A Mighty Endeavor

Chapter Five GAMESMANSHIP

The B-17C lined up with the runway and made a near-perfect threepoint landing. It came to a halt about three quarters of the way down the runway, then taxied off on to a parking lane. Once the engines started to spool down, Stuyvesant watched a hatch in the lower part of the fuselage open up and the crew drop out; four men, led by a stocky officer whose command authority was immediately obvious.

“Stuyvesant?” Stuyvesant had expected the voice to be overbearing and a near-shout; in fact, it was soft and hard to hear over the residual engine noise and the wind. He had to strain to catch the words.

“I am. Captain LeMay?”

LeMay nodded. “My crew. Captain Archie Smith, Second Lieutenants Harris Hull and John Paul Bobo. They told me this mission was critical, so I brought the best we have.”

“Pleased to meet you gentleman. Would you like to rest up from your flight?”

“I see no cause for rest. The aircraft will be repainted here. Your party has been told we’ll be heading into Prestwick?”

“They have and they’ll be there. I’ve got your passenger manifest and other documents. My courier brought them out yesterday. She’s in the control tower if you need any additional data. Party is Winston Churchill, Henry Thomas Tizard, Brigadier F.C. Wallace of the British Army, Captain H.W. Faulkner from the Royal Navy, Group Captain F.L. Pearce of the Royal Air Force, Professor John Cockcroft, a nuclear physicist and Assistant Director of Scientific Research at the Ministry of Supply, Dr Edward George Bowen, a radar expert, Arthur Edgar Woodward-Nutt, an Air Ministry official and Frank Whittle, a propulsion engineer. Also, there will be Achillea Foyle, Gusoyn Rivers and Eleanor Gwynne. They’re the security detachment. Twelve people in all. Plus three thousand pounds of scientific documents and prototype equipment.”

LeMay nodded. “We can manage this. The aircraft has a bomb bay fuel tank. The cargo will have to ride inside. The two women can sit in the radio cabin; everybody else will fit where they can.”

“Captain, why did you choose Prestwick? There are other bases further north.”

“No fog there. Ever.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Not your job to.”

Stuyvesant was getting used to LeMay’s manner. The terse manner wasn’t rudeness; the man habitually used the fewest possible number of words to get his meaning over clearly. Despite the man’s reticence, Stuyvesant found himself liking the Air Corps Captain. That made the next bit uncomfortable.

“Captain, you have been briefed on this mission. It’s top secret. We’ve got a cover story worked out, but it’s flimsy and will probably fall apart. If it does, the next cover is that you were on leave and took on delivering this aircraft as a private venture. Earning a little money on the side, as it were, to deliver an embargoed aircraft. If it comes to that, your reputation will be pretty much trashed. If you want out, just say so.”

“I was briefed, so I brought a minimum crew.”

“Something else.” Stuyvesant hesitated, not quite certain how to phrase this and not wanting to give offense. “Three members of my family are in the party you’ll be picking up. That puts me, and my whole family, in your debt. If this goes wrong, we will look after you. If this goes really, terribly wrong, we will look after your family. They’ll want for nothing. We’ve done that for other people who’ve helped us in the past and we’ll do it in the future. We take pride in paying our debts in full.”

LeMay said nothing but nodded slightly. “You coming, Stuyvesant?”

Stuyvesant was about to say no, but he suddenly realized it had been a long time since he had done something arguably stupid just for the sheer joy of it. “If you can fit me in, yes.”

“You can ride in the co-pilot’s seat.” The two men walked over to the control tower. A hastily-built structure, it offered only nominal protection from the biting wind. Tucked in one corner, Igrat was reading a fashion magazine. The collar of her fur coat was turned up and her nose was reddened by the wind.

“Igrat, this is our navigator and mission commander, Captain LeMay. Captain, our courier, Igrat Shafrid.”

Igrat gave LeMay her most charming smile and got virtually no response. LeMay looked at her curiously. “You went to England and relayed the plan details?”

“Yes. The code is a Morse letter V. Dit-dit-dit-dah. Flash it on your landing lights as you come in. I also weighed all the equipment and papers they wanted to bring and made each member of the party weigh themselves. The list of weights is on that manifest. I thought it might help you load quickly.”

“It will.” LeMay looked through the sheets of paper. “I find no cause for complaint here. Commendable.”

He left to supervise the repainting of the Flying Fortress. It was already beginning to sport the British “sand and spinach” color scheme with its belly painted black. Igrat looked at Stuyvesant and raised a carefully arched eyebrow. “Why do I think that he believes the proper reward for a perfect performance is the absence of punishment?”

“Iggie, I think you just got the highest praise you’re ever likely to receive. I doubt if he’s ever told more than one or two people that their performance was ‘commendable’ in his life.” Stuyveasant thought for a second. “People like him are rare. Planners and administrators are commonplace, but our Captain LeMay is an operator. He doesn’t talk or lecture. He just makes things happen.”

“"Osbourne, please, one last chance. Come with us.” Eleanor Gwynne pleaded with the man standing next to her. She was shabby; her clothes were torn and her face streaked with makeup that appeared to have run from continuous weeping. In fact, the appearance was deceptive and the result of patient preparation. It was essential that she looked like a maltreated prisoner and that their safety could depend on it.

The Duke of St. Albans shook his head. “My place is here. Somebody will have to organize a resistance to That Man. The regular army wouldn’t take me and I won’t sit around on a pension in a foreign land. This is where the de Vere Beauclerk family lives and where we will stay. Charles has his part in all this and must stay. By the same logic, I must stay and do my part. Now run along Nell, and get our people to safety.

The trucks and the Humber staff car were waiting outside. Gusoyn and Achillea wore the black shirts and khaki pants of the Police Auxiliary. Both had Thompson submachine guns hanging over their shoulders and Webley revolvers in holsters on their Sam Browne belts. Eleanor had another Webley carefully hidden beneath her clothes. Her shackles, ragged clothes and bruised face would cause her to be ignored as a potential threat if the back of the lorry was searched. A little judicious weeping would add to the effect. The combination would cost the man taken in by it his life. Eleanor Gwynne wasn’t a fighter and did not hold the principle of a fair fight in any great regard. She had no compunction about shooting people in the back.

Four other members of the party, the youngest ones, were also dressed as Auxiliary Police carrying Thompsons. The rest were in the trucks, also appearing to be prisoners. They too sported bruises and ragged clothing. Of course the primary ‘prisoner’ was the stout figure of Winston Churchill. The instructions that had been passed via Igrat were quite clear. He was to escape even if it cost everybody else their lives.

Gusoyn took Eleanor by the elbow and helped her up into the back of the small lorry. She settled down on the wooden bench and checked that the shackles she was wearing would slide off without any delay. If she had to spring an ambush, split seconds would be vital. Her job was to shoot the man nearest to her and the most threatening man and then draw fire. If it went well, Achillea would cut the others down with her Thompson before they had the chance to kill anybody. Eleanor didn’t want to know what would happen if it didn’t go well.

“Everybody on board?” Gusoyn had taken over the leadership of this party. He and the other “Auxiliary Police” pulled down the canopy on the two lorries and tied off the rear panels, sealing the occupants in and also concealing them from view. Then, he got behind the wheel of the Humber staff car and put the vehicle in gear to lead his little convoy off. They had a two hundred and fifty mile drive in front of them. He’d allowed a whole day for the trip, plus a little spare. Twenty four hours has to be enough, he thought, but we have to be there when that plane comes in.

Standing on the gravel drive, Osbourne de Vere Beauclerk, Duke of St Albans, watched the convoy leave. Sadly, he shook his head. What kind of country has this become when to travel safely needs such deception? How low have we sunk? Another question pushed its way into his mind despite his efforts to prevent it from doing so. And how much lower will we sink before this is all over? As the tail-lights rounded a curve and vanished he asked himself another question. Just how does one start a resistance movement anyway? There has to be a book on it in the library somewhere.

“Damn, I wasn’t expecting a checkpoint this early.” Achillea was worried. They’d been driving for less than an hour and were only roughly 20 miles north of Nottingham.

“I was. Two main trunk roads coming together just short of a major town? It is a natural place for a checkpoint. There will be others. We will just have to bluff our way through each.”

The checkpoint was manned by two uniformed police officers. Bobbies, Gusoyn noted, not the already-hated Blackshirts. He stopped the Humber beside the line of old tires that had been placed on the road and got out. He saw the expression of dislike on the face of the policemen as they saw his uniform, but they also noted the revolver in its holster.

“Auxiliary Police Chief Inspector Rivers. Let us through.” Gusoyn flashed his badge. It had been made up by guesswork with some helpful advice on heraldry from the Duke. The gamble was that nobody else would know what an Auxiliary Police badge looked like either. The same applied to his orders. They had the same badge printed on the paper and the typing looked authentic. The Auxiliary Police were virtually unknown this far north.

“Not so fast, Sir.” The sir was grudging. Gusoyn had assumed that the Auxiliary Police would be over-ranked to give them the authority they needed. Also, the more the local police disliked them, the better. “What are you doing up here? We don’t see your kind around here.”

“Read my orders.” Gusoyn never liked being rude to people, but his assumed identity demanded it.

“Taking prisoners up north.” The police officer was hesitant. “Why? What’s going on?”

Gusoyn winked. “Take a look.”

He led the two police officers around to the tailgate on the first lorry and lifted the rear flap of the canvas. “See who we’ve got on board.”

