The Long Hard Road

Chapter Twenty-Three: War in Space

Rocket Launch Site

Nr Munich, Germany

2^nd May 1942

Obergruppenfuehrer Herman Roth studied the scene in front of him with concerned eyes. The darkness was inky black, but he knew that darkness wasn’t always a barrier to British satellites. They’d waited for a cloudy night, knowing that at any minute a supersonic jet could be overhead, dropping precision weapons that would shatter all of their hopes. The slaves – favoured Jews and homosexuals – worked hard to assemble the rocket, preparing it for launch.

“We have calculated the flight path,” Doctor Von Braun said. Roth nodded politely to the rocket scientist, who had been pushed on to greater and greater heights by the news of the future. Knowing something was possible was half the battle. “We should be able to put the object in orbit.”

Roth frowned. “We are still too dependent upon the re-entry capsule,” he said. “We really need one of those transmission systems.”

Doctor Von Braun glared at him over the laptop, its glow hidden inside the tent. Roth hadn’t been able to forbid him from coming close to the launch site, but he had managed to convince him to stay well away from the rocket. The British would be delighted to kill the doctor; he was one of the leading German scientists.

“If your source in America can find me such a system, then I will gladly add it into the satellite,” he snapped. “Merely developing transistors has aided us enormously, but we have to develop a way of transmitting a great deal of information quickly, not so slowly as to make jamming certain. We are certain that the British cannot tamper with the films…”

“Are we certain?” Roth said. He’d read a lot of electronic American books from the non-existent alternate future. “Could they not… board the satellite in orbit?”

“I do not believe so,” Doctor Von Braun said. “Although they are much more advanced than us, they are not supermen, ja?” He smiled. “Their spacecraft must follow certain basic rules of motion, and they have to be really careful when manoeuvring in space, or they might come down to earth with a bump.”

He chuckled. “We can and we will put something permanently in orbit later,” he said. “For the moment, the Fuhrer wants orbital reconnaissance and that’s what the Fuhrer will get. The satellite will be travelling in a ballistic orbit, one that will be faster than the British craft, and it will be lower than them. If they somehow manage to intercept” – he waved a hand at the rocket – “the explosives attached to the satellite will make certain that they cannot recover anything useful.”

“It might just kill a British man,” Roth observed. He frowned; Kristy would have disapproved. He wondered how she was getting on in Britain, if they would let her return. “What about hitting the other target?”

“Not for a while,” Doctor Von Braun informed him. “We don’t want to let the British know that we have the capability until the weapon is ready.”

Roth nodded. Himmler would approve of caution, he was certain. “One other thing; what about putting a man of our own in space?”

Doctor Von Braun smiled. Space travel had been a dream of his since before the Transition. “We can put a man up in space,” he said. “Getting him down safely… now that’s the problem.”

“Herr Doctor, we’re ready to launch,” the supervisor said. Roth smiled as Doctor Von Braun stood up, stretching to hide his injured bones. The control box was simple; a large red button with long cables reaching out to the rocket.

“Are you sure this will work?” Roth asked, struck by sudden doubts. “What happens if the rocket goes off on the wrong course?”

“If the satiates enters orbit, we should be able to track it through its transmitter or through telescopes,” Doctor Von Braun said absently, his hands caressing the button. “It’s time.”

Roth scowled. “Answer the question,” he snapped.

“The satellite is supposed to make three orbits before it returns to Earth,” Doctor Von Braun said. “As long as we track it, we will know when it’s supposed to land.” He snorted. “The maths doesn’t change and won’t until someone invents an inertia-less drive.”

“Thank you,” Roth said. “You may launch when ready.”

Doctor Von Braun pushed the button. There was a long moment, long enough for Roth to start to worry in earnest, and then the rocket started to rise into the air on a plume of fire. “Move,” he snapped, dragging the doctor along. The British could hardly fail to see the rocket’s launch. He could only hope that they would have other problems. “Come on!”

He dragged the protesting Doctor Von Braun into the shelter and slammed the door behind him, then followed Von Braun to the single slit. The rocket was rising faster and faster, heading up to the stars. He knew that people would be trying to track it, but he didn’t know if they would succeed. Everything rested on German science and ingenuity.

“It’s going to cross the Atlantic in the dark,” he said absently. “Won’t we have to start launching them in daylight?”

“Don’t forget the time difference,” Von Braun snapped. “We’ll get our pictures, one way or the other.”

RAF Fylingdales

Yorkshire, United Kingdom

2^nd May 1942

“Oh, shit,” the duty officer, Lieutenant Jackie Fisher, reported. “Sir, we have a major missile attack in progress.”

Base Commander Ben Barden swore. He’d been on the late shift, hoping to finish some paperwork while the base was on reduced staff. Even with the panic over the German missile demonstration, they’d not recovered half the staff they should have had. RAF Fylingdales had suddenly become important, but the creakingly slow military bureaucracy hadn’t managed to react yet.

