Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2)

by Charles S. Jackson

  Colonel Jack Davies couldn’t help himself – he honestly couldn’t – and he found himself unable to catch the next remark, phrased as it was in the form of a rhetoric question, before it had slipped nimbly from his lips.

  “Who’s gonna be the Vice President… Jerry Lewis…?”

  It was a throwaway line of the kind he’d have expected Max Thorne to have come out with, and it surprised the colonel somewhat that it has slipped past his defences unchecked.

  “Who, sir…?” Second Lieutenant Ronald Wilson Reagan asked, completely uncomprehending as Davies kept his expression unchanged, desperately trying to cover up the embarrassment he felt over the inappropriate, paraphrased quote from Back to the Future.

  “Never mind, lieutenant,” Davies shrugged with a wry smile, patting him gently on the shoulder once more. “It’s been a long day and I think I need some rest.” He forced another smile. “Damn right any kid can dream of being President, lieutenant, and I can’t see any reason why you shouldn’t either. Right now though, I think I’m gonna head back to barracks. Oh-six-hundred, remember?”

  “You got it, sir… we’ll be ready and raring to go…!”

  “I don’t doubt it, son… I don’t doubt it…”

  There were many military vehicles on base that Davies might’ve made use of but he’d instead decided to use his own personal vehicle, brought down from Washington in the weeks following his arrival at the air base at the beginning of the year. Coming in at close to two tonnes, his maroon 1942 Lincoln Continental convertible was a huge vehicle in every respect, and had cost him the better part of $3,600 (a substantial sum by 1940s standards). With a V12 engine, 3.1-metre wheelbase and 5.5-metre length, its design was based on that of a one-off vehicle built for Edsel Ford himself. Many considered it to be one of the most beautiful and stylish designs built during the 1940s.

  Davies had to concede that although it was not quite up to the standard of the Saleen Mustang he’d driven in Realtime, it was nevertheless an exceptional automobile by the standards of its day. Sliding in behind the wheel, he kicked the 4.8-litre engine over and slotted it quickly into gear, the two-door gliding away slowly with barely a soft growl. With the top down – rainfall wasn’t much of an issue in Nevada after all – he motored sedately away along the edge of one of the taxiways, making sure his head- and taillights were operating in the interests of safety. The tower knew the car by sight and would redirect traffic to accommodate it if need be, but it didn’t hurt to assist the controllers by making himself easier to spot. The guard at the main gate waved him through a few moments later and he turned left on Route 91 heading for Las Vegas.

  Las Vegas Boulevard took him south-west toward the city through open, scrubby desert that was generally no less featureless or devoid of life in daylight than it seemed now beneath a darkening sunset. The last time Davies had visited Nellis AFB, the street he was now driving down had been lined on either side by a seemingly endless vista of seedy motels, fast-food outlets, service stations and cheap housing. It had been something of a culture shock when he’d first arrived at the JSFWTG, although he’d been hard-pressed to decide which image was the better in his mind.

  A short drive of ten miles or so took him through the centre of the city, the Friday evening traffic already building to the point of minor gridlock at some intersections, and eventually brought him to intersection of Las Vegas Blvd and Sahara Ave; the northern end of what would eventually become the famous (in some cases infamous) Las Vegas Strip. There was none of it there now as he drew near; no Trump Tower, no La Mirage, no Cirque du Soleil, no Stardust Casino and no Hilton Grand Vacations Club (which in Davies’ time would stand on the site to which he was now headed). All of that was in yet to be in a future that was now uncertain at best.

  Instead he found himself driving down a sealed, two-lane highway that was surrounded largely by empty, scrubby desert save for the lights of the EL Rancho Vegas resort directly ahead on the right. Opened as part of the EL Rancho hotel chain just the year before by owner Thomas Hull, the huge, sprawling resort stood alone and shone like a beacon of light and activity against the featureless backdrop of the Nevada desert. The largest hotel in Vegas at the time with 110 rooms, it was the first of many casino/resorts to open along the Las Vegas Strip.

