Axis of Evil

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Reactions Upon Reactions

Ten Downing Street

London, United Kingdom

29^th May 1941

Hanover stared down at the images, relayed by the investigative team. Doctor Antoinette Stancil looked nervous and her voice shook; she hadn’t expected to be on the forefront of high politics and treason. As an expert in World War Two technology, her speciality hadn’t had any relevance – until they’d found themselves back in 1940.

“Explain it to me again, Doctor,” he said, more for the benefit of McLachlan, who’d just entered the room, than himself. “Exactly what have you found?”

“It’s a passive sensor suite,” Stancil said. Her voice shook again. “It’s a commercial system, one built in 2013 for ships sailing through Indonesian waters, which as you know…”

“Were almost less safe than they are at the moment,” Hanover said. “It’s definitely one of ours?”

Stancil nodded, trying hard not to show any contempt. Hanover understood; it had been a question born of desperation. How could the Germans have built it?

“I’m afraid so,” she said. “That’s really all I can tell you, but you’ll have my full report at the end of the day.”

“Thank you,” Hanover said, and cut the video link. “Explain.”

Anna Hathaway, the Home Secretary, coughed grimly. Behind her, MI5’s duty officer winced. “It came from America,” she said. “We got the serial numbers and compared them to the lists of devices sent aboard. This one, PSS4373-463-376373, was sent to America and was reported destroyed in a warehouse fire in January.”

Hanover sucked in his breath. “What else was in the warehouse?”

“Several more of them, some commercial-grade radars, and several computers designed to crack encryptions,” the MI5 officer said. David Berrios, a Jamaican who spoke perfect Cockney, scowled. “We must assume that all of them are in German hands.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Hanover said. “So… how the hell did the Germans get their hands on it?”

Berrios coughed. “I have been running an investigation into it,” he said. “The device in question was transhipped via the Bracken Consortium, which owned the warehouse. Sir, the person in charge of their activities over there is Jim Oliver, who you may remember was quite a celebrity some time back.”

“He was released by the Germans, wasn’t he?” Hanover said, and then he swore. “Perhaps we should have looked more carefully at him.”

“Perhaps,” Berrios said. “However, your predecessor was keen on making a public impact, and then, as you know…”

Hanover nodded. Prime Minister Smith had suffered a number of heart attacks. The last one, six months ago, had killed him. Hanover couldn’t bring himself to feel regret; Smith wouldn’t have had the imagination to see how to use the Transition to Britain’s best advantage.

“That he was a prisoner of the Germans doesn’t prove anything,” Hathaway said. “He was very vocal on the need for war when he was interviewed by that wretched Stewart woman.”

“Yes, the one who broadcast the claim that Norway was independent before the Americans landed,” Hanover muttered. “Yes, it could have been someone within his organisation, but he is the most likely suspect. Someone in his place could have told them anything.”

McLachlan snorted. “He didn’t let on about the Norway attack,” he said.

“If he knew,” Hanover said thoughtfully. “I wonder…”

“Sir, may I continue the investigation of Mr Bracken?” Berrios asked. “There are still a lot of unanswered questions…”

“Yes, please do,” Hanover said absently. “One thing; this is not to be mentioned to anyone without my prior authorisation, understand?”

“You’re not going to drop a hammer on him?” Hathaway asked afterwards. “In his position, he could be slipping the Germans anything, from missiles to nuclear science.”

“Perhaps,” Hanover said. “Rule something or other of intelligence; never cut off a conduct, on the grounds that its better the devil you know than the devil you don’t. Given how important he had made himself to the Americans, we can’t simply summon him home and throw him out of the nearest window.”

“I would have expected the BNP to be very keen on aiding the Germans,” McLachlan said. “I wonder if Oliver is a member.”

“That would explain a lot,” Hanover said absently. His mind was considering something else. “This does give us some extra options.”

“I still think that we should shut him down as fast as possible,” McLachlan said. “What about…?”

