Second Chance

Chapter Eleven: Redoing the Battle of Britain

Permanent Joint Headquarters

London, United Kingdom

15^th July 1940

All of the radar stations along the south coast – civilian and military – were sounding the warning. At least a thousand aircraft, all German, were making their way slowly towards Britain, forming into several different attack prongs. Portsmouth, Dover and London seemed to be the main targets, although the several flights of German aircraft heading to the far north suggested that the Germans hadn’t quite grasped the fact that Scarpa Flow had gone.

“Have you sounded the warning to the civilians?” General Cunningham demanded, taking long strides into the main control room. “What about the army?”

“They all got the alert,” the duty officer assured him. “The Prime Minister and the Cabinet are being hastened into the bunker below Whitehall; the Royal Family is being evacuated even as we speak.”

“Blasted idiot refusing to leave earlier,” Cunningham muttered. “The sector controllers have taken command?”

“Yes, sir,” the duty officer said. “The RAF is scrambling now; the jets on combat air patrol are being pulled back into the main formations. The navy is going on alert; the ground forces have been alerted.”

“They’ll swarm through us,” Cunningham predicted grimly. “Any sign that they know where our bases are?”

“RAF Neatishead seems to be one of the targets,” the duty officer said. “The east coast seems to be a major target in itself.”

Cunningham scowled. “They must have interrogated the pilot of the jumbo jet,” he said coldly. “They’re required to know where the main air bases are.”

Over England

Britain

15^th July 1940

“Eagle-one, take point,” the sector controller said grimly, as the Eurofighters thundered into the air. “Hawk-one, take point of group two.”

Abernathy winced as the Eurofighter climbed frantically for as much height as it could. The RAF squadrons were scrambling, massing as much power as they could, and the enemy aircraft were carrying on their long slow progress towards England. He glanced at the information the Sentry AWACS were feeding to the Eurofighters; at least nine hundred German aircraft were heading towards Dover, and London.

“That’s a lot of planes,” Dunbar muttered, for once not challenging anyone. “How do we swat them all?”

“We take out as many of them as we can from long distance,” Abernathy said. He scowled; the Germans were maintaining a strong formation; fighters patrolling above, below and ahead of the bombers, which were lumbering alone slowly, but steadily. As the British forces closed in, he realised just how good the formation was; the bombers would be able to avoid fratricide and use their own guns on any British aircraft.

Once we run out of missiles we’re going to have to close in, he thought, and scowled. The Germans had much more primitive equipment than the Iraqis had, thirteen years before, but they were brave and determined.

“At least they show up as heat sources for BVRAAMS,” Dunbar said. “It’s a shame we don’t have more of them.”

“That’s enough of that,” Abernathy said, although he agreed. The Eurofighters carried two BVRAAM missiles each; the result of the desperate need to conserve the advanced weapons, and four ASRAAM missiles. Once they were gone, the fighting would be at knife-range, with cannons instead of missiles.

“Look down,” Dunbar said, and Abernathy stared. The German aircraft were outlined against the sea, never-ending streams of aircraft stretching all the way back to France. They seemed beautiful; a ghost from the past. They might be slow, but they were deadly; Abernathy knew that they would start bombing England soon.

“All right,” he said. “Eagles, Hawks, stand by to engage.” He studied the position; the Eurofighters were high over the unaware German aircraft. “Fire upon my command… Eagle-one, Fox Two!”

The large bomber next to his fighter blew up in a spectacular explosion, knocking the Messerschmitt badly off course. Adolf Galland gabbled orders into his radio, commanding them to deploy the experimental weapons, and yanked his fighter into a tight series of evasive manoeuvres. They saved his life; a streak of fire screamed past him – he heard it even over the roar of the engines and slammed into a Heinkel bomber. The bomber literally disintegrated in midair, even as other missiles roared past, some of them heading for the flares.

