Axis of Evil

Chapter Eighteen: The Centre Can Hold

Ten Downing Street

London, United Kingdom

10^th May 1041

Hanover had resisted calling a full meeting of the War Cabinet for three days, waiting to see how the situation would develop before the British made any decisions. There had been enough excuses; General Flynn was a competent officer and one who was trusted, and there were arrangements to be made with the Americans. Patton’s army had moved on to practicing against Scottish terrain that reassembled Norway, at least to some degree. General Cunningham, who’d laughed himself silly after the first drills, had grudgingly conceded that Patton might just know what he was doing after all.

Hanover shook his head grimly as the War Cabinet settled in. There was a difference in culture between the 2015 British and the Americans; who had expected that the Americans would make such a fuss about an interracial bar? It had nearly sparked off a second major riot, now that a handful of black support troops had arrived. British publicans let them in on principle – the principle of making as much money as possible – only to discover that white troopers were not amused.

He nodded grimly to Eisenhower as the American joined them. He’d asked Eisenhower here specifically, if only so that the American could see them at work. It had perhaps been a mistake. Still, the American had to see the war in the Middle East, the one being fought against an enemy just as dangerous as Hitler himself.

“This meeting of the War Cabinet will come to order,” he said. Eisenhower had been a hit up at the Palace; he’d been astonished to see the picture of his visit to the United Kingdom as an older man – and as an American President. “The most important item on the agenda is the situation in the Middle East. Major Stirling?”

Stirling took control of the main display. “Three days ago,” he said, without preamble, “the Russians launched a major offensive towards Basra, swinging round to Kuwait. There were a brutal series of tank battles near Kuwait, and then we forced them back with the loss of a handful of Chieftains and Arabian Fireflies. Post-battle analysis suggests that we killed upward of a hundred Soviet tanks, but in the confusion it was hard to be certain.

“Basra itself was hammered by the Soviets,” Stirling continued. “They breached the Arab lines – you will remember General Flynn’s remarks on the subject – and tried to force their way into the city. Resistance was brutal and continues; the Soviets are facing a Stalingrad in Basra. It’s nothing like it was in 2003; both sides are fighting tooth and nail. The main line seems to have stabilised on the Euphrates – we’ve rushed forward some anti-tank weapons and have managed to halt the main Soviet offensive from crossing the river. Unfortunately, given the way they’re hammering away with long-range guns, there won’t be much of the city left.”

“They’re trying to burn us up in close-quarters combat,” General Cunningham said grimly. “Prime Minister, we might have to abandon Basra and fall back into open territory.”

“The King has already fled to Arabia,” Stirling said. “In the air, the Soviets have taken serious losses, but there’s so many of them. We’ve lost seven Harriers and one Jaguar, although we’re not sure what happened to that one. It may not be possible to withdraw from Basra, and if we tried, we’d risk a panic in the Iraqi ranks.”

Hanover scowled. “What exactly do we have in the city?”

“We have the better part of an infantry brigade, equipped with anti-tank weapons, and a scratch force equipped with anti-aircraft weapons,” Stirling said. “As you know, the Iraqis insisted that they defend the city using our weapons, which, to be fair, they are doing a good job.”

“Prime Minister, if we put the troops in, they’ll be burned away,” General Cunningham said grimly.

“We won’t put more troops in the city,” Hanover said, who’d been thinking very rapidly. “Has there been any movement from the Germans or the Baghdad front?”

“None, sir,” Stirling said. “It’s weird; there’s a war going on in the south and the north is quiet. It’s like they want us to fight it out in Basra.”

“They do,” Hanover said. “Up there is perfect tank terrain; our advantages come to the fore. Who said that the Soviets were stupid?”

“They want us to commit to holding Basra at all costs,” Cunningham said slowly. “In a week, we could have fed upwards of ten thousand troops into a city where all their advantages are minimised. Then they move forward and stab us in the heart.”

“So… we don’t play their game,” Hanover said. “Options?”

Cunningham glared up at the map. He’d become a general when battles were planned out stage by stage. Still, he’d shown a talent for off-the-cuff improvisation and it was a British military trait. The original battle for Basra had been a cakewalk, even though both MI6 and the CIA hadn’t understood the real lurking dangers.

