The Long Hard Road

Chapter Twenty-Two: The Three-Edged Sword

Ten Downing Street

London, United Kingdom

1^st May 1942

Hanover faced Baron Edmund over the table, watching the BBC director with concern. He kept his feelings from his face with an effort; this wasn’t going to go well. Edmund’s face was twitching; his eyes were desperate.

“You’ve seen the reports and the final recording,” Edmund said. “You must have heard it.”

Hanover nodded. The camera hadn’t been in a position to record the visuals of what he was certain had to have been a rape, but he had heard the sounds. Cold hard logic reminded him that Stewart had known the risks; human compassion said he should try to help, if he could.

“I heard it,” he said finally. “She did know the risks.”

Edmund glared at him. “Are you completely inhuman?” He snapped. “You have to do something!”

“Like what?” Hanover asked reasonably. “She got herself into this!”

“There’s still a signal from her camera,” Edmund snapped. “You can send the SAS to rescue her!”

Hanover considered. The prospect of Stewart’s body being used as a camp whore wasn’t as appealing as it had been before; the prospect of her being experimented on was worse. On the other hand…

“There is no way to know if she’s still with her camera,” Hanover said calmly. “The orbital images pin the location down precisely, to a manor house in the German country. I believe it belongs to Goring.”

He watched as Edmund’s face twisted backwards and forwards. They did owe her, he supposed; her information on the changes to the German command structure had been useful, particularly the titbits that had never been broadcast to the public. Still, inserting an SAS team into an uncertain place, with an uncertain mission, would be difficult, to say the least.

“So you won’t do anything to rescue her,” Edmund snapped. “How do you think they’ll play out on the evening news?”

Hanover felt a flicker of white-hot anger. He didn’t need it. “The stupid girl got herself into it,” he snapped. “She’s just like the volunteers who went to Iraq and Iran as human shields – and then was forced to stand in front of weapons or army command posts.”

“You advocated firing on them anyway,” Edmund snapped.

“And I was right,” Hanover snapped back. The two men glared at each other for a long dangerous moment. Hanover controlled his temper; they did owe her something, but perhaps not enough to risk a direct attempt to save her.

“We cannot send the SAS into an unknown region,” he said. “It would be dangerous; the last thing we want is to risk their reputation as supermen. Even though there’s been no sign of Skorzany, we can’t risk the Germans gaining a propaganda victory.” He held up a hand before Edmund could protest. “There is another option,” he said.

Edmund looked up hopefully. “What is it?” He asked. “Please, if you can do something…”

Hanover smiled inwardly. Edmund had been on the verge of disowning Stewart when she’d been… imprisoned. “We have to establish what is going on,” he said. “Case the joint, in gangster vernacular.”

“You’ll send someone in?” Edmund asked. “Who?”

“None of your business,” Hanover said. “Baron; we will try to rescue her – I suppose we owe her that much. However, this has a condition attached; you must not, now or ever, reveal that anything is happening, or that you’re even aware of any change in her status. She filed irregularly, so no one will notice.”

“I understand,” Edmund said. “I’ll make certain of it.”

“Not one word,” Hanover said. “If there is the slightest hint that there might be a rescue mission, they’ll kill her or surround her with an entire brigade of Waffen-SS. If a single word gets out, we’ll hit the site from the air.” He smiled at Edmund’s expression. “It might be more merciful.”

Benjamin Matthews Senior had often considered that he had been born into the wrong time. His childhood had been filled with tales of Kim and similar figures, advancing over Central Asia, meeting tribesmen and impressing them with tales of British glory, and outwitting stupid slow Russian stereotypes. Naturally, he went into the Army, but the British army of 2015 frowned upon young Captains taking leave of the rest of the military and trying to play the Lone Ranger. His failure to complete the SAS selection course – much to everyone’s surprise – had left him without a mission; perfect for a recruitment by MI6.

“We do missions here that you’ll have only read about in books,” the recruiter had said, and Matthews had never looked back. From inserting into several different terrorist groups, to resuming a dissident from a Saudi jail, Captain Matthews had finally found his place. Too smart to remain in the Army, too… limited to grasp the real danger of his work, meeting the Prime Minister seemed to be exactly what he deserved.

