Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2)

by Charles S. Jackson

  Kransky stared long and hard at Samuel Lowenstein, the faint illumination of the oil-drum fire and the stars above in no way detracting from the intensity of that sharp, searching gaze. Neither man spoke for some time as the American processed what he’d just heard through his own thoughts, trying to come up with some kind of acceptable explanation.

  “You’re wondering if you can trust me…” Lowenstein assessed correctly, giving a rueful smile at the thought. “Why trust some crazy old Jew, eh? Although in this case it’s a fair question I suppose, all things considered.”

  “You’re not that old and you don’t act real Goddamned Jewish either…” Kransky snapped curtly, frustration creeping into his words when a straight answer wasn’t immediately provided “…and I couldn’t give a good Goddamn if you were one of those Hasidic Kikes that used to hang around outside the Synagogue on Bellevue when I was a kid. As someone who once acted as chief of security for Hindsight, the only thing I do give a crap about is how you know about the unit and exactly what your connection is to Max Thorne.”

  “My ‘connection’…?” Lowenstein laughed softly then – a hollow, bitter laugh that held no mirth and much anguish. “Son, without me there’d be no Hindsight Unit. Without me, we wouldn’t be standing here right now talking. Without me, the fucking Nazis wouldn’t be goose-stepping their Anti-Semitic arses all over Great Britain!” The crooked smile became a dark, unpleasant sneer that was little more than an angry flash of teeth in the darkness as extended an arm in a sweeping gesture. “I’m not a ‘connection’, Richard: I’m the fucking cause of all of this…!”

  The amount of pure vitriol and self-loathing that had suddenly appeared in the man’s voice caught Kransky completely by surprise, and again there were a few moments of silence as he considered what Lowenstein had said. Although they’d never met prior to that evening outside Fulham railway station, something about the way the man acted and spoke often struck the American as remarkably familiar, as if he were experiencing some kind of strange déjà vu, and he found himself thinking of the friends he’d made during his time with Hindsight at Scapa Flow.

  “You’re a strange one, buddy, and no mistake!” He observed slowly, his eyes never leaving Lowenstein’s as the pair stared at each other. “This whole thing is starting to sound like one ‘o those damn ‘space movies’ Alec used to like...” he added softly, muttering mostly to himself. “...What did he used to call ‘em...‘science-fiction’...?” Again the words ‘Mutara Nebula’ rose in his mind and again his sub-conscious insisted that it was somehow significant. This time however something else flared in Kransky’s memory as he considered what he’d just said, and the final piece fell suddenly into place.

  “‘Mutara Nebula’...!” He exclaimed as the light of realisation spreading across his features. “There was something in one of those goddamned movies about it! It was one of Trumbull’s favourites!” The American rose from his seat now, pacing about in excitement as his conscious mind began to recognise he was on the verge of an important discovery. “Which one was it...?” He asked himself quietly, wracking his brain for the information. “...The Matrix... no... Star Wars... no...” The names came flooding back to him now as he recalled so many times that he’d sat through repeated viewings while an enthralled young squadron leader sat beside him, completely engrossed.

  For his part, Lowenstein had stood by and watched silently, an expression of surprise showing on his own face as he came to realise that Kransky actually seemed to know something of the throwaway movie reference he’d unthinkingly used while they were still aboard the MTB, several days before. It seemed almost inconceivable the man could have any knowledge of such an obscure reference from a movie that wouldn’t even be made for another forty years, yet it appeared to be the case all the same.

  They both smiled genuinely at each other a moment later as the change in Kransky’s expression clearly indicated he’d recalled that last piece of information he’d been seeking. Lowenstein nodded his confirmation, excitement building within him also as the pair spoke the simple, two-word answer in unison:

  “Star Trek...!”

