Second Chance

Chapter Thirty-Three: American Pie

National Cinema

Washington DC, USA

15^th September 1940

Colonel Palter would normally have given the task to an enlisted man, but this was too important to mess up. The British ruling hadn’t any validity in America – as thousands of Hollywood producers and lawyers were pointing out – but it had proven so popular with the singers and performers that they’d almost surrendered. Not quite, because a night like this was difficult enough, but the thought of the royalties from Britain alone making all of the singers independent had prompted their surrender. Singers were exploited, and now those who would be great singers, or performers, would have an independent source of income.

Palter shook his head. The 2015 United States hadn’t been able to handle the developments in wireless and broadband Internet transmissions very well, particularly the shared files, including illegal copies of songs and films. With the British starting to sell a $100 laptop, one that was almost as capable as a modern laptop, Hollywood would start losing sales very rapidly.

And the British make one hell of a lot of money, he thought. He’d been forced to assist the army, the navy and the army air force – the USAF hadn’t been created yet – to improve their doctrine, and they weren’t listening. They’d started to prepare to build the Firefly, but they wanted an American design, not the British design. Palter scowled; he’d suspected that the Firefly bore only a tiny relationship to the real Firefly, but it was ludicrous. The only real improvement that the navy had made was forcing forward the development of radar and air defence for Pearl Harbour, and developing a Philippine Army.

His mobile phone, now using the scratched-together network that the British had set up, buzzed. “Are you ready?” Ambassador King asked. “The politicians are getting impatient.”

“I ought to show them snuff videos or porno movies,” Palter replied wryly, thinking how conservative 1940s America would react to some of the filth that splashed across the Internet. Hoover was already understanding the implications, demanding that Congress pass laws to control the spread of $100 laptops, $500 broadcasting systems, and $50 mobile phones.

“Just get on with the movie,” King snapped. He sounded stressed; life as a black man in 1940s America wasn’t fun. Apart from politicians, the audience included reporters, Hollywood producers and dozens of people who would be influential.

“Yes, sir,” he said, with more respect than was perhaps necessary. He meant it; compared to King, his life was simple and easy. “Broadcasting now.”

He nodded to one of the assistants, who lowered the lights. He clicked on PLAY, and the laptop hummed as it sent signals from the DVD player to the projector, projecting the film against the white screen. The cinema’s owners were already asking if they could buy one of the projectors for themselves; it was far better than their standard projectors. The theme music from Independence Day started to play, and he sat back and watched as the massive spacecraft approached the moon. For a while, he could escape into fantasy.

“A most impressive young man,” President Roosevelt commented, as Will Smith pronounced his classic line. “And not, clearly, someone who was given the post because of his colour.”

Ambassador King nodded. “By the ideal time of 2015, it was generally accepted that someone’s skin colour and sexual orientation” – they’d already had leers when Smith’s wife had pole danced – “wasn’t affecting them one way or the other. We had gone through the repression stage, and trying to escape the overcompensation stage. Colin Powel was a good man, but Arthur Roberts should never have been allowed near the centre of power.” He scowled. “Bastard set back the expected black president for ten years.”

Roosevelt smiled from his wheelchair. “What happened to him?”

“The man wanted to be president, and he could be charming, so he talked the Democratic Party – yes, your party – into letting him be one of the candidates,” King said. “And then he pressured people into voting for him because he was black; there was nothing else to him, but his colour.” He snorted. “And then it turned out that there was… irregularities in his accounts, and then he denounced it all as a smear campaign, and…”

King chuckled. “In the end, the middle-class blacks voted Republican in a body,” he said. “The shouts of outrage had grown so loud that no one knew what had happened, at all. He was trying to run in 2016, but the Party Convention was very against the idea.”

Roosevelt’s eyes narrowed. “Is there a reason in particular that you’re telling me this story?”

