Alec Trumbull’s father still called him ‘young man’ whenever he visited, and in truth even he had to admit he didn’t really look a great deal older than he appeared in the pictures his parents kept of his last years at Eton. Trumbull was tall and bordering on ‘too thin’ (according to his mother, at least), although he was relatively fit for all that. His dark, curly hair, if not well groomed and kept regulation-short as it was, would tend to find a style of its own making — a style that might’ve been considered ‘foppish’ by some. At just twenty-six he was also relatively young for a squadron leader.

Trumbull would’ve liked to believe the situation had come about purely as a result of his own endeavour, innate talent and rapier wit. Unfortunately, try as he might, he was forced to admit that other factors had indeed played a greater hand: factors of a far less pleasant or light-hearted nature. As he sat in a folding deck chair outside the entrance flap to the large, army-green tent that served as the squadron briefing room, he cast his eyes around the area in general and gave a snort of derision that held more apprehension than real humour.

Not all that much of a ‘squadron’ though, old chap, he thought to himself with more than a little tired resignation. The open field before him, the closest the RAF could come to anything resembling a forward airfield these days, was the makeshift home for what Trumbull considered an incredibly motley collection of assorted aircraft.

Number 610 was an RAF Auxiliary Squadron originally been formed as a bomber unit at Hooton Park in February of 1936, flying Hawker Harts. The squadron converted to fighters in April of 1938 flying Hawker Hind biplanes, and had received Hurricanes (Britain’s first monoplane fighter in service) prior to the outbreak of war. Squadron 610 was also the first Auxiliary fighter unit to re-equip with the superlative Supermarine Spitfire Mark I, moving to Wittering in October of ’39 flying coastal patrols.

In May of 1940, as the Battle for France raged and the disaster of Dunkirk loomed, the squadron had moved south to Biggin Hill to relieve embattled RAF units of Eleven Group, already in the fray against the Luftwaffe over Britain and in France. France had subsequently fallen, the seemingly-invincible Germans had arrived at the eastern shores of the Channel and the Battle of Britain had begun. The savage intensity of Luftwaffe attacks from the outset against major airfields and sector stations across southern England quickly made Biggin Hill and many others untenable as a permanent bases of operations, and 610Sqn moved to Tangmere for a while. There, much like at Biggin Hill, there’d been billets and messes and full maintenance facilities and, more to the point, a full complement of state-of-the-art fighter aircraft to complement the rest of it. Trumbull had been a relatively inexperienced flight lieutenant then, and that had only been a month or six weeks ago.

The twelve aircraft carefully dispersed at the perimeter of the open fields around him — many of them positioned under or close to tree cover where it was more difficult for a raider to catch them on the ground — did nothing to instil confidence in the young man. The squadron had once flown only the mighty Spitfire — arguably the best single-engined fighter the world had at that point seen.

…And what do we have now…? There were just three ‘Spits’ left — including his own — along with four Hurricanes, three obsolescent Gladiator biplanes and two new ‘prototypes’ from Hawker Aviation, the experimental Typhoons run hurriedly off the production lines and pressed into service due to the severity of the situation at hand. The heavy hitting power of the six machine guns in each of the Typhoon’s wings was more than counterbalanced by some serious design flaws there hadn’t as yet been time to iron out, most notorious of which was an infamously weak tail empennage. As this had an occasional tendency under stress to cause the tail to come completely off, it was needless to say a less than a popular aircraft with most pilots.

The airfield seemed deserted that afternoon, but Trumbull knew that was merely a façade. Should the alarm be raised to a scramble — something that was far from unlikely — pilots and ground crew would appear instantly, pouring out of the multitude of personal and group tents that were scattered about behind the briefing area. They could be in the air within a few moments, and if an attack was inbound and Fighter Command could give them enough warning, that’d be fast enough. But there was a very big ‘if’ in that situation that’d been seen to be less than reliable in the recent past. They’d been hit a number of times already with insufficient warning, and one of those raids had ended up with him receiving his ‘promotion’ to squadron leader. He could still remember the sight of his then commander and good friend literally disintegrating along with his Spitfire as a German bomb struck the taxiing aircraft a direct hit. Only six had managed to get into the air that day, and Squadron Leader Alec Trumbull could think of better ways to gain rank in the Royal Air Force, all things considered.

The sound of a vehicle approaching broke through his introspection for a moment and he turned his head to catch sight of an RAF supply lorry beyond the tent ‘town’, bouncing its way toward him along the dirt road that led back to Westhampnett, the green Bedford ambling along at what couldn’t have been more than five miles an hour in the pilot’s estimation. He recognised Fullarton, one of the base Quartermaster’s staff at the wheel, crouched behind his little windscreen and squinting out through spectacles with small, circular lenses that probably had thicker glass.

The 15cwt truck was standard War Department issue, with a canvas-covered cargo area and a pair of small, individual windscreens and canvas ‘doors’ for the driver and front passenger that had earned the hardy and useful vehicle the nickname of ‘pneumonia wagon’ among the troops. Trumbull checked his watch as others in their tents and around the airfield also heard the Bedford and seemingly appeared out of thin air. He realised it was actually later in the day than he’d originally believed and that the truck was arriving with the afternoon mail run along with other supplies, stores and such.

Many members of the unit were eager to see if there were any letters from home, family and/or loved ones, and Trumbull was no different: still single, Alec was nevertheless concerned for his parents. His father had remained in London, his work in the War Cabinet requiring his presence there, while his mother had moved back out to their family estate in Leicester with his younger brother and sister. Plans were already in the wind for a full-scale relocation to Australia for the duration of the current crisis, although his father would most likely remain in London until the last possible moment should a feared invasion materialise and look likely of being successful.

He knew his lot was no worse than that of any other man under arms or otherwise in Britain at that point: squaring up against the might of the Luftwaffe across the Channel was something that couldn’t be taken lightly even at the best of times.

And one couldn’t call these the best of times, to be certain, he thought darkly to himself as he rose awkwardly from his chair and began to join the small but growing crowd of men making their way to the nearing vehicle. England was in serious danger and it didn’t take any great intelligence to know that. Two or three months ago, the story had been different. The RAF had at that time still possessed the forces necessary to take to the sky against the Luftwaffe with something resembling parity.

“Only four to one…” he remembered Air Chief Marshal Hugh Dowding say once on a visit to his unit, then at Biggin Hill, and for a while they had risen to the call, meeting and exceeding those ratios in enemy aircraft shot down. But that’d been some time ago, now. As he walked toward that truck, a cold and biting wind cutting through the grey overcoat he wore over his fight suit, Tangmere lay in ruins and most of the airfields they’d used since were no better. Relentless, almost daily attacks by the Luftwaffe had continued without respite and the subsequent strain on men and materiel was quickly becoming more than the RAF could endure for much longer.

Strategic bombing against British industry was also taking a heavy toll, not just on the Royal Air Force but on the nation as a whole. The Royal Arsenal at Enfield Lock was in ruins and the production lines for the all-important Spitfire and its Rolls Royce powerplant had also taken a beating. Although secret new factories were being established elsewhere in areas further away from the might of the Luftwaffe, it was a slow process that left Britain suffering as a result. Heavy industry generally was taking a pounding, and the Germans had also taken to hitting transport centres over the last month or so. Anything resembling a medium to major railhead anywhere in the southern half of the country had been battered to the point that coherent travel by rail was now almost impossible. Add to that such fiascos as the BEF’s shattering defeat in France, culminating in the mass surrender at Dunkirk at the end of May, and there was no way to avoid some damnably unpleasant conclusions.

“Coming up for mail call, sir?” An unexpected voice snatched his attention back to the real world and he turned to find a pilot officer at his left shoulder, matching his stride. The young man was a recent addition to the unit — a replacement for one of their many casualties — and it was a moment or so before Trumbull remembered his name.

“Thought I’d ‘try my luck’, yes…Stiles…” he added finally with a half-forced smile.

“Hoping to hear from my mother, sir,” Stiles offered with the kind of broad, beaming expression only inexperienced youth could produce. “Family’s moved up to York with my cousins for a bit…just ‘til this is over.”

“Can’t say much for the weather up there,” Trumbull shrugged, trying to be amiable, “but I’ll warrant it’s friendlier than around London at the moment…” or here, for that matter, he admitted silently.

“Your mother and family have moved out to the Midlands haven’t they, sir?” Stiles inquired, catching the officer by surprise. For the life of him, Trumbull couldn’t remember speaking to the young man of his family before, but it was difficult to know for certain. Days tended to blur into one now and much as Trumbull wouldn’t wish to be unkind, the new pilot wasn’t a particularly memorable chap. Smallish and slight of build, with a bland face and lifeless, brown hair, he might well have acquired some type of moderately hurtful nickname by now among the older pilots had this been a year ago.

No time for nicknames now, though, he thought sadly as they continued walking and he simply smiled and nodded in reply. There were too many people with nicknames whose real names were now nothing more than lines on a casualty list, and it was easier not to think of a ‘Johnson’, ‘Rogers’ or ‘Harris’ who was no longer there than it was to remember ‘Stinky’ or ‘Dodger’ or ‘Cubby’. The human mind learnt to adapt quick enough — don’t get too close to the men you work with and it won’t hurt as much when they don’t come back. That was the theory, at least…Trumbull had discovered it was impossible in practice. Many drowned their sorrows and numbed their crises in alcohol, but he was a squadron leader now and even if he had felt the urge to drink to excess, which he didn’t — at least, not yet — he’d have had to resist. His men needed him to be able to command them, now more than ever.

The pair were within twenty metres of the slowing mail truck when the alien, ear-piercing wail of the dreaded air-raid siren wound up and split the air about them. The reaction was instantaneous: the gathering group of men couldn’t have broken apart faster if a bomb had exploded in their midst. Pilots began racing straight for their aircraft, ground crew close behind as appropriate equipment appeared suddenly in their hands as if by magic. All fliers were on constant standby in case of attack and all wore flying suits and parachutes and such like in readiness for just such a situation.

As Trumbull reached his Spitfire, parked off to one side of the airfield beneath the overhanging branches of a clump of tall oaks, he could already hear engines starting elsewhere, but as he clambered up the side of the aircraft and into the cockpit he could also suddenly hear other engines — different engines. The sound chilled him as ground staff began to turn his Spit’s Merlin over: he’d heard those engines before, and their presence had never been good. He strapped himself in properly and carried out a quick instrument check as the Rolls Royce V-12 caught, spluttered then roared into life, momentarily pumping clouds of oily smoke back past his open cockpit.

The aircraft began rolling the moment wheel chocks were pulled away, turning out from the cover of the trees and into the open expanses of the field 610Sqn used as a runway. Although it appeared flat as a snooker table to the untrained eye, the Spitfire bumped and trundled over a grass surface that was noticeably uneven beneath his wheels. Trumbull had to be careful — the fighter’s narrow undercarriage made the aircraft relatively easy to tip or to lose control of during taxiing should manoeuvres be too sudden or sharp.

The surface of the field began to even up as he moved further out into the open and Trumbull gunned the Merlin to build speed. He found it difficult not to hurry more than he should; it was a matter of urgency, but take things too quickly and he’d ruin his ‘crate’ and maybe injure himself into the bargain. Of course, take too long in the current situation, and…well, that really just didn’t bare thinking about…

Almost as if timing themselves to his thoughts, a battery of 40mm Bofors guns at the very far end of the open fields began hammering away to the south, the smoke of their muzzle blasts indistinct although the streaks of pink tracer across the horizon were unmistakable. Then, finally, he saw them coming in low over the far off trees at high speed: a flight of eight Junkers fast bombers in two tight, ‘finger-four’ formations that looked to have the airfield fairly well bracketed. They were no more than a mile away now by Trumbull’s reckoning, and he threw the throttles wide open at the sight of them.

Caution be damned, he thought to himself with a rush of adrenalin, if I don’t get off the ground immediately, I’m jolly-well for it! “Tally ho, chaps!” He added verbally over his radio throat mike. “No time for dilly-dallying! Let’s get up there and have at them!”

The Spitfire threw itself forward at his urging like a racehorse at the starting gun, the angry, uneven clatter of the cold Rolls-Royce engine transforming into the deafening, pedigree roar of full power as it started to gain desperate acceleration. It seemed like an age passed before the tail and then, finally, the main undercarriage lifted from the grassy ground. In truth, it was really just a matter of less than a minute before the Spit was clawing its way skyward, now a scant five hundred yards or so separating his fighter from the closest of the oncoming bombers.

“Close enough, you filthy swine!” Trumbull snarled as one of the twin-engined Junkers crossed his gunsight for a bare split-second and he punched his thumb at his gun triggers out of sheer bloody-mindedness. The short burst of fire from the eight machine guns in his wings didn’t hit the bomber but it was close enough to give the startled pilot pause and take his mind off what he was doing. As tracer from Trumbull’s guns sizzled past his cockpit and wing to starboard, he banked away out of pure reflex, ruining his bombardier’s run on other aircraft below that were yet to take off.

Trumbull kept his throttle jammed fully open and pushed his nose skyward as his wheels retracted and locked with a clunk. At sea level his Spit could climb at eight or nine hundred metres per minute at full power, but he wouldn’t need that kind of altitude. An almost evil grin spread across his face as any thoughts of the world outside air combat disappeared and he came into his own once more as a fighter pilot, pure and simple. He was no longer a vulnerable human being bound to Mother Earth, at the mercy of enemies and the elements. Now he was the master of his environment, flying one of the finest fighter aircraft in the world, and as so often happened in modern warfare, the hunters of just seconds before now became the hunted.

The easternmost of the two flights of Ju-88s roared past a bare hundred metres above his cockpit, rear gunners from two of the closest quartet belatedly sending streams of machine gun slugs his way. The tracer passed uselessly beneath him as he turned his climb into a wide, banking turn that sacrificed little speed and brought him onto a good approach to the bombers’ rear, slightly above them and at an oblique angle. All in all, he couldn’t have asked for a much better line of attack under the circumstances. As he began to accelerate out of the turn, his fighter started to inexorably haul back the distance between himself and the enemy aircraft, which had blown out to almost a thousand metres.

Dark, deadly shapes began to drop from the Junkers’ bomb bays, wobbling downward in their semi-ballistic arcs as each aircraft loosed a ‘stick’ of six large bombs and powered away, seeking safety in altitude. There’d been no chance of stopping the bombers before they’d attacked — there’d been too little warning — and although many had managed to get into the air, there were at least four of the newer and, more to the point, slower pilots still on the ground either taxiing or almost at the point of ‘rotation’. There were also quite a few ground staff caught in the open, not having had enough time to get to slit trenches after valiantly helping their more ‘glamorous’ charges into the air. With the lethal, black rain falling from a height of just five or six hundred metres there was little these men could do and there was absolutely nowhere to hide. The 250kg high-explosive bombs landed in rows as their parent aircraft hauled away above them, each detonation throwing massive clouds of earth and smoke into the air and raining it down all about.

Trumbull and those others who’d made it into the air could only watch grimly as their earthbound comrades were literally torn to pieces in the maelstrom. Taxiing aircraft were shattered by the explosions and disintegrated before Trumbull’s very eyes. The tent ‘city’ was all but obliterated, along with Fullarton and his mail truck, the man caught close but not close enough to nearby trees toward which he’d been driving at full speed in search of cover. What had once been a broad, flat, open field good enough to play cricket upon — which they’d indeed done on more than one occasion — was now something of a moonscape. In the space of a few seconds, destruction had been meted out and devastated what was left of an entire squadron.

Trumbull’s features hardened as if set in stone and he picked out the first subject of his rising, vengeful fury: he mightn’t have been able to stop the attack but he was certain he’d make the perpetrators pay. In order to maintain a better chance of surprise, the raiders had come in unescorted, and now they didn’t stand a chance of escape. They began to turn away to the south-east at full throttle, but there was no way the twin-engined bombers could outrun a Spitfire at any altitude.

“Form up on me, Red Flight,” he commanded over the radio to those men who’d managed to get airborne. “They’re ours now! Make then know it! Tally ho!”

Trumbull caught the first of the Junkers within a few moments, easing his throttle back just a little to ensure he didn’t overshoot too quickly. His guns were zeroed at a little less than four hundred metres and he waited until he was very close before sending a long, lethal burst into the 88’s fuselage and starboard wing. Smoke immediately began pouring from that wing’s engine nacelle in greys wisps and the bomber travelled just a few more seconds before pulling upward sharply and away to Trumbull’s left, seemingly under only partial control.

The German bombers broke formation as the squadron leader banked sharply and slewed the fighter around to bring his guns to bear on a second Junkers. The 88s began to carry out some fairly radical evasive manoeuvres in order to throw off their pursuers’ aim, jinking this way and that and bobbing about the sky as much as their relatively low altitude permitted. It was optimistic at best to hope these improvised aerobatics would prevent being hit by RAF gunfire, however it certainly prevented their rear gunners from coming even close to drawing a bead on their foes. It also ultimately served to save the British fighters a bit of time and a few hundred rounds of .303 ammunition as two of the fleeing German bombers unwittingly collided in mid air, the hopelessly entwined wreckage that remained spiralling downward into the ground and spraying pieces all about.

The pair of fast new Typhoons howled past Trumbull’s port wing, hammering away at two 88s with their twelve Browning machine guns apiece. Neither bomber lasted long under such withering fire: one climbed away much like Trumbull’s, save that it was also streaming fire from one wing, while the other went into an uncontrollable spin and smashed itself against the fields a few seconds later. The squadron leader had meanwhile lined up on another bomber and raked a long burst right across the rear of the cockpit and its ‘back’ from nacelle to nacelle. The spray of slugs tore across and through the fabric and metal surfaces of the wings and fuselage, doing untold damage to the machinery, control surfaces and human flesh beneath.

The aircraft began to lose altitude almost immediately, not smoking at all but nevertheless quite clearly no longer under competent human control. It entered into a gentle, almost gliding descent that ended only after barely clearing a line of trees bordering a narrow, country lane. The 88 then bellied itself and bounced twice in the field beyond, as if attempting to ditch, before smashing full tilt into the trees at the far end and virtually disintegrating an instant later in the explosion of its remaining fuel and ammunition.

As he turned through ninety degrees to starboard, his bloodlust fairly up, Trumbull caught sight of one of his pilots — with some evil satisfaction he realised it was Stiles in one of the Gladiators — cutting across the periphery of his vision to the south-east. The old biplanes weren’t fast enough to catch a Ju-88 in level flight, but the other, faster fighters had hit them and broken up the enemy formation with those few now remaining scattered all about the sky. He had to commend the young man on his ingenuity — the two other remaining biplane pilots had followed him and were ready to intercept any stragglers. The fleeing bombers would, in the end, have to come past Stiles and the other Gladiators at some stage if they wanted to get back to the safety of the Channel and beyond.