  The last two years, most of it spent in the field in Occupied Britain, had been a hard time for Richard Kransky. When not isolated and in hiding, he’d often been fighting for his very survival or on the run from one place to another. There’d not been much time or call during that period for him to think greatly on the details of what he’d learned during his time with Hindsight at Scapa Flow during three short months toward the end of 1940. He was thinking a great deal about all that now as they stood there surrounded by the remnants of those stone walls, his mind desperately drawing on every snippet of information he could recall as the pair stared at each other with similar displays of astonishment.

  “I certainly never imagined you’d have any idea what I was talking about when I made that off-the-cuff movie reference back on the boat,” Lowenstein remarked, shaking his head almost in disbelief. “I can see now that Thorne and his Hindsight Group have been far more relaxed about their true origins than I would’ve expected.” He gave a vague snort of derision. “Perhaps not so hard to work out where all those bloody rumours have been originating from in... retrospect...” he added, consciously choosing not to make a poor pun by using the term ‘hindsight’ at that moment. “I’m starting to wonder...”

  “Holy shit...!” Kransky blurted, cutting off as a final sudden, shattering moment of clarity forced its way into the forefront of his consciousness. “You’re the guy...!” He paused for a moment as the true ramifications of it all sunk in. “...You’re the guy... the Jew...!”

  “I’m a Jew, yes... Nazi efforts notwithstanding, there are still a few of us about, you know...” Samuel conceded testily, the continual references to his secular ancestry starting to wear a little thin despite many recent years of desensitisation to rampant Anti-Semitism.

  “You’re the fuckin’ Jew...!” Kransky insisted, almost falling back against the nearest stone wall as if suddenly needing support. “‘Call me Sam La Forge’ my ass...! You’re Samuel Lowenstein...!”

  The emphasis in those last sentences seemed to make him sound important rather than someone to be insulted, and it mollified the physicist somewhat. Everything suddenly made sense in the American’s mind. Everything he recalled from his briefings at Hindsight... the desperate importance of getting the man out of England... even Lowenstein’s own bitter words about being the cause of it all: everything now clicked together like the joyous last few pieces of some grand jigsaw puzzle being finally slotted into place.

  “I think I’ve been very lucky to be brought into contact with you, Richard,” Lowenstein said finally after much silent thought. “You’ve clearly been very close to what was happening at Hindsight or they’d not have shared my name with you nor my involvement.”

  “Are you kidding me...?” There was almost genuine laughter in Kransky’s voice now as a wonderful kaleidoscope of pleasant memories of his time at Scapa Flow came rushing back to him. “You were ‘The Guy’, buddy! Hal used to talk all the time about how hard it was to carry on with what was left of the research after the Krauts had snatched you...”

  “‘Hal...?’ You know Hal Markowicz?” It was Lowenstein’s turn to become excited upon hearing the name of his long-time work colleague, mentor and old friend.

  “Know him..?” Kransky grinned widely, all barriers of mistrust dissolving now that he’d realised whom he was actually speaking to. “I worked with him for about three months at Scapa Flow... at least, worked with him during the times he wasn’t away in London, working with the War Department on armaments production.”

  “I can’t believe he’s really here,” Lowenstein muttered mostly to himself, smiling as he recalled pleasant memories long forgotten. He’s well then...?”

  “Ain’t seen him in two years,” Kransky shrugged in return, but he was just fine last time we met. He was a feisty bastard and no mistake... a real fire-breather when it came to the Naz
is...” He relented somewhat, as if conceding a mental point in his own head. “...Guess I don’t blame him – or you – for that, considering what Thorne told me the Krauts were gonna do to the Jews in the next few years...”

  “Ahh... Hindsight told you about The Holocaust also?” Lowenstein nodded approvingly. “Why not, indeed...? Use whatever tools you can to turn others against Fascism.”

  “Max – Max Thorne – showed me a movie one time... a ‘DVD’, I think he called it... of what they did to Jews all over Europe...made me sick to my gut just thinkin’ about it. “The thing was called ‘Genocide’ or somethin’ like it.”

