“To ask the honourable Prime Minister,” the MP for Greater Manchester boomed, in tones of utmost disgust, “why it was considered unimportant to hold Gibraltar? The fortress is ours, it has been ours for generations, and we have a responsibility to the inhabitants, many of whom are either in German hands or in North Africa now! Why was the military not ordered to hold the fortress at all costs?”
“Perhaps if you hadn’t been so willing to make cuts in the military, we would have more options,” someone shouted from the backbenches. The Speaker banged her gravel, but didn’t comment otherwise; a sure sign that she agreed with the speaker.
Hanover stood up. The decision had been political, not military; the Oversight Committee and the PJHQ had been certain that the fortress could be held, but the cost would be too high. Britain, with only a small army and air force, could not afford to become tied down defending a useless fortress anyway. Still, there was no way that he could explain that to a man who didn’t even have the guts to admit his mistake and retire.
“Honourable members,” he began. “The problems of defending a fortress are well understood, even in this era.” Hanover smiled; an unsubtle reminder that their advanced technology did not guarantee victory. “In effect, the defenders have to hold onto a chunk of rock, while the enemy makes an attempt to dislodge them. With Hitler’s weapons, devastating the rock and slaughtering much of the civilian population would have been easy – I would have been remiss in my duties if I ordered the rock held at all costs.”
Hanover scowled. He’d made the decision based on the need to avoid a long-term commitment to an ongoing fight with German and Spanish forces, as the possibility of a conflict with Japan grew larger. If the British Army had held – as PJHQ had assured him that they could – pride would dictate holding on to the Rock, whatever the effects elsewhere.
“Accordingly, I made the decision to spare the inhabitants further suffering, and ordered the Rock evacuated,” Hanover continued. “Units of the British Army prepared a defence that punished the Spanish for their aggression, and other units of the armed forces struck at Spanish bases elsewhere. Already, units of the Marine Commando units have taken Spanish Islands, which will become bases in due time.”
He spoke over mounting hubbub. “Short of inflicting untold suffering upon the Spanish people, either though the use of nuclear weapons or by smashing the food transportation network, there was very little we could have done to end the Spanish involvement in the war. I stand by my decision.”
He sat down, noticing his opponents gauging their support. Clearly, they decided that there was no point in forcing a vote of no confidence, for the next question was about a different, even thornier issue.
“Ah, Prime Minister,” Harry Jones said. The ancient Conservative MP was old enough to remember the first time that the Second World War had been fought. “History records that the Japanese and Soviets, and the Nazis, had developed powerful biological weapons, some of which were even deployed. Might I enquire as to the policy as to our response to their use?”
Hanover nodded. “The policy remains the same as it always was,” he said. “In the event of a Weapon of Mass Destruction being deployed against Britain, we will retaliate with nuclear weapons.” The firm nod from the Leader of the Opposition forestalled any opposition. Most MPs correctly guessed that agreement had already been reached on the subject. “Even without the monstrous American nuclear arsenal, we can devastate Germany – and they know it.”
“An excellent report, Prime Minister,” Jones said. “If I may beg Parliament’s indulgence, I have two supplementary issues; will we retaliate for use of a biological weapon against a third party, and what precautions are being taken against rocket attack, particularly one carrying a biological weapon.”
Hanover considered. The rules were clear; there were questions a Prime Minister could duck, but not for long. “For the moment, we would view with alarm a biological weapon being used against a third party,” he said. “As for precautions, we have a limited – very limited – number of Patriot missiles. All of them remain deployed around London and the east coast.”
“A question, if I may,” an MP said. Hanover winced; George Tamlin lived in and represented an area with a large Polish population. “What measures is the government taking to prevent the genocide in Poland?”
“We are attempting to form links with the Polish resistance,” Hanover said carefully. “Although I understand the popular anger, we are not at war with Russia, and we cannot start a war without using nuclear weapons, which the House has refused to sanction.”
Undisclosed Location
Berlin, Germany
17th September 1940
There were depths to Kristy Stewart that she rarely let anyone see, including a shrewd mind and considerable knowledge that she was careful to keep to herself. Despite her claims to Roth, even producers found an up-and-coming interviewer a threat, and she knew that her charms were the only things that kept her in her post. Baron Edmund, to be fair, wasn’t the type of person to demand sexual favours, but she knew that it did happen.
She followed Roth through a long underground tunnel and watched his back with interest. Despite being an SS man, one of the people she’d been warned about, she had to admit that he was attractive. She was pretty certain that he found her attractive, and under other circumstances, she would have bedded him. She shook herself; this was no time to allow her hormones to distract her, at the end of the corridor waited Adolf Hitler himself.
“The Fuhrer is behind that door,” Roth said. The five heavily-armed SS guards didn’t react, but she could sense their disapproval. Roth had forbidden her cameraman to enter the bunker; her only way of recording the interview was her helmet camera. “Are you ready?”
“You know, you have a really nice ass,” she said, as she checked herself. She was dressed rather more conservatively than yesterday; a knee-length skirt and a blouse. “Are you toned, or are you built?”
Roth didn’t seem to know what she meant. “Are you ready?” He asked, and moved forward when she nodded. “SS-Standartenfuhrer Herman Roth and Reporter Kristy Stewart, to see the Fuhrer,” he said.
“You may enter,” a woman’s voice said, from out of nowhere. The door clicked open, to reveal a simple waiting room. A female secretary sat at a desk, typing away on a laptop. Stewart felt her eyes widen; where had the Germans gotten that from?”
“Don’t film that,” Roth said calmly. Stewart shrugged; he didn’t know that the camera had been working non-stop, dumping the recordings back to the BBC system over the limited bandwidth available from Britain. “I have to wait here.”
“You may enter,” the secretary said, and scowled. Stewart ignored her and gave Roth a hug, much to his surprise, before walking into the room. She lifted an eyebrow as she walked into Hitler’s sanctuary. The Fuhrer wasn’t the monster she’d expected; he was shorter than she’d expected, smiling warmly. He reminded her of a schoolteacher, rather than a mastermind of evil.
“Enchanted,” Hitler said, kissing her hand. “It’s always a pleasure to meet a reporter, particularly one as charming as you.”
“Thank you,” Stewart said, as Hitler waved her to a chair. The room was as comfortable as it could be, without being pretentious. Several artworks dotted the walls, some of them she remembered from a girlhood trip to the Louve in Paris.
“Goring chose them,” Hitler said, as he seated himself opposite her. Stewart remembered that Goring was known as an art fanatic. “He has a promising career ahead of him as an interior designer.”