“My God…” he whispered, feeling a little dazed and ill from the after-effects. “What was that?”
“That...” Thorne replied after a moment’s silence, his breathing equally heavy and laboured, “...was a temporal jump.” As he began to regain his senses fully, he then added: “Wait a minute before you start asking questions, ‘cause I’ve only got a very limited amount of time to sort a few things out right now!” He quickly dragged the Lightning into an 180̊ turn, banking and diving at a rate that made Trumbull’s stomach churn once more as they began to lose altitude quickly and descend toward the dark southern coast of Hoy below, near Tor Ness. “I’m going to have to drop you on the beach for a bit, but there’ll be someone along to collect you shortly. I won’t be able to hang about either way. I’ll explain everything when I see you on the ground, okay?”
“Do I have a choice?” Trumbull asked sullenly.
“Not really, Alec,” Thorne answered, genuinely apologetic. “Sorry, mate: I promise you’ll get the whole story when you’re back on land.”
Trumbull was standing and shivering on a deserted beach ten minutes later as the Lightning lifted vertically into the sky, quickly disappearing until only its blinking navigation lights were visible. It was just seconds later that he heard the sound of footsteps behind him in the sand, and he whirled to find himself instantly and completely bewildered.
“Glad I could make it on time,” Thorne grinned, standing before him holding a large, black torch in one hand. In his other he held Trumbull’s woollen flying jacket, and he tossed it to the stunned pilot. “I figured you might need this – it’s bloody cold out tonight.” The Australian wasn’t even dressed in his flight suit, instead wearing fatigues and his thick, blue parka.
“But you…!” Trumbull began as he slowly slipped the jacket over his shoulders, totally confused. “I just…!” He kept turning his head back to where he could still hear the F-35E somewhere above them, off to the south-west above the Pentland Firth.
“Calm down and I’ll explain,” Thorne said, raising a hand as a signal for silence as an intensely bright flash lit up the night sky somewhere out of sight beyond the line of the beach and the sound of the Lightning’s engine ceased abruptly. “You’re still going to be a bit disoriented by the jump anyway, so take it slowly and I’ll tell you what happened.” He jerked his head toward the top of the beach and the hills beyond. “Come on – let’s go for a walk.”
“That jump you experienced took you twenty-five hours into the future,” Thorne explained as they walked back toward a narrow, dirt track where an Austin Lichfield 10HP sedan sat waiting, its headlights off and its engine idling. “Twenty-five hours is the minimum time you can safely jump either way due to the one-day timeframe it takes for changes in history to take effect. That was why I had to move fast once we’d made the jump – I had to have enough time to get back within that twenty-four hour window and be here to meet you when you landed.”
“You mean...” Trumbull began, faltering, “...That…that I’ve travelled one day into the future?”
“Just over a day, but that’d be splitting hairs. I couldn’t turn up while you were actually being dropped off… I’m not exactly sure what happens when you ‘meet yourself’ in one timeline, but Professor Markowicz informs me it could be very nasty indeed. Cross-temporal paradoxes can produce some pretty volatile side effects, apparently.”
“‘Meet yourself?’”
“Yeah – it’s not on, apparently. There’s a more than a uncomfortable chance of an explosion that’d make Hiroshima look like cracker night!” In using the analogy, Thorne completely missed the fact that his companion would have no idea what significance the Japanese city of Hiroshima might have. “Anyway, the jump will help, seeing as you want to stay on with the unit and muck in.”
“May I ask why?” Trumbull inquired as the pair climbed into the sedan and Thorne slotted it into gear.
“You may. The reason is fairly simple, if major in its ramifications. When we overran the New Eagles’ Siberian hideout, we discovered a shitload of data they’d left behind concerning field research with one of their early TDUs, and some of those early tests with a prototype temporal field generator showed some interesting results. They sent single-celled organisms with a lifespan of just a few days into the future as little as twenty-five hours, as I just did with you, and discovered these organisms didn’t die at the end of their expected, normal period of life. They then tried the same thing with a couple of species of butterflies with a similarly short lifespan and found the same thing. The data they collected suggests that living organisms removed from their correct temporal setting don’t age the way they normally should.”
