His guide and minder, Alistair Lewis, waved cheerfully at a chair and offered to bring coffee. Somerville shook his head; he felt as if he needed a stiff drink. He declined; the PJHQ banned alcohol and cigarettes with equal favour. Somerville had wanted to smoke his pipe and had received a lecture on the dangers of cancer as a result.
“Can you put up a map of the Mediterranean?” He asked, and Lewis leapt to obey. The young officer – he suspected that Lewis was from MI5 or whatever it was called in this strange Britain – clicked the controls on the massive table and a perfect map of the Mediterranean Sea appeared in front of him. By now, he was getting used to the computers, even to use the basic interface with limited confidence.
He blinked. He’d finally worked out what was missing. “No ships?”
“You are cleared for more access than that,” Lewis assured him, and typed more commands into the system. The map changed; the location of the ships of the 2015 naval units and the 1940 units appeared in front of him. Somerville devoured it with more eagerness than he’d felt when he saw some of the women of the strange era; the map was useful! The 2015 fleet, the surface units at least, were working with the 1940 units to escort some units from Palestine to Malta. The submarines were probing the Italian coast; the war cabinet had ordered that they abstain from offensive operations until the outcome of the Battle of Britain was decided.
Somerville smiled. With such technology, he had no doubt that Germany would be defeated. The Germans and their Italian lapdogs were working hard to reinforce Libya, shipping as much as they could across the Mediterranean, in support of Mussolini’s push into Egypt. The Italians had reached Mersa Matruh, lashed by the force of their German ‘advisors’ and Mussolini’s desire for glory, despite Field Marshall Graziani’s natural indolence. General Sir Archibald Wavell, the commanding officer in Egypt, hadn’t believed in the future Britain until the Ark Royal II – as it was now being called – landed a flight of Harrier aircraft at Alexandra.
“Ah, Admiral Somerville,” a voice said from behind him. “I understand that you wanted to see me?”
Somerville turned around to see the Prime Minister, although through some strange legal argument he wasn’t exactly the Prime Minister. He wasn’t certain what to make of Hanover; there was no question that he was a powerful and dignified man, but he seemed to have the attitude of a Chess player, rather than the brusque determination that Churchill had shown.
“Yes, I did,” he said finally, and waved a hand at the map. “Prime Minister, why are we not attacking?”
Hanover took a seat opposite him. “The remainder of the PJHQ staff and the COBRA committee will be here in ten minutes,” he said absently, not answering the question. “I would prefer not to subject you to the media inquisition, which is why the meeting is being held here.”
Somerville stared at him. It took a brave man to argue with Churchill; he wasn’t certain about Hanover. “Prime Minister, I would… appreciate an answer.”
“We cannot mass produce the weapons we need,” Hanover said. “You’re right; we could have inflicted the agony we inflicted upon Kiel upon Taranto; we could have sunk most of the Italian fleet. However, to do so would burn up some missiles that we could hardly spare – until we knew for certain how the battle of Britain would go. That’s the first reason; the second is more complex.
“Italy wasn’t too keen on the war in the first place,” Hanover said. “We were hoping that once the devastation that we inflected upon Germany became clear, they would withdraw; in fact we offered them a peace agreement. Unfortunately” – he tapped the controls; a tactical map of Italy with some German army units appeared – “the Germans have taken steps to prevent an Italian defection from their camp.”
“The Germans will not respect Italy’s neutrality,” Somerville agreed. “It’s been a surprise that they respected Spain’s neutrality and didn’t march through them to get to Gibraltar.”
“That might have changed,” Hanover said. “We’re reading all of the German communications through the airwaves – even through some bastard slipped them a warning about Enigma – and they’re clearly planning something to add to the pressure upon us over England. Given Graziani’s natural laziness, Egypt is clearly one place where they’re putting on the pressure, and then removing Gibraltar would cripple us. They could place the same guns that shelled England there and close the straits to us.”
“Your ships have less armour than ours,” Somerville observed. “I do have another question; the books your… guide loaned me talked about how the war ended, with atomic weapons being deployed against Japan. Can you not use them against Hitler; end the war that way?”
“I’d be out of office in an instant,” Hanover said dryly. Somerville gaped at him. “More seriously,” Hanover continued, “we would ruin Germany and a good part of Europe in the process, and ruin any chance of building a new world order. Finally, if we expand one on a convenient target, we will show the rest of the world that an atomic bomb is possible – and point the existing atomic programs in the right direction.”
He grinned up at Somerville. “We’re not going to lose, Admiral,” he said. “Now, what did you think of the new London?”
Terrifying, was what came to mind. “It’s strange,” he said. “Every so often, there’s somewhere that looks familiar, and then it’s… not. There are so many strange people around… Indians and Africans, and strange buildings and shops.” He placed his head in his hands. “It doesn’t feel like home, Prime Minister; my wife and children are gone – dust – or lost in the time bubble that did this. Sir, what’s going to happen with the men in Egypt; they’ll have lost everything because of this?”
“The scientists are still arguing over what did this to us,” Hanover said. “They mentioned something called an Alien Space Bat” – Somerville giggled – “and looked, more practically, for physics experiments that might have done this to us. They found nothing, but a strange burst of interference on all channels at midnight. If Q or something like him did this, we have no way of asking him to put us back.”
“Q?” Somerville asked, as the doors opened and the staff entered. “Who’s he?”
“Never mind,” Hanover sighed, standing up and moving to the chair at the head of the room. Somerville stood up and saluted Admiral Grisham – they’d decided that she was clearly senior and she’d nearly bitten his head off when he’d tried to treat her with kid gloves – and she sat down next to him.
Captain Stirling wasn’t having a good war, if the truth were to be told. Britain was under attack daily – and he was left running the Oversight Committee. Once they’d gotten over the shock, every decent and halfway decent historian and social scientist had descended on Northwood, offering help and support – often for being included in the classified loop. Being breveted to Major – a rank he’d never be allowed to keep unless he held the brevet rank for at least three years – didn’t soften the blow; not everyone thought he’d deserved it.
“I call this meeting to order,” General Cunningham said. The Chief of Joint Operations was acting as Chair; Hanover had declined the honour. “Major Stirling, if you would be so kind as to do the daily briefing…?”