Kensington Heights
London, United Kingdom
2nd April 1942
Ironically, Travis Mortimer had never considered a serious political career, until the shambles of the collapsing Labour Government had pushed him to the fore. His membership of the Party in Edinburgh had been little more than a way to pass the time, but when the MP for his constituency resigned in a hurry, in 2016 or 1941PT, however you wanted to look at it, Mortimer had been invited to stand for the post.
He’d refused at first, but the death of his brother onboard a Royal Navy submarine had convinced him, and he’d run for Parliament in a bye-election, winning by a fairly substantial majority. The Labour Party hadn’t been welcome in the election and the opposing candidates had been party hacks, rather than people who were serious and sober. Mortimer had lived in Edinburgh all his life; they’d been brought in to stand for the position.
Idiots, he’d thought at the time, the sheer insult to his constituency driving him on. He’d fought and won the election with enough of a majority not to be relegated to the backbenches, as most new MPs normally were, and he’d swiftly taken control of New Labour. Old Labour, the traditionalists, glowered at him, but they hadn’t prevented him from establishing a power base.
Mortimer smiled to himself. It was not enough to do anything substantial, not as long as Hanover’s coalition remained in being, but it was enough to make a serious noise, if necessary.
“Travis?” Mortimer nodded as his sister Elspeth entered the room. Tall and dark haired, she’d agreed to serve as his social secretary; socialising wasn’t his strong point, no matter how many puns and plays on words the papers made about the whole business.
“Yes, Elspeth?” He asked. “What’s happening?”
“That female reporter is finally here,” she said, her mouth twisted in a look of disapproval. “She’s dressed rather like a slut.”
“Now, now, we need the media,” Mortimer reminded her. “They have to post favourable comments towards us, or we’re sunk when the time comes for elections.”
Elspeth gave him a dry look. “When that asshole in Downing Street decides to call them,” she sneered. It was an old argument; Mortimer didn’t bother to respond to it. She looked him up and down, her eyes examining every part of his dress and face. “You shaved,” she said, in a tone of mild surprise. “Do be polite to the little slut.”
Mortimer smiled. “Don’t worry, mum,” he said. “I’ll be careful.”
Charlene Molesworth studied Travis Mortimer with interest as his secretary led her in to his private office. He was young, in his mid-thirties, and possessed shiny short black hair. He was dressed neatly in a conservative business suit, standing up to shake her hand with a firm and professional handshake.
“Thank you for allowing me to come,” she said, as she checked the camera. The computer experts would use the footage to produce a complete picture of the room later. She checked that the live feed direct to the BBC was running – more than one person had tried to smash a camera after saying too much – and checked his appearance. Even with the modified cameras, some people still looked odd through a camera in bad lighting.
“Are you ready?” She asked. She was obliged by law to check before activating the camera. Some reporters left the cameras running, confident that their subjects couldn’t detect the operating system, but it had led to more than a few lawsuits.
Mortimer smiled at her. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” he said. “You may fire when ready, Gridley.”
Charlene smiled and activated the camera. “Good morning,” she said. “I’m live with Travis Mortimer, the MP for Edinburgh South and one of the people trying to claim the mantle of Leader of the Opposition. Mr Mortimer, nice to have you with us.”
Mortimer smiled, a politician’s smile. She distrusted it on sight. “Thank you for interviewing me,” he said. “Please call me Travis.”
“Mr Mortimer, ah, Travis, you have been considered the anti-war candidate,” Charlene said. “How do you respond to that charge?”
“With scorn and disdain,” Mortimer said cheerfully. “After the Germans bombed Dover and London, and their actions in the Middle East, I don’t think that anyone can really object to fighting the war. However…”
“You are on record as objecting to the awarding of an OBE to Admiral Turtledove and a similar award to General Flynn,” Charlene interrupted. “In particular, you accused Admiral Turtledove, the commander of British forces in the Far East, of incompetence, despite a Board of Inquiry ruling in his favour.”
