Graziani felt what was almost relief. The responsibility would be over. “In that case, I surrender,” he said finally.
“No,” Obersturmbannfuehrer Strudel snapped, and lifted his pistol. Time seemed to slow down as he pointed it at Graziani, his finger tightening on the trigger, and then the strange soldier fired his weapon. Obersturmbannfuehrer Strudel fell back, a neat hole appearing in the back of his head.
“I accept your surrender,” Wavell said. “Please, have your men parade, so we can handle this with a little dignity.”
10 Downing Street
London, United Kingdom
24th July 1940
Hanover examined the map with considerable interest as the computer updated it. The armoured columns were advancing at a considerable rate, supported by naval gunfire and Marine raids from the sea. The Italians simply could not muster any resistance; Tripoli was screaming to be allowed to surrender after the Warspite had shelled the city and its defences. With supply lines cut, quite firmly, the Italians were going to lose and knew it. Even the brutal air raids on Britain were seeming to slack off, giving the RAF some much-needed respite.
And then, Algeria – or French North Africa as its called here, he thought, and smiled. It wouldn’t be long before the fields of Libya and Algeria were teeming with crops, thanks to an imported genuine 2015 desalination plant; one had already been moved to Egypt to make the desert bloom. The British forces in the field would never have to worry about shortage of water again, nor would Egypt need to build costly dams, like the one the Israelis had blown open in 2010.
We’ll have to set up a council of local dignitaries, he thought, reading through the papers from the Oversight Committee. Avoiding the debacle that had followed the historical invasion of North Africa would be important; ensuring that the Africans were allies would be even more important. The prospect of a British-allied Africa, developed to 2015 standards, would solve many of the world’s problems. Proper government would solve so much; a ten-year plan to develop and then leave them as independent nations; the expatriates from Britain had already showed an interest in working to avoid Africa’s slow slide into chaos.
“Prime Minister?” His assistant said. She’d been appointed by Smith and he hadn’t bothered to replace her. “You have an important telephone call from Ambassador Heekin. Sir, apparently something’s gone very wrong in Ireland.”
Chapter Sixteen: Past Present
German Embassy
Dublin
24th July 1940
Ambassador Eduard Hempel, German Ambassador to Ireland, knew that his tenure and his life hung by a thread. He rather enjoyed working in Ireland – both sides took care to avoid sinking Irish ships and they had no rationing – and it was peaceful. He knew that Churchill had invited the Irish to join in the war, and that the Abwehr had agents in Ireland, but relations between him and De Valera were cordial.
However, the new future Britain, if the wilder claims in their newspapers were true, was something else. They’d offered to give De Valera Northern Ireland and his dream of a united state for free; they hadn’t even demanded that Ireland toss him and his nest of spies out on their ears. The ambassador from some weird future Ireland, Ambassador Heekin, had buttonholed him and lectured him about the evils of the Nazi regime during a reception. He hadn’t enjoyed that conversation, not with an Abwehr agent ‘escorting’ him.
Still, as long as De Valera held out on the subject of Ireland remaining neutral – and the shockwaves of learning about the future of Ireland spreading through the population – his seat was assured. The Dail had – quite firmly – insisted on censoring some of the material on the future, aided by the withdrawal of what were now being called the Contemporary Forces from Northern Ireland. A five-sided civil war seemed to have broken out in the north, and news of their future had not gone down well.
He grinned, sipping his Spanish wine. The Germans didn’t send ships directly to Ireland – the British future newspapers, which had massive gaping holes on the front pages, had raved about the devastation unleashed on Kiel – but the shipping lanes with Franco’s Spain were still open. Spanish ships carried some Irish produce; in exchange transporting wine, ambassadors and some secure communications. He glared at his latest communication from Berlin, which had passed through France and Spain to reach him, ordering him to convince the Irish to join the war.
Outdated before I even got it, he thought grimly. De Valera would not be swayed, not now, not with his dream of a united Ireland in his grasp. Ambassador Heekin’s little gifts, including the tiny ‘mobile phone’ network, served to convince the Dail that opposing the future British would be suicidal. Besides, they had too many other problems – such as a string of people from Britain assisting the various civil war sides – to worry about a second war.
“Herr Ambassador, there is an Englishman to see you,” his secretary – an Abwehr man reported. Hempel nodded; several dozen Englishmen and more Irishmen had visited his embassy since the… Transition, as everyone was calling it now. Some of them had begged for asylum; others asking for German assistance for their attempts to forge Ireland into the kind of state they wanted. The purge of every member of future organisations had sent thousands scurrying for whatever hiding places they could find.
“Send him in,” Hempel said. “Let’s see what he has.”
The Englishman stepped inside the room and Hempel lifted an eyebrow. He was dressed neatly in contemporary clothes; only the strange object he was holding in his heads betrayed his future origins. He tapped his lips, waving the device around the room before closing the curtains and taking a seat.
“The room is clear,” he said. “It’s rather trusting of the government; given their advantages in electronic surveillance technology they would have no trouble in placing a unique bug in these rooms.”
Hempel inclined his head, inviting him to speak on. “I have been sent by a representative of an organisation that struck a bargain with SS-Standartenfuhrer Herman Roth and his superior officers,” he said. He placed a parcel on the table. “That represents the first delivery of information.”
Hempel opened the parcel with care. It was full of the little shiny discs he’d seen before, from some of the technology that his agents had had a look at. He narrowed his eyes; how were they supposed to use them?
“You already have the ability to read them,” the man said, answering his unspoken question. He passed across a business card. “We have taken up lodgings here,” he said. “Should you wish to contact us, you can do so through there, but I would ask you to be discreet.”
Hempel nodded. “That CD at the top is for the personal attention of SS-Standartenfuhrer Herman Roth,” the man said. “I would advise you to be careful with it.”
“I will,” Hempel promised. “Thank you for your time.”
Ferns
County Wexford, Ireland
24th July 1940
Ferns was a small town, situated near the east coast of Ireland, near a crumbling castle. History had once touched Ferns – and marched and trampled all over it – but by 1940 it had been almost forgotten by history. Mary knew that history would remember it again, and not in a kind way, but for the moment she was almost lost in its… innocence.