The Long Hard Road

Chapter Forty-Nine: Saying Goodbye

Ten Downing Street

London, United Kingdom

10^th September 1942

They laid Victor Abernathy to rest one cold day in September, with almost every Head of State in the Commonwealth in attendance. The sermon, preached by the Chaplin from RAF Leeming, was short, but moving. The great and the good – and those who were neither – had turned out for it; far more than had turned out for the last royal funeral.

Prime Minister Menzies of Australia left the funeral with the other Heads of State, heading back to Ten Downing Street, following Hanover and the other British figures on their lonely walk. It wasn’t a long walk, but it was slow; the people who hadn’t been to the future Britain were walking along, staring at everything.

One day Australia will be like this, Menzies thought. It was a comforting thought; the Commonwealth, the horse he’d bet on, would survive for a long time indeed, perhaps harden into a permanent unit. He’d been right, just as he’d been right to order the capture of the Dutch East Indies and the other islands north of Australia; they would become Australian mandates and they would become far more stable than they had been in the other timeline.

Ten Downing Street, as always, was reassuringly bright and shiny. Menzies took his seat at the round table, joining the other representatives, and smiled as Hanover took the stand. The Heads of State were equals – that had been decided from the start – and the chair would be held by whoever’s country it was. He smiled; Australia would have a meeting room for the Commonwealth soon enough, and it would play a large role upon the Commonwealth stage.

“Thank you all for coming,” Hanover said. “As you know, it has been two months, more or less, since the war came to an end. You have all seen the proposed protocols; do any of you wish to propose revisions to the protocols?”

It wasn’t exactly an idle question. The diplomats and the civil servants had worked on the protocols for months. Even with modern telecommunications – an area that Menzies was determined Australia would move ahead very fast on – it had proven a daunting task. Still, it had been a worthwhile one; the final version suited everyone.

“I do wish to launch a dignified protest against the republican form of government,” Yadavindrah Singh said. The Chancellor of the Chamber of Indian Princes – which was taking on a role similar to the House of Lords, but with some curious traditions of its own – knew that the Indian Parliament had agreed to the protocols, but he had to protest. “It provides for any government to opt out of revering the King-Emperor.”

Menzies smiled. King Charles was an unimpressive figure. How could the hub of British government describe himself as a political dissident? He’d insisted on that clause for different reasons to Hanover, who didn’t seem to care for the King-Emperor, but Yadavindrah Singh had every right to be concerned. After all, the Indian government could disenfranchise the Princes with the stroke of a pen.

“We have to work together, not separately,” Hanover said. It was a non-answer, but Yadavindrah Singh accepted it. The Chamber of Indian Princes had decided – reluctantly – to accept the Protocols. Cynics pointed out that the British Indian Army, which could now be spared for other duties, had played a role in their decision.

Menzies nodded. “For one, Australia has no problems with contributing units towards the Commonwealth Army, and the Commonwealth Navy,” he said. “In fact, the agreement of joint action in any region will definitely pull us towards a united Navy, particularly with the planned super-carriers.”

There was a round of sage nodding. The massive carriers, nuclear powered and armed with Joint Strike Fighters, would give the Commonwealth a navy second to none. Britain, Canada and Australia were seriously in favour of them; no state really dissented.

“And the assurance that the former British states in Africa below the Congo go to South Africa has swayed many towards the Commonwealth,” Smuts said. Menzies wasn’t sure how he felt about that; Smuts was making a major land grab, one that would make South Africa very powerful within the Commonwealth. “With the additional immigrants, we will be able to develop Africa into a genuine assert to the world.”

Hanover paused for a long moment, waiting to see if anyone else would raise any points. “There have been a number of points covered,” he said finally. “For five years, the Republic of Arabia, Algeria, Libya and Egypt will remain under provisional governments, but hopefully they will be able to rise to the status of full states within that time. Also, Britain will supply a Governor-General to India; General Wavell has consented to remain in that post for five years.”

Yadavindrah Singh and Jawaharlal Nehru nodded together. India needed a mediator and Wavell – the bluff, no nonsense soldier – was respected by all sides. In five years, India would either be stable enough to survive, or it would have collapsed into civil war. Wavell’s control of the army might just be enough to prevent the latter from happening.

Menzies smiled to himself. The Raj had always been a confusing state. It was fitting; somehow, that it’s final years would be more confusing than ever. Any would-be insurrectionist would have to unravel the entire power structure first, and that would be tricky indeed.

“I believe that we can sign now,” Hanover said. The original copy of the Commonwealth Protocols would be preserved for history; they would each take a copy home. Hanover signed with a flourish, and then passed the document around the table. “For history, Gentlemen, and a stable world.”

