Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2)

by Charles S. Jackson

  Maude’s last, foolish insult directed at Briony however had instead taken the confrontation down a far more dangerous path and the maternal fury that rose within Eliza in that moment was impossible to contain. Taking a single step forward with no thought of control, she drew her right hand back and slapped Maude savagely in the face, snapping the woman’s head to the right and leaving a quite noticeable red mark against her left cheek.

  “Get out! Get out, the pair of ya! Out o’ me house and into the gutter where you belong!” Maude howled, clutching at her face in pain as she glared back at Eliza with equal parts indignance and disbelief. “How dare ya raise a hand against me, you ungrateful black bitch…!”

  Slap! The sound of flesh striking hard against flesh again echoed through the empty pub as Eliza again whipped her open palm across Maude’s face, completely silencing her sister-in-law as the second blow added further torment to her already stinging cheek.

  “You’ll shut your stupid mouth unless you want another one!” Eliza snarled back, arm raised high and her eyes alight as a lifetime of mistreatment and abuse rose to the surface in an eruption of righteous rage. “Neither me or Briony are goin’ anywhere and if ya don’t like it, you can piss off back to your own bloody family! I’ll ask forgiveness of The Lord for what I done here today, but if you think I’m gonna sit here and say nuthin’ while you run down my little girl… well, you got another thing comin’! No more… not in any house I live in… or any place I work either!” With each sentence, she took a threatening step forward, forcing Maude ever backward as her own anger quickly transformed into the very real fear that Eliza might actually cause her further physical harm.

  “No more of that crazy bloody Yank comin’ ‘round here either while your husband’s off fightin’ for King and Country! I don’t want him anywhere near me and I sure as bloody-hell don’t want him near me daughter! No more of anyone else spendin’ time in that bed ‘o yours from now on, for that matter. ‘Bout time you started at least trying to act like a proper wife… the way you’ve been runnin’ around with every bloke you can get your hooks into makes me bloody sick and I’ll not be havin’ it going on under my roof any longer!”

  “Y-you got no right…!” Maude tried to lift herself up to her full height for a moment… tried to hold her ground against this woman in front of her whom she no longer recognised. ““Y-you can’t talk to me that way…!”

  “I bloody-well have and I bloody-well am talkin’ to ya that way,” Eliza shot back instantly, somehow feeling a metre taller as she finally stood up to her sister-in-law for the first time. “And mark my words,” she added, her eyes narrowing as the final piece of the ‘puzzle’ within her mind fell into place, “if I see that Yank or anyone else carryin’ on improper with you ‘round here or anywhere else, there’ll be telegrams on their way to Bruce, Arthur and your mum and dad within the hour lettin’ ‘em all know exactly what you’ve been up to while your husband’s been away!”

  “You wouldn’t dare…!” Maude wailed, but the tone was one of desperation and surrender rather than indignant rage. Losing her reputation within the community was the one thing Maude was truly frightened of, completely oblivious as she was that the majority of the local adult population was already aware of her infidelity, and in making such a threat, Eliza had struck upon the one thing with which she could gain leverage.

  “Just you try me…!” She warned darkly in return, and her thin-lipped determination almost turned into the hint of an evil smile as in that moment, Eliza Morris realised she had Maude exactly where she wanted her. “See if I don’t…!”

  6. Smoke on the Water

  MTB 102

  7km north-west of Rathlin Island, Irish Sea

  Reich-Protektorat Grossbritannien

  September 25, 1942

  Friday

  MTB102 cut its way through the icy, black water of the Irish Sea, skirting the north-east coast of Rathlin Island. The fog seemed to be clearing that far from the Irish mainland however there were still a number of deep, intermittent patches that on occasion cut visibility down to almost nil and limited the vessel to a slow and tense trip with two of the twelve-man crew forced to stand post at the very bow, keeping a careful eye and ear out for any potential danger.

