Axis of Evil

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Return to the Forbidden Island

Ten Downing Street

London, United Kingdom

27^th May 1941

The room was packed for once, with nearly thirty people around the table or standing at the back. Under unwritten protocol, Hanover had been forced to invite the Leader of the Opposition and the Shadow Cabinet, provided that they agreed to honour security restrictions. Fortunately, most of the people who would break such an agreement had never been sullied by being offered a place in Government – and the Nazis were far more of a clear-cut enemy than the enemies of 2015.

Hanover tapped the table firmly, taking control of the meeting. “This meeting will now come to order,” he said. “God Save the King.”

There was a brief embarrassed muttering. The one thing that almost all of the men in the room would have agreed upon was that the King was useless. Hanover, who knew that more than a few had supported the former King Edward’s attempt to reclaim the throne, had often considered making a republican move. He shook his head absently; there was no time to risk the upheaval that would result.

“We have been called here today,” he said, more formally than usual, “to hear the report on progress of Operation Arctic; the invasion of Norway by largely American forces, with support from ourselves.” The table, less disciplined than usual, buzzed for a long moment with conversation. Hanover scowled around the table until he finally achieved some silence.

“General Cunningham will present the report,” Hanover said shortly, and sat down. The General stood up and displayed a chart of Norway, covered with tactical icons, on the main display.

“This is Norway, two days ago,” Cunningham said. He tapped the remote; new icons appeared on the display. “The American forces, a combination of Marines and regular army units, went ashore at three separate locations, attempting to overwhelm the Germans by weight of numbers. Prior to this, two locations were softened up by American battleships firing at long-range and coordinated strikes by our navy and the RAF were aimed at German forces and lines of communication throughout Norway. The net result was that the Germans were forced to abandon any hope of reinforcing their forces on the Norwegian coast.

“The main landings were at Narvik and Bergen,” he continued. “Trondheim, which was playing unwilling host to a German battalion, was not considered a main target, but the opportunity of removing it from the battlefield proved too great to resist. Narvik, an operation aimed at discouraging the Soviets from pinching off upper Norway, was the only one to come close to disaster; the Germans pinned the Marines down and shot hell out of them. Fortunately, American carrier support and RAF units turned the tide and the Germans were defeated.

“Bergen presented a similar problem, but between the Marines and a FAE bomb most of the resistance was quickly crushed,” he concluded. The map changed to show icons taking up positions around Norway. “The main focus of the American effort has been to reinforce their commanding positions and march down to Oslo from Bergen and Trondheim. This operation, which looks good on the map, won’t be quite as easy as it seems – it reminds me of Afghanistan.”

He chuckled. “To be fair, the Norwegian resistance is coming out of the closet and providing us with considerable assistance,” he concluded. “With Patton in command, the advancing infantry columns are making their way southwards along passages that the Germans didn’t know so much about. Moving armour, however, is a very slow progress, even with the communication devices we’ve provided them with. Incidentally, certain American admirals who will remain nameless are blaming us for messing up the Norwegian roads, such as they were before the RAF took a crack at them.”

General Chapman, Chief of the Air Staff, coughed loudly. “This is from the people who bombed some of our tanks in the Gulf War and then refused to hand the pilots over,” he said.

“Future history,” Hanover injected, before an argument broke out. A ripple of laughter ran around the table. “General can Norway be taken then?”

“Oh, yes,” Cunningham said. “It’s only a matter of time. I’d be astounded if it takes more than a month.”

“Good,” Hanover said. “Admiral Grisham, what about Redemption I and II?”

Admiral Grisham glared impartially around the table. “We can launch Redemption I right now,” she said. “We have most of the units required for the mission already in the region, and after Malta the Germans have stepped down their air operations in the Mediterranean. Admittedly, Redemption I is a prerequisite for Redemption II, and the Germans will try to stop us, so launching it now would be the best chance we’d have to do it this year.”

Cunningham nodded. “Admiral Somerville has shown himself to be capable,” he said. “All we’re using for the mission is two units of the SBS and two Marine divisions. We can spare them; there won’t be a threat to Suez any time soon.”

