Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2)

by Charles S. Jackson

  Notwithstanding the reality that the B-10A could barely reach the US Eastern Seaboard on a return journey, even when stripped of its armament and without an offensive weapon load and launched from English airfields, the name itself was considered inflammatory and deemed to be tantamount to an outright declaration of intent on the part of the Luftwaffe with regard to offensive operations against the still-neutral United States of America.

  The solution had come from Reichsmarschall Reuters himself. In the weeks after the British surrender, the edict came down from the OKW that the B-10A would henceforth be referred to in official Wehrmacht circles only by the name ‘Festung’ – ‘Fortress’ – and that the improved B-10D model, with its new engines and greater capabilities, would become the Festung Europa in honour of the Chancellor’s famous speech: a supposedly ‘defensive’ title for the Luftwaffe’s most potent strategic weapon.

  Mauser checked his watch as he continued along the main aisle running down the centre of the aircraft from nose to tail. Their mission – one vital to the coming push against Commonwealth forces remaining in North Africa – was due to commence in just a few more moments. His men were ready. They were well-trained and he knew better than to have any doubts regarding their preparation. In any case, for the large part they were in any case only carrying out the same mission they were tasked with every day… with one small but significant addition.

  With its all-glass, streamlined nose and remote dorsal and ventral turrets armed with fast-firing 23mm cannon, Caesar looked very much like its normal, heavy-bomber cousin in appearance save for one significant difference. Where the B-10D was clean and streamlined along almost the entirety of its slender, gleaming, polished-metal fuselage (save for the aforementioned defensive gun turrets), the fuselage sides of the EK-10G forward and aft of the wing bulged into long, streamlined fibreglass ‘blisters’ within which were housed a multitude of antennae of various sizes and functions. These antennae were fitted to both sides of the aircraft and were used to detect and listen to the multitude of differing radio frequencies used by the British 8th Army in North Africa.

  “Time, Meine Herren… we’re approaching zero-one-thirty… prepare your consoles if you please…” He knew they’d be already ready and waiting for his command, but it was a tradition he liked to perform anyway, his eyes never leaving the sweeping second hand of the watch strapped to his left wrist. “Begin on my mark…” another pause “…now… now… now…!”

  The interior of the main operations deck was insulated as well as could be managed against the outside world both in respect of the elements and soundproofing. Within its sterile, Spartan environment the rush of air all around the speeding aircraft and the constant droning of its huge engines were nothing more than a soft rumble that was completely subservient to the voices of the operators themselves. Their verbal output increased dramatically as Mauser gave his words of command, filling the space around them with chatter as they monitored their stations and passed on the information they were picking up.

  “Suez shortwave transmitter, receiving at six-point-five-three megacycles…”

  “British armoured tactical, receiving at four-point-three-three megacycles…”

  “Suez Theatre Command channels…”

  All around Mauser, calls went out as operators picked up and reported frequencies that the enemy units below were using for their communications. Normally his men would be tasked with identifying which Commonwealth units were actually using the frequencies they were picking up – a substantially more difficult and time-consuming task. That morning however the entirety of their objective was simply to identify and pass the information on to the second Nachtwächter in their formation, flying three kilometres behind.

  Dora was an EK-10H, an aircraft that looked identical to the EK-10G right down to the bulges and blisters fitted to her port and starboard sides, however her mission, while linked to that of Caesar, was completely different. The pair shared a symbiotic relationship and as the leading EK-10 was going about the job of detecting enemy transmissions, Dora was assigned the task of jamming them.

  The antennae within her equipment fairings were connected to transmitters rather than the sensitive receivers of the EK-10G model, and as her operators began to receive details of Allied transmissions frequencies from their matching counterparts flying ahead in Caesar, they immediately went about the task of tuning their own systems to those same frequencies and sending out powerful bursts of radio ‘white noise’: static intended to jam British transmissions over Egypt and make it impossible for the enemy to receive any coherent signals over their tactical and strategic radio channels.

  As the Allied units on the ground realised they were being jammed, frequencies would be changed and there would be a lull of a few minutes as one of the operators aboard Caesar would tune his console up or down in search of the renewed signal. As soon as it was detected, the new frequency would be passed on to Dora and the cycle of jamming would begin once more.

  The tactic could be hit-and-miss on occasion, and it wasn’t always possible to pick up every change of signal one hundred per cent of the time, but it was nevertheless effective enough to significantly disrupt British communications all over the theatre which was – after all – the main objective in any case.

  RAF China Bay

  Trincomalee, Ceylon

  Alec Trumbull could have sworn he’d not had much more than two or three hours sleep. As he was – quite rudely in his opinion –shaken awake in his air conditioned quarters within the officers’ barracks at RAF China Bay, he did in fact swear quite caustically under his breath, the matter not helped in any way as he sat upright on the narrow cot in just boxer shorts and sweaty singlet to discover it was Rupert Gold who’d broken his early morning slumber for the second time in as many days.

  “For the love of all that’s good and holy, Rupert, are you going to make a bloody habit of despoiling my sleep? What the bloody hell are you playing at…?”