“My God, it’s Winnie.” The policeman gasped. He shone his torch inside, showing the unmistakeable features of Winston Churchill. The other occupants, two men and a crying woman, hardly gained any notice.

“That is right. In protective custody.” Gusoyn laughed nastily. “And will be all the way up north. Down for disposal, this lot are. Subversives and saboteurs of the Armistice. All to be disposed of, if you get my drift. Quiet like.”

“Get out of here.” The police officer nearly snarled the release.

Gusoyn climbed back into the car and rolled past the checkpoint. The two lorries followed.

“Can we expect a checkpoint every twenty miles?” Achillea was concerned at how often their bluff would hold up. It only needed one checkpoint to smell a rat and the whole escape would fall apart.

“I do not think so. We must follow the A618 to Rotherham and then the A633 until we hit the A61 at Wakefield.” Gusoyn had spent most of the previous night studying maps. “I think the next checkpoint will be where the A61 and A64 meet north of Wakefield. That is another fifty miles or so.”

Behind them, the two police officers watched the trucks disappearing. The younger of the two men was angry. “Poor Winnie, he deserves better than this. Bloody Blackshirt bastards. Think we ought to tell somebody?”

“Poor bastards.” The older officer was less excited. “Too stupid to realize they’re on the chopping block as well. You think they’ll be allowed to live with what they know? And, Bert, we tell nobody. Everybody who’s seen that little procession and who’s in it are dead men. We say nothing. They never passed through here, we never saw them and we don’t know anything about them. As you value your life Bert, keep your blooming trap shut.”

“I wish I knew how Nell and the others are doing.” Igrat wore her mink coat, a pilot’s silk scarf wrapped around her neck. She was still shivering with the biting cold. “For all we know, they’ve been caught already and this is all for nothing. And why do you have to go?”

“We need to have somebody who recognizes our people when we get there. Iggie, this can all go badly wrong. We’ll just have to keep going and hope that it doesn’t.’

“You made that up to justify going on this flight, didn’t you? I know you. You’re bored and this is a little adventure. You could stay here.”

“I could, but there are good reasons for going. I’ve got a feeling we’re going to be working pretty closely with our Captain LeMay for a long time and I want our relationship to start off on a sound footing. Going along with him will be a good way to do that. And yes, I am bored. So are we all; you know that.”

“I also know that doing foolish things from boredom gets us killed.” Igrat was near tears. “Isn’t organizing this bombing campaign enough for you?”

“It will be, once we get things really moving. But this is different. It’s actually doing something instead of sitting behind a desk.” Stuyvesant caught the warning in Igrat’s eyes and carried on smoothly. “Anyway, I’ve never ridden in a Flying Fortress before.”

“Four hour flight.” Captain LeMay spoke from behind Stuyvesant. “Seven-twenty nautical miles. We have a thirty percent fuel reserve. This is satisfactory.”

Stuyvesant looked at the B-17C on the runway behind them. It had been fully repainted in British colors. The red-white-blue roundels stood out in the moonlight. “You know, those full-color markings show up pretty clearly. Can’t we dim them down a bit?”

“Attract suspicion. The British are still using full-color markings. We look different and people start to ask questions.”

Stuyvesant nodded. “When do we take off?”

“Sixteen hours time.”

“I’ve arranged for some hot food to be ready and the barracks are heated. The Marines did a good job up here.”

“I have no cause for complaint.” LeMay nodded brusquely. “Eat and get some sleep. Miss Shafrid, you need it. You look like hell.”

Igrat eyed his retreating back. “Quite the diplomat, isn’t he?”

The numbers flowed past Achillea’s eyes as the convoy headed north. A642, A63, A6120 and now the A58. The one blessing was that they’d only been through one more checkpoint, where the A6120 hand joined the A58; they’d just been waved through. “How are we doing?”

“Very well. We stay on this road until we hit the A1 at Boroughbridge, then we follow that road all the way north to a place called Melsonby. The A1 is dead straight most of the way, Achillea; it is a Roman road. A good augury, I think.”

“I hope so.”

“Then we have to follow a road called the A66 from Melsonby until we hit the A68. They’re both Roman roads as well, and they take us all the way to a place called Culgaith where we change to the B6412 to Langwathby. From there, follow the A686 all the way north to Brampton, switch to the A6071 over the Scottish border and join the A7. That puts us barely seventy miles out. We just have to wiggle through some B class backroads to join the A74. Then, take the B743 and it drops us right into Prestwick airport. We are doing very well.”

“I should hope so. My rear is getting stiff.”

Gusoyn laughed. “If you think you have problems in this comfortable staff car, imagine what it must be like in those lorries. Sitting in the cab will be bad enough; the poor people in the back on those wooden benches will be feeling really bad by now.”

“Can’t we stop and give them a rest? Or change around a bit?”

“Not really. We will need to stop for gas… I am sorry, petrol… but we will be in public view then. I am a bit worried about the last leg. We will have to wriggle across country on B roads for a bit and that will be slow and we could get lost. At least they have put the road signs back. I was a bit worried last night that I could not find a way through on that last stretch.”

“You’ll manage it Gus; you always do.” Achillea closed her eyes and let herself be lulled into sleep by the drumming of the road on the tire surfaces.

She woke briefly at another checkpoint at Melsonby after being on the road for ten straight hours. She was also awake then the convoy commandeered a resupply of petrol at a station shortly afterwards. Idly, she wondered just how much chaos Gusoyn’s casually-signed requisition would cause.

By the time she finally woke up again, the convoy was moving along a narrow country road. She shivered slightly and looked around at the surrounding countryside. “Where are we? And has the car got any heat?”

Gusoyn shook his head. “Get the car warm and I’ll start going to sleep. We’re at a place called Chanlockfoot, in Ayrshire, I think. We’re doing the backroads wriggle now.”

“Do you want me to take over?”

Gusoyn shook his head. “I’ve got the route fixed in my head and I know where I am. If I take a break, I’ll get us hopelessly lost. The A74 is a few miles ahead and once we’re on that, we’re nearly there.

“Oh, hell, what is this?”

A tractor had got stuck pulling a cart across the road . Achillea felt Gusoyn stop the car. Every nerve in her body screamed warnings. She had her Thompson on her lap. Her hands moved quickly, checking her knives and her pistol. Sure enough, half a dozen men stood up from behind the stone walls. The ones who didn’t have shotguns had hunting rifles. “Well, sure enough, we have us a lorryload of blackshirts. Morag from the village said they were coming through. Now, all of you. Out of those vehicles and drop your guns.”

Achillea reached down and dropped the Thompson. She didn’t think much of it anyway. She was more worried about it going off than losing it.

“Don’t get hasty or you’ll regret it.”

“Aye, we’ll regret shooting a full half dozen of you fascist bastards. Be payback for Spain, it will.” The six men nodded and obviously agreed with their leader.

“You were with the International Brigade?” Achillea spoke quietly. If she could get within ten feet, she would have the rifle out of his hands before he knew what happened. He might have served with the International Brigade, probably had, but she knew he was no match for her.

“Aye, I was that. And saw you swine at work there too. Now all of you get on your knees.”

Achillea thought for a second, then made a considered reply. “No. And you’re wrong, we’re not Blackshirts. We’re fakes; imposters. We’ve got some people we’re smuggling out of the country.”

“You’ll not fool me with that, lassie.”

“Then take a look in the back of the first truck.” Achillea was quite unaware she’d used the wrong word, but it made the leader of the group look sharply at her.

He walked to the back of the lorry. The sonorous, rolling tones of Winston Churchill echoed out. “She is telling you the truth and very glad I am to be able to confirm it.” Achillea grinned to herself. Churchill didn’t know it, but he had just saved six resistance fighters from getting killed.

“I’d heard you were killed.” The heavy Scottish brogue was shaken.

“I am pleased to tell you that the reports of my death are greatly exaggerated. After sitting on a wooden bench in this lorry for eighteen hours, only my rear end is dead. The rest of me is very much alive.”

The resistance leader walked back to Achillea. “How did you get through the checkpoints?”

“Mostly, they saw what they thought we were and waved us through. The others, we showed them these.” She produced her fake badge and the forged orders.

The man pulled another badge from his pocket and compared the two. “These are nothing like the real ones.” He was suspicious again.

“We know. We made them up, assuming that nobody would know what the real ones looked like.” Achillea paused for a few seconds. “Is that a real one? How did you get it?”

“Took it off a Blackshirt who came this way. Don’t know why he came, but we buried him in the woods anyway.”

“How did you kill him?” Achillea was professionally interested.

“We didn’t. We just buried him.” Achillea looked at him and grinned. The man continued after returning the smile. “What’s a lassie doing leading this?”

She looked at him stonily. “I’m not a lassie; I’m a Roman gladiator.”

The man paused for a second then burst out laughing. “That’s good. Roman gladiator indeed.”

Achillea acknowledged the laugh. “The other thing is I’m not in charge; he is. Name’s Gusoyn Rivers.”

“I have got a deal for you.” Gusoyn was back in the game now. “We have got eight Thompson guns and a dozen Webley revolvers, plus ammunition. All courtesy of the Sherwood Foresters.

“You come with us, show us to the A74 where we have to go and come with us to Prestwick. Then, you can have the guns and ammo. Start your resistance movement off nicely, I think. You can have the trucks and car as well, but I suggest you burn them.”

“And we have a crate of hand grenades in the trunk of the staff car. You can have those as well.” Achillea tossed them in as a sweetener. “Although for a resistance fighter, a pistol is the best weapon you can have.”

