Second Chance

Chapter Twelve: The Empire Strikes Back

10 Downing Street

London, United Kingdom

15^th July 1940

The three men met in the cabinet room, alone and unobserved. Some of the other cabinet members had returned to Parliament to press the case for war, two others had been offered leave to visit their families in the war zone. Hanover stood near the end of the table, positioning himself for command; the other two took their seats as normal.

“How is he?” Kenneth Barton, Leader of the Opposition, asked grimly. The room seemed to hesitate, shadows flickering on the wall. A Prime Minister had never collapsed; it was a point of pride that Prime Ministers never flinched from what was required. Smith had; history would not remember him kindly.

McLachlan answered, his tones leaden. “He’s been taken to a hospital outside the danger zone,” he said. “The doctors said that it was a heart attack; apparently he’s been under a lot of stress later.”

It was a heartless remark. None of the men commented on it. “Which leaves us with a leadership problem at a time of critical severity,” Hanover said. His voice was cold, hard, and grim. “We are faced with an utterly unprecedented situation; the last Prime Minister to leave office in the middle of her term was forced out; Smith is likely to be ill for months and won’t be able to resume his duties, which leaves us leaderless.”

Barton got up and paced restlessly. “I assume that you have a suggestion?”

“This is an unprecedented situation,” Hanover said. “You do understand the problem?”

Barton nodded grimly. Traditionally, the Home Secretary also held the post of Deputy Prime Minister, and was the designated successor if anything happened to the Prime Minister, although it was no guarantee of the position. Also traditionally, the Leader of the Opposition received the post of Deputy Prime Minister during the formation of a War Cabinet.

“I cannot hold the post of Prime Minister,” Barton said flatly. He scowled; even with the control of a third of the House of Parliament, the Liberal Democrats would not be able to support him. His position would be very weak indeed.

“We have discussed the matter with the Party Whips,” McLachlan said. “For the moment, we have agreed to confirm Charles as Prime Minister, pro tem. The Party will have to decide if they want Charles to continue to hold the post, but the Monarch supports him, so we think that they will fall in line.”

Barton smiled. The reign of King Charles wasn’t too popular with Sir Charles; it must gnaw at the King to have to confirm Hanover as his Prime Minister, even with the certain knowledge that the Liberal Democrats planned to abolish the monarchy altogether. Hanover’s public opposition to some of his monarch’s more… unusual projects, such as aid to immigrants, had not endeared him to the monarch.

“So, all hail Prime Minister Hanover?” Barton asked. He made to prostrate. “Is that what you wanted to tell me?”

“We were hoping that you would continue in the war cabinet,” Hanover said. “We have to face them together, as a united country, and – quite frankly – we need you. Would you take on the position of Home Secretary?”

Barton gaped at him, fighting to conceal his reaction. In almost all war cabinets, opposition members were never given positions of real power. True, Hanover could hardly handle both the Prime Minister-ship and the responsibilities of Home Secretary, but there had to be any number of conservative Party members who could take on the post. On the other hand, it could be a way of attaching blame to him, should the government’s policy fail.

“Yes, thank you,” he said finally. “I would be honoured to take on the responsibility.”

“Welcome to Government,” Hanover said, extending a hand. “Parliament will be meeting later this evening, so I hope that you will attend.”

House of Commons

London, United Kingdom

15^th July 1940

The news about the collapse of the Prime Minister, and the selection of Charles Hanover as the Prime Minister pro tem, was received in silence. The gathering of Conservatives and Liberal Democrats around him forestalled any opposition; the vast majority was behind Hanover. The vote of confirmation was perfunctory.

“We are at war,” Hanover said flatly. The mood in the chamber was dark; the desire for revenge was burning brightly. Several anti-war MPs had been bombarded with emails and telephone calls demanding their resignations; several MPs were actually facing demands that they step down.

“We have suffered the largest attack on British soil since the last time we fought this war,” Hanover said coldly. “We have had our citizens slaughtered. We have had blood running in the streets. We have fought as best as we could, with the gloves on and our hands tied behind our backs.