“Merely to illustrate my point,” King said. “The system you have now, even in the Deep South, is designed to hold the coloured man down. That we avoided race war was a matter of sheer good luck, it could have been a lot worse. It might well have become a lot worse if Roberts had been elected President. You have to prevent that from happening.”

Roosevelt shook his tired head. “You know what he’s saying about me,” he said. King nodded; Roosevelt’s opponent, Wendell Willkie, was making capital out of Roosevelt’s death in 1944, and of the lists of broken promises that had surfaced from the future. It didn’t help that Wallace, who would have been Roosevelt’s running mate, had started to set up his own party, ignoring claims that he was a Soviet Agent. The FBI had demanded the right to investigate him, and Willkie was making capital out of Roosevelt’s reluctance.

“You can’t loose,” King said, and hoped that that was true. He looked up at the scene; President Whitmore was preparing to lead the fight against the aliens.

“With craft like that, how could we lose?” He heard General Marshall whisper behind him. “What do the British need us for?”

King scowled to himself. Isolationist feeling within the US was growing as more and more of the history, the future, was revealed. Brutal racial attacks, directed against Japanese, Chinese, Mexicans and others, occurred daily. They didn’t understand how the British could run out of weapons, they didn’t understand how long a precision weapon took to make. Canada was already arming the Contemporary British forces; under pressure the United States had sent several of the army divisions to the Philippines. The situation in the Far East was worsening; interception of Japanese messages suggested that the Japanese were preparing to jump.

“I have the feeling that I’m on the Titanic,” Roosevelt muttered. King lifted an eyebrow. “Too many balls to juggle, and too much to do. Are you aware that the British have refused to sell us the equipment to make these little gadgets?”

He lifted a mobile phone and waved it under King’s nose. “I had expected it,” King admitted.

“A lot of people are annoyed about that,” Roosevelt said. “They are demanding, demanding, that I force you to make them give us the technology.”

King scowled, wishing for the patience of his legendary ancestor. “There’s something of an element of tit-for-tat in it; your future self would have slowed the British nuclear program,” he said. “In the same vein, you know what they found at Feltwell; evidence that the future Americans were reading commercial encryption codes and using them for commercial gain. Some Parliamentary committees were considering laying charges against the USAF and NSA staff.”

“Did you know that LeMay was demanding that I create the USAF right now?” Roosevelt asked. “All the fame of being proved right seems to have gone to his head.” King shook his head. “It doesn’t matter,” Roosevelt continued, “the priority is forcing our own system forward.”

“You might become involved in the war against Japan,” King said. On the screen, Whitmore was launching his second missile at the alien ship. A cheer went up as the missile slammed into the hull of the ship.

“And Willkie thinks that we can avoid one,” Roosevelt said. “He thinks that the British will kick Japan out of the war without our help.” He scowled. “And the Red spies, such as Laurence Duggan and Harry Dexter White, don’t help either.”

“That depends,” King said. He looked over at the president he admired. “Do you really want the British dictating the peace settlement of the war? Unless America joins the war, your ability to affect the outcome of the conflict will be limited, in fact practically non-existent.”

Roosevelt fell into an uneasy silence. The movie came to an end. Colonel Palter stepped up in front of the screen. “Thank you for your time,” he said. “What we are about to show you is not fictional. This is footage taken by a patrol deep within enemy territory, within the very heart of darkness.”

Roosevelt looked up as images from Poland, burning houses, raped Polish women, slaughtered Polish men and kidnapped children began to be displayed. A silence fell as the images rolled on; death camps, gulags, the slave camps of Germany…

“That’s what the war is about,” King muttered, as Roosevelt stared at the screen. “That’s what Germany and Russia are doing, Mr President, right now. This is no longer a minor matter in Europe; between the Germans, the Russians and the Japanese they control a vast part of the world’s resources. America is threatened; if Britain falls, they will be forced to use their technology to buy good treatment. There are weapons that can wipe out the Pacific Fleet at a stroke, and weapons that can crush whole cities. Hitler is on the cusp of apotheoses or nemesis; you have to take a hand in this!”