“We have two options,” he said thoughtfully. “The first one is that we withdraw from Basra, along with whatever Iraqi units will come with us, and set up a defence line north of Kuwait. Combined with the hammering we’re giving their airfields, we can hold them there and break them.”

Noreen Adam coughed delicately. Hanover smiled; Eisenhower had been puzzled to see a woman wrapped in a black headscarf. “What’s to stop them launching an attack across the channel?”

“The entire Iranian Navy, more or less, escaped before their ports fell,” Cunningham said. “We have it now, based in Arabia. They would need a major fleet to launch such an attempt and we’ve seen no signs that they have one.”

He looked across at Hanover. “The second option is different,” he said. “We can launch an offensive of our own at the Soviet forces near Baghdad. The terrain isn’t that bad for tanks, so we could do it… except that would wake them up for certain. We might end up being faced with two bleeding sores, instead of one.”

Hanover scowled. Whoever was in command of the Russian forces knew what they were doing. “Have we been jamming their radios?”

Cunningham scowled. It was a sore subject; the PJHQ had originally decided that that ability would be best kept under wraps until an invasion of Germany itself could be mounted, but the desperate battles around Abadan had forced General Flynn to order it deployed… stopping the Soviet attack in its tracks.

“Yes, Prime Minister,” he said finally. “Unfortunately, they’re showing much better tactical abilities than they were five months ago. We fucked up their radios but good in the battles near Kuwait, but they kept coming anyway.”

Hanover nodded. “I think we’d better stick with option one,” he said. “After all, we might just have jammed up the signal to attack. Tell Air Commodore Cromwell that he is to keep some Jaguars on reserve; if the Soviet divisions move, they’re to be stamped on as hard as possible.”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” Cunningham said. “The FAE weapons worked as advertised.”

Armin Prushank, the Minister for War Production, spoke in his dry-as-dust voice. “Production of the weapons should continue to increase,” he said. “Priority will be to send them to the Middle East.”

“Unfortunately, they might also be needed in Australia,” Admiral Joan Grisham said. She smiled wryly at the map. “The Japanese are preparing an offensive.”

Hanover scowled. “They’re doing it to us again,” he snapped. “Hitting us everywhere at once.”

“They’ve screwed up the coordination this time,” Grisham said. “However, we do have a problem in Australia. You see… we had a lucky accident and caught a Japanese courier ship.”

Hanover smiled faintly. “Does that make up for the lost sub?”

“Not really, but at least we now know what they have in mind,” Grisham said. “They’re going to jump on Australia.”

“They’re out of their tiny minds,” Stirling breathed. “A third of the Royal Navy is there.”

Grisham nodded. “The production of SSKs is coming along well,” she said. “By early next year, we can put an end to the Empire of Japan. This is their last throw of the dice, Prime Minister, and they’re going to put everything into it. The reports from Burma suggest that they’re building up there as well, as well as the… program in China.”

Hanover made a face. The Japanese seemed to be moving to China en mass, forcing the Chinese out of their cities and away from the countryside. It was bad enough with the diseases rampaging through China – and Hanover knew that Porton Down harboured suspicions about the origins of the diseases – but with the Japanese moving in as if the Chinese were intruders in their own homes…

“The linchpin of the defence is the fleet,” Grisham said. “The Japanese plan is simple; the remains of the Combined Fleet will sortie towards Canada. If they reach Canada, they will attack Vancouver and the RCN ships based nearby.”

Cunningham frowned. “I’m no naval man,” he said, “but they must know they’ll be seen.”

“That’s the point,” Grisham said. “The idea is that we’ll send the Royal Navy after them, seek a battle like the last one. While we’re sinking the Combined Fleet, the invasion force is landing.”

Hanover scowled. “They don’t stand a chance,” he said. “They must know that.”

Grisham nodded. “Admiral Turtledove took the liberty of devising a plan,” she said. Hanover scowled; the Admiral was something of a sore spot. “It’s one that will allow us to have our cake and eat it as well.”

