Second Chance

Chapter Eighteen: The Other Side of the Hill

HMS Warspite

Near Sicily

28^th July 1940

It was a sight that Admiral Somerville had never gotten quite used to, despite having met several different incidences. The Town-class light cruiser HMS Manchester slipped though the water in formation with the Type-42 destroyer HMS Manchester. The carrier HMS Ark Royal, his own carrier rather than its future counterpart, was stationed ten miles west of the force as they approached Sicily, its flight decks still packed with Fairey Swordfish, Blackburn Skuas and Fairey Fulmars. Captain Holland had asked for Harriers, but there was a shortage of the VTOL aircraft.

Still, it wasn’t as if Ark Royal was completely as primitive as HMS Manchester made her look. Both Contemporary and 2015 personnel had worked hard to modify her, building a complete C&C system into her, and duplicating it on Warspite. Two large propeller-driven aircraft from 2015 had been converted into miniature AWACS and based in Libya now that most of it had fallen to the British. Their coverage of the Mediterranean, complete with radar beacons, navigation beacons and far improved surveillance, made him feel almost like a god.

“Order Valiant to prepare to open fire,” he said calmly, and the 2015 officer leapt to obey. Warspite itself began targeting the Italian positions on Sicily, preparing to start pounding Mussolini’s people out of the Island. In the original history, Sicily had been taken in 1943; here they would simply cut it off and devastate the military bases.

“Valiant confirms,” the officer said. “Recon drones suggest that there are no Germans on the island, apart from the air bases.”

“We’ll target them first, then,” Somerville said. The Italians had mounted shore-based guns on Sicily, but he was dismissive; they were nothing like as powerful as the cannons carried by Warspite, he doubted that they would be able to hurt the battleship. The smaller ships would hang back, just in case; their armour was nowhere near as powerful.

He smiled. “Open fire,” he said.

Warspite shuddered as its main guns fired. Blasts of fire and smoke appeared around Valiant as the second battleship fired; seconds later explosions blasted up from the shore. Flickers of light showed that the Italians were trying to fight back; towering bursts of water rose up from where their shells landed.

“Missed,” an ensign shouted. He’d been young; young enough to adapt to the new technologies without too much shock. He wasn’t married; he would marry within the future Britain and avoid the pain of loss.

“One hopes they’ll keep missing,” Somerville said gravely, and glanced at the reconnaissance results. The Italians were producing smoke at a terrible rate, trying to disrupt the sensors of the drone, but they couldn’t hide the infrared signature. Fires were exploding all over the target zone; plumes of oily fires suggested they’d hit old dumps.

“Captain, incoming aircraft,” Ensign Jason snapped. Somerville watched as the Captain gave orders to prepare for incoming aircraft; a flight of ninety German aircraft rising over Sicily.

“Contact Malta and Captain Holland, ask them to send air cover,” Somerville said. The German aircraft were visible now, diving down to launch torpedoes rather than dive-bombing, jinking to and fro to avoid being struck by the radar-guided anti-aircraft guns.

“Manchester is shooting,” Ensign Jason reported. The 2015 crewman looked delighted as four Sea Dart missiles lanced across the waves and shattered a handful of German aircraft, the close-in chain gun engaging the enemy craft as they closed in, dropping torpedoes into the water.

“Independent manoeuvring,” Somerville ordered, as the fleet began to move, trying to avoid the torpedoes. A Contemporary destroyer was struck and started to list to starboard, the aircraft that had scored the hit falling to Warspite’s pom-poms. Somerville swore suddenly; the swarm of German aircraft were concentrating on the 2015 warship; the Manchester was under heavy attack.

“Fuck,” he heard Ensign Jason breath. One of the German aircraft had been hit by Manchester; instead of exploding it slammed into the future ship. For a long moment, it seemed as if the ship had survived, and then it exploded.

“The aircraft are retreating,” Ensign Jason said. Somerville nodded grimly as the wreckage of HMS Manchester settled into the water; they’d managed to take out one of the most powerful ships on the water and damaged several more.

