Old Story - Graf Zeppelin
Cover Blurb

December 1941: This is the end of the beginning…

America has joined the Second World War, after the attack on Pearl Harbour, and victory now looks certain for the beleaguered Allies. As Hitler’s forces recoil from Moscow and Japan’s forces run rampant in the Pacific, all that remains to win the war is the proper application of overwhelming force. The Axis’s days are numbered; it just doesn’t know it yet.

Then, out of a space-time warp, an advanced Nazi fleet from an alternate future arrives in the Baltic. All of a sudden, history is no longer what it was…and victory is no longer certain.

This is the beginning of the end of the world…

Prologue

They never found out what had happened to the missing carrier battle group…

Few in the Nazi-dominated world of TimeLine C would have believed that they were being watched by eyes from other dimensions – and not just because the works of HG Wells were banned in every country controlled by the fascists. As Nazi Germany grew stronger, their every move watched and controlled by powers only a handful of them even dimly suspected, they grew closer and closer to their dream of world domination. Britain fell. Soviet Russia fell. America fell.

They knew nothing of the war being fought outside the timelines, between two forces so powerful that Hitler and Stalin would have run back to their homes and hidden under the bed, had they, but suspected even a faction of the power possessed by either of the sides in the war. The opponents were patient – they could afford to be – and only a handful of the Nazis even slightly glimpsed the truth; they were nothing, but puppets, on a battleground so vast as to be beyond human imagination.

In the aftermath of the disaster, they sought explanations from everyone, ranging from a Japanese suicide strike with nuclear weapons, or an Anglo-American resistance squad, to freak conditions that had sunk the entire task force in the Baltic Sea. War, something that had been threatening between Nazi Germany and Imperial Japan, grew more likely, but the sudden shocking blow made the Nazi elite back down slightly. The Japanese didn’t push; those few in the know were scared as well.

As idea after idea was put forward by those few in the know – the entire disaster was covered up by the Reich Council – and disproved, the Nazi elite grew nervous…and terrified. Only one man, much later, would suspect the full truth of the disaster…and that too, had been predicted by the forces behind the War. In a grotesque coincidence that was no coincidence, Doctor Manfred Rommel deduced the existence of alternate timelines…and plunged the Reich into a cross-time war.

This is not his story.

This is the story of what happened to the missing fleet…

Chapter One: Transit

Baltic Sea, Germany
17th December 1985 (TimeLine C)

It was cold. Very cold.

Standing on the quarterdeck of HMS Royal Oak, a ship that had been called a medium cruiser to disguise the fact that the British Union of Fascists had surrendered to the Reich’s demands on almost every front when it came to the design and construction of the ship, Captain Andy Masterson picked up his binoculars and peered into the misty grey dawn. The Reich’s Konteradmiral, commanding the task force, had been as insulting as Germans normally were to any of the subject nations – and Masterson knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Britain was a subject nation. The Royal Oak had been positioned just out of cruise missile range of the German ships; the ten ships that composed a task force intended to intimidate Japan from what seemed to be a collision course with the Third Reich.

He scowled as the mists drifted over the water, revealing the massive shape of the Graf Zeppelin, escorted by the two missile heavy cruisers that comprised the escort for the carrier’s striking power. The Royal Navy, or what was left of it after two decades of neglect, post-Sealion, had worked out several designs for aircraft carriers following the American War; unsurprisingly, the Reich had forbidden the British from actually building them. They hadn’t even bothered to steal the designs from the British design office; the Graf Zeppelin, the second German aircraft carrier to bear that name, was a uniquely German design.

The air seemed to become colder; he knew it was illusion, but he shivered anyway as the carrier seemed to drift closer. It was monstrous, much larger than rhyme or reason; it had been intended to serve as a permanent floating naval base in the Pacific Ocean. It’s nuclear power plant – British ships were forbidden to have any nuclear plants at all, let alone nuclear weapons – could power it indefinitely; the Reich cared nothing for the environmental damage caused by the waste. Masterson had heard, secretly, through some of his fellow officers who dared to hope that, one day, they would break out from under the German yoke, that huge stretches of Russia and the Middle East had been poisoned forever by the results of German experiments.

Beside it, floating along without a care in the world, were three frigates; their very names testimonial to the success of the Reich. The Oslo and the Narvik were bad enough, but the Dover was insulting beyond belief; some people still whispered that if the Germans had been defeated at Dover, the British would have been spared German occupation, the restoration of King Edward and Queen Wallis, the massive burdens in taxation and labour…

And, perhaps, we wouldn’t be out here, waiting for our lords and masters to deign to notice us, he thought bitterly, before keeping his face as blank as he could. It wasn’t unknown for an SS officer, out of a genuine concern or just to show off the power of life and death that the SS held everywhere in the subject nations, to have the higher officers from any such nation interrogated for hours – rank might have had its rewards, but it was also no protection, should the SS have any reason for suspicion. Perhaps…

He sensed more than heard the movement behind him and turned slightly to see the ship’s Morale Officer, Henry Sullivan. Sullivan, a short man holding two cups of steaming hot tea, was officially responsible for the morale of the three hundred men on the Royal Oak. Unofficially, he was little better than a spy; his real work was to ensure that the men remained politically reliable…and his word was law. The Royal Navy had once won the battle with the Army for command of its ships; Masterson knew that the second battle, with the Ministry of Correct Information, was far from won.

“Thank you,” he said, taking the proffered cup, knowing that there was a motive behind the offer. He sipped gratefully, watching the lights of Adolf, the new German city that had been built on the ruins of a Polish city. Its name had been wiped from the history books; the Germans hadn’t hesitated to do the same to the Poles. Some had fought and died, others had been forced into servitude; a handful remained in the wilds, trying to put up a desperate resistance. “It’s a fine sight, is it not?”

Sullivan’s voice was upper-class and petty; he was somehow capable of being ingratiating to his superiors and condescending to his inferiors in the same voice. “I was informed at the meeting when we were ordered to…support the Reich that there would be ten craft in the fleet,” he said, his voice almost nasal and flat. Masterson wondered with a touch of malice if Sullivan had caught a cold. “What happened to the Günther Prien?”

Masterson winced inwardly. The Günther Prien, a Donitz-class nuclear-powered long-range attack submarine, was another insult; the original Günther Prien had sunk the original Royal Oak, back in 1939. The German submariner had rewritten the book on submarine tactics, advising the Japanese when they had jumped and stabbed Britain in the back, and then planning the submarine war against America that had proven to be unnecessary in that short bloody war.

“It’s a submarine,” he said, refusing to point out the bloody obvious and lose his career at the same time. “The Admiral ordered that it remain under the water and undetectable.”

“Oh,” Sullivan said. If he had noticed that Masterson had aimed to spare him from embarrassment, he gave no sign. “What’s going to happen to us?”

Masterson pretended to give the question serious consideration. Sullivan, at least, wasn’t a strident defender of the fascist regime, or a weakling who hid behind his authority. He might have a perfect record for political reliability – he wouldn’t have been permitted to enter the Ministry of Correct Information if there had been the slightest doubt about his loyalty – but he showed, at least, some understanding of naval realities. One Morale Officer, he had heard, had wondered why the Royal Navy couldn’t send submarines to Tunbridge Wells…

“The Admiral will be making final dispositions at the moment,” he said, as the roar of a motor launch burst through the silence. The small boat was tiny, only two times the size it had to be to carry out its duties; only that, he was convinced, had prevented the Germans from placing a nuclear power plant on its decks. Every ship in the fleet, apart from Royal Oak, had a nuclear power plant; even the massive supply ship, the Albert Speer, had a nuclear plant. A second launch, then a third, came into view, carrying the commanding officers of the German ships to the Graf Zeppelin for final orders. A lowly British officer would not be permitted to attend.

Sullivan wasn’t satisfied. “And then what?”

Masterson pulled his jacket tighter around him, longing for warmer climes. The British islands were never very warm during winter, even though the worst of the rationing had come to an end, but the Baltic Sea was colder than the great harbours at Liverpool or Edinburgh. The Royal Navy still had a large station in India, but the unrest grew worse and worse every year. There were times when Masterson wondered if the British Union of Fascists intended to hold on to India just to have someone else to pass the torment down onto.

“We sail, of course,” he said. Royal Oak was a fast ship, with some surprises the Germans had either missed or ignored; the Kriegsmarine was a powerful service, but even now, forty years after the war had been won, they still lacked some of the British experience in ship-building. Ironic, given that they had been quite prepared to use British shipyards following the Invasion, but…

He shrugged. “The Admiral will make his decision and we will go along with it,” he said, as if there had been any real doubt. Royal Oak wouldn’t last a minute against the combined firepower of the fleet; the Germans had sunk unwilling allies before, from a French ship to an Italian armoured unit that had refused to obey orders. “It’s all we can do.”

***
The interior of the Graf Zeppelin was warm and surprisingly cosy; the Kriegsmarine designers had wanted the biggest warship ever produced…and they had succeeded. Even for the Reich, the massive carrier had been expensive beyond belief; it certainly could not fit through either the Suez Canal or the Panama Canal, both now controlled by special German units. The command towers, one on each side of the vessel, were large enough to hold an entire Marine unit; under some war plans, that was exactly what they would do.

Konteradmiral Herman Trautman, commanding officer of the task force, stood as his final commanding officer entered, and then nodded to his deputy, Kapitän zur See Henrich von Follmer. Follmer stood, clicked his heels together, and snapped out the Nazi salute.

“Heil Hitler,” he snapped. The commanding officers of the other ships, apart from the supply ship and the British vessel, echoed him. Hitler might have died just after the conclusion of the American War, but the Reich Council had kept the salute; they had been too nervous of allowing a second man such absolute power. “Heil Hitler!”

Trautman smiled grimly as the captains made themselves comfortable. Some of them were old friends; the commanding officer of the Missile Heavy Cruiser Goring, Kapitän zur See Von Trapitz was an old friend from the officer-training course in Berlin. Others, including the commander of the British ship, were newcomers; the Reich had flung the task force together at short notice and it showed. Trautman smiled again; within a few weeks, they would have been drilled to the point of perfection, should they ever have to actually fight the Japanese.

He tapped the computer on the desk and allowed the global map to appear in front of his men. The map itself was a state secret; the SS controlled anything that could be used as tactical intelligence very carefully. Civilian maps – and the maps issued to subject nations – were edited to remove anything that could be used against the Reich. Trautman made a mental note to ensure that a slightly less edited map was given to the British ship and turned to face his people.

“The situation,” he said, without preliminaries. They would have time to get to know one another in the long trip around South America – showing the flag as they progressed – and there was no need to engage in such discussions at the moment. “It is the belief of the Reich Council that Japan intends to issue a major challenge to us, fairly soon; the reports from the Urals, in particular, confirm this. I imagine that you are all aware of this?”

He waited until they had all agreed. The Urals, which served as a loose border between German and Japanese controlled territory, had been selected by Hitler himself; changing it would be regarded as something not unlike blasphemy. Like many in the Wehrmacht and the Kriegsmarine, Trautman thought that the border should have been revised long ago; only the Luftwaffe and the SS were comfortable with it.

“Our orders are simple,” he continued. “We are to proceed to the Pacific around South America, and then sail into the wastes of the Southern Pacific, presenting a threat to the Japanese that they cannot ignore. We expect that the discussions between the diplomats in India – the closest thing to neutral territory in the region – will be productive.”

The commanding officers chuckled. They were a diverse mix, from old seafarers to new commanders, but they all shared the faith in the invulnerability of the Third Reich. Had not Hitler himself promised them a thousand years dominion of the world?

“A question, Herr Konteradmiral,” Brigadefuehrer Richard Wieland said, injecting himself into the discussion without any concern at all. Trautman eyed him carefully, shielding his real feelings behind an iron mask; the SS officer showed no concern at all. “Is there some use for my division in the coming war?”

Trautman gave him a sharp look, studying the short brown hair and hazel eyes, wondering; had the SS officer heard something he hadn’t? The SS had insisted on providing a Marine force, commanded by one of their own people; the 88th Battalion, SS Wiking, was living proof of the SS’s determination to have its hands in every little part of the Reich. It was true, of course; unless there would be a war, the two Marine units would be worse than useless, but…

He smiled grimly. “In the event of war, we are to remain as a roving menace in the Japanese rear,” he said, knowing that the Graf Zeppelin was uniquely equipped for the role. “If that happens, the Marine forces will be employed on raids on Japanese bases, which will distract the Japanese from the war in Russia.”

Wieland frowned. “Including Australia?”

Trautman smiled in sudden comprehension. The SS held it as an article of faith, ever since the American War, when the Japanese had taken Australia and New Zealand as their spoils in that particular war, that there was an Aryan population there, under the Japanese yoke. Trautman had heard that rumour, back when he had taken up service in the Kriegsmarine; he had also been to Australia. Most of the natives, or, rather, the Europeans who had displaced the natives, had gone to South Africa; Australia was home to millions of Japanese now.

“Perhaps,” Trautman said, unwilling to make promises. The presence of the carrier battle group would affect Japanese planning; the Japanese might not have a carrier as powerful as the Graf Zeppelin, but they would certainly concentrate against her – if they had an idea of her location. If the Japanese found them, through dumb luck or careful planning, there would be a battle – and Trautman had no intention of losing.

He tapped the map. “Thanks to our allies” – he laid a droll stress on the word – “in Argentina, we will be using the Falklands as a refuelling port for the Royal Oak, as well as picking up supplies from the base we established there. We might also pick up some allies from there, but there are no guarantees, unfortunately.”

There were some more chuckles. Latin and South Americans were well known for never agreeing on anything; the last thing they had agreed to had been sending troops and men north during the American War. Each and every country in the region claimed that it had been its particular contribution that had won the American War; they had forgotten about the German forces that had battered their way through Texas and up towards Washington…

He handled the other two questions, watching his men carefully and noting the confidence on their faces; they all knew what they had to do. “Thank you,” he said finally, knowing that some of them would be reporting his words to the SS, or the Abwehr, later. He had weeded out some of the spies, particularly the most obnoxious ones, but…there were times, in the Reich, when no one dared cough, for fear it would be taken as a sign to start something violent.

“Heil Hitler,” he said finally, and watched as they all filed out, leaving him alone with his thoughts. The carrier was large enough not to rock in almost any weather; he could almost believe that he was still on shore. He stood up and paced out of the conference room, allowing his men to salute him as he passed, and stepped out onto the carrier flight deck.

“Heil Hitler,” one of the flight deck officers said. Trautman returned the salute, noticing the small group of younger officers and seamen who had come to watch the launch of a flight of Blitzkriegs; ground-attack aircraft suitable for attacking Japanese bases from a distance. The Blitzkriegs were loaded with training weapons, he was pleased to note; they couldn’t afford to waste additional weapons on shooting up harmless waves when they might be going into combat. Logistics were the bane of any modern army; the Graf Zeppelin might be able to sail around the world without needing to refuel, unlike most of the Japanese ships, but once all of the weapons were shot off…

He smiled. The Kriegsmarine had made a big issue out of the machine shop on the ship, but the truth was that it couldn’t even begin to cope with the requirements on the massive carrier. The weapons and equipment needed for one day’s fighting would take weeks to produce, at best…

“Admiral to the bridge,” the tannoy suddenly squawked. Trautman felt his pager buzz at the same instant. “Admiral to the bridge…”

Trautman moved quickly, without running; he climbed up one of the tower’s side ladders and entered the bridge. Follmer looked up at him as he entered, snapping into a salute; the other bridge crewmen ignored him. That was right and proper, Trautman knew; the proper respect could wait until they knew that they weren’t going to be attacked.

“Report,” he snapped, as the alert sirens started to sound. The crew on the flight deck, about to launch their flight of Blitzkrieg aircraft, started to move the aircraft aside. If they were about to be attacked, they would need to launch the air superiority fighters as quickly as they could. “What’s happening?”

A bolt of strange yellow lightning flashed through the mist. For a long chilling moment, the mists seemed to melt away, revealing the shapes of the other German ship…and even the forlorn British ship, right at the edge of the formation. Flickers of yellow light danced through the mist, flickering over the ships; Trautman watched, with horror, as the lights settled on his craft…

“Herr Admiral, we have strange disturbances in the radar,” the radar operator tried to say. Trautman wasn’t listening. “Herr Admiral…”

Trautman felt his mouth fall open. Something was taking shape, right on the edge of his perception; he tried to see it clearly and failed utterly. His mind refused to grasp what his eyes were saying. It seemed to be standing on the water, looking down at him; the carrier seemed utterly helpless before the…thing. It was black, composed of black, it seemed to have wings and… Trautman had never felt inclined to join the attempt to reform the Old Religion, but he wondered now, as eerie flickers of red light seemed to fall on him from a great height…

Right on the edge of their formation, the Royal Oak was picked up by something as the light grew brighter, tossed towards the carrier like a twig…and then Trautman blacked out. He hit the floor as the world he had known went away forever…

Chapter Two: Discovery

Baltic Sea, Germany
17th December 1941

It was cold. Very cold.

Seated at the prow of KMS Brummer, the Kriegsmarine’s gunnery training ship, Kapitän zur See Cajus Bekker watched as the sun made a brave attempt to rise above the horizon and penetrate the mists that had enshrouded the ship in eerie silence. He had never seen mists like them before; part of his seafarer’s soul sensed, somehow, that the mists were somehow unnatural. The cold wore at him, powerful and unrelenting; the crewers on the small ship started their preparations for the day. Bekker did nothing; his task, as far as it went, was to watch the preparations of the young sailors for a battle they would never fight.

He spat, once, the sound oddly muffled in the mists. There was no reason at all for the men to be training on the ship; he knew, despite the best efforts of Grossadmiral Erich Raeder, that the Fuhrer would never let the Kriegsmarine go to sea again. The battlecruisers were in Brest, cowering from the English ships that snapped and snarled around their heels; the great battleship Tirpitz was heading to Norway, to prepare for an invasion that was expected to come at any moment. The Fuhrer’s obsession with a possible British attack on Norway, notwithstanding the very real dangers that had almost destroyed the German attempt to take Norway the year before, had distracted him from the war in the east.

He shuddered, suddenly; he had two sons in the army that was expected to take Moscow at any moment, but it hadn’t escaped his attention that the projected capture date for Moscow was getting later and later in the year – soon, it would be Christmas Day…and then 1942. The Fuhrer had declared war on America; Bekker, who had served in the old Imperial Navy before it had sunk itself in the British harbour, suspected that it would prove disastrous for the rest of the new Kriegsmarine. The newcomers to the service hadn’t been interested in him, even though he had a service as long as any of them – command of the gunnery training ship was the best that he could aspire to…

“Herr Kapitän?”

Bekker turned to face the officer. “Yes?”

“The ship is ready for your inspection,” the young officer said. He had a career ahead of him, Bekker knew; he had a position on Admiral Raeder’s staff already, all he had to do was keep it. Bekker, who had reached the absolute limit of his career, found it hard to care. He didn’t have quite the…ideal bearing for one of the new officers; Bekker suspected, just like the submariners, that the officer’s bearing would crack under the pressures of an actual battle, for living on the sea was an endless struggle, even without the enemy out there.

“Good,” Bekker said, allowing the officer to lead him along the deck, pretending to be watching the young man’s back. His eyes missed nothing, from carefully prepared supplies placed on the deck, to the spotless cleaning that had been done over the entire ship. His eyes glanced over the weapons as they passed them, from the deck guns that might scare away a British plane, to the guns that, once upon a time, would have been a serious threat to an enemy ship. These days, they would only be useful against smaller English ships, but the training was important.

Bekker smiled grimly and the young officer smiled as well, not really understanding, but willing to share in the amusement. Unless the Kriegsmarine got more ships, a project that would take years, these young men would end up being drafted into one of the Wehrmacht regiments, perhaps sent to North Africa or the cold of the eastern front. Who knew…?”

“The fog is…strange,” the young officer said. Bekker realised suddenly that he had forgotten the young officer’s name; like all of his kind, he was interchangeable – Bekker never saw any of them long enough to make a real difference. It took months, at best, to learn how to use a shipboard gun; Bekker had only a few weeks. They had the men; they didn’t have the ships…and that, he knew, would cost them soon. “Herr Kapitän?”

“Yes,” Bekker said, absently. The strange mists seemed to be pressing closer around them; there was a sense of…great powers, flickering around them. He had never seen anything like the mists before, not even out towards the poles, but he knew better than to admit ignorance. “An almost perfect…”

A blaze of brilliant blinding yellow light flared though the mists, dispelling them temporarily. Bekker threw himself to the deck, dragging the young officer down with him, as the light blazed over the ship. The only thing he’d seen like that before had been an exploding ammunition ship, back in the Great War; he knew that his ship was suddenly in great danger. He staggered forwards, starting to shout a command to the helmsman, when…

The light vanished. It dawned on Bekker, as he pulled himself to his feet, that the light hadn’t done them any real harm at all. The boat hadn’t been slapped by a blast wave, it hadn’t been capsized…they hadn’t been hurt at all. Instead, the light seemed to have dispelled the mists, revealing strange shapes, barely less than a kilometre away. Ships were drifting there, floating listlessly on the surface of the water…and such ships! Bekker’s eyes had been trained by the sea, trained to see what was actually there, but the ship of the ships defeated him. The lead ship was clearly a carrier – Bekker had actually worked on the hull of the Kriegsmarine’s one and only carrier, the Graf Zeppelin – but the others…and they were massive. One of them was a submarine, but it was huge, utterly massive compared to the small floating coffins that the brave young men of the Kriegsmarine took out to wage war upon the English. Another seemed older, somehow; it gave off a sense of age.

They dwarfed the Brummer; Bekker was suddenly aware of the ships’ sheer size. Each of them, even the older one, was much larger than his own command. He grabbed the binoculars from his neck and stared at the carrier, trying to make out the aircraft positioned precariously on the deck, and found himself lost again. The aircraft was nothing like any aircraft he had seen before, long and sharp, carrying strange weapons – Bekker was somehow sure that they were weapons – that seemed deadlier by far than any weapon he had at his command.

He felt a pull on his arm and turned angrily to rebuke the young officer. The man’s pale face forestalled him. “Herr Kapitän, what is that thing?” The young man asked. All of his poise and confidence had vanished, snatched away by the mists and the strange ships that the mists had deposited on the Baltic Sea. “Herr Kapitän?”

Bekker’s attention was caught, suddenly, by the flag floating from the end of the carrier as a breeze finally picked up. It was red, with a dark symbol in the centre, and he relaxed slightly. The ships were flying the Nazi flag, which meant…but that didn’t explain where they had come from. His mind raced round and round in circles, trying to understand the mystery…and then he saw the first man on the carrier’s conning tower. He was lying, bent over the railing, and he looked certain to fall at any moment. That decided Bekker; the ships had to be investigated…and, if they were friendly, the crews seemed to need help.

“Herr Stabsoberbootsmann,” he called out to the senior NCO. Fritz had been on the ship longer than he himself had been; he knew every last bit of the hull and the ship’s capabilities. “Take us towards them, if you will.”

“Jawohl, Herr Kapitän,” Fritz said, without arguing. The young officer blinked as their ship came around and headed for what was very obviously a boarding rack at one side of the carrier. Another person, wearing a uniform that looked very like a Stabsoberbootsmann’s formal uniform, was lying on the rack; Bekker wondered suddenly if he was dead, or worse – had any of his companions gone into the ice-cold water.

The young officer was starting to look shocked again. “Get a boarding party together, Leutnant zur See Staffel,” Bekker snapped, remembering the young man’s name at once. He and his fellow cadets, as Bekker thought of them, might as well make themselves useful, once they had finished staring at the strange ships. “Hurry!”

The ship bumped up against the boarding rack and Bekker hopped neatly down onto the rack, noticing with some relief that the strangely uniformed man stirred as he did so. He knelt down to examine the man, looking for some signs of injury, and found nothing. The man might as well have been drugged, not knocked out; there seemed to be no bruises or anything else that might have rendered him unconscious.

“Get him to the doctor,” Bekker commanded, and led the way up the ladder. It was neatly designed to be quickly hauled up to the carrier, or, a more cynical part of his mind whispered, to be cut loose, sending any would-be borders into the drink. “Spread out – do not fire without my direct order.”

On the deck, the sheer size of the carrier struck him; he’d seen cities that were smaller. A handful of aircraft, some almost familiar, others out of an American fanciful magazine his children had acquired somehow, confronted him; dozens of crewmen were pulling themselves up from the deck, trying to work out what had happened to them. Bekker wasn’t sure himself what to do; were they friends, to be helped, or enemies to be captured?

“We have to find the commander of this vessel,” Bekker said, wondering exactly what to do. It had dawned on him, suddenly, that he was really out of his depth. He tried hard to think, but the Reich knew so little about carriers; he had no idea which of the two towers was actually the bridge. “In fact…”

“There, Herr Kapitän,” Staffel said, pointing to a man who was clearly wearing a Kriegsmarine Kapitänleutnant’s uniform. Bekker smiled and bent down over the younger man, wondering if he would recognise him, but he didn’t. “Should I…?”

Bekker saw the water bottle in Staffel’s hands and nodded. The young officer splashed water over the Kapitänleutnant’s mouth, helping him to awaken; his eyes flickered open and he stared at Bekker, his eyes flaring wide. Bekker noted, not exactly without surprise, that the young man seemed as astonished to see him as he was to see the entire carrier and its fleet.

The Kapitänleutnant coughed. “Who are you?” He said, in perfect German, with a Bavarian accent, if Bekker was not mistaken. “What are you doing here?”

Bekker tried to smile, but the pressing concerns of the situation forbade it. “I am Kapitän zur See Cajus Bekker, from the Brummer,” he said. “Who are you?”

“I am Kapitänleutnant Roth,” the officer said. He pulled himself to a sitting position, his eyes flickering over the boarding party, down to their weapons, down further to the empty holster he wore at his belt, and then up to Bekker’s eyes. “Why are you wearing those uniforms?”

***
Konteradmiral Herman Trautman felt a crushing pain at the back of his skull; blackness rose up and held him, holding him tightly…and then it let him go. He fell back into his body, feeling his body crashing to the deck of the bridge…and he blacked out. Moments later, as he reckoned time, he felt awareness return; the pain in his skull was fading as he tried to think properly. His ship felt fine, he could still feel the strumming echo of the power plant…and then it occurred to him that they could have been attacked. The image of the strange…figure in the mists echoed in front of his eyes, then faded; he felt a rush of pure fear…which faded as someone came into the bridge.

“Herr Admiral?” A voice, older and experienced, but slightly concerned, echoed into his head. “Are you all right?”

“I don’t recognise him at all,” another voice, an unfamiliar, young, and nervous voice said. Trautman felt a wave of alarm; they’d been boarded! “I think that…”

“Quiet,” yet another new voice said. Trautman heard the voice of experience, and command, in that voice; it was very German. He opened his eyes and stared at the three men gathered around him; one was one of his own people, another was…an older man, wearing an old-style uniform and a beard that would have been unfashionable in his circles, where the Hitler moustache was considered the heights of fashion.

He fought to collect his thoughts as the younger officer held out a bottle of water; he sipped gratefully. “What happened?” He asked, trying to remember; had the Japanese tried to nuke them? “The ship!”

“Everyone seems to be recovering,” Kapitänleutnant Roth said. Trautman nodded. “Water seems to be helping people…”

“Good,” Trautman said, remembering his duty. “Have water distributed everywhere, then I want a report on the status of the fleet, every ship in the fleet, understand?”

The young Kapitänleutnant’s face glowed with pride. “Jawohl,” he said, and departed. Trautman envied him his ability to recover as he pulled himself to his feet, glancing down at the situation board that was supposed to monitor the condition of every ship in the fleet. They were all responding, but only on automatic; the fleet would be almost defenceless against a determined attack. What had happened to them?

He turned to glance out of the bridge…and stared at the smaller ship positioned neatly alongside his ship. He knew that ship…and he knew that it had been sunk, one of the casualties of Operation Sealion, when everything that the Kriegsmarine possessed had been forced into the breach, when the success or failure of the invasion of England had depended upon a single ship.

“Herr Kapitän,” he said, after a moment. Unlike many Germans – and almost all British – he had read the works of HG Wells, to say nothing of the works of other authors, who were banned after America had fallen to the Reich. His mind refused to grasp the question; he rubbed at his cheek thoughtfully, wondering how best to tackle the issue. He was dreaming, he had to be, except…

“Herr Kapitän, what year is this?” He asked, tackling the issue head on. “When are we?”

The Kapitän gave him a sharp look. There were no flies on this one, Trautman realised; he might well be old, but he was far from stupid. His aide, if that was what the young man was, was naïve; he would end up in the SS, if he survived the war, but who were they fighting?

“This is the 17th of December, of the year 1941,” the Kapitän said, after a long moment. The young officer beside him seemed astonished by the question; Trautman rather shared that feeling. “What year do you think it is?”

Trautman gave him a long considering look. “It is supposed to be 1985,” he said. He had intended to sound peevish, but it came out…almost scared, terrified. What had happened in 1941? Moscow had fallen, he remembered; the Reich had consolidated its conquest of Europe, preparing itself for the conquest of America, which had come fourteen years later. He felt his hands shake, suddenly, as it hit him; he clenched his fist hard enough to draw blood…

“I am sorry,” the Kapitän said. His eyes never left Bekker’s face. “I am Kapitän zur See Cajus Bekker…”

It hit Trautman, suddenly; there would be absolute panic. The Reich of this era would be delighted to see his ships, but his men…hell, how many of them had been born before 1941? Offhand, he could only think of one, himself. He had been a baby in 1941; how many others were as old as him? The computer records would know, if he had time to consult them, but…

“Herr Admiral,” Follmer said. The commanding officer of the Graf Zeppelin was a staid and unconcerned by events as ever. Trautman silently blessed him. “We have re-established contact with most of the other ships, apart from the Günther Prien.”

Trautman scowled. If the nuclear-powered submarine was still underwater, then its crew might well have lost control of their vessel, perhaps even to the point where they would have drowned by now, still knocked out by…whatever had happened to them. “Contact the frigates,” he said, knowing that the frigates would have been updated automatically by the Combat Information Centre on the carrier. He had to keep everyone busy; there would be time for panic later. “Tell them that I want them to search for the submarine and prepare for rescue operations if necessary.”

Follmer saluted. Trautman wondered about the British ship, and then dismissed the thought; the British could take care of themselves for the moment. His mind was dancing with possibilities, but he had an entire carrier battle group to take care of, as well as…attending to the founding fathers of the Third Reich. The thought of actually meeting Adolf Hitler, in person, made shivers run down his spine…

Bekker was studying the carrier’s bridge with genuine interest; his aide seemed uncertain of what to do, or what to look at. Trautman thought fast as the CIC came online, taking control of the carrier’s radars and using them to scan the airspace around the carrier; there were no aircraft anywhere near them, except a flight that seemed to be heading towards Thule, which had once been known as Leningrad.

Trautman blinked. “Herr Kapitän,” he said slowly, “hasn’t Leningrad fallen yet?”

Bekker’s eyes flickered; something about that question had hit him where he lived. “No,” he said simply. There was…something in his tone, something that warned Trautman not to press the issue. His aide stared at Bekker, who ignored him. “Leningrad has not fallen, and nor has Moscow.”

Trautman felt his head spin again. “I think that we should open communications with your superiors,” he said, trying to decide what to do. Getting rid of the young man would encourage Bekker to talk openly, so he could carry the message back to shore. “And then, you and I are going to have a long talk.”

Chapter Three: First Contact

Baltic Sea, Germany
18th December 1941

The craft remained firmly on the Luftwaffe-donated airfield, defying what Grossadmiral Erich Raeder knew of aircraft, although one of the Luftwaffe pilots assured him that some design teams had been experimenting with such aircraft. It sat neatly on the airfield that normally held pursuit fighters to engage the British bombers that flew over from time to time, seemingly fallen out of another world. If the report from the KMS Brummer – and Leutnant zur See Staffel, whom Raeder suspected to be one of Himmler’s personal agents – was halfway accurate, that was exactly what the craft had done.

Staffel – or, perhaps, the man he had been sent to watch – had done more than just bring a message in an incomprehensible flying craft. He’d also brought a small collection of books and one of the…well, future personnel with him; the young officer had been the librarian on the carrier that Staffel had told him about. Raeder had laughed at that, wondering exactly what a carrier would be doing with a library, until some of the information had sunk into his head. If the carrier had actually been designed to spend years at sea, they would need something to keep the crew occupied…and a library would be one way of handling the pressure of the voyage. There were other ways, of course, but the Kriegsmarine would frown on them.

“So, Herr Konigsberg,” he said, after a moment of peaceful walking towards the strange aircraft. The air was cold, but pregnant – pregnant with the possibilities embedded in the craft. “How will that…autogyro fly us to your ship?”

The young man – much to Raeder’s astonishment, he didn’t hold a military commission – seemed astonished by the question. “It’s a fairly simple helicopter, intended to transport a small number of people from ship to shore,” he said, rubbing his glasses nervously. His face was very pale; Raeder had already deduced that there was something very wrong with the historians who had charted the course of the Third Reich. “It won’t take longer than twenty minutes to return to the carrier.”

Raeder smiled, understanding the young man’s desire to return to the safe – and normal – world of the aircraft carrier. Raeder himself shared it; the knowledge that Operation Sealion, which he had played a vast role in designing and then cancelling, would have worked after all was bitter…except it hadn’t. The history books seemed to have gone badly wrong; they claimed that Churchill would have been in America by now, watching England fall under enemy occupation…and he was still in England, spitting defiance at the Fuhrer. The Bismarck, far from being sunk months ago, would never have existed; later, a carrier would have carried that name to the Battle of Florida, which had crippled American sea power and prevented the Yanks from cutting the supply line to Mexico.

“I do not understand,” he admitted, wondering. The man he was going to meet, Konteradmiral Herman Trautman, had raised no objection to Konigsberg remaining on shore for the night; it had been enough to make Raeder very interested indeed. Even as a select team began to study the documents from the Graf Zeppelin, Raeder himself had pumped the man with questions, only to end up with more questions. “What happened to all of you?”

“I do not know,” Konigsberg admitted. His voice was doubtful. Raeder, who had been impressed by the young man, allowed him to talk freely. “It seems to have been…more than time travel, but…”

His voice broke off. Raeder thought rapidly, even as the pilot of the strange aircraft opened the hatch, allowing them both to enter and take their seats. Raeder had to be shown how to use the straps as the helicopter took off, a flight of Messerschmitts accompanying them over the water. Konigsberg seemed more amused than anything else by the aircraft; Raeder was interested enough to probe.

He chose a deliberately neutral tone of voice. “You don’t respect those aircraft?”

Konigsberg flushed; Raeder smiled. “Those aircraft were out of service long ago,” he said. Raeder thought cold thoughts about meeting the Iron Duke, one of the British ships that had fought at Jutland, in the Bismarck, and understood. “They seem slow and cumbersome, hardly able to run from a Blitzkrieg, let alone a Sea Falcon. They couldn’t hide from a missile, or escape radar-guided guns, or…”

Raeder understood, with a sudden flicker of delight, that the war was won. “I see,” he said, without committing himself to anything. Below them, the mists had vanished; it was an almost perfect day. “How are your craft powered? What sort of fuel do they need?”

Konigsberg hesitated. “I’m not sure that I should be discussing what little I know,” he admitted. “That sort of information is considered a state secret.”

Raeder smiled, keeping his thoughts from his face. “Do you have any way of returning home?” He asked dryly. “If not, the Reich is your state now.”

Konigsberg said nothing. Raeder thought fast, wondering; the Fuhrer would be likely to take the appearance of the fleet as a sign of divine favour, help with avoiding what some in the Wehrmacht were already whispering was certain defeat in Russia. Raeder knew – and most of the population of the Reich did not – that the German Army was falling back from Moscow; any help would be more than welcome. At the same time…

He scowled, thinking of Goring. The fat commander of the Luftwaffe – ironically, a post he had held in name only in the strange history books – had a strong habit of keeping all airpower under his personal control. Even the SS had problems getting their hands on any airpower…and Goring would be sure to attempt to convince the Fuhrer that he should be given supervision over the Graf Zeppelin and its fleet. That would be trouble; his subordinate, Grossadmiral (Befehlshaber der Unterseeboote) Karl Dönitz, had been muttering about how Goring had denied the Reich victory in the submarine war…and he might just try to throw away what providence had dropped in their laps.

Raeder thought. His thoughts were very cold.

Konigsberg pointed down towards the blue-grey waters. Raeder found that he was holding his breath as the fleet appeared below his craft, one massive carrier, larger than a city, dominating the seas for miles around. Two aircraft, each larger and seemingly much more powerful than the Messerschmitts, circled lazily around the carrier and its fleet; he could see other aircraft on the decks. He understood, for the first time, just what sort of power had fallen into their laps…and felt cold determination falling though his soul. Goring would not be allowed to ruin their second chance.

“My God,” he breathed.

Two massive craft, each one seemingly larger than the Bismarck itself, floated nearby, guarding the carrier. Three – no, four – smaller craft seemed to be patrolling the waters; the long shape of a surfaced submarine could be seen, near the carrier. Several small launches were nearby; a helicopter was hovering overhead. The shape of the KMS Brummer could be seen, floating near the carrier; it looked very shabby and very out of place. Raeder made a mental note to get rid of the older ship before the Fuhrer came to visit the fleet; it would have left a bad impression.

“We had problems with the submarine,” Konigsberg remarked, as the helicopter came in to land. Raeder looked at him sharply. “The crew were knocked out by the same…well, whatever it was that brought us here. We had to find it before something happened to it.”

Raeder nodded. The helicopter touched down with hardly a bump; the rotors spun down to nothing. A man stepped forward, wearing a uniform very similar to Raeder’s own uniform, but with slight differences, some of them that had been still on the drawing board the week before. His face was stern, his short dark hair was perfectly combed; a single moustache, very like the Fuhrer’s, hung below his nose. As Raeder stepped out of the helicopter, he saluted neatly, and then extended a hand.

“I am Konteradmiral Herman Trautman,” he said, his voice strong and firm. His grip was perfectly controlled; Raeder was almost impressed. “Welcome onboard the Graf Zeppelin.”

***
Trautman held his voice firm through sheer force of will; Raeder didn’t seem aware of his internal struggle. According to their history books, Raeder would have gone on to become one of the leading members of the Reich Council, but that had been after the invasion of Britain. He had spent long enough, the previous night, picking Bekker’s mind; the captain had known enough about the state of the Reich to convince Trautman that something had gone very wrong.

He smiled at Raeder’s expression as the Grand Admiral followed him on a short tour of the vessel. Raeder had never seen such a vessel before, he knew; the German Navy would have acquired its first aircraft carrier in 1942, after Moscow had fallen – and that, too, hadn’t happened in the strange new world they’d found. The Graf Zeppelin and its battle group would be the most powerful force in the world, assuming that they weren’t simply whisked back to where they belonged. He had wondered if it was a strange drill, but there was so little air traffic around the Baltic Sea that he had come to believe it. Somehow, somehow, they had fallen into a different world.

“Well,” Raeder said, his voice still slightly shaky. His face had become drawn after seeing the Ribbentrop; the missile heavy cruiser had been named for one of the founding fathers of the Reich – who was clearly not someone that Raeder approved of. “You seem to be real.”

Trautman laughed. He had had similar thoughts. “I think I’m real too, sir,” he said, wondering exactly what he was supposed to do. In enemy territory, his orders would have been to fight their way out or die trying; this strange alternate Reich was anything, but enemy territory. He had assumed that they had fallen back in time, at first, but Bekker had convinced him otherwise. “I think…”

His voice broke off as another detail occurred to him. The ships were not only large, but they were manpower-intensive; between them, they had almost one hundred thousand crewmen, many of whom would have had wives and sweethearts back in their Germany. What would happen when the truth sunk in? He’d kept it to the senior officers, for the moment, but he would have been astonished if rumours weren’t already spreading through the fleet.

“My God,” he said. The responsibility was overwhelming. “What are we going to do?”

Raeder allowed him to lead him into a small conference room. The past officer studied the room with interest, from the small computer to the lights burning down from above; his mind was clearly on the information that had been provided to him on the Graf Zeppelin. The carrier and its force had to seem like a dream come true – they would have no problems cruising all the way to America – and just when had the Fuhrer declared war on America?

“I think that we had better start from the beginning,” he said, after taking a long breath to calm himself. “Grand Admiral, we do not seem to be in the exact past that we left, if that makes sense.” Raeder nodded, non-committal. “Can you give me a briefing on the military situation?”

Raeder spoke for fifteen minutes; Trautman didn’t interrupt. The history seemed very different; Britain remained alive and well, un-occupied by the forces of Adolf Hitler. Stalin’s Russia had been attacked, as in the original history, but it had been attacked two months later – and the results had been disastrous. The Wehrmacht was falling backwards towards Poland; they might well have been completely defeated in the Russian snows. Worst of all, Japan had, far from stabbing the knife in Britain’s back, attacked America – and the Fuhrer had declared war on America for some reason. The Fuhrer’s reputation for infallibility had echoed down the ages; why had he done that?

He listened, thinking hard, feeling his mind reel. General Rommel, who had been part of the force that had taken Moscow, was engaged in fighting the British in North Africa – and the Italians had proven just as bad allies as they had in his timeline. Far from having secured the southern flank, Trautman could see the Reich’s problem; they held interior lines, but their enemies could attack them at any point…

He knew his duty.

“I swore an oath when I was commissioned,” he said, wondering if Raeder’s crewmen took the same oath. “I swore that I would defend the fatherland until the death – and this is the fatherland.”

Raeder nodded. “What exactly are the capabilities of your force?”

Trautman remembered that Raeder had been a late convert to the power of aircraft carriers and smiled to himself. “This is the most powerful force in the world, at present,” he said, trying to determine what to do. “The weapons and operating systems on the fleet are years ahead of anything that your Reich possesses, let alone the Reich’s enemies. I think that we can make an impact.”

Raeder smiled at his droll understatement. “There are British convoys heading to Russia,” he said. Trautman shook his head at the simple fact; his Reich had never had problems with such convoys. The British had been defeated and the Americans…had other problems. “We attempted to shut down Archangel with a sea borne attack, which failed. We have been trying to use the ships we have to intercept a convoy, but we don’t…the Fuhrer is reluctant to risk some of the bigger ships.”

Trautman blinked. “My ships could engage the convoy,” he said, thinking hard. His head was spinning and there were too many other problems to handle. They needed a strategy before the British and Americans – or the Russians, he acknowledged grimly – learned of their existence. He’d read a paper, once, on their capabilities; there had to be a copy somewhere on the Graf Zeppelin. “However, I would need to discuss it with my Captains; they will have to tell the crew just what’s happened.”

Raeder smiled sympathetically. “Is there anything you need from shore?” He asked. “The Fuhrer will have heard of your arrival by now, Herman; he would be delighted to assist you in any way you need assistance.”

Trautman nodded slowly. “I’m going to have to inform them about the Reich’s changed circumstances,” he said. It was as good an explanation as any. “I think, however, that all of them will be more than willing to fight for the Reich – it was, after all, what they signed up for, after all.”

He looked up at Raeder. “Food,” he said, remembering the limited stocks of pre-processed food on the supply ship. That, at least, had come through with them, along with the submarine. Mentally, he cursed the SS’s special division that kept control of nuclear weapons and their launching systems; a single nuclear-missile submarine would have ended the war within a week. “We’re going to need a lot of food.”

Raeder nodded, clearly settling in for a bargaining session. “We have considerable stocks,” he said, his voice serious. Trautman thought cold thoughts about the air attacks on Leningrad and wondered; his Reich had had much of its food grown in the plantations in Russia, after the war. “I understand that you have to prepare your crews, but what can you send us that we can use quickly to make some preparations for the coming session in Russia.”

Trautman smiled grimly. He would have to set Brigadefuehrer Wieland to work, studying the Wehrmacht as it existed here – which would keep the SS man out of his hair while he struggled with the basics of keeping his command afloat. He doubted that history books would be very useful in the changed timeline, but he suspected that they would have at least some use – and technical manuals would be more than helpful. How long would it be, he wondered, before the Reich could make nuclear weapons – with a little prompting? The Graf Zeppelin had enough men to crew her several times over; he could spare dozens of them to work on expanding the Reich’s technical base.

“I think, if you don’t mind, that I will send you some manuals and my spare crewmen,” he said, allowing nothing of his thoughts to show on his face. He had to keep people working – and the carrier was massively over-crewed anyway. He thought suddenly of the British ship and smiled; they, at least, would have to fight beside him – their people would be likely to consider them collaborators. “I would have to make some arrangements with my people, just to decide how we could best be of service.”

Raeder grinned. “Your battleships,” he said. Trautman was puzzled until he realised that Raeder meant the missile ships. “Could they go head-to-head with a British ship?”

Trautman allowed a moment of surprise to show on his face. “The missile heavy cruisers are intended to engage a target at long distance,” he said, reminding himself to ensure that Raeder got a capable staff to assist him with using the new forces that had suddenly arrived on his doorstep. “If they have to shoot it out at point blank range, something’s gone wrong, somewhere.”

He paused. They would have to make a start somewhere. “Can you send us the intelligence on the opposing forces?”

“I think that that could be made available,” Raeder said. He leaned forwards. “Welcome to the Third Reich.”

Trautman said nothing. “And, of course, there’s Doctor Kreigslieter,” he said, remembering the man who had helped the Fuhrer to dominate the world. “I imagine that he would be very interested in the chance to put some of his factories to very good use indeed.”

One look at Raeder’s face told him exactly what had been changed. “Who?” Raeder asked, puzzled. His voice was confused; Trautman didn’t blame him. “Who was he?”

Chapter Four: Possibilities for Everyone

Baltic Sea, Germany
18th December 1941

The small launch, carefully stripped of the Union Jack with the Nazi symbol, drifted up to the Graf Zeppelin’s docking ramp and was secured to the carrier by the Midshipman commanding the small ship. Captain Andy Masterson envied the young man, who was clearly enjoying his chance to command a ship, no matter how small; he had little to worry about, unless the SS decided to take exception to his face. Not, of course, that the SS were the worst threat in Britain; the young men of the Freikorps had the power of life and death over all of Britain’s population.

Masterson smiled bitterly. Compared to the Freikorps, even the SS was almost popular. The crewman who assisted him to climb onto the carrier was almost respectful; his face showed the shock and astonishment of someone who had heard the truth, but didn’t quite believe it – yet. Masterson smiled at him, noting the salute, which was actually genuine; the young man was taking refuge in meaningless protocol. He almost felt sorry for him; Masterson wasn’t married – he couldn’t afford hostages to fortune – but many of the crewers on the carrier – and the other ships – would be married…and they would have lost their wives forever.

He scowled as the crewman led him along the flight deck and into the conference room; the normal escort was curiously absent. The crew of the Royal Oak had worked out what had happened before the Germans had, largely because of their radio system, which was several times as powerful as the Germans knew. The radio broadcasts, from people like Doctor Goebbels and William Joyce, who had been supposed to have been running the BBC by now, were damning in their simplicity – and that, at least, offered opportunities.

Masterson fought down the smile that flittered all over his face. The Royal Navy had masterminded a series of war games, one of which had ‘proved’ that Operation Sealion couldn’t possibly have worked. It hadn’t helped him, at all; the officer commanding the war games, who had later discussed the world that would have resulted if Hitler had been stopped on the white cliffs of Dover, had been disappeared later. The Brotherhood had taken heed – but it had also given them some groundwork in understanding alternate realities. Masterson was mortally certain that, somehow, they had fallen into a very different history.

“Captain Masterson, Mein Konteradmiral,” the young officer said, as he opened the door. Masterson was unsurprised to see Trautman, standing at the head of the table; the reduced number of senior staff was a surprise. The normal practice was to rub in his inferior status, normally by making him wait until all of the real decisions had been taken, then informing him of what they had been.

“Thank you,” Trautman said, absently. His moustache – Masterson had always found the Hitler moustache to be rather natty – twitched under his nose; his eyes were dark and grim, fixed on something that only he could see. He waved Masterson to a seat, using strange courtesy; Masterson frowned inwardly. Whatever had happened, regardless of what it had been, had shocked Trautman to the core. “Take a seat, if you please.”

“Thank you,” Masterson said, as the SS ground-pounder entered, shooting a nasty look at him as he sat down. Brigadefuehrer Richard Wieland had made no secret of his opinions about the subject nations; he wouldn’t have been happy until the entire world had been colonised by Germany. “Herr Admiral?”

“One moment,” Trautman said. Wieland looked as if he would have liked to protest, but a sharp glance from Trautman silenced him pre-bleat. Two other officers, the commanding officers of the two frigates, entered, followed by the submarine commander. Korvettenkapitän Hans Becker had always reminded him of a vampire; he was tall and thin, with very pale skin. He knew, from the files he had been provided with, that Becker was considered one of the foremost submariners in the Reich – which made his assignment to the fleet more puzzling. Submarines operated best when away from anything that might suggest their presence; Masterson had wondered if the original plan had been for the submarine to slip away once they had rounded Argentina.

He laughed inwardly. It hardly mattered now.

“There has been a rather unusual event,” Trautman said. His voice was very droll, Masterson noticed; many of them would already know what had happened. He was speaking for the benefit of the lower-ranking officers; he was also ensuring that everyone knew what they were doing. “We seem to have been sent backwards in time, but also…sideways.”

He paused to allow that to sink in. “History seems to have diverged,” he said. Masterson, who had worked that out last night, concealed a smile. “The Reich is smaller than it was in our 1941; Britain remains under the control of the war criminal Churchill, Russia remains under the control of Stalin…and that is intolerable.”

Masterson pasted the expression of astonished regret that circumstances required on his face. His heart had leapt for joy when he had heard about the independent Britain; whoever commanded it hardly mattered. For the moment, he would act as one of Trautman’s captains, until…

“We’ll get more information later,” Trautman promised. There were some chuckles from the table, swiftly silenced; back home, the Ministry of Correct Information would ensure that each officer knew exactly what they wanted them to know. “For the moment, as far as we can tell, Herr Doctor Kreigslieter never existed in this timeline, or at least Grossadmiral Erich Raeder – yes, the Grossadmiral Erich Raeder – had never heard of him. This has had some effects on the preparations for the war that is currently in progress.”

Masterson felt his mind reel. Herr Doctor Kreigslieter had been one of the designers of the Third Reich, along with Himmler, Goring and, of course, Hitler himself. He shivered; it suddenly occurred to him that those men, ruthless and able in his own timeline, had just been presented with the weapons that could force forward their own development without problems. German global dominance could be achieved within ten years, perhaps even less…

No one knew where Herr Doctor Kreigslieter had come from; all that was known about him, even by the Brotherhood, was that he had come out of nowhere, saved Hitler’s life, and taken control of parts of the Reich. The name itself, Masterson knew, was an affection; Herr Doctor Kreigslieter had had another name, but no one knew, now, what it had been. He had been…

Trautman was still speaking; Masterson dragged his attention back to the table. “This leaves us stranded here,” he said. “Young Konigsberg” – he nodded towards a thin and nervous man, wearing basic overalls, sitting in one corner of the room – “has some insights into what it might have taken to do that – and one thing is clear; we have no way to go home.”

A sigh ran around the table. They were all knowledgeable men, they all knew…and yet they had dared to hope that, perhaps, they could have returned home. “That means, for better or worse, that we are stuck here,” Trautman said, making the point as clear as he could. His voice was very grim. “We have to fight to preserve this Reich – because it is all the Reich we will ever have.”

Kapitän zur See Von Trapitz spoke quickly into the silence. “We should have some massive advantages over the ships that…exist here, in this…I don’t even have words for it, but…”

“Alternate reality,” Masterson said, quietly. He had to pretend, at least, to be collaborating perfectly; his soul was laughing inside. “There was an officer from Germany who discussed the concept, once.”

“Whatever,” Von Trapitz said. His voice was dismissive; his ship, the Goring, was much larger than the Royal Oak, and several years in advance of it. “We have missiles, we have radar, we have jet fighter aircraft…what is there to worry about? We can defeat all challengers and place the Reich on the moon within ten years…”

“It may not be that easy,” Wieland warned. The SS officer was also an experienced combat veteran; his unit had fought the Japanese during one of the skirmishes in the Urals. “I have been attempting to draw out some version of what exactly is happening in Russia and one thing is clear – the Soviets actually managed to force back the thrust on Moscow.”

Masterson smiled inwardly as the reaction ran around the table. They had all been brought up on the belief that the Reich was superior to all other nations; had it not defeated, in quick succession, all of the Great Powers of Europe and America? The thought of subhuman Slavs – he wondered if any of them had actually seen a Slav – defeating the blonde-haired, blue-eyed Nazi soldiers would be horrifying.

“Naturally, I will need to discuss the issue with the…other people on shore,” Wieland continued, perhaps aware that he had said too much. “That said, if they have been driven back, the main objective will be to produce enough weapons to take the war back to Moscow and kill Stalin, in fact…”

His voice trailed off. Trautman spoke into the silence. “You may have heard of a report called Economic Potentials,” he said. Masterson, who hadn’t, leaned forwards with interest. “It was produced, ironically enough, by Herr Doctor Kreigslieter; the two sections detailed the post-war analysis of the economy of Russia and America. Both of them…were distressingly powerful; some better luck and the wars could have gone the other way quite easily.”

Masterson winced inwardly. No wonder no one outside the German military had heard of it; such a report, written by one of the foremost Germans, would have been literally blasphemy to many Germans. He wondered, suddenly, exactly what relevance it had had on the current situation; just how powerful was America, anyway?

“That…potential exists in this timeline,” Trautman said. His voice was very cold, very flat. “It will not be long before that power is focused on Germany – on the Third Reich – on our Third Reich! It is our duty to help them, because the only hope of defeating the forces arrayed against us lies in bootstrapping this Reich to a point that it can withstand those forces.”

He paused. “For the record, are there any objections to joining our forces with this…mirror Reich?”

Masterson, who could have come up with plenty of good reasons, kept his mouth shut. He wasn’t suicidal; that, and he was working on a plan that required the Germans trust to succeed. Trautman looked around the table, considering each of his officers – Masterson wondered if his gaze had focused on his face just a few moments longer than was comfortable. Trautman would be very wise to have the entire crew of the Royal Oak interned, at best…

“I have an appointment with the Fuhrer,” Trautman said, and paused just long enough for it to sink in that he meant the Fuhrer – Adolf Hitler himself, the only man ever to bear the title of Fuhrer. “That meeting is currently being organised by the Grand Admiral, and we hope that it will take place in a few days, but until then…what exactly can we contribute within a few months that would make a difference?”

“I am utterly opposed to using the Marine units in the war in the east,” Wieland said, his voice very firm. “Yes, they represent the most formidable combat unit on the ground at the moment, but they also have a limited endurance for long-term combat. I would advise using them to train up…current soldiers and train them in new tactics – we should, for example, be able to develop newer tactics for them quickly. We could also produce a basic antitank system from 1945; it won’t be outside their reach and they could use it to give them an advantage.”

He paused. “But sending in the Marines would be pissing them away,” he said, resorting to crude tones, crude words. “I do not have a long-endurance force with me, not now.”

Masterson smiled grimly. The Kriegsmarine Marines and the SS Marines had been rivals for years. Unfortunately, he could see Wieland’s logic; he suspected, also, that Trautman would also see the logic.

“We could bombard Leningrad,” he said, studying the map that had been placed on the wall. “We have enough missiles and weapons to destroy the city, even without nuclear warheads…”

“That would be a mistake,” the fussy voice of Korvettenkapitän Hofmann injected. The commanding officer of the Albert Speer, the lead ship of its class, a transport ship designed to carry as many weapons as anyone had thought the fleet could possibly need, had always reminded Masterson of a bureaucrat promoted beyond his competence. “We have a limited supply of weapons, and of supplies of any kind.”

Masterson scowled inwardly as Trautman turned on Hofmann. “Explain,” Trautman ordered. His voice had become harsh and icy. “What exactly do you mean?”

Korvettenkapitän Hofmann picked up a small sheet of paper and held it out towards his commanding officer. “There are plenty of missiles in the fleet – except we cannot replace any of them,” he said. “The two heavy missile cruisers each carry two hundred missiles intended to attack ground targets – and we cannot replace any of them. Nor, for that matter, can we replace the warheads; some of the ones we carry were intended to deal with Japanese armour on their battleships, others were intended to take out hardened targets on the groups, such as Japanese command bunkers.”

He coughed. “We have those missiles…and no others,” he said. His voice darkened. “Building them, at best, will take ten to twenty years; once the missiles have been fired, and the fighters have been launched, the fleet will be nothing more than bathtub toys.”

Trautman scowled at the image. “Then we will have to learn to make do,” he said, every inch of his body radiating determination. Under other circumstances, Masterson would have almost admired him. “The men onboard this fleet know all kinds of secrets – and we can use them to defeat the enemies of the Reich.”

He looked around the table again. “We will have to inform the crewmen,” he said, reluctantly. “I imagine that that will cause some problems for us, as the crewmen have just been disconnected from the world they knew, so I want a full program of readiness to prepare for war. Apparently, the imperialist regime in Britain sends bombers over, from time to time; we shall prepare to intercept them if they come our way.”

He quirked an eyebrow at Masterson, who kept his face blank. “We have to keep the crews active and working hard,” he continued. “If any of them have ideas, don’t hesitate to listen to them – and don’t be hard on them if they’re bad ideas.” Masterson scowled; the Kriegsmarine was, by and large, fairly good at taking care of its people. “We need to work together…

“We also have to make a start on shore,” he continued. His voice became thoughtful. “I want you all to select officers and enlisted men who might have useful skills that they could teach the men on shore. Once we have a list of people from nuclear specialists” – Masterson felt his blood run cold – “to computer and technical experts, we can send them onshore and give them something to do.”

He waited for comment. “One question, Herr Konteradmiral,” Von Trapitz said. “Exactly what will our relationship be with the…other Kriegsmarine? Will we have seniority, command of the fleet, or…what? Any of us would be senior to any of their commanding officers, if they go by time in grade; who will have command of the fleet?”

Trautman’s face darkened. “That, too, I will be discussing with the Fuhrer and his council,” he said. He scowled down at his hands. “If there are no further comments, then…dismissed!”

Masterson stood up, following the other commanding officers. “Not you, Andy,” Trautman said. Masterson blinked at him. “I need a word with you in private.”

Masterson scowled inwardly as the room emptied, leaving them both alone. “Yes, Herr Konteradmiral?”

Trautman smiled at him. It wasn’t a friendly smile. “You are aware, of course, that the regime that rules Britain at the moment is hardly the government you swore loyalty to?”

“Yes, Herr Konteradmiral,” Masterson said, hating himself. He fought to project the anger that Trautman would expect into his voice. “They have betrayed the reformation in Britain.”

Trautman smiled. “I imagine that, sooner or later, that we will have a chance to restore the government you served,” he said. “Oswald Mosley would be alive here, wouldn’t he?”

Masterson nodded slowly. Mosley, the man who had been Britain’s first Fuhrer, would still be alive – he had only been assassinated in 1950. “Yes, he would be,” Masterson conceded. There was only so much verbal dancing he could tolerate. “I have a duty…”

“Exactly,” Trautman said. “The Britain you know exists here would kill you for daring to exist. Stay here and one day you will be the Leader of the British Union of Fascists.”

“That was my intention all along,” Masterson said, lying without a shred of remorse. If Trautman suspected his intentions, then…it wouldn’t be good for his ship, or his crew. “There’s nothing for us there.”

“Good,” Trautman said smoothly. “I would like to borrow your Morale Officer for the trip to the Fuhrer’s headquarters, so could you have him sent over tomorrow?” Masterson nodded. “After that, we’ll know what we intend to do to proceed – and ensure that the Reich lasts for a thousand years. Heil Hitler!”

Masterson echoed the salute without really thinking about it. His thoughts were elsewhere. “Heil Hitler!”

Chapter Five: Possibilities for a Few

Felsennest, Germany
19th December 1941

Even in winter, Felsennest – one of Adolf Hitler’s command centres in Germany – was beautiful, but neither Himmler nor the young man standing in front of his desk were inclined to pause and admire the natural scene surrounding him. For Himmler, who had been summoned to Felsennest to hear that Hitler had formally appointed himself commander-in-chief of the German war machine, the news from the Baltic Sea was astonishing.

“You say that this ship is from an alternate timeline?” He asked, trying to understand the concept. The history books, at least, made that clear; Raeder had intended to send them directly to Hitler, but Himmler had seen to it that the SS took custody of them. Enough was different, or flat-out wrong, to convince Himmler of the truth; the Graf Zeppelin and its force had come from a different world.

“Yes, Herr Reichsführer,” Staffel said. Himmler had intended him to spy on Kapitän zur See Cajus Bekker; Bekker, he was certain, held disloyal views and could be used as an example to bring the Kriegsmarine under the control of the SS – which meant Himmler. The discovery of the future fleet from an alternate past – Himmler had to smile at the word-twisting that the Kriegsmarine officers had used to detail the situation – had changed everything; Bekker would be untouchable.

But did he have to be touched? “They seem to be determined to join the war against the British and the Russians,” Staffel confirmed, when Himmler said nothing. His voice grew more excited. “Herr Reichsführer, those ships could sink the entire English Navy!”

“They might have to do just that,” Himmler said, thinking hard behind his spectacles. There was opportunity in this fleet, opportunity for him…but the Kriegsmarine would attempt to take the lead on the ships, or the fat fool who ran the Luftwaffe – or thought he did – would attempt to take it from them. Goring had claimed that everything that flew was his – and the photographs in the book of the Graf Zeppelin had made it very clear that the ship was an aircraft carrier.

He looked down at the history book in his hand. Staffel, for once, showed the sense that he was born with and stayed quiet. The history remained what remembered until 1933, when they had taken power…and they had another member of the inner circle. Herr Doctor Kreigslieter – whoever he had really been – had done work on forcing the Reich to prepare for a war – a war that Himmler now realised they were in serious danger of losing. Hitler’s assumption of the role of commander-in-chief wouldn’t change that; either the Wehrmacht would establish a new line in the east, or the Russian hordes would drive all the way to Berlin. If that happened…

It wouldn’t happen, Himmler resolved, squeezing the book in his hands. The knowledge from the alternate future was far in advance of anything the Reich possessed, let alone the Americans or the subhuman Russians. It would be the key to power, the key to saving the Reich…and he wouldn’t allow it to be wasted by Goring. Given half a chance, Goring would be using the fighter jets on the carrier for useless missions over Russia – and who knew what the British could think of to counter the ships…?

“I see,” he said, noticing Staffel’s increasing nervousness. The young officer was clearly wondering if he had annoyed the Reichsführer. “This does offer some interesting benefits, does it not?”

His tone warned Staffel to start thinking. “Yes, Herr Reichsführer,” Staffel said. “I think that we could use the fleet to defeat the Russians…and then hit the Americans.”

“Perhaps,” Himmler said, thinking hard. Naval matters were something he knew little about, much to his annoyance; he was hardly qualified to command the fleet. Goring, of course, knew less and cared even less, but that thought failed to amuse the Reichsführer-SS. “I wonder…”

He sat up suddenly as the beginnings of a plan floated through his mind. “You are currently assigned to Bekker, are you not?”

“Yes, Herr Reichsführer,” Staffel said. His voice betrayed only a hint of puzzlement; Himmler had authorised his mission personally. “He remains on the carrier at Admiral Raeder’s orders…”

“Good,” Himmler said, smoothly and silkily. Staffel grew visibly nervous. Under other circumstances, Himmler would have been pleased at the visible sign of his power, but for the moment he found it merely irritating. “I want you to remain with Bekker – you’ll have new orders cut within the day and assigned permanently to him as an aide, understand?”

“Yes, Herr Reichsführer,” Staffel said.

Himmler smiled thinly. “You are to watch, not Bekker, but the crew of the carrier,” he ordered. “I want your impressions on them, how they act, how they work…become friendly with them, if you can – I hope to have more SS personnel assigned to the task, but that might not be possible.”

He nodded slowly. “See to it,” he said. “Go.”

“Jawohl, Herr Reichsführer,” Staffel said. He departed the room. Himmler waited, thinking for a long moment, and then he picked up the telephone. He wasn’t the only guest who had come for the conference to discuss the newcomer ships - Grossadmiral Erich Raeder had also come to Felsennest. Perhaps an alliance was possible…

He spoke briefly, as convincingly as he could, and then put the phone down. Raeder would act, not as a supplicant, but someone who had power and responsibility – Himmler would have to work to that if he wanted to convince Raeder to work with him. He carefully positioned the misdirected books on the desk, in just the perfect position for the Grand Admiral to notice. He wanted to impress Raeder – he also wanted him to understand that the SS would not bend over for the Kriegsmarine without something in trade.

There was a sharp rap at the door. He snapped out a command; the SS guard at the door opened it, escorting the Grand Admiral into the room. Himmler rose, just slowly enough to draw Raeder’s attention towards the books on his desk, and shook hands firmly. He didn’t salute; let Raeder puzzle over that if he wanted to become even more confused.

Raeder’s eyes narrowed slightly as he saw the books, but he showed no other reaction; he took the comfortably shabby chair without any show of real concern. He sat down and crossed his legs, watching Himmler carefully; Himmler was almost impressed. Raeder might not be one of the Nazi elite – he had been old school, not one of the newcomer Nazis – but he had managed to impress the Fuhrer enough to maintain his post. He was not to be underestimated…

“We have a few hours until the Fuhrer arrives here at Felsennest,” Himmler said, once they had exchanged insincere pleasantries. Himmler knew perfectly well that Raeder, like many others from the old school, disliked him after he had caused a senior army officer to lose his job. It had been largely an accident, but who had known that? “We have had an opportunity that has fallen into our laps.”

Raeder leaned forwards. “The greatest opportunity that we are ever likely to have,” he said. Himmler didn’t disagree. “The only question is how we are to exploit it for the benefits of the Reich.”

“Our greatest weakness remains the command of the sea,” Raeder said. His voice was very cool, very calm; Himmler shared the concern without entirely understanding it. “As long as the British, to say nothing of the Americans, maintain that control, our ability to resupply the forces in North Africa is limited.”

“Indeed,” Himmler agreed. “It’s not as if the Italians will be helpful, eh?”

Raeder didn’t rise to the bait. The Italians had been…reluctant to risk their precious ships in battle with the Royal Navy, which hadn’t saved them from losing several irreplaceable ships to the British. Mussolini and his subordinates claimed and claimed that they could supply General Rommel; Himmler knew that they were either lying or being completely blind to the facts.

“It gets worse,” Raeder said, his voice remaining very controlled. There was a new tight edge to his tone that hadn’t been there before. “As long as they control the sea lanes, they will be supplying Britain and preventing us from starving Churchill and his government out of the war.”

“Indeed,” Himmler said, again. Raeder showed little reaction. “The fleet has to be used to its best advantage.”

Raeder nodded once. “They have already provided us with a great deal of information,” he said. “The vital part is to generate the time, somehow, to make use of the information. We need time, Herr Reichsführer – time that the Allies will not let us have unless we make them.”

Himmler said nothing. “The British are braving themselves to send supplies to Stalin,” Raeder continued, carefully not mentioning the Kriegsmarine’s failure to interrupt the convoys. Himmler smiled behind his blank face. “That alone would be a worthwhile use of the fleet.”

Himmler lifted one eyebrow. “And the…Admiral commanding the fleet is willing to place himself under your command?”

“He is a servant of the Reich,” Raeder said, his voice stiff. Himmler, suspicious by nature, had privately doubted it. “He knows his duty.”

Himmler smiled. Whatever Konteradmiral Herman Trautman – he knew several men with that name, but none of them had a son called Herman – thought, Goring was likely to have his own ideas. With some help from him, Raeder would be able to counter the fat oaf’s influence – it was time to set the hook and see if the fish bit.

“This does offer some concerns, however,” he said, altering his tone slightly. Raeder looked at him carefully. “We are talking about…what? Several thousand men, who have appeared out of nowhere and come to the Reich. The security nightmare is horrifying…and think of some of the information that they know. What about atomics?”

Raeder lifted an eyebrow. Himmler smiled; the Fuhrer hadn’t been happy about atomics, largely on the grounds that it was Jewish science. The papers from the Graf Zeppelin and the other ships indicated that, far from having anything to do with the Jews, good Aryans had designed the atomic weapons in the carrier’s home timeline. Still, it made a stick to beat Raeder with…

“A security nightmare?” Raeder asked, his voice droll, and Himmler knew that he had him. “What precautions do you think should be taken?”

Himmler allowed his smile to surface on his face. “It is important to keep this discovery out of certain hands,” he said, meaning Goring. “The dangers of British spies – we know that they have contacts in Sweden – learning about the ships before we are ready to use them is something that we have to handle as best as we can.”

They were meaningless words; Raeder saw the hook and bit. “That would be a problem, although it is just a little bit hard to hide a million-ton supercarrier,” he said. “Exactly how do you suggest that we proceed?”

“A joint task force,” Himmler suggested, keeping his voice very calm. “The Kriegsmarine – your service – will take the lead on using the Graf Zeppelin and its crew for Germany’s best advantage. I can certainly see that there would be no service better at that, at least, eh? I do, however, insist on having security precautions, enforced by the SS.”

He watched the wheels turning in Raeder’s head. The Grand Admiral was not a fool; he had to know just what Himmler was after. SS control of the security would, sooner or later, place control of the entire project into Himmler’s hands. At the same time, the dangers of Goring trying to take control of the project – and the carrier, ad its aircraft – were so great that Raeder had very little choice. He was, after all, a loyal German.

“I believe that that would be acceptable,” Raeder said, after a long moment. Himmler inclined his head in acceptance. “I trust that you will be presenting this to the Fuhrer?”

“The Fuhrer has a great deal to worry about at the moment,” Himmler said, feeling excitement bubbling up from his chest. He’d done it! “I think it’s time we gave him some good news, don’t you?”

***
The centre of Adolf Hitler’s living quarters was surprisingly domestic, certainly when compared to the vast estates that Goring and some of the other Nazi elite had claimed for their own. It was cosy, rather than overwhelming; only the presence of the elite SS bodyguard for Hitler spoilt the illusion of warmth and tranquillity. Himmler knew that Frulain Braun slept in one of the rooms, sharing Hitler’s bed from time to time; that, at least, was far from normal for such surroundings.

There wasn’t time for such a discussion, at the moment; the Fuhrer looked very tried indeed. Hitler’s brown hair seemed to be thinner; there were new lines in his face, but his eyes were as bright as ever. He waved Himmler and Raeder to seats with an absent expression; his eyes seemed to focus on the massive map that had been placed on one wall. He had ordered that the Wehrmacht refuse to give up any ground to the Soviets, willingly, but Himmler knew that the soldiers would be forced backwards, whatever they did. He suspected, at some level, that Hitler knew it as well…but his mind refused to grasp the concept of the tactical retreat.

He allowed Raeder to give the explanation. If Hitler chose not to believe them, the blame, at least, would fall on the Grand Admiral. The Fuhrer, however, listened raptly; the coloured booklet about the carrier, prepared for the Nazi Leaders of the future, had impressed him. It had impressed Himmler as well; the paper was of a standard that was impossible, even to the division of the SS that was trying to forge British currency.

“It is a sign from above,” Hitler said, when Raeder had finished. “They will not abandon us.”

“No, Mein Fuhrer,” Himmler agreed. He outlined some of the benefits and suggestions from the fleet’s commanding officer. “This is a weapon that can be used to defeat the British and the mongrel Americans, once and for all, if used perfectly.”

Hitler’s eyes flickered. Himmler knew that, since the Bismarck had been sunk, that the Fuhrer had been reluctant to allow any of the heavy ships to leave harbour and risk themselves in the open sea. The battleship Tirpitz was in Norway, preparing for an invasion that had never materialised; the battlecruisers were hiding in Brest, exposed to constant British bombing raids from the air. The Fuhrer would not be willing to risk the Graf Zeppelin and its force – but it was something that had to be risked if victory was to be seized.

“The British have been running supplies to the Judeo-Soviets,” Himmler said, after Hitler had finished his monologue. Raeder, beside him, stiffened; the only reason that the Kriegsmarine hadn’t managed to sink enough of that tonnage had been because of the man who held the power of life and death over everywhere the Reich held power - the man standing in front of the map, studying it. “If we could hand them a shattering defeat on the high seas, it could not fail, but to shock them beyond their ability to resist.”

Hitler was still studying the map. Himmler waited, nervous despite himself; Hitler had good days and bad days – and he didn’t know what sort of day this one was. The Fuhrer had moments of astonishing perception and insight – and moments when he listened to no one, except himself. Whatever decision he made would influence, Himmler was mortally certain, the outcome of the entire war.

“I want to meet this…Konteradmiral Herman Trautman,” Hitler said, his voice surprisingly warm. “I want to gage his abilities for myself.”

Himmler had expected that much. “Yes, Mein Fuhrer,” he said. “There are, however, some concerns that need to be addressed.”

Hitler lifted an eyebrow. “We have to ensure that the knowledge from the future ship is distributed properly,” Himmler continued. He outlined, quickly, their joint plan for shared control over the vessel and the information that was held within the ship’s massive…computers, whatever they were. The booklet, Himmler had realised, had assumed basic knowledge that no one from 1941 possessed. “This has to be a priority project.”

Hitler nodded. “I want regular reports,” he said. “Albert is to have a hand in overseeing the matter, as well as both of you.”

Himmler concealed his annoyance. An order from the Fuhrer was sacred, particularly one that had been witnessed. Albert Speer – a ship had been named after him, for some reason – would be helpful, as well as being completely loyal to the Fuhrer.

“Yes, Mein Fuhrer,” he said. Hitler looked at them both carefully. “We also have to keep the fleet under control and in one place – we certainly don’t want to risk losing surprise before its too late.”

Hitler nodded again. Himmler frowned inwardly; Hitler couldn’t be blind to how it was being used to cut Goring out of the entire project, but he might well accept it, just on the grounds of dividing his court. Hitler had been in the Great War; he hardly lacked for courage and cunning.

“Of course, Mein Fuhrer,” he said. Beside him, Raeder nodded; the Kriegsmarine would benefit just as much as the SS, at least for a while. The thought of the look on Goring’s face delighted him. “It will be my pleasure.”

Chapter Six: Meeting of Minds

Felsennest, Germany
20th December 1941

The tilt-rotor, Konteradmiral Herman Trautman had been amused to learn, had actually been designed during the time period he had suddenly found himself stranded in, as part of an effort to develop a genuine airborne attack capability. The design had never been finalised until 1950, when similar craft had played a role in the war in America, but it wouldn’t be beyond the capabilities of the world of 1941 to duplicate, given time. It was buying the time that was important, important beyond words; if the Reich had enough time, it could be used to prevent certain and inevitable defeat.

He watched grimly as the aircraft passed over Germany, the largely farmland convincing him, finally, that they had finally stepped though the looking glass. He had dared to hope, somehow, that it was all a dream, or a test of their ability to react to a completely unexpected world, but there was no way that even the SS could have faked the farmland below. As they flew further, escorted by a flight of his very own fighter jets from the carrier, he allowed his plans to crystallise in his mind. After all, it prevented him from thinking about the man he was going to meet.

He nodded once at the English Morale Officer. Henry Sullivan had been very determined to restore – or, more accurately, build – the British Fascist infrastructure, and Trautman understood the sentiment. Had he arrived during the days of the Kaiser, he would have attempted to create the Nazi Party and Nazi Germany; he could hardly blame Sullivan for making the same decision. Sullivan had also played a role in keeping the crew of the Royal Oak together; he wished that it had been as simple for his own crewmen.

His commanding officers had forced the crew into intensive activity, but the news had still had an effect; the medical officers had reported two-dozen successful suicides and several attempts that had been unsuccessful. The men, he hadn’t been surprised to note, were men who had been cut off from their wives and children; he had been relieved to learn that it had been only two-dozen suicides. Others, of course, had been delighted; divorce was something that simply didn’t happen in Nazi Germany.

His gaze fell on Brigadefuehrer Richard Wieland, who nodded cheerfully to him; the SS Division was holding up well. They had all been unmarried – SS officers were encouraged, instead, to procreate their genes in SS crèches – and they were all determined to serve the Great Hitler directly. The thought of meeting the legends from the founding days of the Third Reich had galvanised many of his crewmen; he hoped, among other things, to convince Hitler to pay a visit to the fleet.

“We’re coming in to the landing point,” the pilot called. Trautman checked his belt absently as a flight of local aircraft – he identified them dimly as Messerschmitts – swooped in to escort them down to the Fuhrer’s headquarters. That too had been something to worry about; their aircraft was so outlandish that the Germans from 1941 might just accidentally fire at them. He knew – intellectually – that the Luftwaffe of 1941 had a capable air control system, even though it would be nothing compared to the system that the Graf Zeppelin used to control its aircraft, but it was hard to escape the impression of uncontrolled pilots blundering around the sky.

“Good,” he said, as the aircraft slowed to a hover. The escorts couldn’t loiter over the Fuhrer’s headquarters, unfortunately; they would have to rendezvous with a tanker from the carrier and then return to their base ship. “Take us down.”

Felsennest rose up towards them as the aircraft descended, heading towards what he had suspected as being a helicopter pad, before remembering that helicopters wouldn’t be in regular use until 1945. Several armoured vehicles, smaller armoured cars by the looks of them, were positioned at the edge of the square; he realised suddenly that the SS would have had fits over the possible danger to Hitler’s person. As the landing pad grew closer, he made out buildings, hidden among the trees, with carefully-placed antiaircraft guns around the perimeter. They wouldn’t have stopped a low-level Sea Falcon or Blitzkrieg; they might have deterred whatever the British of this era were deploying in the ongoing war.

“Full dress uniforms,” Wieland muttered. Trautman smiled grimly; the SS man was, finally, showing some signs of stress. “I hate wearing these things.”

Trautman composed himself as the aircraft settled neatly to the ground. His own dress uniform felt well-worn; he’d had to wear it during the innumerable planning sessions, back when they had prepared to move against Japan. Japan was an ally here, he hadn’t been surprised to learn; it was only supposed to be fourteen years until both powers moved to bring down America.

He shook his head. That wouldn’t happen here, not now.

A small group of figures were standing under the awning of one of the larger buildings. He felt his heart beat faster as he recognised two of them, from the historical records; Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler…and Führer und Reichskanzler Adolf Hitler. Raeder, seeming somehow smaller next to the two great men, was smiling at him; a man who seemed to be astonishingly fat gave him a surprisingly challenging stare.

He stepped out of the aircraft and saluted. “Heil Hitler!”

Hitler returned the salute. One American cartoon, disappeared along with its producers, had had the Fuhrer proclaiming ‘Heil Me.’ Bugs Bunny had been a great hit in Germany, following the American War, but only a handful of people had ever seen that cartoon. The Fuhrer did no such thing; his salute was perfectly normal.

“Welcome to Germany,” he said. Trautman felt his heart race; the voice was exactly the same as it had been in the records of the Fuhrer’s speeches. “I understand that you have a lot to tell me.”

***
Up close, the Fuhrer seemed somehow larger than his body; his personality seemed to be spilling out of his body, drawing Trautman and everyone in the room towards him. Trautman didn’t understand it, didn’t understand the sheer power that Hitler radiated, but he found it impressive; he understood, for the first time, the Great Man theory that had been developed by Nazi scientists and researchers. Hitler was great; there was little doubt about that.

The fat man, who turned out to be Herman Goring, was great in another sense. He seemed to be fatter than he actually was, although not as fat as the cartoon had suggested; he had been casting Himmler and Raeder dark looks all throughout the simple meal that the Fuhrer’s chef had laid on for them. Himmler himself had been the only real surprise; his face was the same, but he was a lot shorter than the historical records had suggested. His record claimed military experience; Trautman couldn’t see any signs of it in the way that he moved.

Finally, Hitler cleaned his plate, or got bored of talking about inconsequential details about Trautman’s home timeline. His questions had been a curious mixture of insightful and blinkered; he had asked, in one breath, about his death in the other timeline, and then about how the Reich had handled its Jewish problem. Trautman had explained about how he had died after America had been defeated; he had said nothing about the Jewish problem. What Jewish problem?

“Your coming is a sign of destiny,” Hitler said, in tones very like the ones he had used for making a speech. “We have been betrayed by elements within our very Wehrmacht, the defenders of the old guard that have yet to be purged from Germany, but we will prevail against their treachery and rise up to the levels that we have enjoyed in your timeline.”

His voice altered, became softer, more conversational. “We have to prevail,” he said, earnestly. Trautman found himself drawn in, almost against his will. Hitler’s personality reached out and pulled at him; he wondered, suddenly, if some of the stranger legends surrounding the Fuhrer were actually true after all. “How can you help us defeat the enemies of Germany?”

The sudden shift in the conversation almost caught Trautman off guard. “Mein Fuhrer,” he said, reminding himself to keep using that form of address. Hitler had been the only person in history to deserve the title; it just wasn’t used in his Germany. “We have the knowledge of considerable technologies that can be used to defeat the Soviet Union, assuming that we have time to deploy them.”

Hitler’s gaze brightened. Trautman remembered suddenly that he had practically had a weapons fetish; the Graf Zeppelin, among almost every other advanced ship in the fleet, had some elements that had been designed or encouraged by Hitler himself. He said so, keeping his voice respectful, then nodded to Wieland. The SS officer – he had noticed the glances that Himmler had been giving him – opened his briefcase and pulled out a series of notes.

“The Soviets seem to posses a tank that has the advantage in Russian weather,” Wieland said, dispassionately. Trautman silently blessed the determination of the officers to ensure that all information, no matter how useless, was storied in the Marine landing ships; it would prove it’s worth today. “We have some designs that are intended to counter that particular design, from the modified Panzer V to the antitank missile launcher, the Panzerfaust.”

“We do have some designs for such a weapon already,” Hitler commented. His eyes were alight with…an emotion Trautman wasn’t sure he wanted to identify. Delight? Awe? Amusement? “What form of advantages do they hold?”

Wieland didn’t let the question fluster him. “The Panzer V, modified design, was produced in late 1942, after incorporating the lessons from the Russian front and the experience of the first production run,” he said. “The tanks were intended to be produced very quickly; in fact, it is literally possible to build one within a few days, once the production line has been established. Several thousand were produced and some saw action during the American War, as well as the various pacification programs in the east.”

He produced a picture of a blocky tank and passed it to Hitler, who took it with interest. Trautman examined it thoughtfully; it had none of the…superb engineering that could be seen in the Graf Zeppelin; it was clearly intended to be sent into battle right from the start of its career. Its main gun was long and firm; he noted the smaller machine guns, protruding from each side of the tank, with interest.

“Armed with the right ammunition, a force of those tanks could punch their way to Moscow,” Wieland said quietly. “They’re tough; they should be proof against the Russian weapons, or at least anything they deployed in our timeline. They’re not fancy, but they can be built quickly and sent into battle.”

“You have a small force of tanks in your landing force,” the Fuhrer said suddenly. Goring’s eyes flickered with amusement; Trautman realised just who had suggested that possibility to the Fuhrer. “Can they not make the march to Moscow?”

Wieland hesitated. “There is not enough of them to make the march,” he said, seriously. “Mein Fuhrer, the entire landing force, both Marines and SS, doesn’t have the endurance needed to fight their way through the Russian defences. They would run out of ammunition before the Russians ran out of tanks and men.”

Trautman nodded thoughtfully. An idea was brewing at the back of his head, a way in which the landing force could be used to bring off a strategic victory. It would need to be considered carefully, with every angle examined, and then…perhaps it could be done. A thought flickered through his mind; they would have to work on developing more aviation fuel suitable for the fighters, or they would all be grounded.

Himmler’s voice was very dry; there was no hint of welcome in his tones. “That could pose a problem,” he said. “How long will your ships and men be…useful?”

Trautman bristled inwardly at the tone. “We can produce some supplies here,” he said, seriously. “Given some work, producing fuel would be possible – and, of course, the nuclear power plants on the ships wouldn’t need to be recored for years, at worst. Bullets for the aircraft can be produced quickly, even through missiles will be beyond us for years; we will have enough time and supplies to make a very real difference.”

He scowled, thinking hard; the Reich was like a boxer, trying to fight two foes at once. If it turned to deal with one foe, the other would get in the killing blow – and, of course, America would be out of range for quite some time. That left Russia as the logical target, except…there was a weakness in the American position.

Raeder spoke into the silence. “We have prepared a plan to disseminate as much technical knowledge as possible,” he said. He seemed to be slightly overshadowed by Hitler; the Fuhrer and Raeder seemed to have an odd relationship. “However, we also need to use the fleet as soon as possible, just to force the British to back off slightly.”

Hitler’s dark eyes flickered. “I do not want to risk the ships,” he said, his voice…strange. He seemed undecided, unwilling to commit himself one way or the other. “The carrier is literally irreplaceable.”

Trautman smiled. “Mien Fuhrer, the British won’t be able to get anywhere near the Graf Zeppelin,” he said. “The radars on the carrier will, enhanced by the Control aircraft, be able to track British ships from up to two hundred kilometres from the fleet. They won’t be able to slip a submarine close to the fleet; the frigates carry enough sonar systems to make moving any submarines nearby impossible.”

He paused. Under normal circumstances, he would have sent one of the missile cruisers and the frigates, or perhaps the submarine; this time, he wanted to keep the fleet together. They had to keep working, just long enough to give the crew time to get over the shock of finding themselves in a different world; they couldn’t afford more suicides. Besides, he wanted action himself – he had been expecting to fight the Japanese, and that had been worrying, but this…

“Once we detect the convoy,” he continued, “we will close in and engage with missiles. It shouldn’t take more than one missile, per craft, to sink them – and utterly destroy the convoy.” He thought for a moment about raiding the shores of Britain and smiled at the thought; it might even be possible to use the British ship to do that. “Once we have accomplished that, we will weave our way home, sinking whatever British ships we come across as we meet them. We could even bombard Scarpa Flow from a distance…”

“No,” the Fuhrer said, very firmly. Trautman sighed inwardly. “We do not want to risk losing your ships, Admiral; I will authorise only the raid on the convoy.”

Trautman shrugged inwardly. With a little aggression, they would be certain to encounter some British warships – and no one from the contemporary Kriegsmarine would know that it hadn’t been an accident.

“Which leads rather neatly to a second point,” Hitler continued. “Do we inform the Japanese of anything about this?”

Trautman frowned. His first inclination had been to deny the Japanese anything; they would have been the Reich’s next opponent, perhaps even its last opponent, in the original timeline. On the other hand, they were Germany’s allies here, weren’t they?

“I imagine that Ambassador Oshima will have already heard of it,” Himmler said. Trautman lifted an eyebrow; the Reichsführer-SS seemed to speak of the Japanese man with a trace of genuine respect. “He does have his sources, and he does have his ambitions to link our empires up in the Middle East and India.”

Raeder spoke very quietly. “They were impractical,” he said. “We simply didn’t have the logistic capability to carry out the grand designs.”

He paused and looked at Trautman. “Perhaps we do now,” he said. “Perhaps…”

Hitler tapped the table sharply. “We have to test your ships,” he said, addressing Trautman. “You have my permission to raid the British convoy.”

Trautman saluted smartly. “Jawohl, Mein Fuhrer,” he pronounced. “Would you like to visit the fleet before our departure?”

Hitler considered. “I shall visit the fleet in victory,” he promised. “Now, what about the preparations to house your crewmen?”

Raeder spoke quickly, proposing some small barracks to be produced on shore, for those who wouldn’t be sailing with the fleet. Goring spoke sharply and insistently, demanding the service of some of the aviation engineers from the fleet; he spoke of his dreams of a force of jet aircraft that would sweep the British from the skies. Himmler spoke softly, with almost a snake’s hiss in his voice; he argued for keeping the fleet and its crew under the control of the Kriegsmarine.

And Hitler…Hitler watched and said nothing.

“Enough,” he said, finally. Trautman, who had been fascinated and disillusioned by the discussion, was almost regretful. Hitler’s gaze was firm, his personality reached out to the three men; they seemed somehow diminished under his gaze. “The main body of the fleet will remain under Admiral Trautman’s command.”

Goring seemed almost sulky. Hitler seemed to take notice of that; Trautman was starting to understand how Hitler ran his cabinet. “However, if Admiral Trautman would consent, perhaps some engineers could be spared…”

Trautman recognise his cue. “Some flight deck engineers could be spared,” he said, not exactly reluctantly. They had been the people he had intended to send onshore anyway, just in case. “Would that be sufficient?”

“Of course,” Goring said, suddenly relaxed. “With their services, I will astonish the world.”

Himmler muttered something under his breath. “We will go onwards to victory,” Hitler said, ignoring him. The speech-making tone was back in his voice. “With the new fleet at our disposal, victory is certain.”

Chapter Seven: The Cruel Sea

Baltic Sea, Germany
23rd December 1941

“I wondered what you wanted to say, Skipper,” Commander Robin Harper said. In any rational navy, he would have been a Captain himself by now; an unfortunate incident when he had been younger had ensured that his rank had been frozen at Commander – and he had been lucky not to have been discharged from the service altogether. “You wouldn’t have asked me to meet you here like a lover…”

Masterson gave him a sharp look. Harper looked back, unabashed. Women were rarely allowed to serve on Royal Navy vessels - Doctor Phyllis Stoner, CMO, was only allowed to serve because she was Sullivan’s lover – and everyone knew what sailors did. Homosexuality was banned – and homosexual men were disappeared on a regular basis – but it occurred, from time to time, within the Royal Navy.

He smiled grimly. “There are opportunities here,” he said, wishing that Harper was one of the Brotherhood. He might well be one of the Brotherhood – members rarely knew their fellows in the same service – but Masterson had no way to be certain. “We have to be ready for them.”

“Opportunities for the Jerries,” Harper said, bitterly. His voice darkened. “This world…it doesn’t have the Freikorps and all of their friends, it has…”

“I know,” Masterson said, keeping his voice low. Sullivan was ashore, conversing with the Reich – and a man called William Joyce, whom Masterson dimly remembered from the forbidden histories. They would be discussing how the Royal Oak could serve the Reich, using it to serve as the flagship of a puppet British Navy; Masterson had privately resolved that that would not happen, whatever the cost.

