report from the SS officer commanding the region. The panic of the population had been calmed, and even Radio Berlin had shifted its focus from attacking Britain for inhumanity to trying to calm people down. With determination, skill and a few regrettable incidents, the SS had managed to evacuate the region, but they hadn’t managed to prevent rumours of far greater devastation from slipping across the country.

Himmler sighed. He had been reluctant to test any of the remaining prisoners to destruction; those who hadn’t been needed had been quietly liquidated. The British probably didn’t know it, but they’d managed to kill two of their own people, just by bombing a section of a Luftwaffe factory. The attempt to infect the brown-skinned woman with smallpox hadn’t worked; when she’d been interrogated, she’d explained that she’d been inoculated for countless diseases during the Hajji. The interrogator had predicted that such customs would disappear after the Reich won – and she’d thrown a terrible fit.

“Mien Fuhrer, Field Marshal Kesselring is here to see you,” his secretary said. Himmler nodded grimly; Kesselring was one of those who were worth listening to. “Shall I send him in?”

“Yes, please,” Himmler said, who had found that politeness worked wonders when dealing with subordinates. Hitler would have agreed; he was only rude to high-ranking personnel. His female secretary had cried the day that he had died.

Kesselring entered. His face had grown older and older as the Reich suffered more defeats. Himmler had occasionally considered retiring him, or having him liquidated, but the Reich needed him. Of those who had been great, only a handful remained. Rommel, the arch-traitor, served the British; Guderian had been remanded in a POW camp somewhere in the Middle East. Kesselring was the only real strategist left to him that he trusted.

“Heil Himmler,” Kesselring said. Like all of the Wehrmacht, the salute sounded a little odd from him; he hadn’t sworn loyalty to Himmler personally, like the Army had sworn to Hitler. “Mien Fuhrer, I have a vitally important report to make to you.”

Himmler lifted an eyebrow and waved a hand at a chair, noticing the massive folder that Kesselring was carrying under his arm. “Have the British launched another nuclear strike?” He asked. Kesselring shook his head. “Then it can’t be that important,” Himmler said.

Kesselring scowled. “Mien Fuhrer, I have here the latest reports and images from the satellite program,” he said. “The images of the future Britain have been grim; they are clearly building up for the invasion.”

“And so my sources in America have informed me,” Himmler said calmly. He frowned inwardly; Ritter had vanished and Hoover had been killed by someone, Ritter perhaps? “They place the invasion site as France.”

He studied Kesselring, who he knew had never believed that the British would try to land in France, again. “That is surprising news,” Kesselring said finally. “The amount that they’re building up is remarkable. Our rockets have not been able to make any noticeable dent in it.”

Himmler shrugged. “Let them come here,” he said. “You have the better part of twenty Panzer and forty infantry divisions in France, and there are more in reserve, as we planned. You can advance upon them as they land, accompanied by nearly two thousand of the Luftwaffe’s newest aircraft.”

Kesselring sucked in his breath. “I had not been aware that the mobilising and manufacturing program had had such success,” he said. “However, I question our ability to use the forces in Germany itself as a reserve. The British and Americans will cut our lines of communication.”

Himmler smiled. “It is for that that I have given you and Manstein complete authority in France,” he said. Unlike Hitler, he knew better than to meddle in tactical affairs. “Your mission is to destroy the enemy on the ground; Galland will accomplish that task in the air.”

“Mien Fuhrer, can we stop them?” Kesselring asked grimly. “They used a nuclear warhead in our own country last week, not some out of the way place that no one cares about. What happens when they start using them to clear our forces out of the way?”

“I do not believe that they will do that,” Himmler said. “At worst, their units would have to drive through a radioactive wasteland.”

Kesselring bowed. “Then, with your permission, I’ll get back to preparing the counter-attacks.”

Himmler nodded. “Of course, of course,” he said. “Good luck.”

* * *

Kesselring scowled to himself as he reached the Wehrmacht offices in the massive bunker, but he knew better than to say anything out loud; he was certain that more than a few of the clerical workers worked for Himmler as well as himself. Inwardly, he felt like crying; Himmler seemed to be unaware that the war was lost. With the unrest in Russia and the nuclear strikes, not to mention Japan’s surrender, the Reich was about to enter the rubbish bin of history, three years ahead of schedule.

Rommel’s radio transmissions had offered amnesty to Wehrmacht officers who acted to overthrow Himmler, but he knew that that was impossible. All the units near Berlin were SS; the closest Wehrmacht unit was in Denmark. If the SS could be persuaded to act against Himmler, the war might end with Germany intact, except the SS was fanatically on Himmler’s side, except…

He scowled down at the report he’d ‘borrowed’ from Doctor Josef Mengele. Perhaps, just perhaps, it could be used to drive a wedge between Himmler and one of his closest and most trusted subordinates. Perhaps… or perhaps it would lead inevitably to Kesselring’s own doom. He made his decision, the only one he could make, and then he started to lay his plans, both for the defence of Europe and the end of the Nazi Regime in Germany.

* * *

Himmler was in a genial mood, Roth was pleased to discover. Himmler wasn’t given to tantrums – as anyone would have called Hitler’s behaviour at times from a very safe distance – but his cold rages were just as terrifying. Roth, who’d been working with the special weapons division, knew about the coming invasion; knew, and was worried.

“Ah, Herman,” Himmler said. “Have a seat.”

Roth saluted and took his seat. He winced inwardly; Himmler clearly wanted something from him. He listened politely as Himmler made small talk, discussing rockets, the plans to put a man in orbit and the defection of Japan to the Allied camp.

“Did you know that the Japanese have actually been helping the Americans?” Himmler asked. “Would Germans help the invader in such a situation?”

“Of course not,” Roth said, who knew the required answer. “You did say that it was urgent?”

“Yes,” Himmler said, shifting to concentration with a speed that was dazzling. “You are of course aware that the American and British mongrels are planning to invade the Reich?”

Roth blinked. “Directly into Denmark?” He asked. “I would have thought that even their logistics would be unable to handle that.”

“No, into France,” Himmler said. “That… might lead to us having to have to make certain concessions in ground and manpower to them.”

“I see,” Roth said. “However, what does that have to do with me?”

Himmler looked oddly vulnerable for a long chilling moment, before pulling himself back into the man who terrified half of the world. “I have every confidence that our brave fighting men will be able to throw them back into the sea,” he said. “However, it may be necessary to make… certain precautions for the future.”

Roth lifted an eyebrow. “They might manage to secure a bridgehead?”

“Yes, they might,” Himmler said. “In the event of them managing to accomplish that, I have a task for you to carry out.” He explained the task. “Do you understand?”

Roth nodded. “Has it really come to that?” He asked. “Do we have to do that?”

Himmler scowled. “This is the final battle,” he said. “Every weapon must be used, whatever its nature.” He peered into Roth’s eyes. “Every weapon.”

Chapter Thirty-Five: Invasion

Ten Downing Street

London, United Kingdom

1st June 1942

Hanover nodded grimly to himself as the war cabinet filed out of the room. Some went grudgingly, some went willingly, but they all had acceded to his will. Somehow, the sheer effort involved in the decision to launch the invasion was chilling; for the first time he faced the prospect of political destruction. The people and Parliament might have accepted the nuclear detonations, but would they accept the loss of an entire army? Hanover knew that they would not.

His gaze drifted up to the portraits on the walls. William Pitt the Elder stared down at him; Margaret Thatcher urged him on. Churchill, who had faced a similar dilemma, seemed to be laughing at him. He knew the choice was his; this wasn’t a Harry Potter movie, where the portraits could talk to him.

He lifted the phone without hesitation. “This is Hanover,” he said, staring into the grey darkness. “The operation is approved.”

He put down the phone and took his seat. Even now, thousands of men and thousands of aircraft would be moving, heading into their targets in the Netherlands. Thousands of missiles, from the improved Tomahawks to knock-off Scud missiles, were being launched from Britain, aimed into German-occupied Europe. The American bombers were being launched, ordered to hammer at the German positions in France, and his own aircraft were concentrating on precision bombing.

As he had not done since he was a young boy, growing up with his parents, Sir Charles Hanover, Prime Minister and Peer of the Realm, prayed to God. The die was cast… and there was no turning back.

Battlezone

Belgium/Netherlands

1st June 1942

“About bloody time,” Squadron Leader Shelia Dunbar muttered, as she took the Eurofighter out of formation and into Germany. She winced as she glanced down at her onboard radar; there were thousands of planes in the sky, all British or American. It wasn’t the first time that only Allied planes were in the sky, but she knew that it wouldn’t last; the Germans would hardly allow them to set foot on Europe without mounting a sustained offensive to evict them.

Or, as she phased it in the privacy of her own thoughts, they were going to throw everything, including the kitchen sink, at the British and American forces. She’d fought in the Battle of Britain and she knew the dangers of being swarmed by the German planes; she hoped that the RAF’s new recruits understood as well.

“Eagle-one, you are coming up on your targets,” the controller said. The Germans had a whole series of bridges across their nation, allowing them to move troops and tanks around Germany quickly. The RAF had painstakingly located thousands of targets to hit, selecting them with care and genuine malice, designed to separate the Germans from their western conquests.

The target designator changed to red. A commando, perhaps one of the SAS trainees, had been emplaced, providing her with a target. Behind her, the other planes spread out, their weapons targeted on power stations, barracks, police stations, the handful of communication lines that they knew about… anything that might be militarily useful for any counter-offensive.

“Launching weapons,” she said. The Eurofighter shuddered as it released its bombs; she saw pinpricks of fire flaring against the darkened ground, knowing what they meant for the poor citizens below. Hardening her heart, she swooped around, returning to base. They had to be rearmed as quickly as possible.

* * *

HMS Warspite sat in the centre of the English Channel, moving closer and closer to The Hague. In her combat information centre, General Flynn analysed the reports from the SAS teams on the ground and the satellites, which were working overtime. He’d heard that the space station had been moved into geo-stationary orbit, but he didn’t believe the rumour.

“I think we can proceed with stage two,” he said, after the first reports had been completed. German targets had been struck everywhere; even as he watched, more attacks were being launched. “Send the signal.”

HMS Warspite shuddered as her main guns began to fire. The mighty battleship, and the three American battleships beside her, was pounding the German defences on the shore, knowing that a force of Special Forces troopers were already on the ground, providing targets for the bombers.

“The Ark Royal is launching now,” Admiral Somerville said. The Contemporary ship had been adapted to carry some of the new Harriers, equipped with precision bombs. “They’ll be overhead in five minutes.”

Flynn nodded. “Stage two; complete neutralisation of the Germans on the ground from the air.”

He looked up at the big display. Nearly two hundred aircraft were moving into position, from the three adapted Hercules to the dozens of B-29’s armed with precision weapons and JDAM bombs. In five minutes, the Germans on the ground would never know what had hit them.

* * *

Captain Hoffman rather enjoyed his posting in Amsterdam. The small Dutch city was peaceful and quiet; there was almost no resistance to German rule. The three divisions that had been stationed in Amsterdam had grown used to peace, even with the new directives coming out of the Fuhrerbunker, warning of invasion.

He smiled. Ever since they had found the hidden Jewish family from the future records, the Dutch had been cowed before the German heel. It was their own fault for not seeking an agreement with the Germans, led by the noble Adolf Hitler, before they ran out of time.

A noise echoed across the sky. He stared into the sky, and then westwards, towards England. The sky seemed to be glowing, sending a strange eerie glow into the night. It was awesome and he wandered away from the headquarters, looking at the light. Half of the population seemed to be on the streets, wondering what the hell was going on.

An explosion billowed out behind him, sending him to his knees. He instinctively grabbed for his weapon, rolling over to shoot the man he confidently expected to be behind him, and saw the entire German headquarters was in ruins. As he watched, three more German buildings in Amsterdam exploded; the SS headquarters, the Kriegsmarine navy base and the Workers Bureau, which had arranged for Dutchmen to go work in Germany for a pittance.

“We’re under attack,” he breathed. The sudden destruction of the German infrastructure was shocking, but he knew his duty. Staggering over to a telephone box, he tried to call for help, but the lines were down. Power was out all over Amsterdam; the fires were burning in all their awful majesty.

A blow connected with the back of his head. He had only moments to recognise the presence of a Dutchman armed with a heavy stick, before his assailant brought it down again, and crushed the life out of his skull.

* * *

“Not bad,” Squadron Leader Shelia Dunbar breathed, as the display revealed itself. The Germans had to be reeling under the bombardment; the British had struck thousands of targets, some of them with dumb bombs, others with massive MOAB weapons that had an utterly devastating effect on anything they struck.

She stared down from her lofty height. Fires were burning all over the Netherlands, tiny flickers from her height, each one signifying a hit with a British weapon. Her display showed flights still impound, missiles swooping along the ground, utterly unstoppable by anything known to the Germans.

“Just have to hope we don’t have to destroy the country in order to save it,” she muttered, as the flight left the carnage behind and returned to Britain.

* * *

The SAS team was nearly half a mile from the battleships’ targets, but they could still feel the ground shake as four battleships poured fire into the defences along the coastline. Captain Dwynn shivered as another barrage crashed into the ground, shaking everything. Hunkering down in a German trench wasn’t protecting them from the shock, even as they tried to do their jobs.

“I have targets designated,” Chang muttered. Dwynn glanced through Chang’s unit; the massive German guns were still firing. “Transmit?”

“Hit them,” Dwynn ordered. Chang transmitted the fire command to one of the orbiting Hercules; two of them, with the largest bomb loads, had been assigned to support the main landing. Seconds later, the guns were utterly destroyed.

“I have the other targets,” Vash snapped. “Designating now.”

Dwynn hit the ground as a rolling thunder of explosive force blasted over the ground. The Germans had dug an entire battalion of infantry in to support the heavy guns; they weren’t there any longer. As the crescendo went on and on, he covered his ears and cringed down. It ended seconds later, but his ears still rang.

“Report,” he snapped, and waited for their acknowledgements. “I think we got them all,” he concluded. “I’m sending the signal now; they can come in and take over now we’ve done all the hard work.

* * *

Brigadier Hampton sent the order and HMS Ocean, supported by HMS Albion and HMS Bulwark, both new construction, began to launch their landing craft. Captain Yates shivered as the LST carried the 1st Armoured Infantry Battalion to the shore, knowing just how vulnerable even the Challenger was to being hit while on the LST.

“I think we must have suppressed them,” Corporal Benton said, as the LST grounded and lowered its landing ramp. Their service in Turkey during Redemption had earned them more and better equipment, enough to expand the Marine force to include more tanks and more Marines.

“Looks that way,” Yates said. “Move us out; we have orders to secure a bridgehead before marching to Amsterdam.”

He scowled at the map. They were on the right side of a river with an unpronounceable name, but they had to secure a city with the equally unpronounceable name of Beverwijk before they could move into Amsterdam. As dawn rose, the Germans had to know that something was up… and there was a German battalion of armoured infantry, perhaps even some Panzers, in the Beverwijk region.

“Control, can you confirm that the Germans have no tanks?” He said, as they received their final orders. He scowled; he had to move quickly, with the nine tanks of the first group, while the rest of the force was receiving new orders. Confusion was already setting in; he could only hope that it would be handled before the Germans managed to mount a counter-attack. It had been nearly four hours since the attacks had begun – they had to know that something was wrong.

“Negative,” the voice of the dispatcher came back, after a long pause. “We cannot confirm anything at the moment?”

“Can you confirm my orders?” Yates asked sharply, and cut the connection. He muttered orders into his radio, detailing the formation. Even if the Germans hadn’t all been killed, they would be hardly likely to have anything that could really bother the Challenger.

“I came here with a girl,” Benton said. “It’s… very different.”

Yates sniggered. “Let’s not go to the red light district,” he said. “It would only upset them.”

Without warning, the Challenger shuddered. “What the hell was that?” Benton snapped. “Sir…”

“There’s a Panzer dug in ahead of us,” Yates said, taking a moment to admire the German commander’s bravery. He had to have known that his position, dug into a Dutch building that had been ruined the first time around, was suicidal, and he’d done it anyway. Even as he watched, the German tank moved backwards quickly, moving faster than he would have believed possible.

“Armour piercing,” he snapped. “One round, rapid!”

“Firing,” Gunner Grant said. Sergeant Josephine Grant was one of the toughest Marines; Yates, who knew that all female marines had been offered the chance to withdraw from the mission, respected her. “Target destroyed.”

Yates nodded; the wreck of the German panzer burned merrily. He refused to think about the men trapped inside. “We’re moving on to Beverwijk now,” he said, and issued orders to the other tanks. “We don’t have much time, but we can make it if we push it hard.”

“We have plenty of time,” Benton said. “What’s the rush, boss?”

“At this rate, everyone else will get to Berlin first,” Grant said. “Pour it on, Sam.”

* * *

Field Marshal Kesselring knew that he was lucky to be alive. His change of headquarters, two days before the invasion had begun, had saved his life; the British intelligence services hadn’t caught up with him yet. He also knew that the communications network had been badly damaged, but enough survived for him to pierce together what was happening.

“They’re coming, Mien Fuhrer,” he said, wishing that that communications cable had been cut. Testing suggested that a lot of the lines into Amsterdam and Rotterdam remained intact; there was just no one there to receive the calls. “We have missile and aircraft attacks all over Germany and France, and they’re making a major offensive in the Netherlands.”

He paused to listen to Himmler’s reply. “They’re landing paratroopers at Arnhem,” he snapped, when Himmler had finished. “Mien Fuhrer, I have hardly any communication with forces west of Arnhem; they’re gone, or they’ve been cut off. The road and rail network is in shambles, utterly ruined. Mien Fuhrer, we have to start moving troops north from France.”

Himmler protested that it had to be a diversion. “Mien Fuhrer, if they can make a diversion on this scale, we’ve lost anyway,” Kesselring protested, wishing that Himmler would return to being his cold calculating self. God alone knew how many deaths the Wehrmacht and the SS units had suffered; the British seemed to take delight in targeting the SS units from the air. “We have to move now, before we lose the capability to do anything at all…”

Himmler reluctantly gave his assent. “Thank you, Mien Fuhrer,” Kesselring said. “I’ll report to you as soon as I can.”

He put down the phone and turned to the map, which was being updated as fast as the information flew in through the telephone lines, which themselves were being hammered. The entire western region of the Netherlands had been marked in red, even though basic logistics suggested that the enemy had only just begun to land his real armoured force. The paratroopers had to be counter-attacked as swiftly as possible and he barked orders, knowing that the older forces near Germany’s borders with the Netherlands were only just up to the task.

“Get me General Adolf Galland,” he snapped. “Now!”

He waited impatiently, snapping out other orders. The operator had to work hard to set up the connection; the direct links to the forward air bases had been severed by the British attacks. He frowned as he looked at the map, bringing the forces from the West Wall back to Germany would not be hard, but the forces assembled in France had taken a pounding. He issued orders for them to return and issued similar – illegal – orders to the forces near Denmark.

“We need a mobile reserve, now,” he snapped. “Move it.”

“General Galland, Herr Field Marshal,” the operator said. Kesselring took the phone and listened.

“Adolf, this is it,” Kesselring said. “It’s the real invasion, it has to be.”

Galland spoke with a heavy heart. “They’ve knocked out some of our bases,” he said. “I can only put two thousand planes in the air.”

“Only two thousand,” Kesselring said. He remembered when two thousand planes would have seemed like a miracle. “Send them, General; send everything you can. We need time and the Luftwaffe has to buy it for us. We need intelligence and the Luftwaffe has to get it for us. We need air support, and the Luftwaffe…”

“I understand,” Galland snapped. “We will do what we can, Herr Field Marshal.”

Galland didn’t bluster, like Goring, or make false promises. Kesselring knew that he would do what he could. “Thank you, Adolf,” he said. “We know that you will give us your best.”

“Enjoy the war,” Galland snapped. “The peace is going to be terrible.”

He put the phone down. Back in his headquarters, Kesselring returned to worrying about the future. There just wasn’t time!

* * *

The AWACS operator called in the contacts in a stunned tone. Squadron Leader Shelia Dunbar took one look at the display and started to bark orders, ordering her formation to prepare for the fight of their lives. She cursed the efficiency of modern radar; she hadn’t wanted to know how many enemy aircraft there were, making their way towards the invasion zone.

“Two thousand,” Flying Officer James Brooke breathed. He sounded dazed. “Two fucking thousand.”

“Silence,” Dunbar snapped. The speed was closing far too fast for the AWACS; she knew that she had to issue orders on her own authority. “Activate datalink; share targets.”

There was a short pause as entire squadrons linked into the data network that was being built between the RAF aircraft and the Royal Navy ships near the coast. “Select targets with ASRAAMS, stand by to fire,” Dunbar said. The AWACS controller said nothing; Dunbar smiled at the thought of the roasting he would get from his senior officers later. It wasn’t as if the AWACS was in any danger.

“Fire,” Dunbar ordered. Almost every aircraft in the air launched missiles, sending a wave of unstoppable missiles towards the German aircraft, hacking them from the sky with ease. The Germans had learnt much, deploying counter-measures with skill and verve, and they had some successes, but not enough. The wall of ASRAAM missiles found their targets… and Germans died by the thousands.

“Here they come,” Brooke said. The survivors hadn’t given up; they were still attempting to close. The RAF closed in on them, firing cannons and a handful of missiles, attempting to defeat them as the wall of Luftwaffe planes slammed into them. For a long chilling time, Dunbar lost track of everything, but the desire to kill…

“The ships are engaging,” the AWACS controller said. The Royal Navy ships were firing massive blasts of machine-gun fire into the sky, each one guided by a sophisticated radar network that picked German planes up with ease. Dunbar cursed as she ran out of ammunition, blowing the tail end off a JU-88 bomber that had been attempting to bomb positions in Amsterdam itself.

Suddenly, chillingly, the sky was clear. Dunbar and the rest of the RAF let the surviving Germans go; the slaughter on both sides had been horrific. Dunbar checked the timer; the entire battle had lasted only ten minutes.

“It felt longer,” she muttered, as she sent a notification to the AWACS that she had run out of ammunition and was returning to base again. “Dear god, it really did feel longer than ten minutes.”

* * *

General Robert Flynn set up his command post in Beverwijk as the day drew to a close. The battle had been shockingly brutal, far more brutal than he’d really expected, but the Germans had fought bitterly. SS units, in particular, had fought to the death; there were still holdouts in Amsterdam and Rotterdam.

“Fuck me,” he muttered, as he collapsed into a chair. The SAS paratrooper division had fought hard at Arnhem, seizing one of the bridges that would be needed intact, and they’d made it, holding out against increasing German pressure. He’d feared he was going to lose them when the Germans had begun their major air offensive, but they’d held.

He shook his head in awe. They’d bled like nothing on Earth, but they’d held, and a mechanised infantry battalion had finally relived them from fears of losing the bridges they’d seized. He wasn’t certain how useful they would be, but having them intact counted for something, didn’t it?

He smiled to himself, and then allowed himself to think of the future. Almost the entire stock of precision weapons had been poured onto the landing zone and Germany. Admittedly the damage they’d inflicted would take the Germans weeks to repair, but the Allies had their own problems to overcome.

He shuddered. The long hard road into Germany still lay ahead…

Chapter Thirty-Six: Containment

Fuhrerbunker

Berlin, Germany

3rd June 1942

“They have successfully secured a lodgement on the mainland,” Kesselring said. Himmler seemed to be taking the news calmly. “Despite the Luftwaffe’s brave sacrifice, we have been unable to do more than shell from a long distance the enemy positions. In effect, they control most of the Netherlands, and we assume that they are repairing the ports.”

“And once they have the ports repaired, they can flood reinforcements into Europe,” an SS officer said. Kesselring, who would have been delighted to have the divisions of King Tigers that that man commanded in the Netherlands, said nothing. “We have to evict them from there quickly.”

Himmler nodded. “I assume that we’ve added bombardment by V1s and V2s to the problems that the Allies have to face?” He asked. “How soon can we remove them from the continent?”

“We’ve been launching V1 missiles, which have had little effect because of their anti-aircraft defences, and V2s, which have been having some effect,” Roth said. Kesselring nodded to himself; he knew that he had to talk to Roth. “We’re launching them as fast as we can build them, but Allied interdiction is having an effect.”

Kesselring nodded grimly. The Allies had been worried about causing civilian casualties, but no more – they’d hit thousands of targets all across Germany, shattering the road and rail networks. Germany had been seriously disrupted; almost the entire transport network, which the Speer Machine depended upon, had been ruined.

“I understand,” Himmler said. “Field Marshal, when can we launch an attack?”

Kesselring sighed. “I don’t think you understand the problems,” he said. “Almost all of the divisions that were within the Netherlands and Belgium are gone. The revolts in Belgium, supported by Allied air power, have shattered our forces, and they have been very careful to crush any of our forces within their occupied regions and outside – there are only fragments left, hardly enough to do more than a few isolated sabotage incidents.

“The forces that were positioned in France” – against his advice, he knew – “have also taken a battering, even though the Vichy forces have managed to prevent any unrest. We’ve been trying to move units back… and they hunt us from the air.” His voice became darker. “We have to move under cover of darkness to have any hope at all of surviving; it will take us weeks to move forces into position for a counter-attack.”

He sighed. “We’re having better luck with infantry units, but without tank support they can’t hope to stem the tide, let alone push them back into the sea. Our communication network has taken a battering as well, and enemy jamming is prevalent across the radio network. In effect, the communications network that we depend upon is being destroyed, and we have no way to replace it quickly. Our forces will be fighting at one more disadvantage; even with their training to seize the initiative, they will be unable to score more than local victories.”

“I can help with one thing,” Speer said unexpectedly. “Some of the new King Tigers were being prepared for delivery to the front. We can move them from the factories tonight, and then…”

“Move them under shelter,” Kesselring said. “In the daytime, we might as well paint bulls eyes on them.”

“See to it,” Himmler said. “Field Marshal, what do you suggest we do next?”

“We have to build a defensive line, a series of defensive lines,” Kesselring said grimly. “We have to put everything there, hoping to blunt and destroy their attack, which has to be coming. We don’t know how long it will take them to overcome their supply difficulties, but it won’t be long. Have the agents in America suggested anything?”

“Nothing,” Roth said, with a nod from Himmler. “The reports we got were contradictory, to say the least.”

“We still have rockets to launch at the bridgehead,” Himmler said. “We can use them to force them to slow down their efforts.”

Kesselring saw his chance. “If I may borrow Obergruppenfuehrer Roth, he can assist me in figuring out the correct targets,” he said. “I don’t know enough about the rockets and their capabilities.”

“You have had a lot on your mind,” Himmler said. “Very well; make sure that the defence line is as tough as you can make it. Call up everyone to help create the line; old men, women, children… all of them.”

“Can we take men from the camps?” Speer asked. “They can’t be moved and they will be useful working themselves to death.”

The good nazi, Kesselring thought dryly, as Himmler nodded. Speer was merely the man who’d hidden his evil from the world. It had been a dark day for the world when Hitler had chosen to ignore the evidence against Speer in favour of his considerable talents.

“Summon my Grand Vizier,” Himmler ordered. “Field Marshal, Obergruppenfuehrer Roth, use the rockets to bring us victory.”

* * *

Obergruppenfuehrer Roth allowed himself a moment of puzzlement, even though he had enough sense not to question Himmler’s orders. He had thought that Kesselring had been fully briefed on the rockets, by Speer if not the specialist rocket division. He kept his puzzlement from his face as Kesselring led him into the Wehrmacht sections of the massive bunker, away from the collapsed regions of the bunker. A British bomb had nearly ruined a section of the bunker, fortunately not exposing it to the sight of the British.

Roth blinked as Kesselring led him into a private room, and then performed a basic search for electronic surveillance devices. He wanted to ask what was happening, but a strange sense of… doom kept him quiet, even as Kesselring waved him to a chair.

“We have lost the war,” Kesselring said grimly. Roth opened his mouth to protest. “They can simply move faster than we can and they can see everything we do,” Kesselring continued. “Between you and me, I was… rather over-optimistic when talking to Himmler; I’ve already written the forces in France out of the coming final battle.”

Roth started to rise. His loyalty was to Himmler. “Sit down,” Kesselring snapped. The note of command in his voice was powerful; Roth sat back down before his mind had caught up with it. “You’re not a stupid man, Herman; can you tell us any way out of the predicament?”

Roth gave the question serious consideration. “If we kill enough of them…?”

“We won’t manage it,” Kesselring said flatly. “In the worst-case scenario, they can put two hundred thousand superbly trained and equipped men into the Netherlands in a week, perhaps less. They will certainly focus on reinforcing as quickly as possible; I would, in their place. Once they’re ready to advance, and they will certainly be ready ahead of us, no matter what Speer thinks, they will give us the impossible task of holding a line from Hamburg to Bonn, which we will have to hold everywhere.

“When they come, they will have better tanks, better weapons and total air superiority,” Kesselring continued. “We will not have the advantage in anything, but numbers, and the troops we can put into the line will not be all front-line; some of them will be old men or young boys, and they will be unequal to the task.”

He sighed. “And if they get bored of the battle, they can resort to blowing a five-mile wide hole in the line,” he concluded. “You’re not a stupid man… do you think we can win?”

Roth felt despair, fear… and terror. He reached for a hope. “We could withdraw to the east,” he said. “Make our stand there…”

“Which will merely prolong the misery of our population and the devastation of our industrial base,” Kesselring said. “They will destroy the Rhineland and its factories; they will remove people from our control and they will not be stopped! Obergruppenfuehrer Roth, whose side are you on?”

Roth lifted a tear-stained face. “How can I betray the man who supported me?” He asked. “The Fuhrer was always good to me.”

Kesselring shook his head. “I had hoped to spare you this,” he said grimly. He picked up a folder and passed it over. “I’m sorry about this.”

“I bet you are,” Roth muttered, opening the folder. He read the preliminary notes quickly, and swore. “This can’t be real…”

“It is all that remains of the smallpox weapon project,” Kesselring said. “Notice what happened to give the project its sudden boost.”

Roth read the report. It was cold and clinical, referring only to the ‘subject,’ until the final paragraph. It made grim reading; he wanted to vomit. He’d done terrible things for Himmler, including using Jewish prisoners to clear up after the first nuclear strike, and this was worse.

Subject Stewart was interrogated several times for information on the use of smallpox in 2015. Her resilience, weakened by starvation, involuntary blood donations and repeated rape, was low; she gave what information she had freely. Many common viruses in our time were apparently wiped out or reduced to almost nothing in the future, therefore suggesting that any deployment into the 2019 Britain would be disastrously lethal for the citizens.

Subject Stewart seems to possess no skills or experience that will be useful for the advanced weapons project. It is therefore recommend that she be terminated as soon as sufficient stocks of her blood have been built up.

“I’m sorry about that,” Kesselring said. Roth realised grimly that he was sincere. “As far as we know, she was killed in the nuclear blast that destroyed the smallpox research laboratory.”

Roth didn’t hear him, clutching the report until his hands started to bleed from paper cuts. He dabbed at them with his handkerchief, feeling pure pain flowing through his body. A single thought was running through his mind; she’s dead, Himmler killed her…

“That’s what Hitler’s – and then Himmler’s – regime meant,” Kesselring said coldly. His sympathy had vanished. “That’s the fate he had in store for her all along.” He placed a hand on Roth’s shoulder. “He was willing to court the destruction of our nation in order to use her blood to create such horrible weapons.”

