Second Chance

Chapter Ten: Final Moments of Peace

10 Downing Street

London, United Kingdom

11^th July 1940

Howard Smith knew that he looked terrible as he took his seat at the head of the table. The War Cabinet looked back at him, with varying degrees of concern, sympathy and calculation in their eyes. The young army officer waited for him to give permission; Smith waved a hand in his direction. He knew that he was too tired to proceed – and also that he had no choice.

“Two hours ago,” Stirling began, “a woman called Sarah Oliver received a phone call from her brother, Jim Oliver. This was unexpected, as she’d been mourning him; Jim was one of the people lost overseas. Apparently, he was on the flight that we destroyed.” He took a breath. “Incidentally, the manifest for the flight we know he was on includes a history professor, several doctors and a small cross-section of other skills. Oliver himself is listed as a data courier; currently working for Cougar Industries, in Glasgow.

“Once she was convinced that it was not a joke, Mrs Oliver contacted the local police, who passed it on to use. In effect, the Germans have offered to return the children on the flight – and Mr Oliver, who was apparently chosen by lot – in exchange for any German citizens within the United Kingdom.”

Hanover steepled his fingers, effortlessly taking command of the room. “So, they know that we’ve come back in time,” he said. “Do we accept the offer or not?”

“It would be foolish of us to surrender the Germans,” Hathaway said. Her firm face scowled. “It’s obvious what they want; children can tell them nothing, but adults, particularly German adults… think what they could tell them.”

“Would they want to return?” McLachlan asked. “Some of our Irish citizens have been… reluctant to return to Ireland, despite De Valera’s invitation. Some of them have even asked us for asylum. They know what Nazi Germany will do to them.”

“Sir, they have offered to allow us to take the children and their guardian, and then ask any Germans if they want to go to Germany,” Stirling injected. Smith smiled; the young captain clearly knew what he was doing. “Basically, they’ve offered to let us pick them up from an airfield in Germany… provided we take a German representative along to meet with the German Ambassador.”

“Strange,” Hathaway mused. “Hang on, how are they doing this?”

“One of the items they captured was a mobile phone,” Stirling said. “We can locate the phone itself; its near Caen, where two German army divisions are based now. If that’s where the rest of them are being held, we could rescue them, but I very much doubt it.”

“Understood,” Smith said, making a determined effort to regain control of the meeting. “We will accept the German terms…”

“Prime Minister, I really must protest,” Hanover said immediately. “If we send a helicopter, or a small fleet of helicopters, to recover the children, we risk having the helicopter captured and turned against us.”

“We could always send a small force of Eurofighters along as escorts,” Chapman said. “Let’s face it; we’d see an ambush coming for miles off.”

“Perhaps, but its still dangerous,” Hanover said.

“None the less, my mind is made up,” Smith said, and wondered what the terrible pain in his chest was. The world seemed to go dim for a long terrifying moment. “Now,” he said, hiding the pain as best as he could, “General, what about the defence preparations?”

“My men have done splendidly,” Cunningham said. “There are some minor problems, but we have a powerful defence in place if the Germans try to invade.” He clicked on a laser pointer and pointed to the map. “The 1^st and 2^nd Armoured Regiments, along with infantry units and supporting Harriers from No. 1 squadron, have been moved to positions near Dover and Maidstone. The 3^rd Armoured Regiment has been held back in reserve, along with support formations, as the Germans may try to land near Southampton.

“Unfortunately, a shitload of people – pardon my French – have fled,” he continued. “Many of them have gone to relatives up north, others are bumming around in London driving hotel prices up. The police have done excellent work, but a lot of people are going to panic when the war begins.”

“It has already,” Hanover muttered.

“We’ve deployed SHORAD units around major targets and London,” Cunningham said. “Unfortunately, SHORAD funding was cut back sharply – even during the war on terror – and we simply don’t have enough units to cover every major target. We can kill every target we see, but once we run out of missiles, we can’t stop them. I have teams looking at ways to slave heavy machine guns to radar, just to give us some extra firepower, but that’s a month off at least. Everything depends on the RAF.”