He lifted his gaze and peered into the darkness; the German coast was blacked out, almost completely, with only a few twinkles of light breaking the darkness. The looming shape of the Graf Zeppelin, running lights burning brightly against the sky, sent shivers down his spine; the carrier had weaknesses, but it would dominate the seas when they set out to raid a British convoy. He had already considered simply attacking the carrier, using the weapons that were slightly more powerful than the Germans knew, but he knew that it would be futile. The carrier’s close-in air defence system would shoot the missiles down…and her consorts would blow Royal Oak out of the water.

“We could sink her,” Harper said, his voice low and earnest. Masterson frowned; they were talking away from the bugs that Sullivan had scattered around the ship, but there was still a danger – any one of the ship’s two hundred men might be a spy, or worse, for the Nazis. “All it would take is some explosive in the right place…”

Masterson had already considered the possibility. “They won’t let us smuggle anything close enough,” he said. He’d spent far too long wishing that Royal Oak had carried a single nuclear weapon; the blast would have destroyed the entire carrier battle force. “There are other opportunities, however…”

He leaned forward. “I need to know that I can depend on you,” he said. He allowed his voice to lift slightly. It was important that Harper believed him. “We can take this ship to the Britain that exists in this time line, strong and free.”

“It won’t be either for much longer,” Harper commented, waving a hand at the carrier as a helicopter flew in from over the land, carrying a handful of Contemporary personnel to observe the mission. Masterson had heard that Raeder had wanted to travel on the carrier himself; it would have been just like the man he had heard so much about in history class. “You know what that ship can do, sir; what can we do?”

Masterson smiled. “The ship has weaknesses, you know,” he reminded him. He’d spent days considering the carrier, after all; there were weaknesses that could be used against it. “The Ministry of Correct Information said that it was unsinkable, after all.”

Harper’s lips twitched at the joke. “So naturally a torpedo in the right place will sink her,” he muttered. The Ministry of Correct Information was known for regular lies about how much better life was under German domination. “Sir, can we do it?”

“They want us to raid the coastline of Britain,” Masterson said. He hadn’t understood it at all, until one German had let it slip that they hadn’t wanted the British ship to be too obviously close to the German ships. National pride, he knew, had been the reason; this time, it would bite the Germans on the behind. “I think that we’d better not stop when we separate from the main fleet, eh?”

He hadn’t tried to plan out any course; that might just alert Sullivan to the real plan. The man was a dedicated fascist; he wouldn’t hesitate to betray his countrymen to save them from falling into the hands of Winston Churchill. The Ministry of Correct Information had had a lot to say on the subject of Churchill, starting with the infamous WC joke; the secret histories had said something else.

“We’ll have to play it by ear,” Harper said, his face lighting up at the prospect of action. His voice became thoughtful as he spoke. “There are five spies on the ship, Captain; they’re watching our every move, even now.”

Masterson nodded, concealing his shock; that was one more than he had known about. “They will all have to be removed,” he said. Harper could handle that. “What about Henry?”

Harper shrugged. “I think that he’s found a new home on shore,” he commented, without rancour. The Morale Officer was much less annoying the further away he was from the ship. “If not…”

He pointed a hand towards the cold water. “Splash,” he said. “It’s not like we need him aboard, is it? Or his whore.”

Masterson grinned. “I think that we need to keep the bastard alive,” he said, with annoyance. “Our countrymen will want to talk to him, and we wouldn’t want to disappoint them. They’ll certainly want to talk to Doctor Stoner.”

“We can make her talk, if we have to,” Harper said. He rubbed his hands together in the cold. “Sir, thank you.”

Masterson understood the unspoken message. “You’re welcome,” he said.

***
Dawn was just breaking across the Baltic Sea as the carrier brought up her engines, moving slowly westwards towards Denmark. Captain Bekker sat on the bridge of the carrier, admiring it and the obvious discipline of the crewmen; they might be out of time and place, but they clearly knew their tasks and how to handle them. His own ship had been moved away from the fleet as two of the detached helicopters floated overhead, carrying Admiral Raeder and some of his staff as the carrier made steam…

No, he knew; not steam. The functioning of the nuclear power plant, something that he had hardly heard of before discovering the Graf Zeppelin, was wondrous; the carrier could have circumnavigated the world several times before it had to have its power core replaced. The entire ship was a marvel; he had spent time devouring the technical manuals with one eye, and studying the ship with the other. He’d spent hours, learning how to use the systems; the carrier had been designed by real experts.

His gaze fell on Leutnant zur See Staffel and he scowled inwardly; the young man was examining one of the display screens with every evidence of comprehension, but with the slight hunted expression that suggested that he knew nothing about what was actually happening. Bekker had looked up his own history in the other timeline and had been chilled to discover that he would have died in 1940; the KMS Brummer had been sunk in a battle a year ago, from his point of view. Staffel…who knew what Staffel had been in the other timeline? He certainly hadn’t been willing to discuss anything with Bekker.

He smiled grimly as Konteradmiral Herman Trautman entered the bridge, exchanging a salute with the Flag Captain, Kapitän zur See Henrich von Follmer. Bekker had tried to talk with Follmer, only to discover that the man was as much of a stuffed shirt as the late unlamented Admiral Lutjens had been; Trautman was much easier to talk to over a glass of something alcoholic.

Staffel saluted Admiral Trautman; Bekker wondered if Trautman was blind to the politics of Staffel’s presence on the ship. He knew, now, that Staffel was Himmler’s agent within the Navy – and that meant that Himmler was interested in the fleet. That wasn’t surprising, but Staffel’s presence could indicate that Himmler intended to try to take the fleet over, perhaps even to turn it into an SS fleet.

“Heil Hitler,” he snapped out, as Trautman stepped over to him. The pace of the carrier was starting to pick up; the two missile heavy cruisers spread out on either side of the carrier. Their presence, he assumed, was to handle any aircraft that might manage to get through the fighter cover, high overhead; there was a very real danger that a German aircraft might mistake them for British ships and try to attack.

“Heil,” Trautman said. The Admiral waved him over to the large display screen at the rear of the bridge, projecting glowing icons in front of them, glaring down at the bridge crew, who ignored it. Bekker, who was starting to understand the display, lifted an eyebrow; the submarine had vanished from the display, replaced by a different icon hugging Sweden’s coast.

“That is a Swedish ship,” Trautman said. “According to the information that the Grand Admiral provided, that’s the Gotland; it is shadowing our course along the coastline. It is also sending out radio transmissions…”

Bekker saw the implications at once. “It’s transmitting information on the fleet,” he said. Privately, he was impressed with the Swedish crew’s discipline; they had to be scared to death of the fleet, but they were remaining in position to observe the Germans. “Do you think the British will hear what they have to say?”

“They’re spies,” Staffel said. His voice was angry. “You should just blow them out of the water…”

“I do not recall asking you to speak,” Trautman said. His voice had gone very deadly; Staffel gulped, looked around him, and backed off. Trautman turned back to face Bekker. “Sinking the ship is a possibility, but it would be a waste of ammunition; the British have nothing that can harm this fleet.”

Bekker said nothing as Trautman tapped the computer console, his hands dancing over the big inelegant buttons on the console, adjusting the display. “We spent a lot of time and effort getting this to work properly,” Trautman said. “The range of any radar is limited by the curve in the Earth, of course, but with aircraft carrying radar sets high above us, the range is extended.”

He shrugged. “There are plans to develop systems that can take input from all of the fighters and the other aircraft as well, but that was beyond the computers that we had at the time we…ah, left,” he said. Bekker shrugged. The entire system still seemed miraculous to him. “Given some time and jury-rigging, we might be able to generate a radar network over the entire Reich, using one of our Control aircraft from a base in France. Still, for the moment…”

He waved a hand at the display. “There are dozens of small craft, probably freighters, moving around the Baltic,” he said. “There’s a flight of Soviet bombers – we think – heading towards Leningrad; the CIC air staff thinks that they’re going to attempt to hammer your lines.”

“Goring and his boasts,” Bekker muttered, resentfully.

Trautman gave a non-committal shrug of his own. “Perhaps,” he said. “Outside the Baltic, there’s much less traffic away from Norway, but there is still a lot of activity around Britain – the Royal Navy, do you think?”

“That would be likely,” Bekker said. His voice darkened. “They would have killed me, you know.”

“Only in one timeline,” Trautman said. He grinned suddenly. “One pass and we could wipe out the British Home Fleet,” he snapped. “Your leaders won’t let us do that.”

“The Fuhrer has his reasons,” Bekker assured him, trying to convoy his own amazement that things had gone the way they had. He wasn’t that amazed; the Fuhrer had been reluctant to risk the big ships since the Bismarck had been sunk in the Atlantic Ocean. “You’ll have your shot at them soon.”

“Sooner than you think,” Trautman said. He tapped the screen as a line appeared on it, displaying a course from Britain to Russia, heading up towards the Arctic Circle. “That seems to be the course of a British convoy, seventeen ships, including one battleship and one ship we think is a cruiser, along with a handful of destroyers. The rest appear to be freighters. In three days, we’ll meet them there” – a hand pointed – “and sink the whole lot of them.”

He paused. “Do you think that prisoners are wanted or desired?”

Bekker shrugged, too involved with his own thoughts to worry about it. He glanced out of the side porthole to see the final Marine landing craft slipping past; the Marines, at least, would not be coming on the glorified convoy raid. Their task, under the SS Brigadefuehrer who had come with the ships, would be to start preparing for operations – they would also be providing the Wehrmacht with the sum total of their knowledge of future operations.

“I don’t think the Fuhrer cares,” he said, honestly. He wondered if simply killing the men would be kinder; the SS ran some of the prison camps and it wasn’t known for being kind to prisoners. The cruel sea would kill far too many of them, unless they were very lucky; they wouldn’t have time to board life rafts. “What do you want to do?”

“It’s a stupid way to proceed,” Trautman admitted. He watched as the frigates slipped into escort formation; their weapons were configured to attack submarines, rather than surface ships, but they would carry a massive punch against any Contemporary ship. “We should simply attack Britain at once, without testing out the weapons first.”

The dull noise of an aircraft launching echoed though the bridge as the carrier picked up speed. “What happens if some of your weapons don’t work as well as you think they will against British ships?” Bekker asked. “Some of the weapons we use today wouldn’t be too effective against the High Seas Fleet, I fear.”

Trautman gave him a careful look. “You have a point,” he admitted. “Those ships are armoured, but we have armour-penetrating warheads; the Japanese have armoured ships of their own in my era.” The noise of a second aircraft echoed through the bridge. “Still, we can certainly sink anything like an aircraft carrier…and the torpedoes on the Günther Prien were designed for use against the massive Japanese battleships they built after the end of the war with America.”

He grinned. “Stupid yellow men, always biting off more than they can chew,” he said. “The Reich saved their lives in two wars, Captain; this war, we might not be able to save them.”

Bekker, who had served in a German ship that had fought the Japanese during the last war, gave him a droll look. The Japanese might have been little yellow men, according to the Kaiser, but they had fought well and taken the German ship in the confrontation. “And you don’t want to save them, do you?”

Trautman ignored the question. “The submarine will be taking up a position near the Home Fleet harbour,” he said. “The crew of that ship can watch the British, perhaps raiding their ships as they come out of the harbour, or perhaps saving her torpedoes for bigger targets. The British aren’t the only problem, after all.”

Bekker said nothing. Staffel, who had been standing some meters away, clearly unsure if he should leave the bridge or not, took the opportunity to speak. “Herr Konteradmiral, what about the British ship?”

Trautman lifted an eyebrow. “The battleship?” He asked. He tapped the display. “Our missiles can and will engage from long distance, young man. Even in the unlikely event of the battleship being totally invulnerable to our weapons, they will be unable to catch us; they won’t even know where we are. How could they know?”

He grinned. It was a condescending grin. “Or did you have another question?”

Staffel flushed. “The British ship that came back with you,” he said. His voice had become insistent. “What about treachery on their part?”

Trautman smiled. It was the sort of smile a man might see swimming towards him with a fin on top. “It hardly matters what they do,” he said. Bekker wondered, suddenly, exactly what Trautman meant. “What can they do to change the balance of power now?”

Chapter Eight: Reflections on the Eve of Annihilation

Felsennest, Germany
24th December 1941

It was Christmas Eve.

Felsennest was warm and cosy; a log fire burned in the grate. The Fuhrer himself was not present in the room – he had other duties, including a Christmas speech, to attend to – but the small meeting was proceeding anyway. Martin Bormann, the organiser of the Nazi Party and occasionally Hitler’s secretary, sat at one end of the room, staring into the fire. Beside him, Albert Speer studied the papers that Bormann had provided him; his face grew longer and longer as he read.

“These are true?” Speer asked finally. Hitler had loved his architectural work – in both timelines. Bormann, utterly devoted to the Fuhrer, had selected Speer for a position of utmost importance; a position that he had held in both timelines. “This information is…accurate?”

The third person in the room leaned forward. “They are accurate,” Hans Konigsberg said. The Graf Zeppelin’s resident librarian and current historian – as far as the fleet had had a historian – smiled grimly. “Accuracy, of course, is a relative issue, but…”

Bormann understood Speer’s concern. He himself had worked to organise the Reich for the early years of the struggle, along with Doctor Todt; the news from the papers from the shadowy other timeline had been shocking. He knew – or thought that he had known – that the British had some additional production advantages, but the news about America and Russia had come as a shock.

Speer quirked an eyebrow. “The reports on Russia were composed after Moscow fell and the Soviet Union’s back was broken,” Konigsberg said. He paused for effect. “We found that, given a few years to prepare, the Soviet Union would have been more than a match for the Reich, but our success at destroying the centres of their command and control system made it easier to destroy the remaining parts of the…cancer. Your forces have failed to destroy Moscow.”

Bormann spoke before Speer could say something unfortunate. “That, of course, is not within your preview, although I understand that the Fuhrer intends to review the Wehrmacht’s tactics and dispositions in the wake of the news from the alternate past’s future.” He smiled at the phasing; it simply made little sense at all. “However, we have a serious problem…”

Speer waved one of the sheets of paper at him. “If half of this information is accurate, Herr Bormann, the Americans and the Russians will crush us between them,” he said. “I have reviewed the information on the Panzer V vehicle – and yes, we can build it in the car factories – but even so…”

“It does not represent the crushing power of a tank from our home,” Konigsberg said. “If the 6th Panzer had come with us, we could have marched all the way to Moscow by now, but we have to make do with what we have. However, the Panzer V has two great advantages; it is more than a match for any tank in the world at the moment, and you can build it…”

Speer’s eyes glittered with delight. “It is a wonderful tank, Herr Bormann,” he said. “It is so simple that a child could build it, with components that are easy to mass-produce and supply, and it moves faster and with more grace than anything we have at the moment…”

“Production remains a problem, however,” Bormann said. He knew that Hitler had resisted full mobilisation of the German people, concentrating on a ‘guns and butter’ economy; that luxury could no longer be allowed. They had wasted too much time already. “We have to expand the production that we are already engaged in…and then we have to work on using the bounty that has suddenly fallen into our hands to develop weapons that can be used against America.”

“We could not hope to launch an invasion of America,” Speer said. Bormann could almost read his thoughts; why had the Fuhrer declared war on America at just the wrong moment. “The other history, Herr Bormann, had fifteen years to build up a navy, and the Americans had other problems as well. We cannot shorten that period…”

“A carrier takes months, at least, to build,” Bormann agreed, without concern. “The Kriegsmarine intends to complete the carrier that was under construction at the time the fleet arrived, but that will be the last carrier for quite some time…”

“It would also be a waste of effort,” Konigsberg said, quickly, coldly. “The priority…the Reich is a boxer with two enemies. Turn to hammer one, get hammered by the other. We need to buy time, and time is the one thing we don’t have.”

The Fuhrer had said the same thing, Bormann knew; he had made it very clear that the Reich would use the bounty to its fullest advantage. “We have a year or two,” he said, “before the Americans can come to attack us in Europe, even assuming that they have the nerve.”

“They do,” Konigsberg said quietly.

“The Fuhrer has ordered that my office work on developing the new technologies,” Bormann said. He tapped the second folder on the small table. The fire crackled louder as Speer picked it up. “We will be concentrating on small improvements to the aircraft we have at the moment; the priority will be fielding a new Panzer force for the march on Moscow.”

He smiled as Speer’s ears pricked up. “Moscow is to be attacked again?”

“Yes,” Bormann confirmed. “How many Panzer V’s could you produce within four months?”

“Hundreds, if I have total authority,” Speer said. He glanced down at the old report on how the other Reich – as strange as that thought was – had mobilised for war. “I would also like to take over factories and systems in France, perhaps even Italy…”

“The Fuhrer intends to discuss the matter with Mussolini,” Bormann said. It was one of the few matters that his opinion differed from Hitler’s; his opinion of Mussolini was not high. “Some of the Italian liaison staff in Berlin will have already informed him about the Graf Zeppelin and her crew.”

“Taking over French factories will certainly boost production,” Speer said, thinking about the matter. “The French will complain, but they lost the war…”

Bormann smiled. “There are other matters,” he continued. “For the moment, we do not intend to push forward large-scale production of jet aircraft, although Goring has been lobbying the Fuhrer for permission to start manufacturing yesterday, if not last month. You will, however, be coordinating production of aircraft and aircraft weapons, from drop tanks to rockets that can be used against Russian tanks. We will also be constructing dozens of electric-powered submarines, using a design from the other 1943; they will close the Atlantic to American shipping.”

He smiled again at Speer’s face. The U-Boats had been hitting American shipping hard, ever since the declaration of war; the submarine commanders were calling it the ‘happy time.’ Grossadmiral Karl Dönitz had been pressing for new submarines; he would get more submarines, sooner than he had imagined, and much better submarines for the mission.

“All of these measures, however, are to buy time,” Bormann said. “You will have the task of coordinating production, using the authority that the Fuhrer has granted you. You will also have two other duties; you will be working to use the ideas from the Graf Zeppelin to develop new weapons – and you will be working on the atomic bomb project.”

Speer leaned forward. “I was under the impression that the Fuhrer had not been keen on atomic science,” he said, which was something of an understatement. Hitler had believed – accurately – that Jews had done much of the research; he had been determined to avoid using Jewish science to build his Reich. “Has something changed?”

“Atomic weapons are the only way to defeat America,” Konigsberg said. Bormann heard the hint of disdain in his voice; they had already established that Konigsberg didn’t like Americans. “There is no time to build the force that would be required to defeat the Americans without atomic weapons; therefore, we have to work on both the weapons and their delivery systems.”

“That means a long-range bomber and a long-range rocket,” Bormann confirmed. “You will have sole control over the delivery project; unfortunately, you will have to share control of the atomic project with one of Himmler’s men.”

Speer sighed, but brightened. “We’re all on the same side,” he said, somewhat naively. Bormann smiled; Konigsberg laughed. “Is there anything else that we need to do?”

Bormann grinned. “There’s the problem of constructing several airfields in France that can take the future aircraft,” he said. “The Fuhrer is very keen that we work quickly to use the aircraft to attack Britain – imagine Churchill’s face when one of the future aircraft screams over London – but they will require fuel and support. That’s a job for the construction units, however; you don’t need to worry about that.”

Speer frowned. “In that case, Herr Bormann, I have some ideas already,” he said, and started to outline them. Bormann listened carefully, making mental notes as he went along; many of the ideas would have to be used. If the Reich could survive 1942, the Reich would have a fair chance of actually winning the war – and conquering the world.

***
Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler had never cared for Christmas, or Christianity; one of his private ambitions for the future was to have Christianity replaced with an older religion, one that was properly Nordic in its roots. The degenerate religion from the Middle East had nothing, he was sure, to the blood and ice of the religion of his forefathers. It was the destiny of the SS to form the vanguard of a committed push towards the eradiation of Christianity – and its replacement with the old faith.

He smiled grimly, remembering the lives of the SS men, the young men who could be convinced to leave their old faith and rediscover an even older faith. The young men, each of them a living specimen of German manhood, would live as monks; they would enforce the true faith upon the world, one day. Himmler saw it all, with eyes that were blinkered; he would one day become the High Priest of a religion, which would have Hitler as the chosen one on Earth.

But that was in the future. The young man standing in front of him – whose strong and muscular body provided an uncomfortable reminder that Himmler’s own body was far from the ideal of Aryan manhood – had been called quickly from the arms of his wife; his father-in-law, a German scientist, had made his selection almost inevitable. He was bright and intelligent; if he felt resentment on being summoned to the unofficial centre of Nazi Germany on Christmas Eve, he was smart enough not to show it.

Himmler smiled. He didn’t demand unquestioning obedience from the superior officers in the SS, only that they obeyed him and performed their duties to the best of their abilities. It was no good breeding for perfection if it couldn’t be used in wartime; a mind that had never learnt how to think would be useless to the Reich. Properly indoctrinated, as the SS would be one day, they would sweep over the world.

“Johan,” he said, looking up finally. The bright blue eyes of Brigadefuehrer Johan Schriever – one of the reasons that Schriever had received the SS Commission – met his levelly. “The Reich requires your services in the early months of the next year.”

Schriever said nothing. Himmler outlined the story behind the Graf Zeppelin and its task force, watching Schriever carefully; the young man showed little reaction until Himmler mentioned his name. “I looked up your name in the files the ship carried,” Himmler commented. “You would have been a skilled SS Commando in the other timeline.”

Schriever blinked. “I exist in that other world?”

“Not exactly,” Himmler said, and outlined the concept of alternate timelines. “Your father-in-law might understand.”

“He’s a smart man,” Schriever agreed, relaxing slightly. Himmler smiled slightly at the reaction. “Am I to understand that your summons has something to do with him?”

“Yes,” Himmler said. Herr Doctor Professor Rudolf Lusar – Schriever’s father in law – had been checked out thoroughly, for disloyalty, anti-Nazi leanings…and, of course, any trace of Jewish blood. His family had been pure Aryans as far as the records went. “His research into nuclear science will be very useful.”

He watched as Schriever considered it. There were other scientists, including Hisenberg and Bohr, and they too would be put to work, but Lusar was an engineer-scientist. His research had never received any of the backing it should have received, but Himmler intended to change that – with atomic weapons, the Reich would be unbeatable.

“Jawohl,” Schriever said. “It will be my pleasure to obey.”

Himmler smiled. By advancing his father-in-law’s career, Schriever would be advancing his own at the same time, but Himmler found that quite acceptable. Ambition was a powerful motivator; Schriever’s ambition would drive him to drive the scientists hard.

“We know what we are intending to produce,” Himmler said. That, at least, would make life easier; they wouldn’t have to start groping in the dark for atomic science. Even assuming that the Americans and the British were working on atomics themselves – and Himmler knew, from the Graf Zeppelin’s history, that they had deployed nuclear weapons themselves during the war – they would be starting at a considerable disadvantage. “You task will be to build it.”

Schriever studied the information on the folder with interest. “It would represent a major challenge,” he said. “I am not a nuclear engineer.”

“Some of the crewmen from the Graf Zeppelin and the other ships – they are all nuclear-powered, apart from a British ship from the alternate world that accompanied them – will be transferred to work for you,” Himmler said. “Take care of them, but keep a sharp eye on them; they should be trustworthy, but…”

“They might not be,” Schriever finished. He’d had a hand in the Night of the Long Knives as well; he had served the SS even then. “I have full authority?”

Himmler smiled. “You will be working hand in glove with Albert Speer, who will be working to maximise production,” he said. “You have authority to requisition whatever you need for the project, but don’t interfere with the production project more than absolutely necessary. It would upset the Fuhrer…and we have to keep control of this away from certain factions.”

He meant Goring. Schriever showed little reaction. “There are Italian scientists as well,” he said, after a moment. “Can I call on them?”

“They can’t go home afterwards,” Himmler cautioned. Schriever saluted. “Good luck, Brigadefuehrer.”

“Thank you, Herr Reichsführer,” Schriever said. “I won’t fail you.”

Himmler watched as Schriever left the office, closing the door behind him, before looking down at the papers on his desk. The SS would be shaken up in the coming weeks, promoting officers who would have performed well in the other timeline, as well as working to gain control over as much of the future technology as possible. With the Graf Zeppelin under Germany’s control, victory seemed almost certain – how could they lose?

He stood up and paced over to the window, noticing the battery of radar-guided guns that had been removed from the Albert Speer – now that was an ironic name, made easier to tolerate only by the thought of Raeder’s anger at the ships named after Goring and Ribbentrop respectively – and placed to defend the Fuhrer’s life. The newcomers would change Germany, he was certain; it was his duty to ensure that Hitler’s Reich grew stronger from the changes, not weaker.

There were other reports on his desk, from the urgent attempts to duplicate the bullets that such weapons used – fortunately, the other timeline had standardised all of their equipment to a degree that spoke of true determination – to the ongoing probes of the carrier’s archives. Not for the first time, he blessed the determination of the Reich in both timelines to store all information, no matter how useless – the computers onboard the ships were a marvel. The records might have been intended for the small machine shops on the three larger ships; the Reich’s factories could use them to produce more and better weapons of war. Speer would…

Himmler sighed and returned to his chair. The history book that Brigadefuehrer Richard Wieland had provided him with sat on one side of the desk; he picked it up and started to read, skimming through the details of how Russia had fallen in the first timeline. If Speer and Bormann were right, that wouldn’t be possible any longer, but with the Graf Zeppelin, many things that had been impossible would become possible.

Hitler would be back that evening to spend Christmas with his inner circle – and Eva Braun. Himmler placed the book aside, knowing just what it signified; the future was suddenly in flux. There would be time enough to ensure that the Reich lasted a thousand years.

Chapter Nine: The Cruel Sea, Take Two

Norwegian Sea, Near Iceland
25th December 1941

It was cold. Very cold.

Captain Basil Chambers accepted the cup of steaming hot tea from the Midshipman as HMS Rodney steamed further away from any civilised lands, heading into the mist-dominated regions of the Artic Circle. Around the battleship, and the three destroyers escorting the convoy, a dozen heavy merchant ships, almost irreplaceable for the duration of the war, steamed towards the Soviet Union. The skippers of the ships hadn’t been happy at all about the convoy; few of them enjoyed working hand in glove with the Royal Navy.

He sighed. With a large German battleship – whose twin had sunk the mighty Hood before being sunk herself – hiding in Norway, it was important to escort the convoys to Russia. The Italians might not use radar, but the Germans did; they could find the convoy and sink her, given half a chance. They also possessed air power – Norway had dozens of German air bases covering the seas – and they were determined to cut the convoy line that was keeping Russia afloat.

It was not exactly how he had planned to spend Christmas.

Like most upper-class Englishmen, Chambers hadn’t been enthusiastic about aiding the Soviet Union; after all, he remembered how the Russians had attempted to set India on fire with subversion that could have turned the Empire upside down. Stalin had been quite happy to take part of Poland and Finland; why should Englishmen risk their lives to save them? The Empire was at war in the Atlantic, the Mediterranean and the Far East, against a bewildering array of foes; the Russians could take care of themselves.

But Churchill had ordered that they make the attempt, at least, to help the Russians, and Chambers respected Churchill. The Prime Minister might have the occasional idea – actually, more than the occasional idea – that would have led to military disaster, had it been carried out, but he was placing fire in the belly of Englishmen everywhere. The Americans might be damned colonials, at least in Chambers’ view, but they were stout fighters; with their help, Britain would emerge from the war reasonably intact.

For the moment, however, there was the bothersome duty of convoy escort to attend to.

He stepped onto the bridge, accepting the salute from the Officer of the Watch, before checking with the radio operator, who was quick to inform him that they had received no new orders from the Admiralty. Chambers was almost disappointed; Rodney had been summoned, months before, to fight and sink the Bismarck – he had hoped that they would have a chance to attack the other German battleship as well. If the Tirpitz could be sunk, Rodney could be spared for the war in the Far East; the loss of two of the most modern battleships under British command had left the Empire achingly weak.

He scowled. It wasn’t the world he had grown up in, not any more.

“Captain,” the radar operator said, slowly. Chambers lifted an eyebrow; the radar set had more than proved its usefulness, but it was still something almost magical to him. “There’s some odd interference on the radar.”

Chambers scowled. He hardly understood anything about how radar actually worked and felt the lack. “Interference?” He asked. “What’s interfering with the system?”

“I’m not actually sure,” the radar operator said. The tiny screen in front of him looked just as it always did. “Something is interfering with the transmissions, or…”

The klaxon for aerial attack sounded. “Captain, two aircraft, off the port bow,” one of the watchmen shouted. Chambers felt his blood run cold; aircraft had been laughable…until they had started to actually succeed in sinking British ships. “Captain…”

A deafening roar echoed over the convoy as two massive aircraft flashed overhead. Chambers stared at them, feeling his mouth falling open; they were like no German aircraft he had ever seen. They were massive, larger than a Spitfire or a Hurricane; they flew on rockets, leaving a fiery trail across the sky. He grabbed for his binoculars as they vanished into the distance, trying to make out details; they had to be German, but what where they?

“Beat to quarters,” he ordered. The encounter had been over so quickly that the ship was still rushing to battle stations. “Contact London, tell them…tell them that we have air contact, German aircraft of an unknown type…”

The dull roar returned as the aircraft swooped back towards the Rodney. Chambers peered at them as they grew closer, close enough to make out the German markings on their wings, and then they were past. The bursts of antiaircraft fire were left floating in the air; they hadn’t even touched the aircraft.

Chambers shivered.

***
“Quite an impressive fleet,” Konteradmiral Herman Trautman commented, without meaning it. The CIC was crowded; the normal staff had been stripped down – they wouldn’t have any contact with the rest of their Reich ever again – but there were dozens of Contemporary officers in the CIC. They ranged from Captain Bekker, who had proven himself, to Staffel, who had to be SS. How else could he have gotten away with it, after all?

He wished, just for a moment, that Raeder had been able to see the fleet. The British ships were drawing together, trying to protect themselves from the pair of Eyes that had flashed overhead; they looked crude and unfinished to his eyes. The merchant ships seemed almost inclined to scatter; he felt a flicker of sympathy for his British opposite number. The sympathy vanished when he saw the British battleship; the captain was responding like someone who knew what he was doing.

He smiled. It wouldn’t do the British any good at all.

“You can see the problem,” he said, taking the opportunity to play to the Contemporaries. It would have been far too dangerous to have risked any theatricals in the fast-paced surroundings of a modern battlefield, but in 1941…well, some things could be risked that couldn’t be risked back in their home. The British ships didn’t have the slightest idea of what was going on; even if they knew everything about the carrier, they were well within range and had been within range for hours.

“The problem is that convoy,” one of the Admirals said. He had commanded the Baltic Sea defence region – which had been called something else in the new timeline – and bitterly resented having been pushed aside by Raeder and Himmler. “The weapons it carries will be used against our brave soldiers and sailors.”

Trautman concealed his private amusement. The Kriegsmarine of this strange alternate history had launched one attempt to take the Russian ports, one that was half-hearted at best, and had then abandoned it completely. He didn’t understand it, not at all; he who didn’t risk was lost, or however the old saying had gone. For the moment, however, it would be enough to impress his new allies.

After all, they also resented his rank being recognised by no less than Hitler himself.

“The convoy would be dangerous to attack at close quarters,” Trautman acknowledged, allowing himself a moment to show off. “As it happens, it could be destroyed by three separate methods; air attack, missile attack, or torpedoes from the frigates. Any preferences?”

“Missiles,” Bekker said, after a moment. “We know what air attacks can do.”

Trautman, who had read the Japanese claim to have sunk two British battleships with interest, hadn’t been impressed. The British had been far too complacent and had gotten their fingers burned for it. His ships had far more formidable weapons, but there was the vexing question of replacements…

“Missiles,” he agreed. He tapped the display. “You will note that the computers here handle the targeting, calculating the flight path that the missiles are to take, and in some cases activating the missiles seeker heads, should they be required. At this point, we will be using the seeker heads; they will home in on any large quantities of metal on the surface. With some target designations, we will ensure that one missile goes to each ship.”

He paused. There was a second reason to be careful; Staffel might have been right to suggest that the weapons might not be as effective as he thought. One missile, targeted on the British battleship, would prove one of them right.

“The missiles all carry warheads intended to penetrate thicker or stronger armour than the targets possess,” he said, as the display changed. The video feed directly from the hovering Eyes – still out of range of the British antiaircraft fire – was displayed in front of them. The image jumped and twitched – he cursed the engineers who hadn’t managed to work all of the kinks out of the system before it was deployed in action – but it was clearer than anything the Contemporaries had seen before. “Depending on how the ships are built, they will either smash right through the hulls and sink them, or explode within the hull. In a worst case situation, they will explode on the hull itself, releasing enough heat to melt armour.”

One of the captains spoke. “What happens if their armour doesn’t melt?”

Trautman grinned. “Then we start running,” he said. He adjusted one of the side monitors; it displayed an image of KMS Goring. The real Goring hadn’t been interested in the ship, oddly enough; he had been obsessed with collecting a few of the aviation engineers to build jet fighters for his Luftwaffe. “I have ordered the Goring to engage the targets,” he continued. “Kapitän zur See Von Trapitz will issue his own orders…and…”

The image changed as a streak of fire launched itself from the boxy mounts on the deck of the Goring. The Contemporaries stared at the image as seven more missiles were launched; there was a slight delay, and then five more missiles flashed up from the deck. The camera turned to follow the burning light of the missiles as they flew low, flashing into the distance; they moved almost faster than the eye could see.

“They had to reload, I suppose,” someone muttered from the back of the room.

“True,” Trautman agreed. Von Trapitz had done well; there had been no need for such an impressive firework display, but it would impress the Contemporaries anyway. “Flight time, less than two minutes; the missiles will rise up and execute a dive-bomb attack onto the British ships.”

He smiled grimly. Every ship in his fleet carried close-in defence weapons, intended to preserve it against Japanese sea-skimming missiles. The British ships might – might – get lucky and take down a missile with their antiaircraft guns, but it would require such a massive stroke of luck without radar that he felt that the risk could be safely dismissed. He switched the display back to the signals from the Eyes, still floating over the antiaircraft fire from the British ships; it wouldn’t be long now.

“They should put a camera in the nosecone of the missiles,” someone commented. Trautman realised with a spurt of amusement that it was Staffel. “They’d be able to see the final moments of the ship.”

“It’s been tried,” Trautman said. It was true; it also had been deemed a waste of time – the camera would be destroyed when the missile exploded. He could see some advantages to the suggestion, but it would be years before they could duplicate the missiles that had been launched. They were irreplaceable. “Maybe in a few years.”

He looked down at the display. It wouldn’t be long now.

***
The strange aircraft could be made out, hovering high over the British ships, turning arrogant loops in the sky as they circled high above. Chambers was on the verge of giving the command to cease firing – it was obvious that they weren’t having any success at knocking them down – but he held his tongue. The crew needed something to keep their morale up.

“Captain,” someone shouted. One of the observers was pointing to the horizon; Chambers looked, half-expecting to see the entire Kriegsmarine, and saw…a strange brilliant spark of light, racing towards the convoy. It took on shape and form, growing closer and closer…and then it launched itself higher into the sky…

His mouth fell open as the strange…whatever it was…rose higher, faster than he could follow it, and slammed down onto one of the destroyers. It seemed to have done nothing for a heartbreaking moment, and then the destroyer exploded, its hull bursting outwards on the crest of a wave of fire. The thunderous roar caught up with the convoy as the destroyer died; Chambers couldn’t see any survivors at all…

“There are more,” someone shouted.

“Launch the scatter flare,” Chambers snapped, keeping his voice calm through sheer force of will. The…rockets, if that was what they were, were weapons of war – and he knew how to deal with weapons of war. “Order the convoy to scatter…”

The other rockets flashed closer, some of the pom-pom crews trying hard to shoot them down and failing, and picked on their targets. A freighter died, then another; some of the other crewmen were risking everything and jumping overboard, even from ships that didn’t seem to be targeted. Two more freighters exploded in quick succession…and then one of the missiles targeted the ammunition ship.

Chambers was blown backwards, blood spilling from his ears, as the ammunition ship exploded in a wave of pure fury. He found himself lying on the deck of his ship as the final destroyer was literally blown out of the water by one of the rocket strikes; part of his mind realised dimly that the rocket must have struck below the waterline. The destroyer, the Jumper, flew out of the water, flipped over, and crashed back down, breaking up on impact.

He tried to pull himself to his feet…and then the Rodney shook violently. He was blown down to the deck again, feeling something break under the impact, as a wave of fire cascaded along the hull of his ship. Sheer luck alone saved him; the Rodney was burning, flames were pouring from the ship’s battered superstructure. One of his officers was shouting, but Chambers couldn’t hear him; he had been deafened by one of the explosions.

“Abandon ship,” Chambers screamed at him, knowing that he himself would go down with the battleship. The Rodney was completely out of control, he could feel the engine pushing the ship around…and knew that it was too late. A streak of light fell down from the sky…and the battleship exploded, blowing Chambers and his crew into very little pieces of wreckage scattered on the sea.

Silence fell. A silence on the sea.
***
Trautman rolled his eyes as the compartment went wild. The contemporary personnel were cheering and laughing; they had seen what the Royal Navy could do…and now had seen it revenged. The British ships had been utterly defenceless; the contemporaries were treating it as a social event. Trautman suspected that it wouldn’t be long before the images of the final moments of the British convoy would be broadcast all over the Reich. His Reich had seen nothing wrong in glorying in their past, but they had fought on far more even terms.

Dover, his Battle of Dover, had been a battle. The Battle of the Artic had been a massacre.

“The battleship was strongly built enough to survive a single hit,” Leutnant zur See Fuchs muttered. The carrier’s weapons officer had been observing quietly from the corner of the room; Trautman had wanted his impressions of the battle before anything else happened. “The warhead clearly damaged the ship, but it didn’t punch through to anything vital or explosive.”

“Humm,” Trautman said, unwilling to entirely dismiss the effects. “The ship was pretty badly damaged, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Fuchs said. “However, it wasn’t a total victory; the warhead must have exploded right on top of the armour, rather than penetrating the armour and exploding inside the ship.”

Trautman nodded. His plan was coming together in his head; all it needed was one little push. “We knocked out the other ships with ease, though…”

“Yes, Mein Konteradmiral,” Fuchs said. His voice was delighted. “In fact, we actually used much more force than was actually necessary for destroying the destroyers – they were literally blown out of the water. On the other hand, that destroyer that was blown out of the water” – they shared a smile; that, at least, had been impressive – “nearly managed to evade the missile altogether. If it had started to move a few minutes earlier, it would have escaped – perhaps.”

Trautman scowled. He didn’t know what would happen if one of the warheads exploded near a British ship and didn’t want to find out. There weren’t enough missiles to waste them though experimenting. The British of this era, at least, wouldn’t know about the near-escape of the destroyer, but they would have more experience of the Graf Zeppelin later…

He cleared his throat. “I trust that you are all convinced,” he said. The experiment in video game warfare had gone fairly well, after all. The tools to aid pilots and weapon officers had other uses, as well; the shooting exercises helped the trainers in his home timeline. “These weapons make dominating the seas well within our grasp.”

The discussion lasted for several hours. The ‘our’ had gone down fairly well, Trautman reflected; they all appreciated being allied to such power. They tossed questions at Trautman, Fuchs and even Sullivan, demanding to know exactly what else the carrier and its task force could go. Trautman was even tempted to go hunting for other targets, but there were none within less than a day’s travel, except an American freighter that had clearly gotten lost on its trip across the Atlantic. He made a mental note to send a fighter to destroy it on the return trip.

His pager buzzed. He lifted the intership phone and called the bridge. “Trautman.”

“Mein Konteradmiral,” the duty officer said. His voice was very grim. “We have lost contact with the British ship.”

“Have we?” Trautman asked. “Have we indeed?”

Chapter Ten: The Cruel Sea, Take Three

The North Sea
26th December 1941

It didn’t feel like home.

Some members of the Brotherhood, Masterson knew, had speculated that the massive German space and nuclear program had been having an effect on the environment. The winters seemed to be warmer, slightly; the Nazis themselves had commented on that. The puppet government, as far as he knew, hadn’t been concerned; they had even discouraged research into any climate changes that might have affect the fate of the world. No one was under any illusions as to the balance of power between Britain and her German ‘ally;’ if the Germans wanted research stopped, they would stop it.

It felt cold as the Royal Oak moved slowly towards Britain. The orders from Konteradmiral Herman Trautman had been clear; raid the shores, fire off a few shells towards shore-towns, and general serve notice on the British that the world had changed. Trautman’s orders had been almost SS in their imprecision; normally, the Germans issued step-by-step orders, under the impression that the British were in fact Italians. Masterson had other ideas; his only concern was that Sullivan had remained onboard the Graf Zeppelin.

He shrugged. The collaborator had made his own road, long ago, when he had sold his soul to the Germans. They’d probably kill him, once they realised what had happened; he found it hard to be concerned. It wasn’t as if Sullivan knew anything that could be used against the Royal Oak, after all.

“The trusted crewmembers have been informed,” Harper said, moving up silently behind him. Masterson nodded grimly; the crew might have two hundred members, but not all of them could be trusted to steal the Royal Oak under the Graf Zeppelin’s nose. Some of them were enthusiastic Nazis, others would oppose him on general principles, or out of loyalty to the puppet government that they’d left behind in their home timeline.

“Good,” Masterson said. There was no such thing as GPS in this era; the German-controlled network of satellites didn’t exist, at least, not yet. They would have to find their way by the stars, but the crew knew how to do that; the radio operator was also homing in on British transmissions from London. The voices had been haunting in their recollections of a lost world; Masterson had almost cried.

He rubbed his forehead thoughtfully as the ship ploughed through a wave in the semi-darkness before dawn. His first impulse had been to sail right into Scarpa Flow and surrender, but common sense had defeated that plan; the British would be all too likely to mistake his ship for a German vessel. If they opened fire with heavy guns, they would sink the Royal Oak – and their war with it. It would be much easier to put in somewhere along the east coast; the modern – past – maps from the Germans had identified several small ports. There was also Newcastle and the shipyards there; leaving the ship within range of submarine attack would have been careless, to say the least.

“We took a final radar sweep?” He asked, confirming. “There’s no sign of air traffic?”

“The storm is pretty bad,” Harper said. He seemed galvanised with excitement as the ship progressed towards Britain. “I don’t think that they could fly aircraft in this weather.”

Masterson nodded slowly, and then opened his holster. “Let’s be about it, then,” he said, and grinned at the Master-at-Arms. “Secure the ship.”

The Master-in-Arms had assembled a small posse of trusted men; they worked quickly, isolating the crewmen that they suspected to be spies or otherwise untrustworthy and separating them from the men who were uncommitted, one way or the other. Masterson watched, grimly, as cabins and bunks were searched and secured; it hadn’t been a surprise to discover a small undeclared radio set in one man’s bunk. The unsuspected traitor seemed about to break down, but Harper was unmoved; he placed him in with the other traitors in the hull.

Masterson nodded to two crewmen and led the march to the sickbay. It was a small and primitive arrangement, compared to the massive sickbay on the German supercarrier; it looked like something out of the era they had found themselves in. He tapped on the door and stepped inside, lifting his pistol; Doctor Phyllis Stoner, Henry Sullivan’s lover, flinched as he smiled at her.

“In the name of Britain, you are under arrest,” Masterson snapped, unable to resist the chance to preen. Phyllis, a remarkably attractive redhead, stared at him; she wouldn’t have been safe on any ship without Sullivan’s protection, or safe on the streets with the Freikorps around. “Hands up, now!”

Phyllis jumped up, her disdainful gaze refusing to leave his face. “What is the meaning of this?”

Masterson refused to make the obvious joke. “Search her, secure her in…” He hesitated; he didn’t want to put her in with the other traitors, but she could hardly be trusted in her own cabin, or Sullivan’s cabin. Who knew what they could have hidden there? “Secure her in Lieutenant Johnston’s cabin; I’ll see to him bedding down in mine.”

“Always knew that you were a bugger,” Phyllis sneered, as the two ratings moved in on her. She started to squirm, then scream, as they searched her roughly, taking liberties with her as they did so. Masterson ignored it; she had to learn that the world had changed around her. “Captain, I…”

Masterson ignored her. “Secure her,” he ordered, and left the cabin. The ship felt empty, somehow, as he paced back towards the bridge; they had only twenty men to run the Royal Oak on the voyage. If they had to fight, he knew that they would lose; they would have lost if Trautman came after them anyway.

“Captain,” Harper said. “All of the traitors have been locked below, sir; the ship is at your command.”

“Good,” Masterson said. It was time to risk everything. “Did we get an update from the Graf Zeppelin?”

“No, sir,” Harper said. “They’re heading out of range, towards Iceland.”

Masterson muttered a brief prayer for any British ship unlucky enough to encounter them, quickly ran through a list of his precautions, and picked up the intership phone. “Mr Williston,” he said, when the Chief Engineer answered, “disconnect the transponder.”

“Aye, sir,” Williston said, in his gruff voice. Williston, like all of the engineers, bitterly resented Germany’s stranglehold on British ship construction. He would have loved to have taken the Graf Zeppelin apart to see how the ship went together; the Germans would have won his loyalty forever had they allowed him to practice his trade. There was a dull sound of a thump from the phone. “It’s disconnected.”

Masterson smiled. The Germans hadn’t noticed, not really, but their orders to use transponders, issued to all of the puppet navies, would have brought the Japanese down on the task force like nothing else could have done. The humiliating order had made the Germans lazy; the carrier, and its radar search planes, was out of range.

“Lieutenant Johnston, shape your course towards Newcastle,” Masterson ordered. “We’re going home.”

Harper smiled grimly as the ship turned in the water, stabilising and setting off on its new course. Speed was important, along with the mine-hunting sonar; the British of this era would have mined the seas as a matter of course. He had thought about sailing around Dover, site of a German victory in the other timeline, but he’d dismissed the thought; they would have been noticed by both sides – and both of them would have shot at them.

His lips twitched. That would have been bad news.

“Keep watching for the Günther Prien,” he reminded Commander Peterson, the weapons officer. The attack/recon submarine had a nuclear power core, just like every other vessel in the German navy; it could move faster than anything else under the waters in this era. If the Germans caught on in time, they could send the submarine after them…and, unless the crew was lucky, they would be hit and sinking before they had the slightest idea that they were under attack.

“I’ve disconnected the radar systems as well,” Harper said, as silence fell in the bridge. The ship was still picking up speed; Masterson knew that they would be reaching their top speed – achingly less than the German craft could pull – soon enough. “No point in giving the Germans something easy to shoot at.”

Masterson nodded. The Germans would have tracked them through their own radar systems, launching missiles to home in on their signals. “Good,” he said, knowing just how dangerous it would make sailing through the waters. “Keep a sharp lookout for surface trouble…”

“Submarine,” the sonar operator said. “It’s smaller, don’t recognise the sound, but it’s turning to face us…”

“Commander Peterson, engage the enemy,” Masterson snapped. It wouldn’t be the nuclear-powered submarine – that was almost undetectable – but a contemporary u-boat could have sunk them just as well. “Helm, evasive action…”

Royal Oak shook as a torpedo launched from the ship. The weapon was actually more capable than the Germans knew; it homed in on the enemy ship through the sounds that the enemy ship emitted. An explosion blossomed up from the water; Masterson saw the wreckage breaking through the water as the ship raced past.

“Whew,” Harper said. “That could have been close.”

Masterson watched grimly as time went past. The ship was still racing forwards, but he knew that they would have to slow down soon as it grew lighter; there would be aircraft in the sky soon, hunting for German raiders. This timeline’s Britain had to be watching carefully for an invasion; they might well be taken for a hostile craft. The Royal Oak started to move from side to side as she slowed, avoiding a handful of mines; Masterson wondered absently who had laid them in the water. Both sides had every incentive to mine the seas…

“Captain,” Lieutenant Johnston snapped. “Land!”

Masterson stared ahead. It had lightened up, slowly; he could see the shape of Britain ahead of him. As the sun rose, the island took on shape and form; he could make out snow on hills, with some signs of life on the shore. He checked the map; they’d come in south of Newcastle, north of Sunderland. It wouldn’t be long until they saw a ship…

“There’s a torpedo boat, or I’m a Italian,” Harper commented softly. Masterson followed his gaze, watching a series of small boats coming towards them, flying British flags. A larger ship, a destroyer, could be seen in the distance, steaming towards the Royal Oak. “I wonder how long they’ve known we’re here.”

Masterson grinned. “It hardly matters,” he said. He lifted his voice. “Helm, bring us about; have the flag lifted to show them that we’re British.”

Lieutenant Johnston grinned. “Aye, aye, Captain,” he said, tapping the button that lifted the flag to the mast. The Royal Oak slowed down as the torpedo boats started to slow down themselves; the destroyer hung back, watching them carefully. The air was freezing cold, but Masterson felt warm delight; they’d made it!”

“Hoist the signals,” he said, before something could go wrong. “Invite them onboard.”

***
The commander of the destroyer HMS Sikh turned out to be called John Birmingham, much to Masterson’s quiet amusement. The Australian, who jokingly informed Masterson that he was on lend-lease from the Australian Navy, caused a great deal of confusion before Masterson realised that it was a joke; he had wondered if history had gone off course before 1933 or whenever Adolf Hitler had come to power.

“This ship is fantastic,” he said, after a quick tour. “I thought that you were a runaway French ship, or something, not this…”

“You ought to see the Graf Zeppelin,” Masterson said glumly. Birmingham hadn’t understood the story of how they’d arrived at all, until he'd seen the small computers on the ship. The fact that they were German cast-offs, abandoned by the Reich, hadn’t penetrated through his head until Masterson had shown him the details of the German carrier. “That ship and its fleet is still out there, somewhere.”

“I see, I think,” Birmingham said, doubtfully. His voice was grim; he had confided to Masterson that he was pressing for a transfer back to Australia before the Japanese tried to invade, as seemed certain. The Japanese had taken Hong Kong; Birmingham expected that they would sweep down towards Australia and occupy the nation soon. Masterson’s recounting of how it had been occupied in his timeline hadn’t reassured the Australian at all. “This needs someone higher up than me, Captain.”

“I know,” Masterson agreed. Every moment they spent on the open sea was inviting discovery from the carrier and its aircraft; a single Blitzkrieg aircraft could sink the Royal Oak within moments. “Where is your squadron based?”

“Near Sheerness,” Birmingham said simply. “We were intended to transfer to convoy duty soon, but…the Japanese killed two ships and put an end to that plan.”

Masterson scowled. He’d heard enough about the different fronts to understand the problems facing the British; at least South Africa had remained loyal in this timeline. How long would it be before the Germans managed to change everything? Masterson didn’t think that it would be very long at all. They had the most advanced and capable fighting force on the planet under their control…and dozens of experts in building advanced technologies.

“You have to escort us there,” he said, bluntly. “We have to get this ship under cover.”

“Don’t worry,” Birmingham said. “The Germans only managed to hurt a few ships this year at sea…”

Masterson stared at him. “You don’t understand,” he said. “A single missile from any of the ships in the new fleet would sink this ship; a spread would wipe your entire force from the seas. We have to get this ship somewhere the Germans can’t find it, quickly…”

Birmingham looked at the antiaircraft missiles in firing position on the deck. “This ship?”

“Yes,” Masterson snapped. Something floated through the cold air; he flinched before realising that it was a British aircraft. “This ship is vulnerable to their weapons, Commander…”

Birmingham held up a hand in surrender. “You’ll have to follow us in,” he said. “I’ll radio ahead and tell them to expect you…”

“Don’t,” Masterson snapped, cutting him off. “Just lead us in. If the Germans intercept your transmission, they’re bound to be able to use it against you. Understand – we cannot let them get a sniff of this ship’s location, do you understand me?”

Birmingham nodded, sullenly. “We’ll lead the way into the harbour,” he said. “Once we get you into harbour, then your ship should be safer…”

“He doesn’t understand,” Harper commented, from behind Masterson. Birmingham was riding back towards his own ship in the launch; Masterson hadn’t wanted to risk forming a plank between the two ships. His hand carried Masterson’s gift; almost all of the technical manuals and a couple of history books. If something happened to the Royal Oak, the British would have that much information. “Sir, he really doesn’t understand.”

“I know,” Masterson said. He understood Birmingham’s puzzlement; it was hard to comprehend the weapons of even ten years into the future, let alone the forty-odd years in a different timeline. Even so…there was so little time; Konteradmiral Herman Trautman would be expecting to meet them within a few days, or he would suspect something.

He grinned. Trautman might well suspect something already.

“The Sikh is moving,” Lieutenant Johnston said. “Sir?”

“Follow them, match their course and speed,” Masterson ordered. He turned to one of the engineers. “Warm up the helicopter and get it ready to move. I have a feeling that it might be needed.”

“Aye, Captain,” the engineer said.

Masterson waited, knowing just how vulnerable they were, as the Sikh led them onwards towards the Thames. He would have preferred to put in at Grimsby – he remembered a redheaded lass at Grimsby with a sudden spurt of longing – but he knew that they had to follow Birmingham to his command point. It would be near London, according to the map; they could find themselves trapped very easily.

He forced his concerns aside. They weren’t important any longer.

“There,” Lieutenant Johnston said, hours later. Masterson knew – he was certain – that the Germans would have discovered something about their sudden disappearance from the fleet by now. Something occurred to him; had Trautman intended them to escape? If so, why? He didn’t mentioned his doubts as they slipped into a canal-like slipway, then into a dock large enough to take a battleship. It was covered, he was relieved to see, with an awning that would hide them from prying eyes high overhead. “Captain?”

“Take us in,” Masterson said, noticing the workers turning to stare at the Royal Oak. “Bring us alongside.”

An Admiral – Masterson didn’t recognise him – was standing on the shore. His face was very pale; Masterson wondered why…and then understood. The Germans had to have been at work up north; they had intended to hit a convoy, after all. As the gangplank ran down to the query, the officer headed up the ramp and came face to face with Masterson. Birmingham had briefed him already; he seemed to understand what had happened.

“Something happened to a convoy hours ago,” the Admiral said. His voice was very upper-class; his face was pale and worn. “You said that there were German ships like this one?”

“Much more powerful than this one,” Masterson said, unsure of what he wanted to say. “Far more powerful.”

“The Prime Minister just got back from America,” the Admiral said. “You have to go see him, now; all hell is threatening to break loose.”

Chapter Eleven: The Prime Minister

London, England
26th December 1941

Prime Minister Winston Churchill knew that he had few illusions about himself and many about the way that the world worked. He knew that they were illusions, but they were ones that he had to push forward, just to keep the war effort afloat. Churchill knew enough about Hitler – and Mussolini – to know that they had to be defeated, whatever the cost. Britain was on the verge of shattering economically, whatever Churchill did; the myth that they could win on their own was important – important enough to risk lives and treasure to sustain.

But it was growing harder. He had exulted when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbour and Hitler declared war on America, honouring a treaty that neither side could really honour; he had declared it a sign of certain inevitable victory. Franklin Roosevelt, the President of America, might have his own illusions about the way the world worked, but there was no doubting his commitment to defeating Hitler and Tojo. With the Americans by their side, victory was certain…

If the Japanese knew that, they gave no sign; they had rampaged across the Pacific, unstoppable by anything that the Allies could put forward to stop them. The United States had lost the core of its Pacific Fleet at Pearl Harbour; a strike that might well have been inspired by the strike on Taranto by Cunningham’s fleet. The British hadn’t fared any better; the Japanese had taken Hong Kong, started the long advance towards Singapore…and sunk two of the finest ships in the Royal Navy. Churchill had sailed on the Prince of Wales, when he had travelled to America; it had been a proud ship, and a strong one. Seeing the magnificent ship brought down by airpower had been chilling…and the reports from Germany had been even worse.

Churchill scowled, forming his great mouth into a scowl that reassembled a bulldog’s grim scowl. The British kept a sharp eye on the German Kriegsmarine; the presence of the battleship in Norway and the battlecruisers in France were a constant problem. With the fleet so overstretched, the Germans might manage to break out and attack convoys – the u-boot menace was one of the few things that truly scared Churchill, deep in his heart. The Japanese, for all of their power, couldn’t burn out the factories producing British and American weapons; the Germans had similar problems, except…

The reports had made little sense. A fleet of ships had been reported to have appeared within the Baltic, reports from Sweden and a handful of sources within the German military had detailed the craft as advanced ships from the future. Churchill had been inclined to dismiss the rumours, except he was hearing them from too many sources – and the single attempt by Coastal Command to send a scout aircraft to the Baltic had resulted in a missing aircraft. If it had been a German intelligence ploy of some kind, Churchill didn’t understand it; why would they launch such a silly story into the ether of rumours that floated around wartime Europe?

And then had come the report of rocket planes and the attack on the convoy yesterday.

Churchill remembered Dudley Pound, First Sea Lord, and his stuttering explanation. The man was old, he had served back during the Great War; he would need to take a holiday soon, when the pressure had eased off a little. The entire convoy had not simply been attacked, it had been annihilated; the Germans – if they had been Germans – had wiped the force out of existence. A battleship, a ship that took months to build, had been sunk, apparently with ease. The final despairing radio message had spoken of the mighty Rodney burning and sinking in the cold sea.

The disaster was bad enough, even without the torrent of other information, all of it confusing and some of it contradictory. The Germans had changed all of their codes at short notice; ULTRA and the other code-breaking efforts had suddenly been rendered useless. They had also started to assemble the effort necessary to force forward their own production; that, at least, might have been caused by the defeat they had suffered in Russia, but there were too many other details. A handful of British spies, not all of them, Churchill had been puzzled to hear, had been rounded up; knowing Hitler, they would have been quickly executed.

Despite himself, Churchill had been starting to believe the fantastic tales…and then the message had arrived from Admiral D’Oyley Lyon, Commander in Chief of the Nore. His command, one of the small forces held in reserve for a possible invasion of Britain, had encountered a ship from the future – one crewed by British seamen. It had been the first ray of hope; Churchill had ordered the captain of the vessel to report at once to Downing Street.

There was a tap on the door; his male secretary showed Captain Basil Liddell Hart into Churchill’s office. Liddell Hart, one of the foremost theorists of modern-day warfare – someone who had been listened to in Germany more than Britain, Churchill acknowledged ruefully – held no official title, which suited Churchill fine. Liddell Hart was much better as an advisor than holding any post; he would be available to Churchill whenever the Prime Minister wanted to bounce an idea off him.

Churchill lit one of his cigars – a present from President Roosevelt – and offered the box to Liddell Hart, who shook his head, lighting a cheap cigarette instead. Churchill snorted and passed the short report over to Liddell Hart, who skimmed it quickly. Liddell Hart had been working on the strange rumours coming out of Germany; one thing that Churchill feared was that some intelligence chiefs would keep information back from him, just because they couldn’t source it properly.

“This is all real?” Liddell Hart asked. Churchill’s scowl grew deeper; the report seemed like written madness, but he knew Admiral Lyon…and, of course, there was the report of what had happened to the convoy. “This man is coming here?”

“In his own aircraft,” Churchill confirmed. He felt a shiver of fear; something he knew – and he hoped to God that Adolf Hitler didn’t – was that an atomic bomb was possible. Would the Germans suddenly get a lead in the nuclear race? “We wanted him here as quickly as possible.”

Liddell Hart lifted an eyebrow. “Then why the delay?”

“Not all of his crew are to be trusted, according to him,” Churchill said. It had puzzled him enough that he hoped that Captain Masterson would enlighten them when he arrived. “There are also some vital bits of information to be removed from the ship and copied as quickly as possible.”

The noise of a strange aircraft echoed over London. “He’s due here soon,” Churchill confirmed, as Liddell Hart looked up curiously. The Germans had been raiding the British mainland from time to time, after having failed to destroy the RAF; they might well be coming back again in their attempt to batter the British into submission. With atomic weapons, they might just succeed. “I warned the ARP wardens; it would be unfortunate if someone accidentally shot him down, wouldn’t it?”

***
The helicopter flew low over the Thames, heading up towards the centre of the city. London stretched below him, seemingly unchanged from the year that he’d been born; Masterson realised that the Germans had actually been bombing this London for months. Signs of bomb damage lay everywhere, from the Docklands to the more modern housing; the Germans had been trying to crush the city in their hands. So far, according to Commander Birmingham, they had failed.

“They never let us modernise the city,” he commented to Birmingham, who seemed astonished. He’d read the history books, even the slightly biased ones provided by the Ministry of Correct Information; the information on the fall of Australia had shocked him beyond measure. He’d been very quiet as they flew westwards, heading away from the docks and the Royal Oak; Masterson could only hope that he would recover in time to help them.

“Down there,” Birmingham said, as people turned their heads to stare at the helicopter. The city seemed drabbed somehow, as the aircraft descended in front of the government complex; soldiers, holding outdated weapons, stared at them. The roads had been prepared for an invasion, with blockades and barbed wire strung everywhere; it wouldn’t slow down a tank from his era for longer than a few minutes. “That’s where we’re going.”

The helicopter touched down neatly, the rotors spinning to a stop. “Remain here,” Masterson ordered the pilot, who had been looking nervous about the amount of firepower pointed in their direction. “We’ll be needing a flight back, later.”

Birmingham stepped out of the helicopter and identified them to the guards. A man wearing a simple suit introduced himself as Churchill’s secretary and led them through the checkpoints – taking Masterson’s pistol as he did – and up into Ten Downing Street. That, at least, was different; the puppet government had thrown up a massive new centre of government in 1960, his timeline.

“We’re going to have to rewrite the words for this sort of situation,” he muttered, as they walked up the stairs. The entire building was reassuringly British; it had none of the Speer-dominated designs that had been springing up in London and Edinburgh, or, for that matter, in New Richmond. The New Confederacy had been determined to rebuild along Nazi lines; America would never be what it had once been after the war.

Birmingham blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Never mind,” Masterson said, shaking his head. “This is Churchill we’re going to meet.”

“Prime Minister Churchill,” the secretary said. He reached a single black door, knocked once, and opened it; Masterson followed him in as they were announced. Two men sat there, one old and unimpressive…and Churchill. There was no doubting his identity; he’d seen dozens of pictures of him. The man who had constantly warned of the dangers of Hitler, the man who had bungled the Norwegian Campaign enough to bring down a government, the man who had been Ambassador to America and then Prime Minister in exile, the man who had warned of the German plan to invade America…and the man who had died, pistol in hand, during the last moments of the defence of New York.

He was surprisingly short, shorter than Masterson had expected; his grip was firm as he shook hands with Masterson. He seemed to be tough, his face showed little in the way of give or weakness; a single cigar smoked contently in his heavyset mouth. He took his seat again and waved Masterson to a second seat, allowing him to study him in peace; Masterson was grimly aware that he too was being studied.

“It’s a pleasure to see you, I think,” Churchill said. His voice was a deep bass rumble, broken only by hints of a stutter. Masterson was surprised; the only recordings of Churchill’s life that had survived hadn’t included a stutter. “We’ve heard rumours, but…Captain, what the hell is going on?”

Masterson smiled at the question. He spoke for twenty minutes, outlining the world he had come from, the situation that had led to the plans to send a force to Japan…and the event, whatever it had been, that had dumped them in the Baltic, years back in time and sideways, into a new world. Churchill seemed impatient when he spoke about alternate timelines, but Liddell Hart seemed fascinated; Masterson had been delighted when he had been introduced. Liddell Hart was still read, normally by German officers; Masterson himself had read his works.

“I see,” Churchill said. “Do you have any idea of how…fantastic that story sounds?”

“Sir, you should have seen the Royal Oak,” Birmingham injected. Churchill seemed amused by the interruption. “That ship is years ahead of anything we have.”

“And the Graf Zeppelin and its fleet are even further ahead,” Masterson said. He’d already mentioned the ships; he spent a further ten minutes explaining what they were and what they could do. “That force has come to your world, Prime Minister.”

Churchill’s face darkened. “That is not good news,” he said, with commendable understatement. “Did that fleet attack the convoy?”

“They intended to attack a target,” Masterson admitted. “They didn’t tell me the exact target…”

Churchill’s face purpled. “And you did nothing?” He demanded. “You have a duty to Britain…”

“With what?” Masterson snapped, feeling a sudden wave of anger running through him. “Don’t you understand? There is no way that I could have damaged that carrier…and all it would have achieved would be getting my ship sunk by the Germans, along with any hope of you building a defence against it.”

Liddell Hart held up one hand. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but do they have the ability to rebuild their ships if they are damaged?”

“Not for years,” Masterson said. Liddell Hart’s mind was clearly proceeding along similar lines to the Germans. “That ship wouldn’t fit into any of your docks here, Prime Minister.”

Liddell Hart smiled grimly. “Then they have no source of supply,” he continued. “Once they fire off a missile, it’s gone; they can’t rebuild them. The same goes for their fuel; can we prevent them from developing fuel for the ships?”

“They don’t need fuel,” Masterson admitted. “They’re nuclear-powered, sir; they’ll need to be re-cored eventually, but that will be years in the future.”

“Nuclear weapons,” Churchill said. His voice became alarmed. “Do they have nuclear weapons?”

Masterson hesitated. “I do not believe so,” he said, after a moment. It was impossible to know, damn it. “The SS had a special detachment that kept command of the nuclear weapons back home; they certainly never let us get anywhere near nuclear weapons. Besides, if they had the weapons, they would have used them by now.”

“Would they?” Churchill said. He stared down at the table, pressing his fingertips together. “Bomber Command could attack the ships in the Baltic…”

“They’d be slaughtered,” Masterson warned. “The ships have perfect radar systems, along with jet fighters for defence; they’re almost untouchable.”

“Perhaps,” Liddell Hart said. “The trick would be to force them to use up all of their weapons” – his mind was racing ahead – “while working to use our own industries to develop enough weapons to counter the Germans.”

“Perhaps,” Churchill echoed. “Are we likely to see more attacks on convoys?”

“Quite possibly,” Masterson said. “They will understand just how vulnerable any you should have would be to them, so they will attack them, including the use of their own submarine to harass you at Scarpa Flow…”

“I’ll get on to Tovey,” Churchill said. “That submarine could be driven away with ease…”

“I very much doubt it,” Masterson said. “Prime Minister, that submarine has weapons that could be used to sink the Home Fleet.”

Liddell Hart blinked. “Enough torpedoes to sink the entire Home Fleet?”

“It carries sixteen heavy torpedoes,” Masterson said quietly. “Once it fires them off, there won’t be any more.”

Churchill took a breath. “Matters like that are a matter for others,” he said. Liddell Hart smiled wryly beside him. “Captain, this…Konteradmiral Herman Trautman; what will he do?”

Masterson had spent some time considering that. “He sees his duty as being to the Reich,” he said. “The Reich here might not be the one he left, but it’s the Reich and he will serve it, using his ships to help them. He also knows the odds against the Reich; he knows what the Soviets have in the way of an economy, and he knows enough about America to fear their potential.”

He sighed. “He’ll be working on expanding the capabilities of the Reich,” he continued. “There are some tech experts on my ship, more than the Germans knew about, but not as many as he has at his disposal. Worse, we have no nuclear experts, worst…he’ll be looking for a way to knock one of the Reich’s opponents out of the war.”

Liddell Hart’s face paled. “A knock-out punch,” he said. “Nuclear weapons?”

“It would take too long to make them,” Churchill said. “The Americans were talking about three years…good god, we’ll have to tell them about this; they’ll think that we’ve gone insane.”

“They can’t get at the Americans,” Liddell Hart said. “They can get at us, however, and they will. How many options do they have?” He answered his own question. “They can attempt to cut us off from the empire, perhaps by forcing us out of the Mediterranean or by attacking our convoys…and if the fleet is as powerful as you suggest, they won’t be able to be stopped. Failing that…”

His voice faded slightly. “Failing that, could they force a landing on our coastline?”

Masterson felt a rush of fear running through him. “He was talking about re-establishing the government here,” he said. “He meant the fascist government, the one that the Germans put in power…and he could do it, too.”

Churchill’s bass rumble cut through the consternation. “That will not happen,” he said, and his voice was very firm. “I will not let it happen.”

Liddell Hart frowned. “If we recall troops from North Africa, we risk allowing Rommel a strategic victory,” he said. “The same goes for the Far East…”

Churchill’s voice was strong. “What price the jewel in the crown if the crown itself is lost?”

“The Americans can handle Japan,” Liddell Hart said. “Can we bring the soldiers home?”

Churchill sighed. “We should start preparing,” he said. “Basil, I know that you didn’t want an appointment, but I’m giving you the supervisory role over all of this. Get the Royal Oak somewhere safer, perhaps Liverpool, and then start using it – find out what they know and what we can produce quickly. When the Cabinet meets tomorrow, I shall start working on organising another defence of Britain. Work as fast as you can, old friend; time is about to run out.”

Masterson felt a lump in his throat. They were home.

Chapter Twelve: The Dinosaur Brain of Adolf Hitler

Felsennest, Germany
26th December 1941

The Fuhrer was unhappy. When the Fuhrer was unhappy, everyone else would be unhappy as well. It was a law of nature. Himmler sat back, crossed his arms, pasted a blank expression on his face, and enjoyed the row. It promised to be entertaining.

He smiled inwardly. The SS had been doing excellent work on taking note of the information concealed in the past-future files. The information on who had spied for the British and the Soviets in the alternate war – he made a mental note to have the concept of alternate histories worked into the SS training course somehow – had already come in handy. Two to three hundred spies, including several people who weren’t included on the files, but had gotten in Himmler’s way, had been removed. Others, people who had proven themselves in the other history, had been promoted; the Reich would have a handful of new generals and field marshals before too long.

Speer’s work had also been satisfactory, although Himmler was realist enough to understand that he would need months, at least, before the first new tank rolled off the assembly line. He’d started laying the grounds already, however; Christmas had meant little to him when the Reich was at war. The SS soldiers – the Waffen-SS and the other groups – had already begun learning from the future files; it was astonishing just how much information had been cached for their benefit.

Body armour. Submachine guns. Explosives. Portable artillery. Small combat radios. Helicopters. Tilt-rotors. Night-vision gear. Hundreds of tiny ideas that would increase the fighting power of the SS divisions considerably, ideas that would make the SS the primer fighting force of the Reich. Even Goring was happy, or at least as happy as the fat slob ever got; the Luftwaffe was also in line for developing new weapons to support the troops and attack Britain.

But there was so much to do…and the news from the sea had knocked Himmler’s careful plans out of kilter. He’d known – and suspected – the presence of British spies in the Kriegsmarine; some of them would have warned the British about the Graf Zeppelin long before the British crew took it into their heads to desert. He’d hoped, although he had known better than to rely upon it, that the British would mistake the report for the old carrier, the one that they’d been building, but…

“They’ll slip all of their information to the British,” Hitler thundered. “That swine Churchill will be at our throats.”

Himmler watched the reactions. Raeder looked angry, although he didn’t have the nerve to speak harshly to Hitler; stronger men than he had blanched at the thought of trying to bully the Fuhrer. Goring, sitting by the fire, looked pleased; anything that embarrassed Raeder could be used as proof that the Luftwaffe should have taken the lead on the project to make use of the windfall that had fallen into their lap.

And Trautman? The Admiral commanding the task force, someone who had been recognised as a Kriegsmarine officer at Hitler’s command, showed little reaction.

“The British will build weapons just like yours,” Hitler snapped. His face had darkened alarmingly; Himmler felt a flicker of concern. Hitler’s doctor was nothing better than a quack; it had always amused him that Goring and himself shared that particular opinion. If nothing else, he resolved to work to get a future doctor assigned to the Fuhrer; Hitler would need the medical support.

“They’ll give the weapons to the Russians and Stalin will be at our throats,” he continued. He hadn’t wanted to know about the problems in the East; he’d come within moments of relieving General Heinz Guderian for incompetence, something that even Himmler considered to be far from fair. Guderian, however, was spoken of in the files as a war leader of skill and renown; someone else had been pushed onto their sword in atonement. “What do you say to that?”

His voice broke off abruptly; he waited, his face still creased in anger. Trautman seemed unabashed; Himmler would have hated to play poker with him. “The mission was a success,” he said, waving a hand towards the computer and projector that had been removed from the carrier’s supply ship. Himmler, who had supervised the beginnings of a program to place some of the equipment to very good use, loved those tools. “We not only sank the convoy, but a battleship as well.”

The Fuhrer was not impressed. “We have seen your records,” he said. “What about the British ship?”

Trautman bowed his head. “We were lied to by the British Morale Officer,” he admitted. Himmler stared at him, wondering; what exactly had happened then? “He assured us that the British Brotherhood had been wiped out, but it remains clear that the Brotherhood operatives took control of the ship and diverted it towards Britain.”

Goring broke into the conversation. “You do not know that it went to Britain,” he said. Himmler sighed inwardly at the interruption. “It might have gone elsewhere.”

Hitler rounded on him. Goring had status as one of the Fuhrer’s old guard; it was a status that could be withdrawn very easily. “Where else could they have gone, Hermann?” He demanded. “Spain? Portugal? The Falkland Islands?”

Silence fell. “The fact remains that the ship is older and outdated, compared to the Graf Zeppelin and its battle group,” Trautman continued. “While losing it is inconvenient, it would not be a serious problem in the short term. In the long term, however, it is potentially disastrous.”

***
Trautman allowed himself a flicker of humour at the way that the small group responded to the statement; the truth, as always, wasn’t easy to take calmly. He himself hadn’t exactly intended everything to turn out the way it had, but the truth was that he couldn’t have been more delighted by the way that events had turned out. He would have preferred to have managed to find and destroy the British ship, after Churchill and his government had seen it, but for the moment…the ship was hidden.

He smiled as the silence grew and lengthened.

Hitler spoke first, his voice dangerous; Trautman saw, again, the strange mixture of genius and insanity that had created the Reich – that, logically, had created his Reich as well. His Reich had also been ramshackle, when it had been created, but it hadn’t made the cardinal mistake that this Reich had; it had not – ever – bitten off more than it could chew.

“Explain,” Hitler snapped. “You promised us that your fleet could hand us victory on a silver tray.”

That wasn’t exactly accurate, Trautman knew; he’d promised that the Reich could use the fleet and its resources to achieve victory – but only if they worked at it. They couldn’t hope to replenish the ships’ weapons before they were overwhelmed; their only hope was to hammer out a tech base from around 1960 and use it to stave off defeat until the nukes were ready to launch.

“The British now have access to the Royal Oak,” he said. “In a seeming paradox, the fact that the craft is around ten years behind the Graf Zeppelin will make it easier to use as a source of ideas, but at the same time they don’t have access to the files that we have. They can’t, for example, use it to make nuclear weapons; the British of our timeline were forbidden access to nuclear science.”

He smiled at the relief that ran around the room. “However, given time, they will be able to use it to hammer out a tech base of their own,” he continued. “If they do that, they will ensure that we will be unable to defeat them quickly – and, unless we are willing to use up all of the remaining missiles – we cannot starve them out. Worse, the Americans could actually build ships faster than we could sink them.”

The mood in the room sank again. It was half-true; the fleet, between the heavy ships, carried around four hundred missiles that could be used to sink ships, although not all of them would be suitable to sink battleships. The Americans, however, had vast productive capabilities; if the British managed to slip them information, they could start working hard on their own advanced weapons. They’d made nuclear weapons in his timeline as well, after all; they would be bound to have their own program under way.

“That, as it happens, is the least of our problems,” he concluded. He noticed Raeder’s nod, Goring’s puzzled expression – and Himmler’s calculating mask. “Our problems come from the strategic situation that we have found ourselves in” – carefully avoiding mentioning whose fault that was – “where we have what is in effect a war on three fronts.”

He allowed his hand to trace Hitler’s grand map – itself a masterwork of artistry that Bormann had let slip was replaced every month when the situation changed – as he spoke. “We have Britain and America in the west,” he said. “We have Britain again in North Africa, which has the old problem of a shoestring logistic system. Finally, we have Russia in the east. Really, we need to close down one of those fronts.”

He paused for effect. The problem was that surrendering in one of the fronts, with the possible exception of North Africa, simply wasn’t possible. Even if Stalin could be induced to consider peace terms, he would take the time to build up his own forces and knife the Reich in the back when it suited him to do so. Defeating Stalin quickly would be difficult, even with the new weapons; it would be possible in a few months, but not at the moment.

And, of course, knocking America out of the war would be impossible.

“We have a window of opportunity,” he said. He tapped one particular nation on the map. “We have to jump through it, now, or it will be lost. We have no choice, but to attempt to invade Britain.”

There was a long silence. “Invading Britain would be a complex undertaking,” Bormann said finally. His voice sounded more than a little stunned. Field Marshal Keitel looked even more stunned; the Wehrmacht had thought that they had managed to escape Operation Sealion last year. Trautman had studied their plans and the forces that had been available; abandoning the operation had probably been the right choice. “Can we handle it…?”

“We have the most powerful ground force in the world under my command,” Trautman said, referring to the Marines. In Russia, they would have vanished in the snows; in Britain, they would be truly useful. The force was small, smaller than he had actually wanted, but with some careful preparation, they could take and hold a beachhead. “Although there are fewer tanks than I would like, each of them will be literally indestructible to British tanks – and we can suppress the RAF without many problems…”

“We have learned the lessons,” Goring injected. “The Luftwaffe stands ready to do its part.”

“Carry on,” Hitler said. He sounded calmer; Trautman was almost relieved. “What will happen then?”

“We will reinforce,” Trautman continued. He had other ideas, ideas he wasn’t willing to share; Hitler would have forbidden them on the grounds that they were too dangerous or risky. “Once the force has been reinforced, we will drive on London, simultaneously expanding our hold until the British have been weakened down, and then take the city. Once London has fallen, we can mop up the rest of Britain and Ireland at our leisure.”

“The Irish will be happy to join us,” Ribbentrop proclaimed. He had been delighted to be the namesake of one of Trautman’s ships, but it hadn’t been long before Trautman had realised that he scarcely deserved to have a garbage scow named after him. “They hate the British – they will be happy to do whatever we want to get rid of them.”

Trautman privately doubted that; the IRA had waged war against the German bases in Ireland until Dublin had been razed to the ground in punishment. They might have been pleased to see the back of the British, but they had been oddly reluctant to recognise German strength and the rights that came with that strength. Anyone would have thought that they thought they could win. Just because the British had made concessions…

He shrugged. “Taking Britain will not require a major commitment of the Wehrmacht,” he said. Field Marshal Keitel looked relieved; Jodl, his deputy who seemed to do most of the work, looked even more relieved. “We believe that it will require the commitment of only four divisions, at most, and they can be withdrawn from the forces tied down in occupying France, rather than Russia.”

Hitler smiled. “An interesting analysis,” he said. He looked half-convinced. “The British will still have superiority in numbers, however, will they not?”

Trautman blinked. Hitler had quite happily dismissed numbers when he had ordered the Wehrmacht to advance into the Soviet Union, after all. He’d heard, mainly from Raeder, that the Fuhrer was quite knowledgeable about weapons of war – it was merely the sustained application that he found difficult. Hitler had played a great role in building the Wehrmacht…and, from half of what he’d seen, not all of that had been actually useful.

“It’s an illusion,” he said, and saw Hitler’s grin. “The British should have larger numbers than we would have available – and we’ll move a few Eyes to France to confirm that as soon as we can – but they will have problems moving them to the battlezone. We’ll be conducting considerable probes over Britain in the coming weeks, just to make sure that we have our numbers straight, but the British will have to be strong everywhere. Once the Royal Navy has been taken out, they will have to guard their entire coastline.

“That would weaken them regardless,” he continued. “We will be conducting strikes against their transport links at the same time we launch the main invasion. Their soldiers will be trapped in their locations, unable to move fast; they’ll be largely restricted to marching speed. We’ll deal with them, one by one, while we expand our beachhead.”

He tapped the map again. Raeder had warned him to end on an upbeat note that Hitler could relate to. “The British nation will be occupied, which will cause their empire to go tumbling down,” he said. “That will give us an opportunity to produce a strategic victory in the Middle East…and defeat Russia before 1943. Once the atomic bombs are ready, America will have little choice, but to surrender to us.”

“Magnificent,” Hitler said, after a long moment. If he was aware that he had been manipulated, he showed no sign of it. Taking their lead from the Fuhrer, the other officers and Nazi Party representatives added their congratulations. “I expect to be in Buckingham Palace within a month.”

“It will require some time to make the preparations,” Trautman said quietly. That was the real flaw in the information that he had provided Hitler; the information that the British ship possessed would flow to America before the invasion could be mounted. There was no need to point that out, however; it would only upset Hitler.

“There are other precautions that we will have to take,” Goring said. His voice sounded more confident than normal. “We will have to carry the war to the Russia factories and America.”

Trautman lifted an eyebrow. Goring – or, more likely, one of his subordinates – had clearly been thinking. “There are plans to produce strategic bombers that we can use to hit New York,” Goring continued. “With your permission, Mein Fuhrer, we can start producing them soon and deploy them at the end of the year.”

Speer looked irritated. “They will be expensive to produce,” he commented. “They might be useful, although I doubt that; we would do better to use the resources to recreate the parachute divisions.”

“There will be no more operations like Crete,” Hitler said firmly. Trautman frowned; the Germans of his timeline had never invaded Crete at all, settling for forcing Greece into the alliance against Russia. “The unit would be better used fighting in Russia.”

“And so it will be, Mein Fuhrer,” Goring promised. “The bombers, however, are important…”

Hitler turned to Trautman. “And your opinion?”

Trautman blinked. “They’re going to be ahead of time,” he said, after a moment. “We have other priorities – if we cannot defeat Britain, we will lose the war, perhaps before we have atomic bombs in place.”

“But without the bombers, we will be unable to use the bombs to touch America,” Hitler said. “You said that America had to be forced out of the war.”

Trautman concealed a scowl. “Only if they can bring their production to bear on us, Mien Führer,” he said, wondering why Hitler had remembered that little detail. “If they cannot wear us down, we will win.”

Hitler regarded him for a long moment. “You will have your bombers, Hermann,” he said, turning to Goring. “I expect that you will give your full and total cooperation to Operation Future Shock, understand?”

Goring, looking as happy as a boy with a new toy, bobbled his head. “Of course, Mien Fuhrer,” he said. “It will be my honour to assist with this as much as I can – and the Luftwaffe will not let you down.”

Raeder chuckled harshly. “You will also provide aircraft for the other Graf Zeppelin, when we finish it?”

Trautman smiled. The other Graf Zeppelin, which had been within a handful of months of completion when it had been paused – again – wouldn’t last long in his Reich, but as an additional carrier flight deck, it might come in handy. It wouldn’t be ready for Operation Future Shock, as Hitler seemed to have decided to call it, but it would be helpful for the future.

Goring regarded his rival with icy eyes. “I will make myself available,” he said. “You will have your aircraft for your new carrier.”

Chapter Thirteen: There’s No Place Like England

Liverpool, England
30th December 1941

In the end, it had been easier than Masterson had dared hope.

Once Churchill had been convinced, it had been simple to order Admiral Lyon to make some preparations for the crew of the Royal Oak. The crewmen who weren’t strictly necessary – and some men whom Masterson would have preferred to keep on the ship, but knew too much to be risked – were moved onshore, and then moved across the country to Dover. The Royal Oak itself, after being stripped of its manuals and some of its equipment, had been carefully moved around the coastline and up to Liverpool, avoiding contact with any other ship.

Most of the men, as he had expected, were delighted at the chance to actually fight the Germans. Even those who didn’t hate the Germans from patriotic grounds hated the endless condescension that the Germans heaped upon their heads; the handful of men who weren’t keen on fighting the war again were quickly interned. The traitors had proved a difficult problem; some of them hadn’t been willing traitors at all, others were dedicated servants of the Freikorps and the Germans.

“You seem to have handled your people well,” Liddell Hart said. The military strategist had assembled a base near Liverpool; the city was no stranger to military activity. “How are they taking it?”

“Most of them were delighted,” Masterson commented. The rolling grey sea could be seen from their hidden position; Liverpool had been bombed several times by bad-tempered Luftwaffe pilots, often missing everything important. “Only a few of us had girlfriends, let alone wives; the Germans had a habit of using them as hostages.”

He winced; a handful of his people claimed that the Germans had made them spy by using their wives as hostages. It hadn’t been easy to make any form of decision; the fact that it was impossible to send any signal back to Germany had made it a little easier – those who worked would be trusted long enough to do the job. The Doctor had proven a harder problem; her medical knowledge was better than anyone else in Britain, but she was a suspect case.

“Your Doctor has been working hard,” Liddell Hart said. His voice altered slightly. “Strange woman.”

“She used to be Sullivan’s woman,” Masterson said, with a hint of bitterness. He wondered what had happened to Sullivan; the Germans might just have blamed him for their escape. If so, he would be lucky to have just been tossed overboard into the cold North Sea. “What did you hear from the Baltic?”

Liddell Hart frowned as they walked on. Seabirds cawed high overhead; the skies threatened more snow falling on them from high above. “The fleet returned to its station in the Baltic,” he said. “We found that much out from spies, mainly in Sweden. God alone knows how long they’ll let us do that, with the Graf Zeppelin in their waters.”

“The Swedes?” Masterson asked. In his world, the Swedes had been allies of the Germans; Hitler considered them brothers of the Germanic people. “Do they want Hitler to win?”

Liddell Hart laughed as he led the way into one of the dozens of anonymous naval offices in the dockside. Masterson was almost grateful; the cold air was staring to work its way through his uniform and the cold weather clothing that had been stored on the Royal Oak.

“There have been worrying developments,” Liddell Hart said, as soon as they were inside and alone. The room was welcomingly warm; Masterson accepted the cup of tea with some relief. “The spies have reported that the Germans have been pushing forward the construction of new tanks and u-boats, units that should make a real change to the balance of power. With the lines between Berlin and Moscow stabilising, they might manage to allow Hitler to launch a new offensive soon against Russia.”

He scowled, sipping his tea. “But there are other developments,” he continued. “The Germans have been activating new divisions and recalling others, including ones that have been stationed in the occupied regions of France. Our sources” – he scowled slightly at the concept of spies within a country that should have been an ally – “suggest that they are not being activated for service in Russia, as some analysts are suggesting, but for a hop over the Channel.”

Masterson allowed it to sink in slowly. “What did the Prime Minister say about it?”

Liddell Hart gave him a droll look. “He wasn’t impressed with his performance in the other timeline and has resolved to do better this time,” he said. “More seriously, he’s worried; the Germans would have to be mad to try to jump across the channel, or they’re confident that the Graf Zeppelin and its fleet tips the balance of power in their favour.”

“He has every reason to be worried,” Masterson agreed grimly. “What about the Americans?”

“Winston was intended to be back in Washington for the Acadia Conference,” Liddell Hart said. He slipped a cigarette out of his pocket and offered it to Masterson, who declined. “He won’t be able to attend, not now, not with the rumours floating around. Ambassador Halifax has been sent some important documents, including the information on atomic weapons that you have provided us with; he’ll keep the Americans informed.”

He sighed. “The Japanese are closing in on the Philippines,” he said. “Do you know what that means?”

“The last American outpost before Midway,” Masterson said. “In my timeline, it was pulled into Japan’s sphere in 1949, after America abandoned it. I wonder – how much might have been different if the Americans had protested them.”

“I read the history books too,” Liddell Hart said. “It’s strange to think of how much depends on a single individual.”

Masterson snorted. “It always does,” he said. “The people who make the decisions, in the end, are the ones who count.”

Liddell Hart shrugged. “The Prime Minister has been working to organise a defence of Britain,” he said. “Do you have any thoughts on the matter?”

“We have to force them to expand their weapons,” Masterson said. A nasty thought had occurred to him. “They have the Marines, as well.”

“One thousand, five hundred men,” Liddell Hart said. “How much damage can they do?”

Masterson stared at the map of Britain on the wall. “More than you can imagine, at least as long as the weapons hold out,” he said. “They’re some of the proudest units in the German Army – and half of them are SS, very much the best of the best. The only real hope will be to hit them on the beaches and prevent them from digging in.”

Engines howled overhead as a force of Spitfires flashed over the city, heading eastwards. “The Germans have been moving up fighters and bombers as well,” Liddell Hart said. “They clearly don’t want to rely on the forces that your friends brought with them.”

Masterson made a grim face. “That Marine force is far too powerful for my liking,” he said. “They’re trained, disciplined, and they can react faster than any force you’re likely to have. They have tanks that can outshoot anything you have, and weapons that can destroy almost any vehicle in your arsenal.”

“And what, then, do you advise?” Liddell Hart asked. “How do we deal with them if we can’t hit them on the beaches?”

“You’ll have to wear them down,” Masterson said. His face darkened. “The cost could be enormous.”

***
“I have been talking to some of your people,” General Alan Brooke boomed, from his chair. Masterson relaxed into his chair, enjoying the feeling of being pleasantly full. The estate, which belonged to one of the British lords, had been converted into a massive farm; Liddell Hart had commented snidely that the lord in question had raised such a fuss about his estate’s conversion that the communists would be bound to be voted in by his estate’s workers, who were patriotic to a man – and, more to the point, needed the food.

“Good,” Masterson said. He rather liked the Chief of the General Staff, not least because he always seemed utterly unflappable. Brooke, Liddell Hart had informed him, had been recently appointed to his post, simply because he got on well with Churchill – and was a competent military commander.

“It looks as if the Germans do intend to hop across the Channel,” Brooke continued. “We actually held wargames – Western Command held wargames – studying the problem for handling a German invasion during 1940, and concluded that we had a fair chance of defeating one, with the aid of the navy. Unfortunately, your chaps seem convinced that we might not have the navy to help us when the Jerries try to cross the Channel.”

“They destroyed a battleship,” Liddell Hart said. “We might have no choice, but to pull the Navy back from the Channel.”

“The wargames – including tactical exercises, which are wargames without troops, bit pointless, but never mind – suggested that the best course of events was to hold the reserves back in place,” Brooke continued. “The Jerries could land anywhere, assuming that the Navy had been sunk or chased away, and the last thing we want to do is risk losing our forces trying to repel a wild-goose chase. Once we know where the landing site is, we’ll move local forces in to destroy it…can we expect them to try landing parachutes soldiers within Britain?”

The question caused Masterson some surprise. “I don’t think that they have a parachute complement on their forces, but they will have parachute training – and, of course, they could land forces behind your lines on helicopters.”

“I love that machine,” Brooke said, with sudden delight. The helicopter from the Royal Oak had been moved to an Army base near Liverpool, where technicians were taking it apart. “Your pilot chappie is very helpful. We could build more, if we had the time.”

Liddell Hart coughed meaningfully. “But the Germans have more of them,” Brooke said. “We’re the good guys; we should get the windfall from another dimension, right?” Liddell Hart coughed again. “All right, all right, they can land troops behind our lines, assuming that we lose control of the air.”