They exchanged glances. Hanover had already considered using C Section. “No,” he said finally. “I want to know what he’s told them first.”

The two left, leaving Hanover alone to work on his briefing papers. The food distribution network was working fairly well; everyone had enough to eat. There had been some celebrations after Norway fell, and Crete, but for the moment everything was surprisingly peaceful. Hanover smiled to himself; conscripting most of the unemployed youths into the army had reduced crime more than anything the socialists had suggested.

“They can take out their aggressions on the Germans,” he said, and chuckled darkly. The confidential report from Agent Yar, from Russia, was next; they were making progress, slowly. It had been a long shot, one of several that Smith would never have dared to try, but perhaps it would work. Now that there were some satellites in orbit, watching Russia and relaying messages, he could signal to them without fear of detection.

Darkness fell around the room as night cloaked the building, but he worked on, making his way through the paperwork that could not be delegated to the civil servants. Few of the documents were interesting – one covered the sudden number of private doctors who had applied to work in America – but they were important. An uninformed Prime Minister wasn’t a Prime Minister for very long.

A chime rang in the room. “Prime Minister, Mr Berrios respectfully requests an interview,” his secretary said. “Shall I give him the boot?”

Hanover thought rapidly. Normally, Berrios should have asked his superior, who would have relayed the request. Either this was very important, or Berrios was arrogant beyond belief. Either way, it had to be dealt with quickly.

“Send him in,” he said grimly, and waited for Berrios to pass through the security checks.

“Good evening, Prime Minister,” Berrios said. He didn’t sound too arrogant. Hanover decided to hear him out. “I found some interesting bits of information that had to be shared with you instead of…”

“Passing through the bureaucrats?” Hanover asked dryly. Each of the bureaucrats would have tried to add their own spin to the information. He swung around and waved the black man to a seat. “What have you found?”

“If Mr Bracken exists, he’s very well hidden or was left behind in 2015,” Berrios said. “I checked through every surveillance system we have; all of the reported meetings with him were through his substitutes. You know, the people who were linked into the Internet and relayed his words?”

Hanover nodded. If you were rich enough, you could do that. “Yes, I know,” he said.

“Sir, no one seems to have seen Mr Bracken in person,” Berrios said. “If he wasn’t abroad at the time of the Transition – and there is no record of him leaving before we did – then he must be still in Britain. Indeed, AIMworks reported that Mr Oliver had taken up work as one of Bracken’s substitutes, and had a link to him. So I checked further… and I am convinced that there is no such person.”

Hanover lifted an eyebrow. “How did we miss it?”

“His taxes were all paid and he owned a vast number of companies,” Berrios said. It wasn’t quite an answer. “However, most of the companies weren’t real, not in the sense that they made anything, but merely shell companies. Sir, I consulted with the Police departments – under strictest security of course – and it looks as if all Bracken was is a fat bank account – and a number of people who played at being him. However, recently, that changed; Bracken went on the market, snapped up a number of American companies over here that were about to fold – and a number of American businesses in this year – and manoeuvred himself into prime position in the transatlantic trade.”

“Bugger me,” Hanover muttered, ruefully impressed. “Talk about a powerful position.”

“Yes, sir,” Berrios said. “We’re unravelling the money trail now, and we’ll find out who was behind it quickly, perhaps some of the mobsters we have around. Sir, if he is working for the Germans, then he’s suddenly a very real danger.”

“That point has been made, several times,” Hanover said absently. “Clever bastard, if we drop a hammer on him, we tear apart the trading network with America.” He thought rapidly about assassination, and dismissed the possibility. It might have destroyed the trade relationship, even if their hand was never seen to have been involved. “What else was he doing here?”

“I’m not certain,” Berrios admitted. “His people bought a lot of books and technical machines, but all of them were accounted for at the last census. Still, all this does make it very likely that he’s our missing spy.”