Thank you God, Galland thought, as some of the missiles homed in on the flares the bombers had dropped, each one of them burning brightly. Others refused to be tricked; they killed bombers and fighters with a casual dispassion. An object screamed past him and he fired instinctively; streaks of tracer chasing the jet fighter. They missed; the fighter fired a long stream of cannon fire at a bomber, ripping it apart. Another jet, one painted red, swooped down on him and he yanked his fighter aside, avoiding a burst of cannon fire himself, before firing back desperately. He hit something; the fighter fell away trailing smoke and fire.

“Didn’t see anything,” Galland said. The orders from General Kesselring had been to show no mercy to parachutists – apparently it took months to train a new jet pilot – but he didn’t want to obey. He glanced from side to side, assessing the situation; the battle seemed to have ended for the moment. Huge gaping holes in his formation showed where he’d taken losses to his force, but he was certain that the enemy had been hurt as well.

He spoke into his radio, ordering the flights to prepare to engage the Dover defences, and sighed in relief. The hell-weapons had come for him and he was still alive.

Abernathy swooped down on a German flight, firing madly, before twisting past the exploding bomber and plunging down towards the sea. Hit and run tactics seemed to be the best; close-quarter combat gave the Germans some advantages. He’d never faced a horde of bombers armed with machine guns before; they’d damaged his plane and he was grimly certain that several Eurofighters had gone down.

He pulled out of the dive just above the water and swooped away, catching his breath and checking the updates from the Sentry AWACS. The RAF had shot down at least two hundred German aircraft – probably more – and had lost twelve of its own. By any normal – 2015 – standards, it was a stunning one-sided victory, but the Germans were still coming. On the screens, the flights of German aircraft were heading across the coastline, heading over Britain proper – and the ground defences were weaker than they’d ever been.

“Eagle-one to all Eagles,” he said, as he pulled the Eurofighter back into the sky. A hunting Messerschmitt, trying bravely to intercept him, was blown apart by a blast of cannon fire. “Ammunition; how much do you have left?”

He cursed as the pilots sounded off. Half the flight had no ammunition left and were heading back for more ammunition. Several planes were short on bullets; no one had any missiles left.

“Sierra-three,” he said, calling the controlling AWACS. “Eagles are returning to the nest.”

“Acknowledged, Eagle-one,” the controller said. “Hurry back.”

Abernathy smiled at the note of concern in the controller’s voice. At Eurofighter speeds, they could be back at their base and rearmed before the Germans reached the base, assuming that they could.

Dover Police Station

Dover, United Kingdom

15^th July 1940

The desk sergeant picked up the telephone, listened carefully, his face growing pale, and slapped the alarm. Minutes later, the fifty-seven officers on duty arrived; panting for breath. The desk sergeant put down his phone and scowled.

“We have a German attack inbound,” he said grimly. The policemen, still unused to the fact that the entire island was back in 1940, shivered. Hardly anyone had any air raid experience; the British had abandoned civil defence exercises on a grand scale well before 2001.

“What the hell do we do?” A young constable asked. A scar ran down his face from the riots two days ago, when people finally realised what the closure of the Channel Tunnel meant. “Sir, we’ve never trained for anything like this…”

“I know,” Sergeant Pope said. “The army is based nearby; they’ve asked us to ensure that all people remain off the streets.”

“Not a chance,” Officer Brown injected.

“I know,” Pope said. “The radio stations have begun broadcasting a warning; we’re to head onto the streets and order people to get inside and stay away from windows and doors.”

“There’s going to be panic and looting,” Brown said. He stared around at his men. “I think that we can do this, if we work together.”

“This is Kristy Stewart interrupting this broadcast with an urgent warning from the Ministry of Defence. German aircraft have engaged RAF fighters and are advancing on Dover, Portsmouth, Norfolk and London.”

Around the massive store, people turned to watch as the pimple-faced youth on the desk turned the volume up as loud as he could. “The MOD is warning people to seek shelter, to enter basements and to stay off the streets,” she continued. “I repeat, German aircraft are heading for…”

No one saw who ran first, but the entire crowd surged forward, running for the exits of the store. It was every man for himself; men women and children were trampled underfoot; the alarms sounded and no one could react. The handful of security guards were overwhelmed; thousands of people forced their way out, onto the streets. Others headed down to the basements, hoping to ride out the air raid underground; far too many people forced into a confined space. Panic began, not helped by an older man who remembered the first Battle of Britain singing Land of Hope and Glory at great volume.