Hanover steepled his fingers. One of the problems with the rapidly expanding British Army was that they had a shortage of trained officers. In the Middle East, they’d been forced to use the older units as firemen, trusting the newer units to hold their own. Crete was a bigger target than it looked on the map, far too big to be taken quickly, unless the Germans were pounded into submission first.

He scowled. The armed forces had spent most of the winter building up stocks of advanced weapons, some of which had already been expended in Norway and Germany. He didn’t begrudge the Americans their assistance – it was important to keep the alliance going – but it was costly. The economy might be doing really well for the first time in a decade, relatively speaking, but weapons were not something that could be sold.

He picked up the outline document. “I authorise Redemption I,” he said, knowing that between the two Redemptions and Norway almost all of the war stocks would be expended. “Admiral, I have every confidence that we can proceed with Redemption II as soon as it becomes practical, but for the moment we cannot proceed.”

Grisham nodded. “I understand,” she said.

Hanover smiled. “Any other business?” He asked. There was a long pause. “No? In that case… meeting adjourned.”

He allowed them all to file out, staring at the map. Redemption I was fairly conventional, in its way, although he suspected that Somerville would not have thought of it that way. Redemption II, however, was the kind of scheme that armchair generals came up with; a scheme that couldn’t hope to succeed against technologically-equal opponents. It had been Rommel who’d pointed out that the Wehrmacht couldn’t hope to react as fast as the British, and that a daring stroke might just shorten the war.

So could losing the force involved, he thought grimly, and understood how Pitt and Churchill must have felt. Steeling his mind, Hanover took one last look at the map… and strode from the room, turning the light out behind him.

HMS Warspite

Malta, Mediterranean Sea

27^th May 1941

The message had the same imperious tone as many of the messages from the Admiralty that Somerville had been familiar with; it was good to know that some things had never changed. The message was also simple; PROCEED WITH REDEMPTION ONE, it read.

“We’re going back to Crete,” Somerville said. “This time, we’re going there to take it from the Germans and keep it.”

The room, the captains of the task force, cheered. They were an odd lot; ten Contemporaries, ten future personnel, and Somerville himself. A Marine General, dressed in a Marine uniform, Contemporaries dressed in Contemporary uniforms, future people dressed in their snappy uniforms – and a tough merchant skipper who had refused to don a naval uniform. Sooner or later, once the war was over, Somerville was certain that the Royal Navy would get around to instituting a single uniform, but for the moment everyone wore what they felt comfortable in.

“We will depart as soon as the Marines and supplies are loaded onboard the transports,” he said. The Marines had been stationed on Malta, but after the Battle of Malta, when so few Germans had even managed to land, they had been released for other missions. He pointed his cane at the map of Crete; he didn’t like computer-generated maps very much.

“As soon as we get within ten miles of Crete, the Daring will open fire on the pre-selected targets,” Somerville said, blessing the chance that had spared the Type-45 destroyer from the Pacific. “Its targets are German bases in Turkey and Greece; given how fast the missiles move, they should knock the German air cover down sharply. We’ll move slowly, in the night, and reach Crete at dawn.”

He chuckled. “Once we get near Crete, we’ll blast hell out of the German emplacements with the two battleships main guns, then land the Marines,” he concluded. “Once we’ve cleaned up the German troops, we can declare the island secured and bask in the glory.” There were some chuckles. “One note, and please explain this to your men.” He nodded at Brigadier Hampton. “The Germans have been deploying some new technology, and the boffins want to examine it.”

“Yes, sir,” Brigadier Hampton said. The burly marine grinned. “We have plenty of experience in taking equipment intact.”

Somerville, who’d read of their battles against Jihadis, believed him. “Good,” he said. “Let’s get on with it then.”

Crete Theatre

Mediterranean Sea

28^th May 1941

Dawn broke over Crete, showering waves of sunlight across the beautiful island. General Kurt Student picked himself up from the floor and looked blearily at the bottle in his hand. It was cheap Greek wine, Retsina, and he hated it. It was, however, the only kind of wine available to him, so he drank it to forget.