  The MTB’s helmsman, Brendan had become an experienced seaman and was quite capable of following their detailed charts by compass alone, however their projected course had been specifically chosen to take them closer to the coast of Northern Ireland, where Kriegsmarine patrols and radar were generally scarce and it paid to remain vigilant as a result. A navigational error of a few degrees could potentially send the ship several nautical miles off course over a ten- or twelve-hour journey, and such an error could take them dangerously close to shore while wrapped in such a thick, impenetrable fog.

  The last half-hour had been spent cruising through a clear section of open water at a steady thirty knots, the MTB’s nose rising high above its bow wave as it cut through the water at high speed. They needed to make the most of any time spent in the open as the time lost during the night while moving through the thick fog patches at a veritable crawl had placed them heavily behind schedule.

  With half the crew at rest, two men on watch at the bow and three more manning the weapons there was just the helmsman present as Kransky and Kelly stood at the bridge and talked, sharing their experiences of the intervening two years since both had last met. The multiple layers of heavy clothing each wore were only partially effective against the biting cold, yet neither paid the environment any heed all the same: both men were far too interested in the other’s story to take notice.

  “…So in the months followin’ the British surrender, Fianna Fáil repealed all the anti-IRA laws and laid down an open-ended offer for any Volunteer to join the Irish armed forces.” Kelly gave a shrug of resignation as he remembered the desperate months at the end of 1940, and also what the fall of the United Kingdom had since meant for the rest of the world. “A lot o’ us took ‘em up on it, sure enough – wasn’t much alternative to tell y’ the truth.”

  “…And what’s all this then?” Kransky extended an arm to intentionally take in the whole boat, a wry smile hinting at the corner of his lips. “Your first instinct– of course – was to join the navy?”

  “Aye and I scrub the fookin’ ‘poop-deck’ in the afternoons and make some poor bugger walks the plank every second day as well…” Kelly shot back with sarcasm and a broad smile of his own. “We’re a long fookin’ way from the Naval Service here, fella, although we’ve been through some pretty heavy seamanship training for all that… Technically-speaking now, this little concern o’ ours isn’t actually funded by the Irish Government at all: our supplies and our orders generally come from a bit ‘further south’…” The inflection in that statement made it quite clear that it referred to Australia and the British Government-in-exile.

  “Covert operations…” Kransky muttered softly, now also grinning broadly as they suddenly returned to a subject he had more knowledge on “…which brings us to the subject of our old friend, Max Thorne…”

  “Aye, here-and-there we do a few jobs like this one for Max as the need arises,” Kelly shrugged again as if the idea were quite matter-of-fact, “but mostly we’re operating under Melbourne’s general direction now and most o’ that revolves around the insertion or extraction of agents and ‘persons of interest’ – such as yer good self – in and out of Occupied Britain.”

  “So you guys all work for MI6 now, then…?” The words were formed more as a wry statement than a question and elicited an immediate grimace from Kelly by way of reaction to remark.

  “Keep yer fookin’ voice down, y’ great idiot,” the Irishman shot back in mockingly hushed tones, the word coming out as ‘ee-jit’ with his accent. “You want these boys to throw y’ overboard? Regardless of the change in circumstances, the idea of workin’ for the Brits is a bitter pill to swallow for good, Republican lads like meself and the fellas here: we prefer to thin
k of ourselves as ‘free agents’ – mercenaries, if y’ will…”

  “Whatever ya wanna call it, we’re all still here together on this particular night because of Thorne’s orders,” Kransky observed, chuckling over Kelly’s words.

  “…And a fortunate thing for you we are here to look after y’ considerin’ how it seems you’re now the most wanted man in Occupied Britain,” Kelly observed with a smile, referring to Kransky’s earlier recounting of his last few months on the run as the American took a sip from a tin mug of hot, black coffee that was clenched tight in thickly-gloved hands. “Just about every other intel report we get from the Nazis’ northern command centres carries some reference to sightings of y’, or some dire act of sabotage you’re suspected of having a hand in like that assassination bollocks.” He chuckled softly. “Handy little scapegoat you’ve become for the Germans’ bloody incompetence and that’s the truth! Like I said before, I figured there was fook-all of it you’ve actually been involved with from what I recalled of y’…”

  “Ain’t that the truth…!” Kransky added with a wry grin of his own. “For a feller on the run, I sure managed to get around on my ‘rampage’ across the British Isles over the last two Goddamn years. I think I was in three places at once at one stage if all those claims were to be believed.” The powerful rumble of the engines behind them and the rush of passing water forced both men to speak louder than either would’ve preferred but there was no one other than the helmsman present in any case who might’ve overheard their conversation.