Chapman coughed diplomatically. “We have been working like demons to get some of the older fighters up and ready,” he said, “as well as calling back the reserves and… pilots who retired during the Blair Government. Unfortunately, as General Cunningham says, we have far fewer aircraft than I’d like; if we have to start committing to other theatres as well, we may well simply… run out.

“At the moment, we have two hundred and thirty front-line fighters, and fifty-seven second-line fighters,” he continued. “At a pinch, we can press Jaguars and Hawks into service, which will give us extra numbers. The navy has allocated two squadrons of land-based Harriers to the air defence forces as well; in effect, we have a maximum of three hundred fighters to face the German swarm.

“The Germans have roughly nine hundred of their own front-line fighters and an equal number of bombers, all of which they can deploy to face us,” he said. “They may force their way through with sheer weight of numbers, and we will run through our stocks of missiles very quickly. Worse, the Germans will be quick to develop tactics to use against our jet fighters – and we will be hard-pressed to rebuild the force. By the most optimistic estimate, it will be at least nine months before we can turn out new Eurofighters.”

McLachlan coughed. “I understand that we would not want to make copies of planes the Germans have, but could we not build some fighters from… say, 1960?”

“That would take longer,” Chapman said. “We’d have to rebuild large parts of the industry.”

“I see,” Smith asked. “So, is there a way to win?”

“Two ways,” Chapman said. “Short of using nuclear warheads, we must use a percentage of our cruise missiles against German factories, and their airfields. What we cannot do is close them down for good, but we can certainly force them to divert their operations. The SAS can also be inserted into enemy territory; they can attack German transportation and even important Germans, like Hitler himself.”

Darter coughed. Smith smiled weakly at her; she was one of his most important allies, but she could be very irritating at times. “Are we so sure that they’re planning to attack us?” She asked. “They could just be scared of us.”

“They’re moving troops and invasion barges into position,” Cunningham said. “Quite frankly, I’d like to slam a few cruise missiles into them while they’re there. They’re moving more and more planes into Northern France and stripping the coastline of people. That’s not a defensive position; they’re working to prepare jump-off points for troops. We’ve seen gliders and bombers; useless for anything, but an invasion. Attempts to penetrate our air defences have continued; isolated raids directed against our coasts.”

“And besides, these are the Nazis,” Hanover said coldly. “We can expect them to be enemies of all; they know what we are and they fear it.”

Smith nodded tiredly. He was tired, so tired. “General, please see to picking up the children,” he said. “Mr McLachlan, make the arrangements.”

Near Caen

France

12^th July 1940

Oliver put down the mobile phone with an expression of relief. “That’s it, Herr Standartenfuhrer,” he said. “They will be here in one hour.”

“How can they be so certain of finding you?” Roth asked. Oliver allowed himself a smile; Roth was smart, dangerously smart. Who, but a very smart man, could have adapted so well to the suddenly-changed world around him. Roth would go far, if Himmler didn’t see him as a threat and terminate him. He knew he didn’t understand laptops and mobile phones and jet-propelled aircraft, but he was learning, and fast.

“Each and every mobile phone emits a signal to the phone network,” Oliver explained. “We’re close enough to Britain for the network to receive the signal and transmit a reply back. It sounds rather tinny because we’re right at the edge of the range.” He smiled. “Under normal circumstances, a French tower would pick up the signal and route it through a satellite and send it down to Britain, but at the moment…”

“They can track the other phones?” Roth asked sharply. “What about the laptops?”

“I don’t think they can track the laptops,” Oliver said. “They will be able to find a phone that’s within range of the towers, so take them into Poland or somewhere.” He shrugged. “You won’t be able to use them anyway.”

“A shame,” Roth said. “Listen; are you sure that you want to do this?”

Oliver was oddly touched. “Yes,” he said. “It may not have happened yet, but losing the rest of the world means that my… organisation will have lost its main sources of money. We have to have more, as fast as possible.” He smiled. “And as I said to you, anything that hurts the French is fine by me.”

“Have you heard?” Roth asked. “Some of your naval units have turned up in the Mediterranean. Several Italian ships have been sunk, even though they’re trying to stay away from the newcomers. The good news is that the Italians took down one of the new planes.”

Oliver lifted an eyebrow. “Are you sure that actually happened?”

