Bracken Headquarters
Washington DC, USA
25th March 1942
The new headquarters of the ever-expanding Bracken Consortium were based in Washington, in one of the factory locations on the outskirts of town. Cora Burnside, Assistant Director, had pressed for somewhere closer to the centre of town, but her boss and lover, Jim Oliver, had refused.
“We don’t want to be too close to the centre of power,” he’d said, and decided the matter.
Still, Cora had to admit that the complex wasn’t too bad, being designed as a mainly administrative location. The thousands of people who controlled the company, using the new computers that were far more advanced than anything they’d dreamed of, had a reasonably pleasant place to work, with proper offices and small workrooms. That had suited Oliver right down to the ground; he believed that cubicles were demeaning.
She greeted him with a smile as he came into her office, dismissing his secretary with a wave of his hand. She’d half-hoped to get a white secretary, but none she’d found had been willing to work for a black woman, so Dahlia was as black as she was. Part of her felt annoyed that he’d dismissed her secretary; part of her laughed at herself for feeling that way. After all, she’d been lower than dirt five years ago.
“It’s good to see you again,” Oliver said. Not normally a demonstrative man, he bent over and kissed her before taking a seat. He smiled at her. “I don’t suppose we have time…”
“We’ll make time,” she said. It had been a week and her body missed him dreadfully. Afterwards, she held him in the bedroom that was part of her office; she lived in the building itself when she wasn’t back in New York. “So, what happened?”
“Oh, not much,” Oliver said. “I had a meeting with the Mayor of New York, who wants to buy Geiger counters for removing the radioactive materials, and such items are covered under the Treaty. They’re prohibited, so I discussed the matter with the folks back home and they agreed to loan a MOD clean-up team for the remains of a radiological attack.” He smiled and gently stroked her breast. “It’s not quite what they wanted, but its better than anyone else got.”
“And Groves wasn’t happy?” Cora asked. She grinned as Oliver smiled wryly; she wasn’t meant to know about Groves. “One would have thought that his… lot could have supplied the counters, if not the radiation-protection suits.”
“Groves thinks that the rubble holds the keys to expanding the program I’m not supposed to tell you about,” Oliver said. “It doesn’t, I’m fairly certain; there wasn’t that much radioactivity. The only real danger, apart from the explosion itself, will be long-term for anyone who might have sucked in some of the poisoned dust.”
Cora shivered. Everyone knew about atomic weapons now; the only reason that there hadn’t been a major panic was that everyone also knew that the Germans had no way of launching bombers over the Atlantic, and the Coast Guard was searching every ship that tried to dock. She shivered again; Oliver had once commented that what everyone knew wasn’t always the truth.
“I hope you’re right,” she said absently. She’d seen the videos of the terrible war in the future. “After all, wasn’t that why you obtained that controlling interest in that oil company?”
Oliver smiled. She hadn’t understood, at the time, why Oliver had spent so much money to gain control of a major oil company… except it had held a great deal of stock in Saudi Arabia…which was now the Republic of Arabia. Any new contracts with the Arabs would be done on a sensible basis.
“Yes,” he said finally, before pulling himself out of bed and heading for the shower. “They did quite enough damage before I got control and stopped them howling about what imperialism had done to their profit margin.”
She heard the shower start. A wicked thought struck her and she padded after him, slipping neatly into the shower. “So, what did the USAAF have to say?”
Oliver kissed her as the water flowed down over their bodies. “Thank you for the bombers… more!” He said. “They want two thousand of the B-29’s and they want us to get the jet B-52s in the air as quickly as possible. They have big plans, now that Kaiser has his Liberty Ships on the production line; they have big plans to pound Germany into the dirt. They’re thinking about bases in Africa, Britain… and most of all Norway.”
Cora frowned. “Will there be anything left of Norway when they’re done?”
“I hope so,” Oliver said seriously. “Between us and the Germans, the entire infrastructure has been wrecked. The bastards are shipping Swedes out to Poland, to provide them with new settlers, and the Russians are just killing anyone who even looks at them funny. We’re at least trying – thank God for the grain harvest last year – to feed those in our territory, but shipping is a pain.”
Cora blinked. “I thought that the Germans had been forced out of the Atlantic,” she said.
Oliver smiled. “Turned out that the bastard Russians had copied the Nazi u-boat designs… once all of the Royal Navy’s asserts were turned to the Mediterranean or the Far East.” He chuckled as she started to wash his back. “Incidentally, we picked up a lot of contracts for Australia; they seem to be having ideas about launching an island-hopping campaign.”
Cora lifted an eyebrow, knowing that he couldn’t see her. “They told you that?”
“What else can one do with landing craft designed to make a landing under fire?” Oliver asked dryly. “Anyway, the Red Navy or whatever they called it had a couple of weeks of happy time with the ships of the United States Navy, but once alerted to the threat Admiral King counter-attacked and borrowed ASW asserts from England to help out.”