  “That would’ve been an episode of The World at War,” Lowenstein smiled thinly, knowing exactly what Kransky meant. “It was one of a series chronicling the history of the Second World War – I owned a copy of the DVD boxed set myself.” He raised an eyebrow. “If you’ve seen that then you understand why Jews like Hal and I hate the Germans so... why they must be stopped...”

  “Hal never stopped working,” The American nodded slowly in solemn agreement. Hardest goddamned worker I ever saw for his age or any other. He became the main driving force behind Britain’s last-minute rearmament prior to the 9/11 invasion...”

  “You Yanks are calling it the ‘Nine-Eleven’ invasion...?” Lowenstein observed with a snort of derision that was almost a grimace. “Any why wouldn’t you, of course...?” He shook his head sadly, recalling memories from a time far in the future and many years in his own past... a future that would now most likely never exist. “No doubt Reuters ordered the invasion on that exact date by complete coincidence, but I’ve also no doubt the Reichsmarschall and his cronies are probably laughing their heads off at the irony of it all!”

  He released a shudder that was in equal parts a reaction to the cold and to his thoughts, moving across to the drum fire for the first time and stretching out his hands for warmth. From where he stood, Lowenstein could look straight out through the huge gap in the stone wall, his eyes not really seeing anything at all as he stared into the nothingness of the dark waters that stretched away northward, his mind lost in memories both good and bad.

  “You’re talkin’ about the planes those Arabs crashed into that New York skyscraper,” Kransky stated softly, his accent sounding the word ‘A-rabs’ as two distinct syllables. “Thorne and his crew used to call it ‘Realtime’... it was the name they used for their version of history that Reuters and his buddies have screwed up. The day of the invasion they were all saying the same thing as you... about how it was ‘Nine-Eleven’ all over again and about how ironic it was and all that. I asked ‘em what they meant, and they told me about what happened – that a couple ‘o thousand people got killed.” He turned his back to Lowenstein, leaning against the edge of the collapsed wall and also staring out into the blackness of the night. Another one of the guys at Hindsight – Mike Kowalski –said he lost his wife that day.”

  “A lot of people lost loved ones that day,” Lowenstein nodded sadly, stepping around the drum-fire and moving across to stand beside Kransky, both men staring directly out into the darkness.

  “Mike didn’t like to talk about it much,” The American added with a shrug, considering it a reasonable statement, “but Max Thorne told me some of what happened.”

  “I was working at a Research Facility outside of London at the time,” Lowenstein continued slowly. “I was taking a late lunch in the canteen: they used to play BBC One all day on the TVs there,” he added, recalling the moment with incredible clarity. “Just before two o’clock that afternoon they interrupted normal broadcasting with a newsflash that an airliner had crashed into the World Trade Centre in New York...it was about a quarter to eight in the morning there...” The events were clear in his mind as if it had all occurred just the day before, and his hands shook a little now as he rested his forearms on the stone wall. “Everyone stopped what they were doing and just stood there in stunned silence. We all thought it was an accident at first... everyone thought it was an accident...” There was a pause as he took a breath. “...Then another jet hit the second tower and everyone realised the unthinkable was happening: that someone had crashed those planes on purpose.

  Kransky didn’t move... didn’t dare to break the spell of that moment with words or some kind of unexpected movement as he listened intently to events long past in that man’s recollection of history... a history that now might never occur. It had been a long time since he’d last spoken to anyone regarding Realtime or Hindsight in free conversation and he found that it brought back many memories of his own regarding his time at Scapa Flow – some that were pleasant and others significantly less so.

  “...I doubt there’d be a person anywhere in the – ‘Realtime, was it? – Western World that day who wouldn’t remember exactly what they were doing when the news hit. My colleagues and I – grown men and women – were standing there in an office cafeteria that was thousands of miles away from Ground Zero with tears streaming down our faces as we watched the horror of it all... Those two great buildings – over 100 floors each –were as much of a New York icon as the Empire State ever was, and we and the rest of the world could only stand there and watch on live TV as both collapsed, taking more than 2,500 people with them.” To his surprise, Lowenstein discovered that tears had again collected at the corner of his eyes as he recalled that moment.