Roth closed his eyes in pain. “What do you want me to do?”

“End the war,” Kesselring said. Roth almost laughed through the pain in his heart. “Help us to circumvent the SS’s lock on what remains of the communications network.”

Roth spoke grimly, feeling his pain congeal into rage. “It can’t be done,” he said. “The SS controls all of the communication nodes. How did it ever come to this?”

Kesselring shook him. “We need help,” he snapped. “Germany needs you to end this war.”

Roth looked up at him. “But… there’s only one way to do that,” he said. “I’ll have to kill the Fuhrer.”

“I’m afraid so,” Kesselring said. “You’re one of the few people trusted with a weapon in his presence.” He held up a hand. “First, however, we have to organise a transfer of power, and we don’t have much time at all.”

* * *

Professor Horton studied the map with a mixture of feelings. Awe; the attack had been on a scale that dwarfed even Iraqi Freedom. Concern; the supply lines were far from perfect. Fear; the Germans might just dispose of him before the British Army could take Berlin.

Himmler paced from side to side, his famous stillness broken at last. “Well, Herr Professor,” he snapped finally. “What do you make of it?”

“They’re trying to march to Berlin,” Horton said, in the certain knowledge that German strategists would have made the same deduction. It wasn’t difficult; what else could they be doing?

“Yes, but when?” Himmler demanded. “When will they have the ability to break out of their positions and lance their way over the fatherland?”

“I honestly have no idea,” Horton said. Himmler scared was almost as bad as Himmler angry. He spoke softly. “They won’t take long,” he admitted. “They’ll have fixed most of their logistics by now.”

Himmler looked up at him. “So, what happens to the Reich now?”

Horton shook his head. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “What manner of agreement have they signed with Japan?”

“I have no idea,” Himmler said. “Ambassador Takji was most unhelpful; they have betrayed us completely!”

Horton sighed. He wished that there had been more information on what had happened in Japan; all they knew was that there had been some kind of coup. “They didn’t have a choice,” he said finally, understanding suddenly. Himmler was scared for his own personal survival.

“They could have died,” Himmler protested. “Everyone fails me; the Wehrmacht, the Luftwaffe, the Kriegsmarine… they all failed me!” He paced grimly. “I will leave Germany,” he said finally. “They will fight to the death to cover my departure.”

Horton had expected it – Himmler had attempted to flee in the original timeline as well – but it was still a shock. He knew that there were no words he could use; Himmler was completely self-centred. Thousands – perhaps millions – of Germans would die in the next month, just to buy Himmler a chance at escaping the Reich.

Ten Downing Street

London, United Kingdom

3rd June 1942

Hanover allowed himself a sigh of relief as the final significant German position in the Netherlands, dug deep into Amsterdam, was destroyed. Caught between a very hostile population and an invading army, afraid of failure – and of losing his wife who was in the hands of the SS – the commander of the force had fought bitterly, if futility. Finally, a concentrated bombing raid had shattered his defences, and the Royal Marines had mopped up the handful of survivors.

“We hold most of the Netherlands,” General Cunningham said. He wasn’t just briefing Hanover himself, but also President Truman through the video link. “While there are doubtless a few Germans left around, they no longer pose a threat. Our forward positions, poking our way towards the Ems, have been reinforced, although we have called off future offensives until we have managed to reinforce.”

Hanover nodded. “How long until the forces in place are sufficient for further advancement?” He asked. “I have a nasty feeling that Himmler has more tricks up his sleeve.”

Cunningham nodded. The hail of rockets against Britain – and proto-ICBMs from Russia against America – continued without a pause. The need to ensure that none of the missiles carried something worse than high explosive was wasting resources; noticing that most of the missiles were exploding in flight wasn’t reassuring anyone.

“We have moved ten divisions, mainly infantry with one armoured division, over now,” Cunningham said. “We’ve used the armoured division and four of the infantry units to secure our borders, and the remaining infantry to finish destroying German holdouts. In the next few days, we hope to have the remainder of the force brought over, now that we have a port working and taking ships.”

President Truman coughed. “How are the locals taking the invasion?”

Cunningham smiled. “They’re very glad to see us,” he said. “They killed a lot of particularly unpleasant Germans themselves before the advancing columns reached the cities. The remains of the civil administration have placed themselves at our disposal, so we won’t have to worry about their loyalties. Unfortunately, we do have to worry about feeding them; the Germans tore up their food supplies pretty bad and they were on short rations anyway.”

Armin Prushank nodded. “General, we can begin shipping over supplies at once,” he said.

Hanover nodded. Prushank might be a boring little man, but he knew his business. “Please, see to it,” he said. “It might delay an offensive, but feeding the population takes priority.” He nodded at McLachlan. “Anything from our charm offensive?”

“The Germans still seem to be in control of Italy and France,” McLachlan said. “There seems to be some friction between the two, but as long as the Germans keep their boots to their behinds, they’ll say Jawohl and obey Himmler. Spain, on the other hand, might just be preparing to switch sides, now that the grain trains and other German supplies have been halted.”

“We will have no truck with fascism,” Truman said grimly, and Hanover nodded. Whatever it took, all of Europe was going to come out of the war democratic. “Whatever deals will make must be contingent on the development of a democratic government and the arrest of war criminals.”

Hanover frowned inwardly. Spain’s war criminals, most of whom had fought for Franco during the civil war, were hardly a matter of great concern. The newly formed Spanish lobby in Britain had been screaming about saving the thousands who would die between 1945 and the end of the Spanish dictatorship, although they were being very quiet about Gibraltar.

“We won’t betray their people,” he said finally. “General, when can you begin the offensive?”

“It’s hard to say for certain what Himmler is thinking,” Cunningham said. “They’re being very careful about hiding what they’re doing from our satellites, but it seems like they are concentrating on developing a defence line, as close to the border with us as possible. If they work on the best possible options, that line will be several miles deep, and have powerful mobile forces in place.”

“Assuming that they have powerful mobile forces left,” Truman said.

Cunningham nodded. “Assuming that everything goes to plan, which it won’t, I intend to launch the next step in a week, an all-out Blitzkrieg towards Berlin. We’ll hammer their line to death, and then punch through, sealing off the fortress cities – which is what the PJHQ analysts believe that the Germans are trying to do in the cities. We’ll deploy small forces to prevent the Germans from trying to cut our lines, but they won’t be able to challenge us head-on.”

He adjusted the map; a red arrow ran directly to Berlin. “Exactly what happens in Berlin is a political decision,” he said. “My own preference would be to seal the city and wait for it to surrender, but that would take time. Attempting to take the city directly would be very bloody indeed.”

“There’s always Rommel’s plan,” McLachlan said thoughtfully.

“Perhaps,” Hanover said. He sighed. “General, what about Russia?”

Cunningham nodded. “It would depend on what Stalin does,” he said. “We expect that Stalin will not attempt to interfere and save the Germans – and if he thinks he can do that he has an unpleasant shock coming – but instead dig in his own defences.” He shook his head. “I can’t make any definite plans for the invasion of Russia; a lot depends on how the battle for Germany concludes.”

“I understand,” Hanover said. “General, please expedite matters as fast as you can. I have a nasty feeling that Himmler hasn’t run out of tricks.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Star Wars

Launch Site

Germany, Near Poland

6th June 1942

If there was one thing to be pleased about the massive British air effort to crush resistance in the Netherlands, which had prevented any attempt from opening the dykes and drowning everyone, it was that they seemed to have run out of their special weapons. Of course, Obergruppenfuehrer Roth, who had studied war as it had been fought in 2015, knew that they could be replaced – and certainly quicker than the German bridges and power stations could be replaced – but there was a window of opportunity.

Roth worked on the launching site to forget. He’d done what he could to help Kesselring, but he knew that it wasn’t enough. The cold dispassionate words of Doctor Mengele, describing his lover’s repeated violation, echoed through his mind, and he found himself hoping that the evil doctor had survived the nuclear blast. He wanted to deal with him personally, to burn the filth from Germany’s soil.

He studied the rocket as it was erected quickly. Of the seven satellites that Germany had tried to launch, three had failed, but the former engineering student had a good feeling about the rocket on the pad. It felt right; perfect for its role. Part of his mind wished that he would have a chance to work on Von Braun’s long-term plans, plans to place a German space station in orbit, even a base on the moon, but he knew that that would never happen. Even if Germany somehow won the war, his character would be forever too dark to work on such bright projects.

Thoughts of the rocket scientists forced his thoughts over to the other rocket, the one designed to launch a weapon into orbit to hit the space station. He’d asked Himmler’s permission to launch it at once, but the Fuhrer had said nothing, concentrating on preparing the defence of Germany.

“Herr Obergruppenfuehrer, the rocket is finally ready,” the director said. Von Braun himself had been sent east, to one of the secret bases in the Polish wastes, but he’d left trained staff behind. Roth wished that the scientist were with them; his skills were worth having nearby in case of an accident. The rocket, guided by an experimental guidance system – a very primitive computer – was a valuable investment, even if most of it would be wasted.

He shook his head. Germany had been on the verge of a genuine breakthrough in computing, with the knowledge of the future, and now it would all be wasted. They had been proceeding at breakneck speed down the technology tree, trying to master the computers of the 1960s and 1970s, but now it would be wasted. Transistors alone had boosted the German technology base, but they had run out of time.

“Then what are we waiting for?” Roth asked dryly. “Launch at once.”

Five minutes later, the rocket rose from its pad, heading upwards to deploy its cargo into orbit, an orbit that would send it five times around the Earth, and then send it spinning back into Earth’s atmosphere, for a touchdown in Poland.

* * *

The Germans expected that the British satellites would keep track of their launches, and further realised that there was no way that they could avoid attracting the attention of British satellites. Instead, they took pains to ensure that tampering with the German satellites would be dangerous; any British spaceman who attempted to steal or board a satellite would be in serious danger.

The Germans didn’t know, couldn’t know, that the British had emplaced a small amount of missiles in orbit. They weren’t designed for space work, being created for use in Eurofighters, but they represented a considerable development. The BVRAAM missiles could take their orders from the space station… which was tracking the German launch. It only took minutes to deduce that the Germans were attempting to launch a satellite, and then the decision was made to engage.

“Engage,” Caroline Salamander said.

The missile received its orders and gently fired its engine for precisely the right amount of time. It fell out of orbit on an intersecting course, smoothly heading towards the German rocket. At the speed it was travelling, there was no need for a warhead; the German satellite was completely destroyed.

* * *

“Herr Obergruppenfuehrer, the rocket… it just exploded,” the director said. “Something went wrong…”

Roth ignored him. Losing the satellite was annoying, but it could be replaced. He’d been watching the rocket through his small telescope… and he thought that he’d seen something near the rocket. There had been a tiny flare of light…

The field telephone jangled. Roth picked it up and listened. The German observatories had been watching the rocket as well, just to confirm that it was following the right course, and they were certain that something had hit the rocket, as it had been about to drop the second stage.

“I see,” he said finally. He’d read about orbital weaponry, but it had been the first time they’d had even a hint that the British had such weapons. “I’ll ask the Fuhrer at once.”

He put down the field telephone. “Have the missile for the space station prepared at once,” he ordered. “I’m going to speak to the Fuhrer.”

“But… Herr Obergruppenfuehrer, if the British have weapons designed to shoot down missiles, won’t they just shoot down the rocket?” The director was panicking; Roth didn’t blame him. “It would be a waste of the rocket.”

Roth snapped. “A few hundred miles to the west, Herr Director, there are thousands of soldiers dying,” he said sharply. “What is a single rocket against that?” He allowed himself a moment of anger, before bringing it sharply under control. “Beside, its important to discover how powerful the British weapons are, and how capable.”

He held the director’s eyes. “Do you understand?”

The director wilted. “Yes, Herr Obergruppenfuehrer,” he said. Roth nodded. It had been a reasonable question, but the simple fact was that the entire Reich was at stake – and what was a single rocket, no matter how expensive, compared to that?

“The Fuhrer,” he snapped into the field telephone. Moments later, it rang again, connecting him directly to the Fuhrerbunker. Quickly, ignoring the growing rage that swelled within him at talking to Himmler, he summarised the situation.

“Is it worth the loss of a missile?” Himmler asked. Roth knew that he couldn’t snap at the Fuhrer, not and remain in place for Kesselring. “Why not let the Russians do it?”

“We don’t want them getting that far into space, do we?” Roth asked, as innocently as he could. “Besides, the Russian rockets are nowhere near as capable as ours are, and we have other advantages, such as the nature of the weapon.”

He knew that Himmler was thinking rapidly. “Tell me,” Himmler said finally, “can you guarantee that the same orbital weapon won’t shoot down the missile?”

Roth shook his head, confident that Himmler couldn’t see him. It was the same question as the director had raised, but Himmler was more important. Too important to be fobbed off or overridden, not under these circumstances.

“No, Mien Fuhrer,” he said. “However, the weapon will be boosted into a slightly different orbit and it might escape their notice. If they could shoot down every missile, they would be doing that right now, instead of letting New York and Washington and Richmond take beatings.”

“True,” Himmler conceded.

Roth pressed his advantage. “Mien Fuhrer, we have to move now, before they see the rocket on the ground,” he said. “They already have a policy of hammering rocket launch sites, so they’ll hit here soon. We need to move.”

Himmler didn’t question his comment. “Very well,” he said. “I authorise the rocket.” There was a fake-sounding chuckle. “I might take it out of your salary.”

Roth laughed. Laughing was easy. “There’s nothing like certain employment,” he said. “The rocket will be launched soon, and I’ll keep you advised on progress.”

Space Station Clarke

Low Earth Orbit

6th June 1942

Abernathy allowed himself a moment of complete awe as he studied the growing space station in low Earth orbit. Unlike Hamilton, Clarke was intended to have some gravity, which meant that it would have to be huge enough to spin without causing significant damage. Carefully, he completed the task of manoeuvring the entire tank into its position on one of the six struts, and moved the MSV back from the station.

He shook his head inside his space suit, which was almost a spacecraft in its own right. Clarke had a couple of open living tanks, but Commander Salamander had refused to allow any risks to be taken, not when help was so far away. She had insisted that they maintain enough fuel and air to return to Hamilton at all times – as a minimal requirement. Complicated computer programs, originating from space war games, had been adapted to handle the complex mechanics of the issue.

“That’s tank thirty-seven in place,” he said. The follow-up team would fit the tank with its rear hatch, for the next tank, and would ensure that there were no air leaks before compressed air could be released into the tank.

“Acknowledged,” Commander Davenport said. He was Salamander’s junior officer – her former second in command – and he’d picked up a lot of her attitudes. “Confirm position and status.”

Abernathy sighed ruefully, but read off the numbers anyway. He had nearly twice as much fuel as was required to return to Hamilton the fast way, and enough air to do it the slow way if required. He wouldn’t have minded; it was very peaceful high above the Earth, once the panic attacks had faded.

He rotated slightly to study Clarke. The space station appeared to be spinning, but he knew that that was an optical illusion caused by his own position. A giant half-completed bicycle wheel – although without the tyre yet – Clarke dwarfed Hamilton. He smiled; he had a feeling that Hamilton would remain one of the most important bases though, it was entirely zero-gee.

“You are directed to return to Hamilton,” Davenport said finally. A course appeared in his MSVs systems, but he checked it anyway, just in case. “Once there, you will assist with the bombardment project.”

“Acknowledged,” Abernathy said, and smiled grimly. The MSV started to move, accelerating ahead to meet Hamilton as it raced around the Earth, coming up on the space station from the rear. He relaxed slightly and allowed himself to wonder; what had it been like for the three lucky men who’d set foot first on the moon? Under the Space Treaty, the moon was British territory as long as they maintained a base upon the surface, and he had applied to join that base.

He checked the orbital monitor as he raced over the world. There had been another series of launches from Russia, aiming at the Americans and one attempt to hit the Churchill space centre. That missile had been shot down by a Patriot missile, the first ICBM to be fired upon in any reality. He shook his head; what did it have to be costing the Axis in resources to build missiles that could only damage a city block or two?

He chuckled. The first consignment of lunar rock was due to be arriving in a few days, compressed into boulders. Salamander had already informed him that he would be taking part in the bombardment, trying to hammer the Russian factories in the Urals. He’d expected that they would have been able to create precision weapons, but they had to be manufactured in Britain and then they had to be carried into space.

Damn, he thought. Still, the space program was expanding; there would be a growing population in orbit, and perhaps some manufacturing capability. He grinned, more population meant more women; the growing space society had already had their first scandal, when a female doctor had literally prostituted herself for money.

He chuckled. It hadn’t been against regulations, as no one had thought of banning it before it became possible. He hadn’t taken her up on her offer – three hundred pounds for zero-gee sex – but nearly a dozen men had before Salamander caught wind of it and given everyone a lecture on the subject. The offending woman had been quietly sent back down – and it had been the joke of the week that Salamander would have preferred to have done that without the bother of a spaceship.

Hamilton appeared ahead of him, floating in the void. A glittering construction of silver and gold, it seemed to be teeming with activity; another heavy-lift booster had brought more supplies into orbit. He toggled his radio and reported his position. The reply took longer than he would have expected.

“Ah, Captain Abernathy,” Sonja Whitehall said. She was the current traffic controller. “There seems to be some problem…”

“Captain, its me,” Salamander said. Abernathy, who would have recognised her voice anywhere, said nothing. “There’s been a slight problem.”

His MSV began to receive new instructions. “The Germans have placed something in orbit,” Salamander said sharply. “It’s coming our way.”

Abernathy examined the orbit and cursed. The German… whatever had entered orbit, and was moving fast enough to climb as it whirled around the Earth. In another orbit, or forty minutes, whatever it was would intersect with the station… and destroy it. Even if it were just a empty capsule, the destruction of Hamilton would be inevitable.

“Shoot it down,” he snapped. “Fire a missile at it.”

“There’s none in position to intercept,” Salamander said grimly. Most of the missiles had been placed in LEO, not in a position where they could hit a moving target in orbit. Even if they did manage to intercept, the debris might still hit the station and conceivably make the situation worse. The space station itself couldn’t fire upon it until it was very close. “You have to force it out of orbit.”

Abernathy had been a fighter pilot. Calm wasn’t a problem. “I want to update my will,” he said. “I’m ready to go.”

“Good luck,” Salamander said. “Begin boost now.”

* * *

Abernathy shuddered as the MSV triggered its boosters, propelling it slowly into a different orbit, one that should intersect with the German missile. He checked the orbital display, running the calculations; the Germans clearly hadn’t been able to boost the entire rocket at the space station – or perhaps they’d grown cautious when they’d lost a rocket.

“Should have shot that one down as well,” he muttered, and scowled. Without laser weapons, there was no quick way to replace any expanded missiles. “Moving to intercept.”

He narrowed his mind down to one thing, watching the radar display as he closed in on the German… weapon. Time seemed to fade as he closed in, and then he saw it, glinting in the light reflected from Earth. It didn’t look ultra-dangerous, more like a single hunk of metal, but that was all that would be needed to rip the station apart.

Thankfully, the station stayed off the air. He could guess at the panic as everyone was hustled into their space suits and the SSTO was cast off for duty, preparing to move everyone to Clarke if the worse happened, but he didn’t know. The German weapon came closer and closer… and with a bump he locked on to it.

Farewell, he thought, and closed his eyes. A moment later he opened them; the weapon, whatever it was, hadn’t exploded. It was still moving towards Hamilton, but it clearly wasn’t a bomb. “Fuck me,” he breathed.

“Only if you deflect that thing,” Salamander said. It was so out of character that Abernathy gaped, before realising what he had to do. Without thinking of the possible consequences, he triggered his boosters, burning through the last of his fuel for the MSV.

“I need a course projection,” he said, hoping that he’d gotten it wrong. A moment later he knew the truth; he hadn’t gotten it wrong at all. The sudden boost hadn’t been enough to deflect the German weapon from its course. Time was running out… and there was only one decision left to make.

“I think we’ll have to do it in heaven,” he said. If Salamander got mad at him – if he survived – he could live with it. Quickly, before anyone could argue, he triggered the boosters on his spacesuit’s unit, adding as much speed as he could to the weapon, pushing it down. Earth’s gravity pulled at it, pulling it down, and he boosted it as much as he could and…

“You’ve done it,” Salamander said. She didn’t even sound annoyed at his little crack at her. “Oh… Victor…”

Abernathy shook his head inside his space suit as Hamilton passed overhead. He’d burnt all of his fuel, and he was trapped on the same orbit as the weapon, an orbit spiralling down towards the Earth. He entertained a fantasy about literally riding the weapon back through the atmosphere, but he knew that it was nonsense. If by some miracle he survived the heat, he would not survive the impact.

He heard Salamander and the other crewman babbling about a rescue, but he knew that it was impossible; there was nothing short of a UFO that might be able to rescue him. He looked around hopefully, but apart from the Ministry’s space efforts, there was nothing in space, no alien space bats coming to save a doomed spaceman.

“Here’s hoping there’s a German under this orbit,” he said. “It was a honour to serve with all of you.”

He looked around hopefully for a UFO, for Q coming to save his life, but there was nothing. The weapon was spinning slightly, allowing the great green globe of Earth to appear above him as he grew closer and closer. He shut of his radio; there was nothing he wished to saw to anyone, as the heat began to rise. He wondered what burning up would feel like, as the planet swelled above it. His perspective swam – he thought for a long moment that the planet reached out and swallowed him – and the orbit degraded into the atmosphere,

“Goodbye,” he murmured. “Goodbye all of you.”

Abernathy fell forever.

Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Honoured Dead

Ten Downing Street

London, United Kingdom

7th June 1942

There had been no attempt by the Ministry of Space to cover up the first space-related death, indeed, the BBC had been more than willing to turn the brave astronaut into a hero, which Victor Abernathy deserved. The streak of light across the sky that had announced his death had been turned into a national sensation by the BBC, and a day of mourning and a collection for his family had been proposed. Abernathy had been unmarried, but he’d left an entire family behind, one that would be devastated.

“The funeral will be in a week,” he said, staring out of the window into the rain. Not a man often given to fancy, Hanover was half-convinced that the rain itself had come in mourning for Abernathy’s death. “He will receive a state funeral.”

“Thank you, sir,” Major Dashwood said. “His crewmates will appreciate it.”

Hanover nodded. “We can hold off the funeral so that all of them can attend,” he said seriously. “He was in the RAF; several dozen pilots and ground crew had already petitioned their commanders, asking permission to attend. His MP was very insistent upon it.”

“Bastard wants to ride his coattails back into Parliament,” Dashwood muttered. “Sir, what else has Parliament said?”

“They’re worried about a second attack,” Hanover said. “I confess that I share their concerns. What precautions have you taken against them trying again?”

Dashwood took a moment to gather his thoughts. “We cannot order anyone to do the same stunt again,” he said. “We have started two separate defences; we have brought over all of the remaining missiles, which will be used to hit anything that looks like its going to enter orbit, and we have started to launch more into space. Sooner or later, they’ll have to run out of missiles.”

“We’ll run out of space stations a damn sight sooner,” Hanover snapped. “What about the second precaution?”

“We have attached extra fuel tanks and boosters to the MSVs, which can be used as independent automated units if necessary,” Dashwood said. “If they manage to put another object in orbit, we’ll shove it back down into the atmosphere.”

Hanover was unconvinced. “I hope that you’re right,” he said. “Unfortunately, Parliament will probably insist on an official enquiry, which could distract everyone from the real issues at hand. When will the Thor weapons be ready?”

“In around two weeks,” Dashwood said. “Unfortunately…”

Hanover’s eyes glinted dangerously. “Yes?”

“We were originally planning to deploy them from Hamilton,” Dashwood said. “If the Germans have figured out how to shoot the station down…”

Hanover nodded. It was a valid concern. “We were never that concerned with precision anyway,” he said. “The targets we have in mind won’t be moving.”

Dashwood nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said. “However, can we have a delay, long enough to get enough missiles into orbit.”

Hanover scowled. “After all this work, it would be irony indeed if the Ministry of Space was unable to play the decisive role in the war,” he said. “However, I understand your concerns and I trust your judgement.”

“Thank you, sir,” Dashwood said, and left the room. Hanover watched him go, his eyes hidden in shadow. Shaking his head, he returned to the details about the desperate need to resupply the Dutch with food; the Germans having not been too concerned about feeding them.

He scowled. It was taking a toll on British and American logistics, which meant that the Germans would have more time to prepare for the coming offensive. Everything depended on which side managed to get their attacked launched in time… and Hanover was seriously worried that it might be the German attack that kicked off first.

RAF Lyneham

Wiltshire, United Kingdom

7th June 1942

Kristy Stewart waited impatiently for the doctor to finish checking her over. She examined her naked body in the mirror as the female doctor poked and prodded at her; the bruises were fading rapidly. Her thighs and buttocks remained sore, but she could move again, and her experiences were a fading memory.

“The more we do to you, the less you believe we’re doing it,” Mengele had said, and she had long since realised that that was true. Her body was healing rapidly, thanks to the wonders of modern medicine, except one thing. The internal scarring had been bad, bad enough to prevent her from ever having children again.

“I never liked the little bastards anyway,” she’d said, making light of it, and she’d known that she’d never met a man she wanted to settle down with, but it hurt somehow, deep inside.

“You’re healing very well,” the doctor said, breaking into her thoughts. Stewart smiled at her; the Chinese woman had been more than willing to discuss her time in Germany with her. “Apart from the… well, you know.”

Stewart smiled absently. Everyone had been very apologetic about it, as if it had been their fault. “It’s fine, really,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

Sally Kim, the doctor, straightened up. Her figure was tall and boyishly slim, with only small breasts. Her long dark hair hung down her back, causing Stewart to smile. Her own blonde hair was short; Mengele’s goons had cut her long hair off her head.

“I must repeat my concerns about your… stability,” Sally said finally. Her voice was concerned; it was just what Stewart didn’t need. “You have been through a very traumatic experience and…”

“And I need to see justice done,” Stewart said. “Think of it as being in a rape courtroom, only on a far grander scale.”

“And now you’re being silly,” Sally said. Stewart felt a flicker of pure rage burning through her. “You are not healthy…”

Something of Stewart’s feelings must have shown on her face, for Sally took a step backwards. “You just certified me as healthy,” Stewart snapped. “I have a job to do…”

“Everyone in the country has seen those… images of you,” Sally said. Stewart nearly slapped her. “Please, Kristy; you don’t have to go back to work…”

“Excuse me,” an intern said. Stewart glared at him and he looked away from her body. Homosexual he might be, she still didn’t want a man looking at her naked body. “There is a man from the MOD here to see you.” He snorted. “He’s waiting in your quarters.”

“Thank you,” Stewart said, reaching for her dressing gown. “Sally, thank you for everything.”

“You’re welcome,” Sally said automatically. “I must repeat.”

“Thank you,” Stewart snapped. She swept out of the room, heading directly for her room. The RAF had been generous to the small number of civilians in confinement on the base; they had all the comforts of a luxury hotel. She waved to Jasmine Horton, a fellow sufferer, before entering her quarters.

“Good afternoon, Miss Stewart,” the man said. It took her a moment to place him; they’d met before she’d gone to Germany. Steve… Stirling, she remembered; that had been his name. “I trust that you are feeling better?”

Stewart nodded grimly. Violence or the threat of violence wouldn’t work with the man who’d once informed her that she went to Germany at her own risk. She studied him with convert interest; he now wore the uniform of a Major, with his blonde hair darker than before.

“I have been better,” she said. “I assume that you know what I want?”

“I read your request,” Stirling said. “Are you quite serious?”

Stewart felt a second flicker of burning rage, tearing away at her mind. “Yes,” she said. “I want to be embedded with the army as it heads into Germany.”

“For God’s sake, why?” Stirling asked sharply. “You have suffered quite badly in Germany, and your reputation is up shit creek.”

“Which is why I have to do it,” Stewart said, although it was only part of the answer. “If you can’t issue me with the necessary permission, tell me who to fucking lobby!”

Her raised voice concerned Stirling; she could see it in his eyes. If she could have borne it, she would have tried to seduce him, but she knew that it would be a long time before she could ever have sex again. Her body ached at the thought.

“Me,” Stirling said. “When your request arrived through the base commander, it was decided that I would interview you and make the final decision. I should inform you that embedded journalists do run the risk of being captured by the enemy.”

Stewart felt all of her reporter’s instincts come to life. “You’ve already had people unaccounted for?”

“Some have gone missing,” Stirling answered thoughtfully. “Some might have been killed and their bodies lost, others might have been captured. We don’t know and we may never know for certain.” He looked up at her. “The BBC might refuse to employ you,” he said. “If they do… well, we can’t do much about it.”

Stewart glared at him. “You can’t order them to take me?”

Stirling snorted. “Do you want to set a precedent for government control of the media?” He asked. “Even if we had that kind of control, I don’t know if anyone would want to use it.”

“You’re too naive,” Stewart snapped. “If Baron Edmund gives his permission, will I receive the official pass?”

Stirling looked at her for a long moment, his blue eyes trying to look into her soul. “Very well,” he said finally. “If they agree to take you on, then you can go.” He scowled. “Personally, I think you’re crazy.”

“Thanks,” Stewart said. “When I come back, let’s do lunch.”

“If you come back,” Stirling said, and his gaze was troubled. “If you come back, then we can talk further.”

Before Stewart could ask him what he was talking about, he left, leaving her alone in her quarters. Smiling to herself, she picked up the phone and asked for an outside line. She knew enough about Baron Edmund to make him agree to her terms.

I didn’t used to be so ruthless, she realised, as the phone rang. She smiled and decided that it suited her.

The Kremlin

Moscow, Russia

7th June 1942

Stalin smiled up at Molotov, his broken teeth glinting by the light of his heavy cigar. “The fascists are suffering heavily, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich,” he said. His smile broadened. “In fact, they are so desperate that they have agreed to some of my additional terms.”

He outlined the deal he’d struck with the Germans. In exchange for permitting the 2nd Shock Army, one of the newest formations, to enter Germany and fight beside the Germans, the Germans would transport some of the future technology to Russia… and open their stockpiles of nerve gas to Russian inspection. Nerve gas had been under development in Russia as well, but the Germans had moved far ahead of them.

“Indeed, Comrade Borov believes that we will be able to duplicate their chemical warheads,” Stalin said. He chuckled. “The fascists will fight hard to buy us the time to prepare the final line of defence. If it should happen to devastate Germany in the process, well…”

He leered openly and Molotov allowed himself a chuckle. It was genuinely clever; the Soviets would supply the Germans and milk their produce, while preparing their own super-weapons. It would only be a matter of time before the joint atomic program produced results, and most of the bombs would be going off in Germany.

“Comrade – Iosif Vissarionovich – I must admit that I’m concerned about using gas on their troops,” Molotov said. “The British have threatened to use their nuclear warheads to punish the use of such weapons against their troops and the Americans have stockpiles of gas of their own.”

“And, doubtless, an atomic bomb in the pipeline,” Stalin said. He grinned. “It will not matter, comrade, for we will not deploy the weapons from our own territory, but from forward bases in Poland. The fascists will get the blame.”

He chortled and Molotov joined in. “The British will then have to face the problem of crossing an atomic firewall that they have created themselves,” Stalin said. “In the meantime, we are studying all of the lessons from the British attack into the Netherlands. That won’t be a success against us, Comrade.”

