“Hit the afterburners,” Abernathy ordered, and the Eurofighters leapt forward, jumping to mach two and outrunning the scattered German planes with ease. The Tornados, so high that the German guns would have to be very lucky to even get close to them, followed the Eurofighters, disdaining combat.
“Right behind you, handsome,” Dunbar cheered, as the green fields of France passed underneath them. They were moving so quickly that they’d outraced the warnings that they were coming, but if the Germans managed to force them to engage at close range, they would lose most of their advantages.
“Cut the chatter,” Abernathy snapped, and regretted it. Whatever her attitude towards her male colleges, Dunbar was a great pilot and the best wingman he’d ever had. “This is important!”
“Ah, you want to do it without talking,” Dunbar said, not a bit crushed. “I confirm that there are no enemy fighters orbiting the crash site.”
“Confirmed,” Abernathy agreed. It was odd; he would have placed a squadron on constant patrol. “Fox-One, it’s all yours.”
“Understood,” the voice of the Tornado pilot said. “Launching air-to-ground bombs now.”
Untersturmfuehrer Johan Schmidt paced angrily outside the tent, pausing only to pick up his personal weapon and pack of cheap cigarettes. The strange plane which exercised so much fascination for his commanding officer was still there, still taunting the German scientists who were trying to understand it, and Schmidt spat angrily, before lighting his cigarette and taking a breath.
Seconds later, something screamed across the sky, and he flung himself to the ground on instinct. A small dot raced by, high overhead, with three more dots nearby. He stared at them, his ears hurting from the steadily growing racket, and then he realised that it was coming from behind him. He rolled over, in time to see a monstrous plane screaming by, so low that he could almost touch it. Slowly, mockingly, a bomb fell from the plane – or from where the plane had been – and slammed into the wreckage.
The thunderous blast picked him up and tossed him across a field and into a hedge. Schmidt screamed as his leg shattered on the ground, blood pouring from countless small cuts, and he fell to the ground, keeping his senses by force of will alone. Darkness blurred the edges of his vision, before he focused on the flames. The entire camp, including the crashed aircraft and the scientists, had been devastated.
Mein Gott, he thought, as he finally blacked out. There was nothing left of the plane at all, just burning wreckage. What the hell did they hit us with?
Chapter Seven: The Green and Pleasant Land
Gibraltar Naval Base
Gibraltar
8th July 1940
Neither the Italians nor the French had quite mastered the art of bombing, Vice-Admiral Somerville considered, although at least in the French case there was some reason to expect them to be reluctant to damage the military that was their only hope for freedom from Hitler. Still, he supposed that they had every right to be a little annoyed about part of their fleet being destroyed, even though the danger of it falling into German hands was too great.
We would have understood, Somerville thought numbly, as the results of the ineffectual bombing raids were cleared up. The Rock was as strong as it had been before, with its tough rocky caves protecting its population and its military stores. His force, Force H, had had to be spared from the defence of Britain; three battleships, one battlecruiser, one carrier and a number of smaller ships waited in the shadow of the Rock. He looked upon the monstrous ships – Hood, Resolution, Valiant, Ark Royal and two cruisers – and shuddered. Two days ago, the cable link with England had simply and inexplicably failed, and the radio transmissions made no sense at all.
He’d discussed the matter with Admiral Cunningham, who commanded the Mediterranean Fleet, but they hadn’t been able to come to any conclusion. He’d ordered a destroyer dispatched to England, and ordered the fleet prepared to return to England if necessary. Visions of a German invasion danced through his mind; Germans having slipped fifth columnists into England, throwing open the gates to Hitler. But how could they have shut down the cable?
“Admiral,” a voice called from behind him. Somerville turned to see a young Gibraltar rating, too young to shave, running up to him. The rating saluted and passed him a sheet of paper; it was a message directly from the Admiralty in London, using the proper codes.
Admiral Somerville, hold position in the Mediterranean. Some unusual naval units are being dispatched and will rendezvous with you in two days. Be alert for German attacks; they have attacked Britain through the air and have been beaten off with heavy losses. Acknowledge.
There was something about the message that felt odd. It was as if whoever was sending the signal wasn’t fully aware of the code phases; in fact, as if they hadn’t had any training in signals at all. Hesitating, Somerville made his decision; he would obey the orders, while asking Admiral Cunningham to prepare the eastern fleet. With Warspite, Malaya and Ramillies, they would be covered long enough to meet the ‘unusual naval units,’ whatever they were.
Nr Dublin
Ireland
8th July 1940
Ambassador Ruairi Heekin watched grimly as the aerodrome came into view, the British helicopter skimming over the land. Ireland awaited him; a land of green hills and terrifying familiarly. It hit him suddenly that he would never see his family again; his parents had been born in 1950. He’d worked hard for the post of Ambassador to Britain – Ireland’s friend and enemy, often at the same time – and his reward had been to lose it all forever.
A tear appeared in his eyes. Fiona, his wife, had been expecting their second child when he’d been posted to Britain. She had insisted on returning to Ireland for the birth and he’d promised to go visit her, next week and seventy-five years in the future.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Hanover said. Heekin nodded as politely as he could; Hanover had been one of the supporters of blockading Ireland – even invading it – until terror suspects were handed over during the short-lived resurgence of terrorism during 2012. “You could always go meet your parents or grandparents.”
“They wouldn’t know me,” Heekin said. “What could I tell them?”
“The truth,” Hanover suggested. “Perhaps the bit about deploying the SAS to Ireland, to round up known terrorists.”
“People who have not yet joined any terrorist group,” Heekin said. He understood Hanover’s point; the Britain of 2015 knew everything about their Irish opponents, taking the opportunity to round them up had been irresistible. “That is of questionable legality.”
“Under DORA, suspects can be held without trial if necessary,” Hanover said. “Of course, seeing we can do without a repeat of the Troubles, we can make him a fine offer.”
As the helicopter came in for its final approach, Heekin fell silent. He knew who he was; the Prime Minister of Ireland, loved or hated by all. The man who’d walked a tightrope between two warring powers. The man who’d made Ireland a republic.