He shrugged. “Not that it matters for the moment,” he said. “So… Oslo in two weeks, and Redemption as soon as possible after that. The war might just be within shouting distance of being won.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Plot to Seize the White House
Bracken Estate
Nr New York, USA
12th June 1941
It was an open secret, in the housing estate that was sixty years ahead of its time, that Cora Burnside and Jim Oliver were lovers. Although they each had their own small house within the secure compound, they often spent the night together. Although some of the older residents had believed that she cooked for him – after all, that was woman’s work, they said – they spent too long together for that to be believed. Still, the estate had been founded and marketed on a desire for privacy, and wagging tongues were gently reminded that Oliver did hold a controlling interest in the company that ran the estates.
Oliver spent most of the night thinking, much to Cora’s concern. It wasn’t like him to worry endlessly about something, even after the recent news from the south. A race riot in New Orleans had gotten badly out of hand, and the newspapers were screaming about the black peril, and telling sensational stories about looting, rape and arson. The growing crescendo of news, all of it biased against the black population, kept rising, prompting demands for state intervention and a declaration of martial law.
Cora opened one eye and looked down at Oliver. His eyes were closed, but she could tell that he wasn’t asleep; his body hadn’t relaxed into a sleeping posture. One of his arms was holding her, but the other was flexing softly, gently, a sign of gnawing concern.
She kissed him once, on the cheek. “Jim?” She asked. “What’s the matter?”
Oliver’s voice was tired. “Go to sleep, love,” he said, turning over slightly. “One of us should get some sleep anyway.”
Cora held him gently. “What’s the problem?” She asked. “I’ll help you.”
Oliver shook his head. “You can’t help me,” he said. “All hell is about to break loose, and I don’t know what to do.”
Cora blinked at the genuine terror in his voice. “Sweetheart, tell me what’s happening,” she said. “I can help you to understand, if nothing else.”
Oliver chucked slightly, then gently let go of her and turned on the light. Electric light was hardly new in America, but she still found the brightness astonishing. “I’m going to get a cup of tea,” he said. “Want one?”
Cora shook her head, but sat up anyway, pulling on her dressing gown around her tender breasts, sore from their lovemaking. Oliver slipped into the kitchen, and returned a moment later, carrying a cup of tea. He sat down next to her, slipping into her arms.
“Hoover is planning a coup,” he said grimly. Cora’s eyes went wide as he outlined the details of the meeting. “I spent the last few days downloading information from Hoover’s bugs, the ones he doesn’t know about.”
Cora giggled. “You planted bugs on Hoover?”
“Sort of,” Oliver said. “The plan’s simple; they’re going to attack the White House and blame it on communist and/or black insurgents. In the confusion, their candidate becomes President, with MacArthur as his Secretary of War and Hoover as the new Secretary of Internal Security.” He snorted. “Idiots can’t even get the terms right; it should be Secretary of Homeland Defence.”
He sipped his tea grimly. “They’re going to abandon the war, taking Norway as their price for peace, and concentrate on repairing the damage to America. They’re going to purge the communists, the blacks, and the trade unionists… everyone who might oppose their vision of what America should be like. By the time they’ve finished, America won’t be recognisable anymore.”
Cora shivered against him. “You have to do something,” she said. “Can’t you tell Roosevelt?”
Oliver’s eyes brightened. “By now, some elements of the plot must be being seen by Roosevelt,” he said. “Of course, the dog’s not barking in the night time because the dog is Hoover and he’s involved in the plot up to his panty line. The FBI won’t see anything if Hoover tells them to ignore it, will they?”
Cora shook her head. “Jim, if the President doesn’t know, or can’t stop them, who will?”
“You’re too naive,” Oliver said. “If Roosevelt doesn’t know – and a lot of his enemies are involved in the plot – he’s sunk. The army is in Norway, mainly, and even if they do declare against the guy who becomes President, what can they do? Hell, some of them might agree with the anti-British feeling in the plotters mind.”
“If they’re anti-British,” Cora asked, “why did they invite you? Coming to think of it, why have an entire meeting?”
Oliver shrugged. “The problem with plotting a coup is that not all of the plotters will want to be involved until a clear victory occurs,” he said. “The people in the meeting, however, no longer have a choice, as everyone knows they attended – and didn’t blow the whistle.” He snorted. “As for me, I bet you a vacation in Paris that Hoover is thinking more than two steps ahead; they want – need – to match Britain, and I can help them do it.”
He chucked. “A different part of the plan,” he said, “and one kept secret from the industrialists who hate Roosevelt, unless I miss my guess. They won’t want to admit that they need me, but Hoover is smart enough to understand that forcing American technology as fast-forward as possible is urgent. The industrialists, however, will want to be rid of me, and of the trade unions, most of whom will be crushed ruthlessly.”
He sighed. “Which rather proves that the entire plot is doomed to failure, even if it succeeds,” he said. “Where do our interests lie?”
Cora rubbed her hands over his back. “With the best interests of the company,” she said. “You taught me that, remember?”
Oliver nodded. “It’s past midnight,” he said. “I’m going to sleep in today, and then I’m going to make a call to a man, one who might be able to take action.”
Cora smiled. “Good night,” she said, and kissed him gently.
Future Embassy
Washington DC, USA
12th June 1941
The secured phone had been taken directly from the embassy in London and transhipped to Washington, even though it’s use of British satellites meant that there was a very weak link in the chain. Ambassador King’s private number was known to only a handful of people, including the President, the British Prime Minister and Ambassador, and Jim Oliver, who’d been a healthy contributor to funds for the embassy.
“Good morning, Ambassador,” Oliver’s voice said. “I’m sorry for calling you like this, but I’ve sent you an urgent secured packet via email, using the TakTakChar protocol encoding. Read it, and then call me back. Goodbye.”
King finished listening to the voicemail and scowled. There was yet another meeting with the production committees to finalise plans for the next generation of landing craft, then the plans for producing the first proper jet fighter, years ahead of its time. The Navy was demanding that the full extent of production was switched to Hellcat fighters and dive-bombers, while the Army was demanding its B-29s and B-52s. General Groves was demanding more support from Britain for the atomic program, and it just went on and on.
And yet, he didn’t know Oliver that well, but it had sounded urgent. The man was a cunning worker; he’d not only started new plants, but he’d bought up a fair percentage of the moribund American manufacturing plants. As the sudden economic boost caused by the war kicked the economy forward, Oliver had made more money than anyone else had dreamed of, during the years of the Depression.