The noise of an Italian playing a horn solo, awakening the Italian troops, echoed through the base. Student scowled; his forces were not what he would have chosen, being mainly Italian troops deployed around the island, and a handful of Germans at the base itself. According to history, his forces would have taken Crete… but instead the island had been scooped up during the march to the Middle East.

“Shut them up,” he bellowed, though a haze of drunkenness. The noise of the SS sergeant, assigned to watch the Italians, shouting at them was worse. The troops on Crete were the dregs of the Italian armed forces – which meant that they were truly more dangerous to their allies than to the enemy – and he knew that they’d been sent to Crete as punishment. The only question was who was meant to be punished by the experience.

Me, probably, he thought grimly, splashing his hands in the sink. He splashed cold water on his face, and then started to shave. Three cuts later, he pulled on his jacket and admired himself in the mirror. Cursing, he rubbed the blood off his chin and headed out to give someone hell.

The guard straightened to attention as Student entered the main building, hidden within the mountains of Crete. He’d been here once before, when he’d commanded the defence, and he’d hoped to never see it again… but that had been before Malta, before the elite Fallschirmjäger had been swatted from the sky like bugs. A wave of dizziness came over him again and he swayed against the wall.

“Herr General?” His aide asked. Student glared wordlessly at him and stomped into the command centre. He was mildly surprised to see the piece of British technology remained in its place; after Malta.

“Report,” he bellowed, at the hapless radar controller.

“Nothing to report, Herr General,” the SS officer reported. “There has been nothing on our radars, and nothing on the passive system.” He waved a hand at the radar screen. “Only our own long-range flying boat, Herr General; there’s nothing out there.”

“You are dismissed,” Student said to his aide, and sat down in the command chair. Nothing would happen, he was certain; he’d been exiled from any chance at gaining revenge for his slaughtered men. “Another day of boredom ahead.”

The radar signal swept across Crete – and the image of the German flying boat refused to disappear. “It’ll see us if we come much closer,” Lieutenant Covarrubias warned. “I suggest downing it now, with a missile.”

“We could get it without setting off a warning,” Captain McTavish, commanding officer of HMS Daring, mused. He scowled; his ship’s archenemies, the crew of HMS Dauntless, had taken part in the world’s greatest and most one-sided sea battle, while they were stuck in the Mediterranean. “Program the Tomahawks for launch sequence; we’ll have to move quickly.”

“Aye, sir,” Lieutenant Covarrubias said.

McTavish picked up the microphone, instantly connected to the fleet five miles west of Daring. “Admiral, we can splash that bastard, but we’ll have to launch at once,” he warned. “Permission to open fire?”

“Granted,” Admiral Somerville said. “Fire at will.”

“He’s much more likely to be called Wilhelm,” McTavish muttered. “Lieutenant, you are cleared to open fire.”

A streak of light lanced away from the Daring. “Missile away, sir,” Lieutenant Covarrubias reported. “Tomahawk launch sequence confirmed; satellite downloads confirm GPS, targets set and tracking…”

“Fire,” McTavish ordered. Daring began to shudder as it launched Tomahawk after Tomahawk into the air, distributing death all across the German positions in the Mediterranean.

“German aircraft destroyed,” Lieutenant Covarrubias reported. “No sign of any signal before they were hit.”

“Excellent,” McTavish said. “Inform the flag; they can move in when ready.”

“Confirmed,” Lieutenant Covarrubias said. “Impacts registered at primary targets; satellite observation data reports that we hammered them hard. Only a handful of German aircraft, mainly fighters, on radar.”

According to what the Reich claimed was false history, Maleme Airfield would have been the site of a bitter battle seven days ago. The Luftwaffe had moved a couple of squadrons in when they’d taken the island, but half of the planes – and all of the better pilots – had been pulled out again for the operations in the Middle East.

A single Tomahawk missile slammed down on the airfield, detonating a FAE warhead just above the ground. The wave of fire blasted across the airfield, destroying older German aircraft and slaughtering German pilots and Italian troops. Other Tomahawks smashed into Italian barracks across the island, but ignored the main base. Even so, the destruction of an Italian barracks close by shocked the defenders.

