Second Chance

Chapter Twenty-One: Back in the USA

Ronald Reagan Airport

Nr Washington DC

15^th August 2004

Ambassador King didn’t know if the airport, situated well away from where the original airport would have been built years later, would be allowed to keep the name from the future. Certainly, some limited investment by the ambassadorial staff – those that had chosen to come with him from Britain – had provided for an airport that would be far better planned than the American airport system had been in the original timeline. The fantastic amount of labour available in depression-era America made planning and preparing far cheaper than it would have been in 2015. The huge project didn’t seem to daunt the Contemporaries at all; they just started work.

“An impressive achievement,” President Roosevelt said, watching as the first pieces of the runway were laid in the ground. “Do the aircraft really need such a long runway?”

“I’m afraid so,” King said. “A 747 requires a long run to pick up the speed to take off, let alone land safely. The British CAA has agreed to send us the radar and radio sets we’ll need before pilots can be trusted to land here, but once its built we can trade secure from German interference.”

Roosevelt nodded softly. “Tell me; are the British telling the truth about some of our people demanding asylum?”

“I think so, yes,” King said. “It’s no reflection on their patriotism.”

“Hoover thinks it is,” the President said grimly. “He wants the price of any deal to be their return to face charges; desertion, treason and whatever else the FBI can drum up.”

“Hardly fair on anyone,” King observed. “Mr President, half of your staff thinks I’m an uppity nigger. Will they not think the same about other black men, or Asians? There have already been three anti-Japanese riots; Admiral Kimmel was demanding that the Japanese near Pearl Harbour be removed, despite the fact that history says very few of them worked for the Empire of Nippon.”

“Unforcunetly I do not have the free hand of an emperor,” Roosevelt observed. “Everything I do burns political capital; if I order the Army to accept black soldiers as equals, they’ll protest and Southern Democrats will join them. On the other hand, you know how much… hope has been invested in the forces overseas; their return could make or break some companies.”

King nodded grimly. Several of his staff had been lured away to companies interested in their future knowledge. The thought of what a 21C fighter pilot could teach a 20C company had the executives drooling in their coffee. The thought of developing a viable television network, as the returnees suggested, was exciting and terrifying newspaper owners.

“There’s also the fact that the British have called an… ah, Imperial Conference of their empire,” Roosevelt continued calmly. “Some of the isolationists see that as a threatening act; they think that they intend to reassert control.”

“In the original timeline, you handled the British empire pretty badly,” King said. “With the benefit of hindsight and the most powerful force in the world, they might be able to build something stronger in its place, something based on democracy.”

“And they’ve invaded French North Africa,” Roosevelt said. “Apparently, they intend to develop it as an independent nation, instead of keeping it in trust for the French. Not everyone believes them, you see.”

“And, what do you think?” King asked. “For myself, I think they don’t mean you any harm.”

“But they’re keeping some of our people,” Roosevelt said. “There are people, such as Admiral King, who fear the power of the new British. They’ve fought Germany to a stalemate, if the war news is to be believed.”

King waved a hand at the mobile phone on Roosevelt’s belt. There were only a handful of the new phones in America; they were being shipped over slowly, with the American-based corporations that had offshoots in Britain trying to take the lead. They were competing with British companies that had suddenly seen a vast new market for their old models opening up, calling in every favour the government owed them to get preferential treatment in the limited shipping available.

“It’s very difficult to get away with a lie in 2015,” he said. “They’re telling the truth.”

Roosevelt shrugged. The air war over Europe had died down as both sides licked their wounds and rebuilt their forces. The Germans had deployed primitive cruise missiles, V1-type aircraft, and were tossing them at Britain in swarms of one to two hundred a day. The British were concentrating on going after the German factories and rail links, but the Germans simply had a larger industrial base, even if it was more primitive.

The worse news was that the Germans had been developing kamikaze tactics, either fanatical nazis or press-ganged Italians, and using them against the modern ships. Three more British 2015 ships had joined HMS Manchester under the sea, victims of a German plane loaded with explosives. Through swarm tactics, some considerable skill and sheer determination, the Germans had limited British activities in the Mediterranean Sea. Submarines still moved under the waves, launching cruise missiles from time to time, but for the moment the war had stalemated.

But not all of it. “You know the Nazi Germany remains undeterred,” King said, referring to the invasions of Yugoslavia, Greece and the occupation of Romania. The Soviets – which meant Stalin – had taken half of the nation in a thieves’ pact, before beginning the long process of shipping the Romanians to gulags in Siberia.

“I don’t understand,” Roosevelt said. “I understood that the Romanians were Hitler’s allies?”

“They were, until 1944,when they switched sides,” King said grimly. “Hitler is destroying his own command structure, and the bastard doesn’t care! Thousands of people are dying for being the wrong race, the wrong colour, the wrong religion! Look at the reports from Poland; they’re turning the entire nation into a slave camp!”

“I saw,” Roosevelt said. “If the Polish constituency had their way, I would declare war on Hitler and Stalin tomorrow. The problem is that not everyone cares; they believe that the US can stay out of the war and assimilate the new technologies you’ve brought us. And, of course, we have the movie stars, the producers, the writers… all of whom want royalties from countless copies of movies they haven’t made yet.”

