Axis of Evil

Chapter Sixteen: Out of Time

Nr Bergen

Norway

6^th May 1941

Captain Dwynn hadn’t been too bothered by Britain; unlike the situations in the books recommended by the Oversight Committee, Britain was intact and almost exactly the same as it had been in 2015. Arabia hadn’t looked too different, and he’d never visited Malaya and Singapore before the Transition… but Norway was very different. In a future that might never be, NATO had kept a supply deport near Bergen… which was no longer there. There was a quaintness about the Norwegian city that it had lacked, seventy years in the future, and it brought home to him what had happened.

“I came her with a girl once,” he said. “She loved visiting the museum.”

“At least you get to go into the town,” Corporal Chang said, watching through the binoculars as the German patrols marched through the town, backed up by brown-shirted Norwegians carrying Billy clubs.

“You’re lucky,” Dwynn said, watching through the sensors. Chang’s face, so oriental, would alert any German with half a brain that he didn’t come from Norway. “It’s bloody terrible down there.”

He shuddered. He’d gone down to the town from the remote hut in which they’d made their main base, in the company of a Norwegian fisherman who’d been discovered by a British submarine six months ago. That near-disaster had cost the SAS one of its insertion submarines, but it had given them the beginnings of allies among the Norwegians. The resistance movement was tiny, but aided by radios the Germans couldn’t track and probably wouldn’t recognise them, they could supply information to the liberators.

“That bad, huh?” Chang asked, checking the screens again. “What’s it like?”

Dwynn scowled. “Oh, on the surface its very civil,” he said, “but there’s an air of… fear around the town. The Germans are polite – Hitler seems to think that the Norwegians are worth keeping around – but very firm. Quisling can boast all he wants of pan-Aryan solidity; the people know who’s in charge.”

“And, of course, the Royal Family has gone,” Chang agreed. The Norwegian Royal Family had been in Britain when it had been replaced by the 2015 Britain, and had vanished. “There’s no focus of resistance.”

“I suppose,” Dwynn said. He made a face as he stared down at the maps; the Germans hadn’t defended too much of Bergen, but what they had defended would make a formidable obstacle. Bergen wasn’t a town – city – that you could just sail up to and attack; it had a gigantic island blocking the direct approach. Dwynn snickered; some of the PJHQ staff had been plotting the attack based around bridges that hadn’t been built yet – and wouldn’t be until 1960.

“They’re going to have to be careful,” he said aloud, and cursed. The need for on-site intelligence was great enough to risk the SAS team, but their capture would be disastrous. The Germans would have no need to honour the Geneva Convention if they caught the SAS out of uniform – not that they would have done anyway – and anyone could be made to talk, given the right incentive.

“They’ll have to take a battleship up the fjord,” Chang said.

“Tricky unless the forts are taken out first,” Dwynn replied thoughtfully. A battleship could go up the fjord – if the captain was willing to risk a torpedo attack. The Norwegians had done that to the Germans in 1940, and Dwynn saw no reason to assume that the Germans could not do the same. “They’ve probably mined the fiord as well.”

“Not very well if they’re still letting fishermen out,” Chang said. “Didn’t the Sergeant find a job on one of the ships?”

Dwynn nodded. Forging the German identity papers had been easy. “Yes,” he said. “They might just be testing the minefields.” He chuckled. “If there are minefields, but I don’t think that we can rely on them overlooking that little detail.”

Chang jumped as a warning tone sounded. The little hut was isolated, but the team had taken care to scatter sensors around, watching for intruders. Dwynn grabbed his rifle, preparing to fight, before Chang chuckled. “It’s just Corporal Plummer,” he said.

“Good,” Dwynn said. He glared at the map. “I think they’ll be landing directly on the islands, which is going to be hazardous enough, and then marching overland to Bergen… except there are no bridges.”

“Send the first troops to clear the islands, then send in the minesweepers,” Chang suggested, as Plummer entered the cabin. “Morning, bastard.”

“Up yours,” Plummer replied. If he’d said anything else, the two men would have known that something was wrong. “Nothing much to report; there’s been no major change in German dispositions.”

