Second Chance

Chapter Six: Preemptive Strike

Ten Downing Street

London, United Kingdom

7^th July 1940

The picture was damning in its simplicity. A French field, near a village of a type that Hanover had believed to be extinct, with an aircraft in the centre. The aircraft was instantly recognisable as a Boeing 747; clearly crashed on the ground. German personal swarmed over it; the images suggested that the village had been cleared of all of its inhabitants. The Germans were stripping the aircraft, removing everything that could be moved, including its engines and wings.

“Well, that’s torn it,” Smith said. The Prime Minister shivered. “Now they have one of our aircraft, they will duplicate it and use it against us.”

The Chief of the Air Staff shook his head. Hanover marvelled at the respect in his voice. He felt no respect. “With respect, Prime Minister, even a relatively simple aircraft like a Boeing is well beyond what Germany can build at the moment. The Germans have good technicians and an innovative group of researchers, but they won’t be able to duplicate it. It will provide them with valuable clues, and perhaps save them from a few false paths, but they won’t be building them for a very long time.”

Hanover shook his head. “We have to destroy it,” he said. “It’s a source of possible technology for the Germans; the engines alone could give them ideas. They’re nothing like ready for us; Strike Command could destroy it within an hour.”

Smith nodded slowly. Hanover knew what he was thinking; the House of Commons was still arguing over the proposed declaration of war. If the British struck first, they would be charged with starting the war.

“Did any of the crew or passengers survive?” Smith asked. Hanover blinked; it was a surprisingly relevant question. “If so, they might be in German hands.”

Hanover nodded. “If a number of German pilots can evade the police, then its quite possible that they might be able to escape the Germans, but I very much doubt it.” He cursed softly. “In that case, the Germans will have people who can explain some of the technology – people who might know some history.”

Chapman lifted a hand and rubbed it over his face. “Won’t they keep quiet?” He asked. “Everyone knows how evil Hitler and his little wizards were.”

“We have ways of making you talk,” Hanover said, affecting a bad German accent. “They’ll make them talk, one way or the other. Coming to think of it, we’d better find out who was on that flight.”

“So we have to plan a rescue mission as well,” Smith said. “Do we have any idea where they might have been taken?”

“Not yet,” Chapman said. “Sir, we need to move at once; we have to destroy the plane before they can draw any more from it.”

“I understood,” Smith snapped, his face showing the stress he was under. “Very well; by order of the War Cabinet, you are to destroy that plane.”

“And the surrounding German tents,” Hanover added. “If they have scientists studying it, that’s where they’ll be.”

“Disgusting,” Smith muttered. “Please give the pilots a personal good luck message from me.”

“Yes, sir,” Chapman said, leaving the room to call Strike Command.

“Now, what about the public?” Hanover asked, feeling the glow of victory. “How are they taking it?”

“Surprisingly little panic so far,” the Press Secretary said. “Of course, it’s only been a few hours since the announcement, so…” He chuckled. “The only problem has been a number of unemployed women demanding the right to serve in the army. Their MPs are asking questions.”

“And to think we’re trying to debate a declaration of war,” Hanover said. “And the Press?”

“Someone is trying to sue the Daily Mail for claiming that he was a crackpot,” the Press Secretary said. “He worked it out very quickly; the newspaper didn’t believe it, but reported it with a ‘noo-nah’ by-line. So far, they’re still thinking about the issues at hand.”

“That won’t last,” Hanover said. He spared a look at Smith, who seemed to have ignored how he’d taken charge. “We have to be ready.”

RAF Coningsby

Lincolnshire, United Kingdom

7^th July 1940

The RAF fighter pilots, who’d seen the German aircraft at close range – and had even been hit by German bullets – held no scepticism about the Prime Minister’s speech. Two Eurofighters and one Harrier had been hit by cannon fire, from primitive aircraft, and they’d shot down twelve German aircraft. They believed; their only question was when they would be unleashed upon the German forces.

“All right, people, listen up,” the base commandant, Robert Harvey, said. “We have a mission and it’s going to be tricky.”

Flying Officer Victor Abernathy and the other assembled pilots; four Eurofighter fast-jet pilots and two Tornado GR2 pilots, relaxed as he tapped the map with his pointer. The map of France bore no resemblance to any they’d used before; possible locations of German bases were marked in – and there were a lot of them. One location, just south of Nantes, had been marked in red.

