Second Chance

Chapter Thirteen: Ancestral Manoeuvres

RAF Lyneham

Wiltshire, United Kingdom

17^th July 1940

I wonder if I’m being foolish, Ambassador Ernst Schulze thought grimly, as he waited for the guard to open the cell. RAF Lyneham was not a normal RAF base; among other things it provided a secure place, free from the press, for hostages to relax after being freed. Now, it was playing host to a Nazi; Hans Mayer. He glanced up at the window; the dark-haired man, so chillingly like his photograph, was sitting at a table, playing with a pack of cards.

He shook his head. Germans of his era were discouraged from learning about the Nazis, but they knew too much about them. The Internet providers in German were more welcome to share pornography than Nazi information – let alone far-right propaganda – but they could do nothing about sites in America. Every young German looked on the sites, wondering about the last time the world had paid attention to Germany and German power was feared by the world.

Schulze shivered. Showing an interest in Nazism was a career-wrecker in Germany, but as Ambassador he’d been able to do some private research. The results of his research on Mayer himself now lay in his pocket; as soon as he’d heard that the British intended to allow him to meet with the Nazi ‘representative’ he’d looked him up.

“Are you ready?” The guard asked. “He’s been well-fed, which is more than the bastard deserved.”

Schulze nodded. A number of German pilots who’d crashed on British soil had been lynched; several after shooting several angry British civilians. Two days of extremely brutal combat – the reconnaissance pictures from Kiel had been shocking – were taking their toll on both sides. The Germans had managed to bomb London twice; they’d even managed to hammer an RAF base, RAF Odiham. Civilian airports had also been pounded, along with docks and suspicious-looking buildings within the target zone.

The British, even under Sir Charles Hanover, had kept their targeting to military and industrial facilities. The Belgium and the Netherlands docks had been pounded – several of the ‘invasion ports’ had been hit with FAE weapons and transformed into infernos – and German communication links had been struck with cruise missiles. Factories within the Rhineland had been struck, damaging the German war effort, but they were so much easier to rebuild than the 2015 industry.

“I suppose I am,” Schulze said, wishing that he really were ready. Countless Germans had planned meetings with the Nazis, safe in the knowledge that they would never happen, but what did one say to one of the demons that had almost destroyed the fabric of Western Civilisation?

The cell door opened. Mayer looked up as Schulze stepped through, lifting an eyebrow. Schulze had half-expected him to give the Nazi Salute; instead he just smiled quizzically at him.

“Guten Tag,” Schulze said, and took a seat on the opposite side of the table. He studied Mayer, aware that the Nazi was studying him, and shook his head; the Nazi didn’t seem like a monster, but a disciplined soldier. He passed over the single sheet of paper, already knowing what it said.

“So, it’s true,” Mayer said. His accent was harsher, more Prussian, than Schulze’s. “You are from the future.”

“I’m from the Germany of 2015,” Schulze said. “Do you have any idea of how much damage Hitler is going to do to Germany?”

Mayer, he was certain, had to be reeling inside. His voice remained calm. “The Fuhrer saved us from the humiliation of Versailles and has made us strong again,” he said. “I would never betray him…”

“Your nation – my nation – was crushed,” Schulze said. “Even today – in my time – we’re still suffering the after-effects of the war.” He glared at him. “We are unable to undertake an independent foreign policy without being accused of being Nazis,” he said. “We are too timid to send many troops outside Europe. We allowed Stalin to take over Eastern Europe; our economy is still fragile between him and the French. Any attempt to be realistic, to handle the problems of our immigrants, was decried as pro-Nazi – and there are some within our own government who would be delighted at bringing back some of the trappings of your era!”

“It seems like a display of sense,” Schulze said. He glared at Schulze. “According to Admiral Canaris, history will have been changed.”

“Yes,” Schulze said, knowing that Canaris would have been executed along with Mayer in 1944. “It has; the Kriegsmarine has been crushed already, only a handful of ships and u-boats survive. The air battle rages on and on, but the outcome is pre-ordained. You can no longer invade these shores and…”

Mayer smiled at him, a curious smile. “You are… happy about that,” he said. “Why?”

Schulze slammed his hand down on the table. “Your people, the Nazis, brought shame, dishonour and disgrace upon us,” he bellowed. “Do you have any idea at all how much damage will be done?”

“So you asked before,” Mayer said. “And now that history has been changed, will that damage be done?”

Schulze realised grimly that he’d underestimated Mayer. “Indeed,” Mayer continued, “this ‘July Bomb Plot’ may never happen. It might succeed, if it did happen. It might fail; there are no guarantees of anything now.”

“True,” Schulze said, through gritted teeth. “On behalf of the newly formed organisation handling German… visitors to the UK before we ended up here, I am informing you that we are not interested in returning to Germany. We have asked for asylum and the former Home Secretary informs me that there is a very good chance that it will be granted. Of nearly two thousand people, none wanted to return; got that?”

Mayer looked doubtful. “How do I know that you are telling the truth?”

