England Expects (Empires Lost)

by Jackson, Charles S.

  The reports were mostly raw information – often data collected from intercepted German radio chatter between forward HQs and the OKW – and the fact that the huge majority of it was in mostly unbreakable codes had done nothing to help either of them in picking out a suitable target. It was only as Max flicked through one of the last of the piles before him, ready to concede defeat for the evening, that he finally came across something that was instantly recognisable as significant.

  “Got it…!” He stated with feeling, holding up the three-sheet report for Eileen to see. “Plain language transmission between Berlin and an officer at an SS Q-store regarding a request for extra linen…”

  “Sounds just captivating…!” Eileen countered with more than a little tired sarcasm, not trying anywhere near hard enough to sound truly interested. “What thread-count were the sheets?”

  “Oh… smartarse…?” Thorne grinned back, not offended in the slightest. “How about a request for extra linen for guests staying at Reuters’ forward HQ near Amiens? Only top quality items required, as all needed to be supplied to members of the general staff and high-ranking dignitaries…” He handed Eileen the papers as her interest became genuine for the first time. “Take a look at how many bloody sheets the bastard is asking for…”

  “That’s enough to look after dozens of guests,” Eileen noted, the implications behind that information sinking in. “What kind of meeting requires that many members of the general staff to all be in the one place at the one time?”

  “Sounds like last-minute invasion briefings to me,” Thorne grinned maliciously. “Why else would they pull such a concentration of top brass together, so close to the front? We need to get some confirmation on this from other sources… if this is legit, we could potentially decapitate the entire OKW in one stroke, and take out friggin’ Reuters and his little bumboys into the bargain!”

  “We may be able to find some corroborating evidence in the coded stuff we’ve got, now we know what we’re looking for,” Eileen offered hopefully, handing back Thorne’s reports and beginning to rifle through the papers before her with renewed vigour. “If it is something that big, there must be other reports of it somewhere.” She paused for a moment to consult a large map lying on the table to her left. “Coast is only about fifty kilometres away from the target at its closest point too… only about four minutes flying time, which means they’ll have bugger-all warning of your approach.”

  “Not enough to raise an alarm, even if that’d make a difference, which it won’t. September the Eighth…” he thought out loud. “Good time of the month for a night mission: moon’ll be almost bloody full by then… make it a lot easier to get in and out unscathed.”

  “Remember what Hal said about ‘Larry’,” Eileen cautioned as a thought suddenly occurred to her. “You have to carry it externally, and that means you’ll be visible on radar! You’ll still have the Flankers to deal with after the attack, and you won’t be able to outrun them …!”

  “The carriage and the bomb itself won’t be stealthy, but they’ll be small all the same, and bloody hard to spot on radar if I stay low,” Thorne countered, conceding the point but unwilling to surrender. If I get out of there fast enough, I’ve got a good chance of staying out of their way. We’ve got two AMRAAMs left and a brace of Sidewinders… I’ll have two of each in my internal bays just in case.” He thought more about the details of the mission as he leaned across the table and they checked the map together.

  “I can head south west of the British Isles and tank up from the Extender over Ireland – that should keep me well out of their radar range. The Lightning’s combat radius is about 800 klicks on internal fuel,” He continued, picking out points on the map. “If I head south-west and stay under a hundred metres after I’ve cleared the blast area, I’ll come out somewhere around here… near La Rochelle or Bordeaux. I can meet up with the Extender again over the Bay of Biscay, and tank up again for a long detour home, again via the west coast of Ireland. Even with extra tanks, it’s unlikely the Flankers would dare to venture that far west and out of their own radar coverage.”

  “You make it sound too simple,” Eileen said softly.

  “I know it’s bloody dangerous, but I’d rather hit ‘em this close to the coast than try to fight my way to Berlin and back. With the extra fuel tanks I’d need for that, I’d stand out on radar like dog’s balls, and they’d have plenty of time to find me then.” Something else occurred to him. “We need to recall Kowalski and the rest of the Yanks too: we’ll need to be ready to hightail it in short order, if they decide to get nasty and retaliate rather than stop and think!”