At least we won this one… Trumbull thought in silence, smiling grimly at two more kills he could add to a tally that already made him an ace several times over. Few and far between these days, but at least we one this one…! But his heart knew how pyrrhic a victory it had been…

A mansion that had been a home for French royalty during the 18^th century lay among the trees and sweeping lawns of a country estate a few kilometres west of the town of Amiens. Following the Revolution it had lain empty and in disrepair for some years to be subsequently acquired by a wealthy developer and landowner during the 1850s and restored to its original splendour. A young industrialist purchased it as a home for his new family following the Great Depression, only to be sent fleeing across the Channel eight years later as the Wehrmacht steamrolled across the French countryside, smashing all before it.

In this fashion, the mansion came under the control of the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht, which deemed it a perfect place for the establishment of a headquarters for their campaigns in the west. Although technically it was close enough — at roughly 80 kilometres or so from the French coast — to still be under threat of enemy air attack by the RAF, the truth of the matter was that Luftwaffe air superiority over mainland Europe was such there was really no creditable danger whatsoever.

The property on which the huge, two-storey home was situated covered dozens of hectares of rolling fields and forest untouched by the rigours of war, although a series of large tank battles had occurred the month before at nearby Arras. The main building itself was a massive affair of stone and brick with towering marble pillars and expansive bay windows on both floors. Flowing red banners adorned with the ubiquitous swastika hung from the tall pillars bracketing the main entrance, while a multitude of ‘Christmas tree’ arrays of communications antennae rose from the rooftops. The building was still being fitted out for operations, and construction workers and equipment were in abundance as modifications and additions were made daily.

Outbuildings that had once housed a legion of servants now provided reasonable comfort to a company of panzer grenadiers while a pair of medium panzers and a trio of armoured cars stood guard both at the front and rear of the house in the unlikely event of an attack. Similarly, a battery of 88mm flak guns was positioned in the fields about the house and outbuildings, each cluster of weapons complemented by a Wirbelwind self-propelled AA gun mounting a quartet of powerful 23mm cannon. Half a kilometre away, the large, bulky shape of a specially-fitted Arado T-1A Gigant transport aircraft lay dormant in the middle of a long, level field at the front of the house awaiting any errand.

The main briefing and conference area had once been a ballroom, and its ornate chandeliers and beautifully polished floors stood mute witness to its former glory. Swastikas were paraded about in various forms, as were Nazi eagle statuettes and a large portrait of The Führer against the rear wall. Seating for a dozen in the centre of the room surrounded a large, rectangular table, and a second smaller, ovoid table held a variety of maps and reports at the far end of the room opposite a pair of large double doors that were its only entrance, accompanied by a large projector screen mounted to the nearest wall.

Sitting alone at that table was Kurt Reuters, Oberbefehlshaber der Wehrmacht. A professional career soldier, he’d served the various armed forces of Germany for sixty of his eighty-two years. Fit and strong for his age, he was a tall man who wore his grey hair cropped short, usually beneath an officer’s peaked cap that at that moment rested on the table beside him. He’d served that particular German Army — the Wehrmacht — for six years and had been the Commander-in-Chief of the OKW (ultimately under the command of the Führer, of course) for the last two.

It’d been his invasion plans that had taken the German war machine sweeping through Poland. It’d also been his plans that had so quickly and devastatingly blasted aside the Allied forces in France and the Low Countries and had neutralised Norway as a potential threat (not to mention the ‘incidental’ benefit of captured Norwegian air and naval bases and securing vital Scandinavian raw materials). Just four weeks earlier, General Lord Gort had surrendered the remains of the British Expeditionary Force on the beaches at Dunkirk, to all intents and purposes signalling the end of the Battle of France (although some pockets of local resistance had fought on for a week or more). So pleased was the Führer that he’d created a special new rank for this able and talented man — the rank of Reichsmarschall.

As such, Reuters’ position was now officially higher than that of any other member of the German Armed Forces. As far as actual command went, Adolf Hitler had also placed the tactical command of the front-line combat units of the Waffen-SS under his control, although administratively they were still attached to the Schutzstaffeln and therefore under the oversight of Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler. As OdW (Oberbefehlshaber der Wehrmacht) Reuters was answerable only to Adolf Hitler himself and was the relative equal (although never in their eyes) of Deputy Führer Hess and Martin Bormann, the Nazi Party Secretary.

The reports he poured over that evening were to do with armaments production, forwarded personally to him at his request by Armaments Minister Albert Speer. It wasn’t technically an area the Reichsmarschall had jurisdiction over but the pair had developed a close working relationship over the last few years. Speer — originally Hitler’s architect — had replaced Fritz Todt as Minister for Armaments at Reuters’ specific request and the man had proven himself an unorthodox ‘natural’ at the post. Armaments were something in which Reuters was keenly interested: the historical lessons of the failures in Germany’s production base — learned in hindsight — were clear and vitally important in the man’s mind.

Germany was a nation that had never fully geared up for war until it was far too late. Chaotic lack of standardisation and a lack of unity in general between the army, Luftwaffe, Kriegsmarine and Waffen-SS, along with the attendant political infighting, power squabbles and back-biting, had contributed significantly to Germany losing a world war. As a direct result of that, his homeland had suffered devastation and deprivation at the hands of brutal and uncaring enemies and there was no way Reuters would allow that to happen again. He and his personal staff had worked for years to ensure the technical and numerical superiority of the Wehrmacht, and with the power at Reuters’ command he was able to make sure many potential problems were nipped in the bud before they could take root and flourish.

This time, he thought darkly as he considered the issue, the fate of Grossdeutschland will be very different!

There was a knock at the door, followed quickly by the entry of his personal assistant and close personal friend, Generalleutnant Albert Schiller. Possessed of a keen eye, sharp wit and a fine, analytical mind, the forty-five year old had worked by Reuters’ side for more than twenty years.

“Good evening, Albert…” Reuters acknowledged genially, looking up with a smile as the other man approached “…just back from Berlin?”

“Touched down about an hour ago,” Schiller replied with a faint smirk. “Decided to pick up something to eat at the mess before I came to see you — didn’t want my glorious leader to think I was wasting away…”

“As long as you’re bitching about something, I’ll know you’re fine,” Reuters countered with a grin, taking the humour in the manner it was meant. “That bloody goulash and black bread again?” He winced honestly as his friend nodded in grim confirmation. “I think it’s about time we had a word to the catering corps about getting some decent chefs in here!” It was always the little things, Reuters added silently as Schiller nodded again, this time fervently, and drew up a high-backed wooden chair to sit opposite his commander,…always the little things that took the longest to organise.

“How’s production going?” Schiller inquired, noting the reports Reuters was studying. “…Speer getting everything up to speed?”

“Well enough, under the circumstances,” Reuters answered with a shrug that was mostly non-committal. “…Far better than Todt ever managed, to be certain, but when can a soldier ever be happy about how many weapons his factories give him?” He gave an ironic smile as he considered the massive changes moving to a full war footing had wrought upon German industry. “At least we’re seeing some real war production in the factories for a change…enough to see us starting to run short on some raw materials like nickel and tungsten now, although we’ve enough of a stockpile to see us through our plans in the West.” He paused and sighed softly, more concern showing on his face now as he considered exactly how short they actually were on some of those strategic materials, adding, mostly to himself… “It’d better be enough…!” He roused himself once more and coaxed a more optimistic expression back to his features. “…The first of our Panther divisions should be fully equipped and trained up by the middle of next month — the 3^rd SS will have that honour in deference to keeping the esteemed Reichsführer happy - and sturmgewehr production is twenty percent above predictions, which is excellent. There should be enough new rifles and machine pistols to equip the whole theatre by the end of July — so long as they can get enough of the new bloody rifle ammunition out, we’ll be fine…”

“The Graf Zeppelin…?”

“Going through final sea trials now, and Raeder assures me she’ll be ready for combat duty by the end of August. The attack squadrons are already operational and there’s just the helicopter groups still to go through carrier conversion training. Seydlitz, Hindenburg and ‘Strasser are also ahead of schedule and should be operational by mid-September, which would be an added bonus. The battleships Rheinland and Westfalen are also nearing completion, and Von der Tann and Derrflinger should be finishing sea trials and joining Bismarck and Tirpitz in service shortly.”

He sifted through some of the loose papers before him on the table. “There are also another three ‘Type-Tens’ coming off the slipways at Kiel and Wilhelmshaven this month, making twenty-two launched to date and fourteen actually in service. Not anywhere near as many as I or Dönitz would like, but we may not need the U-boat service all that desperately now, and we must have our capital ships if we want to project any power into the Atlantic…”

Reuters raised a finger as a thought occurred to him. “Oh, and as a matter of interest I’ve kicked your recommendation for Kohl’s Ritterkreuz ‘upstairs’…” meaning he’d forwarded the application for a decoration to the Führer for approval.

“U-1004 wasn’t it — the ‘boat that torpedoed Rodney?” Schiller nodded in agreement. “…Why not, indeed…? Prien got one for sinking Royal Oak, so why not hand one out for any Tommi battleship?” The younger man paused for a moment, his eyes suddenly alight with a rare intensity as the reality of it all momentarily took his breath away. “We’re really going to do it, aren’t we, Kurt! No matter how many times I tell myself, it’s still just so incredible!” Normally a pessimistic and cynical man beneath the façade of his caustic wit, Albert Schiller couldn’t help but be caught up by the older man’s zeal and drive when in the presence of a commander he looked up to almost as a father figure for more than two decades.

“I spoke with the Führer personally again today on that subject…” Reuters informed softly, nodding at Schiller’s remarks. “He’s going to officially issue ‘Directive-17’ this week. Although he’s still loathe to invade Britain, I’ve convinced him ‘Sealion’ is vital: the Reich must be secure in the west and there’ll be no backing away from that this time!”

“‘We shall fight them on the beaches…’!” Schiller almost laughed at the thought. “I can’t believe the old bastard still made that bloody speech after the thrashing we gave them at Dunkirk! The whole of the BEF stranded and encircled by Guderian’s panzers, and we sent Furious and two cruisers to the bottom of the Channel as well!”

“We shan’t need to worry about the Royal Air Force this time, either,” Reuters murmured, his eyes glazing slightly as he cast his mind back over his own life. Five years of pre-planning and another seven years of preparation in the field were now coming to fruition, and with that would come the erasure of decades of national humiliation — humiliation that would now not only be redressed: it would in fact never have existed. “With the surprises and the overwhelming numbers we’ll be meeting the RAF with over the next few months, they won’t know what’s hit them!”

“I assume Herr Göring will keep his kampfgruppen hitting factories and airfields…”

“…Oh, you can be certain of that!” Reuters answered, his voice becoming ice-cold at the mention of the Oberbefehlshaber der Luftwaffe. “I’ve already had to have a few words ‘upstairs’ about our ‘friend’, Hermann. He’s been a little too obviously unwilling to ‘play’ lately and I’ve had to ask the Führer to ‘lay down the law’.

“The new tactical bombers are already coming into service with the kampfgruppen as planned and the strategic heavies are almost ready too, but Göring and his cronies are screwing us about too bloody much on the fighters and the attack aircraft. The new Shrikes and Lions would’ve been coming out in unit strength weeks ago if it weren’t for he and Milch bickering endlessly over factory modifications and experimental variants that are a waste of bloody time! Müller and Udet have had a shit of a job getting anything done. The carriers have their full complements allocated at least, but we’re finding it an uphill battle to equip even enough for one land-based geschwader of each. Thank Christ at least the instructional squadrons are ready to take on conversion training — I just hope we have some planes to give the pilots when they’re trained!”

“I should think the Tommis will crap themselves when they come across the new Focke-Wulfs…” Schiller chuckled with an evil glee “…not to mention our Skyraiders– !” He caught himself quickly in mid-sentence and repeated with correction “…not to mention our ‘Löwe’ attack aircraft, I should say.”

“We could’ve done it with the old equipment, though…” Reuters shrugged, “we’ve always known that. It was only Göring’s decision to switch attacks from the airfields to British cities and begin The Blitz that took the pressure off the RAF…” Reuters relented somewhat and grudgingly added “…at the Führer’s ‘request’ as it was… The RAF was never beaten and ‘Sealion’ was subsequently cancelled…we won’t make that mistake this time!” He smiled thinly. “How d’you think the Americans would fare trying to land on the Normandy beaches if they had to bring an invasion force across a five thousand kilometres of Atlantic Ocean?” Reuters’ eyes were truly alight now as his personal demons rose and drove his thoughts. “…No, my friend…that won’t happen this time. We’ll not have the damned Americans and their endless streams of bombers to ruin us this time. No humiliation! No destruction of our homeland! No fucking Bolsheviks to tear the heart out of our country!”

The Reichsmarschall almost bellowed the last sentence as every fibre of his being raged against childhood memories of growing up in the ruins of a shattered and divided nation under the ever-present and deadly threat of nuclear war. He checked himself and regained his composure in a moment, remembering where and when he was. “No, my friend…they’ll not get the same opportunities they were given the first time around…” he repeated softly, his chest heaving faintly as if he were out of breath from all the adrenaline coursing through his system. He smiled grimly again as a fine irony occurred to him; “…and as for Churchill; let the man make all the speeches he wants. They’ll ‘fight us on the beaches’ all right, and in the fields and towns and cities as well — and all too soon he’ll be making another speech…one that ends with ‘too many, too much, and too few!”

At the same time that discussion continuing in the skies above England, Antoine and Michelle were sleeping soundly in their beds in the farmhouse across the fields opposite the airstrip near St. Omer. Both slept together soundly in a large feather bed while their youngest sibling, a baby boy of no more than eight months, slept in a crib by the empty bed in the next room.

In the kitchen, their mother, a waif-like woman in her late thirties with long blond hair and narrow features opened the back door to a tall, brooding man of similar age whose thinning dark hair was already greying at the temples. The man was Charles, her brother-in-law.

“You’re late,” she scolded gently, concern on her face.

“The children…?” The man quickly moved inside, taking a bottle of brandy and two glasses from a kitchen cupboard as she locked the door behind him.

“Asleep, of course,” she replied. “Did you make contact?”

“Hercule got a look inside Ritter’s office…” he said as he sat at the kitchen table and poured them both a drink, shaking his head in displeasure over the situation rather than as any kind of answer to that specific question. “He was almost caught…the guards are really tightening up security. They’ve received orders from Fliegerkorps that the unit’s to stand down — they’re to be transferred through one of the training groups for conversion to a new type of aircraft.”

“Another new aircraft…?” The appearance of new aircraft types with the Luftwaffe was becoming almost commonplace over the last few months.

“A new fighter-bomber of some kind; a Messerschmitt ‘Lion’, they’re calling it. It’s nothing we’ve heard of before: Control will want to know about it…we’ll have to radio this one in.”

“What about the ‘Journalist’…?” She queried softly. “He’s due in within the hour — can it not wait until after he’s gone?”

“Not for this one, sister dear…too important…if we miss the time window we’ll have to wait until tomorrow night.”

It was well after midnight before there was any sleep to be had at Amiens for Reichsmarschall Reuters or Albert Schiller. Late into the night they were both still in the briefing room of the mansion, joined now by another — a smallish man in his late fifties wearing a long civilian overcoat, waistcoat and trousers. Joachim Müller, once a physicist at a leading German university, was Reuters’ head technician and scientific advisor and was immensely capable in both roles. The three had been discussing the situation they were now presented with — the arrival of the F-35.

A late communiqué from Berlin had also informed them, rather to Reuters’ dismay, that the Führer would be making a surprise visit the following afternoon on the way through to a ‘morale-booster’ tour of the forward army groups throughout France and Belgium. Reuters might well be the Oberbefehlshaber der Wehrmacht but a visit from Adolf Hitler was something anyone had to take seriously. He also knew questions would be asked regarding the unexpected and unpleasant arrival of the Lightning, and although there mightn’t be any immediate danger in a strategic sense, its arrival was still something that needed to be considered.

“So we know what happened to at least one of our aircraft that failed the ‘jump’…” Schiller observed softly, following a long period of pregnant silence.

“Under the circumstances, let’s assume NATO and the CIS captured or destroyed both C-123s.” Reuters countered from his comfortable chair as the three men sat about the map table, mostly hiding the sourness behind the remark.

“…And delayed our turbine, tank armament and nuclear programs by years!” Müller observed with more obvious displeasure from the opposite side of the table. “Thank Christ we kept the exact time destination classified and preset the TDUs! At least we took the precaution of programming them to reset their data immediately after discharge or in case of power failure.” He caught Schiller’s quizzical stare and almost rolled his eyes. “You two still don’t grasp the ramifications of this, do you?”

“How much real trouble can this cause?” Schiller shot back in a friendly tone, sceptical and deciding to play Devil’s Advocate. “So we have one enemy jet turn up… just one… even if it is a bloody Joint Strike Fighter. The ‘Temporal Wave’ thingy or whatever you call it takes around 24 hours of Realtime to take effect, right? So they had a day — or part of one — to lash some kind of response together… so what?”

“Assume for just a moment, dear Joachim, that both of us poor mortals here are the complete simpletons you’ve always suspected us to be,” Reuters added with a wry smile, cutting Müller off before he could give the reply that was about to accompany the exasperated expression Schiller’s remarks had elicited. He had no doubt that there was more to it than Schiller’s flippant dismissal, and knew his 2IC probably recognised that also. “Enlighten us with your thoughts on the matter, if you would.”

“Well, to begin with: who says they’ve only had one day or part thereof?” Müller returned immediately. “Markowicz mightn’t have been the lead scientist on the project, but he was Lowenstein’s partner for ten years, and that sneaky bloody Yid would’ve known enough to give the UN a fair estimate of what their project was capable of. We grabbed Lowenstein the moment they’d gotten far enough to make it worthwhile, and that was a full twelve months before we jumped…” He fixed Schiller with a quite wilting gaze to match his sarcastic tone. “What do you suspect they imagined we were doing with their lead temporal research scientist during that time… playing hopscotch?”

“You think there’ll be more aircraft?” Schiller queried, more serious now and taking no offence at his friend’s patronising tone.

“You can bet your last Reichsmark they will,” Müller answered instantly. “Those TDUs are tough — we built them that way for a reason — and each aircraft carried two of the devices: one main unit and one back up. We must assume the worst case scenario that NATO captured all four in working order.”