“You will,” Masterson said flatly. “They will be using some aircraft soon – hell, they might be now – to spy out your airfields…and soon they will use them to knock out your airbases and your radar stations.”

Brooke grinned. “A young radar scientist, a Jewish guy with the name of Turtledove, had an idea along those lines,” he said. Masterson winced; most Germans had no idea what had happened to the Jews, but Masterson was denied that luxury. “The Germans have rockets that seek out radar emissions, right?”

Masterson nodded. “My ship has some similar missiles,” he said. “You took most of them from the ship, remember?”

Brooke gave him an oddly sympathetic look. “Sailors and their ships,” he said, almost sorrowfully. “I know, but those missiles might come in handy. Anyway; we have started a crash program to build more radar transmitters, which will soak up their missiles. If we have time, we will have enough to soak up all of their missiles and still have some radar coverage, although we expect that fatso Goring’s forces will be doing their best to add to the damage being poured onto our radar stations.

“We have a few other programs along those lines,” he continued. “If we knew in advance where they would be placing their attack, we could have a grounded battleship inshore to provide cover, but we don’t…so. Failing that, we have been trying hard to ramp up Fighter Command and Bomber Command; the bombers will be tasked with hitting the airfields that the Germans are modifying now for the advanced bombers from the future fleet.”

“It’s not exactly a fleet from the future,” Masterson admitted.

Brooke gave him a brilliant smile. “Does it matter?”

Liddell Hart grinned back at Brooke. “What about the other plans?”

Brooke tapped the map. “We should have several divisions in place, manning the GHQ line between Dover and London. Given time, we’ll also have newer armoured regiments emplaced as well; they can move forward and destroy the enemies on the beach. While it is possible that they might try for somewhere else, Portsmouth and Southampton, for example, we regard that as the most likely angle of attack.”

He grinned. “What will your old commander think of that?”

Masterson frowned. “He’s supposed to be aggressive and he was tasked to raid the Japanese shipping,” he said. “He’ll be looking for ways to defeat you as quickly as possible, not just out of aggression, but also to conserve his supplies. He’ll work hard to minimise your advantages, which seem to be limited to vast numbers, and he’ll use his own advantages to best advantage.”

He paused. “Brigadefuehrer Richard Wieland is SS,” he continued. “Technically, General Schroeder is his superior officer, but Konteradmiral Trautman will probably leave him in command. Regardless, both men are hard-charging soldiers; they’re both very capable and know exactly what their men can do.”

Brooke frowned. “If they hate each other, they might try separate attacks,” he said. “Can we work on that?”

“I doubt it,” Masterson said. “Konteradmiral Trautman wouldn’t let them; he has supreme authority, or at least he had.” He paused, wondering; just what sort of politics were developing in Germany now that his ship had made its escape? “Even so, they’re not a large force; they will have to stay together and fight as a unit. If they do, they might well punch a hole in your lines.”

Brooke studied the map for the moment. “Your chaps warned of that as well,” he said. Masterson quirked an eyebrow. “Some of them had done time in your boarding parties, but you seem to have no Marines…?”

“Not allowed under the peace treaty,” Masterson said, with unhidden bitterness. “What will you do then?”

“Something I would prefer to avoid,” Brooke said. “We will fall back into London and make a greater Leningrad of the capital city.”

Liddell Hart shook his head slowly. “If it gets that bad…”

“If it does, well…surrender is not an option,” Brooke said. “We have been debriefing your people endlessly, Captain; they tell tales of horror. I will not surrender, whatever happens…”

“If worst comes to the worst, we will be falling back to America,” Liddell Hart said. “Stalin has been pitching fits – or at least his ambassador has been pitching fits – about the decision to abandon convoys to Russia for the moment. He’ll still get some supplies through that Far Eastern port with the unpronounceable name, but…he won’t get any more from us. We’ll also be calling on Canada to send more manpower, perhaps even America, if they can get some of their combat divisions ready in time.”

“They can’t,” Brooke said. “I had a long discussion with their liaison officers; their manpower is needed for the Pacific at the moment. They hope to have more units activated within months, but they might not be ready by the time the Germans get their act together.”

Masterson stared at him. “Can’t you call units back from the Middle East?”

“That region is very volatile,” Liddell Hart said, before Brooke could speak. “Your world might have been willing to genocide the Arabs; we don’t have the means to do that any longer. If we pull units out of Eighth Army, facing Rommel, who knows what Rommel will do?”

“He’ll take Cairo and the Suez,” Brooke said. “If that happens, the entire position in the Middle East falls apart.”

“Better that than losing all of Britain,” Masterson persisted. “The Germans have other things to worry about, don’t they?”

“Perhaps, but there are other factors to be considered here,” Liddell Hart said, and closed that particular discussion. His voice returned to its normal dry academic tones. “The War Cabinet has been meeting on a daily basis since you arrived and certain decisions have been taken.”

He tapped his fingers as he spoke. “First, all of the information we have gathered from your craft will be sent to America,” he said. “If we can beat off the invasion that seems inevitable, well and good – if not, the Americans will have a fighting chance themselves. They have been promising success on the atomic bomb program for some time, but your men don’t know much about that and we know that in your world they developed the bomb in 1949, so…

“Second, if Britain is about to fall, you, your men and your ship will sail to America,” Liddell Hart continued. “The Prime Minister has declared his intention to remain in Britain, but the Royal Family and enough government members to form a government-in-exile, should the worst come to the worst, will sail over in the coming weeks.”

Abandoning the people again, Masterson felt. Old feelings – old propaganda - died hard. King Edward The Restored and Queen Wallis had spread countless statements about King George, who had left Britain with German Panzers nosing into London; far too much of the propaganda had found a receptive ear as the Germans shattered the old class system once and for all…and replaced it with something that was almost the same, apart from the faces. King George had died in exile; something uniquely British had died with him.

“I don’t want to see Britain occupied again,” he said, feeling unaccustomedly weak. Strange feelings welled up within him; he had seen a free Britain and he didn’t want to lose it again. “I would like to remain and fight to save it.”

“I understand your feelings,” Liddell Hart said, without mocking. “However, the only hope for freedom, if Britain goes down, lies with America. If that happens, then we have to do everything in our power, perhaps even at the cost of the German invasion, to ensure that America survives. They’re going to be the last best hope of humanity…because if they don’t get ready in time, Hitler has a very good chance of conquering the world.”

Chapter Fourteen: Business in Great Waters

Near Scarpa Flow, North Sea
1st January 1942

It was claimed, normally by those who served on the Kriegsmarine’s capital ships, that the submarine service was a hive of indiscipline, laxity and general unconcern about the standards of the German Navy. Rumour had it that submariners partied under the seas, carrying illegal levels of alcohol and drugs with them on their lonely patrols of the seas. There was little truth in the rumour; the u-boats might be more egalitarian than the surface ships – strict adherence to rank and title wasn’t practical under the sea – but discipline was still firm. If submariners weren’t as obsessed with spit and polish as the rest of the fleet, well…they were rarely seen by anyone important.

Korvettenkapitän Hans Becker grinned to himself as he studied the sonar returns as the nuclear-powered submarine slipped closer to the British harbour. The British were good, he had already realised; they had been careful to rig the harbour with antisubmarine defences that would have prevented him from taking his submarine into the waters. Even in pitch darkness, with the human eye at a severe disadvantage, it would have been dangerous; his ship was much larger than anything that the Reich possessed. Losing it would have been…embarrassing.

“Up periscope,” he commanded, taking the viewer in his hands and peering into it. This era didn’t have anti-submarine radar, radar that tracked periscopes as they emerged above the water; in darkness, it should be perfectly safe. “Let me see what we have here.”

The dark shape of a British destroyer, moving on a zigzag course that would have made it harder for a contemporary submarine to have taken a shot at it, appeared in his scope. The British ships had sonar, but it was primitive compared to his ship’s equipment; the hull would absorb much of the pinging sounds, rather than allowing them to return to the British ship.

“They haven’t seen us,” he confirmed, for the sake of the rest of the crew. He was tempted just to fire a torpedo at the destroyer, but he resisted the temptation; he had come for bigger targets. “Radar sweep.”

“Done,” the radar operator said, after a moment. Like all of them, he looked somewhat slovenly and acted worse, but he knew his duty. Submarines couldn’t afford anyone who didn’t know what they were doing onboard; they simply didn’t have the room. “There are two cruisers moving away from us, towards America, outside the main harbour.”

“Probably going to escort a convoy,” his exec commented. “Captain?”

Becker grinned, like a shark. “Follow them,” he muttered to the helm officer. Quiet was something that the submarine forced upon its crew, even though practically it would have made little difference with such…primitive opposition. A galleon from the Spanish Amanda would have more luck in tracking them. “Carefully, mind…”

The submarine echoed with power as it moved slowly through the water. The undersea bed was treacherous here – they’d already nearly had one accident when their maps and practice on their timeline’s version of the harbour had differed from their own, thanks to the submarine’s namesake – but they progressed, avoiding a handful of mines with caution.

“Down periscope,” Becker ordered, as they drifted closer to the harbour. He didn’t want to take the ship into the harbour – that would have been far too risky, even for him – but they would be passing far too close to the harbour’s defences. If they were using searchlights, they might just get lucky and…

“We have the two cruisers,” the sonar operator said. The display threw up a computerised representation of the sonar image; the two British ships had been joined by a pair of destroyers, slowly picking up speed as they left the safety of the harbour. At full speed, they might have escaped a contemporary u-boat, but his ship could have caught up with them after giving them a long start; they were no match for a nuclear-powered vessel. He affected an American accent. “We got em bang to rights, Captain.”

Becker laughed. American cowboy movies had been popular in the Reich for some time, until after the American War, where they had been replaced with films about the great victory in America and films extolling young Germans to take flight in the Reich’s space force. The submarine service had kept up with the cowboy movies, however; the story about the German submariner who had dared his American counterpart to single combat notwithstanding.

Becker remembered. The American had won.

“No need to be hasty,” he said. The enemy ships were picking up speed; the submarine slid after them. “Radar sweep.”

There was a pause while a radar mast was lifted, projected above the waves. “Nothing nearby apart from those ships and the guard ships,” the radar operator said. Becker shrugged in disappointment; he had hoped for a battleship. Two cruisers were hardly the big target he wanted to spend his handful of weapons on, but…

“The battleships must be in the harbour,” his exec said. “We could go in.”

“Orders are orders,” Becker reminded him, although he shared the sentiment. “Weapons, target the larger cruiser, one torpedo.”

“Jawohl,” the weapons officer said. Target in sight, he was all professional; the capital ships could not have asked for better officers. “Homing torpedo locked on target.”

Becker took a moment to savour the moment. It had been so long since the Kriegsmarine had been able to fire a shot in anger. A handful of weapons had been fired during the small wars in Peru and South America, but they hadn’t been serious opponents, not even half-serious challenges for the Reich. They’d just been brushed aside at sea; the Argentineans had handled the rest for the Germans.

“You may fire at will,” he said.

***
Midshipman Joe Buckley knew that he was due for greater things; his father, his sisters and his aunts had made that quite clear. As his father’s heir, he was expected to live up to the reputation of a man who had been a battlecruiser commander in the Great War; his role in the Battle of the Dogger Bank had gone down in history. Despite that, he rather enjoyed being just a midshipman; the cruiser Suffolk, which had seen action against the Bismarck, was one of the best ships in the navy.

“Keep watching for contacts,” his commanding officer had informed him, when Buckley had taken the prow watch. Suffolk had radar, but radar wasn’t always effective against German submarines; his father had suffered a near-miss from a German submarine that had left him permanently scarred by the experience. If Buckley saw a submarine, the Suffolk was almost certainly about to be attacked. After a German u-boat had sunk the Royal Oak in the middle of the harbour, no one took the submarine menace lightly…

Suffolk shook violently; Buckley found himself pitched overboard. Desperately, he tried to dive, striking the water with terrific force. The shock of the impact stunned him; the cold water woke him up, just before an explosion sent him spinning away from the Suffolk. He paddled desperately, trying to keep himself steady, and turned around in the water and saw…

Suffolk, the proud cruiser, was breaking apart. Buckley’s eyes refused to focus; the massive ship seemed to have been blown in two. The remains of the ship was burning brightly, flames were licking over the remainder of the hull…and then the ship exploded. Buckley found himself shaking in the water as the wreckage showered down around him; by some miracle, the falling debris had missed him completely.

“Ahoy,” someone shouted. Buckley turned to see one of Suffolk’s escorting destroyers, trying to power closer to the wreckage. He felt a flicker of admiration, which was swiftly replaced by fear; the destroyer might not see him…but it had. In the light of the flames, and the destroyer’s searchlights, looking vainly for the submarine that had struck at Suffolk, he could be seen; he paddled towards the destroyer with as much vigour as he could mount.

***
“Now, that was impressive,” Becker mused. The Günther Prien was watching from a safe distance; the results of the single hit had been indeed impressive. The cruiser – he wondered, absently, what it had been called – had been struck in the stern; moments later, explosions had torn the vessel apart.

“The destroyers are dropping depth charges,” the sonar operator said. “They’re quite some distance from us.”

The other cruiser, Becker was amused to notice, was moving faster, away from the scene of the ambush. It’s commander had clearly elected to preserve his vessel…something that wouldn’t do him any good if Becker chose to circle around the hunting destroyers – which were looking for a submarine much closer to them than his ship actually was – and chase him down. He smiled, enjoying the thought, before issuing orders.

“Pull us back, helm,” he ordered, regretfully abandoning the thought of hunting down the other ship. “It’s time to go…home.”

The helmsman said nothing, but started to move the submarine; Becker watched through the periscope as the submarine moved away from the combat scene, heading back around the harbour. The British seemed to be on alert; they were pouring out of Scarpa Flow with every ship they had, except the battleships. He watched, hoping for an aircraft carrier, but there were only smaller ships.

“Avoid contact,” he said. The British might be hoping that he would engage their ships; he could have sunk them all with impunity, until the weapons ran out. He was saving his weapons for heavier targets, such as the battleships and aircraft carriers – or, for that matter, the Royal Oak. Becker scowled; what had the Admiral been thinking of when he had allowed the ship to escape.

“Jawohl,” the helmsman said. Unless the British got very lucky, they wouldn’t be able to take even a slight shot at his vessel. “Back home?”

“It is home now, isn’t it?” Becker asked. He wasn’t sure at all what to make of that; the new Germany wasn’t that much like the one he’d left, but there was just enough familiar in it to be disconcerting. They’d met heroes, such as the man the ship had been named after, but at the same time…he shrugged. Whatever he thought of it, it was home now.

The submarine slipped around the harbour, avoiding the furious search for it with ease, and headed back towards Germany, picking up speed as it travelled. It wasn’t a long journey, not at the speeds the submarine could handle, but it had to be travelled underwater. As the daylight began to shine down, Becker ordered another radar sweep, confirming that they were alone in the water.

“Signal the carrier,” he said. He wasn’t sure exactly who was in command of the fleet these days – the Admiral might have been confirmed in his rank, but confirming everyone on the ship would have been a problem – but he was certain that he was still under Trautman’s command. The Commander in Chief of the German Navy was a big gun man; Karl Dönitz seemed much more understanding of submarines and their uses in war.

He grinned. “Tell them that we’re coming home.”

***
Kiel had been changed remarkably in the time since they had arrived, with new barracks going up for the enlisted men and others for the men who had been assigned to work with the fleet, attempting to ensure that as much of the knowledge as possible was disseminated through the fleet. Becker, who had been to Kiel before the trip through and sideways though time, found it chilling; the city looked drab, nothing like it had been when he had been born.

The carrier and its fleet had returned to the Baltic, just in time for the New Year’s celebrations, which had been slightly muted because of the news from Russia. The ordinary Germans knew nothing of the fleet, although rumours had been spreading through Germany for weeks; they all knew that the war wasn’t going well in Russia. Doctor Goebbels had been talking about wonder-weapons of the future on the radio, but the news that winter clothing was required had been much more alarming. Privately, Becker wondered how they would spin the news of the fleet and its alternate timeline – would they just claim that the ships were from the future and leave it at that?

“It’s a good thing that your submarine doesn’t need fuel,” Konteradmiral Herman Trautman commented, in the office that had been assigned to him when he was on shore. It was large and grandiose; a large colour painting of the Graf Zeppelin dominated one wall. It had hung in the carrier’s mess hall before it had been removed. “Fuel is going to be a problem for a while.”

Becker, standing at attention, frowned. “The project to duplicate jet fuel has failed?”

“Not at all,” Trautman said. His voice was relieved; Becker shared the feeling. Without fuel, the fighter jets would be nothing more than prettily-shaped pieces of metal. “The problem is that the Reich has far fewer sources of fuel than it actually needs for all of its demands.”

Becker worked it out in his head. No fuel – hardly anything would actually work. Their Reich had concentrated so heavily on nuclear power to avoid becoming dependent on oil; this Reich, of course, didn’t have that option at the moment. There was oil in the North Sea, of course, but getting to it might be something of a problem.

“The fuel will have to be seized, of course,” Trautman said, without missing a beat. “Let me brief you on Operation Future Shock.”

He talked quickly, outlining the plan to invade Britain, while Becker listened in silence. The plan seemed straightforward, which was a good sign; far too many plans had come to grief because they had been overcomplicated. They would defeat the Royal Navy, land on Britain, and occupy the country.

“This is not the weak Britain that we overran in our 1940,” Becker said, after a moment. It seemed the weakest link in the plan. “Won’t they have forces that can react to our landings?”

“They’ve had a year to build up,” Trautman confirmed. “We’ll be – General Rommel will be – making thrusts at Egypt to keep their eyes elsewhere. It’s too much to hope that they will miss the preparations, but it might prevent them from bringing troops back to Britain. If they do, of course, then I have some targets for you.”

Becker grinned a hunter’s grin. “Even if you don’t manage to intercept the troopships, there are other options,” Trautman continued. “We intend to launch a major attack against the Royal Navy – and you’ll be taking part in that. There won’t be time to have the newer submarines launched, mores the pity, but…with the airforce from the Graf Zeppelin, we can make the seas very unsafe for them.”

He matched Becker’s grin. “Congratulations on your strike,” he said. “A few more like that and the British won’t feel safe anywhere.”

Becker nodded. “Thank you, Mein Admiral,” he said. “My crew requires some shore leave.”

“Already arranged,” Trautman said. “The contemporaries have requested that we stay within Kiel until they can figure out what to tell people about us, but…the bars are open and so are the brothels, although they’re not quite what they came to be.”

Becker laughed. “We really need a better way of presenting this information,” he said. “Are we the past’s future, or a different world, or what? Hell, sir, some of us might have counterparts here…”

Trautman shook his head. “My mother and father are still married here,” he said. His face fell. “I was supposed to have been born two years ago and…guess what?” He laughed bitterly. “They had a little girl instead.”

Becker fought to keep the smile from his face. “Hermana?”

“Shut up,” Trautman snapped, his face darkening. “Most of the crew were born in the 1950-1960 period, so we shouldn’t have to worry about that for most of us. However, it could be a problem, yes.”

Becker nodded slowly. “I see,” he said. “How are relations between us and the ordinary Kriegsmarine coming along?”

“Pretty well,” Trautman said. “Some small fights, mainly over money and pay, and some over our combat action against the convoy, but…most of them seemed pleased to see us. I don’t know how long that’s going to last; it might cost us something later…”

“After Operation Future Shock, all of that should go away,” Becker said. “If not, well…we’ll be improving their combat power as well as our own, won’t we?”

Trautman laughed. “We spent some time, yesterday, New Year’s Eve or not, telling them how they could improve their tactics…and they were rather ungrateful. Goring, of course, is the main problem; he wants to develop aircraft that we cannot build yet, but at least he’s a fan of bigger and better weapons. Given time…”

He shook his head. “Go have some fun, along with your crew” he said. Becker nodded. “Report back here in a couple of days, unless I call you earlier; I might have something new for you to do.”

Becker grinned. “Good hunting, sir,” he said. “Be seeing you.”

Chapter Fifteen: Politics Within Politics

Kiel, Germany
2nd January 1942

Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, head of the Abwehr, had no doubts at all about the regime he served. It was evil beyond imagination; Canaris might well have enjoyed the feeling of knowing that Germany had crushed her enemies, but the acts of Hitler and his inner circle had already disgraced Germany. Given time, he was sure that they would bring Germany down in a hideous Gotterdaming – the legendary final battle of the Norse Gods. It would be more like Ragarnok, when the old gods were killed in battle, taking the world with them; Nazi Germany would not survive the experience.

He had tried, tentatively, to move against Hitler. He had failed; the attempts to make contact with the British had failed, or been rejected. The British Foreign Secretary, Eden, had objected to making contact – and assassination seemed anthemia to him. By now, Canaris was sure that Eden regretted his principled stand, but with the SS Adolf Hitler surrounding Hitler, assassination would be much harder. Canaris knew, knew what happened to the Jews and what would happen to them as Himmler’s plan gathered force; he knew what had happened to Poles who had been unfortunate enough to be living in lands Hitler wanted.

It was foolish. Hitler’s forces had been greeted as liberators by thousands suffering under the Soviet yoke. Instead of using them to assist the Wehrmacht, the SS had turned on them, using them as slaves and worse than slaves. The results had already started to appear, from partisans harassing the German rear lines to the destruction of food crops and equipment that the Germans needed. Hitler would bring Germany down – but what was the alternative? Slowly, Canaris had started to rebuild the group that had tried to kill Hitler in 1938…and then the newcomers had arrived.

Canaris had been fascinated, at first, until he had read the history books. He had had no difficulty in recognising the Ministry of Correct Information as the descendent of Doctor Goebbels; the information had the same blandness and good cheer that he hated in the propaganda broadcasts that had been made from Berlin. Even so, Canaris had read between the lines; Germany – the alternate Germany – had committed vaster crimes than his Germany…and it wouldn’t be long before Hitler committed the same crimes. Worse, his skimming of the economic information had convinced him that Germany would be very likely to lose the war, unless…

“Unless we develop atomic weapons first,” Canaris muttered to himself. The Abwehr’s headquarters in Kiel was populated only by his men; Himmler had been making attempts to pull all of the intelligence-gathering under his control and Canaris had been resisting. It was important that the armed forces had their own independent source of information; the SS viewed far too much through a politically correct lens. Even if they did develop atomic weapons…

Canaris had read between the lines. The other Reich had been far more configured for war than his Reich had ever been – Speer’s attempts to push production forward notwithstanding. Speer had been using his control over the knowledge from the alternate future to encourage factory owners to comply – and aircraft manufacturers had been delighted to work with him – but there was so much to do and so little time to do it all in. Italy and France, worse, hadn’t been keen to place their manufacturing equipment under German control, even though the alternative was to have them taken over directly; the French, in particular, had been quite sniffy about the whole thing. If France was to be used as the base for the invasion of Britain, as it seemed from the Fuhrer’s directive on the subject, the last thing that the Reich needed was more French resistance, but…Hitler had pressed ahead anyway.

Canaris shook his head. The Fuhrer had pressed Marshal Petain – and Lavell, his deputy – to increase French assistance to the Reich. The French had proven resistant, but they’d had little choice; some of their supplies had been sent eastwards from Algeria to Rommel. Hitler had even been encouraging the French to send more men to Algeria, forcing out the Africans; the ensuring chaos threatened to drown the French.

He glanced down at another report. Hitler was moving fast – or, rather, the new troika of Raeder, Himmler and Speer was moving fast. Canaris was impressed, in some ways; they’d actually managed to hammer together an alliance, under Hitler, to serve the Reich. He'd been ordered to find out just how willing the Spanish would be to invade Gibraltar, whatever the price, opening yet another front for the Reich. Gibraltar couldn’t hold out for long, but it would place Spain firmly in the axis camp…

His lips twitched. What did the Japanese make of everything?

“No,” he said, studying the report. If Hitler had atomic weapons, given what the report said about them, then he might well destroy the Reich. He had to be stopped, somehow…but how? One possibility would be a sharp defeat in Britain, assuming that the British could defeat the advanced technology of the Graf Zeppelin, but…that would have to be handled carefully. If the British knew what the Germans were planning, then…

Canaris smiled. Perhaps the war for Germany wasn’t lost after all.

Lifting his telephone, he placed a single call; moments later, Hans Oster stepped inside the office. Canaris would have normally left him in Berlin, but he’d needed Oster to examine the files from the Graf Zeppelin. Oster himself wasn’t mentioned in the files; Canaris didn’t know what that meant, if it meant anything. Perhaps something had happened, in the other timeline, to prevent him from rising within the Abwehr.

“This room is clean,” Canaris said, without preamble. Oster, a tall thin Christian, had been appalled by the rumours of the Old Faith that existed in the other timeline. The Pope was a Nazi servant, the files had made that clear; Hitler had been delighted at the outcome. “We need to talk.”

Oster, who had tried to warn both Norway and the Netherlands of Hitler’s plans for them, regarded him warily. Canaris had known about that at the time, but had ignored it; he had always felt that it might come in handy. Oster had no personal ambition, or desire for high ranks; that made him someone Canaris could trust.

“I want you to do something,” Canaris said, unwilling to be too clear. The rumours of what had happened to people whom Himmler suspected of treason, following the discovery of the files from the carrier, had alarmed even him. “You’ll have to take some risks.”

Oster laughed shortly. “Have I not been doing that already?” He asked. “What do you want me to do?”

Canaris smiled. He knew that the Swiss Embassy in Berlin had more than a few spies within its membership; he also knew that some of them had links to Oster. It would take time, but even the Graf Zeppelin couldn’t have launched an attack fast enough to outrun the warning.

“I need you to pass on a message,” Canaris said. “I think that you will understand.”

***
Grossadmiral Erich Raeder studied the plans in the comfort of his own office and smiled to himself. If nothing else, the discovery of the news from the future – or the alternate past’s future, depending upon how one looked at it – had ensured that the Kriegsmarine got a fair share of the budget for the forthcoming year, even though it wouldn’t be building any more big ships for a while. The completion of the carrier – which would have to be remained – would take a few months, but now that Goring had been tamed, they would finally be able to use it as a proper carrier.

He smiled again. The carrier would carry modified Messerschmitt aircraft, designed for operations at sea; although they would lack the power of the advanced Blitzkriegs or Sea Falcons, they would be better than anything else that the British could put in the air. Ongoing reconnaissance of the British mainland revealed that the British were weak, weaker than they had realised, weaker than was safe for them. They’d lost far too many ships, recently; even the older u-boats were having a disproportionate effect.

Himmler had proven himself surprisingly cooperative, much to Raeder’s surprise. With his support, Raeder had started to massively reform the Kriegsmarine; the new fighters would actually carry some air-launched torpedoes, like the Japanese ones that had sunk the British battleships in the Far East. The work, carried out over the Christmas and New Year period, would have enough effect to start hammering the British; by the end of the year, newer designs would be in place to oppose the Americans.

Raeder had spent a lot of time thinking about the Americans, and how to defeat them. The Fuhrer had placed his faith in atomic weapons, but Raeder knew that Goring – or, more likely, Milch – had been right; they would have to somehow deliver the weapon to America. Speer had promised that they would be working on rockets, ones with enough power to throw a warhead all the way to America, but that would take time. Would the Americans have enough time to build their own nuclear weapons?

He looked up as his secretary showed Konteradmiral Herman Trautman into his office. The...past-future man looked cold; he’d already commented that winters seemed to be colder in the past, for some reason. He wore a massive greatcoat, looking almost Russian in his outfit; Raeder, who knew that Goebbels had been organising a massive ‘knitting for victory’ campaign, smiled grimly. The soldiers in the east were freezing cold; that, at least, was a problem that had to be solved with home-grown methods.

“Admiral,” he said, with genuine warmth. Thanks to Trautman, the Kriegsmarine had finally taken the place in the Fuhrer’s heart that it should have held all along. The British were already having problems; the sinking of the Rodney and its convoy had convinced the British to halt all shipments to Russia. That had pleased Hitler; Raeder could only hope that it hadn’t pleased Stalin.

“Grand Admiral,” Trautman said, undoing his coat. He’d been presented with the Iron Cross by Hitler personally, after sinking the convoy, even the news about the Royal Oak hadn’t deterred Hitler from rewarding success. The Fuhrer was looking forward to even vaster vistas of success; he would be delighted to have Britain under his rule. “You wanted to see me?”

Raeder nodded gravely. “The Fuhrer has decided to reveal the existence of your force to prevent defeatism from spreading through the home front,” he said. It was a firm belief of the Nazi Party that defeatism at home had cost Germany the last war; Hitler wouldn’t want to see that happen again. “Doctor Goebbels, however, has insisted that we tell people that your ships are from the future – our future.”

“I am starting to suspect that there are many possible futures,” Trautman said. He studied the map on the wall for a long moment. “Something for the scientists to puzzle over, later.”

“Later,” Raeder said, firmly. “It might be interesting, but is it of military value?”

Trautman shrugged. “You are right, of course,” he said. He said down on the chair and pressed his fingertips together; Raeder took his own seat carefully. “What about the families?”

“That’s something that we’re not exactly prepared to handle,” Raeder said. “The Fuhrer has ordered that your men are to have the freedom to contact their parents and grandparents if they want to do so – and, of course, if they actually exist within this timeline. In your case, of course…”

He chuckled. Those who knew about Trautman’s semi-sister found it amusing; Trautman hadn’t thought it was funny at all. “I think that we won’t have much to do with one another,” Trautman said, his voice grim. “They’re not my parents, just…people who happen to share the same name.”

Raeder nodded sympathetically. He wasn’t sure how he would handle meeting his own younger self, or even if he would want to meet his own parents back before they gave birth to him. Hitler had been surprisingly concerned about integrating the future people into the Reich, even ordering that their money – which had a picture of Hitler himself on it – was to be accepted at face value. Paying so many additional people would be tricky, but Hitler had approved the expenditure; he felt that it was worth doing.

“Those who wish to do so will be able to,” Raeder said, and changed the subject. “What did you learn from your submarine?”

“We learned that we can sink British ships,” Trautman said dryly. “No sign of the Royal Oak, of course; the British will have hidden that carefully somewhere well out of the way. Given time, we’ll have to rig up some torpedoes that the Günther Prien can fire from your war stocks; the designs are very different. You wouldn’t think that they are, but…”

“Yours are larger,” Raeder said. He shrugged, unconcerned; that was Dönitz’s responsibility. “What did the real Günther Prien say about his namesake?”

“He wants one,” Trautman said. He laughed. “We’ll do our best, but…”

Raeder nodded. Himmler and Speer had been working hard on developing a nuclear power plant, but they’d only just started – it would be months, at least, before the Reich could deploy a single nuclear weapon. Building a nuclear power plant for a submarine, or a carrier, would be years off, at best; they would be dependent on oil-fuelled ships for quite some time.

He frowned. “And your Marines?” He asked. “How are they coping with the action?”

“The two landing craft are preparing themselves,” Trautman said. He frowned; did he know that there was something that Raeder had to ask him? “Morale is pretty high, all things considered; they’ve actually been getting bored, so we’ve been working them hard, along with the forces that you insisted be assigned to observe the progress.”

Raeder tapped the table impatiently. “They have to learn,” he said. “If they don’t, then we’re back to a war of attrition…and god only knows where that will lead.”

“To our loss,” Trautman said, without hesitation. “What did you want to ask me?”

“We have something of a problem,” Raeder said. “You know that there are two battlecruisers trapped in Brest?”

Trautman nodded carefully. Raeder smiled grimly at his expression; Hitler had ordered that the pair of battlecruisers remain in Brest, rather than sailing back to the Atlantic to harass British convoys. Now, of course, he’d changed his mind.

“The British have been stepping up their efforts at damaging them from the air,” Raeder said. “They celebrated New Year’s Day by dropping a ton of high explosives on the ships. They didn’t manage to do serious damage, but they will – given enough time. The Fuhrer has decided that the ships have to be brought back here to join the invasion fleet for when it sails.”

Trautman blinked. “It’s not like we need them,” he said. “I admit that the extra shore bombardment power will be useful…”

“We can replace their shells,” Raeder said. “We cannot replace the missiles that your ships will fire, even though we have replaced the shells that your portable antiaircraft guns can spew out.” Trautman nodded; the shells had actually been fairly easy to duplicate. “We might need your missiles, later.”

“I understand,” Trautman said. “What exactly do you want us to do?”

Raeder tapped the map. “We want you to provide air cover while they head up the Channel,” he said. Trautman stared at him. “The Fuhrer wants them back as quickly as possible, Admiral; do you want to disobey his orders?”

Trautman hesitated. “It would be safer to send them the long way around,” he said. “The British will go all-out to destroy them…and perhaps even hit my aircraft.” He paused. “How much success was there in preparing airfields that my craft can use?”

Raeder winced. It was easy enough to fly a Messerschmitt from a field; a jet aircraft required something more complex. “They’re being built,” he said, his face darkening as he thought of the slave workers who were working, even now, to prepare them. “They’re not going to be ready now, however…”

“I know,” Trautman said. “The carrier will have to sail into the North Sea, again.” He smiled suddenly. “On the other hand, we will have a chance to attack the British if they come out to fight again.”

Raeder smiled. “I knew that I could count on you,” he said. “The Fuhrer will be pleased.”

Trautman nodded towards the map. “And the other plans?”

“The Fuhrer has been working to convince the Italians that they have to send more support – and better support – to Rommel,” Raeder said. “Unfortunately, Mussolini cannot fight – and the Fuhrer is running out of patience. If Italy doesn’t get on with it soon, there will be trouble.”

“Malta needs to be taken off their hands,” Trautman agreed. “The Italians should be able to do that, surely?”

“Not to hear their commanders tell it,” Raeder said. “We might even have to ask the French to do it, in exchange for more rights from the Reich.”

“A good thing,” Trautman said. “If the French can be pressed into fighting beside us, Britain’s position will become even worse…and they might even be able to ensure that we gain control of the oil reserves.”


Chapter Sixteen: Back in the USSR

Moscow, Russia
5th January 1942

It was cold. Very cold.

Moscow in wintertime was beautiful, even though a westerner might not have agreed; the buildings and streets came alive with snow and strange life. The city itself seemed almost to be made out of snow; the people moved to and fro about the city, enjoying their reprieve from German attack. Comrade Stalin had remained in the city, the broadcasts said, and that had stiffened more than a few spines in the final moments of the battle surrounding Moscow. For the first time in what felt like forever, Moscow was at peace.

It was an illusion, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich Molotov thought, as the car swept up past the checkpoints and barricades that littered Moscow. The city remained under siege, effectively; the might of the Red Army had fought the Germans to a standstill, but the Germans were masters at mobile warfare. They might still be able to push through the lines, despite the thousands of Muscovites who were still working on expanding the defence lines; if that happened, Moscow might well fall.

Molotov winced. As part of his job as the Soviet Union’s Foreign Minister – which meant Stalin’s Foreign Minister - Molotov was supposed to have access to all of the intelligence collected from across the world. The news from spies and agents, some open and some covert, might well affect the Soviet Union’s position in global negotiations, particularly after America entered the war. Stalin himself had set the tone; defeat the Germans would remain their priority, but not at the expense of losing their chance to be a great power. When Stalin thought ahead, Molotov knew, he didn’t think small; America would be their rival for global power.

His lips refused to smile; controlling his expressions was a survival skill at the court of the Red Tsar. America, in Molotov’s view, was a nation that had little idea of the struggle that it had had suddenly forced upon it. He would have been quite happy if all the Americans did was pour all of their marvellous productive capability into keeping the Soviet Union going, even though Stalin had been demanding a second front even before America entered the war. As disagreeing with Stalin wasn’t very conductive to a long life, Molotov kept that view to himself.

It would only have upset Stalin.

Something else had happened to upset Stalin, Molotov knew…and it wasn’t good. Something had clearly happened in Germany; most of the agents that the Soviet Union had carefully emplaced within Germany as hidden communists had vanished. The SS had had a second night of long knives; they’d fallen upon the agents and disappeared them. The German Communists, whom Stalin had considered to be nothing more than pawns, had been exterminated; the networks had been shattered.

Molotov scowled as the car swept into the parking bay. NKVD soldiers paced over to inspect the car – and Molotov; despite his high rank, they would search him roughly, just to ensure that he wasn’t carrying weapons into the presence of the Red Tsar. Stalin, the warlord, would shoot any man who took less than perfect care of his person; it wasn’t an accident that the guards were all anonymous in their blank uniforms, utterly unrecognisable. They were more than communists; they were Stalin’s hatchetmen.

Molotov sighed inwardly as they led him into the Kremlin. The progress of world communism had slowed. Spain had been hopeful, but in the end Stalin had betrayed the Spanish; they had been just too independent. It should have been obvious, he knew, that the only home of real socialism was Russia; birthplace of the heirs of Marx, Lenin and Stalin. Any socialist who hadn’t been taught in Moscow was suspect, to say the least; he could never be trusted to work towards true socialism. Spain…would have been a communist country too far away from Russia for them to toe the proper line, as determined by Stalin. In the long run, establishing communist control was important – far more important than using the communist undergrounds to launch futile attacks against the Germans.

His face showed no trace of his amusement. They had been working to create newer communist forces within lands the Germans had occupied, even without the German attack on Russia – they would have been used, one day, to unseat German control permanently. Stalin had planned to strike first; Hitler, for once, had been right about mounting a preemptive strike to prevent a strike against Germany.

Stalin had been most upset.

The Kremlin was the same as always, he was relieved to see; the countless men who had come to see Stalin, waiting for an appointment, were watching him out of the corners of their eyes. None of them were foolish enough to show open resentment, but they all watched him, half-hoping that he would allow some of them to come in to visit the Red Tsar. Like the old Tsars, Stalin received petitions; Molotov knew that his orderly burned them at Stalin’s orders.

“Comrade Stalin will see you now,” Stalin’s orderly said. A short squat man with a horrendously scarred face, he served Stalin like a dog; loyal, obedient and unquestioning. His wife and family had been killed on Stalin’s orders, or so Molotov had heard; they’d just been victims of one of the purges. “You may enter, Comrade Molotov.”

“Thank you,” Molotov said, politely. The orderly would have influence, if no formal power; the NKVD officers had searched Molotov first, but the orderly was the last line of defence. Moscow was armed to the teeth; the German lines might have been pushed back, but no one was in any real doubt that the Germans would try to take Moscow again, as soon as they could.

He folded up the American paper that he had been reading and stepped inside, allowing the orderly a chance to examine him before he entered the inner sanctum. Inside, Stalin was seated behind a desk, inking papers in front of him with green ink, sending people into the gulags or to face a firing squad, all without any real concern for them at all.

“Vyacheslav Mikhailovich,” Stalin said, waving Molotov to a chair. “I have something of interest for you.”

His voice was as cold as ice. Molotov shivered inwardly, refusing to show any emotion on his face. “Comrade,” he said, taking the proffered seat. “Has there been news from the front?”

Stalin smiled a grotesque smile. “No, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich,” he said. “The Germans remain in retreat; I have pressed Georgy Konstantinovich to press forward his own attacks against them and chase them back towards their home.”

He paused, inviting comment. Molotov thought quickly; Georgy Konstantinovich Zhukov, commander of the defences surrounding Moscow and planner of the counterstroke that had halted the German attempt to take the city, had warned him, privately, that the Red Army didn’t have the ability to push the Germans that far back. The Red Army possessed a massive punch, but it wasn’t quite as capable as the Germans, not yet…

On the other hand, disagreeing with Stalin could be lethal.

“That might well overextend the army,” he said, carefully. He didn’t actually think that it was a bad idea, but wanted to ensure that he was still seen to be agreeing with Stalin. “If they get overextended, the Germans might cut them off.”

Stalin’s mind seemed to be elsewhere. “Lavrenty Pavlovich has assured me that the Germans have been weakened by the snows that protect our nation,” he said. His voice seemed to boom as he spoke. “We can press them now and pull off a victory that will leave the road to Berlin open within the year.”

Molotov gave up. “It should be possible,” he said, neutrally. There was no need to associate himself too closely with defeat, although it would be nice to be considered one of the designers of victory.

Stalin’s mode changed abruptly. “Churchill and his horde of imperialists have changed their tune again,” he snapped. Molotov felt a flicker of alarm; if there was new news from Britain, it should have come from him, not direct to Stalin. “They have cancelled the convoys that were supposed to have been sent to us in the coming months.”

Molotov felt a flicker of pure alarm. The British had sent what they could, which wasn’t much, but everything had been helpful. The Americans had promised more and actually delivered more, but if there were to be no convoys…

“Did they give a reason, Iosif Vissarionovich?” He asked. “Have they decided that they think we might actually win?”

Stalin’s face flushed. “They talk about the Germans having developed some new warship from the future,” he said. His voice grew into a booming laugh. “A child could see though that lie, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich; a ship from the future?”

Molotov blinked. There were implications…and they were spinning out of control. He’d heard hints, but he’d dismissed them; the tale seemed too fantastical to believe.

“They are scared that we will bring the revolution to their doorstep,” Stalin continued. “We will drive through Germany to France, occupying France and placing their communists on the seat of power.”

Molotov considered the issue for a moment. It was warm, very warm, in the room; only half of that was because he was genuinely nervous. “Can there be some truth in the statement?” He asked, wondering. “If the Germans have made a vital breakthrough, perhaps even in the nuclear field…”

Stalin’s face seemed to pale. The Soviet Union had access to information on the American bomb project, which had been kicked up to high gear with the Japanese attack on America. Stalin had been relieved to hear about that; one of his greatest fears had been a Japanese attempt to extract revenge for Nomonhan…at the very moment when the Russians were weakest.

“They would have used the weapon,” Stalin declared, scornfully. The Soviet Union had a project of its own, but the sheer desperation of the Rodina’s plight made the atomic project a low priority. If they didn’t have enough tanks and men to crush the Germans, the USSR might collapse. “They didn’t; London still stands, doesn’t it?”

Molotov said nothing. “They seem to be preparing an invasion of Britain,” Stalin commented. “The French Communists actually managed to discover this, along with the fact that the French Collaborators are being pushed into being more supportive of the Germans. We might even see Frenchmen being sent to fight here against us in the cold.”

“That would make good propaganda for our brave French allies,” Molotov said dryly. Petain and his kind hated and feared the thought of the worker in arms, the stable of Soviet propaganda. “The menfolk fighting and dying to prevent the workers and peasants from taking over the country.”

Stalin gave him a droll look. His heavy-lidded eyes made Molotov shiver. “That might not exactly be in our interests, Comrade,” he said. Molotov nodded; the French communists could not be allowed to get ideas above their station. “However, Hitler seems to have decided to try for Britain again.”

Molotov puzzled over the information. Hitler had been alarmingly consistent in his planning; he had aimed to take Russia for living space…Britain and her empire had been a fairly minor matter to him. If he had decided to try to invade Britain, again, why would he? Why would he change his mind?

“Perhaps he feels that Churchill might be a danger to his people,” he said thoughtfully. “Perhaps…after Hess was rejected.”

“If he was rejected,” Stalin said. He had been very paranoid over the entire Rudolf Hess incident. “Perhaps Churchill has made a deal with him.”

Molotov blinked. Churchill hadn’t struck him as the sort of man to compromise with Hitler. “Would he do that?”

“That is quite possible,” Stalin said, flatly. “Churchill, as an aristocrat, is a class enemy to his own workers, let alone ours.”

Molotov would have scowled if he had dared. “There may be opportunities for local victories if the Germans have to take forces to the west,” he said. “They will have to defend their western borders against attack. Georgy Konstantinovich might be able to force our way back to Poland, which might not be a good idea.”

Stalin’s eyes were cold slits. “Explain,” he ordered, his voice like ice.

Molotov kept his face blank. “We might want the Germans to wear themselves down first,” he said. “We have masses of sheer power, sheer brute force; the Germans only do as well as they have because they have better technique.”

Stalin’s expression grew darker. The German officer corps knew better than to meddle in politics; Hitler could allow them their heads without being worried that they would try to take Hitler’s head. Stalin…didn’t even have that luxury, even though he was learning to give Generals like Zhukov some additional authority. Life might have become more bloody dangerous for everyone, but they had a better chance against the Germans.

“Perhaps,” Stalin conceded, finally. “We still need to take advantage of this opportunity.”

There was a knock on the door. Stalin’s orderly looked in on his invitation. “Comrade, Comrade Beria is here,” he said. “He says that it’s important.”

Stalin looked irritated. “It had better be,” he said. “Send him in.”

Lavrenty Pavlovich Beria, Director of the NKVD, had always reminded Molotov of a snake. He was rumoured to have sexual tastes that would have been extreme even in the days of the Tsar, including small girls and boys. Molotov knew that Beria’s position depended, very much, upon Stalin; the NKVD couldn’t rule Russia. Even so, Molotov hoped that Stalin would purge him soon; Beria was far too dangerous to have around power.

He had often wondered if Stalin felt like the legendary Tater who had saddled the whirlwind.

He nodded as Beria entered the office. “Comrade,” Stalin said, every syllable drawn out. “I assume that you have some important information for us?”

“Information from Sorge,” Beria said, shortly. Sorge, one of Germany’s agents in Japan, worked for the Russians. He had warned Stalin about the plan to attack Russia; Stalin had chosen not to believe him. “The news about the time-travelling fleet is accurate.”

There was a long pause. “You will have to see to it that Sorge is properly debriefed,” Stalin said, finally. “How does it all tie in together?”

Beria gave Molotov a look of icy triumph. Molotov refused to show his annoyance on his face. “They have successfully impeded British attempts to support us, including destroying several battleships,” Beria said. “They told the Japanese that to encourage them to attack the British in Singapore. They have also begun to plan an invasion of Britain itself; they want the Japanese to start raiding British positions to draw away British fighting power.”

Stalin smiled. “Really?”

Molotov felt a flicker of concern. “Iosif Vissarionovich?”

Stalin’s smile grew. “We could take advantage of this,” he said. “Could we not seize the remainder of Iran?”

Molotov blinked. “Would that not bring the British into war against us?”

Beria supported his patron. “The British have abandoned us anyway,” he snapped. He licked his lips, perhaps at the thought of Iranian women. “We could take Iran and gain our port in the region.”

Stalin shrugged. “The carrier and its fleet would be useless against us,” he said. “Can they sail over the land to Moscow? Can their aircraft even reach Moscow? In the short term, the balance of power remains unchanged.”

Molotov frowned openly. “In the long term, however…”

“Precisely,” Stalin said. He scowled. “In the long term, this…advanced supercarrier from the future will tip the balance of power firmly in Hitler’s direction. We have to move now!”

Molotov scowled inwardly, returning his face to the blank mask. He couldn’t fault Stalin’s logic, but he suspected that even Georgy Konstantinovich Zhukov couldn’t pull off a march to Berlin within the months they were likely to have. He made a mental note to see to the expansion of sources within Germany; if the Germans somehow developed advanced technology, perhaps they could be induced to share it – unwillingly, of course.

Stalin tapped the map. “I will issue orders to Georgy Konstantinovich,” he said. “I expect him to launch a major attack within the new few days, concentrating on wearing down the Germans and destroying their armoured forces. Once that task has been accomplished, we will march to Berlin and take possession of their carrier and its technology for ourselves.”

Beria licked his lips. “We must also work more on subversion for the rear of the German lines,” he said. “Our brother partisans will need our assistance.”

“And we will also have to develop more intelligence in Germany,” Molotov said. “We could even offer to share information with the British…”

“True,” Stalin said, genially. “We know some of the German plans to invade Britain – what will they give us for that information?”

Chapter Seventeen: The Channel Dash

North Sea/English Channel
8th January 1942

It was a cold clear day. Standing on the balcony of the Graf Zeppelin’s starboard conning tower, Konteradmiral Herman Trautman felt as if he could see for miles. The cold air kept blustering at the German ships, but the weather was almost perfect for flying. He looked down, onto the main launching ramp, and saw a Blitzkrieg being prepared to fly off into the distance.

The tannoy announced the launch; moments later, the aircraft began to move, building up speed until it flashed into the air, using rockets to force itself forward. That particular aircraft would form part of a CAP over the carrier and its task force; for the first time, they would be sailing with another German ship – the Admiral Hipper. The cruiser would be sailing with them, although Trautman knew that if a British fleet somehow managed to get into firing distance, the carrier and its fleet would lose.

He smiled. The modern – past – battleship doctrine called for engaging the enemy at close-range and just slugging it out. Carrier doctrine called for striking at the enemy from a distance, exactly as the Graf Zeppelin had done when it was engaging the British convoy. It wasn’t fair – it was far from fair – but it got the job done. He scowled; if the British had pulled some electronic countermeasure equipment from the Ark Royal, they would be able to locate the task force. It was one reason to stay well away from Britain itself.

The sky looked so peaceful, even with the handful of combat jets and the Eyes floating high overhead. Trautman knew that it was anything, but peaceful; miles to the south, dozens of aircraft were preparing to engage the enemy. Britain would go all-out to stop the two battlecruisers; Germany would be attempting to protect them.

Trautman stepped into the conning tower as the roar of jet engines grew louder. It wouldn’t be long now before the battlecruisers reached the most dangerous part of their voyage…and the British threw everything at them. Once that happened…all hell would be out for noon.

***
“All right, listen up,” the Flight Control Officer snapped. Oberstleutnant Karl Meyer, commander of one of the three main fighter squadrons on the carrier, listened from his seat as the officer spoke. “You know the mission.”

The briefings had been very detailed, Meyer knew; the Contemporaries intended to get as much use out of them as possible. Meyer himself, who welcomed the chance to test his skills against enemy pilots, wanted just to get on with it. For the first time, he would actually be fighting pilots who wanted to kill him, although they would be flying vastly inferior machines.

“Your task is to provide air cover to the two battlecruisers,” the Flight Control Officer continued. “You will be launched in ten minutes, with two tankers on stand-by; you will refuel as the day goes on. Once the enemy engages the battlecruisers, you will engage their bombers and torpedo-bombers; do not engage the fighters unless they engage you first. Remember, you carry no missiles; use guns and don’t hesitate to break contact if you need to do that.”

There were some chuckles. All of the men considered themselves to be far superior to the Luftwaffe pilots, even though the Luftwaffe used the same rank structure and similar tactics. The Luftwaffe in this timeline, of course, wouldn’t be able to touch them; in fact, there was a serious danger that they would accidentally shoot down one of their own aircraft. The man considered themselves to be hunting wolves; the thought of breaking contact, using their superior speed to escape, was anthemia to them.

Meyer stood. “He means it,” he confirmed. The problem with fighter pilots was that their commanding officer had to keep a very sharp eye on them or they would be up to no good. “I expect all of you to break contact if you get into trouble, understand?”

“Yes, Herr Oberstleutnant,” the men chorused.

“Good,” Meyer said. He cast a proud eye over them. They were some of the best and brightest young men in the service; all of them possessed more experience than any pilot in this era. Some of them had been asked to remain behind, on shore; their knowledge was exactly what Goring’s jet research project needed. “To the flight deck!”

He led the way down the corridor to the ladder to the launch pad, picking up his helmet and survival pack as he moved. The other pilots followed him, for once silently; they knew that they were in for a hard fight. He checked his pack, from the locator beacon to the issued handgun, and then clambered up the ladder to the flight deck. A cold wind blew across the carrier as the deck crew stepped back from the Sea Falcon, allowing him to clamber up the ladder and into the cockpit.

“This is Hunter Leader,” he said, into the radio, as he went through his flight checks. The Admiral had ordered that they were to take their time; an emergency would have seen them in the air by now. Everything read fine, to him; the engine started to warm up at the touch of a button. The Sea Falcon, an aircraft with a cruising speed of Mach One, was ready to fly.

“I confirm launch-readiness,” he said, as the aircraft began to taxi out onto the launch ramp. “Requesting permission to depart.”

“Permission granted,” the controller said. “Launch in …four…three…two…one.”

Meyer hit the ignition control and the aircraft leapt forward. He was forced back into his flight chair as the Sea Falcon screamed down the launch ramp and up into the sky, its rockets cutting in to provide an extra boost as the aircraft grabbed for the sky. The pressure on his chest eased as he took firm control of the aircraft, setting into the circling pattern near the carrier.

“Hunter-two, launch,” the flight controller said. Meyer watched from his position as the second Sea Falcon screamed into the air, followed by a third, a fourth, and the rest of the squadron. Fourteen combat aircraft, in all; all armed to the teeth. Reaper Squadron, the other fighter squadron onboard, would relieve them; the Admiral had apparently considered sending both squadrons into combat, but had dismissed the thought. The vast majority of Hunter Squadron thought that that would mean more targets for them.

“All right, Hunters, follow me,” Meyer said, after each of the aircraft had topped off from one of the Goring tankers, flying high overhead. He’d heard that Goring hadn’t been impressed by the aircraft that had been named after him; he’d gone so far to accuse Raeder of deliberately altering the name, just to embarrass him. Given that Raeder’s counterpart had actually done just that…

He smiled grimly as they raced towards the battlezone. The radar seemed to be going crazy, with dozens of contacts; only the primitive IFF they’d helped the Contemporary Luftwaffe to rig up made it possible to tell the difference between the two sides. Dozens of aircraft raced through the sky, ranging from British Spitfires to tiny biplanes; Swordfish, if he remembered the briefing correctly. The sky was dotted with black dots and puffs of black smoke; he could see the battlecruisers, down below, steaming for their lives. They looked fast and powerful; their antiaircraft guns were trying to rake the skies with fire.

“There are no British ships above destroyer-sized,” the controller commented. There was an Eyes aircraft hovering high overhead, relaying images to the carrier; the British had to be running a little scared of losing their bigger ships to strikes from the carrier or the heavy missile cruisers. “Engage at will.”

A squadron of smaller British aircraft were flying in from Britain in formation; Meyer knew that they wouldn’t keep that formation when they entered the massive dogfight that was shaping up over the Channel. They seemed to be Spitfires, the most advanced aircraft Britain had, apart from the helicopter they would have recovered from the Royal Oak. There was no sign that they were aware of his squadron.

“Engage at will,” Meyer ordered. He felt his lips drawing back over his teeth. “Engage at will…”

He yanked the Sea Falcon around and swooped down behind the British aircraft, racing up behind them before they could react. They saw him and started to scatter, but nowhere near fast enough; he fired a long burst of cannon shells and blew two of them apart before he raced through their formation. His wingmen took down five more as they passed though; the shockwave of their passage would have knocked more into spins, although a skilled pilot might be able to pull out of them before hitting the water. A British bomber flew in front of him, the rear gunner firing madly at his aircraft…and he ripped it apart with a second burst of shellfire.

He laughed aloud. The engineers had speculated that if they flew close enough to a wooden aircraft at high speed, the heat of their passage would set it alight. The Admiral had threatened to keelhaul any pilot stupid enough to risk his aircraft that way and Meyer had agreed with him; there was no point in wasting their firepower that way.

“This is one hell of a battle,” someone said, over the radio. Another voice was talking madly in French; Meyer couldn’t understand why. French was a language that the SS had seriously considered trying to stamp out in his timeline. “Sir…”

Meyer flashed through a second British formation, firing as he came, noting how the British aircraft separated, firing as they came to bear on him. They were brave pilots, he saw; they didn’t hesitate to try to close with his aircraft. Mindful of the Admiral’s orders, he resisted the temptation to engage them closely, making hit and run passes at them, rather than closing in.

“God damn it, I said not to engage at close range,” he snapped, as one of his pilots swept right up to a British bomber, firing as he came. The bomber exploded and fell out of the sky just in time; the German aircraft flew through the wreckage before Meyer could do more than stare. “I’ll have your bloody medals for that…”

A British aircraft was coming low across the water; for a long moment, Meyer refused to believe his eyes. The aircraft was low and slow; it was a biplane, moving from side to side. Meyer felt a wave of pity for the pilot, flying that death trap, before realising that the Swordfish pilot was trying to torpedo one of the battleships. The way he was moving, he might have succeeded against the battleships alone.

“Poor bastard,” Meyer said, and squeezed the trigger. The Swordfish lost its wings; it toppled over and hit the sea with an almighty splash. “Damn the criminals who made you fly that death trap.”

***
The strange aircraft raced past Flying Officer Goldfarb’s Spitfire before he could do anything about it; its shells had missed his aircraft by millimetres, if that. Two other Spitfires were less lucky; they exploded under the impact, ripped apart in moments. The shockwave of its passage caught at his aircraft, sending him into a spin; he realised dimly that it had saved his life as the aircraft plummeted towards the sea.

He fought the controls grimly as the aircraft fell, finally managing to pull out of the spin and flying low along the water. The shape of a German destroyer loomed up at him; he squeezed the triggers of his machine guns automatically as he swept over it, looking for an aircraft he could fight. A British motor torpedo boat was firing at the German aircraft; he saw the trails they cast in the sky as the German jet aircraft fought it out with the British fighters. He saw a bomber going down in flames as the Germans stalked their targets…and he saw a German jet flying through an explosion.

“Die,” he screamed, and fired a long burst towards the German aircraft. It was too late; the aircraft had vanished by the time his bullets passed through where it had once been. A movement behind him caught his eye and he yanked the aircraft aside as a second burst of cannon fire passed through where he’d been; the German jet raced up behind him and passed as his aircraft dodged desperately.

“Can’t bloody manoeuvre, can you?” He asked, as the German jet came around. Feeling a spurt of real hope, he realised that the jets were far from invincible; they had problems turning at their high speeds. He pulled his fighter’s nose towards the German craft, firing a long burst as the aircraft closed in on his plane. The German twisted, somehow, seeming to literally plunge out of the air…and escaped. He followed the jet down in a controlled dive, falling towards the sea, allowing gravity to pull the Spitfire faster down towards its target…and saw the German aircraft almost pausing, right at the bottom of its dive. His aircraft plunged towards the German craft, as he fought the controls…and then the German craft waggled its wings and disappeared.

Goldfarb almost laughed as the German craft raced along the surface of the sea, vanishing into the distance…and then he saw another craft firing at a Hurricane. The entire battle seemed to have gone to hell; the German jets were hammering the RAF, which was…falling back? The RAF aircraft seemed to be conceding the battle; the aircraft were starting to retreat from the battleground. The Royal Navy was still trying to attack the battlecruisers, but without any heavy ships they would have to get close enough to hit the German ships with torpedoes…and that seemed almost impossible…

A German aircraft flashed past him and he fired once, automatically. Astonished, he saw the aircraft struck, at least once; the craft seemed to explode in slow motion, hitting the water at terrific speed. The pilot seemed to have survived; Goldfarb watched in disbelief as the pilot was launched out of his aircraft just before it hit the water, a parachute spreading out above him to break his fall.

“They’re not unbeatable,” Goldfarb muttered, as his plane set out for the airfield. “They can be beaten, if we can do it…”

***
Trautman had never seen such a battle. After that day, he never wanted to see such a battle again. Aircraft combat in his time was a result of the development of missiles and guns; aircraft would engage, launch a few missiles, and then fall back. The entire process would be repeated as many times as necessary, wearing down their opponents, but the British here…

He couldn’t fault their bravery; they had shown at least as much bravery as the men under his command, perhaps more. They had fought with as much determination as they could; three irreplaceable aircraft had fallen to their guns, one more to something that had probably been a stray bullet. That was four fighters, out of thirty-five; they could press Blitzkriegs into the air-to-air role, but it wasn’t what they were designed to do.

“The British picked up Oberleutnant Wagner,” Follmer said. “They left his beacon intact, perhaps they don’t know what it is. We could launch a rescue mission.”

Trautman shook his head as the two sides separated. The radar showed it; the British craft were falling back, heading back to Britain. It had been a near-run thing, closer than they’d expected; something that they hadn’t appreciated had been that their aircraft would run out of shells. It just wasn’t a normal concern.

“They won’t kill him,” Trautman said. “We’ll recover him after we invade Britain.”

Follmer gave him a sharp look; Trautman pretended to ignore it. “Jawohl,” he said, finally. “He doesn’t know anything important, after all.”

Trautman snorted. The British would have to have been blind to have missed the forces that were being moved into Northern France, near Calais. That was, of course, part of the plan. He looked back at the radar, noting how the battlecruisers were shaping their course well away from the British mainland; they’d be passing Denmark soon enough. Once they had been given minor repairs and reloaded, they would be able to take part in Future Shock.

Trautman grinned. The more he thought about it, the more he thought that it was a very apt name.

“Do we have any numbers on how many they lost yet?” He asked. “Radar traces only.”

Follmer returned the grin. Pilots were notorious braggers; each one of them would claim the kills of the entire squadron. Gun camera footage would help to pin the blame on the correct pilot, but even so…

“We think around forty aircraft, so far,” Follmer said. “Some of their aircraft don’t show up that well on radar, so it’s hard to be certain.”

“Not good,” Trautman said. If the British figured that out, they might well try something stupid, but without atomic weapons, they might not be able to actually hurt the carrier itself. “How many did the Contemporaries bag?”

“Around fifteen,” Follmer said. “They lost several aircraft, however; it could have been a lot worse. Several destroyers and torpedo boats were lost as well, along with seven British ships.”

“Seven,” Trautman said, disgustedly.

“We could have sent in the Blitzkriegs and sunk them all,” Follmer reminded him. “It won’t be long before we land ground forces and finish the British off once and for all.”

Trautman nodded, looking up at the radar plot. He’d realised something, back when he'd conceived the plan to allow the Royal Oak a chance to escape to Britain; the Nazi Party in this timeline was a hive of competing interests. Under normal circumstances, he would have been quite willing to accept that – there was a strong element of Darwinism around the Reich, both Reichs – but with a war on…

The only way that he could hope to ensure that the Reich survived was to build a power base of his own. Once Britain was invaded, his position would become unchallengeable. Then, they would see…

Chapter Eighteen: The Crack of Doom

Near Manchester, England
9th January 1942

“There was rather more than a little excitement yesterday,” Liddell Hart said. His voice was worried as he led the way down the long stone corridor. The building had once housed a noble family, back in the days of knights in armour; it now housed a select collection of German POWs. “You may have heard the shouting from London in Liverpool.”

Masterson looked up at him grimly. Liddell Hart’s expression was torn and conflicted; his head was bowed. “I heard some of the radio,” he said, “before everything changed. Just how bad was it?”

“Bad,” Liddell Hart said. “We didn’t see the battlecruisers until they were already well on their way; the Air Marshal came this close” – he held up two fingers, almost touching – “to being sacked on the spot. Bomber Command got a roasting from Winston as well; it seems that their claims about having rendered them unsailable were rather inaccurate. When we saw them, we had battleships that could have intercepted, except that carrier was sitting out in the North Sea.”

Masterson nodded in understanding. “The detector was working then?”

“Perfectly,” Liddell Hart said. They’d pulled one of the German IFF transponder detectors from the Royal Oak, trying to use it to track the Graf Zeppelin and its fleet. “Sir Dudley was reluctant to send the Home Fleet to intercept; your old friend Admiral Lyon led his smaller ships to try to score a hit, while the RAF provided air cover. The battle was fierce, but the jet fighters decided the issue; we even have problems tracking them on radar.”

Masterson stopped as they reached a door that gave an impression of dinginess. The Home Guardsman on duty, holding an American-made rifle that looked like a toy compared to the automatic weapons Masterson knew the Germans possessed, snapped to attention as Liddell Hart came into the light.

“He’s in there, sir,” he said, as Liddell Hart identified himself. Masterson frowned; it seemed like a very thin defence against the power of a German helicopter attack force. The SS unit had had a Special Forces group attached; if the Germans knew where their missing pilot was…

“His beacon,” Masterson said, with sudden panic. “What happened to it?”

Liddell Hart nodded. “We detached it from his pack – detached everything from him, as a matter of fact – and left it within one of the armed fortresses near Dover. If they raid there, they’ll be arguing with the Irish Guards and the weapons we carefully emplaced to oppose a helicopter raid.” He paused. “His handgun was sent to some of the manufactories; it’s a neat design, much more capable than anything we have.”

Masterson shrugged. “They’ve had a lot of practice using them,” he said, as the guard opened the main door. He stepped into what was clearly a cell anteroom; bars, in front of him, prevented the German officer from escaping the room and attacking the guard. It was very dim, but he had no difficultly in seeing the German pilot, lying on the bed and staring at the ceiling.

“I wouldn’t put a pig in here,” he muttered. Liddell Hart said nothing; the RAF pilots had apparently wanted to lynch the German after the losses that they’d suffered. The German looked up; he realised suddenly that his accent, growing up in a Britain dominated by the Germans, had been recognisable. The German’s eyes were very dark; they met Masterson’s and refused to look away.

He said one word, in German. “Traitor.”

Masterson shrugged expressively. “To what?”

The German said nothing. Masterson pressed him. “Name, rank, serial number?”

The German regarded him with a bloodshot eye. His dark hair, unwashed and uncombed, fell down over a bruised face; Masterson didn’t want to know if that had happened during the impact or when the Royal Navy had pulled him out of the sea. He wore a very basic set of ragged clothes; he looked almost like a farmer or a factory worker. Masterson wasn’t fooled; this was a very dangerous man. Hitler’s obsession with sports and martial arts had led to him forcing the German children into concentrating on sports, above all else…and only the finest specimens were allowed to fly super-fast fighter jets.

He allowed himself a moment of relief. The Sea Falcon could travel just above Mach One, exceeding Mach Two in dives. One of the more advanced Luftwaffe combat jets would have been even more of a serious problem.

He repeated his question. “Name? Rank? Serial number?”

The German eyed him. “Oberleutnant Alf Wagner,” he said finally. He recited a string of numbers that meant nothing to either of the British officers. Masterson felt a flash of annoyance; an Oberleutnant was nothing more than a combat jet pilot, not a wing commander or a wing commander’s second. Capturing an Oberstleutnant would have been a real coup; one of them might have known what the Germans were intending to do.

Masterson leaned forwards. “You have been taken prisoner,” he said. The Germans had never bothered to honour the Geneva Convention; they had forfeited all such right to any such considerations themselves. The thought was oddly amusing. “What does the Admiral plan to do?”

He spoke in German; he was relieved to note that Liddell Hart spoke German as well. “You can tell us, or we will force the information out of you,” he snapped, allowing his anger to surge through. “You will tell us…”

The German glared at him. “The Admiral plans to invade Britain,” he snapped. Masterson had expected that much; all the signs did point to an invasion, launched directly from the continent. Even with the Graf Zeppelin, it would be a formidable problem – an even more formidable problem than it would have been in 1940 – but the Graf Zeppelin would tip the balance.

Liddell Hart leaned forward. “Where does he plan to land?”

The German laughed. “Do you think I know that?”

Masterson felt a rush of red rage to his head. He grabbed his pistol and lifted it, aiming it directly at the German, who flinched slowly back. “Where do they plan to land?” He demanded. “Tell me!”

Liddell Hart reached out a comforting hand. Masterson shrugged it off. “We’ll take you out of here and break your bones until you talk,” he snapped. The German recoiled in his cell. “We’ll force you to talk and leave you broken, a cripple…”

“I won’t talk,” the German said.

Liddell Hart led the way out of the cell. “You can’t do that,” he objected. Masterson scowled at him; the laughter of the German pilot was still ringing in his ears. His rational mind was working overtime, reminding him that the Germans would retaliate against the British population if their men were mistreated. “Andrew, the Germans will do the same to our men…”

Masterson rounded on him. “That man knows what we need to know,” he thundered. “That German Admiral and his fleet can land anywhere they like along our coast and we can’t stop them. They’re moving transporting ships over to the launching sites now, Basil; they could move at any moment they like. If they come, if they win, they will thrust this Britain into the same nightmare that they have forced upon my Britain!”

He took a long breath, fighting for calm. “I will do anything to prevent that from happening,” he snapped. “Anything, whatever it takes to stop them!

He spoke, his voice snapping out into the cold dead air of the prison. “In the first six months, they rounded up everyone they could who was on their shit list, from politicians to broadcasters, deporting them to the continent for show trials. The Jews, those who hadn’t managed to flee, were rounded up next; no one knows what happened to them! They took a German cock-sucking King and placed him and his whorish wife on the throne of Britain; the real king fled for his life.”

The words came tumbling out. “In the schools, people learn that the Germans are the master race and their word is law,” he snapped. “The Germans are everywhere; they control the government, the military, the law courts. Every so often, young men and women – those of pure blood – are taken to Germany; the men are worked to death, while the women become SS broodmares. The Army wastes itself endlessly in struggles to hold India under the yoke…because the Germans want us to keep them under control until they come for India and purge it of all the nasty darkies!”

Liddell Hart held up a hand. “I understand,” he said. Something in his voice said that he was lying, even though it wasn’t deliberate; no one could understand who hadn’t lived through it. “Andy, I do understand, but…we can’t go torturing the Germans.”

Masterson stared at him. “That man knows…”

“They won’t discuss the specifics of their plan with him,” Liddell Hart snapped. He allowed some of his own frustration to show. “The RAF men wanted to string him up from the nearest lamppost, just to avenge their comrades. He’s a prisoner of war and we have to treat him as one.”

Masterson punched the wall, hard enough to hurt. Blood specks appeared on his knuckles; he rubbed his hand gently, but firmly. “I know what you mean,” he said, as he started to walk back out of the prison. “I just hope that you don’t come to regret it.”

***
Several dozen miles to the north of Manchester, a long black car pulled up at a checkpoint, hidden within the forest. The guards at the checkpoint consulted their lists of who was permitted to enter the secured region, noticed the famous profile in the car, and waved it through the checkpoint. The car drove up the long road, finally coming to a halt near the manor building; Sir Winston Churchill stepped out of the car.

Churchill knew that he looked grim; the news about the air battle had come at a bad time. The Ministry of Defence had gone into overdrive, working to build new defences in Britain, but Churchill knew just how dangerous the situation actually was. Far too many of his trained and experienced soldiers were with General Sir Claude John Eyre Auchinleck, commander-in-chief of the Allied Forces in the Middle East; they were in Egypt, or Iraq, or…anywhere that wasn’t Britain. The Empire was weaker than it had ever been before; the masses of new soldiers being raised in Britain itself were short of weapons and manpower.

In the Far East, Japanese forces continued to press the Allies hard; it wouldn’t be too long before they had completed the task of overrunning the Philippines. Churchill was convinced that Singapore could hold, but the British could no longer spare the soldiers that Churchill had intended to pour into Singapore; far too many of Britain’s fighting men would remain in India, rather than heading to Singapore. General Percival had been ordered to remain on the defensive; Churchill could only hope that it would be enough.

“Prime Minister,” a gruff voice said. Churchill looked up to see a man wearing the uniform of a British Brigadier, the man’s dark and intensive eyes burning from above a single small moustache. “Welcome to the rear operations base.”

Churchill nodded, allowing the man to lead him into the manor. “I think that there might be more for your people to do than I expected, Brigadier Gubbins,” he said. Colin Gubbins, the head of SOE, looked at him with concern; Churchill outlined what had happened over the English Channel. “There is a very real possibility that the Germans might manage to land on Britain, Colin.”

Gubbins regarded him with some alarm. “I thought that Hitler and his comrades would have had enough problems in Russia,” he said. He didn’t sound as if he believed the reports about the new German aircraft carrier from the future. “Why attempt to hit us and Claude again?”

“It looks as if they intend to hit General Auchinleck again,” Churchill agreed. He drew a cigar out of his cigar case, offered one of Gubbins, and lit it. “They have also started preparing new bases in France for hitting us here – reports suggest that they have started to move troops to France, using it as the jump-off point for attacking us. Unfortunately, our main source of intelligence has been silenced; the Germans have changed all of their codes.”

Gubbins nodded as they passed through into what had once been a dining room. Gubbins had intended to run an underground campaign against the Germans from a location near the manor; the Germans might well have intended to use it as a base of operations for the region. A massive map of Britain dominated one wall; smaller maps of France and Germany – along with the remainder of German-occupied Europe – were placed on the tables. The entire region was SOE’s training ground; the men and women trained at the manor went into occupied Europe and worked against Germany.

“They’ve done other things as well,” Gubbins said. “They intercepted one of our aircraft two days ago, shot it and the people in the aircraft right out of the sky. The Vichy Government has become a lot less cooperative all of a sudden, Prime Minister; the Germans have been pushing them hard. They’ve actually clamped down hard on some of the French resistance forces, scattering them.”

Churchill scowled. Britain might have formally recognised General Charles DeGaulle, but it had also worked to form links with the Vichy Government; Petain and Lavell might be unwilling to try to resist the Germans, but others in the government hated the thought of being permanently subordinate to Germany and worked towards French independence.

Gubbins shrugged. “But that’s not the issue at the moment,” he said. “What can we do for you?”

Churchill scowled. “Officially, I’m on a visit to His Majesty,” he said. “This meeting never happened, understand?” Gubbins nodded. “If the Germans invade, then you will have to rebuild your network very quickly, working towards carrying out an underground resistance moment against the Germans.”

“That will not be easy,” Gubbins warned, after a moment. “There are far too many considerations to make liberating Britain from the inside easy. The French have sold part of their souls to gain some independence; we might end up doing the same thing.”

“Never,” Churchill said, flatly.

Gubbins nodded. “I will have total authority?”

“It’s on this sheet of paper,” Churchill said, unfolding the sheet of paper and passing it over to Gubbins. “Requisition whatever you need from the stores, set up the network using people you can trust and get working; if you have people who can actually impede the Germans while they’re landing, then they have to be kept separate.”

Gubbins smiled. “I have been doing this for a while now,” he said. “What about resupply?”

“We should be able to have links to Erie,” Churchill said, feeling a twitch of disgust at the thought of the Irish Free State. “If we’re lucky, they’ll be able to take in arms from America for your people, although there are some in their state who would love the thought of a Nazi victory.”

“They also have a lot of experience in the type of warfare we’re going to need,” Gubbins said flatly. “You may remember some of the complaints; I offend against the laws of war, according to everyone else.”

Churchill shrugged. “We dare not lose,” he said. “If the formal army and the other defence forces are destroyed, then it will fall down to you and your people. Cover your backs; once the Germans land, break contact with everyone official. If we beat the Germans, you can come back; if not…well, you know what to do.”

Gubbins nodded grimly. “Have you made any preparations for a caretaker government?”

Churchill shook his head. “We are officially convinced that the Germans can be beaten,” he said. “If not, we can at least force them to occupy the entire country.”

He grinned. “You should have seen some of the ideas that have come out of the boffins,” he said. “The news of the future has really forced them forward. We’ll have aircraft armed with radar to distract their radar missiles, bombers that actually fire rockets of their own, radios that should confuse their radios…there are times when I feel optimistic about the future.”

Gubbins held out his hand and squeezed Churchill’s hand when he extended it. “I understand, Prime Minister,” he said. “We’ll do our best.”

Chapter Nineteen: A Cold Day in Hell

German Lines, Russia
11th January 1942

The long building was half-hidden in the snow; the two guards standing outside the building freezing cold, wearing Russian clothing that had been banned in the alternate past-future that had given birth to Brigadefuehrer Richard Wieland. Only the presence of Himmler’s representative, SS-Obergruppenfuehrer Felix Kortig, prevented him from the nightmarish through that the command post had been overrun by the Russians; the Russians had been pounding hard at the German lines in the low visibility.

He glanced down once at the Crawler, the command AFV that held his command post when on the move, and allowed himself a moment of respectful silence for the German craftsmen who had designed the vehicle. Most German weapons and vehicles were built in the massive factories that housed the workers; the Kreigslieter Machine built thousands of Panzers and lorries to order, but a handful of really important vehicles were build by genuine craftsmen. The Crawler might not be anything more than a small vehicle back home; in this timeline, even the feared Russian snow and ice couldn’t slow it down.

Kortig seemed to be shivering; Wieland felt a twitch of amusement as he saw the SS officer. Himmler’s representative normally worked from behind a desk; he hadn’t thought at all to prepare for the cold. Wieland, who wore a standard Special Commando outfit, took a moment to bring up the heating elements; the commandos fought Russian bandits back home on a fairly regular basis.

“I thought that you would have looked up the weather,” he said, taking a moment to bait the desk jockey. Kortig knew nothing of the SS’s holy purpose, or why it was the most formidable fighting force on the surface of the planet; his people weren’t supposed to be frightened of a little cold. Kortig wore clothes suitable for winter in Germany; Soviet Russia was something else again.

Kortig scowled at him, shivering away. Wieland smiled and glanced around the tank park, examining the defensive positions as his eyes grew more used to the cold and blowing snow. The German Wehrmacht had collected dozens of Russian weapons, using them as part of the defences; he felt a moment’s pity for the men, fighting without the weapons and tools they needed. Broken-down Panzer III’s littered the tank park; a small team of engineers worked desperately to get some of them back into working order.

“This way,” Wieland muttered, before Kortig could fall over from the cold. The two guards snapped to some semblance of attention as Wieland approached, holding their weapons in heavily-gloved hands. “Here are my papers.”

The guards took the papers, examined the permissions from Hitler, Field Marshal Keitel and Himmler himself, and waved them into the building. There was a small airlock door in front of them; Wieland waited until the guards had shut the first door before opening the second. A burst of heat – he heard Kortig sigh in relief – stuck him; objectively, it was little more warm than Germany, but compared to the Russian cold…

He removed his combat goggles from his eyes, careful to ensure that they remained operational, and looked around the building. A long line of injured men covered one side of the floor, doctors worked on them, including a small group of Russian women. Kortig sniffed in disgust; Wieland gave him a sharp look. The men would be…tolerant of the Slavic women; there would be time to break them of that bad habit later, once the war was won.

“Disgusting,” Kortig muttered, in a whisper that was just loud enough to be heard.

“Silence,” Wieland said. Himmler had made it clear that he had the lead on this meeting; the legendary head of the SS had been a major disappointment to Wieland. When they’d been introduced, he’d thought that he was dealing with a Jew! If Kortig were to really irritate the man he had come to meet, they wouldn’t get anything done. “Now…”

“Welcome to the command post for this army,” a tired-sounding voice said. Wieland, for the first time, felt that he had met a man who lived up to his historical reputation; General Heinz Guderian himself. Guderian looked old and tired, but his eyes were bright; his handshake was firm. “I was fascinated to hear of your arrival.”

Wieland caught the subtext; Guderian didn’t exactly believe in their existence. He found it hard to blame the Panzer leader; there were times when he himself didn’t believe what had happened to them, although the cold was a powerful sign that reality was what it appeared to be. He didn’t bother to argue; instead, he unhooked his automatic weapon from his back and passed it over to Guderian.

Guderian studied it with interest. Officially, the weapon was classed as an assault rifle; it had been termed the Skorzeny after the man who had founded the SS Commandos. Upgraded several times, it was tough and rugged, powerful enough to fire single bursts or enough bullets to make anyone duck. The modified weapon oil, developed after much experimentation, didn’t freeze at any temperature; it was perfectly suited for the Russian weather.

“The weapon is called the Skorzeny,” Wieland said, after a long moment. Guderian’s eyes were alive with possibilities. “There’s a tank, called the Guderian; a stripped-down version of those has already been put into production back in the Reich.”

He saw the look in Guderian’s eyes and understood; Guderian didn’t want to surrender the weapon. Wieland took it back anyway, demonstrating how the rifle worked, aware of the presence of Wehrmacht soldiers crowding round to examining the weapon. Even the Russian women were watching, something that might cause problems later…

He shrugged. Dealing with them should prove no problems, if worst came to worst; they could be shot quickly by one of his men. He hadn’t wanted to spare any of his people, even twelve of the people from the landing ship who could be pressed into service as soldiers if need be, but Himmler had insisted. If they were agents for the Russian partisans, they could be disposed of that very night. Shame about the soldiers, who would miss their nurses, but…

“Impressed, Herr General?” Kortig asked. The SS Officer looked stiffly at Guderian, who rose to his full height and glared down the SS officer. “The wonders of Aryan machinery…”

Guderian’s voice was harsh and acidic. “The wonders of German machinery,” he said. “Two weeks ago, we were within sight of Moscow, watching the spires as we ate our rations, which were very thin. Dozens of us had frostbite; the Russians seemed to be everywhere. They launched their new tanks at us; we fire…the shells burst off the armour. The Russians keep coming…we fire again…the shells burst off the armour.”

He paused. “Noticing a point here?

“We fall back when the Russians hit us,” Guderian snapped. “They’ve hit us hard, and they’re still pressing us.” Thunder rumbled, on cue. “They keep coming; we kill dozens of them, hundreds, but they keep coming. They never seem to break…but we break, time and time again…”

“Weakness must be pressed out,” Kortig protested. His voice took on an officious air. “Herr General…”

“Shut up,” Wieland snapped, before Guderian could explode. Hitler had been on the verge of relieving Guderian before the Graf Zeppelin and its crew had arrived; the records of Guderian’s campaigns in the other timeline had convinced him to stay his hand. The last thing the Wehrmacht needed was to lose one of its most capable combat leaders. The situation was dire enough as it was.

He scowled down at Kortig until the SS Officer subsided. The situation was very bad indeed; the officer corps of this timeline seemed to have done very little preparation for the campaign they would have to fight, to say nothing of starting it later and failing to ensure that they would have sufficient force available for the mission. Guderian would have – hell, he had had – done the best he could; the problem was that he didn’t have enough.

“Herr General, we need to talk,” he said, motioning for Wieland to wait. The SS Officer saw his expression and wisely kept his mouth shut. “Do you have an office?”

Guderian laughed, but led the way into a smaller room. It was lit by oil lamps – Wieland made a mental note to insist that small generators were pulled from the fleet and deployed in Russia – which cast a flickering yellow light over the maps and charts on the table. They looked alarmingly dangerous; red arrows marched across the map, chasing the Germans out of Russia.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Guderian said grimly. “The Russian doesn’t seem to target their attacks properly. There are three large attacks and a handful of smaller raids; they’re splitting their forces.” His finger traced an axis of advance on the map. “If they’d placed everything there, this army group would have been crushed.”

Wieland smiled. Stalin, according to the records kept after the war – their war – had ended, had a nasty habit of pushing an attack too far and getting burnt for it. Not that he was complaining, of course; Guderian and his men would be able to blunt the Soviet thrusts within the next two weeks, unless the Russians had far more manpower than they expected. Once that was done.

He turned to face Guderian. “The Fuhrer has begun a major program of mobilising; we expect that you will receive several more divisions within the next two weeks,” he said. Guderian looked sceptical. “We also hope that you will receive some additional tanks, along with equipment from France that we’ve decided would be more useful here.” He smiled. “The French howled, but…”

Guderian laughed. “Too bad,” he said. “What else is coming our way?”

Wieland smiled. “The Fuhrer intends to appoint you as the commander-in-chief of this front,” he said. Himmler had urged the Fuhrer to appoint Guderian that, on the grounds that it would make Guderian more friendly to the SS; Wieland hadn’t bothered to argue. “You should receive far more soldiers, along with some of the newer tanks and other weapons, over the coming months, despite the demands of the invasion of Britain.”

Guderian looked at him levelly. “The commitment to Britain will end up draining power from this front,” he said, after a moment. “What exactly does he expect me to achieve?”

“The first stage of reinforcement should be completed by May-June,” Wieland said. He ignored Guderian’s snort. “Once that’s completed, you should be able to take the offensive, back towards Moscow.”

Guderian lifted an eyebrow. “Why Moscow?”

“It’s the centre of the Soviet regime,” Wieland reminded him. “If it falls, it should be possible to take the time to destroy the remainder of their state and end the war in the east. If we can drive Stalin behind the Urals, we have a major advantage – something that we can use to get working on fighting the Americans.”

“Declaring war on the Americans was madness,” Guderian said, with unconcealed bitterness. “That was madness…”

“It has to be lived with,” Wieland said, warningly. If Kortig overheard and reported Guderian for ‘defeatism,’ Guderian would be lucky to be only fired in disgrace. “It can be done.”

Guderian nodded slowly. Wieland opened his bag and removed one of the folders, passing it over to Guderian and allowing him to read it. “That doesn’t go outside of here,” he said, warningly. “The Russians – who are they?”

“Ludmilla and her cohorts are refuges from Stalin,” Guderian said. “They work for us as nurses and occasional comforters for the men. They cook and clean for us, using some foodstuffs that can only be found in Russia. We need them, Herr Wieland.”

Wieland lifted an eyebrow. “Don’t let them see any of this, General,” he warned. “The only trustworthy Slav is a dead one.”

“But they don’t like Stalin,” Guderian protested. “They hate him with every inch of their souls…”

“Perhaps they like him more than they like us,” Wieland said, remembering an SS officer who had been killed by the Russian women he had taken as a harem. Wieland himself disapproved of such…lustful behaviour; poor Volgler should have concentrated on his wife, or, failing that, one of the SS brothels. “This information must not fall into Stalin’s hands.”

He shook his head. “In any case, a handful of my men have come to work with your men,” he continued. “What’s it really like out here?”

Guderian’s eyes met his. “I woke up, a week ago, to see a Russian in my room, preparing to cut my throat,” he said, his voice very flat. “I killed him with the pistol I had wrapped up in my sleeping roll; the guards had had their heads bashed in…and the guards on the perimeter had seen nothing. In the day, we see Russian tank after Russian tank rolling at us, or hiding in a perfect firing position – did you hear about the Russian army shell directors?”

Wieland shook his head. “They were lobbing shells at us, and we couldn’t find out how they were directing their shells,” he said. “What would you have thought of, SS man?”

Wieland ignored the charge. “Radar-guided weapons, counter-battery radar, airborne reconnaissance aircraft…?”

“We need more guns and shells too,” Guderian said absently. “We found a tank, one day; a Russian T-34 that had been knocked out and over by one of us. We stripped it, got inside…and discovered two dead Russians with a line back to their command. All that time, we had rumbled past them, while they diligently called in targets to their long-range guns.”

He looked up at Wieland, who felt shaken for the first time. He’d seen just how brutal the Russians could be, with their lands to hide them from extermination groups sent out to clear the lands of their presence before the colonists could be moved in. People said that the Arabs were fierce, but after their cities had been razed to the ground, they had posed hardly anything of a problem, but the Russians…

It was almost enough to make one question the doctrine of the master race.

Wieland shook his head again. The Russians eked out a living on the border between German territory and Japanese territory – which was in reality no-mans land. The Japanese, from time to time, provided their subhuman brethren with weapons, allowing them to go off and fight the Germans when the colonists grew closer to the Japanese territory.

“You’ll have your weapons,” Wieland promised, his voice very quiet. “This year will make or break the Reich, General; you must bring us victory.”

Guderian clasped his hand. “Keep the people at the rear from interfering and you’ll have your victory,” he promised. “Just keep the weapons flowing to the front.”

***
Ludmilla, who was fourteen years old and an orphan, had had the bad luck to look several years older than her actual age. She had been living within her school, learning German along with her other studies, when the Germans had overrun the school, killing most of the teachers when they came. Her parents, teachers at the school, had had nowhere else to go; her father had taken a gun and died in the desperate defence, while her mother had been raped and murdered by the Germans.

She hadn’t told the Germans that; her sisters had never known. She’d been taken by one of the Germans herself, but unlike her mother she had survived the experience, and desperately claimed to welcome the Germans. The Panzer Army had passed her by within its advance; the partisans had helped her to join the Germans, along with her older sisters. The Germans, desperate for help, had been delighted; Ludmilla repaid them by sharing information with the partisans.

Now, she brought the samovar of tea to the two German commanders, accepting Guderian’s smile as her due. The SS commander – she recognised the insignia and flinched back – scowled at her; she reminded herself to warn her sisters to stay out of their way. The SS weren’t friendly at all; they would rape, and then murder, them, just for being Russian. She muttered to them in pigeon German; her perfect grasp of the language was a closely-guarded secret.

They were talking about a new offensive, against the Russian lines, once the main attack had been beaten off. Ludmilla’s perfect memory went to work, committing what they were saying to one another to memory; she would recite it all later for one of the partisans. The information might be useful to them; she’d already had one success in informing them of the route that the German supply lorries were planning to use.

The wolves had eaten well that night.

She left the Germans, wishing that she could stay longer and hear more, and continued to tend to the German soldiers. Some of them were decent, sharing their rations with the girls; others were grabby and insistent on using the girls for sexual pleasure. Ludmilla usually let them have her; it saved her younger sisters from their grasping hands. She hated them all; they had all taken part in the army that had killed her parents.

She gave one sweet boy a kiss and smiled at him; he clearly thought that the smile was for him. Ludmilla worked, hard, all the while considering how to ensure that the information was passed on. The Germans were planning something…and, with a little effort, it could be derailed.

Chapter Twenty: The French Connection

Near Calais, France
15th January 1942

General Adolf Galland stepped out of the car onto the French airfield, already remembering the times when he had flown his aircraft against the British, less than a year ago. The Luftwaffe had been continuing strikes against Britain, attempting to burn Britain to the ground or break the British resistance – Galland had heard both explanations in his time – but the tempo had slowed since the invasion of Russia.

Now…dozens of German aircraft stood on the airfield, preparing to take off at a moment’s notice. Dozens more were positioned under awnings; the British had bombed German airfields during the Battle of Britain and would start again – as soon as they recognised the danger of their position. For once, Galland wasn’t impressed by the fighter aircraft; he’d spent a few days on the Graf Zeppelin. Compared to the jet aircraft flying from the carrier, his pilots were flying toy aircraft.

As if the thought of the future personnel was enough to bring them to view, he turned slightly as a helicopter – he kept thinking of them as autogyro-type craft – drifted into view, heading down towards the airfield that was being constructed only two miles away. Dozens of French labourers had been pulled from their farms and reconstruction projects to work on the airfield, creating an airbase that could fly the jet fighters without problems. Some of the jet fighters could take off vertically – that had been one of the most impressive aircraft on the carrier – but most needed runways. Even the VTOL aircraft worked better when launching and landing from a hard tarmac.

He scowled. His current role as Commander of the Fighter Arm – a job that had to endure the eternal interference of Goring – involved planning for the defence of Europe, although he had no problems with the concept of a forward ‘defence’ conducted by attacking Britain directly. The problem was that suddenly all options had opened up…and the system was suffering from a crisis.

A pilot – one of those who had flown with him against Britain last year – waved to him. Galland waved back, although he had other business before he could spend time with the fliers; one of the items he had to attend to was sorting out the terms for working with the future personnel who had been sent to the airbase. Their small vehicle had been set up at one end of the airfield, daringly out in the open; Galland paced towards it, thinking hard.

