Second Chance

Chapter Five: Declaration of War

RAF Feltwell

United Kingdom

7^th July 1940

Absolute panic had hit RAF Feltwell, one of a handful of American bases in the United Kingdom, when contact was suddenly lost with America, the orbiting space shuttle and the space station, and the carrier battle group that was supposed to be taking part in an exercise. Colonel George Palter, badly frightened, had complied without argument to the British request to link Feltwell into the British defence network, while carrying out his own investigation. Twenty-seven hours later, attempts to raise Washington had failed – but Feltwell was receiving some radio transmissions from Europe.

The radio transmissions only deepened Palter’s puzzlement and growing alarm. To hear Radio Berlin was not unusual, but to hear someone called William Joyce expounding on the miracle of Hitler’s Germany was more than a little unusual. They’d heard President Bush compared to Hitler once, but they’d never heard of Joyce, let alone of the names of some French and German politicians. A quick web search, hunting through an extremely damaged Internet, revealed that William Joyce enjoyed the sobriquet of ‘Lord Haw-Haw,’ but it had also revealed that he had been hanged by an unforgiving British court after World War Two ended.

Feltwell had been crippled by the sudden loss of the satellites. Frantic calls to the American embassy in London revealed only that the British were at war – and some of the provisions of the Status of Forces Act might be invoked. Palter duly arranged for the base to receive the British liaison team, all the while hoping that they could have some answers. American radar stations had tracked British aircraft and… other aircraft skirmishing over the North Sea and the Channel; Palter had been reduced to wondering if the UFOs conspiracy theorists charged Feltwell with tracking had really arrived.

Radarman Brown, however, had dismissed that theory. All the unknown aircraft seemed to be badly outmatched by the British air defence forces; so badly outmatched that it was hard to see what the problem was. Calls to the British Ministry of Defence had produced nothing; the embassy didn’t know what was happening. In desperation, he’d been reading Internet chat rooms, and the speculations were so crazy that he’d given up in disgust.

“Sir, the British liaison team has arrived,” the gate guard reported. “Shall I let them in?”

“It’s their island,” Palter said, remembering the… incident three years ago. The friendship between Britain and America had almost been shattered forever because of his idiot predecessor. “Invite them in.”

He left his office and headed towards the carpool, heading towards the engines. He blinked as he rounded the corner; the British had bought a whole fleet of coaches and a military escort.

“They don’t have the Queen with them, do they?” He asked aloud, as the commander of the British force headed towards him. The British officer wore the badge of a major; his neatly trimmed black moustache hung under his nose like a second badge of office.

“I’m afraid not,” the British officer said. To Palter, he seemed ill at ease, as if he had some particularly disdainful task to accomplish. “I’m Major Denis Bloodnok, 3^rd infantry.” He hesitated. “Colonel, I must ask you to parade your men.”

Palter lifted an eyebrow. “Why?” He asked. “Might I remind you that…”

“I’m looking for a criminal,” Bloodnok said. “Colonel, please…”

“You find your own,” Palter said. “It took me years to get this lot.”

The British officer snorted, a smile flicking from under his moustache. “Colonel, this is an unprecedented situation, and I am trying to handle it was as much tact and diplomacy as possible. Colonel, under the Status of Forces Act, as revised, I must formally inform you that I am obliged to intern you and your men pending their disposition.”

He waved a hand at the trucks. Palter dimly realised that he’d brought an entire regiment with him. “If necessary, I have been ordered to use force,” Bloodnok said.

Palter stared at him. “It’s the Russians, isn’t it,” he said. “They’ve finally developed an ABM shield and they’ve demanded that you surrender us to them.”

Bloodnok’s nose twitched. “Believe me, Colonel, I half-wish that that was the case. Your men are in no danger of bring handed over to… unfriendly powers; we’ll brief you when you reach the camp.” He smiled ruefully. “I swear to you upon the honour of the regiment that you will all be well-treated.”

