“Tell… that guy in the planning office that I want it worked out as soon as possible,” Roosevelt ordered. “In fact, I’ll discuss it myself with Harry, and then work out the details. Politically, it won’t be a hard sell; the Germans have been making themselves as obnoxious there as elsewhere.”
He chuckled. “On a different topic, what do you think of the new Internet?”
King’s mind went to the very special mobile phone in his pocket. The new Internet, a jury-rigged system based around laptops that had been intended for the Third World, and a series of relay stations that created a haze of electronic bandwidth, wasn’t anything like as capable as the one in 2015. Still, it was so much better than what everyone had had before that everyone was delighted, particularly the people running it. They were coining it in; millions of dollars going towards the British war chest.
“It could be improved,” he said dryly. “I like it, on the whole. There is a certain charm about it that the one we left behind lacked, and with the new patent laws it should continue to keep that charm. The bandwidth is slow, and I think it will remain slow until we get some landlines laid down, but it’s so much better than anything we had before.”
“Hoover wants it shut down,” Roosevelt said bluntly. “He thinks that it’s a nest of subversives.”
King smiled. The laptops for the Third World had been designed with avoiding the attention of a series of corrupt governments; it was difficult for 2015 technology – and impossible for 1940 – to trace a particular user. Since someone – he suspected the very personable Jim Oliver – had re-introduced Wikipedia, thousands of people had started to use the future knowledge for themselves. Some technical data had been censored; nothing social had been removed at all. Countless people now knew that Hoover was – perhaps – a homosexual, among other effects.
“Not everyone disagrees with him,” Roosevelt continued. “It’s amazing how quickly some members of Congress joined up with him. Anyone would think that they were concerned about their reputations. What happened to MacArthur could happen to anyone.”
King laughed. “The march of progress, Mr President,” he said. “They need to develop more upstanding and neat lives.”
“Perhaps,” Roosevelt said. “What about the dangers of subversives?”
“Hoover saw them everywhere,” King said dismissively. His mobile phone bleeped once. He ignored it. “It was never a serious danger, even in my time; if they are talking, they are not plotting.”
Roosevelt smiled. “I’d get back to the meeting, if I was you,” he said. “You might be making lots of money off the Internet” – King smiled sheepishly – “but you will need political clout. Official Washington might have got used to you, but hardly anywhere else has.”
King shook hands and left the room, wandering back down towards the meeting room. As soon as he was unobserved, he pulled out his mobile phone and checked the message; it was simple and – as a codeword – would mean nothing to Hoover’s FBI. He wiped the message anyway; Marine Lieutenant Jones Robinson’s mission was too dangerous to risk exposure.
How much do they know? He asked himself, before putting a relaxed smile on his face and wandering into the meeting room. Did they know that he had forced forward the new – unreadable – Internet? Did they know where most of the funds went? Did they know anything about Marine Lieutenant Jones Robinson? Did they know that the Black Power movement was supported by some of the future people?
King smiled grimly. He had no doubt that if they did know, the reaction would not be kind. At best, he would be thrown out of the country; at worst charged with high treason. He grinned; if the game was easy and safe, everyone would play.
Chapter Three: Holy War
Salaam
Nr Mecca, Republic of Arabia (Saudi Arabia)
24th March 1941
The small town was a shambles. Buildings, some complete, some incomplete, were scattered over the small port, which was modern. Tents and mobile homes were lined up neatly as thousands of Muslims sought to build a new city near the oldest city in Islam. It was a harder time than Shahan McLachlan had expected; the remains of the Saudi tribesmen were still raiding outlying outposts.
“The Russians are supporting them,” General Flynn commented. The British Army had a large presence nearby; a monstrous military outpost that had been designed to support entire armies and air forces. With the war in the Middle East heating up, and the thousands of refugees flooding into the Republic, the outpost was more important than ever.
Flynn waved a gun in the air and passed it over to Shahan. It looked… rough, unfinished, but it was clearly deadly. “What is it?” Shahan asked finally. “It reminds me of something, but I can’t put my finger on it.”
“It’s a proto-AK-47,” Flynn said grimly. “The Russians or the Germans must have captured one, probably from America or the East Indies.” He hesitated. “More likely the Americans; the East Indies only had a handful. It’s a good thing they still follow the Inshallah method of shooting.”
He was trying to bait Shahan, who didn’t rise to the bait. “Then we need to strengthen our own patrols around the new farmland,” Shahan said. Being mayor of the new community was harder than he had imagined. “Damn it; we have limited manpower and thousands of things to do.”
“Assimilating people into a community is harder than it looks,” Flynn said dryly. Shahan glared at him; Flynn gazed back evenly. “Still, the intellectual tradition hasn’t been completely destroyed, as it would have been later.”
“True,” Shahan agreed, forgetting his annoyance. “Can you spare extra men?”
“Not and fight the war at the same time,” Flynn said. “We’re training some of your people and the younger Arabs as warriors, but the former warriors can’t fight for shit. If we give them advanced tanks, their first response is to charge at the enemy – and if the Fireflies were a little less armoured it would have quickly wiped them out. As it is, I may have to pull out the infantry brigades.”
Shahan scowled. “Is it that bad, up north?”
“Oh, yes,” Flynn said. “The Soviets, I think, are preparing for an attack on Baghdad, and the Germans might be joining them. Failing that, they might be going west instead… and you know what happened the last time they did that.”
Shahan scowled. The German raid on Palestine had been beaten off, ironically by a combination of Jewish and Muslim fighters, but not before it had slaughtered indiscriminately. Many Arabs had wanted to welcome the Germans; their reward had been merely to be slaughtered first.
“Either way, our lines are too long,” Flynn said. “Even though we now have the new regiments, particularly the ones that were formed from Contemporary personnel and some of your people, the lines are too weak. I imagine that Stalin is licking his lips and considering a two-prong attack to seal us in Baghdad. That’s what they did in Stalingrad, after all, and I’m sure that he’ll think that they can do it.”
Shahan blinked. The Germans and the Turks had levelled Tikrit, the hometown of their later enemy, around one hundred kilometres from Baghdad. Did they know that they were wiping Saddam from history? He thought absently. Did they mean to do it? Saddam’s future hometown was just inside the area of German control – nominally under Turkish control – and the Soviet lines started just eastward of Tikrit. As the crow flew, the Russians were within fifty kilometres of Baghdad.