The Long Hard Road

Chapter Seventeen: Warning Shots

RAF Fylingdales

Yorkshire, United Kingdom

22^nd April 1942

RAF Fylingdales had had very little to do in the years since the Transition and half of the staff had been reassigned to the Ministry of Space. The massive base, equipped with the blocky Phased Array Pyramid that had replaced the famous golf ball radar housing, was overkill for the air defence network; the Germans didn’t have ICBMs. Fylingdales had used its radars to assist in tracking German aircraft over Britain, but they hadn’t really been needed since the first air raids.

Base Commander Ben Barden jumped out of his seat as the automatic alarm tripped. With the exception of drills, that alarm was never meant to be triggered, and his first thought was that it was a malfunction. His training had him running into the main room, even though logic told him that it had to be a malfunction.

Logic was clearly out to lunch. The big display, which had been tracking the growing British and American presence in space, was displaying three red contacts, tagged as an ICBM and two IRBMs. Barden’s mind refused to accept the possibility; could an American SSBN have come through the Transition and the Germans captured her?

“We have one ICBM and two V2’s,” the duty officer said. Barden felt his mind relax slightly; the computers had tagged the German rockets with the closest profile in their databanks. “Automatic warning to the command bunkers has been tripped.”

“Check the systems,” Barden ordered automatically. No one would thank him for triggering a nuclear alert if the radars were malfunctioning.

“Feltwell is also picking up the contracts,” the duty officer said. “ICBM is heading over the Atlantic; V2’s are heading for us, estimated impact site” – she paused for a long moment in astonishment – “the English Channel, near Southampton and the North Sea, near Newcastle.”

Barden blinked at the display. The phone rang. He picked it up and listened to the voice on the end. “Yes, sir,” he said. “The V2s are going to miss us.” He scowled. “Yes, it could be a trap; Civil Defence command should target the Patriots, just in case.”

He put down the phone. “That was PJHQ,” he said grimly. “The Patriot network is being targeted on the V2s now.”

The duty officer tapped a key, sharing all of Fylingdales information with the rest of the UKADR. “What about the ICBM look-alike?”

“It’s out of our range,” Barden said grimly. “Run a trajectory calculation.”

“Near New York,” the duty officer said, after a moment. “It won’t take long to get there.”

Barden swore. “That puts the cat among the pigeons,” he said angrily.

Ten Downing Street

London, United Kingdom

22^nd April 1942

Stirling had been working on the investigation into HSM Artful, but he hadn’t been granted any relief from his normal duties. Two hours after the V3 had splashed down within sight of the damaged New York City, an emergency meeting of the War Cabinet had been called.

“So, exactly what happened?” Hanover asked, as soon as the room was sealed. Formalities could wait until they were less busy. “Everyone is asking questions as we don’t have answers.”

Stirling shuffled his notes. “The Germans launched three ballistic missiles,” he said grimly. “The first two, apparently a modified V2 design, splashed down in two widely separated locations near the coast, while the third splashed down near New York. The analysis team is en route, but it seems clear that the Germans intended to miss us.”

“A warning shot,” General Cunningham injected.

“So what?” Hathaway asked coldly. “If they put their resources into such missiles, we can still knock them down, can’t we?”

Cunningham shook his head. “At the moment, we have a force of two hundred Patriot missiles, which were reserved for intercepting scud missiles that we feared might be fired at us during the war on terror. Additionally, they were tasked for a limited ABM role when the Iranian crisis became acute and worrying. They were held back from the Battle of Britain as they would have been massive overkill against German planes. In effect, madam, we cannot replace any of them at the moment.”

Hanover held up a hand. “General, how much damage can those missiles do?”

“Not much,” Stirling answered. Cunningham nodded gratefully. “They cannot carry a large warhead; they might knock down buildings and small parts of a city, but they could hardly force us to surrender.”

“Perhaps they could,” McLachlan mused. The Foreign Secretary scowled at their faces. “Correct me if I’m wrong, please, but is it not true that the only way of intercepting one is though an ABM missile? A normal aircraft missile won’t handle it?”

“Probably not,” Stirling said. “An ASRAAM would have to be very lucky to score a hit.”

“And, of course, they can hammer American cities as well,” McLachlan continued. “Those were warning shots; they couldn’t have missed so badly, could they?”

Stirling shook his head. “Even without whatever they’ve learnt from us, they were still capable of hitting cities in the original timeline.”

“So… Himmler wants us to know that German has the capability to hit our cities and that there isn’t much that we can do about it,” McLachlan said. “Unless I miss my guess, the bastard wants us to agree to a truce.”

“They have been moving troops down in Sweden,” Hanover mused. “That might be intended as a sign of good faith.”

“They don’t have a choice,” Cunningham said. “With Patton closing in on Malmo, they risk having the entire force trapped – again. Instead, they’re allowing the Soviets to take over in Stockholm.”

Hanover scowled. “That’s beside the point, for the moment,” he said. “The question is; what do we do when Germany starts throwing more missiles at us?”

