“God forbid they’d have cold weather in the States of course…” The dark-haired, female naval officer behind him added, baiting him in long running gag between the two. Her voice was tinged with a moderate Glaswegian accent and her hair, although cut in a short bob and barely reaching the back of her neck, still served to frame her pale skin, well-defined high cheek bones and a finely-shaped nose. Commander Eileen Donelson was twenty-nine years of age in comparison to Davies’ thirty-six, although she stood at least fifteen centimetres shorter than the Texan’s one hundred and ninety. Donelson also held the same standing within the group as Davies — that of equal 2IC- and filled the role of Thorne’s engineering and military ordnance adviser.
The rest filed in behind them. Nick Alpert, a year or two older than Thorne, had worked in British Military Intelligence before transferring to Hindsight and was probably the only person on the team who knew as much about their objective and enemies as Thorne himself. As tall as Thorne, he was thinner and of a bookish appearance that was accentuated by the small, circular spectacles perched on his nose. His key task within the unit was as intelligence officer, and with liaison between Hindsight and Whitehall.
Alpert was followed by a man little taller than Eileen Donelson. In his early forties, Robert Green was one of those men Trumbull had noted wearing the rather strange, mottled camouflage and slouch hats — an example of which he carried in his hands. The field uniform he wore carried a pattern known as Auscam, as was the pattern on the thin Japara jacket he wore over them. Green, a colonel with the Australian Special Air Service and commander of a six-man squad of SAS, carried an unruly shock of red hair that could only be kept under control when cut close to the scalp as he currently wore it.
The sixth person to enter the room wore the green dress uniform of the United States Marines and radiated career officer to the core. In his late forties, Michael Kowalski was a man of average height and lightly-greyed dark hair, and held the rank of colonel with the USMC. Kowalski had seen service in both Gulf Wars, Afghanistan and in numerous other trouble spots during his thirty years in the military. Although he’d certainly have denied it, Kowalski also probably came closest to possessing outright good looks of the males of the group, the grey at his temples only adding to the strength and even proportioning of his features.
The last man to enter was the group’s only civilian and was an amazingly capable seventy-seven years of age. He was also the shortest member of the group and barely reached 165 centimetres, but his diminutive height and deceptively small frame belied a wiry physical strength for his age that had come as a result of many decades of hard work. The years showed heavily in the depth and weathering of his small features and eyes that were alight and intense most of the time. Hal Markowicz held a PhD in nuclear physics, along with degrees in engineering, astrophysics and quantum mechanics. He was also a Polish Jew, although he’d spent the majority of his life in the United Kingdom, and most of the time displayed just the barest hint of a vestigial accent, although it could become more pronounced whenever he became angry or excited.
When they’d all acquired a champagne flute and had gathered around that central table, Thorne raised his glass in a toast. Silently and solemnly, they all lifted theirs in unison and joined him in recognition of their achievement. They all drank.
“Glad to see we rated the good stuff,” Thorne observed with a grin, breaking the mood with timing as good as ever and raising a chuckle. His accent was heavier than normal, as it often was in times or stress or tiredness, but no one made mention of it…it was something they were all used to and knew that it was almost impossible for him to regulate.
“Only the best, of course, Max,” Alpert agreed, lifting his glass once more momentarily. “Only the best…”
“Well, it’s not JD…” Eileen began with a barely-hidden smirk, purposefully drawing groans from all present except Davies, who nodded in serious agreement “…but it’ll do.” She sipped at her own glass. “Not a bad drop at that…!”
“Yes, we know,” Green retorted with a grimace. “We all know there are only two types of alcohol in that small universe inhabited by Eileen Donelson and Jack Davies:… Jack Daniels on one hand and the rest is all piss!”
“Well, ‘Jimmy’ — piss is a strong word…” Donelson shrugged, relenting somewhat. She also sometimes liked to accentuate the Glaswegian in her own voice more than was usual but in her case, although it was quite deliberate, none of the men present ever thought the less of her for it. Secretly, most would’ve honestly admitted that it only added to the beauty of a young woman all already considered stunningly attractive. “Of course we have to make do with what we have.” She flashed a winning smile. “There’s a war on, after all!”
“You can say that again!” Thorne agreed fervently, sliding into a nearby armchair and crossing his legs, instantly appearing extremely relaxed and comfortable. “You lot didn’t have ‘Nasty Old Jerry’ trying to shoot your arse off this evening…made me feel very bloody unwelcome!”
“Doesn’t seem to have done you any harm, you whingeing bastard!” Green shot back in typically unsympathetic, very Australian fashion as they all followed Thorne’s lead and took chairs close together. The officer cadre of Hindsight was, at Thorne’s own lead and insistence, a quite informal group and there was a high level of friendship and camaraderie. “The way Nick here tells it, two of ‘em were only bloody ‘Dora-Nines’ anyway.” Green used the model number for the aircraft he still thought of as a Focke-Wulf Fw190D-9 and that the Wehrmacht called a J-4A. “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size for a change.”
“No bloody fear, mate!” His commander shot back with a grin and shake of the head. Those Flankers were too much hard work for my liking…I’ll take the regular old Luftwaffe any day of the week.”