Normally, the Luftwaffe had to work out its ideas before any of them could be implemented – now, the Luftwaffe had more ideas than it ever had before, but little time to develop them for actual combat service. Given a few years, the Luftwaffe could have made itself the most powerful force in the world; they had only a month, perhaps less. Hitler had decided to launch the invasion of Britain in March, at the latest; Churchill and his people would be working hard on tech countermeasures of their own. By then, Galland, Speer and the thousands of Germans working on future-related projects would have to have completed their vast task.

He grinned suddenly. Thousands of Germans, hundreds of projects, all trying to be the first to put the future knowledge into play. He’d heard of programs for actual computers – the ones on the carrier were a wonder to behold – to factories that were trying to produce something called a fuel-air explosive. The weapon, he’d been informed, was almost as bad as a tactical nuclear weapon. When he'd seen the video, he’d been awed; he hoped that that would be one of the programs that would be prepared for use against British airfields.

Eventually, he had no doubt, Speer would manage to bring all of the programs under control, but for the moment…the Reich had way too many options for its industry to produce. The assimilation of French and Italian industry would add to the total productive base, but Galland – who would have been happier to have had additional Messerschmitt aircraft now, rather than combat jets in a year’s time – suspected that time was shorter than they thought. Given time, the British could make an invasion impossible, even with the future weapons…and if that happened, the Reich was doomed.

Two Messerschmitts flew overhead on a combat air patrol. They carried, Galland knew, a small radio transmitter each, broadcasting a single signal on a particular channel. That served a purpose that had impressed him when he’d heard about it; it allowed the radar-radio system from the future to tell the difference between German and British aircraft. He'd seen the antiaircraft system in action; he could only be relieved. British – and German – aircraft escaped most ground fire with impunity. The radar-guided weapons swept aircraft out of the sky with ease.

The antiaircraft system loomed up in front of him; a pair of heavy weapons mounted on a single grey truck. The truck seemed crude and unfinished to his eyes, it was very difference from the sleek perfection of the Graf Zeppelin; the entire unit had clearly been intended for combat action. A soldier, standing near the rear of the truck, saluted smartly at Galland as he stepped up to the unit.

“Heil Hitler,” Galland returned. The salute was held perfectly, despite his wounded hand; he would accept nothing less than the best. “Gunner Horst, is it?”

Horst grinned at him. He was regular Wehrmacht, insofar as any of the men from the future could be said to be regular, but he had been attached to the Graf Zeppelin. Galland was starting to realise that there had been all kinds of compromises in the future; the Kriegsmarine had a Marine detachment of its own, but relied on the Wehrmacht for vehicles, just to ensure that standardisation was maintained.

“That’s me,” he said. “You would be General Galland?”

The awe in his voice took the rebuke out of Galland’s mouth. “That’s me,” he said, wondering what had happened to him in the other timeline. He hadn’t dared ask. “What exactly is your unit doing?”

Horst pointed to what looked like a small umbrella, rotating on the ground, linked by cables to the main truck with its guns. “That’s the radar system,” he said. “It’s actually only a little more powerful than your units, but with some fingering I managed to get it to put out a much more capable signal than it normally does, just to allow the intelligence people to put together a comprehensive picture of British defence units.” He grinned again, revealing neatly cleaned teeth. “With the other units that have been positioned around the coastline of France, we can build up the picture a lot quicker through the overlapping signals.”

Galland frowned. “And how does this help us?”

Horst tapped the side of his truck. “We also pick up their radar signals,” he said. “There’s a mode in this beauty for going passive – using the enemy’s radar signals to act as the scanning unit for you. We can’t do that here, unfortunately; the British units are one hell of a lot worse than anything we had back home. Still, we can see anything flying in the sky unless it’s very low; we see it, we kill it.”

He pointed towards the guns mounted on the truck. “A British aircraft flies overhead on a predicable course,” he said. “The radar tracks it, the computer calculates the course the stupid thing is flying…and fires a burst of shells along the lines of the plane’s course. Instant shot-down plane…”

Galland laughed. “And what stops your unit from shooting down our aircraft?”

“The IFF system,” Horst said. His smile grew even wider. “Anything without an IFF is doomed if it tries to fly closer to these positions.”

Galland scowled. “I really hope you’re right,” he said. “You know, I was expecting missiles from Wieland’s description.”

Horst shrugged as a tone began to sound within the lorry. “Missiles are a pain to build here,” he said. “We’d get reloads within the next five years. Shells…your shells aren’t quite the same as the ones we’re used to firing, but we can use them, even through we need a much higher degree of accuracy with them because it’s harder to preset them to explode at a certain level.”

Galland looked over at an aircraft that was flying towards the airfield. “That aircraft,” he said, pointing. “Does it have an IFF transmitter?”

Horst glanced down at the screen on the side of his truck. “It’s transmitting,” he said, as the aircraft took on shape and form. The Stuka ground-support aircraft, one that Galland knew should have been replaced years ago, came in to land. “I think its friendly.”

“That design is more dangerous to us than the British,” Galland snapped. The Stuka had dozens of problems, starting with its slow speed and its low bomb load; once the shock of the wail from the noisemakers wore off, the targets had a nasty habit of standing their ground and firing back at the aircraft. “I think that…”

A series of warning tones emitted from the truck. “We have company,” Horst said, showing Galland the screen. Small red dots crawled across it, passing over a stylised version of the French coast; he swore as he realised that their airfield was one of the prime targets. “Those are British aircraft.”

***
From so high up, France looked beautiful and peaceful, nothing like the hell it had been when Squadron Leader Wallace Bruce had flown the much-detested Battle aircraft in a raid against the German bridges over one of the French rivers. The RAF hadn’t learnt anything from the war games; the British had given the Germans nearly a week to dig in and prepare before they tried to bomb it. The Germans hadn’t been idle; Bruce had been one of two survivors of that encounter.

The Lancaster bomber hummed as it moved further over France, heading towards one of the newer German airfields. Bomber Command placed a great deal of faith in bombing Germany – and Bruce had taken part in one of the raids on Berlin that had sparked off the Blitz – but the Prime Minister’s orders were clear; they were to raid the German airfields and the ports that were serving as the staging points for the planned invasion of Britain. Bruce felt nervous as the bomber seemed to shiver in the air; they’d all heard of what had happened over the Channel.

“I think that we should be fine to open the bomb bays in ten minutes,” the navigator said. Flying by dead reckoning was something that Bruce disliked; in a clear day, they should be able to see enough landmarks to find their way, even if they lost the compass and the radio set. “Sir?”

Bruce nodded and called down to the bomber. “Get the bombs ready to drop…”

Something flashed past the bomber and the starboard wingtip exploded. Bruce felt the bomber casting over, as if it had been swatted from the sky by an angry god; the aircraft plummeted towards the ground. He realised dimly, as a streak of light flashed past the bomber, that the fall had saved their lives; whatever was shooting at them had been devilishly accurate.

“Get ready to jump,” the pilot screamed at them, as the airframe started to creak under the pressure of the fall. The plane levelled out, barely; the pilot tried to grab for sky. Bruce looked out of the porthole, towards the wing, and saw that the entire structure was on the verge of falling to pieces. “Sir, move…”

“Not going without you,” Bruce called back. The plane seemed to tip to one side; Bruce fell and hit the cabin wall hard enough to hurt. He saw another bomber falling out of the sky, burning brightly; a German aircraft swept past, waggling its wings for joy. He hated the German at that moment; the pilot who had killed some of his friends and comrades. “Chas…”

Something hit the side of the plane and Bruce heard doom in the echoing straining at the airframe. Chas, the pilot, cursed and abandoned his station, running for the hatch; the remainder of the crew had jumped already. Bruce hoped that they could find each other again, before the Germans rounded them up; Hitler was supposed to have ordered the execution of all Allied pilots after Berlin had been hit.

He leapt into the air, marvelling at the sight of the ground, bursting with flashes of light as the Germans fired madly at the allied planes. He pulled on the ripcord of his parachute, seeing Chas’s parachute down below him; the parachute fell out of the packet and unfolded above him. His fall came to a sudden halt; the parachute had caught his fall, slowing him as he fell out of the sky.

“My God,” he breathed, as the Lancaster, free of all control, plummeted for the ground. He prayed silently that there was a German base under the crash site; the bombs detonated as the aircraft ploughed into the ground, exploding in a fiery crash. Something had been hit, he saw the burst of flame, but it didn’t look like a German base, or even a Panzer column.

The ground came up at him and he pulled up his legs, rolling as he hit the ground, the parachute falling down around him. There was a moment of panic as he struggled with the harness, and then he was out, looking around; he’d landed in a cold French field, still covered with snow after winter. He grabbed his service issued pistol, looking around for the Germans, but saw nothing; the sky was alive with the big air battle.

“Sir,” Chas shouted. His pilot had come down in a bushy and snow-covered hedge; Bruce ran over to him and worked to help free him from the plant. It didn’t want to let the pilot go; Bruce finally pulled out his knife and resorted to cutting it free of Chas. Chas himself looked bruised, but unhurt; Bruce checked himself quickly and realised that he was alive.

Chas was looking around for signs of life. “Sir?” He asked. “What do we do now?”

Bruce sighed. He thought about it quickly; the best that he could think of was walking towards the coast and hoping that they could swim out to a British ship. There was no way that anyone would be able to come for them; SOE was supposed to land aircraft behind the German lines, but they wouldn’t even know that they were missing. They would have been thought to have gone down with the aircraft; he wondered suddenly where the rest of the crew had landed. Their cascading flight would have left them miles behind.

“We can start walking, or we can surrender,” Bruce said. “I don’t feel like surrender, do you?”

Chas shook his head. “No, sir,” he said. “You never know, perhaps we’ll meet a few French ladies along the way.”

Bruce laughed as they set out along the road, taking the time to dump everything that might have helped the Germans first, although they kept their uniforms. “I’m married,” he said. “No French women for me.”

Chas laughed. “All the more for me, sir,” he said. “All the more for me.”

***
Galland watched from a distance as the radar-guided gun went into action, spitting shells into the sky with a force that astonished him. The gun moved from place to place, pointing, aiming, firing…and then finding a new target. The noise was deafening; he felt a moment’s pity for the British pilots, facing such a weapon for the first time. A British aircraft, high overhead, was hit; it exploded high above the battlefield.

He cursed. Some aircraft from his base had gotten into the air before the British arrived; they now fought the British and their fighter escorts. Others were on the ground, naked and vulnerable; he prayed silently for the pilots who had been caught on the ground. A British aircraft appeared just above the tree line, heading directly for the airfield; a burst from the radar-guided gun blasted it out of the sky. Other guns were banging away, firing up into the sky; he watched as more British aircraft died under their pounding.

Suddenly, it was all over. Fires were still burning above France, in places; he knew that the French had been caught in the middle of the battle. He found it hard to be concerned; the French were pliant under German rule, but they were just too…serious about the wrong things, at the wrong time. Silence fell, broken only by the sounds of the pilots who had been caught on the ground racing for their planes; they took off into the blue sky.

“Locking the barn door after the horse has been killed and eaten,” Horst commented, lighting up a cigarette. “The British are in retreat, at the moment.”

Galland scowled at him. “Did they hit anything important?”

Horst shrugged. “They hit the docks, quite badly I would expect,” he said. “Past that…I honestly don’t know…but on the whole, I think that we taught them one hell of a lesson.”

Galland snorted. He could see at least one weakness in the system. “I think that they’ll do better next time,” he said. “Keep a sharp eye on them over the next few hours.”

Chapter Twenty-One: The American Nightmare

Washington DC, USA
21st January 1942

There wasn’t a day when President Franklin Delano Roosevelt didn’t feel old.

Eleanor had urged him to step down at the end of his last term, but he had felt that he was still needed; the dangers of Hitler’s Germany and Japan were just too great to be handled without his presence at the head of the political consensus that he’d shaped to try to help Britain and the rest of democracy in the world. He had tried, he knew that he had, but it hadn’t seemed as if America would awaken in time…until the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbour.

He hadn’t expected that. The American public had risen and demanded that Japan and Hitler, when Hitler had declared war on America, be crushed. Hitler had been rumoured to have sent combat pilots to assist the Japanese in the strike on Pearl Harbour; Roosevelt hadn’t hesitated to make political capital from that rumour, even though he distrusted it’s accuracy. The United States had been drifting into a war with Germany since 1940; finally, Roosevelt knew that there was something that they could do openly.

According to the history book, written in 1980, he had lost the last election.

His first thought had been the Winston Churchill – a man he respected – was playing a strange practical joke, but there was too much information in the history book; the small devices that the British had convoyed to America onboard one of their fastest battleships had awed some of his technical advisors. The book said that he would have lost in 1940; America would have abandoned the occupied Britain and withdrawn behind the Atlantic Ocean. It wouldn’t have been enough to protect America.

The book – approved by something called the Ministry of Correct Information – was written in a style he recognised; it was very pro-German, with any mistakes that the Germans might have made neatly covered up. America, however; the Americans of the alternate 1955 were slammed as incompetent, perusing a racial policy that was slowly ripping the country apart, before the Germans and their New Order stepped in to heal America and add it to the global New Order. Fine words aside, Roosevelt had no difficultly in understanding what it meant; America would have been broken by the Nazi Empire.

He felt old, very old; the strains of running the war were already starting to wear on him. His wheelchair – something that only a few people even knew about – seemed to chaff as he wheeled himself around the Oval Office; his body was slowly rebelling against him. The history book said nothing about his death, but Roosevelt knew that it would happen soon; he just hoped that he would last long enough to defeat Germany.

“Mr President,” Lord Halifax said. Roosevelt liked the stern patrician; British aristocrat he might have been, but he was a decent man, under his firm control. “That’s the information, direct from the Prime Minister.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” Admiral King said, before the President could speak. “This is not one of the Buck Rogers cartoons, but a serious war…”

Roosevelt coughed loudly enough to silence even King. The Commander of the Atlantic Fleet wasn’t known for being either diplomatic or restrained. Roosevelt had been meaning to appoint him to the post of Chief of Navel Operations; if half of the information that Churchill had presented were accurate, he would be needed. He might have been the most loathed and hated American in the fleet, but he was unquestionably competent.

“This seems…rather unbelievable,” he agreed, more for form’s sake than true conviction. The information from the Royal Oak had been alarmingly convincing; the sheer quality of the manuals that his people had been given from the British were fascinating. People like Kelly Johnston and Henry Kaiser were already studying them, others were looking at the records, skewed and biased though they were, of the strange future-past war in the alternate 1955-1960.

“I have the letter directly from Winston,” Lord Halifax said. He leaned forward, trying to convey his urgency directly to Roosevelt. “We haven’t lost a battleship to the Germans since the Hood was sunk, Mr President; now we’ve lost several heavy ships and we have hints that Hitler intends to try an invasion of Britain directly.”

King scowled at Lord Halifax. “First you send two battleships to be sunk by the Japanese, and then you have the nerve to tell us that you cannot send more escorts to the convoys to the Russians,” he sneered. “What next? Will you ask us to protect your crumbling empire from the Hun?”

Lord Halifax’s face showed a flicker of pure anger. “Admiral,” he snapped, his tone somehow robbing the word of all respect. “Admiral, we have lost a battleship, two cruisers and nearly a dozen smaller ships in the time since that new fleet arrived. We also lost a convoy; the Germans sank every ship in the fleet…and the Rodney never even caught sight of her attacker.”

He turned to face Roosevelt. “Mr President, we urgently require your help to prevent Hitler from seizing Britain,” he said. “If he succeeds…”

“I remember the reports,” Roosevelt said. The War Department had worked out the problem for him back in 1940, when Ambassador Kennedy had been informing all and sundry that the British were on the verge of collapse. If Britain fell, the Nazis would complete the task of invading Russia and develop atomic weapons, secure behind Britain, a nation that would have to be liberated to defeat Hitler. America was committed to crushing Germany – and Nazism – but the thought of such a struggle made Roosevelt blanch.

Something of his thoughts must have shown in his face. “There are only a few divisions in Britain,” Lord Halifax said shortly. Roosevelt felt a flicker of sympathy; the British had too many problems to handle with the forces they had. If they pulled everything back to the Home Islands, Rommel would overrun Cairo and move onwards into the Middle East…and Roosevelt, who could also read between the lines, knew what the Germans would do to the Jews present within Palestine. If they reinforced Eighth Army, they would be much weaker at home; the Germans might manage to land…and, of course, they had to worry about the forces in the Far East. Japan had proven to be far more dangerous than anyone else had thought; Roosevelt thought bitter thoughts about the failure to stand up to Japan in 1938.

“You know just how important Britain is to the war effort,” Lord Halifax continued. “If the Home Islands go down, Hitler will have all the time in the world to make his own atomic bomb.”

Roosevelt winced at the thought. It hadn’t been long ago that he’d created the Manhattan Project, to create the world’s first atomic bomb, except General Groves and his team had no choice, but to try every possible route towards an atomic bomb. The Germans had forbidden the British – their subject British – from learning anything about atomic weapons; they didn’t know how to complete the program themselves. Even if Roosevelt poured much more resources into the project, it would not guarantee success…and secrecy would become impossible to maintain.

He smiled, feeling some of the pressure rising. There was little point in maintaining strategic secrecy, not any longer; the Germans – and the Russians, probably – knew that the weapons were possible. He had proof that would convince Congress; Groves could end up with much more than he actually needed.

“And then there’s the Russians,” Admiral King snapped, talking to Halifax. “They have been complaining about the sudden dearth of supplies from you and yours. They’re making mutterings about a separate peace because you can’t supply them.”

Lord Halifax pulled himself to his full height. “Admiral, if you want to throw away Americans ships, you may do so,” he said. “The Prime Minister is determined to place everything in position to fight off the invasion, when it comes.”

“If it comes,” King said. His voice had calmed slightly. “Ambassador, they would have to be crazy to try. There’s your fleet, and then there’s your air force, and then there’s your force on the ground.” He turned to face Roosevelt. “Mr President, we have far too many demands in the Pacific…”

Roosevelt scowled. The Japanese had hit the Pacific Fleet hard…and their ground thrusts were pressing against the forces in the Philippines, led by General MacArthur. Roosevelt would have preferred to abandon the Philippines, even with the consequent damage to morale, but politically speaking…everyone knew that the islands would fall, but the longer they held out, the better. Everyone was screaming for help, more manpower, more weapons, more supplies…and Roosevelt didn’t have the ability to help them all, not yet.

“We cannot lose Britain,” he said, his voice like ice. “How long would it be until we could dispatch some forces to assist the British?”

King took one look at his face and decided not to argue. “We had two divisions that were mobilised, preparing to send them out to Pearl,” he said, thinking fast. “They’re national guardsmen, but they’re armed and raring to kill Japs. They could be moved over within the next two weeks.”

Lord Halifax leaned forward. “Be certain that you have them convoyed,” he said, very firmly. King glared at him, merely two months into the war, he was already convinced that the British were using the Americans for their own ends. “You don’t want to have them all sunk by the German submarines and drowned miles from shore.”

Roosevelt nodded. One of the future German ships had been a submarine, he remembered; the British note had suggested that it had been the ship that had attacked a British cruiser. Certainly, no u-boat had been as so much as smelt during that brief encounter.

“No, we don’t,” he said. It was a situation that demanded consultation with the other members of his Cabinet, to say nothing of General Groves. War production would have to be forced forwards, using some of the future ideas; they would have to try to place them into production before the Germans managed to do the same thing. Time, he knew, was very much on the side of the Germans.

He scowled, and then looked up at Admiral King. “Admiral, please ensure that the British get all of the support you can give them in the Atlantic,” he said. “We need time, to work and build, and Britain cannot be allowed to fall.”

***
It had taken nearly a day of heavy discussions, in committee and out of committee, to decide on a course of action, helped by the fact that America was at war. The War Production Board had been given orders to increase production of regular weapons, but also to get copies of the weapons from the Royal Oak into production as quickly as possible. Some weapons, Roosevelt had been informed, would be years away, even with the help of the manuals. Others, including assault rifles, would be easy enough to duplicate, once they dissected the samples that they’d been provided with by the British.

Roosevelt wondered if it would be enough. The thought of losing to the Germans was horrifying; the alternate history books made the shape of a German-dominated world quite clear. The decision had been taken, a month ago, to concentrate on Germany; Roosevelt knew that that would give the Japanese more easy victories in the Pacific. It wouldn’t be a problem, the Secretary of the Interior had said; the Japanese could be crushed in 1943 after the new carrier fleet had been built. One thing the documents from the future had made clear, however, was simple; the future fleet had intended to sink thousands of Japanese tankers and end the war by strangling the Japanese Empire.

Roosevelt allowed himself a moment of cold appreciation. Over the coming year, American submariners would knock out the Japanese tanker fleet and strangle them, weakening them, allowing America to concentrate on Germany. As his secretary showed General Groves into the office, Roosevelt gave him a grim look; Groves looked worried, desperately worried.

Roosevelt waved him to a chair. “Mr President,” Groves said, very suddenly. “Is all of this information accurate?”

“We believe so,” Roosevelt said, not exactly wanting to discuss time travel and alternate universes. The philosophical implications fascinated him, but they would have to wait until the war was won – if the war could be won. “It has a vast implication for your work, General.”

Groves nodded. “I’ve discussed the matter with the scientists,” he said, referring to the group of people who had been gathered to build America’s first atomic bomb. “They have agreed that the Germans have snatched a lead on us – one that we might find it impossible to beat.”

Roosevelt felt a flash of pain through his body. “Just how bad is it?” He asked. “How long until we see a Nazi bomb?”

“I have no idea,” Groves said. “We spent time looking for signs that they were working towards a bomb for the last few months – and the British spent more time doing the same with their MAUD committee. Unfortunately, we found little signs of anything; the Germans have some experts who would know the science, such as Hisenberg, but…we don’t know exactly what they’re doing.”

He scowled. “But those ships of theirs are powered by atomic reactors,” Groves continued. “Our own progress along those lines remains slow, Mr President; they have working reactors right there. If they can use the ships to produce the bomb material, they could have the warheads within a few months, perhaps less. Doctor Oppenheimer thinks that doing that would be dangerous for the ships, but it remains a possibility.”

Roosevelt took a long breath. “And if its not?”

Groves sighed. “They will have people – ship engineers – who will know how to build a nuclear weapon,” he concluded. “They will, even starting from scratch, know much more than we do about building the warheads…and then they could do it. How long? I don’t know, months at least, but then…?”

Roosevelt scowled down at the huge oak table. “You must build us a bomb,” he said. “You have authority to draw on each and every resource you could possibly need; you can build more reactors if you have to build more. If we have such a bomb, it might deter Hitler from trying to destroy the entire world…”

Groves nodded. “I have plans to expand the program,” he said. “I must warn you, however, that we have to test each and every possibility for accomplishing the task. Would it be possible to acquire more information from the German program?”

Roosevelt frowned. “The British are working on it,” he said. “However, it cannot be guaranteed to work at all; the Germans are bound to have secured the entire region that they’re building their own bomb.” He leaned forward in his wheelchair. “You have another task, General; you must build us some rockets and their warheads.”

Groves lifted one eyebrow. Roosevelt tapped the old-new history book. “The Germans bombarded us with rockets from their nation in the war we fought, or would have fought, with them in the other timeline,” he explained. “You will have to work to get a working intercontinental rocket that we can use, before the Germans manage to do it themselves. Again, you have total authority; requisition whatever you need to build the rockets.”

Groves took the history book and skimmed through it. “It won’t be easy,” he warned. His voice was very grim. “There will be many engineering problems for us to overcome. The experiments with rockets from before the war proved that, if nothing else.”

“I know,” Roosevelt said. The President sat back in his chair. “I calculated – Winston and I calculated – that between us we could crush Germany by 1944, General.” Groves looked up from the book and nodded. “That might not happen now, General; victory will go to the side that makes the best use of this sudden windfall…and the Germans are already way ahead of us. Failure is not an option.”

Groves stood up and nodded. “I understand, Mr President,” he said. He took the sheaf of papers that had been prepared for him. “I won’t let you down.”

Chapter Twenty-Two: From Russia Without Love

London, England
30th January 1942

The fire flickered in the grate, but Churchill felt cold, colder than he ever had before, even during the worst moments of the Battle of Britain. Then, he had been aware of the dangers, but also confident that Britain could beat off a German invasion if one occurred. The Germans would have been invading on a shoestring logistics network; Churchill knew enough to know that even General Rommel would have found it hard to take Britain with such limited supplies.

Now, he knew that the Germans were in the verge of trying again – and this time they had the help of advanced Germans from the future. The German raids on Britain, fighter sweeps designed to hurt the RAF, had been raging over Britain for the past week, while German bombers attempted to hurt the British. They’d deployed a new kind of firebomb, according to the air raid wardens; the firebomb had blasted building fuel over the East End and the Docklands. The fires had raged for several days before they could be put out; Churchill wondered what was preventing Hitler from ordering more deployments of that hell-weapon.

Despite the censorship, citizen morale was starting to fall; everyone knew that something had changed in the balance of power. The renewed German air raids had proven that, German propaganda was pressing hard at British morale…and everyone had heard rumours about the loss of the two battlecruisers. In the Far East, General Percival, armed with fewer soldiers than Churchill would have preferred, dug into Singapore; Field Marshal Wavell dug into India, while the Indians murmured rebelliously under British rule. Rommel was on the march again and…

Churchill turned suddenly. The man sitting on the seat facing the Prime Minister’s desk had a face as hard and as still as ice; Molotov, Stalin’s Foreign Secretary, was renowned for remaining expressionless. It mattered not if he were issuing demands to nations like Finland, or shaking the hand of Ribbentrop; Molotov showed no trace of his feelings. Even Stalin was regarded as a soft man, compared to Molotov. Churchill had met Stalin; he knew that there was little truth in that.

“You must have had an interesting trip,” he said, dryly. The reports from the Russian Front had been confusing; the Russians had claimed to have engaged the Germans and pushed them back hundreds of miles. One of the more anti-Soviet members of Churchill’s Government had once calculated that the Russians, going by their claims, had killed every last German several times over; Churchill knew better than to take what Stalin said at face value.

Molotov’s voice, as always, was flat. “It was interesting,” he said. He’d flown from Russia to Iran, and then into Palestine, then he’d boarded a ship for the trip to Britain. Churchill was fairly surprised that Stalin had even let Molotov out of his sight, but the lesson of what had happened to Trotsky would have sunk in to his lackeys. “There is much to discuss.”

Churchill nodded. “For a start, what is really happening in Russia?”

Molotov gave an ironic flick of his eyes; Churchill smiled inwardly at the sign of wry amusement. “The Great Stalin ordered several attacks against the German positions,” he said. “Although the Germans have attempted to fight hard, we have been pressing hard against their weaker points. Fighting has been harder than we expected, but we hope to make more progress soon, even against stiffening German resistance.”

Churchill scowled. It had been slightly over a month since Adolf Hitler had received his early Christmas present. How long would it be until more advanced weapons arrived in the hands of Hitler and his men? How long would it be until Hitler felt determined to try to cross the Channel again? The losses in bombing, during the first raids on the German staging posts, had been alarming; low-level raids had enjoyed some success, but…

Molotov’s voice seemed to darken. “The Great Stalin is…concerned about your failure to deliver the promised supplies,” he said, his voice taking on the inflexible tone dreaded by statesmen all over Europe. “The Workers and Peasants of the Soviet Union require those supplies to drive the fascists from our soil.”

The fall into Soviet ideology indicated an inflexible position, Churchill knew; the problem was that his position couldn’t be anything, but inflexible…and it was in direct opposition to Molotov’s position. Stalin might be a great hypocrite, but even he had to present his demands to the rest of the world under a shield of Marxist rhetoric.

He chose to be droll. “Can the Great Stalin send us ships to convoy his goods?” He asked, knowing perfectly well that Stalin couldn’t do anything of the sort. “We have a massive shipping crisis on our hands, Comrade Molotov; the Germans are hitting us hard.”

Molotov gave him an inscrutable look that somehow convoyed menace and hatred. “The fascists are also burning their way through the Soviet Union,” he snapped. “Without your lifeline, we may be forced to seek a separate peace with the Nazis.”

“Hitler would not go for it,” Churchill said, calling the bluff. Stalin, it had been hinted, had indeed attempted to make peace before Moscow was attacked and the Germans were forced back. Whatever the truth of the matter, Hitler hadn’t been interested; Churchill wondered if he now regretted it. “Why did you come here?”

Molotov looked as irritated as he ever got. “The Great Stalin has ordered me to convoy a message personally,” he said. “We know what the Germans are planning to do to your country.”

Churchill felt his heart race faster. He controlled it with the experience of a lifetime in Parliament. “You do,” he said. It wasn’t a question; he knew that the Russians had good sources within Germany – although for all the good they did with Stalin refusing to listen, there were times when he wondered why they bothered. “What do you know?”

Molotov’s eyes glittered triumph. “There is a price,” he said. “We demand access to the future technology from the ship that fell into your hands.”

Churchill thought rapidly. Had Molotov known that the Royal Oak had been crewed by a British crew? Did he think that the crew had been captured by the British? Did he think that the crew had deserted, or what…and, if so, why? What was the Reich’s party line on the future ship and its crew?

“There is less technology than you might think,” he said, only half-truthfully. He was certainly not going to share nuclear technology with the Soviets, whatever happened; there were some elements that he would have preferred to have kept to himself. “We’re still working on duplicating their technology.”

He scowled. Some of it, transistors, for example, would require a major project before they were ready to use for any combat role. Duplicating their computers would take years, even with the manuals and the knowledge of some of the crewmembers from the Royal Oak; the problem was that Britain didn’t have years. They’d thought of some countermeasures for the advanced technology, but how long would the Germans give them before they invaded?

Molotov leaned forward. “We have it on good authority that the Germans are working to expand their own productivity base as fast as they can,” he said, his voice flat and hard. “If they are capable of deploying a vastly superior tank…well, the Great Stalin might have to make other arrangements for the survival of world communism…”

“It won’t survive under Hitler and you know it,” Churchill said, without heat. Hitler would destroy communism, along with the Slavic race, given half a chance. Stalin could make a peace with Hitler that would result in Hitler having time to digest his gains and attack again the following year.”

Molotov stared at him. “There are always alternatives,” he said. “What is the survival of Britain as a nation worth?”

Churchill sighed. “We will give you access to the history books that we have recovered from the Royal Oak,” he said, noting that Molotov seemed surprised by the name of the ship. “They’re written with the same insight to real history as your own people’s histories, but you have plenty of practice at reading between the lines. It’s not pretty, I fear.”

Molotov showed no reaction. “We would be more interested in technical information,” he said. “What have you recovered from the ship?”

Churchill took a moment to consider. “There are some technical manuals,” he admitted. “They’re not as helpful as we hoped” – and they certainly wouldn’t be after he’d altered or removed a few details – “but they got us started along the right path.”

“Assuming that the Germans give you the time,” Molotov said. “You might feel that we will be avenging your defeat at their hands.”

Churchill looked at him levelly. One of his nightmares was Stalin’s forces sweeping through Germany, France…and then sitting right on the border of Britain itself. Would Stalin have dared to cross the English Channel? It was a question he couldn’t ask, not now, not ever. There was certainly no way that he could believe that Stalin would have restored Britain’s independence; he would have crushed Britain and replaced her government with puppets.

But that didn’t matter now.

Molotov spoke with a quiet voice that seemed somehow loud. “Hitler’s forces intend to move in late February or early March,” he said. “They intend to stabilise the front between their forces and our own first, and then turn to deal with you. They will have up to seven divisions ready for the assault and the follow-up, although transportation is going to be a problem.

“The landing site is intended to be Dover,” he continued. Churchill winced; he couldn’t blame the Germans for picking the easiest place to reach, but it was also the most heavily defended. “They intend to crush your navy and then land their forces. Once they land, they will march on to London and overthrow your government.”

He paused. “An SS group will serve as Britain’s occupying force, once you have been defeated,” he concluded. “I have details of Hitler’s old plan, which he intends to resurrect and put to work; your nation will become part of the Reich, regardless of what you want to happen.”

Churchill paused before speaking. “How reliable is this information?”

Molotov nodded at the question. “Much of the information was recovered from some of our undiscovered operatives,” he continued. Churchill scowled; he could only guess that some spies had been discovered in the other timeline, but not all of them. In some ways, he would have preferred a fleet from the ‘real’ future; it would be a lot easier to guess at what the other side actually knew. “He has proven reliable in the past.”

He stood up. “I have the details for your military people in this case,” he said, passing over a briefcase. “I shall expect the manuals to be ready for me when I leave tomorrow.”

Churchill grinned. Molotov wouldn’t be staying at the Soviet Embassy, but at one of the grandest hotels in Britain; he wondered if the reason given, to avoid German notice, was real, or if Molotov had wanted to have some luxury in his life. Soviet Russia was a cheerless place.

“They’ll have to be copied for you,” Churchill said. “You can take the copies.”

Molotov bowed once, carefully didn’t extend his hand, and left the room.

“You might as well come in now,” Churchill called, as soon as the guard had showed Molotov out of the building. There was a moment of nothing, and then Sir Alan Brooke stepped out of the side door, where he’d been listening to the conversation. “I assume that you heard everything?”

Brooke nodded. He was a tall man with one virtue, the ability to stand up to Churchill. He was loved for keeping some of Churchill’s enthusiasms from affecting global operations – and loathed for the same reason. Churchill wasn’t always fond of him, but he respected his quiet competence.

“It does make sense,” Brooke said, as he took the chair so recently vacated by Molotov. “They don’t have the shipping to sail up to Newcastle and land there, although I would expect that if they had anything like the right amount of shipping. They might try for Portsmouth instead, if they were willing to take some risk, but…”

He shook his head. “Dover makes the most logical choice,” he said. “Even if we lose command of the seas completely, they will still be looking at hours for the round trip anywhere else. Of course, we also have strong positions in Dover, so…”

“It would give us our best chance to crush them,” Churchill agreed. He unfolded one of his cigars and lit it with a flourish. “What’s the news from the agents in France?”

Brooke gave him a reproving look. “It’s not good,” he admitted. “Hitler’s men continue their plans; they’re stockpiling weapons and supplies near Calais and the other Channel ports. The Luftwaffe has been busy; they’ve moved more transport aircraft into the region along with fighter aircraft; we think they’re practicing their coordination. One piece of interesting news; the German aircraft are all broadcasting signals on a particular frequency.”

Churchill lifted an eyebrow. “Why?”

Brooke grinned, almost like the little boy he had once been, years ago. “Masterson told us; it’s designed to prevent the future Germans from shooting down their comrades. If we can duplicate the signal, we might be able to get into shooting distance before they noticed that something was wrong.”

Churchill smiled. “Flying under their flag,” he said. There were legal implications, but he found it hard to care; the Germans would do worse to Britain if they won the war. “Speaking of which, what about our own program to use radar to guide our weapons?”

Brooke shook his head. “We’ve had some success with timing the gun, but it’s nowhere near as good as what the Germans used back during the first raid on France,” he said. Churchill remembered; Bomber Command’s morale had plummeted after that disaster, no matter how successful low-level raids had been for the last week. “We might well be able to take down some of their normal bombers, but the jet fighters…? No chance.”

He grinned again. “One bit of good news,” he continued. Churchill looked up hopefully. “Their aircraft have problems flying slowly when they fly into battle. Our pilots might be able to use that against them.”

Churchill sighed. “Perhaps,” he said. “If we can hang on long enough to get the advanced weapons deployed against them…all the countermeasures, all the attempts to take advantage of what weaknesses we do know they have…”

Brooke frowned. “If the country can take the strain,” he said. “There’s more nervousness on the streets now; the German claim to have ships from the future made some impact – everyone thought that it was too silly to be a lie, even with Goebbels running the German propaganda department. People are worried, particularly with the recent spat of sinking ships in the Atlantic; we might be on the verge of actually having to reduce the rations again. If that happens…”

“That’s not your problem,” Churchill said, more harshly than he had intended. “What about the American troops?”

Brooke refused to be suppressed. “We have established the permanent bases,” he said. “Unfortunately, we don’t have any troops. The Americans have promised two to three weeks before their troops land in the UK, but by then…”

“The Germans might have landed,” Churchill said. He cleared his throat, slipping into idea-discussing mode. “I must have a word with Anthony; it might be time for the Irish to decide, once and for all, which side they’re actually on.”

Brooke scowled. “They might want to stay out of the fighting,” he warned. “If we look like we’re about to go down, that could have bad implications for their own security. They’re not going to get involved if we’re about to be occupied; they’ll be spending their time and effort on sucking up to the Germans to prevent them from crushing them as well.”

“That won’t sit well in America,” Churchill said, who had a strong dislike of the Irish Prime Minister. “Franklin would take it very badly.”

Brooke had the final word. “Respectfully suggest, sir,” he said, “if the situation gets that bad, it may not matter what President Roosevelt wants or likes. If that happens, we’ll all be dead.”

Churchill said nothing. Outside, a jet engine howled in the sky.

Chapter Twenty-Three: Knives in the Dark

Berlin, Germany
10th February 1942

The return to Berlin was a relief to Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler. It wasn’t that he disliked the surroundings of Hitler’s mountain command centre, but rather he missed the presence of his subordinates; they had a tendency to work towards building power bases of their own when Himmler was absent or otherwise engaged. Himmler’s determination to keep the SS pure and free of in-fighting had to be maintained; it could never be left alone for very long.

Of less interest to him, although of considerably greater importance, was the paperwork, ranging from reports on SS matters all over the Reich to the ongoing project into the Graf Zeppelin task force and its crew. Himmler was enough of a dreamer to believe in gifts from providence, but practical enough to know to look a gift horse in the mouth; the Graf Zeppelin and its task force represented a massive change in the internal Reich balance of power.

Inevitably, the Kriegsmarine had benefited most from the Graf Zeppelin task force; it had suddenly risen in the Fuhrer’s esteem and gained considerable leverage within the Reich. The Fuhrer – who was capable of showing great loyalty – would reward them; they would have their chance at invading Britain. If they succeeded, little would be denied to them; Goring had already lost control over the aircraft intended for the original Graf Zeppelin aircraft carrier.

But at the same time, Himmler was careful and paranoid by nature. It was important, of course, that the SS gained enough control over the future technology to use for its own benefit, but it was also important to ensure that the cross-time travellers didn’t have an agenda of their own. Hitler was pleased with them, but that proved nothing; Himmler had sensed Trautman’s disappointment with some of the senior figures of the Reich, even though he rather understood it. All of them were praised beyond imagination – even the foolish Rudolf Hess – in the future history books; Hess, in particular, had glowing mentions in most of the books.

And so the SS had acquired a new task. Monitor, carefully, but thoroughly, the cross-time travellers. Hitler hadn’t issued orders for anything of the sort; Himmler had ordered it on its own, just in case. The new factories that were being built, the older factories that were being converted to produce the Panzer V, all of them were being watched – carefully.

A knock on the door revealed Leutnant zur See Staffel. Himmler looked up; he had been wanting to consult with Staffel for some time, but the Fuhrer had insisted that he remain at Felsennest until after all of the plans for the future of occupied Britain had been laid and set in stone. Staffel couldn’t have come to the mountain post; Trautman might have suspected something.

“Herr Reichsführer,” Staffel pronounced, snapping a perfect salute. Himmler returned the salute, watching Staffel carefully; the man acted the martinet – worse, a stupid martinet – but he was one of the more effective agents under Himmler’s command. “You wanted to see me?”

“Of course,” Himmler said, waving the young officer to a seat. Staffel wore his uniform perfectly, under a brown coat that would conceal enough of the uniform to disguise his rank from anyone who was merely curious. “How goes your exploration of the carrier and its crew?”

Staffel took a moment to compose his thoughts. “I have had the opportunity to explore much of the carrier,” he said. “The libraries have been stripped of most of their books, Herr Reichsführer; many of them are in the hands of the Kriegsmarine. The crew seems rather shocked to be here, even after a month; there were some suicides from people who left behind family and friends in the other timeline.”

Himmler snorted at such weakness. “Carry on,” he said. “How are they coping with life here?”

Staffel smiled. “They’ve been welcomed into several homes,” he said. “There were some nasty scenes when minor differences in the timeline meant that they were taken for fakes, rather than any member of the family. To add insult to injury, there were some real fakes, from people who worked in the docks. We strung them up, of course.”

He lowered his eyes. “They get on fairly well with the members of our Kriegsmarine, after the first fights,” Staffel continued. “They have actually been willing to share some time on the carrier with our people, and they have been trying to introduce more technology to Kiel. On a different line, they have been enthusiastic visitors to the brothels in the city and…”

Himmler cut him off. “I don’t need to know that at the moment,” he said. “Answer me a question; what do they think of their Admiral?”

Staffel frowned. “It differs,” he said. “The crew of the supply ship, the Albert Speer, are not particularly fond of him; they blame him for getting them stranded here, even though it was hardly his fault. The SS soldiers, from the landing craft, are fascinated by the possibilities, but they’re not Kriegsmarine soldiers, while the real Marines have been irritated; they trained to fight against the Japanese, you see.”

Himmler scowled. The Japanese had just suffered a bloody repulse at Singapore; Admiral Yamamoto had been sending naval delegates to Germany, demanding a look at the Graf Zeppelin and her task force. Hitler had been keen to share information with the Japanese, hoping to use them in part of his grand strategy; Himmler suspected that the Japanese would be less useful than the Fuhrer hoped – as anything, but cannon fodder.

Staffel kept talking. “The ordinary crewmen respect the Admiral and his command staff,” he continued. “Many of them, of course, have only seen him from a distance, but they respect him for actions he took during a bloody shoot-out in South America. He’s regarded as a good officer – and the men are fairly loyal to him.”

Himmler frowned, touching his fingertips together. “Are they,” he said slowly. Staffel said nothing. “I wonder what would happen if we split the force up?”

Staffel frowned. “They are currently a very effective fighting unit,” he said. “Morale was low for the first few days, when they were struggling to come to terms with what has happened, but after that – particularly after sinking the British battleship – morale got much higher. That said…”

Himmler wasn’t listening; his mind was racing everywhere. “I shall have to give some thought to that,” he said, thinking ahead. An idea occurred to him and he smiled darkly. Perhaps there was something that could be done. “What about those who were detached from the fleet?”

Staffel blinked at the question. “I don’t have much to do with them,” he said. “They do send messages to their friends, and most of them sound happy. One of them got into trouble for questioning a Luftwaffe idea…”

“Goring’s idea,” Himmler said, who had heard about that. “Thank you for your time, Staffel; one thought, do you think that more of us could be inserted onto the ship?”

Staffel thought for a moment. “There are already several hundred Kriegsmarine officers on the carrier itself and the two heavy ships,” he said. “It will be a while before they’re ready to crew the ship themselves…and, of course, the fighters will be beyond any Luftwaffe pilot for years, despite the video training system. It just can’t substitute for real life.”

“I see,” Himmler said. “You may leave.”

“Heil Hitler,” Staffel saluted, and then he was gone.

Himmler watched as the door slammed closed, and then started to think hard. A thought flickered through his mind; he grabbed onto it and concentrated, before picking up the phone. When his receptionist answered, he barked out a command and put the phone down again, returning to his private thoughts. It took ten minutes for his subordinate to arrive; by the time that SS-Obergruppenfuehrer Felix Kortig entered the office, Himmler had the broad details of his plan worked out.

“Felix,” he said, as Kortig entered. Wieland hadn’t been too impressed with Kortig, Himmler had realised, but most men in the martial line failed to appreciate the need for in other lines as well. Kortig saluted smartly, standing to attention and waiting for Himmler to state his pleasure. “What did you find out?”

Kortig smiled. He had the strong stomach Himmler lacked; he couldn’t even look at his own blood without feeling weak. “The swine knew nothing about an escape plan for the Royal Oak and her renegade crew,” Kortig said. His face twisted into a grim smile. “His lover was on the ship – a woman on the ship.”

“A woman onboard a ship,” Himmler said. He grinned. “Whatever will they think of next?”

Kortig grinned oafishly at the joke. “I had him for several hours, Herr Reichsführer,” he said. Himmler refused to think about what they’d been doing together; Henry Sullivan would have spent those hours in agonising pain. “The Englander doesn’t know what happened to the Royal Oak.”

“And yet Trautman was quite happy to place the blame on him,” Himmler mused. His mind ran forward; had Trautman intended the Royal Oak to escape? “What does he have to say about the Reich?”

“He insists that he is a loyal servant of the Reich,” Kortig said. “Of course, at the end of our little session, he was rather unsure of what was happening.”

“I see,” Himmler said. He closed his eyes for a moment, considering his options. “I want you to see that he gets to recover,” he ordered. “How badly damaged is he?”

Kortig laughed. “Some burns, some bruises…he’ll be fine in a couple of weeks with some care,” he said. “I could just give him a noodle and drop him somewhere…”

“No,” Himmler said. “I want you to bring him back to heath, keeping him in one of the comfortable jail cells. The comfortable ones, Felix; we might need him alive.”

***
“Well, of course the Kriegsmarine is very comfortable with what’s happened so far,” Raeder said, an hour later. The Grand Admiral had come to Berlin for a conference with the Fuhrer; Himmler had asked him for a meeting afterwards. “Thanks to Admiral Trautman and his force, we just saw off our second British battleship. If this continues, we might well be able to pull off Future Shock without many losses.”

Himmler smiled. “You expect losses?”

Raeder gave an expressive shrug. “The British will come boiling out of their harbours, intent on sinking the Graf Zeppelin and the landing craft,” he said. “The future personnel are confident that we can land in our chosen landing site and gain a proper foothold, but it would be foolish of us to expect that we will not take losses.”

Himmler felt his eyes narrow. “Do you feel, then, that Future Shock should be abandoned?”

“I have seen the production figures for the Americans,” Raeder said. “By 1943, Herr Reichsführer, they will have dozens of new carriers – while we will have the grand total of two, unless we capture some British carriers when we take the Orkneys.”

Himmler lifted an eyebrow. “But, Admiral, the Graf Zeppelin is far superior to anything the Americans can build, right?”

Raeder looked directly into his eyes. “The supercarrier will be able to sink any number of American ships, until the weapons run out,” he said. “At that point, we and the Americans will be operating on a level much closer to equal, and American production might just crush us, even if they are using inferior weapons. Future Shock is the only hope we have, Herr Reichsführer.”

Himmler smiled inwardly. “I have sources in America,” he said, semi-truthfully. “The Americans intend to send some of their own units to Britain, actually sending them here instead of fighting the Japanese. This was not warmly welcomed by the military, all of whom want to crush the Japanese, but…that degenerate Roosevelt insisted and the units are being prepared now.”

He leaned forward. “I do not feel that it is in our interests that they should reach Britain,” he said. “They have to be intercepted in transit.”

Raeder scowled. “That would be easier said than done,” he said. “The Americans have actually managed to learn the lesson about sailing in convoy. They will not send thousands of their young men to Britain without a powerful escort, Herr Reichsführer.”

“I know,” Himmler said. “There is one ship that can do it, however; that one should be sent.”

“The nuclear-powered submarine,” Raeder said. “Donitz was making a similar request, but Trautman was resistant to the request – the submarine’s torpedoes are irreplaceable.”

“But this is something that will shock the Americans to the core,” Himmler said. He tapped the table in his excitement. “How will that crippled man explain the deaths of thousands of Americans to his own people? He can’t; he and that British-hating Admiral will be drummed out of the White House. They’ll have to spend time safeguarding their soldiers…and we could mount Future Shock in the confusion.”

Raeder smiled. “I understand your logic,” he said. “However, Admiral Trautman is the commanding officer of his force. The Fuhrer confirmed him in that role himself…”

“But you could change the Fuhrer’s mind,” Himmler pressed. “I will support you. You can ask him, right now, to order that the submarine is sent on the mission. If we’re lucky, it might even complete its mission before it is needed for the invasion of Britain!”

He smiled, watching Raeder carefully. He didn’t blame Donitz in the slightest for wanting the nuclear-powered submarine under his command. It was an awesome weapon of war and one that should not be wasted. If the submarine was placed under Donitz’s command, Trautman would be lucky to even see it again, let alone have it returned to the carrier’s battle group.”

He could almost read the Grand Admiral’s thoughts. The Kriegsmarine would get the credit for the blow to American manpower and morale. Hitler would reward them with more resources and more prestige; his stand within the nazi circles would rise higher and higher. Best of all, the Kriegsmarine, not the SS, would get all the credit.

Raeder nodded slowly. “I think that that would work,” he said, after a moment. “We would need to visit the Fuhrer now, of course.”

Himmler rose. “Of course,” he said. The massive building that served as Hitler’s headquarters while in Berlin was only across the square, guarded by a crack SS unit who were devoted to Hitler. “If you’ll come with me...?”

Raeder picked up his cap and set it on his balding head. “Of course, Herr Reichsführer,” he said, allowing Himmler to lead him out of the small meeting room. Behind them, an SS maid would clear the room; their cups would be cleaned under the strictest hygiene at Hitler’s orders. “Lead on.”

Adolf Hitler looked to be in a surprisingly good mood. His uniform – he had once vowed never to wear anything else until the war was over – was clean and decorated with the single Iron Cross that he had won, back in the last war. Hitler wore that one from time to time; he might have had dozens of military awards and titles, but it was the Iron Cross that meant the most to him.

“Heinrich, Erich,” he said, as they were shown in by his current secretary. The building had dozens of female secretaries, all of them the picture of Aryan womanhood. They were devoted to Hitler, although they occasionally took lovers; marriage was out of the question as long as they remained in Hitler’s service. “I understand that you have something important to suggest?”

Raeder outlined the issue as they’d discussed it, moments before, explaining that the normal Wolf Pack tactic would almost certainly fail against the American ships. Only one submarine could handle the mission – the submarine from the future. If it could be dispatched in time, it could intercept the American ships, far from any hope of support from the land-based aircraft in America or Britain.

“But of course,” Hitler exulted, as Raeder finished his explanation. “The blow, coming on the heels of the loss of their pacific fleet, could hardly fail to do anything, but send their morale shattering down! The nation of shopkeepers will fall before us; they will leave the war once Britain and Stalin have fallen before the might of the Wehrmacht and the Kriegsmarine.”

Goring will be upset, Himmler thought, irreverently. “Mein Fuhrer, will you order the submarine to carry out the mission?”

“The mission is important,” Hitler said, mock severely. “I have no hesitation, either of you, in ordering it to be carried out at once.” He paused, looking at Raeder. “Excellent thinking, Erich,” he said. “You will be rewarded.”

Himmler, smiling to himself, said nothing.

Chapter Twenty-Four: Seeing the Elephant

Near Dresden, Germany
15th February 1942

Trautman concealed his growing annoyance as the tilt-rotor raced across the German sky. The over flight had been eerie – he’d over-flown his old Germany many times and known it – but that wasn’t the only problem. Himmler – Trautman was mortally certain that Himmler was behind it – had been meddling with the fleet. The decision to send the submarine on a long-range raid against the American convoy made sense, but he had already decided that the submarine would be better used to attack the British ships when they came pouring out of Scarpa Flow.

Hitler’s orders had admitted of no ambiguity…and Trautman could see the logic. Sinking the American ships – along with the two divisions that Himmler swore were going to be loaded onboard to reinforce Britain – would serve a vital purpose, but at the same time…it would soak up several irreplaceable torpedoes. The submarine was unique in a second respect, worse; there were no replacements carried for its weapons onboard the supply ship.

He scowled as the tilt rotor met its escort, a small flight of Luftwaffe fighters; the pilots waved to his pilots as they fell into formation around it. The British, at least, had stopped trying to raid Kiel, something that Trautman found to be a relief; the British bombers were soaking up barely-replaceable ammunition. Even so, Trautman was under no illusions; Himmler was using the tiny problems to undermine his position – and, collectively, that of the Reich.

“I don’t understand it,” he said, ignoring the questioning look from his ‘bodyguard’ and general minder. He kept his mouth firmly shut as the factory complex, smaller and less well organised than anything back him, appeared underneath them; the pilot started the descent to the factory without orders. Trautman wondered, thinking hard; the Reich needed time, not in-fighting! What had happened to the ‘old guard’ that had served Hitler? The history texts said that they had existed.

His lips quirked unwillingly. The history texts, provided by the Ministry of Correct Information, rewriting history as suited them and the Reich. Had they glossed over all of the little problems that existed at the heart of the early Reich? He’d seen the stories they’d done about him, back when he was in his own Germany; they’d practically turned him into the second coming of Field Marshal Rommel. What else happened within the Reich of the past that had been covered up?

The aircraft landed just outside the factory, which was covered by signs in several languages and SS guards, holding weapons. Trautman lifted an eyebrow, before noting the presence of powerful anti-aircraft weapons and even a small ground-assault detachment; the wind changed and blew a stench across his nose.

“Herr Konteradmiral,” Hans Konigsberg said, from behind him. Trautman turned to see the former librarian, wearing a simple black uniform and carrying a large notebook under his arm. “Welcome to Production Camp One.”

Trautman lifted an eyebrow. “What is the source of that smell?” He demanded, without preliminaries. Konigsberg blinked at Trautman’s brusqueness. “This is not a suitable working site, Herr Librarian.”

Konigsberg seemed surprised. “It is the workers, Herr Konteradmiral,” he said, his voice light and unconcerned. “This Reich does not have access to all of the technology that we possessed back in our time.”

“You seem to have done well for yourself,” Trautman said, looking back at the tilt-rotor, symbol of a vanished world. “Been enjoying yourself?”

“Oh yes,” Konigsberg said. “It’s fascinating, Herr Konteradmiral; there is so much that can be done here that couldn’t be done back home.” He adjusted his glasses meaningfully. “You wouldn’t believe how much can be done here.”

“I came for a report on progress,” Trautman snapped. He paced meaningfully towards the massive doors to the factory complex. “The time for the invasion of Britain draws near, Herr Konigsberg; exactly how much progress have you made?”

Konigsberg scampered to keep up with him. “More and less than we hoped, Herr Konteradmiral,” he said. Trautman gave him a sharp look as he marched on. “There has actually been some success in duplicating the fire-weapons, including napalm and a basic fuel-air explosive mix. Unfortunately, the quantities of raw materials we need are lacking; making more than a few weapons-worth will be tricky. Once we overrun the Saudi oil fields, however…”

“That will come, in time,” Trautman assured him. “The other weapons?”

Konigsberg paused and opened his notepad. Trautman kept striding on, forcing Konigsberg to run to catch up with him. “There will be a full production line of anti-tank weapons in time for the renewed invasion of Russia,” Konigsberg said. “Some of them will be prepared for personal use, others will be designed to fire from aircraft; even a fighter aircraft from this era could carry some. For Britain, we will have a few samples, but no mass production, not yet.”

“That had better come,” Trautman said. His temper was rising; he controlled it with an effort. There was too much on his plate. “What about tanks and guns?”

The massive doors of the factory loomed in front of him. Konigsberg stepped forward and showed his card to the guard, who opened the door, allowing them both to step into a darkened corridor. Inside, in the warm, a strange noise could be heard; it sounded almost like someone crying.

“This is intended as the first of many factories,” Konigsberg said, ignoring Trautman’s sudden unease. “The workers here will be training other workers, expanding the production line exponentially. Each of them will be making one part of the Panzer tanks we intend to produce here, more skilled workmen will put the tanks together, along with a considerable supply of spare parts.”

He led the way along the corridor and up a flight of narrow stairs. “It’s not as neat and simple as it would have been in our time, but it does have its compensations,” he said. “Given time, we hope that this method can be expanded to work all over the Reich, a brutal, but necessary measure to ensure that this Reich survives.”

“And you don’t hope at all about going home?” Trautman asked. “Do you have anyone back there?”

The sudden change in subject gave Konigsberg pause. “I do not believe that we can ever get home,” he said. “I know nothing at all about what brought us here, and nor do the engineers working on the nuclear project under Speer and Himmler’s man. Do you?”

Trautman shrugged. “I know nothing about it,” he said. “Herr Professor Hesenberg, I heard, did have some ideas about the structure of multiple universes. The conversation went above my head, but…I have no idea how it could be applied to getting us home.”

Konigsberg leaned forward. “Exactly,” he said. “Even if we could get home, I wouldn’t; there was nothing more me back home, but here I can be…powerful, respected.”

“Not too bad for a lowly ship’s librarian,” Trautman said, and then wondered what he’d said. A librarian would have plenty of time to do research and organise little details. “What have you been doing here?”

They entered a small office; a single blind hung over the window. “Quite a bit,” Konigsberg said. He pulled up the blind; Trautman realised that it looked directly over the plant’s factory floor. He stepped forward, peering out…and stopped dead. Konigsberg’s voice echoed from behind him. “Impressed?”

Trautman found himself speechless. The floor was covered with lines tables; workers – no, he realised suddenly, they were slaves – worked hard on their projects. Black-suited SS guards paced between the tables, waving batons and whips; one of them cracked his whip over the bare shoulders of a girl who had put down her work for a moment. Men and women worked away, helpless in grey rags and worn feet; many of them had been injured by their work.

He felt his mouth fall open as an SS guard hauled one of the women away from the production line. “He’s going to rape her,” he protested. His SS – Wieland’s SS – wouldn’t have dreamed of breaking discipline in such a manner. “Aren’t your supervisors going to do something about it?”

There was something…dispassionate in Konigsberg’s voice when he answered. “That is one of the perks of working here,” he said. “It also helps to push the women forward; they work hard, they don’t get raped.”

The woman was returning to work, tears dripping from her eyes. The SS guard, buttoning up his pants, was laughing with a comrade; the comrade reached forward, grabbed the woman, and forced her to the floor. The brutality shocked Trautman; his hand fell to his service pistol automatically. It was a world away from the great Germans who had created the Reich…

“You are doing this?” Trautman demanded, shocked to the core. “Why? I cannot believe that the Fuhrer knows all about this!”

Konigsberg’s face was surprisingly blank. “But he does, of course,” he said. “The Fuhrer, the Reichsführer-SS, the officers and men…they all know about it, unless they’re blind or in denial. This is something that they want to happen, they want to be rid of the Jews – like that bitch there – or the homosexuals, or the people who showed just a little compunction about certain details such as the law and…”

He leaned forward. “You see the guards?” He asked. “Each and every one of them is a volunteer; they knew what they were doing when they took the job. There was a high turnover, at first, but those who chose to leave were allowed to leave; the Reichsführer-SS takes good care of his men. All of them knew what they were doing…”

Trautman paced along the upper corridor. The next room featured women preparing explosive items; their faces stained with the powders, tainted by the substances that they used to make the weapons. They wept silently as they worked, the guards seemed more inclined to keep their distance; they watched the women from a safe distance.

“It doesn’t seem safe,” he said, groping for something to say. Konigsberg, silently, held out a glass of Scotch. “They’re making explosives, for Christ’s sake…”

“He has little to do with this place,” Konigsberg said. His voice was very flat. “The women are kept under firm control, they also don’t have the items needed to actually ignite the explosives, although with some effort one of us could have cobbled together a device, they don’t have the equipment, for obvious reasons.”

The next room featured the framework of tanks, being assembled by more slaves, using torches and gas jets to weld the frameworks together.

“Enough,” Trautman said. His hand slammed the blind down. “What is the point of all of this?”

Konigsberg blinked. “You need tanks for the summer offensive,” he said. “You know that as well as I do. The tanks built here will spearhead the offensive, they will be superior to the best Russian tanks and capable of hammering them right back to Siberia.”

Trautman groped for words. “Our world didn’t have to do this,” he said. “Why does this one? What about the honour of the Reich…?”

Konigsberg laughed. “Our world didn’t have to do this?”

Trautman stared at him. “Yes, it did,” Konigsberg said. “Hardly anyone knows, of course, because they don’t read between the lines and they don’t really want to know. What is a Jew anyway? You don’t know; hardly anyone in Germany outside the SS and the Reich Council knows that they were a religion that Christianity descended from; Jesus himself was a Jew. Of course you don’t know; the cover-up is kept in place because people like you, even the senior military officers, don’t want to know!”

His face darkened. “In 1933, the first group of Jews were rounded up and put to work, in emplacements just like this one,” he said. “The Panzer III and IV came from buildings like this one, they weren’t elegant vehicles, but they served their purposes; of course, those who tried to sabotage the progress were killed ruthlessly. By 1938, there were dozens of camps; once Poland fell, the program expanded…and expanded again.”

Trautman wanted desperately to shut him up. “By the time that Moscow fell, the entire process was well understood,” Konigsberg continued. “Thousands of Slavs were rounded up and fed into the machine; some of them worked in factories, others built the massive autobahns that led into the heart of Russia. They were broken, fed into the machines…did your family have a maid-slave when you were young?

“She would have been from one of the camps, one of the lucky ones; she’s only being worked in a house,” Konigsberg said. “Did you believe what you were told? There were no families in the remains of Russia, being fed on what the Reich paid the girls; did you never wonder why they weren’t sent home on holidays? When they were sent home, they were sent to the brothels – did you wonder where those women came from? You used them, just like all of the SS men, the soldiers, the sailors…what do you think the Americans did to their niggers, once the idea of nigger…freedom was washed away?”

He grinned. “They’re better off as slaves on plantations than they would be in the Reich…”

“Enough,” Trautman said. His head was reeling. “What have you done here?”

“Exactly what you ordered me to do,” Konigsberg said. “You wanted production increased, by all means necessary, remember? It won’t be long before we have factories going up everywhere; we’ll have thousands of tanks for the offensive against Russia and…”

“Stop it,” Trautman said. “What about honour?”

“What about it?” Konigsberg asked calmly. “This is how we did it as well, Herr Konteradmiral; this is what both of the Fuhrer’s did in their worlds.” He leaned forward. “And, Herr Konteradmiral, let me tell you something; if you shut this down, if you force the Reich to return to what it had, all of these people will die. They will die…and the Reich will die with them, because of you.”

Trautman recoiled. “All of this…”

“Oh yes,” Konigsberg said. “How much of the world outside the inner Reich did you ever see? Why do you think that it takes so long to open new colonies to settlement in what remains of Russia? The Slavs have to be cleared from the land first, or thousands of our people will have to die…and, do you know what’s worst of all? The people who do that hard thankless task come home, marry, have kids…and say nothing about their work with the extermination squads.”

Trautman leaned forwards, his hand grabbing Konigsberg’s neck. “Stop it,” he hissed. “Shut this fucking place down!”

Konigsberg smiled, despite the pain. “What? Against the will of the Fuhrer?”

Trautman let go of Konigsberg slowly. “Very well,” he said, feeling himself dying inside. “Seeing that you have created your own hell…what about production?”

Konigsberg rubbed his neck. “It proceeds, Herr Konteradmiral,” he said, his voice newly respectful. “The new Director of War Production, Albert Speer, has been working hard to unite the different production measures in the Reich. The Fuhrer has actually been pressed upon to place women in the workspace, using them to run the places that we cannot trust to…workers like those who work here; that should have interesting effects down the line…”

Trautman nodded slowly. In his Reich, women were homemakers; daughters, wives, mothers…except for the sciences. It was a curious quirk; women were believed to be better at the sciences and they were encouraged to study science in schools. A woman had even designed the reactor in the Graf Zeppelin; he wished that she’d come with them through time. In this Reich, with most of the men off fighting at the front – or they would be, once all of the measures had been completed – the effects of women taking home the pay from their work would be fascinating.

He shrugged. He didn’t expect to live to see it. After seeing the face of the regime, he wasn’t sure that he wanted to live to see it.

Konigsberg smiled. “There’s also the plan to start building rockets,” he continued. “That will take some time to get to full production; quite frankly, its worthless unless we manage to build a nuke that we can fit into one of the rockets. Even without that, we might even be able to press for space-launch capabilities and even a nuclear pulse ship.”

“I think that it will be a long time before we manage to build enough nukes for one of those,” Trautman said. “And the supplies that will be needed for the raids on Britain?”

“They’ll be ready,” Konigsberg assured him. His voice lightened; Trautman had to hold himself back from crushing his neck. “Was there anything else you wanted?”

“We’re going to burn for this,” Trautman said, looking at the closed blind. “We’re all damned and burning in hell.”

Chapter Twenty-Five: The French Connection, Take Two

Near Amiens, France
17th February 1942

The woman had introduced herself as Cecilia, when she’d met them; the members of the French Resistance cell that had stumbled across them had taken them to her farm – far too near the German base for comfort – and left them in her care. Squadron Leader Wallace Bruce had been relieved; they’d been trying to avoid the Germans for several days before the resistance had found them.

Lieutenant Chas Parke found it harder to be sanguine. They’d been hoping to return to Britain, but that seemed to be impossible; the Germans were stronger in the area than ever. Both men wore French clothes, passing off as labourers from the south of France, but neither of them could fool a Frenchmen or woman. It wouldn’t be long, Cecilia had warned them, before the Germans were informed that they were on the farm, if they made their presence known to the locals. The small village that served as the central point for the collection of farms had a lot of German business; dozens of Germans visited from time to time.

“Bastards,” Parke had muttered, when he’d seen two Germans walking directly over the field, trampling the fallow ground under their boots. The snow was melting as the weather got warmer; Bruce had concluded that the growing numbers of Germans indicated that the Germans were serious about invading Britain. At least two divisions were nearby, Cecilia had said; the Germans were actually going to try to leap the Channel.

“It would be suicide to attempt to swim in this weather,” she said, that evening. The German radio had been gloating over the fighting around Singapore, taunting the British citizens and informing them that it wouldn’t be long before the fortress fell to the Japanese. The radio hadn’t spared the French either; it had actually gloated over how France had just surrendered Indochina to Japan.

“I know,” Bruce said. Cecilia was beautiful in the firelight; her long dark hair fell over a strong, well-built body; she’d been brought up on the farm by her father and her two brothers. Her father had been killed by the Germans, one of her brothers had been taken into a camp for French prisoners of war…and no one knew what had happened to the other one. She hadn’t married; her brothers had proven a strong deterrent to any local suitors before the war. Under other circumstances, he would have enjoyed remaining on the farm, but his wife was in England and he missed her.

Parke was pacing around the room. “But there must be something that the cell has in mind,” he said. “Don’t you have a way of asking them for help?”

Cecilia shook her head, shaking her hair down to her shoulders. “There were a lot of cells, back in the beginning, that got careless and got ripped apart by the Germans,” she said. Her voice was lilting and sweet; her face was hard as ice. “They don’t tell me anything, Chas; they will contact me when they need me.”

Bruce sensed the frustration under her voice and felt a moment’s pity for the Germans. Cecilia had told him, on their first day in the farm, that she’d volunteered to fight the Germans when the British had started slipping weapons into France. The resistance cell leader had refused to take a woman into combat, citing the dangers of the Germans capturing her and having their wicked way with her. Cecilia hated the Germans; far too many people in Occupied France seemed willing to just…let things slid.

The noise of a German jet raced overhead. It was one of the new aircraft; Signal, the German magazine glorifying nazi conquests, had run a massive article on the future men and their weapons. Much of it, Bruce devoutly hoped, was nonsense; the French had been building up a picture of what the Germans had been building in their country and knew that not all of it was nonsense.

“That’s going to be a problem,” Bruce said, keeping his voice level. The last thing either of them needed was to agonise their host. “I wish that I could get a closer look at that plane.”

Parke nodded. He’d started life in Fighter Command before being transferred to bombers; he’d been impressed with what had been in the nazi paper.

“You might get a chance,” Cecilia said, her voice unduly harsh. “The Germans” – the word she used was rude French – “have been sweeping up men and putting them to work on their airbases. They don’t even have the dignity to pay the men for their efforts! You have to remain out of sight, really out of sight.”

Bruce nodded. France’s defeat had left thousands of former soldiers wandering the country, wanted by the Germans, unable to return home. If their home was in Vichy, they might not even be able to return home; the Vichy Authorities might hand them back to the Germans. The Germans might have taken the pair of them for former soldiers, luckier than most; he didn’t want to find out the hard way that they still shot people for being out of uniform.

“There has to be something that we can do,” Parke said. His voice darkened. “We could nip out and take a few shots at the Germans…”

“No,” Cecilia snapped. Bruce nodded beside her; the thought of having to knock Parke out to prevent him doing something stupid was galling, but necessary. If Parke had tried something like that, the Germans would have started hunting for him; they would have swept them all up, or they would be betrayed by the locals, or…

“I think I want to go sleep,” Parke said, and left the room. Cecilia watched him go, her eyes troubled; Bruce thought dire thoughts about what the stress was doing to them.

“Your young man needs to learn patience,” Cecilia observed, as soon as Parke had closed the door to the servant’s room – which was currently playing host to the pair of them. Neither of them had identification papers for living in France; if the Germans raided the farm, they would have to run for their lives, using the terrain to their advantage. It wouldn’t be easy.

“Our country is about to be invaded,” Bruce said. He understood Parke’s feelings, even shared them, but there was nothing that they could do. “If the Germans manage to land in Britain, there will be no hope for France either.”

Cecilia stood up and stepped over to the fire. She looked lovely in the flickering firelight. “You’re right, of course,” she said. “Still, there are so many who will do nothing, even when they could do something…”

She turned. Suddenly, she was very close to him. “I could do something to help,” she whispered. “They won’t let me help them more, just because of my sex. I don’t have my brothers any longer; I have to look after this place until the end of the war, whenever that happens.”

Bruce felt his heart racing. She was so close; he could smell her warm flesh. “The Germans have to be fought,” he agreed, trying to focus on matters of more importance. “If I could get back to Britain…”

They’d heard about British bombers that had raided France, flying very low and occasionally miscalculating and crashing in France. They’d hit the Germans, hurt the Germans, but it hadn’t been enough. As the Germans improved their own systems, learning fast; they grew stronger and more capable of intercepting the British aircraft. The Germans had suddenly gained access to a playbook that had been written in the future; they had an understanding of tactical application that the British could only guess at. Did they have time…?

Cecilia’s lips met his and for a long moment there was only her. His hands felt her desire as they enfolded her; the thought of his wife was suddenly very far away. She was pressing down on him, her breasts pressing into his body as he stood up; he could feel the tension and desire growing within her…and he felt his body answer. His hands were exploring her, his mouth was warm against her and…

No, he thought. His body answered yes.

She pulled at him, pulling him down as one hand unbuckled his trousers. His hands explored her skirt, releasing it and sending it and her panties down to the floor. She was very wet; he thrust himself into her, hearing her cry out as she came. He came, in one great shuddering torrent…and she went limp under him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, afterwards. They had lain together, conjoined like Siamese twins, for hours. The fire had burnt low; somewhere between the beginning and the end they had lost their clothes. They had slept, at some point; he didn’t feel refreshed at all.

“So you should be,” a new voice said.

Bruce froze for a long moment…and then he grabbed for the service revolver he had carefully hidden within his farmer’s outfit. The intruder held up the revolver, almost apologetically, and then held it out to him. His eyes flickered over Cecilia’s naked form, and then he focused on Bruce.

Bruce stared at him. “Who the hell are you?”

“I would have announced myself, but you were having such fun,” the man said. “You may call me Hugo, if you like.”

***
It didn’t help that Parke thought that the entire incident was hilarious.

Bruce and Cecilia had dressed quickly, once Cecilia had explained that Hugo was one of her resistance contacts; Hugo had insisted on informing Parke of what had happened when he’d arrived. Bruce wasn’t sure what to feel; he was just realising that he'd just cheated on his wife, whatever the pressures that both of them had been under.

Cecilia made a cup of coffee for Hugo, using some grains that had been carefully preserved for a year since the Germans imposed rationing on France, and allowed him to sit in the main parlour. She hadn’t looked at Bruce once, since their tryst; he half-wanted her never to look at him again, while another part of his body voted – strongly – wanted her to spend the rest of her life with him. She had been incredible; he hoped that she felt the same way too.

“Now that we’re reasonably ready to talk, I have some matters to discuss with you,” Hugo said. “My group – I won’t say any more for obvious reasons – has been in contact with England. The first thought was to get you back to England, where you could keep bombing the Germans, but that seems to be impossible at the moment. The supply of weapons has also started to dry up as Britain makes preparations for the invasion that everyone expects will come; we understand that, but we don’t like it.”

Bruce nodded. “They will want everything held back to crush a German invasion,” he said. “If the Germans try…”

“They will try,” Hugo said. “My group has been working on observing their preparations; they have been stockpiling barges and other small ships in harbours all around France…and now they have been moving them around to the coast near here. Worse, perhaps, they have been pressing Marshal Petain” – he spat into the fireplace –“to transfer some equipment from the stockpiles in the unoccupied regions to their control.”

Bruce felt his blood run cold. “What about the fleet?”

Hugo gave him an ironic look. “You mean the ships left after Oran?”

Bruce nodded. “I wish that you British hadn’t done that,” Hugo said. “It made it so much harder to gather support if the Vichy Government is denouncing you for attacking the fleet. No, so far, there have been no demands for the French fleet to be transferred to their control, but it won’t be long before…”

He allowed his voice to trail off. “The Germans have also increased their presence in this part of the country,” he continued. “I don’t think that they would waste so much effort, including two crack Waffen-SS units, on a diversion to keep Churchill guessing. That serves two purposes; not only does it have them ready to jump, but it also has them pressing the Vichy Government to work with them. My sources have gone so far to suggest that they have asked Petain to send thousands more settlers to Algeria, perhaps even to support the Germans and the Italians in North Africa.”

Bruce frowned. “So, what is going to happen to us?”

“I was hoping that you could be picked up by a submarine,” Hugo admitted. “For the moment, we might have a use for pilots, but I would have let you go if SOE had wanted you back. They would like you back, but…they can’t send a ship or a light aircraft to recover you at the moment.”

Bruce winced. “There’s no way home?”

Hugo leered at him. “Do you really want to leave?”

Bruce carefully avoided looking anywhere, but the ceiling. “I would like to fight the Germans,” he said, carefully. “Can we do that?”

“We do need pilots,” Hugo said. “Are you both volunteering?”

Parke nodded. “I volunteer,” he said. “Chief?”

“Me too,” Bruce said. “What do you want us to do?”

“For the moment, I want to borrow your friend,” Hugo said. He nodded to Cecilia. “Can I leave the other pilot in your…care?”

The way he said it suggested that he had intended another word. “Yes, that would be fine,” Cecilia said, tartly. Bruce wasn’t sure what to say. “When will we see you again?”

“Does it really matter?” Hugo said. He stood up and gave her a sweeping bow. “Come along, young man.”

“Goodbye, skipper,” Parke said. He saluted Bruce and followed Hugo out, leaving Bruce alone with Cecilia.

“There are chores to be done,” Cecilia said, after the door had shut. “I think its time to get to work.”

Bruce took the hint and started the daily list of farm chores. There was a great deal to do and not much time to do them all in; the Germans might come to visit the farm at any time and if that happened, he had to stay out of the way. If it was a raid, then…he mucked out the pigs, feeding them the stored muck, and then fed the horses. He was mildly surprised that the Germans hadn’t taken the horses; perhaps they just hadn’t gotten around to it yet.

From time to time, he was aware of Cecilia looking at him, from a distance, but he said nothing. His mind was whirling; part of him wanted to run back into the farmhouse, grab her, and make love all day. The other part of him wanted to run as far from her as he possibly could, whatever it took. He wished that Hugo had taken him; he was glad that Parke had gone instead. He wished…

His mind reminded him of how she’d felt, that night; it betrayed him.

A German aircraft, a more normal propeller fighter, drifted overhead. Bruce tried to avoid thinking about Cecilia, thinking instead of what Hugo had wanted them to do; had he some aircraft that the French could use to hit the Germans? If so, why hadn’t he a pilot?

“It’s time to come in,” Cecilia said, from behind him. She looked prettier in the light; he cursed himself, even as he knew what he was going to do with her. He followed her back into the farmhouse, watching her rear as she moved, and took the seat she gave him. The food was simple bread and cheese; the Germans kept tight control on food within the occupied regions of France.

She sat opposite and looked down at the table. “I’m sorry about last night,” she said, her voice unsteady. “I just…it had been so long since…”

Bruce grinned. “You mean, you weren’t a virgin?”

“There was a young man during the year before the war,” Cecilia said. The ice shattered; she looked up at him and grinned openly. “My father would not have approved; he switched me for daring to look at him too long, so I had him in the hedgerows, one summer. My brothers were at his sisters at the same time, of course.”

Bruce laughed. “Cecilia, I don’t…”

“I know,” she said. “I’m not cut out to be a wife; I had two brothers and no mother, after she died when I was young. I have been doing a man’s job for so long that I am a man…”

“No, you’re not, not inside,” Bruce said. “I was inside you…”

“I know that one day you’ll leave me,” Cecilia said. “You won’t have a choice. But, until then, or until Hugo finds you his plane, then…”

She stood up. Bruce had only a moment to breathe before she was sitting in his lap, her hands playing with the fastenings of his shirt. He wanted to refuse her, to push her away, but his body betrayed him.

“No guilt,” she breathed, as she impaled herself upon him. “No shame…”

Chapter Twenty-Six: Those Who Stand

London, England
23rd February 1942

“It seems as if Hitler will not turn aside from his course of action,” Churchill said. The master orator was speaking to the reduced War Cabinet; many members had been detailed to America, or Canada, just in case Britain actually fell to the Germans. Masterson, sitting at one end of the table, would have been happier if Churchill had gone to America, but he appreciated the political realities. Public morale was flinty enough as it was, ever since the rations had gotten tighter; if Churchill fled, it would collapse. The ‘peace at any price’ faction would leap into power.

“This represents an attempt to win the war,” Churchill continued, summarising the issues at hand for those who hadn’t been aware of the desperate struggle to reinforce Britain. Singapore continued to hold out, repulsing Japanese attacks with weakening thrusts of their own, but everyone knew that it wouldn’t be long before the fortress fell to the Japanese. “If Hitler occupies Britain, he will have the breathing space he needs to defeat our ally in the east and prevent our ally in the west from becoming involved in the war. He might even have the time to develop an atomic bomb.”

Masterson watched the tension rippling around the room. Only two months ago, only a few of them would have known about atomic bombs; these days, Hitler’s propaganda machine was pumping out stories about atomics and what they could do, mostly upon a disbelieving world. Masterson, who knew that atomics had been used against America, knew that once Hitler developed a few bombs, the world would be changed utterly.

“We cannot fall before the Nazis,” Churchill said. His voice was very definite; his government had officially pooh-poohed the atomic threat, but all of them knew that the weapons were real…and were in development. “We cannot fall, because if we fall, the world falls with us.”

There was a long pause. “I now call upon the Foreign Secretary to inform us of the events in the Mediterranean,” Churchill said.

The formality steadied the Cabinet. Masterson had already decided that he didn’t like Anthony Eden; the man was entirely too self-satisfied and dogmatic for his tastes. Eden, he felt, was the perfect representative of the man who had offered to bend the truth to whatever his employer wanted; the joke was used to explain Britain’s relations with Germany in his home timeline.

Eden wasted, for once, no words. “We have received a demand from Spain,” he said. “The Spanish, under their dictator, have formally demanded that we return Gibraltar to Spain and pay a certain amount in compensation for our long ‘occupation’ of Spanish soil. It’s an odd demand; for an ultimation, it holds some oddly conciliatory phases.”

“Franco cannot decide who he would prefer to see win the war,” Churchill rumbled, from his position at the end of the table. “Unlike the Duce, he will not commit himself until a victor is well-established.”

Eden nodded slowly. “Of course, Prime Minister,” he said. Masterson listened in vain for a sign of crawling; Eden seemed to mean exactly what he had said. “However, Herr Hitler has been pouring on the pressure; our embassy in Spain has been reporting on increased presence of German agents within the country, including some who are buying up Spain’s produce for the Reich. Franco may have to jump soon, one way or the other.”

Churchill’s face was firm. “We cannot surrender Gibraltar,” he said, very firmly. “What did ABC have to say about it?”

Sir Dudley Pound, the First Sea Lord, looked desperately tired. The news that the Germans would have executed him, by now, in the other timeline had taken a toll on a man who had never been very strong in the first place. Churchill’s constant hectoring of him to produce results – any results – wore hard on him; he would have a heart attack soon, Masterson suspected.

“Admiral Cunningham believes that we can hold for a few days, but it would require a major commitment,” Sir Dudley said finally. His face twitched spasmodically as he spoke. “The Spanish would be able to pound the fortress to bits with their heavy weapons, perhaps with German assistance; they would also enjoy air supremacy. Without support, Prime Minister, Gibraltar will fall.”

Churchill’s face twisted bitterly. “But we must try to hold,” he said, very tiredly. “Alan?”

Sir Alan Brooke looked very old. “We do not have the forces to mount a successful defence of Gibraltar and keep a major force in Britain,” he said. He tapped the map with one finger. “It would take upwards of a week to load ships and move the soldiers to the fortress, where they would be very likely to be killed by the Spanish bombardment. We could hurt them, bleed them, but stop them? No; we don’t have the forces required to do that.”

Masterson saw the struggle on Churchill’s face. The developments in North Africa would ensure that the fortress – and Malta – would become far more important than they had been before, particularly if the worst happened and Britain fell to the Nazis. At the same time, protecting Gibraltar couldn’t be accomplished without risking the fall of Britain; the price was too high.

“We must try,” he said finally. “Sir Dudley, I want you to draw up contingency plans for Admiral Cunningham. If Franco does jump on us, I want him to regret his choice.”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” Sir Dudley said. His voice seemed a little stronger; the shocks from the Far East had had time to subside slightly with the defence of Singapore. British troops there had fought, held…and everyone knew that they had fought well. By the time that the fortress finally – inevitably – fell to the Japanese, Wavell would have Burma and India in shape to stop the Japanese from wiping out the Raj.

“Good,” Churchill said. “I had a private communiqué from Franklin; the American troops will be dispatched this week on the two liners, which will make a very fast trip across the Atlantic, along with a powerful escort force. The Queen Mary and the Queen Elizabeth will carry most of their divisions; the remainder will follow soon enough.”

There was a pause. “It will take time to work those units into fighting trim,” Sir Alan Brooke said. “The Americans had recalled them just after Pearl Harbour; they were not exercised into a fighting unit. There is also the question of command; who is to command them in combat?”

There was a brief burst of conversation. “Although they will have an American division commander, it has been agreed that you, in your position as Commander-In-Chief of the Home Forces, will have overall command,” Churchill said, his bass rumble easily overriding the other speakers. “Later, when we come to burn the fascist dog out of his lair, we will see.”

Churchill turned to face the table. “These hours are the most dangerous in Britain’s long history,” he said, when silence fell. “We will not be found wanting. Captain Masterson, please will you brief us on the threat.”

Masterson stood up, wondering at Churchill’s tactics. Most of the men around the table would know the details, in broad if not in fine; having it delivered again would not only ensure they all knew the details, but that they would have their mind focused on the problem. The prospect of hanging, as someone had once said, concentrated the minds wonderfully – and few men here were in any illusions about what their defeat would mean for them personally.

“The Germans have declared their intention to invade Britain,” Masterson said. There were some details that he couldn’t discuss; there were some details that he didn’t want to discuss. “The invasion force will be spearheaded by the Graf Zeppelin and its task force – that’s six ships, all armed to the teeth with weapons that are advanced beyond anything possessed by the Royal Navy. In addition, the German battleship Tirpitz, the two battlecruisers and a handful of cruisers will be in position to support this task force.

“The Germans have also moved the equivalent of two Luftwaffe operations groups, or Luftflotte combat formations, to France,” he continued. “They have been skirmishing with the RAF over the English Channel after radar-guided weapons have forced the RAF to restrict itself to low-level bombing raids over France. The raids against Britain itself have concentrated on bombing targets within the Dover region, mainly radar bases and defence formations there.”

He allowed himself a pause. He had to outline the real threat – and, given what these men knew of warfare, it was laughable. He had to convince them of the real danger, the danger that the experience of forty additional years of combat operations had given the German marines. How could these men understand? He would have sold his soul for one of the puppet British formations that the Germans had raised; one of them would have saved Britain – this Britain – from invasion.

“The main threat will come with the Marine forces that have arrived from the alternate timeline,” he said, keeping his voice low. “They are, man for man, worth at least ten of ours…and they have far superior equipment. Combining the two forces, they will have around 1300 combat personnel, and around thirty tanks – and thirty-four more vehicles that might as well be tanks, given what we have to oppose them.”

There was a strangled noise from Moore-Brabazon. The Minister of Aircraft Production seemed as if he were trying not to laugh. “Only sixty-four tanks?” He asked. “They intend to take our country with just that many people?”

Masterson met his eyes. “Those vehicles are going to be very difficult to disable,” he said. “They have armour heavier than anything any of your vehicles have. They also have no difficultly fighting in the dark, destroying anything you have…and they are masters at fast-moving operations. Unless Konteradmiral Herman Trautman – and Brigadefuehrer Richard Wieland, who will probably have ground-operational command – change the standard doctrine, those units will secure the beachhead and allow them to bring in reinforcements. Once they have reinforced, they will launch an attack, probably towards London.

“Reinforcing them, the Germans have moved around seven divisions of their own to France, preparing them to embark on ships and move across to the landing site,” he concluded. “They will not be able to move more than three to four divisions within the first wave – once the Marines have secured the landing sites – but that will give them local superiority against our forces. Over the next few days, they will expand their beachhead and then head for London.”

He closed his eyes. “We must expect that they will work to develop naval and air superiority against us,” he said. “The Marines carry attached vehicles that serve as local air defence units; they have similar capabilities to units that you have already tasted in France. The ships in their task force, weapon for weapon, are capable of sinking much of the Royal Navy; we must assume that we will have to break off action, just to preserve enough of the Royal Navy for later operations.”

Sir Dudley Pound slammed his fist onto the table. “Prime Minister, six German ships cannot wipe out the Royal Navy,” he snapped. “It is a gross insult to…”

“I think, given what happened to the Rodney, that we must consider it a possibility,” Churchill said. “We can also expect the more…conventional forces to make their own efforts against the Navy; if losses pass a certain point, then the remains of the fleet must be saved for later operations.”

He looked over at Masterson. “That includes the Royal Oak,” he said sternly. “Unless we can defeat the Germans quickly, you are to take your ship to Canada; it must not be allowed to return to the Germans, understand?”

Masterson nodded reluctantly. He didn’t want to run – he’d even considered using the Royal Oak as a suicide ship, but she was distinctive. Even a buggered IFF unit wouldn’t fool German targeting radar; they would know her for what she was, even in truly foul weather. Even if, though some miracle, they managed to sink the Graf Zeppelin, that would still leave the remainder of the German fleet.

Churchill smiled grimly at the downcast expressions running around the table. “Sir Alan Brooke, now, will inform us of what we are going to do to prevent the Germans from occupying Britain,” he said. “General?”

Brooke stood, pacing over to the wall and unfurling the covered map. “Contingency planning for a German invasion was conducted in 1939, updated in 1940, and was of course never put to the test,” he said. “There was some planning as 1941 rolled around, on the off-chance that the Germans would gamble on a spring invasion, but when Hitler went into the Balkans and then into Russia, the possibility was considered to be rather low.”

He paused. “Obviously, we were wrong,” he said.

“There was no way that you could have predicted this…turn of events,” Churchill said. “I do not expect infallibility, just a reasonable facsimile of it.”

Brooke smiled wryly. “We have nine divisions, two armoured, in Britain,” he said. “These forces are backed up by the Home Guard, Local Defence Volunteers, and new units that were being raised to take advantage of weapons from America, although those units are not exactly well trained. The Free French have contributed a division, the unit that we were preparing to send to Africa; Canada has also sent a division. In theory, we should be well defended.

“Unfortunately, this is a new style of warfare, and it is one that we have only a handful of clues as to the form it will take,” he continued. “We expect that the Germans will attempt to not only knock out the RAF, but to interfere with our command and control network to a level that will destroy our ability to act as a coordinated force. These measures include radio jamming, the targeting of radio transmitters and raids behind the lines; we have attempted to counter those as best as we can, but I must caution you that it is quite possible that some German Special Forces will have unimpeded ability to run rampant behind the lines.”

He paused. “Assuming that the Germans intend to land at or near Dover, we have placed the equivalent of three divisions within easy reach of the coast. While we have considered the possibility of a landing site to the north of London, or at Portsmouth, we feel that the defences there would give even the future Germans pause; Portsmouth is quite heavily defended. Although Captain Masterson assures me that the German future Marines could land near Harwich, we do not feel that the Germans would attempt such a risky landing. Without a clear line of attack, however; we have no choice, but to keep a division in place there, along with several Quaker divisions.”

Masterson smiled. The Quaker divisions, fake tanks, fake radio broadcasts, fake everything, would worry the Germans; they might even attempt to waste their weapons on the fakes, rather than on the real targets. Everything the future Germans had was irreplaceable, he kept reminding himself; they couldn’t get reinforcements.

“We have also stationed some of the weapons from the Royal Oak near Dover,” Brooke said. “We might get a clear shot at one of the future ships; it’s certainly worth the attempt.

“In the event of the Germans managing to take and hold a beachhead, we will fall back on the GHQ line, before attempting to retake the lost territory with the aid of the reserve divisions. The RAF, which will have retreated to air bases outside the range of German attack, will be thrown into the battle; we will hit that German camp with everything we have. If worst comes to worst, we will overwhelm them through sheer force of numbers.”

He scowled. “The main problem, however, remains the advanced weapons of the Graf Zeppelin,” he continued. “We have started a major program to soak up the weapons, including massive numbers of radio transmitters claiming to be commanding officers, to radar stations that will transmit enough radar pulses to attract attention from the Germans. Within six months, we imagine that the Germans will have developed their own version of the radar-seeking missile, perhaps a form of bomb launched from an aircraft, but for the moment we will be soaking up advanced weapons.

“Furthermore, we have developed a plan to attack the carrier itself,” he concluded. “If we can sink that ship, or even put it out of service, we will have an advantage. The RAF, though Bomber Command and Coastal Command, has put together what Masterson calls a strike package; the aircraft will be launched at the carrier, trying to overwhelm it through sheer weight of numbers. The bombs are large and very powerful; they might not sink the carrier, but the Germans cannot repair her.”

For a long moment, he looked very tired. “The cost in lives will be horrific,” he said. “The pilots understand, however, Prime Minister; they know what they’ve been asked to do.”

Churchill bowed his head. “The courage of those young men,” he said softly. “It will not be wasted.”

“No,” Brooke said. “Support formations have been prepared, from artillery to combat engineers – the sappers – and emplaced in position. Once the Germans land, we will hammer them as hard as we can, using – again – sheer weight of numbers. The Germans will fight hard, Prime Minister, and Britain will be devastated, but we can win.”

