England Expects (Empires Lost)

by Jackson, Charles S.

  Ritter hung his head in despair at that thought. The man before him was talking about a betrayal of his country and his people, and he was already taking to the idea readily. In the face of such damning evidence, there didn’t seem to be any alternative.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Although extremely simple in theory, the task will prove far less so in practical terms. Just like us, Reuters and his group of ‘New Eagles’ have returned from the future to change history. Because of what’s already changed over the last few years, we now know they arrived long before we did here at Scapa Flow, just a few months ago: the level of change and German technological development we’ve seen makes it quite clear they’ve been her for a number of years already. We know where they returned to the past, but what we still need to find out is the exact date and time they arrived.”

  “Something that simple…?”

  “Not so simple when you think about it. How many people would know the truth outside of their own ranks? How few of those who did know would actually know the correct date and exact time? How much suspicion would someone arouse should it be discovered that they were trying to uncover that information…? There wouldn’t be too many reasons one would want to find those details out…”

  Ritter shook his head as he tried to understand the reasoning behind it all. “What good would this time and date be anyway… what could you do with the information?”

  “Due to the peculiarities of physics behind time travel, we’re already too late to stop this group before they left our time… our only hope is to intercept them upon arrival in yours. We need that specific time and date so we can be lying in wait for them when they turn up, and destroy them all before they can make contact with the Nazis and change the true course of history. It’s the only hope we have of putting everything right and leaving the past the way it’s supposed to be.”

  “Tell me,” Ritter began after a long, thoughtful pause. “What is my fate in this ‘Realtime’? What happens to me… and to my wife and these children…?” His eyes locked with Thorne’s in that moment, and the Australian knew he had to reveal as much of the truth as he dared… a lie would be spotted immediately and would destroy everything he’d worked toward.

  “I was hoping you wouldn’t ask me that,” Thorne made a pale attempt at a smile. “As I already said, you reach the rank of generalmajor with the OKW. Following a successful Allied invasion of Normandy in July of 1944, your officer corps devises a desperate plot to assassinate Hitler, aimed at giving the Wehrmacht a chance to sue for peace before Germany is destroyed completely. A bomb is placed near Hitler by an officer named Von Stauffenberg during a staff meeting, but the explosion fails to kill him. Dozens of officers are subsequently rounded up and executed as part of the Führer’s retributions, Field Marshal Erwin Rommel among them… another of those executed would be you...” The last sentence trailed off as Ritter winced visibly.

  “I have no Realtime knowledge of the existence of the two boys you’ve adopted, but I know your wife survives the war… along with a son who, in Realtime, was born sometime in early 1940. Why this hasn’t happened in this version of history I can’t say, but it would no doubt be something to do with the changes already wrought by the New Eagles.”

  “A son...” Ritter muttered, staring at the concrete floor and fighting back tears as he took in the information. He drew a deep breath and released it in a long sigh before raising his head to meet Thorne’s eyes once more. “You’ve been honest with me,” he acknowledged slowly. “You could’ve lied about my fate in order to engage my help… you’ve instead taken an honourable path, even thought it might hinder your cause. You too, I think, are an honourable man.”

  “It’s not always all it’s cracked up to be,” Thorne observed with a shrug and some dark sarcasm. “Sometimes you’re expected to ‘put your money where your mouth is’.”

  “I think I understand this phrase,” Ritter decided after considering what Thorne had just said, “and I think that you are correct: honour unsupported by action is no honour at all.” There was a moment’s pause as the pilot took one last, deep breath and took a step forward, extending his hand. “I will help you in any way I’m able… for however long is required…”

  “I’d like to say you won’t regret this decision,” Thorne smiled ruefully, accepting the hand in a firm shake, “but I reckon that’d be a lie.”

  “I already regret it...”

  Thorne’s wry smile broadened as he nodded in understanding. “Welcome aboard...”

  16.

  Once More Unto The Breach

  Beaucourt-en-Santerre

  Near Amiens, Northern France

  Saturday

  August 24, 1940

  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 a
ssumption 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.

  Home Fleet Naval Anchorage at HMS Proserpine

  Scapa Flow, Orkney Islands

  The howl of air raid sirens brought everyone to alert just after eleven that Saturday night, and sent all personnel at Lyness scrambling for shelters and slit trenches under the cold, star-filled night sky. The alarm had been raised after the radar unit atop the Martello Towers at Hackness had detected a single, fast-moving aircraft approaching from the east at high altitude.

  Thorne, Trumbull and Davies were the only men qualified to fly the F-35E in combat, and took turns remaining on duty at Eday on a rotating roster. It was Davies who was roused from a camp bed by the night piquet and forced to stagger out of the Galaxy’s freezing cargo hold and climb into the Lightning’s cockpit. Within seconds he was in radio contact with Thorne, back at Lyness.

  “We’ve got one bogie coming in fast and high… gotta be a Flanker,” Thorne observed, keeping a close eye on his radar screen of the radar control unit from the safety of an underground shelter at the main naval base.

  “Give the word and I can be after him, Max,” Davies’ reply came back instantly, the sound of the F-35’s warming engine quite audible over the speaker of the portable radio unit Thorne held. The man had been sleeping in his flight suit, and could be airborne within a few minutes if necessary.