“Reconnaissance flights have located a crashed Boeing 747, located here,” he said, tapping the map at the precise location. “The Germans, unfortunately, have located the crash and are stripping it of its material; our mission is to destroy it – and the German tents around it.” He glared at them from his thick mouth, a result of a drunken bout five years ago. “I tried to get permission to destroy the village that the Germans have taken over, but it was refused.

“Regardless, a cruise missile attack has been ruled out for various reasons, so you’re it,” he continued. “Yes, what is it?”

Flying Officer Sheila Dunbar had raised her hand. “Sir, with all due respect, why have the cruise missiles been ruled out?”

Harvey scowled at her. Abernathy knew that he wasn’t fond of her for many different reasons. “As I understand it, the cruise missiles are being reserved for strikes against German infrastructure,” he said. “Now, pay attention.

“You will observe that the Germans have moved some mobile anti-aircraft guns around the aircraft,” he continued. “We don’t expect these to pose a problem; unless they score a golden BB, they won’t even be able to see you, let alone touch you. However, all due care will be observed. Harold, you will engage the target, using low-level Paveway III bombs, and blast it into little pieces. Christopher, you will remain out of range of the German weapons; you will only engage if Harold fails.”

He looked across at the Eurofighter pilots. “Your mission is to escort the two Tornados,” he said. “You will engage any German aircraft that attempt to interfere, but keep an eye on your ammunition. Missiles are only to be used if necessary, understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Abernathy said.

“Good,” Harvey said. “Good luck, ladies and gentlemen.”

German Army Base

Nr Calais

7^th July 1940

Sullen and dispirited, the vast majority of the passengers on the ill-fated flight were herded into the main hall. SS-Standartenfuhrer Herman Roth watched as they took seats in front of the podium, escorted by hard-faced SS guards. He watched dispassionately as some of the prisoners, male and female, exchanged hugs; married couples and some partners meeting again. Two of the men, Roth had been shocked to discover, were homosexuals; what had happened to Britain?

“Achtung,” he snapped, and switched to English. “I trust that you are all convinced of the reality of your current situation,” he said. “I cannot afford more time to convince you; you are prisoners of the German Reich.” He stared around the room. “Under the orders of Führer und Reichskanzler Adolf Hitler, as passed through Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler, you are prisoners of war. What happens to you is up to me; the Reichsführer-SS has seen fit to entrust me with coordinating a response to you.”

Particularly if Oliver is correct to claim that all of Britain has come through time, he thought coldly. “You have two options; you will be assigned – together with your families, should you have them – to assisting us to understand the technology you have brought us. If you cooperate, we will treat you well; we won’t even treat some of you as the subhuman vermin you are.

“If you do not cooperate, we will find a way to force you to do so,” he said. “It will not be pleasant.” He waved a hand at sheets of paper that had been placed on a table. “Take them and write a full description of what you did in Britain; your job, any particular skills, anything you think might be helpful.” He bared his teeth. “You are writing for your lives here.”

Changing tack again, he continued. “I won’t lie to you,” he said, putting as much respect into the words as possible. “I cannot guarantee that you will ever be returned to Britain, even the Britain of this era, assuming that it exists. If you help us, we will treat you as well as we can. If not… well, I won’t answer for the work of those senior to me. Himmler himself is here; he has a very short way of dealing with opposition.”

Jim Oliver had once watched a movie called The Heart of Evil, featuring John Robinson as the evil super-nazi Heinrich Himmler. The actor had been tall and evil, a dark-haired image of perfect Aryan manhood. Every word had been delivered with a calm deliberation that had chilled the blood of the watching audience; Robinson had been perfect for the role, everyone said so.

In the flesh, he hadn’t known who he was looking at until Himmler introduced himself. The Reichsführer-SS was a short dumpy man, with golden spectacles and slender pale hands, hardly the picture of Aryan manhood. He seemed more of a schoolteacher or kindly old clergyman, squinting owlishly at Oliver, than the face of evil.

“I understand that you wish to assist us,” Himmler said. His German sounded odd; had Himmler had a speech defect? He couldn’t remember. “Tell me, what can you offer us?”

Oliver forced himself to remain calm. “I understand the basic principles of the technology that has fallen into your hands,” he said. He waved a hand at one of the two laptops, now drawing power from a German power generator. He was ruefully impressed; the German technicians had only burnt out two laptops before getting it right. “I also know enough about history to help you avoid mistakes.”

“One of your fellow passengers, the mulatto, is a genuine historian,” Himmler said. “I read your claims to my old friend Herman; I’m afraid I don’t believe it.”

For a moment, the veil parted and Oliver saw Himmler’s true nature, peeking out; a mind that would quite happily sacrifice the entire world for its desires. He shivered; suddenly chilled to the bone.