He took a short breath. “Markowicz and Lowenstein’s research was a fully-funded British MoD project right from the start and DARPA also got involved with further funding the moment it looked like it was going somewhere.” He shrugged. “I don’t know exactly how much cash was sunk into the research prior to us grabbing Lowenstein, but I can guarantee you it was in the range of several billion US dollars…and that was in spite of the Global Financial Crisis. The moment our involvement became known the whole thing was handed over to MI6 and they were basically given carte blanche to find us and wipe us off the map at all costs!” Joachim grimaced, ignoring the urge to touch a jagged scar at the back of his neck that was the result of an injury received from flying shrapnel as his C-123 cargo plane had been fired upon by Russian ground forces while taking off just moments prior to making their ‘jump’ into history. “Thorne and his bloody Hindsight unit had the complete financial and material backing of the UN Security Council, NATO, the United States, the European Union and the Russians. Those bastards just had to snap their fingers for money or anything else they wanted to start rolling in.”

“And we’ve had seven years of unrestricted freedom in this world…” Reuters observed finally after a short pause, having absorbed and accepted everything Joachim had said “…and we prepared for five more years before that: planning, research, development and procurement. We may not have had he backing of ‘world powers’, that’s true, but you’d also have to admit, Joachim, that our own resources were by no means insubstantial. I can think of very few situations in which Hindsight or anyone else could get in the way of what we’re doing here.”

“I can give you one right now, Kurt…” Müller pointed out with much less good humour. “Suppose for a moment that one of these four possible aircraft that arrives — even the F-35 we already know about — is loaded with tactical nuclear weapons? What’ll that do to our planning of Sealion or our occupation forces in France… or if the Strategic Air Command has ‘loaned’ them a B-1B Lancer or a B-2A Spirit with enough nukes to turn every major city in Germany to dust?”

He gave a hollow laugh, already well aware of the real concern Reuters felt. “You’re worried more about what this new arrival might do to shake the Führer’s confidence in you…aren’t you? How d’you think turning Berlin being wiped out would shake that confidence…assuming, of course, any of us were all still here to bitch about it afterward anyway…?”

“All right, all right, Joachim!” Reuters half growled, half laughed as Schiller shook his head, also smiling. “You’ve made your point.” He took a deep breath and a sip of water from a glass on the table before him. “You think I’m more worried about the Führer than I am about Hindsight or this jet that’s turned up, and you’re right…I am more worried about that!” He took another breath, and there was a genuine fear and seriousness in Reuters’ eyes now as he spoke.

“When we made contact here for the first time, we couldn’t get anyone to take us seriously to begin with. Even with the few tasty little morsels of technology Schiller brought with him on that first mission, it took every ounce of his persuasion and three months of bargaining and pleading just to get access to a suitable airfield for the rest of us to land on another two months later. No one…and I mean no one…wanted us to get anywhere near Hitler ourselves, and it took a full year before I was actually able to speak to the Führer face to face. Hess, Bormann, Göbbels, Himmler, Göring, Rohm and a brace of others at or near the top of the Nazi Party hierarchy, and all of them hated and mistrusted us…” He took a short breath before continuing.

“Seven years later, it’s true we’re in a far different position, with myself as Reichsmarschall and all of us in positions of great influence. Our core group has been almost entirely absorbed into the Wehrmacht now, and it is we who wield the power in Germany directly below Hitler himself. One thing hasn’t changed however, and that’s the fact that most of the other players in this little intrigue we might whimsically call the politics of the Nazi Party still hate and mistrust us…moreso now because of the power we control. The Reichsführer-SS Himmler has started to come around and warm to us, and there’s the potential for a real and useful ally in the SS to come out of this, but I suspect the others I’ve mentioned would all rate myself — and the rest of us by definition — somewhere lower than eel shit in the scheme of German society.” He took a deeper breath this time before continuing once more, both other men mesmerised by his words.

“So now to address your question, Joachim, regarding the possibility of these irritating newcomers perhaps threatening or, indeed, using nuclear weapons against us…during Sealion or otherwise. Well — in light of what I’ve outlined above, what do you think the likely outcome would be if for any reason I suggested to the Führer that we perhaps ‘ease up’ a little on our Western Offensive? We’ve started something here in Germany that can’t easily be reversed or even slowed down — if at all! In the face of continued opposition from every sceptic and ‘doomsayer’ in the NSDAP, I’ve spent the last seven years convincing a reluctant Adolf Hitler that an invasion of Great Britain and its subsequent total subjugation is not just advisable but integral to the continued existence of Grossdeutschland once Western Europe is conquered. It was hard enough winning the confidence and trust of the man at all, let alone enough of that confidence for the Chancellor to permit me to take over the running and planning of the war entirely. If I go to him now and suggest that maybe we need to ‘slow down’ — to ‘hold off’ for a while — I’ll destroy everything we’ve accomplished here in a second.” He left another very pregnant pause hanging as the reality of what he’d said sunk in completely.

“I’ve made too many deals and called in too many favours for this to fail for any reason! Remember what happened to Rohm and the SA: that can easily happen to anyone who gets far enough on the wrong side of Hitler for him to start hearing the words others are constantly whispering in his ears. Political power and military force can both be virtuoso musicians, gentlemen…” Reuters gave a wry smile “…but neither of them have any principles. They’ll play any tune you wish and play it for as long as you wish if they think you will pay…but sooner or later you do have to pay. The position we’ve carved for ourselves now controls us as much as we control it…nuclear threat or not. If this new enemy can destroy us then they will, and we’ll be dead. If we fail the Führer now, we’ll be ruined here and no better off…almost certainly eventually dead anyway, in all truth…and probably in a far more brutal and drawn out fashion than anything an atomic bomb could do to us. Whether these supposed nukes exist in reality or not is therefore in practical terms utterly irrelevant: we die or we succeed…it’s that simple. I, for one, intend to do everything I can to make sure we succeed.”

“So that still leaves you with the problem of how to handle the Führer,” Schiller noted, diverting the subject slightly.

“That, I’m painfully aware of,” Reuters admitted, smiling once more, if ruefully, “…and I’ll think seriously on it.”

“…And of these newcomers…?” From Müller this time.

“That’s another matter entirely, Joachim, and with the potential problems you’ve so eloquently put forward, it’s one we do need to deal with quickly.” He turned his gaze to his friend and 2IC. “Tell me, Herr Generalleutnant Schiller: as my capable master of intelligence, how do you imagine this changes our thoughts on the unexpected and very unhistorical expansions of Scapa Flow our reconnaissance aircraft have been observing over the last year? Not simply the result of a flow-on effect our own presence created, as we — it seems — rather arrogantly assumed originally?”

“The benefits of twenty-twenty hindsight, Kurt…?” Schiller gave a wry smile, adding quickly: “No pun intended. Perhaps the obvious questions — particularly that of what might require the construction of several kilometres of runway — should’ve appeared more obvious? Original Abwehr and Naval Intelligence reports of those upgrades started surfacing roughly twelve months ago, before the war began…so we can imagine that Hindsight — I’ll assume its Hindsight until proven otherwise at this point — has had someone on the ground here for that long at least. Yet this Joint Strike Fighter appears today rather than any other time? Surely we’d have encountered some evidence of the bloody thing already if it’d arrived here before today? And what needs three thousand metres of runway? Not a fucking F-35B, that’s for sure…or any tactical strike aircraft worth its salt…” he grimaced “…strategic bombers, on the other hand…”

“Or heavy transports…!” Joachim suddenly cut in, taking the conversation away from previously covered ground. Both men’s eyes fell upon him as he smiled broadly, the light of realisation on his face. “Really heavy transports…!”

“Go on…” Reuters urged softly, his eyes intense and fathomless as he recognised the expression the man often displayed when experiencing an epiphany.

“A Galaxy, for example, or one of those bloody great Antonovs for that matter: either of those big bastards would need the better part of three thousand metres to take off when fully loaded. If they do have all four TDUs, then we know that one of those is in that F-35. Their intel would’ve told them that we had four Flankers on our side, courtesy of the CIS and the Chechen Mafia via that pleasant little Pakistani arms dealer…do you think they’d have taken the chance on just one fighter being able to deal with all four Su-30s if they attacked all at once…even one fighter as advanced and stealthy as an F-35? I’d ask for at least one other fighter… a dedicated air combat aircraft: maybe an Eagle or a Tornado F3…perhaps a Eurofighter or a Rafale…something brand new — ‘straight off the rack’.”

“Raptor…” Schiller said softly, capturing the others’ attention instantly. “Why go back a generation for any of them if they’ve already been given one of the most advanced stealth aircraft on earth to play with? If you’re going to go ‘balls-out’ with an air superiority fighter, it stands to reason the only possible choice would be an F-22…”

“Have to keep an eye out for that, then…” Reuters nodded thoughtfully, not liking the concept but unable to fault his friend’s logic. “We’ll make sure Sentry is briefed to report any erroneous or unexpected emissions.” Inwardly, he cursed the fact that the aircraft was an old, ex-Soviet model with comparatively less sophisticated equipment…although he also recognised that it was probably a moot point anyway: the stealthy nature of a Lightning or Raptor would make either basically invisible even to the most advanced AWACS aircraft at anything more than suicidal ranges.

“If we assume a maximum of four units then we probably have two cargoes and two escorts,” Müller decided with some confidence, also accepting the F-22 theory as logical. “In their shoes I’d want as much equipment as I could get.”

“To do what with…?” Reuters frowned, tapping his fingers on the table top with mild frustration. “Say they do have a couple of C-5s or Antonovs? What do they bring with them: a load of cruise missiles to threaten us…Harpoons perhaps to sink our invasion force — or at least put a serious dent in it? Personally, I’d think the nuclear deterrent angle would be a better option — even the Führer would take notice of the threat of nuclear weapons……probably…” he added finally with unwilling honesty. He noticed Schiller’s mouth beginning to open and cut him off with the raise of a hand. “And no, Albert — I’m not ready to tell him exactly how powerful this field of research is just yet. Explain atomic weapons completely on a Tuesday and our Chancellor would be demanding a gross of them by Friday…” Reuters gave a chuckle. “…Last Friday, at that…!” He gave a dismissive wave of his hand more in recognition of the fact that he was dog-tired rather than that anything had been resolved.

“We can speculate about it all we like but until we get a clear idea of what they have there — or what they don’t have — we really have nothing at all. We have two Flankers left…”

“A recon mission…?” Schiller suggested. “We can send one over Scapa Flow with a camera pod and have the glossies on your desk within five hours…”

“…And we can have both Flankers back there a few hours later if need be with thousand kilo bombs…” Reuters finished with finality “…but not tonight…” he finished firmly. “We’re all tired and I have something I need to take care of first thing in the morning. We’ll run the mission tomorrow night after sunset — that’ll give the ground crew plenty of time to prep and test the aircraft and equipment. I believe Sentry had a minor engine problem today they need to fix, anyway.”

“She’s developed some more irregularities in one of the engines…” Müller confirmed with some frustration, nodding. “It’s those bloody replacement compressor blades again: the metal in the rest of the aircraft doesn’t age or wear any more than we do, but the blades we had to replace due to damage do.” He shrugged. “…The replacement parts wear, and the quality isn’t as high as the originals to begin with, and they keep throwing everything out of sync and eventually fail as a result. It’s like the rest of the plane keeps ‘rejecting them’ and it’s something we’re going to have to live with…”

“There are a lot of things we’ve had to live with over the last seven years,” Reuters observed pointedly and all nodded in agreement, if for different reasons. With as much silent pain as ever, Schiller thought about Rachel, whom he’d left behind and who would now never exist. They’d played with time, and time could do many things, but healing his soul wasn’t one of the things they could hope to accomplish.

If the C-5M Galaxy seemed large from the outside, it was no less impressive to the RAF pilot from the inside. The cargo bay was gigantic, measuring more than four metres high by five and a half wide, and stretched for nearly thirty-seven metres from nose to tail not including the loading ramps. As they mounted the forward ramp, Trumbull walking rather tentatively beneath the huge, raised nose section, Thorne threw a nod at an armed guard in US greens who stood immobile near the cargo at the aircraft’s rear. Trumbull couldn’t clearly make out the type of rifle he held in his hands, but he could see well enough to know it was no Lee Enfield or American M1 Garand, and was unlike anything he’d ever seen.

The sound of their boots on the metal floor literally rang and echoed in the darkened space, and in what light streamed in through the nose loading area, Trumbull could see quite a large load of cargo still stacked on pallets of various sizes, all tightly crammed in toward the centre of the bay from floor to roof with barely enough space for a man to squeeze down on one side and none at all on the other. A few metres inside, a retractable metal ladder connected an open hatch in the roof to the loading bay floor and lead to another level above — Trumbull presumed it led to the cockpit high above that hinged nose.

“Up we go,” Thorne said cheerfully, and without hesitation began clambering up the metal rungs. The Galaxy’s upper deck was smaller but still an eye opener for Trumbull. At the front there was an open hatchway through which could be seen instruments, cockpit glass and the pilots’ seats. Even in the small section of console he could see from that angle there were more gauges and dials and strange small screens than the pilot had ever seen on one aircraft. The area they stood in was filled with several rows of seats; enough for all the personnel he’d seen exit the aircraft the night before by Trumbull’s reckoning. Thorne led him down a central aisle between the seats to another hatch at the rear of the seated area.

Behind that second bulkhead was a small room with barely enough space for more than two or three people. On one side, there was a narrow bench surrounded by walls and panels of a type of cream-coloured plastic. The bench carried what looked like a typewriter keyboard made of similar material and a large, black screen similar — very broadly — to the type that were used in the few examples of prototype television Trumbull had seen, although quite a bit larger in size and screen area. Opposite that on the other side of the room were racks of black, anodised metal that carried all manner of inexplicable objects the pilot couldn’t identify from long, black, oblong boxes of plastic in wafer-thin cases to even thinner plastic containers with clear tops that protected what appeared to be small, shiny discs of an unknown material.

“Give me a moment here…” Thorne requested briefly as he fiddled with some controls set into the bulkhead near the screen. Invisible mechanisms within the bulkhead beeped into whirring operation and within a few seconds, the screen before them came to life. To begin with, the information the screen displayed was no more than a cascade of unintelligible text and numbers, but that was quickly replaced by something that was to Trumbull an equally inexplicable image filled with coloured borders and strange, tiny pictograms.

“You’re not going to recognise any of the equipment here, Alec, so do bear with me…” Thorne requested as he searched within the metal racks for something in particular. He eventually dragged out a DVD, lifted it from its case and slipped it into an appropriate slot in the PC’s casing. “I think what I’m putting on here might help a bit.” He gestured to the only seat in the room — a swivel-topped, padded stool at the bench. “Take a seat, mate — make yourself comfortable.”

As Trumbull sat, the screen began to flicker into motion and immediately captured the entirety of his attention. Sound began to issue from speakers mounted beneath the screen.

“Bloody hell…!” Trumbull exclaimed, stunned. “A colour television!”

“Just watch,” Thorne grinned, turning up the volume control.

The face of an old man appeared against the bright background of a huge airbase, dressed in denims and a thick, green parka as several jet aircraft stood in the background. Trumbull of course couldn’t recognise the aircraft but it was clear they were larger than the Lightning by a fair margin and all of them carried RAF insignia. The man on screen however did appear somehow familiar, although he couldn’t place the face. He appeared to be in his eighties, with silver hair cut short and thinning on top to the point of baldness. What appeared to be a rather cold wind was gusting past as he stood there before those aircraft, but despite the buffeting there was enough clarity in the image to show a strange intensity in the old man’s eyes that Trumbull found intriguing. He chose to ask no questions, instead waiting to hear what the fellow on screen had to say.

“Hello, Alec…” The croaky voice was surprisingly clear through a small microphone clipped to the collar of his parka, and again Trumbull found something familiar in the tone that he couldn’t quite identify. “This short video’s been produced specifically for you — Max and I are hoping it’ll go a long way to convincing you of the truth of what he’s been telling you. I know you won’t recognise me just yet, but I suspect you’re wondering about it” The old man gave a wry smile that Thorne instantly recognised as an almost perfect reproduction of the same smile he’d seen on Trumbull’s face several times since they’d met. “I’m eighty-five years old now, Alec and as you watch this in Nineteen Forty, I’m barely fifteen, so I’ll take no offence if you don’t recognise me straight away. Perhaps it might help if I take this opportunity to again thank you for never telling mother or father it was me that backed your MG into mother’s Riley that day…”

“Laurence…!” Trumbull breathed the name as if in sudden shock as Thorne used a small remote control he held in one hand to halt the video momentarily. “My God, that’s my brother! I never told anyone about that…!” Thorne watched with a good deal of empathy as the man seated beside him tried to assimilate what his eyes and ears were telling him. It was now quite obvious that it was his younger brother, Laurence Trumbull standing before him despite the ageing brought about by the intervening years. “He’s old…!” That blunt and rather obvious observation was all he could manage as he tried to come to terms with the ramifications of that information. There were faint tears welling in the corners of his eyes as he glanced up at Thorne. “‘Eighty-Five’, he said… and he’s fifteen now… that would make it…” he quickly made the mental calculation within his head “…the year Two Thousand and Ten…?” The revelation hit him like a brick. “…Two Thousand and Ten!” He repeated with incredulity. “That would make me…ninety-six?” The questions were coming with the speed of a machine gun now and were mostly rhetoric, which was fortunate for Thorne as there was no chance for him to actually provide an answer. “Am I still alive…?” The question the Australian had been dreading arrived, but again Trumbull answered it himself as his own excited logic carried him on. “Of course I’m not…why else would you have my little brother making this motion picture rather than myself? Who lives to ninety-six anyway… stands to reason!” Deciding it safer to continue the video rather than allow Trumbull any chance to dwell on those dangerous thoughts, Thorne activated the remote once more.

“If you look about this area, Alec…” Laurence Trumbull continued on screen, regaining his brother’s attention in an instant, “…you’ll probably not recognise this airbase either, although you were stationed here for a little while.” The camera panned around to show large buildings, even larger hangars, and more aircraft which Trumbull again had never seen before. The scene cut in an instant to a pair of aircraft the pilot did recognise. On either side of a set of blue-painted iron gates, a Supermarine Spitfire and Hawker Hurricane each sat atop a thick metal pole no more than a metre or two high, suspended as if in flight. Beyond the gates, a short drive ran past low hedges to a building Trumbull also recognised.

“Biggin Hill…” he whispered softly to himself in awe, allowing the narrative to continue.