The crowds surged onto the streets, running for their homes and families. Cars were broken into and stolen; bicycle owners had their bikes stolen by desperate husbands. The emergency services were completely overrun – and the Germans hadn’t even arrived.

“STAY CALM,” the police officer bellowed, as the first of seven police vans appeared. The loudhailer echoed, almost drowned out by the panic and the noise of dozens of shop alarms going off. “I URGE YOU ALL TO RETURN CALMLY TO YOUR HOMES AND…”

“Pigs,” someone shouted, and many of the younger people in the crowd surged towards the police vans. The police force deployed, lifting their riot equipment, and the man broke against them, forcing them back. Someone threw a rock; seconds later, rocks and garbage were raining down on the policemen.

Constable Wigan ran forward to aid his partner, Constable Stacy, and smacked her would-be assailant on the head with his bludgeon. He crumpled to the ground; Stacy swayed against him, blood pouring from her head.

“Stacy,” he shouted. “You’re going to be all right.”

She shuddered once against him and fell still. He felt her pulse and realised grimly that she was dead. Flames were spreading through the centre of Dover; and the Germans weren’t even bombing them. A scream echoed from a distant ally and he stumbled towards it; a man was forcing a girl against the wall, holding her jeans down and pushing his way inside her. Without thinking, Wigan jumped forward and brought his bludgeon down on his head, smashing the would-be rapists skull. The girl smiled up at him through her tears and began to pull her trousers up.

“Come on,” Wigan said, as the noise of the riot seemed to fade. Reinforcements had arrived; dozens of new police officers and some soldiers. He headed back towards them, the girl in tow, and then hesitated. A new sound was echoing across the town and he turned to look; dozens of black aircraft were advancing across the sky, heading for the centre of town. As he watched, a streak of light rose up and smashed one of the bombers, swatting it from the sky. In return, the bombers opened their bomb bays, dropping streams of bombs on the city. Explosions rose up from the targets; advancing towards their position.

“Take aim,” a voice bellowed behind him, and Wigan span around to see two soldiers aiming a rocket launcher up into the sky. He threw himself to the ground, dragging the girl with him, as the soldiers fired; launching a missile at the oncoming flight of German planes. One fell in fire, slamming into the town hall; the others kept coming.

“Oh God!” Someone shouted, as the blasts reached for him. By a miracle, he was unhurt; the girl clutched his arm. He glanced at her and saw that half her body had been blown off by the blasts. The German bombers swept on, heedless of the misery in their wake.

Over Dover

United Kingdom

15^th July 1940

The Eurofighter pilots, the second wave to intercept the German craft, forgot their training as the Germans started bombing. Throwing caution to the winds, the planes flashed down, pouring fire and death through the German force. Bomber after bomber was swept from the sky; the other lumbering craft trying to retreat. The German formation was coming apart and the jets harried them, forcing them away from the city.

“Die, you bastards,” Flying Officer Mick Eccleston screamed, as the plane swooped around a German bomber, pouring fire into it. He noticed the tail gunner trying desperately to target his fighter and he brought his cannon up sharply, blasting the entire tail of the fragile aircraft off the aircraft. He was flying on pure instinct, avoiding German tracers with ease and snapping off shots whenever he saw an opportunity. He lost count of the aircraft he’d hit and damaged; plane after plane fell to his weapons.

His cannon ran out of ammunition suddenly. He cursed, charging through the swarm of German aircraft before his training reasserted itself, yanking the irreplaceable aircraft up into the sky, well away from the Germans. On his radar, the Germans were moving back, retreating; they’d had enough for the day.

“Come back soon,” he muttered, as the Eurofighter began its course back to RAF Leeming. “We’ll be waiting for you.”