“You’ll have to take my word for it,” Schulze snapped. “I have letters, statements and recordings from some of them for their families, if you want to take them back, but otherwise… oh, and do bear in mind that you either changed your position or the nazi regime executed you for nothing, but suspicion.”

With that, he stormed out, allowing the guard to close and lock the cell. His police escort fell in beside him as he walked as fast as he could away from the station, back to the Helipad. He’d once been angry when the Germans had been taken into protective custody, but that had been before Dover, before Germans were lynched on the street.

Jim Oliver had been in prison several times under several different names. Even with DNA testing, neither the American, Mexican or Brazilian Governments had realised that they were holding a former convict; and in the latter two cases, large bribes had ensured that all the evidence had been removed. For a prison – which it wasn’t – RAF Lyneham wasn’t bad at all, more like a hotel. He’d had a lobster takeaway the first night he'd spent at the base and the canteen was excellent.

After several days of debriefing – he’d been careful not to mention anything about his agreement to ‘assist’ the Germans – the interest had faded. He’d reassured them that the data he’d been carrying, the official information, would be useless to the Germans before 2015, and they’d been willing to accept that. They’d pressed him quite hard on information such as where he’d been kept and what the Germans might have had access to, but he’d played dumb and they’d seemed to have accepted it.

The emotional meeting with his sister and girlfriend – actually a representative of the group that he worked for – hadn’t gone badly. He’d reassured his ‘girlfriend’ that he would be up in Glasgow in time for a meal – a meeting with the directors – and that he had a lot to discuss with her. Once she’d left, he’d turned his mind to the real problem; smuggling the material out of Britain. Fortunately, he suspected he had at least part of an answer.

“De Valera, the Irish Prime Minister, announced today that despite the preparations to hand contemporary Northern Ireland over to Erie – approved today by Parliament – Erie would continue to remain neutral and host the German Ambassador,” the BBC announcer said. Oliver watched carefully as the reporter displayed a series of pictures. “Ambassador Eduard Hempel is reportedly part of a plan to destabilise Ireland – or was – but De Valera has refused to evict him and the Germans.”

Brave man, Oliver thought coldly. “The Prime Minister’s office hasn’t commented yet, but sources within the Foreign Office suggest that Ireland’s neutrality, recognised by all powers, is not infringed by Hempal’s presence. Despite that, under pressure from the Irish lobby, Parliament voted today to reopen tourist links to Ireland, under heavy regulations and control.”

A cough from behind him drew his attention back to the room. The RAF Colonel, the commander of the base, stood there. “Mr Oliver?”

“Yes,” Oliver asked. “What can I do you for?”

“Some decisions have been made,” the Colonel said. He smiled. “As it happens, both you and the children have been cleared to be released from the base; the children back to their relatives within the United Kingdom.”

Oliver smiled. “Don’t take it the wrong way, but I will be glad to leave,” he said, completely truthfully. “Colonel, what about the others?”

The Colonel’s expression tightened. “We’ve been trying to find them,” he said. “The bastards seem to have dispersed them all over Germany; we found one, but lost her again before a rescue mission could be mounted. They’re getting better at tracking down our ELINT drones, worse luck, and we’ve had to suspend strikes on their radar installations – we’ve been running out of radar-homing missiles.”

Oliver made a face. “They can’t get at us here?”

“I shouldn’t be telling you this, but we should be getting the first batteries of radar-guided guns in a week or so,” the Colonel said. “Once we have thousands of them ringing our cities, they won’t be draining our forces any longer.”

“That’s good news,” Oliver said. “Thank you for having me.”

“Cars and lorries are only running with government permission at the moment,” the Colonel said. “Apparently, we have some new oil coming in from the North Sea, but the sudden surge of oil wrecked a lot of equipment, and then we have to worry about escorting the tankers. Still, we’ll be flying you home in a RAF Tristar to Glasgow airport.”

He hesitated. “Some members of the Press would be very interested in your story,” he said. “We’ve kept your name confidential, but if you want to have ten minutes of fame…”

“No thank you,” Oliver said quickly. “Data couriers have to be anonymous. If my name is pasted over fifty thousand newspapers, my cover will be blown and everyone will be watching for me.”

“I don’t think it matters now,” the Colonel said, “but suit yourself.”

Edinburgh

Scotland, United Kingdom

17^th July 1940

As she had done for the past twenty happy years of marriage, Mary McManus carefully finished baking the bread and pulled it out of the oven, before placing it on the plate for her husband. Her children – her adopted children – watched nervously; her husband had been one of the casualties of the first German air raid aimed at Edinburgh.

“There,” she said, smiling at her children. They were her children in all, but blood; she was barren. She loved her husband dearly and had never looked back from the day she’d accepted his proposal, but children had been the one thing she had been unable to give him. Sean hadn’t minded – despite his skinhead he was a decent man and a valiant fire fighter before his retirement – and they’d adopted five children and made them their own. “Just right for Sean.”