“Tommy guns, grenades and revolvers. Billy Boy, this could put us in real business.” The speaker, like any true Scotsman, found the idea of throwing hand grenades at invaders irresistible.

“Aye. You have a deal. We’ll ride with you to Prestwick.”

“How did the aircraft get its name?” Stuyvesant was curious.

“This one? It just popped into our minds. It seemed right somehow, almost as if she was telling us herself. Sometimes the crew will vote on a name or the aircraft commander will pick one by himself.” Captain Archie Smith made some minute adjustments to the controls. “We’ll be making our approach in ten minutes. What happens when we get there?”

“If everything has gone right, we’ll be able to sell the idea that this is an aircraft being delivered to the RAF and has just flown in via the Greenland route. We have orders to pick up some cargo and passengers at Prestwick and fly them down to Abingdon where the aircraft will be accepted by the RAF. By the time we are missed, we’ll be well on our way home.”

“Those orders better be convincing. Any fighters at Prestwick?”

“The orders are. Written in best British bureaucratese by a leading British civil servant. Sir Humphrey Appleday no less. They are a masterpiece. As to fighters, as far as we can tell, just a detachment of Defiants.”

“Just Defiants? Damn it, those things are a menace. They cut a squadron of Hun 109s to pieces over Dunkirk. With that power-operated turret, it can sit in one of our blind spots and riddle us. The Air Corps does a lot of talking, but these C-models aren’t fit for combat. No armor, no selfsealing fuel tanks, blind spots all over. And we haven’t got the crew to man the guns we do have anyway. Just Defiants, indeed.” Smith shook his head at the inability of civilians to understand the realities of air combat.

“Archie, course oneeight-three and drop to six thousand feet.” The voice came up from the navigation table.

“I’ll bet you ten bucks we drop out of the clouds and the runway is dead ahead of us.” Smith was grinning broadly.

Stuyvesant guessed this was a sucker bet and avoided it. “Captain LeMay is that good?”

“Best there is. You hear about the Rex? Six hundred plus mile flight to a moving target with him doing her final position by guesswork. Weather about as bad as it gets. He says, ‘drop out of the clouds’ and when we do, we’re right on top of her. Drove the squids wild.”

“And who are you?” Sergeant Christopher McCulloch of the County of Fife Constabulary shone his torch into the Humber staff car. Only long practice stopped him from catching his breath when he recognized two of the inhabitants of the car.

Gusoyn recognized the Police Sergeant as well and wondered if McCulloch’s presence here on the airport main gate was a coincidence. “Good evening, Chris. I have a letter for you.”

He fished out the paper from Sir Humphrey Appleday that Igrat had brought over. McCulloch took it and read the brief note. It was a comprehensive request for safe conduct and contained a few allusions that left no doubt of its authenticity. He didn’t know what was going on, but he did have a distinct idea he didn’t want to.

“I see. Good luck.”

Gusoyn put the Humber into gear and drove through the main gate as the candy-striped barrier lifted. Behind him, the two lorries followed suit.

“Bring her around to one-two-six; drop to two thousand feet. Prepare for landing.” LeMay’s voice betrayed no stress at all. Stuyvesant was watching out of the cockpit, looking for the first glimpse of the runway. This was a straight-in landing, no messing around with approaches.

“Acknowledged. Flaps twenty degrees, undercarriage down. Prestwick Control, this is RAF Fortress. I on final approach after transatlantic delivery flight. We have cargo and passengers to pick up. Request permission to come straight in.”

“Prestwick Control here. We do not have your arrival logged.”

“Blasted bureaucrats. This Fortress was available so we were told to ferry it over while the Government was still sitting on its thumb. Now, do you want this bomber or don’t you?”

There was a laugh on the other end of the radio. “We’ll take anything right now. Bring her in.”

“Landing lights on. Stuyvesant, flash the recognition code. Electrical panel, second row of switches, first from the left. That’s the one.”

Stuyvesant saw the runway suddenly appear as the Flying Fortress dropped out of the clouds. It was an occupied, operational base with Whitleys parked on the apron beside the runway. For all its apparent insanity, that was a key part in the deception. A bomber arriving at a deserted minor airfield somewhere was highly suspicious; one arriving at an operational bomber base was not. Stuyvesant took a quick look at the runway approaching under their nose and noted that the aircraft was perfectly lined up for landing. He started to flash the agreed signal as Smith looked at him and mouthed ‘told you so.’ On the perimeter of the airfield, a small line of three vehicles flashed its headlights in response. The knot in Stuyvesant’s stomach started to dissolve slightly.

The aircraft bumped as the main wheels hit the ground; then it settled as the tail came down. By the time it had come to a halt, a staff car and two trucks were approaching from one direction and a single staff car from another. An officer got out of the latter and stalked over to the Flying Fortress.

“May I see your orders please?” The question wasn’t quite barked at Stuyvesant, who was still only half way out the entry hatch. But it was that of a man who wanted to be convinced, and wasn’t quite sure what he should be seeing and what was better left unseen.

Stuyvesant handed him the folded orders. “The other Fortresses are still on the production line, but this one was ready, so we were told to bring it over. Our orders are to pick up some passengers and cargo here and fly them down to Abingdon near Oxford.” He spoke with a British accent that sounded almost painfully strangled.

The RAF officer read the papers. The combination of Whitehall Bureaucratese and Stuyvesant’s obviously aristocratic accent caused his attitude to thaw noticeably. “Well, these seem genuine enough. Only Whitehall could come up with something this jawbreaking. Odd they painted her in Fighter Command camouflage though.”

“Tell you the truth, Sir, I think they just slapped the first paint job they could on her. Between us, I’ve heard the Government is going to embargo the supply of these aircraft and Boeing won’t get paid for them until somebody takes them over. So they wanted this one over and out of their doors before that happens. And, of course, the RAF wants every Fortress it can get. This is the new model, by the way. Have you seen the improved belly gun position? Captain Smith, show the Flight Lieutenant the new gun mountings.”

Smith took the RAF officer to the rear of the aircraft and started to show him the twin .50 caliber machine guns in the ventral bathtub. That way, he didn’t see the portly figure being hustled out of the trucks and squeezed through the hatch into the aircraft.

Once Churchill was on board, everybody else could behave more openly. Underneath the aircraft, the bomb bay doors whined as they opened. A team of men from the trucks started to pass crates inside. Once the last crate was in, they got back into the trucks and the little convoy left the airfield.

“You want an escort?” The RAF officer was definitely impressed by the Fortress. “Forgive my bad manners, I never introduced myself. Name’s Cheshire, Leonard Cheshire.”

“Archie Smith. Leonard, this is a Flying Fortress. We’ve got twin .50s in the belly, another twin in the radio cabin and single guns in the waist and nose. We could escort your fighter though.”

“Bloody Yanks.” A bomber baron to his fingertips, Cheshire loved the jab at Fighter Command; the insult was affectionate. “You’re blind astern, though. You really need a tail turret on these things. Have a good flight down south. Do you know where these birds are going to be based? The Bomber Command base at Tangmere?”

Smith nodded and Cheshire gave a curious smile. The crew boarded the Fortress and went through the pre-flight checks. Eventually, Stuyvesant breathed a sigh of relief as the now-heavily loaded bomber turned back onto the runway and started to accelerate down its length. As the wheels lifted off, the last knot of tension dissolved from his stomach. Nell and Achillea were in the radio cabin; Achillea was readying the twin .50s in case of any problems. Gusoyn was aft, by the waist gun positions. All the other passengers were spread out around the aircraft. Churchill was taking a swig of brandy out of a hip flask he’d produced once safely on board.

“Flight time four hours; we will maintain twelve thousand feet all the way.” LeMay’s voice from the navigation table showed no sign of relief or even pleasure. Stuyvesant guessed that to him this was just another job done to the meticulous standards he demanded of himself and others.

It was called protective custody, but it felt more like imprisonment. Likewise, the Police Auxiliaries at the door were technically there for security but were actually jailors. Albert Frederick Arthur George Windsor, better known as His Majesty, King George VI blamed nobody but himself for his situation. He had blundered; blundered so badly that the scale of his error left him near suicidal. In his eyes, the error was so egregious, so utterly damning, that it made the faults of his predecessor seem inconsequential in comparison. To the King, his backing of Halifax against Churchill in the May leadership contest had set the stage for what would happen barely six weeks later. That should cost him his throne; the King believed that it would if there was any justice in the world.

“Major Charles Frederick Aubrey de Vere Beauclerk of the Sherwood Foresters regiment, Your Majesty.”

The King pulled himself out of his brown study and greeted the young Army officer who had been ushered into the room. “My Earl of Burford, how go these sad days with you?”

Charles Beauclerk glanced around the room and touched his ear. The King nodded slightly. He was not bereft of resources and some of them had been used to check for listening devices in this room. “Your Majesty, it gives me great pleasure to report that the rightful Prime Minister of your realm, the Right Honorable Winston Spencer Churchill, has escaped from the United Kingdom and is presently on his way to Canada where he will declare a government-in-exile loyal to Your Majesty.”

The King felt a fierce joy run through him. Somehow, the catastrophic error that cursed the nation he led seemed to lessen slightly. Now was the time to build upon the moment. “You bring me most welcome news, Your Grace. Now, I must charge you with the most important mission you are ever likely to receive. I have a message that must go out on the midday broadcast tomorrow. Most importantly, this message must be delivered to Daventry unseen and unread by anybody who purports to be in authority in this country. I charge you to deliver this message in time for that broadcast, protecting its contents with your life and accepting no obstruction in fulfilling this charge. Do you understand this mission, Your Grace?”