Molotov kept his face still. The American stranglehold on Vladivostok was growing tighter by the day, even with the new American commitments in Europe. Japan’s surrender had changed the balance of power in China, enough to made Vladivostok untenable in the long run… unless the Soviet Union deployed its own nuclear warhead.

“And we have other cards to play,” Stalin continued. “Our fraternal brothers in France, for one thing.”

Molotov considered. The French Communist Party, it was true, hadn’t taken a significant role in the Vichy Government, which Petain had repaid by ignoring its growth in a France increasingly worried about the future. Stalin had sent weapons and advisors, which Himmler had turned a blind eye to at first, and then used the Soviets to help keep the French in line. He smiled; the French might not have the guts to use political assassination and purges as a political tool, and in consequence their politics made the Soviet Union’s seem genteel.

“We will assist them to overthrow the Government of France, which is fascist-dominated,” Stalin said calmly. “Himmler has already agreed to this, although he has warned that it is unlikely that the government will be accepted by the Allies.”

Molotov opened his mouth to agree, but Stalin spoke over him. “It hardly matters in any case,” the dictator said. “The French have always been for the French, so if some of the more hot-headed on the subject of French independence meet their ends fighting Petain, well, its better for the future of world communism.”

Molotov nodded. One of the reasons for the failure of communism, with its intrinsic appeal, to spread further was that most communist parties looked to the Soviet Union for guidance – and very rapidly became pawns of Stalin’s power games, rather than genuinely believing in the cause of world communism. It had been the factor that had lost the Spanish Civil War, the factor that had caused inestimable harm during the first Winter War.

He studied the map thoughtfully. “If this trouble were to erupt in France once Berlin fell, then the capitalists would be delayed,” he said. “They would have to decide what to do about the problem, and then they would have to take action.”

“Precisely,” Stalin said. He leered cheerfully. “They would face the choice of overthrowing a communist government that was seeking peace terms on behalf of France, and incidentally knocking both Spain and perhaps Italy out of the war, or allowing a communist nation to take power in their ranks.”

Molotov frowned. “They are unlikely to view the French with much regard for their fighting skills,” he said. “Vichy’s forces have been given only equipment from 1939 and 1940 – certainly nothing that can take our forces on.”

“All to the good,” Stalin said. He studied the map. “The communists will seek to ally with the capitalists, and then they will use their influence to convince them to make peace with us. Should they be rejected by the Allies, as you predict… the allies will have to crush them before coming east to here, and time will not be on their side. Winter will slow them, stop them, and by 1943 we will have our own atomic bombs.”

He smiled, and then waved a stubby finger at the map. “If a single bomb were to go off in the Netherlands, the entire Allied position would be destroyed.”

“We don’t have a bomb to use for that,” Molotov said. “I wish we did, but the project is proceeding slower than we would like.”

Stalin smiled. “The future will be communist,” he said. “We will control the future.”

* * *

The black car drove through the streets of Moscow, escorted by three NKVD armoured cars and several of the new motorcycles. As it passed through the streets, the people lowered their eyes, trying to avoid making eye contract with the man who sat inside the car, smoking a tiny cigarette. In all aspects save one it was a royal procession; the man in the car had no trace of nobility, natural or assumed.

From his perch on top of the tower block, Sergi Puskin looked down, concealing his weapon behind his coat. He’d come to the tower block several times in the last week, each time sketching the Kremlin for an art class at his technical school. He’d been hoping to become an artist, but he’d been conscripted into learning engineering, just to boost Russian science forward. Until he’d discovered the underground, resistance had seemed futile, even to him.

Bastard, he thought, as he pulled out his weapon. The long thin tube had been manufactured in a nation called Ghana, which he’d never heard of, and fired explosive armour-piercing missiles. He’d wondered why the weapons were not used against tanks; his contact had explained that standard armour was very capable of handing them, but the car would have almost no defence. The ultra-compressed explosive, he’d been informed, would detonate inside the car; thicker armour would have the pellets detonating on the surface instead of punching through.

He pulled on a pair of strange glasses and triggered the sighting beam. A beam of coherent light, invisible to all, save him, lanced down and tracked the car and its escorts as they drove past the tower block. A single press of the trigger sent a burst of pellets on their way… and the effects were remarkable. The pellets themselves left no trail… but the black car seemed to flicker with the fires inside, and ground to a halt.

“Should have been a bigger blast,” he muttered. He knew that the underground had more spectacular weapons, but he’d been forbidden to bring any of them, or any gun. If the NKVD caught him, he knew that he would be safer trying to lie to them than trying to resist.

Smiling, he jumped into the shaft and slid down to the second floor, which he had hired as his assigned place of residence. Quickly removing his overcoat and stuffing it in the nearest bin, he entered his flat and took up his sketchbook. He doodled idly, planning one day to draw an image of the scene.

I’ll call it the death of Lavrenty Pavlovich Beria, he thought, as a diagram for a new improved tank took shape under his pen. The school was very insistent that they learned how to design tanks. That should really impress girls later…

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Onwards

Battlezone

Netherlands/Germany Border

11th June 1942

The German attack came out of nowhere, three trucks rushing down the road, Wehrmacht infantry jumping out of the cabs as the machine guns on the Franks tanks began firing, ripping the trucks to sheds. One truck was lucky, it hit a blockade, span around and slammed into an American tank. The massive explosion shattered both tanks.

Suicide tactics, Captain Robinson thought. He shuddered as five more German trucks, equipped with armour to ward off machine guns bullets, charged down the road. “Fire,” he snapped, and the main gun barked once, blasting one of the trucks into flaming ruin. The explosives inside the truck detonated with a powerful blast, shattering the enemy formation.

“That was too close,” his driver muttered. One tank had been lost and two more had been damaged. As mortar rounds began to detonate near the tanks, Robinson barked orders; the infantry moved forward to secure the enemy positions.

“Gunner, three rounds through that wall,” he snapped, as a small house appeared through the woodland, an enemy position dug into the side. The high explosive rounds detonated, blasting the German position, even as one of the Germans fired a rocket at the advancing tank. It missed, the tank returned fire with its machine guns, but the damage was done; their confidence had been blunted.

“Captain, they’re all through the fucking village,” the infantry leader snapped. “We need air support!”

“Acknowledged,” Robinson said, calling the forward headquarters. Now that some Harriers were permanently based in Europe, they could drop their dumb bombs anywhere near the front. The British might have run out of the super-weapons that made the USAAF drool at the mouth, but they still had plenty of the napalm warheads.

He cursed as he studied the situation through the periscope. The tiny German village – they didn’t even know its name – had been turned into a strongpoint by the Wehrmacht and heavily fortified. The Germans had been adapting their tactics, moving forces around by night and confusing the orbital satellites. Instead of trying to meet the Allies tank for tank, they had elected to keep their own tanks back, while systematically sabotaging the main line of advance. Ten days after the invasion had begun, it had stalled.

A screech across the sky announced the arrival of the Harrier jump jets. He knew that the USAAF had offered serious money for even a handful of the tactical support craft; they had more than proved their value. Dumb bombs began to fall on the town, even as the black puffs of German anti-aircraft fire began to explode in the air.

“Missed, you fuckers,” someone shouted, as the massive napalm bombs began to detonate, blasting waves of fire across the German town. Germans fled from the blast, some burning, and Robinson gave the order to fire. It was a mercy; the facilities for wounded personnel were overwhelmed.

“Advance,” Robinson ordered, and the Franks tank began to move. The gunner fired once as an enemy lorry roared out of a burning building, destroying it, and they moved on to the next target. The village was still burning; the tanks entered the village, leaving the infantry behind.

* * *

General Flynn was on the field satellite phone, talking to Eisenhower and the SHAFE staff. He scowled; Hanover had promised him tactical control, but Eisenhower was insisting on at least being consulted. The operations were far larger and more complex than Iran – or Norway – had been, and there just wasn’t time.

I need a bigger staff, he thought grimly, and knew that that was nonsense. He trusted his people, particularly the ones who’d fought in Iran, but trying to coordinate the entire battlefield was difficult. It was a good thing that both armies believed in initiative; he would have found it much harder without it.

“We’re getting more of the localised German counter-attacks,” he snapped into the phone. A hail of brilliant flares announced an attack by a German rocket-launcher, one of the Stalin organ knock-offs that the Germans had duplicated. They weren’t a serious threat to his heavy tanks, but they were lethal to the infantry.  “I think we’re about to hit their main line.”

There was no ‘think’ about it. The Germans had worked hard, creating a fortified line in seven days, skilfully using the River Ems as part of a delaying tactic designed to slow the advance as much as possible, while building the defence line itself. From Bremen to Hanover to Dortmund, the Germans were digging in, bringing up reinforcements from Poland and France.

“I understand the situation,” Eisenhower said, as calmly as only a man in an office could be when soldiers were fighting and dying. He’d made one visit to the front, just one. “What do you want to do?”

Finally, Flynn thought. “I want to launch an attack,” he snapped. He stared at the map, even with German attempts at hiding the satellites and the SAS had a pretty good idea of what was where. The Germans, knowing the terrain well, had dug in mainly between Bremen and Hanover, expecting that the Allies wouldn’t want to go the long way around. They were right.

“Do you believe that we can challenge the defences that exist between Bremen to Hanover?” Eisenhower said. Flynn, who knew that a major defeat would be blamed on Eisenhower, felt little sympathy. “Can our logistics handle the attack?”

Flynn nearly laughed. Eisenhower had mainly devoted himself to logistics, something that he’d done with considerable skill and verve. “Yes, they can,” he said. “The attack can be supplied with everything it needs.”

“And you plan to launch the attack today,” Eisenhower said. “No time for preparation?”

He meant softening up the Germans through shellfire. “No need,” Flynn said. “That would just warn the Germans that we are coming,” he said. “We have the ability to move forward rapidly, and catch the Germans in a vice, which would destroy almost all of their armoured forces in the region. Once we have punched a hole through their defences… we can drive directly to Berlin.”

There was a long pause. “I approve the operation,” Eisenhower said finally. “You may launch when ready.”

Fire when ready, Gridley, Flynn thought absently. “The operation will be launched in a few hours,” he said, and put down the field telephone. “Colonel Nott?”

“Sir?” Nott asked. “What can we do for you?”

Flynn blinked at him. “My compliments to your gunners,” he said, “and inform them that I want them to be ready for a massive shelling of” – he checked the map – “the Germans lines, here, near Neinburg.” Nott bowed once. His command had nearly every British artillery battery and half of the American guns. “Corporal Darling?”

“Sir?” Darling asked. “The air force?”

Flynn nodded. “My compliments to Air Commodore Cromwell and I want him to prepare for heavy bombing operations.” He grinned. “Colonel Toby, summon Generals Stillwell and Rommel,” he ordered. “We have a decisive battle to plan.

* * *

The headquarters had been chosen with care; a massive church that had been the pride and joy of the small town before the Allies had begun their invasion. General Walther Model allowed himself a moment of quiet contemplation in the church, before turning to his defences. He scowled; no matter his orders, he knew that there would be only one chance at victory.

“Bastards,” he muttered. He’d heard about the advanced British tanks – and the powerful tanks that the Americans and the renegade Germans had deployed – and he’d never quite believed them. It didn’t seem plausible… until he’d seen a Challenger take ten shots from an anti-tank gun at close range and keep coming. The British were tactically skilled… and they had the firepower to cut their way out of most German traps. Only one Challenger had been disabled – and the RAF had destroyed it on the ground before it could be dragged back to Germany.

“Herr General,” a sentry said, as a dull roar began to appear in the sky. Thousands of black dots moved across the sky, thousands more fell from the air as the planes released their bombs down on the defence lines. Model cursed; the planes were showing diabolical targeting, hitting defences he’d hoped that had escaped detection.

“I saw,” he said. “Send runners to Von Bock; his forces might be needed.”

“Jawohl,” the sentry said, heading off to do Model’s bidding. Model watched grimly as his anti-aircraft guns began to fire, launching rockets and proximity shells into the air. Some aircraft fell, others changed their course, trying to hit the gunners as they poured fire into the sky.

“They’re coming,” he said, and scowled. The defence plan had been simple – most good plans were – but it relied upon the British doing the right thing – or rather the wrong thing. Model hated it on that ground alone – but what other choices did the Reich have?

“Herr General,” one of the other choices said. The SS Obergruppenfuehrer had been charged by Himmler with deployment of the special weapons they’d brought to the front. “Shall we prepare the weapons?”

Despite himself, Model shuddered; the nerve gas canisters were dangerous. He’d noticed that even the SS fanatics carried them carefully. The compressed nerve gas could wipe out an entire division – if they lost containment. And, from what Kesselring had said, using them could mean the end for Germany.

“Not yet,” he said, and hoped that the Obergruppenfuehrer – who hadn’t even deigned to share his name – would obey him. Guderian had been able to force the SS to obey him, but Guderian had been a favourite of the Fuhrer – the then Fuhrer. “We keep those back until we need them.”

The Obergruppenfuehrer’s eyes bulged comically. Model didn’t bother to sneer; the Obergruppenfuehrer was hardly one of the skilled and deadly Waffen-SS, which deserved some respect for their fighting skills, but a lowly man forced forward by circumstances.

“Herr General, we need to use them for maximum effect,” the Obergruppenfuehrer protested. “They might be hit from the air, and then where would we be?”

A lot better off, Model thought coldly. He lifted his pistol. “I am in command of this front and I have the command authority,” he said. “Herr Obergruppenfuehrer, you can obey my orders, or you can place yourself under arrest.”

The Obergruppenfuehrer wilted, confirming Model’s low opinion of him. “Jawohl,” he said. “I will obey your commands.”

* * *

“Panzer, march,” someone snapped over the radio. Captain Yates snarled as the Challenger tank moved forward into its launching permission; the briefing had been quicker than he would have believed possible. It had also been simple; the German defence lines are ahead, punch through them.

“Shut up and stay off the airwaves,” Colonel Barrington snapped. “All units; sound off.”

Yates acknowledged in his place, listening to the other tankers as they reported their status. There were no faulty tanks; after two years of warfare, he would have been astonished if there had been any maintenance errors caused by bad training. The entire division was well trained; mechanical skills had been hammered into their skulls by the drill sergeants.

“Very well,” Colonel Barrington said finally. “Captain Yates; you may advance.”

“Yes, sir,” Yates said. “Corporal Benton, start the engine.”

“They don’t pay me enough for this,” Corporal Benton muttered, as the engine burst into life. The Germans had tried to shell the tank-parking park twice and sent in a team of sabotage experts, but the division had remained intact. “Moving out.”

Yates peered through his little portal. In theory, there was a mile to go until they reached the enemy lines. In practice, well, the enemy would be bound to have scouts out, just as the SAS was trying to cause havoc in the enemy rear. The tanks advanced slowly, heading towards the main line… and then a rocket slammed into the armour.

“One German, running,” Sergeant Josephine Grant snapped. “Firing.”

The machine gun chattered and the German fell. Mortar rounds crashed down around them as the drove forward, revealing a German position that had been attempting to mine the road and build a defence line, buying time for their main defence lines to be strengthened still further.

“Fire,” Yates snapped, and Grant put a shell directly into the mortar crew. The explosion killed the crew, the others tried to surrender, except for one SS fanatic, who fired at the tank with a submachine gun.

“Idiot,” Grant muttered, as she mowed him down. The other Germans surrendered to the infantry, allowing the Challengers to press on through the fields, watching carefully for signs of attack.

“There,” Yates snapped, as a shell slammed into the tank. The Germans had carefully constructed an entire trench, half-hidden by the foliage, which held three massive guns. He cursed as a shell struck one of the IFV units and blew it away, followed by more shells landing around the division.

“Open fire,” he snapped, and Grant obeyed, slamming seven shells into the entire structure. One of the shells was a modified FAE design, designed to start a fire, and it exploded in the centre of the trench. Germans ran forward, throwing grenades, and Yates cursed as he realised how deep the trenches ran.

“There’s an entire anthill under here,” he snapped. “We need to burn them out.”

“On it,” Grant said, and she fired again. The German tunnels were becoming exposed as the shells dug into the camouflage, blowing it away. Yates scowled; the Germans might have hidden an entire infantry battalion under the ground and they would never have noticed.

He cursed and lifted his radio. “We need infantry support,” he snapped. “Bring up more infantry, quickly.”

* * *

The tiny SAS squadron wore German SS uniforms, except Chang, who had been handcuffed with a pair of fake handcuffs. Dwynn grinned to himself; even unarmed Chang was death on two legs. The handcuffs looked real, but a single hard yank could shatter them.

“Remember, we’re Germans,” he muttered, as they approached the German command shack for the region. Satellites had suggested that the Germans had someone important running matters there, and as the British and American tanks were pressing hard towards the position, the high command had ordered the SAS to capture or kill the German commanders.

“So don’t mention the war,” Vash said, putting on a bad German accept. “Achtung, spitfire, Rommel, egg in the eye, mien Kamrad…”

“Shut up,” Dwynn said. The words might have amused cinemagoers – there had been a resurgence of interest in war movies – but he didn’t think that they would have impressed real Germans. “Everyone ready?”

They nodded; Dwynn led the way down to the German command post. It wasn’t as pretentious as he had expected and for a long moment he wondered if they had made a mistake. It would hardly be the first time that intelligence had gotten something wrong; if they had the SAS team would have to kill everyone and be extracted under hostile fire.

“Good,” Dwynn said, as three sentries appeared out of nowhere. They demanded his business in sharp German; one of them, he was amused to note, was clearly a Frenchman. “I have a prisoner for the commander,” he snapped.

The SS guards glared at him. They were SS, which meant that he couldn’t hope to intimidate them by his own fake rank. An explosion blossomed, not too far away, and the guards jumped. Dwynn allowed himself a sneer at their expressions.

“Herr Hauptsturmfuehrer, the Obergruppenfuehrer is not to be disturbed,” the leader said finally. “Can you not take him to the command post?”

Dwynn’s suspicions were activated. If this building wasn’t the command post, then what was it? “I have strict orders to deliver the prisoner to the Obergruppenfuehrer in person,” he said, and hoped that the guards didn’t know that he was lying. “Open the doors.”

The guard started to protest. Dwynn glared him down. “Jawohl, Herr Hauptsturmfuehrer,” the guard said finally. He opened the doors. “Herr Obergruppenfuehrer, there is an Allied prisoner for you.” He chuckled. “A slant-eye, no less.”

The Obergruppenfuehrer burst up the stairs, slamming a door shut, but not before Dwynn had caught sight of shells buried under the ground. He blinked; what sort of shells needed an SS armed guard?

“What are you doing here?” He snapped. “There are particular orders…”

His eyes fixed on Dwynn’s face and a terrible realisation came into his eyes. Dwynn didn’t hesitate and shot him neatly through the head; the others had already taken care of the guards. The Obergruppenfuehrer’s body tumbled back down the stairs and hit the ground.

“I think we’d better check it out,” Dwynn said, and led the team down the stairs. He opened the door carefully, to peer into a scene from hell. Countless shells, ones he recognised from service in Iran, lined the walls, along with a gun designed to fire them.

“Fuck,” Vash breathed.

“Gas shells,” Dwynn said. He headed back up the stairs. “I think we’d better call this in; let the head sheds decide what to do with it.”

* * *

General Walther Model put the latest reports on the map in his mind and knew that the battle was lost. Three major enemy armoured columns; one British, one American and one Bundeswehr, had engaged the defence line in three places, a coordinated attack that would have been very difficult for even the Wehrmacht at its prime. His King Tigers had been directed against the American tanks and they had had some success, but then the British had launched an attack and…

He shook his head. Three hundred of the heavy tanks had been destroyed in the space of half an hour, and with them the war. The defence line, the last line of defence before Berlin, was collapsing. He knew that the local commanders from the line to Berlin would do what they could, but the bulk of the skilled manpower was trapped or had been destroyed.

“Herr General,” an SS officer shouted. “Herr General, they destroyed the gas stockpile!”

Model swore brutally. The gas shells had been the last chance for producing any kind of victory. Without them, the cities were practically unable to launch any attacks, leaving the populations trapped inside.

“Herr General, we have a communication from someone on the radio,” his aide said. Model looked up sharply; the airwaves had been jammed ever since the attack had begun. “He claims to be the British commander.”

“Give me the headphones,” Model said, taking the small radio. “This is General Walther Model.”

“My name is General Robert Flynn,” the voice at the far end said. “General, your people were attempting to prepare gas shells.”

The note of cold condemnation within his voice stunned Model. “General, your forces have invaded Germany and…”

“This is no time for posturing,” General Flynn snapped. “General, allow me to summarize the situation; my forces have broken your defence line in five places, shattering your ability to counter-attack. You have nothing left to hit us with, and further fighting would be futile.”

Model sighed. “I might have one or two tricks left,” he said.

“Bollocks,” Flynn said, in English. “General, think of your men. You cannot resist further to any useful end. We have trapped thousands of your men and they will be worn down and destroyed, unless you surrender.” He paused. “Think of the civilian population, which would be utterly devastated by a long siege.”

“Enough,” Model snapped. “If you cut your jamming, I will issue the order to surrender, understand?”

Flynn didn’t seem to notice the sharp tone. “I understand,” he said. “Be warned; if there is trickery, your forces will suffer.”

Chapter Forty: Leaving the Sinking Ship

Fuhrerbunker

Berlin, Germany

12th June 1942

Kesselring cursed as the reports came in. No one in the Fuhrerbunker had expected the front to collapse that quickly; they’d had faith in Model – and in the gas shells – to prevent a quick defeat. Instead, the German forces had been surrounded, and forced to surrender. Model’s surrender orders had been obeyed in most cases, despite hysterical orders from Himmler to retreat backwards towards Berlin.

It was happening too fast. He’d hoped to sneak in more than a single Wehrmacht battalion into Berlin, but instead he had only a single infantry group. Himmler had to be removed, or perhaps he had to be forced to issue the surrender orders. With the thousands of SS men crawling over Berlin, it would be difficult to carry out any form of coup d’etat.

“The Fuhrer wants an updated briefing,” Roth said. Kesselring looked up; he hadn’t heard the SS officer arrive. “I don’t think he’s too happy.”

“Nor am I,” Kesselring said. He waved a hand at the map. “Do you understand the situation?” Roth shook his head. “The enemy has broken our main line,” he said. “The troops in France and Spain are stuck. Our internal transport network is ruined. Our communications network is a shambles.”

Roth stared at the line of red arrows advancing towards Berlin. “There’s nothing to hold them?”

Kesselring snorted. “There are hundreds of divisions composed of old men and new conscripts,” he said. “They won’t hold back the Allies for more than a few minutes apiece. They’ll just brush their way through them.”

Roth nodded. “Then we have to move,” he said. “You can’t handle the troops?”

Kesselring was a strategist, not a tactician, but he knew the basic odds were bad. He shook his head, taking a moment to study Roth. The SS officer looked sick at heart, battered beyond recovery, but Germany needed him. The fatherland had few people who could help it survive, and Roth had to stand up now.

“No,” Kesselring said slowly. “There are four crack Waffen-SS divisions digging in into Berlin. I have one Wehrmacht division close by, but not close enough.”

“Then Himmler has to die,” Roth said. “Field Marshal, if you leave the city now, with orders to lead the final battle, you could simply surrender the troops.”

Kesselring had considered it. “And what will you do?” He asked. “Will you come with me?”

“I’m going to kill the Fuhrer,” Roth said, and stood up. “Will you come with me for your orders?”

Kesselring allowed himself a moment of hope. “Yes,” he said. “I’ll make it as convincing as I can.”

* * *

Himmler knew, even before Kesselring, that the defence line had failed. The sudden shock had galvanised him; panic could come later. Having sent Roth to find Kesselring, Himmler considered his options and recognised that they had suddenly become limited. Germany – in some form – might live into July 1942 and beyond; Himmler himself certainly wouldn’t live that long, unless he left now.

He scowled. That, of course, left the question of where to go. The Allies knew what he looked like – and Mengele had ranted on about things like DNA testing before he was killed – and so west was out of the question. Switzerland, which was facing heavy Allied diplomatic pressure, was out, and so was the Vatican. The Pope might have declared the future Catholics to be heretics, but he could hardly afford to agonise the Allies. Both Canada and America had strong parties demanding that their Governments refuse further diplomatic status to the Vatican, although for different reasons, and the Pope had to be sweating blood.

For a long moment he considered simply trying to leave and blend in with the local population, but he knew that that would never work for long; almost every house in Germany had his portrait hanging on the wall. No, there was only one option left… and the news from the secret weapons project made it very possible.

Calling his secretary, he began to draft orders. The SS units near Poland would retreat into Poland, and then right up to the border with Russian-held territory. A quick phone call to Molotov had the arrangements made; the pride of the SS would fight beside the 2nd Shock Army. In the meantime, stockpiles of advanced weapons and nuclear material were heading east, right to the science cities that had been established in Russia.

He smiled, feeling real hope for the first time in the week. The Wehrmacht had clearly not been composed of good Aryans, for good Aryans would not have lost to the mongrels of America. They could die, to the last man, just to buy the SS the time it needed to prepare the final weapons.

“Mein Fuhrer, the Field Marshal has a plan to defeat the enemy,” Roth said. Himmler made a mental note to discipline his secretary, who had left his post to carry out Himmler’s orders. “He believes that we might still win.”

Himmler looked up. “That is good news,” he said, and meant it. Had Kesselring really come up with something, or was it an attempt to save his head?

“Mein Fuhrer, the enemy has clearly taken losses of their own in the battle yesterday,” Kesselring said. “They are not advancing through our country at hundreds of miles a day, but licking their wounds.”

Himmler nodded. He’d seen that for himself; the British and Americans were concentrating on securing their conquests before leaping forward again like a giant frog. They had little choice, merely to avoid a total disaster; the mini-civil war between surrendering units and units determined to fight to the death had ruined vast parts of the country and the food stockpiles.

He smiled. The thought of the British and Americans having to feed German citizens, if they weren’t all Jews and therefore known to be anti-German, was pleasing. They had betrayed Himmler; to subsist on British charity would be a fitting punishment.

“That gives us time,” Kesselring said. “We still have a number of infantry units, both the older units and the SS units, which we can use to halt the enemy short of Berlin. I believe that they will combine their forces for a single unstoppable thrust across the country – and I plan to meet them and stop them.”

Roth spoke for the first time. There was something… different about his voice; Himmler would have been worried under other circumstances. He smiled to himself; there has been a significant decline in the quality and quantity of your toadying lately, Herman. The Simpsons – whatever they were – would never be introduced to the Germans at large, but Himmler had watched a few episodes, hoping to understand the enemy a little better.

“In the week we should have, at least, we can produce massive amounts of mines and anti-tank weapons, including the new warheads,” Roth said. Himmler relaxed slightly; he hadn’t hired Roth for toadying. Roth spoke on, describing a fluid battle, using mines and armed infantrymen to hammer the enemy, to wear them down, prior to throwing the elite SS regiments in to complete the job.

“I see,” he said finally, when Roth had finished. “The SS regiments have their own tasks to accomplish…”

Kesselring gaped at him. “What could be more important that defeating the enemy thrust?” he asked, astonished. “They’re going to rape our country!”

“What an unfortunate metaphor,” Himmler murmured. There hadn’t been any reports of British or American troops engaging in raping German woman, but he was certain that it had happened – if starvation hadn’t already driven women into prostitution. “Unfortunately, the SS regiments have to complete their own tasks.”

“The plan may still work without them,” Roth said. Himmler nodded; he liked it when someone as intelligent as Roth supported him. “I will see to the logistics at once.”

Himmler smiled. “Field Marshal, you will take personal command of this operation,” he said. “Do not bother to return if you die.”

* * *

It had been all that Roth could do to prevent himself from simply drawing his sidearm and shooting Himmler right there and then. Instead, he listened as Himmler informed him that they would be bound to succeed, and then dismissed them without even saying good luck. He sniffed the air as they re-entered the main tunnels of the bunker; there was a definite smell of pure fear in the air. It stank, as if unshaven Slavs had been urinating in the corridors.

He said nothing until they returned to the military quarters, watching as Kesselring issued orders through the communications network, such as it was. He said nothing as Kesselring packed one of the handful of laptops, the one containing some of the data on the nuclear weapons program.

“Are you ready?” Kesselring asked finally. Roth nodded; unknown to Kesselring – it would only have upset him – was more than ready. He’d had enough time to make his own plans, ones that might just allow the Reich to survive in some form, even though it would be radically transformed. Perhaps… if everything worked, he might survive the coming few days.

“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” he said. “When are you going to move?”

Kesselring frowned. “In two days, or thereabouts,” he said finally. “I’ll send you the code word when I’m ready.”

Roth nodded. “I understand,” he said. “I won’t let you down.”

He frowned. He knew what Kesselring didn’t know, or wouldn’t acknowledge. With the SS dug into Berlin, a quick surrender would be out of the question. There was only one way to end the war, and he’d made up his mind to try.

Fuhrerbunker

Berlin, Germany

15th June 1942

Discovering that he’d been locked up in his rooms again was an unpleasant shock for Professor Horton, who’d worried endlessly what would happen next, assuming that Himmler had been killed by one of his rivals. None of the major Nazis – those that had been spared by the SS – would trust him, and as a black man the rank and file would hate him. Something had happened, he knew, but what?

“Come with me,” Himmler’s secretary said, bursting in without bothering to knock. Horton looked up; the young man was sweating with fear, which was… odd. He hadn’t seen anything that could scare him before; the young man didn’t seem to be fazed by anything, even blood on the carpets.

Ignoring Horton’s questions, he pulled him along the corridors, taking him directly into Himmler’s office. Ignoring the two gorilla-like guards who wanted to search Horton, he pulled him into Himmler’s room, saluted Himmler, and then left.

“Observe the map,” Himmler said grimly. Horton stared up at the map; red arrows were marching across Germany. It had taken nearly a year to advance on Berlin before, he knew, and that had been with the Soviets advancing from the other side of Germany. He concealed a smile; his people had done well.

“As you can see, the Allies” – Himmler practically spat the word – “have managed to shatter the defence line and they’re now heading for Berlin. Follow-up forces are occupying the cities behind their lines even as we speak, preventing the citizens from rising in revolt against them. It won’t be long, Herr Professor, before they reach Berlin.”

Horton blinked. A strange recklessness came over him. “Then why haven’t you fled while the Wehrmacht dies to cover your flight?” He asked. “That’s what you tried to do in the other history?”

Himmler’s eyes glittered. “I will leave today, Herr Professor, and you will come with me,” he said. “We are going on a little trip.”

“To where?” Horton asked. “Switzerland?” He smiled hopefully; the Swiss would hardly court British intervention by allowing Himmler to keep him prisoner.

“To Russia,” Himmler said. Horton gaped at him. “Comrade Stalin has agreed to play host to me, several thousand of the best SS men, and the fruits of the advanced weapons projects, such as the first atomic bomb of the Reich.”

Horton felt a numb sensation spreading through his body. His legs nearly gave out. “Don’t know remember what they did to Germany, just for hosting a bioweapons laboratory?” He asked. “What do you think they’ll do for using a nuke on them?”

