Hanover gazed at the global map. It was the original one that had been used by Churchill himself, replaced in its position. “It’s awesome, when you think about it,” he said. “We’ve dropped one hell of a pebble into history, and the ripples are still flowing around the world. In one month, Roosevelt is going to be elected…”
“We hope,” McLachlan said. “I read the report from Ambassador Quinn; the contest is undecided. Many Americans are undecided, particularly with the revelations about Soviet and German activity. They find our presence rather… unnerving, some of them are worrying about us using our sudden advantage to enforce our own will, and others want to remain in isolation. Many others think that we can win the war on our own, and then there are those who were always pro-German, and those who supported the Poles and the Jews.
“All in all, it’s a right mess,” he concluded. “I wish I could promise you a Roosevelt victory, but there’s no way to be certain. All the damage caused by the knowledge of the future is disrupting things; Southern Democrats are placing their support to the candidate who promises to limit Black influence and power, which of course loses black votes, and there have been a series of race riots in the south, and…”
“I take your meaning,” Hanover said. “I’m due to meet the Australian in the afternoon, so I’ll discuss fighting the war without American support with him. In the meantime, tell the Swedes about Mr Sevenson’s other masters; they can decide for themselves how to react.”
Menzies was grudgingly impressed by the quality of the history books available to him. His own memoirs, lovingly detailed, had been a chilling read, as had the other books about him. Learning about his career gave him some pride and more concern; his attempts to build a global coalition out of the British Empire had ended in failure. Or, at least, they had ended in failure in the original history. In the new history, they might bear impressive fruit indeed.
“I’m sorry about the delay,” Hanover said, as he led Menzies into the small coffee room. A cup of the steaming drink was already waiting for them. “An important matter came up and I had to deal with it.”
“That’s quite all right,” Menzies assured him. “I’ve been learning about your world. It’s an interesting place, but I’m not sure I want to live there.”
Hanover chucked harshly. “Me neither,” he said. He sipped his coffee carefully. “You know; the price of coffee – good coffee, or expensive coffee, which amounts to the same thing – has gone through the roof. We might be keeping people alive, but all the people who enjoyed their luxuries have discovered that prices are even beyond their resources.”
“I suppose that being dislocated in time will do that to you,” Menzies said absently. “I, however, have a problem.”
“The Japanese,” Hanover said. “They must know what’s happened now; they have spies and agents in America, and our possessions. Ambassador Yurina Sako wanted to return, so I let her, sending her the long way around.”
Menzies stared at him. “Are you out of your mind?” He snapped. “It’s bad enough the Germans having some of your people, but to send an enemy person back into the nest of vipers…”
Hanover smiled. “She knows just how much ruin the Japanese caused,” he said. “She wants to convince them to be peaceful instead.” He shrugged. “It’s not going to work out that way, of course.”
“Of course not,” Menzies said, with all the grim certainty of a person who had watched the ‘Yellow Peril’ expanding in his direction. “So, what are you going to do about it?”
“The problem is that deploying asserts to Australia will take time,” Hanover said. “We’ve been working on dispatching your units from the Middle East, and on reinforcing Singapore – and improving the defences as well.”
“Yes, that would be a good idea,” Menzies said dryly. The report on how the fortress had fallen had been shocking. “Anything else?”
“Hopefully, we should have a handful of submarines in the region in a week,” Hanover said. “We’re also dispatching some fleet support units, and once we have an air bridge we can move in more weapons. The problem, of course, is that the Japanese might strike now, before we are ready to meet them.
“We have dispatched, on freighters, a number of radar-guided weapons, which can be used to swat Zeros from the sky,” Hanover continued. “The problem, however, is that our asserts have been stripped to the bone – and you don’t have the ability to support our ships.”
“So we’re on our own,” Menzies said bitterly. “All the effort that I put in to…”
“Never,” Hanover said cheerfully. “We can and will send some of our army units, and more as they become available. We can also spare a single AWACS aircraft, which can track Japanese aircraft at very long distances, and some Sea Shadow missiles, which can be coordinated with the AWACS to strike at Japanese ships over the horizon.”
He sobered. “A lot depends on the Japanese,” he said. “If they strike now, we would face a long hard fight before they could be defeated.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Rising Sun
IJS Yamato
Nr Japan
7th September, 1940
Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto, Commander-In-Chief of the Japanese Combined Fleet, stared at the map on the wall with a deep sense of despair. It was against bushido, against every manner in which Yamamoto had been brought up, to scream, or to show emotion. He wanted to scream, he wanted to curse uncaring fate, but what good would it have done? Japan’s fate was set… and even an Admiral could do nothing.
He hadn’t believed the Germans when they’d told him of the future Britain. The news about the destruction of the German and Italian fleets had been alarming, but, frankly, neither of them were good seamen. Indeed, the reports suggested sabotage, rather than mythical missiles from far beyond the German range. Had Yamamoto himself not claimed credit for a similar plan, in the event of the American fleet daring to challenge the shinning sword of kido bunto? Surely the Germans were telling lies to excuse their own failures.
And then the laptop had arrived, directly through the shocking allies of the Germans, the Soviets, and then the Ambassador had arrived. He examined the compact machine and its damning files, and then turned his attention to the transcript. Ambassador Yurina Sako had been convincing proof that something had gone very wrong in history; a woman’s place was to support her husband, not to put on airs and graces. Yamamoto’s own wife was a tower of strength to him and to their children, but he would never have dreamed of trusting her with such an important position.
The secret police, the dreaded Kenphei, had insisted on having a chance to interrogate Yurina properly. Yamamoto, already reeling from the impact of the books with her – the stupid unpatriotic bitch hadn’t even brought any useful technological data – had countermanded the order, which had provoked yet another assassination attempt. His moderate approach to the issue of relations with America, specifically over the issue of declaring war over the new – and apparently not in the history books – embargos and the growing disgraceful treatment of Japanese-ethic citizens in America and Australia.
Of course, such people were little better than traitors, fleeing their homeland for an enemy state, but they were still Japanese. Dozens of them had opened new channels of communication with the Japanese agents where they lived, supplying the Japanese with new information. Yamamoto shrugged; did it matter what the Japanese knew of the convulsions occupying the attentions of America?