“Mr Prime Minister, may I say that it is a pleasure to meet you at last,” Matthews boomed, shaking Hanover’s hand with gusto. “I understand that you have a mission for me?”

Hanover didn’t seem amused. “How’s your German?” He asked. “Are you prepared for a mission into Germany?”

Matthews grinned. “She’s fine, how’s yours?” He asked. Hanover stared at him; one of the few men who wasn’t either intimidated or exasperated with him. “I speak fluent German, thank you.”

Hanover rattled off a question in flawless German. “So, the pen of your aunt is in the garden,” Matthews said. “Is my mission to rescue her?”

Hanover smiled for the first time. “It is not normal for an agent to be briefed by the Prime Minister,” he said. Matthews, who wasn’t the idiot he enjoyed pretending to be, had worked out that that meant that the mission was very important. “This is a volunteer mission, so if you want to back out, now is the time to say so.”

“And miss out on a chance of scoring with some hot German birds?” Matthews asked wryly. He suspected that Hanover wasn’t fooled by the act. “I reluctantly accept.”

Hanover smiled. “Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to observe a German manor house and locate one Kristy Stewart,” he said. Matthews lifted his eyebrows in an exaggerated expression of shock. “Yes, she’s been finally brought face to face with the true face of the Nazis, and they seem to be holding her prisoner. We still have a location beacon coming from her camera.”

Matthews thought quickly. “That doesn’t mean that she’s with the camera,” he pointed out.

“I know,” Hanover said. Matthews was impressed; he’d met more than a few politicians who had an exaggerated idea of their own importance. “That’s why we’re sending you. Your mission is to find out what the situation really is.”

“Well, it might be interesting,” Matthews said, staying in character. “Besides, it beats working with the American SAS trainees.”

“We had to help them build their own force,” Hanover said. “Your helicopter will leave tonight, along with the bombers that will hammer the Germans and distract them from any other incursions on their air defence network.”

Matthews stuck out a hand. “I would be honoured to accept the mission,” he said. Hanover shook his hand firmly. “I’ll bring her back, alive or dead.”

“I’ll settle for having a clear idea of her location,” Hanover said. “The SAS can recover her.”

“Overrated bastards,” Matthews said. “Don’t worry, sir; you can leave it all in my hands.”

Major Steve Stirling had found himself somewhat at a loose end. The Prime Minister had found him an office within the main governing complex – in his role as Hanover’s aide – but there was very little for him to do at the moment. The Oversight Committee had branched out now that events had moved far from the original history, moving into issues of shaping a post-war world that would be best for Britain – and of course the world – and Stirling wasn’t needed any longer.

He smiled. The arrival of American troops in vast numbers would put him back in the front lines; such as they were, as the priority was to avoid a repeat of the riots in 1941. General Eisenhower wasn’t too keen on listening to such a junior officer, but he’d slowly come around to recognising that he served Hanover as a go-between. Still, for the moment, he had time to continue his investigation into HMS Artful.

The computers of Ten Downing Street were special in one way; they had immediate access to the entire military intranet, hiding information from the public, but never from the Civil Service. No one knew when the Prime Minister might want a briefing; the links were kept open at all times, protected by the sheer power of quantum encryption and the certain knowledge that if anyone in 1942 breached the centre of British Government, the war was over anyway.

Stirling accessed the Ministry of Defences files and started to work, whistling cheerfully to himself. What information wasn’t immediately available even to a senior Civil Servant was opened to Cunningham’s access codes, ones passed on to Stirling against all the rules governing the government’s computers. Sheer laziness beat security, every time.

“Now, that’s interesting,” he muttered, as he poured himself a cup of tea, using one of his precious supply of teabags. You just couldn’t get them these days, along with a lot of other luxuries from the world of 2015. “Why would the files simply… stop?”

Sipping his tea, he started to work on the files, launching questions into the entire MOD databank, searching for HMS Artful. The mere use of a question program was covered by the Official Secrets Act; the program had been carefully modified to allow access only to documents within his – or rather Cunningham’s – security clearance. The first file was the official log, which had attachments of the other logs on the vessel that were written by the other officers.