  Davies had been staying at the resort as a matter of necessity in the beginning. The Joint Services training unit was just one of many fighter and bomber units ‘rotating’ through the facility at any one time, and even with a barracks capable of housing 3,000 beds, often there wasn’t space to house everyone appropriately. This was particularly the case with officers, who were of course accorded at least some preferential treatment with regard to accommodation, and the El Rancho chain management had been more than happy to provide the United States Army Air Force with a somewhat discounted room rate in return for a guarantee of a ‘bulk’ booking.

  Although the country wasn’t officially at war, production and recruitment were already moving across to a war footing and selected rationing had also been brought into operation for some strategic raw materials such as oil, steel and rubber (something that had cost the Roosevelt administration significant popularity with many Americans).

  The current general feeling right across the country was that war was now an inevitability rather than merely a dangerous possibility, and to that end there were many citizens who’d begun stockpiling their own supplies of food, water and other day-to-day necessities in preparation for the advent of that feared ‘worst-case scenario’. Tourism and personal expenditure on luxuries had also gone into a noticeable decline as a result, and hotels like El Rancho were therefore ready to welcome business from any sector, including the armed forces, with open arms.

  Davies pulled up out front of the lobby, stepped from the car and held the door open for the valet who was already waiting patiently to take the vehicle away. He tipped the man a quarter, for which he received a genuine smile and nod of gratitude. It had taken most of the two years he’d so far spent in that era (along with the loss of significant portions of his monthly salary) to train himself out of the habit of tipping several dollars at a time. For a man accustomed in Realtime to earning well in excess of fifty or sixty thousand dollars per annum, the concept that he was potentially handing across amounts equivalent to as much as half a week’s wages for some was one that had been learned hard.

  The valet slide behind the wheel and took the car away, Davies pausing for a moment to stare out across the visitors’ car park beyond the main entrance’s covered porte-cochère, momentarily at a loss as to why his eyes were drawn in that direction. After a few seconds his gaze came to rest upon a trio of black sedans that were clearly government vehicles. Two were non-descript Fords however the third was clearly a top-of-the-line Packard 180, one of the first vehicles released to offer air conditioning as a standard accessory.

  Perhaps he should have considered the scene slightly unusual in some way, but it was getting late and he was hungry and all he was mostly thinking about was sitting down for a good meal. Dismissing the scene as irrelevant – a premature assumption at best – the air force officer turned finally and made his way inside the lobby, thinking only of which one of the El Rancho’s fine dishes he would sample for dinner that evening.

  Davies had barely made it inside the foyer before he was met by a pair of large men in dark suits, both wearing matching fedoras and Aviator-style sunglasses similar to his own. They were also of similar age, although both were somewhat taller and heavier of build; something that made them appear vaguely intimidating – as was undoubtedly their intention.

  “Colonel Davies…” The man on the left ventured, making a statement rather than asking a question in a tone that was level and emotionless. “We’d appreciate it if you would come with us, sir…”

  He lifted one hand and displayed photo ID that was perhaps the size and general shape of a large playing card. A bland, black-and-white picture of his head and shoulders (sans sunglasses) took pri
de of place in the very centre, above which were three letters in large, bold, blue print – ‘OSS’ – while the words ‘STRATEGIC SERVICES’ bordered the photo on either side. There was no name on the card, however a four-digit identification number was printed at the very bottom beneath the image in a similarly-large font to the letters above, this time in bright red.

  “Well hey, fellas… to what to I owe the honour?” He began with more cheer than he truly felt. He’d been awake since dawn, working non-stop for most the day since, and hadn’t really bargained for any more ‘official engagements’ that evening.

  “If you’d just come with us, colonel,” the speaker ventured once more, this time with a slightly sharper edge to his voice that didn’t slip past unnoticed. As a full colonel, Davies was used to being accorded a certain level of deference and respect, and he definitely felt as if that expectation wasn’t being met at that moment.