“I say no more,” he snapped, his voice rising. “We have had our noses rubbed in one fact; fascism and democracy cannot exist together. It’s time to say ‘enough!’ It’s time to fight! It’s time to show that the ideals of hatred and oppression cannot exist without good men taking up arms against them! It’s time to make a stand!

“We have argued long enough,” he said, his voice becoming calm. “Maybe we, children of 2015, were not at war with Nazi Germany, but we are now! All that stands in our way is our own inability to recognise that we are at war, with a foe that considers us nothing more than a nation to pillage. We are at war!

“I ask you, all of you, to place your votes now. Are we to declare war, and fight with every weapon at our disposal, or are we to surrender tamely! Consider your people; consider the people that you represent. Would they be safer in a world without Hitler? Madam Speaker, I ask you to call the vote now.”

He sat down on his bench. The seat of the Prime Minister had been left empty; until Howard Smith died or was formally removed from office he would continue to be Prime Minister in name, if not deed.

“I second that motion,” one of the BNP MPs said. “Madam Speaker, I call for a vote now.”

“The vote has been called,” Madam Speaker said. She nodded once to herself. “I ask MPs to cast their votes now; vote ‘aye’ or ‘nay’ for a declaration of war on Nazi Germany.”

In the old House, the MPs would have walked through doors to establish their votes. In the new House, they pressed buttons to establish their voting choices; who voted for what could not be disguised. There was a long pause, and then names and votes began to scroll up on the screen. Hanover pressed his own button, voting ‘aye’, with a flourish. Other MPs hid their hands as they pressed buttons; foolish, as it appeared at once on the screen.

“The vote is 89% in favour of declaring war,” Madam Speaker said. “5% against declaring war; 6% abstentions. The motion is carried.”

“Thank you,” Hanover said. “We will win this war, I promise you that.”

“And I trust that you will keep the House apprised of progress,” Madam Speaker said, a quiet warning.

HMS Trafalgar

Near Denmark

16^th July 1940

As it had done for the past week, ever since being surge-deployed from its base in response to the crisis, the submarine HMS Trafalgar extended a tiny radio mast from its conning tower above the water and conducted a quick radar scan of the area. Dawn was breaking and there were a handful of aircraft near Denmark, heading to Norway, but there were no hunting aircraft nearby.

“Bastards must have been moving all their aircraft down to attack Britain,” Captain Tyson muttered, as he activated the radio transmitter. There was no need to fear interception; the signal was too weak for the Nazis’ radios to detect, let alone decrypt the basic communications encoding system. The reply, pre-prepared for the Trafalgar, came back at once.

“Crash dive,” the Captain snapped, after confirming that the signal carried no demands for any reply beyond acknowledgement. Trafalgar headed under water, changing its position to ensure that it would be safe, and headed north. Once he was certain that they were safe – only two u-boats had passed the submarine, neither having the slightest idea that he was there – he ordered the computers to decrypt the message.

“We’re on,” he announced to his exec. “Bring the ship to battle stations.”

“I’ve loaded the coordinates into the Tomahawk targeting systems,” Lieutenant-Commander Davidson reported. “We seem to be targeting the German shipyards at Kiel.”

“Priority targets,” Tyson said. “Launch the drone.”

“Aye, sir,” the electronics expert said. “Drone launching… now.”

Trafalgar shuddered slightly as the rocket-propelled drone was launched into the air, climbing rapidly. The drone started to transmit back to its mothership as it discarded the rocket and extended long wings, drifting over Denmark and heading for Kiel.

“I’m keeping it over the water,” the electronics expert said. “It’s radar-invisible, but the Germans will rely a lot more on their eyes and ears.”

“I thought this thing was silent,” Davidson asked sharply. The Germans would be far more inclined to look for the source of a jet engine.

“It is, relatively so,” the electronics expert said. “It may sound a little odd to the Germans and they might try to look for the source.”

They fell silent as the shape of the German battleships came into view. “The Admiral Hipper,” Davidson breathed. A second ship, the Admiral Scheer, hove into view, followed by the skeleton of a battleship, a nearly-completed battleship and an aircraft carrier.