He chuckled. He wasn’t sure, but he suspected that the Royal Navy viewed the idea of anyone, but the captain, writing a log with some concern. Who knew what they might put in? Stirling didn’t; an entire chunk of HMS Artful’s logs were missing. It was as if they’d never been filed at all.

“That’s ridiculous,” he said aloud, examining the screen. It was a serious offence to fail to file a log, yet the last entry dated from 20^th September 1940/2015, when Artful had departed Britain for a mission. It was possible, he knew, that Artful might have been sent directly to East Asia, to join the battle and meet its fate in the Dutch East Indies in December, but…

“Oh, shit,” he said. There was no overt record that the submarine had returned to the base… yet there was a record that Artful had taken delivery of eighteen torpedoes, which meant that she had fired off some of her previous load. He scowled; the submarine had returned to base, and yet the log said clearly that it had never returned to Britain at all. The only proof that Artful had returned was the proof that it had been rearmed… and had some minor maintenance conducted.

“But that makes no sense,” he muttered. “If the ship had had an engine fault, such as the one that forced it to surface far too close to the Japanese, then it should have been noticed in the dockyard and…”

The date glared up at him. Artful had returned to port on the 26^th of September – without any mention that it had done so – and the crew had clearly taken no shore leave at all. The entire process had been carried out in secret… and he knew what else had happened during that period. The Royal navy had been engaged on search and rescue duties…

On the 25^th of September 1940, an American battleship and a British liner had been blown out of the water, apparently by a u-boat sunk three days later by HMS Coventry. The u-boat should never have been able to get that close to Britain, not with all the patrols, and it should certainly not have been able to get a shot off at both fast ships.

“No,” he said. The thought refused to vanish; the Artful had destroyed both craft, reloaded, and headed off to meet its rendezvous with destiny… after having had some work done on the ship. Might the repairers have sabotaged it enough to ensure that the ship – and its crew – were lost?

“Oh, God,” he said grimly. “What the hell do I do now?”

He knew what the procedure was; he’d certainly read enough books and seen enough movies. The hero would recruit the one incorruptible politician, or media spokesman, and broadcast the news to the world. The only problem was simple; life didn’t work like that. All he had was a chain of inferences; not enough to force anyone to do anything.

He took a deep breath. Only one politician had been calling for an inquest into the loss of the Artful, and perhaps he would be interested. Except… that would be betraying Hanover, who’d been good to him and helped his career, and who’d been very good for Britain. Attacking him – and the charge that he’d deliberately sunk the ships had been levelled before by both the Germans and Hoover – would only damage Britain’s interests; at worst, it would mean a war with America.

“What the hell do I do now?” He asked himself again. “What the hell do I do now?”

Travis Mortimer would have laughed at the irony. The Opposition – the Liberal Democrats – had been quite happy to tear him to pieces for weakening their position in the House of Commons, but Hanover had invited him to visit the centre of British Government. It was in recognition of his power, he was certain, even though Elspeth disagreed.

“It’s an attempt to shut you up,” Elspeth had said. His sister now walked beside him, her face twisted by a frown. “The Prime Minister has a duty to ask you to resign.”

Mortimer smiled. Naturally, he had held against the battering from Tim Barlow and his flunkies. By dividing the Liberal vote, he had threatened Barlow’s own power base. By exposing the weakness of Barlow’s position, he had lost, but he had also won.

“Quite spectacular,” he said, as he was shown into the Prime Minister’s office. Somewhat to his disappointment, there was no sign of the famous red button. The room was well decorated, however; a writing desk sat against the far corner that had been supposed to have belonged to Charles Dickens.

“It’s an old family heirloom,” Hanover said. He sounded vaguely amused. “It’s a fake, of course.”

Mortimer lifted an eyebrow, feeling Elspeth seethe beside him. “Why would your family have kept a fake writing desk?” He asked. “It’s not as if its worth much.”

Hanover looked innocently at him, his face guileless. Mortimer felt a flicker of suspicion. “Because it’s a writing desk,” Hanover said. “Whatever something’s origins, it may still have a worthwhile place in the world, don’t you think?”

Mortimer couldn’t quite escape the thought that there was something that he was missing. “We have come to discuss matters with you,” Elspeth said. “May we be seated?”