“I wish to lodge a formal protest with my government,” Palter said. “In addition, I have to ensure the safety of some vital parts of the infrastructure…”

“They will be safe,” Bloodnok said. “As for your government, I imagine that you have had the same success as we have had in contacting them; none whatsoever.”

Palter felt a cold chill passing through him. “Major, what’s happened?”

“It’s something of a long story,” Bloodnok said. “Now… parade your men.”

“Under protest,” Palter said reluctantly, and turned to bellow orders. Grimly, the staff of the communications station lined up and boarded the buses; resistance would have been futile in any case. Palter’s mind worked furiously, trying to figure out what had happened; had Britain and the United States gone to war?

Transit Camp

Plymouth, United Kingdom

7^th July 1940

“I apologise for the delay,” the man said. If it hadn’t been for the colour of his skin, Captain Townley would have taken him for a cockney. As it was, his accent contrasted oddly with his skin colour; had he been shipped in from India? He didn’t understand what was happening at all; as soon as the Queen Elizabeth had reached Plymouth, the crew and passengers had been escorted to a camp, seeing a very different Britain as they passed through a small village.

“That’s quite all right,” Captain Townley said, resolving to treat the man as an equal until he understood what was going on. His first thought, that Germany had invaded, seemed to be inaccurate; the handful of people who’d helped them to settle into the camp were all British, or subjects of the British Empire. It was only his concern for his ship that kept him from outright panic.

“Captain, I’m not quite certain how to explain this,” the man said. “Are you familiar with the concept of time travel?”

Townley hesitated. He’d read HG Wells on the subject; The Time Machine. “I understand the concept,” he said.

“As far as we understand it, all of Britain – our Britain – went back in time to 1940,” the man said. “Your ship was only the first ship to meet us; we’ve also picked up a number of fishing vessels and a handful of other merchant ships. Captain, I’m sorry, but the Britain you knew has gone forever.”

Captain Townley stared at him; the little Indian man with the British voice. “What happened?” He asked finally, trying for a commanding tone. It came out as a whimper. “My wife… my children…”

“Gone,” the man said, and he sighed. “We have already started looking for future relatives of yourself, but it’s not easy. Captain, you and your crew are out of time; this is or was 2015.”

“So, what happens?” Townley asked. He tried hard to keep his voice level. “What happened to it all?”

“That’s a long story,” the man said. He passed across a small collection of books; the first one, the History of the Liners, had a coloured picture of his ship on the front. Townley didn’t recognise the picture at all. “I won’t lie to you; it is going to be hard. You will have to adapt to a whole new world, one very different to your own.”

Townley stared into his dark eyes for a long moment, and then picked up one of the books; Britain 1939-1999. “I’d better get started then,” he said, with a joviality he didn’t feel. “Can I talk to the others of my crew?”

House of Commons

London, United Kingdom

7^th July 1940

Hanover took his seat on the Governmental benches, sharing a smile with McLachlan, and relaxed, seemingly unaware of the buzz of conversation. Projecting an image of unconcern, he crossed his legs and lay backwards, allowing himself to relax. He’d spent hours writing the speech that Smith was about to deliver, and he knew that it was good, if not perfect. Still, when had there ever been a problem like time travelling before?

The news hadn’t – quite – broken, but only because of the reluctance of the major newspapers and television channels to commit themselves to a definite statement. By now, pictures of the downed German aircraft in Suffolk and the newly-arrived Queen Elizabeth had been posted widely on the internet, and some of the speculation was growing closer and closer to the truth. The Speaker had even hinted at possibly forcing the Government to come to the House – and only the support of the Leader of the Opposition, Kenneth Barton, had prevented such a disaster. Steps had to be taken, and without the day’s grace the government’s task would have been hopeless.

His pager buzzed and he glanced down at the message without comment. The American technicians at RAF Feltwell had been taken into internment; the German ambassador and his staff – along with a handful of German citizens – had been taken into custody as well. Hanover didn’t think that the German Ambassador would have declared for Hitler, but he didn’t see how the British could have taken the chance that he might have. More practically, they wanted – he wanted – to keep as tight a grip on future knowledge as possible.

