“That won’t last,” Hanover said. He spared a look at Smith, who seemed to have ignored how he’d taken charge. “We have to be ready.”
RAF Coningsby
Lincolnshire, United Kingdom
7th July 1940
The RAF fighter pilots, who’d seen the German aircraft at close range – and had even been hit by German bullets – held no scepticism about the Prime Minister’s speech. Two Eurofighters and one Harrier had been hit by cannon fire, from primitive aircraft, and they’d shot down twelve German aircraft. They believed; their only question was when they would be unleashed upon the German forces.
“All right, people, listen up,” the base commandant, Robert Harvey, said. “We have a mission and it’s going to be tricky.”
Flying Officer Victor Abernathy and the other assembled pilots; four Eurofighter fast-jet pilots and two Tornado GR2 pilots, relaxed as he tapped the map with his pointer. The map of France bore no resemblance to any they’d used before; possible locations of German bases were marked in – and there were a lot of them. One location, just south of Nantes, had been marked in red.
“Reconnaissance flights have located a crashed Boeing 747, located here,” he said, tapping the map at the precise location. “The Germans, unfortunately, have located the crash and are stripping it of its material; our mission is to destroy it – and the German tents around it.” He glared at them from his thick mouth, a result of a drunken bout five years ago. “I tried to get permission to destroy the village that the Germans have taken over, but it was refused.
“Regardless, a cruise missile attack has been ruled out for various reasons, so you’re it,” he continued. “Yes, what is it?”
Flying Officer Sheila Dunbar had raised her hand. “Sir, with all due respect, why have the cruise missiles been ruled out?”
Harvey scowled at her. Abernathy knew that he wasn’t fond of her for many different reasons. “As I understand it, the cruise missiles are being reserved for strikes against German infrastructure,” he said. “Now, pay attention.
“You will observe that the Germans have moved some mobile anti-aircraft guns around the aircraft,” he continued. “We don’t expect these to pose a problem; unless they score a golden BB, they won’t even be able to see you, let alone touch you. However, all due care will be observed. Harold, you will engage the target, using low-level Paveway III bombs, and blast it into little pieces. Christopher, you will remain out of range of the German weapons; you will only engage if Harold fails.”
He looked across at the Eurofighter pilots. “Your mission is to escort the two Tornados,” he said. “You will engage any German aircraft that attempt to interfere, but keep an eye on your ammunition. Missiles are only to be used if necessary, understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Abernathy said.
“Good,” Harvey said. “Good luck, ladies and gentlemen.”
German Army Base
Nr Calais
7th July 1940
Sullen and dispirited, the vast majority of the passengers on the ill-fated flight were herded into the main hall. SS-Standartenfuhrer Herman Roth watched as they took seats in front of the podium, escorted by hard-faced SS guards. He watched dispassionately as some of the prisoners, male and female, exchanged hugs; married couples and some partners meeting again. Two of the men, Roth had been shocked to discover, were homosexuals; what had happened to Britain?
“Achtung,” he snapped, and switched to English. “I trust that you are all convinced of the reality of your current situation,” he said. “I cannot afford more time to convince you; you are prisoners of the German Reich.” He stared around the room. “Under the orders of Führer und Reichskanzler Adolf Hitler, as passed through Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler, you are prisoners of war. What happens to you is up to me; the Reichsführer-SS has seen fit to entrust me with coordinating a response to you.”
Particularly if Oliver is correct to claim that all of Britain has come through time, he thought coldly. “You have two options; you will be assigned – together with your families, should you have them – to assisting us to understand the technology you have brought us. If you cooperate, we will treat you well; we won’t even treat some of you as the subhuman vermin you are.
“If you do not cooperate, we will find a way to force you to do so,” he said. “It will not be pleasant.” He waved a hand at sheets of paper that had been placed on a table. “Take them and write a full description of what you did in Britain; your job, any particular skills, anything you think might be helpful.” He bared his teeth. “You are writing for your lives here.”
Changing tack again, he continued. “I won’t lie to you,” he said, putting as much respect into the words as possible. “I cannot guarantee that you will ever be returned to Britain, even the Britain of this era, assuming that it exists. If you help us, we will treat you as well as we can. If not… well, I won’t answer for the work of those senior to me. Himmler himself is here; he has a very short way of dealing with opposition.”
Jim Oliver had once watched a movie called The Heart of Evil, featuring John Robinson as the evil super-nazi Heinrich Himmler. The actor had been tall and evil, a dark-haired image of perfect Aryan manhood. Every word had been delivered with a calm deliberation that had chilled the blood of the watching audience; Robinson had been perfect for the role, everyone said so.
In the flesh, he hadn’t known who he was looking at until Himmler introduced himself. The Reichsführer-SS was a short dumpy man, with golden spectacles and slender pale hands, hardly the picture of Aryan manhood. He seemed more of a schoolteacher or kindly old clergyman, squinting owlishly at Oliver, than the face of evil.
“I understand that you wish to assist us,” Himmler said. His German sounded odd; had Himmler had a speech defect? He couldn’t remember. “Tell me, what can you offer us?”
Oliver forced himself to remain calm. “I understand the basic principles of the technology that has fallen into your hands,” he said. He waved a hand at one of the two laptops, now drawing power from a German power generator. He was ruefully impressed; the German technicians had only burnt out two laptops before getting it right. “I also know enough about history to help you avoid mistakes.”
“One of your fellow passengers, the mulatto, is a genuine historian,” Himmler said. “I read your claims to my old friend Herman; I’m afraid I don’t believe it.”
For a moment, the veil parted and Oliver saw Himmler’s true nature, peeking out; a mind that would quite happily sacrifice the entire world for its desires. He shivered; suddenly chilled to the bone.
“Why not, Herr Reichsführer-SS?” He asked, as calmly as he could, knowing that Himmler knew that he knew that Himmler knew that…
The mask returned; Himmler was once again a kindly clergyman. “People do not offer to help a power that your computer files consider to be evil,” he said, almost kindly. Oliver cursed the unknown person who’d brought the Encyclopaedia Britannica CD-Rom with them. “Such a person as you made yourself out to be would not risk losing a victory, even if it left Britain in terrible problems, merely on the off-chance that our victory would bring improvement. Indeed, if I read your files correctly, the people who wrote them would be horrified at the thought of us winning, would they not?”