“Get down,” General Student howled, shocked sober by the sheer violence of the attack. Ignoring his own advice, he peered out of the windows, scanning the island quickly. Half of the island seemed to be burning; he could see fires where his defence positions had once been. “Get me the Luftwaffe!”

“We’re being jammed, sir,” Rottenfuehrer Krause reported. “We’ll have to send up smoke signals.”

Student glared at him. He had very little command authority over the SS, but he knew that one German officer had pointed a revolver at an SS officer and offered him the choice between obedience or death. “I would have thought that the burning island would alert them,” he snapped. “Why haven’t they killed us yet?”

It was a more relevant question than it sounded, he knew, and Rottenfuehrer Krause gave it serious consideration. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “They should have blasted down the radar stations, at least. They did it in Norway.” A chime sounded from the future piece of equipment. “Uh oh,” he said.

“What is it?” Student snapped, running out of patience. His pounding headache didn’t help; he wanted to kill something. “An air raid?”

“It’s an invasion,” Rottenfuehrer Krause said. Student stumbled to the window and stared across the seas to the west. The looming shape of a battleship could be seen in the distance. “They want Crete for themselves.”

“Sound the alert,” Student said. Now he had something to kill. “We’ll give them a reception that they’ll never forget!”

“We hit the Luftwaffe pretty badly,” Tom assured Admiral Somerville. He waved a hand at the big display. “They have only five aircraft in the air, and none of them are coming this way.”

“Excellent,” Somerville said. He was more than a little stunned; he’d grown too used to watching swarms of German aircraft descending on him. “Land the landing craft!”

It had taken General Student nearly twenty minutes to collect together a scratch force of German and Italian soldiers, and ten more minutes to confirm the sheer devastation of the British attack. Of the ten thousand troops he was supposed to have, nearly half of them had been killed and more wounded by the attack. He allowed the seriously wounded what medical care he could, while press-ganging the remainder into the defence force.

He watched grimly as the British battleships plastered Sphakia with blast after blast from their main guns. It had been one of his main defensive positions, but after the missile attack there was hardly anything left of the defences, but the British had no way of knowing that. Explosions walked all over the town and shattered it, bit by bit.

“They’re on their way,” Rottenfuehrer Krause muttered, as the shape of landing craft began to appear out of the smoke. They were odd vehicles, some were normal boats, others seemed to move above the water, driving right onto the beaches before their crew jumped out, weapons ready.

“Just get comfortable, you Tommy bastards,” Student muttered. The black-clad British moved carefully among the town, perplexed by the lack of resistance, landing more and more troops until they had spread all over the town. As he watched, they formed up into groups and slipped carefully up towards the radar station, high on the hills. Time passed, and then…

“Fire,” Student snapped, firing madly with his weapon. The others joined in, pouring fire down on the British. Two British collapsed… and then crawled back, sparks spewing from their armour. “What the hell?”

“Bullet-proof armour,” Rottenfuehrer Krause said. He sounded fascinated. “It’s supposed to be able to stop bullets. Aim for the head.”

“Jawohl,” Student muttered, as a black sphere flew through the air towards their position. Student had only seconds to realise that it was a grenade, before the world went away forever.

Brigadier Hampton had been expecting a harder fight, but the Germans seemed to have been broken by the air strike. Most of the defenders were Italian and they were more than willing to surrender, once the SS officers had been killed. Indeed, more than a few of them shot their SS ‘allies’ and surrendered.

The German base, he had to admit, was better organised than a Jihadi base; it was neater and generally more military. His gaze swept across primitive radars, radios, maps and…

“What the hell is that?” He demanded.

“It looks like a radar set, Brig,” one of his men said. Private Clough examined it thoughtfully. “Brigadier, its one of our sets.” He pointed at a bullet hole in the machine. “It’s useless now, it won’t work.”

Hampton glared at him. “That’s not the point,” he said. “The question is; where the hell did it come from?”