“A Spitfire and a Hurricane — I’ve no doubt you recognise them well enough. These replicas were originally erected here in 1989 as the Gate Guardians of St George’s Chapel of Remembrance at Biggin Hill. They’re here in recognition of the sacrifice of all who served and were stationed here between 1939 and 1945. As I speak these words, the war has been over now for sixty-five years.” The scene cut back again to the old man, this time standing side by side with Max Thorne dressed in identical clothes to those he wore beside Alec Trumbull now. “If you’ll bear with us now, I’ll hand you over to someone far more knowledgeable to give you a short history lesson and try to explain to you what’s going on.”

“Thanks, Laurence,” Thorne began on screen, the camera panning slightly to bring him into the centre of frame. “No doubt we’ve already met, Alec, if you’re watching this…” He grinned both on screen and off, almost in unison as he stood beside Trumbull in that small room and recalled exactly what he was about to say on the video. “I’m hoping I haven’t come across as a complete mental case as yet, and that if you’re still watching this you’re still keeping an open mind…” He paused for a breath. “First I’ll tell you about one of the greatest strategic mistakes of the twentieth century…” The picture froze momentarily as Thorne paused the video once more.

“We already talked about this bit — Operation Sealion and stuff — so I’ll zip forward a little…” With the press of a few more buttons on the remote control he held, the video image was replaced by the black and white scenes of British archival film: film of the Battle of Britain itself. It was footage Trumbull found familiar and somewhat eerie at the same time.

“For a while the RAF was in real trouble…the Luftwaffe was hitting British airfields close to the coast and forcing fighter squadrons to use bases further inland, thereby reducing the amount of fuel they had available to engage oncoming bombers. During August of 1940, the loss of RAF fighters, although high wasn’t so bad, as aircraft were being replaced as quickly as they were shot down. The real problem was pilots: by that stage nearly twenty-five percent of Dowding’s fliers had been put out of action — either killed or wounded — and nearly a third of the RAF’s fighter pilots were members of inexperienced Category ‘C’ squadrons commanded by a nucleus of experienced but exhausted ‘old hands’.”

Trumbull nodded as he heard these words, knowing the truth of it: so far, this story sounded identical to his perceptions of recent history. He found he couldn’t drag his eyes from the images on the screen as they held him completely in their power.

The narrative continued: “The Germans on the other hand had no such problems. Their flying schools were quite happily meeting the needs of any losses inflicted, and by the end of August, the RAF was just about done for. A few more weeks perhaps and it would be all over, with nothing standing in the way of Operation Sealion. That was the idea, you see: for the Wehrmacht to send its invasion forces across the Channel, it needed the RAF out of the picture first. Any naval operations would elicit a response from the Royal Navy and without RAF protection, they’d be sitting ducks for the Luftwaffe.”

“I gather something happened to alter this situation?” Thorne halted the DVD once more in order to respond to Trumbull’s question.

“Damn right it did,” he nodded. “One night during August, a lost flight of Heinkel bombers unintentionally drop bombs on London, which at that stage had been declared off limits by The Führer himself. The bombing was a complete accident but it needless to say annoyed the Christ out of Whitehall and they immediately asked Bomber Command, who were also a tad pissed about it, to carry out a retaliation raid a Berlin. There was bugger all damage done, except perhaps for Göring’s pride, but it scared the shit out of a few people high up! Göring had stated categorically that this would never happen and the whole thing had made him and Hitler look foolish. Couldn’t have that, could we?” Thorne added with more than a little sarcasm. “Well, sometimes shit happens anyway…” He started the disc again.

“At the point where it seemed everything was lost, the focus of the Luftwaffe attacks switched from airfields to British cities.” The footage now showed more archival film, this time of The Blitz — the bombing of London — and the new images unnerved Trumbull even more. These were buildings he recognised clearly — he’d spent a large part of his life in London — but the scenes were of something that hadn’t yet happened. Fires raged against a darkened sky while firemen vainly tried to extinguish burning buildings and walls collapsed under the strain. Workmen sifted through rubble that had once been a church, a pub, a corner store, someone’s home.

“Suddenly, Luftwaffe bombers start hitting British cities instead and something soon to be called The Blitz began against London and other cities, the redirection of attacks to civilian targets rather than military that gave Fighter Command a desperately-needed opportunity to regroup. There were a number of factors contributing to the Luftwaffe losing the Battle of Britain, but they ultimately made one major mistake: they halted attacks on the airfields at a time when Fighter Command was on its knees and ready to crumble. They stopped attacking the controller stations and Command HQ units. They stopped attacking the radar installations. In combination with a few lesser problems at a tactical level, such as the fact that they had no effective ‘Fighter Command’-style ground control system, this ultimately cost them an entire world war. The RAF was never beaten, and Operation Sealion therefore never went ahead.

“After the Battle of Britain, Churchill told the world ‘Never before in the field of human conflict had so much been owed by so many to so few’. It’s only in hindsight that the real truth of those words is seen. In 1941, Germany launches Operation Barbarossa — the invasion of the Soviet Union. At first, the war goes very well but that doesn’t last. By 1944 the Wehrmacht is in retreat on all fronts. As the war in Russia is going badly and American and Allied forces are pushing up through Italy, a ‘Second Front’ is launched in France. From ports all over Southern England, invasion forces set forth in what becomes known as ‘D-Day’ — June 6, 1944. From this moment the Germans are doomed. Italy has already surrendered by this time and the Germans are now fighting alone on three fronts: there’s no way they can win.

“It used to be a moot point, but there’s a theory that proposes that without D-Day and the Western Front, the Axis might have been able to halt and possibly even defeat the Soviet Union. Without Great Britain as a staging base, there’d be no way an invasion of France could’ve been attempted. Of the number of major mistakes or errors made by Hitler and his staff — and there were more than a few — this was one of the greatest in my opinion. Although he had no real wish to invade England, his failure to do so was to be strategically and literally fatal.”

“But something’s gone wrong with that…” The DVD paused again as Trumbull made the observation. No matter how much he wanted to disbelieve what was going on, the arguments and what he was seeing was becoming undeniable.

“You’re not kidding!” Thorne passed the flask of scotch across once more. “As I said, most of the BEF should have got out of Dunkirk. History as I know it’s already changed in a major way! Remember I said I was working for the SIS on tracking down a group of Neo-Nazis…?” Trumbull nodded. “Well, the Europe of the Twenty-First Century has a revived Aryan movement that’s unfortunately quite alive and thriving…particularly throughout Western Europe.

“For a long time, this was restricted mostly to gangs of thugs calling themselves ‘skinheads’. A majority of them swore some kind of token allegiance to Adolf Hitler and the defunct Third Reich, but that was all bullshit really: most of ‘em were just violent turds who liked to wander about looking for vulnerable people to thump and blame their problems on, just like the Nazi thuggery of the late twenties and early thirties.” He took another breath. “Around the end of the Twentieth Century however, we realised something else had started to rear its ugly head. Out among the wankers, there really was an organised ‘movement’ of sorts coming together…”

“This is where our story begins as such…” The narrative began again as Thorne continued the video and the picture focussed once more on Thorne and Laurence Trumbull at the airbase. “…A true Neo-Nazi movement sprang up early in the Twenty-First Century — a Fourth Reich of sorts. It’s believed to have been financed by a group of very wealthy businessmen with the military and technical assistance of this man…” A picture of a hard-faced officer in a strange but obviously German uniform appeared.

“Reichsmarschall Reuters!” Trumbull exclaimed, recognition instantly lighting his expression. There wasn’t a well-educated officer live who wouldn’t know that enemy face, and it was Thorne’s turn to seem surprised as he halted the presentation.

“Reichsmarschall…?” He repeated in wonder.

“It was on the newsreels a few weeks ago…he was given the rank by Hitler after the success of the campaign in France. He’s the military head of the entire Wehrmacht.”

“Nick didn’t mention that, the cheeky sod! Göring will be pissed off: that promotion should’ve been his after the fall of France. My God, they’ve really been making an impact over there if he’s got that far!” He started the picture again.

“He’s known as Kurt Reuters, an ex-German staff officer with well-known pro-Nazi sympathies. He, more than any other planned the strategic aspects of what’s now going on. Businessmen and industrialists with a lot of money behind them, most of them not old enough to remember the war but able to remember what Germany went through after it, were putting up cash to fund something big.” The picture went back to Thorne again. “For a while, the SIS and everyone else regarded it rather hopefully as a ‘flash in the pan’…something that would dissipate of its own accord. Unfortunately, this wasn’t to be the case.

“We realised this midway through the year 2009… at that point a group calling themselves ‘New Eagles’ kidnapped a Jewish-English physicist by the name of Samuel Lowenstein. He and his partner, Hal Markowicz, had been working on a project researching what we called ‘Temporal Displacement’…” he added sourly, “…a project that was top secret…or so we thought at the time… In layman’s terms we’re talking about building a working ‘time machine’. If you’ve read it, this was broadly similar to the device in the H. G. Wells novel, and although Markowicz was assisting, it was really Lowenstein’s project. When he disappeared at the point it looked like it might actually produce results, most of the people that knew about the project went mad with concern!

“Within a month or so we’d confirmed it was the New Eagles who’d kidnapped him but we were unable to track either Lowenstein or his notes down. Without his help, Markowicz was unable to proceed much further with the research, although he gave us a damned good idea what they’d be able to do if they could make Lowenstein finish his work: they were going to try and change history…” Thorne stopped the video completely at that moment and the screen went dark.

“That should do of that for the moment,” the Australian decided.

“Could they do this?” Trumbull was enthralled. “Is it possible?”

“Looks like they already have, mate…” Thorne shrugged. “Markowicz reckoned it was very possible, although no one wanted to believe it at first. It’s apparently almost impossible to alter relatively recent events, but the further you go back in time, ironically, the easier it becomes. The technical aspects and the physics of the whole thing are a bit beyond me to be quite honest, but I can give you an overview of the general principles behind it. What happens is basically this: if you send someone back in time and they do something or say something at some point that alters the correct flow of history as you know it, something is created that’s called a Temporal Distortion Wave, and it can be either a large or small wave depending on what’s been done. At first, very little changes and it theoretically takes months for any major alterations to occur, but they are possible and reactions to this distortion wave grow exponentially as further changes are made, particularly as more alterations occur and the effect becomes cumulative.

“The New Eagles weren’t looking to so anything small, of course: they were working on creating a Temporal Distortion Wave the size of a friggin’ tsunami! We found out they’d set up a base somewhere in the former Soviet Union, but we couldn’t initially lock down exactly where it was, and with the amount of bribe money they were throwing about, none of the local authorities in the area they were hiding that did know about them were talking. We did however discover they’d been buying up on arms and equipment from various sources and something else started to dawn on us at that point.” Thorne paused for another breath and shrugged in a matter-of-fact fashion.

“We at first thought all they were going to do was go back and show Hitler what he did wrong. One of the most incredible things about the Second World War from a historical point of view is that the Krauts almost did it: one nation effectively took on the whole of Europe and nearly got away with it with just a handful of bad decisions, mainly on Hitler’s part, prevented them from pulling it off. With the right kind of tactical and strategic information and guidance, they could’ve easily walked right through the whole of Europe, North Africa and maybe even Russia…

“Once we discovered they were stocking up on hardware though, we realised something else…something that in hindsight should’ve been painfully obvious: they were collecting technology. There was no way they could take back enough stuff from the future to fight an advanced war effectively, but what they could do was take back enough technology to accelerate the Wehrmacht streets ahead of everyone else. Even if they only supplied an equivalent technology to that available by the end of the war, they’d still be unbeatable, and there was no reason to stop there!”

“I saw the capabilities of the aircraft that attacked us and of that F-35 out there, and I can’t imagine what that thing out there you call a ‘Raptor’ is capable of! Just one air wing of any of those aircraft could make an impact of tremendous proportions!” Trumbull was aghast at the idea Thorne had put forward.

“I wouldn’t count on that kind of technological leap, fortunately enough. It’d take a couple of decades to get an organised industrial base up to that standard even with inside information, and that’s not taking into account that we’re talking about a national economy crippled by fighting a world war into the bargain. Unfortunately, it won’t take that much: there were weapons, aircraft and armoured vehicles being developed at the end of the war — or within a few years after that — that are easily within reach of existing technological capabilities. Any of them could give the Wehrmacht a killer punch.

“The most glaring example of this is a single, devastating weapon developed in 1945, toward the very end of the war. The weapon was perfected by the United States and was intended to end the war against Japan in one fell swoop. Single examples of these bombs, called ‘atomic bombs’, were dropped on the Japanese cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki on August 6^th and 9^th of that year respectively and basically obliterated both cities entirely.”

“One bomb destroyed an entire city…?” Trumbull was sceptical. “…An ‘atomic’ bomb?”

Thorne nodded. “Power equivalent to somewhere between ten and twenty thousand tons of high explosive depending on who you talk to or which book you read. They work through the collision and subsequent fission of radioactive uranium as it passes beyond critical mass.”

“I’ll take your word on that,” Trumbull said dubiously, having no clue as to the scientific procedures Thorne had just mentioned. “You think they’ll give Jerry this bomb to use on England?”

“Probably not…not straight away, anyway…” Thorne replied, shaking his head slowly. “Quite frankly, if they utilise their resources correctly they’ll have quite enough conventional hardware to take Britain rather comfortably. I also don’t think Reuters is quite that stupid. He grew up under the threat of a Cold War ‘peace’ sustained by two great superpowers armed with nuclear weapons — atomic bombs. Giving Hitler this weapon now without credible competition would totally destabilise the planet. One of the greatest ‘strengths’ of atomic weapons was one of deterrence — they held the peace between the world powers for close to fifty years following World War Two because neither side would use them for fear of massive retaliation. In the same way, conventional wars also couldn’t be risked between these ‘Superpowers’ because there was always the real danger of any war escalating to a nuclear exchange. With what I know of Hitler, I’d lay money on him not being stable enough not to use atomic weapons at a whim.”

“And you’re going to stop them — your group here is going to put things right again?”

“The short answer to that question…?” Thorne gave a thin, rueful smile. “Yes and no. As far as an invasion of Great Britain is concerned, we hope to stop it, but it all really depends on the strength of our enemy’s will. If Germany’s truly determined to take Britain regardless of any cost then — and they should be — there’s probably nothing we can do about that.” The answer, although unpleasant, was at least an honest one and as Trumbull made a move to protest he continued, cutting the pilot off before he could speak. “At least, not immediately…when Lowenstein disappeared and we found out what was going on, we set up a contingency plan of sorts. The time travelling devices they’ve developed — they’re called Temporal Displacement Units — take approximately twenty-four hours of actual passing time — what we’ve been calling ‘Realtime’ — to carry the traveller from one time period to another, although it seems instantaneous to the person travelling. What that means is that if any part of history is changed, it takes roughly a day before its effect is felt in the world.

“We eventually tracked the New Eagles to a decommissioned Russian military base east of the Urals, but they managed to launch most of their air group before we could field a force to stop them. We were able to prevent the last two transport aircraft from taking off however, capturing the crew.”

“They sent back aircraft, just as you have?” Trumbull this time required no urging or offer to take the hip flask from Thorne’s left hand and took a swig that finally drained it entirely.

“Yeah, for some reason the TDUs only work in aircraft that are ideally flying at high altitude and at high speed. Don’t ask me why — Markowicz couldn’t work it out and I doubt even the guys that developed them even know, really. Checking the TDUs inside the transports we captured got us nowhere — the settings had been scrambled by the time we got to the aircraft — so we had no real way of confirming exactly what date they’d arrived in the past. Some fairly speedy interrogation of the crew however did give us a date we’d hoped was accurate: noon on July the First, 1940. We didn’t have much time once the New Eagles had disappeared — only 24 hours — so we prepped the task force we’d gathered together as best we could and set the TDUs we recovered from their captured aircraft for a time and date a few days before that. The idea was that we could intercept and shoot down their aircraft as they arrived — destroy them utterly before they could make full contact with the Nazis of this era and alter history to any great extent.”

“Judging by what you’ve said, the date those prisoners gave you must’ve been a ruse as it appears they’re already here. I’d say they’ve been here for some time: Kurt Reuters has been a well-known figure in the German military right through the last half of the Thirties”

“As I said, we only had a day to get moving so we didn’t really have as much latitude in grilling the transports crews as we’d have liked, and it does definitely look like gave us incorrect dates to throw us off the track. We got two units out of each aircraft we captured — one main unit and one secondary — and we used those in the four aircraft you see here today. As a preparation to yesterday’s arrival, we dropped Nick Alpert into mid-1939 by parachute prior to the bulk of us arriving yesterday. He’s been here since before the start of the war and was sent back first to try and get this particular airfield prepared the way we required. Fortunately enough, he succeeded — aircraft like the one we’re in need long, hardened runways for landing and, more importantly, for take off.

“I was sent next with the F-35 in case Nick failed and I was required to make initial contact. That would’ve made things extremely difficult but we probably would’ve been able to get the Extender and Galaxy onto the ground somewhere in an emergency. I doubt either would’ve then been in any condition to fly again though, or at least take off anywhere until we’d had a couple of miles of runway built. We weren’t expecting to find these kind of facilities easily without preparation and we only obtained that through some serious ‘wheeling and dealing’ with the appropriate advisers in the Chamberlain and Churchill cabinets. That’s one of the reasons it was ‘requested’ that I come to your aid yesterday evening…”

“My father’s connections with Churchill…” Trumbull deduced the link immediately, and the reasons behind the orders he’d received from HQ the preceding day to stand down suddenly became clear. Trumbull’s father was a high-ranking MP on good terms with Chamberlain and also, quite conveniently, a personal friend of Winston Churchill.

“Got it in one, squadron leader,” Thorne grinned. “Your brother was also happy to provide us with a personal video for your father, Richard, but one of the requirements for that assistance was that we have you removed from front-line combat and transferred to active duty within our unit. Of course, the final decision’s yours, but after viewing your service record and abilities I had no problem with agreeing to that…”

As Trumbull deflected the compliment with a sideways nod of the head and humble half-smile, Thorne continued. “Nick’s been able to get a few things organised already, but if we want to do something important for this world, we’re gonna need all the help we can get. What happened at Dunkirk has left Britain practically defenceless and with the inside information Reuters will give Hitler and the High Command, they’ll be certain to invade England now: the only real question is when. Because we’ve now arrived after the New Eagles, the plan has changed somewhat and we now need to somehow find out exactly when they did arrive in the past.

“We know they arrived in the past somewhere over the forests of Tunguska in Siberia, as the TDUs only permit travel in time, not in space, but the amount of change to history Nick’s observed already in the last year is a real concern. We know now that they’ve been here for years, but we need to know exactly when they arrived to be able to intercept them. Until we’re able to get hold of that information, we’ll try our damnedest to help the Allies recoup the technological lag they’re going to inevitably face. If they give us enough time, we may just save England yet.”