He snorted as she finished washing his body and turned to wash hers. “Speaking of the Navy, they were very keen to get their own B-29s, just to prevent the Army getting all the glory. They’ve been fitting the test models with anti-submarine weapons and bombs designed to take out ships – which history suggests won’t work – for the defence of the Philippines.”
Cora considered. She’d had a fairly complete brief on the alternative future and on the changes being made by the future Britain. “Does Japan have the capability to launch an invasion?”
“Perhaps if MacArthur was still in command,” Oliver said dryly. The dead General was the butt of jokes all over the United States. “He would send a poodle and a little boy called Maurice out to fight the Japanese.” He shook his head. “Between their losses in Australia and the loss of pretty much all of their navy, its hard to see how they could take the Philippines.”
“They really are looking for excuses to get their hands on aircraft the army can’t use,” Cora said. She sighed as his hands passed over her private place. “What are they going to do with them? Bomb Japan?”
“The President hasn’t declared war on Japan,” Oliver reminded her. “Congress felt that two wars were enough, and both Germany and Russia look pretty intimidating.” He stepped out of the shower and picked up a towel. “Their current nightmare is the Germans building a B-52 of their own and flying it to Washington.” He snorted. “Not possible, of course, and even if it were, aircraft from Britain could intercept it with ease. Far more likely, of course, is rockets; the Germans had a pretty advanced program before we arrived and seeing the Ministry of Space at work will only push them forward.”
“I suppose,” Cora said. “What else are we doing for lots of cash?”
She smiled as Oliver’s eyes travelled up and down her body as she stepped out of the shower. “We’re building a small force of airliners,” he said. “Mainly for hopping around America and the Caribbean, and perhaps further down. We’re building some jet fighters, although its something of a waste of time at the moment, so its lucky we’re also building Mustangs and Hellcats.”
“Whose idea was that?” Cora asked. “Don’t they trust your people to give them fighter cover?”
“It’s not a bad idea,” Oliver said. His voice sounded amused. “Mainly Admiral King, however; he’s been controlling the crash-program to build the Essex and Midway class of carriers; perhaps he knows something we don’t about the future plans.”
“Or maybe he just wants to make certain that the Navy gets its share of the funding,” Cora said. “What about the tanks?”
“Ten thousand fireflies; ten thousand Franks,” Oliver said. He stepped out of the shower and into the main room, pulling on his suit and tie. “How does life as a director suit you?”
Cora started to dress as well, changing her underwear and motioning for him to pick up some of his clothes. “Not too bad,” she said. She smiled; he asked the same thing every week. “I do wish that we could see more of each other though; I do love scandalising the upper-class nuts.”
Oliver grinned. She remembered going with him to more than one of the snootiest restaurants in Washington, none of which would do anything so stupid as to annoy – ‘piss off’ had been the term Oliver had used – one of the most powerful businessmen and the most powerful businesswoman in the world. Oliver had been right so long ago, as long as she could pay, they would allow her access to anything.
“I’m going to be staying here for a while,” he said. She felt a sudden burst of delight. “Do you want to go out for tonight?”
“Do you even have to ask?” Cora asked. She smiled at him, and then her pager rang. She would have blushed if she could have. “Oh, hell; I’m late for a meeting!”
“Go call the guy and explain you’ll be down in ten minutes,” Oliver suggested. “I’ve got work of my own to do, but I’ll be back here at eight to take you out.”
Oliver smiled to himself as Cora, freshly made up and dressed in a power suit fifty years ahead of its time, left the office, her tight skirt bending nicely around the corners of her behind. She’d grown up a lot in the two years he’d known her, from shy secretary to skilled businesswoman.
And skilled in bed, he thought with a happy sigh, before standing up and heading over to the back stairwell. One reason he’d been so delighted with the building, even over the objections of his people, was that hardly anyone knew its interior design; a six-month program of renovation had allowed him to hide a few hidden stairwells and corridors from most of his people. Cora knew, of course, but she was the only one cleared for that knowledge.
He unlocked the door and stepped into the stairwell, which was a basic spiral design, heading down to the basement. Everyone in the building knew that the basement was off-limits – it was part of their hiring contract that they never even tried to go down there – and they had no idea what happened there. Even Cora didn’t know all of it.
He sneezed once as the dry dusty air touched his throat and headed down faster. Hardly anyone had come this way since the renovation; even Oliver had only come once or twice. He reached the bottom of the stairs and smiled at the biometric scanner mounted on the wall, well out of place.
“Oliver, Jim,” he said, and placed his hand against the scanner. There were none of the computer announcements that got on people’s nerves, just the click of the door unlocking. He pushed it open and stepped inside, nodding politely to the man in the centre of the room.
“You’re late,” David Berrios, a Jamaican who spoke perfect Cockney, said coldly. Oliver shrugged; Berrios wasn’t free to leave without escort; even the much-reduced FBI would have had kittens if they knew even half of what he knew about British operations. The basement itself was covered in computers of a type that had never been authorised for use outside Britain; an entire centre of operations hid beneath the building.