She explained quickly. Hanover felt his mouth fall open. “Is he quite mad?” He demanded. “That would be…”

“It would work,” Grisham said. “In fact, it would work in our favour in the long run.”

Hanover gazed up at the map. It had been something he had been dreading, and Turtledove’s plan would solve one nasty problem. Still, if word got out… and with the American in the room, doing it under the table would be impossible.

“I’ll consult with Prime Minister Menzies and General Blamey,” Hanover said. “If they approve, then this mad plan can go ahead. If they disapprove, then we can send some submarines north and put the Japanese off the mad plan for good.”

Sicily

Italian Territory

10^th May 1041

The toe of Italian territory had almost been stripped of Italians, particularly after learning of the role that various mafia factions would play in later battles, leaving only a token defence force of Italians, stiffened by Germans that would be more than willing to shoot the Italians in the back if they stepped out of line. As a result, the Germans were able to operate almost unwatched, except for the ever-present recon drones floating high overhead.

General Kurt Student, one of the Luffwaffe’s premier generals, stepped onto the tarmac of a hidden runway and nodded to the man waiting for him under the awning. Almost the entire 1^st Fallschirmjäger Division, the paratroopers, was gathered here and in bases on Italy itself, preparing for their most desperate mission. They’d expected to have been used to take Crete, as they had in the original history, but Greek resistance had folded rapidly.

“Heil Hitler,” he snapped, forming a perfect Nazi salute. He dropped it almost as quickly, moving forward to give the man a hug. “Christ, Wilhelm; it’s good to see you again.”

General-Lieutenant Wilhelm Süssmann, commander of the 1^st Fallschirmjäger Division, returned the hug. “You too, sir,” he said. “We’re ready and waiting for the command.”

“You go in an hour,” Student said. He tapped the Ritterkreuz, the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross, he wore. “The victory at Crete proved the superiority of the new tactics, and you know what you’re doing.” He sighed. “I wish I was going with you.”

Süssmann laughed. “I wish you were coming as well, sir,” he said.

Student chuckled. “I always knew you had it in for me,” he said. “Wilhelm, don’t lose this battle, ok?”

Süssmann nodded, suddenly serious. “We’ll do this or die trying,” he said. “Sir, will you address the men?”

Student nodded. Süssmann shouted a command and the men lined up. Student inspected them all proudly. “You are some of the finest men Germany has produced,” he said, and they cheered. “No, you are the finest men, and today you will make Germany proud of you!”

He paced along the lines, looking for a single error by force of habit. “Your task is to take the British Island of Malta and deny it to our enemies,” he said. “You know your mission, so understand; if you lose radio communications, or the commanders, press on anyway. Do not fail; this battle could decide the war!”

He sighed. They’d built as much redundancy into the system as they could, designating no less than fifty commanding officers for the 10’000-strong division. Every transport plane and glider that Student could scrape up was here, new planes and old, ready to descend on the tiny island. He knew he should be confident, but the future history told of the near-defeat of the commandos on Crete. The 7500 troops waiting in Taranto would be useless; despite the plans of the Kriegsmarine, Student knew that they would be unable to cross the sea unless a miracle happened.

“I know that you will all do your duty,” he thundered, and the men cheered again. “Go now and win glory!”

Malta

Mediterranean Sea

10^th May 1041

HMS Warspite hung at anchor near Malta. In his stateroom, Admiral Somerville contemplated the reports from the Middle East, and the far more private report from Lord Linlithgow. The battles were punishing the British Army, sometimes quite badly, but it was also forging something new, a new camaraderie between new and old forces. Now that most Contemporary forces had been reequipped, their combat power could only increase, and they were becoming more and more equal to the 2015 forces.

I imagine Smuts will be pleased, Somerville thought absently. He scowled as his pager rang, and then the alarms started to ring. He jumped to his feet as the watch officer called for him to come to the CIC, and then the ship brought up its engines. Somerville, an old sea dog, had no difficulty in keeping his feet, but it added a new urgency to the situation. He made his way along the corridors into the CIC, cursing the sudden change in the ship’s motion.

“Report,” he snapped, as he entered the room. He caught sight of the big display and swore. Red icons were rising up from Italy, dozens of them.