“I don’t suppose you fellows brought along any of those ‘atomic bombs’?” Trumbull asked hopefully, and there was a moment’s silence as Thorne considered his answer carefully.

“That was a question that we argued over long and hard in the twelve months we had to prepare, prior to coming come here ourselves. Ultimately it was thought that if the United Kingdom could threaten Germany with nuclear retaliation, it might ultimately be the only way to prevent an invasion. To that end we have brought with us three free-fall thermonuclear devices — atomic bombs.”

“Well that’s all right then, isn’t it?” Trumbull asked hopefully. “If these bombs can each destroy an entire city, then surely Hitler will reconsider an invasion. We could threaten Berlin!”

“Yes, we could threaten Berlin,” Thorne agreed, however the tone indicated there was a ‘but’ coming. “Bomber Command has set aside a special Halifax bomber for just that task should the need arise. With in-flight refuelling from the Extender I could even hit Berlin myself in the F-35 and probably make it back without any trouble at all, although I’d rather not risk the aircraft on that kind of deep strike unless absolutely necessary…” he paused and gave a grimace. “But this is where we get back to what I said about the will of the enemy. We’ve got these bomb and they’re extremely powerful — far more powerful than those that obliterated Hiroshima and Nagasaki — but we only have three. Also, this isn’t just a matter of stopping an invasion of Great Britain, as nuclear weapons are a strategic weapon rather than a tactical one. The Germans couldn’t just back down from an invasion and then continue on with the rest of the war with ‘business as usual’ — it’d mean a requirement to end the war altogether, because any aggressive action on their part from then on might be enough to elicit a nuclear response from the UK, if you see what I mean…” Trumbull thought about what he’d just said, taking time to assimilate the information before nodding, thinking he did indeed understand.

“We’d have to use at least one of the weapons to prove that we could back up any threat — Hitler would be certain to call our bluff — and that’d leave us just two devices. Say we do hit Berlin…perhaps Hitler is killed and perhaps he isn’t — we take that risk either way. If the attack strengthens their resolve rather than weakens it, what then? Use the second and third weapons to try and further dissuade the enemy, or save them for use in the case of an actual invasion? Just one of those bombs could devastate an invasion force — possibly to the point of halting it altogether — but again, if that fails…what then? We do possess nuclear weapons for use as a last resort against the Germans, but exactly where and when isn’t as simple an issue as it seems on the surface. Either way, we still have to be prepared to evacuate to somewhere safer should an invasion come: even if we can’t stop an invasion of the UK, we’re sure as hell going to make sure they’ve have a bloody hard fight on their hands.” Thorne paused once more, giving the pilot more time to absorb what he’d said and deciding it was time to change the subject. “What I’ve just said is about as ‘Top Secret’ as it gets by the way, so I’d appreciate it if the information wasn’t mentioned to anyone. Is that clear…?”

“Of course,” Trumbull reassured sincerely. “I completely understand.”

“Anyway… the upshot of telling you all this is that I’m offering you a position here with us at Hindsight if you want it, as per your brother’s wishes. As I said, the decision’s ultimately yours, so I’m not going to demand an answer right now, but time is relatively short — no irony intended there — so I’ll ask you to have a think about it and come back to me tonight after dinner. It’s not a minor thing — it’d mean you giving up regular flying with the RAF and a huge change in direction for your career that I can’t give you any predictions on — but you will be right here with us at the cutting edge of what we’re doing, and that’s something I can guarantee. Those of us who’ve come back from the future will need some close ties with this era, and I can’t think of anyone better offhand, so have a think about it.”

Alec Trumbull was close to making a decision right there and then but held back in the end, taking Thorne up on his offer to wait and think more on it. It was a tempting offer indeed, but having to give up his career as a fighter pilot was not something he could take lightly…after all, that’d also mean giving up a career he loved more than anything else in the world.

“Thank you, Max…I will think about it and give you a decision tonight.”

No worries then,” Thorne grinned broadly, extending a hand that Trumbull accepted and shook in an instant. “Until tonight…”

Ritter was once again completely composed by the time Staff Flight and I/ZG26 were ready for take-off, the twenty-six mottled-patterned heavy-fighters waiting in two rows of thirteen at the near end of the airstrip. All the trucks but one had already left, beginning their afternoon journey to the train station, and the last was waiting under Ritter’s specific orders.

Ritter himself was in the communications room, just as he’d been first thing that morning. This time however he wasn’t reporting to Fliegerkorps. In that hectic thirty minutes since he’d found the boy, a wild and irrational idea had taken root within his mind; one that a calm and logical Carl Ritter well might’ve dismissed as ludicrous only a few weeks or even days before. Had he been consulted, Willi Meier certainly would’ve considered his commanding officer mad. The captain hadn’t been consulted at all however: the first person other than Ritter to know of his idea was eventually to be the man he was trying to get in contact with at the other end of the phone.

The main base switchboard shared the room with the radios and Ritter had instructed it to be cleared of everyone save himself and the operator on duty. The non-com was astounded when his CO indicated who he wished to speak to, but a moment or so later he was nevertheless attempting to put Ritter in direct contact with Reichsmarschall Kurt Reuters.

At first they met with little success — the all-powerful military principle of ‘chain of command’ saw to that — and it took Ritter himself getting on the phone before the sergeants and lieutenants they initially encountered at the other end began to take notice. After ten minutes of discussion and argument, which included the ‘dressing down’ of a truculent army major that in all probability would see Ritter end up on a charge, he was finally put in direct contact with Schiller, the Reichsmarschall’s aide.

“This is Generalleutnant Albert Schiller speaking, Herr Ritter: what is it you require of the Oberbefehlshaber der Wehrmacht?” The tone was inquisitive but also detached, with almost a faint hint of amusement.

“Herr General, thank you for your time: I must speak with the Reichsmarschall immediately — it’s extremely important.”

“May I inquire as to the nature of this ‘importance’?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but it’s a matter I can speak of only with Reichsmarschall Reuters.” The matter-of-fact tone of Ritter’s gentle rebuttal hid the fact that his initial rush of adrenaline had subsided to be supplanted by fear and uncertainty, and he was quickly coming to his senses regarding what he was actually doing. As he waited desperately, images of not only being refused audience but also of a court-martial flashed through Ritter’s mind in the seconds before Schiller finally gave his considered answer.

“Despite the unorthodox nature of your request, Oberstleutnant Ritter, I’ll put you through in a few moments if you’ll be patient…please hold…” Ritter was too surprised to do anything other than exactly that.

Those moments passed with agonising slowness as he waited, unsure now as to how to proceed. He fully recognised the enormity of what he was doing and the logical, rational side of his mind was taking over from the emotional, instinctive reactions he’d experienced earlier. He also realised that he’d caught a proverbial ‘tiger by the tail’: he was scared of proceeding but also knew it was far too late for him to turn back.

“Reichsmarschall Kurt Reuters, Herr Ritter. I hadn’t expected to be speaking to you again so soon. What exactly is it I can do for you?” The Reichsmarschall’s voice at the other end of the phone suddenly brought his mind back to reality.

“I need a favour of you, sir,” Ritter began cautiously, almost humbly. What he was hoping to ask was a great deal and the pilot knew it. “It’s imperative that I meet with you as soon as possible to discuss a problem I need to resolve. It’s something I don’t believe I can accomplish without your help.”

“Another favour…? I’d have thought my efforts this morning far exceeded my responsibilities as it was…?” There was a statement of position in that: the Oberbefehlshaber der Wehrmacht considered the pilot in his debt already for the morning’s intervention, Ritter wasn’t disputing. Yet Ritter could nevertheless detect a strange quality in the Reichsmarschall’s speech. Unlike Schiller’s amused tone, this one carried something the pilot hadn’t expected: an undercurrent of evasiveness. It sounded almost as if the OdW was intimidated by him in some strange, improbable way, and it spurred Ritter on somewhat, his own stance becoming a little more confident.

“I certainly recognise and appreciate the help you provided me this morning, Mein Herr, however this problem unfortunately still exists. It’s only yourself who has sufficient authority within the military to act on my behalf.”

“I’m an extremely busy man, Herr Ritter — you do understand that?”

“I understand completely, Mein Herr…” Ritter replied instantly, but in that moment he knew that he’d won…that battle at least.

“I’m glad you understand that, for I shan’t expect to hear from you in this manner again. Where do you wish to meet?”

“Are you aware, sir, of the new training airbase at Orly that Fliegerkorps has set up?”

“I know of it: you’re going to be there soon?”

“My unit’s transferring there this afternoon for re-equipment with a new type of aircraft — we’ll be there for a number of weeks, I expect.”

“Oh, yes — of course. I’d forgotten it was ‘Horst Wessel’ that was receiving the first operational S-2s.” He’d not forgotten at all in fact, and had given the order himself. “You’ll be there the day after tomorrow?”

“Yes sir, I will,” Ritter stated emphatically, almost breathless.

“Expect me to arrive by air at nine that morning then. Until then, goodbye, Herr Oberstleutnant.”

“Thank you, sir…” Ritter began, but Reuters had already hung up.

Carl Ritter walked alone near the taxiways of Orly Airfield that morning, tension mounting within him as he awaited the expected arrival of Reichsmarschall Reuters. As his path took him toward the planes and the main buildings, he took a moment to marvel belatedly at the new aircraft they were about to be trained in an attempt to divert his mind from his concerns. The aircraft were brand new, and ZG26 would be the first land-based geschwader to receive a complement of these new production models from Messerschmitt.

The Löwe (‘Lion’), known by military classification as the S-2, was the largest single-engined plane Reuters had ever seen. As large as the twin-engined J-110 it replaced, it could carry twice the offensive load of a Heinkel B-111, but for all that it was no bomber: this aircraft was known by a different name, and the ‘S-2’ designation was a shortened version of ‘Schlachtflugzeug Model Two’. The S-2D’s that ZG26 were about to be trained on were dedicated ground-attack and close support aircraft, and to that end the aircraft was also fast for its size. It was as fast as the RAF’s Hurricane fighter, and much faster than either the Heinkel B-111 or the Junkers B-88 that were the Luftwaffe’s main bombers. The S-2 was also much faster than the S-87 Stuka, Germany’s only Realtime close support aircraft of that period.

While fighting in the Spanish war four years ago, Ritter and his fellow pilots had been amazed at the new developments German science had given their fledgling air force, and they were now once more being amazed by new technology. Within the last six or seven months, six new types of aircraft had been introduced to the pilots of the Luftwaffe and although they’d only been tested in small-scale engagements and situations so far, their performance and capabilities foretold great things for the future.

His ears picked up the sound of distant engines, and glancing up he suddenly spied the unmistakeable bulk of an Arado transport circling in from the east on the distant skyline. As his path took him past the end of the runway, paralleling its course, he followed the aircraft’s progress with his eyes. For a while he walked carefully backward, watching as the plane turned on to a landing approach a kilometre or so west and came in low over the rooftops of Paris. Deciding he’d seen enough of the big airlifter, he turned to face forward once more, preferring to keep an eye on where he was going.

In a few moments the faint rumbling of the Arado’s powerful engines had grown to a clattering roar, and it passed above the runway as it drew level with him, the deafening sound accompanied by the buffeting backwash of the two engines’ propellers. Ritter was forced to hold on to his cap as the stench of exhaust filled the air about him for a few seconds. The aircraft’s main wheels reached gingerly for the runway surface, then touched down with the yelp of abused rubber and a puff of bluish smoke, and he instantly noted a change in the tone of the engines as the props altered pitch and they began forcing air forward to slow the Arado down. It taxied sedately to the far end of the strip, gliding between the rows of fighter-bombers to come to a halt on a large concrete hardstand outside an iron-sided hangar.

The Arado T-1A Gigant (Giant) was another of the new aircraft that had only begun to appear within the last year or so, and had only begun to frequent the front lines during the last few months. A wonderfully capable aircraft, its cargo carrying abilities far outstripped those of the venerable old Junkers tri-motor it had replaced. Not only could they carry far in excess of the ‘Aunty Ju’ over far greater distance and at much higher speed; they could also easily load and unload items as large as small vehicles or field pieces via the broad, flat loading ramp in their tail. The Arado could also carry up to forty fully equipped parachute troops, although that particular aircraft carried just a few men that morning: this was the same Arado transport that normally sat parked in the field by the Wehrmacht’s forward HQ near Amiens.

As he drew closer to that end of the strip, he watched the aircraft’s rear loading ramp begin to open. Awaiting exit at its top, four grenadiers waited patiently armed with assault rifles, and as more light began to spill into the Gigant’s interior he could also see Reuters standing behind the quartet of men, Generalleutnant Schiller beside him. Ritter was just a hundred metres away as the whining of the hydraulic ramp ceased, the lower end touching the concrete of the runway hardstand. The pair of radial engines — more powerful versions of the same type fitted to the S-2D — were silent now, their propellers feathered and motionless as the troop of six men walked briskly down the ramp and out into the morning sunshine.

It took a moment or so for the converging groups to cover the distance, Ritter’s mind spinning wildly as the moment of truth drew ever closer. His point-of-no-return was truly past, and as the four guards separated and fanned out to assume points of surveillance covering 360º, Ritter found himself confronted by an extremely dour Oberbefehlshaber der Wehrmacht. The Commander-in-Chief wasn’t in a particularly pleasant mood, the loss of two Flankers and the Mainstay and tanker aircraft over the previous few days having contributed primarily to Reichsmarschall Reuters’ foul temperament.

These were the foremost subjects dominating Reuters’ thoughts as he and Schiller halted before Carl Ritter in the middle of that concrete taxiway, although their meeting that morning was nevertheless causing some emotional discomfort. Reuters remained mildly aloof, something clearly noted by Ritter, and stood a pace or two behind Schiller. Carl came to attention as they met, presenting a stiff, regimental salute that the generalleutnant returned.

“Oberstleutnant Ritter,” Schiller acknowledged in greeting, extending his hand in a forthright manner that belied the nervousness and tension behind the action. As Ritter accepted the hand immediately, he failed to notice the apprehension on Reuters’ face as he watched intently for some sign of a similar reaction to that which he’d experienced shaking the pilot’s hand two days earlier. None was forthcoming, the contact being completely normal, and both of the New Eagles commanders were quite relieved. Schiller almost sighed visibly as a release of tension.

“I must apologise for this unorthodox request; I realise the pressure this places the Reichsmarschall under. I don’t doubt there must be many things of national importance which require his attention this morning.”

“More than you could imagine, I think,” Schiller added wryly, the irony of the statement lost on Ritter, although it caused Reuters to smirk slightly despite himself. There were many times he’d told Schiller that the man’s sense of humour was far too irreverent, and there were equally as many times that sense of humour had been invaluable during moments of great stress or tension. “The Reichsmarschall is required at Berchtesgarden this evening for an important meeting with The Führer — it’s taken some serious replanning for us to come here to speak with you. As a result, it’d be appreciated if we could take care of whatever it is you require immediately.”

“Of — of course,” Ritter began, stammering slightly. Dealing through Schiller rather than directly with Reuters was unexpected and somewhat difficult. “If the Reichsmarschall will remember, I spoke to him yesterday of the incident at the farmhouse near the St. Omer airstrip. I informed him that a boy living at the house was still missing at that time.”

“I’ve been acquainted with the situation,” Schiller nodded slowly, feigning neutral disinterest.

“Well, sir — the boy’s been found. I have both he and his infant brother in nursing care at present, and I must ask a favour of the Reichsmarschall in providing identification papers and citizenship for them both. It’s my intention to send the boy to Köln to live in the custody of my wife until such time that a suitable family can be found for him.”

“You’ve called me here to help you adopt the children of a French Resistance agent?” Reuters demanded angrily, suddenly involving himself directly and completely in the discussion. He came forward to draw level with Schiller, spitting the words out with such speed and vehemence that Ritter was almost forced to take a step backward in surprise. “You demand the attention of the Oberbefehlshaber der Wehrmacht in order to help two orphaned boys?”

“The — the boys have no other family, close or otherwise,” Ritter shot back, becoming instantly defensive and a little angry. “His father — now his mother, too — have been killed by ‘the Nazis’, as he called them: killed because of the Führer’s war…because of your war…” he paused for a moment, fury rising in his eyes as he stared down the highest-ranking officer in the Wehrmacht “…killed because of our war…!” Reuters was forced to glance away at that remark, the fire in his own eyes diminishing as the pilot’s words hit home. “You told me there was a place for honour in Germany! If there’s honour anywhere, then help me do this! How should you feel if this boy were your son? What would your feelings be then? Were it my own son, I’d ask for no less!”

Upon hearing these words, Reuters turned sharply away with a gasp, as if struck. He sagged back, taking a few steadying paces while regaining his composure.

“A moment of privacy if you’ll indulge us, Herr Ritter,” Schiller said softly, placing a hand on the pilot’s shoulder.

“Of course,” Ritter nodded curtly, turning and stepping back a few paces. Schiller also turned, moving to his commanding officer’s side.

“You’re all right, Kurt?” He placed an arm about the man’s shoulders as he spoke. “That was an unfortunate remark, to say the least.”

Reuters shook his head slowly. “How could he know?” He reasoned softly, his voice thick with emotion. “That pain is many years away in a future that’ll never exist. Many things may not happen now in the future we’re creating for our country. Neither of us may be born in this new world.”

“Perhaps a good thing,” Schiller chuckled under his breath. “Do you think even the Wehrmacht could cope with two of me?” As he gained a strained laugh from his commander, he added: “I think it’s better if you do this thing for him. It’s unorthodox to say the least, but he’s right in the end. We’re not Nazis, Kurt, despite what those shits from the UN Security Council labelled us with. I saw how much releasing that SS bastard, Stahl upset you! At least let Ritter do this for the children. Where would you have been if old Heini hadn’t taken you out of that boys’ home after your mother died?”

“All right — all right…!” Reuters growled, straightening. “You’ve made your point. Müller warned me how fucking crazy this place was going to become once we started screwing about that saying the Americans used to have? I think they called it ‘SNAFU’…” Schiller mused rhetorically, thinking for a moment and switching to English f to gain full effect. “‘Situation Normal — All Fucked Up!’!”

“Amen to that!” Reuters agreed in German, turning back toward the waiting pilot and calling him closer with a gesture of his hand. “Herr Oberstleutnant…”

At mention of his name, Ritter whirled and faced the Reichsmarschall, decidedly less angry and again more concerned over how the OdW would react to his insubordination. He took four long strides and returned to his original position before the men.

“I’ve considered your request, Herr Ritter and have decided to grant it. You’ll keep the children with suitable nursing staff on base for the moment. I’ll have the details taken care of, and make the requisite paperwork available within a day or so. Included in this will be travel permits and papers for your wife to come to Paris and collect the boy. How long is it since you’ve seen your wife?”