  “It was on another continent and almost ten years ago, and it sounds like it affected you more than the Holocaust...?” Kransky felt deeply moved by what he’d just heard and the observation was a genuine one that in no way questioned the other man’s loyalties.

  “I was born after the war, Richard, and the Holocaust – although a terrible thing – was many years past by the time I was old enough to truly understand what it was. Certainly ‘Nine-Eleven’ was on a far smaller scale in every aspect, but it was something I lived through... it was something I remember that affected the entire world. I’ve plenty of historical and personal reasons to hate the Nazis – don’t get me wrong – but they weren’t the first dark stain to spread its shadow across the Earth, and although they definitely ‘raised the bar’ in terms of pure evil, they certainly weren’t the last either!”

  “The guys in those planes... Thorne said they were fanatics...” Kransky added grimly, only barely managing a faint smile as he added: “I think his exact words were ‘religious fruitcakes’.”

  “That’s as succinct an assessment as any I could’ve given you...” the physicist conceded, almost managing a wry grin of his own, “and God knows we Jews have seen more than our fair share of religious persecution over the last few millennia, so trust me when I say – !”

  His words were cut short in mid-sentence as a huge section of the distant northern horizon was suddenly lit up by the distinct ‘double-flash’ of what appeared to be a single tiny, almost blindingly-brilliant pinpoint of white light. Both men’s eyes were pointing in that very direction and both were momentarily blinded by a searing white afterglow that hovered in the centre of their field of vision. Both men gasped simultaneously, but only one of the pair knew exactly what they’d just seen.

  “Yeshua ha Mashiach...!” Lowenstein breathed softly, unconsciously uttering an exclamation in Hebrew that as a child he’d often heard his father utter in times of stress – the irony of uttering the name of Jesus Christ in vain not lost on him.

  “What the fuck was that...?” Kransky demanded plaintively, rubbing heavily at his offended eyes in the desperate hope that the after-image he could still see was indeed only temporary.

  “That was something I never imagined I’d see in my lifetime and hoped fervently I never would.” Lowenstein answered in hushed tones that sounded equal parts reverent and terrified. Far off against the northern horizon, a faint, tiny red glow continued to fade at the same place they’d seen the initial flash, enough light remaining to clearly indicate its close proximity to the curvature of the earth itself: proof-positive the incident had occurred a great distance away.<
br />
  “Goddamned thing’s blinded me!” Kransky continued, his voice rising as fear crept into his words at the thought the injury might indeed be permanent. “Son of a bitch...!”

  “The effects will pass,” Lowenstein assured as he blinked his own eyes a few times, the image already dissipating slowly. “It was a long way off, fortunately. Much closer in this kind of darkness and we might well have been blinded though.”

  “Blinded by what exactly...?”

  Kelly appeared from the ruins behind them at that moment with Michaels and Brendan in tow, preventing Lowenstein from giving any immediate answer. Staggering slightly as if still trying to find his balance after being unexpectedly awoken from a deep sleep – which was exactly the case – his red-rimmed eyes were nevertheless quite alert, and there was an expression of urgent apprehension on his face.

  “What the fook’s happenin’ out there, for Christ’s Sake?” He growled with a coarse voice that was still thick with sleep. “Brendan here just came in howlin’ about the whole northern sky bein’ on fookin’ fire...!” He quickly drew level with the others and cast his own bleary eyes out toward the dark waters. “Did ye see somethin’ out here, or has the bugger been at the bloody Bushmills again...?”

  “I know what I fookin’ saw...!” The younger man growled plaintively, his protests ignored as Kelly glared back and forth at Lowenstein and Kransky.

  “There was a great Goddamned flash in the sky all right,” The American confirmed fervently, sounding somewhat less concerned as he too realised his vision was starting to clear. “The whole horizon was lit up like Atlantic City on the Fourth of July!” He extended a pointed finger. “There...! If you look close enough, you can still see the faint, red glow of what’s left...”