“You’re saying that you and the others – myself also, now – won’t age in the same way we might in our own times, even if I’ve been ‘displaced’ – as you call it – by only twenty-five hours?”
“I see you’re beginning to catch on.”
“How long…?”
“‘How long’ what…?”
“How long did those test specimens survive beyond their expected lifespan?” This question caused the Australian to pause for a moment before continuing.
“Indefinitely,” Thorne finally answered. “At the time of our departure from Realtime those initial test specimens we discovered in their laboratories were still in existence and showing no side effects. To all intents and purposes, we may all be immortal.”
“Live forever?” Trumbull was aghast. “There’s a terrible thought. Can the process be reversed?”
“Certainly… any specimens returned to their own time died normally. We’re also all still susceptible to accident, injury and/or foul play, although displaced specimens also appear to be impervious to introduced infections.” The sedan trundled slowly along a track that led back to the base via a kilometre or so of low, scrubby grassland and low hills, its headlights masked into narrow slots in deference to the dangers of air raid.
“So once our job is finished, you just return me and yourselves to our rightful times and we’ll continue to live as before – like normal?”
“Yes...” Thorne said slowly, but his words seemed almost evasive. “Yes, something like that.” Trumbull could see there was something Thorne wasn’t saying, but he could also see in Thorne’s eyes a look he’d seen before: one that indicated situations where there was no way the Australian was interested in elaborating. He’d broach the subject at some later stage perhaps, but Trumbull let the matter drop for the moment. As they continued on, the Australian took a folded mass of white cotton from where it had been tucked inside his own jacket and handed it to the squadron leader.
“What’s this for?” Trumbull inquired slowly, unfolding the object to discover it was a large cotton T-shirt. There was a strange design on the front that was barely discernible in the minimal illumination inside the vehicle. He was also still a little dazed by the jump and the information Thorne had given him, and couldn’t for the life of him make out what the design was.
“It’s kind of a memento – a token of recognition if you like.”
“A memento...? Recognition of what…?”
“Of your jump…” Thorne explained slowly. “All the guys who travelled here with Hindsight have one. We have a few spares left over due to a couple of last-minute withdrawals, and I figured you probably deserved one now as much as any of us. Call it an initiation into a very exclusive, potentially immortal club!”
“What on earth is the design on the front?” Trumbull asked, intrigued, and Thorne offered over the torch with his left hand. Trumbull laid the shirt out on his lap and turned the beam of the torch upon it, completely taken aback by the fantastic style of the illustration he found. The title above it read in a rather unusual style of printing:
‘SOMEWHERE IN TIME’ TOUR
Below the picture in a smaller but similar font, more printing appeared thus:
Hindsight Interception Unit
The illustration itself was someth
ing else entirely. From what Trumbull could make out, the main character was some kind of demon or devil garbed in the ragged, mid-eighteenth century uniform of the British Light Horse. It was brandishing a blood-drenched sabre over the bodies of numerous vanquished enemies, and Trumbull realised that those enemies were Wehrmacht infantry complete with field grey uniforms, Mauser rifles and stahlhelm ‘coal-scuttle’ helmets.
“What in God’s name is this supposed to represent?” The squadron leader was a number of decades too early to understand the ideology behind ‘rock concert’ tour promotions, or the humour of the parody involved in the design of the T-shirt he held.
“You probably won’t get the joke... the picture’s a reproduction of artwork from a musical group of the late Twentieth Century. It’s been modified a bit through artistic licence – not particularly legally, I might add – and it was put together by one of the guys as something Hindsight could wear that was unique. It was to be something like a ‘theatre of war’ medal in a weird kind of way – something worn only by people who’d be making the jump.”
