Second Chance

Chapter Seven: The Green and Pleasant Land

Gibraltar Naval Base

Gibraltar

8^th July 1940

Neither the Italians nor the French had quite mastered the art of bombing, Vice-Admiral Somerville considered, although at least in the French case there was some reason to expect them to be reluctant to damage the military that was their only hope for freedom from Hitler. Still, he supposed that they had every right to be a little annoyed about part of their fleet being destroyed, even though the danger of it falling into German hands was too great.

We would have understood, Somerville thought numbly, as the results of the ineffectual bombing raids were cleared up. The Rock was as strong as it had been before, with its tough rocky caves protecting its population and its military stores. His force, Force H, had had to be spared from the defence of Britain; three battleships, one battlecruiser, one carrier and a number of smaller ships waited in the shadow of the Rock. He looked upon the monstrous ships – Hood, Resolution, Valiant, Ark Royal and two cruisers – and shuddered. Two days ago, the cable link with England had simply and inexplicably failed, and the radio transmissions made no sense at all.

He’d discussed the matter with Admiral Cunningham, who commanded the Mediterranean Fleet, but they hadn’t been able to come to any conclusion. He’d ordered a destroyer dispatched to England, and ordered the fleet prepared to return to England if necessary. Visions of a German invasion danced through his mind; Germans having slipped fifth columnists into England, throwing open the gates to Hitler. But how could they have shut down the cable?

“Admiral,” a voice called from behind him. Somerville turned to see a young Gibraltar rating, too young to shave, running up to him. The rating saluted and passed him a sheet of paper; it was a message directly from the Admiralty in London, using the proper codes.

Admiral Somerville, hold position in the Mediterranean. Some unusual naval units are being dispatched and will rendezvous with you in two days. Be alert for German attacks; they have attacked Britain through the air and have been beaten off with heavy losses. Acknowledge.

There was something about the message that felt odd. It was as if whoever was sending the signal wasn’t fully aware of the code phases; in fact, as if they hadn’t had any training in signals at all. Hesitating, Somerville made his decision; he would obey the orders, while asking Admiral Cunningham to prepare the eastern fleet. With Warspite, Malaya and Ramillies, they would be covered long enough to meet the ‘unusual naval units,’ whatever they were.

Nr Dublin

Ireland

8^th July 1940

Ambassador Ruairi Heekin watched grimly as the aerodrome came into view, the British helicopter skimming over the land. Ireland awaited him; a land of green hills and terrifying familiarly. It hit him suddenly that he would never see his family again; his parents had been born in 1950. He’d worked hard for the post of Ambassador to Britain – Ireland’s friend and enemy, often at the same time – and his reward had been to lose it all forever.

A tear appeared in his eyes. Fiona, his wife, had been expecting their second child when he’d been posted to Britain. She had insisted on returning to Ireland for the birth and he’d promised to go visit her, next week and seventy-five years in the future.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Hanover said. Heekin nodded as politely as he could; Hanover had been one of the supporters of blockading Ireland – even invading it – until terror suspects were handed over during the short-lived resurgence of terrorism during 2012. “You could always go meet your parents or grandparents.”

“They wouldn’t know me,” Heekin said. “What could I tell them?”

“The truth,” Hanover suggested. “Perhaps the bit about deploying the SAS to Ireland, to round up known terrorists.”

“People who have not yet joined any terrorist group,” Heekin said. He understood Hanover’s point; the Britain of 2015 knew everything about their Irish opponents, taking the opportunity to round them up had been irresistible. “That is of questionable legality.”

“Under DORA, suspects can be held without trial if necessary,” Hanover said. “Of course, seeing we can do without a repeat of the Troubles, we can make him a fine offer.”

As the helicopter came in for its final approach, Heekin fell silent. He knew who he was; the Prime Minister of Ireland, loved or hated by all. The man who’d walked a tightrope between two warring powers. The man who’d made Ireland a republic.

Taoiseach Eamon de Valera…

He is that tall, he thought, as the very familiar figure stepped forward. For a moment, he thought of grabbing the flight officer’s sidearm. With one bullet, he could put things right. It was more then that man deserved. No, there was work to be done; he’d spent years cursing Ireland’s long and troubled history, exploited by the EU to keep them compliant, to pass up the chance to change things.

De Valera stepped forward, holding out his hand to Heekin, who flinched inwardly. De Valera wasn’t the first killer he’d shaken hands with, nor the first to be turned into a politician. He could see the bafflement in the Irish Prime Minister’s face, how much did he know? Did he know that Britain had changed overnight? Did he hear the Prime Minister’s speech before Parliament?

“You are not the ambassador I appointed to London,” De Valera said, his voice softer, less accented, than Heekin had expected. “Who are you people?”

Hanover stepped forward brusquely and offered De Valera his hand. “Sir Charles Hanover, Home Secretary,” he introduced himself. Heekin, still reeling from having been identified as the ambassador, ignored what he suspected had been intended as a deliberate insult.

De Valera tilted his head, leading them into a small comfortable house. “The British Home Secretary is Sir John Anderson,” he said. “Mr Hanover, what the hell has happened?”

