Axis of Evil

Chapter Fifteen: Setbacks and Promises

Ten Downing Street

London, United Kingdom

29^th April 1941

“Thirty-two reported incidents of rape, thirteen deaths, one hundred and forty people wounded and millions of pounds worth of damage… General, would you care to explain how this happened?”

Hanover’s voice was cold and hard. He watched as General Eisenhower flinched nervously; the sheer violence of the incident had stunned him. The BBC had been having a field day so far, reporting on the violence that had erupted in Newcastle; in many ways it had been worse than the violence in France of 2011, when the streets had risen against the National Front Government.

“Apparently, a soldier thought that a girl was being inviting,” Eisenhower said. Hanover felt a flicker of sympathy; the Americans clearly had even less idea of what had happened than the British had. Given the almost spontaneous nature of the… riot, it was possible that there had been several incidents, or just one that got blown out of hand.

“Americans are not used to being made to feel… inferior,” Eisenhower continued, scrambling for words. “This place is so… rich, and there’s so much bad feeling that…”

“Parliament is going to be asking questions,” Hanover said grimly. “I confess… we expected some trouble from mixing people together, but nothing like this.”

“And then the MPs overreacted,” Eisenhower said. “They started cracking heads, as per standard procedure, and then your police turned up and…”

“At which point a general anti-Americanism had erupted,” Hanover said wryly. “I do not recall giving your military police authority to… crack heads.” He sighed. “At the moment, there are fifty-seven Americans in jail, facing various charges from rape to manslaughter.”

“Some of them might have been innocent,” Eisenhower protested.

“Half of them were caught in the act by the police, once your military police had been rounded up,” Hanover said. “Others had left… traces of their presence on the girls. This does pose something of a problem; under the Status of Forces Revised act we have jurisdiction over American servicemen in such matters.”

Eisenhower steepled his fingers. “They’ve annoyed George Patton,” he said, and Hanover nodded. Patton’s obsession with getting the offensive off the ground was becoming a legend at the PJHQ and the MOD. “I would not imagine that they’re getting away with it. Still… what would happen if they were convicted and found guilty?”

Hanover scowled. He’d been arguing with the Supreme Court over that matter. “They should be flogged,” he said. “Unfortunately, that would be illegal. If they plead guilty, the murderers would be looking at ten to twenty years in jail, and the rapists five to ten. If they plead not guilty, it might be more than that.”

“We need them for the offensive,” Eisenhower said grimly. “We’re building up forces for Norway before…”

His voice trailed off. The invasion had to go ahead – and it had to be a success – before American support for the war vanished utterly.

“I am going to lean on the police,” Hanover said. “The police unions hate being leant on; they go terribly moralistic. It’s not good politics, and it could rebound really badly, but we should be able to get your guys out of jail on bail.” He smiled at Eisenhower’s expression. “However… they will have to wear escort tags and be confined to the barracks except when escorted. They will also have to face a court after the war ends.”

“I was thinking of ordering all of the troops confined to barracks,” Eisenhower admitted. “Everyone was expecting your people to be pleased to see us and…”

Hanover nodded. In the first history, American troops had been warmly welcomed to a Britain that was poor and desperately in need of help, rather than the self-confident Britain of 2015, or 1941PT. The British of 1944 had been more than willing to tolerate the Americans – at least the women had – but 2015 had different attitudes. Subconsciously, Hanover realised grimly, they’d expected the refined and capable Americans from 2015, rather than the semi-trained mob that had arrived.

“I think that’s a bit extreme,” he said. “I imagine that we could put together escort parties, if we tried. However, your MPs have no authority outside the barracks and might end up getting sued.” He shook his head. “This is going to be a pain.”

Parliament had agreed to convene in the afternoon, prompting the burning of tons of fuel to gather the MPs back together in London. The debate was due to begin at 2pm, but Hanover had one last meeting first. While waiting, he discussed the matter with Newcastle’s city councillors and MPs, and then discussed other matters with the head of the police force.