“I do, Your Majesty.”

“It’s come, Martyn. We have a message from the King.”

“Eric, what does it say?” Sir Martyn Sharpe’s voice was urgent and a strange mixture of hope and foreboding. The contents of this message could spell victory or defeat for his efforts to keep India in the war and all the consequences that were attached to that policy.

“It was broadcast from the main overseas BBC short wave overseas transmitter at Daventry in place of the usual midday news. The communique is in two parts. The first a spoken message addressed to all, and the second transmitted in encoded Morse directed at the various Dominion and Colonial governments. They sent the latter twice, each time in a different cipher, both of which were specifically for the use by the Crown. There’s no doubt about its authenticity; this is the real thing.”

“Eric, will you tell me now what is in that message, or I will have it forced out of you?” Sharpe knew he was being teased by his old friend, but that didn’t make it any easier.

“It’s the living will of the Crown. The effective part of the communique reads…” Haohoa took a deep breath and read the message exactly as it was written on the message strip he was holding. “Be it known that it is our will that in the event of direct communication with the Crown being severed. The Powers of the Crown will pass through the direct Representative to the DomCol Cabinet in Committee in trust George VI Rex.”

“Now just what the hell does that mean?” Sir Martyn stared at Sir Eric as both men tried to decipher the cryptic communication. Then, slowly, a smile spread over Sir Martyn’s face. “He’s covering for us; that’s what it means. It’s a safety clause, intended to cover the actions we have already taken, namely ignoring Halifax and Co, as long as the King remains under the control of the Halifax Government. I think we’re being told to wait on events and break loose only if and when we absolutely have to.”

“There’s more.” Sir Eric’s expression changed to that of a cat that had just found itself the sole heir to a cream factory. “Last night, Winnie went on the air, from Canada.”

“Winnie? You mean Churchill has turned up?”

“That he has. In Canada, and a mighty force has been unleashed upon the world. He went out on short wave radio there as well, announcing the formation of a government-in-exile in Canada and damning Halifax with bell, book and candle. You listen to this, Martyn.”

Once again, Sir Eric paused before reading the contents of the message. When he started, it was in a copy of Churchill’s rolling tones. “I stand at the head of a Government-in-Exile representing all Parties in the State: all creeds, all classes, every recognizable section of opinion. We are ranged beneath the Crown of our ancient monarchy. We are supported by the whole life-strength of the British race in every part of the world and of all our associated peoples and of all our well-wishers in every land, doing their utmost night and day, giving all, daring all, enduring all. To the utmost. To the end. This is no war of chieftains or of princes, of dynasties or national ambition; it is a war of peoples and of causes. There are vast numbers, in every land, who will render faithful service in this war, but whose names will never be known, whose deeds will never be recorded. This is a War of the Unknown Warriors; but let all strive without failing in faith or in duty, and the dark curse of Hitler will be lifted from our age.”

“Eric, this changes everything. That went out twelve hours before the King made his speech, so His Majesty must have known its contents. The Canadian Government must have known what Churchill was going to say as well, so the fact this was transmitted means it has official support. Take this speech together with the Daventry message and it’s as clear an indication as we are going to get that we should fight on. Halifax is being completely cut out of the picture.” He paused for a second and caught his breath. “This is going to be an interesting Cabinet meeting.”

“You’d better divide these up between you.” Rachael Cohen put the sideplate with her two pork sausages on it on the table. “Four of you; I make that half each. David, will you do the honors please?”

David Newton exchanged glances with the three other students on the table. With food rationing in place, a half-sausage was a princely gift. The problem was, they all knew Rachael was going short on food because the canteen offered no dishes that met her dietary laws. It wasn’t the canteen staff’s fault, since they were trapped by the rationing system as well. They did what they could and had given her extra portions of veggies to make up for the food she couldn’t eat. Newton reached out and carefully divided each of the sausages in half. It was an old tradition; the person who divided the food up would be the last to choose which portion he wanted. It made for a scrupulously careful division. “Thank you Rachael. Are you sure there’s nothing we can get you to make up for it?”

She shook her head and smiled. “That’s very kind, but keeping kosher is important to me. With everything the way it is, we can either stand up and be counted or run and hide. I hate hiding.”

There was another exchange of glances between the four students. Somehow, they’d get hold of a kosher meal for Rachael. Freddie Williams broke the silence. “Any word from Germany, Rachael?”

She shook her head sadly; the joy of a second ago faded quickly. “None at all. We thought that when the war ended and communications with Germany improved, we’d hear from Aunty Becky and her family, but there’s nothing. My mother is getting frightened. Daddy is just worried and says we should give thanks for being over here where we’re safe.”

“Did you hear Winnie’s speech last night?” Colin Thomas sounded excited. “He tore into That Man like a berserker. Shook him like a terrier shakes a rat.”

Thomas loved his similes and his overuse of them brought a collective smile back to the group. George Jones looked around carefully. There were rumors that the Black Shirts had undercover people hiding in the university. People were beginning to watch what they said, even in private. “I couldn’t believe Winnie was dead. He just wasn’t the kind to just go to the grave in silence. I wonder how he got out?”

“They say he drove from Windsor to Portsmouth and then walked to Southampton and caught the Clipper to Shannon and New York.”

“That’s not what I heard.” Colin Thomas frowned. “I heard he went to Holyhead and took a fishing boat to Ireland before catching a Clipper at Shannon.”

George Jones shook his head. “I heard from somebody in the know that a Yank submarine picked him up from Portsmouth and took him to Canada.”

“Why would the Yanks send a submarine?” Newton sounded doubtful. To him, the story just wasn’t plausible. In fact, none of them were.

Something smelt a little off about the whole business. “Anyway, that really doesn’t matter. The important thing is that somebody’s challenging That Man at last.”

“So, Winston is back.” Lord Linlithgow spoke thoughtfully. “Have we any idea how?”

“The official story is that he was warned of the protective custody warrant issued by the Halifax government and went to ground somewhere in North Wales. Once the heat had died down a little, he got a fishing boat to take him over to Northern Ireland. From there, he crossed the border to the South and laid low again. Then, he caught a Pan-American Clipper from Shannon to New York and got the train from there to Ottawa. I should add there are other stories in the wind, including him going south to Portsmouth and then to the Channel Islands, after which he was taken out by Royal Navy submarine. Yet another version has him going out via France and Spain to Portugal and then another Pan-American Clipper.” Sir Eric Haohoa put the text of Churchill’s message on the Cabinet Room table. “This went out by short-wave radio. The very fact that it was allowed to do so means that Canada at least has repudiated the Halifax government.”

“They have no authority to do so.” Sir Richard Cardew was emphatic.

“What DomCol says is the final word. Their decisions must be obeyed.”

“One of the primary lessons of every commander, be he military or political, is to know when not to obey orders.” General Claude Auchinleck, Commander-in-Chief of the Indian Army and thus a member of the Executive Council of the Governor-General of India, spoke very carefully. “The actions of Lord Halifax do not sit well with me.”

“Then resign, retire and leave the role of government to loyal officers.” Cardew spoke nastily, anger and contempt dripping from every syllable.

“Sir Richard, General Auchinleck is a soldier of the utmost integrity. He voices, as is his duty, thoughts which most of us entertain. The purpose of a council meeting is to hear all opinions, weigh all the evidence available to us and make a decision that reflects our considered opinion on what is best for the people whose governance we hold in trust. We are not a rubber stamp for the officials in DomCol and while I sit here, we never will be. Is that clear?”

Cardew grunted noncommittally and Lord Linlithgow let it pass. He was tempted to fire the Cabinet Secretary, but it was politically unwise to do so. The man represented a significant following outside this room and removing him from the bounds of collective responsibility would be counterproductive. “And so we move to the key business of the day. The Daventry Message. Sir Martyn, will you read the key part of His Majesty’s message out please?”

“The Powers of the Crown will pass through the direct Representative

to the Col/Dom Cabinet in Committee in trust George VI Rex.”

“What the devil does that mean?” HH was bemused.

Sir Martyn looked at Lord Linlithgow and got a brief nod. “Well, ‘The Powers of the Crown’ are constitutional and laid down the Constitution and the Common Law; there is no real argument here. The next bit, ‘will pass through the direct Representative to the Col/Dom’. The direct representative in the case of the Dominions is the Governor General, and the Crown’s powers pass through him anyway. Col/Dom is a simple contraction of Colonial and Dominion. We’ve used it that way ourselves this morning, so there is not much to argue about there either. It’s the last few words, ‘to the Col/Dom Cabinet in Committee in trust George VI Rex,’ where all the trouble begins. The way this message was sent, there is no punctuation in it and inserting commas in the passage allows it to be manipulated in any number of ways.

“If we add a comma after ‘Committee’, the message now reads ‘to the Col/Dom Cabinet in Committee, in trust George VI Rex.’ By associating ‘Col/Dom’ with ‘Cabinet’ it transfers power to the local authorities. Furthermore, by reducing the words “in trust’ to a parting salute, it also removes a possible condition imposed by the His Majesty on that power. Essentially, this echoes the Canadian repudiation of the Halifax government. We should bear in mind that this message went out twelve hours after Churchill’s message from Canada. I believe it is adding His Majesty’s stamp of approval on the Canadian actions and encouraging all the other Dominions to do the same.”