“It — it’s been some time, sir,” Ritter answered hesitantly, a little shell-shocked by the Reichsmarschall’s complete turnaround, “…almost a year, now.”

“It’ll be good for you to see each other also, then. I’ll arrange a week’s leave for you to enjoy the sights of Paris — I don’t expect there’ll be any great need for your unit during the next month.” Even as Ritter struggled to assimilate this incredible information, Reuters added: “I must also apologise for my earlier reaction, Herr Oberstleutnant: the outburst was uncalled for and unbecoming an officer of the Wehrmacht. If you’ve nothing further to add, I must now take my leave of you — I now have a great deal more to do this morning than I’d originally planned.”

“No, sir — there’s nothing else I require…I cannot thank the Reichsmarschall enough for what you’ve done already.”

“In that you’re probably correct,” Schiller observed with quick certainty as Reuters began to walk back toward the transport, deciding to at that point make an important statement regarding the pilot’s currently precarious position. “You realise that you could quite easily be court-martialled for what’s occurred here today?”

“Yes, sir — I’m aware of that.”

“Very well, then: I suggest you keep that in mind. The Reichsmarschall is a generous man at heart and it’s my job, as his aide, to ensure that’s not taken advantage of. I’d like it understood that in my opinion, your ‘quota’ of favours with the Reichsmarschall is, for the moment, run quite dry. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir — quite clear…”

“Excellent! Let’s leave it at that for now. Oh yes,” he remembered suddenly, “the boys’ names?”

“Of course: Antoine and Curtis St. Clair…five years of age and approximately eight months respectively.”

“Very well, then. Good day, Oberstleutnant Ritter…” Schiller saluted formally, bringing the pilot to attention before him. He turned and left the flier where he stood as he returned the salute, the four grenadiers moving to follow immediately.

That left Ritter standing by himself in the middle of the concrete runway, arms hanging loosely by his sides as he attempted unsuccessfully to make head or tail of the Reichsmarschall’s strange behaviour. Of the man’s military genius there was no doubt — the current spate of victories across Western Europe and in Poland were witness to that — and Ritter could only assume that with that kind of genius there also came a certain ‘eccentricity’. For a moment he thought about the children that currently lay sleeping in his quarters, and as he began to walk slowly back toward the main dormitories and mess buildings off to the north he could have no idea of what enormous events that would occur as a result of the path in history he’d unsuspectingly begun to carve for himself.

A small, private room was fitted into Reuters’ converted T-1A transport between the cockpit and the Reichsmarschall’s ‘office’, and inside that room were four folding cots, a small refrigerator and basic cooking facilities for the preparation of tea and coffee and simple meals. It was upon two of those cots that Reuters and Schiller reclined later that evening, preferring the privacy of their own aircraft to the more comfortable quarters (and obligatory political machinations) on offer nearby at the Berghof.

“He’s very unimpressed,” Schiller observed softly in the faint illumination of a single, low-powered lamp fitted above the bulkhead door to the cockpit. He picked his words carefully despite their relative privacy… it never paid to assume other ears weren’t listening this close to The Führer: one never knew who might be listening, after all.

“I expected no better,” Reuters admitted sourly, “could’ve been a good deal worse in fact. The important thing now is that we make sure Thorne and his cronies are no longer problem.”

“The remaining Flankers…?” Schiller theorised, thinking as he spoke. “They could lob-toss some thousand kilogram bombs in from low-level before their point-defence weapons could react…”

“No,” The Reichsmarschall replied quickly, cutting off his train of thought. “We’re not going to risk the rest of the jets just yet… with any luck we won’t have to… and any air attack would be a very bloody affair regardless of whether we go with conventional aircraft or the jets — or both, for that matter. In any case, a lob-toss attack might not be accurate enough.”

“‘Not accurate enough.’?” Schiller repeated the words with mild disbelief as a question. “You do remember what a tonne of high explosive can do, don’t you? Remember those poor old army beginnings and those nasty old live-fire exercises?” The light sarcasm in the so-called ‘questions’ raised a broad and somewhat exasperated grin from his friend and superior officer.

“Yes, Albert, I know what a thousand kilogram bomb can do to a target… and yes… we could probably drop them onto the correct end of that runway without a great deal of difficulty. Getting the Flankers out afterward might be more of a problem however,” he added pointedly, “and if the targets we want aren’t there at the time…?” He left that question hanging for a few moments as it hit home. “We know what they have there now — the aircraft and some of their air defences at least — but when we do spring our next attack we’ll also need to know exactly what’s going on there on the ground at the time.”

“And how do you suggest we manage that?” Schiller enquired with a smile. “Scapa Flow’s the Home Fleet’s home base, and thanks to our ‘friends’ at Hindsight, it isn’t the easy pickings it should’ve been this early into the war. There are regular anti-submarine patrols by air and sea, and the Royal Navy’s use of sonar is a damned sight better and more frequent than it should be, too! Even with one of the new Type-Tens, we’d be lucky to get a U-boat within visual range of anything on that base, and I wouldn’t fancy being a member of the aircrew on any reconnaissance aircraft trying to get within range either — not for the five seconds they lasted, anyway…”

“Then we have to get someone in there on the ground,” Reuters replied simply.

“That’s easy to say, but not quite so easy to do.” Schiller pointed out, shaking his head as much at the audacity of the idea as any negative opinion. “It’d be easier to get at Churchill than get someone through the security they’ll have there!”

“Maybe we could get some inspiration from Jack Higgins, Albert?” Reuters chuckled softly, alluding to the author of one of his favourite novels (The Eagle Has Landed) about a WW2 plot to kidnap or kill Winston Churchill.

“Yes, they’ll have top class security…” he conceded, becoming serious again in an instant “…and we’ve had seven years. You both know how much effort we put into building the strength of the Abwehr right from the start… and there are other things I also recall from my younger days with the Bundeswehr: the rather nasty lessons that our new-friends who used to be Soviets taught us in the ‘bad old days’ regarding deep-cover intelligence operatives for example. I think perhaps it’s time to activate an asset or two.” The other man’s faces lit with understanding as he caught what Reuters was alluding to — assets Schiller had completely forgotten existed.

“Oh, that’s nasty, Kurt,” Schiller almost chuckled at the thought. “That’s really nasty…!”

Any further chance of conversation was interrupted by an unexpected knock at the bulkhead doorway that led to Reuters’ travelling office and the rear of the plane. Both men immediately rose to their feet, and the Reichsmarschall took a few seconds to straighten his uniform before bidding entry with a single word.

“Come…” he called in a serious voice, and the hatch opened inward to reveal one of the Wehrmacht grenadier guards that travelled in Reuters’ entourage.

“My apologies for the interruption at so late an hour, Herr Reichsmarschall, but I have two men from The Party waiting to see you: Herren Zeigler and Strauss.” It was implicitly understood that the soldier meant the NSDAP when referring to ‘The Party’, and the two men mentioned were high enough in the Nazi Party hierarchy for the guard to recognise them and accord them a reasonable level of fear and respect accordingly.

“It’s quite all right, Rudi: let them through,” Reuters directed with a wave of his hand and a resigned sigh. The pair weren’t exactly what he would’ve classed as welcome guests at the best of times, however he also wasn’t exactly surprised by their presence.

The pair that entered the small room a moment or two later were as disparate a pair as one might be likely to see. Both were men in their early sixties, and both were well-dressed in dark grey tailored suits, and at that point any similarity ceased completely. Oswald Zeigler was a thin, frail-looking man with hawkish features who stood well over 180cm tall, while his companion, Dieter Strauss stood at least a full head shorter, was stocky to the point of being quite rotund, and had a full, round face that falsely promised open friendliness and belied the cold and calculating intellect Reuters personally knew lurked behind the man’s smallish brown eyes.

“Herr Reichsmarschall,” Zeigler began with an obviously false familiarity. “How kind of you to take time out of your busy schedule to see us…”

“A pleasure of course, Herr Zeigler, as always,” Reuters countered with an equal lack of sincerity as he accepted the offered handshake. He gestured to the empty cots with an outstretched arm. “Please… take a seat…” He almost smiled. “I’ve no alcohol here, but I can offer tea or coffee…”

“Nothing for either of us, thank you,” Zeigler countered with a dismissive wave. “We’ll not keep you long.”

“How can we be of assistance this evening?” Reuters got straight to the point as each of the four took a cot and sat down.

“The rest of the ‘Eagles have asked Dieter and I to have a quiet word with you regarding the arrival of these fighter jets at Scapa Flow,” Zeigler’s tone was soft, sibilant and well-suited to his almost reptilian coolness.

“News travels fast from the front these days,” Reuters observed with a faint, dry smile. He’d known for years that there were intelligence leaks in his administration but had never been able to pinpoint the exact source.

“It’s in everyone’s interest that we keep our fingers on the pulse, Kurt,” Strauss countered without any humour whatsoever, “and without our own avenues of gathering information, we’d be completely in the dark about the course of this war! It’s been weeks since we received anything official from your office, and every request for an audience is refused!”

“You’ll excuse me if I prioritise the prosecution of a world war over sending you a weekly ‘newsletter’, or inviting you all up to the front for tea and cakes,” Reuters retorted unapologetically.

“I’d hope there’s no need to remind the Reichsmarschall that none of this would’ve been possible, had it not been for the initial inspiration and financial backing of the Neue Adler ‘Board of Directors’?”

“No need at all,” Reuters responded after the barest of pauses, his thin smile becoming tight-lipped and distinctly grim at the obvious insult. “Just as I’m sure there’s no need to point out that as Reichsmarschall and Oberbefehlshaber der Wehrmacht, I now answer directly to our Führer, Adolf Hitler.” He changed tack before the heating discussion degenerated into full-blown conflict. “I’m also certain that you two didn’t come over here so we could all argue about ancient history.” He forced a conciliatory smile back onto his face and made it almost believable. “You’ve learned of the arrivals at Scapa Flow… what else did you need to know?”

“The Directors want assurances that this change in circumstances won’t affect the timetable of our conquest in the west.”

“If that’s your greatest collective concern, Oswald, then I’m more than happy to assuage it right here and now: on the subject of the upcoming invasion of Great Britain, we all appear to be in agreement. I can guarantee you there’ll be no delays to Unternehmen Seelöwe as a result of this minor glitch in our planning.” That news produced an almost visible sigh of relief from both men.

“That is reassuring,” Strauss conceded, almost managing a smile of his own. “Unlike the Führer, we clearly recognise the necessity of removing Britain as a threat prior to any move against the Soviets.”

“That’s something we all recognise,” Reuters agreed without reservation. “Please advise the rest of the ‘Board’ that these newcomers present no further danger to us, and that there are already plans in place to deal with them.”

“Glad to see we’re all on the same page on this,” Zeigler said finally as he rose from the makeshift seat, Strauss following his lead as he forced a smile that was as insincere as Reuters’. “We’ll bother you no longer tonight then.”

As Reuters and Schiller also stood, the pair made a move toward the bulkhead hatch. Zeigler halted at the opening, turning for a moment to add: “In future, Herr Reichsmarschall, the Directors would appreciate it if you found a little more time for us in your busy schedule: that might go some way toward removing the necessity of unannounced visits such as this evening.”

“Duly noted, Mein Herren…I’ll do my humble best to comply…”

Kransky hadn’t been given much time to rest upon arrival back in England, and by and large he was fairly happy with that. He was a man used to being in action and on constant alert, and extended periods of time alone with his thoughts wasn’t something he actively pursued. He was quite pleased to discover that SOE already had an assignment waiting for him upon arrival as he stepped off the boat in Dover, accompanied by a commission into the British Army at the rank of major. He’d requested immediate embarkation, happy to have anything to keep his mind active, and Army GHQ were equally happy to oblige: they sent him north.

His first suspicion that something unusual was going on at Scapa Flow was as his Dakota transport began its final approach. While circling the remarkably large base on Hoy Island below, he caught sight of several things he at first felt certain must have been a poor attempt at deceiving the Germans. Two massive aircraft sat on concrete hardstands near the hangar end of the main runway, aircraft so large they initially seemed too huge to be anything but fakes… phonies set up to perhaps frighten or confuse an enemy’s reconnaissance aircraft or intelligence services. However as they drew closer and came in for landing, Kransky was ultimately forced to throw out the notion of decoys: not only did they seem far too detailed and well-made to be false on closer inspection, but something in the back of his mind also suggested it made no sense for someone to create ‘fakes’ that were so patently unbelievable.

Yet he was also stunned to consider these planes could possibly be real, something that’d also occurred to the other nine passengers on the DC-3 that afternoon. All of them stared out through the plane’s side windows as they came in, only forcing themselves back to their seats in the last moments before landing. All present were either officers or high-ranking NCOs — warrant officers and sergeants — and were all British Army. The general discussion on the flight up from London had revealed that none of them actually knew exactly what they were being sent to Scapa Flow for, other than that it was to become part of the security detachment for a new base there, and that there’d be the ample opportunity for all of them to further their own combat and field craft skills at the same time.

In Kransky’s estimation — and his judgement was usually exceptional — most of the men were highly-skilled indeed, if perhaps lacking in actual combat experience. They’d certainly been eager to hear of what he’d seen in China and France, and had listened intently to everything he was willing to tell. Their unwavering interest and constant urging had prompted him to be more forthcoming than he might normally have been, and it’d helped pass the time in any case.

From the moment they’d appeared over HMS Proserpine and the Hindsight base however, the conversation had centred solely on the incredible aircraft below, although with no air force officers being present, nobody could manage anything beyond pure speculation. Kransky suspected, looking at those aircraft, that perhaps the average RAF officer mightn’t be much more help anyway.

Refreshed by a shower and change of clothes after that morning’s run, Richard Kransky made his way past the admin buildings and over to the flight line just before noon that Wednesday, heading for one of the larger hangars. Eileen had asked him to meet her there to go over some work she’d had done on the machine pistol and rifle he’d brought with him from France. She’d been less than forthcoming on what modifications or alterations she intended to make, and although he trusted her judgement he was by nature less than comfortable being without either weapon, or with trusting their care and maintenance to another person.

A well-equipped machine shop had been set up in the rear corner of the nearest hangar, half-hidden away beneath poor natural lighting and ventilation. Although the standard of the equipment, which included a large lathe and a ten-ton press, was nowhere near that of the computer-aided examples Eileen Donelson was accustomed to dealing with at the start of the 21^st Century, she’d been well aware of what to expect and had spent quite a few months reacquainting herself with manually-operated equipment she’d not used since completing her engineering degree.

As Kransky walked through the hangar, Eileen was wearing a long and slightly over-sized white lab coat that hung open over jeans and a nondescript, loose-fitting T-shirt of neutral grey. A blue baseball cap marked “CG54 USS Antietam” in gold braid was snugged down on her head above a pair of orange-tinted protective goggles.

“Does the ‘Engineer Look’ suit me, d’you think?” She smiled as he drew near, holding her arms out from her sides and drawing attention to her dress.

“I’m sure that will be the style in Paris next year,” Kransky replied with a grin, now relaxed enough around her to make jokes he’d never dreamed of, not so long ago.

“Actually, sir, I must correct you there,” she smiled back, removing the goggles and placing them in the pocket of her lab coat. “I do believe Field Grey will be all the rage in Paris for quite a few years.”

“I’d say it’ll probably be ‘required wearing’ in Westminster too, soon enough,” Kransky conceded with a wry nod, “although I’m hoping maybe we can do something to delay that. You had a few things to show me?”

“Aye, that I did, Richard… and that I do.” She gestured for him to follow her across the concrete floor to a long set of workbench that lay hidden amid lathes, presses and other large pieces of machinery. Bare light globes providing barely adequate illumination hung suspended on single long, twisted cables from the hangar’s roof, and the atmosphere in general was tinged with the faintly acrid smell of machined metal and the operation of heavy electrical equipment: evidence enough that Eileen, the only other person in the building other than Kransky, had been working there just before he’d had arrived.

She lifted his prized MP2K machine pistol from the nearest bench and handed it across to him. Its curved magazine had been removed, but Kransky also noted that it was now carrying several quite obvious modifications. A 20cm sound suppressor had been fitted to the muzzle, adding around half a kilogram to the weapon’s weight and making it notably more ‘muzzle heavy’ — something Kransky suspected would probably help keep the weapon under control and reduce its tendency to rise under recoil.

Above the weapon’s receiver, a strange type of sight had also been fitted. Its base was no more than 120mm long, and atop the rear half of it was mounted a thin metal tube perhaps half that length and slightly less than 50mm in diameter. From an acute angle, the inside of the tube appeared to be clear, but as Kransky instinctively lifted the MP2K and squinted down along the top of its receiver, he found that a small, amber-coloured dot appeared within the centre of the sight’s lens. As he turned and moved the weapon with him, still staring through the sight, he found that the dot tracked true to the weapon’s aim no matter where he pointed.

“You’ll find it’s best used with both eyes open,” Eileen suggested, watching intently, “and it’ll make bringing the weapon onto target much faster. It’s called a ‘reflex’ sight… again made by Trijicon, the same as the scope on the Barrett rifle.” It seemed irrelevant for her to mention the manufacturer, considering there was no likelihood it’d be in any way significant to Kransky, but she felt compelled to anyway: it was in Eileen’s nature to concern herself with detail and minutiae when it came to ordnance.

He raised the machine pistol again, this time experimenting with keeping both eyes open as he aimed. He was impressed that his eye seemed to naturally find the sight and the aiming point beyond it. He could instantly see how much faster he’d be able to effectively bring the weapon into action in a firefight with the sight fitted.

“I know the thing’s not goin’ to be a ‘tack driver’ at the best o’ times with a barrel of only three or four inches,” Eileen explained, moving to stand beside him as he continued to practice aiming, “but with the right sights, the nasty little bugger should be combat effective for single shots out to fifty or sixty yards — maybe a hundred, if you’re good enough…”

“Hey…!” Kransky shot back, catching the cheeky glint in her eye. “You might have the edge on me out on the track, but don’t rag on me about my shootin’…!” He’d learned the truth over the last few days regarding the woman’s prowess at long distance running, and had felt extremely embarrassed that his ego had allowed him to be so easily fooled by her pretty face.

“Mister, I don’t care how good you are; if you can hit anything smaller than a tank with this thing at a hundred yards, I will kiss your arse!”

“Yes… you’re probably right…” he admitted rather lamely, having no idea at all how to reply to that remark. “That silencer will come in very handy…” It was time to change the subject, and both of them were in agreement on that judging by the suddenly-uncomfortable expressions on both faces.

