The radio transmissions only deepened Palter’s puzzlement and growing alarm. To hear Radio Berlin was not unusual, but to hear someone called William Joyce expounding on the miracle of Hitler’s Germany was more than a little unusual. They’d heard President Bush compared to Hitler once, but they’d never heard of Joyce, let alone of the names of some French and German politicians. A quick web search, hunting through an extremely damaged Internet, revealed that William Joyce enjoyed the sobriquet of ‘Lord Haw-Haw,’ but it had also revealed that he had been hanged by an unforgiving British court after World War Two ended.
Feltwell had been crippled by the sudden loss of the satellites. Frantic calls to the American embassy in London revealed only that the British were at war – and some of the provisions of the Status of Forces Act might be invoked. Palter duly arranged for the base to receive the British liaison team, all the while hoping that they could have some answers. American radar stations had tracked British aircraft and… other aircraft skirmishing over the North Sea and the Channel; Palter had been reduced to wondering if the UFOs conspiracy theorists charged Feltwell with tracking had really arrived.
Radarman Brown, however, had dismissed that theory. All the unknown aircraft seemed to be badly outmatched by the British air defence forces; so badly outmatched that it was hard to see what the problem was. Calls to the British Ministry of Defence had produced nothing; the embassy didn’t know what was happening. In desperation, he’d been reading Internet chat rooms, and the speculations were so crazy that he’d given up in disgust.
“Sir, the British liaison team has arrived,” the gate guard reported. “Shall I let them in?”
“It’s their island,” Palter said, remembering the… incident three years ago. The friendship between Britain and America had almost been shattered forever because of his idiot predecessor. “Invite them in.”
He left his office and headed towards the carpool, heading towards the engines. He blinked as he rounded the corner; the British had bought a whole fleet of coaches and a military escort.
“They don’t have the Queen with them, do they?” He asked aloud, as the commander of the British force headed towards him. The British officer wore the badge of a major; his neatly trimmed black moustache hung under his nose like a second badge of office.
“I’m afraid not,” the British officer said. To Palter, he seemed ill at ease, as if he had some particularly disdainful task to accomplish. “I’m Major Denis Bloodnok, 3rd infantry.” He hesitated. “Colonel, I must ask you to parade your men.”
Palter lifted an eyebrow. “Why?” He asked. “Might I remind you that…”
“I’m looking for a criminal,” Bloodnok said. “Colonel, please…”
“You find your own,” Palter said. “It took me years to get this lot.”
The British officer snorted, a smile flicking from under his moustache. “Colonel, this is an unprecedented situation, and I am trying to handle it was as much tact and diplomacy as possible. Colonel, under the Status of Forces Act, as revised, I must formally inform you that I am obliged to intern you and your men pending their disposition.”
He waved a hand at the trucks. Palter dimly realised that he’d brought an entire regiment with him. “If necessary, I have been ordered to use force,” Bloodnok said.
Palter stared at him. “It’s the Russians, isn’t it,” he said. “They’ve finally developed an ABM shield and they’ve demanded that you surrender us to them.”
Bloodnok’s nose twitched. “Believe me, Colonel, I half-wish that that was the case. Your men are in no danger of bring handed over to… unfriendly powers; we’ll brief you when you reach the camp.” He smiled ruefully. “I swear to you upon the honour of the regiment that you will all be well-treated.”
“I wish to lodge a formal protest with my government,” Palter said. “In addition, I have to ensure the safety of some vital parts of the infrastructure…”
“They will be safe,” Bloodnok said. “As for your government, I imagine that you have had the same success as we have had in contacting them; none whatsoever.”
Palter felt a cold chill passing through him. “Major, what’s happened?”
“It’s something of a long story,” Bloodnok said. “Now… parade your men.”
“Under protest,” Palter said reluctantly, and turned to bellow orders. Grimly, the staff of the communications station lined up and boarded the buses; resistance would have been futile in any case. Palter’s mind worked furiously, trying to figure out what had happened; had Britain and the United States gone to war?
Transit Camp
Plymouth, United Kingdom
7th July 1940
“I apologise for the delay,” the man said. If it hadn’t been for the colour of his skin, Captain Townley would have taken him for a cockney. As it was, his accent contrasted oddly with his skin colour; had he been shipped in from India? He didn’t understand what was happening at all; as soon as the Queen Elizabeth had reached Plymouth, the crew and passengers had been escorted to a camp, seeing a very different Britain as they passed through a small village.
“That’s quite all right,” Captain Townley said, resolving to treat the man as an equal until he understood what was going on. His first thought, that Germany had invaded, seemed to be inaccurate; the handful of people who’d helped them to settle into the camp were all British, or subjects of the British Empire. It was only his concern for his ship that kept him from outright panic.
“Captain, I’m not quite certain how to explain this,” the man said. “Are you familiar with the concept of time travel?”
Townley hesitated. He’d read HG Wells on the subject; The Time Machine. “I understand the concept,” he said.
“As far as we understand it, all of Britain – our Britain – went back in time to 1940,” the man said. “Your ship was only the first ship to meet us; we’ve also picked up a number of fishing vessels and a handful of other merchant ships. Captain, I’m sorry, but the Britain you knew has gone forever.”
Captain Townley stared at him; the little Indian man with the British voice. “What happened?” He asked finally, trying for a commanding tone. It came out as a whimper. “My wife… my children…”
“Gone,” the man said, and he sighed. “We have already started looking for future relatives of yourself, but it’s not easy. Captain, you and your crew are out of time; this is or was 2015.”
“So, what happens?” Townley asked. He tried hard to keep his voice level. “What happened to it all?”
“That’s a long story,” the man said. He passed across a small collection of books; the first one, the History of the Liners, had a coloured picture of his ship on the front. Townley didn’t recognise the picture at all. “I won’t lie to you; it is going to be hard. You will have to adapt to a whole new world, one very different to your own.”
Townley stared into his dark eyes for a long moment, and then picked up one of the books; Britain 1939-1999. “I’d better get started then,” he said, with a joviality he didn’t feel. “Can I talk to the others of my crew?”
House of Commons
London, United Kingdom
7th July 1940
Hanover took his seat on the Governmental benches, sharing a smile with McLachlan, and relaxed, seemingly unaware of the buzz of conversation. Projecting an image of unconcern, he crossed his legs and lay backwards, allowing himself to relax. He’d spent hours writing the speech that Smith was about to deliver, and he knew that it was good, if not perfect. Still, when had there ever been a problem like time travelling before?