Dwynn nodded. They’d estimated that the Wehrmacht had roughly an infantry division – around 17’000 men – in the region, but it had been parcelled out over the islands and Bergen itself. Hitler clearly didn’t consider Norway important; he’d used an older unit, with 1939-era equipment.

“Then we’d better inform the PJHQ,” he said. One of their first actions had been to set up a rely network; they could now transmit directly home. “You’ve been dumping all the data to them?”

“Teach grandma to suck eggs,” Chang said wryly. “Yes, sir; I have transmitted everything the sensors have recorded back to him.”

Dwynn grinned. How could the Germans possibility imagine the horde of high-tech gadgets that they’d been deploying around Bergen? Even if they had obtained some intelligence through their spies in America, how could they find them? The Germans might have been proud of the landline running through the Danish Sea – which had an unpronounceable name – but how could they know that the line had been tapped under the water?

“Excellent,” he said. “Let them know what we’ve found… and perhaps we can get back home.”

The Kremlin

Moscow, Russia

6^th May 1941

Visiting the office of the man hailed as the saviour of communism was always a strain, but today it was worse than usual. Vyacheslav Mikhailovich Molotov, Foreign Minister of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, had come to dread entering the room.

“The Finns are proving intransigent, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich,” Stalin said, without preamble. The invasion force in Finland had been cut down sharply as soon as the Finnish Army had been crushed – and then reinforced as the size and power of Finnish resistance became clear. “The British are aiding them.”

Molotov kept his face impassive. It was far more certain, he felt, that it was the Germans that were keeping the Finns afloat, working through their Swedish allies. After all, the Germans would hardly allow the British to sail supply convoys through the Baltic, would they?

“They must be punished,” Stalin said, and Molotov felt his heart fall. After the British had used a nuclear weapon in Romania, territory the Russians had long eyed, Stalin’s paranoia had reached new heights. Countless people who might have committed treason in the future had been executed, or sent to the gulags, and the efforts to exterminate the Muslims in the south had been intensified. The NKVD had even worked with the SS, exterminating… unwanted populations in the most brutal ways. Zhukov’s road, the massive logistics chain leading down through Georgia into Iran, had been built with the blood and sweat of the natives.

“The dialect will triumph,” Molotov said finally, aware of Stalin’s growing impatience. “Georgy Konstantinovich is preparing the new offensives now, to be launched in a week.”

“I want them launched today,” Stalin said, and Molotov quailed. “The Americans are in the war against the Germans, but how long will it be before the capitalists turn their attention to us?”

Molotov allowed himself a worried frown. Stalin’s intelligence was more rat bastard cunning than analytical, but there was no denying his ability to see patterns. The Americans knew that Stalin would have gotten the bomb – and would now get it earlier – and their Polish and Finnish lobbies were screaming for action against the Soviet Union as well as the Reich. Once Germany was defeated – with Adolf Hitler running the Reich Molotov had no doubt that that would be the outcome – the capitalists would have bases right at the frontiers of the motherland. It had been the motive behind seizing Iran… until the British had used a nuke.

Molotov shuddered. If the British weren’t scared of their own weapons, the war would have been over within weeks… and the Axis would have lost. It was the reason why the offensive had been slowed down – officially it was for logistics reasons and there was no denying that Zhukov’s logistics had been helped terribly – and why Stalin had dilly-dallied for three months.

Georgy Konstantinovich had been furious about it, although no one expressed such sentiments openly. A quirked eyebrow at the wrong time could get a man in the gulag; what would questioning Stalin’s judgment openly do? Still… if they’d pressed their own offensive, instead of focusing effort on exterminating the forerunners of the mad mullahs, they might have snatched all of the Middle East. Instead of using the German Ally, Subhas Chandra Bose, they could have marched into India themselves and smashed the Raj forever.

“Well, Comrade Vyacheslav Mikhailovich?” Stalin enquired. Molotov hastily dragged his attention back to the discussion. “How will the Americans react to our offensive?”