“Oh, the Russians will get the blame,” Himmler said. “The nuke will be launched in defence of their territory, after all. In the meantime, the Werewolves will grow strong, and then I will make my triumphant return to Germany at the head of an army of SS men…”

He’s mad, Horton realised. Himmler had finally gone off the deep end. “You can’t be serious,” he breathed. “You can’t do that…”

“Oh, Herr Professor, I think you’ll find that I can do that,” Himmler said. Horton recoiled; the Fuhrer had definitely lost it. “You, of course, are coming with me, just to help me adapt to conditions in Stalin’s court.”

Horton felt his mind whirl. He was certain that Stalin would simply shoot Himmler out of hand – and that was hardly a bad thing – and he was certain that he would be shot soon afterwards, or would the NKVD insist on dissecting his secrets first?

* * *

Roth received the codeword a day late, when he had just begun to fret in earnest. Kesselring had been receiving as much in the way of supplies that Roth could dig up, including in some cases weapons that were intended for one of Himmler’s pet regiments. Himmler had turned a blind eye to his actions; he seemed to be certain that Roth was working for the good of the Reich.

It had taken nearly a week to build his own private network. It helped that most of the SS men in his part of the service were intelligent; it hadn’t taken long to convince them that Himmler was going to desert them to save his own skin. It had taken Himmler time to suppress all the evidence of his cowardliness in the other timeline, but Roth threw his store of information open to a selected number of his friends and allies, convincing them to move against Himmler.

He hadn’t breathed a word about the second plan to Kesselring. It would have only have upset him.

“It’s time,” he muttered to himself, and gathered his men. There were only twenty-three of them, but they had surprise on their side, and determination. “Group one goes to the communications room,” he ordered. Half of the staff there would be on their side anyway. “Group two follows me.”

He led the second team through the corridors, meeting no one, until they reached the outside of Himmler’s quarters. Quickly, he picked up one of the telephones that had been attached to a wall, and gave a particular order. Alarms started to sound, emergency systems started to move. In seconds, the bunker would be divided into little sections, all cowering against the threat of a nuclear attack.

“It’s done,” he said, as the doors to Himmler’s suite of rooms burst open. He fired once from his pistol, a long burst of machine gun fire answered him, killing half of his team. The rest shot down Himmler’s men, rushing into his office. A single grenade blew down Himmler’s door; he would treasure the expression on Himmler’s face for as long as he lived.

“It’s over,” he said, noticing with shock the secret tunnel in the side of the bunker. He blinked to realise that Professor Horton, handcuffed, was waiting with Himmler. “Give up!”

Himmler’s face whitened very quickly. “What is the meaning of this?” He demanded. “I demand to know…”

Roth almost gave him a flippant answer. “You have been disposed,” he said. “You have a choice; you can order the units on the surface to surrender, or you can die right here, right now!”

Himmler was trembling. “If I order them to surrender, you’ll just kill me,” he said. “I can’t…”

“We won’t kill you,” Roth promised. “We will send you to South America. You can take your chances there.”

Himmler picked up the radio and spoke rapidly. Roth listened carefully; the orders were for surrender, which was to be made to the British immediately. “Are you happy, traitor?” Himmler asked finally, as he put the radio down.

“I haven’t been happy since discovering that you had Kristy raped and murdered,” Roth snapped. “I…”

There was a sudden burst of firing from behind him. Roth spun around, pistol lifted, to see one of his men fall backwards, shot through the head. He fired quickly, firing into Himmler’s secretary, and then something slammed down on the side of his head. He had only moments to realise that Himmler had acted quicker than he would have believed possible, before the world sank into darkness.

* * *

Himmler allowed himself a quick moment of absolute triumph, before realising that the surrender order had not been countermanded. Cursing, he sent out the orders on both lines, and was shocked to discover that the line to the Wehrmacht had been cut. He cursed, once, and then again; Professor Horton had been shot through the leg.

“There are people much worse off,” he snapped at Horton, before thinking as fast as he could. Staying in the bunker was certain death, so he checked the dead body of his secretary, picked up his weapon, and pointed it at Horton. “Tell them it will never be over,” he said, and ran down the escape tunnel.

* * *

Horton bit his lip as hard as he could to stop himself from screaming; his leg felt horribly sore. He tried to hold it, to stop the bleeding, but with his hands handcuffed it was impossible to stem the flow. Dimly, he was aware that Roth wasn’t dead, but too close to death to help him.

“I’m sorry,” Roth said. His voice was weak; he vomited. Horton shuddered; the vomit had streaks of red mixed in with yellow. “You might survive, Doctor.”

Horton looked down at his wound. “I don’t think so,” he said. He tried to hold himself still, willing the blood to stop flowing. It didn’t work. “I don’t deserve to die this way.”

Roth laughed, coughing up more blood. “We all die in the end,” he said. “Doctor, I’m sorry I got you into this.”

Horton realised dimly that Roth was sincere. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said. “No one knew that this would happen.” He paused. “Why? Why did you join the Nazis?”

“Never had a better opportunity for my skills,” Roth said. “Never had a job because of the depression, never got along well enough to teach, but I knew engineering. Hitler took the gloves off and allowed us to experiment.” He laughed. “And then I was offered a commission in the SS, studying the equipment of other nations, because I had little skill for my own. I was supposed to be examining the new French tanks… and then your aircraft crashes right next to me.” He snickered. “And now the man I looked at as a second father has fucked off to Russia with an atomic bomb…”

He coughed up more blood. When he spoke, his voice was delirious. “Tell Kristy I love her,” he said, and died.

Chapter Forty-One: Which Side Are You On?

Forward Command Post

Brandenburg, Germany

15th June 1942

Field Marshal Kesselring was puzzled. Himmler had broadcast a surrender order, one that placed all of the military, Wehrmacht and SS alike, under his command. Only minutes later, he’d tried to countermand his own orders, but too late to prevent many units – the ones with reasonable commanders – from siding with him. Oddly, some of the reasonable units included SS units, with Wehrmacht units supporting the ‘fight to the last’ idea.

He cursed as an SS messenger brought him a note from Roth. He scowled as he realised what must have happened; Roth’s little plan had clearly failed, although not completely. The forces inside the city, by and large, were remaining firm, but almost all of the other units had declared for him – and ending the war.

“Raise the British,” he ordered, hoping that they could punch a message through the infrequent jamming. “Tell them… tell them that we wish to discuss terms.”

Ten Downing Street

London, United Kingdom

16th June 1942

The situation map was changing even as he watched, illustrating the complex nature of what was rapidly becoming a multi-front war. Hanover scowled as fighting broke out in Paris and the rest of France, while Italy was trying to throw off the German yoke. Worst of all was Germany itself; half of the German units in the field seemed to be fighting the other half, and some of them were pleading for Allied assistance.

“So, what exactly is happening?” Hanover asked finally. He waved a hand at the map. “My eyes are going to go if I look at that too long.”

Stirling smiled dutifully. “It’s confused,” he said. “From what we can gather, Field Marshal Kesselring contacted all of the German army units and ordered them to surrender, but not all of the units agreed with this policy. Himmler’s stand to the last order seems to have also made the rounds, and some units are following it. As it happens, Himmler himself seems to have vanished and some units are heading east to meet up with the Russian army, which is digging in along the border, which is about midway through Poland.”

Hanover scowled. The little units, marked with the hammer and stickle flag, were growing even as he watched. Stalin seemed unwilling to let his allies go down without a fight, or perhaps to allow the Allies to take up positions in Poland.

“Bother,” he said absently. “I think that we’d better lean on the teams in place in Russia. With all of the unrest in the Ukraine, you’d think that we would be able to slow down their reinforcing.”

“Most of our bomber asserts are concentrating on reducing the German units that have refused the surrender order,” Stirling said. “There are four divisions dug into Berlin, sir; we might have to force them out just to recover whatever records there are in Berlin.”

Hanover scowled. “What about the Wehrmacht?” He asked. “What’s happening to it?”

“We’re disarming the units that surrender and we’re placing them in POW camps,” Stirling said. “After one incident when a surrendered unit opened fire on American forces, we started ordering them to disarm first, which not all of them are willing to do. Other units seem to have simply dissolved and scattered, heading back home.”

“They won’t be that much of a problem there,” Hanover said. “What about the advance?”

“Going very quickly now,” Stirling said. “Berlin, of course, presents the real problem; we can take it, but the cost would be high.”

Hanover studied the map. “And, of course, we have to prepare to move against Stalin as well,” he said. “If we move forward as far as Berlin and surround the city, then we would at least buy ourselves some time. Who knows, maybe whoever’s in command of the city will surrender.”

“We would have to offer amnesty,” Stirling said. “One SS unit did offer to surrender, in exchange for amnesty, and General Flynn rejected it.”

“Good for him,” Hanover said. He approved of such decisiveness. “We will not allow any of them to escape to Peru and Argentina this time.”

“Sir, President Truman did suggest the use of a nuclear weapon on Berlin,” Stirling pointed out. “General Eisenhower is going to ask you about it this afternoon.”

Hanover, who knew that British intelligence read American mail, shrugged. “We have to avoid using nukes against cities,” he said firmly. “There have already been too many nukes going off on this world.”

Forward Command Post

Brandenburg, Germany

19th June 1942

General Rommel rarely shouted. He had a way of getting his opinion across the room or into the discussion without shouting or screaming, a trick that Jagar envied. He felt sick, very sick; the British had insisted on showing them around a Concentration Camp.

“It is a matter of honour, General Flynn,” Rommel said. The little troika of commanding officers – Flynn, Stilwell and Rommel – stared firmly at one another. “We have to liberate Berlin.”

“With all due respect for the fighting qualities of the Bundeswehr,” Flynn said thoughtfully, “you are ill-prepared for a street-to-street fight.”

Rommel shook his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Look; you saw that camp. It is a matter – no, a demand – of honour that we, we Germans, take part in the cleansing of Berlin.”

“You want to accomplish it yourselves,” Flynn said. “I won’t lie to you, General; you might succeed, but the cost would be appalling.”

“We would bear it,” Rommel said. “General, we have to do this. Britain has never committed such organised atrocities, and if Germans don’t do something to end them, then we will carry the blame for the rest of history.”

“You may carry a lot of blame anyway,” Stillwell said, speaking for the first time. He waved a hand in the direction of the camp. “Thousands of old people, too old or ill to work, walked into the gas chambers and never came out. Germans did that to them, just as German enslaved millions of Frenchmen and Italians towards their deadly ends.”

“Which is why we must do our part to end the war,” Rommel said. “We have to pay for our crimes.”

Jagar watched as Flynn nodded slowly. “I have a condition,” Flynn said. “Two conditions, actually. The first one is that you agree to softening up the targets by bombing first, and then advancing, under cover of shellfire.” Rommel nodded once, sharply, showing no trace of pain on his face. “The second one is that you allow an SAS team time to slip in ahead of you, one that will broach the secret bunker.”

“And take Himmler alive,” Rommel said. “I agree on that condition.”

Flynn scowled at him. “For the record, I think that this is a dreadful mistake,” he said. “However… I’ll go make the arrangements now.”

“Thank you,” Rommel said. He left the other two generals and came over to where Jagar was standing. “Tell me, how many of our divisions are ready to move forward?”

“Four, two panzer, two infantry,” Jagar said, after consulting his PDA. “We might manage to have a third infantry division if we held off the attack.”

“We have to move as soon as possible,” Rommel said. “Inform the commanders that I want to see them at once in the forward tent.”

Jagar half-wanted to protest. “Jawohl,” he said finally.

* * *

Squadron Leader Shelia Dunbar gritted her teeth to hide the pain. Victor’s death had hurt her; she’d flown beside him, fought beside him and shared a bed with him one night. He’d been so determined to set foot on the moon; he hadn’t deserved to die that way, falling endlessly towards the Earth.

“Sierra-one, I have completed refuelling,” she said, her tone dull. Her commander had offered to give her a period of compassionate leave and she’d laughed at him; leave in the middle of a war? The idea was insane; what were her own pains compared to fighting and ending the terrible war?

“What, no sexist jokes?” The tanker crewman asked. She bit his head off. “Ok, ok, I’m sorry I asked.”

“Control, Eagle-flight is ready to move,” she said, ignoring the crewman. He wasn’t important, even though she would have normally have flirted with him. “Please assign us a flight corridor.”

The controller’s voice was professional. “Eagle-flight, assigning you vectors now,” he said. “You have a clear line, all the way to Berlin.”

“Thank Christ for that,” Dunbar muttered. “Eagle-flight, follow me…”

The Eurofighters and the Tornado bombers swooped around and drove directly for Berlin. The ground sped past under their flight; there were no attempts to interfere with their flight. The Germans had other problems, including a miniature civil war that was being mopped up by the Allied ground forces, even now.

“There she blows,” one of the Tornado pilots said, as they swooped high over Berlin. Anti-aircraft blasts began appearing below them, but they were too high up for the proximity detonations to harm them. “Berlin below.”

“The satellites have designated the targets,” she said. There would be no SAS spotters this time. “Stand by to fire… fire!”

“Bombs away,” the Tornado pilot said, as a hail of explosive death fell towards Berlin, concentrating on the defence lines. Flames flickered far below as the bombs found their targets. “We hit the bastards.”

“And here come the Americans to continue the job,” Dunbar snapped, as the B-29s appeared, heading in lower than the British planes. A B-29 was struck directly by an anti-aircraft shell and fell directly out of the air, smashing into an unfortunate German building. “We can leave it to them, I think.”

She knew she was lying. She wanted to hurt Germany, to hurt them and keep hurting them until the pain went away. “Time to go home,” she said, and the words were bile in her mouth. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Five weeks ago, he’d been another student in Germany, studying chemistry for his future career. Then the war had reached Germany itself, and Gunter Hofmann had been unwillingly recruited into the defence force, armed and sent out to the barricades.

“Air attack,” the SS Obersturmfuehrer snapped. Hofmann winced; he hated air attacks with a passion. Even as the massive anti-aircraft guns began to bark, the bombs began to fall; precision weapons that landed directly on the barricades, and dumb bombs that smashed buildings and people with equal enthusiasm. He cowered in his trench, praying for it to end soon.

“Get up, you cowardly shit,” the Obersturmfuehrer bellowed, yanking Hofmann to his feet. “The enemy is coming, now they’ve weakened us!”

Hofmann sighed, being careful enough not to let the Obersturmfuehrer hear, and ran to join the barricades. The three-dozen students were almost completely untrained; all they knew was basic rifle maintenance. His background wasn’t in the military, but he was certain that the barricade wouldn’t stand up to a single shell.

“Here they come,” the Obersturmfuehrer bellowed. “Hold fire till I gave the command!”

Hofmann stared along the long road as the sounds of battle grew louder. The SS divisions had been dug in around the Reichstag and the untrained forces had been spread around the city, hoping to degrade the enemy at the cost of their lives. Along the road, a group of soldiers in unfamiliar uniforms appeared, moving quickly, but skilfully along the road, pausing to check the buildings as they passed.

The Obersturmfuehrer closed a connection; one of the buildings exploded as a massive blast destroyed it. “Fire,” he snapped, and Hofmann opened fire, shooting madly down the road. One of the soldiers died, then another, and then they began to fire back. Hofmann felt a burst of heat flash through his head… and then nothing. Nothing at all.

* * *

The explosion had triggered an entire chain of explosions, shattering buildings that hadn’t existed in the Berlin he was familiar with. Colonel Muhlenkampf drove the tank carefully down the road, using the machine gun to fire on snipers and the main gun as sparingly as possible. Bundeswehr infantry followed him, carefully securing the buildings. When they found more explosives, they were careful to detonate them from a sate distance, or remove the controlling wires if they could do that.

“Sir, we’re meeting heavy resistance,” he said into his radio. A skilful SS commander had set up a blockade using bricks and mortar, and had a battery of guns hidden behind it. The SS had to be running short on ammunition, but they were firing as if they had an unlimited supply.

“Understood,” Rommel said. “The air force is on its way.”

“Better make it quick,” Muhlenkampf said, just before a chain of explosions ripped through the barricade. “Forward,” he snapped, and the tanks moved forward. They were moving closer and closer to the heart of Berlin, and the SS had to be running out of tricks.

“We’re almost there,” he said, as yet another ambush failed to slow them down. “We’ll be there in time for tea.”

* * *

The SAS had learnt, from Kesselring, that there was an entrance to the Fuhrerbunker near the Landwehr Canal. Even as the Bundeswehr infantry marched towards the centre of Berlin, blasting their way through the SS’s traps, Captain Dwynn carefully opened the entrance. It was unguarded.

“Where are they?” Vash subvocalised. “There should be an entire reception committee here.”

“I don’t know,” Dwynn snapped back. “How the hell should I know?”

A dull explosion rang through the corridor. “I think we’d better move quickly,” he said. “The Fuhrer’s quarters are supposed to be under the Reichstag.”

The corridors were dusty; it was easy to believe that there had never been anyone living there forever. If there hadn’t been lights, Dwynn would have quite enjoyed the trip, but the lights proved that something was still working, even if the defences would hardly be as automated as the defences around the bunker at Hack Green, or a similar location.

“Do you think that there’s been an accident?” Plummer asked. He waved a hand at a door. On close inspection, it was clearly designed to be an airtight door between two sections. “Someone must have used a bazooka on that one.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Dwynn admitted. The team spread out; they could here some Germans talking in a larger room. He peeked around the corner… to see a group of SS generals stuffing themselves with food.

“Bastards,” Vash commented. “A grenade?”

Dwynn picked one of his grenades off his belt and tossed it into the room. Seconds later, it exploded, killing the generals. He checked quickly; none of the generals were still alive.

“What the hell were they doing there?” Dwynn asked grimly. “Stuffing themselves before being hung?”

“It looks that way,” Chang said. “By now, Himmler must have run out of capable officers.”

“I suppose,” Dwynn said. He led the way towards what looked like a control centre. “They must have heard the explosion and…”

Two men came running along the corridor. The SAS men cut them down quickly, moving faster as the news of their presence spread. Dwynn jumped into the control centre and fired once into the ceiling.

“Surrender now and you won’t be harmed,” Dwynn bellowed, his voice amplified to hurt eardrums. “Fight and you won’t live to see tomorrow!”

A portly colonel whimpered. “We surrender,” he said. “We surrender.”

Dwynn nodded at the radio console. “Order the troops on the surface to surrender,” he snapped. The operator started to mutter into his microphone. “Where’s Himmler?”

“He left, he fled,” the colonel said. “I’m Standartenfuehrer Scholz.”

Dwynn glared at him. “Listen fatty, this is not a game,” he snapped. “Where are all the good units?”

“They went with Himmler,” Standartenfuehrer Scholz said. He shook. “We were just left here, and ordered to fight to the last.”

“Well, you’re prisoners now,” Dwynn snapped. “You will surrender your command to General Rommel, and if you behave, it will be used in evidence when it comes to determining your fate.”

* * *

It took nearly two hours for the surrender to be effected; some units simply didn’t get the orders, even with the network of tunnels linking Berlin together. Rommel, escorted by an entire platoon of infantry, entered the Fuhrerbunker as soon as the surrender had been concluded, followed by Jagar and Sergeant Kettle.

“I’m not surprised that Himmler has fled,” Rommel said grimly. “He was always a coward.”

Jagar nodded. Satellite photographs placed Himmler’s crack divisions entering Russian-held Poland, heading to join up with Stalin. If Himmler was with them, God only knew what he would do next.

“Have the SS men been secured?” Rommel asked. Sergeant Kettle nodded. “What about the other places?”

“We think that we’ve secured everywhere,” Sergeant Kettle assured him. “With nearly thirty divisions nearby, none of the handful of remaining free German units have showed any stomach for concluding the fight.”

It was undiplomatically phased, but Rommel let it pass. “It was lucky, I suppose,” he said, with a heavy sigh. “Losses?”

“Nearly ten thousand of us,” Jagar said. “A couple of hundred American aircrew were shot down, but we hope that we can recover some of them.”

“You must be Rommel,” a new voice said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Rommel turned and blinked; the man who was stumbling towards him was black as the night, with a very bloody face and a clearly broken leg. One of the SAS team was supporting him, although if the man was a prisoner or merely being escorted, Rommel couldn’t tell.

“You must be Professor Horton,” he said, making the connection. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Horton nodded. “Bastards kept me locked up after Roth died,” he said. “If Himmler hadn’t issued orders back when I got here, they might have shot me out of hand. He said he was going to join up with Stalin and end the war… sir, he has a nuke.”

Rommel felt his blood run cold. Sergeant Kettle grabbed his radio and started to talk rapidly into it. If Himmler had a nuclear warhead – and Stalin would soon have the ability to make his own – the war wasn’t over yet.

Chapter Forty-Two: The Hunt For Himmler

10 Downing Street

London, United Kingdom

20th June 1942

Hanover spoke very calmly. “Himmler has escaped, and he has a nuclear warhead?”

Stirling nodded grimly. “Yes, Prime Minister,” he said. The war cabinet let out a collective gasp. “It could be a joke, or some misinformation, but…”

“We have to take it seriously,” Hanover said. “Has the press heard about it yet?”

Noreen shook her head. “Nothing yet,” she said. “The information could be restricted under an Advisory notice, if necessary, just to prevent a panic.”

Stirling coughed. “Sir, we cannot let them broadcast this information,” he said. “We have to prevent anyone from hearing about it.”

“Anyone reasonable would know that the bomb could not appear here,” McLachlan said.

“People aren’t reasonable,” Stirling said.

McLachlan chuckled. “You’re too young to be so cynical,” he said. “Now…”

Hanover shook his head grimly, tapping the table for silence. “We have to do more,” he said. “Now… where might the weapon be?”

“Satellites have tracked SS units moving into Russian Poland,” Cunningham said. “I don’t think that they could use it to bomb us, or to hit the Americans, as the bomb would almost certainly be too heavy to place on a rocket.”

Hanover scowled. “They can’t have simply copied one of our units?” He asked. “There’s no chance at all of them building a working ICBM with a nuclear warhead?”

Stirling shook his head. “That question was analysed back to front,” he assured him. “The Oversight Committee concluded that building a warhead small enough to fit on an ICBM would be beyond German capabilities for at least five years.”

“This would be a dreadful time for an oversight,” Hanover said ruefully. “So… where is the little bastard?”

“Somewhere in Poland, we suspect,” Cunningham said. “The Fuhrerbunker was searched from top to bottom by our troops and turned up nothing. We hold pretty much all of Germany now.”

Hanover nodded, knowing that that was relative. Rommel’s force might have been taking over the administration, but a single fugitive could slip through the net pretty easily, even with the food distribution being handled by Allied troops. The front lines lay in what had been Poland’s western border in 2015, but the confusion was so great that there could be no attempt to seal the borders.

“The Oversight Committee believes that we will face the nuclear weapon used to shatter one of our attacking forces,” Stirling said. “It’s the only use that makes sense; they can’t get us and they probably can’t fool one of our radiation detectors.”

Hanover scowled. “I’ll have to discuss that with the President,” he said. “For the moment, what about the German research labs? Has anything been found?”

“The Germans wrecked them all pretty well,” Stirling said grimly. “We found some of their papers, however, and they seem to have enriched enough uranium for a small bomb… and there are suggestions that some material went to Russia. As for the bioweapons projects, we found most of them and shut them down.”

Cunningham nodded. “Clearly Mengele’s lab was their main lab for smallpox,” he said. “They seem to have been working on nastier bugs, but we shut them down before they could get anything into production. Teams from Porton Down are going over the German bases with a fine-toothed comb, just in case.”

“Which still leaves us with the problem of shutting down Stalin’s regime,” Hanover said. “When can we move forward again?”

Cunningham exchanged glances with Eisenhower. “In about two weeks,” he said. “Extra American divisions will have arrived by that time, which will make up for the heavy losses we suffered in the breakout. That would also give us time to stockpile and rebuild some of the expanded missiles.”

“True,” Hanover said. He frowned inwardly; the plan had been for the Moscow underground to rise up when Allied troops invaded the Ukraine, which would support the Ukrainians in their uprising. “Two weeks, you said?” Cunningham nodded.

Eisenhower coughed. “It might be a good idea to rotate some of the units out of the battle lines,” he said. “Very few units have taken such a beating as they did during the breakout.”

Which had a British officer in command, Hanover completed coldly. “We don’t have time,” he snapped. “We have to end this war before Stalin sets the world ablaze.”

* * *

Hanover sipped his tea while waiting for the call to be placed, knowing that the war was about to become a lot worse. Events were moving away from his control, heading towards a nuclear exchange. Will there be anything left of Europe? He wondered, as he studied the situation reports. The uprisings in France seemed to be being directed by the Soviet Union, designed to put more pressure on the Allies.

Quagmire, Hanover thought coldly, and shook his head. Germany, at least, seemed to be relieved to have the war over – well, most of it. Given enough time, perhaps Rommel could take over as Chancellor and Germany could become democratic, but with Himmler moving east, the Allies would just have to give chase.

I want this war over, Hanover thought, as the phone buzzed. “Good morning, Mr President,” he said. “I assume that you’ve read the information from the SHAFE?”

Truman sounded worried. “Charles, how much credence can we place on such a report?” He asked. “General Groves doesn’t believe that the threat is real.”

“I wish I knew,” Hanover said honestly. “It’s just within the realm of the possible that the Germans might have managed to compete a warhead; they seem to have finally developed a working enrichment method, but they would still have to figure out how to detonate it.”

Truman smiled grimly through the vidlink. “I assume they haven’t held a test?” He asked. “They would be gambling on an explosion first time?”

Hanover nodded. “We couldn’t have missed a nuclear explosion,” he said. “The blasted things can be seen from space, Harry.” He shook his head. “If they have a nuke, it’s untested.”

“And it’s gone into Russia,” Truman said. He scowled. “They could use it to save Vladivostok.”

Hanover considered. The port city was staving, but it refused to surrender and it was too strong for a direct attack to capture it. “I don’t think so,” he said finally. “It would be a pretty large device, if it exists, and they would need to send it on the railroad, which we’ve been breaking up constantly. Incidentally, did you find anything useful in Korea?”

Truman shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. “The Japanese might have moved both of their nuclear programs there, but they were nowhere near a bomb when they surrendered. Incidentally, how is that going?”

Hanover smiled at the question. They might be friends, but they were also rivals. Both of them knew that the other – or at least the other’s nation – would be the… competitor, if not the enemy, of their own nation. Both of them intended to keep the military and political alliance moving, because that would be helpful in ensuring a stable world, but commercially… economically?

He sighed. Would the world always be torn by rivalry?

“It’s proceeding smoothly,” he said. “Admiral Yamamoto managed to short-circuit potential resistance quite nicely, and we’re working on the demilitarisation of Japan now. Admittedly, we have only four Australian divisions – and two Indian ones – on Japan itself, but they’re the most formidable force in Japan at the moment. The remains of the Japanese Navy have been given to Australia, although I suspect that they’ll soon be scrapped.”

He grinned. “You should have read the reports on their preparations to meet our invasion, which they expected would be coming soon,” he said. “It would have been a nightmare. How are you doing?”

Truman sighed. “You know what China is like,” he said. “Half of me – and half of Congress – thinks that we should just abandon China and leave the mixture of peoples in Manchuria and Korea to sort themselves out, and the China Lobby is very keen on rebuilding China. You, of course, snatched back Hong Kong and Formosa, and your allies have occupied almost all of the Dutch East Indies.”

Hanover shrugged. “After the mess they made of themselves after the first time they became independent, I think that Prime Minister Menzies made the right choice,” he said. “With a ten-year period of development, they’ll be able to become democratic and take their place in the GODS.”

Truman chuckled. “We’re going to have to change that name,” he said. “Perhaps just ODS; Organisation of Democratic States.”

“But think of all the schoolchildren who will have to learn about this,” Hanover said. “We should give them something to laugh at.”

“I suppose,” Truman said. “My people say at least two to three weeks before we can hit Stalin,” he said. “What about yours?”

Hanover nodded. “Pretty much the same,” he said. “We need time to ensure that everyone has extra sensors designed to watch for anomalous radiation sources. Perhaps we’ll get lucky and catch the bomb before it can be detonated.”

“Let’s hope so,” Truman said. He hesitated. “You know that our own bomb is ready for use?”

Hanover concealed his surprise with an effort. It had been harder than they’d expected to predict American progress, assuming that Truman was telling the truth. No matter Parliament’s restrictions on transferring technology, Hanover knew that the Americans knew a great deal about how their original program had worked.

He sighed. “This world is not going to have any reluctance about using nukes,” he said sadly. “Perhaps it was a mistake not to simply start blasting German cities…”

He shook his head, dismissing the train of thought. “No, I didn’t know,” he said. “I assume that you intend to use it?”

Truman nodded grimly. “I know that the Russians lose ten missiles for every hundred or so that they fire at us,” he said. “However, these constant pinpricks are proving… irritating. In fact, Congress is in uproar; being bombarded from space is not what they want.”

Hanover scowled. “What do they want?”

“They want me to use the bomb on a Russian city,” he said. “While Vladivostok seems temping, it would be rather bad for the soldiers nearby. If the Germans detonate a nuke, the Fat Lady will be used.”

Hanover smiled grimly at the weak joke. “On the Russians, I assume,” he said. “Which city in particular?”

“Congress wants Moscow,” Truman said. He blinked at Hanover’s expression. “Is that a problem?”

“Given that Moscow is the centre of our efforts to knock Stalin over without fighting our way to Vladivostok from Berlin, then yes,” Hanover said. “Are you serious?” Truman nodded. Hanover looked up at the map. “Saint Petersburg,” he said.

Truman lifted an eyebrow. “Saint Petersburg?”

“It’s called Leningrad here,” Hanover said, mentally cursing the error. “Stalingrad itself wouldn’t make a bad target, if you were determined.”

“It would be easier to hit Saint Petersburg,” Truman said. “That sounds better than Leningrad. I have to warn you, I think, under the treaty.”

Hanover nodded. “On the record, I can’t say that I approve,” he said. “Off the record…”

“Good luck?” Truman guessed. He smiled. “So, we move east in two weeks, assuming that there are no further problems. Is General Flynn making sufficient allowances for Chowhound?”

Hanover nodded. “We’re bringing in thousands of tons of food from America,” he said. “Thank you for that.”

“It’s no problem,” Truman assured him. “That Briton who’s become one of our citizens has done wonders for arranging the entire operation.”

Hanover smiled. It had to have been Oliver. “I don’t suppose that you knew who killed Hoover?” He asked. “As far as we can tell from the SS records, it wasn’t a German operation.”

“I didn’t think it was,” Truman said. “Quite frankly, I can’t decide if I should encourage the hunt or not.”

Hanover grinned. “Not my problem,” he said. “Seriously, if there’s anything we can do to help…”

“Thank you,” Truman said. “We’ll talk again in a week and review progress?”

Hanover nodded. “Nice talking to you,” he said. “Chat soon.”

Governing House

Hamburg, Germany

20th June 1942

General – he supposed that he was now Reichskanzler – Rommel had moved the headquarters of the Bundeswehr to Hamburg, which had been quick to surrender when surrounded by British and American troops. The town had rapidly been transformed into a base of operations, which the food supplies for Operation Chowhound being distributed there while the German transport net was rebuilt.

Professor Horton sat on the bench in the Hamburg Park, just enjoying the sunshine. He supposed that he was being silly – and the tales of black men going white if they spent long enough underground were nonsense – but there was just something about soaking up the sun. For the first couple of days, he’d had an escort, but he’d protested.