“Secure from battle stations,” he ordered. “Get me a direct link to Admiral Turtledove. He’d going to have to know about this.”

Undisclosed Location

Berlin, Germany

28^th July 1940

The Americans hadn’t exactly declared war on the Reich; they hadn’t sent bombers to hurt the Reich, they would send no soldiers to conquer the Reich. What they had done was order units of the hastily reactivated Atlantic Fleet to escort convoys that just happened to include ships going to Ireland; a legal fiction that fooled no one, least of all Hitler.

“This is intolerable provocation,” the Fuhrer thundered. Generaladmiral Erich Raeder, the unfortunate who’d brought Hitler the news of the American decision – and the news of the sinking of a u-boat at American hands – winced. “The degenerate Americans have not the nerve to risk war with us. Generaladmiral, can your ships sweep the Americans from the seas?”

Himmler shuddered internally. The reluctant Professor Horton had compiled a long report on why they’d lost the war; declaring war on America had been one of the reasons. It was bad enough having to hold meetings in this building – the British missiles had struck many of the known government buildings in Berlin – but to run the risk of war with America before the new forces were ready…

Himmler took his life in his hands and coughed. “Mein Fuhrer, we should ignore this provocation,” he said, as carefully as he could. Hitler’s mood had swung backwards and forwards when the war with the future had begun; he wasn’t safe to be near. “Can the Americans produce the wonder-weapons of the future? Of course not. Once we hold the future Britain in our hands, we can use the weapons to defeat the Americans. If we fight them now, they will send their troops to England and make defeating them impossible.

“You said that you could defeat them,” the Fuhrer snapped, swinging round to confront Goring. The Iron Fatty shivered; Himmler allowed himself a cold smile. The battles over England had raged backwards and forwards, neither side emerging a clear winner. Losses were heavy – they knew for a fact that they were worse for the Reich than their opponents – but they had thousands to spend.

Goring coughed nervously, sweating in his proud uniform. “Mein Fuhrer, we are winning,” he said. “Our tactics are improving” – he neglected to mention that the future British were also improving – “and they were deploying less aircraft against us. They have also stopped targeting our radar installations; we have nearly a complete radar net tracking aircraft over Britain. We are starting to build up a comprehensive picture of how they operative….”

Himmler allowed the fat oaf to babble on. Who would have thought that the co-pilot of a degenerate passenger aircraft would have known so much about the RAF’s defences and bases? Did the future British have any concept of security? They had even included a chart of civilian airports in the captured aircraft!

“Now the new weapons have begun mass production, we can degrade and diminish their capability still further,” Goring continued. “The remotely-piloted aircraft will destroy their bases and save the lives of my pilots and we will…”

Hitler cut him off, rounding on Kesselring. “And the Mediterranean?”

“The damage to Italian and French possessions is quite great,” Kesselring said calmly. Himmler knew that he was understating the case. “The Italians are now having the dead weight of their foolish economy removed from their necks; production has already increased. However, we must act on the assumption that North Africa will be lost; the damage to the Italian Navy makes that quite clear.”

Hitler had never been comfortable with naval warfare. He’d still raged with news of the destruction of the Italian fleet had arrived, even with the single piece of really good news.

“Despite sending Admiral Darlan as a Special Representative to North Africa, the British have continued their advance,” Kesselring said. He scowled; the British made the concept that would later be called Blitzkrieg seem meek and mild. “They are apparently bent on taking over the French possessions. Petain has requested permission to send more troops to North Africa, but at the speed of the British advance, they will have swept to Morocco by the time they can arrive.”

He smiled. “On the other hand, we have one important new datum,” Kesselring said. “One of the future craft was sunk when a brave Luffwaffe pilot crashed his plane into the ship, punching through its armour. They don’t have the armour needed to survive in modern war; our war.”