“Show me,” he snapped, triggering the raid warning system. After two years of war, Britain was as prepared for missile attacks as it could be. “Bring the Patriot system online.”

The display flickered and zoomed in on the English Channel. “We have two hundred” – one vanished from the screen – “V2 missiles, some of which are failing in flight, and ten V3’s, heading to America,” Fisher said. She frowned. “And this one… I’m not sure what it’s doing.”

Barden scowled; the flight pattern was similar to the American satellite launch missiles. “They’re trying to put something in orbit,” he said grimly. “A satellite, a bomb, something else.”

“The computer agrees with you,” Fisher said, checking the projections. As she watched, the first stage separated from the rocket. “It’s either going into orbit, or it’s a serious accident.”

“Would it not be wonderful if the missile landed on their heads?” Barden asked absently. “How long until the missiles reach here?”

“About twenty minutes,” Fisher said. “Projected targets; London, Dover and Portsmouth.”

“I have friends there,” Barden snapped. His mind whirled grimly; he could shoot down most of the missiles with the Patriot batteries, but if they launched the missiles now they would have none left very soon. They might have no choice, but to grin and bear it.

“Some of the missiles are going to miss by a mile,” Fisher said. “Four of them… no, seven, are going to impact in the country.”

“That doesn’t help,” Barden snapped. The phone rang. “Barden,” he said. “Yes, Prime Minister?”

He listened to the instructions for a long moment. “Yes, Prime Minister,” he said finally. “We’ll prioritise now.”

He put down the phone. “That was the Prime Minister,” he said, rather unnecessarily. “We’re to track the missiles and only target ones that are going to impact on priority targets.”

Fisher blinked. “That’s… a bit hard on the people,” she said.

“There isn’t a choice,” Barden said. “RAF strike aircraft will be heading in, just to take revenge.”

Redhill, London

2^nd May 1942

Mariah Stevenson cursed as she stumbled home in the dark. Personally, she thought that the Mayor of London was taking the blackout rules too seriously; it wasn’t as if the Germans could send bombers over London. Far more alarming, particularly to a doctor like herself, was the sudden shortage of priceless medical equipment. The equipment that had been made in America, or Japan, had been cut off from its producers, which meant that even the NHS couldn’t get more of the designs.

She stumbled on a beer can and relieved her feelings by kicking it down the hill. She had to admit that the streets were a lot safer now, with most of the unemployed and unemployable young men in the army, but she didn’t like missing out on the medical equipment. The NHS had had its priorities slashed – there would be no free unnecessary operations – but it was still important. Her house and her husband weren’t far away and she quickened her pace up the hill. It was the only thing that saved her life.

She hesitated as she heard… something in the sky, rather like a whistle, and she turned to look. A streak of light fell out of the sky and slammed into the bottom of the hill, blasting an explosion into the nearest houses. A wall of fire marched up the hill, but subsided before it reached her, igniting the line of cars when their fuel tanks exploded. Mariah heard screams as she stared, but she didn’t move, she couldn’t move. The devastation was stunning and…

She came to on the ground. Only seconds had passed. She pulled herself to her feet and stared down at the burning district, taking only moments to notice that there were several other fires burning in London. The sound of fire engines was very close; she staggered down towards the fires, knowing that she could help someone.

The reporters arrived only minutes later. Charlene Molesworth had been amused to discover that the BBC did indeed have an ‘Incident Engine,’ similar to a fire engine, but armed with cameras instead of fire hoses. The reporters ignored the radio broadcasts for people to stay in their homes, driving towards the closest incident.

“This is Charlene Molesworth, reporting from Redhill,” she said, as the camera panned over the fires. “The scene of devastation from a German missile attack is horrifying and…”

“Get the fuck out of here,” a resident shouted. The medic beside him tried to calm him; his arm was broken and needed to be bound up for the time being. “Fucking reporters…”

A further stream of invective was ignored as the medic led him away to the ambulance. “Someone isn’t happy at the Germans,” Charlene said grimly. “They’ve killed hundreds of people alone in this one strike.”

A burly black man came up. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” he said. Charlene examined his uniform and deduced that he was a high-ranking fire officer. “We have to bring some fire engines around….”

“Can you give us a statement?” Charlene asked eagerly, turning the full force of her charm on the man. “What happened?”

He wasn’t impressed. “German missile attack,” he snapped. “Now get out of here before I have you all arrested!”

The loud noise from a fire engine’s bell convinced her to move and the term scrambled out of the way. Charlene saw an elderly woman standing on the steps, looking down at the fire and shaking her head sadly.

“Excuse me, madam,” she said. “Would you like to say a few words?”

“We should use our nukes on those sons of bitches,” she said. Charlene was so astonished at the language that she didn’t say anything. “Did my father die in the first time we fought this war for nothing?”

Charlene blinked. “He might still be alive now…”

The woman slapped her. It wasn’t really painful, but it was a shock. “I know he could be,” she snapped. “Get out of here!”