Eden coughed. “What happens in the event that they defeat your counter-offensive?”

Brooke scowled. “In the event of them successfully defeating the attack,” he said, “the remaining units will withdraw to the GHQ line, which will be manned by the reserves. If the Germans break the line, then we will fight to the death in London.”

“Under my command,” Churchill said. There wasn’t a trace of egoism in his voice. “They will take this city over my dead body.

Masterson refrained from pointing out that that could very well happen.

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Ambush In Great Waters

Atlantic Ocean
27th February 1942

The presence of the ten Contemporary officers wasn’t that much of a problem – the submarine was much larger than anything the locals possessed – but Korvettenkapitän Hans Becker found them irritating. They had grown up in a world of propeller-driven aircraft and submarines that needed to spend time on the surface to recharge; the Günther Prien didn’t require anything, but reloads and perishable supplies.

“We really need to rig up some cross between your torpedoes and mine,” he said, as the submarine raced on into the Atlantic Ocean. They had paused, every day, to use a radar sweep to hunt for possible targets, but engaging them wasn’t a possibility. There were just to many ships for the remaining torpedoes to make a major impact. “There are so many targets that…we could hunt all day.”

Walter Ritchie, who was unfortunate enough to possess an English surname, nodded. “We have been working on the problem,” he said. “We can’t just fit some of our weapons into your ship?”

Becker shook his head. They’d been over it before; the Contemporary weapons were smaller and weaker than anything the submarine could actually fire. They might not well survive the experience of being forced out of the torpedo tube…and, of course, they couldn’t be wire-guided without some modified systems. Eventually, he was sure, they would come up with a compromise design, but for the moment…

It was galling. Even with the British tense and expecting an invasion, there were dozens of targets crossing the sea, at speeds that might be able to outrun a Contemporary submarine, but nowhere near fast enough to escape the Günther Prien. They could have swept the sea clear, if they had had the weapons; they had no choice, but to ignore the targets.

“You know we can’t,” he said, wondering at the question. The Reich had tried to standardize torpedo weapons, but the Günther Prien had come from years in the future. Its weapons were bigger and nastier; they might as well try to replace a computer with a switchboard. “Once the new electric-powered u-boats are online and ready to go, then…”

The thought made him smile. The electric-powered boats would sweep America from the seas. Invading America might be impossible, although perhaps even that could change, given time…but they could force America to accept a compromise peace. Once the Japanese had gotten the same idea, they would be likely to copy the Reich; the Americans wouldn’t have time to use their production advantages to their best advantage.

He checked the display again, hoping that the SS and the Abwehr had managed to get the correct information. Himmler’s men had prepared the briefing on the route that the American reinforcement convoy was supposed to take, but there was no real reason why the Americans couldn’t reroute their convoy; it was only the thought of how vitally important it would be to reinforce Britain that had kept him from telling Konteradmiral Herman Trautman that the mission was impossible.

“Captain, I have some Contemporary radar pulses,” the electronic warfare officer said. His face was pale in the semi-darkness of a submarine at war-readiness. “They seem to be American in origin.”

Becker snorted. In their time, it was possible to tell the difference; he wasn’t anything like as confident that it could be done in this time. The radar sets might be primitive, but they were powerful; he had no doubt that the ships were British or American. If so, they were either attempting to hunt submarines…or they were escorting the convoy.

“Good,” he said. He leaned forward, allowing Ritchie to see the display; the origin points of the radar pulses had appeared on the display. There were three of them, all powerful; they might be battleships, or destroyers, or…had the Americans been deploying radar on their carriers? He couldn’t remember.

Ritchie looked alarmed. “Herr Korvettenkapitän, can they see the radar mast?”

Becker shook his head. “It’s a tiny rod in semi-darkness,” he said. He intended to use the periscope before targeting the ships and launching irreplaceable torpedoes at the enemy; they had to be sure that they were firing at the right target, “If they can see it, well…we deserve to lose.”

He smiled, before checking the display again. “One radar pulse of our own,” he said. It would be low-level enough to avoid triggering any countermeasures, even assuming that the Americans had any in place. With a little ingenuity – a quality that Americans were in disgustingly high quantities of – they could have invented a few ideas, particularly if they had the enthusiastic help of the Royal Oak.

“Jawohl, Herr Korvettenkapitän,” the radar operator said. The display flickered and changed; seven ships, large ships, moving in convoy, fast enough so that ordinary u-boats would have some difficultly targeting them, let alone hitting them. “Two of them are battleships; two of them are large transporters…”

“The British liners,” Ritchie said. His voice darkened. “They have been moving troops with impunity across the Atlantic in those ships.”

“Three smaller ships,” the radar operator continued. “One of them is a transport, I think; the other two are cruisers.”

“No carriers,” Becker said, disappointed. He had hoped to be able to take a shot at a carrier. There were two British carriers in the Mediterranean Sea; he hoped that the Fuhrer or Raeder or whoever ended up in command after the invasion of Britain would allow him to take a shot at them. “Any sign of other aircraft?”

“No, Herr Korvettenkapitän,” the radar operator said. He checked his systems before speaking. “I suspect that we’re out of range for land-based aircraft; no nuclear-powered aircraft here, Herr Korvettenkapitän.”

“I imagine not,” Becker said. “Up periscope.”

He grasped the handles of the periscope as it rose above the waves. The shapes of the American ships grew closer as the filters started to work; they showed up as warm spots against the cold sea. He studied them, carefully, choosing his targets; he would have loved to have fired on the battleships, but they would have lost him two torpedoes, for nothing. American industry could have replaced them within a year; German industry could not replace his weapons.

“Excellent,” he muttered, picking his targets. The liners, at least, were basically civilian ships; one torpedo apiece should send them to the bottom. Even if the American ships managed to pick up some survivors – his mind rebelled at the thought of slaughtering the entire American force – the Americans would be in no state to assist the British with the defence of their nation.

“Lock weapons, prepare to engage,” he said. His crew hastened to obey. “Select the targets…and fire!”

***
Colonel Philip McClelland had been looking forward to travelling on the Queen Mary; he’d heard a great deal about the luxury liner. It had been a disappointment in many ways, although the ship was still finely built and maintained, it had been converted into a troopship. The senior officers, such as himself, still had the luxurious cabins, but they were fed the same rations as the fighting men.

Morale in the National Guard division was high; their home state, New England, had historical ties to the original England. Even so, McClelland knew that the division was hardly ready for war; they might have all of their weapons, but their training and support structures needed to be completed; he suspected that if it came to a fight, the force would break all the way down to its individual units.

“It’s not as if we can train here,” he’d complained, when he’d been informed that, far from having the six months he’d been promised, they were being dispatched to Britain post-haste. “We cannot have a proper drill onboard ship, can we?”

He’d done what he could, including lessons on all manner of military-related skills, but he hoped desperately that the Germans would give them time to prepare for action in Britain. They weren’t ready, not even remotely ready…but they would do their best. They were all that America had.

Silently, he cursed the isolationists, all of those who had wanted America to withdraw from the world. Handle the problems at home, they’d said; the rest of the world can take care of itself. Well, the rest of the world had come knocking, and attacked Pearl Harbour; America had gone to war, utterly unready for the war that it would fight. McClelland had no doubt of victory, no doubt that America and its allies would win the war, but it would be hard.

“Should have spent the last year getting ready for it,” he muttered, spitting the cigarette into the sea. He hoped that the British had more supplies of cigarettes in Britain; he hadn’t brought enough with the division. He grinned; a lot of men would be going without their cigarettes, or their supplies of dozens of other items; they’d been in such a rush to prepare their departure that…

The Queen Elisabeth exploded. McClelland found himself staggering back as something struck the side of the other liner, hitting it far too close to the supplies of shells and weapons for the divisions that were being moved to Britain. The series of explosions tore the ship apart, blasting it down to powder; alarms rang as the ship died.

“My God,” he breathed. He pushed himself to the side as two sailors ran past him; the ship was intended to begin manoeuvring to avoid another torpedo strike. The Queen Mary started to move; he smiled grimly as he saw the battleships start firing shells into the sea, but then he realised that they were shooting at random. They would have to be lucky to actually hit the enemy submarine…

He hadn’t believed the rumours of German ships from the future, German propaganda or no German propaganda, but now…now, he was starting to believe. A second torpedo struck one of the battleships, sending a great gout of water blasting up from the side of the ship, which started to heel over before rebalancing and starting to sink. His men – he could hear their panic – but he didn’t know what to do; what should they do with the ship under attack.

The ship rocked violently; he felt the explosion before the massive ship seemed to shudder for a long chilling moment. Men were starting to pour out of the hatches onto the deck, it wouldn’t be long before they started to panic…or worse. Sergeants were trying to keep control, but half of them were on the verge of panic as well; the entire ship was coming apart.

“Grab your lifebelts,” someone shouted, loud enough to be heard by everyone on the deck. The panic started to grow worse; there were thousands of men, packed in like sardines, and not all of them had lifebelts. There simply hadn’t been enough to go around. “She’s going down…”

Some men were jumping into the water, falling down to the water, others were trying to climb into boats, or pushing others into the water. McClelland barked orders, trying to keep everyone calm, but it was too late; with a thunderous noise, the rear of the ship broke apart, tilting everyone down towards the stern. He found himself falling down into the water as the ship rose out of the water, before heading down and breaking up into little pieces. He hit the water with a massive splash; the shock of the cold water brought him to his senses. The undertow pulled at him and he swam for his life; some of his men didn’t even know how to swim. The remains of the liner fell below the waves…and he was alone on the sea.

Someone blew a whistle. The other battleship, the one that hadn’t been hit, was coming around; its crew were lowering rope ladders to assist the soldiers in boarding. McClelland allowed others to scramble up ahead of him, tasting his shame and disgrace; his division had been slaughtered without ever having the chance to face its enemies in combat. The water tasted oily; he gulped some down by accident, his stomach rebelling against the foul taste.

“Up here, sir,” someone called. He saw a Sergeant, hanging from the netting; he started the long climb out of the water. “Come on, sir; it won’t be long before the Germans come back…”

McClelland felt cold fear shooting through his system. The United States Navy had just lost its first battle in the Atlantic, ever since the new war had been declared. He’d had thousands of men on the liner; God alone knew how many had escaped the sinking liner. The other liner, he was certain, would have gone down with all hands. Thousands of American servicemen had just died…

“We have to get them for this,” he said, and knew that it would be difficult. After this, would even Admiral King have the nerve to send American soldiers across the Atlantic? “Sergeant, how many of us survived?”

***
“Konteradmiral Herman Trautman will not be pleased,” Becker observed, watching the sinking ships from a safe distance. He had considered attempting to pick up some American sailors, but it would only be a token gesture at best. “We had to expand three torpedoes.”

He shook his head in awe. The skipper of the American battleship, assuming that he had known what he was doing, had to be the bravest man alive. He’d sailed his battleship right into the path of Becker’s second torpedo, ignoring the danger to his own crew; he’d also started to fire enough shells to sink even the Graf Zeppelin at them. They’d missed, although they had given Becker a nasty moment; the Americans couldn’t possibility have known where they were.

He smiled. Of course, the American should not have been able to see the torpedo, particularly not in this failing light, but…

“I think that Admiral Donitz would be pleased,” Ritchie said. He leaned forward to sneak a glance into the periscope, his face twisted in a hunting smile. “That’s not only the two British liners gone, but an American battleship and their soldiers. Not bad hunting, Korvettenkapitän…”

“Good,” Becker said, unwilling to say anything else. The American ships, the two cruisers, were searching for his ship; they wouldn’t have a prayer of finding her. If he’d had an unlimited supply of weapons, he could have picked them both off before they even got close to his ship, but…he didn’t, and wishful thinking wouldn’t have changed that at all. “Helm, pull us back.”

The helmsman obeyed without comment; Becker felt his ship rock slightly as it moved backwards, withdrawing from the scene of the short bloody encounter. The American ships seemed to give up at the last moment, pulling back towards the west themselves; he wondered if they would transport the survivors to Britain regardless, or if they would return to America. It hardly mattered, under the circumstances; there was nowhere to hide for the enemies of the Reich.

They were all dead. They just didn’t know it yet.

“Radar sweep,” he ordered, after thirty minutes had passed. At full acceleration, they would have left at least four miles between them and the American ships, although he knew to be wary of problems that they couldn’t shoot their way out of. If there just happened to be an American ship – or a British ship – far too close to evade…

“The seas are clear,” the radar operator said. “We can proceed.”

“Good,” Becker said. He nodded to the helmsman. “Take us home as fast as you can,” he said. “We have an invasion to attend.”

Ritchie’s face was flushed. “It was like shooting at helpless children,” he said, his voice…odd. “It wasn’t fair.”

“Of course it wasn’t fair,” Becker said. “It was not intended to be fair. It was intended to put an end to a threat, before the threat became unmanageable. I’m sure that General Schroeder, or Brigadefuehrer Wieland, would prefer to handle the Americans drowned, rather than firing at them from behind whatever tanks Americans build and deploy.”

Ritchie stared at him. “But…they couldn’t hurt you,” he protested. “You didn’t give them a chance.”

Becker snorted. “There’s no such thing as a fair game,” he said. “It is always unbalanced, one way or the other…and our job is to ensure that it is always unfair in our favour, eh?”

He grinned. “Come on,” he said, leading Ritchie out of the bridge. His cabin was tiny, but it was large enough for them both to chat. “We have to discuss how well you’re doing at coming to terms with our equipment.”

His grin grew wider. “It won’t be long before you end up in command of an electric boat,” he said. “When that happens, then you can play fair.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Skorzeny’s Descendents

Kiel, Germany
27th February 1942

“I just got a pulse-transmission from Korvettenkapitän Hans Becker,” Follmer said. The Captain of the Graf Zeppelin smiled into Trautman’s cabin. “The attack on the American ships was successful.”

“Good,” Trautman said. He’d remained onboard the carrier for the last few days, not just because there was a great deal to do before launching Operation Future Shock, but also because of what he’d seen. Trautman, a man unaccustomed to self-doubt, was wondering what – in the end – he and his people were fighting for. “Was there anything else?”

Follmer refused to take the hint. He had to have had some other reason for disturbing Trautman; normally, a junior officer would have convoyed the message, or perhaps the Captain would have used the intercom.

“We also received a note from Admiral Canaris,” he continued. “He would like to have a few words with you, later.”

“Would he?” Trautman asked. He wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone, but…

“Yes, Herr Konteradmiral,” Follmer said. “Do you want me to give him a time to visit the carrier?”

“The Grand Admiral would be reluctant to have anyone coming onboard the carrier in the wake of the preparations for the invasion,” Trautman said. His eyes narrowed in thought. “I have to visit Kiel later today anyway; please inform Admiral Canaris that I’ll see him then, if that is convenient.”

Follmer lifted an eyebrow, but didn’t press the point. “I’ll see to it,” he said. “The commanders of the destroyer flotilla have also confirmed that their new equipment is ready and loaded.”

Trautman nodded. One problem they faced was that British submarines might attempt to attack the landing craft – and the Graf Zeppelin itself. With some improved equipment, the German destroyers would be able to hold off the British attackers, even driving them off with depth charges and other weapons. They would have to hold the sea lanes open, whatever the cost; the British would use everything they had to close them.

He scowled. Given a free choice, he would have preferred to have met the enemy somewhere above London, perhaps even as far north as Newcastle…and, had he had the 1st Panzer Army at his disposal, he would have done exactly that. His lips twitched; if he’d had a larger Marine force, or the 1st Panzer Army, Britain would have been occupied by now. He would never have found out…

He tried to dismiss the thought and failed. Germany could not seek peace. Germany couldn’t win quickly. Germany had no choice, but to fight and win on the battlefield. The cost…the cost was something that they would have to live with…and burn for after they died.

“Damn you, Hans,” he muttered under his breath.

Follmer blinked. “Herr Konteradmiral?”

“Never mind,” Trautman said. “You may go.”

Follmer saluted and left the cabin, leaving Trautman alone with his thoughts. The fleet had been assembled in the Baltic Sea; one battleship, two battlecruisers, two cruisers and a bunch of destroyers, mated with the original Graf Zeppelin force. Even if the Fuhrer gave the ‘go’ order before the submarine could return to join them, Trautman was convinced that they could win. It wouldn’t end the war, of course, but…

His timer buzzed. He glanced at it blankly, then stood up; there was work to be done. He picked up some papers of his own, then walked to the door and stepped out into the corridor, noticing how…quiet the Graf Zeppelin seemed these days. The ship’s massive complement of crewmen had been drained badly; hundreds of men had been sent onshore, helping with dozens of projects to improve German technology, others had been sent to the new airbases in France and Germany. Many of them would return in the final days before the invasion, ensuring that the carrier was fully-functional, but others would never return.

The noise of a jet fighter echoed through the ship as he reached the briefing room, accepting Brigadefuehrer Richard Wieland’s salute as he stepped inside, taking one of the observer’s chairs. The briefing room reassembled a simple lecture theatre; Wieland himself stood at the podium, facing the small group of men. They were all, to a man, strong, well-trained and lethal; human wolves, trained to the peak of perfection. The SS’s Special Forces, prepared for anything; one group of them had raided the White House during the American war and killed the Vice President.

“Admiral,” Wieland greeted him. He had been appointed to command the ground-based forces of Operation Future Shock, something that had pleased neither Field Marshal Kesselring, who commanded the Contemporary side of the operation, or Marine General Schroeder, who commanded the Kriegsmarine Marines who had come through the time-slip. “Thank you for coming.”

Trautman met the eyes of the British-looking Obergruppenfuehrer Herman Roth and exchanged salutes. Roth wore only a simple civilian outfit; the Special Forces had wide leeway in what they wore on combat missions. His dark eyes flashed awareness at Trautman; his weapon was slung carelessly around his shoulder. Trautman knew that Roth could have drawn it within moments, had the need arisen.

Wieland tapped the map in front of him. “Due to limitations on the part of our cousins, we are forced to land near Dover,” he said. The men straightened up and looked excited; it would have been the first time that they would have seen the target. Some of them had been involved in training Contemporary SS forces, but the last that Trautman had heard, the project was going slowly. “This imposes certain limitations on us, starting with the fact that the enemy has made the correct deduction. We can expect that the minute they have confirmation of the main landings, they will send in their armoured forces and try to crush the landings.”

“Good luck to them,” one of the men said derisively. “They don’t stand a chance.”

“You are going to make certain of that,” Wieland said. He nodded towards the vast tactical map of Britain; the Eyes and local reconnaissance asserts had been working overtime to build up a picture of the British defences. “We do not have the asserts to mount raids, or even dummy invasions, but we do have you people. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, will be to spread havoc in the back of the British lines.”

Roth grinned a death’s head grin. “Of course we accept it,” he said. “What is the mission parameter?”

“The invasion has been planned for three to four days in the future,” Wieland said. “The night before the invasion, we will fly you in at low level, where you will be dumped on the ground, somewhere around here.” He tapped the map. “Your insertion tilt-rotor has a low radar cross-section, so we believe that British radar will not track you…and in any case they have problems fighting at night. It’s possible, of course, that they will see you land, but by the time they get an infantry division or two up to fight you, you’ll be long gone.”

The men laughed. They were certainly convinced that the small group was worth an infantry division or two. Given the technological disparity, Trautman wondered if they might be right, or perhaps they would be wrong. Even so, the gamble was worth the risk of losing the force; the British couldn’t be allowed time to react to the invasion.

“Your mission will be simple,” Wieland continued. “You will cause as much havoc as possible. You know the drill; impede their communications, wreck their transportation, kill their senior officers if you see them, call in airstrikes if you can’t use your sniper rifles…as always, you have discretion as to how you carry out your orders. You’ll be wearing British uniforms, so be careful; they will be within their rights to shoot you if they catch you.”

He paused. “Any questions?”

Roth held up a hand. “How many would you like left for the rest of the Marines, Herr Brigadefuehrer?”

“Kill as many as you can,” Wieland said. Trautman, used to gallows humour from the Special Forces, smiled. “Any serious questions?”

“What about extraction?” One of the younger soldiers asked. “How do we get out?”

Wieland pointed towards a location on the map. “Once our forces have established a foothold, we imagine that you will be helpful in punching a hole through the GHQ line,” he said. “If you head there, we should be able to link up with you; failing that, call in and we’ll arrange pick-up. Normal drill for the injured; we will attempt to pick them up as soon as possible.

“In the event of something going wrong, you will be picked up directly, once you make contact with us,” he concluded. “Avoid contact with the British forces and we should be able to meet you. Failing that, we can probably pick you up from the shore, given time to make the preparations.”

He smiled. “Any more questions?”

Trautman smiled grimly as the young men filed out of the cabin. They would board their aircraft, fly over to France, and then sneak into Britain through their tilt-rotor aircraft. The Luftwaffe would be out in force that night; one aircraft would hardly be noticed in all of the confusion.

“Herr Konteradmiral,” Wieland said, as soon as they were alone. “Everything is ready, or as ready as we can be within a reasonable space of time.”

Trautman nodded. “A question,” he said. “What do you think of Himmler?”

Wieland’s face went guarded. “I think that he’s an interesting and complex personality,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Trautman said. “Has he been interfering in your command?”

Wieland’s face remained blank. “He does have authority,” he reminded him. “He’s been urging my people to teach his people more tricks, even going so far as to offer the command of SS Wiking to me, even though it has a good commanding officer already. He wants to use the windfall that we represent, Herr Konteradmiral…”

He leaned forward. “Might I ask what the point of all of this is?”

Trautman sighed. “Has it occurred to you that we represent something…unexpected for the Reich?” He asked. “We’re going to have an effect on the Reich, one that they won’t necessarily find good…”

“I think that that’s above my head,” Wieland said, firmly. “I’m a military officer, a servant of the Reich; I carry out my duty…and that’s all that I can say.”

Trautman gave up. “I am expected to be in Kiel for a conference,” he said. “I believe that we will be able to meet the expected invasion date, so…”

“We’ll be ready,” Wieland assured him. “Don’t worry about it, Herr Konteradmiral; the future can take care of itself.”

***
Kiel looked to be bustling with life, even though the SS had imposed restrictions on those who could come into the city when the future ships were berthed near the port. The German public hadn’t been believing at first, when Goebbels announced the news, but enough strange events had happened then to convince them that the fleet was real. The sudden boom in production, working to have far more of the economy working towards the production of war material, had had other benefits; Trautman, who knew what the cost of the production actually was, wondered if it was worth it.

The airfield had been modified to take the future craft; several helicopters were parked neatly on the tarmac, waiting for their pilots. Trautman would have sold his soul for one of the Air Transportation Fleets; with that, they could even have reached America itself, but whatever had brought them to 1942 hadn’t brought anything else, as far as he knew.

He made a mental note to look for other shifts in space-time; God alone knew what else might have come with them. Certainly, the Royal Oak would have been a boon to American and British engineers, but if they had encountered something else from a different timeline, might they, even now, be working on weapons that could be used against the Graf Zeppelin?

The tilt-rotor fell over the city, descending slowly towards the airport; it hit the ground gently, drawing admiring attention from the crowd of small children who had watched its descent. Trautman would have preferred to have had them banned from the region, but Goring had insisted that they had a chance to see something that would send them towards a career in the air. Under other circumstances, Trautman might have agreed, but now…

Black-garbed SS soldiers were everywhere as he climbed into the car that had been dispatched for him; the driver took him out through the city, heading for the complex that had been converted into his de facto headquarters on land. The building was surprisingly impressive, although it wasn’t as impressive as the heart of his Berlin, but then…Speer had remained a builder in his timeline. His designs for the Nazi Party headquarters had won awards, more awards that he had ever known existed.

“Thank you, Johan,” he said, to the driver, who saluted. The guards at the gate checked his face and identity, before allowing him to enter the building, stepping into another world. It wasn’t what he remembered, from his timeline; there was a strong sense of…primitiveness surrounding it. His secretary – whom he was morbidly certain was working for Himmler – gave him a quick smile; she was surprisingly attractive, with the standard blonde hair and blue eyes that Himmler seemed to prefer in his female agents.

“Admiral Canaris is waiting for you,” she said, allowing him to enter the office forearmed. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him, and noticed that Canaris tapped one ear significantly, before pointing at the walls.

He nodded. He’d checked the office before he’d moved in and it had been swept for bugs. He checked again, using one of the pieces of equipment from Roth’s force; they were occasionally called upon to bug the offices of known suspects. The room had a new bug, a device that was large enough to be noticed by an amateur; he stamped on it and ended the threat of Himmler listening to them.

“Nice place you have here,” Canaris said. Trautman, too busy wondering who in the building had planted the bug, said nothing. “I have the latest in intelligence estimates for Britain.”

Trautman took his seat behind his desk. “Nice country you have,” he said, allowing some of his bitterness to seep into his voice. It was dangerous, but part of him no longer cared. “What can I do you for?”

“You visited one of the new production lines,” Canaris said. “I have my own sources within the factory; they reported that you found it an unpleasant experience. I would be curious to know why…”

“I’m sure that you would be,” Trautman said. The head of the Abwehr was not someone to be trusted by default. “Do we need such techniques to build our armed forces?”

Canaris looked at him narrowly. “That’s the question,” he said. “Do we need such techniques? Do we even want to win the war?”

Trautman laughed. “Do you want to lose?” He asked. “Can we risk losing?”

Canaris fenced back. “Do we deserve to win?”

“Hardly a fair question,” Trautman observed, wishing that he could just come out and say what was on his mind. He knew that he couldn’t do anything of the sort. “What would you propose?”

“We could make peace,” Canaris said. “The British and Americans don’t have the ability to handle us, do they?”

“Not now,” Trautman said. He’d said the same thing to the Fuhrer. “Give the Americans a year and they will drown us in their production. They do not have to make peace with us, Admiral; we do not have the ability to occupy Washington DC and end the war.”

“There has to be a compromise,” Canaris said. “Could we not make peace with them on even terms?”

“There’s no such thing,” Trautman said. “We cannot leave Europe unoccupied. We cannot convince Stalin to accept a separate peace. We cannot leave Britain free, because it serves all too well as an unsinkable aircraft carrier for the Americans.”

“We cannot take on the entire world and win,” Canaris said. “Can your ship defeat the entire world?”

“Until the weapons ran out,” Trautman said. “I understand your concern, Admiral, but…why? What’s the point? The Fuhrer is convinced that we can win.”

“The Fuhrer is mad,” Canaris said flatly. Trautman felt his heart flip over; Canaris had just placed his life in Trautman’s hands. “You know how the production lines work, and so do the Americans and the rest of the world. If we cannot invade the entire world, then…what can we do?”

“The best we can,” Trautman said. “Take Britain; the Americans will be held at arms length. Take the Middle East; we will be drowning in oil. Take Moscow; the threat from Stalin will be reduced, perhaps even broken. Then, perhaps, we can talk peace.”

“The Fuhrer will not agree to that,” Canaris said. Trautman had to agree with him. Hitler, he’d discovered, had little sense of delayed gratification. One of the doctors from the carrier had diagnosed the Fuhrer as suffering from an early version of an aging disorder and had recommended rest; Hitler had indignantly refused. “You know that as well as I do.”

“We have a window of opportunity,” Trautman said flatly. “We have no choice, but to jump through with both feet. After that, then we can discuss other options.”

Canaris frowned. “What happens when the Fuhrer gains control over atomic weapons?”

“I hope they will be used to convince the Americans to back off,” Trautman said. His voice betrayed the doubt he felt. “We don’t have the time, not now; Admiral, we will talk later, but not when we’re on the verge of crossing the Channel.”

Canaris rose. “I trust that you will keep this discussion to yourself,” he said. Trautman nodded. “I’ll show myself out.”

Trautman watched him leave. His thoughts were very cold.

Chapter Twenty-Nine: At Sea I Am A Coward

Berlin, Germany
28th February 1942

In his time, such a meeting could not be contemplated.

Konteradmiral Herman Trautman looked around the building that served as Adolf Hitler’s headquarters while in Berlin and felt the scales finally slip from his eyes. The founders of the Reich – this Reich – were insane; there was no other way to describe it. He’d seen enough to know that there was a great deal about the Reich that most of its citizens knew nothing about, but…they knew nothing about this. Decent people would never have let their leaders get away with damning them all.

His hand twitched on the flap of his holster, empty; the SS guards had insisted on disarming everyone who might have come armed into the presence of Adolf Hitler. Ever since the SA had been wiped out, everyone knew that the Fuhrer had enemies; Himmler himself had even speculated that Churchill would try to have Hitler killed. The Fuhrer’s protection was paramount…and the SS guards would place their lives between the Fuhrer and mortal harm.

The room filled up slowly with the Reich’s best and brightest – or those who had been lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time. Grossadmiral Erich Raeder, newly appointed overall commander of Operation Future Shock, entered and sat next to Trautman, who gave him a grim smile of welcome. Raeder was no ally, not really; his only concern was in winning the war. Field Marshal Keitel, the chairman of OKW, nodded briefly; Field Marshal Kesselring’s face was composed and studied. He had nothing to fear, despite his high rank; he hadn’t been involved with the planning for Future Shock.

Martin Bormann, Hitler’s secretary, entered, accompanying Albert Speer. The newly-appointed commander of the German industrial production effort seemed calm and confident; Trautman wondered bitterly if Speer had nightmares. His efforts, his facts and figures, were bought with innocent blood. Has the Jews in his Reich really been deported to Madagascar, or had they been used as slaves? What was the truth, any longer; who knew what had really happened, a year ago and a world away?

Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler, accompanied by a man wearing the uniform of a Brigadefuehrer, entered. The Reichsführer-SS seemed to extrude a poisonous atmosphere around him, shadowing the room with his presence; the young man beside him seemed unaware of any such feeling. He gave Trautman a calculating nod; Trautman understood, suddenly, that there would never be any peace between Himmler and himself. Once he outlived his usefulness, Himmler would kill him; he’d already taken Henry Sullivan.

“Herman,” Himmler said. Trautman wondered for a long moment if Himmler was talking to him, before seeing Goring lowering his bulk into a chair. The Luftwaffe Commander seemed to have lost weight; he favoured Himmler with a glare that, had it been possible to have used it as a weapon, would have wiped the RAF from the sky within moments. “You’re looking well.”

“And you are looking darker than ever,” Goring said, his voice icy. “Sacrificed more virgins for your pleasure?”

Himmler pulled up his nose and peered down at Goring through his glasses. “National Socialism is a matter of the spirit, as well as the flesh,” he said, his voice firmly controlled. “You might have provided us with the flesh, but the courage and the sprit will have to come from elsewhere.”

Goring’s face purpled, but Himmler was spared whatever verbal blast he was preparing when Adolf Hitler marched through the door, his mere presence yoking the men together under a common master. Trautman, along with the rest of the table, leapt to his feet, bellowing out the salute.

“Heil Hitler!”

The Fuhrer took no fanfare; no prostrations beyond the salute. Trautman was only starting to realise that that was all that was necessary; the Fuhrer’s sheer presence held them spellbound. It almost seemed to exist on its own, holding them all together; he understood, caught in a moment of true horror, the true nature of the Reich. Hitler’s warped desires had shaped the Reich…and had shaped his own Reich as well. Unaided, unchecked, he would have brought down the Reich as his funeral pyre.

Hitler wore a simple military uniform; his peaked cap resting neatly on his head. He wore it well, but not perfectly; he walked like the common soldier he had once been. It was part of his appeal, Trautman realised – and his greatest failing; he shared the disdain for the generals that most soldiers did, but he lacked the experience to understand how important the generals actually were.

“The time for the final decision on Future Shock is now,” Hitler said. Trautman blinked; he had been under the impression that the decision had been made. “Do we proceed with the operation or not?”

There was a pause. “We are certainly in the best position to launch the operation now,” Field Marshal Kesselring said, after no one else had proven willing to speak. “The enemy has just lost two ships, carrying thousands of American soldiers; we cannot rely on being able to weaken them like that again. The longer we delay, Mien Fuhrer, the stronger the enemy will become.”

Hitler’s voice rose effortlessly over the rustle of conversation. “And can you guarantee success?”

“There is no certainty in war,” Kesselring reminded his leader. “We have assembled seven divisions, intended to reinforce the future men when they take the beachhead. If we were to delay several months, we would have much more transportation capabilities, but it would also mean that the British would have ample time to reinforce themselves and dig in; they would make the island unbeatable, even by the future forces.

“At the same time, we need to deal with Britain quickly, before Stalin rebuilds his forces after the defeat that General Guderian handed out to him,” he continued. “If we delay, we will need to ship much more in the way of war materials to the east, which will render it impossible to reinforce quickly if we have to launch the invasion to the British islands. Quite frankly, Mien Fuhrer, if we don’t go now, we will lose the war.”

Hitler looked up at Himmler, sitting just around the table, perfectly placed for constant recognition by the Fuhrer. “We have encountered certain problems in developing a viable nuclear capability,” he said. Hitler’s face darkened. “Brigadefuehrer Johan Schriever will brief you on the matters in question.”

Schriever was one of the men who are instantly hated by the remainder of the male sex; young, handsome and far too successful with the women. He didn’t look that confident when he spoke; Trautman realised with a flicker of amusement that he was placing his life on the line when he was briefing the Fuhrer on something so dear to the Fuhrer’s heart.

“We obtained enough information on the construction of a nuclear power plant from the Graf Zeppelin and its crew to be certain that we could build one ourselves,” Schriever said. His voice was very low; Trautman, who had spent far too long on carriers, had to strain to hear him. Even the Reich hadn’t managed to repair damaged ears. “However, we have run into engineering problems, starting with the shortage of nuclear material; it may take as long as a year before we have a functional bomb.”

Hitler regarded Schriever with an unimpressed look. “You have the designs and plans for a bomb,” he said. “Why can you not build one?”

Schriever looked nervous. He covered it up well. “The problems involve actually building a reactor and using it to produce the explosive metal; the uranium and other materials involved in bomb production. While we have the plans for building the reactor, we do not have sufficient tools to actually build it; we have to build them from scratch, and then we have to literally re-invent the wheel in some places, just to ensure that the reactor works with our technology.

“The men from the carrier have been a godsend, Mein Fuhrer, but all of them are used to producing power plants, rather than nuclear weapons,” Schriever continued. “They wouldn’t be permitted to sail on ships, away from the Reich, if they knew how to produce the weapons. They have been very helpful, but the process remains a matter of trial and error; we have to work carefully to ensure that there are no accidents.”

He took a breath. “Worse, we have to deliver the weapon somehow, and that won’t be easy,” he concluded. “The first weapons will be massive items; we will need a new class of bomber just to drop it on a target…”

“My Luftwaffe’s new bomber will be able to do it,” Goring said, his voice firm and competent. “There will be no city in the world safe from my people.”

Hitler held up a hand. “Continue, Brigadefuehrer Schriever,” he ordered.

“We have actually made quite rapid progress, mainly through the research of Herr Doctor Professor Rudolf Lusar,” Schriever said. “We hope to have the reactor up and running within a few months, and then develop a bomb with enough material several months after that. Once we have the design finalised, we will start developing more reactors and speed up production.”

“Thank you,” Himmler said. Hitler nodded slowly, stroking his moustache. “Mien Fuhrer, the development of atomic weapons will place the world at your mercy, but we require the time to develop them properly. Taking Britain, even damaging Britain, will win us the time we require to develop the bombs and secure ourselves good sources of supplies of…explosive metal. Within the year, we will have the ability to destroy Stalingrad, Moscow, Novgorod…Stalin will be a pile of radioactive dust before too long.”

He leaned forward. “We have to move now,” he said. “If we do not move now, we will lose the war.”

Hitler looked up at the massive map of the Reich. On the continent of Europe, the territory of the Reich was marked in red; the puppet state of Vichy France and – to some extent – Italy were coloured orange. Mussolini had been reluctant to permit the Germans to work to improve on the Italian industry, but two SS divisions were a powerful argument. It wasn’t good for Italian morale, but in all timelines, Italy seemed doomed to eternal pretensions of military might…and an utter inability to maintain them.

Trautman smiled. The Italians had actually produced some good equipment. In the hands of the Reich, it would do so much more good. The irony was chilling.

“I have seen your preliminary plans,” Hitler said. “How have you refined the plans?”

Trautman spoke from his table, knowing that Hitler placed faith in him, just because he had come from the future. Himmler had been filling Doctor Goebbels – and he had been in turn filling the German public – with tales about how the arrival of the future ships proved that Hitler was the chosen of destiny. Did Hitler himself believe that? He was terrified that the answer would be ‘yes.’

“Mien Fuhrer,” he said, keeping his voice respectful. “We have prepared a powerful fleet to engage the Royal Navy, intending to engage the British ships with missiles outside their own range. If we are lucky, we will actually attack the British within their own harbour in the Orkneys; if not, we can just sink them at sea. Once the capital ships have been destroyed or scattered, the landing force can land within the enemy territory, covered by aircraft from the Graf Zeppelin and the land-based Luftwaffe air fleets that have been duelling with the RAF. Once the main beachhead has been secured, the other divisions, spearheaded by SS-Obergruppenfuehrer Felix Steiner and the SS Panzergrenadier Division Wiking, will land and spread out, preparing to penetrate the GHQ line.”

He paused. “At the same time, we will be deploying experimental weapons against the RAF airfields,” he continued. “Although we do not expect total destruction of the RAF, we expect that the attacks will weaken it – and we will be hammering them hard. We will also be hammering away at their command lines, before preparing to mount the assault against the GHQ line that will decide the fate of the war.”

“And we will win,” Hitler said, his voice growing in intensity. “What happens when the British attempt to push you back into the sea?”

“We will maintain a sizeable fighter cover and close-support bomber cover over the landing sites at all times,” Trautman said. “The British will almost certainly move their closest forces to engage ours…and both those forces will come under attack almost at once. On the ground, they will be no match for my Marines; we will have every advantage against them. We will punch through and head for the GHQ line.”

There was a long pause. “There remains the matter of the missing ship,” Himmler said. His voice was silky. “What steps have you taken towards finding it?”

Trautman ground his teeth silently. The question was one that had been bothering him for a long time; where exactly had the Royal Oak been hiding all this time? The Eyes had had a good look at all of the British harbours…and found nothing. The British ship was distinctive, at least among the British ships of this generation; it should have been found easily.

But it hadn’t been found.

“We expect that the British have been studying it somewhere,” he said, wondering if it were possible to pass the blame onto Himmler. “Have your sources found nothing?”

“Only that the Americans would be interested in obtaining the ship,” Himmler said. He smiled, almost cheerfully. “What’s to stop the British from sending the ship to America?”

“The ship remains a priority target,” Trautman said. “If it remains in Britain, we will find it eventually; if it sets out to sea, we will find it and launch a missile at it, ending the threat.” He cleared his throat. “Even with the ship, it would not enable America to magically catch up with us.”

Hitler tapped the table and drew their attention back towards him. “An excellent invasion plan,” he said, as the table subsided. “Now, what about the aftermath?”

Trautman smiled grimly. “Once London has fallen, we expect that the British will surrender,” he said. “If they do not, we will occupy the remainder of Britain through a small number of strategic points; the remainder of the country will be left to fend for itself. If they do surrender, we will treat them well; interning soldiers, but nothing else.”

“That is unacceptable,” Himmler said. All attention focused on him. “We must purge the British of elements that force them away from the path of National Socialism. They were a mighty Aryan nation once; if we purge them, they will become our allies.”

It was an argument perfectly pitched for Hitler’s ears. “The British have remarkable skill at maintaining their colonial empire,” he mused. His admiration for the British Empire was well known to those who served the Reich; Germany itself had only had a small empire before the Great War. “It would be a shame to destroy the empire when it could be used to serve the New Order. If we could get them to assist us, we would become much stronger.”

He turned to Himmler. “Appoint a commission to carry out the purging of Britain,” he said. “The Field Marshal” – he nodded to Kesselring – “can plan the military occupation of Britain, along with the annexing of a small amount of soil. If the British refuse to cooperate, we can and will tear their country apart.”

His voice started to rise. “Once we have crushed the menace of global communism in its lair, we will extend peace feelers to the Americans and convince them to join us in reshaping the world,” he said. “If the Americans refuse to join us, what can they do against a Reich that spans half the world and has atomic weapons? We will develop the potentials of space-based weapons, leading the way into space, and we will crush the Americans if they dare to resist!”

Trautman, almost against his will, found himself being drawn into the Fuhrer’s words. He wanted to buy time, time to reshape Germany, and his mind shuddered at the thought of what he might have to do, to ensure that Germany became what it once had been.

“Mein Fuhrer, the plans have been laid,” Raeder said. His voice was very stable; Trautman could sense the tension under his words. “May we have your permission to proceed?”

“Granted,” Hitler said. He looked up at Trautman. His eyes were very bright. “You will not fail me. You will not fail Germany.”

“I will not fail,” Trautman said, and wondered what statement he was actually answering. Himmler seemed to sense his mental struggle and leered at him. “I will do my duty.”

Chapter Thirty: Inspecting the Defences…

Near Dover, Britain
1st March 1942

The snow had melted, bringing with it the promise of spring; Masterson could almost taste the flowers, just waiting for their moment to burst up into the sun. He followed Churchill as he walked through the defence line, examining the soldiers and men who stood on alert for the German invader. There were dozens of them, wearing uniforms that had been banned for years in his Britain; their weapons shone in the sun.

He knew that it wouldn’t be enough.

The Prime Minister kept up a good and confident façade, but Masterson knew that it was a lie; the loss of the American supply ships had horrified him, because he knew what it meant for Britain. Even if President Roosevelt had been willing to risk more American boys on the high seas, there were none to spare; the remainder of the American soldiers were needed to reinforce the Americans in the Pacific.

Singapore had finally fallen, after the Japanese forced their way across onto the island and fought through its streets. The death of the commanding officer, early in the battle, had cost the British their commander, but the remaining soldiers had dug in and fought to the death. The Japanese had fought with their usual skill and determination, but they had had to make up what they lacked in material through manpower – and it had cost them. How it had cost them.

A naval battle had been fought in the Java Seas, leading to a Japanese victory. The Americans had raided a Japanese-held island and damaged Japanese pride; the Japanese had attempted to push into Burma, but had been bitterly repulsed by General Wavell and his forces. Tired and bleeding, the Japanese would take time to regain their strength; India and Burma hadn’t featured highly in their pre-war planning.

Masterson wondered exactly what the Germans had told the Japanese. Had they told them the truth, that they had awakened a sleeping giant, or had they told them that victory was certain? Churchill worried about it endlessly; the Japanese could knock away the struts of Britain’s empire, one after the other, while the Germans took Britain and made their gains permanent. Or, were the Japanese unaware of what had happened in the Baltic Sea? Would Trautman and his ilk share information with the nation they had intended to fight.

Churchill was still walking, sharing a few words with a trained medical doctor, one of those who had studied under Doctor Phyllis Stoner. Phyllis had been furious about her imprisonment, but she had reluctantly agreed to share some of her medical knowledge with the British in exchange for better treatment – no one knew what had happened to her lover. Trautman might well have simply killed him, or perhaps he had some other idea of what to do with poor Sullivan.

“Come along, there’s a good chap,” Churchill called, breaking into Masterson’s thoughts. “We have some tanks to examine next, don’t you know?”

Masterson moved to catch up with the Prime Minister. Behind them, the troops dispersed back to their endless drills; everyone knew that the invasion wouldn’t be far away. He would have preferred to have moved everyone who wasn’t in the military out of the suspected invasion site, but there would have been massive problems in accomplishing that, to say nothing of the sudden requirements for food in other parts of the country. The civilians had been ordered to stay where they were; he wondered just how many lives that would cost.

“Now, isn’t that a beauty?” Churchill asked. The tank seemed unfinished, crude, primitive, to Masterson’s eyes. “That’s a genuine Matilda tank, one armed to the teeth.”

Masterson reached out and tapped the side of the tank, feeling the metal for himself; it wouldn’t stand up to a sabot round, or even a high-explosive round. There were thousands of British tankers, with hundreds of tanks; he could only hope that the Germans would run out of weapons before the British ran out of tanks. The tank commander, Colonel Stewart, waved cheerfully to the Prime Minister, accepting his visit as his personal due.

“Welcome to the base,” he said, cheerfully. There was little sign that the base was actually a base; the British had attempted to camouflage the base as best as they could. The men remained in barracks, hidden from an aircraft patrolling high overhead; they knew that the Eyes from the Graf Zeppelin were being used to hunt for the British defences. Churchill had wanted the RAF to shoot the aircraft down, but the Eyes flew far too high for even a modified Spitfire to reach.

He conducted the tour around the base in simple fashion; the tanks themselves remained under the netting, hiding them from view, while the men saluted, then went about their business, preparing the tanks for the dash to the beaches. The operations plan called for an attempt to crush the enemy as soon as they arrived; Masterson hoped that they would succeed, but feared that they would fail.

“We trained as best as we could to fight at night,” he said, in response to Masterson’s question. “It’s not easy to manoeuvre at night, at least not without making the tanks very obvious targets, but we have been learning. We have also been spending time exploring the region, so that my men all know it like the back of their hands; the Jerries won’t have that advantage, will they?”

“They’ll have the ability to see in the dark,” Masterson said. Night-vision equipment had actually been duplicated by the British, once they’d seen the equipment from the Royal Oak, but they hadn’t been able to produce more than a handful of units. The Americans would produce more, but would they have the time to produce them? “You have to keep skirmish lines and pickets out at all times.”

“I never was fond of Lord Gort, but I wish we had him here,” Churchill admitted, when they were outside again. Masterson had worried about taking a car through Dover; if the German Eyes saw them, it might call on a supersonic assassination flight. Churchill would be one of their prime targets. “I wish we had time to call on one of the more experienced generals from the desert war.”

Masterson said nothing. Lord Gort had commanded the BEF in both histories; in this history, he had saved the BEF at Dunkirk, while in the other history he had died in the final stand against the German Panzers. Sir Alan Brooke would command the overall defence of Britain, but someone would have to command the battle near Dover; he was grimly certain that the Germans would seek to destroy the British lines of communication.

“Ironside, at least, knew what he was doing,” Churchill continued. “He wanted to command the BEF…and now he can command the defence of Dover.”

An aircraft screamed overhead. Masterson threw himself out of the car as the driver screeched to a stop; Churchill moved after him, slowly, but with unshakable determination. Four aircraft, all propeller-driven, flashed by, almost touching the treetops as they raced towards one of the RAF bases. A larger aircraft followed them, floating high overhead; the aircraft ignored the humans below them.

“That was far too close,” Masterson said, realising that it had been a bitter coincidence. The Germans hadn’t known who they could have shot off the road. “I think we’d better get to the HQ soon.”

Field Marshal Sir Edmund Ironside proved to be a tough-looking man with a distinct air of extreme competence. Churchill had filled Masterson in on the man’s life as they had driven the remainder of the way to the HQ; Ironside had apparently done more than most men, before becoming the Commander of the Dover defences. His HQ was set up in a neatly anonymous building, near Dover itself.

“The Germans would attempt to take the docks by force,” Ironside said. He’d spent a great deal of time thinking about how the Germans might invade. “If they take the docks, their resupply system can go to work, therefore they must not take an intact port. Towards this extent, Dover has been fortified; the Irish Guards will hold the port or die trying. Their advantages will be cut short in the streets and houses; they will have to fight us on even terms.”

He grinned. “We learnt a lot from Tobruk,” he continued cheerfully. “If we can break the power of a German assault, we can hold them and tear them to ribbons. Panic is what killed the French, Prime Minister; the Australians at Tobruk had nowhere to go, so they stood and fought. My men here will do the same.”

“We could use more Australians,” Churchill said. The Prime Minister of Australia had made his feelings very clear; the Australian units in North Africa were to return to Australia as soon as possible, without being diverted to Burma or Java, as Churchill had intended. The fall of Singapore, taking an Australian unit down with it, had made the point quite clear.

“I could use more of everything,” Ironside admitted. “We have far too many LDV people who have no weapons, no way of harming the Germans…and then there will be those who will try to fight the Germans on their own…”

“And they’ll be killed when the Germans catch them,” Churchill said. The Germans held such fighters in dread. Masterson was not surprised. “Can’t they be pulled out?”

Ironside shook his head. “There will be far too much civilian panic as it is,” he said. “There will be thousands of people running everywhere, getting caught up in the chaos…oh, it will be bad, Prime Minister.”

A signaller was calling from her station. “Prime Minister,” the female signaller called. “There’s a phone call for you from London.”

Churchill nodded and took the phone. “Churchill,” he said, gruffly. “What’s happening?”

He listened to the message; Masterson saw his face darkening. “I see,” he said finally. “Inform the country its CROMWELL, understand?”

He put the phone down. “We just received a warning from Sweden,” he said. “That supercarrier is on the move, along with the remainder of the German fleet.” He met Masterson’s eyes. “Time’s up.”

Masterson felt…a confusing churn of emotions. “Prime Minister, I…”

“You know what you have to do,” Churchill said. Outside, Masterson fancied that darkness was falling upon the land. “Today or tomorrow, we will be fighting for our lives…and if we lose, it’s up to you to avenge us.”

***
Night was falling, but it was broken by hundreds of twinkles as heavy weapons were delivered to British targets, little flares of light sparkling through the darkness. The assault had been intended to be severe, using napalm and some improvised fuel-air weapons to hit the British where they were most vulnerable. A handful of missiles had been launched, carefully removed from the supply ship and placed in France; their targets were the ones that needed desperately to be taken out. Other weapons, launched from Contemporary aircraft, would damage the British radar network, blinding them to the holocaust that was about to be unleashed on their country.

The British were fighting back, of course; the RAF was flying mission after mission, attempting to ward off the attack. Under orders, German aircraft attempted to avoid engaging the RAF directly; they had other targets, other priorities. The British hunted the big German aircraft, trying to avoid encounters with the jet aircraft in darkness, but they missed the real threat.

Secured in his seat, Obergruppenfuehrer Herman Roth watched the darkness as the tilt-rotor flew over the British coastline, travelling far too near to Portsmouth for his taste. Britain wasn’t Russia, or India, or even America; there were few places where the Special Forces group could fly over the coast without being noticed. The aircraft itself was very quite, but he knew from experience that sharp ears could still hear it; his men had trained on the aircraft long enough to know all of its little problems.

“We are approaching the landing site, Herr Obergruppenfuehrer,” the pilot said. His voice was hushed in the darkness, even though there was no way that they could be heard by the enemy. “Shall we prepare to land?”

Roth checked his watch automatically. “Is there any sign of enemy activity?”

“None,” the pilot said. “Nothing is showing up on the infrared, not this far from town; there’s some animals in the field, but nothing the size of a man.”

Roth exchanged a glance with Oberscharfuehrer Koch, his second. “It looks safe,” he said. Koch nodded, scrambling around to one of the main machine guns the aircraft mounted. Roth raised his voice. “Time to move, you dumb bastards!”

The men were professionals. Even as the hatch opened, the tilt-rotor hovering just above the ground, they were already moving. The machine gunners waited, expecting an attack at any moment, while the soldiers fanned out around the craft. Nothing moved to challenge them, no British soldier attempted to attack them. The forest lay ahead of them, inviting them into its dark surroundings.

“Safe,” Koch said dryly. One of the aircraft crewmen took the controls for the machine gun; Koch stood up, grabbed his own weapon, and slipped out of the aircraft. Roth grinned and followed him, checking the positioning of his men with one eye, keeping the other peeled for possible threats. An owl hooted softly in the distance; everything else was still, apart from the noise of the aircraft.

“You can take off,” he muttered to the pilot, who slammed the hatch shut behind him. His men knew the drill, even as the aircraft was grabbing for the sky, they ran for the forest, allowing it to hide them from British sight. Roth glanced up towards the rapidly vanishing aircraft, and then followed his men into the forest.

“They’re gone,” Koch said. He’d done the staff work while Roth checked their surroundings. “Everyone present and correct, fully armed and loaded, Herr Obergruppenfuehrer.”

“Good,” Roth said. He’d been on missions where something, normally the item they most needed, had been lost or forgotten. Their planning for the mission had been limited, even though he had full authority to plan as he saw fit; they knew very little about the situation on the ground. “Location?”

“We are here, Herr Obergruppenfuehrer,” Unterscharfuehrer Schulze said. He pointed to a location on the map. “The beacons are nothing like as precise as the GPS system, but it provides us with a rough location; we are around here.”

“Right in the rear of their lines,” Roth mused. It wasn’t strictly accurate – the GHQ line ran to the north of their location near Maidstone – but Dorking had been designated as a British supply dump and Tank Park…and they were very near Dorking. They could attack the supply dump, or they could raid the British supply lines, or they could…

He smiled. “The supply dump?”

Koch nodded. “If we could destroy some of their weapons and guns, it will make life easier for the army,” he said. Dorking had another advantage; it was far away enough from the predicted centre of operations to confuse the British still further and make them very worried about the security of their rear areas. With a little effort, they could even make sure that the British thought that they were an entire army group…

Roth nodded. “Move out,” he said.

The group passed through the forest silently until they found a small country road, then they walked near the road, ignoring the road itself; the British would have roadblocks set up now that the war had come home. They moved quickly, pausing only to slit the throat of a poacher they encountered in a moment of absolute confusion; they saw no other British citizens until they neared the dump.

“I think the Luftwaffe had a crack at this place,” Koch muttered, as they hid themselves in the darkness. Dorking was burning; someone had bombed the small town with a firebomb…and completely missed the dump. Roth muttered under his breath about idiot pilots; their uniforms might be British, but not all of his men could pass for British.

“I noticed,” Roth said, looking at the supply dump. The shape of British tanks could be made out in the semi-darkness; they had to attack and get away from the fighting before the sun came up, or they would lose some of their advantages. There were enough guards running around to convince him that a direct attack would be futile, but there was a small watch post on the hill above them…

The team moved up the hill, watching for trouble, and peered into the watch post. Two English soldiers were there, brewing a cup of tea and listening to the BBC; the announcer was pretending confidence. The sound of church bells, ringing in the distance, underlined the concern the two soldiers seemed to share. He held up his hands, counting down to zero from three, and then he and Koch leapt into the post. His knife lanced into his target before the soldier could raise the alarm; his companion died just as quickly.

“We could give them some false information,” Koch suggested, looking at the field telephone on the desk. Roth, who was examining the view from the watch post, had other matters to think about. “The English could be sent in the wrong direction.”

Roth shook his head. “Set up the mortars,” he said. “They’ll have some codes to ensure that the right people are here, just like we needed in Russia.”

Koch nodded, ordering the men to deploy the high-explosive mortars that they’d carried all that way. Roth took a moment to make sure of his targets – an ammunition dump and a fuel supply for the tanks – and slipped back to his men. When the British started to shoot back, they’d shoot at the watch post; he deployed his men to make it harder for any would-be hero to climb up to get them.

He asked a question with his eyebrows. “The weapons and our escape route have been prepared,” Koch said. “Shall we fire?”

“It’s time to show the British what war is all about,” Roth said. “Fire!”

Chapter Thirty-One: Hitting the Defences…

North Sea, Near Jutland
1st-2nd March 1942

Konteradmiral Herman Trautman had been thinking about America.

The Americans had spent so long on their side of the Atlantic, without anything that could seriously threaten them, that they had grown…lazy, complacent. They had missed the all-important fact that their security came from the British Royal navy; they were unwilling to make the investments required to hold themselves safe from outside aggression. If the Japanese had been three or four times as powerful as they were, they might well have won the war within the first few weeks.

The Americans would have learnt a hard lesson by now; security could only be trusted if it was enforced by armed might. He imagined that they would have lost it soon enough, just as they had in his timeline; who would have believed that nine carriers, not that much smaller than the Graf Zeppelin, could have sunk the Atlantic Fleet? Americans were…lazy; they were unwilling to spend effort on ensuring their security, and they were far too willing to spend too much time arguing about trivial matters when defence counted. What good was self-determination to a people, if they had no greater power willing and able to defend them against the predators of the world?

He understood Canaris’ problem; his movement, such as it was, would never work up the nerve to move against Hitler until it was clear that he was bad for Germany, but that wouldn’t happen until it was already to late for Germany. Silently, mentally, he cursed the event that had brought him into the strange Reich – as the scales fell from his eyes. Germany would lose the war, unless they bought the time they needed, but as long as Hitler ruled the Reich, peace was impossible.

He shuddered. The Reich’s crimes were many. Peace might be impossible under any circumstances.

He’d gone back to the history books, reading them with new eyes; the Reich had lied constantly to its citizens. Six million Jews from Europe had been moved to Madagascar, according to the Ministry of Correct Information; the logistics would have defeated anything more than a small attempt to move a few thousand at most. The Soviet Union had slaughtered thousands of its citizens as it was destroyed, according to the Ministry of Correct Information; no one could have done that in the space of the six months of fighting that had brought the Soviet Union down to its knees. The remaining Russians were delighted at the German plantations that had started to civilise the region; if half of what Wieland had reported about the extermination squads was correct, the Russians would be trying to kill every last German. If…

His mind raced, his eyes looking at the tactical display, but not seeing it; there was too much else to see. The only hope for this Germany was to reform it, after winning the war – and winning, in this sense, might mean nothing more than holding what the Reich had taken. That meant he had to wage war on behalf of this new Hitler, he had to bring down Britain…and use it to gain the time to reform the Reich. That meant…

“Signal from Eyes-1,” one of the CIC officers said, breaking into his thoughts. “The British fleet is preparing to sortie.”

“Show me,” Trautman said, turning to face the main display. The researchers had been promising to improve the system for years – and he would have given everything for one good communications and reconnaissance satellite – but for the moment it would do. The infrared signal was clear; the enemy ships were moving out of the harbour and heading south. “Interesting…”

It was, too; the enemy weren’t heading out to engage them directly, but instead seemed to be almost hugging the coastline. The larger battleships – he counted three of them – were moving as fast as they could; he hoped that one of the u-boats would be able to take a shot at them. His own submarine would be out of place for an interception. The smaller British ships were spreading out to shield the larger ships; they clearly feared the presence of his submarine…

“Now, that’s clever,” he said, understanding exactly what the British were trying to do. They’d clearly worked out the range of the missiles carried by his two heavy cruisers…and they’d positioned themselves in a position where he would have to come closer to attack them, through water that would be infested with submarines. A single lucky shot could put the Graf Zeppelin out of business for weeks, or forever; if the British had had nuclear torpedoes…

He shook his head in amusement. No one in their right mind would use nuclear weapons as torpedoes.

His eyes followed the British ships for a long moment, and then he looked down at the tactical display. His own fleet, the largest fleet that had been sent into battle since Jutland – and also the most powerful that the world had ever seen – was progressing towards the target zone. The British might have hoped to tempt him into an encounter at close range with their submarines, but he had already decided that he wouldn’t risk such an encounter.

“Captain, order the destroyer screen to watch for British submarines,” he said, tapping his intercom. The CIC could have issued such an order itself, but he needed to think. “Order the frigates to remain close to us; they might try to sneak something through and get into firing position.”

He hadn’t told Hitler – because it would only have upset him – but there was no way that the British could have avoided detecting his fleet. Even with missiles to slap down any hunting aircraft, the sheer barrage of radio and radar energy from the carrier alone would have betrayed them; he had already decided to use that to his advantage. The three heavy Contemporary ships would be much quieter, at least to the Royal Oak’s sensors, but…he had wanted their firepower along.

Time passed as the fleet advanced towards the Netherlands.

“Herr Konteradmiral,” Follmer said, “the Dover reports engaging and sinking an enemy submarine.”

“Good,” Trautman said, making a mental note of it. The British ships were still racing towards the invasion site, remaining close inshore; they had altered their tactics, so Trautman would alter his. “Have them probe further out from the fleet, and then inform the two missile ships that it’s time to proceed with stage two.”

“Jawohl,” Follmer said. His voice altered slightly with the prospect of action. “Shall we alter course?”

Trautman’s eyes traced the course of the British ships. “There’s no need,” he said. “They’ve been trying to remain out of our range, but they haven’t quite succeeded, have they?”

He grinned. The British ships had been racing to reach Dover before his forces, with the obvious intent of trying to sink everything the Reich could send against them. If they grounded themselves, it might have worked; he would have been delighted to have had a few mythical nuclear torpedoes to hit them with. They had been moving fast enough, however, to stray into the range of the two missile ships, and that would be their last mistake.

He altered the channel. There was no need for split-second decisions, not here; the British couldn’t hit them without being seen in plenty of time. “Von Trapitz, Mueller; I want you to proceed with Plan One, I repeat, Plan One.” He nodded as they responded. “Remember, I want you to save as many missiles as possible.”

The display altered as both missile cruisers started to launch their missiles. Two each would strike the British battleships; one would be targeted on each of the remaining British ships. He would have preferred to have spent other weapons on the British ships, but he didn’t dare leave them in a position where they could interfere, no matter how unlikely it was.

“Change the display to the Eyes,” he said, watching as the display altered itself. He noticed with one eye Bekker entering the CIC; there wasn’t any time to talk as the missiles flashed closer and closer to their targets. He’d wondered if the British had managed to rig up some form of primitive defence against the missiles, even though he couldn’t imagine one, but it was clear that they hadn’t; the missiles were streaking in to target their ships and…

A battleship exploded as a warhead exploded right inside the ship. It’s boiler exploded, adding to the chaos; it was broken in half by the explosion. The second battleship was lucky; one of the missiles missed it entirely, but the second one smashed its bridge and destroyed it. Helmless, it started to spin out of control. The smaller ships never stood a chance; they were destroyed in backbreaking explosions. Burning wreckage littered the dark seas.

It was almost dawn.

“Poor bastards,” Bekker commented. “They never stood a chance.”

“It is war,” Trautman said.

He turned to face the display. “Report,” he ordered his intelligence staff. “Where are the British carriers?”

There was a pause. “They left Scarpa Flow,” one of the officers replied. “Since then…we lost track of them.”

Trautman wasn’t surprised; the carriers were hardly important. A single missile would destroy them, if they had the time to deploy the missiles. He turned to Bekker, nodded once, and then turned back to the display; the air battles were still raging over Britain, but the RAF hadn’t been defeated yet. He smiled grimly; in the last Battle of Britain – in this timeline – Goring had sworn to crush the RAF…and clearly failed.

At the same time, the British defence network was clearly taking a beating. The radar stations had been damaged, often knocked right off the air; the RAF’s airbases had been treated to the joys of fuel-air explosives. They would have plans to step down their operations, if they needed to, but the Germans were hitting them right across the spectrum. It was blitzkrieg, in its purest form…

“Prepare for Plan Two,” he ordered, as the fleet began to pick up speed. “Von Trapitz, Mueller; I want you to proceed with Plan Two, I repeat, Plan Two. Make certain that all of your targets are hit.”

He barely listened to their acknowledgements. Plan Two involved tactical strikes against some defence stations in the South-West, ranging from Royal Navy bases to some army barracks. He was too much of a realist to believe that the strikes would wipe out the defenders, but if the destroyers that had been in the Thames had been sunk, their life would be much easier.

“Herr Konteradmiral,” Follmer said, over the intercom. “The Narvik reports engaging and sinking an enemy submarine. The Dover now claims three; the Oslo claims two of its own. The destroyers from this era are saying that they sunk several more themselves.”

“Destroyers and their claims,” Bekker muttered, too quietly for anyone else to hear. There was an icy note of contempt in his voice. “They probably are all claiming the credit for the same ship.”

“Never mind,” Trautman said, watching the display. “It’s time to split the fleet.”

Under normal circumstances, it would be deadly dangerous, but now…? The battlecruisers led the way, escorted by their own destroyers; the Tirpitz followed them, its gun batteries already swinging around to face the shore. The Graf Zeppelin and its fleet, apart from the landing craft, hung back; they wouldn’t be risked so close to British shore-based guns. Losing the carrier that way would be…embarrassing.

Trautman nodded to the Luftwaffe liaison officer. “Inform Field Marshal Kesselring that he can launch the main assault now,” he said, as the sound of jets taking off began to echo through the carrier. He grinned as the landing craft moved closer to the shore on the display. “Inform Admiral Donitz” – the Admiral was flying his flag on the Tirpitz – “that he may open fire when ready.”

The first flickers of light were beginning to glimmer through the sky.

The display adjusted itself as Tirpitz fired its main guns in anger for the first time. There was a long heart-rendering moment…and then a massive chain of explosions blossomed up from the shore. The battlecruisers joined in the firing, spreading their fire up and down the shore; the aircraft high overhead would assist them in targeting the shore batteries. The British guns were attempting to fire back; they would damage the battleships, but at the same time they would be revealing their presence. Under the cover of the fire…

He smiled. Under the cover of the fire, the combined SS and Marine force, all from the fleet except for a handful of Contemporary personnel, was advancing towards the shore on their landing craft. The battleships would have that long to shake the British up a bit – gunfire wouldn’t be certain to wipe the defenders out – and then the invulnerable Panzers could go to work.

“Radar contacts,” an officer snapped. “We have British destroyers, heading from Portsmouth…”

“Designate for missile targeting, transmit to the Goring and order it to take them out,” Trautman snapped. He scowled inwardly; he was running through missiles at an appalling rate. Far too many had been wasted on British ships that were hardly worth a shot from the battlecruisers that were now spraying fire on the shore. British motor torpedo boats were heading out to fight as well; a flight of absurd-looking biplanes – absurd, except for the fact that aircraft just like them had played a vast role in sinking the Bismarck – were skimming across the sea towards the battleship. He watched grimly as the battleship attempted to shoot them down…and then a Messerschmitt shot them down in quick succession.

“Damn the criminals who made them fly that death trap,” Trautman said, echoing Lutjen’s words from another timeline. “Damn them all.”

“The Marines report that they have secured the bridgehead,” General Schroeder said. He had been unhappy at remaining onboard the carrier, rather than his own ship; he’d protested in the strongest possible terms. “They’re calling for the battleships to crease fire now…”

“See to it,” Trautman ordered the liaison officer. “Inform Admiral Donitz that he is to crease fire…”

Alarms sounded. “Missiles detected,” Leutnant zur See Fuchs snapped, over the intercom. “Missiles read out as standard type-243 missiles, targeted on Tirpitz…”

There could hardly be any doubt about their origins. Type-243 missiles had been carried by only one ship in the fleet, the Royal Oak. Was the ship still lurking out there, or had the missiles been fired from the shore?

“Backtrack,” Trautman snapped. Type-243 missiles were outdated; they wouldn’t have been fired at the Graf Zeppelin because the carrier could have shot them down, but the Tirpitz had been having problems with Swordfish aircraft. There was nothing they could do, but pray… “Find out where they came from…”

Tirpitz shuddered under the impact of three missiles. For a long chilling moment, Trautman thought that the ship had survived; the missiles hadn’t been that powerful. The Morale Officer had been duped, or had lied to him; the missiles were hardly standard type-243 missiles. A series of explosions tore the battleship apart.

“Search and rescue,” he ordered, keeping his voice calm. Admiral Donitz had almost certainly been killed in the blasts; he hadn’t struck Trautman as the sort of man who would jump overboard at the slightest excuse. “Have two Blitzkriegs overfly the launch sites and…”

“Aircraft detected from Britain,” the Air Controller said. “They’re heading directly for us.”

“Belay the last order,” Trautman said, his voice starting to fray. The British had clearly not lost the RAF; it was flying directly towards the carrier and its task force at a massive speed. At least two hundred aircraft, flying together in a group, heading directly for him and…it was no mere show of strength, but an all-out attempt to sink the carrier and its task force. If the Graf Zeppelin were to be sunk, then…the British might still win the day.

“Order a full air defence alert,” he ordered. The ready aircraft were already launching, clawing for sky and preparing to intercept the enemy aircraft. “Weapons free, I repeat…”

The radar changed as more aircraft, this time from Germany, entered the combat zone. Kesselring would have been updated; he would have known what the danger was…and taken steps to avert it. The battlecruisers were firing into the British force as it passed over their heads, but they wouldn’t be enough; there was no time to run, only to fight.

The display changed. It showed the impossible. “Sir, they’re broadcasting German IFF signals,” the radar operator said. “Admiral…?”

Trautman felt his blood run cold. The trick was nasty, but it might well work for the British. “General signal,” he ordered. “All German aircraft are to retreat from the carrier’s air defence zone, understand?” He paused. “Any propeller aircraft that enters the air defence zone is to be engaged.”

The British force fell on the carrier. As it closed in, the escorts went to rapid fire; the Graf Zeppelin, hardly unprotected, opened fire itself. Dozens of British aircraft tumbled out of the sky, but others kept coming, launching bombs towards the carrier. One of the destroyers was hit; it exploded in a series of blinding flashes. The Oslo was damaged by a torpedo hit; a Spitfire strafed the deck of the Graf Zeppelin before being picked off by one of the CIDS weapons. It crashed into the deck and exploded.

“Damage control teams to the flight deck,” Follmer bellowed, over the loudspeakers. “Damage control teams to the flight deck…”

Trautman let out a sigh of relief. The attack was fading, failing; they had been hurt, but they had survived. A final flight of British planes was approaching, but they were old and slow; they wouldn’t last long at all. The aircraft were jinking backwards and forwards, dancing towards the carrier, and the CAP was moving to intercept and…

Bekker’s mouth fell open. “Herr Konteradmiral…”

The British pilot had seen the VTOL aircraft that was closing in to shoot him down. He did the only thing he could, pushing his aircraft right towards one of the German ships…and smashing right into the ship. As Trautman watched in horror, the heavy missile cruiser Goring exploded in a sheet of fire, sending a massive blast of water into the air as the missiles detonated.

The carrier shook as the wave slammed into its hull, but it survived. The British aircraft had been wiped out, or had retreated; Trautman let them go. They’d fought well…and they had inflicted an irreplaceable loss on the German ships. He hadn’t expected anything like it – no one had. The British hadn’t fought like this in the other timeline. They had won…so why did it feel like a defeat?

It was just after dawn.


Chapter Thirty-Two: Blitzkriegs over the White Cliffs of Dover

Near Folkestone, England
1st-2nd March 1942

The landing craft Heinz Guderian, named for the General who was currently commanding the Eastern Front, was a modified Kesselring-II craft, designed and operated by the SS. In appearance, it bore far more in common with the aircraft carriers of 1942 than did the Graf Zeppelin, but it carried far fewer aircraft. An entire island – although one much smaller than Britain – could be taken by the force carried by the single craft, although normally they would never dream of operating on their own. The presence of the Kriegsmarine Marines, in the Erwin Rommel, wasn’t reassuring; they weren’t SS.

Sturmbannfuehrer Rudolf Pabst took a long breath, and then hurled himself into the icy water, hitting it with a splash. It only took a moment to check his wetsuit, and then he was swimming, with his men following behind him. The water seemed to be alive with the sound of explosions as the battleships fired on the shore formations, distracting them and hopefully doing some damage at the same time. Pabst, who had long experience of promises of help from people fighting at arm’s length, expected that they would find the British undamaged and had planned accordingly.

The waters washed against them as the battleships fired a coordinated barrage onto the beach, where the British would almost certainly have laid mines and barbed wire. That wouldn’t help them against Pabst and his commandos, but it would slow down the landing craft; even one of the biggest tanks in operational service could be distracted by a mine in the wrong place. The secondary explosions, British mines exploding in the shockwaves, passed through the water; his men slipped their way through the British obstructions, making their way onto the beach.

High above them, he could see the shape of British bunkers, set back into the rising sand and rock from the beach. He pointed once to his men, dressed in their dark outfits; they followed him silently up towards the bunkers. The British would be watching the ships – he glanced back to see the battleship flashing with yellow lights as it launched a massive charge of shells towards the British positions – and hopefully missing his people altogether. He slipped between two bunkers, noticing the carefully positioned guns that would even mess up a Panther II, and…

“Halt! Who goes there?”

A dozen smart remarks came to Pabst’s mind; he manfully resisted the temptation to say any of them. He shot the British sentry quickly, with his silenced pistol; the British guard toppled over with the shot. His men moved forward, into a connecting trench between the bunkers; they fired as they moved. A British soldier tried to drag a machine gun around to spray them off the bunkers; Pabst shot him quickly, before he could do any harm.

An explosion shattered the first of the bunkers as the British started to fire out to sea, grimly aware that they were suddenly at ground zero of the invasion. Surprise had been lost; Pabst barked orders to his men, ordering them to take out the remainder of the bunkers. As explosions began to shatter the remaining bunkers, Pabst took his radio and issued a single instruction.

“Panzers…march!”

There was no time for sightseeing; the fighting had spread out all across the strange complex that the British had built to defend the beach. The British soldiers were fighting back hard, despite their surprise; they had already started to launch a counter attack. Shouting ‘no surrender, no surrender,’ the British fought back desperately; the white heat of a flamethrower blasted out as an Englishman incinerated one of Pabst’s men. There was…

A massive wave of…something passed overhead…and then the British position was blasted with fire. The British would have reinforcements, somewhere near the battlezone; the battleships were blasting the most likely targets. The British guns were now roaring out their defiance, sending blasts towards the German ships out in the Channel; the Germans were picking their targets carefully.

An explosion nearby knocked Pabst to his knees. He held his weapon in one hand as a group of British soldiers charged towards him; he picked them off with a single spray from his submachine gun. If the British had learned of the concept of body armour, they had never put it to use; the soldiers wore only their uniforms. Their bodies littered the steps as their aircraft flared overhead, trying to attack the fleet.

“Herr Sturmbannfuehrer, we have reinforcements,” Scharfuehrer Keller snapped. “They’re coming out of the water like crabs.”

Pabst shuddered. He really hated crabs.

The beach was alive with movement. The Panther III’s had been designed in a program to create a tank that could literally travel between Britain and France underwater. It hadn’t worked, but the tanks were much more capable of landing from the sea than any other vehicle; under some circumstances, they could be literally lowered from the assault ships. This time, they had been moved closer to shore and then launched from LST vehicles.

They clanked out of the sea, water running from their armour; they moved forwards slowly and purposefully. Massive blasts of water blasted up as they moved; the British, alive at last to the danger, were calling in artillery on their own positions. Some of the Panthers returned fire, using their onboard radars to target the British gunners, others just moved forwards under fire. Massive chains were launched forward, detonating mines well before they could hurt the panzers; they crept forwards up towards the British mainland.

“Secure this area,” Pabst snapped, tearing his gaze away from the spectacle. The British had obligingly built a road down to the beach for their holidaymakers; he would have bet good money that it was mined. The panzers advanced, moving towards the road, detonating mines as they went. Shells continued to hiss out of the air onto the Panthers; it wouldn’t be long before one of them was hit…and he didn’t know what a British shell would do to a Panther.

“Jawohl, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer,” Scharfuehrer Keller said. He started to bark orders as the flickering light of the fires began to reveal more of the British position. They’d dug in well, but they hadn’t expected his people…or their ability to see in the dark. Some of his men had taken up positions in places where they could snipe away at the British as they moved forward, although he knew that it wouldn’t be long before the British managed to put together a real counterattack.

The panzers crawled up the road, allowing other units to be landed, including a group of mine-clearing officers. They started to work as other craft landed, unloading other parts of their equipment, including a major anti-aircraft system. The eerie shapes of the battleships could be made out in the growing light, firing into the British positions; they were doing excellent work at bombarding the shore and keeping the British distracted.

Shots rang out; a blast of machine gun fire from the Panthers answered them. Pabst took a moment to check his dispositions, and then ran towards the command tank, noting the very familiar face that was sitting out of the tank, peering into the darkness with a pair of night-vision goggles. More landing craft, carrying the Marines from the other ship, had arrived; the smaller tanks of the Marines were riding up faster into the British countryside.

He saluted smartly. “Heil Hitler!”

“Heil,” Brigadefuehrer Richard Wieland returned. “Situation report?”

“We took the British bunkers and burned most of them out,” Pabst snapped out. Now that the fighting was…at a lull, he felt the pain of the missing comrades, those who had died at the hands of the British. “There has been no attempt at a major counterattack, not so far; we lost three people, one of them to a flamethrower.”

Wieland nodded. “You’ve done well,” he said, as more Marines started to filter up towards them. “Now we have to make sure that we can hold what we’ve taken.”

Pabst nodded. “Yes,” he said slowly. “Herr Brigadefuehrer, when will we get reinforcements to take the two nearest towns?”

“Soon,” Wieland said. He pulled himself out of the turret and slipped down onto the ground. “Once we have the entire combat group landed, then we will have Contemporary reinforcements to use to take Dover and Folkestone. Once we’ve done that, then we can pace out towards the GHQ line…”

“Unless the British attack first,” Pabst reminded him. “They can’t leave us here.”

A roaring noise sent them both to the ground. A flight of rockets flashed overhead, heading directly for the Tirpitz. The battleship would have no time to react; Pabst watched in horror as the rockets – no, the missiles, he saw – impacted with the ship, one of them detonating on a weak spot. The entire battleship disintegrated in a series of tearing explosions.

“They must have hit the ship’s magazines,” he breathed. “They’ll be counterattacking for sure now…”

Wieland was barking out orders. The antiaircraft systems were being deployed quickly, along with a series of radar-guided guns, which would fire back in hopes of suppressing the British shellfire. They could expect a British attack at any moment…and as a massive flight of British aircraft flew high overhead, he wondered if they were about to face the attack.

“They’re going out to sea,” Wieland said. “They must be trying to attack the fleet directly.”

He shook his head. “The follow-up echelons can take care of the remainder of the British bunkers,” he ordered. “I want you to push the perimeter out for nearly a mile; take the weapons and move!”

“Jawohl, Herr Brigadefuehrer,” Pabst said, grabbing his weapon and reassembling his team. Moments later, as a second tearing blast of light flashed through the lightening sky, his men were spreading out along a British road, heading inland. Other teams would be pressing out towards Dover, probing to discover the next locations of British resistance; Pabst was grimly certain that the British had to be mustering everything they had to throw them back into the sea.

The entire scene was eerie. Explosions flashed out and went silent quickly; gunshots echoed out in the night, but none came near his team. Aircraft roared overhead, fighting it out with other aircraft; the RAF had clearly avoided the destruction that had been planned for it. As the sun rose in the sky, the devastation became clearer; a flight of shells had landed in a small thicket and set it ablaze…

A gunshot cracked out. Pabst felt as if someone had punched him in the chest. He staggered backwards, falling over to the ground, as Scharfuehrer Keller directed a hail of fire onto the British farmhouse that had fired the shot. He rubbed his chest, silently thanking God for the body armour; it had stopped the shot, barely. Other shots rang out; whoever was in that house was a good shot. The house was well built; the team had fired dozens of high-powered shots at it and accomplished almost nothing.

Scharfuehrer Keller gave him a concerned look as he staggered to his feet, but said nothing. “Get an antitank weapon set up,” Pabst ordered, unwilling to allow whoever was in that house to hold them up until they could summon a panzer to level the house…and there was no way that he was going to call in an airstrike. The pilots would never let him live it down.

Scharfuehrer Keller didn’t argue. “Jawohl, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer,” he said. He unloaded the antitank weapon, put it to his shoulder and fired once from cover. The small rocket flashed out across the garden and slammed into the farmhouse, blasting it into a flaming ruin. The team didn’t wait for orders; weapons ready, they ran towards the house, securing the wreckage. Scharfuehrer Keller checked the ruins quickly, hunting for bodies; they only found a British Private, burned almost beyond recognition.

“Poor bastard,” Scharfuehrer Keller commented. The lowering of a cow could be heard in the distance as the remainder of the farm was quickly secured. A barn proved to have an elderly couple hiding in it, along with their teenage granddaughter. Pabst glared down the two men who were looking at the girl lustfully, then spoke to the elderly couple.

“Tell me,” he said, in his halting English. The SS encouraged its officers to learn another language, but he’d concentrated on Russian. “What happened here?”

The grandfather gave him a look that mixed defiance with fear, not for himself, but for his granddaughter. “They came running here, ordered us to get into the barn, and set out to defend the farm,” he said, speaking perfect German. “They wouldn’t let me fight you bastards. I was at the Somme and you couldn’t kill me then.”

“I wasn’t at the Somme,” Pabst said absently, once he had worked out what the man meant. “I would advise you to head out of here.”

The grandfather glared at him, stared at the ruins of the farm, and started to leave the farm. His wife was crying, but followed him; the teenage girl gave the Germans a frightened look, and then followed her grandparents. Whatever remained in the way of materials in the farm could be used by the invasion force; the cow’s presence suggested nothing less than roast beef.

A flight of jet aircraft roared overhead, heading deeper into England. Pabst watched them go, wondering where they were going; the team seemed to be completely cut off from the rest of the invasion force. He hoped that the Contemporaries had begun their landings, that they had swiftly moved to reinforce victory, that…

“Herr Sturmbannfuehrer,” Scharfuehrer Keller snapped. “Look!”

Pabst followed his pointing finger. A small British force was advancing towards them, three tanks, and three smaller armoured vehicles of a type he didn’t recognise. They were moving down the road, with a small infantry force following them; they looked far too professional for his tastes. He would have preferred them to have come blundering into a trap he’d set, rather than the ruins of a farmhouse. They would have to improvise.

“Up there,” he snapped. The British hadn’t seen them yet; he wondered if they’d been pointed in their direction by the English people they’d let go. “Get into position.”

The team moved quickly, heading into the sheltered ditch; Scharfuehrer Keller set up his antitank weapon while Pabst called in the contact. A flight of British aircraft headed overhead at very high speed, heading east; he saw one of them, hit by a weapon that he didn’t recognise, falling out of the sky in flames. The others dropped their bombs; he wondered what they’d thought that they were aiming at…and what had actually been hit.

The British infantry were slipping closer, watching for ambushes, but they simply didn’t have the training of his comrades, or the mindset that came from living in a country that was a constant warzone. The team took their beads on the enemy targets, preparing to fire at Pabst’s command; he allowed the tension to rise as the enemy moved closer. He scowled, wishing that they had more than two antitank weapons; their assault rifles weren’t powerful enough to punch through even a tank from this era. Their grenades would have to do, but…

“Fire,” he snapped. Scharfuehrer Keller fired at once; a rocket launched itself towards the British Matilda tank, punching a hole right through its armour. The tank blew up in a blast of fire, sending infantry scattering as the snipers opened fire, picking them off with ease. A second Matilda died under the second antitank rocket; its crew died within the blaze. The third Matilda didn’t hesitate; it moved directly towards their position, firing its machine guns as it came.

“Brave bastards,” Pabst muttered, reaching for one of his grenades. It was taking the antitank gunners far too long to reload; the hail of bullets was making him nervous as they tore through the foliage above him. He tossed one grenade towards the tank’s tracks, sighing in relief as the tank’s left track was blown to pieces, grounding the tank. A second grenade exploded under the tank’s turret, literally blasting it off the tank’s hull.

The British infantry had spread out, trying to fire on his men; he ordered a small withdrawal before the British started launching grenades of their own. Scharfuehrer Keller had managed to reload; he fired a second rocket at one of the smaller British vehicles, blowing it up in a blast of fire. The other two were falling back, trying to escape; Pabst knew that they would almost certainly make it. He fired a shot as he crawled backwards, taking the head off a British infantryman, then ducked as one of the vehicles hosed down two of his men with machine guns. No body armour in the world could protect them from that.

The first British vehicle exploded. Moments later, the second vehicle followed; Pabst stared in disbelief, and then turned to stare back to the east. A single Leopard 1 Panzer was coming over the hill, accompanied by dozens of armed marines. Two more Leopards followed it, their weapons already primed and ready, glinting in the sunlight. The remainder of the British force was in retreat, running for their lives, or was surrendering; the Marines accepted their surrender without hesitation.

“That’s the first time I’ve been glad to see the Marines,” Scharfuehrer Keller muttered. “They came here in the nick of time.”

Pabst nodded. “Hey, Marine,” he called. “What’s happening with you so far from the sea?”

“Funny boy,” the Marine called back. His voice held the traditional disdain of a regular soldier, albeit one in the Marines, for the SS. “The British are counterattacking and guess who has to stop them?”

Sturmbannfuehrer Rudolf Pabst pretended to think. “Us?”

The Marine laughed. “Got it in one,” he said. “Time to prove you can do what you say…”

Chapter Thirty-Three: The Weak Often Feel Ashamed

Near Calais, France
1st-2nd March 1942

Seen from a distance, the German airbase was glowing with lights; the flare of the jet aircraft taking off was impressive, even to Squadron Leader Wallace Bruce. He’d seen larger aircraft, including some of the bombers that Bomber Command had been preparing for the coming bombing campaign, but the jets were something from a different world. The airbase itself had been prepared by thousands of French workers; Bruce was annoyed that they couldn’t even be bothered to do a rotten job. The French…just seemed to be trying to get by, most of them.

“They’re heading to Britain,” Hugo said. It was the third time he'd met the evasive resistance leader and he was still no wiser as to the man’s real name. Cecilia might have been willing to share his bed – or, more accurately, share hers – but she had remained quiet about what little she knew about Hugo. “The big show is on.”

Bruce stared at him as another flight of German aircraft lanced overhead towards England. “We have to do something,” he protested. “There must be something that we can do!”

“Like what?” Hugo asked reasonably. His voice was very grim. “We only have a small group up here; the collaborators and the Germans have a very strong patrol mounted and we were very lucky to get this close to the airbase. If we send a large group, the Germans will catch them and wipe them out, after taking what information they can from them.”

Bruce gave him a bitter look, and then turned to look at the airbase as a series of rockets launched from the ground, heading towards Britain. The entire display was stunningly beautiful, almost like a fireworks display; the fireworks here were lethal. He’d heard enough from Nazi propaganda about the new weapons to understand just how dangerous the situation actually was; they might well manage to land soldiers on Britain.

Hugo nodded thoughtfully and turned to leave, leading the way back down the mountain. He held a pistol in his hands; the Germans might well be hunting for spies, and if they put up a fight, they would be killed quickly, rather than being tortured. Bruce had few illusions; if they were tortured, eventually anyone and everyone would break. He followed Hugo through the forest roads in silence, saying nothing, until they had almost reached the farm.

“What was the point of all of that?” He asked. “Why did you want me to see that?”

“We had hopes,” Hugo said, dryly. His voice left Bruce with the impression that there was something that he had failed at, somehow. “Do the words ‘night and fog’ mean anything to you?”

Bruce shook his head. “Apart from the obvious,” he said. Hugo often changed the subject at random. “They mean nothing to me. Why?”

Hugo looked…concerned. “There have been a number of odd events recently. People have vanished, with the words NIGHT AND FOG left on their houses; no one knows where they’ve gone. Houses have been ransacked, others have been burned to the ground; often, the only clue as to what happened are those words.”

“Night and fog,” Bruce repeated. “It’s the work of the Germans, of course.”

Hugo nodded. “Or so we believe, seeing that the grapevine says that they’ve been taking place all over France, including Petain’s state.” He spat at the mention of the old general. “It’s odd…some of the people they…disappeared were resistance members, but others were not, and some of them were on the other side.”

Bruce frowned. “Collaborators?”

“Yes,” Hugo said. “An entire family of people vanished, with NIGHT AND FOG left behind to mark their passing; the father was one of the most ass-kissing people they could have hoped for, the mother and their daughters opened their legs for the Germans every time they came to visit. They vanished, at random.”

“I don’t understand,” Bruce said. “What does this have to do with me?”

“I wish I knew,” Hugo said. The farmhouse rose up in front of them; Bruce had a sudden chilling premonition that Cecilia would be gone, with only NIGHT AND FOG left behind. The sight of her face, peeking anxiously from behind the curtain, was a relief. “I would understand them picking off resistance leaders, but why people who have nothing to do with us?”

Bruce wondered. “Those craft,” he said, as the first flickers of dawn started to rise up in the sky. “The Nazis claimed that they came from the future.”

Hugo snorted. “I wouldn’t believe the Nazis if they told me that Petain was an ass-kissing son of a whore,” he said. Bruce wondered if Hugo had some additional reason to hate the old general. “Craft from the future itself? They must think we’re stupid.”

“I’m not so sure,” Bruce said. He’d thought the same at first, before he’d seen the enemy craft. “The Spitfire has a line of descent through the Hurricane, the Gladiator, the Swordfish, the first fighters that fought over France in the Great War…where are the Nazi prototypes for those aircraft? They don’t exist, or if they do, I’ve never seen even a rumour of their existence. It’s as if the craft came from nowhere.”

Hugo shook his head. “Even if that were true, what possible use would we have for the knowledge?” He said. Something exploded in the distance, with enough force to send a brilliant flash of light across France. “They don’t have an unlimited supply of aircraft, do they?”

“No,” Bruce said slowly. He wanted to sleep the nightmare away. “If they have craft from the future, what else might they have from the future? Knowledge, perhaps? Knowledge of who resisted them, who fought, who sucked their cocks, or…?”

“You want her sucking your cock,” Hugo said, trying to cover his unease. It wasn’t perfect; Bruce could see just how worried he was under the cocksure grin. “They might know everything about us already.”

“Perhaps,” Bruce said, wishing that he were back in Britain facing the Germans. “If so, would they not have come for you already?”

“I’ve been underground since the fighting ended,” Hugo said. “I think we’re going to have to get our hands on the future Germans and ask them some questions.”

He paused. “Even now, thousands of Germans are launching themselves into the Channel, trying to take your nation,” he said. “We would help, if we could, but it’s difficult with so many people just sitting on the fence, doing nothing. We hope that we’ll get more weapons slipped from the people in the south; the Germans have started to give them designs for lorries, very simple designs.”

Bruce scowled. “What’s the point of that?”

Hugo laughed bitterly. “They want lorries, lots of them,” he said. “I’ve talked to a few people in the know and they say that the designs are really simple…and the Germans want thousands or France will be…punished. It will cost us lots to make them and why? Why do the Germans want them?”

“I have no idea,” Bruce muttered. “Why do they want them?”

“Because they want us working for them,” Hugo said. He laughed again, a cold haunting sound. “In a few years, we’ll be nothing, but a massive production yard for them. Goodnight…”

He waved goodbye and faded off into the darkness. The sky was starting to lighten as he vanished; Bruce watched him go, and then turned to go into the house. Cecilia opened the door for him as he stepped in, locking her lips to his as she closed the door. Bruce, despite his tiredness, managed to kiss her back, picking her up and carrying her into the bedroom. As an afterthought, he kicked the door closed, and then applied himself to the matter at hand.

Afterwards, they lay together, holding one another. Bruce took a long breath as he lay back; Cecilia was a very demanding lover. It occurred to him that she could catch at any moment, that he could end up with a bastard son, but it was so hard to focus on such matters when she lay in his arms, hot, warm and demanding.

