Oliver furrowed his brow in puzzlement. What were Hoover and MacArthur doing in bed together? One idea suggested itself and he sniggered, before returning to the transmission.
“We’ll have to put everyone in those factories under watch,” Hoover said. “With these new tools, it should be… easier than it would have been otherwise. Starting with that bitch he has guarding his office.” There was a pause. “Now that troops will be moving to Europe, to Britain, we will have less time than we really need.”
“Of course,” Tolson said. The transmission started to hiss with static as they passed out of range. “Perhaps if we…”
The transmission cut out entirely. Oliver cursed the paranoia of the designers. Detection equipment was common in 2015 Britain, but non-existent in 1941 America. His mind raced; knowing that Hoover distrusted him – or some of his staff – wasn’t unexpected, but the link with MacArthur was unexpected. Why was he involved?
“Perhaps he wants revenge on Britain,” he mused, and decided that it made sense. MacArthur’s career had been ruined beyond repair by the future revelations; no matter the legalities of the situation it had been inescapable that he had – or would have – left troops behind to face Japanese captivity. Yes, MacArthur had good reasons for joining Hoover’s new bug-hunt; hunting black freedom fighters.
I wonder if I should warn Britain, he thought, and shivered. The last thing he wanted was anything that interested the British Government – to say nothing of the intelligence services – in him. Hoover’s determination to keep his latest purchase a secret boded ill; what did J Edgar Hoover want with surveillance equipment like that? Did he have any choice, but to tip off Britain?
“Is everything all right?” Cora asked, sticking her head in through the door. Oliver realised that he’d been muttering under his breath. “How was the meeting with the gay guardian?”
“I would really not let Hoover know that you see those sites,” Oliver said, without rancour. Cora would have blushed if she could have. “It could have gone better,” he said. “He wanted to know if I watched for subversives.”
Cora’s mouth opened in shock. It was remarkably attractive. “You mean us,” she said, waving a black hand around the room. “Don’t they think that we are good Americans?”
“They don’t know,” Oliver said. He hadn’t paid much attention to the Civil Rights Era in America. He made a mental note to email one of the universities that had opened a business for companies wishing to invest in America or the rest of the Contemporary world, one that provided a briefing on the local history and culture. “They look at your colour and think that you’re unreliable, and the craziness in the south only makes it worse.”
He shook his head. “I want you to get the security staff to quietly start running ELINT scans around all of our properties,” he said. “Check your home as well, just in case.”
“I’m living in one of the flophouses,” Cora said. Oliver winced; he’d forgotten. The new flophouses for the people who wanted to move to the big city, the Big Apple, but hadn’t yet found a job.
“Perhaps you should move into Park View,” he said, meaning the estate for himself and his senior managers. “You would be allowed to live there, and its totally secure. There should be some new bungalows there.”
Cora’s face shone like the sun. “Thank you,” she breathed, and kissed him. Oliver felt his body respond, but fought it down.
“Later, perhaps,” he said, and Cora giggled. “For the moment, we have a business to run.”
Chapter Fourteen: Culture Shock (Again)
Newcastle Airport/Camp Tommy
Nr Newcastle, United Kingdom
20th April 1941
The small aircraft had belonged to a millionaire who’d been in France during the Transition. Its speed, combined with unparalleled fuel efficiency, had led to its pilot – and default owner – offering to fly it for the Ministry of Defence in order to avoid combat service. The RAF had practically conscripted every pilot in Britain, particularly those with genuine military experience, for the new aircraft, and not every one of them had wanted to be conscripted.
As Stirling watched, it touched down neatly on the private runway, built by a different millionaire as a gesture for his home city. It taxied neatly to a stop near the terminal, followed by the equipment on trucks, until the ladder was connected on to the plane. Stirling checked his cap and stepped forward as Dwight D Eisenhower stepped out of the plane. The Supreme Commander of Operation Arctic, and Commander of Allied Troops within Britain – which meant American troops – stepped out of the plane, and stopped dead.
Stirling concealed a smile. He’d seen it before, on the now-dead Captain Townley of the Queen Elizabeth, and on Admiral Somerville and Admiral Cunningham, but it was different for the man who would have been President. For the American, suddenly the Transition was real; the old colonial master had grown powerful beyond hope of containment.
He saluted, sharply, and was unsurprised to note that Eisenhower’s salute was a little shaky. He tried to see the airport, a marvel of sophistication, through Eisenhower’s eyes and smiled. Eisenhower must have thought that he’d come to wonderland.
“Welcome to Britain,” Stirling said. Eisenhower shook hands weakly, still staring around. “I’m Major Stirling.”
“Pleased to meet you, I think,” Eisenhower said. They’d met before, but Stirling was too low-ranking for Eisenhower to notice him then. “Thank you for honouring my request.”
Stirling nodded. Under normal circumstances, a person of Eisenhower’s statue could expect to be met by a whole host of dignitaries. He’d requested a low-key introduction to Britain, and to Camp Tommy 1, and Hanover had sent Stirling to meet him. Formal meetings and introductions could come later.
“This is Newcastle,” he said, as he led the way into the car park and headed towards a limousine. The security guards, staying out of the way, moved to blanket them in a protective envelopment; enough pre-emptive-revenge cases had appeared to convince the Government to insist on an armed escort, although no one had been able to think of a reason to hate Eisenhower that would have lasted sixty years. “Newcastle and Aberdeen are going to serve as the main staging posts for the troops.”
Eisenhower was reeling. “There are so many cars,” he said, as their own vehicle opened its doors. “Who owns them all?”
Stirling grinned. “There are fewer here than you might expect,” he said, knowing that Eisenhower wouldn’t have expected anything like as many were parked there. “Although we have managed to get a fairly steady line of petrol supplies, we are short on reasons to come to airports, these days. The flights back and forth don’t always attract people.”
He invited Eisenhower to sit inside the car and sat down beside him. He’d insisted on bringing along a driver, simply so he could try to answer Eisenhower’s questions as they left the airport. The American still seemed stunned as the car drove onto the main road and then moved onto the motorway, heading north.
“What is that?” Eisenhower asked, as a large building passed by on the left. “What on Earth is that for?”
Stirling hesitated. “It’s an office block,” he said finally. “There was a big trend towards monstrous glass and iron structures a few years ago. You should see some of the ones in London.”
“I see,” Eisenhower said. He remained silent as they drove off the motorway and headed into a series of side roads, finally reaching a fenced-off complex.
“This used to be a MOD complex – that’s the Ministry of Defence – before the army was cut, back in the 1970s,” Stirling explained, as the guard checked the papers their driver extended to him. “It was designed to hold five thousand troops in reasonable comfort, if cramped conditions. It was renovated during the first conscription period and hosted the newer divisions, before they went to the Middle East. It’s a bit rough and ready, but it’s the best we have.”