“Aye, that it will… and so will this…” She turned and picked up what appeared to be a small and quite compact pair of binoculars, pressing a small button on the unit’s top surface, between the lenses before handing them over.

“I need a new set of field glasses…?” Kransky began to ask, MP2K in one hand as he lifted the binoculars with the other.

“Look at the far end of the hangar, then press and release the large button on the top,” she replied simply, and he did exactly that. Leaning across to gently return the machine pistol to the bench, he raised the field glasses to his eyes and focussed them on the far corner of the hangar. The 8 x 45 magnification brought the distant walls into clear view, and a small red circle appeared at the centre of his field of view as he pressed the larger of the two buttons atop the unit. As he followed Eileen’s instructions and released it once more, a small set of red digits reading — ‘56’ — appeared directly beneath the aiming circle.

Kransky lowered the binoculars with a frown and stared hard at the point he’d focussed on. Thinking carefully, he picked out a slightly closer point on the opposite wall and repeated the process. This time, the readout came up with the numbers — ‘52’ — in the same position directly below the aiming point.

“That’s the range!” He exclaimed, lowering the unit once more. “That’s not yards though… metres?”

“Very good,” Eileen nodded, obviously pleased. “Effective range up to twelve hundred metres, which should be more than sufficient for just about anything you need to do with the M107, and the batteries are good for about ten thousand range checks, although we’ll give you some spares all the same. I’ll teach you how to use the higher functions… at closer ranges it can even predict how much you need to adjust your aim at a given range to ensure a hit based on your weapon’s original zero. Think it might come in handy?””

“I’m sure it’ll come in real handy!” Kransky stated with certainty, impressed. “How the hell does it work?”

“Well,” Eileen began with a smile, “inside the unit is something known as a ‘laser’ — it’s what the scientific community in my time calls coherent light — light that travels in one direction, in parallel lines, rather than spreading out as it normally should. The word ‘laser’ is an acronym that stands for Light Amplification by Stimulated Emission of Radiation.”

“I’ll bet you say that to all the guys!” Kransky grinned sheepishly, his expression indicating that he had no problem with admitting the term had gone straight over his head.

“Only the cute ones,” Eileen smiled back, intending her reply be lightly humorous, but the subsequent silence that followed those words was anything but light.

“Are th-these lasers anything like the ‘Heat Ray’ in that War of the Worlds novel?” He asked with a slight hesitation, his embarrassment again making him desperate to change the subject all of a sudden.

“Got it in one…!” Eileen beamed, impressed by the man’s unexpected leap of logic. Truth be told, she was also a little relieved the subject matter was moving on. “That’s pretty damn sharp, although I guess I should expect that kind of lateral thinking from an ex-journalist!”

“Hey, that’s no fair,” Kransky protested lightly. “You know all about me, and I still know next to nothing about you.”

“Actually, it’s Max who knows about you, mostly,” Eileen admitted, sounding a little apologetic as the American placed the rangefinder back on the bench beside the MP2K. “He’s more of a nutter for historical bits and pieces than I am.”

“Oh, I’m ‘bits and pieces’ now… well that makes everything much better!”

“Oh for Christ’s sake, I can’t win, can I?” Eileen moaned theatrically, knowing Kransky was joking. “Hard as it must be for the ego of a man such as yourself to handle, the future of the world doesn’t actually revolve around you specifically.” That remark got her a chuckle. “While you apparently have some historical significance that Max is aware of, I honestly don’t know much more about you than what you’ve told me yourself…” she paused slightly “…not much more, anyway.”

“…except…?”

“Except that you’re honest and trustworthy to the core, an excellent guerrilla fighter and tactical planner, and are absolutely lethal with a rifle in your hands. Believe me, if I knew any more than that about you, I would remember it.”

“Ahh…” That sobered Kransky somewhat — he was a little dismayed by the idea that this woman, whom he was starting to like a great deal, knew the kind of ‘work’ that he actually did. He’d been deliberately circumspect regarding what he did while ‘in the field’ in his conversations with the commander, as the subject matter wasn’t something he considered appropriate for female ears. What he did wasn’t something he actually felt proud of in the cold hard light of day, regardless of how good he was at it, or whether he considered it a necessary evil. The reaction didn’t go unnoticed with Eileen, and it wasn’t particularly difficult to guess as to the reasons why. She gave him a kind and sympathetic smile.

“I don’t doubt what you do is unpleasant, Richard,” she began, her tone soft. “Nor do I think for a moment that you like what you do. Don’t think I think less of you for it either — don’t ever think that.” She stepped back apace, her senses telling her rather clearly that they’d hit on a subject that was very sensitive to him. She was also mindful that as a product of a far earlier age than hers, he was far less likely to deal readily with such issues as shame, embarrassment or emotions generally — issues still considered feminine things even in her supposedly more liberated times. Under the circumstances, instinct and intuition, female or otherwise, told her he needed a little ‘personal space’.

“They’re… they’re not things you talk about to anyone, really…” He said softly, hesitant but wanting to believe her. “Especially not to a lady…” He shrugged. “I guess women of your time are much more intelligent and learned than they are…” he corrected himself as an unusual thought occurred “…than they mostly get a chance to be in mine.” He shrugged faintly. “You have this incredible knowledge of weapons and technology that’d put most scientists of my time — most men — to shame. These pieces of equipment you have for me — the rifle, the sights, this laser gizmo — are as much an example of how far apart we are as those aircraft outside. It just seems so unlikely that people who came from what must be such a wonderful, advanced society as yours would have much to do with the kind of violence I’ve seen…” And Eileen could ‘hear’ that sentence finish with ‘…and committed…’ in his face and in the silence that followed.

The sentiment expressed in that statement made her feel more than a little sad for a number of reasons, and she turned slightly to rest her backside against the edge of the bench before them, her hands hanging by her sides as her shoulders sagged visibly. The serious turn of the conversation had started to affect her also, and over the weeks since their arrival there’d also been a build-up of feelings of loss and deprivation due to their displacement in the 1940s.

Similar feelings were being felt by many of the Hindsight members to varying degrees, although being men, none would’ve been as likely to admit it, and despite the company of their own fellow team members, it was beginning to produce underlying sensations of loneliness and solitude which went well beyond something as simple as culture shock.

In those moments following Kransky’s last sentence, she was also somewhat affected by his calling her a ‘lady’: possibly the first time in her life, having grown up in the late 20^th Century and having spent her adult life in the military, that she’d ever actually been called a lady by anyone. The fact that it’d simply been an automatic assumption on his part somehow made it that much more significant, and his good-intentioned but misguided assumptions regarding the decency of the future they’d come from suddenly made her quite sad indeed.

“I wish I could say we came from a perfect world… some beautiful ‘Utopia’ like the one Sir Thomas More wrote of,” she shook her head, “but I’d be lying through my teeth, and that’s the truth… the jet fighters out there on that flight line weren’t developed in a world that’s had any close association with peace of a lasting kind. I know you wonder about what it’s like where we came from, but it’s not the ‘wonderful’ place you imagine it must be.” She thought for a long time, staring at the concrete floor, and Kransky allowed the silence to continue, deeply interested in what she might say next.

“I should be more complimentary about the Twenty-First Century, Richard — it’s given me a hell of a lot more than many women get, and more than any would be allowed in this era. I had the choice to be whatever I chose in life, regardless of who I am, who my parents were, or how much money they or I possess. I had the choice of deciding for myself who I married — or even if I got married at all — and my decision as to whether or not I have children as a result of those choices. If you lost an arm, doctors could sometimes sew it back on for you, and it’d often work again… on occasion they can make you a heart if yours fails — one that would last for a while, anyway…

“Singers and musical groups all around the world organise concerts to raise money for starving nations, and media moguls allow the use of their satellites to televise those concerts all over the world. You could fly from London to New York at a thousand miles an hour if could afford the ticket, and I could turn on one of those computers you’ve seen and receive mail in seconds from someone in Japan or Australia.” She shook her head again, and there was another solemn pause as she met his gaze once more, genuine sorrow in her eyes. By comparison to the era in which Eileen had grown up, she saw Kransky as something of an ‘innocent’, his own terrible war experiences notwithstanding, and there were almost tears in her eyes as she went on, thinking she wasn’t only painting a damning picture of her world but also shattering someone’s dreams into the bargain. “I already miss so many things from our old world, but was it a ‘good’ world…? No… far from it in truth…

“The world I left was a sad, tired, jaded world: one that no longer possessed any naivety or any real honour either. There were corporations so powerful that their directors, unelected by anyone but their own shareholders, controlled the fate of countries by pure economic power alone. Poorer countries couldn’t even afford to make interest payments on loans from faceless monetary organisations, and their people starved as a result. Religious fundamentalists hijacked airliners and flew them into skyscrapers, killing thousands, while superpowers meddled in world affairs and manipulated the lives of millions.

“Youth gangs in major cities killed each other for thousand-dollar pairs of sneakers or a leather jacket, and others killed time and time again simply for the thrill of taking a life. The populations of practically entire nations survived on profits made from the sale of illegal drugs to the affluent and the dirt poor of countries of the first world. People died by the millions every year from starvation, disease and deprivation while their own governments spent billions on killing machines just like the ones outside, and spent more training people to fly, shoot or drive them. I could go on for hours, and yet…”

“…‘and yet’…?” He repeated, filling the pause and encouraging her to continue.

“…and yet, I miss it so much!” She added, her voice almost inaudible as she whispered that admission. “I miss the cars and the freeways, the movies and the music… oh God, Richard, I miss the shops! I miss television and stupid soap operas and my BMW road bike…” Her voice trailed off a little, her expression one of uncertain guilt. “Am I being selfish… is it wrong to feel that way…?”

“No…” Kransky answered with feeling after a long pause, thinking about his own life and the multitude of unknown pleasant experiences he must’ve missed due to the choices he’d made throughout it. “No, I guess I don’t think that’s wrong at all.” He felt a lump of emotion in his throat and it required a great deal of effort to maintain his outward composure. It was a long time since Kransky had allowed himself the luxury of thinking of anything deeper than pure survival in the world that normally surrounded him. The deployment to Hindsight had allowed him free time to think that he’d never allowed himself on the front lines of Manchukuo, Spain or France, and he had to admit that it seemed some of the heart and soul of the journalist he’d once been did still indeed exist within him, much to his surprise.

He could also quite clearly see that Eileen was suddenly and rather unexpectedly on the verge of tears: something he wasn’t at all happy about. A decade of solitary life utterly devoid of long term companionship of any kind lasting beyond one battle to the next had ensured Kransky had never formed any real friendships at all, and although he might’ve originally begun to spend time with Eileen because of a purely sexual interest, he’d instead ended up starting along the road of forming his first real friendship in many years.

He wasn’t consciously considering any of that of course, and education or not, the actual psychological mechanics of it all might’ve well been beyond him had he attempted to understand it. Kransky’s attention was instead completely consumed at that moment by the fact that he was standing beside a woman on the verge of tears that he cared something for (as had innumerable men throughout the ages), and in that moment he felt quite uncomfortable, completely useless, and had absolutely no idea what he might do to make her feel any better (again, much the same as all those innumerable men before him).

In the end, the man’s actions were completely instinctive for, by his own admission, his life experience was far too lacking in the appropriate emotional areas for what followed to have been any kind of conscious act. In a single, smooth movement he reached out and gathered Eileen in a strong but completely innocent embrace, something deep in his mind telling him it was the only thing that might have a hope of making any difference. Judging by the way she wrapped her own arms around his waist and hugged him tightly in return, it certainly appeared in the very least to have not done any harm. She didn’t actually break into tears, but the heaving of her body against him suggested that it was perhaps a near run thing.

The embrace seemed to last almost indefinitely, and was ultimately only broken as the sound of footsteps ringing on concrete heralded another’s approach. Eileen spent a second or two composing herself as they parted once more, and Kransky could see the unspoken thanks and appreciation in her eyes in that moment before they both turned toward the newcomer. He’d never have admitted it, but that single, silent ‘thank you’ made him felt better than any mere physical encounter ever could have, and he gave a nod in faint recognition.

“Not interrupting, am I…?” Max Thorne called out as he drew near, the tone light and attempting to be humorous. although slightly inquisitive all the same. The general interaction between them had been clearly visible as he approached, and he was clearly curious as a result.

“Not at all, Max… just showing Richard here some new toys he might find useful in the field.” There was something in her tone as she answered that Kransky hadn’t expected — something that almost sounded like guilt — although the man for the life of him couldn’t understand why that might be the case: the encounter had been entirely innocent as far as he was aware.

Thorne raised an eyebrow. “You need to watch yourself, major: surround yourself with machine oil and military hardware and she’ll be putty in your hands!”

“Did you actually want anything, or are you just looking for someone to annoy?” Eileen shot back with a sharp look of warning in her eye, seeming to Kransky to have taken the remark far more seriously than it’d clearly been intended.

“Well, a bit from ‘Column A’ and a bit from ‘Column B’,” Thorne grinned broadly, showing no intention of heeding the early warning signs in Eileen’s tone and body language, although he was receiving them loud and clear. “I did want to remind you that we need to sit down with Hal regarding a proper review of British armaments production: it’s probably time we got our arses into gear over that.” The characteristic grin faded somewhat and his voice took on a far more kindly tone as he finally decided it’d serve no further purpose to continue annoying a close friend. “Other than that, I was just spare of something to do for an hour or so and thought I’d wander about spreading some good cheer.”

“Can you be serious for once in your bloody life, Max?” Eileen snapped angrily in return, brushing past him and stalking away. The reaction left Thorne as stumped for an explanation as Kransky, and as they watched her storm off, the American turned his eyes back to his CO and found Thorne staring back at him with a far more serious gaze.

“Just what did you do?” Thorne inquired thoughtfully, automatically deciding to accord blame elsewhere.

“Not me, buddy,” Kransky stated quickly, shaking his head and raising both hands. “Everything was fine before you showed up.”

“Yes… I saw how ‘fine’ things were,” Thorne agreed with a faintly sly smile, the tone indicating he’d taken the wrong inference from that remark, although it was unclear whether his misinterpretation was intentional. “Not that it’s any of my business,” he added quickly, his expression suggesting something otherwise “but what exactly was going on as I arrived…?”

“She was a little upset is all,” Kransky replied, feeling slightly uncomfortable and exasperated rather than actually annoyed by the vague insinuation. “We got to shootin’ the breeze in general, and she started to think about missing the future you people left. She just got a bit upset,” he repeated with a shrug, trying to retain the appearance of innocence. He knew from observation that Thorne was also feeling some effects of stress for some reason or another, and decided to go ‘on the offensive’ just enough to force the other man into retreat. “You telling me you ain’t feeling like you’ve left somethin’ behind?” This time it was Kransky’s turn to raise an eyebrow as he put forward that friendly challenge.

“Me?” Thorne affected to almost laugh at the idea, mostly managing to be convincing. “The only thing that annoyed me about leaving 2010 was that I’m not going to get to find out what happens to Sookie and Bill.” Although Kransky had no idea what the man was talking about, he could tell an outright lie when he heard one. He also knew that meant he’d accomplished what he’d set out to do in gently getting Thorne to back off, and as such he decided not to call him on it.

“Taking into consideration nothing was going on here,” the American began after a breath, and Thorne’s expression became mildly expectant as he thought he saw what was coming, which he did. “Was there ‘someone’ she left behind in the future…?”

There was a long pause as Thorne sized up exactly how to answer that one. There were a number of replies he could give, with varying levels of detail and honesty, but in the end he decided Eileen’s past was her own business. If she and Kransky were becoming friends, as it appeared they were, he might well find out a few things eventually anyway, but in Thorne’s opinion that was her choice to make, not his. That the option of remaining silent was also to his own benefit was of course of no consequence to Max Thorne as he finally spoke.

“No — she didn’t leave anyone behind.” That was the truth, but it was also only half the story, and he suspected Kransky could probably work out the rest if he wanted to. “Eileen was career military,” he continued, “and that’s no easy thing for a lot of women, particularly when you’re as smart and as capable as she is. Most guys aren’t as smart as she is, and she doesn’t tolerate fools all that well.” He shrugged. “She likes you, I know that much, but exactly how she likes you isn’t for me to call. If you’re interested in her, that’s pretty much between the two of you, but I am her friend, and the commanding officer here, so if something does happen, I’d hope you were — what’s the saying? — operating with honourable intentions…”

“Whoa — no need to turn serious on me there, Max!” Kransky held up a hand and gave a lopsided grin as he shook his head. “She’s a great girl, but we’re friends and that’s all. As her friend and the CO, you’ve got every right to look out for her, but don’t be concerned: regardless of anything else, I’ll be back in the field soon enough and I can’t afford to get involved with anyone.” He took a breath. “Besides, I’m not all that sure she’d be interested in me as anything other than a friend anyhow.”

“Has she told you that?” Thorne was genuinely interested now, and Kransky had trouble keeping a smug grin from flickering across his features: the loaded remark had obtained exactly the reaction he was looking for.

“Not… in so many words…” He answered slowly, considering his response with care. “But you don’t last as long as I have in my line of work without being able to read people well, either up close or through a rifle scope. I think she’s got a lot on her mind at the moment, and maybe more than just being here with Hindsight.”

“Yeah, well it’s a lot to take no matter how much so-called preparation they gave us,” Thorne turned his head to stare off once more in the direction of the hangar doors and Eileen’s departure. “Guess I’d better go and apologise…”

“Might be a good idea,” Kransky agreed, nodding solemnly.

There were, of course, several significant exceptions…

As was the case following the German victories in France and the Netherlands during the Realtime war, England was faced with the unpleasant reality of squaring off at the Straits of Dover against a powerful and determined enemy across thirty-four kilometres of English Channel. One danger that was quick to arise was that of cross-channel guns, and it was only a few months after Dunkirk that Batterie Seigfried became operational at Cap-Gris-Nez, its 38cm guns well within range of Dover and a substantial section of the Kent coast.

More were to follow in Realtime, with installations being completed right along the nearest sections of the French coast that included Batterie Friedrich August (three 30.5cm guns at Boulogne-sur-Mer), Batterie Todt (four more 38cm guns at Wissant), Batterie Grosser Kurfurst (also at Cap-Gris-Nez with four 28cm guns), and Batterie Prinz Heinrich and Oldenburg (both at Calais with two 21cm guns apiece). These weapons were also complemented by a trio of 28cm K5 railway guns accurate enough to engage shipping in The Channel in addition to land bombardment. In Realtime, these would’ve later been joined by Batterie Lindemann at Cap-Blanc-Nez, armed with three of the huge 406mm ‘Adolf Guns’ left over from Germany’s aborted ‘H-Class’ battleship program.