“I wonder if that’s the Bismarck,” Tyson said softly. The drone passed over a handful of cruisers and then two damaged battlecruisers. “Enough,” he said. “Start targeting them. I want a missile on each of the big ships, and then spread more over the u-boat pens and the factories.”

“Yes, sir,” the electronics expert said. He tapped at his computer, carefully targeting each of the big ships, and then spreading several more missiles over the factories. “Sir, should we target the airfield there?”

Every instinct in Tyson’s body screamed to say ‘yes,’ to crush the airfield. He knew that the German planes would not be so bothered by losing an airfield, and then they would have wasted a missile.

“No,” he said. “There’s no point.”

“Yes, sir,” the electronics expert said. The picture from the drone rocked violently. “I think they’ve seen the drone.”

“No shit,” Davidson said. “Get it out of there!”

“Too late,” the electronics expert said. The picture heeled drunkenly as the drone fell down towards the ground, then vanished altogether. “I got the omega scream,” the electronics expert said. “The drone self-destructed. There won’t be any Germans repeating the Iraqi balls-up.”

Tyson nodded. In 2003, the Iraqi Army had wasted countless bullets trying to kill non-existent pilots when a drone had crashed into a marsh. “Let’s not waste time,” he said. “Mr Exec, launch the missiles.”

“Aye, sir,” Davidson said. He twisted his key in the firing console; Tyson added his own key and twisted it. “Missiles launching in thirty seconds.”

Trafalgar shuddered violently as the first missile launched, followed by another, and another, until seventeen missiles, each one carrying high explosive, were launched.

“Radar contact,” the electronics expert said. “German seaplane, following the missiles, I guess.”

Tyson made a quick decision. “Lower the mast and get us out of here,” he snapped. “It’s time to start hunting u-boats.”

Kiel Shipyards

Germany

16^th July 1940

Vice-Admiral and Flottenchef Günter Lutjens, German Kriegsmarine, glared at the remains of the strange aircraft. He’d read the extremely oblique briefing from the Kriegsmarine Command – and received a private and considerably more detailed briefing from Generaladmiral Erich Raeder – but he found it hard to believe. Aircraft that flew faster than the speed of sound? Warships that fought with missiles? If the briefing hadn’t been approved by the Fuhrer personally, Lutjens would have suspected that someone was playing a joke on the Kriegsmarine.

Goring would be quite happy to make us look incompetent, Lutjens thought grimly. The portly ‘iron fatty’ was so determined to keep all aircraft under his control that he’d held up the Graf Zeppelin, the aircraft carrier, for months. He scowled; the strange aircraft suggested that the reports were true, which meant…

Something flickered in the sky. His head whipped around; Admiral Hipper exploded with the force of a million bombs. The broken back of the heavy cruiser lifted into the air for a long chilling moment, before falling back to the water. Something else flickered in the sky; he saw it this time, a streak of fire that slammed into the Admiral Scheer, smashing the pocket battleship with ease. Bismarck, the ship he kept pleading to be allowed to send out into the Atlantic once it was finally fitted out, had its stern blown off; Tirpitz exploded in a chain of shattering explosions. Graf Zeppelin, still incomplete, and ‘Carrier B,’ were destroyed in fire.

Lutjens found himself on the ground, clinging on for dear life, as the missiles changed their targeting priorities. U-boat pens were blown open and he thanked God that most of the u-boats were out hunting British ships. Factories and administrative centres were destroyed casualty; some of the missiles seemed to be firebomb warheads as oil and fuel caught fire, spreading across the shipyard.

He blacked out for a long moment. When he opened his eyes, he thought he was in hell; flames were blazing brightly, wiping away the results of years of careful work. Lutjens staggered to his feet and looked around; a handful of ratings were rescuing documents under the command of Kapitän zur See Ernst Lindemann. Lutjens shook his head; Lindemann had been slated for command of Bismarck, something that would now be delayed.

“Herr Flottenchef?” Lindemann asked, as Lutjens staggered up to him. “Do you need medical attention?”