Molotov hid his sudden concern. “I hardly think that they will care, Comrade,” he said, knowing that the presumption of equality was nonsense. “The Middle East is strictly a British preserve, while the Indian… morass is even more so. The Americans are not yet dependent upon the oil wells” – and may never become so, he added silently – “and are nervous about the British rebuilding their tottering empire.”

He chuckled. “And as for the Indians, they haven’t been able to decide anything since the future arrived and the Japanese launched their offensive.” He didn’t bother to discuss the essential Japanese failure, or the forces being built up in the Far East for the day of reckoning. “They won’t have time to take action, will they?”

Stalin smiled. “Without the Americans, we will force the British out of their empire,” he said. “By now, some of our more… unpleasant weapons will have found their way into India. They should add to the panic and confusion… don’t you think?”

Molotov nodded. Inside, he was panicking. The British had been very clear on the subject; any use of a ‘weapon of mass destruction’ against them would draw a nuclear reaction. It had been the reason why Hitler had refused Stalin’s offer of some biological weapons to use against Britain, and the reason why he was scared. Biological weapons were uncontrollable by definition, and the invasion of Afghanistan had forced millions of people south, trying to flee the Soviets, often carrying their deaths with them.

“Now, what about production?” Stalin asked. “How long until we have jets, and space rockets, and atomic bombs?”

Molotov felt himself flinch; Stalin’s snake-smile grew wider. Sticky speaking, it wasn’t his responsibility, but the scientists had used him as their go-between for the months since the Transition. Stalin, having learnt of it, had added ‘Chief Scientist’ to Molotov’s titles – and expected him to know everything about science.

“Quite some time,” he admitted finally, having learnt the price of making false statements to Stalin.

“Hitler will be at our throats,” Stalin snapped. His face contorted with rage. “He’ll use the atomic bomb on us!”

“That’s not too likely,” Molotov said, and Stalin’s face purpled. “His science is almost as far behind the British as ours is. They must be facing the same difficulties as our own people.”

Stalin scowled. “Which are?”

Molotov kept his face impassive. They’d discussed the problems several times before. “We have to build a working reactor to make the… elements involved into elements that can explode, something very difficult,” he said. “There are several ways of doing this, but we don’t know which one is best, so we have to work through trial and error. Atomic science is something we don’t know much about, and the British have been careful to keep those secrets to themselves.

“Fortunately, we have supplies of the materials needed, uranium for example,” he continued. “We do have to build the massive facilities required for refining it into bomb-material, and then we have to produce the equipment needed to make the weapon detonate. All of that, Comrade, has to be accomplished under a cloak of secrecy, both from the fascists and the British, who will not want us to develop a nuclear weapon.”

Stalin stared at him for a moment longer than was comfortable. “We are expanding our own production of the material,” Molotov said. “With distributed sites in the Urals and Siberia, we will be able to produce a bomb in two years, perhaps less if we work at it.”

“See to it,” Stalin purred. “Now, about the other production?”

“Military rockets such as the Germans are developing are about a year away,” Molotov said. “We cannot use them to any tactical use; they are rather inaccurate. The scientists are working on refining their guidance system, but for the moment we’ll have to use them as city-hitting missiles, and they can’t carry enough explosive to really do damage.”

“We’ll have to merge them with the atomic bomb,” Stalin said thoughtfully. “Jets?”

Molotov smiled. “We will have our first fighter jet within six months, thanks to the technology transferrals from Germany,” he said. “The Red Air Force is convinced that they will make us equals to the British.”

“Excellent,” Stalin said. His moustache twitched alarmingly; Molotov knew that someone in the Red Air Force would pay eventually for what he was certain was a lie. “Now, Comrade… we have a parade to watch.”

Molotov scowled. Stalin’s new habit of appearing at windows to watch the military machines march past was distressingly Tsarist. Still, it was reassuring… to anyone who had not seen the British tanks in action.

The man looked down as the tanks rumbled by, showing off Soviet might to the citizens before being sent to the front with Germany. British Intelligence suggested that Stalin would be sending the new T-34s and the even newer JS-2s to the German border, just in case. A handful would make their way south, but the Soviets seemed to have decided to swamp the far more advanced British tanks with sheer numbers. He bowed his head, knowing that few would recognise him without his trademark moustache and famous dark hair, now greyed by British science. Still, this was Stalin’s Russia, and care had to be taken.