“You know as well as I do that travel is far harder in his era,” Oliver said. He smiled; spending time with Cora had been necessary, as much as anything else. “I understand that you went out on the town two nights ago?”
Berrios scowled at him. The MI5 operative didn’t like the thought of anyone keeping tabs on him. That was his job. “This place has very little for people like me,” he said. “If your uniform protects me, then…”
Oliver smiled. Few people would dare to offer overt disrespect to one of his employees, whatever their colour. Still, given how low he was in Berrios’s estimation, it must have killed the MI5 officer to know that his uniform was all that kept him from a drunken lynching.
“After we hunted down those members of the Ku Klux Klan for putting two of my people in hospital, they do tend to leave that uniform alone,” Oliver said. It was amazing how many eyes a lot of money could close, even to seriously wounding two bits of white trash. “The lesson had to be taught.”
“How ironic, you can do good,” Berrios sneered. “Of course, it suits you to do that kind of act, you can’t have people getting lynched while they work for you. You are, of course, aware that people are wearing your uniforms when they’re not really working for you?”
“So what?” Oliver asked, suddenly tired of the game. “What can I do for you today? More investments in Latin America? More covert funding? Perhaps some money for you personally?”
“Only if I plan to retire here,” Berrios growled. It was true; American dollars were worth very little in Britain. “We have a task for you.”
He paced over to the table and held up a sheaf of papers. “These are plans for a jet engine,” he said. “You will pass them over to your German contact. We are aware that they still have conduits through Mexico and further down.”
Oliver lifted an eyebrow. Mentally, he cursed Sir Charles Hanover, who had placed him neatly in this position. He’d thought endlessly, testing all the alternatives, only to realise that there was no way out – precisely as Hanover had intended. All he had was the promise that he would be free, one day.
He realised that Berrios was waiting for an answer and picked up the sheaf of papers. “Why do you want me to help the Germans?” He asked. “I was under the impression that I was supposed to mislead them.”
“Indeed you are,” Berrios said. The smirk on his face was ugly as hell. “These plans are for a jet engine design that we are – in theory – giving to the Americans. On the face of it, it offers the possibility of supersonic speed, but it requires extremely advanced materials to take the sudden bursts of heat.” He smiled. “When they attempt to accelerate… boom!”
Oliver laughed. That was nasty and evil… and brilliant. “They won’t have the slightest idea what’s hit them,” he said.
Berrios nodded. “Naturally, we’ve left off some other details,” he said. “They won’t know what they don’t know, of course.”
“Very clever,” Oliver said. “Was there anything else?”
“What’s happened to the German spy?” Berrios asked. “You know, your contract?”
“Remaining underground,” Oliver said. He gave an address. “I assume that you’re going to send a team in to bug his house?”
“I imagine that you know what happened to that bastard Hoover,” Berrios said. Oliver, who didn’t, glared at him. His role in the Wet Firecracker Rebellion would hardly have endeared him to Hoover… except the renegade FBI director had been missing for months.
“I have no idea what’s happened to that bastard,” he snarled. “I really am sick of hearing about that!”
“Sorry,” Berrios said, with complete insincerity. “Now… when is the next meeting?”
“In a week, or so,” Oliver said. He passed across a list of requests. “That’s what the bastard wants me to find out.”
“Christ above,” Berrios swore, as he cast his gaze down the sheet of paper. “War plans, technology demands… they don’t fuck about, do they?”
“Germans are known for their practicality,” Oliver said. “I have explained that all modern equipment is kept under very secure storage these days, ever since Crete.”
“It’s a good thing they don’t know that the connection was drawn,” Berrios said. “Otherwise… how many more would want to kill you?”
“A lot,” Oliver said flatly. “What happened to the mob?”
“The leaders were treated as terrorist leaders,” Berrios said. “The subordinates, by and large, were offered to South Africa for their POW camps. Mr Kasper, as I’m sure you’re aware, shot himself.”
“Oh, dear,” Oliver said. Like everyone else, he had lived in mortal fear of the Balkan man. “What does South Africa want with them?”
“Men to do a lot of hard work, now they know where the diamond fields are,” Berrios said. Oliver, who suspected the truth from South Africa’s determination to recruit from the American south, smiled to himself. The black man would hardly approve. “Now… I’m going to email this back to the offices in London, which will see what needs to be approved before you pass it back to the rat bastard.”
“Yes, sir,” Oliver said. “Incidentally, could you also tell them that the Americans are increasing their purchases of rockets, like the Ministry of Space uses?”
“I’ll inform them,” Berrios said. He frowned. “That’s interesting; why would they want them?”
Oliver smiled. Berrios was very single-minded most of the time. “To launch rockets into space?” He asked dryly. “What else can they be used for?”
“Launching high explosive across the Atlantic?” Berrios asked. “Perhaps that’s what they want.”
“They could do that far more cheaply with a B-29,” Oliver said. “The Americans are expanding their space program, sir; it’s the only explanation that fits.” He smiled. “I trust that you will bring that to the attention of the Prime Minister.”