Palter watched the audience leaving, some shell-shocked, others already buzzing about the film. It would be a good way for the growing Future Embassy, as it was becoming known, to make money, but there were other matters. Palter looked up as King approached, surrounded by his honour guard.

“Think any of them will take the lesson to heart?” King asked, as the cinema cleared. “Do you think that that will change a few minds?”

“I have no idea,” Palter said grimly. “These people are nothing like as… accustomed to blood and gore as we had become. There’s a strong Polish voice here. If only Roosevelt would come out in favour of aiding the British!”

“That’s difficult for him here,” King said. He watched as one of the Marines stripped the computer down and packed it away. “There’s a lot of concern over how the British are selling gadgets and the recent ruling on films and songs.”

“A good compromise is supposed to make everyone mad,” Palter said wryly. “How was I?”

“You should have been Sideshow Bob,” King said.

“I’d never wear the hair,” Palter said. He grinned. “At least some of the people who did the work will be paid something, even if its only five percent of the total earnings.”

King nodded as Palter led the way out of the building. One of the Marines slipped ahead, checking for threats and then giving the all-clear. “Still, I think I’ll have a word with Ambassador Quinn,” he said, as they climbed into the really old-new car. “Perhaps he can restrain the British.”

“They need the money,” Palter pointed out.

“I know,” King said unhappily. “Nazis on one side, racists on another.” He met Palter’s eyes. “Have you heard from…?”

Palter shook his head. “We’ll just have to work to take as much advantage from the chaos as we can,” he said loudly. “Once we start showing the videos to the Polish communities, they might start protesting louder and louder.”

King’s mobile phone rang. He picked it up and listened. “Gibraltar’s fallen,” he said finally. “You’d think that they wouldn’t have let it fall without a fight.”

Palter shrugged. It was bad enough that Cuba had been forcefully stripped of the Batista regime, but he suspected that the 1940 United States would make a mess of it again anyway. “They’re all just damned Greasers to them anyway,” he muttered.

“I beg your pardon,” King said, and ducked, sharply. A bullet snapped through the front window, shattering it. A second bullet skimmed through the side window as the car spun around madly, slamming into the kerb.

“Get down,” Palter snapped, pushing King down and drawing his own sidearm. The Marines were moving to surround the car, lifting their rifles. “Where is the bastard?”

A Marine, as black as the night, waved at a body. The would-be assassin didn’t seem special, he was just a man. A neat headshot had killed him.

“Anyone else?” Palter asked, keeping his pistol up. The assassin had been armed with a simple pistol himself, a neat device of 1940 manufacture.

“Not as far as we can see, sir,” the Marine said. “Should we take the body?”

Palter nodded. “Our priority is to get back to the Embassy,” he said. “Once there, we can answer questions from Washington’s finest.”

“Yes, sir,” the Marine said.

Future Embassy

Washington DC, USA

15^th September 1940

The FBI investigator, a mild little rat-faced man, didn’t inspire confidence. King was mildly surprised that he actually managed to ‘sir’ him and sound like he meant it.

“We know who he was,” the investigator said. King lifted an eyebrow, and then wondered if the investigator was one of Hoover’s opponents within the FBI. “His name was Johnny Redman, a member of the Southern Democrats from Mississippi. According to some of his comrades, Redman was very… ah…”

“Anti-black,” King suggested.

“Yes, anti-black,” the investigator said. “Redman was named on two occasions for… ah, anti-black crimes, but the police there let him go. He had influential friends, one of whom got him the post up here.”

King glanced down at his PDA. A message scrolled across it from Palter, who was listening. REDMAN KNOWN KKK MEMBER, DIED 1956, SHOT WHILE TRYING TO ESCAPE.

“Now that’s an interesting tool,” the investigator said, when King had explained what it was. “Are you sure it’s the same person?”