“One of our observers saw it,” Roth said. “He was flying in an Italian bomber when an Italian fighter collided with one of the strange aircraft. There was a very large explosion and both planes were destroyed.”

“Kamikaze tactics,” Oliver said. He checked his watch. “Not much time left.”

“True,” Roth said. The sounds of the children drifted to their ears; even with the drafted French nurses they weren’t happy at being separated from their parents. “I need to add an extra bit to your mission, one of considerable importance.”

Oliver turned to look at him. “What?” He asked. “What could be more important than data?”

“One of the events referred to in the Encyclopaedia Britannica is a bomb plot against the Fuhrer,” Roth said. “What it doesn’t do is say who was involved. We need that information, as fast as possible, before they contact them and offer to assist them.”

Oliver nodded; it was yet another display of quick-thinking from Roth. “I’ll find out what I can,” he said. “You do realise it might be some people quite high up?”

“We have to know,” Roth said. “Good luck.”

“Eagle-two, I confirm that the skies are clear until Paris,” Abernathy said, as the Eurofighters crossed the French coast. Several other Eurofighters were circling over Dover, prepared to intervene if necessary, and an AWACS hung back with its own fighter escort. The RAF knew now that there would be no replacements for the seven aircraft; Abernathy cursed the decision to sell two to Australia, where they were now years in the future and utterly beyond reach.

“Eagle-two confirms,” Dunbar said. “I make it fifty-seven Messerschmitts, orbiting Paris.”

Abernathy nodded grimly to himself; the more powerful radars of the AWACS painting the picture for him in his display. “We’re moving in,” he said. “No sign of any ground fire.”

“Eagle-one, Eagle-two, Rescue-one is preparing to move in,” the controller said. “Keep an eye on things.”

“Earle-one confirms,” Abernathy said, muttering under his breath. If the Germans decided to attack in the air, the Eurofighters could fight or flee as they chose, but if they attacked on the ground, when Rescue-one was on the ground, options would be limited, to say the least. “We’re ready.”

The scream of jet engines echoed across the sky. Across France, Frenchmen looked up with new hope; some in awe, others in dread. The British had suddenly become powerful beyond measure and the memories of the British abandonment of France at Dunkirk rankled. Petain’s government launched ever-growing anti-British broadcasts, pointing to the thousands of French sailors killed by the British, just before the future Britain arrived.

To the Germans, less given to delusions of grandeur even in defeat, the jet engines represented yet another piece of information about their new foe. Roth stood above the tiny airfield and watched as the strange aircraft floated in and came to a hover over their heads. As he stared, the propellers on the aircraft literally rotated around until they were pointing upwards, and the aircraft – a cross between a normal aircraft and a helicopter – sank towards the ground.

A roar split the sky and he looked up; two contrails lanced across the sky. The strange jet fighters, warning the Germans that treachery would be avenged. They seemed invulnerable, but Roth knew that they were not; Galland was working on ways to bring them down. Captain Sidney Jackson, a former RAF officer and lover of an Indian girl, had proven very informative. Roth smiled; it was amazing how talkative the future British could be when their lovers were threatened; did such things never happen in their world?

“Herr Standartenfuhrer?” Galland asked. The Gruppenkommandeur had insisted on being present, if only to learn more about the enemy. “Notice how the craft moves, adjusting airflow around its engines,” he said. He smiled. “I would bet that it handles fairly well, most of the time.”

Roth shrugged absently. Galland could afford to treat the war as a martial joust; he would face British officers in the air. Roth, on the other hand, was charged with developing a hell weapon – assuming that the British allowed him to leave the landing site.

“Look, they’re coming out,” Galland said cheerfully, as a hatch opened in the side of the machine. A man, dressed in a form of black combat armour that gave an impression of being extremely deadly, hopped out, acting as if he was leaping into a combat zone. The German officer, in full dress uniform, stepped forward.

“Brave man,” Roth muttered, as Hans Meyer stepped forward. The Abwehr officer seemed completely composed; Admiral Canaris had suggested an Abwehr man, rather than an SS man, and Oliver had supported him.