Menzies allowed himself a moment to read the Protocols before signing. They were all there, from Australia’s control over its immigration – and its mandated territories – to a permanent military alliance and a combined navy. He signed quickly, neatly, and passed it around the table.

Hanover allowed himself a moment to bite down hard on the capsule that was supposed to deliver instant relief from heavy drinking, and then straightened up with an effort. The celebrations had gone on longer than he had intended; he’d left the room to attend to other business that could no longer be denied.

“Sir?” His secretary asked, as he re-entered his office. “The Professor and his wife are here to see you.”

“Send them in,” Hanover said, and waited for the two to enter. Horton looked far healthier than he had been when Hanover had seen him last; his wife was smiling broadly. “Good afternoon, Professor,” he said. “I trust that you had a pleasant reunion?”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” Horton said. They both carried the special glow that came with recent bedroom antics. “Thank you for the luxury hotel.”

Hanover grinned suddenly. RAF Lyneham was not a hotel. “You’re welcome,” he murmured. “As you know, we haven’t been certain what to do with you two; on one side, there are people… zealots, who would like to burn both of you at the stake, merely for doing what you had to do. Others… well, others would like to put you in front of the cameras; a marginally worse fate.”

Jasmine giggled; Horton smiled. “It has been decided that no criminal charges will be filed against you,” Hanover said. He’d made that decision himself; the cabinet had agreed with it. “While that does not necessarily rule out a private suit or a civil prosecution, under the circumstances we feel that it’s unlikely. And… we owe you something.

“The choice is simple, Professor,” he said. “You may return to your lives and your tenure at Edinburgh University; the university authorities have agreed to take you on. The second choice is darker; you may go through the witness protection program and take up a new life somewhere else, perhaps not within Britain itself.”

Jasmine frowned. “We get to choose?” Hanover nodded. “We choose to stay in our normal lives,” she said. Her husband nodded. “Thank you for your offer, sir, but we’ve done enough play-acting.”

Hanover nodded. “I wish you both the very best,” he said sincerely. “If you need any help, ever, don’t hesitate to call me.”

House of Commons

London, United Kingdom

10^th September 1942

Travis Mortimer stared at his sister. “You’re leaving me?” He asked. It came out in a squeak. “You’re going to find someone else?”

Elspeth nodded harshly. “Yes,” she snapped. “You completely blew the chance you had, idiot!”

“How was I supposed to know that the Germans would begin using missiles?” Mortimer said plaintively. “How was I supposed… you were my manager, you should have told me…”

“Travis, you had a chance to reach the top,” Elspeth said. “You blew it, and your party wants you strung up by your unmentionables. We have no future together; the ghost of our brother is laughing at us.” She glared. “I’m going to leak that story; see how that bastard Hanover likes that!”

“Elspeth,” Mortimer began. It was too late; his sister stalked out of his private office, leaving the House of Commons for an unknown destination. Without her, Travis Mortimer knew that his career was over – even if the Labour Party didn’t evict him from the party, he had no career for no one would trust him.

Bracken Headquarters

Washington DC, USA

10^th September 1942

Jim Oliver smiled down at the computer. The final high explosive bomb had detonated with its normal blast, terminating Nikolaus Ritter, the Abwehr agent, with extreme prejudice. Like Hoover before him, Ritter had known too much about Oliver’s life to be allowed to live; unlike Hoover, there was no need to ensure that everyone knew that he was dead. It had been risky, timing the attack on Hoover to ensure that his death was witnessed, but no one had put the clues together, not even Ambassador King.

Oliver chuckled. Cora appeared at the door, blinking sleepily at him. She was as lovely as ever, wearing a white nightdress that was near-transparent in all the right places, and her long dark hair fell down over it. He smiled up at her and tapped buttons on the computer, deleting the files before she saw. There was no need to share everything with her.

“You’re still awake?” She asked. “What’s so funny?”

“The world famous glossop columnist, who had a very well attended funeral,” Oliver said. She lifted a single delicate eyebrow. “Everyone wanted to make certain that she was dead, you see.”

“No,” Cora said practically. “I think its one of those things that only makes sense if you’re very tired indeed.”

“Quite possibly,” Oliver said. He grinned. “We have dozens of new contracts opening, love; some in Europe, some in Russia, some in Latin America. With our access to British personnel; think what a university graduate could earn over here, just for what he or she knows.”

“The technology gap would close faster than anyone expects,” Cora said, coming to sit in his lap. His arm went around her and she tilted her face up for a kiss. “Those people would be able to jump-start progress.”

Oliver grinned. “The war is over,” he said. “With some careful investment… you and I could end up as Mr and Mrs Rothschild, mark II.”

It took her a moment to realise what he meant. “You mean…?”

Oliver kissed her again. Who would have thought that it would have ended like this? “Cora Burnside, will you marry me?”