King snorted. “Good luck to them,” he said. The case of Spike Milligan had been a wonder in the UK; as had the handful of growing cases like it as the ripples spread out. “A lot of movies entered the public domain when their companies folded; others should never have been made at all.” He snickered. “Just wait until Hoover and his cohorts sees the snuff movies.”

“I don’t want to know,” Roosevelt said sharply. Suddenly, he looked very old indeed, despite the course of medication the embassy doctor had prescribed for him. He knew now that he would die in four years; if the stress of how the United States was reacting to the future Britain didn’t kill him first. “What’s your thoughts on the Japanese situation?”

“I think that Herr Hitler must have shared something with them,” King said. The British had sent Ambassador Quinn a detailed report, now that global communications had been re-established, and Quinn had shared it with him. “They now know that they are doomed to lose a war against the United States, should they choose to launch one. They also know that the newly-arrived British have weapons that can sink the Japanese fleet in an afternoon and they won’t want to tangle with them.

“And at the same time, they’re clearly preparing for war,” he continued. “Most of the original intelligence sources are still active, including someone within the Russian Embassy, and the Japanese are preparing for a major war. We don’t have very good sources within their establishment, but it seems like there’s been a major upheaval. I suspect – and MI5 agrees – that they’re planning to launch a war to snatch the British and French possessions in East Asia before the new weapons can get to the Pacific.

“They’ve already marched into Indochina and – and I quote – accepted the request for ‘liberation’ by Indochina’s natives,” he concluded. “British Intelligence believes that they have every intention of snatching the resources they need, without involving you in the war.”

Roosevelt scowled. “Can they do it?”

King laughed. “You’re the President,” he said. “You tell me.”

“I hesitate to answer,” Roosevelt said wryly. He took one final look at the beginnings of an airport. “Was it a mistake not to push the Paney Incident?”

“Quite possibly,” King said. “Every President has to handle the mistakes of his predecessors.”

“Thank you,” Roosevelt said dryly. “One final point; the British have these atomic weapons, right?” King nodded. “So why haven’t they used one on the Germans?”

“I think that the Prime Minister refused to even consider the option,” King said. “Atomic weapons are not simple firecrackers, you know.”

“So General Groves assures me,” Roosevelt said. “He was astounded at getting the command, two years early, but he now believes that we can have a simple device completed within two to three years, particularly with the computers you’ve given us as assistance. There’s just one question; are the named Soviet spies really Soviet spies?”

“The list was compiled by American researchers following the end of the Cold War,” King said. “I understand your meaning – the British are taking a childish revenge and not sharing information on atomics with you – but I don’t think that they sabotaged it at all.”

“Good,” Roosevelt said. “I’m not certain what to do with you, so for the moment you will remain as official liaison to Ambassador Quinn. I’m not quite certain why some of the men of your detachment insisted on remaining with you as a guard” – King looked sharply at him, meeting nothing, but innocent eyes – “but the Secret Service has issued the necessary documents for them. Take care of yourself.”

King watched the President go, wondering what had happened to the missing Marine. The young black man had vanished a week after they’d arrived, taking with him some information on urban warfare and guerrilla warfare. Hoover had not been happy; hardly anyone had been, but the prospects for total disaster were far too high.

Sighing, wondering if Colonel Palter was having a better day, Ambassador King left the airport and headed for his current residence. There was work to be done; America had to fast-forward its development, or the streets would run red with blood.

Brest

Poland

15^th August 2004

The shooting was beginning to die away as Colonel Tibaski ordered his tanks forward. The Polish resistance had fought bitterly, but they were seriously outclassed from the start; the NKVD had deployed thousands of heavily-armed troops in the region and could call upon the support of the Red Army if necessary. The city had been stubbornly defended, but the Great Stalin had ordered him to reduce it if it killed every Pole within the city; he’d been honoured to have been chosen for the mission.

“Fire,” he commanded, and the tanks fired as one. New training methods, working on improving their coordination, had been ordered; the results of the early exercises – he’d heard – had been disastrous. If the fascists – who seemed to be the Rodina’s friends at the moment – had chosen to attack, the Russians would have spilled far too much blood before forcing them back to ultimate victory.

Tibaski allowed himself a smile as the shells, designed for high explosive rather than armour-piercing, exploded within the city. The defences, never strong, began to collapse; the NKVD occupation troops had done a good job of exterminating the remains of the Polish aristocracy that had prevented their people from embracing the glories of communism; without their knowledge, the defenders knew little of the art of defence. Being amateurs, they’d piled the defences up; single shells were having radical effects.

He chuckled, ignoring the sidelong looks of his subordinates. The commanders who’d failed so badly in the series of exercises had also been sent to the gulag; there, they would serve the motherland far better than they had in their undeserved positions. The radio, apparently bought from the Germans, buzzed one long sequence; the Poles were offering a surrender.

“I have my orders,” Tibaski muttered to himself, and turned to the radio. “No mercy!”