“I want to go see my family,” he’d insisted, but he’d been refused transport home. There were simply too many demands on the Allied transportation network to permit him to return to Britain, even though he could talk to Jasmine whenever he wanted to. She was fine, and very relived that he was safe.

“I’m going to give you the biggest blowjob ever,” she’d promised, and the thought of it was enough to make him horny for the first time in months. Living in the Fuhrerbunker didn’t improve a man’s libido. So he lay back, enjoying the sun, and wondering what would happen next.

“Mind if I join you?” A woman’s voice asked. The British accent was familiar enough for him to open his eyes; it was the reporter from the Fuhrerbunker. He’d hated her on sight, or so he recalled now, but he’d heard about what she’d been used for by Himmler.

“I suppose,” he said, shifting to make room for her. Some of the female citizens of Hamburg, short on food, had offered to trade their bodies for food, but Horton had always refused them. He’d always been faithful to Jasmine; he wanted to have her by his side for the rest of his life.

“I’m sorry about interviewing you like that,” Stewart said. “I could have refused.”

“You were an idiot,” Horton said, not entirely in the mood to be generous. “Why did you come?”

She shifted slightly. Horton noticed the places on her body where she felt sore and winced. “I wanted to be known as a great reporter,” she said. “Even Himmler didn’t understand what the media could do.”

“You lap up what they give you with your tongues,” Horton said. It wasn’t a condemnation; he didn’t have the energy to condemn anything. “If evil wears a smile, its good evil; evil we can safely ignore. If evil is skin-headed and black, then the police have to be called, even before trouble breaks out.”

“I’ve known a lot of skinheads who were good people,” Stewart said. “Did you see Herman?”

“If I were you, I’d be trying to forget him,” Horton said. “He said he loved you before he died.”

“I never loved him,” Stewart confessed. “I fucked him because I was recoiling from meeting Hitler, and then it just went on and on.”

Horton chuckled, even through the pain it caused him. “I’m not your father-confessor,” he said. “I’m not even catholic. If you want to make repentance, go find a priest.”

Stewart shook her head. “I learnt a great deal while I was at Mengle’s mercy,” she said. “I was raped every day, merely to find out if I could get pregnant or not. I may never be able to have children now, just adoption if I ever get married. I was less than a woman to him, not even a sex object.”

“Welcome to reality,” Horton said unsympathetically. “In everywhere, but democratic countries, women and men have face that same simple truth; their lives mean nothing to their oppressors. Just for being wrong; the wrong sex, the wrong race, the wrong religion, the wrong colour, they are toys to the rulers. They are fit only for rape, or slavery, or for simply being exterminated for existing.”

He held her eyes. “That’s the truth that thousands of people faced in the future, the truth that people like you kept from the public because it would have meant losing your access. We live in our nice safe worlds – what does it take to remind us that the universe is red of tooth and claw and she will punish the unwary?”

Stewart shrugged. “What will happen now?” She asked. “With the war and everything?”

Horton wondered if she knew about the atomic bomb threat. He didn’t intend to discuss it with her. “I hope that we’ll end Stalin’s regime as well,” he said. “People like you, of course, will go on and on about how wrong we are to attempt to save people from evil and…”

“You sound bitter,” Stewart said. “I’m sorry…”

Horton laughed harshly. “People who don’t learn from history are condemned to repeat it,” he said.

“We did repeat it now,” Stewart said. “I’m sorry for being born.”

Horton snorted at the plaintive tone in her voice. “I hope that we can rebuild a democratic society in Russia,” he said. “There will be people who’ll have survived the economic experiments of Lenin’s time; they’ll be capable of adapting. Given sufficient investment, outside assistance and nuclear power, they might just manage to build a working country without more bloodshed.”

He grinned. “Who knows? We might manage to civilise and democratise the entire world,” he said. “There have been no people like you cursing the west with every breath here, not yet.”

Stewart scowled. “I understand your point,” she said. “I came with a proposition.”

“I’m already married,” Horton said. “What do you want?”

“A book,” Stewart said. “It could be a bestseller.”

Horton gaped at her, and then barked a laugh. “I imagine that you’ll make yourself into a hero and myself into a villain,” he said.

Stewart shook her head. “It will be jointly-written and it will be written under an agreement that it has to please both of us before it gets published,” she said.

Horton looked at her. “Tell me something,” he said. “Are you going to follow the army into Russia?” Stewart nodded. “Tell you what,” Horton said. “If I approve of your reports and newspaper articles and what-have-you, I’ll agree, understand?” Stewart nodded and held out a hand. Horton shook it solemnly.

Chapter Forty-Three: A Tiger By The Tail

Waffen-SS Camp

Brest, Belarus

21st June 1942

It was June, the height of summer for Belarus – which was a loyal and obedient component of the Soviet Union, according to Radio Moscow – and yet Vyacheslav Mikhailovich Molotov had never felt so cold. The camp was heavily camouflaged, and yet the entire… concept of the camouflage was different from the Red Army’s. Black-garbed troopers, homeless, but not without weapons, stood on guard around a tiny shack.

“You may pass,” the guard said, after examining Molotov closely. Molotov took one final look around the camp, noticing the concealed King Tiger tanks hidden under netting, and stepped into the shack. Inside, it was reasonably comfortable; it had belonged to one of the Party’s most loyal servants within Belarus, who had not been happy when the NKVD had tossed him out to install the Germans.

“Herr Molotov,” a voice said. Molotov scowled; the voice was very like that of the recently departed Beria. Heinrich Himmler sat neatly on a stool, his eyes glinting with malice. He possessed nearly forty thousand fanatical SS men – survivors of the forces that Molotov was certain had been intended to turn on the Soviet Union – and he was homeless.

“Comrade Himmler,” Molotov said, his voice faintly mocking. “I trust that you find your accommodations to your liking?”

The question wasn’t entirely idle. Nearly two million soldiers of the Red Army – in theory – were stationed along the borders, but with the simmering unrest in the Ukraine and Belarus itself, many of them were tied down preventing further unrest. The SS were well-armed and very well-trained; they could cause a lot of trouble before they were hunted down and crushed.

“Should Belarus revolt against the dictatorship of the workers and peasants,” Stalin had said, “the Germans will soon convince them of the errors of their ways.”

Molotov shuddered, thinking of the device that the Germans had brought along with them. Stalin was playing a dangerous game; milking the nazi scientists for their technologies, while keeping the Waffen-SS alive as a German government in exile. If they decided to fight against Stalin, they could tear a gaping hole in the defensive line.

“They are adequate, for now,” Himmler said. “I trust that Comrade Stalin was impressed with the sciences that we have brought?”

“A single working nuclear warhead,” Molotov said. Stalin had been impressed; Molotov himself had been less impressed. One warhead didn’t mean that it could be duplicated, even in the German science cities.

“Something that will put us on equal terms to the cursed British,” Himmler said. “I imagine that Comrade Stalin enjoys that thought.”

Molotov showed no expression. Hitler and Stalin were the same, both people with a talent for creating a social structure that supported their control. Himmler, on the other hand, wasn’t anything like as capable as Hitler; his people followed him through fanaticism. Hitler could command loyalty; Himmler… couldn’t. The mere fact of his betrayal proved that.

We’re clutching a viper to our blossom, Molotov, never a very poetic man, thought coldly. Stalin didn’t understand that; he saw Himmler as an equal, rather than a far more dangerous version of Beria. And now that Beria was dead, Himmler had no equal. Would Stalin be stupid enough to give the fascist a role within the USSR?

“He wants to know how quickly it will be before you can produce more nuclear weapons,” Molotov said, not altogether truthfully. “We will need more than one to prevent Allied retaliation.”

“As one nuclear warhead might be a fluke,” Himmler agreed. “A reasonable precaution, indeed. We should be able to produce a second one in Science City Zero within a month, now that we know what we’re doing. The breeder reactor is up and running there, and we’re producing explosive metal as fast as we can.”

Molotov scowled. ‘Explosive metal’ was what some of the Soviet scientists called uranium; they hadn’t grasped the full details of the procedure. The Soviet Union was woefully short of qualified scientists, and the small German population was being careful about what they shared. Given time, he knew, one of the Soviet programs would duplicate the German success, and then the Germans could be liquidated.

He allowed himself a quick smile. He was looking forward to that day.

“A month,” he said, smiling. The expression seemed to reassure Himmler. “That might be enough. Now, how do you propose that we employ the bomb?”

Himmler seemed to consider. His eyes glittered. “We cannot hope to launch it in an aircraft,” he said. “From what we learned of their science, we may not be able to smuggle it through a checkpoint or into one of their cities.”

“So we have a useless weapon,” Molotov snapped. “We cannot use it for offensive purposes and…”

Himmler talked over him. Molotov was shocked; only Stalin did that. “We can use it for just that,” Himmler said. “Your defence forces will have to fight from their fixed positions, as manoeuvre war is impossible under the shadow of their air cover.”

Molotov nodded. Marshal Kliment Voroshilov spoke of using the thousands of planes that the Red Air Force had assembled, many of them older models flown by press-ganged subject races, to swarm the British and American aircraft. Practically, the Battle of the Netherlands had suggested that such tactics would be very costly indeed for the Red Air Force.

“That gives us an opportunity,” Himmler said. “They will have to swing around, trap and encircle their forces in a kessel, and then seal you off or crush you. In this, they will probably have the help of what Poles remain in their country.”

Molotov scowled. They’d slaughtered Poles or forced them to the gulags, they’d poisoned the land and destroyed the food supplies, but a handful of Poles still hung on to life, hiding in the marshes, forests and hills. The Germans had done the same, trying to enslave an entire nation, but even they had been unable to slaughter all of the Polish people.

“They will almost certainly try to pick a weak point in your lines, break through, and then circle round,” Himmler said. He waved a hand at the map, which displayed Red Army positions. Molotov felt his blood run cold; Stalin had given specific orders that such information was not to be made available to the Germans. Himmler tapped Lodz.

“Here is the most likely place,” Himmler said. Lodz had once held a large Jewish community; it didn’t anymore. Soviet troops had occupied it as Berlin fell to the Free German Army. Himmler’s fingers traced a powerful thrust moving at the most powerful Russian force short of the Stalin Line. “We place the nuke somewhere here,” he said. “They come up… boom.”

“You would suggest blasting our own land for a thousand years?” Molotov demanded. “The Great Stalin would not approve.”

“Hardly a thousand years,” Himmler said calmly. “Fifty years, at most, and think of all the Poles dying of radiation poisoning.”

A trip to America had introduced Molotov to the concept of an own goal. He shuddered; Stalin would love the idea, but there would be Red Army units caught within the blast, or the fallout zone. He scowled; Stalin would be more than happy to trade a city for convincing the Allies that he possessed more nuclear warheads and the ability to deploy them.

“I will have to discuss that with Comrade Stalin,” he said. “Until then, I hope that you enjoy your latest rations of food from the workers and peasants.”

“Thank you,” Himmler said. He didn’t offer to shake hands. “I hope that you will convoy my message to Stalin as soon as possible.”

* * *

“Mein Fuhrer, is that wise?” Hauptsturmfuehrer Thierbach asked. Himmler studied him; Thierbach had been the treacherous Roth’s aide before being assigned to assisting the Waffen-SS to move to its new quarters. Losing Roth had hurt; knowing that it had happened because of his own miscalculations only made it worse.

He shook his head absently. “Wise is a relative term,” he said dryly. He dismissed the urge to preen. “We have to remain useful to them; do you think that Stalin would hesitate for a moment from destroying us all if he didn’t think that we would be useful.”

“That’s why you insisted on us sticking together and keeping our canned foods,” Thierbach said absently. “Just so that we have a reserve.”

Himmler nodded. “The cost of smashing us, and the losses in scientific knowledge, seeing that we can destroy the science cities simply by overloading the reactors, has to be high enough to deter Stalin. At the same time, we have to be useful enough so that he doesn’t decide to remove us.”

He scowled. Roth would have understood at once. “We’re very vulnerable here,” he said. “We have to offer them the bomb.”

Thierbach narrowed his eyes. “What’s to stop them from using the bomb on us?” He asked. Himmler blinked; the idiot had come up with a good point. “The bomb could destroy us without a fight.”

“The bomb remains under our control,” Himmler said. And one of us will detonate it, he thought silently. He smiled. “Now, call Kruger on the secured lines, the ones we taught them how to make, and use our own coding machine.”

“Jawohl, Mein Fuhrer,” Thierbach said. “I shall attend to it at once.”

The Kremlin

Moscow, Russia

23rd June 1942

Molotov had almost been relived at the delays on the transport network. The underground in Russia itself was growing bolder – and the resistance movements elsewhere even more so. The entire Union of Soviet Socialist Republics was becoming less united and less socialist by the day; in places the NKVD only travelled with a very heavily armed guard.

Molotov sighed. Stalin had been convinced that the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics could bear the brunt of the war – after all, it had managed during the last history, the last time the war had been fought – but this war was different. With the exception of Vladivostok, Russian territory hadn’t been invaded, German troops weren’t terrorising the population – and two years of indecisive war was taking its toll. Stalin knew, far better than most, what three years of brutal slaughter had done to the Tsars – and it would do the same to the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics if he allowed it.

The train had finally reached Moscow and he’d been escorted into a Red Square that was far more of a fortress than ever. Heavily-armed patrols marched through the streets, trying to stop the underground members who grew bolder every day. The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics was on the verge of collapse – the remaining SSRs were considering a revolt – and Stalin did nothing.

“Report,” he snapped at the guard, as he led him into Stalin’s room. The guard shook his head, pushing open the door and waving him in, before leaving as fast as he could. The room was in semi-darkness; Stalin’s great form could be seen near the fire, along with another man.

“Comrade Molotov,” the man said. Molotov recognised him as Marshal Kliment Voroshilov, Stalin’s commander of his personal guard. By now, it was a powerful elite force in its own right – ever since Beria had died; it had been drawing on more and more resources, defending Moscow against an internal threat.

“Marshal,” Molotov said. There was little love between the two men, even though Molotov felt a certain wry awe for a man who’d once contradicted Stalin to his face and survived. The manner in which he’d done it had been amusing too.

“Come now,” Stalin said. “We are all Comrades here. Now, how are my pet fascists?”

Molotov shuddered, a reaction that did not go unnoticed by Stalin. “They’re dangerous,” he said, and meant it. He outlined Himmler’s proposal for the use of the nuclear warhead. “We should destroy them now,” he concluded. “They’re too dangerous.”

“They cannot cause trouble,” Voroshilov assured him. His only positive quality was that he was doggedly loyal to Stalin. His incompetence was legendary, but as a man who had remained loyal until the end of his days, Stalin trusted him. “At worst, they could tear up Belarus, but the Stalin Line would stop them, if nothing else.”

Voroshilov waved a hand at the map. A line of tactical icons lay along what had once been the Soviet-German border; a second line lay along the Stalin Line itself. Millions of men, thousands of tanks… in the exact same situation as the Tsar’s army had faced in 1917, when it had broken like a twig when the Germans came.

They even had a force made up of women, Molotov thought, and smiled.

“Iosif Vissarionovich, they are building nuclear weapons,” he said. “In cities on our soil, they are creating hell-weapons, weapons which will be under their control, not ours. They might just demand that we surrender to them…”

Stalin laughed. “These are not the Czechs,” he said, and Molotov knew he’d lost. “The Czechs just wanted to go home. These people… will be shot out of hand if they try to return to Germany; they are dependent upon us.”

“And besides, the NKVD will escort them everywhere,” Voroshilov said. He laughed a peasant’s earthy laugh. “They’ll be watched as they shit themselves in the bogs…”

“Thank you,” Molotov said tartly. “Comrade, this is a powerful and well-armed force.”

Stalin smiled. “Yes, they have tanks, tanks perhaps as good as the ones in the Red Army,” he said. “They have no aircraft; they have no sources of supply. They can fire shells all they like, sooner or later they will run out of shells.”

“And then we crush them,” Voroshilov said. “We will take their scientists for ourselves; they can produce or die.”

Molotov nodded, keeping his face firm. He couldn’t hide anything from Stalin, but he wanted to spare himself the burden of Voroshilov seeing his face changing. “I’m certain that you’re right,” he said. “Has there been any news on the attempt to throw the Americans back into the sea?”

“It failed, thanks to the incompetence of General Iosif Apanasenko,” Voroshilov said quickly. “The city is running out of supplies quickly now, and the Japanese have definitely started to help the Americans.”

“Yellow bastards,” Stalin sneered. “The NKVD has been busy liquidating all of the Japanese in our territories.”

“Just what they deserve,” Voroshilov said loudly. “They had their chance to embrace communism and they blew it.”

It was more than Molotov could stand. “If I may, I would like to rest,” he said. Voroshilov made a comment about spending time with his wife, which Molotov ignored.

“You may leave,” Stalin said. “When you have rested, come again tomorrow morning. I wish to discuss the peace offer we will make to the Allies.”

* * *

Molotov wished that his wife was present, the one little piece of satisfaction he allowed himself as his car reached his living quarters, but he knew that it was impossible. After Beria died, he’d sent her to his Dacha outside Moscow; she would be far safer there.

The guard saluted him as he entered. “You have a guest,” he whispered. “An NKVD guy. He had all of the papers and everything.”

Molotov shrugged. The NKVD went everywhere. “I’ll see him inside,” he said, and pushed open the door to his flat. A light was on in the second room, so he slipped inside and entered the living room… and stopped dead.

“You!”

Trotsky smiled up at him from his position on the comfortable sofa, which had been looted from the Winter Palace in Leningrad. “Do come in, dear chap,” he said, using a faint British accent. “It’s simply freezing here.”

Molotov allowed his shock to appear on his face. “What the hell are you doing here?” He asked sharply, and reached for the hidden alarm button. “Why are you here?”

“Oh, don’t bother about that,” Trotsky said. “I took the precaution of deactivating your alarm button, and the NKVD bugs in the room. I wanted our conversation to be undisturbed.”

Molotov, never a heavy drinker, stumbled over to the wine cabinet and poured himself a glass of vodka. He didn’t offer Trotsky any. “What are you doing here?” He repeated. “How did you get in here?”

“Oh, if you have the right papers, you can do anything here,” Trotsky said. “So, Comrade; how is the man of steel?”

Molotov scowled at him. “He still runs the country,” he said. “I remember when you fled the country in fear for your life.”

“And I was right,” Trotsky said, almost sadly. “Of course, I would never have learned about the failure of communism, or of the possibilities inherent at the moment for making Russia far more powerful – and secure – than the Rodina has ever been before.”

“Communism is not a failure,” Molotov began. “In fact, we have managed…”

“To get yourself into a war with a nuclear-armed opponent and the most powerful nation on the Earth,” Trotsky said sharply. “Comrade, I won’t lie to you. In a week, perhaps more, perhaps less, the most powerful army in the world will start advancing into your territory. The further that army travels, the less… room for manoeuvre we’ll have at the peace conference, after the war. We might end up with another treaty like the one that Lenin signed. I’m sure you remember that.”

“I was there,” Molotov snapped. Trotsky smiled. “There’s just one small problem,” he said. “Comrade Stalin refuses to recognise reality.”

Trotsky nodded slowly. “The problem with Stalin,” he said, “is that he was – is – from a very different background than most of those in the Party. He had an attitude towards problems and power bases that made compromise impossible, and he was clever and cunning to boot.” He sighed. “I will tell you something else,” he said. “I intend to remove Stalin’s regime.”

“And then… what?” Molotov asked. “What will you do then?”

“Russia has to become democratic,” Trotsky said. “In the long run, that is all that will save us from constant defeats and disasters.” He smiled at Molotov. “That process could be painless, or at least less painful, if you cooperate with me.”

Molotov hesitated. “Betray Stalin?”

“He has betrayed all of Russia,” Trotsky said. “You know that as well as I do. Help me, and I promise you a position in the new government.” He grinned. “Choose well, you see, because even if I die, the revolution will happen anyway.”

“I understand your point,” Molotov said, more than a little annoyed. “If Stalin finds out, I will die.”

“You’ll die anyway when you try to balance your duty to Russia with your duties to him one time too many,” Trotsky said coldly. “He will have you killed one day, merely for being too clever. Choose.”

Molotov looked up at him. “I agree,” he said slowly. “Now… what do you want me to do?”

Chapter Forty-Four: Final Orders

Space Station Hamilton

Low Earth Orbit

23rd June 1942

Russia – even without the other Soviet Socialist Republics – was vast. Even with technology literally seventy years ahead of the Russian technology, and an understanding of the technology’s capabilities that even the Germans couldn’t have grasped in time, piercing together the factors of the Russian economy – figuring out what went where – was difficult.

Commander Caroline Salamander stared down at the display, watching as yet another satellite made a pass over Russian territory, marking and cataloguing the factories as they were revealed. Often, a factory was well hidden, designed to be immune from conventional attack. Stalin had moved factories into the Urals even before the Transition, just to prevent a German or Japanese attack from destroying them, and the sudden war with the British had only convinced him to move faster.

She shook her head, ignoring the strange sensation that gave her in zero-gee. She’d lost people before, from when she was in the Royal Navy, but losing a man that way had hurt. It was lucky for the Ministry of Space that Hanover seemed disinclined to take the loss of a single pilot as a sign to close down operations for years, but she knew that there would always be people who would scream at a single death.

“Look at what we’ve achieved, you bastards,” she snarled, and turned back to the display. She had two hundred boulders, created from compressed lunar rock, floating in orbit, attached to the MSVs. She’d never be able to achieve a battleship-style rate of fire, or the kind of attacks that Pournelle had written about, but the boulders would be very devastating indeed to anything under their footprint.

The display of Russian factories changed. Some targets, she knew, had already been designated for missiles launched from submarines, or long-ranged American bombers based in Sweden and Turkey. Other targets were well out of range; she would be targeting them in particular. A massive tank factory, in the Urals, would be one of her prime targets, along with rail junctions and stations, and some bridges.

She scowled. She’d proposed launching the attack at once, with the boulders she had ready for launch, but the PJHQ had overruled that. They’d been worried about the Soviets launching a pre-emptive attack against American and British positions in Germany, even through they were supposed to have inferior tanks to the Allies. Of course, the Russians almost certainly had the numbers advantage.

“Bastards,” she muttered, designating a major tank yard in Northern Ukraine, or what would have been the Ukraine in her time. In this time, it was a very restive SSR; one determined to overthrow Stalin. She knew that SAS units were active in the Ukraine, causing trouble for Stalin and assisting the local population.

I just hope that doesn’t come around to bite us like Afghanistan did for the Americans, she thought grimly, before completing her task and transmitting the targets into the computers, which began calculating the easiest way of launching all of the boulders in the shortest possible time.

Her communicator buzzed against her breast. “Commander, the lunar ship is ready to depart,” Lieutenant Ramah said. “Do you want to observe the proceedings?”

Salamander shook her head absently. “No thank you,” she said. “I have to complete this task. Bid them bon voyage from me.”

“Yes, Commander,” Lieutenant Ramah said. He was wise enough not to argue. “It shall be done, superior female.”

“Oh shut up,” Salamander said crossly. The sudden arrival of space travel, mixed with alternate history, had brought many phases into common use. She disapproved of it, but even a Commander had limits. Lieutenant Ramah signed off; she drifted over to the main computer and checked on progress.

“Wow,” she breathed, as the lunar ship departed. It was a large construction; four massive tanks and a single set of engines pushing it. The five SSTOs had been busy bringing up personnel for the new base on the moon, one that would stake British control of the moon for the rest of time.

Shaking her head, she turned back to her work. A major railway junction, near Moscow, was a major target. Was it more or less important than a series of bridges near Gorky? The PJHQ would check the targets she’d picked, but she knew that they wouldn’t get it quite right; they never did.

“Targets designated,” she muttered finally. “Boom bitches.”

The White House

Washington DC, USA

25th June 1942

Ambassador King stepped inside the Oval Office with a feeling of relief. He’d been very worried about the invasion of Europe, nearly four weeks ago, and success had been a relief. He’d known, far more than any Contemporary person, just how chancy the entire invasion was. In 2015, it would never have worked, not against a force that knew what the hell it was doing. The Wehrmacht had been brave, but they’d been unable to counter-attack without massive losses.

“Ah, Ambassador,” Truman said. “Come on in.”

King took his usual seat. He was surprised to see General Groves, General Eisenhower and Ambassador Quinn present as well; the meeting must be important. Truman nodded absently at him, and then gave orders for the room to be sealed.

“As you may have heard,” Truman said, nodding to King, “the Germans appear to have a working atomic bomb.”

King felt the room spin around him. Groves had had remarkable success, just from knowing the future, and he expected that whoever was on the German side would have had similar access to information, even to the level that Oliver had provided them. He had a very quiet suspicion that Hanover had passed the information to Oliver for him to pass on to the American Manhattan Project; it had simply been too detailed.

“It seems very likely that they will have been able to duplicate our success,” Groves said. The heavyweight general – a less charitable person would have said fat – scowled around a thick cigar, which was blowing puffs of foul-smelling smoke around the room. King had attempted to convince Truman to ban smoking from the White House, on general principles, but he had failed.

Groves unlocked a secured briefcase and started to pass papers around. “Once we had the information, creating the atomic bomb became an engineering problem, rather than a scientific problem. We took the fastest possible route compatible with security, producing what I am assured is a Thande Fission Breeder Reactor.”

King shuddered. The British scientist had designed the ultimate fast-fission breeder reactor, simply as a scientific project. To add to the compilations, he’d then published the design, where it had provoked the Iran War. No one in their right mind would have used the design – it made the Chernobyl design look safe – but the Mullahs hadn’t been in their right mind. It didn’t require any effort to imagine either Himmler or Stalin having scruples about building an entire network of them – and so the United States of America had had to go down the same road.

He scowled angrily. The German u-boat that had sunk the Queen Elizabeth had killed two Americans from the United Nations Nuclear Commission, which had been given some extra teeth following the Iran Crisis. Either of them could have made the process far safer, rather than risking Groves’s team on the job. As it was, there were some parts of Nevada that would not be safe for a very long time indeed.

Groves coughed. He had absorbed a radiation dose himself. “We built nearly a dozen of them,” he said. “Two of the round dozen are not ready to operate yet, but we will have enough material for around fifty bombs in five years.”

Eisenhower frowned. “The Axis of Evil will not be around in five years,” he said. “I need something that we can use at once, should the Axis deploy the rumoured nuclear weapon.”

“You do not believe in it?” Truman asked. “It would have thought that it was hard to risk disbelieving in.”

Eisenhower coughed. “If they had such a weapon,” he said, “it could have utterly destroyed the landing in the Netherlands. If they have it, then why not use it. Is it lost somewhere, waiting for us to stumble across it? Is it in Himmler’s hands? Stalin’s hands? Some resistance group we don’t know anything about?”

“Or the so-called Free German Army,” Groves said. “I don’t trust their political leader; he smiles too much.”

“Ambassadors normally do,” King said. He had to admit to some concern over Ambassador Ernst Schulze’s determination to end the European Union – and French influence – before it had even begun. Schulze had been exiled from the mainstream of German politics… and King had always wondered why. “It’s part of the job.”

“You would know,” Eisenhower said dryly.

Truman sighed. “I’m running a madhouse here,” he said tiredly. “Generals, Ambassador, we have to work on the assumption that the weapon is real.”

“Then we have to strike first,” Groves said. “We know where the Waffen-SS is based; we have Fat Lady on its way to Europe. One single explosion and the problem will be solved…”

Eisenhower hit the table hard enough to bruise his fist. “General, you are talking about… contaminating a vast stretch of Russian territory that we’ll have to fight our way through. You’ll do that over my dead body.”

Groves glared at him. “That could be arranged,” he said. “We cannot risk them letting off even one nuke.”

“Does this position of President not come with some authority?” Truman asked icily. There was instant silence. “General Eisenhower, who isn’t President yet, is correct to say that we dare not start…”

“Irradiating,” King supplied helpfully.

“Thank you,” Truman said. “We dare not start irradiating vast regions that our men will have to fight their way through,” he said. “We know” – he waved a hand at Groves’s face – “of some of the dangers and I will not expose American troops to that.” He sighed. “I have discussed the matter with the British Prime Minister. In the event of the Russians using a nuke against our troops, we will destroy Leningrad.”

King spoke into the dead silence. “No,” he said.

Truman lifted an eyebrow. “You think that we should not retaliate against them?”

“No,” King said, ignoring the very childish look that flickered across Groves’s face for a short moment. “I question, however, the choice of target. Leningrad, or Saint Petersburg as it was known in my time, is a place of considerable cultural value. It’s also very close indeed to Finland, which is one of our allies.”

“If only in a nominal sense,” Eisenhower said. King nodded; the OSS had been supplying the Finnish resistance with weapons, and the USAAF had managed the occasional bombing raid to support attacks against Soviet positions, but the never-to-be-sufficiently damned logistics had prevented Patton’s dreams of a march across Sweden into Finland.

“And they would hardly be pleased at us scattering radioactive waste across their country,” King said. “Perhaps Stalingrad would make a better target.”

Groves narrowed his eyes. “That’s out of range,” he snapped.

“Not if we fly from Turkey,” Eisenhower said. “We’ve been launching attacks on Russian positions from Turkey anyway, and we have drop tanks for the B-29s now. That’s how we bombed Japan.”

Truman nodded. “General Groves, please see to moving Fat Lady to Turkey, under conditions of strictest security. We won’t tell the Turks anything; their treatment of the Kurds is disgusting.”

“Aye, sir,” Groves said. King nodded; the Kurdish Genocide had sent thousands of Kurds into the Republic of Arabia. Perhaps in the long run that would be for the best, but for the moment… well, it made dealing with Turkey hard. No one had truly imagined what could happen with cameras the size of a coat button, or how the vivid imagery would affect public opinion.

“Thank you,” Truman said. He nodded at Eisenhower. “Ike, what’s the current status of the invasion plans?”

Eisenhower nodded and unfurled a long map of his own. “We have nearly sixty divisions in all, a mixture of armoured and infantry, moving into position in three separated locations,” he said. “There have been a series of skirmishes between our forces and Russian forces, but so far the Russians have seemed disinclined to attack us, and of course we haven’t pushed back hard.” He scowled. “Some of them have been division-sized clashes.

“General Flynn has been taking the opportunity granted by relative peace and quiet to reinforce our logistics,” he continued, pointing to supply dumps on the map. “We have nearly thirty thousand trucks now, all committed to moving supplies around through Germany to the front. Thanks to that effort, we’ll be able to smash the Soviet armies in the field, and then drive on Moscow.”

King narrowed his eyes. Like all of the future personnel, he’d become something of a history fan in the years since the Transition. “General, can you make it to Moscow before the fall rains?”

“We’ll give it a damn good try,” Eisenhower said. “The Germans of the other timeline could make two hundred miles in a week if they pushed themselves, we’ll be moving faster than they ever could. Given all of the unrest in the two SSRs closest to the front, we might well have allies there.”

“We have to treat them as friends,” King said.

“We’ve made arrangements to extend Operation Chowhound up there as well,” Eisenhower said. “We can make it to Moscow in a month, if we really press ourselves.” He tapped the map. “There are two main problems, and the atomic wild card. The Soviets have a powerful defence line near Warsaw, and they have a second line along the Russian border with Belarus and the Ukraine. We will have to smash the forces in both places, destroy them or capture them.”