  “No time, Jack… he’s coming in supersonic… should be on top of us in less than ninety seconds. Has to be going for a photo run… and he’ll be gone by the time you got off the ground… you’ll never catch him.”

  “A Fido could… He’s gotta turn around and come back sometime…”

  “True… and an AMRAAM would also tell him we’ve still got jets here. He’s headed straight over the middle of Hoy, not Eday, and there’s a damn good chance he won’t see anything except the ruins and the wreckage left by the raid.”

  “And if it’s a strike…?”

  “I’m willing to take that chance. He’ll have to come a lot lower if he wants to try anything funny, and the Tunguskas can take him out if he does, but right now he’s just daring us to come up after him. They think we’re already out of the picture… if we let him take his pretty pictures and piss off again none the wiser, that’ll confirm to them that Hindsight’s aircraft were destroyed, and we’re that much safer. We take a shot at him, and hit or miss, and they’ll come looking for where we did land last Saturday with a lot more than just fucking cameras. Best option right now is to do nothing and ride it out.”

  “Your call, Max,” came the dubious reply. “Keep me informed…”

  Major Schwarz and Oberleutnant Hauser kept a careful eye on their instruments as Hawk-3 skimmed the black surface of the North Sea at a altitude of just 50 metres, their airspeed steady and barely below the speed of sound. Four huge fuel tanks hung beneath the Flanker’s wings, and launch rails outboard of those tanks and on the wingtips carried four Russian R-73 ‘Archer’ heat-seeking AAMs to complement the larger R-27 ‘Alamo’ radar-guided weapons beneath their fuselage.

  Hawk-4 had already hurtled across the sky ahead of them, far above the island of Hoy that now lay just thirty kilometres off their nose, and they were purposefully following on behind in case their enemy launched any aircraft in pursuit… specifically any jet aircraft. If they did, Hawk-3 would be able to hide from radar in low-level ‘ground’ clutter until the last moment, and remain in a perfect position to strike before the Flanker was ever detected. The aircraft’s fine IRST visual search systems would enable them to target any prospective enemy, stealthy or otherwise, without the need for radar.

  As intelligence had suspected however, no enemy jets rose into the air to intercept their high-flying colleague, and it appeared the enemy’s contemporary fighter opposition had indeed been eliminated.

  “We’re about thirty seconds away from returning a solid signal on their ground radars,” Hauser advised, his attention never leaving his EW systems. “That eastern transmitter is painting us continuously now, and we won’t get any warning if one of those Tunguskas is still down there.”

  “Hawk-Three to Hawk-Four,” Schwarz contacted the other aircraft after a few seconds’ thought. “How does the area appear, over?”

  “Hawk-Four reading you, Erwin,” The reply came back in an instant. “We’re now well clear of the target area… main systems and Doppler are both clear… looks like this is going to be the no-show we were expecting, over.”

  “Loud and clear, Hawk-Four,” Schwarz released a relieved breath. “I’m going to abort and clear the area… we have no threats on our screens either… see you at the rendezvous in fifteen…” He took manual control of the SU-30MK, hauling back on the stick and turning it into a sharp, banking climb to starboard as it headed north and away from Hoy, skirting the eastern edge of the Orkney chain.

  Hawk-3 appeared on radar at Lyness within seconds of its climb to higher level, rising out of ground clutter as it turned north and away from what had been a direct course for Hoy. One of the Tunguskas has been moved to a camouflaged position near the Cantick Head lighthouse on South Walls, well east of the main base at Lyness, and from that vantage point the retreating Flanker was well within range of its missiles. Nevertheless it remained dormant, the crew of the Su-30 never knowing they’d been so close to death as the flak vehicle’s gunner tracked the aircraft’s retreat through high-powered optics, the turret turning slowly to follow it as it disappeared to the north.

  For Thorne, it
was a solid vindication of his decision to keep Davies and the Lightning grounded: even with the advantage of stealth, the F-35E would’ve been a sitting duck for the undetected second Flanker’s heat-seeking missiles and cannon, had it taken off in pursuit of the first enemy. It was now obvious that using the first Sukhoi as bait had been the plan all along, with reconnaissance pictures an added bonus should no attack materialise. Without the element of surprise, Thorne wouldn’t have liked to risk the Lightning against two heavily-armed and well-prepared opponents, regardless of the F-35’s supposed technical superiority and invisibility to radar.

  Far out to the north-east over the freezing expanses of the North Sea, the pair of Hawks rendezvoused once more and formed up for the trip back home. They had the pictures they’d been sent to obtain, and no losses had been sustained in the process: in the eyes of the Sukhois’ aircrew, the mission was therefore an unqualified success. It was quite an irony that their success also turned out to be of such benefit for Hindsight.

  Sunday

  September 1, 1940

  At Thorne’s own request, intelligence reports and communications had been flooding in from sources all over Britain and the continent since the days following the raid over Hindsight. The amount of information was incredible, and filtering through it consumed most of both Thorne’s and Eileen’s waking hours as they desperately searched for something that might produce a target valuable enough to be worthy of attack. By the evening of that first day of September, a number of potential targets had presented themselves as the pair now sat together at a table in that same small briefing room, their options laid out before them in separate piles.