He smiled, a snake’s smile. “In two years, most of them will have died out. We can then resettle Poland with loyal Russians; and we have a source of labour until they all die.”
“Good,” Stalin said, his smile growing. “Comrade, what news from our greatest general?”
Molotov smiled at the weak joke. Zhokov had always been loyal. Even the history books said so. “He’s working on the logistics now,” he said. “Production of the T-34 will become a priority next month now the design has been finalised. When it comes to Iran, we can put around six divisions into the nation; the logistics won’t allow any more. Still, the Iranians have almost nothing.”
“Good,” Stalin said again. “The fascists and the western imperialists can keep fighting, while we build ourselves into a position of power. Then, it will be our turn – and communism will finally encircle the world.”
Chapter Twenty-Two: Imperial Conference
Atlantic Ocean
Nr Britain
24th August 1940
It was a clear day, perfect flying weather. For once, the men and women of the squadron were having a peaceful flight; interception of the semi-V1s was being left to the reserve squadrons. The Germans had been getting more devious; several of the V1s had exploded in midair when fired upon, scattering shrapnel across the air. One Hawk had been lost to that trick. Several of the V1s had been noticed to explode in mid-air without being fired at, something that the boffins had blamed on faulty materials.
“Charlie-flight, you are cleared to approach the defence zone,” the AWACS operator said. Abernathy nodded and brought the Eurofighter in low, heading over the small collection of Contemporary ships. They were only party British; they belonged to Canada, Australia, South Africa, India and New Zealand.
“They want an impressive display,” Abernathy reminded his fellow pilots. “On my mark, the Proud Formation… mark!”
On cue, the force split up, dropping coloured smoke through their jet streams. Seven coloured lines of light followed the planes as they moved through a complex, but straightforward formation.
“They seem to be impressed, Charlie-one,” the AWACS said. “Give them a second low pass, and then head back to the barn.”
“Understood,” Abernathy said. “Boys and girls, line up on me, and follow me in!”
Prime Minister Sir Robert Gordon Menzies looked up from the deck of HMAS Australia as the strange aircraft flew overhead. Their presence was almost tangible; he could have sworn that he felt them screaming inside his head as they howled over the ship, vanishing into the distance before they could be seen clearly.
“The Eurofighter Typhoon,” Ambassador Atwell said calmly. The small boy beside him seemed awed; cheering the planes on. Menzies wasn’t sure what to make of it; the young boy was apparently Atwell’s father; his mother hadn’t been born yet. “It has a speed well above mach two, armed with cannons and guided missiles and can land on a dime – assuming a big enough dime, of course.”
“And some of those will go to Australia?” Menzies asked. If they did, it would be the proof that he needed to show that he’d been right to bank on the Empire as a whole, rather than changing tack and begging for American support. The new technologies Atwell had introduced would, given time, make Australia impregnable to a Japanese invasion.
“I imagine that some ships will be spared to assist you,” Atwell said. “You have to understand; this Britain is not the one that knew that it had a responsibility to help you out.”
“Us,” Menzies corrected.
“It’s a very different Australia,” Atwell said. “There are times that I feel a stranger in Canberra.”
Menzies nodded as the last of the jets vanished into the distance. “Tell me, what do they want in exchange for their help?”
“They want to try again,” Atwell said. “The end of the war that we – you – are currently fighting led to a disintegration of the global system. The one we have no cannot stand, even if it was possible to keep it without Britain, but we have to try to put something in its place.”
“So the price for Australia’s protection is us joining the new… whatever the organisation ends up being,” Menzies said. “I was always in favour of the empire.”
“Out of a desire to play a role on the world stage or out of a desire to keep the homeland safe?” Atwell enquired. “You did read the history brief?”
“Curtin is going to succeed me in 1941,” Menzies said. He scowled. “We’ll see about that.”
“Perhaps,” Atwell said. “History never said anything about a successful invasion of Lybya and then French North Africa, so perhaps you can prove your point.”
Menzies hadn’t exactly disbelieved. The handful of modern technology and the plans for new weapons – Australian armament factories hoped to be turning out their first AK-47s in a month and new tanks in three months – had been very convincing. The DVD of his own speeches before Parliament, years in the future, had been stunning; the details of Australia’s future astonishing.
Still, nothing could have prepared him for the tour through London, once the Australia had docked at Plymouth. Apparently, the facilities needed for the Contemporary ship no longer existed – battleships and battlecruisers were apparently no longer part of modern war – and she had to wait at anchor. The crew, at least, were being well-treated.
“We hope to expand the facilities for Contemporary warships,” Admiral Grisham explained. The woman was First Sea Lord, something that Menzies had always understood came with a knighthood. “HMS Warspite and her contemporaries, once refitted with modern weapons such as Metalstorm, will be almost unstoppable. We could sail them into Tojo’s lake and sink his entire fleet.”
“Really,” Menzies said, looking out at the bastardised London he saw before him. It was astonishing; thousands of individuals of different races seemed to work together in harmony, with signs and parades greeting the guests. RETURN TO THE HOLY CITIES, one read, much to Menzies’ puzzlement.
“They’re Muslims,” Grisham explained. “They think that they can now snatch the Holy Cities of Islam back from the bastards who would have held them and use the oil money for good, rather than evil. I wouldn’t give them the time of day, but Prime Minister Hanover seems to think that they might come in handy. We have to loan them a small force and crush the evil ones.”
“A waste of resources?” Menzies asked. Perhaps Grisham would be a good source of information. “Why not use them somewhere else?”
“We have far less shipping than we have in the original timeline,” Grisham said. “In truth, if it were not for the Contemporary ships, we’d be in worse trouble than we are. In some ways, Prime Minister, it’s a good thing; we can ship some of your divisions back to Australia and bolster your defences, but at the same time it limits what we can do elsewhere. Tying up a force of ships on this venture merely means that we cannot set up our own bases in the Far East.”
“Australia would be more than happy to host some of your ships,” Menzies said.
Grisham smiled wryly. “I’m sure you would be,” she said. “I keep having to remind myself that this is not 2015. The problem is that we have to establish stockpiles of weapons, fuel and repair components before we deploy any major units to you. I believe that the RAF is looking at ways to free up some anti-shipping configured aircraft; one way or the other we’re not going to be challenged here on the surface. U-boats, of course, are still a major problem.”