“Why not, Herr Reichsführer-SS?” He asked, as calmly as he could, knowing that Himmler knew that he knew that Himmler knew that…

The mask returned; Himmler was once again a kindly clergyman. “People do not offer to help a power that your computer files consider to be evil,” he said, almost kindly. Oliver cursed the unknown person who’d brought the Encyclopaedia Britannica CD-Rom with them. “Such a person as you made yourself out to be would not risk losing a victory, even if it left Britain in terrible problems, merely on the off-chance that our victory would bring improvement. Indeed, if I read your files correctly, the people who wrote them would be horrified at the thought of us winning, would they not?”

Oliver shuddered. “I imagine that you are correct, Herr Reichsführer,” he said. “Have you shown the files to the Fuhrer?”

“I have sent him copies of some of the files,” Himmler said, as calmly as ever. The possibility of Hitler shooting the messenger didn’t seem to have occurred to him. “So, Mr Oliver, what do you really want?”

Oliver threw his chips on the table. “Money,” he said. “I represent a group of… interests in Britain that want to make money, preferably without sharing any of it with the British government…”

“Criminals,” Himmler said. Oliver shrugged. “And your criminals would be willing to help us?”

“For the right price?” Oliver asked. “Of course they would.”

“Excellent,” Himmler said. He opened his bag and brought out a transcript. “This message was intercepted from Britain and was deemed to be of importance. Tell me, what does it mean?”

Oliver skimmed down the page. “It seems to be a speech made before Parliament,” he said. He smiled. “It seems as if I was correct and all of Britain has fallen back in time.”

“I confess I am uncertain what to make of it,” Himmler said. “You will enlighten me; who is the current Prime Minister and what does he represent? What is the current status of Jewish influence? What about the Freemasons? Who is the Monarch; will he support us like the last one was supposed to?”

“The current Prime Minister is Howard Smith,” Oliver said. “He’s Conservative, but apparently a compromise candidate.” He grinned. “If you have an evening spare, I’ll give you a full rundown. There is hardly any Jewish influence within Parliament; most Jews went to Israel…”

“That abominable state,” Himmler burst out. The unpleasantness was back. “The State of Israel will never come into existence!”

Oliver shrugged, trying to appear unconcerned. “As far as I know, there are no Freemasons within the Parliament. The King is King Charles, who has been sidelined by almost all politicians and is generally expected to be removed, along with the rest of his family, should the Lib Dems ever gain power.”

“He will support us then?” Himmler asked. “We could make his role genuine.”

“I doubt it,” Oliver said. He sighed. “It seems from the speech as if you are to go to war with the future England.”

“With the information you have brought us, how can we lose?” Himmler asked. “You will be taken to proper quarters; I will have food and a woman brought to you if you want.” He waved a hand at the laptop. “You will outline a plan for contacting your allies in Britain, for which we will pay you handsomely.”

“It will be a pleasure working with you, Herr Reichsführer,” Oliver said. Himmler shook hands and left, trailing fear in his wake. Heedless of possible watchers, Oliver slumped to the floor.

There were few people whom Heinrich Himmler considered friends. Some people, Goring, for example, were rivals within the complex power struggles of Hitler’s court. Other people, most of his subordinates for example, were clearly inferior to him; who could the Reichsführer be friends with from them? It was bad for discipline. Still, as far as he could, he was friendly with Roth, who’d worked with him on the Night of Long Knives. Roth hadn’t enjoyed that time; even Reichsführer Himmler had grown sick of the killing.

“So, tell me,” Himmler said, “do you believe that they are genuine.”

“Yes, Herr Reichsführer,” Roth said. Whatever their relationship, Himmler would not stand for less than the proper respect. “Now that we are picking up radio broadcasts from Britain, we really have no other choice, but to believe them.”

“The Fuhrer will not be pleased,” Himmler said. “Unfortunately, we have no choice, but to convince him. The files; how helpful can they be?”

Roth smiled. The Reichsführer had fallen in love with the small computers they’d captured. “We’ve barely begun to scratch the surface,” he said. “Unfortunately, while they are helpful in many ways – Galland believes that the aircraft companies could learn from them – many of the files seem designed for children. Long on generalities, short on the specifics we need.”

“And we cannot build more,” Himmler mused. “Not for a long time anyway. Can they be repaired?”

“I don’t think so,” Roth said. “From the list of occupations, there are no… computer specialists. Even if there were any, Oliver believes that without the parts, they cannot be repaired anyway.”

