For some reason, Sir Charles Hanover and John McLachlan were the last people to remain in the meeting room. Silently, they stared at each other like cats, waiting for one of them to speak aloud. Tension rose and fell on the air – and they waited.
Hanover weakened first. “This is an opportunity,” he said calmly, and waited for McLachlan’s response. “Possibly the most… exciting opportunity in the history of Britain.”
McLachlan smiled behind steepled fingers. “You seem to know a lot about this,” he said. “I don’t suppose that you know how it happened?”
“I wish,” Hanover said. “With power like that, who knows what we could do? However, we have to take advantage of this; we know all of the mistakes of the next fifty years, and we can change them.”
McLachlan nodded to himself. His eyes were very bright. “We have an advantage then,” he said. “You propose to handle it… how?”
“Between us, we posses enough political power to force our policy forward,” Hanover said. “We have the problems; beating off a possible German invasion, defeating the Axis powers and establishing a new empire with our technology.”
“I seem to remember how that song ended last time,” McLachlan said. “It became a funeral dirge.”
“Maybe your son would have something to say about some extra imperialism,” Hanover said, and watched McLachlan flinch. “We can do that, here and now, and use the resources for ourselves.”
“Putting aside my son’s religious… fantasies,” McLachlan said, “we do not have the resources or the will to re-conquer India.”
Hanover shook his head. “Not India,” he said. “We can bring the dominions into a pact; Australia, South Africa, Canada… perhaps even Ireland.” He hesitated. “That might be a problem; de Valera is their Prime Minister at the moment. I don’t know how he’ll react to a super-advanced Britain when he was scared of us infringing their neutrality.” He hesitated. “Coming to think of it, we could just move the 1940 forces out of Northern Ireland and let him have the blasted place; no point in repeating that mistake if we can avoid it.
“But we have two problems,” he continued. “We have to intern all foreign troops and citizens within the country, and that includes the American troops. By now, they must have realised what’s happened – and we don’t want them going home until we have relations with the new-old America. We really don’t want any German or French ambassadors going home; they could tell the Germans far too much about us.”
“I’ll put it forward at the meeting this evening,” McLachlan said. “Between you and me, we can get Howard to put it into effect.”
“We also ought to consider conscription of the unemployed,” Hanover said. “We need an army, and the DORA acts do cover it.”
“The economy is going to crash,” McLachlan said suddenly. “We’ll have to have some intervention at once, you know.”
“I know,” Hanover said. “I know.”
“This is Kristy Stewart, reporting to you from Whitehall, where the gates of Number Ten Downing Street remain firmly closed,” the BBC reporter said. Stewart focused on looking just above the camera, reading her lines from memory. She was one of the most popular reporters for the BBC and it showed.
“There has been no word from the government on the sudden loss of all contact with any other nation on the Earth,” she continued. “Churches, synagogues and mosques have all been packed with worshippers, praying for deliverance from… something. Despite rumours of aerial battles above the Channel, the government has remained tight-lipped on the subject, but sources within the military have hinted at a major preparation for war. Reservists have been called to the colours; tank deports have been opened and military bases have been sealed.”
She waited as the camera panned across the governmental district. “Cars have been arriving from all over Britain; military men, churchmen and even several ambassadors. What’s happening? The Government won’t tell us.” She paused as a message came in through her earphones. “The Prime Minister has just announced that a special session of the Houses of Parliament – a joint session – will be held tomorrow, where a full explanation will be presented. Until then… back to you Bob.”
The red light on the camera blinked off and she sighed in relief. It was quite warm, even for London, and the air was clear. She glanced around as her assistant passed her a cup of coffee; there were reporters from all the major papers, and most of the BBC programs. There were even a handful of American reporters from the American channels, all nervously talking together. Without contact with CNN or Fox, they had nothing to report; all flights outside the UK had been cancelled until further notice.
“Dear God,” she said aloud. “What the hell has happened here?”
Atlantic Ocean
Approx 50km from UK
6th July 1940
Captain Townley stood on his bridge and worried. His ship, the monstrous Queen Elizabeth II, was faster than any ship or u-boat belonging to the Germans or their Italian allies, and the Admiralty had decreed that she could sail without a convoy, transporting units of the Canadian Army from Canada to England. He shivered; so close to England seemed safe, but he knew that it hadn’t been long since the Royal Oak had been sunk by a German submarine at Scarpa Flow.
His crew wasn’t all he wanted it to be either. Many men who held commissions in the Royal Navy had been conscripted; others had been drawn from the Queen Mary. He knew how dangerous an attack from the air could be; had the ship not been targeted by the Germans while it was on the Clyde, even if they hadn’t had the chance to put their threats into action? All it would take was one lucky German skipper – and the Queen Elizabeth II would go down like a stone.
“Captain,” the first mate called. “Aircraft!”
The Captain’s blood ran cold. He'd heard that France had fallen while the ship had been in America, the powerful French army simply brushed aside, and he knew that the Germans would have bases in France now. They might have been escorting British aircraft, but he knew how unlikely that was. He stepped out of the bridge and looked up at the sky; two aircraft flashed by overhead.
“What are they?” He breathed. They were huge; they seemed to move like lightning, and he couldn’t see any propellers at all. They screamed through the air, swooping down to flash past the Queen Elizabeth II; completely disdainful of the two tiny anti-aircraft guns the ship possessed.
Flying Officer Mick Eccleston hadn’t believed the tales from two of his fellow pilots, let alone the rumours, until the CO had called the pilots in for a briefing. Some of them had still refused to believed, suspecting that they were being subjected to a psychological test of some kind, until the Prime Minister had called them himself. Even then, some of them had doubted; Eccleston, whose father had fought the Nazis before escaping at Dunkirk and serving in North Africa, had believed.
And when the clashes began with the SAR aircraft, then we knew, he thought, as the Eurofighter flashed over the clear Atlantic. It looked as welcoming as ever – not very, in his view. Eccleston had had to parachute into the water for his RAF training and he’d hated the experience. He’d since decided he would almost prefer to risk an explosive crash-landing than go swimming again; and the Germans broke the rules. Clashes between their primitive aircraft and Eurofighters were becoming common where the SAR teams searched for missing ships; the Germans ignored the laws of war relating to SAR teams.