“I disagree.” Cardew had moderated his tone, but the simmering hatred was still there. “I read this message differently. I believe a comma should be placed after ‘Col/Dom’ to read ‘to the Col/Dom, Cabinet in Committee in trust George Rex.’ This makes it quite clear that the final authority still resides in Col/Dom as a representative of the Cabinet in London. It identifies the only Cabinet with a general purview as being the one in London.”

Harold Hartley shook his head. “That would rather defeat the whole purpose of the statement in context. Either way we read this, though, it opens an even bigger can of worms. What does ‘The Powers of the Crown will pass through the direct Representative to the Col/Dom Cabinet in Committee in trust George VI Rex,’ mean? The way I see it, the only legally supportable interpretation is the literal one. The authority of the Crown is to pass through the Governor General to the Cabinet; there it is to be held in trust by the Cabinet, sitting as a Committee of Trustees. In short, Your Excellency, the red-hot potato has just landed in your lap and we, your cabinet, can advise you as trustees. And, as you pointed out, we rule here as trustees of the Indian people.”

“Thank you, HH.” Lord Linlithgow hesitated, “I think… in this situation, it is apparent that we have to wait upon developments. His Majesty does nothing without careful thought and I believe the ambiguity of the Daventry Message is deliberate. It authorizes us to either follow London’s lead or strike out on our own as is dictated by local circumstances and the pressure of events. We must take that as our lead and not commit ourselves in any direction, until the way forward is more clearly defined. On that note, I will declare this meeting over. Sir Martyn, will you remain behind for a few minutes please?”

Once the room was empty, Lord Linlithgow relaxed slightly. “You’re right, Sir Martyn. It is clear to me that the Daventry Message gives us the authority to cut loose. What is the present position of the Congress Party?”

“Your Excellency, on independence, they still remain adamant that the working principle should be ‘as soon as possible,’ but this does represent a major shift in their position from the original ‘now’. Nehru is prepared to accept a two year official transfer period. During this time, he will hold the position of your Deputy Viceroy while you teach him everything involved in the post. Might I add, in passing, he and many members of his executive were quite appalled at the amount and variety of work involved in the administration of this country. At the end of two years, the position of Viceroy will be abolished and that of President instituted. Nehru will, subject to elections to be held at a later date, be that President. You will hold the position of Chief of Staff to the President and will continue teaching him how to run the country. Once that transition has taken place, the Cabinet will consist of Indian officials with us acting as advisors and facilitators. This will continue until such time as the new government is running smoothly. Congress expects that to be at least a decade. At some point in that process, India will leave the Commonwealth.”

“That is a remarkable plan.” Lord Linlithgow was genuinely impressed at the acceptance of a drawn-out transfer of power. “I am astonished that Nehru has accepted it.”

Sir Martyn hesitated. “Your Excellency, our discussions were in good faith, both sides wanting what was best for India. We have all put aside our personal beliefs and opinions in pursuit of a solution that would serve the greater good.”

“Does that greater good extend to continuing the war?”

“No, Sir. It does not. Nehru is personally convinced that India should stay in the war as a means of clearly marking the break with London. Getting the Congress Party to go along with him on that will be another matter entirely. For that, we must hope for an act of God.”

“Perhaps they weren’t so stupid, Bert. Perhaps they were very clever people indeed.”

The police officer who had been in charge of the road block a few nights earlier was putting things together very quickly. “They made sure we kept quiet, didn’t they? Put the fear of God into us. And have you heard of their Blackshirt unit? Because I haven’t. They just appeared, took Winnie away and vanished. Nothing we can do about it now.”

“We can lift a glass to them, Alf.”

“Aye, we can do that. And they deserve the toast.”

“Sir Martyn, there are unannounced visitors for you. Sir Josiah Crosby, the British Ambassador to Thailand, and the Ambassador Plenipotentiary from the Kingdom of Thailand.” Sir Martyn Sharpe’s private secretary had a strange grin on his face. “They seek an immediate interview on a matter of the utmost importance to the security of India.”

Sharpe looked up. Sir Josiah was an old friend of many years standing and would be welcome at a moment’s notice at any time. The mysterious Ambassador Plenipotentiary was another matter. Sir Martyn was curious to see what he looked like and, more importantly, what he was up to.

“I will see them both right away. Could you hold them for a couple of minutes, with extreme courtesy, and then usher them in? I wish Sir Eric Haohoa to attend this meeting.”

He picked up the telephone and called Sir Eric. “Eric, Sir Josiah and the Ambassador from Thailand are here. Yes, that one. Could you drop in please? I have a feeling you might want to attend to this.”

Once Sir Eric had arrived, the guests were shown in. To Sir Martyn’s complete amazement, the Ambassador Plenipotentiary was a young woman; short, with close-cropped hair. She was actually quite attractive, although her face exuded power and character rather than conventional beauty. She was wearing the traditional long skirt, tunic and sash of Thai women, but the fabric was deep green silk and the outfit was obviously very expensive. Sir Martyn gave little sign of the surprise that had taken over most of his mind. “Sir Josiah, good to see you again. Madam Ambassador, it is an honor and a privilege to meet you at last. May I thank you for the copy of the Armistice Agreement? So far, it is still the only full copy we have received of that document.”

“I am not surprised.” The Ambassador’s voice was a level contralto.

“If I signed a document like that on behalf of my country, I would want it kept secret as well.”

In the background, Sir Eric snorted with laughter at the quip. He also had been shaken by the identity of the Ambassador, but he was getting a strange feeling that her presence on the scene would liven the situation up no end. And he liked her sense of humor.

“What may we do for you?” Sir Martyn had arranged for tea and refreshments to be served.

“It’s more what the Ambassador can do for you, Martyn.” Sir Josiah sipped at a cup of tea. “Her Highness has acquired a document that is both intriguing and deeply alarming from the point of view of Indian security. How she acquired this document, I do not know but I have inspected it most closely, along with our experts from the Embassy. We have no hesitation in vouching for its authenticity.”

“The document Sir Josiah refers to is a report by one SS Standartenführer Odwin Noth. Essentially, it proposes that Germany’s next move should be a strike through Turkey and the Middle East to assault India. It envisages linking up with one Subhas Chandra Bose and turning India into a German colony. Noth believed that an attack on Russia would be a disaster for Germany and evolved this plan as an alternative. Our sources suggest that this plan was well-received by the highest political circles in Germany. I have both the original document that you may authenticate and an English translation. Personally, I prefer the latter; I find trying to read Fraktur gives me a headache.”

She handed the Noth Plan over to Sir Martyn. He started to read the translation and his eyebrows lifted sharply. He looked at her and then started reading more closely. “If I read this correctly, then any acceptance by us of the Armistice signed in London would be meaningless. The Germans are going to invade us anyway, and all dropping out of the war would achieve would be to deprive us of any chance we might have of defending ourselves.”

“Certainly, I would not place any great faith in German expressions of good intentions.”

“On that, we may agree. Madam Ambassador, we need to see Lord Linlithgow immediately. May I impose upon you to wait here until I can arrange a meeting? It should only be a few minutes.”

“Well, it’s a very courageous plan.” General Auchinleck put the Noth Plan down with a certain degree of reluctance. “Our people have confirmed the authenticity of this report and the accuracy of the translations?”

“Our experts here have checked the translation and it is accurate. Authenticating the document will take longer, but Sir Josiah’s people in Bangkok have done so and are prepared to vouch for it. That is not the question though. What I must know is, does this represent a practical plan?”

“In the final analysis, this is what Alexander did. The invasion of India part anyway. I would say that our SS Standartenführer Odwin Noth is a keen student of history. To attempt this with a modern army would be an operation fraught with peril, but I would hesitate to say it could not be done. I would merely say that I would not like to be the officer commanded to undertake it.”

“But it is practical?”

“It would require skills of the highest order and an unprecedented effort. I do not say that it could not be done, but I doubt any country’s ability to undertake this kind of operation. Of course, a political leadership that believes will is a substitute for capability may well be tempted by it.” Auchinleck thought carefully. “No, it is not a practical plan, but that does not mean that it does not represent German intentions or that they will not try it.”

Lord Linlithgow thought carefully. “Madam Ambassador, you have done us a great service by bringing this plan to us. I would like to ask how you acquired it, along with one or two other documents you have sent us of late, but to do so might cause embarrassment. I will ask instead, what do you seek in exchange for this service?”

The Ambassador leaned forward in her seat. “Something very simple. At the moment, the administration in Washington views my country with great disfavor. Why, we cannot tell; but we believe they misunderstand our efforts to modernize our country and stand on our own feet as members of the international community. We believe that Secretary of State Cordell Hull has misinterpreted these as being a move towards a fascist style of government. Nothing could be further from the truth. We see America, not Germany, as the example to be emulated. But, American policy towards us may yet force us into associating with powers we view with distaste. We would ask you to use your good offices to intercede with the Americans, to speak with them and to invite Secretary Hull to our country so that he may meet with our leaders and see for himself that, far from tending to fascism, it is to his country’s standards of freedom and free enterprise that we aspire.”

Lord Linlithgow spoke with gravity. “In as much as we are able, we will do as you ask. Whether it has the results that you desire, we cannot guarantee. As to the Noth plan, we will watch German actions. If they show German intentions are directed to this region, then we must assume that the others projected by SS Standartenführer Odwin Noth will follow.”

“Two stuffed animals! We intercept a ship loaded to the gunwales with whisky and all you manage to bring back are two stuffed animals? Is this proper hospitality to our undersea friend here?” Kapitän zur See Bernhard Rogge was only partly simulating anger at the news. A supply of good whisky would have been a valuable contributor to morale upon his ship. The rage was partly feigned though. He and his ship were in an awkward position. The British capitulation had left them stranded in a world where they weren’t quite certain who was the enemy and who was not. By an ironic turn of fate, they were in much the same position as their intended prey.