  “Does it have to be you?” Eileen asked, concern showing clearly in her eyes.

  “Would you prefer I send Jack… or Alec…?” Thorne asked gently, sensing her fear, and also harbouring concerns for his own safety. “There’d be no point trying to send it across on a normal heavy bomber… their radar-equipped night-fighters have been blowing Bomber Command out of the sky before they can even get across the Channel, and those two are the only other men experienced enough to replace me in the Lightning on a ground attack mission.”

  “I know,” she conceded finally, laying her hand on his. “I just don’t want anything to happen to you… to any of us… losing Nick was bad enough…”

  “This is the best opportunity we’ll get,” Thorne stated with certainty, trying to be bright and positive, and leaning over to nudge against her shoulder with his own. “I’ll be okay, I promise… straight in and straight out again, then back again for tea, okay?”

  “Okay,” she nodded, trying to be hopeful as she forced a thin smile and squeezed his hand softly. “How’re you feeling these days, anyway?”

  “Haven’t had any drinks, if that’s what you mean,” he answered honestly, with no anger or offence in his tone.

  “I didn’t just mean that, although that’s good to hear… that you haven’t needed it.”

  “Oh I’ve needed it all right,” he admitted, then shrugged. “I’ve been coping, I guess… but it’s hard to think straight a lot of the time. I know I shouldn’t whinge… every one of us here is dealing with the same shit…”

  “No we’re not, Max… not the way you are… and no matter how hard things get for us, we have a fall-back: you…” Eileen pointed out quickly. “You’re only military experience prior to this mission was as a squadron leader in a country that never experienced total war… not in our time, anyway. You’re an excellent commander… you just need time to adapt.”

  “I don’t think Reuters will call a ‘time-out’ just ‘cause I can’t cut it,” Thorne grinned ruefully, making a ‘T’ out of his hands in illustration. He paused and took a breath, then added: “Eileen, if I can’t hack it…”

  “Don’t even think about finishing that sentence!” She snapped in return, cutting him off sharply as she saw where he was going. “I don’t want the bloody job for a start, and I don’t have a hope of filling your shoes…” she grinned “…I’m only a size seven! Max, you’re an overgrown bairn a lot o’ the time, and you always know exactly what to say to get completely under my skin…” She didn’t need to add that most of the time, she loved every minute of it “…but I also know that the rest of us, officers and men, would go – and have gone – to the end of the bloody Earth for you, and with you. You’re a commander and you’re one of us, and somehow you manage to walk that line on every level despite the ‘Bloody Colonial’ act… or maybe because of it. Now you’re back on track again, you’ll work it out – I’ll make sure of that.”

  “I never imagined front line command could be this difficult… despite telling myself as much so many times…”

  “It’s not just that… we lost every support link we had in coming back here. They can brief you all you like but it’s not the same, and you’ve had to cope with your first combat command, and losing the hierarchy above you, and had to cope with culture shock and the loss of our world just like the rest of us.” She smiled kindl
y and ruffled his hair. “Give yourself some credit! These issues aren’t because you’re not up to it – they’ve arisen because what you’ve had to cope with is hard! Considering what you also went through losing Anna, no one’s going to begrudge ye a few chinks in your ‘armour’.”

  “I don’t want to let you all down, misplaced as your bloody loyalty is to begin with.”

  “None of the others know, Max… except for Richard, I think. You internalise too well for anyone to see the cracks unless they’re either bloody good or know you bloody well!”

  “Or both,” he pointed out with a kind smile, reaching out for a moment and running a hand gently downward along the back of her neck. “You’re a bloody legend, you know that?”

  “In my own lunch time, sonny, and don’t you forget it!” She joked in return, turning her head a little to fully enjoy the touch of his hand and the short moment of intimacy it represented.