  “Buddy, it’s been a long day and I’m really looking forward to getting’ some chow…” Davies began, probably not controlling his immediate frustration as much as he’d have liked (or as much as would’ve been advisable under the circumstances).

  “You can eat while you talk, sir… there’s a private dining room already set aside where some very important people are waiting who’d like to ask you some questions.”

  “Well, ‘pardner’,” Davies growled in return, his Texan accent accentuating under stress as he displayed a broad grin that was equal parts disbelief and ‘fighter-pilot’ arrogance, “maybe whoever the hell wants to talk to me could extend me the courtesy of asking in person instead of sending the ‘hired help’.” It really had been a long day, and he wasn’t in the mood to be pushed around by government agents, the growing reputation of the OSS notwithstanding.

  “We ain’t your ‘pardner’, colonel, and we ain’t in the business of being ignored like a pair o’ Goddamned buck privates,” the second one chimed in quietly, inwardly bridling over the ‘hired help’ remark as he stepped forward slightly in a movement clearly calculated to intimidate. “You can be sensible and come out back with us right now – all nice and civil, like – or we can arrange an interview somewhere much less ‘comfortable’ where I can guarantee you won’t see a decent meal this side of morning… sir…” he added after a pause, the emphasis suggesting no level of respect whatsoever.

  He was the smaller of the two – barely – but he seemed somewhat broader and definitely appeared to be the one in charge. His eyes were cold and hard, and he had the look of a man who’d seen some form of combat or military action - a man who, to use an American idiom Davies had heard used more than once in that era, had ‘Seen the Elephant’. The man’s accent was hard to pick for a Texan’s ear but he suspected it carried within it more than a little Boston Irish, and as common sense began to take over from his fading temper, Jack Davies consciously stifled the smirk that had threatened to spread across his face over thoughts of The Simpsons’ Joe Quimby, choosing instead to believe the OSS agent perhaps sounded a little more like John F. Kennedy.

  “You fellas are serious, ain’t ya?” He managed finally with a sigh of resignation.

  “Yes sir, we are… very…” was the reply he received, although the second speaker was able to allow himself to sound slightly more magnanimous now it was clear from the officer’s tone that he was going to put up no more resistance. “… If you’ll follow us please, sir…?”

  It was a small room with just a single table surrounded by sufficient chairs to seat six people. Just three sat at one end as Davies entered, with both OSS agents remaining outside the door as it closed. Food had already been laid on, with plates and cutlery set out for four and several large serving platters holding an excellent selection of roasted meats and vegetables along with a large tureen of dark, steaming gravy. As he took in the scene he began to understand how serious the men had indeed been, and also felt his first real pangs of regret over allowing his temper to show itself momentarily.

  “Come on in and sit down, colonel…” Those words were spoken by the man sitting to the right of the table, who rose now and took a step forward to meet his arrival. He was a man in his late fifties and of average height, well-dressed in a tailored suit pants and jacket and displaying greying hair combed to either side atop a high forehead. His face was blessed with a prominent nose and open, smiling features which were belied somewhat by ice-blue eyes and a piercing, steely gaze. “I apologise for the short notice of all this, but this whole thing had to be organised on the fly due to information that’s only just come to hand. Bill Donovan’s the name: technically-speaking, we have the same rank, although mine’s more of an honorary thing…”

  “We’ve never met, sir, but I know of you by reputation,” Davies replied evenly, shaking the offered hand of the man singularly tasked by Roosevelt with setting up the Office of Strategic Services – a man who would become the spiritual ‘father’ of the huge leviathan the OSS would eventually become: the US Central Intelligence Agency.

  “Then you’ll know to call me ‘Bill’, son…” Donovan countered with a broad, easy smile, just as happy to ignore their theoretically equal ranks as Davies was “…Wild Bill to my friends…” he paused for a second “…and some of my enemies…”

  “Your nickname from college, sir; Columbia, I believe?”

