“They have every interest in doing just that,” King said. “Stalin is systematically eradicating threats to the Soviet Union, from Afghanistan to the Poles. He’s thinking long-term, and we can hardly focus on defeating Germany. The war is a long way from over, Mr President.”
Country Hospital
London, United Kingdom
5th October 1940
Smith opened his eyes. His mind felt terrible, lying in bed, with some of his family watching TV while watching him. He gasped, coughing, and a nurse was by his side at once, passing him a glass of water and helping him to sip it down.
“Don’t you worry, Prime Minister,” she said. Her voice was warm and bouncy; Smith hated it at first hearing. “You’ll be up and about in no time.”
Smith coughed. “What happened to me?” He asked, through coughs. “I dreamt that we were back in the Second World War and…”
The nurse’s eyes, dark brown in a brown face, gazed down at him. “It wasn’t a dream, sir,” she said. “You had a heart attack after the Germans bombed Dover. We brought you here and kept you under while we tried to perform some repairs.”
Smith felt his chest hurt. “How long?”
“Three months,” the nurse said. His grandson appeared at the side of the bed. “A lot has happened since you left. Charles Hanover became Prime Minister, and he’s done a good job.”
“That’s right,” the grandson said, ignoring all the nurse’s attempts to shut him up. His voice bubbled with enthusiasm. “We’ve sunk a Japanese fleet, we’ve taken North Africa, the Russians have invaded the Middle East – and we nuked Germany!”
Smith felt his chest tighten again. The instruments started to bleep alarmingly. “Get the hell out of here,” the nurse snapped, hitting the emergency button. Smith felt his vision darken; with the last of his strength he tried to gasp out words. It was hard to say anything; he could hardly breathe.
“I can’t hear you, honey,” the nurse said. “Don’t try to speak.”
Smith ignored her. “Tell Hanover,” he said, through mounting pain. His voice was breaking; it hurt to speak. “Tell him… we are both damned.”
Epilogue
Nr New York
America, USA
The factory was brand spanking new, a masterpiece of British technology and American labour. Jim Oliver, now designated Bracken’s representative in the United States, studied the factory with interest. Now that America had finally declared war on Germany, orders for the new tanks and computers were pouring in. The Americans didn’t care that the most important components were made in Britain; they just wanted as much as they could.
Oliver smiled to himself. The factory was equal opportunity; blacks and whites mingled in relative peace and harmony. The future Ambassador to the United Kingdom had insisted on it, as part of the agreement to supply the new tanks to the American Army, and Oliver had agreed. Security around the factory was tight, both through some British muscle and some locally recruited men. Even if the Ku Klux Klan had decided to make its displeasure known – another black church had been burned to the ground only last week – Oliver was confident that they could be beaten off. This era hadn’t invented the super-lawyer yet; there would be no complaints if they shot Klansmen to death on their own property.
The ripples of the Transition were still spreading, he knew, and he was riding the waves. It was amazing how many Americans were prepared to buy older computers, such as the utterly-primitive BBC machines from 1986, and many British companies were becoming rich by flooding them over to America. The Bracken Consortium was in the lead; buying old mobile phones and transporting them to America.
He chuckled to himself as he left the room, heading for his private office. Smuggling was bringing in even more money; funds that government auditors would never know existed. The Government would get a great deal of money out of the Consortium, enough to fund the purchase of coal and other equipment from the Americans, but there would be plenty left over for him. Hoover had been delighted at the chance to purchase some electronic surveillance equipment; the FBI was very fond of him at the moment.
And, of course, there was the knowledge of the future. His people were meeting famous actors, singers, writers and many others, offering to fund them in exchange for a share of the profits. Many of the younger ones had no idea that they were earmarked for a percentage of the profits from work they had yet to produce; unscrupulous directors and producers had unaccountably failed to inform them of their sudden riches.
His mobile phone buzzed. His technicians had rigged up a private network for New York, one allowing his people to avoid using the British-supplied network that was covering the entire United States. So far, no one even had the technology to look; he suspected that MI6 had rigged up their own network as well. Already, he was reaching across the country, building up influence in the right – and wrong – places.
“Yes, Cora?” He asked. Cora was a young Negro girl – an African-American, in the parlance of politically correct 2015 America – whom he’d hired as a general secretary. She was smart, clever, determined to better herself – and easy on the eye as well.
“Sir, there is a man called Roth here to see you,” Cora said, and Oliver felt his blood run cold. “Shall I show him in?”
“Please, do,” Oliver said, drawing on the reflexes of a lifetime avoiding the law to hide his sudden fear. “Show him in, then cancel my next appointment.”
Cora opened the door. Her dusky brown skin contrasted sharply with Roth’s blonde hair. It was Roth, no doubt about it, and Oliver’s mind turned to the hidden pistol in his desk. He nodded politely to Cora and waved her out, before activating the electronic dampeners. If Roth wanted to record the conversation, he would have to work at it.
“You’ve done well for yourself,” Roth observed, as he took a seat without bothering to ask permission. “I must admit… from smuggler to businessman, you’ve made a hell of a jump.”
“Thank you,” Oliver said. “I believe that I paid you for my release…”
“Ah, but you never gave us anything really useful,” Roth said. “You showed us how to make V1s, and helped us to build some prototype jets, but nothing too treacherous, eh?”
Oliver ignored the sally. “What are you doing here?” He snapped. “You might have noticed that your country is at war with this country!”
Roth shrugged expressively, smiling. Oliver could have sworn he saw fangs. “Oh, you know Americans,” he said. “There is no security here at all; your factory is the only place in which I felt secure. Everyone obsessively minds their own business, as if it were a crime to consider security important. And, this Hoover, the closet homosexual… imagine the response if scum like that took on the duties of protecting the Reich.”
He smiled wryly. “For your information, I am here as part of a delegation from Sweden,” he said. “The Swedes are quite desperate to avoid… being invited to join the Workers Paradise, and as your people are too far away – and in any case failed to help Finland – they’re cuddling up to us. Sucking our cocks, I believe you would put it.”
“You’ve been spending time with one of us,” Oliver said. “Which one was it?”
“None of the people we captured,” Roth said. “You’ll be pleased to know that Professor Horton’s wife is with child.”