“The Captain of the Kemmendine claimed to be a British ship carrying a British bonded cargo to Burma. He refused to breach the bond on that cargo.”

“Good for him.” Rogge felt nothing but respect for a man who would continue with his duty under such threatening circumstances. Lying under the six 5.9-inch guns carried by Atlantis was the epitome of threatening.

“I felt so too, Sir. And in view of our orders not to interfere with British ships or cargoes, I accepted his refusal. He did give us these two stuffed animals though. A personal gift, he said.”

“How kind of him. We’ll hang one of them in the wardroom where we will admire him while we drink glasses of water. Take them below, Lieutenant.”

“Otto, my apologies. I am afraid a stuffed animal and oil fuel is all we can offer you at this time. And some fresh food, of course.”

Captain Otto Kretschmer nodded in appreciation of the efforts that had been made on his behalf. A raider depended upon stealth and unpredictability for its success. Compelling one to be at a specific point at a given time was a serious threat to its survival. The problem was that his U-99 was low on fuel. Not getting resupplied meant not getting home. A few weeks earlier, when U-99 had set out on her maiden voyage, the idea of operating in the Indian Ocean had a hypnotic fascination. It would force the British to spread their anti-submarine forces over a huge area, weakening their power in the vital North Atlantic. Then, the Armistice had been signed and British ships were off-limits.

Captain Rogge returned to studying his charts. The truth was that the presence of both Atlantis and U-99 out here was fundamentally pointless. Atlantis was doing little more than mark time while the world situation tried to resolve itself. U-99 just wanted to go home. Rogge decided that his highest priority now was keeping out of people’s way while the naval command in Berlin decided what he should do next. “Otto, good luck on your voyage home and give our love to the Fatherland. Helm, as soon as U-99 is clear, steer one-eight-zero. We’ll head due south for a day or two.”

Rogge returned to his bridge wing and looked out across the sea, allowing the movement of his ship and the sound of his engines to sooth him. He watched U-99 pull away and then slip beneath the waves. He didn’t envy her the long, dangerous voyage home. The truth was that he wasn’t sure if he wanted to go back to Germany at all. He had an uneasy feeling that the new Germany was no place for an honorable man. Lulled into near-sleep by the timeless rhythm of the sea, he very nearly didn’t notice the smudge of black smoke upon the horizon. To his relief, he was still able to sound the alert before the lookouts spotted the new arrival. At first, he expected the distant smoke to vanish as the other ship went on its way. Those hopes proved fruitless. The cloud grew in size and was soon unmistakable. The other ship was steering a course that would bring her very close to Atlantis.

Reluctantly, Rogge pressed the alarm button. There was no external sign of the result. Beneath the ship’s protective disguise, her 5.9-inch guns and torpedo tubes were being manned. She had two tubes on each beam and they could well be the deciding weapon if ever Atlantis had to fight for her survival. Her two twin 37mm guns and four 20mm weapons would probably be less valuable, but their crews were ready and waiting anyway. Oddly, the only gun that wasn’t being manned was the single 3-inch weapon sitting uncovered and exposed on the bow. That was there because an unarmed ship in the middle of a war would be suspicious in its own right, but the gun was really useless. Rogge looked at the cloud of smoke again. Now, there was obviously a ship underneath it; a long, low, lean ship. Not a heavy-hulled ponderous merchantman. Rogge knew that he was looking at the one thing he wished to see least of all, a warship. And out here, very few warships indeed were friendly.

“Sir, medium sized ship. Two gun turrets forward; two aft. Two funnels; catapult and aircraft between them. A modified Leander class cruiser, I think.”

“Australian.” That was something Rogge really did not want to see.

The situation was confused enough already. A British ship would be bound by the terms of the Armistice, or so Rogge believed. Hoped, anyway. He had heard that the Royal Navy station forces had put themselves under the command of the local Dominion governments, not the authorities in London. But, the Dominions had maintained a steady silence over the whole issue. Were they still at war with Germany? No peace had been agreed with them, but London had said its word held for the Dominions. Germany had agreed and was also of the opinion the war was over. Only, the Dominions had remained silent.

Rogge watched the cruiser close in. He wasn’t surprised to see her sheer off when she was around 10,000 meters away. He knew what Admiralty standing orders were when intercepting suspect merchant ships: stand off and cover with guns. Shoot at the first sign of a suspicious act. The cruiser was shower a proper, professional caution and 10,000 meters put the advantage firmly on her side. He watched the guns in the twin turrets foreshorten as the mounts were trained on Atlantis; Rogge also could see sailors on the upper deck leaning against the rails, watching the action play out. Obviously, the cruiser was not at action stations… yet. That changed as he watched. The sudden flurry on her decks showed that she was going to battle stations. “Signal, sir. The cruiser has hoisted signal IK. Beware of cyclone, hurricane or typhoon. That doesn’t make much sense.” The signals officer

paused. “She’s signalling again, sir. Signal reads NNJ. She’s asking for our signal letters.”

“Play for time. We might yet bluff our way out of this. Make sure all guns are loaded and the torpedoes ready to fire.” Rogge drummed his fingers on the rail.

“Another signal, sir. By signal lamp this time. It reads VH. That’s an order to display our signal letters.”

“Very well. Hoist PKQI.” Those were the signal letters for Atlantis’ cover identity, the Dutch MV Abbekerk. By now the Australian cruiser was clearly expecting trouble. Her Captain had sensed something amiss, although Rogge had no idea what it was.

“She’s the Hobart, sir. Signalling again. Signal reads IIKP. They’re ordering us to reveal our secret sign and prepare to be boarded.”

“That must have been that IK signal. We just got the middle of it.”

“Another message by signal lamp. We are ordered to heave-to and prepare to be boarded immediately.”

Rogge knew his standing orders at this point and they were clear.

Under no circumstances was he to allow his ship to be boarded. That left only one other option.

“Hoist the German naval ensign, drop the screens and open fire, every gun that can bear. Fire torpedoes as soon as the crews have a good aim.”

“Just what the hell is that damned merchie playing at?” Captain Harry Howden was frustrated. “We’ve been signalling them for the better part of half an hour and all they do is hoist some unintelligible nonsense. PKQI? That’s the Abbekerk and she’s in Batavia with engine trouble. Has been for weeks.”

The movement on the ship in front of Hobart grabbed his attention. The German naval ensign was breaking out from the stern while metal screens were falling down. They revealed guns that belched orange flashes Howden knew to be medium-caliber gunfire. The howl of approaching shells confirmed that impression. The first two shots were clean misses. One fell short; the other screamed between the two funnels and exploded in the sea beyond. Misses they might have been, but they were still close enough to send fragments pattering against Hobart’s hull.

“It’s the Hun raider Kemmendine warned us about! For God’s sake, open fire.”

Howden’s words were interrupted by a second pair of shots; this time, from the centerline guns mounted fore and aft on the raider. These missed as well. Again by a hair’s breadth, but enough to turn what could have been catastrophic damage into the pattering of fragments against armor. The raider had got off the first shots, but the long range and her crude fire control had robbed her of the decisive early blow she had hoped for.

In reply, Hobart squeezed out a four-round half-salvo that was just a touch short. A second half-salvo was a fraction over, but the cruiser now had the range.

“Make revolutions for 28 knots; bring us around in front of her. All guns, fire for effect. Full salvos.”

The orders made sense and Hobart leapt to obey them. Her stern dug in; the ship shaking as her engines powered up. Everybody knew that converted merchant ships like the raider had their guns on the beam. The British armed merchant cruisers were the same. That meant they were almost blind ahead. At most, one gun could be brought to bear to Hobart’s eight.

Through the vibration of the engines and the beginning of her bows swinging, Howden felt the shudder as all eight guns crashed out a salvo. Four of the shots hit square into the German raider’s hull, starting fires that quickly stained the sky black. They crashed into the raider’s waterline, penetrating her hull and knocking out her engines.

On the bridge, Howden cheered his gun crews on. The sixinch turrets settled into a steady routine that methodically blew the raider apart. This was what every cruiser captain dreamed of: a raider caught cold and under his guns. His only regret was that nobody paid out prize money any more.

“Get a radio message out. Signal we’ve been attacked by a German raider. We’re returning fire and we’ve got her, by George.”

“Periscope depth. Right now.”

Kretschmer almost snarled the order out. His submarine had much better hydrophones that they were normally given credit for and the thunder of gunfire had been clearly audible to U-99 cruising nearby. The scope ran up.

He did the submariner’s swing, a rapid scan that gathered as much information as possible while minimizing exposure. That brief swing told him everything he needed to know.

“Atlantis is gone. She’s burning like a torch up there.” The vast pyre of black smoke had been unmistakable. “There’s a cruiser close by. She has our auxiliary cruiser under fire.”

Kretschmer paused for a second. His eyes focused on the stuffed animal that he had been given just a few minutes earlier. Making a rendezvous was deadly dangerous for an auxiliary cruiser. Somehow this one had leaked out. How else had a cruiser been on scene?

“We should even this match up a bit. Prepare Tubes One to Four, target is…. range two thousand meters, bearing one-three-five, speed twenty six knots. Course one hundred. Fire One…”

Howden watched Hobart’s aft sixinch guns fire, inflicting yet more damage on the already-battered raider. That was when he saw the white streaks on the water, heading for his ship. The first two passed ahead of him. The second pair were running straight and true. Despite the frantic effort to turn into them, it was too late. The range was too short.