“Nien,” Lutjens said absently, his body swaying. “Tell the Fuhrer,” he gasped. “Tell him to make peace, whatever the price…”

He fell to the ground. He never felt the impact as his head hit the ground.

German Air Base

Pas de Calais, France

16^th July 1940

On the advice – unwillingly given – of Captain Jackson, and based on careful studies of the books on the Iraq War, Adolf Galland had given firm orders that pilots were not to sleep anywhere near their planes, and in fact that planes were to be well camouflaged and separated from every other part of the base. The orders had not made him popular with the other Gruppenkommandeurs, but Kesselring and Himmler had backed him up, forcing them to disperse their planes.

“Let them burn through all their hell-weapons,” Kesselring had said, and the Gruppenkommandeurs had leapt to obey.

Galland stepped out from under the camouflaged tent – another source of complaints was that the pilots had to sleep in tents – and stretched. There was a crick in his back and he rubbed it, watching as dawn rose. For once, there was no need to fly in rising sunlight; the British radars could track them in any light and there was no need to make life unnecessarily difficult for the German pilots. He smiled; it was difficult enough as it was, even with the new medal. It had been intended for a new SS regiment, but instead any pilot who downed a jet aircraft – and had it witnessed – received a special medal.

With such baubles armies are led, Galland thought, as he lit a cigarette. Seconds later, it fell from his fingers as a streak of light blasted across the sky and slammed into the pilot barracks – where no pilots slept. A second missile exploded in midair, scattering little… things over the runway. He stared as the Jagdgeschwader’s pet mascot, a German terrier – ran over to paw at one of the little spheres; the explosion blew the little terrier into tiny chunks of blood and gore.

“Achtung,” he bellowed, waking the pilots who had managed to sleep through the air raid. “Everyone watch for those bastards…”

He broke off. One of the pilots had stepped too close to one and peered down at it. Seconds later, his leg was blown off and his face was scarred. “Everyone keep well away from them,” he howled, as a medic began to tend to the wounded pilot, who would never fly again.

“Herr Gruppenkommandeur, why can’t we make them detonate?” A pilot asked. Galland stared at him, and then smiled.

“Why not?” He asked. Carefully, he picked up some gravel and threw it at the closest one he could see, detonating it. The blast wave whipped at him, tearing holes in the dirt track that they called a runway, but he was unarmed.

“Everyone off the runway,” he ordered, as some of the army units who were supposed to be guarding the airfield arrived. “Richter, you and Kruger start detonating the others. It was your idea, so you can carry it out.” He stared over at the ruins of the main building. “Moller, you come help me splice a line into the field telephone cables; I have to report to Field Marshall Kesselring, and I have the strangest feeling that using a radio is going to be extremely unsafe around here – so don’t!”

Leaving Richter and Kruger to detonate the little mines, for he suspected that was what they were, he headed back to the telephone cable, where Moller connected the spare telephone to the cable. Calling Kesselring proved to be difficult; he wasn’t surprised. He would have been astounded if Jagdgeschwader 27 had been the only target of the attack.

“Heil Hitler,” he said finally, when he finally managed to get through to Kesselring. It had taken nearly thirty minutes; time spent waiting and watching the pilots detonating the mines before using a bulldozer to smooth the rubble. “Field Marshall, the British attacked the airfield of Jagdgeschwader 27 and…”

He listened in growing disbelief to Kesselring’s list of other targets that had been hit by the British. By and large, the fighters had survived the experience, but nearly a hundred bombers had been wrecked by the air raid. Radio stations, the handful of radar stations, and several targets of opportunity – including the German Embassy within Paris – had been hit. Kiel Shipyard had been pasted; targets within Germany itself had been hit quite badly.

If this is forcing them to expand their arsenal, Galland thought grimly, will there be anything left of us by the time they run out?

Kesselring started to issue orders and Galland nodded grimly. Jagdgeschwader 27 and the other air groups were to prepare to launch a second air raid on Britain. The pressure had to be maintained, Kesselring insisted; the winner would be the one who held up under pressure.