“Come on,” Wigan said, as the noise of the riot seemed to fade. Reinforcements had arrived; dozens of new police officers and some soldiers. He headed back towards them, the girl in tow, and then hesitated. A new sound was echoing across the town and he turned to look; dozens of black aircraft were advancing across the sky, heading for the centre of town. As he watched, a streak of light rose up and smashed one of the bombers, swatting it from the sky. In return, the bombers opened their bomb bays, dropping streams of bombs on the city. Explosions rose up from the targets; advancing towards their position.
“Take aim,” a voice bellowed behind him, and Wigan span around to see two soldiers aiming a rocket launcher up into the sky. He threw himself to the ground, dragging the girl with him, as the soldiers fired; launching a missile at the oncoming flight of German planes. One fell in fire, slamming into the town hall; the others kept coming.
“Oh God!” Someone shouted, as the blasts reached for him. By a miracle, he was unhurt; the girl clutched his arm. He glanced at her and saw that half her body had been blown off by the blasts. The German bombers swept on, heedless of the misery in their wake.
Over Dover
United Kingdom
15th July 1940
The Eurofighter pilots, the second wave to intercept the German craft, forgot their training as the Germans started bombing. Throwing caution to the winds, the planes flashed down, pouring fire and death through the German force. Bomber after bomber was swept from the sky; the other lumbering craft trying to retreat. The German formation was coming apart and the jets harried them, forcing them away from the city.
“Die, you bastards,” Flying Officer Mick Eccleston screamed, as the plane swooped around a German bomber, pouring fire into it. He noticed the tail gunner trying desperately to target his fighter and he brought his cannon up sharply, blasting the entire tail of the fragile aircraft off the aircraft. He was flying on pure instinct, avoiding German tracers with ease and snapping off shots whenever he saw an opportunity. He lost count of the aircraft he’d hit and damaged; plane after plane fell to his weapons.
His cannon ran out of ammunition suddenly. He cursed, charging through the swarm of German aircraft before his training reasserted itself, yanking the irreplaceable aircraft up into the sky, well away from the Germans. On his radar, the Germans were moving back, retreating; they’d had enough for the day.
“Come back soon,” he muttered, as the Eurofighter began its course back to RAF Leeming. “We’ll be waiting for you.”
At least thirty of their aircraft downed, Galland thought, as the dull atonal sound signifying ‘retreat’ echoed through their radios. Slowly, ponderously, the German force turned around, heading back to their bases in France and Belgium. He allowed himself a relaxed smile; it was hard to be certain, but it seemed as if the British were allowing them to retreat without interference.
We now know that the burners work, Galland thought. Deploying the tiny flares was tricky – they had a tendency to catch fire at the wrong times – but they seemed to work to suck some of the missiles off target. Not all of them; some missiles had just ignored the flares, but several dozen aircraft had been saved by them.
“We’ll be back,” Galland said, and wondered if there would be an airfield waiting for them when they arrived.
10 Downing Street
London, United Kingdom
15th July 1940
Darkness fell slowly and the tempo of attacks changed. Night fighters tried to launch small bombing raids, but the patrolling Eurofighters slapped them out of the sky. The brutal battles had lasted for most of the day; only the German retreat had ended it. Smith stared at the pictures in horror; Dover, Portsmouth and Brighton had been badly bombed, even London had had a couple of intruding aircraft try to bomb the Houses of Parliament.
“We lost twenty-two aircraft,” Chapman said, as the War Cabinet assembled in its rooms. “Ten more are badly damaged and will need weeks to repair. In exchange, we killed something like three to four hundred German planes.”
“And they kicked hell out of Dover,” Hanover said. The Cabinet paled. “General Cunningham, what happened there?”
Smith felt his chest tighten. “The Germans broke through the defences by sheer weight of numbers,” Cunningham said. “Once they were over Dover, they apparently decided to bomb the town, along with the encampments of soldiers near the town. 1st Armoured lost several tanks to a bombing raid and Dover Airport is going to be out of service for some time.
“In effect, the current death toll for all of the bombed regions is in excess of ten thousand,” Cunningham said. “Dover alone suffered millions of pounds worth of property damage and the panic inflicted still more deaths.”
“We’re going to have to evacuate,” Hanover said. “Move people up to Scotland, out of the range of German bombers. Dear God, they can reach as far as Manchester, can’t they?”
“We’re learning,” Chapman said. “Give us a couple of weeks and we’ll have the first radar-guided guns in action.”
“How many Eurofighters will we have left?” Hanover demanded. “We can’t win this war by standing on the defensive, can we?”
The pain in Smith’s chest increased; an elephant standing on his chest. “I don’t think so,” General Cunningham said. “At the very least, we have to start smashing German aircraft on the ground, using mine-deploying missiles to close their airfields for a while. We also need to sink the German surface navy – and the Italian one. Once that’s done, we can end the North African war by deploying some of our units to Africa.”
Smith spoke through a haze of pain. “What about their invasion fleet?”
Hanover snorted. “We can smash the barges in their harbours, sink them all and hopefully kill a few thousand German SS troopers,” he said. “Face it; invasion is not a realistic proposition.”
Stirling coughed. Smith recognised his nervousness; the junior officer finding himself at a table with seniors who could destroy his career in a moment. “Sir, there is a simple way to win ourselves some time,” he said.
“Spit it out, man,” Cunningham snapped. “Killing Hitler?”
“The Germans get a large percentage of their oil from oil wells in Romania,” Smith said. “If we slam a few cruise missiles into them, they’ll have to tighten their belts.”
“An excellent suggestion,” Hanover said. “Have the Oversight Committee put together a strike plan.”
Smith gasped in pain, noticing the concerned looks from some of the Cabinet. “Are we at war with them?” He asked. “What about the Russian wells near Stalingrad?”
Hanover smiled. “I wonder how much Stalin knows,” he said. “Prime Minister, it is my formal recommendation that we ask Parliament now for a declaration of war, a simple vote, and launch Operation Suppression this very night.”
“And then…” Smith’s voice trailed off. The pain in his chest grew; his eyesight dimmed. He heard Hanover’s alarmed voice dimly, through a haze of pain and roaring in his ears, and then darkness. His head struck the table, but his mind had already fled. Darkness rose to claim him and he fell into it.
Chapter Twelve: The Empire Strikes Back
10 Downing Street
London, United Kingdom
15th July 1940
The three men met in the cabinet room, alone and unobserved. Some of the other cabinet members had returned to Parliament to press the case for war, two others had been offered leave to visit their families in the war zone. Hanover stood near the end of the table, positioning himself for command; the other two took their seats as normal.