At least thirty of their aircraft downed, Galland thought, as the dull atonal sound signifying ‘retreat’ echoed through their radios. Slowly, ponderously, the German force turned around, heading back to their bases in France and Belgium. He allowed himself a relaxed smile; it was hard to be certain, but it seemed as if the British were allowing them to retreat without interference.

We now know that the burners work, Galland thought. Deploying the tiny flares was tricky – they had a tendency to catch fire at the wrong times – but they seemed to work to suck some of the missiles off target. Not all of them; some missiles had just ignored the flares, but several dozen aircraft had been saved by them.

“We’ll be back,” Galland said, and wondered if there would be an airfield waiting for them when they arrived.

10 Downing Street

London, United Kingdom

15^th July 1940

Darkness fell slowly and the tempo of attacks changed. Night fighters tried to launch small bombing raids, but the patrolling Eurofighters slapped them out of the sky. The brutal battles had lasted for most of the day; only the German retreat had ended it. Smith stared at the pictures in horror; Dover, Portsmouth and Brighton had been badly bombed, even London had had a couple of intruding aircraft try to bomb the Houses of Parliament.

“We lost twenty-two aircraft,” Chapman said, as the War Cabinet assembled in its rooms. “Ten more are badly damaged and will need weeks to repair. In exchange, we killed something like three to four hundred German planes.”

“And they kicked hell out of Dover,” Hanover said. The Cabinet paled. “General Cunningham, what happened there?”

Smith felt his chest tighten. “The Germans broke through the defences by sheer weight of numbers,” Cunningham said. “Once they were over Dover, they apparently decided to bomb the town, along with the encampments of soldiers near the town. 1^st Armoured lost several tanks to a bombing raid and Dover Airport is going to be out of service for some time.

“In effect, the current death toll for all of the bombed regions is in excess of ten thousand,” Cunningham said. “Dover alone suffered millions of pounds worth of property damage and the panic inflicted still more deaths.”

“We’re going to have to evacuate,” Hanover said. “Move people up to Scotland, out of the range of German bombers. Dear God, they can reach as far as Manchester, can’t they?”

“We’re learning,” Chapman said. “Give us a couple of weeks and we’ll have the first radar-guided guns in action.”

“How many Eurofighters will we have left?” Hanover demanded. “We can’t win this war by standing on the defensive, can we?”

The pain in Smith’s chest increased; an elephant standing on his chest. “I don’t think so,” General Cunningham said. “At the very least, we have to start smashing German aircraft on the ground, using mine-deploying missiles to close their airfields for a while. We also need to sink the German surface navy – and the Italian one. Once that’s done, we can end the North African war by deploying some of our units to Africa.”

Smith spoke through a haze of pain. “What about their invasion fleet?”

Hanover snorted. “We can smash the barges in their harbours, sink them all and hopefully kill a few thousand German SS troopers,” he said. “Face it; invasion is not a realistic proposition.”

Stirling coughed. Smith recognised his nervousness; the junior officer finding himself at a table with seniors who could destroy his career in a moment. “Sir, there is a simple way to win ourselves some time,” he said.

“Spit it out, man,” Cunningham snapped. “Killing Hitler?”

“The Germans get a large percentage of their oil from oil wells in Romania,” Smith said. “If we slam a few cruise missiles into them, they’ll have to tighten their belts.”

“An excellent suggestion,” Hanover said. “Have the Oversight Committee put together a strike plan.”

Smith gasped in pain, noticing the concerned looks from some of the Cabinet. “Are we at war with them?” He asked. “What about the Russian wells near Stalingrad?”

Hanover smiled. “I wonder how much Stalin knows,” he said. “Prime Minister, it is my formal recommendation that we ask Parliament now for a declaration of war, a simple vote, and launch Operation Suppression this very night.”

“And then…” Smith’s voice trailed off. The pain in his chest grew; his eyesight dimmed. He heard Hanover’s alarmed voice dimly, through a haze of pain and roaring in his ears, and then darkness. His head struck the table, but his mind had already fled. Darkness rose to claim him and he fell into it.