Axis of Evil

Chapter Two: It’s Not All Black And White

Redemption Church

Texas, USA

23^rd March 1941

Darkness cloaked the church, built at some distance from the village nearby, allowing the men to move up, unseen. One of them had some army experience, ordering the others to remain behind while he scouted out the region. The church was brightly lit; the smiling pastor stood outside, smiling at the visitors.

“Nigger filth,” the leader muttered, and waved a hand at his men. Quickly, neatly, they pulled on their robes and then lifted their weapons; baseball bats and coshes, canes and whips. One of them cracked a whip and laughed horribly; the leader slapped him across the face.

“Quiet, you fool,” he muttered. “You’ll be the unmaking of us!”

He watched as the last black man entered the church and the doors were closed, before leading his team forward. Their approach was unobserved; no one noticed them as they surrounded the church, pouring petrol around the wooden building.

“Can I help you gentlemen?”

The leader glanced up sharply, to see a young black man looking down at them. His army experience sounded an alarm; the man didn’t seem frightened or scared of their white robes, more amused than anything else. His hands were concealed behind his back; he showed no fear or submission.

“You can die, nigger,” one of the team snapped. The leader’s mental alarm bell rang louder; the black man was acting like a soldier. “Die!”

“No, Willy,” the leader snapped, but it was too late. Willy lifted his whip, brought it up, and the black man produced a weapon from behind his back. The leader stared at it; it conveyed a sense of… deadliness, far more than any of the weapons that had been used in the Great War. Before Willy could take another step forward or run for his life, the man shot him neatly in the forehead.

“You are named after a dick?” The man asked, as Willy’s head exploded. “I could take you prisoner, but quite frankly… I can’t be bothered.”

The leader hadn’t told anyone about the pistol in his belt. He grabbed for it, too late. The weapon, whatever it was, hissed, and a stream of fire lashed across the Klansmen. The leader died quickly, without ever knowing what had killed him. The others took longer to die.

The man who, in another world, had been Marine Lieutenant Jones Robinson carefully secured his weapon before deactivating the camouflage unit in his suit. It was one of a handful of suits, and he had no way of recharging the batteries, and who knew; it might come in handy again, later.

“Well, that was fun,” he said, as soon as the weapon was safely away. “Grandpa?”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Jackie Robinson said. He looked younger than his future grandchild. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”

Jones shrugged. “Back where I come from, the shackles on brothers are very different and far harder to throw off,” he said. “Shooting scum like those is much easier.”

“I’m sure,” Jackie said. “They’re all here; the young men of three villages.”

“Thanks, Grandpa,” Jones said. “It’s time to deliver the message.”

He stepped inside the church and nodded politely to the pastor. The church was packed with young man, mainly black and a handful of Mexicans. They’d heard of him, heard of the message he brought, despite the efforts of the Klansmen to stamp it out.

“Brothers,” he said, as he took the pulpit. “I believe that you all know who I am; I was carried backwards in time by whatever force transported all of Britain back in time. Of the religious factions, some believe – and I believe –that this is an opportunity, a second chance, if you will, to change the mistakes of history.

“Where – rather when – I come from, the world is very different. For a man to shout, ‘hey nigger’ is a criminal offence. To discriminate on behalf of someone or against him, purely on skin colour, is an offence. Incidentally, this applies to the sisters as well; anyone who wolf-whistles can go to jail as well.”

This brought some chuckles. “It’s not heaven,” he said. “Many of us are trapped in slums, unable to break out of them; we are dependent upon handouts from the government and drugs from further south. It has become impossible, for fear of being called racist, for anyone to point out that we need more than simple handouts; we need education and opportunities, something that we cannot get because of the mindset that prevents us from realising that there is a problem.”

He grinned. “Hopefully, that won’t mean anything to you,” he said. “My grandfather” – he waved a hand at Jackie – “will play major-league baseball in the future, and he will deserve the awards, but that will change. In 2015, some people get jobs – because their employers are scared of being accused of racism! We go from one extreme to the other; objects of hatred to objects of resentment!

