Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2)

by Charles S. Jackson

  It was a thin, flat, rectangular box perhaps eight centimetres thick and measuring a little less than 30cm along each side. It appeared to very vaguely imitate the shape of an attaché case but looked to be made completely of brushed metal and black plastic, and although Briony didn’t know what it was she nevertheless got the impression from its appearance that it was of quite solid and hardy construction. Two words – both as unrecognisable as the unit itself – were embossed across its top surface in large, bold letters: Panasonic Toughbook. The exterior was scarred with scuffs and scratches too numerous to count and several of the raised letters were chipped or worn down with age, yet the metal casing itself was intact for all that: the unit had lived up to its name in a way its manufacturers could never have dreamed or hoped for.

  “My mother’s dead... my life’s over...” Briony began with more than a little bitterness, tears forming in her eyes as her grief and pain slowly began to reassert their dominance over her mind and body. “You’re fighting people… and carrying a gun. You’re accent’s gone... I don’t even know who you really are...” Her eyes and tone were full of accusation and resentment now “...And you want to show me some stupid tin box...?”

  “This is a lot more than just a tin box,” Brandis countered with a firm but gentle tone as he laid the ruggedized Toughbook Model 31 on the table, opened the screen and turned it on. “This is something called a computer – a laptop to be exact – and it can do an awful lot more than any old ‘tin box’. I need this...” he continued, heading off the angry protest that was clearly coming “...because without it there’s no way you’ll believe what I have to say, so please hear me out before making any judgement.”

  He moved back to the secret compartment at the bottom of the steamer trunk and withdrew a long transformer cable and plug adapter which he proceeded to connect first to the rear of the machine and then to a wall socket above the skirting board beside the table. Briony was momentarily too distracted to comment further in any case. She’d been mesmerised the moment the screen had sprung to life and was now watching the Windows XP start-up process with interest.

  That she’d never seen a laptop before was largely irrelevant – the technology before her was so alien and beyond anything she could imagine that it shook her understanding of the real world to the very core. She glanced up at Brandis’ for a second, realisation spreading across her face as to the huge and ever-widening gulf between the person standing beside her and what she actually knew about the man. In an instant, her sorrow and grief were pushed aside once more as her attention was consumed by this new and intriguing object.

  “What does it do...?”

  “It can do a lot of things,” Brandis answered, recognising that he’d won over her curiosity for the time being at least and mostly hiding the relived smile that came with that realisation. “It can perform massive calculations with far greater speed than a human ever could... it can play movies or music... store photographs...” he almost smiled again “...it can even play games – maybe remind be to show you Fallout or Modern Warfare later...” he muttered to himself, almost as an afterthought, before shaking his head faintly and forcing himself back onto topic.

  “Tonight I need it to show you some stuff – stuff that’ll mess with your head a bit to start with... well... a lot, probably...” he relented, shrugging apologetically as he stared at her with an expression that was both genuine and serious. “I’d rather be honest: this isn’t going to be easy for you – I’m bloody sure it won’t be easy for me – and it’s possible you may hate me once I’m done, but I’d rather you hate me than not believe me... it’s crucial you believe me.”

  “Believe what?” She asked slowly, her mind taking time to process what he was saying as she continued to stare at the screen. The boot-up had finished and the Windows desktop was showing now. He reached out and drew a finger across the touchpad, activating the mouse pointer and placing it over a folder marked ‘VIDEOS’ near one corner of the screen.

  “Let me show you...” he offered instead, under the circumstances resisting the opportunity to be melodramatic as he double-clicked the folder open and selected one particular media file from the hundreds listed therein: one titled Briony’s Journal 18-5-1950. “Keep in mind,” he added quickly as the QuickTime boot-up logo appeared on the screen, “that this was recorded by you of your own volition as part of a regular video diary you decided to keep as a direct result of what’s happening tonight...”

  “But...” she began, however her voice trailed off as she realised he had completely lost her and her train of thought gave up as futile any attempt to follow.

  “Don’t try to get your head around it yet... just watch and let it happen.” He grinned faintly as he considered the old chestnut of paradoxes. “We can have a long and lengthy discussion later about the dangers of going back in time and killing your own grandfather...” he paused and gave a grimace as if considering a new idea as not so unpalatable “...perhaps father might be a better choice in your particular case... but that can be for afterward when you’ve had a chance to let everything sink in.”

  He knew what he was saying was incomprehensible to her, but Briony’s attention was now fixed solely on the computer in any case and he made no effort to draw it away. The QuickTime logo had vanished and had been replaced by a video window that filled roughly half the screen. It took just a fraction of a second as she registered what she was seeing and drew a sudden gasp of surprise as she found herself staring right into her own eyes at close range.

  “Journal for Eighteenth of May,” she began on screen with an excited smile, the image moving about awkwardly as she manoeuvred the recording device with both hands until it was able to stand upright on its own. She then backed away from the camera until her entire head and upper torso was clearly visible. “Getting ready to go on a date with Jimmy Alderton and very excited!”