Cecilia spoke with forced brightness. “Where did you go today?”

Bruce knew better then to withhold anything from her. He outlined the visit to the airbase – and then, with more concern, the NIGHT AND FOG mystery. Cecilia, for one, didn’t seem scared; she seemed more interested in the concept of the future nazis. Her breasts bobbled as she talked, outlining possibilities; had the Nazis been due to win the war anyway?

“I wondered about that,” Bruce admitted. A woman was never more beautiful after she’d just been fucked; Cecilia seemed to glow with life. “The yanks had come in on our side and they’d been pushed back at Moscow, so…”

Cecilia grinned. “They will have started changing things now,” she said. “They couldn’t have invaded England without the help of the future, could they?”

The thought reminded Bruce of his duty. “I have to get back there,” he said. “They’re going to need me…”

Cecilia leaned back and stretched. The effect was stunning. Her breasts were pushed forward, coming erect as Bruce stared at them; he felt himself taking steps towards her, despite his desire to hear the news before he could get back to Britain. His penis reached for her; Cecilia laughed, deep in her throat, as he pulled her to him and bent her over the bed. The desire was animalistic; he couldn’t help himself. She was there, leading him on into her; he took her with more desire than he’d ever felt before.

Breakfast was a strange affair. Bruce felt…conflicted, ashamed of his desire and the feelings that he was developing, Cecilia seemed delighted to be with him. Her little touches and caresses seemed designed to keep him permanently enflamed. Bruce shifted, uncomfortably, even as she unfolded the radio from its hiding place and placed it on the table.

“The chores will have to wait,” Bruce said, trying to be assertive. “Cecilia, I need to hear what’s happening?”

“And if I don’t let you?” Cecilia asked mischievously. Her voice became playful. “Will you try to spank me?”

Bruce gave her a wounded look. Cecilia laughed and fiddled with the radio, catching a strange voice speaking very rapidly in a language Bruce didn’t recognise, and then another voice speaking in English. He tried to listen, sure that he could actually hear words, but they seemed to be fading in and out of existence. Cecilia fiddled, working the radio carefully…and then a very clear voice came through in German.

“Germans,” it thundered. “Today a mighty army of the Reich, under the command of the Fuhrer, landed in Britain. The army defeated the Royal Navy in open combat and has swept the RAF from the skies. The coward dog Churchill now hides from the Luftwaffe in his bomb shelter, hiding from the Reich.”

Bruce felt his heart leap into his mouth. Cecilia placed her hand in his. “And yet, the Fuhrer is prepared to be merciful,” the voice of Goebbels continued. The voice was so irritating that Bruce wanted to smash the radio. “If the citizens of London should turn on the mangy dog, as the citizens of Dover turned on the occupying Irish army, he will be merciful and Britain will receive a special place within the New Order. Resist, and not a stone will be left in place in London…”

A wave of static washed out his words. “Irish Army?” Bruce asked, puzzled. “Dover?”

“Dover must have fallen,” Cecilia said. Her arms went around him. “Your people wouldn’t have risen up against the garrison, would they?”

The static cleared to permit an upper-class English voice to surface through the chaos. “I call upon all citizens of England to do the sensible thing,” Lord Haw-Haw said. Bruce felt his hand clench in anger; Cecilia gasped in pain. He muttered an apology as the renegade Englishman spoke on. “End the conflict now and take part in the New Order for the world. The Fuhrer has decreed that Englishmen shall retain the empire they took for their own, subject only to recognising the Reich’s supremacy in Europe…”

Again, a wave of static washed away the voice, just in time to save the radio. “They’re trying to convince people to surrender,” Bruce muttered, looking desperately for a good sign in all of the chaos. “They must not be certain of winning.”

“Why fight for it if you can get it for free?” Cecilia asked. She smiled. “Why buy the cow if you can get the milk for free?”

“You’re not helping, sweetheart,” Bruce said. “Is all of the excitement getting to you?”

Cecilia opened her mouth to make a hot retort when the static cleared again and a new voice echoed over the airwaves. “Citizens of Britain,” the voice said. Bruce felt himself coming to attention as Churchill spoke, as if he was speaking directly to Bruce himself. “The enemy has landed on our shores. Britain’s darkest hour is at hand.”

He stood up, leaning closer to hear Churchill’s words. “The forces of Britain have fought hard and well,” Churchill said. “The enemy has taken a foothold on the shore of Britain, near Dover, but they have been hurt. We have hurt them; the battleship Tirpitz has been destroyed, along with at least one of their future ships. Some of their other ships have been damaged; an attempt to land forces directly into Orkney has been repulsed with heavy losses.

“But the main attack remains,” the voice continued. “From now on, Britain is in a state of total war…and every means necessary will be used to defeat the invader. Even now, powerful armoured units of the Army, along with our gallant allies, are moving towards the enemy, engaging them with maximum force. They will be defeated; the enemy is powerful, but we will prevail.

“If you are in the warzone, please stay in your homes and off the roads,” Churchill said. “Please do not impede the army as it struggles to repulse the invader and push him back into the sea. If you see a German, do not help him; do not attempt to resist him except as the last possible resort. Remain out of sight and you should be safe.”

His voice swelled. “No enemy has landed on Britain for a thousand years,” he said. “We have always defeated those who would seek to try. I have faith that together we will rise against this new foe and defeat him, just as we will one day burn Hitler out of Berlin and Mussolini out of Italy. I remind you now of the Commonwealth, that stands behind us, and our brave soviet allies, and our cousins in America. England expects that every man, and woman, will do his or her duty…and push the invader back into the sea.

“Grim indeed will be the days to come, with battles raging over our own land, engaged in a pitiless struggle for survival, but we will prevail; we will defeat this new challenge…and push the invader back into the sea.”

Another howl of static, this time German jamming, washed across the channel. Bruce watched as Cecilia attempted to recover the channel, but failed; not even Radio Berlin could be heard. He puzzled over the message, wondering who was telling the truth; had Dover fallen, or not? If it had, the Germans would have a port under their control…and that would be very bad indeed.

Cecilia’s voice was concerned. “They’ve landed on Britain,” she said. “Wallace, you cannot go home.”

Bruce hated her in that moment. It was a sudden flash of pure anger burning through his mind. “I have to get home,” he said. He saw her flinch and felt a wave of guilt. “Cecilia, that’s my home…”

“It’s not going to be possible,” Cecilia said, her voice soft and concerned. Bruce would have almost preferred to have been slapped. “Bruce, you can’t swim home, the Germans won’t transport you home, the RAF won’t come to pick you up…and there’s no boat.”

Her voice started to rise. “If you did have a boat, you’d be seen crossing the water and sunk,” she continued. “You would be killed, for nothing!”

Bruce sighed. “I know,” he said, hating himself. “There must be something we can do…”

Cecilia stood up. “There are always the chores,” she said, practically. She winked at him. “It’s amazing what you can do with some fertiliser, if it’s used in the right quantities.”

Bruce watched her walk out to get dressed, wriggling her behind in a ludicrously sassy manner. “You’re right,” he said. “There is a lot that you can do with some of the right materials.”

On impulse, he got up and followed her into the bedroom.

Chapter Thirty-Four: The Masses of Manoeuvre, Take One

London, England
2nd March 1942

The massive war room, deep below London, hummed with activity. The news wasn’t good; Churchill knew that everything hung on a knife-edge. The British knew – and well they should, he knew, after Gallipoli – that landing an invasion force on a defended shore was difficult, but the Germans had managed to secure a small beachhead. It wasn’t large, not yet, but the German lines were pressing against the fortifications – now, that was a joke – of Dover and Folkestone. The RAF had been hammered badly, first in the attack on the German fleet, and then in the German raids on the airbases. Who would have believed in a weapon that sent waves of burning fuel across airfields? Churchill hadn’t – until they had been deployed against RAF bases.

The entire command and control network had taken a beating, although the Germans hadn’t managed to destroy either the communications network or the radar stations. There was a curious…slapdash nature, very un-German, to the attacks on the radar stations; some had been hammered, others had been ignored. Now that the Germans had managed to develop homing bombs using Contemporary technology, they had the ability to hammer the network until it went down…and they weren’t doing anything of the sort.

Perhaps they’re short of weapons, Churchill thought, and hoped devoutly that that was the truth. The future Germans had to have some weaknesses – the attack on the German ships proved that, if nothing else – but they were hard to find. The carrier itself had been hit, apparently, but that hadn’t been fatal – or the Germans had managed to develop enough airfields that were capable of flying jets; the tempo of attacks hadn’t slowed.

He scowled down at the massive chart on the table. Pretty WREN girls, moving markers over the map of Britain, marked out the latest news as it came in. Churchill had read a highly classified paper, detailing the reasons why France fell to the Germans, and knew that one of the reasons had been that the Germans had literally outrun the French communications network. He had a nasty feeling that the Germans had already managed to do that to the British.

The series of air attacks made alarming viewing. Apart from the attacks on the airbases, the German jet aircraft had struck at several dozen other targets, ranging from army barracks to rail lines and supply dumps. Matters hadn’t been helped by the teams of German raiders, moving behind the British lines and wrecking havoc; they wore British uniforms, perhaps paying the British back for the stunt with the IFF transponders. They had an impact entirely out of all proportion to their numbers; they forced the Home Guard and the Army to spend far too long checking who everyone was before they allowed them to pass through roadblocks. They could be anywhere, anyone.

“The entire country is breaking down,” Sir Alan Brooke said. Churchill hadn’t even heard him approach. “They’ve buggering up our ability to communicate with our forces.”

Churchill turned to face Brooke. “Have we lost the war?”

Brooke shook his head. “Our civil communications network remains intact,” he said. “They’re jamming us, from time to time, but we can still issue orders. The question is simple, Prime Minister; do we attempt to launch a major attack now, or do we fall back on the GHQ line?”

Churchill led the way into a private office. “What of the Navy?”

Brooke shook his head. “Admiral Lyon is dead,” he said shortly. Churchill winced; he’d liked the old admiral. “Admiral Ernle-Erle-Drax has assumed command of Nore Command, but the Germans pounded it hard and apart from the torpedo boats, it has been destroyed. He’s promised to do the best he can, but as long as that carrier and its aircraft are free to roam, they can sink everything we have.”

Churchill refused to feel dismayed. “The Germans have continued to reinforce?”

Brooke grinned bitterly. “Some of our submarines took pot-shots at their transports,” he said. “We hurt them, too, but they’ve managed to land a quite considerable force. We think that they have managed to land several units, including mountain divisions and at least one antitank force that they put together for this operation.”

He nodded towards the map. “They’ve followed their standard procedure,” he continued. “They’ve sealed off Dover and Folkestone – we expect that they will fall soon – and they’re pushing out their borders. The way they’re hitting us, now the sun’s come up, they’re going to make a major push soon once they’ve secured their flanks. Small response groups have attempted to challenge the Germans; they were defeated, and in one case wiped out to the last man.”

Churchill felt old for the first time in far too long. “And refugees?”

“The Germans are letting them leave,” Brooke said. “We’re interviewing those we can; they speak of Germans coming to them, asking them to stay where they are or to leave. They shot a couple of young lads who shot at them; they’re also snatching up all of our soldiers. Frankly, we either move in now, Prime Minister, or we accept that they’re here to stay and fall back to the GHQ line.”

“I won’t let that happen,” Churchill said. “Contact Ironside; I want him to launch the attack as soon as possible. The masses of manoeuvre must be engaged with the Germans.”

Brooke nodded. “Yes, Prime Minister,” he said.

Near Canterbury, England
2nd March 1942

The attack on the supply deport near Dorking had gone well, but Obergruppenfuehrer Herman Roth had been unwilling to risk remaining near Dorking; the British channels, when they weren’t being jammed, were attempting to warn their comrades of the German commando team. One report had reported them as all being shot dead, but as Roth felt well and truly alive, he felt safe in dismissing that report.

The overnight hike had been easier than he had expected, although losing the mortars had allowed them to move faster. The British would find themselves the proud possessors of the mortars, if they found them, but they wouldn’t have time to copy them. Even if they did, it wouldn’t come in time for the world to be changed. The night had been surprisingly noisy, even away from the coast; they’d heard the explosions and evidence of the air battles all around them. The radio channels had reported battles at sea and a major landing, but even the combat channels, which the British should be unable to detect, were careful about what they said.

After all, who knew just how much the treacherous crew of the Royal Oak had given their past allies?

The sound of the train caught his attention as daylight rose into the sky. The British had quite a good internal train network, although it was nothing like the one they’d left behind; it gave them all manner of options. Wrecking the line would be easy – he had three men who were expects in wrecking railways – but he wanted, needed, to do more. A few minutes walking brought them near a major shunting point…and he shook his head in astonishment. Just what sort of idiots kept troops on trains somewhere where their safety could not be guaranteed?

“It’s well guarded,” Oberscharfuehrer Koch commented, as they observed from their hiding place. Most of the team remained out of sight, well hidden in the forest; if the British got lucky and caught onto Roth, the others would remain free. “We could call in an air strike.”

Roth studied the guns that had been placed around the shunting point. The British were clearly aroused for war; dozens of guns defended the point, allowing them to send troops to the front quickly, engaging the enemy. An airstrike would mess the place up, but unless FAE weapons were used, it wouldn’t put it completely out of commission, or…

He grinned. “We’re going to attack it,” he said. “It’s going to be easy.”

Oberscharfuehrer Koch gave him a sharp look. He had once stated that his job was riding heard on his commander’s occasional fits of insane ideas. “You must be joking,” he said, after a long searching moment. “They’re armed to the teeth.”

Roth outlined his idea. “They won’t suspect a thing until its too late,” he said. “Coming?”

They marched back through the forest, picking up the remainder of the team on the way – and taking the time to set up one precaution - and then headed towards the road. The British were working hard to move their forces, using lorries to transport them to the front; it wasn’t long until one came into view. Wearing his British uniform, Roth stepped out, holding up his hand. The driver saw him – or, rather, saw the uniform – and braked to a stop. Roth was almost disappointed at how easy it was.

“Sir, what’s happened?” The driver called, in an accent that had been unfashionable in Roth’s time. The driver almost looked Italian; Roth wouldn’t have put it past Italian POWs to work for the British, fighting the allies of their country. “Do you need a lift?”

“Myself and my squad got run off the road,” Roth said, in his best imitation of Churchill’s voice. The truck was empty, much to his relief; he certainly hadn’t wanted to risk a shootout so close to the staging point. He was confident that his men could have defeated a force of overconfident Tommies, but it would have damaged the truck. “Have you enough fuel to reach London?”

“Yes, sir,” the driver said. Roth took a moment to climb up into the truck and check that it was in fact empty. The driver had actually told the truth. “Have you heard anything from the front, sir? My brother is fighting with the 2nd Armoured and…”

“Haven’t you heard?” Roth asked, pulling his knife out of his belt and moving closer. The driver didn’t notice, too wrapped up in his own concerns. “We’re winning.”

He cut the driver’s throat in one neat movement. “Neat,” Oberscharfuehrer Koch said, after a moment. The gushing blood poured onto the road. “Now what?”

Roth smiled. “Liadart, Farn, dump the body somewhere where it won’t be found quickly,” he ordered, taking the driver’s keys from him. “The rest of you – into the truck!”

He started the engine and waited quickly for the two soldiers to join him, before moving off towards the shunting point. This was more dangerous than their last mission; it was very possible that someone at the base would know the driver by sight. He checked around and found the orders, asking Oberscharfuehrer Koch to read them; the driver had been ordered to report to the shunting point for some reason. He guessed that it was something to do with moving troops, but…

“Keep your heads down,” he reminded his people, as the checkpoint came into view. “We don’t want to be seen too soon.”

He realised suddenly that his uniform, a British Colonel’s, wasn’t what the driver had been wearing. Cursing his oversight, he drove on; the British would be certain to get suspicious if they saw him try to evade their staging point. Ahead of them, the fence rose up in front, with several guards standing there, looking alert. They weren’t anything like alert enough; he half expected a British officer to come up with a swagger stick and beat them. The SS did that, from time to time, to prevent people from developing into barracks lawyers; he wondered if the British had similar traditions.

Apparently not. The guards took the folder of orders that had belonged to the unfortunate guard, and then went through them with extreme thoroughness. That, at least, was SS-grade; they still hadn’t checked his face against any picture, or anything else along those lines. A secure SS base would insist on fingerprints, or something even more through; the British seemed remarkably complacent.

“Pass, friend,” the guard said finally. He laughed as if it was a remarkable joke. Roth forced a smile and drove on, around the bend and into the shunting point itself. They were early; the troops that the unfortunate driver had been expected to meet hadn’t arrived yet, only the guards could be seen. Roth stepped out, hoping that no one would get a close look at his weapon until it was too late, and unhitched the back of the van.

“Heil Hitler,” he shouted, and fired the first burst. The British guards didn’t have time to react; many of them were shot down before they even realised that they were under attack from the inside. Others threw themselves down, grabbing for their weapons; a gun battle was soon raging over the entire base. The British were brave and determined; his men had the advantage of surprise and better weapons.

“Now,” he snapped to Oberscharfuehrer Koch, who pushed a button on a remote control. A signal pulsed out over the English countryside, detonating the small precaution that they’d set earlier; a small package of explosive on the telephone wire. The base would suddenly be cut off from all contact with the outside world; there would be no way of getting the alarm out. As three of his men held off a determined counterattack, Roth himself rushed the command building, picking off the British commanding officer as they went.

A British mechanic looked up in horror from where he was trying to call out for help as Roth kicked the door in, and then grabbed for his weapon. Roth kicked him sharply in the chest, allowing Oberscharfuehrer Koch to check for other British officers in the building, and tied him to a chair before he could talk. The British mechanic worked his mouth and spat; Roth slapped him down hard.

“Tell me,” he roared. The SS manual suggested demanding information without saying what the interrogator wanted to know. “Tell me when the next set of trains are coming!”

The line, he’d deduced, served as a holding point for trains moving down the single line; anything going east would have to wait until anything going west was clear. With a little work, perhaps they could be induced to crash, but it wouldn’t be easy if there were alert crews, or worse. Instead, he had other ideas; the British could be induced to do much of the destruction – if they had a surprise set up in time.

He lifted his radio, hearing the shooting dying down. One side had just won and he was confident that he knew what side it was. “Get the lines mined,” he ordered. “Hurry.”

Oberscharfuehrer Koch was watching the British mechanic. “What’s your name?”

“Tom,” the man growled. He glared at Roth through his pain. “I won’t tell you anything.”

Roth reached out and casually slammed his weapon’s barrel across Tom’s knee. “You’ll tell me everything I want to know,” he said, keeping his voice low and steady. Tom’s eyes were filled with pain. “When is the next train due?”

He hit him again. “When is the next train due?”

And again. The SS used torture as a means of extracting confessions on a regular basis; all of the SS men knew how to do it. “When is the next train due?”

Tom was screaming in pain. “Soon,” he said, through the pain. Roth looked down at him and lifted his weapon again. “At two o’clock; I have to hold it for five minutes for the other train to pass…”

Roth shot him neatly through the head. It wouldn’t be long before the British noticed that something was badly wrong. By then, he had to have prepared his surprise and then left; if someone tried to call the shunting point and failed…

“The explosives have been placed,” Unterscharfuehrer Schulze said, as Roth left the command building. “Do you want us to destroy the rest of the building?”

Roth shook his head. “I set the signals,” he said. Both British trains would be heading onto the left-hand rail; one of them would be slowing to stop, but with the explosives underneath, that wouldn’t be a problem. “A remote-controlled bomb?”

Unterscharfuehrer Schulze nodded. “Yes, Herr Obergruppenfuehrer,” he said. He held out the remote control “It’s all ready to detonate.”

“Then I think its time for us to take our leave,” Roth said. He led the way out of the base, pausing only to ensure that all of the guards were dead. Two of his men had finally had their luck run out, body armour or no body armour; they scooped up the bodies and ran with them. He would see that they got a decent burial later. For the moment, they would have to be buried near the scene of their ambush. They climbed quickly up the hill, watching out for any British investigators…Roth hoped, desperately, that the British trains ran on time.

His lips quirked. After Hitler took over, the trains would be certain to run on time.

“I see it,” Oberscharfuehrer Koch said. Roth looked, feeling a moment of awe; there was just something about a coal-powered locomotive. The electric-powered ones back in their era just weren’t the same. “Herr Obergruppenfuehrer…the other one is coming as well.”

The eastern train, Roth saw, would be the one that would stop to allow the other one to pass. This time…it slipped onto one side of the lines in plenty of time, allowing the other one to steam past…but the western train moved onto the same line. There was an agonised moment, when the trains blew their whistles desperately, trying to slow down…and they slammed into one another. Moments later, Roth pressed down on the button…and a series of explosions ran up and down the lines. The damage was horrifying; hardly anyone would have survived the experience.

“Herr Obergruppenfuehrer,” Unterscharfuehrer Schulze said, “I am intercepting a radio transmission from headquarters. All hell is about to break loose near Dover.”

“Really,” Roth said. His face turned into a grin. “I think that we broke some hell loose ourselves here, didn’t we?”

The team slipped away into the forest.

Chapter Thirty-Five: The Masses of Manoeuvre, Take Two

Near Dover, German-Occupied England
2nd March 1942

The rumble of the guns, the loud echoes of British guns, the quieter shells of the German radar-guided guns, echoed across the command vehicle. Brigadefuehrer Richard Wieland ignored the sounds; the British, so far, hadn’t been that good at hitting anything important. The only major causality of the battle had been a Marine tank, which had been hit directly when the turret was open; it had been blown apart on the inside, even through it looked almost salvageable. His own gunners, using their radars to track back the shells to their launch sites, had returned fire, attempting to suppress the British fire…

It was quiet. Too quiet.

“You could take Dover now,” Obersturmbannfuehrer Kortig said. He had been delighted to have been ordered to escort Wieland; Wieland hadn’t been honoured by the order. Himmler might have founded the SS, but he was a poor judge of tactics; Wieland would have preferred to have had someone who actually knew more than the right people watching over his shoulder. “The Fuhrer wanted a port…”

Wieland ignored him. The Germans had forced their way onto the shore and expanded their grip, knocking out British defences until they had established a proper beachhead. Several small British towns had been overrun with ease, others had been sealed off, including Dover. Dover Castle, in particular, was being used by the British to direct their shellfire; a pair of Blitzkriegs had hammered it from the sky and attempted to silence it.

“He’ll get one when we have enough reinforcements to overrun the city,” Wieland said, not bothering to hide his impatience. Dover was stoutly defended, even through Radio Berlin had claimed that it had been captured; if he sent his men into the city, they would be torn apart by the Irish Guards. “For the moment…”

He glanced down at the display, which was constantly updated by automated radio pulses from his panzers and infantry as they deployed themselves around Dover and the defence perimeter. They’d managed to push out to a depth of two to three miles, but he knew from aerial reconnaissance that the British were rapidly reinforcing their forces; once they felt ready, they would advance. In the meantime…

In the meantime, every ship that Germany could scrape up, from transports to small fishing boats, was being employed in transporting new soldiers to Britain. The entire SS Panzergrenadier Division Wiking was expected to arrive soon, along with a genuinely competent SS-Obergruppenfuehrer – he looked at Kortig and considered the possibility of a battlefield accident – and dozens of smaller formations from the Wehrmacht. Once they had arrived – and Dover, as even Kortig grasped, had been taken, he would advance.

“It is a race, you see,” he informed Kortig, who looked blank. The man believed that one German soldier was worth ten British soldiers – but even if he had been right, the odds were worse than that. When the British came, they would move all out to destroy his force, whatever the cost. He thought cold thoughts about the weapons his men were deploying, and what they would do to British tanks and aircraft, and smiled; the British wouldn’t know what had hit them.

“They have to race to get their forces into place to crush us,” he explained. “At the same time, we have to get our own forces into position to advance, or to take Dover. Whoever gets enough force in place first wins. They have a damaged rail network and the pressure of air attacks; we have the limitations imposed by transportation and the remains of the Royal Navy. It’s interesting, isn’t it?”

Kortig didn’t understand. Wieland shrugged and returned to his maps; the British had never thought of preparing their positions to handle attacks from the rear. All of their main guns had been pointing out to sea, firing on the battleships; once his forces had made a hole in their wall, they’d been able to swing around and roll up the defenders, apart from the two cities. Attacking the cities was impossible, at the moment; he prepared himself mentally for the cost when the time finally came.

His radio buzzed. “We have increased movement of enemy soldiers,” the voice of the intelligence officer, back on the Graf Zeppelin, reported. Wieland scowled at the uselessness of the comment. “We’re forwarding the video stream back to you now.”

The display altered itself; British armour was on the move, crossing fields and roads with a panache that they had never showed in any battle he remembered from his own history books. The shelling had actually subsidized slightly; the British gunners would have shifted their targeting to assist their advance. British infantry were spreading out behind the tanks, but they were already falling back; the British hadn’t quite mastered the practice of combined operations.

“Clever British,” he said, ignoring Kortig’s growing panic. He had been convinced that the British would have taken one look at them and bared their behinds so that the Germans could perform something unspeakable up their arses. “But not quite clever enough.”

The display altered again; the British were launching aircraft. He wondered, absently, just how many aircraft the RAF had left, and then wondered if it mattered. The British wouldn’t be playing games, not now; this would nothing less than an all-out attempt to destroy them. The radar was reporting that the British aircraft were still carrying their transponders, adjusted to German frequencies, but…

“We saw that once, you idiots,” he muttered. They’d seen the trick, just once, and they’d adapted; no none-future aircraft would enter the battlezone, apart from the British aircraft. All of them, of course, were legitimate targets. The British would come on at them, impaling themselves on his guns; the only question was if the British would run out of tanks before the Germans ran out of shells.

***
Captain Eric Caldwell was English to the core; he hadn’t hesitated before signing up for the Army when the war broke out. An early apprenticeship in driving had led to him being offered a position in the 1st Armoured Division; he’d never looked back since. He'd escaped Dunkirk, although without his tank, and he'd stood on the defensive in 1940 before being sent to the western desert for a service with General Wavell. After the madness of Operation Crusader, he’d been summoned back to Britain to rejoin the 1st Armoured Division; now, he was one of the commanding officers of the division…and the Germans were invading his country.

“Hold the tanks back a little,” he advised, hoping that his CO would listen to him. The CO had been working in Britain, reforming the division; he hadn’t seen service in the western desert. “We need to give the infantry time to catch up.”

The Armoured Division made a fearsome sight as it crashed over the land towards its foes, although the perfectionist in him regretted the ragged formation and the distressing habit of crashing through fences and over ditches. Three tanks of the two hundred had already fallen out of the line of battle, just because they’d managed to get stuck in mud or in a ditch; the crewmen had had to be left behind. The infantry were straggling behind; he knew that they would be needed up front when they encountered the enemy’s guns…

A scream spread across the sky. The antiaircraft gunners didn’t hesitate; they brought up their weapons and fired madly at a black speck, racing across the sky towards them. The German was flying very low, as much as to avoid the RAF as to avoid them; the noise of its passing chilled him to the bone. It fired as it came, launching missiles at his division; seven tanks exploded under the impact of its missiles. Outrunning or avoiding the antiaircraft fire with ease, it vanished back into the sky, having given the division a sharp blow to its confidence.

“Spread out,” the CO ordered, sensibly enough. Retreat was not an option. The only thing they could do was avoid making themselves more tempting targets for the Germans, not something that would be easy. “Gunners, stand by to engage the enemy.”

Caldwell lifted his binoculars to his faces and peered into the distance. This was England, his England…and it was also enemy territory. Skirmishes over the past hour had marked out the territory that the Germans had claimed for their own; his force was going to hit that bubble like a needle. The Germans knew that they were coming, of course; their only hope was to defeat 1st Armoured in detail, and then swing to face 2nd Armoured.

“Captain,” the driver said, after several minutes had passed. His voice was confused. “I’m getting something odd on the radio.”

Caldwell blinked. “I beg your pardon…”

An aircraft – a Spitfire – raced overhead, firing madly at something in the distance. The sound of explosions echoed overhead; something rose on a stream of fire into the sky, swatting the Spitfire from the air. It fell as a shower of burning debris, falling out of the sky and hitting the ground. There was no trace of a parachute. The pilot had to have been killed instantly.

Good, Caldwell thought grimly; they’re wasting their weapons.

He scowled. He hated this new way of war. The briefing had been clear; make the Germans waste as many of their advanced weapons as possible. There were two hundred tanks and a hundred more unarmoured vehicles in his division; he suspected that that order would be easy to follow, although it would be a toss-up if any of his men survived the encounter. In fact…

Something appeared at the far side of the hedgerow, smashing through it with a contempt that made Caldwell wince. For a moment, his eyes refused to accept the existence of the vehicle; it was like nothing he had ever seen before. He hadn’t believed the story about the Nazis having received help from the future, but now…

But now…he could see the future panzer as it moved steadily towards them. It glittered a dull grey in the light of the sun; it was larger than any tank he’d ever seen before, large enough to seem very intimidating as it moved onwards. It moved in eerie silence; no hint of the clanking noise of the Matilda for it. Another, then another, then another, appeared, coming into view, carefully moving up behind their leader…and pausing…just outside the Matilda’s range.

Caldwell’s mind sent a tremor down his spine.

The lead Panzer fired.

The CO’s tank exploded. There seemed to be almost no delay at all between the attack and the destruction; the shells seemed to move almost impossibly fast. Two more shots followed, two more tanks died, along with their crews. Caldwell felt his mind shimmering on the verge of panic as the Panzers effortlessly picked off three more tanks, then four more…

He forced down his panic. The Panzers were weapons of war. He knew how to deal with weapons of war.

“Forward,” he shouted, motioning to the driver as the tank rumbled forward. The enemy had carefully picked their positions, just outside the Matilda’s range; the tanks surged forward, coming into range of their hated enemy. Caldwell felt his jaw clench; there was no way that he was going to allow four tanks to destroy his entire division. “Fire!”

The division tanks fired almost as one. Caldwell saw at least a dozen shells impact with the lead Panzer…and then stared as the enemy tank rumbled forwards, unhurt. Explosions flashed over its hull, glinting off its paint and melting it, but leaving the tank untouched. The enemy fired, again and again, picking off Caldwell’s tanks with ease…and then they rumbled backwards, out of the Matilda’s firing range. He snapped orders; the tank rumbled into pursuit, but the enemy tanks kept firing. They had to be running low on ammunition, but they showed no concern; one of the panzers even fired a burst of machine gun fire at the British infantry, ripping them apart, even damaging a handful of British tanks.

He realised, far too late, the trap. He’d seen it before, in the western desert, but the sheer power of the future panzers had disguised the more conventional part of the trap. He grabbed for his radio, and realised that they were being jammed; they couldn’t even warn the remaining tanks…

Right up ahead, he saw the muzzles of the German guns, and then they opened fire. Caldwell’s world vanished in a moment of white-hot flame.

***
The guns were the conventional 88mm guns; the handful of future antitank weapons were being held in reserve now that some reinforcements had reached the shore. As Sturmbannfuehrer Rudolf Pabst watched from his improvised defence line, the Panther tanks retreated towards his position, drawing the British tanks forward onto the Contemporary guns.

He laughed. He hadn’t believed that it would work.

“Open fire,” he ordered, peering down as the first of the British tanks entered their range. The Contemporary gunners handled their weapons well, firing quickly and rapidly; British tanks began to die. They didn’t die quietly; some of them were still trying to kill the Panthers, hitting them hard enough to seriously distress the crewmen, others were firing on his gunners. They were brave, no doubt about it, but then…they couldn’t retreat either.

“Orders the Panthers to be prepared to give fire support if necessary,” he ordered, determined that not a single enemy tank would punch through his line. He had reserves in place, including a small group of Marine tanks, but he knew just how important it was to save future ammunition. There just wasn’t enough of it. The hell storm that had enveloped the British was still drawing closer; he winced as a British tank managed a direct hit on one of the guns, along with its ammunition supply…

“Air attack,” Scharfuehrer Keller shouted. A British aircraft was racing towards them, low enough to escape detection; it fired with its machine guns on the 88’s, knocking them aside. Another aircraft made a pass overhead, dropping bombs on the Panthers, and…they didn’t explode.

Pabst blinked in astonishment. “What the…?”

The radio bleeped an alarm. “Gas attack,” the tank commander snapped. Pabst didn’t hesitate; he grabbed for his gas mask and pulled it firmly over his face – the Contemporaries would have to manage with their own equipment. He could see the gas now, as it blossomed up from the remains of the bombs; it was a sickening yellow colour. “Herr Sturmbannfuehrer?”

“What the hell are you worried about?” Pabst demanded. The hesitation in the tankers voice was infuriating. “You’re safe inside those fucking machines, aren’t you? Keep killing them…”

The gas had reached the gunners. Pabst cursed; the enemy might just manage a breakthrough if the gas didn’t have to be breathed to be effective. “Guns, I need support,” he snapped. “They’ve hit us with gas, I repeat; they’ve hit us with gas!”

Some of the gunners were kneeling over. Doctor Josef Mengele, in his timeline, had achieved astonishing success with protective drugs, and all SS men were meant to be immunised, but Pabst had always doubted the value of the program. Some studies had suggested that the protection didn’t last for very long at all.

“Retreat,” he shouted, taking a dreadful risk. Aircraft screamed overhead; moments later, a blinding burst of white fire burst out over the British position as a FAE bomb detonated on top of them. He didn’t feel sorry for the British at all, even though cooking inside their own tanks was a horrific way to die; his men had just been gassed. “Fall back to the secondary defence line, schnell.”

He cursed under his breath as he ran. The British might have been tossing enough gas at them to make a real dent in their numbers; they would have to be deterred from doing that again. Whatever it took, they would have to be taught a lesson. More aircraft screamed overhead, spending weapons they could hardly waste, just to keep the beachhead intact.

He found it difficult to care.

***
“Gas,” Wieland said, his voice a mixture of horror and astonishment. The Fuhrer – in his timeline – had forbidden the use of gas weapons; the Fuhrer here had also forbidden them, but because the British could also use them against the Germans. If the British had had more, or more success in delivering it – he made a mental note to have all of the aircraft crash sites checked out carefully before anyone did anything to the metals – they might well have destroyed his force. The scattered gas attacks inside his own lines had almost jammed up his ability to respond to any sudden developments; he silently blessed the engineers for their work on the panzers. If the gas had managed to leak into the tanks…

He clenched his teeth. The most powerful ground-based force on the planet, almost wiped out by a group of people too stupid to have evolved proper tank tactics. The thought was bitterly amusing; the British would have to pay. They had spent far too many of their own irreplaceable weapons to salvage the situation; Churchill would have to be taught a sharp lesson.

But they had held. It was some consolation to know that if the British had attacked earlier, they might well have won. The British armoured spearheads had been blunted, perhaps permanently; there would be little to stop them expanding their control to the GHQ line. Roth’s team, running around behind enemy lines, had done well; they too would get medals for what they had done.

He sighed in relief, noting the updates on more reinforcements; within a day he would have two fresh divisions on shore. Once they were emplaced, and Dover had fallen, they could reinforce at their leisure. Once they had done that…

Britain would fall.

And then they would pay for what they had done to his men.

Chapter Thirty-Six: Interludes and Examinations

Berlin, Germany
3rd March 1942

“They used gas on my forces,” Hitler bellowed. His face was twitching with anger and remembered pain. “They will pay, I swear that they will pay!”

Himmler allowed himself a private smile as the Fuhrer thundered. Hitler himself had been gassed, back in the last war; he remembered the feeling, all too well. Konteradmiral Herman Trautman, who had been summoned back to Berlin from the Graf Zeppelin, looked…concerned, perhaps even nervous. Field Marshal Keitel looked openly alarmed; Keitel didn’t have the morale courage to stand up to Hitler.

It was not for nothing that his subordinates called him ‘lackey’ behind his back.

“There must be retaliation,” Hitler snapped. “How many of our people are dead because of this?”

Trautman was keeping his face tightly controlled, but Himmler was sure that he read disgust behind the still and immobile face. “Around three hundred soldiers were caught by the gas and either killed or crippled,” he said. “Most of them were Contemporary gunners, who had little protection against the gas; they breathed some of it in before they could get their masks into position. Some others suffered gas burns, including a number of British prisoners who…”

Goring laughed. “They were caught by their own gas,” he said. His voice became a bellow of laughter. “The British gassed their own men and saved us the manpower needed to guard them.”

“Perhaps we could hear about the battle,” Himmler said, as much to shut Goring up as anything else. “What happened in England?”

Trautman gave him an unreadable look. “The British launched a major combined arms attack intended to throw us back into the sea,” he said. “It failed, although it came closer to success than I would like, thanks to the gas attack. They pushed us hard, but our airpower forced them back with heavy losses – and the stream of reinforcements was not interrupted. In the midst of all the confusion, Dover fell to us, although the Irish Guards fought to the death and destroyed much of the harbour in the process.”

He stopped speaking. Himmler wondered; the report from SS-Obergruppenfuehrer Felix Steiner had suggested that if the British had had more numbers in Dover, the town would not have fallen without a longer struggle. Even as it was, several infantry units had been chewed to bits by the British in the fighting.

Hitler was not to be deterred. “But the British have used gas,” he said. “Should the attack be cancelled?”

Himmler blinked at the uncharacteristic hesitation on Hitler’s part. He’d ordered, years ago, that gas was never to be used in combat; despite that, the Germans had continued their research into nerve gases and other unpleasant weapons of war. The news that Churchill had used gas had shaken him, even though the British hadn’t deployed nerve gases; the thought of what nerve gases could do to unprotected soldiers was chilling.

Trautman shook his head. “Mein Fuhrer, we have won a great victory,” he said. “Their forces that could be deployed against us have been destroyed, captured or dispersed. We have won the time needed to expand the beachhead; in another week, we will have the firepower needed to expand out and hit the GHQ line. Once we break through that line, the British will have nothing left to fight with, but their civilians.”

Himmler smiled. The thought of unarmed civilians trying to stop German panzers was amusing. “We cannot stop now,” Trautman continued. “We are on the verge of victory.”

Hitler was not to be deterred. “But what about gas?” He asked. “The British have to be taught a lesson for using the gas…”

“We could use it as a propaganda ploy,” Goebbels said, in his oily voice. “The British have used poison gas against us, something that even us Huns” – he smiled disingenuously – haven’t resorted to. It would play well in America.”

Hitler gave a dangerous snort. “America,” he said. Himmler noticed Trautman wince at the disdain in the Fuhrer’s voice. “Who cares what the mixed-race Americans think?” He turned to face Keitel. “I want plans in place to deter a similar attack, though the use of war gases against a British target, one that will make them finch!”

Trautman blinked. “Mein Fuhrer, deploying nerve gases in a battle is dangerous,” he said. “It might end up making it difficult for our own forces to deploy as well. If we withhold our own weapons, we can handle mustard gas with ease; my forces have protective gear and protecting Contemporary forces is fairly simple.”

“But they must hurt,” Himmler said icily. “If they believe that we are too afraid to hit them back…”

“We must break their will to resist,” Hitler thundered. “I want gas bombs dropped on London, along with fire bombs and other weapons.”

Trautman, just for a moment, looked horror-struck. “If we do that, we risk convincing the Americans that we will have to be fought,” he said. “We cannot allow the British to fight to the death, or it will eat up our men in close-quarter battles.”

Hitler looked adamant. “We have to reassure our own people that such attacks will always be punished,” he said firmly. “Make plans to deploy the gases against London.”

“Jawohl,” Keitel said, without argument. Himmler sensed no reluctance in Keitel’s voice; the lackey clearly agreed with his Fuhrer. “It will be done.”

“Excellent,” Hitler said. He turned to face Speer. “And the production of newer weapons?”

Speer seemed unsurprised by the question. “The latest version of the Panzer tank, the one that was designed in the other timeline, has entered mass production,” he said. “The tank was designed for rapid production, so we expect that it will number in the thousands in time for the summer offensive. The tanks are also very easy to learn and use, so we will reequip four panzer divisions this month and more in the coming months. The production will also give us enough spare parts to actually repair damaged tanks; its so simple that we expect that the crewmen will be able to actually perform most of the repairs themselves.

“The production of lorries has also expanded, mainly through using French and Italians factories,” Speer continued. He looked down at his notepad as he spoke. “The French have been unable to offer any opposition – and, of course, they actually welcome the economic boom that we have caused to happen.” There were some chuckles. “Again, we hope to have thousands of lorries when the offensive actually begins; Italy’s price has been a reequipped division of their own tanks. G I have taken the liberty of offering them Panzer III’s that will be disbanded after we have replaced them all.”

Hitler nodded. “We do not wish Mussolini to feel unappreciated,” he said. “We need their support in the Middle East.”

Himmler smiled to himself. Mussolini now had to put up with two SS divisions in his country, just to enforce obedience. A reformed Italian Army would have some teeth, which would be unfortunate, but that would be kept in the desert, away from Rome and the centre of Italian power. Betrayal would not be tolerated.

Speer shrugged. “Production of other weapons proceeds,” he continued. “The infantry will be rearmed with antitank rockets and other weapons, each one capable of destroying a Soviet tank, even the Stalin-class tanks. Assault rifles, close-air support and other weapons have been developed and are now being produced; for the moment, we expect that we will have a monopoly in their deployment. It won’t be long before Stalin gets his hand on an intact weapon and has his people duplicate it, but he won’t have time to make use of it.”

Keitel’s voice was very dry. “The front remains quiet,” he said. “General Guderian has convinced Stalin to end his offensive, taking thousands of prisoners and destroying thousands of Soviet tanks. The Soviets are digging in around Moscow, now; they will be trying to prepare for our coming offensive, although, with their supply line to the west cut, we do not expect that they will have so many weapons from the west.”

Hitler nodded theatrically. “I have approved Operation Eastern Storm,” he said. “We can wait, showing as much patience as we need, while the invasion of Britain is concluded. Field Marshal, are there any plans to deploy gas against the Russians?”

Keitel shook his head. “None, Mein Fuhrer,” he said. “Do you wish that to change?”

“The Slavs will regret their defiance,” Hitler hissed. “I want you to deploy gas for the offensive, understand?”

Trautman, Himmler was surprised to notice, showed no reaction. “Yes, Mein Fuhrer,” he said. “Gas will be used against the Soviets.”

Hitler looked pleased.

“Then do we have your permission to continue the build-up in Britain?” Trautman asked. “We have to overrun the GHQ line soon, punching it in the most vulnerable place, before we head for London.”

Hitler nodded. “Yes, Admiral,” he said. “Churchill will be made to regret his actions.”

There was an urgent knock on the door. “Come in,” Hitler snapped. Only one man would dare to interrupt such a meeting; Martin Bormann. “Martin, what is it?”

Bormann flinched at Churchill’s tone. “Mien Fuhrer, the British carriers…they’ve raided Norway!”

Hitler’s face purpled. “Find those carriers and sink them,” he snapped. He had feared a British attack on Norway ever since Germany had conquered the nation. “Admiral Trautman, sink them!”

Trautman frowned. “Mien Fuhrer, the carriers can’t do much damage,” he said. Hitler looked angry and alarmed. “They can’t fight the Graf Zeppelin or any of the other ships; they will be destroyed in time. We have our hands around Britain’s throat; we can’t let go now.”

“Destroy them,” Hitler snapped. “I don’t care how, just destroy them!”

“Jawohl, Mien Fuhrer,” Trautman said. Himmler smiled inwardly at his rival’s discomfiture. “I will send Korvettenkapitän Hans Becker and his ship to sink them.”

Moscow, Russia
3rd March 1942

“I have received a communication from Churchill,” Stalin said. His eyes were alight with the delight of intrigue. “Churchill is requesting that we launch an offensive in the west, one that will draw Hitler’s attention away from Britain. All this time, Churchill has refused to act to establish a second front, but now…now he demands our help!”

Molotov frowned. “Sir Stafford visited you personally?” He asked, angry at the sudden change in Moscow politics. All such visits should be cleared with him first, to protect Stalin; his power base was shifting and he didn’t like it. “What did he have to say?”

Stalin’s grin grew wider. “He was promising the moon and the sun if Britain were to be saved through our efforts,” he said. His voice brightened. “Everything we might want, from a protectorate over Afghanistan to a recognition of our special position in Iran. All…all things that we could take, now, had we wanted to take them.”

“We do want Iran,” Molotov reminded him. Iran had long been a target of Soviet intrigue. “Georgy Konstantinovich warned us that the Red Army was badly hurt by the offensive against the Germans over the last two months, and now the Army needs to rebuild before it can take the offensive.”

Stalin, for once, seemed inclined to listen. “Ah, but there are advantages in doing nothing,” he said, cheerfully. “The Germans have not reduced their forces in the west to any significant point, have they? At the same time, we could go on the offensive, but Hitler will not withdraw the forces that are overrunning Britain, will he?”

Molotov shook his head. “Of course not,” Stalin said. “Lavrenty Pavlovich has been collecting information on the new German way of war, from very powerful tanks to aircraft…and weapons that are utterly irreplaceable, eh Comrade?” Molotov nodded. “Why should we not let them spend themselves on the British, while we build up ourselves for action in the summer?”

Molotov considered the issue, thinking hard; disagreeing with Stalin was not a safe course of action. Truthfully, he didn’t disagree; the Red Army wasn’t ready to go back on the offensive - General Heinz Guderian had hammered them too hard – and they did need time.

“It would be a way of looking at how the Germans wage war,” he said, restating Stalin’s own words. “What sort of new weapons have we seen?”

Stalin passed over a folder marked with TOP SECRET. “Missiles that hit their targets, explosives that send waves of burning fuel over their targets, unstoppable tanks, mines, guns that shoot out other guns…we can counter that, of course, by having more guns. Aircraft that use small rockets against tanks, body armour…oh, the Germans from that alternate future have been inventive, haven’t they?”

German propaganda claimed that the Germans from the future had come from the future, rather than an alternate timeline, but the NKVD had learned enough of the other history to work out the truth. The news that he would have been hung in Red Square, along with Beria himself, had chilled Molotov to the bone; the Germans seemed to have had everything going for them in that other timeline. Britain in 1940, Russia in 1941, America…

“We could use this time to learn,” he continued. “The British no longer have the option of avoiding combat, so they will have to fight…and we will learn what works and what does not. If the Germans are too powerful to stop directly, then we will have to have preparations set up for attacking their rear areas, along with other preparations.”

Stalin nodded his great head. “Of course, Comrade,” he said. He sounded as if he actually meant it. “We will have to prepare line after line of defences around Moscow, perhaps even abandon Leningrad…but Comrade, the Germans have deployed gas against the British.”

Molotov didn’t flinch. “We have a gas program of our own,” he said. “We could use that against the Germans if they use it on us.”

Stalin laughed. “Or, we could use it against the Germans first,” he said. “Every means necessary, Comrade.”

Molotov nodded. “We are also going to have to work on our rear-area security,” Stalin continued. His voice darkened. “The Germans have been using commandos to run around behind British lines and wreck havoc.”

“That wouldn’t work here,” Molotov said. From time to time, peasants did try to challenge Stalin’s rule. “The NKVD could handle any such commando team.”

Stalin nodded. “That does, of course, leave us with other opportunities,” he said. “Do we move into Iran now, with the British unable to prevent us from taking the entire country, or do we wait and see what happens in Britain?”

Molotov scowled inwardly. Stalin was asking for an opinion…and if he was wrong, his life would not be worth an American Dollar. “Can the British defeat the Germans in their country?” He asked, wishing that Zhukov were present. He might have been able to offer a genuinely realistic opinion. “If they can, they will still be weakened; if they lose, their empire would fall apart.”

He smiled, just enough for Stalin to see. “If they lose their home islands, their empire becomes a military vacuum,” he said. “Already Franco” – he allowed himself a moment of disgust at the thought of General Franco – “moves against Gibraltar; Churchill can do little more than bark and growl. General Rommel prepares to move east against Egypt, while the Egyptians consider overthrowing the British and evicting them from their country. If that happens, someone will have to pick up the pieces.

“Even if they don’t fall, they won’t be able to do more than protest,” he concluded. “We can take Iran and the British will have no choice, but to…”

“Bend over and take it,” Stalin said. He laughed. “I imagine that the commander of the forces in Iran will know to ensure that British troops are interned; we will even allow them to return to their homes, along with some of those Poles we want to be rid of. They can fight there and die there.”

Molotov smiled. The entire change in the balance of power opened up all manner of possibilities. Dozens of Soviet dreams could be realised, with a little effort, from control over the oil in the Middle East to the punishment of Turkey for daring to refuse Stalin’s reasonable demands. Britain’s empire was on the wane; Stalin’s empire would replace it as a force for order in the world.

“Of course,” he said. “By the time that the Nazi beast looks this way again, we will be ready for him…and then we can march all the way to Berlin.”

Stalin was looking at the map. “The Americans will have to retake Britain first,” he said. “In the meantime, we will be taking Berlin, and France, and then we will settle accounts with Franco. The future will be Communist, Comrade Molotov; we will rule all of the world in time.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Retaliation

London, England
5th March 1942

The building was a flaming ruin; Lizzie Morrison stared at it through unseeing eyes. Her two children, both of whom had been sent to the country to live with relatives, had loved their house; her husband had practically rebuilt it until it was a reflection of who and what they were. Her husband was out on the GHQ line with the rest of his regiment; she…she had nowhere to go.

A voice, behind her. “Are you all right, love?”

She recognised the voice. “I’m fine, Marie,” she said, untruthfully. The elderly woman had hobbled over to check up on her; the bomb shelter in their garden had served her well when the alarms started to sound. She’d run for the shelter as the German aircraft raced overhead and fallen asleep in the shelter; her house had died and she’d been asleep.

“Go see the policeman at the end of the road,” Marie told her. “I have to go see to Jake. You come back to stay with us afterwards, understand?”

Lizzie smiled at her through her tears. “Thank you,” she said. “I have to go check up on the company.”

“You do that,” Marie said. “Get back here for dinner, love; we’ll put you up until your husband gets back.”

Lizzie nodded and headed out of the house, silently blessing her decision to sleep in her clothes. She’d heard tales of housewives running through the streets naked, under the shock of German bombs; she’d had no wish to become one of them. The Police would have arrested her…and then she would have been the laughing stock of the district.

“Not a nice sight,” Constable Henry said, as she came up to him. The bluff constable limped; it was all that had kept him out of the army. It also made it harder for him to chase thieves; looters could be shot on sight, but they had to be captured first. “You’ll have to register as a homeless person.”

“I have a home in the country,” Lizzie snapped, wishing that her husband had moved the entire company into the country. It would have been impossible, she knew, but…she’d been the one who’d done most of the accounting when he’d started the company and it was half hers. “I think I…”

She almost broke down. “There, there,” Henry said, nervously. “If you go to the office and see, perhaps you’ll be able to set up there overnight.”

Lizzie thanked him and walked off down the street, wishing that she had a coat. The streets seemed to feel nervous as a tram passed her; everyone knew, somehow, that everything had gone badly wrong at Dover. The BBC claimed that Dover was still holding out, but no one believed them, not any more. The Germans claimed that Dover had fallen…and far too many people were believing them. Lizzie didn’t care, not any longer; she just wanted her husband back. She wanted it all to end…

An aircraft buzzed over the city and she threw herself to the ground, looking around for the nearest shelter, before realising that it was a British aircraft. The new German jets screamed in the air; their more conventional aircraft flew in massive groups. Other citizens were pulling themselves off the ground as well, looking around with shamed faces; no one laughed. Everyone had been scared, just for a long moment.

Bomb damage littered the main road as Lizzie came into it, walking towards the centre of London; thousands of people were working to clear it. Armed soldiers stood around, directing people away from an unexploded bomb; a bomb disposal squad could be seen walking up towards the bombsite. A hawker was selling cups of soup; Lizzie bought one and drank it with open relief. Life went on.

Fortified, she walked into Bond Street and up to the offices of her husband’s company. The doorman recognised her and tipped his hat as she entered, allowing her to slip inside. The building itself was emptier than it had been, but some of the staff had remained on the premises, keeping everything running. What had once been a small automobile company had become one of the industries that kept Britain running in wartime.

Lizzie entered her husband’s office and – this time – did begin to cry. It wasn’t conventional to leave a woman running a company, but her husband had done just that; almost all of his staff had either been called up or sent out of the city; his partner worked in Manchester. She was supposed to check all of her decisions with him, but with the war on…

Lizzie worked. She tried to forget that there was a war on.

It didn’t work.

***
For the first time in far too long, Churchill found his indomitable spirit dampened, almost crushed. The War Cabinet meeting wasn’t going well at all; the news of the battle yesterday and over the night was grim. He sat in his chair, wishing that he could take a rifle to the front himself, or that he could do something – anything – to change the situation.

“The two armoured divisions were checked and then repulsed with very heavy losses,” Sir Alan Brooke said. His voice was very grim. “The Germans sucked many of them into killing zones and killed them, while deploying other weapons against the rear areas, including that commando team that is running around behind our lines. In short, the result was not just the defeat of our forces, but their very near annihilation.”

Churchill stared at him. “The gas,” he said. “Surely that had some effect.”

“It had some effect, yes,” Brooke said. He hadn’t approved of Churchill’s decision to use gas at all. “The Germans took some casualties because of the gas, but at the same time the gas-delivering aircraft took heavy losses, including some that crashed behind our lines, fortunately not causing heavy losses to our people. We’re not sure how many Germans were actually killed, but they were able to repulse our attack and continue to reinforce their beachhead, before turning on Dover and occupying the city.”

He paused. “The final transmission from Dover Castle spoke of heavy explosions in the docks, so we might we have destroyed the German ability to use the docks to speed up their reinforcements, but we have been unable to destroy their beachhead. I must inform you, Prime Minister, that the Germans will be able to continue to expand until they hit the GHQ line…and that we will have to stop them on the line.”

Churchill looked down at the table. For the first time in living memory, the British would have to fight to repel an invader on their own soil, and their best weapon, the shining swords of the two armoured divisions, had been broken by the enemy. Worse, the enemy had managed to secure command of the air and the sea-lanes in the English Channel; they could reinforce at leisure. Churchill had planned for defeat, just in case, but…

He hadn’t expected to face even the very real prospect of defeat once America had entered the war.

He cleared his throat. “We will stop them on the line,” he said, and refused to think about what might happen if the line fell. “What is the current military situation?”

Brooke cleared his throat. “Bad,” he said, honestly. “The remains of the Armoured Divisions pulled back, under heavy German fire; the infantry accompanied them. I regret to report that there were very heavy losses in the gunnery divisions; the Germans were deploying weapons that allowed them to fire back very accurately. They managed to suppress many of our guns.

“Overall, Prime Minister, they have beaten us in the region,” he concluded. “Most of my divisions have come under very heavy air attack, sending them retreating back towards the GHQ line; I have had to issue a general order to recall all of the divisions back before they could be destroyed piecemeal. The Free French made a stand and held the Germans for an hour before three of the future tanks arrived and blew through them; a Canadian division was destroyed from the air using FAE bombs. In short, we have to pull back to the GHQ line and hold them there.”

Churchill nodded slowly. “And refugees?”

Sir John Anderson, who practically ran the home front while Churchill ran the war, looked grim. “We ordered police and ARP units to prevent refugees from flooding away from the enemy, but it was a failure,” he admitted. “Thousands of people have fled rumours of enemy activity; several towns have simply decamped and fled, despite instructions to remain in their homes. The police can’t stop them; in some places, the police are among those fleeing towards London.”

Churchill placed his head in his hands. “And…what? What can we do about it?”

Anderson shook his head. “Very little,” he said. “Hundreds of people have been trying to buy passage out of Britain, either to Ireland or America, or…it’s a mess, Prime Minister; we might well lose control entirely if we try to prevent it from happening. In the meantime, the BBC is losing its…convincingness; far too many people have seen the Germans, some even saw the battle that destroyed the armoured divisions.”

Eden looked up. “And then there’s Gibraltar,” he said. “Franco’s forces have begun shelling the fortress, starting to force their way into the Rock. Rommel…well, it won’t be long before Rommel manages to take the offensive again, while Stalin, well…”

Churchill nodded. Stalin’s message had been simple; allow him to take over Iran and he might – might – launch an offensive. Under other circumstances, Churchill might have tried to resist; now, there would be nothing stopping the Russians from overrunning all of Iran, or even Iraq and Northern India. There was nothing that could be used to stop them; General Auchinleck would need everything to hold Rommel back from the Suez.

“Order Auchinleck to have the troops in Iran pull out,” he ordered, reluctantly. “They are to fall back to India and join Wavell’s defence there.”

He scowled. The Japanese, at least, were completing their conquest of Java and the Philippines; it would be a while before they could reinforce their forces in Burma to attack India. Still, Churchill knew that the Americans had their hands full, even if Roosevelt hadn’t been able to send more Americans to Britain ever since the troopships had been blown out of the water.

“He won’t launch an offensive, of course,” Brooke said. His dislike of Stalin’s Russia was well known. “He’ll sit there, watching us fall, while taking his time to prepare to hit Hitler where it hurts.”

Churchill suspected that he would be right.

“And the air force?” He asked, looking up at Sinclair. “Can the RAF not do anything else to interfere with the Germans?”

Sinclair, the Air Minister, looked grim. “The RAF took a beating,” he said. “The Germans inflicted major damage on almost all of the airbases; they’ve got the capability to hit us where it hurts, destroying many of the airbases, along with their aircraft. They can track our aircraft perfectly, Prime Minister; we have been moving them around, only to have our improvised airfields hit as well. We have around two hundred aircraft left, many of them older types that couldn’t stand up to a Messerschmitt.”

Churchill sighed. “Have them prepared to support the defence of the GHQ line,” he ordered.

Brooke frowned. “Prime Minister, the Germans will have overrun some of our air bases as well,” he said. “They will be able to use them to support their attacks against the GHQ line.”

Churchill nodded. “I know,” he said. “What about Portsmouth?”

“We have four infantry divisions dug in on a line to defend Portsmouth,” Brooke said. “Unfortunately, the GHQ line takes priority over defending Portsmouth, even though the Royal Navy has some ships remaining there.”

“We cannot stop the Germans from reinforcing,” Sir Dudley Pound admitted. He looked unwell. “Our submarines fought bravely and sank dozens of German transports, but they have those…autogyros out hunting down our submarines and sinking them. Prime Minister, I must inform you that the Royal Navy, in home waters, is no longer an effective fighting force.”

Churchill stared at him. “What about the carriers?”

Pound winced. “If the strikes on Norway had any effect, the Germans clearly ignored it,” he said. “It might be time to…”

“Never,” Churchill snapped. He thumped the table. “You’ve seen the records; what will happen to us if Hitler wins this war! We cannot surrender; we will not surrender! We will fight in the GHQ line and hold the bastards, whatever it takes; we will use every means at our disposal to stop them!”

A siren ran through the room. “Prime Minister, radar has detected enemy craft moving towards London,” his secretary said. “Prime Minister…?”

Churchill rose. “We will go into the bunker,” he said. “We will survive.”

***
Lizzie had tried, several times, to call her husband. Each time, the army switchboard had refused to put her through; the civil communications network was shattering slowly under the pressure of the German advance. She’d listened to the German radio, against the orders of the war council, and then she’d listened to the BBC. The BBC had warned against fleeing the city, warning people that they might be caught up in the fighting; Lizzie hadn’t wanted to leave anyway.

She left the building, allowing the stewards to lock up, and headed towards one of the markets. She had no food, but she had enough money and had withdrawn enough from the company safe to pay for her lodgings with Marie. She also had her ration cards; she could collect enough food to feed Marie as well, even if she had to use the black market. The streets seemed grimmer somehow; everyone had heard about the defeats…and the police were out in force. She wondered, with a sudden wave of bitterness, why they weren’t at the front.

A man was singing God Save the King; some people had stopped to listen. Others were heckling the man, shouting communist slogans; the entire system was starting to break down. Two policemen came along and tried to arrest the hecklers; they fought back…and in seconds a full-fledged riot was under way. Lizzie ran, heading along the road towards one of the shopping streets…and then she heard the aircraft. The German aircraft appeared out of nowhere, sweeping majestically up the Thames; antiaircraft guns banged away at them as they came. Panic had been exhausted under the other bombing raids; the people headed for shelters, trying to hide.

Lizzie stopped, staring up at the Germans as they passed high overhead. They were dropping bombs; the sight shocked her out of her paralysis and she ran for the shelters. She tripped over something and found herself on the ground, sprawled; her skirt rode up over her knees. Gasping in pain, she tried to pull herself to her feet as the bombs struck the ground…and started to shatter. She blinked; she’d expected massive explosions, not…

The wind picked up and she saw it, a strange blue gas, hanging in the air, almost invisible. The moment of realisation cost her life; the gas swept towards her…and she felt her skin burn as it ran over her with an intimacy that not even her husband had dared show her. She opened her mouth to scream and her vision went dim, then it failed altogether.

By the time she struck the ground, she was dead.

***
The first reports had come in moments after the Germans had swept away; gas was blowing through the streets of London. The panic started moments later; thousands of citizens ran for their lives, fleeing the German gas attack. Churchill watched grimly from Downing Street as the crowds fled, even those who had been well clear of the gas. It wasn’t the manner of gas he had remembered; this gas burned even those with bare skin showing. The police and the ARP wardens did their best, but the panic was catching…and London burned before they managed to clear up the remainder of the gas.

“Hundreds dead,” Anderson said later. His voice was very grim. “Dozens under the gas itself, dozens more when the panic really got moving. Thousands of looters came out to play; we grabbed some of them, but others fled. If the gas had been less responsive to our countermeasures…”

Churchill nodded. “If they use that in the GHQ line battle,” he said, “what will happen?”

“It burned people, poisoned people, when it touched their bare skin,” Anderson said. “It could cost us the battle.”

“Warn General Brooke,” Churchill said. General Ironside had been killed in the final defence of Dover Castle. “Tell him to take all necessary precautions.”

Anderson wasn’t finished. “They did this because of our gas attack,” he said. “There will be even more panic in the streets.”

“I know,” Churchill said. He turned to face Anderson. “What would you have me do?”

Anderson said nothing.

“There’s nothing to do,” Churchill said. “The Americans can’t help us; Stalin will knife us in the back before we could count on his help. We have to hold, because the alternative is unthinkable…”

Anderson said nothing. His eyes held Churchill’s eyes.

Churchill glared at him. “If you have a better idea, tell me,” he snapped. “Is there anything left to do?”

“We could discuss a truce,” Anderson said, reluctantly. His voice was bitter, like pulling teeth out of a mouth. “We could try to deal with them.”

“There will be no compromises with such evil,” Churchill snapped. “None.”

Anderson bowed and left.

Churchill sat there, alone.

Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Battle of the GHQ Line

Near Maidstone, England
9th March 1942

The girl lay on the floor of the barn, her dress torn and bloody, her legs spread wide. Her blood pooled around the floor; she’d been dead for several hours. Three Germans – Contemporary soldiers – stood nearby, under the guns of Sturmbannfuehrer Rudolf Pabst and his men. The brief search of the isolated cottage had turned up the girl’s mother, also dead and raped, and a bayoneted son, only nine years old, if that.

Brigadefuehrer Richard Wieland studied the body while making a decision. Pabst had already reported to him how their patrol had stumbled over the Contemporary soldiers, having their fun with the girl. They’d cut her throat before Pabst and his men arrested them; Pabst had called him and summoned him to the site.

“Herr Brigadefuehrer,” one of the men said, his voice pleading. Wieland allowed himself a moment of relief that the rapists weren’t any of his men. “Herr Brigadefuehrer, it was only a bit of fun…”

There was a great deal that Wieland wanted to say. He said nothing, just lifted his sidearm and pointed it at the men. Three quick shots later, they were dead on the floor; Pabst looked relieved at the quick end to the incident. Wieland muttered orders for all of the bodies to be buried, and then left the cottage. It was almost dawn.

The advance had pushed slowly outward, aided by the ever-present Eyes floating in the sky; almost all of the British forces were trying to pull back to the GHQ line…and most of them had made it. The Luftwaffe, which had taken over a pair of British airfields, had been harrying them as they retreated; Wieland had ordered that the VTOL and helicopter support craft had to be held in reserve. It wouldn’t be long until the GHQ line was challenged…and at that point, he had to throw everything at the line. Failure was not an option.

He had expected the British to make a fight for Canterbury and had planned accordingly. Apart from a handful of shots, fired by a number of men wearing armbands marked LDV, they hadn’t been challenged; Canterbury had fallen to his men with hardly a fight. Many of the locals had fled into the countryside; he remembered some of the chaos that had happened during the Denton Wars in Peru and wondered if any of the civilians would manage to return to their homes. The reinforcements had arrived, garrisoned the city, and allowed him to move onwards, but…

The truth was that they had had all of the easy victories. Ahead of them, the GHQ line stood, awaiting them; a formidable line that had been manned with the men who had escaped the first battles for England. To the west, another line had been established, shielding Portsmouth; that line simply wasn’t as important as the GHQ line. He’d hoped that they had blunted the British armoured forces, but the Luftwaffe reported that the British still had enough tanks to throw in a counterattack, once the GHQ line was pierced.

The line itself tilted on Maidstone, a medium-sized town between London and Dover. If Dover itself was any indication, the British could hold a town for quite some time; they would have ample time to chew up his men in street fighting. The bombers were confident that they could hammer the line with enough force to crack it, but Wieland wasn’t so sure; they would be better used supporting the troops.

He would have preferred a night attack against the British, but Contemporary forces were not yet prepared to fight at night – or, at least, not fight well at night. Instead, they would be waiting until dawn…and then they would move.

He smiled. There was no need to attack Maidstone, not when his forces were far more manoeuvrable than anything they would face. They would hit the line west of Maidstone…and cut it in half, sealing the town off and leaving it to wither on the vine. His smile grew wider. He couldn’t wait.

***
Sturmbannfuehrer Rudolf Pabst tried to put the image of the murdered girl out of his mind as his force advanced slowly towards the British line. The British had prepared the line the year before for the invasion that had never happened – except in his timeline – and they’d clearly planned it well. At the same time, of course, if the Germans could punch through it, they would have ample time to crack it before British reinforcements could attempt to push them back.

A Marine Leopold tank advanced, just ahead of them, attempting to draw fire. The British guns weren’t powerful enough to hurt the panzers his force had brought with him, so they were being used to pick off the enemy gunners before the British worked out something that could hurt the panzers. The Contemporary weapons and panzers could be used to force the line to shatter, once they’d broken into it. A flight of Kurt VTOL aircraft flashed overhead, dropping bombs on the unseen British positions…and then the British opened fire.

He threw himself to the ground as the panzer seemed to explode with the shells crashing into its hull. The Leopold slowed, and then picked up speed again, pressing against the shellfire crashing into its hull. It’s main gun spoke once, then twice; its machine guns sprayed fire towards the British position. Pabst lifted his assault rifle, saw three British infantrymen throwing grenades towards the Leopold, and picked them off with three quick bursts. The Leopold charged the British position, firing as it came; it headed up the ridge and a shell smashed into its underside.

For a long moment, nothing changed…and then the Leopold hit the ground and stopped. Pabst stared, unable to believe his eyes, and then he saw what had happened. The British shell had been very lucky; it had struck the underside of the tank and hammered through the armour, exploding inside and killing the crew instantly. The British guns were already moving to fire on his team; he ordered them to get under cover quickly, before the British could kill them all. Two of his men were shot, with enough machine gun bullets to destroy their armour; they fell dead on the ground.

“They’ve got us pinned down,” Scharfuehrer Keller snapped. His hand held a grenade; he picked it up and tossed it towards the British position. “We need some support here, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer, we need…”

A burst of British shellfire cut off his words as both men cowered under the impact. “This is Pabst,” Pabst said into his radio. The assault was hitting the GHQ line along a mile-long front; they should be able to call up some support. “We need support, the Leopold is down, I repeat…”

A hail of German shellfire crashed down on the British position. They were Contemporary guns, rather than future weapons; even so, they would do the job. The bombardment lasted for five minutes, while the British guns sought to fire back; Pabst’s battlefield had suddenly shrunk to the few meters around their position; the sudden cession of shellfire stunned him. The echoing silence was very loud.

“Move,” he snapped, leading from the front. Several British bunkers had been hit directly; they had remained intact, but their gunners had been killed. He felt a flicker of sympathy, gas or no gas; he knew what had killed those men. Others had been shattered open by the impact, line upon line of trenches lay behind the bunkers, with British soldiers popping up to open fire on them. He ducked down as one rifleman tried to use him as a target; he fired a long burst back to force the British to keep their heads down. The network of trenches, neatly mixed in with trees and ponds, would be a nightmare to tackle.

“It’s designed to slow us down,” he realised, calling for more support. A British bomber hurtled past overhead, dropping bombs to the east of his position; he hoped that they were not gas bombs. He’d had enough of that horror to last him a lifetime. Contemporary tanks would have problems with the mud, churned up neatly by the shellfire; he knew with a sick certainty that the mud would have been mined.

“Panzers on the way,” one of the dispatchers said, over the radio. “Hang tight…”

“Hang tight?” Pabst demanded, burning through one clip to prevent the British soldiers from rushing his position. He described the situation as much as he could; silently, he was proud of himself for not swearing too much at the rear-echelon pen pusher. “You stupid…we’re going to die here…”

Three Panthers moved over the ridge and passed his position; the commanders, he noted, had taken the precaution of remaining in their turrets and not showing their faces to the world. The Panthers glided forwards, extending their anti-mine chains as they moved; they fired long bursts of machine gun fire into the British trenches. Mines exploded under the chains, others either didn’t explode or had been disabled by the shellfire. The British fired on the tanks; this time, they didn’t get lucky.

He grinned as new soldiers came up to reinforce his men; they were all Contemporary soldiers. They would have found the line difficult in their panzers; the British simply hadn’t built their trenches deep and wide enough to prevent the Panthers from crossing, firing as they came. Two British tanks popped up, firing on the Panthers from their positions; the lead Panther blew them both away without even slowing down to take aim.

“Follow those Panthers,” Pabst bellowed, and led his men onwards to clear out the remaining British trenches. The guns had started to fire again, both sides were trying to destroy the other through their long-range fire; he winced as a shell crashed down far too close to his position. “Kill all of the British soldiers unless they surrender!”

None did.

***
The headquarters was far from what Brooke had visited in France, back when General Gamelin had owned a command base that was partly an HQ and partly a country manor. It was dim and well hidden, linked to the front lines by telephones, telephones that were constantly ringing. There were no radios; Captain Masterson had made it clear that anywhere broadcasting command instructions would be destroyed moments later.

“They’re punching through near Maidstone,” a young captain reported. Brooke hated him at that moment; he wore a clean and pressed uniform and had clearly never seen the enemy. “They broke through the main trench line…”

Brooke nodded, understanding now – too late. The British had been forced to hold back their reserves, targeting the Germans with their fixed defences, until the German spearpoint took shape. Now it had…and it was almost too late to save the GHQ line. The Germans – the Contemporary Germans – were skirmishing with the entire line; Brooke was mortally certain that the assault forces were only a few men, but how could they know that? If the Germans had had the strength to assault the entire line, they would have done so, but which was the real attack?

Now he knew, and he knew that it would almost be too late.

“Inform Major Morrison that he can proceed to counterattack the force near Maidstone,” he ordered Lieutenant Lombardi. “Tell him…that England expects that every man will do his duty.”

***
Major Morrison knew that his wife was dead; the sheer fury that that had awoken in his soul had stunned his subordinates. They hadn’t resisted any of his plans to reform what was officially billed as the 10th Armoured – and was in fact a hodgepodge of tanks that had escaped the disaster near Dover and some others – and they’d assisted him in working out new tactics to engage the German panzers. He was encouraged to know that four of the super-advanced tanks had been destroyed; heavy firepower and brute force, it seemed, could still have an effect.

He’d taken the precaution of holding back some of his field guns; they’d been held in reserve to counter any German breakthrough. Those guns now opened fire, launching their shells towards the area of German breakthrough; by the time his force arrived, the Germans would have taken a beating from the guns. As his Matilda tank proceeded towards the battlefield, he made a silent blessing for his dead wife…and swore that he would have his revenge.

Nothing had been held back, not any longer. Long-range guns were hurling gas shells into the German lines; his own men had taken a few simple precautions that Morrison had learnt from the Great War. He peered into the distance as his force rolled along to the laugher of the guns; the skies seemed mercifully clear of German aircraft. He was surprised, but only just; he was certain that the Germans were suddenly trying to prevent the British from hurling gas onto their position. His force…might just have slipped through the cracks.

A German tank appeared ahead of his tank, its turret swinging around with shocking speed to engage them, and he barked a command. The German panzer was hit several times as his force rolled onwards towards it; it recoiled under the beating…and he realised that they’d succeeded in jamming up the enemy turret. The enemy seemed surprised; the tank was still moving its entire hull around to fire when his tank slammed directly into the panzer. The German tank shuddered backwards under the pressure, was pushed down a slope…and toppled over. Moments later, the crew scrambled out…and Morrison shot them down.

“Onwards,” he snapped, leaving the wreckage behind. A salvage team would recover it; he called them through the radio as they sneaked along behind the British advance. They would ensure that the armouries would produce British tanks that could equal the German ones, while his force died to buy them time. His own tank was battered and shaken, but it could still move; he had a sudden premonition of just how capable the German tanks had been. If they hadn’t been in just the right place…

A group of German infantrymen appeared in front of them; his gunner fired on them, blowing them apart with the machine guns. Clouds of gas were sweeping in the distance, poisoning Germans just as his wife had been poisoned…and a German panzer loomed out of it, firing as it came. Two of his Matilda tanks exploded in quick succession; his own tank lunged towards the German tank to attempt to repeat the same trick. This time, it didn’t work; the German tank fired one shell at Morrison’s tank.

“Lizzie,” Morrison breathed, and died.

***
The display was changing constantly as the German forces advanced, or were forced back, but one thing was clear; they had taken a massive bite out of the British line…and they were now rolling it up with ease. The fighting was savage – after the gas attack, neither side was taking prisoners – but the Germans were winning. Wieland snapped orders, ordering Contemporary forces to exploit the hole his people had punched in the British lines; it wouldn’t be long until the British force lost all cohesion. Once that happened…

It had cost them, however; five irreplaceable panzers had been destroyed by the British forces, two of them along with their crews. The battle had been savage enough to damage tanks powerful enough to survive a nuclear blast at a mile’s distance – or at least the designer had believed that that was possible. No one had been stupid enough to try.

The display changed as the expanding wave of German panzers met the final British reserve and destroyed it, shattering the last hope of Britain. It wouldn’t be long before the British line crumbled, now that defeat was certain; the Eyes had revealed that there were no more serious defence lines until they reached London itself. The British had gambled everything on stopping his force along the GHQ line…and they had failed.

He lifted his radio. “Felix, move your force along the road towards Dorking,” he ordered. The main thrust of the offensive would head along the North Downs, but he intended to be sure that all of the British forces had been shattered or crippled before they pushed towards London. Now that victory was assured, they could take their time; they could…

“Herr Brigadefuehrer, we overran the British command base,” one of his officers said. “The British commanding officer was captured.”

“Have him moved here,” Wieland ordered, reminding himself to ensure that Himmler gave the men who had captured their opponent a medal in person. They might just have saved him unnecessary bloodshed. “I want to talk to him.”

He busied himself issuing orders for the exploitation before there was a knock on the side of the command vehicle; two looming SS soldiers showed the British officer into the vehicle. The British officer was sporting a black eye and walked with a limp; medals had been ripped from his chest…and his eyes couldn’t come off the command vehicles consoles.

“Pay attention,” one of the SS soldiers said. “British…”

“Enough,” Wieland said, very firmly. The British officer looked up at him. “Name, rank and serial number?”

“Sir Alan Brooke, Commander-in-Chief of Home Defence,” Brooke said. “What are you people?”

The awe in his voice made Wieland smile. “The future,” he said. “Will you order your forces to surrender?”

Brooke spat. “Go to hell,” he snapped. “We won’t surrender to you bastards, ever!”

“London will fall within the week,” Wieland said calmly. “You will have nothing left to fight with…”

“You gassed London,” Brooke snapped. “You monsters…”

“You did it to us first,” Wieland said. “You will be held, pending your trial for war crimes.”

The guards hustled Brooke out of the vehicle. Wieland watched them go, and then turned back to his consoles. Now that the British had lost their commanding officer for the defence, they would fall apart and could be destroyed at leisure. Everything, now, was subordinated to the march on London. Wieland would take a day to ensure that everything was ready to move, and then…

His force would march to London and it wouldn’t stop for anything.

England would fall.

Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Leaving of Liverpool

Liverpool, England
10th March 1942

“The news is bad,” Liddell Hart said. He had summoned Masterson and most of the crew back to Liverpool, and then asked them to wait for news and orders. “The Germans, spearheaded by your friends from your world, have smashed through the GHQ line.”

Masterson felt his heart shiver. “Is there no hope?” He asked. “Is there nothing that we can do?”

“Even if you and your friends were to vanish tomorrow, the situation would still be unmendable,” Liddell Hart said. “The Germans have been taking the time to reconsolidate their forces, but with their forces still intact, it won’t be long before they reach London. Even now, they’re spreading out, cutting London apart from the rest of Britain; starvation might just start to hurt us before they try to take the city by storm.”

Suddenly, he looked very old. “What did we do to deserve this?” He asked. He rounded suddenly on Masterson. “Why couldn’t you have stayed in your own world?”

“You didn’t smash Hitler while you could,” Masterson said, stunned at the sudden display of anger. “What now?”

“The Government has been meeting in emergency session for the past hours,” Liddell Hart said. “I believe that they will be taking the only course they have left – surrender.”

Masterson stared at him. “They can’t,” he said. “That will leave Britain in Hitler’s hands and…”

“I know,” Liddell Hart snapped. “Perhaps you have a better idea? Perhaps…”

Masterson shook his head. “What do you think we can do?” Liddell Hart asked. “The Germans have ripped apart our communications. The Germans have smashed the forces that could have engaged them. The Germans have destroyed enough of the Royal Navy to make it impossible to close the sea-lanes. Winston is refusing to surrender, but he’s only one man; how long can he hold out?”

Liddell Hart took a long breath. “I’m sorry,” he apologised. “I didn’t mean to shout at you.”

Masterson sighed. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “You gathered us here when the invasion began; what do you want us to do?”

“We captured a damaged German Panzer from the future,” Liddell Hart said. Masterson stared at him in astonishment. “Your ship has to transport it to America, along with most of your crew – the remainder will be taking ship from Glasgow. The Prime Minister has been in communication with President Roosevelt; the Americans will take you and your ship, which will give them the boost their need for their own future weapons program. The government-in-exile will, one hopes, retain command of forces outside Britain; we can try and hold a base other than Canada.”

Masterson shook his head. “I’m not leaving,” he said. “I just got here and…”

“Captain, be reasonable,” Liddell Hart snapped. “Your ship, you said it yourself, is primitive compared to the German ships; you cannot mount a suicide attack on the Germans without being destroyed – for nothing. Nothing you can do – now – can restore the situation or save Britain, but you – we – will be in America, working to build the weapons that will save the world from Hitler.”

Masterson scowled. “You’re coming too?”

“And I thought that you enjoyed my company,” Liddell Hart said lightly. “We’re all coming; everyone involved in the Future Weapons Project will be taking ship over the next few days, while the government sorts out the future. We hope – we pray – that Churchill will escape London, but if he doesn’t, then there will be Clement Atlee, General Auchinleck and General Wavell out there, along with enough of our manpower to form an army to hold the rest of the world and retake Britain.”

“It won’t work,” Masterson said. “If we lose Britain, then Hitler will get the bomb before he can be stopped, and then…”

Liddell Hart shook his head. “We can, but try,” he said. “Your ship is still superior to anything the Japanese have, so you might be able to do the Americans a favour as well.”

Masterson nodded slowly. “We have to leave now?”

“Soon,” Liddell Hart confirmed. “The Germans will demand that your ship is returned to them…and I would like to ensure that it is out of our reach when they issue their demand.” He sighed. “Long enough for the tank – and two very special passengers – to be loaded…and then we leave.”

Masterson lifted an eyebrow. “Two special passengers?”

Liddell Hart nodded. “The King and Queen,” he said.

An hour later, the damaged panzer arrived, carefully hidden from any prying German aircraft in a tarpaulin. Masterson inspected it and was impressed; the panzer was not a Leopold, as he'd expected, but one of the SS Panthers. A quick check ensured that there wasn’t any signal beacon or any other transmitter; losing the panzer that way would have been embarrassing.

An hour after that, the King and Queen arrived. Masterson hadn’t been sure what he’d expected, as they both boarded the ship; they both looked like fugitives, running from their own people. After London had been gassed, some soldiers had been lynched; what would happen if the mob caught a glance at the Royal Family. They were running from England, running from the Germans, just as they had run in the other timeline.

The coincidence chilled him.

Moments later, they set out on their lonely trip towards America, leaving England behind for a very long time, perhaps forever. Masterson said nothing as the ship sailed out past Ireland…and then set out across the Atlantic. His crew – and the handful of Contemporaries that had been training on the ship – were silent; Masterson wasn’t in the mood to talk.

“What about the German submarine?” Liddell Hart asked, an hour after they had departed England. Masterson assumed that he meant the ship from the other timeline. “Can you watch out for it?”

Masterson laughed bitterly. “The sonar set on this ship is unique on this planet,” he said. “If the Germans catch a sniff of it, they’ll know exactly what they’re hunting…and then they will attack. If we stay quiet and run fast, we might escape notice, unless we were seen departing Liverpool.”

Liddell Hart nodded. “One other detail,” he said, “The King would quite like to meet you.”

“No,” Masterson said. His voice was reluctant; he hoped that Liddell Hart would take the hint. “I don’t think so.”

Liddell Hart lifted an eyebrow. “Can I ask why?”

“He’s running,” Masterson said. “Running from a land that is about to be overrun by the Nazis, leaving his people behind.” He allowed his rage and bitterness at the betrayal to sweep up. “I don’t think that we have much to say to one another.”

London, England
10th March 1942

“The news is bad,” the British officer said. Roth wasn’t surprised; they’d been able to pick up enough of their own transmissions to know what was happening – what had happened – around the GHQ line. The entire London region was in chaos; if there were people preparing to hunt for his team, they would never be able to pick them out from all of the other soldiers. The team rode in a lorry they’d stolen from the British; so far, no one had even challenged them.

Thousands of soldiers and civilians were straying into London, fleeing from the Germans as they advanced carefully over the North Downs, cutting transportation links as they went. The Marines and the Contemporaries didn’t mean to flush out thousands of civilians – and soldiers, as helpless as the rest – as they moved, but to a population that had been filled with tales of German Hun atrocities since the war had begun, they could hardly have been more welcome than the army of Lucifer himself. They had heard – and taken the risk of relaying onwards to higher authority – that Lord Gort had been reappointed to the post of commander of the land forces, but the disappearance of Sir Alan Brooke had managed to shatter what remained of the unity of the British forces. As their lorry slipped into London, avoiding a crowd of fleeing civilians and a dead policeman – who Roth guessed had made the mistake of trying to force the crowds back – they simply blended in with the crowd. They looked just like them, after all.

“This is madness,” Oberscharfuehrer Koch muttered, as they drove on. Roth himself was astonished; in Berlin – either Berlin – they would have been stopped and questioned before they even got so far into the city, although, to be fair, Berlin had never been attacked by such a force. “They have to see us coming…”

Roth placed a confident smile on his face. “Why?” He asked, although he knew the answer. “What do we have to worry about? The chaos is so high that they won’t be looking for us at all, eh?”

A military policeman, seeing them as nothing more than refugee soldiers who needed to be brought back into the defence, helpfully pointed them towards the command centre, which had been set up near Downing Street itself. Roth drove towards it, knowing that their luck couldn’t be pressed too far; their target was worth the loss of the entire team.

***
Lord Gort was one of the most highly decorated soldiers in the British Army. His return to Britain, from Malta, had been more of a reflection of Churchill’s dislike for him then for any confidence in his abilities; the two men had never gotten along. His brusque and genuinely unimaginative nature had given him a bad reputation, but at the same time he had saved the BEF from France, and allowed it to fight again.

“Prime Minister,” he said, after he’d spent an hour collecting reports from the remaining senior officers, “the battle is lost.”

Churchill reflexively resisted the statement. It couldn’t be that bad, surely. “I don’t think that its that bad,” he said, stubbornly. “Is there nothing we can do to buy time?”

Gort had little patience with Churchill either, although he kept it more under control. “I have very little communication with forces outside London,” he said. “The communications network that we depend upon has been destroyed or damaged in many places, forcing the remainder of the network to try to carry the load without any support at all. I can call Edinburgh and Glasgow, Prime Minister, but I cannot call the infantry division on the Downs, which might well have been destroyed by now.

“The masses of manoeuvre, to borrow your phase, have been destroyed,” he continued. “We massed almost every tank in Britain to oppose the enemy…and most of them have been destroyed from the air. We managed to scratch together a force that would hopefully give battle; a force of Stuka aircraft bashed it from the air and smashed the tanks. The remaining tanks are either damaged or otherwise useless; in any case, we can no longer concentrate them anywhere effective. The RAF has been practically destroyed; the remainder of the Royal Navy can achieve nothing, but their own destruction.”

He paused. “In short, Prime Minister, there is nothing, but the forces in London that can be used to oppose the Germans once they reach the city,” he concluded. “The forces in London are demoralised, battered and utterly split up; it will take weeks to mould them into new formations that can actually oppose the Germans in a street-to-street fight that will actually have some hope of victory. The thousands of refugees clogging the streets will only impede our men; they will not impede the Germans at all, not after what happened days ago in London. I wish I could promise you a victory, but – Prime Minister – I cannot even promise you a bloody good try at a victory.”

Churchill sank to his knees. “I sent the Monarch out of London,” he said. The entire plan had been hatched in total secrecy; the King himself had been reluctant to leave until Churchill had insisted. “I never intended to leave myself.”

Gort nodded in understanding. “Me neither,” he said. His voice became questioning. “Prime Minister, who will end up running the country?”

“I imagine that Herr Hitler will appoint someone,” Churchill snarled. “Eden is at Cambridge; after London falls, he will discuss a peace with the…Germans!” The hated in his voice shocked even him. “I think that it will be Mosley, the rat-eyed fascist; I will not go into exile and leave him here. Better to die and…”

Gort understood. “It won’t be long before they come for us,” he said. “Shall we repair to the command post?”

Churchill stood up. He wore a military uniform. “I once offered to command a group of naval ratings in France,” he said, remembering. He held out a hand. Gort grasped it. “It will be a honour to fight by your side, John; shall we move?”

Aircraft screamed across the sky. “I think that we should,” Gort said. He led the way to the stairs. Churchill, feeling curiously free for the first time in years, smiled as they walked down the stairs and out of the famous black door for the last time. “It’s been a honour to stand by your side, Prime Minister.”

Churchill smiled. “Winston,” he said, lighting a cigar. The feeling of freedom grew and grew; there were no longer any worries or responsibilities. “It’s Winston, John.”

***
The command post had almost made Roth laugh when he'd seen it; dozens of senior officers, all with only a few men to command. Military Policemen ran around, transporting messages to the units that were trying to dig in on the outskirts of London, half of which seemed to be dissolving. The remaining units wouldn’t be the best that Britain had for the fight, Roth was sure; they would be the final scrapings of the barrel – and they might well be deserting if they thought that the battle was lost.

He took the care to keep his men out of sight – he didn’t want an MP trying to commandeer his men for one of the defence projects – as he studied the British command post. The officers were gathered around a table, behind a set of barricades that wouldn’t have held up an Italian unit, let alone the SS. They were sheltered from being seen from the air, but they had pitifully few antitank weapons. They were trying to turn the entire centre of government into a defence perimeter, but…they didn’t have a cat’s chance in doggy heaven.

Roth grinned. They didn’t know that his people were already within their fold.

“There,” Oberscharfuehrer Koch muttered, pointing with one finger. Both of them wore British uniforms; Roth half-suspected that they could have walked past in one of Goring’s personal Luftwaffe uniforms and the British wouldn’t have noticed. There was no mistaking the figure; he’d seen enough pictures. It was Winston Churchill himself. “Should we?”

“He’s going to command the defence in person?” Roth asked, disbelieving. It fitted in with what he knew of Churchill’s personality, but he would have expected Churchill to have fled with the rest of his government. It was what he had done in the other timeline, the one that seemed so shadowy now. “Back to the truck.”

As soon as they returned, Roth started to issue orders. “You, drive the truck around and right towards the command post,” he ordered. “Jump out once the wheels are locked, then start shooting. The rest of us will be right behind you, on foot; we all fire as we come, taking down their guards first, and then the rest of the commanders, understand?”

He waited for their acknowledgement. “Good,” he said. He felt a moment of almost pure love for his men, the best men that Germany had produced in any timeline. “Now…go!”

The truck lurched forward, picked up speed, and ran towards the corner. Roth and his men followed it, lifting their weapons; the truck turned around the corner and raced towards the command post. Roth rounded the corner in time to see the assembled generals jumping for safety, the truck impacting directly with the table and slamming it to the floor. An MP was spinning around; Roth shot him neatly between the eyes.

“Heil Hitler,” he bellowed. It was their battle cry; they’d copied the idea from an Arab tribe that had believed that their God would protect them from SS bullets. “Heil Hitler!”

The British officers went down like ninepins; he shot Lord Gort himself personally. He looked for Churchill, but didn’t see him as the MPs started shooting at his team, he flung himself to the pavement and returned fire with his assault rifle, knocking them down. Others found cover and fought back; a pair of men in civil servant outfits ran for their lives. A single pair of shots brought them both down.

“Churchill,” he snapped. He found it hard to believe that Churchill would have run for his life. Like the Fuhrer, he had been in the Great War; he wouldn’t have fled. “Where’s Churchill…?”

A burst of machine gun fire tore two of his men apart. He spun around, crawling into shooting position, to see Churchill, standing up in the open, firing madly on them with a machine gun. He flinched back, then lifted his own weapon; Churchill saw him at the same instant. He was screaming something incoherent – Roth didn’t have time to understand him – and he fired at Roth; a mad spray of bullets that raced across the pavement towards him. Roth fired back, a single perfectly placed shot, but it was too late; the spray of machine gun fire swept over him and cut him apart.