From their vantage point high above the Soviet formation, the four-man SAS team watched the carnage, cursing their ill fortune. Their mission, to make contact with the known – and apparently undiscovered – centre of Polish anti-Soviet resistance in Brest had apparently failed, for no reason of their own. The communications officer, Corporal Boris, worked on his tactical radio, transmitting a burst signal to an orbiting drone, high over Germany, while the rest of the team recorded the atrocity.

“Shit,” Captain Lewis muttered. Their insertion from a minisub had been routine; nothing had led them to believe that the Soviets were slaughtering everyone. Instead of the encounter they had expected, they were bearing witness to a mass slaughter. As he watched, the Poles were lined up and shot; the young, the old and those in between. The strong men were rounded up and tied to trucks specially designed for prisoners; they, Lewis suspected, would be working as slave labour. The young women…

A scream rose up from a corner of the village and he squeezed his weapon tightly. A young man leapt up and ran towards the scream; the Russian shot him neatly once in the back. The girl, hardly in her teens, was being brutally raped; Lewis could see blood everywhere.

“We’ve got to do something, man,” Corporal Tamlin said. The Welshman sounded horrified; the girl’s screams cut off as the Russian sliced her throat. “Please…”

“What can we do?” Lewis asked him, ensuring that he had a recording of the Russian faces and their uniforms; green shoulder tabs meant NKVD, he suspected. “There are four of us. We have four M-16s and a handful of grenades. What do you think we can accomplish that’s worth our deaths?”

Tamlin’s gaze dropped. “Sir, I know the risks, but we could…”

“There are over a thousand Russians down there, slaughtering the entire town,” Lewis snapped. “The people we came to meet are gone; there’s nothing for us now, but to leave.”

“Orders from command,” Corporal Boris said. “They want us out of Poland in a week; they’re sending the submarine to meet us.”

“Can you ask them to do something?” Tamlin pleaded. He’d passed selection, but Poland was his first real SAS mission. Lewis felt for him; the young man who hadn’t seen all the horror of life yet. “Surely they could slip a fully-armed team in here, behind enemy ranks…”

“There are too many other things to do,” Lewis said. He took one last look at the burning town. “It’s time to go.”

Tibaski pulled himself out of the Polish tart – she’d clearly been no virgin – and slit her throat with one slash of the knife. The NKVD troops had divided into formations; one group was completing the kill-sweep, one group was guarding the prisoners, and one group was… enjoying the spoils of war.

“Excellent work, Colonel,” the commanding general said. He’d served the great Stalin during the last purge; he seemed to take an ungodly delight in purging Poles who would one day rise up against Russia. Their apostry, or so the rumours had said, would threaten the Soviet Union – and so they had to be killed. “Have your men finish the women off, and then we can pull out.”

Tibaski snickered dutifully at the weak joke. “Yes, Comrade General,” he said. “We’ll finish them all off for you.”

The General smiled. “The great Stalin has commanded that we purge every last Pole,” he said. “How long do you think it will take us?”

Tibaski cupped his balls. “A lot of fun,” he said. “Once this task is complete, the Poles will never threaten the Rodina again.”

The Kremlin

Moscow

20^th August 2004

Stalin seemed almost like a happy man for once, rubbing his big hands together with glee. “A triumph,” he declared. “Would you not agree, Comrade?”

Molotov frowned. Stalin rarely called anyone ‘comrade.’ He was certain that it boded ill for him. “I think that a lot of progress has been made,” he said. Stalin’s orders, based upon the history files the Germans had made available to him, had been simple. Exterminate the Poles; crush their spirit. Ensure that they never dare to lift a hand against the Russians again. “We have crushed all organised sources of Polish resistance.”

“Splendid,” Stalin said. “The German ambassador, the fop with the stupid name, has protested at the millions of fleeing Poles, but the Germans are as eager as we to terminate the threat before it has even begun. They have even assisted us.”

Molotov nodded once, knowing he had to phase his concerns just right. “Comrade, we have destroyed most of their cities,” he said. “However, there are thousands of their people in the woods and in the hills, hiding from us. They’re fighting back.”

“We do not need to occupy them permanently,” Beria’s silky-sweet voice said. “Stage by stage, we destroy their food and fuel sources. Day by day, we weaken them further. Come the winter, how many of them will survive? Now we know better than to use a forward defence position, we will base our western defences on the Stalin Line, and let Poland die for two years.”

He smiled, a snake’s smile. “In two years, most of them will have died out. We can then resettle Poland with loyal Russians; and we have a source of labour until they all die.”

“Good,” Stalin said, his smile growing. “Comrade, what news from our greatest general?”

Molotov smiled at the weak joke. Zhokov had always been loyal. Even the history books said so. “He’s working on the logistics now,” he said. “Production of the T-34 will become a priority next month now the design has been finalised. When it comes to Iran, we can put around six divisions into the nation; the logistics won’t allow any more. Still, the Iranians have almost nothing.”

“Good,” Stalin said again. “The fascists and the western imperialists can keep fighting, while we build ourselves into a position of power. Then, it will be our turn – and communism will finally encircle the world.”