  “That’s me...!” Briony exclaimed the moment she was able to find words to speak. The image of her on screen was making a great show of straightening the floral dress she was wearing. “That’s me and... and... and I’m old...!”

  “Hardly ‘old’,” Brandis replied drily, using the touchpad to pause the video for a moment. “Take it from someone who knows... you are definitely not old!”

  “Jimmy’s sooooo nice, and he works at the bank in town, so he’s got a good career ahead of him...” she finished patting at her dress and began fidgeting with curls of long, lustrous brown hair that was pulled up about her head in a complex bun that was aided by multiple clips and hair ties. “Max says he seems okay but that I should take my time and get to know him really well first. Max says I should make sure a man spends time with me because of who I am and not just because of how I look. What do you think? I guess we’ll make that decision when we come to it, won’t we?” She laughed softly at her own witticism before finishing with her hair and giving her full attention to the camera once more. “I know you’re watching this with Uncle James right now... I remember watching it. It’s Nineteen Fifty here right now, and you’re – we’re – twenty-two years old. We’re a primary school teacher now and we’re very happy. I want to say more but I’m late for my date, so I have to go...!” She moved forward again and reached up for the camera with one hand, only to pause at the last moment to add: “Uncle James... I still always think of you as ‘Uncle James’...” she added, knowing Brandis was also watching and making him smile “...Uncle James is going to tell you some awful things tonight but please don’t be too hard on him... listen to what he has to say with an open mind and think hard before you make any decisions.” She smiled into the camera again, this time with a knowing expression that suddenly showed a depth of understanding well beyond her years. “It hasn’t always been fun, but he’s done his best to look after you... I know you’ll make the right decision... I’ve already made it after all... Wish me luck...!”

  The video stopped and Brandis quickly closed the application as Briony stared at him with an unfathoma
ble expression.

  “Questions...?” He ventured, the hint of a wry smile sneaking into his expression.

  “Only about a million...!” She replied instantly, noting his expression and recognising the smile for what it was. “That was me! That was me eight years from now!” He let her talk, knowing her words were statements rather than questions and that she was speaking aloud mostly to try and sort things out in her own head. “That was me and I’m all grown up... and... beautiful...!”

  “Yes... yes, you are,” Brandis agreed softly with the same pride any father might feel for a beloved daughter. “You’re smart and kind and strong-willed and everything you’re mother would have wanted you to be...” He regretted that last sentence the moment it was spoken, but it was far too late to stop by then.

  “My mother...” Briony repeated, the excitement and curiosity fading quickly away as his words brought her back to the harsh reality of that moment. “My mother’s dead.” She said coldly, fighting hard to withhold the tears.

  “Yes...” Brandis nodded sadly, unable to put the guilt he felt into words.

  “Tell me everything...!” She said softly, her icy gaze daring him to defy her command. He wasn’t that stupid.

  Axis Front Lines

  Near Cairo-Suez Road

  35km east of Cairo, Egypt

  October 1, 1942

  Thursday

  It was another hot day identical to those that had preceded it, with temperatures easily moving above thirty degrees Celsius before noon. Nothing interrupted the hive of activity at the main marshalling yards outside Cairo however: Generalfeldmarschall Rommel had returned and the final preparations were now being made for the last ‘big push’ that would smash the Allied defences and wipe out the remaining British presence in North Africa once and for all.

  Hundreds of tanks and armoured vehicles had been assembled along with masses of mobile and conventional artillery in support. Two complete air wings of helicopter gunships had also arrived to bolster the scores of Luftwaffe fighters, bombers and attack aircraft already waiting at various makeshift airbases from Cairo right around to Port Said at the northern mouth of the Suez Canal.

  Everything was set for a green light within the next 24-48 hours as infantrymen and other front line combat troops camped with their trucks, half-tracks and infantry fighting vehicles, ready to accompany the armoured hordes when the panzers finally began to roll inexorably south and west.

  None of that particularly concerned Willi Meier however as he rode in the rear of the Puma armoured car that afternoon, head and shoulders poking out through one of the rear hatches with eyes covered by tinted goggles for protection against the dust and glare. Rare as it was nowadays, he was more concerned by the potential threat of Allied long-range artillery or the RAF. The unexpected aerial attack on the command units of the Littorio division of the week before had been a stark reminder that although Allied air power had been significantly reduced in North Africa, it still had a few teeth and on occasion could still deliver a nasty bite or two.

  Meier would’ve been happy to face any foe in the air, but being stuck on the ground in a very thinly-armoured vehicle in the middle of an otherwise quite featureless desert made him feel quite vulnerable and insecure. They were a few kilometres behind the actual lines at that moment and were safe from any ground assault, but artillery and aircraft could cover that distance in seconds and he didn’t rate the chances of the armoured car all that highly with regard to surviving an encounter with either.

  At thirty-two years of age, Oberst Willi Meier was proud of what he’d achieved so far as commanding officer of attack wing SG2. His men and aircraft had fought in every campaign in the last two years – in England, in Greece and in The Balkans – and the unit had earned itself many battle honours for outstanding valour and success during that time.