  “…And now you can add ‘babysitter’ to the list…” Kelly added slowly, the hint of an inquisitive tone sneaking into his voice as he cocked his head toward the engine room hatch behind them and openly fished for information. “What’s Max gone and gotten us into now?” Kelly had received his own set of instructions carrying Thorne’s signature, forwarded directly through Ireland’s own intelligence services, and as was the Australian’s usual practice there’d been little information supplied to explain the ‘bigger picture’ surrounding the tasks they were being asked to carry out.

  “Only found out a few days ago myself that Max was involved,” Kransky shook his head, signalling he knew little more about it. “…Turned up for the rendezvous in London as ordered and found out ‘Our Guy’ had those goddamned kids with him… had a letter signed by Max that gave him clearance to pretty much do whatever the hell he wanted and he said he wasn’t goin’ any further without ‘em…” he paused to take a breath and gave a grimace “…and here we are…”

  “Indeed… indeed…” Kelly nodded sagely, left just as in the dark as Kelly and intrigued as to the significance – if any – of the presence of the two teens sleeping below decks. He shrugged. “So he brought his kids with him… I can see the likeness in the boy, but the girl must take after her mother, I figure…”

  “Told me they weren’t his,” Kransky observed, surprising the Irishman. “He was real quick to correct me on that…” He gave a shrug of his own. “I don’t think the two kids are related either for that matter. Have to say, the body language between ‘em sometimes looks all wrong, too. The guy gives those teens orders like a father would when he wants ‘em to do something but I’ve also seen him reacting to them at other times like they’re the ones in charge.” As good a judge of body language as he was, the American had been unable to make head nor tail out of the complicated interactions he’d seen carried out between Lowenstein and the two children. “Dunno what he is to them, but I believe what he says about not bein’ their old man.”

  “Then… what…?” The quizzical expression on Kelly’s face hardened slightly as his attempt to discern a reason for the association between their passenger and the two children took an unpleasant turn.

  “…Doesn’t strike me as the type…” Kransky began, seeing where the Irishman was going with the conversation and cutting him off with a shake of his head “…although I’ve been wrong before.” His own expression grew dark and sombre as he considered some of the less palatable combat experiences he’d encountered in his earlier life.

  “Lot ‘o empty water between here and Lough Swilly…” Kelly observed with a soft, malevolent intensity that hinted at something quite dangerous. “He won’t last long if I catch him looking at those kids the wrong way…”

  “No argument with me on that, buddy,” Kransky remarked under his breath in a similar tone. “In fact, I’ll be happy to…”

  “Radar contact, Mister Kelly!” The warning from the helmsman beside them interrupted any further conversation and brought both men quickly to his side at the wheel. “…Just picked up a fast-mover north of us, heading south-west.” ‘Fast-mover’ meant an aircraft, and with the limited range their small search radar possessed it couldn’t be more than fifteen or twenty kilometres away: far too close for comfort.

  “They look like they’re just out for a stroll, Brendan, or are they lookin’ for something?” Kelly asked pointedly as they all stared down at a small, green CRT screen of no more than 12cm diameter that was set into a large console to the left of the ship’s wheel. The tiny blips and jagged lines that appeared and faded as the green radius ‘arm’ of the radar swept clockwise around the screen were as unintelligible to Kransky as ancient runes, but the helmsman seemed to know exactly what was happening as they looked on.

