Tempest hesitated, forming his thoughts. In several respects, the space program was far more advanced than the first steps in the original timeline; they knew far more about space flight and space technology than their predecessors. Computer-generated simulations, for example, ensured that the entire operation could be practiced time and time again, with every contingency planned for and counter-steps devised.
Which, of course, didn’t change the fact that some of the technology was from 1941 and wasn’t always safe to the nth degree. If something had gone wrong on one of the designed SSTOs, the crew would have a good chance of making it back alive, but if the Clarke-class heavy lift rocket, which would carry a large capsule into space, went wrong, it would explode like a roman candle.
“They’ve been simulating for a long time,” he said finally. “They think that it will take two weeks to assemble the main core of the station once they’re in orbit, using the equipment we’re supposed to be placing in orbit. Once that’s done, we can start putting up a regular crew and expanding further.”
Dashwood nodded, smiling to himself. Once a person was in Low Earth Orbit, they were halfway to anywhere in the solar system. His plans, the ones that Hanover and himself had discussed, were boundless; war provided an excellent way to spend money without much oversight by short-sighted politicians.
He wants a silver bullet, Dashwood thought grimly. The prospects of a land war being fought all the way through Germany to Moscow were horrifying, even to the most enthusiastic proponent of the war. Orbital weapons could make the war shorter, even with the technology they were used to working with, and that was worth any price.
“I think we can clear for launch,” Tempest said, checking his watch. The informal air had dissipated with the first disaster. “The launch window is opening now.”
“Excellent,” Dashwood said, tapping a button on the computer. The launch sequence began, counting down the ten minutes until the launch. He watched grimly as the final checks were made and the crew hastened to evacuate the launch pad.
“I confirm launch commit,” Tempest said, as the counter ticked down. “Armstrong-class confirmed for dispatch. Launch telemetry online and downloading into secure storage.”
“Do you think we’ll ever get used to this?” Dashwood asked, as the counter reached zero. “Launching.”
The two boosters on either side of the tank began flaring in perfect unison, slowly pushing the massive tank into the air. It picked up speed as the power grew, lifting it into orbit without bothering with stage separation. The boosters, too, would be useful to the orbiting station, once it was constructed.
“Telemetry indicates stable orbit achieved,” Tempest said. He grinned. “We have laid the first stone of the first space station ever to exist in this timeline.”
Ten Downing Street
London, United Kingdom
8th June 1941
The roar of jet engines and the strange putt-putt-putt of the V1 pulsejets could be heard echoing over London as the air raid sirens howled through the streets. After nearly five months of peace, London was being raided again; Germany had launched nearly five hundred V1’s at the city, as well as other primitive cruise missiles at the RAF bases.
If they had launched them during the invasion of Norway, during those final desperate battles, it might have had a real effect, Hanover thought, watching out over London from the windows. His security staff had tried to convince him to go to the bunker, but he’d refused, not only from the best of motives.
“There are people out there who have no shelters, no security and no hope if we are attacked as badly as we were during the Battle of Dover,” he’d said. “I will share their danger, as far as I can.”
An explosion billowed up from the Docklands, sending a blast of fire into the air. Hanover shook his head; the Germans were concentrating on terror bombing, rather than strategic attacks that might have severely embarrassed the British. It would have made sense from the strategic point of view; even nearly a year after the Transition, Britain still had difficulties in replacing the Eurofighters, on the rare occasions when one of them was lost.
Should have concentrated on our airfields, Hanover sneered, even as he understood their logic. A V1 was not accurate by any definition of the term; a five hundred-metre impact near the target would be lucky. Still, if the V1s had been hurled at the airfields, and actually managed to hit something important… it could have been very bad.
The computer display, updated regularly from PJHQ, changed as he watched. RAF Tornados and Eurofighters swooped and danced across Europe, hunting down the launchers and destroying them. Others moved in a finely coordinated dance with the ground defences, knocking down the V1s as they headed blindly for their targets. The battle was unpleasant, but there could be no quarter.
“Message from Oxford, Prime Minister,” his secretary said. “The Royal Family is safe out there.”
“Oh, joy,” Hanover muttered. “Can’t that pompous twit get anything right?”
He returned to staring out of the window and thinking rapidly. His concerns over Norway, over the reports from Russia, blended into one; the team in Russia was reporting that Stalin was planning to expand into Sweden before the Allies could arrive. He scowled; the covert – very covert – support to the Finns wasn’t having the effect he had hoped. While the Finns were willing to fight, they wanted Allied guarantees for Finland afterwards, and Hanover knew that they were in no position to make such guarantees.
He shook his head. It was the Kurdish and Shia situation all over again. Why should the Finns fight against tyranny if the Allies could just cut and run at any moment? Even the handful of SAS teams in Finland, using satellite reconnaissance to warn the Finns, couldn’t convince them.
“Prime Minister, Major Stirling is here to see you,” his secretary said. “Shall I send him in?”
“Please do,” Hanover said absently. He nodded politely to Stirling as he entered the room, carrying the latest in intelligence from Norway. “Good afternoon, Major,” he said.
“Good afternoon, sir,” Stirling said. He looked more confident than he had the first time they’d met. “I have the latest briefs for you.”
“And has anything come in on the air attacks?” Hanover asked, placing the first thing first. “It’s rather important at the moment.”
“We seem to have broken it up,” Stirling said. “Strike Command thinks that the Germans were expecting to launch several more from each launcher, judging by the explosions after the RAF struck at them. The Germans have been experimenting with radar-guided systems again, to judge by some of the flak, but only one plane was damaged.”
Hanover lifted an eyebrow. “It made it back safely,” Stirling assured him. “There were only a handful of real piloted aircraft, heading down as low as they could across the sea. Fortunately, the AWACS saw it and the planes took them down.”
“I wonder what they thought they were doing,” Hanover said absently. “What’s happening in Norway?”
Stirling activated the display projector and displayed a tactical map of Norway. “The American 1st Army, under General Patton, is advancing on Oslo, something that they’ve been doing for the last week and a bit. The problem is that Norway is a very bad country to fight a land war in; the Germans launched sea borne invasions against all their major ports. We’re having to do it the hard way, marching across the country, and logistics are a pain in the ass, pardon my French.”