“My pilots will bear any burden,” Goring proclaimed loudly. “If swarming their defences is required, we can do it, and if any of them should be asked to give his life for the Reich, they will do it.”

“I was thinking more of using Italian pilots,” Kesselring said smoothly. “Perhaps if we were to…”

Hitler rapped the table and they both fell silent. “Has there been any response to our diplomacy?”

“The Greeks have refused to allow us to use their territory as a staging post,” Ribbentrop said. Himmler scowled; the jumped-up champagne salesman was anything, but efficient. “The Turks have expressed cautious interest in joining us, but only at a serious price. The Spanish have been reluctant, but might be persuaded should the British move into Morocco as well.”

“Inform them that they will be invaded if they refuse to cooperate,” Hitler snapped. “Speer?”

Himmler nodded in approval. Speer’s new appointment as Director of War Production had annoyed Goring; it had been worthwhile pushing for it on that ground alone. Todt’s death in a British missile strike had cleared the path for the man whom Horton had identified as the only man with the genius to streamline production of German weapons. Hitler had given him total authority; he’d already worked miracles.

“Production has reached 300% of production before the… ah, arrival of the future Britain,” Speer said. “For this month, we will have produced nearly three thousand warplanes of all types, while finalising the designs for future variants. In addition, we have constructed nearly nine hundred of the new-old V1, from plans in the laptops. They have been extremely helpful; we have jumped generations ahead of where we were.

“On the waves, the newest model of u-boat is about to enter production,” he said. “We have copied an American business model that was apparently invented by myself, three years in the future.” Hitler laughed; the others took it as their cue to join in. Himmler, who knew perfectly well that it had been invented by a clever Jew, didn’t. “We have finalised the design and broken it down into dozens of components, all of which can be built by… labourers, and put together at the final destination. The Elektroboote requires far less fuel than any other design, and it’s a great deal quieter.

Himmler tuned him out as he went on to speak about tank production and Panzerfaust rockets. He was due to meet with Roth in half an hour and he hoped that he would not be delayed. Roth had received information from the future Britain and he’d promised Himmler a report.

Roth stared down at the treacherous CD-ROM, lying on the desk. It had been addressed to him personally, and he’d read it at once. The other CDs, gigabytes – a term he’d had to ask one of the prisoners to explain – of data, waited for his team to begin exploring, cataloguing and distributing it across the Reich.

Hot tears stung his eyes. The July Bomb Plot – and others like it – had failed. The names, however, had been recorded for posterity; the thousands who would betray the Fuhrer. Name after name sprang up on the screen, but only one of them held his attention. Field Marshal Erwin Rommel; the Fuhrer’s personal favourite. Others scrolled by – Oster, Canaris – all of whom held high positions within the Reich. The evidence of history was damning; Oster had apparently betrayed the Reich once already, but – irony of ironies – he hadn’t been believed by the enemies of the Reich.

He shuddered. Whole nests of Russian spies, Frenchmen who would resist the Reich, German communists, all of them existed. The Gestapo hadn’t even scratched the surface, he realised; how could they have?

History scrolled on past his eyes. The Germans had never invaded England; they’d never succeeded in the African desert. They’d moved into Russia and lost whole armies in the snow; entire gigabytes of data studied German mistakes and errors, from declaring war on the United States to refusing to withdraw from Stalingrad. Oliver had attached a whole series of analysis documents of the war; Horton hadn’t been able – or willing – to give them such detail.

Carefully, he set the printer to begin printing the names of those who would have to be… purged, and started to read through the technical abstracts. Oliver had done a good job, he realised; the plans for heavy 1945-era tanks, if not later tanks, could be placed into production very quickly. Rockets – the V2 and upwards – could also be designed and constructed, and then used to burn godless socialism off the face of the Earth. There was no information on nuclear weapons – he’d scanned for that when he realised how much was needed – but with the information he did provide, it was possible to read between the lines.

