“All right,” he said. “Eagles, Hawks, stand by to engage.” He studied the position; the Eurofighters were high over the unaware German aircraft. “Fire upon my command… Eagle-one, Fox Two!”
The large bomber next to his fighter blew up in a spectacular explosion, knocking the Messerschmitt badly off course. Adolf Galland gabbled orders into his radio, commanding them to deploy the experimental weapons, and yanked his fighter into a tight series of evasive manoeuvres. They saved his life; a streak of fire screamed past him – he heard it even over the roar of the engines and slammed into a Heinkel bomber. The bomber literally disintegrated in midair, even as other missiles roared past, some of them heading for the flares.
Thank you God, Galland thought, as some of the missiles homed in on the flares the bombers had dropped, each one of them burning brightly. Others refused to be tricked; they killed bombers and fighters with a casual dispassion. An object screamed past him and he fired instinctively; streaks of tracer chasing the jet fighter. They missed; the fighter fired a long stream of cannon fire at a bomber, ripping it apart. Another jet, one painted red, swooped down on him and he yanked his fighter aside, avoiding a burst of cannon fire himself, before firing back desperately. He hit something; the fighter fell away trailing smoke and fire.
“Didn’t see anything,” Galland said. The orders from General Kesselring had been to show no mercy to parachutists – apparently it took months to train a new jet pilot – but he didn’t want to obey. He glanced from side to side, assessing the situation; the battle seemed to have ended for the moment. Huge gaping holes in his formation showed where he’d taken losses to his force, but he was certain that the enemy had been hurt as well.
He spoke into his radio, ordering the flights to prepare to engage the Dover defences, and sighed in relief. The hell-weapons had come for him and he was still alive.
Abernathy swooped down on a German flight, firing madly, before twisting past the exploding bomber and plunging down towards the sea. Hit and run tactics seemed to be the best; close-quarter combat gave the Germans some advantages. He’d never faced a horde of bombers armed with machine guns before; they’d damaged his plane and he was grimly certain that several Eurofighters had gone down.
He pulled out of the dive just above the water and swooped away, catching his breath and checking the updates from the Sentry AWACS. The RAF had shot down at least two hundred German aircraft – probably more – and had lost twelve of its own. By any normal – 2015 – standards, it was a stunning one-sided victory, but the Germans were still coming. On the screens, the flights of German aircraft were heading across the coastline, heading over Britain proper – and the ground defences were weaker than they’d ever been.
“Eagle-one to all Eagles,” he said, as he pulled the Eurofighter back into the sky. A hunting Messerschmitt, trying bravely to intercept him, was blown apart by a blast of cannon fire. “Ammunition; how much do you have left?”
He cursed as the pilots sounded off. Half the flight had no ammunition left and were heading back for more ammunition. Several planes were short on bullets; no one had any missiles left.
“Sierra-three,” he said, calling the controlling AWACS. “Eagles are returning to the nest.”
“Acknowledged, Eagle-one,” the controller said. “Hurry back.”
Abernathy smiled at the note of concern in the controller’s voice. At Eurofighter speeds, they could be back at their base and rearmed before the Germans reached the base, assuming that they could.
Dover Police Station
Dover, United Kingdom
15th July 1940
The desk sergeant picked up the telephone, listened carefully, his face growing pale, and slapped the alarm. Minutes later, the fifty-seven officers on duty arrived; panting for breath. The desk sergeant put down his phone and scowled.
“We have a German attack inbound,” he said grimly. The policemen, still unused to the fact that the entire island was back in 1940, shivered. Hardly anyone had any air raid experience; the British had abandoned civil defence exercises on a grand scale well before 2001.
“What the hell do we do?” A young constable asked. A scar ran down his face from the riots two days ago, when people finally realised what the closure of the Channel Tunnel meant. “Sir, we’ve never trained for anything like this…”
“I know,” Sergeant Pope said. “The army is based nearby; they’ve asked us to ensure that all people remain off the streets.”
“Not a chance,” Officer Brown injected.
“I know,” Pope said. “The radio stations have begun broadcasting a warning; we’re to head onto the streets and order people to get inside and stay away from windows and doors.”
“There’s going to be panic and looting,” Brown said. He stared around at his men. “I think that we can do this, if we work together.”
“This is Kristy Stewart interrupting this broadcast with an urgent warning from the Ministry of Defence. German aircraft have engaged RAF fighters and are advancing on Dover, Portsmouth, Norfolk and London.”
Around the massive store, people turned to watch as the pimple-faced youth on the desk turned the volume up as loud as he could. “The MOD is warning people to seek shelter, to enter basements and to stay off the streets,” she continued. “I repeat, German aircraft are heading for…”
No one saw who ran first, but the entire crowd surged forward, running for the exits of the store. It was every man for himself; men women and children were trampled underfoot; the alarms sounded and no one could react. The handful of security guards were overwhelmed; thousands of people forced their way out, onto the streets. Others headed down to the basements, hoping to ride out the air raid underground; far too many people forced into a confined space. Panic began, not helped by an older man who remembered the first Battle of Britain singing Land of Hope and Glory at great volume.
The crowds surged onto the streets, running for their homes and families. Cars were broken into and stolen; bicycle owners had their bikes stolen by desperate husbands. The emergency services were completely overrun – and the Germans hadn’t even arrived.
“STAY CALM,” the police officer bellowed, as the first of seven police vans appeared. The loudhailer echoed, almost drowned out by the panic and the noise of dozens of shop alarms going off. “I URGE YOU ALL TO RETURN CALMLY TO YOUR HOMES AND…”
“Pigs,” someone shouted, and many of the younger people in the crowd surged towards the police vans. The police force deployed, lifting their riot equipment, and the man broke against them, forcing them back. Someone threw a rock; seconds later, rocks and garbage were raining down on the policemen.
Constable Wigan ran forward to aid his partner, Constable Stacy, and smacked her would-be assailant on the head with his bludgeon. He crumpled to the ground; Stacy swayed against him, blood pouring from her head.
“Stacy,” he shouted. “You’re going to be all right.”
She shuddered once against him and fell still. He felt her pulse and realised grimly that she was dead. Flames were spreading through the centre of Dover; and the Germans weren’t even bombing them. A scream echoed from a distant ally and he stumbled towards it; a man was forcing a girl against the wall, holding her jeans down and pushing his way inside her. Without thinking, Wigan jumped forward and brought his bludgeon down on his head, smashing the would-be rapists skull. The girl smiled up at him through her tears and began to pull her trousers up.