“Your one o’clock is here,” his secretary said.

“Ah, good,” Hanover said. “Send him in.”

Major John Dashwood entered and saluted. Hanover saluted back and then waved him to a chair. “It’s good to see you again, John,” he said. “How’s events with the Ministry of Space?”

Dashwood grinned. “So you’re calling it that too,” he said. “Everything is going well enough, I suppose.”

Hanover smiled as Dashwood lit up a cigar. He’d never acquired the habit himself, but didn’t mind others smoking in his presence. “Excellent,” Hanover said. “Now… I had Patton in here begging for a single satellite of his own, and Ike and the others want some as well. PJHQ is very impressed as well, although they would like more coverage of Germany and Japan.”

Dashwood shrugged. “At the moment, we haven’t put anything up in geo-stationary orbit,” he said. “The single satellite we did launch follows a slightly eccentric orbit; it passes near Germany, over Russia and then loops back over South America. Once we have the new boosters worked out – or you sign over the spare Tridents – we’ll have complete coverage within the month.”

Hanover smiled. Dashwood was a fanatic; a space-lover who’d always wanted Britain to have a proper space program. In the days after the Transition, he’d finally gotten his wish.

“Everyone is delighted with the one you did put up,” Hanover said. “While it’s not perfect, there is no sign that the Germans really understand what it means, so they’re not taking extra precautions.” He nodded down at Dashwood’s report. “Now, what about the future?”

“We have a three-pronged program,” Dashwood said. “Next week, we’ll test-fly the first rocket built mainly in America, using American resources. It’s a great deal cruder than a Trident, but it should be able to launch a satellite into orbit and leave the second stage in a decaying orbit.”

Hanover narrowed his eyes. “Won’t it crash-land somewhere?”

Dashwood shook his head. “No,” he assured Hanover. “It’s not made out of solid rock, so it’ll burn up in the atmosphere. However, if our further plans go ahead, it’ll provide building materials for a space station.”

He opened the briefing paper. “The second prong is a launcher that can put cargos in a stable orbit, including people,” he said. “We hope to have one of those ready by early 1942; there are so many other things to check. Finally, we have teams exploring duplicating the Russian spaceplane or the American SSTO designs. Unfortunately…”

“Those have to be made in Britain,” Hanover concluded.

Dashwood nodded. “The craft were designed to be very simple,” he said. “We can build one here, but the Americans can’t for some time.”

Hanover scowled. “The problem, for the Americans, is the choice between improving what they have, or to move directly onto 1960s-era stuff, like the B-29. For us, we have to build enough Hawks to ensure our own safety, and then prosecute a strategic bombing campaign against Germany. Rather makes you wish we were back in the Bronze Age, right?”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” Dashwood said. “We can put together a couple of test models without absorbing too many resources.”

“I hope so,” Hanover said. “Now… first second satellite in a week, then…?”

“We have forty satellites,” Dashwood said. “Assuming that production stabilises, and there are no unforeseen problems, we should be able to lift them all in two-three months. We’re prioritising reconnaissance satellites for the moment, but we should put up a couple of communication birds as well.”

“Good thinking,” Hanover said. “Everything is going to blow… I can feel it in my bones.”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” Dashwood said. “Sir, give us six months and we’ll begin lifting entire space stations.”

Hanover lifted an eyebrow. “Well, in bits and pieces,” Dashwood admitted. “You’d be astonished how many volunteers we had from the RAF, including a handful of people with real space experience.”

“After the Transition, I’m not sure that anything would astonish me any longer,” Hanover said. “Still, make sure that they are volunteers.”

“Hell, we’ve got civilians getting in on the game as well,” Dashwood said. “Did you know that if you can reach LEO, you’re halfway to anywhere? They came up with some devices on the cheap, such as an MMU, that would be far cheaper than anything the Ministry ever came up with. Sir, these people are prepared to invest their life savings in the project!”