It had taken a chain of events out of a science-fiction novel and a scheme worthy of the worst spy novels, but Leon Trotsky had finally returned to Russia. The story of his escape from the NKVD hadn’t been published by any newspapers, and not just because it hadn’t had big tits. The crypto-communists – they called themselves socialists – who had rescued him had expected him to lead them to glory, but Trotsky knew better. Once he’d gotten over the shock of knowing that he would have died in August if they hadn’t rescued him, he’d plunged into researching the USSR under Stalin – and knew that it had to be destroyed.

The bastard has betrayed the Revolution, he thought again, as Stalin appeared at the window. Trotsky wished for a weapon, something that could be used on the Georgian, but his handlers had been very clear on the subject; Stalin was not to be harmed until everything else was ready. He lowered his gaze again and stood at attention as the crowds sang the National Anthem. It wasn’t the tune he remembered, but something new, something darker.

Sheep, he thought, as the crowd dispersed under the glares of the NKVD personnel. He headed back to his own flat, dodging old women with food and fuel, slipping through the streets he had once known perfectly. Stalin’s new economic policy, breaking up the collective farms and allowing limited free enterprise, seemed to be bearing fruit. Trotsky cursed, wondering where the idea had come from. If all the farms were producing food, there would be less incentive for the Russian peoples to riot.

The flat itself was one of a block of flats that had been erected in 1930 for one of the industrial plans. Trotsky remembered some of the plans they’d had, back before Lenin died… and left Stalin in power. Stalin’s focus these days was on his own power; the army would be strong, the NKVD would be strong… and the people could live and die for Comrade Stalin.

He pushed open the door, feeling a tingle run down his spine as the electrostatic field reacted with one of the small devices he’d been given, signalling that it was fine to come in. Soviet field craft was good, but MI6 had developed it to a fine art… and as long as the Russians didn’t develop computers, they would have no way of knowing that there were more than a few forged identity papers running around. The flat looked normal, and even if the NKVD launched a midnight raid, they would find nothing.

Trotsky walked up the stairs, noting how they were crumpling under the impact of lack of maintenance and tapped on the door. The silent man who opened it – Trotsky had never heard him speak once – looked him up and down, before standing aside and waving him into the flat. It was a large one, designed to hold an entire family, and provided plenty of room for the headquarters.

The bedroom had been designed for the husband and wife and perhaps some of their children. There was only one person in the room, an older woman dressed like a Babushka. She wore a shawl over her hair, her darkened skin made her seem frail. She’d been introduced to him as Natasha Yar, the only name he’d been given for the head of station. Naturally, the British Embassy of 1940 had been shut down when the war began; no one knew what had happened to the ambassador and his staff.

“Mr Trotsky,” Natasha said. He’d never been able to convince her to use his first name. Her Russian was perfect, she’d adapted far better to Stalin’s Russia than she had. It had been a nightmarish trip from Leningrad to Moscow, but it would have been a lot harder without her smoothing the way.

“The sheep were on the streets again,” Trotsky said. “Miss Yar, I don’t think that we’ll be able to trigger a revolt any time soon.”

“Perhaps,” Natasha said. “We have been recruiting some of the street children.”

Trotsky felt his blood run cold. The street children were considered criminals; if the NKVD caught them, they would not be gentle. “We have also been printing the new leaflets at the other base.”

Trotsky scowled. He didn’t know where that base was. He wasn’t certain if Natasha knew. “They won’t care,” he said. “They won’t care about the Poles” – he’d led the campaign against them in 1921 – “and they won’t care about the black-asses in Iran.”

“They might care about Romania,” Natasha said. “Look, I know what you mean, and I do understand. However, we have very little choice, until the war ends, we have to play the cards we have.”

Trotsky nodded reluctantly. “They’re being well fed for the first time in ages,” he said. “Perhaps they’ll start thinking about something else.”