“One kill away from being a goddamn ace after just one real combat mission, and the guy’s complaining!” Davies growled in mock indignance. “Do you know how many missions it took over Kuwait for me to make an ace?”
“What…hard work was it, chasing Iraqi pilots as they all fucked off to Iran at full throttle?” Thorne laughed, displaying two fingers in Davies’ direction in a rude gesture. “At least mine weren’t running away…” then he added, relenting “…not all of them, anyway…” Thorne engaged in the banter deliberately, although he was having fun all the same. The tension in the air that night had been palpable and keeping the mood relatively light with humour was important. Just that minor exchange had noticeably relaxed the group already and all were now smiling.
“And how goes the state of the war, Brigadier Alpert?” Kowalski asked loudly, obviously changing the subject before the two ‘combatants’ started in on one of their favourite arguing points once more. The emphasis on ‘brigadier’ was in recognition of the fact that when last they’d seen Nick Alpert that morning he’d still worn the rank of captain.
“An excellent question…!” Hal Markowicz agreed, leaning forward in his chair with fire in his eyes. What can you tell us?”
Nick Alpert suddenly found himself the centre of attention as silence reigned and even Thorne and Davies became quiet. Nick was the only one there as learned in history as Thorne, and had also gained the added experience of having spent the last twelve months living in wartime Britain. He was therefore in a perfect position to judge the progress of the opening months of the Second World War.
“Yes, well as Max has already pointed out, the New Eagles are already here: in fact they’ve been here since well before I jumped into Leicester twelve months ago — that’s fairly obvious from the evidence at hand.” He delved his fingers into a top pocket of his uniform battle jacket and withdrew a pen, which he tossed to Markowicz to pass around. “Ball-point pen, courtesy of German industry…direct copy of a Staedtler, by the look of it…I suppose they found that a hugely amusing irony. That’s about as good an indicator as any, and there’s plenty more evidence both civilian and military I’ll be able to show you. Hard to call, but my
best guess would put the New Eagles’ arrival sometime in the first half of the ‘Thirties. Those ball-points came into general use in Europe around ‘Thirty-six.”
“Too fuckin’ early by a long shot…!” Thorne growled, his good humour failing slightly at the revelation. He glanced at Eileen. “…Maybe ten years ahead of time…?”
“Patents were pending just before the war…” She shrugged. “Didn’t really hit the market place properly until ‘Forty-Five or ‘Forty-Six though, so close to a decade or thereabouts…”
“I’d suspected as much,” Nick nodded slowly. “On the military side, the Nazis tested a good deal of equipment in Spain during the civil war there, just as they did in Realtime…only difference is this time that included Messerschmitt Bf109 ‘E-types’ — at least four years early — and two new tanks they named as ‘Mark-One’ and ‘Mark-Two’ models that have no resemblance to the Panzer -Ones and -Twos we would know of. The acceleration of their shipbuilding programs has also been incredible…the yards at Kiel and Wilhelmshaven have been basically working three shifts solidly now for five years or so, so far as our intelligence can work out.”
“More U-boats…?” Kowalski ventured, his own historical knowledge making that assumption seem logical.
“That’s what we’d have expected…” Nick agreed, but shook his head. “As it turns out, it seems that U-boats have been pushed back on the shipbuilding agenda rather than given priority.”
“Why cut back?” Davies frowned. “They almost brought the Brits to their knees in Realtime with what was, in reality, just a handful of subs: with a fully-operational force they could shut the country down altogether.”
“That’s a worrying situation on the face of it…” Eileen observed, giving it some thought. “It implies the Germans aren’t worried about needing to isolate Britain.”
“That’s our conclusion here also,” Alpert nodded with a grimace. “It gets worse: instead of U-boats they’ve instead embarked on an expanded capital ship program. Most of this information has been gathered since I landed in ‘Thirty-Nine, but there seems to have been a lot more frequent and open trading in technology and knowledge between Germany and Japan over the last half of the decade, and part of that has included warships.”
“Oh shit.” Thorne groaned in sour anticipation and Nick nodded in dark agreement, understanding the man’s reaction.
“Yes — reconnaissance and espionage reports indicate that Bismarck and Tirpitz were launched a few months ago and are believed to be completing sea trials soon, if they haven’t already.”
“So they’ve got their two battleships out a bit earlier?” Green began, with more hope than he really felt.
“Sorry, Bob — not quite that simple,” Alpert explained. “We’ve also got pictures of two more battleships of the same class nearing completion in the shipyards– a class that definitely shouldn’t exist on this side of the planet. Hitler apparently refused to abide by the Washington Treaty right from the start and the mentality of appeasement throughout the last half of the Thirties meant he bloody-well got away with it, just as he did in Realtime.”
“Battleships…?” Davies interjected, frowning. “Why goddamn battleships? They should be building carriers if they had any sense.”