“I suppose,” Galland said. He’d lobbied to be the representative, hoping for a look inside one of the aircraft. Kesselring had forbidden him from even thinking about it; Goring had muttered about taking his rank away. “Look, he’s talking to the man.”

Stupid comment, Roth thought coldly. Meyer had finished talking to the single British soldier – do they really think that they are that much ahead of us – and beckoned the children forward. Oliver moved behind them, hands bound behind his back; a touch of theatre. The British solider waved the children into the aircraft, before pulling out a knife and freeing Oliver, who smiled at him gratefully.

“Good luck, Hans,” Galland muttered, as Meyer boarded the aircraft and the hatch closed behind him. Slowly, awesomely, the helicopter lifted off the ground, heading back to Britain.

“Good luck, Jim,” Roth corrected absently. “Everything depends upon him.”

“Don’t worry sir,” the Royal Marine said. “We’ll soon have you back to Britain.”

Oliver smiled weakly. Pretending to be weak was easy; he hadn’t eaten anything for the day. “Thank you Captain,” he said, deliberately misreading the Corporal’s rank badge. “They were horrible.”

The Marine nodded sympathetically. “What were they like? Did they torture you?”

“No, but I knew what they were like before, and I was so scared,” Oliver said. “Where are we going?”

“We’re going to land directly at RAF Lyneham,” the Marine said. “They have a place there to debrief captured personnel who’ve been recovered, sir.” He smiled what was meant to be an encouraging smile. “Doubtless the Press will have hacked our communications and discovered that you’ve been freed,” he said. “You’ll be the belle of the ball.”

Oliver looked at him. “I’d sooner be alive, thank you,” he said. “And what about Fatso here?”

The Marine looked up at the Abwehr officer. “He will be held at RAF Lyneham until higher authority can decide what to do with him,” he said. He stared directly at Meyer, holding his eyes. “In the unlikely event of you overcoming me and breaking into the cockpit, the escorting fighters will be quite happy to shoot us down rather than let you escape.”

Meyer spoke English with a clipped precise fussiness that bespoke formal training. He also didn’t know that Oliver was working, at least in part, for Germany. “I have given you my word of honour, upon the honour of the German army, that I will behave myself,” he said, almost offended. “What else would you have me do?”

“Your army has no honour,” the Marine said. An uneasy silence fell, broken only by Meyer’s awe at passing over the cities to the RAF base. Oliver sighed; once the RAF had finished debriefing him, he could make contact with the others and begin the operation. Smuggling information into Germany would be tricky, but he was certain that he could do it.

RAF Neatishead

Norfolk, United Kingdom

15^th July 1940

“Sources in the navy report that a confrontation between Italian forces and contemporary naval forces, supported by Task Force Reunion, resulted in a decisive defeat for Italian forces. The MOD refused to answer questions about the probable death toll, but they did confirm that the Italians suffered heavy losses. Later, in Parliament, MP Noreen Adam, Brixton, asked if the war would be fought using nuclear weapons, a clearly ailing Prime Minister was unable to answer and…”

Flight Lieutenant Nicola lifted the remote and turned off the television, wondering if anything was going to happen. It was dawn, four days after the last incursion over the French mainland, and nothing had happened since, at least not near Britain itself. It was quiet; too quiet. The Germans seemed to be behaving themselves – and that was far from normal for Nazis.

The radar set that Nicola controlled was linked into an entire integrated system of radar stations and orbiting AWACS. She’d heard that senior RAF officers were already worrying about the expected lifetime of the aircraft; they’d already been used more than they had in years. It was a god’s eye view of the sky over Europe; under good conditions they could see all the way to Berlin. Countless German aircraft were on the ground – and they weren’t doing anything about it. The RAF could have crushed the Germans – and the politicians were keeping them on the ground.

Ping! She felt her heart leapt into her mouth as she checked the instruments; there was a flight of German planes rising from France, near Calais. As she watched, the force formed itself up, joined by dozens – hundreds – of new aircraft. The swarm started to move slowly, heading towards England.

“This is sector control,” she snapped into the telephone. Emails had already been sent to everyone on the distribution list; telephoning the first line of people was supposed to be just a back-up system. She knew better; during drills the entire system had failed on more than one occasion. “We have a major raid in progress!”