Himmler nodded absently. “This upsets our destiny, but it is a way of pointing us towards our true destiny,” he said. “We have to learn as much as we can from them, whatever the cost.”

“One of the prisoners is a historian,” Roth said carefully, deciding not to mention his skin colour for the moment. “If we were to ask him to write a blunt report…”

“For my eyes only,” Himmler snapped. Roth nodded; a report that placed blame on Hitler on down would not be well-received. “Ask him to start work at once; offer whatever you see fit, time with his wife, time with a French prostitute, anything.”

“Jawohl, Herr Reichsführer,” Roth said. “I shall see to it at once.”

As darkness fell over France, Professor Adrian Horton lay awake, holding his wife in his arms. They’d been too scared for too long; they’d held each other like children, rather than make love in front of their children. The Nazis – he was convinced that it was all real – held his life in their hands, and he was all-too-aware of what the Nazis thought of black men, to say nothing of the white women who married them.

He felt a tear trickle down his cheek; Jasmine shifted in her sleep as it landed on her hair. The… assignment read like a lunatic exam question, with his life and that of his children as the prize. He was under no illusions as to how the Nazis would react to a truthful answer, even though the smooth-talking Roth had promised that the truth, no matter how personally embarrassing it was, would not be punished. Still, he’d never heard of Roth, which meant that Himmler, or someone else, could overrule him.

The Question: Describe the causes and consequences of German defeat. Explain why the Germans were defeated. Suggest ways in which the defeat could be averted. Suggest ways in which the captured technology could be used to aid in that. Time period; one week. Grade; your life…

I’m sorry, he thought, knowing that his decision would be regarded as treason, if he ever managed to return home. Jasmine hadn’t asked him to do anything; he was grateful for that. But, for his children’s sake, there was only one possible answer. Professor Horton mentally composed the answer, until he fell into a fitful sleep.

Over Nantes

France

7^th July 1940

The Messerschmitt Bf 109 had no idea that the Eurofighter was present until a burst of cannon fire tore it apart. The Germans were deploying massive air patrols over France, but they’d failed to adapt their tactics. Dunbar whooped as she blew a second Messerschmitt into flaming debris, the other German fighters scattering away from the British planes. Sudden bursts of black smoke revealed the presence of German anti-aircraft fire, and the Eurofighters went into evasive action.

“Hit the afterburners,” Abernathy ordered, and the Eurofighters leapt forward, jumping to mach two and outrunning the scattered German planes with ease. The Tornados, so high that the German guns would have to be very lucky to even get close to them, followed the Eurofighters, disdaining combat.

“Right behind you, handsome,” Dunbar cheered, as the green fields of France passed underneath them. They were moving so quickly that they’d outraced the warnings that they were coming, but if the Germans managed to force them to engage at close range, they would lose most of their advantages.

“Cut the chatter,” Abernathy snapped, and regretted it. Whatever her attitude towards her male colleges, Dunbar was a great pilot and the best wingman he’d ever had. “This is important!”

“Ah, you want to do it without talking,” Dunbar said, not a bit crushed. “I confirm that there are no enemy fighters orbiting the crash site.”

“Confirmed,” Abernathy agreed. It was odd; he would have placed a squadron on constant patrol. “Fox-One, it’s all yours.”

“Understood,” the voice of the Tornado pilot said. “Launching air-to-ground bombs now.”

Untersturmfuehrer Johan Schmidt paced angrily outside the tent, pausing only to pick up his personal weapon and pack of cheap cigarettes. The strange plane which exercised so much fascination for his commanding officer was still there, still taunting the German scientists who were trying to understand it, and Schmidt spat angrily, before lighting his cigarette and taking a breath.

Seconds later, something screamed across the sky, and he flung himself to the ground on instinct. A small dot raced by, high overhead, with three more dots nearby. He stared at them, his ears hurting from the steadily growing racket, and then he realised that it was coming from behind him. He rolled over, in time to see a monstrous plane screaming by, so low that he could almost touch it. Slowly, mockingly, a bomb fell from the plane – or from where the plane had been – and slammed into the wreckage.

The thunderous blast picked him up and tossed him across a field and into a hedge. Schmidt screamed as his leg shattered on the ground, blood pouring from countless small cuts, and he fell to the ground, keeping his senses by force of will alone. Darkness blurred the edges of his vision, before he focused on the flames. The entire camp, including the crashed aircraft and the scientists, had been devastated.

Mein Gott, he thought, as he finally blacked out. There was nothing left of the plane at all, just burning wreckage. What the hell did they hit us with?