Churchill must have been knocked down by one of his men, Roth thought, as the white-hot bullets tore into his body. His last sight was of Winston Churchill falling to his knees, half his head torn off…and then he died. The remainder of the team lasted ten minutes, fighting right in the heart of London, before they too were hunted down and killed.

It didn’t matter. Churchill was dead.

And Britain along with him.

Chapter Forty: Aftermath and Prelude

Berlin, Germany
20th March 1942

Hitler had been furious to hear of the departure of the King and Queen of England, although even he acknowledged that it would make armistice negotiations easier now that Britain had been deserted – as he put it – by an unworthy monarch and his queen. He discussed, with Trautman, Himmler and a few others, the wisdom of appointing the Duke of Windsor to the role of puppet King, but for the moment such decisions could wait. The Reich had other problems.

He had been delighted, by contrast, to hear of Churchill’s death. The death of the commando team that had attacked Churchill’s defence post mattered very little to him, although Trautman himself was irritated by the development. They could have their posthumous medals, seeing that none of them had escaped the vengeful British, but losing them would hurt the German war effort more than it had hurt the British to lose Churchill. A single Sea Falcon or Blitzkrieg could have picked off Churchill’s command post with a FAE bomb; there had been no reason to attack it in person. He silently cursed Roth and his men, even while marching in the massive parade down the heart of Berlin, calibrating the victory.

The people of the Reich had turned out in force to watch the procession, led by an elite detachment of the SS Adolf Hitler, then followed by Marine and SS units – united in victory – and finally overflown by a flight of Sea Falcons and Kurt VTOL aircraft. One of them carried Goring himself; the Reichmarshal had benefited, too, from the success of the Luftwaffe in the invasion. Restored in Hitler’s favour, along with Raeder and Kesselring, Goring landed in the road and walked alongside his men as the aircraft took off again, into the clear blue sky.

The crowd shouted out a single acclimation, again and again, as a single car drove down the centre of the road. “Heil Hitler, Heil Hitler…” In the car, standing up to be seen by everyone, Hitler waved to his people; they saluted him with raised arms. If any of them had private misgivings or forebodings, they showed no trace of it as they acclaimed the man who had taken Germany from victory to victory. The defeat in front of Moscow was forgotten, Dunkirk a fading memory; the Reich had triumphed against its most determined foe.

“Heil Hitler, Heil Hitler…”

The best and brightest of the Reich – or those who had been lucky enough to secure high rank or glory – stood and saluted as Hitler entered the stadium. In the future – or his future – Trautman knew that Speer would build one large enough to hold the entire higher ranks of the Nazi Party, but for the moment only a few thousand could fit into the stadium. The crowds outside would hear Hitler’s speech through loudspeakers; those further away would hear the Fuhrer on Radio Berlin. The BBC had been shut down, by order of the occupation authorities; Britain would hear every last word of the Fuhrer’s speech.

Trautman grinned. Poor bastards…

Hitler had drawn up several plans for the administration of Great Britain. In the end, he had appointed Franz Xaver Ritter Von Epp as Reichcommissioner Britain, supported by Reinhard Heydrich as Police Commissioner. Eden, who had signed the surrender documents – after noting that Prime Minister Atlee had taken over the remains of the Royal Navy and British forces outside the home islands – had been arrested for war crimes; the Fuhrer had appointed Sir Oswald Mosley as Prime Minister. Trautman expected that Mosley would do a good job; Britain and its industries had to be worked into the Reich.

A Wagnerian overture bellowed out over the crowd, played perfectly by a Berlin Orchestra, as Hitler mounted the podium. The crowd grew more excited; a blast of wind set the red banners to flapping, showing the Nazi flag to the entire world. Hitler stood and received the cheers as the music slowed down, carrying the cheers down into silence; Hitler stood alone in the centre of the silence.

“My People,” he thundered. A sound system had been removed from the Graf Zeppelin; Hitler looked and seemed larger than life. “We have won a great victory!”

A swell of cheers rose up. “Heil Hitler, Heil Hitler…”

Hitler held up a hand and the cheers slowed. “We have knocked out of the war, once and for all, the age-old tormentor of the German people. Never again shall our children suffer and die because of a blockade! Never again shall our women and children be roasted again in their beds by British bombers! Never again shall our long men die at the hands of the perfidious British!”

Trautman grinned as the cheers rose up again. “Heil Hitler, Heil Hitler…”

“We have no quarrel with America,” the Fuhrer thundered. “What interest does she have, a world away from where she lives, attacked by the Japanese? What interest do we have in fighting them? Why should young American men lose their lives in combat, trying to repair a broken empire and a broken nation? The New Order is here; we seek no war with America!”

Trautman laughed. The Fuhrer had made certain promises to the Japanese, including the loan of one of the task force’s ships, but he hoped that Hitler had no intention of keeping any of them. The Japanese were doomed, once the Americans finished gearing up for war; the only question was what would happen to the Reich?

“Heil Hitler, Heil Hitler…”

The Fuhrer’s voice lowered. “I send now a personal message to President Roosevelt,” he said. “I offer peace, I offer to respect America’s interests in the American Continent, I offer that no more young men should die, that no more young women will be widowed by the fighting, that no more…”

His voice dropped. “I offer all that, in exchange for peace,” he said. “We have what we want; we will not require more from the world. I ask now, President Roosevelt, which of us now is the warmonger? What is your choice? Peace…or war eternal?”

***
“The rounding up of British servicemen, the remains of the divisions that got smashed, is proceeding nicely,” Bormann reported, after the massive speech and the even longer feast that had been laid on for the elite of the Nazi Party. Victory in England Day would be celebrated for years, Himmler knew; it was his duty to ensure that it was celebrated. “Unfortunately, we are having problems in ensuring that we are accounting for all servicemen.”

Himmler leaned forward. “Are we certain that the British are being honest with us?”

Bormann shrugged. “Herr Reichsführer, my staff has only just begun going through the British records,” he said. “By the time we ordered them to refrain from destroying the records, they were already burning or destroyed; the remains are not sufficient to allow us to build up a perfect picture of who was in the services – and who was killed during Future Shock. The damage was so vast, particularly to the infantry divisions that were struck by burning fuel, that the British themselves didn’t know the full extent of their losses.”

He paused. “What formations remained intact after Churchill died either surrendered or took ship to Canada,” he continued. “As per your instructions, the Kriegsmarine attempted to interfere with this, but was unable to sink more than a dozen ships before they retreated out of range. We do not, as yet, know how many formations headed to Canada, or America, or tried to reach the Middle East, but now that Gibraltar has fallen to the Spanish, we expect that they will either surrender or be interned in Portugal.

“The remaining heavy British war material was ordered to be handed over to us,” he concluded. “So far, we have taken possession of hundreds of guns, hundreds of vehicles…and only a handful of tanks and aircraft. No decision has been made, Mien Fuhrer, on what should happen to the items, but Sir Oswald has requested that Britain be required to maintain an army akin to the Vichy Army.”

Himmler looked up at Hitler. “Mien Fuhrer, if we allow them to keep an army, they might feel inclined to attempt to revolt against us,” he said. “With all of our other commitments, we might have real problems suppressing a revolt…”

He allowed his voice to trail off suggestively. “Mien Fuhrer,” Trautman said, “the British would not be allowed to maintain an army that could actually stand up to us. If they had a small infantry force, they could keep the peace in Britain and enforce our orders.”

Raeder looked grimly at Trautman, then at Himmler, and then back at Hitler. “Mien Fuhrer, Britain is not France,” he said. “If they destroy our occupation force, then we will have to repeat Operation Future Shock, rather than just launch a panzer division across the border. It could get…tricky.”

Himmler smiled. “There is also the requirement for rounding up the Jews and the other undesirables,” he said. “Sir Oswald has been more than willing to assist us in rounding up the communists and the union leaders and the others who might cause problems, but he was less keen on the Jews, for some reason. His…court would disapprove.”

Hitler smiled coldly. “Does it matter if they disapprove?” He asked. “The British Aristocrats who have remained will bow to the New Order, in their time, or they will spend the rest of their lives mopping floors and…servicing the men.”

Himmler allowed himself an internal shudder at the thought. “I am sure that no Aryan would want that, Mien Fuhrer,” he said. “Has there been any response from Roosevelt?”

Ribbentrop looked up nervously. “The Americans have not yet replied to our offer of peace, Mein Fuhrer,” he said. “I believe that they are taking stock of the situation before the decide what to do next. Any peace might have to come at the expense of the Japanese…”

“You have a curious definition of a problem,” Hitler said mildly. He looked around the table. “Now what?”

“I beg leave to report that the Italians have been requesting that we place additional forces at the disposal of General Rommel,” Keitel said, after a moment. Himmler smiled; Mussolini had been watching the developments in Britain with considerable interest – and considerable jealousy. The last time Mussolini had felt like that, he had invaded Greece…and that had been a disaster that had nearly dragged Italy down and Germany with it. “If we support Rommel further, Mien Fuhrer, we could obtain control of the oil fields, liberate Iran from Soviet Control and occupy Saudi Arabia.”

Hitler scowled. “We do have to attend to the problems in Palestine,” he said. “At the same time, will this not distract from Operation Eastern Hammer?”

There were times when Himmler suspected that their lives would be easier if Hitler didn’t keep renaming operations. “Mien Fuhrer,” Speer said, after a moment, “we require at least two to three more months to complete preparations for…ah, Eastern Hammer. Anything we send to the Middle East will have to come from older war stocks, but at the same time we do not want to give the British time to recover and gain more American support from the Indian Ocean.”

Himmler knew that he had to put in a word of his own. “Furthermore, Mien Fuhrer, we would not have a firm hand in settling the affairs if the Grand Mufti or the Italians actually play the major role in chasing the British out of Egypt,” he said. “Gaining control now, while the British are weak, would not give them any chance at gaining control for themselves.”

Hitler stared at the map that had been laid on the table. “Konteradmiral Trautman, do you have any thoughts on the situation?”

Himmler watched as Trautman smiled thoughtfully. “A small force of tanks, from the SS detachment on my ships, could handle anything that the British could put in their way,” he said, his voice confident. “It would be much easier than Britain, Mien Fuhrer; we could drive all the way to Cairo and over the Suez without meeting any problems. Once we had crushed Eighth Army, assuming that it does not disintegrate under the strains of losing its home islands, we can settle the rest of the region at our leisure.”

“It would also allow us to take Iran from Stalin,” Hitler said. His voice became more absorbed as he studied the map. “We could even attack up the route towards Stalingrad, using our new fleet of lorries to transport an attacking column. Or, we could thrust into British India, overrunning the British and taking the riches of India for ourselves.”

Trautman looked doubtful, but chose not to say anything. “It might also bring Turkey into the war, on our side,” Hitler said. “If they refuse, we will crush them utterly and give their country to the Italians to play with, while we use the Black Sea to transport our troops into action against the Russians.”

He stood up. “Konteradmiral Trautman, Erich, Martin, please work out a simple deployment plan for attacking the British,” he said. “If we talk to the Italians, they can join us in an attack on Malta, or we can make them support us more in Russia.” He paused. “We could also give them the British equipment that was surrendered to us; it would give them some additional combat power.”

“And some of our pilots might shoot them up,” Himmler said, and laughed. Goring didn’t look pleased. “That would stiffen their spines.”

Hitler shrugged. “I would prefer not to be shackled to the corpse,” he said, in an unusual moment of honestly. “If I must be shackled, then at least the corpse can dance to my tune.”

The meeting broke up slowly, finally leaving Himmler and Hitler alone, without even the faithful Bormann to take notes. “Mien Fuhrer,” Himmler said, as soon as the door had closed. “We have to maintain a firm grip on the British.”

Hitler nodded. “The British cannot be allowed to revolt against us,” he said, stating his position. “With four of our divisions on permanent occupation duty, the British will be unable to cause more than minor damage – and if they want to shoot their own people, that’s fine by me. They’ll need to work hard to feed themselves, in any case.”

“I was thinking about that,” Himmler said. “What do we do with the Jews in Britain?”

“Albert is very keen that we use them for slave labour,” Hitler said. He laughed shortly. “They will serve the Reich that they tried to bring down with their lies and their demands that we bend ourselves to serve their grubby little banking houses.” He stood up. “It will be interesting to meet Oswald again.”

Himmler blinked. “Oswald? Oswald Mosley?”

“Of course,” Hitler said. “I met him, years ago; had the British seen the sense in putting him in power, all of the…unfortunate unpleasantness would not have had to happen. We might have had the British Navy assisting us against the French, the Russians, perhaps even the Japanese. We might have used Canada as a base for engaging the enemy in America, might we not?”

Himmler did the safe thing and agreed. “Of course, Mein Fuhrer,” he said. “Are you going to summon him to Berlin?”

Hitler shook his head. “I shall ride through the streets of London,” he said. “I intend to visit London soon, riding one of the aircraft that have come from the future that we have now made certain. I shall walk through…and then I will stay in Buckingham Palace, while I settle the final affairs for Great Britain, now one of the Reich’s subject states.”

Himmler felt moved to protest. “Mien Fuhrer, it could cost you your life,” he protested. “All it would take would be one lone manic on a high building…”

“I am the touched by destiny,” Hitler said, his eyes glittering. “I do not fear any British madman – and we would burn Britain to the ground if they so much as dreamed of lifting a hand against their Fuhrer. I will have the SS around me, marching through London, wearing one of the bullet-proof vests from the future. What could harm me?”

Himmler bit down the objections that occurred to him, starting with the death of Roth’s team, who had been wearing such equipment when they had been killed.

“Make the arrangements, Heinrich,” Hitler said. “I want to be in Buckingham Palace within the month.”

Chapter Forty-One: Resistance Is Futile

Near Calais, France
20th March 1942

The radio reported what Bruce devoutly hoped were lies – and he feared were not. He’d known, through some of the final broadcasts from the BBC, that Britain had fought the Germans and lost, but…he hadn’t been able to believe some of the German broadcasts. Churchill had been arrested in an attempt to gas German soldiers and British POWs, then shot while trying to escape; he couldn’t believe it. The Royal Navy, sunk; the King handing the government over to Sir Oswald Mosley, recently a resident of prison at His Majesty’s pleasure.

The torrent of statements came thick and fast. Mosley himself broadcast once, claiming that everything remained under control; a German broadcast, denouncing attempts to kill German soldiers, suggested that everything was far from under control. A statement that SS soldiers had shot three German soldiers for rape made him snort; that, he was certain, couldn’t have happened. The SS’s reputation had gone far – he quailed at the thought of the SS dictating Britain’s future.

But two strands of news remained constant; Mosley had taken up the role of Prime Minister and someone called Franz Xaver Ritter Von Epp – the radio gave his full name - as Reichcommissioner Britain. Bruce had never heard of him as he listened; the Germans seemed curiously reluctant to talk about him, past the obvious fact that he had been a General in the last war and one of Hitler’s confidents. If there was any other government – he was sure that there would be a British government in Canada or America – the radio transmissions made no mention of it; the Germans seemed to be supreme.

Hitler’s own speech, transmitted for American ears, had given him the chills; if the war were indeed to go on, it would be difficult for the Americans to actually bring their power to bear against the Germans. His stint in Bomber Command had taught him the basics of logistics, something that was very practical for those serving in bombing missions; the Americans would have to transport everything right across the Atlantic. If the Americans accepted Hitler’s offer of peace, there would be little prospect of continuing the war; there would no longer be any source of supply for the resistance in any country.

Ireland, according to a broadcast in English, had taken the opportunity to snatch up Northern Ireland, reabsorbing it into Erie. Another broadcast called on all loyal Irishmen to fight to the death against the papists, and appealed to America to assist the Irish before they tore themselves apart in civil war. The Irish Prime Minister had appealed for calm, promising that Ireland would be reunited peacefully, but all hell was breaking loose in Belfast…

There were demands that all Jews report at once to the local police stations to register, instructions for all servicemen to hand themselves in to the occupation authorities, new regulations for British citizens, orders that all transmitters and arms were to be handed over at once, orders that…the Germans were attempting to crush Britain and…

Bruce shut off the transmitter. He didn’t want to face any more.

Cecilia had remained out of his way over the last two days, only sharing her bed with him. Bruce understood, now, just how the French had felt after German panzers smashed into France and began the long race to the sea. Cecilia had endured a year under German occupation; it was sheer luck that she’d lasted as long as she had without the Germans taking control of the farm, or, for that matter, raping all of France. With Hitler’s sudden turn back to the west, who knew what would happen in the future.

“I should have been there,” he breathed. “I could have…”

“Died,” Cecilia said. Like many farmwomen, she was a curious mix of practicality and fancifulness; she ran the farm like a businesswoman, but allowed him to take the lead between the sheets. She was almost sluttish, in her way, and she was very controlled, very understanding. “You would have died there.”

She was offering herself for an argument. Bruce felt too weak, too drained, to argue.

“I know,” he said. “But at least I could have died.”

“Typical man,” Cecilia snapped, showing her own anger. “You think that everything is about honour and glory! There’s no honour in dying for the sake of dying, Wallace; you have to remember that.”

Bruce felt a flare of anger that was damped under the depression. “I feel so useless,” he said. “I stay here, I work on the farm, I fuck you until you can hardly stand…”

“And you cannot stand any longer,” Cecilia said. She stuck out her tongue. Matters were proceeding in a very satisfactory way when there was a loud knock on the door; Bruce let go of her and jumped backwards.

“Stay there,” Cecilia hissed. She went to the door and peeked through it, and then stared. “Germans…”

The door shook violently. “Open up or we will break down the door,” a German-accented voice snapped, in French. “Open now…”

Cecilia composed herself, hooked up her blouse, and opened the door. Two Germans stood there, wearing Wehrmacht uniforms; a third stood behind them, wearing a black uniform that Bruce was all too familiar with these days. There was something odd about the uniform, although he couldn’t place his finger on it; the service pistol that the German wore was strange.

“You are Cecilia Lafarge?” The SS officer said. Cecilia nodded. “By order of the occupying power, we have the right to search your premises; who is that man?”

He was pointing at Bruce. “That is my fiancée,” Cecilia said, keeping her voice calm. The younger of the two Wehrmacht officers looked disappointed. “His name is Leon.”

“Running from combat, eh?” The SS officer said, taking Bruce for a draft-dodger from before France fell to the Germans. He leered cheerfully at Bruce. “I always knew that you froggies were cowards.”

His men escorted Cecilia and Bruce outside the farm, allowing them to see the small lorry packed with soldiers, while they searched the farm for…what? Bruce wondered, as he watched the two soldiers keeping their weapons pointed not quite in their direction; they could snap up their rifles at a moment’s notice. A German autogyro flew overhead, heading towards England; he watched it go with some envy.

The SS officer came out and interrogated Bruce in great detail, demanding the papers that Hugo had prepared for him; they seemed to be satisfactory. Halfway through, the SS officer’s tone changed, while he enquired about what Cecilia was like in bed. Bruce smiled and gave loose answers, hoping that the interview was almost over.

“Why did you refuse to fight?” The SS officer asked, right at the end. The sudden change in tone shocked Bruce. “Why did you refuse to defend your country?”

Bruce struggled to answer. Hugo had not expected that question; Cecilia had never thought of it. “My country?” He asked, after a moment. “Which government was I supposed to follow?”

“The one that we have created for you,” the SS officer said, flatly. He worked on a small folder, and then presented them both with identity cards; Bruce took his without demur. “Read the instructions, obey them, or you will be punished, understand that.”

He passed Bruce a small sheaf of papers, stood up and waved them both back inside, taking his men and leaving along the dirt road leading up to the farm. Bruce watched him go, grimly aware of Cecilia’s hand reaching out to take his; the Germans waved as they went around the corner and vanished behind the trees.

“I feel odd,” Cecilia admitted, and slumped against him. Bruce, suddenly very aware that the Germans could have doubled back, helped her back inside the farm before she collapsed on a chair. He had a sudden feeling that neither of them were going to get any chores done. “Wallace, I…”

“I understand,” Bruce said. He kissed her gently and pulled her onto his lap, feeling her body relax against him. “I think we’d better look at these.”

He unfolded the sheaf of papers and skimmed through them. They contained a series of instructions, concerning every aspect of their lives while they lived in the occupation’s security zone. Bruce blinked in astonishment; not only had their just been registered as ‘loyal servants of the German Reich’, but they had also been warned that they might be required to provide services for the Germans. They couldn’t leave their region of France without permission; they had to carry their identity cards at all times, or…the consequences weren’t specified, but Bruce suspected that they would be far from pleasant.

“My God,” Cecilia said, ignoring the fact that she, as an unmarried woman, wasn’t high in God’s esteem. “Look at this.”

Bruce read quickly. The farm, which Cecilia claimed had been in her family for years, had been placed under German jurisdiction. Cecilia had to give a full accounting of her farm within a month, with everything from production to the farm animals listed, or the farm would be taken from her. The Germans would be taking a percentage of what the farm produced; if she objected, or tried to hide anything, she would be arrested and the farm would be handed over to someone else.

It got worse. They would be expected to assist the Germans in every way possible, from reporting on their neighbours to hunting the resistance, or they would be punished. The Germans were fond of that word, it seemed; ‘punished’ appeared in every fourth line. Bruce allowed himself a moment of relief that he, as Leon, had been permitted to remain on the farm, but he suspected that that would not last.

“They can’t take the farm,” Cecilia protested. Her voice broke and she slumped again. “I won’t let them take the farm. What will happen to me?”

Bruce suspected that she would be on the streets – or in a German brothel – within a week. He didn’t say that out loud. “It won’t be that bad,” he said, holding her. Part of him knew that he would be staying with her for a very long time; part of him wanted just to be Leon for the rest of his life. “It won’t be that bad.”

Cecilia sobbed against him. “Look at what they want,” she said. “Even when there was four of us, we could not provide anything like as much as the Germans seem to think we could. In a year, they’ll know it as well – and then they’ll come for the farm.” Her voice became a bitter sob. “I won’t let them have it intact, I swear!”

Bruce picked her up and carried her to bed, placing her under the covers, allowing her to sleep it off. He felt amorous, despite everything that had happened, he wanted her and…

He left her to sleep, returning to the radio set. The Germans had made a terrible mess as they searched – he silently thanked God that he’d destroyed all of his RAF gear – and he started to clean it all up. The BBC had gone off the air – again – but several transmissions were reporting on Ireland. After several different versions of the story had been broadcast, he gave up. It no longer mattered.

***
“Yes, the Germans have been quite busy,” Hugo said, that night. They sat together around the table, drinking wine and eating a slab of cheese and bread that Hugo had brought them. “Every farm has been visited by the Germans, working to get us all registered with these ID cards. Once they know just how many people they have to feed, they will start ensuring that only they will be feeding them.”

Cecilia looked broken-hearted. “Then there is no hope?” She asked. “No way that the Germans can be forced out of France?”

“Not at the moment,” Hugo admitted. “We managed to get some arms from the Vichy Government, when it seemed that Germany would lose in Russia, but now that they’ve started to purge the communists on Hitler’s orders…even so, they don’t think that Hitler can be defeated. Worse, they’re taking thousands of people – engineers, mainly – and moving them to Algeria.”

Bruce scowled. “More colonising problems?”

“The Algerians have been restless lately,” Hugo said wryly. “Anyone would think that they did not appreciate the benefits of French rule.”

Bruce dismissed the first retort that came to his mind. “Can you and your group continue to operate?”

Hugo nodded. “We have enough food stockpiled to keep quite a few of us out of the German books,” he said. “Did they take your fingerprints?”

Bruce shook his head. “That’s interesting,” Hugo said. He sounded puzzled. “A lot of young men of military age – thirteen to thirty, or thereabouts – have been fingerprinted. There must be thousands of them, just in this region along; I don’t know how they intend to keep track of all of them.” He paused. “Incidentally, we heard from one of our operatives who serves the Germans – the NIGHT AND FOG group is knocking out people who opposed Germany in the other timeline.”

“I thought of that,” Bruce said. Hugo winked at him. “Is there nothing that we can do about it?”

“There is something that you can do, if you are interested,” Hugo said. “Your friend, by the by, attempted to fly to England and…”

Bruce stared at him. “And…”

“We never heard from him again,” Hugo said. “This was the day before the Germans launched their invasion, so he might have made it, but we just don’t know. I should have told you earlier, but…”

Bruce felt a wave of pain. He’d liked the young man. “That is not important at the moment,” Cecilia said. Her voice was very firm; her eyes were very bright. “If there is a way of hurting the Germans, please tell us what it is?”

“It is always my pleasure to please a woman,” Hugo said. Bruce felt a sudden wave of jealousy. “There is a…weapon that has fallen into our possession, one that needs to be used soon, on a target that has to be struck for the good of France. You could use it; as an Englishman, you would be a legitimate warrior, rather than one of my men.”

“And I’m expendable?” Bruce asked. “I don’t think that I’m in uniform, am I?”

“You would be useless to us dead,” Hugo said. “We could find you a uniform; a peace treaty with Mosley or no, the war is hardly over, is it?”

Bruce shook his head. “What’s the target?” He asked. “The German airbase? The ships? The harbours they use to transport supplies?”

Hugo told him.

***
“You will do it, won’t you?” Cecilia asked, after Hugo had slipped off into the night. He had warned them that the Germans would be on the look-out; they’d gone to bed after he left. “You have to do this, for me?”

Bruce admitted his own feelings to himself. “I will,” he promised. The thought wasn’t a hard one at all, not after everything that had happened. He lay back on the bed, allowing her to straddle him; her hands played with his manhood. “I will do what he wanted me to do.”

Cecilia giggled as his manhood grew harder in her hand. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down,” she said, as she lifted herself over him, pressing down and impaling herself on him. His hands reached up to play with her breasts; she leaned closer, allowing him to kiss them, and then to kiss her. He felt himself melting away, inside her; every slightest move brought a new explosion of pleasure. “I knew you would do it for me.”

Bruce pulled her closer to him. “I promise,” he said, as he felt himself coming closer and closer to the brink. “I promise…”

He exploded with pleasure, hearing the noises she made as he came inside her, feeling her body buckling under the impact of her own orgasm. She collapsed on top of him, her lips meeting his; her eyes shining with a promise of life and light.

“I love you,” she whispered. Bruce wasn’t scared at all. “I love you, so much.”

Chapter Forty-Two: America Alone

Washington DC, USA
23rd March 1942

Masterson had been to Bermuda before – a nation that had been ruthlessly purged of its black population after Britain had fallen in the other timeline – and remembered it as a very grim place. The Bermuda in this timeline seemed to throb with life, even if the Duke of Windsor was under house arrest, following Hitler’s demand that he return to Britain to take up the throne. The King and Queen left the Royal Oak without ever seeing Masterson, only to discover that an American marine reserve force had arrived on Bermuda to ensure that the island wasn’t used against Germany.

Masterson wasn’t surprised. In the other timeline, the Germans – and the puppet British government – had used the West Indies against America; this time, the Americans were taking no chances. Even as the Future Weapons Project and its workers – including the captured Panther – were transhipped to America, Masterson himself boarded an American aircraft, being flown directly to Washington DC.

He had been to Washington before as well. The city had been almost raised to the ground, following the atomic strike; this Washington seemed to be alive. Thousands of people thronged the streets, black, white, Hispanic; it was so far from the genocide that the New Confederacy had perpetrated on ‘uppity niggers’ that he felt his head spin. Thousands of people, whose only crime had been being born free and black, had been slaughtered; thousands more had been sent back into slavery. America, he’d been informed by Sam Turtledove, Roosevelt’s representative, had been on edge ever since some of the histories from the other future had leaked into the public domain.

“There has been a lot of fear in the black regions,” Turtledove said, as their car drove up to the White House. “They are terrified that the KKK is going to start working for the Nazis.”

“It did provide the core of the New Confederacy,” Masterson agreed, too worried about the future himself to give the subject his full attention. “Why did you ever tolerate it that long?”

“FDR lost the election last year in your timeline,” Turtledove said. “This time, things are going to be different.”

“I hope you’re right,” Masterson said. “What about the forces in the Middle East?”

“Your Prime Minister has been talking about that, but we have so few forces,” Turtledove said. “Quite apart from the Japanese, what is to stop the Graf Zeppelin from sailing over here and landing German Marines to kill FDR?”

“Nothing,” Masterson said ruefully. The White House was surrounded, he now realised, by armed guards; the streets of Washington swarmed with armed people. “It would be risking the remaining fleet, but there would be nothing stopping them.”

Turtledove winced. “Oh, there was a big argument, the day that Britain fell,” he said. “Some people wanted to draw back everything for the defence of America itself, others wanted to think of some way of liberating your nation from the Nazis, but that will take far too long.”

Masterson shook his head. Would America really abandon the fight in all, but name?

The car stopped by the White House, allowing them to step out under the watchful eyes of armed American Marines; Masterson, who had seen the SS Special Forces, wasn’t impressed. The Secret Service checked them, quickly but firmly, before allowing Turtledove to lead him into the White House. The building seemed almost empty; Masterson had been told, in confidence, that Vice President Wallace had been sent to the other side of the country, just in case of a German attack.

Turtledove knocked on a single large door. The door opened; Turtledove led him into an office, where he faced a man out of the past. President Roosevelt used a wheelchair – Masterson wondered if there was anything that Doctor Phyllis Stoner could do for him – but his grip was firm. The man beside him, wearing the uniform of an Admiral, glowered at him; Roosevelt gave him a reproving look and he shook his head.

“President Roosevelt, Admiral King, this is Captain Masterson,” Turtledove said. “Captain, this is the President of America.”

“Welcome to America,” Roosevelt said. His voice was wryly amused. “You must think that I stepped out of the pages of a history book, young man.”

Masterson felt his head spin. He sat down rather quickly. “Yes…ah…”

“Mr President,” Turtledove supplied, from his corner of the room.

Admiral King scowled further at Masterson. “Your friends have crushed the navy of your nation,” he snapped. “What exactly have you brought upon us.”

Masterson felt a wave of anger. “I don’t know how we got here,” he snapped. “I brought my crew and myself to Britain in the hopes that you could use what I know to fend off the Germans – and now I have been ordered here! I have risked everything to come to warn you, Admiral; your ships are just as vulnerable as the British ships!”

“Enough,” Roosevelt said, calmly. Admiral King gave his President a cross look, but subsided. “Captain, exactly what will happen if the Atlantic fleet engages the fleet that you were unwillingly transported with?”

Masterson grimaced. “They will take out the carriers and your battleships with long-range missiles,” he said. “Their submarine is undetectable, but it’s already shot off half of its weapons, so unless they can make more or adapt something that the Nazis have in this era, they will be harmless soon.”

Admiral King scowled. “Can they do that?”

“I don’t know,” Masterson admitted. “We know very little about the German weapons, Mr President; we were literally forbidden to know. Our weapons were always cast-offs; what weapon scientists we developed were taken to the Reich and we never saw them again. The Cornwall-class of ships is the most powerful that we are allowed – or were allowed – and it is substantially inferior to any similar German ship.”

He took a breath. “They will sweep the Atlantic Fleet from the sea, until the weapons run out,” he concluded. “You need to build up your own weapons.”

Roosevelt lifted an eyebrow. Masterson spoke quickly of jet fighters, homing missiles, improved radars and jamming systems, nuclear-powered ships and submarines, rockets that could fly across the world, orbital weapons systems…the possibilities were endless. The Americans had a German tank to study; they wouldn’t be able to duplicate it, but they would learn a great deal from it.

“And the Germans have a lead on us,” Roosevelt said, after Masterson had finished. “Atomic technology…and now all of this as well.”

“I’m afraid so,” Masterson said. “You have to move quickly.”

“We are not going to risk American lives to rebuild the British Empire,” Admiral King snapped. “The Indians already grow restless; why should we fight to save your empire?”

“There are more important concerns,” Roosevelt said, ignoring Admiral King. “It is taking longer than we have expected to get the production of weapons that we had already designed, from carriers to tanks and handguns; now you are saying that we will have to cannon up the weapons we already have. There is also the strong danger of the Germans winning the nuclear race, which would be bad news, would it not?”

Masterson felt his heart sink. “You can’t surrender to Hitler,” he said. “He’ll destroy you all!”

“The internal turmoil might save Hitler the trouble,” Roosevelt said grimly. “The KKK has been attacking black towns; the blacks, seeing the future history books, have been fighting back. I had a delegation from the black labour unions in here, begging me to do something to end discrimination before they get exterminated. Rumours are flying everywhere and fuelling more rumours; black towns have been arming themselves with hundreds of weapons and black soldiers have been refusing to fight…and of course it’s spreading to the white soldiers. The anger, the rage at Japan, remains – but Hitler was never that…feared by the rest of America. The loss of the soldiers who were supposed to have reinforced Britain didn’t please the country; some people are saying that your people didn’t provide enough protection.”

Masterson scowled. “It would not have helped,” he said. “That submarine is undetectable.”

“At the same time, I have to worry about Mexico,” Roosevelt continued. “The Mexicans worked out that they would have served Hitler in the war that never happened; they want us to make compromises, or they will serve Hitler again. Some Southern Senators want an invasion of Mexico; hundreds of Mexican immigrants have been hunted through the south, just as a possible fifth column. Edger has been pressing me to have the KKK hunted down, while some people in the south have been threatening an impeachment if I even try anything of the kind.

“And, at the same time…there’s Japan,” he concluded. “The Japanese got hurt by your people at Singapore, but they damaged a lot of your shipping, so it is literally impossible to send any aid or support to your forces in the Middle East. I have been asking Uncle Joe to support General Auchinleck, in Egypt, but the truth is that I no longer have any leverage. The Japanese have almost crushed resistance in the Philippines – they killed MacArthur when he was ordered out – and it won’t be long before they set their sights on Australia.”

Masterson shook his head slowly. “What are you going to do?”

Roosevelt sighed. “At the moment, we cannot agree to a peace,” he said. “Politically, however, that may change; Hitler’s offer of peace fell on ears that were far too willing to listen.”

“Strategically, we run the risk of being forced all the way back to our coastline,” Admiral King said. He pointed a long finger at Roosevelt’s world map. “Notice; the Japanese will finish overrunning the Dutch East Indies within a month – two at most – and then they will have Australia blockaded. They may attempt an invasion, or they may not; it hardly matters. Then…they will have some choices to make; they have already attacked India – they could attempt to land behind your positions in Burma and take India, or they could land in the Middle East and support Rommel.

“Alternatively, they could try to take Pearl Harbour, and then…we would have to fight our way back to Pearl before they could be defeated,” he concluded. “Our submarines did have some success, at first, but I think the Germans must have had a word in their ears; their anti-submarine warfare techniques have improved. In short, Captain, we need a victory.”

Masterson remembered what Liddell Hart had said to him. “Perhaps I can give you one,” he said. “The Japanese have nothing from the future, after all, have they?”

***
Roosevelt watched Captain Masterson leaving the room and felt his heart go out to the younger man. His Cabinet, or at least the members that he felt had to remain close to him in Washington, rather than in California, entered silently; Roosevelt waved them all to chairs. The truth…? The truth was that America might well overcome its problems, given a year or two, but would there be time for that to happen before the Germans developed the atomic bomb?

Roosevelt – and a team of scientists – had poured over the question for months; General Groves and his team had worked on it as well. Doctor Goddard’s team, newly funded with every resource that Groves could find for it, had actually provided him with encouraging information; it would take the Germans time to develop a rocket large enough to carry a primitive – hah – atomic bomb. The Germans, however, had already had a lead…and they had almost everything they would need to make their lead good. They would have to develop a bomber that could reach America – which would mean that the coasts would have to be fortified even further – but Roosevelt didn’t imagine that that would take them a long time. A year, maybe two…and then the Germans would be trying to nuke America.

He shook his head. Admiral King and Masterson – along with Admiral Hasley – would have to work out the details of Masterson’s plan. The destruction of the Tirpitz had impressed King – it was a shame that he had been unable to admit that to Masterson – and it at least suggested that Masterson’s plan was viable. Even so, Roosevelt had been slapped in the face by the sheer power of the Japanese; God only knew what would happen if Hitler got the bomb because America was looking in the wrong direction.

He looked up and cleared his throat. “We have some decisions to make,” he said, after the preliminaries had been concluded. “Cordell?”

Cordell Hull, the Secretary of State, smiled tiredly. “We have around ten thousand British servicemen of all ranks and positions,” he said, “along with nearly two hundred thousand British citizens who fled ahead of the Nazi hordes. The bulk of the surviving British Home Fleet, including two carriers, has made its way to Canada, although we expect that they will continue to act in alliance with us.”

“The Canadians could not supply the fleet on their own,” Henry L. Stimson, Secretary of War, agreed. “Regardless, what are we going to do with them?”

Hull shrugged. “Many of them are experienced workers,” he said. “They could go to work for us, or they could go to Canada; some of them might even take service in the Army. Do we want to help transport the British soldiers to India or Australia?”

Roosevelt frowned. “India might be impossible,” he said, thoughtfully. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to reinforce the British in India, although if they could risk transporting them to the Middle East, they might have their uses. “Can we supply them in time for them to be useful?”

“The British have a large supply dump in the Middle East,” Frank Knox, Secretary of the Navy, said. “The point of transportation remains, however; we could get them to South Africa, but further? We might be sending them to die…”

The jab at Roosevelt, who was a Navy man himself, made him wince. “Then they will have to remain here until we can supply them properly,” he said, reluctantly. “We have recognised the Government in Bermuda, but do we treat them as equals, or as subordinates?”

Hull gave him a dry look. “We do not want to be accused of treating people who fought hard against the Nazis like the Nazis treat Petain,” he said. “We need some way of taking the offensive.”

“We cannot do that until we have built up a much more powerful force,” General George Marshall said firmly. “We might have agreed to take on Germany first, Mr President, but the loss of Britain means that we will have to prepare first; quite frankly, we will either have the option of launching a very bloody invasion of Britain, attempting to use Ireland as a base, or finding another way to hurt Hitler.”

Roosevelt thought cold thoughts about transcontinental bombers and scowled. “George, is there nothing that we can do to repair the situation?”

Marshall matched his commander-in-chief’s expression. “We do not have the shipping to invade Britain and we will not have it for another year, at least,” he said. “Invading Norway, as I discussed with General Brooke before he fell into German hands, would be equally risky – and less likely to pressure the Germans into seeking a peace on our terms. Invading French North Africa, as we discussed with Churchill before Britain fell, would add the dangers of dragging the French into the axis – hardly the best of outcomes.”

He sighed. “At the moment, I would advise attempting to assist the British to hold in the Western Desert and holding the Japanese,” he said. “In a year, perhaps two, we will have assimilated the weapons from the Royal Oak and designed a few more of our own; then we will face the Germans on more even terms.”

He met Roosevelt’s eyes. “Uncle Joe’s second front will have to wait,” he said. “If Stalin makes peace, Mr President, we will have to live with it – because we cannot offer him what he wants.”

Roosevelt nodded slowly. “Harold?”

Harold L. Ickes, the Secretary of the Interior, scowled. “We have to do something about this…race situation,” he said. “The country is on the verge of tearing itself apart and I’m certain that the Germans are actively meddling in troubled waters. Young black men are not going to fight the Japanese for us if they feel that their kinfolk are going to be exterminated; we have to do something.”

“Crush the KKK,” Marshall said. His distaste for the group was well known. “We know that they’re working for the Nazis.”

Roosevelt sighed. “You’re right,” he said, surrendering gracefully. “I’ll discuss it with Edger later, and then…it has to be done, the sooner the better.” He looked around his Cabinet and nodded grimly. “From this moment, we fight alone…and we have no choice, but to win the war.”

Chapter Forty-Three: War Against The Rising Sun

Pacific Ocean, Near Japan
8th April 1942

“We have awakened a sleeping giant and his vengeance will be terrible.”

The words burned in Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto’s mind as he skimmed through the history book. He had said it, according to the history books, just after commanding a carrier force that had destroyed the British Pacific Fleet in 1940, terminating the rule of Great Britain in all, but India. India hadn’t been a target in the shadowy other history, or even in this history; the other Yamamoto had focused on the Dutch East Indies.

Yamamoto had thought, at first, that the Germans were playing a strange joke on the Japanese. The British had fought hard and well at Singapore; by the time they – and their Australian and Indian allies – had been defeated, the army had been battered almost to uselessness. The Americans were fighting hard and well; it was nothing like the easy victories of the other history. A month, no less, had brought Japan the empire it desperately needed to hold against the American pressure. The other history…

Yamamoto forced his mind back to the present with an effort. If Ambassador Oshima hadn’t been an old friend, he would have believed that he had gone mad – but then, of course, Britain had fallen to the Germans. Yamamoto knew what few outside the War Cabinet knew; Japan had prepared to jump on Britain when the Germans invaded in 1940…but the Germans hadn’t moved. He’d expected as much; as powerful as the Germans were, their grasp of naval warfare was sadly lacking. Now…now the Germans had suddenly become powerful beyond belief…and Yamamoto feared for the future.

His lips moved, summoning old words to his lips. “We have awakened a sleeping giant and his vengeance will be terrible.”

He shook his head. He was a warrior of Japan, one of those who served the rising sun; he would fight as a warrior, not as an old woman worrying about what might have happened. It mattered little what happened on the other side of the world; the Germans had proven…reluctant to send some of their new super-ships to the Pacific, and in any case they would have to overrun the Suez Canal before they could make transit to the Pacific. His task was to force the Americans to accept defeat, before American power crushed Japan like a bug.

He mentally cursed the Military Intelligence Department. They had been important, of course, but their agent in Australia had reported on an American attempt to launch a major gas attack on the Japanese home islands, perhaps even including Tokyo itself. To Yamamoto’s mind, there could be no more dishonourable act; His Most Imperial Majesty might well be killed in the raid. Even so, it offered an opportunity; three American carriers were supposed to taking part in the raid, the Yorktown, the Lexington, the Enterprise and the Hornet. If they could be sunk – and Yamamoto had no doubt of the superiority of his people – then Japan would have the opportunity that it desperately needed.

He smiled bitterly as he stood up, preparing to head to the bridge. He had six fleet carriers of his own - Kaga, Akagi, Soryu, Hiryu, Zuikaku and Shokaku – and five battleships, including his own Yamato. His crews had better aircraft, better training and better discipline. It would be a massacre.

***
“I think that’s the Japanese fleet,” Commander Peterson said. The Royal Oak’s weapons officer looked grim. “It’s not emitting much, sir, but it’s clearly on a search pattern, and it just launched a flight of aircraft.”

His voice held a vengeful delight. Masterson shared the feeling; the Japanese had given the English un-ending condensation after the Germans had occupied Britain, in his timeline; they never wasted a chance to show off their modern fast battleships and carriers to the Royal Navy. The only thing that he had been looking forward to in the original mission had been the chance to fire on the Japanese ships; now, he would have more than just that chance.

Admiral Halsey had been reluctant to risk all four of his carriers, preferring to wait for Saratoga to rendezvous with the fleet, but Masterson had persuaded him to move now, spreading rumours as they went. Halsey, at least, had appreciated that part of the plan; American servicemen everywhere had been talking about paying the Emperor of Japan a visit, using gas as a weapon, along with other threats. The fleet might not have carried gas bombs, but it did have the Royal Oak and its missiles; the Japanese didn’t even have more than a very primitive radar.

Convincing Halsey to use the Royal Oak as his flagship had been harder – and only a direct order from President Roosevelt had convinced him of the requirement. Halsey had been convinced, however, after spending two days playing with the primitive fleet control system that the ship carried; Masterson hadn’t had the heart to tell him that the one onboard the Graf Zeppelin was much more advanced than the British design.

Masterson picked up the intership phone. “Davis? How are we doing?”

“The engines are recovering, Captain,” Chief Engineer Davis Williston said. The Americans had been able to produce the fuel that the Royal Oak required, but the engines had strained to make the rendezvous with the American carriers. Masterson had hoped that Admiral Somerville would have been able to join them, adding two older carriers to the fleet, but the British admiral had had his hands full with a Japanese raid. “You pushed them quite hard, you know.”

Masterson grinned, feeling like a real Captain at last. “I already said that I was sorry,” he said. He could forget occupied Britain, just for a while; he would concentrate on springing his surprise. “Don’t worry; we’ll just engage the Japanese and then head back to Pearl.”

Halsey had been issuing orders to his flag captain, onboard the Enterprise. “Captain,” he said. Roosevelt had ordered him to ‘consult’ with Masterson, on the grounds that Masterson knew more about naval combat using missiles than Halsey did, but that order had grated on him. “How soon until we can engage the Japanese?”

Masterson frowned. “I would prefer to be a little closer,” he said. He tapped the display, knowing bitterly that the Graf Zeppelin could have launched from much further out. “We have not managed to paint the carriers with radar energy yet.”

Halsey lifted an eyebrow. “We don’t know which ships are the carriers,” Masterson explained. “We have nine missiles, the gun, and the close-in defence system. The Japanese have at least six fleet carriers and some smaller ones and my missiles cannot be replaced.”

Halsey nodded. “I have ordered the carriers to launch their aircraft to patrol as we move closer,” he said. “If the Japanese attack, we will be ready for them.”

Masterson watched grimly as they sneaked closer to the Japanese fleet. The Japanese were actually moving slightly away from them; they clearly understood the importance of concentrating their force. Radar picked up a handful of smaller ships, moving closer to Japan, but unless they were hovercraft, they wouldn’t be able to intervene.

“Radar contact,” Commander Peterson snapped. Masterson spun around to study the display. “One flying boat, I think; it might be a large bomber, but…”

Masterson scowled. The Japanese aircraft wasn’t heading directly for them, but it was spinning out away from the Japanese fleet on a course that would bring them very near the Anglo-American fleet. The Japanese might not have had lookdown radar, but they would have to be blind to miss the fleet. Once they saw them…

“Guns, clear the close-in weapons for engagement,” he said. The weapons were slightly better than the Germans knew; a display of defiance that, like so many displays of defiance, was probably futile. “Once they’ve entered range, fire.”

“We could order the CAP to engage,” Halsey snapped. “We should do that, just to ensure that they don’t get a message out.”

Masterson shook his head. “If we’re lucky, we’ll kill the aircraft before the pilot knows that he’s under attack,” he said. He hated this battle, already; there was no way to know what the other side knew about his people. The Germans would have already known that they were present; did the Japanese know that they were so close to them? “Perhaps…”

“Enemy altering course towards us,” Peterson said. His voice was very calm. “I think they’ve seen us.”

Masterson swore. “Engage as soon as they enter firing range,” he said. He wished grimly that Royal Oak carried a jamming facility and made a mental note to rig one up as soon as they had the time. “Admiral, I think its time to get your birds in the air…”

The noise of the close-in machine guns broke through the bridge. Masterson saw a dot, in the sky, falling towards the sea. Halsey looked impressed, and chilled; Masterson felt a moment of sympathy. British pilots would have seen the same thing…and they had blown a German missile cruiser right out of the water. The Japanese might just get lucky.

If they did…

“Japanese ships launching aircraft,” Peterson snapped. Masterson could see American aircraft launching from their carriers. “Captain?”

“Fight the ship,” Masterson said grimly. There hadn’t been time to rig up transponders for the American fighters; their pilots would be taking a hellish chance. The Royal Oak was moving some distance from the American carriers, just to give the American pilots room to manoeuvre without entering the kill-zone, but it would still be very dangerous. “Can you identify the fleet carriers?”

Peterson turned and grinned at him. “I have all six,” he said. “Launch missiles?”

Masterson grinned at Halsey, who matched his grin. “You may fire at will,” Masterson said. “Failing that, fire at Isoroku.”

He laughed.

***
“Admiral, picket aircraft three reported encountering enemy fleet units,” the young officer said. Yamamoto put down his tea and turned to face the officer. “The transmission was cut off in the middle of the list of craft, but at least two carriers.”

Yamamoto nodded. “Inform the carriers that they are to launch all aircraft,” he ordered. “Keep a reserve in to cover the carriers – the Americans might try something, or they might see us coming and launch a counterattack.”

His mind raced over the possibilities as the carriers turned into the wind and started to launch their aircraft. It was possible, he supposed, that they had met the American fleet by coincidence, but no one who had sailed on the Pacific Ocean could deny just how vast the ocean actually was. Something the size of a ship, even the Yamato, could just vanish in the wastes of the Pacific.

He kept an appearance of studied calm on his face as he issued new orders; the battleline turned to head directly towards the enemy. Yamato was one of the fastest ships in the world; the American carriers would not outrace her, and if the aircraft had left any of them alive, they would close in on the American carriers and sink them with extreme force…

“Admiral!”

The Kaga blew up. Yamamoto swung around just in time to see a tearing explosion that shattered the carrier; its fuel and weapons exploded, sending debris showering down over the remainder of the fleet. Something…flickered across the sea and slammed into Zuikaku; he saw the weapon, just before it lanced into the carrier’s flight deck and destroyed it. A series of explosions blasted the carrier apart.

“Evasive action,” he shouted, remembering what the Germans had claimed had happened to the British battleships, back in Europe. The Americans had somehow duplicated the weapons – mentally, he cursed American ingenuity – and they were using them on his ships. “Get us moving out of range…”

Two more carriers exploded in quick succession; he saw an aircraft literally blown off the flight deck and tossed into the sea, along with some of the crew. The remaining carriers were trying to evade, but it was too late; as they died, Yamamoto realised that his aircraft – and perhaps the pilots – were dead as well. The weapons hadn’t been turned on his battleships, but it hardly mattered; Yamamoto believed firmly in aircraft carriers as the new queens of the sea.

“Keep on this course,” he ground out. How would he answer to the Emperor for this disaster – for disaster it was. How could the loss of the 1st Carrier Fleet be anything, but a disaster? “We will find the American carriers and overwhelm them!”

***
A line of Japanese aircraft fell out of the sky onto the American ships and American planes went to meet them. Masterson, suddenly nothing more than a spectator, watched grimly; the Japanese had the advantage in numbers and manoeuvrability, the Americans had the advantage in survivability. Time and time again, a Zero hit an American craft and watched the American craft survive; the Zeros were never that lucky. An American carrier was hit, several times; it exploded, but…

“We have scored direct hits on all Japanese carriers,” Peterson reported. The close-in defence system chattered away; two Zeros exploded for coming too close to the Royal Oak. Another fighter was luckier; it managed to skim away out of range before any of the guns could retarget on it.

“The Enterprise has been damaged,” Halsey commented grimly. The Admiral was remaining perfectly calm, staring out into the sky as Japanese and American pilots fought it out for dominance. Masterson realised, suddenly, that the Japanese pilots were doomed – and they had to know that. They couldn’t hope to be picked up by their own ships. “What are the Japanese battlewagons doing?”

Peterson swore. “Captain, Admiral, they’re coming towards us,” he reported. “They’ll be within weapons range in just under an hour.”

Halsey scowled. “Order the Dauntless aircraft to attack the Japanese battleships,” he ordered, keeping his voice calm. His officer on the bridge moved quickly to obey. “Perhaps we can destroy them as well.”

A Japanese aircraft raced across the surface of the sea, heading right for the bridge; a burst of fire destroyed it before it could react. “Perhaps,” Masterson said. “Admiral, I think its time to take our leave.”

The close-in defence system chattered again. “Retreat?” Halsey asked, in disbelief. “We just killed the entire carrier striking force!”

“I know,” Masterson said. “We can’t damage the battleships enough to stop them unless we start moving and hammering them as we move.”

Halsey nodded, understanding. “I’ll issue the orders,” he said. “Let’s just hope that our planes can rearm before the Japanese get into firing range.”

Masterson issued orders of his own. The Royal Oak began to move, heading away from the Japanese ships, followed quickly by the remaining American ships. Suddenly, the sky was clear of Japanese planes; some of the Japanese pilots must have missed hearing about their lost carriers. Masterson wondered if they had the range to discover the news and return to attack the Americans…and then he decided that it hardly mattered.

The Japanese had lost the fight.

They just didn’t know it.

***
Yamato shuddered as its guns fired madly at the American aircraft as they attempted to attack the battleship. One battleship had been damaged already, another had lost its bridge when an inexperienced American pilot had crashed into it and exploded. Yamamoto cursed under his breath as he surveyed the damage…and knew that it wouldn’t be enough. Even if they caught up with the American craft, they would be exposed to aircraft for the entire journey…and they would be unable to repair the battleships at sea.

“Turn us around,” he said, bitterly. His men were well-trained; they showed no sign of horror or concern. “I must apologise personally to the Emperor for this disaster.”

***
Masterson watched as the display changed again. “The Japanese have given up the chase,” he said, in some relief. He hadn’t been sure of what the remaining three missiles he had would do to Japanese battleships and he hadn’t really wanted to find out the hard way. “I think we won, Admiral.”

“We lost a carrier and had another put out of service for weeks,” Halsey said. His voice was tired, but relieved. “We prevented the Japanese from invading Australia, or even your India. I think we won too.”

Masterson solemnly extended his hand. Halsey took it. They shook hands.

“Perhaps now the Japanese will surrender,” Halsey said. “If that happens, then we can turn our attention to Germany.”

“I hope you’re right,” Masterson said. He knew Konteradmiral Trautman well enough to know that he wouldn’t be allowing the grass to grow under his feet. The Germans had many more experts and technical books to work from, along with more samples of future technology. “Time, Admiral, is not on our side.”

Chapter Forty-Four: The Choice of Life and Death

Paris, France
18th April 1942

Kurt Hosten had heard, once, about the wonders of Paris, but he had never had a real chance to see them. The centre of Paris had been razed to the ground before he had been born, in an attempt to keep Berlin – the new title of Germania had never caught on – the centre of cultural life in the Third Reich. The chance to fly the Fuhrer to his new conquests had been given to him by Trautman; there were times when Hosten wondered if it had been intended to be a subtle punishment. Adolf Hitler did not fly well.

The visit, which had been intended to be a quick trip to Britain, had mushroomed into a victory tour of the Reich. Hitler had travelled, in his tilt-rotor, to Austria, Italy, the German-speaking regions of Italy and Spain. General Franco had not been happy to have the Fuhrer drop in for a chat, but he’d had no choice; General Rommel had just smashed through the British line in Egypt, crushing a powerful British force. As the Germans marched onwards to Cairo, Egypt was beginning to collapse into Chaos. It wouldn’t be long, the Fuhrer had declared, before Egypt became part of the Axis – a statement that had not met with Mussolini’s approval. The Duce would have to be content with Malta, when it finally fell, and some parts of French North Africa. The French, who were being encouraged to move thousands of people to Africa, hadn’t been happy at all.

Not that Adolf Hitler had cared. He had visited France just after its fall, when he had delivered surrender terms to the French government; the chance to visit again and rub France’s nose in its own defeat had been irresistible. His bodyguard, a tough SS Officer called Otto Skorzeny, had tried to talk the Fuhrer out of driving around Paris in a massive motorcade; the Fuhrer had overruled him. The French, he claimed, were too cowardly to strike at him.

Hosten had enjoyed the visit, even through Paris was starting to look drab and torn after two years of occupation. The Eiffel Tower – converted into battleships in his timeline – was impressive; the French women even more so. The German soldiers were officially banned from fraternising with the locals; they knew plenty of women who were more than willing to spread their legs for the occupiers. He had wondered, privately, if Hitler himself indulged, but it seemed not. The Fuhrer spent his two days consulting with his viceroys in France; General Petain was snubbed when he tried to pay the Fuhrer a visit.

“I trust that the aircraft is in perfect working condition?”

The voice of Skorzeny broke into Hosten’s thoughts. The big SS officer seemed utterly self-confident at times, utterly nervous about the Fuhrer’s safety at other times. Skorzeny had no fear – or displayed none; he worried only about the success or failure of his mission. There had been no less than three books about his exploits in the Graf Zeppelin’s library; the Fuhrer had been most impressed.

Hosten bit back his annoyance. He understood the problems of protecting the life of the man whom half the planet wanted dead – preferably gassed in the Great War. Skorzeny had no enviable job; he wasn’t sure that he even got paid for his work. One day, Skorzeny would live up to his reputation – if he wasn’t killed first.

“The aircraft is in perfect working order,” he said. A group of mechanics from the Graf Zeppelin had been pulled away from other projects to check the aircraft carefully; they’d spent all night working on the aircraft, guarded by armed SS guards. Even if the French had a resistance, as the Fuhrer had been so careful to claim didn’t exist, they wouldn’t have a chance to planting a bomb on the Fuhrer’s aircraft.

Precisely on time, a motorcade drew up, releasing a small army of SS soldiers, escorting Hitler himself and two men. Salutes were exchanged, along with many statements of congratulations from the generals who governed France, before Hitler boarded the aircraft. Hosten nodded once to Skorzeny, waited for the SS soldier to board the aircraft, and closed the hatch.

He saluted Hitler as the Fuhrer buckled himself into his seat. Keital, who had accompanied him, fussed over him, passing him documents to take his mind off the flight to Britain. The Fuhrer had a great deal to occupy his time, from deciding details about the handling of Britain’s colonial empire – which would come under the domination of Germany’s allies, if the Fuhrer had his way, to ordering the execution of some British citizens who were known to harbour anti-German sentiment. The British had to be cowed, according to the Fuhrer; he would use whatever measures he saw fit.

Hosten nodded to himself. “Mien Fuhrer, might we have permission to take off?”

“Of course,” Hitler said, looking nervous and trying valiantly to hide it. Whatever else, Adolf Hitler didn’t lack for physical courage; Hosten remembered that he had fought in the Great War. “What time will we arrive in Britain?”

“Around an hour, Mien Fuhrer,” Hosten said. He saluted again and returned to the cockpit; he flew with only one co-pilot. Skorzeny took the other seat in the cabin. Hosten winked once at Skorzeny, who winked back, then he started the rotors and guided the aircraft into the air. There were no hostile aircraft in the air now, he knew; the RAF had been crushed or interned. Even if a single rogue Spitfire remained in existence, hiding in preparation for the strike against the Fuhrer, it would be unable to catch the aircraft.

The first time the wings had tilted into flight position, the Fuhrer had almost had a heart attack; now, he showed no reaction as the aircraft rose above the land and settled into cruise position. The Graf Zeppelin engineers had planted a small number of beacons across Europe, using them to assist the jet planes in navigating their way across the continent; Hosten had no problems using them for his own aircraft. He set the autopilot, allowing the aircraft to remain stable on its course, and relaxed.

Half an hour later, disaster struck.

The threat receiver sounded the alarm, shilling a warning into the cockpit; Hosten jumped to alert and took the stick, yanking the aircraft into evasive action on instinct, wondering just who was shooting at them with a modern weapon. He whirled the aircraft into a pattern that should have prevented the missile from catching them, twisting and turning…and the missile came on and on towards them.

Skorzeny’s voice was alarmed. “What the hell is happening?”

“We’re under attack,” Hosten bellowed. “Shut the fuck up and let me concentrate!”

The missile showed up clearly in the display; a single missile that was homing in on them with deadly accuracy. Hosten ran through every trick he knew, trying to fool the missiles uncomplicated brain…and failed. The missile ran up the side of the aircraft and slammed into the starboard engine. Moments later, it exploded. The aircraft plummeted out of the sky, beyond the control of everyone, but God…

Seconds later, it slammed into the ground at a speed that almost equalled the speed of sound. There were no survivors.

***
Bruce lowered the launcher and stared as the aircraft plummeted towards the ground. He hated the weapon, hated it with a passion he could not fully understand; it closed off the sky to aircraft, just as it had wiped the Nazi aircraft from the sky. Hugo’s face was very grim as the explosion of the aircraft echoed across the land.

“We’d better leave,” Bruce said. “The Nazis will be coming this way soon, looking for us.”

Hugo seemed not to hear. “You’re a pawn,” he said, his voice unconcerned, absent from the world. “You’re a pawn who became, just briefly, a knight or a bishop, used by omnipotent entities who play chess with lives.”

Bruce spun around. “I beg your pardon?”

Hugo’s eyes were very bright. “Your tragedy is that you will never understand any of this,” he said. “You will never understand the how and the why, or why it was necessary that you strike the blow you just did.” He paused. “Let’s just say that my masters have a sense of humour.”

Bruce was suddenly very aware of a weapon held in Hugo’s hand. “Hugo…”

“It doesn’t matter,” Hugo said, and pulled the trigger. “It never mattered at all.”

Bruce felt the bullet enter his brain…and then there was silence. Darkness.

Berlin, Germany
18th April 1942

The Fuhrer had promised him a promotion to full Admiral, along with several medals for his service to the Reich, but Trautman still had a great deal of paperwork to do. The fleet had been, more or less, assimilated into the Kriegsmarine as it existed in the present time; the vast majority of the men had adapted to their new situation. The war at sea had entered a lull, although Trautman expected that they would be called upon to handle Malta if the Italians proved unable to handle the island.

He shrugged. Did it really matter? Without Britain, without Gibraltar, the island would have to surrender soon, or it would starve. It didn’t particularly matter which choice the islanders made; in both cases, they would submit to the Reich. Malta wasn’t a large island; it could hardly support the thousands of people – mainly British servicemen – who remained on the island. In their place, Trautman would be thinking about transferring as many people as possible to Egypt or Palestine, although with Rommel breathing down his neck, the British commander probably had more to think about.

The thought was bitter. General Wavell, who had become the commander of the forces in India, was a known quantity; he had fought the Italians in both timelines in 1940. General Auchlintck was not, although Trautman suspected it hardly mattered; the British had not yet adapted to Contemporary tactics, let alone the brutal mass-mugging of Wieland’s force. Even the prospect of Russian troops joining the battle for Iraq, which was restless under British occupation, wasn’t alarming; Russian logistics would be terrible. Under other circumstances, it would be worrying; at the moment, which the Reich building up for conflict in Russia, Trautman would be quite happy to see Stalin pouring resources into Iran. If they were really lucky, the Russians would be careless enough to attack British India and get into a war with their former allies as well.

Trautman had never met Guderian – the General had died long before he was born – but Wieland had spoken well of him and Trautman trusted Wieland’s judgement in such matters. Guderian had been reluctant to unleash nerve gases on the Russians, even the gases that could be vaccinated against by German doctors; the Fuhrer have overruled him. The Russians were subhumans, he had proclaimed; Himmler had supported him without regard for the consequences. Goring, oddly enough, had opposed the use of war gases; Goring seemed to be redeveloping his political position. It just made life much more complicated.

He shook his head. It was very different to the politics he remembered.

The thought of what had once been brought his mind back to the manner of production. The hordes of new panzers, new lorries, new weapons, new aircraft…all of them had come at a massive cost in human life. Hans Konigsberg’s machine would match Herr Doctor Kreigslieter’s machine, and he hated it…but what other choice was there? If America were to agree to a peace, the machine could be broken, but if America refused to make peace…

Given a few years, Trautman could have made German invincible. Everything depended upon the coming battle for Russia; if they won, they would win the war. If they lost…they would almost certainly start a nuclear war – and lose. They might be able to produce more weapons, but how could they get them to America?

Ambassador Oshima had finally outlined just what had happened to Japan’s carrier battle fleet. Trautman wasn’t surprised; it was a clever move to buy time, even though he hadn’t expected it from Captain Masterson. The man had always seemed such a martinet; in the months they’d spent here, he'd fled to Britain – admittedly with tacit consent – rigged some of the Royal Oak’s missiles to sink the Tirpitz, and now used his ship to hammer the Japanese. Trautman admired the tactic, in a detached manner; it would have won America time, but not enough time. The basic strategic equation would remain the same.

There was a knock on the door. Kapitän zur See Henrich von Follmer, followed by Kapitän zur See Cajus Bekker, entered. Bekker had been offered command of the other Graf Zeppelin – or the Bismarck II, as it had been renamed – when the carrier finally was deployed into the ocean. Raeder had been a big proponent of the second carrier, although Germany’s main naval effort would be concentrated on submarines; American shipping needed to be strangled.

“Henrich,” Trautman said. He allowed himself a smile. “What can I do for you?”

The men of the Graf Zeppelin had been settling in nicely, he knew; some of them already had sweethearts – a few even had wives. It would have interesting effects, when thousands of soldiers returned from the eastern front; what would happen when they discovered that their girlfriends had gone for the men from the future? It would be one more change in German society, one more change caused by the carrier.

Follmer smiled grimly. “I beg leave to report that the repairs have been completed,” he said. “It’s not exactly perfection incarnate, as we had hoped, but it will allow us to launch aircraft from that side of the ship. The engineers will be keeping an eye on it, but until we can actually boost forward material science here…”

His voice trailed off. “You’ve done well,” Trautman said. The loss of the missile cruiser had shocked him, even though he had known that it was a possibility; that might well have been the carrier and that would have destroyed the Reich in the process. “And the aircraft?”

“We had to cannibalise a handful of damaged Blitzkriegs,” Follmer said. He shrugged. “It’s far from ideal, Herr Konteradmiral, but we cannot repair the craft.”

“Other than that, I think we did very well,” Trautman said. He looked up at Bekker. “Do you have an opinion?”

“I was very impressed with what happened over Britain,” Bekker said. He stroked his beard meaningfully. “Now we have to win in Russia and win hard.”

“Win completely,” Trautman said. “Captain, what about aircraft that can be used in Russia?”

Follmer scowled. “We have been arming the Blitzkriegs with experimental tank-busting rockets,” he said. “They’re far from perfect – and they’re too dangerous, I feel, for field deployment with the irreplaceable aircraft – but Goring’s aircraft can use them freely. The Eyes, of course, will come in handy, but the Russian aircraft will pose a problem. They are much less detectable than we had assumed.”

Trautman nodded grimly. Stalin was preparing for his own offensive; it was questionable which side would strike first. The Germans would be numerically weaker, but they would have the newer weapons and much more air support, but less than they had had in Britain. There were no longer missiles to burn.

“A problem,” he said. He had far too many problems. “Solutions?”

“We have a system of linking radar into Contemporary guns, with modified fuses that serve as proximity detectors,” Follmer said. “Wieland was quite pleased with the idea; it’s not as perfect as the covering guns we use for the Marines, but good enough for our purposes.”

“Good,” Trautman said. “I wonder…”

The telephone rang. “Excuse me,” he said, and picked it up. He heard the message…and felt the world change around him. “Thank you,” he said finally, and put the telephone down. He was suddenly aware of the eyes of both men on him, eyes that were puzzled and not a little afraid.

Bekker spoke first. “Herr Konteradmiral?”

Trautman found his voice. “The Fuhrer,” he said, in disbelief. “Someone’s just killed the Fuhrer.”

Chapter Forty-Five: Power Struggle

Berlin, Germany
19th April 1942

“I think that one thing should be clear,” Goring said, his voice – for once – calm and firm. “The weapon came from the British ship and was fired by a British agent. All other stories are to be regarded as lies and handled accordingly; you’ll take care of that, Doctor.”

Himmler watched with some cold amusement as Goebbels nodded. Goring was Hitler’s nominated successor – which made him the most likely suspect for Hitler’s murder. Even so, Goring knew that he didn’t have anything like the strength and predominance that Hitler had enjoyed; he had avoided moving towards taking the title of Fuhrer. It showed a surprising amount of common sense…and Goring, who showed little common sense at the best of times, was clearly acting with some help from someone else.

Who?

Himmler was fairly certain that Hitler hadn’t been assassinated by someone within the upper circle of Nazi politics. Goring remained the most likely suspect, of course, but even he had to see that killing Hitler would have provoked the open enmity of the remainder of the inner circle. He’d expected someone – anyone – to launch a quick purge in the wake of the confusion; he silently thanked God that Germany hadn’t been fighting a major battle during the chaos. It might well have been a disaster.

At the same time, the failure of anyone to use the incident – to respond to Hitler’s murder – suggested that it had been a true surprise. Himmler’s mind refused to accept the possibility of such a massive coincidence; Hitler had to have been targeted deliberately, along with Skorzeny. He considered – briefly – the possibility that someone else on the plane had been the target, but decided that that too was nonsense. Who would risk targeting Hitler’s aircraft when there had to be other opportunities? Himmler was given to conspiracy theories, but even he had to admit there were limits…

No one had moved to secure power. Ergo, no one in a position to do that had known about or planned the assassination. Who, therefore, had the means, motive and opportunity to launch the assassination? Why? Perhaps it had been a British plot all along.

Goring was still speaking. “We cannot risk, at the moment, a struggle for leadership,” he said, with a reluctance Himmler knew to be sorely misplaced. Goring was Deputy Fuhrer, after all; he would be the lead candidate, legally. “We have the events in the Western Desert to consider, along with the planning for Eastern Storm. Heinrich?”

Himmler concealed his annoyance. Reporting to the circle grated on him; he was being treated as a common policeman. The knowledge that he would be a prime suspect himself was bitter; he had certainly never intended to kill Adolf Hitler. He had liked and respected the Fuhrer; he would never have killed him.

“The weapon used was definitely a future weapon,” he said, refusing to glare at Raeder. Konteradmiral Trautman had not been invited to the meeting. “The weapon was launched from a site near Calais and was watched by several dozen Frenchmen, who described it as being like a large firework. Despite an attempt to find the assassin, all we have found is a burned-out farm, which might not be connected to the attack.”

His mind raced. If he tried to blame Raeder publicly, the tacit alliance would shatter; his position would be weakened severely. “The origin of the weapon has not been established, although Konteradmiral Trautman assures me that the weapon did not come from the Graf Zeppelin. Our public explanation, ironically, might be the right explanation; British agents carried out the attack, using a weapon from the Royal Oak.”

“Thank you,” Goring said politely. Himmler sensed the insincerity behind the remark and silently ground his teeth. “My friends, we have some decisions to make.”

Kesselring coughed. Goring had provisionally appointed him to replace the dead Field Marshal Keitel as head of OKW; Jodl was competent enough, but lacked seniority. Himmler hadn’t bothered to fight the arrangement; everyone knew that Kesselring was competent enough in his role – and wasn’t a political general.

“General Rommel has been pushing the British hard,” Kesselring said. “We have to commit additional light forces to supporting him, as well as air asserts for ongoing attacks on Malta, in light of the Fuhrer’s policy for supporting the Duce. However” – he paused significantly – “I am not in favour of continuing that policy.”

There was a long chilling silence. “An interesting statement,” Himmler said finally, attempting to take the lead of the meeting. “Do you have a reason for abandoning our…loyal allies?”

Chuckles ran around the table. Goring led them. “We are shackled to a dead body,” he said. “A division of Hitler Youth could overwhelm the entire Italian Army, eh?”

Himmler smiled thinly at the joke. “Malta is not an important military target at the moment,” Kesselring said. His long fingers pointed towards the map on the wall. Hitler had spent many hours gazing at the map; his handwriting was all over it, detailing plans that would have led Germany into China and the Far East. “Now that Franco has overwhelmed Gibraltar, the British in exile cannot supply the island – and we have no real interest in allowing the Mosley Government to attempt to reassert their authority there. Sooner or later, they will either starve or surrender – and then even the Italians can walk in and take over.”

His voice darkened. “The same is not true of the Middle East,” Kesselring continued. “We require the oil in Saudi Arabia; we have an obligation to assist our allies in Iraq, and even liberate Iran from the Russians. With additional light forces, Rommel can launch his attacks, which will divert Stalin’s attention from the forces that are preparing themselves to move against Moscow again.”

Goring nodded. “Then please make re-supplying Rommel one of your highest priorities,” he said, looking at Raeder. “Albert?”

Speer looked up from where he had been contemplating the table. “Production of the new weapons has finally hit its stride,” he said. “The Wehrmacht will have the best and most capable tanks on the planet, along with a host of other weapons, from small rockets to gas shells. Within two months, we will have enough firepower to punch through Stalin’s lines and move all the way to Moscow. Our logistics will be radically improved on the logistics we had in the last major campaign.”

Kesselring scowled. “I have been reviewing General Heinz Guderian’s plans,” he said. “I see little wrong with them; they call for sealing off Leningrad permanently, crushing the Soviet armies, and marching to Moscow. The Fuhrer was very keen that war gases, including the new gas from the future, be deployed against Leningrad and the Russian lines, but I feel that using gas might be counterproductive.”

Goring silently polled the table. “The soldiers have all been immunised?” He asked. Kesselring nodded. “Then use the gas,” he ordered. “We should use every weapon we have.”

Himmler frowned inwardly. He had read the future files; there were so many of them that he felt as if the Reich was suffering from information overload, but with thousands of teams, most of them SS, working on the files, dozens of gems had come to light. Given two years, the Reich would be unbeatable; given five, they would rule the world. They needed time; they needed to win the coming campaign.

“Speaking of every weapon, what about the atomic option?” Martin Bormann asked. Himmler had no doubt that he would serve Goring as faithfully as he had served Hitler. “A single atomic weapon could bring the war to an end in moments.”

“At least six months off,” Himmler admitted, wondering if Bormann was the power behind Goring. At this level, plans and counter-plans could have so many twists and turns that it was impossible to know who was on whose side. Anyone could be advising Goring; anyone at all. “Even if we had a bomb, we would still have to deliver it.”

“The super-bomber will have to be developed,” Goring said. The project had hit unfortunate snags; unfortunately, Trautman’s Reich had never bothered to design a propeller-powered intercontinental bomber that could be produced quickly. “We will also have to prosecute the war against the United States.”

“That will be difficult,” Kesselring said. His voice was very flat. “We lack the capability for waging war against the American heartland. We could move against Iceland, perhaps the Caribbean, perhaps even bomb Washington itself, using the Graf Zeppelin, but what good would it do us? We cannot mount an invasion of America; we do not even begin to have the necessary recourses.”

Himmler stared at him. “Trautman’s Reich managed it,” he protested. “Why can’t we?”

Kesselring smiled. “The other Reich had ten years to prepare, friends, allies and bases in Mexico, and considerably more ships and transportation capability than we have,” he said. “Even now, South Africa remains…Karl?”

Karl Holliston looked up. He was one of Ribbentrop’s flunkies from the Foreign Ministry; he did all the work, while his boss took all of the credit. There was something unutterably stupid in that, Himmler had often thought; only Hitler’s trust had saved Ribbentrop from being shoved onto the ash heap of history along with Russia. Holliston deserved better; Himmler made a mental note to ensure that he received it.

“The South Africans have been…evaluating their options,” Holliston said. His voice was rather shaky; he wasn’t used to such highly placed people listening to him. “Some people in their government see the war as lost, after we killed a few thousand of their men in North Africa. They don’t exactly…like us, but they might be willing to talk peace with us.”

Goring beamed. “Nicely done, young man,” he said. Himmler scowled inwardly; a major success would give Goring much more political clout. “What might be their price for peace?”

“They’ll want our old colonies, at least,” Holliston said, clearly terrified of being the bearer of bad news. “They might also want some rights outside South Africa, perhaps in Madagascar, which the British were apparently planning to invade.”

Kesselring chortled and several others joined in. As a display of Churchill’s priorities, invading Madagascar had its humorous side. “Well, would you – you personally – see to offering them what they want in Africa,” Goring said. “If we can convince them to leave the war, perhaps we can even allow emigration from Britain itself…”

He allowed them all to consider the possibilities. “We will require that we keep special interests in the Congo,” Himmler said, keen to dampen the excitement. “There are…raw materials there” – they had been mined in the other timeline – “that we could use for various purposes.”

“Please see to that as well,” Goring said. Holliston bowed in relief. “Now, what do we do about America?”

“Perhaps we could make a peace offer to them as well,” Himmler said smoothly. He allowed himself a brief superior smile. “With their crushing victory over the Japanese, they could hardly be keen on becoming further involved in Europe. If we were to deal with them, they might well agree to a peace based on the status quo.” He paused. “America might well tear itself apart before it could press against us, regardless.”

“A possibility,” Goring agreed. “Certainly, we should refrain from provoking them further, eh Erich?”

Raeder regarded his mortal enemy with barely-concealed distaste. “We are not in a position to provoke them, Herman,” he said. There would be no ‘Mien Fuhrer’ from Raeder to Goring. “They can attack us, or they can declare peace; we can do little more than sting them.”

He paused. “We have to continue to develop weapons to fight them,” he said. “We have ideas from the fleet that can be used to create the next generation of weapons; primitive compared to the Graf Zeppelin, powerful enough to inflict on the Americans a defeat like they inflicted on the Japanese. We will have to hold the Americans off from our coast – and we will have to prevent them from breaking our links to North Africa. We have far too much to do, and, thanks to Operation Future Shock, we have the time to do it in properly.”

Goring nodded slowly. “Of course, Erich,” he said. “We would not wish to abandon the lead that Trautman and his men offered us.”

Himmler thought cold thoughts. Had Trautman killed Hitler? It seemed unlikely, on the face of it; Hitler had trusted Trautman to an extreme degree, particularly after Future Shock. Trautman had no massive power base, unlike him and Goring and Raeder; he wouldn’t have been able to have jumped into power. Except…someone was advising Goring. Trautman?

And yet, just where had the future weapon come from? Who had fired the fatal shot?

“There is one matter remaining,” Goring said, “before I can close the meeting. What about the funeral?”

Goebbels leaned forward. “We will have to have a great celebration of his life,” he lisped. His voice was almost a hiss. “He would have wanted a massive procession of the armed forces that he did so much to create.”

“Excellent,” Goring said. “And the public announcement?”

Himmler felt out-manoeuvred, not something that happened very often. “We will stick with the story about the weapon having been British,” he said. “That will give us an excuse to clamp down on Britain if we need to do that. Indeed, we could clamp down on Italy as well; we do not need more diversions of our energy, thanks to Mussolini.”

“That would not be difficult,” Goring said. “The French, as well, can continue to develop Africa for us. We can take it from them in a few years, and then they will have done all of the dirty work for us. Palestine, on the other hand, will be needed as a base for further expansion.” He leaned over towards Holliston. “Perhaps you could apply your energies to discussing the future with the Turks.”

Holliston nodded. “It would be my pleasure,” he said. He sounded a lot more confident now. “I will see to it at once.”

“Report only to me,” Goring ordered. Himmler coughed meaningfully. “And then the matters will be discussed in council.” He looked around the table. “For the moment, until the war is won, we will act as a council?”

Himmler nodded slowly. Time was needed; lots of time. “I second the motion,” he said. “Anyone else?”

No one protested. “Good,” Goring said. He grinned in triumph. “Meeting adjourned.”

Chapter Forty-Six: Fiddling While Rome Burns

Moscow, Russia
23rd April 1942

“There have been problems in America,” Stalin observed. Molotov, who had been following the events in America closely, looked as attentive as he dared. The Great Leader’s voice was vastly amused. “The contradictions of Global Capitalism have finally shown themselves. The Americans are paying their debt for their treatment of their poor blacks and other gentlemen of colour.”

Having dispersed the official version of the truth – or at least the Soviet Union’s official version of the truth – Stalin sat back and smiled. He said nothing, of course, about the treatment of non-Russians within the Soviet Union; their treatment made the KKK look meek and mild. Official repression was going strong in Russia, which feared the dreaded force of ethnic nationalism; Stalin himself wouldn’t hesitate to massacre anyone who questioned his rule.

Molotov took a moment to consider everything. Taking a position opposite to Stalin could be fatal – and often it was more than fatal. At the same time, Stalin would remember who had advised him on a course that had later turned into a disaster – and forget that he too had proposed the course of action. There was no justice – there was just Stalin and his hangmen.

“I feel that this could have unpleasant repercussions,” Molotov said, after a moment’s thought. The report of a major riot in New York, which had spread rapidly to several other cities, had surprised him; the Americans had already seemed so peaceful. Whatever the original cause of the riot, it had rapidly developed into a multi-sided conflict that had been finally ended by the National Guard. “The Americans are our allies, after all.”

Stalin’s face darkened. “The Americans have promised help that has not materialised,” he said. “They have crushed the main offensive arm of the Japanese Navy, but have they acted to help us? No! They have hardly taken advantage of their own victory, let alone ours. Perhaps it is time to seek a peace.”

Molotov winced. Hitler would never have talked peace with Russia – but Hitler was dead. Beria had claimed to have been involved in the assassination – and Stalin had claimed to believe him – but both of them had known that that was impossible. Just who had killed Adolf Hitler remained a mystery – it wasn’t as if they were short of candidates. It would be easier to come up with a list of people who didn’t want to kill Hitler.

“I do not feel that that is wise,” Molotov said carefully. “The Germans remain within a hundred kilometres of Moscow, often closer in places. Zhukov feels that they are building up to hit us again, repelling small probing attacks without showing their hand. They’re also conducting anti-partisan offensives, clearing their rear area while they build up their supplies.”

“And Hitler is dead,” Stalin commented. His voice grew darker. “I understood Hitler; who will take Hitler’s place?”

Molotov winced inwardly. Guessing wrong could be fatal. “Goring is the official successor,” he said, after a moment. “However, he is disliked by many inside Germany, while he is also regarded as incompetent, although his star has been rising lately. Himmler is a possibility, as head of the secret police, although he is distrusted by many other Germans. Hess would have been a candidate, except he fled to England; he won’t be coming back to stake a claim.”

Stalin laughed. “I wonder just how he feels now,” he said. Molotov knew that the flight of Rudolf Hess had worried Stalin. “The English kept him under pretty close watch…but now they’ve been invaded…where is he?”

Molotov scowled inwardly. “I will instruct the NKVD to locate him,” he said, after a moment. “He might just have been sent to America or Canada, or perhaps the Germans have arrested him again.”

“Perhaps,” Stalin said, sounding unconvinced. “Who else?”

Molotov scowled. “Raeder, Kesselring and any other military man might be a possibility, but a remote one,” he said. “The Germans are generally better at keeping their generals non-political. Bormann…maybe; he certainly had the time and the opportunity to build a power base for himself. Past that, I don’t think that there are any other real candidates for the job.”

Stalin lifted a single bushy eyebrow. “And your feeling?”

“I think that they’ll try to keep the in-fighting from destroying them until after they’ve dealt with us,” Molotov said. It was the most vague answer possible, although Stalin might not see it that way. “We might expect an attack from any moment onwards.”

Stalin scowled. “We would see an attack coming, would we not?”

“General Zhukov believes that we would have some warning,” Molotov admitted. “The Germans have been learning, however; they might well get into attack positions before we can react.”

He allowed himself a moment of worry. General Zhukov had managed wonders to get as much of the Soviet Union’s striking power into action as he had, but at the same time the Soviet Union was entering a very dangerous phase of the war. The British had stopped sending tanks to Russia – and America had reduced its aid to a trickle – which meant that Soviet tank numbers were actually falling. The production facilities were being moved to the Urals, mainly to escape the Germans; they weren’t producing anything while in transit. The infrastructure was in terrible shape; the logistics of the Red Army were weakening because they had depended on American-supplied trucks. The Red Army was powerful, yes, but it had very limited range.

Molotov had looked upon the German preparations, or what he had been able to see of the German preparations, and was afraid.

Stalin showed no fear. “Perhaps we can take advantage of the command confusion that the Germans are bound to be having,” he said. “If we could launch a swift attack against one of the German armies, we would be able to crush it before it could escape our grasp.”

Molotov hesitated. “The Germans would also have all of their attention concentrated on our attack,” he said, taking his life literally into his hands. “It could force them to put aside their in-fighting and concentrate on beating us.”

“True,” Stalin agreed. “Yet, at the same time, do we want to have the new German leader in power?”

Molotov considered. Stalin was never more dangerous than when he sounded reasonable. “We could not prevent it,” he said. “We could launch a limited offensive, but it would risk the Germans concentrating on us. We need more time to prepare.”

“To prepare?” Stalin asked dangerously. “We have been preparing for months.”

Molotov silently blessed the time he’d spent as a commissioner during the civil war. It had given him some grounding in military affairs. “There are differences in defending a city and attacking it,” he said. “Our army is very much like a coiled spring; dangerous when someone comes within range, harmless to anything outside its range. We need to lay the logistical framework for extending the range and combat power of the army, or we will lose large amounts of material.”

Stalin’s eyes glittered. “If we prod the Germans, we might keep them busy,” he said. “Even so…you will carry peace offers to Germany, to whoever takes over from Hitler. Perhaps we can win time through discussions, rather than fighting.”

Molotov felt relieved that Stalin had moved from talking about taking the offensive. “Perhaps,” he said. “What sort of terms would be agreeable?”

Stalin scowled. “I would be delighted at a return to the borders of 1941,” he said. “I suspect that they will refuse to agree to that, hence we might insist – not unlike Comrade Lenin – at retaining only the Russian core of our state. If the Germans agree to that, then we will want security guarantees as well – and that will come with hard bargaining.”

He looked up at Molotov. “You will make the contact through Sweden,” he said. “And, incidentally, tell them how sorry we are that the Fuhrer died.” He laughed. It was an unpleasant laugh. “It’s even the truth.”

Washington DC, USA
23rd April 1942

Masterson watched grimly as the car swept up through a section of Washington that had been defaced by a riot. No one was sure who had started it – Turtledove had explained that it had started when a black man had been attacked, or perhaps vice versa – and then the riot had spread rapidly out of control. The National Guard had only poured fuel onto the fire; a regular Army force had been required to gain control of the streets. Despite the overwhelming power of America, despite Masterson’s own victory against the Japanese, American society was coming apart. Perhaps FDR could hold it all together, Turtledove had said, but he’d mentioned the last time that tensions had reached this level, there had been a civil war.

Masterson, for some reason, had not found that encouraging.

The British Government-in-exile was finding its links to power slowly being cut; Prime Minister Atlee had found himself overlord of a disintegrating Commonwealth, now that Rommel had almost destroyed Eighth Army and Egypt had risen in revolt against the British. The Egyptians would probably meet the genocidal fate that nazi Germany had administered in another timeline, despite their promises of eternal friendship towards Hitler’s heirs, but that would come later. There were pogroms against Jews in Palestine, uprisings against British rule across Africa; Ethiopia, at least, remained friendly to the British. It wouldn’t be long, Masterson was certain, before Hitler put an army in to ensure that the Ethiopians regretted their choice of liberators.

Iran remained under Soviet control, Burma remained the scene of an endless war between British and Japanese troops…and India was restless. Masterson wasn’t sure that he blamed them – the puppet British government, in his home timeline, had crushed any thought of Indian independence – but it was something else that the war against Hitler could not afford. The Japanese, at least, had been weakened; America should have no difficulty in crushing them and ending the war.

Roosevelt looked older than he had before, Masterson was alarmed to notice, as the President waved him in. Admiral King was not present; the admiral had been asked to ensure that America’s east coast was prepared for a possible German invasion – or, much more likely, a raid, backed by the power of the Graf Zeppelin. Masterson didn’t doubt that Trautman would think of the idea, but it was hard to see if it would be worth the massive cost in irreplaceable material – unless, of course, the Germans had nuclear weapons. In that case…

In that case, the entire eastern seaboard would be devastated and the war would be lost.

“Come in,” Roosevelt said. He sounded weaker than he had ever sounded before; his voice was almost a whisper. He took Masterson’s hand with a grip that was older, weaker, than it had been before. “You did a good thing for us, young man.”

Masterson smiled, despite his worries. The Japanese had lost six fleet carriers and had had a number of other ships damaged. It was a stunning victory by any standards; it might have been a mismatched fight, but the Japanese had tried – at least – to fight. They had lost.

“Thank you, Mr President,” he said. He took a seat and looked at Roosevelt. “Why did you want to talk to me?”

“We have received an offer of peace from the new German government,” Roosevelt said, and Masterson felt his world shake. “They have offered to agree to respect the Monroe Doctrine – which would keep them out of America and South America – and they will respect our position in the Pacific. In exchange, we are to recognise German control of Europe, abandon all support for the various governments in exile and accept their predominate position in Africa and the Middle East.”

Masterson stared at him. “You can’t agree to that,” he protested. “You must not!”

Roosevelt looked…old. “You’re right,” he said, very softly. “How do I convince Congress of that? They were out for Japanese blood and they’ll get it, lots of Japanese blood, but…Germany never really aroused such levels of hatred as Japan.”

“They’ll get more blood too,” Masterson snapped, with real anger. “They’ll have the blood of everyone Hitler doesn’t like in Europe – or didn’t like, since some kind person killed the bastard. They’ll get the blood of everyone in Africa and Asia, who will be killed for having the wrong colour of skin; they’ll get the blood of the enslaved Slavs as they produce the war machines that…will be used for the conquest of the United States of America.”

Roosevelt looked at him. “I know that,” he said reasonably, “but…South Africa left the war yesterday. They recalled their surviving units from Eighth Army, abandoned your people, and signed a peace treaty. They’ve even moved to take Africa as far as the Congo. Given what’s in the Congo…”

Masterson nodded. The mineral deposits would be…very helpful to Trautman and the engineers from the fleet, when they got to work mining them and using them to produce the next generation of German weapons. The Germans had produced some of their most inventive weapons in his timeline in the Congo – and killed most of the natives in the process.

“We need time,” Roosevelt continued. “We are still years, perhaps two to three, from an atomic bomb. If we continue the war, we will not be able to prevent Goring and his people from deploying the weapons against us, using them to cripple America permanently. A few years of peace will give us the time we need to catch up with them.”

“They won’t let you have that time,” Masterson said, feeling rage burning through him. “They’ll come for you well before you are ready to fend them off.”

“For the moment, Roosevelt said icily, “the war has stalemated. In a year, perhaps less, that will change…and the Germans will win. If we can get through that period, if we can deploy a bomb of our own, then we can hold our independence – with enough power to hold our own, unlike Japan in your timeline.

“And we need to heal, as well,” he continued. “I know that you didn’t mean to do it, Captain, but the files from your ship have set off a major explosion within our society. We need time to mend and prepare ourselves for the second round of fighting…and that, Captain can only be accomplished by peace.”

Masterson stood up. “You are talking about abandoning the rest of the world to Nazi Germany to save yourselves,” he said. “Millions of people will suffer and die to build the Nazi war machine; millions more will die when that machine is unleashed on America. You may feel that you are doing the right thing here, Mr President, but let me assure you that you are not.”

He left the room. Outside, a man was waiting for him.

“I think we should talk,” William Donovan said.

***
Roosevelt knew that Captain Masterson was right. He also knew that victory over Nazi Germany was unlikely for the foreseeable future. The Americans would crush Japan, perhaps within a year or so, perhaps two years, but after that…? The race for the atomic bomb was on, and the Nazis had a head start. War had to be delayed until America was ready to fight, ready to take on the Germans, and that would take time. If the war continued, American society would fracture under the competing stresses and strains.