“Once they are destroyed, then all we’ll have to do is make it to Moscow, and the so-called Union of Soviet Socialist Republics will come apart,” Truman said. “That would be the end of their manpower, now that the Siberian divisions are trapped in the Far East.”

King smiled. “The blasted city still hasn’t fallen?” He asked. “Perhaps we should use the nuke there.”

“There are Marines too close to it for comfort,” Groves said. “I have a request.”

Truman lifted an eyebrow; King gaped at him. “I… see,” Truman said. “What is the request?”

Groves frowned. “I would like to fly the first mission with the atomic bomb,” he said.

“Out of the question,” Eisenhower said sharply. “You know too much.”

Groves shook his head. “I don’t know anything that they won’t already know,” he said. “I… Mr President, the atomic project has killed me.”

Truman lowered his eyes. “How long?”

“The British doctor thinks that I’ll last around a year, if I’m lucky,” Groves said. “Sir, I’m the most experienced officer on the subject of atomic weapons, and I know how to use them. I’m also expendable.”

Truman studied him for a long moment. “Very well,” he said finally. “I’m going to regret this, but you may fly the mission, provided that the pilot of the B-29 agrees. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Mr President,” Groves said. “I won’t let you down.”

Forward Base

Polish-German Border

25th June 1942

Captain Dwynn stepped through the security checkpoint and entered the main office of the general commanding, General Flynn. The Forward Base was well established; it had once been a German base before the British Army took it over. There were forces, ranging from infantry to small tank groups, further to the east, but the five divisions based near Frankfurt were the most powerful force in the region.

“Captain Dwynn,” General Flynn said. He held out a hand for Dwynn to shake. “Thank you for coming.”

Dwynn knew that it was going to be bad. Generals didn’t shake the hands of Captains without a very good reason – and the reason was normally a suicide mission. “Your orders did say that it was urgent,” he said. “I brought the team, as per orders.”

“Thank you,” Flynn said. Dwynn shuddered; it was going to be very bad. “I have a rather dangerous mission for you.”

“I’ve been doing that every since I joined the SAS,” Dwynn said. “I was at Singapore, Iraq, Palestine, Norway and the Netherlands. Where next?”

“Back to Poland,” Flynn said. “Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is simple. Himmler, we believe, has a nuclear weapon. Your job is to find it and destroy it, whatever the cost.”

“Mission Impossible with a vengeance,” Dwynn said. “Where is the little bastard?”

Flynn tapped the map with a laser pointer. The red dot swept over the map before halting at Brest, deep within the Soviet Union. “Brest,” he said. “Far from being as exciting as the name suggests, they are based in an NKVD complex here. They’re very well hidden, but once we have some intelligence on them, we knew where to look for them.”

Dwynn blinked. “Intelligence, sir?”

“None of your business,” Flynn snapped. Dwynn didn’t mind; operation security was important. “The source is classified beyond my clearance, Captain, which should give you some idea of how dangerous it is.”

“Yes, sir,” Dwynn said, wondering who would order a commanding general left in the dark. The Prime Minister himself? “What intelligence is available on the target?”

“Not as much as I would like,” Flynn admitted, passing over a folder of satellite transmissions. “We sent a drone up to take a look, but they shot it down. Some new kind of rocket.”

“Fuck,” Dwynn said. He skimmed through the folder quickly. “Uncle Joe is allowing him his own private camp?”

Flynn nodded. “According to the source, Stalin believes that he can control Himmler, and I suppose that he could destroy him. Still, removing or destroying that weapon is of prime importance.”

Dwynn made a sudden realisation. “There’s no proof that the weapon is actually there,” he commented. Flynn nodded. “Oh, sir; that’s just dandy. No one can prove a negative, can they?”

Flynn shook his head. “We don’t know for certain that the bomb is there, Captain,” he said. “Quite frankly, some analysts suspect that the bomb doesn’t exist. The source – before you ask – claims that it does, but that could just be German misinformation.”

“Bother,” Dwynn said, rather proud of himself for using just that word. “Sir, we’ll do this, or die trying.”

Flynn nodded. “Good luck, Captain,” he said. “I wish you the best of luck, and so does the Prime Minister.” He passed across an envelope. “In fact, he sent you a personal note.”

Dwynn laughed. “I’ll know how to thank him when I come back,” he said.

Chapter Forty-Five: The Long Hard Road

Factory 163

Perm, Russia

1st July 1942

For the workers at Factory 163, life was an endless series of drudgery, only broken by the occasional whipping from the factory guards to keep them working. Despite that – despite watching a naked women being whipped to death as a ‘wrecker’ – production was falling and had been falling for weeks. Each worker worked on a single part of a tank – the more senior workers had the task of assembling the tank – and they did nothing else. Food and drink was in short supply; they had nothing to lose, and knew it.

The guards knew it too as they paced backwards and forwards. Accidents and accidents that were not accidents were on the rise. The daily propaganda sessions were punctuated by shouts and catcalls; the face of Stalin had been hit by thrown bricks and tools. They’d once been used to having their way with the female workers, but after a few guards had been castrated by the would-be rape victims, they were ordered to hold off. It didn’t help the guards’ morale at all.

The uneasy truce continued, both sides knowing that it was only a matter of time before there was an explosion, but neither side knew that the explosion would never come. Without a clear and present threat to bind them to working for the salvation of Russia, the Russian people were coming to realise that Stalin was their worst enemy. Radio Moscow blared out constant reports of great military victories – but the underground radio was proving more truthful and, if the truth were to be told, more to the population’s liking. The tales of how much food even the poorest person could eat in Britain – and of Stalin’s crimes against his own people – were having an effect.

All involved knew that if the Soviet regime lost its grip on the neck of its people, it would be destroyed by their collective fury. The NKVD patrolled, shooting whatever underground members it caught, having long since given up trying to extract information from them. Trotsky and Natasha Yar had organised well; each cell had a radio with a biometric scanner built into its casing. The NKVD simply didn’t have the ability to use them to track down the other cells.

The Russian people held their collective breath, wondering when it would be their time to be free…

* * *

The boulder entered the atmosphere on a steep trajectory, guided down by a series of very careful boosts from an MSV. Undetected, unseen except for a fiery streak across the sky, it fell into the atmosphere. Unbeknownst to the inhabitants of Factory 163, and the farms that provided its workers with their merger rations, it was building up awesome kinetic energy… and it was targeted directly on Factory 163.

The rock slammed into the building and the blast wave rippled out. The poor construction of the factory complex only made matters worse; the shock of the rock’s impact and sudden transmutation into destructive energies shattered buildings that might have been safer under other conditions. A stockpile of high explosives, used for mining, detonated as fires spread throughout the complex, completing the destructive work of the space-based weapon. The inhabitants simply stood no chance at all against the power of the rocks.

Later, when someone in the local NKVD office would realise that they had lost contact with Factory 163, they would send an entire armoured force to investigate. They found only ruins; there was nothing left of Factory 163, or its inhabitants.

Combat Zone

Poland/Belarus

1st July 1942

Captain Yates cursed as the JS-2 appeared from nowhere, its main gun already swinging around to engage the Challenger. The two tanks fired at the same time and the Challenger shook under the impact, its front armour hardly dented.

“We’re alive,” Benton said. His voice was relived. “Where is the bastard?”

“Dead,” Grant said. “Unfortunately, he had allies.”

Yates cursed again. An entire line of JS-2 tanks, backed up by T-34 tanks, was raging towards them, clearly hoping to drown the British by sheer weight of numbers. They fired continuously, pounding away at the Marine force, even as the Marines returned fire.

“They’re coming,” Benton said, professionalism keeping his voice steady. The main gun barked again and again. “What the hell do they think they’re doing?”

The pounding on the armour grew louder as JS-2 tanks started to explode. The Marines were moving into combat position, spreading out to fire back at the enemy, screaming for help from the forward support aircraft. The Harriers acknowledged; they’d be on their way even now.

“They’re trying to batter us to death,” Yates snapped. “Forward, now.”

Benton gunned the engine just in time, moving the Challenger forward to avoid a JS-2 that was trying to ram them. It was crazy, like a modified version of Sudden Strike, thousands of enemy vehicles trying to impale themselves upon his defences. The Challenger thundered as shells slammed into it, then the harriers swept overhead, firing anti-tank weapons, and then a flight of helicopters firing Hellfire missiles.

“Thank God,” Yates breathed. “Report!”

“We lost four Challengers,” one of the other tank commanders said. “Seventeen fireflies are also down.”

“Shit,” Yates snapped. He quickly accessed the satellite display; the enemy didn’t seem to have caught on to their breakthrough yet, but there were some major Russian positions only half a mile ahead.

“We have to move forward,” he said grimly. There were three attack prongs heading into Poland and Belarus; one British, one American and one German. If the Soviets managed to prevent one prong from breaking through their lines, they might manage to defeat the other two prongs.

“Follow-up forces on their way,” the dispatcher said. Yates allowed himself a moment of envy; that man had a nice comfortable job in London, trying to direct the battlefield at long-distance. He’d heard that the American generals had had a collective shitfit when they’d heard about that concept.

“We need reinforcements as well,” he said, checking the other tanks. Three had been damaged by the attack; one damaged enough to mean that it should return to the forward base. He issued the orders and overrode the protests, issuing other orders to the intact tanks.

“The Harriers are going to plaster the enemy positions,” he said. “We are going to clean up after them.”

“Yes, sir,” Grant said. “Want to bet that the flyboys will screw the pooch, as usual?”

“No bet,” Yates said. The RAF had developed an unpleasant habit of bombing somewhere and declaring it clear – only to have underestimated their opponent. “Forward!”

The tank roared into life, leaving the short but very bloody battleground in the hands of the follow-up forces, mounted infantry. It was nice to see all the unemployed youths finally doing something useful, he thought; far safer than having them on the streets. The ground was bumpy; he shuddered as it occurred to him that they might be driving over a mass grave.

“RAF reports that the strike is inbound now,” the dispatcher said. Yates nodded; he’d been getting worried. The Russians might have been lousy at tank tactics, but they were tough defending fighters, particularly when armed to the teeth. Stalin might have skimped on things like human rights, but he was very aware of what his people needed for fighting. The Red Army had been the best-equipped army of 1939, after all.

“Here they come,” Grant said. Five Hawks, the new-old jet bombers, swooped overhead, dodging anti-aircraft fire with ease, before unloading their dumb bombs onto the Russian position. Flames leapt up when the FAE detonated, spreading rapidly to their ammunition supplies.

“Boom,” Yates commented, watching the series of explosions. He frowned; there was a… strangeness to the flames.

“Do you see…?” Grant asked. Yates nodded. “That’s a chemical fire,” she said. “What did they have there?”

A thunderous explosion shattered the Russian position. For a crazy moment, Yates thought that it had been a nuclear explosion, so devastating had it been, before realising that that was foolish. Whatever was in the bunker, it had been dangerous.

“Advance, slowly,” he ordered, and muttered more orders. Half of the force of tanks spread out carefully, while he and three of his comrades advanced on the Russian position. A Russian soldier lay on the ground, half-burned, but he was trying to fire at them anyway. Grant shot him with a burst of machine gun fire, just to put him out of his misery.

“Uh-oh,” Benton said. The tank had been sealed, of course, but the alarms went off anyway. “Sir, there was gas here.”

Yates swore. “Control, we have a confirmed Alpha-Red situation,” he said. “Confirmed; gas supplies in Russian positions, apparently meant for use against us.” He looked sharply at Benton. “Is there enough of it to analyse?”

Benton shook his head as the dispatcher replied. “Understood, Romeo-Alpha,” he said. “Is there enough of it to analyse?”

Benton sighed and shook his head again. “No, control,” he said. “The gas supplies were ignited and the equipment is very basic on the tank.”

“Understood,” the dispatcher said. If he was annoyed at dealing with a lowly driver, he didn’t show it. “Please stand by.”

“He’ll be calling the general,” Yates said dryly. “The general will tell us what to do.”

“This is General Flynn,” a new voice said. “Captain Yates; please secure the region. A team will be along in a few minutes.”

“Yes, sir,” Yates said.

* * *

General Flynn put down the radio and scowled. “Now we know the Russians have nerve gas too,” he said.

General Stillwell, who’d been very unhappy at being pulled away from his men for a quick conference, scowled. “The bastards must have been given it by the Germans,” he said. “What type was it?”

“Something unpronounceable,” Flynn said grimly. “The analysis team had much more sensitive equipment, and they were able to identify it. Fortunately, we do have an antidote for it, provided that it can be used in time.”

“And that does give us other responsibilities,” Stillwell said. “The Russians might start using it like the Japanese did; against our potential allies.”

Flynn nodded. On the second day of the offensive, they’d blasted the remaining territory that had been held by the Germans – which had been taken over by the Russians – and they were closing in on Warsaw. The few Poles that remained had been more than happy to aid the Allied forces, but they were scattered and terrified of the Axis powers.

“I’m more worried about our people,” he said. “We have certain… orders of what to do in the event of Russian use of weapons of mass destruction.”

“I know,” Stillwell said. The rules had been made clear; any Axis use of weapons of mass destruction would draw a nuclear retaliation. Flynn glared at the map; the British and Americans were closing in on Warsaw; the Bundeswehr was nearly at what would have been the Kaliningrad salient in 2015. Any Russian use of gas could be inconvenient.

His radio buzzed. “General, this is Colonel Dickens,” a voice said. “Sir, German trenches towards Kaliningrad have been gassed.”

Flynn cursed. “Understood,” he said. “Have them sent what aid we can spare.”

“They’ve trained for gas attacks,” Colonel Dickens said. “Those that weren’t killed or blinded at once and then killed have injected themselves with the antidote. We still have a couple of thousand men in urgent need of medical attention.”

Flynn spoke as if someone else was speaking through his mouth. “Have medical aid sent to pick them up and transport them back to Britain,” he said. “Move it!”

* * *

The field hospital wasn’t a nice place, certainly nothing like the comfortable hospital that Kristy Stewart had come to accept as her due, before the NHS funding crisis had driven her to private health care. It stank; the smell of disinfectant was everywhere. Blood and something she didn’t want to think about lay on the ground, signs of countless bleeding patients being moved quickly into the hospital.

A harassed male nurse had told her to stay out of the way, so she did, filming constantly with the camera on her shoulder. Some of the British soldiers had snapped at her, recognising her from the movies of her and Roth, calling her a collaborator or other – worse – names. She ignored them, pressed down by the darkness within her soul.

“This is the price for defeating the enemy,” she muttered, as she entered the room that served as a ward. German soldiers, bleeding and screaming in pain, lay scattered around the room, some of them paralysed by the gas. Her heart wasn’t in it; she looked into a sealed bed and vomited on the floor. Her vomit merely joined more on the floor, mixing with blood and urine and other by-products of men in a truly dreadful state.

“They used gas,” a voice said. She dimly recognised Rommel. “Look what they’ve done to my people!”

Stewart hung back as Rommel passed through the ward. The man who was the leader of the provisional German government seemed all too human as he walked, looking down at the men who’d followed him to the dismal fate. Some of them he spoke to, offering what comfort he could, others cursed him and brought tears to his eyes. Not all of them had been keen on fighting to save Poland; what was Poland to them?

“The Russians will pay for this,” Rommel vowed. Stewart shivered at the tone in his voice. “They will pay, in blood and fire and suffering…”

* * *

The German camp was well hidden and very well patrolled. Captain Dwynn expected that that made sense; with a British force swinging out around Warsaw, perhaps preparing for a lunge at the camp, and Russian NKVD units nearby, Himmler could be forgiven for being a little paranoid. He snorted; even the SAS hadn’t been able to get close to the camp.

“It’s a good thing our binoculars don’t flash in the sunlight,” Chang commented. Their tiny hideout was nearly a mile from the German position, mounted on a hill. “What are they doing?”

Dwynn wasn’t listening. “Fetch Vash,” he snapped. “That’s Himmler himself, I’m sure of it!”

His mouth fell into a hunter’s grin as Himmler shook the hands of three men, standing next to a lorry. Vash, the team’s sniper, came running up, but it was too late; Himmler had moved back into one of the armoured buildings.

“Shit,” Dwynn muttered. He turned his gaze back to the lorry. There was something about it that set all of his combat senses off, warning him of… what?

“Shit,” he said again, louder this time. He ignored Vash, staring at the lorry. It was carrying something heavy; he would have staked his life on it. It was moving west, towards Warsaw… and the Anglo-American force that was surrounding it.

“That’s the nuke,” he snapped. “I’ll stake my oath on it.”

Vash lifted his sniper’s rifle, but the vehicle was moving rapidly out of range. “I could hit the tires…”

“Then they might trigger the bomb anyway,” Dwynn snapped. “I need an option.”

His mind ran rapidly. They couldn’t catch the lorry, not on their own, and they didn’t have any weapon that could destroy it. “Call the RAF,” he snapped, “and then get into the bunker.” They’d found the old Russian bunker – it dated from the First World War – purely by accident. “If the RAF doesn’t make it in time…”

* * *

Squadron Leader Shelia Dunbar forced the Eurofighter as fast as it could go, pushing at Mach Three as it sped along, high above the ground. The orders left no room for interpretation; she might not return from the mission even if it succeeded.

Find a lorry. Destroy the lorry at all costs.

“This is Eagle-one,” she said. “Proceeding east. Status report?”

“Everyone has gone to nuke alert,” the controller said. She cursed; among other things, nuke alert involved shutting down equipment that might be damaged by EMP. She cursed again as a nasty thought struck her; if the EMP was powerful enough, it might damage the satellites. “I’m sorry Shelia, you’re on your own.”

“Fuck,” she sneered, willing the Eurofighter to go faster. Warsaw swept by under her aircraft as she flew lower, risking a lucky shot from the Russian anti-aircraft weapons for improving her accuracy. The maps weren’t detailed; they didn’t tell her everything she needed to know. At supersonic speed, there would be no time to recover from a mistake.

“Target only one mile ahead,” the controller said. Dunbar cursed the odds that had had her assigned to escorting B-29’s when the alert had been sounded. The only weapon she had that was any use against the lorry was her cannon, and she’d used some of its ammunition already. “Good luck.”

Dunbar committed a direct breach of regulations and turned off the radio. She didn’t need distractions. The hills and roads – mud tracks, mainly – swept past faster and faster, and then she saw it, just before her.

“Die, your fuckers,” she snapped. The lorry made a desperate attempt to escape her shells, but it was too late; the shells swept through the cabin, sending the truck cart-wheeling across the road. She had only a second to feel her triumph… and then the world went white around her…

* * *

Hauptsturmfuehrer Thierbach was saved by the purest accident. The driver’s shout of warning had made him throw himself away from the cab, and the cannon shells had missed him – and the massive bomb beside him. The British plane was close, too close, and Thierbach knew his duty. If the bomb still worked...it was his duty to detonate it.

Thierbach worked quickly, moving as fast as he dared as soon as the lorry came to a rest, checking the connections. Originally, the bomb had had a timer, but the weapon could not be allowed to fall into enemy hands. He was certain that the British would have troops on the way, and he was tempted to wait for them to get them caught in the blast as well, but he heard the roar of the British plane and knew that there was no time. Quickly, calmly, he pushed the detonation button.

Chapter Forty-Six: An Eye For An Eye

RAF Oakhanger

Hampshire, United Kingdom

1st July 1942

“I confirm NUDET, repeat NUDET,” Captain Bacon snapped. Colonel Gardner cursed; they’d hoped that the warning had been a hoax. “Confirmed detonation; location, Poland.”

Colonel Gardner hit the automated system for alerting the principles and stared down at the display. The blast had been… weird; it had even damaged some of the satellites high overhead. For a region roughly five miles in length, the firestorm would be raging even now; he couldn’t tell if it was going to overwhelm any military units or not.

“Spectroscopic analysis is very clear,” Bacon said grimly. “The bomb is very dirty.”

“There goes the neighbourhood,” Colonel Gardner said wryly, trying to find refugee in humour. It didn’t work; the plume of rising fire and smoke was horrifying. “We have to warn the Poles; hell, we have to warn everyone.”

Ten Downing Street

London, United Kingdom

2nd July 1942

Hanover stared down at the map and felt sick. He knew just how lucky the Allies had been; it had been sheer luck that they’d had even a few minutes of warning. Even so, there had been thousands of causalities, mainly Americans who hadn’t grasped the danger. How could they have? They’d never seen a nuclear weapon before.

He felt like crying. No one – in any known timeline – had tried to fight a massive battle in the ruins of a nuclear war; it had never happened before. Stalin had; the blast had been taken as the signal to launch an all-out attack on the Allies, Russian soldiers charging blithely through radioactive clouds, falling upon the Allied positions with a determination that made up for their tactical disadvantages. The forces in Warsaw, unaware of the poison cloud and lashed on by the NKVD, broke out of the city and tried to raise the siege.

He scowled grimly. The EMP hadn’t damaged the British radios; they had been designed to be hardened against EMP. The American systems, and the new ones made since the Transition, had been damaged; they’d not been intended to face a nuclear-armed opponent. General Flynn had done his best, and the undamaged satellites had come over the horizon to provide new reconnaissance – and thank God that the space stations hadn’t been overhead – but the Soviets had come close to scoring a strategic victory.

If they’d concentrated on us, they might have won, he thought. The Soviets had charged at the American lines, hammering them, and the British forces had been able to cut them off. In hours of brutal fighting, the lines had been driven back several miles, but the advantage of surprise was gone and the Soviets had finally been destroyed. Warsaw itself was for the taking and an American battalion had finally occupied the city, but large parts of Poland would be ruined forever.

Cunningham spoke into the silence. The entire world had been stunned, with pundits predicting total nuclear war and/or the collapse of the Allied lines. The BBC had managed to sneak their reporter – Kristy Stewart – into a hospital, where she’d reported on the gas attacks. The protesters were already outside Downing Street, waving signs.

DO YOUR JOB, one read. DROP THE BOMB.

“We have managed to stabilise the situation,” Cunningham said. His voice was hoarse. “The active soviet combat units have been destroyed.”

“And when can we advance again?” Hanover said grimly. “After today… there will be panic.”

“A lot of people want Russia destroyed,” Noreen said, waving a hand towards the protesters on the streets. The anti-nuke crowds had run into the pro-nuke crowds and come off worst. “Sir… we can’t do that.”

“The Americans have sent formal notice of their intention to use their nuke, the… ah, Fat Lady, on Stalingrad,” McLachlan said. “General Groves is flying the mission himself.”

“How nice of him,” Hanover said. “Not Leningrad?”

“Apparently there were people in the American administration who felt that Leningrad was a bad choice,” McLachlan said. He snorted. “I cannot say that I disagree with them.”

“Which leaves us with a problem,” Hanover said. “Can we advance into the teeth of more nuclear weapons?”

“We don’t know how many there might be,” Stirling admitted. “A lot depends on how much the two powers have shared; the Germans had the ability to build Thande reactors, clearly, but did they share it with the Russians?”

Hanover mentally cursed the scientist who had designed the reactors, purely as a theoretical exercise. If the designs hadn’t been stolen by the Germans, they might have never had to face a German nuke.

“And can the troops advance across the remainder of Poland without being poisoned?” He asked. “The Germans seem to have built a very dirty bomb indeed.”

“The Thande reactors produce a great deal of waste,” Stirling said. “If they packed some of that around the bomb, they would have trebled its radiation count.”

Cunningham coughed. “Yes, the troops can advance,” he said calmly. “The Challenger tanks have been sealed against radiation ever since the dirty bomb became a favoured tool of the terrorists. The troops… do not enjoy fighting in NBC suits, but they can do it.”

“It’s going to take time to ensure that the American units are equipped with NBC suits,” Stirling said. “At least a week, perhaps more, and they won’t enjoy using them.”

“See to it,” Hanover said. “Is Himmler still in that camp?”

“Unless he moved while the nuke went off, then yes,” Cunningham said. “The SAS team was shell-shocked, but they managed to keep an eye on the camp, and at least one satellite has been tasked for the oversight role since last night.”

“Enough games,” Hanover snapped. “I want that bastard’s head on a platter. General, the SAS is to hit that camp and take it out.”

Cunningham nodded. “It’ll take several hours to put the mission together,” he said. “We’ll be risking most of our helicopters in the field.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Hanover said. “Make the arrangements at once.”

Over Stalingrad

2nd July 1942

General Leslie Groves vomited into a bag as the aircraft hit turbulence as it passed over the Black Sea. The Turks had been more than willing to play host to the special bombing crews, which flew from Turkey to bomb Russian positions in the Ukraine and the Balkans, but they hadn’t had any idea of the bomber’s real mission. The Turkish hatred of the Russians was powerful; they hated them with a cold hatred that Groves hoped that America would never develop.

He shook his head, feeling sick. He’d heard about future American hatred of the Arabs and sighed; after the nuclear warhead in Poland, the Americans would have every reason to hate the Germans and their Soviet allies.

“General, are you all right?” Captain Washington asked. “General?”

His voice tailed off in a gasp of disgust. Groves didn’t blame him; his vomit was streaked through with red, very red blood. He’d heard that radiation poisoning killed red blood cells, but the evidence of his own eyes suggested otherwise.

“No, I’m not all right,” he snarled. Washington winced backwards. Groves felt his own body shaking, cursing the day that he’d visited Reactor 5. It had suffered an overload and spat out a burst of radiation, killing nearly fifty engineers and placing two hundred others in hospital. Groves was one of the lucky ones; the radiation was killing him slow, not fast.

“How long until we reach the target?” He asked, calming himself by a sheer effort of will. He didn’t want to throw up again. “How long?”

“Two more hours,” Washington said. “General, we can turn back if you want.”

Groves knew that he was trying to help. “I’ve never heard such a stupid idea in my life,” he snapped. Rage overwhelmed gratitude. “Captain, no hospital in Turkey can help me now. I won’t survive the flight.”

Washington left without another word. Groves frowned to himself; it was a breach of command etiquette, but he found it hard to care. Time passed as he sat on his bench, feeling the aircraft shuddering around him as the GPS system guided them into the darkness. They’d decided to launch the mission at local night time; there was too much danger of a Russian fighter shooting them down in the day.

“Tanks away,” Washington shouted, and the B-29 shuddered. The long-range drop tanks had been perfected for bombing Japan, just before the Japanese took themselves out of the war by surrendering. The aircraft seemed to bounce through the sky; Groves felt more vomit welling up within him. This time, parts of his stomach were in the vomit.

“Dear God, help me,” he breathed. The pain was excruciating; his body just wanted to lie down and die. By sheer force of will, Groves pulled himself to his feet and staggered into the cockpit. “How long…?”

Washington blinked at his tone. Groves knew that he must sound like a man who had already died. “Ten minutes,” he said. “That’s Stalingrad ahead.”

Groves peered into the darkness. The Russians had good light discipline; he could only see a tiny number of lights glimmering in the darkness. “You’re certain?”

“Yes,” Washington said. Compassion for Groves’ illness was overridden by annoyance. “Yes, sir; I am certain.”

“Star sight confirms, sir,” the navigator said. Groves nodded. “We’re right on target.”

“I’m going to drop the weapon personally,” Groves said, and left the cockpit. He half-walked, half-stumbled as the aircraft’s machine guns started to chatter, firing at a Russian plane that had come too close. The Russians had no taste at all for night-fighting, but they were very motivated indeed.

“Sir?” The bombardier said. “Sir, are you all right?”

Groves ignored him. Fat Lady was suspended in a cage, held firmly above the bay doors. The weapon had had to be armed on route, just to prevent an accidental detonation on take-off. Whatever covert help they’d received from the British, it hadn’t stretched to a fail-safe detonator.

“We’re over the target now,” Washington shouted. “Drop the bomb.”

“Mine,” Groves said, taking the leaver. He vomited again; the bombardier gasped in disgust and jumped back for cover. One pull of the leaver and the bomb bays opened, revealing Stalingrad below. A few twinkles of light flickered below; perhaps the NKVD guards having a last cigarette.

“Bombs away,” Groves said, and pulled the second leaver. Fat Lady fell… two inches down, and then the cage jammed. “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Groves swore. His head spun. “What the hell has happened?”

The bombardier pointed to a jammed cable. “There, sir,” he said, reaching for a wrench. Groves snatched it off him, banging away at the jammed cable… and then Fat Lady fell towards the ground. Groves, leaning against the bomb, lost his footing and fell as well, heading down with the bomb.

Oh shit, he thought, and laughed harshly. Time seemed to slow down; it was almost beautiful. Fat Lady fell faster and faster, the detonator waiting for a pre-set air pressure… and then the bomb exploded. Groves died, smiling and unaware.

Waffen-SS Camp

Brest, Belarus

3rd July 1942

That was too fucking close, Captain Dwynn thought grimly, as the SAS team continued their observation of the German camp. The SS weren’t standing still; even with the weather screwed up by the nuke, they were determined to continue their patrols, just in case the NKVD planned to change their agreement.

“They gone?” Chang asked. The Chinese officer had a scarred face; he’d slashed it while diving for cover when the nuke went off. Dwynn liked to think that the strange rock had come off worst in the tiny confrontation.

“Yes,” Dwynn said. He peered down at the encampment. “Himmler hasn’t shown himself since the nuke went off. Do you think that he knows something we don’t?”

Chang shrugged. “There is too much radiation around, but most of it is over in the west,” he said. “I think he just wants to keep his balls intact.” He smiled. “Anyway, we have our new orders.”

Dwynn nodded. “Where are we to go next?” He asked. “Hell itself?”

“No,” Chang said. “There’s an entire airborne unit coming this way, armed for bear, to capture or kill Himmler.”

“Finally,” Dwynn muttered. “What are our orders?”

“We’re to set up target designators and identify what we can of the German positions,” Chang said. “The attack will be preceded by a Harrier force. If Himmler tries to leave… we’re to shoot him down.”

Dwynn scowled. The orders sounded like a staff officer had drafted them. Sniping wasn’t easy at the best of times, and in the confusion, the German might just slip past them unnoticed. Still, it was something pro-active… and he wanted the war to end.

“Call the team,” he said, checking his watch. “We’d better spread out for the Harriers.”

* * *

Two days ago, a Eurofighter had been caught in the nuclear blast and vaporised. No one had found even a section of the plane; no one expected to do so. Squadron Leader Shelia Dunbar had been wiped from existence, her passing unnoticed in the chaos of the first Axis nuclear explosion.

Flying Officer Mick Eccleston clenched his teeth as the Harrier swept along the ground, remaining as low as he dared, sweeping around obstacles with ease. The Harriers had always been manoeuvrable – during the Falklands War they had out-flown and out-fought supersonic aircraft – and surprise was their only hope of pulling the mission off successfully. Whatever the truth behind the relationship between Stalin and Himmler – and Eccleston knew that the Internet was filled with rumours of homosexual activity – Stalin would hardly allow Himmler to be kidnapped or killed.

“We’re coming up on the target,” he said. His on-board display tracked the SAS aircraft and helicopters, carrying a mixed force directly to the target. Only the British Army would have put such a mismatched force together, relying on their joint training and professionalism to hold them together. “Ten seconds…”

Time vanished quickly as the final hill appeared in front of them. “Now,” he snapped, yanking the Harrier towards the sky. The German camp appeared below them, the targets already glimmering with laser pinpoints, and the Harrier dropped its bombs automatically. An entire series of explosions blasted out within the German camp and under what Eccleston would have sworn was forest, revealing the existence of the last major German force of the war. A King Tiger exploded as a bomb struck it directly, scattering fuel and burning SS officers around.