Hanover allowed Ambassador Heekin to begin the explanation, waiting for the Irishman to finished, before expounding on his own negotiations. He’d ordered the IRA to be swept up before they even knew that everything had changed, and he wanted to force De Valera into a proper agreement before the Irishman started to panic. De Valera wasn’t asking bad questions; mainly ones concerned with the future history and future Ireland. The man seemed to have decided to believe.

“I wish to get one matter out of the way first,” he said in careful Irish, once Heekin had finished a basic explanation of what had happened. “I wish to apologise, for Cromwell, for William of Orange, for the Easter Rising and various attempts to hold you down.”

He smiled at De Valera’s face; he hadn’t wanted to give any apology, but it had been necessary. His staff almost lost themselves, hearing an Englishman speak their native tongue, let alone apologise for anything. De Valera himself seemed to be having difficulty focusing on him; the man was going blind. The medical science of 2015 could cure his eyesight, but unless De Valera cooperated…

“In effect, as Taoiseach Brennan’s Ambassador has confirmed, we are stuck here and are about to engage in the war that our ancestors fought,” he said. “That gives us certain… opportunities, and certain problems. One of them, I’m afraid, is you.”

He waited for De Valera to begin to protest, and then cut him off. “Quite frankly, as I just said, we do feel that a lot of mistakes were made, on both sides. We have put them behind us and we hope that you will be able to do the same. We wish to make a deal with you…”

“Then why are you purging Ulster?” De Valera asked, interrupting him in turn. “You have swept up thousands of innocents…”

“Most of whom were IRA people, or would be IRA people,” Hanover said. “The offer is simple; we will offer you a complete and united Ireland, which is what you wanted, is it not?” He smiled at De Valera’s reaction. “We know everything about you; we have all the benefits of hindsight. We don’t want Erie and we don’t want Northern Ireland; Ulster in your lexicon. You can have it, free and clear, on certain conditions. We will also allow any citizens of the 2015 Ireland who happen to have been in Britain to move back to Ireland, should you want them. We will respect your neutrality in the war, although we will expect you to be neutral in fact, as well as in name.

“After the war, we will accept Ireland into the new organisation we hope to build out of the remains of the British Empire,” he continued. He heard the intake of breath on the Irish side; they hadn’t yet become contaminated by video cameras that made any utterance from a politician eternally recorded. “In exchange, we want some things from you.”

He sensed De Valera nerving himself up to refuse, knowing that it might well mean his death. “We want you to send us all the beef, fish and other foodstuffs that you can spare,” he said. “We want you to give the Protestants… say, two counties and autonomy, but still as part of Ireland. We would like you not to have an immediate civil war over the issue, particularly since we will be repatriating all the… contemporary English personnel, but – quite frankly – that’s up to you. We won’t interfere.”

De Valera stared owlishly at him. “Is that all?” He asked. He sounded disbelieving. “All you want?”

“Yes,” Hanover said, knowing that De Valera was playing for time. He made it easy for him. “I imagine that you would like to discuss this with Ambassador Heekin, so if you don’t mind I’ll return to the helicopter and call home to report.”

Heekin felt sick. It’s my turn now, he thought grimly. He was facing a man long dead, a man hated or loved by Irishmen. He knew what he was about to do; he understood the irony of his position. At his request, De Valera ordered the room completely cleared; it was just the two of them. The great man of history and the man from the future.

“Taoiseach, I know,” he said. “I know everything. I know the only thing you achieved during Easter week was not being shot by your own men. I know; you lost the run of yourself in 1922. I know you stabbed Collins in the back over the treaty. I know you regret it. I know about your fine wee secretary, who kept you company in the USA. I know you'll never go there, because once you step off the plane – I mean boat – the yanks will have you for embezzlement.”

He twisted the knife, hating himself and hating Hanover. “I know your son is about to develop a method for making contraceptives work,” he said. “That will go down well with His Grace, I expect. I know about your cousins in Cuba; what did their mother do for a living?

“One word from me to the Irish… residents in Britain and everyone from Cork to Donegal hears about it,” he said. “I know what you want. I know; you don't want any part of the war and I know you don't want a Million Protestants in Ireland. I know that you’re going blind and they can cure that, over there, in Britain now. They can even help with the nerves that you’ve been so careful to keep a secret. They’ll make a farm in County Down richer than Park Avenue, all for just potatoes and bacon.

“I know the constitution you wrote better than you do,” he said, watching De Valera carefully. “I can get the required signatures and put everything to the people. I know where to find a judge who will swear a warrant out charging you for Collins murder. I know where to find the guards who will serve it, the remains of O’Duffy’s men.

“I know once the Mother church sees what the English have to offer; a chance to take the lead in the global church, they will dump you like a sack of potatoes. They’ll abandon you, they’ll burn you at the stake; they’ll denounce you as a wrecker. I know that you’re bankrupt, what just happened to your largest market, and to the money being sent back to Dublin, in postal orders and letters. I know…”

“Enough,” De Valera snapped. “What is the point of all this!”