He smiled. In time, they would use the information from the Royal Oak to bootstrap themselves to a position where they would be able to defeat the Germans. If they had time, they could duplicate everything on the Graf Zeppelin and defeat the Germans. If they had time…

If the Germans didn’t give them the time, Roosevelt knew what would happen; they would use their atomic weapons on America and force America to surrender. Mushroom clouds would blossom over America; America would die under the rain of death. That had to be prevented, whatever the cost…

Roosevelt saw the shape of the future…and, for the first time, felt afraid.

Chapter Forty-Seven: Countdown to Armageddon

German HQ, Russia
1st May 1942

Brigadefuehrer Richard Wieland had been promoted, as a reward for his services in the invasion of Britain. His new rank of General was a curiosity, neither fully SS nor Wehrmacht, but he remained subordinate to Field Marshal Heinz Guderian. He suspected that no one from the era he had found himself in could have held such a title; his SS, along with the remains of his world, was years away on the other side of the rainbow. He held responsibility, but he lacked any allegiance to anyone who existed in 1942.

There had been an expectation to that; Adolf Hitler. Wieland had been fascinated to meet the Fuhrer himself and Hitler had taken a shine to him, comparing him to Rommel. The comparison had delighted him – Rommel’s reputation was greater than even Guderian’s reputation – and had made him even more determined to go on to greater and greater things. Hitler’s death, at the hands of the British, had outraged him; he had demanded that Trautman raid the coasts of America as a punishment for supporting the remains of the free British government.

Instead, Trautman, with Kesselring’s blessing, had sent him – and most of his men – back to Russia. Wieland had been irritated, at first, but he’d seen the logic; Germany was preparing for a major push against the Russians and needed everything that could be spared dispatched to support Guderian. The Field Marshal – Hitler had promoted him after he crushed two separate Russian attacks – had been delighted; they had actually built up a rapport when they’d last met.

He paused, just long enough to check that the tank transporters were unloading the Panthers – the remaining Panthers – properly, and then he turned to face the house. It had belonged, he’d been informed, to a Russian nobleman before the Revolution; he was vaguely surprised that it was still standing. His guide had informed him that a Russian Commissioner – who had been shot under Hitler’s orders regarding Russian commissioners – had occupied the house…and acted very much like the nobleman. It had given Wieland a moment of dark amusement; he knew, once the SS got to work, that the Russians nearby would be praying for the return of the Red Army.

He snorted. That would never happen.

Two Russian women, their faces and bodies the typical Slavic ugliness, passed him as he stepped into the house. His eyes narrowed; the security issues were too great to permit Russians, even beaten Russian women, to be wandering around freely. The women flinched back; they’d clearly been making their way through life by servicing the German officers. Wieland approved of this, in a detached fashion; an army that was sexually satisfied was an army that would fight.

He grinned. The senior officers had never grasped that the army would fight anyway, of course…

Inside, the house had been stripped down to the bare bones in places, awesomely luxurious in other places; he was pleased to notice that Guderian was using a basic room for his command post, rather than one of the rooms that looked as if they had come out of a bad novel. The Field Marshal looked up as he entered, returning his salute with genuine pleasure.

“You did well in Britain,” Guderian said, without wasting time with preamble. “I understand that your unit is here to support my offensive?”

Guderian sounded pleased, pleased to be given the responsibility, pleased to have enough force at last. Months of hard work hadn’t been wasted; thousands of new tanks and newer weapons had been prepared for the mission, along with hundreds of other devices, from improved radios to powerful air support units. It would be months, yet, before the Luftwaffe would be able to deploy helicopters of its own, but Wieland had brought along some of the Marine units as part of his powerful exploitation force.

“Yes, Herr Field Marshal,” Wieland said, without showing any of the resentment he felt at not holding the supreme command. Orders were orders, after all, and the last thing the time travellers needed was the resentment of every other serving officer in the Reich. “I assume that you saw the details?”

Guderian nodded. “You have an impressive force, although it is rather weak in numbers,” he said, after a moment. “You’ll remain in reserve for the first thrusts against the Russian positions, where we will be waiting to deploy our forces to encircle and then destroy them, and then you’ll support any units that need supporting.”

Guderian hadn’t wasted the five months he’d had to prepare. “I understand,” Wieland said. “How do you intend to proceed?”

Guderian led him over to the map table. “This is Moscow,” he said. “It’s the centre of our enemy; destroying it will render Russia incapable of resistance for quite some time. We were driven as far back as Kirov during the fighting, which was more than a little brutal, but we have been positioning ourselves for continuing the offensive. The Russians have at least three major armies of their own facing us, including a carefully prepared defence line, but they can be handled.”

Wieland scowled. “We have orders to use gas if we have to,” he said. “The…current government was keen to use it on the Soviets if they proved resistant.”

Guderian nodded. “We will be deploying gas against significant bodies of Soviet troops,” he said. “A point; just how capable are the vaccines that my men were issued?”

Wieland paused to consider. “They were tested extensively,” he said. “Your men also had them over the past few weeks, so they should remain strong, but I would advise against relying on them in very high concentrations of gas. Too much gas and there won’t be any oxygen.”

Guderian nodded grimly. “I understand,” he said. He tapped the map. The green blobs that represented known Soviet army groups, the green lines that indicated defence lines, seemed to jump out at Wieland. “See anything interesting?”

Wieland studied the map. The Russians had clearly prepared a powerful defence, but it had its flaws, starting with the fact that…

He felt his mouth fall open. “They couldn’t have,” he protested. It was insanity on a scale that made sending a u-boat to conquer America seem sane and rational be comparison. “They would have to be insane…”

“They have no lines of retreat,” Guderian confirmed. “I think, from a handful of prisoner interrogations, that the NKVD battalions – that’s the group holding the inner defence lines - have orders to shoot anyone retreating, whatever their excuse. If we’re lucky, they might start shooting at each other at the same time.”

He chuckled. “The plan is simple,” he said. “The Russians have concentrated everything they have, apart from an army that is serving as the reserve, within this section here.” He drew a half-moon in front of Moscow. “The Eyes that your people have been using to scout out the front has been very helpful, although the Russians are deadly with their camouflage. The objective is to destroy the armies, then circle around the defence lines, crack through them here” – he tapped a point to the north of Moscow – “and roll them up from behind.”

His finger drew a second line on the map. “The Russians are likely to use this road and this railway to move people out of Moscow, people of political importance,” he said. Wieland knew who he meant. “Some of your helicopters will be watching for anything moving, then the Luftwaffe will be targeting them with extreme interest. If we can kill Stalin, then the war will be almost over.”

Wieland nodded. The plan was indeed simple – that meant that there was much less that could actually go wrong. “It’s a good plan,” he said, sincerely. “All we have to do now is pull it off.”

Guderian smiled wryly. “We have nearly three thousand Panzers, thanks to your people,” he said. “We have tens of thousands of shells. We have a massive logistic system, again thanks to your people. If we lose, it won’t be from lack of materials.”

Wieland nodded. “So, when are we going to kick off?”

Guderian scowled. “I want to move in two days,” he said. His face twitched. “I have been using some of your people to scout out the enemy command system.”

Wieland blinked. The main Special Forces component had died with Obergruppenfuehrer Herman Roth, in London. “Ah,” he said, in sudden understanding. “The Marine snipers.”

Guderian tapped the map. “The Russians have a powerful command system and a fairly skilled commander in Zhukov,” he said. “How will they handle the battle without him…and without their command post? Your people have skills at sneaking around…and with a single shot, they will decapitate Russian resistance.” He tapped a blob of green on the map. “The Russians, without orders, lagar into a bunch and they can be gassed or mopped up at our leisure. I think that that will work, don’t you?”

***
In what had once been the bedroom of a pampered noblewoman, a young teenage girl, there was a table made of very solid wood. Ludmilla suspected that she knew all of the dents and marks on the wood by now; the German soldiers were fond of fucking her while she was bent over it. Resistance – her slightly crooked nose showed – was futile; if she didn’t submit semi-willingly, the German would simply rape her. She had learned, quickly, that it was better just to submit.

It was worth it, she reminded herself, as the wood scraped away at her thighs, her breasts froze against the cold wood, convincing the Germans that she was actually enjoying their attentions. Every week, she was able to communicate with one of the partisan leaders; her information had saved more than a few partisans from losing their lives to German attack. It made it slightly easier to bear as German after German took her, sometimes with a hint of kindness, sometimes with a violence that left her battered and bleeding.

She moved, slightly, pushing against his member. The attempt to bring him to the boil quickly worked; the German came inside her, his disgusting…stuff filling her. She made to stand up, to allow him to fall out of her…and discovered that a hand was firmly placed on the back of her neck. He was impaling her, holding her helpless; Ludmilla felt a spark of panic as his hand caressed her neck.

Time passed; he grew hard inside her again. Ludmilla whimpered, not daring to protest, or to beg for mercy. The German was tearing at her soul; she could do nothing, she could hardly move. His voice was cold and hard, penetrating to the very depths of her soul; he spoke…and her world changed.

“How long have you been serving the communists, girl?”

Ludmilla shivered helplessly. “I don’t know what you mean,” she protested. “I don’t know…”

“I saw you trying to listen today,” the cold voice said. “I have been on duty in Russia, my Russia – for years; I know what Russian bitches are like. I took Britain, at the orders of my Admiral and the Fuhrer; do you think that I would not take Moscow?”

Ludmilla tried to protest. “I know that you were spying,” the man said. His voice lowered still further, he thrust himself further into her. “I know that you made a choice…I know that you chose to serve Stalin and we no longer have time for you.”

His hands reached out and pressed into Ludmilla’s throat. She gasped as he pressed his thumbs into her throat, realised what he had in mind, and tried to scream. It was too late. Darkness reached out for her, even as her agonised mind realised what the German was doing with her…and she fell into it with a sigh of relief. It was over.

Her body fell to the ground. Wieland looked down at it dispassionately, and then went to find a shower. He had to clean himself up, after all; it wasn’t everyday that he had the chance to enjoy himself and kill a spy at the same time. If anyone wondered what had happened to Ludmilla, they kept it to themselves.

***
Twenty-five miles to the east, General Georgy Konstantinovich Zhukov considered the possible nature of the German attack – and the trap that Stalin, knowingly or unknowingly, had placed him in. It was all very well telling men to take no steps back, but Zhukov knew that that would merely pin them in place for the Germans to attempt to destroy. Like the Finns and the Japanese, the Germans had learnt that trying to destroy a dug-in Russian force was not easy, but they were far more powerful than either of the other two enemy nations.

Only they had the power to come as close as they had to Moscow.

Zhukov remembered the horrific battles around Moscow without a shred of concern for the men who had been trapped in the massive sausage grinder. He had thrown his crack Siberian regiments into the battle, just in time to save Moscow – and, just incidentally, win the Great Stalin’s trust. It wasn’t much trust, and it came with Commissioner Petrovich, who would make a much more useful contribution to the war effort by stopping a German bullet. Petrovich, a man who looked to have been raised on soured milk, was suspicious of everyone and everything, something that was useful in a bodyguard, but hateful and wasted in a Commissioner.

“I believe that the Germans are finally getting ready to move,” he said, to Petrovich. Petrovich had become a constant bore with his refrain of ‘attack, attack, attack,’ which would have cost him the army if he had tried to follow his advice, but at least he was willing to attend strategy sessions. “They have been increasingly aggressive lately when it comes to attacking our probes.”

At Stalin’s orders – although he would have urged such a course himself, had he thought of it first – he had been sending out small forces to probe the German lines, gaining intelligence on their dispositions. The Germans hadn’t been happy about that, naturally; they’d attacked the probes and probed themselves…for all the talk about the peaceful border, while Stalin tried to talk peace, there were often small actions going on throughout the day.

“They have also been far more active with their tanks and guns,” he continued. He’d wanted to launch an aggressive shelling of the German lines; Stalin had vetoed it. “I believe, strongly, Comrade Commissioner, that they are preparing to attack.”

The land between the two armies was a massive tangled mix of human-produced barriers, natural formations…and ground that had been messed up by the previous years fighting. Both sides had been enthusiastically mining, digging and sabotaging the region; God alone knew just how dangerous it was to the handful of peasants who lived between the two armies. Anyone with any common sense would have fled long ago.

He gazed down at the map again. Anyone with any common sense would have tried to find a quick way to win, but Zhukov knew that there was no such thing, not here. Whoever wanted to win had to crush the opposing army, whatever it took; the Germans would be coming in towards Moscow, armed for bear. The pun gave him a flicker of amusement, reduced by worry; he’d heard far too much about German super-weapons to be entirely at ease.

He shrugged. “I believe, Comrade Commissioner, that it is time to inspect the Guards,” he said, leading the way outside. Stalin, at least, had given him authority for when they were actually under attack; many of his plans remained in his head, until the time he actually had to use them. The 1st Guards were an impressive outfit, very much the equal of the Waffen-SS, at least in their determination to win.

Petrovich’s face grew tighter. “I think that our victory is foreordained,” he said.

Zhukov eyed him suspiciously. He hadn’t worked out if Petrovich was a True Believer or if he sprouted inanities because he used them as camouflage for his true options, whatever they might be. He turned to ask a question…and then he heard the shot. By that time, it was too late.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

Chapter Forty-Eight: Armageddon, Take One

Near Moscow Defence Line, Russia
3rd May 1942

The air was still and very cold. Crouching low in the ravine, Sturmbannfuehrer Rudolf Pabst sneaked along towards the Russian position, passing silently over a dead body. Russian or German, it made no difference; the winter had stripped all trace of identity from the man. The air seemed to be pregnant with possibilities; the team kept themselves low, picking their way into combat position. He passed through the wreckage of a tank, peering ahead of him, locating a pair of Russian sentries standing guard over the road. ‘Road’ was being far too kind to the mud track, but as one of the main angles of attack, it had to be secured.

He smiled to himself and held up three fingers to Scharfuehrer Keller. The Russians were clearly not on alert; the brief exchange of fire two days ago had burned their mindset for combat action out of them. Both sides had fired at each other and it seemed as if a general battle was about to start, but instead both sides had fallen back slightly. The Russians weren’t ready for their planned push, throwing the Germans back to Berlin and beyond…while the Germans weren’t quite ready for their final lunge at Moscow.

Now, hopefully, everything had changed.

He lunged forward, conscious of Scharfuehrer Keller moving beside him, coming up silently on his target. The Russian opened his mouth, to yell or to scream, but it was too late; Pabst drew his knife across his throat and cut it in one smooth motion. The Russians died quickly, in silence, the first to die that day. Pabst lifted his radio and made a quick report, before leading the term further into Russian-occupied territory. Something twitched in the air; Pabst was on the ground, preparing for action, before realising that it was only a bird. He smiled reluctantly; he was surprised that someone hadn’t killed and eaten the bird long ago.

They peered around a corner, hidden in the torn landscape, and saw the Russian defence line for the first time. It was impressive, with guns positioned in the land, showing an abundance of weapons and resources – and not a little bloody-mindedness – that Pabst envied. If the Germans had had that many weapons, concentrated in one army, they would have been able to march all the way to Vladivostok. The Russians, overseen by men wearing green labels on their shoulders, were clearly on the alert; a single body, hanging from a cross, showed what happened to men who were not on the alert.

Scharfuehrer Keller’s voice was very low. “Take the place at a run?”

Pabst nodded. Numbers and weapons wouldn’t be on their side; the general offensive was intended to begin at any moment. It didn’t take a genius to work out the Soviet plan; their defence fortifications would bleed out the German attack, and then their armoured forces would counterattack. The Russians had the numbers, but not the training; they were just stupid enough to hold to their lines…and, under other circumstances, the plan would work.

He deployed his forces, knowing that, this close to the Russian lines, they could be detected at any moment. Snipers would pick off the Russian gunners; there was no need – yet – to target the Russian commanders. By the time they issued their orders, the battle would be decided, one way or the other. He thought of Moscow – a razed ruin in his timeline – and smiled. He was going to do what his Grandfather had done; he was going to march to Moscow.

A single flare, hissing in the air; a flash of green light in the sky. His men, well-positioned, started shooting at once, targeting the Russians with heavy and accurate fire. The Russians didn’t hesitate; those gunners that had survived the first round of shooting grabbed for their weapons and returned fire, but many of their shots went wide. Pabst, leaning out from cover, picked off a Russian gunner, even as his people moved closer to the Russian lines, sending the Russians scattering. The Russians fought – and died – in place; they died bravely and well, but they died. The NKVD men, Pabst was disappointed to notice, fought just as well as the Red Army.

The air seemed to shake as German shellfire began to hiss through the air, opening fire with gas and high explosive on the Russian positions. Pabst himself had gas grenades; as his men uncovered access points to the Russian bunkers, he tossed the grenades into the warrens, forcing the Russians to come out or die. The Russian guns were firing now, targeting the lanes that German engineers had painstakingly cleared of mines and barbed wire; German guns were struggling to clear the Russian guns. The air shook and shook again; the ground rocked with shellfire. It made Britain seem like nothing.

All of a sudden, it was over; they had cleared the defence post of Russians. Pabst detailed men to watch the entrances to the Russian bunker network – sooner or later, they would have to be cleared, but he didn’t want to lose people doing it now – and detailed others to press the Russian guns into defence positions. The Russians were trying to prevent German panzers from reaching the defence lines, but even now they would be working to mount a counterattack against the attack. Given time, they might even succeed…it was Pabst’s job to ensure that they failed.

“The ground is not what we were promised,” Scharfuehrer Keller muttered, as they dragged a Russian gun into a position to cover the road leading away from Moscow. The gun was heavy and crudely built; there was no doubting its effectiveness. “They could come at us from anywhere.”

Pabst nodded. The Russian roads were disgustingly ill-made; when Germany ruled them all, they would show the Russians what engineering actually was, even though it had served a tactical purpose. German panzers had struggled – oh, how they had struggled – with the muddy fields that they had had to drive across. The attack might well have floundered, despite very poor strategic planning, on Russian badly-made roads.

“Panzers,” one of his men shouted. There was alarm in his voice. “Russian Panzers!”

Pabst saw a sight out of the history books; a row of Russian T-34 tanks heading towards him. The formation was badly-commanded, with the tanks straggling all over the place, but it was a counterattack. The Russians weren’t firing, although Pabst knew that they would be shooting as soon as they had a target; he couldn’t remember just how long a range the T-34 actually had. When could they start killing his men…?

“Choose your targets,” he ordered, keeping his voice very calm. They should have been reinforced by now; he wondered what was keeping the force of panzers from reaching them to assist them. He felt a moment’s concern; the T-34 was a powerful tank…what if the weapons they possessed were useless against it? They would have to use their antitank weapons…and they had only a small amount of them. “And…”

The Russians opened fire; their shells slammed into the German position. The gunners held their discipline; Pabst snapped out the ‘fire’ command and they fired as one, launching a series of shells towards the Russian tanks. He allowed himself a moment of relief as he realised that the T-34’s turret could still be destroyed by their own guns. Five Russian tanks exploded under the pounding or skidded to a halt; the others kept coming, firing as they came…and a force of helicopters flashed over Pabst’s head.

He rubbed his ears; the deafening noise of the shelling and the Russian guns had concealed them from his ears. The Russians seemed totally surprised, even though they must have seen them coming; they didn’t react until the helicopters opened fire, their guns and rockets passing over the Russian formation and destroying it in a single violent pass.

His radio buzzed. He had to rub his ears again to hear it properly. Back home, they had been talking about implanted ear protection, but they hadn’t managed to get a working design into production by the time the Japanese had started to become a nuisance. The voice was tinny and faint; it was also the most welcome sound that he’d heard all day.

“The panzers are on the way,” the pilot said. “They just had some problems with Russians, so higher command thought that we should come by and give you a hand.”

Pabst laughed. “I can’t say I’m sorry to see you,” he said, as the first of the Panzers hove into view in the distance. It bounced and thumped over the ground, heading directly for Pabst and his people; dozens more followed it, tearing a hole right into the Russian lines. The main Russian armies would be up ahead, preparing to hammer a weakened force…which hadn’t been weakened at all.

Pabst smiled. “No, I can’t say that at all,” he repeated. A helicopter seemed to glow as its machine guns blasted a piece of ground that had looked harmless…until Russians began to charge the Germans, firing as they came. “Any more Russians coming?”

The pilot laughed. “The Eyes says that it’s an entire hornet’s nest,” he said. “I think they’re either going to come see you or make you boys on the ground come get them. Either way…today is a good day for someone else to die.”

***
General Kurochkin had always known that the Russian command and control system was imperfect; Stalin and his henchmen hadn’t been interesting in developing a perfect coordination system until it had been almost too late. Even so, the picture that was developing was horrifying; the Germans were engaging the Russians all along the Moscow defence line…something that he would have believed was impossible. The Germans couldn’t have the strength to do something like that; they were risking defeat in detail…

The shape of events was clear; the Germans were attempting to shatter his command and control systems, before turning on each of his armies and shattering them in turn, one after the other. Some of the attacks had to be diversions, but which ones? The indiscriminate gas and missile bombardment of the Russian lines had had a terrifying effect; thousands of young Russians had been killed in the bombardment…and the gas didn’t seem to affect the Germans at all. They came on, using their weapons as they pleased, and they killed. They killed. How they killed.

The telephone shrilled. Kurochkin thought about ignoring it, but knew that he didn’t dare; Commissioner Petrovich would notice…and he would report it to Stalin. If the sniper who had shot Zhukov had shot the Commissioner instead, he would have ensured that the Germans would be defeated, but…

He picked up the phone. “Kurochkin,” he said simply. “The situation is dire.”

Stalin’s voice was thick and heavy. “Attack,” he said. His voice was very firm. “Use the forces under your command and attack them at once!”

Kurochkin took a breath, wondering if he dared argue with Stalin…or if he dared fail in defending the motherland from the Germans. “Comrade, we have been hurt badly,” he said, explaining the gas attacks to Stalin. “The enemy has already penetrated our outer defence line” – a German aircraft raced overhead as he spoke; the glare of a FAE bomb flashed in the sky – “and they are pressing against the inner defence line. If we attack, we risk losing the forces that are holding that line.”

Stalin’s voice held more than a hint of desperation. “The centre of the state is at risk,” he snapped. “You will attack, Comrade General, or someone else will hold your command.”

Kurochkin allowed himself a moment of regret. “I understand, Comrade,” he said, knowing that Stalin didn’t understand anything of the sort. They were fighting a battle that was likely to last for days…and if they lost, there would be nothing that could save Moscow from the Germans. “I will order the attack at once.”

***
The fighting seemed to have reached a lull as the panzers went into action, fighting it out with thousands of Russian tanks. Pabst and his men kept a low profile, moving back to join the regular infantry as the panzers moved on, hacking their way through the Russian formations. The Russians seemed to be regaining their control over their forces; some units actually retreated rather than face the Germans, others chose to stand and fight. Several modern units, including an air defence unit, had arrived; the invincible tanks were a great boost to German morale.

“We have an air raid in progress,” one of the crewmen bellowed. Pabst blinked; they had always had an air raid in progress. The Luftwaffe was out in force, shooting up everything with a red star; they had to have dropped thousands of bombs in the past hours. Pabst himself had lost track of time…and then it hit him.

“A Russian air raid?” He shouted. “Where?”

He turned and saw a massive flight of aircraft heading towards them…and, under them, signs of a massive Russian advance. Guns started to pound – inanely, he wondered if any of the shells would actually hit an aircraft – and then the antiaircraft weapons started to fire, using their radars to track the Russian aircraft. Aircraft started to explode, to break up in the sky…and they kept coming. Smaller aircraft zipped along the ground, dropping smaller bombs; German soldiers fired at them, sometimes hitting them…and one of the bigger Russian aircraft deliberately rammed one of the future tanks. There was a long moment of…nothing…and then the tank exploded.

“Get into defensive positions,” he shouted, as the signs of battle drew closer. He muttered commands into his radio, noting that the Luftwaffe had finally responded to the situation, sending hundreds of Messerschmitts into the battle…and hoped that Guderian would be sending panzer reinforcements to the battle before…

The Russian tanks appeared over the hill, moving directly towards them. German guns started to pound, spreading high explosive over the Russian ranks, but they kept coming. Pabst bellowed orders as a flight of aircraft raced overhead, pouring fire into the Russians; a scattering of mine-dispersal shells slowed the Russians long enough for his men to make their preparations.

There was no longer any point in giving orders; his men knew what to do. They had their guns, some Russian, some German, and they had their antitank rockets; they fired them at the Russians as they advanced. Tank after tank exploded as they moved closer, but the mounting losses didn’t stop them; a Russian tank destroyed a German helicopter with a lucky shot. Pabst was shooting like a madman, watching as the Russians came closer and closer, seeing a Russian tank looming up and exploding in front of him…and then the Luftwaffe returned to the flight.

The Stukas had been disgraced in the Battle of Britain, or at least the first version of the battle, but they had been modified to launch small rockets, each one packed with a powerful – and unstable – explosive. They raged down on the Russian tanks, firing their rockets…and shattering the attack. Hundreds of dead Russians littered the grounds; the Russian infantry wavered…and in that moment lost the attack as the reinforcements finally came into the fight. New panzers and German infantry entered the battle, firing as they came…and broke the Russian force. The Russians fought, died…and the way to Moscow lay open.

***
Kurochkin watched the battle reports come in, slowly through the runners and the collapsing radio network, and knew just how disastrously the battle had gone. Caught out in the open, the Russians had fought hard, but the main striking force had been destroyed. The Germans had been hurt, yes, but they had reserves…and the Russians no longer had any reserves that could enter the battle.

“Send out a general instruction,” he said, taking his life in his hands. Stalin was not known for being kind to generals who tried to save him from his own mistakes. “All forces are to retreat to Moscow and reinforce the defensive line.”

He scowled, knowing that it would be futile to run. The Germans would catch many of the units on the ground, others would be able to make it back to Moscow, to prepare themselves for the coming German attempt to take the city. When it came, the Russians would be ready for the final battle.

A hand tapped him on the shoulder. “You will come with us, Comrade General,” the NKVD man said. They had at least allowed him to get the order out first. “You are under arrest, by orders of the Great Stalin.”

Kurochkin sighed, picked up the briefcase that every officer carried in fear of this moment, and allowed them to lead him away.

Chapter Forty-Nine: Armageddon, Take Two

Moscow, Russia
5th May 1942

The Kremlin seemed dark and cold; Molotov shivered as he saw the army of NKVD troopers who had been drawn up to protect the building. Moscow itself was an armed camp, with Beria himself directing the defence; the thousands of soldiers who were drifting back into the city after the defence were rounded up and placed into massive defence works, making the city even more impregnable. Molotov knew enough about military strategy to know that taking a city wasn’t easy, but he also knew that the Germans were masters of warfare…and they had clearly learned lessons from their last attempt to take Moscow.

The massive battle had raged for almost two days, but the outcome had been determined after the massive attempt to take the war to the Germans. It had cost the Germans terribly to suppress the counterattack, but they had managed to suppress it and then crush the defensive lines. For hours, until the NKVD had managed to prevent it, soldiers had fled at the merest hint of gas; they had seen too many comrades – and Molotov thought without irony – killed in the most horrific manner. Soviet gas protection equipment…was just not as good as it could have been. The Germans had come, seen, and conquered…and they had cut off Moscow’s line of retreat.

Stalin stood alone in his office, staring down at a map. A female secretary – looking torn and broken – served him, altering the map as intelligence came in from the front, which was breaking down as the Germans sealed the city off from the rest of the Soviet Union. The Germans had cut telegraph roles, railway lines; they had even occupied the station that served as the endpoint for Stalin’s personal escape route. They had drawn their forces around Moscow…and Molotov had no illusions as to what that meant for the rest of the Soviet Union; even radio was untrustworthy when the Germans had developed a habit of jamming signals. It wouldn’t be long before rebellion started, particularly in the Muslim regions; they would see it as the punishment of Allah.

If that was true, he wondered, in a moment of despondency, who would punish the Germans?

Stalin looked like a caged animal; he hadn’t slept, or eaten…and he smelt rank, unwashed. His cheeks were unshaven, his eyes were very dim…and Molotov could have sworn that he could smell alcohol. Stalin’s world had suddenly been reduced to Moscow…and, once the rest of the USSR smelt blood in the water, Stalin would lose whatever power he had left.

“The Germans have not responded to my attempts to communicate,” Molotov said, after a moment. Stalin’s eyes were terrifyingly…strange. He had ordered Molotov to attempt to open communication channels with the Germans, but to what ends? What could the Germans agree to, now, that they couldn’t just take? Only one answer sprang to mind; Moscow itself. “They seem intent on trying to take the city.”

Stalin looked at him. “They will not succeed,” he said. His hand waved vaguely at the map; thousands of Germans – panzers, guns, infantry and aircraft – were being drawn into position around Moscow. There were thousands of soldiers and armed civilians in Moscow itself, of course, but they were demoralised, despite the attempts of the NKVD to maintain order. “They will not get this city.”

Molotov looked at the map. They’d committed almost everything to trying to hold Moscow and they’d failed. The armies that had the men and resources to fight the Germans had been destroyed; they might have hurt the Germans, but nowhere near enough to prevent them from taking Moscow – if they were willing to pay the blood price that the city demanded.

“No,” he said, and hoped that he was right. The news from the lands held by the Germans – and what they knew about the alternate future – showed exactly what sort of fate awaited them if they lost the coming battle. “The Nazi fascists will not extend their hand into Moscow – and if they do, we will fight to the bitter end.”

Stalin managed a wan smile. “Very good, Comrade,” he said. “You have served me faithfully, for all these years. Don’t fail me now.”

Molotov remembered what had happened to Kurochkin and shuddered inwardly.

***
General Wieland had seen a city under attack before, although Moscow had been razed long before he had been born. Elements of the SS had been working, behind the scenes, to give the impression that Moscow had never existed – along with the pan-Slavic civilisation – in order that young German children never questioned what had happened to the Slavs. When Karachi had risen against its British overlords, the SS had insisted on going into battle – and the young Wieland had been part of the assault force.

The memory made him smile. They had smashed the city, slaughtered the men, and then had their fun with the women. He remembered dusky-skinned women, screaming as the SS ripped away their clothes and took them where they were; he remembered watching as their children were moved into slavery to serve the Reich. Karachi had paid the highest price of all for its resistance; Moscow would pay the same when the time came.

Until then, the city was well defended; the Russians hadn’t stopped building defences since 1941, when Hitler’s soldiers had attempted to take the city. The Eyes had probed as far into the east as Novgorod; the Russians had nothing left to fight with that posed a serious threat. The tanks and men in the Urals might be a problem in the future, but that could wait until the next year; he was sure that whoever came out on top in the coming internal power struggle in Germany would want to take the rest of the Russian state.

He grinned. The Japanese might try for the Russian Far East again, or even the Chinese; who knew what might happen with Russia destroyed? Iran had already started a low-level war against Russian occupation forces; how long would it be before those forces were pulled out? Once Moscow fell, all manner of options would open up for future exploitation.

Still, for the moment, Moscow had to fall.

“An unpleasant defence,” he commented, to Guderian, who stood beside him. There had to be thousands of Russians in the trenches…and street-fighting was always hard on the men who had to carry it out. The civilians of the city could be expected to join in the fight; young men, assuming that there were any left who were not in the Red Army, would be the worst at trying to resist. “We will have to be brutal.”

Guderian looked sharply at him. “I would prefer to keep a siege in place and let the bastards starve,” he said. He hadn’t been as…pleasant to Wieland since the Russian bitch had been killed; Wieland found that amusing, in a dirty kind of way. “Do you always want blood, blood, and more blood?”

“There will be enough in that city to keep them alive for months,” Wieland said, keeping his voice calm. It didn’t bother him if he annoyed Guderian, but he knew better that to upset the relationship between the newcomers and the contemporary Germans. Trautman would be less than pleased with him…and Wieland knew better than to think that Trautman would let it slip past. “If we start the attack now…we will kill some of them and discourage the others from further resistance.”

Guderian frowned. “The Council seems to think that attack is the only option,” he said. “They worry endlessly about a threat from the east – or America.”

“A foolish hope,” Wieland said, bluntly. Guderian nodded in agreement; the Urals couldn’t mount an attack on the Germans for at least a year, the Americans would suffer from the same problem. “We can end the war if we take Moscow now.”

Guderian lifted his binoculars and peered into the distance. “You were unable to get your people through the Russian net,” he said. Wieland scowled; four Marines had been killed, body armour or no body armour, in trying to slip into Moscow and assassinate Stalin. “How do you plan to take Moscow?”

Wieland told him.

***
It didn’t take a genius to know that an attack was being prepared – and Sturmbannfuehrer Rudolf Pabst was no idiot. The Wehrmacht had been working overtime, working to concentrate thousands of guns – both German and Russian – into the regions surrounding Moscow. Pabst hoped that heavy shellfire could clear the city’s defences; bitter experience suggested that the defenders would merely use the rubble as cover for continuing the fight. Even so, there were so many guns that he found it hard to believe that they could actually stand up to the weight of shellfire that the guns could unleash.

The Russians had converted Moscow’s suburbs into their first defence line; he’d seen old women and men working on building the line, preventing the Germans from simply driving into the city. Moscow was vast, larger than many cities outside Germany; the old stories about how it had been assaulted wouldn’t be any guide now, he felt. This time…they had other weapons, other unpleasant weapons…and he had a nasty feeling that they wouldn’t be enough. They had been ordered to fall back slightly, just to give the gunners a clear field of fire and…

BOOM!

Every gun opened fire at once. Pabst felt his ears ringing from the shockwaves, even through the earplugs; a flight of aircraft zoomed overhead, dropping firebombs and flaming napalm onto the city. FAE weapons had been produced in vast numbers, using up vital supplies, just to hurt the targets as much as they could. Moscow seemed unhurt…and the next moment, fires were building up all over the city. The city seemed to be exploding in an endless series of explosions; he felt an instant’s pity for the Russians, caught in the middle of the holocaust.

Silence fell.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Moscow was burning, flames leaping from house to house, firestorms raging through the streets. Gas shells had been added to the bombardment, slaughtering thousands of Russians like dogs; German aircraft were pouring bombs into the dying city. The trenches were given special attention by the gas shells; they were smoking the Russians out like rats. The Russians tried to fight back, but the future long-range weapons had been held in reserve; the Russian guns were swiftly silenced.

It seemed inconceivable that anything could live through such a bombardment, but he could still hear shellfire from the Russian positions, even only a handful of guns in between the German timed barrages. The timing was starting to break down as other others added their fire to the mixture, systematically bombarding parts of Moscow, drenching Moscow in fire and poison gas. He’d even heard a rumour that some bright spark had had the idea of using radioactive material, but General Wieland had firmly squashed that idea. Pabst was relieved; radiation would have made Moscow even more hellish than it already was.

BOOM! Boom! BOOM! Boom!

The gunfire had broken up now into a steady bombardment; he'd been informed that the idea was to fire and keep firing until they ran out of shells, something that could be dangerous under other circumstances. The Germans intended not to leave a single stone placed on top of another…and they might just get their wish. Moscow was burning brightly now, hot enough to defy even the Russian weather; there was a very real danger of cinders being blown towards the German positions. The flames seemed to have taken on a life of their own; anyone in the city would have the chance of suffering any number of horrible fates. In places, the flames went eerie colours as the poison gas ignited, something that could only happen under very high temperatures; the flumes would be dangerous themselves to the Germans as well as to the Russians.

He took a breath, tasting the burning on the air.

It wouldn’t be long now.

***
Stalin had intended to conduct the defence himself, from the Kremlin’s observation tower, but the sheer scale of the bombardment had shocked even him. Molotov had watched him stagger backwards as the city was destroyed in a tearing hail of German shellfire; thousands of people had been killed already…and he knew that thousands more would be killed over the next few hours. Stalin had barked orders, all of which were incapable of being carried out; Molotov had seen the writing on the wall.

The Soviet Union was doomed.

The Kremlin had been targeted; shells landed near it, venting massive clouds of poison gas over the city. Molotov had seen the Red Guards near the Kremlin die under the gas; it wouldn’t be long before Stalin and his men were either killed or captured or…the flames washed towards the Kremlin and Molotov recoiled.

“Come on,” Stalin suddenly hissed, leading Molotov down the stairwell towards the bunker. The building shook, time and time again, but by some dark miracle it had escaped damage to the surface. As Stalin and his chosen few headed into the bunker, they found a massive cave-in; the shock of the bombardment had caused the bunker to collapse.

Molotov heard the rumble in the earth, as another wave of shells crashed to the ground, and knew the future. The ground shook again…and the ceiling caved in on them. Stalin screamed once, a horrifying sound…and then there was merciful blackness.

***
The Russian organised resistance had been crushed, Pabst could tell, as his team secured the outer defences of Moscow. Parts of the city were utterly impassable, even to a Panther from the future; other parts burned merrily away and would likely continue to burn for hours to come. The Russians, those who survived, spent their lives in suicide charges, or they sat there, staring at nothing.

Pabst was used to horror, used to seeing evil, but this was horrifying. An atomic weapon would have been kinder, he had decided, moments after they carefully probed their way into the Russian defences. A children’s school – left near the outskirts – made him throw up; the children had either died of gas, or of suffocation. A tank, seemingly a T-34, was utterly melted; he’d seen images from the ruins of Washington, but Moscow defied belief.

The Reich, he’d concluded, had done something utterly disgusting.

A Russian woman, horrifyingly burnt, made an attack on him with a melted rifle. He saw her face, felt sick, and killed her with a single quick shot. It was a mercy killing; he could have sworn that she had thanked him. As they pushed deeper into Moscow, they found more bodies…and fewer live Russians. Had they killed the entire population?

“All units, pull back,” the commander said, after a heartbreaking hour had passed. The men of the army seemed shocked and horrified; even the SS men seemed astonished at what they had managed to do. Pabst was all too happy to comply; the wind was picking up, blowing the flames into another firestorm. The Germans might lose more men to the firestorm than they would to the Russians…and that would be embarrassing.

Perhaps we deserve it, Pabst thought coldly, as they fell back. A handful of Russians had attempted to sneak out, including one NKVD man who was miraculously unharmed. It didn’t take much effort to guess how he had managed the miracle; he had hidden behind other bodies, perhaps in a cellar or…they shot him anyway. The Higher Command was very interested that they look for Stalin, but where the Kremlin had once stood…there was nothing, but a massive firestorm. Searching the ruins would have to wait.

“I guess we won,” Scharfuehrer Keller said. His voice was shaken. Pabst had never heard the burly Keller shaken before. “Is this the price of victory?”

The other men – future, contemporary, SS – seemed equally shaken. “Only the dead have seen the end of war,” Pabst said. It was SS dogma. They were born, they fought, eventually…they died. He looked back at the remains of Moscow; it was almost evening and he hadn’t even noticed in the hellfire. “What have we done?”

Chapter Fifty: Loose Ends

Berlin, Germany
15th May 1942

“So we are agreed,” Goring said. “We will respect American primacy in their continent, in hopes of continuing the peace that we have fought for and rightfully won.”

Himmler listened to the fat fool burbling on and smiled inwardly. He might not have made any progress on finding out who was behind Goring, but in other matters events were proceeding quite satisfactorily. The SS had taken its fair share of glory in the capture of Moscow – or what remained of the city – and one of its soldiers had discovered the crushed body of Stalin himself, along with Molotov and a handful of others. Of Beria, who had apparently commanded the defence, there was no sign.

Himmler wasn’t particularly surprised. He knew Beria – they’d actually met in person – and he understood the way he thought. Beria, like all of his kind, was cowardly at heart; he might well have made a ‘tactical retreat,’ or even a ‘tactical strike without arms.’ Beria might well have fled to the Urals, where the remains of Stalin’s government was attempting to pull the shattered country back together, or perhaps he had been killed in the bombardment. Who knew?

If there was any comparison between Beria and himself, Himmler kept it to himself; his thoughts were very private.

“Naturally, we will continue to prepare for containing the war, should the Americans decide that that is the sensible option,” Goring continued. “We will continue to develop the aircraft carrier – which has been renamed after the great Fuhrer – and we will continue to build the electric submarines that will sweep America from the seas, should they try to continue the war. We will annex and develop the newly occupied lands” – the Wehrmacht was intending to sweep down towards Stalingrad and open links to Iran – “and we will begin mass production of the latest group of weapons.”

There was a pause. “Further, we will place our relationships with the occupied territories on a permanent basis, involving their eternal subordination to the Reich,” Goring continued. It showed a grasp of long-term thinking that was utterly alien to his nature. “The French will be encouraged to continue to develop French North Africa, but we will continue to develop bases within that region, along with Malta and Corsica. We will bring Turkey into the pan-European alliance for development; they will join us or be crushed.”

He smiled. “There remains, however, one final matter,” Goring concluded. “How is the Reich to be governed in the future?”

Himmler watched the faces as the table seemed to spin in his head. Speer seemed worried; Kesselring seemed amused. Raeder watched, his face controlled; Bormann seemed only concerned for his own…eminence, while Ribbentrop looked nervous. And Himmler? Himmler kept his own counsel.

Speer’s voice was calm. “We cannot afford a long period of in-fighting,” he said. Himmler relaxed slightly; he’d felt nervous, concerned that Goring had finally managed to place his people for a quick and brutal purge of all who would oppose him. He’d been trying to prepare the SS for such a possible action, but Canaris had been deploying Abwehr units, newly authorised by Goring, for the protection of the inner circle.

“We also require an announcement,” Goebbels said. His voice sounded calm, but Himmler could sense his worry. “The current situation of uncertainty is not good for the Reich.”

Goring leaned forward. “I propose that we move towards a Reich Council, such as they possessed in the other timeline,” he said. His face split into a grim smile. “If we start struggling for power, we will lose the chance to make our gains permanent.”

Himmler gave him an icy look. A council would reduce him to one among equals, at least for a while…but it would do the same for Goring. Except…who was a serious leadership contender, but Goring and himself? Speer might, at the worst, step forward; Kesselring might have been able to take control, but it would be more likely to start a civil war.

“It will have to do,” Ribbentrop said. Himmler looked at him; Ribbentrop quailed. “We have to determine our relationship with Japan, as the Americans are unlikely to allow the Japanese to escape with their ill-gotten gains, whatever the internal problems in their country.”

Himmler nodded to himself. The Americans were in trouble – of course, in the Reich, such troubling minorities would have been exterminated long ago – and he had given some thought as to how the problems could be made worse for the Americans. Even so, he doubted that the internal problems would hold the Americans up for more than a year; they had to be making their own progress towards an atomic bomb.

“In that case, I see no reason to refuse to form the council,” he said, making the best of a bad situation. There would be time for seizing ultimate power later. “Shall we proceed with the formal statement?”

Raeder looked up. “There is one final move that I believe we should consider,” he said. “I suggest that we invite Admiral Trautman to take a place on the council.”

Himmler watched Goring’s mind digesting the thought and wondered; what was Raeder’s game? They were allies, as far as that could be depended upon; had Raeder some other reason for his nomination? Admittedly, the Reich had suddenly acquired thousands of future Germans who would need some reward for their efforts, but still…

“I support that measure,” he said, and noticed that Kesselring and Speer supported it as well. There were plans within plans and games within games…and just who was pulling Goring’s strings? He couldn’t move until he knew exactly what was going on behind the scenes. “Anyone opposed?”

Goring looked irritated at Himmler’s attempt to gain control of the council, but said nothing. No one opposed the motion.

“Good,” Goring said, after a moment. He gave Raeder a smile that he had to have been practicing in front of a mirror. “If you would care to invite Trautman to take a seat…”

Raeder nodded. “It will be my pleasure,” he said. “Is there any other business?”

Goring shrugged. “The funeral for the Fuhrer is today,” he reminded his fellow councillors. “I am sure that we will all attend.”

***
Trautman had once heard a joke about a woman who was so in love with her husband – or too scared of his rage – that she had loudly refused to lie with another man…but had been buried, just for a day, with the wrong man. As the sun burnt down on Berlin, with the massive funeral procession marching their way towards the massive monument that had been erected for Hitler, he found that he had forgotten the punch line; it had been something about…

He shook his head, dismissing the thought. Berlin was at a standstill; there were tens of thousands of mourners, coming to say goodbye…and the worst of it was that most of them meant it. None of them had seen the horrors of the labour camps, none of them had seen the ruins of Moscow; they knew nothing about the horrors that underlay the German Reich. The new Reich Council, he now knew, was determined to keep such matters underground; the reports on what had happened to Moscow would be suppressed.

He stepped away from the small group of senior officers and wandered through the almost deserted streets, back to what people were already calling the Future Building. He’d given up trying to explain that they had come from an alternate future; he wondered if, in the future, that Goebbels would claim that their version of history was the real version of history…but who was to say that it wasn’t? Had, somehow, their history books been rewritten?

It didn’t matter, he decided. All that mattered was saving the Reich from itself.

America hadn’t responded to the Reich’s attempts at making a peace, but Trautman knew that it didn’t matter. Now that Stalin was dead and the Soviet Union shattered, it would take America time – years, perhaps – to build up the forces that would be required to continue the war. By the time American forces sailed across the Atlantic, Germany would have a massive lead in advanced weapons, rockets…perhaps even a base in space itself. Whatever Masterson and his crew did would no longer matter; America could make peace or not – the end result would be the same…

Two of his Marines guarded the building; they saluted him as he entered. The Battle of Moscow had done one good thing; it had integrated the future soldiers with their contemporary counterparts. Some of the regulars had claimed that they were losing all the glory – as if there was glory in war – but now they were one force. They would have to be more than that, however, when the time came to take America.

His office was large, but Spartan; the only real decoration was a large table that had been a gift from the Fuhrer himself. Trautman took his seat and waited, moving his way through the paperwork and noting with some private amusement that dozens of his people had applied for permission to marry. It would give his sailors and soldiers a place in the new/old world they had been transported to; it would give them something to cling to in the future.

There was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” Trautman called, already knowing who it was. The door opened, permitting Hans Konigsberg to enter the room; the librarian seemed more confident in himself than ever. Trautman remembered the factories that Konigsberg had set up and went cold inside. “I trust that Berlin is treating you well, Hans?”

Konigsberg didn’t react to the tone. “It comes and goes,” he said, his voice very dry. “The production of newer weapons, newer designs, continues apace.”

“I’m sure,” Trautman said. Suspicion blossomed into certainty. “Have you ever thought about why we’re here?”

“I have not given it much thought,” Konigsberg said. Trautman didn’t believe him…and then wondered if he might be telling the literal truth. “My work keeps me occupied.”

“Does it?” Trautman said. “Have you thought about some of the information and equipment that the carrier carried inside its library?”

Konigsberg lifted a single eyebrow. “I confess that I see no reason to wonder,” he said. “Herr Admiral, is there some reason for this line of thought?”

“Merely pointing out oddities,” Trautman said. He allowed his voice to darken. It was better to move ahead with the accusation at once. “Why did you have the Fuhrer assassinated?”

Konigsberg rocked backwards. “You dare accuse me of killing our beloved Fuhrer?”

Trautman allowed a hint of his own anger to show in his voice. “Don’t take me for a fool,” he snapped. “We found traces of the weapon used – it was one of ours, one from the Graf Zeppelin! We never discussed this with the SS, but we remembered and checked for missing weapons…imagine our surprise when we discovered that one of the three sample weapons that were sent to demonstrate the principles hadn’t been fired! You told me that all three of the weapons had been used; General Dornburger was very clear that only two had been fired.”

He stood up suddenly. “What happened to the other weapon?”

Konigsberg didn’t answer. “It was the only weapon unaccounted for,” Trautman continued. “The Royal Oak had no weapons of that kind, although we allowed Himmler and his goons to believe otherwise…so that weapon was the one that killed the Fuhrer. Why?”

Konigsberg sat back. His face seemed almost amused. “Imagine that you can…look back at mistakes, your mistakes, other people’s mistakes, and correct them,” he said. “The original history, our history, other histories…someone with such a view of the multiverse could do almost anything, shape the world to their specifications. Adolf Hitler built the Reich; it would have been torn down within three years…but without him, who knows?”

Trautman looked at him. “Who are you?”

“It hardly matters,” Konigsberg said. “All that matters is that the Reich has friends; they sent your fleet here to assist the Germans, and they ordered me to ensure that the Reich would have the time to develop into a global power for the future. That involved getting rid of Hitler, me and my assistants.”

He smiled. “Why didn’t you take your suspicions to Himmler?”

Trautman glared at him. “You tell me,” he snapped. “Why didn’t I take my suspicions to Himmler?”

“Because all of the time travellers will be blamed,” Konigsberg said. His voice was triumphant, gloating in his own success. “You will say nothing, and you will allow me to get back to my work, because…if I fail, the Reich is far too likely to fall. Good day, Herr Admiral.”

He stood up and headed for the door. “One question,” Trautman said, just before Konigsberg could leave. “Why are you advising Goring?”

For the first time, Konigsberg seemed surprised. “I’m not advising Goring,” he said.

Trautman scowled. “Then, if you’re so wise and all-knowing, tell me who is?”

Konigsberg shrugged. “Buggered if I know,” he said, and left the room.

Trautman sat for a long time, in silence.

His thoughts were very cold.

Epilogue

Masterson knew, even before any formal announcement could be made, that the new Reich Council would be formed. It was not only the logical step, preventing a civil war, but it was necessary. The Germans hadn’t impressed him with their imagination; given a detailed guide to a successful Reich, they had implemented it as soon as they could – as soon as one of them had assassinated Hitler. It was a mystery who had killed the Fuhrer, but Masterson knew that it would have changed the Reich.

Some of the urgency had fallen out of the American war effort with Hitler’s death. The Japanese would be ground to powder – Masterson’s own victory only ensured that they would fall quickly and hard – but then…what? The internal turmoil would only get worse before it got better, with far too many problems for the Americans to solve before they could think about taking the war to the Germans. If FDR couldn’t solve the problems soon, America was likely to fall into a second civil war…and it would be the Germans who would pick up the pieces.

Masterson knew that that couldn’t be allowed, whatever else happened; a German victory in this timeline would be even more of a nightmare than his own timeline had been. There had to be a solution, somehow, one that could be used to save America and save the world. The longer the Germans had to build up, the longer it would take to crush them…and the more nuclear weapons that would be deployed. They had seized Britain, despite all the British forces could do; they had annexed Saudi Arabia and started to purge Palestine of the Jews. America was the last major opponent, now that Japan was on the verge of being crushed; the Germans would not let America remain independent.

He shuddered. America had the production advantage. Germany had more technology and more information about the future. It would be an interesting struggle.

He’d been talking to Donovan.

Everything that could be done would be done.

The world would be free.

Never the End…

Afterword

You know, it wasn’t until halfway through writing the plot for Graf Zeppelin that I realised that I was plotting out another – yes, another – Multiverse War book. The idea had originally been stand-alone, something along the lines of Weapons of Choice and its sequels, but I ended up using the timeline that formed part of the canon – TimeLine C – and it provided an interesting reason for the Nazis to develop cross-time travel. It also fitted into the metaplot of the overall war, with TimeLine C serving a role for the Enemy.

What role? You’ll have to wait and see.

<Evil Laugh>

Anyway…something that occurred to me quite some time ago was that the ‘good guys’ always get most of the goodies that come through space-time warps. The basic outline has been done several times, starting with the slightly disappointing movie The Final Countdown…and taking form in its most recent expression in the Axis of Time books. In those books, a fleet of ships from 2025 falls into the hands of the Allies forces in World War Two…but the Allies are already fated to win.

This may be disputable, but I firmly believe it. Once America had entered the war – and Hitler made the utterly stupid decision to declare war on America, therefore adding America to Germany’s list of enemies – the outcome was decided. The combined industrial power of the Allies was staggering; only Germany, among the Axis states, had any real hope of mounting a creditable challenge…and the strategic situation precluded any real chance at victory. Germany could not defeat either America or Britain; Japan could and did hurt the Americans and British, but it could not tear out the heart of its enemy’s industrial base. As long as Japan could not deal a crippling blow to America, American victory was certain. This holds so true that even a shattering American defeat at Midway would have only saved Japan for an extra few months, at most.

Germany’s location made it impossible to disengage from the war. Germany could not invade Britain, therefore Germany could not prevent either the Allies building up to mount a cross-channel invasion or bombing Germany’s industrial sites. Recent debates have questioned the sheer effectiveness – or lack thereof – of bombing Germany, but it unquestionably limited German ability to recover and rebuild. Germany’s failure to take Moscow in 1941 – perhaps the final chance Germany had to ‘win’ World War Two – doomed Germany; from that moment, the only real question would be who ended up ruling the shattered rubble.

Even if Germany somehow overcomes the problems - practical and ideological – in developing an atomic bomb, it won’t end the war in their favour – or even in a stalemate. The British air defence network could have prevented an atomic strike on London; Moscow might well have been hit, but past 1941 the Soviet Union was well-prepared to carry on the war even if Moscow fell, which – incidentally – was considered a very real possibility in 1942, rather than the Stalingrad offensive. America, of course, could not be hit at all.

So…the Germans get the goodies this time; a fleet of warships from a timeline where Nazi Germany – advised by you-know-who – actually wins the war. This avoids the problem of having the time travellers being actually willing to help out – few Germans or Japanese of this era would be happy to serve either Imperial Japan or Nazi Germany – and it offers Germany not only an insight into how it can actually win the war, but gives it the tools to do so.

All sorts of plot elements went into the mix and quite a few of them got dumped. Originally, FDR was going to be assassinated by Roth and his team, the Royal Oak and her crew would be killed by the Germans, America would be invaded directly…and Churchill would have the dubious assistance of a renegade Time Agent called Mike Collins. I discarded most of the ideas and reformed others, ending up with the book that you have just finished reading; I hope that you enjoyed it.

The Royal Oak and her crew were always meant to escape, evening the balance somewhat between Germany and Britain, although the Germans would have started with an unfair advantage in naval combat power. (A reverse of the original situation.) I had intended to have the invasion of Britain take place sooner – in the book – but I realised that the situation on the Eastern Front (Russia has just begin a major offensive as of CH2) would preclude any such invasion. Incidentally, Guderian would have been relieved of his command by Hitler; here, Hitler is impressed by Guderian’s actions in the other timeline and actually promotes him instead. The American soldiers were intended to die; it would not only prevent the Americans from assisting Britain when Future Shock commenced, but make the Americans more reluctant to commit scarce combat power to Europe.

Future Shock itself, as I’m sure some readers noticed, is really Sea Lion lite; the Germans simply don’t have the capability, even with the Graf Zeppelin, to mount anything more complex. They have to land in or near Dover, and they have to defeat the British at the GHQ line. We will never know, of course, how the British would have reacted in the event of an invasion, but Churchill did indeed have plans to deploy poison gas against the invaders, along with schemes to ‘set the sea on fire.’ (Rumours that a German invasion had occurred and been roasted to death spread throughout Britain in 1940-41.) Once on shore, the British Army is really no match for the German Wehrmacht; that would come later. Exactly who would end up playing the role of the British Petain remains a mystery, although it is commonly believed that Mosley would have stepped forward; Hitler himself seemed to validate between a puppet state and direct rule from Berlin and a Reich Commissioner.

The involvement of Masterson and his crew in a strike against Japan came as a surprise to me, although I suppose in hindsight I should have planned for it. Blunting the Japanese sword was clearly necessary now that the United States faced internal stresses (as a result of learning how the Germans would have invaded in TimeLine C) and the possibility, however overblown, of a German invasion. I originally intended to kill Admiral Yamamoto, but decided that he would make an interesting character for a future sequel – if there is enough interest, of course. And, as for the ending…

Roll on the next one…

Christopher G. Nuttall
Edinburgh, 2006-11-24

Appendix: Graf Zeppelin Carrier Battle Group

Supercarrier Graf Zeppelin (Adolf Hitler-Class)
81 Aircraft
25 ME 462s - Blitzkrieg (A-4 Skyhawk)
25 FW 470s – Sea Falcon (Early F-14s)
19 JU 56VTOL – Kurt (Sea Harrier)
6 ME 462Rs - Eyes (Recon)
2 ME 921s - Control (AWACS)
4 JU-55Ns - Goring (Refuelling)

Missile Heavy Cruiser Goring (Nuclear)
200 Ground Attack Missiles, Naval Variant
200 Air Defence Missiles
24 CIADS Weapons

Missile Heavy Cruiser Ribbentrop (Nuclear)
200 Ground Attack Missiles, Naval Variant
200 Air Defence Missiles
24 CIADS Weapons

Frigates Oslo/Narvik/Dover (Victory-class)
30 Antiship/Antisubmarine Torpedoes
10 VLS Ground Attack Missiles, Naval Variant

Attack/Recon Submarine Günther Prien (Donitz-class)
16 Antiship and Submarine Torpedoes
12 VLS Ground Attack Missiles
2 Drone-launch missiles

Erwin Rommel (Kesselring-class landing craft)

(6th Battalion, 11th Infantry)
700 Combat Personnel
30 Leopard 1 MBTs
20 LAVs
10 Ground Attack Helicopters, Student-class

Heinz Guderian (Kesselring II-class landing craft)

(88th Battalion, SS Wiking)
6 Panther III
14 LAVs
500 Combat Personnel
24 Special Operations Personnel
5 Ground Attack Helicopters, Student-class
15 JU 56VTOL – Kurt

Albert Speer (Speer-class supply ship)

HMS Royal Oak (Cornwall-class medium cruiser) (Loosely comparable to the General Belgrano)

Appendix: TimeLine C

Note – anything in [] is a note on changes between the timelines.

1923 – Adolf Hitler attempts to overthrow the government and is soundly defeated. In the confusion, a man called Kreigslieter saves his life; Kreigslieter subsequently becomes one of Hitler’s most trusted allies.

[Kreigslieter has no existence in the Original TimeLine (OTL). He was named for a character from an old alternate history novel.]

1933-1936 – Adolf Hitler rises to power in Germany, allied to the Nazi Party – and a German problem-solver called Doctor Kreigslieter. In the coming months, the Nazis will establish a single-party state; renounce the treaties that had been imposed on Germany, and work towards war. Kreigslieter’s contribution towards this is to work to streamline German industry, arms production and economy. In particularly, Germany’s internal canals and rivers get much-needed upgrading. With Hitler’s backing, Germany develops centralised production and distribution of resources.

[Germany lacked – badly – a strong central authority to handle the economy. Hitler simply didn’t have the concentration needed to focus on the work, or on drawing firm lines of control. The net result was considerable confusion at all levels.]

1936 – Germany marches back into the Rhineland, provoking no action from the Allies. Kreigslieter’s work has had some effect at this point; the Germans actually have more aircraft and weapons than they possessed in OTL. The Allies do not know that the Germans are bluffing…and don’t call the bluff.

Kreigslieter’s control has a further effect on the rapidly expanding Germany Navy. His control over production allows him to twist Goring’s arm into giving the Navy some aircraft on permanent loan, particularly with the sheer impossibility of building a force to challenge the Royal Navy in time for Hitler’s predicted war date of 1938. The Germans begin to research naval aircraft, sharing some information with Japan, working towards a point where they hope to confront the Royal Navy with overwhelming air power.

[Historically, Goring refused to part with many aircraft; this solution ensures that the German Admirals have some aircraft of their own to play with. Hitler originally expected war over Czechoslovakia – and was reported to have been disappointed when war did not occur.]

1937-1938 – Germany continues expanding towards war. Kreigslieter’s efforts, working with the army, allow the finalisation of Panzer designs for the predicted launch date of 1938; Germany will have a sizeable Panzer force for the war. The Air Force also expands; Goring is very interested in ensuring that they will play a major role in the coming war. This leads to the development of a greater air transport capability.

[The Germans – correctly – believed that the French could defeat them before 1939. Their war plan was based on crushing the Czechs and spinning to deal with the French.]

Crisis comes over Czechoslovakia. Ironically, the British and French are unaware that they posses a massive superiority over the Germans – the Germans are not unaware of their weakness and, except Hitler, dread the coming war. Chamberlain flies to Munich and offers Hitler a deal; the Czechs will be betrayed in exchange for a guarantee from Hitler that he will not expand further. Hitler, of course, has no intention of sticking to the deal.

This actually provokes a crisis within the British Government, particularly with the reports of increased German air strength. Churchill actually gains some prominence from the reports of German anti-ship capability; he wants a crash program to duplicate it. As it becomes obvious that Hitler has no intention of sticking to the agreement, the British issue a series of guarantees to the other smaller nations in Europe.

The Germans, learning from the capture of Czech industries, discontinue production of the Panzer III, concentrating on the heavier Panzer IV and a planned Panzer V. German production is increasing across the board, although they are running into problems caused by limited resources. The Germans begin looking seriously at ways of adding to their resources, mainly through conquering Norway and perhaps Sweden.

[With the increased focus on actual production, as opposed to a confused mixture of production and pie-in-the-sky schemes, Germany will actually hit resource problems earlier. Germany is roughly 30% stronger in this timeline; the addition of the resources from Czechoslovakia and the more controlled production gives the Germans considerably more resources to play around with.]

Italy and Germany enter a pact, joined later by Japan. As war grows closer, it becomes evident that Italy won’t join in unless victory seems certain. Kreigslieter manages to convince Hitler to allow some information sharing; an Italian radar system alone proves the entire experiment worthwhile.

[Ironically, Italy had the best radar sets in the world until around 1943; they suffered from such bad problems that they were utterly unable to put it to any use at all.]

As an incidental note, Soviet and Japanese forces clashed at Nomonhan, in North China. The Russians soundly spanked the overconfident Japanese.

1939 – Hitler finally runs out of patience with what he sees as Polish stalling over the territories lost to them by Germany. The Germans mass along the border, but the Poles are defiant – unfortunately, they allow Chamberlain, desperate for peace, to pressure them into not mobilising their army. When Hitler’s forces attack, they rapidly defeat the Poles…aided by the Soviets stabbing the Poles in the back.

[The Poles would have been better off, in both timelines, to ignore Chamberlain.]

The Polish defeat sends shockwaves through the alliance. The French attempts to get an offensive off the ground sputter to nothing in the face of increased German power and the rapid defeat of Poland. As the year goes on, the French will become more and more mired in their own problems; the French Army is badly outclassed and knows it. Chamberlain forms a War Cabinet; Churchill ends up as First Lord of the Admiralty…and the loudest proponent of action.

The USSR launches an attack against Finland. The Finns are expected to be crushed within weeks, but the attack fails badly – the Finns are still holding out months later. Churchill, demanding action, plots to launch a ‘peaceful’ invasion of Norway, opening supply lines – fortunately, this piece of madness is forestalled by the Finnish surrender.

[As pretty much happened in OTL.]

1940 – Hitler has not been idle during the Phoney War. In particular, he suspects that the Allies are plotting to snatch Norway first; he orders the planning for the conquest of Norway to be forced forward into high gear. The Germans move quickly and efficiently – the attack is launched several weeks earlier than anyone, including Churchill, expected. As German airborne soldiers land in Norway, and the German fleet starts to transport troops to the Norwegian cities, the British attempt to react.

[The Germans have moved quicker than OTL here.]

The Royal Navy attempts to interdict the shipping lanes to Norway, facing concentrated German air attacks for the first time, along with duels with German ships. The Germans, however, are careful to avoid a surface action between their handful of capital ships and the Royal Navy’s massive fleet; the battlecruisers are withdrawn back towards Germany. In one of the rare flashes of initiative, the British attempt to engage the Germans on the surface, running into the German naval air force instead. In the resulting battle, two British carriers and one battleship are sunk; the battleship, in particular, is sunk with the use of Japanese-designed torpedoes.

[Historically, the British and the Germans engaged in a very close race to see who could land troops first. The two German battlecruisers would both be damaged in the original campaign; in this campaign, both survive intact, although the fear of their presence is reduced by their retreat. The British lost one carrier in the original campaign, to the German battlecruisers; ironically, HMS Glorious avoids being sunk in the altered war.]

The Germans have actually managed to beat the British to most of the Norwegian targets. After some inconclusive skirmishing, there is a major battle at Narvik; the British lose after hard fighting, with the remains of their force surrendering to the Germans. The German use of Danish airbases, overrun in the first day of the fighting, makes the British position impossible; they retreat with all that they can bring away from the battle.

The defeat provokes a major crisis in the British government. Chamberlain is forced to resign, along with Churchill, who drew up the plans for the campaign. Churchill makes his bid to become Prime Minister, but fails; no one wants a loser in the hot seat. Churchill is ordered to America, where he will take over from Lord Lothian as British Ambassador. After a prolonged struggle, Lord Halifax emerges as Prime Minister, shattering the political alliance as he takes the post.

[Churchill managed to escape most of the blame for the Norwegian Campaign in OTL and emerged as the only real candidate for Prime Minister though a combination of luck and judgement. Lord Halifax remains something of a mystery; his supporters believe that he refused the post of Prime Minister because of his lordship, his detractors believe that he refused the post because he believed that the war was lost and he simply didn’t want to share the blame.]

The Germans, including Kreigslieter, have also been learning. Hitler is delighted by the concept of naval aviation and orders resources poured into it; the army is equally delighted, although they are less than impressed by some of the failures that the German airpower showed. As Hitler orders the German Army into its jump-off positions, Kreigslieter arranges for a program of preparation – inspired by Hitler – for expanding right to Britain itself.

[Hitler believed, at least to some extent, that Sealion would only be possible if conditions were heavily stacked in favour of Germany. In this case, he sees the defeat of the Royal Navy at the hands of the German air force as a sign that conditions, particularly in the cramped confines of the channel, as a sign that the war could be won that way. Unfortunately for them, the British have drawn the same lesson. Note; the Germans have not yet attacked France – they moved against Norway early.]

In the midst of the British political crisis, the Germans launch their attack on France. The Germans are actually more powerful than the French had expected, and, in some places, they actually have better radars and more practice at close-air support. The Germans overwhelm the Netherlands and Belgium very quickly – using airborne troops in places – and head directly for the largest surviving allied formation.

The alliance between France and British starts to break apart. The British have seen some parts of the writing on the wall; the French, largely because of their fatally disrupted communications, believe that the situation can still be saved. Lord Halifax panics and orders the BEF evacuated; the resulting chaos sees much of the force lifted from the beaches, under heavy air attack, while the remainder is destroyed or captured. As the French sue for peace, the Germans start counting up the abandoned British tanks and equipment; the British are weaker than they have ever been.

Hitler hesitates, and then takes the plunge. The Germans start to concentrate their airborne and naval resources for the invasion of Britain – Sealion. The Germans have many more transport ships available, from barges to actual landing craft; they also have a more powerful air force. As the air battles rage from side to side, the Germans launch their attack, pushing six divisions across the channel, along with a major airborne attack.

The British, still caught in the middle of a major political crisis, are in serious trouble. Lord Halifax, depressed and beaten by events, wants the Royal Navy to intervene, but at the same time he is determined to keep the fleet intact as a possible bargaining counter. The orders are far from clear; the Royal Navy tries hard to interfere with the Germans, often chasing them out of the channel, but at a growing cost in ships and men.

[The Germans could have seized control over the channel. Their main mistake was in not possessing a viable antiship capability.]

The Germans probe into England. The British forces have been assembled to face the Germans along the GHQ line; they no longer possess the ability to challenge the Germans at manoeuvre war. Led by Rommel, the 7th Panzer finds a weak spot in the British line and punches a hole right through it; the British line is shattered. The Germans capture some supplies, although they are operating on a shoestring; they are competent enough to tailor what they have sent over from France to what they actually need.

[Many people make a fundamental mistake when talking about logistics; an army unit does not have a constant rate of usage of everything. A Panzer Division that is not moving or fighting will not be burning its supplies at the same rate as one that is actively engaged against the enemy.]

The world turns against Britain, in the form of Italy and Japan. The Italians have been planning an offensive into Egypt for weeks; they launch into the very weak British position – and, with a final sting, attack Malta. The almost-undefended island falls and is annexed by Italy. In the meantime, Japan launches a limited attack against the Dutch East Indies – ‘sold’ to them by Germany – and a handful of other British possessions.

[Mussolini’s stupidest decision, in a war of stupid decisions, was to leave Malta alone; the island was almost undefended until late 1940. Japan planned to launch an attack when Sealion was launched, but – of course – Sealion never came off and the Japanese delayed for a year and a half.]

President Roosevelt would like to intervene. In the absence of any direct threat to American interests, however, he can’t; the political support for war against either Japan or Germany doesn’t exist. Roosevelt, egged on by Ambassador Churchill, attempts to send what help he can, but there just isn’t enough to send.

The Germans launch a final attack, intending to crack part of the British defence line. The result is successful; the Halifax Government tosses in the towel. Imagining that Hitler plans to annex all of Britain, Lord Halifax orders the remains of the Home Fleet to Canada and leaves himself, along with the King and the Royal Family, on a battleship. They are roundly booed at the quay. The caretaker governor is General Fuller; everyone expects that Oswald Mosley would end up as Prime Minister.

[General Fuller took on the role of caretaker Prime Minister in Kenneth Macksey’s book Invasion, the hotly debated account of a successful Sealion. Mosley claimed on several post-war occasions that he would have refused to harm British interests through collaboration with Germany, but we cannot imagine how he might have acted if Germany actually invaded the UK.]

Hitler, advised by Kreigslieter, swiftly discovers that the planned occupation is logistically impossible; besides, the British are reasonably placid and there’s no point in winning additional enemies. (The Reich has quite enough of them.) The Germans settle for occupying and annexing a small strip of land (Dover-London-Southampton), forcing the British to accept Italian control of Egypt (with some German control over Suez), German control of Gibraltar and German control of the Congo. South Africa withdraws from the war; British immigration to South Africa jumps several fold in the next few months.

The Mosley Government ends up reluctantly accepting those terms. The British Empire is shaken badly, following nationalist revolts in Iraq and Iran; both states become independent and Iran, in particular, ends up as a German ally, much to Stalin’s annoyance. India remains under the control of the Mosley Government, largely to prevent Japan from interfering in the region; the Mosley Government has also reluctantly accepted Japanese control of the former British and Dutch possessions in the Far East.

[Iraq revolted against the British in 1941; I think with a perception of a total British defeat the revolt would have come sooner – and the British would have fewer resources to do anything about it. Iran was technically independent and working towards real independence; again, they jumped at the collapse of British power. The Japanese did not develop plans for operations against India until around Pearl Harbour; the largely unarmed Indians could not have revolted against the British.]

Hitler, planning for his real work, the war against Russia, spends the final months of 1940 building up his forces and settling the affairs of Europe. The Reich’s terms with France and Britain are settled to everyone’s – well, at least everyone who matters – satisfaction; Italy gets some limited rewards, including Albania, parts of Africa and reaches a border settlement with Greece. The Germans also begin mass production of the Panzer V; a tank built using lessons learnt from the war in the west.

[Historically, the Germans had to bail the Italians out of trouble; here, they don’t have to waste efforts and resources on a North African war. They also sat on their laurels far too much when it came to tank and antitank research.]

Stalin is growing more and more paranoid about a joint German-Japanese attack, particularly when the NKVD hears about covert German-Turkish talks. His paranoia leads him to make vastly greater military preparations on one hand and purges on the other; the Soviet Union enters a realm of pure fear.

[The Japanese considered jumping on Stalin after the Germans invaded…and, after recalling the thrashing they took at Nomonhan in 1939, decided that it was a bad idea.]

Roosevelt’s warnings about the threat of Germany fell on deaf(er) ears after the invasion of Britain and the collapse of the British Government. Canada and Australia ended up taking over much of the remaining British ships belonging to the refugee government; Lord Halifax’s death in late 1940 only decapitated the exiled government. Although Churchill ended up as the leader, eventually, due to his popularity in America, he was unable to prevent the slow erosion of the exiled British forces. The problem was compounded by the Canadian Government refusing to recognise the Halifax government – for internal political reasons – and by well-natured American interference.

In any case, Roosevelt lost the election.

1941 – The Germans spent the past few months adapting their new territories into a refined industrial machine. Resistance was minimal; German rule was actually not that bad – and in most places, the Germans behaved themselves. The only real exception was the Jews, who were rounded up and shipped to Germany; a large number emigrated to South Africa, rather than face the Germans.

[British preparations for resistance were always limited by the same shortage of materials that had affected the entire British nation following Dunkirk.]

The new American Government, not exactly reluctantly, started a military build-up of its own, including an alliance with Australia. The Japanese, however, were behaving themselves; they were working to make use of the snatched resources and unwilling to fight the rapidly expanding American naval power. The Japanese signed a non-aggression pact with Australia and New Zealand in early 1941; the terms forbade the stationing of any external military forces on their territory.

[The Americans have much less leverage and will to press Japan to the point where the Japanese would make the decision to launch the war against the USA.]

The Japanese continued to extend their control over China. With their control of most of the supply lines into China, they were able to prevent the Chinese – both sides – from actually gaining enough power to destroy them, or force them out of China. At the same time, the Japanese were unable to push the Chinese into submission; the war reduced into a bitter stalemate, broken occasionally by yet another ‘victory offensive’ that somehow failed to produce victory.

Operation Barbarossa is formally launched on May 10th, 1941; within a week, the Germans have already made huge inroads. The Germans have plenty of supplies for the campaign; including tanks the equal of the Russian machines, and their air power is far superior. They also dispose of divisions recruited from the subject nations, including French and British soldiers. Some of them came out of prison camps, promised a year in German service, then freedom.

[The Germans had no match for the T-34 tank in OTL.]

The Germans make rapid progress, smashing their way though Soviet division after Soviet division. Within three months, they are at the gates of Moscow, facing off against the major divisions from Siberia…when Japan launches an attack at the Soviet rear. Stalin, unsurprisingly, prioritises; Japan is ignored for the moment. The Germans have a considerable advantage and clear skies; the Soviets are beaten and the city is surrounded. As Leningrad falls to a joint German-Finnish offensive, the Soviets have a mini-civil war inside the city; Stalin escapes the fighting and Moscow surrenders.

The Germans take a breath and time to gather up the scattered tons of Soviet war material, before concentrating on ending the threat of Stalin. The Soviets are in disarray – the loss of Moscow meant the end of the horde of planners who really ran the USSR – and the Germans have all the time they could possibly need. As German bombers attempt to harass the Soviets – the Germans draw the lesson that they need more longer-ranged bombers from the campaign – their forces probe against the weakened Soviets. By the end of 1941, Japan has seized large chunks of Siberia – along with a very willing White Army, composed of people sent to the camps – and Germany has no real threat from the east.

1942-1945 – The Germans spend most of the winter putting their affairs in order, placing the conquered territories in the east under the control of SS extermination squads, before expanding their control over the southern regions of the USSR. German Panzers make their way to Baku, linking up with an Iranian force, adding the resources of the vast region to Germany’s resources.

The American build-up irritates Hitler, even though he has everything he wanted – including Stalin’s body hanging from a tree. He orders Kreigslieter to work on building the Reich into a match for American production; Kreigslieter carries out the task with a mixture of efficiency and cold-blooded plotting that pleases some Germans and horrifies others. The German Navy is expanded, using Japanese concepts; the Germans aim at a force of twenty carriers by 1950.

The American election of 1944, however, places someone more concerned with healing the problems in American society into power; the Americans meet to discuss the future with Germany. The arms limitation agreement is not to Hitler’s liking, but he agrees to follow it – for the time being – to allow Germany time to develop newer concepts like rockets and nuclear weapons. The Americans also withdraw official support for the Free British; Churchill ends up bankrolling the remains of the once-proud force from investments using the remains of British gold.

The Americans have too many internal problems of their own to worry about it, not least the race problem. Forces that support the Nazi doctrine of racial supremacy are rising, challenging the existence of free blacks – some of the most extreme even advocate sending them all back into slavery. Some desperate blacks arm themselves and prepare for war; a low-level civil war is soon under way in places.

1945-1950 – The Germans and the Japanese complete their division of the former USSR, the Germans take the lion’s share, but make certain guarantees to the Japanese, including suggestions about how to handle the Europeans in Japanese-occupied territories. The Japanese, perhaps unwisely, have been funding Philippine independence movements – the rebels never present a serious problem, but convince some Americans that operations west of Pearl Harbour should not be contemplated.

The American withdrawal pleases the Japanese, who work hard to bring the Philippines into the co-prosperity sphere. They also want to force Australia into the agreement, but the Germans react very strongly against it; they settle for forcing Australia to accept as many Japanese immigrants as they want to send. In the long run, they conclude, Australia will be Japanese anyway – one way or the other.

The American decision – which the Japanese claim credit for – leads to something they need desperately – peace in China. The endless war has worn down all of the sides; the Japanese make a quick agreement with the Nationalists, then strike hard at the communists. In the ensuring chaos, the Chinese Nationalists reluctantly accept a limited peace – while both sides build up and prepare for the next round.

Despite their best intentions, American and German interests are beginning to collide – in two separate places. In Mexico, the new government requested German help to build an army – with the unspoken intention of standing off any American intervention – leading to the German creation of the new Mexican army. Some German ‘efficiency experts’ are also invited; their support for Mexico leads to the reorganising of the country and the defeat of the anti-government forces. In Saudi Arabia, on the other hand, German and American oil interests are beginning to collide; both sides have interests in the region.

This leads to strained relations and the threat of open war. Some Americans see a war, in support of the Monroe Doctrine, as a way of uniting the increasingly divided country. Others don’t want to risk a foreign war, particularly without having taken the time to build a larger army; Mexico actually has a larger army than America at this point.

The Germans have expanded their own armed forces remarkably, including a large force of carriers, but the Americans manage to surprise them by detonating the world’s first atomic bomb. The ensuring panic – some would later claim that it brought on Hitler’s collapse – led to German withdrawal from Saudi – and some withdrawal from Mexico. The humiliation soured American-German relations. By the time that the Germans detonate their own bomb, in 1947, the inner circle of the Nazi Government is already planning the war of revenge.

[The timing of German success in obtaining their own atomic bomb has been hotly disputed. In this case, Germany would have no obvious need for any nuclear superweapon for some time – research would likely operate at a low level, if at all. In contrast, the Americans, without a clear enemy, couldn’t afford to dispatch all of the resources required for the crash Manhattan project.]

The atomic bomb does have one German casualty, however; Adolf Hitler. The Fuhrer, already in the early stages of Parkinson’s Disease, collapses after hearing the news. Hitler’s stroke is made worse by the attempts by his personal doctor to cure him; by the time that Himmler has the quack dragged away and tortured to death, Hitler is crippled. He might be still alive, but Hitler is not the man he once was.

The Inner Circle, for various reasons, makes the decision to keep Hitler as the figurehead Fuhrer while they deal with the Americans. Kreigslieter, as a moderate voice, pushes for that solution; absolute power would be useless if the war with America was to be lost.

[And in this timeline fewer Nazis would have touched absolute power.]

1950-1955 – the Germans concentrate on building up to face the Americans. Relations with Mexico are rapidly improved, even to the extent that some German units are permanently based in Mexico, and the Germans supply the Mexicans with additional weapons and support. The Germans have also built up their long-range bombers and missiles for the coming war – they have no intention of being caught out again.

The Japanese are in agreement with the Germans; America must be dealt with. They have long-held ambitions for Australia and Pearl Harbour; they have plans to deal with both of them. The two navies work together to develop their plans against the Americans. The Germans also – reluctantly – share a-bomb tech with the Japanese.

The Americans, for the first few years, don’t really believe that there is a problem. They remember how the atomic bomb scared hell out of the Germans – and have forgotten the German ability to hold grudges. The Germans play to that by sending mixed messages – the Germans have also allied with certain elements within American society who want to copy the German practice of exterminating inferiors…and guess who the main target is. It is Sir Winston Churchill who sounds the first warning…

The American War (1955-57): The Germans have drawn up a fairly basic plan; they assault from Mexico into Texas, under heavy escort from their air force. The German Navy confronts and defeats the American Navy in the Battle of the Atlantic, following which they launch a series of raids against the American coastline. Although the Germans make good progress, they are slowed down by an American atomic strike and a desperate counterattack led by an old general.

In the meantime, the Japanese invade Pearl Harbour and California. Although they manage to invade Pearl, it is not for weeks before the final resistance is eradicated…and the Americans in California push the Japanese back into the sea. The Japanese, however, have managed to spark off major unrest in America, starting the beginnings of a race war, which nazi-allied elements have managed to expand, with black pogroms and counterattacks by black factions. After America manages a nuclear strike against Norway – and the major German supply base there – Germany counter-attacks by nuking Washington, along with a major sea offensive against New York. Winston Churchill dies in the final desperate defence of Manhattan Island.

The end of the war comes swiftly after German forces defeat a final American counterattack in the south. America, fast disintegrating under internal and external pressures, signed a surrender, allowing the Germans to annex regions within America, as well as granting them the right to base troops and ships in America. The Second American Civil War begins almost at once, ending with the rise of the New Confederacy – a German puppet in all, but name – harking back to a mythical ‘Dixie.’ Although it is years before the New Confederacy manages to assert its control over the entire unoccupied country, the program of exterminating or enslaving blacks begins almost at once.

Japan launches a lightning campaign against Australia, seizing all of the major cities. Although resistance continues for years, Japan holds control within a year, taking New Zealand the year afterwards. South Africa accepts thousands of refugees; Japan is pressured – by Germany – to offer amnesty to all who will leave Australia.

1958 - The Mosley Government, a puppet in all, but name, finally managed to regain control over India. Japan does not greet this with enthusiasm.

1959 – Adolf Hitler dies. The Reich Council becomes the formal centre of German Government.

1960-1970 – Germany begins the eastern settlement project, a combination of exterminating Slavic inhabitants, enslaving whatever unlucky Slaves survive the purges…and sending in thousands of colonists. The SS attempts to begin spreading the ‘New Faith’ – a neo-pagan revival, combined with worship of Hitler and the Will – into Germany, but meet with little success. The death of Himmler effectively ends the process, although small groups continue to meet and worship in secrecy. Population of Nazi Germany and occupied lands is increasing rapidly with the implementation of the ‘family laws,’ which provide for large families and the support of illegitimate children.

The Reich also begins a massive development program of both space and atomic power, ranging from the deployment of Orion-type spacecraft to massive nuclear power plants. (By 2000, they will have cracked the fusion process.) The limited safeguards lead to several unpleasant balls-ups in Russia; the results are covered up for years. Germany and Japan agree together on the Atomic Protocols, banning the independent development of atomic power and weapons by any other state; joint enforcement in Argentina.

1971 – Alaska is ceded to Japan.

1972 – The Royal Oak is launched.

1973 – Canada, after the rise of a pro-Nazi party, begins the extermination of its French inhabitants. France, under the control of a puppet government, attempts to protest; Paris is razed as an object lesson. Revolt in French North Africa – several-sided revolt against everyone – is brutally suppressed; Italian Libya provides many of the soldiers used in enforcement. African genocide begins; by 2009, millions of native Africans have been slaughtered. Cape to Cairo railroad is completed; settles flood into the interior of Africa.

1974 – Japanese settlement reaches out towards the Japanese-German border in Russia.

1975-1980 – Russian partisans manage to unite to the point where they pose a serious threat to German settlements. Joint German-Japanese action to handle them, but the SS has its suspicions that Japan actually supported and armed the partisans. The Reich starts considering Japan a possible threat.

1980 – The Adolf Hitler, the lead ship of its class, is launched.

1982 – The Royal Oak is modified and updated to reflect recent developments. Captain Masterson assumes command.

1983 – The Graf Zeppelin is launched. It begins a shakedown cruise under its first commanding officer.

1984 – Border clashes between Japan and Germany.

1985-1990 – The Graf Zeppelin and its entire battle group vanish under mysterious circumstances. In the ensuring chaos, Germany and Japan come to a new peace treaty, allowing both sides to concentrate on the internal enemy. Officially, subversive groups are blamed for the lost ships – groups, including the Brotherhood and the Sons of Liberty (American), are found, uncovered, and wiped out. Britain is forced to become a republic following the discovery that certain members of the Royal Family conspired against Germany.

1990 – Doctor Rommel publishes his paper on cross-time travel. He will spend the next nineteen years attempting to develop a working method of crossing timelines.

1990 – 2000 – German space program reaches a point where the Germans can lock the Japanese out of all, but the most basic space program. Border disputes settled in Germany’s favour.

2001 – Doctor Rommel and his team manage to apply newly discovered technologies to cross-time travel.

2008 - Professor Madeline Richter is accidentally duplicated into two people by an experiment, believed to be caused by attempting to access a timeline very similar to TimeLine C (actually caused by Enemy interference). Doctor Rommel refines his models of cross-time geometry.

2009 – TimeLine C develops Portals and attempts to invade TimeLine A. (See The Counterfactual War).

Appendix: Points of Difference Between TimeLine A and TimeLine C

Atomics – TimeLine C, in contrast to our own, pushed ahead with a major program of atomic power and development, resulting in a number of interesting and alarming ‘accidents’ within the test areas, but also in a massive power grid for the Reich. The shortage of natural German oil continued to haunt the Germans long after the occupation of the Arab oil fields – and the extermination of the inhabitants – resulting in the use of nuclear power in even the smallest warships. Unlike our own timeline, the Germans and Japanese have been very successful at keeping atomic technology to themselves, mainly through vigorous enforcement and classification of the information; they have also placed atomic power plants in orbit and on the moon.

Aircraft Carriers – The absence of a major naval war between 1940 and 1955 retarded the development of aircraft carriers; there were, for example, no equivalents to the Midway-class of American carriers. The Kriegsmarine developed a number of attack carriers, loosely comparable to the Japanese World War Two carriers, which saw service during the American War. The Germans, however, were forced to expand the carrier fleet as a result of tensions with Japan, developing the Adolf Hitler-class. The class, oddly enough, possesses two towers – preventing some aircraft from being launched rapidly – and also is quite heavily armed, rather than relaying on escorts. In a stand-up fight, the Graf Zeppelin would be a powerful and capable opponent, but the USS Enterprise would probably have the advantage.

Computers – The Reich worked towards the development of basic computers throughout and after the European War and the American War, developing the transistor and other systems in fairly short order. However, development slowed slightly, despite the demands of the space program, as security prevented the development of an Internet or anything more than the original war-fighting system. While the Reich often uses computers, they are in the form of massive terminals, rather than a distributed network. Computers are rare in German homes and many citizens of the Reich will never use one in their lifetimes.

Medicine – The Reich is actually more medically advanced than our own world, largely through conducting experiments with little regard as to ethics and the survival of test subjects. Development of artificial limbs and organs was conducted faster than in our world, with crude, but functional replacements of most body organs available within 1950, although they didn’t enter general production until 1960. Research continues into more exotic ideas, such as human cloning and direct mental interface with computers, but so far the Reich has had little success. Research into biological weapons, on anything, but a small scale, was banned by Hitler himself in 1944; poison gases, in contrast, have been developed with enthusiasm.

The SS – By 1985, the SS had effectively divided into two sections, although its leaders were unwilling to acknowledge that any such thing had happened. The Waffen-SS, comprised of most – but not all – of the SS’s fighting formations, is in effect a second Wehrmacht, although the SS claims to be a more disciplined force. In effect, the SS is both more fanatical and egalitarian; rank and birth simply doesn’t have the impact on career development than it does in the regular army. The SS divisions are often better equipped and armed; this has the unstated purpose of defending the Reich against an internal enemy, i.e. the Army.

The second part of the SS might be termed the enforcement division, which handles tasks from counter-insurgency to enslaving natives and forcing them to work for the Reich. These people are often looked down upon by the other SS units – they tend to be comprised of the dregs of the service – and often perform atrocities that the rest of the Reich never hears about. They are also tasked with external intelligence gathering and internal population supervision, although they share such tasks with the Reich Council’s own intelligence service.

Space – The Reich was very interested in the possibilities of space warfare right from the start, experimenting with basic space transport from 1944, under the direction of Von Braun. By 1950, they had cracked the secret of launching satellites into space; by 1955, they were orbiting men around the Earth, although the death toll was considerable. The post-war peace after the American War provided additional time and space for development; the Reich orbited the first space stations, the first lunar base and – by 2000 – was sending ships out to the asteroids.

Geo-Politics – As of the time when the Graf Zeppelin departed Germany for 1941, the German Reich held an area of Europe that encompassed Poland, Eastern Europe, Russia all the way to the Urals, slices of Italy, France and Britain, Saudi Arabia, Congo and the rough area of the Thirteen pre-Revolution colonies in America. These areas are considered part of the Reich, sending representatives to the Reichstag and are colonised by German settlers. The natives have been exterminated or enslaved. France, Italy, Britain, Iran, Iraq and the New Confederacy are effectively puppet states; when Berlin says ‘jump,’ they do. With the exception of the Japanese Empire, the remaining states of the world know that they hold their independence at German sufferance. The Reich has shown no reluctance to smash any movement that is deemed to pose a threat to the Reich.

Economy and Development – The Reich has developed Europe to levels unmatched in our own timeline, from a comprehensive rail and road network, to interlinked economic development centres, all commanded by Germany. It is quite possible to board a train in Spain, remain on it, and arrive – finally – in Indochina, which is a Japanese colony. The economy is designed, first and foremost, to supply the Reich with a given level of military and food, which is used to feed the German population. The economic development centres effectively order the development of Europe, from transforming France into the breadbasket of Europe to ordering the production of additional oil plants in Romania. Trade outside the Reich and its puppet states remain fairly confined to technology and heavy production; Japan purchases considerable amounts of foodstuffs, despite recent developments in Australia.

The Reich does not work towards planned obsolescence. Anything developed by the Reich is expected to remain useful for years; tanks, cars and other equipment are built with an eye towards upgrading in the future, rather than replacing it. The Reich economic development centres have the right to assign people to jobs, if they are unemployed; the terminally unemployed will often be given a choice between the army and farms. As one can imagine, this has a limiting effect on the expansion of the economy. To counter this, the Reich manufactories work on the KISS principle – Keep It Simple, Stupid.

Appendix: Recommended Reading

Ellis, John. Brute Force.

Ellis, John. The World War II Databook.

Friedman, George. The Coming War With Japan.

Harrison, Mark (et al). The Economics of World War II: Six Great Powers in International Comparison

Kennedy, Paul. The Rise and Fall of the Great Powers.

Macksey, Kenneth. Invasion: The German Invasion of England. (Alternate History, written as a campaign history.)

Schellenberg, Walter. Keegan, John. Invasion, 1940: The Nazi Invasion Plan for Britain.

Snyder, Louis L. Encyclopaedia of the Third Reich.

Weinberg, Gerhard. Visions of Victory.

Weinberg, Gerhard. A World At Arms.
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Calvin: History is the fiction we invent to persuade ourselves that events are knowable and that life has order and direction. That's why events are always reinterpreted when values change. We need new versions of history to allow for our current prejudices.
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