“Humm,” Hanover said. An idea had occurred to him. “Mr Berrios, I want you to carefully, very carefully, work out everything that he’s been doing and inform me. This is your only priority; send your boss to me if he makes a fuss.”

“Yes, sir,” Berrios said, smiling. What officer would not be delighted to have a chance to embarrass his boss?

“You are to keep this to yourself,” Hanover ordered. “You are not to do anything that would alert him, whatever happens.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a card. “This is my direct line,” he said. “Should you see him doing anything that requires immediate action, let me know.”

“Yes, sir,” Berrios said. Hanover nodded, dismissing him, and then thought rapidly. The plans for Redemption were known to only a handful of people, none of them in America. Redemption was also the only major operation that would be conducted for the remainder of the year; Norway would absorb much of the American resources and the Middle East would absorb the British resources.

“At least Japan is no longer a threat,” Hanover said to himself, and headed for his bed.

Churchill Space Centre

French Guiana, South America

31^st May 1941

The CAD-generated design was simple and cunning, exactly the sort of design that previous space programs had rejected, simply because they couldn’t see the point. If Major John Dashwood had squinted at it just right, he could have believed that he was staring at one of the Shuttle-C designs that NASA had invented, but never put into use. Two small booster rockets, built with designs that had been invented in the 1970s, were placed on each side of the massive external tank; a pointed cylinder that had been based on space shuttle technology.

Dashwood allowed himself a chuckle. No matter how impressive the space rocket was, it was empty. No mammoth amounts of fuel would be required to lift the light cylinder; it had been built from materials that were very light, relatively speaking. The first models were being shipped to Churchill Space Centre now, prepared for launch into Low Earth Orbit, and Dashwood hoped to be launching them in a week. Once enough of them were in orbit, the first stages of space station construction would have been completed; the astronauts in the SSTO or the space capsules would have somewhere to live in space.

He smiled again. It was amazing what American pressure could do; the Americans had loved the reconnaissance reports from Norway and were demanding more, offering all kinds of bribes in exchange. Even as American forces ground onwards to Oslo, the British were launching more satellites into space, completing the observation of the Earth.

“Once we have a space station, we can begin developing the space-based weapons,” he remarked to his second, Commander Troy Tempest. Churchill Space Centre had developed remarkably in the month since they had placed the first satellite in orbit; they now had a complete staff and entire factories. Everyone was benefiting, even the natives; some of them had expressed interest in incorporation into the British Commonwealth.

“We need the astronauts ready first,” Tempest reminded him. Only a handful of RAF personnel had ever been in space, but the former British Space Centre – now merged into Dashwood’s personal fiefdom – had had a handful more, and dozens of plans and concepts that had vanished into the bureaucracy and been forgotten. Now… now, people were discussing space guns, and rail launchers, and dozens of idea that had really caught the public imagination. They had had dozens of applications for astronaut training, from the RAF to ordinary students who had dreamed of space for years.

“True, true,” Dashwood said. “The SSTO should be ready for its test flight in January, but we’ll have to move to using the capsules for the rest of the year. It’s going to be extremely dangerous, but hell; they flew that way in 1960.”

“Yes, sir,” Tempest said. “We have continued their training at the British site.”

Dashwood nodded. “If something goes wrong from here, we can pick up from there,” he said. “Coming to think of it, the SSTO should be capable of launching from anywhere.”

Tempest chuckled. “So they keep telling us,” he said, referring to the collection of British aerospace companies that had contracted to build the craft. “I know that the Americans built one like it, but they only flew it from America itself.”

“We’ll be more adventurous,” Dashwood assured him. His watch started to bleep. “Ah,” he said. “Time for the launch.”

“Close enough to 0.23628 seconds past midday,” Tempest joked. Dashwood, who’d read the books as a child, chuckled. “I hope that you remembered the mice.”

“Should be just time for a cup of tea,” Dashwood said.

