Oliver chuckled. “If I was them, I’d swear blind that they had nothing to do with it,” he said. “Ireland was something of a mixed blessing to Britain after the war.” He scowled. “You could raid the Orkneys, I suppose.”
Roth stared at him. “Britain’s largest naval base is in the Orkneys,” he snapped. “Have you lost your mind?”
“It’s not there any longer,” Oliver said. He paused. “Unless the… time slip, whatever it was, missed the Orkneys.”
“We’ll see if we can get a recon flight up,” Roth said. “We’ve bombed the place several times, and slipped a submarine in once.”
“Tell the pilot to stay as low as he can to evade radar detection,” Oliver said, who’d used that technique to smuggle certain substances into America. “A high-flying plane will be an easy target.”
Roth smiled weakly. “I’ll have to talk it over with the Reichsführer,” he said, “but it seems as if the main air battle will begin in two weeks. We’ll offer to return you and the children a day before the battle begins; the diversion should be helpful to you.”
Oliver nodded. Roth left, leaving Oliver to study the map. He smiled to himself; he’d left a great deal out of the explanation. He hadn’t mentioned that trying to bring down an AWACS aircraft, like the American ones that had hunted him in Central America, would be a sure way to degrade the British air defences. After all, a world where the Nazis won would be a grim place indeed.
I just have to get my money out of it and then I can go, he thought, and smiled. The prostitute, Jeanette, whom he’d been introduced to in France had been brought with him, but he wasn’t allowed to have her in his rooms at Hitler’s base. Wondering if the Germans would be smart enough to pick new bases, places that the future British knew nothing about, he lay down on the bed and fell into a fitful sleep.
Chapter Nine: Past Tense
HMS Ark Royal
Gibraltar
11th July 1940
Force H was drawn up near the Rock, waiting for the meeting, although none of them knew precisely what to expect. Rumour, based on the information that the commanding officer of the ‘unusual naval units’ was going to land on the Ark Royal, expected that the units were new carriers, perhaps a secret project of some kind.
Vice-Admiral Somerville peered into the clear sky with his binoculars. The Italians had stepped up their ineffectual air attacks on Malta, under German pressure. A captured Italian airman, shot down by one of the Gladiator aircraft, had reported that the Germans were preparing for moving operations to the Mediterranean – and that they’d already moved some troops into Italy for moves against Malta. In the absence of directions from London, Somerville had asked General Wavell to spare some troops for the defence of Malta; losing the island would make interdicting the Italian supply lines even harder than they already were. Wavell had refused; the rumblings in Egypt, claiming that Britain had been successfully invaded by the Germans, required the presence of British troops to stiffen the wavering government. The Italians were moving up to the border, clearly intending an invasion.
There! He could see ships on the horizon; large ships and small ships. One of them was clearly an aircraft carrier, the others smaller; there didn’t seem to be any battleships at all. He stared; even at the several miles distant he could see that they were very different; the carrier in particular seemed to be more… advanced than the Ark Royal, which was old and damaged by the encounter with French aircraft. The other ships seemed… frail; they moved through the water with a graceful competence.
“Submarine,” a watchman shouted, as a dark shape moved through the water, heading away from them. German or Italian, it could hardly be intending hostility if it was surfacing, and then he could see the British flag on its conning tower.
“Dear god,” he breathed. The French had produced a single ‘submarine cruiser,’ the Surcouf, but the new submarine dwarfed it. He could make out its name; HMS Splendid. “At least it’s a British ship,” he said.
“Admiral, look,” Captain Holland said. Somerville ignored the breach in protocol and lifted his binoculars. The strange aircraft carrier was launching an aircraft, a strange craft shaped like a dragonfly. It hovered over the new carrier for a long moment – he wondered if something had gone wrong – and then it swooped away from its home ship, heading towards the Ark Royal.
“Good God,” Somerville said, as the details became clearer. The craft closed in rapidly; it bore a British flag on its nose and weapons hanging from tiny struts. The crew of the British carrier stared at it as its shape floated casually over the flight deck and came to a hover in midair, before settling down onto the deck.
“Keep back,” a voice bellowed. It was oddly accented; almost American. “You must not go near the rotating blades!”
Now that the blades were slowing down, Somerville could see them; powerful blades whipping through the air and providing lift. He’d seen plans for something like the craft, now it was at rest, but there had been no hint that they were ready to fly. There were so many… oddities; what were the strange bombs it carried? How did it drop them? Most chilling of all was the name beneath the craft’s number; HMS Ark Royal.
Admiral Harold Turtledove hated his dress uniform. It looked good, even with the additional European flag signifying his two years service with EUROFOR, with dark jacket, dark trousers and a peaked cap. Gold braid denoted his rank and service history, with little badges and his medals from Operation Telic, but the entire uniform was uncomfortable as anything; he would almost have preferred to meet the past naked.
Cousin Harry would have loved to see this, he thought, as the helicopter touched down neatly on the other Ark Royal’s deck; meeting his ship’s predecessor had been a shock. This Ark Royal was due to be sunk, he remembered; a submarine would finally make the oft-repeated claim of its sinking true. Somehow, he’d expected to see a black-and-white carrier; the brilliant grey hull with coloured aircraft seemed somehow unnatural. It had been one of the first purpose-built aircraft carriers; it could be adapted to support Harriers quite easily, if necessary.
“Time to go,” he said, and Captain Townley nodded. The contemporary captain had adapted surprisingly well to the future Britain, learning as much as he could in the two days he’d had before being asked to help explain the situation to Admiral Somerville. Not all of his crew had; there had already been several nasty incidents in Plymouth.
The crewman opened the hatch of the helicopter and he climbed out, ducking low under the helicopter blades. Silently, he blessed the still water; the deck felt a great deal less safe than his own ship’s deck. The faint air of unreality hung over the past – current – ship; the crew watched him warily. Wearing his own dress uniform, Captain Townley followed him, while his Marine escort and bodyguard hung back.
Admiral Somerville stepped forward. Turtledove recognised him from a picture he’d downloaded; he gave an impression of calm scholarly determination. Somerville had worked on radar, he remembered, and he hoped that he would listen. This meeting was as important as any he’d ever attended – and it had to be peaceful.
He saluted once, noting the slight differences between their uniforms, and began. “Admiral Harold Turtledove,” he introduced himself. “Commander of Task Force Reunion.”