“Mom,” Cassie, her oldest daughter, said carefully. “Mom, Dad’s… gone.”

Mary sank onto the chair and started to cry, feeling everything catch up with her. They’d been looking forward to many happy years of Sean’s retirement, to Cassie’s wedding in October, to watching their grandchildren grow up. And then Britain had fallen back in time, Sean had been recalled to the fire brigade, the Germans had tried to bomb the city… and Sean had been caught in a burning house and killed.

“Eat the bread,” she said. “Eat the bread,” she snapped, when they hesitated. They knew that voice; it meant that if they didn’t comply Mary would reach for her hairbrush. The two boys, growing into fine strapping men, sat down and reached for the bread themselves.

“Mom, Farther O’Dougal offered to perform a funeral,” Cassie began.

“No,” Mary snapped, her fury blazing through. “I will have nothing to do with him, understand?”

The children shrank back under her rage. It was true; for all that she was a God-fearing Christian, Mary had flatly refused to allow them to go to Church, or to receive formal Catholic education. Her children went to a public school; the sole religious education came from Sean or Mary. It was the source of much glossop in the Irish community, but few dared to object; the last thing the Church needed was more scandal.

“They’re making us learn about World War Two in class,” Donald said. Tall and tough, he was still respectful of his mother. If he hadn’t been, his father would have taught his behind the lesson. “Mom, the history teacher says that everything is going to change now…”

“And she might be right,” Mary said absently. When news of Ireland – that it was the past Ireland – had been on television, a thought had occurred to her. She’d been born in 1960, but her parents were children in 1940; she was older than her parents. There was someone else she was older than, but that thought refused to form clearly in her mind.

Cassie put the television on. The BBC speaker spoke at length about a German u-boat that had surrendered near Orkney, before moving onto local news. A race riot had erupted – again – in London, following some of the Contemporary personnel from 1940 trying to find their families. They’d been less than amused to discover that their homes had become Asian districts and their remarks had provoked a riot. Mary tuned it out, concentrating on ensuring that her children had their schoolbags packed and that they were ready to go.

“The Scottish Tourist Group today announced the formation of new tourist trips to Ireland,” the speaker said, and Mary’s attention whipped back to the television. “Spurred by suggestions that many people would like to visit the 1940 Ireland, particularly now that the IRA and the other paramilitary terrorist groups have been wiped out, they have now arranged new tourist trips. For further information, log onto their website; trips will cost forty pounds of British money.”

“Cassie, go log onto their website,” Mary ordered, spying Sally about to pour salt into Donald’s boots. “Stop that,” she snapped, smacking Sally firmly on the rear. “Cassie, move before school.”

“Yes, Mom,” Cassie said, running into the next room. Mary had learned how to type for a typing course – Sean had joked that he would one day dictate his memoirs to her – but using the Internet was beyond her. She cleaned up the table, hearing Cassie type, and washed the table with a cloth, before shoeing the other children out of the door.

“It’s up,” Cassie said, running back into the kitchen and scooping up her bag. She gave Mary a kiss and ran out of the door, leaving Mary alone. Carefully, she left her tasks aside, feeling her heart break as her eye fell on Sean’s favourite mug, and entered the computer room. Cassie had been as good as her word; the website for the Scottish Tourist Group was on the screen.

Let’s see, Mary thought, brushing aside her silvering hair. She’d been a natural redhead, which had attracted boys, then men, and one other, to her. She’d had it hacked off once; Sean had never known. For all his decency, Sean could never have allowed an insult to his wife – and she’d been far more than just insulted – to go unpunished.

The website boasted of specially-booked hotels in Dublin, Cork and several other locations. Tourists would be shipped to one of the docks and transported to the hotel, then either allowed to go off on their own or escorted around the Island. A list of prohibited items followed; computers, history books and portable televisions, along with a handful of other items. Mary smiled; she didn’t know much about technology, but she was certain that a computer was useless without a power supply – and batteries didn’t last that long. Certain regions, including Northern Ireland, were out of bounds, with a note that anyone taken as a hostage by the remains of the IRA – simultaneously denying that any such remnants existed – would not be bargained for or any monies paid for their release. ‘Travel at own risk’ seemed to be the bottom line, something Mary approved of; it was something that Sean would have approved of as well.

Taking her life in her hands, Mary noted the telephone number and dialled, reaching the office after only five minutes on hold. “Hello,” she said. “I would like to book a place on one of the tourist trips to Ireland.”

“Certainly, madam,” the operator said. “The earliest is four days from today; is that acceptable?”

“Yes, of course,” Mary said, and gave her details. Between Sean and her, they had more than enough money to cover the trip and a booked room in a hotel, even if she didn’t use it. “Thank you for your trouble.”

She put down the phone and allowed herself a sigh of relief. She would go to Ireland, and she would see her parents, and then she would see someone else. She thought of something Sean had brought home and taught her to use, something designed to keep her safe, and smiled. It would be used at last.