Mortimer smiled, unabashed. “My comments about Admiral Turtledove were pushed forward by a series of mistakes made by him, including the Battle of the Indian Ocean and…”
“The Board of Inquiry ruled in his favour,” Charlene reminded him.
“That was a whitewash,” Mortimer said evenly. “Any competent commander would not have remained still while the Japanese closed in on his fleet.”
Charlene blinked. Her earphone whispered in her ear. “The Board of Inquiry ruled that Turtledove had to remain with the damaged ships, or else the Japanese would have sunk them while the rest of the fleet escaped.”
“No he didn’t,” Mortimer said calmly. “He could have opened the range with his missile-armed ships and saved them from possible destruction, and quite possibly have saved the crippled ships as well. However, that was not the only incidence of incompetence; he allowed the Japanese to land in Australia and he lost a submarine to Japanese ASW efforts.”
“Submarines have been lost before,” Charlene said.
“During the Iran conflict the USN lost a nuclear-powered ship,” Mortimer agreed. “However, that was against an Iranian ship which had roughly equal technology and a great deal of luck.”
“And you do not feel that the Japanese might also have been lucky?” Charlene inquired.
“No, because there was no reason for the submarine to be close enough for them to even get a sniff of her,” Mortimer said. “Her torpedoes could have sunk any Japanese ship, with the possible exception of a battleship, at long distance without coming close enough for them to get a sniff. Even a battleship could be sunk by two or three hits.”
Charlene frowned. “And that is your only reason to accuse the Government of incompetence?” She asked. “During the Falklands War a number of ships were lost, simply because they were overwhelmed.”
“Oh, in plain numbers, we’re already past the losses of the Falklands,” Mortimer said wryly. “But that leads to another point; we’re not doing enough to find the missing hostages in Germany.”
Charlene considered. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” she said, prompted, “but are they not looking for a handful of people in a very large haystack.”
“Although that is a bad metaphor, yes,” Mortimer said. “And, of course, the Government isn’t doing enough to knock-out the German factories, let alone the Soviet factories.” He smiled. “We have precision weapons and satellites in orbit; we should be hammering them round the clock.”
“That is a problem,” Charlene agreed. “Would you advise the use of nuclear weapons?”
Mortimer was too wily a politician to fall into that trap. “Finally, the Government seems determined to resurrect the British Empire,” he concluded. “I believe that over-extension was what got us the first time around; we should be concentrating on ourselves, not on people who will be ungrateful. Will we get a second round of immigrants from the new states in the Empire?”
He scowled. “Have we unnecessarily provoked trouble with France by unilaterally annexing their colonies and preparing for a five-year transition to democracy?”
Charlene smiled. “Thank you,” she said. “I understand that you intend to press for a general election as soon as possible?”
“Indeed I do,” Mortimer said. “We have a Government that was only half-elected, a coalition built to uphold certain established interests… and an election is required as soon as possible.”
“This would be despite the agreement with the Leader of the Opposition, Ken Barton, that the normal four-year cycle would be continued?” Charlene asked. “It seems safe enough to me.”
“We don’t have the Smith Government any longer,” Mortimer pointed out. “Barton could consider the agreement null and void. Even so, I didn’t sign the agreement.”
Mortimer smiled to himself as the hot sexy reporter departed, taking her cameras with her. He was careful to conduct a basic ELINT scan – some reporters had developed the habit of leaving electronic bugs around – but Charlene had behaved herself; there were none in the room.
“She’s gone then,” Elspeth stated, wrinkling her nose. “Crafty bitch.”
“I wonder whose side she’s on,” Mortimer mused. She had been pretty. “Perhaps we could recruit her.”
“She doesn’t have a brain cell in her head,” Elspeth snapped. “Whatever she thinks – assuming she thinks anything – the BBC is pro-Hanover. You’ll sound like a right moron or a pro-Nazi on the evening news.”