The idea had been thought up early into the creation of Hindsight, and carried through by a British SBS officers assigned to the unit. One of the man’s favourite bands was the heavy metal group Iron Maiden, and he was also a great fan of the artwork of Derek Riggs, the artist who’d designed most of that group’s album covers and promotional posters. It was Riggs who’d created the character depicted on the T-shirt Trumbull held: the rather imposing-looking antihero, ‘Eddie’, who appeared in his various guises composed entirely of skinless sinew and muscle, exposed bones and skull with glowing, crazed eyes and a ubiquitously enraged and malevolent expression.
The picture chosen for parody was that from one of Iron Maiden’s earlier songs called The Trooper – the same song Thorne himself had been playing in the F-35E the day before – and took inspiration from the famous British Charge of the Light Brigade during the Crimean War. The picture had originally showed ‘Eddie’ as a Light Brigade trooper, sabre-in-hand and surrounded by dead Russian soldiers, and it ‘d been a reasonably simple exercise to produce a design that could be easily screen-printed in full-colour upon a clean, white T-shirt. Although certainly to the fine standard of Riggs’ original works, it’d been done well enough and had captured the hearts and minds of most of the Hindsight members.
“What kind of musical group would use a design like this?” Trumbull grimaced as he turned the shirt around and found further printing on the back:
Hindsight World Tour
‘Somewhere in Time’
England Nov 2010
England June 1940
Space had been left beneath the first two ‘tour’ listings for further entries if required, although Trumbull couldn’t have guessed at the logic behind that.
“The group…?” Thorne asked absent-mindedly, a little vague, “…the group was called Iron Maiden. They’re a heavy metal band.”
“‘Heavy metal’…?” Trumbull repeated dubiously. “Is that anything like that racy, ‘Glen Miller’ stuff?”
Thorne grinned widely – he almost laughed. “No...” he chuckled “…not really...”
7.
Preparations & Developments
Orly Airfield
Paris, France
Tuesday
July 2, 1940
Carl Ritter walked alone near the taxiways of Orly Airfield that morning, tension mounting within him as he awaited the expected arrival of Reichsmarschall Reuters. As his path took him toward the planes and the main buildings, he took a moment to marvel belatedly at the new aircraft they were about to be trained in an attempt to divert his mind from his concerns. The aircraft were brand new, and ZG26 would be the first land-based geschwader to receive a complement of these new production models from Messerschmitt.
The Löwe (‘Lion’), known by military classification as the S-2, was the largest single-engined plane Reuters had ever seen. As large as the twin-engined J-110 it replaced, it could carry twice the offensive load of a Heinkel B-111, but for all that it was no bomber: this aircraft was known by a different name, and the ‘S-2’ designation was a shortened version of ‘Schlachtflugzeug Model Two’. The S-2D’s that ZG26 were about to be trained on were dedicated ground-attack and close support aircraft, and to that end the aircraft was also fast for its size. It was as fast as the RAF’s Hurricane fighter, and much faster than either the Heinkel B-111 or the Junkers B-88 that were the Luftwaffe’s main bombers. The S-2 was also much faster than the S-87 Stuka, Germany’s only Realtime close support aircraft of that period.
While fighting in the Spanish war four years ago, Ritter and his fellow pilots had been amazed at the new developments German science had given their fledgling air force, and they were now once more being amazed by new technology. Within the last six or seven months, six new types of aircraft had been introduced to the pilots of the Luftwaffe and although they’d only been tested in small-scale engagements and situations so far, their performance and capabilities foretold great things for the future.
His ears picked up the sound of distant engines, and glancing up he suddenly spied the unmistakeable bulk of an Arado transport circling in from the east on the distant skyline. As his path took him past the end of the runway, paralleling its course, he followed the aircraft’s progress with his eyes. For a while he walked carefully backward, watching as the plane turned on to a landing approach a kilometre or so west and came in low over the rooftops of Paris. Deciding he’d seen enough of the big airlifter, he turned to face forward once more, preferring to keep an eye on where he was going.