“I think you’d better leave,” a police officer said. “We’re going to have to evacuate the entire area. The bastards put something in the bomb; it’s very difficult to put out.”

Charlene rubbed her cheek and led her team out of the disaster site. “Local residents are very angry at the Germans,” she said. “This is Charlene Molesworth, signing off.”

RSF Hamilton

Earth Orbit

2^nd May 1942

From space, borders didn’t matter. Looking down on the world from the observation pod, Victor Abernathy could see the world passing by underneath, unmarked by human activity. The beauties of jungle and desert alike passed by, hidden only by white flecks of cloud, open to the view of anyone on the space station.

Abernathy shook his head in awe. In the month he’d been on the station, he’d spent most of his time flying outside, using one of the tiny MSV units to glide around the station. It had been strange, like trying to fly underwater in some ways, but he’d gotten used to it eventually. The station itself was still expanding; they’d even set up a second space station, even though it was just an empty hulk so far. Five cylinders and a single docking point were all that there was of it, but Major Dashwood had spoken of big plans for the station.

“We’re going to rig it up like a bicycle,” he said, although the analogy only stretched so far. Thanks to the financial arrangements with the Americans, they could afford essentially unlimited numbers of the capsules that made up the main hull of the station, which meant that almost every day saw a new one being lifted to orbit.

Abernathy chuckled. He’d been manoeuvring one of the new tanks into a position on the outer edge of the second station, which hadn’t been named formally yet. Given time and effort, they would form a ring – or rather a hexagon – around the second station, which would then begin spinning in space. Once it was moving steadily, there would be some gravity in space.

Perhaps then we would be rid of this wretched exercise requirement, he thought grimly. They had to spend a pre-set amount of time, per day, exercising, even when they’d worked all day in space. It had nearly caused a mutiny once; Commander Salamander hadn’t backed down at all.

As if the thought was enough to summon her, his pager vibrated. “All personnel to the main hall, at once,” she said, through the communicator. Abernathy sighed and started to pull himself out of the observation pod, along one of the new corridors, and into the main cylinder. Calling it the ‘main hall’ was an exaggeration, even if it were the largest room on the station.

Abernathy swam into the main hall and smiled at some of the crewmen. The station’s population was only expanding; only three people had gone back to Earth. The station was growing all the time; it now held fifty people, some new from Earth.

“If I could have your attention please,” Commander Caroline Salamander said. Tall and thin, firm and tough in ways that made a man go limp, Abernathy knew that almost all of the men and half of the women considered her a ball-buster. She knew her job, no one doubted that, but she was incredibly strict. Some of the wags had muttered about her carrying a ruler around, but no one had mentioned that to her yet.

“Britain is under attack,” she said, and everyone focused on her. This caused a chain reaction in the men who weren’t holding on to handholds; they drifted across the room until they hit the wall. “The Germans have launched a missile attack at Britain and America.”

No one said anything. “There’s worse news,” she said. Someone more… compassionate would have smiled. “The Germans also managed to launch something into a temporary orbit.”

“Fuck me,” someone breathed.

“I have told you before that such things are to be kept out of sight,” Salamander said. Her tone was icy. “The German success means several things; one of which should be obvious. They now have the capability to attack this station directly.”

Her icy stare kept anyone from commenting. “We are on a war footing now,” she said. “By order of Major Dashwood and the Space Committee, we will proceed at once with Project Lunar.”

Abernathy smiled. One of the projects they had been working on was sending some of the habitat tanks and supplies to lunar orbit, just so a base could be established. The problem with orbital weapons was that they had to be hauled up from Earth, but if the moon was mined for rocks and some of the rocks were sent back into Earth orbit.

“The craft is ready,” Salamander continued. Abernathy smiled; the SSTO that would push the three habitat tanks had reached orbit only three days ago. “The supplies in lunar orbit, while not enough to sustain the twenty-man team we had anticipated, will be enough for ten men, if they don’t mind being cramped.

Abernathy grinned openly. If the price for seeing the moon was being cramped, he could live with it. From the glances coming from the others, they’d come to the same conclusion. He smiled; some of the women on the station were ones he really wouldn’t mind being cramped with.

Salamander coughed loudly. “There are some other things we’re going to do,” she said. “Station Two will be moved slightly, and we will transfer some of the crew and MSV units to the station. At worst, that will give the Germans two targets to shoot at. Any questions?”

Abernathy waved a hand. “Are we going to get some weapons?” He asked. “I heard that some remarkable progress had been made with space-based lasers.”

“We’re going to get some missiles,” Salamander said. She frowned. “They won’t be here for a while yet, they’re working on adapting them for space action. As you should be aware, what we’d really need to do is push the missile or whatever away from the station.”

She looked at them all. Her face softened slightly. “I have faith that we will rise to the challenge,” she said. “The Germans will be trying to destroy us, but they will not succeed. Dismissed!”