“Is this the way you want it to be?”

“No,” they shouted. Jackie led the shout. “No!”

“There is a war on,” Jones said calmly. “Already, many of us are receiving the call-up papers; historically, we will fight and bleed to grant people liberties that we do not enjoy! I ask you; is that right?”

“No,” they shouted again.

“If we had arrested the men outside, the police would have let them go,” Jones said. “I killed them, merely to teach their followers a lesson. I’ve been moving around a bit, from place to place, building a network of people who will stand up for their rights. Will you join me?”

“Yes,” they shouted. Jones smiled; some hadn’t joined in the shout, others looked doubtful. Still, they had listened.

“Here, in the US of A, we are entitled to vote,” he shouted. “We are entitled to elect our own representatives, and do we? No! We don’t – because we are threatened and intimidated and we’re not going to take it any more! Never again shall we submit to tyranny; we will not be overcome by the remains of an evil that was blasted away during the civil war!”

“A powerful speech,” Pastor Williams said, afterwards. “Many thousands will go to the Lord because of it.”

“I know,” Jones said. “We have to resist, we have to make a stand now, before it’s too late.”

Pastor Williams ran a hand through his dark curly hair. He was old enough to remember slavery, to remember being a slave-child. “You’re talking about starting a war,” he said.

“The war has always been fought,” Jones said. “Their greatest weapon was fear and terror; I had to show them that we could fight on equal terms.”

“And can we?” Pastor Williams asked. “They have the Army, do they not?”

“We have some soldiers of our own,” Jones said. “This has to be mainly peaceful; domestic uprisings rarely end well.”

Pastor Williams narrowed his eyes. “Then why the weapons training?”

Jones frowned. “Just in case they insist on making it violent,” he said. He chuckled. “You can normally rely on racists to do the stupid thing.”

Sheriff Lewis stumbled into his house later in the night, almost morning. It had been a long night; the bodies of nine white men had been found in a field. They had all been killed, executed, with a very strange weapon. Lewis, who had fought in the war, suspected that it was a machine gun.

He stopped, gasping. Ahead of him, with her back to him, his wife was tied to a chair. Their children, the two young girls, were also tied to the table, their hands helplessly secured. Cursing, fearing that they had been violated, he stepped forward and felt cold metal at his neck.

“Good evening, Sheriff,” a voice said. “I trust that you like my gift?”

“What are you doing?” Lewis demanded. The cold metal of the gun pressed him forward. “What do you want with me?”

The voice sounded coldly amused. “In the last months, you beat up five black people for stealing, despite the total lack of evidence. They were helpless against you… and you are helpless against me. I could have killed your children, raped and then killed your wife… do you understand?”

Lewis shuddered with sudden fear, feeling his bowels loosen. “Yes,” he said.

“Not so brave now, are you?” The voice said. “I can smell you from here.” Lewis felt shame and fear. “You understand my message – and I have one for you. Over the next few weeks, you will be hearing reports of black people registering to vote and doing all the things the white population reserves to itself, such as weapons training. If you do anything, even though inaction, to act against them, you will be forced to watch as your family suffers. Understand?”

“Yes,” Lewis gasped, though tears. “Why me?”

“Why not you?” The voice asked. It sounded vastly amused. “Because you are part of a system designed to hold black people down; preventing uppity niggers, in your terms. Because you’re the one on the spot. Because you acted against helpless people. Because… does it matter?”

Lewis thought desperately. “No,” he said finally.

“Then understand, I’m quite convinced that people will demand that you take action,” the voice said. He still hadn’t seen the face of the man. “You will do nothing, or your family will be killed. Understand?”

“Yes,” Lewis said. “Who are you?”

“Naughty question,” the voice said. He felt a tiny prick on his neck. A great tiredness swept over him. “Do not forget; leave the black folk alone…”

The White House

Washington DC, USA

23^rd March 1941

Ambassador King watched grimly as the seven generals and three admirals argued over the plans for the war. He scowled; he would have expected more… unity in the face of the future, rather than outright disagreement. They were in the White House, because the President would be meeting them later, but it wasn’t helping to keep everyone calm.