Cora didn’t think at all. “Yes, Jim Oliver, I will,” she said. Gently, he let his hand slip between her legs, rubbing gently at her secret place. She gasped and pressed against him, purring like a cat.

“I love you,” she whispered, as the nightgown came off and he carried her off to bed. “I love you.”

Oliver placed her gently on the bed and kissed her again. “I love you too,” he whispered, and they lay together through the night. For them, at least, there would be a happy ending.

Military Detention Camp

Shetland Islands, United Kingdom

10^th September 1942

The room was dank and cold; the food was awful. The two thousand certified war criminals in the camp had tried to stage a riot, or a hunger strike, but the guards hadn’t cared. Three former SS officers had died of their own hunger; the guards had merely burnt the bodies. They’d laughed as they did it, informing the prisoners that the furnace had been removed from a place in Germany, one of the concentration camps. None of them pronounced the word correctly; none of them at all.

In one of the little cells, Führer und Reichskanzler Himmler sat, wondering if this would be the day. Sentence had been passed nearly two weeks ago; death by hanging. Since then, he’d waited, but the guards had passed him by. They’d hung Obergruppenfuehrer Hans Krueger, they’d hung Doctor Mengele, but they hadn’t hung Himmler.

“Perhaps they’re going to let me go,” he said. “Perhaps…”

“No, that won’t happen,” a familiar voice said. Himmler sighed as he recognised Horton, standing there in front of the cell. “You have been judged guilty of crimes against humanity, under the Organisation of Democratic States protocols on war crimes.”

Himmler looked away, trying to radiate contempt. “Organisation of Democratic States,” he sneered. “Do I get a vote in my fate?”

“You had it when you chose to serve Adolf Hitler,” Horton said. “Tell me; did you kill him?”

Himmler glared at him. “I was loyal to the Fuhrer,” he snapped. “Did I tell him anything about the Jews involved with atomics?”

“You have an… odd definition of loyalty,” Horton said. “What else did you hide from the Fuhrer?”

“More than you might think,” Himmler said. “When am I to be hung?”

“Today,” Horton said. “This place, by the way, is Organisation of Democratic States’ territory, by special agreement. Hanging you here is a way to avoid too many reporters visiting.”

Himmler sneered at him. “They do not want my last speech to be broadcast to the Werewolves,” he said.

“Germany is very peaceful,” Horton said. Himmler chose to believe that he was lying. “Resistance is minimal, and progress towards a loose democratic federation is going well.” He shrugged. “Alsace-Lorraine went back to France, by the way.”

“So much for democracy,” Himmler said. “How did they slant the voters this time?”

“They only allowed people who had been born there to vote,” Horton said. “It was the only way to compensate for the Germans who had been forced to move there.”

“I see,” Himmler said. A guard came up to the cell, clad in body armour, and followed by two more. “Is it time?”

He was pleased to realise that his voice was steady. “Yes,” the guard said. “Professor, do you wish to witness it?”

Horton shook his head. The guards opened the cell and grabbed Himmler, cuffing his hands behind his back. Himmler almost laughed; he’d never been in very good shape, and now he was half-starved as well. Did they really expect resistance from him?

“Move,” the guard said. Horton nodded once at Himmler as the guards dragged him along the corridors, taking him to his final resting place. The scaffold was simple and neat; a simple noose hanging down from the wooden pole. He felt his bowels loosen as the guards dragged him up the ramp and onto the hatch, carefully attaching the noose around his neck.

“Führer und Reichskanzler Himmler, you have been found guilty of crimes against humanity,” the commander said, stepping back. “You have been found guilty of genocide, the use and deployment of weapons of mass destruction against helpless civilians, the mass slaughter of thousands of your own people, the mass slaughter of non-German populations, the incitement of such, in that you created the SS and…”

Himmler listened as the voice droned on. His trial had charged him with nearly three hundred offences; they’d proven seventy, including the murder of Adolf Hitler. He’d laughed aloud at that; not only wasn’t he guilty of that, but they had tried to kill Hitler themselves. The hypocrisy was staggering; he hadn’t turned a nuclear warhead on an entire city.

“Do you have any last words?” The guard asked finally. “You may speak now, if you please.”

“I have done my duty for Germany,” Himmler said, pulling himself up. “I was proud to serve Germany and I always will be. I have cleansed Europe of thousands of subhumans who would have torn it apart; I have crushed the hordes of smelly Arabs who would have threatened the meek and mild Germany you created in the original timeline. You have me to thank for that, and history will vindicate me. Heil Hitler!”

The guard reached for a leaver. “I command your soul to any entity who believes that it is worth something,” he said, and pulled the leaver down. The trapdoor opened below himself and the rope jerked once. His neck snapped and he fell into endless darkness.