  “So Kransky figured it out, did he?” Thorne shrugged. “Not much gets past that bugger, I’ll give him that much.” The expression on his face turned a little more serious. “I do believe that poor man is more than a little in love with you, young lady.”

  “Aye, that’s possible,” she admitted, looking a little sad at the thought. “He’s a great guy, and to be honest there might well have been a chance there of something happening…”

  “Circumstances being different, of course,” Thorne finished for her, knowing her well enough and seeing the direction of her sentence.

  “Aye, ‘circumstances’ all right…”

  “From what little he’s said, I believe he thinks there’s someone else in your mind, and in his way…” he hesitated a moment “…should I ask whether that’s true or not?” Thorne was very interested in the answer to that question considering the recent change in their relationship back to one of a much more physical nature. The understanding they’d reached was that neither was expected, or would expect any commitment from the other, and while he was mostly okay with that, Thorne was concerned that perhaps Eileen’s past feelings for him might interfere or cause problems. The last thing he wanted was to hurt her, although he was more than happy to have her company and provide her with his.

  “Bit sure of ourselves there aren’t we, mister?” She grinned in return, seeing the concern in his eyes. Her expression and tone were of open kindness, with no malice in her humour. “Max, if there’s anything stopping me from being interested in someone permanent, then it’s the impermanence of the situation we’re in more than it would ever be any one person in my life.” She gave a light laugh. “Even if returning to the past has possibly made me the luckiest girl on the planet!”

  “How so…?” Thorne inquired with interest, recognising there was an unspoken meaning in the sentence.

  “You know that none of us age,” she began, and he nodded in agreement. “Well, I knew from what minor testing we were able to do before the jump that I’d be sterile for the period we were displaced,” she continued, her smile fading a little over an unpleasant idea she’d accustomed herself to long before they’d left the 21st Century. “However, it was only after we got here I found out exactly what that meant…”

  “Is this gonna turn into ‘Secret Women’s Business’?” Thorne broke in, sounding just a little unsettled, and gripped by the characteristic apprehension of all males regarding the prospect of conversations surrounding the topic of female menstruation.

  “Just in that it seems my cycle has actually stopped completely,” Eileen answered with a chuckle, noting his discomfort but not about to ‘let him off the hook’. They’d been too close as friends for too long for her to have any problem in discussing anything of a personal nature with him.

  “And that’s definitely not because you’re pregnant?” Thorne shot back, instantly surprised at the revelation.

  “Relax… I was late long before we got back together in this era, Max!” She almost laughed at that. “Fella, if I were pregnant, it’d be time to break out the ‘Good Book’ again, cause that would be one hell of an Immaculate Conception!”

  “So your period’s stopped, has it?” He mused, hiding the relief he felt fairly well. “…Hmm…”

  “The lucky part of course is that I get to spend the whole time with no PMS as a result… I can’t imagine how bad it would’ve been if I’d been unlucky enough to have come back during that part of my cycle and be stuck in it permanently.”

  “How strange,” Thorne observed, thoughtfully rubbing his chin, but Eileen could see the glint in his eye. “There must be another explanation for the shitty mood you’re always in, then…” That remark got the intended reaction, and thoughts of the war and the world outside that room were forgotten for a few moments as feigned indignance gave way to laughter.

  Thorne was still sitting alone in that same briefing room early the next morning, this time with a large notebook computer before him on the table. He wore a miked headset connected to the portable PC, as was a multi-function gaming joystick that carried numerous buttons and controls and clearly resembled a fighter’s control stick. He was running an advanced combat flight simulation program that had been pre-installed on the PC before they’d left the 21st Century – one that had been modified to use detailed 3D maps of 1940s Europe and that would allow the Hindsight team to practice flying all four of the aircraft they’d brought with them, although the ability to train on the F-22A was of course now somewhat academic. It was the same software they’d originally used weeks ago to prepare Trumbull for his first flights in the Lightning, gibing him some experience before moving him onto to the real thing.