The massive room, refurbished since the ‘botched’ terror attack of 2011 – ‘botched’ meaning that the MPs had gotten lucky – was growing noisier. The MPs were filling the room, taking their places on the benches and waiting. Hanover allowed himself a moment to glance around; MPs from the Conservatives, the several scattered Labour parties, the Liberal Democrats, the Greens – and the British National Party. Hanover scowled; he’d half-wanted to have them interned as well, on general principles. After the riots of 2011, the new leader of the BNP had managed to have ten MPs elected; even though they were his supporters, Hanover tried to have as little to do with them as possible.

Bastards would have to have such good discipline, Hanover thought, wishing that the Conservatives had such good party discipline. Howard Smith came into the room, followed by his friend Margaret Darter – Hanover had expended a great deal of effort trying to obtain proof that they were lovers – and took his place in the front bench. Hanover concealed a smile; Smith looked tired and worn.

“The room will now come to order,” Madam Speaker said, banging her gravel. “All rise for the Prime Minister.”

Smith stood up and nodded once to the room, trying to smile at the assembled ranks of MPs as they sat down. He didn’t manage it; the speech he’d helped write was burning through his mind. He wished that he'd been abroad, that he’d been smart enough not to accept the nomination for Prime Minister, rather than face the MPs with such news.

I should have agreed to hold off information release for a week, he thought, and shook his head. If it could ever be proved that he’d covered it up, or acted against the interests of Britain, the MPs would force through a vote of no confidence. The confusion that had followed the restructuring of the European Union – I guess that’s something I don’t have to worry about again – had left Parliament dangerously intolerant of weakness or perceived treachery.

“Madam Speaker, Members of the House, I wish I came before you with better news,” he said. It wasn’t the sheer brilliance of Churchill’s speeches, but what could one say to a nation out of time? Even the greatest prime minister would have had problems. “A truly remarkable event has happened, one that gives us both great opportunity and forces us to face considerable problems requiring immediate action.”

It sounded weak, he knew. He would have preferred to announce a war with America than a trip through time. “When we lost communication with the outside world, we began to attempt to discover what had happened, and then we realised that the world outside was radically different from what we remembered.”

Silence. They knew what was coming. “We have been transported back in time,” he said flatly, and the House let out a collective breath. “It is now July 7^th, 1940. Across the channel, Hitler holds Europe in his grasp, and he is preparing to launch an assault at us. Historically, that never happened – but that might not stay true! We may face an invasion at any moment, for our technical base represents an awesome prize to Hitler, allowing him to dominate the world.”

He waved a shaky hand at the display. The colour picture of Paris, with the German flag over the Eiffel Tower, appeared. In quick succession, other pictures, of Germany, of Belgium, of the Queen Elizabeth, appeared in front of them, finishing with the picture of the crashed German reconnaissance plane.

“We are at war,” he said flatly. “Even if we tried, it is impossible to compromise with the sheer unadulterated evil that Hitler represents; we have to mount a major military effort to save ourselves, let alone defeat him for good. We also have to handle major social disruption; for better or worse, we have to act as if we were alone in the world. There will no longer be any electronics from Japan, movies from America, oil from the Middle East… or food from Africa.”

There was a nervous shuffling through the assembled ranks. “With the concurrence of the Leader of the Opposition, I have decided to invoke the Defence of the Realm Acts, as revised in 2010. The House will be invited to scrutinise all decisions, as per the standard procedure, but we do not have much time. Already, the Germans are learning about our weaknesses; we have been skirmishing with German aircraft over the Channel. It won’t be long before Hitler launches the Battle of Britain; and we have to handle it.

“I invite you all to consider this an opportunity,” he concluded. “I do not know how we got here, I do not know if we can ever return, but this is an opportunity to correct the mistakes of the past seventy years. Towards this extent, I wish to announce the formation of a War cabinet; Kenneth Barton has agreed to take a place within the cabinet.” He looked around the room. “I have the greatest of faith in the British people,” he said. “If we stand together, we can survive this test and become stronger than ever.”