  “You’ve done some homework, I see…” Donovan conceded with mild surprise and a smile. “I like working with guys who know what’s what.” He turned and gestured to the table and the other guests. “Come and get some grub, Jack – may I call you ‘Jack’? – and we’ll get right down to it.”

  As he returned to his original position, the other two men stood also in recognition of Davies’ approach. Donovan moved to each in turn and extended an indicative hand as he made introductions.

  “May I introduce to you a good buddy of mine, Allen Dulles...?” There was no need to elaborate that the man was also OSS. He was a tall man in his late forties with thinning hair, a greying moustache and round, wire-framed glasses covering a thoughtful gaze. “He’s head of our Switzerland office but he’s Stateside for a few weeks while we look over some information our boys in Ireland picked up,” Donovan continued unabated, now extending his hand to the final member of the group. “Which brings us to Colonel Bruce here; former head of our London office and now operating out of Dublin…”

  David K Bruce, a Great War veteran, was a 44-year-old Virginian lawyer and politician who in Realtime would go on to give great service as a US Diplomat in a career that would include ambassadorships to France, West Germany, NATO and the United Kingdom and participation in the Paris peace talks between the United States and North Vietnam.

  Davies stepped forward and shook each man’s hand in turn. He was too young to have remembered Bruce’s diplomatic career, but he knew of Dulles well enough. In a different reality, not so many years in the future, the man would’ve become the CIA’s first and longest-serving civilian director.

  Some from Davies’ era believed that Dulles had secret links with several major industrial firms within Nazi Germany – firms including steel giant Thyssen and the infamous I.G. Farben, a chemical manufacturer that would go on to supply the Nazis with a deadly pesticide known as Zyklon-B. It was alleged that one reason he became CIA Director was to ensure the cover-up of activities he’d engaged in late in the Realtime war to funnel huge sums of money out of Nazi Germany for the benefit of his many Western ‘clients’. It was also rumoured that Dulles was involved in literally hundreds of extra-marital affairs during his career, although he was certainly not the only man guilty of engaging in activities of that nature and it in any case had little bearing upon his professional duties in general.

  “Well, what can I do for you gentlemen,” the pilot enquired with as much open friendliness as he could manufacture as all four took their seats at the table and a coloured waiter appeared as if from nowhere to serve drinks – in this case an excellent Californian red from one of the Sonoma County wineries.

&nb
sp; “Straight down to business,” Donovan observed approvingly, warming to Davies’ no-nonsense approach immediately. “Well, son: we’ve picked up some real interesting information at ‘The Office’ in the last few days,” he continued, reaching into his inside jacket pocket as he spoke and pulling out several sheets of paper notes that he proceeded to unfold. “A few weeks ago, one of our contacts in Germany managed to bring out details plans of two of their new jet aircraft that have just come into service…”

  “I’ve seen some of those plans, sir,” Davies nodded quickly. “Military intelligence brought copies for me to have a look at last week.”

  “That’s right, colonel… and you were able to identify them right away, weren’t you.” Again, that was a statement rather than a question. “You identified them as…” he paused a moment while finding the correct places in the paper he was reading from “…a Messerschmitt Me-262 and a Cessna A-37 Dragonfly. Well… we managed to confirm from other sources that one of those jets is indeed classed by Messerschmitt as their ‘Model 262’ – although it’s entered service under the designation J-16 – but I have to say, the boys over at Cessna didn’t seem to have any idea what the hell a ‘Dragonfly’ was…”

  ‘Wild Bill’ seemed happy to leave hanging the implication that he had some knowledge of why that was, and Davies didn’t quite manage to keep the sudden feelings of surprise and concern from his face upon hearing those words. President Roosevelt and several members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff were aware of the true nature of Davies’ and Hindsight’s origins, and it was logical to assume that Donovan, who was close to Roosevelt and was – after all – the head of the OSS, would possess sufficient security clearance to have also been made aware of their arrival from the future. That being said, it nevertheless made the pilot suddenly feel very uncomfortable about what he could or couldn’t say in the presence of these men, or – for that matter – where the whole conversation in general was headed.