“Enough, I surrender,” Hanover said, holding his hands up. He chuckled, remembering the war bonds fight in Parliament, a battle he’d lost. “Major, if they’re investing, will they want to go to space?”

Dashwood nodded. “They’re even talking about limited companies and so on,” he said. “Prime Minister, we need them to do this.”

“Then use them,” Hanover said. “I’d better work up some protective legislation to distract Parliament. One thing; don’t get too much bureaucracy involved, that’s what fucked the ESA.”

Dashwood relaxed slightly. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I’ve also taken the liberty of arranging waivers for the civilians on the project.”

“Good thinking,” Hanover said. “Good luck, Major; get us into orbit.”

House of Commons

London, United Kingdom

29^th April 1941

Kenneth Barton, Leader of the Opposition, stood up to speak. Parliament was in a grim mood; the MPs from Newcastle and Aberdeen had been talking about the Newcastle Riot at great length. Aberdeen hadn’t seen any riots, at least not yet, but it was hosting a sizable American force nearby. The Orkney MP, where the new American base was being built, had no complaints; the islands hadn’t seen so much development since the Second World War.

Barton smiled. That statement had drawn chuckles. In hindsight, he suspected that that had been the reason that the old Scot had made the statement. Still, there was a lot of bad feeling in the air; Parliament had become used to thinking of itself as a power again, once the Blair era had ended, and the collective body knew that the new government was asserting itself.

“To ask the honourable member,” he said, “why the riots happened, what will be done to the perpetrators, and what steps will be taken to prevent a reoccurrence.”

Hanover stood up to answer. As always, he was clad in a neat suit and tie, wearing a white jacket that contrasted with his dark hair. Barton frowned; the collapse of the coalition government had been expected to weaken Hanover’s government, but after both the BNP and the Muslims had joined Hanover… well, his position was as strong as it ever had been. Barton shook his head in amazement; the mere fact of the Transition made the Prime Minister the most powerful man in the world – and Hanover was living up to that.

“In short, my honourable friend, the riots happened through a series of misjudgements and mistakes,” Hanover said. “We… did not anticipate American reaction to our largess and standards of behaviour. In some cases, American servicemen took drugs they were unused to, and thought that some… female actions were an invitation. Under the influence, some of them committed crimes.

“To add to the confusion, the American military police thought that they had the right to take action against both their servicemen and some of our people,” he continued. “Their methods were not very restrained, and caused some more casualties – and some of those were among our police, which had also responded to the growing chaos.”

An ugly muttering ran through the room. “Finally, police SWAT teams restored order and arrested a number of people, including Americans and British men,” Hanover continued. “Some of them were innocent and released, several rapists remain at large.”

He looked around the room. “For the moment, we have placed almost all of them on bail, on certain conditions,” he said. “We could arrest and charge them, but it would cause a diplomatic fight that we don’t need, and they would be going into danger anyway. We have insisted that any known perpetrator remain in the barracks; if they survive the war they’ll face charges afterwards.

“As for preventing a reoccurrence, future American visits will occur only under escort,” Hanover concluded. “Hopefully, as they become more used to us” – for a moment, he seemed to be struck with a realisation – “there will be fewer incidents.”

He sat down. Barton noticed that he was tapping away on a PDA. The MP for one of Newcastle’s districts, a grievously fat man, hauled himself to his feet.

“With all due respect, Prime Minister, that is intolerable,” he said. Barton winced; the man might be a member of his own party, but after the riots he’d probably move over to Hanover’s party policies. “At the very least, those who raped the flower of Newcastle’s womanhood should be seriously punished, to say nothing of those who killed.”

Hanover snorted as a ripple of amusement ran through the room. “Every American who landed in Britain had their DNA recorded,” he said. “Every rapist – every American rapist – was weeded out. Unfortunately, they don’t have a monopoly on the crime.”

“And then will the government see to providing emergency support for rebuilding?” The MP demanded. “The damage is substantial….”

“You’ll have to knock off the cookies,” someone shouted, and the chamber laughed.