  More importantly, SG2 also boasted one of the lowest casualty rates of any front-line combat unit in the history of the Luftwaffe; something of which he was also immensely proud. Losses in combat were inevitable of course – Meier agonised over every single one – but most of the pilots that flew out on missions with his unit came back again afterward, and that fact was worth more to him than any award the High Command could bestow.

  Like many of the air units in North Africa, SG2 Immelman had used the down time since the cessation of major hostilities well and had taken the opportunity to reequip and rearm with brand new attack aircraft. Fighter wing JG27, which was also posted to the same airfield, had received the new and much-vaunted J-16A jet fighter – the latest Model-262 design from Messerschmitt. Faster than anything else that had ever flown, the Schwalbe (or ‘Swallow’) promised to be an absolute world-beater that had completely dominated the few small-scale air engagements in which it had been involved to date.

  His own unit had also been issued replacements for their venerable old Messerschmitt Lions, although the old S-2D would be sorely missed. Known by the official RLM classification S-15, the new Heinkel Model 280 Libelle (‘Dragonfly’) used the same engine layout of the J-16: a pair of compact and incredibly fuel-efficient Junkers Jumo turbojets. Although they couldn’t carry as much ordnance as the aircraft they replaced, they were much faster and far more manoeuvrable, two factors which made them substantially more survivable than their predecessors.

  They were quite close before he spotted the crash site, the Puma’s forward-mounted turret obscuring his vision until the last moment. As the vehicle drew to a halt a few metres away, Meier shuddered to see what was left – what little was left – of what had once been an A-2G ELINT aircraft and one of the largest single-engined aircraft ever flown. As he climbed from the rear of the vehicle and made his way over toward the blackened ruin, he shielded his eyes against the sun and used his other hand to clamp his Afrika Korps cap tight against his head. The goggles helped against the dust as a hot gusting wind whipped across the desert from the south, but it did nothing to keep the gritty sand out of his mouth or nose and his expression was one of a constant grimace as a result. Over one shoulder he’d slung a large, canvas duffel bag that was quite obviously empty as its surface rippled behind him in the wind.

  “We could have asked HQ for the incident report, Mein Herr,” his executive officer, Hans-Ulrich Rudel, pointed out from beside him as they walked, raising his voice somewhat and shielding his own mouth against the dust as he spoke. “It’s probably got more detail in it that we’re likely to find here...” He knew his CO had brought them to that place for some specific reason, but Meier had been uncharacteristically secretive about the true purpose of their visit... something that intrigued the young man greatly.

  Hans-Ulrich Rudel was just twenty-six and had recently been promoted to the rank of major due to his sterling combat career as an attack pilot throughout the invasions of France and Britain, and in the subsequent campaigns in the Balkans and North Africa. With more than 500 missions under his belt already and numerous awards and decorations – including the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross with Oak Leaves – the man had proven to have a natural ability for ground attack; something that didn’t always come easily to even the greatest pilots.

  He’d been with SG2 since its creation and had risen quickly through the ranks; firstly to take command of a staffel and then an entire gruppe of aircraft during the Balkan campaign. He’d served as Meier’s XO for three months now following his predecessor’s untimely demise at the hands of Allied anti-aircraft guns over Port Said. Perhaps Meier’s height or a little taller, the clean-shaven Rudel was a man with strong, chiselled features and dark, intelligent eyes. He was also a non-smoker and teetotaller, something that had earned him the nickname of Sprudel. It was a shortened form of Sprudelwasser or ‘sparkling’ water; something that was rumoured to be the man’s preferred (non­-alcoholic) choice of drink at the Officer’s Mess. The nickname generally wasn’t used in his presence.

  “I’m sure the incident report would be quite comprehensive, Hans,” Meier replied after a moment, the sc
orn in his voice clearly indicating how he felt about that remark, “but these investigations aren’t always carried out thoroughly so close to the front, and I in any case doubt very much that the investigators were looking for the same things we will be...”

  “Those different things being...?”

  “The official report lists this aircraft as being shot down by enemy flak with the phrase ‘no further details available’ added which – as you know – generally means they don’t want to tell us about the ‘further details’ they do know.” He turned and pointed an accusatory finger toward the east. “Those two ‘special’ new tanks we’ve all heard about are right over there, and it doesn’t take a genius to work out the defences in that area would be heavier as a result. HQ has given us nothing other than standard estimates of their flak and aerial threats, and I for one think it’d be nice to have a little more detail.” He grimaced as a less pleasant memory flickered in his mind. “I also have my own thoughts on what they might have waiting for us there, but I’ve been loath to take anything back to Fliegerkorps without evidence.”

  “Mein Herr...?” Rudel prompted after a pause, knowing his CO well enough to expect more information to be forthcoming.

  “High Command is saying that radar-directed flak shot this aircraft down,” Meier growled as they walked on, adjusting his kepi as the wind died down and wiping at the sweat collecting beneath on his forehead. “Never mind that it was shot down in complete darkness and at low-level – difficult circumstances even with those bloody American gunnery computers they’re using over there now – or that there were no reports whatsoever regarding any enemy guns firing that night.”