“Attack completed, control,” he reported. Some German units attempted to engage the British aircraft; none of them came close to scoring a hit. The Harriers returned fire, using their bombs to take out the JU-88 guns. “Returning to base.”

* * *

The chain of explosions blasted Himmler to his knees, even inside the thick Russian building. He quaked, expecting to die any second, but the explosions receded and the roar of enemy planes faded.

“Report,” he snapped. Obergruppenfuehrer Muntz blinked at him. “Report!”

“We’re under attack,” Obergruppenfuehrer Muntz snapped. “The British have found us…”

His voice trailed off as a new sound, a chop-chop-chop sound, appeared, echoing through the air. Himmler spun around… to see a flight of British helicopters sweeping in, heading directly towards the camp. Some of them landed, just outside the range of the guard towers, others fired rockets directly into the towers. As Himmler watched, the defences around the base were peeled away, the helicopters firing mercilessly down into the defenders. A force of King Tigers, the only survivors of the air attack, attempted to shoot them down, and the helicopters killed them with ease.

Himmler gaped and ducked as one of the Helicopters seemed to… look in his direction. It saved his life; a bullet cracked by, just over his head. Gasping in fear, he ran back into the building, knowing that death was only minutes away.

It can’t end like this, he thought madly, searching for the guns he’d placed in the room as a final defence. It can’t… I won’t let it end this way. I won’t!

* * *

Corporal Tom Williams recoiled slightly as the helicopter landed sharply, but there was no time for panic or shock. The SBS went through pretty much the same training as the SAS, but the SAS always looked down on their naval counterparts. Except, of course, when they need us, Williams thought wryly.

“Move, move,” the Captain shouted. Williams dumped his pack – it wouldn’t be needed – and ran towards the entrance of the burning camp. Germans tried to fight and the mixed force cut them down, moving in precise formation through their fumbling attempts to defend themselves.

“Shock and awe,” he shouted, and the shout was taken up by the other soldiers, lashing into the German position and fighting the Waffen-SS directly. The helicopters buzzed overhead, firing into German positions indiscriminately, explosions blasted out across the camp. A hail of fire shot past him and Williams dived for cover, before tossing a hand grenade over the German position.

“That building,” an SAS captain shouted, and led the charge towards the hardened building. He tossed a stun grenade in and followed it, Williams followed him. A bullet struck him in the centre of his body armour, knocking him back, and he fired once at the figure hiding behind the big desk.

“You go left, I’ll go right,” he muttered, realising who the figure had to be. Hiding behind the desk, Himmler would have been sheltered from the blast of the grenade. “Now…”

Himmler fired at the SAS officer, heedless of Williams’ presence. Williams jumped on the former Fuhrer, slamming him to the ground and banging his head against the floor. Himmler’s glasses fell off and shattered; he tried to struggle, but it was futile. Williams searched him roughly before cuffing his hands and dragging him to his feet.

“I’ll give you money and wealth,” Himmler stammered. Williams was unimpressed; the leader of Death to America had put up a better fight than that. That Jihadi had killed five Americans and four British before being brought down.

“Fuck you,” Williams said harshly, as the SAS officer staggered to his feet. “You are going to face a trial for what you have done, and then you will be hung and…”

Himmler reeled against him. “No,” he said. “No…”

Williams dragged him out into the battleground. The Germans were surrendering, the handful that had survived. The battle was nearly over and the helicopters were landing, coming to recover them before Stalin could act to save Himmler’s life.

“Say goodbye, Fuhrer,” Williams sneered. “It’s the last time you’ll ever see German territory again.”

Chapter Forty-Seven: The Russian Revolution

Moscow

Russia

5th July 1942

Molotov sighed grimly as he considered the situation. Rumours of the destruction of Stalingrad had been denied by Radio Moscow; an unusual step that had convinced the population that the rumours were in fact true. Stalin had acted quickly, but not quickly enough; the NKVD units that had attempted to seal the ruins of the city had been torn apart by desertions and internal dissent. Everyone of them knew about radiation; they didn’t want to be near any possible source of the deadly poison.

Molotov scowled. The war was lost; everyone knew that. The Red Army was collapsing; the Ukraine and Belarus were in open revolt… even the Finns were scoring successes against the occupation force. To add insult to injury, Vladivostok had surrendered when General Iosif Apanasenko had realised that Americans possessed atomic bombs. Rumour had it that certain members of the city’s population had petitioned for recognition as an independent state, rather than joining Trotsky’s promise of a democratic Russian federation.

He shook his head. With the collapse of the western front, it wouldn’t be long before Moscow itself was besieged by American or British forces, which were already skirting the radioactive regions of Poland and punching into Belarus. Their aircraft ranged further and further east, and as for whatever they’d done to the factories…

His radio, the little device that Trotsky had given him, buzzed. “It’s time,” Trotsky said. Molotov nodded to himself; he’d embraced the risk when Trotsky had contacted him, and re-embraced it when he hadn’t reported the entire incident to Stalin. “Are you ready?”

Molotov nodded. The little device that Trotsky had given him was still on his person, a neat little assassination tool that would pass unnoticed by the NKVD. “Yes, Comrade,” he said, and savoured the irony. Perhaps Trotsky would have his chance to build a democratic – capitalist – Russia, perhaps not. If Molotov had a high position, perhaps some elements would survive.

“Then move now,” Trotsky said. “Your time for getting through the streets is running out.”

“Understood,” Molotov said. He gulped; even now, defying Stalin seemed dangerous. Day by day, the regions that Stalin controlled were shrinking, or held down by thousands of NKVD soldiers under constant attack. Productivity was down to almost nothing; sooner or later they would run out of bullets. “I’ll call my driver at once.”

Hiding the radio – it was disguised as a simple pen, one that was – naturally – inferior to a capitalist product – Molotov called for his driver. He was supposed to be on station at all times, but with all the unrest… it would not have surprised Molotov if his driver had deserted. A lot of the lower-ranking Communist Party officials were lying low, hoping that they would be ignored in the chaos.

“Yes, sir,” the driver said, appearing from the room. “What is your command, sir?”

Molotov smiled to himself. The driver was either loyal, or an NKVD plant. Either way, it didn’t matter at the moment. “Drive me to the Kremlin, at once,” he said. “I must see the Great Stalin at once.”

* * *

Trotsky had been a genuine military commander. Unlike Molotov, he had been very involved in plotting the coup that had placed what would become the Communist Party in power, and he had commanded the force that had fought the Soviet-Polish War of 1919-21. Planning a coup was simple; you just had to decapitate the opposing regime and any possible successors.

Natasha Yar blinked at him as he finished talking to Molotov. He nodded to himself; recruiting Molotov had been a stroke of genius, he was certain. The last thing Russia needed was a situation when the coup was carried out with British and American tanks closing in on Moscow. That… would give the Allies too much control over Russia, too much influence over the population.

“Are you certain that this will work?” She snapped. Trotsky, who’d seen her break the neck of an NKVD officer, knew better than to believe that she was the simple babushka she appeared. Her thick robes concealed body armour and enough weapons to hold off an entire NKVD force.

“Fairly certain,” Trotsky said. There were only four main combat squadrons under their command, Russian émigrés from the first revolution and their children, trained very quickly by the British and led by a handful of SAS officers. That… limited the amount that they could do very quickly, even though there were only three main targets in Moscow; the Kremlin and Red Square, Radio Moscow’s big transmitters and the new NKVD barracks, built outside the city. “Have you given the orders?”

“Yes, I have,” Natasha said. “Irina and Sergi are on their way.”

Trotsky nodded. “Then its time,” he said. “Send the signal.”

* * *

The NKVD had learned very quickly that they could no longer relay on fear to keep the population in line. The first attacks, directed against individual agents and the Moscow police, had provoked retaliation, and then the second attacks had been even more brutal. The entire terrorist campaign had been incredibly frustrating for Beria, before he died, and the NKVD was on the verge of collapse.

Stalin had ordered them to send more forces to Moscow, knowing that whoever controlled Moscow had a good chance of holding the rest of Russia, and ordered them moved into the barracks outside the city. Marshal Kliment Voroshilov, the commander of the 1st Guards, had ordered them to patrol the city, even under attack. The NKVD had been under constant attack ever since, and they had even lost a handful of tanks. Recovering one that had been overrun by the underground had been a relief; they had enough problems with Molotov Cocktails without facing tanks as well.

The NKVD driver took the tank back to the barracks, noticing that it needed some repairs, and left it in the tank park. The tank was indeed moving sluggishly; it had been fitted with a concealed FAE bomb. When Trotsky sent the signal, the FAE bomb exploded, sending a massive wave of fire blasting across the NKVD tank farm. When Voroshilov would call for their services, the stunned survivors would be in no shape to help anyone, not even themselves.

* * *

Molotov heard the shouting even as his black car entered Red Square. An obviously scared NKVD officer checked his papers, passing over half of the checks he was supposed to make, just to remain out of sight. He glanced behind him and gasped; nearly the entire population of Moscow was on the streets, shouting slogans that would shock Stalin, who would almost certainly be on the verge of having Voroshilov open fire on the crowds.

“Down with Stalin,” they shouted, a massive chant that echoed around the buildings, cowing the NKVD guards. Firing on Poles was one thing – everyone knew that the Polish people were eternal enemies of the Russian Rodina – but to fire on so many of their own people? They’d been reminded of their own mortality; they knew that nemesis was at hand.

“Down with Stalin… Down with Stalin…”

Molotov moved as fast as he could. The NKVD guards seemed almost pleased to see him; Stalin hadn’t issued any orders at all. “Take me to Marshal Kliment Voroshilov,” he commanded, using the Marshal’s full name to avoid confusion. “At once.”

The guard who was supposed to escort him directly to Stalin didn’t argue. “This way, Comrade,” he said, and led him into a small room in the Kremlin. Marshal Kliment Voroshilov looked up at Molotov as he entered.

“Ah, Molotov,” he said. “You do know that they were throwing your cocktails around earlier?”

Molotov glared at him. “Don’t try to be suave,” he snapped. “It doesn’t suit you.” Voroshilov scowled at him. “What are you going to do?”

Voroshilov picked up a machine pistol. “Do?” He asked. “I’m just calling for reinforcements, and then we’re going to blast that rabble away from the Kremlin.”

“No,” Molotov said. His tone was flat. “Voroshilov, that’s the entire population, more or less, and they’re armed. You start a fight and it will end with us being hung over the statues of Comrade Stalin.” A thought struck him. “Where is Comrade Stalin?”

“He’s gone into the underground tunnels,” Voroshilov said. His tone was full of glee. “He’ll meet up with the 1st Guards outside the city and…”

Molotov cursed. He’d thought that Stalin would have stood it out until the end. Clearly the dictator had decided that using the link to the Moscow Underground, which had been sealed ever since the unrest had broken out, was safer than staying around to fight. God only knew where he might have gone…

“Why do you care anyway?” Voroshilov asked. Molotov’s hands clutched the assassination weapon that Trotsky had given him. “It is a honour to cover the retreat and regrouping of the great man who…”

“He had all our best generals shot,” Molotov snapped. He brought out the weapon, secure in the knowledge that Voroshilov wouldn’t recognise it for what it was. “He only spared you because you were clearly no threat to anyone…”

“I’m the supreme commander of the 1st Guards,” Voroshilov snapped. “Comrade Molotov…”

“Oh shut up,” Molotov said, suddenly reaching the end of his tether. The weapon made a single phut noise as it fired a burst of tiny bullets into Voroshilov’s face. For a long chilling moment, Voroshilov’s hands scrabbled for the machine pistol, but then he fell over. Molotov picked up the machine pistol, set it to single-shot, and shot Voroshilov again, just to make certain.

“Sir, I…”

Molotov turned as the guard burst in. “We are going to end this in a way that doesn’t involve us all dying,” he said, and hoped that he was telling the truth. Voroshilov’s command radio was in front of him; he picked it up and issued orders.

“Sir, what’s happening?” The guard asked. He sounded plaintive. “Why are you…?”

“We’re surrendering,” Molotov said flatly. He watched as the NKVD guards laid down their weapons, to have them collected by Irina and Sergi. “We’re going to put an end to all of this.”

* * *

“He’s fled,” Trotsky said grimly. Irina and Sergi had searched the Kremlin from top to bottom once the NKVD guards had surrendered; they had only found the link to the underground. He wished he could say that he had been surprised, but Stalin had always had a question mark hanging over his conduct during the Civil War. That little detail had been forgotten by the Communist historians, who had given Stalin the decisive role in every event from before his own birth right up to the current nuclear program.

Natasha nodded. “Perhaps for the best,” she said. “If he’d remained here, he might have managed to put up a fight.”

Trotsky nodded. It was a good point, he supposed; Stalin would have fought like a cornered rat. “So… what happened at Radio Moscow?”

“We got the transmitters intact,” Natasha said. “You can make your recording now.”

Trotsky nodded again, feeling his years pressing down on him. He was old; older than even Natasha appeared. He’d been supposed to have died three years ago; that had been a shock, even to him.

“Have the recorder brought in now,” he said, and waited until Irina brought in the recorder. She had played a vital role in inciting the population to come out onto the streets, making another bid for justice and fairness, and had led them to the Kremlin. She smiled at him and he smiled back. If he’d been a few years younger, he might have tried to…

He shook his head. Like Natasha, Irina was more than she seemed. The bubbly student was so… unreal, even for the strangest university in Moscow, and he was certain that Irina had skills that no one else ever knew about – until it was too late.

“There,” Irina said. “You may speak when ready.”

Trotsky took a breath. Stalin had rarely spoken to the entire country; Lenin had only done it once, as far as Trotsky recalled. Radio had been in its infancy during the Revolution – the first Revolution – and it had been Stalin’s regime that had spread thousands of bulky radios around, just to ensure that everyone got their daily dose of propaganda. Who knew; if the people didn’t hear the soothing lies of Radio Moscow, they might start believing the dreadful rumours?

He spoke in careful basic Russian. “People of Russia,” he said. “My name is Leon Trotsky.” He allowed a note of humour to slip into his voice. “I imagine that you will have heard of me.”

He sobered. This was too important for little jokes. “The regime of the criminal Stalin is over,” he said. “For the moment, a provisional government will run the country until democratic elections can be held, hopefully in six months. During that time, we ask you to be patient; it will take time to rebuild enough to hold the elections, ensure food supplies and demobilise most of the army. We will seek a truce with the British and Americans, against whom Stalin flung thousands of our young men, a truce that will ensure that we have the time to rebuild and become strong once again.”

He sensed Natasha’s concern, but ignored it. “Now… I must speak to those who enforced the rules of Stalin,” he said. “Those of you who guarded the gulags, who enforced impossible production values, those who forced men in to fight and shot them for ill-timed words. This is your once chance to walk away with your lives. Surrender – now – to our people, and you will be allowed to live. Resist – and you will perish. Release your prisoners, surrender to them, and you will be permitted to leave.”

He sighed to himself. He knew that most of them would not listen, or they would be murdered by their own people. It didn’t matter. “Thank you for listening,” he said. “Please tune in again tomorrow for an update.”

Irina turned off the recorder. Trotsky sat down and put his head in his hands. “Are they going to listen?” She asked. “Will they even care?”

“It’s hard to be certain,” Trotsky admitted, remembering embarrassing times in peasant villages. “They will give us a chance, yes, but not a very big one. Once we start moving the captured forces from Iran – those that agreed to work for us – into the country, we can clean up the NKVD units, those that refuse to surrender or dissolve.” He sighed. “Irina, it’s going to be very difficult indeed; it could take months before the country is working again.”

“We have to secure the nuclear and biological plants,” Natasha said. Trotsky nodded; he knew better than to believe that the British would let them go. Hanover had promised him nuclear power plants, but not plants that would produce bomb material. Trotsky privately agreed; there was too much risk of someone else taking control to allow the plants to continue to exist. Later, perhaps…

“Have you got a list of them?” Natasha asked. “We have to move quickly.”

“Here,” Molotov said. The former foreign minister sighed. “And now… what are you going to do with me?”

Trotsky grinned. “Vice President?” He asked. His new constitution prohibited the Vice President from running for President himself. He took the list of research cities. “German plants as well?” Molotov nodded. “What was Stalin thinking?”

Irina shrugged. “Forget that,” she said, sounding more the teenager than ever. Her face, so un-Russian in attitude, if not appearance, crinkled. “Where the hell is he now?”

* * *

The giant railway junction and station, three miles outside Moscow, which had held thousands of the new, standardised rolling stock, was in ruins. Somehow – Gregor Pantovich had no idea how – it had been bombed; the blast had shattered the entire station. With the NKVD’s sudden disappearance from the site, the Zeks who had been lucky enough to draw the job of loading countless trains – and had survived the experience of having the station bombed – were milling around, wondering what to do. They were miles from their homes – many of them were Poles or Russians from the Far East – and they had no idea of where to go. The handful that had lived in Moscow had headed towards the city at once.

Gregor felt his stomach rumble and eyed some of the Poles. If they had been the fat capitalists Radio Moscow had branded them, he might have tried to eat them, but they were as thin and scrawny as the rest of the Zeks. They were all hungry, they urgently needed food, but there was none to be found.

“Look,” a Zek called, as their unease grew. A single train was heading towards the station, clearly unaware of the massive devastation that had hit the track and ruined it. The Zeks jeered as the train flew over a damaged railway link and crashed to a halt.

“Food,” a Zek shouted. “There must be food in there.”

Gregor didn’t need any more encouragement and he lunged forward with the rest of the Zeks, storming the engine and breaking into the single carriage. It was armoured and secured, but the Zeks had their crowbars and their hunger was driving them on and on. Moments later, the main door crashed open and they poured their way into the carriage. There was only one man in the carriage, staring at them. Gregor recognised him at once; the man whose face adorned every wall in the station, every building he’d been since he’d been arrested on suspicion of something. The NKVD hadn’t even bothered to tell him what they thought he’d done, just grabbed him and shoved him into a camp.

“You,” he breathed. The sheer terror of the man held them in place, staring at him, looking at the man looking at them. The Zeks behind Gregor, unable to see, pushed forward; the man winced in sheer terror… and the spell broke. The Zeks forced themselves forward, piling onto the man and dragging him down by sheer weight of numbers. Years of pent-up rage demanded vengeance.

It took Comrade Stalin a very long time to die…

Chapter Forty-Eight: The Terms of Peace

Geneva, Switzerland

3rd September 1942

It had taken a week of arguing between the various interested parties to agree on a location for the peace conference. Both Hanover and Truman had wanted to hold it in their respective capitals, but the desire to avoid a second Versailles disaster had prevented them from simply demanding that the defeated powers attend – or else. In the two months since the death of Stalin and the end of the formal war, the world had been almost on the brink of starting the war again, a civil war that would have torn Europe apart.

Hanover sighed. Trotsky’s forces, with some limited help from British and American units, had suppressed the remains of the NKVD and the handful of people who had remained loyal to Stalin. Once the Dictator had been confirmed dead – and British and American forces had secured positions in the Ukraine and Belarus – the bulk of the resistance vanished. Even so, it had taken a month to gain even partial control over the vast lands of Mother Russia – and discovering that the Ukraine and Belarus were sincere about leaving Russian control had nearly started the war up again.

He shook his head. The Russians had been furious about the new Siberian Republic’s decision to leave Russia as well, and horrified at American support for a single large country that would have nearly two dozen different ethnic groups, from Russian to Japanese, living within its borders. Hanover understood Truman’s motivations, but he did wonder if that had been a good idea, in the long run. British interests in the Far East, apart from India, were limited to Taiwan and Hong Kong; the China morass could go to America or the devil – he didn’t care which.

Worse, the French situation had nearly brought Britain and the German provisional government back to blows. The French Communists had seized power – and the Germans had demanded that the British intervene, or they would send in the Bundeswehr. Enough remained a mystery about the strange agreements between the former ambassadors for Hanover to agree, even though the Bundeswehr didn’t have much of an offensive capability anymore.

He sighed. The French had proven to be their usual selves – and the Algerians had offered to supply troops for an occupation. That, more than anything else, had convinced the third French government that resistance was futile; France would become democratic or else. The thought of thousands of Arabs extracting revenge for French actions in Algeria hadn’t pleased them at all, particularly Ambassador Duchamp.

He smiled. Duchamp’s reaction to discovering that France was being treated as an enemy state – which it had been for three years – had been highly amusing. The Frenchman had screamed about injustice and an ‘Anglo-American plot’ to hold the French back, knowing all the while that it was futile. The French had nearly torn themselves apart; separatist forces were at work within the new republic already.

At least they won’t have to worry about fighting an Algerian War, Hanover thought. None of the European powers would have to worry about that, with the possible exception of Belgium. For some reason known only to Adolf Hitler – and therefore utterly incomprehensible to a normal man – they had been permitted to keep their large state in Africa. The Congo might well see the chaos that South Africa would prevent from happening in the rest of Sub-Saharan Africa; the Smuts government had practically taken over the British colonies, once the war had ended.

“At least the Spanish decided to be reasonable,” Hanover said to himself. The Spanish had overthrown Franco as soon as Germany fell, and Portugal had followed with its director the week afterwards. Neither of them required intervention; they just required economic support to survive. The war had devastated large parts of Europe; Poland was pretty much on the verge of being destroyed as an independent nation, or even as a nation at all. Many of the German settlers were refusing to leave, or were taking passage to South Africa, along with a lot of people Hanover would have preferred to have seen in jail, or in front of a firing squad. The Balkans… well, even a hard-core German occupation, followed by a Turkish grab for the Muslim lands, hadn’t stopped them from fighting each other.

There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” Hanover snapped, and nodded politely to Professor Horton. He’d deliberately delayed the professor’s return to England, just so he could decide what to do about him, but now it didn’t matter. The excuse had rather run thin after a week, and he’d allowed him to return, but Horton had agreed to assist the Allied Commission on determining the peace terms.

“Prime Minister,” Horton said. The black man moved slowly, deliberately, his body still not recovered from its treatment by the Nazis in the final days in the Berlin bunker. “The formal reading of the treaty is in two hours.”

Hanover felt a flicker of impatience. The treaty had been privately agreed to by all of the defeated nations; it gave them a great deal in exchange for peace. He knew that there had been people in both of the major powers who had wanted to crush Europe and Russia, to say nothing of their attitude towards Japan, but they hadn’t won the day. A peace – even one that wasn’t perfect – was better than sowing the seeds for World War Three, particularly seeing that there would be no Cold War in this timeline.

Unless we get into one with America, Hanover thought, and dismissed the thought. The two powers were working together on almost every field now, and they had agreed spheres of influence; Asia and Africa for the British, except Siberia and China. Latin America for the Americans, except Guiana. Hanover knew that certain imperialists in the House of Commons – it hadn’t taken much to bring them out of the shadows – had been angry at giving the Americans so much, but Hanover wasn’t concerned.

“The Americans can bring democracy to those regions,” he said, and he had meant it. The British would do the same for Africa and India; the provisional Indian government had finally managed to agree on a power-sharing agreement that left the princes with enough to live on, while keeping the power in the hands of the Indian House of Commons. It wasn’t a perfect arrangement – and India’s sudden addition of Burma and Tibet to its system might be sowing trouble for the future – but it was infinitively better than what had gone before.

“Prime Minister, what will happen to Himmler?” Horton asked. “Where will he go?”

“The hangman,” Hanover said. The Allied War Crimes Commission hadn’t had any difficulties in bringing charges against Himmler; some of the accusations had been thought to be only theoretically possible. The charges that could be proven – the counts of organising the extermination of thousands of Jews, Poles and others – had been enough to have him sentenced to death. Along with Mengele and several hundred other high-ranking SS officers, Himmler would be hung soon enough.

“Good,” Horton said. He seemed to have something else to say, but didn’t say it. “Will the treaty hold?”

Hanover shrugged. “It should,” he said. “At least, we’ll be able to give democracy twenty – thirty – years to take root, without the threat of a Soviet invasion. We can do it better this time.” He smiled. “Now, what do you want to ask me?”

Horton didn’t have the grace to look surprised. “I want to talk to Himmler before you hang him,” he said. “Can you arrange that for me?”

Hanover lifted an eyebrow. “Why?”

“I want to ask him a few questions,” Horton said. “I need to ask him what the hell he was thinking.”

Hanover considered. Horton wasn’t a David Irving clone; he had faced Himmler and Hitler directly. “Very well,” he said finally. “Very well; you may visit him before he dies.”

* * *

Erwin Rommel, who had given up the title of General to become the Chancellor of the new Germany, took his seat in the conference room. His aide, Jagar, took a seat next to him, and then allowed Ambassador Schulze to slip past him to sit on the other side of Rommel. The representative from Russia – Ambassador Molotov – took his seat and nodded gravely to the Germans. The French, Spanish and Italians, small fry compared to the two major axis powers, took their seats. Some of them glared at the Germans; others maintained a steely silence.

Japan wasn’t represented. The Allied powers had decided, given that Japan had already surrendered, that they could be spared the humiliation of facing their judges. The Japanese were suffering badly, but they at least had been spared the task of reconstructing after a land war and two nuclear detonations.

The Polish delegation entered, taking a seat at the back. They glared at the Germans and Russians, who had slaughtered large numbers of their people. If the Germans had concentrated on extermination, rather than enslavement, the Poles would be extinct by now; ironically, the Holocaust had been worse in the other shadowy timeline.

So was the peace, Rommel said. He knew the peace terms, as did Molotov, and he knew that they were mild – far milder than Germany deserved. It was going to be bad, but perhaps a new Germany would arise from the ashes of the old, one strong, proud and democratic.

“Thank you all for coming,” McLachlan, the British Foreign Minister and the senior member of the negotiating team, said. Rommel smiled ruefully; it wasn’t as if anyone here had had a choice. “This is the result of nearly a month of arguing and compromising. The choice you gentlemen face is simple; you may accept the terms as they stand, or go back to war.”

There was a long pause. No one spoke. “First, all Axis countries, the major powers and the minor powers, will disarm in accordance with the protocols; no navy and a limited army and air force. You will permanently renounce the use of nuclear, chemical and biological weapons and you will be forbidden to research, develop, or stockpile such weapons. During that time, an Allied army will be stationed on your territory, including inspectors to ensure that you keep your word.

“Second, all of the disputed territory, from the Polish Corridor to Alsace-Lorraine, will be settled by a democratic vote, held under Allied supervision. The vote will determine the fate of those countries, and the ODS alliance will support whatever the outcome. In addition, all of your colonies that were occupied during the war will become independent and able to choose their own fates, including Siberia, Ukraine and Belarus.

“Third, you will democratise. Your governments will become democratic along the simple lines we have set out for you, with clear demarcations of power, limited taxing and conscription powers, and very little control over the economy, with the exceptions of the International Trade Protocols. We believe that this will ensure stability for Europe and Russia as a whole.

“Fourth, you will assist in the rebuilding of the nations devastated by your war. Fully twenty percent of your GNP for the twenty-year period of occupation will be set aside to aid in the rebuilding. These funds will go into the Allied Reconstruction Fund, which will be used to rebuild Poland, Norway, Sweden, the Netherlands and any other country that was devastated by the fighting.

“Fifth, you will be denied commercial access to space, using your own equipment, for a period of not less than twenty years, and you will permanently renounce military use of space. You will not be permitted to build nuclear reactors, but in the interests of repairing your power grids we will be happy to provide you with safe reactors. Any attempt to build a nuclear reactor, production plant or anything along those lines will be considered a treaty violation and it will draw a united response from the ODS.

“Sixth, most of the treaty provisions will have expired in twenty years. At that point, you will be permitted to join the Organisation of Democratic States – provided that you have in fact embraced democracy – and you will be welcomed back into the family of nations.

“Finally, although we understand that the causes of the war were multifaceted, you will acknowledge your roles in starting the war and carrying out atrocities against helpless civilians. All of the records of the civil service, and the armed forces, are to be made available to a war crimes division, which will have complete powers to investigate and punish crimes. Further, all of your nuclear, chemical and biological research is to be handed over to the commission. Finally, it will be an offence, now or ever, for any of you to claim that your atrocities – of which there is a full visual record – never happened, or were anything other than the crimes against humanity which they were.”

McLachlan sat down, breathing heavily. Rommel smiled dryly; saying so much had clearly winded him. Nothing in the treaty was unexpected – they’d known what was coming – and some of the Spanish delegates were crying. The French looked… sullen. The Poles, who had wanted Germany reduced to ruins, didn’t look happy at all.

Erwin Rommel was the first to walk to the table and sign.

* * *

“Well, that’s all folks,” Truman said, as the final French delegate signed. Hanover snorted. “The war is over and the world is ours.”

Hanover laughed briefly. “Speak for yourself,” he said. The two leaders were seating in their own room, it having been considered unnecessarily provocative to have them in the room while the terms of the treaty were read out. Truman smiled dryly; agonising the Axis powers wasn’t high on his list of concerns.

“You have the Commonwealth meeting next week,” he said. “Do you think that everyone will agree to the Commonwealth Protocols?”

“It’s the same as in there,” Hanover said, waving a hand at the television screen, where the meeting was breaking up. “The aides and mandarins handle most of the negotiations, then their principles smile for the cameras and act surprised.” He shrugged. “It makes sense, I suppose; if under-under-under secretary Fred at the Department of State calls the vice assistant undersecretary at the Foreign Minister Seagoon a bastard, its nothing serious. If one world leader calls another a bastard, it means war, or at least an embarrassing incident that needs to be hushed up.”

He chuckled. “The Indians will insist on some minor modifications, and the South Africans will demand their right to only enfranchise Africans who have adopted European ways and the Australians will demand the right to set immigration policy…”

“Most of the Jews are going to the Commonwealth,” Truman said suddenly. “Do you think that that will cause you problems?”

Hanover shook his head. “Between South Africa and Australia, there is enough room for them, and many of them worked in German manufacturing plants. Palestine can’t take many Jews, even with the rebuilding effort being undertaken there.” He grinned. “One of my better ideas, I think.”

Truman shook his head in awe. “We might be doing the same in Mexico and the Caribbean,” he said. “We have to bring democracy to the region – quickly.”

Hanover nodded. Both men knew that that would be far easier said than done; distrust of America ran through the region, even though Cuba was proving a success once the dictator had been removed in 1940. It would take time, perhaps a decade, but it could be done. Oddly, there was considerable business support for such an effort, including the Bracken Consortium.

“Oliver is one of your agents, isn’t he?” Truman asked. Hanover lifted an eyebrow. “He provided us with information your Parliament had forbidden you from giving to us.”

Hanover nodded. “He’s served his purpose,” he said. “He’s on his own now.”

Truman snorted. “Why?” He asked. “Why go against the wishes of your own Parliament?”

“You needed atomic weapons,” Hanover said. “There had to be parity between us, so that our alliance could continue.”

“Thank you, then,” Truman said. “Just you wait until we colonise Mars.”

Hanover nodded. The secret protocol in the Space Treaty had given Mars to America – unless some bug-eyed monsters lived there to dispute American control. It didn’t matter; the asteroids were more important to the Ministry of Space.