He allowed himself a sigh of relief. With the entire combined team working at the hidden bunker, doing research as a united group, Jews and Aryans, they would make progress. He’d snatched every physicist he could; with the new information, they would succeed – he was certain of it.

“Heil Hitler,” a stern voice said from behind him. Roth snapped to attention and gave the salute before his mind caught up and identified the newcomer as Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler. The Reichsführer looked tired; Roth knew he was about to come back to life.

“Heil Hitler,” he snapped. “Herr Reichsführer, you have to see this.”

He passed over the list of known traitors. Himmler skimmed down the list, his face darkening. “These vermin will not be allowed to infest the Reich any longer,” he snarled. “Have copies made of the list and I will get the SS to begin the purge.”

“Herr Reichsführer,” Roth said carefully, “some of these men are important to the Fuhrer, Rommel for example. He was slated for command of a force for the invasion of the future Britain and…”

“I will show the Fuhrer the evidence,” Himmler snapped. He picked up the sheets of paper and the CD-ROM. “The purge will begin now.”

He stalked out, leaving Roth behind with his thoughts. One thought in particular; Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler had attempted to negotiate with the Allies towards the end of the would-have-been war. He wondered if Hitler would ever see that.

It had been easier than Himmler had allowed himself to fear. While he was preparing for the meeting with the Fuhrer, he read through the entire list, thanking God that it had been cross-referenced by some kindly British academic. The handful of SS men who would show weakness in the future were quickly arrested by his men in Berlin; they at least could be arrested without informing anyone. He made notes beside their names; most would be executed, but some might ‘volunteer’ for a special mission.

The Fuhrer had read the list in a kind of shocked silence. Rommel, who’d once commanded his bodyguard, had been given his command in France by Hitler; he’d been earmarked to command the entire operation in Greece and the Balkans. When he was finished, Hitler issued some specific instructions regarding individual people, and then gave Himmler permission to go ahead and start another purge.

Himmler returned to his own bunker, a non-descript building that had once belonged to a Jew, and issued his orders. SS men fanned out all over Berlin, arresting those who had plotted against Hitler in the future that would never be. Resistance was minimal; Hans Oster shot down several SS men before being dragged away into the nearest camp. Several other long-term plotters, including a handful whose only crime had been opposing Himmler, were arrested; they didn’t go quietly.

Burst transmissions from France and Italy came in over the next few days. The Wehrmacht officers who had known about their plots fled, or tried to mount a mutiny, all of which failed. Himmler ordered them all to be returned to Germany; the only exception was Rommel, whom the Fuhrer had ordered to be held in France and away from anyone else. The pace of the war over Britain slacked sharply, even with the British punching into the French holdings in Tunisia, and both sides were relieved by the break.

Other officers, those who would become competent commanding officers in the future, were offered promotions and command of their own forces. Many of them accepted; Himmler received some credit for their promotions.

“We can put the new tanks into production in six months,” Speer reported, after studying Oliver’s information. “While they will not be competitive with the British tanks we have seen in the desert, they will be ahead of Soviet or American designs.”

Kesselring nodded. The news about the T-34 and the JS-1 had come as an unpleasant surprise to the Wehrmacht. “When can we expect a tank equal to the British designs?”

“Not for some time,” Speer admitted. “Their armour is made from a process we don’t understand, let alone be able to duplicate, and they have production lines we don’t have. However, there are other tactics that can be used against them; the Wehrmacht officers are developing them now.”

“Very good,” Hitler said. A new light burned behind his eyes. Knowledge of how close death had come had shocked him into new activity. “When can we proceed into the Balkans?”

The group looked at each other. “It will take some time to redeploy units,” Field Marshal Wilhelm Keitel said finally. “At least a month, just in time to join the Japanese and the Soviets.”

“Ah, Wilhelm,” Hitler said jovially. “You always counsel caution.”

Keitel smiled weakly. The future history told of how he’d foiled the plot against Hitler. “I will take your advice,” Hitler said. “I want the attacks to be launched in a month, no more and no less, understand?”