In a few moments the faint rumbling of the Arado’s powerful engines had grown to a clattering roar, and it passed above the runway as it drew level with him, the deafening sound accompanied by the buffeting backwash of the two engines’ propellers. Ritter was forced to hold on to his cap as the stench of exhaust filled the air about him for a few seconds. The aircraft’s main wheels reached gingerly for the runway surface, then touched down with the yelp of abused rubber and a puff of bluish smoke, and he instantly noted a change in the tone of the engines as the props altered pitch and they began forcing air forward to slow the Arado down. It taxied sedately to the far end of the strip, gliding between the rows of fighter-bombers to come to a halt on a large concrete hardstand outside an iron-sided hangar.
The Arado T-1A Gigant (Giant) was another of the new aircraft that had only begun to appear within the last year or so, and had only begun to frequent the front lines during the last few months. A wonderfully capable aircraft, its cargo carrying abilities far outstripped those of the venerable old Junkers tri-motor it had replaced. Not only could they carry far in excess of the ‘Aunty Ju’ over far greater distance and at much higher speed; they could also easily load and unload items as large as small vehicles or field pieces via the broad, flat loading ramp in their tail. The Arado could also carry up to forty fully equipped parachute troops, although that particular aircraft carried just a few men that morning: this was the same Arado transport that normally sat parked in the field by the Wehrmacht’s forward HQ near Amiens.
As he drew closer to that end of the strip, he watched the aircraft’s rear loading ramp begin to open. Awaiting exit at its top, four grenadiers waited patiently armed with assault rifles, and as more light began to spill into the Gigant’s interior he could also see Reuters standing behind the quartet of men, Generalleutnant Schiller beside him. Ritter was just a hundred metres away as the whining of the hydraulic ramp ceased, the lower end touching the concrete of the runway hardstand. The pair of radial engines – more powerful versions of the same type fitted to the S-2D – were silent now, their propellers feathered and motionless as the troop of six men walked briskly down the ramp and out into the morning sunshine.
It took a moment or so for the converging groups to cover the distance, Ritter’s mind spinning wildly as the moment of truth drew ever closer. His point-of-no-return was truly past, and as the four guards separated and
fanned out to assume points of surveillance covering 360º, Ritter found himself confronted by an extremely dour Oberbefehlshaber der Wehrmacht. The Commander-in-Chief wasn’t in a particularly pleasant mood, the loss of two Flankers and the Mainstay and tanker aircraft over the previous few days having contributed primarily to Reichsmarschall Reuters’ foul temperament.
These were the foremost subjects dominating Reuters’ thoughts as he and Schiller halted before Carl Ritter in the middle of that concrete taxiway, although their meeting that morning was nevertheless causing some emotional discomfort. Reuters remained mildly aloof, something clearly noted by Ritter, and stood a pace or two behind Schiller. Carl came to attention as they met, presenting a stiff, regimental salute that the generalleutnant returned.
“Oberstleutnant Ritter,” Schiller acknowledged in greeting, extending his hand in a forthright manner that belied the nervousness and tension behind the action. As Ritter accepted the hand immediately, he failed to notice the apprehension on Reuters’ face as he watched intently for some sign of a similar reaction to that which he’d experienced shaking the pilot’s hand two days earlier. None was forthcoming, the contact being completely normal, and both of the New Eagles commanders were quite relieved. Schiller almost sighed visibly as a release of tension.
“I must apologise for this unorthodox request; I realise the pressure this places the Reichsmarschall under. I don’t doubt there must be many things of national importance which require his attention this morning.”
“More than you could imagine, I think,” Schiller added wryly, the irony of the statement lost on Ritter, although it caused Reuters to smirk slightly despite himself. There were many times he’d told Schiller that the man’s sense of humour was far too irreverent, and there were equally as many times that sense of humour had been invaluable during moments of great stress or tension. “The Reichsmarschall is required at Berchtesgarden this evening for an important meeting with The Führer – it’s taken some serious replanning for us to come here to speak with you. As a result, it’d be appreciated if we could take care of whatever it is you require immediately.”
England Expects (Empires Lost) Page 25