“Each and every mobile phone emits a signal to the phone network,” Oliver explained. “We’re close enough to Britain for the network to receive the signal and transmit a reply back. It sounds rather tinny because we’re right at the edge of the range.” He smiled. “Under normal circumstances, a French tower would pick up the signal and route it through a satellite and send it down to Britain, but at the moment…”
“They can track the other phones?” Roth asked sharply. “What about the laptops?”
“I don’t think they can track the laptops,” Oliver said. “They will be able to find a phone that’s within range of the towers, so take them into Poland or somewhere.” He shrugged. “You won’t be able to use them anyway.”
“A shame,” Roth said. “Listen; are you sure that you want to do this?”
Oliver was oddly touched. “Yes,” he said. “It may not have happened yet, but losing the rest of the world means that my… organisation will have lost its main sources of money. We have to have more, as fast as possible.” He smiled. “And as I said to you, anything that hurts the French is fine by me.”
“Have you heard?” Roth asked. “Some of your naval units have turned up in the Mediterranean. Several Italian ships have been sunk, even though they’re trying to stay away from the newcomers. The good news is that the Italians took down one of the new planes.”
Oliver lifted an eyebrow. “Are you sure that actually happened?”
“One of our observers saw it,” Roth said. “He was flying in an Italian bomber when an Italian fighter collided with one of the strange aircraft. There was a very large explosion and both planes were destroyed.”
“Kamikaze tactics,” Oliver said. He checked his watch. “Not much time left.”
“True,” Roth said. The sounds of the children drifted to their ears; even with the drafted French nurses they weren’t happy at being separated from their parents. “I need to add an extra bit to your mission, one of considerable importance.”
Oliver turned to look at him. “What?” He asked. “What could be more important than data?”
“One of the events referred to in the Encyclopaedia Britannica is a bomb plot against the Fuhrer,” Roth said. “What it doesn’t do is say who was involved. We need that information, as fast as possible, before they contact them and offer to assist them.”
Oliver nodded; it was yet another display of quick-thinking from Roth. “I’ll find out what I can,” he said. “You do realise it might be some people quite high up?”
“We have to know,” Roth said. “Good luck.”
“Eagle-two, I confirm that the skies are clear until Paris,” Abernathy said, as the Eurofighters crossed the French coast. Several other Eurofighters were circling over Dover, prepared to intervene if necessary, and an AWACS hung back with its own fighter escort. The RAF knew now that there would be no replacements for the seven aircraft; Abernathy cursed the decision to sell two to Australia, where they were now years in the future and utterly beyond reach.
“Eagle-two confirms,” Dunbar said. “I make it fifty-seven Messerschmitts, orbiting Paris.”
Abernathy nodded grimly to himself; the more powerful radars of the AWACS painting the picture for him in his display. “We’re moving in,” he said. “No sign of any ground fire.”
“Eagle-one, Eagle-two, Rescue-one is preparing to move in,” the controller said. “Keep an eye on things.”
“Earle-one confirms,” Abernathy said, muttering under his breath. If the Germans decided to attack in the air, the Eurofighters could fight or flee as they chose, but if they attacked on the ground, when Rescue-one was on the ground, options would be limited, to say the least. “We’re ready.”
The scream of jet engines echoed across the sky. Across France, Frenchmen looked up with new hope; some in awe, others in dread. The British had suddenly become powerful beyond measure and the memories of the British abandonment of France at Dunkirk rankled. Petain’s government launched ever-growing anti-British broadcasts, pointing to the thousands of French sailors killed by the British, just before the future Britain arrived.
To the Germans, less given to delusions of grandeur even in defeat, the jet engines represented yet another piece of information about their new foe. Roth stood above the tiny airfield and watched as the strange aircraft floated in and came to a hover over their heads. As he stared, the propellers on the aircraft literally rotated around until they were pointing upwards, and the aircraft – a cross between a normal aircraft and a helicopter – sank towards the ground.
A roar split the sky and he looked up; two contrails lanced across the sky. The strange jet fighters, warning the Germans that treachery would be avenged. They seemed invulnerable, but Roth knew that they were not; Galland was working on ways to bring them down. Captain Sidney Jackson, a former RAF officer and lover of an Indian girl, had proven very informative. Roth smiled; it was amazing how talkative the future British could be when their lovers were threatened; did such things never happen in their world?
“Herr Standartenfuhrer?” Galland asked. The Gruppenkommandeur had insisted on being present, if only to learn more about the enemy. “Notice how the craft moves, adjusting airflow around its engines,” he said. He smiled. “I would bet that it handles fairly well, most of the time.”
Roth shrugged absently. Galland could afford to treat the war as a martial joust; he would face British officers in the air. Roth, on the other hand, was charged with developing a hell weapon – assuming that the British allowed him to leave the landing site.
“Look, they’re coming out,” Galland said cheerfully, as a hatch opened in the side of the machine. A man, dressed in a form of black combat armour that gave an impression of being extremely deadly, hopped out, acting as if he was leaping into a combat zone. The German officer, in full dress uniform, stepped forward.
“Brave man,” Roth muttered, as Hans Meyer stepped forward. The Abwehr officer seemed completely composed; Admiral Canaris had suggested an Abwehr man, rather than an SS man, and Oliver had supported him.
“I suppose,” Galland said. He’d lobbied to be the representative, hoping for a look inside one of the aircraft. Kesselring had forbidden him from even thinking about it; Goring had muttered about taking his rank away. “Look, he’s talking to the man.”
Stupid comment, Roth thought coldly. Meyer had finished talking to the single British soldier – do they really think that they are that much ahead of us – and beckoned the children forward. Oliver moved behind them, hands bound behind his back; a touch of theatre. The British solider waved the children into the aircraft, before pulling out a knife and freeing Oliver, who smiled at him gratefully.
“Good luck, Hans,” Galland muttered, as Meyer boarded the aircraft and the hatch closed behind him. Slowly, awesomely, the helicopter lifted off the ground, heading back to Britain.
“Good luck, Jim,” Roth corrected absently. “Everything depends upon him.”
“Don’t worry sir,” the Royal Marine said. “We’ll soon have you back to Britain.”
Oliver smiled weakly. Pretending to be weak was easy; he hadn’t eaten anything for the day. “Thank you Captain,” he said, deliberately misreading the Corporal’s rank badge. “They were horrible.”