Charlene, prompted by her producer, changed the subject. “As you are aware, the preparation of bases for the United States Air Force…”
“United States Army Air Force,” Hathaway corrected.
“United States Army Air Force, then,” Charlene said. She blinked, trying to regain her train of thought. “There are bases being built for the United States Army Air Force and the United States Army,” she said. “What guarantees are there that Americans will not act in a manner like they did last year?”
Hathaway’s face flickered. “The… incidents last year resulted from a mixture of culture shock and improperness,” she said. “No one was quite prepared for what happened, including the local police.” Charlene grimaced; a SAS unit and several Army detachments had been required during one riot. “This year, several precautions have been taken, mainly intended to prevent repeats of those incidents.”
Charlene nodded. “Tell me, what about the reports that some American servicemen caught AIDS?”
“That was unfortunately true,” Hathaway said. “They slept with prostitutes and got AIDS – along with a handful of other diseases. Most of them are responding well to treatment.”
“And those who aren’t?” Charlene asked. “Do they understand the problem?”
“We have attempted to explain it to them, yes,” Hathaway said. “That, however, is a matter for the American authorities.”
Charlene nodded. “Thank you for your frank responses,” she said. “Now… Travis Mortimer, the new MP from Edinburgh, has been questioning the value of the war. What do you say to that?”
“Mr Mortimer, with all due respect, clearly isn’t aware of the scope of Hitler’s crimes,” Hathaway said. “He is an evil that has to be stopped – now!”
“He does, however, feel that a policy of isolation would keep us safe from him,” Charlene said. “Is that true?”
“Every week, a handful of V1’s makes it way past the RAF and crashes onto British soil,” Hathaway said. “Himmler isn’t going to say… ok, peace now man. They know that the only way to win is to knock us out of the war and take our technology for themselves.”
“An interesting point,” Charlene said. “On a different note, given that India agreed to accept independence very quickly, why are we still involved there? Mortimer charges that you are attempting to create a new empire.”
“They agreed on that issue very quickly,” Hathaway said flatly. “Unfortunately, the entire process is stalled because of the Princes; they want some guarantees of their position and personal power before they step down, and may of them have private armies of their own. The Nationalists, however, find this intolerable. Our involvement is the only thing preventing all-out civil war.”
“And what about the charge that British agents took part in the American coup attempt?” Charlene pressed.
If she had hoped to rattle Hathaway, she didn’t succeed. “I can categorically state that no British agents, troops, aircraft or trained animals took part in the events in America,” she said. “That was an all-American affair.”
Charlene smiled and crossed her legs, exposing her panties to some lucky viewers. “When will we launch the invasion of Europe?”
Hathaway gave her a sharp look. “I already told you that we do not discuss operational matters,” she said. “Are there any other questions?”
Charlene felt deeply-buried instincts pushing at her. She forced them down ruthlessly. “Thank you for coming on my show,” she said. She didn’t quite dare to ask for audience questions. “One final matter; what will happen to the Jews after the war?”
Hathaway blinked at the question. “That will be up to the Palestinian Government, or the Republic of Arabia, depending on how the borders end up being defined. Thanks to the Germans, a lot of Jews have fled or joined the military forces in Palestine.”
“Talk about a mess,” Charlene said. “Thank you for joining us, again.”
The audience rose and clapped as Charlene bowed to them, then the curtain came down, covering the stage and hiding both of them. Hathaway nodded once to Charlene and then left, heading off to her car and home to rest. It wasn’t that late, Charlene knew, but being on stage took it out of you.
“Coffee?” Her Producer, Brian Bruin, said. She felt comfortable around him; he had the warm body of a bear. Brian Bruin and her had been lovers for two years.
“Yes, please,” she said, giving him a hug. Enough BBC staff believed that he was gay for no one to notice the conflict of interest. She sipped the hot coffee with a sigh of relief. “What next?”
“Nothing much,” Bruin said. She quirked an eyebrow; she knew that tone of voice. “Only… how would you like a private interview with Travis Mortimer?”
Charlene grinned. “That bitch Stewart never did anything that good,” she said. “An interview with Adolf Hitler… pah!”
Bruin grinned back. “You’ll never guess what that woman has done now,” he said. “Come on; I’ll tell you about it in my office.”
Baron Edmund had never been certain what to make of Noreen Adam, who was currently serving as the poster child for strange bedfellows as a member of the Hanover Government. As a moderate Muslim, it was of course necessary to stay on her good side… except the Hanover government had more balls when confronting Asian riots than any of its predecessors.
He scowled to himself. The BBC had gotten good coverage of two riots being crushed just after the Transition. The Government had banned broadcast of the footage and he’d compiled, not wanting to make the situation worse.
“I confess, this is an interesting problem,” Noreen said. Her scarred face twisted unpleasantly; he remembered that rumour said she’d been raped badly. “It would hardly do to have the reputation of the BBC called into disrepute.”
“Indeed,” Edmund said, not altogether certain what to make of the last statement. “However, she is in Germany and recovering her might be… problematical.”
“The understatement of the century,” Noreen said. “I have been ordered to remind you that she was allowed to go on the understanding that there would be no attempt to save her if she got into trouble.”
Edmund thought rapidly. Who had ordered her? Hanover himself? One of his lackeys? “We are considering recalling her,” he said. “Under the circumstances, would the government be willing to put a helicopter at our disposal for the task?”
Noreen hesitated. “If prior arrangements are made with the German government, then yes,” she said finally. “However, as noted before… we will not risk lives to save hers. If she gets into trouble with the SS, it’s not our problem.”
“She’s going to get in trouble with the rest of the world when they see those videos,” Edmund said. “Can you pass a Press Advisory Notice on them?”
Noreen grinned at him. “They’re on the Internet,” she said. “I suppose you could sue whoever’s got them hosted on their servers, but the Government can’t control servers in America, or even the rest of the Commonwealth. Besides… why should we care?”
Edmund glared at her. “This could ruin the reputation of the BBC,” he said. “Now what do we do?”
Noreen considered. “You could always sack her,” she suggested. “Look, it’s not really within our purview to legislate on such issues. If you feel that she’s disgracing the BBC, fire her or discipline her. If not… then what harm does it cause?”
Chapter Eight: The Man Who Would Be King
Kensington Heights
London, United Kingdom
2nd April 1942
Ironically, Travis Mortimer had never considered a serious political career, until the shambles of the collapsing Labour Government had pushed him to the fore. His membership of the Party in Edinburgh had been little more than a way to pass the time, but when the MP for his constituency resigned in a hurry, in 2016 or 1941PT, however you wanted to look at it, Mortimer had been invited to stand for the post.