“I hope that you’ll do well in space,” Hanover said seriously. “We have to do it properly this time, just to ensure that we don’t get caught by any unexpected surprises this time.”

“And to ensure that our alliance remains the global superpower,” Truman said. The two men studied each other with mutual respect, if not complete trust. “That’s the real point, of course.”

Hanover nodded. “We have to remain supreme,” he said. “All of the alternatives to democracy are worse.”

* * *

Kristy Stewart circulated the small buffet after the treaty had been signed, observing the reactions of the various powers involved. The Germans – and, as far as she could tell, Molotov – seemed relived; they’d expected much worse. The French seemed genuinely annoyed; the Italians and the Spanish merely… tired.

“We need to talk,” Baron Edmund said sharply. She blinked up at him; the BBC producer had been invited as well, along with a handful of other dignitaries that might have had some business with the politicians. Kristy followed him into a private room. “You’ve been quite hard to talk to for the last few weeks,” Edmund snapped. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Once, Stewart would have cringed back. Facing the Nazis had hardened her. “I am reporting,” she snapped back. “What do you think I’m doing?”

“You’re on suspension,” Edmund snapped. “You know; the woman who fucked the entire German army…”

“He died heroically, remember?” Stewart snapped. Outrage burned though her. “And when was I fucking suspended?”

“A month ago,” Edmund snapped. He glared at her. “Your… sexual pleasures have brought the BBC into disrepute!”

Stewart’s rage congealed into an angry cold ball in her chest. “You have been using my material, even after I was suspended,” she said. “If, of course, I was suspended.”

Edmund glared at her, not smart enough or too angry to recognise the face-saving way out she’d offered him. “You were suspended,” he said coldly…

“Then I must request that the BBC pays me compensation for using my material,” Stewart said, feeling a sudden burst of humour spreading through her. “I used my own equipment; you know, the equipment you demanded I buy?”

Edmund glared. “You have been getting into places based on the BBC name,” he snapped. “We have at least a partial claim to the material.”

“Hell no,” Stewart said, feeling the trap closing in around him. She held up a paper. “Interview with Rommel in twenty minutes. Interview with Prime Minister Hanover, forty minutes…”

“How the hell did you do that?” Edmund snapped. “How…?”

“I used my name,” Stewart said. “Of course… if you’re not interested in using the material…”

Edmund gave in. “Very well,” he said. She was careful to get it all on camera. “You’re no longer suspended.”

“Never was suspended,” Stewart said. “Besides, failing to tell someone they’re suspended invalidates it. Union-BBC agreements number something or other.”

“Never was suspended,” Edmund agreed. He glared at her. “This had better be good material,” he snapped. “The BBC became a laughing stock for a while, thanks to you.”

Stewart chuckled as Edmund stalked back into the reception. It had taken time, more time than she cared to think about, but she was finally back to her old self. With all of the scoops she was going to make, kicking that bitch Charlene Molesworth out of the BBC would be easy. Smiling, she headed back to the reception.

Chapter Forty-Nine: Saying Goodbye

Ten Downing Street

London, United Kingdom

10th September 1942

They laid Victor Abernathy to rest one cold day in September, with almost every Head of State in the Commonwealth in attendance. The sermon, preached by the Chaplin from RAF Leeming, was short, but moving. The great and the good – and those who were neither – had turned out for it; far more than had turned out for the last royal funeral.

Prime Minister Menzies of Australia left the funeral with the other Heads of State, heading back to Ten Downing Street, following Hanover and the other British figures on their lonely walk. It wasn’t a long walk, but it was slow; the people who hadn’t been to the future Britain were walking along, staring at everything.

One day Australia will be like this, Menzies thought. It was a comforting thought; the Commonwealth, the horse he’d bet on, would survive for a long time indeed, perhaps harden into a permanent unit. He’d been right, just as he’d been right to order the capture of the Dutch East Indies and the other islands north of Australia; they would become Australian mandates and they would become far more stable than they had been in the other timeline.

Ten Downing Street, as always, was reassuringly bright and shiny. Menzies took his seat at the round table, joining the other representatives, and smiled as Hanover took the stand. The Heads of State were equals – that had been decided from the start – and the chair would be held by whoever’s country it was. He smiled; Australia would have a meeting room for the Commonwealth soon enough, and it would play a large role upon the Commonwealth stage.

“Thank you all for coming,” Hanover said. “As you know, it has been two months, more or less, since the war came to an end. You have all seen the proposed protocols; do any of you wish to propose revisions to the protocols?”

It wasn’t exactly an idle question. The diplomats and the civil servants had worked on the protocols for months. Even with modern telecommunications – an area that Menzies was determined Australia would move ahead very fast on – it had proven a daunting task. Still, it had been a worthwhile one; the final version suited everyone.

“I do wish to launch a dignified protest against the republican form of government,” Yadavindrah Singh said. The Chancellor of the Chamber of Indian Princes – which was taking on a role similar to the House of Lords, but with some curious traditions of its own – knew that the Indian Parliament had agreed to the protocols, but he had to protest. “It provides for any government to opt out of revering the King-Emperor.”

Menzies smiled. King Charles was an unimpressive figure. How could the hub of British government describe himself as a political dissident? He’d insisted on that clause for different reasons to Hanover, who didn’t seem to care for the King-Emperor, but Yadavindrah Singh had every right to be concerned. After all, the Indian government could disenfranchise the Princes with the stroke of a pen.

“We have to work together, not separately,” Hanover said. It was a non-answer, but Yadavindrah Singh accepted it. The Chamber of Indian Princes had decided – reluctantly – to accept the Protocols. Cynics pointed out that the British Indian Army, which could now be spared for other duties, had played a role in their decision.

Menzies nodded. “For one, Australia has no problems with contributing units towards the Commonwealth Army, and the Commonwealth Navy,” he said. “In fact, the agreement of joint action in any region will definitely pull us towards a united Navy, particularly with the planned super-carriers.”

There was a round of sage nodding. The massive carriers, nuclear powered and armed with Joint Strike Fighters, would give the Commonwealth a navy second to none. Britain, Canada and Australia were seriously in favour of them; no state really dissented.

“And the assurance that the former British states in Africa below the Congo go to South Africa has swayed many towards the Commonwealth,” Smuts said. Menzies wasn’t sure how he felt about that; Smuts was making a major land grab, one that would make South Africa very powerful within the Commonwealth. “With the additional immigrants, we will be able to develop Africa into a genuine assert to the world.”

Hanover paused for a long moment, waiting to see if anyone else would raise any points. “There have been a number of points covered,” he said finally. “For five years, the Republic of Arabia, Algeria, Libya and Egypt will remain under provisional governments, but hopefully they will be able to rise to the status of full states within that time. Also, Britain will supply a Governor-General to India; General Wavell has consented to remain in that post for five years.”

Yadavindrah Singh and Jawaharlal Nehru nodded together. India needed a mediator and Wavell – the bluff, no nonsense soldier – was respected by all sides. In five years, India would either be stable enough to survive, or it would have collapsed into civil war. Wavell’s control of the army might just be enough to prevent the latter from happening.

Menzies smiled to himself. The Raj had always been a confusing state. It was fitting; somehow, that it’s final years would be more confusing than ever. Any would-be insurrectionist would have to unravel the entire power structure first, and that would be tricky indeed.

“I believe that we can sign now,” Hanover said. The original copy of the Commonwealth Protocols would be preserved for history; they would each take a copy home. Hanover signed with a flourish, and then passed the document around the table. “For history, Gentlemen, and a stable world.”

Menzies allowed himself a moment to read the Protocols before signing. They were all there, from Australia’s control over its immigration – and its mandated territories – to a permanent military alliance and a combined navy. He signed quickly, neatly, and passed it around the table.

* * *

Hanover allowed himself a moment to bite down hard on the capsule that was supposed to deliver instant relief from heavy drinking, and then straightened up with an effort. The celebrations had gone on longer than he had intended; he’d left the room to attend to other business that could no longer be denied.

“Sir?” His secretary asked, as he re-entered his office. “The Professor and his wife are here to see you.”

“Send them in,” Hanover said, and waited for the two to enter. Horton looked far healthier than he had been when Hanover had seen him last; his wife was smiling broadly. “Good afternoon, Professor,” he said. “I trust that you had a pleasant reunion?”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” Horton said. They both carried the special glow that came with recent bedroom antics. “Thank you for the luxury hotel.”

Hanover grinned suddenly. RAF Lyneham was not a hotel. “You’re welcome,” he murmured. “As you know, we haven’t been certain what to do with you two; on one side, there are people… zealots, who would like to burn both of you at the stake, merely for doing what you had to do. Others… well, others would like to put you in front of the cameras; a marginally worse fate.”

Jasmine giggled; Horton smiled. “It has been decided that no criminal charges will be filed against you,” Hanover said. He’d made that decision himself; the cabinet had agreed with it. “While that does not necessarily rule out a private suit or a civil prosecution, under the circumstances we feel that it’s unlikely. And… we owe you something.

“The choice is simple, Professor,” he said. “You may return to your lives and your tenure at Edinburgh University; the university authorities have agreed to take you on. The second choice is darker; you may go through the witness protection program and take up a new life somewhere else, perhaps not within Britain itself.”

Jasmine frowned. “We get to choose?” Hanover nodded. “We choose to stay in our normal lives,” she said. Her husband nodded. “Thank you for your offer, sir, but we’ve done enough play-acting.”

Hanover nodded. “I wish you both the very best,” he said sincerely. “If you need any help, ever, don’t hesitate to call me.”

House of Commons

London, United Kingdom

10th September 1942

Travis Mortimer stared at his sister. “You’re leaving me?” He asked. It came out in a squeak. “You’re going to find someone else?”

Elspeth nodded harshly. “Yes,” she snapped. “You completely blew the chance you had, idiot!”

“How was I supposed to know that the Germans would begin using missiles?” Mortimer said plaintively. “How was I supposed… you were my manager, you should have told me…”

“Travis, you had a chance to reach the top,” Elspeth said. “You blew it, and your party wants you strung up by your unmentionables. We have no future together; the ghost of our brother is laughing at us.” She glared. “I’m going to leak that story; see how that bastard Hanover likes that!”

“Elspeth,” Mortimer began. It was too late; his sister stalked out of his private office, leaving the House of Commons for an unknown destination. Without her, Travis Mortimer knew that his career was over – even if the Labour Party didn’t evict him from the party, he had no career for no one would trust him.

Bracken Headquarters

Washington DC, USA

10th September 1942

Jim Oliver smiled down at the computer. The final high explosive bomb had detonated with its normal blast, terminating Nikolaus Ritter, the Abwehr agent, with extreme prejudice. Like Hoover before him, Ritter had known too much about Oliver’s life to be allowed to live; unlike Hoover, there was no need to ensure that everyone knew that he was dead. It had been risky, timing the attack on Hoover to ensure that his death was witnessed, but no one had put the clues together, not even Ambassador King.

Oliver chuckled. Cora appeared at the door, blinking sleepily at him. She was as lovely as ever, wearing a white nightdress that was near-transparent in all the right places, and her long dark hair fell down over it. He smiled up at her and tapped buttons on the computer, deleting the files before she saw. There was no need to share everything with her.

“You’re still awake?” She asked. “What’s so funny?”

“The world famous glossop columnist, who had a very well attended funeral,” Oliver said. She lifted a single delicate eyebrow. “Everyone wanted to make certain that she was dead, you see.”

“No,” Cora said practically. “I think its one of those things that only makes sense if you’re very tired indeed.”

“Quite possibly,” Oliver said. He grinned. “We have dozens of new contracts opening, love; some in Europe, some in Russia, some in Latin America. With our access to British personnel; think what a university graduate could earn over here, just for what he or she knows.”

“The technology gap would close faster than anyone expects,” Cora said, coming to sit in his lap. His arm went around her and she tilted her face up for a kiss. “Those people would be able to jump-start progress.”

Oliver grinned. “The war is over,” he said. “With some careful investment… you and I could end up as Mr and Mrs Rothschild, mark II.”

It took her a moment to realise what he meant. “You mean…?”

Oliver kissed her again. Who would have thought that it would have ended like this? “Cora Burnside, will you marry me?”

Cora didn’t think at all. “Yes, Jim Oliver, I will,” she said. Gently, he let his hand slip between her legs, rubbing gently at her secret place. She gasped and pressed against him, purring like a cat.

“I love you,” she whispered, as the nightgown came off and he carried her off to bed. “I love you.”

Oliver placed her gently on the bed and kissed her again. “I love you too,” he whispered, and they lay together through the night. For them, at least, there would be a happy ending.

Military Detention Camp

Shetland Islands, United Kingdom

10th September 1942

The room was dank and cold; the food was awful. The two thousand certified war criminals in the camp had tried to stage a riot, or a hunger strike, but the guards hadn’t cared. Three former SS officers had died of their own hunger; the guards had merely burnt the bodies. They’d laughed as they did it, informing the prisoners that the furnace had been removed from a place in Germany, one of the concentration camps. None of them pronounced the word correctly; none of them at all.

In one of the little cells, Führer und Reichskanzler Himmler sat, wondering if this would be the day. Sentence had been passed nearly two weeks ago; death by hanging. Since then, he’d waited, but the guards had passed him by. They’d hung Obergruppenfuehrer Hans Krueger, they’d hung Doctor Mengele, but they hadn’t hung Himmler.

“Perhaps they’re going to let me go,” he said. “Perhaps…”

“No, that won’t happen,” a familiar voice said. Himmler sighed as he recognised Horton, standing there in front of the cell. “You have been judged guilty of crimes against humanity, under the Organisation of Democratic States protocols on war crimes.”

Himmler looked away, trying to radiate contempt. “Organisation of Democratic States,” he sneered. “Do I get a vote in my fate?”

“You had it when you chose to serve Adolf Hitler,” Horton said. “Tell me; did you kill him?”

Himmler glared at him. “I was loyal to the Fuhrer,” he snapped. “Did I tell him anything about the Jews involved with atomics?”

“You have an… odd definition of loyalty,” Horton said. “What else did you hide from the Fuhrer?”

“More than you might think,” Himmler said. “When am I to be hung?”

“Today,” Horton said. “This place, by the way, is Organisation of Democratic States’ territory, by special agreement. Hanging you here is a way to avoid too many reporters visiting.”

Himmler sneered at him. “They do not want my last speech to be broadcast to the Werewolves,” he said.

“Germany is very peaceful,” Horton said. Himmler chose to believe that he was lying. “Resistance is minimal, and progress towards a loose democratic federation is going well.” He shrugged. “Alsace-Lorraine went back to France, by the way.”

“So much for democracy,” Himmler said. “How did they slant the voters this time?”

“They only allowed people who had been born there to vote,” Horton said. “It was the only way to compensate for the Germans who had been forced to move there.”

“I see,” Himmler said. A guard came up to the cell, clad in body armour, and followed by two more. “Is it time?”

He was pleased to realise that his voice was steady. “Yes,” the guard said. “Professor, do you wish to witness it?”

Horton shook his head. The guards opened the cell and grabbed Himmler, cuffing his hands behind his back. Himmler almost laughed; he’d never been in very good shape, and now he was half-starved as well. Did they really expect resistance from him?

“Move,” the guard said. Horton nodded once at Himmler as the guards dragged him along the corridors, taking him to his final resting place. The scaffold was simple and neat; a simple noose hanging down from the wooden pole. He felt his bowels loosen as the guards dragged him up the ramp and onto the hatch, carefully attaching the noose around his neck.

“Führer und Reichskanzler Himmler, you have been found guilty of crimes against humanity,” the commander said, stepping back. “You have been found guilty of genocide, the use and deployment of weapons of mass destruction against helpless civilians, the mass slaughter of thousands of your own people, the mass slaughter of non-German populations, the incitement of such, in that you created the SS and…”

Himmler listened as the voice droned on. His trial had charged him with nearly three hundred offences; they’d proven seventy, including the murder of Adolf Hitler. He’d laughed aloud at that; not only wasn’t he guilty of that, but they had tried to kill Hitler themselves. The hypocrisy was staggering; he hadn’t turned a nuclear warhead on an entire city.

“Do you have any last words?” The guard asked finally. “You may speak now, if you please.”

“I have done my duty for Germany,” Himmler said, pulling himself up. “I was proud to serve Germany and I always will be. I have cleansed Europe of thousands of subhumans who would have torn it apart; I have crushed the hordes of smelly Arabs who would have threatened the meek and mild Germany you created in the original timeline. You have me to thank for that, and history will vindicate me. Heil Hitler!”

The guard reached for a leaver. “I command your soul to any entity who believes that it is worth something,” he said, and pulled the leaver down. The trapdoor opened below himself and the rope jerked once. His neck snapped and he fell into endless darkness.

Epilogue

Ten Downing Street

London, United Kingdom

1st May 1946

The American Government had a period between the election and the inauguration ceremony, mainly to give the incoming President a chance to catch up on everything that was happening that the general public didn’t know about. For Britain, the incoming Prime Minister took over the day after the election results were announced; John McLachlan, Hanover’s successor, would move in later.

Hanover smiled tiredly to himself. He’d never married; never produced children. There were times that he regretted it, or considered an affair with one of his female friends, but he’d finally dismissed the thought. It didn’t befit a Prime Minister to have affairs during office, even though most of them had indeed had affairs.

Still, his rooms looked very empty, without the detritus of children, or even a wife. Running the country had been his only interest for the six years since the Transition; he’d finally had enough of the job. He could have stood for re-election, and he would have won, but the job was far harder when Britain was a superpower. He smiled; it would be McLachlan who would have to handle the problems in Egypt, or the security guarantees for Hong Kong… everything that Britain had said goodbye to when the Empire had been wound down – before they’d been offered a second chance.

He smiled. McLachlan had offered him a cabinet post, but he’d declined them all, yielding only to one request, from Prime Minister Nehru. India needed a Governor-General; he’d been nominated for the role. These days, it was supposed to be purely ceremonial – the Princes who had been wastrels had been quietly removed – and it would be a good place for a long rest. As a voting member of the Commonwealth, India would hardly allow him a serious role within their power structure, confusing as it was.

“Prime Minister,” his aide said, too conditioned to call him by that title to change now. “Major Stirling is here to see you.”

Hanover nodded. Stirling had gone on to serve in a combat command – a necessity for anyone who wanted to reach high office – before being assigned to the Ministry of Space. He’d been surprised when Stirling had asked for a meeting, but as a former aide, Hanover could hardly refuse.

He smiled when Stirling entered. Four years hadn’t changed him much; his hair was as blonde as ever. A wedding ring sat on one hand and Hanover felt a flicker of envy, before extending his hand for a handshake. Stirling’s grip was firm; a combat command had clearly agreed with him.

“It’s good to see you again,” he said, sincerely. “Who’s the lucky woman?”

Stirling smiled, a little abashed. “You won’t have heard of her,” he said. “It’s good to see you again too, sir.”

Hanover smiled. “I’m no longer Prime Minister, Major,” he said. “You may call me Charles.”

Stirling smiled. “That’s one of the things I wanted to ask you,” he said. “Why did you resign as Prime Minister?”

“I didn’t exactly resign,” Hanover said. “I merely hand-picked the next leader of the Conservative Party, and then didn’t stand in the election. John will do a good job; he knows how to compromise, and that’s a talent the Commonwealth will need.”

“The Commonwealth is strong,” Stirling said. “Your work, sir…”

“The Commonwealth hasn’t faced a really serious threat yet,” Hanover said. “Once such a threat appears, then we’ll see how strong it is.” He shook his head. “I was tired, Steve; tired of making the hard decisions, the ones that keep a person awake at night.”

Stirling seemed to want to ask something. Hanover waited patiently. “Is Elspeth Mortimer’s story true?” He asked finally. “Did we really sink an American SSBN?”

Hanover smiled sadly. “She’s too ambitious for her own good, that one,” he said. “Seeing that she has all the charm of a killer cobra, she has to work through people with more charm.”

Stirling lifted an eyebrow. “Like you?”

Hanover shook his head. “She wants a puppet,” he said. “I have greater ambitions for the rest of my life.”

Stirling smiled brightly. “Rumour has it that you destroyed his career,” he said.

Hanover frowned. “He did it to himself,” he said. “He gambled everything on one toss of the dice… and then a gust of wind blew them over.” He looked up at Stirling grimly. “Do you know why we’re not like America?” He asked. “The Americans say that they want a leader, but Hitler or Stalin were both leaders. The President determines his country’s attitudes; he is both Head of Government and Head of State. For us… we like being quieter.”

“Speak softly and carry a big stick,” Stirling said.

“Exactly,” Hanover said. “For us, with four major political parties, compromise is a requirement for getting anything done, even now. Mortimer… was too loud at the wrong time, damaging his own party and they expelled him, merely to make it clear that they had nothing to do with him.” He chuckled. “Break the rules so badly; you get broken.”

Stirling sighed. “Did we really sink an American submarine?”

Hanover looked up at him. “What do you think?” He asked. “Do you believe the story?”

“No,” Stirling said finally. “There are too many holes in the story, too many things that remain unexplained, starting with the fact that nothing else has come out of the future since we did… unless the submarine was there all along, but under the water. We should never have gotten a sniff of it, but if we had, we would have been able to talk to it and…”

Hanover sighed. “The story is impossible to disprove,” he said. Stirling nodded. “That was, of course, something of the point; any American captain, seeing his country’s future threatened by us, might consider firing on London. As a story, it provides an explanation that is just believable enough for people so they don’t dig any further.”

“The Artful sunk the American battleship and our liner,” Stirling said. “Why?”

Hanover sighed. “Thousands of Americans, mainly industrial experts, some nuclear UN personnel, military officers from the bases here, businessmen… all of whom had spent their internment learning all they could about history and technology, were on those ships,” he said. “We needed time; time to ensure that we were in a position to build our own base and industries.”

“They couldn’t have done that much,” Stirling said.

“More than you might think,” Hanover said. “Merely knowing that something is possible is half the battle.” He sighed again. “And, of course, we needed the Americans in the war.”

Stirling nodded. Hanover could follow his thoughts; the moment when it seemed that the Axis powers would break the fragile thin red line and smash any chance of victory before it was too late and Europe would have to be destroyed. They had needed the Americans, and Roosevelt had been reluctant to get directly involved…

“Did you organise the coup in America?” Stirling asked suddenly. “Did you supply Hoover with those bugs?”

Hanover snorted. “You’re thinking wonder-man, the Bond villain who knows everything and does everything according to a grand plan of pure evil,” he said dryly. “Can’t control everything, you know. I don’t know where those bugs came from… and, before you ask, we didn’t have anything to do with New York either.”

“The Germans did that,” Stirling said. That had come out when the SS’s records had been studied. “They wanted to expand the war as well.”

“How nice of them,” Hanover said. “We should have sunk that ship, and would have done if Roosevelt had been able to get his thumb out of his butt.”

Stirling frowned. “Speaking of sunken ships, what really happened to the Artful?”

Hanover lifted an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“We lost three submarines in this war,” Stirling said. “One was an SAS insertion submarine, one was an Australian submarine that got too close to Japan, and the Artful, which should have been indestructible by anything the Japanese had. I don’t buy it; I don’t believe that the ship that sunk the American ship then went off to the Far East and suffered a critical engine failure.”

“Coincidences don’t work that way,” Hanover agreed. “Irony of ironies; the Artful did indeed suffer an engine failure.”

Stirling blinked. “The story was real?”

“The ship was under security during the mission,” Hanover said. “Only the Captain and two others knew the real targets, all zealots. The others were kept in the dark – later, they would have believed the tale about the American SSBN.” He smiled. “The best laid plans of mice and men…”

Stirling took a breath. “Why are you telling me all this?” He hesitated. “Am I…”

“Going to get out of this room alive?” Hanover asked dryly. “Yes, you are; you’ll keep your mouth shut.”

“Clive Pointing didn’t,” Stirling snapped.

“Pointing was an man responding to an idiotic act,” Hanover said. “Who cares about a enemy ship? Thatcher should have admitted it to the world – that we sunk the Argie cruiser – and that we would press the war with every weapon in our power.” He smiled. “Pointing could have brought down the government and Thatcher should have resigned; you could start a war.”

He looked up at him. “The world at large knows that a German u-boat sunk the ships,” he said. “Those inclined to believe the rumours of the American SSBN will be quietly grateful for the action – and there’s no evidence left to prove anything, one way or the other.” He shrugged. “Everyone would understand us removing the SSBN – it was too dangerous to leave floating around – and the absence of evidence, one way or the other…

“But if you talk, following the line that Hoover and MacArthur claimed, you might start a war,” Hanover said. “Look how much we’ve achieved; is it worth throwing it all away?”

“No,” Stirling said finally. “I’ll keep it to myself.”

“I thought you might,” Hanover said. He sighed. “Now you know what its like to make the big decisions, the ones that choose who lives and who dies.”

“It was a bad decision,” Stirling said flatly, and left. Hanover shrugged; the rudeness was understandable. He returned to cleaning up the room and packing up his merger possessions. He hadn’t made an impact on Ten Downing Street, not really.

“Pity, really,” he mused, picking up a folder from the secured safe. Like the other folders, evidence of actions taken without the knowledge and consent of Parliament, the papers in the folder spoke in riddles. A single line spoke of damaging a tiny component in Artful’s reactor, sentencing the ship and its entire crew to death.

He would never have accepted the deaths of British servicemen, Hanover thought coldly. The shredder activated as soon as he pressed the button; he fed the report directly into its maw and watched as it was chewed up and torn apart. The other reports followed, the death of Admiral Darlen, the assassination of people who would have posed a problem in the future… all went into the shredder. No paper trail, no proof that the operations were ever carried out… had they ever happened?

“Of course not,” Hanover said. The new Commonwealth would grow strong and prosper, using its advantages to build itself a powerful position before the rest of the world caught up, and no one would ever know the price.

“My conscience is clear,” Hanover announced, to no one in particular, and he swept from the office, turning the light out behind him.

THE END

Afterword

According to my computer, I began Second Chance three months ago, around the 19th of December 2005. The idea had been brewing in my mind for a long time, of course, and writing the entire three volume series, at least the first draft, was the work of roughly a month each. For the record, I finished the last part of The Long Hard Road on 5th March 2006. It’s been something of a wild ride…

I have always been fascinated with stories that place a small group back in time, but as it went on, it struck me that few of the groups had things their own way. Sure, the original – Island in the Sea of Time – had Nantucket enjoying considerable technology advantages, but their tech base was hardly self-sustaining. The same, more or less, goes for the 1632 universe, and the Axis of Time books. In both cases, the time travellers have a very small tech base, one that has to be geared down to allow them to survive, and, of course, it has to be done under high pressure. Alliances with the locals – agreements of mutual interest – have to be made; it’s the only way they can survive.

And so I started to wonder. What would happen… if an entire tech base – an entire nation – was sent back in time. Of course, it had to be done carefully; a modern nation travelling too far back would end up ruling the world – even France. I decided upon Britain in the Second World War – because America would be too easy – and then I shaped the plot around that. Britain has a working tech base, Britain has a powerful military machine, and while they might not be able to bring the war to an end in three months (as Dave Krudson suggests in AmericaISOT), they can prevent immediate invasion of Britain itself.

All of that, of course, affects the Axis powers as well. Would Japan jump on Britain and France in 1940 – perhaps their best chance to win their part of the war? Would Stalin make a grab for Iran? Would Hitler urge Franco – at gunpoint – to take back Gibraltar? What would the effects of knowing the future be on the Axis powers at large?

And then, finally, the rest of the world. How would American black people react to learning that they would continue to face discrimination for twenty more years; that in fact they would be ‘hewers of wood and drawers of water’ in the Army? How would Hoover react to the rumours about his homosexuality? (I left it unproven because as far as I know it was never proven.) How would America react to knowing about the War on Terror and a constant sore south of the border? How would…?

Well, you get the idea. I started to draw up a loose plan – very loose – and then I discovered that I had a two-book series, and then a three-book series. Jokes aside, I may or may not write a fourth book set in the 1960s, depending on the reception of this one. I’m very pleased with it; its an interesting book, I feel.

Now for the defence…

As I noted way back at the beginning, I can make only guesses as to what the future will bring, technology-wise. Advanced computers, satellites, SSTOs, hydrogen cars, viral contraceptives… these are all supposed to be in the pipeline. I avoided using the Royal Navy’s new carriers – which haven’t even begun construction yet, as far as I know – as no one seems quite certain of their capabilities. By and large, the British have some future weapons, but not many. To some extent, I had to make informed guesses about what the Germans could do with future technology and information; reasonable people can and no doubt will disagree with me.

I make no apologies for my treatment of General MacArthur. Suffice it to say that his blundering in the Philippines cost thousands of Americans their lives (and then he left them to Japanese prison camps (all right, he was ordered out) while he went to Australia), and then his need to satisfy his ego sent thousands more Americans to their deaths in the Philippines and probably put victory back by around six months, fighting an unnecessary campaign. I do feel that the reaction of the average GI, learning of this, would not have been kind… and he was certainly not the type to acknowledge his own flaws.

Anyway, I hope that you enjoyed reading this entire series. If you liked it, let me know; encouragement keeps the engine ticking over.

Christopher Nuttall

2006

Content

Christopher Nuttall
THE LONG HARD ROAD

Prologue

Chapter One: The First Step Forward

Chapter Two: The Price of Power

Chapter Three: High Above the World

Chapter Four: Tanking About War

Chapter Five: Wheels Within Wheels

Chapter Six: Those Who Have Fallen

Chapter Seven: Affairs of Public Interest

Chapter Eight: The Man Who Would Be King

Chapter Nine: Political War And Peace

Chapter Ten: Back in the USSR

Chapter Eleven: The London Conference

Chapter Twelve: The Winter War

Chapter Thirteen: Island-Hopping

Chapter Fourteen: New Choices

Chapter Fifteen: Pushing Boulders

Chapter Sixteen: Point of No Return

Chapter Seventeen: Warning Shots

Chapter Eighteen: Considering The Issue

Chapter Nineteen: Ghosts from the Future of the Past

Chapter Twenty: The Price of Pride

Chapter Twenty-One: Surging Forward

Chapter Twenty-Two: The Three-Edged Sword

Chapter Twenty-Three: War in Space

Chapter Twenty-Four: Revenge Weapons

Chapter Twenty-Five: Peace In Our Time

Chapter Twenty-Six: A New Beginning

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Kamikaze

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Fight To The End

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Closing Doors

Chapter Thirty: Dance of the Diplomats

Chapter Thirty-One: In The Presence of Mine Enemies

Chapter Thirty-Two: Reflections on the Eve

Chapter Thirty-Three: Sunset

Chapter Thirty-Four: Unanswered Questions

Chapter Thirty-Five: Invasion

Chapter Thirty-Six: Containment

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Star Wars

Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Honoured Dead

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Onwards

Chapter Forty: Leaving the Sinking Ship

Chapter Forty-One: Which Side Are You On?

Chapter Forty-Two: The Hunt For Himmler

Chapter Forty-Three: A Tiger By The Tail

Chapter Forty-Four: Final Orders

Chapter Forty-Five: The Long Hard Road

Chapter Forty-Six: An Eye For An Eye

Chapter Forty-Seven: The Russian Revolution

Chapter Forty-Eight: The Terms of Peace

Chapter Forty-Nine: Saying Goodbye

Epilogue

Afterword