Hanover shrugged. He knew, even if Stirling didn’t, that the mobile phone masts provided by Britain possessed hidden systems, ones that did the same trick. “Ah, screw it,” he said thoughtfully. “None of the people who really should have been hauled in front of the EU court have been born yet. We’ll let them go.” He chuckled. “We won’t forget it, of course.”
Stirling coughed. “Some of them, the ones on day release, have been purchasing books and equipment,” he said. “Do we let them take those?”
“They can’t buy anything too important,” Hanover said wryly. “Why not?” He chuckled. “Any final matters?”
“The Australian, General Blamey, believes that the Japanese will descend on Australia itself when they’ve finished with the Dutch East Indies. They want to know if Admiral Turtledove will be diverted, now that the war has begun properly.”
Hanover scowled. “What did Admiral Grisham say?”
“She wanted to brief you in person,” Stirling said. “I think, however, that she had in mind seeking a battle with the forces on hand.” He smiled. “If the Japanese can be tempted into concentrating their forces against our fleet, we could destroy them from long range.”
USS West Virginia
Nr Liverpool, Irish Sea
25th September 1940
Captain Mervyn Sharp Bennion stared at the aircraft that flew over his ship from time to time, truly believing in the future Britain for the first time. His ship, the West Virginia, had been at Pearl Harbour, but then they’d been summoned back to the United States for a hurried series of refits, and then, instead of going back to Pearl when the Japanese attacked the British, they’d been ordered to the future Britain. Near his battleship, the liner Queen Elizabeth followed; it would provide most of the personnel transportation.
“You were supposed to die at Pearl Harbour,” the Negro Ambassador King had told him, before he returned to his ship. “Perhaps you’ll have better luck in this life.”
“Penny for your thoughts?” The British naval officer, Peter Townsend, said. The officer had come aboard as they’d neared Iceland; the puny-looking ship that had delivered him leaving them shortly afterwards.
“I was wondering why all your ships looked so frail,” he said, leaving behind thoughts of his own death. “That Edinburgh didn’t look as if it could stand up to a line of battle.”
“It couldn’t,” Townsend said. “It’s a difference in design philosophy; after World War Two battleships like this one” – he waved around West Virginia’s dark lines – “were proven obsolete. It was the aircraft carrier that was the new queen of the seas, and submarines as the kings, so units like Edinburgh were built to defend one and hunt the other. If it had to fight your ship at point blank range, I imagine that it would be quickly sunk. Indeed, I believe that Harpoon missiles are being refitted for bunker-busting warheads, which have proven themselves effective against battleships from this era.”
“Then what happens when you face a battleship?” Bennion asked, interest overwhelming his dark thoughts. “Do you get quickly sunk?”
“There are only a handful of battleships in our time,” Townsend said thoughtfully. “There are two American ones on active service, and a Russian ship that is a semi-battleship. I can never remember what happened to that ship, but if we had to fight one, we’d send a submarine or use missiles from long distance.”
Bennion frowned. “So Tojo could send the Yamato around here, move up to the coast, and bombard you?”
“We’d see it coming and the RAF or the Fleet Air Arm would take it out,” Townsend assured him. “The German ships have been sunk, although they’re managing to slip a handful of u-boats through the blockade.” He scowled. “One of our submarines was wreaked; the coast was different in our time and no one thought of that when the Captain decided to slip in closer to Norway and hit an electric u-boat.”
“Shit,” Bennion said. “What happened?”
“Crew rescued, craft destroyed before the Germans could investigate,” Townsend said. “We’re bloody lucky that it wasn’t a nuclear submarine; that would have been a real disaster.” He tapped the side of the battleship. “Some baboon had the idea of building a nuclear-powered battleship, but it was scrapped along with a nuclear-powered aircraft.”
“I think I’ll keep this ship as long as I can,” Bennion said. He waved a hand at the stream of motor launches coming out to meet them. “Is that them?”
Townsend chuckled. “Remember to be polite to them,” he said. “Each of them will end up pulling in more money than you.”
“Humph,” Bennion said. He’d expected it, but it was still astonishing. “They’re mixed together!”
“Black, white, male, female, combinations you’ve never heard of and might not exist in this timeline,” Townsend said. “They’re all equals here; don’t try to treat them as subordinates or you’ll regret it.”
“They wore the blue during the War between the States,” Bennion said absently. “I have no doubt that they’re good Americans.”
“They’re coming back to a land that thinks of them as uppity niggers,” Townsend said. “Oh yes, they’re very good Americans.”
Jock Gordon, liaison officer to the American bases, was astounded to see the American battleship sitting in the middle of the Irish Sea. Liverpool, of course, no longer possessed the facilities to handle a battleship – even though there was an extensive program being carried out to provide a base for the five Contemporary battleships – but he wondered why it could not have come in closer, or for that matter why the Queen Elizabeth could not have come in to the docks. The air was clear, but very cold, and the spray splashed over his body, soaking him.
The Americans grew silent as the battleship, the West Virginia, grew closer. Gordon watched them carefully; a third of the Americans in the country, mainly blacks, had requested asylum; others had requested permission to stay for a while anyway. The Government had granted it, with the exception of a known criminal who would be returned later.
“This is pretty much your last chance to stay here,” he said, as the battleship’s squat form loomed above them, its crew preparing to meet their descendents. The launch bumped against the side of the battleship, the crew attaching lines to allow the packages to be hauled onboard. Gordon shook his head; the Americans had purchased every last history and engineering books in Liverpool, as well as different parts of practical equipment.
“Coming aboard,” he called up, and pulled himself up the rope netting by force of will. It was hazardous; the oily netting was disgusting to the touch, but he made it. “Jock Gordon,” he said, saluting the Captain.
“Captain Bennion,” the Captain replied, returning the salute. “These are the future?”
Gordon smiled as the future Americans came aboard. West Virginia was nowhere near as luxurious as any 2015 naval ship. “These are the ones who wanted to return,” he said. “Take care of them; they’re good people.”
“Don’t worry, we will,” Bennion said. “You should have put them on aircraft.”
“Money talks louder then diplomacy,” Gordon said. “It was a political decision; only a handful of aircraft are in service on the trans-Atlantic run, and they’re needed to supply goods. And then your President was worried about the Germans targeting the crew in particular, so he insisted on a battleship.”