  As there was no likelihood of a ‘practice run’ for the mission he was planning, Thorne was using the simulator to do as many ‘walk-throughs’ as he could manage. He intended to use the program’s mission editing facilities to trial a number of different scenarios involving variations on directions of approach and egress after the drop… even different methods for delivery of the device itself.

  He knew the target was 50km east-south-east of Abbeville and to the east of Amiens, and although he had no images of the structure’s actual appearance, intelligence reports from the fledgling French Resistance had given a good indication it was the only building of any size in the immediate area. What he’d been able to piece together was certainly enough to test the general viability of his mission plans, however finding the correct target on the night would be another problem entirely, and would no doubt be far more difficult in reality than on any simulation he might run on his computer.

  He was also factoring in aerial opposition in the form of a pair of Su-30 Flankers, armed with cannon and a selection of IR and radar homing missiles. The missions he’d flown so far that evening had placed the enemy fighters under computer control, however there was also the option to network with other PCs and have the opposition flown by human hands, something he fully intended to organise later that morning. With Davies and Trumbull up against him, the unpredictability and superiority of human thinking and instinct would make the whole thing that much more difficult, and enable him to hone his reflexes to a far higher standard.

  Thorne was ready to risk his life to deliver the weapon to target, but he fully intended to take every precaution in planning and execution possible to make sure he got back safe and sound afterward. He had a week to prepare and continue to gather information, and he had no doubt there’d be many late nights ahead during that time. His only real consolation was that to all intents and purposes they were finally safe from enemy attack now Reuters and the New Eagles believed Hindsight to be destroyed and no longer considered them a threat.

  SS Special Heavy Battery 672(E)

  Near Sangatte, Pas-de-Calais

  Thursday

  September 5, 1940

  Whittaker, Dupont and the rest of the work team at the battery compound spent the majority of their days now sitting around, waiting for tasks to be assigned to them. There was little left to do in truth, and a workforce that had originally num
bered in the thousands had now dwindled to no more than a hundred or so that the battery commander was holding in reserve in the event of there being a need for basic manual labouring deemed too menial for Wehrmacht engineers.

  A pair of ‘smaller’ and far more conventional railway guns had joined their much larger brethren in the intervening time. These weapons had been shunted over their emplacements until their carriages could be lowered onto pivots known as Vögele turntables, leaving the weapons, installed outside and on either side of the larger guns, with a 360º field of fire. Known as the Krupp K5, the pair of 283mm guns had been brought in as support for Gustav and Dora, and also to allow the engagement of British ships in The Channel – something that wasn’t possible with the larger guns, as they were unable to depress to a low enough angle due to the protective fortifications beneath their barrels.

  Early that Thursday morning, the work group had been engaged in digging out foundations for a small latrine block toward the very rear of the installation near the main gates. They were given no formal warning as usual, but this time past experience was sufficient for them to recognise the firing of the huge guns was imminent as the alert klaxons sounded all over the base. They all covered their ears tightly, and as the prisoners stood straight and craned their necks to stare out of the large foundation holes they were digging within, all who could see watched in awe as Gustav’s huge barrel rose to a high angle of elevation. The earth shook a moment or two later and the air filled with flame and smoke as the weapon sent a five-tonne shell on its way skyward across the Channel.

  Five minutes later, Gustav fired again following some minor adjustments in traverse and elevation, and then again after another five minutes and further corrections. Firing ceased after the third shot, and there was a great deal of maintenance activity at the rear of the gun as Dora took up the baton and fired her first shell, followed by the same three-shot pattern of fire and adjustment. The alternating fire would continue in the same manner for most of the morning and use up more than two-dozen shells between the two weapons. The noise and shock of the continued explosions made breathing quite uncomfortable when combined with the smoke and dust that filled the air all around, and the experience placed a good deal of stress on the POWs, although there was some comfort in the fact that none of the guards present thought to order them to continue working.