Hanover smiled to himself. The message had been just right; the assumption of semi-dictatorial DORA powers, combined with hints of personal weakness and the formation of a collective government. Collective government; the blame was spread so thin that no one noticed.

He sighed; it was his turn to speak. Standing up, he unfurled his notes and began to speak. He spoke of firm practicalities, technical data instead of dreams; a speech of a type rarely heard in Parliament. The television cameras would broadcast his speech to the world, and he would look the practical man of the administration. After all, Smith was clearly unsuited for the role of Prime Minister in a wartime state.

“We have three urgent problems that need to be handled quickly,” he said, after the preliminaries. “First, we have to prepare for a possible invasion. Second, we have to prepare to handle a massive food shortage. Third, and finally, we have to cushion the damage that will happen to the economy. I propose three basic courses of action to handle the problems.

“First, the Army is already deploying – absent a few units otherwise engaged – to the east coast, near Dover. That region will be placed under martial law; all local government, police services and other emergency services will be under the command of the duly-appointed commander, General Ascot. In addition – and in order to avoid a collapse of the welfare state – we will be conscripting unemployed young men of military age.” He scowled. “Quite frankly, we simply cannot begin to pay the dole until we have a better grasp of our financial situation, and a dose of the military life would be good for them.

“Second, we will have to cut back on all forms of excess food use,” he continued, awaiting the protests. They didn’t come; he smiled grimly. There would be unity against the storm, until the shortages began to really bite. “The local councils will collect supplies of food, which will be distributed in food kitchens. We have to ensure that people receive their fair share, and all people who received benefits will receive some food in place of the benefits.

“Finally, we expect some trembling in the economy, particularly in businesses which were founded in the United States and other nations,” he concluded. “All we can really say is don’t panic; we will be placing orders for military equipment very soon, and we can expect that the rest of the 1940 world will be very interested in placing orders for non-military material of their own. For the moment, we have declared a freeze in stock market trading and changes in employment; we will re-open it once we manage to stabilise the situation.”

He spoke on and on, clarifying the situation in simple terms, and knew that they were eating out of his palm. Strong leadership was what they needed… and if they saw him as the architect, so much the better.

Permanent Joint Headquarters

London, United Kingdom

7^th July 1940

The politicians were debating endlessly over whether or not they should declare war on Nazi Germany, but Stirling didn’t have time to worry about them. He kept one ear half-cocked on the radio, while examining the pictures from reconnaissance aircraft and working his way through tomes on history, in particular the Second World War.

He scowled. The Prime Minister had ordered that he take part in the newly forming Oversight Committee – a group of history and military researchers that would advise the War Cabinet – and General Cunningham had been more than happy to comply. He’d shown commendable initiative, the general had said, which didn’t conceal the fact that – for the moment – he was the Oversight Committee. Now that the Prime Minister had revealed just what had happened to Britain, it would become easier to recruit new members, but for the moment he wasn’t even sure just how much authority he had.

He sniggered to himself; if he’d done something wrong, the politicians would be quite happy to tell him – after the fact. For the moment, he worked through historical records of the German positions in France, learning that one writer had believed that the Germans could throw nearly 10’000 men across the channel in one leap. Carefully, he made a note about the possible – and planned – landing sites, and read on; there was a great deal of possible blackmail information.

The secured line rang. He picked it up. “Stirling speaking,” he said.

“Ah, Captain,” the RAF recon expert said. “I’m sending you some FLASH traffic. It’s important that you look at it at once.”

“Yes, sir,” Stirling said. He disconnected the phone from its wall socket and walked back over to his computer, opening the secured file. Decrypting it – a useless precaution against the primitive German computers – took minutes, but he waited. “Son of a bitch,” he exclaimed, and then remembered that he was still on the line.

“That was my response,” the expert said. “Sir, what the hell do we do about that?”

“I’m going to kick it upstairs,” Stirling said, looking down again at the picture. “This changes everything.”