The two torpedoes slammed into Hobart with almost surgical precision. One hit just forward of “A” turret and near the ASDIC compartment. That was the weakest point on the ship’s hull. It ripped a hole in the side that extended down below the ship’s spine. Her bows started to break off and angled down.

The other torpedo hit the screws, mangling the shafts and jamming the rudder hard over. Hobart veered hard to port, completely out of control.

For a moment it looked as if the Australian ship was trying to ram the raider. It was an illusion, since Hobart was already out of control. The torpedo hit aft jammed the two stern turrets in train. With her forward turrets already mangled wreckage, her main armament was theoretically useless. Yet, somehow, the crew in the forward turrets managed to keep firing. They thumped their last shells into the hull of the burning raider.

It was merely a gesture of defiance and Howden knew it. His ship was shattered by the torpedo hits. Her bows were on the verge of separating and his machinery was useless. His ship was going down. As soon as the bows went completely, she would slide under the water. There was only one thing left to do.

He took a look at the raider whose torpedoes he believed had created this havoc. She was dead in the water as well, burning furiously and had ceased fire. That, at least, was a small mercy. Hobart continued to limp away from the scene of the battle, out of control and unable to change speed or steer. Howden sighed and gave his final order as her commander.

“Abandon Ship.”

“Sir, main machinery is out of action. The firefighting system has failed, and the fires are out of control. The temperature in the mine storage compartment is rising steadily and we can do nothing to stop it. The ship is going to blow up.”

Rogge looked at his ship. Atlantis was belching black smoke all along her length and listing severely. She was also dead in the water. That settled the matter for him. She was finished.

“Very well, Lieutenant. Order the men to abandon ship. Get the wounded into the life rafts and launch as many lifeboats as we have left. Spread the men out between them and put officers within each.”

He looked at his ship again, and then across the sea to where Hobart was limping away. She was sinking as well; there was no doubt of that. The two torpedo hits that had come from nowhere left her with bows that were moving separately from the rest of the ship and clearly working free. Her course was erratic as her wrecked screws and rudder interacted. Rogge could see the surviving crew beginning to abandon ship. One question kept running through his mind.

What have we done?

Almost three hundred of his crew survived the battle. They managed to pull clear of the burning wreck that had once been Atlantis and survived the great explosion that had sent her down. Dusk was beginning to settle when the first patrol plane from Trincomalee turned up. A Short Singapore flying boat, it circled the column of lifeboats on the sea for a few minutes, obviously radioing the position of the little convoy to surface rescue ships. Then, it flew away. Rogge saw it starting to circle another area of sea. The survivors of the cruiser, he guessed. He looked over the other men in his lifeboat and shook his head. It had not been a good day.

As the MP’s settled in after lunch, the Honorable John ‘Sol’ Rosevear surveyed the chamber with a good deal of satisfaction. There was no doubt this was their time. Labour was ascendent; the Tories in utter disarray. Even if the Government rested on a wafer thin majority, they were as safe as houses. No one was in the mood for another change of government so soon after the fall of Menzies.

If there was one fly in his soup, it was purely factional. The hard Left of the party was in control. If that didn’t sit to well with Rosevear, it had put him in the speaker’s chair as a sop to the Labor Right. Things could have been a good deal worse. We can get some bloody good work done here; opportunities like this don’t come along too often, thought Rosevear to himself. If Red Johnny doesn’t make a mess of it.

“The House recognizes the Honorable Prime Minister.”

John Curtin grinned up at the Speaker as he stood confidently and strode the few paces to the Government dispatch box like a man walking on air. “Mister Speaker, in light of yet another royal abdication of responsibilities and recent events in Europe, and Canada well known to the House, the Government has prepared a draft bill that we believe will address the most pressing issues facing this Commonwealth…”

There was a bit of hubbub around the benches as the Prime Minister droned on, some pleased, some not, but mostly surprised. By any standards, this was quick work; to lay a bill before the house within hours of the BBC broadcast. To those so inclined, such decisiveness spoke well of a new Government itself hardly settled in to office. Amid the Opposition, initial skepticism at such haste grew to outright alarm as the PM concluded introducing the bill and immediately began to read the contents out in full, punctuated by increasingly frequent interruptions and objections.

He’d been expecting Curtin to come out swinging this afternoon, and no one could ever say Solly Rosevear was shy of a good fight. Even so, this was turning out to be even hotter than he’d anticipated. The struggle to maintain order, and even more to retain any illusion of impartiality, grew harder as the Points of Order mounted and were stuck down by his gavel. After the preamble and first few sections of the bill had been tortuously ground through, Rosevear was starting to regret the Labor Party’s principled rejection of the Speaker wearing robes. Rumor had it some Speakers had sat in nothing but a singlet under their robes. It was warm day to start with. The chamber was getting hotter by the minute and Solly was sweating like an alcoholic sponge in his sauna of suit, vest and tie.

Down on the floor, Curtin bore the mounting temperature with the same tolerant smile he gave to all the raucous objection and procedural insult. Discretely studying the House over his spectacles as he read, or gazing about more frankly during the frequent interruptions, to Curtin it was all poetry set to life. Sweetest was the dismay across the room. The coalition shattered and leaderless in the wake of Menzies’ departure now clucked about like headless chooks as the tidal wave of Labour victorious crashed over their privileged ranks. The faint mutterings of dissent from his own party only served to confirm his judgment of the situation. Every ship had its rats; and so long as he knew where they lay, Curtin was confident in his grip. A consummate party politician, he had his numbers locked down tightly. With the support of the Party Caucus and Trades Hall, he had nothing to fear from a few grumpy backbenchers and lukewarm supporters.

But those lukewarm supporters were turning the heat up on Rosevear. This might have been all part of Curtain’s plan, having set the man up as Speaker partly with this sort of situation in mind. However, it had the Speaker in a lather; both physically and politically. He was having to strike down a growing number of interjections from his own side of the Labor Party in addition to the Opposition, many of which were points he agreed with and would have been making himself.

Like any Parliament worth its salt, information traveled around the chamber almost by osmosis. Early doubts hardened into ironclad conclusions long before Curtain reached the end of his document. The bill may have been a little rough about the edges, but it was no work of hours. Depending on one’s point of view, this was either proof positive of the new leadership’s depth and insight, or the depths of their conspiracy and treachery. All felt a growing sense of urgency as the details slotted into place.

The interpretation of Daventry lay at the heart of things, Labor took it as permission to wrest the nation free of its links to Home and Empire and were taking this opportunity with both hands to set some cherished planks of party policy into law. In sum, this bill was paving the way to a republic. That notion was as controversial on the Labor side of the house as it was unthinkable among the Opposition. Torn between the duties of his office, his own inclinations, and the hard lines of party allegiance, Rosevear grew increasingly angry and in dire need of a stiff drink. His rage might have been expressed in his language and temper towards towards objectors, but inwardly it focused exclusively on his party leader and Prime Minister.

As Curtin concluded his reading of the bill, he tabled the bill for immediate debate. His well oiled machine kicked into top gear. Having pushed proper procedure somewhat beyond its limits already that morning, gagging debate might have out of the question. But that didn’t imply he had to play fair. If anything, the first hour of debate was even more disorderly than all that had passed before. A solid stream of well primed Labor MP’s stood to ramble on, asking back-handed questions their own front bench could answer with long winded positive replies in favor of the Government’s case. Occasionally, Rosevear let one of the Opposition get a few words in edgewise, but each was snowed under in a blizzard of interjections and objections. It was an old game, familiar to all on both sides of Parliament. But it was not one used lightly for matters of such weight that verged on constitutional reform. The fury this provoked exceeded anything seen before in the Australian Parliament, and Rosevare verged on losing control utterly.

Around that whole room of angry, shouting, screaming men, the Speaker could only see one island of support. Ironically it was the man he had replaced less than a week before. George Bell, DSO, MP and senior of the two Deputy Speakers, knew exactly what Rosevear was going through. He had spent the past six years in the chair himself. While not unmoved by the politics, he sat there smiling up at Rosevear and offering what encouraging nods he could.

Bell’s was more than a professional sympathy; he actually thought the fellow was making a dreadful fist of it. The Speaker’s face was flushing deep purple when it wasn’t pasty white and Bell could see he was perspiring like a fountain from 20 feet away. The Tasmanian MP thought it best to do what he could, lest Rosevear collapse and leave him with the job of presiding over this shambles of a travesty.

Just after 3 PM, and with no end in sight, the Sargent-at-Arms crossed the floor to deliver a note to the PM. The Minister for Transport, who had been using two hundred and fifty words to say ‘yes’ in reply to a yet another prearranged question, paused as Curtin read the message. The Prime Minster looked up and waved the Minister back in action, stuffing the note into his pocket before leaning back with a casual smile. If Curtin had hoped to down play this new piece of information, the parliamentary grape vine had other ideas. The news raced around the chamber, leaving something approaching silence in its wake.

Rosevear, sitting in splendid isolation, was the only man excluded from the bush telegraph, although he certainly noticed something was happening. For the first time in what seemed like hours, and probably was, he was not beating down waves of protest, or even facing angry glares. It was almost uncanny how quiet the Chamber had become. Every MP in the House was whispering to each other instead of shouting at him. Given a chance to draw breath, he waited for the Minister to finish and resume his seat. As if wired to some trigger, the ministerial backside meeting leather saw almost half the house spring to its feet in a jabbing roar of “Mister Speaker, Mister Speaker!” They all clamored to gain Rosevear’s ‘eye’ and be called up to speak.