Britain’s Realtime answer to the German guns had begun with the commissioning of two 14-inch (356mm) Mk VII guns left over from the development of the King George V battleship class. Nicknamed ‘Winnie’ and ‘Pooh’, these guns were intended as counter-battery weapons that proved to be far too slow and inaccurate to take on enemy shipping, although they were nevertheless adequate in their intended bombardment role. These would be followed into service in the Dover area by a variety of British guns that ranged from six inches (152mm) up to 15 inches (381mm), the latter intended to be used primarily against enemy shipping although able to assist in a counter-battery role if required.

RAF air superiority throughout the Realtime Battle of Britain meant these gun emplacements were relatively safe from aerial attack (although this wasn’t to say that the Luftwaffe didn’t indeed make some serious efforts to destroy them). This time however, the RAF had been all but eliminated as a fighting force by the end of July 1940, and there was therefore nothing to stop enemy aircraft from bombing any British coastal battery into the history books before anything managed to become operational. Both ‘Winnie’ and ‘Pooh’ had been destroyed in exactly that fashion within days of construction commencing on their emplacements, and most of the remaining gun batteries along the Kent coast (save for some very lucky and very well camouflaged exceptions) had fallen to the same fate.

Across the water in France, the Realtime ‘Adolf Guns’ would never exist now other than in the memories of a very select few on either side, however the danger of cross-channel bombardment nevertheless remained a very real threat. With no likelihood of any static heavy artillery battery ever lasting long enough to enter service, the British were forced to resort to other means to affect some limited ability for retaliation to the increasing level of bombardment that had begun from France since the beginning of July.

The War Ministry had instead resorted to the use of heavy railway artillery that could be kept mobile and therefore, theoretically at least, remained less vulnerable to air attack: weapons that had also existed in Realtime. During the First World War, the Royal Artillery Regiments had made use of several types, including some mounted with 14-inch naval guns. The barrels of these were scrapped during the inter-war years, however the rail mountings still remained in reserve, and in 1939 the decision was made to return them to operational service.

One of the better weapons used by the Royal Navy during WWI was the 13.5-inch (343mm) Mark V, mounted on numerous battleship classes and found to be far superior to the earlier 12-inch (305mm) designs it superseded. At the beginning of WW2 the RN still carried a number of these weapons in storage, along with plentiful supplies of ammunition and propellant charges. The decision was made to release some of these barrels and fit them to the leftover railway mountings to produce three complete ‘new’ weapon systems. By summer of 1940, the guns had been converted, had satisfactorily completed their operational trials, and had been handed over to the Royal Marine Siege Regiment as three identical railway guns known as Sceneshifter, Piecemaker and Gladiator.

The weapons had been used sparingly so far and to good effect on occasion, and the photographs Squadron Leader Richardson’s Mustang had returned with the day before had provided sufficient evidence that it was now well worth the risk of bringing the guns into action once more to deal with the new threat developing near Sangatte. Safe from aerial attack or from prying eyes in the sky above, the weapons had spent most of their daylight hours in the last month or so biding their time inside the relative safety of the Guston railway tunnel. Entering the southern mouth of the tunnel, not far from the intersection of Dover and Old Charlton Roads, the twin tracks of the East Kent Light Railway ran underground for almost 1,300 metres heading north-north-east, passing beneath the A2 between Swingate and Whitfield, before running out into the open air once more a few hundred metres south of Guston.

A branch line specifically constructed for the guns diverted off to the east a thousand metres or so beyond the northern mouth of the tunnel and continued on for several kilometres through Kent farmland before reaching its termination in an open field between Westcliffe and St Margaret’s-at-Cliffe that was perhaps five kilometres north-east of Dover. Within that field, the track terminated in a long, shallow semi-circle, and just before noon on that clear autumn morning, railway gun Piecemaker had been brought out from under cover and shunted halfway around that curve by a small but powerful diesel locomotive, its attendant ammunition wagons in tow.

He was in the Soho lane again, but this time it was much darker. His wife was walking ahead in her woollen jacket, and the skinheads were behind him as usual. There was her scream, the fight, and suddenly he was no longer Max Thorne. In that moment, he instead became one of the thugs, and saw everything through the other man’s eyes. He waited for the Australian to dispatch the first two ‘Skins’ before coming in and putting him down. He felt the blow jar his leg as he threw the toe of his Doc Marten against the man’s skull. He saw everything, horrified as he felt the anticipation — the anticipation — as the animal turned and reached out for his wife. She was screaming continually now as his hands reached out for her, and as she turned toward him, the hood of her jacket fell away to reveal the gaunt, festered face of a decaying corpse… and it was still screaming…

Thorne awoke with a savage jolt, a cry on his lips and tears in his eyes. He slowly checked his watch, his chest heaving as he tried to calm down in the cold darkness of the early morning. It was just gone 3:00am — he’d had less than two hours sleep since they’d arrived back at HMS Proserpine — and although he knew it’d be ridiculous to even consider sneaking across to the Officer’s Mess, reason was in short supply at that time of the morning. He dressed quickly in windbreaker and track pants and slipped out of his quarters in search of the pointless oblivion of alcohol.

Up already and patrolling as usual, Kransky was the only man to notice as Thorne made his way slowly along the gravel path outside the billets and stepped inside the mess door. The American watched from a few hundred metres away and shook his head slowly, otherwise motionless and all but invisible in the shadows of a nearby stores building. Illumination within the base wasn’t great at night, but it was good enough for Kransky to recognise the Hindsight CO well enough. As he was often up and about in the wee hours of those cold mornings, the sight of Thorne sneaking into the Officers Mess wasn’t an unexpected sight in any case: it’d been happening regularly enough for the security chief to generally prefer to be elsewhere and save the awkwardness of knowing what was going on.

He couldn’t bring himself to do anything about it officially for a variety of reasons: he had a great deal of respect for Thorne, and whatever was destroying the man’s soul was surely powerful indeed. Kransky had seen his share of nightmares over the years, and still kept enough of his own ‘demons’ at bay to know how fine the line was. He didn’t seek solace in alcohol these days, or the other stupidities such as opium or morphine, but he knew how close he’d also come to going under in his time. So far, Thorne’s illicit nocturnal wanderings hadn’t caused any undue difficulty, so he let the man be.

The trip back from Alternate by motor torpedo boat had taken three hours, the sleek craft cruising down the east coast of Mainland and around South Ronaldsay to Hoy. Smoke still hung in a pall over most of the Hindsight base as the craft docked at HMS Proserpine, and very little of what remained was recognisable. Davies had been picked up by a boat out of Longhope, on the western side of South Walls, and had been collected at the lifeboat station there as the MTB had passed through. He was wet, cold, battered and bruised, but was otherwise physically sound despite his ordeal. His mental state was another matter however, and as the group continued on to HMS Proserpine, the Texan was unnaturally silent… as were they all, for that matter.

Black: everything was burned black, and the smell of ash and soot was all-encompassing and pervasive. As Thorne, Davies, Trumbull and Donelson walked across the open ground south of the anchorage, they entered a landscape alien enough to have been another planet. Fires were still burning in isolated areas, although damage crews using water tankers with powerful hoses had most of them under control, and most of Hindsight had been burned or completely destroyed. The hangars… storage buildings… the tower and the personnel quarters: nothing much remained other than smouldering foundations or burned out, skeletal frameworks of charred wood and twisted, scorched metal.

The concrete runway that had taken so long to build in anticipation of their arrival, six weeks earlier, had been rendered useless in seconds. Huge craters scarred the surface at irregular intervals along more than half its length, and the intense heat of incendiaries had opened jagged, longitudinal cracks right across it in many places. It’d be weeks of constant repair work before any of their aircraft could use it again, and the real truth was that they all knew that that work would never commence.

Much of the supplies for the aircraft had also been destroyed, along with a large proportion of their cannon ammunition and most of their remaining AMRAAMs, all of it lost in flames as the hangars and storerooms went up. At least the underground tanks buried at the far end of the strip remained intact along, with their thousands of litres jet fuel. It was a small mercy in light of what had been lost.

Kransky and Kelly appeared together, separating from a crowd of fire fighters near the ruins of the main hangars and walking toward them. Their clothes and faces were singed and blackened with soot, the tracks of tears dry against both men’s dirty cheeks. To what extent those tears had been as a result of the heat or of the horror of it all was anyone’s guess. Kransky carried a long-handled shovel, but dropped it the moment he caught sight of the group of Hindsight officers approaching. The men almost staggered over to their position near the remains of the collapsed tower, and they stood together for just a few moments, all silent.

“You’re all right there, Mister Kelly…?” Trumbull asked in a faltering voice, noting the thick bandages that swathed both of the man’s arms from wrist to elbow.

“I’ve been better, to be certain, Mister Trumbull, but I’ll live,” Kelly grimaced in return, trying to make light of his situation but unable to find any humour, “which is more than I can say for some o’ the poor bastards they’ve got down at the infirmary right now.”

“Kelly nearly died trying to get through to the control bunker with a group of fire fighters after the raid… as well as dragging a dozen men or more to safety before that…” Kransky added, feeling the Irishman had left too much unsaid.

“There was work to be seen to,” Kelly shrugged, playing down his actions and in no mood to be lauded a hero when so many others had died, “no need for exaggeration…”

“At least two sticks of bombs bracketed the bunker,” Kransky began softly, his voice almost breaking with emotion. “Another scored direct hits on the closer trenches…” He shook his head slowly. “It wasn’t just explosives… they were using phosphorous and a persistent incendiary that stuck to anything it touched…”

“Napalm…” Thorne muttered softly, knowing that putting a name to what Kransky was speaking of was meaningless even as he spoke.

“Drews… Cassar…” Kransky continued, his voice faltering a second time, “Nick…” Eileen groaned softly, her eyes closed in despair as he spoke that last name. The list continued: more personnel from the SAS… several of Kowalski’s marines… British troops posted to the base after their arrival whom they’d all come to know well.

Kelly, whose temperament generally leaned toward one of light-heartedness even in the face of the adversity he’d suffered in his own life, suddenly found the terrible and overpowering sense of loss unbearable and turned as if to leave. He took a few steps past the group, only to stop momentarily at Eileen’s shoulder as he turned his head to speak.

“I’ve no time for stupid principle in times like these, missus…” He spoke gently, the honest sincerity in his voice obvious. “I’m mighty sorry for yer loss… all o’ ye.” Unable to look directly at him as she struggled to retain control of her emotions, Eileen could do no more than give a single nod, but that recognition was in itself more than enough. With a silent acknowledgement in return and a grim, mirthless smile, Kelly set off in search of something productive to do to aid the cleanup operations.

Thorne stared off into the empty space over Kransky’s right shoulder rather than directly at him, his fists clenching at his sides as Davies also walked away, composed on the surface but inwardly distraught and needing to be alone. Trumbull, holding back his own tears through sheer willpower, reached across and placed a comforting arm around Eileen’s shoulder. She instantly turned to him completely and buried her face against his neck, her whole upper body wracked with sobs as she wrapped her arms tight about him.

“I need to see…” Thorne said with simple softness as he finally found the strength to stare directly into Kransky’s eyes. The intensity of his expression almost chilled the tall security chief out of his own despair, and he could only nod slowly. A moment later he led Thorne off in the direction of the command bunker.

Thorne, Donelson, Kransky and Trumbull all stood at one of the piers of the anchorage early that morning as a warrant officer and a pair of privates loaded a large wooden crate was loaded onto a small motor launch. Eoin Kelly stood with them, waiting for the men to finish so he could be taken out to an RAF Sunderland floating out on the water a few hundred metres away.

“The flying boat will take you as far as Belfast,” Thorne advised as the boat crew secured the load in preparation to cast off. “From there, a truck will be waiting to take you wherever you need to go. Warrant Officer Standish will also accompany you as far as you require, and he’ll carry enough authorisation to get both of you through any checkpoint or roadblock.”

“You’ve me thanks, Mister Thorne,” Kelly replied with sincerity, shaking the man’s hand. Despite having developed a great deal of respect for the Australian, he still couldn’t bring himself to call him by his first name. “I can’t promise you answers I can’t give, but I do promise to put your case to the Council. What happens from there is up to them.”

“I understand,” Thorne replied, nodding, “and I appreciate what you are doing… and have done. You didn’t have to help us during the raid… not the way you did.”

“Well now… you know I just can’t help m’self… I have t’ be the centre of attention after all…” Neither the self-deprecating grin nor the matching tone was enough to convince them, but the group respected the man’s fall back upon humility. “Farewell to the rest o’ you fine gentlemen,” he continued as his eyes moved along the line of men. “Stay safe, and have a few drinks for me now ‘n’ then.” His gaze finally came to rest on Eileen Donelson’s face “Farewell t’ you too, missus… try not to think too harshly of me.”

“Thank you again for what you’ve done,” she said softly, the concession a difficult one to make.

“You’re welcome, ma’am,” Kelly replied simply, deciding honesty was more important than false humility under the circumstances. “I appreciate your sayin’ so… that can’t have been easy.” He took a breath, then added: “Mister Thorne told me a little of what some of my people did to your father, and for what its worth, I’m sorry for that… it’s not the way I’d be fightin’ a war.” There was a substantial pause before she finally nodded in recognition of the sentiment, and he knew that was about as close as they’d probably ever come to common ground. Kelly would miss some of the crew there at the base, and he thought it a shame those people were technically his enemies.

“Take care, missus,” he said finally, tipping a finger to the brim of the flat cap he wore to match the ill-fitting brown suit he’d been given on arrival. In another moment he was aboard the launch and it was chugging slowly out to the Coastal Command aircraft with his escort. Thorne stared up at the sky above for a few moments before turning to walk away, thinking there might be rain on the way.

François Reynard waited by the side of the empty country lane, feeling very unhappy about the fact that there was no cover whatsoever that he might hide behind, should a German patrol happen by. It was unlikely so close to midnight, but one couldn’t take anything for granted, particularly when one considered the forward headquarters for the entire Wehrmacht was just fifteen kilometres away across the fields to the north-west. Beaucourt-en-Santerre was a small commune of less than a hundred people and didn’t warrant its own garrison, however the road where Reynard stood was less than twenty minutes ‘ driving time from the barracks at Reuters’ HQ, and as such there was a valid and very real need for caution.

A half moon hung low in an eastern sky streaked with infrequent patches of silvery cloud, with more than enough light for Reynard to see some distance in either direction. His motorcycle was hidden in the grassy verge, the old Automoto lying on its side not far from where he crouched. The town lay behind him to the west, no more than a dark and featureless silhouette in the moonlight, while the road alone lay before him to the east, disappearing into the distance as a black strip of nothingness set between wide, open fields of silver grain. He’d only had to wait ten minutes or so before he finally heard the faint sound of an aircraft approaching from the east, and as he checked his watch, noting the time on its luminous face, he was forced to grudgingly give a silent nod of approval that the man he was expecting was punctual at least.

The plane was almost upon him before he’d heard it at all, so skilful was the pilot. The Westland Lysander was an RAF co-operation and liaison aircraft that had was quickly becoming a favourite of British covert forces due to its exceptional short-field take off and landing capabilities, and the Mark III model he now spotted against the backdrop of the moon was no exception as it dropped out of the sky at what seemed to be an alarming rate. Constructed from metal tubing and wooden frameworks with a predominantly fabric covering, the Lysander was a single-engined aircraft with two seats and a high-wing layout, and had been designed from the outset with field-of-view, low-speed handling and STOL ability as priorities.

Painted completely matte black, and fitted with a 680-litre fuel tank between the spars of its main landing gear, the aircraft had left Newmarket in Suffolk two hours earlier, and had since spent the entirety of its journey east at an altitude of no more than fifty metres in order to avoid German radar. It now seemed to be flying at an impossibly slow speed and approaching the ground far too quickly as it dropped toward the roadway in the moonlight, although from past experience, Reynard knew how slow the Lysander could actually fly and still remain aloft, and therefore wasn’t all that concerned. At the last moment, the experienced pilot deftly flattened out his descent and the main wheels touched down in a perfect landing, the aircraft taxiing quickly along the road toward him and coming to a halt just twenty metres away.

Reynard sprung from his position by the road immediately and ran across to where the Lysander had stopped. Even low-powered radial engines produced enough noise to be heard over great distances under the right circumstances, and the sound of an unexpected aircraft engine overhead in the middle of the night, so close to the Wehrmacht’s forward HQ, was likely to attract all sorts of unwanted attention. The Frenchman was working on the assumption that someone unpleasant would be along shortly to investigate, and it was important they were well clear of the area when that happened.

A dark figure was already climbing from the Lysander’s rear cockpit as he drew near, dropping to the ground from a ladder fixed to the port side of the fuselage. The pair worked quickly, each taking position at the plane’s tail and pushing it around to face the way it had come as the pilot gunned the engine and prepared for a quick take off. Another moment, and he was airborne once more, the aircraft leaping into the sky within a few hundred metres and immediately banking away to the south, disappearing almost instantly into the blackness of the night sky.

The pair moved quickly back to where Reynard had left his motorcycle, and as he picked it up and wheeled it out onto the road, he turned and addressed the new arrival properly for the first time.

“Glad to see you’re on time,” he began with a thin smile. “We need to get out of here quickly — there’ll be patrols all over the area within minutes, and we need to reach safety before they head this way.”

“Of course,” the man now answering to the name of Phillip Brandis answered in perfect French, a wry smile appearing for a moment. “I doubt it’d be a good idea for either of us to be found together.” Brandis was dressed in the uniform and peaked cap of a standartenführer (colonel) of the Waffen-SS, and quite disturbingly looked the part… right down to the issue P-38 pistol in the cross-draw holster at his belt.

“I’m thankful that our contacts warned me of what to expect,” Reynard replied dryly, looking the man up and down as he straddled the motorcycle and prepared to start it up. “Your appearance would’ve come as quite a shock otherwise.”

“A necessary disguise for the benefit of our German ‘friends’… the orders and identification I have with me are authentic, and would probably get us out of trouble were we challenged, but I’d prefer not to make my presence known just yet. There’s a lot still to be done, and I’d prefer to remain incognito for the time being.”

“Best you hop on then,” Reynard advised with a grin, tilting his head toward the rear of the bike as he kicked the 250cc engine over. It spluttered once then caught, idling roughly as Brandis climbed on behind him, taking off his cap and securing it in one hand. The Automoto set off along the lane heading east, in the same direction as the Lysander’s take off of moments before.

They were long gone by the time an eight-wheeled Puma reconnaissance vehicle cruised down that same road ten minutes later, following up reports of an unidentified aircraft landing in the area.