“I know your place in history,” Heekin said. “It’s tarnished. I am offering your absolution, your penance, like any good priest. I am not asking you, I am telling you; you will sign the treaty that the English brought with them. They mean you no harm, for Ireland is not their country; it’s mine. Don't be afraid of the English Taoiseach De Valera, they can only kill you. I can destroy you.”

Heekin allowed himself a moment to catch his breath. De Valera was breathing hard, trying to pretend that he was blackmailed every second day, but Heekin could see through the pretence. “Don't worry,” he said, “you’re going to be a hero. You’re finally going to create the united Ireland you dreamed of, a richer nation that you ever could have imagined. The name Omagh means something to me, it will never to you.

“Now, sign, for Ireland!”

Hanover allowed himself a smile as De Valera signed the treaty. It had been a gamble, relying on Ambassador Heekin, but how many men were ever given the chance to meddle in the history of their own country?

“Thank you, Mr President,” he said, absently.

BBC Studios

London, United Kingdom

8^th July 1940

A faint air of unreality had settled over the BBC and the other British news organisations. In one way, the… transition had helped the BBC; there were no longer any American channels beaming down to steal their viewers. On the other hand, the elaborate world service network of reporters had vanished. History programs – and episodes of Doctor Who – had become popular literally overnight; libraries were reporting record reservations for books on the Second World War.

“The Ministry of Defence confirmed today that the RAF struck a target in Occupied France,” Kristy Stewart said, as the red light came on. The backdrop, computer generated, displayed a map of France as it had been – was – in 1940. “The official statement confirmed that at least one British Airlines aircraft came down in France, and was discovered by the Germans. The crew and passengers must be considered prisoners of the Nazis; and the MOD has appealed for relatives of the passengers to contact them at once, contact details on their websites.

“There have been another run of suicides,” she said, as the backdrop changed to a house in Kensington. “A handful of American tourists, stranded well away from their families, committed suicide this morning. Their mother, described as a distressed person on therapy, apparently poisoned the entire family. Although the police are investigating, they believe that she was the sole agent and the case is not being treated as an unsolved murder enquiry.

“The handful of survivors of the holocaust and their relativities have been picketing the Houses of Parliament and demanding immediate action – up to and including the use of nuclear weapons – to end the holocaust before it has even fairly begun. Parliament remains in closed session, debating the legalities of a declaration of war, despite the fact that skirmishes have been occurring on a regular basis since transition.

The image shifted to a burned out street in Brixton. “The sudden freeze in all dole payments infuriated members of the poor and ethnic populations, who rioted against the government today. The Police, backed up by an army unit sent in under the invoked DORA act, crushed the rioters, who were arrested and jailed in temporary camps. While the Brixton MPs reportedly criticised the actions of the police, local community leaders applauded. A number of fundamentalist preachers of several different sects have been arrested and jailed.

“Although there have been some anti-conscription rumbles, the general mood on the street seems to be one of acceptance,” she said. “A large number of dolists have begun receiving basic army training at a training camp, and army spokesmen expect thousands more to begin in a week. For many of those young men, this will be their first taste of real discipline, to say nothing of good food and health care.”

The scene changed again; units of the royal navy were heading out to sea. “A Royal Navy task force, under Admiral Turtledove, has departed, apparently to make contact with contemporary British forces in the Mediterranean. This force, led by HMS Ark Royal, and including HMS Exeter, HMS Southampton, HMS Nottingham, HMS Portland and HMS St Albans, as well as several minesweeping and submarine vessels, will skirt German-held France and fascist Spain, before making contact at Gibraltar.”

She ran through the final item, a report on two of the crashed Germans being rounded up, before concluding with the weather report. As the theme tune for Eastenders – the plot writers hadn’t managed to alter the script to adapt to the new conditions yet – began to play, she turned to her producer, Baron Edmund.

“Sir,” she said, “I think that we should be taking more advantage of the situation.”

Edmund looked up at her. She’d often wondered if he was gay; he never seemed to react to her considerable charms. Most of the time, she enjoyed being treated as one of the guys, but when she wanted something, it was a pain.

“Like what?” He asked thoughtfully. “We don’t have a global network anymore, you know.”

Stewart nodded. “We have people alive today who died a long time before our industry was properly developed,” she said. “We could record their words for posterity.”

“Such as whom?” Edmund asked. “Who do you have in mind?”

Stewart grinned. “There are so many possibilities; Roosevelt, Truman, Wallace… Hitler, Stalin…”

“You want to interview Hitler? Stalin?” Edmund asked. “Are you crazy?”

“I’m sure that he will respect journalistic neutrality,” Stewart said.

“Well, I’m not,” Edmund snapped. “This isn’t a safe world; you don’t have the force of the military behind you, and the Foreign Office would never allow it!” He scowled. “For once I agree with them; Nazi Germany is not a safe place.”

“But you have friends, contacts, allies,” Stewart protested. “Boss, think of the ratings…”

“I’ll think about it,” Edmund said finally. Stewart grinned; she knew she’d won.