Scanning the crowd judiciously, and with his own eye on trying to reinject some calm and normality to the proceedings, he chose one of the steadier heads off the Opposition backbench and the fringe of the United Australia Party.

“The House recognizes the Member for Lara.”

Under other circumstances, the Labour front bench would have

nodded appreciatively at this. If not quite an Independent, the MP for Lara was well known for taking a casual view of party allegiance and speaking his rather liberal mind on occasion. If anyone on that side of the House might support the Government he was as likely a candidate as existed. Even if he didn’t — well the seat of Lara was a marginal and Labor had high hopes for it. If the sitting member cared to put a foot or two in his own mouth, the Government would thank him for the ammunition.

Rosevear saw he had made a mistake immediately. It was hard not to with his whole front bench staring daggers at him. Bugger ’erm, he thought. Let the lazy sods deal with their own bloody problems; I’ve done more than my share today.

Gregory Locock remained standing as the other aspirants sunk back into their seats. “Mister Speaker, thank you. I was going to ask the Honorable Attorney General to expand on clause 12, but instead might I ask the Prime Minister, if in light of this recent naval action in the Indian Ocean, might not this whole bill be reexamined? Again I refer in particular to clause 12, but also several others…”

The rest was drowned out under a barrage of sound.

Curtin rose to his feet as the Speaker hammered the Chamber into silence. “Mister Speaker. I’d like to thank the honorable member for his question,” he said with great confidence “And reassure him, and any others who may be concerned, that while events remain unclear, the Government has things well in hand. In any case, it is hard to see how such matters might have any bearing on business presently before the House. There’s nothing that can’t be smoothed over and we should not be distracted from more important things…”

As soon as the words passed from his lips, Curtin realized he had made a grave mistake. It wasn’t just the deafening silence, but the low grumble that replaced it. The sound, not of anger, but of men quietly saying hard words in serious tones.

Locock remained standing for the next ten minutes as the Prime Minister tried to unsay what he had just said. A fine job Curtin did too. Slathering on the butter of reason and jam of promise with a lavish trowel to the hearty Hear Hear’s of his increasingly vocal supporters, once the Whips and Ministers had recovered their poise and got to stirring up his defense. But it was a hollow noise, and few in the chamber bought the line he was selling, no matter how hard they stamped their feet after Curtin made each point.

If Australian ship had fought German ship, whatever the outcome, it was an act of war.

Curtin might say what he liked, but Berlin would have their own view and that was nothing to brush under the carpet. Nor was there any point to pushing this bill though until there was some idea of how Herr Hitler felt about it all.

Locock was still on his feet as the PM resumed his seat. Rosevear would have graveled him down, but the fellow had asked the question that had to be asked and done it with unusual civility. There was no reason to be abrupt and every reason to encourage a return to the usual courtesies on such a day as this, so Rosevar nodded at Locock.

“Mister Speaker,” Locock nodded back, “I would like to thank the Prime Minister for his clear and informative expression of the Government’s position. And further, Mister Speaker, I would beg leave to move this House has no Confidence in the present Government.”

Chaos descended, bringing with it pandemonium, bedlam and turmoil. It did not quite reach anarchy, if only because Parliament sat on benches so there was a shortage of ready weapons. Rosevear pounded his desk like a carpenter and swore like a bargee, turning ever deeper shades of puce in the process. He might as well have spared his voice and blood pressure the strain. Eventually it was George Bell who stepped up to the Speaker’s chair, stuck two fingers between his lips and let out an ear piercing whistle.

“SHUT UP YOU BASTARDS AND SIT DOWN! Your pardon, Mister Speaker.”

It took a few moments for the Speaker to regain control of himself. Rosevear felt the humiliation of Bell’s assistance as keenly as his own embarrassment and anger at losing control of the House. So it was with some ferocity he glared down at Billy Hughes, nominally Locock’s party leader. Although, at 79, Hughes’ position was mostly honorary; one he filled in lieu of some more energetic man.

“Has this Motion a second?”

In his day, Billy Hughes would have eaten Rosevear alive and picked his toes with the bones. Now, a little past his prime and still coming to terms with recent events, Hughes hesitated. It wasn’t that the room lacked for men who would have backed the Motion of No Confidence in a heartbeat, but the Speaker had just made it a party affair rather than a private matter and so no one stepped forward.

Until, from the Labor benches, the Parliament’s one true independent stood up. “I’ll second the motion,” said Alexander Wilson in his Irish brogue, “and what’s more, I think I may take a small little stroll.” Putting actions to words, he crossed the floor.

The man who had bought the curtain down on Menzies’ government proceeded to leave Curtin’s in a heap on the floor of the House.

“Telegram from the Governor General in Australia, Your Excellency.”

Sir Martyn bustled in to the Viceroy’s brightly morning room and handed the message over directly. He knew the contents, of course, but theoretically it was a private letter.

Lord Linlithgow slipped the flimsy from its envelope and read eagerly. Of all the sources of intelligence available to the Government of India, the back channel between the Crown’s direct representatives around the globe was by far the most reliable. It was actually the official route for a good deal of correspondence between parts of the Empire that lacked more direct representation, but as a source of reliable gossip, it was without peer.

“Which way have the Australians gone?” asked Nehru anxiously from settee. Yesterday, Brigadier General The Right Honorable Lord Gowrie, VC, GCMG, CB, DSO & Bar, known to his friends as Alexander Hore-Ruthven and presently Governor General of Australia, had sent warning the new Government was clarifying its position in response to Daventry and he should have more news shortly. “Are they still in the war?”

The Viceroy just shook his head. “This verges on the incredible! Two governments in almost as many weeks. Good God, one would think they were turning into some comic-opera republic, yet Gowrie believes they remain stable and has some hopes for a new Government by morning.”

“They are so divided all over this one issue?” puzzled Nehru.

“Oh, reading between the lines, I suspect there is a little more to it than just the war,” Linlithgow sniffed. “And I can’t say I cared for the sound of this Curtin fellow, so perhaps there’s a silver lining to be found in that. But what sort of government they might cobble up now, I should hate to think.”

“They have three parties,” offered Sir Martyn helpfully, “but only one has the numbers to govern on its own. The other two have a long standing coalition.”

Pandit Nehru smiled “Yes and the Australian Labour Party was the first Labour Party in the world to form a national government…”

“Ahh…”

“…even if it only lasted for five days. My knowledge is mostly historical, Martyn. As Australian affairs have taken some prominence lately, I thought it best to do a little reading, but I find there is not a great deal to be had on the subject.”

“Oh?” recovered Sir Martyn easily “Well recent events are a little complicated but, put simply, the previous Prime Minister, or should I say now, the fellow before the last chap…”

“Menzies,” supplied Linthgow. “A good man by all accounts.”

“Yes, sir; thank you. Robert Menzies took the loyalist view and was, reluctantly, prepared to follow London. His party, by and large, disagreed, as did his coalition partner and they all seem to have parted ways. That let Labor in as a minority government — I believe resting on the vote of a single independent…”

“Who must have jumped ship,” concluded Nehru.

“Precisely,” agreed Sir Martyn. “Or, if not, then there has been some movement across the floor. But other than Labor no one else has the numbers to form government unless another coalition can be arranged.”

“Damn messy,” nodded Linlithgow. “Whoever does come along will have no choice but to make a stand on the war, one way or another. So I know what will occupy the bulk of our day, we must find a sound line and length for us to take should the Australians publicly accept the Armistice and step out of the war.”

“And should they stay in, of course…” add Nehru.

“Oh, I should think that very much depends on you, Pandit,” returned the Viceroy with a smile. “What say the Congress Party on the events of yesterday?”

“Your Excellency,” Nehru began gravely, “the revelation of plans to invade India and the sinking of the Hobart have swung enough votes on the Party executive towards maintaining the state of war. It is held that the act confirms the intentions. Many disagree, of course. Gandhi and his followers call for peace at any price and non-violent resistance to the German invasion. Subhas Chandra Bose actually believes that an alliance with Germany is the proper course. But with those exceptions, and with heavy hearts, most others agree that maintaining the state of war is required. Both as a prudent precaution against German designs and to highlight our independence from London.”

Linlithgow smiled with relief. “Very well. With your agreement, Pandit, we will announce your appointment as my deputy tomorrow. One change I would like to make to the agreement you negotiated with Sir Martyn. In two years, when you become President, instead of taking the position of your Chief of Staff, I would like you to appoint Sir Martyn in that role. It would be of great benefit to all concerned, I think. Oh and if you are agreeable, Martyn?”

Nehru’s stately nod and Sir Martyn’s stunned head jerk seemed to signify acceptance. The Viceroy took pity on his secretary. “Then, with your concurrence Pandit, two telegrams please, Martyn. If you would, type them out personally, and secure them until required. The first to London; in cypher of course: ‘Regret to advise you that in accordance with the Daventry Message, India takes responsibility for her own internal government and external relations. God Save the King.’

“Very good, sir,” said Sir Martyn scribbling hastily in his note book.

“And the second?”

“To Reichskanzlei in Berlin. Two copies, of course; one for the Japanese as their protecting power, but in plain language. It should read ‘Genesis 1:22.’”

Nehru looked confused. Sir Martyn leaned over and whispered, “Go forth and multiply.”

“Ahhh.” Nehru smiled. “How appropriate.”