“We have to proceed at once to a jet bomber,” LeMay said. The burly future commander of SAC clearly wanted to get his bid in first. “History tells us that the jet bomber is the weapon of the future, at least until…”

“But it will take us some time to develop a bomber, even if we work directly from the plans that we gave you,” Colonel Palter said. King smiled; the colonel had been given a job that showcased his talents and alienated the entire Pentagon. “We have to have the weapons now, such as the Firefly tanks and the LSTs.”

“However, we have the problem of prosecuting the war,” General Bradley said, as calmly as he could. “We need to work on tactical air support, and we need to build up an army.” He scowled across at Admiral Kimmel. “We have to move at once to mass-production of the Hellcat, Admiral, both as a fighter and torpedo bomber.”

“Yes, well if we had proper training facilities, and enough factories grinding out the weapons we want…”

King tuned them out and headed out of the room. Palter nodded and took over the meeting without hesitation; he enjoyed the argument. Back when they’d been planning the upgrade of American forces for the repeat of the Second World War, they hadn’t expected resistance from the military, many of whom would end up with an obsolete force if they weren’t careful. Even though no one, but the British were armed with guided anti-ship missiles, there was no guarantee that the Germans would not manage to produce one of their own.

You’d think that the Battle of the Indian Ocean would show them that the day of the battleship was over, he thought, and scowled. The British had sunk four Japanese battleships; that should have demonstrated just how vulnerable battleships were to missiles. Palter had advocated, with King’s enthusiastic support, a carrier and submarine construction program. Politics had interfered, of course; why would the politicians let something that was so… important get in the way of politics?

I guess the Navy is just enjoying its victory, he thought grimly. The first six months of the German War had been mainly fought by the navy, as destroyers and cruisers fought it out with u-boats for control of the seas. Despite some determined efforts, no operation to attack German soil had even gotten off the ground; Roosevelt had been determined to build up a fighting force before committing it to battle.

“Good evening, Ambassador,” Roosevelt said, vanishing from King’s mind to the room in front of him. The private room was equipped as a meeting room; Roosevelt had once told King that he came here to think and occasionally to meet with friends. Roosevelt had told the Secret Service that King could see him any time he wanted, but with his worsening condition, it had been harder to find time to visit. The stress of the political war and the real war was pressing down harder on Roosevelt; he looked more skeletal than ever.

“Good evening, Mr President,” King said, taking the chair Roosevelt indicated. The President sat in his wheelchair; he’d once joked that it made certain that he got a comfortable seat. “How are you this evening?”

“I survive,” Roosevelt said. He sounded as spry as ever. “The children are still arguing?”

“I’m afraid so,” King admitted. “They want AK-47s, they want an American tank design for pride’s sake, and they want them yesterday.”

“I suppose I should make decisions,” Roosevelt said. “The last Roosevelt President formed his own army, but matters are a lot more complicated here. We have nearly one hundred thousand men now, and we need more, a lot more.”

“They also need training,” King said. “Quite frankly, Mr President, the idea of striking cross-channel is nonsense until 1942.”

“A shame,” Roosevelt said. “Even though the Germans dealt us a heavy blow, holding the agreement together to fight the war is proving hard. We have to do something, and do so before Congress decides that internal affairs are more important.”

King felt a twinge of guilt, and then wry humour. The joke would have fallen flat; congressmen in 1940 were not watched 24/7. “Now that there is a proper sonar network up and running, only one German u-boat has managed a successful attack on a ship,” he said. “That’s not a small success.”

“It’s also not very dramatic, as it is not entirely our work,” Roosevelt said. “Without the British, the battle of the Atlantic would have been a lot more dramatic.”

And would have been in 1942, King thought coldly.

“We can’t just sit on our behinds,” Roosevelt said wryly. “The army has to do something; it has to prove its value.”

“Doing something too early cost us before, at a place in North Africa,” King said. “If we have to conduct an attack, we need to pick a better location. Has Congress budged on the issue of Japan?”