  Of no more than average height at best, Brendan was a broad, solid young man with thick, dark, wavy hair and a workman’s broad, open features sporting a three-day-growth of scruffy beard. Bushy eyebrows complimented a quite animated, expressive face and were often knitting together in a frown above a boxer’s long and somewhat crooked nose. The only thing that seemed slightly out of place were the slightly flushed cheeks that hinted at an ‘enjoyment’ of alcohol. To Kransky, the young fellow seemed unlikely to be older than eighteen or nineteen, although it appeared he knew his way around the controls of the boat and the radar set in particular.

  Their first-generation SJ radar set was a relatively new addition to the vessel’s equipment courtesy of the United States Navy via the Americans’ Office of Strategic Services, and although it provided only limited range – approximately twenty kilometres or so for airborne targets and less for surface vessels – it nevertheless filled a vital requirement for advanced warning against surprise attack.

  “Steady course so far but he’s movin’ fast and coming in awful close,” the man Kelly had called Brendan advised, his voice serious and loaded with genuine concern. “Not really light enough for him to pick us up visually I’d reckon, but we’re fooked if he’s got radar…!”

  “Have a little faith, y’ sour bugger,” Kelly forced a grin and mostly got away with it. “We’ve a few surprises up our sleeves for any cheeky bastard that wants to take a turn in the ring wi’ us.” He paused for a second, giving the situation some thought before lifting his head above the shelter of the vessel’s open wheelhouse and bellowing his next orders to the rest of the crew.

  “Battle stations…! Battle stations…!” The shouted orders roused everyone aboard from their various states of relaxation or sleep and sent men scurrying to their posts in an instant as they shrugged on helmets and life jackets. “Look lively, boys: we’ve got some flying ‘friends’ nearby and we gotta to be ready to give ‘em a hearty welcome if need be!” He directed his next order back to Brendan at the wheel as he glanced up at the growing light in the dark sky above. “Full ahead and take us as close in to shore as y’ dare – the ground clutter might help to keep him guessing if he does have radar, and he’s got bugger-all chance of seeing us in this bloody half-light otherwise!”

  Lowenstein and the teens had also made their way up on deck at the sound of the alert call and the trio now stood on the afterdeck, a metre or two behind Kransky, the children still wearing the same thick, woollen pea coats they’d arrived in. Fear was showing clearly in their eyes and on their faces, and they huddled together for physical and emotional support as the MTB’s diesels roared to full power and the vessel s
urged ahead with a stomach-churning surge.

  “What’s happening?” Lowenstein asked quickly, his voice also wavering slightly as he stepped up beside Kransky, although he appeared outwardly calm.

  “Enemy aircraft – not sure yet if they know we’re here or if it’s just a routine patrol. Either way, we need to be prepared: I’d get those kids back below decks for the moment, buddy: it mightn’t be safe up here shortly.”

  “If it’s not safe up here, how safe is it likely to be below decks?” Lowenstein pointed out, both men recognising the problems with the logic of Kransky’s statement at the same time. “Might be better if we took our chances on deck, thanks all the same…”

  “Aircraft turning in… he’s seen us all right…! Bearing one-three-five and coming in fast! Range at six miles and closing.”

  “Bring us about to two-eight-five,” Kelly ordered calmly, his eyes never leaving the radar console. “I want our main guns clear for a full broadside.”

  K6 + BK “Bruno” picked up MTB 102 on their FuG200 Hohentwiel radar at a range of around fifteen kilometres, having been vectored onto the target area by land-based units. The murky, pre-dawn light was beginning to spread across the eastern horizon however the surface of the sea below was for the most part still mired in darkness, making visual location of the vessel all but impossible.

  Haas and his crew were well-trained however and had a lot of experience in hunting submarines both at night and during daylight hours. They were prepared and ready for action as the A-138B turned in to its final approach to target at a range of 10km and Hass pushed the flying boat’s nose toward the water below, its throttles wide open.

  “Course adjustment to bearing one-eight-three…” his radio operator advised softly over the intercom, the man’s eyes locked to his radar screen. “Target’s changed course to west-north-west and is accelerating – he knows were coming.”