The Goddard-class rocket sat neatly on the launching pad, a combination of future and British technology. Like its predecessors, it carried a reconnaissance and communications satellite, adding another multi-function satellite to the growing orbital web staring down at Earth. Dashwood might have been imagining it, but there was a certain crudeness to its design, nothing like the Trident that they’d used for the first launch.

“I confirm launch commit,” he said, checking the telemetry. The observation units were in position, aided for the first time by two orbiting satellites.

“Launch commit confirmed,” Tempest confirmed. “Telemetry coming in at three locations; full data shunt and storage confirmed.”

“Don’t you get the feeling of déjà vu?” Dashwood asked wryly. Tempest glared at him; that wasn’t in the script. “Launch in ten seconds… five… launch!”

The rocket fired. For a long moment, it stood on the pad, and then began to rise on a pillar of smoke. Cheers broke out across the field as the reporters and crew stopped their work to gawk at the rocket, which was rising steadily across the sea. Dashwood smiled to himself… and then the alarms began.

“Heat rise in second stage booster,” Tempest snapped. “Sir, it’s going…”

The explosion echoed across the waters as the rocket disintegrated in mid-flight. Explosive packs triggered themselves, disintegrating the reminder of the rocket, which showered dust and components down on the sea. A dreadful silence fell over the base.

“Stand down from launch,” Dashwood said. He was amazed at how calm his voice was. “Everyone, back to work.” He hesitated. “Except the senior staff, who will join me for a conference in twenty minutes.”

Dashwood had banned both cigarettes and alcohol from Churchill Space Centre, except in emergencies. Reasoning that this counted as an emergency, he poured them all generous glasses of brandy, and set up the teleconference call with the Prime Minister.

“So,” he said finally, as they sipped their brandies. “What the hell went wrong?”

“The rocket’s shielding failed, I think,” Goddard said. Alone among them, he didn’t seem downhearted; Dashwood remembered that he had had many failures of his own. “The blast plume bored through the shielding and ignited the fuel for the second-stage, blowing it apart.”

Dashwood cursed vilely. Every time that there had been a space disaster, the program was shut down for years back in the old timeline. “We launched several more of those rockets without a problem,” he snapped. “What was wrong with this one?”

“Weaker structural integrity,” the rocket engineer said. “I did a check on all of the other rockets, looking for patterns. Every rocket from a particular company has weaker fuel tanks than the others.”

“A Bracken company?” Hanover asked sharply. “Who owns the company?”

“Not Bracken,” Tempest said, checking on his PDA. “One of the bigger American corporations, Dupont, I think.”

“So, was it an accident or sabotage?” Hanover asked thoughtfully.

“I don’t know,” the engineer said. “It could be just bad materials.”

“Perhaps,” Hanover said. “Major Dashwood?”

Dashwood took a breath. “I intend to resume launches,” he said. “I think that we’d return all of the Dupont rockets and demand that they improve their quality.”

“Good thinking,” Hanover agreed. “The BBC has already caught wind of the disaster; I expect that you can give a good press conference on it. I’ll inform Parliament that the rocket was lost through structural error and that launches will resume, once all of the rockets have been checked out.”

“They won’t shut us down, will they?” Tempest asked nervously. Dashwood grinned behind his brandy. Tempest sounded like a little boy.

“I won’t let them,” Hanover assured him. “Everyone is a big space backer these days; they’re just too useful to be ignored. Still, I expect a full report on your meeting with Dupont, understand?”

Dashwood nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I won’t let them get away with substandard materials.”

“Indeed,” Hanover said. “If necessary, let me know and I’ll talk to the President directly. There’s no point in working on an SSTO if the main rockets explode, is there?”

“No, sir,” Dashwood said. “Sir, we intend to begin laying the first stages of the space station soon; should we continue with that?”

“Keep running, Major,” Hanover said. “Then you may stumble, but you won’t fall.”