  “They’ve lost contact with Suez!” Rupert countered with nervous excitement, completely ignoring the group captain’s display of frustration (which only served to further inflame the other man’s already building temper).

  “What…? Who…? Who has…?” Trumbull asked finally, rubbing at his eyes and running a hand through his hair as he glared at Rupert in the semi-darkness, the only light in the room that which streamed in from the hallway through the open door.

  “Everyone has…!” Rupert replied immediately, standing back and throwing his arms wide in an all-encompassing gesture as reinforcement to his words. “We can hear them well enough, but from what we’re getting in return, it appears they aren’t getting more than about a quarter of what we’re sending back at any one time. They’ve tried switching frequencies, which seems to work for a minute or two, and then the problem begins again.”

  “Sounds like Jerry’s jamming their receivers at the other end…” Trumbull observed sourly, temper subsiding somewhat as his mind cleared of sleep and he was able to think a little more clearly. “Changing channels works for a bit until they pick up the new one and then the whole jolly process starts all over again…”

  “That’s’ pretty much what the radio boffins here think also,” Rupert nodded quickly.

  “Don’t you ever sleep, Rupert?” Trumbull growled plaintively, changing the subject for a moment as he swung his legs off the bed and rose to his feet, reaching for the flight suit hanging from a hook on the wall by his cot.

  “Too hot and far too tense…” Gold replied quickly, as if that were all the explanation required.

  “Has anyone tried relaying messages through our other bases closer to Suez…?” Trumbull accepted the man’s answer with a shrug, seeing no purpose in continuing along that line of questioning. “…Aden or Jerusalem for example…?”

  “Everyone’s having the same problem,” Rupert advised, that piece of information making the RAF officer feel far more concerned about the situation. “They can reach most of t
he other Middle Eastern HQs well enough, but they’re all having the same trouble contacting units in North Africa: the interference appears to be right across the spectrum.”

  “I’d tell you to get dressed, but I see you already are…” Trumbull observed drily as he slipped into his own flight suit, forcibly ignoring any vague sensations of discomfort he might have otherwise felt over dressing in front of a man he had good reason to suspect was a homosexual. “If they’re going to the trouble of jamming everything, that’s not a good sign.”

  “Again, exactly what Wing Commander Rogers thinks… he says they’ve had reports of localised jamming across some frequencies on occasion, but never something this apparently widespread. They’re concerned this may well be the precursor to a major German advance.”

  “Has anyone managed to get through to Max on his frequencies?”

  “Not yet,” Rupert shook his head quickly, “but that doesn’t seem to be a matter of jamming… they’re just not receiving anything…”

  “What time is it there…?” Trumbull wondered out loud, consulting his watch and making a few mental calculations that were far too complex for a man longing so badly for sleep. “Probably about two in the morning, I’d say… The man’s probably having a fine old sleep with his turned his radio off, I daresay…” then added ruefully: “…and good luck to him!” There was a pause as Trumbull pulled a face and rubbed hard at his eyes with both hands, as if to clear them of the last vestiges of sleep.

  “It appears, then,” he continued, “that in retrospect we were well-advised to have the ground crew refuel the jets straight away as we did, rather than leave it all until daylight.” Trumbull released a long sigh of tired frustration as he finished zipping up his flight suit and reached for the helmet sitting on the small bedside table behind him. “It also appears I shan’t be getting any sleep for a little while longer yet either.” He grimaced. “Let’s get the rest of the boys up and about then, shall we? Perhaps once we’re in the air I can trust the autopilot enough to catch up on a bit of kip instead.”

  Port Taufiq

  Suez, Egypt

  It was bitterly cold as Khalid al-Hakim threaded his way carefully through the alleyways separating the warehouses and administration buildings near the wharves. In theory there should have been guards to avoid, but security around the port was by necessity concentrated around the docks themselves, and manpower levels among the Commonwealth forces were in such dire straits that there were rarely any men spared for patrols toward the rear of the port area itself, where many of the smaller and more run-down structures remained abandoned and had fallen into disrepair.

  It was still many hours before dawn as the young man reached his destination and knocked softly at the side door of a small, boarded-up office building. The door opened slightly, and he was neither surprised nor offended to find both the blinding beam of a small torch and the huge muzzle of an old Webley revolver shoved in his face. He was challenged, gave the appropriate password in reply, and was allowed entry, after which a dark figure took a few seconds to check the alley in both directions for any sign of danger before closing the door and locking it securely.

  Inside, a group of a dozen men stood about a long, roughly-made trestle table and poured over a series of maps in poor lighting supplied by several kerosene lanterns spread about the room. The maps covered a variety of areas including Egypt as a whole, the Suez Canal region and also a smaller one of the city itself. Numerous markings and coded notations had been made on each, the significance of which would be complete mystery to the uninitiated.

  “You’re on time for a change,” one of the men growled softly, a glowing cigarette dangling from his lips and only barely glancing up from his maps as Khalid approached. “Makes a nice change from most of the errand boys they send us.” At twenty-four, he was nevertheless one of the oldest in the room, and his strong, piercing gaze swept over the boy for a moment as the rest of the group continued to talk amongst themselves, completely ignoring the new arrival.