Hanover glared around him until the room quietened. “The government will take up the matter of composition with the Americans,” he said finally. “That issue requires some further exploration.”

Hanover was too practiced a politician to let out a sigh of relief as the session finally ended, but he left the chamber as soon as decorum permitted. As per his command, Stirling met him outside and accompanied him back to his office.

“Some of the Americans might have caught AIDS,” Hanover said flatly. “Not all of the… trysts were rapes, after all; some prostitutes slept with them willingly. Hell, they might have left behind some war babies.”

“The prostitutes would have used contraception, surely,” Stirling said. “Prime Minister, did you see the bit on BBC about the American who found the transvestite?”

“An inadequate male who turned himself into a fake female,” Hanover said. He chuckled. “Was that where one of the fights started?”

Stirling nodded. “Of course, we don’t know if that was the incident that started it, of course,” he said. “Still, he wasn’t expecting that.”

“How true,” Hanover said. “Can you see Ike? You have to convince him to have every American who went to Newcastle checked for AIDS; it can be stopped if we act quickly.”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” Stirling said. “Shouldn’t you see him yourself?”

Hanover shook his head. “I think he’d be tired of me,” he said. “Hell, I’m tired of him. The sooner we get this war over, the better.”

Camp Tommy

Nr Newcastle, United Kingdom

29^th April 1941

General George Patton was a soldier’s soldier. Everyone said so, and looking at him Private Max Shepherd understood; Patton extruded magnetism and determination to win, whatever the cost. Today, however, Patton was not smiling. His short form radiation anger and disappointment, and he slapped a riding crop against his leg as he paced to and fro, talking at a level volume that cost a great deal to hold.

“You men have disgraced the name of America,” he snapped, and the soldiers recoiled. Patton’s disappointment was worse than facing enemy shellfire. “How can we trust you to defeat the blasted Germans, the scum who have disgraced the name of war, if you ruin an ally’s town?”

Shepherd shuddered. He’d been lucky; his girl had sheltered him and helped him to get back to the camp after they’d made love against a wall. She hadn’t been forced, and she clearly hadn’t complained – the British had some way of identifying a man who’d slept with a girl – and she’d even given him something called a ‘mobile number,’ so he could call her again. He wanted to be sick; the drug was slowing working its way out of his system, but at a cost.

Patton was speaking louder now. “And you,” he snapped, swinging around to face the military police, “what were you thinking?” Some of the soldiers smiled, enjoying the sight of the MPs in trouble for once. “Using your clubs against girls, some of them barely out of their first decade? Attempting to fight the British Police?” He glared at them. “If I’d had my way, you would have been left to rot in those cells; they were better than you deserved!”

Some of the soldiers were now openly nudging one another and grinning. Patton’s glare froze them in their tracks. “Those of you who were accused of a crime will be confined to camp, except on training and the war itself,” he snapped. “After the war, you will be sent back here to face charges… and if you try to desert I’ll shoot you myself! If you want to face charges now, instead of fighting the war, just say so; I’m sure that the British will be less dangerous than the Germans.”

He glared around the camp. “We have only a short period of time to get ready for our role,” he said. “From tomorrow, we will be training harder and harder… and God help the man who slacks!”

Patton stalked off into his office. Captain Caddell stepped up. “The following men are confined to barracks,” he said, and read out a list of names. Shepherd blinked; the list included Private Buckman and Private Manlito.

“What did you do?” He muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “Kill someone?”

Buckman glared at him. “There was this… hooker who agreed to let me do her if I paid, and then she said I didn’t have enough money,” he said. “I offered to come back, but then she started screaming and the fight was still going on and the police grabbed me.”

“Well, don’t run away,” Shepherd said, only half-joking. “There’s a war on.”

“Women like that should be locked up, not their victims,” Buckman groused. He kept on grousing until the rest of the Marines realised that it had been his fault. After the third ‘accident’ he shut up. There was far more training to do, after all, and the Marines were building up a good head of steam for the Germans.

He suspected that they were going to need it.