“Of course,” Hanover said. If he was surprised by her rudeness, he didn’t show it. “Please, have a seat?” He waved them to chairs. “Should I send for tea?”

“This isn’t a social call,” Elspeth snapped. “We have come here on business.”

“I was under the impression that Travis, your brother, was the MP,” Hanover said. “Still, perhaps we could get to the point?”

“HMS Artful,” Mortimer snapped. “The submarine that was lost due to incompetence.”

“I do trust that you’re not blaming that on the ship’s captain?” Hanover asked mildly. Mortimer felt a sudden flicker of rage. “That would be… embarrassing.”

“Was that a threat?” Elspeth asked. “We know that Artful engaged a target and then returned to port – what was that target?”

Hanover seemed to become very still. “A German u-boat, perhaps,” he said. “A surface ship?”

“They didn’t have any back then,” Elspeth said. “I believe that Artful fired upon the American ships.”

Hanover lifted a single eyebrow. Mortimer saw a flicker of triumph in his eyes. “Might I ask how you came to this remarkable conclusion?”

Elspeth opened her mouth. Mortimer talked across her. “We’re not at liberty to reveal our sources,” he said. A friend in the dockyard would have been dropped into very hot water indeed if Elspeth had given him away. “However, we know that Artful fired upon the American battleship.”

Hanover chuckled suddenly. “I’m tempted to let you go out believing that,” he said. “However, I would strongly prefer that you didn’t. Your brother’s memory would be ruined. Artful did indeed engage a target, but it wasn’t the American battleship, the West Virginia.”

“So you admit that Artful carried out a secret mission,” Elspeth said. “What did our brother do for you?”

Mortimer flinched at the acid in her tone. “The entire affair has been clouded in secrecy,” Hanover said. “I might add; this has happened for a very good reason. If you persist, you might have to face something terrible.”

Elspeth glared at him. “You’ll send James Bond around to do us in?”

“No, I’ll tell you the truth,” Hanover said. “Do you wish to know the truth?” One eyebrow quirked. “Are your truth-handling abilities up to it?”

Mortimer grinned. “How do you know we won’t tell everyone?”

Hanover ignored the question. “You might be better off ignorant,” he said. “You won’t tell anyone because you’re not stupid enough to do so. Do you still want to know?”

Mortimer took a deep breath, then nodded once. Elspeth nodded grimly. “You were half-right,” Hanover said. “Artful, under Captain Mortimer, did indeed engage an American ship, but not a battleship. Rather, it engaged an SSBN, USS Tennessee.”

Mortimer blinked. “The Americans do not have nukes,” he said.

“They did in 2015,” Hanover said. “How were we – or they – supposed to know that we would fall back in time? You know how hard it was for us to adapt; think how back it must have been for the crew of the American submarine.”

Elspeth narrowed her eyes. “Why didn’t they just make contact with us, or with President Roosevelt?”

“Not as easy as you might think,” Hanover said. “Imagine; you’re in a submarine, and you loose all communication with the mainland. You have no way of knowing what’s going on, and you have standing orders to engage the enemy’s cities, perhaps even a couple of allied cities, if you lose contact for more than a set period of time.”

Mortimer paled. “My god,” he breathed. “You mean that the American ship… might have nuked London?”

“It was a possibility,” Hanover said grimly. “We caught a sniff of the craft in early September; from the effects it was possible that it came though the Transition later than we did. Certainly, the German aircraft we found was over daylight Britain before the Transition. There was no time to lose – Artful was given orders to fire if it even remotely looked likely that the Americans were preparing to fire.”

He smiled grimly. “She did, and she hammered the American ship with ten torpedoes,” he said. Mortimer felt his mouth drop open. “The entire incident was covered up, although clearly not perfectly. Yes, you could reveal everything, but for what? After the Parliamentary debate, you might find out that you are recalled anyway.”

“They want to recall me,” Mortimer said. His voice was shaky. “Can you help me?”

Hanover smiled. “Perhaps,” he said. “There would be a price.”

“Our silence?” Elspeth asked. “I suppose we could see to that, in exchange for your help.”

“They don’t call me the current party leader for nothing,” Hanover said. “I look forward to you joining us.”