“We have a major raid in progress,” Tom said. The young officer was already hard at work with his beloved computers. “So far, there are at least three hundred German aircraft forming up over Sicily.”

Somerville cursed. He’d read enough of the future history books to have a good idea of what the Germans were trying to do. “It’s an invasion,” he said grimly. “Alert Malta.”

“Already done,” Tom assured him. “They will have received the warning as soon as we did.”

Somerville shook his head. He wasn’t sure what he felt about the automated warning progress, but it was far more effective than telephone calls. “Order them to confirm that they’ve taken defensive positions,” he said. “Warn London and then warn the commander in the Middle East.”

“They’ll have picked up the warning, but I’ll forward it anyway,” Tom said. “Sir, the RAF is scrambling from Tunisia and Ark Royal is launching her Sea Harriers.”

Somerville stared down at the display. No one needed to brief him on the status of his ships; their computers kept his automatically updated. The Italians – he still thought of them that way – wouldn’t take too long to reach Malta, and when they did, they would try to land. He’d studied Crete; he knew why the British had lost in the original history.

“Tom,” he said slowly, “can your radars tell which German aircraft is what type?”

“To within a high degree of probability,” Tom said. “The radars can sort them out… ah, ten minutes until they get here.”

“Germans are very good on the ground,” Somerville said, more to himself. It didn’t seem sporting somehow. “On the other hand, if we designate their transports and gliders for the first targets… they won’t get near the ground.”

“Good thinking,” Tom said. Somerville glared at him. Tom didn’t notice. “I think there are fifty gliders and seventy transport aircraft,” he said. “I’m transmitting orders to the linked batteries now.”

Somerville nodded to himself. It was one of the reasons he liked the CIC; he could issue orders and they would be obeyed at once. Unless a ship was in serious danger, its anti-aircraft weapons would move automatically on his command.

“Fire,” he said. “Sweep the skies clean.”

General-Lieutenant Wilhelm Süssmann barely felt the warm trickle in his pants as a streak of light lanced up at his glider… and swept past them to slam into a transport. The massive transport simply vaporised in a blast of fire; the entire battle was rapidly becoming a nightmare. Strange aircraft swept past, firing madly at the Luffwaffe aircraft, which tried to fight back as best as they could.

They’re picking us off, Süssmann realised, as a burst of tracer fire swept through a glider. He shuddered and closed his eyes as the glider fell out of the sky and plunged towards the ocean before levelling off. The pilot, a Luffwaffe ace, knew what he was doing. Malta rose up ahead of them as the glider swooped down and crash-landed.

“Everyone out, move, move,” Süssmann snapped, grabbing his machine pistol. They had come down on a field; he drew in a breath as he realised how lucky they’d been. It was the last breath he took as the emplaced troops opened fire. Before he could react, the machine guns had fired, and ripped the glider and his troops from end to end. There were no survivors.

Somerville allowed himself a smile as the reports came in. Only a couple of hundred Germans had landed, pretty badly beaten up by the flight, and had been quickly rounded up or killed. The air battles were going well; the RAF was hammering the Luffwaffe, which was trying to cover the gliders. Seven ships had been hit, three quite badly, but the Mediterranean Fleet had survived.

“Admiral, I think they’re leaving,” Tom said.

Somerville checked his watch. The entire battle had lasted nearly thirty minutes, including the time it had taken for the Germans to reach the battlezone. Avenging RAF aircraft had swooped north over Italy, pounding German airfields and striking back at the Nazi oppressors. The Germans had attacked Algeria as well, using long-ranged bombers, but they’d failed to do much to the nation.

“It does seem that way, doesn’t it,” Somerville said. Part of him was recoiling; the Germans had been swept out of the sky with brutal efficiency. Another part of him was exulting at the victory – and it had been a victory.

“Admiral, the Germans have gone,” Captain Jameson said. “Permission to stand down?”

Somerville smiled. “Granted,” he said. He shook his head in awe. “I suppose I’d better make my report to London; this is the sort of news they like to have quickly.” He pointed a single finger at Tom. “Don’t tell me,” he said. “They already know.”