  Khalid knew better than to argue or take offence: Gamal Nasser had already reached the rank of captain in the Egyptian Army prior to the Axis offensives in North Afrika and was now a quite powerful leader in the growing Anti-British movement within the country. Although not obviously broad or excessively muscular, he was a tall and fit man for all that who’d made the most of his military training both mentally and physically.

  His swarthy complexion was complimented by an intense and intelligent stare and he wore a thin moustache below his prominent nose that to Khalid was reminiscent of a movie star… or at least would have been had Hollywood at any stage thought to employ real Arabs to portray Arab characters in movies.

  “I’ve been sent with word from the Northern Command,” Khalid said eventually, finding enough backbone to at least match the other man’s gaze as he spoke. “Our brothers behind the German lines have noted troop movements and a massive build-up of forces north of Ismailia: lots of tanks, mechanised infantry and artillery. At least three more fighter-bomber wings have been moved into Alexandria and at least two wings of their gunships have been sighted at Port Said. Everyone thinks the Germans are massing for a final assault.”

  “Of course they are,” Nasser replied without sarcasm. “We’ve seen similar reports coming out of Cairo regarding their forces in the west also. I’m surprised they’ve waited this long to be honest: the British are nothing more than a skeleton force now at best. The real problem is not what the Nazis will do to the British… rather it is what they will do after the British are gone. I know your brothers in the north are as ready as we are… already we’ve left things too late, but if we can strike now, overthrow the Tommis and take control of what little country we have left, at least there may be some chance of us gaining some concessions from Rommel after their ‘Great Victory’ is handed to them on a silver platter.”

  “Unfortunately, it’s not Rommel we’ll need to deal with though, is it, Gamal?” A thinner man of similar age had broken away from the main conversation about the long table and moved across to Nasser’s side. “Even Reuters would be fair, I think – up to a point – but ultimately it’s what Hitler decides that carries the day…” Shorter than Nasser, he was also thinner and darker of complexion, with a broad smile, thicker moustache and already showing a vaguely receding hairline at such a young age.

  “All true, Anwar, all true,” Nasser agreed with a faint smile, “but our chances will be even worse if we’ve nothing to bargain with. I’ll be damned if I’ll go down on bended knee before the Nazis any more than I would before the British!” He turned back to Khalid. “There was a time when Lieutenant Sadat here couldn’t say enough about how inspired the German Chancellor was… how brilliant he was in bringing England so quickly to heel…” He gave a snort of kindly derision. “Not so certain about it all now though, are we Anwar…? Not since we’ve seen the way the SS has been treating our brothers and sisters in their occupied territories…”

  “Gamal loves to be proven right, young man…” Anwar Sadat confided with a brave attempt at seriousness only barely marred by a wry smile of his own. “Fortunately, he often is right… just ask him…!”

  “Such impudence…!” Nasser shot back, waving his hand dismissively as he signalled the moment of light-heartedness over. “You’ll be giving the boy ideas shortly.” He addressed the next words to Khalid alone, his face suddenly a mask of complete and utter seriousness. “We have maps and plans we need you to take back with you – you’re to hand them only to Captain Amer… you understand this…?”

  “Of course, sir,” Khalid responded instantly.

  “Can you be back at Ismailia before dawn?”

  “I have a vehicle waiting, sir… the orders will reach them on time.”

  “Good man,” Nasser said finally, nodding his approval. He paused for a moment, something jogging his memory. “We’ve met before, haven’t we…” It was a statement rather than a question. “Two… no, three years ago… there was a
meeting at my old school and you were up the front, asking too many ‘difficult’ questions…”

  “I’m sorry, sir, yes… that was me, sir…”

  “Then don’t be sorry,” Nasser shot back bluntly. “Always ask difficult questions… if the person you’re asking can’t answer them, then next ask yourself why they cannot.” His features softened somewhat as he realised he was making the young man nervous. “What’s your name, boy?”

  “Khalid Al-Hakim, sir…”

  “Well, you’re a bright lad, Khalid Al-Hakim… keep asking difficult questions and you’ll do well for yourself…” His expression changed again as he got straight back to business once more and turned back to Sadat. “Anwar… get me those orders would you please… best we don’t keep our man here waiting any longer…”

  “You know he’s been passing information to the Germans, don’t you?” Sadat asked softly the moment Khalid had departed.

  “I don’t ‘know’ anything...” Nasser countered evenly with a grim smile “...but Amer certainly suspects this is the case… so are we, for that matter, although only such information which suits our own purposes, of course. We’ve needed guns and ammunition – lots of both – and the Germans have them to spare in abundance. Our aims at the moment are aligned, and they’ve been very helpful in providing us the hardware we require for our own aims here.” He gave another dismissive shrug. “Such assistance comes at a price though – you know that – so we will play along with Herren Reuters and Rommel just long enough for us to accomplish our own objectives.

  “And what of after the British are gone?” Sadat asked pointedly. “What then...?”