Roosevelt shook his great head. “Not since MacArthur was recalled,” he said. He scowled. “I hate setting that kind of precedent, but this is a free country and if men don’t want to serve under a particular general…”

King shrugged. “It was unfortunate,” he said. “If we can’t fight Japan, or Russia, that leaves the Middle East, or Spain. If you want an operation that’s entirely American, Norway is the best bet. Our logistics would be bad, but so would the German logistics. Colonel Palter put together a plan for such an attack.”

Roosevelt blinked. “Why haven’t I heard about such a plan from my generals?”

“I don’t think that they wanted to discuss it,” King admitted. “There are far too many things that could go wrong, from messing up the convoy timings to failing to get the carriers in position for air support. We would need a little support from the British, mainly in the air; the Germans will know more about taking on carriers now than they did in the original timeline.”

“Tell… that guy in the planning office that I want it worked out as soon as possible,” Roosevelt ordered. “In fact, I’ll discuss it myself with Harry, and then work out the details. Politically, it won’t be a hard sell; the Germans have been making themselves as obnoxious there as elsewhere.”

He chuckled. “On a different topic, what do you think of the new Internet?”

King’s mind went to the very special mobile phone in his pocket. The new Internet, a jury-rigged system based around laptops that had been intended for the Third World, and a series of relay stations that created a haze of electronic bandwidth, wasn’t anything like as capable as the one in 2015. Still, it was so much better than what everyone had had before that everyone was delighted, particularly the people running it. They were coining it in; millions of dollars going towards the British war chest.

“It could be improved,” he said dryly. “I like it, on the whole. There is a certain charm about it that the one we left behind lacked, and with the new patent laws it should continue to keep that charm. The bandwidth is slow, and I think it will remain slow until we get some landlines laid down, but it’s so much better than anything we had before.”

“Hoover wants it shut down,” Roosevelt said bluntly. “He thinks that it’s a nest of subversives.”

King smiled. The laptops for the Third World had been designed with avoiding the attention of a series of corrupt governments; it was difficult for 2015 technology – and impossible for 1940 – to trace a particular user. Since someone – he suspected the very personable Jim Oliver – had re-introduced Wikipedia, thousands of people had started to use the future knowledge for themselves. Some technical data had been censored; nothing social had been removed at all. Countless people now knew that Hoover was – perhaps – a homosexual, among other effects.

“Not everyone disagrees with him,” Roosevelt continued. “It’s amazing how quickly some members of Congress joined up with him. Anyone would think that they were concerned about their reputations. What happened to MacArthur could happen to anyone.”

King laughed. “The march of progress, Mr President,” he said. “They need to develop more upstanding and neat lives.”

“Perhaps,” Roosevelt said. “What about the dangers of subversives?”

“Hoover saw them everywhere,” King said dismissively. His mobile phone bleeped once. He ignored it. “It was never a serious danger, even in my time; if they are talking, they are not plotting.”

Roosevelt smiled. “I’d get back to the meeting, if I was you,” he said. “You might be making lots of money off the Internet” – King smiled sheepishly – “but you will need political clout. Official Washington might have got used to you, but hardly anywhere else has.”

King shook hands and left the room, wandering back down towards the meeting room. As soon as he was unobserved, he pulled out his mobile phone and checked the message; it was simple and – as a codeword – would mean nothing to Hoover’s FBI. He wiped the message anyway; Marine Lieutenant Jones Robinson’s mission was too dangerous to risk exposure.

How much do they know? He asked himself, before putting a relaxed smile on his face and wandering into the meeting room. Did they know that he had forced forward the new – unreadable – Internet? Did they know where most of the funds went? Did they know anything about Marine Lieutenant Jones Robinson? Did they know that the Black Power movement was supported by some of the future people?

King smiled grimly. He had no doubt that if they did know, the reaction would not be kind. At best, he would be thrown out of the country; at worst charged with high treason. He grinned; if the game was easy and safe, everyone would play.