Mortimer shrugged. “Perhaps that will be beneficial,” he said. His mind worked rapidly, calculating the angles. Hanover had a solid majority, but not all of his supporters got on with the other supporters. If Barton could be induced to join him – or, more likely, if most of his coalition could be induced to join him – he would have a solid base to build a campaign on.
“We don’t want an election at once,” he said thoughtfully. “We need time; time to get our message out to the public and time to gauge reactions. We also need to push Hanover at every possible point, such as handing Palestine over to the Republic of Arabia.”
“Which is our ally, as opposed to the Grand High Pompousness of Jerusalem,” Elspeth pointed out. The Grand Mufti of Jerusalem, fanatically anti-Jewish, had been shot for war crimes.
“Ah, but what will that do to the future of Israel?” Mortimer asked. “There are nothing like as many Jews here as there are in America, but all of them want a Jewish homeland. What will they think when Hanover starts forbidding Jewish immigration?”
“It won’t be his fault,” Elspeth said practically. “Either the Republic of Arabia is a Commonwealth member, and a honoured supporter of the Commonwealth Provisional Protocols, or it is not. You know as well as I do that revoking the immigration clause would be massively unpopular here.”
Mortimer shrugged. “They won’t know that its not Hanover’s fault,” he said. “Besides, what will happen if the Republic of Arabia starts disrespecting the clause on religious and sexual equality?”
“If they do,” Elspeth said. “Many of them come from here, you know.”
“It’ll all end in tears,” Mortimer predicted. He looked down at his notes. “What do I have to do next?”
“There is a sitting at the house to debate funding for the American air force bases in Britain,” Elspeth said, slipping back into secretary mode. “You’re in favour of isolated compounds, but will give in to the majority if adequate security is provided, not American military police, who were just part of the problem.”
“It’s good to know that I have a position,” Mortimer said wryly. “What next?”
“You are supposed to give a speech at a local school,” Elspeth said. “They’re not exactly anti-war, because London was bombed, so tone that down a bit.”
Mortimer scowled. “I want this war over,” he said. “I want it to end.”
Elspeth nodded. “Unfortunately, the Germans would hardly recognise our neutrality,” she said. “We – Britain – has no choice, but to fight the war to the end.”
Mortimer scowled again. “We should just threaten to nuke them until they glow in the dark,” he said. “That would bring them to heel.”
Elspeth, as always, was coolly practical. “And what happens when they call our bluff?”
Permanent Joint Headquarters
Northwood, United Kingdom
2nd April 1942
“Bastard,” General Cunningham snapped, glaring at the TV screen through his moustache. “Look at him; new-come MP criticising the Government.”
Stirling lifted an eyebrow. General Cunningham had disliked Smith intensely, regarding the man as a weakling with the morals of a toad in the hole. Prime Minister Hanover was more to his taste; a strong Thatcher-figure whom he could follow with a song in his old heart. General Cunningham knew that if there had been the slightest question of his competence during Smith’s tenure, he would have been resigned without ever having the chance to fight a major war.
Hoping to spare himself the agony of having to answer, Stirling cast his eyes over the threat board, which had been updated with 1940 political borders rather than 2015. Ships, aircraft and infantry units were marked on the board, tracked by satellites and the orbiting space station. Several units remained on Britain itself, useless for all, but politics; the largest number of modern units remained in Iraq.
How depressingly familiar, he thought.
“That bastard dares to say that the war is being run badly,” Cunningham snapped. “What would he do? Land in Normandy and march all the way to Berlin?”
Stirling shook his head. Such an operation had been war-gamed several times in the PJHQ, always to British defeat. The forces that had existed in 2015 might have been far more powerful than their German opponents, but their supply lines were not. The most optimistic result had been the successful capture of Belgium, followed by a protracted war while new supplies were brought into the war zone.
Stirling shuddered. With the hundreds of German aircraft in Germany and France, it could have been a slaughter – would have been a slaughter.