King smiled, feeling some of his tension drain away. “There’s a legal debate over it,” he said. “Still, he did shoot at me.”

“True,” the investigator agreed. “I wish I could promise you results, Ambassador, but you’ve made a lot of powerful enemies. I don’t have any way to prove that there was anyone behind him – only the fact that he knew where you would be and carried a picture of you proved that you were the target.”

“I see,” King said. “If Edgar fires you, come here; I might offer you a job.”

The investigator grinned. “Perhaps I’ll take you up on it,” he said. “For the moment, I can only give you a list of suspects, with no real proof.”

King shook his head. “Thanks anyway,” he said. “You’ve been very helpful.”

RAF Brize Norton

United Kingdom

16^th September 1940

The news of the fall of Gibraltar had shocked some politicians and TV spokesmen, many of whom went on the screen to decry the failure and demand that the Government sack the commanding officer. Others, more perceptive, wondered why any attempt had been made to defend it, pointing out that it was practically impossible to hold a fortress against a modern attack. For Kristy Stewart, the whole concern of the matter was the question of whither or not it would delay her trip to Germany. She’d been at Brize Norton for nearly a week while arrangements were made, and the trip had been put back twice.

“Miss Stewart?” A man’s voice asked. Stewart studied him with interest; he was young, blonde and handsome, wearing a Major’s uniform. “I’m Major Stirling.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Stewart said. “Is it time to go?”

“In a couple of hours, yes,” Stirling said. He waved her to a chair. “I have several matters to discuss with you first. For a start, are you certain you wish to go?”

Stewart nodded. “It’s a way of making journalistic history,” she said.

“Perhaps,” Stirling replied. “I have to make some things clear to you,” he said. “For a start, you and your cameraman are the only people going all the way. The RAF crew are going to leave you in Sweden. From that moment, you’re on your own. Understand?” Stewart nodded. “The second point,” Stirling continued, “is more important. The equipment you have been issued has been rigged with a self-destruct system. In the event of someone trying to break in, it will explode, understand?”

“I hope that you are not hoping to assassinate Hitler this way,” Stewart said dryly. “It would be bad for the BBC’s reputation.”

Stirling chuckled. “No one thought of that,” he said. “The point is to keep our technology out of their hands, and you will not be able to have more sent in, understand?”

Stewart glared at him. He wasn’t quite as attractive as she’d thought. “I’m not a child,” she snapped. “Do you seriously imagine that the Germans will be able to use my equipment to make the jump seventy years ahead?”

“I hope not,” Stirling said. “Point is; take care of your equipment.”

“I always do,” Stewart said. “Anything else?”

Stirling looked at her, meeting her eyes. “One of the ideas that we have – one of the fears we have – is that the Germans will simply add you to the hostages they already have, interrogate you, rape you, use you as breeding stock… all of those are possible.”

“People don’t treat reporters like that,” Stewart protested. “It’s unheard of… we walk through death and it never touches us…”

“Hitler has never heard of those rules,” Stirling pointed out dryly. “Understand, and this is the important part, anything you say or do within the territory that Germany – Hitler – controls may be used against you. If they think that you’re a spy, or worse, they’ll kill you outright and damn us to do anything about it, understand?”

Stewart nodded. “Then there is a second point,” Stirling said. “This is directly from the Prime Minister; if you do get into trouble, there will be no attempt to help you or to rescue you. We simply don’t have the asserts to risk extracting you under fire, understand?”

Stewart felt the first faint trickles of nervousness passing through her chest. “I understand,” she said finally. “I won’t need rescuing.”

“Sooner you than me,” Stirling said. “You do understand that anything you take with you will be examined before you board the aircraft?”

Stewart nodded. “I understand,” she said.

“Then good luck,” Stirling said. “I hope to see you back again; I have enjoyed watching you on TV.”

“Enjoyed watching me, or watching my chest?” Stewart asked, and laughed when he blushed. “It’s always nice to meet a fan.”