The Marine nodded sympathetically. “What were they like? Did they torture you?”
“No, but I knew what they were like before, and I was so scared,” Oliver said. “Where are we going?”
“We’re going to land directly at RAF Lyneham,” the Marine said. “They have a place there to debrief captured personnel who’ve been recovered, sir.” He smiled what was meant to be an encouraging smile. “Doubtless the Press will have hacked our communications and discovered that you’ve been freed,” he said. “You’ll be the belle of the ball.”
Oliver looked at him. “I’d sooner be alive, thank you,” he said. “And what about Fatso here?”
The Marine looked up at the Abwehr officer. “He will be held at RAF Lyneham until higher authority can decide what to do with him,” he said. He stared directly at Meyer, holding his eyes. “In the unlikely event of you overcoming me and breaking into the cockpit, the escorting fighters will be quite happy to shoot us down rather than let you escape.”
Meyer spoke English with a clipped precise fussiness that bespoke formal training. He also didn’t know that Oliver was working, at least in part, for Germany. “I have given you my word of honour, upon the honour of the German army, that I will behave myself,” he said, almost offended. “What else would you have me do?”
“Your army has no honour,” the Marine said. An uneasy silence fell, broken only by Meyer’s awe at passing over the cities to the RAF base. Oliver sighed; once the RAF had finished debriefing him, he could make contact with the others and begin the operation. Smuggling information into Germany would be tricky, but he was certain that he could do it.
RAF Neatishead
Norfolk, United Kingdom
15th July 1940
“Sources in the navy report that a confrontation between Italian forces and contemporary naval forces, supported by Task Force Reunion, resulted in a decisive defeat for Italian forces. The MOD refused to answer questions about the probable death toll, but they did confirm that the Italians suffered heavy losses. Later, in Parliament, MP Noreen Adam, Brixton, asked if the war would be fought using nuclear weapons, a clearly ailing Prime Minister was unable to answer and…”
Flight Lieutenant Nicola lifted the remote and turned off the television, wondering if anything was going to happen. It was dawn, four days after the last incursion over the French mainland, and nothing had happened since, at least not near Britain itself. It was quiet; too quiet. The Germans seemed to be behaving themselves – and that was far from normal for Nazis.
The radar set that Nicola controlled was linked into an entire integrated system of radar stations and orbiting AWACS. She’d heard that senior RAF officers were already worrying about the expected lifetime of the aircraft; they’d already been used more than they had in years. It was a god’s eye view of the sky over Europe; under good conditions they could see all the way to Berlin. Countless German aircraft were on the ground – and they weren’t doing anything about it. The RAF could have crushed the Germans – and the politicians were keeping them on the ground.
Ping! She felt her heart leapt into her mouth as she checked the instruments; there was a flight of German planes rising from France, near Calais. As she watched, the force formed itself up, joined by dozens – hundreds – of new aircraft. The swarm started to move slowly, heading towards England.
“This is sector control,” she snapped into the telephone. Emails had already been sent to everyone on the distribution list; telephoning the first line of people was supposed to be just a back-up system. She knew better; during drills the entire system had failed on more than one occasion. “We have a major raid in progress!”
Chapter Eleven: Redoing the Battle of Britain
Permanent Joint Headquarters
London, United Kingdom
15th July 1940
All of the radar stations along the south coast – civilian and military – were sounding the warning. At least a thousand aircraft, all German, were making their way slowly towards Britain, forming into several different attack prongs. Portsmouth, Dover and London seemed to be the main targets, although the several flights of German aircraft heading to the far north suggested that the Germans hadn’t quite grasped the fact that Scarpa Flow had gone.
“Have you sounded the warning to the civilians?” General Cunningham demanded, taking long strides into the main control room. “What about the army?”
“They all got the alert,” the duty officer assured him. “The Prime Minister and the Cabinet are being hastened into the bunker below Whitehall; the Royal Family is being evacuated even as we speak.”
“Blasted idiot refusing to leave earlier,” Cunningham muttered. “The sector controllers have taken command?”
“Yes, sir,” the duty officer said. “The RAF is scrambling now; the jets on combat air patrol are being pulled back into the main formations. The navy is going on alert; the ground forces have been alerted.”
“They’ll swarm through us,” Cunningham predicted grimly. “Any sign that they know where our bases are?”
“RAF Neatishead seems to be one of the targets,” the duty officer said. “The east coast seems to be a major target in itself.”
Cunningham scowled. “They must have interrogated the pilot of the jumbo jet,” he said coldly. “They’re required to know where the main air bases are.”
Over England
Britain
15th July 1940
“Eagle-one, take point,” the sector controller said grimly, as the Eurofighters thundered into the air. “Hawk-one, take point of group two.”
Abernathy winced as the Eurofighter climbed frantically for as much height as it could. The RAF squadrons were scrambling, massing as much power as they could, and the enemy aircraft were carrying on their long slow progress towards England. He glanced at the information the Sentry AWACS were feeding to the Eurofighters; at least nine hundred German aircraft were heading towards Dover, and London.
“That’s a lot of planes,” Dunbar muttered, for once not challenging anyone. “How do we swat them all?”
“We take out as many of them as we can from long distance,” Abernathy said. He scowled; the Germans were maintaining a strong formation; fighters patrolling above, below and ahead of the bombers, which were lumbering alone slowly, but steadily. As the British forces closed in, he realised just how good the formation was; the bombers would be able to avoid fratricide and use their own guns on any British aircraft.
Once we run out of missiles we’re going to have to close in, he thought, and scowled. The Germans had much more primitive equipment than the Iraqis had, thirteen years before, but they were brave and determined.
“At least they show up as heat sources for BVRAAMS,” Dunbar said. “It’s a shame we don’t have more of them.”
“That’s enough of that,” Abernathy said, although he agreed. The Eurofighters carried two BVRAAM missiles each; the result of the desperate need to conserve the advanced weapons, and four ASRAAM missiles. Once they were gone, the fighting would be at knife-range, with cannons instead of missiles.
“Look down,” Dunbar said, and Abernathy stared. The German aircraft were outlined against the sea, never-ending streams of aircraft stretching all the way back to France. They seemed beautiful; a ghost from the past. They might be slow, but they were deadly; Abernathy knew that they would start bombing England soon.