“You can bet your bottom dollar there’ll be a few carriers out there too somewhere…” Thorne explained, thinking on his feet as Nick nodded silently in confirmation. “…but you have to take into account the times…in 1940 the world was — is — still obsessed with the battleship as the symbol of naval power: Yamamoto didn’t destroy that myth until Pearl Harbor, although the Brits’ attack on Taranto a year earlier suggested naval air power was on its way. If Reuters is involved then they’ll be building carriers all right, but the image of sea power will be just as important to people like Hitler and the pricks in charge of foreign policy over there. Battleships give a nation a lot of ‘street cred’ when ‘Flying the flag’, as it were, to the rest of the world.”
“There’s also their utility in a worst case scenario,” Eileen pointed out. “If the Germans do come across the Channel, there are few things as useful to an invasion force as a battleship’s guns — that has been a constant for centuries.”
“Yeah, well they’ll get a nasty surprise or two if they do try that!” Davies gave an evil grin. “A very nasty surprise or two…!”
“That’s as may be,” Thorne growled, not liking to take too much for granted. “But I’d still make sure we’ve a contingency plans in place.” He turned his gaze back to Nick. “Were ‘Alternate’, ‘Waypoint’ and ‘Bolthole’ prepared as required?”
“They’re being finished as we speak, although work has taken longer than I’d originally hoped. ‘Alternate’ is complete, and at a pinch, we could probably get in at Tocumwal right now, but it may be another month or so before the Ceylon strip’s finished — seasonal rains and supply problems have delayed things a bit. Fuel may also be a problem: we’ve a refinery — finally — that can cope with producing jet fuel to a high enough standard and the underground tanks here are full, but again it may also be a month or so before we can get enough shipped out to Ceylon for use at Waypoint.” He gave a grimace. “That’s assuming the U-boats that are operational don’t make things difficult.”
“In any case we’d better have ‘Larry’, ‘Curly’ and ‘Moe’ prepared for immediate use — we might need them.” Thorne shrugged, accepting Nick’s answer as the best they could’ve hoped for under the circumstances. “We got an aircraft that can deliver them?”
“Bomber Command has given us a Halifax we’ve had modified to specs. She’ll carry one of the weapons to Berlin and back well enough from here.”
“Assuming they make it out of the target area…” Thorne pointed out, then added: “But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it: worst case, the F-35 can take one in anyway and I’ll pilot the frigger myself if it comes to that.”
“I’ve a detailed report prepared for all of you to read when you’ve had a chance to settle in,” Nick continued, returning to the topic at hand, “but the upshot is that it’s obvious the New Eagles have definitely been here quite a while…a lot longer than we’d have liked. We know for a fact that at the very latest they arrived earlier than June of 1934.”
“How in God’s name can you be so certain?” Thorne was genuinely puzzled.
“I’m surprised you haven’t realised already, Max,” Nick answered evasively with a broad grin, making no effort to conceal his glee as he decided to keep his CO guessing. “All this time we’ve been sitting here and you haven’t noticed?”
“Oh, F-F-S…!” Max replied with an exasperated smirk of his own, beginning to cast his eyes about the room as he recognised and accepted he was about to become the butt of a trick of some kind.
“Christ on a crutch!” Eileen breathed softly in exclamation, the first to notice what Nick was talking about as all looked all about seeking the same clues. “The mantelpiece, Max…!”
“The mantelpiece…? What about the bloody…?” Thorne’s initial glance in that direction yielded no revelation, but as the others also stared and there were more gasps of recognition, he finally caught what Alpert was referring to. “Holy crap…!”
As was standard practice in any military mess anywhere in the Empire or Commonwealth, there was always a picture or portrait to be found hanging somewhere prominent of the reigning British monarch. The Officers’ Mess they were in at that moment was no exception and a large portrait hung high above the mantelpiece by the bar. The image was of the King standing alone at the top of a set of stone steps, dressed in ceremonial robes with a sword at his belt while holding hat and gloves in either hand.
Nothing appeared out of the ordinary at all to begin with until Thorne had taken more notice of the actual person in the picture and had realised the same thing Eileen, Bob Green and Hal Markowicz had discovered. The person they saw standing in that posed portrait was not of the man they’d expected to be depicted there.
“What the fuck’s he doing up there?” Thorne blurted, completely caught off guard.
“That, Max, is an official portrait of the King by the Grace of God of Great Britain, Ireland and the British Dominions beyond the Seas, Defender of the Faith and Emperor of India: Edward the Eighth.” Nick went out of his way to include the entirety of the king’s full title to add weight to the impact of the revelation.
“How in God’s name did he end up staying on? He should be shacked up in bloody Lisbon right now playing footsies with his Nazi mates with that Simpson bint…!”
“Words from the wise, old chap…” Nick cut in with a soft but firm voice, suddenly very serious for a moment as the others noted the change in his demeanour. “No harm done here in front of any of us, but I shouldn’t make a remark like that ever again within earshot of anyone else: words like that are tantamount to treason and that’s quite literally a hanging offence these days.” He continued on a lighter note, providing something of a brief explanation. “We know that the New Eagles have been here at least that long is simple…Wallis Simpson’s death in a car accident in June of 1934 left the King a very different man: a man whom I’ve had the honour of meeting numerous times since my arrival here.”
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