“Most people don’t fully understand the complexities of military operations,” he said, trying to be reassuring. It didn’t work. “He’s probably just posturing for the newspapers.”
“Someone ought to say something in his ear,” General Cunningham snarled. “Perhaps something like… ah, know what you’re bloody talking about before you open your fat mouth.”
“No one would say that to him,” Stirling predicted. “I have the report on deployments for the liberation of Iran, as your requested.”
Changing the subject worked, if only for a few moments. General Cunningham nodded. “We have four armoured divisions and six infantry units in the Middle East,” Stirling said. “The Bundeswehr is currently incorporating the couple of thousand men who had agreed to join its ranks, so they’re out of action for a month. On the other hand, one of the heavy infantry divisions is from the Republic of Arabia, fighting beside us for the first real time as a unit.”
General Cunningham snarled. “I understand Rommel’s point,” he said, “but he could easily send a division to help us out without harming his unit. More experience would do them good.”
“He does know the value of training,” Stewart said wryly. “Although it’s hard to be certain, the Soviets have been busy; they have upward of half a million men – including nearly two thousand tanks – in the Middle East. Some of them are staving.”
“I’m not surprised, after someone passed around a rumour that the supplies were contaminated,” General Cunningham said. “That said, perhaps they were too ignorant to know what radiation poisoning is.”
“Perhaps,” Stirling said. He didn’t find it unbelievable that the Government of Soviet Russia, under Stalin, would quite happily feed their conscripts radioactive gruel, let alone the rations they were supposed to have. He remembered, some years before he was born, that Argentinean quartermasters had made their position worse by selling the troops the rations they were supposed to have – and Soviet quartermasters were apparently doing the same thing.
“We need to play more hob with their supply lines,” General Cunningham declared. “What about the RAF?”
Stirling nodded. “We have five new squadrons of Hawk aircraft, armed with anti-tank missiles and FAE bombs,” he said. “Some units have been equipped with Deathcloud weapons, but the Soviets have been more careful about exposing themselves to those weapons.”
He shivered. Admiral Turtledove’s drones had produced horrifying images of the last time a Deathcloud was used on unsuspecting pilots. The expanding wall of burning fuel had swept the Japanese planes out of the sky without any chance of escape.
“They don’t have much of a choice,” General Cunningham said. “And the operational plan?”
Stirling adjusted the display. “Basically, it’s simple,” he said. “We will launch simultaneous strokes towards Basra and Baghdad, while the Turks hammer their way into Georgia, backed up by SAS units and one of the super-bombers.”
“We really ought to hurry up with the program to equip some B-29s with computers and flying them ourselves,” General Cunningham muttered.
“We won’t get sucked into city-fighting,” Stirling said. “We can do without a Stalingrad. As they’ve forced much of the population out of the cities and sent them fleeing into our territory, we don’t have to worry about keeping the city intact. We can either shell it to death or stave them out. Once we cut their supply lines for good, we can deal with them at our leisure.”
“A shame that the Thor weapons aren’t ready yet,” General Cunningham said. “Can they retaliate?”
“They have the NKVD battalions in the Caucasus mountains,” Stirling said. He scowled; he took no pleasure in killing for its own sake, but the NKVD forces needed extermination. They were slaughtering the civilians; countless thousands were dying as Stalin exterminated threats to the rule of his successors. Absently, he wondered what had happened to Khrushchev and the others who had denounced Stalin after he died.
“Not much of a threat, then,” General Cunningham said. “Sweden is taking up most of their attention.”
“So it would seem,” Stirling said, and then noticed that General Cunningham was looking thoughtfully at a background piece on Travis Mortimer. Mortimer had a personal stake in the war; his brother had died onboard a Royal Navy submarine.
“So he has a reason,” General Cunningham mused. “During your free time, I want you to look into the last hours of… HMS Artful.”
I have free time? Stirling thought with some astonishment. That was a surprise. Still, there was only one answer. “Sir, yes, sir,” he said, and saluted.