“With the help of satellites, we could track their launchers and target them from the air,” Stirling said. “We might be able to hold back the threat.”

“They’d only have to get lucky once or twice to damage our defences,” Cunningham muttered. “Even if their targeting is bad, they could knock out an airfield or a army base with a lucky hit.”

“That’s not the point,” McLachlan insisted. “They want – need – to force us to accept a peace on their terms.” He grinned. “I bet you all a fine dinner at the Nandos in Trafalgar Square that they’ll send us a peace offer through that Stewart woman.”

“No bet,” Hanover said. “What do we tell the public?”

“The truth,” Noreen said firmly. “We explain to them that Germany is experimenting with long-range missiles and they don’t pose a serious threat.”

“Do we retaliate?” McLachlan asked bluntly. “We’re talking about a threat to civilian life here.”

Hanover frowned. “We can hardly justify using a nuke,” he said. “I think we’d better stick with the moral high ground.”

Cunningham nodded. “We’re still turning up German factories,” he said. “We can expand our own bombing program.”

“True,” Hanover said. “Have a contingency plan drawn up.”

If there was one thing Hanover disliked about being Prime Minister, it was facing the Press. Parliament he understood; Parliament was meant to keep a Prime Minister on his toes, but the Press hunted for sensational stories, and to hell with national security. The baying mob lurked outside Ten Downing Street, having been tipped off by their spies – sources – within the MOD that something had happened.

“I can confirm that the war situation has darkened,” Hanover said, reading from memory. Putting a positive spin on the news would be difficult, but then he’d never believed that the people of Britain were idiots who needed to be coddled. He intended to dismantle the coddling legislation as soon as possible. “Germany had finally developed a rocket capable of hitting us.”

“Two years too early?” A reporter called. The middle-aged man would have been a great TV personality, if he’d had the looks for it. “That’s fast!”

“They probably stole the idea from the Americans,” Hanover said. Passing the blame onto the Americans was easy these days. “Fortunately for us, their terminal guidance systems are not particularly accurate and…”

“They couldn’t hit a barn door?” Someone shouted. His colleagues shushed him.

“Something like that,” Hanover said. “While this does pose a small threat to British lives, the RAF is already engaged in hunting down the launchers and targeting German industries in retaliation for the strike.” He smiled. “I urge you all not to panic,” he said. “They cannot build nuclear weapons” – the wag refrained from shouting ‘yet’ – “and they can only do a limited amount of damage. Warnings will be broadcast when incoming missiles are detected and we will do everything within our power to shoot the missiles down.”

He’d told them previously that there would be no questions. For a wonder, the reporters didn’t shout out questions as he re-entered Ten Downing Street. Major Stirling was waiting for him, as he had ordered.

“That went well,” he muttered, as Stirling passed him the first report. The recovery team had searched the area where the first missile had gone down, but they’d only found wreckage. He couldn’t say that he was astonished; the German rockets had carried warheads, after all. “Did the Americans say anything?”

“There was an explosion outside New York,” Stirling said helpfully. “They’re apparently still considering what it means for the war.”

Hanover nodded. “This isn’t good news,” he said. “We’re still a month from the planned invasion of Europe, and the last thing we need is more trouble.”

“Yes, sir,” Stirling said. “On the good side of the news, General Stillwell reported that the first ten divisions of American infantry and American armoured units were pretty much ready for deployment. They were wanting to move them over here as soon as possible, just to get them in their jump-off points. Also, the 1^st Marine Division, the one that was twinned as a helicopter force, has been pulled back to the United States and sent to Pearl Harbour.”

“To hit Vladivostok,” Hanover muttered. “Any news from Japan?”

“Nothing,” Stirling said. “We expended peace feelers through Siam – which we have very limited contacts with – but the reply basically agreed to a hold in place and Japan keeping all that it had gained.”

Hanover shook his head. The Australians were showing no desire to end the war and why should they? They were taking all of the resource-rich islands, after all, and extracting revenge for the invasion.

“The Indians have been reluctant to launch an invasion of Burma,” Stirling said. “We consulted with the provisional government, but they’re desperate to keep the Indian Army and the forces we moved in to India in place, just to prevent civil war from breaking out. As long as our forces are in place, none of the princes will try anything stupid, but if they all work together…”

Hanover nodded. He’d seen the predictions, drawn up by historians who’d studied Indian history. The Princes would tear their country apart, and they had the forces to do it as well. The nation would not tolerate an attempt to put the Raj back together after it had failed so disastrously; Hanover knew that the sealed orders called for abandoning the subcontinent.

“Events in Iran move along,” Stirling continued. “We have sealed the Russian forces inside the cities and are destroying any forces that tried to poke their way out of the trap. Our own tank columns are racing for Tehran, but the Russians are pulling out of the east and heading north themselves.”

“Wise of them,” Hanover said. He entered his office and took his seat. “I assume that they’re retreating?”

“It certainly seems like it,” Stirling said. “I think they must be trying to save what they can.”

Hanover nodded. “Have the harassment campaign press them as hard as they can,” he ordered. “The ones we kill now, we won’t have to fight later.” He smiled. “Besides, perhaps we can defer the arrival of an American force if they leave before the Americans can reach the battlezone.”

“Aye, sir,” Stirling said. “I’ll forward the orders at once.”

He left the room. Hanover closed his eyes for a long moment, deep in thought. This sudden development of rockets was alarming; they might well be able to hurt thousands of civilians, particularly if they used nerve gas or biological warfare. Would that be enough to end the war?

“I wish I knew,” he said aloud, and headed down to the war room. There was work to be done.

Fuhrerbunker

Berlin, Germany

22^nd April 1942

“Everything must be perfect,” the SS flunkey – SS Hauptsturmfuehrer Thierbach – insisted. Stewart ignored him, checking out the display in front of her face; Himmler’s desk stood against one wall, surrounded by a map of Germany. There was no Nazi flag in the room, anywhere.

“I said…”

“I did hear you,” Stewart snapped. Knowing that she was about to go home had cheered her up no end, and she wasn’t about to let a man with a ridiculous title get in her way. “I have years of experience in public relations, and it will be perfect.”

She paused to examine the room. It was neat and Spartan, not over-decorated or tasteless, and it was serious. People had expected orgies, but in this room Himmler would be just another bureaucrat, if rather more powerful than most. On his own, Himmler could never have risen to power, but after Hitler had died, he’d been in the position to snatch power, despite his limited imagination.

“He has to give his message from his desk,” she said. “He cannot remind people of what he is, because that would destroy anti-war sentiment, and he cannot attempt to play too much upon their emotions, because that’s pretty obvious these days.”

“There is such a thing as anti-war sentiment?” Thierbach asked. Nazi Germany, of course, wouldn’t tolerate any such thing. Stewart was finally beginning to understand how lucky she’d been to have been born into the west. “Your people would force the government to end the war?”

“Not exactly,” Stewart hedged. “Your Fuhrer would have to make a very good offer for peace, and then they might protest against further bloodshed.”

“I see, I think,” Thierbach said, checking the positioning of Stewart’s camera. “Is the camera in place?”

Stewart smiled at his unnecessary manipulations of the camera, just to prove he was doing something useful. It beat watching his eyes following her around. “The camera is perfect,” she said. In fact, with modern technology, it could have produced an acceptable image though a fishbowl. “Everything is ready.”

Right on time, Führer und Reichskanzler Himmler stepped though the door, followed by two gorilla-like guards. “Is everything ready?” He asked. “Are we ready to begin?”

Stewart smiled behind her hand. “Yes,” she said. If Himmler noticed, he chose to ignore it. “We may begin when you are ready.”

Himmler nodded and headed over to his desk, checking his uniform as he sat down. There were no Nazi symbols on the black uniform, just in case. “You may start the camera,” he said.

“I will give you a countdown,” Stewart said, and activated the camera. “Five… four… three… two… one… talk.”

Himmler composed himself as the red light flickered into a steady glow. The message was too important for any problems to interfere with; he was prepared to repeat the speech as often as he had to, making certain that the speech was perfect.

“To the people of Britain, America and the British Empire, greetings,” he said. He spoke fluent English and he’d spent time with Roth and the SS linguists, making certain that his dictation was perfect. “I am Führer und Reichskanzler Himmler, of the Third Reich of Germany.

“Your Governments will know – they may not have told you – that we have developed weapons capable of penetrating even your superlative defences and delivering a warhead to a precise target. If the war continues, we will be forced to deploy the rockets against your cities, in revenge for the thousands of German civilian deaths in the war. The Volk cry out for revenge, but I do not wish to end the war on such bad terms. You can burn us with radioactive fire; we can infect you with a deadly disease… and both of us will lose.”

He paused significantly. “In order to avoid this horrid fate, the Reich wishes to offer a final and conclusive peace agreement. Unilaterally, we have declared a weeklong ceasefire over the Reich; your forces will not be attacked unless they fire on us first. Further, as a gesture of good faith, our forces are withdrawing from Sweden, which will allow you to occupy it and liberate from our grip.”

He gave a self-deprecating grin. “The Reich places this offer on the table,” he said. “The Reich will withdraw and place back into the hands of their legitimate governments, France, Spain and Italy. The Reich will also agree to the creation of a rump Poland and permit them free access to the sea – without taxes or tariffs – through any port on the Baltic.

“Finally, the Reich will permit any citizen who wishes to leave, from democrat to Jew, the right to leave, and it will pay for their passage to Britain. That is the offer we are making to you; we hope that you will consider it.”

He smiled thoughtfully. “This signal is being sent through transmission towers in Germany and through the services of a reporter stationed here,” he said. “The attached messages will give instructions for contacting us, and we urge the British and American Governments to do so.” He smiled again. “The ceasefire will last for a week from the transmission of this message, whatever else happens, and we will attempt to avoid clashes between our forces and yours. Unfortunately, our forces have orders to fire if fired upon, so please confirm that you understand quickly, before an incident happens.

“Thank you for your time,” he concluded. “I look forward to a lasting and permanent peace between our nations.”